“Hey,” Nalyx greeted her, sounding subdued, but not angry. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good,” Gantalla said. “I have the afternoon off. One of the nurses suggested I take a look at the city.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Good idea. You haven’t had much of a chance to look around yet, have you?” For a moment, he said nothing more, and Gantalla wondered if that was the end of the conversation. But Nalyx wasn’t done. “Look, I owe you an apology,” he said, after a pause, though he avoided her eyes. “It’s been a rough couple of days, and… well, that’s not an excuse, but I suppose I ended up taking that out on you. So I’m sorry.”
Gantalla smiled, taking a seat beside him. “It’s okay. I probably haven’t been behaving quite the way you expected me to, either. I never intended to try to be one of the serving women. I was just on my way through town, and everyone was so excited about the festival, and one thing led to another, before I quite knew what was happening.” She cleared her throat. “It must be frustrating, not being able to train.”
“Yeah. It’s not just the shoulder. I can’t even pick up a sword at the moment.” He looked down at his hands, the skin still pink and healing. “I just wish I could do something useful. It’s driving me crazy just sitting around all day.”
“Well, if you’re looking for something to do, you could go for a run,” she suggested, before she could think better of it.
Nalyx raised his eyebrows. “I could what?”
Gantalla shrugged. “It’s exercise. And it won’t put too much strain on your shoulder. And surely it’s better than sitting around here glaring at Hallix.” The imposing warrior was currently sparring with one of the other men, as tall and muscular as himself, though perhaps a little older, and sure enough, Nalyx’s expression darkened into a deep scowl as he glanced Hallix’s way.
“I don’t give a flying fuck about Hallix,” he growled.
“Good. Because neither do I. And if he’s of no concern to you, what’s to stop you making good use of the time?”
“A run, you say?” Nalyx stood up, stretching his back and shaking out his legs. “It’s not the worst idea. And it would get me a little peace and quiet for an hour or two. You know, you’re right. Thank you. I’ll see you around.” With that brief goodbye, he set off, heading north out of the square, then breaking into a slow jog as he cleared the lines of warriors.
Gantalla watched him go, feeling perplexed by her own behaviour. She knew all too well how great a threat this army was to her own people, and yet here she was, offering training suggestions to try and cheer Nalyx up. Why was it so easy to overlook the role Nalyx played in defending the gate, in killing the people who were trying to cross? She was baffled by the way she kept returning to his side, when there was really no need for it anymore.
She stood up, intending to return to her task of exploring the shops, but then she remembered another errand that needed seeing to. With Nalyx occupied for an hour or so, it was a perfect time for her to collect her things from his room, and so she headed in that direction, skirting around the edge of the square. She lingered along the way to look into a few of the shop windows. Fresh pastries were lined up in one. Dozens of pairs of shoes sat on racks in the next window, and Gantalla felt a sharp longing for a particular pair of evening shoes in red leather. But the price tag made her eyes widen, and so she moved on. The next shop was more utilitarian, stocking cooking pots and candle holders and brooms. Nothing to get excited over, but she made a mental note about the location, in case she found herself in need of practical tools for some task or other.
Long minutes later, Gantalla finally dragged herself away from the shops and wove her way between the buildings at the edge of the square, heading for the warriors’ compound. She was relieved to find both the courtyard and the barracks empty.
She found Nalyx’s room again easily and let herself inside. Her skirt and cloak were folded neatly just where she’d left them, along with her court shoes. They were stained and worn now, but with only her pair of boots, it was as well to keep them as a spare, just in case.
Feeling suddenly nostalgic, she paused to take a look around the room. It hadn’t been a bad introduction to the human world, that first night sleeping on the floor beside Nalyx’s bed. And wherever the next few months took her, she knew she was going to remember that night for a long time. She cast her eyes around, looking at the newly polished armour, hung on the wall, the bed – rumpled and unmade, though somehow that didn’t surprise her – and then another item caught her attention, one she hadn’t paid attention to before.
Nalyx’s sword was resting against the wall, and Gantalla found herself suddenly curious about the weapon. It was longer than the swords the hadathmet used, but the blade was narrower than the greatswords wielded by the salases. She gave a quick glance behind her, checking that no one was around to see her meddling with a warrior’s weapon. Then she took three quick steps across the room and carefully pulled the sword from its sheath.
It was lighter than she’d been expecting. The hilt was plain but sturdy, with obvious wear on the leather grip. And a closer inspection of the blade told her it had been made by a master blacksmith. It was perfectly balanced, and she noticed a small inscription near the hilt.Honour. Courage. Sacrifice.
She turned the blade to have a look at the other side, but as it glinted in the sun peaking through the window, she noticed that the blade was chipped, a few burrs visible where it had likely run into rock or armour. No doubt Nalyx hadn’t yet been able to sharpen it, or perhaps hadn’t been able to find a willing hand to do it for him.
Well, she knew how to sharpen a sword. And with Nalyx’s hands still healing, it would be another few days before he could do it himself. Without looking too closely at why she still felt compelled to help him, she rummaged around in his supplies until she found a sharpening stone, then seated herself outside in the sun.
◊ ◊ ◊
Nalyx wandered back across the town square, feeling better than he had in days. Gantalla had been right – his run had burned off excess energy, and had been a good workout for both his legs and his lungs. He’d taken a path north through the city, then into the forest, though he hadn’t gone quite as far as the gate. At this time of the cycle, the battlefield would be deserted, save for a few of the helpers still clearing away the last of the bodies, but aside from the ongoing need to train, the warriors preferred to spend the second half of each cycle relaxing, and he didn’t need the reminder of so much bloodshed and hard effort.
But as he approached his room, he was surprised to see a figure sitting on the stone wall, hunched over and fiddling with something in her lap. He felt a smile tug at his lips as he recognised Gantalla. Perhaps his rude departure the other night hadn’t chased her away, after all?
But as he got closer, he realised what she was working on, and a cool thrill of trepidation settled in his gut. She had his sword in her hands. The sword that was very often the only thing that stood between him and a painful, grisly death.
“That sword belonged to my father,” he snapped as he approached, not meaning to sound so harsh, but unable to help himself. “It’s worth more than three months’ pay. What the hell are you doing?”
Gantalla looked up, her hands stilling in her lap. “I was sharpening it.”
“I can do that myself,” he said, reaching to take it from her.
“I highly doubt that, given the state of your hands.” She moved it out of his reach, daring to look affronted by his cold greeting.
“Give it to me. That’s not something you should be messing with.”
“I know how to sharpen a sword. I used to help my brothers with it all the time.” She still refused to hand it over.
