Page 20 of Edge of the Wild

“Sure. Four?”

“Please.”

The big man filled four fresh cups, the first of which he handed to Tessa, who thanked him.

Then she said, “Oh, I didn’t ask. How did your sparring lesson go?”

Bjorn coughed, and Oliver saw the hint of a smile, fleeting, but amused – and not cruel, he didn’t think.

Oliver sighed. “The less said about that the better.”

Tessa grinned, faintly, cup pressed to her lips. “That bad, huh?”

He made a face at her, just to hear the light chime of her laugh.

A laugh that didn’t last nearly long enough. “Bjorn,” she said, “I’ve tried to get both of them to go and lie down properly. Revna slept a little, and Leif’s asleep now in his chair, but I wish they would really rest. Do you have any ideas?”

“Lass, if I did, I would have put them to good use by now. They’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming from his bedside.”

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of two maids bearing trays with supper. Tessa began taking inventory of the plates, and Bjorn caught Oliver’s eye.

“I’ll be back later,” he said, and Oliver had the weighty sense that he was being given command of the situation. Of the family.

He took a deep breath, nodded, and turned to help Tessa. “What do you think we can talk Revna into eating?”

~*~

There were men in the baths, laughing raucously, the sound floating along down the tunnels until it was only a low rumble, like a distant earthquake. Standing beneath the low-burning cressets in the tunnel that led to the dungeons, Erik could feel the faint vibrations of merriment through his hand, where it was pressed to the wall. Only a distance of walking strides separated the incarcerated from the jovial feast guests; how quickly fortunes changed, and lives altered for the worse. How thin the line was between guest and invader.

Between cousin and prince-killer.

The scrape of boot soles reached him before Bjorn rounded the corner.

Erik greeted him with a lift of his chin. “Rune?”

“Fever’s worse. No other changes. He’s got a room full.”

Erik wondered if Oliver would have any luck convincing Revna to take a break from the sickbed. Not likely.

“Come on, then,” Erik said, and if his voice was gruffer than usual, his friend didn’t acknowledge it. “Let’s get this done.”

A guard let them through the gates, and another stood inside the long hallway of cells; passed them a burning torch, and a ring of keys. No one escorted them this time, as they passed down the long, shadowed tunnel, straw rustling underfoot, until they reached the correct cell.

Bjorn took the keys and unlocked the heavy door, and Erik stepped in first, holding the torch before him. Its light leaped across the straw-covered floor, dancing over the lean, half-feral face of the Beserkir boy they’d captured what now seemed like weeks ago.

Whether purposefully, or because he’d been rubbing at his eyes in the dark, most of the boy’s face paint had been scrubbed away, revealing a smooth, even more youthful than first thought face, the faint patchiness of a blond beard like a shadow along his jaw. He sat with his knees drawn up, arms resting atop them, and, rather than move, froze when they entered, every muscle drawn taut and quivering. He made a good show of keeping his face blank, but his eyes – pale as ice – darted over them, and then to the door, which Bjorn shut behind them.

Erik passed over the torch. “I hear you won’t talk,” he said, tone conversational.

The boy tipped his head back against the wall, revealing raw burn marks on either side of his throat.

Erik didn’t wince, but he didn’t relish the sight of the wounds, either. He wanted answers, but not like that. “Your chief would be proud of you,” he continued. “You’re loyal.”

The prisoner said nothing. Some of the glittering fight had gone out of him, though. He looked tired; resigned.

“Still nothing to say for yourself?” When he got no answer, Erik nodded. “That’s fine.”

He crouched down, as he’d done before, so they were on eye-level – but this time he didn’t crowd the boy, and he was empty-handed, without a torch to wave in his face. It was difficult, given the past few days, and the worry that lay over him like a second skin, but he managed a smile; affected an easy sort of charm that he had rare occasion to employ these days, but which had marked much of his youth, before Father and Arne were killed. It had an immediate effect: just the shift in his posture and in his facial expression drew a confused frown from the young Beserkir.

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