Page 93 of Edge of the Wild

And a dragon, apparently.

“Where did he find the cold-drake?”

“No one’s sure, exactly. The story goes that things had been quiet for a while – no immediate threat from the clans – but that a storm front was moving in from the west. Percy had his mind set on killing a bear, one of the great shaggy white ones that live up in the mountains” – here he plucked at his own bear-hide shirt in demonstration; the fur was thick, cottony, and white – “and he set off with spear and knife and a good many warnings that he was being foolish. The storm rolled in, and still no sign of him. The men had given him up for dead.

“But three days later, a great, white, winged monster blotted out the sun, and landed in the middle of the yard – with Percy on his back.” Snorri laughed. “The crazy bloody fool said he sought shelter in a cave and found it occupied – but that he shared his meat, and his fire, and by the time the storm ended, he’d made a friend for life.”

“What happened?” Oliver asked. “I mean: eventually.”

“Oh, well, Percy died. All men die. He was white-headed and roaring wild, right up ‘til the end. They said the drake mourned him for three days; lay curled up around the ashes of his pyre. And then, finally, it took to the sky and disappeared over the horizon. A drake’s not been seen in these parts since.”

“Wow,” Oliver breathed, and wished he had a more adequate word to describe what he was thinking. What he was feeling. He moved to pass the drawing back.

“Keep it,” Snorri said. “Keep the whole crate.” He laughed again. “You never know: you might need it.”

~*~

Snorri wouldn’t be budged on Oliver accepting the crate, and even insisted on carrying it for him – “No sense you getting dust all over your fine clothes, your lordship.” He toted it easily, walking ahead of them, and led the way to their room for the night. It was amidst the maze of narrow halls, carrying the unshuttered lantern, that Oliver realized Erik hadn’t spoken a word since they’d gotten up from the dinner table. He had no idea what sort of omen that was for the rest of the night.

They passed windows that revealed a torrential snowfall, flakes streaming by in a white blur. But the close, wood walls kept out the hard chill, and Snorri promised a warm fire awaiting them.

“That leads up onto the wall,” he said, pointing to a closed, round-topped door with heavy hinges. “Should you want to take in the view,” he chuckled. “This one here is your room, your lordship, Your Majesty.”

It was more spacious than Oliver had expected – probably the finest room in the entire fortress. A low, timbered ceiling and plastered walls gave it a cozy, muted sort of glow when combined with the light of the fire, and of the candles in simple iron sticks on the bedside tables. The furniture was of rough, unadorned wood, but the mattress looked thick, and the quilts and furs plentiful. Their trunks had been brought up, and a stoppered stone bottle and two wooden cups gave evidence to wine.

Snorri set the crate down beside their trunks and wished them a good night. “I’m just down the hall should you need anything. Erik, you remember which door?”

“I do, yes. Thank you, Snorri.”

The captain left with a little wave, and pulled the door shut behind him.

The fire crackled.

The wind sighed and then howled up in the eaves; the walls creaked, faintly, settling against its onslaught.

Oliver said, “Are we no longer on speaking terms?”

Erik unlaced and then shrugged off his heavy coat, tossed it over a chair, and crossed to the sideboard – and the wine there. He filled both cups, turned, and offered one to Oliver.

Oliver stared at it. And at Erik’s hand around it – steady, rings gleaming in the candlelight. Erik never shook, never trembled; never got dizzy, or overwhelmed, or weak-legged. He was a rock – as was his face, its stern lines carved to further harshness by the play of the candle flames.

“The silent treatment. How kingly.” When Erik extended the cup another fraction, Oliver took it with a sigh.

This wine hadn’t been watered, was a rich, dark red with a sharp aftertaste. He wondered how long it had been sitting in a cask in the cellar, waiting for a royal visitor.

A royal visitor who seemed intent on being a royal pain in the ass.

Erik drained his own cup in a few long swallows – the movement of his throat an entrancing distraction, no matter Oliver’s anger – then set it aside and began unbuckling his vambraces. Beneath, his velvet sleeves had been pushed up, revealing pale, strong, hair-dusted forearms, which were yet another distraction. He set the vambraces on the table, loosened the ties of his tunic – wedge of skin visible then, at his throat, flash of chest hair – and poured himself another cup.

“For the record,” Oliver said, fighting to keep his tone even, now. He aimed for light. Disaffected.I don’t care that you’re pushing me away. That what I thought was something wonderful has turned into an ugly charade.“I prefer it when you humiliate me in the training ring to this kind of anger. If we’re going to fight, I’d rather shout and throw punches and be done with it.”

Erik turned to him, emotion touching his face for the first time, though faintly: a groove between his brows, a slight frown. But Oliver knew before he said, “I’m not angry,” that, shockingly, it was true. Not a trace of anger marked his gaze.

Oliver took a long swallow of wine, grateful for its warmth in his belly. “When you first told me about dragons, you soundedencouraging. I thought, ‘surely he wouldn’t tell me all this if he thought I shouldn’t know about it.’ You were the one who kept reminding me I was a Drake, bastard or not. And now we know that’s true. Now we know that dragons aren’t extinct, and that I can talk to them, and this is the first time–” His throat tightened, made it hard to speak. “This is the first time that I haveanythingto offer. To anyone. The first time I can be useful. I thought – gods, I sound like a fool, but I thought this was a chance, despite every reasoning to the contrary, for me to bespecial. And now you just look right through me like I’m a piece of furniture.”

Erik rotated his body, so he faced him fully, his frown deepening, that strange, not-angry brightness in his gaze intensifying. His voice held a low, barely-there vibration: an unsteadiness. “You are the royal consort of the King of Aeretoll. What is that if not special?”

“It means I share your bed. It doesn’t mean I contribute anything,” Oliver shot back, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

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