Heart of Winter by Lauren Gilley

19

Oliver leaned his elbows on the ledge of the open window and gazed down at the road, shivering against the early morning breeze that funneled in around him. Feast guests were arriving by the dozens, in caravans of horse-drawn carriages and, mostly, reindeer-drawn sleighs. Horses whinnied, reindeer snorted, and harness bells jingled – so many, and so loudly that it sounded like a chorus of angelic voices. The lords of Aeretoll had arrived for the Yuletide Feast.

Shivering against the cold, Oliver stepped back and drew the window closed. Tomorrow night, he would dress in finery, put beads and sapphires in his hair, and join the king at his high table, as his special guest.

Today seemed like a good day to lose himself in books.

He managed, for the most part, listening to the palace grow steadily louder and louder beneath him, a cacophony not previously heard as guests filled the great hall, exclaimed in wonder at the décor, and were shown to their rooms. He skipped meals, despite the ever-growing hunger, his stomach too tight with nerves to manage eating. He knew that Revna was keeping Tessa busy with preparations all day, and so his plan was to sneak down at supper, grab a plate, and retreat to his rooms.

But then…

“Oliver!”

He glanced up from the book he had only been half-reading and found Magnus in the doorway. It took him a moment to realize the guardsman was dressed in a casual tunic, trousers, and boots, rather than his usual crimson and blue uniform. He carried a basket under his arm, and shot Oliver a wide grin.

“Hiding, are we?”

“No.”

Magnus chuckled. “I don’t blame you one bit. It’s mad down there. Lady Kenningar doesn’t want to room next to Lady Hylli, and the Lady Revna’s trying to get them sorted, and Lady Kenningar’s wean is squalling something fierce.” He tapped his ear with a wince. “It’s a miracle we can’t hear it up here.”

People moved past him in the hallway, a cluster of hurried voices, a flash of fur and fine gems. Oliver had heard the foot traffic all day.

“I think I might skip supper,” Oliver said, though his stomach was already growling a protest. It was bad enough he would sit at the high table tomorrow; interacting with all the guests beforehand sounded like the quickest way to damp palms and indigestion.

“No need for that.” Magnus patted the basket he carried with his free hand. “I’ve got food enough for plenty, and strict orders from Lady Revna to make sure you go down and have a proper bath before tomorrow.”

To his credit, Magnus didn’t turn the statement at all suggestive. But Oliver felt a low thrum like a plucked chord in his belly. Save for when he was sick, he’d never appeared about the palace in a less-than-clean state. He could make himself perfectly presentable with a little hot water from the ewer, or, if he was lucky, a copper tub.

But the idea of Revna ordering him to have a proper bath…That spoke of things to come. Of certain expectations for him.

Or, more likely, it spoke of Revna wanting him to appear at his absolute best when he joined the family before all the lords and ladies of Aeretoll.

He took a careful breath. “If you’ll recall, the last time I went down to the baths, it didn’t go so well.”

“Aye, well, you’re not feverish this time, right?”

“Right.”

“You’ll do fine. Give ‘em another chance – get back up on the horse and all that. And.” He lowered his voice, gaze turning mischievous. “I don’t think it turned out all bad, do you?” He winked before Oliver could stutter a protest. “Come along, then. Go and fetch your dressing gown and we’ll be off.”

His dressing gown, which he gathered up in his arms and stood holding a long moment, in the privacy of his chamber, was the one he’d been wearing ever since the night they’d ridden out to find Tessa and the boys. Which meant that it was, or had been, Erik’s dressing gown. The velvet was worn smooth in places from its years of use, and the hem and sleeves were still much too long. He’d not requested another, though; if Revna was going to so much trouble to outfit him for the feast, he knew he only need ask and he’d be given a brand-new gown of his own. But he hadn’t, and he didn’t want it altered, either. His own gown – silk, and too thin by half for this cold, stone palace – stayed packed away in his trunk. At night, he wrapped this one around himself instead, snuggled deep into its folds, and imagined impossible things, grateful for the knowledge that the velvet had once lain against Erik’s skin, as it now laid against his.

With a shaky exhale, he bundled the gown up in his arms, and went to follow Magnus.

Mad was an apt word for what was happening in the great hall. Guests had been arriving all day, along with deliveries of everything from wine, to food, to extra feather mattresses packed in sleighs. A few trestles had been set up, and people were eating at them, but most of the hall had been given over to the coming and going of servants toting chests, trunks, trays, and laden baskets.

Revna stood on a wooden chair, overseeing it all and directing servants and nobles alike. Tessa stood beside her, Hilda – her ankle much improved – behind her, and she was greeting highborn ladies with her usual quiet grace.

Confident that she was both capable and in capable hands, Oliver ducked down the hallway toward the baths after Magnus.

The first thing Oliver noticed, when they reached the warm, humid tunnel that led to the baths, was the noise. The swell and tumult of many voices that had been absent on his last trip here.

Oliver hesitated, and clutched the dressing gown tighter to his chest.

After a moment, Magnus paused, and turned back to look at him, expression questioning in the flickering light of the cressets.

“Magnus. Is it crowded down here?”

“I expect most people will want a good soak, it being a feast day tomorrow. Servants, merchants – anyone who can steal away for a bit. And our guests will be wanting a wash-up, too.”

He didn’t relish the thought of being naked in front of a whole palace full of people, not when they were to see him in a place of honor tomorrow.

Not ever, really.

A particularly loud shout echoed from the bathing chamber, and Magnus’s expression brightened. “I wouldn’t be too worried, lad. Lord Askr is in there, by the sound of it, and he’ll be holding court. No one will notice you.”

Feeling only slightly better, Oliver continued on, trying to ignore the shakiness in his knees.

The dressing room, with its shelves and cubbies and baskets, was full of men in various states of undress, some coming and some leaving. The floor was strewn with puddles, and the shelves were loaded with furs, and cloaks, and tunics; boots sat lined up along the wall. They were talking to one another, trading good-natured insults, and ignored Oliver as he slipped up to the shelves. When Magnus started undressing, carefree and unhurried, Oliver scrambled out of his own clothes, stowed them, and tugged on his dressing gown. Belted it extra tight.

Magnus snorted in amusement, and Oliver pretended not to hear.

“Ready?” Magnus had pulled on a soft, worn robe, and tied it only loosely, a large wedge of strong, furred chest on display. He hefted the basket of food, and awaited Oliver’s nod before turning toward the vast chamber of hot springs.

Steam boiled up in thick clouds, shifting over the occupants of the near pools: men lounging waist-deep in water, their bodies all carved in various shapes of strong. Big-bellied, wasp-waist lean, no matter the build, each man was roped, laced, and padded with the muscle borne of hard work on the battlefield or the training yard. Red hair, blond hair, brown hair, black hair – all of it was braided in unique, intricate styles threaded with beads, and jewels, and other decorations. Some boasted long beads braided into patterns set with flat, enameled beads. And there were tattoos, as well, on throats, and across chests, and curving around thick biceps: everything from animals, to flowers, to runes.

Everyone’s attention was fixed on a man who stood unabashedly naked at the edge of a pool, his fiery red hair coiled atop his head in a crown made of dozens of narrow braids, his beard halfway down his chest and set at the ends with small ivory beads that looked carved from animal bones.

“…and so then he said,” the man was saying – projecting, really, his voice booming off stone and water, raised to a battlefield pitch. “‘If you think I’ll let you insult my wife…’ And I said, ‘Ho, that’s your wife? I thought it was your horse!’”

This story was met with uproarious laughter.

Magnus chuckled, and led them down a path between two pools. “This way. It’s quieter back here.”

Oliver followed, relieved–

Only to hear, “Oi. You must be the Southerner, then.”

Oliver froze. It was the redheaded grandstander who’d called out to him – Lord Askr, at a guess – and all heads turned toward Oliver. He clutched the end of his dressing gown in one hand, trying to keep it from trailing along the wet floor, and reached now to close it more firmly at his throat. He stood up straight, though, beneath Askr’s – beneath everyone’s – curious gazes.

He’d not gone out of his way to make friends, nor even acquaintances here. Magnus and the princes had been the ones to befriend him, making the first overtures. He’d become closer to Birger, and to Revna, and, yes, Erik. Erik most of all. Surely everyone living in the palace – and now the visitors, too, thanks to gossip – had noted that Oliver spoke only with the royal family. That he kept far too much company with the king.

But he would not cower – not outwardly. He lifted his chin, met Lord Askr’s gaze, and said, “I am, yes. Oliver Meacham. Pleased to meet you.”

“The Drakewell bastard,” someone said, the face of the speaker lost in the steam.

“Aye,” Askr said, gaze narrowing in shrewd evaluation. “The one come to bring his pretty cousin to marry the prince, eh?”

Oliver swallowed with difficulty. “I expect a formal betrothal will be announced shortly.”

“For her, or for you?” someone else quipped, and the men chuckled darkly.

From farther back, someone muttered, “King’s pet,” like a curse.

Askr continued to scrutinize him, and the glint in his eyes was no longer amused, but something else entirely. “He speaks highly of you – does Erik. I think many wonder why.”

Magnus grasped the front of Oliver’s gown, his grip tight, but his voice breezy when he said, “Oh, he’s a head for negotiation, our Oliver. He can turn anyone into an ally. For now, though, we’ve a pool waiting. If you’ll excuse us, my lord.” He bowed, quickly, and tugged Oliver along in his wake.

Oliver went gladly. He heard the murmur of gossip behind them, and hurried to keep up, face burning.

Magnus led them between pools that grew less and less densely populated with bathers, until, finally, they slipped between two towering stalagmites, around a corner, and into a cozy, secluded nook where a large, deep blue pool steamed. Empty and inviting.

Oliver felt faintly dizzy, and not just from the heat. He dropped down onto a bench carved into the stone wall, and rubbed at his face with his hand, trying to scrub the blush from his cheeks. “This isn’t good, Magnus.”

“This pool? Oh, no, it’s the best. Nice and quiet. You can’t even hear that braying donkey from here.”

“No.” Oliver dropped his hand and sent him a pleading look. “You heard them. To them, I’m a bastard, a Southerner, and” – he had to gulp down a swell of sick anxiety – “the king’s pet.”

Magnus shrugged, and shucked his robe, unbothered by his own nudity. “People talk. Human nature.” He stepped down into the water with a glad sigh and got settled on one of the benches below the surface, stretching luxuriantly. “You can’t please everyone. All that matters is that the people who matter like you, and they do.”

He patted the water beside him so that it splashed. “Come and have a soak. You’ll feel better.”

Oliver huffed a sigh. But he shed his gown and slipped down into the water, leaving a wide space between them. The water was a deep, dark indigo like the night sky without stars, but he would just as soon not take the chance of being examined too closely. He was even thinner now than he’d been before, still recovering: his ribs and hipbones and clavicles sharp points beneath too-pale skin, his belly flat, nearly concave, but soft. Both his arms together couldn’t hope to make one burly Northman arm.

Magnus leaned out of the water just far enough to snag the handle of his basket with one finger and drag it closer. “All right, let’s see what we have here – nothing fancy, mind, only some cheese, and grapes, and a bit of that good, dark bread, and wine…”

Oliver wasn’t listening. He’d sunk up to his chin in the warm water, and it was delightful. He could properly appreciate it this time, not being sick, and his worry and doubt faded to the periphery as he enjoyed the warm caress against every inch of his skin.

Magnus poured him a cup of wine and leaned forward to place it closer to him along the edge of the pool.

“Thank you,” Oliver said, dreamy and half-garbled because his lips were so close to the water.

Magnus chuckled. “See? All that bein’ reluctant, and now I won’t be able to drag you out.”

“Hm. Perhaps not.”

“Brother.” Lars appeared around the corner, already undressed, his robe carried over one arm. “You have snacks.”

“I have plenty. Get in.”

He joined them, and Oliver finally roused himself enough to eat some grapes and cheese, and to drink his wine.

“These are the last grapes we’ll get until spring,” Magnus lamented, examining one wistfully before he popped it in his mouth.

“There’s the dried ones,” Lars said. “And the apricots, too.”

“Nah. They taste like barrels.”

“’Cause they’re shipped in barrels, you git.”

Oliver snorted to himself and reached for another bunch for himself. “Do you not grow any fruits up here, then? All of it’s bought?”

“We’re lucky if we’ve a tomato crop in summer,” Magnus said. “Not enough sunlight for these.” He held a grape up so that the light from the cressets glinted off its smooth, purple skin.

“Rarity must make them even sweeter,” Oliver reasoned.

Behind him, the quiet sound of bare feet on wet stone. A rustling. Erik’s voice: “Sweet things are, I’ve found, generally rare, as a rule.”

Then the king stepped into view. Naked. Glorious. Every one of Oliver’s wet dreams made flesh.

“Magnus, what have I said about eating in the baths?” he asked, gaze fixed on his guard, tone faintly amused.

“Oh, but the hall’s too busy,” Magnus protested. “Here. Have some, there’s plenty.”

“Raiding the cellars again, I see.”

Magnus grinned. “Only a little.”

The bunch of grapes fell out of Oliver’s suddenly-nerveless hand and hit the water with a quiet splash.

Erik turned toward him, single brow arched. “Wasteful,” he chided, clucking.

Oliver was going to faint and nearly drown in these gods-forsaken hot springs again, and it was all going to be the king’s fault, this time.

It was one thing to know that Erik was strong and well-built, quite another to see it without clothes in the way. His chest, and shoulders, and back were heavy with muscle, his arms thick, corded, and rippling when he moved to casually tuck a braid over his shoulder. The hair on his chest was a crisp black that narrowed along the ridges of his belly, and thickened at the base of his cock – impressive enough to have Oliver’s pulse leaping, even soft. He seemed carved from marble, from the veins in his forearms, to the thick muscles of his legs, and his backside. But unlike a statue, he was laced here and there with scars, some ugly and puckered, the legacies of wounds that could have killed him. One along his ribs, at least ten inches long and silver-pink between the grooves of bone and sinew, had Oliver’s heart lurching for another reason.

He was gorgeous, and Oliver wanted to climb him.

And he was a mortal man, and he’d been hurt before, and Oliver wanted to hold him, too.

With tremendous effort, Oliver said, “Good evening, your majesty.”

Erik smirked. “Good evening, Mr. Meacham.”

Oliver was going to die.

“Ah.” Birger joined them, grinning. “Just the Drake lord we were hoping to see.”

Erik’s smirk turned wry. He shook his head and waded down into the pool and across it to sit on the opposite side. Probably for the best.

Birger climbed in, and sat in the gap between Magnus and Oliver, turning to Oliver right away. “We’ve had page boys running about looking for you.”

Oliver, shaking off the last bit of his shock at seeing Erik naked and beautiful, frowned. “Why?”

“We need to invite you to tomorrow’s council meeting.”

“Before the feast, the full council will meet and discuss the business of the realm,” Erik explained. Sitting on a bench, the water hit him mid-chest. He pulled the beads loose from the ends of his braids, set them aside on the edge of the pool, and began unwinding the plaits with quick, deft fingers. “The lords should hear a firsthand account of the situation in Aquitainia with the Sels.”

Oliver stared at him a moment, struggling to comprehend in the midst of such large, callused, warrior’s hands unbraiding with such easy assurance. He said, “You can give them an account.”

“Not firsthand.”

Oliver glanced toward Birger, who nodded, and back again. “You want me…to sit in on your council meeting. To address your lords.”

“Yes.”

“But I’m–”

“Don’t say bastard,” Erik advised, accepting the bottle Lars passed him. “That has nothing to do with anything.” Then he set the bottle on the edge of the pool and promptly slipped totally beneath the water.

Oliver turned to Birger, and didn’t try to disguise the desperation in his tone. “I can’t attend any sort of council meeting.”

“Sure you can.”

“No. Birger.” He tried to regulate his suddenly-quick breathing. “I just walked past them all on my way in.” He gestured back toward the crowded bathing pools, scattering water droplets. “To them, I’m just the Drakewell Bastard. I’m the King’s Pet!” The last he hissed.

Birger shrugged shoulders that were still strong and sturdy, despite the gray of his hair and beard. “Then you’ll have to prove them wrong, I suppose.”

“But – why? Why does it matter at all what they think of me?”

Birger’s gaze was unreadable – and Magnus and Lars, when he glanced at them in turn, looked almost…encouraging. Magnus grinned.

Erik resurfaced with a deep exhale, and the surface of the pool rippled in expanding rings as he pushed his now-wet hair off his face, wiped his eyes, and reached for the bottle. He poured a generous dollop of white cream into his palm, worked his hands together until he had a good lather, and then set to washing his hair. It left his arms bunching wonderfully, and his chest on full display, something as mundane as bathing causing his muscles to dance and play.

“Well?” he asked, fingers scrubbing along his scalp, blue gaze trained on Oliver.

“I…” Oliver’s hands knotted together beneath the water, wanting to reach out, to touch. “I’ll attend if you want me to. If you think it’s wise.”

Erik nodded, seeming satisfied, and worked the lather all the way to the very ends of his long hair.

Something hit the water with a sharp plunk in front of Oliver’s face; a cake of soap, he realized, as it landed in his lap.

“Don’t be stingy with that, now,” Magnus said, cheerfully. “Revna did say to get properly clean.”

Erik chuckled, the sound low and rumbling as it echoed off the stone, and then dipped under the water again.

Oliver rolled his eyes, blushing unhelpfully, and set to washing. The others did the same.

~*~

Erik shared his countrymen’s unselfconscious disregard for nudity. Like Birger, Magnus, and Lars, he stood to soap himself all over, and, once he was sitting, lifted his feet up out of the water to soap between his toes. It was terribly cute.

But, unlike Birger, Magnus, and Lars, watching Erik do any of this left Oliver’s face overheated. He studiously avoided looking at the king as he washed himself – without standing up out of the water, because he wasn’t at all ready to flaunt his much-slimmer physique – nor risk giving away how interested he was in Erik’s.

“Gods,” Magnus finally groaned, head falling back against the lip of the pool. “Are we having a soak, or is the council meeting in fact happening right now?”

Birger, in the midst of listing off the gossip that had arrived with the palace’s visitors, cut of mid-sentence and sent Magnus an unimpressed look. “Bit cheeky for a guard, aren’t we?”

“I’m off duty,” Magnus said, chuckling, and flicked water droplets off his fingertips at the advisor. “You might try it sometime, Birger. Maybe your hair wouldn’t have gone gray so early if you’d learned to have a little fun now and then.”

Oliver gaped at him. In Drakewell, other guards would have already been hauling him out of the pool and clapping him in irons.

But here, Birger harrumphed.

A wet cloth splatted against the side of Magnus’s face, and as he came up spluttering – Lars laughing at him – Oliver saw that it was Erik who’d thrown it. He was grinning.

“You shit,” Erik said, laughing. “Get it out of your system now, before tomorrow morning.” He turned his head, noted Oliver’s no-doubt stunned look, and said, “These two idiots are on duty with me tomorrow.”

“All day,” Magnus said, sitting up and peeling the wet cloth from his face. He threw it back at Erik.

Who caught it without looking, and tossed it over his shoulder to land on the stone with a splat, gaze fastened on Oliver’s the whole time. “As you can see, I’m regretting the rota.”

“Magnus,” Birger said, “this is the sort of thing that makes Southerners call us barbarians.”

“Actually,” Oliver said, finally tearing his gaze from Erik’s, “I was just thinking that it’s – that it’s nice that things aren’t so formal here. That there’s not just duty, but…friendship, too.”

“Aye.” Magnus jerked a thumb in Erik’s direction. “We go way back with this one.”

“Magnus never could sit still during lessons,” Erik said, fondly. “Our tutor used to get the switch after him.”

“And I’ve got the scar to prove it. Look!” He stood to show them, and got booed and splashed by all of them. “He maimed me! He really did!”

Oliver laughed – laughed until his sides ached, and his throat burned, and he was – he was happy. In a way he’d never expected, and in a way he didn’t think he’d ever been. No one in this pool was more important than the man next to him. King, advisor, guardsmen, bastard – it felt instead like friends sitting around and harassing one another.

He’d never been a part of anything like that.

When he got his giggles under control, still gasping a little for breath, he skated a look over at Erik and wasn’t prepared for the quiet radiance of his regard, the weight of his pleasure.

Oh, Oliver wanted him so badly that it hurt.

With a deep breath, and then a groan, and a popping of well-used knees, Birger stood. “Well, then, if I can’t talk business, I suppose I’ll be off.”

“Don’t let Magnus run you off,” Erik said.

But Birger waved off the concern, smiling faintly. “No. I want a good night’s sleep before tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day.”

Erik sobered. “That it is. Sleep well.”

Birger wished them all a good night, wrapped up in a thick robe, and shuffled around the corner and out of sight.

Lars nudged Magnus in the ribs. “We should be thinking about bed, too. We’ll have to be up before dawn to tail this one.” He nodded toward Erik.

“Your insolence is astounding this evening,” Erik deadpanned.

Magnus groaned, but stood, and the two brothers waded to the steps and climbed up and out of the pool, streaming water.

Belatedly, Oliver realized what was about to happen.

“Wait!”

Magnus glanced over his shoulder, frowning, as he reached for his robe.

“You don’t have to leave. It’s early yet.”

Magnus regarded him a moment, and Oliver thought he might frown – but then his countenance was easy again, and he shrugged on his robe saying, “Dawn comes early enough. We’ll see you tomorrow, Oliver. At the council if not before.”

“Right.” He swallowed. “Goodnight.” He watched them pack up the basket and retreat around the corner, until they were out of sight. And then he stared at the wet tracks they’d left on the stone, because he was alone now with Erik, and if he looked at him, with no witnesses around, all would be lost.

Quiet reigned for a spell, broken only by the gentle lap of water, and the distant plinks and drips from deeper in the caverns. He heard the murmur of voices back toward the entrance, too far to make out any distinct words.

Erik said, “Should I be jealous?”

Pulse thrumming, belly squirming with excitement, knowing he was doomed, but thrilled about it, Oliver turned his head.

Erik sat with his elbows braced behind him on edge of the pool, large hands dangling into the water. His hair lay in wet ribbons down his chest, framing his face; droplets clung to his brows and in his short beard. The torchlight lent his wet skin a high sheen, so that each dip and curve of muscle stood out in stark relief, as if painted. His gaze was piercing, unforgiving.

Oliver wet his lips, and watched Erik’s eyes follow the dart of his tongue. A shiver went down his back. “Jealous how?”

Erik’s head tipped in that maddening way that left him looking out from beneath his brows. “Do you wish it was Magnus here alone with you?”

Oliver would have laughed, if he could have gathered the breath to do so. “If you truly suspect that, I’m not sure you’re competent to serve as king.”

Erik’s responding smile was quick, and sharp – predatory – and gone as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving him open-mouthed, and pink-cheeked, and…hungry. He sat forward, shoulders rolling, arms slipping down into the water; coiled and ready to pounce.

Oliver wanted it so much, but was in such disbelief that it was actually happening, that he lifted a dripping hand and choked out, “Wait.”

Erik waited, settling down lower in the water. His voice was the low, rumbling purr of a hunting cat when he said, “What’s wrong?”

“What’s – what’s wrong?” The laughter came, then, high, and breathless, and unhappy. Almost maniacal. “What’s…in case you’ve forgotten, you are a king. You are the king of this nation, the one I’m petitioning for an army, and an alliance. And I’m – I’m a bastard. Around here, I am the bastard. And you are a warrior, and I am a bookworm, and we are…”

Erik straightened, and took one gliding step across the pool toward him. His voice was still low, but almost gentle when he said, “Are we going to list one another’s most obvious traits? Because that could take a while.”

Oliver swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat. His insides felt full of trapped birds. He was panicking, panicking, and he didn’t know how to stop it, how to reach out, and be honest, without getting in his own way. “I don’t – I don’t–”

Erik took another step.

“I don’t get what I want. Not ever. And I’m fine with that, normally, but now…”

Another step.

He swallowed again, with difficulty. “I don’t get what I want,” he repeated.

Something in Erik’s gaze softened, heartbroken. “And what do you want right now?”

Madness, it was madness, it was… “You. I want you. More – more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”

Erik said, “Don’t move,” and closed the final distance between them with a few charging strides, displaced water slapping and overflowing the edges of the pool.

Oliver choked on his own breath; tremors overtook him, a cold chill, despite the heat of the water. “We can’t – you can’t – it won’t–”

Erik cupped his face in both big, warm, wet hands, thumbs smoothing across his beardless cheeks, silencing him. Soothing him. His eyes were gemstones, and his breath was hot across Oliver’s lips. “You said so yourself,” he murmured. “I’m the king. And I can have what I want.”

Oliver clutched at his forearms, felt the solid steel of them, and the flicker of muscles in reaction to his touch – to his touch. This gorgeous, glorious king was reacting to him. “Oh,” he breathed.

Erik ducked his head, and Oliver’s lashes lowered, already anticipating a kiss.

But Erik pressed his lips to his temple, instead, and one hand shifted to card through his hair. “I want your hair through my fingers,” he whispered. His lips trailed down to Oliver’s ear. “I want it on my pillow. I want to wake up with my face buried in it.”

His hand slid down to cup the side of Oliver’s neck. And he kept whispering. “I want to see the marks of my teeth in your throat.” Callused fingertips strummed over his pulse, across his collarbone. “I want to drape you in gemstones and fine furs. I want you in my bed.” His hand opened against Oliver’s chest, over his galloping heart, and Oliver was helpless but to press into the touch, whimpering. He was melting against him.

Lower, throatier, while he crowded in closer: “I want to know what you taste like. I want to get on my knees for you.” The tip of his nose traced the edge of Oliver’s ear. “I want to be inside you. I want to keep you.”

“Oh.” Oliver moaned and swayed forward against him, his imagination vivid and wild, his blood deliciously overheated. “That – that, all of that – you can have it. You can have everything. Please–”

Then Erik kissed him.

It was shockingly gentle. A faint brush, a gentle press, a careful swipe of a tongue against the seam of Oliver’s lips. It was a question, rather than a demand. Can I? Will you let me? Oliver had all but swooned into his arms, had told him to take everything, and here was this big man with his big hands, reverently stroking his face, fingertips dancing across his chest in little frantic patterns that told the story of his want, and of his restraint.

Oliver reached up to wind both hands in his long, wet hair, and pulled back just far enough to hear the sharpness of his breath, and to say, “I may be little, but I won’t break, sweetheart.”

Oliver watched his pupils blow, until there was only a thin ring of bright blue around them. Erik shuddered all over, a full-body twitch like a horse shaking off flies. Then he gripped the hair at Oliver’s nape, tight, growled low in his throat, and kissed him like he meant it.

It was savage: wet, and messy, sharp at the edges with teeth, and exactly what Oliver had pictured kissing him would be like. There was nothing to do but submit, open to him, and gladly be invaded.

Erik’s tongue slid against his, and Erik pressed him back against the edge of the pool, the hand on his chest sliding boldly down his ribs, and around his hip to cup his ass. When he pulled Oliver’s hips forward, he went willingly, gasping a glad sound against Erik’s mouth when he felt his hardening cock against his stomach.

He was like a tide, sweeping Oliver along, and Oliver clutched at him, trying to hold on: broad shoulders, thick arms. He raked his fingers through the hair on Erik’s chest and earned a growl in response, one that vibrated through the kiss, and down Oliver’s throat.

It was–

“Erik.”

…being interrupted.

A throat cleared from somewhere above them, loudly.

Erik lifted his head, panting, chest heaving beneath Oliver’s hands. He closed his eyes a moment, and rested his forehead against Oliver’s, so that all Oliver could see was his face, blurry and too close. All he could feel was the tight grip of Erik’s hands: one in his hair, one on his backside. Oliver’s heart hammered, because they’d been caught, and oh, gods, but he didn’t pull away, he wouldn’t, not so long as Erik kept holding him.

He was the king, and he got what he wanted. If he wanted to keep holding Oliver, in front of witnesses, Oliver didn’t have the strength of will to protest that.

Without lifting his head, Erik snarled, “What?”

Bjorn’s voice answered. “There’s been another break-in.”

Erik was silent a long moment, still save for his rough breathing. Then he swore, softly, and lifted his head. “Of course there was,” he muttered.

Oliver blinked, eyes refocusing, and saw Erik lift a glance up at his general, expression sliding from fervent want to steady, businesslike hardness in a moment. His hands shifted to Oliver’s waist – but, still, he did not let go, not even in front of Bjorn. His grip tightened, a steadying squeeze that kept Oliver on his feet, and grounded, when every instinct told him to run and hide. They’d been caught! But Erik didn’t seem to care about that. If anything, he pulled him in closer, snugging him up against his chest. “Where?” he asked Bjorn.

“North gate. I’ll show you.”

Erik sighed. But said, “Fine. Give us a minute, and we’ll join you.”

We.

Oliver listened to Bjorn’s booted footfalls retreat – he’d been too caught up, his pulse pounding too hard to notice his approach, before.

His pulse was still pounding, but it was fueled by fear, now.

“Erik,” he whispered, throat threatening to close, fingertips digging into Erik’s chest.

“Shh.” Erik kissed his forehead, lingering there, and petted Oliver’s ribs with slow sweeps of his palms. “It’s all right.”

“But he–”

“Bjorn is my oldest and best friend.” Erik pulled back and caught his eye, his expression one at war: jaw set with determination, clenched in anticipation of some new problem. But eyes so gentle, and soft. Reassuring. He lifted a hand to cup Oliver’s jaw. “Don’t worry on his account.”

He waited, holding his gaze until Oliver finally let out a shaky breath and managed a nod.

“Come. Let’s go and see.”

They climbed out of the water and made use of the towels waiting on the bench. Erik had a dressing gown there, a crimson one resplendent with silver embroidery. He pulled it on, and, when Oliver fumbled with his own, turned to pull it snug across his front and secure the belt for him.

Oliver’s hands were shaking. “If we go out there – together – people will know. They’ll know what we were – doing.”

“Let them know.” Erik offered him a smile that was more ferocious than reassuring. “Come.”

There was nothing to do but follow.

Bjorn waited just beyond the corner, standing with arms folded, huge and imposing. Oliver imagined he looked disapproving, but he fell right into step with Erik and said, in a low voice, “We’ve caught the bugger this time.”

“You have? Good. Whose man is he?”

“He won’t say, but wait until you see how he’s dressed.”

The baths weren’t nearly as crowded as they’d been, but a few bathers lingered, lounging and chatting quietly. All of them spotted the king, heads turning to follow his progress, which meant all of them spotted Oliver, too. There was no mistaking the narrow glances he received, nor the way friends leaned together to whisper to one another.

Erik and Bjorn marched on, heedless, and Oliver hastened to keep up, face flaming.

The dressing room wasn’t empty – but Bjorn turned to the two gray-haired men sitting and gabbing on a bench and barked, “Get out.” He was completely transformed from the jovial figure who’d met Oliver and Tessa on the pier that first day.

The men scrambled to comply, and Bjorn took up a post in the doorway, arms still folded, shoulder braced against the wall.

Erik went for his clothes, and Oliver did the same, tugging them on with nervous, trembling fingers.

“He was caught in the act, then?” Erik asked, and Oliver’s heart stopped.

The thief, he reminded himself, with a mental shake, and laced up his tunic.

Bjorn said, “Aye. He’d picked the lock, and the tools still in his hands when my boys found him. He’s refused to tell us anything.”

“Where is he now?”

“The cells.”

Oliver tugged on his second boot, and made to slip away.

“Oliver.” Erik’s voice brought him up short. And Erik’s expression, when he turned toward him, was etched with faint confusion. “It’s this way.”

It wasn’t a command. He didn’t say you’ll come with us. Oliver knew that he could beg off and flee to his chamber if he wanted to.

But Erik had kissed him, had said all those things to him – wanted to keep him – and he was including him in this now, in official, potentially dangerous royal business.

Oliver took a breath and said, “All right.”

Bjorn led the way out of the bathing chamber, back down the tunnel, and turned down a darker hallway. The cressets burned lower, here, were spaced farther apart, so that the shadows crowded in closer. An uninviting passage, and Oliver supposed that was the point of it.

Erik walked alongside him, still emanating warmth from the bath, hair still wet on his shoulders.

Oliver hadn’t lived thirty years without learning how to stow all his various anxieties away when the time called for it. He stuffed down all his lingering shakiness and uncertainty and focused on the moment at hand. He was still him, and Erik was still his kingly host – his friend, even – and he could act like a man grown about this.

“Bjorn said ‘another break-in,’ didn’t he?”

“Aye.” Erik sounded grim. The hard note in his voice elicited a pleasant shiver that Oliver covered with a cough. “We had one just before you arrived. I’ve had all my people questioned, and all claim they know nothing about it. Nothing’s been stolen, no one is missing, but someone’s stealing his way onto the palace grounds.”

“Hm.”

Erik sent him a questioning look as they walked.

“It’s only – subterfuge is a Southern game. I imagine Northmen are more about hooks, and ladders, and outright sieges.”

Erik smirked. “For the most part.”

The hall ended in a series of heavy iron doors that a waiting, stern-faced guard unlocked with keys, a different one for each door. When they were through the last one, a guard handed Bjorn a burning torch, and, holding another, led them down a long hall studded with barred doors. The only light came from behind them, at the main doors, and from the sputtering torches, their uneven glow dancing and spitting across the stone.

Depravation. Of light, of comfort, of company.

Oliver chafed at his arms against a sudden chill.

Erik’s hand landed, briefly, at the small of his back. A warm, grounding touch, supportive and comforting.

Then they arrived at the correct door and the guard picked a key off the ring he carried. He paused, before he unlocked it, and glanced between Bjorn and Erik. “He’s…well, you can see for yourself, your majesty.”

The door opened soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, and Bjorn stepped through, ducking beneath the low lintel. The guard stayed in the hall.

Oliver took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and when Erik glanced back over his shoulder, checking on him, he nodded, and followed him into the cell.

It had been carved out of the rock of the cave: stone walls, floor, and ceiling, though there was a stool, and a cot, and a pail, and fresh straw had been laid.

The torchlight flickered across a man sitting on the floor, with his back to the wall. His head was shaved save for one fat, pale braid that ran down the center of his head and trailed over one shoulder. Starkly pale eyes peered out of a face that was streaked all over with blue and black pigment of some sort, a thick paste that made it hard to pick out any of his features, an unnerving mask of paint. He was dressed all in furs, and bits of old, cracked leather. A necklace of various bones and teeth hung around his neck, some the long fangs of bears or wolves, others alarmingly human in shape.

“Look, Erik,” Bjorn said, voice thick with disgust. “It’s a little bear cub.”

The man shifted forward with a rattle, and Oliver realized he was chained to the wall, thick iron manacles around his wrists.

“Beserkir,” Erik said, and then spit on the floor at the man’s feet. “What did your master send you to steal?”

The man stared mutinously up at Erik, and kept silent. Everything about him bristled with a challenge, and Oliver’s belly clenched – unpleasantly, this time. All the heat of the baths had left him.

Erik took the torch from Bjorn, and crouched down so he was on eye level with the prisoner. Slowly, he reached out with the flaming end of the torch, closer and closer to the man’s face, until Oliver caught a whiff of singed fur. The light chased the shadows from the prisoner’s painted face, so they could see the shape of his nose – broken at least twice before – and thin lips, the narrow jaw and slanted cheekbones. He was young – as young as Leif, or maybe even Rune, his beard still thin and patchy.

“You’re too young to have been there,” Erik said, and his voice had taken on an edge that Oliver hadn’t yet heard. “But you’ll have heard of it – they’ll have told you. You know what happened to your clan brothers when they set upon a man of Aeretoll on the road.”

The man – boy – kept his composure admirably, but his eyes widened a fraction, and his throat jumped as he swallowed.

“Your people killed my brother-in-law. My sister’s husband. And then I lined them all up, bound hand and foot, and I took their heads. One” – he lifted the torch in an arc over the boy’s head – “by” – swept it in close, flames licking at the end of his nose – “one.”

The prisoner shrank back, baring his teeth, whining in his throat like a cowed dog.

Erik pulled the torch back a fraction. “Why are you here?”

“You can tell him now,” Bjorn said, “or I can break every one of your fingers first.”

The boy’s nostrils flared as he breathed harshly a moment, the tension in him building – and then the words came tumbling out all at once, furious, harsh with an accent much stronger than that of anyone here in Aeres. “I’m here because you’re a traitor!” he hissed. “The mighty Erik Frodeson, King of Aeretoll – a traitor to the whole of the North! To your own ancestors!”

“Traitor?” Oliver blurted. He glanced at Bjorn and Erik, but both looked baffled. “A traitor how?”

He half-expected to be reprimanded for interfering, but he wasn’t. And the boy’s wild gaze rolled toward him and he sneered.

“Southerner,” he said like the worst sort of curse. To Erik: “You scheme with the South – you promise them our lands, our birthright, in exchange for silk, and honey, and pretty places to put your cocks.” The last was said with a hateful glance toward Oliver.

Erik stabbed the torch at his face, and the boy’s smirk disappeared as he flattened himself back against the wall. “Did your leader send you here to spy on us? Or are you just an enterprising little fucker?”

He refused to answer.

Erik stood, expression closed-off, and left the cell.

Oliver looked to Bjorn, who nodded and waved him out as well.

In the hallway, the guard locked the cell, and took the torch.

“Don’t feed him ‘til morning,” Erik instructed. “I’ll send someone down with a tray to question him.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Erik didn’t speak again until they were out of the dungeon and back into the main tunnel. His expression, bathed in the light of the cressets, was tense and set. “We can’t talk here,” he cautioned.

Which was how Oliver found himself occupying an armchair in Erik’s study, while Erik paced back and forth in front of the fire, fiddling with the rings on his long fingers, and Birger and Bjorn stood with hands braced on the backs of their respective chairs. Oliver had a cup of wine in one hand, and a distinct feeling that he didn’t belong in this conversation, but he wasn’t going to get up and leave until someone made him.

He also wasn’t going to make more eye contact with Bjorn than he had to, given what the man had seen less than an hour ago.

“The Beserkirs have no way of knowing about our dealings with Drakewell,” Birger said, troubled. “Not unless someone here is passing information along to them.”

“My point exactly,” Erik muttered, and kept pacing.

“It’s no business of theirs regardless,” Bjorn said. His jaw was clenched so tight it left his beard bristling. He had the distinct look of a man who would enjoy bashing heads at the moment.

“The Beserkirs,” Birger said, addressing Oliver, “have long held the territory north of the Wolf Mountains.”

“They’ve been spreading,” Bjorn grumbled. “Crawling down south, like a disease.”

“They are the wildest and most martial of the Northern clans,” Birger continued. “They worship no god but war, and when they go raiding, they’re just as likely to kill the women as rape them. They plunder riches only so that they may take trophies; they can’t be reasoned with, or conduct any sort of real business.”

“Then why would they care what Aeretoll does?” Oliver asked.

“They think we’ve gone too soft, here on the coast. That we have forsaken our heritage as Northmen,” Erik said.

The Wall Between Worlds, Oliver remembered.

Birger said, “The enmity between Beserkir and Úlfheðnar runs old and deep.”

“And the royal family is descended of Úlfheðnar lords.”

“Aye, just so. The bear-shirts have long anticipated a day when Aeretoll would march on them in force, and claim their lands, and press them into servitude – the same way they treat their own enemies. If they think we’ve become even cozier with the South, they could well be thinking a united army is headed their way – and they can’t ever face us head-on in proper battle.”

“It’s nothing but raids and assassinations for them,” Bjorn said, disgusted. 

Assassinations like that of Revna’s husband.

Erik paused, and gripped the mantelpiece, rings winking as his hands flexed. He glared into the flames and said, “Someone’s told them about our Drakewell visitors. It’s the only possible explanation.”

“And we shall find out who,” Birger said.

“In the meantime, I’m going to question the little shit personally,” Bjorn said, cracking his knuckles.

“It can wait until morning,” Birger told his brother. “Let the lad stew awhile, and he’ll be more talkative with an empty belly.”

Bjorn sighed, but nodded, reluctantly. “I’ve doubled the guard, and we’re running patrols outside the walls, every hour.”

Erik nodded.

“We should get some sleep,” Birger said. “Tomorrow’s to be a long, grand day and we’ll all want to be fresh for it. We’ll be awakened if there’s an emergency.”

Oliver contemplated his solitary chamber, with firelight shadows dancing up the walls and frost on the window panes. Near enough to the royal apartments that a shout would bring a guard running, should anything threaten him.

And, judging by the sneer the young Beserkir had shot him in the cell – pretty places to put your cocks – he did feel threatened.

Earlier, down in the baths, he knew that, if not for Bjorn’s interruption, things would have progressed farther. And where would that have led? To Erik’s bed? Or, perhaps, more accurately, to going their separate, though satisfied ways after a hot springs tryst?

Either way, there could be no question of sleeping alone, now, not with doubled guards and the potential for a midnight alarm.

He cleared his throat and said, “Are we safe? In the palace, I mean,” he explained, as all eyes turned toward him. “If there is a traitor in your midst – if there are others waiting to pick locks and slip into doors…”

Bjorn puffed out his chest and said, “My men have it handled.”

But Erik’s expression softened, fractionally, and his head tilted to its earnest angle. “I promise that you are quite safe within these walls, Mr. Meacham. No harm will come to you, or to Tessa.”

Oliver held his gaze, skin alive with the fresh memory of his touch; he would have known his hands by feel alone, in the dark, at this point. “And what about you? Will you be safe?”

His lips curved, faintly. “If a man makes the mistake of coming at me with a knife, it will be his last mistake.”

Oliver wanted to believe him.

~*~

Bjorn personally escorted Oliver back to his room, with promises of stationing extra guards in the corridor. Erik offered him a smile, before he turned away and slipped out, hating that he could not do more to ease the worry in his gaze.

An ache started up in his chest, and he cursed their prisoner to every level of hell, because he’d had him, finally. Had him soft, and sweet, and eager in his arms, under his mouth, and if not for Beserkir machinations, Erik would be even now–

Birger cleared his throat. Unobtrusively, but it cut off Erik’s line of thought, and brought him back to the present – revealed to him that he gripped the mantel so hard that his rings were gouging the wood. He released it, shook out his hand, and turned to his old friend and advisor.

“Something you’d like to say?”

Birger looked chagrined. “No. I was encouraging you, after all.

“But…”

Erik sighed.

Birger took the chair Oliver had been using, and nodded to the one across, until Erik finally sat, hands forced flat on his thighs to keep from fidgeting.

Birger said, “When the first break-in happened, I had my suspicions. It was no surprise, in all honesty, to find a Beserkir creeping into our halls.”

“Nor to me.”

“But I thought it would be the old petty grievances. A bit of mischief, even, them wanting to botch our yuletide plans.” His expression grew more troubled. “But they know about Drakewell.”

“He said ‘South.’ Generically.”

Birger sent him a sharp glance that said you know better.

“What would you have me do? Have the clans approve every one of our alliances?”

“No. But. Erik. I was in the solar today with Rune. And I saw the beads and gems set aside for tomorrow. For the Drakes.”

Erik’s throat went dry, and his stomach tightened unpleasantly. “What of them?”

“Tomorrow night, everyone in that great hall will know that Tessa and Oliver are being formally courted by members of the Aeretollean royal family.”

Erik fought not to grind his teeth.

“Strategic political marriages are commonplace enough. Many will see the wisdom in a Drakewell bride for Leif.

“But Oliver…”

“Speak plainly,” Erik ground out.

Birger offered him a small, sad sort of smile. “Know that I have nothing but affection and respect for the lad when I point out that he is an illegitimate bachelor, and that there can be no political gain to braiding lover’s beads into his hair. Your lords will see that, tomorrow. Your lords will know that it is your affection that has granted him a place at your table.”

Erik sent him a dark look.

“You’ve never honored anyone like that, Erik, not ever. Doing so could shatter the illusion that you have a heart of winter. There are those who will see it as a weak point – a vulnerability. If they want to hurt you, they can do so by hurting him.”

“Could that not be said of my sister? Of my nephews?”

Birger’s smile deepened, and softened, and Erik hated the sympathy he saw there. “This is different, and you know it.”

Because Oliver was an outsider, was a Southerner. Because while he was expected to love his own blood, rumors would begin to fly when the lords and ladies of Aeretoll saw the beads in Oliver’s hair and began to wonder if their king’s reasoning had been compromised by an agent of the South. Birger was right: he couldn’t blame this on the begetting of an heir, or on a political alliance, not when Tessa was already set to wed Leif. A public declaration of the sort he was about to make could only be read as an act of pure sentiment.

“I’m thinking of you, yes, but of Oliver, too,” Birger said. “This could be dangerous for him as well.”

Erik thought of the vicious glance the prisoner had darted at Oliver, earlier, the contempt and hostility. “Or, one could argue that, the connection already having been made, I would be protecting him. Killing a foreign guest is an offense, yes. Killing a royal consort is an act of war.”

Birger’s eyes flew wide.

“They wouldn’t dare it.”

“Erik…”

“I do not need a lecture, Birger. I think after forty-three years on this earth I can make up my own mind about such things.”

Birger sighed – and then smiled again. “I should think so.” He chuckled, eyes sparking with fondness, and Erik felt some of his tension ease.

Then Birger sobered. “I only wanted you to think it through from every angle. Once a choice is made, it sometimes has to be defended.”

Erik nodded. “I’m well aware of that.”