“Give me the child.”

Turonn’s hands reached for the girl cradled in his wife’s arms and she looked up, her swollen eyes glistening.

“They’re waiting, Svanhild.”

She touched her daughter’s face, tracing the curve of her brow with the tip of her finger. “I will carry her,” she whispered.

Her black hair fell over her face like a veil as her bare feet hit the cold stone floor and she stood on weak legs. When Torunn stepped toward her, she moved from his reach. The comfort of her husband would only turn the river of pain in her chest into an angry ocean. So, he let her go, watching her step into the ice-blue light of dawn spilling through the open door. He took the bow from where it hung on the wall and followed, his eyes on the hem of her white linen gown.

Below, every soul in Fjarra stood at the water’s edge to witness the funeral rites. The bitterly barren headlands that had been the home of the Kyrr for generations were iced over, though winter was gone, and Svanhild couldn’t help but think her daughter would be cold, even if she was dead.