Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles #1) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,3
– as the big man himself turned an appraising eye on Tessa.
His grin widened. “Aye. You’ll do nicely, lassie.”
Oliver spluttered, and managed to brace his feet and jerk his arm free. “I beg your pardon?”
The man laughed, and his hand finally withdrew. “Oh, you’re polite.” He laughed again. “See how far that gets you.” He stepped back, before Oliver could offer another protest. “Welcome to Aeretoll, my lord, my lady. This is the home of King Erik. He has sent us to retrieve you.”
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The man-who-looked-like-a-bear introduced himself as Bjorn, which was fitting. He explained, in quite cheerful tones, one massive hand still at Oliver’s elbow to keep him from almost falling again, that he was a childhood friend of the king’s, and now the captain of his guard, a contingent of which he’d brought along with him to the docks to greet them. They escorted Oliver and Tessa to a series of reindeer-drawn sleighs.
“Oh,” Tessa breathed, when she saw the deer, with their velvet antlers, and their red-dyed harnesses, stamping in the snow. “Aren’t they lovely?”
Oliver hoped they could carry them swiftly to somewhere warmer.
Bjorn climbed in with them, all but crowding Tessa into Oliver’s lap, and took up the reins. “It’s only a short trip, don’t you Southerners worry,” he said, laughing.
The lead sleigh took off, and theirs lurched forward in its wake, and then it was a cold, stinging wind against their faces as they traversed a white landscape. Through the bustle of Aeres proper, past shops, and market stalls, and houses, from whose yards fur-wrapped citizens lifted hands in greeting toward the sleigh caravan. Bjorn shouted back greetings, his laughter booming off the house fronts.
Humanity thinned; gave way to a vast, snow-covered landscape of rolling, low hills. The bells on the reindeer harnesses jingled softly; the traces creaked. They passed frozen streams that gleamed in the dull sunlight like satin ribbons.
Despite the cold, and his nerves, Oliver found himself sitting forward, the lap blanket hastily thrown across him slipping down, as he admired the crystal-wrapped trees and the white mist rising off the glittering lakes.
It was…beautiful. Like a painting.
“Gods,” Oliver murmured, staring at twisted black branches stamped against a white-mist sky.
“What do you…” Oliver began, and then he saw it, rearing up through the mist.
The palace.
Drake Hall, back home, was low, built of yellow stone, with plentiful mullioned windows that gleamed in the ready sunlight. It was a lord’s home, rather than a king’s, a suitable manor house with two dining rooms, plenty of bedchambers, and attic space for the servants. He’d liked to spend summer afternoons on the flat rooftops, leaning against the parapets, the breeze in his face, looking out across the rolling pastureland. It was grand, although he’d seen far grander in his books, his very many books.
This, though…the Palace of Aeres…
Despite a backdrop of snow-capped peaks, it stood on its own majesty: a colony of up-thrust round towers leaking steam against the sky, their windows small and leaded and shuttered. Gray building stone against the natural gray stone of the hills, it was hard to see where man-made edifice gave way to the rock outcroppings that must surely house the cellars, and kitchens, and hot springs.
A high, stone wall encircled all of it, its drawbridge lifted, its moat frothing in the breeze where it wasn’t a flat plane of ice. The portcullis was down, formidable, dark iron.
This was a castle. A place from which to repel a siege.
Oliver swallowed with difficulty.
“Aye, it’s rather grand, isn’t it?” Bjorn said. He clucked and slapped the reins, and the sleigh surged forward.
A yell startled Oliver – and Tessa, too, if the way she gripped his arm was anything to go by. He glanced over to see a rider coming up on their right: a fur-wrapped man astride a horse that high-stepped through the snow. His hand lifted, and Oliver nearly waved back, stupidly, before Bjorn shouted laughter and called, “Don’t lame your horse, you idiot!”
“He can’t,” a voice called from the left, and Oliver turned to find another rider, astride a stout bay, one hand held loosely on the reins, the other lifted in greeting. A steady seat; a glimpse of blond hair, and a beard, and bright blue eyes. “He’d have to go faster than a trot for that.”
Bjorn laughed again, and the two riders surged forward, cantering ahead, toward the gate; they passed the train of sleighs and drew together in front of the first, leading the way.