#BoW Teaser: The Consort and the Corpse Lord

 *Has not finished the book yet*

*Holds out lengthy Oliver and Náli-centric teaser as peace offering*

So far, Oliver had learned several truths about flying:

One: ascent and descent were the most thrilling aspects. When your stomach dropped, and the world tilted, and the dragon’s strength became most apparent.

Two: once up at a good flying height, where the drakes could glide along without working too hard, flapping only occasionally and maintaining a steady elevation, the thrill of peeking down through the clouds lost some of its shine. Oliver didn’t want to say it got boring, but, well…it was rather quiet. With just the rush of the wind in his ears, and the monotonous slap of cold air against his face.

Speaking of which…

Three: flying up in the high, cold air for long periods chapped his lips and his cheeks, and left his eyes dry and stinging.

“Gods, I can’t do this anymore.”

Four: when he wasn’t besting anyone in a duel, or playing the imperious Corpse Lord, Náli was an absolute brat.

Oliver sighed as he finished cinching Percy’s girth, patted his cool, smooth side, and turned to his flying partner. He’s young, he reminded himself. You weren’t a peach at that age, either.

Still wasn’t, as far as most people were concerned, but that was neither here nor there.

“Now, Náli,” he said, watching as Náli went through an elaborate sequence of stretches: arms overhead, touching his toes, wide reaches and lunges to both sides, twisting at the waist, back and forth. With his helmet on, and his cloak swirling around him, it was more than a little difficult to keep from laughing at the picture he made. “You can’t mean to imply that you – venerable Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands – are somehow less equipped for a long riding journey than I am.”

Náli snapped back around, scowling. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? You think I’ll fall for that?”

“No, but I think you’re whining an awful lot, and it’s getting on my nerves,” Oliver said, flatly.

That earned a snort, and a ghost of a grin.

Oliver grinned, too, and the movement pulled at a face gone tight and tired from the constant buffeting of the wind. A grin he couldn’t hold for long. “I know this isn’t fun.”

Náli rolled his eyes. “If you’re about to thank me for coming, or offer assurances that I’m doing the right thing, save your breath, because that sort of attitude really doesn’t suit you.”

Oliver’s laugh scraped at his dry throat. “You can sass me all you want, and you’re not going to get a rise out of me. I invented this game,” he said, motioning between them.

Náli wrinkled his nose and huffed. Then his expression melted into something truer: that of an exhausted young man. It was easy, when he was making faces, to overlook the gray pallor of his skin, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He’d been weak and overtaxed before this journey, and flying for an entire day surely hadn’t helped.

But Oliver was of the opinion that flying was easier on him than a grueling overland journey would have been – one that led to a clash with Ragnar and the Úlfheðnar, no less. No matter how taxing the flight was, Náli was in no shape to swing a sword.

Oliver cast a glance around them, as the sky brightened. He saw distant mountain peaks, and pine stands, and snow. Everywhere there was snow. “How much farther, do you think?”

“If we don’t stop, we should be there before nightfall.”

Oliver nodded. He’d left the direction to the drakes, after communicating with Percy that they needed to get to Aeres. Percy had pushed a mental image of the palace seen from high above, through shredded layers of cloud, and Oliver didn’t doubt they were headed the right way. Though, if left to his own devices, he couldn’t have estimated the distance left to travel.

“Good,” he said. “When we arrive, I want to come in high, and survey the scene from above, where we won’t be noticed. We’ll decide of a plan of attack from there.”

Náli smirked. “Your king would choke if he knew you were even discussing a plan of attack.”

Oliver shrugged to cover the prickling of unease that flared between his shoulder blades. “He isn’t here, so he doesn’t get a say.”

Náli’s smirk widened. “You may have started a civil war in the North, but if nothing else you’ve given us all the chance to see what a clucking old hen our sovereign is.”

“Unlike Mattias, right?” Oliver shot back, and the smirk fell away as if slapped from the boy’s face.

Then the first part of what he’d said registered. Oliver’s stomach rolled. “Wait.” His heart lurched before reason could catch up to him. “You brat: this war’s been brewing. I didn’t start anything.”

Náli arched a brow. “How sure of that are you?”

Oliver gritted his teeth and took a steadying breath. Náli was young – young, exhausted, frightened, and, ultimately, unhappy. Oliver reminded himself of this routinely, and had grown immune to all of Náli’s little barbs and stings.

This, though, went beyond whiny brattiness. This was a dig designed to leave him doubting not only himself, but his role in Aeretoll, and his place beside Erik. A low blow, and a vicious one at that.

Honestly, Oliver hadn’t expected that sort of calculated cruelty from him.

He gathered breath to respond – and then hesitated.

The North was far blunter and more direct than the South. Men challenged one another for dominance, yes, but with fists, and swords, and bold words rather than psychological warfare. Why leave someone doubting himself when you could fight him in a duel instead?

But Náli, Corpse Lord, a boy born with magic in a very practical world, wasn’t like the rest of them, was he? He would war verbally the same way he did physically: sinuous as smoke, tricksy as a cat. In a world of bears and wolves, he was a panther: alone, clever, slinking in the shadows.

And, despite their previous interactions, and their accord, and what Oliver had come to think of as a workable, if not friendly relationship, this was the first time they’d been off on their own like this. Man-to-man.

All of Aeretoll had wanted to challenge him with brawn.

But Náli was going to do it with his mind.

Sword-fighting wasn’t his forte, but this was a dance to which Oliver already knew all the steps.

He smiled in the way he always had with the young lords back home, when they wanted to remind him of their superiority and tried to pretend he hadn’t sucked them off in a coat closet at the last party. It had Náli’s smug look melting away. “I forget sometimes just how young you are. Still. I expected a stronger attempt.”

Náli’s expression locked up into something dark and disbelieving. “What?” he croaked.

“I mean no insult, my lord. It might have even worked on someone else. But you can’t appeal to guilt with a bastard: we’ve never been in charge of anything and there’s no insult we haven’t had hurled at us. We’ve been blamed for everything from our father’s infidelity, to a ruined crop.” He let his grin widen, baring his teeth. “Nice try, Corpse Lord, but there’s no fancy footwork that can help you best me in this arena.”

Náli’s eyes sprang wide. He gaped at him a moment, mouth working silently – then scowled and whirled away to adjust Kat’s girth.

The female drake turned her head to regard him critically – and then the little one came in on Náli’s side, purring in inquiry and nudging at his arm.

“Get away,” Náli hissed, swiping at him, but Valgrind made a sad noise and kept close, nosing at his arm, his hip.

Oliver stepped up on his other side, laying a hand on Kat’s shoulder. “Náli.”

He stood with his fingers hooked in the mounting stirrup, head bent down, pale lashes blinking furiously. “Shut up,” he said through tight-clenched teeth. “Just shut up.”

“No, I won’t. Because you’re very like the fire mountain of your duchy right now: anger and resentment building up, and up, and you’re going to erupt at some point. It’d be better to do it now, in front of me, who doesn’t matter at all, than to do it at Aeres in front of everyone.”

Náli growled, hand spasming on the stirrup.

Oliver risked laying a hand on his shoulder, and felt the tremors rippling through him.

“You’ve carried a heavy burden your whole life, and you’re still young–”

Náli whirled, and smacked his hand away. Eyes bright with unshed tears, lips peeled back in a snarl, his was the face of someone who’d reached the limit of all he could take. Not an eruption, but a collapse.

“What do you know?” he hissed. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me. You couldn’t – how could you – I don’t–”

Valgrind trilled a worried sound, and hooked his head over Náli’s shoulder, long blue tongue snaking out to flick at his jaw.

Náli froze, breathing in quick little puffs that steamed in front of his face, gaze shifting toward the drake. “Why is he doing this? Why won’t he leave me alone?” All the fury had bled out of his voice; his tone was pleading, frantic.

“Because he likes you.”

“But why?”

“Well, when you aren’t intentionally being a pretentious little shit, you’re actually quite likable.”

“What–” Náli scowled, and had the effect ruined by another swipe of Valgrind’s tongue. “Stop that!” He tried to shove the drake’s head away, but only got licked on the hand instead.

Oliver couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

Náli turned his fuming look on him, then. “Call off your stupid dragon.”

“No. That’s your dragon.”

“No, it bloody” – Valgrind’s tongue snaked into his ear – “n-eugggrh!”

Oliver laughed – and after another moment’s sputtering, so did Náli.

“Gods,” he groaned, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “I hate this. I hate you, and I hate him–”

“Oh, of course,” Oliver said easily, between chuckles.

Náli sighed, deflating. He finally consented to rub Valgrind behind his horns, and the drake closed his eyes and purred happily. One corner of his mouth plucked upward in a fleeting smile. A touch of fondness for the over-affectionate dragon. Then it fell away. “I do hate being me, sometimes,” he said in a quiet voice. An admission.

“I’ve never thought being a lord sounded like much fun,” Oliver commiserated.

A flicker of a glance. “Liar.”

“No…well, all right. Life is easier when you’re legitimate. You have all the good silks, and furs, and jewels. People hold you in high regard. But…I had the good silks, and furs. Not so many jewels – those were heirlooms to be passed onto trueborn sons – but I had my own horse, and I never went hungry at mealtimes. I was tutored with my cousins and never denied access to the library. My father was a right prick who didn’t care if I lived or died, but Uncle was kind, at least. He saw that I lived as well and as richly as his children, even if he didn’t dote on me. My aunt, too: she’s not warm, but that’s just her, and nothing to do with my status.

“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 a dragon.” 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 little 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.