Page 25 of Heart of Winter
“Cloak,” Tessa said behind him.
“Right.” He unpinned it, and she stepped up to pull it off his shoulders. When he glanced back to throw her a grateful look, she offered an encouraging smile. It didn’t serve its purpose, but it was nice to think that one of his last sights would be of his cousin’s sweet gesture.
Without his cloak, the cold pricked right through the light, Drakewell wool of his clothes, chilling him immediately. His toes were already numb from sitting out here in his thin, kidskin boots, and his first steps across the yard were clumsy and unsure, pain spiking through the soles of his feet.
He didn’t bother to stretch. What was the use?
When he’d found a spot in the trampled snow that seemed as good as any, braced his feet, gripped his sword with both shaking, clammy hands, and lifted his head, he found Erik poised and ready across from him, his face a blank wall, save his eyes, which glittered. A quick glance revealed – to his surprise – that Leif and Rune stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and they didn’t look eager for the spectacle to come, but, rather, concerned, brows knitted together so their family resemblance was more pronounced.
Huh, Oliver thought,that’s interesting.
And then a flash of movement snared his attention and he lifted his sword and focused on staying alive.
The first impacthurt. The impact juddered up the blade, into his hands, his wrists, his arms, his shoulders. Oliver felt it in his chest, a resonance that echoed the clang of steel, and he couldn’t stop the gasp that burst up out of his throat. Immediately his hands and arms were all pins and needles from the shock, but Erik was already swinging the next blow.
Clang.
Clang.
Shlick. His numb fingers closed on empty air, and the sword went spinning off to land soundlessly in the snow.
Erik stepped back, and lowered his own weapon. “Go pick it up.”
“Uncle,” Leif said.
Erik tipped his head toward the lost sword in silent command.
Teeth gritted, body vibrating from the exchange of blows, Oliver went to fetch the sword. When he returned to his place, it began again.
And again, his sword went flying.
Chin tucked, glowering at Oliver through dark lashes, Erik said, “Pick it up.”
The thought of that, of doing it again, and again, and again, until he had frostbite, and a chill, and hurt all over, and had been made an utter laughingstock left Oliver’s eyes stinging. His father’s voice filled his mind:“Pick it up! You useless worm! Pick it up!”
He didn’t go retrieve the sword. He put his hands on his hips, sucked in a breath of cold air that burned his lungs, and said, “You’re a bully.”
Silence reigned for the span of a few heartbeats, throbbing hard in Oliver’s ears. He heard the distant sounds of habitation at the palace behind them; heard the cackle of ravens flying overhead.
Erik said, “What?” in a very flat voice.
Passive-aggressiveAmelia had called him once, grinning.When you finally blow, you blow hard.
He took a step closer to the king. “You,your majesty, are abully. Itold youI was no good with a sword, but you handed me one anyway. You are ordering me to fight you. Does it give you pleasure to pick on people smaller than you? Weaker than you? Do you enjoy the thought of making a fool of me in front of others? When will you be satisfied, hm? When you’ve got me flat on my back and begging you?”
“Gods,” Rune breathed. “Uncle’s going to kill him.”
“Ollie,” Tessa hissed.
He ignored her – ignored everyone save Erik, who he matched glare-for-glare. He didn’t care if his own scowl was a pitiful, too-pretty thing; knew he must look ridiculous with his windblown curls, and his red nose, and his tear-bright eyes, in his stupid Southern wools in pale blues and greens and creams. He bared his teeth in a sad attempt at a snarl and said, “I expected better of you,King Erik. What sort of warrior attacks the defenseless?”
“Going tokill him,” Leif said.
At another time, Erik’s expression would have been remarkable. It flickered between flashes of some intense, nameless emotion that pressed grooves between his brows and brightened his eyes, and then he’d go utterly blank and slack, like a carved bit of statuary.
He said nothing, though. Not a word. Held his body eerily still; if not for the occasional glimpse of life in his gaze, and the visible throb of the pulse in his strong throat, Oliver might have thought he’d been turned to stone.
When no answer came, Oliver held out a hand. “Come on, Tessa, and let’s see what’s for lunch.”
