Page 7 of Sword & Sacrifice

The soldiers each grabbed one corner of the cloth and yanked it away, allowing the body to roll and flop over, tangling with the wood beneath. It landed with the face toward Silas, one eye clouded with death, the other a bloody hole where he had stabbed it with a dagger.

Silas’ stomach lurched and he swallowed bile. I wanted to see this, he reminded himself, I can’t turn away now.

Someone stepped forward and lowered a torch to the pyre. Once the flames caught, they spread quickly. The white hair burned away first. Then the robes, stained with dirt and blood from the fight that led to Alistair’s death. Though the rest of the body would take hours to burn, it quickly became unrecognizable.

Silas expected some relief, a sense of release as the man who manipulated him his entire life burned away. His muscles remained tight, his stomach clenched. Invisible puppet strings still ensnared him, even with no one on the other end to pull them taut.

He forced himself to turn away and watch the last pyre. These were the Arnsveldian soldiers who had died during the prison break or while helping others escape the palace fire. There was a clear difference between the treatment of these soldiers and the traitors. They had been carefully cleaned, given fresh uniforms, and gently placed face-up, their eyes closed to mimic sleep.

Murmurs rose from behind Silas and he tensed, expecting criticisms from over-opinionated Bellacostans. Alistair purposefully cultivated animosity between Arnsveld and Bellacosta for decades. It would take more than a few sacrifices to repair their relationship. Silas tilted his head to hear the whispered words, prepared to intervene if anyone disrespected the men and women who had laid down their lives to protect them.

“—may Death guide you—”

“—shield you as you have shielded others—”

The words were unfamiliar, not part of any funeral rites Silas had witnessed. They had the cadence of an old, practiced prayer.

At a Bellacostan funeral, they could spend hours talking about a person’s life: the impact they’d had on the people around them; the good they’d done for their community; sharing happy memories or small moments of joy. His sister Gessa’s had focused on her love of books and hopes for the future, now dashed. His mother’s had focused on her accomplishments as queen.

Silas wondered what people would say at his funeral. It would probably depend on the speaker. He imagined all the Bellacostans silent. Tradition forbade them from speaking ill of the dead during a celebration of their life, but Silas couldn’t picture them saying anything positive about him. The Arnsveldians might praise his attempts to form an alliance and arrange a peace treaty to end the fifty years of conflict. If they didn’t damn him as part of the problem.

He didn’t know what Archer would say. Flowery speeches were not his strength. Griselda, on the other hand, would probably find some way to compliment and insult Silas at the same time. “Dumbass could never properly block, but he learned how to stab in the end, so he wasn’t a complete loss.”

A small snort of laughter escaped him before he covered his mouth to suppress it. He glanced around guiltily to see if anyone had noticed. Only Archer looked at him instead of the dead, a dark brow arched inquisitively.

“I’m imagining Griselda giving my eulogy,” Silas whispered.

Instead of finding amusement in the image, Archer’s jaw tightened. He grabbed Silas’ hand and squeezed it. Although both of their hands were wounded from their last few days of struggle, the pain was oddly comforting. “No eulogy. We survived.”

Silas noted the shortened sentences. Over the past few weeks, Archer worked to voice his thoughts more completely, instead of leaving people to interpret his grunts and expressions. Mentioning his potential funeral had upset Archer more than Silas expected. “We did,” he agreed, smiling in reassurance. “And we’ll continue to survive, whatever Varro or any of the other bastards throw at us.”

Despite the lingering crowd, Silas leaned his head against Archer’s shoulder, wanting the comfort of his warm, steady frame. Together, they watched the fires burn and a new dawn rise over Bellacosta.

Chapter Five

Penn sprawled across a couch in the partially destroyed sitting room, head resting at an angle, eyes half-closed. Carefully arranged to appear unconcerned as he absorbed every word and gesture of the mages’ argument.

“Of all the Arnsveldian trash, why make a deal with him,” Niall snarled, throwing his arm out in Penn’s direction. “We could have used the girl, at least. The boy showed some affection for her.”

It took Penn a moment to realize ‘the boy’ referred to Silas. They think Silas is in love with Emmaline? The absurd thought almost made Penn laugh. While he personally enjoyed a wide variety of lovers, from what he could tell, Silas was only attracted to men. Even if he wasn’t obviously in love with Archer, Emmaline couldn’t serve as Niall’s bargaining chip.

Good thing she’s gone. Penn hoped she was already far away, somewhere safe.

“Well since you lost the girl, she’s no longer an option, is she?” Valistair drawled.

Penn had come up with the name while listening to them argue. He had to call the mage something. Calling him ‘Alistair’ when he was in Valerian’s body felt like a betrayal, like Penn had given up on Valerian coming back. Calling him ‘Valerian’ could eventually trick Penn’s mind into forgetting about the parasite lurking within. After some consideration, he’d simply smushed the two names together.

“The witch then! Why would you trade her for him?” Niall’s frantic movements stilled, and his arms slowly lowered to his sides. “Unless … you couldn’t hold her?”

Valistair leaned against the wall, rubbing his temple. At that accusation, he straightened and turned to Niall, his expression a chilly warning.

Niall took a hurried step back before catching himself and standing his ground, raising his chin defiantly. “The witch should have been no match for you. You should have either captured her or killed her, not allowed her to run off and alert everyone to our location.”

Instead of explaining himself, Valistair simply stared at Niall.

After a short pause filled with only Niall’s heavy, agitated breathing, he suddenly said through gritted teeth, “I don’t doubt your identity, master. Only your control over this borrowed body.”

One of Valistair’s eyebrows quirked at that. Then to Penn’s surprise, he admitted, “You’re right.”