Chapter Fifteen
Ketill is still laughing when Solveih takes her Sanguir and follows Baldr into the storm.
I give him one warning look.
Then I hit him in the shoulder hard enough to put him against the table.
The wood gives one heavy complaint.
He braces a hand on the table.
This doesn’t help.
“She moved you with one finger.”
“Three.”
He laughs harder.
The map beneath his other hand shifts. I pull it away before he spills himself across the ridge markings and creates more work.
“The stable roof remains unsecured,” I tell him.
“Baldr has gone to argue with it.” Ketill wipes one eye with the heel of his hand. His amusement presses against the mask, warm and entirely too pleased.
Solveih reaches the outer passage.
Anger comes first. Hers is bright, quick, and already losing ground to concern for my brother. Snowpetal adds nothing to the bond. The animal contributes by knocking into a bench somewhere beyond the doors.
A guard swears.
Solveih apologizes to him while she keeps running.
I fold the map and hand it to the nearest clerk. “Mark both closed roads. Send a copy to the lower watch and another to the stable crews.”
The clerk takes it. “Yes, my Dróttin.”
“Have every lantern inside before dark. Nobody goes past the market clearing without a rope.”
He bows and leaves.
Ketill watches him go. His laughter has finally reduced to an occasional failure of breath.
“Was there something else?” I ask.
“Several things.”
“Keep them.”
I cross the hall.
The storm hits the outer doors hard enough to shake snow through the frame. Servants move benches away from the draft. Three children have abandoned counting jars and begun building a fort from empty baskets. Their mother allows it because the shutters are secure and nobody has broken a bone yet.
Myrkvier knows what to do with weather.
I know what to do with mine.
The study has a door.
I shut it.
Solveih stays.
The mask dims the settlement to a low pressure behind my eyes.
It doesn’t touch her.
I open the cabinet beside the hearth and take out the oldest bottle.
Ketill gave it to me eighty years ago after a mine brace failed and buried him for half a day. He dug himself out, stole the rescue crew’s lunch, and complained that the bottle cost more than the brace.
I told him I’d save it for his funeral.
Plans change.
The first drink burns. The second reaches my stomach. Neither goes farther.
Solveih’s anger loosens.
Relief moves in beneath it.
Baldr found the correct words. He always does eventually.
I pour again.
Her laughter catches me with the cup at my mouth.
One small burst. Then another, warmer than the first.
No sound. There’s never any sound. I know her laugh from the feeling alone.
This one belongs to him.
Lovely.
I finish the cup and stop wasting time with it.
The bottle is easier.
Wind claws at the shutters. The release ledger sits open on my desk, eight missing bars waiting beneath a figure written by a man who has either made a mistake or expects me to believe he has.
I read the line.
Solveih wants my brother.
The figure remains eight.
I read it again.
Her desire deepens.
Not here.
Damn him.
Then her want turns over and goes somewhere else, and I understand what she’s doing a full second before I’d like to.
The bottle is empty by the time I finish understanding it.
I look at it.
Ketill overpaid.
Another bottle waits behind the first. Younger. Stronger. Less burdened by sentimental promises.
I break the seal with my thumb.
She’s nervous.
That’s the part I’d take out of her if I could reach it. Under all that wanting she’s afraid she’ll be bad at it—small and stupid and entirely hers, and my brother will never know it was there.
I drink.
Then it’s gone.
She’s pleased with herself.
I drink again.
The room fails to improve.
Then it breaks, and it isn’t hers—she’s only holding it—and my hand closes around the neck of the bottle hard enough to crack the glass.
I put it down before it goes completely. Blood runs across my palm.
Mine.
Good.
It closes before I reach the study door.
I take the cracked bottle with me.
The hall has emptied by half. Storm crews carry the last supplies inside while everyone else moves toward food, fire, and whatever poor choices keep a long winter night from feeling endless.
Ketill stands near the hearth speaking to Asta.
She has one of the rope lists in her hand. He has no business smiling at it.
Neither sees me leave through the side passage.
That lasts until the outer door opens.
Ketill’s attention strikes my back.
I close the door behind me and give him the storm to argue with.
Snow hits the mask. Wind catches my coat and pulls it open before I reach the bottom step.
The cold does more than the drink.
Not enough.
Nothing is enough.
I head down through the trees.
The main paths are rope-lined now. Lanterns hang at every turn, their light reduced to pale smears inside the snow. Roof crews shout to each other from one building to the next. Nobody beyond them should be outside.
Fists strike flesh in the lower practice yard beneath the guest wing.
There we are.
Eight off-shift mine guards have kicked snow from a rough circle beneath the west wall. Coats hang from a fence. One man holds a lantern high while two others fight bare-knuckled in shirtsleeves.
Food changes hands along the fence. Dried meat, a seed cake wrapped in cloth, one heel of black bread.
Serious stakes.
The taller fighter takes a fist under the ribs and folds. His opponent catches him by the back of the shirt before his face reaches the ground.
They’re laughing.
Then one sees me. The laughter ends.
Every wall in the clearing rises. Fear, caution, the quick search for whichever rule they believe they have broken.
I step into the lantern light.
“Continue.”
The taller man straightens. Blood sits on his teeth. “My Dróttin.”
“A title. Well remembered.”
Nobody moves.
Wind knocks snow from the branches. It falls between us in one heavy sheet.
“Was the fight more interesting before I arrived?” I ask.
One woman near the fence makes the mistake of finding that funny. Her amusement escapes before she can hide it.
I look at her.
She puts a fist against her mouth.
Better.
I remove my gloves and place them on the fence. The coat follows.
Concern replaces some of the fear.
Tedious.
“Winner,” I say. “You have another.”
The shorter fighter looks behind him.
“If you find someone there, I’ll fight him first.”
He turns back.
His eagerness survives beneath the caution. Good. I have no use for a man who needs an order to strike me.
“You may refuse,” I tell him.
He studies my hands, the mask, and the bottle I’m still carrying.
“No, my Dróttin.”
“No, you refuse?”
“No, I’ll fight.”
“Excellent. We have conquered language.”
The circle widens.
He raises both fists.
I take another drink and pass the bottle to the woman by the fence.
“Do not finish it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She has been spending too much time near Ketill.
The man comes at me.
His fear shifts before his shoulders do. Right hand first. High.
I move inside it and put my fist beneath his sternum.
Air leaves him.
He tries the left. I catch his wrist, turn, and drive my elbow into his ribs. One gives.
He drops to a knee.
The clearing goes still.
“That was quick,” the woman says.
I hold out my hand for the bottle.
She gives it back.
The fighter gets one boot beneath him. Pain rolls off him, clean and sharp, followed by irritation with himself.
“Again?” I ask.
He grins through bloody teeth.
“Yes.”
Better.
The second attempt lasts longer.
He stops watching the mask and starts watching my chest. His first punch lands against my shoulder. The second catches my side.
Pain opens beneath my ribs.
Mine again.
I laugh.
He hesitates.
Poor decision.
My fist catches his jaw. He lands on his back and stays there long enough to decide the sky has earned his attention.
Two others drag him from the circle.
“Next.”
The taller fighter steps in.
Then the woman.
Then a guard with one torn ear and enough good sense to attack from the side.
I put all three in the snow.
The drink warms my blood. Bruises gather over my ribs, stomach, and left shoulder. The cut in my palm opens each time I make a fist.
Solveih remains.
The triumph has eased. Warmth takes its place, deep and loose. Baldr’s comfort closes around her. I’ve felt that too many nights to mistake it.
He holds her after.
“Again,” I say.
Nobody steps forward.
The woman by the fence looks past me.
Ketill walks into the clearing without a coat.
Snow has settled across his hair and the burn scars on one side of his face. His walls are high. Anger still finds the gaps.
He looks at the four people sitting in the snow.
Then at me.
“Productive evening?”
I raise the bottle toward the four in the snow.
It goes wider than that. Liquor comes out of the neck in an arc and crosses the drift, and the man nearest my boot takes some of it across the chest.
He decides not to mention it.
“They require practice.”
The man on his back raises one hand. “He is very helpful.”
Ketill points toward the path. “Inside.”
The guards move.
I don’t dismiss them. They leave anyway.
The woman collects my gloves and coat from the fence. She offers both to Ketill.
He takes them.
Then the bottle is out of my hand. My fingers close on nothing. Ketill’s already turning, and he puts it in her arms.
“Inside,” he tells her.
She tucks the bottle beneath one arm and follows the others.
The thief.
The last lantern goes with them. Light from the path reaches the clearing in narrow bands. Snow fills the places between.
Ketill drops my coat over the fence.
His walls come down.
Concern hits first. Anger behind it. Disgust with my choices. Loyalty beneath both, fixed and immovable and open.
“You’re drunk.”
“You’ve become very observant today.”
“Your hand is bleeding.”
I look at it. The blood has already stopped.
“A difficult recovery.”
Ketill steps into the circle. “Put your coat on.”
“No.”
“Then put your hands up.”
There he is.
I raise them.
Ketill doesn’t.
“You wanted to hit me after breakfast,” I remind him.
“Breakfast was days ago.”
“Your anger has admirable stamina.”
“So does your stupidity.”
I strike him.
He turns enough that my fist catches the side of his mouth instead of his nose. His head snaps back. Blood appears on his lower lip.
Ketill touches it with his thumb.
I hit him again.
He blocks the second and drives a fist into my stomach.
The drink comes up.
I keep it.
Barely.
“Wasteful,” I tell him.
His knee catches my thigh. “You have more.”
I go for his ribs.
Ketill knows me better than the guards. He knew me before I learned to keep my feelings behind a wall, before I grew taller than him, before either of us understood that power would turn one boy into a Dróttin and the other into the only man still willing to call him an idiot.
He blocks high.
I go low.
My fist lands beneath his ribs.
Ketill grunts and catches me across the temple.
The clearing tilts.
He gives me no time. Two fists. One to the body, one toward the exposed side of my face. I turn from the second. His knuckles strike the edge of the mask.
Pain shoots through the bonded runes.
Good.
I hit him harder.
We cross the circle and destroy what remains of the clean snow. Boots slide. Fists land. Ketill’s concern never changes. He is furious with me and worried in the same breath.
That should make him easier to hit.
It doesn’t.
Solveih’s warmth shifts.
Curiosity. A quick ache. Tenderness follows, quiet enough that the bond should have lost it beneath the fight.
It doesn’t.
I miss Ketill’s shoulder.
His fist catches my ribs.
I could block the next one.
I let it land.
Ketill steps back.
“Hands up.”
I lower them.
“Eirik.”
Solveih is still with Baldr.
The pride has gone. Safety remains.
He gives her that without effort. A warm room. A hand in her hair. Somewhere to put every soft part of herself while the weather throws itself against the walls.
I gave her a doorway and breakfast.
Ketill comes closer. “We’re finished.”
“You are.”
“Put your hands up.”
“Make me.”
His anger spikes.
Finally.
He hits me across the cheek. The mask takes most of it. The runes beneath split anyway. Blood warms the inside of the metal.
I stay on my feet.
“Again.”
Ketill stares at me.
His anger drains.
No.
“Again.”
He turns toward the fence.
I catch the back of his shirt and pull him around.
“Do not walk away from me.”
“Then stop making me do it.”
I swing.
He ducks.
His fist drives beneath my ribs. I fold over it. He catches my shoulder before I fall and shoves me upright.
“Defend yourself.”
“You’re doing poorly.”
Ketill’s mouth is bleeding. One eye has begun to swell. He looks tired.
I have known him six hundred years. He has never looked away when I needed him to.
Bastard.
I drop my hands again.
“No,” he says.
“Coward.”
His loyalty doesn’t move.
“Try another.”
“Second strongest.”
“True.”
“Mine clerk.”
“Also true.”
“Asta likes you.”
That does it.
Ketill’s fist reaches the side of my head.
Snow and trees change places.
I hit one knee. He stands above me, breathing hard.
“Stay down.”
I get up.
The bond carries Solveih toward sleep.
Soft. Warm. Held.
I raise neither hand.
Ketill understands.
His concern opens all the way. No triumph enters it. No pleasure.
“This will hurt tomorrow,” he says.
“Everything does.”
He steps in.
My knees go. I fall forward.
The snow comes up.
Then nothing.