Page 157 of The Sun He Buried

“I’m trying something new.” Asta sets the brush on the table.

I open the shutter again, carefully this time.

The morning is grey. Snow fills the lower yard and keeps coming, though the wind has lost some of last night’s anger. The practice fence barely shows above the drifts. One lantern still burns beside it.

Asta comes to my shoulder.

“The path’s gone,” I say.

“It will be dug out.”

“Baldr’s outside in this?”

“Baldr is carrying roof beams.”

Right.

One dark shape lies near the fence below us.

I lean closer to the glass.

An arm.

Black shirt. Bare hand. Long braids half buried beneath fresh snow.

“Asta.”

“I see him.”

Eirik is face-down in the practice yard.

His coat hangs over the fence behind him. One sleeve touches the snow. The ground around him has been destroyed by boots, knees, and several patches dark enough to be blood.

He doesn’t move.

“Someone left him out there all night.”

Asta shrugs. “Ketill, most likely. He’d know the cold can’t finish a Dróttin.”

I turn.

Asta grabs my arm.

“No.”

“He may be hurt.”

“He is a hungover Dróttin who made poor decisions in his own yard.”

I pull against her grip. “He’s face-down.”

“That may be helping.”

“Asta.”

Her fingers tighten. “You’re not responsible for him.”

“I know.”