When his head listed to the side, he let it; propped his temple on his knuckles and watched, tired and helpless, as Oliver began to slowly pace the width of the rug, fiddling with the ring that Erik had given him.
“I don’t blame Askr,” he said. “Nor any of them. I’m still new to this, and there are elements of it I can’t hope to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it firsthand.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug mirrored by the humorless lift of half his mouth. “Most days I’m not sure I believe myself.”
“I believe you.”
“You’re biased.”
Erik felt a fast, but quickly-killed flare of temper. No one had ever questioned him as much as Oliver; it was his right as a paramour… but this wasn’t questioning. Not really. “If you’ll remember,” he said, levering fondness into his tone, “I was the one who told you of the existence of drakes.”
Oliver kept pacing, but shot him a sideways glance, loaded with sass.
Erik sat back in his chair, relieved at the sight. “I was raised in the North, darling. I don’t doubt magic, nor do the others.”
Oliver’s lips pressed together, a wry, flat pretend smile. “So it’s me they doubt.”
“Ollie—”
He lifted a hand in a bid for silence, and turned to walk the length of the rug once more. “No, no. They’re right to.”
“What?”
Oliver stopped, and turned to face him, hands clasped together. His expression did something tense and unfamiliar that Erik didn’t like at all.
His pulse kicked up a step, and Erik repeated, “What?”
Oliver’s look of indecipherable concentration intensified. “They’re right to doubt me. Probably they shouldn’t listen to me at all. And neither should you.”
It was, without question, the strangest thing Oliver had ever said to him. It was alarming. Erik’s heart slammed inside his chest.
He sat up straight and said, “Oliver, what is this? Where is this coming from?”
Rather than answer, Oliver resumed pacing, hands at his sides this time, using his thumbs to crack each finger with a sequence of nervous flicks. “Is the war winnable?”
Erik was beginning to wish he’d poured himself a cup of wine before beginning this conversation. “Is the… every war is winnable.”
Oliver sent him a dark look. “Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you.”
“What would you have me say? That I’ve led my entire nation to war, but I don’t think we can win?”
Oliver spun toward him, brows drawn. “Did you?”
“No.” He was more than a little stung. “I’m not Náli. I’m not some—some cocksure child who thinks he’s invincible.”
“Náli is actually quite frightened and morbid all the time.”
“You know what I mean, Oliver,” Erik growled, half expecting Oliver to recoil.
He didn’t.
It's been a hot minute since I worked on the Drake Chronicles, so I was convinced I would have a tough time changing gears and getting back to it. My paperback proofs of Beware of Dog are set to arrive today, so I'm working on Avarice of the Empire in the meantime.
To my pleasant surprise, I was able to dive right back into this world. Book Five left us in a bit of a lurch, and plenty of readers expressed their anger/disappointment in Oliver, and even Leif. Book Six offers us some *revelations* on both those fronts, and I'll reiterate that everything is going to be okay with Erik and Oliver. And even Leif. And Amelia. I said before: let me cook.
The good news is that I feel sure I can make Book Seven the final book in the series. Yay! So AOTE, and the one more. I'm looking forward to wrapping things up and having the whole story out there. In the way of all ongoing fantasy sagas, things have to get worse before they can get better, but they definitely will get better. I don't do sad endings.
Once I'm finished with BoD edits, I can turn my full attention to the Drakes, and I'm hoping to get this one out before the fall. Fingers crossed!
Great news on both books!
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