Page 83 of Edge of the Wild

“Fine.” He glanced over each shoulder, checking for listeners. No one left was alert enough to be paying them any mind. When he straightened, he met two clearly unconvinced gazes. He took a fortifying sip, and said, “Physically, I am fine.” He lifted his arms, offering himself for inspection. “Not a scratch. Erik hates me,” he said, lightly, “but nothing’s seriously wrong.”

Leif frowned. “You ran straight up to that dragon, and then you clutched your head, fell, and started shouting – something.” His frown deepened. “It didn’t sound like words.”

“I was…” How to explain it. “I’ve been having these…visions.”

“Visions,” both repeated, in identical flat voices.

Then Birger made a knowing face. “That’ll be the ice rose, then.”

“No. No, it – well, yes, I took some last night – one of Olaf’s tinctures. He thought it might be helpful in staving off another bout of fever. But listen: it happened at Silfr Hall, and at the lake, and it happened last night. And once before, during my relapse back at Aeres. Everything goes sort of blue and unreal – it’s like I’m not in my own body anymore, but wherever I am, I can sense the dragon there. It can’t talk like you and me, but it’s communicating. When it happened tonight, I could tell that someone else was communicating with it – forcing it to do their bidding. I remember I said for it to stop – not withwords, exactly. I don’t…”

They were staring.

“You think I’m insane.”

They traded glances. “No, lad,” Birger said, carefully.

Leif said, “The old stories say Drakes could tame dragons when no one else could. Maybe this is how: that thing you did.”

Oliver sighed and sipped more ale. “I’m not sure what I did. But I said stop, and somehow, the shaman, or whoever it was, broke away from the dragon. I think, there at the end, when it approached – I think it wasthankingme.”

Leif snorted. “Meanwhile, Uncle was pissing himself.”

Oliver winced. “I’m, uh, not his favorite person right now.”

Birger pursed his lips. He turned to Leif. “Lad, get you on to bed. You fought hard, and we’ve to rise early in the morning.”

Leif looked reluctant, but nodded. He drained his mug and stood, wincing and stiff. “Night.”

“Goodnight,” Oliver said.

When he’d shuffled off, Birger picked up his own mug and tilted his head toward the fine. “Come sit with me for a spell. Warm up.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

They settled into tall-backed wooden chairs at the hearth. Oliver stretched his toes toward the fire, its heat evident even through the thick fur and leather of his still-damp boots. He cradled his ale in both hands, and watched the flames, stomach tense, waiting.

Birger heaved a deep sigh. “Ah, lad. Whatever he said, pay it no mind. It’s only that he was frightened.”

Oliver snorted. “I would sayfurious, instead.” When Birger began to protest, he shook his head. “It comes from a place of worry, I know. But.” He sipped his ale rather than continue. Then admitted: “He didn’t really say much of anything.” He hadn’t had to; it had been a cold fury staring at him from the door. Oliver had seen Erik’s temper flare, but he’d not seen it ice over; he far preferred fire, after having witnessed both.

“Oh,” Birger said, and that one syllable held a wealth of understanding. He sighed again. “Pig-headed boy,” he muttered. “He’ll come around.”

Oliver shook his head. “With all due respect, Birger, I don’t need you assuring me of that. Or,” he added, with a pointed glance, “making excuses for his actions. He’s a big boy.”

Birger met his gaze steadily, expression inscrutable. “He’s also the king,” he returned. “And you gave him orders in front of his men, and his lords. Orders that hefollowed.”

Oliver thought he managed not to wince. “I was protecting him – and everyone else.”

“Aye. But it remains to be seen what everyone else thinks about it.”

“Gods.” Oliver drained off the rest of his ale and wished it had been something stronger. “For all the big talk up here, appearances are just as important as they are down South. Fine. Next time, I’ll let the dragon eat everyone.” When he got no answer, he snuck a glance that proved Birger watched him with judgement that could only be called paternal. It was a shock: he’d not been on the receiving end of that sort of look much in his life, and then, only from his uncle, never from Alfred.

“Has a queen never dictated to her king?” he asked, a little more levelly. “I was told there have been consorts – are the mates of kings chattel with no voice of their own? I thought the whole point of this expedition was to prove my worth to the Aeretollean people.” He sounded downright petulant by the end, but found he couldn’t stop it, hands gripped tight around his empty mug.

Birger pursed his lips, thoughtful a moment. “If I were a better man, I would repeat what I’ve already said: that it’ll all work out. Truth told, I think that it will. I may not know Erik in the way that you do, but I’ve known him his whole life, and I know that he expresses fear as anger, and I know that the thing he fears most of all is harm befalling anyone he loves.

“But, I’ve been at this post a long time, and I know that a people can think as a monolith at times, and as an absolute scatter, like a murder of crows flying in all directions, at others. What happened tonight – what you managed to do tonight – is a kind of extraordinary not seen in Aeretoll…ever. And not seen in Drakewell for generations.

“The truth is, lad, I don’t know what anyone will think of it, come daylight. Nor,” he said, tone apologetic, “what they’ll think of you.”

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