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“Yes, sir,” she said and disappeared into the narrow mouth of the cave. He edged closer to it and glanced inside, marveling at her round behind as she rummaged at the back of the cave.
Time passed, and she still did not come out.
“Is something wrong?” Andor asked, his gut heavy with a bad feeling.
She kept silent for a few moments, then said. “I could swear I left it right here. Wait. Maybe here?”
Andor thumped the ground with his stick. If the sword was gone—
Dragon’s Trouble’s iron pommel had a snarling dragon on it, and the cross guard had interwoven patterns that looked like fire. The deer antler handle was bound with silver cords. Svana had ordered it from the best blacksmith who made the sharpest blades in the North. Andor was proud of his fine weapon, and it had never let him down in battle.
But most importantly, it was as if a part of Svana always accompanied him.
After a while, Cathy emerged from the cave.
Empty-handed.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes big. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “It’s not there, Andor. I’m sorry.”
A storm began to build somewhere deep within him. The realization came crashing through. The last thing he had of Svana was gone.
He’d failed her yet again. Guilt he had been fleeing from every day rammed him and smashed him.
And he bled.
“You,” he rumbled.
Cathy swallowed visibly.
“All of this is because of you!”
“Andor, I’m so sorry—”
“The defeat, the raven banner, Ubba’s death—and now this. You lost the last thing I have from Svana.”
She took a step back, horror written all over her face.
“If you were a man,” he said, his voice low, “you would lie unconscious right now.”
He clenched his fists. The only way he knew how to deal with the devastating emptiness, with the voices building up behind the closed door inside of him, was to distract himself and be on the move.
“But I should not worry. Without Dragon’s Trouble—without any weapon—I expect we will both be dead soon. Let us be on our way.”
* * *
Cathy chewed the chunk of stale bread Aethelred had given her. He had also given them warm clothes, including winter cloaks; travel pouches; and more food. She watched Andor’s grim face as he stared at the fire, flames dancing in eyes that looked like indigo skies in the darkness of the woods surrounding them. He feasted on a hare he had caught earlier, and Cathy was almost jealous as she inhaled the scent of freshly grilled meat.
Guilt pressed on her shoulders. If someone had lost Brad’s surfboard, she’d be devastated. She had only abandoned the wetsuit he’d gotten her because she needed to survive and save Andor’s life.
Andor’s face was ashen, pain thundering behind his eyes. He didn’t say another word to her on their way north. Not that she tried to make him talk. He honored their agreement, even though the sword was not where she had hidden it, and she respected him for it. His face was ashen and pain thundered behind his eyes. Clearly he still hadn’t come to terms with his wife’s death. What had happened to her? Did he still love her?
She could hardly imagine that this bitter, almost cruel man cared about someone. Surely he was just an arrogant, selfish jerk. Wasn’t he?
She continued to study his gorgeous face, so familiar and yet so distant. The golden hair, the beautiful blue eyes, the straight line of the nose that made him look like a proud warrior-king. His lips pressed into a sad, bitter line that cut through his short beard.
He was so handsome. But how could she have ever confused him with Brad? A completely different person shone through him.
She looked down his body. Broad, muscular shoulders under his winter cloak. Would his pecs feel hard under her fingers if she put her hands on them and traced down them? Would his stomach be ripped? Would his skin be smooth? Did he have a lot of hair?
