Page 19 of Edge of the Wild

Oliver said, “You sure about that?”

Erik rolled his eyes. Started walking again. “Supper?”

“I was on my way to see Rune, and check on Tessa – I’ve not seen her all day.”

Erik halted again, and this time it was guilt – obvious and easy to read – that marked his brow. “Ah.”

“Will you come with me?”

“I can’t. Not right away.” He sighed. “I promised to discuss our departure with Lord Kjaran over supper. Silfr Hall will be our first stop along the journey.”

Oliver nodded. “Come and join us when you’re done, then.”

They parted at the top of the grand staircase; Erik reached out to pinch a bit of Oliver’s sleeve between thumb and forefinger, a gesture that would look innocent to onlookers – including Erik’s guard escort – but which, accompanied by a soft, regretful smile, warmed Oliver all the way down to his toes.

“I’ll have food sent up to you all,” Erik promised, and Oliver watched the trailing, fur-lined hem of his coat slide down the stairs like liquid smoke a moment before he roused himself and went upstairs to the royal apartments.

The common room wasn’t empty. A fire blazed, freshly-built, and Bjorn stood at the side table, pouring wine. He glanced up at the sound of Oliver’s entry, and wasn’t able to guard his expression in time to hide the fact the he’d hoped Oliver was someone else. Erik, most likely.

Oliver nodded a greeting. “How is he?”

Bjorn took a sip of wine first, and then sighed. “His fever’s up. Olaf was just here – got some feverfew tea in him, and some honey. He changed the dressing and he says” – his frown flickered, pained – “it doesn’t look good, exactly, but it isn’t the worst he’s seen. Whatever comfortthatis.”

Oliver winced. “Are the ladies still with him?”

“Aye, and Leif too, all of them half-dead and too stubborn to lie down for a bit.” His brows lifted in invitation. “Maybe you’d like to try talking some sense into them?”

“I’ll do my best. But sense never overrules the heart, in my experience.”

Bjorn snorted. “No, I guess not.”

Rune’s chamber, when he slipped inside, was unbearably warm. The fire had been stoked up, and candles blazed; the tapestries were drawn across the windows. Astrid and Hilda, he noted, had moved as close to the windows as possible, having dragged the armchairs away from the hearth, but he could see the gleam of sweat on their foreheads and throats as they knitted with something like desperation.

Two heads turned drowsily toward the sound of his entrance. Leif, asleep in his chair, had shed his outer layers, down to a shirt and simple, brown tunic, both unlaced at the throat. Tessa’s auburn hair had wilted, and fatigue lay in the shadows beneath her eyes, though she offered him a smile and a quiet “hello, Ollie.”

Revna looked like a ghost: hair in wild, unwashed disarray, dress rumpled, her face so pale and drawn she looked like she ought to be in the bed next to Rune.

And Rune…

Oliver’s chest ached when he saw the robust and always-laughing prince stretched out now as if on a funeral plinth, white, clammy with sweat, his eyes sunken and his lips chapped. His hair lay greasy and tangled on the pillow; his chest lifted in quick, shallow huffs. Oliver knew all too well the muddled, painful terror of fever, of being trapped in one’s own body. He hadn’t thought to see someone so young and vital brought low by it.

He glanced toward Revna again, at the terror in her eyes that was slowly morphing into resignation, and grief, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask how Rune was doing: it was plain for all to see.

Instead, he said, “Can I get the three of you anything? Or relieve you for a spell?”

“No, lamb.” Revna attempted a smile, and turned back to Rune. She held one of his limp hands between both of hers, fingertips working absently over the calluses on his knuckles. “Though – make sure to keep Tessa fed. And be sure she goes to bed. She shouldn’t run herself ragged.”

Tessa rolled her eyes where Revna couldn’t see, and sent Oliver a pleading look.

“Erik’s sending up supper for everyone,” Oliver said, and moved to rest a hip against the edge of Rune’s desk. “Bjorn’s getting into the wine out there.” He tilted his head to indicate the common room. “Anyone else want some?”

Leif shifted in his sleep, snorted, but didn’t wake.

“I would,” Tessa said, standing with a grimace, grasping, briefly, at her lower back. “I’ll come help you carry the cups.”

She took his arm once they were in the hall, resting her cheek on the point of his shoulder a moment as they walked into the common room. “Oh, Ollie,” she said, half-groaning. “It’s terrible.”

“I know.” He patted her hand where it lay on his arm, and steered her across the wide rug toward the sideboard, where Bjorn was refilling his cup again. “Playing barkeep?” he enquired, when Bjorn glanced at them.

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