Page 185 of The Sun He Buried

Ketill feels it.

His attention snaps toward the hill from somewhere near the Hall. Concern rises at once. No question. No uncertainty. He knows the exact distance between a bad night and the first emotion I’ve leaked in six hundred years.

He starts climbing.

I could close the wall before he reaches the lower trees.

I do not.

Penance should have witnesses.

Ketill reaches the top without a coat.

Again.

Snow covers his short hair and the burn scars along the side of his face. He stops just inside the clearing.

His eyes catch on the open sigils.

Half a second.

Then his mouth flattens.

“You’ve got a talent for choosing weather.”

“You’ve got a coat.”

“Inside.”

He walks closer. His walls fall before he reaches me.

Concern lands whole. Anger follows. Exhaustion sits under both from nights of broken roads, frightened crews, and a Dróttin who has required scraping out of the snow.

He looks at the mask in my hand. “Planning to leave any face for tomorrow?”

“It grows back.”

“The skin does.”

“Oh look, you’ve gone sentimental.”

“I came up a hill in a storm. I’ve gone stupid.”

His eyes return to the mask.

“Every ruler before you took theirs off under a roof.”

“Every ruler before me is dead.”

“The roof didn’t cause that.”

“You’ve got no evidence.”

“I’ve got their burial records.”

“Paper’s disappointed us all week.”

His mouth twitches.