Page 36 of The Sun He Buried

“Tomorrow. Give it time.”

The boy nods with great seriousness.

Baldr teaches all of them differently.

One needs his elbow lowered. Another keeps closing both eyes before he releases. Runa pulls too hard and sends her second arrow over the target, but it stays inside the yard, so we celebrate progress.

He never laughs when they get it wrong. He lets them laugh at themselves, then gives them another arrow.

I’ve watched him settle trade disputes, quiet a courtier, remember a leaking roof, and stop an entire training yard with one word.

He’s best at this.

The bow in his hand is shorter than the ones the guards carry. It still looks enormous when he demonstrates the grip.

“You aren’t trying to pull the string away from the bow.” He raises it. “Bring it to you.”

He draws in one smooth motion.

The yard goes quiet.

His back tightens. The string rests beside his mouth. Both eyes stay on the center of the target.

He releases.

The arrow drives into the middle ring.

Oh.

I want to do that.

I want to know how heavy the bow is and whether the string will bruise my fingers. I want to hear the arrow leave from two inches away. I want to find out if I can hit the straw or if I’ll become the second person to attack the fence.

Baldr lowers the bow.

“Again,” one of the boys says.

“You’ve seen it once.”

“That one could have been luck.”

Baldr hands him the bow. “Then you’ll have a good story when you beat me.”

The boy decides he has urgent work elsewhere.

Baldr looks toward the wall.

I nearly ask.

Runa reaches him first with three arrows tangled in one hand. One slips through her fingers. Then another.

Baldr catches both.

I sit back down and decide I’ll ask when the drill ends.

There’s plenty of time.

We don’t leave for Myrkviðr until Baldr finishes the harbor work and Asta packs enough clothing to survive the end of the world.