Swordheart

by T. Kingfisher

  She stopped because the servant of the sword was staring at her again. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “A…stuffed…fish.”

  “You know, with the fins and the sort of…” She trailed off because he was turning an alarming color. “Look, I didn’t do it. Your sword stayed on the wall. I thought it was quite pretty. Err, I mean that you were quite pretty.”

  He put his hand over his face again. His shoulders were shaking.

  “I’m sorry I don’t know what year it is. Or what year it was. Comparatively.”

  He accepted this change of topic gratefully. “Well, that is the peril of being a sword. You have no clear perception of time passing. I suppose we will make do.”

  “So are you the sword? Or do you live in it?” She looked at the naked steel in her hands, then back up at him. “Like a djinn in a bottle? Wait, are you a djinn?”

  “Most certainly not!” He looked offended at the very notion. “I’m a human man, or was before I went into the blade. Now I suppose I’m a bit less human, but not a spirit or a djinn.”

  “Or a demon?”

  “Definitely not a demon!”

  “That’s good!” said Halla. Goodness, he was prickly. She wondered if he’d been like this before he became a sword or if being enspelled in metal made a person grouchy. “Do you have a name?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s writ on the blade, my lady.”

  She looked down at the sword. The blade had what looked like an entire saga engraved into it, in fine, spidery script.

  She squinted. “I don’t recognize this language. I’m sorry. Could you just tell me your name?”

  “Oh?” For an odd moment, she thought he was pleased by that. “Sarkis, my lady.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ser Sarkis.”

  “Just Sarkis,” he said. “What lands I held are far from here and long forfeit.” He frowned at her, as if realizing something. “So why is a respectable widow drawing swords in the middle of the night?”

  “Oh!” Halla waved her free hand. “I was planning on killing myself. By…err…stabbing myself through the heart. On the sword. Which I guess is your sword?”

  “You will do no such thing!”

  Halla blinked at him. “They’d have cleaned the sword after. I’m pretty sure. It looks like it might be valuable, you see, and Aunt Malva never wastes money.”

  “The great god give me patience!” shouted Sarkis. “That’s not my concern! I’ll not have any woman under my protection killing herself!”

  “Keep your voice down!” hissed Halla. “They’ll hear you!”

  He looked mutinous, but dropped his voice. “Who’s they?”

  “My relatives. Well, my husband’s relatives. They—oh, blast…”

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. “Halla? Halla, what’s going on in there?”

  “Oh gods, it’s Aunt Malva.” Halla looked around wildly. “Hide! You have to hide!”

  Sarkis drew himself up to his full height. “I’ll not hide from—”

  “I will get in serious trouble if there’s a strange man in my room!” Halla looked around frantically. Could he fit under the bed?

  “Oh. A question of honor. Of course. Forgive me.” The servant of the sword bowed his head. “Sheathe the sword.”

  “What?”

  “Sheathe the sword.”

  “Halla, do you have someone in there?” She could hear Malva fumbling with the lock.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Aunt Malva!” shouted Halla. “I couldn’t possibly!” She snatched up the sheath and tried to jam the sword back in, missed the opening twice, then got it the third time.

  Blue light writhed over Sarkis’s skin, and then he was gone. The crossguard clicked against the mouth of the scabbard. She dropped it to the floor and shoved it hastily under the bed with her foot.

  Aunt Malva finally got the door unlocked and pushed it open. “What are you…”

  Halla blinked at her innocently.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed and she scanned the room as intently as Sarkis had done earlier. Threats to my life, threats to my virtue… Halla had gone for years without anyone worrying about people hiding in her room, and here she was dealing with it twice in one night.

  It’s not like I make a habit of hiding people in my room. I don’t know why everyone is so suspicious all of a sudden.

  “I heard voices,” said Malva.

  “I was praying for Silas’s soul,” said Halla.

  Aunt Malva’s eyes narrowed even farther. “I heard a man’s voice.”

  “Maybe it was a god answering.”

  Malva snorted loudly. “Don’t be smart with me, girl.”

  “I am thirty-six,” growled Halla. “I am not a girl!”

  “So you should be well aware of what duty you owe the family! And well past dithering like a maiden when you’re offered a chance at a respectable marriage.” She drew herself up and looked down her powdered nose. “You’ve no beauty and no prospects. And only a year or two left where you might bear children. Don’t be a fool.”

  “I’ve not the least desire in the world to bear children,” said Halla. “And certainly not Alver’s!”

  “Alver will be a fine husband and a fine father!”

  “So bed him yourself, if you’re so keen on it!”

  Aunt Malva inhaled as if she’d been struck.

  “You’re out of your head with grief,” she announced. “I’ll not listen to such talk. Tomorrow we’ll have a family meeting and you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head and remember what you owe a family that took you in instead of casting you out on the street.”

  Halla could think of so many things to say in response that she choked. Silas had taken her in, not their precious family. Malva had treated her like a drudge whenever she came to visit, which she did as rarely as possible. And they’d never cared much for her husband when he was alive, only to turn him into a saint after his death.

  “I—you—how dare—”

  Aunt Malva slammed the door. The lock clicked again.

  Halla stood with her chest heaving, clutching one of the bedposts for strength. How dare that powdered old monster talk to her about gratitude? How dare they…how dare she…

  “What an unpleasant woman,” Sarkis said, from under the bed.

  Halla yelped and went down to her knees. He lay flat under the bed, wearing a resigned expression.

  “I thought you went back in the sword!”

  “I did. Unfortunately, I came loose when you kicked the scabbard under the bed.” He crawled free. “I didn’t think that my presence would contribute much to the conversation, though.”

  He rose and handed her the sword, still several inches out of the sheath.

  “Well, now you see why I have to kill myself,” said Halla.

  His eyebrows slammed together over his nose. He had a broad nose and a scar cut through one eyebrow, which gave him a singularly wicked look when he scowled. “I see no such thing!”

  Halla groaned. “Look. My husband died years ago. His great-uncle Silas took me in. Silas left me everything in his will, like an idiot. His family wants that money, so now they plan to have me marry my husband’s cousin Alver, which will keep it in the family.”

  “Which I gather does not please you, lady.”

  “Alver wouldn’t please anyone. He’s got clammy hands.”

  “The great god save us.” Sarkis raised his eyes, presumably to heaven. “Death is too good for such a creature.”

  Halla was fairly sure that he was making fun of her. “You’re missing the point! Once I’m married to Alver, my life won’t be worth a penny anyway. They’ll kill me off so that Alver can marry someone younger and get heirs. But if I die now, before I get married, it will all go to my mother’s family. I’ve got a will with the town clerk that says so.”

  “Where is your family?” Sarkis growled, his voice dropping an octave. “Why are your kinsman not saving you from these grasping maggots?”
/>
  She sighed. “They’re poor.”

  “Poverty’s no shame, lady, compared to abandoning kin to these jackals.”

  “Yes, but…well, after my husband died, I didn’t want to burden them. They didn’t need another mouth to feed. And then my sister died and now it’s only my nieces, you understand, and…well.”

  “What of your father’s kin?”

  Halla shrugged. “I don’t expect a lot of help from that quarter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know who they are?”

  Understanding dawned in Sarkis’s eyes and he looked down hurriedly. “Apologies, lady.”

  “It’s fine. It was Great-uncle Silas who took me in.” She sat down on the bed. “And really, Silas wasn’t that wealthy. But it would be enough, if the clerks could get it to my nieces, that it would help. They’d have dowries. Good ones. They could marry who they wanted instead of who agreed to take them.”

  Sarkis folded his arms. His upper arms were bare and tattooed in dark blue. He wore leather forearm guards and leather gauntlets. He scowled again. “You’ve no male kin to ride to your aid?”

  Halla snorted. “My niece Erris would ride to my aid in a heartbeat, if she could afford a horse, and if I had any way to get a message to her.”

  She expected some kind of sarcastic rejoinder to that, but Sarkis nodded. “A strong shieldmaid is the equal of any man in combat. Certainly equal to an old woman and a man with clammy hands. Have these jackals any guardsmen in their train?”

  “I think you’re missing a critical point here,” said Halla, rubbing her face. “I mean, yes, they’ve got one. Malva won’t travel without a guard in case of brigands. His name’s Roderick.”

  “Will Lady Erris be able to dispatch this Roderick?”

  “I—no, we’re not—” She set the sword across her knees and put her head in her hands.

  My great-uncle died three days ago. His wretched family descended on me a week ago. I vowed to kill myself this morning. And I have just drawn a magic sword with a man inside and now I am discussing whether my fifteen-year-old niece can slaughter Aunt Malva’s guardsman.

  What in the name of all the gods is going on?

  “She’s fifteen,” said Halla, since Sarkis seemed to be waiting for an answer.

  Sarkis frowned. “How much sword training has she had?”

  “She’s a farmer! She’s a very fierce farmer, but she can’t—Roderick’s an ex-mercenary. I mean, I don’t know anything about how he fights. Just that I have to warn the servant girls before they come to visit, because he’s got wandering hands.”

  “Oh,” said Sarkis, his lips thinning with disgust. “One of those men. Your niece will do the world a favor removing him.”

  “My niece is a farmer! And she isn’t here.”

  “I will undertake her training, then,” said Sarkis, nodding as if something important had been decided.

  “Fine! I’ll write a note saying that the sword goes to her! Then can you please kill me so she has a chance to inherit you?”

  “Most certainly not!” He looked deeply offended. Halla dug her fingers into her scalp in frustration.

  “Then Alver’s going to marry me and when his wretched aunt kills me off, he’ll be your next owner!”

  “I shall not be wielded by a man with clammy hands!”

  “Keep your voice down!”

  “Oh. Of course. Apologies, my lady.” He lowered his voice. “I will not allow you to kill yourself, however. Certainly not with my blade!”

  “Oh!” Halla had a sudden thought. “Would you feel it? I mean, if I did that on your sword? Would it hurt?”

  “It would hurt you.”

  “Well, obviously. But I mean, would you be able to tell it had happened?”

  “You would have to draw the sword in order to kill yourself on it. I would be standing right here. I believe that I would notice, yes.”

  “Arrgh.” She wrung her hands.

  “And you are my wielder,” said Sarkis. “I am bound to protect you. If I tried to kill you, I would be forced to leap between your neck and my own blade.”

  “That sounds awkward.”

  “I do not think it would go well, no.”

  “And if I killed myself?”

  “I would try to take the blow myself. I have no choice.”

  This was getting worse and worse. Halla groaned. “Do you have any better ideas? Other than my fifteen-year-old niece somehow staging a rescue that she doesn’t know anything about?”

  Sarkis frowned and leaned against the bedpost. “Clearly you must drive these ruffians from your home and then alert her.”

  “Drive them from my home?” Halla almost choked at the impossibility of it all. “They wouldn’t go! Nobody thinks it’s really my home, no matter what the clerks say! I’m locked in my own room!”

  He inhaled sharply. “You are a prisoner here?”

  “Yes! I’ve been locked in here for three days!

  This seemed to change everything. The servant of the sword was abruptly all business. “We cannot wait on the honor of your kinswoman, it seems.”

  “…my fifteen-year-old kinswoman…”

  “Pack for a journey. I will allow no one under my protection to be held prisoner, even by their marriage kin.”

  “Wait, it’s all right if they’re not locking the door, but since they are, now we’ll leave?”

  He looked at her as if she were daft. “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Clearly.”

  She put her hands on her hips. Sarkis sighed. “It would be extremely rude to interfere with your kinswoman’s efforts to rescue you. An insult to their honor. But as you are clearly in immediate and present danger, we cannot afford to wait. We must leave this place at once.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Away from here.”

  Chapter 4

  It did not take Halla long to pack. She had few enough possessions…at least, not possessions that she felt were hers, and not Silas’s. Most of those she abandoned without a qualm. The jewelry that her husband had given her, she dutifully packed, feeling that it was the sort of thing a widow ought to keep.

  I suppose I could sell it if I have to. It’s not worth much, but it might…oh, damn, I’m doing this wrong. I should be very upset that I have to sell my jewelry, shouldn’t I?

  It’s just that I’m fairly certain his mother picked it out. Or he picked it out thinking it was something his mother would wear.

  Her late mother-in-law had been cut from the same cloth as her sister Malva. Halla had tried to love her and then had tried to like her, and then had tried to be dutiful and compliant, and finally had settled for not being too obviously relieved when the woman had dropped dead.

  All her possessions and a spare change of clothes, the tiny tinderbox she kept for lighting candles, and a few coins piled together. It made a pitifully small bundle.

  She thought about trying to find more to pack, then heard her mother’s voice in her head: No use dithering. Roll up your sleeves. Very well. She tied it all up, started to heft it, and Sarkis took it and slung it over his shoulder.

  He had turned his back earlier while she changed into sturdier clothes for travel. She’d had no idea that an enchanted sword would have such a strong sense of propriety.

  Well, perhaps it’s different where he’s from. The Weeping Lands? I’ve never heard of them, but I suppose that doesn’t mean much.

  She slithered hastily into a long woolen habit with somber sleeves. The material was fine enough, but the dark color and lack of ornamentation marked her as either mourning, eccentric, or on her way to a convent.

  And I might be all three, for all I know. A convent might be the best place for me. Except that I ask too many odd questions and I don’t think you’re supposed to do that in a convent, are you?

  Well, it probably depends on the god.

  “Do you know if there’s any god that doesn’t mind lots of qu
estions?” she asked.

  Sarkis looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “What?”

  “Questions. I ask a lot of them, you see.”

  “I had noticed, yes.”

  “Gods don’t like that.”

  He shrugged. “Your decadent southern gods might not.”

  This gave her pause. “You have a less decadent god?”

  “The great god is not decadent.”

  “How does he feel about questions?”

  “I don’t know the mind of the god.”

  “Yes, but if I ran away to join a convent, you see, I’d want to pick the correct sort of convent or else they might throw me out and I’d be right back where I started.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Is this the best time to discuss theology, lady?”

  “Err…no?”

  “No.”

  “All right then.”

  For all his claims of not being a lady’s maid, Sarkis helped her put on her cloak and then to arrange the sword slung across her back, which might otherwise have taken all night and ended with Halla cutting her own head off. They wrapped the cords of her dressing gown around the hilt of the sword and the opening in the scabbard so that the sword was held in place with an inch of steel still drawn.

  “How many people are in this house?” he said, adjusting the buckles that held the scabbard in place.

  “Eight. Me, Cousin Alver, Aunt Malva, her maid, her sister, and two cousins. And Roderick.”

  “Are any of the cousins warriors? Are they armed?”

  “Uh…I mean, Cousin Sayvil’s got a pretty wicked pinch. And I suppose they have…err…needles? Oh! And embroidery hooks!”

  “Embroidery hooks.”

  “Yes. Do they have them where you’re from? They’re sort of—err—pointy—” She tried to explain with hand gestures.

  Sarkis began muttering savagely under his breath. He didn’t look at her while he did it.

  “What are you saying?” she asked.