Page 121 of Edge of the Wild

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Stools carved from old tree stumps were brought inside the circle and set in a much smaller ring, close enough so that men would brush shoulders and knees. That was the intent, Oliver supposed. Smushed between Erik and Birger, he took the pipe and then the ale horn that was being passed around when it was his turn, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the thought of the other, unclean mouths that had touched them. The pipe left him coughing. Birger thumped him on the back and the Beserkir chief grinned meanly, showing black gaps where teeth should have been.

Oliver expected Erik to speak first, to lead the meeting.

But to his surprise, the Bryti chief spoke up first, his accent so heavy it took a beat to register the words. “Ragnar says you’ve gone soft.”

Shit, Oliver thought.

Erik’s tone was wry when he said, “Ragnar says lots of things, few of them true.”

A few chuckles rippled around the circle.

“There you go putting words in my mouth,” Ragnar said to the Bryti chief. “I said no such thing. Only that my cousin has found his heart swayed in a loving and tender direction.” This was met with sniggers.

“There’s nothing wrong with love, lads,” Birger said, easily. He’d pulled out his own, personal pipe and was thumbing in tobacco from a tooled leather pouch. “Every man here would speak freely of the love he has for his clan, for his brothers, for his sons.”

“Aye,” theJotunn chief spoke up. “But our brothers and sons are useful.” His men grinned, revealing silver canine teeth, top and bottom. “What does that little bit of table scrap do ‘cept suck your cock?”

Off and on, all the long journey here, Erik, Birger, and Leif had all tried to prepare him for this moment, telling him of the roughness and coarseness of the clans, of their lack of all respect for what they saw as “Southern” royalty – they barely considered Aeretoll Northern, these days. Oliver had known that he would be grilled and needled and made to feel a fool, and yet, the question was still a shock.

Erik took a sharp breath, as did Leif.

And Oliver beat them both to it. “If I’m to take your meaning,” Oliver said in his most cutting, sneering tone, “your son’s the one to suckyourcock, then?”

Silence.

More than a few of the chiefs blinked at him myopically, their faces shocked to blankness.

Ragnar barked a laugh. “See? What did I tell you?”

Oliver turned to him, gave him his frostiest stare – which was truly an impersonation of his aunt, Lady Katherine. “I wonder: whatdidyou tell them, Ragnar? I’m not sure I like ‘paramour.’ It makes me sound like a strumpet – rather than the man who saved your sorry ass from a cold-drake.”

Inwardly, he was cringing at his own words; he wanted to pull his hood up and hide beneath it, shrink down into the collar of his cloak. But outwardly he held firm, staring at Ragnar’s suddenly slack-jawed expression.

Erik chuckled – but did not speak, to Oliver’s surprise.

The chief of the Refr clan, his copper-orange hair in a series of ornate braids that hugged his skull and rattled like thrown dice thanks to their load of beads, said, “If I knew it was the lads you liked, you coulda had one of mine.” He jerked his thumb toward the Refr – the boy, really – seated beside him, who blushed a shade to match his hair. “He’s even got the hair.”

“Not quite,” Erik said, and Oliver felt him finger one of the braids tucked behind his ear. His tone was light – much lighter than expected. “And it isn’t a matter of hair. I was never going to saddle anyone with my affections unless I thought he could carry the weight of what it means to be an Aeretollean consort.”

“Weight,” someone scoffed. “He don’t look like he could carry so much as a bucket.”

Erik’s tone firmed. “Oliver is of the old Drakewell blood. He has the dragon gift. Ask Ragnar if you don’t believe me. Ask any of my lords. They all saw it with their own eyes.”

“The beast looked ready to devour all of us,” Askr said. “And here comes his lordship, talking to it in the old tongue. I never thought to see anything like it.”

There were murmurs; hushed comments, hisses, and more than a few speculative glances thrown Oliver’s way.

Oliver resisted the urge to fidget.

Far quicker than seemed possible, the Beserkir chief stood. All the chatter died instantly. Oliver didn’t miss the way the chiefs to either side of him leaned away from him, wanting nothing to do with him, or whatever he was about to say.

The soft squeak of oiled leather betrayed Erik leaning forward, ready for anything.

The bear-shirt stared long and hard at Oliver. He growled, “Southerner,” like a curse.

It took more self-control than he wanted to admit, but Oliver managed to shoot him an unimpressed look. He snorted. “Yes, I know that. But thank you for showing at least a little basic reasoning skill.”

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