Page 17 of Edge of the Wild

“All right.” Revna stood – sheattemptedto stand. Her legs shook and the room tilted.

“My lady!” Astrid rushed to her; appeared just in time to steady her and ease her back to the sofa. “My lady, you need more rest.”

Revna shook her head, despite the way it worsened her dizziness. “I have to get back to Rune.”

“Lady Tessa and Prince Leif are with him, ma’am. They’re watching over him for you.” Her narrow face was marred by a pleading expression. “Please, my lady, won’t you rest a little while longer? I can bring you some tea and biscuits. Or a proper lunch. You must keep your strength up.”

Astrid had never been the sort of insist upon one taking care of oneself. That was Hilda’s game: the aggressive mothering, always wanting to bundle up, or ply with tea. Revna had never seen Astrid worried for her like this, and it was honestly a little shocking.

She subsided, and nodded. “Tea might be a good idea. Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back,” Astrid said, whisking away. “Stay right there, my lady, don’t worry about a thing!” she called, footsteps pattering across the rug toward the door.

When she was gone, Revna got to her feet – more slowly this time. She grimaced to herself. She wasn’t a girl anymore, and sleeping in a chair – especially tense and tight with worry, heavy with grief – left her hurting as badly as a good brawl.

The door opened with a quiet click behind her, and she sighed. How was Astrid back already? Or had it taken her fifteen minutes to get up off the sofa? She turned, not relishing the thought of having to get stern with Astrid – but found that it wasn’t Astrid who slipped quietly into the solar and shut the door.

It was Bjorn.

Relief rushed through her, first. Cooling, quieting, comforting. She’d always lumped Bjorn in with Erik: if they were around, then the world couldn’t possibly be falling apart. They could carry all manner of hardships on their broad shoulders.

But it was a relief chased quickly by guilt, because here she stood, shoulders slumping, staring, wasting time,comforted, while Rune lay possibly-dying just down the hall.

But she didn’t move. Not right away. Stood rooted by the blend of worry and tenderness that marked his face. It could be such a forbidding face; any softness was made all the more surprising for it.

“Hi,” she said.

“How is he?”

“I was just going to check. Astrid said that Tessa and Leif are with him, still.”

“Let them stay with him, then.” He paused, dark gaze tracking over her with unnerving attention to detail. Because he could be brash, and seemed at times not to know his own strength – she could vividly recall the way he’d taken Oliver by the shoulder and shaken him in those early days, an intentional bit of intimidation masked by a booming laugh – people underestimated his perceptiveness. She hadn’t for a long time, and didn’t doubt it now. “You look like you could use more sleep.”

She drew herself stiffly upright, and even that was an effort. “I’m fine.”

His small, grim smile saidyou can’t fool me. “You’re dead on your feet, lass.”

She tried and failed to rally a bit of indignation. Sounded only pathetic when she said, “I can sleep when he’s better.” She turned, headed for Rune’s chamber.

“Revna.”

When she halted, she found herself face-to-face with her own reflection in a wall-mounted mirror. Her hair was flat on one side, and tangled on the other, braids come loose and dark locks snarled into knots. Her face was pale, and slack with exhaustion; the dark circles beneath her eyes looked like bruises.

Her fingers twitched on her skirts as she fought not to reach and tidy her hair – it was a lost cause, anyway.

To the left of her reflection, she glimpsed Bjorn’s, as he pushed away from the door and approached her – but stopped a few paces back. He never crowded her; she had the sense he was afraid to. He always seemed so careful to never push her, in any way.

He met her gaze through the mirror, and said, “It’s not your fault, you know.”

The words hit her like a blow.

“It wasn’t back then, and it isn’t now.”

She turned, because it was easier to face him without having to look at her own rumpled, wrung-out countenance at the same time. Her next breath was accompanied by an old, still-sharp pain in her chest. Words failed her, as they had all those years ago, when it had been Torstan lying unconscious in a sickbed.

Torstan had died. Despite her prayers, and her presence, and her fervent belief that he was too strong to succumb to his wounds – the Val-Father had still called him home.

“He’s a strong lad,” Bjorn continued. “And it’s only one wound, and–”

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