Page 25 of Of Sword & Silver

Can’t really hold that against him. If I were braver, or if I had a death wish, I might have done the same.

I tick it off on my fingers. This male, this death knight, he knows where he’s going, he isn’t human, and he hates me. My fingers go limp, and I pet Mushroom for good measure. He’s sworn to me now, though… I cringe. And I’m sworn to him.

What could possibly go wrong?

My cheeks puff up as I take in a breath and hold it, trying to warm it up so it doesn’t send spikes of pain through my lungs.

“What’s the plan?” I ask, half sure he won’t answer because he seems to hate talking. Or maybe it’s just me he hates.

I shrug at Mushroom. “Doesn’t matter if he likes me, as long as he helps me find a cure for this stupid curse.”

I say it low enough that I jump when the Sword responds.

“Tell me something, Silver Tongue.”

“Sure,” I answer blandly.

“How did the draught from the chalice taste?”

His voice is so low, so melodious and lovely, that answering seems the most natural thing in the world.

“It wanted me to drink it,” I say slowly, the memory sluggish and strange. “It smelled… like springtime. Like fresh flowers and melting ice. It tasted like… life.” My nose scrunches and I shake my head, then narrow my eyes at his back.

Except… it’s not his back. He stopped at some point, turning to fully face me, to watch me as I answered.

“It tasted like life, but it was death instead,” I finish with false cheer. “How clever. What a fun trick.”

Time spins slower, the odd flake falling from the needles above in slow motion as our gazes meet. There’s an odd look to his eyes, like he’s seeing me, truly seeing me, for the first time, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with me.

“I have the same reaction when I look in a mirror,” I tell him, and the moment shatters, time back to normal.

He grunts. The snow races down again on its quest to reach the forest floor and transform to water and ice.

I want to ask him why.

Why, of all the things he could have asked me, is that what he wants to know? If he’s such a terrible warrior, a dark knight of death, why should he care what death tastes like?

He’s dealt it enough.

We continue walking. I continue chewing the smoked jerky, and I continue trying to catch my breath in the thinning air. Snow crunches under my feet and I hum occasionally, dreaming of fireplaces and warmth and a hot drink.

Minutes pass. Hours.

“Here,” he finally says.

I stop, leaning my back against Mushroom, mentally sending thanks to Lara for the cloak that’s now fully responsible for the fact I’m not frozen completely.

Something crashes through the trees, too close for comfort. I still, Mushroom tossing his head, prancing on the snow. The rope lead falls to the ground, my daggers against my palms in the next instant.

The Sword stands his ground, his stance wide and easy, but the sharp alertness to his eyes makes me warier than ever.

If he’s assessed that whatever lurks out there is a potential problem, then I definitely won’t like it.

My attention jerks left, caught by movement between the trees.

“Hold the mule,” the Sword demands.

I curl my fingers around his halter. Mushroom attempts to rear back, making a panicked scream of a noise.

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