Page 173 of The Sun He Buried

The knife sits one finger from the others.

“A humiliating defeat.”

He drinks.

I watch his throat work above the high edge of his coat.

The mask hides the rest.

He sets down the bottle and takes the last knife from the rail.

His bare fingers close around the handle.

Red marks remain across his knuckles from last night. Most have faded. One cut near his thumb opens when he tightens his grip.

It closes before he throws.

The knife hits the middle.

Eirik reaches for another but the rail is empty.

He looks at it.

I laugh.

His pale-green eye narrows.

“An excellent contribution.”

“You looked surprised.”

“The wood has betrayed me.”

“You used all the knives.”

He walks to the target and pulls one free, then another.

I follow his hands.

The knives are shorter than I thought. Plain dark handles. Narrow blades, each balanced near the guard.

Eirik looks at me over one shoulder.

I look at the target.

He pulls out the third knife.

Then stops.

“Do you want to try?”

I stare at him.

“The knife?”

“No. The storm.”

“You can’t throw a storm.”