Swordheart

“Clever.” “I have my moments.”

“Not him. He’s my bodyguard. My husband’s dead.” “Sorry for your loss.” “That makes one of us.

That Halla had absolutely no idea that men would find her attractive was either a sign that she was just as naïve as he thought or that men in the decadent south had no taste whatsoever. Possibly both.

“Have I mentioned that your entire country should be put to the torch?” “Frequently.”

“Can your husband not speak for himself?” “I can,” said Sarkis. “Then why don’t you?” “My wife talks enough for both of us.” The mounted man snickered. The priest shook his head, turning back to his horse. “I will pray for you.” “I would appreciate that,” said Sarkis, deadpan.

“What happens if you go farther than that?” “I disintegrate.” “Does it hurt? It sounds like it would hurt.” “No.” “What does it feel like?” “Like disintegrating.”

“No offense intended!” “Not being a hill, I take no offense.”

“And that would be the church bell?” asked Sarkis. “They ring it for alarms.” “That may make things difficult.” “What, only now?” said Halla, and saw Sarkis’s teeth flash in the moonlight as he grinned.

Halla flattened herself back against the wall and swung her leg over. I am the picture of grace.