It was Alastair’s middle name. Esfandiya¯r had been a great hero from the Shahnameh, a Persian book of ancient mythical kings who could bind any demon with an enchanted chain. Alastair had loved to hear stories from the Shahnameh when he was small; he and Cordelia would curl up by the fire with Elias while he read.

But that had been a long time ago. Now Alastair didn’t move, and Elias began to frown.

“Yes, they did release me some days ago,” he said. “But before I returned, I went into the wilds in France, west of Idris.”

“To do penance?” Alastair’s voice was sharp-edged.

“To fetch Cordelia’s wedding gift,” said Elias. “Risa!” he called down the stairs.

“Oh, no, we can exchange gifts later,” protested Cordelia. She could feel the tension rising, her mother looking anxiously back and forth between her son and husband. “When I open them with James.”

“Risa,” Elias called down the stairs again, “can you retrieve that oblong wooden box from my things? And nonsense,” he said to Cordelia. “It’s not a gift for your household. It’s a gift for you.”

Risa soon appeared with the box balanced on her shoulder, a thunderous look on her face. Ignoring her scowl, Elias took it from her and spun to present it to Cordelia. She looked at Alastair, leaning against the wall. She raised her eyebrows as if to ask him what he thought she should do. He only shrugged. She wanted to shake him a little: Would it hurt to pretend to be happy?

She turned back to her father, who held the box as she unsnapped the brass latches and swung it open.

She gasped.

Laid on a bed of bright blue velvet was a scabbard—one of the most beautiful scabbards Cordelia had ever seen, worthy of being displayed in a museum. It was forged of fine steel, as bright as silver, its surface elaborately inlaid with gilt and etched with delicate patterns of birds, leaves, and vines. As she looked closer, she could glimpse tiny runes like butterflies among the leaves.

“The only gift worthy of my daughter,” Elias said, “is the gift worthy of the sword that has chosen her.”

“Where did it come from?” Cordelia asked. She couldn’t help but be moved. What Alastair had told her about the many times he had needed to rescue their father—and himself and Cordelia and their mother—from the consequences of his drinking… it had—she had been angry. How could her father be so selfish, so indifferent to his family’s needs?

But he had also been there for her, many times, helping her to climb trees, to train, teaching her the significance of Cortana and the responsibility conferred on the one who wielded it. And he had come to her today, her wedding day, and brought this gift. Would it be so wrong to think he meant well?