Page 52 of Heart of Winter
Erik paced tight circles at the foot of the bed, leather tunic swirling around his legs, darting glances toward the bed on every pass, his hands – linked together behind his back – tightening on one another until his knuckles turned white beneath his rings.
Oh, you silly fool, Revna thought, fondly, sadly, hurting for him.
“It’ll work,” Rune said, overflowing with optimism now that he’d gotten Erik involved. His faith in his uncle had always been unfailing, and Revna hoped that it always would be. He laid a comforting hand on Tessa’s shoulder, a touch that had the girl looking up and smiling softly at him – poor Leif, Revna thought with an internal sigh. “You’ll see. The ice rose will work.”
Olaf finally returned, huffing for breath, a small, sealed chest in his arms. Two serving boys followed him, toting a wooden tub between them. “The ice rose,” he said, setting the chest on the desk. He motioned for the boys to set the tub down before the fireplace. “And I have another idea, too. Ice rose or not, it’s time to get his temperature down, and cold cloths aren’t going to be enough.”
A third boy entered, and then another, the first carrying pails of water – the second pails of snow.
14
Erik held his first sword when he was three. It was carved from wood, and not even a foot long. His memories of that moment were fuzzy, at best; a toddler’s blurred impression of smiling, laughing adults, and of swinging so hard he nearly fell over.
His first steel sword had come at age seven, a gift from his grandfather, commissioned to suit his height and build, as ornate and rune-carved as his father’s massive longsword. Arne had one, too, and they would spar with them in the yard, under the watchful eye of Sig, the armorer, the steel crashing and clanging, the impact shaking up their arms, so they grunted and swore, but didn’t stop, the thrill of it pressing them on and on – until Mother shouted down from the window, or one of them busted their knuckles.
When he was fifteen, nearly six feet tall and still growing, with hair sprouting on his chin and chest, he commissioned his own sword, his true sword, the one he carried, still –Krig. Grandfather, the Half-Blood, was dead, and it was for him he named his sword.War. Erik was to be the warrior. Herleif was dead, too, but Arne was crown prince in his place, and it would be Erik he sent out to face their enemies; Erik who would spear hearts and cleave necks for him, in defense of their nation. Arne would be the Wall Between Worlds, and Erik the blade.
His hands had been shaped by swords, and bows, and spears. By the buckles of vambraces, and the laces of padded doublets, and the grit of whetstones. His arms were strong from sparring, from battle; from killing, and maiming. He’d been forged in the fires of violence, not in a wild haze of bloodlust, but through careful practice, and steady purpose. Hotheads didn’t make for good warriors; he’d been hand-crafted, from the time of his birth, to be a weapon.
Now he was a king, which he’d never thought to be, and for which he’d never asked. And kings spent too long indoors, organizing, weighing, measuring, politicking. Too much time sitting still – time to reflect upon the fact that other things had shaped his hands, too.
Like the plushness of his mother’s yarn as he rolled it out slowly for her, the clack of her needles a soft, soft echo of the ring of swords clashing in the yard down below.
Like the silken strands of his horse’s main clenched tight between his fingers as he leaned low over his neck and urged him faster, faster, Arne’s outraged laughter at being beaten echoing behind him.
Like the warm, worn-smooth calluses of his father’s hand when Frode showed him how to adjust his grip on his bow or his sword.
Like the quicksilver warmth of his littles sister’s tears when he swiped them away with a careful thumb after she’d taken a spill from her pony.
Like the shape of his big brother’s fingers, too hot to the touch, just before the fever claimed him.
Love had shaped his hands, too. Gentleness. Grief. They were strong, capable hands, and they’d seen plenty – seen too much – and they would cling tight to the things he held dear, and push away that which threatened him.
He’d not thought to find a threat in a sickroom, watching serving boys fill a tub with cold water and snow.
“Are you trying to give him frostbite?” he snapped, and if his voice came out rough and unsteady, Olaf didn’t react.
“We’ll have to be careful that we don’t,” the physician said, absently, testing the water with his fingertips. He shook off droplets and nodded. “The trick is to cool the body without triggering hypothermia. This feels about right.”
“Aboutright?” There were still little chunks of snow melting on the surface. “Plunging him into that will kill him.”
Olaf sighed. He braced his hands on his hips and looked up at Erik with the same fond exasperation he’d been giving him all his life. “The fever is burning him, lad. If we don’t do something to beat it back, it’ll burn him all up, and he’ll be gone. This – along with the ice rose – is our best option.”
Erik glanced toward the bed, shocked all over again by the paleness of Oliver’s face. He was nearly the same color as the sheets. Herleif had gotten like that, right at the end, in that snatched moment before Erik was hustled from the room: the rosy bloom of the early fever had given way to the marble white of death.
He took a breath, and it dragged and caught painfully in his chest. “Fine,” he gritted out. “We’ll do it.”
“Very good, your majesty. Ladies, if I could have you out of the room – yes, thank you.”
Tessa lingered a moment, hand pressed to the back of Oliver’s lifeless one.
Revna sought Erik’s gaze on her way out, and he could read the mingled support and concern in her eyes, the same blue as his own – but softer. More openly loving.
When she encouraged him – when she’d spoken that first night of the fever, nudging him toward something he wasn’t supposed to want and definitely couldn’t have, so full of understanding and love without judgement – he couldn’t help but feel that he was failing her. She wanted him to be happy, and in that way, he would always let her down.
The door closed behind the women, and Olaf turned to his assistants. “All right, boys, if you get on this side, and you get on that side, we’ll–”
“No.”
