Page 32 of Swordheart
“Do you eat?”
“I do, if I stay outside the sword for long enough.” He took one politely. “These are safe, then? They look like berries in my part of the world, but one is never sure.”
“Quite safe. What do the berries in your part of the world do?”
“The ones like this? Nothing. Smaller ones, with a green bloom, that darken from red? You begin to sweat, then you convulse, and then your heart races until it fails.”
Halla paused momentarily, a berry on the way to her mouth. “That sounds unpleasant.”
“It is over quickly.”
“Well, there’s that.” She examined the berry, then shrugged and ate it. “These don’t do that.”
“I gathered.”
There were purple stains on her fingers by the time she was through, but between the water and the food, Halla felt a little better.
Sarkis was making a wide circle around Rutger’s Howe, throughfields that did not overlook the road. There were a number of hedgerows, which was good. The direct path ran through much more densely planted farmland, and Halla suspected that she’d get pulled into so many ditches that her shoulder joints might never recover.
“How did you learn my language?” she asked, as they walked.
“I didn’t,” said Sarkis.
She gave him a sidelong look. “We’re talking right now, though.”
“Yes, but not because I am inherently familiar with the tongue of the decadent south. The magic of the sword allows me to speak the language of the wielder, that’s all.”
“That’s handy.”
“It’s essential.” Sarkis shook his head. “It’s a real problem to be drawn on the battlefield and have to be shouting, ‘What? Say again? Do you speak any other languages?’ while the enemy is charging at you.”
Halla laughed.
“There is also the difficulty that our great-great-grandmothers spoke differently than we did. If I slept for too long in the sword, I might not even comprehend the tongue of the Weeping Lands. So the sorcerer-smith corrected for that problem early on, she said.”
“You mean there’re other swords?” said Halla.
Sarkis nodded. “At least two others that I know of,” he said. “My friends. The Dervish and Angharad Shieldborn. More before us, but no one I knew. Presumably some afterward as well.”
Halla stared at him, her mouth falling open. “Butwhy? Why would you choose to get put in a sword?”
“Sometimes all the choices are bad ones,” he said, in a tone that did not invite further comment.
“Yes, but—”
“You are not good at taking hints, are you, my lady?”
“Was that a hint?”
He started counting in his own language again. Halla waited.
After reaching thirty-two, he said, “I was a commander. There was a war. It did not go well.”
“Ohhh…” Halla nodded. “You sacrificed yourself to become a weapon, didn’t you?”
He didn’t look at her. “Something like that.”
“That’s very noble.”
