Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1)

by Lauren Gilley

  His temper softened by drink, he let his thoughts drift back to the discussion at supper. In truth, he’d expected negotiations to go very differently. For all that he’d hated the way Erik referred to Tessa – the girl – he’d expected for her to be looked at up-and-down like a horse at market, perhaps fondled a bit, and for a contract to be slapped down on the table for him to sign as his aunt’s proxy. Perhaps questions about the width of Tessa’s hips, or the state of her teeth, or, gods forbid, an assertion that a medicine man or wise woman would need an examination to verify her maidenhead.

  Oliver remembered, with startling clarity, that moment in the tent, that impression of the forbidding Northern king with the cold eyes. He’d spent all of their journey feeling like the worst sort of heel, off to give his sweet cousin to the attentions of a snarling, warmongering beast too old and too cruel for her. Erik’s out-of-hand rejection of the intended suit had felt like an insult, and in so many ways it was one…but there was a thread of kindness there, too. Whatever Erik’s personal reasons for refusing her, the offer of Leif was an offer of a much smarter match.

  Save the little problem of not having the whole of the Great Northern Phalanx at their disposal when the need arose.

  Oliver sighed and raised his cup to his lips – only to find it empty.

  “Can’t have you going dry, now.” Magnus plucked his cup away, and returned it a moment later, now brimming.

  “What is this stuff?” Oliver asked, wincing at the blurred sound of his own voice.

  Magnus grinned – for a moment there were two of him. “The good stuff.”

  Yes, it did seem good. Oliver nodded – the room softening at the edges as he did so – and took a sip. It didn’t burn so much, now, and he could appreciate its sweet aftertaste.

  “Look here.” Magnus lowered his voice, and twisted in his chair, leaning forward so their faces were closer together, his shoulder blocking the view of the others laughing uproariously around them. His expression had gone quite serious, which, only having known him a short while, still struck Oliver as unusual for him. “I brought you in here because I wanted to have a word.”

  “Shit,” Oliver said, and earned a chuckle and a quick, amused smile.

  “Nothing to worry about. But.” He lowered his voice another fraction. “I may only be a guard, sure, but I grew up with Erik, me, and Lars, and Bjorn, and – and him.” Had Oliver been more sober, he would have inquired about that pause, the quick drawing-together of Magnus’s brows. But Magnus pressed on. “He wasn’t always so dour, you know? He was a lot like Rune, when he was a young one, actually. But he takes kingship seriously. Very seriously. And things are different up here, in the North. He has more to consider than whether or not to march against the Sels. It’s rough up here, and Erik, and Aeres, are caught between Aquitainia and the Wastes. Lots of fingers in lots of pies, you understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s a bit gruff, I grant you, but he means no disrespect to your cousin, nor to you.”

  Oliver snorted.

  “No, no, he doesn’t.” He grinned. “I think he was quite impressed with your spunk.”

  “My spunk?”

  “Aye. Drink your mistress.”

  Oliver blinked at him a moment before he realized that “mistress” was the drink in his hands, then he took another generous sip.

  Magnus chuckled again. “Give our old grumpy king a chance, and I can promise he’ll give you a fair one in return.”

  “That sounds a bit trite,” Oliver mumbled.

  Magnus leaned back, laughing out loud. “You only look meek, don’t you? There’s some dragon fire in the belly under the good manners, eh?”

  Oliver drank, rather than dignify that with a response.

  ~*~

  He wasn’t certain, but felt like he must have finished that cup and had another. By the time Magnus tugged him up from his chair, he was wobbly as a new colt, his vision swimming in and out of focus. The guards around him cheered, and Magnus towed him out of the room and down the hall, back up the grand stairs, supporting a shameful amount of Oliver’s weight, though he figured, in his addled, overly honest state, that he was so slight it probably wasn’t much of a burden.

  It was cooler up on the gallery, and the walking had helped clear his head a little. He didn’t feel in danger of falling down, nor being sick; the world was pleasantly warm and fuzzy in the way that meant he’d had far too much, but wasn’t going to regret it until later.

  He broke loose from Magnus’s grip and, when he squinted, managed to see only one of the guardsman. “Thank you, but I can manage from here.” He only slurred a little.

  “Yeah, you look it.”

  “No. I am.” Oliver aimed an admonishing finger at him that earned a laugh. No one here was going to take him seriously, were they?

  Perhaps getting stumbling drunk on his first night had something to do with that.

  He lifted his head to his most imperious angle and sniffed. “I’m quite sure I can – can find my way.”

  After much too much laughter, and several more attempts at convincing him, Magnus finally shuffled off, and Oliver headed for the second staircase that would take him back to his room, deciding it wasn’t so shameful that he had to grab at the wall every now and then.

  He reached the staircase, and placed his foot on the lowest step – but paused when he heard the low rumble of deep voices. He glanced off to his right, where the hallway branched away from the stairs. A dozen or so paces down, a door stood open, the warm glow of candlelight spilling out into the corridor.

  “…a single set of tracks. No one saw a thing.” That was Erik. His deep voice sounded rougher than it had at dinner, unsteady and stressed.

  “Someone must have, given the number of guards we…” Birger, his voice lowering so the rest of his words were indistinguishable.

  Oliver tapped his fingers silently on the handrail, debating.

  Had he been sober and clear-headed, there wouldn’t have been a debate at all. He wasn’t one to pry into people’s business, and here he was far from home, in what – with a few exceptions – was essentially hostile territory. He needed to march straight upstairs, drink off an entire pitcher of cold water, and go to bed.

  Drink had always made stupidly brave, though.

  Slowly, painfully slowly, trying to make sure he placed his feet just right, with the over-concentration of the intoxicated, he crept down the hall on tiptoe until he stood just outside the open doorway. It opened inward, and was only halfway ajar; if he leaned just a little, he found he could peer through the gap at the hinges and see the interior of the room without risk of being seen in return.

  Birger sat a carved desk, each of its legs nearly as big around as one of Oliver’s own, parchments and ledgers spread out before him. His gaze was trained on the figure that paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, hands tucked behind his back, silver-shot black hair hanging down on either side of his face like curtains. Erik.

  Oliver felt a fluttering in his belly that he blamed on too much drink.

  “We’ll find–”

  “We should have already found him,” Erik said, halting, turning to face his advisor. He’d lost a layer of clothes, down now to a white shirt with loose laces at the throat that revealed more than a hint of broad, strong, furred chest. His eyes glowed pale against the backdrop of the amber fire, and the dark stone wall behind him. “How – how can a man slip within these walls undetected, and then back out again?”

  Birger let out a deep breath. “We’ve tripled the guard since, but there are ways. Grates, service tunnels.”

  “He had help,” Erik said, grimly. “He must have.”

  “Who of your guard do you doubt?”

  “Of my personal, household guard? None.” A muscle leaped in his jaw, and his gaze lowered, nostrils flaring with anger. “At least, I never have before.”

  “Bjorn’s handling the questioning with the wall guard. Very thorough, but you could sit in
if you like.”

  “No, I trust him.” Erik took a huge breath that lifted his shoulders, and seemed to shrink in on himself with the exhale. He leaned back and rested against the mantelpiece, arms folded. “We’ve still not found what was taken.”

  “We may not,” Birger cautioned. “Not until we need it.”

  This was definitely not a conversation Oliver should have been privy to.

  “We’ll get it sorted, lad, don’t worry,” Birger assured.

  The idea of anyone calling tall, terrifying King Erik of Aeretoll “lad” was absurd, but Oliver watched Erik relax a little more after hearing it. His face softened, its lines still hard, and precise – beautiful – but not edged with tension, now.

  “That leaves our other problem,” he said, sourly, face screwing up in a displeased expression that was shockingly boyish.

  Birger chuckled. “Not a problem – unless the boys decide they want to arm-wrestle for the honor of the fair maid’s hand.”

  Erik rolled his eyes, and Oliver found himself smiling. “I’m embarrassed by my own kin, Birger. Like neither of them have ever seen a pretty girl before.”

  “None of the Aeres girls are that pretty. Hells,” he said, chuckling, “none of them are as pretty as the lad.”

  Erik’s face did something strange: his lips tightened, and his gaze narrowed, and – maybe it was a trick of the flickering candle flames, but it looked like the color heightened along his sharp cheekbones.

  Birger chuckled again. “Don’t worry so much. It’s up to the lady. She can have whichever she chooses, I assume?”

  “Leif is more ready to be a duke,” Erik said, then nodded. “But, yeah, she can choose. No one should have to be forced into a marriage they hate.”

  A simple, though rare sentiment, one that Oliver himself had expressed just a few hours ago at supper. Hearing it from Erik warmed him all over in a flash, like he’d just had a few more sips of mistress.

  Erik’s gaze shifted toward the doorway, and Oliver held his breath, afraid he’d been caught. But Erik only stared into the middle distance, toward the tapestry on the corridor wall, shaking his head absently. His eyes were jewel-bright, the color of them in the low light sending a tight spasm through Oliver’s chest. “Some days, I think…” he murmured, and trailed off.

  “No, lad,” Birger said, his tone kind. “You’re a good king. And, more important, a good man. Never doubt that.”

  Oliver slipped away, after that, face warm for reasons he couldn’t entirely blame on being tipsy. He worked his slow, silent way upstairs, found his room, slipped inside, and undressed without ceremony.

  The bed had been turned down, ready for him, the sheets soft and sweet-smelling when he slid between them.

  Sleep rolled in quick, a sudden fog, and he dreamed of blue eyes, and strong hands.

  6

  The drink Magnus had given him was called mistress for good reason, Oliver realized the next morning, when he woke with a throbbing headache and a foul taste in his mouth. Sweet in the moment, regrettable the next morning.

  The sun was already well up, and he felt a lurch of having erred. He dragged himself out of bed, dressed, washed his face, combed his hair, and cleaned his teeth. Then went next door and tapped on Tessa’s door.

  The maid from last night, Hilda, answered with a cheery, “Morning, Master Oliver.”

  “Morning. Is this a bad time?”

  “No, Ollie, come on in,” Tessa called.

  She stood in the center of her borrowed room, the bed covered in fabric. Dresses, he realized, as she watched her lift one and hold it up to her chest, turning to inspect its color against her skin in the mirror. The crimson should have clashed with her hair, but it was a deep color, like wine, and trimmed in white: heavy, warm velvet with a high neckline and thick, quilted sleeves.

  “Hilda noticed that most of my dresses weren’t warm enough for a Northern winter, so Lady Revna had these sent for me to wear. Look, they’ve all got built in underskirts to keep the wind off, and some are divided for riding.”

  “That was kind of her.”

  “It was.”

  Tessa folded the dress over her arm and turned to him, her expression one of resolve.

  “What?”

  “I like them,” she said, a soft declaration.

  He felt his brows go up. “All right.”

  “You look surprised.”

  “That’s because I am. Yesterday was…a lot.”

  “It was,” she agreed, smoothing her hand absently down the dress, brushing the nap of the velvet up and then down, her expression contemplative. “But we were offered shelter, good food, and warm beds. We weren’t thrown out on the doorstep.”

  This surprised him, and his head was throbbing a bit too much for surprise. He sank down to sit on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Did you expect us to be?”

  “I heard the rumors, back home.” She sent him a serious look, one that reminded him, painfully, that, though he would always think of her as a little girl, gripping at his coat sleeves and asking to be carried on his shoulders, she was no longer a child. Somewhere along the way she’d become a young woman, and, he further realized, as she spoke, not one entirely innocent of the harshness of the world. “I heard that King Erik was a barbarous and dangerous man. Ill-tempered. That he drank the blood of reindeer to keep warm in winter, and lived in a cave.”

  Behind them, Hilda tittered to herself as she puttered about the room, and Tessa flicked a rueful smile.

  “Silly, childish rumors, I know, but they frightened me a little. None of the books in the library could quite agree on Aeres. Father’s stories were reassuring, but then, Father was often overly polite.”

  Oliver couldn’t help a chuckle. “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know what we’d find when we arrived. I wasn’t quite expecting this.” She gestured to the walls around them. “I wasn’t expecting their great kindness.”

  Oliver started to argue – but then he thought of what she’d said. Thought of Magnus taking him to the guardroom and pressing warm, numbing spirits into his hands. Thought of Rune’s guileless offer to teach him to fight. Of Lady Revna urging him to drop the titles. Birger offering a gallant arm to Tessa. Thought of being seated at the family table, and spoken to as if he were a man, as if he were just Oliver, and not the disappointing bastard son of the glamorous Alfred Drake.

  It was kindness, yes, a bounty of it, wholly unexpected.

  Although…

  “And what of the king?” he asked. “Did you find him to be kind?” He thought of the challenge in Erik’s gaze, the stony façade, the voice like iron.

  Thought, too, of the slump of the shoulders as he stood against the mantelpiece, his gaze downcast, his voice small with uncertainty. It was difficult to swallow, suddenly.

  Tessa fixed him with a very direct look, penetrating and, for a moment, as perceptive and analytic as her mother; the resemblance sent a shiver through him that he fought not to show. “I think he’s a very lonely man.”

  “Lonely?” That wasn’t the word he would have used.

  But Tessa said, “Yes. Burdened – maybe by his kingdom, but by something else, too, I think.” She offered a small smile. “He reminds me of you, a little.”

  Oliver snorted – though his heart lurched. “Yes. A striking resemblance, I should think.”

  She didn’t share his amusement. Tipped her head to the side, fully Lady Katherine in that moment. “Yes,” was all she said, then returned to sorting through dresses.

  Oliver was a little stunned.

  “Which do you think?” she said. “After breakfast, Leif is taking me on a tour of the palace.”

  Oliver blinked and refocused. “He is?”

  “Hilda’s coming with us, don’t worry.” Her manner had become brisk, seemingly casual – but he could detect the thrum of nerves and girlish giddiness beneath. This was the same Tessa who’d always pretended not to care about May Day, but who ended up lifting her skirts and sprintin
g down the hill to the village green.

  He stood to survey her choices with the appropriate level of attention.

  “I think your ladyship would look lovely in the green,” Hilda offered, “if you’d like an old woman’s opinion.” When Oliver glanced up, she winked at him, and he found himself smiling in return.

  Tessa stroked her fingertips down the pale green wool, along the line of silver cording at the double-breasted bodice. “It is a pretty shade.”

  “And will go well with your hair,” Oliver said. “I agree with Hilda.”

  As he left so that she might change into it, Hilda caught his sleeve at the door and leaned in for a whispered word: “Don’t you worry, Master Oliver, I won’t let her out of my sight. Not that you need worry about Prince Leif: he’s a good lad.”

  Amused, Oliver kept his face properly grave and thanked her, then slipped out.

  Pale, early sunlight fell through the windows, white panels on the flags bright enough to make him squint and hiss as it assaulted his aching eyes. Ugh. No more mistress for him – a twofold thought that left him snorting to himself as he made for the staircase.

  He passed people on the stairs, some of them servants in aprons and bearing trays and steaming pitchers, and he nodded a silent hello to all of them, earning smiles and nods in return. He’d always gone out of his way to thank and greet the serving men and women in Drakewell – after all, he wasn’t a lordling for them to dote and wait on, even if he was, mostly, always welcome at the family table. They were friendlier, here, though, a few even offering a “good morning.” Two called him by name, and he supposed, at this point, everyone in the palace knew who the slim, auburn-haired strangers were.