Chapter 11 #2
It had to stop. He had to stop. He half-wondered if this relapse in his marsh fever was some sort of cosmic punishment for betraying not only his beloved, but his family, his friends, his country.
The Oliver Meacham who’d first traveled north with his cousin, uncertain of the future in general, and the Northern king in specific, would be appalled by his behavior lately.
His deception, his dishonesty, his malleability.
He was a whore, and didn’t deserve Erik’s trust and respect, much less the title of consort.
Pair that ugly realization with the harsh truth that he wasn’t physically fit to take to the sky, and there was really only one response to Erik’s earlier plea.
He dropped his hands, opened his eyes, and said, “All right. I’ll go through the tunnels with you.”
~*~
“You’re not flying with us?”
Oliver didn’t look as if he ought to be standing, let alone riding a dragon, but hearing him sniffle, watching him weave on his feet and wipe his nose as he told her and Náli that he would not accompany them over the mountains, sent a cold spike of fear through her stomach.
Tessa felt more confident each time she climbed aboard Alfie’s back, but she’d never gone flying without Oliver and Percy to lead the way.
Sels awaited them on the other side of the peaks, and none of them knew what weapons or magic they possessed.
Oliver started to shake his head, then winced, and rubbed at his temple with a shaking hand. His voice lowered, and wavered, no longer the forced tone of his initial proclamation. When his eyes lifted to meet hers, they were red-rimmed, and he sounded frightened when he whispered, “Tessa, I can’t.”
She skirted a glance toward Náli, but found him frowning down at the toes of his boots, kicking idly at pebbles with his hands jammed at his waist in irritated fashion.
If he was listening, he didn’t give the appearance that he was.
Anger radiated off of him, a surprising amount.
Though she spoke his name, he didn’t acknowledge her.
She turned back to Oliver. Stepped in close, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ollie. What’s the matter with you?” She reached toward his forehead, but then retracted her hand when she saw the oily sheen of sweat there.
“Isn’t it obvious?” She thought he tried to smile, but it was only a grim twitch of his lips, before his face fell again, slack with exhaustion, eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. “The marsh fever has returned.”
“But it’s been so long! You’ve been so well! You are sun-browned, and you have muscle, and you look healthy.” She tipped her head to the side, hoping that seeing him from a different angle would help. It didn’t. “Or you have looked healthy. Before today.”
“I’m sick, Tessa.”
“I thought the sapphire was helping. Or Percy was. I thought you’d found a cure.”
“So did I.” His throat bobbed in a painful-looking way when he swallowed. “But here we are.” He flapped his arms, a sluggish, useless little gesture that seemed to tire him further.
Despite the sweat, Tessa reached to tuck an escaped lock of hair behind his ear. It was getting so long, braided tightly on the sides, but damp and limp with sweat, dusty on top from the road. “It must be all the traveling,” she tutted. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“Nothing.” His lashes fluttered, then lifted with obvious effort. “You can try not to die flying over the mountains.”
Tessa snatched her hand back in shock. She wasn’t offended—wasn’t even shocked, truly.
She’d killed a man with a sword in the halls of the palace at Aeres.
But Oliver had always handled her so carefully; always gentle, mannerly, as though he felt responsible not just for her physical safety, but for her feelings as well.
Now, though, all delicacy lay abandoned. Further proof of his illness.
“I’ll come with you through the tunnels,” she decided. “Erik will be leading the men, and someone needs to look after you.”
He started to shake his head, and once more aborted the motion with a grimace. “No. I’ll be…” He took a deep, unsteady breath in the middle of his sentence. “Fine. I’ll tie myself to the saddle if I have to. Erik said something about a sledge.”
“Ollie.” He needed proper rest. A bed. Broth and honey. She thought of the massive tub back in Aeres, where Olaf had packed him in snow and ice to bring his temperature down. They had no such resources here, and no chance for rest.
“Percy knows what to do,” he said, beginning to pant. “But the drakes need a Drake with them. They need you. Valgrind adores Náli, but he holds no sway over the others. Should something unexpected happen, he’ll be next to worthless.”
Again, Tessa was startled by his blunt honesty.
And Náli finally took notice of them.
“Oh!” he scoffed, loudly, pivoted, and kicked a fist-sized rock toward Oliver.
“Stop that! What are you doing?” Tessa said. “He’s sick!”
Náli ignored her. The rock missed its mark, tumbling several paces wide of Oliver’s boots.
He stalked over in its wake, narrow jaw set, eyes flashing.
“Useless?” he snarled. “And what will you be doing while we fly over a mountain range, Your Lordship? Swooning? Falling off a horse? Worrying your lover into an early grave?”
When Náli raised a hand, Tessa snatched his sleeve before he had the chance to deliver whatever sort of blow he intended. “Náli!”
He ripped away from her, but thankfully stepped back from Oliver. Lip curled in a nasty sneer, he said, “Good luck to you, Oliver. Have fun being useful.” He turned and stormed toward the sapling Valgrind was rapidly splintering as he sharpened his claws.
“What in the gods’ names—” Tessa started, watching him go, and Oliver shushed her.
“Leave him. He’s right. No one’s more useless than me.”
When she faced him, she swore he’d grown two shades paler in a matter of seconds. She knew that the marsh fever progressed rapidly, but not this rapidly.
“Oliver—”
He took a step back from her, stumbled, and nearly fell. She lifted her hands in a fruitless attempt at steadying him. He was too far to touch; suddenly, she couldn’t recall the last time they’d had anything like a meaningful conversation.
He met her gaze, and despite all the obvious signs of sickness, she didn’t think the fever was to blame for the hard glimmer of his eyes. Resolute, hopeless, almost as though he was grieving.
“You can do this, Tessa,” he said. “Get the drakes over the mountains. Meet us there. Stay safe.”
Then he turned, without an embrace, or a cousinly kiss, or so much as a smile, and trudged back toward Erik.
Ice-cold fear gripped Tessa by the throat.
There was illness, with all its attendant misery, and then there was Oliver’s morose display, bereft of all his usual love and affection.
Even sick, even woozy and battling a fever, the cousin she’d grown up with in Drakewell would have told her that he loved her.
Would have offered a reassurance, said something to make her laugh, and ease her nerves.
Something was badly wrong, something besides the marsh fever.
“You know what’s caused this, don’t you?”
Absorbed in her worry, she hadn’t heard Náli approach, and jumped when his voice sounded in her ear. She pressed a hand to her leaping heart and said, “What? The marsh fever? He’s had it since he was a boy. Since his father dragged him through the swamp during the last war.”
Náli’s mouth tugged to the side, a wry expression several shades shy of a smile. His voice was grim and disappointed. “He hasn’t told you, then? About how stupid he’s been?”
“What are you talking about?”
He stood watching Oliver’s uneven, shuffling retreat, and turned to her after a long beat, his eyes huge and silver-blue in his pale face. The heat of spring had posted pink flags high on his regal cheekbones.
Weeks ago, he and Oliver had been fast friends. She couldn’t believe the animosity in his expression now.
“Your sweet Ollie,” he said, mockingly, “has been visiting with the Immortal Emperor Unchallenged in the Between in secret.”
She heard the words, but wasn’t sure she’d heard them correctly.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Oh yes. Romanus Tyrsbane asked after him when he tried to decapitate me on the other side. The ‘red whore,’ he called him. I didn’t realize at the time how true that moniker was.” On the last, he flashed a nasty, toothy smile, eyes tight with unhappiness.
Tessa might not have a clue what Náli was getting at—it sounded like a made-up story, the sort of ugly gossip that had plagued Oliver when he was growing up, the unwanted bastard of an unfaithful husband—but she understood whore well enough.
She drew herself upright, shoulders back, chin forward.
“Oliver is not a whore. Don’t you dare call him that. ”
He huffed and rolled his eyes, but not in his usual flippant way.
That sharp edge of anger, of hurt, remained, his movements fast and imprecise.
“I just told you: the emperor called him that, not me. And then Oliver, the great fool—he is that, and you can make that face at me all you like, but it’s the truth, he’s a fool—met with the emperor. Countless times. Purposefully.”
“No,” she said, but weakly. She didn’t want to believe any part of this…but she’d only seen Náli this serious a handful of times, and despite his theatric tendencies, she could tell that the way he vibrated with stress now was no act. “Ollie wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”