Page 59 of Starside

She reaches back—and with a brush of her fingers, the hilt of the sword peels off, becoming solid in her hand.

My mouth drops open. Is that an option? Carrying this great sword in my scabbard is making my muscles ache. I’d much rather it be reduced to a tattoo.

She releases her hold, and the sword falls back into its glimmering lines.

“I was a knight. Not anymore.” With that, she leads us out of the kitchen. Xara must sense the questions we’re barely too polite to ask, because she adds, “I led a battalion to victory, and this was my gift.” She motions to our surroundings.

“And the boat?”

Her smile speaks of a long story she’ll probably never tell us. “Another gift,” she says simply, her eyes glazed over with a memory. The edges of her mouth twitch.

Then she’s facing us again. “If we time it right, you’ll be on the water through the night and arrive the next day.” She nods to herself. “Yes … yes, that’s the best plan.”

With a casual order from Xara, the kitchen gets started on packing a sack of food and filling three fresh canteens. The door opens, spitting out the filled basket when it’s ready.

We fetch our weapons from the floorboards, and then we’re outside again, bathing in sunlight. It’s instinct to look for shade. On Stormside, I track the arc of the sun like an enemy, scavenging in certain places depending on its position in the sky. Here, fully hydrated and fed, its rays filtered through the sheen of magic, I tilt my head back and sigh, taking it all in.

It’s the third day of the quest. With a creature, we have plenty of time to make it to the other side of the map.

I hope.

“Is that another imprinted weapon?” Zane asks. He’s looking at Xara’s fingers. There, along the side of one of her pointers, is the glimmering tattoo of a small blade. Xara runs her thumb down it quickly, like striking a match, and it flips onto her palm.

She twirls it expertly between her fingers, as if she’s done it a thousand times before. “It marks me as part of an order. The Dagger Sisters, we call ourselves,” she says, eyes lost in a memory. The metal sinks into her skin again.

“How do you do that?” I ask. Can I are the words I don’t say.

She smiles at the hope in my tone. “It’s a long, painful process, unfortunately. You have to be well bonded with your blade to even attempt it. It’s a commitment, of sorts.”

Kira examines her own weapon as we make it to the edge of the village, Xara’s presence parting the crowds of curious immortals.

“Beautiful craftsmanship,” Xara says, glancing at it. “May I?”

Kira hands the sword to her, and Xara smooths her fingers down the hilt. Flowers are carved delicately up its blade. There’s a glittering purple stone in its grip, the same color as her eyes.

“This was made by faelings,” she says, turning it over. “A long time ago.”

“Faelings?” Kira asks, carefully taking the sword back.

“Forest fairies,” she clarifies. “It’s rare to see them nowadays, but they’re some of the only safe beings in the forests. Some try to seek them out, but the woods kill travelers more often than not.”

“Which forest do they live in?” I ask as we pass through the village wall. A different warrior is on watch. He nods at Xara. She nods back.

We walk down the short bridge, then take a turn before the main road, onto a light green plain.

“All of them, I suppose. Their home is enchanted. It’s constantly moving, so as not to be discovered. The only people who happen upon them do so by chance, or by invitation.” She looks at Kira. “It’s a valuable blade, with a history, though the metal might not be of glimmering steel.”

Kira frowns, and Xara shakes her head. Her words grow fierce. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t a great sword. Metal matters. But heart matters more. Swords grow stronger based on their wielder. They draw upon our strength … just as we draw upon theirs.” She nods at Kira’s blade. “Keep it close.”

Kira grips it tightly, staring at its etchings in wonder.

“And her sword?” Zane asks, nodding toward the one on my back.

Xara doesn’t even look at it. Her eyes remain on the horizon. “Hers is dangerous,” she says. “Keep it sheathed. The more people who see it, the more people who will want it.” She grimaces, gaze drifting toward my spine. “Immortals will do anything for better metal. Swords like that …”

She looks straight ahead again, as if forcing herself not to look at it. As if something within it is dragging her attention …

I think about the warriors in the tavern. Each taking turns. Each pulling, over and over, as if in a trance. I think about the Masks doing the same.