Page 82 of Blood of Wolves

“I was part of the family. And I knew my cousins loved me. I even got to attend the balls and soirees. Without any of the pressure that comes with overseeing the health and prosperity of a duchy. And I was certainly never asked to perform necromancy, nor sit vigil over a fire mountain lest it destroy the whole kingdom. The mantle you wear is a heavy one, Náli,” he said, seriously. “And I’m not saying that to flatter you – you know me, I’m not a flatterer.”

That earned another ghost of a smile.

“I’m saying that it can be hard to bear all that you do, and to hold yourself poised all the time. Life is balance: you have to be able to let your hair down sometimes – so to speak; all you bloody Northerners and your long hair.” He rolled his eyes, and Náli snorted. “What I’m saying is: if you need to set that weight down sometimes, and just scream, or throw things, or feel sorry for yourself for a while, you can do that with me. I don’t count.”

Náli sighed, and slung his arm around Valgrind’s neck; let him support his weight, a task which Valgrind seemed all too happy to take up. “What do you mean you ‘don’t count’?” he grumbled. “You’re the king’s bloody consort.”

“I’m an outsider,” Oliver corrected. “I don’t care if you live up to expectation or carry on the family tradition, or whatever it is you think you have to do around everyone else. None of that matters to me.”

Náli regarded him a long moment, and then slumped down further, so that his grip on Valgrind was all that held him upright. The drake nuzzled into his side, and Náli accepted it. “I wasn’t supposed to go to the Yule Feast,” he said, sounding defeated – and small. Not only young, but not a large lad, either, though he puffed himself up and exuded a larger-than-life aura…usually. This was not a lord, an heir, nor a necromancer in front of Oliver, now, but just a frightened, unhappy young man. “All the lords go, true, but, I’m not like them. I hadn’t been down into the well in a long while–”

“The well?”

“You don’t want to know,” Náli said, wearily. “It’s old magic. Family magic. Suffice to say, if I don’t tend to it regularly, I grow weaker and the mountain grows stronger. I have to speak to the dead – Mother says one of my ancestors didn’t, and that he went stark raving mad before the end.” A grim smile. “Maybe I’m already there, who knows. But I hadn’t been, and I needed to. But I left, instead, first for the holiday, then for the festival. Mattias has wanted me to return home the entire time. And now here I am flying the wrong direction, on adragon.” He massaged at the bridge of his nose. “I have to return after this. I have to do down into the well. And what’s worse: Mother has promised to hold another one of those horrid courtship balls upon my return. She’s already invited everyone; they’re just waiting for me.”

“Courtship ball.” Oliver’s mouth went dry at the thought. He’d attended one, once, as Amelia and Tessa’s escort; had watched the young, marriageable ladies fidget with cups of punch and their printed fans, while the mothers eyed the bachelors like hungry wolves out for prey. There had been little iced cakes, and a string quartet in the corner, and an air of desperation about it all. Both sexes had known why they were there, and only a few had enjoyed the process, the rest a crush of awkward first dances and ungainly back-of-the-hand kisses. “If yours are anything like the ones in Drakewell–”

“Worse, I imagine. Because there’s a dozen ladies and only one eligible bachelor.” He shuddered. “The sooner I produce an heir, the better. That’s a fact that’s been impressed upon me since birth. My magic is taxing; I have to secure the lineage, and secure it soon.”

And not just for the sake of a title and a manor house, Oliver knew, but for the safety of the whole kingdom. That was too weighty a knowledge to bear for one boy on his own.

Náli sniffed, but his eyes stayed dry. “I’ve only ever loved one person. And he’s supposed to stand guard outside my bedchamber door while I try to beget an heir on my bride.”

“I’m sorry.” It felt like a paltry offering – probably because it was.

Náli twitched a sad smile. “Not your fault.” He scrubbed a hand across his face, straightened, and pulled on his gloves. “I suppose we should be off.”

The sky had lightened as they talked, fat, slanted bars of white sunlight now beaming up from the horizon. “Probably, yeah.” Oliver slipped on his own gloves and turned back toward Percy.

“Oliver.”

He glanced back over his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

They mounted, and with leaps, and the clap of strong wings, they melted up into the sunrise, flying for home – and war.

17

Aeres

Midmorning sunlight blazed on golden armor; glinted off the buckles of greaves and breastplates. Rows of fallen Sels, slumped like broken, metal-cast figures in the snow, which their compatriots stepped over and pushed aside. They were an unending tide, pressing forward each time a fresh line was dropped by a hail of arrows.

Sweat poured down Rune’s body despite the cold. He dashed it from his brow with the back of his glove; blinked it from his eyes. “We’re going to run out of arrows.”

As he said it, another twang, hiss, rush, and a fresh volley went up and over the walls, arcing, the shadows of hundreds of shafts moving across the bailey like that of a vast flock of ravens, before it fell into the enemy ranks.

“Aye, we will if we keep shooting,” Bjorn agreed. “We have to save some for the end, for when the ladders go up.”

Rune’s breath caught. His mother had offered nothing but assurances that the walls wouldn’t be breached, but here now, on the ramparts, Bjorn was talking of ladders as if they were pre-supposed.

“But, look,” he continued, unaware or uncaring of Rune’s unsteady panting beside him. “They’ve closed ranks. Now we can hit them with the real firepower.”

Rune gaped at him a moment, struck dumb by his own fear, and then remembered. “The catapults!”

Bjorn nodded. “Give the signal.”

“Right.” He dragged air into lungs gone raw from the cold. “Archers! Hold!” The call rippled down through the ranks, from mouth-to-mouth. The archers – his archers – lowered their bows, ready for the next command. “Make ready catapults!”

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