Date: 2021-11-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; M M Romance; Romance; dragons; Paranormal; Historical; Shapeshifters; Magic; Military Fiction; Adult
Description: Lord Oliver and King Erik’s party survived capture with the help of some unlikely allies, and now hurry back through treacherous mountain paths to the site of the Midwinter Festival, where Northern celebration turned to bloodshed. From Dreki Hörgr, the ancestral seat of the North, the lords of Aeretoll will march back across the kingdom, wounded, exhausted, and waiting for Ragnar’s next strike. All save Oliver, who will take to the skies – with the help of a rather petulant Corpse Lord. In the city of Aeres, Tessa has made her choice of husband, but a wedding will have to wait because the Sels
Publisher: HP Press

Blood of Wolves

The Drake Chronicles Book III

By

Lauren Gilley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are all the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is coincidental, or meant to serve as entertainment, rather than fact.

Names and characters are property of the author and may not be duplicated.

BLOOD OF WOLVES

Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Gilley

Cover design copyright © 2021 by Lauren Gilley

HP Press®
Atlanta, GA

All rights reserved.

Author’s Note:

This book – this series – is rooted heavily in a combination of English, Norse, Swedish, and Danish history and mythology. Names and myths and bits of language have been borrowed liberally – though all are used fictitiously. It’s all just for fun! For historically-accurate fantasy fiction (and vampires), please refer to my Sons of Rome series.

But here…there be dragons.

BLOOD OF WOLVES

Contents

1

2

3

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10

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14

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16

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20

21

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23

24

1

The Wolf Mountains

Beyond Dreki Hörgr

The Great Northern Wastes

“Percy is a bloody stupid name for a dragon,” Náli, Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands, announced. He sat crossed-legged on a patch of dusted-off rock, arms folded, nose lifted to a petulant angle despite their circumstances, and the fact that he was still hardly able to walk on his own. The shadows beneath his eyes looked like bruises.

Eyes that flew wide in the next moment when a stag carcass landed with a thump and a puff of snow on the ground in front of him.

Oliver didn’t bother to stifle his laugh.

Overhead, the leathern clap of wings and a high trill that sounded distinctly amused marked Percy’s passage, before he turned, banked, and landed neatly on the granite ledge where his mate awaited his return.

Composure recovered, Náli scowled.

Birger said, “Might be best not to insult the one that brought you dinner, eh?”

“Oh, I wasn’t insulting the dragon,” Náli said, glare shifting pointedly in Oliver’s direction.

Oliver smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”

It was more than a marvel all that had changed for Oliver in the past twenty-four hours. In a phenomenon that he couldn’t begin to explain, touching the magicked sapphires he’d pulled from the cell wall had obliterated his fever. In the long, grueling day that had followed, he’d not faced one chill, one cough, one swooning spell. He felt well – felt healed. He knew he’d utterly failed to make sense of it to Erik when he’d asked, but, for his part, Erik didn’t seem in a frame of mind to question anything magical at the moment.

It was two days down out of the Wolf Mountains back to Dreki Hörgr. After they’d emerged from the cave, with not one, but three dragons in tow, their unlikely party had left the Fang camp right away. “They’ll be back, and soon,” Oddmarr had cautioned. The dragons had stayed, accompanying them on their slow trek along thin, snaky, treacherous mountain paths caked with snow and edged with ice – though the drakes had mostly flown, circling overhead, calling down occasionally. When Oliver had begun to think projected, hungry thoughts, Percy had winged off and returned with his prize, which Magnus and Lars set about dressing, now.

The light was fading, evening coming on quick and harsh at this elevation, and everyone had agreed that, while making camp and lighting fires could leave them targets for any vengeful Fangs who’d given chase, the paths were too dangerous to navigate in the dark. The cold was biting, but the fire was giving off heat, a wine skin was being passed around, and, clear-headed, with the drakes keeping watch, Oliver felt safer than he had in weeks.

“There’s a sheer drop on one side of us,” Erik announced, sitting down beside Ollie on the rock serving as a stool. “A cliff on the other. And Oddmarr put archers at either end of the trail.”

“Sounds like the best we can do, then,” Birger said, sipping from the wine skin and passing it to Náli.

The young lord was still sulking, but he took the skin and put it to his lips, tipped it back – only to pour wine straight down his front, spluttering, coughing and cursing as he whipped his head around.

Percy’s son, the smallest of the three dragons, had slunk up to the fire undetected, and was curled now around the rock where Náli was sitting. He prodded him in the hip for the second time, and looked up at him with his mouth open in what was clearly a fanged smile.

“What the fuck?” Náli fumed, wiping his chin with his sleeve. Wine soaked dark as blood into the pale gray front of his cloak. “Oliver, can’t you control your fucking monsters?”

“They’re not monsters,” Oliver said, suppressing a laugh, as he watched the young one rest his head on Náli’s thigh, looking up at him with what could only be described as adoration. Even Erik chuckled. “He likes you.”

Náli gave an ineffectual shove at the dragon’s snout, and got licked for the effort. He withdrew his hand with a disgusted face. “Well, I don’t like him.”

“Doesn’t look like he cares,” Leif said.

“I don’t like any of you either.” When he was met with laughter from all quarters, Náli blushed, cheeks going blossom-pink in the firelight.

Truthfully, all the dragons seemed to like the Lord of the Fault Lands. Oliver thought it had to do with Náli’s inherent magic – corpse magic, apparently, wasn’t seen as threatening to the drakes. But of the three, the youngest liked him best. He was the size of a pony, and sneaky as a serpent, and constantly nudging, licking, or trying to cuddle with Náli.

Oliver found it sweet.

Everyone else found it hilarious – like now, when the young drake tried to climb into Náli’s lap.

“No! No, don’t you – down, get down, bad dragon!”

Leif laughed so hard he nearly toppled off his rock. Several watching Beserkirs guffawed openly, offering bits of unhelpful advice.

The drake settled for draping his neck across Náli’s legs, and promptly dropped to sleep, snoring faintly.

Náli fussed a bit more, then sighed, and finally rested a gloved hand along the spines of his neck. The drake purred in his sleep.

“I think you should name him, Náli,” Oliver said, and the laughter died away.

“I’d certainly do a better job than you,” Náli said, sneering…but then, meeting Oliver’s gaze, his expression smoothed. To one of surprise. “You’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Oliver asked, easily, and felt the faint pressure of Erik leaning more firmly against him. It felt like support; like approval, even.

“Because…” The color had bled out of Náli’s face; he was a pale wraith, touched with yellow fire flickers, his eyes wide and gleaming – disbelieving. “They’re yours. You’re the – the dragon master, or whatever. You can talk to them.”

“So can you – maybe not the same way,” he added, before Náli could protest. ‘But it’s like communicating with any animal. Tone of voice, and touch, and mutual respect. They aren’t my dragons. They’re just dragons. I have a bond with Percy. And I think that one wants a bond with you.”

Maybe it was a trick of the firelight, but Oliver thought Náli was starting to look a bit desperate. “But I’m not a Drake!”

Oliver shrugged. “He’s not draped all over me.”

“No, because our great hulking king is.” He gestured rudely toward Erik – while his other hand remained resting on the dragon’s neck.

Oliver realized that Erik’s hand had migrated from the small of his back to his far shoulder, and that he was in fact more or less draped over him. It was a highly pleasant sensation.

“How respectful,” Erik drawled.

“I’ll find some respect when we’re–” The rest of his sentence was cut off by a snowball. A small one, but one thrown accurately. It splatted against the side of his head, and Náli dissolved into outraged hissing.

“Don’t wake the dragon, now,” Leif cautioned, biting back a laugh. He’d been the snowball-thrower. “Besides.” His tone became more serious. “There’s no sense saying something you’ll regret later.”

Náli drew a deep breath to hurl a retort – and thought better of it. He sighed, and when his face relaxed, finally, the light danced over smooth, poreless skin, and, eye bags or no, it was obvious, then, how painfully young he still was.

He glanced down at the sleeping drake, smoothing his palm carefully along the spines down his neck; they flattened beneath his touch, and sprang back up again. The faintest smile touched Náli’s lips. “I’ll think about it,” he said, just a whisper, and, much to Oliver’s relief, no one mentioned it further.

Oddmarr joined them, settling down with a loud popping of knees and a groan of relief. “The patrols are set. Nothing’s going to slip past our lines, and, if they do, I take it the beasties will handle it.” He sent the dragon lying in Náli’s lap a cautious look.

“They can hear and see better than us,” Oliver said, “not to mention smell. If something’s out there, they’ll let us know.”

Magnus and Lars reentered the circle, toting the dressed deer carcass between them; they’d bound it to a long, trimmed pole of damp wood, a spit the Beserkirs carried with them, for just such an occasion, when the mountains failed to offer up enough timber.

“All right,” Magnus said, cheerfully, as they set it over the fire. “Who’s hungry?”

~*~

I think you should name him, Náli. The words kept playing over and over again in his head, accompanied by the mental image of Oliver’s stupid, pretty, smiling, friendly face, his red hair burnished in the firelight. They were stuck on the side of a mountain, chased by cannibals on one side, and probably traitorous Úlfheðnar on the other, with spotted cats and wolves out there…and dragons. Fucking dragons. He guessed that was why Oliver was so happy – what else could it be? The Drake had finally found his drakes, and he was one with the world, or whatever. There he’d sat, smiling, laughing, leaning into the arm that Erik had thrown over his shoulders while Erik gazed on him, dopey and sappy in love. Idiots. Ragnar was marching on Aeres, the Sels were coming; everyone back at the palace could be dead already, and they were smiling at each other.

In a logical sense, Náli knew that he wasn’t angry with his king or his consort, nor even with the young dragon who wouldn’t stay away from him; who even now slept curled around the tiny, two-person tent he was sharing with Leif, blocking the worst of the wind at ground level, his growling snores a strange comfort. But for an heir of the Fault Lands, saddled with the knowledge he would lose his father, become lord, and begin his own march toward early death before he hit puberty, fear and worry only served as hindrances. Náli had been swallowing those emotions since birth; had learned to mask them, to stow them, to find outlets for them. It was why he’d thrown himself so wholeheartedly into sword work. Cockiness and nastiness and superiority had become armored plates that he wore constantly.

He could feel the cracks in them, now.

Some fell, Chief Oddmarr had said of the lords and soldiers left behind at Dreki Hörgr. Aeretollean blood had been spilled in the snows of the Dragon Hold – how much, they couldn’t know.

His own men might be dead.

And Oliver wanted him to name a dragon. Was being kind to him, when he needed his armor more than ever.

Beside him, Leif shifted again. Grunted. Fiddled with his pack, which was serving as a makeshift pillow.

“I thought you were tired,” Náli snapped. “Stop moving around.”

“There’s – ugh – there’s too many rocks. I can’t get comfortable.” Leif rolled over so that he was facing Náli, close enough that his breath stirred the edge of Náli’s fur wrap. All their blankets and furs had been borrowed from the Beserkirs, and smelled like it, unfortunately. “If you’re so tired, then you go to sleep.”

“I’m trying,” Náli said through his teeth. “But someone keeps making all this gods bedamned noise.”

Wind gusted through the peaks, then, a high, shrieking whistle not too unlike the alarm cries of the dragons. But the little one remained coiled tight around the tent, and didn’t stir.

It was only after the sound had eased that Náli realized he’d tensed all over, so tight that his exhausted muscles threatened to cramp. He relaxed them, forcibly, with a sigh.

“Hey,” Leif said, quietly, and the tension returned. “I’m sure they’re all right.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Náli managed to keep his tone disinterested, disdainful – though his heart gave a painful flip and stuttered into a too-fast rhythm, because he knew, he knew.

Maybe Leif would shut up. Maybe he would drop to sleep in the middle of his sentence.

“Your men.” No such luck. “Your guards.” And then, Náli’s heart absolutely pounding and painful: “Your sworn shield – what’s his name? Mattias?”

“Yes.” Náli’s dry throat clicked as he swallowed, the sound echoing inside his own head. “Mattias.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Leif pressed on, the lout. “Him and the others. Don’t take this the wrong way, but if Ragnar was looking for important targets, your personal bodyguard isn’t high on the list.”

It was said kindly, and clearly meant to be a comfort, but it took every ounce of restraint not to roll over and claw at his stupid face. “They are the Elite Dead Guard of the Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands,” he snapped. “They are incredibly important.”

A beat passed. Then Leif said, “To you.”

“Go to sleep.”

Leif snorted. “Since when do lords tell princes what to do?” But before Náli could hurl another retort, he rolled onto his other side. “Try to get some rest,” he added. “You look half-dead, still.”

Náli swallowed an insult and ground his molars, staring up at the hide ceiling of the tent; the moon was out, and only beginning to wane, its blue glow seeping through the skin, outlining the shadow of the drake curled around it outside.

Within minutes, Leif was breathing deep and even, but Náli couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to.

Leif wasn’t wrong: in the grand scheme of Aeretollean politics, the Corpse Lord’s Dead Guard weren’t important pawns, not as hostages, and not as the targets of assassinations. But they were the most important people in Náli’s life.

One in particular.

~*~

For most, early childhood – those tottering years before the mind began keeping careful record of happenings – was a blur of color, and sense memory, and sound that triggered indistinct recollections later in life, with a few bright, crystal points that stood out, edged in a child’s technicolor wonder. Those were the first memories; the memories that stayed preserved and precious like oil portraits in one’s consciousness. Usually, these memories were of a parent, on older sibling, a nurse or a nanny.

For Náli, it was Mattias.

The image of a boy’s smiling face, his hair already styled like that of a Dead Guard: the head shaved close save for a single, thick stripe down the center of his skull, kept tightly braided at all times, a single tail that slapped against his back when he rode, or slid over his shoulder when he bent over a map to show Náli something. A boy’s smiling face, and a boy’s high, musical laughter; his hand warm and large and safe around Náli’s, as he urged him along. Safe. He’d always been that. Always the cup of warm tea when Náli was flagging; the cloak draped over his shoulders; the insistence on sleep; the strong arms that caught, and lifted, and carried him, when talking to the dead overwhelmed him into unconsciousness.

Always “my lord.” In the voice of a boy, of a teenager, of a man grown, larger, and stronger, and more alive than Náli had ever been, or would ever be.

For two centuries, now, the lords of the Fault Lands – their lives interwoven with the wax and wane of the fire mountain, with the safety of the entire duchy, and even the kingdom – had been guarded from all harm, and doted upon by an elite force of five warriors, selected as boys, raised with their charge the way a sheepdog was raised with lambs. The Dead Guard were trained as knights and assassins both; learned warcraft, and statesmanship at their master’s hand. They took no wives, and fathered no children. When their lord died, they retired to a life of seclusion, in a quiet valley called Naus Fell.

Náli’s Dead Guard were cousins Danski and Darri,; then there was Einrih, and Klemens. And the captain – a captain since age ten, when he was named to the Guard: Mattias. He knew them all, their faces more familiar than his own reflection, but it was Mattias who’d impressed himself upon a toddling boy of less than a year; who’d scooped him from his crib and toted him around on his hip, as adept as any nursemaid, but more fun, always fun. Always with a story to tell, and a gentle hand cupped round the back of his head when Náli cried. He’d had nightmares his whole childhood, and it was Mattias who’d slipped into bed with him, and held him close, and whispered to him of far-off lands, where it was warm, and the fields danced with flowers, and no one ever had to draw magic out of their bones and wake the dead.

If Mattias had died at Dreki Hörgr, when Ragnar had forsaken them all, then Klemens would become captain, and another Guard chosen to fill the empty space.

If Mattias had died at Dreki Hörgr, Náli was going to dig his corpse from the snow and bring him back, so help all the gods, or he would die trying.

He’d just begun to slip into a fretful half-sleep when the tent shifted all around them, and the little drake let out a bleating cry of alarm. Náli bolted upright, as the cry was taken up by Percy, and by his mate: deeper, bone-chilling cries. A heartbeat later, the Beserkirs were shouting. A horn sounded.

Leif pushed up on an elbow and swiped at his face with his other hand. “What – what are–” He shook his head. “Ambush.”

“Yes,” Náli agreed, scrambling for the tent flap, unable to offer a smart remark around the lump in his throat. His pulse had stopped, and then lurched into a flat-out gallop, and he felt lightheaded with it. He grabbed his sheathed sword, where it had lain beneath the covers with him, and dragged it out into the night.

The camp was rapidly dissolving into the kind of controlled chaos that always followed an alarm: men running back and forth, taking up arms, lightning torches.

Erik strode past, naked sword in his hand; Oliver hurried along behind, swaddled in his cloak, a knife in one hand, expression caught somewhere between resolve and terror.

“Fangs?” someone asked.

“No. They’re wearing mail.”

“Aeretollean?” someone else asked, voice surprised.

“Must be.”

“But how?”

“Who…”

The little drake butted Náli hard in the shoulder with his nose, his gaze clearly distressed.

Náli rubbed at his shoulder and glared at him. “You woke the whole camp. Are you happy?” But inwardly, he’d gone clammy cold. The drake had sensed an intruder before the horn sounded; he might have saved any one of them being stabbed in their sleep. He reached then to pat his muzzle, and the dragon leaned into the touch gratefully, eyes closing.

The snap and furl of wings overhead revealed Percy had leaped aloft; his wing beats stirred the tents, and Náli’s hair; kicked up a fine spray of snow.

Náli gripped his sword hilt, his fighting muscles springing to life, as Leif clambered out of the tent behind him – and the forward guard of Beserkirs herded their captives into the center of their small clearing.

“Shit, is it Fangs?” Leif asked.

Náli didn’t answer him – he couldn’t.

“Hold,” Oliver called up to his drake. “Percy, hold, wait.”

Yes, that was good. Náli laid a hand on the neck of the agitated drake beside him, willing him to hold, too.

He’d caught a glimpse of bright, clean mail, and of brown leather; of soft gray wool, and a standard picked out on the breast of a jerkin: a skull. The skull of Naus Keep, of the Corpse Lord.

Náli let go of his sword, heedless that it dropped to the snow, and took off running – heedless too of Leif’s shout, and the drake’s whining cry. Someone tried to grab him, and he slipped through fingers, ducked under an arm. People were shouting, but he ignored them.

“Move!” he shouted at the Beserkirs in his way – and when they wouldn’t, only stared at him in bemusement, he ducked around them, too.

The prisoners had been stripped of weapons and had their hands bound with crude rope. Their noses were red, their faces chapped from the cold and the wind, but there was no mistaking them, no doubt that they belonged to him.

They had come. His Death Guard had come.

Mattias walked at the head of the group, as befitted the captain’s crossed swords stitched beneath the skull on his jerkin. The hood of his cloak had slid back, or been pushed back, more likely, and he bore a fresh, nasty scrape along one cheekbone, marking where one of his captors had struck him. His eyes glittered, angry and worried, dark as river stones, and his jaw was clenched, muscles leaping in his throat as he turned his head side to side, searching.

“Mattias!” Náli burst out, before he could take hold of himself. “Mattias, you’re here!”

His gaze snapped around, and widened. The tension bled out of his face in a sudden rush, and his lips parted. “My lord,” he breathed.

Náli could feel his face aching in the cold – aching from smiling so wide. He’d flung open his arms, and he was running, still, barreling toward his Guard captain.

Until the memory of his mother’s voice washed over him like cold water. He’s your guard, Náli, not your friend. Your servant. Don’t ever get confused about that.

Mother, home now in the Fault Lands, trying to find him a bride so that he could continue the line; so he could plan for his inevitable early death.

He pulled up short, chest and throat aching, and let his arms fall to his sides. “You came,” he said, and it wasn’t an effort to stow away his smile; to drag on an imperious expression.

Mattias blinked; the glimmer faded from his eyes. He ducked his head – as did his comrades, all four of them. “We came, my lord. You are well?”

It hurt to swallow. “Yes. I am…well.”

Erik appeared at his side. “Untie them. Mattias,” he said, as the Beserkirs complied. “How did you make it up the pass?”

“Majesty, we–” The flap of wings overhead caught his attention, and then he was cursing, and reaching for the sword that was no longer on his hip.

The young drake shouldered up on Náli’s right, and thrust his head toward Mattias – who, remarkably, managed not to scream, though his eyes bulged wide.

Panic flared in Náli’s gut. “No!” He slapped the dragon’s neck. “No, don’t you dare!”

The drake paused, and glanced back at him. His ruff, extended in aggression, flattened back, so he looked properly chastened. With a huff, he sat down on his haunches, like a dog, and tried to lick at Náli’s face.

Náli shoved at his snout. “Ugh. Stop it, you idiot.” He wiped dragon slobber off his face – it was ice-cold in a way that slobber should definitely not have been, fucking cold-drakes – and sought his captain’s gaze.

He’d seen Mattias’s face look like this before, somewhere between stricken and awed, on more than one occasion. Each of those times, it had involved the milk-white waters of the catacombs, accompanied by the whispers and screams of the dead, when Náli was shaking and bordering on unconscious. He’d never understood that look – or, at least…he hadn’t wanted to. For his own sanity.

Mattia’s throat jerked as he swallowed, as his gaze pinged wildly between Náli and the dragon, the way he tried to wrest control of his reaction obvious, and comical – and sweet, too. “My lord?”

Beserkirs scattered with muffled curses and exclamations as Percy landed behind the prisoners, lightly, though the kiss of his feet on the snow sent faint vibrations up through Náli’s legs.

He sighed. “Yes. It appears we’ve been adopted by dragons.”

~*~

All of this would have been easier in a proper campaign tent, but this wasn’t a proper campaign, and the only tents were of the low, two-person Beserkir variety that, while cozy for sleeping, didn’t allow for a knot of grown men to discuss a political ambush. The wind whistled through the peaks and crags of the mountains, knifing right through Oliver’s cloak. He was too cold to be too proud about all but wedging himself into Erik’s side; Erik helpfully threw a fold of his own cloak around them both, and looked and sounded no less imperious for it as he faced Náli’s personal guard captain.

“How did you manage to make it all this way?” Erik asked, and though Oliver could hear that he was impressed, and surprised, he thought that his tone – to someone who didn’t know him as intimately – probably came across as brusque and full of doubt.

But Náli’s captain, Mattias, a tall, strong-built man near Oliver’s age, with a close-kept beard and a single, tight braid down the middle of his skull, stood unflinching at his master’s side and said, “The Úlfheðnar had already gone, your majesty. We encountered no resistance – save the mountain rabble.” He frowned in clear disgust. “A group of twenty tried to waylay us a mile back. We dealt with them.”

Oliver lifted his brows, impressed – though the cold had numbed his face so badly he couldn’t feel much of the movement.

“Just the five of you?” Erik asked.

“Yes, your majesty.”

Náli said, “The Dead Guard are the most elite fighters in Aeretoll.” His tone had gone lofty, and superior – but with a vibrating undercurrent of true, emotional pride. His smile was small, and smug, but his pale eyes glittered in the torchlight. True sentiment.

Erik dipped his head a fraction. “They’ve proven themselves capable tonight. Though,” he addressed Mattias, “you nearly got run through with a Beserkir spear.”

Náli bristled.

But Mattias said, “It was a risk we had to take, your majesty, to ensure that our lord was whole and healthy.” He glanced toward Náli, then, and his brows drew together, frown plucking at his mouth. “My lord, you look tired.”

Náli’s resultant blush was visible even in the flickering torchlight. “I’m fine.” But there was no hiding dark shadows beneath his eyes, nor the thinness of his cheeks.

Mattias opened his mouth – and then closed it, silent, though his jaw worked.

Interesting, Oliver thought.

“What of my lords?” Erik asked, drawing Mattias’s attention again. “Who survived?”

“Most, your majesty. I don’t believe Ragnar set out to murder the whole of the Phalanx – merely to cause enough chaos to escape with his men. Though.” Here his voice grew heavier. “Lord Ingvar was slain. And Lord Fastlaug, along with most of his men. Lord Askr was injured, he and his son, Haldin, both. Many lords lost portions of their troops. It was a bloody day.”

Oliver didn’t need to seek out Erik’s expression to know what it was doing. It had gone hard as granite, muscles flicking in his taut cheeks, jaw firm beneath the close grain of his dark beard.

His voice sent goosebumps shaking out over Oliver’s skin when he said, “We need to get to Dreki Hörgr.”

2

Aeres

Kingdom of Aeretoll

Revna peered over the edge of the battlements, wind tugging at her braids, and watched the tail end of the last civilian caravan crawl across the palace’s drawbridge, through the gate and into the yard. A boy of no more than ten held his little sister’s hand, both of them bundled against the cold, and he tugged at the rope lead of a shaggy, brown cow, plodding along disinterestedly behind them. A father carried twins wrapped in furs, one in each arm, while his wife and their dog drove their small flock of thick-coated sheep ahead of them. She spotted a farrier’s cart, pulled by steady draft horses; a wheelbarrow full of long-haired rabbits in wire cages. Families from the small, turf-roofed farmhouses in the fields of Aeres; children from the city proper, in the bustling markets down by the docks. They’d begun the evacuation immediately, pulling every person and every animal behind the palace’s thick walls. Tents were being set up for the overflow that couldn’t be housed in the rooms and great hall. The palace fairly hummed beneath her feet, full to bursting.

At the very rear of the column, astride his massive warhorse, Bjorn herded the last civilians along, checking over his shoulder, toward the harbor, where the masts of the Sel ships were just visible from this distance. They hadn’t hit the mainland, yet, but they would soon. At any moment.

It felt almost like they’d allowed the evacuation.

Bjorn lifted his gaze up to the wall, and met hers. Even from this distance, she could see the upward curve of his lips, the small, tight smile – no less genuinely warm – that he offered her, in the midst of controlled chaos, and thrumming terror.

She stepped back; turned to face the three nervous faces behind her. Tessa, Rune, and the young guardsmen who held Leif’s favorite hawk, Él, hooded, on one gloved arm.

Revna wore a glove, too, and she took the hawk; felt the strong grasp of her talons on her fingers as the bird moved from one grip to the other. The message Revna had written out earlier was already rolled and secured inside the small, leather tube strapped to the hawk’s leg.

She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“Mum.”

Her gaze shifted to Rune, who was still too pale and thin in the face, even if his hair was tightly, neatly braided for once, thanks to Tessa’s careful fingers. “Are you sure?” she asked. “I can ask someone else–”

He shook his head, and his jaw tightened, and he said, “I can do this. I’m sore, not dead.”

Miraculously, she thought with a pang.

He held his bow, an arrow resting against the unstrained wood, fingers gripping the fletching loosely. Ready. Despite the shadows beneath them, his eyes were full of determination. He looked so much like his uncle that it hurt.

Revna nodded. “All right.” She picked up her skirt with her free hand and walked along the battlements, around a bend and to the long stretch of wall-walk that faced the north. The snow-mantled fields gleamed as if scattered with diamonds. The tree line, and the far distant mountains, lay like folded gray quilts.

Revna scanned the air; spotted dark movement high, beneath a tattered strip of cloud.

Behind her, Rune moved into position, boot soles scuffing over stone. His cloak rustled, as he lifted his arms. Was it hurting him? Was even that too much?

She didn’t look. She pulled Él’s hood, and watched the bird swivel her head, feathers ruffling, getting her bearings. After a moment, she settled; stared off across the fields, and the forest, gaze sharpening visibly, pupils expanding a fraction. Revna could feel her tense, ready, just like Rune.

“I need you to find him.” She meant the words to be stern, a forceful command – but they came out a plea instead. “Find your boy, and deliver this.” She touched the leather case, briefly, and then extended her gloved arm. Lowered it. “Go.”

It had been a while since she’d gone hawking, but her body remembering the movement. The throw, the moment of loosing the jesses.

Él leaped aloft, the strong, initial flap of her wings stirring Revna’s hair, and dusting snow from the wall, as she went over. The hawk dropped, a moment, getting a feel for the wind, and then started to climb, wings beating strong and steady; she headed out across the field, flying north, to her master.

A shadow fell over her, and a black wraith hurtled down through shredded clouds.

“Rune!”

“I see.” The bow creaked as he drew it; she heard him grunt, faintly. And then the string twanged, and the arrow was only a hiss of wind beside her, and a brief glimpse of retreating goose feathers, before the vulture’s dive hitched, and the bird tumbled, end over end, and fell, dead, down, down, down to the snow, as Él continued on, unscathed.

Even if the Sels were still onboard their ships, they’d loosed a host of vultures on the city – trained vultures, or perhaps magicked, even. Tessa had tried sending messages south to her family in Drakewell, and each messenger falcon had been plucked from the sky, and killed, messages undelivered.

But this time. This time Revna had hope.

She let out a deep breath, and turned to check on Rune. He’d lowered his bow, and stood with one hand pressed to his ribs, just above his still-healing injury, teeth gritted against the pain.

Tessa had a hand on his arm, gazing at him worriedly.

“How badly did you just set yourself back?” Revna asked.

She could see that it was an effort to stop grimacing. “Not bad.”

She sighed. “Oh, my little liar.”

“Hey–”

She stepped up and patted his cheek. “Go see Olaf and make sure you didn’t strain anything. And thank you.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then Revna gathered her skirts and went to see what was to be done about her ever-more-crowded great hall.

~*~

It wasn’t that Tessa hadn’t understood what it meant to go to war with an enemy as strong and well-trained and determined as the Sels when she lived in Drakewell, but then it had been a removed threat. It had been Father and John and Uncle Alfred marching off; all the actual fighting had taken place around the capital, over a thousand miles distant.

But she could see the masts of the Sel ships from the battlements, their purple sails folded out of sight, but the sinister silhouettes of their massive man o’ wars wildly out of place amidst the dry-docked barges and merchant vessels of the harbor. All the farmers and merchants from the city were filling up the nooks and crannies of the palace, and the Sels were coming – were coming here. To do battle, to lay siege. They’d been so worried about Drakewell – she and Ollie both – but they’d never thought the enemy might arrive at Aeres like this.

If she thought about it, she felt like she might swoon, the crushing fear and anxiety leaving her all but immobile. So she didn’t think of it, at least not directly. She focused on helping in all the ways she could, and right now that meant making sure Rune went to see Olaf.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Rune complained, and the face he made was nearly enough to make her laugh, despite everything. “I don’t need to see Olaf.” He planted a hand against the doorjamb, and wouldn’t be budged, despite the fact that his other hand was clasped to his side. “I’m fine. Good to go back up on the wall – and, look, they’re much more in need of Olaf than me.”

Through the open door, Tessa could see that the surgery was more crowded than usual. An infant cried in its mother’s arms, despite her efforts to bounce it gently on her shoulder, swaying side-to-side. Three children, boys that couldn’t be more than a year apart in age and all with the same wheat-colored hair, sat lined up on stools while Olaf examined their eyes, ears, and throats with aid of his monocle and a candle and mirror. All were wiping at red, runny noses while their mother looked on with obvious concern. A young man stood holding his arm gingerly; one of the kitchen maids had a cloth gripped tight in one hand, blood seeping through where she’d cut herself.

She didn’t necessarily disagree with him, if she was being practical. The sick and crying children tugged at her heartstrings.

But so did Rune, whose pain had been writ clear on his face up above; who was nowhere near ready to be shooting when he’d not even managed to walk from one end of the palace to the other so far without getting winded. Olaf would want to examine him, because he was the prince – because he was the only heir in evidence here now, while the king was away, and the enemy was on their doorstep – but Tessa wanted him looked at for purely personal reasons.

“We can wait,” she said, towing him into the surgery by his tunic sleeve. “I’m sure it won’t take long.”

The kitchen maid glanced up at them, and then swept into a quick, correct curtsy. “Your grace. My lady.”

The woman with the baby turned toward them, and gasped. “Prince Rune!”

“Hello,” he said, a little stiffly, and offered a wave. “Um. Just. Waiting. Didn’t want to disturb.”

Without looking away from the boy whose ear he was examining, Olaf said, “Go and sit up on the table, lad, and I’ll come check your wound.”

“You don’t know that’s why I’m here,” Rune grumbled.

Olaf only hummed.

“Here, your grace,” the woman with the baby said, stepping back so that she bumped into a workbench, gesturing to the space she’d abandoned. “Go ahead of us, please.”

Rune’s awkward expression became one of surprise – and then of dismay. He bowed, and both women scrambled to curtsy this time. “No, my ladies,” he said, as he straightened, and his voice had grown gentle, but firm. Princely. “Let Olaf see to you, and your children, first. I’m happy to wait.”

It was such a small thing, and the right thing, but the mother and the maid both blushed; the mother’s eyes filled with tears.

Warm with pride for him, Tessa looped an arm through Rune’s and led him toward the back of the surgery. He climbed up onto the table by himself, but gingerly, wincing a little. Tessa couldn’t do much good, but she kept a hand on his arm the whole time, supportive in presence, if nothing else, and he offered her a tight smile, once he was settled, trying to push down the evidence of his pain.

“Really. I’m fine,” he said.

“Uh-huh. We’ll see what Olaf says.”

“Ugh. You’re going to turn into my mother, aren’t you?”

“She’s an admirable woman.”

He sighed – but nodded, and she felt a grin steal across her face.

One that faded in the next moment, when the baby cried behind them, and she was reminded of their situation. Of the state of emergency.

Rune picked her hand up, where it rested on his arm, and wrapped it up between both of his own, large, and warm, and still cold from being up on the wall. “When I was little,” he said, his voice gone soft and small with remembrance. “Mum would always tell us that everything would be all right. When Uncle went off to the festival – when he took us with him, later. That time Leif got struck in the head during training and I cried like an idiot baby.” He huffed a fast, embarrassed chuckle, cheeks coloring, briefly.

He traced her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “I wish I could tell you that now. But…I don’t know if I can.” He looked up through dark lashes, eyes warm and brown as polished mahogany. “I don’t want you to be afraid, but I don’t want to lie to you either.”

Initially, the sight of him had filled her with breathless butterflies. They were still there, but now her chest ached and squeezed with a warmer, more acute sensation. It wasn’t just that he was handsome and charming – but he was earnest, and caring, and honest, and Tessa loved him.

“I am afraid,” she said. “But that’s not your fault.”

His hands tightened on hers, one corner of his mouth plucking in a wide smile. Started to speak – and was interrupted by Olaf’s arrival.

Behind them, the baby cried, and was shushed by its mother.

Below them, the palace rumbled with uneasy humanity.

It seemed so unfair, she thought, to have found the person that could make her so happy and hopeful, here on the eve of disaster.

~*~

“That’s another ten head of sheep, my lady, and fifteen cows – two ready to drop calves any day now,” the young scribe pacing at Revna’s side reported, his face blotchy with stress, but his voice and hands admirably steady as he consulting the parchment he carried.

“And the stables are full,” she said, biting back a sigh. They dodged around a huddle of children sitting on furs in the middle of the hall – all the trestles were put away against the walls to make room for pallets and rugs – and she offered them a tight smile in passing. “We need all the livestock we can get, though. Right now, milk’s more important than meat. Have the stable hands start moving the sheep down into the caves and basement storerooms so the cows can have the temporary lean-tos in the yard.”

“Yes, my lady.” He offered a fast bow and took off at a jog to do as told.

The moment he was gone, he was replaced by a maid. “My lady, one of the children was sick on the second story, and we’ve run out of clean linens. We’re washing more, but–”

“Take down those drapes in the upstairs parlor and use them.”

“The – the drapes, my lady?”

“Those ugly blue ones. I’ve never liked them.”

The girl’s step faltered – and a kitchen boy came rushing up, dodging through the swelling crowd. “My lady!”

It was a call that seemed to come from all corners. “My lady! My lady!”

The fire had blazed up suddenly beneath a cook kettle and the afternoon’s stew burned.

A gate had been left open and two cows had gotten into the mews and frightened all the birds into a frenzy.

There were pigs in the garden, rooting up bulbs.

A child tottered into her path, a little girl with golden braids no older than three, clutching a doll and crying heartily, face flushed and wet with tears.

Revna scooped her up and propped her on a hip. “There now, where’s your mummy? Hm? What’s the matter?”

“Revna.”

It was the first time anyone had said her name all day. From the moment she’d awoken, it had been my lady this and my lady that, save a few Mums from Rune. So Revna brought her up short.

Not least of all because it was delivered in Bjorn’s deep voice, pitched just loud enough to cut across the din of the hall. A pleasant shiver skittered down her spine as she stopped, and turned to meet him.

He didn’t have to weave his way through the crowd – people scrambled to get out of his path, and so he strode right up to her, the way clear, a question already gathering on his lips as he reached her. But then he halted, and his gaze shifted to the now-sniffling girl in her arms, and his brows drew together in puzzlement…no, in thought. When his gaze shifted back to her face, she decided she didn’t want to try and parse out his expression, because that way lay madness.

“You got the last of them inside?” she asked.

His brow smoothed a fraction, concern plucking at his face. “Yeah. Down to the last milk goat – I searched each house myself.”

She nodded. “And the Sels?”

“At anchor.” His jaw tightened, and he lowered his voice a fraction. “They let us evacuate.”

“I know.” The pleasant shiver of before gave way to a wholly different kind of tremor. “But why? What are they waiting for?”

“I don’t know. But I think it speaks to their confidence in their siege engines.”

It was an effort not to shudder at the thought. She’d been younger than Tessa during the last war with the Sels, the Great War, they’d called it. And, like Tessa, she’d lost her father and brother to the enemy. But that had happened across the North Sea, in Aquitainia. She’d never thought to see their purple sails in the harbor of her home city.

As if sensing her thoughts, Bjorn stepped in closer, voice going low, and earnest. “They can’t breach our walls. No one ever has. And we’ve got enough supplies to last for weeks. When Erik gets back–”

“If Erik gets back.”

He frowned.

“This isn’t a coincidence. They attacked when Erik was at the festival – which makes me think something terrible’s happened there, too.”

“We can’t know that.”

“We can’t not know it.” She didn’t realize her breathing had picked up until Bjorn touched her arm. And then it stopped altogether.

It was an innocent touch, nothing untoward or unacceptable here in view of so many – but it was familiar. It was sure. His hand slid up the fitted wool of her sleeve, slipping beneath the fall of her cloak, large fingers wrapping around her biceps. If she looked down – which she didn’t – she would have been as shocked as she had been the other night to see the sheer size of him against her like this. The evidence that he could–

Stop. She couldn’t think of that now.

He said, “Erik is fine. And we’ll be fine. All of us. I promise you that.”

She could taste the bitter edge to the smile she managed. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Bjorn.”

He held her gaze, steady and open. “I don’t.”

As always seemed to be the case lately, she looked away first.

“My lady!” someone called, and it was back to work.

3

The Duchy of Drakewell

Kingdom of Aquitainia

Mother had never said, but Amelia knew she’d hated having nothing of Father or John to bury. Statues had been commissioned for them, and for Alfred…but with the war on, and winter setting its teeth into the kingdom besides, they hadn’t been built yet. A section of the family cemetery had been cleared and ready for them: bare patches against the dormant stalks of roses and honeysuckle that climbed the wall behind. A place of honor on a gentle rise, between the graves of Drake ancestors, beneath the late afternoon shadow of the manor.

Mother had said Amelia could choose any untaken plot she wanted for Mal. Amelia hadn’t been able to speak, then, throat so tight it choked her; but she’d caught Katherine up in a tight hug – tight enough to wrinkle the duchess’s pristine gown…and Katherine had returned it with equal fervor.

The place she’d chosen was just down the slope from Father and John, in the shade of a gnarled apple tree older than the house itself. It overlooked the goldfish pond, and its lilies and wooden bridges. The tree would bloom in spring, and ripen with small, hard, sweet apples in late summer, and if she looked at it that way, it was a little easier, because she could think of Mal as being a part of the land here, of her home, and therefore always a part of her.

A nice thought, but she kept thinking about the slack skin of his face at the last; of the cold, gray pallor, the lifelessness, before they’d wrapped him in a shroud. At night, when she couldn’t sleep, she thought of worms crawling through the earth, way down in the dark, and she bit the inside of her cheek until it bled to keep from screaming.

A warm, solid weight landed on her shoulder, and warm breath rushed across her neck and face, lifted her hair.

Amelia felt the ghost of a smile threaten, and reached to pat the smooth skin of the dragon snout that had rested against her – that was comforting her. The big alpha male sat on his haunches behind her, wings folded, tail curled around her. His shadow stretched long across the grass, over Malcolm’s small, granite headstone. He made a low, crooning sound in her ear halfway between the purr of a big cat and the lonesome whirring of a dove. It felt like him sensing her sadness, and wanting to help, that new, no longer strange sense of connection in the back of her mind conveying his urge to comfort her.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, stroking the place where scales gave way to smooth skin along his muzzle. “I don’t know if it ever stops hurting.”

The drake’s head lifted a moment before Amelia heard the crunch of winter grass underfoot. A slow, respectful tread. It paused for a beat, before the drake lowered his head again.

Lady Katherine said, “No, it doesn’t,” as she joined them. “But, with time, it gets a little easier to bear.” Amelia glanced over at her mother – wrapped up tight in furs against the cold, diamonds sparkling at ears and throat, as glamorous as always. She smiled, soft and sad. “Or, so I’ve heard. If nothing else, you learn how to manage without showing the cracks too badly.”

For one horrible moment, seeing that bit of softness on her mother’s face, knowing how much they shared, now, to stand over a place in the grass and mourn a love lost, she thought her eyes might fill with tears. They stung, but she blinked, and faced away, and managed to hold herself together.

Katherine crossed the last distance, lifting her skirts to step carefully over the dragon’s tail, and Amelia snorted.

“Honestly,” Katherine said, without malice, “he’s too large by half.”

“Hopefully our enemies will think so, too.”

“Well. There is that.” She tucked her hands inside the fur muff she carried, breath puffing white vapor as she spoke. “A falcon arrived from Nede. Lord Edward should be here within the hour, based on his time of departure.”

Amelia nodded. “Good.” Her stomach gave an unpleasant twist. “Any word from Tessa?”

Katherine frowned. “No. I’ve sent three missives, now, and none have returned. It worries me.”

Amelia said, “They can’t have had any trouble from the Sels up there. And if there was something wrong with Tessa, surely someone would have written.” But the lack of word was becoming more and more troubling. The last they’d heard, Oliver was off with his king – and, gods, that still left her wanting to laugh; Oliver landing himself a king – to the Northern Wastes, but Tessa was at the palace, still, with the king’s nephew, and sister. Had Tessa fallen ill, had something happened to the festival party…surely a falcon would have been dispatched south.

Katherine took a deep breath, the sound of which Amelia knew well: it meant I’m not going to worry about that because if I do I’ll lose my mind. “The Sutcliffes have just arrived.”

Amelia lifted her brows. “Both?”

“Do they go anywhere without the other? Yes. Both. And they’re already making noises about the wines I have on offer.” She sniffed in aggravation. “Oh, there’s only a war on, and dragons in the garden, but let’s worry about the wine.”

Amelia was surprised to feel a chuckle build in her throat. “Priorities, I suppose.” Then she took a deep breath. Once the Duke of Nede arrived, the council could begin: a gathering of all the lords of eastern Aquitainia, the Drakes’ closest neighbors.

Not all the lords, she thought, hands tightening in her lap on reflex. Though, she supposed she would have to do.

The breeze lifted through the branches of the apple tree, rustling them, and the drake lifted his head again with a low, inquiring sound.

Voices reached them.

Bickering voices.

“…honestly, do you even wash it? My horse’s mane is cleaner.” That was Reginald.

Connor said, tone unbothered, “We’re fresh out of scented soaps in the middle of the forest, Lord Priss, though we do put together an excellent charcuterie board, if I may say so.”

“You slept here last night. Drakewell may not be Hope Hall” – you little shit, Amelia thought…and with no small amount of fondness, to her chagrin – “but they have soap.”

“If my hair offends” – the voices drew closer – “you can always look the other direction.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t help with the smell.”

“Stop being in the same room as me all the time, then.”

“Someone has to watch and make sure you don’t abscond with the silver, Mr. Outlaw King.”

Connor chuckled, and Reginald huffed an annoyed sound.

They appeared together through the arched garden gate: Reginald in white and ice-blue silk, his hair gleaming and carefully styled above his ears, sword on his hip. Connor in the browns, blacks, and drab greens of an Inglewood Stranger, sword on his back, a variety of knives hanging off his belt. He’d tied his too-long hair back in a hasty knot, a few wisps lying along his temples, and it wasn’t dirty, as Reginald had suggested; it shone faintly beneath the sun, along his crown, where he was growing gray at the temples.

Katherine sighed as they approached. “Your esteemed generals,” she murmured. “Gods, I still can’t believe that’s Connor Dale. What a waste.”

Amelia snorted. “I actually think this new version is an improvement.”

“You would say that, impetuous girl.” It didn’t sound like an insult, though, a few weeks before, Amelia would have read it as one.

So much had changed.

“Amelia,” Reginald said, as they arrived – stopped on the far side of the drake’s half-coiled tail. Both men shot the dragon wary glances before they smoothed them: Connor into the bland, nonchalant expression he’d worn when she first met him in the forest, and Reginald the lofty, chin-lifted countenance of a young duke who styled himself as prince. “Lord Edward and his retinue have just arrived.”

Amelia took a breath, and stood; dusted flecks of dead grass off her breeches. “Well, then.” The flutter of nerves in her chest left her voice a little unsteady. “I guess they’re all waiting for me.”

“Or for the dragons, more like,” Reginald said, with a smirk. The light in his eyes wasn’t mocking anymore, though, and she didn’t hate him on sight.

She kicked her chin up. “Without me, there are no dragons,” she said, primly, and Connor grinned.

“Oh, there’s dragons, but they don’t mind worth a damn.”

The drake stood up, scales swishing along the grass as he uncoiled his tail, and leaned down over her shoulder, radiating heat. He snorted, loud and sharp, and Connor took two slow steps backward, expression going careful.

Amelia grinned. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Have you named this horrible thing?” Connor asked, eyes pinned to it.

She’d debated about it; it felt wrong to have a relationship like this with an animal – so much like her relationship with Shadow – and not to have a name to call him by. But what did someone name a dragon?

“I’ve just been calling him Alpha,” she said, finally, laying a hand on warm, smooth scales.

The dragon – Alpha – purred in response, and she supposed that was as close to approval as she’d get.

~*~

The truth of it was, despite her preference for dirty-handed hard work, breeches and boots instead of skirts, riding astride and watching a good practice match in the stable yard, and her dislike of gossip and tea parties, Amelia had never sought anything like a true leadership role. She enjoyed the role of “my lady” amongst her men-at-arms, but with Father the duke, and John set to inherit, she’d never seriously considered leading troops into battle; never thought to be the glue that held together a council meeting.

She hadn’t been able to eat, earlier, and her stomach fluttered with useless nerves, now, as she walked toward the manor’s ballroom. There were a host of salons and parlors, of course, and the dining room, her father’s old study – but when the war first started, and the Drakewell gatherings shifted from teas and musical evenings to something more like war councils, Father had moved the meetings to the ballroom. In the vast, echoing, gilded space, the goddesses painted on the ceiling had been witness to hushed, tight conversations; the mirrored walls had reflected tense shoulders, and furrowed brows.

Her mother walked beside her, keeping up easily despite the length and heft of her skirts. Connor and Reginald walked along behind them; it felt a little like having an entourage, the unlikeliest one she could have ever imagined.

“…responds well to a straightforward approach,” Katherine was saying, and Amelia shook errant thoughts away and focused. “Phineas and Isadora Sutcliffe, however, enjoy flattery.” The flatness of her voice spoke of restrained, but deeply-felt distaste.

“Then perhaps you should be the one to address them, Mother.”

“No.” Katherine halted, and Amelia did the same, turning so they faced one another. Reginald and Connor hung back – but not far enough. Katherine wore a formidable expression, and whatever she was about to say, Amelia wished they didn’t have an audience.

“It has to be you, Amelia,” she said. “I’m only a Drake by marriage – you’re the true Drake. You’re the one the dragons came to, who they’ve attached themselves to. You’re your father’s heir.”

Surprise sent goosebumps rippling down her arms. “Heir,” she repeated, and her lips were numb. “But I’m–”

“His oldest living child.” Katherine smiled small and tight, but something glittered in her eyes that Amelia was hesitant to call pride. “Strong, and brave, and with a true understanding of this duchy’s people. You go out there, with your men.” She nodded toward the wall, and all the land that stretched beyond it. “You see, and you hear. You understand this place in a way that I – that I never have. I can wine, and dine, and steer the flow of gossip, but I can’t lead soldiers.”

Amelia swallowed. “Mother.”

Katherine’s smile flickered, lifted a fraction. “It has to be you, at the head of this table.” She turned toward the men. “Don’t you agree?”

Reginald dipped his head, and said, “Of course, my lady.”

Connor said, simply, “I do.”

They regarded her in a way that left her throat tight, and her chest aching, so she looked away, and met her mother’s firm resolve again.

“Now. Are you ready?”

Amelia nodded, took a deep breath, and started walking again.

The engraved double doors of the ballroom stood open, and as they neared them, she caught the tail end of the conversation taking place within.

“…ridiculous,” a high, feminine voice was saying. A tsk. “It looks like something a child came up with. It’s far too fanciful. What are they thinking?”

Amelia crossed the threshold, her mother at her side, her new allies at her back, and found Lady Isadora Sutcliffe standing beside the table, beautiful face twisted with disgust as she looked down at the banner that had been unfurled down the length of the mahogany. Green edged with gold, stitched at the center with the Drakes’ new crest – their true crest: a drake with wings outstretched and jaws open. Connor had described the banners he’d seen in books at the capital, and Katherine’s very talented seamstress had rendered it beautifully.

“Fanciful,” Amelia said, startling the table’s occupants – Isadora, especially, if the way she jerked upright with a gasp was anything to go by. Her face pinkened, and she pressed her painted lips together, and Amelia couldn’t resist saying, “That’s rich, considering what those diamonds in your hair cost.”

Isadora’s flush deepened. She opened her mouth to retort–

And her husband pushed to his feet. “Now see here, Lady Amelia.” The title was an insult on his lips – thin lips, topped by a scanty mustache that looked penciled on. He was a tall, almost skeletal man with large ears and mouse-brown hair, and Amelia knew for a fact Isadora entertained a string of lovers, and had only married him for his money.

“No,” she said, and he spluttered, chest puffing up and ears going red. “All I see is someone dismissing the banner of my house as ‘ridiculous’ when I’ve called you all here today on very serious business.” She was proud that her face stayed cool, and composed, and didn’t slide into the nasty territory that left her sounding young and foolish when she sparred with her mother.

That was too far, she thought, with an inner twist of regret. Not for the words themselves, nor for the looks on the Sutcliffes’ faces, matching masks of anger and wounded pride. But Katherine had just told her they needed to be flattered, and here she was, letting her temper get the best of her, as usual.

But Katherine took a breath beside her and said, “Really, Phineas. Isadora. There are larger issues at hand.” She extended a hand. “Won’t you be seated?”

The Lord and Lady of Norbury stared a moment, shocked. Then Isadora flounced down into her chair with a huff, and her husband folded into his own a beat later.

Across from them sat the tall, strong-shouldered Lord Edward of Nede, his steward beside him. He regarded her with inscrutable calm – but not with disdain, nor with doubt. She hadn’t seen him in more than a year, but he was as calm and unphased as ever.

He’d been born in Nede, but his father, the last duke, hadn’t been. Had come instead from much farther south, beyond Aquitainia’s borders, in Kolos’kel. A small kingdom dominated by rivers, wide, and plentiful, that were full of snarling, snapping crocodiles by day, and hippopotami at night, the latter even deadlier than the first. Edward’s father, a young prince, fifth in line for the crown, had struck north. Had gotten tangled up in a war he had no reason to care about, but one in which his sailing experience had proved invaluable. Amelia’s grandfather had granted him land on the coast, and the king had raised him up as a duke.

Edward had proved even more impressive than his father, and bore his dark skin, and wore his black hair braided and twisted up in the Kolos fashion, jet beads clinking as he turned his head to regard her.

She nodded to him, before she moved to stand behind the chair that had been placed at the head of the table: a high-backed, ornately carved chair with green velvet padding. Her father’s old chair. This table, and the seats around it, had been a staple all her life, shifting from ballroom, to study, to veranda depending upon the mood and season of each meeting. She’d sat in this chair only when there’d been no adults present; when she and her siblings and Oliver had been playing at grown-ups. Oliver, the oldest by far, had stood off to the side, smiling sadly, going along with their games; and when John grew bored of playing Father, and slipped off the chair, Amelia had scrambled up into it, and declared herself the Duchess of Drakewell.

All those old, fond memories washed over her now, tainted by the rattle in her lungs, and the prickling of nervous sweat on her palms. She took a deep breath, and lowered herself down to green velvet, heart thudding in her chest.

Not her father’s chair anymore.

Hers.

She exhaled, slow and measured, by force, and lifted her gaze to survey the table, as Katherine settled beside her, and Connor and Reginald took their chairs. What would Father say? How would he begin?

She knew…but that wasn’t of much help, because she wasn’t him, and wouldn’t – couldn’t – ever be. So… “Thank you all for coming to Drakewell. I know that travel is difficult, what with the season, and with the war.”

“Travel is dangerous right now,” Lord Phineas said, unhappily.

“Yes,” his wife said. “There’s all sorts of riff-raff and bandits on the road.” She cut a sharp look toward Connor, who smirked back at her, lazily. “And that’s not even counting the Sels!”

Lord Edward slanted the pair the subtlest of unimpressed glances, and then looked to Amelia. “Your sister and cousin sailed out of my harbor months ago. Heading north.” The slight lift of a single brow probed for information.

Amelia nodded. “They did, and until recently, we’ve been in close contact with her. She’s engaged to the prince of Aeretoll: King Erik’s nephew.”

Edward nodded, as if he’d expected as much.

But Isadora’s mouth dropped open.

And Phineas said, “Gods, are you joking?”

“The prince?” Isadora asked.

Amelia bit the inside of her lip to keep from grinning, and glanced toward her mother. Should I tell them?

Katherine sighed, but nodded. They would all find out eventually, and it could only help them – and further legitimize the future – to be upfront about it.

“We’ve formed an alliance with Aeretoll, one that’s two-fold. Tessa is betrothed to the prince, and Oliver is now titled: he’s officially Lord Oliver, Consort of the King.”

Reginald already knew this, and she’d told Connor a few days ago, while the three of them talked strategy over cold tea and leftover biscuits. But the news hit the Sutcliffes like a physical blow, and it was all she could do not to laugh in their faces.

“He’s–”

“Your–”

“Surely, you’re–”

“A consort?”

They stuttered over one another, mouths working like goldfish, until Edward, in his deep baritone, said, “Oliver seduced the king?” It was impossible to tell, given his impassive expression, how he felt about that.

Phineas shoved roughly to his feet, chair legs screeching over the parquet floor. His face flushed, and his nostrils flared; his whole body quivered with indignation. “I’ve been to some useless councils, and some wasted councils, but never – never in my life – have I been called to a council for a practical joke! One that is in very poor taste, might I add,” he continued, ramping up, voice getting higher, and louder, while his wife glared daggers at Amelia beside him. “If you expect us to sit here like and fools, and–”

Reginald slapped a hand down on the table, and the resultant smack rang loud through the vast room, echoing off the gilt walls, and the painted ceiling.

“We expect you to quit being an annoying prig and listen,” he snapped, voice ringing with a new note, one she’d never heard from him before: that of a commander, and not merely a fop in white silk.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true: she’d heard that tone the night he’d come to their rescue; the night she’d met the drakes; the night Malcolm had…

She shoved the memory away, forcefully, and focused on the task at hand. Phineas stood gaping at Reginald, shocked.

Amelia glanced toward Connor, who nodded, and stood; walked down the long length of the room toward the doors that led out onto the terrace beyond, its wide view of the gardens. “Lord Phineas,” she said, flexing authority into her own voice, “whatever you think of me, or my family, or our true crest” – she nodded toward the banner that still lay on the table – “I can assure you that I’ve never been one for practical jokes, not even innocent ones. I’ve called you and the lords of the east here for a reason. Lord Connor” – he tossed an eye roll over his shoulder as he pushed the doors open, and left them that way – “and Lord Reginald were with me the night we halted the Sels’ progress through the Inglewood – but there’s no reason to think they won’t continue to make another attempt. We can’t simply hide in our manors and hope that the crown will overcome our enemy on its own. It’s time to go on the offensive.”

“We’ve been on the offensive,” Lord Edward said, frowning. “I sent my men to fight in the Crownlands – and there my son remains, a prisoner of war.”

“I know. And I’m sorry for that. But we won’t be fighting in the same way. We won’t send troops to their death on the border.”

“How could it be different?” he asked.

“For one, I wasn’t lying before: Tessa is betrothed and Oliver is firmly installed as the Aeretollean king’s consort. King Erik has promised to uphold the treaty he agreed to with my father during the last war. The Great Northern Phalanx will come to our aid.”

Gods, I hope they do, she prayed. Without anything definitive on paper, nothing about the North travelling South in Oliver and Tessa’s letters…and those letters now dried up…nothing could be certain.

“And,” she continued, though all three guests looked poised to interrupt, “we have another asset on our side. Something the enemy isn’t prepared for in the slightest.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled. One long, shrill, lifting note, like when she called for Shadow.

She heard the rush and clap of wings, first, before a shadow fell across the slate of the terrace. She smiled as Alpha touched down, lightly for so large an animal. He settled his wings, shook his head, and pressed his frill back against his neck.

Phineas started cursing, and didn’t stop, a low, constant stream of shit, shit, shit.

“Gods,” Edward breathed.

“How – what – is that–” Isadora stuttered.

Amelia pushed back her chair, and stood, as Alpha inhaled deeply, and then stalked forward into the ballroom, claws clicking on the floor.

Isadora shrieked.

Amelia saw Alpha’s nostrils flare, red-gold eyes sliding toward the noise. “No need for alarm,” she said, rounding the table and striding down its length. “He won’t hurt anyone unless I tell him to.” She heard the murmurs and squeals behind her, but ignored them; it would take a miracle to shut Isadora Sutcliffe up, and, really, that was what Amelia was about to show her.

She’d never experienced anything like her mental connection to the drakes. They had settled as a constant presence in the back of her mind, a small weight that was comforting rather than heavy, like the weight of piled-up quilts on a cold night. It felt…red, somehow, that weight, a faint echo of the bright hue that had overtaken all of her senses that first night. When she spoke to the drakes, she had the sense they understood, and, somehow, she understood their intentions in return.

For instance, now, as she reached Alpha, and lifted her hand, she knew that he would press the warm skin of his muzzle into it, and breathe hot across her palm, a nuzzled greeting just like Shadow offered her. His eyes closed a moment, as she scratched under his jaw in the place she’d learned he liked, and purred like a great cat.

She rested a hand on his neck, and turned back to the table. Even Lord Edward looked properly dumbstruck.

“Our family crest was never supposed to be a duck,” she said, biting back the smile that threatened. “We are the Drakes of Drakewell, and this” – she patted Alpha’s warm, smooth scales – “is our family crest. It’s also how we’re going to bring about an end to this war.”

Isadora’s mouth worked silently a moment – then she fainted.

4

Dreki Hörgr

Sunlight flashed like blue fire off the iced-over lake; glittered in the snowbanks – those few that didn’t bear the dark runes of the violence that had played out in what had once been a holy gathering place. Oliver had been watching the drakes’ passage overhead, all three flying high as they crested the last rise, and collided softly with Erik’s shoulder before he righted himself; belatedly, he realized they’d reached the head of the trail that led down into the valley…and found himself gasping against his will.

It had only been a few days since they slept in the King’s Hall, but it felt like it had been weeks. And the longhouse itself was a blackened, half-burned ruin of its former glory. Through the gaping, soot-streaked remains of the roof timbers, he could see piles of ash on the earth floor, a drift of fresh snow muddied by the destruction; overturned cooking kettles and no sign of the hides and furs and bedrolls where the lords of Aeretoll had spent their first night in the valley. The snow around the longhouse had been churned and muddied by hooves and feet alike. Beyond, the gaming fields smoked, faintly, the unmistakeable shapes of still-smoldering funeral pyres like open wounds.

The sight of it left Oliver feeling like he’d been kicked in the stomach. This wasn’t the home of his ancestors; this wasn’t a place that held any personal reverence for him…but the drawn look on Erik’s face as he surveyed the damage left him aching in sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, fingers curling around the crook of Erik’s elbow.

Erik took a deep, measured breath and let it out slowly, muscles jumping beneath Oliver’s hand, detectable even through layers of wool and leather. “Let’s keep moving.”

Oliver walked at his side, as they started down the same twisting, rocky path they’d taken the night everything had gone sideways. It was daylight, now, and there were no strange, inhuman screams splitting the air – but Oliver’s heart pounded with dread, anyway.

He cast a look over his shoulder as they went, glancing back at Leif who walked just behind them, the lines of his face set at tense angles. Náli trailed a little behind, flanked by his five guardsmen – the Dead Guard, he’d called them – and duke and prince both looked very young, in that moment. Life was harsher and realer up North than in the South, but he didn’t think either noble had ever dealt with anything quite like the events of the last few days – of the last few months, even: assassination attempts, and drakes, and foreign enemies reigniting old wars. It was enough to rattle anyone.

Leif caught his gaze, and offered a smile that Oliver read to be reassuring. Young, and the kingdom he was to inherit in danger, and Leif was seeking to reassure Oliver.

Oliver felt a moment’s pang that was half-pride, half-worry. How noble, how very Erik of him to try and shoulder the burden of fear. And how sad that he should have to.

Life was funny and unfair that way.

They wended their way down the slope, view obscured by a thick screen of trees as they entered the forest at its base. They passed through the small clearing where the shamans had set upon them – where Ragnar had betrayed them – and Oliver felt Erik’s arm flex within his grip. No one spoke: the only sounds were the trill of birds, the echoes of human activity in the valley, and the crunch of snow beneath their boots. The occasional muttered curse as someone kicked a rock.

When the branches ahead rattled, Erik shook off Oliver’s hold and flung out his arm, barring his path with it. Oliver waited for the impulsive urge to duck behind him completely – but it didn’t come. He carried a dagger on one hip, a short Beserkir blade on the other; his head was clear, his lungs healthy, and Percy’s shadow fell over them as he passed overhead. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt ready for whatever approached.

Snow-caked limbs parted to reveal – bearskin cowls. And wind-chapped, bearded faces. Beserkirs.

Erik let out another deep breath, and dropped his arm. “To think,” he murmured, low, just for Oliver, “that I should live to see the day that I was relieved to run into bear-shirts.”

One such bear-shirt stepped clear of the branches around him, cloak flecked with snow, and relaxed arms that had already nocked an arrow. “Your majesty,” he said, tone careful; the bear-shirts weren’t used to being relieved at the sight of the King of Aeretoll, either. The man’s gaze lifted, and he must have spotted Oddmarr, because a crooked grin broke across his face. “Chief! You’ve done it! Brought them back alive.”

Erik made a low, grumbling sound in his throat that left Oliver biting back a laugh.

“Aye,” Oddmarr called back to his man. “Though, we did have some help.”

As if on cue, Percy cried out above them, a high, bugling call that sounded like happiness, like a greeting, one that was echoed by his mate, and their offspring; a sound like trumpets ringing out through the valley. If the dragons hadn’t been spotted yet, they surely would be now.

The Beserkir and his two companions in front of them tipped their faces up to the sky, eyes springing wide and mouths falling open in identical expressions of shock.

“Holy gods,” one murmured. And then he looked straight at Oliver. “The lad really is a Drake.”

For the very first time, Oliver felt something like pride in his father’s bloodline.

~*~

Edda Ingvarson met them beside the burned-out shell of the King’s Hall. He stood stoop-shouldered, one arm held across his front by a sling. His hair had been tied back simply, so that his face looked thinner and grayer than it had; one eyebrow was split by a nasty slice that would doubtless leave a scar.

He looked like someone grieving the loss of his father, because that’s exactly what he was.

“Your majesty.” He bowed his head as they approached, as did the men-at-arms flanking him, one of whom wore bandages wound round his temples and brow. “We’re glad to see you alive. We didn’t–” He cut off with a small, shocked sound, because Erik had not paused to accept his greeting; had walked straight up to him, instead, and pulled him into a firm embrace.

Edda stood stiff a moment, expression shocked. But Erik murmured something too quiet to hear – I’m sorry about your father, lad, Oliver imagined – and then Edda tucked his face into the king’s solid, fur-covered shoulder, and allowed himself a moment to squeeze his eyes shut tight; to shiver and grip at Erik’s cloak with one desperate, gloved hand. Then he stepped back, jaw firming, throat working as he swallowed. Erik touched his face, briefly, and Edda nodded afterward; put his shoulders back and held himself proudly.

“I should take you to Lord Askr, before he drags himself out of bed and seeks you out for himself,” Edda said.

“How grave is his injury?” Erik asked.

“He–” The shadow on the ground heralded the passage of the three drakes. Edda’s gaze lifted, and flashed to panic. “Your–”

“It’s fine,” Erik said in a soothing voice. “They’ve bonded with Oliver. They aren’t going to harm anyone unless he wants them to.”

Edda’s lips trembled, faintly, on his next inhale, a fast, sucked-in breath that spoke of a dark night in a clearing, and a drake bearing down on them. The last time he’d seen Percy, there had been antlered shamans flickering in the shadows, and Úlfheðnar dressed as Beserkirs wielding spears and bows at them all.

Maybe keep some distance, for now, Oliver thought. A cool, blue note pulsed in the back of his mind, and the drakes wheeled away again.

“They’ll stay back,” Oliver said, drawing Edda’s startled gaze. “They’re quite safe to be around, though. I promise.”

Edda’s eyes said, How is that possible? But he wet his lips, and, voice only a little strained, said, “Right, then. Follow me, your majesty.” A beat. “Your lordship.”

He led them down the hill to a smaller, less grand longhouse, this one whole, and with smoke curling from the vent in the roof. One of Edda’s men lifted a hide flap and motioned them into a close, dim space much like the King’s Hall in style, minus the separate “rooms.” A pebble-floored pit down the center held cookfires and kettles, and raised platforms along both walls offered dry places for furs and bedrolls. It smelled like old, oily fur, unwashed men, smoke, and simmering stew. They didn’t have to search for Askr among the tired, beaten-up men scattered across the platforms, because he spotted them straight off, and roared like a beast.

“Ho, Erik! There he is! And he kept hold of his little red lad! Gods, we thought you were done for!”

The Lord of Redcliff was sitting up against the wall, back propped up with a few folded quilts and a pillow. His right arm – his axe arm, Oliver thought, distantly – was heavily bandaged, as was his throat, a choker of linen strips wound round the whole of his neck, just visible beneath the red of his beard. His color was bad, but his eyes were bright, if shadowed beneath, and he flipped back the fur on his lap like he intended to get up and greet them.

“Father, don’t,” Haldin protested, beside him. With a lurch, Oliver noticed that one of his eyes was bandaged.

“Stay down, you fool,” Erik said, without heat, striding forward.

“Ha! But then how can I bow to you, your majesty? You do love the bending and scraping, I know.”

Erik snorted, because anyone who knew him at all knew that he hated ceremony. His face had grown serious, by the time Oliver came to a halt a half-step behind him, and when he gripped Askr’s shoulder, it was almost delicately. His voice shifted into something grave. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t here for the real fighting.”

Red brows jumped, and Askr scoffed. “Wasn’t here? It’s not your fault your fucking whoreson cousin ambushed you. We all thought you were dead for sure!” It was said with all his usual bluster, but his gaze, fixed on Erik’s face, spoke of just how worried the lords of Aeretoll had been about their king.

“Only almost,” Erik said, a smile touching his voice before he grew sober again. His hand flexed on Askr’s shoulder. “We lost Ingvar, Náli’s guards said.”

“Aye.” Askr’s gaze dropped, and his chest lifted on a deep breath that hitched. “And half his men. Some of mine. Some of everyone’s. Brave lads, all. And Edda nearly had his arm taken off trying to get to his father in time. He…” He trailed off, and cleared his throat. When he lifted his face again, it was with the resolve and forced good humor of a man who’d bulled his way through this sort of pain more than once before. “They got to you, then? The skull boys?” He gestured to his own breast, in the place where the Dead Guard wore Náli’s house crest.

Erik nodded. “They reached our camp in the middle of the night, and they’re lucky they didn’t end up bristling with Beserkir arrows, or in a dragon’s stomach.”

A beat passed before the last part registered, and then Askr and Haldin were both sitting bolt upright; Haldin winced and clutched at his ribs.

“Dragon?” Askr asked. “You ran afoul of the beast again?”

Erik invited Oliver to chime in with a look, one that left Oliver’s stomach squirming in a pleasant way, this time, low-lidded, and almost smug, and proud. Having Erik Frodeson be proud of you was a heady, heady experience.

He schooled his features and met Askr’s gaze. “Not afoul, no.”

~*~

Askr could walk, though it was more of a hobble, and he gritted his teeth against the pain of even that much movement; Erik himself ducked beneath his good arm and hooked an arm around his waist to help him outside. It was slow going, but worthwhile, Oliver thought, to see the faint flicker of a worried smile tug at Edda’s mouth when they emerged, Haldin limping slowly along behind with help of a walking stick.

It was midday, a clear day, and with the bedraggled but mostly-whole lords of the kingdom standing in a loose circle around the longhouse, Oliver put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Come show them, he thought, pushing the urge through that strange, new, but wholly comfortable connection that lived in the back of his head now.

In a matter of moments, he heard the telltale clap of flapping wings, and then the collective gasps and exclamations from the men around him as the three drakes lifted up over the tree line and then settled in the center of the clearing, wings kicking up clouds of cold snow vapor. The breeze stirred their hair, and Oliver found that his had grown long enough that he had to tuck it back behind his ears to keep it out of his eyes. He was grinning, he realized, as Percy folded his wings, and thrust his head forward, asking for scritches behind his horns and along his jaw. Erik was grinning, too, he saw, more of that proud, nearly-smug look from inside tempered by curved lips, and a flash of teeth.

“Gentlemen,” Erik said, raising his voice to be heard above the startling murmur of the crowd. “The drakes of the world are not extinct, and they aren’t slumbering – not anymore. And we have a Drake of our own to command them.” This last said with a sweeping gesture toward Oliver, fur cloak flung back for emphasis.

When the attention turned toward him, and a glad roar went up, Oliver felt his cheeks pink, but he didn’t want to hide; didn’t want to dodge eye contact and call himself a bastard. He took in their faces in turn – weary, banged-up, and infused with something almost like hope, now – and then turned back to Erik, to the pride shining in his eyes, and his chest felt full to bursting.

Percy snuffled at the front of his cloak, and he patted his cold nose. He didn’t know yet if he could actually ride him, or what lay ahead for them, but it was damn wonderful to feel – at least for a little while – that he was worth something.

~*~

“You need to return to Naus Keep.”

It was the first thing Mattias said to him when they were finally alone. Or, relatively so.

Erik had gone off with Edda to see Askr, but when Náli had moved to follow – he’d been a part of this whole thing from the first, albeit not by design – a strong hand had wrapped around his forearm, and even through layers of gray wool, the touch had burned. Burned in a good way; burned in a way that left his traitorous face overwarm – until he’d turned and seen Mattias wearing his patented Nursemaid Face, and, ah, this was about the fact that he no doubt looked like every level of hell.

His Guard had set up a tent – gray and white like every stitch of fabric in the Fault Lands – and Mattias steered him over to sit on a bit of log, in front of a fire that Einrih had built, and then passed him a warm mug of tea that smelled strongly of lavender.

“I’m fine,” he protested, as Mattias draped a snow fox fur around his shoulders. The way he shivered and cupped the mug in both hands didn’t help to drive home his insistence.

“Drink your tea,” Mattias said, leaning down to toss another log on the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. Afterward, he peeled off a glove and pressed his bare palm to Náli’s forehead.

Náli fought not to lean into the touch, and burned his tongue on the tea. “I don’t need tea,” he grumbled, not caring that he sounded like a sulky teenager – he was a sulky teenager, after all, and it stung to be dragged away from the action. Even if he was past the point of exhaustion. Even if the brush of Mattias’s warm, callused fingers against his skin was sweet torture.

He didn’t normally let himself think such fanciful thoughts. Words like touch and torture only catalysts to his still-childlike overactive imagination. Routinely, he kept tight check on that kind of thinking…but he’d been so worried. With them separated, and word from Chief Oddmarr of an attack against the Aeretolleans…without any way of knowing whether his Guard – if Mattias – were safe…

He scowled down into his tea and took another sip. It was, of course, prepared exactly how he liked it best.

The others were milling about behind the tent; he could hear their voices as low murmurs, and the clink and scrape of gear being packed. They would set out tonight, Erik had said, though it was usually wise to break camp in the morning, rather than midday. He didn’t want to waste the clear weather while they had it, and, barring disaster, they could reach a campsite near running water before full-dark.

He expected Mattias to go and help the others, because that was his way: he never rested if there was something useful he could do. He’d stopped devoting the lion’s share of his time to entertaining Náli with games and stories long ago. On a good day, Náli could pretend he didn’t resent that; today, cold down to his bones, still shaking from the amount of power he’d expending raising an army of bones, was not a good day. Náli buried his nose in his mug and refused to be bitter about anything.

But, to his surprise, Mattias glanced toward the tent, the activity behind it, and sat down on a low, improvised stool of rock in front of the fire, only an arm-span away. From an inner pocket of his cloak, he withdrew a whetstone, and then unsheathed the slender dagger on his thigh. He paused, a moment, before he tended to the blade, and glanced up at Náli from beneath furrowed brows. “The tea,” he prompted.

Náli scowled. “I’m bloody drinking it.” He took a pointed sip, without breaking eye contact.

Mattias’s lips twitched, and his brow smoothed; his nostrils flared, slightly, not-quite a snort, and then bent to his task, gaze falling away.

The absence of his attention stung in the way it always had. Look at me, Náli wanted to say – had always wanted to say. Don’t take your eyes off me. Because Náli had always been forced to look away, to attend to a lord’s duties, to greet visitors, to nod and smile at dignitaries. But Mattias’s sole purpose was to watch him. To attend to him. To protect him.

And, maybe, if Náli had been feeling stronger, he would have felt more charitable. Mattias was an exceptional captain, and he trusted him completely. He’d spent the last few years working hard to separate his emotions from the stark truth: that Náli wasn’t his friend…or anything else…and would someday most likely die for him. If Náli didn’t die first, withered away, and leave Mattias and his Guard brothers to live out their days in secluded mourning.

He hated it. Sometimes he hated every single thing about his life. And that was the sentiment that turned his tone venomous when he said, “I’m not returning to the Fault Lands. Not yet.”

The schlick, schlick, shlick of the whetstone paused, and Mattias looked up again, expression carefully schooled this time. He took a breath, as though gathering strength for what he was about to say, and Náli frowned. “My lord, I’ve not seen you look this unwell in some time.”

Well. That hurt. Even if it was true.

Náli hitched himself up straighter on his log and said, “I’m fine.” The way the tea rippled in his mug betrayed him, and of course Mattias saw, because he saw everything.

He held Náli’s gaze, his own steady, serious, and said, “You look like you did the night of the horses.”

The words hit him like a gut punch. For one awful, caught-off-guard moment, he thought he might vomit up the tea he’d just drunk. They didn’t talk about the night of the horses. Not ever. He’d been eight, and not nearly as powerful…but powerful enough, and he…

No. No, he couldn’t go there. Couldn’t sift through the memories of that night. The only scrap of it he’d ever wanted to keep had been Mattias’s hands warm on his own that were cold, so cold; Mattias’s voice, rough with worry, with panic. “My lord, please, please, you have to stop.” The strong chest that he’d pressed his face into, and the thundering pulse beneath his cheek, so at odds with the calm fingers that curved around the back of his skull. “Shh, shh, let go, I have you, it’s all right.”

Náli set his mug on the ground, and took a very slow, deliberate breath. “I. Am. Fine.”

“My lord–”

“Yes, that’s right,” he snapped, and his shaking was all on the inside, now. He felt like his teeth were vibrating. “I’m the lord. Me. Not you.”

Mattias’s eyes widened in a rare show of surprise. He looked like he’d been slapped, and Náli took a sick delight in that. Good. If he was going to mention that night, then he could get taken down a peg or two.

“We’re going to Aeres. Ragnar will be joining up with the Sels to lay siege to the capital, and I won’t spend the fight for our nation soaking in the bath.”

For one terrible second, Mattias looked wounded. Looked like the sad boy with far too much responsibility thrust upon him who’d tended to Náli’s scraped knee, once upon a time. But then his expression hardened to one of resolve. “No, you’re right: I’m not the lord in this scenario.” He sounded unhappy, maybe even angry, but not bitter. He didn’t want to be a lord, Náli didn’t think. But maybe he wished he had a better lord to call his master – an ugly thought that left his stomach cramping. “But it’s my sworn duty to protect you, to keep you from all harm – and that includes harm that you cause yourself. You need to return – you need to go down into the well – and it would be better, be easier for you, if you went under your own power.”

That was true, but–

“I’ll get stronger on the ride back. I’m not going home yet.”

“But–” The rest of his protest was blessedly cut off by the arrival of the little drake.

With a hard clap of leathery wings, he landed ten paces off with enough force to nearly put the fire out, and then ran in his odd, loping gait the rest of the way, not slowing until he was close enough to shove his head into Náli’s lap.

“Brat,” Náli accused, sighing, but he reached automatically to scratch behind his horns, and the drake gave a happy purr, eyes sliding shut. He’d never been so glad to see the dumb beast.

When he lifted his head, he found Mattias sitting very upright, hands white-knuckled on the dagger and whetstone, staring at Náli with something like wonder.

“I…still can’t quite believe it.”

Náli snorted. “Oh, please. I commune with the dead, but it’s dragons you find unbelievable.”

“I…well…” Two faint spots of color appeared high along his cheekbones, and it wasn’t from the cold.

Náli bit his lip against a sudden smile; schooled his features, and shifted his fingers to scratch beneath the drake’s jaw. “It’s fine. The prince nearly shit himself,” he lied. No way was he confessing to the shriek he’d let out when Percy dropped that dead deer in front of him.

Mattias huffed in quiet amusement. “No, he didn’t.”

Náli feigned affront, and this was how things were supposed to be. Quiet smiles, and Mattias indulging the side of his rank that was all for show and humorous purposes. “Are you calling me a liar?” he asked, arching a single brow, nose lifted in the air. An old game, one that had begun, years and years ago, when Náli had impersonated his mother for the first time, and Mattias had laughed until he snorted milk out of his nose. It was a foolproof routine.

But now, Mattias only smiled – a quiet, soft smile that melted up into his eyes until they were almost too much to look at, until Náli’s chest ached. “Never,” he said, sincerely, and Náli had to let his gaze drop for fear that it would reveal too much.

The drake cracked one vivid blue open and looked up at him, trilling a small, questioning noise in his throat.

Náli closed his eyelid with a careful fingertip. “Stupid dragon,” he grumbled.

The rasp of the whetstone started up again, and Náli felt some of the tension in his belly loosen. It was better if Mattias didn’t look at him.

“That one picked you,” Mattias said, tone conversational on the surface…but Náli could detect the note of true, awed inquiry underneath. “Lord Oliver is the Drake, but this one’s yours.”

His insides twisted in the same, unpleasant way they had on the mountain pass, when Oliver had smiled at him with genuine softness, and not his usual snark, and told him he ought to name this creature. “It isn’t mine.” He knew he sounded petulant, but was too tired to help it at the moment.

A darted glance proved that Mattias lifted his head and glanced across the snowy hills, to where the young drake’s parents stood outside of a longhouse with Oliver, Erik, and the rest of the lords. Those that had survived. “Why is he over here with you, then?” When he turned back, his eyes twinkled, faintly.

Náli made a face. “Because he’s stupid.”

Mattias breathed another of his quiet laughs, and Náli fought the heat that rose in his cheeks in helpless response. He couldn’t blame it on the tea – on the ground at his feet – nor on the dragon, whose cold body was only making his shivers worse.

Mattias noticed. “My lord,” he said, growing serious again. “I really think–”

“No.”

Mattias sighed, and looked more than a little frustrated. “I’m worried.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be. I’m–”

“You’re not fine, don’t say fine,” Mattias gritted out through his teeth, and Náli was shocked into silence. Mattias was angry, now, and he was never that. Thoughtful, sometimes stern, even morose, at times, and Náli never wanted to think too closely about why. But now, the bristling aggression he usually reserved for enemies was – albeit in a quieter form – directed at Náli. “What did you do?” he didn’t just ask, but demanded. “Up there in the mountains – what did you do that makes you look half-dead?”

Náli jerked so badly that the drake opened his eyes, lifted his head, and searched the area around them for a threat. He balled his now-empty hands to fists in his lap, drew himself upright, and said, teeth bared in what definitely was not a smile, “I am half-dead, Captain. That’s how my power works.”

Mattias scowled at the sound of his rank – Náli never used it, not unless they were in front of his mother and he wanted to avoid another lecture on blending servitude with friendship. “No, you aren’t,” he argued, right away. “You looked tired after Silfr Hall, I’ll grant you. But not like this – never like this, not since–”

“Mention the night of the horses again and I’ll sic my dragon on you,” Náli hissed.

Said dragon nudged his shoulder and hummed a distressed sound. Náli patted his nose absently, gaze fixed on Mattias’s face, as it hardened yet another fraction, mouth pressed to a hard, flat line. With the sides of his head shaved, and his chin tucked, ready for battle, Náli had some idea what one of his enemies must see when they faced down the captain of his guard. It left him shivering – somewhat pleasantly, beneath his mounting anger.

“This” – Mattias gestured at him with the whetstone – “isn’t from walking with the dead. This is something else – something worse. What did you do, Náli?”

Náli’s mounting anger gave way to shock, and he found himself blinking stupidly at Mattias, just like Mattias blinked stupidly back at him. The Guard didn’t use his given name as a form of address – if they did, it was always “Lord Náli.” Never Náli by itself. Never so familiar…though he had longed for it, from Mattias especially. Ever-increasing teenage fantasies that had grown bolder and filthier over time. Náli, whispered against his throat, followed by the damp press of lips, the sharp kiss of teeth, while large, sword-callused hands mapped his body…

“I,” Mattias started, stricken. “I didn’t–”

The drake inhaled loudly, and swiveled his head around. Náli had to duck to keep their skulls from cracking together.

“Is he all right?” Klemens asked behind him, flatly cautious. Náli could envision his expression; alarm looked like boredom on his impassive face.

Náli stroked the drake’s neck, and he subsided with a little snort that was much less intimidating than his father’s. “Yes. He won’t hurt you.”

Klemens strode into view, moving around Náli’s far side so he could deposit a fresh armload of split wood beside the fire. When he straightened, he looked first to Mattias, and then to Náli, black braid rustling against the back of his tunic, one brow cocked in a rare show of curiosity. Náli had no idea what his own face was doing – he was trying to pull his mother mask back into place with something like desperation – but Mattias had gone pink up to the tips of his ears, and stared guiltily into the fire.

Klemens turned back, and Náli was already scrambling for an excuse for the strange tension between them, but the Guard said, “Does it have a name? Your beast?” He nodded toward the drake.

Náli exhaled, relieved, and saw Klemens lift his other brow. There was no fooling that man, but, usually, he allowed you the grace of denial. “No. He…”

As if sensing he was the topic of conversation, the drake whipped around to pant into Náli’s face like a dog.

He sighed. “I don’t suppose ‘Moron’ would be appreciated.”

The drake licked his face.

“Ugh.” Náli wiped at his cheek with the back of his glove. “What are you so fucking friendly for? I don’t even like you.”

The drake’s cold tongue lolled, undeterred.

Klemens was watching them, but his gaze had never felt like a physical weight, not the way Mattias’s did – a weight that Náli could feel now, a low buzz in the back of his neck like the charge in the air before a lightning storm. Náli sought his gaze, now, while he fended off another lick with an open hand; the drake’s cold tongue slithered between his fingers instead, and it was disgusting…but Mattias’s gaze was pained. He looked like a man with a stomach ache; like a man who was…

Náli refused to think lovesick. Pining. No, that couldn’t…he was the one who longed, and no way did Mattias…

It was only kindness. And duty. Obligation. (No, it’s not, you know it’s not, a traitorous inner voice whispered.) Mattias didn’t love him – not like that, not the way Náli wanted him to. Who could love him? Lord Náli, the Corpse Lord, the necromancer whose name meant demon of the dead.

He’d never had much of a way with the living. Only the dead, always the dead.

His throat ached.

“Valgrind,” he said, voice strained. “His name is Valgrind.”

The fence around the fallen ones. The fence that encircled hell.

Klemens nodded his approval, and went back toward the tent.

Mattias’s expression was too much to look at, so Náli stroked the horns of the drake he’d named, and prayed for a quick departure.

~*~

The night of the betrayal, Ragnar’s men had opened up the stable pens and loosed their animals. Most of the reindeer and horses had been recovered, but not all. There weren’t as many men to worry about providing mounts for, though, so it evened out. There were enough reindeer to draw the sleighs, a few of which would be dedicated to carrying the wounded, rather than supplies.

Birger commandeered parchment and quill from someone, and started putting together a list: what they could afford to leave behind, and what they couldn’t. The number of wounded, and of dead, and of mostly-healthy. A map was produced, and many heads bent together over it as they discussed the route home, everyone talking over each other, trying to predict the path that Ragnar would take. Would he go by the usual roads? Would he risk assaulting Long Reach? Or swing wide and avoid it altogether?

It took a few minutes, in the clamor of overlapping voices, for Erik to realize he’d been standing dumb and still, his arms folded, and hadn’t contributed a single edict or idea so far. He stood over Birger, where he’d drawn up to a table, and was just…existing. Breathing, head buzzing with a low hum that hadn’t plagued him since his very first day on a battlefield, back when he was still young and green. His head had felt full of bees the day he’d treated with William Drake right after he’d taken on his father’s crown; the day he’d let the harshness of his face cover for the too-fast thumping of his heart; the day he’d glimpsed a flash of red from the corner of his eye, a tiny, freckle-faced boy spying on the grown-ups.

That tiny boy was a man now, slender and slight, but whip-smart, and clear-headed – healthy, now, in a way he hadn’t been, thanks to his mythic connection to the drakes, a magic Erik couldn’t begin to understand. He stood across from Birger, and leaned forward to point confidently at the map, voice raised so everyone could hear. The words washed over Erik unrecognized, but the tone was unmistakeable: one of sureness, and of authority. An unraveling braid swung forward, and he tucked it absently back behind his ear, fingertips sliding over the lover’s beads woven at the ends.

There was a boulder lodged in Erik’s chest. He stepped back from the table, turned, and walked out of the longhouse. Magnus made a motion toward him, as if to follow, but Erik waved him off, and ducked out through the door.

The dragons – the mated pair – had settled down to lie in the sun, coiled up together, eyes closed. They trusted Oliver enough to therefore trust those that Oliver was easy around, and that included all the lords and clansmen here, apparently. A breeze gusted across the clearing, stirring Erik’s cloak, but it was cold, rather than frigid, and the beasts didn’t stir – save Percy cracking one eye open, and closing it again – as he passed them and started up the tiered stairs set into the hillside. They switched back and forth, climbing, and spilled out, finally, on the plateau of the gaming fields.

Hosting pyres, now, rather than games.

A pall of lingering smoke hung over the ground, a smudge that softened the glare of the sun. The pyres themselves had all burned down to black bundles, the once-hulking timbers reduced to jagged twigs bearing greasy heaps of ash. Which one was Ingvar? he wondered. Which one was the captain Askr had lost? Whose tumble of blackened bones belonged to which lord? Marked a wound that would scar and be carried forward forever?

Leif stood with his arms folded, staring at the rows of still-smoking pyres, face an expressionless mask, save the faint crease between his brows. It was a face Erik had seen far too often in the mirror – but which, in this moment, he was glad of. He didn’t particularly want to be around anyone else right this moment – but Leif, his heir, with all this weight on his shoulders…that he could handle.

Erik drew up beside him, and Leif acknowledged his presence with a slight nod. Erik grunted in response.

It was quiet, up here. Voices floated along on the breeze, distant, indistinct conversations from those clansmen that hadn’t joined up with Ragnar’s cause. Beserkirs, mostly, but the Refr clan, too. The Jǫtunns, shockingly. Gods knew that bunch was bloodthirsty – but they had principles in regards to whose blood they were spilling. The idea of any Northerners killing Northerners for the sake of an alliance with the Sels…Unthinkable.

Erik couldn’t decide if it stung more or less that it was Ragnar who’d set everything into motion. He’d never trusted him, wasn’t even sure he liked him – but he was blood, and so it felt like a knife between his ribs.

He remembered a little boy with a nasty smirk and a spark in his eyes; tussling in the snow and laughing until his stomach hurt. Scraping their fingertips and knuckles when they tried to climb up a sheer cliff face and ended up with a lecture and a wealth of bruises instead. Ragnar had slapped their bleeding palms together, and said, “Look, it’s the same. We’re the same. It’s just like Papa says: the blood of wolves runs in our veins.” He’d looked proud. He’d looked, Erik now thought, in retrospect, more than a little desperate, his smile manic, his eyes too bright.

We’re the same.

But no. No, they weren’t at all.

He hoped they weren’t.

Leif took a deep, less-than-steady breath, and said, “It’s peaceful up here.” Erik wanted to look at him, but the low, uncertain quality of Leif’s voice kept him facing forward, not wanting to push him. “I didn’t expect it to be, but…it is. In its own way.”

“The dead don’t demand anything of you,” Erik said. “The crisis is in the moment of failing them – in the dying itself. But. After. There’s nothing else you can do.”

Leif made a small, surprised sound, and Erik did turn to him, then. Found his nephew studying him with wide blue eyes so very like his own. Rune had his dark hair, and the impetuous temperament of his youth, but it was Leif who had the sometimes-haunted gaze that Revna had always tried to soothe with gentle fingers through his hair, and a kiss on the top of his head. Leif fretted in the same way that Erik fretted: alone, quiet, withdrawn. Already so much more of a king than Erik had been at his age.

His gaze tracked back and forth over Erik’s face. “Failing?” he asked, but his frown said he already knew exactly what Erik meant.

“That’s what it feels like, doesn’t it?” He tilted his head toward the rows of pyres. “Like you’ve failed them. You weren’t here, and you couldn’t fight, and some of your people are dead now because of it.”

Leif’s throat jerked as he swallowed.

“What?” Erik asked, turning to face him fully. “Did you think that I would assure you none of this is your fault, or mine, and that we did all that we could? That sometimes terrible things happen, and we have to pick ourselves up and move forward?”

“Well…” Leif sighed, shoulders slumping a fraction. “No, I don’t suppose I thought that.” One corner of his mouth hitched upward in a brief, wry smile. “It wouldn’t be like you to pass up a good burden ripe for the shouldering.”

Erik snorted. “You could say the same for yourself. I can’t decide if you inherited that habit, or you’ve picked it up watching me.”

“A little of both, I suppose.”

The buzzing in the back of Erik’s mind had eased. The smell of smoke helped, oddly, as did the presence of the only other person whose thoughts followed along the same track as his own. “Leif,” he said, growing serious. “There’s never anything I want more than to make you feel better – you and your brother both.” And he had done some of that, in the boys’ youth: reassuring hands holding small, trembling heads, and rubbing soothing circles into heaving backs when nightmares were too frightening, or play too rough. He thought Leif might have been remembering that, the way he nodded. “But that has to be your mother’s role. Or your wife’s, one day. A king can seek succor when he feels like we do now, but he has to acknowledge the truth: when something ugly befalls any part of his kingdom, it is, in some way, always his fault. And it’s his duty to set things to rights.”

Leif’s expression twisted. He sighed, nostrils flaring, gaze shifting out across the field again. “I know,” he said, softly.

Erik finally gave in to the impulse to grip Leif’s shoulder, and squeeze it tight, relieved to feel Leif lean into the touch. It eased the buzzing in Erik’s skull; helped to center him. “I don’t mean to be harsh–”

“But you just can’t help it?” Leif guessed, grin plucking at one corner of his mouth.

Erik resisted the urge to smile back – at first, but then let his lips twitch, and was rewarded by the softening of Leif’s worried gaze. He didn’t know if he’d ever get it right: the balance between loving uncle and king handing down his crown. It was a push and pull, and he often worried that he pushed far too much, in an effort to do the best he could.

“It helps, sometimes,” he said, turning back to the field, its dark smudges of ash – of death. “Taking a step back. It gets – noisy, being king.”

“Hm,” Leif hummed.

“We have people in our lives who support us, who hold us together. But they won’t ever truly understand what it’s like.”

“That isn’t very reassuring.”

“No, I don’t suppose it is.” But Erik felt lighter, inside, and when he glanced at his nephew found that the line of Leif’s shoulders had softened. “I think things are about to get very ugly,” he said, with regret. “I wish I could spare you that – you and everyone else. But. We’re at war, now.”

Leif nodded. “I always assumed I would be, at some point.”

Erik didn’t say, I’d always hoped to bring about a true, lasting peace before it was your turn to rule. Because peace had never been, and would never be anything but a temporary state. There was always a fresh storm waiting to roll in; like the tide, like the moon, like the seasons, peace came and went; was driven out, and held shakily aloft in bloodied hands.

They lingered another moment, and when Erik turned to start back down the hill, his heir fell into step beside him.

5

For a few hours, Oliver was consumed with departure preparations. He tried to pick up a crate, only to have it plucked easily from his hands by a burly, bearded young lordling who called him “Your Lordship” and refused to let him do any of the sleigh loading. Before he could insist that he wasn’t so terribly weak – especially not with his fever nowhere in sight – Birger was tugging him into a strategy meeting, and, really, Oliver knew that the best campaigns were those that took advantage of each member’s strengths. He could pack supplies – but he was better with his mind than his hands, so he settled on the stool he was offered beside the pallet that had been dragged up for Askr, and did his best to predict Ragnar’s path toward Aeres.

Others would crowd in occasionally, looking over their shoulders, suggesting this or that. Each time the hide flap at the door lifted, sunlight slanted across the floor at a new angle. Oliver’s stomach rumbled, but he was too tense to think of eating. Someone set tea down at his elbow, and he forgot about it until it had gone cold.

He’d spent most of his life poring over maps, drawing invisible lines with his fingertips – always soft and too-delicate from time spent indoors; always a planner, and never a fighter. He’d thought long and hard about a strategy for a Drakewell bolstered by Aeretollean forces; a plan to march against the Sels, or, at least to dig in and hold their ground in the east. He’d never expected this scenario. Had come here hoping to sweep Erik up into a war for the South, never anticipating that war would arrive in the North, first.

When Birger said, “Lad,” Oliver lifted his head and realized that it was throbbing, faintly. Worry gripped him, briefly, before he blinked and realized it was only a normal headache, brought on by tension and squinting at the map, and not the fuzzy throb of an oncoming fever.

“What?”

Birger gazed at him kindly. “I think that’s the best we can do for now. It’s a solid plan.”

Oliver blinked again – his vision blurred from studying, from the low light, from exhaustion, from all three – and glanced back down at the pins he’d placed in the map. “Is it?” His throat was sore from talking so much, and he reached for his cold tea, grimacing when it didn’t help.

Birger’s gray brows drew together, a moment, and Oliver thought he almost looked…concerned. “Aye. The only way to make it better would be to have the truth straight out of Ragnar’s mouth. The most important thing, now, is to get moving.”

Oliver nodded. “Right.” He resisted the urge to massage his temples, but just barely. A thought occurred. “Wait. We can’t ask Ragnar, but. Did his side take any causalities in the skirmish?”

They both turned to Askr – who had nodded off, and jerked awake with a snort. “Wha…oh? His side.” He cracked a tired grin full of only half his usual muster. He really did look terrible, and Oliver and Birger had traded glad looks earlier, when he’d first fallen asleep. “Aye. There were casualties. We killed all of those that we could.”

“Hm,” Oliver said. “We could have interrogated them.” Then another thought occurred. He turned slowly back to Birger. “Or…maybe we still could?”

A short walk across trampled snow found Náli seated in front of a domed gray tent, swaddled in furs before a fire and drinking from a steaming mug. The young drake lay curled asleep at his feet, head resting on his thigh. His Dead Guard moved briskly around the makeshift camp, packing crates and loading a sleigh where reindeer were already harnessed, entertained by a few handfuls of chopped hay. All the Guards save one – the captain, Mattias, who sat on a stump a few feet from Náli, his expression concerned and earnest.

“…lie down for a while,” he was saying, as they approached. “It will be some time, still, before we depart, and–”

“No,” Náli said, and shrugged back deeper into his hood. “I will not.”

“My lord,” Mattias began, and then noticed them.

The change that overcame him was striking, to say the least. His face transformed in a split-second, a practiced move, Oliver could tell; expression flat, and hard, eyes glinting and ready for anything, he stood and placed himself in front of his master in an efficient, fluid movement that left no doubt as to his willingness to kill for the young lord seated behind him.

Náli huffed an annoyed sound and smacked the back of his knee. “Calm down. It’s only them.”

As quickly as the aggression had come over him, it bled away; he ducked his head and took one step sideways: still ready to shield his master, but at least offering a view of him. “Your lordship,” he said, neutrally. It was a tone that said I will respect you, but, also, harm him and find out how far my respect goes.

Pink dusted Náli’s cheeks, and Oliver didn’t think it was from the cold.

“Feeling better?” Oliver asked.

Mattias took a breath, head lifting.

Náli said, “I’m fine,” and absolutely wasn’t.

Oliver frowned. “Er…maybe this was a bad idea.”

Náli sat up straighter, and pushed his hood back with one too-pale hand. “What was? What did you want?”

He looked half-sick, but Oliver wasn’t going to be the one to wound his pride. Besides: it wasn’t as if he didn’t recognize that defiance in the face of physical illness. How often had he insisted on being fine? And he was…right up until he passed out.

“There were some Úlfheðnar killed in the skirmish,” he said.

Birger added, “And Askr’s people didn’t do them the honor of burning the bodies.”

Náli blinked, and then understanding dawned. “Ah.” He took a sip out of his mug, and then set it down. The drake woke with a low, rumbling sound, and nuzzled at Náli’s stomach. Náli pushed him away absently, and stood, only wavering a little. “Lead the way, then.” He reached beneath his cloak, and Oliver envisioned the diamond on its chain, the silver bowl, the knife.

But Mattias grabbed his master’s arm, and the look on his face nearly made Oliver step back.

It made Náli snap his head around with a sneer already forming on his lips. “Let go,” he said, low and threatening.

Mattia didn’t release him. Voice firm, he said, “My lord, you’ve overextended yourself. You need to return to the Fault Lands as it is. If you extend any more of your magic–”

Náli wrenched out of his grip, and glared up at him. “Of the two of us, who has a better understanding of my magic? The one who wields it – who inherited it – or the dumb muscle who follows him around?” The words fell hard and rough as stones; as shards of slate broken off in an avalanche. After they’d landed, silence rang across the field, and Náli’s face twisted horribly. Eyes big, horrified, lip caught between his teeth. Oliver thought he might burst into tears.

For his part, Mattias looked like he’d been struck.

Had things been less dire, Oliver would have found this exchange – their whole dynamic – fascinating. But as it was, he cleared his throat politely.

“You don’t have to,” he said, as matching startled glances swiveled toward him. “I only thought it might give us a better idea as to Ragnar’s plans. But if you’re too weak–”

Wrong thing to say.

“I’m not weak,” Náli snapped. He heaved the furs off his shoulders, let them fall to the snow, and strode forward, the drake bugling after him in a distressed way. “Show me the bodies.”

~*~

The wolves had been at them. Wolves eating wolves, how fitting, Náli thought, as they crested a low hill and started down into the depression where the enemy corpses had been dumped without ceremony. A handful of angry crows lifted, squawking, into the air as they approached, black feathers lilting down slow in their wake.

It had been a longer walk than Náli had expected to make – though that made sense: it wouldn’t have been smart to leave exposed corpses anywhere near camp, where they could draw predators. But by this point, Náli’s legs were shaking, and his breaths were coming shallow, and faint black spots had gathered at the edges of his vision. Shit. Mattias had been right, because he was always right, infuriatingly. And Náli had called him dumb muscle, had thrown the strength he’d spent his whole life cultivating back in his face, and he – he–

No. No time for that now. No time to fret over impossibilities and old sore spots.

He took a deep, ineffectual breath, tried to clear his mind, and knelt beside a pile of frozen corpses.

The wolves had ripped open bellies and made off with fingers, hands, feet, before the cold had truly set in. Blood had long stopped flowing, frozen to solid sludge in dead veins, and the thick rime of frost over the gaping wounds softened the hideousness of the display a fraction. Náli’s stomach gave an uneasy pulse, but he knew it was just his exhaustion: he’d long ago stopped flinching at the sight of death.

He braced a gloved hand on the tattered remains of an arm as solid and stiff as ice, and leaned over one of the gutted corpses. He drew his knife, and, teeth gritted against the effort of it, managed to slice off a hunk of – of something. Red-brown viscera that might have been intestine and might have been stomach lining. He dropped it into his silver bowl, and then frowned at it. He’d only ever worked with sloppy, liquid blood; had always been able to smell its copper stink, feel its oily wet heat on his bare fingers.

No choice, now.

He pulled the diamond from around his neck, gathered its silver chain up in one hand, a familiar movement, second nature, like straightening his hair – like seeking out Mattias across a crowded room, when everything started to feel like too much. The diamond swung, slowly, back and forth, a natural movement – then Náli took a deep, slow breath, and let himself slip.

That was the best way he knew how to describe it. He had no idea what it was like to be a normal person, a boy who wasn’t tied irrevocably to the afterlife, because he always had been. He’d had countless nightmares as a child; Mother said he’d wailed all through the night as an infant, and when he was older, out of nappies but still just a tiny thing, he’d slid into the spirit world when he was asleep, when he was unguarded. Dreams of skeletal hands reaching for him, and cold, rotted breath rushing over his face; the dead trying to drag him fully into their realm. He’d seen his father there, once. He remembered it even now, in fits and snatches, as he released his tight hold on the world of the living and fell backward into the land of horrors that lived constantly just beneath his skin.

It was an effort to be present. It took energy, and strength; strong tea, and enough food to fill his belly. It took concentration, and alertness, and, on a bad day, a white-knuckled grip on his consciousness.

Today, the moment he closed his eyes, he tumbled down into the place in his mind he’d chosen to call the well – a mental echo of the real well back home, that place of milky-white waters and echoing, dead voices that Mattias wanted him to return to. He shivered, and a chorus of voices rose up around him. Screams, wails, sobs, pleas for help. The dead were never silent, save those rare souls who died peacefully. Only men with long beards; ancient mothers surrounded by their children. Those were rare encounters. Náli’s magic seemed to seek out the cruelest deaths.

It felt like falling, being in that well. Like hurtling down, down, heavy as a stone, cold wind on his face, burning his skin. It felt like he was cut, sliced; like fissures opened up; like something took chunks out of him.

Concentrate. He pictured the diamond, its steady, expanding arc as it circled around and around the bowl. Felt the jerk, and shudder, and stop as it came to a sudden halt, pointed straight down. I found you.

The dead man’s last memory was of the sky overhead, smudged with smoke; of being cold, and stiff, and brimming over with pain. He’d been conscious, just before he died.

But before that – a bear cowl, and a sharp spear, and pain lancing through his gut. He’d bled out from a belly wound. There were no last words to murmur with his own lips, and a foreign voice.

He was…what was he supposed to…oh, right. Oliver wanted him to – wanted him to ask about–

Rough, warm hands touched him: one on the back of his neck, one on his forehead.

Náli panicked. No one touched him in these…these walks to the other side. No one warm, anyway. He had felt the clammy grip of the dead so often he was no longer startled by it. But here, in the well, no one alive ever touched him. No one alive could reach him. He was the one who slid backward into the well, and he was always the one who dragged himself back out of it, inch by ragged, painful inch.

That wasn’t what was happening now – now, someone had him; was holding him, was…

“My lord. My lord.”

Calling him, softly, over and over.

Mattias.

Náli spilled back into the living world with a gasp. It was never pleasant, but now he felt like he’d almost drowned. He opened watery eyes to find that he was pitched forward at the waist, choking on nothing. He tried to take a breath, couldn’t, and blackness crowded in around the blurred edges of his vision. Not a return to the well, but a true swoon. Gods, he was shaking, every inch of him twitching and trembling. A steaming, yellowish puddle in the snow below him, and the ugly taste in his mouth told him he’d vomited and hadn’t been aware of it: nothing but bile and lavender tea.

The hands were still there: impossibly warm against his chilled skin, pads of the fingers and center of the palm smooth and hard from sword work.

“Breathe,” Mattias said, low and soothing. “Breathe, my lord. Breathe, breathe. You’re here. You’re here with me.”

Familiar words, words said so many times, since boyhood. He trembled just as badly as he had back then – even worse, now, because he was too tired, had pushed himself too far. He needed to sleep, to eat. He needed…he needed the well, the real one, he acknowledged to himself, shuddering at the thought.

“My lord?”

“I’m…” His tongue was dry and heavy in his mouth. His head pounded. “He didn’t…know anything.”

And then, blessedly, he passed out.

~*~

Oliver winced as he watched Mattias stride back across the field with Náli tucked securely in his arms. The Dead Guard hadn’t said anything, hadn’t glared at him, even, but Oliver could feel the anger radiating off the man. “I suppose that wasn’t my brightest idea.”

Birger shrugged. “It had to be asked. Any lord worth his salt would try to take advantage of all the resources available.” He nudged Oliver with an elbow, grinning, and prompted an eyeroll. He sobered after, though. “Poor lad’s worn himself out, I think.”

“He isn’t the only one.” Oliver glanced back up the hill toward the longhouse where they’d left Askr and the other wounded behind. “The return march is going to be hell.”

“Aye. And few will be in fighting shape when we arrive.”

Oliver tried and failed to swallow his mounting anxiety. The idea of travel at all was barely tolerable right now; even without a fever, healthier than he’d been in years, the idea of moving on again after their grueling trek through the mountains left him wanting to bury his face in his hands.

“I won’t add to Erik’s stress. I won’t heap on more worries – but, Birger. I just…I don’t know about this. I don’t know how it’ll go.”

Birger sighed. “Aye, lad. Me neither.”

~*~

Erik felt steadier after he’d spent time bearing witness to the dead; grounded by his talk with Leif. The ugly, distracting buzzing under his skin receded to a mere disquiet, and his thoughts were clearer, better-focused. He might very well have to face defeat soon, but he wasn’t defeated yet, and in what time remained, he was a king with a mission to carry out.

When he returned to the yard in front of the longhouse, it was to the organized chaos of sleighs being loaded and reindeer being harnessed; of horses saddled and packs checked. He spotted his own horse, readied and waiting beside Oliver’s, but was surprised to recognize that it was Oliver who stepped around the stallion’s head and set about fiddling with his breastplate.

Erik hastened the last few steps and took up the horse’s loose reins, patting it absently when it greeted him with a nudge. “Someone else could do this,” he said.

Oliver didn’t look up, but a fleeting smile touched his mouth. “Everyone’s busy. I can’t very well sit around.” He lifted his head and nodded off toward the side – where, Erik saw, the wounded were being toted on sledges toward the waiting sleighs. Askr was bellowing loudly in protest, but clearly lacked the strength to pitch himself from the sledge the way he kept threatening to.

Erik sighed.

“Hey.” When he looked, he found Oliver studying him, brows drawn together. “Are you all right? You slipped away earlier.”

It wasn’t an accusation, not at all, but it left Erik feeling chastened anyway. “I’m fine.” He wasn’t about to repeat the conversation he’d had with Leif, to expound on the weight that kingship carried. Likely Oliver already knew, but he wasn’t going to burden his consort with that now, not while such a dangerous journey lay before them. “What of your drakes? Shouldn’t you be readying them instead?”

Oliver snorted. “How so? They’ve hunted, and eaten. They’ll follow when it’s time.” He said it with confidence, assured that they would go with him.

What a change, Erik thought, proudly, from the uncertain young man who’d nearly swooned on the roof of Silfr Hall, uncertain of the pale wraith that had swept overhead.

Oliver frowned. “What?”

“Nothing. We should get moving.”

A screech sounded overhead, high and inhuman. When he tipped his head back, he saw the three drakes – father, mother, son – circling overhead.

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed. “They’re ready.”

6

Aeres

Rune still tired easily – easier than he would have liked to, Tessa knew. Late afternoon, and the ships were still in the harbor, and the city was empty – no cheerful smudges of chimney smoke, nor distant clamor of commerce – and Rune’s long-lashed eyes slipped slowly shut and he tipped over onto the arm of the sofa. Tessa covered him with a blanket and tiptoed from the royal apartments.

The palace hummed with tension. She could feel it in the soles of her feet, like a living pulse moving up through the flagstones and carpets. When she’d run into Bjorn earlier, found him gazing out a window toward the harbor, he’d said, “The waiting always feels like the worst part. And then you’re not waiting, and that’s worse.”

In truth, she was glad that Rune had fallen asleep; trying to keep up a cheerful façade was wearing on her. Now, as she paced down the hall, headed for the staircase, determined to find something useful to do with her clammy hands, she felt her face sag with exhaustion and fear.

The women of Aeres dipped their heads and greeted her with quiet murmurs of “my lady” as she moved through the great hall. She didn’t slow – she was searching for Revna, for a set of firm directives that she might carry out. A kitchen maid directed her toward one of the balconies, and, frowning, she ducked outside – and froze.

The clang and clash of steel rang from the practice yard below, but the figures whirling and sparring in the streaked snow were not soldiers.

Revna had donned a pair of leggings, tucked into tall, fur-topped boots. Without a cloak, she was down to shirtsleeves and an embroidered tunic in her family’s deep blue, belted tight around her waist. Her hair had been braided and coiled up at the back of her head.

The hefty sword she held in a two-handed grip didn’t look at all out of place there. She held it across her body, in a ready stance, squared off from a similarly dressed and armed woman – Lady Estrid, Tess realized with a pulse of shock.

Revna advanced, Estrid parried, blocked – then Revna whirled, and struck, and disarmed her with one strong swing that greatly resembled her sons’ movements in the arena.

Estrid made a face as she bent to retrieve her sword.

Revna rolled her shoulders and shook her arms out, lifting the sword high overhead in both hands a moment, cross-wise; stretching her upper back. “You’re plenty strong, but your footwork’s not fast enough.”

“I know,” Estrid huffed, unhappy, impatient, and went through her own sequence of stretches.

The evening air was frigid, as the sun began its swift descent out across the glittering plains of snow. Tessa didn’t have a cloak, but she didn’t feel the cold as she stood, transfixed, watching the two women move through exercise after exercise, feet leaving marks like runes in the snow of the yard. Revna was clearly the older, more experienced swordswoman, but Estrid landed more than a few good hits; she caught Revna’s shoulder with the flat of her blade once and Tessa could hear the dull sound of impact all the way up on the balcony. Save a fast flicker of the muscles in her face, Revna didn’t react. She shifted her grip, and went back on the offensive.

She had known, or at least suspected, that the old, smooth calluses on Revna’s palms weren’t the result of needlepoint. But it was one to thing to suspect the Lady of Aeretoll of having warrior training, another to see it in action.

And another to think that she was planning on using those skills against a true opponent here soon. Because the enemy was at the gates, and a war was coming, and…

Tessa gripped the banister in front of her hard and chased the thoughts away. She couldn’t think of that now, or she might sink to a puddle on the floor and not be able to get back up.

But another, near-equal distress gripped her, as Estrid finally stepped aside to accept a waterskin from a maid and another of the visiting young ladies stepped forward to go up against Revna. What use am I? she wondered. She could tote, and carry; could pour tea, and embroider a dress. She could even marry a lord – a prince – and would someday run his household, give him heirs.

But she didn’t know the first thing about fighting.

They wouldn’t expect her to, she reasoned. They valued her beyond what she could offer on the battlefield. She hadn’t come to them a warrior, and no one had breathed a word about her becoming one.

Still…

By the time she returned inside, Rune was awake, bleary-eyed, sleep-creased on one cheek, and communicating mostly in mumbles and grunts. It was terribly cute.

Rather than bother anyone with serving them, she’d taken a cold supper up for the two of them, and Hilda and Astrid, and they ate in the common room of the royal apartments.

Over thin slices of salt pork, pickles and fresh bread, Tessa said, “I saw your mother sparring earlier.”

He nodded, unsurprised, and sipped his tea. “She doesn’t do it much anymore. Or, at least, I don’t see her working on it. She used to with my father.” A faint frown touched his face. “That’s what Leif says. But, with Uncle sometimes, too.”

She reached for her own tea, stress tightening her throat. “Do all the women of Aeretoll train as warriors?” She tried to school her features, and hoped she was successful.

In her periphery, she noted Hilda pausing with her ham roll halfway to her mouth, studying her with concern.

And whatever Tessa’s face did, it caused Rune to set his plate on the low table between them, and sit up straight, wincing only a little as the movement pulled on his injury. “Some do, but not all of them, no.” His tone was soothing; his gaze said he knew exactly what she was thinking – worrying about. “It’s an old practice,” he elaborated. “From back when Aeretolleans were a clan people instead of a kingdom.” He offered a sideways smile. “Sleeping in tents and moving with the reindeer herds. No farming. Like I said: old.”

“Yes, but…” She broke a bit of bread crust into smaller and smaller pieces, at a loss.

“Beg pardon, my lady,” Hilda spoke up. “But I can’t think you’d enjoy learning to fight. It’s dirty, sweaty, bloody business.” She clucked and shook her head. “Nothing for a refined young lady like yourself.”

Rune’s tone was curious, though, when he said, “Tessa,” and waited for her to meet his gaze. His head cocked to the side. “Do you…want to learn how to fight?” Did he sound hopeful, or was that just her imagination?

As she debated, his face brightened. “I could teach you a few things, if you wanted. Not much, because…” He made a face and gestured to his side. “But, when I’m better, and after the–” His eyes widened, and his mouth snapped shut. He shook his head, but she knew what he would say next; the same thing she’d begun to say in her own head.

After the Sels are gone. The threat that hung over them, moment to moment, one that they couldn’t be at all certain of getting past. No one could be certain that Erik and the others would return in time. No one could be certain that the Sels wouldn’t…wouldn’t…

She flicked bread crumbs down onto her plate, took a deep, unsteady breath, and said, “No, I want to learn now. I want to fight.” Her voice shook horribly, and she could feel the color drain from her face, but she pressed on. “I want to be – to be useful in this war.”

Rune’s eyes widened another impossible fraction, but this time his mouth fell open. “Use…war…Tessa.” He leaned forward – too quickly, too boldly; it had to tug at his side, but he didn’t show it, big hands pressing flat to the tabletop on either side of his plate. “I thought we talked about this! About you wanting to be useful – that doesn’t – it isn’t about that! And besides, you are useful.”

His earnestness bordered on desperate, and, in truth, she knew that he was right. Surviving a siege wasn’t all down to repelling ladders and returning fire. Every single pair of hands inside the walls would be useful: cooking, mending, tending to the wounded. No job was unimportant when the health and safety of an entire city was on the line. She knew this…but deep down, she couldn’t help but feel…lesser. Like an extra mouth to feed.

“I know,” she said, with a sigh, because she didn’t want to rehash this conversation.

The conversation stalled out from there, the atmosphere too heavy, dread too thick in the air, for small talk to feel like any kind of decent distraction.

A footman arrived, shortly, a length of towel over one arm, and informed Rune that he was there to “assist the young prince with a bath.”

Rune made a face. “I can take a bath by myself.” But serving boys were already toting in the tub and the buckets of hot water.

He bid Tessa goodnight with a murmured apology and a kiss to her forehead, Hilda’s gaze fixed unwavering on them the entire time.

Tessa watched him go with a lump in her throat.

“Shall you retire as well, my lady?” Hilda asked, more encouragement than question. Though dark, it was early, still, and Tessa knew it would be wise to get as much sleep as possible, because no one would get any once the Sels finally left their ships.

No, Tessa thought. But if she left the suite now, Hilda would go with her, and she didn’t relish the idea. She liked Hilda, yes, but she didn’t want to be mothered right now. So she said, “I suppose.”

She’d been moved into one of the spare rooms in the royal apartments, its furnishings as rich as any other in the palace, but muted and unpersonal. Whoever had once lived in the room was long gone: a prince or a princess, she thought, judging by the tapestries that bore the family crest, and the richness of the carved dressing table opposite the bed. Two swords hung on brackets over the window, and for the first time since moving into the room, her gaze flitted to them – and stayed fixed there.

Hmm.

She washed her face and hands, changed into her nightgown, and lay her robe across the foot of the bed. Hilda puttered around the room, tidying, and warming the linens with a hot brick from the hearth.

“Sleep well, my lady,” Hilda said, as she blew out the candles and departed.

“You, too,” Tessa murmured.

She lay still, feet in the warmth pooling off the brick, and listened to Hilda’s footfalls recede down the hall. She counted out a full two minutes just to be sure – then flung the covers back and relit the candles on the bedside table. She drew a thick wool dress over her nightgown, tied her hair back, whipped on her cloak and laced up her new, fur-topped boots: all of it gifts from Revna.

Then she climbed up onto the ledge of the window seat to get a closer look at the swords.

She’d never studied weaponry, not the way her siblings and cousin had. Amelia, uncurable tomboy that she was, had become proficient with knifework at an early age, and had poured over sword manuals pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Oliver at the library tables. Tessa had never felt left out because she’d never really cared about things like heft, and slicing versus smashing capability.

Now, she wished she’d paid better attention. She traced a fingertip down the blood groove of the lowest sword, and found the steel cold and solid beneath her touch. It was definitely a real weapon, and not a flashy ceremonial piece, she could tell. The edges seemed dull, and sported a few nicks from use – but that wouldn’t matter tonight.

She took a deep breath, took hold of the sword’s leather-wrapped grip, and lifted it out of its brackets.

She staggered, and barely managed to get a foot down to the floor before she fell.

“Shit,” she muttered, and felt her face heat. She didn’t curse often.

The sword wasn’t too heavy – no heavier than a basket of linens – but the weight was distributed down the length of it, and, now that she thought of it, she’d never actually held a sword before.

She rested its tip on the rug a second so she could readjust her grip and get better prepared. When she lifted it a second time, she didn’t stumble, but she could only hold it straight out in front of her for a short span before her arms started to shake. She lowered it again, frowning. Revna had made it look so easy. Estrid, too, and the other ladies. If she couldn’t even hold it for any length of time, how was she going to carry it all the way to the practice yard?

A better question: how was she going to walk to the practice yard, carrying a sword, and not attract anyone’s notice?

She sighed again, and had resolved herself to putting the sword back on the wall and forgetting the whole thing – it had been a stupid idea, truly – when a light rap sounded at the door. The sword was too heavy, and she was too slow, flooded with a sudden panic, and the knob turned and the door swung open before she could do anything besides gasp.

Then her stomach gave an unpleasant twist as she saw that it was Revna who stood in the threshold, still dressed for sparring, snowflakes melting in her windswept braids. Her gaze snapped first to the sword, then to Tessa’s face, flat and unreadable.

“I…” Tessa began, and then stopped, because there was no benign way to explain why she was dressed, cloaked, booted, and holding a sword she’d taken down off the wall.

A long, slow moment passed, one filled by the staccato pounding of Tessa’s pulse in her ears.

Then, slowly, the corners of Revna’s lips quirked upward. “I thought I saw you on the balcony earlier.”

“I wasn’t – I was just–” Her face burned, and she hated that she was trying to stutter excuses like she’d been caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.

Revna tilted her head. “Leave that one here. We’ll start with the practice blades, I think.”

Tessa’s stomach flipped again – though not with dread, this time.

“Come on, then.”

~*~

The practice yard was empty, illuminated by a few flickering torches on high poles along the wall. People moved around the stables and mews, voices low and indistinct, faces obscured by shadows and the hoods of thick cloaks.

Tessa glanced toward the noise, worn-smooth grip of a wooden practice sword held awkwardly in both hands.

Revna chuckled, drawing her attention. “You act like you think you’re doing something wrong. Like you don’t want to get caught.”

“Oh.” Tessa wasn’t sure she’d ever blushed this much – not even when she was kissing Rune. That, strangely enough, had been less daunting than the prospect that now lay before her. “Well. I’ve…never done anything like this.” Had never even wrestled as a child, after that one incident that had left her crying and John apologizing profusely while Amelia shouted at him.

Revna had been standing with her own sword held across her body, feet planted in a ready stance, but she relaxed, now, stood up straight. “You don’t have to do it now, if you don’t want to.” Her face and voice softened, tone knowing – motherly. Quietly, she said, “No one expects this from you, Tessa.” It wasn’t said as an insult, was consoling, really.

But it struck Tessa in a way that left her squaring her shoulders and lifting the sword, mimicking Revna’s ready stance. “No,” she said, voice firmer. “I want to at least try.”

Revna’s smile widened, and it reminded Tessa of Rune, that mischievous slant, the spark in her eyes. “All right.” She resumed her own stance. “Angle the blade like this – good. Left foot forward. Now, watch and repeat after me.”

They started slow, circling one another, Revna explaining each movement as she worked through it, telegraphing and restraining. As they shifted across the snow, Tessa’s nerves melted into focus, and resolve. Revna reached slowly forward and their practice swords clacked together lightly when Tessa blocked.

With a start, she realized that this wasn’t unlike dancing – and that she was very good at.

She settled deeper in her knees, on Revna’s suggestion, and was ready for the next strike; twirled to meet it, catching her weight lightly on her toes and sweeping her arms forward more strongly than she had before.

The swords struck with a sharp crack that echoed off the walls of the yard.

“Aha!” Revna said with a sharp bark of a laugh. She was like a different person out here, doing this. Well, no, that wasn’t true – but she was sharper, wilder; more comfortable in her own skin, if such a thing was possible. She was always the picture of poise and grace within the palace walls – but Tessa thought of what Rune had said about his mother sparring more in the past, with her husband, and with her brother, and she wondered how much Revna missed that side of herself now.

Revna advanced in a sudden flurry of strikes, and Tessa fell back beneath the onslaught. She parried once, twice – and then lost her grip and her balance both at once. She landed hard on her backside on the cold ground, and her sword landed a few feet away. The breath left her lungs in a pitiful little cry, and shame washed hotly through her, chasing away the chill of the night.

Revna pulled back her own sword and offered a hand straight away.

Tessa took it, and found herself hauled up to her feet; Revna was so much stronger than she was, and the distinction smarted – more than it should have, really.

Whatever her face was doing, it left Revna laughing – but not unkindly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. No one gets it just right their first try, not even the lads.” In a low, conspiratorial tone, she said, “The first time Bjorn sparred with live steel, he got the blade caught in the dirt and fell flat on his face.”

“Hmph,” a deep voice said from the sidelines.

Tessa startled, and glanced around to find Bjorn leaning on the wall – he was tall enough that he could fold both huge, bare arms overtop of it without a stretch.

“You weren’t old enough that day to remember anything that happened,” he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Ha,” Revna shot back, grin turning sharp-edged and feral as she turned to him. She didn’t look at him the same way she did anyone else, Tessa had realized, though what that meant, she was still too hesitant – and new to love herself – to guess. “It was right over there.” She gestured with her sword. “You overbalanced after a big swing and went right down.” She mimed it with her free hand. “You nose hitting sounded like someone snapping a carrot in half.”

“That’s some imagination you’ve got there,” he said, flatly, but a telltale dusting of pink marked his cheeks.

Tessa bit back a smile.

“Now, do you ladies want some instruction from an actual swordmaster?”

“Oh, please,” Revna said in falsetto. “I’m so glad a big, strong man came along to help us poor damsels.”

Bjorn snorted, but pushed off the wall and came around to join them.

~*~

Revna knew her way around a sword, but she wasn’t too proud to admit that Bjorn had far more experience teaching others how to wield one – not that she was going to say that bit out loud.

Tessa tensed up with fresh nerves when he first joined them, but he was a calm, patient teacher, and the girl soon settled, brows crimped together in an expression of concentration that would have been comical if she wasn’t so earnest – and if the circumstances weren’t so dire. They spent half an hour working on footwork and the correct wrist angle before the gentle chiming of bells caught all their attention: the sound that signaled the changing of the guard shift. A guard that had been doubled, reinforced with the men of Aeres proper, farmers and craftsmen who’d been given helmets and spears, should the Sels attack in the night.

Revna wiped sweat off her brow with a sleeve, and saw that Tessa’s cheeks were vivid pink with exertion and cold. The stars were out. It was late. And any hour could be the start of a siege.

She was exhausted, suddenly. “That’s enough for tonight, I think. Hilda’s going to have a fit when she realizes you haven’t been tucked away in bed this whole time.”

Panting a little, Tessa dabbed at her face with gloved fingertips and said, “Well, this isn’t the most scandalous place I could be.” The moment she said it, her eyes went wide, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

Revna chuckled. “No, it isn’t.” She took the practice sword from now-limp fingers. “Go on, then. Warm up and get some sleep. We can work more tomorrow.” If we aren’t fighting for real.

“Right. Thank you,” Tessa squeaked, and took off for the doors.

Revna watched her go, russet hair and dark cloak streaming behind her, and marveled – not for the first time – at the juxtaposition of timid young noblewoman with fiery drake. Tessa was a sweet and caring girl, and that was admirable, but for her own part, Revna was glad to see the glimmer of steel beneath that kept poking through more and more. Aeretoll was a hard place full of hard people; a little steel was necessary.

“I’m surprised,” Bjorn mused. “I didn’t take her for the type to want sword lessons.”

Revna turned to him, looked all the way up to him, and blamed the way her pulse lurched on physical activity. “Maybe I insisted she learn,” she hedged.

He shook his head, his gaze far too fond – especially with them being out in the open like this. “No. That’s not you. You’re sweeter than you pretend to be.”

“Well, now you’re just talking nonsense.” She didn’t sound breathless, she reasoned; just winded. From sparring. That was the only explanation.

“Mmhm,” he murmured, and reached to pluck both practice swords from her.

“I’m perfectly capable of–” she began.

And he said, “I know,” still fond, a spark in his dark eyes that left her insides squirming pleasantly.

She watched him walk to the cupboard on the outer wall of the armory where all the practice weapons were kept; watched the roll of his gait and the flex of muscles in his back, visible even beneath his tunic and leather coat.

Watched also as a troop of guards passed, spear tips flashing over the top of the wall.

Here they were, poised on the eve of battle, and she was admiring muscles and longing after big, capable hands. Ashamed, she turned away, and headed back toward the palace. Not quickly, because now that adrenaline was wearing off, she realized just how out of practice she was, and how hard she’d pushed herself today. She ached all over, even down to the soles of her feet. Just a few steps, and without the surge of pumping blood, as the cold set in, she could feel the muscles in her arms and legs beginning to knot and stiffen up.

Bollocks.

Bjorn caught up to her, easily, and though she put her hands down, his gaze snapped right to the way she’d been massaging the knuckles of her strong hand. “Sore?” he guessed.

She grunted in the affirmative, and kept walking.

They reached the double doors that led into the rear vestibule of the palace, and Bjorn reached forward easily to open the way for her, as chivalrous as ever. Normal behavior, but it prickled along her nerves, now.

“You’re out of practice,” he said.

“Obviously.”

A quick glance proved that his brows had shot up. She’d more or less snapped at him.

She sought to temper her expression as the doors thumped shut behind them, closing off the cold, and scraped the snow off her boots onto the rug laid out for just such a purpose. It was a normal activity, daily and habitual, as second-nature as breathing. But this time, when she lifted her right foot, her left hamstring knotted up something fierce, and she buckled.

She would have, at any rate, if Bjorn’s arm hadn’t slipped around her waist and held her upright.

The sudden, firm clasp of him, the heat of his bare skin, palpable through her layers of clothes, startled her more than it should have. He was strong – everyone could tell that he was strong just looking at him – but knowing that and feeling it were two very different things.

For instance, now, it took no imagination whatsoever to envision him picking her up effortlessly with one hand and tossing her over his shoulder. She gasped, and when she lifted her head, gaze drawn helplessly toward his face, she found him watching her with a concern that quickly melted into open hunger. A look that sent a bolt of heat straight through her.

In that unguarded moment of eye contact, she knew there was no hiding her own reaction. She couldn’t disguise the way he sent tremors rippling through her. But she dragged her gaze away anyway, and fixed it on a spot on the far wall. It was too late, she’d already damned herself, but she drew in a steadying breath and regained her balance anyway, the weight of his arm dragging at her.

“Cramp?” he asked.

She jerked a nod. “A mild one.” But when she tried to step away from him, her entire leg seized up, so painful it left her hissing and staggering, and Bjorn caught her again, his big hand cupped supportively around her ribs.

“Mild, eh?” Pressed together like this, his chuckle vibrated through her, a deep growl like thunder over the distant mountains.

Gods, she had to get away from him! Before she did something idiotic and irresponsible.

“It’ll pass,” she gritted out between her teeth.

“Not just standing here it won’t. You need a good soak. And some liniment. You overdid it today.”

“No, I’m–” The lie died in her throat when another attempted step resulted in even more of her weight resting in his arm. Damn it. She bit down hard on her lip. The exhaustion dragged at her more and more by the minute, bringing with it a headache that she knew would be throbbing hard enough to keep her from sleeping in a few hours. She wasn’t a girl like Tessa anymore; she couldn’t push her body this hard when she was out of practice and expect to sleep it off without consequence.

She eased her left foot back to the flags, fighting hard to keep the pain off her face. A fight she lost.

Bjorn let out an exasperated sigh. “Come on, then, and I’ll help you upstairs.”

She resisted the pressure of his arm – but only because he allowed her to; of this, she was aware. Just like she was aware, every time he touched her, casually, in passing, the bare brushes of fingertips against her clothed arms. For all his size and strength, he was impossibly sensitive to every reaction; his hold was always delicate, always one that she could pull away from, if she wanted.

She never really wanted to, but always felt like she should.

“You can’t,” she said. “I can’t limp through that hall full of people like an invalid.”

“Not sure you have much choice, love.”

Love. It danced across her nerves. Had he ever called her that before?

Old memories tumbled through her mind: soft-edged childhood scenes. A scraped knee and Bjorn’s big hands hoisting her up, his young, beardless face shining with repressed laughter. “You all right, Rev?” He’d called her little sister, too: brightly as a boy, and then with a wry twist when he’d hit that awkward teenage phase when his height shot up and his beard started to come in patchy. It had taken her a long time, until she was head over heels for Torstan, really, before she began to understand why that wry twist became more and more like a grimace.

He’d never called her love before. Not until right this moment.

It hit her – struck her, not so much a touch but a slap. A good one.

She had two choices – well, she had more, but the binary option was the only one she could formulate in the moment, left dumb and winded by one small word. She could pretend it hadn’t meant anything, that it was no different than any other familiar endearment; or she could let it take hold of her.

It was a choice she didn’t get to make, in the end, because Bjorn sighed, leaned down, and picked her up in one fast scoop, as if she weighed nothing.

“Wait, what are you–!”

“Well,” he said, voice resigned as he started walking – through a side door of the vestibule, toward the guard rooms and storage closets – “if you’re too proud to let me help you, and you can’t walk on your own, then there’s only one thing to do.”

“What in the…put me down!” she insisted. She knew she was blushing, and hated that her voice was shrill and so totally unlike herself. She didn’t blush, and yelp, on principle, and she certainly didn’t get carried around.

(Save two weeks ago, when Erik had scooped her up, when she’d driven herself to dehydration, exhaustion, and sleep-deprivation at Rune’s bedside. If she was honest, she could admit that she’d not been taking the best care of herself lately, as today proved.)

“No,” Bjorn said, and a glance upward revealed that he was trying to suppress a smile, corners of his mouth twitching. He toted her toward the rear staircase, the narrow, twisting one only ever used by guardsmen as they migrated up and down to the walls.

“Bjorn,” she tried, levering some authority into her voice.

“Rev,” he said, amiable, unbothered.

She attempted to kick her feet, but her cramp had tightened up so badly it was more a wiggling of her toes, teeth gritted against the pain. “There’s a war on,” she said, as he reached the foot of the stairs and started up.

“There’s a war in the offing,” he said, and then, voice growing more serious: “which is why you ought to be more careful with yourself.”

She couldn’t fight off the shudder the words elicited.

If he felt it – and he had to – then he didn’t make mention of it; carried her dutifully and effortlessly up the twisting staircase until they emerged in the hallway that led to the royal apartments, her pulse running rabbit-quick the entire way. He had to feel that, too; he had to feel everything, including the way her thoughts were warring wildly back and forth between resistance and capitulation.

Capitulate to what? she asked herself. He hadn’t even proposed anything besides helping her up to her quarters.

She was overcome, suddenly, by the wretched urge to cry.

“It’s all right,” Bjorn murmured, a low rumble that vibrated through her shoulder where it was pressed to his chest.

But nothing was all right. Vicious enemies in the harbor, ones she wished would attack already, and spare them all this hateful waiting. Rune was healing, but not well, and Tessa was feeling like she needed to step up and learn to fight, the sweet fool. Erik and Leif and most of their Great Northern Phalanx were out there in the wilds of the Waste somewhere, unreachable, possibly dead. Nothing was all right, and Revna was so tired, and her leg hurt so badly, and Bjorn was being so gentle with her. Was calling her love.

She sniffed, closed her eyes, and fought the tears back; willed them away. When she opened her eyes, they had reached the door of the apartments, and the guards posted there had already swept it open. She groaned quietly, though both men stared resolutely forward, and didn’t gawk at the sight of her being carried. Still. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this – to see her weak. Not on the eve of war.

The common room was blessedly empty, the fire burned down to low flickers. That was where Bjorn carried her, and where he set her down carefully in one of the overstuffed chairs there, touch gentle as if she were made of glass.

“Wait here,” he said, and touched her knee, a brief warm press, before he straightened and walked toward the sideboard.

“Where would I go?” she muttered, without much heat, as she watched him pour a generous cup of wine.

He shrugged, and turned around, crossed back to her, footfalls light for such a large man. It was the warrior in him, she supposed; just like the delicacy he showed when he touched her, he had immense control over all his movements. It was infuriatingly attractive, most of the time – now it just left her hollow, rattled, and wanting.

Her eyes were still hazy with unshed tears. She dashed the last of them away with a knuckle before she accepted the cup he offered with a murmured thanks. Didn’t try to pretend that their fingers touching on the cool pewter was any sort of accident.

Hold firm? Or capitulate?

As if that mattered in the least right now.

She took a sip of wine – several sips. She perhaps drained half the cup in one go, gasping a little, after. Her leg hurt.

“How bad’s the cramp?” Bjorn asked.

“Getting better,” she lied, because her brother wasn’t the stubbornest idiot in the family, apparently.

“Uh-huh.” He sank down to his haunches on the rug before her.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered.

He cupped the back of her knee with one hand, and gripped the heel of her boot with the other, slowly drawing it off. “If you won’t go soak it, you have to at least massage the knots out,” he reasoned, voice even, calm – low and dark as velvet. He wasn’t unaffected, though; she could see the pulse beating fast on the side of his throat, the vein throwing shadows in the dance of dim firelight.

“I – I can do it myself,” she tried to argue, voice already weak.

“No,” he said, simply – wet his lips, took a breath – but then didn’t say anything else, only that. No. And then both his hands were on her leg, the heat of them bleeding through the fabric of her stocking and leggings.

Revna didn’t breathe while he stroked her calf, exploratory sweeps of his palms. Then he shifted higher. The sight of his hands above her knee, pushing up the hem of her tunic so he could touch her thigh was…indescribable. Her mind, buzzing up ‘til now with a plethora of worries, went blank, like a slate wiped clean of chalk with a sudden swipe. She could only watch, as his hands gripped all the way around her thigh, and he lifted it from the chair far enough to slip his fingers beneath, and dig into the worst of the cramp.

Pain flashed bright, all the way up her hip and down to her toes, and she couldn’t hold back a gasp. She pitched forward, an automatic reaction, and it put their heads much, much too close together. She couldn’t do anything about it, though; she bit her lip, tried to hold herself together.

“There it is,” he murmured, and his fingertips dug into the offending muscle.

The pain was sharp and ugly at first, as he palpated the knots and set to working them loose. Revna closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and allowed herself to shake. Listened to the slow, steady in-and-out of his breathing, and the soft sounds of his callused fingertips against the fabric of her leggings. Up close like this, hovering above his shoulder, she could smell the oil he used on his hair, a dark cedar note, and the softer, muskier scent of the oil he used to keep his sleeveless leather coat supple. Beneath that, fresh sweat, and cold skin. He smelled like a man – but not like her brother, nor her sons. His touch didn’t feel like theirs, either, though there was nothing truly untoward about the way he expertly and methodically massaged her cramp away.

Slowly, the pain faded.

Revna let out a deep breath, at last; felt it stir the hair that had come loose of her braids to frame her face. Bjorn’s hands continued their ministrations, and it felt good, now, the way he smoothed and kneaded the muscle, thigh now warm beneath his touch.

She didn’t ever want him to stop. But. Needs must.

She opened her eyes – and found that she had all but pressed her face into the thick fur ruff of his coat. When she exhaled, shaky with surprise, her breath ruffled the fur – and raised goosebumps on the side of his neck.

It struck her, with a clenching in her stomach, that if they both turned their heads toward one another, it wouldn’t take any effort to bridge the final gap and kiss.

She sat up straight instead.

But Bjorn didn’t stop. His hands kept shifting and sliding along her thigh, thumbs no longer digging in to search for knots, just…stroking her.

She swallowed with difficulty. “It can’t be comfortable down there.” Too late, she realized how suggestive the words sounded – even if her tone didn’t, wooden and flat. “It feels better now,” she added. “Thanks. You can stop.”

His hands continued to move a moment longer, and when they stilled, he lifted his head with slow deliberation. Firelight danced up the side of his face, threw his broken nose in shadowed relief across his far cheek. Caught all the deep ochre and gold striations in his eyes – eyes that were big, and soft, and heated, and pretty, when you really looked at them…when he was really looking at you, the way he looked at her now.

The coals hissed and cracked in the grate. Revna’s pulse drummed in her ears.

Bjorn held her gaze, and said, voice a deep rumble, “Do you want me to stop?”

Time seemed to slow between one breath and the next; he shifted to put one hand on her other thigh, rested it, and the moment stretched out like poured syrup.

A different kind of exhaustion swamped her: she was so very, very tired of holding herself together. Of denying herself. Of getting swept up in responsibility, and old grief, and the fear that she couldn’t give Bjorn what he wanted – which was everything.

Gods, she’d been so stupid.

“No,” she said, and it was the first honest thing she’d said all evening. “Don’t stop.”

Saying it was a weight lifting off her shoulders, her chest; admitting it was taking her first deep breath in days. In, perhaps, years. “Yes,” she said again, voice going deep, and sure. She’d been breathless the first time Torstan kissed her, all those years ago, but now her lungs were full of air, and her heart started up a new, steady rhythm. “I want you to touch me.”

He held her gaze another moment, making sure, and his pupils expanded when he saw that she was serious, that she was sure. Then he ducked his head, clenched his hands tight on her thighs, and let out a groan like a dying man.

She gripped the ruff of his coat in both hands and clenched until her knuckles popped. Her breath stirred his hair, where fine strands had slipped loose of the single, tight braid he wore down his back. No beads, she noted – had always noted. He put a single, fat silver bead at the end, where he tied it off, one that marked him as Erik’s right hand, his shield brother. But there were no tokens of love nor family; no glitter of gems, no small, ornate braids curving over his ears from a lover, or a daughter.

It’s always been you.

Forty-three, and he’d never taken a wife, because he’d been waiting for her. Only her.

His hands slid up her thighs, bunching her tunic, until he gripped her hips, thumbs pressing in the juncture there, in a place where she hadn’t been touched by anyone in years. An innocent touch, in truth, and over her leggings, but she couldn’t stop the whimper than built in her throat.

“Rev,” he murmured. “Revna.”

She smoothed down the fur of his coat collar, and it was soft, and plush, but it wasn’t what she wanted at all. Hands shifting inward, she finally found the hot skin of his neck – and the strong, throbbing pulse that beat just beneath. A war drum rhythm just for her.

Only her.

Revna curled forward, and rested her forehead against the crown of his head, where his hair was cool from the outdoors, and slick with oil. She could have had this yesterday. Could have had it years ago.

She took an unsteady breath, and the tears she’d been fighting off finally broke through. She blinked, and tears slid down her nose, flicked off her lashes. She wasn’t making any noise, but she was properly crying, now, unable to stem the tide.

Bjorn’s fingers, hooked in the waistband of her leggings, petting slowly back and forth across the sensitive skin there, stilled. Then withdrew, as he carefully sat back, forcing Revna to uncurl.

She tried to turn her face away, wanting to hide the tears – but he caught her chin with careful fingertips and held her still. His thumb swept over her cheek, smoothing across the tear-track there, and catching the next about to fall.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His lifted his other hand, so both framed her face, and he wiped the tears on that side, too. His brows drew together. “For what, love?”

She leaned into the heat of his palm. His skin was rough, his touch gentle – reverent. Her voice came out trembling, watery. She hated it, but…but maybe it wasn’t weakness. Not now, not with Bjorn. Maybe, in front of him, it was all right if she let herself fall a little. “For making you wait so long.”

A smile touched his mouth, achingly tender. “I don’t mind waiting.”

But she did, now. She couldn’t take it anymore. As fresh tears welled, she slid down out of the chair so she straddled his knees, wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

His lips were warm, and faintly chapped. He held still, at first, in the initial moment of contact: lips against lips, her chest pressed tight to his, her thighs around his waist. He huffed a startled breath through his nose, warm against her cheek, but otherwise didn’t react.

Even now, he hesitated.

She supposed when one waited long enough, the waiting became second-nature and automatic.

Revna drew back far enough to see his face. Her pulse was a wild throb behind her breastbone, and all of her ached – she wanted him, wanted this, wanted to feel wanted and precious and safe for a little while – but she wasn’t prepared for the sight of him.

Lashes lowered, lips parted, he breathed in ragged little gasps, chest pressing against hers on inhales that shook his whole body. Firelight licked up the side of his face – and flashed red in his eyes, when his lashes finally lifted, his pupils blown wide, his hunger naked and shocking…and tempered with disbelief. With an adoration touched by pain.

“Is this real?” he asked, voice a hoarse whisper. “Is this happening?”

A painful twisting her chest. Regret, and sympathy, and a wanting too-long denied.

She found his hand, where it hovered at her side; smoothed her thumb over his dry, warm palm, and then pressed it to the base of her throat, two fingers against the high neckline of her gown, two on her bare skin, where her heartbeat fluttered like a trapped bird.

“It’s real. I’m real…and I want this. Want you.”

His gaze flicked up to meet hers, checking, reading her, then dropped again, fixed on his hand. His fingers flexed the slightest amount, gentle pressure on delicate skin.

“Bjorn,” she prompted.

Then he moved. His hand slid around to cup her nape, finger spearing through her bound hair. He tipped her head back a fraction, as he leaned in, so her throat was open, and exposed. His breath rushed hot and wine-sweet over her parted lips, and she thought he might say something, offer some last chance to back away, and change her mind.

But all he did was growl, rough and low in his throat, and kiss her.

Now, finally, all his delicacy and reticence evaporated. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her, tongue hot and slick against her own, lips urging hers wider; a kiss that slanted and pressed deep, until all she could do was clutch at his shoulders and hold on, neck going weak, head falling back into the supportive hand that still cupped her neck. He was starved for her, and she could feel that in each slick slide, in the rough breaths he huffed through his nose.

She’d never been happier to let herself melt, and give up control to someone else.

One of his hands trailed down the side of her throat, down her chest, over the velvet that covered her breasts, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, even beneath her clothes. He broke away from her mouth, the sound wet and lewd in the quiet, and pressed a chain of damp kisses along her jaw, down her neck. His hand found her waist, settled in the dip there, and squeezed.

“Rev,” he panted against her collarbone. “I don’t…” His other hand tightened, briefly, in her hair, a solid pressure against her scalp. Then he released her; started to draw away.

“No!”

He paused, hands hovering in the air before her. His brow was furrowed as if in pain, his eyes gone black with want.

“Don’t you dare play the gentleman now,” she said. “Bjorn. Please, you–”

He shushed her with another kiss, both hands petting up and down her thighs in near-frantic strokes. When he drew back, he managed a shaky smile. “I just…I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret. Just because of the war.” His breath hitched, throat jerking as he swallowed. “Because I don’t think – no, I know, that I can’t come back from this. I can’t stop once we start. I can’t be your big brother anymore, after this.” His grip stilled, and tightened. “I love you too much.”

Gods. This man.

Revna took a few shallow breaths to steady herself. Then she reached, slow enough that he could stop her, if he wanted – he didn’t – and tugged the bead and tie loose from the end of his braid. Unwound it slowly, turn by turn, until she could run her fingers through the whole, heavy mass of his hair, arraying it across his shoulders. Where she straddled him, she felt his cock stir against her inner thigh, large enough to make her shiver, belly clenching in anticipation.

“Bjorn. Darling.” She rasped a thumb along his beard, the sharp edge of his jaw beneath. “You’ve known me my whole life. Am I a liar?”

He tipped his head, smirk teasing at his lips. “Well, you did try to insist that you were fine earlier–”

“Hush. Am I a liar? When it really counts?”

Another rough swallow; she laid her hand on his throat to feel it, to touch the strength of even that part of him. He really was a great bear of a man. “No,” he murmured, gaze tracking over her face, still disbelieving and awed, after the kisses they’d shared.

She cupped his face. “Then believe me when I say that I couldn’t possibly regret this. Not ever. Not you. For as long as you’ll want me.”

She reached for one of his hands, then, lifted it, and pressed it down between her legs, where the proof of her desire was turning her leggings damp.

His eyes widened on a sharp breath. Then he cupped her there; traced his thumb up and down her folds through thin cloth, pressing just enough to make her gasp.

The room tilted. “What–!” She grabbed on to him, as he stood, effortlessly scooping her up once again. “Bjorn.”

“I’m not doing this on the floor like a savage,” he said, striding toward her chamber. “You deserve better than that.”

Her pulse was a wild drumbeat in her chest, and her thighs squeezed together of their own volition, already wanting his touch between them again. “But don’t you think it’s romantic?” she couldn’t help but tease, breathless, grinning as she held him around the neck. Suddenly, being carried was more thrilling than embarrassing.

He paused a few steps from her door. “Is it?”

She snorted. “Until Hilda walks in on us.”

“You…” He sighed, and the sound was laced with such fondness that she tucked her face into his throat as he continued on, toeing her door open and sweeping her inside.

A lantern glowed, over by the window, its light faint and soft.

Bjorn laid her gently on the bed, went to shut the door, and began lighting candles.

She pushed up on an elbow to watch him, once again admiring the deft movements of such large hands. “You don’t have to do that,” she said, as he moved to her mantel, and the candelabrum there.

He lit candles steadily. Then, spill still burning, glanced back at her over his shoulder, his regard bold and shiver-inducing. “I want to see you,” he said, roughly. And. Oh. Gods.

She sat up straighter, and regarded her legs, stretched long and strong before her, as he continued to fill the room with warm candlelight. Her mother had been slender and refined, a Southern lady through and through. But she’d always favored her father’s bloodline, sturdy, made for battle and child-bearing – two of which she’d had, more than twenty years ago. How would he really see her? Would she fail to measure up? Was he hoping for the youthful girl who’d married his friend instead of him?

The mattress dipped before her, and she glanced up to find him there, on one knee, gazing at her in a way that had her legs opening automatically, and hands reaching as he lowered himself over her. He’d doffed his coat, clad only in his sleeveless tunic, now, and bore her down to the mattress, lips landing on hers.

He kissed her and kissed her, until all her doubts had fled. So that, when he tugged at its hem, she sat up and drew her tunic off herself. He breathed open-mouthed and restless, as he reached to unlace her corset, and part its halves. His hands trembled, faintly, as he hooked his fingers in her leggings and drew them down and off, along with her stockings.

Then she was bare before him, and he stared. And stared. His eyes traced slowly all the way down to her toes and then back up, his pupils wide, black pools, cataloguing every detail.

It was enough to make a lady feel rather special. It certainly stoked the heat in her belly, and she needed him to do something about that – sooner rather than later.

“You can touch, you know.”

He reached – and she stopped him with her foot in the center of his chest, grinning. “Not so fast. I showed you mine. Don’t you want to return the favor?”

The smile that broke across his face was slow and wolfish, teeth glinting in the candlelight. “All right.” He climbed off the bed and peeled off his tunic.

His arms she’d grown used to; it was easy to admire them and their faded-ink tattoos given that he rarely covered them. His chest, though, was an unseen wonder. He was muscled in the thick, padded way of the best warriors, just as a Northern man should be. Not trim and willowy like a Southern prince – like Oliver – but strong. Solid.

The silver hoops in his nipples had her brows lifting, though.

But then he shoved his trousers down, and her breath actually caught. Oh. He was…oh.

Whatever her face did, he chuckled in response, kicked his trousers the rest of the way off, and rejoined her on the bed. He settled between thighs that had spread in automatic invitation, hands planting on the mattress either side of her head, caging her in; she felt the hot, heavy length of his cock against her belly, and couldn’t help but squirm in anticipation. Gods, he was going to destroy her.

He leaned down as if to kiss her, but brushed his nose against hers, instead, lips ghosting at the corner of her mouth when he said, gently teasing, “You can touch, too. Love.”

She wondered if that nickname would stop devastating her, at some point.

“Yeah,” she breathed out, shaky. Hungry. She touched his waist, shocked by the heat of his skin, of its softness over iron-hewn muscle. She petted her way up his stomach, raked her nails through his chest hair, cupped the heaviness of his pectorals – and hooked her fingers in the silver hoop piercings on his nipples, tugging lightly and earning a little grunt in response, his breath huffing across her chin. “These are fascinating,” she murmuring, smiling, tugging again.

“You like them?”

“Hm. Yes. Also wondering why you have them.”

“A man’s got to entertain himself while he’s waiting,” he said, tone teasing, but gaze, as he pulled back a fraction to look at her better, heart-meltingly earnest.

Her next planned smart remark died in her throat, and she flattened her hands against his chest. “Bjorn. Tell me you’ve been with a woman before.” If he’d been waiting in celibacy this whole time, she was going to feel guilty forever.

He grinned. “Aye, I’ve had enough practice.” He ducked down to kiss her again, slow and filthy. Whispered: “You going to let me show you?”

“Please.” It came out more desperate than she intended, but he kissed her again, and she didn’t care. She could be desperate with him – could be needy and unraveled.

Damp lips trailed down her throat, and she gripped his biceps as he kissed down, down, down her body until he cupped her breasts and drew a nipple into his mouth.

The pleasure spiked so sharp, and so sudden, heat washing across her chest, pooling in her belly, gathering between her legs, that she couldn’t stop the choked sound she made.

“No need to be quiet, love,” he murmured against her now-damp skin. “I want to hear you.”

Gods.

She didn’t think anyone would have guessed him to be a patient, thorough lover, but he was now, here with her. He kneaded her breasts and played with her nipples until they were pink and swollen and aching. Then he moved down her belly, dropping kisses all the way, before he reached the apex of her thighs – and then he spread her wide and set about feasting like a starved man.

He brought her off three times, a relentless chain of orgasms, petting and kissing at her thighs in between, until she was hot all over and restless with oversensitivity.

“Bjorn…” He was three-fingers deep, stretching her, and the slick sound of his hand thrusting against her was shockingly lewd. “Bjorn…come on. ‘M ready.” She didn’t recognize her own slurred voice, and didn’t care, soaring too high for anything like shame.

He chuckled and sat up; kissed her knee, fingers still working wicked magic. “I want to make sure you’re ready, love. I’m big.” Said without a trace of boastfulness. It was true: he was big.

She reached for him sluggishly, arms heavy from coming so much; sent him her best pleading look.

“Shit,” he murmured, and withdrew his fingers so he could crawl back up her body, weight depressing the mattress all around her.

She wound her legs around his waist, eyes nearly rolling back when his cock slid against her soaked folds.

“I’m beyond ready.” She gripped his shoulders. Met his gaze, so he would know she meant it when she said, “Make me yours.”

A sound like a growl pulsed out of his throat. “Yes, my lady.” He braced a hand on the pillow at her head, and reached down to guide himself with the other. Then he was pressing in – and in, and in, filling her.

She gasped at the stretch, but dug her nails into the meat of his arms. “Keep going – oh, gods, don’t stop. It’s good, it’s good.” It was better than that – it was earth-shattering – but she only had so many words.

And he had only one. As his hips started up a rhythm that had her melting up into him on every thrust, he buried his face into her throat and murmured it over and over. “Rev. Rev. Rev.” And, once, “Love.”

She felt the wet heat of tears slide down her neck. When he came, it was with a murmured thanks to the gods, in the reverent voice of a man whose prayers had been answered. Then she was the one blinking back tears, as he reached between them to stroke her to one last finish.

They went over the edge together, and Revna could have kicked herself for waiting so long to have something this wonderful.

7

Tessa woke sometime before dawn, the sky lightening beyond her window, from black to bruised purple. Every muscle protested when she shifted beneath the covers, and she grimaced to herself, reaching to rub at the small of her back. She hurt all over from sparring. The last time she’d been this sore, she’d spent most of the night falling off, and then looking for a horse in the forest; she shuddered when she remembered the cold, and Rune’s nonsensical murmurs against the back of her neck. Unpleasant memories, all. Then, she’d been sore due to circumstances beyond her control. But now, the soreness was of her own making. That made it easier to tolerate, and she gritted her teeth as she sat up and pushed back the furs and quilts.

Hilda hadn’t come up yet, which meant the fire was down to glowing coals, and the water in her ewer was cold. That was just as well – if Hilda came in now, she would try to dissuade Tessa from her plan.

She dressed in the faint glow of oncoming dawn, washed her face quickly with cold water, which served to wake her the rest of the way up, and braided her hair into a single, long tail. She donned boots, cloak, and gloves, and tip-toed from her room.

She braced herself as she reached the common room – Revna had fallen asleep on the sofa there more than once, so exhausted the cup of wine before dinner turned into a nap, turned into an entire night – but found it empty, cold and fireless, as her own room had been.

A glimpse of something fluffy caught her eye, though, over by the fire, the ruffled spikes of Revna’s fur-topped boots. Normally, she kept them stowed in her bedchamber. But, clearly based on the cup on the side-table, she’d had a drink and kicked them off before bed.

“Hm,” she hummed to herself. She wondered why…but, no, there was no time for that, and it wasn’t her business anyway. She hurried on her way, and managed to reach the training yard without being waylaid by anyone.

But there she halted, because it wasn’t empty. In hindsight, she didn’t know why she’d expected it to be.

Two guardsmen, their breastplates heaped off to the side on a bench, had squared off from two young men in farmer’s clothes, all of them holding steel, blunted practice swords. The guards were grinning, and the farmers had their jaws clenched and teeth bared. They were strong, big-shouldered boys…but more used to pitchforks than swords, most likely.

“Aw, what’s this, lads?” one of the guards called out, his laugh mocking. “Tired already?”

The nearest farmer, his beard red-blond and close-kept, grimaced, and brandished his sword clumsily. Something Revna had said yesterday returned to Tessa: strength is important, but the most important thing of all is form, and practice. The strongest lad in the country couldn’t beat Lord Náli in a fight if he’d never picked up a sword before.

It was a bit of wisdom onto which Tessa had latched with both hands, gripping tight. She would never be as physically strong as Revna. But she could study up on form, and she could practice until the movements became second nature.

“No,” the farmer all but snarled. “Just waiting for you to get tired.”

The other guard snorted. “Ooh, clever.”

The farmer lunged, and the guard engaged almost lazily, blocking twice before spinning and starting his own forward assault, pushing the farmer back, and back, until he tripped – he didn’t go down, though. He staggered, slid a bit in the snow, but then recovered, arms of his tunic straining over the muscles beneath as he heaved his sword up and blocked the guard’s downward swing.

“Good,” the guard said, panting a little. He backed off, and allowed the farmer a chance to regain his footing. “Take a breath. We’ll go again.”

The second guard motioned to the farmer across from him, and they began their own bout, blunted swords chiming and scraping.

“Some of these lads have never done any fighting besides crude fistfights in stable yards,” a feminine voice spoke just to Tessa’s left, and she turned to find Estrid seated on one of the viewing benches, hair braided high on her head, swaddled in pale furs from the neck down. The torchlight caught on the diamonds in her ears, and braided into her hair; highlighted her striking Northern features, and clear, ice-blue eyes, as she turned her head just far enough to regard Tessa in return.

Estrid was the last person Tessa wanted to see, and she shrank back, inwardly. Outwardly, though, she refused to give ground. She stared steadily at the other girl, until, finally, Estrid smirked and glanced away. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“What brings you out of bed and to the training yard so early, Lady Tessa?” Estrid asked, tone light – and false. The same sing-song voice she’d used every time she’d smiled right at Tessa’s face while she needled her with cleverly disguised insults.

But…Tessa detected something else, too. Some underlying note that made Estrid sound almost…curious.

“And without your maid, too,” she tacked on, and most definitely sounded curious, now. “Careful. That’s a good way for a girl to ruin her reputation, spending her morning unaccompanied in a yard full of sweating, grunting men.” The last said with relish.

Tessa knew well enough by now when she was being goaded. She stared at the side of Estrid’s head, her flushed cheek and her sleekly-braided hair, and said, “If that’s true, then where’s your maid, Lady Estrid?”

Estrid’s lashes fluttered as she blinked, and then her gaze slid back, slowly, narrowing. Her pleased grin melted. “What?”

“You’re correct,” Tessa said, a little proud of the cold note in her voice. “There are a plenty of sweating, grunting men out here, almost all of which are employed by the royal family. None of which would dare lay a finger on Prince Rune’s fiancée. All are honorable men, to be sure, though I find it surprising, you not being a member of the royal household, that you have such faith as to not bring an escort of your own.”

Estrid’s expression smoothed, so that she was wide-eyed and open-mouthed by the end. Her gaze swept down to Tessa’s toes, and then back up, a considering light sparking in her eyes. Her throat moved as she swallowed. “Rune’s fiancée?” she asked, finally.

“Yes.”

The guards continued to spar with the farmers, exclamations, barked laughs, and the clang of steel-on-steel ringing out across the yard. The sky was lightening, as the sun crept closer and closer to the horizon, a natural, silvery light flaring in Estrid’s eyes as she studied Tessa a long moment.

Then, she softened, shoulders dropping, the fight bleeding out of her expression. She shrugged, and faced the action once more. “Well. Congratulations, I suppose.” She sounded lighter, less mocking.

Tessa sighed, and sat down on the far end of the bench, wincing as even that small movement tugged at her sore muscles.

One of the farmers landed a solid hit on the guard he was opposing, prompting the other guard to shout with laughter.

Perhaps she should go back to her room.

“All right,” Estrid said, down on her end of the bench. “That’s enough of that.” She stood, before Tessa could ask what she meant, and stepped forward, hands lifting from beneath her cloak to clap sharply three times, the sound echoing off the walls and bringing the combatants up short. “Well done, lads,” she called, “but don’t you have patrols and chores to be getting on with?”

Rude, Tessa thought.

But all four young men fell in line, weapons lowered. The farmers ducked their heads in deference. The guards blushed, cheeks pink in the growing light.

“Yes, my lady,” one said, bowed, and then ushered the other three out of the yard.

When they were gone, a young page boy came scurrying in, toting a bundle of cloth beneath his arm. He hurried down to the far end of the yard.

Estrid turned back and unclasped her cloak; tossed it over the bench. Beneath, she wore a simple-high-necked dress and a brown leather corset beneath a thick belt; an outfit similar to what she’d worn to spar with Revna, yesterday. She bent to retrieve something from beneath the bench – a bow and a quiver full of arrows – and paused in the act of straightening, gaze locking with Tessa’s. She smirked. “You think I should have asked them politely, don’t you?”

Tessa didn’t flinch or shrink back from her sharp regard. “To be honest, I don’t spend any time thinking about you.” She managed not to react to her own words, after, clamping down hard on the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. She’d sounded like Oliver just then.

Estrid held her gaze another moment, then snorted. A smile teased at the corners of her mouth, and it didn’t look mocking or derisive this time. “Ah.”

Tessa hummed the least interested note of inquiry she could manage.

Estrid straightened, and set the quiver on the bench. Withdrew a handful of arrows. “I knew there had to be at least a little bit of fire in your belly if you were sneaking around behind Leif’s back with his brother.”

Tessa frowned. “I wasn’t sneaking around. Leif and I were never properly engaged.”

Estrid’s grin widened. “No? Well, thank the gods for small mercies.” She turned to face the far end of the yard, where the page boy had pinned two fresh, cloth targets over the hay bale frames up against the wall.

Tessa stood and dusted the back of her cloak and dress. It was too cold to sit out here and do nothing – and even if she’d handled herself better, there was only so much of Estrid she could take at a time.

The other girl’s voice halted, her, though, as she turned to leave.

“It’s a smart match.”

Tessa turned back, and found Estrid regarding her over her shoulder, bow and half-nocked arrow held loosely along her thigh. “You and Rune. He’s rash, and immature. He needs a tempering influence. Someone quiet and thoughtful.” After a moment, she said, “That isn’t an insult.”

“Oh. It’s wonderful to have your esteemed favor.” This time, she drew on Oliver’s manner purposefully; tried to mimic his dry, unimpressed tone.

Estrid snorted again, brows lifting. If not for their previous encounters, Tessa would have thought she looked approachable, now; like the sort of girl she might have befriended, had the situation been different. Tessa was uncomfortably aware of the fact that she herself tended toward shyness, and a deference that bordered on meekness, on occasion. When it came to making friends, she’d always been drawn to girls who were louder and brasher; girls more like her sister than herself.

Again, she turned.

And again, Estrid’s voice halted her. “What are you doing down here at this hour anyway?” Genuine curiosity, and not a quip.

Tessa sighed to herself. Apparently, Estrid’s nastiness had been about Leif, and the shallow idiocy of that left her not wanting to respond. It would serve her right to walk away without further acknowledgement.

But Tessa wasn’t her sister, and definitely wasn’t Estrid, so she pivoted, and said, “What was that?”

“Why are you down here?” Estrid’s gaze had gone assessing. “Looking for more practice?”

“How did you–”

“I saw you, last night. My room overlooks the yard.” She gestured up toward the high palace walls, the glowing windows.

Tessa bit her lip and wondered how many others had seen them. There were dozens of windows up there. Word was sure to get back to Rune.

“I was surprised, truthfully,” Estrid continued, and though her tone wasn’t outright insulting, the words left Tessa bristling all the same. “Of all the things I expected from you, this certainly wasn’t one of them.”

Tessa schooled her features, carefully. The last thing she wanted was to appear affected at all. She thought she managed to sound cool and indifferent when she lifted her chin and said, “If you’re done throwing insults, it’s a bit too cold to be standing out here like this.”

She was three steps away, this time, before Estrid said, “Wait.” And then, with clear regret – and a note of what might, might have been contrition: “Lady Tessa.”

“What?” Tessa snapped, whirling to face her.

Estrid rocked back on her heels. Gathered a breath, as if to speak – and then held her tongue. One long moment, and another. “I had a suggestion,” she said, at last.

Tessa folded her arms, and waited.

A grin tweaked the corners of Estrid’s mouth – and not a mocking one, either – before she smoothed it away. “Revna’s a good teacher for sword work, to be sure. But your man’s an archer, right?” She hefted her own bow. “Why not learn how to shoot as well?”

8

The Great Northern Wastes

Snow sifted downy and soft as baking flour from a leaden sky. Behind them, the sunset kissed bronze in the gap where horizon met cloud cover, but the gloaming here, where they rode, had grown dark enough that the outriders had lit torches – that sputtered and hissed in the snowfall. The drakes circled overhead, dipping low enough, occasionally, to stir the clouds, dim shadows and a whirl of snowflakes beneath wide wings.

Oliver squinted against the swirl of white and gray before him, searching for the silhouette of Long Reach, for a distant flicker of torchlight. When he couldn’t find one, he closed his eyes a moment, rocked by his horse’s gentle plodding, and pressed at the faint blue glow that lived in the back of his mind, now. The hazy impression of a building – of the fortress, he realized, recognizing its flat façade and guarded roofline – formed, smudged at the edges, but distinct. He was given an impression of distance – measured in wing-beats.

He smiled when he opened his eyes, and blinked away the last of Percy’s vision. “It’s only another mile or so,” he announced.

On his right side, Leif made a surprised, inquiring sound.

On the other side, Erik said, “Who needs maps and landmarks when you have a drake, hm?” Tone dry – but not, Oliver didn’t think, skeptical and disapproving as it had been on the journey out.

“He–” Oliver started, and then distress rippled through his bond with Percy. A chime like a warning bell. He closed his eyes, opened himself up to the connection once more, and saw what Percy had seen: the drake had flown closer, and lower, and what at first looked like hasty, runic northern writing in the snow resolved itself into the signs of battle. Smoke – the remains of pyres. The still-steaming wrecks of siege engines.

He stayed in the bond long enough to see that the battle was over, that no enemies lay entrenched against one another now, and that the stag banner of Erik’s house still flew from the towers of the hold. Then he opened his eyes again. “Ragnar’s been here.”

Erik swore, and heeled his horse into a canter.

The horses were tired, and so were the men. Oliver and Leif spurred their own mounts forward – but the canter quickly fell back to a high-stepping trot in the deep snow. Oliver glanced over at his lover’s stern profile, noticed the harsh, grim downward curve of his mouth, and didn’t offer any platitudes or false assurances.

Finally, the torches appeared through the gloom: first as pinpricks, then fading into full view, snapping and fluttering in the snowfall. A horn sounded, and the silhouette of the fortress appeared, dark and crouched like a beast against the deepening gray of evening.

A torch moved toward them, carried by a man who looked small and bent in the fortress’s shadow.

Lars and Magnus rode ahead, bearing torches of their own, and Oliver recognized Snorri’s face, cowled in a warm fur hood, lined, and exhausted, but alive.

He turned to them, as they reached him, and reined up. “Your majesty!” he said, with obvious relief, not so much smiling as gaping – like a man who’d given up all hope. “By the gods, are we glad to see you!”

Oliver’s hands tightened as his reins as a sudden gust of wind whipped his hair across his face. He shook it back and turned in time to watch Snorri turn – just as Percy touched lightly down to the ground and folded his wings. He flared then flattened his frill, and gave a little huff of breath through wide nostrils.

“Perhaps the gods had something to do with it,” Erik said, a tired smile in his voice. “But, mostly, it was Oliver.”

Snorri blinked at the drake for long moments, as another series of horn blasts sounded from up on the walls. Then he shouted a laugh, and turned to look up at Oliver, eyes dancing.

~*~

The attack had come the night before, Snorri explained, as they shoveled porridge into their mouths and chased it with watered, though mulled wine. Bland, cheap fare, but it tasted like ambrosia from the gods after the day’s long, harried ride across the Wastes. Forgoing the manners drilled into him since birth in Drakewell, Oliver ate fast and messy, licking grease off his fingers after he split a still-steaming hunk of bread in half and dunked it in the salty oil on offer.

Across from them, Snorri said, “It was a clear night, and we saw the torches approaching. Riders approached the scouts I sent out the gate, and they wore the braids and fangs” – he drew a half-circle around his throat, and Oliver thought of the necklace of teeth Ragnar wore, as sharp as his own wolfish canines as he grinned, and winked, and flirted – and betrayed them – “and one carried the stag banner. Your cousin – Ragnar – he traveled with you when you passed through here.” The captain hung his head. “Forgive me, your majesty. I thought–”

“Snorri,” Erik said, firmly. “How could you have known? This isn’t your fault.”

Snorri shook his head. “Then whose fault could it be? I should have known, when it was only Úlfheðnar, when you weren’t there, your majesty, I–”

“He fooled us, too,” Erik said, cutting him off. He scowled down into his half-eaten soup. “But I don’t have the excuse of not knowing better. He’s been a miserable, scheming wretch his whole life, and I…I allowed it.”

Oliver laid a hand on his thigh beneath the table, a silent squeeze of support. He knew there wasn’t a single comforting thing he could say – Erik had known his cousin better than any of them, and hadn’t suspected his treachery; he was too stubborn to believe he couldn’t have done anything about it, now.

Erik took a big breath and lifted his head, shoulders squaring. “How many men lost?”

“Fifteen, before we got the gates shut.”

“Damn,” Erik murmured, and pushed his bowl away in favor of massaging at his temples.

“But this was no ordinary siege, your majesty,” Snorri continued. “They had rams, and wood enough to build towers – but, once we had the gates locked, they didn’t stay long. They retreated.”

“Back the way they’d come?”

“No, your majesty. They went east. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re taking the long way around.”

Oliver had spent enough time the last few months poring over Aeretollean maps that he could immediately envision the shape of Long Reach in faded ink on parchment. The tall, spiked timber wall that bracketed the fortress on two sides stretched out to the west and east, twenty miles in both directions. In the west, the wall ended at another, smaller structure, a guard tower that had slowly been surrounded by a small, rural town. In the east, the wall tied into a nasty, jagged stretch of the Wolf Mountains called the Razorback. Even growing up in Drakewell, Oliver known that only the most experienced and hardy could navigate those twisting mountain paths successfully.

He frowned. “That’ll put them behind. They know we’ll go through Long Reach; we’ll be ahead of them at this rate.”

Snorri shrugged, clearly not understanding the motives of their erstwhile besiegers.

“I’d have thought – if they were going to go around – they’d head west,” Oliver continued. “Set Wildwood to the torch and cut across country.”

“That would put them twenty miles off course from Aeres,” Erik said.

“Yeah, but they’ll lose more than time going through the mountain pass. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” Erik said, face grim, “it doesn’t – unless they aren’t worried about beating us home.”

“Why…” And then understanding dawned. Dinner turned to lead in Oliver’ stomach. “There’s a second army.”

Snorri’s gray brows shot up to his hairline.

Oliver swallowed with difficulty. “And they’re letting us get ahead of them, so they can drive us into it.”

“Gods,” Snorri murmured.

Erik curled his hand around his spoon until his knuckles cracked, the sound echoing in the mostly-empty room.

Oliver swallowed down a wave of nausea and said, “Well, then, we should–”

“Captain!”

They all turned toward the flurry of a young soldier pelting into the mess hall. Thin beard just coming in, and big, frantic eyes, he couldn’t have been older than sixteen.

“Captain – your majesty!” He executed a stiff, belated bow when he noticed Erik. He straightened, huffing and red-faced.

“What is it, lad?” Snorri asked.

The boy had to gulp a few breaths before he said, “A falcon’s just arrived – no, a hawk! A hunting hawk! It had a message for the prince.”

The bench scraped and nearly overturned in their haste to get up and out of the room.

Outside, the snow that had plagued the last leg of their trip had become a near white-out, the air thick and humid with fat flakes. A man was just visible in the swirl of it, one who coalesced into Leif as they approached, snowflakes fast melting on the hood of his cloak. He held one arm across his body, and with the other used his cloak to shelter the bedraggled hawk that perched on his gauntlet, feathers wet and clumped-up, eyes closed and head tipped forward in exhaustion. The hand that held the cloak also clutched a scrap of parchment.

His face lifted, as they reached him, eyes wide in a pale face. “It’s Él,” he said, and that must have meant something to Erik, because he sucked in an audible breath. “Uncle, Mother sent her. The Sels – they’ve arrived in the harbor.”

~*~

The dead always pulled harder at him, after he’d walked amongst them too long. He drifted in the icy plane between realms, long-form nightmares in which cold hands gripped him, clawed him, pried open his jaws and reached scabrous fingers down his throat, choking him.

It would have been bearable if it had only been a product of his imagination: a wild nightmare from which he could wake, shaking but whole.

But the world of the dead was a real place – as real as anything magic could be – and he always wondered if, the more time he spent there, against his will, the faster the dead would drain him away, until he was nothing but the shriveled husk his father had been at the end.

Náli woke coughing. His eyes sprang open, and his body heaved, as if his lungs were full of water. He rolled onto his side, hacking until his throat ached, the phantom taste of corpse flesh heavy on his tongue, making him gag.

Through a screen of tears, as his lungs betrayed him, he managed to take in something of his surroundings. He lay on his side, furs soft and warm beneath him, and over him – wrapped too tight, now, as he tried to shove them off. He saw the blaze of candles, heard the crack of a fire. He was indoors – in a proper room somewhere, and not a tent. How long had he been unconscious? Where was he?

He finally managed to drag in a full breath, and pushed up onto an elbow, his body heavy and dragging. Before he could get any farther – if he even could, given his state of weakness – a weight depressed the mattress by his legs, and a familiar hand landed on his hip. He recognized it even through layers of cloth and fur.

A likewise familiar voice said, “Easy, my lord. Here.” A cup was offered, warm, fragrant steam curling up beneath his nose. Lavender tea.

I don’t fucking want lavender tea, he thought with a vicious inner snarl.

But outwardly, the noise was more of a whimper, and he allowed Mattias to wrap his limp hand around the cup and transfer the tea. It was an effort to firm up his grip and keep hold of it; he hated the way the heat of tea bleeding through metal was instantly soothing. He brought the rim to shaky lips and managed a few swallows; the lavender calmed his throat at once.

He blinked his vision clearer and sat up the rest of the way. Mattias’s hand caught his forearm – large enough that his fingertips could meet, fully encircling him – and steadied him. His face, when Náli finally forced himself to look at it, was full of worry – and that was as familiar as everything else.

Náli’s gut twisted; the last thing he’d said to Mattias had been ugly. Disrespectful, dismissive, and out of place. Mattias was always concerned about him, always had been, always would be. It shouldn’t have chafed at him – in truth, it hadn’t. The frustration lodged now in his throat, in his chest, was one that had been building slow and steady for a long time. He usually kept it well in-hand, but after the festival, after being abducted, using too much magic…his control was slipping. Ragged at the edges and ready to shred.

He glanced toward the fire, and took another sip of tea. When he spoke, it felt like claws in his throat; sounded like he’d been screaming – maybe he had. There were a dozen questions he could have asked, all of which he’d asked over the years, each time he pushed himself too far and woke to find that he’d lost time. But the most important one was the one he asked now: “How long?”

Mattias took a moment to answer, the lightness in his tone obviously forced when he said, “A day.”

Náli sucked in a quick breath before he could stop himself. It was the longest he’d ever been unconscious after walking with the dead. He’d passed out plenty, but usually woke within an hour or two, or sooner. Sometimes it was nothing more than a momentary swoon, blinking to find that Mattias’s hands had gripped his waist, steadying him. A biscuit would be pressed into his hand and then he was back to normal, if a little queasy and tired.

But a whole day.

Náli lifted his gaze from the hearth, the merrily crackling flames there, and surveyed the rest of the room. It was small, its furnishings comfortable, but plain. Crude hangings on the rough timber walls depicted mountain and sunset scenes, none of the threads glimmering, the edges lacking gems, or tassels, or embellishments of any kind.

Long Reach. He’d missed more than a day, in truth. The party had been set to depart yesterday afternoon, and now, judging by the glimpse of window he spotted behind a crooked tapestry, night had fallen.

Náli swallowed past the lump in his throat and managed to sip more tea without retching. He didn’t have to ask how things had progressed, once he’d fainted. He knew with certainty that Mattias had bundled him into one of the sleighs, probably alongside some other worthless invalid, covered him with furs and ridden alongside on the grueling journey here. His whole Guard would have flanked the vehicle, keeping watch over their lord. Then, upon arrival, Mattias would have carried him himself; found him a bed, brewed his tea; waited.

Just as he waited now, the weight of things unsaid heavy across the span of mattress that separated them.

Náli sighed. “Just say it.”

The bed creaked softly as Mattias straightened. “Say what, my lord?”

My lord. Gods, but he hated that. Say my name! he wanted to shout. Talk to me like we’re both men and not this servant-master horseshit anymore.

But that wasn’t the way their relationship ever had, or ever could work. So he said, “I know you want to tell me ‘I told you so,’ or call me a fool.” He flapped a limp hand. “You can. Proceed.” He chose to blame the way his cheeks warmed on the tea and the fire, which he faced again, allowing himself the barest glance at his captain from the corner of his eye.

When Mattias’s lashes lowered, and he glanced down at his hands, fingers laced together in his lap – strong, capable, sword-wielding hands, big and callused and dangerous, clasped now together like those of a scolded child, Náli hated it – and didn’t answer, Náli pressed on, anger rushing in to cover up his mounting distress. It was so much easier to be angry than to be afraid, and vulnerable.

“Go on,” he urged, tone sharp-edged and nasty, he couldn’t seem to help it. “Tell me that I’m reckless and stupid–”

“My lord.”

“Tell me how you warned me, how you were right, and how I’m the idiot who wouldn’t listen.” He turned to face him fully, slopping tea onto his hand, and the furs below. “Tell me how I’m going to die early just like my–”

Mattias’s hand closed around his wrist, and Náli choked off his diatribe with a loud click of teeth meeting.

Náli’s breathing was rough, chest heaving; he felt sweat gathering beneath his clothes. He knew an urge to violence so strong he gritted his teeth against it.

Mattias held his furious gaze with a resigned one of his own, and didn’t shrink away from Náli’s snarl. He said, “No, my lord. You’re neither an idiot, nor exceptionally reckless.” Voice low, and soft, and not at all angry – he sounded sad. Resigned. Náli hated it.

“I–”

Gently, Mattias interrupted him. “You were right, before, when you said I can’t understand your magic.”

When Náli had called him dumb muscle. He flinched inwardly, and Mattias’s thumb stroked over the heel of his hand.

“I have no magic of my own. I don’t have the first idea what it feels like to have something like that inside yourself.” Another slow sweep of his thumb, purposeful, lingering over the too-fast pulse that beat on the inside of his wrist. “But I do know what your magic does to you, because I see it every day.”

“Mattias…” He meant it as a warning, but all the bite had gone out of his voice.

“When you’re too tired to stand, or you have to sleep for extra hours, or when your hands shake.”

Náli twisted his wrist, and Mattias released him.

“It’s my duty, my honor – my privilege to serve you.”

Oh, that wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t have to hear that sort of thing.

“It’s my sole mission in life to protect you. From outside threats, yes. But, sometimes…” His brows knitted, and he looked pained. “Sometimes that means protecting you from yourself.”

That…was true. But it didn’t mean it hurt any less to hear it.

Náli swallowed the insult that boiled up on his tongue, and turned his face away again. “At least you’re honest,” he muttered.

A beat. Mattias said, “I try to be.”

Did he sound regretful? It didn’t matter either way.

“My lord–”

Náli pushed the covers back and stood. Shakily. He gritted his teeth as his knees wobbled.

“My lord!” Mattias caught him – Mattias always caught him – and steadied him until Náli could stand on his own, cheeks on fire with shame and embarrassment. Náli refused to look up at his face, not when his own was undoubtedly red, and that was when he noticed what he was wearing. Or, rather, what he wasn’t wearing.

His boots had been removed, which was understandable. No one tucked anyone into bed with muddy boots on. But his trousers had been stripped off as well. And his tunic. He stood in a loose shirt, thick wool socks, and, thankfully, a pair of drawers – all of it clean, and soft. On his next inhale, he smelled lavender, and it wasn’t coming from the tea he’d hastily set aside, but wafting up from his own skin. The skin of his chest – glimpsed through the loose laces of his shirt – was soft and free of the inevitable sweat and grime of travel.

Mattias had stripped him down, bathed him, and redressed him. It wasn’t the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last – but knowing it had happened while things were so – strange – between them left unpleasant goosebumps shaking out across his carefully-tended skin.

He took a deep breath that did nothing to alleviate any of the steadily-mounting tension in his chest, and said, “I need–”

A knock sounded at the door, and it opened a moment later to reveal Klemens. “Oh, you’re awake, my lord. A message has arrived from Aeres. All the lords who are able are gathering in the mess.”

Náli nodded, and turned toward his trunk, lid still open where Mattias had searched through it to find the clothes he wore now. He heard a step behind him, a soft scuff of the rug. Heard an indrawn breath.

He turned pointedly toward Klemens, and said, “Tell everyone I’m on my way down.”

Klemens nodded – but like he had at the fire that afternoon, or, well, yesterday afternoon, he lingered a beat, gaze shifting from Náli…to Mattias behind him.

Then he nodded, said, “Yes, my lord,” and stepped back out.

Wisely, Mattias said nothing this time.

~*~

Oliver felt like there was a boulder sitting on his chest, but, for once, it wasn’t the result of fever or fluid in his lungs. This was all mental, a physical manifestation of stress.

Percy let out an inquiring rumble through their connection. Oliver sent soothing thoughts his way, pushed the bond way back to the back of his mind, and took a few slow, deep breaths. He forcibly smoothed his features, and resisted the temptation to press his shoulder into Erik’s beside him.

They stood at the head of one of the long tables in the mess, Leif on Erik’s other side, the note from his mother held carefully between large fingertips. Askr had come, carried between two of his burly guardsmen, and situated so his bum leg was propped up on a stool. The others had all gathered as well, even Náli, who had arrived at Long Reach unconscious, carried in the arms of his Guard captain. He looked wan, still, rumpled as if he’d just rolled from bed, but his gaze was sharp, and he stood on his own, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“As of the writing of the message,” Erik said, voice echoing faintly off the walls. He wasn’t shouting, but his voice had taken on an a resonant, carrying quality: the tone of a king speaking in an official capacity. The voice he used when he listened to petitions from his citizens. And, in this instance, Oliver knew, a voice that masked the worry he was feeling. Erik hadn’t said anything besides a quiet damn, but Oliver had caught the flash of panic in his eyes before he steeled himself; knew that, if not for the lords seated before them, he would have dragged a horse out of the stable and gone galloping hellbent for home, snowstorm be damned. “The Sels were anchored in the harbor and hadn’t yet made landfall. We know that won’t hold true forever – but the question is how long.”

“According to Snorri, Ragnar and his troops headed east from here,” Oliver said.

“We think they’ll try to go through the pass.”

“The Razorback?” Askr said, brows flying up. “That’ll take days longer. Why not go west instead? Lay siege to Wildwood – that wouldn’t take more than a few hours! And then march straight to the main road!”

“Aye, that would be easier for them, to be sure,” Birger said. “But they want us to get ahead of them.”

Realization dawned on a dozen faces.

“The Sels lying in wait, and the Úlfheðnar coming up from behind,” Erik said. “They’ll have us pinned.”

“The palace,” Edda said. One gloved hand sat on the table, thumb passing restlessly down the length of his index finger. “It can withstand a full siege from the harbor?”

Outwardly, Erik remained stoic, but his sleeve brushed Oliver’s as he took a deep breath; Oliver heard the faint shudder of his exhale. “The palace walls are thick, and high. I left plenty of men behind – my best, in fact. Bjorn, my captain, is in charge alongside my sister. He and Revna have already evacuated the city and pulled everyone inside the palace. We have weapons, and food, and, should the worst happen, the tunnels through which to escape.”

But Oliver knew, no matter Revna and Bjorn’s competence, no matter the preparedness of Erik’s people, and their strength of spirit – the answer to Edda’s question wasn’t yes. Nothing was certain.

Leif said, “My mother says that the Sels have deployed trained vultures. Their initial attempts to send messenger falcons both north and south failed because of this. She was able to send my hunting hawk, Él, and perhaps they’ve managed to get a message south by now.”

“But they’re otherwise cut off,” Náli said, voice low and dark.

“Returning isn’t optional,” Erik said, and Oliver heard the challenge in his voice – the way he dared anyone at the table to argue against such a course of action.

“No, of course not,” Náli said. “But how do you propose we keep from walking into a trap? Returning does no good if we’ll all be corpses by the end.” He titled his head, unbound hair sliding like liquid platinum over one shoulder. “I suppose I could always reanimate you–”

Erik drew in another deep breath. “Do you think I don’t–”

“I’ll go.” The words were out of Oliver’s mouth before he could think them. Before the implication could even settle. It was a kneejerk reaction; the mood at the table was growing more hopeless by the moment, and their options were limited, and poor, and everyone was exhausted, and worried, and–

And so he volunteered.

It was only afterward, in the ringing silence, as everyone turned to gape at him, Erik’s stare unusually wide and shocked against the side of his face, that he realized, kneejerk or not, his instinct was good in this instance.

Náli’s lip curled. “You’ll what?”

His pulse leaped, and sweat prickled at the back of his neck, but he found that he could draw in a deep breath, and that he could turn to meet Erik’s incredulous stare with a level one of his own. “Think about it: we’ve guessed their plan, yes, but right now we have nothing to do aside from fall into it. We could intercept Ragnar’s troops as they come out of the mountain passes – we might even defeat them. But, meanwhile, Aeres is at the mercy of the Sels. We can’t be in both places at once – not all of us, anyway.”

Slowly, Erik’s gaze narrowed – though, this close, it wasn’t possible for him to hide his mounting panic.

“We have the drakes, now,” Oliver said. “Let’s not waste the advantage they give us.”

Erik’s throat jumped as he swallowed. Tonelessly, he said, “You – you would ride the beast, and fly ahead to Aeres.”

Don’t be stubborn, Oliver willed him. See the sense in this. Think with your head. He nodded. “I can be there long before you or Ragnar. I can warn Revna and the others. And, you saw what Percy did to those Fangs. He can fight. The Sels won’t be expecting a drake, much less a drake rider.” He turned to survey the table, and all its shocked faces. “They’ll have no idea we’re coming. Ragnar doesn’t even know. This is a chance, one we have to take.”

Silence lasted another moment, and then the room erupted in shouts.

~*~

“Are you forgetting,” Erik gritted out five minutes later, in the hallway, “that you’ve never actually ridden a dragon before?”

Oliver slumped back against the wall, shaking faintly. Now that they were away from the crowd – since Erik had all but dragged him from the room – the enormity of what he’d volunteered to do crashed down over him. He didn’t want to change his mind, though; this was the right course of action, terrifying or not. “I sit a horse more than passably.”

Erik leaned in close, and set a hand to the wall beside his head – and, oh, yes, hello, that was one way to turn his fear to something else entirely. “I don’t think you need me to point out that this is nothing like sitting a horse.” His voice was a low, unhappy growl, and when he punctuated the sentence with a snort, Oliver’s insides flooded with heat.

He couldn’t resist a grin. “Well. Like sitting on something.”

Erik’s nostrils flared. “Ollie.” But the corners of his frown twitched like it was hard to hold.

Oliver breathed a laugh, grateful for the chance to joke, at least a little, in the middle of their current predicament.

“There you are,” Leif’s voice sounded as he approached. “What do you – ugh.” He let out a deep, heartfelt groan. “Really? Out in the hall? In front of people?”

Oliver laughed outright.

Erik pushed away from the wall and faced his grimacing nephew, his expression stern – his cheeks tinged pink with self-consciousness. “What is it?”

Leif shook his head, and then focused, worry plucking at his brows. “Snorri said he would put his armorer and blacksmith on making a harness right away. He wanted to know if you still had the saddle and bridle he gave you.”

“Oh. I do, yeah.” Oliver pushed off the wall – but both men’s stares drew him up short. “What?”

“Are you going to do this?” Leif asked. “Really? You’ve never – I mean, riding a dragon must be difficult, yeah?”

“That’s what I was just explaining to him,” Erik said in a flat voice. “To no one’s surprise, he’s being stubborn about it.”

“No.” Oliver held up an admonitory finger. “You are King Stubborn, and I’m only a mere pretender.” To Leif – ignoring Erik’s grumble of protest – he said, “You didn’t speak up in there. What do you think? A good idea? Or folly?”

Leif blinked, clearly surprised to have been asked. “I. Well.” He scratched at the back of his neck, and snuck a look at his uncle.

Erik snorted.

“Right, then,” Leif continued, shoulders squaring beneath the thick fur of his mantle. “If you weren’t a Drake, and I hadn’t seen those lizards take such a liking to you myself–”

“Hey, now,” Oliver said, offended on his lizards’ behalf.

“–I would you think you were crazy for even suggesting it. But you do have a bond with them, with Percy, especially, and so I think they’ll protect you and make it easier for you. It won’t be like breaking a new colt.” The last he said in an entirely different way than Erik had. No, it wouldn’t be like riding a horse, for sure: he had a mental link with this animal. “But,” Leif said, expression shifting into apologetic territory, “I can’t imagine riding a dragon will be easy, physically.”

“No,” Oliver agreed, and it couldn’t be easy. For one, the dragons moved in a completely different manner than horses, their long spines undulating in serpentine fashion as they loped along the ground – and that didn’t consider the flying. He’d watched them swoop, and dive, and bank, and spin in the air, all of it effortless, all of it destined to dislodge a human passenger.

But, just as Percy had glimpsed the world through Oliver’s eyes, so had Oliver seen Percy’s aerial perspective. Had flown headlong through spun-sugar clouds, and stared down at a world made ant-like and insignificant. Whether dreams or visions, he’d never felt anything but elated there, in the sky; had only felt a wild, thrilling joy during a stoop, as the snow came rushing up to meet them.

He’d never been an optimist – but he’d never had a drake, either, and he wasn’t afraid of climbing on Percy’s back and taking to the skies.

It was the prospect of what he’d find on the other end of the journey that left him sick with dread.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said, and, in the past, he’d pushed false confidence into his tone to bull his way through a situation – though usually those around him looked on pityingly, aware it was a ruse. Now, though – now Erik and Leif sent him matching raised-brow looks. Oliver wanted to think they were both impressed, but he wouldn’t give himself that much credit just yet. “So long as the harness and saddle are strong enough, it’ll be fine.”

“That’s assuming the beast will let you harness him,” Erik said.

“He will,” and of that Oliver had no doubts.

Erik sighed, and judging by his crimped, unhappy expression, Oliver knew the conversation wasn’t over – not by a long shot. But he could recognize all the ways Erik was trying not to be dictatorial and overbearing.

Snorri joined them, hurrying along, his grin almost childishly enthusiastic. “Ah, just who I was looking for!” he greeted. “Now, about that saddle, your lordship…”

They journeyed back out into the cold and to the stables, where a little rummaging revealed the proper crate secure in the bottom of a sleigh packed with their belongings. It was just as curled and sad-looking, its leather just as old and cracked, as it had been when Snorri showed it to him, on their trip out. Before, the sight of it had filled Oliver with awe – now, as he had a drake and planned to actually ride it, the scrap of leather looked sad and insufficient.

“Don’t you worry,” Snorri said. “We can get this all prettied up.”

“I’m not worried about pretty,” Erik said. “I want it to hold.”

“Aye, your majesty, of course.”

Percy, dozing in the yard, allowed Oliver to take his measurements with a bit of rope, helpfully lifting his wings and legs at each prompting, then settling back in to rest, eyes closing, snow mounding unheeded along his spine and folded wings.

The blacksmith huddled over a rapidly-forming sketch in his smithy, the armorer and even a tanner contributing ideas. Of all the subjects he’d studied, proper harness-making wasn’t one of them; Oliver left the experts to it, and, once again, found himself alone in a hallway with Erik, both of them dusting snow out of their hair.

When he turned toward Erik, and found his face carved with worry, he expected Erik to attempt talking him out of things.

Instead, Erik, voice unusually dejected, said, “I don’t want you to go alone.”

Oliver felt his brows go up, and worked to smooth his expression. “Oh.”

“You find that surprising?”

“No.” I just thought you’d still be stuck on me going at all, he didn’t say. “And I know you don’t want me going alone – but I don’t see an alternative.”

“I could go. I could come with you.”

Oliver smiled, and hoped it softened his next words. “Your lords need you. That’s what you said when we were in the mountains: that you should have been with your men.”

Erik huffed an annoyed sound. “That doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be by your side, protecting you.”

“I know.”

“Take Leif, then. Or Magnus.”

“Erik–”

“Or any of the soldiers. Whomever you want. Maybe the armorer could create some sort of net. A way for the drakes to carry–”

“Love.” Oliver bridged the step between them. When he touched Erik’s face, felt the flicker of muscle leaping beneath his fingertips, Erik closed his eyes a moment, breathing deeply. Oliver ached for him. “I have to go quickly,” he said. “I’ll be faster alone, without lugging half a regiment in a net.” He smiled, but, when Erik’s lashes lifted, he didn’t smile back.

“Is there no one you would take?”

Oliver trailed his touch down through Erik’s close beard, the trimmed hair rasping over new calluses. “It’s more a matter of who could I take. You’ll need all the able bodies you can get, and, I’m sure Percy would listen if I asked him, but I think it would help if–”

Oh.

“What?”

“I think I’ve had an idea,” Oliver said.

~*~

Náli’s head kicked back, expression caught between disbelief and contempt. “You want a favor from me? What’s the matter: your king too old to–”

“Hear me out,” Oliver said, hands lifted to a placating angle.

He’d managed to convince Erik to stay behind for this, convinced that Náli would be easier to deal with if his king wasn’t scowling at him like an overbearing father. Technically, Erik could have ordered this, but Oliver thought this was a time for the carrot, rather than the stick.

Náli had retreated to the room he’d been given, and even if his man Mattias hovered in the background – poised to usher Oliver from the room if he felt it necessary, no doubt – the Corpse Lord truly did look better than he had earlier.

“Well,” Náli prompted. “I’m listening.”

“I’m flying for Aeres the moment the snow stops.”

Náli rolled his eyes and made a go on gesture. “Yes, we all know. How very his lordship of you.”

“I want you to come with me.”

A beat passed before the words registered. Then Náli’s expression smoothed with shock. “I’m sorry.” His voice fell flat between them. “It sounded like you said you wanted me to go with you.”

“I did.” Oliver took a breath, prepared to lay out the argument he’d been forming – when Mattias interrupted.

He took two long, charging strides from the back of the room, until he stood even with his master. He shot Oliver one fast, dark glare from beneath his lashes, and then turned all his attention to Náli, words clipped thanks to a clenched jaw. “My lord, that is suicide. If his lordship is foolish enough to risk–”

“Captain.” Náli’s voice was ice; his gaze a glacier. “Give us the room.”

Mattias stared at him a long moment, pulse kicking visibly in his throat, and then, nostrils flaring in aggravation, left. The door closed with a soft click of the latch.

Náli let out a huge breath, shoulders slumping, facing going slack. He looked exhausted again. “Apologies,” he murmured. “He isn’t normally like that.”

“Understandable.”

Náli snorted.

“He cares about you.” Oliver wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a look of such intense pleading on a man’s face before – save on Erik, and there was nothing stuffy or platonic about those looks. Mattias looked at Náli with the desperation and longing of a starved man. The same way Erik looked when he said I don’t want you to go alone. “Deeply, by all outward appearances.”

Náli choked a little, eyes bugging wide and hand lifting to clap against his own chest. He turned away, and stalked across the room to drop down into one of the chairs by the fire. By the time his face was visible again, he’d composed himself, but Oliver had caught that moment of vulnerability, plain as day. His voice dripped scorn when he said, “Do you even know what the Dead Guard are for?”

Apparently, the prospect of riding a dragon across half a kingdom wasn’t as pressing as Náli’s personal emotional upheaval at the moment.

Oliver moved to take the chair across from him and guessed, “To guard you, I presume.”

Náli’s sneer lacked its usual bite. “Every lord has guards. Some are more competent than others, but they all serve the same basic function. The Dead Guard are bound to me.” His expression turned sour. “They can never marry, nor have children. They–” he stumbled over the words “– pick me up when I’ve overextended my magic. They – they bathe me. Fuck. They’re more nursemaids than guard dogs, and they’re four times as well-trained as any guard in the whole kingdom.

“But they don’t care for me,” he added, tone growing small and uncertain. He looked into the fire and fidgeted his hands together. “They’re proud, and loyal to their order. To the brotherhood.”

Oliver snorted, and drew a gaze so confused it nearly seemed frightened. “Please. I’ve only known the man a week – and don’t even know him, really – but nobody gazes at someone the way Mattias does with you if genuine love isn’t involved.”

Náli reared back in his chair, pale-faced and spluttering. “He doesn’t – no, that’s not – you’re stupid,” he ended on, childish, mulish, disrespectful, given their ranks – and so, so young and afraid beneath. His chin wobbled, and he covered it with a grimace that looked forced. “This is none of your business, anyway.”

Oliver shrugged and sat back. “No, it isn’t, but you brought it up.”

“Hmph.” Náli’s gaze returned to the fire. He was pouting, make no mistake.

“You said they couldn’t take wives or have children. What’s to stop them giving you a good tumble, though?”

More spluttering, and two bright spots of color along high cheekbones.

“Bastard or not, I never had any interest in girls,” Oliver continued, easily. “My first time was at seventeen, in the hayloft with the blacksmith’s apprentice. Holy gods, the arms on that boy.” He spared a moment of fond remembrance for Gerald: stupid, but kind, and built like a bull. “Then it was the sons of lords in coat closets during balls.”

Náli made a low, outraged sound.

“It’s a good thing Tessa came North and doesn’t have to marry the heir of Hope Hall – he’s a prat, but he does favor those coat closets, let me tell you.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Náli asked, knuckles white on the chair arms, expression stricken.

Oliver dropped his casual act. “Because I’m asking you to do something dangerous, and if you don’t want to go, that’s quite all right. But I’d like you to think you can trust me. From one prickly shithead to another, I like you. And, at the risk of overstepping several boundaries, you strike me as terribly unhappy. If it would help to unburden yourself to someone – someone who isn’t bound to you – then, well, I’m offering. For whatever that’s worth.”

Náli blinked at him a few moments, his discomfiture slowly morphing into a softer, less sure sentiment. He wet his lips, and averted his gaze again, firelight dancing across the crisp lines of his profile. “No one likes me.”

“Ugh. I just told you that I did. And so does your friend, clearly – the big one?”

“Ulf.”

“Yes, Ulf. He must like you. And I know that Leif does – Rune, too, probably. And Mattias–”

“Mattias doesn’t like me.” Said with harsh bitterness, lips pressed to a thin, pale line.

“No,” Oliver said, as gently as he could. “I imagine it’s a sentiment much deeper and more painful than simple liking.”

Náli sneered – and then wiped his face, quickly, with the cuff of his shirt.

Oliver allowed him to gather a few ragged breaths, and then, tone still soft, said, “I’m new to magic. I guess, considering what’s happened, I was born with it – but I wasn’t taught how to use it, growing up. Not like you.”

Náli’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and Oliver felt like a heel. It was beyond obvious, at this point, that Náli didn’t enjoy his magic; no matter how useful for the kingdom, it was an anchor around his neck, rather than a buoy.

“But your magic is powerful, and the drakes respond to it.”

“Hmph.”

“The little one adores you.” Oliver risked saying, “Have you come up with a name for him?”

Náli turned back to face him, teeth bared – but it was a pained sort of snarl, without any true threat behind it. “Why would I name that stupid lizard?”

“Náli,” Oliver said, evenly.

Náli took a long, slow breath, his gaze dark, unhappy. But, then: “Valgrind.”

Oliver felt his brows shoot up. Surprised. Pleased, though he fought a smile.

Náli scowled. “Doesn’t your stupid duchy share our gods? Valgrind: the fence around the underworld.”

The smile was even harder to hold back, now. Oliver nodded. “Ah, right. I like that.” He paused. “So, in a way, you’ve named him in the spirit of your own household–”

“Oh, shut up,” Náli fumed, sitting back, kicking his legs up onto the footstool in front of him. He crossed his arms and sulked, and looked more like himself, and less like the sad, lovesick boy who thought he couldn’t have what he wanted.

Oliver swallowed a chuckle. “I think I’ve named the female – Percy’s mate.”

Náli gave a noncommittal grunt.

“My aunt is the most ferocious woman I know. Lady Katherine.”

Náli blinked, and then coughed a laugh. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t.”

“How about Kat?”

“I think your aunt will have your hide the next time she sees you.” And, finally, Náli smiled. A small victory. “You truly are terrible at this, aren’t you?”

Oliver smiled back, and nodded. “Valgrind is too small to ride, still, I think.”

Náli let out a slow breath through his nostrils.

“But, if she’s amenable, and I think she will be, you can ride Kat.”

Náli stared at him a long moment, breathing through an open mouth, body drawn up tight – poised on the edge of a decision. “Why me?”

Oliver answered honestly. “Because I don’t think anyone else could. And, because, when we get to Aeres, I need the drakes battle ready.”

Náli’s brows lifted. “I thought you were just taking word of the approaching Úlfheðnar forces.”

“So does Erik. But if I’m riding a weapon, I expect to use it when I get there.”

Slowly, a smile touched Náli’s mouth. “How devious, your lordship.”

“Not devious. Practical. Are you in, or not?”

Náli sat up straight. “I’ll need saddle, harness, and bridle. And, of course, a formal introduction to the lady in question.”

Oliver smirked. “Not a problem.”

9

Mattias was angry, but that was to be expected.

What Náli hadn’t anticipated was the degree of his anger. His fury, in fact.

He’d never seen him like this: bristling, quivering with suppressed rage as he stood before the fireplace, hands clenched to white-knuckled fists, and leveled Náli with a glare that felt like hatred. His clenched jaw threw shadows down his throat, and his gaze burned.

Never ever had Náli known the urge to look away from him, to walk away from him – but he did now, and it left him shaking.

He’d relayed what Oliver had told him – the crux of it, at least. He left out the part about Oliver insisting that Mattias had…feelings, for him, and the way those words left Náli reeling.

“But that’s insanity,” Mattias said. “Of course you won’t go.”

“No. I will.”

Hence the fury.

He held Náli’s gaze another long, fraught moment – Náli refused to look away, on principle; he was the lord here, the one in charge – and then turned toward the hearth, and gripped the mantelpiece in both hands, leather bracers creaking as his wrists flexed within them. Firelight bathed a face gone harsh and unfamiliar. It was easy, always, to overlay memories of a sweet-natured, laughing boy onto the man Mattias had become – one who, in this instant, resembled nothing so much as a terrifying opponent. Náli had the errant, but sure, thought that, skilled though he was with a sword, if he challenged Mattias to a match right now, he’d be beaten. Handily.

How had they come to this? And in so short a time?

In truth, he’d always known that things with Mattias would come to a head at some point. But that had always been a distant thought, dim and out of focus. Now, though, after having been kidnapped, after pushing his magic farther than he ever had – the head had come. Ugly, tender, ready to rupture.

Because he’d always been graceless when it came to his emotions, Náli said, “Since you seem to have developed a new habit of insubordination, go on. Shout at me. Tell me how stupid I am.”

The bracers creaked again, and Mattias said nothing. At first. Finally, voice a mere scrape of sound, he said, “I live to serve the Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands. His life, his legacy, his wishes are my only concerns.” His head turned the barest fraction, gaze bright and pained as it slid toward him. “I will shout at him if that’s what he wishes. But my opinion means nothing to him.”

The words struck like a slap across the face. Cold, impersonal. As if Náli was only his master, and nothing more.

Maybe he never had been.

Your opinion means everything. More than anyone’s. But if he said that, his voice would break, and his façade would shatter, and Mattias would see…everything. Every ugly, stuffed-down sentiment he wasn’t supposed to have. So he drew himself upright to his full height – which still only put him even with Mattias’s shoulder, damn it – and said, “Aside from this past week, when have I ever dismissed your advice out of hand?”

Mattias stiffened, and then his head turned the rest of the way, face smoothing with surprise.

And only after he’d said it did Náli realize the absolute truth of the question. His whole life, he’d sought Mattias’s wisdom, his approval. From his fighting stance, to the weight and balance of his dagger, to the thickness of cloak he would need on any given journey. Mattias had always been an easy, willing, kind teacher; careful to point things out with a quiet aside and a subtle gesture in front of others, so that the lords of Aeretoll might think Náli a young savant, rather than a coached, unready heir.

A recent memory filled his mind: just before his party had left Naus Keep for the Yuletide Festival, his mother had hosted a dinner party. All the guests in attendance – lords and ladies heaped in furs and diamonds – had been the parents of daughters. Eligible daughters – daughters they’d brought along, and presented one by one, with much pomp and puffery to Náli.

He was only sixteen.

But in his household, that meant he was already sixteen, and the Corpse Lord, and he needed to produce an heir before his magic began to wither him, just as it had his father.

There had been slender scraps of girls no more than twelve, twisting their fingers and blushing and averting their eyes. Girls who were really women, twenty-one, and fulsome, and coy when they looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. Overwhelmed, dizzy from too much wine and not enough food, Náli had leaned sideways into Mattias, until his strong, warm shoulder braced his own, and said, “Gods, this is unbearable. What if I don’t want any of them?”

Mattias had swallowed with an audible click, his voice oddly strained when he said, “Then don’t choose any of them. You should be happy with your choice, my lord. You should know true love, and not just obligation.”

Náli had snorted. “Romantic words for a celibate warrior, no?” When he’d risked a glance, Mattias had been blushing.

He thought now of Oliver’s words, his unbothered assurance that Mattias cared. He took a deep breath, dragged together a semblance of bravery, and said, “Oliver isn’t a Northerner, it’s true. He’s different from us. But he’s no fool, and he doesn’t lack for courage – gods, he’s got bigger stones than any of us realized, I think. His idea to fly ahead is a good one, even if it’s risky.”

Mattias pushed off the mantel, started to move forward, weight shifting – then withdrew, his arms folding. He frowned. “I don’t disagree,” he said, grudgingly. “But why must he take you?”

Náli swallowed a lump of fear and thought instead of flying: of flinging himself at opponents, and at jumps on his horse; thought of being alive. “You’ve seen that little dragon brat slobbering all over me. I have to go because I’m the only one who can. The beasts respond to magic.”

“To death magic?” Mattias countered.

Oh, that stung. “Magic is magic,” he shot back. “And maybe, for once, I can use mine to assist the living, rather than the dead.”

Mattias’s brows jumped, once, with outward shock. Then the frown returned, and his gaze skated away.

Náli took a step forward. “Mattias.”

Dark eyes snapped back to meet his, like a dog coming to heel. Mattias’s broad chest lifted, as he inhaled – and then didn’t exhale.

Náli wanted to scream. To throw things. It wasn’t fair; his life – his abridged half-a-life – wasn’t fair. Instead, he lifted his chin to a lofty angle. “In the morning, I’m riding out with Lord Oliver because my king, and my kingdom, need this from me. We’re in a war, and we all must do our parts. I see no reason not to go” – he lifted a hand when Mattias began to protest – “beyond the usual. After, I will return to the Fault Lands, and go down into the Dead Waters, and I will rest, and soothe the mountain. But after.

“Unless…” And here his voice cracked, and he didn’t sound like a sure lord at all, but like the teenager he was, and he hated it. He took a short breath and pressed on. “Unless you can offer me some other reason not to go.”

In the span of a few heartbeats, Mattias’s face told the tale of an entire journey. From indignation, to worry, to anguish, to hope, snuffed quickly, and, finally, of resignation. He smoothed an unsteady hand along the single braid that clung to the curve of his skull, and shook his head, breath expelling shakily. “No, my lord.” Only a murmur, defeated. “No, there is only your duty, and your health, and if you won’t–”

“Then get out,” Náli said, his own voice as dead as the otherworld that beckoned to him, always. When Mattias lifted his head, he added, “That’s an order, captain.”

Mattias left.

Náli crossed the room to the sideboard, and uncorked the bottle of wine left there with his teeth.

~*~

If someone had told Leif just a few months ago that the stiff and stuffy Southerner Bjorn had dragged into the great hall that first time like an offended puppy would someday volunteer to ride a dragon across the country, he would have laughed. Not rudely, because he had better manners than his brother, but he would have laughed all the same. Oliver. Little Oliver, with his silks, and short hair, and thin-soled boots, on a dragon.

But the man he studied now from the window of his room, gazing down on a snow-swirled courtyard, could be called “little Oliver” no longer. In warm Northern dress, his hair long enough for two small braids, the heavy ring on his finger catching the torchlight as he gestured to the harness being fitted to Percy’s barrel, the man Erik had named consort was nothing at all like what they’d expected, in those early days. He stood with feet apart, arms folded, face lined with fatigue, but expression sharp and studious as he moved around the dragon and tightened a strap; reached absently to pet the reptilian nose that swung around to nudge at his shoulder.

A glance above proved that the snow was starting to slacken. A star winked through a gap in the clouds. The storm would be gone by sunrise, and Oliver would take to the skies…

With Náli in tow.

Leif frowned to himself as he pulled back inside the window and closed the shutters. He’d been quick to volunteer – first, to go with Oliver for Aeres, and, when Uncle said no, then to lead the bedraggled Aeretollean forces himself in Erik’s stead, so that he could go with his lover on dragon-back, and keep him safe.

“Uncle, I can handle it,” he’d insisted, wanting to be useful. “You’ve been preparing me for leadership your whole life, and–”

Erik had cut him off with a heavy hand squeezing at his shoulder. “And you are ready for it, trust me. But I will not have you face off from Ragnar without me.” His jaw had tightened. “Not after what he’s done.”

It wasn’t that Leif didn’t understand that sentiment, but he felt more than a little helpless. His uncle had finally found something – someone – who made him happy. And if Leif could spare him any misery in that department, whether in protecting Oliver, or Erik himself, he would.

After all, it wasn’t as if he had any attachments.

Tessa hadn’t rejected him, and if he asked for her hand formally, on bended knee, with offer of cloak and ring and the protection of his name, she would probably accept. She was an accommodating, eager to please girl who wanted to do her duty.

But that was the thing: it would be duty. Perhaps they could find happiness, down the line, even love…but he’d seen the way she looked at his brother. If he offered for her, and got between them, that wouldn’t be fair to any of the three of them.

Already, he was turning loose of the idea of wedding her. It was for the best, truly. That left him free to throw himself into this war as he should, and left Rune with a sweet, quiet soul to temper his recklessness.

It didn’t mean it didn’t sting, though.

A knock sounded at his door – a sequence of knocks. Two hard and sharp…followed by a sloppy flurry of softer ones, all of which seemed to be somehow sliding down the outside of the door. He got up to answer it, frowning, not at all prepared for the sight that awaited him on the other side.

Náli stood slumping sideways, one shoulder resting heavily against the doorframe, his whole, lean body lax in a way Leif had never seen before, save when he was passed out – and this was not that. Hair unbound, shirt unlaced beneath a hastily-thrown on fur mantle, Náli didn’t look pale, clammy, and sick – but flushed, drowsy-eyed, and smirking. He held the neck of an uncorked bottle loosely in one hand, and his gaze, hooded and glassy, traveled slowly all the way down Leif’s body, to his sock-clad toes, and back up again. A smile broke crookedly across his lips.

Leif blinked. “Hello.”

“Hellooooo,” Náli returned, voice purring and soft-edged. He executed another up-and-down perusal of his person and Leif felt a little…underdressed, suddenly. “Are you going to invite me in, your grace, or leave me cold in the hallway?”

“Um,” Leif said, elegantly, and then opened the door wider.

Náli pushed off the doorway with effort – only to trip crossing the threshold.

“Whoa.” Leif caught him by the arm and righted him. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Enough.” With his free hand, Náli gave a flapping gesture that would have been crisp and dismissive under better circumstances; now it resembled an injured bird struggling to take to the air.

“Enough for what? You’re supposed to leave in the morning, at first light.”

“Yes, yes.” Náli flapped his hand again, turned, wobbled, and fell back so he was slouched on the edge of the bed. “Wouldn’t want to keep his lordship waiting.”

This was…not good. This was, in fact, bad.

The door was still open, so Leif eased it shut, lest someone hear Náli’s wine-loud voice.

When the latch clicked, Náli said, “Ooh, yes, wonderful idea. Privacy,” and a single finger-stroke of fear trailed down Leif’s spine.

He turned back slowly, and found Náli reclined with a hand propped behind him on the mattress, wine bottle threatening to slip from the lax fingers of the other. Blurred as it was by drink, it took Leif a moment to recognize that the look being sent his way was a smirk.

He took a measured breath and tried to decide the best course of action.

A decision made for him when Náli tipped his head, loose hair sliding across his shoulders, and said, “See something you like?”

Gods.

Leif sighed. “Náli, what are you doing?”

Náli gestured clumsily to his own person with the bottle; ruby droplets slopped from the opened mouth of it and landed on the fur coverlet. “Isn’t it obvious?” His smirk became a leer; his lashes fluttered, and Leif didn’t know if it was purposeful, or the effect of too much drink. “I’m….sssee – seduccccing. You.” He hiccupped.

Well, that answered that. Leif quickly found that his initial jolt of fear was being replaced by pity, and tried to keep it from his voice. “I see. And why are you doing that?”

“Because” – he swayed, righted himself, and his gaze turned reflexive as he searched for the words – “because you – ha! Because you like me,” he finished, triumphant. “Oliver said so.”

“I do like you.”

“Well…” With the slow care of the truly drunk, he leaned sideways to set the wine bottle on the chest at the foot of the bed, then patted the empty span of mattress beside him, his look a glassy invitation.

“I like you – but not like that.”

It took a comical amount of time for the words to sink in, and then he pushed his lower lip out in a dramatic pout. “What?” Leif thought he aimed for his usual cutting tone, but managed only to sound young and forlorn, instead: a child denied a sweet.

Leif sighed, and crossed to sit beside him, leaving a healthy foot of space between them. A mistake, it proved, because the moment he was settled, Náli swung a leg over his thighs so he straddled his lap.

“Shit.” Leif caught him by the waist, when he wobbled, and Náli’s hands slapped down on his shoulders, squeezing tight, fingertips digging into muscle through cloth.

“Now.” Náli grinned wide. “That’s more like it.” He closed his eyes, and surged forward clumsily.

Leif managed to get a hand up, and caught Náli’s puckered lips against his palm, rather than against his mouth.

Náli’s eyes fluttered open again, lips curving downward where they rested against Leif’s skin.

Leif said, “No.”

Náli’s brows furrowed. His thumbs dug into Leif’s collarbones. He pulled back just far enough so his words weren’t muffled when he said, “Why the fuck not?”

Because I prefer girls, Leif thought, but didn’t say. He didn’t know what had happened to prompt this, but, whatever it was, it had left Náli shaken, doubtful, and desperate for succor. He didn’t want Leif, not really; he was trying to prove something – to himself, or to whoever had prompted him to get drunk out of his mind the night before a dangerous excursion. It might have been nerves about flying, but he didn’t think so. No, this was personal – this had driven him to make a fool of himself, and that was something he never did.

“Because you don’t really want this,” he settled on. “And, right now, you’re not in the right mind to make such a big decision.”

Náli scowled, and reared back. Leif grabbed at his waist again and kept him from toppling backward to the floor. “What do you” – hiccup – “mean…big decisssssion. It’sss not big. E’vryone fucks, your graccccce.”

“You don’t,” Leif blurted out, before he could think not to. Damn.

Náli, always so superior and composed, had no defense against all the wine he’d drunk – nor the hurtful truth Leif had tossed between them, careless and stupid. Sober, he would have locked his expression up, tight and cold. Intoxicated, he cycled through shock, hurt, embarrassment, and then shame by slow turns, biting at his lip, his brow furrowed, eyes welling up. He tried to clamber off Leif’s lap, but Leif held him fast – easily, thanks to his clumsiness.

“Let me go,” Náli said, small and miserable, and turned his face away, eyes closing.

Leif hooked an arm behind his back, and held on. “I meant,” he said, tone softening, “that you – that you haven’t, right? It’s not an insult,” he rushed to add. “Tumbling a paid girl in a brothel isn’t anything to brag about or be proud of. I just meant–”

“That I’m – I’m not–” he sounded close to hyperventilating, breaths coming in fast surges, chest hitching. “Ex-experienced enough for you. Is that it?”

“Náli. Náli, hey.” Leif had never thought to find himself in this position, not consoling this boy in this way, and he desperately wished someone else was here to handle it with more tact. But, well, here he was, and he would try, because it made him sad, in a way, to know that he and Náli had never been close, but that Náli had sought him out. That he didn’t have anyone else to go to like this. “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

Náli sniffed aggressively, and didn’t respond.

“Not that I’m not flattered, but–”

“Oh, shut up, you oaf.”

Ah, there he was.

He faced him, finally, eyes glittering with unshed tears, some of the too-soft relaxation of the wine giving way to tightening lines of pain, and anger. He looked miserable. “Either let me up,” he bit out, “or fuck me.”

Leif tightened his grip. “No. You shouldn’t be wandering around the place in this state. And I can’t do…the other thing. You’d be sorry for it in the morning.”

Náli sneered, though it lacked his usual bite, face still no doubt a little numb from wine. “Oh, would I? I thought I was the one with psychic gifts.”

“You’d regret it,” Leif insisted. “Because the person you really want calls you ‘my lord’ and, I’m guessing, won’t cross the lines of propriety.”

Náli sucked in a breath like he’d been punched in the gut. He slapped at Leif’s arm, and this time, Leif released him – only to watch him stagger and land hard on his backside on the floorboards, as he’d feared he would. “How – you don’t – I should–”

“Náli.”

“What?”

“Do you know what I do when my brother is about to do something reckless and stupid?”

Náli bared his teeth, eyes wet.

“You can’t–”

“I try to talk him out of it.”

Another sneer, coupled with a shaky voice that didn’t manage to push across all the contempt it wanted to. “Does it ever work?”

“Only sometimes.” Leif offered a smile he hoped was encouraging. “But I’m a good listener, either way.”

Náli scowled and looked away. But, after a few silent moments filled only with the gentle crackling of the fire, he drew his knees up and hugged them to his chest. His frown melted into an expression more like worry, and he chewed at his lower lip. He looked nearly childlike, in that moment. In so many ways, Leif knew, he’d been forced to grow up too quickly – but in others, he was wholly innocent.

As gently as he could, Leif said, “It’s Mattias, isn’t it?”

Náli sucked in a fast breath. “Of course it is, you already knew that!” he hissed.

“All right. I wanted to verify.” He waited until Náli had calmed, fractionally. “Have you told him?”

“Told him what?”

“That you want…what you tried to get from me just now. But from him.”

Náli stared at him, uncomprehending.

“You have told him, haven’t you?”

He blinked. “That isn’t the sort of thing a lord says to his guard captain.”

“But it could be.”

Náli turned away again, unhappy color staining his cheeks. “He doesn’t want me.”

“You don’t know that – not if you never ask. And, for what it’s worth, I’ve seen how he looks at you. He’s your captain, yes, but he doesn’t gaze upon you the way a captain should.”

“And what would you know about gazes? You couldn’t even keep your idiot brother from stealing your betrothed.”

“Hey, now–”

Náli surged unsteadily to his feet, and retrieved the wine bottle.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

Náli tipped the bottle back, throat bobbing as he swallowed. He gasped when he was done, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “And I think” – hiccup – “think that I’m – tired of being…” His lashes fluttered, and he swayed where he stood. “Treated like – like–”

“A child?” Leif guessed.

“Like breeding stock!” Náli spat, eyes blazing behind their sheen of alcohol. “Like-like I’m nothing more than-than-than a stud! Mind the mountain, and make an heir, that’s-that’s-that’s all I’m g-good for!”

The bottle slipped from his hand, and shattered on the floorboards.

Leif started to stand – and promptly found himself with a lapful of wriggling, uncoordinated Corpse Lord again. This time, he couldn’t get his hand up in time, and a pair of chapped, wine-sticky lips slammed into his own, hard and clumsy enough their teeth clacked together.

Leif got a handful of Náli’s hair and pulled him back, wincing. Before he could scold him, though, Náli’s face crumpled, and the tears finally spilled over.

“It’s not f-fair,” he whispered, furious, anguished. Leif’s heart hurt for him. “I don’t want to m-marry. I don’t want to do – to do any of this.” Softer: “Why doesn’t he want me? Why doesn’t he love me?”

Leif petted the side of his head, awkwardly. “I think he probably does.”

Náli blinked. “Oh,” he breathed, and then promptly passed out.

~*~

The fortress hummed with the quiet, constant movement of an armed outpost. Watches changed, and the men of Long Reach went about their nightly rounds; extra hands had been called in to assist with the harness fitting, and the forge rang out with hammer blows: a chiming like bells across the snowy courtyard. Most of the lords had sought their beds already, weary from travel. But a few still sat up in the mess, with mugs of cider, talking quietly across the long trestles. Of these, five were Náli’s Dead Guard.

They sat huddled together, separate from the others, distinct in their muted grays and browns, their sewn tunic patches that marked their rank, their identical hairstyles: heads shaved save the long, lone braid down the center of each skull, hanging nearly to their waists in back.

Leif recognized Mattias, but he was the only one he knew by name. The Dead Guard kept to themselves and their master, never fraternizing with the guardsmen of other houses. Elite, Náli had called them, and they held themselves apart, as evidence.

Mattias stared morosely down into his cup, an older, harsher, somehow more despondent mirror image of Náli from earlier. Lovelorn fools, the both of them.

One of the others glanced up, noted Leif’s approach, and elbowed Mattias to get his attention.

Mattias lifted his head, expression shifting to something professional between blinks. It was a shift born of long practice, Leif figured.

“Your grace?” Polite – but not friendly.

He’d debated on the walk down, and decided it would be better to get the captain off on his own, rather than announce Náli’s drunken state to the whole Guard at once. “Mattias, can I speak with you a moment?”

The man seated beside him frowned. “The Guard act and think as one. You can speak to all of us, your grace.”

It was no wonder Náli was so prickly, if he’d been raised by these men.

“Mattias,” he insisted, firm, levering a bit of princely authority into his voice.

Mattias traded unreadable glances with the others – then stood, and followed Leif out into the hall.

What is it? An unasked question, but one Leif could feel the energy of bristling between them.

Leif said, “Náli isn’t feeling well. I thought he might want you to attend to him.”

A quick glance proved that Mattias broke character. His step faltered, and his eyes widened. As fast as it had happened, he regained control, but Leif had seen the slip, and it was enough to confirm all his suspicions.

“He’s unwell?” Mattias asked, a faint, underlying scrape of more than professional worry tinging his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Too much to drink,” Leif said, patting the air between them as they walked, a soothing gesture. “He just needs some water and a few hours of sleep. But…” They’d reached a fork in the hall, and Leif turned back when he realized that Mattias had lagged behind.

The guard had his hands balled into fists, his jaw tight. Subtle signs, but signs of his worry all the same. “My lord is not in his chamber?”

“No. He’s in mine.”

The faint quirk of a brow, the compressing of his lips spoke of a fast, tightly-leashed pulse of despair. A quiet devastation.

Leif felt bad for the man, but he turned and led the way forward, silent. Up short flights of stairs and around sharp corners, in this odd maze of a fortress.

Náli was right where he’d left him, curled up on his side on the borrowed bed, furs tucked over him and the washbasin left on the floor, in case he got sick. He slept with his brows drawn together, face twisted unhappily, snoring in little huffs that stirred the hair that had slipped across his cheek.

Leif stepped aside, and watched.

Watched as Mattias rushed into the room, as if drawn helplessly forward, and then paused, hesitated. Watched as he struggled to control his expression, hands falling open, fingers twitching – wanting to touch. Watched as he approached the bed, finally, and reached to tuck the lock of hair behind Náli’s ear, a tender, almost reverent gesture. “My lord?” he murmured. But, of course, Náli didn’t respond.

Leif took pity on the poor man. “He showed up at my door a little while ago, already deep in his cups, and propositioned me.”

Mattias had sunk down to his knees by the bed, and his head whipped around, scowl not masked, this time. “He propositioned you?”

“Clumsily, I might add,” Leif said.

Mattias’s nostrils flared – but he turned back to his master, hand still hovering by his ear, edge of his thumb ghosting along a smooth cheek. Leif heard him swallow. “He is of age. He can do as he likes. So long as he–”

“Marries and produces an heir? Yeah, he was ranting about that. Said he was tired of being treated like that was all he was good for.”

Mattias exhaled, and he sounded exhausted with that one breath, his shoulders caving in so that he looked impossibly small.

“I refused him,” Leif said, and tension locked Mattias up tight. His thumb pressed an indentation into a fragile cheek. “I’m not going to take advantage of anyone in that state, for one,” Leif continued. “And I’m not interested in Náli that way besides. Nor is he interested in me.”

Mattias resumed stroking his master’s face, more firmly, surer now.

“It can be difficult,” Leif said, letting all authority bleed out of his voice, because what he was about to say was coming not from the heir of Aeretoll – but from Leif Torstanson, son, brother, nephew. “Being titled. There’s jewels, and keeps, and fine furs, and privileges, to be sure. Common folk always bowing and curtsying to you.

“But that’s just it: they’re bowing and curtsying to you. Because you aren’t their friend. You’re their lord and master.”

He could tell that Mattias was listening intently, the way his breaths came so shallow they didn’t stir his shoulders.

“Say you are a sixteen-year-old, who wants and feels things intensely – who wants to play, and nap, and learn how to kiss properly – and you’re also in charge of making sure the whole kingdom isn’t buried in ash thanks to the fire mountain you inherited. It’s hard being both things: being a lord…and being a real boy, too.”

Mattias’s next exhale came audible and shaky. He rested the whole of his hand on the back of Náli’s head, cradling him.

“It isn’t my place to say, and it’s too bold, I know, but Náli isn’t afraid of tomorrow’s journey. He’s afraid his life will be short, and painful, and that he won’t ever get to have what he really wants.”

A beat passed. Mattias turned his head a fraction, pain trying to bleed through his stoic façade. “You’re right, your grace,” he said, quietly. “It isn’t your place.”

Leif nodded. “I’ll leave him in your capable hands, then.” He left without waiting for an answer, the image of the strong warrior kneeling helplessly by the bed one that tugged at his heart.

~*~

“Shit,” Oliver murmured, blinking his eyes open. He’d only thought to rest them a moment, but he’d fallen asleep. He lifted his head from his rather hard makeshift pillow – Erik’s shoulder – and failed to stifle a yawn.

Beside him, Erik inhaled in that deep, full-body way that he always did when he woke in the morning, so at least Oliver wasn’t the only one losing the sleep battle.

Oliver glanced over and watched him dash surreptitiously at his eyes with one ringed knuckle, smiled to himself, and then looked out into the courtyard.

They sat on a bench tucked into the lee of the tunnel that led from courtyard to stable, out of the snowfall, if not out of the cold. He’d first sat down at Snorri’s urging, when his jaw-cracking yawns had begun to interfere with his speech. Erik had sat beside him, for warmth, he’d explained, tucking a thick stable blanket around them both together.

The sound of hammer and anvil rang out from the smithy across the way, fire-yellow light from the forge pooling out onto the snow. The crew was working, and the drakes had been left to their own devices, curled up in a sleepy pile just a few paces away, the gentle rush of their breathing loud as blacksmith bellows.

The snow had stopped falling, finally, the sky above netted with bright stars.

“I wonder what time it is,” Oliver mused aloud.

Voice low and thick from sleep, Erik said, “Just after midnight.”

“Hm. My studies never did get so far as learning the star charts.”

“There’s a whole section back home. In the library.”

If home is still intact, Oliver thought with a lurch, and, based on Erik’s silence, one he felt as well.

They were running out of time.

“You need to get some sleep – in a real bed. At least a few hours,” Erik said.

Oliver sighed. “I know.”

“You can’t fly to Aeres if you slide right off the dragon’s back.”

“I know, I know.”

Footsteps crunched through the snow, and the bench creaked as someone sat down on Oliver’s other side: Leif.

“Shouldn’t the two of you be in bed?”

“Shouldn’t you?” Erik countered.

“I’m waiting on Mattias to get Náli out of my bed.”

Oliver absorbed that sentence – then felt his brows shoot up. He turned toward Leif, and the bench creaked as Erik leaned forward to see his nephew around him.

“What?” they both asked together.

Leif sent them an amused smirk. “Not like that.”

Oliver blinked, wide awake now. “Since your uncle is the sort of busybody who doesn’t want to appear like a busybody–”

“Hey, now.”

“–I’ll ask on both our behalf. Leif, did you tumble our sweet necromancer? Because I might be cross with you if you did.”

“No, I – no,” he repeated, with more emphasis, in the face of their stares. He glanced away, cheeks pinking in the torchlight. “I did no such thing – though it wasn’t for a lack of him trying.”

“Leif,” Erik began.

Oliver held up a finger. “Shh, I’m handling this. Leif, what happened?”

“Nothing happened. He was drunk, and upset, and he thought being with me would – I don’t know – make him feel better. At least temporarily. But don’t worry. I got it sorted.”

It was shockingly easy to imagine Náli, as Oliver had left him, brimming with anxiety and a teenager’s overactive emotions, dipping into the wine, and then making a stupid decision. No one that young could play the adult all the time; cracks in the armor let wild, young urges leak out. Náli wanted Mattias, but Mattias was professional, and so Náli had gone looking for someone, anyone, who might make him feel wanted and alive, before he risked his life in a whole new way tomorrow.

Oliver remembered their conversation – Leif likes you – and winced. “Um. Right. Well…that might have been my fault. At least a little.”

“Hm,” Erik hummed.

“I might…just perhaps…have suggested – inadvertently, mind you.”

“Oh, of course.”

“That – you know, in an effort to cheer him up, he’s very down right now, and I feel sorry for him, anyone would, given his situation–”

“Oliver.”

“Right. Yes, well, I was listing off all the people who liked him. Me. You” – he gestured to Erik without making eye contact, keenly aware of the weight of his gaze – “and Leif.”

“Ah,” Leif said.

“I suppose he took it the wrong way.” Oliver resisted the urge to rub at the back of his neck, but barely. He could feel the flush on his face. “Sorry,” he offered.

Leif sighed, and shrugged. “No harm done. I do like him. But.” He slanted a look toward Oliver that was frighteningly reminiscent of his uncle. “But, perhaps next time, make sure he knows the way in which I like him.”

“Yes.” He risked a look toward Erik, finally, and found that his dark brows were drawn together into a scowl – but that his lips twitched with suppressed mirth. “It isn’t that funny.”

“The fact that the little fool is going to be sick in the morning and might fall right off his dragon isn’t funny, no. But you offering Leif up for a good mauling – that’s rather funny, dear.”

“Hey,” Leif protested.

Oliver bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, scowled instead. “You’re both…ugh.” He faced forward – faced his sleeping drakes. Percy cracked an eye open to a glowing blue slit, and when Oliver smiled at him, closed it again, snuggling in tighter to the bundle of overlapping pearlescent limbs that was his family.

Three settled souls, just as Oliver and his Northmen settled with matching sighs.

“Do you really think she’ll let Náli ride her?” Leif ventured.

“All I can do is hope, and ask,” Oliver said. “So I suppose we’ll see.”

10

Aeres

Another morning in the close, dark hours before dawn. Another target, bristling with arrows, while light from pitch torches danced across the trampled snow of the practice yard.

“Lift your elbow more – there,” Estrid said. “No, you dropped it again. Lift, lift.”

“I’m lifting,” Tessa hissed out between clenched teeth. But she tried a little harder, entire body straining against the torque of the bow, arms shaking, sweat sliding down her spine despite the cold.

She’d quickly found that there was a tremendous difference between being told that it took a great deal of strength to draw a bow, and actually trying it. Yesterday morning, during that first impromptu lesson, Estrid had – to Tessa’s embarrassment – gone into the armory and come out with a small recurve bow that she’d declared to be a child’s, smirking as she did so. “I think it was Rune’s when he was six.”

“Thank you,” Tessa had grumbled, cheeks burning in the face of Estrid’s chuckling.

But, despite the smirks and insults she couldn’t seem to suppress, Estrid proved a capable instructor – even if Tessa was a less than capable student.

“You’re holding it too long. Nock, draw, aim, loose.”

Tessa let go. The string let out a loud twang, and the arrow arced – too high, too slow. It landed at the very edge of the target, in the white, outside of the painted bullseye.

“Damn,” she muttered, more than a little shocked at herself; she didn’t curse, as a general rule, because it wasn’t ladylike.

But being a lady in the North wasn’t the same as back home, was it?

Estrid laughed – not unkindly. “There it is.”

Tessa rounded on her with a frown. “There what is?”

“Your backbone. I know you have one – you wouldn’t still be here if you didn’t – but you don’t like showing it, do you?”

Tessa scowled at her, and earned the sort of toothy grin only ever seen on the boys in Drakewell, never the demure, soft-handed ladies.

Well, save for Amelia. Tessa was struck by the idea that she and Estrid might actually be friends, if they ever met.

“Here.” Estrid grew serious, and asked for the bow with an open hand. When she had it, she plucked another arrow from the basket beside them, nocked, aimed, and loosed in one fluid, long-practiced movement.

“You make it look easy,” Tessa complained.

“Nothing’s easy: practice just makes it look that way.” She passed the bow back. “Try again. This time, don’t take so long aiming. Holding too long is a strain, and it throws off the trajectory.”

Tessa flexed her fingers and selected another arrow. She felt like she was rushing, like she wasn’t being careful enough. The muscles in her arms, back, and shoulders protested, burning – but the shot hit the outer ring of the bullseye this time.”

“That was better.”

But the praise hadn’t come from Estrid.

Tessa whipped around – Estrid did, too – and there stood Rune just inside the yard, arms folded, shoulder braced against the wall.

Tessa gasped.

Rune grinned, though his expression was overall puzzled. He glanced down the length of the yard, toward the target. “So this is what you were doing. Not quite what I imagined.”

Then his gaze shifted to Estrid, and the smile fell away. “Lady Estrid.”

Estrid bobbed a quick curtsy. “Your grace.” She made to leave.

Tessa grabbed at her sleeve, feeling almost desperate, suddenly. It wasn’t as if she’d been caught doing something wrong – she knew that, logically. At no point had anyone here made her feel like she couldn’t make decisions for herself; Revna had even begun her training.

But here she was attempting to learn Rune’s greatest skill, and she felt like she’d been sneaking around, somehow.

“Where are you going?” she whispered to Estrid.

“Back to bed.” She stepped forward, pulling her sleeve loose with a deft hitch of one shoulder. “You have a far more capable instructor at your disposal now.” She shot Tessa a smirk before walking off.

Leaving them alone.

Rune waited until she was gone, one last, dismissive glance cast at her back, his nostrils flaring – he really didn’t like her at all – before he walked forward to join Tessa, hands coming to rest on his belt. He tilted his head as he regarded her, and a thick lock of hair come loose from his simple topknot shifted against his jaw as he smirked at her. “Archery, huh?”

He hadn’t braided his hair yet, she couldn’t help but notice, insides shivering pleasantly. Hadn’t done it sloppily himself, nor asked his mother to do it. Later, when they went inside, she would do it herself; rub fragrant oil through it with her fingertips, and lace the strands in intricate patterns – knot the ends with lover’s beads.

I wanted to be useful, she thought to say, though she knew he would argue against that. We’ve talked about that, and they had, extensively. An old reflex, an instinct toward politeness, for helpfulness.

Instead, she found herself mirroring his head tilt, his smile, and saying, “Estrid’s a surprisingly helpful teacher.”

His brows lifted. “It isn’t that she isn’t skilled. She’s just…” His nose wrinkled. “Insufferable.”

Tessa laughed. “Not as much as I first thought. She’s just…Northern.”

“Or…insufferable.”

She plucked at his cloak, before she could check the impulse. “She’s being rather helpful, actually.”

He feigned intense shock.

She rolled her eyes. “I think it helped making it clear to her that I wasn’t betrothed to Leif.”

“Ah. Well. That makes sense.”

A sharp gust funneled between them, lifting snow crystals, snatching at the hems of their cloaks. Rune took a step and closed the distance between them; reached to pull the halves of her cloak snug beneath her chin, the backs of his bare hands warm as they skimmed along her jaw in the process.

Tessa shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

“Why didn’t you ask me, if you wanted to learn?” he asked, curious rather than hurt.

“It started by accident, really. I came down to practice, but there were so many people already in the yard, and then Estrid volunteered to teach me. So…” She shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret. But I didn’t want to bother you while you were–”

“Don’t say ‘recovering,’” he said on a theatrical groan. “I’m so bloody tired of recovering.

“I know.” He still held her cloak, large hands bundled up beneath her chin, and she reached to curl her fingers around his wrist. Touching like this, innocently, wasn’t new anymore, but it still left her chest fluttering. Left her wanting more. They were supposed to wait – supposed to make an announcement, and have a proper wedding. Supposed to wait out whatever was to happen with the Sels, and give Leif a chance to come home, to tell him in person what she’d decided – and give Rune the opportunity to apologize and ask for his brother’s blessing.

But touching him, even like this, made the waiting so hard.

And not just for her, if the way his pupils expanded, and his breath came quicker was any indication.

His voice had lowered a notch, roughened a fraction when he said, “I could help you. Since I’m here.”

She felt the quickened thump of his pulse against her thumb, where it pressed to the tender inside of his wrist. Her own voice came out a touch breathless. “That would be” – she swallowed – “nice. But. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

His smile this time was slight, and soft, and turned her insides to jelly, eyes bright with affection, lightly teasing, incredibly fond. “You could never hurt me, Tess.”

That wasn’t what she’d meant at all, but she let him tow her forward, so he could slot himself at her back, cage her in safely with his arms, and show her how to use his weapon of choice.

~*~

Revna’s bedchamber had once belonged to her grandmother: an airy space with a wide hearth and plenty of windows, one of which was fixed in a curved, bow wall, with a padded ledge from which to gaze out upon the gardens. Grandmother had so loved the flowers and paved walkways of the garden, the fountains that trickled in summer and the bright-red leaves of the imported maples in autumn.

Flowers were fine, but Revna had always preferred the view of the training yard, which she could just glimpse beyond the dormant rose hedges. In the pre-dawn dark, it was lit by torches, and orange light puddled over two intertwined figures, the larger giving the smaller an archery lesson that was more about pressing two bodies together than it was about accuracy.

She sighed to herself, from her seat in the window ledge, and remembered what it was like to be a girl; to be so smitten that it was worth pretending she didn’t understand something, just to feel strong arms around her.

Behind her, bedclothes rustled. A deep sigh. A low, sleep-rough voice said, “Come back to bed.”

It wasn’t first light, but the palace was already awake: the fires were lit in the kitchen, maids were toting linens; servants attended to all the hearths. It was time to feed the horses and the livestock; time for the guard shift to change. Doubtless babies stirred in mothers’ arms down in the overcrowded hall, and sleepy children were already inquiring about breakfast. Someone up on the wall was keeping a sharp eye for approaching birds, looking north, in the hopes that their king would return.

There were a thousand things Revna needed to attend to. Dozens of mouths ready with a my lady. Too much to do, and not enough time…

But she climbed from the window seat with one last glance at her son and his betrothed, and went back to bed.

Bjorn lay as she’d left him, on his back, taking up entirely too much of the mattress, covers pooled around his waist so that the flame from the single candle she’d lit slid orange and sinuous over the hard lines of his torso.

She felt a low, deep, automatic clenching between her legs as she rested a knee on the edge of the mattress and hovered there a moment, looking her fill. She could do that, now; didn’t have to steal glances and fill in the parts that were covered with her imagination. She’d never been very good at being patient like that, or meek like that. It was so much better to have the chance to stare, like she’d always wanted to.

He was far from the rangy, awkward youth he’d been once upon a time. Back then he’d been all too-big shoulders, feet, and hands, comically skinny and so tall he’d sometimes hunched his shoulders to better blend in with his friends. In the years since, training, fighting, working, he’d filled out in a delectable way: all hard-earned, solid muscle and healthy fat. A strength clearly seen – and one she’d now felt, up close and personal, his bulk over her, between her spread thighs, pressing her down into the mattress.

He grinned, slow and lazy, eyes half-lidded, as if he knew exactly which path her thoughts were traveling. “Enjoying the view?”

“What view?” she grumbled, face heating. “There’s a bloody bear in my bed.”

He laughed.

Revna climbed the rest of the way in, lay down snuggled up against him – and socked him in the arm. Which only made him laugh harder. A low, deep sound that vibrated through her – gods, it had been so long since she’d felt that. Since she’d raked her nails through chest hair and felt a man’s ribs shifting against her own while he laughed, low and true.

She’d missed that, those small intimacies. Sex, yes, but also waking up together, and lying tangled in bed first thing in the morning, in those quiet hours before they had to dress and don their royal roles for the day. She’d missed them in general – missed Torstan – but that wasn’t what this was about. Getting to share those things with Bjorn was a thrill and an unimagined comfort all at once. She had always loved him like family, as a surrogate brother, someone to be trusted completely…but now she knew what his mouth tasted like; knew how much pleasure he could give her, and it was all hopelessly, gloriously tangled in a way she’d never expected, but now couldn’t imagine doing without.

His arm pushed between her shoulder and the mattress; his hand settled on her far shoulder and pulled her even closer. She didn’t think of herself as a small woman, but he made her feel tiny, and she was enjoying that more than she’d expected. He made her feel safe, protected; like she could rest a moment, and let someone help her shoulder the burden.

“I need to get up,” she said, but made no move to do so. Once she got up, it would be nothing but go-go-go until well past nightfall. If she stayed here like this, she could pretend they weren’t waiting on a war to unfold.

He hummed a disagreeing sound. Trailed the big, callused tips of his fingers down and back up her arm. “It’s too early for that.”

“It’s never too early for the lady of the palace,” she argued, and then yawned so wide her jaw popped. She frowned, frustrated by the failings of her own mortal body. “Tessa’s already up.”

“That’s because Tessa is trying to impress a boy. Whereas yours truly is already impressed plenty, so you don’t have to go getting up early to work on that front.”

A laugh built in her throat, unbidden, and she let it out in a quiet huff. “Gods. I’ve created a monster, haven’t I?”

“I was already a monster, love,” he said, easily.

She pressed her face to the hard swell of his chest. “My monster.”

His hand stilled a moment; his swallow was audible. “Yours,” he agreed.

A simple declaration, and one that should not have been more stirring than an I love you. She knew that he loved her, had known a long time, and now had it confirmed. But something about yours left her heart soaring. The thought of someone as big, and fierce, and strong as him placing his heart in her hands and giving her ownership…it left her more than a little breathless.

All those sensations were chased immediately by guilt. How could she find anything to smile about in their current circumstances?

Bjorn’s hand slid up over her shoulder, and his fingers raked carefully through her hair. “You’re thinking very loudly.”

“There’s a lot to think about.” When he stilled a moment, she realized how he might have interpreted that, and added, “Do you think Él reached them? That they know?”

His fingers resumed their slow drag, working through pillow tangles with surprising dexterity. “She got past the vultures. If Leif was anywhere between here and Dreki Hörgr, she found him.”

It was what she’d told Tessa when she’d asked; the words of assurance she’d offered the guards, and ladies, and maids alike. But she didn’t have to be sure, here now with Bjorn; she could doubt, and worry, and he could pet the tangles from her hair and offer assurances of his own.

She exhaled, smiling when she saw the way it stirred his chest hair. She scratched through it with her nails, and said, “Whatever happens, I’m glad about this. About us.”

His hand cupped the side of her skull, big enough to encompass nearly her whole head. “Me, too,” he murmured.

And then the morning was shattered by the blast of a horn on the wall.

~*~

“There. Just like that.” Rune was strong and warm at her back, his hands dwarfing hers where he helped her grip the arrow, and draw back the bowstring. Her muscles didn’t quiver, and the bow didn’t shake, and she knew it was all down to him; that he was the one truly controlling the weapon, and she was just letting him move her. But she tried to focus – tried not to think too much about the way his warm breath stirred her hair, and whispered past her ear. Tried to ignore the warm, steady thump of his heartbeat between her shoulder blades. “Ready?”

She nodded.

“And…loose.” They let go together, and, with Rune’s other hand steadying hers on the bow, the arrow snapped forward, a straight shot that landed in the yellow-painted center of the target.

“Ha!” Rune cheered, clasping both her shoulders and squeezing. “You did it!”

“More like you did it.” She tried and failed not to sound bitter about it.

He laughed, and leaned down to press his lips to her cheek – he lingered a little, long enough that the butterflies in her belly fluttered. “Do you think I could draw and shoot properly when I first started?” he whispered, like a secret.

“It honestly wouldn’t surprise me.”

He laughed again – with her, she could tell, and not at her. A low, rich, sweet laugh that prompted her to turn in his arms, bow forgotten against her thigh as she threaded her fingers through the silver cord ties of his leather tunic.

His hands ducked beneath the fall of her cloak to grip her waist, his expression fond, dark eyes bright in the torchlight. “You’ll get it. It just takes practice.”

She didn’t share his confidence, but he smiled so warmly at her that she could only smile back – and stand up on her toes when he leaned down to press his cold lips to hers. A soft kiss, not as unrestrained and heated as the ones they’d shared in the royal apartments, away from the prying eyes of passing guardsmen, but it sent a thrill through her all the same. She wanted to announce their betrothal formally; wanted to confess the truth to Leif, so that she and Rune could be properly together. So they could be married beneath a snow-dusted arbor in the garden, and so that he could touch her more. All those generalized longings were taking firmer shape with every brush of hands or lips, and she wanted him, more eager than afraid, now.

He lifted a hand to cup her face, bowstring calluses catching at her jaw as he angled her head, and traced her lip with the tip of his tongue.

A horn sounded. Three sharp blasts that echoed off the stone walls of the yard, and of the palace itself.

Rune’s hand tightened on her waist, and they pulled back from one another, breath catching, eyes widening. His look of shock confirmed her fear: the horn was an alarm.

Around them: shouts, and the clank and chime of mail and armor as guards spilled out of the rear door of the palace and made for the stairs that led up to the wall.

Tessa’s heart lurched and stumbled.

“It’s the Sels,” Rune said, breath pluming white between them. “They’re moving.”

~*~

Revna stepped into her boots, drew a heavy robe over her night rail, and dashed from the room.

“Wait,” Bjorn protested, in the act of tugging on yesterday’s trousers, but she didn’t; bolted through the common room and down the hall, loose hair streaming behind her as she made fast for the stairs, swinging up at the tail end of a jogging guard regiment.

Another sequence of horn blasts sounded; she recognized the order to lower the gate, and raise the drawbridge.

The Sels were coming, at last.

She burst through the door at the top of the stairs and out onto the parapet, cold air rushing into her lungs, her pulse throbbing in her ears.

“My lady!”

“My lady!” Startled exclamations from guards as she elbowed her way through them and rushed to the edge of the roof.

“The gate is closing?” she asked, gaze flicking down to check it herself.

“Yes, my lady.”

In the glow of twin iron braziers, she could see the heavy dark panel of the bridge lifting; could hear the rattle of chains as the gate lowered.

“The enemy?”

“Landing, my lady.” A guard stepped up beside her and pointed.

Someone passed her a spyglass, and she lifted it to her eye with shaking hands. It took a long moment, panning back and forth across the blurred darkness of the road, before she glimpsed the pinpricks of light down at the harbor. Through the glass, she could make out the silhouettes of boats full of rowers – and of soldiers, the torches in the bows glinting off plate armor.

She shifted the glass, and saw that ropes and pulleys were lowering a sequence of flat barges down over the sides of the high Selesee ships, stacked with strapped-down wood: siege engines. The broken-down parts that would compose rams, and towers, and trebuchets. She’d heard tales of the Selesee trebuchets…their reach, the precision of their manners’ aim.

The glass slipped, and she lowered it to find that her palms were slick with sweat. She passed it off to a guard and wiped her hands down the front of her robe.

Her heart fluttered in her throat, but her voice came out sure when she said, “Man the scorpions. I want fore and rear archers.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Have oil sent up to the murder holes,” Bjorn’s voice intoned from behind her, and just the sound of him eased some of her internal shaking.

“Yes, captain!” Heavy boots thumped over stone, and shouts issued from several mouths.

Down below, torches flared to life in the yard. The two acres between the outer wall and the palace façade filled with hurrying guardsmen. The catapults were roped, and armed, and drawn, ready for the slice of the axe. Archers with bristling quivers mounted the stairs to the parapet of the outer wall, where bowls of pitch awaited them.

Bjorn’s hands landed on her shoulders from behind. “We’re ready,” he said, far surer than she felt.

“Is ready enough?” she whispered. “Enough against them?” The bright pinpricks of lit torches gathered along the docks, no more than fairy glow from this distance.

He squeezed her shoulders, but didn’t answer.

“Mum!” Footsteps clattered across the stones behind her. When she turned, Bjorn turned with her, and didn’t let go. She couldn’t bring herself to care if Rune – and Tessa, torchlight catching on streaming red hair at Rune’s side – read anything incriminating in the touch. Now was not the time to worry about explaining her love life to the children.

“Mum,” he repeated, drawing to a panting halt in front of her. Tessa gripped his sleeve. “Are they landing?”

It was easier to be brave in front of the children, somehow. They were looking to her, with matching big-eyed, frightened stares. Rune tried to look eager, but his arm stole around Tessa’s waist, and she knew he was afraid, because they were all afraid.

“Yes,” she said. “They’re coming.”

11

Long Reach

Oliver sipped his tea, blinked the last crust of sleep from his eyes, and focused on what Snorri was telling him.

“…now, I won’t go telling you how to steer, because I’m not a Drake and that’s between you and him, but we did our best to recreate the bridle old Percival used to use.”

At sound of his name, Percy’s great blue eye rolled toward them, and he let out a huff of quiet breath.

To Snorri’s credit, his chuckle was amused, rather than nervous. Percy had been nothing but a gentleman with regards to the team of smiths and tanners who’d cobbled together his rig. The female – Kat – as well, though she tended to be more aloof in general. Like a mare, Oliver supposed.

“Now, your lordship, here are the reins – they tie in like so, and this chain here beneath his chin gives him room to get his jaws fully open, even while bridled.” Considering the rush, it was a well-stitched, handsome piece. Much like a horse’s bridle, it fit down his long face, secured by straps across his brow and behind his spiraled horns. The bit wasn’t a bit in the true since of the word: rather than a noseband, two curved, flexible metal bars were secured beneath Percy’s chin by a section of thin chain, and rings allowed the reins to slid forward and offer more slack. The reins themselves were secured all down the long length of his neck by leather straps and more rings, so they didn’t flap free.

Snorri walked along Percy’s side, pointing. “And here’s the saddle.”

They’d reused the old one, oiling it until it shone, until it was supple and soft. A shallow seat with a high cantle, and a metal ring on its pommel. It was secured by a wide, sturdy-looking girth and breastplate.

Snorri reached up on his tiptoes to grip one of the stirrups fixed to the side of the girth. “It’s not pretty enough for a lord such as yourself, I’d wager, but it’ll hold. My boys do good work.”

“They do,” Oliver agreed, some of his nerves allayed by the heavy stitching and solid, gleaming quality of the leather. “That there on the pommel, that’s for–?”

“Oh, yes. That’s where you’ll secure your harness.”

A jangle of buckles announced an apprentice’s arrival, and with bowed head, and cheeks just visibly pink in the torchlight, he offered a tangle of leather straps to Oliver.

“This is it?” He’d seen the one in the painting of Percival, but that was an artistic rendering, and hardly a practical diagram.

“Yeah, we modeled it after the rigs the old ice harvesters used to wear!”

Oliver didn’t ask what those were, but instead stepped through the leg straps, pulled another set up over his shoulders, and secured it all around his waist with a belt. They were all adjustable, which proved valuable, given he was wearing a stiff leather jerkin and pauldrons over his thickest wool tunic and trousers.

“How foolish do I look?” he asked when the whole thing was secured. “Because it feels like the answer is ‘very.’”

“That’s only because you’re missing something,” Erik’s voice called from beyond the puddle of torchlight. He strode into view, and even fresh from bed, his braids unraveling, a cloak pulled hastily around his shoulders, there was no mistaking him for anything besides a king. The light carved harsh planes across his face, leaped and flickered in the strong hollow of his throat, and Oliver’s insides throbbed with want.

Percy lifted his head, buckles on his new bridle jangling as he swung around to look at Erik – to greet him, Oliver realized, as the drake leaned in close and huffed through his nose, breath stirring Erik’s hair. Erik lifted his free hand – because he carried something tucked under his arm with the other, Oliver saw – and placed his palm gently on the end of Percy’s nose.

Percy breathed in, and out, his eyes blinked shut, and he turned away, seemingly satisfied. The bond in the back of Oliver’s mind flared with acceptance, and even a hint of liking. Percy slanted him a look that seemed to say, Well, if you like him, I suppose I can as well.

Not just like – love, Oliver returned.

Percy snorted.

“I was trying to let you sleep a little longer,” Oliver said, when Erik reached him.

A single black brow lifted. “And you thought to do that by leaving without a goodbye?”

“No, I’m not leaving.” His face heated, and he fought a childish impulse to fidget. Erik hadn’t caught him sneaking around, but that’s what it felt like. “I wanted to – practice. A bit. Before we departed.”

“Before Náli dragged himself out of bed and appeared to make fun of you, you mean.”

Oliver frowned.

Erik reached to cup his cheek, a quick, but warm, caring touch. Then he offered up what he’d been carrying. “If you’re going to wear armor, you should complete the suit. And I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that you do wear the armor.”

Oliver flapped his arms, showing off the gear he’d already put on. “Have to insist?”

“I’m your king, aren’t I?” Erik sounded a touch flustered. “Here. Try it on.”

It was a helmet – an old one, based on its lines. Narrow, and long down the sides, two swooping panels of hammered steel that would hang nearly to his shoulders. A fluted nosepiece and arches over the eyes; a slotted visor on hinges that could be worn up or down. Oliver had seen its like in books: an old calvary helmet from Aquitainia: from the Crownlands calvary, specifically. It was a little dented in places, and in need of a good polish, but the long, bleached horsehair plume on the crest looked to be in good condition, still; it hung down over Erik’s arm and fluttered in the breeze.

Oliver took it from him, surprised by its heft. “Where on earth did you get this?”

“Oh, that was in the armory here,” Snorri said. “We’ve got all sorts of odd bits and bobs floating around.”

The mental image of Erik up to his elbows in dusty equipment, digging for something special, put a smile on Oliver’s face that had Erik immediately suspicious.

“What?”

“You’re cute.”

Erik blushed. Cleared his throat. “Put your helmet on and have your practice, then.”

“So long as you stand there and continue to be cute.”

“Ollie.”

Snorri didn’t try to hide his laughter.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Oliver assured.

The helmet was cold, and heavy, but well-padded. He buckled it beneath his chin and turned his head side to side, trying to get the hang of his newly-limited visibility. “Shit,” he murmured. He’d never worn a helmet before – never had a need to. Sickly bastards didn’t ride to war. Didn’t…

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Oliver,” Erik said.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Percy’s back was higher than that of any horse, and so a secondary stirrup had been fixed down low on the girth. Oliver put his foot in it, gathered up the reins, and scrambled less than gracefully up into the saddle before he could think better of it.

He took a moment to settle; to stare down at the ground far below, and to find the stirrups with his feet. To feel the swell of Percy’s ribs beneath his calves as he breathed. He searched for fear and couldn’t find it; inquired to Percy, and met only acceptance and eagerness. This was right. They were meant to fly together.

Erik stepped in close and gripped the snow-dusted toe of his boot. “All right?”

Oliver nodded. He didn’t know if he ought to hold the reins differently, so he secured the oiled leather under his thumb and between his last two fingers, as if he was mounted on a horse. “All right.” He reached down to lay a gloved hand on Percy’s neck. “You might want to step back for this part. We’re just going up and coming right back down,” he assured, when Erik tipped a frankly lost look up to him.

A beat passed before Erik nodded. “Right.” He backed away, Snorri alongside him.

Oliver wanted to offer the words that would ease his worry…but didn’t think any existed. He could only show him that he was capable.

He took a deep breath, and threw open the half-cracked door between his mind and Percy’s. Let’s go.

Wide, white wings spready with a snap. Percy settled low in his haunches, coiling like a spring.

“The harness, your lordship!” Snorri reminded.

Shit. Right. Oliver snapped the twin hooks onto the rings on the pommel, as Percy gathered a huge breath, raised his wings, and then leaped.

At first, it felt like a horse rearing beneath him.

But then it felt like nothing he’d ever known, as Percy sprang up into the air, dropped his wings, and began climbing effortlessly up and up. Snow swirled all around them. Snorri and Erik shielded their faces – faces that grew smaller and smaller as Percy continued his climb.

Oliver leaned low over his sinuous neck, tipped his head back, and looked up into the morning’s fading stars through the twin arches of his helmet. The steady, strong beat of Percy’s wings left the drake’s back dropping out from under him on each stroke, and Oliver was grateful for the harness and its clips. Erik had been right: this was nothing like riding a horse.

But all the strange new sensations were overridden by Percy’s calm reassurance. The promise that he would care for Oliver, and never drop him on purpose.

It seemed to take hours, but was only seconds, and then Percy’s wings spread wide, and they leveled out. Oliver sat up straight, peered over Percy’s shoulder at the ground below, and gasped.

He’d glimpsed this view in his dreams; in those strange, wakeful moments when the world had turned blue and his and Percy’s minds had melded to one. But then, the scene had always been fuzzy and indistinct. Now, he had a crisp, perfect look down at the now-tiny fortress of Long Reach, the pinpricks of torches rippling on walls and down in the yard. If he squinted, he could just make out the black specks that were Erik, and Snorri, and the guards at their posts.

A laugh bubbled up in his throat, and the wind of their passing snatched it off his lips. He was flying – he was flying.

He used the reins, but lightly. Most of their communication was mental – or perhaps psychic was the better word. Oliver only had to look in a direction, and Percy turned, large body elegant as a dancer’s in the air like this.

They circled above the fortress until Oliver’s face was numb from the cold, and until he felt secure in the saddle, leaning with Percy rather than bracing against him. When the time came to land, Oliver leaned low, laughing again, and urged Percy into a fast dive. His wings spread at the last moment, beat a few times, and he landed light as thistledown in the yard.

Erik’s eyes, when Oliver found and met them, were very, very wide.

“What do you think?” Oliver called.

It was Snorri who answered: “I think it’s official lad: you’re a dragon rider.”

~*~

Náli woke shaking, sick to his stomach, with a throbbing headache…and only the blurriest memories of the night before. A recollection of blond hair – wrong, all wrong, because Mattias’s hair was brown – and strong hands on his waist…holding him at bay, rather than pulling him in. He grimaced against the gentle glow of candle flame, and rolled toward the source of the hand that had jostled him gently awake.

His stomach lurched when he saw that it was Klemens, and not Mattias perched on the side of his bed.

“Time to get up, my lord,” he said, softly, but not sweetly, the way that Mattias so often said it. Klemens was being respectful of his head, of the no-doubt ugly face he was making and the early hour, but there was no tenderness there. Only the proper amount of respect.

Náli was going to be sick.

“His Majesty and Lord Oliver are waiting,” Klemens prodded.

“Fine, fine, I’m getting up.”

He felt even worse once he was on his feet, but there was nothing to be done for it. He splashed his face with cold water from the ewer, drank down a cup of the same, and dressed in his warmest wools – and his armor. Chainmail and tough, boiled leather; gauntlets and greaves and his helm that was fashioned after a skull, its top set with long, beaded, horsehair braids that clinked against the steel cheek plates. When he left his room, Klemens leading the way, with the others, sans Mattias, falling into step behind him, it was as the Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands, rather than the confused, desperate boy he’d been last night in his cups.

By the time they reached the arched doorway that led out into the yard, his heart was in his throat, and it had nothing to do with an excess of wine. He glimpsed the orange dance of torchlight on snow, and the hulking shadows cast by the drakes.

At the open threshold, the master of Long Reach, Snorri, and an apprentice smith met him, the boy carrying a mess of leather straps and new silver buckles. “Good morning, my lord,” Snorri greeted, far too brightly for the early hour. “We’ve your harness here.”

Ah, yes, a harness, because he was about to strap himself to a flying beast and go harrying off across the kingdom. But saying that would make him look weak, and he’d looked weak enough as it was last night. He wondered who besides Leif had seen him like that. Someone had carried him back to his room, undressed him, tucked him into bed. Mattias? Or had his captain become so disgusted with him that he’d left the task to Klemens?

The thought left his eyes burning, but he blinked, and, in his coldest tone, said, “Yes, of course.”

When the apprentice moved to help him, Klemens took the harness into his own hands and did so instead. The Dead Guard, as a rule, did not entrust the safety of their master to others – which made this whole scenario that much more difficult, he realized, as Klemens finished cinching the belt and lifted his face, expression grave and penetrating.

“My lord,” he said, quietly, “you need not do this.”

Náli kicked his chin up. “I do, actually. The faster the siege at Aeres is lifted, the faster I can return to Naus and go down into the well. That’s what you all want, isn’t it? This is the most expedient way to reach that end,” he said, coldly, and stepped around him.

Only to be nearly bowled over by the little drake. By Valgrind. He had named the damn thing, after all.

“Manners,” Náli chided, holding up both hands.

Valgrind only warbled happily, licked his gloved palms, and then closed his eyes and shoved his face into them, asking to be petted.

Náli sighed – but scratched him up behind his horns in the way he liked. “You stupid thing,” he chided, and Valgrind made another happy noise in his throat.

“Finally,” Oliver’s voice called – from above. Náli craned to look around Valgrind and found him already mounted on Percy’s back, looking small and nearly fragile up there so high, like an infant perched on a warhorse.

It should have been a comical sight, but Náli found he couldn’t laugh. In patchwork armor, and a plumed helmet not unlike his own, Oliver looked easy and confident astride the beast, settled in his skin in a way he never had before.

He truly was a Drake, and all the old legends were true, apparently.

But that didn’t mean this would all work out so easily for Náli, who, magic or no, didn’t have his mind linked with that of a drake.

Valgrind nudged his shoulder, and even if he was a stupid baby, Náli wished he was riding the dragon who clearly liked him so much, rather than Percy’s stoic mate.

“Come on, Náli,” Oliver said. “Kat’s ready.”

Náli shot him a glare. “I refuse to call her that. You can’t name a dragon Kat.”

Oliver laughed, unbothered. “I already did.”

“No, because I forbid it.”

“This way, my lord,” Snorri said. “We’ve already saddled her.”

And so they had. She stood beside Percy, head ducked as she cleaned the sharp white claws of her foreleg with a blue tongue. Like Percy, she wore a saddle secured with girth and breastplate, and a strange, bitless bridle whose reins were secured down the length of her neck with straps and rings. She paused in her ministrations and lifted her head, cocked it warily as Náli approached. Her blue eyes were narrow, and questioning, and all at once Náli went from nervous to petrified. This wouldn’t work. She wouldn’t allow him to mount. Or, worse, she would roll over in the sky and dump him once they got up in the air.

But then she turned her head sharply to the side, and regarded Oliver a moment. Oliver stared at her in a speaking way, and goosebumps broke out beneath Náli’s clothes. He’d never been in the company of another magic-user, or if he had, it had been his own father, and he couldn’t remember the man. The hair prickled at his nape, and though he had no idea what was said, he could sense that communication passed between man and beast. When the drake turned back to him, it was with a softer gaze, and she lowered her head to snuffle at his chest, her breath cold when it struck the exposed skin of his neck. He suppressed a shudder.

Oliver said, “You may not be able to speak to her directly, but she doesn’t dislike you. She’s agreed to let you fly with her. I think she’ll listen to leg and rein commands.”

“You think,” Náli deadpanned, and reached up to stroke the pearl-slick scales of her face. She closed her eyes and leaned into the touch.

“I know she will,” Oliver corrected himself. “She knows that you’re a friend.”

“Oh. Well. So long as she knows that.”

“Náli,” Oliver said, drawing his gaze, his own serious when Náli finally met it. “It’s not too late to–”

“I dare you to say ‘back out of this.’ I’m not you, your lordship. I’m no craven, soft Southerner who’s never–”

“My lord.”

Mattias’s voice. His tone low, but the words wrapping around Náli’s throat like a hand and choking off the rest of his ill-advised insult.

He turned, pulse a high drumbeat in his ears, and found his captain standing two paces behind him, Náli’s sheathed sword cradled in his arms like a babe.

Why weren’t you there when I woke?

Were you the one who carried me?

Do you know that I threw myself at a prince last night?

Will you forgive me?

Do I want you to?

Náli wet dry lips and said, “I thought you weren’t coming.”

Mattias cleared his throat, and maybe it was Náli’s imagination, but his voice sounded strange. “I wanted to wish you safe travels, my lord. And to give you this.” He lifted the sword.

Náli stepped forward, reaching for it.

But Mattias ducked his head and said, “If you’ll allow me, my lord.”

His men always buckled him into his armor – Klemens had done so only minutes ago in his room, cinching pauldrons and greaves and fastening his cloak with a skull-shaped pin set with diamonds. But he wasn’t prepared for the way his stomach flipped when Mattias closed the gap between them, lifted his cloak out of the way, and reached around his waist to secure the sword belt – low on his hips, just the way he liked.

It wasn’t possible, but Náli imagined he felt the heat of Mattias’s fingertips through his layers of wool and mail; definitely felt the stuttered heat of Mattias’s breath against his face as the buckle clicked and clanked and finally was fastened.

Mattias didn’t draw back right away, as he should have. As was proper. He lingered a moment, breath steaming between them, head still ducked so that Náli couldn’t see the look in his eyes, fingertips hooked in the sword belt.

In a quiet voice meant only for the two of them, Mattias said, “I do not doubt your skill, nor your bravery, nor your ability to achieve the impossible. You are the strongest person I know, Ná – my lord. But, please, please promise me you’ll be careful.” His gaze lifted, then, and through a screen of dark lashes, it burned.

Náli swallowed with difficulty, and gripped Mattias’s gauntleted forearms. All his anger had dried up in the face of that look. “I will.”

“Are you ready to mount, my lord?” Snorri called.

Náli took one last guilty-pleasure look at Mattias’s face, then stepped around him, and headed for the saddle.

~*~

The open longing on Mattias’s face as he watched Náli swing aboard Kat was too undisguised to look at for long; it felt like an intrusion, so Oliver turned away.

Only to be met once again by Erik’s upturned face, and its own tense lines of worry. With a lurch, Oliver realized they hadn’t been separated so much as a day since their first kiss; they’d journeyed together, been captives together, escaped together, and spent every night curled around one another, bundled beneath furs against the cold. He’d never been that close to anyone, and now, suddenly, they were to part – the chance of meeting again less than certain.

Erik was much too far away, down there.

The moment he’d thought it, Percy was settling down so he lay on his belly in the snow, legs tucked beneath him. Oliver was still taller than Erik, like this, but close enough that, before he could even request it, Erik had gripped his stirrup, hauled himself up, and caught the back of his helmeted head in his other hand.

“Be careful,” he said, sternly, eyes full of fear.

“I will.”

Erik hauled him down into a fast, fierce kiss, and stepped back with obvious regret. “I’ll see you in a few days,” he said, like a prayer and a promise both.

“You will,” Oliver called back, as Percy rose to his feet again, and spread his wings. “I’ll warm your throne up for you!”

Erik grinned, a crooked flash of white against the dark morning.

Percy coiled beneath him.

Beside him, Kat’s wings rustled, and snapped, and Náli said, “Oh, bollocks, this is – ahhh!”

The drakes leaped into the air, the young one, Valgrind, bugling happily all the way up toward the clouds.

12

Aeres

“What should we – where should we–?” Tessa’s heart was lodged in her throat, and it made it hard to push the words out.

The Sels were coming. The war was starting.

Revna turned away from the open trunk at the foot of her bed and clasped her hands around both of Tessa’s, which were knotted together and squeezing in time to her pulse. Tessa stilled, dragged in a breath, and met Revna’s stern gaze.

“Tessa. Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Not very well, lamb. Come on. With me. In, and out. In, and out.”

The dark spots at the edges of Tessa’s vision receded.

“There. Keep breathing. Whatever happens, I need you to keep breathing.” Delivered as a command, one that left no room for disobedience.

Tessa jerked a nod.

Only minutes ago, up on the ramparts, Revna had turned at the sound of their approach, loose hair whipping across her face, Bjorn’s hands big and sturdy on her shoulders – seemingly all that held her upright. Are they…? She’d wondered, only briefly, because the tiny fairy lights of torches down at the harbor had chilled her to the bone. Coming, they were coming.

But then, as a low roar like waves had started up in Tessa’s ears, Revna had seemed to shake herself, and taken her hand. “Come with me. We have to prepare.” And now here they stood in Revna’s bedchamber, with its rumpled sheets, and two wine cups on the bedside table, and a trunk spilling gowns and undergarments all over the floor. And Revna, the lady of the house once more, fierce and regal.

“Now, let’s see,” she said, surveying Tessa’s dress: the thick wool one with the high collar she’d worn for archery practice. She still wore her fur-lined cloak over it, its hem heavy with melting snow. “Yes, that will do. But we need” – she turned and rummaged through the trunk again, flinging out gloves, and caps, and – “ah, here we are.” She turned back with something made of soft brown leather held between both hands. “It might be a bit big, since it’s mine, but we should be able to cinch it up tight.”

Above them, even through layers of timber and stone, she could hear the running footfalls of the guards, the muted shouts of commands and questions.

Breathe, Revna had said. She had to keep breathing, no matter what.

“What – what is it?” she asked, taking the thing into trembling hands. Now that she looked, it resembled a corset, with its laces in back and stiff panels in front – but one that would cover her breasts fully and which fastened at the back of the neck with a stiff collar set with flat metal studs.

“Armor,” Revna said, then made a face. “Of a type. Better than nothing, and lighter than mail.” She motioned with a finger and Tessa turned around and unclasped her cloak. Revna took it from her, and then reached around to position the corset on top of her dress.

Tessa held it in place while Revna did the collar and laces, the rush of waves back in her ears. Breathe. Keep breathing.

She wet dry lips with a drier tongue and said, “I don’t have a sword of my own.”

Revna paused, the pressure of the laces slackening. “No,” she said, slowly, voice one of confusion. “You don’t. But I hardly think now is the time to commission a–”

“Then I’ll have to borrow one.” Swallowing took effort. “So that I may fight.”

Strong hands gripped her shoulders and spun her around. Revna tilted her head down, blue eyes wide and serious. “Tessa. Darling, no. You won’t be fighting.”

The words sent a surge of relief through her.

And a slap of shame.

She didn’t want to fight…but how could she hide indoors when the women here were so strong? So fearless and willing to take up arms alongside their men.

“But–”

“No, listen to me.” A gentle shake. “You are to be the next princess of Aeretoll. Your place is by my side, in the great hall, watching over our people.”

Our people.

Breathe. Keep breathing.

“The armor is just…” Revna hesitated, wincing. “It’s just in case. They will not breach these walls, not even if I have to man the murder holes myself. But. It’s better to prepare for something that won’t happen than to be taken by surprise.” Her brows lifted expectantly.

Numbly, Tessa nodded.

“Good girl.” She urged her to turn back around, and then finished lacing up the armored corset. A leather skirt that reached her knees, and a heavy, tooled leather belt came next.

It didn’t make Tessa feel any safer. She wasn’t sure anything could, at this point. She’d never lived through a siege, and wasn’t sure she would now. Wanted to help, to be one of them. Our people. But was terrified down to her bones. She wanted to cry, and bit her lip hard to keep the tears at bay.

“Here,” Revna said, when she was done, and Tessa looked down to see she was being offered a dagger. A large one, with an antler handle and a sheath set with tiny rubies in the shape of the family stag. “Just in case.” Revna smiled.

Tessa had never held a knife larger than what she’d need for dinner, but she buckled this one on, and, surprisingly, felt a little better with its weight against her hip.

~*~

“Two-thousand, you think?” Rune asked, squinting toward the mist-shrouded harbor, and its ever-thickening forest of lit torches.

Beside him, Bjorn clucked. “Look at those ships. I’d say at least ten-thousand.”

Rune gulped. “Right. Ten.”

The Great Norther Phalanx – with Uncle Erik at the head of the spear and all his lords and bannermen behind him – could have repelled ten-thousand Sels.

But the Great Norther Phalanx wasn’t here.

He gripped the edge of the parapet and tossed his hair back when the wind blew it across his face. Torches streamed over the tall sides of the Selesee ships, marching like ants down into rowboats, and onto barges strapped with siege engines; crawled along the coastline, and up the docks; flooded the narrow, sloping streets of Aeres proper, where shops, and sod-roofed houses sat dark-eyed, and silent.

Bjorn said, “They’re going to burn the city.”

“What?” Rune whipped around to look up at him – at his stern profile backlit by torchlight, his jaw set at a grim angle. “Why!? It’s empty!”

Bjorn let out an agitated breath, nostrils flaring. “This is why everyone’s always telling you to pay attention to your studies, you sheep head. War isn’t just about doing what you have to to win; it’s also about crushing your enemy’s spirit.” He tapped his temple. “It’s as much a head game as anything else. They want to make you desperate.”

Rune’s heart leaped against his ribs, hard knocks that left him dizzy. “Right.”

Bjorn nodded. “Watch.”

Rune had grown up hunting; had killed, and gutted, and skinned rabbits and deer and even a spotted cat, once. He was no stranger to blood. The hardest kill of all had been recently, when he’d been forced to put down his own horse, his head ringing from the fall, the young stallion screaming in agony before he set his blade to his throat. He didn’t think of himself as squeamish.

And yet his belly squirmed as he turned his head, slowly, so that he could see the tiny lights down in the city again. It took a long time for anything to happen.

“They have to lay down the oil,” Bjorn said.

The moment the words left his lips, a single flame licked up, high and bright, larger than all the torches. It danced, a lone banner against the indigo of dawn – and then it spread. Sputters, sparks; a soft orange glow like a sunrise. In a matter of minutes, the log walls of the homes, and of the temple, were ablaze.

“Gods,” Rune murmured.

“Go and braid your hair,” Bjorn said. “Dress in mail and leather. And put on Erik’s cloak of ceremony. They’ll send a rider, and you’ll need to be the one to meet them…your grace.”

Rune shuddered, and turned away from the blaze, whole body pulsing with the frantic beat of his heart.

Down in the common room of the royal apartments, he met his mother, and, a few steps behind her, Tessa. He stumbled to a halt, and did a double-take. Someone – Revna, of course – had dressed her in a lady’s leather armor: corset, collar, breastplate, and the heavy leather skirt, divided down the center to accommodate a riding dress. She carried a heavy knife on her belt, and her face was the color of sour milk, her freckles stark across the bridge of her nose.

Revna caught his gaze and sent him a warning look before he could speak. Don’t say it. He ground his molars, and nodded. He could comfort his betrothed, but today was not a day to coddle; to pretend that all would be well and that armor was unnecessary.

“We’re going down to the great hall to let everyone know what’s happening,” Revna said.

Beyond the diamond window panes, the sky was beginning to pink.

“They set fire to the city,” he said, miserably.

Tessa gasped.

Revna nodded. “I expected as much. They’ll send a rider.”

“I know. I’m off to make myself look like a prince.”

Another nod. “Tessa,” she said over her shoulder, “will you help him with his hair? Then come join me after.”

Tessa’s throat bobbed as she swallowed with obvious difficulty. “Yes.”

Revna touched his arm on her way out, a bracing gesture infused with motherly warmth, and he realized that while, yes, his hair needed braiding, she was also giving them a moment alone, in what might well be the last hour of quiet before the storm.

Rune nodded, and moved toward his betrothed.

The door closed softly behind them.

I’m sorry, he wanted to say. Please don’t be frightened. I’ll protect you. I’m so sorry you left one war and found yourself in the middle of another. None of it felt like the right thing to say. Leif, he reflected, would have known just how to approach her right now.

Rune tried to channel his brother as he took both of her small, unsteady hands into his own, and said, “You look lovely in leather.”

Damn it! He wanted to kick himself.

Tessa’s eyes widened – and then she snickered, an ugly little snort he found wildly endearing, and then was laughing in full.

He winced, his own smile threatening. “That was terrible, wasn’t it?”

“A bit.” She dashed at her eyes and smiled up at him – he’d say anything terrible he could think of if it got her smiling again. “But, truly, I think I look silly. This is your mother’s, and it’s” – she plucked at where it gaped a little, high on her chest – “not cut for a soft Southern girl.”

He reached to tuck a lock of fiery hair behind her ear, because he wanted to, and they were alone, and he could. “You’re only soft in all the right places.”

Their gazes met, hers wide again, but this time there was no laughter.

He swallowed. “What I meant, was–”

She reached to capture his fingers before he could draw back, pressing them to her cheek. A gentle smile touched her lips. “I know what you meant. Thank you.” He could feel her blush against the back of his hand, and see it rise up in her cheeks, warm as the colors of dawn breaking outside the window.

As a boy, he’d longed for war, always playing at it with Leif, swearing up and down that he’d best any enemy archer from any kingdom, while the adults at the long trestles looked on and laughed fondly at him. He’d boasted that he would slay thousands, personally, and make his father proud, up in the eternal halls of the Val-Father.

But staring down at the beautiful upturned face before him, he didn’t want war; wanted to crawl beneath a pile of furs with her and know only softness, and sweet, willing kisses.

“Come on.” She turned and tugged him over toward the sofa. “Let’s fix your hair.”

Everything she would need had already been laid out on the table there, someone having anticipated this – Revna, he thought. Oil, comb, beads, leather ties. Rune sat, and tipped his head back into her touch – one that had become surer the more they did this, and one that quickly shifted from shaky to steady as the quiet ritual eased some of her fear.

She combed in the oil first, until it slid like silk through her fingers. Then gathered the hair away from his face and pulled it back at the crown, securing it with a strip of leather before she started the two side-by-side braids that would fall down his back.

“Revna said that you’ll need at least three over each ear,” Tessa said as she worked. “One for your father’s house, one for your uncle’s house, and one for your rank as prince.”

“Yes, that’s right.” The pressure on his scalp threatened to lull him into a doze. His nose was full of the pine of the oil, and of Tessa’s scent, too, the subtle notes of lavender and tea. He could hear the noise of preparation going on above and below them, but it was muted here, a dull roar rather than the distinct shouts of readying guards. “But what of my betrothal beads?”

She paused a moment, and then tied off the second braid. She shifted so she could work on his left side, and he tipped his head to assist – and to catch a glimpse of her face, pink lower lip caught between her teeth, brows notched together as she fretted. “I don’t think the Sels will be impressed with those,” she said, at last.

“I don’t care what the Sels are impressed with. I’m betrothed, and I want to wear the beads that mark me as such. That mark me as yours.”

Again, she stilled. But this time, her gaze sought his, widening, stunned. “Y-yours?”

“Yes. Just as you are mine.”

She stared at him a long moment, and then she nodded, and looked back to her work, fingers working faster now as she teased out small strands for the series of braids above his ears. “Yes,” she said, voice stronger. “Four braids it is, then.”

She worked in efficient silence after that, but he could sense the way his words had warmed her inside, just as he’d intended.

“There.” She dropped the last braid, the bead thumping down against his shoulder. “You look very much like a prince.”

His stomach tightened, nerves ratcheting back up. All the tension her nimble fingers had worked from him returned full-force. He stood. “Not quite. There’s something I need, first.”

He went to his own chamber, first, and pulled a mail hauberk and deep blue surcoat on over his clothes, the latter stitched with a silver howling wolf. Tessa stepped in without being asked to tie the laces at the sides, and secure the straps of shining silver gauntlets and greaves.

Then he went to his uncle’s chamber.

He’d been to Erik’s room innumerable times. Had played with his wooden knights and horses on the rug before the hearth, Erik and Revna’s quiet conversation washing over him unheeded. Had sat at Erik’s feet while his uncle braided his hair, trying not to fidget, but doing so anyway, until Erik chuckled and the braids turned out crooked. When he was older, he had sat in the chair across from his uncle, and taken a cup of wine with him, and talked of more grown-up things: the responsibilities of a prince, a second son, a boon companion and advisor to Leif as heir.

His uncle’s chambers had always been open to them both, whenever they sought his counsel or company – but it had never been a shared space. Never a place that had been inhabited by two people with any sort of permanence.

Stripped-down though it was thanks to packing for travel, it was still obvious, at least to Rune, that this was no longer simply Uncle’s Chamber – but Erik’s and Oliver’s together. The second, smaller pair of slippers outside the bureau; a book left on the seat of the other chair; a second wine cup on the bedside table, the one on the far side. Small things, and more than anything it was a pervading sense that Erik was no longer alone. Rune was glad of it, that he had company, had someone to call his own now, even if it did leave him feeling as if he was trespassing a bit.

A horn sounded overhead, a formation order for the guards on the wall.

He shook himself and crossed to the wardrobe. Even Erik’s plainest clothes were richly-embroidered and fitted with fine buttons and gemstones, but the cloak he’d taken on his journey to Dreki Hörgr was simple and efficient – the clans didn’t appreciate the trappings of a fancy court. His cloak of state hung within the wardrobe still, deep red edged with blue, set with tiny winking diamonds, stitched with stag and wolf both, with a black fur edging all around.

It was heavier than he remembered, when he dragged it out and held it up.

“Oh,” Tessa murmured, stepping up beside him. “It’s beautiful.” She reached as if to touch it, then drew her hand back. Rune felt the same way.

With a sigh, he swung it around, settled it over his mail-covered shoulders, and fastened the clasp. He felt a boy again, dressing up in his uncle’s things so he could play pretend. “How do I look?” He said it disparagingly.

But she tilted her head and looked him up and down with real seriousness. “You look like a prince.”

Her tone turned a simple, true observation into something that kindled sudden heat in his stomach. There were so many things to think about right now, each more important than the last – but in this moment, her soft words ringing in his ears, nothing was more important than the pink glow of new sunlight against her cheek, nor the wide, deep-blue waters of her eyes, staring up at him with reverence and total confidence.

He couldn’t help but step in closer, and reached to touch her skin, cool and so soft beneath careful fingertips. She leaned into his hand, and it was the work of nothing to bend down, and tip her head back, and kiss her.

She hummed against his mouth, opened to, him, soft and sweet and wanting. Her hands were small, but her grip strong when she clutched at the edges of his cloak and held him down against her.

Even if it was selfish, he wanted so much. Wanted to hold her closer, and kiss her everywhere, and make her feel as good as she deserved; show her how beautiful he found her.

Waiting seemed so silly, suddenly. Formal betrothals, and traditions, and routines. Why should they wait to love one another when the enemy approached the gates?

Tessa sighed, and slipped her arms around his neck; her mouth opened wider beneath the press of his tongue.

But it was not to be.

A light rap sounded at the door, and Tessa sighed again, in an entirely different matter, as she settled back on her heels and turned to greet whoever creaked the door open.

Rune didn’t turn; instead watched, aching inside, as Tessa dabbed at her shiny lips with a fingertip, and visibly gathered her composure, expression settling into something firm and prepared – something royal, he thought, with great fondness, and no small amount of admiration.

Hilda’s voice sounded at the door. “Your grace? Bjorn’s asking for you.”

Rune’s turn to sigh. He nodded. “I’m on my way.”

Blessedly, the woman didn’t stay to scold them, but shut the door quietly as she retreated.

Rune touched Tessa’s face again, guided her gaze back to his. Everything he wanted to say got jammed up in his throat, because he couldn’t bear to lie to her. So instead, he stroked her cheek, and offered a simple, “Be safe.”

Her eyes glittered with tightly-checked emotion; she was holding back, too. She nodded, and pressed her hand to his chest, right over his thumping heart. “You, too.”

~*~

Down over the side of the gallery rail, the great hall hummed with activity: hushed, frantic voices, and the high squalls of infants, and the crackle of torches and hearth fires. Panic hung in the air, thick as morning mist, as the horns sounded again up on the roof, and along the outer walls. Signals to the guards. Rune had said they would send a rider, that he would walk out and speak with him.

Her heart beat like warm drums in her chest. She smoothed the leather apron over her skirts, squared her shoulders, and followed Revna down the grand, curving staircase, down to the fretful chaos below.

Revna carried herself with upright, unhurried elegance. With the superior grace of Lady Katherine, but the undeniable strength of a warrior. Tessa couldn’t help but feel braver, following in her wake, as her long, deep blue cloak shifted – and caught on the sword she wore at her hip.

When they reached the bend in the staircase, and came within view of the waiting crowd, a collective gasp went up. Individually, they were quiet sounds, but together, it moved through the vast hall like the hush of a wave on a shoreline. Faces turned up to regard the lady of the palace: women, children, men too old or infirm to fight. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, babes clutched in arms, toddlers perched on hips, dolls hanging from the hands of little girls, and watched Revna descend.

No, not just Revna, Tessa realized, faltering a step. Both of them. She met several direct gazes; felt the weight of eyes dark, and light, and shadowed from lack of proper sleep. They looked to their lady, and then they looked to her: the outsider, the Southerner, the guest. The one given the honor of walking with the king’s sister.

She sent up a silent prayer that she could serve them in the way they deserved, and straightened her spine another fraction.

When they reached the flagstone floor, the crowd parted, unprompted, clearing a path to the dais, and Erik’s empty throne. Revna’s cloak trailed along behind her, a whisper of velvet over stone, and she murmured quiet words of encouragement to everyone they passed. It was a slow procession, in that regard.

Tessa had no idea what to say – didn’t want to share untrue assurances – but she offered smiles, and earned a few in return.

Finally, Revna mounted the low stairs of the dais, and turned to face the room. They’d talked of this, and so Tessa moved to the chair that had been placed beside the throne, heavy and richly-carved, but not nearly as ornate as Erik’s tall seat.

But Revna didn’t sit; she stood, tall and proud, and her voice rang out strong and sure through the hall when she spoke. “By now, I’m sure you all know what’s happening. The horns have been sounding because the enemy – the same enemy that drove you from your homes and behind these walls – has finally left its ships, and made landfall here in Aeres.”

She paused, because even if everyone had known it, they still gasped, and murmured, and cursed. It was one thing to suspect something, Tessa knew, and another to have it confirmed.

“Our enemies,” Revna continued, “are the Sels from across the Dividing Sea, and they are fearsome to be sure.

“But so are we!”

A cheer, then, a faint one, in the throats of the older men.

“This palace belonged to my father, and my grandfather, and his grandfather before him. It is built of stone hewn from the Wolf Mountains, and it is as strong as my bloodline – as the blood of your king, Erik, who even now races back to us across the Wastes, bringing all of the Great Northern Phalanx.”

Another cheer, this one louder.

“It is up to us – to all of us – to hold these walls unbreached until his return; to prove to those invading bastards that they may conquer the South all they please, but they will not conquer us! We are the North! And we bow to no one save our king and our gods!”

It was a roar this time, from nearly every throat, echoing in the high, vaulted ceiling, ringing off the walls.

Revna turned her head a fraction, and winked at Tessa.

Something very like hope stirred in Tessa’s chest.

Maybe they could survive this.

Maybe Erik – and Leif, and Oliver – really would come.

And maybe offering hope to a people was as important as the sharpness of the swords and spears that kept watch along the wall.

~*~

The morning had dawned clear and bright, but as Rune waited by Bjorn’s side at the inner portcullis, waiting on the bridge to lower into place, he spotted clouds building along the horizon. He prayed for snow – a whiteout would hamper siege efforts, and the Sels came from a western land where snow was a rarity, rather than a constant. The weather was an Aeretollean ally, in this.

Four guards stood in pairs behind them, snow crunching beneath their boots as they shifted. The chains of the bridge rattled as men walked round and round the wheels that let them out, link by link, and sent the bridge slowly down, down, down, the wood groaning in the cold.

“Remember–” Bjorn started.

“I know. I know.”

“Hm.”

A breeze gusted, tugging at his royal cloak, his fresh braids – his nerves. He felt as if there were bees under his skin, zipping and buzzing. He clenched his teeth to keep his jaw from quivering, and gripped the pommel of his sword until he felt his knuckles crack. The wound in his torso throbbed, faintly, a phantom pain or a real one? He didn’t know, it didn’t matter.

The bridge settled into its braces with a final, echoing thump.

“Bridge is down!” someone called overhead, followed my two sharp horn blasts. “Raise the gate!”

A clang, a lurch, and the portcullis began its slow ascent. The chains clicked, clumps of snow fell from the iron rungs to land at their feet, and Rune’s hand spasmed on his sword. Finally, with a final clang, the gate was secured above.

“Ready?” Bjorn asked.

Rune could only nod.

They started forward at a stately walk, Rune resisting the urge to match Bjorn’s impossible stride and thus look like a child taking overlarge steps. The crunch of snow underfoot echoed in the spiked pit of the dry moat, the only sound in the moments before the portcullis began to lower again, and the outer gate began to lift.

First, he could only see feet on the other side: the hooves of a horse, the wolfskin boots of their own guards, and the ornate, gold-chased boots and greaves of the Sel envoy who’d been sent. His feet must be freezing dressed like that, Rune thought, before fingers plucked at his cloak, and he realized they’d reached the center of the bridge. He halted beside Bjorn, who seemed to grow impossibly taller as he thrust his shoulders back and chest forward.

“Steady now, lad,” Bjorn murmured, lips barely moving.

Rune took a deep breath and stood at his tallest; tucked his cloak back to reveal the sword at his hip, grateful for the more familiar weight of the bow on his back.

The gate shuddered to a halt overhead, and Rune got his first good look at a Sel in person.

Guards had taken his horse, and his sword, but that proved little comfort, given the way Rune’s stomach curdled. The man was tall – Northern tall, broad through the shoulders, heavy through the arms. He wore an astonishing amount of gold plate, and Bjorn had said that was to make themselves appear bigger than they were…but a small man couldn’t have carried that much armor on his person. He clanked as he walked forward to meet them, purple cloak and surcoat streaming along beside him in the wind.

Bjorn held up a hand when he was five paces away. “That’s close enough. Show yourself.”

The Sel halted, and reached with golden gauntlets to remove his golden helmet. The face beneath was startling: milk-pale and sharp-featured, deep-set eyes white-blue, and cold as the snow around them. He wore his hair tied tightly back, so that it pulled at the skin of his scalp, mouth an unforgiving slash of bloodless, compressed lips.

They were an inbred culture, Olaf had said; Rune remembered that much from his studies. A people that bred siblings to siblings, cousins to cousins, in search of “pure bloodlines.” The result was the tall, pale creature that stood before him now, his gaze dispassionate at best, inhuman in its calculated contempt.

Rune took a slow breath, and refused to look away.

Bjorn gestured. “His Grace Rune Torstanson, Prince of Aeretoll. His is the door to which you’ve brought your war. What say your masters?” Old words, formal words, delivered in Bjorn’s deepest, most grating tone. Any man might have trembled in the face of them.

The Sel envoy blinked slowly, regarded Bjorn with the air of a man who’d found he’d stepped in manure, and turned back to Rune. His accent was heavy, when he spoke, threaded with the lilting, vowel-heavy sound of his own language. “My general sends you an offer. Terms for your surrender.”

“Surrender?” Rune managed to scoff; he tried to channel Uncle Erik as best he could, scowling, tipping his head back to look down his nose at the man. “He’s confident that I would do such a thing?”

His mockery was met with unwavering sternness – and sureness. “He knows that you will, sooner or later. Surrender now, and your people will be spared; they will be allowed to flee into the wilderness, or volunteer to serve us.”

“Serve you?” Bjorn snapped.

“In honorable employment, yes. But if you resist, none shall be spared when your keep falls to us.”

“This palace,” Bjorn snarled, “has never, and will never fall to anyone – least of which a bunch of shiny bastards like you.”

The envoy ignored him. Gaze pinned to Rune, he said, “You have twelve hours. Then we will come and take you.” He whirled on his heel, purple cloak flaring behind him, and donned his helmet again as he walked back toward the main gate.

Rune gaped after him a moment, cold to the marrow.

“Shit,” Bjorn muttered under his breath. He gripped Rune’s shoulder. “It’s all right, lad, we’ll–”

“Hey!” Rune shouted at the envoy’s back.

The man halted, and glanced back over his shoulder, eyes nothing but pale slits through the gap in his helmet visor.

Rune lifted a surprisingly steady hand, and pointed at him. “I’m going to put an arrow through you. Personally. See if I don’t.”

The man held still a long moment, then continued on, and didn’t look back again.

Rune let out an explosive breath as he watched him mount – at least until the gate began its descent.

“Well.” Bjorn chuckled. “Best deliver, lad.”

“Yeah.” Rune allowed himself a full-body shiver. “Guess so.”

13

“Erik,” Birger said – from several paces behind.

He reined up, and looked back over his shoulder; and his stomach sank. The group of riders and walkers stretched out behind him was not the phalanx that had ridden proudly down into the valley at Dreki Hörgr, but a sad and fluttering ribbon of the tired, the injured, the beaten-down. He would trade even the most infirm Northern lord or soldier for a whole host from the South, but they rode now toward home, and invasion, expecting to be chased by a host of clansmen.

“We’re moving too slowly,” he said, and tipped a glance up at the midday sun. He wondered where Oliver was, now; if the drakes were cooperating, how quickly they were flying. Wondered if he was cold up there, among the clouds, and if he was dressed warmly enough to prevent frostbite. He had such fragile skin, soft to the touch and dusted with freckles…

“Aye,” Birger said with a sigh, pulling him from his sudden flash of daydream. “But there’s nothing for it. The snow’s deep, and the lads aren’t at their best.” He tossed a glance toward the head of the line, just a few lengths from them; Náli’s Dead Guard riding in tight formation, their faces all differing shades of grim. “Well. Save those five.”

Erik had no doubt that the Guard were skilled, ferocious fighters, and that, under these circumstances, would defer to his command as king. But he knew their true loyalty lay not with the kingdom, but with their young lord. Should anything happen to Náli – and, gods, don’t let it – they would retreat to the secret place where all grieving Dead Guards went upon their master’s death. They would go there hating and blaming Erik, and the Fault Lands, without a lord’s magic to oversee them, would split, and shake, and spew the deadly red magma that Náli’s bloodline had always kept at bay.

As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.

As they rode past, Mattias glanced over, expression cold and closed-off. Erik nodded to him, and Mattias nodded back.

Leif trotted up, gaze lifted toward the sky – and the sun’s progress across it. He frowned when he pulled up at Erik’s side. “We’re not making very good time,” he said, quietly, as a heavily-loaded sleigh glided past, harness bells jangling.

“I know,” Erik agreed. “And we’ll have to make camp soon.” Here, just past midwinter, the nights were long, and the days far too short. “I’m thinking of riding on ahead of the main party.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Birger made a disgusted noise. “You’ll both do no such thing. What will you do? Blunder around in the dark until the wolves set upon you?”

“We can move faster alone,” Erik said, “and make a lighter camp. We’ve dried food, and water enough in our canteens. We won’t even need a fire.”

“Now you just sound a fool.”

Erik shot him a dark look that didn’t deter him in the slightest.

“Let’s say,” Birger said, one balled fist landing on his hip, the other tight on the reins as his horse danced beneath his rising agitation, “that you didn’t in fact get eaten by wolves. Where does that leave everyone else?” He tipped his head toward the passing caravan. “With Askr holding command from his litter, and Ragnar’s men sweeping over us like we’re naught but children?”

The idea splashed over Erik like an upturned bucket of cold water.

Birger steered his horse around with his legs until their mounts stood side-by-side, and they were knee-to-knee, watching men trudge past in bedraggled clusters. In a low voice, expression earnest, he said, “I’m no king, nor even a great lord, but you keep me by your side for a reason, Erik. It’s for times like these: when you need someone to be reasonable.”

“I’m being–”

“You’re worried,” Birger insisted. “About this lot here, no fit army for sure. And about your young lad, off on a dragon’s back and no way to reach him. About home, and Revna, and the enemy that awaits us. It’s enough to make any man reckless.”

Erik bit back a slew of unkind words and settled for an unhappy snort instead.

“Hold the course, Erik. You have to.”

“Fine,” he gritted out, nudged his horse forward with both heels, and set off at a canter back toward the head of the line. Hoofbeats behind him signaled that Leif and Birger had followed.

Once in the lead of the party, Erik slowed his mount to a ground-covering walk, and thus they progressed through the rest of the afternoon.

Though his thoughts were turmoiled, the terrain was relatively flat: a long stretch of plain bordered on one side by evergreen forest, on the other by the distant shadows of the Wolf Mountains, which blazed a twisty, switchback path across the breadth of the kingdom. Would Ragnar have gone straight through the path, and now march directly behind them? Or did he follow a more oblique, but safter route through the low hills, nearly to the sea by now? The sun shone in a cloudless sky, shining brightly on the frozen streams that laced the gentle rise and fall of the land that stretched endless and white before them. There were no human settlements along this stretch; only the trill of birds and the low, booming calls of wild bucks off in the trees.

When the shadows grew long, and the horses’ necks were steaming, Erik lifted a hand, and reluctantly called a halt. Every part of him yearned to keep going – to reach home, to assure himself that the people he loved were alive and fighting – but a glance over his shoulder revealed the exhaustion of the people currently under his care.

They set up camp. Magnus, Lars, and the guards from other houses who’d gone into the forest returned amidst the orange flare of dusk, bearing white-tailed deer on their backs for their supper.

Erik found himself around a fire, sandwiched between Birger and Leif, meat popping and hissing on a spit, the wine flask making its rounds. Across from him, Askr sat wrapped in furs and propped up in a hastily-made sledge, his battle axe laid across his covered knees, clutched tightly in one hand like a talisman – or like a child’s favorite toy.

Chief Oddmarr waved off the flask when it reached him, and instead pulled a stoppered bottle from inside his coat of piled-up bearskins; when he uncorked it with his teeth, Erik could smell the sharpness of the spirit within over the fire and their dinner. “If he took the long way,” he said, after a generous slug, “he’ll be two days behind us. If he took the pass, only one – if he didn’t slide off the mountain and break his neck.”

“One can only hope,” Askr said, darkly, and spat in the snow.

“Now’s the worst time to attempt the pass,” Birger said. “The snow gets ten feet in some places. They’ll have to dig and burn their way through.”

“Where’s a good blizzard when you need one?” Oddmarr asked, which left Askr shouting a laugh.

“Far from us, hopefully,” Erik said, and he could watch the heaviness of his tone settle like a dark cloak over everyone around the fire.

A rustle of feathers announced Él’s return; she fell like a shadow against the hot-coal glow of the sunset, alighting on Leif’s shoulder and nibbling at his ear. He reached to stroke the bird on the breast with the backs of his fingers, and frowned into the fire. “I don’t understand why the Sels would wait,” he mused. “Mother’s letter said they dropped anchor in the harbor and then just – sat there. Why not move on the palace before our return?”

Edda, quiet until now, lowered the wine flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was raspy from drink, and from fatigue, eyes a little glassy with it. “Maybe they don’t expect us to return at all.”

A chilling thought, one that left the back of Erik’s neck prickling.

“Who knows why the Sels do what they do?” Birger said with the air of a man not wanting to dwell on bleak possibilities. “They fuck their sisters, for gods’ sakes.”

Askr snorted. “Hopefully their sisters don’t look like mine.”

That managed to earn a thin smile from Edda.

But Erik’s skin was crawling, now. Something was wrong. The familiar, unwanted sense of someone watching him hit with a physical force.

A breath later, Él lifted her head and let out a short, sharp cry of alarm.

“What–” Birger started.

“The horses!” someone cried from another fire. “Gods, they’re–”

A long, mournful howl punctuated the sun’s last wink before it disappeared over the horizon, and plunged them all into a landscape of blue and black shadows.

Erik stood and turned, hand already on his sword hilt, and was met by a low, rumbling growl.

Wolves.

The hawk shrieked as she took flight from Leif’s shoulder.

“I need a torch!” Erik roared. He stepped forward, drew his sword, and swung at the dark shape lunging toward him.

The sword whistled through empty space. The wolf, dark and sinister against the gloaming, dodged at the last second, firelight catching on the ivory gleam of wet fangs.

“Wolves! Wolves!” the cry went up through camp.

The one Erik had missed skirted around him, down low along the ground. He turned with it, so that its silhouette was stamped bold against the fire; he was dimly aware of the others lurching to their feet, eyes wide, hands fumbling at sword belts.

The wolf crouched, readying itself for another leap.

Erik lifted his sword–

And Leif took a swing at it from behind.

The wolf whirled, faster than seemed possible, jaws snapping with an audible click.

Erik hamstrung it with one harsh slice.

It yelped and collapsed forward, right at the edge of the fire; logs shifted and sparks billowed upward into the night. Half-crippled, the beast dragged itself along on its front paws, still snarling and snapping. The glow of its eyes was only the fire…probably…but it was a wild, furious glint like nothing Erik had ever seen on a wild animal. Was it sick? Gone mad?

Leif lifted his sword overhead in both hands, and brought it down with all his might. Blood sprayed from the wolf’s throat as its neck was all but severed, and it fell at last, twitching and dying, while blood poured black across the snow.

“By the gods!” Askr roared. “Since when do wolves do this?”

Birger kicked the dying one over onto its side, to reveal a thick coat, and a solid body. “When they’re hungry, which this one isn’t.”

All around them, the camp was in chaos. A horse galloped past, screaming, trailing part of a ragged picket line. Men shouted. Fire danced, as men leaped over blazing logs, chased by beasts; as torches were lifted, and thrown. Everywhere there was snarling, growling: more wolves at once than Erik had ever known to travel in a pack. An impossible number.

With a war cry, Oddmarr leaped away from the fire, blade flashing.

“Uncle, they’re everywhere!” Leif shouted over the din.

“I know.” Erik reached into the fire and snatched up a burning brand; the flames licked and crackled, throwing off sparks. “Stay vigilant.” And he set off at a jog toward the next fire.

There he found a group of Beserkirs standing with their backs to the flames, swinging at wolves who moved like wraiths, nothing but an unholy gleam of eye-shine, and a wet glimmer of fangs like knives.

These are no ordinary wolves, he thought with something akin to panic, before he clamped down on it and swung at one of the things from behind.

It dodged the blow, pivoting, rolling, and for a moment it seemed – no, but that couldn’t be right. He couldn’t have seen the shape of a man there, for a brief flash. Only his imagination, as the wolf caught itself and hunkered down low, braced to leap at him.

“Uncle!”

He side-stepped, but not before something heavy clipped him in the shoulder. The snow was thick, and hampered his balance; Erik staggered and went down to one knee, sword lifting on instinct.

Two wolves faced off from him now, and as the fire swelled behind him – shouts of men, snarls of beasts, chaos, chaos – he got his first good look at what they were facing.

The wolf on the left was a fraction shorter, mottled gray-white with golden eyes, lips skinned back from fangs gone yellow with age and use. Just like every wolf he’d ever seen.

But the other…

The other was considerably larger, almost pony-size, with thick muscling in its shoulders and haunches. Its coat was shaggy and tawny gold, its eyes a striking, pale blue. Like Revna’s, he thought with a lurch. Like mine.

Like…

The wolf’s snarl shifted, its face seemed to blur – and then the beast was growing, changing impossibly.

Like Ragnar’s.

His cousin stood before him, arms bare to the cold, a mantle of pale wolf fur across his shoulders, blond hair in all its usual beaded, bone-strewn braids. He had a streak of blood across his cheek, in his short beard, and he was smirking down at Erik with blue eyes that glowed.

The bedlam all around them melted to the periphery, and Erik could only stare, still and stupid.

Ragnar laughed, and his voice was half a growl, deep and inhuman, when he said, “Did you think your little Southern boy was the only one with magic? The old shamans have many tricks.”

Erik swallowed. “Clearly.” He surged to his feet, and struck.

But Ragnar crouched, blurred, and was a wolf again, lunging straight at his middle.

A flash to the side, and Leif’s sword struck just behind wolf-Ragnar’s shoulder. Ragnar yelped, tumbled to the side, and then was gone as a fresh wave of wolves crashed forward, all teeth and lolling pink tongues, growling like thunder.

Erik squared off and prepared to meet them, Leif settling in at his side.

“Was that–” Leif began.

“Yes. Fight now, questions later.”

They fought.

It was a mess of snarling, and squealing; of sweat soaking into the wool of their clothes, weighing at them; of steaming breath and flashing swords. Blood arced across the snow in black crescents, from men and wolves. Erik wound up back-to-back with Leif, their shoulders and elbows knocking as they swung, again and again. The wolves kept coming in waves and surges, organized, thinking, strategizing. Regular wolves were smart, yes, clever hunters and planners, but he’d never seen wolves behave in quite this way. In the melee, it became impossible to tell which were plain beasts, and which were skinwalkers.

Like Ragnar.

Holy gods, he would think, every few seconds, against his will. Even in the rush and crash of battle, amidst the war cries and screams of his people, and the low growling of wolves, his thoughts would flicker toward his cousin.

It was an old blood magic, skin walking. A spell bought at a heavy price. How long had he been this way? In the mountain caves of the Fangs? During the festival? Before? He thought of the night of the Yule Festival, Ragnar striding into the great hall like a king, candle flames bowing in the cold night breeze. Thought of the vicious claw marks on the dead men they’d found in the forest. He’d blamed those deaths on Percy, mind-controlled and compelled to do violence.

But wolves had claws, too.

Erik swung – and staggered forward when his sword whistled through empty air. The wolf who’d been coming toward him flitted back away from the firelight, vanishing like a wraith into the darkness. A howl rose above their encampment, high and shivering, touched with the scream of a man.

Erik turned and found a silhouette limned by the moon-silvered stream off in the distance. The silhouette of a man…who dropped to all fours and became a wolf. Ragnar. Recalling his troops.

Wolves flowed black as smoke between the fires, too fast to catch, streamed across the white plain toward their alpha, and then were gone.

In the resulting quiet, Erik could hear the harsh rasp of his own panting breath, and murmured questions from the others. A few moans.

It was over. Erik felt like he’d been struck in the head, and didn’t know if he actually had, or if it was just shock.

He turned, blinking the sweat from his eyes, braced for the worst.

Askr still sat upright, his axe wet and black with blood. Edda stood behind him, sword equally blooded; a bruise was coming up on his face, and he stood listing to one side, but his gaze was wide and clear when Erik met it, and he nodded.

Birger lifted a hand from where he stood hunched over, using his sword as a walking stick. “I’m fine, lad,” he muttered, spat blood, and straightened. “Just getting too old for this.”

He dragged in a few more breaths, and felt his pulse slowing. He wasn’t so young himself, anymore, but he’d been rigorous in conditioning himself. He’d been in worse battles, by far, and suspected he would be again.

But–

“Where’s Leif?”

“Erik! Over here!”

He snatched a brand from the fire and leaped over dead wolves to get to Magnus and Lars – both scraped and exhausted, but whole – and the person kneeling on the snow that they supported between them.

No.

Leif lifted his head of his own power, squinting against the light, so that was something. His face was pale, and sweat-slick; lip busted and bleeding down his chin, into his beard. A nasty slice through one eyebrow would doubtless scar, but hadn’t taken his eye, thank the gods. Magnus supported one arm, Lars the other, and as Erik appeared, he managed to climb to his feet with their aid.

That was when Erik glimpsed the sheen of fresh blood on his side, at the narrowest part of his waist.

Just like that, his pulse was hammering again.

He reached forward, touching gently, and earned a hiss. He could see tears in Leif’s tunic, just above his jeweled belt; the blood was already drying in the cold, sticky as sap.

“How bad is it?”

Leif winced, but shook his head. “Surface, I think. It stings something fierce, but it’s a bite. I didn’t get run through.”

Carefully, Erik probed at torn cloth, finding a series of small holes, and bloody flesh beneath. Teeth marks.

“I’m fine, Uncle. Just need a wash and some bandages.” He offered a pained smile. “My arm hurts worse. I tore a muscle swinging at the bastards.”

“I don’t think it’s deep,” Magnus said. “We’ll get him patched up and he’ll be all right.”

Erik let out a deep breath that left the torch flame dancing. “You’re sure?”

Leif managed a truer smile. “Yeah. It’s not so bad.”

Erik’s knees trembled, and for one horrifying moment, he thought he might plop down on his backside in the snow. He straightened his legs, and held himself up.

“What were those things?” Lars asked. “Some looked normal, but some…” He shook his head, eyes white-rimmed in the torchlight.

“Skinwalkers,” Erik said, glancing over his shoulder. Above the leaping flames of their campfire, the plain stretched glistening and peaceful, the wolves long gone. “One of them was Ragnar.”

Magnus swore.

Leif said, “Did you get him?”

“No. And now he’s ahead of us.”

14

Aeres

“Thank you, my lady.”

Tessa scraped together a smile for the elderly woman she’d just delivered soup to, and knew it must look strained. “You’re welcome.” She straightened and searched the hall to find that the bowl she’d handed over had been the last; the people of Aeres sat on benches, and on rugs, or stood up against the stone walls, the room quiet save the sounds of slurping, and of fire, and of a fussy baby.

A quiet conversation between two farmer’s daughters caught her attention. Both looked near to be Tessa’s age, and sat one on either side of their mother, holding yarn balls while their mother knitted with precise little motions, lips pressed to a line.

“Mum,” one said. “What happens if they breach the walls?”

“They won’t.”

“I know, but what if?”

The other daughter scowled. “You know what: it’ll be just like Ama said: they’ll kill the boys and raped the girls.”

The girl’s sister gasped, and Tessa did, too, clapping a hand over her mouth to choke back the sound. She wasn’t as naïve as she once was, nor was she stupid – she knew that when a palace was captured, there were…consequences. But to have it said aloud like that, to have to think about it now…

“Be quiet,” the mother hissed, cuffing the girl in the back of the head.

“Ow! Mother!”

“Stop frightening your sister.”

Someone touched Tessa’s arm, and she jumped, and turned to meet Astrid’s concerned expression.

“Why don’t you go and rest, my lady? You’ve been going back and forth from the kitchen since dawn. You must be tired.” A polite way of saying Tessa looked ragged. “And everyone seems to be settled for now.”

Tessa started to argue – she didn’t want to play the spoiled lady who needed to lie down; she couldn’t imagine resting now, anyway, in this endless day of tense waiting – but then thought she might take advantage of the opportunity.

“Thank you, Astrid, I think I will.”

But rather than her room, she went up to the ramparts.

The cold stole her breath, when she first stepped out onto the flat expanse of the roof. She pulled her cloak more tightly around her and noted how much had changed since she was last up here. Three times as many guards lined the parapet, on watch with spears on their shoulders, swords at their hips, and bows at their backs. All the braziers were lit, firelight dancing in broad strokes across basket after basket of arrows, staged and ready.

Every other time she’d stood on the ramparts, she’d been greeted right away with nods and respectful “my lady”s, but now, no one seemed to notice her, all eyes trained on the still-smoking ruin of what had once been the city down by the harbor. She glimpsed light in the distance: hundreds of torches converging along the road, moving inexorably closer.

Amidst the plain, dark cloaks of the guards, she finally spotted the sheen of rich velvet, and the silver stitching of the royal crest.

“Rune,” she called, as she approached, and he turned from the wall to meet her halfway.

In the split second after he’d turned, before he’d smiled – so warm, so glad to see her, despite the lines of fatigue etched into his face – she’d glimpsed a worry in his expression that left her shaking. The enemy was coming; their time was running out. But then he caught her up in both arms and pulled her in tight to his chest, and the thought was a little more bearable, the night a little less dark.

Tessa wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face to his chest, against the unyielding hardness of leather and mail, so different from the heat and softness of his skin. She couldn’t feel his heartbeat through his armor, but she could tell that it was racing, thanks to the rustle of his breath against her ear, as he leaned down to tuck his face into her throat.

“Hello,” he murmured.

She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Hello.”

If the breeze flitted down below in the yard, it raked up here so high; it pulled his cloak around her, until she was surrounded by soft velvet, and the scent of a cedar chest, and of the pine oil she’d used to braid his hair hours ago.

She could have stood like that forever, but didn’t protest when he drew back, and searched her face.

“You’re tired,” he murmured. “You should sleep.” The while you can hung unspoken in the vapor between them.

“I won’t be able to. Not if you’re up here.”

His lips quirked, a humorless half-smile that said he understood. Then he slipped an arm around her waist and led her up to his post at the parapet. “They’re making camp,” he said, pointing with his free hand toward the line of torches moving up the road – and the ever-growing cluster of them off to the side of it, in the middle of a field. The moon was up, turning the snow silver, and she could see the distant, indistinct dark shapes of people and equipment; one large blob resolved itself into a massive, circular tent.

Tessa glanced toward the towers on the outer wall, and the ballista mounted there. The catapults sat ready, crouched like sleeping predators, in the bailey. “Can you attack them? Now, while they’re making camp?”

“They’re out of range,” Bjorn chimed in, startling her. The guard to her left stepped back to give the captain room, and he joined them, gaze narrow and harsh as he scanned the plains before them. “They’ll piece together their siege engines now, in the dark, and the fighting will start at dawn.”

Tessa couldn’t suppress a shudder. Rune’s arm tightened around her.

Bjorn turned to regard them. Torchlight carved his face in dramatic relief, so that, fur ruff of his cloak around his ears, he looked like the bear he was named for. “The two of you should go inside. Get some sleep. Get out of the cold for a while.”

“I can’t,” Rune protested. “I need to–”

Bjorn spoke over him. “You need to be fresh in the morning, when it begins. You’ll do no one any good if you faint standing up.”

Rune’s hand flexed against her hip. She heard his harsh, frustrated exhale, but he said, “Fine. Wake me if anything–”

“I will. Go.”

“What about you, Bjorn? Will you sleep?” Tessa asked.

“Don’t worry about me, lass.” He turned away, his profile unforgiving, edged with firelight. “It won’t be my first time keeping a long night watch.”

Rune snorted. “You’re stronger than me, I suppose,” he said, half-mocking, half-hurt.

“No,” Bjorn said. “Only less valuable.”

Tessa was shocked by the words, and could only assume Rune was, too, by his quiet gasp, and the way his arm slipped further around her, hand pressed flat to her stomach.

“Bjorn–”

“Go, your grace.” A tone that brooked no arguments. “Morning will be here soon enough.”

They walked back to the royal apartments together, even though the spiral staircase down from the roof was too narrow. They went slowly, knocking together at the elbows and hips the whole way.

Tessa’s heart pounded, harder and less regular the farther they went. Though it was a relief to be out of the cold wind, and there was immeasurable comfort in the heat and size of Rune beside her, the words of the farmer’s daughter came back to her now.

Kill the boys and rape the girls.

There were no guards stationed outside the doors of the royal apartments tonight – every man available was on the walls, manning scorpions, keeping watch at the postern gates – and Tessa was glad there were no witnesses when her breath caught, and she clutched tight to Rune’s arm.

He noticed right away, turning to her with one hand on the door latch. The cressets on the wall revealed the shadow of his furrowed brow. “Tessa, what is it? Are you ill?”

She shook her head, and waved him on.

He let them into the common room, and she was only dimly aware of him closing the door behind them. She knitted her fingers together and squeezed until it hurt – though the pain was dull, the tidal wave rushing in her ears drowning out everything but panic. Sheer, animal panic.

Kill the boys and rape the girls.

“Tessa.” She jerked when a cold hand touched her face – but it was only Rune, tipping her head back, studying her with increasing worry. “What’s the matter?”

A laugh that was half a sob cracked in her throat; it sounded as hysterical as it felt. “What’s wrong?”

He frowned. “All right. That was a stupid question.”

Her chest was so tight she could hardly breathe. Fear had her by the throat, and it wasn’t possible to contain the words that spilled frantically out of her. “They’re going to rape us, aren’t they?”

His eyes widened.

“If – if they breach the walls. If they take the palace. They’ll k-kill all the men and then rape the women. And–”

He kissed her. Swooped down fast and pressed his lips to hers. By the time she gasped in surprise, he was pulling back, giving her a serious look.

“Don’t think about that,” he entreated.

Her eyes stung, and she blinked hard to keep the forming tears at bay. “I can’t help it. It’s the truth.”

“It’s a possibility. A slim one. It’s–”

“Oh, Rune,” she groaned, half exasperation, half despair. “Would you stop being so bloody chivalrous about the whole thing? There is an army coming! A big one! We might lose, and we might all die, and my first time ever–” here, anger gave way to chilling fear again “–ever being with a man might be – might be rape. You’re very sweet, but you can’t guarantee anything.”

His face cycled through several emotions. Hurt. Fear. Shame. But then it settled into something firm and determined, and she just knew he was about to say something stupidly comforting that wasn’t actually comforting at all, gods bless his soul.

But instead, he met her gaze squarely, his jaw set, very like his uncle at his kingliest, and said, “No. I can’t guarantee the worst won’t happen tomorrow, though I’m certainly going to do everything in my power to prevent. And I can guarantee you something: that I love you, and want to wed you, and – mph!” The last was muffled, because she grabbed the front of his tunic and yanked him down to kiss her again.

She shoved the tip of her tongue gracelessly against his lips, pushing for entry, wanting him to stop talking, wanting him to realize what she really wanted and kiss her back – take control like he had that afternoon she’d wound up in his lap. Just kiss me, she thought, desperately. Just kiss me and touch me and give me something to think about besides all the awful that’s to come.

She heard him suck in a breath through his nostrils; his chest lifted beneath her grip, pressing against her knuckles, and then his hands were cupping the back of her head. His mouth opened, and his tongue stroked against hers, and she wanted to cry with relief.

He tilted her head to a better angle, and she let herself relax in his grip, her hands pressing flat to the muscles of his chest, mouth going soft and eager and welcoming. All of their kisses so far had been different, and this one was no exception. It was hungry, and hurried, as desperate as she’d been feeling inside. His tongue plunged deep into her mouth, seeking. His thumbs swept down to the hinge of her jaw and urged her to open wider, to let him in. Their lips slid messy against one another; it felt daring, like something forbidden. He shuddered beneath her touch, and when he drew back a fraction, damp lips clinging to the last, he sucked in a ragged, unsteady breath, the brown of his eyes swallowed up by expanded pupils.

“Tessa. Love. I will gladly die defending you to the last.”

She sucked in a fast breath of her own, insides clenching.

“But you don’t have to face this not knowing what it’s like to lie with a man who loves you.”

The breath went back out of her lungs on a rush. “Oh.”

He winced. “Unless you don’t–”

“No. No, I do.” Her heart knocked wildly. “Rune. I love you, too. And I want that. Right now, I want that more than anything.”

He searched her face a moment, eyes flicking back and forth across her features. Slowly, a smile broke across his face, bright and boyish, and it blasted away all thoughts of war, or conquest, or that other horrible word that couldn’t even touch her now – because Rune was touching her. Her prince. His hands slid down to her shoulders, and squeezed, and he drew her into a hug, of all things, warm and pleasantly crushing.

He pressed his face into her hair, and gathered her cloak and back of her dress in both hands, fisting the material in close to the dip at the small of her back. “Tessa,” he murmured. “Tess, I promise I’ll be so careful. I’ll make it good for you.”

She shivered. “I know.”

When he pulled back, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then took her hand, and led her across the common room.

They went to his bedchamber, where the chest at the foot of the bed was still thrown-up from his hasty clothes change. The fire crackled low, down to coals, and though the air was chill, the chamber smelled of him: of pine oil, and leather, and fur, and clean boy sweat.

He squeezed her hand, and went to build up the fire. She watched, charmed by the homey gesture; back home, lords and ladies didn’t put logs on their own fires.

He stood, unclasped Erik’s heavy cloak, and swept it off his shoulders and around in front of him in an easy movement that left her a little breathless. It was downright dashing, that gesture. Casual, unassuming, he hadn’t done it to impress her, merely to doff the cloak so he could fold it over the chair at his desk. But beneath, his armor made his shoulders look even wider, his waist even narrower. The tail of his heavy belt hung down between his thighs in a way that couldn’t help but draw attention to that part of his body – a part with which she was about to become intimately acquainted.

Cheeks heating, she forced her gaze back up to his face, to be met by his profile. The fresh log in the grate caught with a flare and crackle of sparks, firelight catching in all the beads in his braids.

He was stunning.

And he was hers. The thought hit her like a kick to the stomach. Or maybe like a generous sip of the spirit that turned men rosy-faced and stupid around here. He loved her, wanted to wed her, was about to take her innocence – no, not take. She was going to give. Because she loved him back, and it didn’t matter if she didn’t know what she was doing, or if she was nervous, because he was hers. Her prince and betrothed.

Warmth kindled in her belly, burned up into her throat, left her tingling with anticipation. Physical desire had become familiar by now, a pulse settling low in her belly, but she’d never been so ready to embrace it as she was now.

He turned to her, and the heat in his gaze was staggering. She started moving toward him before he offered his hand, legs unsteady, pulse beginning to throb in every part of her. His hand was warm, by now, when she slipped hers inside it. His sword calluses scraped her palm, strong fingers enfolded hers, and he drew her into his chest.

She took a deep breath of the heat radiating off of him, and everything was so easy after that.

He caught her nape with his free hand, and drew her into another kiss, this one slow and deep. A kiss so consuming she didn’t realize his hand had slid down her neck until her cloak came unclasped and fell to the floor with a rustle and thump of heavy wool. She was still fully-clothed, but her skin tightened and prickled beneath the layers of linen, wool, and leather; it felt like he could see her now, like taking off her cloak with intent made it all different.

Perhaps because it did.

His tongue flexed behind her teeth, and then withdrew. Panting a little, he said, “Do you know how armor works?”

She shook her head, the heat still spreading through her, bursting in her cheeks, now. “No. But I’m a fast learner.”

His soft smile radiated fondness, rather than wicked delight, and that had her melting just a little more.

“Here.” He lifted his arms, and started working on the buckles of his gauntlet.

She reached for it instead. “Let me.”

There were a wealth of buckles. On his gauntlets, and greaves, and the heavy, tiered leather pauldrons he wore over his mail. Then came the ties of the surcoat…the belt. All of this she unfastened, unlaced, the soft chime of buckles and the whisper of satin the only sounds in the room, save the soft, sometimes-unsteady rush of their breathing. Standing close like this, with the fire built back up, the air grew warm between them – warm enough that sweat tickled at her back.

Or maybe that was just proximity to Rune, and the slow, oddly-erotic act of stripping his armor away, piece by piece.

When he was down to his mail hauberk, too heavy for her to lift, he stepped back to draw it off himself. It landed on the rug with a chink of metal rings, and then he stood before her in padded doublet, shirt, and trousers.

She’d seen him wearing less – had seen him in nothing but a nightshirt while he lay abed, wracked with fever – but like with removing her cloak, this was undressing with a purpose, and the sight of him standing there, strong and pink-cheeked and rumpled, had her belly squirming pleasantly.

“Will you turn around?” he asked.

She did so, a little confused – until he swept her hair over her shoulder and started on the fastenings at the back of her collar. His turn to undo her armor, she realized with a thrill, breath catching.

His fingers paused. “Tessa?”

“I’m fine. Go on. Please.”

Revna had done up the leather collar, corset, and apron with brisk efficiency. Rune worked it loose with careful slowness, fingers working the laces of the corset with endearing, clumsy movements. Slowly, the garment gapped away from her, sagged at her waist. His hands slid around, smoothing over fine-grained leather, to unfasten her belt, and draw the whole of it away.

She was still laced tightly into her dress, high-necked, warm and modest, but when he touched her over the wool, she burned.

He started slow. His breath fanned hot on the back of her neck, and his fingertips settled at her waist, tentative, testing.

Tessa shifted backward the barest fraction, hoping to encourage him with her body, when words failed her. She didn’t know what to ask for; thought touch me more, and found she was too nervous to give voice to such an idea.

He understood. His hands settled more firmly. Swept down, so that he cupped the points of her hips, the sheer size of them against midnight wool shocking to her. And then they shifted up, over the fretwork of her stays, and closed over her breasts.

“Oh.”

“Is this all right?”

“Yes. But would you kiss me again?”

“Gladly.” He pressed a slow, thorough kiss to her nape, and then turned her back around, gathered her close, and kissed her mouth again.

That was her favorite. The heat, and slide, and intimacy of it; the way everything else fell away save the press of lips and tongue, and the heat of his hands bleeding through her dress. She hadn’t realized she was shaking until they were kissing again, and then it all melted away, and she was nothing but a hungry, wanting creature again. It made her bold, kissing him. Urged her hands to action. She pushed the doublet off his shoulders, and unlaced his shirt down to his sternum, his skin hot velvet beneath.

He reached beneath her hair to tug the bow at the top of her dress loose, and as his fingers worked the laces, one by one, he pressed kisses down the side of her neck, a warm press to every exposed inch.

By the time her dress landed in a puddle around her feet, she felt feverish. Weak-limbed, light-headed, and so empty between her thighs. “Rune,” she murmured, as he kissed along her collarbone, hands tight on her waist, fingers pressed between the ribs of her stays.

“I know, I know,” he murmured back. He stepped away from her – a loss! – so he could tug his shirt roughly over his head and fling it aside.

Oh, that was a lovely view.

He kicked off his boots, shoved off his trousers–

And. Oh. That was an entirely new view.

Tessa clapped her hands to her hot cheeks before she could catch herself. The flush that washed through her left black spots sizzling at the edges of her vision. She didn’t mean to stare – but she had never – and he was so – it was so…big. Were all men that large? Or was it a Northerner trait? Or just a Rune trait? How on earth would it fit? Her thoughts raced, each more embarrassing than the last.

“Er.” He tried to cover himself with a hand, and only then did she look back at his face, and find that it had gone red. “I–”

“No,” she rushed to assure, “it’s fine. Completely fine! I was only startled – not that it’s startling! It’s a very lovely – that is, you have a nice, um–”

“Cock?”

She squeaked out a yes, her face on fire.

“If you don’t–”

“No! No, I do! Very much! It’s only that – well, it’s…and I’m…”

“We can–”

“I’m not afraid!” she nearly shouted. “I’m not! Amelia told me what to expect. She told me all about how – how it works.” It had been a mortifying conversation, Amelia matter-of-fact at first, and then laughing when she saw Tessa’s earns turn red; Tessa had hidden her face in her hands by the end, when Amelia started offering sketches on parchment to demonstrate her meaning. “She has a lover, so she knows – oh. Oh, well, she had a lover. Malcolm is dead, now. Poor Lia. And…” She trailed off with a groan. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about death and sad things when you’re standing there trying to show me your–”

“Tessa.” The laughter in his voice halted her mid-sentence. Her gaze had dropped to her own stocking-clad toes, but lifted now, and though his cheeks were still warmly pink, he was smiling, eyes glittering with amusement. Standing naked before the fire, he reached with his free hand, beckoning, just as he had before.

Tessa let out a deep breath that eased some of her tension, and went to meet him; soft hand in tough one, again; stepped into the radiant heat of his body again.

He released her hand so he could slip his arm around her waist and hold her close at her side. Voice low and soothing, he said, “It’s not so frightening, is it?” He moved his other hand, inviting her to look.

Amelia’s lessons and the bit of daring reading she’d done meant she knew that he was aroused, that he wanted her, his – cock, she could call it a cock, even if the thought made her blush – cock fat and firm, shiny at the tip where the head peeked out. Once she forced down her initial, virginal shock, with his solid presence beside her, surrounding her, she found that was wasn’t afraid at all, but curious.

“Can I touch?” she whispered.

His chest heaved with a deep breath, and his cock twitched in response. “Yeah.” His voice was low and rough-edged. “You can.”

Carefully, not wanting to hurt him, she wrapped her hand around his girth, surprised by the softness of the skin.

“Here, like this,” he murmured, and used his own hand to guide hers, to show her how to touch him best.

“It really is lovely,” she said, stroking him.

He kissed her temple, breath rustling her hair. “Gods, you’re sweet.”

She traced her thumb over the head, the beaded moisture there. “Do you think it’ll fit?”

He chuckled. “Only one way to find out.”

~*~

On his seventeenth birthday, Bjorn had clapped Rune on the shoulder and leaned in to say, out of Revna’s hearing, “After your mother turns in for the night, meet me down in the guardroom.” He’d done so, curious, eager, ready for whatever surprise had awaited. Bjorn had been there, and Leif, too; a handful of other guards already drinking and twitching impatiently for some reason. They’d saddled horses, and ridden down into the city, and it wasn’t until they were rapping on a red-painted door and being looked over through the slit at the top that Rune realized Bjorn had brought him to a brothel.

The girl Bjorn gifted him that night hadn’t been a girl at all, but a woman grown, older than him by at least ten years, with laugh lines and bright eyes, and a wild mane of dark hair that spilled down to cover her breasts, nipples peeking through. Rune had been slack-jawed and stupid, wildly aroused, and horribly embarrassed. She’d pushed him back on the bed, unlaced his trousers, and gotten on top. Had done all the work, and he’d come far too quick, her teasing him and calling him her “Quick Prince.”

Later, back at the palace, amidst the back-slaps and jeers, his tongue heavy with too much mistress, he’d confessed his shame. The others had laughed at first, but then chimed in with all sorts of helpful suggestions.

Tonight, here with Tessa, he hadn’t had a chance to do as Leif suggested, and bring himself off first beforehand, so as to last longer. But it was already so different with her – he wasn’t worried about lasting, or about being clumsy and unschooled in the arts of pleasure. This was Tessa, his Tessa, beautiful, and bashful, but braver than she realized; sweet, and soft, and responsive to each flick of his tongue, and pass of his fingertips. He had not a shred of shame, nor of nerves – save the ways he was nervous about making her feel good. Gods, let him make her feel good.

The most important thing, Bjorn had said that night, over their brimming cups, is to worry about the lady’s pleasure first and foremost. Don’t rush things. There’s nothing in the world that feels better than having a willing, satisfied woman under you.

So Rune bore Tessa gently down to his bed, on his rumpled sheets, and unlaced her corset, rolled down her stockings. He touched her all over, alert to ever shiver, and every breathy little sound that left her lips. He took her soft, pale breasts in his hands, and teased her nipples to rosy peaks; relished the strong grip of her fingers in his hair when he bent to suck them into his mouth, one by one.

He ached for her, but he tamped down his own desire, so that he could trail kisses all down her body; so he could pet through fiery red curls, and part pink folds, and kiss her there, too, until she was whimpering, and writhing, and wet for him.

“Rune. Oh, gods, Rune, please…”

He licked and sucked at her, brought her off that way, until his chin was dripping, and he could marvel at the way she clenched around his fingers.

He pulled her thighs around his hips, and she clamped down. Reached for him, clutching at his arms as he pressed in close, and finally got to tease his cock along her sex. He bit down hard on his lip, afraid he’d come right then.

“Rune…Rune, I’m ready. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

It was everything and nothing like his first time. It was that incredibly wet heat gripping him tight. But it was Tessa’s head pressed back into the pillow, her blue eyes slumbrous with pleasure. It was her mouth that he kissed, and kissed, as his hips found that old, inexorable, animal rhythm.

She raked his back with her nails, marks he would wear gladly, and she cried his name when she came again.

~*~

Tessa woke with a start to find the room black with night, the candles and fire all burnt out. The war. The Sels. What was happening? What was–

When she stirred, the warm body behind her did as well, a heavy arm shifting where it lay draped across her waist. She subsided with a sigh, settling back against Rune’s strong chest.

“Tess?” he inquired sleepily.

She stroked the back of his arm, petting through dark hair. “It’s nothing. I was only wondering how much longer until…” She swallowed hard. Until the dawn; until battle started; until they had to dress and dive back into the controlled chaos of warfare.

He hummed and shifted closer, nosing at the back of her neck. “I don’t know. It’s still dark.”

“Mmhm.”

He stroked her stomach, gentle sweeps that skimmed up lazily over her breasts. She shivered, and when her nipples pebbled, they were sore from his mouth, earlier, all of her tender in the most pleasant way.

He shifted in closer, so she could feel the hard line of his cock against her backside. His hand trailed lower, and she adjusted automatically, welcoming his questing touch down her belly, between her thighs, where she was still sticky and puffy.

“Are you sore?” he whispered, and pressed in with a fingertip.

She pressed her head back onto his shoulder. “Not too sore, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He pushed up far enough to fasten his lips to her throat, and his touch grew bolder against her sex. She was sore, but her body knew his now, eager for his touch again.

Like this, for a little while, the war could wait.

15

Rune woke in the gleaming silver of pre-dawn, head turned toward the window – and toward the head resting on his shoulder. He’d just come out of an ugly dream full of smoke, and blood, and screams, but it evaporated at sight of Tessa’s shadowed, sleeping face, and a smile pulled at his mouth. Her hair lay in silk ribbons over his arm, his chest, his stomach. Her hand, small and clean, with a few new calluses starting to form thanks to her insistence on learning to wield sword and bow, rested over his heart, tiny and pale against his furred chest.

Slowly, not intending to wake her, he laid his hand over hers. His other arm was around her waist, and he stroked the impossibly soft skin of her naked hip with his fingertips. The fire had died out, and frost rimed the diamond window panes; his breath plumed white in the dim room, but it was warm where they were tangled, skin on skin.

He was sore, a little, pleasantly so; muscles he didn’t normally use pulling as he snagged a fur with his toes and maneuvered it up over both of them. A twinge at his wound left his teeth gritted, but it eased once he was settled again. That was still a worry: if sex had it flaring and sensitive again, what would fighting do? How many arrows could he loose before the pain began throwing off his aim? Slowing him down?

And just like that, his stolen bit of peace dissolved, and he was no longer a content, happy lover, but a prince expected on the ramparts at dawn.

He extricated himself from bed as carefully as he could. He lifted Tessa by the shoulders and eased her into the warm place he’d abandoned on the pillow, tucked the fur over her shoulders.

She stirred, lashes fluttering. “Rune…?” Voice thick and groggy.

“Shh, love.” He smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead, simple gestures that left his chest aching. All he wanted was to climb back under the covers with her. “Go back to sleep.”

“But…” she protested. But her lashes lowered, and after he’d stroked her hair a few times, she drifted off again, breaths deep and even.

He washed with last night’s water, a thin film of ice on top of the ewer, and the cold of it woke him the rest of the way up. He braided his hair in a tight, simple tail to keep it off his face, then dressed, and fastened on his armor. He debated wearing Erik’s cloak – but, no, that was for ceremony. He drew on his own simple, functional brown one instead, buckled on his sword, and took one last, lingering look at Tessa.

She looked tiny in his bed, all swallowed up in quilts, and furs, and plush cream pillows. She looked like she belonged there.

With a deep breath that tasted like regret, he slipped silently from the room and down the hall.

Only to halt when he ran into Bjorn.

It wasn’t unusual to find his uncle’s oldest friend, and the captain of the guard in the royal apartments. He was basically family, and a central figure of their household.

But it was unusual to find him standing barefoot on the rug, buckling his armor on over a half-laced tunic. As if he hadn’t already been in full kit when he’d come into the apartments.

As if he’d spent the night here.

Rune’s mind flashed back to yesterday at dawn, up on the ramparts; to Bjorn standing behind his mother, his huge hands resting on her shoulders. An innocent enough touch, on its face.

But Bjorn and Revna didn’t touch. Like brother and sister, she’d said once, when talking about the old days, when Father was still alive, and Uncle was less kingly and more reckless. Bjorn had been as much a brother to her as Uncle.

Except, Revna and Uncle touched – supportive shoulder squeezes, teasing nose flicks, quick elbows, and unshy hugs when one or the other needed it – and Revna and Bjorn didn’t.

But he’d touched her yesterday.

And here he was now, half-dressed, and still, at this point, regarding Rune flatly from beneath slanted brows. Nowhere near his own chamber on the other side of the door and down the hall.

Rune searched for something to say, and came up short. He wasn’t angry – well, all right, a little. His mother was his mother and he didn’t like to think of her in that way. But, on the other hand, Bjorn was strong, and capable, and loyal, and Revna couldn’t have chosen a better man.

Rune cleared his throat.

Bjorn sighed. “Do we need to do this, lad? Because we can, if you’d like. It’s honorable of you, and it’s your right.”

Rune swallowed hard. He should say something. Make some threat…? But the idea of threatening Bjorn was, honestly, laughable. Hurt my mother and I’ll kill you. Yes, because that would happen. A butterfly might as well beat itself to death against a…well, a bear.

Bjorn smirked. “Don’t hurt yourself, lad.”

“Oi, I’ll have you know–”

Bjorn sighed, smirk falling away, and finished with the buckle of his gauntlet. “Listen, Rune. I won’t blame you if you’re angry with me. Be as mad as you like. But now’s not the time for petty squabbles.”

Rune sighed, too. “Yeah, I know.” His belly squirmed unpleasantly, but he dredged up a smile. “It’s just…if she ever moved on from Father, I’d hoped it would be with a nice fancy Southern lord–”

“Let a fancy Southern sheep head try,” Bjorn growled.

Rune chuckled.

Bjorn stepped forward, and extended his hand in offering. “Let’s say your mother isn’t in the habit of doing things she doesn’t want to.”

“Are you trying to make me sick before the day’s even started?”

“Listen, I’m being serious. You know she doesn’t. This is her choice. I’m just the lucky idiot she chose. We can have it out man-to-man later, if you’d like, if we bloody live through this war. But right now, we’re on the same side, yeah?”

Just like that – with mention of war – his petty disgust over his mother’s carnal activities melted away to insignificance. He took Bjorn’s hand. “Yeah.”

~*~

Tessa woke to a soft rap at the door. Hilda, she thought, and stretched, toes finding the cool spots in the sheets.

But the stretch tugged at a wholly new, deep soreness she’d never felt before, and she froze.

It wasn’t Hilda at the door.

It wasn’t even her door.

The last, clinging hold of sleep evaporated, and her eyes flipped open. The room was still shadowed, the furniture black against the gray of a slow-coming dawn, but it was most definitely not her room, with its massive bed, and its lingering scent of pine. She sat up, naked in Rune’s bed, and saw with horror that the door was swinging open, the glow of a lantern slipping into the room. She clutched the bedclothes to her breasts and tried, unsuccessfully, to draw a breath.

The light swelled, as the door opened all the way, glowing fire-orange across the elegant lines of Revna’s face.

Oh no.

Revna cocked her head to the side, smile plucking at her lips, one made sinister by the angle of the light. “Why ‘oh no’?”

Oh no, she’d said that aloud!

Tessa tried to pull the covers a little higher, face flooding with heat, pulse knocking hard. “I’m – I didn’t – that is – we didn’t–”

Revna chuckled, and swept into the room. She went to the candles at the bedside, and lit them with the lantern and a spill. As light began to fill the room, what Tessa had read as a threat on Revna’s face was revealed to be simple humor, tinged with fatigue at the edges, because the battle had yet to begin, and already, they were tired.

“Hush, lamb,” she chided gently, moving to sit on the side of the bed when she was done.

Tessa tried to shrink away, shame flushing hot and unpleasant beneath her skin. Of all the people to be caught by…

But Revna took her chin in a gentle grip and forced their gazes to meet. Hers was far from angry. “Tessa. It’s all right.”

“But…” Tessa’s eyes begin to sting. “We were supposed to – to wait, and we–”

Revna rolled her eyes, but softened it with a smile. “Yes, well, that was before we had an army at our doorstep, now, wasn’t it? Oh love, don’t cry. No one’s upset by this, least of all me. Young lovers should be together on the eve of battle.” She tilted her head. “All lovers should be, come to think of it.” Her smile widened a fraction – and then slipped to one gentler and more comforting. She dashed a tear from Tessa’s cheek with her thumb.

“Don’t think of all the bad that could happen,” she ordered. “Think of a wedding. Of winter roses in your hair and snow on your shroud. It’s time for us to braid our hair, and go down to stand strong with our people.”

Tessa took a few deep breaths, and managed a nod. As silly as it seemed, the idea of a wedding did help. She said a silent prayer, gathered all her meager bravery and will, and got out of bed.

~*~

It was cold up on the ramparts, but that didn’t account for the chills chasing up and down Rune’s spine. Sword heavy on his hip, Bow and quiver on his back, he gazed across the flickering torches of the outer wall, and in the first silver rays of dawn, beheld the enemy.

They lay like shadows on the ghostly-white snow, four blocks of them fifty wide, and seventy deep; a tight formation that resembled great stone slabs laid before the palace, rather than companies of men. The siege engines and catapults crouched like beasts between them, coiled and ready to strike. There were still men back at the camp, that warren of torches and braziers and silk tents gleaming in the first light, the men moving between them flowing like inky waters over what had once been a vast stretch of empty farmland. Far distant, still smoking faintly, was what had once been Aeres, but was now only a wound at the edge of the harbor.

All along the ramparts of the palace, and the outer wall, men were falling into formation, armor clinking, voices calling commands, breath steaming white in the chill air.

Bjorn touched his shoulder, and Rune realized that he’d been breathing in ragged, open-mouthed pants. “Think about your lessons,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “Where should we strike first?”

A drumbeat started up, a dozen drummers, two, three, until the air was filled with the regular, relentless thunder of the Sel army.

Rune gulped, and tried to think of Olaf’s white beard, and crooked back, bent over a library table and telling him only dunderheads ignored their studies. He took a breath. “We have to cripple their long-range attacks,” he said, and it was easier, then, to think of it like a page in a book, like a training exercise. “Catapults, and archers. We can’t let the siege engines reach the wall. After that, it’s a matter of repelling the ladders and hooks, and holding the wall.”

“Good.”

“Bjorn. There’s so many.”

“Aye. And you know how we kill them?”

Another gulp, another forcefully slow breath. In and out. This was what he’d been born for, reared for, trained for: Leif was the heir, and he was the spare, and oh gods, Leif, what if he never came back…? But, no. This was now. Rune was to be the warrior. The battle prince.

His next breath came easier. “One at a time.”

“Good,” Bjorn said again, voice darkly approving. “Give the order, then.”

Out on the field, there came the drumming, drumming, drumming.

Rune took a deep breath and let his voice ring out, his best impersonation of his uncle. “Archers!”

The call went up down the line, and down, and down. Archers! Archers! Archers!

“Indirect fire!” The called echoed again, in the throats of the men – of his men.

The drumbeat shifted. The light swelled a little, over the land, and movement rippled through the Selesee ranks.

“Nock!” Rune shouted, the cold stinging his throat, his lungs.

Nock, nock, nock, nock…

“Draw!”

Draw, draw, draw, draw…

“The scorpions are ready, captain,” someone murmured to Bjorn.

“Give the command. Take out the torches on the trebuchets.”

“Loose!”

It began with the snap of two-hundred bowstrings, and the whistle of two-hundreds arrows taking flight.

16

On the Road

Dawn broke cold and clear across the plain, as camp broke with a tired, necessary silence. Breakfast was dried meat and hard tack; the fires had been kept burning through the night, in case the wolves returned, but had burned down to smoking coals by the time the tents were struck. There had been only a few casualties, and those they left burning; there was no wood for a pyre, and no time to chop any. The corpses were wrapped in their cloaks, doused in oil; prayers were said, flints were struck, and the oily, black smoke rose tall as signal flares as they resumed travel once more.

Leif bit back a wince as he shifted in the saddle. Magnus had fashioned a sling for his bad arm, and he wore it now, while riding. He could get out of it and draw his sword should the need arise, but he saw the wisdom in keeping his arm still for now. The torn muscle pulsed and throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a strong pain, but a familiar one.

The wince was for the bite in his side.

Magnus had cleaned it as best he could with canteen water and a few dabs of heated spirits; it had stung, and Leif had hissed, and Magnus had chuckled and told him that was how he’d known it was working. The wounds hadn’t been deep, so they’d been smeared with salve and wrapped with several lengths of bandages around his waist. Good as new in no time, Magnus had said.

But…

Leif had been bitten by the palace dogs as a boy – a valuable lesson, Erik had always said. Don’t take something from a dog unless you’re sure of your place in their hierarchy. He knew what a bite felt like.

But this pain was deep, and visceral. It throbbed worse than his arm, a bright spark on every heartbeat, tugging at his whole torso. He found himself wanting to curl forward and hunch down in the saddle. Every time he straightened it was a small agony. He ground his teeth and looked between his horse’s ears, and concentrated on not letting the pain show. If a wound as small as this laid him low, how could he survive the battle to come?

“You all right there, your grace?”

Shit, he hadn’t even heard Magnus ride up alongside him. He forced himself tall in the saddle, bit back the whimper that threatened in the back of his throat, and managed a smile. “Fine. Only tired, I suppose.”

Magnus’s gaze narrowed a fraction, not fooled. “Arm hurtin’ you?”

“Yeah.” That was a safe admission. “I’ve not hurt myself that bad since that one festival where the pony dumped me across the start line.”

Magnus laughed, loud and far too bright for their circumstances. “Aye, I remember that. Your brother started shouting, ‘He’s dead! He’s dead!’ Poor thing thought you were a goner.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

“How’s the bite feeling?”

He fought the urge to grimace. “A bit tender. But it’s fine.”

“Hm.” Magnus didn’t sound convinced. “Wish we’d had time to wrap it fresh this morning. You tell me if it starts hurting too bad, aye? We don’t want it getting putrid.”

“Right.”

Lars called something, several lengths ahead, and Magnus thankfully trotted off to ride alongside his brother.

But then a creak of saddle leather and the steady, huffed breaths of a warhorse signaled Erik’s arrival, as his mount fell into step beside Leif’s. Unlike Magnus, there was nothing convivial about his expression; no bark of laughter.

“How bad’s the pain?”

“What? I don’t know what–”

“Don’t lie to me, Leif,” Erik said, stern and scowling. “You’re too good of a horseman to be holding yourself in the saddle like someone’s grandmother.”

Leif sighed, and allowed himself to slump. It helped. A little. Didn’t pull quite so strongly at the damaged muscles. “Do you want me to put it on a scale of one to ten?”

“I want you to dismount and ride in one of the sleighs, if you need to.”

“No, I–” Leif jerked upright in protest, and cut off with a hiss when his side grabbed.

Erik’s gaze honed in on his midsection. Shit. “It’s not your arm, is it?”

It took Leif longer than he would have liked to get his breathing regular. “It’s fine,” he finally managed, through grit teeth.

Erik’s scowl became a glare. “I thought it wasn’t deep.”

“It isn’t.”

“Bollocks. Halt and dismount. I want to see it.”

“Uncle, we’re in the middle of–”

“I don’t care. If you bleed to death in the saddle, you’ll–”

“I won’t.”

Leif’s horse halted and tossed its head up.

Erik reined up beside him, glare replaced by a rare look of wide-eyed shock.

Leif’s words, nearly shouted, rang off the tree trunks that bordered the field, echoes that rippled off into the distance.

Ahead, Magnus twisted around in his saddle to look back at them. “Everything all right?”

Leif’s stomach turned. He’d never taken that tone with anyone, least of all his uncle.

Erik gaped at him a moment, then called, “Yes,” to Magnus. He held Leif’s gaze a moment longer, before spurring his horse on. “If the pain gets worse, I want you off the horse.” A command, one to which Leif could only nod.

But something hung rancid and uncertain in the air between them, now. Leif had no idea what had happened, let alone how to go about mending it.

~*~

So far, Oliver had learned several truths about flying:

One: ascent and descent were the most thrilling aspects. When your stomach dropped, and the world tilted, and the dragon’s strength became most apparent.

Two: once up at a good flying height, where the drakes could glide along without working too hard, flapping only occasionally and maintaining a steady elevation, the thrill of peeking down through the clouds lost some of its shine. Oliver didn’t want to say it got boring, but, well…it was rather quiet. With just the rush of the wind in his ears, and the monotonous slap of cold air against his face.

Speaking of which…

Three: flying up in the high, cold air for long periods chapped his lips and his cheeks, and left his eyes dry and stinging.

“Gods, I can’t do this anymore.”

Four: when he wasn’t besting anyone in a duel, or playing the imperious Corpse Lord, Náli was an absolute brat.

Oliver sighed as he finished cinching Percy’s girth, patted his cool, smooth side, and turned to his flying partner. He’s young, he reminded himself. You weren’t a peach at that age, either.

Still wasn’t, as far as most people were concerned, but that was neither here nor there.

“Now, Náli,” he said, watching as Náli went through an elaborate sequence of stretches: arms overhead, touching his toes, wide reaches and lunges to both sides, twisting at the waist, back and forth. With his helmet on, and his cloak swirling around him, it was more than a little difficult to keep from laughing at the picture he made. “You can’t mean to imply that you – venerable Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands – are somehow less equipped for a long riding journey than I am.”

Náli snapped back around, scowling. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? You think I’ll fall for that?”

“No, but I think you’re whining an awful lot, and it’s getting on my nerves,” Oliver said, flatly.

That earned a snort, and a ghost of a grin.

Oliver grinned, too, and the movement pulled at a face gone tight and tired from the constant buffeting of the wind. A grin he couldn’t hold for long. “I know this isn’t fun.”

Náli rolled his eyes. “If you’re about to thank me for coming, or offer assurances that I’m doing the right thing, save your breath, because that sort of attitude really doesn’t suit you.”

Oliver’s laugh scraped at his dry throat. “You can sass me all you want, and you’re not going to get a rise out of me. I invented this game,” he said, motioning between them.

Náli wrinkled his nose and huffed. Then his expression melted into something truer: that of an exhausted young man. It was easy, when he was making faces, to overlook the gray pallor of his skin, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He’d been weak and overtaxed before this journey, and flying for an entire day surely hadn’t helped.

But Oliver was of the opinion that flying was easier on him than a grueling overland journey would have been – one that led to a clash with Ragnar and the Úlfheðnar, no less. No matter how taxing the flight was, Náli was in no shape to swing a sword.

Oliver cast a glance around them, as the sky brightened. He saw distant mountain peaks, and pine stands, and snow. Everywhere there was snow. “How much farther, do you think?”

“If we don’t stop, we should be there before nightfall.”

Oliver nodded. He’d left the direction to the drakes, after communicating with Percy that they needed to get to Aeres. Percy had offered a mental image of the palace seen from high above, through shredded layers of cloud, and Oliver didn’t doubt they were headed the right way. Though, if left to his own devices, he couldn’t have estimated the distance left to travel.

“Good,” he said. “When we arrive, I want to come in high, and survey the scene from above, where we won’t be noticed. We’ll decide on a plan of attack from there.”

Náli smirked. “Your king would choke if he knew you were even discussing a plan of attack.”

Oliver shrugged to cover the prickling of unease that flared between his shoulder blades. “He isn’t here, so he doesn’t get a say.”

Náli’s smirk widened. “You may have started a civil war in the North, but if nothing else you’ve given us all the chance to see what a clucking old hen our sovereign is.”

“Unlike Mattias, right?” Oliver shot back, and the smirk fell away as if slapped from the boy’s face.

Then the first part of what he’d said registered. Oliver’s stomach rolled. “Wait.” His heart lurched before reason could catch up to him. “You brat: this war’s been brewing. I didn’t start anything.”

Náli arched a brow. “How sure of that are you?”

Oliver gritted his teeth and took a steadying breath. Náli was a baiting sort of person – baiting, exhausted, frightened, and, ultimately, unhappy. Oliver reminded himself of this routinely, and had grown immune to all of Náli’s little barbs and stings.

This, though, went beyond whiny brattiness. This was a dig designed to leave him doubting not only himself, but his role in Aeretoll, and his place beside Erik. A low blow, and a vicious one at that.

Honestly, Oliver hadn’t expected that sort of calculated cruelty from him.

He gathered breath to respond – and then hesitated.

The North was far blunter and more direct than the South. Men challenged one another for dominance, yes, but with fists, and swords, and bold words rather than psychological warfare. Why leave someone doubting himself when you could fight him in a duel instead?

But Náli, Corpse Lord, a boy born with magic in a very practical world, wasn’t like the rest of them, was he? He would war verbally the same way he did physically: sinuous as smoke, tricksy as a cat. In a world of bears and wolves, he was a panther: alone, clever, slinking in the shadows.

And, despite their previous interactions, and their accord, and what Oliver had come to think of as a workable, if not friendly relationship, this was the first time they’d been off on their own like this. Man-to-man.

All of Aeretoll had wanted to challenge him with brawn.

But Náli was going to do it with his mind.

Sword-fighting wasn’t his forte, but this was a dance to which Oliver already knew all the steps.

He smiled in the way he always had with the young lords back home, when they wanted to remind him of their superiority and tried to pretend he hadn’t sucked them off in a coat closet at the last party. It had Náli’s smug look melting away. “I forget sometimes just how young you are. Still. I expected a stronger attempt.”

Náli’s expression locked up into something dark and disbelieving. “What?” he croaked.

“I mean no insult, my lord. It might have even worked on someone else. But you can’t appeal to guilt with a bastard: we’ve never been in charge of anything and there’s no insult we haven’t had hurled at us. We’ve been blamed for everything from our father’s infidelity, to a ruined crop.” He let his grin widen, baring his teeth. “Nice try, Corpse Lord, but there’s no fancy footwork that can help you best me in this arena.”

Náli’s eyes sprang wide. He gaped at him a moment, mouth working silently – then scowled and whirled away to adjust Kat’s girth.

The female drake turned her head to regard him critically – and then the little one came in on Náli’s side, purring in inquiry and nudging at his arm.

“Get away,” Náli hissed, swiping at him, but Valgrind made a sad noise and kept close, nosing at his arm, his hip.

Oliver stepped up on his other side, laying a hand on Kat’s shoulder. “Náli.”

He stood with his fingers hooked in the mounting stirrup, head bent down, pale lashes blinking furiously. “Shut up,” he said through tight-clenched teeth. “Just shut up.”

“No, I won’t. Because you’re very like the fire mountain of your duchy right now: anger and resentment building up, and up, and you’re going to erupt at some point. It’d be better to do it now, in front of me, who doesn’t matter at all, than to do it at Aeres in front of everyone.”

Náli growled, hand spasming on the stirrup.

Oliver risked laying a hand on his shoulder, and felt the tremors rippling through him.

“You’ve carried a heavy burden your whole life, and you’re still young–”

Náli whirled, and smacked his hand away. Eyes bright with unshed tears, lips peeled back in a snarl, his was the face of someone who’d reached the limit of all he could take. Not an eruption, but a collapse.

“What do you know?” he hissed. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me. You couldn’t – how could you – I don’t–”

Valgrind trilled a worried sound, and hooked his head over Náli’s shoulder, long blue tongue snaking out to flick at his jaw.

Náli froze, breathing in quick little puffs that steamed in front of his face, gaze shifting toward the drake. “Why is he doing this? Why won’t he leave me alone?” All the fury had bled out of his voice; his tone was pleading, frantic.

“Because he likes you.”

“But why?”

“Well, when you aren’t intentionally being a pretentious little shit, you’re actually quite likable.”

“What–” Náli scowled, and had the effect ruined by another swipe of Valgrind’s tongue. “Stop that!” He tried to shove the drake’s head away, but only got licked on the hand instead.

Oliver couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

Náli turned his fuming look on him, then. “Call off your stupid dragon.”

“No. That’s your dragon.”

“No, it’s bloody” – Valgrind’s tongue snaked into his ear – “n-eugggrh!”

Oliver laughed – and after another moment’s sputtering, so did Náli.

“Gods,” he groaned, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “I hate this. I hate you, and I hate him–”

“Oh, of course,” Oliver said easily, between chuckles.

Náli sighed, deflating. He finally consented to rub Valgrind behind his horns, and the drake closed his eyes and purred happily. One corner of Náli’s mouth plucked upward in a fleeting smile. A touch of fondness for the over-affectionate dragon. Then it fell away. “I do hate being me, sometimes,” he said in a quiet voice. An admission.

“I’ve never thought being a lord sounded like much fun,” Oliver commiserated.

A flicker of a glance. “Liar.”

“No…well, all right. Life is easier when you’re legitimate. You have all the good silks, and furs, and jewels. People hold you in high regard. But…I had the good silks, and furs. Not so many jewels – those were heirlooms to be passed onto trueborn sons – but I had my own horse, and I never went hungry at mealtimes. I was tutored with my cousins and never denied access to the library. My father was a right prick who didn’t care if I lived or died, but Uncle was kind, at least. He saw that I lived as well and as richly as his children, even if he didn’t dote on me. My aunt, too: she’s not warm, but that’s just her, and nothing to do with my status.

“I was part of the family. And I knew my cousins loved me. I even got to attend the balls and soirees. Without any of the pressure that comes with overseeing the health and prosperity of a duchy. And I was certainly never asked to perform necromancy, nor sit vigil over a fire mountain lest it destroy the whole kingdom. The mantle you wear is a heavy one, Náli,” he said, seriously. “And I’m not saying that to flatter you – you know me, I’m not a flatterer.”

That earned another ghost of a smile.

“I’m saying that it can be hard to bear all that you do, and to hold yourself poised all the time. Life is balance: you have to be able to let your hair down sometimes – so to speak; all you bloody Northerners and your long hair.” He rolled his eyes, and Náli snorted. “What I’m saying is: if you need to set that weight down sometimes, and just scream, or throw things, or feel sorry for yourself for a while, you can do that with me. I don’t count.”

Náli sighed, and slung his arm around Valgrind’s neck; let him support his weight, a task which Valgrind seemed all too happy to take up. “What do you mean you ‘don’t count’?” he grumbled. “You’re the king’s bloody consort.”

“I’m an outsider,” Oliver corrected. “I don’t care if you live up to expectation or carry on the family tradition, or whatever it is you think you have to do around everyone else. None of that matters to me.”

Náli regarded him a long moment, and then slumped down further, so that his grip on Valgrind was all that held him upright. The drake nuzzled into his side, and Náli accepted it. “I wasn’t supposed to go to the Yule Feast,” he said, sounding defeated – and small. Not only young, but not a large lad, either, though he puffed himself up and exuded a larger-than-life aura…usually. This was not a lord, an heir, nor a necromancer in front of Oliver, now, but just a frightened, unhappy young man. “All the lords go, true, but, I’m not like them. I hadn’t been down into the well in a long while–”

“The well?”

“You don’t want to know,” Náli said, wearily. “It’s old magic. Family magic. Suffice to say, if I don’t tend to it regularly, I grow weaker and the mountain grows stronger. I have to speak to the dead – Mother says one of my ancestors didn’t, and that he went stark raving mad before the end.” A grim smile. “Maybe I’m already there, who knows. But I hadn’t been, and I needed to. But I left, instead, first for the holiday, then for the festival. Mattias has wanted me to return home the entire time. And now here I am flying the wrong direction, on a dragon.” He massaged at the bridge of his nose. “I have to return after this. I have to do down into the well. And what’s worse: Mother has promised to hold another one of those horrid courtship balls upon my return. She’s already invited everyone; they’re just waiting for me.”

“Courtship ball.” Oliver’s mouth went dry at the thought. He’d attended one, once, as Amelia and Tessa’s escort; had watched the young, marriageable ladies fidget with cups of punch and their printed fans, while the mothers eyed the bachelors like hungry wolves out for prey. There had been little iced cakes, and a string quartet in the corner, and an air of desperation about it all. Both sexes had known why they were there, and only a few had enjoyed the process, the rest a crush of awkward first dances and ungainly back-of-the-hand kisses. “If yours are anything like the ones in Drakewell–”

“Worse, I imagine. Because there’s a dozen ladies and only one eligible bachelor.” He shuddered. “The sooner I produce an heir, the better. That’s a fact that’s been impressed upon me since birth. My magic is taxing; I have to secure the lineage, and secure it soon.”

And not just for the sake of a title and a manor house, Oliver knew, but for the safety of the whole kingdom. That was too weighty a knowledge to bear for one boy on his own.

Náli sniffed, but his eyes stayed dry. “I’ve only ever loved one person. And he’s supposed to stand guard outside my bedchamber door while I try to beget an heir on my bride.”

“I’m sorry.” It felt like a paltry offering – probably because it was.

Náli twitched a sad smile. “Not your fault.” He scrubbed a hand across his face, straightened, and pulled on his gloves. “I suppose we should be off.”

The sky had lightened as they talked, fat, slanted bars of white sunlight now beaming up from the horizon. “Probably, yeah.” Oliver slipped on his own gloves and turned back toward Percy.

“Oliver.”

He glanced back over his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

They mounted, and with leaps, and the clap of strong wings, they melted up into the sunrise, flying for home – and war.

17

Aeres

Midmorning sunlight blazed on golden armor; glinted off the buckles of greaves and breastplates. Rows of fallen Sels, slumped like broken, metal-cast figures in the snow, which their compatriots stepped over and pushed aside. They were an unending tide, pressing forward each time a fresh line was dropped by a hail of arrows.

Sweat poured down Rune’s body despite the cold. He dashed it from his brow with the back of his glove; blinked it from his eyes. “We’re going to run out of arrows.”

As he said it, another twang, hiss, rush, and a fresh volley went up and over the walls, arcing, the shadows of hundreds of shafts moving across the bailey like that of a vast flock of ravens, before it fell into the enemy ranks.

“Aye, we will if we keep shooting,” Bjorn agreed. “We have to save some for the end, for when the ladders go up.”

Rune’s breath caught. His mother had offered nothing but assurances that the walls wouldn’t be breached, but here now, on the ramparts, Bjorn was talking of ladders as if they were pre-supposed.

“But, look,” he continued, unaware or uncaring of Rune’s unsteady panting beside him. “They’ve closed ranks. Now we can hit them with the real firepower.”

Rune gaped at him a moment, struck dumb by his own fear, and then remembered. “The catapults!”

Bjorn nodded. “Give the signal.”

“Right.” He dragged air into lungs gone raw from the cold. “Archers! Hold!” The call rippled down through the ranks, from mouth-to-mouth. The archers – his archers – lowered their bows, ready for the next command. “Make ready catapults!”

“Make ready, make ready!”

Out in the field, the Sels stood in compressed rows, clustered together thanks to the last hour’s relentless rain of arrows. The perfect target.

Down below in the yard, great granite boulders were lifted and swung with the aid of ropes, pulleys, and fresh-built cranes. The catapults were loaded, and the men manning them looked up to him for the signal.

Gods, it left him dizzy in an unpleasant way, being in command like this.

“Fire!” he shouted, and was echoed.

Fire, fire, fire.

Hatchets lifted, flashing in the sun, and fell.

The first catapult bucked like an unruly colt as the arm was sprung. Rune watched the boulder fly, up, up, over the wall, so high it looked like a pebble.

And then it fell. It bounced, tumbled, skipped, and carved a path through the Sels. Gold armor flashed as bodies were tossed aside.

Rune grinned.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, lad,” Bjorn said. “We’ve a ways to go yet.”

The second catapult fired with a creak and snap, boulder whistling through the air.

Behind them, a horn sounded.

~*~

Revna leaned toward her. “Only the catapults, lamb,” she murmured in explanation of the sound that had caused Tessa to jump in her seat.

Tessa nodded, and resettled. Only the catapults. She’d never seen one before now, much less heard the creak and snap of it firing.

Her panic felt like a live thing, one that threshed and whined in her grip, struggling to get loose and run wild through her. If that happened, she couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t crawl beneath one of the trestle tables.

She sat with Revna on the dais, Hilda and Astrid stationed behind them, offering them tea every so often that neither of them drank. Revna appeared calm, but her ringed hands gripped the chair arms hard, until her knuckles turned white. Tessa felt a little less alone, in that.

Down at the tables, the elderly, infirm, and the farmer’s wives had joined hands, and bowed their heads. An offering had been tossed on the fire, a bundle of fragrant herbs that sparked, and smoked, and filled the hall with their woodsy scents. A woman with yellow, plaited hair and a sturdy, agricultural look to her frame led them in prayer: “We call upon the Val-Father to guide the souls of our brave warriors over the Rainbow Bridge, to rest in the Realm Eternal, alongside heroes of the past…”

Estrid mounted the stairs to the dais, hair braided severely, wearing armor and a sword that swayed at her hip, her expression tense. One of her friends, likewise appareled, followed her; Tessa couldn’t remember the girl’s name.

“My lady,” Estrid said. “I’m going up on the wall.”

“No.” Revna’s tone was harsh – and final. “You’re staying here, with us.”

Estrid huffed. “My lady–”

“Your mother left you in my charge. What will I tell her when you march up there and catch a Selesee arrow in the throat?”

The friend went goggle-eyed.

Estrid huffed. “You’re a fighting woman,” she challenged. “I know you want to be up there, too.”

Tessa saw a jolt move through Revna, and felt it echo in her own spine.

Revna swallowed audibly. “I–”

“My lady!” A young guard came pelting into the room, helmet slipping over his eyes, face stark white beneath its brim. “My lady, my lady!”

Revna stood and pivoted to face him. “What?”

“It’s–” He was gulping in air, and pitched forward at the waist, leaning on his spear. “It – there was – the tunnels,” he finally managed. “The secret entrance.”

Beneath Tessa’s feet, the palace shuddered.

~*~

Aeretoll spread beneath them, its streams and tree lines like rows of stitching on a vast quilt; pillowy and perfect from this height. Oliver leaned low over Percy’s neck, the plume on his helmet slapping at his back as it waved behind him like a banner. He felt another smile threaten – because nothing could rival the sensation of flying like this – but all too soon remembered why he was flying in the first place, and the potential horrors that awaited them.

He tossed a glance over his shoulder – and found that Náli, Kat, and Valgrind had fallen behind.

Percy’s concern pinged in the back of his mind, and with a thought, and a light touch on the reins, he swung Percy back around in a wide loop, and they swooped in to ride alongside them.

“What’s wrong?” Oliver shouted.

“He spotted something!” Náli shouted back, and pointed.

Valgrind dove down a little – his mother called out to him – and whipped his tail, crying in agitation.

Far below, Oliver glimpsed a knot of dark shapes gliding beneath the shade of a pine stand. Percy relayed a mental image: wolves. Several dozens of them.

“It’s wolves,” Oliver shouted, straightening in the saddle. The drakes were hovering now, flapping their wings in place with loud cracks and snaps.

Náli sent him a sharp look. “That’s a big pack.”

“Yeah, well. It’s winter. Maybe they’re teaming up to hunt.”

Náli didn’t look convinced, gaze shifting to Valgrind. “Why is he so upset about them?”

Oliver didn’t know. Percy could convey only confusion and unease, but offered nothing more helpful than that.

“Come on. We have to keep moving.”

Náli stared a moment longer, then nodded. He whistled, a sharp sound that managed to cut above the wind and the rustle of leathery wings. “Come along, boy!” he called.

Valgrind snapped his jaws down at the wolves hiding in the trees, then flapped his way back toward them.

Unease prickled at the back of Oliver’s neck. Hurry, he thought. Percy ducked his head, and dove into the wind.

~*~

Revna gripped the young guard’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “What happened? What about the tunnels?”

He took a few more explosive breaths, and panted out, “I was part of – of the reserve team – down at the gates. The secret entrance. They – they came out of nowhere. I don’t know how! One moment the way was clear, and the next an entire company was bearing down on us. They were – they were carrying something. A big – big basket. It looked like a ball. I don’t–”

“What happened?” Revna snapped.

“The lieutenant sent me to you. To – to warn you. We have to – have to seal off the tunnels.”

Another vibration shot up Tessa’s legs.

Revna’s eyes widened. “Powder. The Sels use black powder.”

Tessa’s stomach lurched. “You mean–”

“They’re blasting their way through the lower gate,” Estrid said, grimly. “They’re coming for us.”

~*~

On the far end of the palace grounds, beyond the sheer-faced outer wall that encircled the stables, nearly ten acres from the ramparts where Rune now stood, black smoke curled toward the sky in fitful streamers, billowing and lurching like a snake with its head struck off. A rumble issued across the distance, a deep boom like ice in the harbor cracking and shifting apart.

Bjorn swore. “Black powder. Bollocks, they’re trying to blast their way into the tunnels.”

“They what?” But what else could that smoke mean? That tremble of stone and timber beneath his feet. “No one knows about those – no one save those of us who live here! How could the Sels know?”

“There’s a rat in our midst,” Bjorn growled. “Stay here.”

He moved to stride away, and Rune clutched at his sleeve. “What? No. I’ll go with you.”

Bjorn jerked himself loose and turned a ferocious glare on Rune – one undercut by something akin to panic. “Stay here. Have the scorpions fire on the men pushing the siege engines. Firebomb them. Whatever happens, they can’t reach the wall. I’m taking men out the sally port and around the long way. Hold the wall, Rune. That’s your job.”

If the Sels had breached the tunnels, then they were inside the palace. They’d left only a skeleton crew in the hall, with the women and children. His mother was down there. Tessa was down there.

He swallowed, and managed a nod.

Bjorn took off at a run.

Rune turned back to the wall, snagged the arm of the lieutenant waiting there, and said, “Send a dozen men back inside. I want the tunnels blocked from the inside. Use whatever’s available.”

“Yes, your grace.”

On the field, the siege engines heaved another fraction forward, creaking and groaning, their wooden frames swaying.

“Scorpions!”

~*~

Leif’s whole midsection was on fire. The pain was a sharp, hot knife beneath his ribs. It spread farther with each beat of his heart, like molten metal crawling across his nerves and muscles. He’d given up on riding upright some time ago, and slumped now in the saddle, eyes threatening to shut. He forced them open and gripped the pommel of his saddle with fingers beginning to go numb.

This wasn’t infection.

He didn’t know what it was – and didn’t much care, at this point, as his horse took a long stride and the resultant bump left him groaning through his teeth. He was sweating, could smell the acrid stink of it wafting up through the collar of his tunic. His skin buzzed, and hummed, and felt like something was trying to push through it; like it no longer fit, and each time he shrugged or fidgeted to ease the itch, fresh stabs of agony moved through his torso. His teeth hurt, and his joints hurt, even in his legs and feet.

Something was very, very wrong.

But the sun was high, and they were making good time. He dropped back to ride with the guardsmen, who kept shooting him fearful looks, but who didn’t speak up.

All that mattered was getting home. If they could arrive before Erik, Birger, Magnus or Lars saw him like this, he could safely collapse, then.

What happens if you run up against Ragnar’s party again and you’re in this shape? He’d asked himself that hours earlier, when he’d still been able to mask the pain. Now, it was so severe he couldn’t be bothered to care. If wolves ate him, so be it.

Some sort of commotion sounded up ahead, but Leif couldn’t lift his head to seek it out.

“…tracks here,” someone said.

“Pawprints.” That was Erik’s unhappy growl. “None of their party is traveling as a human.”

Ragnar, then. A fragment of memory flitted across his mind – glowing blue eyes, and dripping ivory fangs – before the next step sent a fresh shock of pain through him. He failed to bite back another groan, and this time, the guardsmen didn’t hold their tongues.

“Your grace, are you well?”

Before Leif could stutter a weak response, another called, “Your majesty! Something’s wrong with the prince.”

Damn.

“What?” Erik barked.

Leif tried to straighten – really, he did – but had managed only to lift his head halfway by the time Erik reined up beside him with a spray of snow and a curvetting mount trying to evade his too-harsh yanks on the reins. He was an excellent horseman; it was only worry that made him impatient with his steed, Leif knew.

Just like Leif knew he must make a pathetic picture, listing to the side, gasping for breath, sweat dripping off the end of his nose.

“By the gods,” Erik said. “What are you – Magnus! What sort of sodding bandages did you use?”

“I’m…” Fine died on his lips. His eyes fell shut, and he couldn’t open them. Not for a long stretch in which the world seemed to tilt and whirl around him. When he managed to crack his lids a fraction, Erik’s face hovered above his, and blessedly cool air touched his flaming midsection.

A voice, possibly Magnus’s, said, “Shit, what is this? That’s no regular infection. I’ve never seen the like.”

Erik’s face was pale, haloed by too-bright sunlight, lips pressed to a thin line. “Just clean it.”

“But the flesh is clean. There’s no pus.”

“Then why is that happening?”

Leif drifted. He dreamed, in the black oblivion, of things that sang in the dark.

~*~

A knot of soldiers poured down the staircase. “My lady,” their leader called, as they strode between the trestles, heavy, round shields on their arms, swords naked and glinting in the candlelight. “The prince has ordered us to block up the tunnels.”

Revna whirled on him. “All our rations are stored down there. If we block those bastards in with them, they’ll destroy everything.”

The hall buzzed like a swatted beehive, panic ringing in each hushed whisper and strangled inquiry. Our people, Revna had said, but Tessa’s throat was too tight to offer words of comfort to anyone.

“My lady?” the soldier asked, brows lifting up beneath the brim of his helmet.

“Evacuate these people to the upper levels.” She gestured to the citizenry milling in panicked clusters. “There’s plenty of room up there. Leave a few of your men here to guard the stairs. You, there,” she waved closer the guards who’d been on duty at the door, and along the walls, “go with these troops through the kitchens and to the mouth of the main tunnel. Stop them there and engage them.” To the first soldier: “If we lose our stored grain and cured meat, we won’t survive the winter, much less a long siege. Go.”

Boots slapped over the flagstones as they moved to comply.

“What of you, my lady?”

Revna drew her sword. “I’m coming with you.”

“Here.” Estrid appeared in front of Tessa; thrust something toward her.

Tessa blinked at it, terror making her thoughts sluggish. “What – what is this?”

“A sword. Here.” Estrid shoved it against her front, and she had no choice but to grasp it: leather sheath, simple pommel and grip, heaviness of steel pulling at her arms.

“But – but I can’t – and they’re–”

“Evacuate if you want to,” Estrid snapped, lip curled with disdain. “But there’s not time to worry about your feelings, princess.” She whirled away, drawing her own weapon, her friend at her side.

Revna and the soldiers were charging from the rear of the hall, as two guards ushered the citizens toward the grand staircase.

Tessa regarded the sword in her hands, its tooled belt and oversized buckle, and the first clear thought that pierced the veil of panic was, of all things, about Estrid. That witch. She was still so rude, and she still doubted Tessa, held her in contempt…

Tessa dragged the ends of the sword belt around her waist, and hurried after them.

~*~

Erik had seen carnage. Had dealt his fair share of it, in war. He’d seen hunting accidents, and training mishaps. Had lopped a man’s head off, only a month ago.

He’d never seen anything like the wound on Leif’s side.

Magnus was right: the edges were clean, and there were no obvious, usual signs of infection. No pus, no bleeding; the fluid draining from it was clear. But snaking out from it, shooting like lightning bolts across Leif’s skin, were black lines. Lines that were veins showing through from the inside out: black veins. Poisoned. That was the only explanation.

That was how Erik was choosing to think of it, because otherwise he might choke.

Leif’s eyes didn’t look right: fever-bright, the pupils oddly elongated.

His gums were bleeding.

The sweat that slicked every inch of his body gave off a familiar, musky scent that Erik had only detected in furs cut away from a fresh kill.

He was delirious and mostly unconscious in a way that reminded him all too much of Oliver in the grips of marsh fever. Of his brother dying in a bed of his own sweat, twisting and writhing in soaked sheets.

His heart beat hard and fast as a warm drum.

They’d cleaned the wound, and wiped him as well as they could with handfuls of snow, trying to bring down his temperature. But they were in the middle of nowhere, with miles more to go. They’d wrapped his wound, and bundled him into one of the sleighs. Then Erik had taken off at a canter and challenged the rest of the party to keep up.

The sun had reached and surpassed its zenith. From here, it was a race against the dark.

He knew they couldn’t reach Aeres before nightfall, that they would have to spend another night in tents, that it was a night to which they might lose Leif. Still, he spurred his horse faster.

Until he heard the screaming.

Erik reined up, and twisted around in the saddle. Another scream rent the air, anguished, wet–

Leif.

He cantered back to the lead sleigh, aware of Birger, Magnus, and Lars following him. The sleigh had halted, by the time he reached it, the guard driving it gaping down at Leif, who thrashed on the seat, dislodging the furs tucked around him. His eyes were open, mouth yawning wide, face twisted up with pain.

Two things struck Erik like physical blows.

The startling brightness of his eyes, as if some inner light pulsed through them.

And his teeth. His canine teeth that looked like fangs.

Erik scrambled down out of the saddle. “Leif. Leif!” He gripped his shoulders and tried to shake him, but Leif twisted, snarled like a beast, and swatted him away. “Leif!”

He tumbled out of the sleigh, face-first, and caught himself in the snow on his hands – hands tipped with claws, hands crawling with black veins.

Erik had never felt more helpless.

“Gods preserve us,” Birger breathed, sliding to a stop beside him. “How – what is–”

“Don’t you know the stories?” Oddmarr asked, reining in his short, shaggy pony alongside them. Leif snarled at the animal and it danced aside, snorting, rolling its eyes. Oddmarr gripped the reins in expert hands and said, “The old stories of the origins of the Úlfheðnar? Your own people, lad.”

Erik darted a glance toward the Beserkir chief, brought up short by the man’s sad, knowing expression as he gazed down at Leif.

Leif who clawed up the snow, and breathed in ragged, growling stutters, long strings of saliva dripping from new-formed fangs.

“Stories? Those are – those are only myths. For children. What are you–”

“Gods!” Birger shouted.

Magnus said, “Fuck – bloody fucking fuck.”

Cracking sounds filled the air, pops and wet, sucking noises like the working of a lung punctured by a rib.

Oddmarr said, “The elders had magic – real magic. ‘Wolf-shirt’ wasn’t just a title. It meant something. Your cousin’s been dabbling with those shamans, and he’s figured out how to bring that magic back.”

Leif threw his head back, and howled. The sound held nothing of a human voice.

“Your family’s got the old blood,” Oddmarr said, grimly. “And Ragnar, the bastard, has turned your nephew.”

The howl tapered off, and Leif, four-legged, shaggy, and wolf-shaped, regarded them all with bright eyes, and a lolling tongue.

“He’s…” Birger began, voice faint – old, suddenly. The paper voice of a frightened old man.

“Aye,” Oddmarr said. “I’d never seen one up close myself until last night, but he’s a skinwalker, make no mistake.”

Erik could only watch, horror like a stone lodged in his belly, as the massive, blue-eyed wolf that was his nephew approached, licked at his hand, and looked up at him with clear recognition.

“Skinwalker,” Erik said, through numb lips.

Leif sneezed. It sounded affirmative.

18

Iron bolts as long as the span of his spread arms whistled through the air again and again, the scorpion crews relentless and efficient. Sels dropped, and were replaced by more. One bolt stuck fast in the great wooden wheel of a siege tower, and it couldn’t move any farther, its crew struggling to pry it loose.

But there were so many towers, crawling inexorably closer to the outer wall. There were too many. No matter how many Sels they felled, more appeared in their place.

Rune twisted a glance over his shoulder, where the black smoke had dissipated. He could see nothing of whatever transpired on the other side of the wall back there. Had Bjorn’s party engaged the enemy they hadn’t sought to find at their flank? Were Sels even now pouring through the palace below him like molten gold?

A shout went up around him, and he turned back to see a flicker of movement out among the Sel ranks. A large flicker of movement.

The soldier beside him said, “Fuck. The trebuchets.”

~*~

“Heh,” Estrid huffed when Tessa pulled up alongside her. “I’m impressed.”

Tessa didn’t bother to respond; wasn’t sure she could have if she’d wanted to, the way her throat had tightened. They jogged down the wide hall that led to the kitchens, the space echoing with the slap of footfalls and the chiming clink of the soldiers’ armor shifting as they moved. The cressets on the wall threw dancing shadows as they passed, so they seemed a company of ghosts bleeding down the hallway.

Don’t think of blood.

“My lady!” Hilda shouted from behind. “My lady, Tessa, wait! You must get upstairs with the others!”

Ahead of them, Revna skidded to a halt, and pivoted. “Tess? No, you can’t–”

With one woman rushing up behind her, and another blocking her path, with Estrid studying her from the side, waiting, watching to see what she’d do, Tessa found her voice.

“Everyone, stop treating me like I’m made of glass!” Later, she would marvel at the pitch and volume of her voice. “We don’t have time,” she continued, as everyone gaped at her – all save Estrid, who smirked. “Are we going to argue, or are we going to fight?”

~*~

Leif’s world was an explosion of scents. Snow, and pine, and ice. The steaming bodies of horses and reindeer. Prey.

No, no.

But…he smelled birds off in the trees, and, way down below the layers of compressed snow, cold earth, and last autumn’s leaf litter. He smelled men, the cleanness of fresh blood, and the putrefaction of festering wounds.

Pack.

He smelled…everything. Absolutely everything. The whole world, in all its shades of black, white, and gray.

Uncle was much taller, now. His voice too loud when he said, “Leif? Leif, is that you? Can you understand me?”

Yes, Leif said, but the sound he made was not words. It was a bark.

He was…that’s right, now he was…

Run. Seek. Hunt. Bite. Kill.

He picked up a scent that left his hackles lifting, a growl building in his throat. Traitor. Enemy.

Ragnar.

He pressed his nose to the ground, and inhaled deeply. The trail was only an hour old. Headed for Aeres, for home.

Leif jumped into a run, and joy filled him as he felt the strong response of his body; the coil and stretch of ready muscles, that instant burst of speed.

“Leif!” Uncle shouted behind him.

But he had to hurry.

Home.

Traitor.

Kill.

~*~

“Don’t draw that yet,” Estrid said as they jogged. “You’ll just trip and fall on it.”

“I will not,” Tessa argued, but she rested her hand on the sword’s pommel, and didn’t draw it yet.

“My lady,” Hilda huffed, drawing alongside her, skirts lifted and large bosom bouncing. “’Tis – ‘tis noble, what you’re trying to do–”

“Oh, come off it,” Estrid said from the other side.

“Hush, you,” Hilda said, as if Estrid were a wayward brat and not a lady as well. Tessa only just managed to clamp down on a burst of hysterical laughter.

Ahead, a corner turned, and the soldiers shifted closer together around Revna so they could pass through a set of open double doors.

“My lady,” Hilda continued, breathing strained and ragged. “’Tis noble, to be sure, but you’ve only started sparring recently. You’ve never wielded a sword this heavy! The Lady Revna was born to this life, but you weren’t. Won’t you – won’t you please–”

Light flared ahead, and it wasn’t from the flickering cressets on the walls.

Revna and the soldiers slid to a halt.

“Make ready!” the leader called, voice echoing off stone.

Over the rapping of her pulse in her ears, and the quick sawing of her breath, she heard the approach of rushing footsteps from below. The loud clink of armor heavier and more solid than any that the Aeretolleans wore. The heavy gold plate of the Sels, which made her own leather bodice and apron seem laughably insufficient by comparison.

“Now,” Estrid murmured, voice gone serious. “Draw your sword now.”

Tessa did. She’d made her choice, however foolish, and now she had to fight for it.

~*~

Time seemed to stand still. The trebuchets launched, and Rune’s gaze went helplessly up, up, up to the boulders that arced through the air toward them. He watched them crest, lost them a moment, eyes watering as he looked directly into the sun, and then he watched them fall.

Their catapults had done their share of damage.

But the Selesee trebuchets had a far great reach. So far that–

“Your grace, get down!”

A hand gripped his cloak and dragged him roughly back. He choked, as the clasp bit into his throat, and the pain in his side grabbed – but Rune could only allow himself to fall backward into the arms of the soldier who’d grabbed him, as he watched a boulder larger than a horse hurtle toward the ramparts.

He hit the ground hard enough that all the air was knocked from his lungs. He was rolled onto his stomach, a weight on his back, hands pressing at the back of his head, his neck.

And then came an awful, deafening crash, and the ground dropped out from under him.

~*~

Light from a carried torch glinted off gold as the Sels came boiling up the curving stairs from below.

All their wondering, and waiting, and preparing. All the fretting, and hand-wringing; the unbelieved assurances from Revna, and Bjorn, and Rune, with fear glinting in their eyes. All of that, and the moment she’d feared most had finally arrived.

It seemed anticlimactic, in its own way.

Her insides turned to jelly, and she thought she might be sick, but there was no time for that.

The soldiers lowered their spears, braced the butts in the cracks between the stones, and met the first charge of the enemy.

~*~

The world was upside down. Rune fell, and it seemed like forever, but then he landed flat on his back with a sick jolt, bright spots of pain under his shoulder and hip lighting him up so bright his vision went white.

Only, no…that was the sky. The bright sun overhead blinding him. Smoke across his field of vision as he blinked, and tried to rectify what had happened. He smelled dust, was choking on it, he realized, as he dragged in a breath and launched into a coughing fit that jacked him upright.

He caught himself against smooth, worn wood, and whatever he was sitting on shifted dangerously beneath him. Dust swirled in front of his eyes, a fine haze of it hanging in the air. So thick it obscured his surroundings, and it was a long few moments before he realized where he was.

A shattered table on a familiar, richly-patterned rug. A mantelpiece of polished, dark wood, the tapestry above it hanging down from its moorings, half-blocking a fireplace boiling with pale ash and dust, where falling debris had snuffed a fire.

The royal apartments. Ages-old stone had broken like a child’s building blocks, and he’d fallen straight through into the common room that had served as nursery, playroom, and drawing room his whole life.

“Gods,” he murmured, and coughed again.

It was the sort of devastation too big to be comprehended in any sort of sensible way. He was in shock, could acknowledge that fact, but couldn’t find anything like grief or worry for his home, as the dust began to settle, and he realized he sat on a pile of splintered stone, that the wood he gripped was a ceiling beam crashed down to the floor.

Chaos ruled up on the ramparts – but the sounds of panic filtered down to him in a muted, indistinct blur of shouts and screams.

Much closer, someone groaned.

Rune patted his arms and legs down, searching for injuries. He felt tender, bruised all over from the fall, and knew he’d be even sorer in a few hours, but none of the pain was jagged or urgent, so he very carefully picked his way down from the rubble pile.

A soldier lay face-down on the rug, his helmet dented in the back. He groaned again, when Rune reached him, and searched for a pulse at his throat. His skin was clammy; he didn’t stir. Rune rolled him over, carefully, and saw the streamers of blood that tracked across his face, and spilled from his lips.

“Can you hear me?” Rune gave his shoulder a gentle shake. “Hello?”

No response.

Was this the man who’d saved him? Who’d pulled him back in time? Rune didn’t even know his name. He should have. A good prince would know all of his subjects by name.

He struggled to his feet, swaying before he got his bearings. “Shit,” he murmured, surveying the destroyed room. There was no way to climb back out through the hole he’d plummeted from. But the door, he saw, when he turned, was still free.

He checked that his sword was still at his hip, his bow and quiver at his back, miraculously intact. Then he picked his way toward the door.

~*~

A sound like thunder rolled overhead. Dust sifted down from the ceiling in clumps.

Tessa held her sword in two sweaty, shaking hands, gritted her teeth, and braced her feet on the flags. Estrid stood on one side of her, similarly ready, if a little more eager, teeth bared, eyes glittering. And on Tessa’s other side, Hilda had produced two knives from somewhere, and held them before her, round face set at unusual, harsh angles.

Ahead of them, the soldiers roared as one, and charged, gleaming points of their spears lowered to throat-level.

One found a gap in armor. There was a punchy, wet sound, and a gurgle of pain behind a golden helmet; one Sel buckled at the knees and fell, tripping his comrades.

Tessa gasped. She’d never seen a man die before – hadn’t even been in attendance the day Erik beheaded the man who’d tried to kill Rune.

But there was no time to dwell on the spurt of blood, because another Sel used the flat of his sword to knock a spear aside, and then parry the strike of an Aeretollean blade. He moved fast as a thought, bulled in close, armor deflecting a second blow, and sunk a slim knife in an Aeretollean underarm, in a place protected by neither mail nor pauldron. The soldier staggered back with a shout; he didn’t fall, but it was enough of a gap for the Sel to push through the first line of defense.

The cressets caught the gleam of pale eyes through the slit in his helmet visor, framed by the bright purple paint they used across their temples and noses. His awful gaze locked on her, and for one terrible second, she thought she would drop her sword.

But then a shape whirled low in front of him, catching him in the shins with a sword.

Revna.

The sword dented the plate of his greaves, but didn’t pierce it. Still, he stumbled, and Revna whirled again, a flare of skirts and dark hair, a blaze of blue eyes, and brought the edge of her blade down against the back of his neck as he staggered. He dropped, and lay still.

“Girls!” she shouted, turning toward them. “If you’re going to fight, fight dirty!” She dropped, spun, and caught the next Sel in the knee, in the gap between his skirt and greave. Blood fountained, and this time, it didn’t bother Tessa so much.

~*~

It had been a long time since Revna fought in earnest, to the death – too long. Just a few swings of the sword, and she could already feel the burn of effort in her arms and chest. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, wasn’t as fit.

But her father’s voice echoed in the back of her mind. Her mother had been Southern, had smiled in a pained way and patted her head when she came in from training sweaty, smudged with dirt, in boy’s clothes, her tunic ripped. That’s nice, dear. But Father had been proud. Father had beamed at her, when she lined up with her brothers. Northern women were made to fight, same as the men. You’re a strong lass, just like your brothers.

Just like her brothers, only one of which was still alive. Hopefully.

“My lady!” a soldier grunted beside her, and she spun in time to catch the downward stroke of a Sel sword against her own. The blades screeched together, as his slid up and hit her cross-guard. Her arms shook beneath the onslaught: the man was big, and strong. Not Bjorn-strong, but Bjorn had never lifted a hand to her; had never glared at her through purple-painted eyes and sought to mow her down.

Revna’s knee buckled. She gritted her teeth and tensed every muscle with effort – but she couldn’t win this struggle.

Not alone. A flash caught her gaze, as a blade slipped between the man’s gorget and helmet, finding soft flesh. Blood spattered hot across her face as the blade withdrew, and Revna blinked it from her eyes to find that it was Estrid who’d come to her aid. And Estrid’s strong hand that gripped the back of her tunic and helped her upright.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

The Sels kept coming.

~*~

Rune was halfway down the gallery when the whole palace shuddered beneath a crash louder than any thunder he’d ever heard. He steadied himself against the balustrade, and felt dust from overhead land against his face, and hands. Another strike from a trebuchet, another portion of the palace damaged, more people possibly wounded or killed.

A cry went up from an open doorway: he’d reached the library. A glance inside proved the space was crammed with women, children, and elderly farmers too infirm to fight.

A trio of soldiers stood guard, murmuring un-listened-to assurances and trying to soothe everyone’s frazzled nerves.

One turned and spotted him, eyes flying wide. “Your grace?” Half-shout, half-question.

Rune glanced briefly down at himself, and saw the rips in his tunic, the white smears of mortar dust. He supposed he looked a mess.

He lifted his head. “Any reported injuries?”

“No, sir, but – your grace–” The man shook his head, and blinked, as if that would somehow help matters. “What’s happening? Weren’t you up on the ramparts?”

“Trebuchet,” he said, rather than explain. The soldier’s eyes widened an impossible fraction, proving he understood. I need to get back up there, he thought, at first, and he had been aiming for the stairwell. But, then, he thought better of it. What use had he been up there? Bjorn had prompted every command he gave. He’d been shaking, and afraid, and unable to fight in the ways he knew best. Being a leader was a valuable skill – one he did not yet possess.

What happened if he went back up on the ramparts? How did he console the men who’d watched a boulder crash through the roof? Killing, and maiming, and punching a hole in the palace.

No, that wasn’t him. Leif was the diplomatic prince; the leader; the heir.

Rune was the short-tempered, impulsive one. He’d always thought that was a handicap, and maybe it was. But. Right now, he was going to lean into his instincts.

“Is anyone free to come with me?”

The soldier blinked. One of the others turned to face him. “Your grace?”

“Is anyone free to come with me?” he asked again. “I have an idea.”

~*~

If pressed under pain of death, Náli would have admitted that flying was better than anything he’d ever experienced. He loved riding, but, in those moments, one of his Guard was always alongside him, darting glances toward him, ensuring his safety. It was a respite from his mother’s serious talks, and the pressures of his strange, unique life, but only a brief one. And he still felt tethered to it, even with the wind in his face.

On the back of a drake, though, he could finally, truly escape his earthbound worries. And even if Oliver checked on him with the occasional glance, it wasn’t with any of the Guards’ dour, existential dread. It felt…

Well, it felt almost as if he was with a friend. And bar his domineering of poor Ulf, he’d never had one of those before. Not one who saw him as an equal, and didn’t treat him like glass – or like a keg of Selesee black powder ready for a match.

He was exhausted, weary down to his bones in a way that left him aching and heavy-limbed; no matter how much he loathed it, he needed the well, he knew. Needed it soon. But the cold wind in his face, and the tattered cloud streamers trailing off the drake’s horns, the strong flex of her wings and spine, soothed the call of his homeland, and his damnable power.

Below, he recognized the jutting knobs of a rock formation peeking above the snow, bumps like a spine visible through skin. They were close. The sun was beginning its quick descent past the midday point, and, soon, the palace towers would be visible along the horizon.

He couldn’t convey what he wanted to the drake like Oliver could, but when Náli leaned low on her neck and heeled her in the ribs, she stretched out her neck, swept her wings back and propelled them forward to fly alongside Percy.

Valgrind followed, looping, and rolling through the air, playful as a puppy.

Náli spared him a smile, a little disgusted by the surge of fondness in his chest, and turned to shout at Oliver. “We’re nearly there! Maybe five more miles!”

Oliver nodded, gaze serious, jaw clenching tight beneath the strap of his helmet.

It was a little bit adorable how determined he was about all this.

Náli would rather dwell on that than the very real knowledge that he himself had never been involved in a siege before. If one was to do it, he thought doing it from dragon-back was the safest, surest option.

An updraft caught them, lifted the drakes higher on belled wings. The ramparts appeared, distant smudges.

Náli pointed, and Oliver nodded again.

Then the drakes shrieked.

~*~

It was going to happen. Tessa was going to have to defend herself.

She’d known that, from the moment she accepted the sword from Estrid, but it wasn’t a stark reality until a Sel in gleaming gold bowled past the defensive line and reached her in two long strides.

Block.

She managed to lift her sword in time to block the falling stroke of his. The collision tolled like a dinner gong. The impact rattled her teeth; numbed both her arms and shoved her effortlessly to her knees. She couldn’t bite back a gasp. His eyes bored down into hers, impossibly cold, devoid of all emotion.

He was going to kill her. The sword slipped in her hands, and her body tipped back, and she was frozen, was too weak.

“Tessa!” someone shouted.

And then everything went blue.

~*~

“…what in the – Oliver, what’s bloody wrong with your dragon?” Náli demanded, the words snatched from his mouth as the drake ducked her head and her wings beat furiously. Náli fell back against the saddle, and the straps on the pommel were all that kept him from tumbling end over end off her back as she accelerated.

Oliver shouted something in return, but Náli couldn’t hear it. He tightened his hands on the reins, slack until now, but the drake didn’t respond. Her wings beat furiously, propelling them straight toward the palace – and, he saw, stomach swooping as they drew nearer – the army entrenched before it.

~*~

Everyone in the stable gaped at him when Rune demanded horses saddled for himself and the handful of soldiers he’d managed to collect on his way down the rear staircase.

He hadn’t encountered his mother or Tessa, and it took every ounce of self-control not to abandon everything and rush to them, wherever they were. If he didn’t do something about those trebuchets, though, the palace would be reduced to rubble, and none of them would survive this.

They rode out of the east gate, where the coast was a tall, unclimbable cliff face bordered with pines. Through the trunks, the fading sunlight gleamed on the water; the crash of waves on rocks below drowned out by the sounds of warfare. A barricade had been set up, a berm, and a ditch lined with shaved-down log spikes. The men manning it were shocked to see Rune.

“Your grace!” one exclaimed. “Where are you going?”

He turned his horse. “I’m going around the back wall and up the ridge. I need a good vantage point, and the trees will provide cover.”

“But, your grace–”

“Hold the line here until the horn sounds. When the outer wall is breached, fall back to the bailey.” Another earth-shattering boom sounded above them; the horses danced and flung up their heads. “I have to go and go now,” Rune said. “Before it’s too late.”

The snow was deep in the shadowed lee of the palace walls, but the horses, fueled by nerves, plunged along at a quick canter, eating up the distance. Rune’s pulse drummed in his ears, and he could do nothing but lean low over his mount’s withers and send up prayers, again and again, that the gods might somehow watch over his family and his people.

They hugged the wall, and turned left to find the snow shallower, the going easier. Through the trees, amidst a dazzle of sinking sunlight on snow and coastal waters, he glimpsed purple sails, and felt a jolt. Not all of the ships had anchored in the harbor; at least one had continued down the coast, and, somehow, men had managed to scale the steep cliff face and approached the palace on foot from behind, undetected until it was too late.

The postern gate was closed, when they passed. Smoke curled up in faint streamers from the hollow that marked the entrance to the secret tunnels, but Rune could see neither bodies, nor live men, nothing but tracks in the snow. He swallowed with difficulty and steered his horse into the shade of the pines, and headed up the ridge.

It was a low one, narrow, but densely-forested, save the place where a road had been cleared leading north – the same road Erik and Leif and the others had set off down on their way to the festival. The same road Leif and he had led Tessa down on the day of their doomed ride.

Don’t think of that now.

He dodged one branch, felt another flick a scratch across his cheek. Ducked low as his horse vaulted a felled log, just visible beneath a hump of snow.

The trees thinned, and he could see the gap of the road ahead; could hear the din of an army, and all that it entailed.

Another sound reached him, as his horse plunged through a deep bank and down into the road. A shrill scream, high overhead, piercing and inhuman. He’d never heard any hawk or falcon make such a noise, and his horse shied, dancing sideways, trying to unseat him, muscles bunched and ready to bolt.

Rune dragged the gelding’s head around, and looked up, as the other horses weaved and danced around them. The shapes he saw stamped against the deep blue of a late afternoon sky made no sense at all – but were undeniable, all the same. Wings: smooth, and white, scalloped, and translucent. Long, serpent-like bodies, with narrow heads, and tails that swung like rudders, as the three creatures, so high up, banked, and swooped toward the palace.

Drakes. Cold-drakes.

“By the gods,” he breathed.

In response, there came a low, dark growl.

Rune whipped his head around, and came face-to-face with the largest wolf he’d ever seen.

~*~

Tessa floated in a sea of blue. Bright, pearlescent blue. It was cold, but not biting, foreign, but not frightening. A sense of safety touched her. The idea that help was coming, that family was coming.

What…?

A flash, and the blue became the blue of the afternoon sky, clear and bright; clouds like spun sugar streamed around her, and she saw the palace from high above, its smoking craters, the sprawl of the army in the field. Worry, loss, premature mourning.

The want to protect, to seek out and find, shield.

A boy’s voice, frantic: “…stupid, bloody beast. Why won’t you…”

The view changed, and there was Oliver. A strange, tailed helmet on his head, his shoulders covered with armor. Oliver riding a great white dragon.

Fight, a voice encouraged in the back of her mind. It’s time to fight, little sister.

Sister?

It felt right, though.

The blue rushed back in, swelling, so bright it hurt.

Flash.

And she sat on a cold, hard floor, while metal chimed above her. Beside her, a lump of golden armor. She startled away from it – from the crumpled Sel – only to realize that she was attached to it. In a way. She still gripped her sword in one hand, the point sunk deep in the gap of his armor, at the inside of his thigh. The blade had hit the big artery there, and blood pooled all around him – and her, shiny over her boots, soaking into the hem of her skirt.

Had – had she done this? Was it even possible?

Fight, that voice had said, the one that wasn’t a voice at all, but a low growl that she could somehow understand. Where had that come from? Who had it been?

A hand grabbed the back of her collar and dragged her roughly to her feet.

“Take a nap later,” Estrid snapped. “If you don’t get yourself killed.”

“Right.” Tessa shook off the last of vision, that ghostly fringe of blue that lingered at the edges of her consciousness.

She had to brace her foot on the dead man to gain enough leverage to pull her sword loose.

~*~

Rune had a moment to think shit, and then the creature struck. It crouched, fangs bared, growling low in its throat, blue eyes uncannily familiar. Rune could have sworn it was smiling, and then leaped at him, higher and springier in its stride than any wolf he’d seen before.

Time seemed to slow. Rune’s horse shied with a scream, and he dropped the reins, kicked his feet free, and rolled off as the animal bolted out from under him. The last time wolves had attacked him while mounted, he’d ended up at the bottom of a ravine with a dying horse.

He landed on his knees in the snow with a bone-rattling jolt, one that traveled all the way up his torso and pulsed in his healing stab wound. The wolf sailed over him, skidded, and then whirled, no pretense of a smile evident now in its vicious snarl.

Rune got one foot under him, braced himself, and lifted his sword, as ready as he could be. He was aware of chaos around him – horses bolting and snorting, men falling, other beasts snarling, gliding across the snow like wraiths – but he was caught in the impossible blue gaze of the wolf before him. He expected a rush – but instead the wolf lowered its head, shielded its throat, and circled him.

Rune got to his feet, and turned with it. Behind him, someone screamed, but he couldn’t focus on that. Could only concentrate on all the ways this wolf didn’t seem like a wolf at all: the eyes, for one. Too knowing, the pupils too round. Its size, for another: it came up to the middle of Rune’s chest, larger in every dimension than it should have been, and densely muscled in midwinter, when it should have been lean and ribby, holding out for spring. Its coat was shaggy, and tawny, more gold than brown. It was–

Lunging at him.

Rune brought his sword up – for a blow that never landed. A second wolf, pale gold, slammed into the first from the side, and the two rolled end over end, snarling and snapping at each other, ivory fangs flashing.

They were rabid. Worse, they were cursed. They must have been.

Rune watched them battle, standing stupidly, sword forgotten. They rolled, and when the second wolf ended up on top, it sank its fangs in the first wolf’s throat.

All the other wolves froze. They turned toward the confrontation, some with bloodied muzzles, all of them going silent, staring. Most of Rune’s men staggered to their feet. A few groaned; one lay still.

Rune fought to catch his breath, heaving and sweat-slick from adrenaline.

The pale wolf tightened its hold, the wolf beneath him yelped, and then they…changed.

It happened so quickly, so oddly, that Rune couldn’t make sense of the transformation. A ripple, a shimmer, a stretch, a shrink, and then he wasn’t staring at wolves, but at men, one pinned beneath the other. Damp, tawny hair splayed across the snow, and paler gold hung draped over strong shoulders. Velvet and wool over boiled leather and old, well-worn fur.

The wolf – the man – on top lifted his head, lips and short beard dripping blood, and turned to Rune, shifting a hand to hold his opponent by the throat.

Leif. It was Leif.

And under him, Ragnar.

Rune blinked, and then blinked some more. “What?” His voice was barely audible, a whisper snatched by the breeze.

But Leif heard him, because Leif was…He didn’t know what Leif was. Except his brother. And Ragnar, beneath him, was struggling to throw him off.

Leif bared too-long fangs at him and snarled, the sound wholly lupine. The muscles in his arm flexed as he tightened his grip; Ragnar’s eyes bugged, and he subsided with a whine.

The growl tapered off. “Rune,” Leif said, turning back to him, voice rougher than it had ever been. “What are you doing outside the walls?”

What…wait…he was outside the walls? He…

He shook his head. It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d fallen through the ruined floor, and gone pelting down to the stables, gathering soldiers as he went. Maybe he hadn’t actually done any of that; maybe, when the boulder struck the ramparts, he’d hit his head, and this was all a dream; or he was dead, actually, and this was some sort of test on his way to the Halls of his Ancestors.

“Rune!”

“Oh.” He jumped. “I was–” Gods, his brother was a wolf. Shapeshifter, skinwalker, whatever. “I was. The trebuchets.” He pointed farther down the ridge, struggling to get his thoughts in order.

Leif was a wolf.

He swallowed with difficulty, his throat dry and sticking. Felt around on his back, shocked to find his bow and quiver still in place after the tumble off his horse. “I’m going to shoot the soldiers manning them,” he said, steadier now, though his heart still thumped wildly. “And then disable them.”

Leif nodded, once. “Go, then.”

“But – but what about you?”

Leif spared Ragnar a glare; blood seeped through his fingers. “I’ll be fine.”

“What about” – a darted glance to either side proved the wolves still held their positions, watching, waiting – “them?”

“They won’t do anything without their alpha’s approval,” Leif said, voice shifting lower, becoming less human, a rumbling growl. “And he’s mine.”

Rune couldn’t hold back the shudder that gripped him.

“Rune.” Still a growl, still lupine. “Go.”

He went.

~*~

Revna’s arms were on fire. Her lungs were on fire. Everything was – save the palace around them, and that was something, because the last Sel she’d managed to fell had been carrying a satchel of what looked to be black powder.

“No one drop a torch!” she shouted; spun, twirled, ducked, struck, and spun again, heaving for breath.

She tripped on something, and flung out a hand to catch herself against the wall, beside the flickering heat of a cresset. A glance proved that it was an arm she’d tripped over, one attached to one of her men.

Damn it.

So far, she thought they’d managed to contain the Sels here in this hallway, though they’d been forced to give ground, even with the addition of reinforcements. Boys had arrived from the ramparts, young faces smudged with dirt, with soot. What was happening out there? She knew the great, thunderous crashes from overhead, the ones that sent silt and dust from the mortar between stones and timbers, had been nothing good. If she allowed her imagination to run wild with it, she would crumple. Her home – the rooms where she’d been born, and then birthed her sons in turn – laid to waste, chipped away one boulder-width at a time. And here were these gold bastards, with their powder, and their painted eyes, in her fucking home, fighting her, killing her people.

She saw red.

She dredged some last reserve of fight from deep within herself and stepped into the next swing. Her sword chimed against that of her enemy; the blades screeched together as his slid up toward her cross-guard. He was larger than her, stronger than her – but she was of the North. Of the old wolf blood, and he never saw the flash of movement as she switched her sword to a one-handed grip – nearly buckling beneath his pressing onslaught – drew her dagger, and jammed it up into the visor slit in his helmet. He didn’t scream, but made a low, wet sound, like a predator caught with an arrow, and fell back, blind and bleeding.

Beneath the crimson haze of fury, she was aware of her body burning, each limb pushed past its limit, but her blood was still up, and could sustain her a little longer, just a little longer, until all of them were dead.

She dropped low beneath a swing, and prepared to come up behind the man who’d delivered it. Caught a fleeting glimpse of the other girls – no, the women – still involved in this horrid, claustrophobic melee. Estrid and Hilda, sturdy, strong, quicksilver fast against the heavy, dragging plate of the Sels, and little Tessa, her cheek bruised and scratched, her eyes wild, but somehow still on her feet, still alive, turning aside strikes clumsily, but not falling. Later, if they survived, Revna would pull her close, hug her tight, and call her daughter, tell her how proud she was of her.

But not now. Now–

A searing pain, hot as a brand, bloomed on her arm. Her hand went nerveless, and her grip on her sword faltered, went one-handed. She brought it up anyway, all of her shaking, teeth gritted against a scream, as she spun, tripped – too slow, too tired, done – and staggered, trying to find a proper stance, trying in vain to get her left arm to respond.

The Sel in front of her was already wounded, his stance uneven, blood pearling in bright rivulets across his gold plate. He didn’t carry a sword, but a spiked mace, one he lifted, ready to strike.

I can’t, she thought with a pulse of fear. If he swings, he’ll kill me. She was used up. If she wanted to survive, she had to retreat.

Behind her, a high, feminine scream.

The girls.

If she retreated, he would mow her down, and then go for them.

I’m old enough. I’ve lived, and I’ve loved. I will go to the great feast halls of my fathers.

She lifted her sword in one shaking hand, managed to brace her feet apart on blood-slick flagstones, and prepared to meet her end bravely.

The Sel tipped his head – and with a quick flash, a blade lodged itself in the side of his neck, between helm and gorget. Metal squealed, blood fountained out against the wall, poured in a hot flood down the man’s armor, and he was dead before he hit the ground, felled like a tree that took down one of his comrades and pinned him to the floor.

Revna stared at the place where he’d been, the place where a huge, hulking, armored Northmen stood now, holding a massive, two-handed battle axe wet with blood.

Bjorn.

His chest heaved as he fought for breath, but he was whole, and the blood droplets on his face were not his own, she knew.

“Bastards came in the tunnels,” he said. “We routed them from behind.” His brows drew together. “All right, love?”

It was an effort, but she managed to keep her feet, and to keep the sudden burn of tears in check. She jerked a nod. “I am now.”

19

Percy echoed his distress back to him, a sympathetic loop of worry, as they lifted high over the ramparts of the palace, and Oliver saw the devastation that had been wrought. Up high, two towers had been reduced to rubble. He recognized the royal apartments with a lurch. He saw crumpled bodies in the blue and crimson of the royal guards; flashes of silver where mail-clad soldiers had fallen. Troops were gathering farther back on the ramparts, but from this angle, their activity looked shaky, uncertain; panicked.

A massive boulder from a trebuchet had breached the outer wall, and the enemy had rushed forward; Sels in gold armor were trying to push a bridge across to access the inner wall. Archers fired upon them, but where one man fell, another rushed to take his place. The Aeretolleans would run out of arrows before the Sels ran out of bodies.

Percy halted in mid-air, hovering, the beats of his wings stirring the air against Oliver’s face. Even from this height, he could smell smoke, and the earthy, broken-stone staleness of destruction; the scent of a century-old castle broken open like a child’s party favor. He thought he smelled blood, but knew that was only Percy’s senses overlapping his own.

Kat and Valgrind drew up alongside him; Kat was fussing, hissing, making these low, frantic cooing sounds while Náli tugged fruitlessly at her reins. “What the bloody hell is wrong with this animal, Oliver?!”

Oliver swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Look.”

Easy, he thought to Kat. Easy, now, I know.

She settled, some, hovering beside her mate.

“Gods,” Náli breathed. “The palace…they’ll turn it to gravel.”

Movement out on the field caught Oliver’s gaze: the trebuchets being wound back again, slowly, readying for another strike.

It was a moment of chaos and crisis. A moment when the tide could turn in either direction – but, given the current state of the whole affair, a moment that favored one side heavily.

Oliver searched his memory for the emotion that welled up inside him; tried to define the ugly, hot, biting urge to act. To do – to hurt. He’d been too sick and hurt to feel this way at the Fang camp; nothing in his life in Drakewell had ever prompted such….such…

Rage. That was the word. Acknowledging it, naming it, sent a molten flush of it through every part of him.

Percy growled, echoing the sentiments he pushed unconsciously through their bond. The other two drakes echoed the sound.

“Náli,” Oliver said through gritted teeth, jaw so tight it ached. “Remember the ice breath trick Percy did with the Fangs?”

“All too well, I’m afraid.”

“We’re going to do it again. All of us.” The slightest mental inquiry had Percy assuring him it could be accomplished midflight. Kat and Valgrind purred eagerly in the back of his mind, Kat with determined focus and hate, Valgrind with a child’s thrill. He felt Percy’s ribs expand against his calves, already drawing in the huge breath it would take.

“I don’t know how to make her do that,” Náli said, more than a little desperate. “Bloody thing’s gone insane.”

“She knows what to do. Aim for the men who’ve breached the outer wall. I’m going for the trebuchets.”

Kill, Oliver thought viciously. Kill them all.

Percy roared, and then dove.

~*~

Overhead, three distinct voices roared. The drakes attacking.

Leif growled an echo, satisfaction of a new, hot, wild sort boiling up in his gut. He tightened his hand again, nails pricked to claws at the tip, digging into soft skin, leaving red marks.

Under him, Ragnar whined, and submitted. “Yield,” he gritted out, “I yield.”

Leif felt a smile split his face, and felt nothing at all like himself – yet more himself than he’d ever been. It was all mixed up in his head, the man he’d been, and the wolf he’d become, instinct warring with intelligence. It was…thrilling.

“Gods,” Ragnar panted. “Never would have bit you if I’d known you’d turn out so bloody strong.”

Leif squeezed until Ragnar choked. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, cousin.” He said it mockingly, growling. Then let up, just enough that Ragnar drew in a breath, and began to speak again.

Leif raised his free hand, cocked back a fist, and struck him as hard as he could in the temple. Ragnar’s eyes rolled back, and his body went slack.

Leif got to his feet, standing over him, one booted foot on his chest, and turned to regard the rest of the pack. All of them had shifted back into their human shapes, heads ducked, throats guarded, all of them smelling of fear, and doubt, and submission, all in the furs and bone-studded braids of the Úlfheðnar, wolf runes tattooed on their bare arms.

Úlfheðnar – wolf-shirts, Leif thought with a wild inner laugh. Wolf-shirts indeed. What other family secrets did he not know about?

He pushed a growl through his teeth, low, pulsing, carrying, just to watch them all flinch. “Will you mind me?” he asked. “Or will I have to kill you all?”

Slowly, one by one, they all sank to their knees in the snow, and showed their throats to him.

~*~

The wound in his side felt nearly fresh as Rune nocked, drew, and aimed. He pushed the pain down – just as he pushed down the ruin of his home, his worry over his betrothed and his mother, the stunning knowledge that his brother was an animal, now – and loosed. From his vantage point between two snow-covered gorse bushes at the peak of the ridge, he watched his arrow fly true, and straight, and bury itself in the eye of a Sel manning the nearest trebuchet. The soldiers headed for the breach in the wall wore the full, heavy gold plate of knights, but back here, manning the engines of war, maneuverability was more important than protection; these men wore mail hauberks, hammered steel pauldrons, and light helms without face plates. Their faces made the best targets.

Chaos ensued, down on the field, as the rest of the crew rushed to see what had befallen their compatriot.

Rune felled three more in the same manner.

And a shadow fell across the rest as a cloud plummeted from the sky straight toward the trebuchet.

Not a cloud, a drake. A white drake, horned, and winged, and tailed, wings belling out to slow it at the last moment, tail lashing, jaws opening as it roared, and blasted the trebuchet and its crew with great jets of blue flame.

Rune’s hands went slack on his bow. He stared, open-mouthed, trying to reconcile the sight before him. He’d seen drakes in books countless times, especially during childhood, when he’d loved the stories of magic and dragons and shamans and shifters better than the boring old history lessons Olaf forced on him. He’d pored over sketch after sketch of the cold-drakes they’d all thought long-extinct, wanting to ride one like the knights of faraway Drakewell, and the few brave, magic-blessed Northerners who’d tamed the ice-breathing dragons of his homeland.

He’d never thought to see one in the flesh. Never thought he’d witness firsthand a beast hovering above the ground, the beat of its great wings stirring up snow and toppling men, as it breathed a fire that turned to great jagged ice crystals, trapping everything it touched in layers of killing frost.

Then, with a start, he realized that someone was, in fact, riding this dragon. A figure in a plumed helmet tucked securely on a saddle atop the animal’s back.

Who…?

How…?

The drake shifted the angle of its wings, flapped hard, and pressed onward, blazing a trail of ice that glittered like gems in the glow of the setting sun.

~*~

A ballista on a two-wheeled cart swung up toward them, Oliver saw, before it and its operator, were caught in a bright sheet of ice. Percy roared, and roared, and blue flames poured from his jaws, and everywhere, men screamed, and fell back, and froze.

Oliver leaned low on Percy’s neck, reins loose, giving the drake his head, Oliver’s rage all the direction he needed. They carved a path through the Selesee ranks, and headed for the encampment, all its wide, canvas tents and streaming purple banners.

Something pinged off the side of Oliver’s helmet, a glancing blow. Before he could turn his head to search for the source, Percy tucked and rolled in midair, a graceful tumble that brought them up facing the opposite way.

Facing a row of archers.

“Take them,” Oliver growled, and Percy roared, and layered them in ice.

A shriek announced Kat and Valgrind’s arrival. A glance proved that Náli was white-faced and sweating, but still steady in the saddle, hands tight on the reins. He shouted over: “We closed up the wall with ice!”

Oliver nodded, and scanned the field before them. The Sels were falling back in clusters, an ordered retreat that grew more chaotic by the moment. Percy sent a pulse of warning through the bond before he flapped hard, swirling snow, and lifted them higher.

Kat followed, Náli’s swear snatched on the wind.

Oliver spotted another ballista, its crew readying it frantically.

They were fast, but not as fast as a dragon.

He grinned to himself, and touched Percy’s flanks with his heels.

~*~

Tessa pushed up from the floor, where she’d wound up on her knees after tripping over something she’d rather not think about, and lifted her sword in shaking, burning arms, searching for the next attack. It took a moment, because of the loud rush of blood in her ears, for her to realize that the only sounds echoing off the stone walls were panted breaths and faint groans. That, for the moment, everyone was still.

Her voice cracked when she spoke, dry as parchment. “Is – is it over?”

No one answered her. Aeretollean soldiers crowded the hall from both sides, now, and Revna – Revna had dropped her sword, and clutched the front of Bjorn’s tunic with white-knuckled fists, her face pressed to his chest, her shoulders shaking as he petted her hair and back, the touch shockingly gentle for such large hands. In the aftermath of chaos, it felt like a moment too intimate to witness, but one which filled Tessa with hope.

She turned her head, and that hope waned when she saw the floor was a sea of dented gold and blood. Amidst the carnage, a scrap of green velvet, a dark braid set with silver beads. Estrid’s friend, Tessa realized with a sick lurch, the poor girl whose name she still didn’t remember.

Estrid sat against the far wall with her knees pulled up, a hand clasped over her left eye. Disheveled, dress torn, but on her feet, Hilda stood over her, a hand on her shoulder, face creased with weariness and worry.

Tessa made her clumsy way toward them, tripping over bodies and her own skirts, the sword dragging behind like a lead weight.

Estrid lifted her head when she reached them, hand still covering her eye. Blood stained her cheek, a jagged gash splitting the skin above her brow, all the way down to her jaw. Tessa gasped when she saw it.

And Estrid, face white with exhaustion, eyelid drooping, managed a bloodstained smile – one that, for once, wasn’t cruel at all. Neither was her voice when she croaked out, “Don’t worry, my lady. You’re not rid of me yet.”

Tessa’s eyes stung with tears, and Hilda turned to her, tutting. “It’s all right, my dove,” she said, wrapping her up in a crushing hug that smelled of sweat, and blood, and was comforting beyond measure. “We Northern lasses don’t break so easily.” She chuckled. “And neither do you.”

When she’d composed herself, wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve and dragged her emotions back from the edge, she realized how exhausted she was. How sore, and weak. But, at Hilda’s urging, she moved to Estrid’s other side, and together they hoisted her to her feet. Estrid made a low, pained noise.

“Did we hurt you?” Tessa asked.

Estrid dropped her hand to let Hilda duck beneath her arm, and Tessa fought not to recoil from the ruin of her eye. “No,” she said. “Just – sore.”

Bjorn sent a party of men back down the tunnels to secure them and ensure no more Sels lurked in any of the storage chambers or baths. Revna, red-eyed but dry-faced, squared her shoulders, wiped her sword clean on her cloak, sheathed it, and led them back toward the great hall.

Bjorn’s eyes popped wide when he spotted Tessa. “And what are you doing down here scrapping with the wolves, Little Drake?”

Estrid barked a short, harsh laugh as they helped her along. “The stubborn fool wouldn’t be left behind.”

“You were the one who handed me a sword,” Tessa reminded, sourly, and Estrid laughed again.

Tessa wanted to laugh, too. Nerves, she supposed; she felt giddy inside, like when she’d drunk too much champagne at the Hope Hall winter ball, bubbly and euphoric. She realized she was grinning, and tried to tamp it down.

Bjorn laid one of his huge hands on her shoulder and squeezed. “It’s only natural,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “You lived. Grief comes later, but for now, it’s enough to be on your feet.”

She sent him a grateful look.

They reached the hall, and ahead of them, Revna cursed.

“Shit,” Estrid echoed, when they drew up alongside her.

A boulder the size of a pony had cracked a trestle table in two. The other tables were littered with debris: stone and timber rubble, a thick coating of pale dust. Where the grand double doors had once stood, a gaping hole allowed in a blast of cold wind, and offered a view of the bailey, its catapults, and milling soldiers – and another hole, this one wider, in the outer wall.

Estrid walked forward with renewed strength, towing Tessa along, and Tessa went willingly, drawn helplessly toward the strange, refracted light in the wall’s void. It glittered, and sparkled, and the view of the field beyond was all in fractured panes, like stained glass, it was…

She gasped.

Revna said, “Gods, that’s ice.”

And it was. The hole in the wall was filled up with ice. And set within it, like insects preserved in amber, were gold-armored Sels, caught mid-motion.

“What in the fuck did that?” Bjorn asked, as stunned as the rest of them.

“Oliver did,” someone said.

Tessa startled, as a strange silhouette stepped into the hole where the doors had once been. It was tall, and too broad, a strange, unbalanced shape.

But the voice – the voice had been–

Revna gasped.

“I suppose it was Náli, to be more accurate,” the familiar voice continued, as the silhouette stepped down into the great hall, and started toward them. “The drake he was riding. But having them at all is down to Ollie, really.” The figure stepped into the light, the gilded, last light of a violent day, pouring into the jagged wound in the front of the palace.

Leif.

It was Leif. Carrying a man over one shoulder. Blood on his mouth, drying black, but alive. Alive, and here.

“Leif,” Revna breathed in a ruined voice that brought fresh, stinging tears to Tessa’s eyes.

With an effortless shrug, he tossed the man he carried to the floor, and opened his arms. Even as she marveled at his presence, Tessa couldn’t help but notice that he held himself differently; that there was something wholly new and sharp-edged about his expression. Something other, that sent a frisson of unease down her back.

Estrid saw it too, if her quick indrawn breath was anything to go by.

But then his face softened, as Revna reached him, and he enfolded his mother tight and pressed his face into her dusty hair, eyes closing a moment, whole large frame shivering.

Revna drew back, finally, and caught his face in her hands, like she couldn’t bear to let go of him. “How…? When did you…?”

A faint smile touched his bloodied lips. “We got your message. Él reached us at Long Reach.”

“Is Erik–?”

“On his way. I ran ahead.”

She moved her hands to his chest and pushed back at arm’s length. “Ran ahead? And what about Oliver? You said he was here – you said there were drakes. What’s happening? What happened to your face?” She touched his short beard, the black, dried blood in it.

“Is that…?” Estrid began, and Tessa followed her gaze toward the man Leif had thrown to the floor at their feet.

“Ragnar,” she gasped, shocked.

“Ragnar?!” Revna echoed.

Leif sighed. “I’ll tell you everything. But it’s a very long, very strange story.”

A sudden gust of wind buffeted them, strong enough that Tessa staggered, and Estrid caught her by the sleeve. It came from above, funneling wild down through the gap in the front wall of the palace. A sound accompanied it, a strange, rhythmic clapping, loud as the crack of a ship’s sails catching a strong draft. Something massive blotted out the bright gleam of the sunset, flashing, flashing, and then settling. A four-legged creature of smooth, pearly white edged with blue, its wide wings giving one last flap before they folded neatly back.

For several long, breathless seconds, Tessa refused to believe that she was looking at a dragon. A real, live, actual drake, like Oliver had shown her in the books in the library. A drake with a person sitting astride it. A person in patchy leather and steel armor, with a conical, plumed helm like the ones in the books back in Drakewell, like the knights had worn during the Founding War.

Leif glanced up over his shoulder at the creature, and grinned, sharp again, nearly feral, and that proved to Tessa that she wasn’t hallucinating.

A quick pulse of blue flashed at the edges of Tessa’s vision, the same blue as before, in the tunnel, but softer. A sense of warmth, of gladness, of relief filled her, and it wasn’t her own, but it was friendly, she knew, right away. The drake lowered its head, and tested the air with slanted nostrils, and it was catching her scent, she thought. Everyone else’s yes, but hers specifically, was searching for it, and she had no idea how she knew this, only that it was true.

Hello, she thought, and felt her welcome echoed in the back of her mind, a pleased, humming purr.

Oh. What was this? It was…rather wonderful.

Bjorn broke the silence. “Gods. Gods. You did, didn’t you, you foxy little shit? You found one.”

The figure on the dragon unclipped something from the – yes, that was a saddle. Dismounted with a lithe hop, and drew off its helm. His lips were chapped, and his too-long hair was matted and sweaty from the helmet, but he was grinning, freckles stark on his pale face.

Oliver.

“I found three, actually,” he said, voice a little hoarse. Then he looked at Tessa, and his face threatened to crumble. “Tessie. Are you all right?”

She ran to him, and the arms that caught her were stronger than she remembered, his whole frame steadier as he squeezed her tight and kissed the top of her head. She couldn’t hold back her tears any longer, but it was all right, because Ollie was here, and he’d never needed her to be strong, or brave, or anything but his family.

~*~

Rune waited for a time up on the ridge, hunkered down amidst the bushes with his men, waiting to see if a new target would present itself. But the battlefield was a crystal sculpture of ice: men frozen as they’d stood, as they’d run, as they’d prepared to attack. Eerily silent save the whistle of the wind through the shards and shapes of an entire Selesee army rendered motionless.

The drakes circled the field for a time, and then headed for the palace.

“Come on,” Rune said, smacking the arm of the man beside him. “Let’s go back.”

The men stationed at the postern gate greeted them with wide eyes, pointing over their shoulders into the palace. “Your – your grace,” one stuttered. “There’s – in the hall – there’s–”

“I know,” Rune assured, and moved past them.

The hall was an utter ruin: the front wall smashed in, the doors reduced to splinters, the floor littered with rubble, tables broken and cracked.

But his gaze skipped over all the distraction, packaging his reaction to it away for later, because he looked right to the three cold-drakes crowded into what had once been the entryway, and the humans standing below them. He spotted Bjorn, and his mother – thank the gods – and Leif, this new version of Leif he didn’t yet understand. And two figures embracing, both with red hair.

Oliver! It had been Oliver riding the drake!

And, pulling back from him, dashing tears from her cheeks, his Tessa.

Urgency boiled up inside him; all day he’d pushed down his panic, fought against terror, and now it all came rushing back, and then was knocked flat by a tide of painful relief. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t get to her fast enough. He started across the floor, stepping over stones, slowed when a shattered timber tripped him. Not fast enough, not fast enough…

“Tessa!”

She whirled to him immediately, and she was coated in dust, and her cheek was scratched; blood stained one of her sleeves, and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

She let out a quiet cry, picked up her skirts, and ran to him.

She tripped, trying to jump over a pile of tumbled stone, but Rune was there, and he caught her, and hauled her up into his arms, so her booted feet dangled off the floor.

“Rune,” she gasped wetly against his neck, tears hot where they rolled down his throat. “Oh, gods, I thought, I didn’t know–”

He choked back his own tears and cupped the back of her head, tried to soothe her even though he shook all over. “I know, I know.”

The last light of day flared orange and brilliant through the gaping hole in the wall.

One of the drakes tipped its head to the sky, and roared in triumph.

20

Erik insisted they ride straight through the night. They had to move at a slow walk, to keep from overtaxing the animals, and to keep from winding up in a ditch, but some progress was better than no progress, he reasoned. Every time he glanced back over his shoulder, moonlight glinted off the long, snaking line of their cavalcade, limping and sad as it was. The Great Northern Phalanx…reduced to this. Marching toward a battle in which half of them couldn’t swing a sword, much less lift one.

Wolves howled, off in the distance, and each time, Erik’s gut tightened, and his hand shifted toward his sword. Was it Ragnar come back to challenge them again? Worse, Leif gone feral, lost to the forest? Or regular wolves, hunting game and keeping well out of sight of humans?

Magnus and Lars rode ahead, bearing torches, lighting new ones when they sputtered out, until there weren’t anymore, and they rode by the faint sliver of the steadily-sinking moon overhead.

Birger rode beside him, but kept silent, letting Erik stew in all his worries until, once, Erik looked up at the pinprick stars and sighed, big and deep, his breath pluming white above him like dragon’s breath. Dragon’s breath. A simple thought that left him muttering a curse.

“I remember the last war,” Birger mused, softly. Almost as if to himself. “I remember you being mad as a wet badger to be left behind.” His chuckle was a soft, hollow scrape. “You begged him to let you ride out with them.”

Erik’s throat was tight, suddenly, with the memory. “He said, ‘I must leave one heir behind, to guard the home fires, and ensure the legacy of our bloodline.’” It had felt like a slap in the face. I’m the spare, he’d railed. You should take me, not Arne.

“Aye,” Birger agreed, and then sighed. “I was there, too, in the throne room, when you put on your father’s mantle and became king.”

After Father and Arne had fallen, and then succumbed to their injuries. When the burden he’d never thought to bear had been thrust upon him.

“Nothing ever goes the way we want it to, or hope it will,” Birger said, tone becoming gentle. “No matter the safeguards we put in place.”

Erik snorted. “I left my younger nephew behind to face a siege, and got my elder turned into a wolf. I let Oliver fly off on a dragon, and gods knows what daylight will bring.” Each word tightened the knot in his belly, left him nearly sick.

Birger tutted like an old woman. “You’ve done the best you could, lad. Everything else is up to the gods.”

It was meant to comfort, and it did, at least a little. But it didn’t take the weight of guilt from across Erik’s shoulders.

Dawn saw them climbing the last distance, the road slanting upward to the ridge that overlooked the palace, the gap in the trees blooming gold and silver as the sun rose. As the light grew, so did Erik’s pulse, beating faster, and faster, and faster. His hands sweated inside his gloves, and when he could stand it no longer, he leaned forward in the saddle and heeled his horse into a canter.

He’d nearly reached the crest of the ridge, could already see the jagged, uneven, utterly wrong lines of the ramparts of the palace, heart leaping into his throat, when a high, whistling shriek sounded overhead. He looked up, and there was Percy, circling high above, turning in a smooth arc.

His horse arrived at the summit with a tired snort. Erik reined up, dimly conscious of the raucous sounds of his party following.

The palace was in shambles.

In the fields before it, ice stood in tall, jagged spires and shards, glinting like rainbows as the sun finally crested the horizon.

All was silent. All was still.

Save the lone figure walking up the slope toward him, wind tugging at tousled red curls, travel-worn cloak streaming out alongside him.

Erik’s breath caught. It was not Oliver Meachum, blushing, faltering, mule-tempered bastard climbing the hill toward him, now. No. This was Oliver Drake, dragon master, and though his face was lined and tired, wind-chapped, and dirt-smudged, his smile was brilliant when he turned it loose – when he turned it up to Erik.

He wasn’t aware of moving – of sliding down off his horse and charging down the hill – until Oliver was right in front of him, huffing a laugh that puffed steam in the air, and saying, “Welcome – oof.”

Erik scooped him off the ground and squeezed all the breath out of him. Arms looped readily around his neck, but then Oliver patted him, and wheezed, “Darling, I can’t breathe.”

Erik set him down on his feet, captured his face in both hands, and kissed his cold lips until he felt them heat and thaw; until he’d tasted the warm, wet inside of Oliver’s mouth, and felt his lithe body melt against his own. He rested their foreheads together, after, both of them panting, the blue of Oliver’s eyes all that he could see.

“Welcome home,” Oliver said. “There are a good many people here who want to see you.”

Which meant: They’re alive. They survived.

Erik couldn’t stop the low, wounded sound that built in his throat; couldn’t offer all the words he wanted to.

Oliver seemed to know. He kissed his cheek, and stroked his hair, and murmured, “All in good time, my love. When you’re ready.”

21

The palace of Erik’s father and grandfather, the only home he’d ever known, was a shattered wreck. Never before had its walls been breached. Never before had he stood in the great hall where his family’s banners hung, and known it as a warzone. Cold wind whistled in through the breaks; a wedge of cold-drake ice sealed the breach in the outer wall. There was damage upstairs, in the towers; the royal apartments, at least, Rune could vouch for, were all but destroyed. The secret gate had been found, the tunnels invaded, and it would doubtless take days to ascertain whether any Sels had squirrelled away in a storeroom, biding their time, a flashing gold threat in the dark.

None of that mattered, because he got to take the people he loved most in the world into his arms, and feel for himself that they were safe.

Bjorn clapped his back so hard, and hugged him so fiercely his vision went a little black at the edges.

Revna pressed her tears into his throat before she blinked, and gathered herself, and kicked him in the shin. “Don’t you ever scare us like that again, you oaf.” Smiling so wide her face had to hurt.

Rune breathed out a tear-choked, “Uncle,” when Erik embraced him, voice cracking under the relief.

And even little Tessa, battle-streaked and shockingly bold, threw her arms around his neck, though she blushed afterward – and stepped back, and took Rune’s hand.

Ah. So that was the way of it, then. Erik had expected as much. He spotted Leif watching them, and save for a wry twist of Leif’s lips, he didn’t look sad about the development. Erik supposed he had other things to worry about, now.

Speaking of which…

“He’s the reason the Sels are here,” Erik all but snarled, when Revna ensured that Ragnar was trussed up in their dungeon. “He had to have told them about the cove, and the way into the tunnels.”

“He what?” Revna asked, sharply, brows furrowed. “But…how? Why?”

“He wanted my throne.”

“And he wasn’t above using foreign enemies and all variety of magic to obtain it,” Leif said, and his snarl was the real kind, the animal kind; everyone startled back from it, gazes snapping to him. “Oh,” he said, belatedly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

“Where’s the rest of his pack?” Erik asked.

“Pack?” Bjorn wanted to know.

“I left them in the bailey,” Leif said, embarrassment sliding off his face as he turned fully to Erik, jaw firming. Erik was struck by the change in his nephew, by the new assuredness of him; the way he held himself. Leif had always been a strong, confident lad…but there had been an easiness to him, a deference. He was perfectly happy as the peacemaker and the conciliator, and never felt the need to throw his weight around. But, now… “They’re alive,” he said. “They bent the knee to me.”

Erik couldn’t prevent his brows from jumping in surprise.

Leif nodded, firm, sure. His eyes were…different. A wolf’s eyes, now.

“What’s going on?” Revna asked in a suspicious tone. “Who ‘bent the knee’ to you? What’s this about a ‘pack’?”

Leif sighed as he turned to her. “It’s a part of that long story I mentioned, Mother.”

“On which you failed to offer any insight last night,” she huffed, then held up a hand. “I know, I know: priorities. But your uncle needs to eat, so you might as well play storyteller while he does.”

Leif’s lips twitched like he meant to argue, then he nodded.

“Eating can wait,” Erik said. “I’ve got a dozen wounded men in my train, and frozen or not, we need to ascertain if the enemy is properly routed, and–”

“And we can explain all of that while you eat,” Oliver said, materializing at his elbow and giving it a gentle tug. “And then you can have a bath and sleep.”

Erik shot him a scowl, one he couldn’t lever any heat into.

Like Leif, Oliver’s regard was different: surer, firmer. Loving, yes, but it brooked no arguments. Gods, how he’d grown since he’d first stepped foot in this hall.

“I don’t need food. I need to–”

“Eat. And sleep. In that order,” Oliver insisted.

“He’s right,” Revna said. “You’re dead on your feet, Erik.”

“I–” His stomach growled, loudly.

Oliver chuckled, and Bjorn gave a suspicious cough.

“This way,” Revna said, turning around, motioning for them to follow. “We’ll eat in the kitchen.”

~*~

Down its flight of stairs, deep in the safe heart of the palace, the kitchen was the one room that never truly shut down, not even during a battle. The fires were lit, the vaulted space full of its warmth, and good food smells, and Erik hadn’t realized how bloody cold he was until he was pressed down into a chair at a plain, scarred wooden table and offered soup, bread, and ale. It was a good thing he was meant to listen, rather than talk, because the first bite proved he was famished, and he couldn’t exactly paint a kingly portrait as he hunched over his bowl. Thankfully, no one sitting with him cared.

Revna expanded on the note she’d sent: told him about the arrival of the ships in the harbor, and the way they’d evacuated the city and fortified the palace. Bjorn wanted to go out and examine the Sel ships in the morning to determine how craft that large had managed to get through the frozen waterways.

As for the Sels themselves, Oliver explained, with not a small amount of pride, they’d managed to locate the general’s tent in the enemy camp, wall it in with ice, and then capture the general himself.

“He’s in the dungeon with Ragnar,” Oliver said, and Erik was pleased to see everyone else gazing on him fondly, as he puffed out his chest a little. “When Percy stuck his head through the tent flap, he came more or less willingly.”

Náli, he learned, had fallen asleep halfway through his own bowl of soup last night, and been carried to a pallet made up in the guardroom, where he slept still. Too pale and cold to the touch, Oliver said, with obvious worry. The journey had been draining for an already-drained necromancer.

“You told his men where to find him?” Erik asked.

“The moment they arrived,” Revna assured. “They’ll be with him, now, I expect.”

Oliver snorted. The look he sent Erik echoed Erik’s own suspicions on Captain Mattias’s dedication to his master.

“Fifty dead, all told,” Bjorn reported. “Mostly soldiers. A few civilians, those that got caught in the collapses.”

“Olaf’s surgery is intact, by some miracle,” Revna said. “Though he claims his birds are unsettled.”

“Fuck his birds,” Erik said, and reached for his ale. “What other damage?”

“The whole of the southern ramparts, and our chambers below – caved-in, but not obliterated. We might still salvage some of the furnishings and heirlooms. The east tower is more or less gone, and the signal flares with it.” A necessary point of light for the longships when they returned home, but not a devastating loss. “We’ve lost bedchambers and an upstairs parlor. The sewing room. It will be a tight squeeze, accommodating everyone, now. But.” She breathed out a weary, relieved breath.

“But we can sleep on the floor, or in the dungeons, or in the bloody baths,” Erik said, “if we’re still alive.”

She nodded, smiling softly – and that was when Erik realized that, where her hand lay on the tabletop, Bjorn’s lay overtop of it. He blinked, and wondered how long they’d been sitting like that.

Then he blinked again, and realized what it meant. His gaze slid slowly to Bjorn, who ducked his head in a very uncharacteristic show of bashfulness, cheeks stained pink.

Oliver’s hand landed on his elbow. “Now, darling,” he said, in a let’s don’t overreact sort of tone.

Erik searched for a flare of anger, indignation that his oldest friend would feel romantically inclined toward his sister…and came up blank. She’d married one of his friends, why not another? It wasn’t as if he didn’t love Bjorn as a brother already.

He waved his soup spoon in silent congratulations, and Bjorn’s broad shoulders sagged.

“Now,” Revna said, head whipping around, attention sharpening on her elder son. “What was that noise you made earlier?”

Leif sighed, and attempted to explain to his mother that he was now a skinwalker. It took a long time, and there were tears involved – angry ones, on Revna’s part, shocked, silent ones on Tessa’s – but the children and grandchildren of King Frode were not the Drakes of Drakewell: even if they’d only come into contact with it recently, theirs was a family that acknowledge the existence of magic in the world. It was accepted, finally, though a pall hung over the table; even the cooks and kitchen maids had grown quiet in their duties, clearly listening over their shoulders.

Erik drained off his ale and thumped his mug down, hard. “I want to see the general.”

Bjorn frowned at him. “Erik.”

“Captain,” Erik snapped, and pushed to his feet – only to go listing wildly to the side.

Oliver gripped his arm. “The general can wait,” he said, entreating. “Interrogate him when you’re fresher.”

“That’s…that’s probably for the best,” he agreed, reluctantly.

“Come along.” Oliver hooked their arms together and led him away from the table.

To his shame, his eyes slipped closed more than once on their way to – wherever Oliver led him. But it was only Ollie to see, and wherever he towed him, Erik knew it was someplace safe. It seemed to go on forever, and with a full belly, and the comforting scents of home in his lungs, the exhaustion he’d staved off for days and days crashed over him now like a wave, threatening to drag him under any second. He stumbled, more than once, but Oliver’s arm was surprisingly strong around his waist, steadying him.

He was guided through a door, into a warm room full of the crackling of a hearth fire. Pressed down onto a soft surface, and had his hair smoothed off his brow, before Oliver leaned down to kiss him there.

“Sleep,” he urged.

Erik roused himself enough to catch Oliver’s hand, when it would have trailed away. His throat was suddenly tight, his voice thick, when he said, “Stay?” More a plea than anything else, pulse fluttering desperate when he thought of Oliver leaving again, so soon, when he’d just gotten him back.

His eyelids flagged, so he couldn’t see, but heard Oliver’s chuckle – heard the softness of his smile – and then the bed dipped and a warm body curled up against his own. He was asleep before Oliver could finish saying goodnight.

~*~

Náli dreamed of familiar, beloved hands, sword calluses smooth and hard. He clawed his way sleepily awake and found that he hadn’t dreamed the hands, but that they were real, and here, resting gently on the side of his neck and smoothing his hair back. Effort though it was, Náli forced himself fully awake, lifting his head, propping up on an elbow – which turned out to be a poor idea, because then Mattias’s hands slid away to rest on the edge of his pallet.

“What–” His mouth was so dry his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He cleared his throat, and someone stepped forward – Klemens – to offer him a cup. He sipped and nodded his thanks, taking a moment to scan overtop of Mattias, crouched on the floor beside him, to see that all of his Guard was present. He amended his question. “When did you arrive?”

Mattias answered, the captain, always the first to speak, to suggest, to reach for him. “Less than an hour ago, my lord.” He withdrew his hands completely, resting them on his own thighs, and since Náli couldn’t reach for them, and bring them back to his face, not with the others watching, not with Mattias’s stubborn insistence on formality, save those rare occasions when he initiated something more, Náli sat up and swung his legs over the side. It was alarming how weak he felt, the way he wasn’t sure he could manage it if he tried to stand. He touched his own hair and found it a rat’s nest. Rubbed the grit from his eyes.

“If you’re here, then Erik’s here. I should go–”

“You should rest, my lord.”

“No, I need to–”

Those longed-for hands landed on his thighs, heavy, holding. Mattias tipped his face up, his expression entreating, earnest, concerned.

Náli wanted to shove him away.

Wanted to drown in those dark eyes, so much warmer than the cold, white waters of the well into which he needed to descend.

In a low voice, Mattias said, “Can you even stand?”

Náli looked to Klemens. “Leave us.”

Klemens nodded, and he and the others left, too well-trained to goggle or question.

The door closed with a quiet click, and then it was only them, the crackle of the fire, and Náli’s too-quick breathing. This was the way it always was between them, these moments coming quicker, closer together. Náli had the sense they were hurtling toward a breaking point, and that he would be the only one to break, that Mattias would stand steadfast, and infuriatingly distant forever. Always touching, and yet so far out of reach.

“Here we are,” he said. “Again.”

Mattias sighed out slowly through his nose. “Do you think I can’t tell how tired you are?”

“Do you think being tired negates my responsibilities as Lord of the Fault Lands? My obligation to represent my house in front of my king?”

Mattias’s hands tightened a fraction; his gaze flickered down to look at them, and he forced them to lighten, no longer pressing with the pads of his fingers.

“Oh, bloody–” Náli slapped his hands down over his, and heard Mattias take a short, sharp breath through his teeth. “Look at me.”

Mattias held still a long moment, before his gaze finally lifted, wary through the screen of his lashes – and caught out. In this moment, his expression was that of a boy who’d been found tumbling a noble’s daughter in a hayloft; the gaze of someone who thought he’d done something very wrong.

Náli’s heart squeezed. But he squared his shoulders and firmed up his voice. “Not just any sort of man can join the Guard. It takes a strong one to pledge his life to a lord – especially one as difficult as me.”

“My lord–”

“Let me finish. I know you’re not a coward. But I know that you prize propriety and duty above all else.”

Mattias’s expression twisted with pain, not so readily hidden, now, and Náli felt something break inside himself. Oliver had been right. Náli had tried to deny, had tried to pretend that Mattias felt nothing for him, because it was easier that way; the sting of rejection didn’t hurt as badly as the knowledge of requited love that could never be realized.

He swallowed, and pressed on, voice shaking only a little. “I know that you will never act in a way that you fear will dishonor the legacy of the Dead Guard – in a way that will dishonor me.”

Mattias’s throat worked, and it looked painful.

“I think – well, I’m beginning to think, that because you can’t protect me from my fate, nor from my responsibilities, that you will instead protect me from myself. You coddle me, Mattias.”

“My lord, I’m only–”

“Trying to keep me safe? Yes, I know. But you are preventing me from being involved in the decision-making of this kingdom. And the kingdom can’t remain safe unless I use my power. I am the keeper of the dead, and you would lock me away and smother me in blankets, and–”

“Someone should!” Mattias burst out, surging to his feet. He locked both hands overtop of his head, on the ridge of his tight braid, and paced back and forth. “The king, the princes, the other lords – everyone wants to use you, and use you, until you’re nothing but a – a husk – until you–”

“Die early?” Náli said, with a rueful grin. They’d had this conversation before, but he felt steadier now, more in control of it.

Mattias froze, and whirled on him, expression horrified by his bluntness.

“It’s what I’m supposed to do, Mattias,” he said, softly. “It’s what I was bred for. Like my father before me, and my grandfather before him, and so on, and so on.”

Mattias was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. “It shouldn’t be that way.”

“But it is. My job is to use my magic in the best service to Aeretoll. Your job is to scrape me off the floor when I fall, feed me soup, and make sure assassins don’t come for me at night. It is not your job to tell me where to go, who to meet with, or force me to rest when I am needed elsewhere.” He said it patiently, because his chest was warm and full of love, heartstrings stretched tight with longing. Something about his talk with Oliver, about flying, had helped him see that railing against the inevitable was only causing him more pain.

“My job,” Mattias echoed, chest still heaving, gaze withdrawing. “Yes…yes, of course. My job.” He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, my lord. I shall endeavor to–”

“Matti.”

His jaw snapped shut, teeth clicking together.

“Matti,” Náli said again, because he could, voice going lower on instinct.

To his wild gratification, Mattias shivered. “It’s been a long time since you called me that,” he whispered, barely discernable over the pop of the fire.

“When I was little,” Náli agreed. “You always climbed into bed with me when the nightmares were too terrible. You let me cry all over you.”

A beat passed, firelight dancing over the shaved side of Mattias’s head, shifting over the folds of his cloak and revealing the way it quivered, as his body was wracked with little tremors. “It was my duty to–”

“To pet my hair?” Náli pressed. “To rub my back and tell me funny stories until I laughed? To” – gods, his throat was tight, his pulse high at the base of it – “kiss me on the forehead and tell me everything would look better in the morning?”

Mattias took a measure breath that seemed to take effort. “A Guard should protect his master, even from nightmares.”

“None of the others did.”

“Yes, well. They didn’t have to. Because I was there.”

“And why were you there?”

“My lord–”

“Why are you always there? You don’t have to be, you know. You and the others could take turns. Rotate shifts. Klemens could carry me to bed sometime. Einrih could steady my arm when I go walking on the other side. Danski could remind to eat, to sleep.”

“My lord–”

“Darri could–”

“My lord.” A plea, now. And not one without anger.

Náli was…was exhilarated, breaths coming fast, heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs. He felt as though he’d finally dug his thumbs inside the skin of a ripe fruit, and was pulling, pulling, ready to finally split the peel. Just a little more…a little further…

“You don’t have to be celibate, you know,” he said, and Mattias jerked as if pulled by string, head snapping up, gaze blowing wide. “You could take lovers. You could steal into the bed of a maid – or a footman – on cold nights. You don’t have to be lonely in the wee hours.”

Náli barely managed not to laugh at the way Mattias’s face contorted, as he tried to reconcile what his master had just said. “It – it’s against our code – we – we are ”

“Code, code,” Náli said with a dismissive wave. “Who cares? I don’t, and I’m the lord. That’s what matters, right? So long as you don’t beget a pack of bastards. Do you think I don’t know about Danski, and Darri, and Einrih’s little arrangement? That those three enjoy one another, rather than risk gossip?”

Mattias looked like he’d been struck.

“Do you think I’m ignorant of Klemens and his discrete visits to brothels? The others fuck. Why shouldn’t you?”

“I – I – my lord–”

Náli leaned forward suddenly, teeth bared. “Don’t blame it on duty, Mattias! Why do you deny yourself? Tell me: that’s a command. Why not?”

Mattias stood, helpless a moment, staring. Then, slowly, his gaze narrowed, and his jaw tightened, and his hands curled to fists at his sides. His head lowered a fraction, chin tucking down, and the fire threw shadows over the harsh planes of his face, and, oh, that did things to Náli. “You know why,” he growled, and it was Náli’s turn to shiver.

“Everyone thinks I’m a know-it-all brat,” he said, a little breathless, “but I don’t actually know everything. You have to tell me. Tell me, Mattias.”

For a long, fraught moment, Náli didn’t think his ploy would work. It had been worth trying, but Mattias was too noble, too steady, too dedicated to his role as captain and protector. He hoped that exhaustion, and worry, and unthinkable circumstances would tip the scale in his favor, but Mattias was so very good–

With a rough inhale, and a flexing of strong arms, Mattias strode back toward him.

Oh gods, Náli thought with triumph. The scale tipped, the fruit peeled, and then Mattias was right in front of him, fisting the hair at the back of his head, and shoving his face into Náli’s.

His expression cracked, anger giving way to anguish. His grip was firm, but gentle, holding Náli to him. “Would you have me stoop so low?” he rasped. “Would you have me forsake my vows and betray my order?”

Náli was helpless but to touch his face, feel the leap of muscle and the bristle of short beard beneath his palm. “No. I would have you want me. I would have you love me.”

“I do.”

Náli gripped the front of his tunic with his other hand, right over the badge that was his own house sigil. “Then why won’t you be with me?”

Mattias closed his eyes, and tipped their foreheads together. His breath was ragged, nearly a sob; he was shaking, Náli could feel it. “Because you have to marry. You have to have an heir.”

“No one hates that more than me,” Náli whispered, the height of emotion getting the better of him, suddenly, his eyes stinging, his throat closing. “But don’t you want to take what time we have? Don’t – don’t you want to be my first?”

Mattias gasped. His hand tightened in Náli’s hair – and the other cupped his jaw, still soft with puppy fat, too fine-grained for him to ever grow a proper beard, but Mattias held him like the most precious of artifacts. “Gods forgive me,” he breathed, and brought their lips together.

Náli had never kissed anymore before, though he’d imagined this moment often. Had imagined the sudden flush of heat, the way it felt like too much, but not enough, had imagined the bright flare of joy to finally have Mattias’s mouth moving against his.

But he hadn’t known how soft Mattias’s lips would be; hadn’t expected the heat of his tongue, as it probed against his own lips and urged them open. Hadn’t thought to account for the rasp of his beard, or the quick, almost-frantic breaths he puffed through his nose, warm on Náli’s cheek. It left him dizzy, and it had nothing to do with the dead, or his powers, or anything terrible, only the wonderful, drugging slide of mouth on mouth, and tongue against tongue.

They were clumsy – Náli suspected Mattias had never kissed anyone either. They bumped noises, and clicked teeth, but they were both skilled fighters; a tilt here, the gentle press of Mattias’s thumb there, and then it was easy as breathing.

It was everything.

Náli whined, when Mattias pulled back – but then Mattias sat down hard beside him, gathered him up in both arms, and hauled him into his lap. Not for another kiss, but just to hold, tucking Náli’s head in under his chin, fingers moving reverently over his face, his throat. He pressed his face into Náli’s hair, and murmured his name, low and urgent, over and over. “Náli. Náli. Náli.”

Náli wanted to cry, and realized that he could, here with the person he loved most in the world. Voice wet, he said, “I shall make you a deal.”

Mattias hummed in inquiry, and rocked him gently, as he had when Náli was only a boy, waking from a nightmare.

“We’ll stay here and rest a while. I’ll even consent to another nap right now.”

Mattias chuckled, his voice a little wet, too.

“If you agree to kiss me some more.”

“We have a deal, my lord.”

Because Náli was greedy, he pressed, “Kiss me all the time. Kiss me until I can’t breathe.”

“Is that a command?” Teasing now, so soft, all the anger and pent-up aggression bled out with their tears.

“Yes,” Náli breathed, eyelids already flagging.

“Well, then. I shall always endeavor to do everything my lord commands.”

Fuck me senseless, Náli thought, as he drifted, but that was a command for a different day.

22

Tessa had found a nice little perch halfway up the breach in the front wall. The stonemasons had said not to climb anything, lest she start a fresh collapse, but there were none here now, and the cold air was freshening on her face, and from this vantage point, she could watch the drakes flying.

In the palace, the masons were examining things, and the first, tentative cleanup efforts were underway – more talk than anything, as the men who knew best about such things decided how to move the debris without initiating worse damage. In the bailey, pyres were under construction, sturdy logs laced with kindling, so that the shrouded dead might be sent to the halls of the Val-Father with prayers and honor. Olaf had gathered his essential supplies in a leather satchel and went from patient to patient, bandaging wounds, and plying throats with honey and herb concoctions to ease the passing of those who could not survive the violence rent against their bodies. The Sel army lay still before them, a chessboard with glass pieces, a game abandoned partway through. Erik was returned, but dead on his feet; Oliver had taken him away some time ago to rest, and not returned. The air smelled of bread and meat from the kitchens – and of dust, and blood, and death. A time of relief – and of grieving. Of thankfulness, and of the chilling, rippling fear that things were far from over. That they were merely starting, in fact.

But when she sat here on this makeshift ledge, tipped her head back, and watched the drakes swirl, and loop, and dance, and play against the sky, all of that faded. She felt like a girl in a fairy story, watching them, and not like a girl at the edges of a war.

Occasionally, one would cry out to the other two, one in particular, and she felt a pleasant humming in the back of her skull, a tingling edged with blue.

“There you are,” Rune said, but he didn’t startle her, because, though she hadn’t been paying attention, she’d somehow known he was there. He swung up to sit beside her, and bits of stone broke loose and tumbled down with small clatters. “Oops.” His arm pressed against hers, warm and solid, and she leaned into his body heat straight away, not aware until now that she’d been shivering in the cold. “What are we doing?” he asked, and it was wonderful to hear his usual light, unbothered tone. The battle had doubtless put a mark on him, just as it had for her, but she was grateful for Rune the Boy, at the moment, rather than Rune the Prince.

“Oh,” he said, before she could answer, following her gaze. “They’re remarkable, aren’t they? They’re very…wow.”

She smiled. “Wow indeed.”

The little one – Náli had named him Valgrind, Oliver had said – rolled in midair, a fast series of somersaults, and wound up crashing into his father, who corrected him with a nudge of his head. They were too high up to read their expressions, if dragons even had facial expressions, but she knew a sense of laughter on Valgrind’s part, and fond patience on Percy’s.

But how did she know that?

“Do you remember,” she began, hesitantly, and Rune slipped his arm around her, pulled her against his side, “how Oliver said he and Percy – that they bonded? That it was like they were in each other’s heads?”

“Remember when he told us just yesterday?” Rune said, teasing, and she blushed and leaned into him harder. “Yes, I do.”

“This is…this is going to sound mad.”

“Love, I’m looking right now at two dozen Sels caught up in ice halfway through our wall. It can’t get any madder than that.”

“No, I suppose it can’t.” She took a big breath anyway, because this felt big – as big as the whole sky and the drakes looping through it. “I…yesterday. When we were in the hallway. When I was – fighting.” She didn’t understand why that was difficult to say, but Rune rubbed her arm, and it helped. “There was this – I don’t know how to describe it – there was this – this flash.”

“Flash?” he echoed, curious, but not pressing.

“I must have black out for a moment–”

His voice rose with alarm. “You blacked out–”

“But it was blue. There was all this blue light. And then I was flying. I was – Rune,” she turned to him, and found his brows halfway up his forehead, eyes wide with concern. “I was talking with them. With her. Percy’s mate. It was just as Oliver described it. The blue light, and the vision through the drake’s eyes. She was in my mind, and I was in hers.” After, she could hear the excitement in her voice, and watched his brows climb a fraction higher.

“Are you…bonded with her? Like Oliver with Percy?”

“No. But I think…I think I could be.”

She hadn’t been sure of what she’d been thinking, exactly, until the words were out of her mouth, but then there they were, between them, and Tessa’s stomach gave a swoop of excitement. Yes. Yes, that was what was supposed to happen. A bond. A mind and a soul open to her own, entwined with hers.

She wanted it, badly, suddenly. A trilling note in the back of her consciousness said she wasn’t the only one, that it had been the drake reaching out to her, at first, sensing her, calling to her. And everything in Tessa had answered, on instinct.

Rune searched her face a long moment, until his brow smoothed, and a fond grin tugged at his mouth. “Well. You are a Darke after all.”

She’d thought he might eschew the idea, and when he didn’t, she felt her own smile break wide. She leaned in to kiss him, and he captured her face and kissed her back, while the drake purred at the edges of her awareness, approving and glad.

~*~

Leif paused on his way across the wreckage of the great hall, and braced a shoulder against one of the surviving wooden pillars that marched along its edges. The wolves were waiting – his wolves, now, he supposed: those Úlfheðnar who’d raced to Aeres alongside Ragnar, and then knelt before Leif and showed their throats, supplicant and obedient – but two figures sitting on a bit of crumbled wall had captured his attention.

He could smell them; he was still getting used to that. Could hear their voices, even from a distance. They were talking about the drakes, about the way Tessa felt sure that she was able to communicate with them, the way that Oliver could.

Then Tessa turned to face Rune, and leaned in to kiss him.

It was not a first kiss, that much he could tell. Tessa had always struck him as the sort who would hesitate, watching through her lashes, uncertain, and let the man kiss her, rather than the other way around. This was not a quick peck, nor a near-miss; not the kiss of two people feeling one another out for the first time. It was sure, and even-keeled, intimate for all that it wasn’t indecent.

Leif tensed, waiting for the flare of jealousy, of possessiveness – but it never came.

He felt strangely empty. Full of scents, and sounds, and this new, prickling awareness of his surroundings that he was still getting used to.

Revna approached. He could hear and scent her long before she drew up alongside him.

“Ah,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, love, I meant to tell you sooner.”

He snorted, and, when he glanced at her, saw her look of surprise. “I could smell them on each other, Mum. It’s not a shock to me.”

Her brows lifted.

He looked back to his brother, and the girl who was his betrothed, no longer kissing, but leaning against one another, heads together as they watched the drakes fly in lazy circles overhead. “I wasn’t in love with her,” he said, and it didn’t feel like an admission, because it wasn’t one. That emptiness persisted in his chest, cold and odd, but undeniable. “No formal promises were made. She’s very young. She and Rune are better-suited to each other.”

If anything, Revna’s look of surprise heightened, before she nodded and looked away. “You always were my sensible boy,” she said, approving. “Don’t worry, we’ll–”

“Mother.”

She whipped back around to look at him again.

“If the rest of that sentence is: find you a suitable lady of your own to wed, I beg of you not to finish it.”

“Whyever not?”

He sent her a frown, because she knew better, was smarter than this. “Because I’m not interested,” he said, tone final.

“Not interested…in ladies?”

“Mother.” A growl tickled the back of his throat, and he managed to squelch it, barely. “I’m not interested in anything like that. In marriage, or romance, or…any of it.”

Her brows drew together. “Leif, you’re the heir–”

“How can I be?” His voice had a bite to it, now, one he struggled to temper. “I’ve been groomed to succeed Uncle my whole life, and now I’m this–” He gestured to himself, helpless.

“That doesn’t matter,” she rushed to assure, stepping in close, gripping his forearm. “If it was done with magic then there’s a chance it can be undone. We’ll find a way to reverse it.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then, it still won’t matter, because–” The rest of her sentence choked off, as he let the wolf bleed through to the forefront: nails turning to sharp claws, growl pulsing in the air around them; he felt his eyes shift, and the tingle in his gums that meant his teeth were elongating into fangs. He lifted his lip to let her see. Then dragged it all back – with no small amount of effort. Sweat popped out on his brow, and he dashed it away with the back of his free hand; even if she was staring, Revna hadn’t let go of him, was still his mother, still cared.

That hurt worse than outright rejection.

“Rune will marry Tessa,” he said, when his throat felt human again. “He can serve as heir, and, when Uncle is gone, king.” He ducked away from her touch, and her hand reached for him. “I’ll find other ways of being useful.”

“Leif!” she called after him, as he turned away.

He kept walking.

~*~

Oliver hadn’t intended to fall asleep; had decided to wait until Erik was out and then slip from beneath his arm, and return to the main floors of the palace. There were hundreds of things to do, and for his own part, the Sel camp and fleet needed to be thoroughly searched – from the safety of dragon-back, ideally. Erik would want to interview the captured general himself, but there were countless bits of intel that the rest of them could gather while the king got some much-needed rest.

But Erik’s arm was heavy, his whole body more so as he’d slowly wormed his way into lying half on top of Oliver; pair the heat of him with the softness of a real mattress, the warmth of a fire, and four walls, and the knowledge that they were safe for the moment – and the exhaustion of the journey crashed over Oliver all at once, dragging him under.

He woke sometime later to dim, slanted light falling through the gap in the shutters; and to large fingers petting through his hair, a beard tickling at his throat.

“Mm.” His eyelids weighed more than Percy. “Wha’ time izzit?”

Erik hummed a return greeting, the sound echoing through Oliver’s throat and buzzing all the way down to his stomach, which squirmed pleasantly and went a long way toward waking him fully. “Nearly suppertime, I’d expect.”

“Hm.” He was hungry, come to think of it. But Erik nuzzled into the join of his shoulder and neck, tugging at the edge of his tunic to get to skin, so food could wait. “I suppose we should see about getting you a bath,” he said, halfheartedly. He blinked his eyes to clear the last of the grit, just in time to see Erik push up onto his arms and hover over him, filling his entire field of vision. Even sleep-creased and road-weary, he was breathtakingly lovely.

“Do I smell that terrible?” he asked, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

“You smell like the outdoors. And like clean sweat. I rather like it.”

Erik’s grin stretched, a little feral – eager.

Oh, Oliver had missed that grin.

Erik kissed him – not with the fraught, anguished energy of earlier, out on the ridge, when Erik had kissed him like he was afraid he wouldn’t see him alive again; that homecoming kiss that was like being able to breathe properly for the first time. Achingly tender. Oliver had never expected to feel about anyone the way he felt about Erik. He was quietly proud of the way he’d held up, during their uncertain separation, but seeing him tall in the saddle, feeling the cold, soft grip of his gloves on his face, had nearly been his undoing.

But this kiss was none of those things. Only heat, and want, colored with the trust and love they’d built between them. Oliver wound dark braids around his hands and held his lover close as the kiss deepened; as Erik’s hands started to wander.

They were still too tired for anything acrobatic. Tunics were pushed up, trousers unlaced, and they rutted against one another like schoolboys, panting into each other’s mouths, fingers digging bruises.

After, Erik flopped down beside him, and then hauled him up to lie on his chest. When he’d caught his breath, he said, “What room is this?”

Oliver snorted against his sweat-sticky collarbone. “How typical. The rich man doesn’t even know all the rooms of his house.”

“No one knows all the rooms of this place, save the maids, probably. You could get lost here.”

“I don’t know what it is,” Oliver admitted. “Revna put me in it last night. It’s a bedroom, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Erik echoed. He shifted, hair rustling on the pillow as he turned his head to examine the space. “And all to ourselves, when I know that, given the damage, we’re short on rooms.”

“Do you truly expect the king to be put in a barracks with everyone else?”

Erik’s answer was a hard swallow; Oliver felt the movement of his throat. Yes, that meant. Yes, I ought to be with the soldiers. Or: What have I done to deserve solitude? To deserve this title?

Oliver sighed for the both of them, because it seemed that they might be doomed to trade guilt back and forth; when one of them proved himself, the other would lag behind in some way.

“I don’t want to argue,” he said, because he didn’t, and he hoped to head off any fruitless conversations about worthiness, responsibility, or bloody damned usefulness.

“Me neither,” Erik said, easily enough. He traced aimless patterns across Oliver’s back, hand tucked beneath his tunic and shirt, calluses pleasantly rough on his bare skin.

“What now?” Oliver asked, after a moment of not-uncomfortable silence. If he held still too long, he was afraid he’d fall asleep again.

Erik let out a deep breath, ribs heaving like the deck of a ship beneath Oliver. “Now, we rebuild. And, when we’ve gotten our strength back, we take the fight to them.”

23

In the days ahead, thick banks of clouds moved in, stacking atop one another and compressing, until a thick, slow, constant snow began to fall, the daylight hours a perpetual gloaming. Even so, there was an air of celebration. The masons and every able-bodied helper worked sunup to sundown, such as it was, whistling and singing. The pyres burned, the scent of roasted flesh and ash wafting in through the breach in the wall, until those bustling about were equal parts hungry and sick to their stomachs. Prayers were said, holes were patched, clothes mended, husbands grieved, bread baked and meals served. Life shook off the dust of war and continued on.

Leif dressed in warm furs and went out with the crews who were thawing and chipping the ice away from the frozen enemy. It was slow work that required picks and torches; Leif fared better than most, those that hissed and puffed hot steam into their cracked and chapped hands; his muscles didn’t grow as sore and he took twice as long to tire.

But it was eerie work, too. The faces caught forever in shouts, snarls, screams; the sense of being watched by hundreds of dead eyes; his hackles were up constantly, little shivers of awareness rippling across his skin. If he hadn’t already met the drakes who had done this, if he hadn’t trusted them before his turning, he thought he might have snarled constantly, the way his pack did, when he forced them to earn their keep and help.

They raided the camp and commandeered all manner of armor, weapons, foodstuffs and other supplies: gilded braziers, and folding cots, and whole trunks of herbs and medicines to boost Olaf’s stores.

Leif was sorting through a chest of gold chalices and serving platters in the general’s tent when he backed into a table, knocked something to the floor behind him, and turned to make a discovery. It was a scroll, its ends of ornate hammered gold, of course, and when unrolled proved to be a whole stack of tightly-pressed parchment pages. He couldn’t make heads or tails of the vowel-saturated Selesee language, with all its loops, and accent marks, but the sketches were clear enough: battle plans for the harbor at Aeres – and for other locations, too, ones he didn’t recognize. The last page drew him up short: it was a series of sketches. Diagrams. Of drakes outfitted with saddles and bridles, riders astride.

Pulse giving a quick, alarmed thump, he rolled it back up and tucked it inside his wolfskin jacket to take back to Erik.

He returned through the postern gate, as the faint daylight waned. His wolves clustered behind him as he went, their scents familiar now, almost a comfort if he allowed it. He paused on his way past the training yard, because it was full not of sparring soldiers, but of drakes. And Oliver, Náli, and Tessa.

“Go on ahead,” Leif told his second in command. “I’ll catch up.” Later, after supper, when it was time to sleep. His mother had offered him a bedchamber, but he hadn’t told her that, most nights, he slept in his wolf shape, in a pile with his pack, in a hollow they’d dug in the snow behind the mews. It was easier to rest like that, without human thoughts crowding his mind, keeping him awake and restless.

The other wolf chuffed an inquiring sound, but Leif waved him off – then leaned against the wall and watched.

The torches had already been lit, throwing orange streamers of light across the ground, flickering in the swirl of falling flakes.

Oliver stood at Percy’s head, scratching behind his horns; the drake had tilted into the movement, eyes closed; Leif could hear the deep, rumbling purr that issued from his chest, a sound that left his wolf uneasy, but which was oddly soothing, too.

“It’s all right,” Oliver said, chuckling, and beside him, Tessa took a deep breath, stepped forward, and offered her knuckles for the female to sniff, as if she were a dog.

“If she didn’t kill me, she certainly isn’t going to kill you,” Náli grumbled. He stood with his Guard captain behind him, arms folded in ready attendance. They smelled like one another, Náli and Mattias, and that wasn’t so odd for a Corpse Lord and his Guard, but Leif noted the subtle shifts in posture that were tells. Good, he thought, because he wouldn’t have to worry about unwanted advances anymore.

Probably not from anyone, once they learned what he was. It was one thing to see a flash of uncertainty in someone’s eyes – another to scent acrid fear wafting off of them.

The female drake blew softly over Tessa’s knuckles, and then a long, dark blue tongue snaked out to lick them. Tessa gasped, shocked, then giggled, and cupped the drake’s chin to stroke her there. After a moment, the drake’s eyes slipped shut in contentment.

“I still can’t believe you named her after Mother,” Tessa said, turning a laughing look toward Oliver.

“He’s an idiot,” Náli offered.

Oliver puffed up, a smile threatening. “I’ll have you know, I named her for a strong, formidable woman for which I have the highest respect. It’s an honor and a compliment.”

“Yes,” Tessa said, “but…Kat? Really?”

Náli cackled. “He named the other one Percy, what did you expect?”

“Hey, now!”

The breeze shifted, and brought Leif the scent of his brother’s approach well before the crunch of snow underfoot announced him. He waited for his wolf to label Rune rival, but it didn’t happen. It wasn’t going to happen. His own feelings had been tepid, he could admit, and the wolf didn’t want anything to do with Tessa, aside from a vague sense of familial protectiveness. He hadn’t lied when he’d told his mother he had no interest in nice young ladies now.

Rune arrived beside him and folded his arms over the top of the wall. “What are they on about?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the rapidly devolving conversation inside the yard. Náli was bent double laughing, now, while Mattias failed to hide a fond smile, and Oliver was gesticulating wildly as he defended his poor naming skills. Tessa hid her laughter in a gloved hand, while the other stroked the female drake’s neck. The little one, Valgrind, loped excited circles around Náli, trilling, his body undulating in that strange way it did when the drakes ran on all fours.

“It’s two-to-one on Kat being a good name for a dragon.”

Rune snorted. “Well, if Tess doesn’t like it, then that’s that.”

Leif turned to regard him, the sparkle the torches picked out in his eyes, the blush of happiness along his cheeks. “Really?” he said, knowing the words were cruel, unable to stop them. “Did she learn how to assert herself while we were away?”

Rune’s head whipped around, shocked, hurt, a frown already forming.

Leif held up a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t – sorry.” He glanced away, back to where Oliver was still trying fruitlessly to make his case. “That was uncharitable of me. I apologize,” he said, formally. The wolf inside him squirmed; he and Rune had grown up roughhousing, but he’d never set out to say something to intentionally hurt him – not until now. This was his brother, his closest relation…and yet the wolf in him was struggling to think of humans that way.

Gods, he was…

Rune let out a slow, loud breath. In a low voice, he said, “I’m sorry as well. I never meant–” The serious tone cracked, and he sounded like a pleading little brother. “Leif, I wasn’t trying to take her from you. It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t going to – but she can’t be taken, because she has a mind of her own, and, I’m so sorry, but she – and I–”

Leif halted his rambling with a look – one he hoped bore some measure of softness. “I’m not angry about that,” he assured. “You didn’t betray me, and neither did she. We hadn’t pledged anything to one another. And, truth told, I could tell she preferred you.”

Rune groaned and buried his face in his elbow, voice muffled. “But I’m sorry anyway.”

Leif patted his head. “Don’t be. Just be happy.”

~*~

Erik hadn’t spoken with the Sel general yet. Leif had asked him about it, last night, when he’d visited him in his study.

The room was one of those untouched by the collapses, and had been more crowded than usual, a pallet bed shoved into one corner, the chairs rearranged to make room, travel trunks full of the clothes and toiletries they’d taken to the festival stacked on another. Erik had given up the room he’d been offered to two injured Redcliff men, after offering it first to Chief Oddmarr, who’d insisted he and his men would rather pitch their round, bearskin tents in the yard and bailey than live indoors for the time being. Erik and Oliver were sleeping here in the study, until the damage to the royal apartments could be ascertained. Top priority was the great hall.

When Leif inquired about the general, Erik had pushed aside the scrolls before him and grown stern. “Let him go hungry for a while.” It would take days, maybe even weeks to sort through all the ships, and to de-ice and then bury the bodies of his soldiers. Erik wanted as much information about the siege as possible before he spoke to the man face-to-face, hopefully while the latter was thin, and cold, and getting desperate.

Then Leif had asked about Ragnar, and Erik had leaned back in his chair, hands braced on the edge of his desk, gaze shifting toward contemplative. His voice had lowered. “Were it up to me, I think I would take his head and be done with it. Him and all his mongrels. He’s caused far too much trouble as is.”

Leif’s brows had gone up. “You’re the king. It is up to you.”

But Erik shook his head. “No. Nothing he did to me compares to what he did to you. You were the one to capture him. To subdue him. And he is of the clans – it is only right that the old rules apply.”

Leif’s mouth had gone dry, his chest tight, even as his wolf rumbled in agreement, deep in his chest.

“You should decide what to do with Ragnar. He’s your war prize. You may kill him, or keep him alive; bind him with a torq and make him serve you, if that is your wish.”

Leif had shuddered. It was a practice not seen in Aeretoll since before his great-grandfather’s time, one still enacted out in the Wastes, among warring tribes. Those not killed in battle were taken captive: branded, secured by the throat with a torq of hammered metal, chained until their spirits broke, and they learned to obey.

He couldn’t imagine Ragnar obeying anything.

Kill him, his wolf urged. A flash of hunger, of fangs, and blood, and satisfying crimson arcs across the snow. Copper on his tongue and the assurance of victory, of dominance. Alpha.

He’d looked down at his hand where it lay on his thigh, and saw that his nails had become claws. He withdrew them with an effort. One he was still learning to push forth; he hadn’t shifted since that first time, and, truth told, he was afraid to do it again.

He’d met Erik’s gaze. “Náli says silver will bind him.”

~*~

“Lantern, your grace?” a guard offered, as he passed through the inner gate into the dungeon proper.

“No, thank you.” Leif’s pupils expanded, drinking in the darkness, and the underground chamber was as bright as daylight for him.

When he asked for the cell keys, they were handed to him, the guards darting furtive glances to one another, uncertain. Frightened. People were frightened of him now.

Good, the wolf thought, fangs flashing in the back of Leif’s mind. We’re strong. They should fear us.

He swallowed hard, and moved down the hallway.

All but two cells were empty: Erik had never been in the habit of keeping long-term prisoners. But even without occupants, the scents of the dungeon rushed up to meet him in a whole new way. The smell of straw, and human waste; of damp, and of despair. Emotions had scents, now.

He passed the Sel general, who sat with legs crossed, hands resting lightly on his thighs, eyes closed, still smeared at the edges with purple paint. His too-white skin seemed to glow in the darkness; if he noticed Leif’s presence outside his cell, he didn’t react to it.

The musky scent of wolf drew him along.

He was growling, low and constant by the time he turned the key in the door of Ragnar’s cell, and let himself inside. He didn’t try to tamp it down, now. No sense pretending to be wholly human in front of the man who’d made him what he now was.

Without the hindrance of a lamp, his pupils could expand their fill, and take in the scene that greeted him once he opened the door. Ragnar’s cell bore the standard accommodations: clean straw for the earthen floor, and a bucket in the corner. Ragnar sat with his back against the wall, silver manacles and collar chaining him to secure rings set in the stone. The blood had dried on his neck, crusty and flaking, now; stiff and black where it had dried on his clothes. His head hung limply, but his gaze snapped up, vivid blue and alert through a screen of pale lashes. His nostrils flared, scenting. Leif had an idle wonder what he smelled like to the other wolf; for his part, Ragnar gave off a faint whiff of submission, something that, unlike a grin or a pledge of loyalty, couldn’t be faked.

Leif had bested him, fair and square, and Ragnar was acknowledging it with every inch of his posture, his gaze wary, as Leif settled to sit cross-legged across from him.

Leif didn’t speak, and, finally, Ragnar lifted his head, tipped it back so his blood-crusted throat showed, and said, “Come to fetch me to the headsman, finally?” His voice was hoarse from disused – and bruised-sounding. Leif had nearly ripped his throat out. He still wasn’t sure what had stayed him; what had kept him from killing him right there in the snow.

But…that wasn’t true. He knew. It was the same reason he was here now, and why he said, “No. I’m not going to kill you.”

Tawny brows lifted a fraction.

“You’re my war prize. I captured you, and your fate is mine to decide.”

Ragnar’s grin bloomed slow, sharp-edged and oddly satisfying. “Ah. The old ways. I didn’t think Erik would go for that.”

Leif growled. “Shut up.”

Astonishingly, Ragnar listened. His smiled faded, and his gaze dropped. He wasn’t sure he liked the surge of delight that inspired in his chest. That sense of yes, good. All of this alpha bollocks was grating.

He squared his shoulders, and said, “You owe us a debt. You owe me a debt. I never asked for this. And now I’m…” He bit his lip rather than try to parse through his tangle of feelings on his new condition. He couldn’t appear weak and doubting in front of Ragnar.

But Ragnar’s gaze, when it lifted again, was oddly earnest. “You’re stronger now than you’ve ever been. Faster, more alert. You’re more alive than you’ve ever been.”

It was, unfortunately the truth. But it didn’t mean Leif liked it.

“I didn’t curse you, Leif,” Ragnar continued. “I gave you a gift.”

“One you never could have given me,” Leif snarled, “if we hadn’t managed to escape the trap you left us in.”

The brows went up again, and he visibly quailed back against the wall.

“You left us in a cell with the Fangs. You left us to die.” Leif could feel his fangs getting long in his mouth, felt the wolf pressing up close beneath his skin, ready to come out. Ragnar flinched. “You tricked us – betrayed us. Your own flesh and blood. And all for the sake of an alliance with the enemy. You conspired with them, didn’t you? Told them you’d kill us at the festival so they could march on Aeres unimpeded, and face a castle without a king. Right?”

Ragnar huffed. “Yes,” he bit out, with reluctance. “I did that.”

“Why?”

“I–”

“I don’t want to hear what you told Erik in the mountains. About getting to be king. That’s bollocks. Even if you wanted a throne, why this way? Why ally with them? No matter how much you hate Erik, why would you conspire with the Sels?”

Ragnar sighed and deflated. “I don’t hate Erik.”

Leif snorted.

“I don’t.” Ragnar leaned forward, expression serious, his scent true. “The world is changing, Leif. The Sels are changing it, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.” Fear flared to life in his eyes, silver against blue. “We can join them or die, and I chose to join.”

Leif leaned back against the door. “Because you’re a coward. A real wolf-shirt, a real king,” he pressed a hand to his own chest, “would die fighting tooth and claw to preserve his land. His people.”

Ragnar regarded him a long, critical moment, then sagged back. “Well. I suppose that’s the difference between you and me.”

Leif pushed a growl through his teeth, if only for the pleasure of watching Ragnar shrink into himself, a submissive gesture that looked out of place on such a big, strong frame.

“I won’t kill you,” he said, the growl still threaded through his voice, half-wolf, half-man. “I have too many questions, still. You’re going to stay alive. You belong to me, now.”

A quick nod.

This was the part where he might falter. Leif deepened his growl to cover any hints of uncertainty in his voice. “You’re going to explain it to me. This thing that I am. You’re going to make it make sense.”

A darted, furtive glance, and another nod. “What do you want to know, alpha?”

Leif’s breath hitched on the word. He pulled his growl back; tried not to bask in the awful satisfaction of being addressed as such. He said, “Everything.”

24

The day they dragged the Sel general up from the dungeon dawned leaden and sharply-cold. Much headway had been made on repairs to the outer wall of the palace, but the cold whipped and whistled through the places still in need of patching. Fires roared in the hearths, flickering and bending with each gust. The candles had all gone out, and the only light came from the lanterns set at intervals along the floor, their light beaming up from the ground, inverting shadows and turning faces to skulls.

Revna, and Rune, and Tessa stood in attendance; Tessa’s friend, the Lady Estrid right beside her, her eyepatch sewn from the same cloth as her brown velvet gown.

The lords were there, too. Askr leaned heavily on a carved cane, Haldin steadying his other elbow. Náli was flanked by his Dead Guard, all of them in gray and brown, Náli’s white-blond hair clean and gleaming on his shoulders, his countenance wraithlike in the gloom.

Erik sat on his throne, Bjorn and Birger standing on one side, Oliver on the other, in black leather and velvet, with lover’s and warrior’s beads braided into his hair, a long knife sheathed on his hip.

The jangle of chains reached them long before the prisoner and his jailers stepped into view. Liveried, armored guards marched with spears on their shoulders, the general corralled between them. But walking behind, carrying the ends of the chains that bound the man’s throat, wrists, and ankles, was Leif, expression taut and dark. The whole retinue walked up to the foot of the dais, and then Leif gripped the general’s shoulder and pushed him roughly down to kneel on the flagstones.

Leif, Oliver thought, with something like mourning, was no longer the kind-eyed boy he’d met months before.

But he supposed none of them were the people they’d been on that day.

For his part, the general managed to look regal and defiant, even in chains, even kneeling, even thin and doubtless cold, stripped to shirt and breeches, his pale face streaked with dirt, bits of straw caught in his tangled, white hair.

Leif stood behind him, chains wrapped around his fist, ready.

Silence reigned a long moment, before Erik took a breath, and spoke in his most overbearing, kingly voice. It sent involuntary shiver rippling beneath Oliver’s clothes. “Your troops are dead, General. Every last one. Your ships and your tents all raided, your riches confiscated. Your ally, Ragnar, Chief of the Úlfheðnar, resides in our dungeon alongside you, stripped of title and power. You have been defeated.” The word rang through the hall, echoing strangely as it caught on the whorls and eddies slipping around their legs. “The conditions of your ransom back to your people are largely dependent on your cooperation now.”

The man stared at him, unblinking, with those awful, near-colorless eyes.

“Do you understand?”

He blinked – but that was all.

Erik’s fingers drummed on the arm of the throne, all the facets of his rings catching the lantern light. Oliver wanted to cover his hand with his own, to comfort and still him. “Do you speak our language?”

The Sel’s lips pressed together. His accent was heavy with his own, lilting language, but the words were clear when he said, “Yes. I know your barbarian tongue.”

With a flick of his wrist, Leif snatched the chain he held, and the general’s head yanked back. His eyes bugged, and he choked, before he leaned forward and cleared his throat, composed himself again. “Yes,” he said, more respectfully. “I understand.”

Erik nodded, magnanimous. “Your king has invaded the South. The kingdom of Aquitania.”

“My emperor,” the general corrected.

Erik gave a dismissive wave. “Yes. I don’t care about his title. He has invaded the South. Why send you here now to tackle us when the South has yet to fall?”

The general’s nostrils flared, just slightly, in irritation. “Do you think our army is so small and weak that we cannot fight on two fronts?”

“Well.” Erik motioned toward him lazily. “Obviously, you can’t. So.”

Two bright spots of color suffused the general’s cheeks, the contrast with his pale skin so stark the blush looked painted on. “You think you’ve won something, don’t you, King Erik? You think you have defeated us.”

“I have.”

The man sneered, teeth the same white as his lips. “You know nothing.”

“No? Care to enlighten me?” Erik spread his hands in invitation, unbothered – bored, even. Oliver applauded him internally.

The general’s lips twitched as if he would respond, but then he subsided.

Erik extended a hand, and Birger placed the scroll Leif had found in camp into it. The general’s gaze tracked the movement, as Erik unrolled the parchment, and then turned it to face him. “Drakes,” Erik said, tapping the page. “You have schematics for harnesses, saddles, bridles. Measurements consistent with my consort’s mount. You knew we had drakes.”

The sneer returned. “We knew the barbarians in the Waste were using old magics to keep them under thrall. We did not you think you would attempt to ride the beasts.” Here, his gaze flicked to Oliver. “Your boy – your red whore – he has the old blood.”

Leif yanked on the collar again.

“Peace,” Erik said, while the general choked. When the man had caught his breath, he said, “Oliver is a Drake of Drakewell. The original dragon riders.”

The general wheezed a sound that Oliver belatedly realized was a laugh. “The original dragon riders. You know nothing.”

A prickle traveled up the back of Oliver’s neck, as those white-blue eyes met his again, smug, too knowing.

“There is no magic in this land,” the general continued. “There never was.”

“What do you mean?” Erik asked, managing to sound curious, light, even, though his fingers began drumming again.

The general tipped his head to a lofty angle. He looked like a prince, kneeling there, dirty and captive. “When our empire has warred with yours, it has always been on your soul. We have sailed into your harbors; the blood has soaked into your earth. You have never seen Seles. You have no idea what crawls, and creeps, and flies across our vast land. You cannot begin to fathom the existence of drakes. Of wonders.”

Erik sighed. “So all drakes originated in Seles, is that what you’re saying? If it is, then these were born here. They’ve lived in Aeretoll and Aquitania for centuries. I don’t care where they come from. I just know that, with their help, we routed you, and slaughtered your entire army. And yet here you sit, proud of yourself, as if you have leverage over me.”

The general’s lips skinned back off his teeth, and all his haughtiness bled into pure, animal resistance. A cat backed into a corner. A wolf in a trap. “Don’t I?” he spat, but he sounded more desperate than anything. “I do have leverage. I know things.”

“Things you won’t share.” Erik rolled up the scroll and passed it back to Birger. “Or, else, you have nothing, and you think playing coy will keep you alive longer. I don’t really need to question you. After all, I know what your king – sorry, your emperor is after. He wants to conquer. He wants to take. There is no grand plan. No secret. He has the manpower and weaponry to consume the world, and he plans to do so, one kingdom, one duchy, one village at a time.

“Only, he didn’t count on the drakes. He didn’t count on us.” He motioned here to include Oliver.

The general’s gaze returned to him, teeth still bared, his whole, strong frame vibrating faintly now. “Three,” he seethed. “You have three cold-drakes, and one whore, and you think that will allow you to overwhelm us?”

“It’s working so far,” Erik said, mildly.

For some reason, that seemed to be the last straw. The general surged forward against his bonds, heedless of the way that Leif put a foot on his shoulder and leaned back, choking him. “It isn’t even his,” he gasped out, gaze blazing furious. “That power, the Drake power, that’s the old blood – it was stolen from us! And my emperor is going to steal it back!”

Erik stood, slowly, and descended the dais.

“Your little cockwarmer,” the general continued, sneering, spittle leaking down his chin, unhinged, fighting for breath, “is nothing but a worm that will be crushed, just as you will be, along with – with the entire East.” He was struggling to draw breath, until Erik motioned to Leif, and the chain slackened.

The general sucked in a huge breath, looked up at Erik, and snarled, “You will burn before the end, Frodeson. The magics of this land will bend to the emperor’s will, and your whore will look on, laughing, as he burns you himself.”

Erik regarded the heaving figure of the general a long, silent moment. Then with a rush of movement, and the snick of steel leaving leather, he drew his sword, swung it two-handed, and sent the general’s head rolling across the flagstones, face caught in a rictus of horror.

The stump of the neck spurted blood in rhythmic pulses. With a grimace, Leif kicked it over sideways and let go of the chains.

Erik regarded the bright, wet length of his sword, tilting it so the blood caught the lantern light. Slowly, he turned to face Oliver, and his gaze, when it lifted, was one of resolve. Of sureness, and stubbornness. All love, and not a shred of doubt.

Your whore will look on, laughing, as he burns you himself.

Oliver swallowed with difficulty, his hands numb, his stomach churning. What had that meant? What did any of it mean?

Erik held Oliver’s gaze another moment, searching, then turned to survey those gathered, all silent, all staring. He took a breath that lifted his wide, world-carrying shoulders, and said, “This was just the beginning.”

And it was.

THE END

~*~

The Drake Chronicles will continue with Book 4:

Demon of the Dead

Coming 2022

About the Author:

Lauren Gilley is the author of over twenty novels, including the Dartmoor Series, and her Sons of Rome paranormal fantasy saga. She writes contemporary and historical novels with a focus on found family and surviving tough odds. She blogs, sometimes, at hoofprintpress.blogspot.com, and accepts emails at authorlaurengilley@gmail.com. When she’s not writing, she’s mucking horse stalls, or walking her giant dog.

You can also find her on:

Instagram: @hppress

Twitter: @lauren_gilley

Facebook: “Lauren Gilley – Author”

Other Titles by Lauren Gilley:

The Dartmoor/Lean Dogs Legacy Series (in reading order):

Fearless

Price of Angels

Half My Blood

The Skeleton King

Secondhand Smoke

Snow In Texas

Tastes Like Candy

Loverboy

American Hellhound

Shaman

Prodigal Son

Lone Star

Homecoming

The Sons of Rome Series

White Wolf

Red Rooster

Dragon Slayer

Golden Eagle

Lionheart (coming soon)

The Hell Theory Series

King Among the Dead

Night In A Waste Land

Mystic Wonderful

The Russell Series

Made for Breaking

God Love Her

Keeping Bad Company

The Walker Series

Keep You

Dream of You

Better Than You

Fix You

Rosewood

Standalones

Whatever Remains

Walking Wounded

Shelter

The Drake Chronicles

Heart of Winter

Edge of the Wild

Blood of Wolves