Page 38 of Of Sword & Silver

She’ll run. Mortals can’t stand to be in the presence of death.

The corpse twitches. Its eyes, which should be long rotted away, are cloudy orbs in too-large sockets, and its eyelids blink slowly as the spell takes hold.

“Who calls me?” His voice is raspy, and the sound echoes more in the cavern of my own skull than in any real capacity.

Kyrie cringes against me, but I hold her tight, keeping her wound positioned over the corpse’s mouth. More crimson blood drops from her wound, and the corpse blinks again, the spirit held in this barrow coming more into focus.

Recognition dawns in my old servant’s eyes, and I realize I’ve made a significant error.

“It does not matter who we are.” The words boom out of me, an order and a plea.

“Of course it does,” the spirit answers. “But I died to serve.”

I wince at that.

Kyrie’s breaths are ragged and fast, and still, she doesn’t fight, but submits to the current of power running through us both, fueling the magic.

She is braver than I gave her credit for. Much braver than any of Sola’s chosen I’ve been unfortunate enough to meet.

“We have need of the knowledge you keep,” I say thickly, because one wrong answer, one wrongly worded question, and this servant of Death could make things much, much harder.

“Speak your need,” he grates, the spirit gaining energy from Kyrie and me, the face of the corpse more animated now. “I died to serve.”

I glare at the spirit’s eyes from over Kyrie’s trembling shoulder.

He grins, the skin splitting along his lips. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“We seek the cure,” I say simply. “There is an instrument I need.”

“Which?” the corpse interrupts, then wheezes a laugh. “You have grown even more obtuse in your old age.”

“Glad to see I’m not the only one annoyed by you,” Kyrie mutters.

I tighten my grip on her waist and she stills. Pleasure, unbidden, crawls up my spine. Not from the task at hand, at using my dark powers to locate the artefact hidden from my sight or from bidding the dead, but from Kyrie herself.

From the warm heat of her body, the scent of her hair, the smell of her life’s blood.

“Chaos and order, lies and truth, death and desire, gods and gold, Sword and Silver Tongue,” the corpse laughs again, and Kyrie shivers.

I am well and truly fucked.

“I need Sola’s Crown. To save the woman. I’ve sworn an oath to render her aid. Where is it?”

“Do your eyes not see? Have you changed so much since we last spoke?” The corpse inhales, desiccated tongue flickering from his mouth.

Kyrie gags, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You have changed. I feel it now.” His death grin splits the mockery of flesh clinging to his bones.

“Where is the Crown of Sola? You are sworn in death to serve,” I say, nearly adding the words that will give it all away.

Give me away.

“The crown is in the spired city. It no longer rests in vaunted halls of yore. Many-eyed Sola watches while you scurry. To deceive the King of Diamonds, you’ll need four more.”

“Fucking riddles,” I swear, and the corpse wheezes again, clearly amused. “Say what you mean.”

The corpse sits up, eyes flashing, clearing, dust clouding around him.

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