Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
TWENTY-SEVEN
Meilyr updated Pedr and Blythe with a handful of requests, including that Aldreda be informed, then found himself pulled back to the bedchamber by a fear that had curled up in the cage of his ribs.
Osian shifted: eyes heavy, voice hoarse. ‘What… happened?’
Meilyr moved the basins and returned to his place on the edge of the bed, where he soaked and wrung out a fresh cloth for the prince’s forehead. ‘You were poisoned. Fox’s tears, and a very high dosage. You should be dead.’
Osian’s gaze intensified. ‘Fox’s tears…’
‘It is the plant I asked you to grow in the gardens.’
There was no surprise, only a grim edge. ‘So.’ He coughed dryly, painfully.
Meilyr helped him drink, which made him cough more. ‘You need to rest.’
‘I will. Someone – someone is making it appear you tried to kill me.’
‘I could not say. It could merely be that someone recognised the plant and had access to your goblet.’
Exhausted, cool amusement. ‘Perhaps a stretch.’
Meilyr forced down the feeling stirred by that look. ‘So is believing someone is trying to implicate me. Surely anyone trying to blame me would know I could come up with better means to kill you.’
‘They underestimated you. How rude.’
‘I… did not mean—’
‘You did, and it was… good.’ Osian’s smile was crooked but overwhelmingly warm. ‘You should be offended to be framed so poorly. Whoever—’ He coughed himself out of words.
Meilyr moved to soothe him, and the prince gripped his arm reflexively.
‘Damn,’ Osian croaked.
‘Your insides are likely to feel raw for a few days. It is far more pleasant than the alternative, I promise you.’
‘You speak with experience.’
Meilyr hesitated. ‘Not personal, but yes.’
Osian’s eyes closed, grip loosening. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
Sensing he was at the very edge of sleep, Meilyr said nothing.
Moments later, Osian jolted, fingers tight. ‘Do not – do not go anywhere without Pedr. Please. Someone has failed in this, and…’
Meilyr laid a hand over his. ‘Of course. Rest, My Prince.’
Osian drifted, their hands touching.
Some unknown time later, there was a soft knocking at the outer door. Meilyr slipped from the bedchamber, crossed the parlour and retrieved the bundle from Pedr’s arms.
He had only done this a handful of times, shown often as a child by both his parents but only with sporadic chances to put it into practice. Twice when Celyn had been poorly – several times when Idwal had been dying. The process was a loaded, heavy thing, brimming with love and pain and memory – to prepare and mix and bring to boil, to stir and wait, and taste.
When he returned to the bedchamber, it was an easier muscle memory to slip onto the bed and refresh the cloth on Osian’s forehead. Once more, the prince leaned into the touch.
‘Your cawl is ready, you should try to stomach a little.’