“I don’t know,” Hazel replies. “My memory of getting to the Yeavering is…patchy.”
The pain in her voice is evident. It pulls at my heart, and unable to help myself, I growl under my breath. Joan gives me an indulgent look.
“Being brought to the Yeavering can do that,” John says.
“No…” Joan fixes Hazel with a piercing gaze. “This is different. This human has been deliberately tampered with. She should not be able to wield this sword. But she can.”
“I don’t want to,” Hazel says. “It has shed too much blood.”
“Not wanting to wield something with so much power is a good thing,” Joan says kindly as John pours out a cup of tea and hands it to my mate.
I take it from him first, sniffing at it, and take a sip.
“It’s just tea, Brag,” John says. “We have seen enough death and destruction to ever want to see any more.”
I pass the tea to Hazel, not taking my eyes from him.
“What more can you tell me about the sword?” Hazel asks Joan, taking the cup and curling her hands around the vessel.
Joan studies her as John hands a cup of tea to his wife before pouring one for me.
“It was forged a millennia ago. Passed from warrior to warrior, only choosing the worthiest. So much blood was spilt byits blade,” Joan says, her eyes slightly misty. “Those who gave it to you didn’t expect you to be chosen.”
“What did they expect?” Hazel says, her voice small.
“They expected it to consume you.”
HAZEL
I’m finally regaining the feeling in my extremities, but Joan’s pronouncement sends a chill right back there.
“They were feeding it?” Warden asks.
“They thought if they gave it a pure soul, one which had its own quest, it would bend to their will. They did not expect Hazel to be able to use it. And for it to choose her.”
“That’s why I need it?”
“A sword is only a sword if it provides a use to its owner. It needs you,” Joan says kindly. “Not the other way around.”
“That’s not what it feels like,” I respond.
“It’s what it looks like,” Warden rumbles. “You were made for that sword.”
I’m not sure what to say as I look at him. His dark eyes twinkle in the firelight, and he has a strange expression on his face.
I should probably be more perturbed by my recent experiences. The door to the cottage blowing open, the hidden trap door next to me yawing wide, and two sets of hands pulling me down under the floor, one set clamped over my mouth as something clomped overhead.
Something which was not Warden. And which was not alive.
“I’m human. We haven’t used swords for centuries,” I say. “I don’t know how I even know how to use one.”
“If it chooses you, you don’t need to know,” Joan says. She claps her hands together and stands up, smoothing down her clothing. “Now, you need something proper to wear and you both need a good meal inside you. My guess is the Brag wants to exist on apples, and they’re not proper sustenance.” She glares at Warden.
“Apples are good for you,” he grumbles.
“John will prepare some food. You come with me.” She beckons to me. Warden growls.
“I think I’ll be fine, given they’ve already saved me once,” I tell him. “And I am the keeper of the sword of doom.”
