Chapter 40
The bishop had not lied about keeping him busy.
Days flew by. Francis had to meet the Archon and the guild leaders and the heads of several other temples, and Edmund, in stiff new robes embroidered with small pillbugs, stayed by Francis’s side the whole time.
The Hanged Mother’s Archimandrite kept his back pressed against the wall during the entire audience, but the Forge God’s representative took one look at Francis’s music box and was instantly captivated.
He was clearly a blacksmith in addition to his religious duties, and spent the reception deep in conversation with the pillbug about the gearing techniques, while the other officials stood around trying to pretend that they weren’t staring.
“Are they warlike?” the Archon whispered to Edmund.
He had done an excellent imitation of a man who was not at all bothered by a bug the size of a cart horse during the formal presentation, but was clearly a trifle unnerved all the same.
Since Edmund was unnerved by meeting the leader of the city, at least they had that in common.
“Not in the least, sir,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “They eat moss and all they want is more books to read.”
“Thank the gods for that.”
Edmund wished desperately that the Dervish were present. The Dervish could be extremely charming when he put his mind to it. But there was still at least a week left before the Dervish would be healed, and Edmund was just going to have to do his best.
He caught the Archon’s eye and said, “Their artificing technology is on par with anything coming out of Anuket City. I suspect that they would be willing to trade information on their techniques in return for access to our libraries.”
The Archon straightened, a gleam coming into his eye. “Do you think so?”
Privately Edmund thought that Francis would simply tell the Forge God’s people anything they wanted to know, and not think to ask for anything in exchange, but it wouldn’t do to tell the Archon that. “I do, sir.”
“Well. Well, well, well.” The leader of Archenhold rubbed his hands together. “Let’s see what we can do to make that happen.”
And then there was less than a week left, and then Edmund began trying to draw the sword nightly before he went to bed.
It became a ritual—come to his room, take off his shoes, pick up the sword.
Surely one of these nights, it would work.
Sarkis had sworn that even death only took a month at most to heal.
It had been a long day. He had escorted Francis around one of the Forge God’s refineries, accompanied by two smith-priests chattering away about aspects of metallurgy so arcane that even Edmund wasn’t terribly interested, although Francis apparently was.
Word had spread through the Forge God’s people that there was a giant terrifying pillbug in the area, and that furthermore it was an expert in miniaturized gearing, which meant that every acolyte in the temple found an excuse to come by and gawk.
Francis didn’t mind, but Edmund was exhausted.
He reached for the sword almost reflexively, set his hand on the hilt, and an angel with silver eyes appeared in front of him.
They stared at each other for a moment that probably did not last a hundred years, although it felt like it. Then the Dervish said, “Oh, thank the ancestors. It worked,” and collapsed forward into Edmund’s arms.
“You’re here,” Edmund said, sounding stunned. “I wasn’t expecting—I mean, I was, but I kept trying to draw it, and—oh, gods, you’re here.”
The Dervish kissed him and tasted salt, which meant that one or the other of them was crying. Probably both. It didn’t seem to matter. Edmund was alive and here and his wielder—the Dervish felt the familiar tug next to his heart—and that meant that they had won.
“Is everyone alive?” the Dervish asked, pulling away long enough to ask, then immediately making it impossible to answer.
“Mmf! Mmmf—yes. They’re fine. We could go see them if you—mmf!”
“I have to tell you something,” Edmund said a few moments later, when they could finally bear to have an inch or two of space between them.
“No.” The Dervish put his fingers to the scholar’s lips. “No, let me say it first. I kept trying not to think about it the whole time that I was riding after you, and … do you know how it is when you aren’t thinking about something so hard that it’s the only thing you’re thinking about?”
“I think so?” Edmund said, slightly muffled by the Dervish’s fingers.
“You told me you loved me. And I didn’t say it back.” The Dervish took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to. Every time I’ve fallen in love, it hasn’t worked.”
Edmund pried the Dervish’s hand away and said, “I think the prince poisoning you went a little further than not working.”
“That was definitely the most spectacular one, yes. But I tried it again, more than once, and I just didn’t seem to have the knack.
Eventually I stopped trying. I had people I loved …
Sarkis, Angharad, my other comrades … and I had sex when I wanted it, and that was enough.
But—no, I’m not finished, I worked on this speech and I am damn well going to say it—then I met you and you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met and I feel like maybe it’s worth trying again.
” He could look anywhere but at Edmund’s face, because if the next words landed wrong, he was going to go back in the sword and ask to be dropped into the ocean. “I love you.”
“Oh,” Edmund said, which could be good or bad, but then he flung his arms around the Dervish’s neck again and kissed him with a great deal of passion, and that was very good indeed.
When they finally came up for air, the Dervish remembered to ask, “Was there something you wanted to say?”
“Huckleberries. The name derives from an older one, hurtleberry. But nobody knows why they’re called hurtleberries. There’s a theory that it’s related to hurt, because they’re sort of blue-black and bruise-colored, but it’s pure speculation, and I’m fairly skeptical. Etymology is rarely that tidy.”
The Dervish stared at him. Edmund went a bit red. “I did promise to find out.”
“You did.”
“And you already know I love you.” He went a bit redder. “But I’m me, and I know I’m boring and talk about things normal people don’t care about and you’re so … so…”
“I am indeed so. I am exceedingly so. Now never call yourself boring again, because, ancestors help me, when you start talking, I actually want to know about parakeets and huckleberries and seeds spread by ants. Incidentally, that last one came in handy.”
“Zale told me.”
The Dervish paused. “Erm. I suppose I should have asked this much sooner, but you’re not secretly in love with Zale, are you?”
Edmund’s eyes went very wide. “Zale? No. I mean, I’d jump in front of a runaway horse for them—”
“Please don’t.”
“—but not like that.”
“Oh good. Being trampled by a runaway horse for platonic reasons is so much less messy.”
“Anyway,” Edmund said, “they have a standing arrangement with a very nice priest of the Rat who rides circuit between the various temples and comes into town about twice a year. Then he goes away again. I think the going away again part is important for them.”
“Good to know. Also I can’t think why we’re talking about someone else’s sex life when we could be talking about ours. Or not talking.”
“Not talking sounds good?” Edmund said shyly, but there was nothing shy about his hands and where they ended up.
They fell into the bed together, hands moving across each other’s bodies.
The Dervish noted in passing that it was a larger bed in a larger room, and that the blankets were a finer weave than those in the small guest room they’d shared, but the texture of the blankets was not nearly so important as the texture of Edmund’s skin and the heat of his mouth on the Dervish’s aching flesh.
“More,” he groaned, sliding his hands into Edmund’s hair, which had grown in shaggy and dark. “More—ah! Ancestors! Better move or—!”
A moment later, when the Dervish could form coherent thoughts again, he found Edmund surveying the mess he’d left on the bed. “We’re going to need to change that blanket, I think,” Edmund said.
“Well, if we’re changing it anyway,” the Dervish said, reaching for him, “then what’s a little more?”
Afterward, they lay curled up together, the offending blanket tossed onto the floor to be dealt with later. The Dervish touched his lips to the back of Edmund’s neck, just because he could.
“I missed you,” Edmund said.
“I can see why. Tossing yourself off in this huge bed, all by yourself? What a waste.”
He could actually hear the blush in Edmund’s voice. “Maybe a few times.”
“As long as you were thinking of me while you did it.”
“You know I was.” Edmund coughed. “Anyway, it wasn’t as much as you’d think. They made me the cultural liaison to Francis’s people, and they’ve been running me ragged.”
“Ah. I wondered why you had merited the fancy new room. What does a cultural liaison do?”
“Tell Francis what titles to use when talking to people, and reassure those same people that the pillbugs aren’t warlike and won’t eat us all.”
“They don’t eat human meat. We’re all very clear on that.”
Edmund groaned. “I had to convince her not to say that to the Archon. I could just see an interspecies incident looming.”
And speaking of interspecies incidents … The Dervish sighed, stirring Edmund’s hair. He didn’t want to ruin the warm afterglow between them, but this was important. “I have to tell you something else.”
“The last one was pretty good.”
“This one is … less good. You should know … ah … when you were still drugged to the gills … you told me about the werkblight.”
Edmund’s body stiffened in his arms. “What about the werkblight?” he asked, his voice suddenly guarded and careful.
“About the gnoles.”
There was a long moment when Edmund didn’t even breathe. Then he sat up, looking away. The line of his back was eloquent.
“I should probably pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about. Or try to convince you that it was the drugs and I was out of my head.”
“You’re a poor liar, though.”
Edmund turned his head, and the Dervish saw a rueful smile flash across his face, there and gone. “On this one thing, I’ve learned to lie very, very well.”
“No one will hear about it from me. I promise you on the soul of my father’s brother.”
“Thank you.” Edmund slumped. “It’s not right. I know it isn’t. People still die. But none of us could think of a better solution.”
The Dervish noted the us. “How many people know?”
“Mistress Slate. A gnole named Grimehug. Me.” Edmund croaked a laugh. “I don’t even think Slate told her husband. And at the time, I thought that if the cure was available, it wouldn’t matter. But it turned out the cure wasn’t perfect, and not everyone gets it in time. But what else could we do?”
“You did the right thing.”
“Oh, I know. But sometimes doing the right thing isn’t enough.”
His voice cracked on the last word. The Dervish sat up and wrapped his arms around Edmund, feeling the quiet strength of his body and the aching sorrow where strength was not enough.
“The thing I worry about the most,” Edmund said, wiping a hand across his cheek, “is that I can’t write it down.
I don’t even dare hint at it. It’s so terribly important and at some point, somebody might be able to really, truly cure it, but I can’t tell them.
And when the three of us are dead, no one will know. ”
“I will.”
Edmund went very still.
“I don’t particularly want to be immortal, but we can make immortality work for us, if we have to.”
“I never thought of that.” There was wonder in Edmund’s tone, and a relief so pure that his voice shook with it. “Oh god. Someone will know.”
The Dervish snorted. “That doesn’t mean that I don’t want to get out of this damn sword, you understand.”
“No, no, of course not.” Edmund shook his head. “I actually had some thoughts about that. The Sainted Smith’s people are profoundly misguided—”
“That’s one way to put it, I suppose.”
“—but they clearly have a lot of information about the swords. If we can get our hands on some of it … well, I’m not an artificer, but I do know a very good one, and if we have enough information, surely there must be something we can do.
It might take a few years for me to become an expert on the topic, mind you. ”
It was the Dervish’s turn to grow still. “You’d do that for me?”
“Do what? Research? That’s not exactly a hardship.”
“It’s still years of your life. And you’re the ambassador to the pillbugs now.”
“Cultural liaison.” The Dervish felt Edmund’s shrug against his chest. “And Francis may be able to help. She’s terrifyingly intelligent and she reads unbelievably fast. And the Forge God’s people—the real ones—are in complete awe of her, which is bound to come in handy.”
“… Huh.”
Edmund turned in his arms, his expression grave. “I’m afraid I have to talk about feelings for a minute.”
“If we must.”
“I can’t promise anything. If we can’t find a solution, you’re going to be immortal forever.”
“That is what immortal means, yes.”
Edmund glared up at him. The expression was robbed of most of its ferocity by the fact that his cheek was pressed against the Dervish’s collarbone. “You know what I mean.”
The Dervish shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. None of us do. But I’m willing to spend a few years finding out.”
“It may be slow, though. Especially with being a cultural liaison for Francis’s people. And I know you’re restless and … ah…”
“You’re afraid I’ll get bored?”
Edmund wouldn’t meet his eyes. “If you ever want to leave, I’ll give the sword away. You just have to tell me.”
“I know. And that means more than I can say.” He clasped Edmund’s hand in his and studied the ink stains on the scholar’s fingers.
“But if I start to get bored, we can just take a trip somewhere. If our past record is anything to go by, that will be more excitement than anyone can stand. I’ll be begging to go back to the library. ”
“Okay.” Edmund didn’t sound entirely convinced, and the Dervish made a mental note to set about convincing him as thoroughly as possible. “It’s just that I know how much you hate waiting.”
“True enough, but I think we can find ways to pass the time.” He set his lips against Edmund’s hair. “You love me, I love you, you’re brilliant, and it’s only a curse. And we do have one other thing going for us.”
“We do?”
“Absolutely,” the Dervish said. “You’re definitely my type.”