Page 28 of Heart of Winter
They stared at one another.
One of us has to say something, Oliver thought, wildly.I guess it ought to be me, since he’s a king, and a royal prick besides.
But Erik wet his lips and said, “I didn’t know anyone else was in here.” He didn’t sound angry, exactly, but Oliver wasn’t feeling charitable enough to label him as surprised, and his expression was all of stone, so it was hard to tell, anyway.
Oliver held up his books. “Got carried away reading. I was just leaving.”
The king’s gaze shifted to the stack, and one brow lifted in question. “You found the one about the dragons, I see.”
Oliver glanced down at the red leather cover, with its gold embossing. His stomach twisted, and it had nothing to do with his present company. “Nice bit of fiction, this,” he said, hearing the sharp edge in his voice. “You had it filed in the wrong place. I’ll put it back with the children’s stories, shall I?”
When he glanced up, Erik had his head cocked at a curious angle. “Fiction?”
“Well, there aren’t dragons in Drakewell, are there?”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you meananymore?” he snapped. It was happening again: he was being stroppy with the king. He’d left his self-control back home in Drakewell, apparently.
Erik didn’t react to his tone, though. His gaze narrowed, and he kept staring at him – staring right through him, a penetrating gaze that wasn’t…altogether unpleasant. “Do you really think the Drakes of Drakewell are named forducks?”
“It’s on our banner,” Oliver said, stupidly, more than a little helpless. He felt as if the flags were tilting beneath his feet.
One corner of Erik’s mouth flicked upward. He held out a hand. “Let me see the book.”
Oliver handed it over readily, telling himself it was only his imagination that the cover burned his fingers.
Erik paged through it a moment, nodding to himself. When he reached one of the more spectacular illustrations, one of an armored warrior astride a harnessed dragon, he lifted his head and said, “Right, so, the Drakes were dragon riders, originally.”
“No, they weren’t.”
“Yes,” Erik said, patiently. He tapped the page. “The Drakes were the only ones brave enough to settle Drakewell – it was crawling with fire-drakes. They learned to live with them – theytamedthem. Rode them into battle. Most were lost in the First Great War with the Sels. The others, for whatever reason, failed to reproduce. There’s legends that a few slunk down into deep, hidden caves, and live still, waiting to be awakened by Drake descendants – but you’refromDrakewell. Surely you’ve read about this before?”
Oliver’s throat was so dry it was hard to swallow. “You’re pulling my chain,” he gritted out. “This is a joke.”
Erik spread his hands. “It’s not.” When Oliver continued to glare at him, he said, “Do you think I’m the sort who’d use children’s books if I wanted to make a fool of someone?”
He had a point. “No, I suppose you’d bludgeon them to death with a blunt sword and have done with it.”
That earned a tweak of the smile, before Erik grew serious again. “Sit down, Mr. Meacham.”
Oliver dropped down onto the bench across from him, and he wasnotsulky about it.
“Let me guess,” Erik said, “the preferred text in Drakewell is that overlong bloody chunk of tree stump from Moates?”
“Not fond of long books?”
“When they’re accurate.” He waited, head tilted, brows lifted, silently asking.
This was perhaps the most absurd interaction of Oliver’s life, he reflected.
He nodded.
“Thought so.” Erik stood, went to the shelves, and returned with a familiar fat volume that sent a shudder through the table when he set it down. Erik resumed his seat, and flipped to the first chapter, skimming the lines with a finger that bore a ring set with small, glittering rubies. “Here: ‘The Duchy of Drakewell, certainly the most beautiful and temperate of the Aquitainian territories, was named thus for the profusion of drakes discovered there by the region’s founder, Sir Martin Oswell, later called “Drake” as a nod to the territory’s first, winged inhabitants who would grace his household banners and shields.’”
“I’m familiar with Moates,” Oliver said.
“This,” Erik said, tapping the page, “is the only mention of your banners and shields, and if you’ll notice, at no point does it sayduck. The rest of this” – he made a face and riffled the pages, releasing a cloud of dust that spoke of the book’s lack of favor – “is nothing but rot about manners and social customs, and how ladies ought to wear their hair.”
