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‘See?’ he said, crossing his legs with the air of a male who’s made his point. ‘That’s what you’re looking for – that name that will make everyone around you nod and say, yes, of course this is what Em would have chosen. As I said, you’ll know.’
‘So why Heartfall, then?’ I gestured half-heartedly at the weapon on his back. ‘It sounds more obsessed with merciless triumph than you usually are – is there some scandalous past of yours that I'm missing?’
Ylfreda laughed before he could answer. ‘It's named after a sword from a story.’
‘Somepeople,’ Tared immediately shot back, with the sort of tired amusement that proved this was far from the first time a disagreement had arisen on this particular topic, ‘including the maker of the sword himself, are of the opinion itisthe sword from—’
Edored snorted so loudly it echoed through the underground room. ‘You forget to tell her that Uncle Ingved was as nutty as a fruitcake.’
‘Well—’
‘He thought someone came sneaking through his orchard every autumn!’ Edored interrupted, his voice rising. ‘To steal the bloody leaves from the trees!’
‘He was still bright enough when it came to his work, though,’ Hallthor said mildly. ‘Could tell you exactly when and for whom he’d made every single sword in his workplace until the very last day.’
‘He thought I was a pixie!’ Edored protested, looking mortally offended. ‘He once tried to lure me outside with a glass of milk!’
‘In his defence,’ Tared said, grinning more widely than I’d seen him do in a long time, ‘you did show up with a different black eye every single time we visited him. I can see where the misunderstanding was coming from.’
‘Alright,’ I interrupted, because it was abundantly clear that Edored was about to unleash a response that wouldn't allow for any sensible conversation for several minutes, and I still hadn't received a proper answer to my questions, ‘a sword from a story, you said?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Tared looked almost regretful about having to give up on nettling Edored as he turned back to me. ‘It used to be my favourite story as a child—’
‘For utterly unfathomable reasons,’ Edored interrupted gleefully.
‘Edored,’ Ylfreda groaned.
‘He sacrifices his sword for her!’ The fact that they must have had this conversation a thousand time before did not render his genuine indignance any less passionate; neither did the fact that the events were likely to be entirely fictional. ‘I don’t care that she turns things into diamonds! What godsforsaken idiot leaves hisswordbehind to—’
‘Tared, youromantic,’ I said, pretending to be shocked.
He threw me a withering look. Next to him, Ylfreda laughed out loud, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder.
‘Either way,’ Hallthor said, not tempted into anything more than a quiet smile as usual, ‘Ingved insisted this was the same Heartfall that was given up in the story. Gave it to Tared when he was old enough, and Edored was not jealousat all.’
‘Jealous?’ Edored bristled. ‘Over some sword that was discarded for a woman?’
‘Not at all,’ Ylfreda agreed placidly.
He huffed triumphantly, apparently missing that she was biting her lip to the point of bleeding to keep her face straight.
‘The main conclusion to draw here,’ Tared said with a look of pained patience, ‘is that like Beyla, I did not name my own sword and am a terrible example. Don’t use me as a guideline here.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I said earnestly. ‘You mean I should not be naming my sword after the singing candlestick in the ballad of Molly and the Three Bears? Good to know.’
A chuckle escaped him. ‘Well, you can technically do anything you like, of course—’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Hallthor dryly interrupted, ‘I just realised you can’t. Name my work after candlesticks and I may just duel you to get it back under my own care – I have my limits.’
And even though I knew it was a joke, even though I had never expected to own a sword until five minutes ago and surely should not be getting used to having one already, I couldn’t deny the swift sting of panic I felt at the thought of losing the weapon in my hands.
Good gods. Perhaps there was magic hammered into this steel after all.
‘I won’t name it after singing candlesticks,’ I promised, ‘and I won’t fight anyone with it until I know what I’m mysteriously supposed to know, and thank you all so, so much for … for …’
For the sword. For the stories. For the warmth and the laughs and the good-natured ribbing – for the message beneath the surface, most of all.
One of us.
