Page 141 of The Sun He Buried

I push myself onto one elbow. “I’m not asking because something’s wrong.”

“A comfort.”

“I want to know your history.”

Baldr looks toward the window.

“He’s part of it,” I say.

“Eirik would object to being called part of anything.”

“He objects to Snowpetal. His judgment is poor.”

That gets a small smile.

I touch the pale-green eye with one fingertip. “You have the same face. The same eye. Today you stood together, and I realized I know why you’re different now. I don’t know how you became that way.”

“We were born irritating.”

“Both of you?”

“He worked harder.”

I wait.

Baldr’s fingers return to my hair.

“We were close before our hungers showed,” he says. “We shared a room. Lessons. Punishments. He broke things and let our parents decide it was me.”

“Did that work?”

“Often.”

“You have an honest face.”

“So does he.”

I try to put a face under the silver and can’t.

The woman on his desk returns too.

That’s not helpful.

“Then our bloodlines emerged,” Baldr continues. “Strength was useful. Simple. My father understood weapons and walls. He understood a son who could lift both.”

“And Eirik?”

“Eirik heard every fear in the house before he knew how to keep it out. He knew when people lied to him. He knew our mother wished his hunger had chosen anything else.”

My hand goes still on Baldr’s chest.

“Did she say that?”

“She didn’t need to. He could feel it.”

Right.

“They found me teachers. Swords, command, languages, law. Eirik received enough instruction to keep him from hurting anyone important.”