Page 51 of Heart of Winter
And it was a long time for a king to brood like this one had. Erik had refused to hear petitions from citizens, had barely eaten, and his eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness. If he bothered to respond when spoken to, it was with an absent, terse remark.
Revna wanted to shake him.
She traded glances with Birger and Bjorn, a question forming on her tongue–
And the door slammed open. Rune strode in, his thunderous expression the image of his uncle from days gone by. “Uncle!”
His tone snapped Erik out of his trance; he glanced up sharply, gaze already narrowing. “What?”
“You must do something about Oliver!” Rune flung out an arm, half-supplication, half-challenge. “Tessa was crying, and it’s been five days, and he’s still sick, and you mustdo something.”
Erik held still a moment, then he dragged in a rough-sounding breath that lifted his chest, and snarled, “I’m not a physician. What would you have me do?”
The same fury flared in both of them, that of helplessness, of frustration, but it painted Erik as glacial and heartless, and Rune as fiery and impassioned. “You could tell Olaf to get off his old ass and actually do something! There must be other herbs – other cures. Things we haven’t tried. Write to Drakewell, if you must – send for a shaman! But someone knows something, I know they do, and we can’t justgive up.”
The fire snapped in the hearth, and Rune’s fast, open-mouthed breathing sucked up the rest of the quiet in the room. This was to be a test for Erik, a turning point – for good or for ill. He’d faced such challenges before, and always he chose duty; chose country; chose coldness. She expected that now, heart already sinking, because each time her brother closed himself off from all feeling, he chipped away another bit of his hope and happiness. One day, she would be left with only a shell: an Erik-shaped puppet who could run a nation without flaw, but who couldn’t remember what it felt like to smile.
She traded a glance with Birger, who shook his head fractionally.
Bjorn looked glum.
But then, with a screech of chair legs over stone, Erik stood. His face settled into the mask he wore to battle: the resolve and determination of a warrior who would take any measure, risk any injury to achieve victory. “Go and find him. Drag him away from whatever he’s doing –whateverhe’s doing. Bring him to Mr. Meacham’s chamber.”
Rune blinked at him a moment – then grinned. “Right.” He spun and ran out of the room.
Revna took a sip of wine to cover her smile, and Birger did the same, she saw, gaze sparkling over the rim of his cup.
~*~
“Ice rose?” Olaf’s bushy white brows shot up. “Your majesty, that’s – that’s recreational. It’s a hallucinogen.”
“I’m quite aware of what it is.” Erik had put on his king voice. His Do Not Question Me voice. The sound of it had sent Olaf from groggy to shaking in his robes. “We were given some at last year’s Midwinter Festival. A gift from the Beserkirs. Do we have it still?”
“Y-yes. I keep it under lock and key.”
“Get it.”
Wide-eyed, almost dazed-looking, Olaf stepped out into the hallway and turned toward the tower where he kept his surgery.
“Ice rose,” Revna said, smiling. “Now there’s an idea. I never would have thought of that.”
Erik’s gaze shifted to the bed, and the too-still, too-pale figure lying upon it. “Well. Desperate times.”
For five days, Oliver had been flushed, sweating, and restless, kicking and stirring beneath his covers, murmuring nonsense.
He’d clearly taken a turn for the worse in the past few hours, though. All the color had left his complexion; he was as bleached as the pillow beneath his head. He’d been losing weight, she’d known, but looked as if he’d dropped a stone since dinner, the bones of his skull sharp beneath waxen skin, his throat as fragile as a flower stem. His chest barely moved as he sipped shallow breaths through parted, chapped lips. He burned to the touch, though.
Tessa mopped at his brow with a damp cloth, looking too pale and thin herself, worn out from tending to her cousin. She glanced between them and said, “Ice rose?”
“It grows north of the mountains,” Revna explained. “Not a rose at all, but a kind of weed; it’s so hearty its roots grow on top of the soil, with little hooks that grab onto the ice. Its leaves look like little white roses, which is how it gets its name. Shamans use it to inspire sacred visions – they say it enables them to commune with the gods, or with spirits that have passed beyond the veil. Young clansmen chew it for a thrill. It makes you see and hear things that aren’t there.
“But the Beserkirs say they used to keep a few leaves of it tucked inside their cheeks when they went raiding down South. Said it kept the awful heat down there at bay.”
“Will it break his fever?”
“It’s worth a try. I don’t think he can get anymore incoherent.”
“No,” Tessa agreed, glumly.
