Page 71 of Edge of the Wild

Erik had a quiet word with Birger, and then pulled Oliver aside.

“Come walk with me a minute.”

Oliver fell readily into step beside him – Erik found himself slowing his own strides so that Oliver didn’t have to hurry to keep pace – and turned a worried look up to him as they passed along the upper gallery. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready? Putting on a hundred pounds of armor, for starters.” The last said pointedly:you’d better be wearing armor.

Erik grinned. “We have a little time. I wanted to show you something.”

“It had better be a bloody big sword you plan to hack men to pieces with,” Oliver said in a huff, “because I don’t like this planat all.”

“Noted.”

“I also don’t like being made to stay inside with the women and children like some sort of invalid.”

“You’d prefer to fight?”

“Gods no. I’m still, despite Bjorn’s best efforts to crush me in the training yard, not a warrior.”

Erik bit back another grin.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Oliver said with a sharp look. “I can tell you want to.”

“You are, as ever, an utter delight.”

“Ha.”

“Come. Through here.” They’d reached a door with a rounded top and heavy iron hinges. Erik opened the way, and motioned Oliver through first.

He stepped out onto the balcony beyond, and froze; probably blinded by the shine of what lay below, Erik thought, just as he was, at first.

“Oh,” Oliver whispered.

Erik blinked, shaded his eyes with his hand, and stepped up beside him at the railing.

It was not the sunniest of days, the daylight half-banked by midwinter clouds. But that didn’t matter, given the mirrors arranged below. The walled winter garden was lined with them: big plate mirrors in rusting metal frames all along the border, secured to the stone walls; mirrors cut to fit the metal frames of obelisks; spherical mirrors of blown glass on pedestals. All of them reflected the snow that lay thick alongside the swept paths – and the profusion of roses. All were of one variety. No tender pink, nor delicate apricot or yellow roses could grow in the red clay of the region. But winter roses, with their red-tipped white petals, flourished beneath Lady Fulla’s careful ministrations. Their stems and thorns were black, stark against the white landscape, and the white flowers. Alone, growing in raised garden beds along every wall, and around ever statue, they would have been a splendid sight; reflected, and reflected back again, and again, on the profusion of mirrors, the whole of the garden was one star-bright portrait of excess; a triad of startling color contrasts.

Erik cupped Oliver’s elbow and steered him toward the top of the stone staircase that led down to it. “Shall we go down?”

Oliver complied, silent, staring; he didn’t bother to turn his head, and Erik didn’t release him for fear he’d trip and fall. When they reached the garden path – marked with years’ worth of red footprints – Erik pulled Oliver’s arm through his own and began a slow stroll.

Oliver reached to cup a flower in his palm, shaking loose ice crystals that rained down on the stems with a musical chime. “What are they?” he asked, voice hushed, wondrous.

“Winter roses. The only kind that will grow here in this soil. The people of Redcliff call them a gift from the gods – a flower to match their lords, and their keep, and their good red earth.”

“I can see why.” Oliver withdrew his hand, looking regretful.

“Here.” Erik broke away from him – only to carefully pluck a ripe rose from its stalk.

“Should you do that?” Oliver asked.

“I’m the king, aren’t I?” He tucked the bloom behind Oliver’s ear, liking the pure white and the deep red against the copper of his curls, and the silver of his beads. He smiled. “It suits you.”

For a moment, a blush pinked Oliver’s cheeks, chasing away the pale of the cold air. Then he rolled his eyes. “I see. I must stay inside away from the fighting, and flowers suit me.”

Erik felt a twist of regret. He didn’t want Oliver to ever feel lesser somehow, because he wasn’t a fighter or a strapping Northern brawler. He was perfect exactly the way he was.

“They suit you because they’re pretty, and so are you.”

“Pretty.” It was not, Erik thought from his tone, the first time he’d been called that.

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