Page 249 of The Sun He Buried

He knows my head hurts where the rogue struck me.

He knows Varrik’s been talking.

The answering fury makes my teeth ache.

I press my back into the chair and breathe until the room stops tipping.

Varrik watches me too closely.

“You expect them.”

“Yup.”

The copper-eyed man laughs.

“Baldr’s wagons are still at Myrkviðr,” Varrik says. “The storm delayed every company on the western road.”

“They’re coming.”

“Your confidence is touching.”

“It’s also correct.”

He crouches in front of me.

Varrik’s older than the other rogues. Fine lines cut beside his mouth. One pale scar crosses his chin, and another disappears beneath the collar of his coat.

He smells of snow, smoke, and the bitter root Skorvær chew when they need to stay awake.

“Dróttin Baldr will come with an offer,” he says. “He has spent centuries keeping the treaty soft enough for humans to love him.”

“Baldr will come with a sword.”

The bond pulls harder.

“Dróttin Eirik will come with terms.”

I look at Varrik’s red cord.

I make a very undignified snort. “Have you met Eirik?”

His jaw tightens. “I serve him.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

The copper-eyed man makes a short sound that may be another laugh.

Varrik rises.

“I requested an audience twice. Your Dróttin refused both.”

“He’s not my Dróttin.”

The words come out before I can catch them.

Eirik reaches through the bond with a hard flash of pain.

Oh.