Page 70 of Swordheart #1

Spring was returning to Rutger’s Howe, and Sarkis was more than ready for it. He could smell the thaw in the air and it made him feel itchy and skittish, like a horse too long in the stable. Halla was already talking about visiting her nieces, once the roads were clear.

Oddly though, he felt a pang at the thought of leaving Rutger’s Howe, even for a few weeks. The great god help him, he had come to like a number of the neighbors. They had no idea what to do with him, but he had married “their” Halla, and that made him theirs.

He suspected that Halla had vastly underestimated how much the townsfolk liked her. It was also possible that having a large, angry man with a sword glowering at them made them realize just how much they liked her. This was fine with Sarkis.

Still, it was only a few weeks, then they’d be returning home.

Home.

The Weeping Lands would always be his homeland, but for a time, at least, he had a home.

Even if it came with a strange bird that screamed evil prophecy (the Widow Davey had declined the gift), and a cook that quit twice a week and then showed up again the next day with meat pies (they didn’t actually need a cook, but the cook needed employment and Halla had a keen sympathy for her situation), and a house where, despite having sold off a number of the stranger antiquities, one might at any moment open a little-used closet and have a manticore skull fall on one’s head.

The front door opened and Halla came in, looking puzzled. She had a piece of paper in her hand, with a broken wax seal.

“This was sent to us, in care of the clerk,” she said. “It’s from Zale.”

“Zale!” Sarkis, who had been sharpening the kitchen knives, straightened in his chair. “How are they?”

“They’re well,” said Halla, “but that’s not why they wrote. They went back to Amalcross, you know, to deal with Bartholomew’s estate, and… well. Huh.”

Sarkis had been married long enough to recognize the world of concern contained in that huh.

“What is it?”

“They went to see Nolan in prison, and he said something odd.” She read aloud from the letter.

“‘Odd enough, my friends, that I felt I should inform you. When I asked if his order had sent anyone to defend him, he said that it was not their way, and It does not matter that I have failed. They will have the second sword soon enough. When I pressed him, he refused to answer anymore. He died in prison two nights later. I have informed the Temple, and they are looking into it, but I wished to see that you knew as well.’”She folded down the page.

“The second sword…” said Sarkis slowly. “The second one she made? I don’t know who that would be. Or the second one they found? Again, that could be anyone.”

Halla shrugged helplessly. “I don’t think we know enough. And I wouldn’t necessarily count on him telling the truth, either.”

“True,” said Sarkis. He set down the whetstone and wiped off his hands. He had a sudden urge to hold his wife and feel real and solid and not like a ghost of a sword. “True.”

“The Temple of the Rat will tell us when they know more,” said Halla. She put her arms around him, and for a long time, Sarkis could not have said which of them was offering the other more comfort.