Page 26 of Heart of Winter
After a moment, her hand landed in his, and he closed his own around it, too tight – but she squeezed back. And he managed to walk them away, back toward the palace, without having to crouch down and put his head between his knees.
9
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, for probably the eighth time, his voice muffled by his hands, into which he’d buried his face.
“I really don’t think it’s that bad, Ollie,” Tessa said, ever the peacemaker.
Lunch was just being laid out when they’d entered the great hall, but by that point, Oliver had been shaking badly. They’d grabbed bread, cheese, and a few ham slices, rolled it up in a napkin, and stolen upstairs. Oliver had only managed a few bites before he’d pushed the food away and fallen into a rapid spiral of ever-deepening anxiety. What had felt so good to say in the moment had more than likely just cost them any chance for an alliance with Aeretoll.
Hilda was bustling about the chamber, tidying. She clucked her tongue in a motherly way. “He’ll come around, you’ll see. It’s good for him to get his proud hind end handed to him every now and then. Keeps him humble.”
Oliver groaned.
A knock sounded at the door, and Hilda went to answer it. Oliver heard the rustle of skirts, and then a laugh. Lady Revna said, “Oh, Oliver, it can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Revna,” Tessa said, then, a moment later, more shyly: “Revna.”
“You learn fast,” Revna said.
Oliver lifted his head and found the king’s sister standing just inside the room, dressed in warm gray wool buttoned to her throat, a beaded leather shawl draped fashionably over one shoulder, her hair tied up in a neat bun that dripped beaded braids. She folded her arms, and tilted her head, and looked very like her brother, save for the merriment in her eyes, a much warmer blue, like Leif’s.
Looking at her didn’t make him feel better, but it didn’t make him feel worse, either. “I have a tendency to let my mouth get ahead of my mind at times, my lady,” he said.
“Lamb, amountaincould let its mouth get ahead of its mind when it comes to my brother. He has a talent for bringing it out in people. From what I hear, you were more than justified.”
He winced. “Who told you?”
“My boys. Only tripping over each other to come give me the gossip.” When she grinned, it was all teeth, a wolfish smile, for all her friendliness. “They’re both suitably impressed.”
He groaned again.
Revna came deeper into the room, and patted his shoulder. “You’re fine, no worries. Erik’ll get over it.” Then she turned to Tessa. “I’m off to do a bit of shopping. Any chance you’d care to join me?”
Tessa lit up at the idea, and, after assuring Oliver that they would take Hilda and a handful of guards as escort, he left to allow Tessa some privacy to change clothes and prepare. He wandered next door to his own chamber, but quickly tired of it after he’d paced its width a dozen times.
The idea of going down to the great hall, or walking the grounds, potentially bumping into Erik, or even the princes, left him nauseous, but he needed a distraction. Eventually, he stole down to the library.
It wasn’t empty. The gaggle of children he’d seen twice now were camped out at a table, ignoring the books spread before them in favor of slapping the ends of quills at one another.
They were noisy, but far less intimidating than an insulted king. Oliver turned his back to them and began to peruse the shelves. The books seemed to be sorted via subject, and he searched until he found the collection of texts on history. He found the sorts of titles he would expect: books about the Northern Waste, the clans, the kingdom of Aeretoll, biographies of its kings, and their battles with Aquitainia, Seles, and the Waste clans. Texts about the gods, translations of the great foundational myths.
But there were books about the history of Aquitainia, too, none of them titles he’d ever encountered in the libraries of Drakewell. Frowning, he fingered the embossed spine of a book that proclaimed itselfThe Ancient Histories of the Drake Lords, and the Eventual Duchy of Drakewell.A symbol was embossed there, too, and after a moment, he realized it wasn’t the drake of his homeland’s banner, but a small, tightly-coiled dragon.
“Hey. Hey, you,” a small voice said behind him.
He turned to find the redheaded boy standing in his chair. The blond boy was trying to tug him back down, but he shrugged him off, and the other boys were all twisted around in their chairs to stare at Oliver.
“Hello,” Oliver said.
The boy wiped his nose absently with the back of one small hand and said, “Are you the bastard?”
“Bo!” the blond boy hissed, to no avail.
Something about this place, about the way people justaskedthe sorts of things only spoken about in glances and hushed asides back home, was taking the sting out of the word. “I’m Oliver Meacham,” he said, “and I’m a bastard, yes.”
The boy – Bo’s – mouth fell open, and he gaped a moment. Then he pulled in a deep breath and said, “My friend Ivar’s a bastard. He doesn’t seem to mind it.”
“No, I suppose not,” Oliver said. “Pudding tastes the same, bastard or not. And honeycakes.”
