Page 158 of The Sun He Buried

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

I reach for my purple cloak.

Asta lets go long enough to put both hands in the air. “Fine. Go collect the six-hundred-year-old man from the snow.”

I fasten the clasp. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t permission.”

“Your delivery still needs work.”

She points the brush at me. “I’m not coming.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were going to.”

I was.

“Where are you going?”

“To do something that doesn’t involve Eirik, frostbite, or explaining either one to Baldr.”

“That sounds secretive.”

“It’s called having a morning.”

I pull on my boots.

Behind us, Snowpetal races through the passage with the ribbon trailing from her mouth.

Asta closes the door.

The side passage gets me near the lower yard. A rope has been tied from the hall to the nearest workshop, bright red against the snow. I hold it with both hands and make it five steps before sinking to my knee.

Excellent.

My left boot stays behind when I pull free.

I dig it out, put it back on, and continue with smaller steps.

The storm pushes at my hood. The cloth keeps most of it from my face. Snow gets down my neck anyway.

Eirik remains where I saw him.

Up close, this looks worse.

His shirt is soaked. Snow has settled across his back and filled the shaved sides of his head. The silver mask is pressed into the drift, runes dark except for one weak purple line near his cheek.

His bare fingers have gone pale.

“Eirik.”

Nothing.

I crouch beside him and touch his shoulder.