Page 189 of The Sun He Buried

“Yes, my Dróttin.”

The title carries no obedience. Only acknowledgment.

He turns toward the path.

“Ketill.”

He looks back.

I have no order for him. His walls remain down.

I raise the mask.

He leaves before the silver reaches my face.

The first rune catches beside my right eye.

Fire cuts through the open brand.

The second seals across my cheek. Then another. Silver draws tight over my mouth while each sigil burns itself into the same raw line it left.

Blood runs beneath the lower edge and freezes against my throat.

The last rune catches.

Below me, the bond flickers.

Solveih is still awake.

I go down the hill.

Chapter Nineteen

The dead king has lost his head, his ship, and most of his left foot.

I know the next verse. This is more exciting than it should be.

I catch the next line in Old Norse and sing it with thirty Skorvær around the long fire.

The man playing the bowed lyre points at me with his bow. I point back with my drinking horn, and we both miss the next line.

Nobody cares.

The great hall has stopped being a hall and become the inside of the storm. Every table except the two nearest the kitchens has been pushed against a wall. Benches make a crooked ring around the central hearth. Wet coats hang from pegs, chair backs, window latches, and one wooden carving that may be important.

The fire runs nearly the length of the room. So does the singing.

Outside, wind drives snow against the shutters. Inside, someone has opened three casks, roasted enough meat to feed Sólvik for a week, and decided the dead king deserves another verse. He does. His foot has just been found in a trout.

I sing that part louder.

The woman beside me winces. She has two dark-grey eyes and the patience of a person who has heard me miss the same note four times.

“You know the words,” she says.

“Most of them.”

“You don’t know the tune.”