Afternoon is the weaving terrace, where Aether has saved him his usual place near the window and is working on something long and russet-colored that is clearly too ambitious for the remaining hours of daylight. She raises one eyebrow at the mouth-shaped bruise on his throat that has blossomed into a really lovely purple as the day has worn on.
"How is our Warlord doing today?" she asks, as he takes his place at his loom. "I feel like I should have a word with the kitchens about his voracious appetite if he's taken to biting my student."
Evran flushes to his roots, even though this sort of commentary is more than commonplace when it comes to Aether. No matter how many times she teases him, the novelty of the fact that she's teasing him openly about being the consort to the Warlord does not wear off.
"Still a student, am I?" he asks, instead of rising to the bait.
She smiles pleasantly at him and, because she's the best, she allows the subject change. "There's always more to learn when it comes to weaving."
He sits. He threads. His hands know this work now, know the weight of the shuttle and the pull of the warp, and for a long while there is nothing in his head but the soft clack of wood and the low murmur of the other women across the terrace and the way the afternoon light falls in long warm bars across the stone floor.
Aether leans over once, examines the section he has just finished, and makes a small approving sound.
"This is trade-worthy," she says. "You really need to send it with the wagons when they travel."
"Yes, so you've said."
"I am saying it again because you fumbled your shuttle and changed the subject last time."
Evran opens his mouth to deny it, and then closes it, because he can feel the heat climbing his neck right now.
Aether smiles, pleased, and goes back to her own loom.
Later, much later, when the evening meal is finished, the great hall has thinned, the torches have burned down and Evran is warm with ale and tired in the loose-limbed way of a body that has been used all day by good work, he and Vaike climb the stairs to their chambers together. Vaike's hand is at the small of his back. Not pushing. Just there.
The door closes behind them.
Evran goes to the window first, the way he always does, to unlatch the shutter a little because he likes the night air, and he stands there for a moment looking out at the mountain in the dark. The stronghold is quiet. The terraces below are a layered shadow. Far out beyond the walls, on the slope, a few last campfires of the season's hunting parties are visible as pinpricks of orange. The sky is enormous and full of stars.
Vaike comes up behind him. Sets his hands on Evran's hips. Rests his chin on the top of Evran's head.
They stand like that for a long time, not speaking. Then, finally, Vaike's arms come around him.
"Come to bed," he says, quiet, into Evran's hair.
He turns in Vaike's arms and lets himself be led to bed.
Chapter 2
Tonight the great hall smells strongly of roasted venison and spring flowers, narcissus and primrose scattered about the tables in a declaration of the season turning, and the fire in the hearth is lower than it has been all winter. Evran is sitting to Vaike's right the way he always does now, his plate half-empty because no matter how many times Eira urges him to try the candied turnips he cannot stomach them, and there is a cup of honeyed mead warming his hands. The noise of the evening meal has grown softer as the hours have worn on, and the low rumble of conversation at his back feels like the sound of a hard day's work finally coming to a close.
Vaike's large hand is on the back of his neck, resting there the way it always does after he has finished a meal and settled into his chair to listen to the chatter at the table. His palm is warm and broad, the fingers resting just below the line of Evran's hair, which he has worked studiously to keep at a reasonable length despite the fact that Leona keeps urging him to grow a braid to his knees. Vaike's thumb is tracing an absent circle against the knob of his spine, comforting and proprietary. It is one of thethings Evran thought he would grow accustomed to and stop noticing, the way you stop noticing your own breathing, but instead the weight of it registers every time and sends a quiet thrill down his ribs. Six months, and the press of that hand still undoes him. He suspects it always will.
He is thinking about finishing his mead and heading to the library when Bran pushes back from the bench across the table and clears his throat.
The sound carries across the hall and earns him at least half the room's attention, whether he intended it or not. Bran does not need to raise his voice to command a room, largely because the room has a healthy respect for the sheer size of him. He is tall and broad, thick through the chest and arms, with a face accented by meaningful tattoos that spiral down his jaw and neck, and bright eyes that see everything. When Bran clears his throat, people listen. Whether or not they heed his words is another matter entirely.
"Right then," Bran says, and his voice is deep and full, the tone that preempts good news rather than bad. He plants his forearms on the table and leans forward, and the bench creaks beneath him. "I've been putting this off because I was hoping someone else might bring it up, but since the lot of you are content to eat and drink and pretend the cycle of time doesn't exist..."
"Here we go," Leona mutters from beside him, not looking up from her plate.
Bran grins. The grin transforms his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making him look ten years younger, carrying the unrepentant delight of a boy caught in a scheme. "The Gathering of Clans is nearly upon us."
There is a shift in the hall that is not dramatic, because the Drakkari people are not known for theatrics, but it is noticeable all the same. Heads that were not already turned find Bran fromacross the room and conversations pause. Kellin, seated at the next table over, sets his cup down with a quiet thunk that sounds loud in the absence of voices.
"We'll be traveling soon," Bran continues, and now his tone has settled into something more official, though the warmth never leaves it. He leans back and spreads his hands. "Heldrin's End is on the other side of the mountain. The council convenes in just over a week, which means we ride in three days if we want to arrive with any dignity and not looking like we crawled across the mountain on our bellies."
Evran glances at Vaike. His Warlord is watching Bran with a steady expression that, as usual, is difficult to read. The hand on Evran's neck has not moved, but the thumb that was tracing circles against his skin has gone still, and that small absence tells Evran a great deal without Vaike saying anything at all. It means that whatever this is, it is important. Vaike touches Evran absently the way other men breathe, and when that touch goes still it means his attention has narrowed to a point.
