There it lies, gleaming and silent, the old sword. A beam of moonlight glides along the old blade, drawing a long, straight line. But what do those dark spots mean which have eaten hollows into the metal?
"That is blood," says my friend and crosses her arms upon her breast.
I shiver but my eyes seem to have grown fast to the terrible image.
"Come," says Thea.
"I can't."
"Do you want it?"
"What? The sword?"
She nods. "But may you give it away? Does it belong to you?"
"I may do anything. Everything belongs to me."
A horror grips me with its iron fist. "Give it to me!" I cry shuddering.