Page 243 of The Sun He Buried

“You have a mine, a territory, and twenty riders to manage.”

“You have a habit of making poor decisions in forests.”

“I have never made this one.”

His blue eyes hold mine.

He knows exactly what I’ll do when I find them.

That’s the problem.

“You can’t feed from Snowpetal,” he says. “You can’t tell how badly she’s hurt.”

“She can still bite. I checked.”

“And Sól?”

The bond pulls east.

Solveih’s terror flares again, thinner now. Exhaustion drags beneath it. Her need for us remains.

For me.

My hands close around the reins.

The leather creaks.

“Alive.”

Ketill gets one foot into the second stirrup.

“Get down.”

“Kill me later.”

“Gladly.”

“Then we agree.”

The lower gate opens.

Baldr rides through it.

He has put on dark mail and a heavy coat over it. A sword lies across his back. His hair is tied at his neck for the road, and his amber eye burns bright against the snow.

He’s riding my fastest horse.

Asta follows on foot from the gatehouse.

Baldr reins in beside me.

Salt and iron reach my tongue.

“You’re staying here,” I tell him.

“Move.”

The one word is flat, warm, and very nearly polite.