Page 153 of Swordheart
He opened the door to one of the unused servant’s rooms and pushed Halla inside. “You rat bastard!” she shouted after him.
“I’d rather you didn’t take my god’s name in vain in quite that way,” said a familiar voice from the floor.
“Zale!?”
The Rat priest smiled, lifting their bound hands. They looked a bit mussed, their hair flopped back out of the braid and into their eyes, but none the worse for wear. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this…”
“What happened to you?” asked Halla, sitting down beside them.
They’re the “other one.” Not a stable of women after all.
Pity.
“Apparently, no one warned your relatives that I was in the attic conducting an inventory. They came in and began discussing how to marry you off to Alver. I came down to tell them that they would not do such a thing, certainly not without your consent, and the next thing I knew, your cousin was stuffing me in the back bedroom.” They shrugged. “You were right, too.”
“What?”
“He does have clammy hands.”
“Ugh, Iknow.” Halla leaned her head back against the wall. The idea of those clammy hands on her body had been badenough before. After Sarkis had touched her with such passion, coaxed such extraordinary responses from her body… no, it didn’t bear thinking about. Like drinking a fine aged whiskey and then having a dead fish as a chaser.
“And you, I assume, did not feel like consenting to this marriage?”
“Obviously not.” Halla scowled.
“I am a bit surprised they put you in here with me,” admitted Zale. “If they’ve already stooped to kidnapping, I would expect them to spirit you away to a willing priest, have it done as quickly as possible, and then deal with the consequences later.”
“I told them I was pregnant with Sarkis’s child,” said Halla.
Zale stared at her. “How did you do that?”
“I didn’t! I mean, I’m not! We haven’t—well, wedid—err—well, there was some—he and I—but he used his fingers, we didn’t—”
Halla was aware that she had turned bright red, and stopped talking. She put her hands over her face. Her fingers felt cold against her blazing hot cheeks.
“You couldn’t, though,” said Zale. “Even if you wanted to. Could you? He’s dead. Dead men don’t sire children, except in a few very specific cases.”
“They don’t walk around and talk, either, but he manages.”
Zale considered this. “Yes, but…” They frowned.
“That’s why we didn’t,” said Halla wearily. “I didn’t want to get pregnant. I don’t want children. Not his, not Alver’s, not anybody’s.”
Zale gave a very unpriestly snort. “That’seasily avoided. Just sheathe the sword after he… ah… sheathes the sword. As it were.”
“What?”
She stared at the priest so intently that Zale, too, started to turn red. “Look, we did the experiments, didn’t we? You saw them, too. Just… um. Look, his… uh… that is… his seed islike the rest of him, isn’t it? If you sheathe the sword, it should just go back in the sword. Like a severed tongue.” They coughed. “If you’re really worried, you could test it. Have him… um… you know… in a jar… and then…” They trailed off.
Zale and Halla looked at each other. Then they both carefully didn’t look at each other, since they were both beet red.
“So!” said Zale brightly. “How about this weather?”
“Rainy,” said Halla gratefully. “Very rainy.”
“And these ropes! So… uh… rope-like.”
“Yes. With the hemp. And the knots. Very much so.”
