Date: 2021-03-18 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; M M Romance; dragons; Romance; Historical; Lgbt; M F Romance; Magic; Adult; Paranormal
Description: “Your lordship.” It’s a title Oliver will have to get used to: in just a few short months, he’s gone from the bastard son of a dead duke’s equally-dead brother, plain Oliver Meacham, to Lord Oliver, the royal consort of King Erik of Aeretoll. Still uncertain of his place amongst the Northerners, but cautiously hopeful that what he’s found with Erik is real and lasting, his new relationship is put to the ultimate test on the journey to the annual Midwinter Festival: a meeting of all the lords and clan chiefs of the North, across the treacherous Northern Wastes. It doesn’t help that he keeps hav
Publisher: HP Press

Edge of the Wild

The Drake Chronicles Book II

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.

EDGE OF THE WILD

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.

EDGE OF THE WILD

Table of Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Prologue

The messenger falcon wheeled overhead, a black stamp against the pink sunset sky. It turned, and turned again, riding an updraft, angling its wings, flashing a pale, speckled belly, and the bars on its tail. Then it winged off toward Drake Hold, fading to a speck, swallowed up by the last blaze of gold along the horizon.

“It came from the North, my lady,” Malcolm said, to her left.

On her right, his father, Thomas, hummed in agreement. “From your sister, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Amelia agreed. She gathered her reins and touched Shadow with her heels. The stallion was tired, but not spent, and sprang into an easy canter in response. “We should hurry. We’re already late for supper.” She said it grudgingly, and Malcolm laughed as he – and the rest of her scouting party – fell into stride alongside her.

They’d been gone longer than she’d anticipated, and she knew a moment’s twinge of guilt before she tamped it down. This trek – and what they’d learned on it – was more important than social frivolities. Her mother wouldn’t classify supper as such, but Amelia could find no other word for dining with the lord of Hope Hall.

Their party emerged from the tree line, and a wide, flat stretch of winter-brown field opened up before them. Ahead lay the low walls of yellow brick, and the great winged ducal estate of the same material: the seat of the Drakes of Drakewell, duke-less for now. The horses were tired, but their ears pricked, and their strides lengthened now that home was in sight. The low sunlight glinted off the armor Shadow wore down the crest of his neck, and on the fastenings of his chest plate where they crossed at his withers. Taller than either Malcolm or Thomas’s mounts, the big stallion tugged at the reins, eager, outpacing them, and, with a grin, Amelia let him have his head. She leaned low, wind streaming tears back from her eyes, and he was in a full gallop by the time they reached the gates. The guards on duty snapped a quick salute, and she steered Shadow up the wide, curving drive that led back toward the stables, her men thundering along behind.

Shadow knew their routine: he slowed of his own volition as they reached their destination, pirouetting neatly to a halt before the stable doors; the grooms were already coming out to take everyone’s reins. All but Shadow’s. Amelia dismounted and pulled his reins over his head, led him into the barn herself. He’d bitten one of the new stable lads last week, and she wasn’t eager for a repeat.

The usual chaos of arrival ensued. Dismounting, handing over horses. Stripping off gloves, and hats, gladly accepting waterskins and wetting dry throats.

Amelia had always been glad of the routine of caring for her own horse. It gave her time to decompress and compose her thoughts after a ride; and it was important bonding time besides.

She led Shadow to his stall, stripped off his armor, untacked him, and rubbed him down with burlap; brushed the sweat stains from his coat, threaded a chain through his noseband and took him for a walk in one of the back paddocks. That was where a runner found her, a folded parchment envelope in one hand.

“Message for you, my lady.”

“Newly arrived?”

“Just before you returned. One addressed to you and one for your lady mother.”

“Thank you.” When she accepted it, he didn’t run off straight away, but hesitated, scuffing a toe through the dirt. “My mother is angry that I’m late for supper,” she guessed.

He winced. “She…wishes you to come inside. As soon as possible.”

Amelia grinned. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”

He nodded and ran off.

And Amelia let Shadow stretch down to crop at the half-dead grass while she broke the seal and unfolded her letter. Tessa’s elegant script greeted her:

Dearest Sister,

I write to you now with a heavy heart – because, in part, I know that I should have written to you before now, and because I feel that, after what I tell you, you’ll think I’m only using you as an outlet for fear and grief. King Erik’s younger nephew, Prince Rune, lies now in a sickbed, fighting for his very life. He was attacked the night of the Yuletide Feast, and has not awakened since. The perpetrator was punished was executed by the king, but that will not heal Rune. I pray for his health and wellbeing, and hope that you and Mother might extend your prayers as well.

Prior to this tragedy, things were going quite well here in Aeretoll. We have settled in comfortably, and the royal family and their retainers have been most welcoming and kind. As for the king…I have told Mother this in the letter that I penned to her as well, though I fear she will not understand. (Don’t tell her I said this. I love her dearly, but you know how she is: duty above all else.) King Erik will not wed me, as Mother had hoped. I must admit that I felt slighted, at first, and feared that some part of me offered offense. But it isn’t like that at all. King Erik is in fact a very kind-hearted and fair-minded man, beneath his chilly exterior. I’ve had the privilege of seeing this firsthand, and, in fact, must tell you that I have watched with my own eyes as he fell quite madly in love with our dear cousin.

“No,” Amelia said, shocked, delighted – she could feel the smile stretching her face. “Ollie, you fox.”

She read on, leaning on the fence and letting out a bit of Shadow’s lead.

It appears that Erik is to take Oliver as his royal consort, and is taking him with him to the Wastes for the annual Midwinter Festival, so that he may be introduced to the Northern lords and clan leaders that live beyond Aeretoll’s borders. A dangerous trek to be sure, with natural and human obstacles that lie in wait. I’m worried for Oliver, but he wants to prove that Erik choosing him as consort is not a sign that Aeretoll is showing a favoritism toward the South over the North.

Which brings me to another problem: Northern politics are complex. From what Oliver tells me, Erik has been met with resistance from his own lords. There is suspicion of the South here, and an unwillingness to enter what they see as a foreign war. I wish I could offer better news, but all I can say now is that King Erik has offered me his nephew’s hand – that of Rune’s older brother Leif – and said that Leif shall marry me and become the Duke of Drakewell.

I know you won’t like hearing this, Lia,–

“No shit,” Amelia muttered.

–and I do agree that you should inherit as duchess outright. But I can promise that Leif is a kind, gentle, generous man, and that he feels a deep sense of responsibility. He will lead Drakewell honorably, I know.

“What’s that?” a familiar voice asked.

Amelia lifted her head and was met with a very up-close glimpse of the V of skin and chest hair visible at the open throat of Malcolm’s shirt. It was a very nice view. As was his strong neck, and his stubbled jaw, and his sharp-featured face, with its twice-broken nose, and slanted dark brows over sparkling blue eyes, half-obscured by sweaty, wind-tangled hair as the breeze tossed it over his brow. He reached to push it back with one gloved hand, a casual-seeming gesture betrayed by the spark of amusement in his gaze when she swallowed on helpless impulse.

“We’re out in the open,” she whispered.

He shrugged, and swayed forward – then swayed back. “So I’ll wait and kiss you later.” He smelled of horse, and sweat, and the leathers he wore. No fine silks and gleaming breeches and tall boots for Malcolm, no: a man at arms of the Drake family dressed accordingly, in brown leather, stamped on the sleeves with the Drake crest, a dark, travel-stained cloak, his hair too long and his boots dirty and every inch of him leaving her wanting.

He nodded toward the letter. “What’s that?” he asked again.

She passed it over. “A letter from my sister.”

Amelia had been the one to teach him to read, when they were children; she loved the way his lips still had a habit of moving when he did so. She watched him mouth madly in love and then his head jerked up, blue eyes wide.

“Oliver and the King of Aeretoll? Is she serious?”

“When have you ever known Tessa to tell tall tales?”

He shook his head and returned to the letter, still wide-eyed. After, he whistled and handed it back. “Your mother’s going to be furious.”

Amelia tucked the letter down the front of her leather jerkin, a movement Malcolm’s gaze followed, gratifyingly. “She already is, I’m sure. I’m late for supper.”

Malcolm made a face. “With Sir Prance.”

“That’s Lord Prance to you,” she said, drawing a laugh from him. She tugged on Shadow’s lead and he lifted his head to follow. “Come on. If we’re going to be late, we might as well make a fashionable entrance of it.”

In the barn, the rest of her party waited, as covered in road dust and dried sweat as Malcolm, each dressed in leather, none of them bearing the poise and fashion of tonight’s supper guests.

All of them worth ten times as much as any lord.

Amelia put Shadow away, then peeled off her gloves and stuck them in her belt. Lifted her brows. “Shall we?”

Earned smiles and laughs in return.

Flanked, as ever, by Malcolm and Thomas, Amelia led her dusty party in through the side door of the mansion; across black-and-white check marble tiles and beneath soaring ceilings; down a hall, past the kitchens, to the dining room. Its double doors stood cracked, and Amelia didn’t slow; she pushed them open and strode into the room, found it full of all its usual shine: the crystal teardrops of the chandeliers; the gleam of candlelight on the polished mahogany table; the glint of silver and bone-white china.

Duchess Katherine sat at the head of the table, in the place her husband used to sit, in an ice-blue gown and layers of diamond necklaces, hair piled atop her head in an intricate Southern style. Pale and severe, she held a crimped scrap of parchment in one hand – Tessa’s letter – and her gaze snapped up to meet Amelia’s as she entered.

Katherine did not scowl in public, as it wasn’t becoming of a duchess. Her face remained perfectly smooth and impassive – but her eyes, if you knew what to look for, blazed brighter than every candle in the room.

Might as well get it over with. “Hello, Mother,” she called, and walked all down the length of the table – her party was too smart to follow suit; they hung back just inside the doors – and leaned down to kiss Katherine on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late, but the Strangers have come raiding again.”

In the breath before Amelia could pull away, Katherine’s gaze flashed toward her, the hazel more like flint this close up, and she hissed, “Later. Greet out guests.”

“The Strangers?” one of said guests asked, followed by a huff of disbelieving laughter. “The Inglewood outlaws? They don’t go raiding like the old bear-skinned Northmen.”

Lord Reginald, heir of Hope Hall to the south, still possessed that particular, grating note of condescension Amelia had always loathed – but his voice had a cracked quality to it now, as if he hadn’t spoken for months. She saw why, when she finally looked at him outright.

Seated to Katherine’s left, there was no denying Reginald was a man who’d been through hell and back. Though an excellent jouster and tourney swordsman, he’d always been slender and faintly effete, with his cropped golden curls, and his elfin features, and his unrelenting dedication to all the latest fashions. He was fashionable, still, in watered ice-blue silk, with a froth of white neckcloth – one that failed to cover the scar around his throat. He bore the mark there of a man who’d been hanged – unsuccessfully. The grain of the rope had left a lasting impression. And his face was marked, too, in its thinness, in the scar that bisected one brow, in the haunted way that all youthful vigor had left him. He was only twenty-four, but he had gray streaks in his cropped golden curls now. Though he presented a haughty picture, with his rings flashing, and his mouth puckered faintly, there was a wildness in his eyes, now, one Amelia didn’t envy.

Pity didn’t spawn liking, though.

“They didn’t use to, no,” she said, “but something has changed in the forest. They’re coming onto Drakewell land, now, rather than hunting: stealing sheep from pens and milk from springhouses. The farmers are frightened.”

Reginald had brought his lady mother, seated beside him, the easily-alarmed Daphne, and she touched the pearls at her throat with a quiet sound of alarm.

Reginald tilted his head to a challenging angle. “And so you’ve gone to rescue them?” His gaze traveled disdainfully down her outfit, and back up.

The steward of Hope Hall, a grizzled older man who’d managed to win Amelia’s grudging approval years ago for his practicality alone, said, “Perhaps this is not the best topic while ladies are at the table.”

“Don’t change the subject on my account, Mr. Whitman. This lady isn’t offended – I’ve been hunting the bastards all day.”

“Amelia,” Katherine snapped.

“Apologies, Mother. I don’t suppose I’m in the proper headspace for company.”

If Katherine wanted her gone, this was the moment to allow her to retreat – which she desperately wanted.

But Katherine, jaw like iron, said, “Be seated.”

Amelia lifted her brows and gestured toward her riding leathers.

“Be seated.”

“Very well.” Amelia sent a look to Thomas, who nodded and ushered the scouting party out of the room, then sat down at her mother’s right.

Across from Reginald, who watched her with catlike curiosity. “When you go ‘scouting,’ as you put it…”

A footman set a glass of wine before her and Amelia reached for it immediately.

“…do you ride pillion, or–”

“I have my own mount.”

His mouth gave a sideways twitch that wasn’t a smile. “Of course. A lovely mare, I should think?”

She set her glass down, half-empty, already feeling the wine’s effects on an empty stomach. “A stallion.”

Had Tessa been here, she would have offered a lovely description of Shadow that managed to compliment Amelia without being so blunt.

John would have said, “Now see here, L’Espoir, my sister could outride any man. That stallion would take your face off if you tried to offer it a carrot.”

Father would have said, “Yes, a stallion,” and sent her one of his warm, approving looks.

But Father was dead.

John was dead.

Tessa was sitting vigil over a Northern prince’s sickbed.

So Reginald said, “Ah,” in a condescending way, and sipped his wine. His food, she noted, sat untouched and cooling.

When a plate of fish and potatoes landed before her, she dug in, hungry from the day’s riding.

“Your mother was just telling me – before your grand entrance – that your sister has gone harking off to the North,” Reginald continued.

Amelia darted a glance toward her mother, whose expression was clearly that of a woman who’d read Tessa’s letter, but who didn’t want its contents shared across the dinner table. Amelia didn’t care much for scandal, but, in this instance, she and her mother were in agreement: Hope Hall didn’t need to know all their business. At least not yet.

“Something about a marriage?” Mr. Whitman prompted.

Amelia swallowed; dabbed her lips. She did possess some manners. “Yes, that’s right. Our cousin Oliver–”

“Alfred’s bastard,” Reginald put in, as if anyone at the table didn’t know that.

“Our cousin Oliver escorted her to the kingdom of Aeretoll in the hopes of securing a marriage alliance.”

Mr. Whitman flashed a tight smile. “To secure the strength of the Great Northern Phalanx, you mean.”

“It’s my understanding, Mr. Whitman,” Katherine said, “that all is fair in love and war. Are we not at war? If Tessa’s marriage can secure us an army to protect Drakewell, then I don’t see why we shouldn’t try for one.”

“You do realize,” Reginald drawled, “that the moment the other lords heard you’d sent her away that they all wrote to King Erik in an attempt to offer their own daughters, don’t you?” His low-lidded look was accusatory.

Katherine gave the tiniest facial shrug. “I don’t see why any of their daughters should be more attractive than Tessa.”

Not that King Erik was interested in anyone’s daughter, Amelia thought with an inward chuckle.

“She’s beautiful and gracious to be sure,” Reginald said. “With the loveliest manners.” This with a pointed glance toward Amelia. His features tweaked with regret, and it might have been true, but he was the consummate actor. “I had hoped…” He trailed off, and his gaze dropped to the tabletop.

Lady Daphne touched his arm and said, “Reggie has always been very fond of Tessa.”

Amelia remembered a May Day tourney, and Tessa’s blushing face as she leaned down from the stands to tie a ribbon to Reginald’s lance. He’d winked at her, after, with the lazy, roguish, disingenuous flair of a womanizer. Amelia fought to keep her lip from curling.

“It would have been a smart match,” Katherine agreed. “But with you off to war, my lord, there was no way to be sure if it was a possible match.” A clever way, Amelia thought, of saying we thought you might die.

The scar on his throat proved that had been a correct thought.

“But now,” Katherine said, “Tessa is in Aeretoll and affianced. I cannot in good conscience rescind that offer. We must make do with the alliances we have available to us. Which is why I wanted to host this dinner.”

With a sudden, sick drop of dread in her stomach, Amelia set her fork down. “Mother.”

“Amelia, I propose that you and Lord Reginald wed.”

Silence.

Uncomfortable silence.

Mr. Whitman drew in a deep breath.

Amelia said, “Mother, that’s ludicrous.”

Katherine’s resultant look should have turned her to stone.

“I think it is plain, Mother – from this dinner alone – that we would not, would never suit. It would be more of a war than a marriage.”

“A war?” Katherine’s tone went very flat, and her brows lifted. “Even now, we stay awake at night worrying when the Sels will finally march through Inglewood to come battering down our doors, but marriage would be a war for you.”

Amelia frowned.

“You may dress up as a man, and go gallivanting through the forest all you like, but in this moment you sound every inch the child, Amelia, and I raised you better than that.”

The words hit her like a slap.

But Katherine wasn’t done. She was so stalwart, it was easy, at times, to forget all that she’d lost, too; that beneath her cold and commanding veneer, she was as jagged and raw-edged as Amelia, as all of them. “Do you think I wanted to marry when I was eighteen? No, but I did, and I found love and understanding with your father. You are a Drake of Drakewell, and it is your duty – to this duchy, to this people, to your family, and to the crown – to marry so that our lands and titles might be defended. Your sister – your younger sister – never protested, even when I sent her up to that barbarian twice her age.”

Amelia’s eyes burned. She’d always had trouble holding her tongue, and now was no exception. “Well, Tessa’s not marrying him, is she?” she snapped.

“She isn’t?” Lady Daphne said.

“No?” Reginald asked, much more eagerly. He sat forward in his chair, so that his neckcloth slid down, and the scar on his throat was brought closer to the candlelight, dark and ugly.

It was that, more than anything – the sight of someone she disliked so much having been marked horribly by their common enemy – that fueled the flare of rage in her chest. That had her turning to the L’Espoirs and saying, “No, she’s marrying the nephew. It’s Oliver who’s fucking the king.”

Reginald’s eyes flew wide with true shock.

Daphne gasped.

Katherine bolted to her feet, swaying with her anger. “Amelia.”

Amelia drained her wine and stood. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving.”

She was still shaking, a half-hour later, when a quiet knock sounded at her bedroom door. She’d taken off her boots and stockings, but still wore her leathers: the brown jerkin and laced chaps over her linen tunic and breeches; the squeak of leather was oddly comforting as she paced the length of her carpet, worrying her rein-callused hands together, glancing out the window for – for she didn’t know what. For something to latch onto, perhaps.

That something – someone – it seemed, had come to her.

She hurried across the room to unlock the door and found Malcolm leaned negligently against the frame, arms folded. He’d changed into clean shirt and trousers, hair curling damp and freshly-washed on his shoulders. He lifted his brows. “You didn’t stay long at dinner.”

Amelia grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him inside her room.

“Shit,” he chuckled, stumbling. He managed to right himself, heel the door shut, and reach back to lock it. “Gods, you’re–”

She stood up on her toes, flung her arms around his neck, and silenced him with a kiss.

Shock held him still a moment, but this between them, this heat born of knowledge and affection, was long-familiar; his hands found her waist, and he kissed her back, mouth slanting hot over hers, tongue pressing for entry – one she welcomed. He smelled like soap, and sun-bleached linen, and still, under that, horses and hay. Like home.

When he pulled back – their foreheads resting together so they could both catch their breath – he petted over her ribs and said, “Was L’Espoir even worse than usual tonight?”

“Even worse: Mother wants me to marry him.”

His head lifted with a jerk; his hands stilled.

“Can you believe that?” She felt hysteria building, a hard knot of it at the base of her throat. “Can you believe she would even suggest such a thing?”

His expression closed off. He wet his lips, and said, carefully, “I actually can, yeah.”

The knot in her throat became a spiked ball, sharply painful. “What?” When she pushed him, he released her and stepped back. “You what?”

“Lia, it makes sense–”

“No! No, it makes no sense, because I can’t stand that damnable fop!”

“Lia–”

“Why would you defend this?” She threw up her hands, whirled, and stormed away, unable to look at his expression of quiet resign. He was her best friend – he was supposed to agree with her, damn it. She stood in front of the window, hands on her hips, pulse pounding, trying to catch her breath. She felt as if she’d been sprinting.

Behind her. Malcolm sighed. His booted footfalls padded across the rug, and she heard the faint shakiness of his next inhale; felt the warmth of the exhale on the back of her neck. She was trembling – with so many emotions – but she didn’t try to bat him away when he slowly, deliberately wrapped both arms around her waist and snugged up against her back.

Angry as she was, she leaned back against him. Moments like these were too rare and precious to waste.

And, if she was being honest, she wasn’t angry with him. It was a fleeting, fruitless sort of anger, anyway: the kind that lived as a low, simmering coal fire in her belly, but which boiled up at moments, when she was reminded that what she wanted – who she wanted – was something she could never have. The roar of fury faded, now; her shaking eased, as his warmth bled into her, but there was no stemming the prickling heat in her eyes.

Malcolm folded his hands together over her stomach, and nosed her hair aside, lips ghosting across the sensitive skin below her ear. “If it isn’t Lord Reginald,” he said, very quietly, very heavily, “it will be someone else. Maybe someone worse. A fop is better than an animal.”

She closed her eyes against the sting of tears. “It wouldn’t matter if it was the bloody king of Aquitainia,” she said through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to marry anyone.” Unless it’s you, she didn’t say, because she’d said it too many times before, and having him remind her, sadly, that that was impossible always left her fuming.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. When she didn’t respond – half-choked on useless emotions – he turned her gently around and took her face in hands that were rough from hard work, but soft in the way they touched her. His thumbs swept the dampness from the corners of her eyes. “Look at me.” It was a plea.

When she opened her eyes, the look on his face devastated her.

“Wherever you go,” he said, “whether it’s Hope Hall, or Nede, or Aeretoll, or across the Western Sea, I’ll go with you. Whether it’s Reginald L’Espoir, or the king of the Inglewood outlaws–”

She snorted, and he grinned, fleetingly, before he grew serious again.

“–I know you must marry for Drakewell. It’s your duty. But we can still be together, you and me.”

“In secret?”

“As we have been.”

Her next breath hurt. “You would have me cuckold my husband.”

“Husband in name only. It would be a strategic alliance, and not a love match.”

She shook her head within the careful cradle of his hands – strong, familiar, working man’s hands, expert on bow or hunting knife or reins. “Strategic or not, I would have to consummate it. I would have to produce heirs.”

Pain flickered through his gaze.

“Could you live with that?” she pressed, knowing it was cruel. “Could you stand knowing that I got up from his bed, wiped his sweat off my body–”

“Lia.”

“–and then came to you? In your servant’s quarters?”

“Lia.”

“How am I supposed to spread my legs for someone I hate? Am I to think of you, while he’s inside me? Pretend it’s your child I’m carrying?”

He gazed at her with horror, with helplessness, and she felt wretched for having said those things – because they were the truth, and because they hurt them both. All the ride home from Inglewood, she’d imagined this moment, the two of them in her room, and it had been heated and vigorous and fun, and then she’d walked into the dining room and reality had come crashing back.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered.

He took a sharp breath. “If you were less loyal to your family, I would ask you to run away with me. We could join the outlaws. But” – a wry smile – “I wouldn’t love you so bloody much if you were the sort of woman who ran away.”

They leaned in together, this time, and the kiss tasted of impending loss; after the first press, like desperation.

His hands slid down her throat, her shoulders; his fingers found the ties of her jerkin and tugged them loose expertly, deft with long practice.

She pushed up his shirt in turn, pressed her hands to bare, warm skin, and felt the leap of muscle in reaction; scratched her nails through the trail of dark hair between his navel and his waistband.

Her jerkin gapped, and slithered down around her hips; he slipped his hands inside the loose laces of her shirt and cupped her breasts, pressed firmly on her nipples in the way he knew she liked.

They’d been lovers since they were both fifteen; Amelia had been a virgin, and Malcolm might as well have been, having only inexpertly tumbled a prostitute. It had been in a horse stall, the straw poking and scratching them, their hearts pounding and nerves ratcheted high. It had been crossing two kinds of line: that of their respective ranks, and, even more frightening for Amelia, the line of friendship.

It had only brought them closer, though. Added a new steel thread through their already-inseparable bond. They’d learned one another: scars, and birthmarks, and ticklish places; learned each other’s sighs, and moans, and cues to press harder, faster, more desperately to heighten the pleasure.

Amelia loved him madly, and had never wanted another.

Tonight, they left their clothes puddled on the rug, and he carried her to her high, canopied bed. Laid her down and stretched out over her; stroked her until she was slippery and clawing at his back; and then he was filling her, pinning her wrists and kissing her neck and showering her with love words while his hips worked his cock deep, deep inside her.

She cried out when she came – half ecstasy, half despair – and he quieted her with a kiss, one he had to end with a gasp as he sought his own end with a few last, strong thrusts.

They slumped, tangled, limbs sliding, sweat on sweat.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured against his throat. “I don’t mean to be so vicious.”

“You aren’t.” He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “It’s the world that’s vicious.”

True enough.

Malcolm had always possessed the skill of being able to sleep deeply anywhere. When he began to snore into her hair, Amelia slid from beneath his arm, tugged on a dressed gown, and went out into the hallway on silent, slippered feet. There was a balcony between the family wing and the guest wing of the house, and that was where she headed. The door creaked, faintly, when she opened it, and cold, crisp winter air blew straight through the silk of her gown. She shivered, belted it tighter, but was glad of the sharpness against her face, the still-cooling sweat on her neck. Most of the ladies of Aquitainia kept indoors as much as possible, only venturing out beneath the shade of parasols on the warmest of summer days, and even then, only in the garden. If they traveled for any distance, it was via carriage; if they went riding, it was only on fine, sunny afternoons, on carefully-tended bridle paths.

They’d never galloped through the forest with a knife on their hip, the sound of pursuit hot behind them. They’d never sat round a fire, chafing their hands together; never worn men’s clothes and ate meat straight off the bone with anyone beneath their station.

Amelia liked the cold because it reminded her that she was alive – that she was a flesh and blood woman, and not just an object to be passed around and acquired and kept on a shelf until an heir might be produced.

Drake Hold’s lawn stretched before her, gently-sloping, frosted, moon-silvered, gleaming like gems beneath a clear sky. How long would it drowse beneath the moon like this? Marked only by the faint curls of chimney smoke, and the distant lowing of cattle? How long until the Sels came?

Down at the other end of the balcony, a throat cleared.

She wasn’t alone.

“After that impressive show of storming out earlier,” Lord Reginald drawled, “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, my lady.”

She fought the urge to spin around and march back inside: this was her home, and she wouldn’t allow him to run her away from any part of it. “I wished to avoid further conflict with my mother,” she said with a sniff. “Trust I wasn’t afraid of sparring with you, my lord.”

A beat passed, and then he chuckled. “You hate me, don’t you?”

She turned to him, one hand on the cold, iron bannister, and saw the glint of moonlight on his hair, and on his eyes. He wore a heavy fur cloak over his shining silks, bulking him out in a way that, nevertheless, managed to draw attention to the line of his throat, and the scar that bisected it.

What she’d intended to say died on her tongue. Instead, she said, “I’ve never cared about you enough to hate you. I hate that I’ll have to marry you, or someone like you, for the sake of my family.”

The breeze gusted sharply behind her, streaming her hair over her face, pushing her closer to Reginald.

He inhaled audibly, and said, “Ah. Who is he?”

“Who’s who?”

“Forgive me, my lady, but you reek of sex. Who’s the man you want to marry but aren’t allowed to?”

She reacted on instinct. In a few strides, she charged across the balcony, gripped the front of his cloak, and cocked her fist back.

He didn’t resist. In fact, he bent back and showed her his throat, in all its scarred vulnerability. His teeth flashed as he grinned. “How ladylike.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, but, ashamed, released him, and turned away to stalk back down to the far end of the balcony. She was shaking, again, and had once more lost control of the fine tremors that had wracked her in her room, before Malcolm had come to her.

It was silent a long moment, one in which she refused to retreat on principle, and wished that he would instead.

He stayed. And finally said, “For what it’s worth, I don’t want to marry you either.”

She turned back, shooting him a glare that she hoped he could see in the moonlight.

He’d moved to stand at the rail, one elbow resting on it; the wind tossed his curls. “I don’t mean it as an insult, but, truly, you and I would never suit.”

“That might be the first true thing I’ve ever heard you say,” she allowed, grudgingly.

He shrugged. “Oh, I’m full of truths, but they get so covered up by my being a pompous ass no one usually notices.”

She felt her brow smooth, anger ebbing.

“Here’s another truth for you: I really am sorry that your sister was sent to Aeretoll.”

“Whoever she marries, she won’t come home empty-handed, not my dutiful sister. She’s beyond your reach, now.”

“I know. I would have no hope of beating a Northman in a duel for her hand – not even before the war.” The hand at his side twitched, began to lift, and then stilled. She thought he might have been about to touch the scar on his throat. He said, “Did your cousin actually fuck the king?”

He sounded so genuinely curious, and thought of Oliver, with his temper, and his face flushed beneath his freckles tickled her so much that she felt a smile threaten. “Tessa would never use that word.”

“Oh, to be sure.”

“But from what she says, he’s to be made consort.”

Reginald whistled.

“He’s to attend the king on his trek to the Wastes for the Midwinter Festival.”

He chuckled. “Now there’s a place Oliver will fit in.”

“He’s not as overgroomed as you,” she shot back.

“No, but I’m not going to treat with clan barbarians, either.”

The silence that followed didn’t bristle quite like the first.

In a gentler voice than expected, Reginald said, “If your mother – if anyone – finds out you’ve taken a lover below your rank, you’ll be dragged through the mud.”

She snorted, and turned to rest her elbows on the railing. “Isn’t that just the way of things? A war on, strange happenings, winter here and hunger settling across the country, but my bedroom antics would set the tongues wagging.”

“They’re fools,” he said, lightly, moving a few steps closer and mirroring her position. “But there’s no changing them.”

“You don’t think so?”

“It would take something catastrophic.”

“Like a war?”

He huffed a laugh. “Until it gets to their doorsteps – until it’s dragging them out by the jewels, raping them…hanging them…” He didn’t finish, and she didn’t press.

“What you said about the Strangers, before,” he ventured, a moment later. “It’s true?”

“What cause would I have to lie about it?” A sideways glance proved he was studying her, brow furrowed. “Yes, it’s true,” she relented. “They’ve always pestered travelers and merchants – it’s a case of entering the forest at your own risk – but the raiding is new. Something’s driving them to it. Desperation – or fear.”

“Fear of the Sels?”

“Fear of something.”

His gaze sharpened. “Now you’re being enigmatic.”

“Isn’t that a sought-after quality in a lady?”

He snorted, and glanced out across the lawn. “What will you do, Lady Amelia, if you do not marry?”

“Same as anyone: whatever I can.”

1

If someone had told him six months ago that he would be spending his days at a king’s table, and his nights in a king’s bed, vaunted guest, lover, and confidante all rolled into one, Oliver would have laughed in their face. And yet, here he was, said king a very large, warm, very naked presence beside him beneath the covers; with only two days until their departure for the Midwinter Festival, and a host of worries to juggle until then, Oliver didn’t have time to marvel over the arm thrown over his chest, or the deep, even breaths rustling in his ear. He could only squint against the light now falling across the bed, spit a bit of Erik’s – frankly ridiculous – hair out of his mouth, and croak, “What is it?”

A few more blinks revealed the hulking shape that had pushed aside the window tapestry as Bjorn, already dressed and groomed for the day, his hair braided tightly so that, given the tremendous fur ruff of his coat, his head looked almost too small for his body.

“Time to get up, little drake.” The captain of the guard said little drake in an entirely different way than Erik. He also threw Oliver’s wadded-up dressing gown onto the bed. “You’ve got practice.”

“Practice?” Oliver sat up, dislodging Erik’s arm so that it fell across his lap. He rubbed at the grit in his eyes. “What sort of practice?”

“Fighting.”

A startled laugh bubbled up in Oliver’s throat. “Fighting?”

Beside him, Erik took a huge breath, stretched – his hand cupped more snugly around the point of Oliver’s hip – and, without opening his eyes, said, “Yes, you need to learn how to protect yourself properly, should the need arise.”

Oliver looked between the two of them. “You’re joking.”

Eyes still shut, Erik said, “I never joke about fighting.”

“Oh no, of course not,” Oliver muttered. “Well. That’s a nice offer, thank you, but I’m sure Bjorn has better things…” He made the mistake of meeting Bjorn’s gaze. “…to do. You don’t really want to work with me,” he pressed. “I’m terrible.”

Bjorn’s lips twitched into the barest smile, and he grunted. “You’re useless with a sword, from my understanding” – Oliver shot Erik a dark look which he couldn’t see, lashes still lowered – “but your liege there is insisting, and I have to agree.”

“My liege,” Oliver parroted. “Can my liege not teach me himself?”

“I have very many kingly things to attend to,” Erik said, and, in the midst of all the chaos around them, it sent a pleasant shiver through Oliver’s blood to hear him placid and teasing like this; to hear him sound light. Then one blue eye cracked open, finally, and an entirely different sort of shiver stole through him. “Besides. I would get too distracted.” Even with his face half-smashed into a pillow, his quick perusal of Oliver’s bare torso managed to be promising.

Oliver ignored the way his face heated and scowled down at him. “Be that as it may.”

Erik pushed up onto an elbow, growing serious. The pillow crease had left an impression on his cheek, and his beard needed tidying. “I’m not asking you to take up sword fighting. But once we go over the edge of the wild…when we get to Dreki Hörgr…” His head tilted to its most earnest, devastating angle. “I would at least have you know how to handle a knife properly.”

A snarky comment about knife-handling formed and died on Oliver’s tongue; Erik looked too serious to be teased now.

He sighed. “If it will make you feel better–”

“It will.”

He gathered his dressing gown into his arms and glanced toward Bjorn with reluctant acceptance. “Breakfast first?”

Bjorn snorted and moved toward the door. “You just had to pick an insolent one, didn’t you, Erik?”

“My whole household is insolent,” Erik shot back, smirking. “Why would Oliver be any different?”

~*~

With great reluctance, Oliver climbed out of bed – not at all helped by Erik turning him loose only at the last moment – dressed warmly, washed his face, and combed his hair in front of the mirror. His braids were beginning to unravel, fine hairs come loose of the beads. He fiddled with them, frowning to himself, until Erik’s reflection loomed up behind his, tall and, broad, and totally eclipsing.

Erik had dragged on his own dressing gown, but left it open, and still wore nothing beneath. Watery, gray sunlight bounced off the mirror and onto his face, so his eyes appeared translucent. The rest of him appeared godlike and mouth-watering.

I am thirty, and I have self-control, Oliver told himself. Firmly. Still, his voice wavered when he said, “How long do these normally last?”

Erik shrugged, sending the gown sliding a little, revealing a wider gap of furred chest. “A few days. Weeks, even, if they’re tight enough.”  He reached to finger one of the beads, fingertips brushing along Oliver’s neck. “As your hair gets longer, their own weight helps hold them in place.”

“As my hair gets longer?”

Erik’s thumb paused in the act of smoothing over the tiny runes etched in the silver, and his gaze met Oliver’s in the mirror. “Do you not want it to?”

Oliver had trouble envisioning himself with hair down his back, oiled, and elaborately braided, as if he were a true Northman. Would he grow his beard out, too? That idea seemed ludicrous.

“It’s only,” he said, hesitating.

Erik’s fingertips slipped up and down the side of his throat, over his pulse, where it quickened, faintly, in response to the touch.

“It’s only – I don’t know if it’s going to help. Looking like I belong – is that even possible? Won’t I look like a soft Southerner playing dress-up?”

Erik frowned. His hand landed on Oliver’s shoulder. “If you don’t want to style yourself as a Northerner, then I won’t force you.” He looked almost…hurt.

Oliver understood, then, and wanted to kick himself. He’d been looking at it pragmatically: thinking that Erik wanted to clothe him in Northern fashion, even braid his hair and thus declare his own feelings, for Oliver’s safety. That was doubtless true, but it was also about showing a personal acceptance of Oliver, he thought. About Erik sharing his culture with him in this most personal of ways.

He reached up to cover Erik’s hand with his own where it rested on his shoulder. Smiled. “I suppose I’ll have to learn how to braid, then, won’t I? You’ll be far too busy kinging to do it for me every time.”

He got to watch Erik’s face soften; watched his smile bloom, the small, tender thing that he shared with his family – and now with Oliver, when they were alone together like this. “Perhaps Bjorn won’t be the best tutor on that front.”

Oliver chuckled. “Perhaps not.” He sobered. “Speaking of Bjorn, I guess I should be off.” He managed to withhold a sigh. “Will the knives be provided, or am I expected to bring my own?”

Erik’s turn to chuckle. He moved away and toward the mantelpiece. “Here. Take this.” He took up the unadorned dagger in its hide sheath that Oliver had inspected night before last and, turning, lobbed it to him underhanded.

Oliver managed to catch it. Barely.

Just as Erik barely managed to keep from grinning. His lips quirked, but held steady. “I first learned how to fight with that.”

“When you were three?” Oliver asked, innocently. The dagger weighed a surprising amount in his hand, though it was well-balanced.

“Four,” Erik said. “Father had me stab it into sandbags so I could get the feel of pushing past resistance.”

“A charming childhood pastime: stabbing.”

A single, dark brow went up. “Will you just take it?”

“Yes.” Oliver tucked it into his belt. With nothing else to do but step out the door, anxiety fizzed to life in his gut. There was so much to do, so much to worry about, and once they left the bedchamber, the day would run hard and fast and stressful. “Where are you off to first this morning?” he asked. “Presumably with trousers on.”

Erik glanced down at himself, and then smirked. “Too casual?”

“A bit, yeah.”

He didn’t move to close his gown, but his expression sobered. He folded his arms, and rested a shoulder against the mantel. “I need to check on Rune, first. If there had been a change overnight, Bjorn would have said so. But I imagine Revna needs forcing to bed, and maybe the fever’s still holding off.”

“Hopefully,” Oliver said, stomach twisting unpleasantly as he recalled Rune’s face only a few hours ago, as bleached-pale as the pillow beneath his head, his hair limp and damp at the roots with sweat.

Erik had traced careful fingertips along his hairline, mouth set in a hard line. When they’d finally retired for the night, he’d pulled Oliver into a wordless, crushing kiss, and they’d shed their worries along with their clothes until they were both exhausted and sleep dragged them under.

“I can come with you,” Oliver offered.

Erik’s smile was fleeting, but true. He shook his head. “Go see him after breakfast. Bjorn’s waiting on you.”

“Is that an order?”

“A request.” Erik pushed off the mantel and closed the distance between them. He caught Oliver by the nape and reeled him in so he could drop a kiss on his forehead. His smile, when he pulled back, was amused, but Oliver could see the tension that lay beneath it. “And another: try not to terrorize Bjorn too much.”

Oliver sniffed. “Please.” But he’d already made a mental note to keep his tongue in better check. Erik, he was now aware, thought his tendency to run off at the mouth was cute; Bjorn wouldn’t agree. “Yes, all right,” he relented.

Erik kissed him again, smile widening for one brief, dazzling moment. “Good.” He turned away, headed for the washstand. Over his shoulder, he called, “Oh, and, if he offers dancing lessons, do not accept.”

Oliver sighed. “Noted.”

~*~

Tessa passed Oliver in the royal solar on her way from her own chamber. He was glancing over his shoulder as he walked, frowning, looking toward the hallway that led to Rune’s chamber. Obviously concerned, but he didn’t slow, not until he turned his head and spotted her; he pulled up before they could collide.

Her cousin, Tessa noted, looked tired around the eyes, same as all of them, but otherwise healthy. And, even better, easy in a way that he normally didn’t. He didn’t have that hunted, hunched-shouldered look he sometimes got when he thought he didn’t belong. He held himself erect and quietly confident – sure of his place here, in this room, amidst this royal family. Tessa wanted to hug Erik for that.

Oliver also had a bite mark on his neck that the collar of his tunic utterly failed to hide.

“Ollie, how is he?”

Oliver shook his head. “I don’t know, I haven’t been in there yet. I’m going to go learn to fight,” he said with a huff, rolling his eyes.

“To fight?” she asked, concern for Rune momentarily derailed.

“Apparently, I have to know how to defend myself.” He pulled a sheathed dagger from his belt and waved it, making a face. “It’s a lost cause, but I have my marching orders.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “All right, I have my marching request.”

Tessa was surprised to feel a smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“Doubtful.” His brows drew together. “How are you, Tess? Did you manage much sleep?”

“A little,” she lied. All she’d done was toss and turn until the bedclothes were wrapped around her waist and her head was throbbing from lack of proper sleep. A cup of strong tea had helped.

Behind her, Hilda said, “If she’s not careful, she’ll work herself into the same sad shape as her ladyship. You should ask Olaf for a sleeping draught, my lady. And see if you can get Lady Revna to take one as well.”

“I agree,” Oliver said, and there was a new firmness to the set of his jaw; no longer suggesting, but prepared to escort one or both of them to bed himself if need be.

Erik’s influence, again, Tessa thought.

She touched his arm as she stepped around him. “Enjoy your practice. Will I see you later?”

“Yes.”

They parted with quick smiles and nods, and then Oliver made for the door, and Tessa made for the hall that led to Rune’s chamber.

Astrid was coming out the door as they reached it, basket of linens tucked beneath one arm. She shook her head, lips pressed to a thin line before Tessa could even ask.

“No change in him. I can’t get her ladyship to so much as take tea.”

“If you’ll bring some fresh, I’ll see if I can get her to drink it,” Tessa said.

The maid nodded and hurried off.

Tessa didn’t bother knocking; she’d been growing more and more comfortable here over the last weeks, but the past twenty-four hours had knocked down the last of her reticence. She felt like family, now.

A family that she prayed fervently to be made whole again.

Astrid’s touch lay about the room: the drawn-back tapestries, the window panes frosted with ice and pearly with dawn. A chair held a stack of fresh quilts, and two mugs sat on the desk, full and untouched.

Leif sat sprawled in a chair on one side of the bed, head tipped back at an uncomfortable angle, boots kicked out across the rug; he was snoring, softly, hands limp and open in his lap.

Revna, by contrast, sat bolt upright across from him, her spine painfully straight, hands knitted together over one of Rune’s on the coverlet. Her lovely face was lined, drawn, and pale, eyes ringed with shadows, her gaze fixed on Rune, but withdrawn, blank.

“Oh my,” Hilda murmured.

Rune lay sleeping, still pale, still sheened faintly with sweat. His head turned, hair rustling on the pillow, but he didn’t wake. The fever was low, still, and being controlled with herbs, but Tessa knew the signs of it all too well, having seen them in Oliver her whole life.

She moved to stand beside Revna, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

Revna startled. She jerked, and her head whirled, and the hand she lifted from Rune’s formed an automatic fist. Her gaze swung wildly across the room until she spotted Tessa, and recognition dawned.

Then she deflated at once, a visible exhaustion sweeping through her, lowering her lashes to half-mast before she forced her eyes open again. “Tessa.” Her mouth twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile, perfunctory and pathetic though it was. “You should be in bed. It’s late.”

“It’s early,” Tessa corrected, gently, and pointed to the windows.

Revna turned toward them, blinking against the light, dazed-looking. “So it is.”

“Have you slept at all?” Tessa asked.

Revna’s attention shifted to Rune, and she said, “Does he look better or worse? A little better, perhaps?” Her voice was slow and thick with fatigue.

Tessa traded worried glances with Hilda. “I don’t…I don’t think he looks worse,” she said, carefully.

Revna leaned forward in her chair so she could smooth Rune’s hair back from his damp brow. “He’s too warm,” she said, frowning.

Tessa bit her lip, hesitating. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Revna, I think you should go lie down for a little while.”

Revna’s head turned toward her slowly, glazed expression edging toward disbelief, toward obstinance.

Before an argument could form, Tessa said, “I’ll gladly sit with him, and Leif’s here. I’ll send Hilda for you right away if there’s any change. But it’s like you told me when I was sitting vigil over Ollie: you can’t help him by running yourself into the ground.”

It was different, and Tessa knew it: though she loved Oliver, he was her cousin, and Rune was Revna’s son, her baby, still, despite the beard on his cheeks. But the principle still applied: falling ill oneself at another’s bedside was folly. And Revna was so tired at this point that she could barely function.

“Astrid went to fetch some tea, my lady,” Hilda said. “Perhaps you could go get comfortable in the solar and have a cup?”

Revna hesitated a long moment, gaze shifting first to Leif, whose head had lolled over onto his shoulder, and then to Rune, still now, breathing shallowly through parted lips. She heaved a bone-weary sigh, and then nodded. “’Spose I should follow my own advice, eh? Tea would be good.”

Tessa and Hilda had to support her, when she stood, and then staggered. By the time they’d steadied her, and reached the door, Astrid was there with a supportive arm and a shawl.

“This way, my lady,” she murmured, and led her down the hall.

Tessa sank down into the chair she’d abandoned, and Hilda settled on a tufted footstool, digging a bit of knitting from her apron pocket straight away. She liked to keep her hands busy, Tessa had learned.

For her own part, she contemplated Rune’s hand where it lay on the quilt, the one Revna had been clasping so tightly. Despite its size, it was an elegant hand, long-fingered, well-shaped. As the dawn deepened and brightened, it highlighted a smooth, silver scar in the web between thumb and forefinger – one she reached, unconsciously, to trace with a fingertip.

“That was a dog bite,” a sleep-rough voice said, and she lifted her head to find that Leif was awake, gaze sleepy, but bright blue in the pale light.

His smile hitched up in one corner, a fond half-smile of remembrance. “One of the wolfhounds. A mean-tempered old sod named Blacktooth, because he’d lost a canine in a hunt when he was young. Uncle kept warning Rune away from him, but Rune wouldn’t listen. He was determined to make friends with the thing – tame it, he said, like he thought he was the hero of a children’s story.”

She smiled, imagining it, fingertip still poised on the scar. It was smoother than the surrounding skin. “Did he learn his lesson?”

Leif snorted, and turned to look toward his brother’s slack face, his own etched with grim regret. “He wouldn’t be lying here now if he had.”

Her own smile fell, a lump forming in her throat. “I still don’t understand.” The urge to slide her hand into Rune’s limp one was too great; she did so, and squeezed, though he didn’t respond. “Why would Ormr have done this? Was he so offended it warranted trying to kill Rune?”

Leif frowned. “The clans do things differently. There isn’t a sense of propriety among them, not like you’re thinking. Killings aren’t so uncommon.”

“But he was here with Ragnar, so he must know that stabbing a prince wasn’t going to end well for him.”

His frown deepened. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying: perhaps it’s completely different here. But in the South, no one kills – or tries to kill – a prince over a personal vendetta. It’s always a political power play.”

He studied her, golden brows furrowed.

“How well do you trust your cousin?”

“Not at all.”

~*~

They had an audience.

Apparently having mended fences after their sparring match during the feast, Lord Náli and his hulking friend Ulf sat on a dusted-off section of bench, snorting and muffling laughter into their gloves.

Oliver took a deep breath that failed to prove calming, and put his back to the spectators. “Is this really necessary?” he asked Bjorn through gritted teeth.

“Ignore the little buggers,” Bjorn said with a shrug. “Now. Try again.”

Oliver adjusted his grip on the dagger, stepped forward – and was promptly gripped around the wrist and disarmed.

Oliver bit back a curse and accepted the dagger when Bjorn handed it to him, struggling to be gracious and not act like a spoiled child.

Behind him, Náli said, “You do realize that you’re both going about this all wrong, don’t you?”

Oliver bristled automatically.

Bjorn waved him off. “Ah, mind your own business, Lord Death.”

“You can’t spar with him, for gods’ sakes,” Náli continued, undeterred. “What chance do you think he has against the likes of you? Coming straight at you with his knife visible? No, no.” Snow crunched as he got to his feet, and walked over to join them. “If he’s learning self-defense, he needs to go about it in a way that’s actually effective.”

The young lord appeared at Oliver’s elbow, and held out a hand, presumably for the knife.

Oliver sent him an unimpressed look.

Náli smirked. “Not very trusting, are you?”

“Of you? No.”

The smirk widened into a true grin, bright and mischievous. He wore his pale hair in a long, single braid today, pulled over one shoulder, and, in the ever-brightening sunlight, was the sort of dangerously pretty that had lords and ladies both tripping over themselves to sign bad treaties and give away their wealth.

Oliver was immune to it, and, after a moment of batted lashes, Náli seemed to realize it. He sighed. His expression settled into something less provocative. “All right, fine. I’m serious. I’m not here to make a fool of the royal consort.”

Consort. Oliver had a very clear mental image of what a consort was supposed to be and do, and that image didn’t resemble him in the slightest.

Whatever his face did, it caused Náli to laugh. “Here,” he said, after he’d quieted, palm held out again. “Let me see it, and I’ll show you.”

Oliver glanced toward Bjorn, who rolled his eyes, but nodded. He handed over the knife and Náli – the little show-off – had it in motion immediately.

A twirl, a flip; he rolled the handle over his wrist and stepped back; tossed the blade into the air and caught it deftly, sunlight winking on its wicked edge.

Bjorn grunted in disapproval. “Get on with it, you little shit.”

Náli laughed. “Now, is that any way to talk to a lord?”

Bjorn braced his feet apart in the trampled snow, anticipatory grin pulling at his mouth. “I’ve always thought titles should have to be earned.”

Náli laughed again – and moved.

But not in the way Oliver had expected.

He took three long strides toward Bjorn, head tossed back, shoulders squared, a head-on meeting…but then seemed to change his mind. His eyes widened, and he hesitated, backpedaled…made to retreat. Bjorn surged toward him, as any man would have, Oliver suspected; Náli made for an easy target: much smaller than Bjorn, and with his back to him, no less.

But before Bjorn’s hands could close on his arms, Náli whirled again, ducking low, and pulled up with the knife flashing against Bjorn’s unguarded ribs.

Both men froze. The flat of the knife rested harmlessly against Bjorn’s tunic – though its placement, had the weapon been wielded with the intent to cause injury, would have been devastating.

“And I’ve stuck you,” Náli said, triumphant.

Bjorn made a face, but nodded as he stepped back, acknowledging the young lord’s success.

Náli turned to Oliver, tossing the knife again and again into the air, catching it by the hilt without looking at it, and without err. “Do you see?”

Oliver did, and he nodded, some of his earlier irritation melting away.

“You can’t outmuscle someone like him, nor – at least now – outmaneuver him. If you’re in a fight for your life, you have to fight dirty.”

“Like you, you mean,” Bjorn said.

“Yes,” Náli said easily, gaze still fixed on Oliver. “If someone gets you in a tight spot, hide your weapon, and beg for mercy. Play frightened. Hell, try to seduce him if you think that will work. The beast should never know you have a blade until you’re slipping it between his ribs.”

Oliver said, “I can see the wisdom in that.”

“If you want to learn proper sword technique, Bjorn’s your man,” Náli continued, and Bjorn’s brows jumped once in surprise. He caught the knife again, twirled it, and offered the handle to Oliver. “But if you want to learn how to keep from dying at Dreki Hörgr, let’s teach you how to fight like a snake.” He grinned, his even, white teeth flashing.

Oliver accepted the dagger. “I suppose that wouldn’t hurt.”

A half hour later, winded, cheeks stinging from the cold, but sweat prickling beneath his clothes from his efforts, Oliver and Bjorn walked side-by-side back into the palace, and Oliver felt slightly less incompetent, Erik’s borrowed dagger tucked behind his belt again.

“Thank you for your efforts,” Oliver said. “I can’t promise to be of any actual use, but, at least you tried.”

Bjorn heaved a deep sigh, and in a pained voice said, “That little white-haired shit wasn’t wrong.”

They’d reached the wide, arched doorway that led into a staging area, a hallway convergence where the ways to the kitchens, great hall, armory, and rear staircase all met. Oliver paused, stepping aside and out of the way of two passing maids with arms full of towels. He noted Bjorn’s sour look, and fought to keep from grinning. “Right about what?” he asked, innocently.

Bjorn’s sharp glance said he wasn’t buying that routine. He snorted, and shook his head, and sighed again, comically pained to admit that the lithe and flashy Náli had been correct about anything. “You’re not going to do anything but get yourself killed if you attack a man head-on.”

“Well, at least we finally agree on that.”

“If it were up to me, I’d advise you to try not to antagonize anyone bigger than you – but I don’t think that’s possible to avoid.”

Oliver did grin, this time. “It’s my greatest flaw, truly.”

“Uh-huh. Try not to get yourself killed, is all. And if you do have to stab someone, don’t be hesitant about it.”

A sobering thought. Oliver nodded. “Right.”

“Ah,” someone called. “Just the two I was after.”

It was Birger, crossing the atrium toward them, Lord Askr and Lord Ingvar flanking him.

Oliver didn’t think he imagined the way Bjorn straightened and moved a fraction closer to him, shifting into a protective stance. It was downright heartwarming.

“Mr. Meacham,” Birger greeted, and his smile managed to be both officious and apologetic at once. “My lords Askr and Ingvar have some further questions about the war they thought you might be able to answer for them.”

“That I might be able to answer?”

“Yes. You are our Southerner,” Birger said, as the lords displayed matching expressions of skepticism.

Oliver was more than a little stunned…though he supposed he shouldn’t be, at this point. He knew that he had a head for facts and figures; had never been modest about his understanding of politics and negotiations. He’d always been the most studious member of his family.

But lords did not come to him to have points cleared up. He was not a part of council meetings; was not sought out for official reasons.

That had all changed, though, hadn’t it? Royal consort Náli had called him, without prompt. And he’d sat beside Leif during the feast day council; at the high table during the feat itself.

He was no longer a mere bastard clinging to walls and window ledges. If he was to be Erik’s, then Erik’s people would look to him. Talking with lords was going to be part of his job, now, one that it was important he exercise with the greatest aplomb and expertise.

Birger’s look seemed to be trying to convey all this.

Oliver’s stomach growled. He stood up tall and said, “Of course. Shall we go and sit down, my lords?”

~*~

Erik found his sister fast asleep on a sofa in the common room when he passed, her face drawn and pale, her body curled into a protective comma on the cushions. She looked cold. Carefully, silently, he draped a fur over her, nodded to the maid, Astrid, and went to Rune’s chamber.

Tessa and Leif sat in chairs on either side of the bed, talking in low voices. Both of them glanced up with he entered.

Tessa, he noted, was holding Rune’s limp hand.

“Uncle.” Leif started to rise, but Erik waved him back down. The boy looked nearly as unwell as his brother, whose skin was ghost-pale beneath a fringe of sweat-damp dark hair.

“Your majesty,” Tessa greeted, quietly.

The room – scented faintly of the sick, of a patient lying in a bed, sweaty and unwell – had the aura of a funeral, Erik thought with a queasy lurch. Their whispered voices, the faint click of Hilda’s knitting needles, the sense of waiting…It reminded him too much of Herleif’s room – of Father’s, there at the last. Arne had been cut down defending Father, dead before he even hit the ground, but Father…Father had lingered. Had lain on a mattress surrounded by blazing candles whose scented sweetness hadn’t been able to drown out the stink of waste and death.

He forced the memories away, took a deep breath, and spoke at a normal volume. “How is he? Has Olaf been in yet?”

“You just missed him,” Leif said. “He changed the dressings and said that there’s only a little pus. He wants to apply a drawing salve, later.”

Erik nodded. “You should get some sleep, Leif.”

He frowned. “I have slept.”

“In that chair,” Tessa chimed in, a surprising firmness undercutting the sweet chime of her voice. “You should go to bed, and get some real rest.”

Tired though he must have been – his eyes underlined with layers of sleepless shadows – Leif shook his head. “No. No, I can’t – I’m staying right here, with him, until I have to go.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “We’ve only got two days until departure.”

Guilt plucked at Erik – firstly, that he’d managed to snag at least a few hours of sleep, and with his lover bundled up in his arms no less – and secondly because there were only two days left, and Rune needed a drawing salve.

“About that. There’s no need for you to come along with us to the festival. You can stay here with your brother, if you want.”

Leif blinked at him in surprise, and then his expression grew pained. “Uncle. I’ve been going since I was twelve.”

“Which is why missing one year won’t hurt anything. The clan leaders will understand.”

“The clan leaders think you’re allying with Aquitainia and planning to usurp their territories. Uncle, this is the worst possible year for me to stay behind.”

It was. But the idea of dragging Leif away from his wounded brother at this moment was physically painful – for both of them, he could tell. Erik refused to be the one to insist on Leif’s coming, not if Rune…

No, no, he couldn’t think of what if. Not of if Rune…

“You–” he started.

“I am your heir,” Leif said, hitching fully upright in his chair; sitting forward, fingers closing on the edge of the fur that covered Rune’s legs. “We are both your heirs, and we’ve not missed a Festival since we were old enough – not even that year Rune had the terrible head cold. When you go, the clan leaders will already know what happened to Rune – Ragnar’s men will have already spread the gossip. They’ll know that he might not–” His sentence choked off, and he swallowed again; Tessa swayed forward toward him, across Rune’s sleeping form, russet brows knitted in concern.

Leif took a deep breath, jaw flexing, and said, more firmly, “If they know he was wounded, and that I stayed behind with him, you will show up without an heir. And they will say, ‘There’s Erik Frodeson of Aeretoll, with one nephew half-dead, and the other too lazy and frightened to come along,’ and you will look weak, Uncle. And I can’t – we cannot afford that. Not now.” His gaze was pleading, and fierce, for all that his eyes were too bright from exhaustion, and from the tears he refused to shed yet for his brother.

Erik was struck by another memory: this one of Leif as a boy. Only five or so, with scraped knees, and a busted lip, and knuckles bruised from a scrap in the stable yard with another boy. An older, bigger boy, one whose father had then berated him for picking on a younger, smaller boy, and a prince at that. Erik had arrived upon the scene to find Leif standing with his lip stuck out, and his shoulders back, a miniature portrait of a warrior prince defending the honor of his family. But when Erik stepped before him, and shielded him from prying eyes with his cloak, Leif had crumbled; had pressed his face into Erik’s stomach and let the choked-back sobs come crashing out of his little chest. Erik had cupped a hand around the back of his golden head, and murmured soothing words.

He wanted to do that now, even though Leif was a man grown, and nearly Erik’s own size, now. Wanted to shield him from this, somehow…even though he knew he couldn’t.

“Leif,” he murmured, chest aching. “You don’t have to worry about all of us right now.”

The wry twist of Leif’s mouth was far too knowing. “Was there ever a moment when you stopped worrying about all of us? Have you ever not thought like a king?”

Last night, Erik thought. The night before. When he’d been thinking purely of his own wants and needs and fantasies. He’d not been very kingly when he set his sights on the pretty Southern boy who turned him molten inside.

“I’m saying you have a choice,” Erik said.

Leif glanced toward his brother, mouth set in a grim line. “No, I really don’t.”

~*~

Oliver wished he’d insisted on swinging past the kitchen, that he’d at least asked for a hunk of bread or a biscuit. Ignoring the empty ache of his stomach, he sat forward in his chair, gaze tracking over the map spread out across the table in the small meeting room where Birger had taken their party.

“As far as I know,” he said, “the Sels are trying to do this the easy way this time around. The king can’t force them out, and, given his reputation, they’re counting on occupying the Crownlands, cutting off all trade in or out, so that, eventually, the king will capitulate and abdicate. Winter is hardly the time to be setting up an overland campaign – even in the South,” he added in response to their skeptical looks. “There are mountain passes best left alone, and some of the roads through Inglewood are notoriously unsafe to outsiders or foreigners.”

Ingvar frowned. “Loss of life has never been a concern of theirs before.”

Oliver shrugged, and barely managed to stifle a yawn. Forget breakfast – he wanted tea. Lots of it. “Ideas change. King Vishna of Seles is not the man his father was, apparently. Wilier, for sure.”

“They’ll march farther inland after the spring thaw,” Askr said.

“Yes, I believe so. Once the Crownlands fall, they won’t even have to march – they’ll simply send appointed lords and sheriffs and agents to quietly take over control of every Aquitainian duchy. A few may resist – will at least pull up their drawbridges and try to hold out for a week or so – but they’ll all come under Sel control eventually.

“And then, my lords,” he said, meeting their gazes in turn. “They’ll set their sights on the North. Just as I explained during the council meeting.”

This meeting now, he’d long since realized, wasn’t really about the clarification of facts. These two Northern dukes wanted him alone – or at least away from Erik and the probing eyes of the crowded great hall – so that they could take his measure for themselves. This was about passing judgement on him; about seeing if he would prove an asset to their king…or a worthless distraction.

Bolstered by the memory of Erik’s teeth in his throat last night, hands leaving bruises on his hips as he moved inside him slowly, slowly, Oliver had no problem squaring up his shoulders, putting on his sternest face, and proving that he was definitely the former, and nothing at all like the latter.

“Much easier to take control of Drakewell through a marriage now,” Birger reasoned, “than to go knocking on its door once the Sels are installed.”

“Yes,” Ingvar agreed.

Askr stared at Oliver.

A stare that Oliver met and didn’t flinch from. “My aunt’s last letter arrived three days ago via messenger falcon. A Southern lordling is sniffing around my other cousin, and she fears, if a marriage contract isn’t ratified here soon, my cousin Amelia will be serving that lordling his balls on a platter.”

Askr stared a moment longer – and then his face creased with a wide smile and his booming laughter filled the room. “Ha! You’re just a wee thing, but you’ve got the old fire in the belly, don’t you?”

“It would seem so,” Oliver deadpanned.

The door opened and admitted Erik, who carried a basket under one arm and a steaming mug in one hand. Since Oliver had seen him last, he’d combed and braided his hair, and donned crimson and black velvet, and a long, open black coat of leather with a fur ruff around the collar. At sight of him, Oliver had to restrain the urge to smile like a besotted idiot; no one but Erik needed to see him looking like that.

He heeled the door shut and took a mild glance around the room, one brow lifting a fraction. “What has you in stitches, Askr?”

Askr took a wheezing breath and wiped at his watering eyes. “Your Southern boy, here.” He pointed a freckled finger at Oliver. “Face like an angel and a tongue like a razor.”

“Yes, well.” Erik moved around the table, set the mug and basket before Oliver, and then dropped down into the chair beside him. “Let’s make sure you focus more on the razor part and less on the angel part, hm?”

“Ah. No.” Askr drew his composure back together with some effort. “I’m not into the lads,” he said, easily, without rancor. “And the last time I looked at a young lass, my woman beat me nearly blind.”

“Didn’t beat any sense into you, though, did she?” Erik said. “Shame.”

Askr chuckled, but thankfully didn’t lose himself to another fit of guffawing.

The mug, Oliver noted, was full of hot, strong tea. The basket – which Erik nudged closer to him with a pointed look – held buttered toast and bacon. “Skipping meals again?” he asked, the near corner of his mouth twitching in the faintest of private smiles.

Oliver’s stomach flipped, but not so wildly that he couldn’t eat. He took a sip of tea and then picked up a triangle of toast. “Not on purpose.”

“See that you don’t,” Erik said, growing serious. “You’ll need to keep your strength up for our journey.”

“You’re bringing him along, then?” Askr said.

“I am. And it’s more like he’s coming than me doing any bringing. And he’s sitting right here,” Erik said, pointedly.

Askr huffed a laugh, but nodded. His attention shifted to Oliver. “Has he warned you yet what you’ll be walking into? Dreki Hörgr is no heated, carpeted palace such as this.”

“I didn’t suspect it was,” Oliver said.

“He can handle it,” Erik said with a note of finality. “Though apparently, my lords, neither of you think so.”

Oliver munched toast and watched Ingvar bow his head a fraction in quiet acceptance of the reproach.

Askr, though, true to character, lowered his red brows and puffed out his chest. “We’re only asking him about the Sels. That’s why he’s here after all, isn’t it? To get us all riled up to fight them?”

A darted, sideways glance proved that Erik’s jaw had clenched, but his voice was pleasant when he said, “Were you drunk during the council meeting?”

Birger and Ingvar both tried to turn snorts of laughter into coughs.

Askr glared a moment – then grinned. “Aye. A little. No more than usual.”

“Hmph. Well, then. What approach should we take at the festival, do you think? The clan leaders will take some convincing.”

“Aye,” Askr agreed. “But. Your boy here” – he tilted his head toward Oliver – “makes a good case. If you’ve got him, and a map, we should be able to get it through their thick skulls.”

Oliver felt his brows go up in surprise.

“The boy has a name,” Erik said, still pleasant, but with a new edge to his voice.

Askr laughed again. “So he does. Mr. Meacham, tell us again about the reserves at Drake Hold.” He added a hasty, “If you please,” in response to Erik’s look.

Oliver swallowed a bite of bacon, sipped his tea, and waded into the tedious fray once more.

2

Revna woke with a start, bleary-eyed, disoriented, drunk-feeling. She scrambled upright, clutching at the edge of the sofa, registering a warm weight sliding off her shoulders. Her eyes burned, and she wiped the grit from them, swearing under her breath. She felt as if she’d taken a bad spill off her horse, sore and exhausted, her breath coming in rough hitches. She didn’t remember leaving Rune’s chamber, but she must have, because she lay now on a sofa in the common room; someone had covered her with a blanket.

“My lady,” Astrid’s voice called softly, full of worry. She turned her head, wincing as her neck twinged, and spotted her maid rising from a chair. “Are you well?”

Mouth as dry and rough as unspun wool, Revna croaked, “How long have I been asleep?”

“Only a few hours.”

“All right.” Revna stood – she attempted to stand. Her legs shook and the room tilted.

“My lady!” Astrid rushed to her; appeared just in time to steady her and ease her back to the sofa. “My lady, you need more rest.”

Revna shook her head, despite the way it worsened her dizziness. “I have to get back to Rune.”

“Lady Tessa and Prince Leif are with him, ma’am. They’re watching over him for you.” Her narrow face was marred by a pleading expression. “Please, my lady, won’t you rest a little while longer? I can bring you some tea and biscuits. Or a proper lunch. You must keep your strength up.”

Astrid had never been the sort of insist upon one taking care of oneself. That was Hilda’s game: the aggressive mothering, always wanting to bundle up, or ply with tea. Revna had never seen Astrid worried for her like this, and it was honestly a little shocking.

She subsided, and nodded. “Tea might be a good idea. Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back,” Astrid said, whisking away. “Stay right there, my lady, don’t worry about a thing!” she called, footsteps pattering across the rug toward the door.

When she was gone, Revna got to her feet – more slowly this time. She grimaced to herself. She wasn’t a girl anymore, and sleeping in a chair – especially tense and tight with worry, heavy with grief – left her hurting as badly as a good brawl.

The door opened with a quiet click behind her, and she sighed. How was Astrid back already? Or had it taken her fifteen minutes to get up off the sofa? She turned, not relishing the thought of having to get stern with Astrid – but found that it wasn’t Astrid who slipped quietly into the solar and shut the door.

It was Bjorn.

Relief rushed through her, first. Cooling, quieting, comforting. She’d always lumped Bjorn in with Erik: if they were around, then the world couldn’t possibly be falling apart. They could carry all manner of hardships on their broad shoulders.

But it was a relief chased quickly by guilt, because here she stood, shoulders slumping, staring, wasting time, comforted, while Rune lay possibly-dying just down the hall.

But she didn’t move. Not right away. Stood rooted by the blend of worry and tenderness that marked his face. It could be such a forbidding face; any softness was made all the more surprising for it.

“Hi,” she said.

“How is he?”

“I was just going to check. Astrid said that Tessa and Leif are with him, still.”

“Let them stay with him, then.” He paused, dark gaze tracking over her with unnerving attention to detail. Because he could be brash, and seemed at times not to know his own strength – she could vividly recall the way he’d taken Oliver by the shoulder and shaken him in those early days, an intentional bit of intimidation masked by a booming laugh – people underestimated his perceptiveness. She hadn’t for a long time, and didn’t doubt it now. “You look like you could use more sleep.”

She drew herself stiffly upright, and even that was an effort. “I’m fine.”

His small, grim smile said you can’t fool me. “You’re dead on your feet, lass.”

She tried and failed to rally a bit of indignation. Sounded only pathetic when she said, “I can sleep when he’s better.” She turned, headed for Rune’s chamber.

“Revna.”

When she halted, she found herself face-to-face with her own reflection in a wall-mounted mirror. Her hair was flat on one side, and tangled on the other, braids come loose and dark locks snarled into knots. Her face was pale, and slack with exhaustion; the dark circles beneath her eyes looked like bruises.

Her fingers twitched on her skirts as she fought not to reach and tidy her hair – it was a lost cause, anyway.

To the left of her reflection, she glimpsed Bjorn’s, as he pushed away from the door and approached her – but stopped a few paces back. He never crowded her; she had the sense he was afraid to. He always seemed so careful to never push her, in any way.

He met her gaze through the mirror, and said, “It’s not your fault, you know.”

The words hit her like a blow.

“It wasn’t back then, and it isn’t now.”

She turned, because it was easier to face him without having to look at her own rumpled, wrung-out countenance at the same time. Her next breath was accompanied by an old, still-sharp pain in her chest. Words failed her, as they had all those years ago, when it had been Torstan lying unconscious in a sickbed.

Torstan had died. Despite her prayers, and her presence, and her fervent belief that he was too strong to succumb to his wounds – the Val-Father had still called him home.

“He’s a strong lad,” Bjorn continued. “And it’s only one wound, and–”

“Thank you, Bjorn,” she interrupted, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. “For your confidence.” She whirled away before the burning in her eyes could become true tears.

~*~

It was nearly dinner time before Ingvar and Askr finally stopped asking questions and Birger was able to break up the meeting with a few diplomatic comments about the king having responsibilities. He walked with the lords down the hallway, after, which left Erik and Oliver alone with the day’s kingsguard: two stern, broad, bearded warriors whose names Oliver needed to learn.

Slanted, early evening light slanted butter-yellow through the windows they passed, and Oliver couldn’t stop a jaw-cracking yawn that he shielded with a hand. “Let it never be said again,” he said, afterward, feeling another yawn begin to threaten, “that Northern lords aren’t just as fussy and stuffy about the daily running of a kingdom as Southerners.”

Erik chuckled, quietly; a low rumble of sound that traveled no farther than the two of them. It had the hair on Oliver’s nape prickling pleasantly. “With a few notable exceptions, ruling is ruling. It’s the fashions and table manners that always stymie negotiations, in my experience.”

“True.” They turned a corner and headed toward the main gallery. “Though, given how worried your lords are about it, I can only assume the fashions and table manners are quite different out in the Wastes.”

“Quite,” Erik agreed, halting.

Oliver drew up as well, and turned so they faced one another. An incoming shaft of late sunlight fell across Erik’s chest, highlighting the threads of silver in his hair, making his eyes seem to a glow a dazzling, translucent blue, like fresh water.

“There are no lords among the clans,” Erik said, manner shifting to a serious one, as if he wasn’t at all aware that he was standing there in his fur and jewels, with his hair, and his eyes, and his face, gorgeous as a work of art. Oliver endeavored to actively listen. “There are clan leaders – chiefs – and they have their favorites; there are hierarchies amongst their people…but there aren’t blood rights. Aren’t inheritances. Respect is earned through bloodshed; if a leader proves weak, he’s cut down by his own men and replaced.”

“How reassuring.” Oliver fell short of the sarcastic tone he’d aimed for.

“They do respect the crown. To a point.”

“Even more reassuring.”

Erik took a step forward, expression painfully earnest. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

“You’re not. I’m not scared.”

Erik’s head tilted, his smile fond.

“No more than usual,” Oliver relented. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the bravura warrior, unlike some people.”

Erik snorted. “How did your lesson go?”

“Better once I stopped running right at Bjorn like an idiot with my knife in plain sight. Lord Náli had some helpful insights.”

Erik’s smile dropped away. “Náli?”

Oliver gave himself an entire second to enjoy this unexpected flare of – jealousy, he thought. More likely concern, but, in a small, unproud part of his heart, it felt nice to be coveted, just a little.

“Yes,” Oliver said, playing innocent. “He has to use his wiles when he’s fighting, and it seemed a good approach for me.” He lifted his brows. “Is that a problem?”

“No – no, no, it’s not.”

Oliver bit back a grin. “You don’t sound too sure about that.”

“Náli is…” Erik frowned. “Young.”

“Yes, quite young. Too young for me.” The smile finally slipped through. “Though I dare say he’s quite popular with all the young ladies.”

Erik stared at him a moment, and then his frown deepened. “You think I’m jealous.”

Oliver laughed. “I think you have the potential to be, and that’s cute. But rest easy: if beardless, teenage lords were to my taste, you and I wouldn’t currently be having this conversation.”

Erik seemed to realize then what sort of face he was making, and his frown melted into a rueful smile. “I’m – ah – not usually so…”

“The word I used was cute.”

“Petty and short-sighted,” Erik finished, color flaring in his cheeks.

Oliver said, “You sure about that?”

Erik rolled his eyes. Started walking again. “Supper?”

“I was on my way to see Rune, and check on Tessa – I’ve not seen her all day.”

Erik halted again, and this time it was guilt – obvious and easy to read – that marked his brow. “Ah.”

“Will you come with me?”

“I can’t. Not right away.” He sighed. “I promised to discuss our departure with Lord Kjaran over supper. Silfr Hall will be our first stop along the journey.”

Oliver nodded. “Come and join us when you’re done, then.”

They parted at the top of the grand staircase; Erik reached out to pinch a bit of Oliver’s sleeve between thumb and forefinger, a gesture that would look innocent to onlookers – including Erik’s guard escort – but which, accompanied by a soft, regretful smile, warmed Oliver all the way down to his toes.

“I’ll have food sent up to you all,” Erik promised, and Oliver watched the trailing, fur-lined hem of his coat slide down the stairs like liquid smoke a moment before he roused himself and went upstairs to the royal apartments.

The common room wasn’t empty. A fire blazed, freshly-built, and Bjorn stood at the side table, pouring wine. He glanced up at the sound of Oliver’s entry, and wasn’t able to guard his expression in time to hide the fact the he’d hoped Oliver was someone else. Erik, most likely.

Oliver nodded a greeting. “How is he?”

Bjorn took a sip of wine first, and then sighed. “His fever’s up. Olaf was just here – got some feverfew tea in him, and some honey. He changed the dressing and he says” – his frown flickered, pained – “it doesn’t look good, exactly, but it isn’t the worst he’s seen. Whatever comfort that is.”

Oliver winced. “Are the ladies still with him?”

“Aye, and Leif too, all of them half-dead and too stubborn to lie down for a bit.” His brows lifted in invitation. “Maybe you’d like to try talking some sense into them?”

“I’ll do my best. But sense never overrules the heart, in my experience.”

Bjorn snorted. “No, I guess not.”

Rune’s chamber, when he slipped inside, was unbearably warm. The fire had been stoked up, and candles blazed; the tapestries were drawn across the windows. Astrid and Hilda, he noted, had moved as close to the windows as possible, having dragged the armchairs away from the hearth, but he could see the gleam of sweat on their foreheads and throats as they knitted with something like desperation.

Two heads turned drowsily toward the sound of his entrance. Leif, asleep in his chair, had shed his outer layers, down to a shirt and simple, brown tunic, both unlaced at the throat. Tessa’s auburn hair had wilted, and fatigue lay in the shadows beneath her eyes, though she offered him a smile and a quiet “hello, Ollie.”

Revna looked like a ghost: hair in wild, unwashed disarray, dress rumpled, her face so pale and drawn she looked like she ought to be in the bed next to Rune.

And Rune…

Oliver’s chest ached when he saw the robust and always-laughing prince stretched out now as if on a funeral plinth, white, clammy with sweat, his eyes sunken and his lips chapped. His hair lay greasy and tangled on the pillow; his chest lifted in quick, shallow huffs. Oliver knew all too well the muddled, painful terror of fever, of being trapped in one’s own body. He hadn’t thought to see someone so young and vital brought low by it.

He glanced toward Revna again, at the terror in her eyes that was slowly morphing into resignation, and grief, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask how Rune was doing: it was plain for all to see.

Instead, he said, “Can I get the three of you anything? Or relieve you for a spell?”

“No, lamb.” Revna attempted a smile, and turned back to Rune. She held one of his limp hands between both of hers, fingertips working absently over the calluses on his knuckles. “Though – make sure to keep Tessa fed. And be sure she goes to bed. She shouldn’t run herself ragged.”

Tessa rolled her eyes where Revna couldn’t see, and sent Oliver a pleading look.

“Erik’s sending up supper for everyone,” Oliver said, and moved to rest a hip against the edge of Rune’s desk. “Bjorn’s getting into the wine out there.” He tilted his head to indicate the common room. “Anyone else want some?”

Leif shifted in his sleep, snorted, but didn’t wake.

“I would,” Tessa said, standing with a grimace, grasping, briefly, at her lower back. “I’ll come help you carry the cups.”

She took his arm once they were in the hall, resting her cheek on the point of his shoulder a moment as they walked into the common room. “Oh, Ollie,” she said, half-groaning. “It’s terrible.”

“I know.” He patted her hand where it lay on his arm, and steered her across the wide rug toward the sideboard, where Bjorn was refilling his cup again. “Playing barkeep?” he enquired, when Bjorn glanced at them.

“Sure. Four?”

“Please.”

The big man filled four fresh cups, the first of which he handed to Tessa, who thanked him.

Then she said, “Oh, I didn’t ask. How did your sparring lesson go?”

Bjorn coughed, and Oliver saw the hint of a smile, fleeting, but amused – and not cruel, he didn’t think.

Oliver sighed. “The less said about that the better.”

Tessa grinned, faintly, cup pressed to her lips. “That bad, huh?”

He made a face at her, just to hear the light chime of her laugh.

A laugh that didn’t last nearly long enough. “Bjorn,” she said, “I’ve tried to get both of them to go and lie down properly. Revna slept a little, and Leif’s asleep now in his chair, but I wish they would really rest. Do you have any ideas?”

“Lass, if I did, I would have put them to good use by now. They’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming from his bedside.”

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of two maids bearing trays with supper. Tessa began taking inventory of the plates, and Bjorn caught Oliver’s eye.

“I’ll be back later,” he said, and Oliver had the weighty sense that he was being given command of the situation. Of the family.

He took a deep breath, nodded, and turned to help Tessa. “What do you think we can talk Revna into eating?”

~*~

There were men in the baths, laughing raucously, the sound floating along down the tunnels until it was only a low rumble, like a distant earthquake. Standing beneath the low-burning cressets in the tunnel that led to the dungeons, Erik could feel the faint vibrations of merriment through his hand, where it was pressed to the wall. Only a distance of walking strides separated the incarcerated from the jovial feast guests; how quickly fortunes changed, and lives altered for the worse. How thin the line was between guest and invader.

Between cousin and prince-killer.

The scrape of boot soles reached him before Bjorn rounded the corner.

Erik greeted him with a lift of his chin. “Rune?”

“Fever’s worse. No other changes. He’s got a room full.”

Erik wondered if Oliver would have any luck convincing Revna to take a break from the sickbed. Not likely.

“Come on, then,” Erik said, and if his voice was gruffer than usual, his friend didn’t acknowledge it. “Let’s get this done.”

A guard let them through the gates, and another stood inside the long hallway of cells; passed them a burning torch, and a ring of keys. No one escorted them this time, as they passed down the long, shadowed tunnel, straw rustling underfoot, until they reached the correct cell.

Bjorn took the keys and unlocked the heavy door, and Erik stepped in first, holding the torch before him. Its light leaped across the straw-covered floor, dancing over the lean, half-feral face of the Beserkir boy they’d captured what now seemed like weeks ago.

Whether purposefully, or because he’d been rubbing at his eyes in the dark, most of the boy’s face paint had been scrubbed away, revealing a smooth, even more youthful than first thought face, the faint patchiness of a blond beard like a shadow along his jaw. He sat with his knees drawn up, arms resting atop them, and, rather than move, froze when they entered, every muscle drawn taut and quivering. He made a good show of keeping his face blank, but his eyes – pale as ice – darted over them, and then to the door, which Bjorn shut behind them.

Erik passed over the torch. “I hear you won’t talk,” he said, tone conversational.

The boy tipped his head back against the wall, revealing raw burn marks on either side of his throat.

Erik didn’t wince, but he didn’t relish the sight of the wounds, either. He wanted answers, but not like that. “Your chief would be proud of you,” he continued. “You’re loyal.”

The prisoner said nothing. Some of the glittering fight had gone out of him, though. He looked tired; resigned.

“Still nothing to say for yourself?” When he got no answer, Erik nodded. “That’s fine.”

He crouched down, as he’d done before, so they were on eye-level – but this time he didn’t crowd the boy, and he was empty-handed, without a torch to wave in his face. It was difficult, given the past few days, and the worry that lay over him like a second skin, but he managed a smile; affected an easy sort of charm that he had rare occasion to employ these days, but which had marked much of his youth, before Father and Arne were killed. It had an immediate effect: just the shift in his posture and in his facial expression drew a confused frown from the young Beserkir.

It was easier, then, to slide back into the old role. He let his grin widen; let the set of his shoulders soften. “My boys – my nephews – could learn a thing or two from you. You’re stoic.”

The boy’s gaze shifted, quickly, to Bjorn, and then returned. His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Not like my boys,” he continued. “Leif would do all right. He’s my responsible one – the first born, you know. Older siblings always have the level heads. Rune, though” – he shook his head, and let his grin become wry – “Rune would go charging right in, all flash and fury and no sense. Rune would get himself in trouble, and then Leif would have to jump in as well, to protect his little brother. That’s what always happens with those two.

“That’s what happened…” He paused, intentionally, and let his smile fade; let some of his actual pain bleed through into his voice. “That’s what happened two nights ago. Rune got himself in trouble – only, Leif was too far away to wade in. By the time he got there, the damage had been done.”

The Beserkir boy had gone totally still, listening so intently he quivered with it.

“Rune was attacked two nights ago. He was stabbed. We don’t know – the physician isn’t sure…” It was an act, the way Erik swallowed and glanced away, only it wasn’t an act at all, the way his chest ached. He sighed and glanced back at the boy. “The man who stabbed him was a Yuletide Feast guest. He was Úlfheðnar.”

The boy spoke for the first time. His eyes widened, and his chains rattled and caught as he sat forward, suddenly. “Úlfheðnar?”

“One of my cousin Ragnar’s men,” Erik confirmed, grimly. “He came into my hall, sat at table, broke bread with our guests, and then he waylaid Rune in the training yard. In the dark, while Rune was drunk.”

Surprise had smoothed even the suggestion of age from the boy’s face.

“Leif arrived, and the villain was caught – his name was Ormr. Did you know him? Or of him?”

The boy nodded. Dampened cracked lips and said, in a dry voice, “One of Ragnar’s generals.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“He’s…” The Beserkir hesitated, but, after studying Erik’s open, curious expression a moment, continued. “He leads the skirmishes against our clan. There was a night raid, in the summer. I saw his face in the torchlight – he was smiling while our longhouse burned.”

Ah, Erik thought. Ragnar, as expected, hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about all the little details.

“This night raid. Did they take war prizes?”

“Yes.” The boy’s face hardened. “My brother. My sister.” He shifted forward again, testing his bonds. “Because your blood thinks that–”

Erik held up a hand, silencing him. “Ragnar is my cousin. My distant cousin. But Ormr was no blood of mine. Nor are most of the Úlfheðnar.”

The boy sneered. “One is enough. It’s ambitious blood, and it only wants to take, and take, and take, and rule over everything.”

“Over everything?” Erik cocked a single brow. “How ambitious of me.”

“You oppress my people,” the boy continued, winding himself up, “and you go to bed with soft Southerners, and your blood is poison, greedy poison–”

“Now, hold on,” Erik said. “We’ve done this song and dance before, and it’s very tedious. Go back to that first thing – I’ve oppressed your people? How have I done that?”

“Ragnar–”

“No, no. Not Ragnar. Úlfheðnar and Beserkir skirmishing is not any of my business. I’m not the king of the Waste, but of Aeretoll. How have I, personally, oppressed your people?”

He hadn’t expected to have to argue his case, Erik could tell. His mouth worked a few moments, nostrils flared as he panted for breath, winded from anger, from stress. “I – it’s–”

“I venture into the Wastes once a year, during the festival,” Erik said. “I sit down with the clan leaders and chiefs, we break bread, we talk about trade – those clans willing to trade. Your clan wants nothing to do with my ‘Southern’ customs. So I ask you: how have I oppressed your people?”

The boy stared at him a long moment, face twitching. Then he exploded. “We have nothing!”

“Nothing?” Erik asked, mildly.

It seemed to provoke him – as intended. “You and your fine velvets and silks! Your rings! Gems in your hair!” He turned his head and spat on the floor. “We live in hide tents! We eat raw meat, when the fires won’t stay lit in the driving snow…when my mother got sick, the shaman chanted over her, and said it was the gods’ will…he wouldn’t even allow her ice rose at the end! The Úlfheðnar burned down our longhouse, and we never replaced it! We have nothing! You and your riches…” His voice was halfway to a sob now. “Your warm beds, and your horses, and your crown. Why should you have that, when we have nothing?”

And here, Erik knew, was the heart of the problem, though he hadn’t expected such a confession from among the ranks of the most feral of the clans.

“What’s your name?” he asked, gently.

The boy sniffed and lifted both cuffed hands to wipe at his nose.

“We have you here. We control when you eat. What harm could it be to give your name, at this point?”

Resistance held another moment.

“I’m not your enemy, son.”

“I’m not your son.” He deflated. “My name is…Yngvi.”

“Hello, Yngvi. I’m Erik.” His knees were starting to ache from holding his crouched position, but he didn’t dare move, not now that he was making progress. “I admit to you, readily, that I executed the Beserkirs who killed my brother-in-law – before you were even born. But I have not taxed your people. I have not implemented my will upon them – have written no Beserkir laws, nor refused to come to a negotiation table. There is no trade between our peoples because the Beserkirs will not meet with me.

“For all of my life, it’s been the espoused view of Beserkir chiefs that the Kingdom of Aeretoll is one steeped in wastefulness, obscene wealth, and Southern manners. But someone…someone has told you that we have oppressed you.”

A flicker of nerves in the tear-bright eyes, now. A new uncertainty – he’d said too much, and now regretted it.

“Not that you aren’t a bright lad,” Erik continued, “but, in my experience, sentiments like the ones you’ve shared today aren’t those of a young man proud of his origins. Nor of one content with his lot in life. Perhaps you arrived at them on your own, but, as a Beserkir, the clan that shuns our way of life the most vehemently…I think not.

“Who helped you to feel this way, Yngvi? Who told you that I’d oppressed your people?”

The chains clinked as the boy shifted his weight. His gaze cut to Bjorn, to the door, to the far wall. “No one,” he gritted out.

“No one? Not your father? Your clan leader? Your friend?”

“I said no one.”

“All right.” Erik showed his palms in acquiescence, and stood, fighting not to show the way it pained his knees. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Bjorn, turn him loose.”

Yngvi and Bjorn both said, “What?” at the same time.

Erik turned to his captain, met his incredulous stare, and nodded. “Do it.”

Bjorn held his gaze a moment longer, silently, questioning, then set the torch in a bracket on the wall and pulled out the keys.

Erik watched as Yngvi, wide-eyed with shock, was uncuffed, and Bjorn pulled him ungently to his feet. Followed behind them as Bjorn marched him down the long hall, and down a dark tunnel, one that led in confusing turns and curves toward the surface, and a hidden door that would spill them out beyond the palace grounds, at the edge of the woods. Erik carried a small pack full of dried meat and a water skin, and the torch, its light streaming overhead in the cold draft that whipped down the tunnels, threatening to douse the flames.

They turned a last corner – the boy stumbling, Bjorn catching him and shoving him on – and silver moonlight skimmed across the floor, along the walls, a cold counterpoint to the sputtering orange glow of the torch.

“Move and I’ll gut you,” Bjorn said, reaching with one hand to unlock the heavy iron grate and push it open. The hinges squealed.

It was snowing, a swirl of small flakes that kissed their faces, flashing wet and metallic in the moon and torchlight. Bjorn shoved the boy one last time, and he staggered forward, went down on one knee, and then turned back to face them, his face an animal mask of eagerness and distrust. In all his fur, he still didn’t manage to look like a bear – no, this bear-shirt was more a half-starved dog.

Erik tossed the pack down at his feet. “Run home, Yngvi. Stay there.”

The boy stared at them a long moment, breathing harsh through an open mouth, breath steaming. Then he snatched up the pack, turned, and bounded off into the trees.

Bjorn turned to face him, his judgement silent, patient, but bristling with unasked questions.

Erik watched the last flash of fur in the moonlight, before snow-laden branches sprang together and Yngvi was gone from sight. He said, “Someone in the Waste is trying to convince the Beserkirs that they should be unhappy with their lot, and that it’s somehow my fault.” He turned an arched-brow look on his friend. “I’ve given that one something to think about, and, with any luck, by the time we get to the festival, the barbarians will be at each other’s throats.”

~*~

After supper – which consisted of more wine than food for the sickbed minders – Leif finally stretched out on the sofa in his brother’s room, kicked off his boots, and fell into a deep, if not altogether comfortable sleep.

Revna stuck stubbornly to her chair, swaying she was so tired. She didn’t resist when Tessa eased the wine cup from her grip.

Tessa sent Oliver a helpless look.

He shook his head, but was gathering breath to try, one more time, to convince Revna to seek her own bed – when the door opened.

Erik brought the scent of snow and pine in with him; Oliver felt the touch of cold, nighttime air when their sleeves brushed.

Thank gods, Oliver thought, sagging, as he watched the king survey the room and pin his gaze on his wilting sister.

Tessa’s shoulders slumped in an obvious echo.

“Rev,” Erik said, resting a hand on Revna’s shoulder. “Go to bed.”

She shook her head, biting hard at her lip, eyes glassy. “No. He needs me.”

“He needs rest, and so do you. Come on.” His voice was unbearably gentle, as was his touch, as he lifted her up out of her chair, and swung her effortlessly up into his arms.

“No,” Revna protested – but weakly. And before Erik turned and carried her from the room, she buried her face in the front of his tunic, and her body trembled with silent sobs.

Astrid – whey-faced and exhausted herself – hurried to her feet and followed them out.

Tessa stood and turned to offer a tired smile. One that quickly crumbled, and her eyes filled with tears.

Oliver stepped forward and folded her into a hug; she sagged against him, a puppet with cut strings. He stroked her hair. “Tess, you should go to bed, too.”

“I know,” she sniffled.

Hilda stood, tucking her knitting away in an apron pocket. “Come along, my lady. Thyra and Bestla will come to sit with the prince tonight, and Olaf said he would return soon, remember?”

Tessa nodded again, and pulled back, wiping her eyes. She allowed the maid to put an arm around her and guide her toward the door – but she paused, and glanced back over her shoulder at Rune. A lingering, anguished look the nature of which couldn’t be mistaken.

If Rune died, Oliver thought, darkly, then Tessa would marry Leif, and probably they would be happy. But Rune would always be the ghost in the room. The what-might-have-been.

When they were gone, he stood a moment longer, watching Rune’s shallow breathing, wanting to do something, knowing that he could do nothing but wait, same as the rest of them.

Olaf entered, Thyra and Bestla in tow, and Oliver slipped out silently.

Erik stood in the center of the common room, alone, absently twirling one of his rings around his finger. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the middle distance. He looked lost.

Oliver hesitated a moment, because there was only so much he could say, and he’d said it all already. I’m sorry; he’s strong; he’ll pull through this. Benign, meaningless words that could not, in and of themselves, convey true comfort. Voicing them again felt redundant and insufficient.

But then Erik lifted his head, and met his gaze, and Oliver was reminded that it wasn’t, and never was about the words themselves, but about the sentiments that led a person to say them, over and over, even if they never proved true.

Oliver closed the distance between them, and, without hesitating, slipped his arms inside Erik’s heavy leather coat so he could embrace him, the two of them pressed chest-to-chest, velvet-to-velvet. He didn’t say I’m sorry, but he clutched at the back of Erik’s tunic, and pressed his face against his strong shoulder, and held him…until Erik let out a deep breath and softened against him, muscles unclenching.

A large hand curved around the back of Oliver’s skull, long fingers threading through his curls; the smooth, skin-heated metal of jeweled rings brushed his scalp. It was a gentle, nearly-reverent touch, but Oliver could feel the faint vibrations of disquiet: the nervous energy born of a king’s sense of helplessness in the face of impending tragedy.

“You should rest, too,” Oliver said.

“Even if I’m not sleepy?” Erik asked, voice a low murmur.

“Especially then.”

~*~

It was probably wrong, after having spent the last three hours holding vigil over a young man fighting for his life, to feel so good now.

Oliver pressed his face into the pillow to muffle the sounds he couldn’t keep from making, the little gasps and groans that built in his throat. Each one, no matter how quiet, was accompanied by a squeeze of Erik’s fingers on his hips; by a low curse; by a forceful thrust.

It had started quietly, Oliver pulling away from the embrace, finally, and leading Erik to his chambers. But once there, once the door was shut, Erik had set about devouring him. Oliver had felt every bit of his pent-up frustration: in the stroke of his hands, and the press of his tongue. Even now he shuddered, and Oliver couldn’t have said if it was from pleasure alone.

The next thrust pushed him up the mattress, and his mouth opened against the linen pillowcase; the sound that left his lips could only be called a whine, high and needy. Erik was so big, and he was hitting him in just the right spot, and Oliver pushed back against him, more wanton than he’d ever been. Sex had never been like this: as indulgent as dessert, and as necessary as breathing at the same time.

“Sweetheart,” Erik murmured, voice a low, rough rasp. “Love, that’s so good.”

His hands left Oliver’s hips. One slid down the center of his back, a possessive stroke that held him in place. The other took hold of his cock.

Already keyed up, hovering at the edge of release, Oliver fell apart in moments. A few more hard thrusts brought Erik to his own end, and he cursed and groaned as he spilled inside him.

Erik sagged against him, after, spent, He draped himself over Oliver’s back, let him feel his heaviness, the wild galloping of his heart where it pounded against Oliver’s ribs. Shaking, still pulsing with release, Oliver couldn’t hold him up, not for long.

Erik pressed a kiss to the back of his neck and then rolled away.

Oliver shifted – well, fell, really, limbs weak from coming – onto his side, and they lay facing one another, trying to catch their breath. Erik’s hair clung to his sweat-damp neck and chest; his skin gleamed bronze in the firelight. Oliver was in the throes of rippling aftershocks, but he managed to shudder all the same. Erik was magnificent in his regalia, seated on his dais, sweeping through these halls. But he was beautiful like this, unguarded and satisfied.

Oliver reached with unsteady fingertips to pluck a strand of hair from Erik’s cheek and tuck it behind his ear. The quick, reflexive smile he got in return was devastating.

All too soon, though, the world beyond the door intruded on the moment. Not in the form of a knock or a call, this time. But, chest still heaving, still gleaming and flushed and no doubt filled with the pleasant murmurings of pleasure, like Oliver, Erik’s expression darkened. He propped up on one arm, temple resting against his knuckles, and a thoughtful groove appeared between his brows.

Oliver’s hand lay on the sheets between them, and Erik turned it over, traced the lines on its palm with his fingertips, mouth tugging down at the corners.

Oliver said, “I’ve realized something.”

Erik’s forefinger skimmed along the width of his palm, and then down to his wrist, playing over the blue tracery of veins there. “Hm?”

“You’re a martyr.”

His hand stilled. His gaze snapped up. His frown deepened. “What? I am not.”

Oliver bit back a smile. “It’s terribly endearing. But always worrying that everything is your fault and that you should have done better is going to put a permanent line here.” He smoothed his thumb between Erik’s black brows, and didn’t tell him that the line already was permanent, though faint when he wasn’t tense.

Erik sighed – but his frown softened, and the line between his brows stayed faint. “That’s kingship, darling. Everything usually is your fault.”

“Even when it isn’t?”

“Especially then.”

Oliver smiled – and saw it echoed – as their previous exchange returned to both of them. Then he wriggled closer, into the ready circle of Erik’s arms, which went around him immediately. He pressed his nose into Erik’s collarbone, and held him in return. “Try to get some sleep. Another long day tomorrow.”

“That’s just it,” Erik said with obvious regret, though Oliver could feel the physical tension bleeding out of him. “They’re all long days.”

~*~

Erik dozed, at least a little. But his mind raced too much to allow him true sleep. When Oliver had drifted off – with the open-mouthed, boneless sleep of the truly exhausted – and the fire had burned down to glowing coals, Erik extricated himself carefully, slipped from bed, donned his dressed gown, and went barefoot from the chamber.

The fire in the common room had been banked, all the candles snuffed. The snow clouds that had rolled in earlier had thickened, and blocked all traces of moonlight. But Erik had been born in this royal suite; he knew ever stone, and corner, and hallway. His fingertips skimmed the edges of the tapestries before he reached Rune’s chamber; he found the door by feel, and let himself silently in.

Here there was light, still. The fire blazed, and Thyra and Bestla sat before it, talking softly and working at needlepoint. The desk had been cleared and then heaped with their tools of the trade: fresh towels, bandages, bowls, knives, and an assortment of vials.

He made a staying motion, when they moved to rise, and took the chair closest to Rune’s bedside.

Olaf stood opposite, one gnarled hand pressed to the boy’s forehead, his gaze sharp as ever in his lined, leathery face as it lifted to meet Erik’s. “The wound is not festering,” he said, in response to Erik’s unasked question. “These things are never certain, but I don’t think there’s been any great damage to his entrails. There was pus, earlier in the day, but the salves seem to be working. I’d like to clean, debride, and stitch the wound, so that it can close fully.”

Erik nodded.

“It’s the fever he’s fighting,” Olaf said with a quick shake of his hand. He shifted his hand to press two fingers to the quick, visible pulse in Rune’s throat. “No matter my efforts, that’s a battle he has to wage on his own.”

A battle in which none of Erik’s skill or experience could be of any use. He couldn’t take up a sword to protect his nephew; couldn’t rally troops and sound horns and slay enemies.

“He’s a strong lad, Erik,” Olaf said.

“So was Herleif.”

“Herleif was a child. Rune is a man. And this fever is not a sickness – these are different circumstances,” Olaf said, his expression kindly when Erik glanced toward it.

He glanced away, again. He didn’t want kindness, or sympathy. Didn’t want anyone to pat his head and tell him he’d done his best.

Rune’s face, slack, and pale, his eyes shadowed as if bruised, twitched in his sleep, and his head rolled on the pillow – toward Erik. His neck strained, and he murmured something unintelligible. Erik was struck with the painful sense that his nephew was seeking him out, even in his delirium.

The boy’s hand lay on the covers, fingers curling. Erik covered it with his own, surprised by the way Rune gripped him in return, strong and immediate.

“See?” Olaf said, a faint smile in his voice. “He’s strong. I have every faith that he will survive this.”

“I want to believe you.”

A rustle and a stir issued from the far side of the room. Leif sat up from the sofa there, hair rumpled, braids falling out. He rubbed at both eyes a moment, and, puffy-faced and sluggish, got to his feet and shuffled over. He looked nearly as bad-off as his brother.

“Any change?” he asked, drawing up beside Olaf.

“His fever is high, but the wound is running clear fluid,” the physician said. “I’m going to dress it again, and stitch it closed. If you’d like to assist, your grace?”

Leif nodded, and pushed up his sleeves.

Erik began to protest – Leif was too tired, surely, and untrained in medicine besides – but he watched Leif go to the table where Thyra helped him to wash his hands in hot water, and he watched Olaf gaze after him, sympathy writ clear in his gaze, and he understood that, like himself, Leif needed to be a help. Having him assist was about soothing Leif. Sometimes, he reflected, feeling as though you’d done all you could was more important than sleep.

3

In Aquitainia, kings did not travel like ordinary citizens. Erik was no spoiled Southern monarch intent on carrying along trunks full of his best jewels; there would be no troop of jugglers nor tailors in his entourage. Even so, packing and preparing for departure was an elaborate affair. The palace buzzed with activity – a great deal of it, given the feast guests were to depart as well. Servants bustled back and forth toting trunks, and armloads of clothes. Cloaks and coats were brushed and mended; beads and pendants were polished; food was packed into crates and barrels, and in the stables, horses were groomed, sleighs waxed and polished, reindeer harnesses oiled.

Oliver had always been one for packing light: a few changes of clothes and his toiletry kit in a canvas sack was all he needed. Perhaps a few extra layers, good boots and a solid coat, here, in the North.

But he’d never traveled as a king’s consort before.

That word. Erik hadn’t said it yet, but everyone else around them had. It sat glowing and barbed in the back of Oliver’s mind, piercing his awareness every so often, a sharp, sudden prick of Am I his consort? He didn’t want to ask; didn’t want to examine it too closely.

But he would have to. He would have to either reject or embrace that title.

A title. A bastard son of a washerwoman and people were giving him a title. The idea left him dizzy.

As did the speed with which Magnus was rifling through his possessions.

“This is really…kind of you to help…” Oliver said.

Magnus, up to his armpits in Oliver’s travel trunk, flung a pale blue silk shirt over his shoulder. It fluttered a moment and then landed on the growing pile of equally rejected Southern, summer garments.

“…but it’s really not necessary. I can…” A slipper whizzed past his head. “Magnus. Magnus,” he said, huffing a little. “Shall I open up the window and let you throw them right out into the snow? It might save you a step.”

“That it would,” Magnus said, cheerfully. “What’s will all this bloody silk?” He straightened, a white silk neckcloth pinched between two fingers as if it was something foul, nose wrinkled up comically.

“I can assure you it’s the height of fashion in Drakewell.”

Magnus glared at the offending item another moment, then shrugged and tossed it aside. “Useless. What you need” – he resumed digging – “are some good furs and wools.”

“I have some,” Oliver said. “Over there in the wardrobe.”

“Yes, but those are palace clothes. You need good traveling–”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Ah, that should be them.” Magnus turned and stepped over the pile of silk to go and answer the door.

Oliver sighed.

Three serving men trooped in, toting hampers full of cloth – of dark wools, and furs, and padded doublets, and quilted coats.

“From the king, my lord,” one of the men told Oliver, with a bow, and set the hamper on the floor. The other two followed suit, each with a murmured “my lord.”

Oliver didn’t have the energy to correct them.

When they were gone, Magnus reached into one of the hampers and shook out a long, sheepskin-lined leather coat, shiny and freshly-oiled, its collar of thick, brown bear fur. He smiled approvingly. “Now this – this is a good travelling coat. And” – he pulled out a woolen tunic, black with silver embroidery – “you put this under it, and a good shirt, a cloak – you’ll be warm as toast.”

Oliver glanced toward the desk, where his half-eaten breakfast sat, eggs congealed, toast gone cold and soggy. “Hm. As toast, yes.”

“And here, look, wool stockings,” Magnus continued. “Spare boots. And gloves – two kinds.”

“Why two kinds?”

“One for riding, one for working.”

Oliver lifted his brows.

“Theoretically speaking, of course.”

Oliver was aware, because Birger had informed him, that, while the caravan would overnight in the manors of the lords of Aeretoll, once they reached the edge of the kingdom, and started across the Wastes, there would be no palaces, or inns, or even cottages. They would be sleeping rough: camping in tents, horses tied out on picket lines. The dogs would ride in the sleighs with the men, so that, at night they’d be fresh to patrol and guard the camp from predators – man and beast alike.

He knew that he would be cold; that he would be expected to lug firewood, and sit watch: to be a true part of the company, and not some pampered pet.

Not that he’d ever wanted to be such a thing.

With an internal bracing-up, he began pulling clothes from the hamper and sorting them. He would take two trunks of possessions, and he wanted to be organized about it.

“Do we know who will be coming yet?” he asked. They departed in the morning, and he’d found it best to think about the practicalities, rather than their pre-dawn wakeup. Rune was still gripped by fever, Revna and Tessa looked like ghosts this morning, and Erik had been much too quiet when Oliver had left him at breakfast. If he dwelled on any of that, he’d have indigestion.

“Me, of course,” Magnus said. “And Lars. Four of the other lads – though not nearly as handsome and charming as me.”

Oliver snorted, and earned a laugh.

“Then His Majesty. Obviously. Yourself. Prince Leif. Bjorn, I’d expect.”

Oliver nodded; that’s what he’d been expecting.

“And of course there’ll be the lords with us. Or…” When Oliver glanced up, he saw him frowning: a rare sight. “Most of them.”

Oliver frowned, too. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing wrong. Only…there’s been some talk. Rumblings in the halls.”

Oliver looked at him expectantly.

“Some of Lord Dagr’s men were talking. They don’t think his lordship wants to make the trek this year.”

“Dagr,” Oliver said, trying to recall the faces around the table at the council meeting. “The one who’s gone half-bald and shaved his head in hopes no one will notice?”

“Aye.” Magnus grinned. “And has a great beard to make up for it. He’s ferocious to look at, make no mistake, but – and you didn’t hear this from me – he doesn’t like an argument. His lads say he’s worried about how things will go at the Festival Council.” A beat passed, and then his eyes widened. “Not that you need to be worried, now, my lord.”

Oliver sighed. “Not ‘my lord,’ Magnus.”

Magnus chuckled again. “Try telling His Majesty that.”

~*~

Oliver packed with his usual speed and efficiency – Magnus expressed shock that someone who owned so much silk could pack so speedily, to which Oliver rolled his eyes – and serving men came to tote the two trunks to the stable where they would be readied for an early departure. He took the clothes he intended to wear tomorrow with him, in a bundle, as he left his guest chamber and returned to the royal suite.

He walked in on an argument.

Erik stood squared off from Olaf. The physician had his hands folded together before him, expression long-suffering, and Erik was the complete portrait of a king exerting every bit of his royal authority.

“Why not?” Erik asked, voice like grinding stone.

“Because,” Olaf said with the air of a man who’d said this more than once already, “Rune has an abdominal wound. I don’t want him sitting in water with his stitches.”

“Then let’s put ice in sheets. In towels.” Erik gestured sharply toward the hall, at the end of which lay Rune’s chamber.

“Your Majesty, that’s what I was about to suggest,” Olaf said, patiently.

At another time, Oliver would have laughed at the way Erik scowled in response. But this was about Rune; about the way Erik and the entire rest of the family felt helpless.

“Do it, then,” he snapped, and Olaf nodded and turned for the door.

The physician nodded a silent greeting as he passed Oliver.

Oliver nodded back, and went to Erik. “Handing out ice baths?” he tried to joke.

Erik heaved a deep breath and made an abortive move to rub at his temples. He fiddled with his rings instead, lips pressed to a thin, humorless line. “Olaf waits too long to act. He did with you, and I should have insisted…I’m insisting with Rune,” he said, firmly. “I’ll insist from now on.”

“I think Olaf’s doing the best he can,” Oliver said.

Erik’s gaze sharpened. “Because you’ve known him so long?” he asked, tone dry. “He was physician when I was a boy – he’s an old man now. Maybe he’s slipping. Or maybe he eschews newer, better methods.” The moment the words left his lips, he swore softly and glanced away, out through the window toward the gray, snowy afternoon that lay beyond the glass. He’d been uncharitable, and he knew it.

And Oliver knew it was because he was stressed and hurting. Gently, he said, “Healing takes time. Fevers have courses to run.” When Erik sent him a rueful, contrite glance, Oliver offered a bit of a smile and said, “I do know a little something about fevers, you know.”

“I know. But this one isn’t like yours.”

No, this was the result of violence. Of a wound delivered in the spirit of hatred.

“But it still has a course,” Oliver persisted. “And if Olaf’s been with the family that long, then you know he loves Rune, and he’s doing what he thinks is best for him.”

“I know,” Erik said, without any outward relief. He noticed the bundle of clothes in Oliver’s arms for the first time. “Is that some of what I had sent to you?”

“It is. Don’t you think an entirely new wardrobe was a bit excessive?”

Erik arched a single brow, true amusement finally coloring his expression.

“You don’t, obviously,” Oliver muttered. His stomach lurched. “Which reminds me…” His throat grew tight, and he found he had to push the words out. “I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

“About?”

“About…” It was really stupid that he was hesitating, but he couldn’t control his pulse, leaping suddenly. “About this word. This – well, as ridiculous as this sounds coming from me, it’s actually a title. I think. Everyone keeps saying it, but I don’t…think it could possibly apply.”

Erik looked puzzled a moment – and then his brow cleared as understanding dawned. Something like apprehension flickered in his gaze. “Someone’s called you the consort,” he said, toneless, hard to read.

“Askr called me that right in front of you yesterday.”

Erik hesitated a moment – a pause that could have been thoughtful, or even damning – then gathered a deep breath and said, “I–”

The door swung open, and in trooped Olaf’s assistants, toting wooden tubs between them laden with snow, lengths of clean towels thrown over their arms.

Erik exhaled slowly, as if trying not to sigh.

Oliver did sigh. “You have to give them credit for expediency,” he muttered, then shook his head over his own uncharitable thought. “Let me put these down,” he said of his clothes, and was forced to step back and make way for the boys with the snow.

Erik nodded. “Hang them in my wardrobe.” Olaf hurried in after his assistants, and Erik fell in at his side, the whole group headed for Rune’s chamber.

~*~

Tessa knew that Revna didn’t intend to sleep, but she’d reached a point of exhaustion at which naps pounced on her like predators, and she wound up with her chin on her chest, tilting out of her chair. After the last such incident, Leif had moved her – managing not to wake her – to the sofa by the window, where she slept, still, as Tessa helped Thyra and Bestla lift dripping towels of thawed snow into a tub and settle fresh, cold ones in place down the length of Rune’s torso.

No one, it seemed, worried much anymore about Tessa’s maiden sensibilities. First nursing Oliver, and now with Rune, with the family stretched to the breaking point, all attempts at preserving her modesty had been left off. Rune lay naked to the waist, save for the thick padding of bandages around his middle, and Tessa worked silently and efficiently with the two nurses, arranging the towels against his skin, ensuring the towels were rolled thick enough that the snow wouldn’t burn him.

Olaf was here, now, as Leif lit fresh tapers and the late afternoon shadows stretched long and thin across the floor, across the mattress, so that Rune’s pale skin was cut with diamond shadows from the leaded window panes.

The physician hummed quietly to himself. Pried up the bandages to peek beneath. Felt Rune’s forehead; peeled up his eyelids to examine his pupils. “The wound is beginning to heal nicely,” he said, tone quiet. “If his fever breaks, and stays down, then I believe it’s safe to say he’s avoided any serious internal damage.”

Leif tossed the spill into the hearth and joined them, rubbing wearily at the back of his neck. “What does that mean?”

“It means we must continue to wait, your grace. And pray if that is your inclination.”

Leif sighed, but nodded.

“Thank you, Olaf,” Tessa said.

He smiled at her and took his leave with a quick bow.

The makeshift ice packs all in place, Thyra and Bestla pulled the covers back up and set about removing the old towels so they could be laundered.

Tessa dried her hands on her apron, and, feeling a bit trapped, but back-sore from standing, dropped down into the chair nearest the bed. Her hand reached automatically for Rune’s limp one. “I hate feeling so helpless,” she murmured, and the moment the words left her lips knew that they expressed only a fraction of her steadily-mounting anxiety.

“You feel helpless,” Leif said, dropping down into the chair across the bed. “Imagine if you’d been there and not been able to stop it happening.” His gaze lifted to hers, afterward, stricken. “Forgive me: that was uncharitable. And you’ve been so very–”

She shook her head, silencing him. “We’re all stretched thin,” she said. “Is anything any of us say uncharitable at this point?”

He made a face and glanced away, toward Rune’s face: it had been more mobile since the ice packs were applied. His brow was furrowed, now, and his lips twitched, every few minutes, as if he might speak – but hadn’t so far.

“Leif, you know it wasn’t your fault.”

His mouth twitched. She wasn’t seeing a different side of him, she didn’t think – his rush to apologize proved that – but the constant grit of worry and wait had buffed away the gleaming, youthful optimism she’d come to think of as a more grown-up version of Rune’s bright exuberance. Rune was like a hunk of metal plucked straight from the ground, in the dirty grasp of a triumphant miner; Leif was the finished product, polished, shaped, ready for wear.

The last few days, though, he’d dimmed. She didn’t know what to offer other than assurances.

He said, “I knew he was drunk. I told him not to go out shooting in the dark.”

“How could you have known Ormr would be waiting for him?” she countered.

“Forget Ormr.” His tone cracked with frustration. “He could have shot himself in the foot – or shot someone else. He could have gotten hurt a dozen different ways.”

“But could you have actually kept him from going out there?”

“It would have gotten ugly, but I could have, yes, I could have–” He cut off, abruptly. Lurched forward in his chair, eyes widening.

Before Tessa could ask him what was wrong, she heard it – heard him: Rune.

A deep breath. A murmured syllable: “…och.” Another, a sibilant hiss.

His hand fluttered in Tessa’s grip, and then tightened; palm-to-palm, he squeezed her back.

She gasped. Couldn’t stop the sudden rush of tears that filled her eyes as she watched his eyes flutter half-open, unfocused and drowsy, but open all the same. His head stirred, hair rustling on the pillow.

Leif shot to his feet, wavering, unsteady; Tessa imagined the blood had rushed from his head the same way it had hers. He braced a hand on the pillow and leaned over his brother. “What?” His voice quivered, like he didn’t dare believe yet. “Rune, can you hear me? What are you trying to say?”

Rune’s chapped lips parted, and he took another large, slow breath before croaking out, “Tha’s…tha’s bollocks. You couldn’t” – another breath – “’ave stopped…me.”

Tessa’s mouth fell open.

Leif’s did, too. He gaped at his brother a long moment.

Until one corner of Rune’s mouth hitched upward in an attempt at a smile.

And Leif burst out laughing, the wild, hysterical laughter of the truly relieved after a long stretch of worry. Tessa felt it echoing in her own chest, bubbling and choking.

Revna sat up, her hair at wild angles, and shouted.

~*~

Oliver didn’t try to get loose; he didn’t throw his whole weight behind his movement. He let his hand dart like a fish, a quick, wicked strike, and the last rays of daylight glinted off the knife as he pressed it to Bjorn’s throat.

He was on the ground, pinned down, with no hope of escape, but he’d gotten a hand on his knife, and, had this been a true fight for his life, could have cut Bjorn’s throat.

It took him a moment, after Bjorn froze, one massive hand gripping the front of Oliver’s tunic, before he realized that he was grinning like a lunatic, and that the feeling coursing through him was triumph.

“And you’re dead,” he said, brightly, smiling so wide his face ached in the cold.

Bjorn snorted. “Yeah, but once you kill me, I’m going to fall right on top of you, and crush you.”

“Details, details.” Oliver smacked him lightly in the side of the neck with the flat of the knife. “Let me up, you ogre.”

Rather than lift him to his feet, Bjorn dropped him in the snow, with an eye roll, and that startled a laugh out of Oliver. He reached down, though, a moment later, and offered a gloved hand the size of a bear paw.

Oliver scrambled up, sheathed the knife – he was wearing the sheath threaded through his belt, now, as intended – and brushed the snow off himself. “You can admit that I’m getting better, you know. It won’t make you any less better than me at most things.”

When he glanced up, he found Bjorn with his head to the side, studying him. “What?”

Bjorn started to respond, hesitated long enough to make Oliver worry, then said, “You’re not the way I thought you’d be.”

Oliver blinked. “Well, that’s not a ringing endorsement.”

Bjorn frowned, unapologetic. “You look every inch the soft Southerner.”

“Why, thank you, Bjorn–”

“But you’re tougher than that, underneath. You’ve got a mouth on you, and you use it even when you probably shouldn’t. Talking back to Ragnar? Egging him on?” Another snort. “Stupid – but brave, I grant you. No one ever talks to Erik the way you did, straight from the first. That takes nerve.” He dipped his head in a quick, but sincere show of respect that stunned Oliver. “You take that mouth to Dreki Hörgr, you keep using it here, and you’ll win them over, to be sure.”

Oliver didn’t know if thanking someone like Bjorn was the right course of action; his statement had been less of a compliment, and more of a decision rendered. A judgement in his favor. So he said, “Maybe Southerners aren’t as soft as you think.”

That earned a grin. “Or maybe you’ve got more of the North in you than you know.”

A beat. Oliver said, “You could make a very terrible joke out of that.”

Bjorn stared at him a moment, and then roared with laughter.

They were both dabbing at their eyes when Tessa appeared in a whirl of skirts and a fluttering of unbrushed hair, her eyes huge. “Ollie!”

Their laughter choked off; Oliver’s stomach dropped like a stone. “What is it?”

But though her eyes were huge and shining with tears, she was beaming. “Rune’s fever broke. He’s awake!”

~*~

Erik thought it might have been the most appropriate thing to have supper in the great hall, with all his household, and his lords, most of which were departing before dawn along with his own personal caravan, but tonight, family took precedence.

They took supper in Rune’s chamber, all of them ranged around on the assorted chairs, and sofa; Oliver perched in the windowsill, and though Erik would have liked to have him by his side, glimpsing the true, soft joy on his face across the room was enough, especially with Rune alert, and, despite his face looking bruised from fever, sitting up against a stack of pillows and complaining about the watery broth that was all he was allowed.

Erik’s heart was light; tomorrow’s troubles, whatever they might be, could wait. For now, he had all the people he loved best around him. And, when Rune’s energy began to flag, and Revna began shooing them out, he had a decision to deliver.

He caught Bjorn’s eye, tilted his head toward the door, and together they went out to the common room; Erik poured them both wine, and, when Bjorn hesitated, nodded him toward a chair by the fire.

They both sat.

Bjorn held his cup before him, but didn’t drink. “You’ve got something heavy on your mind.”

Erik smiled, and took a sip. “You know me too well.”

“Your drake had a knife at my throat this afternoon.”

“Did he?” Erik felt his smile widen, delighted, perhaps even more so by Bjorn’s resulting frown. “Good for him – but that’s not what this is about.” His smile fell away. He set his cup aside on an inlaid table. “This is about our trip to the festival.”

Bjorn’s expression blanked: ready. Waiting.

“You know I want you by my side, always–”

“Erik.”

“But I want you here, with Revna. With Rune, and Tessa.”

Bjorn took a few long swallows. “And not with you.”

“I want to take Birger.”

More swallows. After, Bjorn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “My brother is wise counsel.” Erik waited through the resultant pause. Listened to his old friend’s voice harden. “But we’re anticipating someone raising a blade to you, aren’t we? Counsel won’t save you then.”

“Bjorn.” It hurt, inside; he felt the old tug of wanting his friend, his right hand, to have his back. But he’d thought this through. “You know that you are beloved to me, as a brother.”

Bjorn bristled. “But you would leave me behind.”

“I would have you protect the innocent,” Erik said, sitting forward. “You are my strongest, my greatest warrior – no one can stand up to you.”

Bjorn set his own cup aside, wine sloshing, so that he could lean in, too, their faces inches apart. “Which is why you need me at your side,” he snarled. “No amount of lessons in the world will get your boy ready to defend you.”

Erik knew a moment’s pulse of anger. It subsided. “And I’m not asking him to defend me. Bjorn. I’m asking you to stay and protect my family.”

Bjorn stared at him – then glanced toward the fire, jaw working.

“I know,” Erik said, carefully, “that you love my nephews. My sister.”

Muscles leaped in Bjorn’s throat. Through gritted teeth, he said, “You know they’ll try something. The Beserkirs. Even the Úlfheðnar. Gods know what the other clans think.”

“I know.”

“Birger is the brains, between the two of us. He could help here.”

“And he could help me with negotiations in the Waste,” Erik reasoned. “Don’t think of this as a punishment.”

Bjorn turned to him, gaze dark in the firelight, jaw set. “Then why does it feel like one?”

Erik took a steadying breath. “You know that it isn’t.”

No response.

“You know that there’s no one I would trust more to watch over my sister, and her injured son.”

Bjorn showed his teeth, and glanced away again.

“Bjorn. Brother.” He sat forward, allowing his expression to be open and pleading. He could be stern, he could deliver an order – but sternness would not help Bjorn to understand. “No one in this palace commands the military respect that you do. You’re not just the captain my guard – you’re my general. I would have to take an entire army with me to Dreki Hörgr to keep absolutely safe. But you here…if something happens, if the war should renew while we’re away – there is no one I trust more to hold off a siege. To make the hard decisions.

“I don’t make this decision lightly, and I think it’s the right one. I must take a diplomat to the festival, and leave my right hand in command of my castle.”

He thought, but did not say: Revna needs you here. Bjorn would have to find that out for himself, if Revna would ever admit it.

When no response appeared forthcoming, Erik sat back and said, “I of course can’t force you.”

Bjorn sent him a flat look. “Bollocks.”

Erik smiled. “I don’t want to, though.”

Bjorn stared at him a long moment, still guarded – then his shoulders lifted and slumped on a huge exhale. “Fine.”

“You’ll stay here, then?”

He pointed at Erik with his cup. “So long as you don’t go get yourself killed without me.”

“I’ll endeavor not to.”

~*~

“I’m beginning to think that the real reason you do this is because it’s rather…hypnotically relaxing,” Oliver said, leaning subtly into the strong fingers plaiting fresh braids behind his ears.

The fire crackled; the candle flames, reflected in the uncovered glass of the window, glinted off the array of beads and gems Erik had laid out on the table beside their bench. Oliver had a cup full of strong, hot tea in his hands, and a swarm of nervous butterflies in his stomach. He watched the fire, and breathed the sharp pine scent of the oil Erik was using on his hair. They were set to depart in a few hours, and both of them should have been sleeping; but, lying in the dark, facing one another, each had realized that the other was awake, eyes gleaming in the firelight, and, when Oliver had realized he was trembling, Erik had dragged him out of bed and tackled his hair.

“Hm,” he hummed now. “A benefit to be sure.”

“What sorts of beads are these?” Oliver asked, stealing a sideways glance at them. The lover’s beads he recognized, now, but there were a few new round ones set with rubies.

Erik let a beat pass; plucked a bead off the table and secured the end of a braid with it. “Before – before Rune woke up – you were asking me about a title.” He sounded almost nervous, Oliver thought, with an inward grin – one that faded quickly as his own nerves fluttered up into his throat.

He said, “I was.”

Erik finished securing the braid, but didn’t move on to the next. Let his hands fall instead to Oliver’s shoulders, squeezing lightly. “It’s not unheard of, in the North,” he said, voice low, “for a lord to take a consort instead of a wife.”

“But it isn’t common.”

Another squeeze. “That doesn’t matter. There is nothing common about you, and for that I am grateful.”

Oh. Oliver’s next breath ached.

“If times were different,” Erik continued doggedly on, “I would have done things more slowly. I don’t want to rush you, or force you, or - or–”

Oliver leaned back, on sudden impulse, so that his back was flush with Erik’s strong chest. He turned his head, catching a glimpse of one shocked, wide blue eye. That sight, Erik’s plain surprise in the glow of candlelight, his seemingly-constant expectation that Oliver might not want him somehow, send warm fondness rippling through him. And a deep, all-too-familiar sadness: a sadness he’d felt himself, his whole life, since he was old enough to understand his lack of worth – to his family, to his duchy, to the weight his legitimate cousins carried.

“You,” he said, completely unable to keep that warm fondness from his voice, “are so incredibly sweet.”

He felt the subtle jump of Erik’s body against his own. “That’s…not something I get accused of.”

Oliver chuckled – and when he did, Erik’s arms slid around his waist, holding him close and tight. “I think,” Oliver said, “that, for the most part, I’ve made it plain that I don’t give a fig about normal. I will admit that…” Here, courage failed him. He swallowed. Erik’s hand settled over the thumping pulse in his chest, silent encouragement. “I tend not to expect good things to happen. I never thought that…” Oh, this was hard to say. There were words he wouldn’t allow himself to think: words like love. It was too soon, too big, too impossible.

He cleared his throat. “What matters, I think – the only thing that matters – is if you want to declare me your consort.”

Erik took an unsteady breath. His voice had a suppressed quality, when he spoke, as if he were forcibly holding himself in check. “I wouldn’t announce something like that if I thought – if I thought you didn’t want to stay. I don’t wish – wish to bind you to me, if it isn’t what you want.”

It was so easy, here like this, to picture the boy he’d been, once. Uncertain, but trying his hardest; full of love and loyalty, but of doubt, too. He’d dedicated all his energy to becoming a good king, so afraid, all the while, that he might not deserve love; the personal, unwavering devotion of a lover.

Oliver twisted, so he was all but lying on top of him, and hooked an arm around his strong neck. “Do you think that I have ever, for a second, wanted anyone the way I want you?”

At another time, Oliver would have laughed. Erik looked like he’d been struck over the head.

“Where else would I go? Where else would I want to be, but at your side?”

Erik’s throat moved as he swallowed. His eyes glowed like gems in the low light. “The beads…they’re those of a royal Aeretollean spouse. For a consort.”

“Then put them in my hair, you silly king.”

Erik stared at him a long moment. Then, expression resolute, urged him to sit back up. Ran fingers through his hair, and started a new braid, this one before his ear. At the end of it – all that pleasant pressure on his scalp – he fasted it with one of the round, ruby-studded beads. And then he caught Oliver by the jaw and gently dragged him around to kiss him. Deeply. Thoroughly.

Oliver scrambled into his lap, grinning. “Consort, huh?”

Erik’s smile was grim. “You may regret that, once we get to the festival.”

Oliver leaned down to kiss him again, just as deeply, just as thoroughly. When he pulled back: “Don’t question my commitment, darling.”

Erik growled against his mouth; gripped him around the waist and laid him back against the bench. Pushed up his tunic to get to skin.

“What about my hair?” Oliver protested, choking back a laugh – and then a groan as Erik’s mouth landed on his bared stomach.

“It can wait; this won’t take long.”

“No exactly something to brag abou– oh.”

Later, hair neatly braided, dressed warmly and richly in crimson, blue, and black, and silver, as befitted a royal consort of Aeretoll, Oliver stepped out of the stable doors, beneath a clear, star-studded sky ready to give ground to a bright dawn. Tessa approached, bundled up in a heavy cloak, and he walked out to meet her.

“It’s freezing out here,” Oliver chided. Behind him, the reindeer and horses stamped and snorted in the chill, impatient to be off as the last minute preparations were made. Torches crackled, and lords and ladies and servants bustled about the stable yard, mounting, checking bits of harness; ladies climbed into sleighs and snuggled up beneath furs and lap blankets. It was a merry sort of pandemonium – made all the more cheerful by Erik’s earlier announcement that Rune seemed to be out of the woods and on the mend. A cheer had gone up, and Erik’s smile had been unusually brilliant. “You should have stayed inside.”

“I wanted to see you off,” she insisted. It would take days of rest to wipe the exhaustion from her face, but she looked lighter, buoyed by deep relief. In a quieter voice, gaze cutting to the side: “To you and Leif.”

“Ah.” Oliver glanced, too, and found the prince checking his saddlebags, hair golden even under torchlight, braided intricately and heavily beaded this morning. “How’s that going?”

Tessa shrugged, and for a moment looked something like defeated. “I honestly have no idea.” She offered a wan smile. “It’s poor timing, his leaving, before there’s even an official contract. But I suppose absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Or, Oliver thought, allowed the heart to settle fully on the prince who was still upstairs, healing in his sick bed. He smiled back. “I suppose.”

She gave a small shake of her head. “Look at you, though.” She ran her fingertips down the black wolf fur of his cloak, where it was secured with a silver stag pin at his shoulder. “Don’t you look every inch the prince.”

“King’s consort, actually.” Despite an attempt to sound dry, he heard a shocking note of pride in his voice.

She laughed. “I wish Amelia and Mother could see you like this.”

“Your mother,” he said, stomach giving an unpleasant lurch, “is going to throttle me when she learns that I brought you up here to marry the king and I wound up in his bed instead.”

She winced. “She might find that out sooner than you think. My last letter…”

He groaned.

“Well, anyway, an alliance is an alliance, right?”

“Go wish Leif a fond farewell while I contemplate my imminent murder.” He caught her before she could walk away, though; reeled her into a fast, tight hug, and kissed her cheek. “Be careful, cousin. We have friends, here, but we have enemies, too.”

“I know.” She kissed him back, and offered a brave smile when she withdrew. “Try not to infuriate all the clan lords. Or get eaten by a bear.”

“I’m honestly less worried about the bears.”

“You can’t talk your way out of being eaten, though.”

“No, that’s true.”

~*~

Leif looked lovely this morning, sapphires and rubies glinting in his hair – but, then, he always looked lovely. He also looked as though something still weighed on his mind. He’d smiled all the previous evening in Rune’s chamber, while his brother demanded solid food, but now, brows drawn together, mouth set in a flat line, he seemed troubled, and Tessa thought she knew him well enough by now to determine that it wasn’t simply fatigue.

“Leif?”

He smiled when she approached, but his brow did not clear. He dropped the leather flap of a saddlebag and turned to face her fully, one hand resting on his horse’s shoulder. “Bit cold for a morning walk.”

He didn’t expect me, she thought, a little saddened that she’d done so poor a job in creating expectations. “I came to wish you and Ollie safe travels.”

“Oh. Well. That was kind of you.”

As they’d sat vigil over Rune, worry had pulled down his defenses; had beaten down his usual, stiff veneer of manners, but that shield was back in full-force now. Forget stiff manners: he was actively guarded.

She took a breath. “Leif–”

“Tessa–”

They both halted.

A small grin plucked at his mouth. “You go ahead.”

“No. You first.”

He nodded, chest lifting with his next inhale. “I wanted to say that I know we don’t have a real marriage contract yet. Whatever’s been said, nothing’s official.”

“Leif.”

“I won’t hold you to anything, is what I’m saying. When I return, if you still want to pursue an engagement, then we will. But while I’m gone…” He didn’t finish, and she was more than a little ashamed of the way her thoughts dashed straight to Rune.

It was if he knew, the way his smile widened, his face all the sadder for it. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“But I will. That’s why I’m here. We’re to be married.”

He nodded. “And we will be, if you still want us to be. When I return.” He leaned down – her heart fluttering at the thought – and kissed her. On the cheek. Only a quick brush. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Yes, of course.” Her eyes were stinging, stupidly, and she blinked the threat of tears away. I’m a failure, she thought. Unappealing to the king for whom she’d been intended, unable to love Leif in the way that she should, in the way that he deserved.

“Will you look out for Mother and Rune?”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely.”

He touched her cheek, briefly, with gloved fingertips, and then stepped back with a last, bittersweet smile, and swung lightly up into the saddle.

I’m sorry, Tessa wanted to say. And then she wanted to laugh, because, of the two of them, Amelia had always been the Drake sister who struggled to do as told; who bucked beneath the weight of expectation. Perhaps, Tessa thought, there is more of my sister in me than I thought.

~*~

Oliver’s mount was the same one he’d had on the night they’d gone hunting for Tessa and the boys in the dark. The large, heavy-bodied draft cross rolled one eye toward him, skeptical. Laden with saddlebags, bridle chased with silver, the beast had the look of a living war machine about him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Oliver muttered. “I’m lighter than some you could be carrying.”

“Want a boost?” Magnus asked, over his shoulder.

“No.” Oliver sighed as he glanced across the ever-more-crowded stable yard; lords were mounting in greater numbers, their horses all bearing silver tack and caparisons bearing each family’s heraldry.

Oliver’s horse bore a stag on one side and a wolf on their other, stitched with silver thread on a crimson background. The king’s arms.

“No,” he repeated, reaching for the pommel and just managing to hook a toe in the stirrup. “If I’m going to prove myself a worthy choice, I might as well start now.” He swung aboard with only a little flailing, cheeks heating as he gathered his reins, afterward.

Magnus chuckled. “Right you are.” And went off to his own horse.

Leif maneuvered his horse in closer, and swung around so he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Oliver.

“Did you get to speak with Tessa?” Oliver asked, aiming for innocent.

Leif hummed, gazing across the snowy stable yard, toward the path that led back to the palace. “I don’t think she’s going to marry me.”

“Well, certainly not now. We’re leaving.”

Leif shook his head.

Before Oliver could offer any lackluster reassurances – he knew his cousin couldn’t control her preference, no more than Oliver could control his – a horn sounded. One short, sharp blow that captured everyone’s attention and silenced all the many conversations swirling around them.

Erik stood on the ground, holding his horse by the reins, Birger beside him with the horn, and even so, below most people’s eye level at this point, the king commanded the moment.

“Good morning,” he said, voice projected, bouncing off the stone façade of the stable and echoing richly across the snow. “It is an honor, on this day, to depart from home in such company.”

A cheer went up.

Erik said, “We go forward as one people to represent the nation of Aeretoll in the land of our forefathers. We take with us our eagerness to trade, to cooperate, to ally ourselves with all who would call us friends.”

They were ritualistic, prepared words; Erik doubtless said much the same every year, before the party departed on the journey. But Oliver was still filled with pride to hear the commanding ring of his voice, to see the way ever eye stayed fixed on him; to see that regal bearing, an early breeze toying with the braids in his hair.

“Let us go now,” Erik continued, “with the blessing of the gods, and the love of our families. Will you join me, Lords and Ladies of Aeretoll, on our journey to the ancient seat of Northern power?”

A resounding yes from the crowd, followed my more cheers. Erik swung up onto his horse, the swirl of his cloak a study in warrior grace, and the whole caravan came to life with the jangle of harness and bells, the champing of bits, the snorts of excited animals.

Oliver tightened his hands on his reins. Here we go.

They were off.

4

The Duchy of Drakewell

Aquitainia

Another long day scouting, the Strangers keeping just ahead of them: snapped twigs, bird calls made by human throats. Another day of finding strange signs that had nothing to do with outlaw woodsmen in brown cloaks. It was not unusual to stumble across a tangle of bones, part of a carcass, evidence of a kill. Rabbits caught by foxes; fawns and woodchucks brought down by coyotes. The Strangers shot and butchered wood deer; they took the meat, the hide, the best organs, the antlers and bones, and left only offal.

The deer they’d found today – what scraps remained – hadn’t been any sort of Stranger kill. The head and antlers had been left, a few cracked bits of bone. And there had been marks…singe marks, it had looked like.

They’d talked to a farmer and his wife who lived on the Fringes, and gotten only shifty looks and hesitations when asked if they’d seen any mutilated animals.

Amelia’s party returned to the mansion after sunset, again. She hadn’t spoken to her mother since the night she’d stormed out of the dining room, and so she’d grabbed a hunk of bread and cheese from the kitchen on her way through, and gone straight up to her room to wash off the road dust.

After which, Malcolm had joined her.

They both fell asleep, sated, tired, but troubled by the day’s findings. Malcolm would leave at first light, would slip away, like he always did. Amelia drifted off with her head resting on his bare chest, content that this, at least, was a place of safety.

A loud drumming on the door woke them.

Amelia opened her eyes, her vision flooded with bright sunlight, and immediately knew that something was terribly wrong.

It was morning, and she still lay naked and tangled with Malcolm.

The drumming repeated. “Amelia,” Katherine called through the door.

“Shit.” Amelia bolted upright, flailing for the bedclothes, shoving her hair off her face. She tried to blink the grit from her eyes and glanced wildly around the room. Clothes in a heap on the rug. Two cups and the flask of wine Malcolm had brought with him on the dressing table. The curtains half-pulled, daylight pouring into the room, highlighting all the damning evidence that two people had spent the night here.

And most damning of all: Malcolm, blinking awake and frowning blearily up at her.

“Wha…s the matter?” he asked, voice hoarse from sleep.

“It’s morning,” she hissed.

“Amelia?” Katherine called through again.

There came the soft scrape and click of a key turning in a lock.

“No!” She whipped around, scrambling up on her knees and dragging the covers around in a clumsy attempt to hide Malcolm, though he was twice her size and unmistakeable against the white linen. “Mother, don’t–”

The door swung open. Katherine stepped through, brow crimped with displeasure – and then she froze.

In a rare display of shock, her mouth dropped open.

Silence reigned, save the rustle of sheets as Malcolm sat up.

Slowly, Amelia sat down, legs tucked beneath her. There was no hiding it. Now, she could only face the explosion sure to come.

She said, “Mother.”

Katherine’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. Even now, without highborn witnesses, she didn’t scowl. Her face went white; a muscle leaped in her jaw. She stepped farther into the room, and – without slamming it – closed the door behind her.

Amelia took a breath, and lifted her chin; judging by the way her eyes narrowed, Katherine took it as a challenge. There were so many girlish, defensive things that Amelia could say: I’m sorry; I didn’t mean for it to happen; I can explain. None of those were true; all of them were cowardly.

She said, “Before you accuse me of being a slut, I want to tell you that I love him, and I don’t care about anyone’s approval, not even yours.”

Malcolm sucked in a breath behind her. “Lia,” he cautioned, softly.

Katherine took three quick steps across the carpet, fingers flexing claw-like at her sides. “What was that, Mr. Brown? Speak up: I can’t hear you.” Her voice cracked, each word snapping like the fall of a whip.

More sheet rustling. “Nothing – my apologies, my lady. I’ll–” The mattress dipped as he attempted to get up, but he stopped, and the sheet tugged slightly against Amelia’s thighs. He couldn’t get up and drag it with him, not without leaving her exposed, and he clearly didn’t want to expose himself.

It might have been funny if her marble-faced mother hadn’t been trying to stare her out of existence.

Katherine, “You might as well get up. In fact, do get up. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Malcolm hesitated a moment, then slipped out of bed.

Amelia didn’t turn to watch him, but she heard his bare footfalls hurry across the carpet toward last night’s abandoned clothes.

Katherine closed the last distance between them, reached out – Amelia tensed all over, braced for a slap – and took Amelia’s chin in her hand, her touch gentle even if she bristled with fury. “Can you even begin to comprehend how stupid you’re being?”

“What will you do? Disown me? Lock me in my room?”

In her periphery, she saw Malcolm pull on his boots and then edge closer to them, his jaw set.

Katherine’s eyes blazed. “Your whole life you’ve been obsessed with ruining yourself.”

“My lady.” Malcolm stepped closer, and unlike the duchess, he was scowling. His hands weren’t claws, but fists.

“Mal, no,” Amelia said, and Katherine’s head whipped toward him.

Somehow, her face paled further. Her hand fell away from Amelia’s face.

“Mal.”

His gaze shifted toward her, then back to her mother. He drew himself up to his full height, and in that moment, backlit by the sun, his tangled hair and scruffy jaw did nothing to lessen the aura of power around him. He was a commoner, and not a noble, like them, but that was only a long-standing fiction that made nobles seem untouchable. He was a man – her man, strong and capable and loyal, title or no.

“I want to say,” he said, voice hard-edged, “that Amelia is respected by her men, and the people of Drakewell, and she’s never done anything to ruin herself. I have overreached. If you want to punish someone, punish me.” He gave a quick bow. “My lady.” And took his leave.

Katherine was shaking.

“He wasn’t going to hurt you,” Amelia said, as her mother turned slowly back to face her. “And he doesn’t deserve censure, not for any of this. He didn’t force me; didn’t seduce me. Be angry with me, Mother, and leave him alone.”

Katherine stared at her…and then turned away from her. Took a few unsteady steps and then all but collapsed down onto the tufted bench in front of Amelia’s dressing table. To Amelia’s shock, her expression crumpled, and she bent forward at the waist, and put her face in her hands. Sunlight glinted off the diamonds in her ring – her wedding ring. Her shoulders shook, and her breath rasped between her fingers.

Amelia had seen her like this only once before – the day the runner brought the news of Father’s and John’s deaths on the battlefield. In the weeks after, if she’d grieved, she’d grieved in private.

But Amelia knew, looking at her own sometimes-stern countenance in the mirror, what it looked like to lock things away inside you; to let them prick, and poke, and bruise you up behind the ribs until they finally forced their way painfully out. She’d known Katherine was holding too much in; could feel her own thorny insides lancing at her now.

She felt guilty – but she wouldn’t choose to take back all that she’d just said. So she sat, silent, a lump forming in her throat.

Katherine lifted her head, finally, and wiped at her wet cheeks. Sniffed. Her face was no longer marble: was blotched red, and mobile with usually-checked emotion.

“Mother,” Amelia began, hesitant.

Katherine shook her head. Voice tear-choked, she said, “I know that I’m a villain. Your father and brother die, and I immediately send your sister off to be ravished by barbarians, and I start demanding that you marry that worthless fop L’Espoir.” She shuddered, and took a deep, tremulous breath, shoulders sagging afterward.

“Mother–”

But Katherine wasn’t done. Once those close-kept emotions slipped between your rib bones, they just kept slipping. “It’s true, you know: that I didn’t love your father at first. It was all arranged – I didn’t meet him until the day before the wedding. It helped that he was handsome, yes, that red hair – your sister’s hair.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and she dashed at them with the backs of shaking hands.

Amelia swallowed with difficulty. “John and Oliver, too,” she said, quietly. Her own hair was dark, rather than the gem-bright auburn of her siblings and cousin.

Katherine nodded, and said, “I was terrified. I had not been courted, had not fallen in love – not with him. There was a boy…but that didn’t matter. I did my duty.” She bit her lip. “And I did grow to love him. He was gentle, and generous, and he laughed all the time. He was easy to love.”

Her watery gaze lifted and locked with Amelia’s. “You are stronger than me – you have never hesitated to say and do exactly what you need to. Your father was very proud of you. I want you to know that.”

Amelia blinked against the sudden stinging in her eyes.

Katherine sniffed, and regained some of her composure. “Like it or not, we are highborn. If I thought it was possible – if times were different – I would send you off to marry your guardsman with good luck wishes. You are a brave girl, Lia, and I know you would be as happy in a crofter’s cottage as in this mansion.

“But there is bravery in sacrifice, too. In preserving the good family name. When the Sels come, you cannot protect this house, this duchy, without an army behind you. You cannot lead the defense of Drakewell from a cottage.”

Amelia glanced away, toward the window, its diamond panes swimming as her eyes filled. “I know,” she whispered, and she did. Like it or not, rebel against the tradition or not, she could not forge alliances with strong, helpful forces as the disinherited wife of a commoner. Only Lady Amelia, Marchioness of Drakewell could defend her homeland.

Amelia Brown, wife of Malcolm, could not.

Katherine sighed. “I can’t believe I’m suggesting this…but the peerage turns a blind eye to adultery. If you marry smartly, and secure an army, no one will notice if your true affections lie elsewhere.”

Amelia could taste the bitterness of her smile. She wiped her eyes. “That’s what Malcolm says.”

“Well. Then. He’s only impertinent, and not an idiot.”

Amelia turned back to her, and they regarded one another, both their faces wet.

Amelia laughed first, and then Katherine let out a rusty chuckle.

“Gods,” Amelia breathed, cutting herself off before a laugh could become a sob. “Must I marry at all? Isn’t Tessa supposed to be bringing us the Great Northern Phalanx?”

Katherine stood and pulled a crumpled bit of parchment from her belt. “That was actually why I came to talk to you – though, in hindsight, I should have waited until you came down to breakfast.” She shot her a pointed look, and Amelia pulled the sheet tighter around her breasts, feeling properly chastened for the first time.

“According to Tessa’s latest letter,” Katherine said, unfolding the parchment, “the king was to set out for the Midwinter Festival this morning – with Oliver now installed officially as consort, apparently.” She shook her head. “I could box his ears, the bloody, contrary fool. A king. A king. Talk of impertinent – I send him to work out a marriage contract and he tumbles the king? The gall of him.”

“Mother, I think this morning has firmly established that we can’t help who we fall in love with,” Amelia said, dryly.

Katherine let out a slow breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Gods above, I shall have to explain this to people. Lady Matilda is going to laugh in my face.”

“What of Tessa herself?”

“Staying behind in Aeretoll. This festival trip could take weeks, she says, and the king’s heir is going to accompany. Which leaves Tessa moldering in a cold castle awaiting his return – if he returns! Have you heard the stories? Wild Northmen eating raw meat and wrestling naked in the snow. Bashing each other over the head. The king and prince might both be killed at this thing, and then what good will any of it have been?”

“Isn’t there a second prince? The one who was injured?”

Katherine waved the parchment in a rare show of exasperation. “Yes. On the mend, apparently. She’s going to ‘watch over him’ while the king and the brother are away.”

Amelia felt a smile threaten for the first time this morning. “Well, maybe she can marry that one.”

Katherine gave her a flat look. “If they fall into bed together, I suppose they’ve at least both got titles, hm?”

Amelia chuckled. “There’s the spirit.”

5

Silfr Hall

The Kingdom of Aeretoll

Oliver pushed back his snow-soaked hood and stared at the ceiling above. Its barreled curve was inlaid with silver – with so much silver. Delicate inlays of precious metal gleamed in the glow of many cressets; the light chased along hunt scenes, and battle scenes, and depictions of the gods, all outlined in silver that glowed almost-white against the dark stone.

It had been a long, cold day of riding; Oliver was wet, and his fingers ached with cold; he was saddle-sore, and had passed through the double doors of Silfr Hall’s vestibule thinking only of a roaring fire and a hot bowl of soup. But he stopped here, astounded with the craftsmanship on display overhead. “Oh,” he breathed, the words turning to vapor in the cold of the entryway.

Warm breath tickled his ear, and Erik’s amused voice said, “It’s called Silfr Hall for a reason.”

“I can see that now.” When Oliver turned his head, his face overlapped Erik’s, his eyes close and blue. Oliver thought, for a minute, that he would be kissed, right here as the party streamed into the castle around them.

But Erik said, “Your nose is red,” and pulled back, grinning, before he turned to say something to Leif.

“From your frozen bloody countryside,” Oliver muttered, unable to resist rubbing at the tip of his nose in hopes of warming it.

Lord Kjaran, a stout, appropriately silver-haired Northern duke with his beard in beaded plaits, stood in the center of the vestibule, and flung his arms wide. “Welcome, friends!” he boomed, voice echoing off the curved ceiling. “Welcome, Your Majesty! Welcome, everyone, to Silfr Hall.”

Servants came forward to collect cloaks and offer towels for those with wet hair or beards. Oliver scrubbed at the top of his head, still gazing up at the ceiling.

Beside him, Birger said, “The way Kjaran’s family tells it, that took six months to complete. The silver had to be heated, flattened, and then pressed into place by craftsmen wearing mail gauntlets while it was still soft. A few lost eyes from the drips,” he informed, cheerfully.

Oliver whistled. “I don’t doubt it. How long ago was this?”

“Oh, at least eighty years. It’s taken a century to decorate this hold.”

“There’s more?”

Birger chuckled. “Wait until you see it.”

On his other side, strong fingers hooked his sleeve. Erik said, quietly, “Ollie, come.” It was the first time he’d used the nickname in front of others, and Oliver would have gladly walked off the edge of a cliff with him, shivering pleasantly. As it was, he stepped up beside the king and let himself be towed up to their host, Lord Kjaran.

His lady wife, Helga, stood to one side of him; on the other, an attendant with a silver-chased wooden box on a velvet cushion with silver tassels.

Oliver privately wondered if he would be sick of silver by the time they left here.

Lord Kjaran bowed to Erik – to Oliver, too, indirectly, because they stood side-by-side. It was a surreal moment, one that left Oliver gripping Erik’s tunic. Erik’s hand settled at the small of his back, a stabilizing touch, and Oliver thought he must know what was going through his mind.

Lady Helga curtsied and said, “Your Majesty.” Her gaze touched briefly on Oliver, and, with a second curtsy, she said, “Your Lordship.”

Oliver’s grip tightened and twisted on the velvet of Erik’s tunic.

“Welcome to our home,” she continued. “We offer the warmth of our hearth, and the bread of our table.”

At a cue from Kjaran, the attendant opened the box’s lid, and offered it forward. Inside, on a bed of velvet, rested two rings. Men’s rings, obviously, heavy circles of gleaming silver, inlaid with rubies and sapphires, one slightly grander than the other, with a winking diamond at its center.

“I thank you for your hospitality, my lord, my lady,” Erik said, bowing his head in thanks. He took the rings, one in each hand, and then, to Oliver’s shock, offered the smaller one to him.

Oliver blinked at it, still reeling from Your Lordship. From Ollie.

Erik’s look was fondly patient. “This one’s yours.”

“Mine?”

His hand had gone suddenly lax on Erik’s tunic. Erik picked it up, and slipped the jeweled ring onto his index finger. “Yes. Yours.”

Oliver stared at it. He tilted his hand so the light glinted off the gemstones, bright, flirtatious winks like sparks. “I…” Erik’s hand settled at his back again. “Thank you,” he managed to choke out, finally. “My lord. My lady.”

Helga beamed.

Kjaran said, “Come get out of the cold. My people will have already prepared for your coming.”

Erik’s hand steering him forward, warm and grounding even through his layers of clothes, Oliver followed their hosts out of the vestibule and into a great hall that was even more stunning.

The high, vaulted ceiling was held up by a double line of square-cut columns, each inlaid with long ribbons and runes of silver that flickered and gleamed in the light of the cressets mounted to each. Low, wide fireplaces with silver mantelpieces marked both sides of the long room, benches before them already being filled by cold, tired travelers. A single line of trestles down the center of the room held platters, and cups, and decanters, all of it silver or silver-chased, the food steaming, its rich scent filling the air. A third hearth waited at the end of the room, the banners mounted above all of silver inlay, rather than woven cloth.

A smaller, round table had been set in front of it, circled by chairs rather than benches. Lord Kjaran invited them to be seated with a wave. Still a little dazed, attention caught between the silver on the walls and the new, jewel-set silver on his hand, Oliver found himself in a high-backed chair, between Erik and Birger. A goblet of wine landed in front of him, and he picked it up immediately, gratified to find that it was mulled and steaming.

After his first sip, he glanced around to see that Magnus and their other guards were nowhere to be seen – and that there wasn’t room for them at this table, anyway. As their host and hostess took their seats, the last two chairs were filled by a strapping young man and a girl Tessa’s age: Kjaran’s children, judging by the family resemblance. It made sense, he supposed, that guards wouldn’t dine at the high table – but it stood in contrast to Oliver’s first night in the North, in the private family dining room at Aeres.

“A good day’s travel, was it not?” Lady Helga said, and Oliver snapped back to the moment at hand.

He was a consort; he had to comport himself appropriately.

“We made good time,” Erik agreed, reaching for his own cup.

“A good snow pack makes for quick travel,” Birger said. “The deer seemed to have an easy go of it.”

“Horses, too,” Leif put in.

Servants bearing laden trays arrived, and bowls of soup, platters of roast fowl and potatoes were handed around. The conversation turned to small talk, inquiries about health, and harvest, and local gossip. Oliver ate his soup, content to sit and let the fire, and the press of his lover’s shoulder against his own, warm him through, and thaw him out.

He reached for his cup, and the ring on his hand captured his attention again. His ring, he supposed. A gift from their hosts – the only gift given out save the matching ring they’d given to Erik.

Aside from the gemmed beads in his hair, Oliver had never owned anything so costly in his life. Much as he’d loved his horse back in Drakewell, he knew that she had been a bit of a runt, and deemed too flighty for hunting; if Uncle William hadn’t given her to him, she would have been sold off.

And now here he was: owning jewels. Being given them on a bed of velvet.

Belatedly, he realized someone was speaking to him. He snatched his head up, feeling caught-out, and saw that Lady Helga was smiling at him. “I’m sorry?” he said.

“Your ring,” she said, nodding. “I said I hope it suits. Do you like it?”

Consort, he reminded himself. Act like you’ve earned that, and aren’t a stumbling fool. “Yes, of course, my lady,” he said. He picked up his cup and offered her a polite smile. “The craftsmanship is very fine.”

She beamed, settling back in her chair with a glad wriggle. “We provide all the finest silver for the kingdom – take those beads in your hair, your lordship: those were crafted right here at Silfr Hall.”

“My compliments. Do you mine the gems as well?”

“Nay, those come from other keeps,” Kjaran put in.”

“The sapphires and rubies came from Ulf Holm,” Helga said.

“The diamond” – Kjaran gestured to Erik’s hand, where it rested on the table, the diamond at the center of his new ring rippling along its facets with candlelight – “from the Fault Lands.” His tone grew serious on the last, pricking Oliver’s interest.

“The Fault Lands,” he said. “Isn’t that where Lord Náli is from?”

Kjaran’s expression closed off between blinks. “Aye.”

Beside him, his wife’s lips pressed to a thin line.

Oliver felt himself frowning. His initial impression of Náli had been that of a spoiled, cocky youth who needed taken down a peg or two. But reaction to him amongst the lords and ladies of Aeretoll seemed to paint a more sinister picture.

“The Fault Lands,” Erik explained, are a stretch of ice tundra around a fire mountain. The cold, and the heat, and the pressure all combined produce the kingdom’s largest, purest diamonds.” He tilted his hand, flashing his own.

“Clearly. But. Why do I get the impression that Lord Náli is…” He started to say disliked, but that wasn’t right. The shiftiness in the lord and lady’s gazes; the remembered uncertainty at the edges of the crowd during the Yuletide Feast sparring matches; the fact that Náli had been one of the lords present at Ormr’s execution, when he was so young compared to the others. Oliver changed tacks: “Why is he called the Corpse Lord?”

There was shifting in seats; quick glances traded.

“What?”

In a careful voice, Birger said, “The Corpse Lords of the Fault Lands have always possessed certain – sensitivities.”

Oliver turned to him, brows lifted in an invitation to explain. He felt a little like he was getting the run-around, here; that, or else Náli’s sensitives had been deemed too sensitive for discussing openly.

Before he could ask for a better explanation, a sound reached them all. It seemed to shiver down through the silver and stone of the walls; Oliver felt it inside his chest.

The sharp blast of a horn, from somewhere overhead.

A big horn.

A hush fell over the hall.

The horn sounded again, two quick blasts.

Sound erupted all around them: chairs and benches scraping back, people exclaiming, getting to their feet.

Kjaran stood, hands braced on the table, turning toward the young, mailed, steel-capped guard who came trotting across the hall toward their table, spear resting on his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Riders, my lord,” the guard puffed, pulling a clanking, anxious halt. “To the east, headed south. They were hailed, and scattered. Captain Torson thinks they’re still out there.”

The horn sounded again, three blasts this time.

“And to the west as well, it appears,” Kjaran said, stepping around his chair. “Show me.”

“Darling, the snow’s picking up,” Lady Helga said. “Be careful.”

He nodded, and glanced toward Erik – who had stood as well, already bristling with a palpable energy.

“Your Majesty, there’s no need to trouble yourself,” Kjaran said. “My men will handle this.”

Erik, when Oliver glanced up at him, wore a frown that could only be described as kingly. He wanted to go, Oliver could tell; to put himself in harm’s way and seek out answers himself, the brave, stubborn idiot.

“Haldin!” Askr roared somewhere down the length of the main table. “Where’s my axe?”

“I’ll go, Uncle,” Leif said. “With Haldin and his father, and the others. I’ll report back.”

Erik sent his nephew a frustrated look.

“We could go above, Erik,” Birger suggested, “with Lord Kjaran, and see what’s to be seen from there.”

Finally, Erik nodded – much to Oliver’s relief. “Fine. Leif, be careful.”

“Of course.”

He caught his nephew by the arm, before he could leave the table, and Oliver heard him say, in an undertone. “Make sure Náli goes. One way or another, I want information.”

Leif’s expression tightened. “Yes, sir.”

~*~

Up three flights of switchback stairs, the way lit by rippling pitch torches set in sconces, a door opened up to a wall walk that overlooked an expanse of white fields. Oliver drew up beside Erik, peering through a gap in the crenelated roofline, blinking against the onslaught of new snowflakes that blew down from the north, small, and wet, and stinging his cheeks.

Without a moon, visibility was limited to the small puddles of golden light that surrounded the torches scattered before them: some encased in glass on garden light posts, and others, beyond the wall, in the hands of scouts on horseback, as they trotted out across the fresh crust in search of trespassers.

“I sent a team to swing wide, no lights, to try and flush the bastards out.”

Down below, the dancing pinpricks of torchlight fanned out, and continued on, growing smaller and smaller.

Trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible, Oliver said, “Isn’t it possible they’re just travelers in search of shelter? What makes you think it’s some sort of raiding party?”

Kjaran coughed a laugh. “This is the North, lad.”

Erik said, “No native would be out traveling after dark as a snowstorm is setting in. Even if they were travelers, they would have made camp before now.”

Oliver could think of a dozen reasons why someone might refuse to set or abandon camp, despite dark and snow, but he swallowed his protests with a frustrated huff.

Kjaran said, “If they’re lost, we’ll send them on their way. But my money is that they aren’t.”

Far out in the field, one of the torches dropped, suddenly; was doused in the snow.

“Man down!” Kjaran bellowed.

The horn, perched atop a watchtower just behind them, sounded again, two short blasts, one long.

Oliver clapped his hands over his ears, his pulse thumping wildly against his palms.

~*~

Leif’s cloak hadn’t had time to dry yet, but the cold didn’t bother him now. On their travels, the biting cold had been a constant annoyance; he’d dashed at his nose with the back of his hand again and again. He’d been born to this land, and he hadn’t felt close to freezing – not the way Ollie had looked, shivering beneath the weight of two fur hoods – but he’d felt it all the same.

He didn’t feel it now.

Without torches, or even the helpful sheen of moonlight, visibility was low. The ice crust crunched underfoot, seeming too loud in the hush of low clouds and fresh flakes. Leif could see the dark shapes of the men around him, and, a blur of black against a sea of gray, the tree line ahead.

Haldin Askrson said, “I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Shh,” Leif hissed. A glance over his shoulder revealed the castle as a blaze of glowing windows and dancing torches behind them. “As long as we stay within sight of the hall, we can find our way back. Swing that way.” He pointed, for all the good it did.

Off to their left, the main company of household guards were making a lot of noise: hallooing and talking and breathing like a heard of oxen. A fog was rising up off the snow, and it diffused the bright flare of their torches so that it looked, instead, like one solid mass of light moving out toward the forest. If there was anyone out here who shouldn’t have been, they would have been blind and deaf not to clock the main hunting party.

Leif’s party swung right, hurrying as quick as they could through the shin-deep snow. If their quarry fled, they’d never catch up to them – and hopefully they were long gone by now. But if they turned back, if they moved toward the light – Leif intended to cut off their escape.

One of his party pressed in close at his elbow as they walked; the ethereal glow of nearly-white hair told him who.

Náli said, “They’re out there.” His voice, always full of flair and taunt, had gone eerily detached; Leif had heard it do this a few times before, enough to know that it wasn’t merely fog and snow distorting the sound.

“Can you see them?”

“No. One of them is…I can feel him.”

Shit, Leif thought. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“I think…” Náli swayed on his next step, and Leif gripped his arm; the Corpse Lord leaned hard into the support. “I think he’s like me. I think he can talk to the other side. Only…worse.”

A scream.

Leif turned his head just in time to see a torch drop amidst the main party. A collective cry of alarm went up.

“Close ranks!” he heard the captain shout. “Fall in, close ranks, close ranks!” And then, a shout toward them: “Archers!”

“Shit,” Leif said aloud this time. “Get to the trees,” he ordered his men. “We’ll find them and cut them down.”

He took three steps – and collided with Haldin’s back.

“What are you–”

“Look.”

Another scream from the main party. More shouting.

A dozen paces ahead, a gust of wind shifted the mist – and a figure coalesced. Reared up out of the dark, a ghostly impression against the black of the trees.

It was man-shaped, in a vague sense. Leif had the impression of fur, a blurriness to its edges. He couldn’t see a face, for the shadows. But it stood tall on two legs; he glimpsed arms – and, also, two tall, branching antlers that sprouted from the figure’s head.

Leif drew his sword. “Arm yourselves,” he whispered.

More screaming from the main party; the hiss of fresh torches being lit.

At Leif’s side, Náli went down to his knees with a choked-off gasp.

Leif reached for his shoulder with his free hand. “Náli, get up.”

The Corpse Lord resisted, and when he spoke, it was in a low, growling voice that was not his own. Not at all. “This is…the end. You will die. These lands are yours no longer.”

~*~

“Erik, wait!” Oliver caught up with Erik halfway down the wall walk. Erik turned with a swirl of furred cloak, drawn up to his full height, face set at harsh angles. His nostrils flared on every breath. “You can’t go running out there,” Oliver said, his own breath coming in fast, insufficient heaves. “They’ve clearly got archers, and you’ll only be a target.”

“Leif is out there,” Erik said, turning again.

Oliver caught his sleeve, desperation choking him. “How does getting yourself shot help him?”

“I will not leave him to die, Oliver.” He twisted free and stalked toward the door.

No, Oliver thought, wildly. The bloody fool would go charging out with a torch and drawn sword and be pierced with arrows, just like the guardsmen who continued to scream down below.

A party of Kjaran’s own arches went trotting past, responding to their lord’s commands to fall in line and nock arrows. They were too far, though, and nothing could be seen besides the falling torches.

“If you start shooting, you’ll hit our men out there in the dark,” Oliver snapped over his shoulder, and pressed on after Erik. “Erik, you–”

Blue.

A sudden, great flash of blue filled his vision. Blotted out every sight, and sound; left a great rushing like blood in his ears, and a searing pain at his temples. Blue. Fractured with white, faceted like crystal. He felt like he was falling. Felt wind on his face, and he was cold, so cold – but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was an embracing cold; it buoyed instead of biting.

And within that cold, that swallowing sea of blue, there was…a presence. Someone – something – was with him, a new weight settling at the back of his mind. But he wasn’t afraid, strangely. It felt…right, somehow.

Hello, he thought.

A low, rippling growl was his answer.

Something touched his face, shockingly hot. “…Oliver. Oliver.”

The presence slid away.

No, come back.

The light swelled, blue and then white–

Oliver gasped and opened his eyes. He was kneeling on the cold stones of the walkway, both hands clutched over his ears, his face freezing – because it was wet. He blinked and felt fresh tears leak from his eyes and trickle down his cheeks. His throat ached.

The hot touch on his face proved to be Erik’s hands, both of them cupped around his jaw. His gaze was panicked. “Ollie.”

“What?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were screaming.”

“I was?”

Erik tilted his head, peered at each of his eyes in turn. “Are you sick? Are you in pain?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Though he’d returned to the present, Oliver still felt detached; like he was floating caught between the knowledge that he was conscious and actual consciousness. As if he wasn’t firmly rooted in his own body.

“What’s wrong with him?” That was Lord Kjaran’s voice.

Erik ignored him. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

Erik put his hands beneath his arms and lifted him up as if he weighed nothing. Oliver swayed a moment, but found his balance.

“There was light,” he said. “Blue light. It was everywhere. And someone was with me, there.”

“Someone?” Erik’s brows shot up. “Ollie, did you take ice rose?”

“No.” Oliver frowned, insulted. “No, when would I have?” The next moment, the edges of his vision sparkled and crackled-blue-white. The rushing returned to his ears.

“Ollie.”

It was here. That presence, it was right–

Overhead, a rustling. Then a clap, like a gloved hand against a horse’s neck. Cold air whipped through their hair.

Oliver’s vision faded.

Kjaran: “Gods!”

Erik: “What the fuck is that?”

Oliver had tipped forward against Erik’s chest without meaning to – could hear and feel the rapid thunder of his heart against his cheek – and he turned his head. Managed to blink his vision mostly clear – in time to see something pale and large against the roiling dark of the sky before the mist swallowed it. That one glimpse spoke of movement, the thrust of massive wings.

Erik stood again, and dragged Oliver up with him, a supportive arm around his waist. “Kjaran, what was that?”

“I – I don’t–” the lord stuttered. “An owl. We have snow owls here, it must have been.”

“That was no bloody owl,” Erik growled.

“No,” Oliver murmured, swaying toward oblivion again. “It wasn’t.”

~*~

The smothering wash of blue didn’t drag him under again, but Oliver lost a few minutes. He returned to himself fully – total awareness slamming into him hard enough to leave him gasping, light and color and sound all sharpening painfully – as Erik was all but dragging him back down the switchback stairs. His toes skimmed the edge of each stair, Erik’s strong arm locked around his waist.

“Wait,” he said, when he could.

“What?” Erik asked, still moving.

They reached a landing, and Oliver gripped the front of Erik’s tunic. “Wait,” he repeated.

Erik stopped, let his feet touch the floor, and shifted around so they faced one another, arm still fastened around him, in case he – swooned again, or whatever it was he’d done.

“It’s all right,” Oliver said. “I’m – back.”

Erik’s gaze was sharp enough to cut. “Back from what?”

Oliver fought not to scowl in response. “When I was sick, when my marsh fever flared – when I was in the ice bath, there was this…blue light. All I could see was blue. And there was…I wasn’t alone. There was something there. Something that growled.”

Erik’s brow furrowed. “You had a fever. We’d given you ice rose. It was a–”

“Hallucination? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Only, just now, I wasn’t fevered, and I hadn’t had any ice rose. I hadn’t,” he added, at Erik’s look. “I’ve been with you since before sunup; have I acted high in all that time? No,” he said, when Erik began to answer, “I haven’t. And then there was that animal. The thing that flew overhead.”

Erik’s jaw clenched. “Kjaran says it was an owl.”

“Bollocks that was an owl.”

They regarded one another.

“Yeah,” Erik said.

Sounds of a commotion floated up from downstairs.

Footsteps and huffed breaths moved down the stairs from above, toward them. “They’re bringing in the wounded,” Kjaran said.

“Let’s go see, then,” Erik said, grimly.

This time, Oliver walked beside him of his own volition.

They reached the great hall just as a snow-crusted, torch-bearing party hustled in from a side hallway. Three men were being toted at head and feet, slung between two of their comrades.

Oliver smelled blood.

“Uncle!” Leif pushed through the crowd and came to meet them, mercifully whole, if wind-chapped, sword held in one hand – its blade dark with blood.

Lord Náli walked beside him, pale and unsteady, by contrast.

“What happened?” Erik demanded.

Leif shook his head. “The archers were in the trees. They got two. But…”

Two more bodies were carried past – bodies, because they were obviously dead, and their wounds were large and gaping. Not made by any arrow. They looked jagged, as though made by claws.

Leif said, “We slew the archers. But there was…something else.”

All of Oliver’s nerves plucked tight. “Was it flying?”

Leif’s frown looked remarkably like his uncle’s. “Flying? No. This was a man. At least, I think it was a man. But he had” – he gestured above his own head with his free hand – “antlers.”

“Antlers,” Erik repeated, flatly.

“It killed two of the men in my party, whatever it was. I got a good slice in, but it took off. Náli” – he clapped his hand down on the Corpse Lord’s shoulder – “is going to see if he can learn anything.”

~*~

A table was hastily set up in a storage room. Casks and crates and baskets lined the walls, a silent audience, as two servants laid a corpse out on the table. The blood had only just stopped flowing, still wet and crimson across the man’s chest and belly; skin, bone, and viscera showed in gleaming crescents through rent fur, and wool, and lawn, and flesh. Even freshly dead, there was a smell: blood, and fear, and voided bowels.

Oliver drew the collar of his tunic up over his nose and mouth.

Erik moved to stand at one side of the table, fingertips pressed to the edge. He said, “Do it.”

On the other side, pale hair damp and dark with melting snow, Náli nodded, and fished inside his leather coat. He withdrew a shallow, silver bowl no larger than his palm, and a bone-handled knife, its ivory gleaming faintly in the light of the candelabra Leif held.

The door closed, as the servants who’d borne the body left; it was only the four of them, now. Oliver realized what was about to happen – stomach rolling – right before Náli reached with one bare hand into the dead man’s cut-open stomach and gripped a fistful of blood and viscera.

Oliver swallowed a distressed sound; watched, helpless, as the young lord placed the handful in the bowl, and then nicked his own finger with the knife, and added three drops of his own blood to the mixture. He wiped his hands clean on a bit of towel one of the servants had left. Licked the slice on his finger until it had stopped bleeding.

“Náli,” Erik pressed, sternly, lip curled in revulsion.

“Sorry.” Náli reached again into his coat, and came out with a diamond the size of a robin’s egg swinging from a length of silver chain. “Let’s see…”

He held the bowl in one hand, over the dead man’s chest, and with the other he dangled the diamond down on its chain; began slowly to swing it in small circles. He stared at the movement, pupils expanding until his eyes were black pools edged in bloodshot white; his young face went slack, and lined, so that he looked timeless, some ancient frozen in a teenager’s body.

The diamond circled faster, faster, faster – then stopped. Pointed straight down at the bowl of blood, vibrating faintly.

Náli’s eyes closed. He let out a slow, hissing breath through his lips. When his eyes opened, they were a solid, milky white. When he spoke, it was not with his own voice.

“Where – what – gods.” His face crimped, brows furrowing, teeth bared in a rictus of terror. “What is it? What is that?”

The candle flames wavered as Leif took a huge breath and let it out in a rush.

Erik said. “Hey. Hey. Guard, what’s your name?”

Náli blinked, and turned his head, though his eyes remained milk-white, sightless. His lips quivered, and the stranger’s voice said, “I can’t – I can’t see.”

“Guard,” Erik said, more firmly. “It’s all right. My name is Erik, and I need to know yours.”

“Erik…Erik…not the king? Not King Erik?” It was unnerving to watch someone else’s voice and nervousness coming from Náli, but Oliver couldn’t look away. He’d never seen anything like this. “Your Majesty–”

“No need for all that,” Erik cut in. “What did you see? Out in the snow? What hurt you?”

“I – I don’t–” Náli – or whoever possessed him now – breathed in quick, open-mouthed pants, chest heaving. “It wasn’t…Your Majesty, he had – he had horns! But it was a man, I swear!”

“A man, you’re sure? It wasn’t a stag?”

“No – no, it was a man. He had a man’s face, under the – under the antlers. He was – gods, he was terrible. He had no expression. I saw his eyes – they were so blue, and not natural blue, neither.”

Oliver swallowed, memory flashing with that exact, unearthly color, brighter and more vivid than any sapphire.

“He reached toward me,” not-Náli continued. “And he…” Náli’s face creased with pain. Both hands twitched, the diamond trembling on its chain, and Oliver thought it an aborted attempted to clutch at his midsection, where the wounds had been inflicted upon the dead man. “He reached for me.”

“With a sword, a knife?” Erik asked.

“No.” The white eyes closed. A trembling breath was drawn through flared nostrils. “With his hand. But it – it hurt. He had – he had claws.”

Erik leaned forward, knuckles white as his fingertips dug into the tabletop. “Were they real? Or did he have some sort of weapon? A glove? Rings?”

“I – I don’t – I can’t see…” Náli let out an anguished sound and bowed his head. His pale hair fell over his shoulders, the ends trailing down to lay on the dead man’s chest. The diamond wavered, but didn’t drop – same as the bowl. Blood shivered against silver, but didn’t drip.

Silence.

Then a long, slow hiss of breath.

Náli lifted his head, opened his eyes – and they were his own again, that pale, ice blue, if a little lost and vacant, compared to his usual smirking glance. He fought to catch his breath a moment; shook his head.

“He’s gone?” Erik asked.

“Yes.” Náli’s voice was raspy, but his own. Shocking, after hearing someone else’s issue from his lips. “I tried to hold him, but–”

“You did your best,” Erik said. “Sit down before you fall.”

“Yes. Good idea.” Náli set down the bowl, staggered backward a step and all but fell on the crate behind him. He rubbed at his face, and he looked young again, like a boy thrust into a world of men, in over his head.

Erik took one last grim look at the body on the table, and then turned away.

Oliver already had his brows lifted. “All right. What was that?”

~*~

“Do you remember that time you told me that dragons existed?” Oliver asked two hours later. The castle had finally quieted and their chambers – a lavish, tapestried guest suite with a massive bed and plenty of furs spread across the floor, with a silver mantelpiece that carved out a portrait of wolves chasing deer – were lit by a crackling fire. Oliver paced back and forth in front of the hearth, in his nightshirt and dressing gown, feet in the fur slippers he’d brought, while Erik sat on the bench at the end of the bed and made faces. “This now? Tonight? Twice as alarming.”

Erik shoved an impatient hand back through his unbraided hair. “Yes, well, we do call him the Corpse Lord.”

“Erik,” Oliver said.

“Fine, fine.” Erik waved, and then sighed. “He’s the Corpse Lord for a reason.”

Oliver folded his arms and squared off from his lover; sent him a go on look.

Erik rolled his eyes – but nodded. He motioned to the empty section of bench beside him – a bit of tufted leather meant for more than one – and Oliver finally sighed and went to sit down. Erik immediately put his arms around Oliver’s waist, and pulled him in close. Tucked his kingly chin over the top of Oliver’s head.

Only then did Oliver realize how tightly he’d been holding himself. He sighed, and relaxed against him.

“It’s an inherited title,” Erik explained. “His father was the Corpse Lord before him, and his grandfather before that. It seems to be a hereditary condition.”

“Being able to talk to the dead?”

“That’s one aspect of it. I don’t claim to know all the details. It’s an inexact science.”

“It’s not a science at all,” Oliver countered. “It’s magic.”

“Well. I suppose.” He sounded hesitant.

Oliver snorted. “You’re the one who told me about dragons, but you don’t believe in magic.”

“No, I do, it’s…” He blew out a breath that ruffled Oliver’s hair, warm and tickling against his scalp. “The lords of Naus Keep tend not to live very long. It sickens them, over time: what they do. Náli’s father was all but a wraith by the end. A white-haired skeleton bundled up in furs, shivering all the time.”

And Náli had watched his father’s decline. Had seen him whither, and fail, and die, and been handed the mantle of lord too soon.

“Why do they do it, then?” Oliver asked. “Why use that power if it shortens their lives?”

Erik’s next breath pressed his ribs against Oliver’s; his exhale sounded heavy. “Because their king asks them to use it.”

Oliver sat up – Erik gripped at his sleeves a moment, then let his hands fall away – and turned to they could face one another. Erik’s expression was chastened.

“It’s a service the Corpse Lord of Naus has always provided to the crown,” Erik said, gaze flicking away, toward the fireplace.

“Interrogating dead men?”

“And maintaining the Fault Lands.” Erik’s gaze flicked back. “I don’t know if it’s to do with the fire mountain, but the Fault Lands are – a strange place. Down in the diamond mines…things stir. Things that are not alive.”

Oliver felt the fine hairs at his nape prickle. “Spirits?”

“Some. And – others.” Erik shook his head, and he looked the closest to wary that Oliver had ever seen him. It was unnerving. “There must always be a Corpse Lord. There always has been. Náli will need to produce a biological heir soon. If that bloodline were to end…I’m not sure what would happen. When he’s away from Naus for too long, the mountain begins to rumble. It was the same with his father and grandfather. The last eruption happened shortly after my grandfather became king. The old lord had died, and his wife and infant heir were away with her family. She hurried back to Naus, but not before the mountain started spitting fire.”

“Gods,” Oliver murmured.

“Náli himself is a brat,” Erik said. “He’s showy, and that wins him no favors with the other young lords. But it’s what you just saw downstairs that makes everyone avoid him.”

“I can imagine. It sounds lonely.”

Erik tilted his head. “We’re all lonely for some reason.”

That was true enough. Oliver nodded. “What do you think it meant? What the dead man said?”

Erik shrugged. “Leif said there was a man with antlers. A headdress, most like,” he added, in response to Oliver’s lifted brows. “I’ve not seen the like in a long time, but there was a sect of shamans, in the Waste. They believed that humans could become animals, and vice versa.”

“Ah,” Oliver said, pulse skipping. “That doesn’t sound nightmarish at all.”

“To my knowledge, none are still practicing.”

“Not that your knowledge isn’t as impressive as the rest of you, dear” – Erik’s lips quirked up in a grin in response – “but you can’t know that for sure. And Leif did see a man with antlers – as did the dead man. Gods, that’s strange.” He gave in to the impulse to rub at the back of his neck. “I listened to a dead man talk tonight.”

“I would say you get used to that, but you don’t.”

“It doesn’t seem likely.”

They regarded one another a moment, and Oliver sensed that Erik was wondering if he’d damned himself, in Oliver’s eyes. Uncertain of his acceptance.

“Any other of your lords hiding supernatural powers?” Oliver asked, lightly.

Erik’s grin spoke of relief. “Not to my knowledge.” His head tilted the other way. “Unless of course you are, your lordship.”

Oliver groaned. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a lord.”

“You’re mine,” Erik said, easily. And then, unrelenting, gaze narrowing, “What happened out on the parapet?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said, which was the truth, but he squirmed a little, because it wasn’t the whole truth.

Erik lifted a single brow.

“It’s like I said before,” Oliver said. “It reminded me of when I was sick: the flash of blue light, the growling. I wasn’t here anymore, but I don’t know where I was, exactly.”

“What sort of blue?”

“Bright. Like the very top of the sky – only, brighter.” He frowned. “What does that matter?”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“So am I. This has never happened to me before. Does the ice rose have lingering aftereffects?”

“Not this long.”

“There was something else there.”

“So you said.” Erik’s expression had gone tense. “You keep saying something. And not someone.”

“I’m not sure it was a person.”

“What else could it have been?”

A log shifted and fell on the fire.

Erik toyed with one of his rings, a habitual gesture fast becoming familiar to Oliver. He glanced toward the hearth again, jaw clenching beneath his beard.

“The shamans you mentioned,” Oliver said. The prickling unease had crawled all down between his shoulder blades, now, and was spreading. “Let’s say, for a moment, that they really could transform into animals.”

Erik’s gaze slid back. Go on.

“Could they communicate with them as well? Not verbally. I mean, mentally. Over distances.”

“So they claimed.” Erik studied him a moment with open skepticism. His hands stilled, and then tensed in his lap. “Did you have an animal in your head?”

“How the hell would I know?” He threw up his hands, for all the good it did the shivers crawling across his skin. He stood, no longer even a little relaxed. Pacing seemed like the best bet at the moment. “Before I boarded ship to come north, the most magic I’d ever seen was a good sunset. A – a rainbow. And now here I am” – he caught a glimpse of Erik’s frown as he turned and paced back the other way – “talking about animals in my head, and there’s dead men talking through lords. This is your world, Erik. I don’t claim to understand it better than you.”

“All right.” A rustle of cloth, and when Oliver hit the end of his path and turned, Erik stood in front of him. “All right,” he said, again, catching Oliver lightly by both shoulders. His expression had softened. “I know. I’m not doubting you.”

Oliver pinched at the tension along the bridge of his nose. “Well, I’m doubting me.”

Erik’s hands slid up to cup his neck; his knuckles brushed the ends of Oliver’s braids, and set the beads to clicking. He smiled, quick and small, in response.

The sound, the resulting smile, eased a bit of Oliver’s tension, too. He sighed. “There really was – well, it wasn’t a voice. But it was communication.”

“I believe you.”

“It wasn’t an owl that flew by.”

“That I know.”

“Yes, but what was it?”

Erik shook his head, regretful. “I don’t know.” His thumb slid along Oliver’s jaw. “What did it feel like to you?”

“Feel like?”

The thumb moved along his chin, pressed at his lips.

“Oh, that’s not fair,” he murmured against it.

Another fleeting smile – and Erik stepped in closer, crowding him wonderfully. “We survived the night. Sometimes, that’s all that matters.”

Oliver swayed toward him; put hands on his strong, velvet-covered chest. “And we’ll figure out the rest later?”

“Yes.” Erik bent down to kiss him, and Oliver decided that was for the best.

6

“I should be there.” Rune’s gaze was fixed on the window, on the snow falling beyond it. His heart, Tessa knew, was halfway to Dreki Hörgr.

For her own part, sitting at his bedside, beginning to feel less harried and more herself, after his long days of touch-and-go, she could feel only relief. And she was able to – she could admit – admire him. There could be no other word for her staring.

Sunlight fell in diamonds through the windows, full upon his profile. An angular profile, one curtained by the wild, unwashed knots of his hair. His stubbled jaw looked sharp enough to cut glass – and his eyes, too, as they swung back to her, deep brown and striking, after so long closed.

Belatedly, she gathered her wits. “You should be right here,” she countered, “getting better. They understand that.”

He made an impatient sound, and fiddled with the covers in his lap. “But I should be there. I always am.” He turned an imploring look on her – one that left her insides fluttering pleasantly. “I’ve got keener eyes than Uncle, and a better hand on the bow than Leif.”

“I’m sure they’d appreciate the compliments.”

He rolled his eyes. “No. I mean – someone has to watch out for them. They’re the king and the heir! That’s my job, to be on guard.”

“They have guards,” she tried to reason. “And…” She made a face. “Ollie.”

He laughed. “Now there’s a sight to make brigands cower.” He sobered. “I am glad that Oliver went – that Uncle has him. He’s been unhappy for a long time.” He frowned. “For my whole life, really.”

“Ollie, too.”

They shared a smile – a quiet, private one that only they could share. Only as the loved ones of these two particular, stricken relatives could understand.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to go,” Tessa said. “Truly. Although…”

“Although?”

“Perhaps you’ve learned a lesson about impulsiveness?”

He shook his head, grin becoming wry, and glanced back toward the window.

“Rune.” She was better rested since he’d awakened, but still a bit ragged-feeling at the edges. She supposed that was what gave her the courage to shift forward in her chair and press on firmly with him – that, and the rare advantage of having him all to herself, Hilda knitting quietly in the corner. “Everyone was so worried over you. Your mother especially. She barely ate; she didn’t sleep. I know that she for one is glad you didn’t go to the festival – that you’re here resting and recovering.”

He turned back to her – more slowly, deliberately, enough so that her pulse jumped. “What about you?” If he was aiming for coy, he landed on anxious instead. “Were you worried?”

“Of course.”

He held her gaze, his lashes flickering; his pulse visible in his throat. It was, she realized, the first time they’d been relatively alone since he woke, and the moment sparked and fizzed in a wholly unexpected way.

She couldn’t help but think of Leif, on the morning of departure; that quiet sadness about him, an energy so different from Rune’s. So different, even, from his own energy, when she’d first met him. Nothing had turned out like any of them had expected, she supposed.

Tessa took a deep breath and looked away first, absently smoothing the letter that lay in her lap.

The crinkle of the parchment caught his attention. “What’s that? Word from Uncle?”

“From my sister, actually.” She unfolded the letter and let her gaze wander across it, shocked all over again by its contents.

“Bad news? You’re frowning.”

“Not bad, exactly.” She shook her head and met his gaze. “Unexpected.” He looked curious, so she said, “I don’t know if I should share – it’s, well, it’s not my story. But…”

He grinned. “But you’re dying to tell someone?”

“I am!” She sat forward in her chair, dropping her voice to a whisper, though Hilda was the only witness. “You musn’t share this with anyone. I mean it.”

He mimed locking his lips shut and throwing away the key.

“If word got out, my sister would be ruined – not that Amelia cares about that sort of thing. Promise you won’t say anything.”

He tried to respond – without moving his lips.

Tessa swatted at his blanket-covered knees with the letter, until he laughed – which set her to laughing as well.

“I mean it,” she said through her chuckles.

“Who would I tell? I don’t know anyone in Drakewell, and I’m not a secret-spreader besides. Mother still has no idea what happened to that one set of knitting needles she lost when I was five.”

Hilda snorted, but didn’t acknowledge either of their glances.

“My sister,” Tessa said after a deep breath, surprised by the intensity of the sympathetic nerves that fluttered in her stomach. “Amelia. She’s older than me – I told you about her stallion.”

He nodded.

“She’s always been such a tomboy. She’s beautiful, and she always dresses smartly for balls and dinners – but she’d rather be out riding with our household guard that gossiping behind a fan. She goes hunting, and hawking, and – well, you get the idea. She’s a very serious sort of person, and not prone to silliness.

“Marriage was always something all three of us were going to do. As a duty. I always assumed that Amelia would eventually land a lord she could stomach, for the sake of the family. But I didn’t think she would ever be in love.”

His brows lifted. “Not ever?”

“I didn’t think Lia was the type for romance.”

“Because romance requires a type…?”

“Oh.” Her face heated. “I suppose that sounded rather silly, didn’t it?”

“My mother always preferred sword practice to needlepoint.”

Tessa nodded. “I was surprised, I guess. To hear her profess that she’s in love.”

“With whom?”

“That’s just it – that’s the secret – the scandal, I suppose. My poor mother,” she added, shaking her head again. By the end, there had been no hope of saving Alfred’s reputation, but Tessa and her siblings had never done anything shocking – not save Amelia, riding in trousers. “His name is Malcolm Brown,” she said. “And he’s a member of the household guard.”

Rune evidenced no surprise. He watched her, expectant, waiting for the rest of the story. Waiting, she realized, for the part that was scandalous.

“She’s a marchioness and he’s a guardsman,” Tessa said.

He shrugged. “So?”

His uncle, she reminded herself, had taken an illegitimate Southern as royal consort.

She sighed, and it eased some of the tension in her belly. “Things are different down South. She’s expected to marry someone titled.”

Rune made a face, nose scrunching up. “All of that’s bollocks. I mean,” he corrected, expression smoothing, “Leif and I are supposed to marry fine ladies, too. For the kingdom. But it wouldn’t be the end of the world if we didn’t.”

The words sent an unpleasant jolt through her. Fine ladies, said with disdain. Perhaps she wasn’t fine, or perhaps she’d only imagined the energy that sparked between them.

“Scandals aren’t that scandalous up here, is all,” Rune continued. “If you marry Leif, and Oliver has Uncle’s support, why should your sister not marry the man she loves?”

It was Tessa’s turn to shrug. “I’m sure she agrees with you – but that isn’t how things are done. And with the war…Mother wants her to marry one of my old suitors” – perhaps she imagined the way his brows snapped together – “Lord Reginald L’Espoir of Hope Hall.”

“I take it she doesn’t want to?”

“She’s always hated him. Though she does say, here” – she tapped at the page – “that he’s perhaps ‘not as abominable’ as she previously thought.”

“What do you think she’ll do?”

“Knowing Lia – the most difficult thing.” She smiled, despite herself, missing her sister terribly in that moment. “She’s going scouting, apparently. There’s been unusual animal activity in the Inglewood.”

His brows lifted. “Oh, so you saved the interesting bit for the last.”

She laughed, uncertain, still, about many things, but glad for this moment, his health, his company. She prayed for a little of Amelia’s assuredness: the strength to know when difficult meant stop, and when difficult meant this is right.

~*~

Appropriately, dawn had slipped silver and sunless over Silfr Hall. Oliver woke cold, curled up in a ball against Erik’s side, tense as though he hadn’t slept, with the blunt sound of axes beating down below in the yard. There was a skin of ice on the basins and ewers, and breakfast passed solemnly, with darted looks shifting all around, the loudest sounds the snap of the fires and the whining of the dogs wanting scraps.

Leif was contemplative, Erik troubled.

Náli, Oliver noted, was linen-pale and unsteady; he didn’t eat, but drank three cups of strong tea straight off. His men – all in gray and brown – surrounded him and seemed to be holding him up as much as they appeared to be guarding him, protective of their young master.

When they departed, Lord Kjaran met them at the hall’s vast doors. Beyond him, in the yard, men were erecting pyres for the guards who’d been killed last night. The soil was too hard for a proper burial, here in the North, in midwinter. The bodies would be burned.

“Your Majesty,” Kjaran said, voice and face grave. “Your lordship. Your grace.” He bowed to them in turn: Erik, Oliver, Leif. “I wish your stay had been less eventful.”

“So do I, for your sake,” Erik said. “How are your children? Your wife this morning?”

“Hilda is…a bit nervous.”

“Understandably so.”

“I had planned to ride with your party today, Your Majesty, but given what happened last night…”

“Stay. See your house to rights, first,” Erik said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Join us if you can.”

Kjaran nodded. “Thank you.”

They rode out of the yard, and across a field whose snow was scarred from last night’s skirmish, the scent of roasting flesh burning their nostrils.

Oliver was warmly dressed, but he still felt a certain inner coldness that no cloak or hood could hold at bay.

Birger put his horse alongside Erik’s, and they fell into a low, quick discussion.

Oliver lacked the energy to eavesdrop. His horse was fresher than he was, and tugged at the reins. Oliver flexed his fingers, deepened his seat, and murmured quiet, soothing words until the gelding settled. Sore from spending all of yesterday in the saddle, he knew he held himself gingerly, wishing, a little, that he’d asked to ride on one of the sleighs among their party – whisking along to their left, harnesses jangling – but knowing that it was important he look tough and worthy of his warrior king in the eyes of Aeretoll.

Leif reined up beside him. “Uncle said there was an animal last night,” he said, quietly. “Up on the wall. In the air.”

Oliver gave the reins another quick half-halt, the gelding settled further, and he shot a glance toward Leif. The prince wore an almost eager look, though last night’s fear and hesitance remained.

“Something flew over us,” Oliver said. “But I was a little…out of it.”

Leif managed to arch a single brow, like his uncle, even as his horse tossed its head and side-stepped. He quieted the mare with a quick bit of rein work, and never lost his attention on Oliver. “Out of it? What do you mean?”

Oliver sighed, staring down at his gloves on the reins a moment, trying to gather his thoughts on the matter. “I’m not sure I know what I mean. This sort of thing has never happened outside of a fever flare-up.” When Leif’s other brow lifted, he said, “I’ve never felt…outside myself, like I did last night, except when I was gripped by fever. One moment I was fully in control of my faculties, and the next, I was…well, I’d gone down to my knees, and apparently, I was screaming. But,” he pressed on, before Leif’s concerned, knitted brow could become a verbal protest, “I do know that something flew over us, there on the parapet. Lord Kjaran claimed it was a snow owl, but it seemed much too large for that.” He made a face. “And, also, it was…I think it was inside my head.”

Leif frowned a moment – then his brow cleared. “You’re a Drake!” he said, loud enough to startle the reindeer alongside them. “Sorry,” he offered to the driver. Then, quieter: “Oliver, you have Drake blood. Was it a dragon?”

“What? No, no, it couldn’t have been,” Oliver said, but his heart thumped hard against his ribs. “The dragons are gone, anyway, aren’t they? And I’m not really a Drake.”

Leif rolled his eyes. “You’re a Drake by blood, number one, bastard or not. And the dragons aren’t gone, they’re just…missing. Quiet. The clans have claimed to see cold-drakes.”

“So you think…a dragon…flew over Silfr Hall last night.”

“What could be larger than an owl, at night, in the midst of us all being attacked by ghosts wearing antlers?” Leif countered.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Leif snorted. “There’s eagles on the mountainsides.”

“But eagles don’t fly at night.”

“Not real ones, no. The old shamans claimed to be skinwalkers.”

“They sicced an eagle on us?”

“Or turned into one.” Leif gave a facial shrug. “They always said they could.”

“Do you believe they actually did?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe? All I do know is: the farther you get into the Wastes, the stranger everything becomes.”

“Ah. How comforting.”

~*~

“You didn’t need to bring them yourself, my lady,” one of the kitchen maids said, hurrying over with a worried look to take the tray of dirty dishes Tessa had brought down.

“It was no trouble. I’m glad to help, Mabil.” The girl smiled, and bobbed a quick curtsy before she whisked the tray away toward the huge, steaming wash tubs that stood along the far wall.

Preparations for lunch were well underway: a fleet of white-aproned assistants in headscarves stood at the long, plank tables in the center of the room, chopping, peeling, dicing.

The head cook, a large, square-featured woman named Magda, glanced up from an instruction she was giving and fixed Tessa in place with a look as stern and commanding as that of any queen. The kitchen, Tessa supposed, was her domain over which to rule. “You shouldn’t have to be stepping and fetching like a maid, Lady Tessa.”

“I don’t mind. I wanted to save someone a trip.”

Magda harrumphed. “It’s not right, a lady carrying dirty dishes. Send word next time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tessa said, with a curtsy. She turned away to hide her grin as Magda continued to fuss – “A lady curtsying to a cook! I never!”

As she left the kitchen, she caught sight of herself in the mirror in the hallway. It was there, Hilda had explained, so that the maids and manservants could give their appearances a quick check before they carried out a tray; to ensure they were tidy, and composed, and not about to take something to Lady Revna with a big drip of sauce down their aprons. Tessa knew that that sort of thing didn’t matter to Revna, but everyone who worked in the palace strove to please the royal family; they were proud of their positions, and of themselves, as well they should be.

Tessa was a little startled to glimpse her own very disordered countenance now, pausing a moment, hand going automatically to her hair. Hilda had wanted to braid it this morning, but Tessa had been in a hurry to go and see Rune; she’d left it loose, and the humidity in the kitchen had left it curling wildly at her temples. She plucked a strand off her forehead and frowned at the dark circles beneath her eyes, the thin paleness of her face. She looked exactly like someone who’d been sitting vigil at a sickbed for days. Her gown was rumpled; she tugged fruitlessly at a large wrinkle in her bodice.

“It’s not as if he hasn’t already seen you a mess,” she murmured to herself. He was a bit of a mess himself, truth told. That didn’t bother her – she liked to think it was a sentiment that went both ways.

With one last frown, she moved on.

And nearly collided with a group of ladies at the fork in the hall.

Tessa pulled up short. “Excuse me.” When she lifted her gaze, she found that the ladies were young, and dressed for a trip outdoors, far more put-together and well-rested-looking than she was herself.

Lady Estrid, dressed in white wool trimmed with sable fur, stood at the center of the procession, its clear leader. Her gold hair was braided and beaded; her gaze low-lidded, assessing, and cold.

“Lady Tessa. Are you well? You look peaked.”

Tessa sucked in a breath. This was the first time anyone had spoken to her like that here in Aeretoll. She’d spent her whole life dealing with women like this in Drakewell, and she knew how to respond – but she was out of practice. How disappointing to think that cool looks and cutting remarks existed in all lands.

She drew herself upright. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m only a little tired. Lady Revna and I are so relieved that Rune is finally awake and beginning to heal.”

Several of the ladies pressed fluttering fingertips to their throats, brows knitting in immediate concern. (Disingenuous, in Tessa’s opinion.)

“As am I,” Lady Estrid said. “We were all so very worried.” She smiled, small and closed-mouth; it didn’t touch her eyes. “How lucky that Lady Revna has you to lean on at such a distressing time. And poor Rune: how grateful he must be to have a future sister-in-law who cares so deeply for him.”

“I’ve grown very fond of the whole family,” Tessa said, stiffly, her throat feeling tight. In Drakewell, there would have been no mistaking what Estrid was hinting at.

“I’m sure you have. You must miss Leif terribly.”

“I do miss him, yes.”

“Hm. And he you. Such a shame you couldn’t go along to the festival – especially when the king was able to take his…new friend.”

“Oliver is the king’s consort.”

“Yes. My mistake. His rise was so quick I can scarcely keep track of all the title changes.” She gave an offhand wave and a shrug, dismissing the matter – dismissing Oliver, and his importance to Erik.

Amelia would have said she wanted to throttle this girl. For Tessa’s part, she wanted to find the words that would wipe that smug look off her face.

But she was too tired.

“The girls and I are going riding,” Estrid continued. She gave Tessa a slow up-and-down glance. “You’re welcome to come, if you like. We’ll even wait for you to change.”

“No, thank you.” Tessa offered a fleeting smile. “I should check on Rune.”

“Maybe some other time, then.”

“Yes, maybe so.”

“Take care, my lady,” Estrid said, as her party began to move off. “There’s no shame in a nap if you think it would help.”

Ignore her, Tessa thought. She’s a stupid twit looking to upset you. But by the time she reached the royal solar, she was silently fuming, Estrid’s words cycling again and again through her mind.

“That’s not a happy look.”

Tessa glanced up to see Revna seated on one of the low sofas, pouring out two cups of tea on the table.

“Oh.” Tessa scraped up a smile. “It’s nothing.”

“Uh-huh. Come and sit. We’re having tea and biscuits like proper ladies.” She rolled her eyes, and Tessa found herself chuckling as she went to sit opposite and take a warm cup. It was immediately soothing between her hands.

Revna, she noted, while still a little tired around the eyes, looked much improved. Relief had taken all the strain out of her features, and today her hair was clean and tidily-braided. Her hands were steady as she added sugar and milk to their tea; her gaze direct as it fixed on Tessa’s face.

“What happened?”

Tessa took a sip of tea, bracingly sweet. “Nothing happened. I only carried Rune’s breakfast tray down to the kitchen.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to help, and Rune had fallen asleep. I thought I might as well make myself useful.”

“All right.” Revna sipped tea. “So you returned the tray. Then what happened?”

In a light voice, Tessa said, “I had an encounter with Lady Estrid and her friends. They invited me out riding, but I’m afraid I was tired, and had to decline.”

Revna snorted. “How thoughtful of them.”

“Yes, wasn’t it?”

Revna’s teacup landed on the tabletop with a decisive thump. “Let me tell you something about Lady Estrid.” Her tone had Tessa pausing with her with own cup halfway to her mouth. “She’s nothing but a spoiled brat who’s never been told ‘no’ a day in her life. The only things she cares about are fashions and feeling superior – having things that her friends don’t and lording them over them.”

“At the feast,” Tessa said, hesitating, “Rune expressed that he…wasn’t fond of her.”

“I should think not. She was horrid to him when he was little – she was already scheming to become a princess then! Not even of marriable age and working the boys over like a professional. When I found out what she was doing, I put a stop to it. If it were up to me, she wouldn’t still be here under our roof.”

Tessa lifted her brows in silent inquiry.

Revna sighed. “I could send her home, if I wanted, I know. But.” She shrugged. “I try to play the part of the magnanimous lady of the palace. How would it look if – given my position – I turned away a young woman who asked to be at court with me?”

Tessa winced. “I see your point.”

“We must endure her, I’m afraid.” She picked up her cup again. “But don’t worry, dear. She’s not any threat to your marriage.”

Tessa offered a tight smile, and sipped her tea before it could fall away.

~*~

They stopped for lunch at midday, at the edge of a lake whose shores were laced with frost, and which they had to break with axes to allow the horses and reindeer to drink. Beneath the snow-heavy branches of sentinel pines, seated on a felled log they’d dusted off and covered with a waxed canvas tarp, they ate cold sandwiches from their saddlebags and passed around a wineskin. A few deep swallows went a long way toward thawing Oliver from the inside out, and waking up his stomach, reminding him that he was, in fact, very hungry.

“We should reach Redcliff before nightfall,” Birger said between bites. “It’s just halfway ‘round the lake.”

“Good,” Erik said, and did what he’d done several times: cast a long, narrow-eyed glance along the lake’s edge, and amongst the trees behind them. The other lords and their parties were spread out ahead of them, sitting in clusters; a few had bothered to start small fires. But Erik’s attention wasn’t on them.

Oliver had just taken a bite of ham roll, and swallowed it with difficulty. “What do you think the odds are last night’s raiders are following us?”

“Good, I’d say,” Magnus said. His brother elbowed him. “What? I don’t see any benefit to pretending.” He took a glance at their surroundings too, far less gracefully than Erik had. “A bunch like that shows up, shooting people in the dark, killing people – I don’t think it was random.”

Erik finished off his sandwich and licked his fingers – distractingly. “They’ll harry us all the way to Dreki Hörgr, I’d imagine,” he said, grimly, staring off across the lake. It was a vast one, seeming to melt into the distant mountain range, its far bank invisible.

“Why not attack us outright? Right now?” Oliver asked, and wished he hadn’t. “Why wait, last night, until we were all inside the hall.”

“The clans prefer outright warfare,” Birger said, “but with each other. They crash together like two waves in the open field. But they’ve no hope of storming a palace or hall; nor of surviving our attempts to repel an outright attack. They had to draw us out last night in order to do any damage.”

“They’re cowards,” Erik said with a note of finality. “They like to hassle and terrorize, leave you jumping at your own shadow. They’ll sneak into a window and rape a woman at knifepoint, but they won’t put up ladders and hooks and come at you in a proper siege.”

“What do they want?” Oliver asked. “What was last night about?”

Erik and Birger shared a look.

“They want us to turn back, don’t they?” Leif asked.

“And their attempt has kept Kjaran behind, so far.”

Oliver held out a hand and Magnus tossed him the wineskin. After another long drink, he said, “Maybe turning around isn’t such a bad idea.” Every set of eyes swung toward him. “Look, call me a coward, I’m not ashamed. But if this is how it’s to be, how could any good this trip will do outweigh the risks of pressing on?”

Erik glanced away first, muscle leaping in one lean cheek. “Because then they’ll say they frightened the king away, and they will have won.”

Oliver knew he was right, which was why he didn’t say, Yes, but then we’d still all be alive.

Birger sighed and said, “For now, we still have plenty of men and provisions. Redcliff is well-fortified, and Lord Askr keeps a large host of men-at-arms.” Worry shone in his eyes, though; Oliver thought he was reserving the right to change his opinion, should something else happen. “We should be safe enough in the daylight.”

After lunch, a snowball fight broke out amidst some of the young lords in the nearest party, their war whoops and laughing shouts ringing out across the clearing, echoing off the filmy ice of the lake. They didn’t look much older than Leif, cursing and smiling as they doused one another’s heads and shoulders with snow.

“That one had a rock in it!” one shouted, incensed, and turned to pelt his opponent with an especially tight snowball that exploded against his chest.

Oliver noted Leif watching them, and thought, despite his small frown, that his gaze was wistful. Erik was conferring with their guards – sending three of them down to the lake to refill their water canteens – and so Oliver got up and went to sit beside Leif, on his bit of dusted-off rock.

“Not your scene?” he asked, tipping his head toward the action.

Leif’s frown deepened. “It would have been. Once. But after what happened to Rune…it’s time I started acting more like a prince, and less like a fool.”

“But–”

“Your Majesty!” The shout came from the lake.

Oliver scrambled to his feet with everyone else. Erik was in the lead, taking long, half-running strides down the short slope that led to the water’s edge. He skidded, once, righted himself – but where his boot had scraped the snow, red showed beneath.

Oliver stumbled a step, and clutched at Leif’s arm for balance. “What is that?”

“It’s clay,” Leif said, hustling him along. “The ground here beneath the snow is red clay. It’s where Redcliff gets its name. Come on!”

The three guards stood on the narrow, rocky beach, all staring down into the water, dripping canteens forgotten in their hands.

Erik pushed between them. “What? What is it?”

One of the guards – the youngest, Filip – pointed down into the water. “We had to break a bit of the ice, to dip the canteens in, and we saw him there.”

Oliver stepped up beside Erik, still clutching at Leif’s sleeve, feet slipping on the ice of the rocks. Though the lake rippled and danced far out, closer to center, the ten feet or so off the shore were iced-over, sun glinting off cracks that had frozen and resealed, jagged shards that glinted and blinded. Beneath, the water was clear, rocks visible at the bottom. And in the place where the guards had hacked open a breach with their axes, a body floated, face-down, sodden fur cloak black with water; pale hair waved and streamed amidst the brown reeds.

They all stared a moment.

Then Erik reached down, gripped the back of his cloak, and hauled him out onto shore.

The man’s furs were so waterlogged and heavy that Leif wound up helping. With twin grunts, they pulled the fur boots free of the water, and they turned him over roughly, and let him drop to the beach.

Frost and fish had blurred the specific details, but it was obvious that someone, or something, had torn the man’s stomach open.

Oliver wasn’t too proud to admit that he recoiled from the sight. “Gods. What did that?”

Erik crouched down to examine the body, turning back bits of stiff leather and ruined skin with gloved fingertips. “These marks weren’t made by a blade. Either his belly was cut open, and when he was left for dead, some animal got him – or it was animals who got him in the first place.”

“How did he end up in the water?” Oliver asked.

Erik glanced out across it. “A very good question.”

“Uncle.” Leif reached down toward the man’s throat – and pulled out a strand of ivory teeth on an iron chain. “Look at this. And his hair.” Thick lines of bare scalp showed where patterns had been shaved into the sides of his head.

“Úlfheðnar,” Erik said, sounding surprised.

The face was mottled dark with bruises and frostbite, the features swollen and distorted from being in the water.

“One of Ragnar’s party from the feast?” Oliver asked.

“They would have traveled back this way,” Birger said. “But I confess that I can’t recognize him, not with any certainty.”

Erik stood, flicking ice crystals off his fingers. His gaze darted across the lake, skirted toward the forest. “It could have been some sort of argument between them.”

“Or the same bastards that attacked Silfr Hall last night attacked them,” Leif said.

“Aye. I want a search organized.” He toed at the dead man. “Who’s to say if Ragnar even made it home?”

~*~

Oliver pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and glanced up through a screen of interlacing pine limbs to seek out the sun. Just past midday; they hadn’t lost much time. It was colder beneath the cover of the trees, but the forest was full of guards and lords alike, calling back and forth to one another, so he didn’t feel as frightened as he might have. He walked with Leif on one side, Magnus on the other.

“If it was the ol’ bear-shirts last night, then it seems like they’d be the likeliest culprits now,” Magnus reasoned. “I can’t figure out why they’d put him in the drink, though.”

“Maybe they didn’t. Maybe he crawled there, while he was dying,” Oliver said. “And then something” – he shuddered – “pulled him in.”

“Something like what?”

“Well, we’ve got crocodiles in the South.”

“Aye, those great lizard beasts with all the teeth? I’ve seen drawings in books,” Magnus said. “But they wouldn’t be able to stand the cold up here, would they?”

“No. Definitely not. Maybe the North has – I dunno, giant killer otters or something.”

Magnus laughed. There was a true gift in being able to laugh in times like these, Oliver thought. “No, no, none of that. Bear could have done it, maybe. The killing and the dragging.”

Leif hummed an unconvinced note.

Oliver alternated between scanning the ground and scanning the tree limbs above them. He knew for a fact that there were big cats in these parts, smaller than the mountain lions of home, but spotted, with thicker coats, and meaner temperaments.

Snow lay in drifts against the tree trunks, all the vegetation died back and mashed down beneath a layer of white for the winter. The whole forest looked crystallized, like a thing preserved: beautiful but lifeless.

Thinking like that was what got you set upon by predators.

Ahead, a voice shouted, “I’ve found something!”

They broke into a jog, as did the other search groups, everyone converging on a small clearing where one of Askr’s men was hailing them.

It had snowed the last two nights, but the branches overhead had offered a bit of shelter. The deep gouges in the snow, the ones that had gone down to the deep red clay beneath, had been only partially filled, so red streaks like scars marked a place where a man had fought, and struggled…and died. The corpse sat with its back to a tree trunk, head slumped down on his chest, snow frosting his pale, shaved and braided hair. His torso was pierced with five arrows, the shafts of some black wood, the fletching of red and white feathers. Sunlight gleamed on the ivory of the teeth – human molars and animal fangs – he wore around his throat.

Wordless, jaw clenched, Erik stepped forward, gripped the body by the hair, and lifted his hair.

For a moment, Oliver’s pulse leaped – but the corpse did not belong to Ragnar.

Erik let the head drop and turned to glance across all their faces. “Beserkirs,” he said. “It must be. That was them last night. These are their arrows.” He flicked the end of one, lip curled in derision. “The shaman costumes are new, though.”

“This one belongs to your cousin, doesn’t he?” Askr said. “I think I recognize him.”

“Gods knows if Ragnar is still alive,” Erik said.

“He’s wily,” Leif said. “He probably got away.”

Erik didn’t respond. He toed at one of the half-filled marks on the ground. Frowned at it, and sank to his haunches to brush at the snow. “These look like…claw marks.”

“Wolves, probably,” Askr said. “Came sniffing around the body.”

“But didn’t eat it?”

“There were claw marks last night,” Náli spoke up. His face was still bloodless. “And the man I walked with said the creature that attacked him had claws.”

“A weapon fashioned after claws, then,” Erik said. “Meant to frighten us.”

Náli edged forward, expression going glassy. He motioned toward the dead man. “I can–”

“No,” Erik said.

Birger placed a hand on the young lord’s shoulder, despite the dark looks from his own men, and the way they crowded in, clutching at his arms and cloak as if to pull him back – or keep him from falling.

“It’s too soon for that again, lad,” Birger said. “I think we already know who’s done this.” To Erik: “Shall we make a pyre?”

Erik glanced up at a wedge of sky visible between the branches. “No. We need to move on. We’re losing daylight.”

A horn sounded. Two sharp blasts.

Someone said, “That’s Edda, Lord Ingvar’s son.”

The whole group was off and running, back to the clear plain beside the lake where they’d lunched. Even in deep snow, dodging rocks and old logs, burdened by furs and cloaks and heavy boots and swords, the Northmen covered the ground in great strides, leaping over objects. Oliver had never felt smaller, nor more of a hindrance, lungs burning as he breathed in cold air, the wind stinging his face.

He tripped – and was righted by a strong hand. Erik, not even breathing hard.

They burst out of the trees, and found Lord Ingvar’s party standing at the lake’s edge, all of them gazing out across the water, several pointing, all of them murmuring to one another.

Edda, a stocky lad with his dark hair in two long braids down his back, and a long, narrow beard, still held his horn, and charged up the rise to meet them. “There’s something out on the water,” he panted, eyes wide with alarm. “Too far to make out.”

“A ship?” Erik asked.

“I don’t – I don’t know.”

Erik charged down to the beach again, and Oliver hurried to follow.

“There,” one of the guards said, pointing with the tip of his spear.

Oliver shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted against the brightness of the water. He didn’t…there. A splash. A fountaining spray of crystal droplets, a plume, a glimpse of – of something white. And large.

“That’s not a boat,” he heard himself say through suddenly-numb lips.

“That’s a living creature,” Edda said. “That’s a living bloody creature.”

“A white bear,” someone said.

“That’s too big for a bear!”

“Maybe it’s…” The rest of Magnus’s sentence was lost to the sudden droning in Oliver’s ears. It was a humming, hissing, grinding…

And then the blue.

And a growl. A voice that wasn’t a voice at all, but which conveyed pain, and fear. It was a cry for help.

And then nothing.

7

Oliver came to wet and shivering, his teeth chattering, his muscles knotted all over with cold. He struggled to open his eyes – his lashes seemed glued together – and then a warm, callused thumb smoothed across them, and they came apart. Erik’s face hovered above his, braids and cold beads tickling at Oliver’s cheeks. His expression was thunderous – but Oliver could read the flash of worry in his blue eyes.

“I – I – fell–”

“In the gods-damned water,” Erik snapped.

“…did-did – I? Oops.”

“Here.” A flask was pressed to his mouth. He opened – and found himself choking on a few sips of strong spirits. Mistress. It burned all the way down, and immediately began to warm his stomach.

When Erik pulled the flask back, and capped it, he reached for the furs bundled all around Oliver – he realized he didn’t have his hands free – and folded them in even tighter around his chin.

“Wh- where – am I?” Oliver managed to choke out through the trembling of his jaw.

Erik pulled a fold of fur up over his head, so he was thoroughly cocooned; the afternoon sky shone eggshell blue over his shoulder. “In a sleigh.”

He craned his stiff neck to try and see around the fur. “Oh.”

“You fell face-first in the lake,” Erik said, voice biting. He continued to fuss with the furs, moving down to wrap them more tightly around his feet, which he couldn’t feel. “I toweled you off, and put you in dry clothes, but you need to be in front of a fire. Now.”

“You – you–” Oliver struggled to sit up, horror-struck. His spirits-warmed tongue and lips finally started to cooperate, just as the heat in his belly began to spread to his limbs. “You undressed me in front of everyone?”

“No, I did it here. Birger helped,” he admitted, and then his frown deepened to an outright scowl. “Lie still! You’ll be lucky if you don’t catch your bloody death. Stay covered. We’re moving toward Redcliff right now.” He straightened.

“Erik–”

But he was off, barking orders. “Mount up,” he ordered, voice hard, commanding, kingly. “Everyone. We’re leaving this moment, and you’ll be left behind if you dawdle.”

“Dictatorial ass,” Oliver muttered, and was gripped by a hard shiver.

A guard jumped in beside his huddled form to take the reins. He heard shouts and orders, a slap of the reins, the snorting of the reindeer, and then the sleigh glided forward.

~*~

Erik kept pace alongside the sleigh on his horse; if Oliver turned his head inside his fur cocoon, he could see his stern profile trotting beside them, hair streaming back, brow furrowed. He looked like coinage, or a marble bust: implacable and fierce.

Oliver was cross with him – on principle, mostly. He loathed the idea – one that he knew must be true – of being toted along like a swooning maiden, undressed and redressed, bundled up as though helpless. But he had been helpless, and he wouldn’t love Erik so much if he wasn’t the sort of person who cared deeply enough to use all his kingly authority to guarantee someone’s safety and wellbeing.

And he was freezing. The initial flush of alcohol had abandoned him at this point, as the sky grew steadily dimmer and cold winter air chafed at his face, finding gaps in his coverings and stealing down to touch ice-chilled skin. His clothes were dry, but Erik was right: he needed a fire, perhaps even a hot bath. A meal, and a towel with which to thoroughly dry his hair, the roots of which now felt crunchy as the last of the water there began to freeze. He couldn’t stop shaking, whole frame wracked with the occasional hard chill.

He stayed silent for the last leg of the journey, listening to Erik call out to his riders on occasion. But then, the sleigh slowed.

Erik called, “Halt! Riders approaching!”

With great effort, hands and feet swaddled up like a child’s, Oliver managed to wriggle his way upright in the seat, so he could see, disturbed by the way his vision swam and spotted – not the blue unconsciousness this time, but a good old-fashioned warning that a bout of fever wasn’t far off.

The sleigh he was in appeared to be at the head of the whole procession of caravans, Leif, Birger, Magnus and their guards riding to either side of it. In the distance, he glimpsed a dark, upthrust shape that was the unmistakeable profile of a mansion, surrounded by the low humps of a village.

Closer, moving toward them, a half-dozen men on horseback, followed by a larger contingency on foot. When they were near enough that Oliver began to wonder if archers would nock arrows, Erik jerked up straighter in his saddle, said, “Ragnar,” and spurred his horse forward to meet him.

The two cousins reined up beside one another, too distant for their voices to be heard. Ragnar’s mount, Oliver noticed, was short and shaggy, with a tangled flaxen mane – and three deep, fresh gouges on its flank. The blood had dripped and dried, and the horse dropped its head low when they halted, nostrils flaring as it caught its breath.

Ragnar wore a countenance nearly as stern as Erik’s, and none of the charm and slyness of the Yuletide Feast. He had a bruise on one cheek, and his hair looked not merely wild, but tangled, crunchy with dried sweat.

After a moment’s conversing, Erik nodded, and trotted back to the sleigh. He looked even grimmer when he pulled up. “Those were his men we found this afternoon. He’d left his main company here when he came on to Aeretoll – they didn’t want to come. When he returned, he found some missing, others dead. If we’d kept searching the forest, we would have found more bodies, he said. He waited here for us, just outside of Redcliff’s border, to meet us and ask for a night’s safe rest with Lord Askr.”

“Who attacked them?” Birger asked.

Leif said, “Or what?”

“It happened at night. He says there were men, for sure, but animals, too. He thought maybe they have a trained bear, or a wildcat.”

It wasn’t a wildcat they’d seen splashing and breaching in the lake earlier, but Oliver didn’t point that out.

To Lars, Erik said, “Ride back down the line and see if Askr is amenable to Ragnar overnighting inside the keep. I’m not waiting.” He wheeled his horse, and they were off again.

~*~

Redcliff village was named for Redcliff Keep – which was in turn named for its sinister appearance. There was just enough light left, when they arrived, for Erik to make out its familiar, grisly façade. Flat-faced in front, with only arrow slits to let in light, it was built of pale stone – but its mortar had been mixed long ago with the crimson red clay of the soil here, and so, after generations of rain and snow and weathering, the mortar had bled down the walls in long, ugly drips and drabs, so that the whole edifice seemed to be weeping blood. It perched over its village like a great wounded beast, and inside, the walls were given over to tapestries and murals and carvings depicting Askr’s ancestors in the midst of bloody battles. Axes and swords hung where other ornaments might have; one was never far from a weapon at Redcliff. The ale flowed freely, always, and Askr’s favorite dish, whole roast pig, was always on offering.

Tonight, their entrance was a somber and stressed one: Askr called immediately for the acting captain of his guard, and soldiers went running to and fro with a clank of steel and a slap of leather.

Erik saw that Oliver was bundled off to their guest chamber, equipped with servants who would see to a bath, and tea, and warm things to wear. Oliver made a variety of protesting faces at him, but he would not be budged, not on this.

For his own part, he had to talk to his lords – and his cousin.

A feast had been prepared, and a feast was served, but it was a hunched-shouldered group of lords and guardsmen who all congregated around one trestle, those without seats standing, holding their plates, eating as they listened. The ale was drunk without revelry, this night.

Ragnar drained off a whole horn, and demolished half a platter of bloody meat before, mopping his plate with bread, he heaved a huge breath and said, “We never saw them coming. The buggers melted out of the night like ghosts. The first we knew we were being followed, Gansi was bristling with arrows. Poor sod.” A servant leaned over his shoulder to refill his ale horn, and he nodded silent thanks, hand curling around the vessel. He met Erik’s gaze. “I saw a man in fur with gods-damned antlers sprouting from his head, Erik, like the shamans of old. And they had a beast with them, knocking us down like game pins.”

“What sort of beast?” Erik kept seeing that white flash of – whatever it was when he blinked. That fear of the unknown, the sense that something was wrong in a way he’d never experienced, currently competed with his worry for Oliver. Watching him go limp and fall face-first into the lake had been…horrifying. It would have been regardless, but knowing Oliver’s tenuous health, knowing that stress of any kind could trigger his marsh fever…

He gave himself a mental shake, and said, “Ragnar, what was it?”

His cousin set down his ale horn and wiped his mouth, looking unusually bewildered. “I don’t know. It – I don’t know.”

“Any guesses?” Lord Ingvar snapped, unusually impatient. It was him, and his party, who’d first spotted the thing in the lake.

Ragnar gave the man a sharp glance. “I’ve spent far more of my life in the wilderness than you, my lord. If you think I knew for sure, wouldn’t I tell you?”

Ingvar’s nostrils flared. “Listen here, you feral–”

“Lord Ingvar.” Erik set his own ale horn down with a purposeful thump. “We’re all on the same side in this instance.”

Lord Dagr cleared his throat with a sound like a buffalo roaring, so that eyes swung toward him. He sat with his arms folded, his food and drink untouched, scowling ferociously. His sons stood behind him, young mirrors. “Is he, though?” he asked, in his low, rumbling voice. “Is he on our side? Why would he align himself with us when he’s out in the wild Wastes with those lawless killers all the year long?”

Ragnar’s shoulders hunched; he looked hunted. When he opened his mouth to respond – no doubt with the sort of cutting, mocking remark that would have Aeretollean nobility up in arms, Erik broke in.

“Because he’s my cousin,” he said, levering intentional authority into his voice. “Because, if you’d ever bothered to take note, Lord Dagr, the clans of the Waste are not a monolith. They all have different cultures and beliefs, and they come into conflict with one another routinely. If my cousin Ragnar says they were set upon by a strange clan, then I believe him.” He sent a look around the table that he knew to be a challenge…

One which no one accepted.

Askr drained an ale horn, and, slightly breathless, said, “My question is: what are we going to do about it all? Are we to be harried all the way to Dreki Hörgr?” He lifted a hand – one that held an axe. “I say we fortify ourselves here, let them come, and kill the bastards!”

More than a few cheered him on.

“We still don’t know who they are, my lords,” Birger spoke up, dampening the moment.

“The fucking Beserkirs,” Haldin Askrson said, and turned to spit on the flags. “Who else?”

“The Beserkirs haven’t made use of that kind of shaman in decades,” Leif said. Erik felt a surge of pride for his nephew; Leif was, unlike himself, always reasonable, always cautious. He looked at problems from every angle, and never flew off the handle, the way Erik had, and was still wont to do. “If they’re using them now…then things have changed, somehow.”

“Things do change,” Náli said. He had a seat at the table, and his plate sat untouched before him; one of his men nudged an ale horn toward him. “But I don’t…I don’t know if it’s the bear-shirts.”

“No one’s asking you to diagnose, Náli,” Erik said. “I do think it’s most likely the Beserkirs, though. This is how they operate: they can’t defeat us in arms, or with numbers, so they pick us off and spook us instead.

“It’s important, my lords, that we not allow ourselves to be spooked.” He sent all of them a stern glance, and while most nodded, all averted their gazes; some grumbled under their breath. “We must stand firm,” he pressed, “and stand together. That’s the only way to end this.”

“Hmph,” Askr snorted into his ale horn. He thumped it down hard on the table, and fixed Erik with a fierce look. “I still say we take the offensive. If they want to sneak around in the woods, then let us sneak first – let us lay a trap. We’ll slaughter them all and mount their heads to ward off anyone else who would dare. Ha! Like the good old days.”

Despite himself, Erik felt the tug of a smile threaten. “Pikes, huh?”

Ragnar said, “I obviously approve of that.”

Erik sighed. “I’ll think on it. We’re staying here for two nights, to rest the animals. For now, hold fast, and get some sleep. The walls are well tended in Redcliff, are they not, Lord Askr?”

The man snorted, offended to have even been asked.

Servants came in toting trays heaped with savory pastries, and the gathering broke up; men sought more food, more ale, and their own tables.

Erik had his ale horn refilled, caught Ragnar’s eye, and tipped his head toward one of the fireplaces. He noticed that when his cousin pushed up from the table and moved to follow, he was limping.

When they were settled in two leather chairs before the hearth, well away from the conversations of others, Erik said, “All right. What really happened out there?”

Ragnar froze, horn halfway to his lips. “Sorry?”

Erik snorted. “You only pretend to have good manners when you think you’ve done something to anger me. Something attacked your men, and someone did a good job roughing you up. But what really happened? Since when do Beserkirs pick fights with the Úlfheðnar within sight of an Aeretollean castle?”

Ragnar stared at him a moment, then took a long swallow, and glared at him, afterward. “Nice to see my own flesh and blood doubts me.”

Erik gave him a look.

Ragnar sighed. “I’m telling you the truth this time. We realized we were being stalked two days out of Aeres. I didn’t want us to get to the mountain pass before they attacked us – that’s a good way to get your whole fucking clan killed.”

Erik nodded.

“So we decided to make camp outside Redcliff – that was where I’d left all those who wouldn’t come to Aeres anyway. When we arrived…” His hand tightened on his horn, and his gaze shifted toward the fire, bright from the flames, pupils small – scared. “My own men very nearly shot us. It was dusk, and they were – they weren’t just ready, Erik. They were frightened.” His gaze returned, entreating. “They said that there was a beast who’d been stalking them for days: a big shape, branches shifting, always out of reach of the firelight. Every time a hunting party ventured out, one man failed to return.”

“There are wolves and bears in these forests. Spotted cats.”

Ragnar sat forward, firelight glinting off his teeth, now, as he snarled. “My boys know how to handle wolves, and bears, and spotted cats. This was something different.”

Erik thought of Oliver’s face gone slack, his eyes huge and glassy. Something, he’d said. Something he could feel in the back of his mind. It was too easy to recall that pale shape passing by overhead, the press of wind from wings too large to belong to any bird he knew. And the thing in the water…

He took a slug of ale. “Something different like what?”

Ragnar leaned even closer, his voice a low hiss. “You heard the stories at last year’s festival.”

“Beserkir stories.”

“And from the Jǫtunns as well. Cold-drakes have been spotted in the mountains. Raiding goat pens and fishing in the lakes.”

Erik shook his head. “Unproven stories. It’s been a very long time since drakes of any kind lived out in the open, here or anywhere.”

“Unproven stories until now,” Ragnar pressed. “Ask your Drake lover – ask him if he can talk to them. If he can hear them singing.”

He thought of Oliver falling; the dead weight of him, dripping and freezing. His blue lips forming soundless words that were not in any spoken language.

He frowned.

And Ragnar perked up, brows lifting. “He has, hasn’t he?”

“No.”

“Look at your face – he’s heard something, or he’s felt something. There are drakes, but…” He grinned humorlessly. “You don’t want to believe it. Is that what happened earlier, by the lake? Did the beast call out to him and he tried to walk across the ice to get to it?”

“No,” Erik growled, his chest tight, seething suddenly. “No, he slipped. There was nothing in the water – a trick of the light.”

Ragnar’s grin spread, disbelieving now, mocking. “Gods, you stubborn sod. What are you afraid of? That he’ll tame himself a dragon and fly away from you? After all, what could your bed have to offer that’s better than that sort of freedom and power?”

“Ragnar–”

“He could return home, and be celebrated. Toasted as a hero and a magician, too. They’d probably even legitimize him, and then he could be the Duke of–”

Erik surged to his feet, leaned forward, and snatched Ragnar by the front of his tunic, pulling him in so their noses nearly touched. “Understand, cousin, that Lord Askr only extends his hospitality to you and your men because I asked him to. I can have you thrown out into the cold to fend for yourself at a moment’s notice. Do not provoke me. Do not talk about Oliver.”

Ragnar’s grin had fled.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Erik released him, roughly, and left the hall. He waved off several invitations and inquiries. Shook his head at Birger when he made to follow.

At the top of a small, private spiral staircase, he found the guest suite reserved for important visitors – royal visitors, in this case. And he found Oliver in a chair by the fire, nearly hidden beneath a heaping pile of furs and blankets. All that was visible was his nose, his eyes – gleaming dangerous as a wildcat’s in the fire and candlelight – and one curl of ruddy hair that lay against his forehead.

Erik bit back his initial laugh.

Two servants were bearing away the wooden tub and a pile of wet linen. “He’s had a bath, and some tea, and some wine, Your Majesty,” the one with the linen said. “And we’ve applied all of the blankets.”

“I can see that,” he replied, mildly. “Thank you, I’m sure it was very helpful. Can you have a supper tray sent up for him?”

“Yes, right away, Your Majesty.”

When they were gone, Oliver shrugged, sending furs and blankets tumbling off his head and shoulders to puddle around his waist in the chair. Beneath, he wore the velvet dressing gown that had once been Erik’s, and which Erik now loved seeing him wear. He said, “I am roasting alive.”

Erik let his laugh out, unchecked. “Better than freezing to death.” He crossed the room, ignoring Oliver’s glare, and pressed fingertips to his neck; his skin was warm from being bundled up, but not feverish. Then he plucked the stray curl off his forehead, smoothed it back, and checked there as well, with the whole of his palm. Again: warm, but not burning.

“For the record,” Oliver said in his driest voice. “I don’t enjoy being treated this way.”

“Like someone important?” Erik asked, withdrawing his hand, and taking the chair opposite. The fire had been built up high, and it was, in fact, too warm on the side of his own face.

“Like a child.” Oliver unwound fur from his arms and huffed a sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, curls springing up in wild profusion. His braids, Erik noted, had come undone.

As if sensing his thoughts, his little ping of regret that must have shone on his face, and in his gaze, where it rested on the loose hair behind his ears, Oliver said, “I took the beads out so they wouldn’t be lost in the bath.” He fished into the pocket of his gown and offered them for show, glittering in his palm. “Will you redo them?”

Such a little request, but it filled Erik’s chest with warmth. “Gladly.” There was a low footstool close to the hearth, and he hooked it with his toe and dragged it over; positioned it between his feet at the base of the chair. He accepted the beads, and watched, transfixed, as Oliver stood, and shed the rest of his wrappings, left only in the too-big gown that showed his sharp collarbones, velvet pooling above his bare, delicate feet.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Oliver said, cheeks flushing a shade deeper before he turned his back and folded down onto the stool.

“Like what?” Erik asked, smiling. He sat forward and raked his fingers through auburn curls longer than they’d been a month ago; just long enough to hold braids. Oliver’s hair was glossier and slipperier than his own; it slid like silk through his fingers.

“Like…” Oliver fidgeted, and didn’t finish.

“Like” – Erik leaned in closer, so he could smell soap, and clean skin; so his lips and beard could tickle at Oliver’s ear until he fidgeted some more – “you’re beautiful?”

That earned another sigh.

“You could try to argue the opposite, but it’s an argument you won’t win.”

Silent, Oliver lifted his hand, offering a comb and the stoppered bottle of oil that Erik used on his own hair.

“Thank you.”

Erik had always found the act of braiding to be as enjoyable as having his own hair braided. It took concentration, and dexterity, but no great or trying thought. His mind was free to wander – though it usually fixed on the emotion and meaning behind whatever plait he was weaving. Love and pride for his nephews, when he braided them up as princes. The same, full of old memory, on the rare occasions that Revna plonked down in front of him and asked him to, in her own words, do her the honor. The beads she wore then were different than the royal beads her maid braided into her hair every morning – the beads of a beloved sister and confidante.

Now, as he oiled and sectioned out Oliver’s curls, he was filled with bright affection – an affection that deepened, and warmed, and became more permanent every day. It was layered in with the sharpness of want in his belly, and admiration; a strong urge to protect, and defend, and make happy. And with a love that he had admitted with all but words: none of his people could look at Oliver and question whether he was loved, but in deference to the ways that Oliver still flinched away from devotion, on occasion, he hadn’t said so aloud. He should, he thought, kicking himself a little. Because his feelings were as complex, as intertwined, and as fiery as the braid that he fastened with three jeweled beads: ones that announced their wearer as lover, mate, and royal consort.

When he was finished, far too soon – Erik looked forward to someday hence when Oliver’s hair was much longer, and could be braided up in a proper Northern style – he rubbed the excess oil into the back of Oliver’s neck – until he bent forward and offered the whole of his nape, sighing out the tension that Erik had seen between his shoulder blades.

In a small voice, he said, “I’m sorry to have worried you today. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Erik guided him back, until he leaned against the chair edge, between his own spread legs, so that he could put arms around him. Could slide a hand inside the opening of his dressing gown and pet over the smooth skin of his chest. Oliver shivered. “I wasn’t trying to – to embarrass you in front of anyone. Or treat you like a child.”

“This almost sounds like it could be an apology, with a little work.”

Erik snorted, and pressed his face down into the top of his head. “I’m not sorry I kept you from getting hypothermia.”

Oliver tsked.

“But I am sorry if I caused you mortification.”

“I suppose I’ll have to be happy with that.”

Erik found a nipple, and traced it with his thumb until it tightened.

Oliver sucked in a breath. But then said, “Wait,” and stilled Erik’s hand with his own. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh.” Erik’s stomach tightened unpleasantly. “Yes, well, it’s fine if you don’t want, of course–” He withdrew his hand; sat back.

“No, not that.” Oliver stood and began pacing, tight circles between their two chairs, beads clicking faintly. He chewed at his lip. “I was thinking about what happened today. And last night, too. That sort of thing has never happened to me before – not before my last bout of marsh fever.” He paused, and turned a rather lost look to Erik. “I don’t know why it’s happening now, I don’t feel like I’m coming down with anything, but something – something isn’t right.” He shook his head. “I’m worried this is a warning sign. That I might be getting sick.”

The tightness in Erik’s belly became a lurch of fear. “Shit,” he muttered, “I should never have dragged you–”

Oliver stopped him with an upraised hand. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. We’ve been over this, and the reasons I needed to come are still valid. Travel isn’t the issue. I was just thinking: I have a tendency to…deny when I’m getting ill.”

“You mean when you pass out in hot springs and nearly drown yourself?”

“Yes, that.” He rolled his eyes, and then grew serious again. Doubtful, again. “Olaf gave me a tincture. Something he thought I should use just in case. A blend of herbs and ice rose.”

Erik frowned. The ice rose had worked before – or else the ice bath had, or the fever had simply run its course. As strange as Oliver had been behaving, he didn’t relish giving him a hallucinogen.

“He said,” Oliver continued, “to put a few drops under my tongue before bed if I felt like I might be on the verge of a relapse. That it was better to try it preventatively, rather than risk spending a week laid up in bed.”

They didn’t have a week for that, Erik knew. But if Oliver should fall ill, he would do every single thing within his power to ensure that he was warm and safe in a proper bed, and had access to every kind of herb, medicine, or wild shaman cure possible.

But the thought of him falling to fever at Dreki Hörgr, in the wilds of the true Wastes, put a lump of panic in his throat.

“Are you saying you want to take it now? Tonight?”

Oliver hesitated, then nodded. “It’s not a matter of want. But I don’t want to risk being struck down in the midst of all this” – he gestured – “madness. I was far too much of a bother today.” He rolled his eyes again, and this time, Erik knew he was exasperated with himself. “Here I am, trying to prove myself to your people, and I’m swooning into lakes like a maiden in a story. Get me a corset and some smelling salts, why don’t you.” The last was said more viciously than was warranted, and Erik wanted to put arms around him again.

“Come here,” he said, and Oliver came. Allowed himself to be pulled down to sit sideways in Erik’s lap – with only minimal protest, of the sort that left Erik grinning, and cupping his jaw, turning his face so they were nose-to-nose. “Whatever you need to do, I want you to do it, and I will watch over you.”

Oliver twitched a small, wry grin. “You’re very big on promises and kingly declarations.”

“It’s a good thing I’m a king, then.”

The wry grin softened into something true…one that turned wobbly. “I don’t want to take that stuff. I hate feeling like I’m not inside my own mind. That I can’t defend myself.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself. Not while I’m here. I won’t let anything touch you.”

“Bold words.”

“True ones. So long as I’m with you, you’re safe.”

This earned a sigh. But then Oliver turned his head and kissed his palm, a soft press that left Erik’s insides shivering pleasantly. “Dumb king,” he murmured against Erik’s sword calluses.

“Take your medicine,” Erik said. “I’ll be here.”

~*~

A supper tray of pork, pork, and more pork came up, with an afterthought crust of bread. Oliver picked at just enough of it to stop Erik from scowling; they shared a cup of wine, Erik undressed and washed, and then it was time. Oliver placed three drops of Olaf’s tincture under his tongue, the taste sharp and minty and overpowering, and then lay down beneath the covers, inside the welcoming circle of Erik’s arms. His stomach jittery with nerves, he wasn’t sure if he would sleep – but he did drift off, between one note and the next of the low, old song that Erik was humming.

It was dark for a time; he didn’t know how long.

When he opened his eyes, he knew that he was no longer inside his own body.

He stood at the edge of the lake, looking out across its moon-silvered surface. It was night. Stars wheeled, and thin, patchy clouds scudded past a nearly-full moon. His breath misted, when he exhaled, but he couldn’t feel the cold in his lungs, nor on his face – nor on his feet, which were bare, as were his calves. The wind flapped the tails of his dressing gown around his legs.

The scent of cookfires reached him, and he started walking, drawn inexorably forward.

It didn’t take as long as it should have, to circle the tip of the lake, and head for the trees. He seemed to take three strides, four; saw the dance of flames, and the snow-dusted humps of hide tents; five steps, and he heard laughter, and singing, joking; six, and stood behind a fire ringed by men dressed like Ragnar, drinking from skins while a great haunch of meat roasted on a spit made of fresh-split sticks. Grease dripped down into the fire, sizzled on the stones.

One man said, “Admit it: you fucked a sheep once.”

“I did not!” the accused shouted, red in the face, slurring a little.

Raucous laughter followed.

The accuser stood, licked grease off his fingers, and staggered off into the trees after declaring he needed to piss. He disappeared between two trunks – and, moments later, there was a scream.

And another – another. High, blood-curdling screams of pain and terror.

The men at the fire stood, all off-balance from alcohol.

“Olar!” one shouted.

Oliver started walked, tugged again, as if compelled. He skirted the campsite, moved toward the trees, and stood, waiting. Ready to witness what occurred next.

He did not view it as himself – as his awake, conscious, quick-to-panic self – but as an objective observer, as though this was merely a fiction story he’d come across in one of his books. It made sense to him, what he saw – was believed out of hand, because no part of someone’s imagination should be doubted.

Oliver stood, the wind tugging without teeth at his gown, and watched a shape glide out of the trees. It moved on all fours, naught but a play of shadows on the snow. He had the impression of size, of height and of length. He could hear the snow crunch beneath its feet; heard something dragging along behind. He heard a whimper, a strangled, bubbling yell, and then a crack, and then silence, save the tread of feet, and the whipping-behind of – of a tail. He saw the way it lashed the shadows, saw the glimmer of moonlight on a white like polished pearls.

Then it glided from beneath the cover of the trees, stood bold in the moonlight, and stretched fully upright. A triangular, horned head, and a long, serpent neck on sloped shoulders. Its body was of a size with a very large draft horse, though the overall beast was larger, given the length of his slender, scaled, claw-footed legs. A sequence of ridges started small at its withers, and grew larger at its hips; ran like jagged teeth down the length of its long, tapered tail.

A dragon. Perfect, pearlescent white, its leathery white wings folded up at its sides, their spiked tips dragging in the snow. It held the missing man in its jaws, his still form dangling, dripping blood.

As Oliver stood, the creature turned its – his head; Oliver sensed it was a male, just as he sensed that it knew him, somehow, that it offered him no threat, only recognition. Its eyes glowed blue as sapphires, that same, ethereal-bright color from Oliver’s dreams. His visions.

It stared at him a long moment, made a low, rushing sound through its slanted nostrils, then turned and continued on, unbothered. The dragon made its way down to the lake, where a broken place in the ice offered a hole through which he ducked his head, and slipped sinuously through, down into the water, gone in one elegant flash of white scales in the moonlight.

Oliver’s vision washed blue, a sudden tide of it. His ears popped.

When he could see again, he stood amidst a colonnade of trees. Men were screaming. In front of him, a man lay slumped back against a tree trunk, body struck-through with arrows. He was whining like a frightened, cornered animal, and above him stood a two-legged, furred creature with antlers. It reached down, and forward, its posture nothing human, and with a flick of one hand – moonlight glinting off sharp points – it slashed the man’s throat.

It straightened, and turned toward Oliver. Its pale face was streaked with black, but human eyes stared out at him. The whole thing was human, was just a man, but clothed and costumed and painted up to look like something otherworldly.

The air around him seemed to pulse, though, a throbbing that lifted off his skin, and into the forest. Behind the figure, something moved through the trees, laced with shadow; it coalesced into the dragon, again, with its blue eyes. Its growl was a low, reptilian pulsing edged with a hiss. And when it neared the antlered shaman, it lowered its head, and the growl became a low, wounded sound of pain.

Oliver saw blue, again.

And then he saw clouds – from above. He dove and ducked through them, the white shredding like sugared confections. Down below he saw vast stretches of white snow cut with shining ribbons of water: creeks, streams, rivers. Pine forests huddled at the feet of the great, granite mountains, all of it so small from up here, so insignificant. A herd of wild deer raced across the tundra, no bigger than ants. And then, over the next patch of forest, a caravan of humans and horses and reindeer-drawn sleighs.

His vision went blue.

He stood at the mouth of a cave, a dark hollow that led down into an icy hillside, dark, studded with stalactites like fangs. As he passed inside, he heard the drip of water, and a low, now-familiar rumbling. Magnus’s voice said, “That is no bear.”

No, it’s a dragon. It’s my dragon.

There was blue.

And then there was a different blue. A pale, freshwater blue, not glowing, but no less luminous – more so, for being well-loved.

Oliver blinked, and he felt the softness of a mattress at his back, and the weight of a familiar form poised above him. Erik’s black brows were knitted together, lips pressed to a flat, worried line.

His hand was warm on Oliver’s face. “Ollie. Ollie, can you hear me?”

His mouth was terribly dry. He swallowed, cracked his lips apart, and croaked out, “Yes.”

Then he saw the faint scratches on Erik’s neck. Reached for them with trembling fingers. “Shit. Did I – did I do this?”

“You started thrashing and I couldn’t wake you.” Erik made a strange face, not quite a grimace. “At first you were struggling, and then you – tried to kiss me.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t know where you were or what was happening. I thought it wrong to return the favor.” Erik’s tone suggested he thought he might be in trouble.

Oliver laid his fingertips over the scratches he’d left; felt the jump of Erik’s strong pulse beneath. He still felt a little floaty, he realized; very certain, but only half tied-down to this world. It was an oddly peaceful sensation, with none of his usual self-consciousness to get in the way of things.

He said, “I knew where I was.”

Erik’s brows drew even tighter together, somehow.

“I was in the clearing, where Ragnar’s men were attacked. By the lake. I saw a shaman dressed like a beast. And I saw a dragon.”

“A dragon,” Erik repeated, tonelessly, his body holding very still.

“It was white with blue eyes. I watched it kill a man and take him into the lake, under the water. I think it knew me.”

“All right.” Erik’s throat jerked beneath Oliver’s hand as he swallowed. “A cold-drake, then. Like the sketches in the books?”

“You think it was just a dream,” Oliver said, but not accusingly; he didn’t feel any frustration or anger at not being believed. He felt nothing but warm, and soft, and very sure – and very admiring of the way concern tweaked Erik’s face at sharp angles. “You think I transposed a drawing I saw in a book into a hallucination. That it’s all muddied. But it’s not. I saw what happened at the lake. There’s a dragon out there – and I think it’s being used. I think it hurts, however they’re controlling it.”

“They?”

“The shaman. His people. Whoever they are. They’re using magic, and the dragon doesn’t like it.”

“Right.”

“You don’t have to believe me,” Oliver said. “But you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Yes, you are.” Oliver grinned up at him; wound a thick braid around his wrist and tugged. “It’s sweet.”

When their lips met, Erik didn’t respond, at first. Oliver pulled back far enough to bump their noses together and say, “I promise I’m awake, and very, very willing.” He tipped his head, and kissed his lover again – and then Erik was kissing him back, desperately. It was passion, but it was worry, too, Oliver could feel. The harsh breath against his cheek, the faint quaver of a hand before it landed on his chest, and pushed his gown over one shoulder.

Oliver opened his mouth, inviting, but not, he thought, as Erik’s tongue flicked between his teeth, yielding. He didn’t want to yield; didn’t want to be soft and passive. Thrust both his hands into Erik’s hair and gripped tight; lifted up into him, seeking body heat, and friction.

Erik palmed over his chest, fitted his fingers to the grooves of his ribs, and tried to press him down to the mattress.

Oliver pushed back, arching upward – until Erik’s hand slid to the small of his back, and pulled him in, instead. Until Erik bit at his lip with a low, pleased growl that wasn’t too unlike the growl of the dragon in his vision.

Oliver shuddered and clung to him. Hooked a leg around his waist, and kissed back with equal fierceness. When Oliver pushed, Erik went over easy enough, onto his back, hands framing Oliver’s waist. He was panting when their lips parted.

“I’d thought,” he said, high cheekbones flushed, braids unraveling across the pillow, “to be gentle with you, after today.”

Oliver felt hot, but not feverish; felt bold, but not unsteady. He felt sure: of himself, of what he wanted, of the moment. “I don’t want gentle.” Whatever his face did, it caused Erik’s to smooth with surprise.

“What do you want?”

He couldn’t put it into words, not now.

Ties were unlaced, dressing gowns shed, and left to puddle on the rug. Erik found the vial of oil in their bags, and, when Oliver stood, shivering, on the carpet, caught him by the face and reeled him into his warmth, his strength, and kissed him.

“Still with me?” he murmured.

Oliver still felt sure – didn’t know how he’d gotten lost there, a moment – and he nodded. “Please.”

Erik stretched out again, let him straddle his hips; stretched him open with oiled fingers while Oliver dug blunt nails into his stomach, shaking, relishing it, hair falling forward so that all he saw was a gleam of red, and the want of Erik’s eyes, just below him. That first moment, when Oliver sank down on his cock, took his breath. He’d wanted this, needed it, after he’d gone wandering, after he’d flown. He felt possessed – but also in possession, the way Erik’s head pressed back, his throat straining as he hissed, and gripped Oliver’s hips, and still, waiting for Oliver to move first. At his mercy.

This was so very different than anything he’d ever experienced before. Sex had always been a desperate, seeking, unanswered straining of two separate people with only a passing shared goal. This, with Erik, was a joining, was mutual. Oliver could feel desire – a belonging – in each huge breath beneath him, in each squeeze of fingertips and grunt of strained breath. This moment said I know you.

It was too much.

Oliver closed his eyes as he rolled his hips, lost to the overwhelming weight of sensation and knowledge. It was so very good – and in his mind’s eye, he saw the clouds again, the North unrolled beneath him like a quilt stitched of beautiful white banners. His eyes burned, and he dimly registered the hot track of a tear slipping down his cheek.

“Gods,” Erik murmured, “love.” The mattress shifted – and then Erik was sitting up, was putting arms around him, holding him, helping to lift him, driving his pace. Lips and beard teased his throat; hands petted his waist, his chest; held his nape and supported a suddenly-weak neck.

Oliver melted. He was flying, flying, but Erik had him; Erik wouldn’t let a bad thing touch him.

“I love you,” he heard himself say, words pressed to a sweat-damp temple. “I never thought…Gods, I love you. So much.”

The gentle press of Erik’s teeth at his throat sent him over the edge, and everything was white, and blue, and wonderful.

8

The farther north you went, the lower and quicker the sunrises. Leif stood on the parapet of Redcliff’s bleeding walls and watched the first candle flame of sunrise flicker to life along the horizon, a warm flush against a bank of gray clouds, framed by low foothills. He hadn’t slept well, and was sore and tense because of it, headache building behind his eyes.

In a little while, he would go down to breakfast, fill his belly with something hot, and see what Uncle wanted to do about last night’s strange threat. For his own part, he liked Askr’s idea of taking the fight to their enemies: why should a king and all his lords hurry and hide like deer running from wolves? Why not make a stand? He knew why, practically – but there were moments when practicality set his teeth on edge.

The thump of the door and the scrape of a boot over ice-slick stone warned him of someone’s approach. Náli drew up beside him, wind lifting his pale hair like streamers. One glimpse of his face proved he hadn’t slept much either.

Leif said, “I’d tell you you look half-dead, but that might be a compliment, I don’t know.”

A flicker of a smile. “Hm. Trust me when I say that it does pain me to admit that there might be a shred of cleverness in you, Torstanson…”

Leif rolled his eyes. Sickly or not, Náli was still very much his annoying self.

“…but you aren’t far off the mark.” He breathed an unsteady sigh. “It always takes me a moment, after I go walking, to find my way back. A good night’s sleep usually does the trick. But this time…” He shook his head. “I still feel as if I have one foot on the other side, even now, standing here with you. It’s pulling at me.”

Leif had never fully understood Náli’s powers, but that sounded more than a little alarming. “Has that ever happened before?”

“No. Never.” His throat moved in a painful-looking way when he swallowed. “There is magic here. Out there. Whether the shaman we saw that night is truly a skinwalker remains to be seen: but he is powerful. I think he’s keeping me like this.”

Leif rested a hand on the stone ledge and turned to face him fully; stared at his elegant profile. “Can’t you shake him off?”

“Not so far.” It was said lightly, but his voice shook.

“Have you…I don’t know. Tried communicating with him?”

“I haven’t dared.” A thin laugh escaped him, and, after, he clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling it. Then his arm fell, as if it was too much effort to hold it up. After a shuddering breath, he said, “Vagn says I need to abandon the festival and return home. That being back in the Fault Lands will soothe me. But…” He turned to Leif, finally, and the fear on his face left Leif wanting to take a step back. He didn’t, but only just. “I don’t want to.” A whisper snatched by the wind. “I don’t want to be neck-deep in the dead when I can’t pull myself out of the pit.”

Leif felt his brows go up. “Shit. I mean, well – don’t go back. Not until you have to.” He put a hand on Náli’s shoulder because it was what Uncle always did to him, to brace and encourage him. “We can look after you here.”

Náli stared at him a long moment, then he blinked, and his face became a mask of polite revulsion. “Yes. How noble of you.” He reached to brush Leif’s hand away – Leif let it fall with a spike of anger at having been dismissed – and said, “But I assure you, I can manage quite on my own.”

“I’m sure you can.”

Náli offered one of his fleeting, insincere smiles – one undercut by the exhaustion in his eyes, and turned away.

Leif called after him: “This magic.”

Náli paused.

“Is that what’s affecting Oliver, too?”

Over his shoulder, expression contemplative now, the Corpse Lord said, “No. No, I don’t think it is. Not exactly.”

~*~

Oliver woke sore in good ways – and sore in not-so-good ways. He recognized the familiar, welcome ache of vigorous sex…but also the soreness of riding, and the pains that came after having been too cold and drawn up tight and shivering. He rubbed the grit from his eyes, frowning, and realized that Erik sat on the side of the bed.

A large, ringed hand settled on his hip, over the bedclothes.

“What time is it?”

“Early. Stay in bed a while longer and I’ll have a tray sent up,” Erik said, voice gently commanding, concerned gaze backlit by fresh, silver sunlight.

Oliver struggled upright, wincing, and didn’t refuse the help of a hand beneath his elbow. He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Just need some tea.”

Erik frowned. “Do you remember much of last night?”

“I remember all of it. Quite distinctly.” Even the parts that had felt surreal and soft-edged. It hadn’t been like drinking too much, and losing details; wasn’t piecing it together now in flashes. But trying to explain the way it had felt like flying, the way he’d been in his body, with Erik, in the moment, and also somewhere ethereal and not physical…that would only worry Erik more.

One of Erik’s brows went up. “Quite distinctly?”

“I…” There was a knot in his throat, suddenly. “Yes.”

There at the end, before he’d finally slipped into one of the deepest sleeps of his life, lulled there by sparkling ecstasy and exhaustion, he’d uttered something deeply personal, deeply vulnerable. Something he’d not given voice to yet. I love you.

It had seemed ridiculous at the time not to have set it yet. There could be no other word for the way he felt; of course he loved Erik, just as he felt loved in return. Words were for children, for young, starry-eyed lovers caught in steamy affairs.

Why then, now, did he feel an uncertain dropping in his stomach when he recalled confessing it? He wore Erik’s beads in his hair, and they traveled together; he was acknowledged not just as a lover, but a consort. Had been called your lordship by Erik’s nobility.

How could those three small words leave him trembling now?

He expected Erik to ask about it, but he smirked and said, “So, dragons?”

Oliver frowned – though he was relieved. “If you’re going to doubt me, I far prefer Worried You to Mocking You.”

The smirk widened into a grin, and Erik chuckled. “Sorry, love, you don’t get to choose.”

“No, I didn’t think I did.” He heaved a dramatic sigh, just to earn another laugh; then hitched up straighter and fixed Erik with as stern a look as he could manage. It must have been quite stern, the way Erik’s chuckling died away, and his face blanked. “I did see a dragon, though. The same one, multiple times. It wasn’t a hallucination, Erik. I think – I think it was showing itself to me.”

Erik’s jaw tightened.

“You yourself were the one who convinced me of their existence. And now you doubt? You said the Drakes had some sort of – I don’t know, magic of a sort. That they could bond with dragons in a way no other family could.”

Erik glanced away, muscle in his cheek leaping. “I did say that.” His voice had gone grave.

“Is that true? Or were you just feeding me lines to flatter me?”

The blue gaze skated back; narrowed. “If I flatter you, it isn’t with lies.” He sounded offended by the very idea.

“So you believe the Drakes possess some – ability to communicate with dragons.”

“Not in so many words.”

“And you believe dragons did exist, and perhaps still do.”

A nod – a grudging one.

“So why don’t you believe me now?”

Erik sighed. “It isn’t that I don’t believe you.”

Oliver lifted his brows, waiting.

“I’ve been dealing with these clans and their tactics for a long time. I tend to look for the most obvious answer to a question, because it’s usually the correct one.”

“Wow. That wasn’t patronizing at all.”

“Ollie.” The next sigh was exasperated. “I don’t doubt that you saw a dragon last night – just like I also don’t doubt that some extraordinary force is at play that’s causing you to black out and have visions and collapse.” The last was bitten out, and Oliver tried to remember how frightened Erik must have been, fishing him out of the lake. “If we’re dealing with the shamans of old, from my grandfather’s time, then they have wily and frightening powers to bend men’s minds. I don’t doubt you – but I also don’t doubt their ability to make you think you’re seeing a dragon.” Before Oliver could protest further, he said, “They’re getting to Náli, too. Anyone who’s even a little bit sensitive to magic is in danger of being tampered with right now.”

Oliver started to respond – and squelched himself. His first instinct was to lash out. But, if he was being practical, he would have absolutely doubted himself just a few weeks ago.

He rubbed at his eyes again. “I don’t know how to explain this: but I know what I saw. I know it in my gut.”

“I know.”

Oliver peeked through his fingers. “You’re being very rational. It’s a little infuriating.”

Erik grinned, fleetingly. “I’ve been told I’m always infuriating.”

Oliver nodded, and let his hands fall into his lap.

“How are you feeling?” Erik reached up to push his hair back and feel his forehead.

“Tired. Cranky,” he allowed. “But I don’t feel sick.”

“Try not to fall face-first into another lake, and maybe it’ll stay that way.” He stood, easily avoiding the kick Oliver aimed at him from under the bedclothes. “Get some more rest.”

“No.” Oliver squared his shoulders, and felt the gesture lacked something the way his dressing gown slipped down off one. “I want to prove that I’m not some fainting flower. I want to go down with you.”

Erik studied him a moment, lips pursed as if he meant to argue – but then he nodded. “Very well. I’ll wait for you.”

~*~

Tessa yelped and nearly dropped the armload of books she carried. When she glanced up from closing the door to the royal solar, she found Rune standing in the center of the room, clutching the back of a chair with knuckles nearly as white as his face.

“Rune! What are you doing out of bed?”

He raised a finger to his lips, expression distressed. “Shh, I don’t want Mother to hear.” He glanced wildly over his shoulder in the direction of her bedchamber – and nearly toppled to the floor.

Tessa set the books on a table and rushed to his side. She pushed her shoulders up beneath his arm, and put her arm around his waist. “Here, lean on me. Let’s get you to the sofa.”

“I don’t want the sofa,” he said with a groan, but shuffled along obediently.

She could tell that he was trying not to lean on her too much, which was a good thing, because he was heavy. Though lean and rangy with youth, he was tall, with broad shoulders, and was made entirely of muscle, she surmised, as she felt the whole, hard length of his side pressed against hers.

Her face heated, as they inched their way across the carpet. His feet were bare, and pale, and large; his ankles and calves sprinkled with dark hair. He wore a linen nightshirt and a dressing gown – loosely belted; the tie slid and threatened to give just before they reached the sofa.

Rune all but fell the last distance, and dragged her with him.

“Oh!” She caught herself with a hand against his chest, which left him hissing in pain. “Sorry! Sorry!” She scrambled back to her feet – not easy, given the way her skirts had gotten tangled with his legs.

“No, you’re fine,” he said, panting, grimacing. “It was – jarring. But it wasn’t you.” He ghosted a hand over his wound.

And Tessa ghosted a hand to her throat, where her pulse fluttered madly. Because she had seen lords in every dashing kind of pose, in gold-chased armor, with plumes in their helms, smiling and victorious and bowing to admirers – but nothing had ever affected her like the sight of Rune’s loose, tangled hair, and his well-worn dressing gown, and his bare feet, strangely vulnerable on the plush, crimson rug.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, with a firm mental shake. Now was not the time for…admiring.

He probed at his midsection again, and managed a smile through his grimace, cheeks coloring. “Only my pride. Two weeks ago I was bringing down deer with one shot. And now I’m…” He gestured to himself. “Defeated by a walk across the room.”

Tessa sat down on the low table before him. “It’s only natural. You’ve been ill.”

“I’ve been lying on my back like a useless knob.”

“Recovering,” she stressed, shaking her head. “And I don’t believe Olaf said it was good for you to be up and moving around yet.”

He made a face – childish but endearing. “Gods, I’m so tired of being in bed. I’ve never lied down this much in my life.”

“I’m sorry.” She herself hadn’t been ill and abed since childhood; she couldn’t imagine what a young, fit, vital, mischievous young man must be feeling, cooped up and tucked in, fretted over. “I went down to the library first thing this morning,” she said. “I brought you some books. You can read, or I can read to you, if you like.” She gestured toward the table where she’d left them.

He snorted. “I don’t like reading when I’m well.” Then his gaze softened. “I’m sorry. It was very kind of you. I suppose I should…” He sighed. “Take this opportunity to become a more learned prince. Gods. Birger would love that.”

She couldn’t suppress a giggle.

“Ooh.” He brightened. “I should do that. By the time he comes home, I’ll be teaching him about the history of Aeretoll.”

“A lofty goal,” she said, mildly, and grinned when he scrunched up his nose.

He let his head flop back along the sofa back, gaze skyward, and blew a stray piece of hair out of his mouth. “Uncle and Leif will be at Redcliff by now. They’ll stay for two nights.”

“Redcliff. Isn’t that Lord Askr’s home?”

“Yes.” He tipped his chin so he could meet her gaze, his own sparking. “The walls there bleed.”

“What?”

His grin reappeared, easy this time. “That’s what it looks like, anyway.” He launched into an eager explanation of the red clay soil around Lord Askr’s keep, and the way it had mixed with the mortar and melted down the castle’s façade in a semblance of blood.

He talked then of the keep’s interior, of its homage to warriors old and new, the readiness of weapons on nearly every wall, and the martial nature of each tapestry and painting. She could see it in her mind’s eye: this fearsome place that was nevertheless warm inside; could smell the pork roasting, and the sour notes of the ale flowing freely. She realized she was grinning hugely by the time he told her about his ill-thought-out attempt to skate on the lake last year, with Leif, and Haldin Askrson, and some of the other young lords.

“I thought Edda would go straight through! Leif said, ‘That bit’s thin, don’t go over it,’ and he immediately skated right over it, and there was this crack.” He laughed, and then winced, hissed, and clutched at his middle again. All the humor and happiness that had accompanied his story bled out of him in an instant, leaving him pale and unsteady. He ducked his head a moment, hair falling forward in a dark curtain, concealing his face.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “I can’t even laugh. I should be with my brother; I should be watching his back, and helping him support Uncle, and I can’t even laugh.”

She ached with wanting to touch him. It was becoming a near-constant impulse, the way she felt drawn to lay a hand on him, to stroke his hair, to soothe him the same way she would Oliver. Ingrained Southern propriety held her back, every time: it wasn’t proper for un unwed young lady to touch an unmarried young man; even less proper if that unwed young man was the younger brother of her intended.

But her heart broke for him.

She glanced toward Revna’s room, convinced that their laughter would have roused the lady of the house, but the hall stood empty. Hilda wasn’t here – Tessa had wakened and begun her day before the maid arrived. It was only the two of them, and Rune was hurting – in more ways than one. She took a breath and said, “Rune, would you like me to braid your hair?”

His hair, long and half-snarled from sleep, had been shivering and dancing as he breathed. It stilled, and then fluttered as he let out a deep exhale. He tipped his head up, fractionally, so that he looked at her from beneath long, dark lashes, startlingly pretty set against his sharp, masculine features. He looked…almost guarded…and that left her nervous.

“You…would want to do that?”

She knew that certain braid styles, and certain beads held particular meaning for Northerners, but she had the feeling, suddenly, that she hadn’t realized just how much meaning.

It was too late to rescind the offer; she wouldn’t rescind it. If he refused her, so be it. But she hitched herself up straighter, met his gaze unflinchingly, and said, “Yes. I would.” When his eyes widened, she added, “I thought it might be in your face; it’s normally braided back out of your eyes.” And your eyes are so lovely to look at, she managed not to say.

“Oh.” He swallowed, and reached to run a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his face. Color flooded his cheeks, and his gaze darted away. “That would – that would be good.” Another swallow, throat bobbing. “I’d like that.”

He gathered himself as if to stand.

Tessa shot to her feet, staying him with open palms. “No, don’t get up. Tell me what you need and I’ll get it.”

He subsided with a wince, and a frown, frustration writ in the lines of his face. “There’s – there’s ties on the table in my room. And beads. The rectangular ones.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, and the comb, and the oil, too. You’ll need those.” His gaze dropped all the way to the floor, lips pressed to a thin, unhappy line.

Sending her to fetch things for him, she knew, humiliated him, even if it shouldn’t have. But she didn’t think saying that would help, so she went to collect beads, ties, comb, and oil from his messy desk – how it continued to be messy while he’d been lying abed and the maids had been tidying, she didn’t know – and returned to find him staring toward the silver-lit windows, shoulders hunched, one had cupped protectively over his middle.

She paused a moment, at the mouth of the hall, the ache in her chest spiking. It was easy to envision him as a young Erik, his dawn-limned profile so similar to his uncle’s. And all too easy, also, to imagine that Erik had once been as bright and carefree as Rune…but that, little by little, life had shown him how to build up an armored plating.

She wanted to help – really help – but all she could do now was this: offer kindness and hope it did at least a little to ease the sting of regret.

“All right,” she said, walking forward, trying to make as much noise with her skirts as possible. “I think I have everything we need.”

Rune startled, a little, glanced around toward her; made as if to get up.

“No, you can sit there, it’ll be fine.”

He lifted his brows, doubtful.

“Not the best angle, but I’m sure we can manage.” She motioned for him to sit against the back of the sofa, and moved a small, round-topped table over to hold her supplies. “There, that should do. How much oil, do you think? Just a little palmful?” She was babbling, she realized, over-bright and cheery, to cover for the way her pulse had begun to throb.

“Yes.” He shifted; reached to lift his hair and drop it over the back of the sofa. “That should be fine.”

“Any requests? I’m not as deft with it as Hilda or Astrid, but I did always love to braid hair – my mother’s, mostly. Amelia never wanted to sit still long enough to let me practice.” Babbling, she scolded herself. “A braid over each ear, maybe? And one down the back?” She’d brought a barrette, too, to gather his hair back from his face.

He hesitated a moment. “Whatever you think is best. I’m not picky about it.”

“All right.” She took a deep breath that did nothing to relieve the tightness in her chest, and unstoppered the oil. It smelled of pine, and of citrus; working it between her palms left her thinking of barges pulling into harbor, crates packed with lemons and oranges from Drakewell hothouses.

Funny, she thought, how the world works; funny the fruits of her homeland ended up braided into this beautiful prince’s hair.

Hair that, when she took it in her hands, and ran her oiled fingers through it proved so much thicker and heavier than she’d expected. A great, dark, lion’s mane of hair. She brushed it back from his face, first with her hands, and then with the comb, working the oil all the way to the ends until it was damp and gleaming. She was hyper aware that it was Rune, and not her sister, or mother, or even a horse’s tail, but after a few minutes, instinct kicked in, and she separated a section above his left year, and then split it into three. It was a tricky thing, but she’d seen the men around the palace wearing braids like this, and after a few false starts, she managed to get a small, skull-hugging braid started, up and over his ear.

“Mother usually does this for me,” he murmured, voice hushed. “When I sit still long enough. She’s always saying I’m old enough that I should look the part of a prince, rather than a forest ranger.” She couldn’t see his face, but could hear the faint smile in his voice. “Sometimes I do it myself, when I’m in a hurry.” Which would explain the sloppy, falling-down quality of his braids most days, the flyaway wisps that touched his face, softened the harsh edge of his jaw.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “on a special occasion, Leif and I will braid each other’s hair. And Uncle will add a braid or two of his own for us, and mark them with his own beads, to show that we’re his heirs.” The last was said with a note of pride.

“Each bead means something different, doesn’t it? It’s almost like heraldry.”

“Yes. Sort of. Those are my father’s beads, you have there.”

She froze in the act of snapping one of the long, rectangular, rune-carved silver beads to the end of the braid she’d just finished.

He hummed, and she took it as encouragement; fastened the bead and then lowered the whole braid slowly.

“They mark me as Torstanson,” Rune continued. “Leif has some of the same.”

“They’re lovely.” She passed a fingertip over the carved, silver surface. “We don’t have them in Drakewell, obviously. But my father had a ring that was his father’s – a family ring. He gave it to John when he turned eighteen, so that John could…” Her throat closed as reality slammed into her. John was dead; his body hadn’t even made it home by the time she’d left. Who knew where the ring was now, or if it would ever be passed down to another Darke descendant.

“I’m sorry,” Rune said, quietly, and tried to glance back over his shoulder.

“It’s fine.” She touched his head, stilling him, and picked up the comb again. Blinked hard as she moved to start a braid above his other ear. “What other beads do you have? Erik wears all sorts, I’ve noticed.”

“Right.” He resettled. A note of forced cheerfulness entered his voice – one she was glad of. It drove off the last of remembered grief. “Uncle wears more than anyone, which is only right, considering he’s king. He’s got family beads, and beads of rank and office; beads to show alliances, and beads for brave deeds during wartime. There’s even one – and he denies this so don’t ask him – that’s made entirely of rubies, and it’s for cutting a man’s head clean off at the neck with one stroke during battle.”

“Oh, my.”

Rune laughed. “Leif and I don’t have as many: we have beads that mark us as princes, besides the ones that mark us as Uncle’s heirs.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely. Leif is the eldest, the crown prince, so he has extra for that. And a bead to mark his skill in the training yard – one day, maybe, we’ll have battle beads as well.”

She paused, strands of hair wound round her fingers. “Do you hope to see battle?”

“Yes,” he said, right away. But then: “Well. I…I thought that. For a long time.” He seemed to sag a little, the hair pulling in her hands. “It’s not much fun getting stabbed in the gut, though.”

“I should think not.” She resumed braiding. “Besides: a king’s value doesn’t lie in his wars.”

“No?” He snorted. “Try telling that to a Northman.”

“Your uncle battled because he had to – same as my family,” she added, grimly. “Not because it was exciting. I can’t imagine Erik wanted to swing a sword at people.”

“Hm. I’ve never asked him.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe so.”

She reached the end of the bead, and finished it with a bead.

Rune said, “I’m sorry if I distressed you.”

“You didn’t.” It was only half a lie. “I find war distressing in general. I know that some men are eager for it – but I wish they weren’t.”

His shoulders lifted, as he breathed. In a voice less than certain, he said, “It’s what I’ve been trained for, my whole life. And I will accept my role in it, if it ever comes here. Just as Leif will accept it when he marries you, and goes South to rule over Drakewell.”

The braid slipped from her nerveless fingers; the bead thumped lightly against his back.

Leif, again.

She was marrying Leif.

She cleared her throat and said, “Well, it’s a very unpleasant topic of conversation. Let’s do the front, now, shall we? And you can tell me about the craftsmen who make such fine beads.”

He told her of Silfr Hall; of the gems from the Fault Lands, and Redcliff, and the mines of a smoky, glum mountain settlement called Gegn, where countless tunnels and halls and tracks delved down into the rock, and gemstones winked along vast seams of gold in the light of pitch torches. He was a skilled storyteller, varying his tone, emphasizing details until they stood out glittering and wondrous, vivid in her imagination.

As he talked, she combed his hair back, added more oil, and secured it at the back of his head with the barrette. Then she started a thick, five-tailed braid, hair like heavy silk between her fingers. The weight of it, the slide of it, the heat of his scalp, and the scent of his skin, just detectable beneath the pine-and-citrus of the oil, lulled her into a sort of trance, one punctuated by the energetic rise and fall of his voice.

He’d lain so many days pale and silent, and now here he sat, awake, and, if tired and sore, so vibrant, so full of life.

So lovely. Strong, but gentle; eager, yet careful.

Tessa was sad to finish the braid, and cap it with a bead. Sad to stand there, hands hovering useless, and be done.

“All finished.” Her voice came out a whisper.

Rune’s story had reached a natural conclusion, and he sat silent a moment, head cocked to the side so she could see the flicker of his lashes as his gaze lowered. His face had gone serious, the line of his mouth soft, poised to speak. “Thank you,” he said, finally.

“I’m sure I didn’t do a very good–”

He turned, faster than she’d thought he could. He gritted his jaw against the pain of movement, but spun all the way around, so he knelt on the sofa; so they faced one another, gazes level.

“Job,” she finished, airless.

Up close, in the full wash of early sunlight, his eyes were flecked with hazel and black; striated with gold. The brains she’d given him framed his face, tidied him – and made him wilder, too, because any man could wear his hair long, but only a Northman wore it braided this way. There was no mistaking what he was, who he was.

The one she wanted.

Her breath shivered out of her, and his fanned warm across her face in return.

He wet his lips, and his fingertips touched her wrist. “Tessa–”

“What on earth are you doing out of bed?”

Revna.

Tessa spun away and strode as quickly as she could without running to the window. She stopped just short of pressing her cheek to the cold glass, her face flaming. They had almost…and Revna had seen…

Down below in the yard, a groom was walking a sweat-damp, saddle-marked horse; another pushed a wheelbarrow of hay into the wide stable doors.

“Mum,” Rune said, behind her, in a startled voice. “I only wanted a bit of air. I was going stir-crazy in bed.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” his mother said dryly. “Nothing like busting open your wound for a little air.”

“Mum–”

“Tessa, dear, I hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”

“Mum!”

Tessa forced herself to take a deep breath, and then another. Schooled her features. Hoped she wasn’t blushing terribly when she turned around and offered Revna a smile. “No, of course not, my lady.”

Revna arched a single brow.

Tessa didn’t retract the honorific. She said, “I scolded him myself when I walked in and found him all but falling over.”

Revna smirked – and, behind her, Rune did too, shaking his head, rueful. His gaze was warm, though, and didn’t help the traitorous leap of her heart.

“Good,” Revna said.

“She offered to braid my hair,” Rune said, a strange note of tension in his voice.

Revna blinked. Glanced slowly from Tessa to her son. “Did she?”

He tilted his head, showing off the braid above his ear, the bead flashing in the light. “She did well, didn’t she?”

“Yes.” Revna turned back, expression inscrutable. “She did.”

Tessa felt the wild urge to defend herself. She knew what Revna must think, especially after witnessing them poised at the sofa the way they had been. His breath on her face, his eyes on her mouth, everything inside her wanting to sway forward, like a flower seeking sunlight.

Her face heated again.

Just as Astrid came in from one of the hallways.

And the main door opened to admit an out-of-breath Hilda. “There you are, Lady Tessa!” she panted. “I went all the way down to the kitchen to look for you.”

“I’m sorry, Hilda, I was bringing Rune some books.”

Bjorn arrived, on her heels. “What are you doing out of bed, you bloody sheep head?” he asked Rune.

Thus the day began in earnest, and Tessa prayed she wouldn’t have to answer for her brief moment of insanity.

9

Oliver walked into Lord Askr’s central hall at Erik’s side, shaved, washed, richly-dressed, and with his head held high, his new ring winking on his left hand.

Gazes lifted; cups paused in mid-air; more than a few smiles appeared; there were some snorts and muffled sniggers, too.

Lord Askr spotted them, and shouted a laugh. “If it isn’t Lord Icicle! How’re all the bits, lad? Anything snap off?” Laughter bubbled up all around him; Askr himself looked very pleased with his joke – and his gaze held a question; a dare. He was still testing, still pushing to see if Oliver would bend…or break.

Beside him, Oliver heard Erik take a sharp breath, prepared to defend him.

But Oliver touched his hand, briefly. Gave Askr a haughty, low-lidded gaze, and in his loftiest voice said, “That’s Your Royal Iciness to you, thank you very much. And I’d offer to let you check the health of said bits for yourself, but, no offense, I find you revolting.”

Silence.

Askr was the first to break. A wide smile split his ruddy face. The laugh started as a rumbling from somewhere down low, and then burst forth in a loud guffaw that had him bent double, wheezing. Everyone else in the hall joined in; a few lifted mugs in silent salute to Oliver, whose belly unclenched in silent relief.

Askr straightened, wiping at his streaming eyes, still choking on laughter. “Gods, boy! That’ll teach me to ask, won’t it?”

“I certainly hope so.” Oliver failed to hold his own grin in check, and earned a wink from the red-haired Lord of Redcliff.

“Are we done?” Erik asked, tone firm.

There was an immediate quieting.

“Aye,” Askr said. “Right you are. Someone bring the king some breakfast.”

Seats had been reserved for them; Leif motioned them over, and once they were settled, platters of corn cakes and sausage were placed before them, steaming tall mugs of strong tea laced with some sort of spirit.

The corn cakes were buttery, and soft, and the first bite proved that Oliver was starving.

Askr came to sit across from Erik, both hands around his mug, and said, “Now, then. What have we decided about our plan of attack tonight?”

Erik snorted around a mouthful. Took a swig of tea. “I wasn’t aware we’d decided anything.”

“Erik, we have to take the fight to the bastards.” Askr leaned forward, eager, eyes bright with the thought of fighting. “We can’t let them hound us – hound you, our king – all the way to Dreki Hörgr, and go limping through the gates like whipped dogs with our tails between our legs.”

“If I remember correctly, we discussed all of this last night,” Erik said, mildly. “Did something change in the night?”

“Uncle,” Leif spoke up. “It’s chancy, I know, but it does make sense. Better to face them here, with a fortress at our backs, than to be set upon on the road.”

“See.” Askr pointed to him. “The lad knows what’s to be done.”

Erik looked unimpressed. “I’m not saying it isn’t a good idea.”

“Ha!”

“But it needs to be a well-thought out, organized effort, and we need to all be in agreement. I won’t send unwilling men out to face an enemy we don’t know everything about.”

“You just finish your breakfast, Your Majesty,” Askr said, “and I’ll get the boys on board.”

Oliver pushed his plate away, and hoped no one saw the tremor of his hand as he reached for his tea.”

~*~

The day was spent strategizing. Erik had hoped to take Oliver into the village, buy him a trinket or two; had even entertained a rather unromantic notion of showing him the pig farms. It was important that a consort of Aeretoll be well-versed in the agriculture and industry of each duchy of the kingdom, so that he might provide wise counsel at meetings. Askr’s wife had a snow garden, surprisingly lavish, given the keep’s fearsome appearance, and he’d thought the white and red of winter roses would make a striking backdrop for Oliver’s cream and auburn complexion.

Instead, he and his lords and warriors pored over maps and talked about gaining the element of surprise.

Every time he searched for Oliver in the sea of faces around him, be it at a long conference table, or up on the windswept parapets, looking out across the landscape, he found him beside Birger or Leif, or even sandwiched between them. He made a mental note to thank his advisor and nephew for keeping an eye out for him; he had no doubts that if Oliver were to fall again, one of them would catch him.

Finally, in early afternoon, a plan had been formed, and agreed-upon, and sealed with a shot of mistress.

Askr went to rally his guardsmen and foot soldiers, and the other lords did as well.

Erik had a quiet word with Birger, and then pulled Oliver aside.

“Come walk with me a minute.”

Oliver fell readily into step beside him – Erik found himself slowing his own strides so that Oliver didn’t have to hurry to keep pace – and turned a worried look up to him as they passed along the upper gallery. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready? Putting on a hundred pounds of armor, for starters.” The last said pointedly: you’d better be wearing armor.

Erik grinned. “We have a little time. I wanted to show you something.”

“It had better be a bloody big sword you plan to hack men to pieces with,” Oliver said in a huff, “because I don’t like this plan at all.”

“Noted.”

“I also don’t like being made to stay inside with the women and children like some sort of invalid.”

“You’d prefer to fight?”

“Gods no. I’m still, despite Bjorn’s best efforts to crush me in the training yard, not a warrior.”

Erik bit back another grin.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Oliver said with a sharp look. “I can tell you want to.”

“You are, as ever, an utter delight.”

“Ha.”

“Come. Through here.” They’d reached a door with a rounded top and heavy iron hinges. Erik opened the way, and motioned Oliver through first.

He stepped out onto the balcony beyond, and froze; probably blinded by the shine of what lay below, Erik thought, just as he was, at first.

“Oh,” Oliver whispered.

Erik blinked, shaded his eyes with his hand, and stepped up beside him at the railing.

It was not the sunniest of days, the daylight half-banked by midwinter clouds. But that didn’t matter, given the mirrors arranged below. The walled winter garden was lined with them: big plate mirrors in rusting metal frames all along the border, secured to the stone walls; mirrors cut to fit the metal frames of obelisks; spherical mirrors of blown glass on pedestals. All of them reflected the snow that lay thick alongside the swept paths – and the profusion of roses. All were of one variety. No tender pink, nor delicate apricot or yellow roses could grow in the red clay of the region. But winter roses, with their red-tipped white petals, flourished beneath Lady Fulla’s careful ministrations. Their stems and thorns were black, stark against the white landscape, and the white flowers. Alone, growing in raised garden beds along every wall, and around ever statue, they would have been a splendid sight; reflected, and reflected back again, and again, on the profusion of mirrors, the whole of the garden was one star-bright portrait of excess; a triad of startling color contrasts.

Erik cupped Oliver’s elbow and steered him toward the top of the stone staircase that led down to it. “Shall we go down?”

Oliver complied, silent, staring; he didn’t bother to turn his head, and Erik didn’t release him for fear he’d trip and fall. When they reached the garden path – marked with years’ worth of red footprints – Erik pulled Oliver’s arm through his own and began a slow stroll.

Oliver reached to cup a flower in his palm, shaking loose ice crystals that rained down on the stems with a musical chime. “What are they?” he asked, voice hushed, wondrous.

“Winter roses. The only kind that will grow here in this soil. The people of Redcliff call them a gift from the gods – a flower to match their lords, and their keep, and their good red earth.”

“I can see why.” Oliver withdrew his hand, looking regretful.

“Here.” Erik broke away from him – only to carefully pluck a ripe rose from its stalk.

“Should you do that?” Oliver asked.

“I’m the king, aren’t I?” He tucked the bloom behind Oliver’s ear, liking the pure white and the deep red against the copper of his curls, and the silver of his beads. He smiled. “It suits you.”

For a moment, a blush pinked Oliver’s cheeks, chasing away the pale of the cold air. Then he rolled his eyes. “I see. I must stay inside away from the fighting, and flowers suit me.”

Erik felt a twist of regret. He didn’t want Oliver to ever feel lesser somehow, because he wasn’t a fighter or a strapping Northern brawler. He was perfect exactly the way he was.

“They suit you because they’re pretty, and so are you.”

“Pretty.” It was not, Erik thought from his tone, the first time he’d been called that.

He frowned. “Do you think I consider you in any way inferior because I find you pretty?”

Oliver’s jaw worked a moment, and then he shook his head, once; the rose threatened to tumble loose. He adjusted it himself, and twitched a wry grin. “No, I know you don’t.” He sighed, and his grin softened into something truer. “I’m sorry. I never expected…” He gestured between them. “I’m still getting used to things – but I’m not ungrateful. Nor do I doubt you.”

Erik had been born royalty; he’d never anticipated being king one day, but he’d always been a prince, would have commanded a certain level of respect regardless.

All of this was new to Oliver. At moments, like now, his uncertainty came roaring back to the forefront. Erik didn’t know what to do, aside from continue to reassure him; to show him that he was respected, and wanted, and valued.

I love you. Oliver had said those words last night, drug-cooled lips against Erik’s temple. Erik had shuddered, and shivered, and nearly come right then. Love. That was what he felt, he knew; the sort of slow-built, sustainable, devastating love he’d never hoped to have. He would not say it back; would not hold Oliver to a declaration he’d made while he was hallucinating. Those were words best saved for a lucid moment; for a moment when Erik was sure that he wouldn’t spook Oliver into pulling away from him, overwhelmed all over again by the turn his life had taken.

There was a confidence he needed to share, though. He took a deep breath. “I wanted to show you the roses. But, also, I wanted to tell you something.”

Oliver stilled, hand at the flower behind his ear, eyes flipping wide. The blush drained out of his face, freckles stark against pale skin. He took a shallow breath. “You do?”

Belatedly, Erik realized what Oliver thought he was about to say.

Too bad he’d already decided about waiting on declarations.

“You remember the prisoner I showed you at Aeres? The Beserkir boy?”

Oliver’s brows lowered; Erik thought he imagined a flicker of disappointment before his expression settled into something serious and businesslike. Attentive. “Yes.”

Erik realized he was spinning one of his rings around on his finger, and forced his hands still. “I interrogated him a second time, after Rune was hurt. I finally got some answers out of him – vague as they were. And then I turned him loose.”

The brows went back up. “You what?”

“I gave him a bag of provisions and set him loose.”

“You…why? He hated you. He wanted to kill you – and possibly every person in Aeretoll, lofty a goal as that is. Erik” – he sounded panicked – “in Drakewell, we keep dangerous prisoners imprisoned.”

“We do, too,” Erik countered. “But I stand by my decision: it was the right one, in this instance.”

Oliver’s look dared him to explain.

Erik reclaimed his arm and started them walking again down the garden path, albeit slowly. He relayed what the young Beserkir had told him, the wild, unwilling gleam of his eyes chilling even now. “He was frightened – but not of me,” Erik said. “Someone had filled his head with hate – with a new kind of hate. The Beserkirs have always loathed us for our Southern ways. They see it as an abomination that we choose to live in gilt halls with carpets and tapestries. They have no use for jewels themselves because their only currency is what they can kill, or steal, or use to barter to gain a wife. All our pomp and circumstance in Aeretoll is anathema to them.

“But this boy – this boy hated us for having and not sharing. For not bettering the lives of the Waste clans. As if I withheld what was rightfully theirs, and that a kind king would have shared purely for charity’s sake.”

A quick glance proved that Oliver’s brow had furrowed, and his nostrils flared. “What? Does that mean it’s all a bunch of rot? They’ve been secretly jealous this whole time, and behaving like children? ‘That’s all right, I don’t want your fine living anyway.’”

“No. I don’t think so. They’ve been honest in their contempt for us. But something’s changed. Someone in this boy’s life left him all riled-up and dissatisfied with being a Beserkir. And the answer they gave him, it would seem, was to punish us, rather than reach out for the first time in friendship.”

“Yes, right. Well. I’m still trying to understand why you turned him loose.”

“As a show of good faith. Someone’s convinced the boy I’m a monster who wants to take his ancestral home. He can no longer believe the lies he’s been fed without question.”

“He obviously still believes some of them.”

“This isn’t him. He’s not had time to return home and raise a force to move against us. If these are in fact the Beserkirs, then he might have met up with them, yes. But releasing him didn’t cause this.”

Oliver sighed. “You made a decision, which is your right as king, and you don’t regret it. I’m not sure why you’re telling me about it at this point.”

Erik halted them again; faced him again. “I wish that I had told you earlier.”

“Why? It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

The rose was trying to come loose again; Erik tucked it back. Oliver’s hair was the same silky-soft texture as the petals, and the small gesture eased a fraction of the tension in his face. “Because whether we’re in agreement or not, I never want you to be asked about something and find yourself surprised. You are my partner and helpmeet, and I want you to know everything that’s going on.”

Oliver studied him a moment, then nodded and glanced off across the garden. “I don’t suppose I can argue with that.”

Erik smiled. “You probably could.”

“Ha.”

“You could argue with a fence post, I think.”

Oliver flicked him lightly in the chest with the backs of his fingers – but a smile threatened. “A king and a comedian. You should do taprooms.”

Then his smile fell away. He tipped his head back and examined the sky. “It’s nearly time, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Erik offered his arm again. “Shall we?”

As they completed the circuit around the garden, and headed back for the staircase, Erik’s gaze was caught by a figure on an upper balcony, leaning out over the edge: Ragnar.

~*~

Of the Úlfheðnar, only Ragnar had attended the morning’s council, and even then he’d kept his distance. The rest of his men had stayed hidden in whatever accommodations Askr had afforded them.

Before Erik donned his mail, he sought out his cousin, and found him where he’d last seen him, on the third-floor rear balcony, staring out across the winter garden, and the mews, and the kitchen garden, all heaped with snow.

“You know,” he said, the moment Erik set foot on the flags, “I’ll give you fancy lords this: the view’s always much better from a castle than it is from the door of a longhouse.” He half-turned his head, smirking over his shoulder. “But I think being this high up leaves you all thinking you’re more important than you are.”

“Or,” Erik said, leaning on the rail beside him, “one could argue that a man with a perspective much closer to the ground tends to feel the need to overcompensate and prove his worthiness compared to that of a lord – and winds up making an absolute dick of himself instead.”

Ragnar gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “I forget how good you are at sparring, sometimes. No one expects a king to be clever.”

“And no one expects a man of the Waste to seek shelter with his soft, Southern relations,” Erik countered. “Will you leave before nightfall?”

“Leave? I’m to take my company to the western fields, we decided.”

“I saw your face during that council.” Erik turned to face him, met with his frowning profile. “You have no intention of staying and clashing openly with the Beserkirs in our company. You don’t want to be seen as on our side. So you will slip away quietly: either before we depart to our posts, or after. Which will it be?”

Ragnar sent him a darkly affronted look that Erik didn’t find at all convincing. “This is bigger than Waste politics now. They killed my men in an ambush, like cowards, and I don’t even know why. We’ll go to our posts, and we’ll stay there, and we’ll fight. Your doubt is offensive, cousin.”

Erik stared him down, searching for the lie, searching for cracks. He knew they were there, but he couldn’t see their shapes, yet. “For your own sake.” He stepped back, prepared to turn. “You’d better hope you’re telling the truth.”

When he was at the door, Ragnar said, “You’ve done nothing but threaten me lately.” When Erik glanced back, Ragnar’s expression had shifted to one Erik had never seen him wear before. Something that spoke of old, deep anger tempered with some new emotion. “You might want to be careful about that, once we get past your borders.”

“Is that a threat?”

Flicker of a smile. “No. A friendly bit of advice.”

~*~

If there were any watchers in the trees, squirreled away behind rocks and stone walls and low spots, waiting to see if anyone moved into or out of Redcliff, they would have spotted two farmer’s carts loaded with hay, moving out of the village and off toward the sheep and cattle pens on the hill. Pulled by heavy draft horses, they made their way ponderously over snow, the studded iron shoes of the animals leaving deep red crescents in the wet clay beneath. Both carts pulled into an open-sided hay barn, and cows and sheep gathered on their respective sides of the wall, lowing and bleating in turn. Anyone watching would doubtless have lost interest in this bit of mundane agriculture by the time the farm hands climbed down from the wagons and began forking hay into the pastures.

That was the hope, anyway.

Erik brushed hay from the front of his tunic and grimaced as he felt more of it inside his clothes, pricking at his bare skin. Hay was insidious like that. When he glanced up, Leif was grinning at him. “What?”

“It’s all in your hair.”

When Erik patted the top of his head, it crinkled.

Chuckling, Leif plucked a long stalk from the side of his head and flicked it over his shoulder. His own hair was coated with a fine layer of hay dust, a few wispy stalks scattered amongst his own braids. Smiling as he was, carefree for the moment, he looked incredibly young, and Erik knew a shiver of worry. As important as it was for Leif to become a proper warrior in his own right, there would always be a part of Erik that wanted to spare him that necessity; that wanted him safe back at the keep with Oliver.

Frowning, he said, “Get it out of your system now. You’ll have to hold your tongue for hours.”

Leif rolled his eyes, but nodded.

Hay exploded from the other wagon, and Askr barreled out spitting hay stalks and cursing under his breath.

“Still proud of your plan?” Erik asked.

Askr rumbled unhappily, but said, “Aye. I didn’t hear anything better coming from anyone else.”

It was a good plan, truth told, if itchy at the outset and, no doubt, cold by the end. They’d agreed ahead of time to splitting into three groups. Erik would lead one, Askr the second, Lord Dagr the third.

Ragnar would lead his own group, an uncounted-on fourth group.

Dagr worried Erik, a little. Ingvar had offered, and would have been a better choice mentally, but Ingvar, getting on in age, wasn’t the best candidate for floundering through the snow after dark, potentially while fleeing an enemy. Lord Edda, Ingvar’s son, was to go with him; Erik had more confidence in his courage than that of the older lord.

The farmland around Redcliff was too vast and sprawling to guard every approach to the keep, but after a day spent consulting maps, they’d come to a consensus on the most likely spots. Their own hiding places had been chosen accordingly.

Erik hadn’t told his lords about Oliver’s assertion that a dragon was part of the enemy party, but if one was, they should be able to see or hear it. Erik thought it most likely a trained bear on a chain – he hoped that was the case, too.

A narrow goat path led out the back of the hay shed, hugged the stone wall until it passed beneath a canopy of bare-limbed trees, and eventually reached a gate that would give them access to a patch of forest beyond. They made their way slowly and cautiously while the grooms bellowed for the cows and the melee of eating covered any other sounds. The sun was setting by the time they’d all filed through the gate, secured it, and gathered beneath the sentinel pines. Erik motioned to two men-at-arms, and with nods they went to scout the area. Another two gestures split their groups, sent them on their way.

Askr saluted with his axe, and led his men down the hill between the tree trunks with a wave.

Dagr nodded, and his contingency headed for Red Creek, a half-mile distant.

“Uncle,” Leif whispered at Erik’s side. “Do you want me to go with him?” Even more quietly, “I’m not sure I trust him in this.”

Pleasure over his perception didn’t drown out Erik’s worry. “I’m not sure I do either,” he whispered back, and turned to face his nephew. “But, no. I want you by my side.”

Disappointment flickered in Leif’s gaze, there and gone again.

He thinks I don’t trust him, Erik thought. He thinks I’m watching him to make sure he doesn’t blunder.

I’m watching you because I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you.

Erik squeezed his shoulder. “Come. We should get to our position.”

Leif nodded, and fell into step beside him.

~*~

Despite the cold, nightfall saw Oliver up on the parapet at the front of the keep, looking out across the village, its windows glowing with candlelight, and out the gates, across the farmland, toward the forest. The lake gleamed still and bright as glass, beneath the moon – a moon nearly full in a cloudless sky, the snowy fields and plains glazed silver in its light. If anyone or anything approached the keep, it would be visible.

Supper was under way in the great hall below, and Askr’s wife – a stern-faced, formidable counterpart to her husband’s affable blustering – had offered Oliver a place beside her. He’d declined, as politely as he could. His stomach was too full of nervous butterflies, to start, and sitting at a table of women had felt far too on-the-nose. He’d come up here, receiving nods from the guards left on duty, and tucked himself into a windbreak along the crenelated rooftop, watching, waiting, hoping to see nothing at all.

He kept remining himself that Erik and Leif were both strong and capable; that they knew what to expect and how to defend themselves.

Oliver let out a slow breath, saw it mist to vapor in front of him. It did little to settle his nerves.

Behind him, the sound of uneven footfalls. A step, a scrape, a thump that didn’t belong to a human foot.

His first thought, the jerk of instinct, was too ridiculous to name – the moment he thought animal, he knew he was wrong. (He didn’t dare think dragon.) A subtle glance over his shoulder proved that a stooped man approached, one with a pronounced limp, walking with the aid of a heavy walking stick.

A young man, Oliver realized, as he drew alongside him, and not the graybeard he’d expected. He would have been tall had he stood erect, and his shoulders were still broad, though muscle and fat had melted away – if they’d ever existed – and his left leg lagged behind. The moonlight afforded a glimpse of fiery hair – but cut short, cropped so it fell around his ears, more like Oliver’s own, and he had no beard. The nose and square jaw were unmistakeable though; coupled with his hair, it was obvious who the boy’s father was. This was Lord Askr’s son.

“Hello,” Oliver said, facing the landscape again, not wanting to be caught looking too closely. He knew too well the weight of scrutiny, and didn’t ever want to wield it against someone else who might feel…different.

“Your lordship,” the young lord greeted, his voice deep like his father’s, but more somber. “Apologies for not taking part in your welcome last night. I haven’t much stomach for war councils, these days.”

“Neither do I,” Oliver said. “I never have, really. But I keep getting plopped down in the middle of them.” When he sighed, the young lord chuckled.

Oliver turned to face him, and offered his hand, the way they did in the South. “Though you doubtless already know, I’m Oliver Meacham. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Instead of a regular handshake, he had his forearm clasped in a sure grip. “Ahni Askrson.” He released Oliver’s hand, and adjusted his grip on his walking stick. “Lord Askr’s older son,” he said, turning away, glancing out over the wall.

“Ah. That explains it, then.”

He caught the shine of pale eyes as they slid over in the dark.

“Why your brother Haldin was a party to Prince Rune’s drunken archery contest at Aeres. Younger siblings are always haring off to cause mischief first, and asking themselves if it was wise later.”

Ahni studied him a moment, then glanced away again, corner of his mouth flicking faintly upward. “Aye. Haldin’s a great idiot.” He frowned. “But being an idiot’s less of a handicap than being lame.”

“I’m sorry–”

“No, no. It’s…” His voice became wistful. “I should be out there. With them. But I’m here.” He thumped the end of his stick off the wall. “And that’s, well…I suppose the gods know what they’re doing.” A beat passed, and then Ahni said, “You can ask, you know.”

“I didn’t want to presume. I have a rude enough reputation as it is.”

Ahni laughed. “Father was right about you, I see.”

“Hm. Depends on what he said.” When Ahni gathered breath for a reply, Oliver said, “But I’m not going to ask. It’s not my business.”

It was silent a beat, save the audible gulp of Ahni swallowing. In a stiff, proper tone, he said, “Thank you, your lordship.”

“I wonder if that will ever stop sounding strange,” Oliver wondered aloud. “Your lordship. I can’t seem to get used to it.”

“Well, technically, you haven’t had the title long.”

Oliver snorted, and heard Ahni laugh beside him. “How very like your father,” he said, and Ahni’s laughter only doubled.

Wind gusted up and over the parapet, funneling through the crenelations. Oliver flicked up the ridiculous, wolf’s head hood of his mantle and drew the edges of his cloak in tighter.

“Perhaps you would like to wait inside, your lordship,” Ahni suggested.

“Oh, please, it’s just Oliver. And no, I’ll fret myself to death if I’m inside. At least up here I can–”

The sound reached him on the next wind gust. A high, whistling cry that could have been the wind through the gaps in the mortar, or the distant call of a fox.

It wasn’t, though. Oliver knew it wasn’t. Just as he knew exactly what it meant when the edges of his vision flared blue.

“Oh.” He gripped the edge of the wall in front of him. “They’re here.”

“What?” Ahni leaned forward beside him, craning his neck out over the edge. “Who’s here? I don’t see anything.”

Oliver’s chest squeezed tight, and the blue pulsed, and he felt that weight, like a caress at the back of his awareness. It was a greeting, a recognition – a cry for help, too. “Give it a moment,” he said.

“Wait,” Ahni said. “What’s – I see something.”

~*~

They must have been waiting for three hours at this point. A man could march or ride or work all day in the grip of a Northern winter, and, if he had the North in his blood, and was properly dressed, he barely felt the cold.

Sitting still was another matter.

Their watch post was, in fact, an actual post: a small, round stone platform with a wooden, slate-tiled roof, set back in the trees, camouflaged them, and offered a view of three of the most-navigable game trails that snaked down like white ribbons from the upper hills. The gaps in the canopy offered enough moonlight that anyone traveling on foot through this part of the forest would have been impossible to miss.

Unless he was using magic, Erik’s brain supplied, unhelpfully.

Beside him, Leif didn’t shiver, but he shifted often, tugging at his cloak, working his hands open and closed inside his gloves.

Another gust of wind rattled the ice in the branches overhead – and brought with it a sound that no wind gust had ever made. The high, piercing cry came from far overhead; it was no hawk shriek.

Erik sat forward, trying to peer up past the edge of the roof. All he could see where snow-heavy branches and a wedge of clear, velvet sky.

The benches on which they were seated creaked as the rest of his party stirred.

“What was that?” someone hissed.

“Spotted cat,” someone else offered.

“Not a cat,” Erik said, gaze dropping to the forest around them. “Shh. Listen.”

The next sound to reach them was much closer, much more mundane, and definitely human. A cough. It went on for several seconds, and then cut off, after a low hiss. Voices traveled strangely amongst the trees, atop a bed of thick, fresh snow.

After a few moments of scanning, Erik spotted them: at the head of a game trail, three figures, moving at a jog, half-crouched, fur-wrapped boots all but silent on the snow. He saw the shadows and glittering tips of the spears they carried; saw backs and shoulders distorted and humped from the heaped-up layers of fur they wore. Their cloaks sported cowls dotted with two small, round ears, and protruding, fanged snouts: bear skulls. Beserkirs.

Erik gave no signal nor spoke no command; they’d agreed on their course of action ahead of time. He stood, and moved soundlessly across the platform, down its other side. Set off through the trees, keeping low, plastering himself to their trunks for cover. He heard Leif behind him, the soft crunch of deep snow, and knew that Magnus and Lars followed. He carried a horn at his hip, but he didn’t plan to use it. If he’d judged this right, he wouldn’t need to.

The game trail led down the hill in a serpentine pattern, a path the deer had carved over many years of tread, avoiding the larger rocks and protuberant roots, seeking the way of least resistance. Even jogging, it would take the men several minutes to make their way down it, long enough for Erik’s group to reach the stream that bisected it, frozen and gleaming like spun glass in the dark.

Erik fetched up against a tree and waited, breath held, listening. The Beserkirs were coming.

On the other side of the path, his own back pressed to another tree, Leif met his gaze and nodded, his sword already drawn, held upright in both hands.

Erik reached over his shoulder to wrap fingers around the grip of Krig, his father’s old sword; he loosened it in the scabbard, and waited, waited, counting his own heartbeats.

When he reached ten, he heard one of the Beserkirs say, “Hold on. I thought I heard–”

Erik whirled around the tree, drawing his sword in one long, practiced movement; the steel scraped against leather, a sharp, unmistakeable sound, but one that would reach his quarry too late. He’d stepped out behind the three men, and he didn’t bother slowing; caught the third in the side of the neck with his blade, and blood fountained out, black in the moonlight.

He didn’t scream; only choked and spluttered as he went to his knees. Erik pulled his blade – now black and steaming – free as the man fell forward onto his face, and was ready to parry the spear of the second one.

Erik stole one fast glimpse of the third man – just as Leif stepped out of his hiding place and ran him through – and then he sent the spear spinning through the air and off the path, and stayed the edge of his blade against the last man’s throat.

The man froze.

“On your knees.”

He folded down to them slowly, empty hands held out to the side, eyes rolling wide and white-rimmed in the shadow of his bear-skull cowl. Erik tipped his chin up with the tip of his sword, so the moonlight struck his painted face. Then he used the sword to push the cowl back around his neck, revealing a series of tight, bone-studded braids.

“Where are the rest of you?” Erik asked. “What sort of beast did you use to attack the Úlfheðnar?”

The man bared his teeth, a pale, wet gleam in the dark. He hissed, but said nothing.

“What sort of beast?” Erik repeated, pressing harder with the sword.

The high, piercing animal scream sounded again – much closer. Then a horn sounded: three sharp blasts of alarm.

The Beserkir hissed again – a hiss of laughter. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Erik slit his throat. As the body fell, he said, “Go. That’s Dagr. Watch for archers.”

The fastest way was also the most dangerous: the game trail.

“Erik, let me in front,” Magnus urged. He and Lars and their fellow guards carried round wooden shields studded with iron. He hefted it up, and took point, preceding their party.

Erik ground his teeth; he wanted to go faster, was having to shorten his stride. But he saw the wisdom of using the shield. Getting shot would only slow them further.

Sweat was sliding down his back and temples by the time they left the cover of the trees. They emerged into the clearing that Dagr was to have been guarding – and into a battle.

Erik brushed past Magnus, ignoring the gasp of his name and the pluck of fingers at his cloak. He needed to see.

Dagr had boasted some twenty men in his party, a few of which now lay lifeless amidst black arcs and splashes of blood on the snow, the rest of which were engaged in hand-to-hand skirmishes with Beserkirs all in full cowls, so that the scene was that of men fighting bears – bears with spears and crude axes.

Dagr himself held the horn, his bald head visible in the moonlight, and lifted it to his lips for another blast–

Just as an arrow caught him in the throat.

“Archers!” Magnus roared. “Fall in!”

In a matter of moments, and a flurry of movement, Erik and Leif were crouching in the snow beneath a wall of overlapping shields held by their men-at-arms. Arrows struck the wood with solid thumps. Others landed harmless in the snow.

“We can’t stay here,” Erik said, shouting to be heard above the din. “We have to engage.”

“And get shot?” Magnus said. “No, Your Majesty, that I won’t allow.”

“Magnus–”

“Sorry, can’t hear you!”

Another volley struck the shield; at least five arrows, which meant at least five archers. Even one would have harried them; five could keep them pinned down while all of Dagr’s party were slaughtered.

In the scant gap between shields, Erik could glimpse the lights of the keep, the narrow windows high above the village. Anyone up on the walls would be able to see what was unfolding below. He hoped, for Oliver’s sake, that he wasn’t watching.

Another horn sounded, farther distant, drawing nearer: Askr’s party, come to join the fray.

And then came the cry again, an ear-splitting shriek from straight above. A shadow passed over the snow: a shadow of wings.

~*~

“Gods,” Ahni breathed. “Gods, do you see that?”

Oliver did, and for the first time, he was seeing it with his eyes, and not in a vision of some sort. His actual vision threatened to give, the blue closing in tighter, tighter, but he blinked, and shook his head, and he watched moonlight strike the pearl-white scales of the dragon that dropped down out of the clouds and began to circle the melee unfolding beyond the walls. It screamed again: that high screech like a bird of prey. It banked, folded its wings, and dove.

Oliver could feel its anger, its sadness, its pain; felt it as sympathetic thorns in his own mind, electric crackles like lightning that left him wincing.

His hand fumbled at his waist, and he felt the reassuring hilt of the dagger he wore. Then, without thought, he spun on his heel and pelted for the door.

“Where are you going?” Ahni asked.

He didn’t bother slowing. “To stop this!”

~*~

The hail of arrows let up. Screams split the air: human, and then inhuman.

Erik bolted up from the ground, ducked around Magnus, and set off across the clearing.

“Erik!”

“Uncle!”

Askr’s men came boiling out of the trees, swords wet and dark with blood – they’d taken out the archers. They moved to engage with the Beserkirs attacking Dagr’s men.

Overhead, the shadow circled, and swelled as the beast descended.

Erik spared it only a glance – glimpsed the flash of moonlight on pale, ridged wings, and on horns, and claws sharp as steel; saw a bright blue flare like the first flame of a cresset, and he knew what it was, but refused to name it in his mind – and pressed forward at a run.

A Beserkir stood in his path, one carrying a spiked club in one hand, and a spear in the other; he stood with his back to Erik as he bore one of Dagr’s men to the ground and lifted the spear, prepared for a fatal blow.

Erik swung; took the man’s spear-wielding hand off at the wrist. As he screamed, and blood spurted, Erik delivered a crushing blow to the side of his cowled head that sent him toppling lifeless to the snow.

“Get up,” he shouted at Dagr’s man, as he passed. “Get up or be killed.”

Two Beserkirs turned to meet his next approach, one with a rough-hewn stone axe, the other with a spear. Erik parried the spear thrust with his sword, dodged the swing of the axe, and whirled low, catching the spearman in the gut. Erik heard the air go out of his lungs; saw him drop his spear to clutch at his abdomen, where red was already seeping through the fur of his tunic.

The axe lifted, prepared to drop – and then Leif was there, driving the man back, slicing cleanly through fur, skin, sinew, leaving the man howling, bleeding, and disarmed.

Erik searched for Dagr, and found him amongst the fallen, feet twitching, but only with death throes.

“Edda!” He spotted Ingvar’s son standing with his sword and face bloodied, breath steaming, expression glazed-over. “Edda, gather Dagr’s men and fall back toward the keep!”

Edda roused himself, and nodded. Called the men to him – those still standing. The ground was littered with arrows and bodies: Beserkir and Aeretollean both. And there were more Beserkirs coming, Erik saw, as a fresh wave of them poured out of the far tree line, screaming like demons.

The beast overhead was screaming, too. Erik cast another glance toward it, saw the pearl flash of its scaled belly. A dragon. A bloody dragon in the flesh.

Where the devil is Ragnar?

Then a cowled man stinking of dead bear ran at him, and Erik lifted his sword again.

And with a shudder, the dragon landed.

~*~

Oliver couldn’t remember the last time he’d run so fast. He pelted down from the parapet, along galleries, through the hall – “Oliver, where are you–” Birger called out to him, as he raced past – and finally out the door and into the stable yard, which teemed with activity: guards barking orders and preparing to mount as grooms led tacked-up horses from the stable. The gig was up: with the element of surprise gone, and the enemy engaged, a cavalry unit was preparing to ride out and give aid.

Oliver had no faith that any amount of cavalry could stand up to a dragon.

He gripped a passing guard’s sleeve. “I need a horse.”

The man pulled up, already scowling as he turned to him – and then blinked when he recognized Oliver. “Your – your lordship?”

It was his first time going from Annoyance to Your Lordship in the eyes of a household servant, and it momentarily threw his focus. He shook himself and repeated. “I need a horse. Quickly,” he added, when the guard only stared at him. “I have to get out there in the field. It’s imperative.”

“Your lordship.” The man frowned, gaze tracking over him. “I have orders that you aren’t to leave the keep.”

Oliver said, “Yes, very well, but that doesn’t matter now. I have to get out there.”

“Your lordship–”

Since explaining about dragons and Drakes and ice and visions would be about as successful as convincing Erik of the same, Oliver dodged around the man, snatched a set of reins from the nearest groom – “Your lordship!” – and scrambled up into the courser’s saddle. He heeled it sharply as the guard moved to take his reins.

“Sorry!” Oliver called, leaning low over the startled horse’s neck as it broke into a canter. “I’ll be sure to tell them you tried your best!”

~*~

Erik braced a foot on the body below him and pulled his sword free of a ribcage with a hard yank and a sickening squelch.

Magnus pushed past him to clash with the next bear-shirt. Behind him, Leif grunted with effort, and the snow crunched beneath the weight of a fallen corpse.

Askr shouted, “Erik! Erik, look out!”

He was looking. Having trouble believing, wondering what in the hell he was going to do – but definitely looking.

The dragon was as tall at the shoulder as the great, hairy yaks of the Waste, made taller by its slender, serpentine neck, and far longer by its tapered, spiked tail, whipping slowly back and forth behind it like the tail of a hungry cat as it stalked toward them, head low, blue eyes burning. Its great wings were folded, and angled back, so that your attention kept arrowing to its face: to its low, sinister horned head, and all its many, many teeth.

“By the Val-Father’s beard!” Askr shouted. “A cold-drake, as I live and breathe.”

“You won’t be breathing for long if you don’t fall back,” Erik snapped. “Move your men. Edda! Retreat! This way.”

The Beserkirs were falling back as well, melting away into the trees from whence they’d first appeared, just as awed and frightened as the Aeretolleans in the face of the drake’s advance.

Erik held his ground, shoring up his grip on his sword. “Pikes to the fore,” he barked, and Magnus issued the order down the line. Askr’s men and what remained of Dagr’s fell in behind the line of pike-bearing guardsman that quickly formed. A horn sounded, distantly, from the keep.

“They’ll be sending riders,” Askr said, shouldering his way in on Erik’s left side.

On his right, Leif had picked up a dead bear-shirt’s spear and held it in one hand, his sword in the other, gaze trained on the approaching dragon, jaw clenched tight beneath his beard.

“We can’t run,” Erik said, facing forward again. “It’ll be on us. You should send your riders back; it’ll only set upon them.”

“And we’re to fight it alone?” Askr roared. “Two fronts are better than one!”

He wasn’t wrong.

Pinpricks of light appeared: torches, moving quickly, carried by riders.

Where was Ragnar?

Erik tried to recall all that he knew of dragons, the things he’d learned in books. “Cold-drakes don’t breathe fire,” he called. “They can’t burn you. If it comes at you with an open mouth, run your pike down its throat. Its most vulnerable at the join of leg and chest, between the big scales there.”

The line of torches streamed forward. The moonlight glinted faintly off the silver buckles and chasing of the tack of a lead horse, one that was only a dark smudge against the snow, far ahead of the others. Its rider bore no torch. It would be close enough for the beast to scent the horse, soon. It might provide a distraction.

The dragon kept coming.

A figure materialized beside it. Tall, still, shrouded – a man-shaped shadow with antlers. A shaman.

Oliver’s words floating back to him, his assertion that the shaman was somehow manipulating the creature, that it was hurting him.

“Give me a bow!” he roared down the line.

Rustling, clacking of weapons, and then a strong yew bow was thrust into his hands. He dropped his sword, took up the new weapon, and accepted the arrow Askr handed off. Nocked, drew, aimed. Felt a twinge in his shoulder that was a good reminder he needed to practice his archery more – stilled, breathed, and fired.

The arrow found its mark – but passed through the shaman. The shape blurred, wavered, and then resettled.

It was only a mirage.

“Fuck,” Leif breathed.

“Here.” Askr shoved another arrow toward him. “Shoot the fucking dragon this time!”

Erik nocked again.

Down the length of the arrow, he saw that the lone, benighted rider had pulled to a halt, close enough now to make out his slight shape as he slid down off the horse and came the last distance on foot, cloak streaming behind him. Close enough for the moon to light his fine velvets, to chase along the silver stitching, and wink off the stitched-on gems. Close enough to show curls bounding on his shoulders. A wedge of face appeared, as the rider looked up at the dragon.

He shouted, and a voice reached them, thin from the distance. “Hey! Hey, look at me! It’s me you want.”

The dragon paused, cocked its head.

“Oliver.” Erik dropped his bow, picked up his sword, and ran.

~*~

There had to be something more appropriate to shout at a dragon than hey, but Oliver was all panic, no creativity at the moment. He’d nearly swooned off the horse twice on the ride from the keep, the blue washing over his vision, a growl that he now knew to be the dragon’s roaring in his ears. But now, finally, he was here, and floundering to run through the deep snow, and shouting “hey,” because he could see Erik’s host arrayed against it, and he knew that some of them would die if he didn’t manage to turn the dragon around.

Close enough to feel the breeze from the whipping of its tail, he skidded to a halt, and tried again, hands cupped around his mouth. “You’ve been calling me! I’m here! Look at me!”

It halted. Its head cocked. Then its neck craned around, and Oliver saw the vivid, glowing blue of its eyes.

A blue that swallowed him. He could see nothing else – but he could hear the low, pulsing growl of the dragon. Not a threat, but a plea again, an inquiry. And beneath its voice, another: a quiet but sinister chant. A human voice.

That’s what was hurting the drake. It was an old and foreign tongue, some lost language whose words Oliver didn’t recognize…but he understood them, somehow. You are mine as I am yours. Let ice speak to fire, and blood speak to blood. The sky shall be ours. A king for a king, a throne for a kiss, when the dragons sing, the throne shall be his.

But they were words said with force, with anger. And there was also a command: submit. Above all, submit. Bend to me, bind to me.

Oliver knew pain, formless and sharp, like the worst sort of headache. It was the drake’s pain, and now it was his. It intensified with every heartbeat, until the vast plane of blue became white with anguish, and black crowded in around the edges.

Stop! A scream inside of him, dredged up from somewhere deep; he could feel the word echoing, tolling like the chime of a heavy watchtower bell. Stop! Leave him alone!

There was a tremendous roar.

And all the colors vanished.

Oliver blinked, and could see again. As the last sparks of white faded, he could see that he’d gone down to his knees in the snow, and that a man stood over him; stood holding a sword, squared off from the dragon, protecting him.

It was Erik.

“Wait!” Oliver gripped the back of his cloak with both hands and used it to haul himself upright, knees wobbly.

His head was remarkably clear, though. And he was certain of something, more certain he’d ever been in his life. “Erik, wait!”

“Get back from it.” Erik tried to drive him backward; used his free hand to try and keep him tucked away. “Get back!”

“No.” Oliver ducked under his arm and moved to stand in front of him.

“Gods – Ollie, come on.” An arm like an iron band clapped around his waist, and the sword flashed in his periphery as it was brandished.

In front of them, the dragon stood very upright, its neck straight, its wings half-spread; it looked more affronted than aggressive. Because it wasn’t aggressive. Oliver knew down to his bones that it wouldn’t hurt them – or, well, that it wouldn’t hurt him.

“Lower your sword,” Oliver told Erik.

In answer, Erik dragged him three steps backward. “You’re insane,” he growled. “We have to–”

“Lower your sword.” He didn’t shout, but he’d never heard his own voice sound like that. As commanding as any king. “He won’t harm us. Just…” He found a bit of temperance, a note of pleading, though his whole body vibrated with energy. “Please, Erik. Trust me.”

It was, without question, the most he’d ever asked of anyone. Trust me in the face of great danger. Trust me that I know this creature of myth and legend won’t eat us whole. Erik’s breath came in sharp pants, hot against his ear; his chest heaved against Oliver’s back. He didn’t speak…but after a moment, the sword lowered.

As did the dragon’s head.

Erik hissed a wordless curse.

Oliver reached out an empty, bare hand in supplication.

“Ollie,” Erik growled in his ear.

The dragon approached, one step, and then another, and then it stretched out its long neck. Close enough that Oliver could smell the sharp scent of frost that clung to it; close enough to see its slanted nostrils flare; to see the black pupils expand in the bright blue eyes.

Slowly, slowly, it pressed its muzzle into Oliver’s palm. Scented him. The skin there – pearl-white – was softer and warmer than he’d expected.

Oliver couldn’t breathe. Erik was immobile against his back.

Just as slowly, the dragon withdrew. Then its wings unfurled with a snap, and it leaped aloft, wings beating hard, breeze sending snow and ice everywhere. In a matter of moments, it had disappeared over the tree tops, leaving behind a depression in the snow.

All around them was silence. Oliver could hear the receding flap of the drake’s wings, and clumps of snow sliding off branches; could hear the faint moans of the dying.

Then Erik snapped.

He let go of Oliver’s waist so he could grip the shoulder of his cloak and spin him around. Moonlight carved harsh lines in his face, painted furious blue eyes and bared teeth.

“Erik, I can explain.”

He drew a ragged breath, chest swelling with it, and Oliver could see the tirade in his gaze, was already mentally flinching back from it.

A voice shouted, “Erik!”

Erik shifted his attention to it slowly, with obvious reluctance.

Oliver took his chance to twist out of his grip, and turn to face the speaker.

It was Ragnar, with all of his men, trotting out of the forest. Blood gleamed on their spears. “Did you see that?” His expression was more than a little wild on his approach. “Did you see the fucking dragon that just took off that way?”

Erik’s voice was like stones grinding. “Yes. I did.”

~*~

Ragnar claimed that his party had ambushed twenty Beserkirs in a hollow along the roadway. They’d fought for their lives, and in doing so left no survivors to be questioned. All the living bear-shirts with which Erik’s party had engaged had fled, along with their shaman, of which there was no sign now.

“Leave the bodies,” Askr said, breath steaming against a black, early morning sky. “I’ll send men to deal with whatever the wolves don’t get.”

The riders arrived too late to fight, but offered up their mounts for the injured. Lord Dagr’s body was wrapped in cloaks and laid over a saddle, as were all the other Aeretollean dead that could be carried.

Oliver was relieved to see Leif, Magnus, Lars, and the rest of the Aeres men on their feet and unharmed save a few bruises and scratches. But it was a shallow relief, one that couldn’t touch the block of ice forming in his belly. A part of him was elated to have been proven right: that there was a dragon, and that it had been communicating with him – there could be no denying, now, that a connection existed there.

But Erik – trading terse comments with his lords and giving quick orders to the men – was furious. It radiated off of him; seemed like it should have melted the snow that dusted the shoulders of his cloak. Oliver earned some back-slaps and exclamations – Askr said, “Gods, boy, but you’ve got an iron set. Er, rather, your lordship” – but men slid him cautious glances, too. They could sense Erik’s mood, same as him, and Leif’s look was a sort of head-tilted warning.

Magnus patted his shoulder and whispered, “Aye, lad, he’ll just blow up a bit.”

None of them said what many had to be thinking: consort or not, Oliver had issued a command to their king on the battlefield. There was no good way to spin that.

It was a somber party that trooped back to the keep. Servants waited inside the hall with cups of ale and warm cider, offerings of cold meat and hot cheese sandwiches. Most everyone slumped gratefully into chairs and accepted a late meal, hungry after having missed supper.

Oliver couldn’t have eaten a bite.

He slipped quietly away, and up the stairs to the suite he was sharing with Erik. Hung up his cloak, took off his boots, washed his face and hands. He was toweling dry when he heard the latch click behind him.

Oliver took a deep breath, and schooled his features in the ghostly reflection the window offered him. Beyond the glass, dawn brushed gentle pink fingers along the horizon.

He set his towel down on the table, and turned around, slowly, braced mentally and physically, muscles clenching tight.

Erik stood leaning back against the closed door, arms folded over his chest, head tipped back against the wood so that the whole of his bare, strong throat was exposed; another man might have looked vulnerable like that, but not him. He looked like every inch the wall that he’d claimed to be, weeks ago: the wall between worlds. Right now, he was the wall between Oliver and all the lords in front of whom he’d commanded a king.

Oliver waited for him to speak. To fume. In the heat of the moment, out on the field, he’d seen the shout – the roar – building in Erik’s gaze. But there was no sign of it now. There was no sign of…anything. Erik watched him down the length of his regal nose, through half-lidded eyes, and his face was a study in marble. Anger would have been resented, but warranted.

Apathy was another matter entirely.

Oliver had been prepared to shout at one another, to square off and spar with hurled words. But in the unexpected face of such cold indifference, he found himself wanting to explain his actions.

He swallowed, with difficulty. “Lady Fulla was kind enough to invite me to sup with her, but I found I didn’t have the stomach for it.” His voice held none of the authority it had earlier; he sounded downright meek, words flickering at the ends, uncertain. “I went up to the parapet, thinking that, from there, I could see any movement, out in the field. I met Askr’s older son, by the way – very toned-down for an Askrson, if you ask me…”

Erik hadn’t so much as blinked. If not for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, he wouldn’t have looked alive.

Oliver swallowed again. “I heard the dragon first, before anything. I saw it – felt it – and then I saw all of you, and I knew that I had to get to you before it did. I had to – to get through to it somehow. To stop it. I didn’t think after that, I just ran.”

“Because you can communicate with it,” Erik said in a flat voice. “Because we were trained warriors armed and ready, but you – you can talk to dragons.”

“I think it’s obvious, after tonight, that I can. So, yes. I communicated with it. If you must know, I think I managed to sever whatever hold that shaman had over it. It won’t trouble us again.”

“The dragon told you this?”

Oliver fought not to ground his teeth. Erik’s tone was maddening. “There are forests and fields of deer out there. Why would it stalk us? The only reason it was ever here was because it was being controlled. The shaman…I don’t know…had sway over it, somehow. It was speaking these words to it–”

“What words? Words like what was coming out of your mouth? Because that wasn’t any language I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve heard every language,” Oliver said, hotly. “Because you’re the smartest man in the whole world. If you’ll remember correctly, you thought the drakes were extinct, so forgive me if I don’t give ground to your superior knowledge in this instance.”

Erik’s nostrils flared as he took a sharp, audible breath, and, finally, the explosion came. But, again, not at all how Oliver had expected it.

He pushed off from the door in a movement shockingly sinuous for such a large man; stalked forward graceful as a panther, but pulled up before he could reach Oliver – who had reached behind him to grip the table edge, head tipping back to meet his gaze, which was, up close, anything but indifferent.

“Did it never cross your mind,” he growled, voice low and vicious, “that the thing might eat you? That you could have died?”

Oliver was reminded, in this moment, of the day he’d first met Erik. Of the indolent and disinterested king on his throne, with his crooked finger, and his chilly stare. He’d marveled at his own nerve, at that first dinner, that he’d bitten back so fiercely, that he’d challenged Erik.

This was different. He wasn’t afraid, now, not as he had been then. Didn’t think that Erik might have him thrown out into the snow; wasn’t afraid he’d be struck down, like he had that day in the training yard – pick it up – when Erik had tried to humiliate him.

This was worse, because now, the cold dread in his belly spoke of a different fear: the fear of being set aside. Of being unloved.

I love you, he’d confessed, in his drugged delirium, and Erik hadn’t said it back. Might never love him, now.

But Oliver had never been one to go down without a fight, stupidly stubborn until the end. “What about you?” he shot back. “You were facing it down with a sword – you looked awfully read to be eaten yourself.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“Because I was ready for it!”

Oliver felt his brows go up. “You were ready to die?”

“I always am,” Erik snarled, turned, presented his shoulder, and stalked toward the hearth. He stood there a long moment, back rigid, staring into the flames.

Oliver waited, and waited – waited for the line of his spine to relax, for his shoulders to drop; for some measure of now-familiar softness to steal over him. But it didn’t.

Finally, Oliver said, “You’re always ready to die?”

“I’m not some soft Southern lord,” Erik spat. “I don’t expect more of my men than I do of myself.”

Oliver wanted to roll his eyes – and to scream. “This again? Was this about honor?” When Erik didn’t respond, he walked closer, so he stood facing Erik’s stern, fire-bathed profile; his jaw was clenched, muscle and tendon standing taut in his throat. “Are you suggesting I – I don’t know – unmanned you tonight? You would have rather had a dragon under an enemy’s spell rip you to bits than let me interfere?” That wasn’t a fair question, and he knew it, but his own pride was stinging, too.

Again, he didn’t think Erik would answer. But after a moment, a muscle in his cheek leaped, and he said, “I told you to stay inside.”

The breath left Oliver’s lungs on a huff of disbelieving laughter. “Are – are you serious? Do you actually…you told me to stay, and I should have stayed?”

“Yes.”

Oliver nodded. “All right. Yes – all right. That makes sense.” He went to the door and stepped back into his boots.

“Where are you going?”

“To get drunk, Your Majesty. Unless I’m being told to stay, again, like a bloody dog.” When no answer came – thankfully, for once – he stomped out into the hall, and slammed the door behind him. The satisfaction of the noise was fleeting. By the time he reached the head of the spiral stairs, he was hyperventilating.

He stopped a moment, pressed his back to the wall, and tried to catch his breath.

This was only an argument, he told himself. Both of them would calm down, and they could stammer out apologies, and they could be stronger going forward after this.

But he’d never been a part of a pair; never had anything like a true relationship, a romantic partnership. And a large part of him now, beneath the anger and frustration, worried that this was not an argument, but a breaking-apart.

When he’d gathered himself, he proceeded down, into a hall that contained an informal, and dwindling party of late-night diners. Only a few remained – a group of guards trailing out as he entered – and those sat in small clusters and groups, nursing ale and picking at mostly-empty platters. Oliver spotted Birger and Leif together, and Leif motioned him over.

He settled gratefully onto the bench and accepted the mug of ale slid toward him with a nod of thanks.

“You all right, lad?” Birger asked, gaze sharp with concern.

“Fine.” He glanced over each shoulder, checking for listeners. No one left was alert enough to be paying them any mind. When he straightened, he met two clearly unconvinced gazes. He took a fortifying sip, and said, “Physically, I am fine.” He lifted his arms, offering himself for inspection. “Not a scratch. Erik hates me,” he said, lightly, “but nothing’s seriously wrong.”

Leif frowned. “You ran straight up to that dragon, and then you clutched your head, fell, and started shouting – something.” His frown deepened. “It didn’t sound like words.”

“I was…” How to explain it. “I’ve been having these…visions.”

“Visions,” both repeated, in identical flat voices.

Then Birger made a knowing face. “That’ll be the ice rose, then.”

“No. No, it – well, yes, I took some last night – one of Olaf’s tinctures. He thought it might be helpful in staving off another bout of fever. But listen: it happened at Silfr Hall, and at the lake, and it happened last night. And once before, during my relapse back at Aeres. Everything goes sort of blue and unreal – it’s like I’m not in my own body anymore, but wherever I am, I can sense the dragon there. It can’t talk like you and me, but it’s communicating. When it happened tonight, I could tell that someone else was communicating with it – forcing it to do their bidding. I remember I said for it to stop – not with words, exactly. I don’t…”

They were staring.

“You think I’m insane.”

They traded glances. “No, lad,” Birger said, carefully.

Leif said, “The old stories say Drakes could tame dragons when no one else could. Maybe this is how: that thing you did.”

Oliver sighed and sipped more ale. “I’m not sure what I did. But I said stop, and somehow, the shaman, or whoever it was, broke away from the dragon. I think, there at the end, when it approached – I think it was thanking me.”

Leif snorted. “Meanwhile, Uncle was pissing himself.”

Oliver winced. “I’m, uh, not his favorite person right now.”

Birger pursed his lips. He turned to Leif. “Lad, get you on to bed. You fought hard, and we’ve to rise early in the morning.”

Leif looked reluctant, but nodded. He drained his mug and stood, wincing and stiff. “Night.”

“Goodnight,” Oliver said.

When he’d shuffled off, Birger picked up his own mug and tilted his head toward the fine. “Come sit with me for a spell. Warm up.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

They settled into tall-backed wooden chairs at the hearth. Oliver stretched his toes toward the fire, its heat evident even through the thick fur and leather of his still-damp boots. He cradled his ale in both hands, and watched the flames, stomach tense, waiting.

Birger heaved a deep sigh. “Ah, lad. Whatever he said, pay it no mind. It’s only that he was frightened.”

Oliver snorted. “I would say furious, instead.” When Birger began to protest, he shook his head. “It comes from a place of worry, I know. But.” He sipped his ale rather than continue. Then admitted: “He didn’t really say much of anything.” He hadn’t had to; it had been a cold fury staring at him from the door. Oliver had seen Erik’s temper flare, but he’d not seen it ice over; he far preferred fire, after having witnessed both.

“Oh,” Birger said, and that one syllable held a wealth of understanding. He sighed again. “Pig-headed boy,” he muttered. “He’ll come around.”

Oliver shook his head. “With all due respect, Birger, I don’t need you assuring me of that. Or,” he added, with a pointed glance, “making excuses for his actions. He’s a big boy.”

Birger met his gaze steadily, expression inscrutable. “He’s also the king,” he returned. “And you gave him orders in front of his men, and his lords. Orders that he followed.”

Oliver thought he managed not to wince. “I was protecting him – and everyone else.”

“Aye. But it remains to be seen what everyone else thinks about it.”

“Gods.” Oliver drained off the rest of his ale and wished it had been something stronger. “For all the big talk up here, appearances are just as important as they are down South. Fine. Next time, I’ll let the dragon eat everyone.” When he got no answer, he snuck a glance that proved Birger watched him with judgement that could only be called paternal. It was a shock: he’d not been on the receiving end of that sort of look much in his life, and then, only from his uncle, never from Alfred.

“Has a queen never dictated to her king?” he asked, a little more levelly. “I was told there have been consorts – are the mates of kings chattel with no voice of their own? I thought the whole point of this expedition was to prove my worth to the Aeretollean people.” He sounded downright petulant by the end, but found he couldn’t stop it, hands gripped tight around his empty mug.

Birger pursed his lips, thoughtful a moment. “If I were a better man, I would repeat what I’ve already said: that it’ll all work out. Truth told, I think that it will. I may not know Erik in the way that you do, but I’ve known him his whole life, and I know that he expresses fear as anger, and I know that the thing he fears most of all is harm befalling anyone he loves.

“But, I’ve been at this post a long time, and I know that a people can think as a monolith at times, and as an absolute scatter, like a murder of crows flying in all directions, at others. What happened tonight – what you managed to do tonight – is a kind of extraordinary not seen in Aeretoll…ever. And not seen in Drakewell for generations.

“The truth is, lad, I don’t know what anyone will think of it, come daylight. Nor,” he said, tone apologetic, “what they’ll think of you.”

Oliver swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. “Comforting.”

“Don’t worry: I still like you.” Birger winked, and Oliver couldn’t help but smile, a little. “And,” he said, growing serious, “Erik still loves you, even if he doesn’t show it much the next little while.”

Love. Oliver glanced down into his mug. Thought of the winter garden, and that moment when Erik had said I need to tell you something. It hadn’t been the confession he’d expected.

“Now,” Birger said, “let’s get you a refill.”

10

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Tessa stopped short, startled, foot suspended above the snow-dusted garden path, and turned her head to find Rune ensconced on a bench tucked back in a depression in the hedge.

Worry flared. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

“I’m sitting,” he said, and tapped the marble edge of the bench with a walking stick – a new acquisition, one of black lacquered wood with a silver head shaped like a wolf, its eyes tiny rubies. “Two of the guards were kind enough to walk me out here like the old man I’ve apparently become, and now I am sitting. And it’s usually freezing: I’m used to it.” He grinned, expression between true gladness, and frustration. It was his first time outside since his injury – but he’d had to be helped there.

She set her foot down. Drew her own cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Started to speak–

“Please don’t say that I should be in bed. I’m sick of bed.”

“All right.”

“And you have been avoiding me.”

She resisted the urge to fidget, because he was right. After Revna had caught them…in so compromising a position…she’d made an excuse to leave the royal apartments, and then stayed away from them, all that afternoon and the next day as well. She’d wanted to go, but her moment of weakness had proved that spending time with Rune was a bad idea for multiple reasons. Namely, that the gossip to which Lady Estrid had hinted would only grow the more hours she spent in the royal apartments, in his bedroom. But, perhaps worse than that, she didn’t feel she could trust herself at this point.

In the course of her deliberation, his expression fell; a slow drop that brought out the lines of fatigue that still marked his brow, and the skin beneath his eyes. He leaned back, so the bare limbs of the hedge caught at his hair – loose and wild, again, her tight braids long since unraveled. “I’m sorry.” His gaze dropped. “I have no claim over your time–”

“No, it’s–”

His gaze lifted, nearly hazel in the sunlight. Cautious, but hopeful.

She said, “I didn’t want to avoid you.”

He flashed a quick, rueful grin. “I should have expected it, though, shouldn’t I? After I…” He gestured between them, groped for the words, then cleared his throat. “Well. After – that. I didn’t mean – that is, I wouldn’t have actually…” He let out a deep breath. “Leif is my brother, and I love and respect him, and you’re his fiancée.” The words sounded as if they’d been practiced beforehand. “If I gave you the impression that I might – might try to act inappropriately.” Tessa wondered, dimly, if Revna had insisted he say this. “I would never put you in that position. I’m sorry for any distress I may have caused you.” He swallowed, after. There, that’s done, his face seemed to say. And also, a little, that he was terrified of her reaction.

She stepped off the path so she stood right in front of him – too close, their knees almost touching. “Rune, you didn’t do anything inappropriate, and you definitely didn’t cause me any distress.”

He tipped his head back to look up at her. “But…” When he wet his lips, her tongue followed the movement, and, oh, this was why she’d kept away. She had no defense against this, against the way even just standing close to him made her feel.

Face heating, unable to look him in the eye, she whirled and sat on the bench beside him – right in a pile of snow, and didn’t care. She clenched her gloved hands together in her lap. Her breath came quick, and sharp; her pulse skipped.

Rune said, “Well. You seem distressed now.”

She laughed, but it was a thin, wavering sound. “I seem to be, don’t I?” The leather of her gloves squeaked as she twisted her fingers tighter, tighter–

Rune’s bare hand covered them, stilling her. She could feel the heat of his skin even through the gloves; imagined she could feel the shape and texture of each callus. A warmth bloomed in her chest, one that boiled, and swelled, pressing at her ribs, heating every inch of her until her clothes felt too hot and restrictive. A flush; a simple, girlish flush of pleasure at being touched, even so chastely – and a desire to be touched less chastely, even if the resultant mental images were indistinct and blurred.

“I’m being so dramatic,” she lamented.

“Tessa.” He said her name so gently. Leaned in close enough for her to smell the pine oil in his hair, and feel the warmth of his breath against her ear. If she turned her head… “What’s the matter?”

“Amelia truly is braver than me.”

“What?”

“My sister. I told you how she was in love with a man at arms? How she refuses to marry my mother’s choice for her?”

“Yes…”

She took a deep breath. “Amelia isn’t afraid to take hold of what she wants, because she’s the brave sister, and I’m…” She did turn her head, then. It felt brave, even if it was only a small thing.

They were closer than she’d anticipated. Much closer.

His breath was warm on her lips, and smelled of peppermint. His face was as blurred, up close, as her imaginings had been, and it would be all too easy, oh so easy…to lean that last distance.

“I–” he started.

And she closed the gap.

His lips were cold, but soft – softer than she’d expected. He held still, frozen as one of the garden statues around them. Shocked by her – she was more than a little shocked herself.

But she didn’t want him to be. She wanted him to want her, as she wanted him, and so she recalled something Lord Reginald had done, the day that seemed so long ago now, before the tourney, when he’d stolen a kiss behind the grandstands. He’d slipped his tongue between her lips, a shocking dart of heat. She steeled herself, and did the same.

His lips were cold, but the inside of his mouth was hot, and tasted strongly of mint. The heat of it, the taste, sent a wild thrill down her spine.

Too much, it had to be too much – she couldn’t believe her daring.

But then he gasped against her lips, and his hands found her face, cupped her jaw, and he was kissing her, suddenly.

He’s done this before, she thought, distantly, as his tongue slid over hers. He’s very good at it.

She closed her eyes, and opened to him–

And a wash of blue flashed behind her eyelids.

She blinked, and she was no longer seated on the bench, kissing Rune. She didn’t know where she was – only that she was standing, and blue light gleamed off jagged points of ice. Before her, an irregular, yawning abyss. It looked…it looked like the mouth of a cave, larger and more sinister than the caves her brother had talked her into exploring as a girl. She could still remember Oliver trying to discourage them – “I once read an account of a man who slipped down into a crack in the back of a cave and died of starvation there; they couldn’t pull him out.”

The old, remembered words seemed to echo inside her head. She turned. “Ollie?”

A voice answered – but not a human one. It rumbled, and growled, and roared.

She blinked again, and saw blue again – but a washed-out, pale blue, scudded with streaks of white. The sky.

Rune’s face appeared above hers, creased with worry, his dark hair sliding over his shoulder and spilling around her like curtains, until his frantic eyes were all he could see.

“Tessa? Tessa, gods, are you all right? Are you sick? Did I…” Hesitantly: “Did I hurt you?”

“I…” Her brain felt sluggish, thoughts indistinct and slippery.

“Tessa?” He touched her face, and then flinched back. “I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have – I didn’t think–”

He thought he was to blame, somehow, and she couldn’t stand for that.

“No,” she managed, “no, it’s…I’m…I saw something. There was – it was blue.”

He frowned. “What was blue?”

“I don’t know. I think…I think Ollie was there.”

Rune’s brows shot up. “All right. You’re going to see Olaf.”

~*~

Amelia had slept poorly. After another (slightly less) excruciating dinner with Lord Reginald and his mother, and her own (slightly less) hostile mother, Malcolm had slipped into her room past midnight, when the rest of the house was asleep. He hadn’t stayed, after; even if Katherine didn’t loathe her, and didn’t seem to be holding a grudge, there was no sense courting more disapproval. Alone in bed, she’d tossed and turned until the small hours, when she’d finally dressed for the day.

They were scouting again, today, in the Inglewood, and every stifled yawn, every over-long blink proved she wasn’t alert enough for that task.

“Lia,” Malcolm whispered, beside her. She shook herself all over and found him leaning in close, studying her with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Only tired.” She knew from his expression that her attempt at a smile failed. “I’m fine.”

“My lady!” one of the men called, and she turned gladly away from Mal’s probing scrutiny. “There’s something you should see.”

They’d dismounted a half-mile inside the forest; this deep, still at the edges of the vast woodland, the road was wide and well-maintained, and the underbrush low and navigable. They hadn’t reached the deep bramble thickets or confusing, interlaced game trails, yet, though already the scent of leaf mold had grown stronger, and the air cooler. The birds that called overhead in the canopy sounded more like shrieking children than twittering songbirds.

She stepped off the road and through a screen of bare-limbed shrubs. “What do you have, Julian?”

Her man was crouched in a shallow depressed bedded with old, half-disintegrated leaves. She followed the gesture of his hand to the curved, gleaming ivory of fresh bone: part of a skull. It took her a moment to make sense of the bit of spine and tawny fur left behind.

She felt her brows go up. “A lion?”

“A big one, too, from the looks of it,” Julian said, voice grim. “It looks like the deer did, my lady. He pointed to the ragged bit of flesh left behind the creature’s cupped, spotted ear. “This isn’t the work of a knife.”

“And if the Strangers had killed it, they would have used every part of it,” she said, straightening, casting a glance around them at the play of sunlight and shadow. It was easy to imagine something waiting, watching them. “They’d never leave the skull like that – they like turning the whole pelts into cloaks.”

He hummed an agreeing sound.

“But what sort of animal would kill a lion?”

Malcolm joined them, leaf litter crunching underfoot. “Bear, maybe? That would be the only thing big enough.”

“Maybe,” Julian said, but sounded doubtful. “It’s winter, though. Most will be sleeping.”

“Maybe it was a female.” Malcolm toed at the bloodied end of the corpse’s snout. “A much bigger, hungry male happened along. It’s not breeding season, so…” He made a slashing gesture, fingers curled.

“Maybe,” Amelia said, “the throat was torn out.” But her gut told her no. Mountain lions were solitary hunters; once a year, they came together when the females went into heat, their yowling cries ringing out through the foothills like the screams of distraught women. Once the females ran off their cubs, they were on their own, hunting in large territories whose edges they marked. Males had been known to kill females, but there was plenty of forest, and plenty of game within it. “Look at this skull, though.” She bent down to examine it again. “Look how square the back of it is. And big. I think this was a male. And there’s no gray on the muzzle.” A glance proved that Malcolm and Julian were both frowning – thoughtful, troubled. “What’s hunting this wood that goes from felling stags…to felling big male lions in their prime?”

She saw her own answer reflected in both their gazes: something even bigger.

“Lady Amelia!” That was Thomas; he sounded urgent – and Thomas was nothing if not steady.

She leaped the screen of bare shrubs on her way back to the road. She’d left Carson holding Shadow, and the stallion was agitated, head thrown back, nostrils flared. He rolled one eye in her direction and she reached to grip the reins; Carson relinquished them gladly, and Shadow put his head down to nose at her shoulder.

“It’s fine, you’re fine.”

“Amelia,” Thomas said, voice taut.

She lifted her head and saw what he was staring at; what had gotten Shadow stirred up. A figure dressed in homespun and fur stood a dozen paces ahead, dark hood pulled up over a tangle of dark hair, arrow nocked and pointed straight at them.

Amelia stepped up to stand beside Thomas, leading Shadow along with her. The latter snorted explosively and aggressively.

When the archer spoke, it was with a woman’s voice. “Are you a Drake?” she called.

Thomas’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword.

Malcolm’s voice sounded from Shadow’s other side. “Who wants to know?”

The girl’s arm drew back another fraction, string taut, the wood of the bow creaking.

“Mal, don’t,” Amelia murmured. To the girl, she called, “We’re a simple scouting party from the Drakewell lake district, trying to understand what’s been hunting and killing the wildlife here. Something that is clearly competing with the–” She bit off the word Strangers. She’d heard they didn’t like being referred to as such. “People of the Inglewood,” she returned. “Something that’s driven them to poach sheep from Drakewell lands. You wouldn’t know of such a predator, would you?”

Silence – but hesitation, too. It counted for something that none of them had been struck through with an arrow yet.

After a moment, the girl said, “He called you ‘Lady Amelia.’” She gestured with the tip of her nocked arrow to Thomas. “You’re Amelia Drake, ain’t you?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Thomas said.

“I ain’t talking to you. Are you Amelia Drake, or not?”

As covertly as she could, Amelia searched the trees around them. A leaf rustled; a branch vibrated. “We’re surrounded,” she whispered. To the girl, she said, “Yes, I’m Amelia Drake–”

“Lia,” Malcolm hissed.

“I’d be grateful if you’d spare my men. They aren’t nobles, and anything they’ve done has been on my orders.”

Behind her, she heard the scrape of a sword leaving a scabbard.

“Don’t,” she ordered. “No weapons.” She passed Shadow’s reins beneath his neck, and pressed them against the back of Malcolm’s hand. “Take him, please.”

“Lia–”

He gripped the reins, though, and Amelia stepped forward, empty, gloved palms help up to show she meant no harm, breath steaming in the chill air.

“Is it the Sels?” she pressed, as she took another step, and another. “Are they encroaching on the forest?”

In the shade of the cloak’s hood, she saw a flash of dirty teeth, a nasty grin. “They tried. The ones who did – they didn’t leave the wood.”

“Good for you. We have common cause, then, you and me. Perhaps I could arrange a commendation for your service to the crown.”

A low, ugly laugh. “I didn’t do nothing. Go over there.” Her head tipped toward a large beech tree at the edge of the forest – from behind which a similarly cloaked and hooded man stepped, a length of rope in his hands. “Don’t struggle.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “But I wish you’d tell me what this is about. I want to help.” Slowly, she moved toward her would-be captor, already running scenarios through her head. The Strangers weren’t known for kindness nor leniency – but she knew that she was a valuable hostage. “My mother is rich, you understand. She’ll pay handsomely for my safe return.”

She was close enough now to see the girl’s face – to see the youth in it, and the fear and consideration in her eyes. The desperation. This wasn’t a power play; the girl wasn’t gloating over her capture. There was something here, Amelia decided; a point of weakness she could exploit.

But nothing was ever so easy. Behind her, Malcolm shouted, “If you take her, you have to take all of us, fucking wood rats!”

The hooded girl’s head snapped around. Her hand flexed.

“No!” Amelia shouted.

But with a soft thwap, the arrow flew.

~*~

“I promise I feel fine,” Tessa said for the fourth time.

Olaf, one of his eyes greatly enlarged behind the lens of the monocle he’d pressed to it, hummed and clucked and passed the candle flame in front of her face again. “Follow – good. Hm. Pupil response is normal.”

“I didn’t take anything, and I haven’t been drinking,” she said, trying not to huff, but, really, this was all so ridiculous.

Rune had not been content with an assurance that she would seek out the physician on her own if she should start to feel poorly. He’d insisted on escorting her there himself, gripping her elbow to support her – and nearly dragging her down the great staircase with him when his weakened knees threatened to give out. At another time, she would have laughed at the picture they must have made, clutching at each other and trying to keep their feet. Now, all her dizziness gone and her strength returned, Rune slumped down pale-faced on a stool and looking downright ill, she wanted to snap that, of the two of them, Olaf should have been treating the prince as a patient, not her.

The candle finally withdrew, and Olaf let the monocle dangle from its silver chain. He continued to frown. “This light you said you saw. It was blue?”

“Yes. Vivid blue.”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t the sky.”

“Yes, I’m sure – but it was nothing. It couldn’t have been anything.”

Olaf stroked his beard, contemplative, then turned to his workstation. When he set the candle down, she saw that a thick tome lay open beside it; he scanned the page with a fingertip. “I keep careful case notes on every new patient I treat, and – ah. Here we are.” When he turned back, he managed to look triumphant with his brows furrowed; it was a particular sort of gleam in his eyes, she thought. “It’s as I first suspected: Oliver – er, Lord Oliver – described a great blue light when I was treating him for his marsh fever.”

Her pulse gave a little jump. “Yes, but Ollie was feverish. He was hallucinating.”

The shaggy white brows went up. “Yes. He was.”

“You think I was hallucinating.”

His head tilted in plain confirmation.

Rune said, “Tessa, you went totally limp – you fainted – and when you came to, you told me that there was a blue light, and that I was gone, and that you stood at the mouth of a cave.”

“I don’t know that it was a cave. It only…looked like a cave.”

“Either way, that’s a hallucination!”

“It certainly sounds like it,” Olaf agreed.

“But I’m not sick,” she protested. “I don’t have marsh fever.”

“That you know of.”

Rune said, “Maybe it isn’t that. Maybe it was me that caused it. When I kissed you–” He cut off with a strangled sound and a bugging of his eyes, gaze darting to Olaf. “Nevermind. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

“Ah,” Olaf said, mildly, glancing between them in turn.

Tessa’s face heated. “I’m sure that wasn’t it.”

“Not likely,” Olaf said. To Rune: “Kisses are rarely a cause for unusual activity of the mind – even a prince’s kisses, I’m afraid.”

Rune finally had some color in his cheeks, two bright spots just beneath the prominent slant of bone; his gaze stayed fixed on Olaf, though. “Olaf, you mustn’t say anything to anyone.” He was trying to sound stern, Tessa thought.

Olaf looked amused. “Of course not, your grace.” To Tessa, growing serious: “But I would like you to be very vigilant of your own health for the next while, my lady. If another instance occurs, I should like to administer a tincture such as the one I gave your cousin.”

“But I don’t have marsh fever.”

“So you’ve said. And I shall say again: that you know of.”

She left the surgery more than a little frustrated – and with Rune still insisting on escorting her, his knees still threatening to give. “Where to next?” he asked.

She slipped her arm through his and pulled it tight in an effort to provide what support she could. “To your room.”

“Oh. Um.”

“To put you straight to bed.”

“Oh, come now, I don’t–”

With a rustle of woolen skirts, Lady Estrid whipped around the corner, hands clasped before her, cold smile already affixed to her face.

She’d heard them, Tessa realized with a lurch, and had been lying in wait for them. “Rune! How lovely to see you up and about so soon.” The surprise levered into her voice didn’t touch her eyes, her brows low and smooth over a cold gaze – one that cut to Tessa with what could only be described as relish. “And Lady Tessa. How kind of you to lend a helping hand. I hope neither of you is feeling poorly.” She lifted a hand to point behind them, toward the surgery door.

“No, just a little check-up. If you’ll excuse us.” Tessa gave a tug on Rune’s arm, and he was all too happy to step past her and continue on their way.

Behind them, Estrid said, “Oh, so it was you in to see the physician, then, Tessa?”

Tessa paused and glanced back over her shoulder. “Pardon?”

“When you said check-in, I thought…” Estrid’s eyes widened. She fluttered a hand over her mouth – hiding a smile. “Oh, silly me. Forget I even asked.” She winked. “Your secret’s safe with me. Have a good afternoon, you two.”

It wasn’t until Tessa had muttered a quick goodbye and started them down the hall again that she realized what Estrid had been implying. Then she froze again.

“What?” Rune asked. Worried: “Is it happening again?”

“I wish. No. This is – this is gossip. Or the potential for it, at any rate.”

~*~

All of eight of Amelia’s men were bound with stout rope along with her, and marched at arrow and spearpoint down some woodland path too subtle to see. The horses were left behind on the road. The Strangers who’d melted down out of the tree tops had tried to take them, but Shadow had defended not only himself, but his fellows, and just narrowly avoided kicking in one man’s head.

“If you try to take hold of him, he’ll kill you,” Amelia warned. She’d been allowed, after that, to hook his reins on a branch, though he’d been struggling to get loose when they left. She had no doubt he’d break his reins, or the branch, or both, and follow them.

The girl who’d first stopped them walked ahead of Amelia, and Malcolm behind – unharmed. The arrow had nipped a chunk of his sleeve, but drawn no blood. “Next time,” the girl had said, “I’ll put it between your eyes.” He’d looked sulky.

He sounded worried, though, when he leaned in close enough for Amelia to feel his breath stir her hair, and whispered, “If we give you a chance to run, take it.”

“Oh, let you all throw yourselves at their weapons for me while I slink off?” she whispered back. “Not likely.”

“What’s all that whispering ‘bout?” the Stranger to her left asked, stepping closer, brandishing his spear. It was crudely made, compared to the pike staffs the Drake Hold wall guards carried, but its head looked sharp enough, and she knew, unlike some of those guard pike staffs, had tasted blood before, of one sort or other.

“We’re wondering how much farther it will be,” she said, coolly, facing forward again, just in time to avoid a gnarled root.

“Not far,” the girl answered. “But never you mind anyway.”

As they’d walked, the forest had seemed to close in around them. Branches twined in tighter, hung lower, blotted out more and more of the sky. Roots traversed the ground, and as the path widened, and became more distinct from heavier travel, the shrubs grew thorny, and crowded close. The scents of mold, and water, and old, dark wood grew stronger.

They were entering the proper Inglewood, now. Into a wild part of it travelers never strayed through.

Behind them, a crashing of underbrush.

Ahead, the girl threw up a hand to halt the entire party.

“That’s my horse,” Amelia called. “He can’t wield a sword or a bow. If you leave him be to follow, he won’t harm you.” Her voice was calm, authoritative, but her pulse picked up at thought of a bow-happy woodsman shooting him. He was ferocious, but he was mortal same as anyone.

The girl turned around to look, as the crashing came closer, large hooves sucking in the soft ground, round nostrils blowing and snorting in agitation. The girl, Amelia noticed, was even younger than she’d thought, with a soft, childish face, and an old woman’s shrewd gaze.

Finally, she said, “Leave it be,” and turned back around. They resumed walking, the soft crackle of human footfalls accompanied by the clop of the stallion’s tread.

The path began to climb, faintly but steadily; rocks, some actual boulders, sprouted up from the ground as they went, the soil of the path harder, dryer. They were entering the foothills.

Amelia glanced up, trying to find the placement of the sun, but she could only see flickers and wedges of sky through the leaves, and those were a winter-washed gray that revealed nothing.

“Shadow okay?” she whispered to Mal.

She could hear her mount’s steps, still, but it helped to hear Mal snort and whisper, “Yes. The guy at the tail of our little convoy keeps giving him frightened looks.”

“Understandable. He’s frightening.”

Finally, they reached a sort of gate – or at least a set of gate posts. They were of wood, and carved like totems, with faces and animals carved into squared-off blocks. She saw what looked like a bird, and a fox, and…something with rows and rows of teeth that she couldn’t place. A long snout, and horns.

Then they were through, and entering a glade floored in soft green moss. One ringed by Strangers in roughspun and fur, hoods pulled up over their heads, hiding their faces. All held spears, or nocked bows.

A man stood at the head of the rough circle, one dressed in layers of lion fur, with a full lion skull headdress shielding his face. His arms, exposed from the elbows down, revealed twisted lines of dark ink: tattoos in the shapes of an old, dead language. They marked him as special among his people; the snarling lion inked on his wrist marked him as king. King of the Inglewood Outlaws; King of the Strangers.

Amelia’s men crowded in around her, half-pushed, half in a desire to surround her, and shield her.

Shadow let out an explosive snort from the gate post totems.

When they’d all stilled, the king reached up and slowly pushed back his hood. He revealed long, dark, gray-streaked hair, and a weathered, sharp-featured face. Its lines – the straight nose and the wide-set pale eyes, the narrow jaw, bristled with inexpertly trimmed stubble – triggered her memory. But it was the voice, when he spoke, that revealed his identity to her.

“Amelia Drake. Welcome.”

She couldn’t stop a small gasp. “Lord – Lord Connor? Connor Dale?”

He inclined his head a fraction, a fleeting smile tugging at his mouth. “Not anymore. Only Connor, now.”

The girl archer moved to stand beside him, and he rested a hand at her waist.

“I apologize, my lady,” he said, “for the circumstances of our meeting. We mean you and yours no harm. If you’re willing, we need your help.”

11

It snowed most of the day. Thick, fat, softly falling flakes that floated down from a leaden sky. An occasional wind gust swirled them across the path – which didn’t appear to be a path at all, to Oliver’s eyes, but an endless stretch of white tundra. With visibility low, he had no idea how the sleigh drivers knew which way to go, but he rode alongside, hunched low in the saddle, his hood up, and entrusted them with a fair amount of doubt.

Erik rode a dozen paces ahead, straight and proud in his saddle, Birger alongside him. Occasionally, they leaned closer together as they conversed, when the wind threatened to snatch voices away.

Crusted snow crunched, alerting Oliver to the presence of another rider. Leif spurred his mount forward in a few trotting steps so they rode abreast. Like his uncle, he sat tall, shoulders back, hands steady on the reins; the snowflakes caught in his braids and short beard went unheeded.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked, having to shout a little against the next gust.

“Y-yes,” Oliver said, and, having not spoken for hours, realized his teeth were chattering. Wonderful.

“We’ll be there soon,” Leif said, spurred his horse again, and trotted up to join his uncle and Birger.

On his other side, the reindeer leaned into their harnesses, moving swiftly across the snow on their cloven hooves.

The day had started in much the same odd way that the last had ended.

Last night, after his fireside refill with Birger, Oliver had gone up to bed, a little fuzzy around the edges, tired, heavy in the limbs – but no less troubled. He loves you, Birger had said, and though that knowledge would have lit him up with joy a few hours before, it now landed in his mind as more of a question. Did he? If he had, would he still? Oliver knew all too well that perceptions of love could be flawed and fleeting. Simple physical desire could cloud the mind and leave the impression of true emotions.

He’d found their royal guest suite empty, and, feeling sorry for himself, had gone to bed alone. He’d awakened alone, too, with a sore head and a sick lurch in his stomach that had nothing to do with the ale he’d drunk the night before. The bed linens beside him were cold, and the pillow undented: any hope that Erik had returned silently, and slept a while next to him, had been dashed by that lack of physical evidence. He’d washed, shaved, dressed, tidied his hair…and, when the braids proved too hopelessly mussed to fix himself, slid the beads into his pocket and gone down to breakfast with his hair loose.

Erik had been at breakfast already, sitting in a place of honor, dressed, hair neatly braided. When his gaze lifted to Oliver, it lingered a moment – searching, Oliver thought; he had to have noticed his lack of braids. But his expression revealed nothing, and after a very polite good morning had gestured for Oliver to join him. He had, because sitting away from his lover would have stirred up gossip and drama.

More of it, anyway.

Predictably, Askr had been the first one to say anything. “Now see here, Your Lordship Oliver: where the bloody hell’d you learn to talk to dragons?”

Someone else said, “I thought the cold-drakes had all gone.”

Another said, “Maybe it was just a great big bear that looked like a dragon,” and was told to shut up by several.

Askr wasn’t swayed. Across from Oliver, his stare was fixed, his large body pitched forward eagerly against the table. “Well?” he prompted.

“Oliver isn’t obliged to indulge your curiosity,” Erik said, without looking up from his plate. His tone was mild – if you ignored the sharp edge of steel that lay beneath.

“If there’s dragons on my lands, I want to know where they’ve come from,” Askr said, but he did sit back on the bench.

Oliver hadn’t had the stomach to so much as touch his honey cakes and sausage yet. He reached for his tea instead, and said, “If you’re hoping I understand it any better than you, you’ll be disappointed.”

Erik said, “We depart in an hour,” and that was that.

They hadn’t spoken since save for the most basic transfers of information. The one saving grace, Oliver supposed, was that their day’s trek – though bitter and blustery – hadn’t been hounded by bloodthirsty Beserkirs.

He hadn’t felt so much as a prickle at the back of his mind, and the only blue he’d glimpsed had been a few ragged patches of sky overhead before the clouds sealed them off again. He had the sense that the drake was well out of reach, now.

The wind kept blowing snow into his face, and he’d developed a tendency to duck his head. He lifted it when his horse ground to a halt, and found that it stood nose to nose with Erik’s horse, reined up in their path. Erik, dark hair flecked with snowflakes, wore an expression that could only be called polite. The same maddening, detached face he’d worn this morning, and all day, each time he deigned to speak to Oliver. He said, “We’re approaching the gates.”

“Already?” He’d lost all sense of time in this weather – fast becoming a full-on white-out. When he squinted, he thought he could make out the flicker of orange torchlight, through the haze.

“Just ahead,” Erik said, and, with a few deft flicks of his reins and presses of his heels, maneuvered his horse around so it stood beside Oliver’s. “Ready?”

Oliver’s hands tightened on his own reins, until his horse gave an unhappy tug at the bit. They were to ride through side-by-side, giving all appearances of a king and consort on good terms. He took a deep breath. “It’ll be good to get out of the cold.”

Erik didn’t respond, but heeled his horse forward, and Oliver did the same.

Their sleigh fell back, and Oliver and Erik took the head of the column, Leif and Birger falling in behind them. The horses jigged and finally broke into a trot, snorting – scenting warmth, and hay, and respite. The torchlight grew brighter, more distinct, and revealed itself to be tremendous bonfires, in fact, caged by iron braziers. The shadow of the wall fortress reared up out of the white landscape, flat-faced, dark, and sinister. The firelight danced up thick walls of massive logs, the bark smooth and shiny from years spent heaped with snow.

A horn sounded. “Riders!” a voice called from out of the gloom.

“The king! The king!” another cry went up.

Between the braziers lay a wide drawbridge; they rode abreast across it. And the moat below, Oliver noted when he craned his neck to peer down into it, was filled not with iced-over water, but with sharpened stakes.

The iron portcullis went up with a rattle of chains, and they entered a wide, rectangular yard full of more braziers, lined on all four sides by three stories of wooden fortress.

Despite having been inside three Aeretollean castles by this point, Oliver was suitably impressed. Where the castles had been resplendent, even decadent in their display of wealth and comfort, the walls around him now, the outer edges lined with logs sharpened to wicked points, spoke to a singular purpose: violence. This was the border of Aeretoll, and here men fought to keep the Waste from intruding upon royal lands. All the windows, lighted from the inside, were arrow slits; the torches on the wall-walk above illuminated the polished helmets of soldiers on patrols. There would be no hall here; no lavish bedrooms with four-posters and washrooms.

He shivered inside his cloak.

“Welcome, Your Majesty!” A man dressed in white wool and white-bear fur approached; the torch he carried revealed a weathered, friendly face and a gray beard thickened with frost. “We’ve rooms all ready for you and yours; the fires are lit, and the soup’s on.”

Erik dismounted with the same grace with which he did everything, and clasped the man’s offered forearm. “Thank you, Snorri. Have things been quiet here?”

“Aye, they have. But I heard that wasn’t the case on the road.”

“No.” Erik shook his head, but didn’t elaborate. Then he looked up at Oliver, and managed to beckon – and infuriate – him with a single arched brow.

Oliver schooled his features, and swung down off his horse; grateful for the chance to hide his expression against its warm side when his feet hit the ground and erupted in pins and needles thanks to the cold. He gave himself a shake, and moved around the horse to stand at Erik’s side.

Erik’s hand landed at the small of his back, but Oliver didn’t lean into the gesture, didn’t draw any comfort from it, the way he had when they’d arrived at Silfr Hall.

“Snorri, this is Lord Oliver Meacham. Oliver, this is Snorri Sigmarrson, the captain of the guard here at Last Reach.”

Snorri gave a quick, deferential duck of his head. “How’d you do, Your Lordship.” To Erik, he said, “The snow’s picking up.”

“Yes,” Erik agreed, and it was. Fat flakes sifted down amongst them; Oliver felt them weighing at his eyelashes. “We should get inside.”

~*~

After the usual controlled chaos of a large party arriving – horses and men milling about, saddle bags coming down, grooms unharnessing and leading away the deer – Oliver, Erik’s hand still hovering in the dip of his spine, followed Snorri through a set of double doors into a long, narrow room with a wide, stone hearth, and a sequence of trestles arrayed before it. Candles dripped from simple, iron chandeliers overhead, and the fire roared. The air smelled of food, and there was not a single tapestry, rug, throne, or jeweled goblet in sight.

For the first time since arriving in Aeretoll, Oliver felt monstrously overdressed.

Girls in brown, wool dresses and white kerchiefs were laying out places at the tables: wooden bowls brimming with stew, and wooden cups, simple pewter spoons.

“Accommodations aren’t as fine as you’re used to, your lordship,” Snorri said, as he led them to seats at the head of one of the tables. With a shock, Oliver realized he was the one being addressed. But then, he was your lordship, now, after all, and Erik had been here before and knew what to expect. “But we make do with what we have.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t say I’m used to fine things.”

Erik snorted, but said nothing.

As was typical, their host – Snorri, in this instance – sat across from them. Bracketed by Erik on one side, and Leif on the other, Oliver found that the wine was watered, but the stew hearty, and, more importantly, hot. He was glad to eat and listen with half an ear while the usual talk of the country, and this county, washed around him.

At least, he was, up until Snorri said, “Is it true you were set upon by a cold-drake?”

Erik paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth, expression frozen. The nearest diners had turned to look at them. A hush spread, slow and rippling down the length of the room.

“I only heard it being talked about in the yard,” Snorri said, apologetically. “I thought maybe someone saw something else, and got it wrong.”

A drop of stew dripped off the edge of Erik’s spoon and landed with a too-loud plink amidst the awkward silence that had descended. “No,” he finally said. “No one got it wrong. There was a drake.”

“And Erik’s boy there is a real Drake,” Askr spoke up. “He touched the beast! All but had it eating out of his hand.”

The room erupted with sound, then, a dozen half-shouted, overlapping conversations and excited exclamations as all of Erik’s lords and their men relayed the story in bits and (embellished) pieces to the guardsmen of Long Reach.

Snorri’s gray brows shot up as he turned to Oliver. “That’s right! You’re of the Drake line, aren’t you?”

Oliver pushed his half-empty bowl away, stomach churning unhappily now. “Yes. On my father’s side.” He wasn’t going to waste the effort of explaining his bastardy at this juncture.

Snorri grinned. “Well, I’ll be damned. We’ve not had a dragon rider in an age.”

Oliver frowned. “You seem…much less astounded than everyone else about this.”

“Because I’m not.” He glanced between him, and Erik, then nodded. “Come on, then, if you’re gonna let the soup get cold. I’ve something to show you, young Drake.”

~*~

Outside of the mess hall, Long Reach proved to be a rabbit warren of narrow, low-ceilinged hallways with doors set at intervals, and fully-enclosed glass lamps providing light. The arrow slit windows had liftable glass panels over them, lined at the edges with fur to keep out the cold, but everything else, down to the irregular iron doorknobs, was far more primitive than anything at Aeres.

Snorri led them around a half-dozen corners and up two short flights of stairs – then down another set, until Oliver couldn’t have found his way back to the mess to save his life. Finally, the hallway reached a dead-end, and a door. “Watch your step,” Snorri cautioned, as he opened it and led them inside, lantern held before him.

Even with the warning, Oliver flailed a moment, when he realized the floor was a good foot below the threshold. Erik caught the back of his tunic, steadying him easily, and without a word, but let go the moment he had his balance.

They were in what looked to be a store room, one full of old trunks and crates, the tops caked in a thick layer of dust. Snorri set the lantern on one near the center and began rummaging. “Let’s see…I think it was this one…no, not there. I thought it was along the back wall…maybe…aha.” He stood, triumphant, hefting a crate. Oliver moved the lantern over so it could be set upon the trunk, and dust exploded up, making all of them cough as Snorri lifted the lid.

Inside was…a tangle of cracked, old leather. Rusted buckles.

“Here we are.” Snorri reached in and lifted it out, and after a moment of staring at the long straps gone stiff from time, and parsing out the flat, padded bit of leather they were attached to, he realized what he was looking at.

“A saddle.”

“A dragon saddle,” Snorri said, and pressed it into his hands.

Oliver was helpless but to take it. The saddle itself weighted almost nothing; there couldn’t have been a wooden tree beneath the padding, like there was on a horse saddle. Only a flexible seat with old, falling-apart fur stitched beneath. It was the harness that had the heft to it: the thick, reinforced leather straps that must have secured the saddle around belly and chest, not unlike a horse’s girth and breastplate.

“If I’ve got it correctly,” Snorri said, “your feet go here” – a set of rusted metal rings, one on each side, sewn into fixed straps, which must have been stirrups – “and this ring” – on the pommel – “attaches to a harness on the rider. That way you don’t get dumped off when you do a spin.” He huffed a laugh, and dug back into the crate. “This would be the bridle.” Again, it didn’t look dissimilar to a horse bridle, only larger; rather than a bit, metal rings were affixed to either side of the noseband, and then connected beneath through a bit of chain that could slide. “This way,” he said, drawing on the chain, “you can steer, but the creature can get its mouth open, should you need it to in battle.”

“So it can bite your enemies?” Oliver asked, at first joking…but then gulping when he realized that was exactly what the contraption was intended for.

“Aye. If a good war horse is a weapon beneath you, imagine the power of an adult drake under saddle. It must have been a fearsome sight.”

It was almost frighteningly easy to imagine.

“How – how did you get this? Why is it here?” When Oliver looked up from the tangle of leather in his hands, Snorri was giving him a smile too good-humored to be called smug.

“It was left here by its last owner.” He reached into the crate, and came out with a bit of rolled-up parchment, secured with a leather tie.

Oliver set the saddle carefully down to take it from him, and when he unrolled it, he found a faded ink and watercolor drawing of a man astride a saddled dragon. The dragon was white edged with blue, its wings folded; it was diving. And the grinning, bearded man atop him had red hair. Long, braided, deep auburn hair.

“That,” Snorri said, “is Percival Bracken. Bastard grandson of the then-Duke of Drakewell.”

~*~

When a hand pressed on his shoulder, he sank down onto a trunk that someone had helpfully moved into place – when had that happened? The parchment in his hands shivered, and he realized it was because he was shivering; he took a deep breath and willed himself still. “How long ago was this painted?” he asked, shocked by the steadiness of his voice.

“Eighty years, give or take,” Snorri said, scratching his beard in thought. “It was well before my time, obviously. But it’s always one of the favorite stories from the old-timers on long nights ‘round the fire.

“Young Percy had a wild streak – he liked adventure – and when he came to grips with the fact that he couldn’t inherit and would never have the honor of the Drake name, he set off from Drakewell and went traveling. He wound up on a merchant vessel, and then in Aeretoll, and stayed there. He eventually joined the guard here, at Long Reach; said he fit in better with the scoundrels and commons here than anywhere he’d ever been. Perhaps you heard stories of him back home?”

“I know his name – I read it in the family ledgers. I asked Uncle, once, what happened to him – I was” – a humorless grin stretched his mouth at the memory – “worried that, if he’d been run off, or killed, the same might befall me. He was the only other bastard listed in the whole family tree, and I…Anyway.” He shook his head. “Uncle said he went off on his own, but that no one ever heard from him again. I always thought it sounded terribly sad.”

As a boy, he’d envisioned Percival Bracken as alone, destitute; shivering through winter in some hovel, drinking himself to death; perhaps dying of disease in some squalid back room of a brothel. He’d been an anxious child, and hadn’t been able to imagine a happy ending for an illegitimate nobleman’s son.

But now…the idea of traveling, of sailing, of making easy friendships and setting off on adventures without a single care for propriety or the responsibility of inheritance…it sounded rather wonderful. No springtime balls, or endless tourneys; no gossip, no hateful looks.

And a dragon, apparently.

“Where did he find the cold-drake?”

“No one’s sure, exactly. The story goes that things had been quiet for a while – no immediate threat from the clans – but that a storm front was moving in from the west. Percy had his mind set on killing a bear, one of the great shaggy white ones that live up in the mountains” – here he plucked at his own bear-hide shirt in demonstration; the fur was thick, cottony, and white – “and he set off with spear and knife and a good many warnings that he was being foolish. The storm rolled in, and still no sign of him. The men had given him up for dead.

“But three days later, a great, white, winged monster blotted out the sun, and landed in the middle of the yard – with Percy on his back.” Snorri laughed. “The crazy bloody fool said he sought shelter in a cave and found it occupied – but that he shared his meat, and his fire, and by the time the storm ended, he’d made a friend for life.”

“What happened?” Oliver asked. “I mean: eventually.”

“Oh, well, Percy died. All men die. He was white-headed and roaring wild, right up ‘til the end. They said the drake mourned him for three days; lay curled up around the ashes of his pyre. And then, finally, it took to the sky and disappeared over the horizon. A drake’s not been seen in these parts since.”

“Wow,” Oliver breathed, and wished he had a more adequate word to describe what he was thinking. What he was feeling. He moved to pass the drawing back.

“Keep it,” Snorri said. “Keep the whole crate.” He laughed again. “You never know: you might need it.”

~*~

Snorri wouldn’t be budged on Oliver accepting the crate, and even insisted on carrying it for him – “No sense you getting dust all over your fine clothes, your lordship.” He toted it easily, walking ahead of them, and led the way to their room for the night. It was amidst the maze of narrow halls, carrying the unshuttered lantern, that Oliver realized Erik hadn’t spoken a word since they’d gotten up from the dinner table. He had no idea what sort of omen that was for the rest of the night.

They passed windows that revealed a torrential snowfall, flakes streaming by in a white blur. But the close, wood walls kept out the hard chill, and Snorri promised a warm fire awaiting them.

“That leads up onto the wall,” he said, pointing to a closed, round-topped door with heavy hinges. “Should you want to take in the view,” he chuckled. “This one here is your room, your lordship, Your Majesty.”

It was more spacious than Oliver had expected – probably the finest room in the entire fortress. A low, timbered ceiling and plastered walls gave it a cozy, muted sort of glow when combined with the light of the fire, and of the candles in simple iron sticks on the bedside tables. The furniture was of rough, unadorned wood, but the mattress looked thick, and the quilts and furs plentiful. Their trunks had been brought up, and a stoppered stone bottle and two wooden cups gave evidence to wine.

Snorri set the crate down beside their trunks and wished them a good night. “I’m just down the hall should you need anything. Erik, you remember which door?”

“I do, yes. Thank you, Snorri.”

The captain left with a little wave, and pulled the door shut behind him.

The fire crackled.

The wind sighed and then howled up in the eaves; the walls creaked, faintly, settling against its onslaught.

Oliver said, “Are we no longer on speaking terms?”

Erik unlaced and then shrugged off his heavy coat, tossed it over a chair, and crossed to the sideboard – and the wine there. He filled both cups, turned, and offered one to Oliver.

Oliver stared at it. And at Erik’s hand around it – steady, rings gleaming in the candlelight. Erik never shook, never trembled; never got dizzy, or overwhelmed, or weak-legged. He was a rock – as was his face, its stern lines carved to further harshness by the play of the candle flames.

“The silent treatment. How kingly.” When Erik extended the cup another fraction, Oliver took it with a sigh.

This wine hadn’t been watered, was a rich, dark red with a sharp aftertaste. He wondered how long it had been sitting in a cask in the cellar, waiting for a royal visitor.

A royal visitor who seemed intent on being a royal pain in the ass.

Erik drained his own cup in a few long swallows – the movement of his throat an entrancing distraction, no matter Oliver’s anger – then set it aside and began unbuckling his vambraces. Beneath, his velvet sleeves had been pushed up, revealing pale, strong, hair-dusted forearms, which were yet another distraction. He set the vambraces on the table, loosened the ties of his tunic – wedge of skin visible then, at his throat, flash of chest hair – and poured himself another cup.

“For the record,” Oliver said, fighting to keep his tone even, now. He aimed for light. Disaffected. I don’t care that you’re pushing me away. That what I thought was something wonderful has turned into an ugly charade. “I prefer it when you humiliate me in the training ring to this kind of anger. If we’re going to fight, I’d rather shout and throw punches and be done with it.”

Erik turned to him, emotion touching his face for the first time, though faintly: a groove between his brows, a slight frown. But Oliver knew before he said, “I’m not angry,” that, shockingly, it was true. Not a trace of anger marked his gaze.

Oliver took a long swallow of wine, grateful for its warmth in his belly. “When you first told me about dragons, you sounded encouraging. I thought, ‘surely he wouldn’t tell me all this if he thought I shouldn’t know about it.’ You were the one who kept reminding me I was a Drake, bastard or not. And now we know that’s true. Now we know that dragons aren’t extinct, and that I can talk to them, and this is the first time–” His throat tightened, made it hard to speak. “This is the first time that I have anything to offer. To anyone. The first time I can be useful. I thought – gods, I sound like a fool, but I thought this was a chance, despite every reasoning to the contrary, for me to be special. And now you just look right through me like I’m a piece of furniture.”

Erik rotated his body, so he faced him fully, his frown deepening, that strange, not-angry brightness in his gaze intensifying. His voice held a low, barely-there vibration: an unsteadiness. “You are the royal consort of the King of Aeretoll. What is that if not special?”

“It means I share your bed. It doesn’t mean I contribute anything,” Oliver shot back, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Too late, though. Erik’s brows shot up. His head tilted to an angle that could only be called dangerous. The room seemed much smaller, suddenly, and Oliver was struck by the wild notion that he was afraid, more so than when he’d faced down the cold-drake, and the world – his world – had turned upside down in a matter of days.

Slowly, Erik drained his cup a second time, and set it on the sideboard. With an air of choosing his words carefully – which Oliver hadn’t done – he said, “I thought, after everything, that we had reached an understanding. I thought you understood that it was an honor, your title. That a consort is the equivalent of a queen – is royalty. You’ve offered wise counsel, and you’ve charmed all my lords, and you are convincing everyone, every day, that our alliance with Drakewell is good for this kingdom…and now you throw my trust back in my face, and call yourself a bedwarmer.”

“Erik, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“No!” Erik roared, jabbing a finger through the air at him. “You wanted to fight? Then let’s fight, because I am angry now.”

A small writing desk sat to Oliver’s right, and he slammed his cup down on it, slopping wine. “Angry now? Because I insulted myself? What about last night? What in the gods’ names was I supposed to think in the face of your indifference? Sleeping – sleeping alone, and you with your ‘good morning,’ and treating me like a stranger. What is that if not anger?”

Erik took one aggressive step closer, veins in his throat standing out, throwing shadows, teeth bared in a snarl. “Did you not think it could be worry? Or fear?”

“How could I have known if you wouldn’t tell me?”

Erik started to advance another step – caught himself with a growl and turned away; faced the fire. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Those are not things that I readily speak of.”

“Not even to me?”

“I am not – I am not used to this. To being someone’s partner.” The last was a reluctant growl.

And possibly the most vulnerable thing Oliver had ever heard him say. He didn’t take it lightly.

But he said, “Do you think that I am either? A few hayloft tumbles and cloak closet trysts doesn’t exactly ready one for marriage.”

Erik folded his arms; took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, nostrils flaring.

“What about this scares you?” Oliver asked. “Why do you not want me to – to do what my bloodline was apparently meant to do?”

He didn’t think, at first that Erik would answer. “I–” He paused. Another inhale, exhale. “I knew the story of Percival Bracken. That was how I knew that you would have the gift.”

“But you didn’t tell me that story.”

A muscle leaped in his jaw. “Once he’d found his drake, once he could fly…Percy Bracken didn’t care about anything else. He never married, never fathered children – not even bastards. The old timers here say the prostitutes actually missed him.” He snorted, humorlessly. “And here you are talking about being useful, about being special…” His voice went very low and quiet. “Ragnar even taunted me over it. You’ll learn how to fly, and you’ll be gone.”

Oliver could only stare at him a few long moments. When he was able, he said, “Beg pardon?”

Erik shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His tone was that of a grieving man – but hard, so very hard. “Being consort is a yoke around your neck. But your gift – that is freedom.”

“Freedom,” Oliver said, woodenly.

“It was what Percy wanted. What could be more special, in a strangling world of kings, and princes, and lords, and ladies, than the whole of the sky at your disposal? A man with a dragon answers to no one.”

Oliver felt a disbelieving laugh bubble up in his throat. He managed to swallow it. “All right, so, first off: I am not, in fact, Percy Bracken. And secondly, in case you haven’t noticed, the most adventurous thing I’ve ever done is climb into bed with you, you great oaf.”

Erik’s head snapped around, braids slapping against his chest.

“In our acquaintance, have I ever given you any reason to think that I want to go flying off into the ether, on my own, never to be seen or heard from again? I like baths, thank you very much, and I’m not sure I could carry a shaving kit on the back of a dragon. Maybe Percy wanted to sleep in a cave, but I’ve grown awfully fond of feather mattresses and velvet dressing gowns. You have dressed me up like a barbarian.” He flapped his arms in demonstration of his outfit. “Granted, it’s a very fine barbarian outfit. But still. Whatever drove Percy to run off from his family, and sail on pirate ships – merchant vessels, whatever. That strain of the Drake blood certainly doesn’t run in me.”

When Erik swallowed, it looked as if it pained him. “I asked you to stay behind, inside, at Redcliff, and the next thing I know you’re riding out alone to face down a dragon. There’s nothing meek about that.”

“There’s nothing brave, either,” Oliver said, frustration mounting. “You asked me to stay behind, and I did. I stood on the wall with Askr’s invalid son, and we commiserated about being no good to anyone–”

“That’s not true.”

“Let me finish. I wasn’t any good, not in that moment. I can’t pick up a sword or a spear and go hand-to-hand with a bunch of bear-wearing wildmen in the forest. But when I saw the dragon – when I heard the dragon – heard its pain, and its cry for help – I knew that I could be useful.” He huffed, annoyed with his own inexact language. “No. Fuck that. Fuck useful. You were facing down a dragon, and it was going to kill you, and by gods, I’m not going to stand still and watch you die.”

“It very well could have killed you instead.”

“Which is it, Erik? Do you know I have a gift, and that I might fall under a drake’s spell and be whisked away from you? Or am I about to be dinner? Which are you afraid of?”

Erik’s lips compressed; his jaw flexed. He made a low, growling sound in his throat and snapped, “Both! All of it! What do you want me to say? I can’t – gods, I cannot–” His gaze dropped to the floor, and he reached with both hands to push his hair back from his face, fingers clenched tight in the dark locks, tugging his braids loose.

Oliver took a step closer, pulse picking up. “Erik–”

“I want to keep you safe. I don’t want to have dragged you through the wilderness, at the mercy of the clans, just to prove a political point. I don’t – I don’t want you to be cold, or sick, or miserable, or in danger of being eaten.” He shook his head, and his voice cracked. “I am afraid, every second, that you will decide none of this is worth it, and I’m afraid I’ll get you killed. And I don’t know what to do.”

The tightness in Oliver’s throat became an ache, one that spread down into his chest, tight like fingers squeezing his lungs. He took another step, and another. “You’re afraid that I’ll decide none of this is worth what?” he asked, softly.

Erik let his hands fall to his sides, leaving his hair a mess, but didn’t lift his face. In the smallest voice that Oliver had ever heard from him, he whispered, “Me.”

It was so easy to think, because he was physically big, and imposing, strong and stern and proud, that Erik didn’t doubt or worry or fear. That he didn’t feel things as deeply as other men.

But, Oliver thought, it was very likely that he felt more.

He closed the last distance between them, rested his hands on Erik’s chest, and ducked his face to bring their mouths together.

Erik sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. After a moment, he gripped Oliver’s arms, gently.

Oliver drew back far enough to see the wonder shining in his eyes – eyes that were a little too shiny, a fact that Oliver would never betray to anyone outside this room, not ever. He said, “If I get killed, it won’t ever be because of something you did or didn’t do. And I’m not leaving, not even for a dragon” – he smiled – “because I love you. Even when you’re a pompous ass. Even when you worry too much. Even,” he added, gently, “when you’re afraid.”

Erik’s eyes widened an impossible fraction. He drew in a ragged breath.

And then he gripped Oliver’s hair and kissed him savagely.

Oliver fisted his tunic, and strained up on his toes, just as eager, flooded with warm relief. Every time Erik trusted him like this – with his truth, with his doubt, with his private self-recrimination – it stunned him all over again. Left him wanting to reel Erik in close, put arms around him, shelter him – even if, given their respective sizes, that wasn’t too feasible.

He knew what was feasible, though.

He broke the kiss – with effort.

“Wait, wait,” Erik murmured against his cheek, chasing after his mouth.

“No.” Oliver pressed at his sternum, firmly. “Stay right there,” he said, and though he couldn’t have held Erik in place for anything, Erik stayed, chest heaving beneath Oliver’s palm, his heart already galloping.

Oliver caught his gaze, wet his lips deliberately – Erik’s eyes flicking down to track the movement – and said, “Stay,” again, a clear command. Then he sank to his knees.

Erik moaned.

In his previous life of sneaking, and stealing moments, of clandestine encounters in empty salons during summer house parties, Oliver had become quite good at this. He’d learned to enjoy it; for all of his failings, this was something he could do and do well; every time his partner – usually some nobleman’s son destined for the altar, who would never have spoken to a lowly bastard in front of witnesses – shook, and shattered, and came, cursing and out of control, he relished the idea that, at least in this one thing, he wielded power. That he was valuable.

But here now, with Erik – he was glad he’d had plenty of practice, that he could offer pleasure. It wasn’t so much about value, though, but about the way Erik threaded his fingers through Oliver’s hair the moment he got his mouth on his cock.

“Gods,” he murmured, hands cupping Oliver’s skull, but he didn’t grab, and he didn’t force. “Gods, your mouth.”

Oliver had long ago learned to suppress his gag reflex, and thank the gods for that, because he’d never had anyone as big as Erik. He didn’t tease him – though he vowed to do so at a later occasion – but took him deep straight away, as far as he could, light suction, and then harder. Hands braced on Erik’s thighs, fingers gripping tight at the waxed wool of his trousers, he set up a rhythm, head bobbing, lips pursed tight. Erik petted his curls, restless and unsteady, fingers threading through them again and again, flexing occasionally, and his hips would kick involuntarily when Oliver gave a hard suck, or flexed his tongue, or pulled back to catch his breath, and mouth delicately at the head.

The sounds Erik made – bitten-off moans, and low hums, little gasps of effort, of restraint – were doing things to Oliver. The murmured praise in between, the half-coherent assertions that he was beautiful, and wonderful, and so good at this did even more. Erik was thick, and heavy, and hot in his mouth, at the back of his throat, trying so hard not to thrust, not to choke him, and he was tugging at Oliver’s hair, and this wasn’t some coat closet tryst; Erik wanted him, Erik needed him, was afraid for him, and wanted to protect him, and he thought Oliver was gorgeous…and Oliver had never been so hard in his life. His breath came sharp and quick through his nose, not enough, not nearly enough, but he didn’t want to stop, not now, not ever. Who needed air when there was this?

Erik was getting close – Oliver could feel it in the tension of his thighs; hear it in the sharp increase of his breath.

But then Erik gripped his hair tight in both hands, and in a voice full of gravel said, “Wait. Ollie, wait.” Not the desperate, quiet plea of before, when Oliver had first gone down to his knees. This was a command, meant to be obeyed, and Oliver shuddered hard, cock twitching painfully behind his flies.

He pulled off, but slowly, tongue lingering at the end, and managed to lift heavy lids to peer up at Erik.

In the play of candlelight, one side of his face bathed orange by the fire, he looked a wild thing, all glittering eyes and clenched jaw and disordered hair. He took Oliver’s breath.

And then there were strong hands beneath his arms, and he was being hauled up – all the way up, until the tips of his toes barely brushed the floor, and Erik was kissing him again, tongue in his mouth, making him dizzy, his hard, damp cock rubbing against Oliver’s stomach.

Oliver thought he could come, just like this.

But then Erik pulled back, and it was Oliver’s turn to plead, “Wait, wait.”

Erik chuckled, a fast, rough breath, and set him down just long enough to spin him around. One big hand splayed across Oliver’s throat, tipping his head back onto Erik’s shoulder, and the other pushed up beneath Oliver’s tunic to touch bare skin.

It was Oliver’s turn to moan, as Erik stroked his stomach, traced his ribs, pinched at his nipples. He wanted to look, to see Erik’s hand shifting beneath all the fine, embroidered velvet of his tunic – but Erik kept his head pinned back, not pressing, but the heat of his palm an anchor against his throat.

He skimmed kiss-damp lips along Oliver’s jaw, his temple. “Do you know,” he whispered, right against his ear, while his wandering hand plucked at Oliver’s flies, “what you do to me? How much I want you? All the time.”

Oliver couldn’t hold back a breathy gasp when Erik finally got his trousers open and wrapped that big, warm hand around his cock. “I – I think – I’ve got – some idea,” he panted out.

Erik chuckled. He stroked him, slow and deliberate, for a few moments, completely in control of the situation. But then he grew rougher, more desperate. He ground his own erection into the small of Oliver’s back, and pressed unsteady breaths to the side of Oliver’s head, fingers twitching against his throat. “Gods, I used to be so patient,” he lamented.

“We’ll – we’ll – have to – work on – that.”

“Not tonight.”

The room spun – or, rather, Oliver did. Erik rotated them, and pressed him down, so he stood bent forward at the waist, hands braced on the bed’s soft coverlet. He arched his back immediately, pressed back into the hands that Erik put on his hips – and then used to shove his trousers down to puddle on the carpet.

He knew what was coming, but still shivered when Erik dragged a thumb down his cleft, finding soft, sensitive skin there, a teasing press. But then his other hand gripped Oliver’s cock and started stroking again. “What do you think? Is tonight one of those nights when you can go more than once?”

Oliver groaned. “Yes.”

“Good lad.”

Oh. That was…oh.

Erik knew just how to stroke, and to squeeze; when Oliver thrust into his hand, and let his head fall forward, neck weak with the galloping onslaught of orgasm, he didn’t let up. Stroked him right through it, until Oliver was shaking apart, vision full of starbursts, belly clenching, cock kicking in Erik’s hand.

He didn’t get a chance to recover. Erik skimmed the come off his cock, gathered it where it had splashed across his belly, and then he was reaching back, and pressing at his entrance with one slick finger.

Oliver’s arms threatened to give out, so he went down to his elbows, cheek pressed to the coverlet, and lost himself to it. It was too much, and not nearly enough, and he couldn’t form words, could only breath raggedly, whole body lit up with an abundance of pleasure as Erik stretched him with one, with two, with three fingers.

“Are you ready?”

Oliver could only whimper in the affirmative, beyond speech, and then, blessedly, Erik was pressing in, filling him. Erik had prepared him carefully, but he didn’t both with slow once he was inside, drawing his hips back and snapping them forward immediately.

Cock stirring again, feverish with need, Oliver tried as best he could to push back and meet every thrust. But Erik took pity on him, gripped his hips tight, held him still.

The room filled with the harsh scrape of their breathing, and the smack of sweat-damp flesh as it met again, and again, and again. Oliver couldn’t choke down the wounded sounds that built in his throat; Erik grunted, and swore, and praised him; left bruises on his hips.

The pleasure built almost painfully, this second time. When Erik finally touched his cock, Oliver went off like a May Day firework. He bit the coverlet to keep from shouting, squeezed his eyes shut, and was only half-aware of Erik pressing deep and hard and reaching his own end with a deep, unrestrained moan.

Oliver drifted on a tide of sensation for a while after that. He was aware of Erik pulling out, and cleaning him up. Stripping off the rest of his clothes. His pulse throbbed in every inch of his skin, and speech was beyond him for at least five minutes.

Finally, when he was tucked naked and warm against Erik’s equally naked chest, a fur pulled up over the both of them, he murmured, “Gods.”

Erik’s chuckle sounded tired. But his lips were soft when he pressed them to Oliver’s temple – and left them there. Quietly, but seriously, he said, “I have meant it every moment of the day, and I have tried to show it in the ways I know how. But I know I need to say it, too. I love you. So very much.”

Oliver fell asleep with the pad of Erik’s thumb brushing a tear from his cheek.

12

“I apologize for any rough treatment,” Lord Connor – Connor – said, as Amelia massaged at the rope marks on her wrists. A Stranger was moving down the line of them, cutting their bonds. “Life here tends to be…less than gentle.”

“I can imagine.” She could hear her men grumbling. A glance proved that Malcolm was staring daggers at the former lord. “All of Aquitania thinks you’re dead.”

A wry smirk touched his mouth, and beneath the sun lines, and the heavy threading of silver in his beard, his ragged clothes, he still carried himself with that particular cockiness that all the landed gentry of the kingdom seemed to possess. “The last anyone saw of me, I was floating face-down in the river, bristling with arrows.”

“So your captain said.”

“He wasn’t lying – but he was also the one who’d put the arrows in me. He threw me over for my brother, blamed my slaughter on the Strangers – who incidentally fished me out downstream and found that none of the arrows had pierced my armor, and that I’d nearly drowned, but was otherwise in no danger of dying.”

“Most dukes would have rallied an army and toppled his usurper,” Thomas pointed out, managing to sound halfway respectful.

Connor tilted his head. “Most dukes like their positions, I imagine. I was tired of it – of ducal horseshit. I had no heirs, and three wives in the ground.” The first, Amelia remembered, had died in childbirth; the next in a hunting accident; the third of a sudden illness. Rumors had swirled that he’d killed them all, but Amelia had never truly believed that. “I have a wife, now,” he continued, and, to Amelia’s shock, laid his hand on the shoulder of the girl from the road; she’d pushed her hood back, revealing tangled, tawny hair, smooth cheeks, hard eyes. “And a son.”

“A wife?” Malcolm asked, with obvious scorn.

“She’s older than she looks. But is that what you want to talk about?”

“I didn’t want to talk about anything,” Amelia said. “You took us prisoner.”

Another smirk, this one accompanied by real amusement shining in his gaze. “Yes, fine. Won’t you please have a seat?”

They ended up sitting cross-legged on the moss, in a loose semicircle. A young man passed around cups of strong home-brewed wine – cups that were an eclectic mix of drinking horns, pewter mugs, crude wooden bowls, and even a few porcelain teacups that had clearly been stolen.

Amelia set her own cup untouched on the ground before her and said, “What do you want with me?”

Connor drained off his own cup and took a deep breath; settled more deeply, with his elbows on his thighs. Amelia was struck by a sudden memory of a ball, years ago: of his hair cropped, and his chin shaven, and his silk gleaming beneath the candlelight; Mother had entertained a brief notion, when she was fourteen, that he might make a smart match for her – but then he’d married his third wife, and she’d died, and then he’d died…but not really.

“The Sels moved into the western side of the Wood two months ago. They overran the manor, turned my brother into nothing more than a puppet” – he grinned, briefly – “and trust me, I’m not losing any sleep over that. But. Then they started clear-cutting the forest.”

Amelia blinked in surprise. “For firewood?”

“Possibly. But they’re building siege engines, too.”

Malcolm whistled. “Shit.”

“Precisely. Based on my own experience, I think their plan is twofold: use the lumber to build siege towers, rams, and trebuchets, even walls, perhaps. And eliminate the threat of the forest. There’s six-hundred-thousand acres of impenetrable woodland between my old duchy and yours. It offers access to the mountains to the north, and the waterways to the south, and it’s too great a place for defenders all across Aquitainia to hide and meet in secret. They will raze this entire Wood to the ground, of that I have no doubt.”

Amelia felt a sick lurch at the idea. The Inglewood was deep, and dark; mysterious, unknowable, full of terrors…but it was ancient, too. A home to uncountable animals, and to humans; a source of springs and rivers. Every leaf, every toadstool, every rotted, moss-covered long contributed to the richness of the central duchies in their own way. She couldn’t imagine Aquitainia without it.

“We can’t allow that,” Connor said, seriously.

“No,” she agreed.

“We stood against them, at first. Ambushes; arrows from above; we left bloody tableaus to frighten them. It worked – but, again, at first. There’s no end to them. They’ve taken to wearing heavy armor, and working in shifts when they grow tired from swinging axes. They pour pitch on the stumps and set fire to them; fires that burn the leaf litter, and catch the dry shrubs. They’re ten acres deep, and still coming.

“At least, they were. Before we set the beasts loose.”

A single, small shudder stole down Amelia’s spine. “What do you mean beasts? Have you tamed bears? Lions?”

“No, my lady.” Dusk was falling; torches were being lit with hisses and pops, and the light danced in his eyes, so that he looked, suddenly, afraid. “We found the deep caves. Way down, deep down, into the earth, and we woke the fire-drakes.”

“The – the what?”

“Dragons. We woke the dragons.”

~*~

“… ‘it was then that Sir Richard realized the error of his ways, but it was too late,’” Tessa read, and, as she turned the page, glanced toward Rune’s face. His lashes lay like dark fans on his cheeks; his lips were parted, his jaw relaxed. Asleep.

She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand, marked her place in the book with a bit of ribbon, and closed it. She was tired, too: unaccountably so. She didn’t feel in danger of swooning again, as she’d done so ridiculously that morning, but she didn’t feel as energetic as she usually did, either. Worse, she felt this faint tickling at the back of her mind; the sense that she’d left a window open, or a candle burning. Like there was something she was meant to attend to, but didn’t know what. It was…a weight. That was the best way she could think to describe it.

“Ah,” Hilda said, chuckling. “Poor lamb. He finally dropped off. I don’t know what he was thinking of, up and walking around. Stubborn, stubborn, just like his uncle.” She folded her knitting up and tucked it, along with the needles, into the deep front pocket of her apron. “If you don’t mind me saying so, my lady, you’re looking a little peaky yourself.”

Night had only just fallen; the sky beyond the windows still held a tint of pink, and supper hadn’t been called, yet. But Hilda was already wanting to herd her to bed.

To be honest, Tessa didn’t hate the idea of taking a supper tray in her room, what with Lady Estrid and her friends sure to be gossiping away down in the great hall.

But.

Rune’s face twitched.

No. Not an involuntary twitch. He suppressed a smile – barely. But she saw the quick flicker of his lips, and heard the forcefully slow breath he took afterward.

He wasn’t really asleep.

The big faker.

She tamped down her own smile, turned to Hilda, and said, “Do you think it would be possible to get some tea?”

Hilda stood with a nod. “I’ll go and ring for it. And then we’ll see about getting you to bed.”

“Wonderful.”

When Hilda was gone, Rune’s eyes snapped open. “Did she leave?”

She snorted. “I think you heard that she did. Why were you pretending to sleep?”

He grinned, full and true this time, and only winced a little as he sat up. “So she would leave.”

She chuckled. “Why?”

In a flash, his expression turned serious. “Because I wanted to apologize. Formally.”

She didn’t have to ask what for. She groaned. “Rune, why does it feel like all we do is apologize to one another, when we haven’t done anything wrong?”

His brow furrowed; he looked troubled. “Well. I don’t…” He bit his lips, nostrils flaring, clearly frustrated.

Again, she thought of Amelia, of her sister’s brave, bold insistence on loving for the sake of love, and not merely for duty. Love had never been a consideration for Tessa…not until now. It hadn’t ever seemed to matter so much. She had admired the young lords back home, like Reginald, and heartily believed her mother that, so long as he was handsome, and fair, and of her station, she would learn to love whoever they matched her with, over time, just as Katherine herself had done. She’d never thought I don’t care about responsibility, I just want him.

Not until now.

She took a deep breath and said, “Honestly, Rune, I don’t know why you’d want to apologize for this morning, because I was the one who kissed you.” She could feel the heat in her face, but she refused to parse words or look away. If she wanted to emulate Amelia, then she had to do it all the way.

Rune’s brows flew up. “I…” He gaped a moment, then gave himself a shake. Put on a determined face. “I should never have–”

“Stop.” She laid her hand over his, where he was fiddling with the edge of a blanket. A darted glance over her shoulder proved they were still alone, and the door was still shut. When she faced him again, he was frowning, a panicked sort of light shining in his eyes. She thought she understood, that she’d been feeling the same sort of panic, that fluttering in her chest. “Right now, while we have the chance,” she said, pulse drumming in her ears, belly clenching, but determined to speak her mind, finally. “I want to clear the air. I want to say this, and I would like you, please, to be honest with me.

“I kissed you because I wanted to. And, in the interest of honesty, I’d like to again – only I’d like to stay conscious this time, and I’d like for you to kiss me back, and for us to keep kissing–” She broke off because her face was flaming, now, pulse like war drums in her ears. Took a deep breath. “Maybe you don’t feel the same way, but I think you do. And maybe – maybe it’s absolute folly to say any of this aloud, because I am supposed to marry Leif, and I don’t want to disappoint him – or hurt him in any way, and I know it’s entirely unfair to even be saying this when he isn’t here to defend his own honor, and I do care for him, I like him, but, Rune–”

His finger landed against her lips, and silenced her. His eyes sparkled, and his expression could only have been described as wondrous…wonder touched with something that shocked her a little, in a good way. Reciprocation, she thought. Want.

He leaned in closer, finger still against her lips, keeping her silent when she would have protested that he might hurt himself that way. Closer, closer, until she could feel the heat of his unsteady breath on her face, and his hair swung forward and tickled at her throat.

When he spoke, his voice was rough in a way she’d never heard him sound before, but low, and serious. Strained. “My family isn’t going to let anything awful happen to your family, no matter who you marry, or if you marry at all. Uncle loves Oliver, and he will march to Drakewell himself to defend it, I can promise you. And I–” He swallowed. His finger slid down, so his curled knuckle supported her chin. “I don’t want you to marry Leif.”

She leaned in to close the last distance, at the gentle insistence of his knuckle, but he was most definitely the one doing the kissing this time.

It wasn’t a shock, like it had been that morning. No blue light crowded her vision; that new, strange weight in the back of her mind didn’t roar up and overtake her.

But the room did seem to spin a little, and her breath came quick and short as Rune slanted his mouth over hers, and slipped his tongue between her lips.

Tessa opened for him, and he cupped her cheek in the whole of his palm and delved deeper, tongue hot and shocking as it traced the contours of her mouth. It was so intimate: the wet slide, the rasp of his stubble on her chin, the press of his nose against her cheek, and the heat of his breath, too. She hadn’t ever thought that kissing would feel so much like drowning.

Or that she would enjoy it so much.

She had the sense of a lamp being lit inside her; a warm glow, a heat, a light. It chased through her limbs, and settled warmest in the pit of her belly. Her thighs trembled, and she wanted to press them together. She wanted…she didn’t really know what she wanted, aside from more.

He pulled back just a fraction, close enough still that they were breathing into one another’s mouths; the wet sound of their lips parting left her gasping.

His thumb swept over her cheek. “You are so, so beautiful,” he said, voice small, awed.

“So are you,” she whispered, and pressed back in.

She wanted to touch him. Rested her hands, lightly, flinching backward after, over his collarbones – and Rune leaned into her touch, humming a sound against her lips that could only be encouraging. She let her hands settled more fully. Felt, beneath the thin linen of his shirt, the sharp shape of those bones she’d admired so much, the heat of skin seeping through the fabric, and into her palms.

He hummed again, and, exhaling shakily into the kiss, she slipped her thumbs inside the gaped-open collar of his shirt to touch skin.

It was so much warmer, without a barrier; its texture so much softer and smoother than anticipated – save for the rough crinkle of chest hair, dark and course. Beneath the harsh lines of his collarbones, she found muscle, strong and convex, so much firmer than her own soft chest, so masculine.

He broke the kiss again, and she chased after it, until he said, “Tessa.”

Then she blinked her eyes open and marveled at her own boldness.

She’d slipped the whole of both hands inside his shirt, had pulled and stretched until it had come completely unlaced, and gaped open, now, halfway down to his stomach. Her hands boldly cupped his chest; she felt the hard, pebbled points of his nipples against her palms. Stared, pulse thumping hard, at the sharp contrast between her small, pale hands and his crisp, curling chest hair.

“Oh,” she murmured, shocked.

But she couldn’t seem to peel her hands away from him.

He chuckled, and she dragged her gaze up to his face, to his sparkling eyes, his absolutely wicked smirk. It was nothing like the kinds of similar looks she’d gotten back home – Rune’s expression was bright, was mischievous, was not at all threatening, only gorgeous. He arched a single brow, the way his mother and uncle did.

He asked, “Like what you see?” He chuckled again. “Or, should I say, feel?”

It wasn’t possible for her to blush any harder, she knew, but she didn’t look away and she didn’t let go. Didn’t hold back when she said, simply, “Yes.” Because that was the truth, and this moment was all about honesty, wasn’t it?

Startlement smoothed Rune’s smirk away. He hadn’t expected her to be so bold. He wet already-shiny lips and huffed a small, disbelieving laugh. “You’re – um – you’re very…”

“Reckless?” That’s what she felt, and it felt good.

“I was going to say wonderful,” he said, and then gripped her waist with both hands, and hauled her easily up into his lap.

Well, not that easily. She saw him wince, and tried to pull back.

“No, no, it’s all right,” he said, though the smile he offered was pained. “I don’t want to worry about that right now.”

But she was worried. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You aren’t. You can’t.” With her perched above him now, he tilted his head back to look up at her. Put his hand at her nape and speared his long fingers through the hair there, cradling the back of her skull. His gaze turned imploring. “Please. Don’t stop touching me.” And he urged her down into another kiss, this one slower – but deeper, and bolder, and much, much more thorough.

Tessa had the fleeting thought that there must be many ways to kiss, and she wanted to learn each one of them. Her worry ebbed, and her hands wandered.

Out to his strong shoulders, partway down his back, over the wings of his shoulder blades, and the satiny, hairless skin there. She traced the knobs at the top of his spine with her fingertips, and then skated around both sides of his throat and down to his chest again. She loved the texture of the hair; was fascinated by his small, dark nipples, the way they drew up tight beneath her fingers the same way hers did in the cold.

And all the while he was kissing her, his tongue in her mouth and his hands on her face, and her waist. And Tessa was drowning, drowning, and didn’t want it to end.

That was, of course, when the door opened.

~*~

Revna despised gossip – but there was something almost alarmingly amusing about hearing it come out of Bjorn’s mouth.

“I’m sorry.” They strode side-by-side down the gallery; he’d fallen into step beside her at the top of the grand staircase, as ever surprisingly soft-footed for a man so large. “It sounded like you said that ‘the young ladies have been murmuring.’” A stolen glance proved that his face was screwed up with disgust; he hated saying this, and she had to stifle a laugh.

“Well,” he sounded terribly defensive, “they have been.”

“Been having a tea party, have you?”

“I heard it from one of my guards,” he said, trying to cover his reluctance with gruffness. It was charming, if she admitted it. “One of the young and stupid ones.”

“Ah.”

“He was flirting with them, the sheep head, and he came running back to me – to me, like I wanted to know anything about it – saying that that Estrid” – he said her name like a curse – “was going on and on about having seen Rune and the Lady Tessa coming out of Olaf’s surgery together. That Tessa looked, and I quote, ‘peaky,’ and ‘green.’”

Revna’s pulse gave a quiet jump of alarm. But she said, “Tessa and Rune are rarely far apart these days. I think she’s taken it upon herself to entertain him through his recovery.”

“Entertain him how?”

They’d reached the foot of the spiral staircase. Revna took two steps up, and then turned to face him, so they were on eye level – hers narrowing as she fixed him in place with a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He snorted. “Come on, now, Rev. She likes him, he likes her – I know you’ve seen the way he gazes after her. And Tessa’s a sweet girl: it would be easy for a man, especially one as young as Rune, to get the wrong idea.”

She arched a single brow, gratified by the slight twitch of his face, that little reaction to the gesture. “Even if Rune were in any sort of physical shape to force himself on a girl, he’d never do it.”

“No, I know that. But I don’t think it would take much encouragement before she went along with it willingly.”

“He wouldn’t do that to Leif,” she said, but could hear the way her tone wavered. She’d seen the two of them, that morning in the solar. Rune kneeling on the sofa, Tessa’s hands white-knuckled on the back of it as she swayed toward him. If Revna had been a half-second later entering the room, she would have found them with their lips locked.

The smile he gave her was wry. “He wouldn’t do anything to hurt Leif on purpose, no. But not everyone is so gutless as to stand back and watch the girl they love get married to someone else.” His brows lifted a fraction, and his dark eyes traced her face – far too intimately. It hit her like a blow, that look. Pushed all the air out of her lungs, an unsteady exhale that she wanted instantly to take back.

That look, half-forlorn, half-full of regret, said, Not everyone’s stupid enough to keep quiet; as sorry enough to never speak up in the first place.

How could you still want me? she wanted to ask. After all this time? After Tor? How could I still mean that much to you?

It was a kind of devotion too deep, too blind, too enduring for her to grapple with. It always had been.

She scowled to cover whatever else her face might have done, involuntarily. “Until he can get up out of that bed, I’m not too worried about palace gossip.” She turned and headed up the steps.

With a sigh, he followed. “You know, most highborn ladies worry at least a little bit about what their people are saying.”

“Lucky for me I’m not most ladies.”

His chuckle sounded wry. “No. Indeed you’re not.”

No need to dwell on that.

He followed her down the next hallway to the royal apartments, no doubt exchanged nods with the two guards on duty, though she didn’t look over her shoulder to check. She didn’t know what else he wanted to say to her – was probably only bored without Erik around to talk to – but she had a sinking feeling it would result in more little reminiscent comments that left her reeling.

When they were inside, and the door was shut, Bjorn asked, “Wine?”

“We haven’t even had supper–”

A scream broke the quiet.

A scream coming from Rune’s chamber.

Revna picked up her skirts and dashed that way, Bjorn hot at her heels. In the time it took to race down the hallway, a dozen horrible scenarios flashed through her mind: Rune’s wound come open, blood pooling on the sheets; Rune unconscious and limp, face sheet-white; Rune fallen from his bed, hurt even worse than he was already. It had been a woman’s scream, and Bjorn’s words returned to her. Tessa must be horrified, must be–

She skidded to a halt in the open doorway of the room, and all her panic bled out in a dizzying rush. Hilda was the one who was horrified, a broken teacup at her feet, both plump hands clapped over her mouth, gaze fixed on the bed.

Where Tessa was currently seated in Rune’s lap, both hands inside his open shirt. Rune and Tessa wore matching, goggle-eyed looks of horror, and there was no mistaking what had been happening. Thank the gods Tessa was still fully dressed, and both of Rune’s hands were visible.

Revna had no intention of turning around and verifying the I told you so look Bjorn must be wearing.

Hilda let her hands fall, and she sucked in a huge breath.

“Don’t scream again,” Revna said, shouldering in past her, stepping over the broken teacup. She shook out her skirts, pinned Rune with her sharpest look, but kept her tone sweet and mild when she said, “Children. What are you doing?”

“Lady Revna.” Tessa scrambled to her feet.

Rune let out a hiss, and Tessa immediately looked back to him, hands fluttering toward his midsection. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“It wasn’t my side that time,” he said, managing a grimacing smile.

“Oh, I – oh.” Her eyes got somehow wider, that innocent blue bright with alarm, and her cheeks turned crimson as she understood.

Revna said, “Hilda, please help Tessa back to her chamber.”

Awkward silence reigned a moment. Then Hilda said, “Yes! Right away, my lady.”

She took hold of a still-stunned, still red-in-the-face Tessa’s hand and towed her from the room. Revna listened to their footfalls fade, along with Hilda’s furious, inaudible whispers.

Bjorn said, “Shall I stay?”

“No.”

The door closed with a solid thump.

“Mum,” Rune began.

She held up a single finger, silencing him, then paced across the width of the room, stopping before the window. Beyond the diamond panes, night had fallen, that early, dusky purple that still spoke of a pink sunset. The moon wasn’t out yet, but the torches in the yard below cast warm puddles of light across snow churned up by countless sets of feet and hooves.

“Mum,” he said again, more urgently. “I can explain.”

“All right.” She turned, and leaned back against the window ledge. “Do so.”

His brows jumped, and she could read him too well, because all his tells were her own tells, Erik’s tells, from years ago, before they’d become their jaded, older selves capable of hiding their every emotion. He’d expected her to lay into him, rather than hand him the floor.

He wasn’t prepared for this.

But he cleared his throat, and hitched his shoulders up higher, and bulled ahead, because the line of Halfdan Half-Blood was nothing if not stupidly stubborn.

“It was all my fault,” he said, to start with.

“I assumed it was.”

“Mum. Listen – Tessa didn’t want any part of it. I made her–”

“You made her?” She hadn’t been angry, finding them, but anger began to coil now in her belly. Anger that he would implicate himself in such an ugly fashion, just to save the girl a bit of pride.

“Oh, well, I mean–”

“Rune,” she snapped. “Are you suggesting you grabbed her, and hauled her to you, and forced her to kiss you? That you forced herself upon her?”

“No, I–”

“Because from where I was standing, she looked more than eager.”

His jaw clenched, chin tilting to that angle that made him look so like Erik. “Tessa’s a nice girl – a respectable girl. A lady.”

“A lady with her hands all over you.”

His eyes flashed, and she had a glimpse of the warrior he would become – and of how deeply he was invested in this. Tessa wasn’t a dalliance or a plaything. No, he was too much like his uncle: when he cared, he cared deeply, ready to defend his intended’s honor – even from his own mother.

Before he could respond, and say something they both might regret, she held up a hand. “Peace.”

He huffed out a sigh. “I don’t like what you’re implying about her.”

“And what is that? That she likes you? That she wants to kiss you? That she’s a beautiful, soft-hearted young lady who’s spent countless hours by your bedside? I have seen the way she looks at you: don’t demean yourself – paint yourself a rapist, for gods’ sakes – just to paint her as meek and chaste.”

He gaped at her a moment, as the words hit him. And then the blankets rustled as he surged forward – an aborted movement to get up that left him flinching against the pain in his side. A pain entirely different from that in his voice when he said, “Mother, I would never do anything against her will. I will never hurt her like that!” His hands had clenched to fists in the bedclothes, tendons standing stark in his wrists and forearms. He trembled, faintly.

Revna wanted to cross to the bed, sit down on its edge, and reel him in to her. Hold him beneath her chin so she could kiss the top of his head, like she had when he was a baby.

But those once-soft, round cheeks were lean and bearded now. And this was not the easy, aimless upset of a broken toy or a scraped knee. This was the upset of a man – and a foolishly noble one at that.

She held her ground. In a level voice, said, “Then stop protecting her.”

He scowled. “No. That’s what a man does. He protects the people he cares about.”

Didn’t that just break her heart?

“Would Father not have smashed-in someone’s nose for suggesting the same of you?”

“He would have,” she relented. So would Erik…so would Bjorn. They would have been wrong, though, because she’d been throwing herself at Torstan when she was Tessa’s age, and not nearly as subtly, either.

“Then don’t ask me to be less of a man than he is,” Rune finished on a firm note. And he folded his arms, face set. Decided.

She sighed. She’d gone about this the wrong way, and she wanted to kick herself for underestimating her own offspring like that. She hadn’t been angry, not from the first, and so she dropped the façade – gratified to watch him notice it slip off her shoulders. “Rune,” she said, in a gentler voice, “do you love her?”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no nervously glancing away. He admitted it as boldly and straight-forwardly as he did everything. Leif was honest, yes, but he could hedge when he needed to; he was diplomatic in the way a king should be.

Rune was all instinctual response.

And Revna could feel the sadness in her smile, because while she believed him, she knew that, for him, at his age, love was still so innocent and easy. Young love could be acute, could be vibrant, could be true – but it hadn’t been battle-tested. Not fire-forged. It wasn’t hard to love a pretty girl at this age; commitments felt so effortless when nothing bad had happened yet.

She sighed again, her lungs tight. “It’s never been anyone’s intention – Erik’s or mine – that Tessa not have a choice in the matter. We won’t force her to marry your brother, if she’d rather have you.”

She could tell, from the way his brows shot up, that he hadn’t expected to hear that. He held very still a moment, and she could see the righteousness bleeding out of his face, the flush of anger receding, so he looked as pale and unwell as he truly was. “You…do you mean that?”

“Of course. If any of us gave a fig for appearances or propriety, your uncle would have married her straight away and had done with it. I got to choose my own husband. I want the same for Tessa.”

He digested this; a hint of a disbelieving smile flickered. “But…”

She lifted her brows.

Guilt crept into his expression. “What about Leif?”

“Leif will understand. I assure you, the last thing he wants is to marry a girl who’s in love with his brother – that wouldn’t end well for anyone involved. But. He’s currently almost to Dreki Hörgr, and it would look better if you and Tessa waited until he was home. Tell him yourselves and sort it out then. No sneaking around behind anyone’s back.”

He nodded readily. “Yes, Mum. That’s a good idea.”

“That means” – and now she fought a smile – “no more of” – she gestured to the bed, the rumpled blankets and furs where Tessa had been sitting – “this.”

“Of…oh.” The flush returned to his cheeks, for an entirely different reason. “Of course. I understand.”

“There’s already gossip, apparently. Estrid’s tongue has been wagging.”

He made a face. “Gods, I hate her.”

“Duly noted. But I’m serious, Rune. The two of you have spent entirely too much time together. It isn’t seemly.”

“Mother, you sound like a Southerner.”

“You’re going to marry one. Get used to it.”

~*~

Bjorn was waiting for her when she returned to the solar. He’d taken one of the plush, tall-backed chairs by the hearth, and held a wine cup in one hand. He used it to gesture to the chair opposite him, and the table beside it, where a second cup waited for her.

Revna paused a moment, exhausted suddenly. Even if she was happy for Rune, tonight’s revelation – one that, to be fair, she’d seen coming from the first – wasn’t the sort of headache any of them needed to deal with now. This was her first time dealing with any sort of real, practical romance counseling with either of her sons, and it left her feeling drained in a way she hadn’t expected. She’d been a hellcat at Rune’s age; she was reaping what she’d sown, she supposed – but she didn’t have to like it.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she was going to bed. To ring for Astrid and leave him sitting there alone with his wine. He spent many an evening here, in the royal apartments, but that was always with Erik, talking over business or remembering old, boyhood times. It was never just the two of them, without even Birger as a safe intermediary.

But…

He’d always had the ridiculous habit of wearing tunics and jerkins without sleeves, like a wild clansman. Once he shrugged out of his cloak, his arms were nothing but thick bundles of muscle, tattoos, and the leather vambraces he always wore. How he didn’t freeze, she’d never know, but, then, the Úlfheðnar never did. She’d always assumed, as captain of the guard, that he wanted to look frightening – which he did – and that he wanted to offer contrast to Erik’s velvet finery – which he also did. The king could be magnanimous – and the king’s man could put you in a hole in the ground when that magnanimity ran thin. They had always been an impressive duo in that way.

She could also acknowledge that she was, after all, a woman; a Northern-raised woman, who’d developed a very particular taste in men. Torstan had been built like Erik, but no one in Aeres was as big as Bjorn. Sometimes, alone in the dark of night, restless, she tried to picture Tor…and his memory slipped through her fingers, blurred by time, so much time…and then Bjorn would appear in her mind, familiar, trusted, loved, even, as all their closest friends were loved – and very much alive. And very – large.

She didn’t know if she’d ever stop struggling with that guilt.

But it wasn’t guilt – nor sight of his bare arms, burnished by firelight – that led her to take the offered chair, and pick up the poured wine. It was the light in his eyes, shining out from an otherwise placid, unconcerned expression: he expected her to refuse. She hadn’t refused yet, but he already looked crestfallen, and unsurprised.

So when she sat, and crossed her legs, took her cup in both hands, she had the pleasure of watching that resigned light spark into surprise.

He schooled it away, quickly. Put on a mild expression and said, “Not to say I told you so…”

“In this instance, I will give you one free chance to say it and gloat about it. But.” She lifted a single finger off her cup. “Only this once.”

He cracked a rare grin, gold canine flashing in the firelight. “How about if I don’t take the opportunity this time, and save it for later.”

“Not a chance. Now or never.”

A beat too late, she understood why her response earned a slight lifting of brows, and a glint in his gaze. Her face heated. But he said, “All right, then. What did the lad have to say for himself?”

“That he loves her. Of course, this was after he tried to take total blame for what happened. He actually attempted to convince me that he’d all but forced her into his lap.”

Bjorn’s smile fell away. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, he most definitely did.”

He whistled, softly, and took a long swig of wine.

That sounded like a brilliant idea, so Revna followed suit.

Bjorn said, “Bloody chivalrous fool.” He tipped his head. “No offense meant.”

“He is a bloody chivalrous fool.” She sighed. “And a sweet boy. I know he feels guilty about all of this – doubtless Tessa does, too. I should go and talk with her.” Though the idea heaped another layer of exhaustion across her shoulders. “I told him that they need to wait until Leif returns before they make any sort of declaration or take any further action” – he snorted at that turn of phrase – “and that they should be seen together less than they have been around the palace. Not to give you even more credit for being right: but Estrid will have this gossip in every matron’s ear within a matter of weeks.”

“I could throw her in a cell for a while, if you like.”

She chuckled. “On what grounds?”

He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Being a spoiled little shit, for one.”

“The idea does have merit.” She sighed and took another sip of wine. “We’ll just have to impress upon the children the need to keep a low profile and hope things settle back down.” When she flicked a glance to him, she found a small, private sort of smile gracing his lips. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

“You said ‘we’,” he said, that glint back in his eye – dangerously so.

She resisted the impulse to suck in a sharp breath. Sipped wine instead to give herself time.

Time enough, unfortunately, for him to say, “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

She couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so forward: almost flirtatious. “Bjorn, what are you doing?”

The spark left him – which left his gaze, perhaps even worse, intense. Heated. Serious and fixated. “Erik left me behind to support you, and the children. To keep you safe, and give you a shoulder to lean on, if you need it.”

A strong shoulder, she thought. A tremendous one.

“But you already know that,” he continued, “and you’re dodging the issue.”

“What issue?” she said, dodging.

“Revna.”

She wanted to squirm beneath his gaze, or cover her face, turn away – wanted even to flee. And she wanted to do all of those things because his gaze left her wanting to do something else entirely, and she wasn’t ready to admit that to herself, for a whole host of stupid reasons she’d gone over in her head again and again and again.

She did none of those things. Traced her wine cup with twitchy fingers and forced herself to meet his stare – the one that promised all sorts of wicked delights, but which was still caring, and affectionate, respectful, even – she’d never doubted that he respected her. And sad, too, because he didn’t think he could ever have what he wanted, but he wanted it anyway.

It brought to mind Rune and Tessa, wanting one another against the circumstances.

And, more strongly, of Erik. Poor, restrained, buttoned-up Erik, who’d lived his whole life assuming he would never have someone of his own to love, resigned to being alone, but loving and looking after them all – after his kingdom – all the same.

But Erik had a pretty redheaded boy in his bed, now.

And Revna had…resistance.

And Bjorn had longing.

For once, she had no idea what to say. He deserved better than whatever paltry excuse she could come up with, so she set her half-full cup aside, stood, and moved toward her chambers.

He caught her arm, as she passed his chair.

She froze. For all that it was a careful touch, his grip, she knew, was unbreakable. He would release her, if she tugged – she knew that. And that was why she stood rooted, barely breathing, and looked down at his huge hand, where it rested at her elbow, fingers meeting around the circumference of her arm, and then looked into his face.

And found a kind of hunger that only he had ever directed toward her. Torstan had loved her, had wanted her, but their relationship had always been marked by Tor’s irreverent, carefree attitude. He’d been all warm, lazy smiles, and love tinged with confidence; they’d loved one another equally, and he’d always known that.

Bjorn’s love – and it could only be called that; deny it all she liked, she knew that was the emotion burning in his gaze – was a savage, nearly-violent thing. A starving, hungry, desperate love, one he kept in check, kept tamped down low, from sheer force of will.

Seeing it like this, right up close, was staggering.

Whatever her face did, it inspired a small, rueful smile from him. When he spoke, his voice was low, gravely, and without hope. “I’ve never known you to be the kind of woman to play coy, or pretend to something you don’t want. This isn’t like you.”

No, it wasn’t. Yet here they were.

“If you think I’m repulsive,” he continued, “or an ogre, just tell me and have done with it. I won’t – I won’t put any pressure on you. Not if you don’t want it. Not if you don’t want – me.” The last was just a scrape of sound; he sounded ashamed. His face looked braced and ready for rejection.

Her throat was tight, and it made it hard to speak. “I don’t – you’re not repulsive.”

“That’s something, I guess,” he said, without a trace of humor.

“Why does it matter to you so much?” she asked, voice a half-choked whisper, now. “Why me? There are other women.”

“Women who aren’t you?”

“But – but why me?” she repeated. Her breathing had picked up; her pulse drummed in her ears. She’d never been this way before – this uncertain, wavering…girl. She’d always been sure. Always known.

And look where that had led.

“I’m a fighter not a poet,” he said. “If you want a fancy explanation, I can’t give you one. But it’s you. It’s always been you.”

“I–”

Sound of the doorknob turning. It seemed it was a night for interrupting would-be lovers.

Bjorn released her – her arm felt immediately cold in the absence of his touch – but he held her gaze, probing, asking.

Astrid said, “My lady, supper is coming out. Will you go down, or shall I bring up a tray?” She didn’t ask why Revna stood so close to Bjorn’s chair, nor why he was staring at her. Unlike Hilda, she had tact in spades.

Revna turned toward the door, eyes stinging unaccountably. She blinked and knew they were dry. “No, I’ll come down.”

She felt the weight of Bjorn’s gaze follow her all the way out the door.

13

The path was so narrow they were forced to walk single-file, vine-draped branches thrusting in close, leaves tickling at arms and faces. Connor walked ahead of her, his wife ahead of him, and both held torches aloft, the flames crackling and snapping loudly in the oppressive, close dark of the forest all around them.

Amelia felt Malcolm right up against her back; he kept treading on the heels of her boots in his attempt to stay together.

Connor glanced back over his shoulder, up toward Malcolm, and then met Amelia’s gaze and winked. “Very loyal men you have, my lady.”

“Fuck you,” she said, pleasantly, as he chuckled and faced forward again.

“Watch your step. It’s just ahead.”

The path curved to the right, around another totem that reared up out of the dark, nearly occluded by vines. The torchlight danced over carved eyes, carved teeth, carved horns. A dragon, she realized.

She didn’t believe one word of what Connor had told them. That dragons – fire-drakes, specifically – were not only real, rather than the subjects of children’s stories, but very much alive, and had been hibernating in caves, and had been awakened.

Rubbish, all of it.

And yet, here she was, following, being led down narrow footpaths in a darkened Inglewood. If nothing else, she had to credit the Strangers with creativity. She’d never heard such a wild, far-fetched excuse for a kidnapping.

She touched her wrist, briefly, where the ropes had been. Asked herself why they hadn’t been bound again. Weaponless, outnumbered, she supposed there was no need to tie them up – they were easy enough targets as it was.

On that comforting thought, they finished rounding the bend, and arrived at the mouth of a cave.

It was wide, but low enough that Malcolm would need to duck to fit. Above, a gnarled, mossy tree grew up to join the canopy, its roots crooked up into knees, long fingers reaching out of the earth and dangling down over the cave opening – which was black as the pits of hell.

Amelia was filled with an immediate, all-consuming dread.

Heedless, Connor stepped forward and brushed a tangle of roots aside, revealed symbols carved into the rock – old symbols. She wished Oliver could see them, because he was the studious one, of the three of them left, and he would have known their origin.

Connor traced a shape with a dirty fingertip. “Runes,” he said, and she knew then what she was looking at – and that it was old. That it predated the idea of Aquitainia as a sovereign state. “Úlfheðnar, at a guess.” He glanced back at her. “The original wolf-shirts who came down from the north in their longships and pillaged the Men of the Lakes – the first people to make a home here, in the Inglewood.”

“What do they say?” she asked, unable to keep the waiver from her voice.

“I don’t know, exactly. But this one here” – a series of stacked, short strikes with the chisel that gave the impression of a sinuous curve – “repeats over and over, and it I do recognize, along with this other. This is fire, and this is drake. These runes mark a place where dragons slumbered.”

“And what,” Malcolm said, tone mocking, “they’re about to come out and eat us all?”

“Oh, no, they’re not at home at the moment. They’ve moved on. They’re loose in the forest.”

Amelia thought of Strangers raiding sheep pens out in the open. Thought of the dead lion they’d stumbled over earlier, its missing bones, its gnawed flesh. She swallowed with difficulty and said, “I can’t decide who’s the bigger idiot. You for staging this farce, or me for even entertaining it.”

He flashed a quick, tight grin. “If it’s only a farce, come and see for yourself.” He hooked a bit of dangling root with his hand, and pulled it back, gesturing eloquently with the torch. After you.

She folded her arms and stared him down.

“Very well, then. Follow me.” He ducked into the dark opening, glare of the torch touching rough-hewn, natural rock walls, illuminating a dirt floor that sloped gently downward.

Amelia took a deep breath, stepped forward – and stopped when Malcolm’s hand gripped her arm. He stood beside her, now, and there was enough light from the wife’s torch to make out the harsh set of his jaw.

“Lia, no,” he whispered. “There could be anything down there.”

“Or nothing. Most likely nothing.” She ignored the nervous jumping of her stomach. “They’ve had us at their disposal all this time. If they were going to kill or rape us, they would have done so.”

He let out a breath. “Not exactly reassuring.”

“Don’t you want to know what sort of stupid setup they’ve got down there? I bet it’s a papier-mâché dragon with one man working its front and another its back end.”

He snorted at that, lips touched with a fleeting smile. “I’m coming with you.”

“I didn’t figure you wouldn’t.”

A quick word left the other standing unhappily behind, surrounded by torch-bearing Strangers. Amelia ducked through the curtain of roots, Malcolm close behind her, and followed Connor’s bobbing torch down into the abyss.

She was struck immediately by the awareness that this was nothing like the small caves close to Drake Hall that she’d explored with her siblings and cousin as a child. Those had been small, cramped spaces, too warm from the sun beaming in through the openings, their voices echoing back quick and muffled. The ceilings had been earth and only a few small bats had huddled in back.

The first thing she noticed was the cold. A deep, damp, seep-into-your-bones cold, and a breeze touched her face, one that smelled of water and minerals. The torch revealed deep gouges in the rock face of the wall that she refused to call claw marks. Bats twittered overhead, their eyes like shiny black beads, the floor dusty with their guano. Above the scuff of their footfalls, she heard the steady, distant plink of dripping water.

The floor sloped down, and down, and down, and then, to her surprise, reached a switchback turn.

“How deep are we going?” she asked Connor.

“We’re nearly to the first den,” he said.

“Den?”

“We found five down here, though exploration proved there’s room for many, many more. A whole family lived here once, several generations of it.”

“You know I still don’t believe you,” she said as a warning.

“Oh, you will.”

Around the turn, the path steepened – it looked nearly terraced, with sharp drops giving way to gentler slopes. Here were more marks – many more, crowded along the edges of the terraces, and the bats were gone. The ceiling had grown tall enough that the light of the torch no longer reached it, the black void overhead more than a little unsettling.

Connor turned sharply right, and before she could call out saw that it was another opening, a wide, irregular oval that led into an inner chamber. The light fell on pale, gleaming arcs that threw black shadows over the floor – and after a moment, she realized what they were.

Bones.

“Drakes are predators,” Connor said, stepping forward to toe at a ribcage large enough to have belonged to a cow – maybe a bull. “From what we’ve observed, they eat what they kill when they kill it, but some of the fossils down here give proof to squirrelling their food away and eating it in privacy.”

Malcolm said, “So you threw some bones down here. That proves nothing.”

Amelia frowned. “Fossils?”

“Just so. Let me show you.”

He stepped around the cow skeleton and led them deeper into the “den,” past more scattered bones: deer, lion, a few that looked alarmingly human that she didn’t want to examine closely. Bones that were yellowed, but gleaming, old, but not ancient.

The torchlight skipped up across a shape that Amelia at first took for a boulder. It was the chalky, dusty color of old stone…but then Connor thrust the torch forward and she saw a round opening, and below that...

Amelia gasped, involuntarily.

“My father,” Connor said, was a better scholar than my brother or me. A bookish man. He went about interesting us in it all the wrong way: lots of being kept indoors on pleasant days and being quizzed and needled until we loathed his teachings on principle.

“But I always found the biological history of Aquitainia to be rather interesting. For instance: long before the first war with the Sels, when they were visiting as merchants – this would be shortly after the Úlfheðnar colonization – they brought with them great beasts of burden that become something of a fashion here.”

“Elephants,” Amelia murmured, stunned.

Connor shifted the torch, following the big, swooping curve of a fossilized tusk. “It’s been more than a century since elephants walked these lands.”

Amelia blinked, and shook her head – but the sight before her didn’t change. She reached out, tentatively, and touched the skull, expecting, hoping, to feel clay, or starched paper, some evidence that this was all a hoax. But she knew the texture of old bone, and these were real.

“Come,” Connor said, turning, and she was helpless but to follow.

Malcolm gripped her shoulder as they walked, but kept silent, all his protests dried up.

In a deeper, smaller den, they found another skeleton, one large as the elephant’s, but longer, shaped differently. And the skull…

Horse, she thought at first, but, no, it was too large. Long, tapered horns sprouted from the wide end of the wedge, and the jaws tapered down to a smooth, narrow snout. The torchlight glimmered on teeth. Not the broad, flat molars of a horse – or of any herbivore – but on fangs. Serrated, wicked, meat-eating teeth as long as her whole hand.

“Go on,” Connor said.

When she touched it, she felt the unmistakeable texture of true bone.

It wasn’t until she spoke that she realized she was shaking all over; it manifested in her voice, an unsteady quaver. “This isn’t real.”

“Yes, it is,” Connor said, almost gently. “But deny it if you must.” He cleared dust and cobwebs from a natural shelf of rock and sat, torch propped negligently on one shoulder, its light licking up the cave wall. “Would you like for me to explain?”

She ground her teeth, wanting to refuse – this was madness! – but ultimately jerked a nod.

He nodded, too, as though he’d expected the answer. “Generations of kings have been lying to the people of Aquitainia – I still consider a lie by omission an outright lie, mind you. They kept the truth from us, from all of us: that dragons exist, and have so since recorded history. The water-drakes in the sea, and the cold-drakes of the North, and the fire-drakes, here in the woodlands and wilds of the South. Once upon a time, the Drake family name was Boswell, back when the Northmen first retreated, and the South began to form something like a country. And the Boswells better than anyone, could make friends with the wild drakes that roamed these lands. They tamed them. They rode them. Call it magic, call it spiritualism, call it something of the blood – some of the old clerics used to say that the Boswells were born of dragons, that they could turn into them, if they wished. But that was a lot of rot.”

She snorted, though her head was spinning. “Like this?”

He chuckled, and gestured toward the skeleton lying beside them. “Whatever you think of me, you can’t dismiss that.”

“Who told you all this? The wild men?” Malcolm asking, tilting his head mockingly back the way from which they’d come.

“As a matter of fact, I read about it – and then consulted a very old, very demented clergyman at the capital.” He went on to expound on his summer spent in Aquitaine, when he was only sixteen. On getting lost in the labyrinthine library complex, wandering, searching, more interested in seeing how far he could get than actually studying – and finally stumbling upon a room with a key in its lock, and the door standing cracked open. He’d found the clergyman inside at a table, perched precariously on a stool, in stained robes, his white beard trailing over the parchments spread before him, lips moving as he struggled to read through rheumy eyes. “I don’t even think he knew where he was, or what year it was,” Connor said. “He kept calling met ‘Teddy.’ He was ancient, and he was babbling, and he asked if I could help him search for something. I was bored, and curious so I did. And the whole place was a treasure-trove of secrets. I called that room the Dragon Library.”

“If the crown wanted it kept secret from everyone, why preserve all those old documents?” Amelia asked.

He gave a rueful grin. “Because nothing as powerful as a dragon could be forgotten. They’d helped to win the first war with the Sels, and I imagine king after king after priest after minister thought it best to keep records of that kind of weapon. Just in case any more were ever found. Just in case they needed a miracle.”

“If that’s true,” Malcolm said, “why not search them out when the Sels first attacked back in the spring?”

“I imagine they did. We’ve found a few corpses wearing Crownland armor.”

“And you think dragons ate them?”

“No. Just lions, or bears. One had stepped in a bear trap and broke his neck, poor sod. No, the forest got them, because Crownlanders have forgotten how treacherous the Inglewood can be, once you stray off the road. And the dragons were asleep, I told you. If the crown was looking for them, they never found them.

“But I did.” This was last was said with a triumphant, smirking grin.

It was a bit of a shame, Amelia thought, fleetingly, that she hadn’t thought much of him when she was younger and he was still a lord.

Then again, she’d always preferred a bit of rough to all that ballroom polish.

“You found the cave.” The longer they’d talked, the more the shock had begun to wear off; it was a relief to feel her practicality returning. “How does one wake a dragon? Knock? Throw a deer carcass down the hole?”

“No.” He snorted and then grew serious. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid.” He reached into a pocket amidst his rough clothes, and then tossed something to her.

She just got her hands up in time to catch it, and whatever it was – hard, smooth, heavy – the moment it touched her, a sharp prickling went shooting up both arms, a nearly-painful flash of feeling and numbness, both, like when she clipped her elbow on a wall. She hissed in shock. Her fingers burned.

“Lia,” Malcolm said, with alarm.

But whatever it was, she refused to drop it. As quick as it had flared, the burning subsided, so it only felt as if she held a warm mug of tea. She opened her hands and looked down – to see the torchlight flickering across a smooth, flawless, egg-shaped bit of red stone. Its color was even, and brilliant, and after a moment, she realized it wasn’t a stone at all – but a ruby.

“Holy gods,” she murmured. “Where did you find this?”

“There are totems all around his cave, half-grown-over with ivy. A dragon sits at the top of each, and each held a gemstone such as this in its mouth. A perfect gemstone – no facets, no occlusions.”

“How is that possible?”

He shrugged. “Toby – he’s one of mine” – he gestured toward the ceiling with his torch – “says that, according to the runes, all the gems were found in the heart of the fire mountain of the Fault Lands up North, many, many generations ago. They were brought here by the first Northmen settlers. They’re not regular gems, these – but you can tell that just holding it. They’re said to each be the heart of a dragon, long dead, and that, beneath their protection, dragons have the power to slumber peacefully, unseen, until the time should come to wake them.”

They both stared at him a moment.

Amelia glanced back at the ruby she held, big as a goose egg.

Malcolm said, “So the gems are magic, and they kept the dragons asleep like in a fairy tale.”

Connor tipped his head side-to-side. “More or less.”

“And you collected them. Removed them,” Amelia said.

“Yes.”

“And the dragons woke up?”

“Er, well – they did. After a fashion. After we…walked down here and found them. We brought a fresh-butchered deer…and then Brian poked at them a bit.”

Amelia had been expecting a lavish story about spells, and sacrifices, or even a rousing song – and found herself snorting over this. “No wonder your brother overthrew you.”

“Yes,” he said, sighing. “In any event, while we managed to get out with our hides intact, and the dragons were awake, and did come out into the open, in the forest, it was all for naught. The scrolls I read in the dragon library did not lie. None of us here is a Drake, and so none of us could get them to cooperate.”

It all clicked into place, then. The ruby seemed to grow heavier in her hand. “So you want me to see if I can, what, tame them?” The lunacy of it left her nearly breathless.

“I think, my lady, that it is in your, and the entire kingdom’s, best interest that you try.”

When she turned to Malcolm, she found him shaking his head, expression dazed. “Lia,” he said, a bit helpless. “I don’t – this can’t be real.”

“No, it can’t,” she agreed. But a part of her – a large part, all right most of her – did believe. It was too wild and weird a story to have been concocted just to, what, waste several hours of her time? And all of these bones were certainly real enough.

She faced Connor again. “I’m keeping this.” She slipped the ruby into her own pocket, felt it dragging at her coat. “Where are the dragons now?”

His grin flickered out, triumphant, and then smoothed away into a pleasant half-smile, the prick. “Let’s go and find them, shall we?”

They traveled back the way they’d come, up the terraced, claw-marked steps, around the bend, up the sloping dirt-floor, climbing much more difficult than coming down had been. Connor was in the lead, and slowly, the flicker of the torch began to be backlit by the lighter-indigo of the cave opening, growing larger and more distinct as they walked.

Amelia hastened her steps.

“Lia, you aren’t seriously considering this, are you?” Malcolm asked, quiet but urgent. “The man prefers to live in the woods with outlaws – he’s clearly cracked in the head.”

She sighed. “I don’t know. Living in the forest, free from society’s pressures, able to do what you want, love who you want – it doesn’t sound so bad.”

“What?”

It was an impossible dream. She said, “You saw the bones just like I did.”

“They could have put them there.”

“After making them out of what? Or, did they find them elsewhere in the forest?” She halted, and he turned to face her. “I’m not being held for ransom, I haven’t been killed or raped. As crazy as that story was, I think we need to acknowledge that Connor has no reason for making it up – unless it’s true.”

“But…” His gaze tracked back and forth across her face, a little wildly. “It’s just…dragons? Dragons, Amelia.”

“I know, I know.” She reached into her pocket, felt the smooth heat of the ruby. “What does it hurt to play this out? To at least see if we can see them with our own eyes?”

“Well, for starters, if they are real, we could all get killed and eaten.”

“But I’m a Drake.”

He jabbed a finger toward Connor’s retreating back. “Which is only a theory he has. There’s no guarantee at all that the beasts will give a fig for you, Drake or not.”

To her surprise, she was offended. She stood up straighter. “If my choice is between taming a dragon to save my family’s duchy, or marrying Reginald L’Espoir, I’m going to choose the dragon every time.” She levered a note of authority into her voice on the last, and Malcolm’s lips pressed together into a thin, flat line.

Finally, he let out a deep breath and said, “As if I could ever sway you on anything.” He rolled his eyes.

Amelia smacked him lightly in the chest. “Good. Then stop arguing.”

The torchlight receded more by the second, and they started walking again, chasing its glow to the mouth of the cave.

“No!” A shout. Connor.

They broke into a jog. Amelia drew her knife as they pushed through the curtain of trailing roots, and had their eyes assaulted by torchlight. Much, much more of it than there’d been before.

Amelia blinked against its harshness, hand tightening on her knife.

She saw her own men, and Connor’s, all on their knees – at spear-point. Hands behind their backs. The men holding the spears wore heavy, gold-chased plate armor, and helmets that covered their faces, with only narrow slits for their eyes, the skin around which had been painted a shocking, deep purple. She didn’t have to search for the serpent embroidered onto their surcoats to know who these men were.

Sels.

Seles’s indomitable fighting force, hellbent on colonizing all of the East, and beyond.

The quiet, choked sound of weeping drew her gaze to a patch of moss just beyond the cave mouth, where Connor knelt over a crumpled body. The sightless eyes of his child bride stared up at the canopy, her throat a jagged red ruin, blood seeping into the moss all around her.

“Shit,” Malcolm breathed.

An unfamiliar man’s voice, its accent harsh and clipped, said, “She fought. That was unwise.”

Amelia turned toward the speaker, and saw a Sel in even finer armor step forward, his purple surcoat emblazoned with serpents, and stars, and sunbursts. The Sels worshipped only one god, and had always said it was his will that they embark on their, in their own words, Ascension to Greatness. This man was a captain, and held a long, bloodied sword in one gauntleted hand. With the other, he reached to push up his visor, revealed a square, harsh, pale face, streaked around the eyes and across the bridge of his hawkish nose with purple pigment.

“Lady Amelia Drake,” he said. “As you can see, we have you surrounded.”

“Fuck,” she murmured, and dropped the knife.

14

There was only one advantage to sleeping in a tent, Oliver discovered, and that was the need to huddle close for warmth. Their first night beyond the relative comfort of Long Reach, their vast party of Northmen had made camp before nightfall, at the edge of a glistening, frozen-over lake, erecting small, dome-shaped tents made of hide, and wood, and bone. After a disappointing – though thankfully hot – meal cooked over a fire, Oliver and Erik had bedded down on a pallet of straw and furs, fully-clothed. Erik had hooked an arm around his waist and dragged him in close straight away. “You’ll want to be touching.” Dragged a heavy black bear fur over them both.

The wind had picked up, once night fell, and it had sounded like the wailing of a widow, or the shrieking of a demon, beating at the hide of their tent. “It’s only the wind,” Erik had said, more than once, large hands rubbing soothing circles across Oliver’s shoulders. But Oliver had shivered, and wriggled, and, when, exhausted, he’d finally found sleep, he’d awakened the next morning to find that he’d crawled completely on top of Erik, his face mashed in his warm throat. Erik had chuckled over that, and kissed the top of his head.

Now, they neared the end of their journey, at last.

A clear dawn had, slowly, over the course of the day, become crowded with a white haze of cloud. When the scout at the head of their party sounded his horn, alerting them to their impending arrival at Dreki Hörgr, fat, dark snow clouds lay crouched on the horizon.

Oliver let out a deep breath that plumed as white mist before him, and flexed his stiff fingers on the reins. He’d thought to arrive with a lump of fear in his stomach, but was too cold and tired now to care about more than shelter and food.

At sound of the horn, Leif sat up tall in his saddle, his horse jigging in response, picking up on his obvious anticipation. Oliver saw a faint grin touch his lips. However strenuous the journey, and whatever lay ahead, the crown prince of Aeretoll was eager to arrive at the home of his forebears.

“Everyone,” Erik called, raising his voice to a small shout to be heard, turning left, and then right to address the breadth of their company. “Formation!” He glanced over his shoulder at Oliver, and said, more quietly, “Ollie, to me, right here.” On his right side, he indicated with a wave.

In his rightful place as consort.

Oliver felt the first, unlooked-for flutter of something like nerves in the pit of his belly, as he gathered his reins and heeled his horse up so he rode abreast of his lover. He earned a quick, but true smile from Erik, before the king turned to ensure the others were falling in line.

The uneven, constant crunch of snow that had marked their journey thus far became a flurry of sound as horses broke into trots, and canters, and even a gallop from a few, by the drumming sound of hooves punching through snow. Oliver turned his head, watching, as each of Erik’s lords and their heirs steered into position, into a pattern that they all knew, clearly by heart. Snow sprayed as horses were reined up, or urged on; calls and shouts and jeers rang out across the empty expanse of white wasteland around them.

A column formed. First Erik and Oliver, alone at the front. Behind came Leif, and Birger, and Náli. Then Askr, Haldin, Ingvar, and Dagr’s heir, now fatherless. Each row was one greater than the row before, all of the lords at the head, and then all the guardsmen and men-at-arms after that. Then the reindeer-drawn sleighs that bore their supplies and belongings, three-abreast.

More galloping hoofbeats announced Magnus and Lars, riding up on either side of the column, bearing standards that streamed the seals of Aeres: the wolf in Magnus’s grip, and the stag in Lars’s.

This, Oliver realized with a thrill, was the Great Northern Phalanx. The force that he’d been sent North to retrieve – at the head of which he now rode…as royalty.

Of a sort. Consort counted.

Ahead, the ground sloped gently upward, studded with rocks that protruded from the snow. Above the horizon, the mountaintops they’d been chasing the last two days still seemed small, and far away. Oliver leaned forward onto his horse’s neck – the climb was steeper than he’d thought. Up, and up, and up – to a crest.

And then…

“Gods,” he breathed, stunned.

A valley lay below them, a wide, shallow bowl, at the center of which gleamed a frozen lake, edged with black rocks, and narrow, dark-green conifers. At the opposite side, the feet of the mountains lay overlapping, their sharp ridges edged with snow, their sheer faces shingled with black shale. It had been an optical illusion, Oliver realized, that the peaks had seemed so small; the ground had been sloping upward for longer than he’d realized, and the peaks seemed small because the mountains were vast, taller than any he’d seen, points thrust up into the clouds. They stood shoulder to shoulder, blotting out the sunset, a jagged row of black and white teeth that cupped the valley, and then marched off into the distance to either side, farther than the eye could see.

Amidst gleaming streams and small stands of forest below, he saw the rectangular longhouses that the Northmen had lived in before palaces like the one at Aeres had come into fashion. Two-story, wooden, their peaked roofs heaped with snow, smoke curled from chimney holes, ribbons of gray against the white background.

Erik reined up a moment, while he stared. “This,” he said, his tone strange, caught somewhere between pride and dread, “is Dreki Hörgr.”

Oliver could only stare, nodding. “I never asked. What does that mean, exactly?”

Erik snorted. “Dragon Hold.”

“What?”

A falcon wheeled overhead, screaming.

“Come along,” Erik said. “Let’s see what’s for supper.”

~*~

A tedious, switchback path that was, regardless, wide enough for them to ride abreast, led down into the valley, plunging through occasional stands of pine and fir; they splashed through a creek that ran fast enough it hadn’t frozen, the air damp and fresh-smelling, beneath the cover of swaying tree limbs. Birds called and alighted, darting, colorful signs of life, even in a place such as this.

When they reached the valley floor, they found humanity. Wild humanity.

Small domed, hide tents like their own studded a field, fur-wrapped men and women tending kettles over cookfires, children running shrieking, long, braided hair streaming out behind them. Several of the men stood, staring boldly as they passed, their expressions blank. A few children pointed, shouting, their accents too heavy for Oliver to make out the words.

“The Bryti,” Erik said, under his breath. “Stewards of the eastern sea wall. They’ve come a long way.”

Over another creek, around a stand of firs, a larger field stretched off to the left, marked at its center by a longhouse belching smoke. A picket line held reindeer who milled about, nosing at the snow. The tents that surrounded the building were rectangular, with peaked roofs and an elaborate system of stakes and lines holding them up. He saw no women, only a huddle of four men – tall men, with long, dark beards braided to points, and metal hoops gleaming in their noses and eyebrows, thin gold rings braided into their hair.

“The Jǫtunns,” Erik explained, voice tighter. “Don’t venture into their camp.” A flat order, without explanation.

One of the men, both brows bristling with little hoops, flashed a stained, gap-toothed smile. Oliver hastily looked away.

Their path wound its way through a fairytale landscape of ice crystals and ornately carved longhouses, all with the same wooden device affixed to the front peak of the roof, like the figurehead at the prow of a ship: a snarling dragon.

“So,” Oliver said, casually, as they skirted the edge of the lake. Dusk was coming on, washing over the ice in a dazzling display of sugar-pink and plum. “When were you going to tell me this was some sort of shrine to dragons?”

Erik snorted. “It’s not a shrine. The legend goes that the first cold-drakes were spawned in these mountains; that they swam in this lake, and hunted these fields. That they allowed men to gather here – not to live, but to partake in their bounty. A coming-together in common cause. The first Midwinter Festivals were in fact great hunts: the wild reindeer herds traveled these paths, and the trees provided cover from which to spring upon them – and shelter. Before the longhouses were built, this place marked a respite amidst the harshness of the mountains and the tundra. A sheltered place with clean, running water, and wood with which to make tools, mines where they found copper and iron ore. The dragons shared their home with them, in the deepest, darkest part of winter, and in return, the men brought jewels out of the mines, and offered them over to the dragons – dragons like trinkets, or so the stories go.”

Oliver stared out across the sunset-kissed lake, and, beyond, a low hill topped by what must be the largest of all the longhouses. “And now?”

“Now, the dragons are gone, the reindeer herds have rerouted – but the clans come together here, for sport, and friendship, and negotiation.

“And,” he added, tone growing heavier, “to remind us in Aeretoll where we come from.”

Oliver pointed toward the distant longhouse, its two chimney holes belching smoke, its shadow growing long across the snow. “Is that ours for the night?”

“Yes. The King’s Hall.”

Ragnar and his men had set off from Redcliff in the middle of the night two nights before, right after the slaughter of the bear-shirts. “They need me,” he’d said of his clan, and ridden off into the dark, without even a lit torch, his remaining men cantering along behind him. Once they’d rounded the lake, and were approaching the King’s Hall, Ragnar rode down to meet them, on his shaggy, scarred mount, his hair in tooth braids, his breath steaming in the chill, grinning at them.

“Ho, cousin!” he called, waving. “Your palace awaits.”

Erik rolled his eyes, but reined his horse to a halt, and, to Oliver’s surprise, slid down out of the saddle. He handed the reins to Oliver.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s tradition,” he explained.

Ragnar halted his horse between Magnus and Lars, between the banners, all but leaped from his saddle, and walked forward to meet Erik – to embrace him in what looked like a spine-crushing hug.

Oliver couldn’t see Erik’s face, but he could see Ragnar’s, and the delight in his smile was reminiscent of the smile he’d worn the night Oliver first met him, when he’d thrown open the doors of the great hall and sauntered into the middle of the Yuletide Feast like a patron saint. Just as then, it was a smile that sent a prickle of unease up the back of Oliver’s neck, though he would have been hard-pressed to explain why. Erik was stern, Bjorn was frightening, Askr was a blowhard…but none of them left him wary the way Ragnar did. And the worst part, when Ragnar’s gaze shifted up to him, still astride his horse, he suspected Ragnar knew that.

Ragnar pushed Erik back at arm’s length, hands gripping his upper arms. His gaze stayed on Oliver, though, and his grin became sly. “Still have your dragon-rider, I see.”

Simple words, but they forced all the air from Oliver’s lungs. He sat up straight in the saddle, and tried not to let it show, keenly aware, suddenly, of the crate they’d stowed in one of the sleighs: the saddle, the harness, the bridle, the painting. He didn’t plan to use it – how could he? He hadn’t the first idea how to – but the knowledge of it, possessing it, stirred up a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Erik’s response was muttered, and inaudible, but it left Ragnar with his head thrown back, laughing too hard, and too loud.

Erik turned back around, rolling his eyes. But then his face cleared, and he held out a hand in offering.

Oliver took a deep breath, and dismounted.

~*~

Prior to leaving Drakewell, Oliver had scoured every book on Aeretoll – and the North – that he could find in Drake Hall’s vast library. He’d examined sketches of longhouses, documented in an old book with flaking pages, written by an anthropologist who claimed to have ventured “all the way” to the harbor at Aeretoll. Oliver had seen longhouses with sod roofs in the village of Aeres, but the King’s Hall dwarfed them all.

Two generous stories high, the exposed timbered ceiling captured and echoed sounds strangely; a clever system of hides kept the snow out of the smoke vents, but allowed the smoke to leave the house. A gallery-style loft ran the length of both sides of the open, upper floor, split-log railings in place to prevent unwary sleepers from rolling off in the middle of the night. A long, narrow pit ran down the center of the first floor, filled with smooth river stones, and set with three huge cast iron kettles on frames; fires burned beneath all three. To either side, rooms of a sort had been established with the help of tacked-up animal hides, curtained off areas that wouldn’t provide any actual privacy, but which Oliver supposed were better than nothing.

For a moment, he found himself missing the cozy, two-person tent they’d shared last night, all on their own.

But then the heat of the fires prompted him to push back his hood, and he decided being warm was worth losses in other areas. He smelled wood smoke, and stew, and the dust kicked up on the floor as all the lords filed in and milled about, drawing lots for sleeping places.

“We’ll be back here,” Erik said, and led him down the long, heated line of the fire pit, past partitioned cells where the lords were setting down saddle bags and laying out bedrolls, two and three to each “room.” The last on the right had an additional curtain, a spotted cat hide that blocked the outside view. Erik held it aside and motioned Oliver in first: where a ten-by-ten square with a hard-packed dirt floor, a bearskin rug, a raised wooden platform for their bedrolls, and two wood walls awaited them. A plaque of carved wood hung on the back wall, a crude, but accurate depiction of the Aeretollean reindeer stag, with a crown poised above.

“It’s…cozy,” Oliver said, trying for an optimistic tone.

Erik let the hide flap fall with a snort, and stepped up beside him. “It’s a box.” He glanced toward the cowhide wall that separated them from the neighboring room; beneath its edge, the shadow of feet moved, and they could hear Leif asking Birger politely which side he’d prefer for his bedroll. “That people can hear through.”

“Not ideal for an assignation,” Oliver agreed. “But it beats the tent.”

Erik arched a single brow.

“In some ways,” Oliver granted. “Though it is – lacking a certain charm.” He let his gaze drop suggestively to Erik’s chest, and earned a quick, sharp grin in return.

The flap moved behind them with a rush of disturbed air. “Erik.” Birger’s voice.

They both turned and found the royal advisor wearing a look that wasn’t quite concerned, but close. He stepped into their crowded, un-soundproof box and let the flap fall behind him. In a low voice, he said, “Did you notice riding in – the Ákafamaðr?”

The last spark of humor left Erik’s face, and his expression turned grim. “I did, yes. Just a glimpse of them, through the trees.”

“There’s no mistaking that banner, though.”

“No.”

“The who now?” Oliver asked. He didn’t remember that mouthful of a name when Erik was pointing out clans to him.

“The Ákafamaðr,” Birger said. “Southern books call them the Aggressors.”

Oliver nodded. “They fly a burning man on their flags, don’t they? Which – I didn’t think most Waste clans made use of true banners.”

“They don’t. All have a symbol, usually carved intel lintels, or onto shields, or inked into their skin. But the Ákafamaðr have true banners, like we do.”

“Not like we do,” Erik said, a touch petulant – Oliver found that charming, beneath his sudden, new worry about a possible threat. “But they do have banners, yes. And, aside from Aeretoll, they’re the Northern peoples who live closest to the Northern Sea, over on the west coast, across the Gods’ Spine.”

Oliver nodded, his studies coming back to him. “The nearest Southern city to them is Radial.”

“The trading port,” Birger said. “The Ákafamaðr do some trading with the South – but not much. They’re deeply distrustful, and they blame everything from a harsh winter to a sore tooth on the South.”

“They’re the reason Radial has a sea wall,” Erik said. “They used to go raiding there. They aren’t farmers. No, they go raiding across the West Sea, or into the smaller, softer clans in the foothills of the Spine.”

“They also have no love for Aeretoll,” Birger said. “They hate the thought of palaces, or farms, or clean, indoor living.”

“They sound lovely,” Oliver deadpanned. “Why do you both sound surprised that they’re here?”

“Because we are,” Erik said. “They never come.”

An unpleasant thought occurred. “They’re not here because of me, are they? Because of Tessa? Your impending alliance with Drakewell?”

Both men gave him careful looks.

“We don’t know, lad,” Birger said. “But I expect we’ll find out.”

~*~

Dinner was a flavorless stew with…some sort of meat in it. But it was warm, and warming, and so Oliver ate until he was full and was thankful for it. Benches had been set up all down the length of the fire pit, on both sides, and the lords and heirs and advisors and guardsmen of Aeretoll stretched their tired feet toward the flames, broke out their pipes, and talked. Of their journey, of the days ahead; of old times, and, even, of ghosts.

“So I heard her wailing–” Askr said.

“It wasn’t a ‘she,’ you dumb sod,” Ingvar said. “It was a wolf.”

“You think I don’t know a bloody wolf when I hear one? No, this was the Wailing Woman, sure as you and I are sitting here. She was calling out to me, and her voice was coming through the chinks in the logs.”

Grinning, Edda said, “Did you answer her?”

“Of course not! I’m a happily married man, I’ll have you know.”

“Da, we found you wandering out in the snow in your small clothes next morning,” Haldin put in, to the great amusement of everyone present.

Erik chuckled quietly, smoke wreathing his head, and Oliver breathed in deep the sharp smell of the tobacco, rich, and peaty, and comforting because it conjured images of Erik’s chambers back home.

Back in Aeres.

With a little not-unpleasant lurch, Oliver realized he’d just thought of Aeres, of Erik’s sumptuous, eclectically cluttered rooms, as home. It was the first time he’d done so.

As if sensing his regard, Erik lowered his pipe and turned his head toward him a fraction, one brow lifting in silent question.

Oliver’s face heated, which was silly, he thought, giving himself an internal scolding for his emotional dramatics. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just thinking.”

The brow lifted a bit higher. Thinking about what?

“Something good,” Oliver assured.

A smile quirked one corner of Erik’s mouth, and he turned back to the story – and his arm hooked loosely around Oliver’s waist, hand on his hip, and drew him in closer along the bench. Oliver rested his head on his shoulder and listened, tired, but content.

Eventually, when there was more yawning than story-telling, the fires were banked with peat and left to smolder, and everyone sought their bedrolls. Erik and Oliver spread theirs out, overlapping, on the platform in their makeshift chamber, Erik threw an arm over his waist, and Oliver fell quickly to sleep, the rhythm of Erik’s steady breathing in his ear.

He woke some indeterminate amount of time later to a shrill scream.

His eyes snapped open to darkness. He shivered, and felt goosebumps prickling over every inch of his skin. Erik was snoring against the back of his neck, dead to the world, and he held perfectly still a moment, breath held. A dream, he thought. Whatever that noise was, I dreamed it.

Lungs starting to burn, he strained to listen. Heard the faint shifting of dying coals on the banked fires; more than a few men snoring, elsewhere in the longhouse; the creak of wood as someone shifted around up in the loft. But no–

A high, piercing, pained cry split the night. It sounded nothing like the animal cry of the cold-drake, nor could he feel that presence in the back of his mind. No, this sounded like a woman shrieking in terror, in pain, in anguish. It was coming from outside. Was rolling through the valley, rippling across snow and ice so that it bore a crystalline ring at the end, as it tapered off and died.

Without quite understanding why he did it, Oliver slipped silently from under Erik’s arm, stepped into his boots, and ducked out of their room.

Cool moonlight fell in through the smoke holes above, and the coals beneath the cooking kettles glowed red and orange, giving him enough light to make out the path down the length of the longhouse, toward the double front doors, where a blue-white stripe of moonlight marked a gap between them. He walked slowly, and lightly, boots silent on the earth floor, and he hugged his arms tight around himself, wishing he’d taken the time to draw on his dressing gown.

The scream sounded again, more distantly, and he hastened his step.

He pulled open one of the doors, and it creaked a little on its hinges; frigid air rushed in, slapped his face, filled his lungs. He gritted his teeth against it and stepped outside, muddy, churned-up snow crunching underfoot.

The clouds that had accompanied their arrival had been swept away by the strong, southerly wind that raked across the valley – a valley poured with silver-blue moonlight, glistening and gorgeous and otherworldly in its glow.

He gripped his own arms tightly, shivering, and stood a moment, gaze scanning the gently rolling hills below, the pine stands, the brilliant sheen of the lake. His breath steamed in front of him, and his nose started to run right away. His goosebumps left his skin aching.

But his mind was full of Askr’s story, of his wailing woman trailing ghostly tatters of a white dress, black hair streaming in the wind. Of her dead, yawning mouth, and the awful, dying rabbit screams she’d tormented him with, years ago. All a fantasy; a made-up story to scare children.

But that didn’t explain the next screech that rent the night.

He shuddered hard, head snapping around. It sounded as if it had come from across the lake, the skin of ice reflecting it strangely. Amplifying it. “That’s a bloody good way to start an avalanche,” he muttered, glancing up at the mountains behind the longhouse, endless black shadows in the moon-silvered dark.

A hand landed on Oliver’s stomach; a body pressed up against his back. “What is?”

It took only a second for him to recognize Erik’s voice, the shape of his chest and stomach at his back, but that was enough time to startle hard. “Gods,” he hissed, jumping in place, prevented from whirling only by Erik’s arm around him, his large hand pressing reassuring over his belly. “How is it possible to be that silent?”

“What are you doing out here in the cold in your nightshirt?” Erik sounded more than a little concerned. His hand withdrew, and a moment later a welcome, heavy weight settled across Oliver’s shoulders: his cloak. Erik wound it round his throat from behind; the fur tickled at his jaw.

“I heard something. It sounded like–” He hesitated, embarrassed now; he’d climbed out of bed over this, walked out here alone without so much as his dressing gown against the chill. “It sounded like someone was screaming.”

A beat. Erik’s voice sounded careful: “More…drake…stuff?”

“No, not like that. It didn’t sound anything like a drake – not in person and not like it does in my head. This sounded human. Mostly.”

As if on cue, a low, mournful cry shivered up from the foothills, a drawn-out wailing that was soon joined by other voices.

Erik relaxed physically behind him with a deep exhale. “Oh, that. That’s wolves, love.”

“But that isn’t what I heard before.” And it wasn’t. There was no mistaking the lonesome yodeling of wolves at night, but the screams that had drawn him out of his bed had been just that: screams. The two were unmistakable.

But Erik said, “You were asleep, in an unfamiliar place. The valley echoes things strangely, and Askr had been telling all those stories about his wailing woman.”

Oliver turned in the circle of his arms so he could glare up at him. Moonlight brightened the silver threads in Erik’s hair so they gleamed like molten metal. Don’t get distracted, he reminded himself, and that wasn’t hard when he saw Erik’s faint, patronizing smile. “I know what wolves sound like, and I’m telling you, what I heard wasn’t wolves.”

Erik stared at him a long moment, until his smile slowly faded. “I’m not doubting you.”

“Oh, yes you are. Whatever was out there” – he jabbed a finger toward the hills – “it was shrieking loud enough to wake the dead – though not you, apparently – and it wasn’t a wolf, or a dragon, or any sort of four-legged thing I’ve ever heard. Not a cat, either,” he added, when Erik started to protest. “We have lions in Drakewell and I’m familiar with that particular scream, thank you very much.”

Erik’s brows lifted. “If you’re quite finished ripping into me?” His tone was mild. “I was going to suggest that, whatever it was, coming out here all but naked wasn’t the best way to deal with it. Or don’t you agree?”

Oliver’s face heated – which left his cheeks stinging, here in the frigid night.

“We’ll investigate tomorrow. Whatever it is, if it can lift a door latch and come in after us, it’ll have a whole host of angry lords to contend with. But you, your lordship, should be abed.”

“Pompous ass,” Oliver muttered under his breath, to which Erik chuckled. He let himself be tucked under a strong arm and steered back indoors.

The wolves kept singing, an ancient song of grief, and cold, and silver moonlight.

15

Even if she was stubborn as a mule, as Malcolm often told her, Amelia knew when she was outnumbered. She went willingly to her knees, empty hands behind her head, and didn’t resist when the Sels bound them. That didn’t prevent one from pressing a noxious rag over her nose and mouth until unconsciousness claimed her.

She woke slowly, lurching toward awareness and then falling back into deep, velvet black. Noises intruded, pain, flickers of indistinct light. Impulses fired in her brain: run; fight; no.

When true consciousness finally found her, the first thing she noticed was the dry, awful cotton texture of the inside of her mouth, and the burning in her nostrils. Aftereffects of the chemical they’d forced her to breathe. Her eyelids were heavy, but she cracked them open a fraction. Firelight. Her own booted feet, stretched out before her. A little flexing of stiff muscles, and an ache in her back proved she’d been seated on the hard ground, and had her hands bound behind her back around a thick wooden stake wide as a young tree trunk. The fire was huge, crackling, and hot, ringed by stones – and by her men. They were all staked out the same way she was. Malcolm wasn’t beside her, but halfway around the blaze, at the edge of a shadow. And he was awake: his head turned toward her, eyes glittering wide and furious – and worried. Worried for her.

She blinked at him, but didn’t lift her head, and lowered her lashes when she heard voices close behind her.

Two men. Sels, speaking in their lilting, musical language that seemed composed entirely of vowels. It made some sense when she saw it written, but listening to a rapid-fire conversation between two native speakers was unintelligible to her.

She wished she’d taken Oliver up on his offer to tutor her.

They sounded to be having an argument: one’s tone was pleading, the other impatient. She had no doubt she and her men were the topic of conversation.

Moving slowly, trying not to wince against the crick in her neck, she turned her head a fraction, trying to get a better feel for their surroundings.

Connor was staked out right beside her, his chin fallen forward on his chest – but his lashes flicking as he blinked. He was awake.

She wet dry lips with a dry tongue and whispered, “Connor, what’s happening?”

He didn’t respond.

Her feet were loose, and, as subtly as she could, she kicked him in the boot.

His head lifted, and when he turned toward her, he wore the face of a grieving man. Grieving his wife.

She felt a momentary pang, but there was no time for grief right now. “Where are we?” she hissed.

When he spoke, his voice sounded as if his throat was as dry as her own. “In Inglewood. In the duchy proper. At the border of the forest – and my brother’s estate.”

The conversation behind her continued, uninterrupted, so she dared to lift her head another fraction and search to either side of them. The light of the fire was too bright to make out much, but the moon was up, gleaming off frosted grass – and blackened tree stumps that gave evidence to the Sels having started to clear-cut the wood back. Sels in their gold armor moved about, firelight gleaming off breastplates and pauldrons.

She turned back to Connor. “Where’s your brother?”

Still facing forward, his gaze lifted, head tilting back against the stake he was bound to.

Amelia started to ask him again, but the look on his face chilled her, suddenly, and she turned to follow his gaze.

Just visible in the shadows beyond the firelight, she recognized an unmistakeable outline stamped against the moon-pearled sky. A gallows. And swaying from it, a body, its face twisted grotesquely in death. He had Connor’s nose, though.

She shuddered.

“They did it before nightfall,” he said. “while you were still unconscious.” A smile flashed, tight and bitter. “He was helping them, cooperating. He let them use the manor. And then they dragged him out and hanged him. I don’t know what happened to his wife,” he said, tone light and detached. Vacant. “I suppose they’re raping her.”

Amelia’s stomach rolled, and she took a few deep breaths through her nose, willing it to settle. “How long was I out?”

“Two days. The time it took us to travel through the forest.”

“You haven’t seen my horse, have you?”

“No.”

She cast another glance around. Malcolm caught her eye, brows lifting in question. She shook her head. She had no idea what to do at this point. She tugged ineffectually at her bonds: stuck fast. They weren’t getting out of this. Not on their own.

Belatedly, she realized the conversation behind her had ended. Footsteps crunched over pebbles and small twigs.

Too late to pretend she was still out cold. She pressed her head back against the stake, schooled her features, and kept her gaze high – meeting that of the Sel captain when he came to stand before her.

He’d removed his helmet, and the purple painted stripe across his eyes looked black in the darkness – the only colorful thing about his face. Like all Sels, he bore the milk-pale skin and ash-blond hair that marked centuries of selective breeding – or inbreeding, to be more accurate. His eyes were a colorless gray, and his sharply-pointed chin was clean-shaven. He wore his hair in the classic military style of Seles: a single braid pulled so tight it tugged at the skin around his eyes, pinned up in a coil at the back of his head. He was tall – she could tell that even sitting – and even though his armor made his shoulders seem wider than they were…they were still plenty wide.

Amelia took small, stupid pride in the fact that she didn’t shrink away from him, at least not physically.

“Drake,” he said, in her language. “You are the last Drake, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she lied, because if they didn’t know about Tessa or Oliver, she wasn’t going to enlighten them. It was a gamble – a gamble that even the Sels weren’t interested in destroying the “last” of anything.

He frowned. “You are a girl.” It was said with obvious contempt.

“Yes, well, seeing as how you killed my father, uncle, and brother, I’m all that’s left.”

She saw the flash of firelight on gold, and knew what was happening the moment before he slapped her.

Hard.

Her head snapped to the side, the blow ringing through her skull, the pain bright and hot on her cheek. But he wasn’t wearing gauntlets, and he’d kept his hand open. It could have been worse.

Then Malcolm shouted, “Hey!”

No. Mal, please, no.

She’d bitten her lip, and she spat blood before she dragged her head back around.

Mal said, “You’d hit a woman? You poxy whoreson. Fuck you! Don’t you dare touch her!”

She met the captain’s gaze – and he leaned down, and gripped her chin in one large hand; his fingertips dug into her freshly-stung cheek and she fought to contain a whimper. She gritted her teeth, and didn’t resist when he tipped her head back another fraction, his colorless, purple-painted eyes boring down into hers. “I hit you. Once.” The unspoken threat was that he wouldn’t bother with so light a punishment again.

She gritted out, “Understood.”

“Did you not hear me, fucker?” Malcolm bellowed. “Let go of her! Lia!”

Connor whispered, “He needs to be quiet.”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Amelia said, tone contrite, now. “Please ignore my man. He’s of no consequence.”

The captain stared at her a long moment. “Is he not?”

Alarm bells clanged in her mind. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

She heard Thomas say, “Hush, Mal. Be quiet.”

The captain’s gaze narrowed. He didn’t blink – hadn’t blinked, and she wondered if maybe the Sels’ eyes didn’t get dry like normal people’s. “You are the last Drake alive.”

“Yes.”

“Have you sons?”

“No. I’m not married.”

His gaze cut briefly toward Connor. “You are in alliance with the Dales?”

“No. He took me prisoner, actually, me and my men. We were hunting them. They’ve been raiding sheep pens in Drakewell.”

“This man is a coward and an outlaw.”

“Yes.” She swallowed, throat sticking, and noted the way his gaze dropped to her throat, to the throbbing pulse that much be visible there. “He is. A splotch on his family’s record.”

“But not you?” The gaze dropped lower; his lip curled up into a sneer, and there was little difference between the white of his teeth and the white of his lip. “You dress like a man.”

Careful to keep her tone something like meek, she said, “In the absence of my father and brother, I strive to look after the family lands. I can’t do that in a corset and skirts.”

“Insolent.” He dragged the word out with seeming relish, his gaze returning to her face, at last. He straightened, expression going flat. “My master wants you.”

A hard chill rippled down her back. She said, “Why?”

He said, “Drakes talk to dragons.”

A hand touched hers, and a moment later, the ropes around her wrists fell away. Before she could try to bring her stiff arms around, the captain gripped the front of her leather jerkin and hauled her to her feet.

“No!” Mal shouted. “Leave her alone!”

Her gaze cut toward him, even as the Sel captain shook her. Mal, please stop, please.

“Look at me,” the captain snapped. When she did, he said, “He’s not important, no?” His white lips twitched, and dread filled her stomach.

“No, he–”

Swift movement snared her attention: an armored, helmeted soldier stepped out of the shadows and moved around Mal to stand in front of him. He carried one of the Sels’ trademark staffs, its end tipped with two feet of gleaming, wicked steel, that faintly curved spear-head that marked a group of marching soldiers so that they gleamed and flashed like a river flowing beneath the sun. “Mal, no!”

The soldier lowered the staff, and ran him through.

Malcolm’s eyes were locked on hers as the spearhead punched through leather armor as if it were butter, and found his heart. His mouth fell open; his face went slack. She saw the spark of shock, of pain – and saw it wink out.

She saw the life go out of him.

She opened her mouth to scream–

And her vision went red.

A great, hot flash of it exploded in her mind. Wiped everything else away. She couldn’t see Malcolm’s slumping body, nor the captain, nor the rest of the men around her. She couldn’t hear her own screaming. Was no longer aware of her own body.

There was only the red. A deep, glistening shade of ruby, like the gem that Connor had given her. Heat surged through her – warming, reassuring. A sense that she was safe.

There was someone there. Some presence. Indefinable, amorphous, but friendly, she knew, instinctually. She heard a low, deep, purring, a glad sort of rumble.

Recognition.

Surprise – but gladness.

A few hummed notes like a song.

A thought pierced the veil of crimson – not her own. You. It’s you. Hello, sister.

As quickly as it had come, the red fell away, like a dropped stage curtain. She gasped, and blinked, and the clearing around the bonfire was full of screaming.

She blinked, and staggered a step back – because the captain no longer had hold of her. The captain was on his knees in the dirt, clutching what had once been his face, but was now a blackened ruin; his hair was singed and smoking. She smelled roasting meat, and had to swallow down her gorge.

The soldier who’d stabbed Malcolm – Mal, no, no, gods, please, I can’t, please don’t – lay flat-out on his back, hands and face similarly burned, no part of him moving.

Soldiers were running, shouting in Selesee, panicked; someone barked orders, and the bonfire glinted off spearpoints.

Someone was saying her name. Connor. “For the love of the gods, Drake, fucking do something!”

She turned her head to regard him, struggling to comprehend, and saw that he’d gone pale with fright, his eyes rolling wildly. Do what? she wondered.

Something moved in the shadows behind him. Something slid, sinuous as smoke, between his stake and the one on the far side of it, gliding into the firelight.

Amelia stared.

It was a head – a head attached to a neck – as high off the ground as a horse would have been. But it wasn’t a horse’s head at all.

Dragon, she thought, wildly. Its long, wedge-shaped skull, its tapered nose, its horns, the little spines that traveled down its muscular, serpentine neck. Its nostrils flared – she could hear it inhaling – and its head turned toward her, its red-gold eyes gleaming with a light all their own. The flat, gleaming scales were black edged with red in the firelight.

It stared at her, and she felt a press at the back of her mind. That same sense of recognition. Hello. Sister.

The panic that had threatened upon sight of the creature faded, immediately. She only felt warm.

She let out a deep breath, and thought, hello.

Its half-moon nostrils flared, and she thought that was a kind of communication. Then it tipped its head and regarded Connor – who had closed his eyes and was praying fervently under his breath.

“No,” Amelia said, and the dragon’s gaze came back to her. “Not him. Not my men.”

It blinked, a slow closing of scaled lids, and turned its head as a trio of Sel soldiers rushed, spears at the ready. The nostrils flared again, a frill of leathery skin opened just behind its head, a collar of black tipped with red. She heard the working of its great lungs, the rush of air inside its chest, and when it opened its mouth, fire jetted out, so bright she had to turn away. When she looked back, the soldiers were writhing on the ground, screaming.

The dragon regarded her again, as if to say, what next?

Help me, she thought.

The drake gave a quick toss of his head and a soft snort that reminded her of Shadow. Then it walked forward into the clearing – on four strong legs tipped with black claws longer than her hand. It was much larger than she’d thought: bigger than any horse she’d ever seen. Its black wings were folded neatly at its sides, and its tail was long and tapered, tipped with a wicked sike like a spade tip.

A rush of movement to her right drew her attention to a second dragon, a red-tinted black wraith that glided into the clearing, pausing a second to spare her a glance that, despite its reptile face, she thought looked almost friendly, if such a thing were possible.

Farther around the ring, she saw another, and another. They were large as elephants, but moved gracefully and quickly as wolves.

More soldiers rushed forward, staffs at the ready – and were set ablaze.

Fire-drakes, she thought, with a hysterical, half-unhinged inner laugh. These were fire-drakes, and she had spoken to one. In a fashion. Connor hadn’t been lying.

Speaking of which…

“Drake!” he hissed.

“Right.” She gave herself a mental shake. “Right. Coming.”

The captain had finally keeled over, no longer moving. He wore a long, thin knife in a gold sheath at his belt, its hilt carved and gem-encrusted. A ceremonial blade, but plenty sharp, she saw, when she drew it, and turned to cut Connor’s bonds.

The outlaw king was all but hyperventilating. “It responded to you. Holy gods, it really responded to you, didn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Well, whatever happened.” He scrambled to his feet, wincing as he rubbed at his chafed wrists and rolled his stiff shoulders. Firelight danced over his face, and he looked calmer now, less blindly panicked. “We need to take advantage of distraction and slip away while we can.” He crossed to another smoking, dying soldier and drew his knife. “You cut your men free and I’ll get mine.” When she didn’t move right away, he said, “Amelia, go!”

“Right.” She felt sluggish. Heavy. Far too calm. The red threatened at the edges of her vision again, and she blinked it away.

It was the oddest feeling: here they were in an enemy camp, surrounded by Sels, but she wasn’t worried about them. Felt none of Connor’s urgency. She tried to dredge some up, though. Focus. And saw about cutting her men free.

“My lady,” Thomas said in a small, broken voice, and oh, oh no.

Mal.

She paused, one hand on the knife, the other on the sturdy rope that bound Thomas’s wrists together behind the stake. Her insides tumbled: pulse lurching, stomach rolling. Sweat prickled at her temples, and beneath her clothes. Panic, finally. Pain. Grief. She was grateful she couldn’t see Thomas’s face, in the moment; his shattered voice was painful enough.

“My lady,” he said again, and began to weep.

She cut the rope, stood, and moved to the next stake. To Malcolm.

He might have been asleep, the way his head had fallen forward on his chest, his hair shielding his face. But Malcolm had always had such spark; there was a constant energy about him, even when he was sleeping; a warmth, and a magnetism, and always an irrepressible smile, just for her. She could feel the absence of all that now. A cold void that had opened up where the wild, vibrant heart had once beaten so strongly.

A heart that would beat no more. She touched the sliced leather of his jerkin, felt that the blood that had spilled out from it was already cooling. She reached beneath the short curtain of his hair and felt his cheek: slack, lifeless.

Mal.

How could he be…

He couldn’t be…

She tried to draw a breath, and couldn’t.

A hand touched her shoulder, where she knelt in the dirt before her dead lover. Connor’s voice was gentle when he said, “Amelia, we have to go.”

It hurt to swallow, to speak. “I can’t leave him.”

“I’m sorry, but you have to.”

There was so much noise all around them, shouts, and screams, and the bellows-rush of dragon lungs filling; the rushing crackle of fire jetting. But her whole world had narrowed down to the still figure before her. The thought of leaving him here…of not at least taking him back to be buried…

Her eyes stung.

And a great red-gold eye appeared over Mal’s still shoulder. The dragon – it was the first one she’d seen, the one who’d greeted her, she could tell – materialized from the shadows, its long body hunkered low and curled around the stake that held Malcolm. It tipped its face in close to hers, close enough for its warm breath to stir her hair, and brush her face. Its frill was pinned back, its gaze warm, its bearing concerned. It nosed at her shoulder.

“Gods,” Connor whispered behind her, voice shaking, but he didn’t retreat; his hand stayed on her other shoulder. “The legends are true, then. The Drakes do have a way with them.”

The dragon nudged her again, and made a low, purring sound in its throat that sounded like an inquiry. It tipped its head to regard Malcolm, and then nosed her again. It felt like it – like he, it was a male, she sensed – was apologizing to her. Sympathizing with her, as crazy as that sounded.

But she just…knew.

Then the dragon’s head snapped up and around, stretched tall on its long neck. Its frill flared out.

Connor’s hand snatched away and he swore. “Amelia, now!”

The clank of armor and the stamp of many feet reached her, and she realized, too late, that a fresh contingent of Sels was about to engage them.

She scrambled to her feet and whirled around, brandishing the long knife she’d stolen. Firelight glinted off gold metal. Sels, at least three deep, were closing in from both sides.

Behind her, she heard a great drawing-in of breath. To the Strangers and Drakewell men clustered in front of her, she yelled, “Duck!”

They did, and a gout of orange and red flame shot over their heads, bowling the first wave of soldiers over like pins. Some screamed. Some merely fell. The flames seemed to cling to them, liquid and burning.

A flash to her right; she ducked just as a sword whistled over her head; she felt the breeze of its passing as she landed hard on her backside, and looked up to see the Sel above her lifting his sword for a second swing.

One he didn’t get to deliver. Her dragon’s jaws snapped around the man’s waist. Even as he screamed, he was lifted and flung aside like a toy.

But another Sel closed in on her other side, this one weaponless, but reaching for her with golden gauntlets. They wanted her alive, after all: someone had to call off the drakes.

She scrambled back away from him on her hands, kicked ineffectually at his gold-plated ankle – and then he jerked. Stilled. There was an arrow sprouting from his eye, suddenly, a perfect shot through the visor of his helmet.

She rolled as he fell, managed not to be crushed, and leaped to her feet to the thunder of hooves.

Riders.

She looked wildly around, and in the glow of bonfire and dragon fire saw men on horseback streaming into the clearing – men who were not Sels, but Aquitainians, with light helms, and wearing the sky blue and cream of the house of L’Espoir.

Men shouted, and horses reared and squealed at sight of the fire, but they were reined-in. Sels fell to arrows, and to the strike of swords from above; she saw the flash of steel as riders cut them down.

A rider reined up before her, the white horse dancing and fish-tailing, snorting, its eyes rolling. “Amelia!” its rider shouted, and the light gleamed off golden hair.

Lord Reginald.

“Amelia, behind you!” He lifted his sword.

And the ground thudded as the dragon closed in around her; his tail curled in front of her, caging her in, and his head dropped level with hers, frill extending. Its jaws opened, wicked ivory teeth on display, and it hissed. It gathered a deep breath.

“Wait!” Amelia shouted. Without thinking, she laid a hand on its neck, felt the smoothness of scales, and the heat of fire, and the incredible strength of muscle beneath. “Wait, not him, not his men, they’re friends!” Please, she thought. No.

The dragon’s eye rolled toward her, but his jaws closed. He snorted, annoyed, she thought. But his tail drew back.

Reginald stared, slack-jawed. Behind him, swords flashed, and fire jetted, and men screamed. Finally, he drew a breath, and said, “Fuck. A dragon.”

~*~

Dawn broke in lovely yellows and pinks, its light playing over the unloveliest of scenes. At the far reaches of the Dale estate, in a barren, blackened swath of clear-cut wood littered with tree stumps, the bonfire had burned out, and was surrounded now with fallen, singed corpses. More than a hundred. An entire company of Sels. All dead.

A few lay unburned, cut down or struck through with arrows. Reginald and his men had arrived just in time to push the skirmish over in favor of Amelia’s ragtag group – or, rather, of her dragons. Unarmed saved for stolen knives, the Strangers and Drakewell men had done little actual fighting.

Her dragons. There were five of them, and she couldn’t help thinking of them that way.

They had gathered together at a distance from the men, huddled together…eating. She watched one use its claws to delicately pry golden armor from burned flesh before leaning down to take a bite, and turned away, swallowing.

The first dragon – the alpha, she thought, the large male she’d first encountered, and who’d comforted her over Mal, who’d tried to defend her from Reginald, sat apart from his fellows, on his haunches like a dog, watching the human proceedings with clear fascination.

They’re smart, she thought. Ungodly smart.

She glanced away from his shining red-gold gaze and toward Reginald, who stood with her, and with Connor: they were three leaders, of a type, the unlikeliest battlefield officer meeting she’d ever thought to be a part of.

“How did you find us?” she asked Reginald, more than a little shocked that her voice came out steady. She was beyond exhausted, but talking of practical things was the only way she knew how to cope. It was that or collapse.

The high collar of Reginald’s tunic, worn beneath a silver breastplate and heavy leather pauldrons, wasn’t high enough to hide the scar on his throat, dark and ugly in the dawn light. His face looked more serious – realer – than she’d ever seen it. All his charm and veneer had been replaced with a competent, take-charge captain, and she appreciated that more than she could say. “Your horse showed up at Drake Hall two days ago without you. He had this hanging off his bridle.” He reached into the satchel he wore strapped over one shoulder and withdrew a Sel gauntlet, gold – but scratched, muddied, and dented – and with unmistakeable dark brown smears of blood at the cuff. “Your poor mother actually fainted.”

“She did?”

“A little. We were at the breakfast table. I managed to catch her before she ended up drowning in the porridge course.” He flicked a fast grin, then smoothed it away when Amelia didn’t respond. “We rode out right away. Though it appears” – he glanced over his shoulder toward the dragons, face paling, scarred throat jumping as he swallowed – “we weren’t necessary.”

“No, you helped. Thank you for coming.”

He shuddered, refocused, and looked back at her. “Of course.” He shook his head. “You know, if I wasn’t looking at them with my own eyes – and listening to them eat our enemies” – another shudder – “I would think I’m hallucinating. Am I?” He glanced to Connor, back to her. “Are we all? Is there some sort of…I don’t know, toxic gas here? An underground sulfur pit?”

“They’re real,” Connor said, his gaze fixed on the huddle of feasting drakes. “And so are the old legends about the Drakes.” He looked toward Amelia, a spark of something like excitement – obscene, in this moment – in his eyes. “They came to you, Amelia. You were hurt, and distressed, and they answered your call.”

“I didn’t call them.”

“Maybe not consciously, but they sensed you. They came into camp last night with the sole intention of protecting you.”

“You don’t know that.”

His brows lifted as if to say, really?

She huffed a frustrated breath. “I have no idea what’s going on – stop looking at me like that, I don’t!” she snapped, as his brows lifted another fraction.

“That thing was wrapping you up like a mother bear,” Reginald said, slightly awestruck. “It was ready to blast me – and you told it no, that I was a friend, and it backed down. It listened to you.”

“I…” Her protest died, because he had listened to her. And whether he’d understood the words or her urgency, she had no idea.

The back of her neck prickled; that presence made itself known again, in her mind. She turned her head and met the dragon’s gaze across the scorched field; he tilted his head in silent question. Asking if she was all right, she thought, a little wildly.

“Look at that,” Reginald said. “That’s not natural. It’s bad enough you can fucking talk to that murderous horse of yours. Now dragons? You’re like the heroine of a bloody fairy tale.”

Amelia shot him a look.

Connor snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

“I hate both of you,” she said, by reflex…except that she didn’t, she didn’t at all. Reginald had come riding to the rescue, and Connor had been trying to pull her away from the fighting, and they were actually decent, both of them, even if polar opposites, and, oh gods, Malcolm was dead…

Her eyes filled with tears, and she pressed the heels of her hands over them, trying to hide, ashamed, heartbroken.

She heard Reginald take a step forward. His hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, completely sincere. “I’m so sorry, Amelia.”

She breathed raggedly through her mouth until she could blink back the tears, and then she let her hands fall to find them both watching her, somber and sympathetic. “What happens now?” she asked. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” Connor said, lopsided smile threatening; his face was no less kind for it. “It seems to me you have some new friends.” He nodded toward the fire-drakes – all of whom had stopped eating and were watching her. The alpha had taken several steps closer, head cocked at a wondering angle.

“You wanted to save Drakewell from the Sels,” Reginald said. “And unless we are all in fact hallucinating, I’d say you’ve found a way.”

The alpha sat again, frill extending. He snorted, and Amelia could swear there was something like a smile in his red-gold gaze.

16

Dawn came earlier than Oliver would have liked, after having been awakened in the middle of the night. Breakfast was a thick sludgy porridge cooked over the fire, tasteless as the stew, but, at least warm. It along with some strong tea went a long way toward making the morning bearable.

Sunrise found Oliver – dressed in rich blue velvet and black wolf fur, his hair freshly braided – standing at Erik’s side at the top of a wide, flat, stone-ringed hill, awaiting the arrival of the clan chiefs.

All the Aeretollean lords stood in attendance as well, braided, groomed, decked out in a tasteful amount of finery. Ragnar was there as well, with two of his men, his most trusted, Oliver figured. Aside from a chief, clans didn’t have rank, but he figured a pecking order was only natural.

Across the far side, two heads appeared over the edge of the hilltop, then shoulders, torsos. Oliver recognized the Jǫtunns straight away, with their tall, lean builds, and their gold hoops. Next came representatives from the rustic Bryti; six other clans whose names Oliver had forgotten, in the crush of new information.

On his other side, Birger gave a low, curious hum as a chief dressed in cured seal skins appeared, flanked by two of his men bearing what looked like harpoons. “The Ákafamaðr. The Aggressors.”

Men now stood in a ring all around the hilltop, with only a small space left open. Just as Oliver was about to lean over and ask Birger about them, the Beserkirs joined the group.

He immediately wanted to rescind his initial comparison of Bjorn to a bear, because this chief might have actually been one, walking upright on his hind legs. His hair was a wild, dark thicket, not braided so much as knotted – around bits of bone; Oliver recognized a few vertebrae that might have belonged to a dog, or a person, it was a toss-up. The ends of his hair had been braided into his beard, which had been separated out into a series of strands braided with more bones, so that the whole of his head seemed one great piece of macrame. It would have been laughable if not for his ruddy, square face, and the malice shining in his gaze. He was hulking, and dressed in shaggy brown and white bear hides, his cowl sporting the ears of the beast, one that he’d no doubt killed and dressed himself.

Then, with a start, he noticed that one of the men flanking him was the young bear-shirt that he’d seen in the dungeons at Aeres, his face painted once more, his pale eyes cast low, refusing to lift to any of their faces.

Erik sucked in a quiet breath, and Oliver knew that he’d noticed.

The sun finally breached the sawtooth gaps between the mountain peaks, and golden light fell in bright shafts across the valley. The lords and chiefs of the council were all in attendance.

One of the Úlfheðnar generals lifted a horn and gave one long, low blast.

Ragnar stepped forward, arms spread, projecting his voice, the epitome of showmanship. “Gentlemen! Lords!” He turned, grinning wolfishly. “Scoundrels! Knaves! Whoremasters!” This was met with cheers and jeers, the clan leaders grinning and offering rude hand gestures. Oliver heard Askr’s distinctive booming laugh.

Ragnar turned again, so he faced Erik, and, arms still stretched, bowed deeply. When he straightened, his smile was smaller, humbler – though his gaze was mocking. “And kings,” he said. “Welcome Erik Frodeson, King of Aeretoll, cousin, to Dreki Hörgr, the Place of Dragons.”

Erik inclined his head in a deep, graceful nod.

A collective cheer went up, though Oliver noted a few dark, hateful looks sent Erik’s way.

When the smattering of applause had died down, Ragnar’s grin went wolfish again. “A fitting place for a dragon rider, eh lads? The Great and Powerful King has found love at last. I present to you his paramour, His Lordship Oliver Drake, Consort of Kings, Blood of Drakewell, Tamer of Dragons.”

A cheer from the Aeretolleans.

And a few shocked exclamations and murmurings from the clans.

A faint buzzing started up in Oliver’s ears, nothing like the fritzing of his senses when the cold-drake had been…communicating with him, for lack of a better word. No, this was good old, ordinary panic. His pulse lurched and stuttered. A glance proved that Erik was frowning, brows drawn low over a gaze that plainly asked Ragnar what in the hell he was doing.

Drake. Ragnar had called him a Drake.

The wolf-shirt chief caught Oliver’s gaze and winked. The bastard.

~*~

Stools carved from old tree stumps were brought inside the circle and set in a much smaller ring, close enough so that men would brush shoulders and knees. That was the intent, Oliver supposed. Smushed between Erik and Birger, he took the pipe and then the ale horn that was being passed around when it was his turn, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the thought of the other, unclean mouths that had touched them. The pipe left him coughing. Birger thumped him on the back and the Beserkir chief grinned meanly, showing black gaps where teeth should have been.

Oliver expected Erik to speak first, to lead the meeting.

But to his surprise, the Bryti chief spoke up first, his accent so heavy it took a beat to register the words. “Ragnar says you’ve gone soft.”

Shit, Oliver thought.

Erik’s tone was wry when he said, “Ragnar says lots of things, few of them true.”

A few chuckles rippled around the circle.

“There you go putting words in my mouth,” Ragnar said to the Bryti chief. “I said no such thing. Only that my cousin has found his heart swayed in a loving and tender direction.” This was met with sniggers.

“There’s nothing wrong with love, lads,” Birger said, easily. He’d pulled out his own, personal pipe and was thumbing in tobacco from a tooled leather pouch. “Every man here would speak freely of the love he has for his clan, for his brothers, for his sons.”

“Aye,” the Jǫtunn chief spoke up. “But our brothers and sons are useful.” His men grinned, revealing silver canine teeth, top and bottom. “What does that little bit of table scrap do ‘cept suck your cock?”

Off and on, all the long journey here, Erik, Birger, and Leif had all tried to prepare him for this moment, telling him of the roughness and coarseness of the clans, of their lack of all respect for what they saw as “Southern” royalty – they barely considered Aeretoll Northern, these days. Oliver had known that he would be grilled and needled and made to feel a fool, and yet, the question was still a shock.

Erik took a sharp breath, as did Leif.

And Oliver beat them both to it. “If I’m to take your meaning,” Oliver said in his most cutting, sneering tone, “your son’s the one to suck your cock, then?”

Silence.

More than a few of the chiefs blinked at him myopically, their faces shocked to blankness.

Ragnar barked a laugh. “See? What did I tell you?”

Oliver turned to him, gave him his frostiest stare – which was truly an impersonation of his aunt, Lady Katherine. “I wonder: what did you tell them, Ragnar? I’m not sure I like ‘paramour.’ It makes me sound like a strumpet – rather than the man who saved your sorry ass from a cold-drake.”

Inwardly, he was cringing at his own words; he wanted to pull his hood up and hide beneath it, shrink down into the collar of his cloak. But outwardly he held firm, staring at Ragnar’s suddenly slack-jawed expression.

Erik chuckled – but did not speak, to Oliver’s surprise.

The chief of the Refr clan, his copper-orange hair in a series of ornate braids that hugged his skull and rattled like thrown dice thanks to their load of beads, said, “If I knew it was the lads you liked, you coulda had one of mine.” He jerked his thumb toward the Refr – the boy, really – seated beside him, who blushed a shade to match his hair. “He’s even got the hair.”

“Not quite,” Erik said, and Oliver felt him finger one of the braids tucked behind his ear. His tone was light – much lighter than expected. “And it isn’t a matter of hair. I was never going to saddle anyone with my affections unless I thought he could carry the weight of what it means to be an Aeretollean consort.”

“Weight,” someone scoffed. “He don’t look like he could carry so much as a bucket.”

Erik’s tone firmed. “Oliver is of the old Drakewell blood. He has the dragon gift. Ask Ragnar if you don’t believe me. Ask any of my lords. They all saw it with their own eyes.”

“The beast looked ready to devour all of us,” Askr said. “And here comes his lordship, talking to it in the old tongue. I never thought to see anything like it.”

There were murmurs; hushed comments, hisses, and more than a few speculative glances thrown Oliver’s way.

Oliver resisted the urge to fidget.

Far quicker than seemed possible, the Beserkir chief stood. All the chatter died instantly. Oliver didn’t miss the way the chiefs to either side of him leaned away from him, wanting nothing to do with him, or whatever he was about to say.

The soft squeak of oiled leather betrayed Erik leaning forward, ready for anything.

The bear-shirt stared long and hard at Oliver. He growled, “Southerner,” like a curse.

It took more self-control than he wanted to admit, but Oliver managed to shoot him an unimpressed look. He snorted. “Yes, I know that. But thank you for showing at least a little basic reasoning skill.”

Someone tried to smother a laugh with a cough.

Oliver kicked up his chin and cast a glance around at all of them, trying to memorize faces, sure to meet each and every gaze without flinching. He said, “I’m well aware that I’m not wanted here. To tell the truth, I wasn’t even wanted back home.”

Leif sat forward, caught his gaze, and lifted his brows. What are you doing?

He pressed on. “I’m not a warrior. Never have been. Oh, I understand the mechanics of it, sure – I’ll correct your form any day and be right. In another life I might have made an excellent dance instructor.”

Erik’s knee pressed sideways into his. Cautioning him. They’d talked about him holding his own, about refusing to give ground to the taunts or jeers of the clan chiefs, but they hadn’t talked about what Oliver would actually say about himself, should he get control of the floor.

He had the vague sense this was social suicide in the realest sense of the phrase.

But he said, “The thing of it is, I know I will be judged for that and found lacking here. For all that I don’t fit in, I understand what it means to be a man up here in the North – especially in the Wastes. I know that you’ll think me weak, and soft, and a liability. That you’ll judge me for my ability – or lack thereof – to swing a battle axe.

“And that would be a mistake. You know why? Because all of you and all your men already can wield battle axes. You’ve rather got a monopoly on that up here.”

Erik’s knee pressed his again, more insistent.

“I’m an asset because I’m different,” he stressed. “Because I know the South in ways you do not, and can offer wise counsel in dealing with them. Because I know what’s coming – what’s already come to Aquitainia – and I know that my mind, my negotiating skills, my bloody stubborn mouth are more important when it comes to repelling the Sels than one more axe. You don’t need me to fight: you need me to think. And, not to brag about it, but I do happen to able to communicate with dragons, and I’m fairly sure none of you can do that. So.

“Do you want one more set of strong shoulders? One more sword and a bawdy joke around the fire? Or do you want a dragon rider back in the North once more?”

He found it hard to take a breath when he was done – after he’d laid such a weighty claim at their feet. He was dizzy.

They were staring at him. All of them. Some openly considering, some still closed-off and hostile.

The Jǫtunn chief sat forward, blue-smeared elbows braced on his knees, and said, “Where is your dragon, dragon rider?”

Fuck. “Oh, he’s out and about.” Oliver affected a bored air and flapped a hand, though his pulse was thudding. “He isn’t a kept pet. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

The Bryti chief said, “You can call him?”

“If I truly have need of him, he will come. But he doubtless doesn’t want to sit attendance on a council meeting. Boredom makes dragons hungry, you know.”

Several shifted uncomfortably, and more than one darted a glance over his shoulder, searching.

Erik said, “I would have thought the risk of war was more important than interrogating my consort, but it appears you’re all as gossipy as fishwives.”

That brought an end to the staring.

“The Sels won’t come up here,” one said.

Another said, “Let them come! It’s been too long since my axe drank of foreign blood.”

“The most important thing,” Birger said, “is that everyone is prepared for every eventuality.”

From there, the conversation broke down into typical politicking.

Oliver let out a deep breath, felt his shoulders slumping. It could have gone worse.

Or so he thought, until he caught sight of the Beserkir chief staring at him with undisguised contempt. And, beside him, the former prisoner, with something like fear.

~*~

“I think it went well,” Birger said, later, as the four of them strolled along the edge of the lake, its surface blinding with the sun full upon it.

“Except for that bit where you claimed to be able to summon a dragon at will,” Erik said, drily.

Oliver winced. “I didn’t claim that exactly.”

He was met by three snorts.

Birger said, “Aye, well, you made a good case for yourself, at least.”

Oliver halted, and turned to face them as they did the same, lined up three-across in front of him, all wearing different versions of the same concerned expression – though Erik’s at least held a touch wry affection. “Look, I know it’s very martial up here – all right, fine, totally martial – but you can’t tell me that at least some of them don’t see the wisdom in diversifying the skillsets a little. Right?”

Leif said, “You did make a very good case.”

Oliver frowned. “But you don’t think it mattered.”

Leif and Birger both started to respond, and Erik spoke over them. “It takes time, this sort of thing. The clans are cautious, and they don’t take kindly to outsiders. They think we” – he gestured to either side of him – “are outsiders of a sort. I think today was a good start. And if they don’t all accept you, so what? The goal is to get out of this valley alive.”

“Comforting.”

Birger leaned forward to pat his shoulder consolingly. “Just think: the worst part is over.”

“We’ve got the games next,” Leif said, and he sounded eager. He glanced over his shoulder toward the large, relatively flat field where stakes were being driven into the ground, the steady thud of hammer on wood echoing across the lake.

“Please tell me I’m not expected to compete in any of them,” Oliver said, unable to keep his exhaustion from his voice. It was a purely mental, emotional exhaustion. The council meeting had gone on for hours – hours in which he’d been asked the same sorts of questions over and over again. What does the South want with us? The answer, nothing of you specifically, you great hairy lummox, worded more gracefully, of course, hadn’t seem to penetrate a single skull. It hadn’t felt like any progress was made.

“You’re not.” A concerned notch appeared between Erik’s brow. “Here. Come.” He took Oliver’s arm, pulled it through his, and started walking again. “Leif, go and get ready. We’ll be in the crowd when it’s time.”

The prince went loping off, his strides buoyant, youthful, and ground-covering.

“I’ll go and see what needs doing in the hall,” Birger offered, behind them.

Erik gestured over his shoulder in acknowledgement.

Oliver gripped Erik’s arm tight, and didn’t try to refrain from leaning against him as they waded through the deep, untrammeled snow. He took a deep breath – what felt like his first since breakfast – and let it out in a hard gust that eased a little of the ache in his lungs. “I know I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t play cute,” Oliver muttered, gaze on the ground, watching where he stepped. “You just said so yourself: I promised them a dragon, and that is a promise I am very unable to deliver.”

A beat passed, snow crunching underfoot. Erik said, “You don’t actually happen to know where it went, do you? The dragon?”

“If I did, I’d be whistling for it like a dog as we speak. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Well, I don’t know how it works at all.”

“Neither do I.” Oliver sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; the cold was burning his sinuses. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“Stressful.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

Erik pulled them to a halt, and Oliver finally glanced up at him. “We’ve talked about it before, I know,” he said, “but the clans are the way that they are, and have always been. They loathe the idea of change, and resent when others change – it’s why they’ve always distrusted Aeretoll. One of the reasons, anyway. They want everyone to be mired in their same old, primitive horse shit: half-starving through the winter, at the whims of wild herd movements, huddled in tents and ancient longhouses with gaps between the boards. That’s what being a real man is all about for them.

“Anyone I brought along with me, man or woman, Southern or Aeretollean nobility would have been subject to scrutiny and insult.” He flicked a grin. “You held your own better than most.”

“I didn’t exactly charm anyone.”

“I’ve been at council meetings where blades were drawn.” Erik cocked a brow for emphasis. “And where more than one fistfight broke out. Today was a success by that metric.”

Oliver breathed out shakily. “Well. When you put it that way.”

His smile deepened.

“Erik!”

Erik closed his eyes, expression so woeful and long-suffering that Oliver couldn’t keep from chuckling. “Gods,” he whispered. “I hate it here.”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said, as Ragnar strode down the hill toward them. “The views are rather lovely.”

“We have lovely views at home,” Erik said with a mock growl. “And decidedly fewer cousins to pester us.”

Oliver felt his smile stretch. Home. Us. He didn’t know if it would ever stop being a thrill.

“Erik,” Ragnar called again, closer now.

Erik sighed, composed himself, and turned to face his cousin.

His grinning cousin.

“Look who’ve stumbled upon,” he said, light eyes dancing. “You’re both so sweet I could choke on it.”

“Yes, stumbled,” Erik said drily. “After you almost broke your neck chasing us down the hill. What, Ragnar?”

In a theatrical aside to Oliver, Ragnar said, “Ah, the King’s Hall, hm? Not much privacy. He’s always grumpier when he’s not getting fucked. Then again, he’s grumpy when he is, so who can tell the difference?”

Oliver resented the flash of amusement – Ragnar was charming, in his own, mean way – and schooled his features.

Erik did not. He scowled. “I suppose everyone should just fuck out in the open like you – like a pair of wild dogs.”

Ragnar shrugged. “Do you want to know what was said after you left the meeting, or not?”

Erik took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His face was that of a man working very hard not to punch someone.

Ragnar finally seemed to get the message. He nodded, and grew serious. “Shockingly, the Jǫtunns were the first to throw in their support.”

Erik’s brows lifted.

“They may be warmongers, but they aren’t fools. Sigr’s wife has his ear, and she’s a sensible woman – so far as a Jǫtunn can be sensible. They don’t believe Aeretoll is acting as an agent of the South.”

“Probably because it isn’t,” Oliver said.

“The Ákafamaðr are a different story, though.”

Erik said, “From where they sit, they will have seen the Sels invade Aquitainia. How could the Southerners asking for our help be a ploy when they have purple banners waving from the roof of the fortress at Radial?”

Ragnar shrugged. “You know as well as I do that reasoning isn’t their strong suit. They say that we should launch ships – and go raiding in the South, while it’s at its weakest.”

Erik snorted. “They’ve never gotten beyond Radial’s farm district. They have no concept of the vastness of the South.”

“No, and I doubt they’ll be so good as to let you show them a map. They know only one thing: taking. They’ll never be on your side.”

“I didn’t count on them.” Erik hesitated a beat. “What of the Beserkirs?”

Ragnar’s expression hardened. There was no trace of the jocular, swaggering persona that had first come down the hill now. “You’re on your own, there. I will not treat with them – not after I lost seven men to them. They’ve revived the old shaman practice, and they should be cut from the council for it.”

“Until we’ve taken a shaman into custody, and seen for ourselves, in the daylight, we can’t throw accusations around.”

“Accusations! I saw them! Leif saw them! You saw them! And half your lords and men. What do you think held sway over that cold-drake? Have you stopped telling the ghost stories round the fires in Aeres? About the men with stag’s heads and hawk’s talons? I know bloody well that little necromancer of yours knows something about it. Ask him.” He stepped closer, voice low and vibrating. “Did you not hear the screams last night?”

Oliver started. “Screams?”

Erik said, “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Excuse me,” Oliver said, head spinning, “but I did, and you told me it was wolves.”

Ragnar sneered in his cousin’s face. “Wolves? Really? Do you make a habit of lying to him?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Erik snarled. “Nothing but wolves, when I went out to search for Oliver. He can’t be sure what he heard.”

“I’m standing right here, and I know what I heard, and it was a human screaming, thank you very much!”

Ragnar turned to him. “He didn’t tell you how they used to do it, did he? The old ritual?”

“Ragnar,” Erik warned.

Oliver ignored him.

Ragnar said, “Shamans aren’t born with any power, you know. They’re no different than any other goat-fucking clansman. Not until they make a sacrifice to the gods.”

Oliver was rusty on religion, but he knew that sacrifices usually involved incense, and small offerings: coins, tokens, totems, food and milk.

Ragnar said, “They have to cut the heart from a virgin while they’re still alive, and then eat it. That’s what they do to turn into antler-headed freaks.”

“Ragnar.” Erik shoved his cousin. Hard.

Ragnar clearly hadn’t expected it – neither had Oliver, for that matter – and he staggered back, arms windmilling before he regained his balance. He gaped at Erik in shock. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Stop filling his head with that idiocy,” Erik snapped, aggressing a step forward, so that Ragnar took a step back.

“It’s the truth!” Ragnar shouted. “Maybe you won’t tell it to him, but I will.” Before Erik could respond, he turned and started marching back up the hill. Over his shoulder, he called, “Oliver, if you ever get sick of being lied to, come find me.”

Erik watched him go, hands curled into fists.

And Oliver watched Erik, dumbfounded.

Finally, Erik turned toward him, face set at harsh angles, nostrils flared with anger – and then froze. His brow slowly cleared. “He’s only trying to sow division. Don’t let him.”

“Oh, I know that,” Oliver said, and his tone – that light, mocking one that Erik must know well by this point – had his lover’s brows lifting. “What I don’t know is which thing I’m angrier about: him being an ass, you being an ass, or the fact that shamans – the same shamans I told you I saw in my vision, and which were controlling that drake, by the by – make a habit of murdering people. Those were human screams I heard last night–”

“You don’t know–”

“They were, and you let me think I was having a nightmare. Or that I’m – I don’t know, too stupid to know a man from a wolf.”

“I never said–”

“You knew how dangerous this place was, you told me all the way here, and yet you continue to let me walk into situations without having all the facts. I’m sick and tired of it, Erik!” The last was a shout, one that echoed across the ice, bounced off stones. Rik – rik – rik…rippling back to them.

Erik looked unimpressed. “Are you finished?”

“You’re unbelievable. Yes. I’m finished. For now.”

“I didn’t tell you about it because I had no way of knowing if it was actually happening,” Erik said, softening a fraction. “You, and Leif, and Náli all saw something that looked like the old shamans – but those haven’t existed in my lifetime, nor in Ragnar’s. They’re just legend – as is the assertion about human hearts. There’s no way of knowing if that’s true. There’s no books, and diagrams, and fossils – not like with the drakes. It could have happened, but it’s more likely that it began as a ghost story to frighten children. Even if the things we faced were shamans, even if they had the antler cowls, and some sort of makeshift claws – even if they were controlling that dragon – that doesn’t mean they’re out there eating raw hearts. And for the record, I really didn’t hear it last night. I swear to you.”

Oliver folded his arms, and wanted to stay mad. But he could already feel his anger cooling. Their conversation at Long Reach hadn’t been for naught: the Erik standing before him now, hands spread, entreating, was trying to be reasonable – as reasonable as a Northern king had probably ever been. And he wasn’t doubting or insulting Oliver; wasn’t make a sweeping proclamation and expecting to be obeyed.

Oliver sighed. “I really did hear something strange.”

“I believe you.”

He rubbed at his face, exhaustion crashing down all over again. He stifled a yawn in his palm and thought fondly of the feather mattress awaiting them back at Aeres; the locked door and the privacy it offered.

“But,” he allowed, “I’ve been swooning, and talking to dragons, and seeing blue, and…” He flapped a hand, eloquently, he hoped. “Gods knows if it was real, or just in my head.”

Erik offered a small, what was clearly meant to be supportive smile.

“Maybe,” Oliver said, “it would be a good idea not to antagonize your cousin. We have few enough friends here as it is.”

The smile immediately gave way to a frown – Oliver nearly chuckled at the suddenness of it. “Ragnar isn’t a friend – not to anyone. He can be useful, at times, but that” – he gestured back the way Ragnar had disappeared – “was him trying to set us at odds. He’s very, very good at that, and he takes great enjoyment from it. He looked angry, didn’t he? Startled? Like he couldn’t believe I’d react that way?”

Oliver nodded.

“He’s a fantastic actor. He ought to be on a stage in the Crownlands somewhere, reciting monologues.” He inclined his head to a serious angle. “Never forget that. Ragnar looks after Ragnar, and no one else.”

~*~

It was a windless, cloudless afternoon, and even as it began its descent toward the far horizon, the sun offered faint traces of warmth against Oliver’s face, and the back of his hands, where he’d taken his gloves off.

He’d first removed them to scratch at his eyebrow, then, when frostbite didn’t immediately set it – honestly, how did Erik go around bare-handed, each finger set with a cold, metal ring? – he’d kept them off, and fiddled now with a bit of loose silver thread at the hem of his tunic in an effort not to fall asleep. Once he’d finally sat down – on a long, narrow wood bench set up down the length of the gaming field – he’d realized how very tired he was, more tired than he’d thought down by the lake. He was yawning continuously, and Erik’s shoulder just to his left was looking more and more inviting as the minutes ticked on.

The band wasn’t helping.

If it could be called a band.

He used the term musicians loosely. A group of fur-wrapped children had trotted out to the center of the field some time ago, each bearing an uneven, handmade bell that clacked rather than chimed, and if they were playing a song together, it was nothing like the wild, rich display of the Crownland Bell Carolers back home.

Finally, the children bowed, people shouted approval in lieu of clapping, apparently, and the performance was at an end.

“Thank the gods,” Oliver said around another yawn.

Erik chuckled. “The next part will be better. Watch.”

Oliver groaned quietly – but the next group was better. A group of Refrs in their fox-fur capes settled cross-legged in the snow, in a semi-circle, each of them toting a drum of varying size. A group of caped women joined them, their hair loose, save at the ends, where unpolished, crudely-shaped silver beads and bones had been attached, weighting the whole of their hair so that it moved as a unit, red and brown curtains swaying as the drums began, and they fell into a dance.

The drummers kept up a rolling, ever-changing beat that reminded Oliver, appropriately, of the darting and weaving of a fox on the run. The dance mimicked it, mixing quick, light steps with sudden, bold, martial movements that spoke of war, of death.

Despite the heaviness of his eyelids, Oliver found himself entranced. When it ended, the women bowing deep, hair falling forward like the closing curtain of a theater, he drummed his hands on the edge of the bench along with everyone else in applause.

Then, finally, it was time for the games to begin.

The first event was spear-throwing. Targets were set up at one end of the field, and the first two competitors – a Bryti and a Jǫtunn – stepped forward and accepted the bundle of spears offered them.

“Each man has five throws,” Erik explained, leaning in close to do so, the heat of his breath and the tickle of his beard a welcome tease against Oliver’s ear. “The one with the best three tosses is declared the winner, and moves on to challenge the next opponent.”

“How many compete, usually?”

“Anywhere from twenty to fifty, depending.”

“Wonderful.”

“The spear is the most common weapon in the Wastes: it’s the easiest to make and maintain, and requires the least amount of iron. The only steel up here was bought, rather than forged.”

Oliver whispered, “I feel like a fair-minded Aeretollean king would simply give them the steel,” to which Erik chuckled, and bumped him lightly with an elbow.

Despite the raucous cheers and jeers of the crowd, and the enthusiasm of the participants, Oliver found himself drifting off, time and time again. He woke once to find that his head had finally tipped sideways onto Erik’s shoulder, and that Erik had shifted his arm around his waist to keep him from tumbling off the bench. Assured in the knowledge that Erik would wake him if it was necessary, he let himself drift some more.

Once, he woke to find that two contestants had come to blows, and were being pulled apart by a pair of laughing Jǫtunns while the crowd shouted its own laughter.

He woke next to a pinch at his side, and lifted his head to find the spectators sitting in front of them getting up – and being replaced by Beserkirs. A glance at Erik revealed a stoic profile, but he smoothed his hand over the place he’d pinched, a soothing and warning gesture all in one.

Oliver blinked the grit from his eyes and resolved to stay awake, even if he had to shove a handful of snow down his shirt. The Beserkirs didn’t speak to them – didn’t even look at them, or anywhere besides the action, where a wrestling match was preparing to take place. But Oliver sensed a bristling energy emanating from their backs. They were ready for a fight at any moment, from any quarter.

The sun sank in the midst of the wrestling, and torches and braziers were lit, the orange flame light dancing across the trampled snow, burnishing the bare arms of the hulking Úlfheðnar who was finally declared the overall winner.

Birger was sitting on Erik’s other side, but Leif hadn’t joined them yet. “Did he go when I was asleep?” Oliver asked, yawning again. Gods, but he needed a proper lie-down. “What’s his event?”

“This one,” Erik said, nodding toward the field. Two gangly teenagers were running lengths of rope down the length of it, attaching them at intervals to the stakes that had been driven into the ground that afternoon. It created two lanes, along which a pair of women began to sink narrow poles topped with brackets.

“What is it?” Oliver asked, as more teenagers hurried along to place torches in each bracket, and then lit them with tall, burning iron brands.

“A mounted competition,” Erik said. “It’s called Eggtog.”

“Egg…what?”

“Think of it as a relay race of sorts,” Birger suggested.

“With fire,” Erik added.

“It’s usually clan versus kingdom,” Birger said. “The Aeretollean lads against the clan lads.”

“Who usually wins?” Oliver asked.

In unison, with so much displeasure in their voices it left Oliver smiling, they said, “They do.”

“Well, maybe the luck’s changed this year.”

He got two disbelieving snorts, and he chuckled.

In the orange-red glow of torchlight, two horses were led forward – ponies, really. They were short, stocky, and shaggy, with tangled manes that stuck up in all directions, and bridles made of rope. No saddles. The young lords queued up behind them, shaking out their arms, stretching their shoulders. Leif, Oliver noted, was the last in line for the Aeretolleans – he was the fastest, could make up the most for lost time. Oliver felt a little pulse of pride, as if he were his own nephew.

But then he considered the clan youths, and a lowering thought occurred: while Leif and his friends had grown up riding the heavy draft-crosses upon which they’d traveled here, and powerful, big-strided cavalry mounts…the clan boys were familiar with the small, no doubt fleet-footed ponies that awaited them now.

He wished them silent luck, and settled in to watch.

A pennant dropped, to signal the start, and the crowd began shouting and never let up. Haldin was the first rider for the kingdom – probably best, given he had to be the slowest, Oliver thought with an inner chuckle – and took a running leap and landed on the pony’s back from behind. The pony started beneath the weight, and Haldin kicked it forward into a gallop straight away, its small legs flashing and blurring.

The object, it seemed, was to gallop all the way down the course, plucking up one of the torches along the way and, on the return run, to lean all the way down, nearly sliding sideways off the pony, to touch the torch to a line of rope that had been pressed down into a channel in the snow. An oil-soaked rope. A line of fire rippled across the lane, as Haldin threw his torch into an unlit brazier, slid off while still in motion, and the next lordling took his turn. It was Náli, much more graceful – and seemingly more energetic than he had been – and he dug his heels into the pony’s flanks when they reached the line of fire, and jumped over it.

“This could go very badly,” Oliver said, mildly, “though I suppose that’s the point.”

Náli lit a second string, leaped the first, and slid down like liquid smoke, the pony whirling and ready for Edda to leap aboard.

Oliver realized that he’d pitched forward at the waist, that he’d dug his fingertips into the legs of his trousers – that his pulse was flying. He could admit that it was a little bit thrilling.

The clan boys had taken an early lead, but through the efforts of Náli and Edda, the kingdom boys were gaining ground. More ropes were lit, more fire was leaped, and the gap between the two teams drew tighter and tighter, closer and closer.

By the time Leif took the reins and kicked the pony into a gallop, the kingdom team was ahead.

“Go, Leif!” Erik shouted.

“There you go, there you go, there you go,” Birger murmured under his breath each time horse and rider took a jump. The pony didn’t flinch from the fire, well-used to this sport.

Along the bench, the din from the Aeretollean lords reached a fever pitch, as Leif spun, and raced back, lengths ahead of his competition.

Oliver caught a glimpse of the clan boy’s snarling face, and realized what was about to happen the moment before it did. “No–” he tried to shout, but his voice was swallowed up in the chaos.

Both riders still carried torches. The clan boy swayed to the side, and chucked his right at Leif’s head.

But even without looking, Leif seemed to be expecting it. He ducked low, dodging the fiery brand, heeled his pony forward, and took the last jump – and the victory, tossing his own torch into the burning brazier and crossing the finish line to thunderous applause.

Oliver let out a huge, deflating breath. “Gods. That was…”

Erik, clapping, grinning, said, “Wait until the contests of strength tomorrow.”

“How delightful.”

Leif circled his pony, grinning, bowing from its back, showing off. The other young lords gathered round him, shouting their congratulations, eventually pulling him down to the ground so they could take turns delivering crushing hugs.

Oliver’s gaze flitted to the clan boy – a Beserkir, he saw now, as he noted the cowl that hung down his back. He slid down off his pony and left it standing, reins dangling, walking off into the dark without looking back.

The Beserkirs who’d been sitting in front of them the past few hours stood, abruptly, and left the field. Again, Oliver felt the hostility emanating from their stiff backs, from their ground-covering strides.

“That didn’t win us any favors,” Birger said.

“No,” Erik agreed. “But I don’t think we had any to begin with.”

~*~

The race had been the night’s big finish, and, afterward, a feast of roast pig, hard bread, and strong ale was served. The drinking and talking would go on ‘til dawn, Erik said, but when Oliver yawned and made a face, Erik ushered him up and back toward the King’s Hall. Some ribald comments were thrown at their back, but Oliver was too tired to care.

Erik steadied him with a strong arm as they left behind the roar of fire and manmade noise, and trod the slippery, trampled path that led back up the hill to the main longhouse.

It was another moon-bright night, its silver glow picking out flecks of glitter in the snow, shining on the distant lake, and on the snow mantles in the trees.

“You were right,” Erik said, and it was an effort to focus.

“Hm? About what?”

Erik chuckled at the sleepiness of his tone, and patted his hip. “About the luck changing this year. The lads will be talking about this victory for years.”

“Glad to” – he yawned again – “have been right about something useful, for once.”

Erik sighed. “We’re not back to usefulness, are we? I thought we’d discussed that.”

“I’m too sleepy to discuss anything.”

“Clearly. Straight to bed with you, young sir.”

“Ugh, you sound like my mother.”

“Then she was a wise woman. Here, in we go.” They’d reached the longhouse, and Erik opened the doors and shooed him inside.

Fires had been banked and left burning in the pit, warmly glowing coals that left the whole building much warmer than it was outside. Oliver shrugged gratefully out of his cloak and, for once, didn’t protest being coddled as Erik steered him to their compartment and urged him down onto the pallet, covered him over with furs. He dropped off right away, blessed unconsciousness.

When he woke, some time later, he realized that two things were wrong.

One: something was actually wrong, judging by the stirring and hurried whispering around him.

Two: he had a fever.

The moment he cracked his eyes, he felt the unmistakeable weakness and inner chill, the pounding head and exhausted body, that had heralded every single flare-up of marsh fever. It was early, yet – his temperature had spiked during the night, and how stupid he’d been not to have realized what his exhaustion yesterday had been about – but by tonight, he’d be sweating and insensate. And, here, there would be no Olaf, no assistants; no feather mattress, or hot springs, or Tessa to wipe his brow and fuss over him. No solid stone walls to keep outside threats at bay.

His hand trembled when he wiped the grit from his eyes. The platform seemed to tilt when he sat up, body already sore and achy. Gods. This was a disaster.

One that got worse when Erik appeared in front of him and said, “You’re awake.”

Oliver blinked his vision mostly clear and regarded his lover – then the doorway, where Birger stood holding the flap aside, backlit by built-up fires, a worried-looking Leif at his side. “What’s going on?”

Erik said, “There’s been an attack.”

Oliver decided that vague comment was more troubling than details would have been. He glanced from face to face. “An attack where? On who?”

Erik sighed. “I wouldn’t have wakened you, but they want your opinion.”

“My opinion?” He wished his head was clearer, because in his current state, this wasn’t making any sense.

Birger said, “On whether or not it was a drake.”

“Oh,” Oliver said. “Oh. Um…” He glanced down at himself, to find that he was still dressed, but bootless, and cloakless. “I need…” It was so hard to think.

“We’ll let you get ready,” Birger said, and dropped the flap.

Oliver watched his and Leif’s feet retreat below the hide.

Erik said, “Ollie.”

Shit, he was just staring, slack-jawed. He shook his head – which proved a poor decision when the room swayed again. “Yes, yes. I’m coming. Just…” He flapped his hand in dismissal. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Erik frowned at him. “Are you all right? I didn’t see you drink anything last night.”

He was acting drunk, then. Not drunk, darling, just woefully ill and getting worse. He said, “No. Only groggy. Give me a moment to get my bearings?”

Erik’s frown deepened, but he nodded and slipped out of the compartment.

When he was gone, Oliver pulled the little vial of Olaf’s ice rose tincture from his pocket and contemplated it a moment, what little he could make out of it in the faint glow that seeped in under the hide curtain. It clung wetly to the sides of the vial, a deep blue nearly purple.

The last thing he wanted was to be seeing things and raving like a lunatic in front of all the chiefs and lords of the North.

But he supposed that was better than swooning.

With a sigh, head still throbbing, he uncorked the vial, and put three drops under his tongue. Gods be with him.

~*~

The bodies lay outside the stable, a rustic building with only three walls and a crude rail fence to keep the horses beneath the shelter of the steep, sod roof. Ingvar’s men, their mouths open, their sightless eyes fixed on the sky. They’d been gutted, the blood gone tacky and black on the snow.

Ingvar himself crouched beside them, in the dancing glow of torchlight, and touched the shredded leather of their jerkins, fingers coming away tacky and dark. He looked up at Erik, his gaze touched with fright. “Sliced right open. Three marks. Parallel.” He spread his own fingers and hovered over the slashes: three parallel lines, just as he’d said. Like claws.

Like the body they’d fished out of the frozen lake.

“Those aren’t manmade marks,” Askr said, darkly. “An animal did this.”

“Or a man who wants us to think that,” Leif said.

“Or,” Náli spoke up, “a man who looks like an animal.”

If it had been wolves, Erik would have murmured a prayer over the bodies and told the men to keep weapons and torches close at hand, and to keep a sharp eye.

But this wasn’t the work of wolves. That much he knew.

He turned to Oliver – and a pulse of alarm moved through his stomach. Oliver had been unusually fatigued yesterday afternoon and evening, and understandably disoriented minutes ago, when Erik woke him – but now, in the glow of the torches, Erik was startled to see that he looked…well, awful. His face was waxy and pale, a faint sheen of sweat shining at his temples and throat. Shadowed, half-lidded eyes held fixed on the tableau of death before them, and his expression showed no reaction. He weaved a little, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Well?” someone said. “Was it the drake?”

Oliver didn’t respond.

Erik reached out – “Ollie” – and touched his neck.

And recoiled.

His skin was hot.

Erik touched him again, with the whole of his hand, cupping the side, and then the back of his neck. He was burning with fever.

Ignoring the others and their questions, he took Oliver by the arm and dragged him a few paces away; Oliver stumbled and came willingly, without his usual protests.

Erik took his face in both hands and tipped it back, far enough to see that his eyes were dilated, in the glow of the moon. “You’re sick,” he hissed, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s…” Oliver took a big, slow breath. “Fine. I took something.”

“Took something?”

“That – that stuff Olaf…gave me. The rose…stuff.”

“Ice rose,” Erik said. His lips felt numb. His pulse was hammering, suddenly, in a way it hadn’t been while inspecting the bodies. “Gods, you’re high.”

Oliver shrugged unsteadily. “It’s that – or die. Heh. That rhymes.”

“Come on.” Erik put an arm around him and tried to turn him back toward the King’s Hall. “You should lie down.” He was already running the logistics through his head. Traveling while sick wasn’t ideal, but they had to get out of his valley and back into Northern society. There would hot baths and real beds at Long Reach, if Oliver could hold out that long…

Belatedly, he realized that Oliver wasn’t following, and that he was in danger of putting him face-first in the snow if he didn’t stop trying to push him forward.

Oliver blinked up at him, eyes glassy, but chin set at a stubborn angle. “No. Let me look – at the bodies.”

“You can barely speak.”

Oliver gave a half-hearted wave. “Details. Come on. I’m not that bad off yet.”

“Right.” Erik wanted to hit something. “No.”

“Erik.” Oliver folded his arms, the effect ruined by the way he swayed. “I’m already out here. Looking – looking won’t make me worse.”

Erik inhaled, ready to argue…and sighed when he realized that Oliver had a point. Delaying a few extra minutes wouldn’t make things worse, and ruling out a drake attack could, theoretically, help.

Erik took his arm again, and steered him back toward the gathering of worried lords. “The moment you begin to feel worse–” he started.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to pass out,” Oliver said with a giggle.

Wonderful.

They had to walk more slowly than normal. Oliver kept his gaze on his feet, and placed them more carefully than usual. As they rejoined the others, Erik glanced up and saw Birger’s concerned frown. He shook his head when Birger started to ask something. Later, he mouthed.

“All right, lad,” Askr said. “Take a gander. With your eyes, with your – mental powers, whatever it is you do.”

Oliver tittered like a drunk, smiling in a wide, unrestrained way, loose and easy, that he never would have if sober. “All of the above,” he said, and knelt down by one of the bodies.

He tried to, at least. He overbalanced, tipped sideways, and caught himself at the last moment with an outflung hand. “Oops.”

Erik gripped the shoulder of his cloak and refused to make eye contact with anyone. “Oliver. What does it look like?”

He squinted at the dead man’s torso for long moments, tilting his head side to side. He opened his hand over the wound, and for a moment, Erik thought he might touch the body, something well and sober Oliver never would have done. Then he shook his head – after which he had to regain his balance – and stood. Erik caught his elbow. “No. Not enough claws. Dragons have four, and then a thumb.” He lifted his own and waggled it, in demonstration.

The news didn’t seem to settle anyone’s nerves.

“We’ve seen this sort of injury before,” Erik said. “Náli?”

“Here.” The young Corpse Lord stepped forward.

And Erik drew Oliver back, grateful the focus was no longer on his swaying mate.

Náli crouched down by the body, stripped off a glove, and hovered his bare palm over the wound. Erik couldn’t see his face, but he knew that his eyes had gone misty and pale: the not the solid white of a true walking, but close, as he mined through the energies that had been left on the corpse. “It’s the same,” he said, after a beat, his voice toneless and detached. “The same thing we faced at Silfr Hall, and at Redcliff.”

“A shaman,” someone said, grimly, and Erik glanced up to see Ragnar on the far side of the growing circle, several of his men flanking him. He met Erik’s gaze with a cold, hard one of his own. “I told you. I told you they were here.”

“Wherever they are” – Askr unslung his massive battle axe from his back – “we’re ready for them.”

Erik was grateful for his own blade, the weight of the longsword reassuringly heavy on his back.

His hand was full of Oliver’s trembling elbow, though, and that was his greatest weakness, his largest risk.

“Náli,” he said, “can you find them?”

“Yes. They won’t be far.” He withdrew the diamond pendant that acted as a focus for his powers from within his tunic, and dangled it above the body. It shivered and danced, plucked at by the breeze. And then, as they all watched, it lifted on its own – tugged the chain horizontal, pulling hard until the chain bit into Náli’s fingers and turned them white – and pointed up the slope.

In the direction Oliver had indicated last night, when he’d claimed to hear human screams.

“Let’s–” he began.

And a scream split the night. Not a human scream of pain or anguish. This was very, very inhuman. An awful, high shriek.

“Dragon!” someone shouted.

“No,” Oliver said. “That’s not it.”

“Then what the bloody hell is it?” Askr demanded.

Whatever it was, it had come from farther down the hill, past the King’s Hall and toward the gaming field.

“Stay here,” Erik commanded. “Askr, Ingvar, Edda. All of you. Set up a perimeter. Leif, Birger, Magnus, Lars – Náli. With me. Náli, lead the way.” The scream sounded again, and Erik wanted to get Oliver as far from it as possible. “Ragnar,” he said, catching his cousin’s gaze again, levering authority into his voice. “With us.”

~*~

Náli – or, rather, the diamond tugging at the end of its chain as if sentient – led them up a narrow, rocky path, into a dense stand of fir trees. It was cool and dark beneath their interwoven branches, the trail hard to find and slick with ice in places.

“If anyone’s come up here,” Magnus observed, “they didn’t leave tracks.”

“They must have taken a different path,” Leif said.

“Shh,” Erik hissed. “Keep your voices down.”

Beyond the glow of the torches they carried, the trees crowded in close and thick, the shadows between a deep, impenetrable black that seemed, from the corner of his eye, to flicker with bits of shine that were probably his imagination, but which looked like eyes.

Oliver wasn’t a burden, but he let Erik carry more of his weight than Erik liked; he slipped again and again, laughing quietly each time – but that was the ice rose. Every time Erik touched his skin, he was startled all over again by the heat of his fever.

“All right?” he asked, quietly.

“Fine.” Oliver took a deep, audible breath. “Chest hurts – but not bad. It’s fine, I’m fine.”

Erik swallowed a hard knot of fear and pressed on, all but dragging his lover alongside him. He didn’t need to be drug up the side of a mountain, but Erik hadn’t been able to bear the thought of leaving him below, too near to whatever had been screaming. The cry had sounded twice more, as they climbed, farther and farther behind. It wasn’t gaining on them. He sent up a silent prayer that his lords could hold their own against whatever it was, and kept his gaze fixed on Náli’s back: his narrow shoulders, his sheet of pale hair, glimmering in the torchlight.

When something finally happened, it happened quickly, in the way of all disasters.

Náli froze, one foot poised mid-step. His head snapped around to the side. The diamond, Erik saw, was pointing straight up, as if trying to fall upside down. Náli said, “They’re here.”

Erik gathered a breath to ask a question.

And screams split the air. Directly above them. Several, a dozen, hundreds – it was impossible to tell. A chorus of them. Erik looked up, and the shadows twisted, moved – and leaped.

“Draw swords!” he shouted, and heard a collective rasp of steel leaving leather. He dragged Oliver around to his other side, an arm hooked around his waist, and drew his own sword, wishing he had two hands free with which to wield, not willing to release Oliver.

A tall, humanoid shape landed before him soundlessly; it didn’t even disturb the snow. He had an impression of long, flowing dark robes, of bare arms inked with tattoos…and claws. A skull for a face, glowing pale eyes, and tundra deer antlers branching from its head, pronged and dripping something dark and wet.

Erik swung hard – and his sword passed through the creature.

A moment later it dissolved in a whirl of mist. In the place where it had been, through the last, dissipating puffs of dark fog, he saw Náli with his teeth bared, arms straining, as he stood with his sword up and braced, trying to hold back the wicked silver claws of another of the things.

He heard a grunt of pain, a curse, the whistle of a sword passing through empty air.

Oliver went suddenly boneless in his arms.

“Ollie? Ollie!” He couldn’t afford to look at him, couldn’t afford to let his attention slip, not as another of the things poofed into existence a few feet away, and glided toward them across the snow.

He hugged Oliver’s limp body in closer to his chest, and adjusted hi grip on his sword, ready.

Someone stepped in front of him, between them and the oncoming shaman.

Ragnar. He wasn’t panicked, wasn’t wild-eyed. He was frowning.

“What–” Erik started.

“For what it’s worth, Erik, I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

“What are you–”

Pain exploded in the back of his skull. Then all was darkness.

17

Tessa wasn’t too proud to admit that she was avoiding Rune and his mother like the plague. Rune was easy enough, because he wasn’t allowed to walk farther than the solar, Olaf and Revna having taken him to task for making it all the way out into the garden that day – the fateful day of the first kiss, her swoon, and the kisses that had followed – the ones Revna had walked in on. If Tessa glimpsed Revna across the hall, or at the far end of a hallway she was traversing, she either retreated, or ducked into the nearest doorway – which had led to an excruciating afternoon spent doing needlework with Lady Estrid and her friends, because it turned out she still had some pride, and refused to admit she’d slipped into their parlor in an effort to avoid the lady of the palace. Estrid had seemed to know, though, if her small, mocking smile had been anything to go by.

Hilda, whose startled scream was the thing that had drawn Revna, and which Tessa was choosing childishly to blame the whole situation on, didn’t breathe a word of caution or reprimand. But Tessa would lift her head occasionally and find the older woman staring at her with sharp disapproval. The whole thing was exhausting.

And, worst of all, she missed Rune. Because as thrilling and wonderful as it had been to kiss him, she also loved reading to him, and listening to his crazy stories; laughing along with his terrible jokes and witnessing his rare, precious moments of deep thoughtfulness.

Missing him, missing Revna, the social safety and comfort of the royal apartments, she lay awake into the wee hours, watching the moonlight slowly pan across the diamond panes of her window. She’d never been the best of sleepers, waking often in the middle of the night with one thing or another heavy on her mind. Usually, she watched the play of shadows on the ceiling for a while, until she eventually drifted back to sleep again. But not tonight. Tonight, she felt restless.

With a muttered curse – and she never cursed – she kicked off the covers, donned slippers and robe, and left her room.

There were two guards on duty outside the royal apartments, but if they noted her, they gave no sign of it. She walked away from them, hurrying until she reached the privacy of the stairwell; then she slowed, and finally stopped, berating herself. This was stupid – childish. What good did sulking around in the dark do?

But those were her ingrained manners talking, and she didn’t think her manners could offer a solution to her current predicament. What does the Genteel Ladies’ Guide to Comportment say about the aftereffects of kissing a prince stupid and getting caught in the act? While you’re informally affianced to another prince? She nearly laughed, and nearly cried, and kept walking.

The library seemed as good a place as any to end up, its book-loaded shelves dark save a glazing of blue moonlight.

She halted when she saw the silhouette in the window embrasure. A large silhouette. Loose hair shifted as a head turned toward her, but she knew his nose, limned by the moon, stamped against the diamond window pane.

What are the odds…

Rune said, “You couldn’t sleep either?”

She wanted to insist that he be back in bed; to chide him about winding or injuring himself. She said, “No.”

He held out a hand to her, palm full of silver moonlight.

She went to him.

~*~

Dealing with the mundane trivialities of running a kingdom was much more enjoyable from the advisor’s chair, Revna determined, as she braced her elbows on her brother’s desk and stared down at the mess of ledger pages before her. Erik’s chair was a big one to fill, in more ways than one, and it was nearly three in the morning, and the words were beginning to blur. She blinked, and reached for her wine cup. “God, I hate taxes,” she murmured.

Across from her, Bjorn snorted. “Try being the one who pays them.”

She conceded him the point with a tilt of her head. Swallowed. “But look at this bit here. Tax funds were put toward having the royal stone masons reinforce a farmer’s wall. Put to good use, yes, all of that: but wouldn’t it have made sense to allow them to hire a village mason with their own funds, rather than Erik playing the middle man?”

“Do you think taxes are about sense?” he asked.

She snorted. “No.” Another swallow, and, shit, her cup was empty. She stretched it out toward Bjorn in silent supplication. He rolled his eyes, but got up to get the flask.

“Go to bed, Revna. All of this can wait until the morning.”

She accepted her refill, and, as the room swayed a fraction, decided to cradle it in both hands rather than drink it just yet. It was there if she needed it, if the crick in her neck became too unbearable. “I know,” she said, sighing.

“Then why” – he dropped back down into his chair and gave her a pointed look – “are you sitting up all hours looking over the royal expenditure figures?”

She shrugged.

He stared.

Revna set the cup down and glanced away from him; he could read her too well, his gaze too intimate, too…everything. “I guess I didn’t feel like sleeping.”

It struck her as somehow inappropriate: talking about sleeping. Mentioning bed. Nothing untoward had been said, and even if it had, she wasn’t a blushing maiden. But talk of bed with Bjorn sent her imagination spinning out in dangerous directions.

“If going through the ledgers won’t put you to sleep, I don’t know that anything will.”

Oh, something would. She suppressed a pleasant shiver at thought of it, and then forcibly thought of something else. Of the thing that had been bothering her to begin with.

Tired, without another confidante at hand, tongue loosened from the wine, she said, “You know, I always wanted a daughter.”

A beat passed, and Bjorn said, “No, I didn’t know that.” His tone was nearly wondrous, and she stared at the dying fire rather than see what that wonder looked like up close.

“I love my boys. I do.” She shook her head, feeling like having to state the obvious out loud must therefore negate it. “They’re my entire world, and…gods, here I am defending myself. It’s just…I always thought it would be nice to have a girl. Amidst all you boys,” she added with a wave toward him. “Listen to me. I sound idiotic.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, fondly. “It’s a normal thing, wanting to share your experiences with someone who can understand them the same way you do.”

She rolled her eyes. “Anyway. Foolish as it is, I wanted a daughter. In addition, not instead, I want to make that distinction very clear.”

“Of course.”

“Tessa seemed so shy and timid when she first came. To be honest, I thought Aeres would crush her. That she would only grow meeker. But look at her now – so much bolder than I gave her credit. She’s smart, and she’s kind, and she’s got a stubborn streak like her cousin. Here’s a daughter at last, one to be proud of – and I’ve mucked it all up.” She hated how maudlin she sounded, and blamed it on the wine.

“How did you muck it up?” Bjorn asked.

She made a face. “Just this morning, she saw me in the hallway and all but ran the other direction. She hates me now.”

Ugh. She shoved her full cup farther away on the desk. Far too maudlin. A truth proven by Bjorn’s soft chuckle.

She looked at him then, ready to protest, to defend herself out of reflex – but the fondness shining in his gaze left her swallowing instead; left her pulse tripping.

“She got embarrassed, Rev. She doesn’t hate you.”

“I could have handled things more delicately.”

“Since when do you do anything delicately, Frodesdottr? You’re as much a hacker and slasher as your oaf brother.”

“Look who’s throwing the word oaf around.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “They’re children, and you’re their mother – Tessa’s too, while she’s here, without her own. Mothers have to be indelicate sometimes, when the truth is anything but.”

She blinked at him. “Bjorn. That sounded…wise.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

She couldn’t help but smile at him, then, which only made his own smile warmer. “How do you think Leif will handle rejection?”

“As well as he handles most thing, I expect. He’s not madly in love with the girl, if that’s your worry.”

“No, I didn’t think he was.”

In the cold quiet of the middle of the night, candle flames wavering and steadying around them, Revna was suddenly, intensely glad for his presence. Birger was warm, and loving, and gave excellent advice, had a wealth of experience to draw upon – but staring at Birger as she stared now at his younger brother didn’t leave her belly tingling with something like eagerness.

She was opening her mouth to say the sort of thing that shouldn’t be said lightly, and couldn’t be retracted…when the horn sounded.

~*~

The glass was cold, but Rune was warm, where she sat cradled between his legs, leaned back against his chest and encircled by his arms, despite her worry that she was hurting him, somehow. If he’d winced or grimaced, she hadn’t been able to see it, and he had insisted that he was fine, that, as he had said before, she couldn’t hurt him. His chin rested on the top of her head, and his every breath stirred her hair. Beyond the window, the snow-covered fields lay bathed in moonlight, like intricate silver engravings.

The dark, the lateness of the hour, the way his callused fingertips skated up and down her arm, where he’d pushed up the sleeve of her robe: all conditions that stripped away the veneer of etiquette and convention and left her staring at the simple truth.

“I can’t marry Leif,” she said, quietly.

Rune’s hand stilled – and then resumed, fingers tracing the knobs of her wrist, the tender, soft inside of her forearm. “I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“You aren’t. This is about me. About what I want. I’ve already failed to do what my mother sent me here to do–”

“You haven’t failed at anything.”

“–so I might as well do what makes me happy. If Ollie can, then so can I,” she said, firmly, though butterflies beat furiously in her chest.

Then a thought occurred. “Unless you don’t want–”

His hand closed around her arm, squeezing lightly, tendons leaping in the back of it. “I do want,” he said, voice strained, almost desperate. “I want that more than anything.” She heard him swallow. Felt his lips as he pressed them to the crown of her head. Quieter, just a murmur: “Gods, Tessa, I never thought–”

A horn sounded. From somewhere above, its call ringing out across the cold, still night. A sharp blast – and another – and another.

Rune sat up straight, pushing her forward, his breath quickening. “That’s the alarm.”

Her pulse leaped. “What does it mean?”

“Someone’s coming.”

~*~

“My lady!” No sooner had she left the study, Bjorn close and huge behind her, than a guard came pelting down the hallway toward her, mail chinking. He was young, she saw, his face flushed with excitement, his eyes shining with fear. Beneath a patchy beard was the countenance of a lad who’d never seen battle, and who was terrified now of the prospect of it. “My lady, a runner came from town. A shipmaster’s boy.” He had to pause and gulp a few breaths, leaning heavily on the spear he carried.

“What is it?” Revna recognized Rune’s voice, with a start, and glanced over the guard’s heaving shoulder to see her son limping far-too-quickly out of the library.

With Tessa in tow.

“What in the bloody–”

“Perhaps now’s not the time,” Bjorn cut in. He stepped around her and laid a hand on the guard’s shoulder. “What is it, lad? What’s happening?”

Rune and Tessa joined them, crowding in on the guard’s other side. Rune looked alert and ready. Tessa, Revna noticed, looked worried…but resolved, too. Their gazes met, briefly, and Revna could only approve of the determination she saw there. Tessa had made a decision, and she wasn’t going to back down.

Good girl.

The horn sounded again, three more sharp blasts.

The guard said, “There’s ships coming into the harbor – a whole fleet of them!”

“Ships?” Revna frowned, even as her heartbeat quickened. “The harbor’s frozen over.”

He shook his head, wild-eyed. “They’re cutting through. They’ve got blades on poles, and some sort of device on the front of the ship, at water level.”

Revna’s heart stopped – and then burst into a gallop. Her whole body flashed cold. “What sort of device?”

“I – I don’t know, my lady. But.” He gasped. “But the ships – all of them have purple sails.”

“Purple?” Bjorn demanded, voice hardening.

Revna whirled, and ran. To the stairs, and up them. Up and up, to the heavy door that led out onto the wall walk, and through it, frigid air slapping at her, driving needles into her skin, trying to shove her back inside. She gritted her teeth, gripped her skirts, and charged out into the cold, moon-bright air.

The guards milled about, shouting with alarm. The torches glinted off their helms and breastplates, quicksilver flashes as they hurried back and forth.

“My lady!” one shouted, as she drew up to the wall, gripping its cold, stone edge until her fingers ached.

It was a clear night, without clouds or mist, and she could see the distant, half-moon smudge of the town, the white gleam of the frozen harbor. She couldn’t see the ships, but she could see the lit braziers at their sterns; the pinpricks of torches burning on deck.

“Purple?” she asked, her voice strange and airless.

“Yes, my lady,” the guard said. “That’s what the runner said. He could see it clear in the lights on deck. Purple…stitched with a giant snake.”

Bjorn, Rune, and Tessa arrived, crowding in behind.

“Mother, what is it?” Rune asked. “Who is it?”

She took a shuddering breath. “The Sels.”

18

Erik woke to the sound of dripping water.

Plink.

Plink.

Plunk.

He cracked his eyes, keenly aware of the tender throbbing at the back of his skull. Where he’d been hit. He wasn’t sure of much, but he knew he’d been clubbed in the back of the head, and that, wherever he was now, it was no place good.

“You’re awake.” He knew that voice.

Ragnar.

Vision still blurry, he managed to tip his head back with no small amount of effort, until his bruise was pressing against a hard surface, and his gaze landed on Ragnar, who stood just a few feet in front of him.

On the other side of an iron grille.

A black crosshatch of bars separated them, a manmade obstacle set in a natural frame: a stone opening. Torches in brackets burned on the walls, their smoky, oily scent choking in the small space. Their glow illuminated stone walls dripping strange ice formations; gleamed on icicles hanging down from the ceiling, and thrusting up from the floor, in patches near the walls. This was a cave. One being used as a prison.

Ragnar stood with his hands on his hips, his expression expectant, and Erik wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze, not right away. He turned his sore head on a stiff neck and surveyed his surroundings. A small room, rough-walled, a bucket in the back corner the only thing in the way of creature comforts. His heart leaped when he saw that he wasn’t alone. He spotted Birger – awake and sitting against the wall, expression drawn and grave – and Leif, beside the advisor, his head tipped back, gaze fixed dazedly on the icicle ceiling. Magnus, Lars, and Náli sat in a circle, playing cards, which Magnus had obviously been allowed to keep, but they’d all paused, and stared now at Ragnar.

Leif no longer wore his cloak: it had been bundled up and used as a pillow for Oliver, who slept curled on his side, hands fidgeting, his face sallow and shadowed. Another cloak had been spread over him as a blanket.

Ollie. Everything in Erik clenched, desperate, afraid, worried. Oliver was sick and getting sicker, and their cell was frigid. His breath plumed white in front of his face as he breathed.

“Erik.”

He turned to face his cousin slowly; could feel the hatred that bloomed in his chest carve his face to a portrait of fury. Ragnar’s swallow, the quick jump of his throat, told Erik just how effective a mask it was – and not really a mask at all. If not for the bars, he would have launched himself at Ragnar; would have clawed his throat out with his bare hands.

“What have you done, Ragnar?”

“What I had to.”

“What have you done, Ragnar?”

His cousin smiled, humorlessly. “Saint Erik,” he said. “The brave, the just. The righteous. Lying is wrong unless you’re the one lying. Killing is a capital offense, unless it’s you swinging the sword.”

“What in the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do you know why your father is dead? Why Arne is dead?”

Erik got unsteadily to his feet, swaying, having to clutch at the wall behind him for balance. “You shut your fucking–”

“Because they couldn’t compromise. Because they couldn’t sit back and understand that not every war is one worth fighting. Sometimes, it’s best to pick the winning side, stand back, and watch the bloodshed from a distance. My father taught me that. He knew the value of a life: what good is it if you throw it away?”

“My father,” Erik began, through gritted teeth.

“Chose to align himself with the South to fight the Sels. To fight an enemy that wasn’t even at your doorstep! And look how that turned out. And now here you are, prepared to do the same thing – all for red hair and a pretty smile.”

Erik gripped the bars and tugged at them – ineffectually. “Come into this cell and say that, you craven goat-fucker.”

Ragnar grinned nastily. “No, I don’t think I will.” Then the smile dropped, along with his pretense. He sighed. “Erik. Listen.” He rubbed the side of his neck, and looked exhausted, suddenly, lined and worn-down, silver threads glinting in the gold of his hair. “Hate me if you want, but this isn’t personal. This isn’t about you and me and our history.

“When the Sels took the Crownlands, they struck a bargain with the Ákafamaðr across the strait at Radial.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because their envoy told me so, six months ago, when he came over the Spine and treated with me.”

Erik felt his brows go up.

“Your fire-drake wasn’t the first one to come tell the North about the war. The Sels themselves did it long before. They recruited the Ákafamaðr. When the envoy came, it was to tell me they’d already joined forces, and that I could join as well, or be mowed down.”

“Why would they join? They detest Southerners.”

“As do the Sels. They have common cause. The enemy of my enemy and all that. Do you think the Aggressors would miss a chance to go pillaging? While sanctioned to do so?”

“So, what? You joined them? You’re a Sel agent?”

“I am my own agent,” Ragnar countered, voice hardening. “I’m doing what I must to protect myself, and my clan. They asked me to sway you – because they don’t know you as I do. I knew – I knew – that you would never bow to the Sels. Never stand back and watch them colonize the South. You are your father’s son, and I knew your stubborn honor would have you mobilizing for war.

“And that was before I got to Aeres and saw your new toy. It wasn’t even worth wasting my breath to ask, then. You’d fight the world for that boy.”

The worst part, Erik thought, was that it all made a horrible kind of sense. Ragnar had always been conniving, manipulative – had always been looking out for himself, and no one else. Had always, beneath the jeers and condescension, been bristling with a barely-veiled jealousy. They were family; had the winds of fate blown a little differently, he might have been King of Aeretoll instead of Erik – or so he’d said once, years ago, deep in his cups. Erik had never forgotten that.

And neither, it seemed, had Ragnar.

“They promised you my throne,” he said, dread heavy as a stone in his belly. The way Ragnar’s eyes widened, suddenly, was all the proof he needed. “Didn’t they? You get the entire North to help the Sels, and they’ll install you as king in my stead. Oh, Ragnar. You’re more pathetic than I ever realized.”

Aggression flared in Ragnar’s eyes. He charged forward, head lowered, teeth bared, accusatory finger stabbing through the bars toward Erik’s chest. But it was fear that laced his voice when he hissed, “You have no idea what’s coming. The Great Northern Phalanx will be crushed like old leaves underfoot when the Sel army sweeps through. They are too many, too well-trained, their resources endless. You will die. Your people will die. Your nephews, and your sister, and your consort. You will watch them bleed out, and you will starve to death in some dank cell half a world away.”

“A cell like this one?” Erik countered, calmly. “Perhaps it will be warmer than this.”

Ragnar swore and turned away. Paced down the hallway and then turned back, resigned now. “I wish you were different, Erik, I really do. I wish I could have told you the truth. Could have reasoned with you. But this is the only way. In truth, I think it the kinder fate. Now you won’t have to witness the ruination of your entire house.”

Erik said, “You poisoned the Beserkirs against us. Got them thinking about what they’re owed.”

“They aren’t very smart. It wasn’t hard.”

“And all that happened on the road: that was you too.”

“That was the shamans.” Ragnar shuddered. “If you want to be very technical about it, I didn’t lift a finger against you or yours.”

“No, you only allowed it. Whose creatures are they? Who sanctioned the old ways?”

Ragnar grinned. “Who do you think? The Ákafamaðr. With the Sels’ blessing.”

“They worship only one god.”

“Yes, well, it’s apparently all right to make use of an old religious practice so long as you aren’t worshipping it yourself.” He hedged a step backward, frowning. “Truth told, I advised against using them.” He shuddered. “They give me the creeps.” He turned as if to leave.

“Ragnar.”

He paused.

“I will kill you for this. No blood tie in the world can stay my hand after what you’ve done.”

Ragnar tilted his head, and his expression became sympathetic. “Oh, Erik. You won’t live to have the chance. If you’re lucky, maybe the fever will claim your lover before the Fangs do.” With that, he turned, and he left.

~*~

“We’re in the mountains, somewhere,” Birger said, some time later. Erik had bundled Oliver into his lap and petted his hair absently, shocked each time his palm kissed that hot, hot forehead. He was burning up. “They strapped us to ponies and took a narrow trail. We arrived here at dawn – I was awake, but pretending not to be. You stirred once, but they clubbed you again.”

That explained the continued pounding of his head.

“Ragnar said ‘Fangs,’” Erik said.

“Aye.” Birger looked spooked, maybe for the first time in Erik’s lifetime of knowing him – but in the way of all things Birger, it was a resigned sort of spooked. “We’re at one of their camps. I saw the buggers when we arrived.”

“Your cousin,” Náli put in, “has handed us over to cannibals.”

“Maybe that means there aren’t that many of them,” Magnus said. “You know, because they ate each other. Ow!” he exclaimed, when his brother smacked him.

Erik expected a wry comment from Oliver – but Oliver was silent, snuffling quietly in his sleep.

Erik smoothed his hair again, chest so tight it hurt to breathe.

“We’re going to be eaten,” Leif said in a flat voice, head still tipped back, gaze still fixed on the ceiling. “That seems about right.”

“Not right away we won’t,” Birger said. “There’s an arena outside.”

~*~

Oliver was flying. Cottony white clouds shredded as he dove through them, looping and spinning; he raked claws through them, and heard the rushing of the wind in his ears. Down below – far, far below – the jagged peaks of mountains passed, snow-topped and wreathed in more clouds. He gave a cry, a searching shriek, half glad for his freedom, half frantic to find his family. They were down there, somewhere, just as he had been, before the Horned Ones came for him, and made him hurt, made him suffer, made him kill. He had to find them before it was too late.

Oliver woke with a start, coughing, choking. His body ached, his head throbbed, and he wanted to claw his own skin off it was so tender. He rolled onto his side, struggling to catch his breath, and cool hands touched his throat, his brow. Patted him on the back.

“Shh, it’s all right. Just breathe. It’s all right.”

Erik.

And his old friend Fever, raging through him, making every tiny movement painful and heavy.

Erik rubbed his back, and he was finally able to draw a breath. And then another. The spasming of his lungs eased, and he sat up, with quite a lot of help from Erik. The room around him swayed, the fever making him drowsy and dizzy.

But then he froze. Nearly choked again sucking in another breath.

The ceiling.

His voice was a croaky mess, but he managed to say, “I’ve been here before.”

Everyone stared at him. It was probably not the most relevant realization to have upon waking up to find oneself imprisoned in a cave, but, well, it was the first thing that rushed to the forefront of his fever-addled brain.

“This cave,” he explained. “I’ve seen if before.”

Leif was leaned back against the wall, and he sat forward, frowning. “How?”

“We’re in Fang country, lad,” Birger said. “In the Wolf Mountains. You’ve never been here.”

“Not…physically.”

Erik sighed. “More dragon nons…stuff.”

“It isn’t nonsense.” Oliver heard the petulant, whiny note of his voice, and was too exhausted to care. “It’s…psychic…something or other. I don’t know! But I’ve seen this cave. Only…” Now that he looked again, the ceiling, while studded with icicles, wasn’t glowing blue like it had in his visions. “Something’s wrong.”

“Yes, something’s wrong,” Náli said, drily, “we’re trapped in a bloody cave while we wait to be eaten.”

“No.” Oliver closed his eyes a moment, shoved his sweat-damp hair off his forehead and gripped his temples. Tried to think. The fever made every part of him sluggish. “I mean…”

“Ollie.” Erik’s voice was no longer right behind him, but came from a distance, albeit a short one. “Sit down before you fall.”

He opened his eyes and realized that he had in fact stood, and walked across the width of the cell; stood now in front of the metal grille, looking down the hall, flickering with orange-yellow torchlight.

Orange, yellow – but not blue.

“I know this is the cave,” he murmured, and glanced back over his shoulder. Magnus was even here, as his voice had been in the – the vision, he supposed. Could dragons see into the future? Could he?

Everyone was staring at him. “I’m not crazy,” he said.

Náli rolled his eyes. “No, of course not.”

“You’re sick,” Erik corrected. “And you ought to come sit down and rest.”

“I need more ice rose,” Oliver said, and fumbled for the vial in his pocket. By the time he’d finally extracted it, Erik stood in front of him, and captured his hand in both of his large ones; held him tight. “I need it.”

“No,” Erik said, quietly. “You need your wits about you.”

“What wits? My brain is cooking in my skull right now, and you would deny me relief?”

Erik looked like he’d been struck.

Náli said, “If there’s hallucinogens to be had, he’d better share them. If I’m going to be eaten alive by savages, I don’t want to be aware that it’s happening.”

Oliver leaned sideways to peer around Erik, and shot the Corpse Lord a frown. “Why’re you here?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, but it seemed a relevant question.

“Probably because I was with you and your bloody stupid king when his own cousin turned on him. They couldn’t leave me alive for a witness, now, could they? And those fucking shamans couldn’t kill me themselves.” The last he said with clear satisfaction, and, now that Oliver squinted at him, he could see the young lord wore dark smudges beneath his eyes, and lines around his mouth.

“Got a magic trick to use on cannibals?” Leif asked.

Náli sniffed. “Perhaps. You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Well, begging your pardon, my lord,” Magnus said, “but if you do, now would be the time to use it. Someone’s coming.”

The scuff of footsteps over slick stone floors reached them, echoing off the ice that skeined the walls, and hung from the ceiling.

Oliver tried and failed to free his hand – the vial – from Erik’s grip. “Erik,” he was pleading and didn’t care. He swayed on his feet and his vision blurred at the edges. If his fever got much worse, he’d be unconscious: nothing but a dead weight to lug around and stand over when their enemies opened the cell.

But Erik said, “No. Behind me.” He bundled Oliver around behind his back – the room spun, the floor tilted – and Oliver gripped weakly at the back of his tunic to keep from falling.

When he could, he peered around Erik’s arm and saw two men standing on the other side of the bars, one holding a torch – but frightfully unkempt and greasy-skinned. If the clansmen had looked wild, these creatures looked fresh from the depths of some dungeon. Their teeth, when both of them grinned at them, had been filed down to sharp, unnatural points. They wore smooth, hairless hides that hadn’t come from animals, Oliver realized with a lurch. Keeping upright and conscious was all that kept him from panicking.

Erik said, “If Ragnar gave us to you, then you know who we are – who I am. I’m a king. I have riches. If you return us to our people, you will be handsomely reward: clothes, food, tools, jewels. Whatever you want.”

The man on the right, his dirty pale hair lying like seaweed over his shoulders, laughed, a rusty sound. “We don’t want your jewels, king.” He made a mockery of the title.

The other one said, “We want you to dance.”

“Well,” Náli said, “that doesn’t sound sinister at all.”

~*~

More men joined the first two, wielding spears with nasty, hooked barbs on the ends, and the cell was opened, Erik and Oliver driven back. Iron manacles were produced, and in the chaos of shoving, protesting, and eventually being bound, Oliver managed to drip three drops of ice rose tincture under his tongue and then stow the vial in his pocket again.

The relief was immediate. As he swallowed, a tingling, pleasant coolness spread down his parched throat; hit his stomach and shivered out through his limbs. It pressed the fever back, eased the pain in his muscles and joints – even as it painted his thoughts over with a numb blue veil. Now the cave looked as it had – or more like it, washed with a pale sapphire. All his worry and panic about the present situation faded to a dull hum in the back of his mind, his thoughts placid and accepting as his wrists were locked together and a spear butt shoved him between the shoulder blades. He staggered forward, swayed, and then followed the others out of the cell, and down a long, ice-and-stone tunnel.

They reached a fork, and took the left bend – toward the light, pale and blue-edged, growing brighter and brighter. The others hissed, but Oliver only blinked, as they stepped out of the cave and into the daylight.

They stood at the edge of a flat, cleared space, an expanse of churned-up snow surrounded by steep, rocky slopes. Slopes that went up and up…mountains. They were in the mountains somewhere. Hadn’t Birger said that? No matter. Oliver spotted a few shoddy tents, and a few pens filled with what looked like goats. And a large, fenced-off area that resembled an arena. That’s where they were headed, apparently; the two spear-wielding men at the front of the line prodded Erik forward, through a narrow gate and into the ring.

Once inside, their manacles were clipped to heavy lengths of chain bolted into the timber of the fence. Oliver found himself between Leif and Náli, blinking down at his bound hands, dismayed, panic only a faint fluttering in the periphery. Damn, he thought. Damn and bother.

Ice rose really was miraculous.

A soft sound to his left drew his attention.

“What are you laughing at?” Leif asked, because Náli was laughing, chuckling quietly to himself, smiling, casting a look across the clean, white landscape of the arena.

“This is where they test their champions,” Náli said. “This is where they force prisoners to fight to the death.”

“Yes, which is what we’re about to do,” Leif said, casting a furious look across to the far fence, where a gate was opening, and men armed with long, spiked clubs were entering, each baring a small, round wooden shield.

“No,” Náli said. “You don’t understand. We’re standing on top of hundreds of dead men.”

“What–” Leif made a sound like he’d been punched. “Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.” Even with his hands bound, Náli managed to link his fingers and crack his knuckles. “My father was very good at this. I’m still new to it.”

“Try anyway.”

“Obviously.” He knelt down and pressed both bare palms to the snow.

“What’s he doing?” Oliver asked.

“Hopefully he’s doing it quick,” Leif muttered.

Náli stayed low on the ground, hands in the snow, unmoving. Nothing seemed to be happening.

He searched for Erik, glancing unsteadily down the row of grumbling, fractious, chained-up Northerners…

But Erik wasn’t there.

As if reading his thoughts, Leif said, “He’s there.” His voice was tight.

Oliver looked toward the center of the arena – and there was his lover, being marched between four men with spears.

Dance, one of men had said outside the cell, flashing his filed-down teeth.

Panic finally managed to pierce the veil of ice rose, and Oliver’s stomach rolled. “Oh no,” he murmured.

Dance meant fight.

~*~

Once, when Erik was just a boy, his mother had told him that the Fangs weren’t real; that they were just a story his brother had made up to frighten Revna.

When he was sixteen, he’d learned that they were in fact very real, and their numbers were stronger than he’d imagined, during that year’s Midwinter Festival, when he and Ragnar, and their fathers, had joined a party that had gone hunting them in the mountains. They’d killed two, but the rest of the party they’d tracked had disappeared, as if into thin air, more experienced mountaineers than any Aeretollean or Úlfheðnar.

He’d not gone looking for them since. He had to make peace with the clans of the Waste, but there were some things best left to the dark corners of the world.

He’d not thought to end up here. Not like this – not ever.

Shock had numbed him during the march from the tunnel, out into the sunlight, into this arena – where a crowd of watchers was piling up along the top of the fence, more Fangs with sharpened teeth and hungry laughs come to spectate the blood sport – but he forced it away, now, as they halted him in the center of the ring with the tips of their spears digging at his ribs. His worry for Oliver, for Leif, for Birger, for everyone, could reduce him to blind panic if he let it. It had always been that way in battle: the trick was to focus on the facts at hand. To take in his surroundings and act in the ways he could; to focus on what he could change.

His manacles were rusted iron; great patches had flaked away. Good steel would break them – but he didn’t have any of that.

He counted at least fifty observers now, and growing by the minute. Some were sneering, some eating, all staring at him.

His party – and he had to think of them in that way, now, dispassionately, because if he thought of them as lover, as darling nephew, as old friends, he couldn’t do this – were behind him now, chained to a section of wall. They had use of their feet, but that wouldn’t do much good.

Náli, he noted, was kneeling down, his bare hands pressed to the snow. Whatever he was trying to do, his eyes had gone milky white.

For the first time, Erik felt a spark of hope.

“Look alive,” one of his captors barked, prodding him in the side. “While you still can,” he added with a dark chuckle.

There was a rattle, and then a cheer from the audience, as a gate slid back, and leather-armored fighters came marching in, armed with spiked clubs and small shields. Rumpled hide masks concealed their faces, narrow slits cut for eyes and mouth – the hide, Erik knew, hadn’t come from any animal.

Five of them. Five opponents at once.

He’d had worse odds before – but he hadn’t been bound, weaponless, and surrounded by cannibals, then.

His talkative captor leaned in again to whisper, “Which one of those pretty boys back there is your favorite? The one with the white hair? He’s already on his knees. Someone ought to put his mouth to good use.”

“Nah,” another said, leaning in on Erik’s other side. “I think it’s the red one. Look at him: he’s soft. Doesn’t even look like he has to shave.”

His opponents formed a loose half-circle in front of him, twitching in their eagerness, gaze bright with excitement through the holes of their masks.

The first captor said, “What about the yellow-headed one? The big one?”

“Nah,” the other said. “He’s too big. You think a king wants to fuck anyone who could turn the tables on him?” Another nasty chuckle. “No, it’s one of the two with the bare chins. Maybe both.”

Some sort of indiscernible chant was starting up among the spectators on the wall.

Erik said, “Am I to fight unarmed? With my hands bound?”

“If we feel like it.”

“Here. Have this.” Cackling, the captor on his left shoved a rusted, iron blade beneath his nose, its handle wrapped with dirty rags.

The two captors in front of him split away, and retreated.

The spear tips poking into his sides withdrew, as the other two began to follow suit.

Erik took a slow breath.

Now.

He whirled, and, rusty or not, the blade he’d been given was heavy enough to smash open the back of the cackling man’s skull.

He fell, boneless and choking on his own blood.

His fellow turned, aghast – but not fast enough. Erik looped his bound hands over the man’s head, rusty manacles pressed to his throat, and pulled.

The man gasped, and choked. The spear landed in the snow, and he reached up to claw at the backs of Erik’s hands. His back arched, every muscle straining.

But Erik was much stronger.

He heard the crunch of approaching footsteps, and turned, his captor-turned-hostage held before him as a shield. The man let out a strangled, airless sound as a spear meant for Erik pierced his stomach instead.

Erik felt the judder of impact; felt the last bit of breath go out of the other man. Not dead yet, but he would be soon, and he wouldn’t be doing any fighting in the interim.

The one who’d stabbed his comrade gaped.

The fourth guard let out a war cry, and charged – as did the five masked warriors with clubs behind Erik.

The man running toward him, spear held at the ready, sharp teeth bared, tripped and fell flat on his face.

What?

Behind him, the war cries turned to shouts of alarm, and he heard the muffled thump of bodies landing in the snow.

Erik unhooked his arms from around the dying man and let him fall. At his feet, the snow humped, and lifted, and boiled up, as if something were burrowing up from underground. Something thrust through, suddenly, breaking the surface.

It was a hand.

A human hand. One with mottled, blue-white flesh, and two naked, skeletal fingers. The gleam of bone showed at the wrist, and in patches up the arm, as it kept coming, and coming.

It was a dead hand.

Náli.

Another hand and arm joined the first, gripped at the snow, and a torso hauled itself free. Months-dead, but mobile, and armed with a sword, a soldier clambered shakily to its feet, and turned its face, briefly, toward Erik. The nose was black with frostbite, and the eyes were long-since gone.

Then it turned, and hacked at the fourth guard, the one now crawling backward and screaming in terror.

Erik snatched up one of the dropped spears and joined the fray.

~*~

“Oh,” Oliver said, as he watched the snow shift, and a bruised, blue, half-rotted body crawled up out of the ground. Tatters of velvet clung to its shoulders. Bone and sinew showed through skin that resembled moth-eaten lace.

“He’s dead,” Oliver said, needlessly. “That’s a dead man.”

Leif said, “He is the Corpse Lord, after all.”

In answer, three more dead men burst forth and clambered out of the snow. There were ten up and fighting already, engaging the enemy, strong enough to swing old swords and cleave skulls, dead or not, and their number was growing by the second as more and more crawled up to join their fellows.

Náli still knelt in the snow, but had begun to sway slightly, back and forth; he murmured something low and frenzied beneath his breath, too quiet to make out, and the dead kept coming. He was drawing them, flooding their lifeless bones with his old family magic and calling them to their aid.

Oliver wished he was sober so he could properly appreciate it, but, then again, he might have been screaming in terror instead.

Much the way the enemy was.

The warriors with the clubs and the four guards with the spears had all been cut down; had all died shocked, and screaming, and fleeing. Erik stood alone now, a spear in one hand and a club in the other; his manacles had been cut, somehow – a few of the dead men wielded steel swords, he saw.

Even high as he was, Oliver didn’t think he would ever forget the portrait Erik made in that moment. Standing with feet braced and ready, head swiveling as he scanned the wall full of screaming spectators, hair fanning, breath steaming in the chill air. His expression was fierce, ready, resigned all at once, and he’d never looked so strong and capable – here in the moments before their demise.

Because Náli fell over.

The corpses swayed and crumpled.

And angry Fangs poured down off the walls.

“Shit,” Leif said. “Shit, shit, shit. Náli? Náli!”

But the Corpse Lord was unconscious.

“What good is magic if it fucking lets you down?” Leif sounded furious, frightened. They were still chained, and Erik was alone, and about to be facing down a whole horde of angry cannibals. “Magnus – Magnus, kick him or something. Wake him up.”

Magnus, though, was straining at the end of his chain, trying to reach a sword one of the corpses had dropped. It lay just beyond his grasp, his iron manacles biting into his wrists as he struggled. “He could have at least cut us loose first,” he muttered. “Poor sod.”

The Fangs that jumped down into the arena brandished clubs, and spears, and a few even held large rocks in their hands. Erik turned, and turned, no wall to put at his back, no cover, no choice but to meet them all at once – and be overwhelmed.

It was chaos.

It was death, staring them all right in the face.

Even through the cool haze of ice rose, Oliver felt panic grip his belly, his lungs. This was it. This was the end. They were all–

A scream split the air overhead. A high, whistling cry almost like a hawk, but which he knew straight off wasn’t a hawk at all.

The scene before him melted into shades of blue, still visible, but tinged with cold.

And just like that, panic turned to hope.

Oliver took a deep breath. Help me, he thought, as strongly as he could. Please. Help us.

The scream sounded again. And then came the harsh, leathery flap of wings.

“Oh, gods,” Lars said.

The tableau before them came to a halt. Fangs threw back their heads to look up at the sky – and then their shouting resumed, in an entirely different tenor.

The cold-drake landed lightly on all four clawed feet, Wings still beating, skimming white clouds off the snow. His serpent neck lashed out, and he gripped a Fang in his jaws, fast as a blink. The man screamed, and was unceremoniously thrown across the arena. He landed against the wall with a sickening crunch and fell limp.

Then the drake turned to Oliver. His wings folded up neatly, and he walked forward, claws sinking deep into the snow.

Náli lay still, but Leif, Magnus, and Lars all pressed back against the wall.

Leif said, “I take back what I said about magic. Oliver, if you have some, now would be a wonderful time to use it.”

The most perfect sense of peace had washed over Oliver, better than anything the ice rose had offered. His fever, the danger – all of it receded into a blue haze at the edges of his awareness, and he saw only the drake, standing before him, extending his neck, nostrils flaring as he took in Oliver’s scent, those glowing blue eyes fixed on him. This was his dragon, the one he’d rescued, the one that had been touching his mind for weeks now.

“Gods,” someone hissed, as Oliver reached up his bound hands and offered his palms to the drake for inspection.

The dragon readily pressed his muzzle into Oliver’s fingers, sniffing, inspecting. His scales were hard, but incredibly smooth, cool to the touch. His breath was cool, too, and without being told, without words, Oliver knew what to do.

He formed two fists, and spread them apart as far as they would go, offering the links of the manacles. The dragon took a deep inhale, and his jaws opened a fraction, and the mist that he puffed out against the chain links was blue, that same sapphire shade that had become so familiar. It was cold, but it didn’t hurt; Oliver watched the manacles ice over. When he tugged, the links broke, and his bonds fell to the snow.

There were quiet exclamations to either side of him, but for a moment, he only stood; laid his hand on the dragon’s muzzle. “Thank you.”

It gave a cool little snort that reminded him of a horse’s affectionate gesture, and he grinned.

Then it was time to let go of this strange trance, and do something.

Oliver let his hand fall. He gave himself a firm mental shake. “All right, then,” he told the drake. “I need your help.”

It snorted again, and shook its head – its whole body, tail lashing happily at the end of the movement. It turned back toward the action, where a whole startled cluster of Fangs were trying to decide whether to flee or fight.

Oliver bent to pick up the sword Magnus had been trying to reach, and handed it to him. “Here. Best to stay back, though, probably.”

Magnus was wide-eyed and pale-faced. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

Oliver turned, and followed the dragon.

The Fangs, it seemed, had made up their minds – but were of two minds about it. A third or so had already turned tail and were making a break for it, scrambling up the steep wooden walls, standing on each other’s shoulders to get away. The rest had braced themselves, lifted their small wood-and-hide shields, and planted the butts of their spears in the snow, ready to defend.

An arrow from a small, crude horn bow whistled toward the drake. Before Oliver could shout in alarm, it had bounced uselessly off the animal’s shoulder, its shaft cracked in two.

The drake kept advancing, head low, until it halted, and took a huge breath that made a sound like a bellows, and lifted its wings.

“Erik, get back!” Oliver shouted. He couldn’t see much, only a flash of dark velvet as his lover took off running.

The drake opened its jaws and roared. Blue fire jetted from its mouth; a fire that didn’t burn, but that froze. Just as Oliver’s manacles had sheeted over with ice, so too did the Fangs.

When the roar ended, its echoes dying away against the walls of the arena, the force of cannibals who’d been braced for a fight all stood frozen, still. Their faces and hair and lashes were rimed with frost; icicles dripped from their noses and spear tips.

There were fire-drakes, and there were cold-drakes, just as Erik had told him that day in the library. And this was a cold-drake.

A wild giggle escaped him, and he clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle it.

The drake turned and Oliver thought it – he – looked distinctly proud of himself. He walked back to Oliver, and put his head down low, and it was the most natural thing in the world to reach up and offer a scratch behind his white horns – where the scales gave way to much softer skin. His eyes closed in obvious enjoyment and he leaned into the pressure, a purring sound rippling up from his throat. Like a cat, Oliver thought, trying to hold in another giggle. “Good boy. What a very good boy you are.”

“Ollie.” Erik’s voice sounded a little strangled behind him. Slow footsteps crunched over the snow.

The drake cracked a blue eye open and rolled it toward the interloper.

“He’s a friend,” Oliver told it firmly. “He’s not to be frozen, do you understand?”

He earned a sigh for answer.

Oliver turned to face Erik, and held out a hand toward him, startled by how pale and shaken he looked, how hesitant. Even kings could be afraid of dragons, he supposed.

“Come here,” Oliver said. “He won’t do anything.” And he felt sure of that; that same sureness that had evaded explanation this whole time.

Bastard or not, Oliver was a Drake, and this was his legacy, this gift that had just saved them all.

Oliver crooked his fingers, and, expression caught somewhere between awe and grim resignation, Erik closed the final distance. He gripped Oliver’s palm, briefly, which had the drake lifting his head and turning it toward Erik. Then Erik, throat jumping as he swallowed, released Oliver and held his palm up in offering. The dragon moved in slow, nostrils flaring, and scented for long moments before he finally, with incredible gentleness, touched his muzzle to Erik’s skin – and then licked him.

Erik pulled back, startled, and Oliver laughed.

“He’s like a cat and a dog, then.”

“What?”

“Ignore me, I’m delirious with fever.”

Erik’s gaze sharpened as it moved to Oliver. “Your hand was cool.”

“Was it?” He examined it. Maybe the drake’s icy breath had given him frost bite…but aside from red around the knuckles from the cold air, his skin looked smooth and whole, unharmed.

When he lifted his head, the drake was inspecting Erik’s hair, face, and clothes with curious inhalations that stirred Erik’s braids, while Erik held very, very still. “It would seem,” Erik said, dryly, “that you’ve acquired a new pet.”

“It would seem.” Oliver’s chest swelled with something like hope, like happiness. “I think I’ll name him after my great-great bastard relation.” To the dragon, he said, “What do you think of being called Percy?”

The drake regarded him a long moment, and Oliver was going to call his snort approving.

19

These are my friends and I love them. They won’t hurt you. It wasn’t so much the words as an impulse Oliver tried to convey through the…the bond he felt with the drake. With Percy. He didn’t like for living creatures to be without names. He had no idea how it worked, only that, as the others slowly approached, Náli being more or less dragged along with Magnus holding him up around the waist, Percy met his gaze, and Oliver let his emotions fill him, his affection for these men who’d once been strangers, but were now dear to him. Percy’s nostrils flared, and he turned to inspect all of them in turn.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Leif deadpanned, holding up his hand to be sniffed over, and then licked. He made a face, but laughed. “Gods, his tongue is cold.”

“Of course it is, he breathes ice,” Birger said. To Percy: “Pleasure to meet you, sir, I’d like not to be eaten, if that’s all right with you.”

Percy snorted.

Lars held very still and quiet and allowed himself to be scented. Magnus looked as if he might faint, but kept gamely upright, holding Náli throughout.

It was the Corpse Lord, eyes half-open, glazed slits, his face pale and smudged with fresh shadows, veins standing out blue in his temples, who Percy lingered over longest: ruffling his hair with deep, curious breaths.

“He can sense his magic,” Oliver said, first as a guess, but then knew it must be the truth. “Wow.”

Náli’s lips flicked upward in a tired grin. His voice was faintly slurred when he said, “Good dragon.”

Percy licked his cheek with his thin, forked blue tongue, and drew back, finally.

“Well.” Birger heaved a deep, tired sigh, propped his hands on his hips, and surveyed the arena full of corpses – old and new. “What now?”

It was Erik’s turn to sigh. He scrubbed a hand down his face and shook his head. “They got spooked and took off, but this is their camp. They’ll be back.”

“Then we don’t have long,” Birger said. “We have to get back to Dreki Hörgr.”

“And be set upon by every clan of the Waste?” Erik said. “We have to get back to Aeretoll.”

“Which is nearly a week’s ride,” Leif pointed out, “and we have no horses or supplies.”

“We’ll raid the camp. Something. I don’t…” Erik shook his head, and it was the most lost he’d ever looked.

Lars said, “Any chance your beastie could fly us up out of the mountains.”

The thought had occurred to Oliver.

But Erik said, “Oliver’s never ridden a dragon, and now you want all of us to? We’ve no harness, no saddle, and, besides, it can’t carry us all.”

“Then what are we going to do?” Magnus asked.

Scowling, Erik said, “I don’t–”

And the unmistakeable sound of several bows being drawn reached their ears, echoing through the deep well of the arena.

Oliver snapped his head around to find that they’d been surrounded again, archers poised on top of the wall. But these weren’t Fangs; these wore fur, and leather, and cowls with ears and fangs. Bones braided into their beards.

Beserkirs.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Leif hissed.

Percy lifted his head and emitted a bugling shriek of warning, wings spreading. Oliver laid a hand on his neck, staying him, just a moment, just to see–

“King Erik,” a voice called down.

A big, broad man, his sword on his hip, rather than in his hand. With a start, Oliver recognized the Beserkir chief, the one who’d given him a death glare all through the council meeting. A glance at Erik revealed his flicker of shock upon recognition, one that quickly hardened to kingly anger.

“Chief Oddmarr,” he shouted back. “Your arrows can’t pierce a dragon’s hide, and if you kill all of us, he’ll kill you.”

“I’ve no quarrel with that beast,” Oddmarr said, “nor with you, Your Majesty.”

Erik’s brows shot up.

“But I’d have your cousin’s head on a spike if I could,” the chief continued. “It seems the Beserkirs and the kingdom of Aeretoll finally have an enemy in common.” A harsh breeze scraped through the arena, lifting snow. “Can we talk?”

~*~

“Five months ago, the Úlfheðnar said they were tired of quarrelling and wanted to work out a treaty. A real one,” Oddmarr said, ten minutes later. The arrows had been put back into quivers, save the few guards left up on the wall looking out for the Fangs’ return. They stood against a section of wall, against the relative windbreak of an open gate. Náli was sitting on a corpse, and Erik kept reaching out every few minutes to steady Oliver with a grip at his elbow. His palm had been cool, before, but when Erik touched his neck, now, he felt the fever spiking again.

Oddmar said, “Last summer, the Úlfheðnar raided our lands. Burned my longhouse, killed my son and took my daughter captive.” His large, rough hands curled to fists, knuckles cracking. He bared his gapped teeth as he recalled it. “It was Ormr, Ragnar’s general who led it. It was him who took my daughter for himself.”

Beside him, Yngvi, the boy who’d been caught sneaking into Aeres, swallowed hard and looked away, blinking quickly.

“I wanted revenge,” Oddmarr said, “I swore it.”

“Any man would,” Erik said, noncommittal. He couldn’t believe this turn of events – but neither would he have believed his cousin capable of such treachery before the last forty-eight hours. Traitors, and dragons, and wights. He supposed anything was possible.

“My son, though.” Oddmarr laid an unmistakably proud hand on his Yngvi’s shoulder. “He wanted us to be smart – to not get killed in open warfare. And so he went to slay Ormr in the dark of night, to steal his sister back.”

“What happened?”

Yngvi swallowed hard, and when he met Erik’s gaze, his eyes were as tortured and haunted as they’d been in that dungeon cell where he’d laid all his ills at Erik’s feet. “I got caught. My sister – my sister was already dead.”

“We arranged a meeting,” Oddmarr said.

Erik said, “A hostage negotiation.”

“What was I to do?” Oddmarr blustered. “My only living son? I couldn’t afford pride in that moment.”

“No, you’re right,” Erik said. “I’d have done the same.”

“I got Yngvi back, but Ragnar – oh, that devil, he’s always so full of words. They pour out of him like bile. He had this great story about how the raid hadn’t been his idea – how he hadn’t wanted to do it. Ormr he promised to kill for overstepping, but he said he had to do it. That he had orders from you to weaken the other clans.”

“And you’ve always hated me and mine,” Erik said, grimly, “so you believed him.”

“He said you were in league with the South! That their armies were coming up, and that you wanted us all gone. You’d only spare him because he was your blood, but he didn’t believe that. He was only going along with it because he was scared.”

“And he was lying.”

“I know that now.” Oddmarr shook his head, disgusted with himself. He spat on the snow. “Fuck him. Fuck him and his mother and his whole bloody family.”

“When did you realize the truth?”

“The Ákafamaðr and the Úlfheðnar attacked your lords in force. Dreki Hörgr turned into a warzone – and then those purple bastards showed up.”

Erik’s stomach clenched tight. “Are any of my men left alive?”

“Yes. They’re good fighters. Some fell, though.”

“What of the other clans?”

“Most scattered. Some joined up with Ragnar. They’re marching south. On Aeretoll.”

Revna. Rune. Bjorn. Tessa.

He had to focus.

“How – how did you know to look for us?”

Yngvi nodded toward the dragon – Percy – where he was snuffling animatedly at the snow like a dog following a scent. “I saw it. Him. I saw him fly over, off to the mountains, screaming, like.”

A thought dawned. “It wasn’t your men who attacked us on the road. With the shamans.”

“No,” Oddmarr said. “They only wanted to make it look that way.”

“I just thought,” Yngvi said, “that if they’d killed you, they would have bragged about it. They would have shown us your head. I found a trail up the hill, and I told my father.”

Oddmarr puffed out his chest. “We’ve come to get you safely down the mountain, and then I want to be the one to kill Ragnar myself.”

Erik snorted. “You might have to fight me for that chance.”

Beside him, Oliver swayed out of his grip.

“Ollie, what–”

“Oh,” Oliver said. “Oh.”

The dragon gave another of its high shrieks, and rushed past them out the gate, galloping in an awkward, undulating way across the snow, toward the mouth of the cave where they’d been held prisoner.

Oliver took a lunging step after it.

“Ollie, wait!”

But he was already gone.

Erik followed.

~*~

Oliver slipped on a patch of ice at the mouth of the cave, and was saved by the timely, strong grip of a hand on the back of his tunic.

“What are you doing?” Erik demanded.

Oliver tried to tug loose. “He’s leading me somewhere. There’s something down here.”

“Probably bones,” Birger said.

“Probably more cannibals.” That was Leif.

Ahead, Percy’s white, spiked tail whipped around a corner, the ice around him flashing with the reflection of it.

“Come with me if you want,” Oliver said, “but I’m going.” He could feel his fever flaring up again, his skin itchy, warm, and tight, his head throbbing.

Erik sighed, but followed, keeping his grip on Oliver’s tunic.

The tunnel took a few shallow turns, and the icicles and ice sheets on every surface offered sunlight where there should have been none, a kaleidoscope of fractured colors. Oliver could hear Percy’s claws clicking over the stone floor.

They walked and walked, Erik steadying him every time he tripped – which was often. His head hurt terribly, and his eyes ached, and he wanted to lie down. But this was the cave, and he needed to see, needed to understand–

Ahead, the light changed. A slow, bright blue tinge that swelled out, and out, growing stronger, painting everything in monochrome.

“This is it,” he said. “This is my dream.”

Everything was blue, and then came the growl, low, deep, and pulsing, but it didn’t frighten him now, not even a little.

“Is that a bear?” Leif asked.

And Magnus: “That is no bear.”

“No,” Oliver said, and with one last burst of speed and strength twisted out of Erik’s grip and rounded the next corner.

The cell here was low; Percy had to duck to fit. There were no bars, like there had been, but a weaving of thick ropes; a whole net of them, dripping ice. And beyond, a dragon. Two dragons.

One was smaller than Percy, the other much more so. Both wore heavy silver collars and shackles that no Fang had made; silver chains trailed across the floor, hooked to brackets in the wall, where two sapphires big as eggs had been inlaid into the stone and ice; they were glowing.

Percy gave a low, mournful sound, and nosed at the rope netting.

The two dragons, white cold-drakes like him, lay curled up together, eyes closed, sleeping.

The sapphires pulsed: the source of that strange blue light from his dream.

“What is this?” Leif asked.

“Magic,” Magnus said. “Look, they’re spelled, somehow.”

Oliver smiled. “They’re his family.”

Percy managed to get a section of rope in his teeth and shredded it easily. The whole net came down, and then he was inside the cell, nosing at the two dragons. His mate. His offspring.

Oliver had never thought to ache so on an animal’s behalf, but he did now. He stepped forward.

And was brought up short by Erik’s heavy hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing?” Erik asked, right in his ear.

Oliver twisted around to look at him, to see the worry etched deep in his face. When Erik touched his face, and his brows knitted even tighter, he knew he was feeling the heat of his skin, the fever burning through.

But Oliver had to do this first.

“I’m going to wake them up.”

“How?”

Percy was huffing and snorting, jostling his mate with his nose, but she kept still, her eyes shut.

“I think it’s the gems,” Oliver said. “Don’t ask me how I know: I have no idea.”

Leif had edged carefully into the cell, and ran a hand along the wall. “There’s runes here.”

“What do they say?” Erik asked.

“Something about ice? I think. About…oh, that’s the Drake crest. The old one. And here: something about a prince, or a lord. Shit, I should have studied more.”

Oliver took a deep breath, and strode into the cell.

“Be careful,” Erik cautioned, and he sounded like it pained him not to follow.

As he passed Percy, the drake lifted his head and sent him a pleading look.

“I know,” Oliver said. “I know.” But he didn’t, that was the wild part. It was only instinct driving him forward, lifting his tired feet, carrying his exhausted, sick body to the back of the cell, to the place where the sapphires pulsed, pulsed, pulsed…

When he touched the first one, he gasped. A shockwave of cold moved through him. It blasted through skin, and bone, and organs, and when it faded, the sapphire pleasantly cool beneath his hand, the fever was gone. He was still tired and shaky from its ravages, but that awful, relentless heat had been obliterated.

“Ollie!”

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” He thought his voice even sounded stronger. “Hold on. Just give me…” When he pulled, the gem came loose with the faintest pressure.

He heard a low, animal groan behind him, and reached for the second sapphire with his free hand. It came just as easily, and then there was groaning, and snuffling, and purring, and Percy’s high, bugling call – too loud in the cell’s confines, leaving everyone wincing and hissing – could only be called joyous.

Oliver turned, steady, breathing freely, clear-eyed, and saw the two dragons awake, Percy nuzzling at them. The little one emitted a brief jet of blue fire, and Percy licked it behind the horns.

Leif said, “I think I figured out what it says. It’s some sort of poem, albeit a bad one.”

Oliver met Erik’s gaze and found him stunned; found him gaping.

Oliver grinned at him.

Leif recited:

“A king for a king,

A throne for a kiss,

When the dragons sing,

The throne shall be his.”

Slowly, still awestruck, Erik grinned back.

THE END

~*~

To be continued in The Drake Chronicles Book Three:

Blood of Wolves

Coming Soon

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