Page 148 of The Sun He Buried

Nothing is enough.

I head down through the trees.

The main paths are rope-lined now. Lanterns hang at every turn, their light reduced to pale smears inside the snow. Roof crews shout to each other from one building to the next. Nobody beyond them should be outside.

Fists strike flesh in the lower practice yard beneath the guest wing.

There we are.

Eight off-shift mine guards have kicked snow from a rough circle beneath the west wall. Coats hang from a fence. One man holds a lantern high while two others fight bare-knuckled in shirtsleeves.

Food changes hands along the fence. Dried meat, a seed cake wrapped in cloth, one heel of black bread.

Serious stakes.

The taller fighter takes a fist under the ribs and folds. His opponent catches him by the back of the shirt before his face reaches the ground.

They’re laughing.

Then one sees me. The laughter ends.

Every wall in the clearing rises. Fear, caution, the quick search for whichever rule they believe they have broken.

I step into the lantern light.

“Continue.”

The taller man straightens. Blood sits on his teeth. “My Dróttin.”

“A title. Well remembered.”

Nobody moves.

Wind knocks snow from the branches. It falls between us in one heavy sheet.

“Was the fight more interesting before I arrived?” I ask.

One woman near the fence makes the mistake of finding that funny. Her amusement escapes before she can hide it.

I look at her.

She puts a fist against her mouth.

Better.

I remove my gloves and place them on the fence. The coat follows.

Concern replaces some of the fear.

Tedious.

“Winner,” I say. “You have another.”

The shorter fighter looks behind him.

“If you find someone there, I’ll fight him first.”

He turns back.