Page 26 of Edge of the Wild

“From the king, my lord,” one of the men told Oliver, with a bow, and set the hamper on the floor. The other two followed suit, each with a murmured “my lord.”

Oliver didn’t have the energy to correct them.

When they were gone, Magnus reached into one of the hampers and shook out a long, sheepskin-lined leather coat, shiny and freshly-oiled, its collar of thick, brown bear fur. He smiled approvingly. “Nowthis– this is a good travelling coat. And” – he pulled out a woolen tunic, black with silver embroidery – “you put this under it, and a good shirt, a cloak – you’ll be warm as toast.”

Oliver glanced toward the desk, where his half-eaten breakfast sat, eggs congealed, toast gone cold and soggy. “Hm. As toast, yes.”

“And here, look, wool stockings,” Magnus continued. “Spare boots. And gloves – two kinds.”

“Why two kinds?”

“One for riding, one for working.”

Oliver lifted his brows.

“Theoretically speaking, of course.”

Oliver was aware, because Birger had informed him, that, while the caravan would overnight in the manors of the lords of Aeretoll, once they reached the edge of the kingdom, and started across the Wastes, there would be no palaces, or inns, or even cottages. They would be sleeping rough: camping in tents, horses tied out on picket lines. The dogs would ride in the sleighs with the men, so that, at night they’d be fresh to patrol and guard the camp from predators – man and beast alike.

He knew that he would be cold; that he would be expected to lug firewood, and sit watch: to be a true part of the company, and not some pampered pet.

Not that he’d ever wanted to be such a thing.

With an internal bracing-up, he began pulling clothes from the hamper and sorting them. He would take two trunks of possessions, and he wanted to be organized about it.

“Do we know who will be coming yet?” he asked. They departed in the morning, and he’d found it best to think about the practicalities, rather than their pre-dawn wakeup. Rune was still gripped by fever, Revna and Tessa looked like ghosts this morning, and Erik had been much too quiet when Oliver had left him at breakfast. If he dwelled on any of that, he’d have indigestion.

“Me, of course,” Magnus said. “And Lars. Four of the other lads – though not nearly as handsome and charming as me.”

Oliver snorted, and earned a laugh.

“Then His Majesty. Obviously. Yourself. Prince Leif. Bjorn, I’d expect.”

Oliver nodded; that’s what he’d been expecting.

“And of course there’ll be the lords with us. Or…” When Oliver glanced up, he saw him frowning: a rare sight. “Most of them.”

Oliver frowned, too. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing wrong. Only…there’s been some talk. Rumblings in the halls.”

Oliver looked at him expectantly.

“Some of Lord Dagr’s men were talking. They don’t think his lordship wants to make the trek this year.”

“Dagr,” Oliver said, trying to recall the faces around the table at the council meeting. “The one who’s gone half-bald and shaved his head in hopes no one will notice?”

“Aye.” Magnus grinned. “And has a great beard to make up for it. He’s ferocious to look at, make no mistake, but – and you didn’t hear this from me – he doesn’t like an argument. His lads say he’s worried about how things will go at the Festival Council.” A beat passed, and then his eyes widened. “Not that you need to be worried, now, my lord.”

Oliver sighed. “Not ‘my lord,’ Magnus.”

Magnus chuckled again. “Try telling His Majesty that.”

~*~

Oliver packed with his usual speed and efficiency – Magnus expressed shock that someone who owned so much silk could pack so speedily, to which Oliver rolled his eyes – and serving men came to tote the two trunks to the stable where they would be readied for an early departure. He took the clothes he intended to wear tomorrow with him, in a bundle, as he left his guest chamber and returned to the royal suite.

He walked in on an argument.

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