Heart of Winter by Lauren Gilley

25

It was funny the way everything could change in the span of a night.

As the first blush of dawn stained the horizon shell-pink, Oliver chafed his gloved hands together against the cold and watched his breath steam before his face. It would be a glorious sunrise, once it began, the sky cloudless and smooth as a black pottery bowl overhead. He stood dressed in last night’s feast clothes, the same ensemble that Erik had unlaced and shoved down and stripped off of him. His hair was a rumpled mess – he’d caught only a passing glimpse in the mirror on his way out – but the braids had survived, beads clicking together faintly as he shivered.

Revna stood beside him, close enough that their shoulders kept brushing; she’d dried her eyes, washed her face, and looked now like carven stone, drawn and cold.

On her other side, Leif stood tall and stoic, a new hardness to his face.

On the other side of the yard, the select few lords who’d been roused for the purpose of bearing witness breathed into their hands or stomped their feet, most of them worse for the night’s drink: Lord Askr, Lord Ingvar, and, to Oliver’s surprise, young Lord Náli, the Corpse Lord.

Fitting, he supposed, if only in name.

A block had been set up in the center of the training yard, old, and heavy, and patinaed with old stains.

Erik stood cloaked in black fur, his hair in wild disarray and lifting in the breeze. One bare, ringed hand rested on the head of a massive, wicked axe, the end of the handle planted in the snow. It was no woodsman’s axe, but the sort of thing Northmen carried into war. The glacial fury on his face brooked no dissent.

A rattle of chains sounded, and the prisoner was led forward.

Bjorn held Ormr by one arm, and Ragnar held the other, marching him up to the block. Ormr didn’t make it difficult, though; with his hands bound in manacles before him, he walked with head erect, gaze defiant. He almost looked – proud, of what he’d done, Oliver thought with a wave of revulsion.

Beside him, Revna sucked in a breath.

When they reached the block, Bjorn shoved him roughly down to his knees, pushed his chest forward onto it, and held him in place with a boot between his shoulder blades.

Birger, his gray hair sleep-rumpled, and his beard not much better, stepped forward, face grave. “Do you understand the crime of which you are accused?”

Ormr craned his neck just far enough to smirk up at the advisor.

“That’s what I thought,” Birger said, grimly. “You face, then, the punishment of a man accused of attempting to murder a crown prince and heir of Aeretoll. Justice will be meted out by King Erik Frodeson. May the Val-Father take you – if he’ll even have you.” The last was muttered with disgust, and then Birger stepped back.

And Erik stepped forward.

With the sinuous, rolling gait of a predator, Erik walked around the kneeling prisoner, lifted his axe to his shoulder, and settled into position, feet braced apart. His awesome strength was evident in every line of his body as he lifted the axe – and brought it down.

Oliver forced himself to watch, only flinching a little, biting hard on the inside of his cheek.

Blood fountained in rhythmic jets, flowing with the last throb-throb-throb of Ormr’s dying heart.

The head rolled across the snow, the smirk replaced now by the last wide-eyed gape of pain and shock.

Erik handed the bloodied axe to Bjorn, turned, and walked silently back into the palace.

~*~

The great hall was deserted this early; the servants had finally cleared the last of the night’s drinking detritus, and only a few candles burned, set well away from the glittering, decorated fir tree that would be taken down today. In the silvery, pre-dawn glow, the garlands and wreaths and ribbons and baubles all struck Erik as needlessly gaudy.

He was halfway across the floor when Ragnar’s voice sounded behind him. “I am sorry, cousin. You must know that.”

Erik ground to a halt. He could still feel the axe handle against his palms; could still feel the rippling impact of blade meeting bone and flesh in his elbows, and shoulders, and back. He took a careful breath before he turned around, and found Ragnar a dozen paces away, his posture – like it had been in the surgery – without resistance or aggression. Open and willing to accept whatever wrath was thrown his way. “Must I?”

“Ormr is dead,” Ragnar said, “and I’m on my way now to gather the rest of my men. We’ll leave before the rest of the palace is awake.” He edged a step closer. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Erik. I like Rune, always have. And” – the first note of steel in his voice – “if I wanted to challenge your rule, I would call you out myself. I’m not a Beserkir to slink along shadowy roadways and send assassins after princes.”

Erik didn’t respond.

Ragnar continued. “But what happened proves what I told you before: there is unrest in the Waste. There are those who no longer trust Aeretoll to stand watch on the border with the South. You have to come to the festival, and you have to bring Oliver. You have to prove yourself.”

“I have to prove myself,” Erik repeated, his tone flat. His hands curled, and he wanted the weight of the axe in them, steadying them, grounding him. “I’ve ruled this kingdom for twenty-three years, through the longest spell of peace the North has ever known, but I have to prove myself.”

Ragnar’s head titled back, eyes pale as a snowbank in the low light. “What’s more important? Your pride? Or the people you love?”

Erik suppressed a growl – barely.

“You’ve made your decisions, Erik,” Ragnar said. “And decisions have consequences, like it or not.” When Erik kept silent, he said, “Bring your lover to the gathering of the clans. Let them all see what you have seen in him. I’ll even vouch for him myself. But.” He took a step back, half-turning to retreat. “You cannot continue with things as they are now. You know you can’t.” He put his back to Erik, and walked away.

Erik thought of the blood on the snow outside, and wondered how much more he would have to spill in the days and weeks to come.

~*~

Before breakfast, Oliver went to tell Tessa what had happened.

“Oh, gods,” Hilda exclaimed, clapping both hands over her mouth and then speaking through them. “Not the prince! Oh, his poor mother. Will he – is he…?”

Tessa sank down slowly onto the edge of the bed, face gone pale, clutching the bedpost with one hand.

“He’s still alive,” Oliver said. “He’s still in Olaf’s surgery, but I think they plan to move him to his own room later today.”

“Oh my.” Hilda shook her head, her eyes flooding with tears that she dashed with the towel draped over her shoulder. “Oh, this is terrible. And then the king having to do that. Just terrible.”

Oliver’s attention was on his cousin. Tessa stared into the middle distance, breathing through parted lips. He saw the moment determination overtook her: the way her jaw firmed, and her shoulders squared, and she stood, no longer unsteady.

She met his gaze. “I need to go to Revna. She’ll be a mess.”

“A bit of one, yes.”

Tessa nodded and reached for her mantle. “She’s down in the surgery?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Hilda, let’s go down and see if there’s any food we can take to her. She won’t have eaten, I imagine.”

“Yes, my lady.” Hilda sounded eager to have something productive to do.

Oliver saw them both off down the hallway, but didn’t follow, his own steps slowing and eventually halting, as if mired in deep mud. Below, he could hear the palace beginning to stir, the deep, resonant murmurs as if a great machine were at work, people bustling about, lighting fires, starting breakfast, seeing to the needs of all their many guests.

Oliver stood before a window, and he turned his head to look out through the leaded panes, across the smoke-blue fields, and the spiky tree tops of the forest beyond. The sun was just breaking over the mountains in molten golds and pinks, a spill of warm light across a cold, cold landscape.

Each time he blinked, he saw Ormr’s head tumbling across the snow.

When his eyes were open, he couldn’t stop envisioning the look on Erik’s face, afterward.

Doubtless there were even now meetings being thrown together, lords being gathered to discuss what had happened. There would be dozens of people vying for Erik’s attention today, and he probably ought to be down in the great hall now, Birger on one side of him and Bjorn on the other, a reassuring, kingly presence amidst these troubling times.

But some instinct tugged Oliver the other direction, and he made his way slowly toward the royal apartments, instead.

The guard shift had changed, and the two at the door nodded to him in silent greeting, and let him pass between them through the door. The common room was empty, the fire all but burned out. Without pausing, Oliver made his way to Erik’s chambers and, after only a moment’s hesitation, let himself inside without knocking.

The gold-pink dawn light fell on the rumpled bedclothes that gave evidence to their quick departure, the depressions left by two heads marking the places where they’d slept, so close together, only a few hours ago.

Erik sat slumped in an armchair before the fire, bent forward at the waist, forearms braced on his thighs, the curved line of his back one of doubt, and worry.

He glanced over, fleetingly, when Oliver entered, but didn’t speak – only held out a hand, after a moment. A silent request that tugged hard at Oliver’s gut, and had him crossing the room in a hurry. He slid his palm into Erik’s, and with his other hand he tucked a messy, silver-streaked braid behind the king’s ear. Erik leaned into the motion of his fingers, so he kept stroking his hair, smoothing it back from his brow and down the back of his skull.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, feeling helpless, not knowing what else to say. “Erik, I’m so sorry.”

Erik took an unsteady breath, his face lined, stripped naked of all the fury and hardness he’d worn in the surgery, and in the yard. He wasn’t trying to hide anything from Oliver, here where they were alone together, and that show of trust was staggering.

“You were right, about his stubbornness.” One corner of his mouth flicked in a poor attempt at a smile. “Rune’s young, and strong, and if anyone can pull through such a thing, it’s him.” He sobered, and his voice grew thick. “And it’s me who should be apologizing to you.”

“Whatever for?”

Erik turned his head to look at him fully now, looking up at him. His hand tightened on Oliver’s, and the other hooked in the front of Oliver’s belt, holding him still; Oliver sensed it was a grip that was more for Erik’s comfort than his own, given his troubled expression; wide, pleading eyes shifted back and forth over Oliver’s face.

“I’m sorry for what I’m about to ask you, Oliver. My cousin is an asshole, and he’s wrong about many things – but in this instance, unfortunately, I think he’s right.

“I set out for the Midwinter Festival in the Waste in three days’ time, and I must be there, after what I’ve done today. And I must take you with me.”

Oliver let the words wash over him. Tried to absorb them. “What?”

Erik sighed, thumb smoothing back and forth across Oliver’s belt buckle. “By marking you out as special to me, I confirmed what the Waste clans are apparently all thinking and whispering about: that I am, quite literally, in bed with the South.”

Oliver threw a glance toward the rumpled sheets. “Last I checked, it was just you and me in bed together. I didn’t notice the whole rest of the South last night.”

Erik flicked another smile. “I know, but that’s how they see it. Probably some of my own people see it that way as well.”

“But I’m only a bastard,” Oliver said, weakly.

Erik gave his belt a tug, expression firming. “You are mine. And I will not have it said that you are anything less than the highly-esteemed, brilliant, beautiful object of my deepest affection.”

All the air left Oliver’s lungs. “Oh,” he whispered, swaying forward a half-step, so that he stood between Erik’s parted knees.

“I won’t pretend that it isn’t dangerous, and I wish I could spare you such a long, cold trip,” Erik said with obvious regret. “But I fear Ragnar is right: we have to prove that you are not some Southern agent come to whisper in my ear. We have to prove that, whatever my dealings with Drakewell, I am still loyal, above all, to the North and its people.”

Deepest affection. The wild, brilliant thing was that Oliver could see that – could see it shining in his blue eyes. He would have agreed to anything in that moment, he thought, and so it was easy to say, “I understand.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. I can’t very well ask you to defend my homeland with your armies if I’m not willing to defend your honor with my presence now, can I?” He offered a smile.

One Erik returned with one of his own, equal parts soft and concerned. He shook his head, fractionally. “Still, I would ask your forgiveness. I’ve been rash – foolish. No better than my idiot nephews.”

Oh, sweetheart, Oliver thought, chest squeezing. He rasped his thumb along Erik’s short beard. “No. You’ve been a prince. A king, actually” – that earned a widening of Erik’s smile – “and – barring one or two regrettable moments of buffoonery” – that earned a chuckle – “I couldn’t have asked for a more gracious host. Or a better friend.”

“Friend is an interesting word for it,” Erik drawled, but the softness of his gaze told Oliver that he understood – that there was friendship between them, along with the more heated desires and emotions.

“I’ve never had a friend,” Oliver admitted, too honest, a sudden lump forming in his throat. “Not ever. Not until I came here.”

The hand at his belt shifted to his waist, squeezing. “You have them now.”

“I know. And I am – so grateful for that.” Oliver left off petting Erik’s hair so he could frame his strong jaw in both palms. “I’m coming to the festival with you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that I’m on your side – on your people’s side. And Rune will get better, and Leif will be duke, and you’ll be stupid with summer wines and silks, then, what with all the free trade.” He knew his attempted smile wobbled with emotion, but he didn’t feel like he had to hide that. “Now. Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” came the immediate answer.

“Will you be honest when I ask you how you’re doing right now?”

Erik lifted a brow.

“You’ve just killed a man.”

“I’ve killed lots of men,” he said, winding both arms around Oliver’s waist and pulling him down to straddle his lap. He glanced toward the fire, while Oliver continued to stroke his beard. Quietly: “It’s easier in battle, though. Executions are…intimate.”

Oliver shivered, and turned Erik’s face back toward himself so he could look into his eyes, full of so many things, least of all regret.

“I didn’t want to have to do that,” Erik admitted.

“I know.” Oliver kissed his forehead. “You can always tell me that sort of thing, you know. You don’t have to be the king when you’re alone with me. You can just be you.”

Erik hummed a noncommittal response; then tangled a hand in Oliver’s hair and brought their mouths together for a kiss. Slow and soft and aimless. It felt like seeking comfort.

After, Erik rested their foreheads together. His breath was warm across Oliver’s lips, his arms tight around his waist, his warmth bleeding slowly into Oliver’s body in every place they touched.

A log shifted in the grate.

The muted sounds of a busy palace drifted up from below.

But here now, it was only them, and this peace they’d found, impossibly, against all odds, in one another.

“Three days?” Oliver asked.

“Three days.”

Oliver took a deep breath. “I’ll be ready.”

“And you won’t be alone,” Erik assured. “Not again.”

A trip awaited them, political maneuvering. There was a marriage contract to write, lords to charm; the Sels still occupied the Crownlands, and Rune lay now fighting for his life. So much was uncertain.

But here now, with the fire crackling, holding one another, Oliver felt – for the very first time – not like a bastard, or a disgrace, or a sickly disappointment…but like someone who was wanted. And maybe, he thought, with the faintest stirring of hope, he’d finally found the place where he belonged.

THE END

~*~

To be continued…

Look for The Drake Chronicles Book Two:

Edge of the Wild

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 [email protected]. When she’s not writing, she’s mucking horse stalls, or walking her giant dog.

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