Chapter 21 #2
Snow sprayed as Rune slid down beside him. “What? What is it?”
“Matti,” Náli croaked out. “I have to dreamwalk. I have to talk to him. He has to warn Erik.”
“Warn him about what?”
“Oh…” Náli lifted his head so he could glare at Rune’s befuddled, pink-cheeked face. “You can’t be this stupid. I have to warn him that we’re all going to be slaughtered the moment we enter the city!”
“We don’t know that.”
“Do you…are you…” Náli gestured sharply toward Aquitaine. “Did you see how many drakes they have? How large some of them are? And that’s not counting their soldiers, their long-range weapons, their—” He broke off, out of breath, and shook his head. “Just shut up. Leave me alone. Let me go walking.”
Rune frowned, lips pressing tight together, but didn’t argue.
Náli hunkered down in the snow, banded his arms tight around his middle, closed his eyes, and sought the Between.
It took him much longer than it should have to leave his physical form and find the gray, waving acres of grass of the astral plane. The distant mountains gnawed at the white sky, as usual…but he saw a plume of black smoke rising from beyond the peaks. That was new.
“Matti?” he called, turning in a circle. He pressed his hand over the diamond he wore around his neck, searched for his lover, and tugged. “Mattias.”
The captain of the Dead Guard phased into sudden existence with a pop. He looked one way, then the other, brow furrowed, knees bent, hand on his sword hilt, ready for a fight. Then he faced forward, spotted Náli, and melted.
Náli had spent his entire adolescence pining for Mattias.
Even when he was too young for lustful thoughts, he’d wanted to sit close to him, to ride on his shoulders, to earn a compliment or a smile from him; wanted to send the other Guards away so it was just the two of them, practicing with swords or skipping rocks.
And then he’d been older, and he’d wanted to be kissed, and held, and loved.
So fierce and selfish had his want been that he hadn’t noticed the subtle signs of Mattias’s suffering.
But now that the seal of professionalism was thoroughly broken between them, Mattias didn’t guard his reactions.
Náli wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to seeing such open and eager adoration.
It filled his stomach with butterflies every time—and now was no different.
Despite his current dire circumstances, Náli took a moment to bask, in the short spell of time it took Mattias to close the gap between them, and cup his cheek, and smile down at him.
“Are you well?” he asked.
Then reality crashed over him, crushing all the butterflies. He gripped the front of Mattias’s tunic. “Matti, listen. We reached the edge of the city. Rune and I.”
Mattias blinked, and then frowned. “Has something happened to Lady Tessa?”
“She was taken. Kidnapped by a Sel solider on a bloody huge drake.”
“Gods.”
“We’re relatively safe, for now. We still have the three drakes.”
The frown deepened. “I should have come with you. You won’t stay safe for long.”
Náli ground his knuckles into Mattias’s chest. “That’s neither here nor there. Just listen. You have to give Erik a message.”
As he always did, Mattias listened.
~*~
Time lost all meaning underground. There was no sunrise, no sunset.
No stars, no breeze, no smell of new, good things growing in springtime.
They marked the passage of days by the burning of torches, of which they were running low.
Erik didn’t know if they’d reach the end of the under-mountain pass before they ran out completely.
If so, he supposed they’d press on with their fingertips trailing along the cavern walls, praying to all the gods that they didn’t run into a fork in the path.
Erik sat on a saddlebag, because Birger had laid a hand on his shoulder, and murmured, “You’re asleep on your feet.
Lie down, lad.” He’d sat instead, a compromise.
A small fire of sticks warmed his hands, but not much else.
He watched the flames, and counted down the minutes in his head until they could move again.
Exhaustion didn’t matter, nor did soreness, hunger, thirst. All that mattered was reaching the end of the tunnel, and laying waste to every Sel he could find.
He heard the scuff of boots on the stone cave floor, and the rush of footsteps was nearly on top of him before he realized they were headed his direction.
When he lifted his head, he saw one of Náli’s Dead Guards skid into the orange pool of firelight, out of breath from running, his eyes big and round in the half-dark. The skull embroidered on the front of his tunic seemed to glow.
“Your majesty,” he panted. “Your majesty, I’ve come with a message from Lord Náli.”
Erik’s thoughts were sluggish—alarmingly so. He felt drunk. But he knew the voice, and knew, after a long moment spent staring at the man, that if Náli had communicated with Mattias—that was his name—then it had been through magic and dreams.
Erik blinked a few more times, and then realized a response was necessary. “Yes. In the other place?”
“The Between.” Mattias kept a respectful tone, because he was well-trained, and polite in general, but Erik could hear the undercurrent of panic in his voice. It helped him slough off some of his grief-stricken malaise.
He stood, though it pained him, sharp stabs in his lower back, his hips, his knees.
He was getting older, he knew, and had lived a warrior’s life; until now, until Oliver was taken, he’d never stopped to dwell on how old he was starting to feel, all those aches and pains that nagged at him.
He felt ancient, now, and that, more than Mattias’s urgency, was a good swift kick in the trousers.
“The Between, yes,” Erik said, firmer now. Surer of himself. Whatever his worry for Oliver, whatever might have happened, he was a king. He couldn’t abandon his people over personal anguish. “What of it? What’s happened?”
Mattias told him.
After, Erik thanked him, dismissed him, and moved down the line of dozing horses to find Birger, who was deep in conversation with a worried-looking Magnus.
“Erik!” they both said together, with obvious surprise, when he appeared in front of them. Clearly, he was the topic of discussion.
“Are you feeling better?” Birger asked, expression carefully schooled.
Erik hated that; Birger had never been anything but honest with him, no matter how bitter the truth, and he didn’t like being handled with kid gloves now.
Like he wasn’t just fretting over his lover, but incapacitated somehow. “Are you—”
“I’m fine. Listen.”
“Erik, do you—” Magnus started.
“No. Listen to me. I’ve had word from Náli about what’s happening in Aquitainia.”
They listened. As they did, their brows climbed steadily higher, until Magnus looked as though his eyes might pop right out of his head.
“Erik,” Birger said, afterward. “No one believes in this army more than me. But we can’t fight that.”
“I know,” Erik said. “The Phalanx can’t operate in its usual formation. But I won’t retreat. They have Oliver, and Tessa, and likely Amelia as well. Drakes or no drakes, I don’t mean to abandon them.”
“Then…how will we do it?” Magnus asked.
Erik smiled for the first time since Oliver was taken. “We’re going to take after Ragnar.”
“What?” Birger said, alarmed.
“We’re going to be sneaky.”
~*~
Tessa was awakened at first light by the bustle of slaves in her room, stoking the fire, flipping open trunks, pushing the drapes wide to let in the early spring sunshine.
For a moment, before she opened her eyes, she imagined she was back in Drakewell, in her childhood bedroom.
That it was her maid, Kimberly, coming to wake her for toast and tea, a day dress already laid out.
In that first swimmy handful of seconds, she smiled to herself, thinking of spring flowers in the conservatory, and butterflies in the garden, a good book, and delicate iced cakes after dinner.
But then she opened her eyes, and beheld that intricate coffered ceiling of her palace room, and panic closed around her throat like a vise.
“Good morning, my lady,” a slave with a pretty accent said, and a tray rattled down onto the bedside table. “Here’s your breakfast. Your dress is ready. Once you’re up, Prince Lucius is going to take you for a walk.”
She sat up, and rubbed the crust from her eyes.
The stress of last night’s dinner, the constant effort of worry, had knocked her unconscious the moment her head touched the pillow last night.
But rather than well-rested, she felt as though she’d drunk an entire bottle of wine last night, shaky and queasy. “A walk?”
“Yes, my lady.” The slave was tiny, and pale, and moved with brisk efficiency, not smiling, but wearing a pleasant expression.
“Here.” Now that Tessa was sitting, the tray was placed over her lap, resting on its short legs.
The slave pulled off the cloche, revealing the promised toast, tea, and a dish of sliced melon.
“Prince Lucius expects you in an hour at the garden gate.”
Tessa didn’t bother to ask what would happen if she dallied or refused to go. She picked up a triangle of toast and forced herself to eat through the nausea.
Exactly one hour later, she ducked through a heavy wooden door into the sunlight, breakfasted, powdered, coifed, and dressed in a simple (for Sels) day dress of ivory and gold. Her slippers had entirely too many diamonds encrusted on the toes, but no other shoes had been offered.
The slave pulled the door shut behind her without comment, and she stood a moment, blinking against the brightness of the day, getting her bearings.