Page 28 of Swordheart
“No.”
He went out of the hut and left Halla shivering.
She was exhausted. The flood of adrenaline from their wild escape had finally faded, leaving her bone-weary and filled with the sense that she had committed some terrible crime.
No. I’ve done nothing wrong.
So why were you running? And chased by constables like a criminal?
She burrowed deeper in her cloak, seeking warmth. It had all made so much sense at the time, one thing leading inevitably to another, and now here she was, hiding in a shepherd’s hut, her only ally a man who had come out of an enchanted sword.
If you say it like that, even inside your head, it sounds very strange.
She roused briefly at the sound of Sarkis returning.
“I’m sorry,” she said, as he laid out bits of broken brushwood in the corner and built up stones around them. “I am very dull and stupid right now. I should be helping you.”
She expected another sardonic response, but Sarkis surprised her.
“It was a long night we had,” he said. “And I have been in a sword for a long time, but you, unless I miss my guess, have been nursing a sick man for some days before tonight.”
Halla gave a short, choking laugh. “It’s not many men who appreciate the work that goes into that.”
“I led a small band of warriors,” said Sarkis, taking out the tinderbox she had packed. “Before I am… what I am now. In the early days, if one of us was injured, it fell upon the rest of us to nurse him. It was grim duty, particularly if you didn’t expect them to live.”
She glanced over at him. He had removed his gauntlets to use the tinderbox. His hands were hard-looking, scarred and callused. It was difficult to imagine those hands tending to the injured or doing any work of kindness.
“I hated it,” she admitted. “I know, we’re supposed to be… I don’t know. Ministering angels. But I’m dreadful at it. I’ve no patience. I wanted to strangle Silas after half a day. And I love him.”
Fire flared up beneath Sarkis’s hands. “Well,” he said. “The dead aren’t saints, merely because they’re dead.”
“No,” said Halla. “And he’s a spiteful old beast when he feels thwarted. Which is all the time when he’s sick.”
She rubbed her hands together to warm them, and then thought,Was. Not is. He’s dead. The last few days really happened, even if they don’t seem like it.
Sarkis didn’t seem to have noticed the lapse, or if he had, he did not comment on it.
Toward the end, Silas had been less spiteful and more tired. He would sleep for most of the day, waking only to drink a little and grumble. She’d sat by the bed because that was what you did with the dying, though she doubted he much cared.
“I’ve always thought,” she said, a bit dryly, “that if I weredying, the last thing I’d want was people fussing over me. I’d just want them to go away and let me get on with it.”
Sarkis actually laughed. “I have died,” he said. “Many times now. But usually quickly, so I’m not sure it’s the same thing.”
She looked at him, puzzled. He’d mentioned being killed, but somehow she hadn’t put that together with the fact he was still here. “You’ve died?”
“Indeed.”
“Is it really dying? I mean, you’re still here.”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Pain, and then a long silver sleep with dreams. Then I wake up inside the sword again.”
“Are you awake inside the sword? You know what’s happening?”
“I can be. Usually not for long, though. There is only a faint sense of time passing. I fall asleep after a time, and then wake when someone draws the blade. Sometimes I’ll rouse a little, if something is happening outside, but I have no real way of telling what it is.”
“And you heal inside the blade…” It reminded her suddenly of his injury. If he wouldn’t go back in the sword, it needed treating, didn’t it?
“Let me bind your arm,” she said, summoning the last of her energy.
