Of Sword & Silver Excerpt

Panels of rich plum fabric hang from the cottage’s stone walls. I arch an eyebrow at them, knowing full well they’re the standard color of the god of magic and his followers, but amused at their requisite appearance nonetheless.

Fragrant incense curls around my face and I try to sit still, clamping down on a sneeze that’s threatening. The seer’s gaze skewers mine, her voice low and mysterious as she makes her prognosis.

“You are going to die.”

“I bet you tell that to everyone.” I grin at her, a shiver skittering across my skin.

“I’m serious, Kyrie.” Lara frowns at me, throwing the sheer veil off her face and rubbing her hands together. Her dark brown hair falls in shining waves against her shoulders, perfectly framing her oval face and large, cat-like eyes.

My nose twitches like it’s ashamed of the endless freckles sprayed across it.

She raises dark eyebrows, clearly waiting for an answer.

Sighing, I spread my hands wide.

“What do you want me to say? We’re all going to die. That’s how life ends.” Unless you’re a god. I don’t say that part out loud though, because we both know all too well how much the gods love to listen in.

“Can you be serious for once in your damned life? Something’s changed.” She peers at me, understanding dawning in her luminous brown eyes. “What in the name of Nakush did you steal?”

Ah yes, in the name of Nakush. I bite my tongue to keep from saying something awful about Nakush, Lara’s patron god, the god of magic and the unknown.

They’re supposed to be much kinder to their followers than my goddess, but that doesn’t mean I like them any better.

Still… I don’t dare even think my goddess’s name right now. I stretch my legs out underneath the table, my fur-lined boots scuffing the wood floors.

Lara makes an impatient sound.

Fine.

“A chalice,” I finally answer, meeting her eyes. The wood burning in the hearth pops and I jump at the sound.

“A chalice,” she repeats, that same far-off stare returning.

A little sigh sings out of me despite myself. Lara is the real deal, unlike most who call themselves mages. She has power, real power, something rarer every day. Still—the song and dance gets tired fast.

Especially when she’s just pronounced my death sentence.

“A cup,” I clarify, trying to speed things along. “Pretty plain. Some kind of metal.”

I leave out the fact I stole it from one of the fucking death god’s followers, which I have a feeling was my first big mistake.

Still—I didn’t expect him to be packing that kind of power.

“Did you drink from the ever-full chalice?” Her voice drops a register, and this time, there’s no stopping the chill that sends goosebumps pebbling across my skin.

“I was thirsty.” Despite my attempt at bravado, my voice sounds petulant and thin, even to me. “Stealing is hard work. It looked delicious. Crisp, you know? Refreshing. And…” I drawl, “it was full.”

Lara raises a shaking hand, looking past me, through me, and it’s fucking disturbing. I swallow hard.

“That draught will change the course of the future.” Her voice drops an octave.

“Amazing. Is it the key to a life of riches and leisure?” I aim for unbothered, but the flippant question squeaks out of me.

Goddess, I hope Lara doesn’t tell anyone how scared I am.

It would ruin my reputation.

“You have been cursed. A curse of Hrakan. A curse…” she pauses and I lean forward, my nerves jumpy and frayed, “a curse of death.” Her voice falls to a whisper.

My nose scrunches. “How sure are you? Ninety percent? Fifty? Give me the odds.”

Lara slumps against the back of her wooden chair, glaring at me, fully present once more. “You’re fucked, old friend.”

I blow out a breath. “There’s always a way out of these things.” Isn’t there?

She squints at me. Her expression grows even darker, though, real concern around her eyes. “There might be.”

“See?” I clap my hands together. “I knew it.”

“I am not sure, Kyrie,” she hedges. “It’s a blood curse, but I can’t figure out how to unwind it from you. I can…” she leans closer, her eyes narrowing. “I can see it, just a little, the fringe of it around you. It’s thick. It’s a nasty one. Real ugly.” Her tone’s chipper, like she just told me she found a good deal on cauldrons or newt eyes or whatever the hells it is witches get excited about.

“You shouldn’t sound so happy about it.” She doesn’t sound happy, necessarily, so that’s not really fair of me, but she does seem strangely animated.

Like she’s been waiting for this. I glare at her.

“Maybe I’m sick of your tricks, too, Kyrie.” Lara gives me a death stare.

Wounded, I clutch at my chest. “I would never use them on you.” It’s a lie.

I try not to, but lying is what I do. Stealing is what I do—what I was raised to do.

My throat tightens at the memory. Lara’s pantheon, a collection of stone figurines for each of the six gods, sparkles in the firelight.

“You’re a silver tongue,” she says with a sad smile. “You can’t always help when her magic leaks out of you.”

Her. Sola, the goddess of lies and chaos, the goddess whose disciples stole me from my family home when the first whispered rumor of my so-called talent reached their ears.

I didn’t have a choice. My knuckles whiten as I grip the arms of the chair.

Still… the silver tongue really helps with job stability.

But not life expectancy, as it turns out.

“How long do I have?” I ask and her glare softens, just a smidge. I tug at my leather vest, uncertain, then pluck at the creamy sleeves of my blouse.

I don’t like uncertainty. Never have. I like to plan, and have things go according to plan, and maybe that’s why my goddess is punishing me. Maybe the goddess of chaos and lies has had enough of my planning.

“A year. If you’re lucky.”

“Fuck.” It comes out on a gust of breath, and I stand up so fast my wooden chair falls to the floor behind me. My chest heaves as I try to calm myself. I’m scared shitless, but I try to hide it, pretending that I meant to turn over the chair.

“Sorry. I thought I saw a big spider.”

Lara gives me a long look, and I can tell she sees right through the terrible lie.

“Fine, I am freaking out.” I crinkle my nose. Well, that cat’s out of the bag.

Shouldn’t put cats in bags, anyways.

“You said there might be a way out of it? To break the curse?” I pick up the chair and clear my throat.

Her lip curls to the side and she tilts her head at me, pushing her curtain of long, dark hair behind her shoulders.

“It won’t be simple. Maybe you can just enjoy the rest of the year, take some time off, you know, live like it’s your?—”

“Like it’s my last year? No. Thank you, Lara, but no. Tell me how to break it.” My voice shakes.

I have too much to do. I have people depending on me, damn it. I have a fucking score to settle.

“I am not just going to give up.” There’s enough menace in my tone that she raises her eyebrows.

“We-ell.” She sighs, drawing a pattern on the soft velvet tablecloth. Some of the tattered rune cards scatter slightly, as if pushed by an invisible wind.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck.

Magic might be a pretty normal part of life for Lara, and sure, there’s magic in my silver tongue, but I don’t try to use it, not like she does.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I don’t like the idea of dying, either.” Pulling the dagger from the sheath at my hip, I use it to pick at my ragged nails. No, I’m not ready to die.

Besides, I can’t stand the thought of spending the afterlife in the presence of the goddess who’s made my life a living hell with her so-called gifts and her so-called disciples. I cough again, like the sound will cover up my blasphemous thoughts. As far as I know, though, my goddess isn’t a mind reader. I hope.

“The Sword,” Lara intones, staring at me with hooded eyes.

“A sword? What sword?” I blink, nonplussed.

“Not a sword, the sword.”

“Listen, I know being all mysterious is part of your gig, but can you just be a little more clear for me? Your oldest friend?” The enchanted request rolls off my tongue and Lara stiffens, her eyes dilating as the whiff of my power hits her.

Ugh. I hate when it happens on accident.

“The Sword. Hrakan’s right hand, the disciple of Death. He’s imprisoned for murdering hundreds of Sola’s followers. He despises her, and all who’ve pledge themselves in her service. He is the only one who can help you break your curse.”

“Fuck me.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Of course it would be the death god’s disciple, and of course he hates all of Sola’s followers.

We’re going to get along swimmingly.

“Well,” I trill, smiling at her. “It sounds like he and I have a lot in common.”

Lara gives me an apologetic grimace. I sink back into the chair, gathering my thoughts and confidence around me like armor.

My attention skips to the pantheon of six, their facial features uncarved, their likenesses never committed to any artistic medium.

Maybe I should just enjoy my last year of life without bothering with a jail break for some sullen Death’s disciple who’s more likely to kill me than to help me. His god, Hrakan, the god of death and time, and my goddess, Sola, the goddess of chaos and lies, despise each other. According to the Heskan common book of prayers, the two gods warred before the age of man, using the long-extinct Fae and other legendary creatures to fight their battles for them.

Even now, their followers mix like tinder and spark.

Well, maybe I can make his life a living hell until I break the curse or die.

Could be fun.

I brighten slightly.

“What prison?” I ask, already sure of her answer. Mass murderers, especially of the disciple variety, all end up in one place.

“Cottleside.” Lara raises both eyebrows, shuffling the rune cards back into order.

“Of course it is Cottleside.” The most heavily guarded prison in all of Heska, located in the province of Lojad, the god of order and war. The followers of Lojad are a bunch of self-righteous warriors with sticks up their asses and rocks for brains. Unfortunately, they’re renowned for their fighting ability.

Still, I’d rather be there than in Sola’s city-state, Chast.

A plan starts to form in my mind, a plan for breaking out the Sword… goddess, do I really have to call him that? Now that I’m thinking about it, I might actually remember hearing about this man. What kind of an asshole goes by just “the Sword”? My nose wrinkles in disgust.

“Do you know his real name?” I ask. “I’m not calling him that.”

Lara looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Fair enough. I don’t know that I’ve ever truly been in full possession of my wits.

“No one knows his real name. They just know he murders any and all followers of Sola.”

I grit my teeth. “I really wish you would stop saying that.”

We both glance at the nook in Lara’s wall where the Heskan pantheon sits, a tiny brazier glowing before them.

Nothing happens, and I exhale in quiet relief.

The fucking last thing I need right now is for Sola to manifest in Lara’s stone cottage. That would be rotten luck. And my life is already chock-full of shit luck.

I pace a few steps, tapping my chin with one hand, the other running along the edge of the sheathed dagger at my side. “Cottleside.”

“You’re going to want this,” Lara says. To my surprise, she tugs a green flowing cloak from a massive wood trunk where I thought she only kept knick-knacks and spell supplies. Damn, there might have been something in there worth pawning if I’d looked twice.

“What’s that?”

“A cloak,” she says, shaking it out and holding it out to me.

I roll my eyes. “No kidding. It’s not my style.”

“It will help keep the curse from progressing too quickly.”

“Oh, really?” I side-eye her. “You just happened to have this on hand?”

“I had a feeling I would need it.”

“But you couldn’t have told me not to drink from that damned cup ahead of time?”

“Would you have listened?” she asks drily.

I bite my lower lip. No. I wouldn’t have. I drank it, and it didn’t seem like I could help it. “It was a compulsion,” I tell her, and it sounds just as obnoxious as I imagined. “Will this really help?”

“Maybe. Hopefully.” She shrugs a shoulder, then smooths her hands over the deep purple bodice of her dress. “At the very least, it will help keep you warm.”

I gnaw my lower lip. I’ll wear the damned cloak if it even gives me the slightest edge over the stupid curse.

Impulsively, I tuck Lara into my arms and she stiffens slightly at the hug before patting me awkwardly on the back.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “You’re my best friend.”

She sighs as she pulls away, and her expression is pitying. “I’m your only friend.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not the best,” I say, fastening the cloak around my neck. “I’ll see you when I see you,” I tell her glibly, grabbing my beat-up leather satchel from where I hung it by her front door.

“I’ll be here if you need me. Be careful, Kyrie,” she says, her forehead creasing with worry.

“I’m dead either way,” I tell her cheerfully, the door closing behind me. Chill night air blasts me in the face, and I spare a thought for Lara as I mount my grey horse. Well, horse is a generous term. An umbrella term. The truth is he’s much closer to a mule.

Mushroom whickers at me and I pat his neck.

“I have more than one friend,” I tell him as he picks up the pace, trotting merrily down the muddy dirt path and towards Cottleside in Leinia. “In fact, we’re heading to him now, Mushroom, because he owes me a favor… and because I’m fairly certain he has exactly what we need to break into Cottleside. A few Shukan charges would do it, don’t you think?”

The magic explosives will definitely make a statement, and a brittle smile curls my lips.

My mule huffs.

“Of course I have you, too, Mushroom.” I pat his thick neck, his long ears twitching. “And I take much better care of you than that farmer I liberated you from.”

He throws his head in clear agreement, and I make a mental note to give him a treat at my first opportunity.

“Let’s go steal a Sword,” I say, then snort at my own joke.

By the gods. I roll my eyes, watching the stars twinkle in the night sky high above.

Only I would have to steal a man named Sword to beat Death at his own game.