Page 90 of Heart of Winter
He shook his head, and passed a hand down his face; its muscles felt still from lack of use – along with the rest of him.
Lords stood, complaining of sore backs and knees. Chairs scraped back across the stones, and talk turned to the feast that awaited.
Oliver stepped around behind his chair, knuckling the tightness from his lower back – and nearly ran into Erik. Standing this close, he had to tip his head back to meet the man’s gaze, which he found to be…nervous? But that couldn’t be right.
“Mr. Meacham,” Erik said, very formal, and Oliver guessed that was for the listening ears around them. “Once you are dressed for the feast, I would ask that you come to the royal solar so that you may accompany the family down to supper.”
“Oh. Um.” He wanted to shrink beneath the stares being thrown his way. But said, “Yes, all right. I’ll do that.”
Erik nodded, and turned to leave, Birger at his side, the two of them falling into conversation.
Oliver stood a moment, wondering what had just happened, feeling the morning’s nerves begin to creep back.
Leif clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, a grin in his voice. “It’s a good thing.”
“I suppose I’ll have to trust you on that.”
~*~
Oliver turned this way and that in front of the mirror in his chamber, examining his feast outfit. It had been laid out neatly on his bed when he returned from the council meeting, and he’d stood a long moment – too long – running his hands down the feathery-soft velvet of the outer tunic, debating the wisdom of locking himself here in this room and missing the feast altogether.
But Erik was waiting for him, so he dressed.
The trousers were fawn, and fitted, a thick, comfortable wool set off well by the dark fur and leather of his new boots. Up top, he wore a cream shirt of very fine linen, laced loosely, in the Northern fashion, and over it a tunic of deep blue velvet that glowed in the candlelight as he rotated, the fabric gleaming like a bird’s wing in the sun. The cuffs and collar were all chased with silver stitching, and set with seed pearls and tiny diamonds that winked with every movement. Over this, his long, sleeveless overtunic was an even darker blue, almost black, crusted all over with beads and crystals that swirled in runic patterns he did not understand. The heavy fur mantle was a gift of one of the wolf pelts that Leif had acquired; it was clasped with a heavy length of silver cord, and cunningly fashioned so that the hood was in fact the cured wolf head, teeth and upper jaw still attached, bits of jet fashioned in the eye sockets. Oliver pulled it up over his head, laughed at how ridiculous he looked – this was a hood for a grizzled, veteran warrior, not a soft-faced Southerner – and decided to wear the hood down, and out of sight.
It was a richly-appointed outfit that belonged on a Northern noble. He should have looked laughable, by all rights – but Oliver could see the care that had gone into tailoring it so that it suited his more slender frame. It highlighted the narrowness of his waist, rather than trying to bulk him out and disguise it, and all the colors complemented his complexion. He looked like a person of importance…
And for tonight, he decided that he would allow himself that fantasy.
He gave his mantle a final twitch, and went down the hall to the royal solar.
Magnus and Lars stood just outside the door, uniforms spotless, helmets polished and gleaming.
Magnus let out a whistle, and grinned. “Well, don’t you look fancy.”
Oliver made a face at him. “My presence was requested before supper, apparently.”
“Right you are.” Magnus opened the door for him, and winked as he passed. “Go easy on him,” he whispered, as Oliver passed. “He’s nervous, too.”
What? But there was no time to ask. Oliver was in the main chamber, Magnus was shutting the door, and there stood Erik.
He was at the hearth, backlit by the fire, and Oliver ground to a halt, staring.
Comparatively, Oliver’s clothes were downright plain. Erik’s crimson tunic and blue overcoat gleamed with beads, and gems; diamonds big as walnuts ringed the clasps of his coat. Silver and sapphire studs gleamed on his shoulders, beneath stark black wolf fur. His boots and trousers were black, too, tight-laced leather cuffed with black fur. His cloak was nothing but fur, floor-length, gleaming, clasped with a wolf-and-stag shaped brooch set with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies.
The same gems winked from the intricate braids set along the sides of his head, the tight plaits keeping the hair off his face so that it could spill in black and silver waves down his back. His face looked sharp, and hard-edged, beautifully so, and his eyes, when he glanced toward Oliver, gleamed brighter than any of the precious stones he wore.
He was resplendent.
So much so that Oliver didn’t at first notice Revna. She bustled about the room, stopping to pick something up off a table. “Hello, Oliver,” she said, bright but hurried. “I’m off to make sure Tessa’s sorted.” She turned to her brother, and said, “Here.”
He blinked, drew his gaze from Oliver, and then offered his hand. Revna placed something shiny in it, then whisked off, her own crimson and blue and fur ensemble flaring around her as she moved. “You boys don’t be late,” she called over her shoulder, and then was out the door.
Oliver remembered to take a breath. “You look…”
“Ridiculous, I know.” Erik shrugged beneath the weight of his cloak, and swept a disparaging look across his own finery.
“That wasn’t the word I was going to use.”
