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‘The proper reaction, at least,’ Ylfreda said, smiling contently at me. ‘Of course we're not joking, Emelin. Why would we?’
‘But it … it’s analfsword.’ What in the world was I arguing for – for them to abruptly realise they had made a colossal mistake and yank the weapon from my hands again? And yet my lips refused to stop moving, unable to trust, unable to fall and let the net catch me. ‘And I’m not an alf. So—'
Tared quirked up an eyebrow. ‘Aren't you?’
Oh.
One ofus.
Zera help me, he’dtoldme, word for word, in the training hall in Orin’s quarter. Had reassured me I would always be family, then gone off to tell the others about Creon – or so I’d thought …
But hadn’t I found Hallthor engrossed in sketches the very next morning?
Already the heat of tears was burning in the corners of my eyes again.
‘I … I don’t know what to say,’ I managed, returning my gaze to that slender blade just so I had an excuse to blink the wetness from my eyes. How many hours of work had he put into this, to get it done so swiftly? ‘Thank you. Thank you so, so much. I … I’ll take very good care of it, I promise.’
‘I hope it’ll take good care of you, too,’ Hallthor said, watching the sword with something I could only describe as gentle fondness. ‘But don’t fight with it until you’ve named it, of course – I hope Tared told you that much?’
I blinked. ‘What?’
‘Bad luck,’ he clarified. ‘Fighting with an unnamed sword.’
‘Yes, yes, I get that part, but …nameit?’ I glanced at Tared, who smiled back at me with just a little too much satisfaction. ‘I’msupposed to name it?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Ylfreda said, clucking her tongue. ‘Who else did you think was going to do it for you? The bloody gods?’
‘Bold of you to assume I was thinking at all,’ I said, a little panicked, looking from the sword to her and back to the sword. It gleamed at me rather … expectantly. ‘How in the world does one name a sword?’
‘You think very hard …’ Tared started.
‘Or you get very drunk,’ Edored helpfully supplied.
‘A tried and true method as well, yes,’ Tared admitted with a wry grin. ‘Either way, you get your brain going somehow, and then sooner or later, you’ll … know.’
I narrowed my eyes at him, somehow less reassured than I’d been a moment before. ‘I’llknow?’
‘It’s not as vague as it sounds,’ he said dryly. ‘You’ll know when you know, I promise.’
‘You’re not helping, Tared.’ I took two steps back and sank down on a little wooden stool, the sword nameless and heavy in my hands.One of us, perhaps – but right now, I felt the absence of a few decades of alvish culture from my life more deeply than ever before. ‘I barely know what you people would consider proper names for a sword. Fury is Fury, of course, and I know Beyla’s swords, but …’
‘Beyla didn’t name her own swords,’ Ylfreda said softly. ‘That’s not the example you want to be looking at.’
‘Right.’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘Did you …’
She nodded, tapping the hilt of the short sword on her back. ‘She’s called Mercy.’
A healer’s sword, intended to bring death only when it was the kindest option left. I swallowed, nodded, and glanced atHallthor, who jutted a thumb at the sword standing against the wall in the corner of the room. ‘Whisper.’
Ah, yes. The rarity of an even-tempered alf – a quiet male raised in a world of raucous chaos. I turned back to Tared, rubbing my face with my free hand, and said, ‘Does Lyn have her own sword, too?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ He grinned. ‘You just won’t see her wielding it for a few years. It’s about as tall as she is right now. It’s called Kenaz.’
I frowned. ‘Kenaz?’
‘It’s a rune. Symbol of knowledge.’
‘Oh.’ Lyn and her books – what else could she reasonably have come up with? ‘Of course.’
