Heart of Winter by Lauren Gilley

4

“But I didn’t want to marry the king,” Tessa insisted a half-hour later, once they’d been shown to adjoining rooms and left to unpack. “I will do it, surely, if I must, and gladly, for my family, but I’d much prefer – if I’m to be married off at all – Prince Leif to his uncle. King Erik is…frightening.”

For his own part, Oliver would have said intimidating, but that was after pushing down the wild urge to curl up in a ball and protect all his most vulnerable areas. Even seated, and draped in furs, it had been obvious that King Erik was a physically powerful man, younger than he’d expected, despite those distinguishing silver threads in his hair – they matched the beads woven into his braids…

Off topic.

Irrelevant.

“Be that as it may,” he said with a sigh, “I wrote asking if he was interested in marrying you. And he gave no indication that he wasn’t agreeable to that – or of anything, really,” he said, sourly, and dropped down to sit on the window ledge, which was padded with hide-wrapped pillows and a heap of furs – fur was a bit of a theme here, it appeared.

Tessa shook out a dress and made a face at it – it was all soft, thin silks unsuited to this climate. “I don’t want to marry someone who doesn’t like me.”

“He can’t dislike you, he doesn’t even know you. I need to at least have a conversation with the man.”

Tessa shot him a look.

“Tess.” He gentled his tone. “This is meant to be an alliance.”

“And it still will be.” Politely insistent, but with a hint of steel edging her voice. For all her sweetness, she was her mother’s daughter.

“At any moment now,” he said, patiently, “the ceasefire will end. It’s a matter of when, not if. When it does, it’ll be advantageous for you to be queen.”

“I would be queen eventually, once Leif became king.”

He offered a smile, and knew it was pathetic. “Will King Erik march forth to save his nephew’s wife’s family estate?”

Her brow furrowed.

“A man will go to war for his mate. But maybe not for a new niece by marriage.”

Her frown deepened. “I hate it when you make sense.”

“So do I.” He turned toward the window, and peered through the leaded glass at the kingdom that sprawled beyond – what he could see of it.

Their rooms were on the third floor, along a straight stretch of wall, with windows that overlooked the snow-covered plains they’d cut across on their way from the harbor. The land sloped, faintly, and through a haze of mist, he could just make out the half-moon gleam of the harbor, and houses like little snow-capped building blocks. He saw a trio of riders coming up the road, and off toward the west, lines that he finally realized were fences mostly buried by snow drifts. A few stone walls. And the rumpled-quilt shadows of the foothills, folded together at the bases of the high peaks, wreathed by fog.

The scuff of slippers on carpet heralded Tessa’s arrival as she joined him. “It’s beautiful, in its own way,” she said, softly, her breath fogging the glass above his head.

“Hm,” he hummed. “I miss the green.”

~*~

Because Oliver had done his research ahead of time, he’d know that the Palace of Aeres would be warm and livable, and hadn’t expected goat-herding tents and shoes made of wood, but he still found himself surprised by the comfort of the place. Roaring fires beat back the chill in their rooms, and the stone floors were covered with thick, woolen carpets in swirling creams, reds, and blues – house colors, he’d realized, judging by the banner in the great hall. The bedframes were wood – heavy, dark wood carved with strong, geometric lines, runes etched into the headboards; feather mattresses and pillows piled with wool blankets and furs. His room also boasted a pair of wood chairs by the fire, a chest at the foot of the bed, and a table for the ewer, basin, and toweling. There was no bathroom with indoor plumbing like in Drakewell, but he’d known not to expect that, and Bjorn had boasted about the endless hot water in the baths, down below the palace in the network of inhabited caves. A small shelf housed books, some of them in traditional Aeretollean runes, but others in the Universal tongue.

Tessa sat down at the desk in her room with parchment and quill to pen a note to her mother telling her of their safe arrival.

Oliver unpacked his things into the wardrobe and chest in his room, and wondered if it would be impertinent to go exploring.

When Tessa assured him she was fine without him – with a distracted wave of her quill – he headed down the hall, surprised at his own boldness.

One floor down, in a hallway marked with flickering wall sconces, he found a set of wide, open double doors that led into a room whose scent drew him immediately: that of ink and parchment and leather and glue. The library.

Once upon a time, hundreds of years past, the people of Aquitania – before it had even been Aquitania – had lived in tens, and huts, and lean-tos made of crude woven branches. They existed in tribes, ruled by warlords, living off hunting, and fishing, and gathering, dressed in animal skins, if dressed at all. They’d worn their hair long, and their beards longer; had painted their bodies with blue paint when warlord clashed with warlord over petty territory conflicts. Bloodshed was plentiful, in war, and in sacrifice: wicker cages filled with screaming virgins, set ablaze by the druid priests that read entrails, and bones, and scried in pottery bowls of blood.

Then a king had come down from the frozen Northern seas, in his longships, with his large, strong, disciplined armies, and their iron weapons. The Aeretolleans conquered the vast tracts of what would become Aquitania; married their people, brought better weapons, and medicine, and literacy. And then, finally, when their forces had waned and lost interest or simply interbred too deeply to leave, those who wished to do so withdrew. Aquitania became one of the world’s great kingdoms, and Aeretoll became the barbarian in all the tales.

An idea that persisted, still.

But here was evidence to the contrary. Here were books.

They lined the walls floor to ceiling, and more were stacked and lay open on the heavy carved tables in the center of the floor, as if someone had dashed off in the middle of reading. The fire was unlit, but the room was still warm, even with so many windows, which offered the soft, white, misty light of the foothills in profusion – a quiet light that seemed respectful of all the knowledge this room contained.

He strolled along the edges of the room, noting the supple leather covers, and those of wood; the rolled-up parchments and the loose pages stacked and tied with string. Alcoves in the windowsills offered pillows and furs, quiet places to read with a book titled toward the sunlight. Dozens of candles – unlit now – had melted and dripped down iron candelabrum on the tables, and on stands throughout the room. An arched opening let into a small, but high-ceiling scriptorium, full of easels tall enough for standing, and low enough for sitting, stools poised beneath them.

A project lay spread across an easel pointed toward him, and curiosity drew him forward.

The page had been illuminated with colored inks, patterned in geometrics at the borders, the first letter of text boxed with red, overlarge for the page. What captured his attention, though, was the sketch at the bottom of the page, a very lifelike drawing of King Erik, and make no mistake. He wore a crown in this image, one with intricate gold inlay antlers engraved in its heavy sides. The king’s expression was much like the one he’d worn just an hour ago in the great hall, the strong lines of his face set in uncompromising lines. The eyes were piercing; the artist knew him well enough to have captured him properly – not just his face, but his gaze, the power of it.

That’s a fanciful thought, he scolded himself. Tessa was glad to think that she wouldn’t have to marry the king, and Leif was definitely a handsome, well-built lad, and much closer to her in age. But Oliver couldn’t help but think that her choice was somehow…lesser.

“What do you think?” someone asked right behind him, and he jumped and whirled with an undignified squawk.

A woman stood behind him, dressed in a simple, dark blue dress belted low on her waist in the Aeretollean fashion. She wore her brown-black hair pinned up at the back of her head in a complicated sequence of braids that left just enough loose to glow in dark waves down her back. She had blue eyes, and a strong nose, and though her smile was welcoming, and a touch mischievous – like her sons – Oliver noted the family resemblance straight off. She had something of her brother’s regal bearing, despite the kindness of her gaze.

“Oh,” Oliver said, belatedly, after he realized he’d been gaping at her like a fool. “My lady.” He offered a quick, correct bow.

When he straightened, her smile widened. “Don’t worry, Mr. Meacham, we don’t stand on ceremony here. It’s only Revna.”

Lady Revna, King Erik’s widowed sister.

He was helpless but to return her smile, her easy manner unwinding some of the tension in his belly. “Oliver, then.”

She nodded, seeming pleased, and moved to stand beside him, her gaze on the manuscript page. “I expect you’ve seen him already, my brother.” She nodded toward the sketch. “What do you think? An accurate likeness?”

He turned back to inspect the drawing, struck all over again by the energy captured in those few, dark lines. “Well, I’ve only just met him a few hours ago, but I’d say it’s a perfect likeness, yes.”

Revna breathed a low laugh. “Leaves an impression doesn’t he, my brother?”

“A bit of one.”

“I hope he wasn’t too much of a beast to you. I’m always telling him he has no manners.”

“Oh, no, it was – he was – fine.”

She snorted, and a glance proved she was smirking. “Don’t take it personally. He’s suspicious. And cynical. And I’m afraid he doesn’t much care for Aquitainians.”

Another glance found Revna’s expression amused, but still easy, bearing none of her brother’s threat. Oliver had never been brave with a sword or a bow, but he’d gotten himself in trouble with his mouth more than a few times, an odd streak of boldness that proved, in its own small way, that he was a Drake.

He cleared his throat. “About that. My lady…Revna,” he amended, when she lifted a single brow. “If he’s not fond of foreigners, why did your brother ask us to come here? My initial letter was an offer from the Lady Katherine that King Erik could have Tessa’s hand in marriage. But here we are, arrived after a long journey, and he wants her to marry your son instead.”

She sighed, and shook her head. “I warned him you wouldn’t like it. ‘Be transparent,’ I said. ‘If you don’t want the girl, say so.’ But he isn’t one for listening.” Another sigh. “Have supper with us, you and Tessa. We’ll talk things through and the two of you can decide if you want to stay.”

“All…right.”

She nodded and turned to go.

“She’s a sweet girl, Tessa,” Oliver said, and the Lady of Aeretoll paused. “She’ll make a dutiful wife.”

Revna’s head turned just enough to show the curve of a wistful smile. “I’m sure she will – for someone who isn’t my brother.”

~*~

Oliver browsed titles in the library until a group of loud young people joined him there, complaining of their studies. One, a red-headed, freckled boy who couldn’t have been older than ten, his boots tracking mud across the flags and carpets, argued loudly with an older blond boy about the proper forging of swords. Oliver slipped out unseen, and returned to his room to change for supper.

Though he’d packed his warmest winter clothes, they still felt too thin when he slipped on fresh breeches and tunic, overly conscious, when he looked in the floor-length standing mirror, that his doublet was laced too strictly, and cut too strangely to allow him to blend in here in the North. His hair was too short, and he was clean-shaven, and slight, and nothing at all like the hulking, bearded men he’d met so far.

There was nothing for it.

Next door, Tessa had put on a wool dress cut in the Southern fashion, with clinging, scoop-necked bodice and slender, loose skirts. Warmer than the silk dress she’d been unpacking earlier, but not warm enough judging by the way she warmed her hands in front of the fire.

Some of that coldness might have been nerves, though; Oliver felt the threat of shivers himself.

She turned to him when he entered, smiling bravely. “How do I look?”

She wore her hair loose, as they did in the South, with only a single silver barrette to hold it back from her face. No jewels, no rings, no flash of beads. But her skin was flushed from the warmth of the fire, and her eyes were the same warm, indigo blue as Oliver’s, and she was lovely, lovely.

“Beautiful,” he told her, honestly, and her smile shifted a little away from brave and more toward true warmth.

A knock at the door had both of them jumping, and heralded the arrival of a man only a little smaller than Bjorn, and dressed in similar fashion, though his beard and braided hair were iron gray, and when he smiled, his face creased with friendly wrinkles.

“Evening,” he greeted, thumbs hooked in his belt. “Lady Revna was going to send a page to fetch you down to supper, but I thought I’d take the chance to introduce myself. I’m Birger, his Royal Highness’s chief advisor.” His eyes were small, but they twinkled when his smile deepened. “I think you’ve already met my brother.”

“If you mean Bjorn, then, yes.” Oliver offered a smile he hoped wasn’t strained. “He met us at the docks.”

Birger chuckled – a softer, easier sound than his brother’s booming roar of laughter. He tilted his head, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial volume. “Don’t mind him, lad. He forgets his own strength sometimes.”

Before Oliver could wonder just how much of a helpless pup he looked to these people, Birger turned to Tessa and bowed until his long, gray beard nearly brushed the flagstones.

“My Lady Tessa,” he said as he rose, “welcome.”

Tessa curtsied. “Thank you.”

“Shall we?” Birger offered his arm to Tessa – who took it.

Oliver wanted to protest, but, well, Birger was only slightly smaller than his brother. And he was being polite. Oliver could only fall into step behind them, out of the room and down the hall.

Where a guard waited, his pike propped at a negligent angle on his shoulder, his bright mail and helm softened by the crimson scarf wound round his neck. He fell into step beside Oliver.

“Good evening there, Master Drake Lord.”

Oliver glanced sideways at the man, noting his short, black beard, and his tightly-braided hair, and the friendliness of his smile. To be honest, everyone had been friendly save the king.

He felt some of his initial, bristling discontent fade.

“It’s just Oliver,” he said. “Not a lord, and not a Drake.”

“Ah, well.” The guard shrugged and repositioned his pike. “No shame in that. Pleased to meet you, Oliver. I’m Magnus.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Oliver said in return.

Magnus chuckled.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” He motioned toward Tessa ahead of them as they reached the stairs. “I hear she’s for the prince and not Erik.”

Oliver bristled. “Ah. So she’s palace gossip, I see. And, apparently, an object instead of a young woman.”

Back home, that would have earned him a cutting glare and a veiled insult, but Magnus only laughed again. “No, no, don’t mind me. No need to get in a twist over her honor. I’m only making conversation.”

Oliver glanced over, to be met not with mockery, but a genuine, happy smile. He didn’t understand these people.

Magnus met his gaze, and winked at him. “You’ll be fine, lad.”

Frustrated, flushing, Oliver faced forward again, and bit his tongue.

“It’s good you’ve come now,” Magnus continued, cheerfully, as they reached the top of the stairs and started down, “so everything can be sorted before the festival.”

As usual, Oliver’s offense was no match for his curiosity. “That would be the Midwinter Festival?” he asked, despite his intention to keep quiet.

“Aye. That’ll be the one. Know something about it, do you?”

“Oh, well, I’ve done some reading–”

“It’s no great secret. Been going on for centuries! Though I forget how many. I was never much of one for reading,” Magnus confided as they reached the landing and started along the gallery that overlooked the great hall. A glance over the balustrade proved what the tumult of sound had already told him: that the fires roared, and men and women were sitting down at freshly set-up trestle tables.

Magnus continued, happy and oblivious, his voice loud enough to be heard above the ruckus of supper preparations below. “All the Northern kings and lords and chieftains from all the Northern kingdoms, and duchies, and clans come together for five days of feasting, and sporting, and contract negotiating. It’s a helluva thing. You ever been?”

“No.” Oliver didn’t say that being here in Aeres was the farthest he’d ever been from home – his only adventure, really, because he didn’t think stealing pies off windowsills with John as a boy counted as a real adventure.

“You should stay after you’re done with all your business,” Magnus said, clapping him on the shoulder, because that was just something men did here, he was realizing. “See if Erik will let you tag along with him and the lads. There’s nothing like it in the world.”

“Maybe let’s just get through supper first.”

Magnus roared with laughter, and clapped his shoulder again. 

Ahead of them, Birger guided Tessa down the wide, central staircase with a delicacy that belied his size and weathered countenance. At the head of the room, the throne sat empty, and though Birger offered a wave and some unheard comment to the table of boisterous men who hailed him, he steered Tessa past the commotion, and down a side hall.

“We aren’t dining in here?” Oliver asked.

“No, no,” Magnus said as they followed, leaving behind the clatter and shouting and laughter of the great hall, passing intricate tapestries that Oliver hoped to be able to examine later. “By the end of the day, Erik’s pretty much done with humanity, and I can’t say I blame him.”

A pair of guards stood outside a set of double doors, and they moved in unison to open the way for them.

“Magnus,” Oliver said, quietly, “are you always so heavily armored inside the palace like this?”

“Oh, yeah, just standard procedure. Here we are.”

A private dining room awaited, dominated by a grand, carved table, a permanent fixture, rather than the trestles in the great hall. Its surface gleamed in the fire and candlelight, a blond wood full of lines and eyes, heavily varnished, like the high-backed chairs that ringed it. A buffet table already heaped with food stood along one wall, another loaded with stoppered bottles and flasks and all manner of cups.

Two chairs sat angled before the fire, fine Southern armchairs, Oliver noted, upholstered in crimson fabric, their backs draped with folded blankets and furs. A giant, shaggy dog lay stretched between them, and, seated in them, the princes, both of whom surged to their feet when they entered.

Magnus leaned in close, chuckling under his breath, and whispered, “Look at this pair of fools. You’d think they’d never seen a pretty girl before.”

“My lady,” Leif began, just as Rune said, “Good even–” and then trod upon the dog’s paw so that it yelped and jumped up, nearly sending him back down into his chair.

Oliver bit his lip hard to keep from grinning, and Magnus chuckled again – though warmly.

Leif managed to sidestep the flailing tangle of brother and dog and stepped up to Tessa, who was still holding on to Birger’s arm, but smiling at the prince, cheeks stained pink.

“My lady,” Leif repeated, and bowed. “Are you well?”

“Quite, thank you.”

“Oi – stupid–” The dog had apparently forgiven Rune and was licking at his face. Rune shoved it away, scrambled back to his feet, and drew up beside his brother so he could bow at Tessa, too. “My lady, are you settling in well?”

Tessa’s smile was serene, but Oliver recognized the laughter shining in her eyes. “Yes, quite well, thank you. My room is lovely.”

“I picked it out special, just for you,” Rune said.

Leif shot his brother a sideways look.

“They aren’t competitive, are they?” Oliver asked.

“They’re seventeen and twenty-two,” Magnus whispered back. “What do you think?”

“Let me show you to a seat, my lady,” Birger offered.

The princes both said, “No, I’ll do it!”

Tessa pressed her fingertips to her lips to stifle a giggle.

“Ah, my two brilliant offspring.” Lady Revna swept into the room, and Oliver found himself bowing along with every other man in attendance. She waved at the gesture dismissively and went straight to Tessa, whose eyes had gone wide. “You’ll be Tessa, then,” she said, her briskness softened by a warm smile. She took Tessa’s hand in her own. “Welcome to Aeretoll, and please don’t listen to a word my dumb boys say – and that includes my brother.”

“Mum!” Rune protested.

Leif pressed his lips together, cheeks pinking.

“What includes your brother?” a deep, commanding voice asked, and Oliver couldn’t suppress his sudden, full-body shiver.

Beside him, Magnus huffed a little laugh, and Oliver would kick himself for being so – well, himself – later, but for the moment, King Erik captured every bit of his attention.

He rolled into the room like a thunderstorm, dark, and ominous, and supple as smoke. He was even taller standing than Oliver had guessed, only a few inches shorter than Bjorn, who trooped in behind, but, despite the breadth of his shoulders, the depth of the chest encased in black leather, he moved with a certain long-strided elegance. Not a hulking brute, but a warrior, grace evident in every movement as he unclasped his snow-dusted cloak – he’d been outside, snow fast melting in his and Bjorn’s hair – hung it on a peg by the door, and ducked his head to press a fast kiss to his sister’s cheek.

A domestic, tender gesture, one that had come easy, as if from long practice, and Oliver noted the small, quick, sincere smiles they shared. Though it only lasted a split-second, it transformed Erik’s face mightily, lent an unexpected, truly shocking warmth to his stern features.

Then his expression closed off like the drawing down of a gate, and he lifted his head and pinned Oliver with an unreadable look. “You came.”

Oliver had to swallow against a suddenly-dry throat. “You told us to.” He didn’t add: And you sent armored men to collect us.

Erik’s lips compressed, his brows lowered, and his answer was a slow exhale that radiated irritation.

“Do remember I included my brother,” Revna said, “in my list of foolish men that I’m forced to endure because I love them quite against my better judgement.” Before Erik could reply, she patted Tessa’s hand and extricated her from Birger. “Here, let’s sit down, dear.” She towed her first to the table of food, where a stack of plates waited, and Oliver fell in at the back of the line that formed in the women’s wake.

Magnus was, apparently, going to dine with them, a breach of royal guard protocol that would have never been allowed down South. He turned around while they waited, and said, “In case you couldn’t tell, Lady Revna usually has the last say.”

Behind him, Bjorn turned around, and, over Magnus’s shoulder, said, “And don’t you forget it.”

Magnus winced, but offered Oliver another wink.

Plates were filled, wine was poured into unpretentious pewter cups, and the party took their seats.

Oliver found himself down near the end, between Tessa and Magnus, and across from Rune.

Erik sat at the head of the table, his sister on one side, Bjorn on the other, unmistakably kingly despite the casual black leathers he wore. Framed by two tall, narrow windows on the wall behind him, the sky beyond black with night, the mullions piled with snow, candlelight picked out the silver beads braided into his hair, and the small silver studs along the shoulders of his jerkin. Glinted off the jewels set in his rings.

Oliver forced his gaze away, only to have it collide with Bjorn’s, who was eyeing him sharply.

He reached for his wine and took a hasty sip.

“Where’ve you two been after dark?” Revna asked her brother, and the spell of momentary quiet was broken; conversation bubbled up organically.

“To the harbor,” Erik said. “A message arrived just before dark, and–”

“We could teach you.”

Oliver lifted his head and found Rune studying him. “Sorry?”

“We could teach you,” Rune repeated, gesturing to his brother with a hunk of bread. “To fight.”

Leif rolled his eyes. “Maybe Oliver doesn’t want to learn to fight.”

“Who wouldn’t want to?” Rune asked, appalled. To Oliver: “You do want to, right?”

“Well…”

“Oliver’s here in a political capacity, Rune,” Birger said, with gentle censure. “He has lots of important business to discuss in the short time he’s here.” He sent Oliver an understanding look that had Oliver silently thanking him.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said, seizing on the excuse. “I won’t be here long – I have to sail before the harbor closes for winter – and there’s quite a lot to work out between our duchy and your kingdom.”

Rune looked crestfallen, which surprised Oliver.

“It’s a very generous offer, though,” he added, earning a flicker of a smile. “But I’m afraid I’d only be a disappointment. Arms like raw bread dough.” He tapped one slim bicep for emphasis.

“Yes, but you could learn. You could get stronger,” Rune insisted.

“Do you enjoy instructing?” Tessa asked, and Rune’s face lit up as his gaze shifted to her.

“Yes! Or, well…” He blushed. “I think I would. I haven’t exactly…um…”

“Rune’s the youngest of the lads in Aeres. For the most part,” Leif acquiesced when his brother shot him a glare. “The youngest of us and our friends. He was always the one being taught.” He patted him on top of the head and then laughed when Rune shoved his hand away.

“I’d be a great teacher.”

“Keep telling yourself that, little brother.”

Seventeen and twenty-two, Oliver reminded himself. He wondered if he’d ever been so young.

“Leif’s better with a sword,” Magnus chimed in, “but your brother’s got you beat with a bow.”

Rune grinned. “Ha!”

Leif pinched off a bit of bread and bounced it off his brother’s nose, who only laughed harder – and then picked up a much larger hunk of bread.

“My sister and I are very different,” Tessa spoke up, and both boys froze, and looked toward her. Bjorn and Birger as well. “Amelia is wildly fond of horses – she’s a better rider than most of the boys back home. She had her first pony before she could even walk properly.” She smiled, and the princes leaned forward, unconscious, enraptured. “She has a horse named Shadow – a stallion, if you can believe. He doesn’t even want the grooms to touch him, but he’s gentle as an old plow horse for Lia.”

Her expression dimmed. “She would love it here – going on an adventure to the Northern Waste. She’s the brave one, not me.”

The brothers absorbed what she’d said for a beat, and then Rune sucked in a breath and said, “That can’t be true.”

Tessa’s brows lifted.

“About her being brave and you not. You’re here, aren’t you? That’s brave.” He grinned. “And you’re willing to wed Uncle, and that’s really brave.”

“Rune,” Erik chastised.

The prince bit his lip, mock-sheepish, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Leif offered Tessa a wink, and, in a stage whisper, said, “Don’t worry. You won’t have to marry him.”

Erik sighed. “Boys.”

Both immediately sobered in response to his tone. In fact, the entire table fell quiet, all side conversations cutting off. Oliver felt a prickling up the back of his neck. Just before Erik said, in that same commanding voice, “Mr. Meacham. You’re here for an alliance, yes? Let’s discuss it.” The invitation sounded more like a threat.

Oliver met the king’s implacable gaze and fought to keep from shrinking down into his coat collar. He couldn’t be shy and uncertain here; had to be strong for Tessa’s sake.

He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and said, “We have come for an alliance, yes. I suppose there’s no sense trying to flatter you and pretend that Tessa was a great long-distance admirer of yours.”

He heard a low chuckle that he thought belonged to Birger, but didn’t break eye contact with the king, who stared at him in stony silence.

A hand touched his arm. “Ollie,” Tessa whispered.

Oliver took a deep breath and continued. “I’d wager you know more about the war with the Sels than I do, at this point, but what I do know is that the crown prince of Aquitainia is dead, and a number of great lords have fallen. A child of eight now holds the title of Duke of Aberforth.” He couldn’t stop the jump of his brows, the same way they’d jumped months ago when he’d first heard the news of that unfortunate turn of events.

“My uncle, father, and cousin fell in battle this summer,” he pressed on, striving not to linger on thought of them, on John’s ready smile, and strong hand always ready to clasp Oliver’s shoulder in friendship. Holding the king’s gaze made it easier, somehow; it was difficult to allow emotion to intrude when locked in place by that glacial stare. “Lady Katherine holds her own well, because she is a fierce woman, but the duke is dead, and his only heir with him. I’m a bastard, and cannot inherit. My cousins – the girls…” How could a man look so implacable? So…cold and closed off? It stoked at the dormant, carefully-kept anger in Oliver’s chest. Stirred up an honesty better left unsaid. “One of them should be duchess,” he blurted. “They should. Amelia should take the mantle from her father. But she can’t. It isn’t fair, but that’s our society isn’t it? Not fair in any way.”

“Ollie,” Tessa whispered again, more urgently.

“When the ceasefire ends, because surely it will end, the king’s forces cannot hold the Sels at bay for any great length, our enemy will sweep across the plains of Aquitania like the breeze flowing down a valley. We are already allied with the other duchies; a marriage alliance will not save us, everyone is already stretched too thin.

“Winter is upon us and we will not survive it if we can’t hold Drakewell. It was a bountiful harvest year, and our stores are laid up, but we can’t protect ourselves, not this time. The king can’t protect us either. So Lady Katherine sent us to you.”

“With her daughter as offering,” Erik said, voice low, tone unreadable.

“A daughter whose hand would make you not just King of Aeretoll, but Duke of Drakewell as well.”

Low murmurs of surprise from the rest of the table.

“All of Drakewell’s farms, and fields, all its wealth, would be yours.” The last stung his throat, painful to say.

Bjorn started to speak – but Erik stayed him with a single raised hand, gaze never moving from Oliver’s. He tilted his head a fraction, so that, for a moment, the blue of his eyes flickered gold in the candlelight. “And why would I be singled out for this honor?”

Oliver thought he sounded mocking. “Because you have a reputation for prowess in battle. For ruthlessness,” Oliver said, with some satisfaction; it felt good to lay insults at the king’s feet…though he probably thought them to be compliments. “Because you’re the sort of man who wouldn’t turn away a free offer of wealth and a pretty maiden. And because you were allies with my uncle, once. You shook hands with him in a battlefield tent, a pledge to remain allies in the future.”

The king’s brows lifted an unimpressed fraction. “This is what your aunt told you?”

“This is what I saw. I was there, that day. I remember the way the glow of the brazier caught on your rings.”

Surprise blanked the king’s expression a moment. He sat back in his chair, blinking. And then he scowled. “You were there? How old were you?”

“Seven. And believe me, it was my stupid father’s idea. Uncle wasn’t happy about it.”

Alfred had ridden back to Drakewell for more troops, and in an impulsive moment lifted Oliver up to sit in front of him in the saddle, wanting to take him to the treaty-signing, so he could start learning to be a man. William had nearly struck his brother, he’d been so angry.

Oliver remembered hiding in the back of the tent, peeping between men’s legs, and around the corners of trestles. Remembered the young Aeretollean king, resplendent in furs and jewels, his long, wild tangle of back hair, silver gleaming in his many braids. He remembered how he’d stood taller than Uncle, how his hands had been bigger, his wrists cased in engraved leather braces, his knuckles adorned with spiked silver rings. He’d seemed a wild thing, an animal on its hind legs come out of the forest, breath steaming in the chill air of the tent, eyes so vividly sky blue when they shifted toward the faint noise and scurried movements of a boy hiding in the back of the tent.

Oliver watched Erik remember it. Watched the way his jaw tightened, and his throat moved as he swallowed; the way his eyes grew faraway with memory, a moment.

He ran absent fingers down the length of the braid tucked behind his ear, played with the fat bead at its end. “I was newly crowned, then,” he said, gruffly, then cleared his throat, sat up straighter, and smoothed his features. “If you remember that so well, Mr. Meacham,” he said, all of sternness again, “then you’ll know that we agreed to be allies and friends, but I never agreed to marry any of the man’s daughters – and I won’t.”

Revna sighed.

Beside Oliver, Magnus hummed a low, sympathetic sound.

Birger made a soothing gesture toward the king. “Now, Erik–”

“No.” He locked gazes with his advisor, and some silent communication passed between them that had Birger nodding and sighing. “It’s as I said before: if Leif wishes, he and the girl may marry, and Leif can receive the title of Duke of Drakewell.”

“Tessa,” Oliver said through clenched teeth. When Erik glanced back at him in question, he said, “She is not the girl. Her name is Tessa, Tessa Drake, and she’s sitting right here.”

Erik held his gaze a moment, then nodded – then caught Tessa’s eye. “Lady Tessa, would you rather marry me, or my handsome nephew?”

Under different circumstances, Oliver would have laughed at the way Leif choked on his wine and had to be slapped on the back by his brother.

Tessa – who’d long since given up all pretense of eating – knotted her hands together in her lap and said, “I – I don’t…” She held the king’s gaze, but pressed her lips together, face so white Oliver feared she’d swoon.

He covered her hands with his own, stilling their nervous movement.

“Maybe they should decide that for themselves,” he said.

Erik’s black brows gave another little jump of acknowledgement. “Agreed. Get to know one another.” He gestured between the two young people with an imperious sweep of his hand. He didn’t sound encouraging. “If you agree to it, we’ll have a spring wedding.”

“Spring?” Oliver asked. “But it’s as I’ve told you: Drakewell – the whole of Aquitainia – will be conquered before then!”

Erik met him with only the mildest interest. “And so I’m to do what? Raise an army in the middle of the night? Send them harrying off to invade Aquitania for you?”

Oliver bit his lip, hard. “We can’t–”

“You asked me to honor an old alliance, Mr. Meacham, and I’m prepared to do so. But of the two of us, I’m the one with the greater understanding of how these sorts of things work.” With a ringing note of finality: “I will decide when – and if – Aeretoll marches to war.” He reached for his cup, and the conversation was done.