Page 56 of Swordheart #1

Silver faded. The sword was drawn. Sarkis materialized in the room, looking for Halla. He needed to say something—tell her something—anything—anything to fix the hurt he had caused her.

You were ready to spit her relatives on your sword for what they’d done. And you are worse than they ever were. She knew what to expect from them.

She trusted you.

Angharad and the Dervish trusted you, too. At least you haven’t left her gutted and trapped in a blade, so there’s that much to be grateful for.

The resignation in her voice had cut him more deeply than her tears. She had sounded as if she had given up. As if she had decided that she did not even deserve to feel anger at her own betrayal.

He wanted her to shout at him, to be furious on her own behalf. He wanted her to believe that she was worth enough to be angry.

I wanted a clean slate between us. I wanted you to know so that it couldn’t hurt us later. I wanted there to be a later.

He had no idea how to fix any of it.

I could fall on my own sword in shame … and then what? She’d be alone for a fortnight while I healed. And the great god knows what would happen to her in that time.

She was too trusting. She would trust the wrong person and end up bleeding in a ditch or worse.

Could they really hurt her any worse than you did?

He had to apologize. He had to find her. He had to make it right.

She… wasn’t in the room. Bartholomew looked at him, fingers wrapped around the hilt, holding the sword a few inches out of the scabbard.

“Where is she?” said Sarkis.

“Halla? I’m sure she’s fine,” said Bartholomew.

“I have to talk to her. Where did she go?” Sarkis turned away.

“It hardly matters,” Bartholomew said. “Her part in this is done.”

“What?”

“Her cousin will take care of her. We have other matters to discuss.”

Sarkis was halfway to the door when the word cousin struck him. “What? That clammy-handed worm? What are you talking about?”

Bartholomew rolled his eyes. “For gods’ sake, man, you know the woman. She’s a twit. She needs someone to keep her from wandering off a cliff, and for whatever reason, her cousin wants the job. You did your part, and now you can get on to better things.”

Sarkis saw red.

He was over the table before his sword had cleared its sheath, aiming for Bartholomew’s throat. “ He has her? Where did he take her? Tell me or I’ll kill—”

And he stopped.

The sword hovered inches from the other man’s face, and Sarkis had an intense desire to twist around and throw himself in front of the blade.

He tried to move the sword, and found himself leaning forward, leading with his opposite shoulder, determined to get in the way.

Sarkis stared at his sword hand as if it belonged to someone else.

He reached out with his other hand, toward Bartholomew’s throat, and watched his own sword turn and press against his wrist.

And then he knew.

Bartholomew reached out, put his finger on the tip of the blade, and pushed it aside.

“She gave the sword away,” he said. “You heard her. And now I am the one who wields you.”

Sarkis went berserk.

The sword cut deep into his forearm, steel grinding on bone, before he flung it down.

Bartholomew jumped out of the way, eyes wide, as the servant of the sword fell down, thrashing violently on the floor.

Rage warred with magic and magic had the upper hand.

Sarkis clawed at his own throat with his bloody fingers, snarling, then slammed the back of his head against the floor and saw stars.

How far would the magic go to keep him from harming a wielder?

Apparently a very long way.

The world tilted and darkened. His breathing eased as the magic slowly decided that he was no longer a threat to his new master.

A door slammed. He heard footsteps as Nolan raced into the room. “What is going on here? What—no! You drew the sword?! ”

“I did.”

“That wasn’t our agreement!”

“I didn’t trust your order to keep your end of the bargain,” snapped Bartholomew. “I required insurance. I will hand over the sword when I am paid, and not before.”

Nolan cursed.

The scholar knelt over Sarkis, lips twisted in annoyance. “If he dies, it will be weeks before we can draw him again and that will be time wasted. My order will hardly pay for a servant of the sword if they cannot at least see the servant first.”

Sarkis blinked the darkness out of his eyes and looked up into Nolan’s face.

He’s in it with Bartholomew. They planned this. This is why they came to the town. Not to help Halla at all.

He could do nothing to the wielder of the sword, but Nolan had no such protection.

Sarkis lunged.

His hands went around the scholar’s throat. Even with blood pouring down his left arm, even with it badly gashed, it was easy. Necks were so fragile, the windpipe right there, the jugular there, all he had to do was squeeze—

Nolan turned purple and gurgled. Bartholomew gasped and somehow had the presence of mind to sheathe the sword.

Sarkis’s curse was cut off as blue fire washed over him, freeing the traitor from his hands and taking him out of the world again.

Halla entered the house, feeling weary beyond all measure.

She had walked for hours, out into the lands around the town, and found herself at the same shepherd’s hut they had taken refuge in the first night. It looked as if it hadn’t been used since them.

She stared at the dark entrance, high on the hill, and thought, He got you away from Alver. That wasn’t a lie. He saw you safe to Amalcross and Archon’s Glory. That wasn’t a lie, either.

He had thrown himself in front of danger, completely heedless of his own safety. Granted, he was immortal, but he still felt pain, yet she had never seen him balk at any injury. Yes, the sword had compelled him… but he could have been free of her at any time, only by asking.

The sword had not compelled him to hold her when she was shaken, nor to joke with her, nor to hold her hand.

You sound as if you are thinking of forgiving him, she said to herself.

It’s mostly my pride that’s wounded.

Pride is all a respectable widow has left. It was not the sword that compelled him to be kind to you, but it was not the sword that made him lie, either. Or seduce you.

Halla grimaced as she walked toward the door. She had not exactly been an unwilling party to her own seduction, had she?

She knew something was wrong as soon as the door closed behind her. The house was cold. There were no fires lit in any of the grates.

Dread crawled up into Halla’s throat. She went from room to room on the ground floor, but they were all dark and empty. The guest bedrooms for her great-uncle’s friends were bare, with signs of having been vacated in a hurry.

No Bartholomew. No Nolan. No sword.

No deep-voiced, sardonic swordsman with fierce eyes and gentle hands.

“They’re gone,” said a voice behind her.

She knew that voice. It wasn’t one she cherished.

Dear gods, it wanted only this.

She turned. “Cousin Alver,” she said grimly. “How very nice to see you.”