Page 65 of The Sun He Buried

Sólvik’s salt wind leaves us before the first night. The open cliffs become low hills, then stone slopes with old snow hiding in the cracks. By the second afternoon, dark pines crowd both sides of the road. Their branches lock above us and steal half the daylight.

Baldr rides beside the carriage whenever the track widens. He brings me warm bread at the first stop, gives me his gloves at the second, and asks about the cushion only once.

I tell him Asta packed it for the road.

He tells me he’s grateful to Asta.

I throw one of his gloves at him.

He catches it and gives it back.

The third day is colder.

Frost covers the window frame when I wake beneath two carriage blankets. Snow lies deep under the trees, untouched except for the marks of small paws and one wide trail where a branch fell.

Asta scrapes a clear circle in the frost with her thumbnail. “Baldr said we’ll reach Myrkviðr before dark.”

“Good.”

My toes haven’t been warm since yesterday morning. My nose feels separate from the rest of my face. The purple cloak is pulled over my dress, my coat, and half of one blanket.

Gullither snow arrives to be admired.

This snow has plans.

The carriage slows.

Outside, one of the guards calls to Baldr. Hooves strike hard ground. The wagon behind us creaks to a stop.

I push the curtain aside.

Baldr is already off his horse.

He stands in the middle of the road with one hand raised toward our driver. The warmth I know is gone from his face.

“Stay inside.”

Four guards move past him. One draws a sword. Another takes a short spear from beside his saddle.

Asta catches the curtain before I can open it farther. “He said inside.”

“I heard him.”

“Your hand is on the door.”

I look down.

It is.

“I’m only looking.”

“You can look from here.”

The carriage stands at a bend between the pines. Something has torn through the brush ahead and left a black wagon on its side across the ditch. One wheel has split down the middle. The other keeps turning, slow enough that each spoke can be counted.

A Skorvær lies beside it, eyes open and grey against a face streaked with frozen mud.

His throat has two deep holes beneath the jaw. There’s another body near the trees and a third folded against the broken wheel. None wears a house color or a Dróttin’s mark.