In Swordheart, Kingfisher honors a number of well-worn romance tropes but subverts the usual plot patterns by emphasizing the unique yet practical traits that both Halla and Sarkis bring to their unlikely romance. Despite the exotic premise of the novel, there is nothing glamorous about Halla’s pragmatic worldview or Sarkis’s world-weary cynicism, and in many ways, the two characters approach each other with a mutual respect for the ordinary skills that they bring into each other’s lives. The bond between Halla and Sarkis strengthens because each sees how the other uses an array of steady, workable abilities to navigate the world. Their relationship, therefore, grows from a natural admiration for these practical strengths, and neither Sarkis nor Halla wastes time on lofty ideals or grand declarations.

To establish this dynamic, Kingfisher begins by setting the two characters’ talents side by side. Sarkis has centuries of combat training but knows little about everyday survival in Halla’s world and era, and his prowess in battle does not extend to providing for his charge in less violent circumstances. For example, when he tells Halla that he cannot find food for them during their initial flight from Rutger’s Howe, she answers, “It’s autumn. You’ve got to work to starve in the middle of autumn” (83). With this offhand remark, she makes it clear that she is as skilled in the practicalities of gathering food and running households as he is in the arts of war. She then surprises him by listing the plants they can eat, and her plain but vital knowledge immediately earns Sarkis’s respect, placing them both on a more equal footing.

Sarkis’s respect for Halla increases as he watches her make good use of personality traits that he once found irritating. Specifically, he realizes that her habit of constantly asking questions serves a number of different practical purposes, depending upon the circumstances. She uses her curiosity about the world to distract her from moments of discomfort, as when she pesters Sarkis with questions along the trail to avoid feeling the pain of her blistered feet. Later, he watches as she strategically uses a barrage of nonsensical chatter to confuse and unsettle the priests of the Hanged Mother. Sarkis starts to describe her talk as “a talent” because he appreciates how she turns a supposed weakness into a form of protection. This shift in his perspective foreshadows that his grudging admiration will soon lead to deeper emotions for his charge.

Accordingly, their romantic connection grows from their efforts to pool their skills and solve their mutual dilemmas. This dynamic is aptly illustrated in their struggles on the road, but it also shows in smaller moments, as when they smoothly cooperate to cook a meal in Bartholomew’s kitchen. Zale later articulates the balance between them when he says that Halla’s practicality and Sarkis’s cynicism “average out to a nicely functional outlook” (377). Zale’s perceptive remark highlights the pattern of their relationship, making it clear that they complement one another with their skills and temperaments, and by the end of the novel, it is clear that their affection has grown from the usefulness and steady application of their respective abilities.