“Changing how?”
Magnus shrugged. “There’s rumblings. Things being different. Things moving.”
Oliver frowned. “What?”
“Up ahead,” Erik said.
Oliver turned back around, and caught a faint gleam in the distance. It disappeared between one tree trunk and the next.
“Rune!” Leif shouted.
Another flicker of shine, a blue disc, like an animal’s eye.
Oliver’s pulse picked up. “Tessa?” he called.
A high, faint sound answered. It could have been the wind, but…
“Rune!”
“Tessa!”
“…here.” That was definitely Tessa. “We’re over here.” And coming closer. Bjorn raised the torch, and the horse’s eye shine became clear; the glow of the flame touched the white on his face.
Oliver heeled his horse forward, past the others, and was the first to meet them.
Tessa had hold of the reins, shivering, teeth chattering, her hair dark and wet and plastered to the sides of her too-white face. Rune rode behind her, slumped awkwardly, his forehead resting on her shoulder, and his arms dangling at his sides. “I think he passed out,” she said, and then Rune started to slide, and though she grabbed at his lifeless hand, he tipped over and fell face-first into the snow.
12
“I promise I’m fine,” Tessa insisted, then ruined the stubborn set of her chin with a great loud sneeze.
“Yes, yes, you’re very fine,” Oliver said, draping another blanket across her shoulders, noting the way she plucked it up closer around her throat with still-pale fingertips.
By the time they’re returned to the palace, the whole place was in an uproar, and Tessa was blue with cold. When her horse had thrown her, she’d been all but buried in a snow bank, and had struggled so long to get out of it that the wet autumn snow had soaked right through her clothes. Revna had met them at the door with her own personal maid, and bundled Tessa right upstairs and into a hot bath.
Her hair was nearly dry, now, curling as she sat by a roaring fire in her chambers, and she’d been wrapped in all manner of blankets, her feet bundled into a fur with a hot brick from the hearth underneath.
“I’m worried about Rune,” she said.
“Rune’s head is harder than most,” Revna said handing first Tessa, and then Oliver, hot mugs of cider. “Olaf says there’s no signs of distress, and he just needs a good night’s sleep.”
The prince, riding in front of his brother on the return trip, Leif’s arms holding him upright, had roused a few times, mumbling about Ris – his horse, Tessa had explained, one he’d been forced to destroy after a terrible fall – and, once, Tessa, his drowsy, half-conscious voice full of worry and pain.
“You should go to him, my lady,” Oliver said. “He may need you, and we want for nothing.” He offered a pathetic smile, and plucked at the front of the heavy fur-and-velvet dressing gown he wore. It was of a deep crimson stitched with blue and silver, its buttons set with gems, the sleeves trailing off his hands and the hem pooling on the floor around his feet. He’d caught one look of himself in it in the mirror and hadn’t dared asked who it belonged to, afraid he already knew the answer.
Revna propped her fists on her hips and said, “I’ll see to him later. I want to make sure the two of you are settled, first. My boys are used to all this cold – they were bred of Northern stock. It’s you two I’m worried about. Are you chilled? Can you feel your toes?”
He’d been given thick, ankle-high slipped, leather lined with soft fur, and he wiggled his now-warm toes inside them. He hadn’t had a bath, too worried about Tessa to take Magnus’s advice about the hot springs down in the caves. But he’d toweled his hair, and his dressing gown was a dream, and he could feel the heat of the fire on his face. “I’m quite well, my lady.”
She arched a single, dark brow.
“Revna.”
She nodded. “Good. Drink your cider.”
It was heavily-spiced, and spiked with some strong liquor; it burned his throat in a good way.
The maid, Astrid, put another log on the fire, turned down Tessa’s bed, laid more bricks to warm, and, after Revna had asked if they needed anything else, finally left with her mistress, closing the door on their way out.
Oliver dropped down into the chair opposite Tessa’s, and that was when he realized just how exhausted he was. Adrenaline had kept him sharp for the ride out and back, and through those first, frightening moments after their arrival, when they hadn’t known if Rune was going to be all right; but, now, afterward, he could feel himself flagging.
He took a few long swallows of cider. “Are you sure you’re well, Tess?”
“What? Oh.” She cradled her mug in both hands, staring down into its depths, but lifted her head at his question. “Yes, fine. Much better, now that I’m dry.”
He inclined his head. “I know you want to make a good impression on our hosts – you never did like to bother anyone. But this is me. Are you sure?”
“Yes–” She sat forward. “Ollie, yes, I wouldn’t lie to you. I was very cold, and very tired, and very frightened. And – oh, gods, you should have seen Rune. Poor Rune.” Her gaze skated toward the door, and her fingers drummed on her mug, and he thought that she wanted to go to him, to check that he was well for herself. “He’d had to kill his horse, and he’d climbed up this awful hill, and he wasn’t making any sense. He’d hit his head, and…” Her voice choked off, and her swallow looked painful. “It was terrible. But.” She offered him a wavery smile. “I’ll be all right, now. And hopefully Rune will, too. That’s what matters.”
He sipped more cider. “Yes, I suppose so.”
When her eyelids started to flag, Oliver urged to her bed, and then slipped next door to his own room. He shut the door, and leaned back against it a moment, watching the candles flames waver over on the desk. The cider had eased the last of the cold pain from his extremities, but the fatigue had hold of his bones at this point; he could feel the muscles in his face drooping. If he wasn’t careful, he might fall asleep leaning up against the door.
Until someone rapped against it from the other side.
He suppressed a groan and turned to open it – and then open it a fraction wider when he saw that it was Erik on the other side, his guards hanging back farther down the corridor.
Oliver stood up straighter, and tightened the belt of his gown – a movement that Erik’s gaze tracked, quickly, before returning to his face. “Your majesty.”
When their eyes met, a slow, small smile pulled at the king’s mouth. “So it’s ‘your majesty,’ now.”
“It always has been,” Oliver said, stiffly – at least, he tried. He blamed the teasing note in his voice, and the irrepressible tug of a smile, on exhaustion.
Erik’s grin widened. “Is your cousin well?”
“Yes, yes, she’s much better. Only a few scratches and some cold fingers. She should be fine. What about Rune?”
The smile slipped a fraction. “His pupils are retracting as they should, and all his reflexes seem to be in order, but he’s muddled when he’s awake. The physician says it should all be fine. He’s to be woken every hour through the night, and Leif insists he’ll do it, even though he needs to sleep himself. I imagine Revna and some of the lads will spell him.”
Oliver nodded. “Good. Glad to hear it.” He wasn’t able to catch his yawn in time, and had to cover it hastily with his hand.
Erik chuckled, a low, rich sound that, despite the fatigue, had goosebumps prickling down Oliver’s back. “And you, Mr. Meacham? Are you well?”
That question, said in that voice, was very, very unfair.
Oliver managed, “Yes, yes, fine.” Again, he would blame his tiredness, when, in a sudden surge of boldness, he fingered the fur collar of his dressing gown and said, “Your sister made sure I was bundled up nice and warm.”
The smile remained, soft as the fur under Oliver’s fingertips, but the blue gaze above it sparke
d with – something. Something intense and indescribable, as it shifted down the length of Oliver’s body, and slowly back up. “I’m glad that she did.” Erik dipped his head, and stepped back. “Sleep well…” Quieter: “Oliver.”
“You, too,” Oliver said. He watched him depart with his guards, then shut the door, and pressed his forehead to the cool wood, breathing out a shaky sigh. “Do not,” he scolded himself. “It means nothing.”
His dreams that night, though, didn’t listen.
~*~
Oliver woke next morning with a pounding head and aching joints. His eyes opened like rusty shutters, almost too heavy to lift, and he lay on his side a long time, blinking at the soft morning light coming in through the window glass, trying to work up the nerve to get up. Exhaustion dragged at him when he sat up, and the throbbing in his head was even worse.
He massaged at his temples, and then the dull pain in the sides of his neck for long minutes, telling himself that this was only to be expected after rushing about on horseback in the cold and dark. Panic often left people feeling ill – this was totally normal, perfectly fine, and nothing at all to get worried about.
When a kitchen boy brought him hot water, he scrubbed his face and hands, combed his hair, and dressed in his warmest clothes – though his bed was well-insulated, he’d begun to shiver the second he was out of it.
In the mirror, his reflection stared back: pale, tired, and wearing dark circles beneath drowsy eyes. Not at all the countenance he wanted to take to the king, because, now that everyone was home safe and sound – he meant to check on Rune first thing – there was the whole business of Tessa having been off in the wilderness with two princes to deal with. Hilda had been with them, and that counted for something; and Erik had assured him that gossip didn’t matter as much here.
Still.
He met Tessa as she was coming out of her room, and she gasped when she saw him.
“You look terrible!”
“Thank you,” he muttered. “I would return the sentiment, but that’s never true.”
Indeed, she looked refreshed and lovely this morning, the color back in her face, her hair clean and shining, braided up like a true Northern girl’s. Astrid was behind her, hands clasped demurely in front of her, and the intricate plaits were clearly her doing.
“Oh, no,” Tessa said, laying a hand on his arm. “I only meant that you look as if you don’t feel well.”
“I’m fine.” He offered his arm. “Shall we go down?”
Breakfast was well under way in the great hall, and despite what Erik had said, there was chatter as they entered the wide chamber. There were looks, and there were hurried whispers across tables, and Oliver wished he could spare his cousin this. “It’s fine,” he said, laying his hand over hers.
“Yes, I know,” she said, absently, and he realized she wasn’t at all fazed by the snippets of conversation breaking out around them. “Look, here’s Birger, we can ask him about Rune.”
“He’s awake,” Birger informed them as they filled their plates. “He’s feeling badly about his horse – he broke Ris to saddle himself – and he’s embarrassed about all the fuss he caused – or so he says. He didn’t cause it, and we’ve assured him of that. You can’t cause wolves. I don’t think he’s listening. He’s got his uncle’s gift for self-flagellation, I think.”
Oliver thought of Erik’s assurance that he wouldn’t return to the palace before they’d found them. It had felt like a vow, his voice solemn and resolute.
“He’s been asking after you,” Birger continued, turning a twinkling grin on Tessa. “He’s very worried. I told him you were quite well, and better off than him besides, but I don’t think he’ll believe it until he sees you for himself.”
“Oh.” Tessa’s face pinked. “Would it be alright to visit him later?”
Birger winked. “Just so.” Then he turned to Oliver, growing more businesslike, but no less warm. “Now, then. Erik tells me you’ve got some concerns about propriety and the like.”
Oliver realized he still stood with his hand hovering over a basket heaped with scones of some sort. He selected one, though the thought of eating it turned his stomach. “Yes, well.” His headache was making it difficult to put his thoughts into words. Probably eating would help; he added a slice of cold ham. “I think anyone would have – have those sorts of concerns. It’s only proper.”
When he lifted his head, Birger was studying him, unsmiling.
“Are you al lright, lad?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Shall we sit?”
They did, only for Oliver to realize he’d forgotten tea. “Oh, drat.”
“I’ll get you some,” Tessa said, up off the bench and heading back for the buffet before he could protest.
Across from him, Birger said, “I understand your worry. I hear it’s very important in the South – having proper escorts and doing things by the books. You don’t want tongues wagging at court.”
“Young, highborn, unmarried ladies don’t go off alone with young men back home.”
“But she wasn’t alone. Her maid was with her.”
“Yes,” Oliver conceded. He picked up his scone – it had some sort of berry in it – and then put it back down, nauseous at the idea of tasting it.
“And the boys,” Birger went on, “I can assure you, while impulsive, and pig-headed as their uncle at times – they have his sense of honor as well. They would never…”
Oliver waved and nodded. “Yes, I don’t really think they would – do anything.”
Birger studied him another moment, then smiled. “It’s in your nature to worry, though, isn’t it?”
“Well, someone ought to. War, and wolves, and marriage contracts. Someone’s got to worry about all that.”
Birger chuckled. “Right you are. Maybe we should keep you.”
Magnus had said the same thing his first night. Before Oliver could come up with an answer for that through his brain fog, Tessa returned with his tea. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”
“It was no trouble.” She touched his shoulder – and then her hand slid up, quick, and he felt the tips of her fingers on his neck. They were shockingly cold, and he flinched away from them – and that was before he realized what she was doing.
When he turned his head, she stood frozen, frowning at him. “Ollie,” she started. “Are you sure–”
“You should be in bed, lad,” Birger said.
Oliver glanced around, already drawing himself up for an argument – how could Birger possibly know – but he was talking to Leif, who stood now beside their table, all but asleep on his feet.
The prince wore a rumpled tunic, and the same dirty leggings and boots from yesterday, stiff where mud and snow had dried on them. His hair was a wild snarl of tangles and unraveling braids, and blue shadows like bruises lay heavy beneath his eyes. His face had that same slack, sick look that Oliver’s had in the mirror earlier.
“No,” Leif said, and all but fell onto the bench beside Birger. “’M fine.”
Birger sighed and slid his own plate over in front of the boy. “He doesn’t want for eyes to watch over him. Eat something and then go lie down for a little while.”
Leif took a half-hearted bite of ham and didn’t respond.
“Leif,” Tessa said, and at another time, Oliver might have laughed at the way the prince’s gaze snapped up to her. He was so tired he hadn’t even made note of her presence yet. “Birger says that Rune should make a full recovery. I’m very glad to hear it.”
Leif’s smile was an unsteady, painful thing, only a flicker, and then gone again. “That’s what Olaf says.”
“You must be so tired if you sat up with him all night. I’m so sorry.”
Another fleeting smile, this one even less steady. “Thanks.”
“I’ll go and get you some tea.”
Leif’s gaze followed her a moment, exhausted, wistful – hopeless – and then dropped to his plate again.
Oliver knew well the ex
pression of a man who realized he was not the apple of an intended lover’s eye. It was yet another face he’d met in the mirror oftener than he ought to have.
~*~
“Ollie, I’m worried.”
Tessa expected his response, that dismissive little half-wave that was totally undermined by the pink in his cheeks and the glassy gaze. His movements weren’t as crisp as normal, he’d barely touched his breakfast, and when she’d pressed her fingers to his neck earlier, she’d found his skin over-warm.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“We’ve got to stop using that word so much,” she muttered.
“What was that?”
He wasn’t keeping up with conversation very well, either; she added that to her mental checklist. He might have caught a cold traipsing through the snow last night – or, she feared, his marsh fever might be flaring up.
“Nothing,” she said. They were climbing the grand stairs, and a darted look showed that Oliver was gripping the bannister tight, his brow furrowed. “I’m off to see Rune. Do you want to come?”
“No. I think I’ll – do some more reading. Maybe.”
Oh, he really wasn’t well. She wanted to march him back to his chamber and force him into bed. Amelia could have done so, but Tessa doubted her own forcefulness.
“We can meet up for lunch later, then.”
“Sure.”
She watched him go into the library and lingered at the threshold, biting her lip, searching for further signs of weakness. He went straight to a shelf, as if familiar with it, and hovered a fingertip over the spines there, choosing a book.
With a sigh, she resigned herself to the fact that she could do nothing for him until he needed her help, and continued on.
The royal apartments were on the third floor, the same as her own room, but it was only now, as she passed her door, that she questioned the placement of their guest chambers. They were only just down the hall from where the king and his family slept, and that struck her as strange. At Drake Hold, guests were always housed in a separate wing, clear on the other side of the manor. Here, though, she passed their chambers, and through an open set of double doors flanked by guards who nodded pleasantly at her, and entered a wide chamber with a vaulted ceiling, and hallways branching off from it on three sides.
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 12