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She blinked, took another slug of wine, and read on.
At first he kept him in the dungeons, chained up as he should be. But then – and here I wonder just how long Leif had been planning to leave us; perhaps it wasn’t spontaneous at all – he said he wanted to bring him aboveground. That he wanted him to be loose. Erik refused, at first. What was to keep him from snatching up a bread knife and skewering his way through the guards? He’s not a normal man anymore – neither of them are. They could fight a dozen regular guards at once and come out the victor.
Náli first suggested – damn him – a magicked torq, one worn round the neck like in the old stories. Leif leaped on the idea, and so Tessa and I helped to infuse it with magic. It cannot be removed by Ragnar himself. Can in fact only be removed, thanks to Náli’s direction, by love.
“Love,” she said aloud, startling herself. “It’s like a bloody fairy story.”
Then again, she rode a dragon, so…
Thanks to the torq, he’s unable to shift. He’s stuck on two legs. And Leif, as alpha now, claims to have total control over him. I’ve watched him cow the man with a growl, and it’s both an alarming and impressive sight.
But the thing I wanted to warn you about is this: He might not be able to transform into a wolf now, but Ragnar is stillverydangerous. Most especially, perhaps, to Leif. He has influence there. As Leif draws away from us, he spends more and more time with Ragnar, who is doubtless filling his head with nonsense of the wolf and man variety.
If anything good can be said to come of Leif’s insubordination, I think it will be arriving in Inglewood and meeting you. Your men and your forces. Joining the war will distract him from whatever rot Ragnar feeds him.
He is, at his heart, a good boy. I believe that still, despite the changes to his behavior.
Be careful, Lia, be on guard. But see if you can make friends with Leif. He was a capable warrior before all of this. He’ll be a devastating one now.
And he is my nephew, whom I love. Don’t judge him too harshly.
All my love.
See you soon,
Ollie
Amelia went back to the top and read the entire letter over again, without stopping. Then she set the parchment aside, slumped back in her chair, and drained the last of her wine.
Leda had been right: thiswasinteresting.
7
Because of its unique design, and, given the dangers of flying, the necessity of its maintenance, the tack for the drakes was kept not in the stable, but in a spare grain shed, under lock and key. The stableboys had offered to keep it oiled and polished, but Oliver had politely declined and saw to it himself, before and after each ride. This morning, door standing half-open to let in silvery dawn light, he sat on a low stool, saddle spread out across two hay bales in front of the brazier he’d lit to warm the leather and keep it supple, working oil into the straps with a greasy rag. He'd always enjoyed cleaning tack; it was a good, mindless task during which his thoughts could wander. Sometimes to daydreams. Sometimes to whatever sticky problem plagued him and needed puzzling over.
This morning, lower back twinging and bruises yelping each time he leaned forward, his thoughts were consumed by the scene that had played out two hours ago, in the moon-gilded dark of the study, and the fur-heaped pallet that served as makeshift bed for a king and his consort.
Oliver had swum lazily up from muddy dreams to the cold, clear cry of a wolf shivering across the open land around the palace. He’d tensed, briefly, thinking of Leif.He’s returned. But, no. It was only a normal wolf, celebrating a fresh kill.
Oliver stretched, and rolled over – and awakened fully when he caught a glimpse through slitted eyes of his lover.
Erik lay on his side, facing him – facing the window, rather. He’d gone rigid at sound of the howl, craned his head back, tendons in his neck stark and straining as he stared fixedly toward the diamond panes of glass. He wasn’t breathing; quivered all over with held tension, fingers gripping the pillow, one knee cocked up and foot braced on the mattress. He looked like a man ready to spring to his feet and go running, a shout poised on his lips. The covers had slipped down, or been thrown off, nightshirt half unlaced and gaping open across his chest; in the faint gleam of last moonlight, Oliver could see the rapid flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his throat.
He looked tortured. It was eating him, day and night, in every moment sleeping or waking: Leif’s leave-taking.
Oliver saw it as a young man wanting to make his own decisions, wrestling with his life’s upheaval, struggling with a deep bond with a man he thought he hated, but which he didn’t, and which none of them were capable of understanding.
Erik saw it as betrayal. Abandonment. In his wort moments, flush with wine, alone just the two of them, his mouth had twisted cruelly and he’d sworn that he was going to disinherit “the ungrateful bastard.”
“Don’t say that,” Oliver had snapped. “Don’t you dare say that about him just because you’re hurting.”
Erik’s gaze had flared like the blue heart of a flame…and then died, doused with a shame so heavy it rounded his shoulders.
Oliver had thought about confiding his worries to Revna – especially when she gripped his shoulder, squeezed, and said, “Sorry, lamb,” without prompt – but that had felt like another kind of betrayal…and unnecessary besides. Revna and Erik shared a special bond, yes, but it was different from his bond with Oliver; a sister could slap and reprimand, while a lover needed to take a softer approach.
“Darling,” he said, in the moonglow, while Erik’s held breath strained his chest. He reached out, and laid a hand in the deep groove between Erik’s pectorals; felt the hard thud of his heart beneath his palm. “It’s only–”
One-twoheartbeats filled his hand, and then the room filled with a low, rough growl, and spun all around them.
