Page 91 of Swordheart
Scar seemed annoyed at this response. He searched the wagon in a somewhat perfunctory fashion.
“If you told me what you were looking for, I could probably be more helpful,” said Zale, in a not at all helpful voice.
Red reached under the wagon seat and pulled something out.
“Can you explainthis,priest?”
“It’s a crossbow,” said Zale, as if speaking to a rather dim child. “You shoot it at things.”
“Why are you carrying one?”
“Because we might get stopped by bandits,” said Zale. “Or other people intent on mischief. As I’m sure you’re aware, these roads are simplyfullof people who like to harass innocent travelers.”
Red scowled. So did Scar.
“You’ve found nothing,” said Zale, folding their arms. “Because there is nothing to find.Nowwill you stop pestering us?”
“We are watching you, priest,” said Red, tossing down the crossbow. It was unloaded, but Sarkis and Zale both flinched when it struck the wagon seat anyway.
“And I’m watching you,” grated Zale. “And the eyes of the Rat see farther than those of the Mother. For one thing, there’s a lot more of them.”
Red curled his lip, stalked to his horse, and mounted without a word. He kicked his horse into a trot before Scar had finished mounting, and the two vanished in a cloud of road dust.
“Petty tyrants,” muttered Zale. They grabbed their pewter braid and twisted it irritably.
Halla shook her head. “The miller back home was like that,” she said. “He had a little bit of power and he lorded it over everyone. Although there’s less damage you can do with a mill than with a religious order.”
There was a brief pause while everyone gave this statement the consideration it deserved.
“I am going to compile a book,” said Zale. “Wit and Wisdom of Mistress Halla. With occasional interjections by Ser Sarkis of the Weeping Lands and Brindle the Gnole.”
“Humans talk too much,” said Brindle. “There’s a wisdom for a human’s book, rat-priest.”
“That probably deserves its own chapter.” Zale shook themself, looking not unlike a gnole as they did it. “Well. To turn to more important matters… Before we were so rudely interrupted, I was thinking about the enchantment on the sword. I believe your sorcerer-smith had a wild talent of some sort, but she built on that foundation. Do you know what happened to your body when you died?”
“Eh?” said Sarkis. He’d still been thinking about the Motherhood men. “What?”
“The first time,” said Zale patiently. “When you were trapped in the sword. Did your body dematerialize into the blade or did it simply die?”
Sarkis blinked at them.
“How would he know?” asked Halla. “I mean, if he went into the sword right away…”
Zale sighed. “I suppose you’re right. It’s a pity, that might tell us more.”
“Not me,” said Sarkis slowly. “But I saw Angharad and the Dervish run through.”
He could see it far too clearly suddenly: the dim, stinking forge, the smell of iron and charcoal and burning flesh.
“Angharad was first.” He picked at the seam of his gauntlets. “I watched them quench the sword in her heart’s blood. She didn’t cry out. She was always strong and silent as an ox. The Dervish screamed, though. I remember his scream. I still hear it sometimes, when I’m dying.”
Halla clutched his hand. He looked down at it, puzzled, then squeezed.
This makes hard listening. I should have thought.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No!” she said, exasperated. “I’m not… oh, dammit.” She tucked his hand under her arm and bumped her shoulder against him, awkward and sincere.
