“Everyone in the world knows the stories of the Drakewell dragons,” Erik said, gently, “everyone except all of Aquitainia.”
“I don’t…” It was a silly thing, an old and irrelevant thing, the existence of dragons. But the lie, the deception…Oliver felt unmoored. He swallowed again, with difficulty. “I don’t know if I believe you, entirely.”
Erik shrugged. “Why would you? I’ve been terrible. But, here, look.” He turned to a new page. “The young ones here like the old stories, so we’re well-stocked on dragon lore. There’s two major classifications: fire-drakes, and cold-drakes…”
For ten ridiculous minutes, the King of Aeretoll lectured him on drakes in a low, rumbling voice that Oliver found entirely too soothing.
Oliver slowly found himself migrating from denial to curiosity. “And there are none left living?” he asked, when Erik quieted.
“There might be. Most aren’t much bigger than a horse, leaving off the wingspan, so they would be able to keep to forests and caves and avoid humans, if they wished. At last year’s Midwinter Festival, some of the clansmen claimed to have seen cold-drakes stalking deer on the other side of the mountains.”
“Do you think they did?”
Erik shrugged. “They might have.”
“Huh.” Oliver slumped down to prop his chin on his fist, gaze trailing over the profusion of illustrations before him. “Nothing like having everything you know about the world change in half an hour.”
Erik snorted. “Hopefully not everything.”
“I like to exaggerate, if you hadn’t noticed,” Oliver quipped, and was then struck, suddenly, by the situation.
Here they sat, king and bastard, bent over a slew of books, chatting about dragons, of all things. Erik’s face was more open than Oliver had ever seen it, his brow smooth and his mouth soft, and he was unbearably lovely, backlit by the firelight, candle glow catching on silver and gemstones, none of which were as arresting as the blue of his eyes, gentle and without hostility, now.
Erik grinned, slow and true, and chuckled. “I had noticed, actually.”
Oh, Oliver thought. He was in danger.
His stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly.
He jerked, and Erik’s gaze dropped to his midsection.
Oliver could feel his face heating. “I suppose I missed supper.”
“By about an hour,” Erik said, apologetically.
“Ah. Well. Maybe if I go down to the…” He trailed off when Erik shook his head.
“I’ll have something sent up to you.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t have to–”
“I insist.”
“Well.” In the absence of wild tales of mythical creatures, or righteous anger, Oliver slipped back into doubt, and awkwardness. His face was hot, at this point, and it had nothing to do with the fire, and he needed to get away from Erik, now, for his own self-preservation. “Thank you.” He stood.
Erik, still grinning, cocked his head and said, “I might bludgeon my guests to death, but I won’t have it said that I starved them.” There was a teasing glint in his eyes, and Oliver needed to run away.
He managed to twitch a returning smile, and turned for the door, his stomach doing somersaults.
“Mr. Meacham.”
He had to wait, gather a breath, school his features, and pray the way every single muscle had clenched delightfully didn’t show on his face when he turned back.
Erik was serious again, hands clasped together on the tabletop, head inclined to an earnest angle. “I want to apologize,” he said, formally, voice deep as ever. It was if he’d dragged an invisible kingly mantle around his shoulders, and Oliver was struck by the idea that two people were apologizing to him: the King of Aeretoll, and the Erik who’d taught him about dragons with patience and attractive smirks. “I did poorly by you today. I should not have challenged you as I did. It was small of me, and I shamed you. I’m sorry for that.” His chin tucked in obvious, honest contrition.
Oliver’s heart throbbed three hard beats before he could draw a breath. He had to wet his lips before he could speak. “I – thank you. For saying that. I have been – impertinent.”
Erik’s lips curved, faintly.
“I promise I do in fact have good Drakewell manners. I’ll try to employ them more going forward.”
The curve became a true smile. “Don’t on my account.” A teasing note in that deep voice that sent a shiver through Oliver. “My sister’s always saying it’s good for me to be challenged now and then.”
Gods.
“Well, then. Goodnight.”
Erik’s expression softened into one that Oliver couldn’t read at all, but which thrilled him all the same. “Sleep well, Mr. Meacham.”
Oliver felt the weight of his gaze as he turned and left the library, passing between the two guards stationed out in the hall. He was breathless as if he’d run the whole way by the time he reached his room. Hilda was coming out of Tessa’s chamber, and, after glancing at his flustered state in alarm, assured him that the outing had gone well, and that Tessa was fine, though sleepy. Oliver thanked her, went next door to his own room, and thrust his face into the basin of cold water to cool his cheeks.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he scolded himself as he toweled off. “Absolutely ludicrous. He’s a king. And he’s a prick.” He hadn’t been a prick tonight; he’d been nearly charming. “He certainly prefers women,” he whispered, harshly, gut clenching, “and even if he didn’t, you wouldn’t be his first choice, Meacham. You stupid bastard.”
A knock at the door interrupted his diatribe, and when he opened it, he found a kitchen boy standing in the hall with a laden tray: a cold dinner of sliced roast, bread, and sugared berries for dessert.
“Thank you,” he told the boy, taking it from him, and as he turned back into the room, he noted the book tucked half-under the plate. The Ancient Histories of the Drake Lords, and the Eventual Duchy of Drakewell.
He heeled the door softly shut, and carried the tray to his desk. When he picked up the book, a scrap of parchment fell out, and fluttered to the floor. When he picked it up, he found two handwritten words, the press of the quill strong, the letters bold and slanted, just like the man who’d penned them: keep it. It was signed with an E.
Alone in his room, Oliver didn’t think he could be blamed for passing a fingertip across the letters and smiling to himself.
10
“Dragons?” Tessa asked the next morning over breakfast, goggle-eyed.
Oliver pushed aside his plate, flipped open the book, and turned it toward her on the table. “Dragons. Drakes. Fire-drakes, apparently.”
She wiped her hands clean on a napkin and pulled the book toward her, mouth falling open as she read. “Gods! And they lied to us?”
“I’d wager no one in Drakewell alive today did, because they have no idea of the real history.”
She glanced up with a stunned expression. “Ollie, do you know what this means?”
“Our kingdom is even more corrupt than we thought.”
“No, the war! Ollie.” She leaned forward, eyes bright. “What if there are still dragons in Drakewell? Hibernating, or hiding, or – they could win us the war!”
“Oh.” The idea hit him like a slap. He hadn’t even thought of that – though, to be fair, he hadn’t thought of much besides, well, the low, rumbling timbre of a certain king’s voice.
“Fire-drakes,” Rune observed, peeking at the book over Tessa’s shoulder before he settled in beside her on the bench. His plate was heaped with sausages and pastries, and he carried a bowl of porridge in his other hand. “Why’d they take them off the banner and replace it with a duck?” he asked, making a face. “Who wants to charge into battle with a duck?”
Tessa turned to him, still animated from the whole revelation. “We had no idea about the dragons!”
Rune’s brows shot up. “You didn’t?”
“None at all!”
Leif appeared, and shot a grim
look at his brother’s back. Not angry, Oliver noted. He didn’t seem wildly jealous, more like glumly resigned.
Hilda noted him, and slid deftly down the bench, giving the prince room to settle in on Tessa’s other side. She shot Oliver a wink that had him hiding a smile in his tea.
“Leif,” Rune said, “the Drakes don’t know about the drakes.” He waved to indicate Tessa and Oliver, and even if Oliver wasn’t actually a Drake, it felt rather nice to be thought of as legitimate.
“What?” Leif asked.
Tessa turned around to face him – Rune looked momentarily bereft at the loss of her full attention – and launched into an explanation that soon had Leif mirroring his brother’s initial shocked expression.
“They erased them from history?” he asked, scandalized.
“That’s what your uncle says,” Oliver said. “He said the Aquitainian king didn’t want the Drakewell lords to know they had the power to unseat him – or his heirs, in future generations.”
Leif frowned to show what he thought of that. “The dragons are all dead, though, aren’t they?”
“Maybe not,” Rune said. “There’s cold-drakes in the caves of the Wolf Mountains.”
“So the Úlfheðnar say,” Leif said, skeptically.
Tessa whirled back to face Rune. “Cold-drakes?”
Glowing under Tessa’s attentions, he launched into an explanation.
Oliver caught Leif’s gaze and said, “Does anyone ride them up here? Or, rather, did they?”
He shrugged. “Knowing the clans, I can’t think they wouldn’t have tried. But most of them probably got killed for it. The Drakes had a knack, back then. Some sort of magic, maybe. A sixth sense.”
“Hm.” Oliver didn’t believe in magic, but he hadn’t believed in dragons before yesterday, either, so…
“You talked to Uncle?” Leif asked, half curious and half worried.
“Last night, yes. We ran into one another in the library.”
“And he didn’t…I mean, he wasn’t…?”
Oliver found himself smiling, perhaps too fondly, but so be it. “No. It was fine.”
Leif exhaled, shoulder slumping with relief. “I don’t know what got into him yesterday. He spars with us all the time, but he doesn’t – I mean, he really isn’t a bully.” His earnest, imploring gaze mirrored Erik’s from last night, the resemblance between them strong in that moment. “Not normally, anyway,” he added with an apologetic wince.
“Your uncle and I got crossways,” Oliver said. “And, to be fair, I’ve not been at my best. Not been as respectful as I could have been. But I think we’ll get things sorted.”
Leif smiled.
Birger strode up to the table, and both boys winced when he said, “Good morning, my princes. Knowledge awaits.”
~*~
Tessa wanted to do more research, so Oliver went with her up to the library and pointed out the books that Erik had showed him last night. She accepted them eagerly, and settled down at a table with a quill and parchment, her expression eager and studious.
“I can’t believe it,” Hilda said at Oliver’s elbow. “They really hid the dragons? All this time? It’s unconscionable, is what it is. Just awful.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“I’ll help her,” Hilda said, nodding once, determined. “I’m good with putting things together.” She went to sit opposite Tessa, and the two soon had their heads bent together, talking in low, excited voices.
Were there still living dragons? Oliver wondered. He struggled to conceive of such a thing. But if there were…if they could be tamed, and taught to cooperate…Tessa wasn’t wrong about the war effort.
If nothing else, marriage or not, coming here had been worth the effort to have learned this. Even if he wasn’t sure how to think about the duchy of his birthplace anymore.
With nothing else to do, a wealth of deeper curiosity, Oliver settled down to do his own research.
When he lifted a stiff neck, and rubbed at eyes going sore from reading, he saw that Tessa had taken a break and stood at one of the windows, looking down into the yard. He joined her and looked down to see that the children were having weapons’ practice down below, red-nosed and trampling in the snow beneath the eye of their white-bearded tutor, and a thickset, stern-faced man who must have been the weapons master. Oliver spotted the redheaded boy, Bo, swinging a wooden practice sword far too big for him; he overcompensated and went face-planting in the snow, much to the amusement of the others, all save his blond friend who helped him back up and dusted snow off his sleeves while Bo gamely tried not to cry from embarrassment.
“Do you know who they are?” Oliver asked her. “All the little ones.”
“Leif says they’re lords – the heirs of lords, at any rate. All from border territories.”
“Erik’s taken them as wards?”
“Not exactly, no. From what Leif says, there’s been skirmishing with the clans on the borders. A keep was fired – it didn’t catch, because it’s stone, like the palace, but they lost a door, and some grain stores. It frightened the lord – that was Bo’s father.” She pointed; little Bo was wiping at his nose, but getting his sword sorted again. “The border heirs have all been sent to the capital. There’s good tutors here, but mostly it’s for their own protection.” She turned to him. “It was King Erik’s idea, apparently. He offered to protect them here where the defenses are strongest.”
“That was – kind of him.”
She smiled a small, pleased smile that he didn’t understand and glanced back through the window. “Yes, I think it was.”
The thunder of running footsteps in the hallway drew their attention around to the door, and a moment later Rune appeared in the threshold, pink-cheeked and out of breath from hurrying. “Lady Tessa! Would you – oof!”
His brother shouldered into him, so both princes were all but wedged in the doorway side-by-side. Leif shot his brother a glare before schooling his features, and in a much calmer tone said, “Good afternoon, Lady Tessa.”
Tessa kept admirably poised. “Good afternoon, your graces.”
“I wondered–” Leif began.
“Do you want to go riding?” Rune interrupted.
Leif sighed.
Oliver turned away to hide his grin, and caught Hilda laughing to herself.
“Ah, to be young,” she murmured.
~*~
The snow gleamed in the sunlight, so bright it hurt her eyes, but Tessa didn’t dare close them, for fear of missing any of the beauty that was an Aeretollean pine forest.
Unlike Hannah back home, Hilda had professed to being quiet the avid horsewoman. “I know I look too old for it” – “No, not at all!” – “but I do love a good gallop every now and then.” Properly cloaked, booted, and hooded, she and Hilda had set off with the princes just after lunch, mounted on tall, big-boned horses with hooves the size of dinner plates. Tessa spotted a few lean, swift coursers in the stable, but Leif said, “They don’t handle the deep snow so well. Great for summer – that one’s my mum’s – but we best take the big ones out today.” He’d then sighed when he saw which horse his brother was saddling.
“Rune. Leave him here.”
“And let you best me in a race?” Rune had grinned, and patted the dappled neck of his own leggy gelding, much lighter in build than their three. “Not a chance.”
They’d started out at a walk, the snow crunching beneath the horses’ hooves, its smooth crust glittering beneath the winter sun.
Rune took the lead, and his horse strode eagerly, seeming to know the way. They cut across a broad, flat field, then found a trickling, mostly-frozen stream, and followed the dark ribbon of it to this enchanting stretch of forest.
The pines grew far taller than those of home, their trunks fatter, branches stouter, and their needles thicker and more plentiful. The boughs drooped beneath the weight of accumulated snow, ice crystals glinting like diamonds on the ends of the needles, so that the shafts of sunlig
ht filtering through the branches blazed on all their many facets. Occasionally, snow slid off a branch and fell with a muffled thump that echoed hollowly off the trunks, the sound threaded with the call and twitter of the birds that flitted between the branches. When the breeze rustled through the needles, they chimed together, ice on ice, with a sound like the soft tinkling of sleigh bells.
Leif dropped back to ride beside her. “Do you like it?” he asked, quietly, and she understood why. With the pines towering overhead, the forest path had the air of a cathedral about it; someplace holy and untrammeled by humans.
“It’s wonderful,” she breathed, turning to smile at him – and, oh, he was lovely, the refracted light glinting in his golden hair, breath steaming in the cold, large hands light and deft on the reins.
She glanced away just as he did, but not before she saw the pink on his cheekbones deepen.
“The trees back home are much smaller,” she said, because trees were a much safter topic of conversation than the way her chest felt all fluttery inside. “They don’t hold as much snow.”
“Do you get snow down there?” he asked, and sounded genuinely curious.
“Not like here. Some. One time even a foot, when I was very small. I remember…” It came back to her, in the soft, muted colors of early childhood memories, when it was the way something made you feel rather than all the particulars of it that left you smiling. “There was this snow bank along the outside of the stables, where the wind had piled it up, and my brother, John, would lift us up and throw us into it. Amelia hit her head on a barrel we hadn’t known was buried there, and her face bled everywhere, all over the snow, all over her clothes.” She giggled. “I’ve never seen my mother so cross with anyone. She smacked him with her embroidery hoop.”
Leif chuckled. “Sounds like she would get along famously with my mother.”
“John kept saying he was sorry, over and over, but he couldn’t stop laughing, and that just made her angrier. Poor Ollie tried to take the blame, but Mother knew that wasn’t true. John was the sort of brother who would wrestle in the dirt with you, and Oliver was the sort of brother who would help you clean up your hurts and mend your dress afterward.”
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 9