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“I know,” she agreed. “That’s why I’m thinking it can’t simply be walls – we need traps. We can’t outpower the Sels, so we’ll have to outthink them.”
“How very optimistic of you,” Connor said. He’d recovered his usual demeanor, as they sipped tea and pored over charts; he’d relaxed into his chair, an elbow propped on its arm, stroking idly at his scruffy chin. “Speaking of the North: what of them? Will Oliver’s king ride to our rescue?”
Amelia sighed. “I haven’t asked outright, yet.”
She earned three baffled glances.
“They’ve been busy! With rebuilding, and the winter storms at sea, and the wedding. I will ask, though.”
Edward looked grim. “That alliance was the entire point of the wedding, was it not?”
Amelia nodded. “I’ll ask,” she repeated, more firmly. And pray for a favorable answer.
~*~
“His Guard had him all bundled up. The sleigh even has a brazier in it so they can continually heat bricks to lay at his feet,” Oliver said as he poured two generous cups of wine. “Mattias said this has happened before, and they’re confident they can get him home safe and sound, get him back on his feet.” He frowned as he turned away from the sideboard and offered Erik one of the cups. “You should have seen Mattias’s face, though. He’s devastated.”
Belatedly, Oliver realized what he’d said, and winced inwardly.
Erik – also devastated, but for a different reason – didn’t appear to be listening. He didn’t take the cup, examined his rings, instead, turning the wide, platinum bands on his fingers, so the gemstones winked in the incoming sunlight.
It was midday, now. Náli and his Dead Guard were headed as quick as they could for the Fault Lands.
Leif had taken Ragnar out to what remained of the Sel encampment, to see if Ragnar’s dealings with them might yield some greater insight into all they’d left behind.
Oliver was tired, skin buzzing faintly with the aftereffects of magic, and he needed a drink, badly. He set Erik’s cup down on the window ledge and took a healthy sip of his own.
“Erik–” he started, before a knock sounded at the door.
It was Revna, and she looked – well, she looked terrible. Her usual straight-backed, regal posture was more of a slump; her hair was loose on her shoulders, without beads or braids; and her face was pale, downright sickly, with lips bloodless and eyes smudged with sleepless shadows.
Oliver took another sip of wine in an effort to swallow an exclamation of alarm.
Erik, though, turned away from the window and said, “Holy gods, you look–” He caught himself, but Revna paused on her way toward the desk, head lifting, eyes flashing momentarily.
“Go on, dear brother. I look what?” Her voice held the faintest quaver. Something was wrong, but Oliver had no idea what that might be – unless she was taking this whole business with Leif even harder than Erik. That made sense, given she was his mother, and she hadn’t been in attendance this morning, come to think of it.
“You look,” Oliver stepped in, while Erik’s eyebrows jerked up and down in comical fashion, “as though you could use a cup of tea. Shall I put the kettle on?”
Revna’s gaze snapped to him, and Oliver wanted to dive beneath a table. Good gods, she was furious. “What I need,” she hissed, “is for this bloody wedding to be over already. I have–” She froze. Her eyes widened, face going a shade paler, suddenly.
Erik took a step forward. “Rev?”
She held up a staying hand, whirled, and staggered across the room to lean over the empty washbasin – and vomit noisily into it.
Erik’s sharp intake of breath mirrored Oliver’s own.
It didn’t last long, and a few moments later, Revna slumped over into a chair, dashing at her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked wretched, all the fight bled out of her.
Oliver put his cup down and went to dampen a clean cloth. When he went to offer it to her, Erik was kneeling on the floor at her feet, one hand resting on her knee.
“What is it?” he was asking. “Have you taken ill?”
She accepted the cloth with a limp hand and pressed it to her forehead, eyes closing in momentary relief. “In a manner of speaking.”
Erik’s frown deepened. “Oliver, go and fetch Olaf. I’m sure he–”
But Revna waved him to silence. “No, no. I need some ginger tea, is all. And to be twenty years younger.”
