“Then,” he continued, “I got a closer look—at that.” He nodded toward the jeweled sword that leaned against the stool, shimmering in the lamplight. “Now, many men would examine it and see only a handsome sword. But I, Boghaz, am a man of education. I recognized the symbols on that blade.”
He leaned forward. “Where did you get it?”
A warning instinct made Carse lie readily, “I bought it from a trader.”
Boghaz shook his head. “No you didn’t. There are spots of corrosion on the blade, scales of dust in the carvings. The hilt has not been polished. No trader would sell it in that condition.
“No, my friend, that sword has lain a long time in the dark, in the tomb of him who owned it—the tomb of Rhiannon.”
Carse lay without moving, looking at Boghaz. He did not like what he saw.
The Valkisian had a kind and merry face. He would be excellent company over a bottle of wine. He would love a man like a brother and regret exceedingly the necessity of cutting out his heart.
Carse schooled his expression into sullen blankness. “It may be Rhiannon’s sword for all I know. Nevertheless, I bought it from a trader.”
The mouth of Boghaz, which was small and pink, puckered and he shook his head. He reached out and patted Carse’s cheek.
“Please don’t lie to me, friend. It upsets me to be lied to.”