Page 86 of Heart of Winter
“He said ‘South.’ Generically.”
Birger sent him a sharp glance that saidyou know better.
“What would you have me do? Have the clans approve every one of our alliances?”
“No. But. Erik. I was in the solar today with Rune. And I saw the beads and gems set aside for tomorrow. For the Drakes.”
Erik’s throat went dry, and his stomach tightened unpleasantly. “What of them?”
“Tomorrow night, everyone in that great hall will know that Tessa and Oliver are being formally courted by members of the Aeretollean royal family.”
Erik fought not to grind his teeth.
“Strategic political marriages are commonplace enough. Many will see the wisdom in a Drakewell bride for Leif.
“But Oliver…”
“Speak plainly,” Erik ground out.
Birger offered him a small, sad sort of smile. “Know that I have nothing but affection and respect for the lad when I point out that he is an illegitimate bachelor, and that there can be no political gain to braiding lover’s beads into his hair. Your lords will see that, tomorrow. Your lords will know that it is your affection that has granted him a place at your table.”
Erik sent him a dark look.
“You’ve never honored anyone like that, Erik, not ever. Doing so could shatter the illusion that you have a heart of winter. There are those who will see it as a weak point – a vulnerability. If they want to hurt you, they can do so by hurting him.”
“Could that not be said of my sister? Of my nephews?”
Birger’s smile deepened, and softened, and Erik hated the sympathy he saw there. “This is different, and you know it.”
Because Oliver was an outsider, was a Southerner. Because while he was expected to love his own blood, rumors would begin to fly when the lords and ladies of Aeretoll saw the beads in Oliver’s hair and began to wonder if their king’s reasoning had been compromised by an agent of the South. Birger was right: he couldn’t blame this on the begetting of an heir, or on a political alliance, not when Tessa was already set to wed Leif. A public declaration of the sort he was about to make could only be read as an act of pure sentiment.
“I’m thinking of you, yes, but of Oliver, too,” Birger said. “This could be dangerous for him as well.”
Erik thought of the vicious glance the prisoner had darted at Oliver, earlier, the contempt and hostility. “Or, one could argue that, the connection already having been made, I would be protecting him. Killing a foreign guest is an offense, yes. Killing a royal consort is an act of war.”
Birger’s eyes flew wide.
“They wouldn’t dare it.”
“Erik…”
“I do not need a lecture, Birger. I think after forty-three years on this earth I can make up my own mind about such things.”
Birger sighed – and then smiled again. “I should think so.” He chuckled, eyes sparking with fondness, and Erik felt some of his tension ease.
Then Birger sobered. “I only wanted you to think it through from every angle. Once a choice is made, it sometimes has to be defended.”
Erik nodded. “I’m well aware of that.”
20
Oliver slept poorly. When he did manage to doze off, his dreams alternated between slippery, heated fantasies that picked up right where real life had left off in the baths, and nightmares about being awakened by fur-clad, painted-faced Beserkirs dragging him out of bed at knifepoint.
He finally gave up just before dawn, wrapped himself in his dressing gown and a fur from the bedclothes and sat in the window ledge, watching the sunrise bloom like a bruise over the mountaintops. His thoughts chased one another round and round, and he was half-asleep sitting up by the time the room had filled with pale, early light, and a knock sounded at the door.
A kitchen boy bearing a tray stood just outside. “Breakfast, my lord,” he said, handing it over. “So you can be ready for the council meeting in an hour.”
That woke him up with an unpleasant lurch. “Right. Yes, thank you.”
