“Nothing is broken but the arm,” I said at length. “Will you help me, Goewin?”
She did help me. She obeyed me, followed my directions and worked with me, but she would not look at my face or speak to me until I reached to the floor for the water jug, and the loose robe I wore slipped down my back. Then with smooth fingers Goewin traced the long, ragged scars across my shoulder blade, pale claw marks; there was such gentleness and pity in her touch. “What made these?” she whispered.
My body is seamed with scars. How is it she saw only those? I murmured, “What made any of them?” and jerked the sleeve back up across my shoulder, wishing that she had neither touched me nor spoken. I bent to clean the abrasions across Lleu’s arm and knew without looking at her that Goewin still stared at me.
“What,” she said in an unsteady voice, “have you been doing these past six years that you have gained so many hurts and so much wisdom?”
Lleu lay listening, waiting tense beneath my hand for me to hurt and heal him. Anything I said could frighten him. “I cannot tell you now,” I answered Goewin without hesitation. My stiff fingers were steady against Lleu’s broken arm, and I was suddenly grateful for his trust and fear.
Together Goewin and I splinted and bandaged Lleu’s arm, and washed and anointed the scrapes. There was little more we could do for him. “Have you put away your horses?” I asked. Goewin nodded. “Go to bed, then,” I said. “Lleu can stay here tonight.”
“But where will you—” Goewin began.
“I’ve blankets enough for both of us. There’s no sense in moving him now.”
She saw that there was not, but would not be dismissed so abruptly. “I’ll stay till you’re ready,” she said, and bent over and kissed her twin. “I’m sorry,” she whispered in his ear, not meaning me to hear. “Oh, Lleu, I am so sorry—”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Lleu whispered back. “Thank you.”
Goewin stayed sitting next to Lleu, and I began to put things away and to spread blankets on the floor for myself. It occurred to me that Lleu’s arm would keep him awake, and I mixed poppy and wine for him. I brought it to the bedside, lifted his head and shoulders gently, and held the bowl to his lips. “Drink.”
“What is it?”
“To lessen the pain.”
Lleu drank gratefully, and I lowered him again. But I stayed next to him, watching. “It wasn’t Goewin’s fault,” Lleu said. “I suggested we go out at night.”
It was a silver-washed night of a waxing moon; I could not blame them for wanting to be out in it. “You have received just punishment for so foolhardy a suggestion,” I said. “Your sister ought to be punished for encouraging it.”
“I probably will be, sir,” Goewin said fiercely.
Lleu, lying still with closed eyes, said suddenly, “Medraut.”
“Little one?”
“That drink,” Lleu saided D; Lleu. “Is it sending me to sleep?”
I watched him without feeling anything, as though I were watching from a distance. “Yes.”
“You know he hates to be made to sleep,” Goewin said angrily. “You do it on purpose.”
“It will be easier for him,” I said, now feeling amused at their indignation.
“I hate it,” Lleu said, and struggled to sit up.
Lleu enraged: the Bright One. Helpless and splendid. “Lie still, little one; lie still.” Goewin’s eyes on me were stony. “Don’t fight.”
But Lleu fought. I always underestimate the strength of his will. “You must promise me you’ll not do it again,” he said, struggling to stay awake and furious that he could not. “I’d rather be in pain.”
“I won’t do it without good cause.” Am I that cruel? “I don’t do it now without good cause. You’ll shock your parents well enough tomorrow without having spent a night without sleep.”
“Sir, you didn’t even ask him!” Goewin said.
Allied against me.
“Medraut, listen to me,” Lleu said. His eyes were closed and he spoke slowly and very quietly. “I command you—I command you not to use on me in the future, no matter how ill or hurt I am, anything that might make me sleep, without my consent. Swear.”
I sat with my head bent. I must seem hard and proud of body and spirit, aloof and most at ease in my cold, austere surroundings; but I woke without complaint or question in the middle of the night to assist and care for them, the children who had usurped my place in my father’s heart and hearth. “I promise,” I said, hesitating a little, “not to send you to sleep at any time you might be ill or hurt, from now on.” Lleu’s rigid body had relaxed. “Did you understand that?” I asked. I turned to Goewin, inquiring. Lleu murmured something brief and inaudible. “Even if you didn’t understand,” I said in quiet, “that is a promise I will keep.” I bent over and kissed Lleu as easily and honestly as Goewin had, then stood and held out a hand to help her rise. At the door she turned and looked at me straight.
“Well,” she said carefully, “it is behind you now.” She did not mean the promise I had just made. Her words touched me with the cool surety of her fingertips. She had come to me for help; she trusted me ev
en without fear, although she knew how you haunted me. “Thank you, Medraut,” she said.
III
Edges
THE SECRET OF MY birth tore at me. It seemed strange that even when he spoke to me alone, Artos always referred to you as my aunt or my foster mother. But I asked him if I might tell the twins the truth. It seemed important that they know, especially Lleu, so that their acceptance of who and what I was could be completely unclouded. Vain of me, selfish and probably irrelevant; but Lleu must know the real reason I could not be made my father’s heir, the reason that went deeper than mere bastardy. Artos agreed. So I told them; I told them that you are my real mother, and that your brother Artos is my father.