Page 65 of Heart of Winter
“What?”
“Nothing, laddie, nothing.”
Oliver spooned soup into his mouth, keenly aware the whole time of Erik leaving the dais, trailed by his guards, and approaching the trestle where he sat with Birger. He was careful not to look up until Birger said, “The wolves do trouble me.” Then he glanced up from beneath his lashes and saw that Erik stood right before them – beforehim, rather than Birger, his rings glinting in the sunlight where his hands rested with thumbs hooked behind his wide belt buckle.
“Aye,” Erik said, frowning at his advisor. “Me, too. We’ve not even reached the solstice yet, and they’re already bold enough to snatch sheep.”
Oliver said, “Is there a reason for it? A drought summer? Herds moving?”
“It was a boon summer,” Erik said, frowning thoughtfully. “If the herds have shifted, it’s for another reason.” He stared into the middle distance a moment, thinking, giving Oliver a chance to admire his profile. Then he shook his head and turned his gaze on Oliver, who was careful to school his features, whatever they might have been doing. “So. A marriage contract.”
His lunch only half-finished, but his stomach now alive with butterflies, Oliver pushed his plate to the side. “Yes. That’d be a good thing to discuss.”
He could see that Erik was holding back a smile, a bit of it peeking through in the way the corners of his mouth curved faintly upward.
Birger cleared his throat. Loudly. It startled Oliver, but, when he looked, he found the advisor smiling at both of them. “Shall we go up, then?”
~*~
By the time they reached Erik’s private study, Oliver was shaking, faintly, and wishing he’d choked down the rest of lunch. Or maybe been big enough to admit that another day in bed wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. He clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking visibly as he followed Erik inside a room that was familiar only thanks to spying through the crack in the door. It was larger than he’d originally thought, based on that one stolen glimpse: there was a reading nook in the bow window beyond the fireplace, a cozy spot with a huge chair heaped with furs, a book open on the footstool. It was a room that saw a lot of use, obviously: from the cup on the mantel, to the paperwork scattered across the desk, to the abandoned cloaks and gloves that littered tabletops amid stoppered flasks and bottles.
Erik waved to the two chairs situated across from the desk, and Oliver gratefully slumped down into one before his legs gave out. Birger had noticed, his frown one of concern as he studied Oliver.
Oliver said, “I’m fine.”
A cup appeared in front of his face, Erik’s rings flashing in the sunlight. “This’ll help,” he said, and, as Oliver took it with thanks, he realized that, though he hadn’t said anything, Erik had noticed his shaking.
He sipped the wine and watched Erik move around to sit behind the desk, hie gaze lifting in a quick, unmistakable check of Oliver’s wellness. Oliver hated the idea of appearing weak in anyone’s eyes, but, strangely, this – Erik’s outward concern – didn’t feel like that sort of appraisal. Didn’t feel like he’d been measured and found lacking. All too vividly, he recalled the press of Erik’s thumbs against his wrists, when he’d held onto him and assured him that he had no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed.
His face heated, and he sipped at his wine.
Erik cleared a space at the center of his desk, and then unrolled a map gone yellow and soft-edged with age. He pinned it down silver candlesticks, and a small, silver statue of an Aeretollean warrior king with mail, and blade, and braids. The map was of northern Aquitainia.
The duchy of Drakewell, bountiful jewel of the kingdom, sat snug between Inglewood, to the west, and Nede, to the east. The northern border was crowned by the Whispering Hills, and, beyond, the jagged peaks of the Black Mountains, named for the black shale that crumbled away in your hands and under boots and had sent many a careless climber tumbling to his death.
Erik picked up a letter opener that looked more like a knife – probably the Aeretollean king didn’t own letter openers, and this was actually a knife – and tapped the point against the dot that represented the capital city: Aquitaine. “We received word two months ago that the Sels had put up a blockade around the capital.” He lifted his gaze to Oliver, verifying.
A strange way to start marriage negotiations, but Oliver nodded and sat forward to gesture to the map. “They anchored warships here, and here,” he said, pointing. Aquitaine sat at the end of a small jut of land that curved like a half-moon, providing a natural, wide harbor that could be blocked off with booms in the event of a siege.
It had also proved devastatingly vulnerable to an enemy blockade.
“There was a stroke of luck – a storm blew up, and smashed the Sel ships to bits, but, you know how deep their fleet is.”
“Hm.”
“There are Sel encampments here, and here, up and down the coast. Even here, out of the Crownlands and into Inglewood, but Drakewell was still free of them, when Tessa and I left.”
“Where are Drakewell’s troops?” Erik asked.
“They were at the front when the stalemate was called. Whether or not they’ve returned…”
“Doubtful,” Birger said, leaning in so that all three of them were bent over the map. “You don’t send troops back to their home fires when the enemy is camped on your doorstep.”
“Everyone knows Drakewell is the most resource-heavy duchy in Aquitainia,” Erik said, pressing his finger to it. “If the Sels are trying to establish a permanent base here in the east, then there’s slim chance they won’t at some point raid Drakewell.”
“Or be given tacit permission by the king to partake of it,” Birger added, grimly.
“So you can see why we’re here,” Oliver said.
