He drew aside the covers and clambered onto the bed, knees against Osian’s side. It was sickeningly easy to lean into the thump of his blood, to catch the final threads of the poison, wormed to the recesses he had not been able to reach in the Great Hall.
At least itwasfox’s tears, the awful, brutal thing. He had ingested some of the little plant as soon as it had grown large enough, whereas he was out of touch with other poisons; his blood might have dulled beyond use.
He would do something about that later. For now, his hands worked from the base of Osian’s finely toned stomach towards the broad planes of his chest, slower and more thorough than before.
Heat stirred in his cheeks.Be academic, he schooled.Be academic.
He focused on allowing his senses to snare the last traces of vile otherness. Thank the gods the prince had foolishly given him his blood; affinity with the plant was not enough – if he had not woven with Osian, the prince would be dead.
A fraction of the poison proved hard to shift. He could come back to it when he was rested, but that consideration evaporated before it fully formed.
Dreigiau preserve him, he needed more life force than his hands could muster, but there was no way to get the angle right. He shifted closer, focused on the soft bow of Osian’s gently parted lips. Focused on the invisible threads beneath his hands and drew them up Osian’s chest, where they snagged.
Meilyr leaned in, burning with theacademicand the anything-but.
Slowly, he breathed in through his mouth, barely apart from Osian’s: breathed in the warmth of the prince’s life, pulsing defiantly beneath his fingers. He coaxed the last of the fox’s tears with the pull of his own life, the pull of their bond, up Osian’s throat.
He drew back in time for the prince to jolt violently in a cough, and brought the empty bowl over from the bedside table for him to hack and splutter the last of the poison loose: black and yellow-brown bile.
‘Breathe,’ Meilyr told him, arm steadying his shoulders. ‘That is the last of it.’
Osian wheezed, bent forward, exhaustion dripping. At a silent signal, Meilyr removed the bowl and eased him down, his eyes slipping closed. He touched Meilyr’s arm, weakly.
Meilyr brushed the hair from his clammy forehead. Osian leaned blindly into the touch, relief untying small knots in his face.
‘Meilyr…’
Gods.
‘I am here.’
Osian’s breathing steadied, body angled towards him. Meilyr remained, run through, not wishing to stir even as weariness bunched his muscles. His fingers had come to rest near Osian’s damp temple, where the top of his braid was a little untidy.
The downpour began, loud against the tower’s windows: an instantaneous crash, rushing into saturation and susurration. Like the roaring of the blood through Meilyr’s heart.
‘Forgive me,’ Osian mumbled, stirring. ‘I should…’
Meilyr ended the foolhardy attempt with a hand on his shoulder. ‘You need rest, My Prince. You were poisoned, and are in absolutely no state to do anything.’
Hooded night-ocean eyes searched his.
‘Wait here,’ Meilyr said.
Osian caught his wrist, weakly. Let him go.
‘I will not go far,’ Meilyr told him. ‘Just to tell Pedr and Blythe you are alive. To ask for some things.’
The sight of the prince was unravelling the fabric of what Meilyr was. He needed to be gone from that room, just to make sure he could still leave.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Golden Henbane.
Not to be confused with its far more poisonous cousin, regular henbane.
Golden henbane is a medicinal spirit-nectar, irreplaceable in ahealer’s repertoire.
Caution: Still incredibly poisonous if used foolishly.