Page 15 of Heart of Winter
“Maybe,” Oliver stressed. “If he and Tessa both agree. I don’t believe in forcing two young people to do anything until they’ve gotten to know one another and developed an affection.”
He felt bold, rather than drunk, but thought he was probably well on the way toward the latter, given the looseness of his tongue. He took another sip anyway.
Magnus laughed. “Oh, marriage or not, we should keep you, Master Oliver.”
A few more guards joined them, and after introductions, they settled into a serious discussion about sleigh racing, or deer hunting, or something manly of the sort. Oliver sipped his drink, warm and growing warmer, the tension slowly unspooling from his body, content to merely sit and let the flow of hearty, good-natured conversation flow over him. There hadn’t been much of that in Drakewell since the war started. And even when there had, he’d rarely been a part of it.
His temper softened by drink, he let his thoughts drift back to the discussion at supper. In truth, he’d expected negotiations to go very differently. For all that he’d hated the way Erik referred to Tessa –the girl– he’d expected for her to be looked at up-and-down like a horse at market, perhaps fondled a bit, and for a contract to be slapped down on the table for him to sign as his aunt’s proxy. Perhaps questions about the width of Tessa’s hips, or the state of her teeth, or, gods forbid, an assertion that a medicine man or wise woman would need an examination to verify her maidenhead.
Oliver remembered, with startling clarity, that moment in the tent, that impression of the forbidding Northern king with the cold eyes. He’d spent all of their journey feeling like the worst sort of heel, off to give his sweet cousin to the attentions of a snarling, warmongering beast too old and too cruel for her. Erik’s out-of-hand rejection of the intended suit had felt like an insult, and in so many ways it was one…but there was a thread of kindness there, too. Whatever Erik’s personal reasons for refusing her, the offer of Leif was an offer of a much smarter match.
Save the little problem of not having the whole of the Great Northern Phalanx at their disposal when the need arose.
Oliver sighed and raised his cup to his lips – only to find it empty.
“Can’t have you going dry, now.” Magnus plucked his cup away, and returned it a moment later, now brimming.
“What is this stuff?” Oliver asked, wincing at the blurred sound of his own voice.
Magnus grinned – for a moment there were two of him. “The good stuff.”
Yes, it did seem good. Oliver nodded – the room softening at the edges as he did so – and took a sip. It didn’t burn so much, now, and he could appreciate its sweet aftertaste.
“Look here.” Magnus lowered his voice, and twisted in his chair, leaning forward so their faces were closer together, his shoulder blocking the view of the others laughing uproariously around them. His expression had gone quite serious, which, only having known him a short while, still struck Oliver as unusual for him. “I brought you in here because I wanted to have a word.”
“Shit,” Oliver said, and earned a chuckle and a quick, amused smile.
“Nothing to worry about. But.” He lowered his voice another fraction. “I may only be a guard, sure, but I grew up with Erik, me, and Lars, and Bjorn, and – and him.” Had Oliver been more sober, he would have inquired about that pause, the quick drawing-together of Magnus’s brows. But Magnus pressed on. “He wasn’t always so dour, you know? He was a lot like Rune, when he was a young one, actually. But he takes kingship seriously.Veryseriously. And things are different up here, in the North. He has more to consider than whether or not to march against the Sels. It’s rough up here, and Erik, and Aeres, are caught between Aquitainia and the Wastes. Lots of fingers in lots of pies, you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a bit gruff, I grant you, but he means no disrespect to your cousin, nor to you.”
Oliver snorted.
“No, no, he doesn’t.” He grinned. “I think he was quite impressed with your spunk.”
“Myspunk?”
“Aye. Drink your mistress.”
Oliver blinked at him a moment before he realized that “mistress” was the drink in his hands, then he took another generous sip.
Magnus chuckled again. “Give our old grumpy king a chance, and I can promise he’ll give you a fair one in return.”
“That sounds a bit trite,” Oliver mumbled.
Magnus leaned back, laughing out loud. “You only look meek, don’t you? There’s some dragon fire in the belly under the good manners, eh?”
Oliver drank, rather than dignify that with a response.
~*~
He wasn’t certain, but felt like he must have finished that cup and had another. By the time Magnus tugged him up from his chair, he was wobbly as a new colt, his vision swimming in and out of focus. The guards around him cheered, and Magnus towed him out of the room and down the hall, back up the grand stairs, supporting a shameful amount of Oliver’s weight, though he figured, in his addled, overly honest state, that he was so slight it probably wasn’t much of a burden.
It was cooler up on the gallery, and the walking had helped clear his head a little. He didn’t feel in danger of falling down, nor being sick; the world was pleasantly warm and fuzzy in the way that meant he’d had far too much, but wasn’t going to regret it until later.
He broke loose from Magnus’s grip and, when he squinted, managed to see only one of the guardsman. “Thank you, but I can manage from here.” He only slurred a little.
