Page 105 of Heart of Winter
He was getting much too far ahead of himself.
“Bring him,” Ragnar pressed. “He might even enjoy himself. Let him watch, and learn, and show that he belongs.”
Erik jerked a nod.
Ragnar beamed. “You hate it when I’m right, don’t you?”
Erik grunted. “Are we done?”
“Well…” Ragnar laughed when he saw whatever Erik’s face did. He leaned forward to clap him on the shoulder. “Peace, cousin. Run off to your fire-drake, you joyless sod.”
As Erik headed for the door, Ragnar called, “And don’t let me see you at breakfast without claw marks all down your neck.” His cackling laughter followed Erik out of the room.
~*~
Bjorn was the last person Oliver wanted walking beside him.
They moved along the gallery in silence – one Oliver felt compelled to break, but which he wasn’t sure how to. Bjorn hadn’t said anything unkind, but he’d been far less jovial ever since Oliver’s illness. He’d come to Oliver’s defense tonight with Ragnar, but Ragnar’s had laid out in bold words what must be plain to Bjorn by now: that Erik had amorous intentions toward him. And Bjorn being Erik’s oldest, closest friend…well, if Bjorn disapproved of him, Oliver didn’t really want to know about it.
But this was soawkward.
They hit the base of the spiral staircase, and Oliver cleared his throat. Too loud – the sound echoed off the stone walls around them.
“Um,” he said, “I noticed you didn’t spar with anyone tonight. No one big enough to give you a good bit of sport?” he teased. Or attempted to. It fell horribly flat.
“It’s mostly for the young ones,” Bjorn said as they climbed. “The ones with something still to prove.”
“Ah.”
Silence, again.
Oliver said, “If you want to go back down to the hall, I’m fine on my own from here.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“Oh, no, I – not at all. But. There’s still a bit of party left, I think. And I can certainly find my way back to my own room…”
Bjorn halted, right at the top of the stairs, and turned to face him. “Yourroom?” he asked, expression flat. “Is that where you want to go?”
“I…”
Bjorn tilted his head.
“No,” Oliver said, half-strangled. “I suppose not.”
Bjorn nodded, and set off again.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, down to the royal apartments where a pair of guards nodded respectfully at their passage. The common room was empty, though a fire crackled merrily in the hearth.
When Oliver hesitated, Bjorn motioned for him to follow, and led him down a hallway flanked by ornate tapestries. A single door stood at the end, two small cressets flickering to either side. Bjorn opened the door, pushed it wide, and stepped inside.
Oliver crossed the threshold after him – and then froze.
Even if he hadn’t already known, there would have been no mistaking the room for anything besides the king’s chamber.
A vast space, with plenty of windows, tapestries tucked behind gold cords, waiting to be drawn across the glass. A variety of richly-patterned rugs covered the floor, layered over one another at the corners. There was a table large enough to seat four, and a writing desk and chair; a large, free-standing mirror, several bureaus, and big shipping trunks with leather straps on the lids. Shelves held books, and trinkets that gleamed faintly in the firelight that came from the hearth: a low, simmering fire that needed a log added to it. Bjorn crossed to do just that as Oliver paced slowly deeper into the room, gazing at everything.
The room’s dominant feature was the bed. Oliver stood at the foot of it, taking in its tall, draperied, four-poster extravagance. It sat high off the floor, and wide enough across for four people. A crimson and blue velvet coverlet embroidered with stags and wolves had been folded back to reveal snowy linens. The head was heaped with pillows, and the foot was piled with furs that had obviously come from several different animals. A small table to one side held a book with a quill marking a place in its center, and a cup, a tobacco pipe in a dish of ashes.
