Page 12 of Edge of the Wild

“That was a dog bite,” a sleep-rough voice said, and she lifted her head to find that Leif was awake, gaze sleepy, but bright blue in the pale light.

His smile hitched up in one corner, a fond half-smile of remembrance. “One of the wolfhounds. A mean-tempered old sod named Blacktooth, because he’d lost a canine in a hunt when he was young. Uncle kept warning Rune away from him, but Rune wouldn’t listen. He was determined to make friends with the thing –tame it, he said, like he thought he was the hero of a children’s story.”

She smiled, imagining it, fingertip still poised on the scar. It was smoother than the surrounding skin. “Did he learn his lesson?”

Leif snorted, and turned to look toward his brother’s slack face, his own etched with grim regret. “He wouldn’t be lying here now if he had.”

Her own smile fell, a lump forming in her throat. “I still don’t understand.” The urge to slide her hand into Rune’s limp one was too great; she did so, and squeezed, though he didn’t respond. “Why would Ormr have done this? Was he so offended it warranted trying tokillRune?”

Leif frowned. “The clans do things differently. There isn’t a sense of propriety among them, not like you’re thinking. Killings aren’t so uncommon.”

“But he was here with Ragnar, so he must know that stabbing a prince wasn’t going to end well for him.”

His frown deepened. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying: perhaps it’s completely different here. But in the South, no one kills – or tries to kill – a prince over a personal vendetta. It’s always a political power play.”

He studied her, golden brows furrowed.

“How well do you trust your cousin?”

“Not at all.”

~*~

They had an audience.

Apparently having mended fences after their sparring match during the feast, Lord Náli and his hulking friend Ulf sat on a dusted-off section of bench, snorting and muffling laughter into their gloves.

Oliver took a deep breath that failed to prove calming, and put his back to the spectators. “Is this really necessary?” he asked Bjorn through gritted teeth.

“Ignore the little buggers,” Bjorn said with a shrug. “Now. Try again.”

Oliver adjusted his grip on the dagger, stepped forward – and was promptly gripped around the wrist and disarmed.

Oliver bit back a curse and accepted the dagger when Bjorn handed it to him, struggling to be gracious and not act like a spoiled child.

Behind him, Náli said, “You do realize that you’re both going about this all wrong, don’t you?”

Oliver bristled automatically.

Bjorn waved him off. “Ah, mind your own business, Lord Death.”

“You can’t spar with him, for gods’ sakes,” Náli continued, undeterred. “What chance do you think he has against the likes of you? Coming straight at you with his knife visible? No, no.” Snow crunched as he got to his feet, and walked over to join them. “If he’s learning self-defense, he needs to go about it in a way that’s actually effective.”

The young lord appeared at Oliver’s elbow, and held out a hand, presumably for the knife.

Oliver sent him an unimpressed look.

Náli smirked. “Not very trusting, are you?”

“Of you? No.”

The smirk widened into a true grin, bright and mischievous. He wore his pale hair in a long, single braid today, pulled over one shoulder, and, in the ever-brightening sunlight, was the sort of dangerously pretty that had lords and ladies both tripping over themselves to sign bad treaties and give away their wealth.

Oliver was immune to it, and, after a moment of batted lashes, Náli seemed to realize it. He sighed. His expression settled into something less provocative. “All right, fine. I’m serious. I’m not here to make a fool of the royal consort.”

Consort. Oliver had a very clear mental image of what a consort was supposed to be and do, and that image didn’t resemble him in the slightest.

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