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 towar
d 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.<
br />
“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.
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 3