Page 25 of Swordheart #1

The Temple of the White Rat stood near the edge of Archon’s Glory.

It was a busy complex, not as ostentatious as the temples of the Forge or Dreaming God, but full of human activity.

It was built of pale sandstone with sharply slanted rooftops.

Arched doorways set around the main courtyard stood open and people streamed through the doors.

Acolytes in white robes carried things from place to place, or escorted the faithful to those who could better serve their needs.

Despite the numbers, there was a pervasive air of calm and order, as if everyone knew where they were supposed to be and what they should be doing to make the system work smoothly.

It reminded Sarkis of nothing so much as a softly humming beehive.

He wondered if it contained a hidden sting as well.

Halla led the way, not to the nave but to a side door that looked like offices. A line of petitioners was already forming.

“We’re standing in line,” observed Sarkis.

“Well, yes. We’re petitioners.”

“I would think that we had priority.”

“We’re not that important. Are we?”

Sarkis looked over the other people in line. It did not seem likely that any of them were also enchanted swords.

“I suspect we may be a trifle more unusual than they are used to seeing.”

“Maybe, but we’re going to be polite.” She nudged him in the ribs. “Anyway, only one of us is getting any older and I don’t mind waiting.”

He stifled a sigh. “I might age outside the sword.”

“Oh! Really?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spent that long outside it, all told.”

Halla looked suddenly worried. “Should I keep it sheathed more? I don’t want you to be aging for nothing.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s been… well, a long time since I ate and slept and walked about. It’s been good to remember what it’s like to be human.”

The woman in front of them looked over her shoulder and said, “You can go ahead of me.”

Halla blinked. “Really?”

“Sir… ma’am… I’m here because my youngest needs to get out of the house and learn a trade. You two appear to be either enchanted or desperately insane. And in either case, I’d rather you weren’t standing behind me.”

“You’re very kind,” said Halla.

“And obviously very wise,” added Sarkis, bowing.

They ultimately stood in line for about twenty minutes.

Three more people looked at the sword, or perhaps Sarkis’s expression, and suddenly decided that they’d rather have him dealt with sooner rather than later.

They might have gotten past even sooner, but one of the men in line made the mistake of mentioning that he trained guard geese, and Halla peppered him with questions about guard geese until the acolytes came for him.

Eventually an acolyte ushered them through the stone arch and down a corridor.

The priest of the White Rat was a slender person with a pointed chin and long gray hair braided back from their face. Their vestments bore the slender silver stripe indicating the polite form of address. They beckoned, gestured to chairs, and said, “How may the Temple help you, friends?”

Halla sat down and said, “I’ve inherited a lot of money and a magic sword, and now my relatives want to force me to marry my cousin, so I ran away, but now I don’t know how to get back to get the money, or even if I can, and they’ve told everyone that I was kidnapped.”

“I… see.” The priest looked over at Sarkis. “And you are…?”

“The magic sword.”

The priest had a calm, reserved face but one eyebrow began to climb, very slowly, towards their hair.

“Uh, yes, this is Sarkis. He’s been trapped in a magic sword. He serves the wielder, which is me. I was trying to kill myself to get away from my relatives but I used his sword to do it and summoned him. This sword here.” She slung it off her back.

The other eyebrow joined its mate in the slow march toward the priest’s hairline. They steepled their fingers. “This is… quite a story. Could you start again from the beginning?”

She did. Sarkis watched the priest very obviously not asking questions until the end, when they asked only one.

“May I see the sword?”

“Oh, yes.” Halla laid it across the priest’s desk. “If you sheathe it, he goes back in the sword. Here, I’ll show you. Sarkis?”

He nodded.

Halla untied the cords holding it open and pushed the blade into the scabbard. Blue flame jittered around Sarkis as he vanished.

The priest fell back in their chair with their mouth open. Then they started to laugh. “Oh my! Oh, by the tail of God. Well done. If that’s an illusion, I’ve no idea how you did it.”

“It’s not,” said Halla. “Here, you draw it and…”

“May I? In case you are giving some signal that I cannot see…”

“Sure, go ahead.”

The priest drew the sword. Sarkis flickered into existence behind Halla’s shoulder.

The priest hastily sheathed it again and Sarkis vanished. They drew, saw the blue fire, sheathed.

After the fourth round of this, Sarkis reached out his hand and said, “Please stop. I’m getting dizzy.”

“Oh, yes. Apologies.” They sat back with a broad grin. “The sword summons you, then? Are you a demon or a djinn?”

“No,” said Sarkis. “I’m a man, or was when I went into the blade.”

“He went into the sword centuries ago to help fight a war,” said Halla. “By being a weapon. Now he’s stuck there.”

Sarkis rolled his eyes at this characterization. “It wasn’t quite like that…”

“How fascinating!” The priest shook their head, chuckling. “Gentlefolk, you are well above my pay grade, though I thank you for livening up my morning. I will take you to the bishop.”

Bishop Beartongue was a tall, muscular woman with short graying hair, wearing vestments. She listened to the priest’s murmured explanation, raised her own eyebrows, and beckoned Halla and Sarkis into her office.

Other than being larger and slightly more cluttered, her room was similar to the one that the priest had been in. The only major difference was a massive oak desk, over which the bishop stared at them.

“Zale has told me a story I can hardly believe,” she said, “but they are the least fanciful of priests. Suppose you start from the beginning?”

Halla started from the beginning again.

The bishop asked a great many questions, and not only about Sarkis and the sword. Alver’s family had no claim on her except by her former marriage? Halla was sincere in her desire not to marry her cousin?

“He has clammy hands,” said Halla.

“Avert!” said Beartongue, making a warding gesture.

“We’ll say no more, then.” She continued the questions.

Did Halla know the exact amount of Silas’s estate?

As much as that? Fascinating. She had been trying to kill herself?

Why? Did she wish to die otherwise? No? They had run then? Yes, understandably so.

She stopped the polite interrogation long enough to order food and drink brought in, and watched them eat with interest. Then she turned to Sarkis and went through an abbreviated version of the same tests the priest had done, sword sheathed and then unsheathed.

“Would you object terribly, Widow Halla, to leaving the room while I try this? Forgive my suspicion, I mean no offense, but this is so very unusual, and while you do not seem like a liar, I would be remiss in my service to the Rat if I did not take all precautions.”

“Oh no, go ahead.” Halla pushed her chair back. “Err… Sarkis? It’s okay with you, right?”

He nodded. He held the bishop’s eyes, though, while he said, “And now I mean no offense, but in the event that they try to steal the blade, lady, do not leave the Temple complex. As soon as they draw it again, I will find you. I will not be separated from my wielder except by her choice, Bishop.”

Beartongue inclined her head. “Fair and more than fair.”

Halla took an apple from the tray, stepped outside the room, and leaned against the wall.

She had time to finish most of the apple before the bishop called her back in. Sarkis was sitting in the chair where she had left him, but he had slid down in it, his hands folded together, studying the bishop with unreadable eyes.

“This is truly amazing,” Beartongue said.

“We are used to artificers coming in from Anuket City, occasionally with marvels, or the occasional relic that someone claims is from the ancient civilizations, but you are something else entirely. A true work of magic.” She leaned back in her chair.

“Wonderworkers who can do some small feat are one thing, but this…” She shook her head.

Sarkis said nothing.

“But you have come to us to solve a problem,” said Beartongue, as Halla sat, “not to have us gawk. So we have several options.”

She tapped her finger on the table. “First of all, the Temple of the White Rat, for a tithe, will arrange to help you retrieve your inheritance. It will cost you—oh—twenty percent, let us say, which includes arranging to sell your uncle’s house if you wish.

I am honor bound to tell you that you do not need us to do so, that legally the estate is yours and the only barrier is your husband’s relatives.

But I also understand that family can be… ” She pursed her lips. “… trying.”

Halla gave a single laugh that sounded high and hysterical in her own ears and clamped it down immediately. “Sorry.”

Sarkis reached out and took her hand.

Am I to be manhandled again?

It did not feel like manhandling. It felt like comfort, and that was a very strange thing to be taking from the touch of an enchanted sword.

Had his hands always been so warm? She couldn’t remember.

She looked down at their joined hands, his fingers dark bands across her pale skin.

He rubbed his thumb gently across her palm and she glanced up at him, but his face was as hard and remote as ever.

“Mistress Halla?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Sorry. It’s been… well, a long week.”

“The Temple can make this easier for you.” Beartongue smiled. “Providing advocates is one of the Rat’s primary functions. We are very hard to bully.”

“I’d like that,” said Halla. “Err… very much.”