Page 29 of Heart of Winter
“Hair is – important.”
Erik snorted, smirking in obvious amusement.
“Says the man withjewelryin his.”
Erik fingered one of the long braids that hung over his shoulder, pinching the silver bead at its end between thumb and forefinger. “The beads in our hair are given to us by our loved ones. Beads from parents to children, from brothers to brothers, from a husband or a wife.” He dropped it, and it thumped faintly against his chest. He didn’t look offended, though, Oliver noted. Still amused and faintly contemplative. “Hair does have meaning, in every culture, I’d imagine. But how does any historian worth his salt go on for two chapters about it without mentioning the bloody dragons?”
The thought of it – of actual, livedragons– was so baffling, so world-upending, that Oliver felt faintly sick every time either of them said the word aloud.
Whatever sort of face he was making, it prompted Erik back to his feet. He went to the shelf, rummaged a bit, and came back with a small stack of books that he opened, flipped through, and then laid out in front of Oliver.
Books about dragons.Scholarlybooks about dragons, with talk of fossils, and measurements, temperaments, even. There were detailed diagrams, sketches of bones, and claws, and snouts, and ofharnesses. Pages and pages of handed-down accounts of the practice of keeping, feeding, andridingdragons.
“How…how do I not know of this?” Overwhelmed, he tipped a pleading look up to the king. “How didno oneI grew up with know of this?”
“According to what I learned, the records were scrubbed clean across Aquitainia,” Erik said, almost kindly, his expression softened. “Dragons are – or were – very particular. Not just any fool with a death wish can climb on their backs and fly them at will. There was a prince, once, who attempted to claim one for his own. He was killed for his efforts. The king needed the dragon riders to help him win the First Great War, but after that, once the dragons were gone – no king wants to think that a duke has a weapon so great that he could unseat him if he wished.”
Oliver swallowed. “They changed the banners and shields.”
“And the history texts. Everything you ever read was crown-approved.”
“But…” He dragged a fingertip around the edges of an illustration, a harnessed, saddled dragon with its head butted affectionately against its rider’s shoulder.
“Everyone in the world knows the stories of the Drakewell dragons,” Erik said, gently, “everyone except all of Aquitainia.”
“I don’t…” It was a silly thing, an old and irrelevant thing, the existence of dragons. But the lie, the deception…Oliver felt unmoored. He swallowed again, with difficulty. “I don’t know if I believe you, entirely.”
Erik shrugged. “Why would you? I’ve been terrible. But, here, look.” He turned to a new page. “The young ones here like the old stories, so we’re well-stocked on dragon lore. There’s two major classifications: fire-drakes, and cold-drakes…”
For ten ridiculous minutes, the King of Aeretoll lectured him on drakes in a low, rumbling voice that Oliver found entirely too soothing.
Oliver slowly found himself migrating from denial to curiosity. “And there are none left living?” he asked, when Erik quieted.
“There might be. Most aren’t much bigger than a horse, leaving off the wingspan, so they would be able to keep to forests and caves and avoid humans, if they wished. At last year’s Midwinter Festival, some of the clansmen claimed to have seen cold-drakes stalking deer on the other side of the mountains.”
“Do you think they did?”
Erik shrugged. “They might have.”
“Huh.” Oliver slumped down to prop his chin on his fist, gaze trailing over the profusion of illustrations before him. “Nothing like having everything you know about the world change in half an hour.”
Erik snorted. “Hopefully not everything.”
“I like to exaggerate, if you hadn’t noticed,” Oliver quipped, and was then struck, suddenly, by the situation.
Here they sat, king and bastard, bent over a slew of books, chatting about dragons, of all things. Erik’s face was more open than Oliver had ever seen it, his brow smooth and his mouth soft, and he was unbearably lovely, backlit by the firelight, candle glow catching on silver and gemstones, none of which were as arresting as the blue of his eyes, gentle and without hostility, now.
Erik grinned, slow and true, and chuckled. “I had noticed, actually.”
Oh, Oliver thought. He was indanger.
His stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly.
He jerked, and Erik’s gaze dropped to his midsection.
Oliver could feel his face heating. “I suppose I missed supper.”
“By about an hour,” Erik said, apologetically.
