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They had discovered, in the past few days, that it was possible to call to one another, and request a meeting in the Between. Amelia had begun it, in a panic the day her party was attacked on the road, the process fueled by terror and desperation. But they’d experimented since, and found that it was possible for one of them to cross over, and then send out a mental call to whichever person they wanted to speak with. It came through the other side as a sort of tickle at the back of the mind, and a sudden blooming of thoughts of the caller.
Shortly after Oliver was booted from his audience with the emperor, Amelia filled his mind, and he crossed over to see that she had called Tessa as well – but not Náli. This was blood family only. Their meeting had been serious, and necessary, and ultimately one of good news: Leif was awake, and speaking coherently, and on the mend; he’d also pledged his formal allyship with Amelia’s cause, and declared them “friends.” The look of tired bewilderment on her face had reminded him of those early days at Aeres, when he and Tessa had struggled to come to terms with the notion that this was their life now, and the royal family their people.
By the time their conference was ended, and he returned to his physical form, the sun was sinking toward the horizon, and Percy was circling, rather than flying straight. He’d let out an unhappy grumble that Oliver had been absent for so much of the day’s flight, and Oliver had stroked his neck, promised him an extra liver at dinner, and guided them down to prepare for the night’s camp.
They had reached the river, and the land bridge crossing, and Erik had decided to stay on the Aeretollean side for the night, and start across into Aquitainia with the morning’s first light. There was a town there, and an inn. Some of the men had doubtless slunk off to the taproom and brothel right away. The inn’s proprietor had spotted the royal banners, and sent a boy to invite His Majesty to stay beneath his roof. It looked as though rain was coming on, and the proprietor would be delighted to host the king of his country.
Oliver knew that Erik would have preferred his tent, and his brazier, and his bedroll, close to his men and ready for action. But having a king stay was an honor for a small-town inn owner, and one not likely to occur again anytime soon. “My man of the people,” Oliver teased, and Erik sent him a sharp, unamused look.
And so they had a proper roof over their heads for the night, and a real bed with feather-tick mattress all to themselves. The rain did come, a heavy, early spring drumming on the roof that sluiced down past the window to turn the alley below to mud. A cold rain, the chill lifting off of it giving Oliver goosebumps where he stood at the open window, watching the silver flash of its falling, seeking out the lights of camp beyond the town’s borders.
Some of those goosebumps might have been dread, though. He needed to speak with Erik about Leif. He’d start with the good news, that he was healing…and then follow-up with the bad news that he’d been injured in the first place. And that their enemy was even more powerful than they’d known.
Lanterns glowed as soft, buttery smudges behind tent canvases, and pitch torches burned despite the rain along the pathways of the camp, stuttering and flickering. Oliver listened to Erik move about the room behind him, pouring water from the ewer, washing his face, and hoped that Percy and Alfie had been fairly fed. When he’d left, Percy had been staring down into the river with a head cocked to better see the darting silver fish below the surface.
The floorboards creaked beneath Erik’s weight, and Oliver felt the heat of his body a moment before strong arms slipped around his waist, and a solid chest pressed up against his back. Erik hooked his chin on his shoulder, and nuzzled into the side of his head with a low, appreciative murmur that left Oliver gripping at his forearms and shivering pleasantly.
“Your hair’s getting long.”
“Is it? That’s good, because there’s this very large man who keeps braiding it.”
Erik huffed a quiet laugh, and pushed said lengthening hair aside with his nose to get to skin, lips warm and soft along Oliver’s pulse point. He smoothed his broad palms over Oliver’s stomach and chest, the thin material of his shirt doing little to disguise the warmth and texture and intent of them. “The bed’s going to make a good bit of noise, but it’s comfortable enough.”
Oliver shivered again, and pressed back against him; let his fingertips wander over the strong backs of his hands, and run up the bones there to trace the intricate shapes of his rings. It was tempting to tip his head to the side, and let Erik kiss his neck more thoroughly. Then, when his knees had gone to jelly, he could turn in his arms, slide his own around Erik’s neck, and let his mouth be kissed, too, until it was slick and bruised. A bed for the night, and not likely to see another one for a while. Why waste that? Erik’s mood had lifted once they were indoors, alone together, with a door between them and the war. Why ruin that? Why not give them both a night of respite?
But guilt was niggling at the back of his mind, and so Oliver pressed his hands flat to the backs of Erik’s and straightened his spine.
Erik felt the shift in him right away. He stilled. Lifted his head, taking away the welcome warmth of his breath and leaving the damp skin there cold without him. “What is it?” Erik leaned further over his shoulder, one hand breaking loose so he could rest it on the window ledge. A gust of wind brought cold, stinging drops inside, prickling across Oliver’s face and throat. “Did you see something?”
“No. Percy will alert me if anything happens at camp.” Oliver hesitated, and Erik shifted somehow closer, so he could peer down at the side of Oliver’s face, his gaze boring into him and ratcheting up the tension. “I need to tell you something.”
“That sounds…ominous.”
Oliver did turn, then, and Erik let him, before his grip tightened on Oliver’s hip once they were face-to-face. Oliver rested his hands on his broad chest, delightfully half-exposed by his unlaced shirt, and forced his head up, so their gazes could meet and he wouldn’t get distracted by temptation.
Erik lifted his other hand and braced it on the window frame above his head, so that Oliver felt hemmed-in, rather than sheltered. “What?”
“It’s not ominous,” Oliver said. “In fact, it’s good news.” He winced. “Technically. Try not to interject until I’ve told you the whole thing.”
He didn’t interject – but he did press his lips together until they were bloodless, and worked his way though a series of facial expressions that would have left Oliver snorting under different, less serious circumstances.
“…but he’s awake, now, and speaking coherently. The dressings were changed, and apparently his wounds are healing impossibly fast. He will bear scars, the physician thinks, but should regain full mobility with enough rest and good food,” Oliver finished, a little breathless by the end because Erik’s gaze had gone hard and flat the way it did when he squared off from an enemy.
“Is that it?” he asked, and his voice had gone low and gravel-rough.
Oliver said, “Yes. That’s it. Feel free to interject now.”
Erik nodded slowly, gaze trained on the rain showering off the roof beyond the window. Then he withdrew, stepped back, and began pacing.
Oliver had expected as much, but it still broke his heart a little to see the worry and anguish take physical hold of Erik like this; a furious anxiety over his nephew he was unable to choke down and keep hidden.
He folded his hands behind his back and, though clad in only a shirt, trousers, and stockings, walked in a way that conjured an imaginary fur cape and crown, kingly even at his most casual. His tone was casual as well – deceptively so. “The attack took place three days ago, you said?”
Oliver winced internally, because he knew exactly where this was headed. “Yes.”
“Hm. Three days.” Erik hit the wall, spun, and paced back the other way. The floor creaked in time with his quick strides, and Oliver thought – with an absurd, inappropriate urge to laugh that he swallowed – whoever was staying downstairs would think the rhythmic crack and groan of wood was the result of them rolling around in the bed together. “You learned three days ago that my nephew had been terribly wounded in a roadside ambush by mystical Sel forces.” He paused, and turned to face Oliver, his head angled down, and brows angled up, blue gaze sinister in the candlelight – which was shielded from Oliver by Erik’s broad shoulders, so it seemed as though the sun were hiding behind him. “And you didn’t think to tell me until now?”
Oliver took a careful breath, and knew he needed to tread carefully as well. He wasn’t afraid of Erik, no, never. But he didn’t relish spending the next few months with a glowering, tense silence building between them. Though he’d never been on the receiving end of such a thing, he knew Erik was the sort who could carry a grudge to his grave.
