Page 21 of Heart of Winter
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” she said. “Are those apple trees?”
“What? Oh, oh yes!” he said with relief. “And pears, too. Some cherries over there. Mum’s mad about the blooms in spring; she ordered them special from Aberforth.” He grinned, warming to the topic, and pointed to the nearest one. “Rune fell out of that one when he was three and broke his arm. He didn’t even cry – just bit his tongue until it bled, even when they reset the bone.”
She chuckled, envisioning it. “Poor thing!”
Leif was grinning wide now, nerves forgotten, and leaned in close, voice going conspiratorial. “Mum said he must have cracked his head, then, too, the way he turned out.”
Tessa laughed. “She did not.”
He shrugged. “You met her. She likes honesty.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when his smile widened, and she could see that when he was a little older he’d have generous laugh lines there. He also had dimples, she noted, just visible beneath his beard.
Hilda cleared her throat behind them, and Leif pulled back, eyes popping comically wide.
“Where to next, my prince?” Hilda asked. “Perhaps the training yard? It sounds like something’s happening over there.”
“Oh. Oh, right. Yes.” He gestured. “Shall we?”
“Yes.”
She fell into step beside him as they proceeded up the path, but didn’t reach to take his arm on her own, nor did he offer, not as Birger had last night, nor as the lords back home would have. She didn’t think it cold of him; rather, she thought he was afraid of frightening her. Everything about him, except for rare moments, like the glimpse of his dimpled smile, spoke of caution and restraint.
She appreciated that.
The garden path led through an arched stone arbor with an open iron gate, and from there opened to a broader, more heavily-traveled path across the palace grounds, the flagstones crusted with a rime of snow that had been compacted and smoothed by the passage of many feet. Lady Revna had loaned her a pair of Northern ladies’ boots, too, and Tessa was grateful for their sturdiness now.
They skirted the stables, and the reindeer barns, and Leif pointed out the mews where the hunting hawks and messenger falcons were kept, promising to introduce her to his favorite birds later. They approached a small building of notched logs with a steep, snow-mounded roof, and she heard the sounds of metal clanging, and men grunting and swearing with effort.
“This is where we keep the practice swords and axes,” Leif explained, and they stepped around the building and found the training yard.
It was larger than she expected, much larger than the one at Drake Hold. A long rectangle bordered by low walls, and overlooked by an upper and lower gallery on the side of the palace itself. Benches and weapon racks lined the inner walls; barrels in the corners held water, or sand, or sawdust, she suspected. Sword and tilting dummies were arranged at the far end, and at the near end, she saw three men sparring with blunted practice swords, the ring and clang and shriek of the steel loud enough to have her wincing.
She spotted two pale heads and one dark. Rune was fighting two opponents at once, both other boys bulkier than him.
“Oh,” she said, and, before she’d realized it, clutched at Leif’s sleeve. “He’s outnumbered.”
Leif snorted – but shifted a step closer so her hand rested on his arm beneath the thick wool and leather of his sleeve. “Numbers don’t count when you’re dealing with those two. Rune can handle himself fine.”
Yesterday, Rune had said he was better with a bow than with a blade, and if that was true, he must be a fierce archer, she surmised, because he was…ferocious with a sword.
In only boots, breeches, and a long leather jerkin over a tunic with the sleeves pushed up, he struck, and swirled, and ducked, and struck again, fluid and graceful as a dancer. His dark hair fanned out around him, the silver beads at the ends of his braids slapping at his back and shoulders. His dark eyes were fairly sparkling, and he laughed as he drove one brother back and then whirled to kick the other square in the stomach.
If Leif was handsome, Rune was pretty, the cut of his cheekbones, nose, and jaw sharper, more refined. He wore his beard shaved down to the grain, only a shadow along the harsh edge of his jaw, and though as tall as his brother, he moved more lightly, more quickly.
The first opponent rallied, and Rune met his strike with one, two, three counterstrikes of his own. On the last, he flicked his wrist, slid his blade down the length of the others’ caught it by the crossbeam, and disarmed his opponent in a blink. The sword sailed away, a flash of brightness in the sunlight, and landed on the snow.
In the next breath, Rune spun and brought his sword down in a high arc, as his opponent went low,jumpedthe swipe of the other boy’s sword, and clapped him in the shoulder with the flat of his own blade.
The boy bellowed, his hand went limp, and the sword fell.
Rune thrust his own sword skyward, crowing his victory, while his opponents rubbed their hurts and scowled at him. When he turned and found them standing there, watching, he was grinning wide, and white, and dazzling, eyes creasing in the same way that his brother’s did, their warm, chocolate brown alight with joy.
Tessa found herself grinning back, and that was before Rune lowered his sword, tilted his head – dark, sweaty hair clinging to his neck, beads clicking together – and winked at her. “Did you come to watch, too, my lady?”
Her chest fluttered anew.
“Come to watch you showing off?” Leif asked.
Tessa said, “Too?”
