Page 36 of Blood of Wolves

“Gods,” Snorri murmured.

Erik curled his hand around his spoon until his knuckles cracked, the sound echoing in the mostly-empty room.

Oliver swallowed down a wave of nausea and said, “Well, then, we should–”

“Captain!”

They all turned toward the flurry of a young soldier pelting into the mess hall. Thin beard just coming in, and big, frantic eyes, he couldn’t have been older than sixteen.

“Captain – your majesty!” He executed a stiff, belated bow when he noticed Erik. He straightened, huffing and red-faced.

“What is it, lad?” Snorri asked.

The boy had to gulp a few breaths before he said, “A falcon’s just arrived – no, a hawk! A hunting hawk! It had a message for the prince.”

The bench scraped and nearly overturned in their haste to get up and out of the room.

Outside, the snow that had plagued the last leg of their trip had become a near white-out, the air thick and humid with fat flakes. A man was just visible in the swirl of it, one who coalesced into Leif as they approached, snowflakes fast melting on the hood of his cloak. He held one arm across his body, and with the other used his cloak to shelter the bedraggled hawk that perched on his gauntlet, feathers wet and clumped-up, eyes closed and head tipped forward in exhaustion. The hand that held the cloak also clutched a scrap of parchment.

His face lifted, as they reached him, eyes wide in a pale face. “It’s Él,” he said, and that must have meant something to Erik, because he sucked in an audible breath. “Uncle, Mother sent her. The Sels – they’ve arrived in the harbor.”

~*~

The dead always pulled harder at him, after he’d walked amongst them too long. He drifted in the icy plane between realms, long-form nightmares in which cold hands gripped him, clawed him, pried open his jaws and reached scabrous fingers down his throat, choking him.

It would have been bearable if it had only been a product of his imagination: a wild nightmare from which he could wake, shaking but whole.

But the world of the dead was a real place – as real as anything magic could be – and he always wondered if, the more time he spent there, against his will, the faster the dead would drain him away, until he was nothing but the shriveled husk his father had been at the end.

Náli woke coughing. His eyes sprang open, and his body heaved, as if his lungs were full of water. He rolled onto his side, hacking until his throat ached, the phantom taste of corpse flesh heavy on his tongue, making him gag.

Through a screen of tears, as his lungs betrayed him, he managed to take in something of his surroundings. He lay on his side, furs soft and warm beneath him, and over him – wrapped too tight, now, as he tried to shove them off. He saw the blaze of candles, heard the crack of a fire. He was indoors – in a proper room somewhere, and not a tent. How long had he been unconscious? Where was he?

He finally managed to drag in a full breath, and pushed up onto an elbow, his body heavy and dragging. Before he could get any farther – if he even could, given his state of weakness – a weight depressed the mattress by his legs, and a familiar hand landed on his hip. He recognized it even through layers of cloth and fur.

A likewise familiar voice said, “Easy, my lord. Here.” A cup was offered, warm, fragrant steam curling up beneath his nose. Lavender tea.

I don’t fucking want lavender tea, he thought with a vicious inner snarl.

But outwardly, the noise was more of a whimper, and he allowed Mattias to wrap his limp hand around the cup and transfer the tea. It was an effort to firm up his grip and keep hold of it; he hated the way the heat of tea bleeding through metal was instantly soothing. He brought the rim to shaky lips and managed a few swallows; the lavender calmed his throat at once.

He blinked his vision clearer and sat up the rest of the way. Mattias’s hand caught his forearm – large enough that his fingertips could meet, fully encircling him – and steadied him. His face, when Náli finally forced himself to look at it, was full of worry – and that was as familiar as everything else.

Náli’s gut twisted; the last thing he’d said to Mattias had been ugly. Disrespectful, dismissive, and out of place. Mattias was always concerned about him, always had been, always would be. It shouldn’t have chafed at him – in truth, it hadn’t. The frustration lodged now in his throat, in his chest, was one that had been building slow and steady for a long time. He usually kept it well in-hand, but after the festival, after being abducted, using too much magic…his control was slipping. Ragged at the edges and ready to shred.

He glanced toward the fire, and took another sip of tea. When he spoke, it felt like claws in his throat; sounded like he’d been screaming – maybe he had. There were a dozen questions he could have asked, all of which he’d asked over the years, each time he pushed himself too far and woke to find that he’d lost time. But the most important one was the one he asked now: “How long?”

Mattias took a moment to answer, the lightness in his tone obviously forced when he said, “A day.”

Náli sucked in a quick breath before he could stop himself. It was the longest he’d ever been unconscious after walking with the dead. He’d passed out plenty, but usually woke within an hour or two, or sooner. Sometimes it was nothing more than a momentary swoon, blinking to find that Mattias’s hands had gripped his waist, steadying him. A biscuit would be pressed into his hand and then he was back to normal, if a little queasy and tired.

But awhole day.

Náli lifted his gaze from the hearth, the merrily crackling flames there, and surveyed the rest of the room. It was small, its furnishings comfortable, but plain. Crude hangings on the rough timber walls depicted mountain and sunset scenes, none of the threads glimmering, the edges lacking gems, or tassels, or embellishments of any kind.

Long Reach. He’d missed more than a day, in truth. The party had been set to depart yesterday afternoon, and now, judging by the glimpse of window he spotted behind a crooked tapestry, night had fallen.

Náli swallowed past the lump in his throat and managed to sip more tea without retching. He didn’t have to ask how things had progressed, once he’d fainted. He knew with certainty that Mattias had bundled him into one of the sleighs, probably alongside some other worthless invalid, covered him with furs and ridden alongside on the grueling journey here. His whole Guard would have flanked the vehicle, keeping watch over their lord. Then, upon arrival, Mattias would have carried him himself; found him a bed, brewed his tea; waited.

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