Page 72 of Soul of Fire

“Took you bloody long enough.” Jorgen sounded more irritated than I’d ever heard him, even when his skin was peeling during the transition, which he complained about loudly and profanely.

Any sign of Sigurd?

None yet,Kindra replied.I suppose that is why the man is so grumpy.

There was only one rather decrepit horse in the stable, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light before I could make out Jorgen and Branka, standing behind the poor beast.

Branka was fully dressed in leathers that were entirely too large for her. She waved sheepishly as we approached, her cheeks rather pink.

It took only seconds to see why.

Jorgen was completely naked but for a pink, floral apron tied around his waist that he must have pilfered from a washing line.

“Thank the Hearthmother,” he growled. “Please tell me you have clothes?”

Chapter twenty-three

Eisa

Iawokehourslater,the setting sun pouring through the tiny attic window and lighting the room in shades of orange and gold.

Arik still slept, one arm around me and the other folded across his broad chest like an interred warrior, his tattoos brushing across his shoulders in a magnificent caress.

I hadn’t asked enough about the tattoos, and I marveled at their intricacy as I traced the lines and curves with the pad of my finger.

The symbol that repeated most often was a kind of compass, each spoke ending with a semicircle and bisected by three lines. The pattern was on both shoulders and across both sides of his chest, surrounded by bands ofblack ink.

“I hate not being able to read your thoughts,” Arik murmured sleepily as he caught my wandering hand in his and placed a kiss on the inside of my wrist.

“I’m wondering about your tattoos.” I shivered as he pressed a second kiss to my palm. “How do you get them to stay?”

“Hmm?” Arik kissed each of my fingertips. “What do you mean?”

“Drage healing. Shouldn’t the skin heal as soon as you mark it?”

“It does.” Arik’s lips twitched as he nipped my thumb between his teeth. “We use a tiny amount of iron in the ink. Just enough to resist healing, but not enough to weaken our bond with our dragons.”

I wore only my borrowed linen serk, as Arik had grumbled about the wool of the overdress being too itchy for any man to sleep next to. Goosebumps pebbled my skin as he trailed a line of kisses up my bare arm. My breath hitched as he made it to the sensitive skin of my inner elbow. “You’re distracting me.”

He gave me a flat look. “Obviously, Kjære.”

I laughed, pressing kisses across his chest in an effort to turn the tide of battle in my favor. “Did you draw all of these?”

“Revna mostly.” I scowled, and Arik chuckled. “You have nothing to be jealous of, Kjære.”

I frowned and felt Idunn push at the mental wall—still nothing but darkness. She had spent all night curled against the dark chasmin our mind where Baldur was missing, as if her presence could guide him back somehow.

Arik smoothed the crease between my brows with his thumb. “I don’t need to read your thoughts when they’re written all over your face.”

I rolled my eyes, trailing my lips over one of the compasses on his chest. “What does this mean?”

“It’s the ?gishjalmr. The Helm of Awe.” He stretched, and the broad expanse of his chest stirred something warm and languid in me. “It’s in the Book of Chaos. Baldur told me it symbolizes strength and victory over one’s enemies.”

“Why four times?” I asked, noting the tone in his voice that told me Baldur was just as silent for him as he was for me.

“One for each of the people who threaten those I love. My father, my brother, Einar…” He trailed off.

“And the last?”