Chapter 7: The Storm

The storm came down on the north ford at three in the afternoon, and by four we could not see our own horses.

Torin had brought me up to see the place where the raiders crossed.

His back had been healing for a week and he would not stay in bed, so I had gone along to watch him not fall off.

Two riders came with us.

They took one look at the sky and ran the horses to the stable behind the old watch lodge.

"Inside," Torin said. "All of you. Now."

The lodge was one stone room with a single hearth and a bed built into the wall.

The riders climbed to the hay loft above the stable with their blankets and did not come down.

Torin lit the fire.

I stood near it and could not feel my fingers.

"Come here," he said.

"I'm fine."

"You can't hold a cup."

That was true.

I sat on the floor by the hearth and he sat across from me, and took both my hands in his.

"The terms," I said.

"Frostbite isn't in them."

He rubbed my fingers between his palms, slowly, hard enough to hurt.

The pain was good, and then it was something else.

His hands were big and calloused, and warmth went up my wrists, then my arms.

I watched his face in the firelight, the dark lashes, the scar through his eyebrow.

I found I was leaning in.

"Bronwyn," he said.

His voice had gone low and rough.

I looked down.

He had folded his coat across his lap, and it did not hide what it was meant to hide.

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