“Aye,” Erik said, frowning at his advisor. “Me, too. We’ve not even reached the solstice yet, and they’re already bold enough to snatch sheep.”
Oliver said, “Is there a reason for it? A drought summer? Herds moving?”
“It was a boon summer,” Erik said, frowning thoughtfully. “If the herds have shifted, it’s for another reason.” He stared into the middle distance a moment, thinking, giving Oliver a chance to admire his profile. Then he shook his head and turned his gaze on Oliver, who was careful to school his features, whatever they might have been doing. “So. A marriage contract.”
His lunch only half-finished, but his stomach now alive with butterflies, Oliver pushed his plate to the side. “Yes. That’d be a good thing to discuss.”
He could see that Erik was holding back a smile, a bit of it peeking through in the way the corners of his mouth curved faintly upward.
Birger cleared his throat. Loudly. It startled Oliver, but, when he looked, he found the advisor smiling at both of them. “Shall we go up, then?”
~*~
By the time they reached Erik’s private study, Oliver was shaking, faintly, and wishing he’d choked down the rest of lunch. Or maybe been big enough to admit that another day in bed wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. He clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking visibly as he followed Erik inside a room that was familiar only thanks to spying through the crack in the door. It was larger than he’d originally thought, based on that one stolen glimpse: there was a reading nook in the bow window beyond the fireplace, a cozy spot with a huge chair heaped with furs, a book open on the footstool. It was a room that saw a lot of use, obviously: from the cup on the mantel, to the paperwork scattered across the desk, to the abandoned cloaks and gloves that littered tabletops amid stoppered flasks and bottles.
Erik waved to the two chairs situated across from the desk, and Oliver gratefully slumped down into one before his legs gave out. Birger had noticed, his frown one of concern as he studied Oliver.
Oliver said, “I’m fine.”
A cup appeared in front of his face, Erik’s rings flashing in the sunlight. “This’ll help,” he said, and, as Oliver took it with thanks, he realized that, though he hadn’t said anything, Erik had noticed his shaking.
He sipped the wine and watched Erik move around to sit behind the desk, hie gaze lifting in a quick, unmistakable check of Oliver’s wellness. Oliver hated the idea of appearing weak in anyone’s eyes, but, strangely, this – Erik’s outward concern – didn’t feel like that sort of appraisal. Didn’t feel like he’d been measured and found lacking. All too vividly, he recalled the press of Erik’s thumbs against his wrists, when he’d held onto him and assured him that he had no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed.
His face heated, and he sipped at his wine.
Erik cleared a space at the center of his desk, and then unrolled a map gone yellow and soft-edged with age. He pinned it down silver candlesticks, and a small, silver statue of an Aeretollean warrior king with mail, and blade, and braids. The map was of northern Aquitainia.
The duchy of Drakewell, bountiful jewel of the kingdom, sat snug between Inglewood, to the west, and Nede, to the east. The northern border was crowned by the Whispering Hills, and, beyond, the jagged peaks of the Black Mountains, named for the black shale that crumbled away in your hands and under boots and had sent many a careless climber tumbling to his death.
Erik picked up a letter opener that looked more like a knife – probably the Aeretollean king didn’t own letter openers, and this was actually a knife – and tapped the point against the dot that represented the capital city: Aquitaine. “We received word two months ago that the Sels had put up a blockade around the capital.” He lifted his gaze to Oliver, verifying.
A strange way to start marriage negotiations, but Oliver nodded and sat forward to gesture to the map. “They anchored warships here, and here,” he said, pointing. Aquitaine sat at the end of a small jut of land that curved like a half-moon, providing a natural, wide harbor that could be blocked off with booms in the event of a siege.
It had also proved devastatingly vulnerable to an enemy blockade.
“There was a stroke of luck – a storm blew up, and smashed the Sel ships to bits, but, you know how deep their fleet is.”
“Hm.”
“There are Sel encampments here, and here, up and down the coast. Even here, out of the Crownlands and into Inglewood, but Drakewell was still free of them, when Tessa and I left.”
“Where are Drakewell’s troops?” Erik asked.
“They were at the front when the stalemate was called. Whether or not they’ve returned…”
“Doubtful,” Birger said, leaning in so that all three of them were bent over the map. “You don’t send troops back to their home fires when the enemy is camped on your doorstep.”
“Everyone knows Drakewell is the most resource-heavy duchy in Aquitainia,” Erik said, pressing his finger to it. “If the Sels are trying to establish a permanent base here in the east, then there’s slim chance they won’t at some point raid Drakewell.”
“Or be given tacit permission by the king to partake of it,” Birger added, grimly.
“So you can see why we’re here,” Oliver said.
Erik arched a single brow, his tone dry – his gaze bright with amusement, though. “Thought you’d come and fetch the Great Northern Phalanx to solve your troubles, did you?”
“My aunt’s idea, I assure you,” Oliver retorted, just as dry.
A smile threatened, and how had Erik’s face ever looked carved from stone when it was so mobile and expressive?
Birger cleared his throat, and Oliver did not jump as if burned. He took another swallow of wine and said, “Nede still stands untouched; we used their harbor to sail up the east coast to get here. But Lord Robert is in agreement with my aunt – and with me. If Aquitainian forces can’t expel the Sel army, and right now they can’t, then I think there’s a very good chance Aquitainia will fall to them. If they manage to take the capital, if the Crownlands fall to them…”
“Seles annexes the continent,” Erik finished, nodding. “Which would make them our neighbors to the south.”
“I’m not trying to make this your problem,” Oliver said, letting a bit of ceremony drop. The fatigue hit him all over again, honesty helped along by the wine. “But I don’t think Aquitainia can win this war. Not alone. It was a risk coming here, and asking for this alliance, but it was our best chance.”
Erik nodded. Then reached for a stack of unsealed letters at the edge of the table, the wax seals broken-open, each of a different color. “In the past week, I’ve had no less than seven offers from Aquitainian lords, all of them looking to trade a daughter for an army.”
“Oh.” The breath left his lungs in a rush. Oliver hadn’t even stopped to consider that – that they might have competition in this area. Katherine must have known, though. She’d all but pushed them out the door.
“Lucky for you,” Erik continued, setting the letters aside. “You arrived first. Now.” He reached for another sheaf of parchment. “Birger, do we have last year’s trade reports?”
~*~
Oliver wasn’t aware of drifting off to sleep, but found himself waking, some indeterminable time later. He had slumped down in his chair, and his neck was stiff, but the hand that had held the wine cup was empty, now. The fire popped and crackled; voices spoke in low, murmured tones.
Eyelids heavy and reluctant, Oliver let the sounds wash over him.
Birger’s voice: “Shall I rouse the lad and take him along with me?”
Erik: “No. I’ll send him to bed in a bit. Let him sleep if he needs it.”
A pause. A sigh. Birger said, “Ah, lad.”
“Birger–”
“I want – we all want you to find a bit of happiness.”
“Trust me: I’m in no danger of that.”
A huff of quiet laughter. “You’ve always been a terrible liar.
But you can’t lie to me.”
“Hm.”
“If the approval of an old man matters–”
“Always.”
“–I like him. I have to say ‘be careful,’ because that’s my job.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Though you’re so buttoned up, I don’t suppose my caution is necessary.”
“Hey.”
A chair creaked, and Birger’s knees popped as he stood. His voice was full of fond warmth. “I mean it, though. The being happy part.”
“Duly noted.”
“And” – Birger’s tone turned sly – “if it’s reciprocation you’re worried about…I’d say you’re safe on that front.”
“Goodnight, Birger.”
The advisor chuckled, and ambled out, boot soles scuffing softly over the stones. The door shut. A log shifted on the fire with the quiet shush of falling ash.
Oliver was fully-awake, now, but kept his eyes shut, and his breathing slow and even. He didn’t want to give himself away, for Erik to know that he’d overhead – even if his heart thumped hard in his chest.
For a while, all was silent save the quietly crackling fire.
Then came the shift and rustle of clothes, the creak of a chair. For such a large man, Erik moved near-silently. Oliver didn’t realize he stood above him until he heard the quiet rush of a slow exhale. Unsteady, hitched. And then Oliver felt a touch against the top of his head: large fingers raking carefully through his curls.
Oliver’s mother had done the same thing when he was small. He held distant memories of having his curls petted, of her voice, warm with loving, calling him “my bright copper boy.” It had been soothing, then, and it was now – no one else had done this to him in the time since her death. No one until this beautiful warrior king.
Oliver was both electrified, and left with a lump in his throat at the same time. He failed to suppress a shiver. The gig was up, then, on feigning sleep. But he let his lashes lift slowly, in hopes he could play it off as if the touch had awakened him, and not the overheard conversation.
He expected Erik to withdraw. Instead, he stilled a moment, but then resumed, stroking along Oliver’s scalp again. His gaze, when Oliver dared to meet it, was heart-meltingly gentle.
Oliver didn’t take a breath for what felt like a minute. In this stolen slice of time, in the warm study, Erik backlit by warm firelight, his touch light and reverent through his hair, Oliver couldn’t lie to himself about the meaning of that look. It had been turned on him so rarely in his life…
No, never. He’d been looked at with fleeting lust, or dark want, furtive curiosity. He’d been looked at with fondness and love by his cousins, with regret by his uncle, and contempt from his father. His aunt looked at him like she understood his competence; it was an amenable and productive relationship, if not warm. But not since his mother had anyone looked on him with this quiet awe. Like he was precious, and special, and something to admire. A look that spoke of the potential for something so much realer and more devastating than simple, physical desire.
It was something that had the potential to break him, in every way possible.
He drew in an unsteady breath, finally. “How long have I been asleep?” Why are you doing this? I can’t defend against this.
A small, private sort of smile touched Erik’s mouth. “Only an hour or so. To be fair, talk of grain prices usually threatens to put me to sleep.”
It was a smile that Oliver couldn’t return, as another shiver chased through him. His throat had grown tight, and it was hard to swallow – harder still to push himself upright, so that Erik’s hand froze, and retreated.
No, wait, I don’t want to push you away. But he bit his lip, and didn’t say it, because it was better if he halted that moment in its tracks – it was downright necessary.
“Sorry,” he rubbed the grit from his eyes. “I’m still, er, not back to being myself, apparently.”
Erik’s arch glance said, We all already knew that. He retreated behind the desk. “More wine?”
“No, I should” – he gestured toward the door. “Get some sleep, probably. We can pick back up tomorrow?” He nodded at the table, and its spread of paperwork.
Erik inclined his head. “Of course.”
Oliver stood, gripping the chair arms until the last minute as dizziness made itself known. Erik made an abortive little motion, like he’d thought to lean over the desk and steady him. He subsided.
This…was the awkward part. This was the unspoken moment bristling with potential; Erik hadn’t drawn down a polite mask yet, and Oliver knew, he knew, that if he were to lean forward, and put his hands on the desk, and press forward into Erik’s personal space in invitation, he would get kissed to within an inch of his life. He envisioned all the ways it might unfold from there, from being dragged across the desk, to being thrown down on the fur rug before the fireplace. Thought of Olaf passing him that bottle of oil, and of Birger saying happiness. His breath caught again, because this could happen. It could be something real and not just a fever dream or a late-night fantasy.
But what then?
Oliver turned his face away, but not before he saw Erik begin to frown. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Yes. Sleep well.”
He called himself a dozen kinds of fool all the way back to his chamber.
17
Preparations for the Yuletide Feast began in earnest. More and more pine boughs were threaded along the gallery bannister, and within the iron spokes of the chandeliers in the great hall. The servants bustled about, and seemed to have roped off-duty guardsmen into toting decorations back and forth. The halls smelled of fresh-cut fir; pine cones nearly as long as her arm hung from doorways, ranged in clusters tied with velvet ribbon and set with harness bells. Candles studded with dried berries and rosemary sprigs were being stockpiled in corners. In the kitchen one day, when Leif took her in to show her where the biscuits were stashed, she saw extra sacks of flower and grain; saw kitchen boys toting long rails loaded down with sausages up from storage. It was going to be, appropriately, a kingly feast.
She and Leif spent time together every day. They went hawking again, and riding – though they went in the morning, on bright days, and stayed within sight of the palace the whole time. He didn’t kiss her again, though she rather wished he would – but he slanted her looks, sometimes, when she could sense that he wanted to. He touched her more: found reasons to steady her by an elbow, to take her hand and help her up a step or over a bit of ice on the garden path. When they left the palace, he draped her cloak around her shoulders, the rough tips of his fingers gentle and warm when he fastened the clasp at her throat.
She liked the way the sunlight turned his blue eyes translucent. The way the snow spangled his golden hair. She liked that he was gentle with animals, but strong and sure in the sparring ring. He was dedicated to his studies, and when he talked about someday leading Aeretoll, it was with a proper dignity: he understood the weight of the responsibility that awaited him. When they took a sleigh into the city, a group of children ran alongside, shouting and waving, smiling and calling him your majesty. He reined up, and offered the small paper wrapped peppermints from his own pocket – his breath, incidentally, always smelled of peppermint – and listened to their excited stories with genuine interest.
He was no spoiled lordling; he was good, and kind, and serious, and intelligent, and it would be easy to fall in love with him.
Only…
“I like the blue,” Rune offered. He was lounged negligently in a chair in the royal family solar, booted feet propped up on the edge of a table, head tilted in consideration so that his wild, unbraided hair caught the sunlight and flared all in a rich brown and red spill across his shoulders.
Tessa stood on a low stool in the center of the rug while Astrid measured the length of her hem for the tenth time and Revna held up swatches of crimson and midnight velvet to her face for comparison. The Yuletide Feast was in two days, and Revna had insi
sted she needed a special gown for the occasion. Tessa had protested, not wanting to put anyone to any inconvenience, but as had become usual, Revna had swept her along with gentle insistence. Tessa hoped that she had a place at all Aeretollean negotiation tables, because there was no refusing her.
She rolled her eyes, now. “My son the fashion expert.” Over her shoulder to Rune: “Aren’t you supposed to be studying? But, yes, the blue, I think.”
Rune grinned, and winked at Tessa.
That was her problem. Leif was wonderful, but Rune left her biting back giggles at every turn.
Revna turned and flapped a hand at him. “Out with you. Go learn something.”
He heaved a theatrical sigh and got to his feet. Headed for the door – but leaned in close, when his mother’s back was turned, to whisper to Tessa: “Blink twice if you need rescuing.”
She gave a very unladylike snort of laugher, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. Rune grinned – the quicksilver, beautiful, grin that reached all the way up to his eyes and pressed lines at the corners that would deepen as he aged; his was a face printed with joy, and made all the lovelier for it.
“Rune,” Revna said, in warning.
“I’m going.” He left with one more wink that left her stomach somersaulting.
“That child,” Revna said, shaking her head, when he was gone. She selected a bolt of velvet and set it aside with the silver threat and tiny seed pearls and sapphires. “Ah, here it is.” She lifted a bundle and turned to Tessa with it held out in offering.
It was fur, she saw, a heavy, black-flecked gray; she reached for it automatically, and felt its cool, slick hair slide through her fingers. She knew where it had come from before Revna said, “The wolves that Leif felled.” She glanced up, gaze gone serious. “He wanted you to have one.”
“Oh,” Tessa breathed.
“You can wear it as a stole,” Revna said, unfurling the length of fur and wrapping it around her own shoulders and throat in demonstration. “That’s how we do it here at festivals.” She struck a regal pose, and then transferred the fur to Tessa’s shoulders. “Or as a cape. A topper for your cloak, on really cold days.” She smoothed her hands over its plush surface, across Tessa’s shoulders until she gripped them lightly through it. Her gaze was searching.
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 19
