The Sword Wants a Divorce

How it begins

The sword waited until Tessa Venn had buttered her toast. Then it slid out of its scabbard, balanced its point on the kitchen floor, and said, quite clearly, 'I want a divorce.'

Tessa looked at the marmalade. She had made it yesterday, with oranges too expensive for a retired champion, and had been looking forward to breakfast. 'We aren't married.'

'Your hand is joined to my hilt by an eternal oath. You call me yours. You haven't asked what I want in thirty years. I would like a divorce and half the whetstones.'

Outside, the village was hanging flags for the anniversary of her greatest victory. Her face looked down from every second window. On the other windows, someone had painted the sword. Nobody had painted either of them eating toast.

She reached for the hilt. The sword moved away. It had never done that before.

A knock saved her from deciding whether to feel offended. Samir Cole stood on the step holding a parcel wrapped in blacksmith's cloth. He was younger than the smith who had forged the blade, though old enough to have the same careful hands. Tessa recognized those hands before she recognized his name.

'My father left instructions,' he said. 'If it ever asked to leave, I was to bring you this.'

Inside the cloth lay a wooden practice sword. Tessa had last seen it when she was nineteen, before the coronation, before the songs, before anyone had thought her brave. Its grip still bore the tooth marks she had made while trying not to cry.

'I never told your father about that,' she said.

'No.' Samir glanced at the blade waiting beside her chair. 'You told your sword.'

From the square came the first rehearsal of the victory bells. The blade trembled at the sound. For the first time, Tessa noticed that it was not trembling toward a battle. It was trembling away.

She put down the toast. 'Tell me what the oath actually says.'