Page 142 of The Sun He Buried

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes.”

The word stays plain. No joke to make it easier.

“I tried to share the lessons. He let me show him one sword grip and broke my nose.”

I draw one finger over an old pale line beneath Baldr’s collarbone. “Did Eirik want you to teach him?”

“No.”

“But you tried.”

“That was the problem.”

I look up.

“He didn’t want whatever our parents gave me after I finished with it. He wanted them to look at him and think he was worth the effort himself.”

That makes terrible sense.

“Did they?”

“No.”

Baldr’s arm tightens around me.

“I argued. I refused lessons. I brought Eirik into rooms where they didn’t want him and made enough trouble that they had to deal with both of us.”

“Did it help?”

“Sometimes. Usually it gave him another reason to be angry.”

“At you?”

“At everyone.”

“When I finally had enough standing to force the issue, he no longer needed anything I could force them to give.” Baldr rubs his thumb over my shoulder. “He had his own teachers. His own people. Then he became the strongest emotion feeder alive, took Myrkviðr, and made weakness a word nobody used near him twice.”

I think of the scale yard. One order from Eirik changed three releases, six riders, and every clerk touching them.

“He’s good at being Dróttin,” I say.

“Yes.”

“You said that quickly.”

His shoulders give a small shrug. “It’s true.”

No resentment. No hesitation.

“Do you love him?”

Baldr meets my eyes.

“He is my brother.”

“That wasn’t the question.”