Page 22 of Swordheart #1

Halla was forced to give Sarkis credit. He did not balk at any kitchen chores she set him.

He clearly had entirely ridiculous notions about beating men up in the market, but he scrubbed pans without complaint.

Still, between settling Bartholomew—“It’s all right, I know we’ve descended on you and made a mess, cooking is the least I can do, no, no, go back to cataloguing, please, we don’t require you to play host!

”—and dealing with Sarkis’s unexpected surliness, she was not feeling charitable toward men in general or either of them in specific by the time dinner was ready to eat.

It was not until she placed a dish in front of Sarkis and he looked up at her, startled, that she realized this was likely his first meal in… heavens, it could be a century, couldn’t it? Or more?

This was an unexpected amount of pressure on a meal that Halla had whipped up in a strange kitchen. She hoped it didn’t disagree with him. Still, she couldn’t very well not feed him.

He took a bite, delicately, chewed for a moment, then shrugged and started eating.

Bartholomew came in, took a bowl, and went back to whatever he was doing in a back room.

Cataloguing something or looking up something.

He had books propped up around him. Halla made a mental note to go in an hour later and take the bowl away, because otherwise it would sit in his study for the next ten years, a lesson she had learned the hard way from Silas.

“Acceptable?” she asked Sarkis, as he finished the bowl and went for seconds.

“I have been outside the sword long enough to realize I am ravenous,” he said. “I am sure it is very good, but I am currently a poor judge.” Then he had thirds.

Well, she’d take it.

When he had plowed through three bowls, he did the dishes. He wasn’t good at it, but he did his best. Halla leaned against the doorframe and watched, slightly baffled.

“In my land, we use sand,” he said. “For scouring. It does not freeze, unlike water.”

“Well, that would explain it.” She took the bowl away from him. “You said you led a band of warriors. I take it you didn’t lead them anywhere with a lot of water?”

“Oh, frequently enough. But I confess, once I led the war band, I did not do many dishes. And no one wants to eat my cooking. My jobs were to plan our work, study maps, read orders.” He picked up another bowl and tackled it, too.

“And the potatoes?”

“My mother required me to peel many, many potatoes.”

She left him to it.

“Sarkis?”

Halla’s voice came from the dark, slightly above his head. Sarkis had been forced to lie slantwise across the open stretch of floor, although he wasn’t quite under the bed. If anyone did force their way in, they could take him out just by throwing the door open violently.

But they’ll break their legs trying to get past the … whatever that piece of furniture is there … ornamental table thing. He had no idea what it was, but it had five legs and a stack of carved whalebone ships piled on top of it.

A far larger concern was that Halla would try to get up in the night and step on him.

“Sarkis? Are you awake?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you want Bartholomew to know about the sword?”

“He collects rare antiquities. I am, by definition, a rare antiquity.”

“Oh. Hmm. You think he’d want to collect you?”

Sarkis shrugged, then remembered she couldn’t see it. “He might.”

“But you’re a person.”

“A fact that stops surprisingly few people.”

He waited for Halla to leap to Bartholomew’s defense, but instead she said, “Hmm. He and Silas could get very… oh, focused, I guess. I know sometimes they didn’t always acquire things completely legally.

” Sarkis could hear the frown in her voice.

“I guess I’d like to think he wouldn’t try to take your sword, but I don’t know if I’d be sure enough to swear he wouldn’t.

And if he tried, I don’t know if I could make him understand about you.

He might not listen. Silas wouldn’t, when he got in these moods. ”

“If he tries to take the sword, you need only draw it. You are the wielder. I will teach him his mistake.”

Halla sighed. “When you say it like that, I assume you mean by stabbing him, and I’d rather you didn’t. He’s being very nice to put us up for the night.”

“I will attempt to keep the stabbing to the bare minimum required.”

“What, you’re not going to threaten to put the whole countryside to the torch?”

“Not tonight.”

“That’s a relief.”

After a time, her breathing evened out. Sarkis closed his eyes.

It was a relief that the bed was so small. He could not even fantasize about getting up and joining her in it.

You’re assuming she’d even have you. She’s about to be a very wealthy, very respectable widow, and you’re not even human any longer. All you’ve got to offer is a battered old body covered in scars. No home, no lands, no prospect of either.

Go to sleep, old man. Tomorrow you’ll be back on the road again.

It took him some time to realize that he was dreaming, because the world was not silver. He had dreamed inside the sword for so long that it seemed unnatural to have a dream that did not gleam like oiled steel.

Angharad and the Dervish sat across from him, a study in opposites—Angharad tall and powerful and reserved, the Dervish slim, absurdly handsome, every emotion visible on his angular face.

Sarkis knew on some level that they both must hate him now, but he did not see that in their faces.

“You’re dreaming, boss,” said the Dervish.

“Am I? Yes, of course, I must be.” He nodded. “You aren’t really here.”

“No need to be insulting about it.”

Angharad smiled, trading a look with Sarkis. They were both slower, more ponderous creatures than the Dervish. It would have been easy to resent him, but they both knew better.

“Strange job you have now,” said the Dervish.

“I don’t mind this one.”

Angharad raised an eyebrow. The Dervish snorted. “Be careful,” he started to say, and then the dream changed around them and the table they were sitting at went away, and all three of them were chained to a wall.

This again, thought Sarkis, unsurprised. He knew what came after. He moved his feet and the stalks of moldy straw on the floor rolled under his heels.

“I miss you both,” said Sarkis, looking down the wall where his captains were chained. He would not have said such things before going into the sword, but since then, he had learned not to waste time.

“I know, boss.”

Angharad nodded. “We miss you, too.”

“No.” Sarkis shook his head. “You hate me. You must hate me by now. I failed you. It was my fault that you’re trapped in the swords. You told me not to do it, Angharad. I didn’t listen.” He lifted his chained hands.

Angharad shrugged.

“Well,” said the Dervish, “I probably do want to bash your head in. But that’s out there.” He gestured with one hand and Sarkis heard the chain clinking.

“Listen,” said Angharad. “She’s out there, too.” She nodded toward the far side of the cell. There was a door, and through the door, Sarkis knew that the sorcerer-smith was waiting for them.

“She’s dead,” said Sarkis. “She’s been dead for centuries.”

“So have we,” said the Dervish. “It doesn’t stop us.”

Angharad shook her head. “It hasn’t stopped,” she told him. “We’re still going.”

“Yes, but…”

The dream began to fray around him. Sarkis tried to cling to it. There was so much more he wanted to say to both of them, so many things he had to apologize for…

He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of the crowded room. The only sound was Halla snoring softly on the bed.

Sarkis was glad that she was asleep. It would have been far too difficult to explain why he was so close to weeping.