Page 9 of Heart of Winter
Oliver browsed titles in the library until a group of loud young people joined him there, complaining of their studies. One, a red-headed, freckled boy who couldn’t have been older than ten, his boots tracking mud across the flags and carpets, argued loudly with an older blond boy about the proper forging of swords. Oliver slipped out unseen, and returned to his room to change for supper.
Though he’d packed his warmest winter clothes, they still felt too thin when he slipped on fresh breeches and tunic, overly conscious, when he looked in the floor-length standing mirror, that his doublet was laced too strictly, and cut too strangely to allow him to blend in here in the North. His hair was too short, and he was clean-shaven, and slight, and nothing at all like the hulking, bearded men he’d met so far.
There was nothing for it.
Next door, Tessa had put on a wool dress cut in the Southern fashion, with clinging, scoop-necked bodice and slender, loose skirts. Warmer than the silk dress she’d been unpacking earlier, but not warm enough judging by the way she warmed her hands in front of the fire.
Some of that coldness might have been nerves, though; Oliver felt the threat of shivers himself.
She turned to him when he entered, smiling bravely. “How do I look?”
She wore her hair loose, as they did in the South, with only a single silver barrette to hold it back from her face. No jewels, no rings, no flash of beads. But her skin was flushed from the warmth of the fire, and her eyes were the same warm, indigo blue as Oliver’s, and she was lovely, lovely.
“Beautiful,” he told her, honestly, and her smile shifted a little away from brave and more toward true warmth.
A knock at the door had both of them jumping, and heralded the arrival of a man only a little smaller than Bjorn, and dressed in similar fashion, though his beard and braided hair were iron gray, and when he smiled, his face creased with friendly wrinkles.
“Evening,” he greeted, thumbs hooked in his belt. “Lady Revna was going to send a page to fetch you down to supper, but I thought I’d take the chance to introduce myself. I’m Birger, his Royal Highness’s chief advisor.” His eyes were small, but they twinkled when his smile deepened. “I think you’ve already met my brother.”
“If you mean Bjorn, then, yes.” Oliver offered a smile he hoped wasn’t strained. “He met us at the docks.”
Birger chuckled – a softer, easier sound than his brother’s booming roar of laughter. He tilted his head, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial volume. “Don’t mind him, lad. He forgets his own strength sometimes.”
Before Oliver could wonder just how much of a helpless pup he looked to these people, Birger turned to Tessa and bowed until his long, gray beard nearly brushed the flagstones.
“My Lady Tessa,” he said as he rose, “welcome.”
Tessa curtsied. “Thank you.”
“Shall we?” Birger offered his arm to Tessa – who took it.
Oliver wanted to protest, but, well, Birger was only slightly smaller than his brother. And he was being polite. Oliver could only fall into step behind them, out of the room and down the hall.
Where a guard waited, his pike propped at a negligent angle on his shoulder, his bright mail and helm softened by the crimson scarf wound round his neck. He fell into step beside Oliver.
“Good evening there, Master Drake Lord.”
Oliver glanced sideways at the man, noting his short, black beard, and his tightly-braided hair, and the friendliness of his smile. To be honest, everyone had been friendly save the king.
He felt some of his initial, bristling discontent fade.
“It’s just Oliver,” he said. “Not a lord, and not a Drake.”
“Ah, well.” The guard shrugged and repositioned his pike. “No shame in that. Pleased to meet you, Oliver. I’m Magnus.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Oliver said in return.
Magnus chuckled.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing.” He motioned toward Tessa ahead of them as they reached the stairs. “I hear she’s for the prince and not Erik.”
Oliver bristled. “Ah. So she’s palace gossip, I see. And, apparently, an object instead of a young woman.”
Back home, that would have earned him a cutting glare and a veiled insult, but Magnus only laughed again. “No, no, don’t mind me. No need to get in a twist over her honor. I’m only making conversation.”
Oliver glanced over, to be met not with mockery, but a genuine,happysmile. He didn’t understand these people.
