Page 68 of Edge of the Wild

Rune laughed. “Leif and I don’t have as many: we have beads that mark us as princes, besides the ones that mark us as Uncle’s heirs.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely. Leif is the eldest, the crown prince, so he has extra for that. And a bead to mark his skill in the training yard – one day, maybe, we’ll have battle beads as well.”

She paused, strands of hair wound round her fingers. “Do you hope to see battle?”

“Yes,” he said, right away. But then: “Well. I…I thought that. For a long time.” He seemed to sag a little, the hair pulling in her hands. “It’s not much fun getting stabbed in the gut, though.”

“I should think not.” She resumed braiding. “Besides: a king’s value doesn’t lie in his wars.”

“No?” He snorted. “Try telling that to a Northman.”

“Your uncle battled because he had to – same as my family,” she added, grimly. “Not because it was exciting. I can’t imagine Erik wanted to swing a sword at people.”

“Hm. I’ve never asked him.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe so.”

She reached the end of the bead, and finished it with a bead.

Rune said, “I’m sorry if I distressed you.”

“You didn’t.” It was only half a lie. “I find war distressing in general. I know that some men are eager for it – but I wish they weren’t.”

His shoulders lifted, as he breathed. In a voice less than certain, he said, “It’s what I’ve been trained for, my whole life. And I will accept my role in it, if it ever comes here. Just as Leif will accept it when he marries you, and goes South to rule over Drakewell.”

The braid slipped from her nerveless fingers; the bead thumped lightly against his back.

Leif, again.

She was marryingLeif.

She cleared her throat and said, “Well, it’s a very unpleasant topic of conversation. Let’s do the front, now, shall we? And you can tell me about the craftsmen who make such fine beads.”

He told her of Silfr Hall; of the gems from the Fault Lands, and Redcliff, and the mines of a smoky, glum mountain settlement called Gegn, where countless tunnels and halls and tracks delved down into the rock, and gemstones winked along vast seams of gold in the light of pitch torches. He was a skilled storyteller, varying his tone, emphasizing details until they stood out glittering and wondrous, vivid in her imagination.

As he talked, she combed his hair back, added more oil, and secured it at the back of his head with the barrette. Then she started a thick, five-tailed braid, hair like heavy silk between her fingers. The weight of it, the slide of it, the heat of his scalp, and the scent of his skin, just detectable beneath the pine-and-citrus of the oil, lulled her into a sort of trance, one punctuated by the energetic rise and fall of his voice.

He’d lain so many days pale and silent, and now here he sat, awake, and, if tired and sore, so vibrant, so full of life.

So lovely. Strong, but gentle; eager, yet careful.

Tessa was sad to finish the braid, and cap it with a bead. Sad to stand there, hands hovering useless, and be done.

“All finished.” Her voice came out a whisper.

Rune’s story had reached a natural conclusion, and he sat silent a moment, head cocked to the side so she could see the flicker of his lashes as his gaze lowered. His face had gone serious, the line of his mouth soft, poised to speak. “Thank you,” he said, finally.

“I’m sure I didn’t do a very good–”

He turned, faster than she’d thought he could. He gritted his jaw against the pain of movement, but spun all the way around, so he knelt on the sofa; so they faced one another, gazes level.

“Job,” she finished, airless.

Up close, in the full wash of early sunlight, his eyes were flecked with hazel and black; striated with gold. The brains she’d given him framed his face, tidied him – and made him wilder, too, because any man could wear his hair long, but only a Northman wore it braided this way. There was no mistaking what he was, who he was.

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