“He fell away into the column before Isolfr could blink the thought of thanking him into his bleary mind, and Isolfr looked up at Frithulf in supplication. “What was that about?” “Stay pretty,” Frithulf advised, through a mouthful of meat. Isolfr would have kicked him if he hadn’t been out of reach on the horse.”

“Isolfr," Frithulf said, "you weigh a hundred stone.""Do I? Sorry," and he tried to straighten, but nothing was working.Frithulf swore and said,"Kari, I think I'm going to need you to get his feet."Are they running away? Isolfr wanted to ask.”

“Although Mar would be quite pleased to be consort, Skjaldwulf didn't want to be wolfjarl.He wanted Isolfr, and he would take the damned job that went with it, if he could win it, if that was what it took.”

“He's not my lover," Isolfr said.She raised an eyebrow, a long feathery, shaggy sweep. "You're his beloved. Both of them. I saw enough on the war-trail to know." Then she laughed, and took her hand off his and pushed his chest like a wolf-cub nudging playfully. "We don't get to pick who loves us, you know. And better to get him to write the song than be remembered forever as 'fair Isolfr, the cold.'"He scrubbed a hand across his face, roughness of beard and scars and the smooth skin of the unmarked cheek. "Is that really what they call me?"She smiled. "You frighten them, Viradechtisbrother. You went down under the mountain and came out again, twice, and the alfar call you friend. They'll have you among the heroes before you know it. And you can seem quite untouchable—'ice-eyes, and ice-heart, and ice-hard, his will.'""Othinn help me. It is a song already.”

“...and killed a trellsow, one of the ones he'd learned to recognize as a smith. And thought of Thorlot, who might be a better blacksmith than her father or brother or dead husband, or more than her son would be, but who would never be anything more than wife, sister, daughter, mother. At least she was honored, he thought, wrenching his axe free of the trellsmith's ribs. He didn't mean Thorlot, and he did not know whether he was angry at his own kind for their blindness or angry at the trolls for making him see how blind they were.”

“Consider the stars. Among them are no passions, no wars. They know neither love nor hatred. Did man but emulate the stars, would not his soul become clear and radiant as they are? But man's spirit draws him like a moth to the ephemera of this world, and in their heat he is consumed entire.”

“Felix just sat there, not smirking exactly - or not so as you could call him on it - but clearly happy with how unhappy he'd managed to make all of us.”