Page 87 of Heart of Winter
He managed to nibble a little of the bread and bacon, and sip his tea, and spent longer than usual on his morning ablutions. He shaved himself with great care, until his cheeks were smooth and gleaming: no sense pretending to be less Southern than he was, he reasoned; he would only look unkempt with scruff on his face, anyway, rather than virile and intimidating. He dressed in his tucked and taken-in hand-me-downs, the house colors unmistakeable, and pulled on his new boots as well: supple, fur-lined leather with a cuff of fur at the top, just below his knees.
An inspection in the mirror proved he looked like a boy playing dress-up at a masquerade back home, pretending to be a Northman. But there was nothing for it. He squared his shoulders, took a few deep breaths, and went to find the council chamber.
The gallery had been layered with even more pine boughs overnight, laced with velvet ribbons, hung with gleaming metallic balls, and bunches of cranberries and dried oranges and cinnamon sticks that perfumed the air. Leif stood at the rail, idly fingering pine needles and watching the crush and clamor of breakfast taking place below in the hall. Like Oliver, he was dressed richly, but in a practical sense, with no ornamentation save the usual beads in his hair, and the stag ring on his hand that mimicked his uncle’s. The true finery would come later that day, when it was time for the feast.
He turned at the sound of Oliver’s approach, and smiled in greeting. “I was just coming to get you.”
“Yes, for some reason, the thing your council is missing is a court jester,” Oliver said, wryly, gesturing to his outfit.
Leif smirked – looking very much like a young, golden Erik in the process – and said, “No, we’ve got Lord Askr for that.”
“Ah. I met him last night.”
“A giant red blowhard, isn’t he?”
Oliver snorted as he fell into step beside the prince. “I’m afraid he’s rather falling into my formerly-held prejudices about Northmen.”
“I think he enjoys being a stereotype,” Leif agreed. “He holds a vast tract of good mining land, so everyone tends to put up with him. And in the right setting, his storiesareentertaining.”
“Is his voice a strong one on the council?”
“Yes. Regrettably. But Uncle Erik has the final say in everything, don’t worry.” He grinned in answer to Oliver’s sideways glance. “Perks of being the king.”
“I should say so.”
They bypassed the grand staircase and proceeded instead to one of the smaller, circular turret staircases that lay in the corners of the palace. Narrow windows let in morning light, the reflection off the snow outside bright enough to leave them squinting. With every step, Oliver’s anxiety mounted.
“Leif.” He halted, finally, and Leif turned back to look up at him in question. “I don’t want to attend this meeting if I’m going to be an imposition.” When Leif frowned, he said, “If it’s…going to look…bad. Untoward, somehow.”
Understanding dawned. His brows lifted. “No, it’s…” He seemed to come to a decision, nodding to himself, expression firming. “It’ll be fine. They all just have to get used to it, that’s all.”
“…usedto it?”
“Trust in Uncle. He knows what he’s doing.”
“He…” But Leif was turning and starting down again, and Oliver closed his mouth and followed.
The council chamber was at the front of the palace, in a wide, high-ceilinged room loaded with windows that let in plenty of natural light and offered a view of the snow-covered bailey and front gate. A long table, polished from years of palms and elbows, ran down the center of the room, and, hanging from the walls to either side, banners. All the noble houses of the kingdom, Oliver figured, interspersed with hanging swords, and suits of armor, and the royal banner of a reindeer stag, repeated again and again.
Most of the chairs were already full, and the lords turned to regard them as Oliver entered alongside Leif. Some eyebrows shot up; some beards were stroked contemplatively.
“Come sit by me,” Leif said, quietly, and led him down to the head of the table. Leif took the seat to the right of what was obviously meant to be Erik’s chair, and Oliver settled on his right, after, hands clenching tight together in his lap.
“Good morning,” Leif greeted the table. His smile was sunny and welcoming. “I trust everyone slept well? Had a good breakfast?”
Lord Askr, seated across and several chairs down, coughed a laugh. “Now, lad, you can’t come in here trailing a little red fox cub and go asking about breakfast like nothing’s out of place.”
Uncle William had once cautioned Oliver that his flares of temper, and his resultant smart mouth, would get him in irredeemable trouble some day.
But Uncle William was dead. So.
“If you remember, we met last night, Lord Askr,” he said, primly. “Though you were wearing far fewer clothes.”
Silence reigned a moment.
Then a snort – then a laugh, and then the whole table was laughing, Askr smiling in a grudging way, his gaze still sharp.
Leif chuckled and elbowed Oliver, a small, ordinary bit of affection that Oliver found quite touching.
