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They seemed to understand without another word from my lips; hell, even Edored sent me a radiant grin before I could figure out how to turn the fuzzy glow in my heart into proper grammar. ‘Want me to take you back to your busy life in the north, then, Nosebreaker?’
Oh.
Fuck.
The Mother’s bloody warships.
It was miraculous, really, how easily they’d made me forget about the mess waiting for me above the earth – the attack hanging over our heads, the armies readying themselves for the bloodshed to come.
‘Might be better to go back, yes,’ I made myself say, even though I couldn’t think of anything I wanted less than to return to that camp full of hopeful humans, to the choices of life and death waiting for us there.
Hallthor bent over and pulled a brand-new leather sheath from behind his anvil – perfectly tailored to size, the buckle gleaming in the firelight. My muttered thanks as he handed it to me felt ridiculously insufficient, but the laughter wrinkles around his eyes told me he understood.
‘I’ll be coming with you,’ Tared said as I fastened the sword onto my back, rolling my shoulders to adjust to the new weight. ‘Sounds like there’s plenty for all of us to do. Did I hear you brought an entire army with you, Em?’
‘Accidentally,’ I said, grimacing.
The conversation rolled on for a few more moments, small talk back and forth until Edored got sick of it and announced we were leaving now – but my mind lagged behind, wondering despite my own better judgement how much of a scandal I would cause by pickingAccidentallyas my sword name.
It did have a certain ring to it, really.
Chapter 27
The blue-and-white tent atthe heart of our army camp had filled up significantly since Edored had faded me out half an hour ago. Nenya was standing beside Lyn now, pencil between her blood-red lips, hair braided into complex horn-like structures this morning. And on the other side of the tent – my heart gave a little jump – Creon sat lounging in a chair that did not look designed to be lounged in but had inevitably surrendered to the Silent Death’s wishes, allowing him to leisurely curl his wings around the backrest as he scanned the atlas Lyn had held before.
He looked up the moment we appeared beside the table. Edored, meanwhile, let go of my wrist and burst out in an excited, ‘Nen!’
There was just a fraction of warmth in her long-suffering sigh. ‘Morning, arsehole.’
Lyn threw them a small eyeroll, jumped off her chair, and trotted towards Tared to report the details of Beyla’s findings. I decided they would be able to discuss the worrying news perfectly well without me and slipped around the other side of the table, to where Creon had already shoved his atlas aside and nudged a second chair back with his foot. At the sight of the sword on my back, he smiled more broadly than I’d dared to expect.
‘You’re an alf now?’
‘So I’ve been told,’ I said as I loosened the sheath buckle and carefully settled the weapon on the bundle of discarded banners in the corner. Pulling my hands off it felt oddly similar to putting a newborn child in its cradle and having to trust it would continue to breathe on its own – an unexpected itch of protectiveness. ‘Hallthor made it.’
‘I figured.’ He ran his eyes over the mother-of-pearl cross-guards, the slender length of the sheath. ‘It’s beautiful work.’
I dropped myself into the chair next to him, glanced aside to check whether Tared and Edored were still occupied elsewhere, and whispered, ‘I’m supposed to somehow find a name for it. If you have any suggestions …’
‘Call it Cactus,’ he dryly offered.
‘That’s my title,’ I mumbled, pulling a face. ‘I feel like there can only be so many cacti around at any given time without causing confusion. Nosebreaker and Noisy Death are out of the question for the same reason.’
He laughed. ‘And you’re not in the mood to embrace the good alf tradition of boastful ambition and call it Queenslayer, either?’
‘I suppose I could, but it’s so …’ I hesitated. ‘So violent.’
As if that was the side of me I preferred above all else – the side that blinded High Ladies and left blood-soaked battlefieldsbehind. As if that was what I wanted my audience to think about, every single time I drew my weapon: not Emelin, saviour of humanity, but Emelin, godsworn mage carrying death on every fingertip.
Creon sent me a mirthless smile. ‘Yes. I know.’
Of course he did.
‘Perhaps I should follow Edored’s advice after all and get mind-numbingly drunk first,’ I said sourly. ‘Might do wonders for my creativity.’
‘Alternatively,’ he said, face straight, ‘you might wake up from your mead stupor and find you named your sword Creon’s Glorious Biceps, which I would of course approve of, but which would probably not be very happily received by certain alves in particular.’
I huffed a laugh, trailing my eyes down over his torso. ‘Tared would be lucky if your biceps were the first body part I’d think of.’
