Page 47 of Swordheart
She wrung her hands. It seemed like the worst failure of hospitality to have blankets when Sarkis didn’t. “At least take my cloak!”
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Lady, I have slept on stone floors with snow coming in through the windows. This is not a hardship.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to,” she argued. “There’s no snow. And we’ve got blankets! And a cloak! You could even share the bed if you want—I mean, not share it, obviously, notshare-share it, I’m a respectable widow, or I was before I met you and all this happened, but of course I’m still respectable likethat,so I would never actually—not that I’m saying you’dwantto, of course, even if I wasn’t respectable, or that I’d want to—not that you’re not—I mean, it’s nothing againstyou,you’re a fine man who’s actually a sword and I don’t know if swords even—I mean, it would be ironic if they didn’t, given the symbolism, don’t you think?—but—”
At that point, her embarrassment reached out from somewhere in the center of her chest and mercifully throttled her tongue.
Sarkis had begun staring at her at some point in that recitation, his head tilting further and further to one side, like a dog that could not believe what it was seeing.
Halla folded her hands in front of her, took a deep breath, andsaid, “You could sleep on the bed if you wanted. Just to sleep. I wouldn’t be a threat to your virtue.”
He continued to stare at her.
“For the love of the gods, say something,” she begged.
“In… I know not how many years…” said Sarkis, “no wielder has ever been concerned about my virtue.”
“If you’d just take the cloak,” said Halla, feeling her face burning so hot that it could probably warm the whole inn, “we could stop having this horrible conversation.”
“Give me the cloak.”
Halla sighed with relief, pulled her cloak off the back of the chair, and draped it over Sarkis.
He watched her with an indescribable expression. Halla snuffed out the candle and was grateful when they were plunged into darkness so that he couldn’t see her blush.
CHAPTER 15
Sarkis lay in the dark, remembering the last wielder he’d actually liked.
The Young Leopard, the man had been called, until years had passed, and then he was just the Leopard. Sarkis had fought side by side with the Young Leopard, when the man had nothing to his name but his blade and his shield and an enchanted sword.
The Leopard was one of those men who wore his cynicism like a cloak to hide his hope. Sarkis had taken to him immediately. They’d carved out a place together, a little low valley with good pasture.
He had been one of those rare wielders, like Halla, who had let Sarkis out of the sword for weeks at a time. It had been good. But time had passed and he had spent more and more time in the sword, as the Leopard had needed more farmers and less force of arms.
He was the Old Leopard when he drew the sword again, years later, and put a cup of wine into his hand.
“Sarkis, my sword brother,” he said. “It has been too long.”
“Has it?”
“For me, yes. For you…” The Old Leopard’s hair had gone steel gray. He kept it clipped short against his skull. “Drink with me. My children don’t understand what we did to earn this place, and I pray that they never have to.”
So they drank together, night after night, an old man and an immortal warrior, trading lies and, later, in their cups, the truths they couldn’t speak sober.
It was in the Leopard’s service that Sarkis came to terms withhis immortality. For many years he had been drawn and fought and sheathed again, with little time for reflection between battle and the silver dreams inside the blade. But with the Leopard he had time to think, time to talk out his fears.
“I fear I will live forever,” he said once, not knowing if that was a cruel thing to say to an old man. “I fear I will go on and on and on, until there is nothing left of me but silver scars and I have forgotten what it is like to be a man instead of a blade.”
“Nothing lives forever, my friend,” said the Old Leopard, topping up his drink. “Not even gods or mountains. The day will come when the sword breaks or the magic runs out or a god or a devil passes by and snuffs you out like a candle.”
Sarkis smiled. “Is it strange that I hope you are right?”
“Not at all. I am old, brother, and I will die this winter or the next, but I would not trade places with you. It is a hard thing to be dragged beyond your allotted years.”
“For my sins,” said Sarkis softly.
“There are few sins that should chase a man beyond death. I do not think yours qualify.”
