Page 130 of Of Sword & Silver

The nearly empty potion bottle Caedia gave us twinkles in the light and I turn it over in my hands, knowing it’s nearly gone, knowing time for me is likewise running out.

My head has healed, yes, but whatever damage the chalice’s curse is doing now feels permanent.

I glance up and the Sword is watching me, his face that bland mask I thought I’d managed to cast away.

“Are you ready to do the ritual?” I finally make myself ask, unable to stand his silence any longer, unwilling to analyze what it might mean.

He told me not to be afraid, and not to apologize for the fear.

I let it shine in my eyes.

He glances away.

A nervous laugh bubbles out of me, dying into silence. A log on the fire pops and I startle.

That feeling, that nagging, persistent feeling that I can’t seem to shake, crawls over my skin.

I’ve missed something.

I’ve missed something important.

It feels like the chance to figure it out has slipped by me, or that the damned curse is clouding my ability to see it.

Suddenly, I don’t just want to do the ritual. I need it.

As soon as I think it, the nerves, the fog, melt away. It’s time.

I might be a liar gifted with magic, with a silvered tongue, but the truth has always shone for me just as brightly.

“We are doing it now,” I say in a clear voice. “I don’t want to wait until I am too sick to pronounce the words.”

He finally, finally gives me the grace of looking at me, though it seems his gaze slips right through me.

Where are you? I want to scream at him. What happened?

I don’t.

I’m not sure I want the answer.

I do know I want the cure, though.

The Sword stands, offering his hand to me. I take it, curling my fingers into his.

Let me hold you near me, I try to say. Let me have your comfort for a while.

When our eyes meet again, I see him there, I see the piece of him he’s trying to keep from me.

And it’s full of fear. My throat goes dry and I try to swallow.

What are you afraid of, Sword?

He doesn’t answer my unspoken question. I pull the green cloak—a link to Lara and our friendship—close around me, knowing somehow I’ll need it—this memory of her, of all my friends—and that I’ll need to remember what I want from this life.

We walk a long way from our small makeshift riverside camp, Filarion the direcat at my side, in stilted silence.

The river grows louder the longer we walk, raging against the rocks.

Still, I cling to the Sword’s hand, letting him lead me.

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