The blade flashed high and bright in the torchlight. It occurred to Carse that he had traveled a long way to die. He waited for the stroke but it did not come and then he realized that Ywain had cried out to Scyld to stop.
Scyld faltered, then turned, puzzled, looking up. “But Highness—”
“Come here,” she said, and Carse saw that she was staring at the sword in Scyld’s hand, the sword of Rhiannon.
Scyld climbed the ladder back up to the deck, his black-browed face a little frightened. Ywain met him.
“Give me that,” she said. And when he hesitated, “The sword, fool!”
He laid it in her hands and she stood looking at it, turning it over in the torchlight, studying the workmanship, the hilt with its single smoky jewel, the etched symbols on the blade.
“Where did you get this, Scyld?”
“I—” He stammered, not liking to make the admission, his hand going instinctively to his stolen collar.
Ywain snapped, “Your thieving doesn’t interest me. Where did you get it?”
He pointed to Carse and Boghaz. “From them, Highness, when I picked them up.”