Page 68 of The Sun He Buried

His arms loosen.

“Behind me,” he says.

“I need to reach it.”

“You will. Behind me.”

He sets me down.

The dead Sanguir lies partly beneath the wagon’s broken shaft. A strip of vein-silver glints between the splintered wood and its rear leg. The metal has been woven into loops finer than the lace on my best shift. One torn end curls across the road. The rest disappears beneath the wheel.

Baldr catches the wagon shaft and lifts it.

Wood groans.

The body rolls when the weight comes off it. I drop to my knees and push at the blue fur with both hands. It’s cold and stiff. Asta kneels on my other side, still holding the blanket.

Together we move it far enough.

The baby is curled beneath its belly.

White fur. White eyes. Two little straight horns. Its tail is wrapped around its body, ending in a bone club with six small spikes.

It looks at me.

I look at it.

“Hello.”

Every guard starts talking at once.

“Don’t—”

“Lady Solveih—”

“Get back—”

The baby makes a thin sound through closed teeth.

“I know.” I put one hand on the road between us. “This has been a terrible day.”

Its round ears flatten.

“You can be frightened. You can’t bite me.”

“Sól,” Baldr says.

I reach under the baby and lift.

It weighs less than the hall cat. Its body shakes against my palms. The little club-tail knocks my wrist hard enough to sting.

Baldr steps in front of me. “Put it down.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

“No.”