Heart of Winter by Lauren Gilley

18

Erik dreamed of eyes the blue of deep water. His own were pale, glacial, the blue gleam of sunlight on snow. But these were the boundless sapphire of a lake in winter, evidence of the life that still teemed down beneath the ice. Water that looked cool and inviting, but would kill you if you let it.

There were worse deaths.

He dreamed of firelight dancing in copper curls, grown longer over the last weeks, soft and slippery as Southern watered silk through his fingers. Beneath his fingertips, the fragile shape of a skull, the heat of skin he wanted to follow down, and down, and down. A longing like a spear through his chest, an unexpected wound whose pain was sharp and breathless.

There were worse wounds.

But none yet had left him so restless.

Erik rolled over on his feather mattress, skin prickling and over-hot as the dream faded out, and his eyes opened on his dark bedchamber. Every time he managed to fall asleep, Oliver was there, sometimes peacefully sleeping in the chair in the study – sometimes naked and pink in the bath, winding one of Erik’s braids around his finger and talking of staying.

It was still night beyond his window, the sky lit only by a sliver of moon. With an impatient huff, he threw back the covers and got to his feet. Dragged a fur across his shoulders and ventured out into the common room in search of distraction.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep. Leif sat before a built-up fire, the light from the flames flickering over a thoughtful – and not at all happy – countenance. He held a cup loosely between both hands, rolling it absently between his palms. His head didn’t turn, but Erik saw the flicker of his lashes and a firelight-bathed flash of blue as he glanced toward him.

“Can’t sleep?” Erik asked, softly, and crossed to pour a cup of his own.

“Up early,” Leif countered.

Erik took the chair across from him, and a sip of wine; it was a pale, Veniscalli white, nearly clear in the right light, and tasted faintly of apples, beneath the tang of the grapes. He rolled the wine across his tongue, savoring it – tomorrow night, at the feast, he would drink dark red, and then ale, perhaps a shot of mistress when his men toasted him. But here in private, with his family, he could own up to his taste for the soft dessert wines his mother had brought from her homeland, once upon a time.

Across from him, Leif stared into the flames, his unbraided hair wavy and gilded against his cheeks, his brows notched together.

“What’s troubling you?” Erik asked. He realized, with something of a start, that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone with his heir like this, and felt like a neglectful sod for it. Leif had no shortage of tutelage and training, and his brother was his constant companion and best friend – but Erik intended the boy to rule this nation some day, and he’d failed, lately, in providing any sort of direct counsel.

Leif shrugged. “Do you think Ragnar will come?”

“When has he ever missed a chance to drink our ale?”

The corner of Leif’s mouth twitched upward in a fleeting smile. “That’s true.” He sobered. “He will be angry that we’ve strengthened ties with the South.”

“Then I will explain to him that we’ve strengthened ties with Drakewell – that we’ve conquered it – and not the entire South. That’s language he can understand.”

Leif offered a wry grin, finally glancing toward him. “He’s still sore you wouldn’t marry his sister.”

“And he will continue to be sore, I imagine.” Erik had never offered either of the boys in his stead, as he had with Tessa Drake. He liked to think that he was a stern uncle, but not a cruel one.

Leif seemed relieved. He sipped at his wine and settled back in his chair. Glanced toward the table that had become a holding place for the things Revna had set aside for Tessa and Oliver for tomorrow’s feast. “I saw what Mother set out for Oliver,” he said, tone careful now.

Erik’s belly tightened, fractionally, with sudden nerves. He kept his tone light: “Blue to match his cousin.”

“Our blue.” Leif’s gaze cut over, keener than Erik gave him credit for being, most times. “And the sapphires for his hair. And the beads.”

“Tessa will be wearing beads.”

“Tessa is my fiancée.”

Erik took a measured breath – and a long swallow of wine. “Oliver will not be the first man to wear that sort of bead in Aeretoll.”

“No,” Leif agreed, brows lifting. “But he’ll be the first man you’ve put them on. The first person you’ve put them on.”

Erik frowned – but Leif was undeterred, staring at him with open curiosity. “What of it?” He levered a warning into his voice. Leave it.

It didn’t work. “Uncle,” Leif said, wondrous, “you like him.”

“Of course I like him.”

“No, but you care for him. Uncle.” He sat forward, eager, delighted. “Those are lover’s beads. You don’t braid them into someone’s hair unless you–”

“Yes, I know what lover means, thank you.”

Leif grinned. Chuckled – the brat. “So, have you and he–”

“That’s none of your business.”

He stopped laughing, but his eyes danced, just like his mother’s did when she was deeply amused about something – in a loving way. “I think he likes you back.”

Erik glared at him…mostly in an effort to disguise the way his stomach flipped. He was like a stupid, moony-eyed little boy again, pulse fluttering at the thought of being liked in return by the object of his affection.

“When we have our meetings in the study, and I’m ready to fall asleep from how boring it is, I’ve seen him look at you. When your head’s down, and you can’t see, he looks at you like–”

“Leif.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

Desperately. “No.”

“Will you make him consort?”

The question didn’t shock him, because, no matter how remote, fanciful, and unlikely, it was a scenario that he had entertained. Several generations ago, the Lord of Wolf Point had taken a man for his consort, creating a mild scandal amongst the rest of the Aeretollean nobility. But a scandal that fizzled out quickly. The consort was a great warrior, with a head for strategy and leadership; he offered his lord and lover wise counsel, endeared himself to his people, and the lord’s nephew inherited, eventually.

Erik had envisioned Oliver wrapped in furs, his hair long, braided, glittering with gemstones and beads, rings winking on his fingers, standing beside the throne when Erik listened to petitioners. He was beautiful already, fine-featured, and soft-skinned, and big-eyed, with a temper like a cornered badger that Erik found impossibly endearing – but robed all in finery, there would be no question to whom he belonged.

“Uncle?”

He’d been silent too long, lost in reverie. In fantasy, because he knew it would never happen. “I doubt very much that he wants that.”

“You’ll never know if you don’t ask,” Leif said, sagely.

Erik glared at him again.

Leif grinned. “Bed him first and then see what he says. I promise he wants that.”

Erik arched a brow at him, and hoped he could play off the blush that heated his face as a result of the fire. “I would expect talk of ‘bedding’ from your brother, but not you. I hope you’re behaving honorably with Tessa.”

Leif’s grin vanished. He hitched up straighter in his chair. “Of course.” Then he frowned, and glanced toward the fire again.

“What?”

“She doesn’t love me.”

And here was what had pulled Leif out of bed at such an hour and into this glum mood.

“Ah,” Erik said. “I see.”

Leif’s darted glance seemed to say, do you?

“Lad, I wouldn’t expect her to love you yet. You’ve not known each other that long. It takes time for affection and interest to settle into love.”

Leif snorted. “Says you, braiding lover’s beads into a pretty boy’s hair.”

Erik sent him a warning look – one met with shoulders ducked in contrition – but he wasn’t angry. “I do not love Oliver.” An inward squirming left him feeling as if he’d lied.

“But you could.”

“And I suspect the same can be said of Tessa.” He inclined his head in question. “I don’t think you are exactly in love, either, Leif.”

“I want to be.”

“So. You and Tessa are on the same page, then. Many happy, loving marriages have been built upon less.”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “But.”

Erik waited.

Leif heaved a deep sigh. “She prefers Rune.”

Erik had feared the same. But he said, “Tessa is young – they are closer in age, and Rune is very…forcefully cheerful.”

Leif snorted again, though his expression was sad. “It’s more than that.”

“Perhaps. But. Fancying someone, finding him handsome – Tessa’s a smart girl. She knows that cheer and charm don’t necessarily make for a good husband.”

Leif’s gaze sharpened. “Rune would make anyone a fine husband.”

Erik tried to mask his amusement. “Noble of you to defend your brother.”

“No, it’s right. If Tessa wants Rune instead, then, so be it. I won’t stand in the way of their happiness.” His jaw set, after his declaration, and his shoulders pushed back in a determined way.

Erik couldn’t keep the fond smile from his face. “You are a good brother. And a good nephew. Someday you will make a good king…and a good husband.”

Leif sighed.

“Try not to worry too much. Things will turn out as they should.”

“Hmph.”

“Spoken like a true son of our line,” Erik said, toasting him with a quick lift of his cup.

Leif smiled, though it looked reluctant. “I do like her. But I won’t force her into a marriage if she doesn’t want it – just as you wouldn’t.”

Erik nodded. “That is honorable.”

Beyond the windows, the night had begun to pale; the sky shone a faint, pearlescent gray, the hint of a sunrise to come. It was to be a busy day, full of the bustle of arriving nobles, and the last preparations for the feast. Erik would be pulled into hugs, into huddles, into meetings, into long conversations about the state of his kingdom.

For now, though, he had these last moments of quiet with his nephew.

He set his cup aside. “Do you have ties and beads for your hair?”

Leif lifted his head, looking almost startled, then nodded, and reached into the inside pocket of his unfastened tunic. “Yes.”

Erik spread his legs and patted his knee. “Come here, my heir, and I shall make you ready to meet our people.”

Leif smiled at him – a small, warm smile brimming over with emotion – then he stood and moved to sit on the rug at Erik’s feet, between his spread knees, his back to him. Over his shoulder, he offered leather laces and beads on an outstretched palm.

Erik took them from him, and set them on the table. Then he raked his fingers through his nephew’s hair, gathering it into bunches, and began a series of intricate plaits that he knew well, by now. The plaits of a prince; of an heir; of a beloved son of a beloved sister.

When dawn broke pink and bright through the window glass, the horn at the gate sounded.