Heart of Winter by Lauren Gilley

6

The drink Magnus had given him was called mistress for good reason, Oliver realized the next morning, when he woke with a throbbing headache and a foul taste in his mouth. Sweet in the moment, regrettable the next morning.

The sun was already well up, and he felt a lurch of having erred. He dragged himself out of bed, dressed, washed his face, combed his hair, and cleaned his teeth. Then went next door and tapped on Tessa’s door.

The maid from last night, Hilda, answered with a cheery, “Morning, Master Oliver.”

“Morning. Is this a bad time?”

“No, Ollie, come on in,” Tessa called.

She stood in the center of her borrowed room, the bed covered in fabric. Dresses, he realized, as she watched her lift one and hold it up to her chest, turning to inspect its color against her skin in the mirror. The crimson should have clashed with her hair, but it was a deep color, like wine, and trimmed in white: heavy, warm velvet with a high neckline and thick, quilted sleeves.

“Hilda noticed that most of my dresses weren’t warm enough for a Northern winter, so Lady Revna had these sent for me to wear. Look, they’ve all got built in underskirts to keep the wind off, and some are divided for riding.”

“That was kind of her.”

“It was.”

Tessa folded the dress over her arm and turned to him, her expression one of resolve.

“What?”

“I like them,” she said, a soft declaration.

He felt his brows go up. “All right.”

“You look surprised.”

“That’s because I am. Yesterday was…a lot.”

“It was,” she agreed, smoothing her hand absently down the dress, brushing the nap of the velvet up and then down, her expression contemplative. “But we were offered shelter, good food, and warm beds. We weren’t thrown out on the doorstep.”

This surprised him, and his head was throbbing a bit too much for surprise. He sank down to sit on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Did you expect us to be?”

“I heard the rumors, back home.” She sent him a serious look, one that reminded him, painfully, that, though he would always think of her as a little girl, gripping at his coat sleeves and asking to be carried on his shoulders, she was no longer a child. Somewhere along the way she’d become a young woman, and, he further realized, as she spoke, not one entirely innocent of the harshness of the world. “I heard that King Erik was a barbarous and dangerous man. Ill-tempered. That he drank the blood of reindeer to keep warm in winter, and lived in a cave.”

Behind them, Hilda tittered to herself as she puttered about the room, and Tessa flicked a rueful smile.

“Silly, childish rumors, I know, but they frightened me a little. None of the books in the library could quite agree on Aeres. Father’s stories were reassuring, but then, Father was often overly polite.”

Oliver couldn’t help a chuckle. “Yes.”

“I didn’t know what we’d find when we arrived. I wasn’t quite expecting this.” She gestured to the walls around them. “I wasn’t expecting their great kindness.”

Oliver started to argue – but then he thought of what she’d said. Thought of Magnus taking him to the guardroom and pressing warm, numbing spirits into his hands. Thought of Rune’s guileless offer to teach him to fight. Of Lady Revna urging him to drop the titles. Birger offering a gallant arm to Tessa. Thought of being seated at the family table, and spoken to as if he were a man, as if he were just Oliver, and not the disappointing bastard son of the glamorous Alfred Drake.

It was kindness, yes, a bounty of it, wholly unexpected.

Although…

“And what of the king?” he asked. “Did you find him to be kind?” He thought of the challenge in Erik’s gaze, the stony façade, the voice like iron.

Thought, too, of the slump of the shoulders as he stood against the mantelpiece, his gaze downcast, his voice small with uncertainty. It was difficult to swallow, suddenly.

Tessa fixed him with a very direct look, penetrating and, for a moment, as perceptive and analytic as her mother; the resemblance sent a shiver through him that he fought not to show. “I think he’s a very lonely man.”

“Lonely?” That wasn’t the word he would have used.

But Tessa said, “Yes. Burdened – maybe by his kingdom, but by something else, too, I think.” She offered a small smile. “He reminds me of you, a little.”

Oliver snorted – though his heart lurched. “Yes. A striking resemblance, I should think.”

She didn’t share his amusement. Tipped her head to the side, fully Lady Katherine in that moment. “Yes,” was all she said, then returned to sorting through dresses.

Oliver was a little stunned.

“Which do you think?” she said. “After breakfast, Leif is taking me on a tour of the palace.”

Oliver blinked and refocused. “He is?”

“Hilda’s coming with us, don’t worry.” Her manner had become brisk, seemingly casual – but he could detect the thrum of nerves and girlish giddiness beneath. This was the same Tessa who’d always pretended not to care about May Day, but who ended up lifting her skirts and sprinting down the hill to the village green.

He stood to survey her choices with the appropriate level of attention.

“I think your ladyship would look lovely in the green,” Hilda offered, “if you’d like an old woman’s opinion.” When Oliver glanced up, she winked at him, and he found himself smiling in return.

Tessa stroked her fingertips down the pale green wool, along the line of silver cording at the double-breasted bodice. “It is a pretty shade.”

“And will go well with your hair,” Oliver said. “I agree with Hilda.”

As he left so that she might change into it, Hilda caught his sleeve at the door and leaned in for a whispered word: “Don’t you worry, Master Oliver, I won’t let her out of my sight. Not that you need worry about Prince Leif: he’s a good lad.”

Amused, Oliver kept his face properly grave and thanked her, then slipped out.

Pale, early sunlight fell through the windows, white panels on the flags bright enough to make him squint and hiss as it assaulted his aching eyes. Ugh. No more mistress for him – a twofold thought that left him snorting to himself as he made for the staircase.

He passed people on the stairs, some of them servants in aprons and bearing trays and steaming pitchers, and he nodded a silent hello to all of them, earning smiles and nods in return. He’d always gone out of his way to thank and greet the serving men and women in Drakewell – after all, he wasn’t a lordling for them to dote and wait on, even if he was, mostly, always welcome at the family table. They were friendlier, here, though, a few even offering a “good morning.” Two called him by name, and he supposed, at this point, everyone in the palace knew who the slim, auburn-haired strangers were.

Breakfast was already well under way in the great hall; he could hear the clatter and murmur of it as he crossed the gallery, and the scent of fresh bread wafted up over the rail. A glance proved the trestles were laid out, occupied by an assortment of men and women, sitting in cliques. Some in fine velvets and furs, their hair braided elaborately. Lords, ladies, perhaps merchants, Oliver thought. But other tables held working men and women in plainer, sturdier clothes, and there was even the odd guardsman or two, sitting together and smoking pipes while they ate. The children had congregated together at one table, a flurry of waving arms, and crumbs, and bright, excited voices. Oliver spotted the redhead and the blond he’d seen in the library yesterday; the redhead climbed half across the table to pelt another boy with biscuit crumbs, and the blond tugged him back down to the bench with a reproach.

Oliver found a long side-table heaped with platters and cloth-covered baskets, a stack of pewter dishes, and helped himself to bread, butter, strawberry jam, and some bacon. And a very tall mug of what smelled like very strong tea, no sugar.

Then, already-sour stomach twisting, he had to figure out where to sit. It was an anxiety with which he was well-familiar: sitting beside the wrong person could be social suicide in Drakewell. For instance, while he’d always had a place with one of his cousins, sitting beside anyone else titled would have earned him the cut direct. No one had seemed to care that he was a bastard last night, nor this morning, if the servants’ warm greetings were anything to go by. Still, he noted some of the men in finer clothes eyeing him skeptically. Was it because he was a bastard? Or so clearly foreign?

It was tempting to set his plate back on the serving table, and flee, hangover be damned.

But then a voice called, “Oliver! Over here!”

Rune stood up from his seat and waved, his young face split in a wide grin. Birger sat beside him, his expression fondly amused as he regarded the prince.

Oliver hesitated. Heads were turning toward the prince, and toward him. Rune waved more exaggeratedly, and said, “Sit with me!”

There were some head shakes, some murmurs.

Here was a prince asking a visiting bastard to come have breakfast with him. Oliver couldn’t decide which would be more damning in the Aeretolleans’ eyes: refusing, and sitting off by himself, or joining their prince.

Rune made a pleading face. “Come on. Birger’s boring me to death. I’m dying – literally dying.”

Birger huffed.

Oliver took a deep breath, and crossed the room to settle on the bench opposite Rune, keenly aware of the eyes that followed his progress. “You do look peaky,” he deadpanned, and earned a scandalized face from Rune – a false one, it quickly melted into a laugh – and an approving grin from Birger. “Good morning to you both.”

“How’s the head?” Birger asked, knowingly.

Oliver lifted his mug and made a face. “Hopefully the tea will help.” It was probably his imagination, but he thought the first few swallows eased the band of tension wrapped around his temples. “What’s so boring?” he asked Rune.

Rune grimaced. “Trade negotiations.”

With the air of a man who’d said it hundreds of times, Birger said, “Every prince worth his salt knows who his strongest, and weakest trade partners are.”

Rune rolled his eyes theatrically and crammed bacon in his mouth.

Birger sent Oliver an imploring look.

Oliver swallowed a mouthful of buttered bread and said, “That’s true. There’s a big difference between an ally, and someone looking to ally against you because they think you cheated them on grain.”

Birger hid a smirk in his own mug.

Rune scoffed. “We don’t cheat anyone on grain.”

“I’m not saying you do. But trade isn’t just about getting what you need, and selling what you don’t. There’s politics at play. If someone gives one of your allies a better deal, they might think of shifting alliances. Trade is just like marriage: it’s all a power play.”

Birger nodded approvingly.

Rune said, “You sound like Birger.”

“And could sound like you if you’d pay better attention,” Birger said.

Rune began ripping a piece of bread to bits, knee bouncing under the table hard enough to rattle their plates. “I don’t need to know about any of that. That’ll be Leif’s problem. He’ll be king, and I’ll be his right hand. It’s more important that I understand battle statistics. I’m the spare, and spares are always warriors.”

Oliver would have been the spare, the warrior, had he been legitimate. And had his health been better.

Birger heaved a deep, put-upon sigh. “Lad,” he said to Rune. “You have room in your head for battle statistics and politics. Do you not think you’d be a better help to your brother if you studied both?”

Rune sniffed and began eating the bread pieces.

“And do you know why there’s a spare?” Birger pressed. “Hm? Your uncle never thought he’d be king, either, not when he was your age.”

Rune froze a moment, dark eyes widening. He swallowed, and his gaze dropped to his plate, his hands very still. Contrite. “No,” he mumbled.

Birger patted his arm. “We’ll leave it for now. But this is important.”

Rune nodded. Ate bread in silence for a few moments, then lifted his gaze to Oliver and the sparkle returned to it. “I’m training today. Going to put Lord Belgard’s boys on their asses.”

Birger shook his head, but chuckled.

Rune said, “Want to come watch?”

“Me?”

“I won’t make you spar,” Rune assured, then tipped his head. “Unless you want to…?”

“Watching’s plenty exciting for me, thanks.”

If it was possible, the boy brightened further. “You’ll come?”

“Sure.”

“Ha! Wait here. I have to go and get my things.” He bolted up from the table, leaving his dirty plate behind, and went sprinting for the staircase.”

Birger said, “Oh, to be that young again. The energy of them at that age.”

“I never had that much energy at his age,” Oliver said.

Birger snorted. “More brains, though, I’d wager.”

Oliver shrugged, uncertain of the praise; he wasn’t used to it. “King Erik is a second son, then?” He knew that he was, but he’d only read it in a book passage, a few throwaway lines about Prince Arne falling in battle beside his father, the aging King Frode.

Birger looked at him like he suspected Oliver wasn’t ignorant of the fact, but answered readily enough. “Aye. Third, actually. Herleif died when they were only children.” His expression grew somber. “Terrible thing. Unexpected. The queen was disconsolate. Arne became heir, and he took to it gamely. Erik was wild back then. Like Rune, only – less happy.” He shook his head. “Losing his father and brother, so soon after the queen fell to illness, it broke something inside him. Something weakened by Herleif’s death.” His gaze shifted to sternness. “I tell you this so that you might think better of him, not to go spreading his personal family history about.”

Oliver paused, mug halfway to his mouth. “I understand,” he said, hoping to convey just how much so.

Birger held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded, and stood. “If the young ones do decide to marry, I suspect you and I will have much to discuss in the coming weeks. We’ll talk soon.” He smiled and ambled off.

Oliver picked at his bread crust, and wondered what Erik’s blue eyes would look like young and full of vigor – almost as much as he wondered what they’d look like full of happiness.