Page 45 of Heart of Winter
Revna’s hand was warm, but surprisingly callused. The smooth, hard, established calluses of someone who’d done the same sort of work over and over again, until the habit was a part of their skin. Not the tough fingertips of someone with a deft hand at needlepoint. Calluses from riding, perhaps – the boys had pointed out their mother’s horse yesterday.
The hallway was short, and ended in a glorious stained-glass window that depicted a howling white wolf atop a mountain peak, a crescent moon overhead.
“That’s lovely,” Tessa said, nodding toward it.
“A nod to the old Úlfheðnar blood,” Revna explained. “Father never wanted us to forget that, no matter how Southern we became, we originated up in the wild mountains.”
A door stood to the left, and one to the right. “That’s Leif,” Revna said of the one on the left. “And here’s our invalid,” she said, fondly, and opened the other door into a large, well-lit chamber heaped with the particular clutter of a boy fast becoming a man, caught a bit between both worlds. A desk held an untidy pile of books, a map pinned down with heavy silver candlesticks, and a parchment marked with writing, the quill left stuck in the inkwell. A wooden knight on horseback perched on the corner, a child’s toy, the sight of which charmed her.
Rune’s bed was a grander affair than the one in her own guest chamber, as to be expected: a heavy four-poster carved with bold lines, and stylized wolves. Rune sat propped against a stack of pillows, a fur across his lap, dressed in a soft-looking cream nightshirt with the laces open. Tessa stole a glimpse of sharp collarbones and the defined line between strong, dark-furred chest muscles before focusing her gaze on his face. His hair was loose, and rumpled from the pillow. He had a black eye, and a nasty bruise at his temple, a gash shiny with ointment. But his gaze, thankfully, was his own today, if tired, and not the glassy, distant one of last night. A gaze that landed on her – and then shifted to panic.
He bolted upright and scrambled to fling the covers back. “Lady Tess–”
Bjorn was seated at a chair on the far side of his bed, and put a giant hand on his shoulder to pin him back against the pillows with minimal effort. “Stay down, you fool,” he said, with stern fondness. “You’ll only pass out in front of the lady, and then where will you be?”
Color infused Rune’s pale face, but he subsided with a glare for Bjorn. One that melted into a pleading expression when he looked back to Tessa. “Tessa, I’m so sorry. Are you well? You look well – er, that is, you don’t look injured, or sick, not that you don’t look pretty, also, you do, but – er–” His blush deepened.
Bjorn chuckled under his breath.
Rune’s brow furrowed. He took a deep breath, and let it out with a determined air. “I’m sorry to have led you into danger, my lady. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t myself last night.” He nodded, afterward –so there– and he resembled his uncle in that moment, save the quiet desperation in his gaze. His guilt was palpable – and endearing.
There was a chair on the near side of the bed, right up close, and Tessa took a seat there. Rune’s hand lay on top of the covers in front of her, and she didn’t resist the sudden impulse to cover it with one of hers. She heard his quick, indrawn breath, and felt the way he stiffened, suddenly, through the throb of tension in the back of his hand.
“Rune, there’s no need to apologize,” she said, smiling at him, watching the shock on his face slowly melt to something so sincere it left her a little breathless. “You couldn’t have predicted the wolves.”
His lips pressed together; his gaze dropped, and his hand curled to a fist beneath hers. “I knew there were wolves in the forest – I heard them singing last week. It was a risk taking you there.” He looked despondent, and Tessa didn’t know enough about the habits of wolves to dispute him with any confidence.
It was Bjorn who offered solace. “The wolves haven’t set upon a party on horseback in twenty years. They’ve been meek as mice for longer than you’ve been alive, lad. What happened yesterday wasn’t to be expected.”
Tessa sent the huge warrior a grateful look, and focused on Rune again, tightening her hand over his. “The important thing is that we’re all back here safe, and on the mend.” Too late, she remembered the crumpled shape of his horse at the bottom of the cliff, blood staining the snow in a corona around him. “Rune, I’m very sorry about Ris.”
He stared at his free hand a long moment, fingers curled tight in the covers. His lashes flickered rapidly against his cheeks, dark screens that concealed his eyes. “Leif was right: I shouldn’t have taken him.”
“I’m sorry.” It was all she could say, and she felt helpless for it.
Then his hand turned beneath hers, so they rested palm-to-palm, and his head lifted, his eyes shiny and wet, but the tears held in check. His voice was thick with them, but didn’t waver. “Uncle’s always telling me that it’s time to grow up and employ some good judgement. He’s right – he’s always been right. It’s time for me to start listening.” He attempted a smile, brave for all that it trembled.
His palm, where it was pressed to hers, bore the same pattern of calluses as his mother’s.
Calluses from the bow, from the sword.
His mother had a warrior’s hands, and so did he.
It was easy, in that moment, with the sun streaming in through the window, unkind to the bruises on his face, to see the sort of man he would grow into – a sight that left her chest warm, and bright, and her lungs struggling to draw breath.
~*~
Oliver jerked upright with a start. For a moment, he was aware only of the throbbing of his head, the sharp pain in his eyes, and his empty, churning stomach. His head was nearly too heavy to lift.
But he blinked, and recalled that he’d been in the library – that he still was; he’d fallen asleep face-down in the book he’d been reading, a dry tome about Northern botany. His vision was blurred, but he was soon able to identify what had awakened him.
Little Bo, his hair blazing in the slanted sunlight, sat perched opposite, all buy lying on the tabletop, propped up on his elbows, staring with rapt fascination at him.
Oliver rubbed the grit from his eyes. “May I help you?” His voice was hoarse and croaky.
“You were snoring,” Bo said, matter-of-factly. “You sounded like a bear.”
“Doubtful.” Oliver scrubbed at his eyes again, but they refused to clear completely. His neck tweaked as he sat back from the table, and he winced at the soreness there.
