Page 176 of The Sun He Buried

He takes the knife from me and wipes the snow from the blade with his bare hand.

Then he gives it back.

“Earlier.”

I throw.

The handle strikes first.

“Better,” he says.

“That looked worse.”

“The turn was closer.”

I go after it.

He follows.

By the fifth throw, the blade catches the outer edge of the target and stays there.

I jump.

Both boots leave the snow.

“I did it.”

“You’ve wounded the least important part.”

“It still counts,” I start clapping.

“Does it.”

“It’s in the wood.”

“So are six nails.”

I pull the knife free and turn toward him. “You said better.”

“It was.”

“Then I’m allowed pride.”

“Briefly.”

I smile.

His gaze catches on my mouth.

The storm keeps moving between us.

Eirik looks away first.

“Again.”

I return to the line. The next throw misses.

So does the next.