Page 8 of Heart of Winter
Once upon a time, hundreds of years past, the people of Aquitania – before it had even been Aquitania – had lived in tens, and huts, and lean-tos made of crude woven branches. They existed in tribes, ruled by warlords, living off hunting, and fishing, and gathering, dressed in animal skins, if dressed at all. They’d worn their hair long, and their beards longer; had painted their bodies with blue paint when warlord clashed with warlord over petty territory conflicts. Bloodshed was plentiful, in war, and in sacrifice: wicker cages filled with screaming virgins, set ablaze by the druid priests that read entrails, and bones, and scried in pottery bowls of blood.
Then a king had come down from the frozen Northern seas, in his longships, with his large, strong, disciplined armies, and their iron weapons. The Aeretolleans conquered the vast tracts of what would become Aquitania; married their people, brought better weapons, and medicine, and literacy. And then, finally, when their forces had waned and lost interest or simply interbred too deeply to leave, those who wished to do so withdrew. Aquitania became one of the world’s great kingdoms, and Aeretoll became the barbarian in all the tales.
An idea that persisted, still.
But here was evidence to the contrary. Here werebooks.
They lined the walls floor to ceiling, and more were stacked and lay open on the heavy carved tables in the center of the floor, as if someone had dashed off in the middle of reading. The fire was unlit, but the room was still warm, even with so many windows, which offered the soft, white, misty light of the foothills in profusion – a quiet light that seemed respectful of all the knowledge this room contained.
He strolled along the edges of the room, noting the supple leather covers, and those of wood; the rolled-up parchments and the loose pages stacked and tied with string. Alcoves in the windowsills offered pillows and furs, quiet places to read with a book titled toward the sunlight. Dozens of candles – unlit now – had melted and dripped down iron candelabrum on the tables, and on stands throughout the room. An arched opening let into a small, but high-ceiling scriptorium, full of easels tall enough for standing, and low enough for sitting, stools poised beneath them.
A project lay spread across an easel pointed toward him, and curiosity drew him forward.
The page had been illuminated with colored inks, patterned in geometrics at the borders, the first letter of text boxed with red, overlarge for the page. What captured his attention, though, was the sketch at the bottom of the page, a very lifelike drawing of King Erik, and make no mistake. He wore a crown in this image, one with intricate gold inlay antlers engraved in its heavy sides. The king’s expression was much like the one he’d worn just an hour ago in the great hall, the strong lines of his face set in uncompromising lines. The eyes were piercing; the artist knew him well enough to have captured him properly – not just his face, but his gaze, the power of it.
That’s a fanciful thought, he scolded himself. Tessa was glad to think that she wouldn’t have to marry the king, and Leif was definitely a handsome, well-built lad, and much closer to her in age. But Oliver couldn’t help but think that her choice was somehow…lesser.
“What do you think?” someone asked right behind him, and he jumped and whirled with an undignified squawk.
A woman stood behind him, dressed in a simple, dark blue dress belted low on her waist in the Aeretollean fashion. She wore her brown-black hair pinned up at the back of her head in a complicated sequence of braids that left just enough loose to glow in dark waves down her back. She had blue eyes, and a strong nose, and though her smile was welcoming, and a touch mischievous – like her sons – Oliver noted the family resemblance straight off. She had something of her brother’s regal bearing, despite the kindness of her gaze.
“Oh,” Oliver said, belatedly, after he realized he’d been gaping at her like a fool. “My lady.” He offered a quick, correct bow.
When he straightened, her smile widened. “Don’t worry, Mr. Meacham, we don’t stand on ceremony here. It’s only Revna.”
Lady Revna, King Erik’s widowed sister.
He was helpless but to return her smile, her easy manner unwinding some of the tension in his belly. “Oliver, then.”
She nodded, seeming pleased, and moved to stand beside him, her gaze on the manuscript page. “I expect you’ve seen him already, my brother.” She nodded toward the sketch. “What do you think? An accurate likeness?”
He turned back to inspect the drawing, struck all over again by the energy captured in those few, dark lines. “Well, I’ve only just met him a few hours ago, but I’d say it’s a perfect likeness, yes.”
Revna breathed a low laugh. “Leaves an impression doesn’t he, my brother?”
“A bit of one.”
“I hope he wasn’t too much of a beast to you. I’m always telling him he has no manners.”
“Oh, no, it was – he was – fine.”
She snorted, and a glance proved she was smirking. “Don’t take it personally. He’s suspicious. And cynical. And I’m afraid he doesn’t much care for Aquitainians.”
Another glance found Revna’s expression amused, but still easy, bearing none of her brother’s threat. Oliver had never been brave with a sword or a bow, but he’d gotten himself in trouble with his mouth more than a few times, an odd streak of boldness that proved, in its own small way, that he was a Drake.
He cleared his throat. “About that. My lady…Revna,” he amended, when she lifted a single brow. “If he’s not fond of foreigners, why did your brother ask us to come here? My initial letter was an offer from the Lady Katherine that King Erik could have Tessa’s hand in marriage. But here we are, arrived after a long journey, and he wants her to marry your son instead.”
She sighed, and shook her head. “I warned him you wouldn’t like it. ‘Be transparent,’ I said. ‘If you don’t want the girl, say so.’ But he isn’t one for listening.” Another sigh. “Have supper with us, you and Tessa. We’ll talk things through and the two of you can decide if you want to stay.”
“All…right.”
She nodded and turned to go.
“She’s a sweet girl, Tessa,” Oliver said, and the Lady of Aeretoll paused. “She’ll make a dutiful wife.”
Revna’s head turned just enough to show the curve of a wistful smile. “I’m sure she will – for someone who isn’t my brother.”
~*~
