It seemed to go on for a long time, but not nearly long enough. Erik’s fingers settled at his throat, faintly slick with oil, warm and welcome as he traced over Oliver’s steady pulse, an easy sort of affection. “That should do it,” he said, sounding satisfied. “Do you want to see?”
“Yes.”
A mirror hung on the wall opposite, above a table loaded with bottles and decanters. Oliver walked to it, keenly aware of Erik’s solid, warm presence at his back. It was Erik he looked at first, when he came face-to-face with his reflection: tall and strong, in his glittering gems and black fur, his large hand settled in a proprietary way on Oliver’s shoulder. He allowed himself the wild thought that they looked good together; that his own slim fairness offset Erik’s warrior grace.
Then Erik reached to touch one of the braids he’d woven into Oliver’s hair, and he looked there.
There were five: three behind one ear, two behind the other, each set with silver and sapphire beads with ornate runic carvings on their oblong surfaces. They were short, dancing wildly as he turned his head, the flash of the metal and gems eye-catching.
“Oh,” he said. It was all he could say.
Erik reached with his free hand to grip one lightly between thumb and forefinger, stroking along the bead, and the tiny runes inscribed there. His smile was one of satisfaction. The way he fingered his handiwork left Oliver’s cheeks warm.
“What do they mean?”
“Hm?”
“You told me before that the braids in your hair – the beads in them – have unique meanings. What do these mean?”
Oliver watched in the mirror as Erik’s head ducked down beside his own; watched Erik’s hair spill over his own shoulder, and leaned into the hot rush of breath in his ear when Erik whispered, “I think you already know.”
Gods. “You could – ah – you could just tell me, though. To confirm.”
Erik chuckled – and bit his ear. Just a light setting of his teeth at the top of it, the sight of which in the mirror left Oliver stifling a gasp. “True. But I don’t think I will. Not yet.”
When he drew back, he caught Oliver’s jaw with one hand, the metal of his rings smooth and warm, and turned his head so they faced one another. They stood very close. His gaze tracked over Oliver’s face, searching. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Oliver said, without hesitation, and he meant it in more ways than one.
21
The great hall had been accumulating decorations for days now, but tonight, it was a chamber transformed.
Garlands lined the rails of the upper galleries, and spanned the mantelpieces of the huge, roaring fireplaces; hung in swags from the ends of the trestles, wound round the ceiling support columns, and, overhead, fanned out from the chandeliers in great loops, fixed cunningly on the ceiling somewhere, all of it decorated with silver ornaments, and bundles of cinnamon, and dried fruits, and cloves, so that the hall was redolent with the smell of hot cider. The cressets burned along the walls, and candles blazed in ever candelabra, the heat of them immediately stifling. A space had been made at the very center of the hall for a massive fir tree fixed on a stand. Crates of silver ornaments waited beside it. Two smaller trees, already dressed with silver snowflakes and icicles, stood behind the high table, set up on the dais usually occupied by the throne. The table itself was draped in crimson stitched with silver embroidery, and wax dripped down the fat silver candlesticks to puddle on the cloth.
“It’s beautiful,” Tessa whispered, arm tightening in Oliver’s.
“It is,” he agreed, but he couldn’t focus on the splendor of it, because they stood now at the base of the grand staircase, and eyes were sweeping toward them.
Talk and laughter slowly died away; more and more heads turned.
Oliver breathed shallowly through his mouth.
Bjorn raised his voice so that it boomed through the hall. “His Majesty King Erik Frodeson! His sister, Lady Revna Frodesdottr! The Princes Leif and Rune Torstanson! The Lady Tessa Drake of Drakewell, and Mr. Oliver Meacham, of Drakewell!”
Erik strode across the floor, headed for the high table. Behind him, Leif escorted his mother, and then Rune followed; Oliver, his pulse pattering rapidly in his ears like raindrops, escorted Tessa forward in their wake, Magnus and Lars bringing up the rear.
He tried not to listen, really he did, but snatches of conversation bled through the general curious murmur.
“…to marry the prince…”
“…unusual color hair…”
“…bastard?”
“…beads…”
Then, more pointed, a woman’s voice: “Look at his beads.”
“…braided up like someone’s beloved!”
“Is he courting her ladyship?”
“…surely not a foreigner…”
“…house colors…”
“Look there, on his sleeve – Frodeson.”
“…king’s bedding a Southern bastard…”
Tessa’s hand tightened on Oliver’s arm. “Ollie.”
“It’s fine,” he whispered, though his throat was dry, and nervous sweat prickled between his shoulder blades. “Just gossip, right?”
He stared over Leif’s shoulder at the back of Erik’s head, his hair feathered amongst the black fur of his cloak. What in gods’ names did you braid into my hair? he wanted to know.
The thing was: he did know. Not specifically, maybe, but he knew the ornaments in his hair marked him, in some way, as bearing the king’s special interest and affection. It was only that it had seemed thrilling upstairs, away from prying eyes, and now seemed like he wore tiny archery targets behind his ears.
It seemed to take forever to reach the high table, but, finally, Oliver was pulling out a chair for Tessa, and sitting down in his own. It was worse, somehow, because though he could no longer hear what was being said, he could see all the eyes fixed on him; could watch people lean together to whisper to one another, staring at him all the while.
Leif sat down on his other side. “Ignore them,” he said, quietly. “It’s only talk. Don’t let it get to you.”
Oliver swallowed with difficulty before he could answer. “Easier said than done.” A darted glance proved the prince was looking down on the feast goers with a mildly pleasant expression, one practiced and befitting a prince. “What exactly are these bobs in my hair saying to them?”
Leif flicked a sideways grin. “They’re lover’s beads,” he whispered.
“Oh. Well. That’s a relief. For a minute there I thought everyone assumed I was fucking the king,” he whispered back.
Leif snorted, and covered his widening grin with his knuckles. “The night’s still young. Unless…” He lifted a brow. “You don’t want to be fucking the king?”
“You,” Oliver said, “are a brat. Aeretoll is doomed.”
Leif chuckled.
Erik was two seats away, his sister between him and Tessa, but Oliver didn’t dare glance toward him, now, afraid it would lead to even more speculation from the crowd below.
He scanned their faces, not lingering on any one for too long, not making eye contact. He had the impression of fine, gleaming furs, rich velvets and wools, intricate embroidery, and braids, so many braids in so many styles, studded with beads and gems, though none looked so grand as Erik.
He was biased, though.
Out amongst the feast goers, a small hand shot up, and started waving madly. It was little Bo, his wild red hair tamed by two short braids, freckles bright on a flushed face. He grinned, wide and gap-toothed, and waved some more, so hard that the woman beside him – it must have been his mother – took hold of his tunic and tried to pull him back down.
There was at least one person who didn’t care about Oliver’s hair or his relationship with the king.
He smiled, and waved back. Whatever happened tonight, he did have friends here in Aeretoll, most of whom sat with him at this table. And in that respect, gossip or no, he had more than he’d ever thought possible.
~*~
Feast was not a figurative term, in this instance. Wine and ale was poured into pewter cups, and the serving men and women brought out the courses. First was a hearty soup full of sausage, leeks, and greens, warm and heavily seasoned. After was fish, pan-fried and served with wedges of lemon. Next came individual roasted quails stuffed with root vegetables and herbs, their skins dark and crispy with butter. Then savory potato pies. Oliver could manage only a few bites of each, and knew Tessa did the same – for his own part, out of nerves.
Great slabs of pink, bloody beef tenderloin were being served when the grand doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, admitting a gust of cold wind that bent the candle flames double, and a swirl of snow.
A collective gasp went up amongst the diners. Guards moved forward along the edges of the room, heading for the small knot of newcomers who stalked in shaking off clumps of snow, cheeks pink from the cold.
Leif’s cup landed on the table with a solid thump. Before Oliver could ask who had arrived, Leif said, “Ragnar,” in a tone that was both eager and cautious.
“Who?” Oliver asked.
“The leader of the Úlfheðnar. Our cousin.”
There were seven of them, all men, grouped three and three so they flanked their leader, walking into the hall like a spearpoint.
Guards heaved the massive doors closed again; the candles guttered, and then settled. The light swelled again, and Ragnar swept around the big fir tree and into full view.
It was the eyes Oliver noticed first: the same clear, shocking blue as Erik’s. Even without being told, he could have noted the familiar resemblance: the stern brow, the blade-straight nose, the regal bearing.
But where Erik’s mouth had been a flat line of contempt on Oliver’s first day here, Ragnar’s was curved into a boyish, overeager smirk. He was golden-haired, like Leif, his hair secured in a dozen small braids along his temples and the crown of his head, left loose in the back, so it looked like a windswept lion’s mane. Rather than beads and jewels, there were bones strung through it, and around his neck: a thick, intricate choker of old, dirty ivory that gleamed faintly in the candlelight. He wore wolf fur of a dozen different colors over worn, serviceable leathers. A wide belt set with more bones, and heavy, fur-wrapped boots to his knees. He carried a sword on his hip, and a bow and quiver on his back; a horn hung from his belt, and his hands, as he spread his arms upon approach, bore fingerless leather gloves backed with bone spikes like ivory knuckle-dusters.
“Cousin!” he greeted, heavily-accented voice booming through the hall, undercut with suppressed laughter. “You’ve saved the best course for me, I see.”
One of his men paused as they approached the table, leaned over a young lord’s shoulder, and snatched the meat up off his plate to the sound of a spluttered protest. He ate it with his hands, heedless of the blood and juice that ran down his wrist.
A lord’s daughter with flaxen hair turned around on her bench and gaped in fascination, until one of the other Úlfheðnar reached to chuck her under the chin with a wink. The girl’s father grabbed her wrist and dragged her out of reach, scowling.
Upon first arrival, Oliver had thought all these Aeretolleans to be barbarians – he could see now how very wrong he’d been, with wolf-shirts prowling toward the dais like wild things who’d forced their way indoors.
They came to a halt at the foot of the stairs, and came no further. Made no move to bow or offer any sign of deference.
Ragnar propped his hands on his hips and tipped his head back to look up at his cousin, smirking. “You look good, Erik. Though there’s more silver in your hair since I saw you last.”
Slowly, with a dignity that made him seem taller and more imposing than ever, Erik pushed back his chair and stood. Walked down the length of the high table – Oliver felt the brush of his cloak against the back of his neck as he passed – and around it; down the shallow steps until he stood on even footing with his cousin. Oliver took a personal satisfaction in the knowledge that Erik was a little bit taller.
Erik said, “Ragnar,” and dipped his head in greeting. “I should have known you’d show up if I put out the bloody raw meat. I hope you’ve developed a taste for wine, because I don’t keep that rotgut you swill save for scouring the cooking pots.”
Silence a moment, save the creak of benches and the snap of candle wicks burning down. Then Ragnar’s face creased with mirth and he burst out laughing. Bent double with it, clutching at his stomach.
Erik grinned, but Oliver could see that it didn’t reach his eyes.
Ragnar straightened and pulled his cousin into a crushing hug, slapping at his back. When he pushed back, he gripped Erik’s elbows – Erik’s hands white where he gripped him in return – and said, “You fucking high and mighty twat. Where’s the ale? Have one of your good little doggies fetch me a plate.”
Oliver glanced toward Revna, and saw her frowning.
~*~
A plate of baked, sugared apples landed before Revna, still steaming from the oven, smelling heavily of cinnamon. She didn’t reach for her spoon, her gaze fixed instead on their newest arrival.
To her right, Birger said, “I’d hoped he wouldn’t come.”
“When have you ever known Ragnar to cooperate with the hopes of others?”
He sighed.
Ragnar and his men had commandeered one end of a trestle, displacing the diners sitting there by their presence alone. Cups, plates, and embroidered hemlines had been picked up and swept off, and a pair of nervous kitchen maids had set down platters heaped with meat, gravy, and fat slices of potato pie. The ale mugs had been refilled several times, now, and the men were laughing uproariously over something, bits of food caught in their beards, utensils forgone in favor of dirty fingers that were then licked clean of grease.
As she watched, Ragnar glanced up, caught her gaze, and saluted her with his mug.
Revna didn’t smile in return.
A glance farther down the table proved that Erik was deep in quiet conversation with Bjorn, though if he was worried about Ragnar’s presence, he didn’t show it. Erik could play cool when he needed to, but he’d always been less worried about their cousin than Revna thought he should be.
The dessert plates were cleared.
“I suppose it’s time, then, my lady,” Birger said.
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
Revna dropped her napkin on the table and pushed her chair back. “Tessa.”
The girl turned to her. “Is it time?”
“Yes, lamb, come along.”
Tessa had said little, and eaten less. She nodded, now, visibly steeling herself as if she were going into battle. She looked lovely, as ever, her natural beauty brought out by the soft blue of her high-necked gown, set off by the wolfskin that was a gift from Leif. Her auburn hair had been braided into a tidy crown atop her head, struck through with silver pins set with sapphire butterflies. Revna had loaned her a ring, a fat sapphire on a narrow silver band, and it winked and danced when she gripped the edge of the table with trembling fingers and stood to join Revna.
Revna drew the girl’s arm through her own and patted it as they walked – careful not to trip on their own long skirts – down the length of the table and around to descend the dais. “Don’t worry,” Revna whispered to her. “You look beautiful, and you’ll do wonderfully. Everyone is curious, but no one here has any hostility toward you.” Except, perhaps, for the maidens who’d wanted to marry Leif, but Revna wasn’t going to mention them.
“I wish I wasn’t so nervous,” Tessa confessed.
“Nonsense, it’s only natural.”
“I want to make a good impression.”
“You already have. If someone has a problem with you, it’s their own fault, and nothing you’ve done. Here, now, let’s stand.” They’d arrived at the massive fir, and drawn quite a few anticipatory glances at this point.
Revna raised her voice, the battlefield projection trick that her brother did so w
ell, and which she’d learned from him at a young age. “If I can have everyone’s attention for a moment? Thank you.
“Welcome. Welcome, everyone. We hope you have feasted, and feasted well, because now it’s time to ask for the gods’ favor!”
A cheer went up. Everyone stood, ready to come forward. But holding back, waiting for their lady to give the nod, letting her choose the first worshipper.
Revna patted Tessa’s arm, and then released it. “Go on, then.”
Tessa took a huge breath, and then stepped forward, head held high, even if her shoulders were stiff beneath her mantle. She was a graceful girl, and no less so now, as she bent to select an ornament from the crate and approached the tree, fingertips smoothing over the silver piece she’d chosen. Revna had expected her to pick one of the finely-wrought reindeer, with proud antlers, and prouder carriage, inscribed with runes wishing for peace and prosperity throughout the land; a prayer for a strong Aeretoll, and a happy, prosperous people.
But instead she’d chosen a wolf: its head ducked, its legs caught mid-stride, cunning and fearsome. Its prayer asked for bravery, and boldness; for the chance to chase after what one wanted most. A selfish prayer, some thought, chosen often by warriors wishing for glory in battle, or titles pinned to their breasts. But Revna didn’t think so; she thought it was a prayer for a strength of spirit; a prayer for the willfulness to do what was needed, what was wanted.
Tessa took a long moment selecting the perfect branch, then hung the ornament and stepped back, hands folded demurely before her, gazing up at the little silver wolf as the candlelight flickered against its etched surface.
It was wolves, after all, who’d set upon the girl on her first ride through the forest; driven her up a tree in the tooth-chattering cold, frightening her out of her mind.
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 26
