Sword-Maker, page 15
That, I didn’t much like. “So, you’re saying if I died, my sword would discharge its magic—along with Chosa Dei.”
Del’s brows arched. “That is one way, yes. But then you would be dead; what sense is there in discharging a sword if you won’t be alive to use it?”
I didn’t even bother to reply to that. “Is there another way?”
“Yes. But it was not a thing taught on Staal-Ysta.”
“Where is it taught?”
Del shook his head. “I think it would take someone who understood the magic of jivatmas. Someone also who understood Chosa Dei, and the threat he represents. Because Chosa Dei himself is powerful; if the discharging were not done properly, he might free himself.”
“He’d have no body,” I pointed out. “This one is sort of a mess.”
Del shrugged. “He’d find another. It might even be yours, since by then he’ll know you so well.”
Flesh froze. “What?”
Del sighed, frowning, as if frustrated by my ignorance. “Chosa Dei is no longer alive, no more than Baldur is in my sword. But his spirit is there, and his soul; the things he most believes in. You will feel it, Tiger. You will feel him. After a while you will know him—you will have to—and he will know you.”
I scowled. “Does he know he’s in this sword?”
Del shrugged. “But even if he doesn’t, it doesn’t really matter. Chosa Dei unmakes things to reshape them to his desires. He will try the same with your sword.”
“What if I gave it to someone else?”
Del smiled crookedly. “What blooded, named jivatma allows anyone else to touch it?”
“If I told him Samiel’s name, he could.”
One of her shoulders twitched. “Yes. You could. And then he could touch your sword. But not being you, he could hardly control the magic. Nor control Chosa Dei.”
I said something brief and very explicit.
Del ignored it. “I wonder …” she murmured.
“Wonder? Wonder what? What are you nattering about now?”
Her face was pensive. “Shaka Obre.”
“Chosa’s brother? Why?”
“Because maybe, just maybe, he might be able to help.”
“He’s a story, bascha.”
“So was Chosa Dei.”
I scowled. Considered it. “I don’t need any help from a wizard.”
“Tiger—”
“I can handle this on my own.”
Pale brows arched. “Oh?”
“Just give me a little time. I’ll work something out. Meanwhile, let’s get out of here.”
I made it three steps. “Tiger.”
I swung back. “What?”
Del pointed at my sword, still mostly buried in Chosa’s remains.
“Oh.” I went over, bent down, didn’t quite touch the hilt. “What’s supposed to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s helpful,” I told her. “I thought you knew all this stuff.”
“I know some ‘stuff,’” she agreed. “But you’ve done something no one else has ever done.”
“No one?”
“No one. An-ishtoyas seeking the blooding-journey always take sponsors with them to prevent disasters like this.”
“So what you’re saying is, I’m on my own.”
Mute, Del nodded.
Being best at something is often entertaining. But being first is a little different; it can be dangerous. And I’ve never been quite cocky enough to risk myself like that.
I sucked in a deep breath, stretched out my hand—
“May I suggest something?” Del inquired.
My hand jerked back. “What?”
“Make certain you are stronger. Now. This moment. If Chosa senses any weakness, he will use it for himself.”
I cast her a baleful glance. Then straightened and kicked the sword out of the crispy, shrunken pile of cloth, bones, and flesh.
Steel clanged across the stone floor. Nothing happened. The sword just lay there.
Except the blade was dull.
Frowning, I stepped across the remains and stared down at the sword. The hilt was the same as always—bright, brilliant steel—but the blade was smudgy dull gray, almost black. The tip itself was black, as if it had been burned.
“All right,” I said. “Why?”
Del stood next to me, sword in hand. She looked down at her own blade, which was a pale salmon-silver. When keyed, it burned richer and brighter. Nothing approaching black. No jivatma I’d ever seen had ever been this color.
“I don’t know,” she said. “No one knows what the color will be until the jivatma shows it.”
“But you think this is it.”
Del sighed a little. “I think so. It comes on the heels of quenching and keying.”
“I don’t like black or gray. I’d prefer something brighter. Something more desertlike.”
Del stared at me in amazement.
Defensively, I shrugged. “Well, we all have our preferences. Mine isn’t gray and black.”
“Maybe it’s what happens when you requench.”
I stood staring down at the dull-bladed sword, hands on hips, chewing a bloody lip. Then, with an impatient twitch of shoulders, I bent and picked it up.
Nothing happened. Nothing at all. The sword felt cold and dead.
I frowned. “What’s it supposed—”
“Tiger!”
This time I landed flat on my rump on the floor with my knees bent up, feet flat, bracing myself upright, and stared in astonishment at the sword lying but three feet away.
Still gray and black. But the black was a little higher.
Del’s hand was over her mouth. After a moment, she spoke through her fingers. “Are you all right?”
“Did you have to punch me again in the chest?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I’m all right.” It hurt more this time to stand up, but I managed it with a minimum of fuss. And then I stood there for a moment or two, trying to banish disorientation, and scowled at the sword. “He’s angry.”
“Who?”
“Samiel. Chosa Dei is just shocked. He didn’t realize he was dead—or whatever it is he is.”
Del took a step forward. “Does he know?”
“Know what?”
“Where Shaka Obre is?”
“Oh, for hoolies—” I glared. “I said I’d handle this, bascha—without Shaka Obre’s help.”
“It was a thought,” Del commented.
I walked to the sword. “Right now all I want to think about is leaving.”
“How?” Del asked. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time we tried to go through the wards?”
I remember very well. You don’t often forget waking up in the middle of a tunnel in a mountain shaped like a dragon. “But now Chosa Dei is dead, so the wards are out of a job. Besides, I think if we used a piece of this Northern magic you’re always talking about, we ought to be able to figure out a way.”
“Only if you can figure out how to pick up your sword.”
Basically, it was easy. All I had to do was show Chosa Dei who’s boss.
Del and I crossed to the “curtain.” Further study told us nothing more than we already knew: the thing was a ward set by Shaka Obre, intended to keep Chosa Dei imprisoned. It let out the smoke, let people in—though where they wound up was not quite certain, as I could testify—and prevented Chosa’s escape.
Prevented our escape.
Sweat ran down my temples. “Now,” I suggested, gripping the hilt with both hands.
Del frowned at me. “You don’t look—”
The blade shook; I shook. “Now. Not tomorrow.”
Del turned, raised her sword, glanced across at me. I mimicked her posture; together we sliced through the curtain as if it were nothing but silk.
Wards wisped into smoke. The prison was breached at last.
After six hundred and forty-two years, Chosa Dei was free of his mountain.
But until we found Shaka Obre, I’d never be free of Chosa.
Seventeen
We sat in the headman’s lodge in Ysaa-den, repairing what we could of battered flesh and spirits. We were alone, as always, being honored with solitude. With one another’s help we had washed blood and grime and stink off, replacing missing or ruined clothing with articles given us by Halvar and his wife. Now I sat on a warm pelt with eyes scrunched closed, legs crossed, gritting teeth as Del tended puncture wounds and tooth tears with herbal paste.
“Sit still,” she commanded as my eyes snapped open.
“It hurts.”
“I know it hurts. It will hurt worse if you let these bites get infected. Especially this one here.”
She did it on purpose. I flinched, swore at her; swore at her harder as she merely smiled and smeared more salve into a bite very low on my belly. Del had peeled the loosened waistband of my trews away, baring scraped and bitten skin, and now took pleasure in poking and prodding.
“I can do it,” I said. “For that matter, Halvar’s wife can do it; she offered.”
“Everyone in Ysaa-den offered, Tiger; you’re a hero. They will give you anything you ask, if they can.” Del sat back on her heels. “Am I to suppose you want their two copper pennies, now?”
She wore blue in place of filthy white, a cool soft blue that heightened the color of her eyes. Pale lashes, pale hair, paler skin; she was, no doubt, feeling every bit as tired and battered as me. But somehow she didn’t look it.
“No,” I answered testily. “All I want is to be rid of this sword, so I can live in peace. Or, more immediately, a warm bed and a bota of aqivi; since this is the North, I’ll take amnit.”
“You’ll get your amnit. You’ll even get your bed. As to the warmth of it, that will depend on how many women you put in it.”
I grunted. I was so full of bruises, bites, scrapes, scratches and claw scores I doubted I could provide much pleasure for a bedpartner. Especially since what I most wanted to do was sleep.
“The meal first,” Del reminded, as my eyes drooped closed. “It’s a celebration.”
“Can’t they celebrate without me?”
“No. Then they would have no one for whom to sing their song of salvation and gratitude.”
I grunted again. “There’s you.”
“But I didn’t kill Chosa Dei.”
“You killed half the hounds.”
“Who once were villagers.” Del’s tone was serious. “I think we need not tell that part of the story. Let them think the hounds simply killed their kinfolk, instead of being remade into beasts who killed more people, including kin and friends.” She stroked hair from her eyes. “It would be a kindness.”
It would also be a lie, but one I understood. “Give me the tunics, then, so we can go get some food. My belly’s screaming at me.”
Del handed me first the undertunic of soft-combed undyed wool; then, as I dragged it on, she presented the green overtunic. It rattled with intricate beadwork: bronze, copper, and amber.
“This is too much,” I muttered. “He’s giving away his best.”
“A measure of his respect and gratitude.” Del’s tone, as it can be, was bland.
Frustrated, I glared at her. “I would have come anyway. It had nothing to do with Ysaa-den or their troubles; it had to do with the hounds. If they’d gone somewhere else, I’d have gone somewhere else.”
“But they didn’t, and neither did you.” Del got up slowly, suppressing a wince of discomfort. She wore her sword as usual, hanging in harness across her back. “They’re waiting for us, Tiger. We’re the guests of honor.”
I frowned, rising carefully. Little by little I was losing my links with the South. First Singlestroke, broken fighting Theron. Then my Southron silks and gauzes, traded for Northern leather and fur. And lastly my harness, discarded in Chosa Dei’s mountain. Bit by bit by bit, scattered along the way.
I gathered up my jivatma, lacking sheath as well as harness, and followed Del out of the lodge. There was nothing, nothing about her even remotely Southron. Northern bascha to the bone, no matter where she was. I was being altered, while Del remained the same.
Time to go home, I said.
But I said it to myself.
Hot food, fiery amnit, and warm wishes all conspired to make it extremely difficult for me to stay awake during the celebratory meal. The evening air was growing chilly, but in addition to new wool clothing I also wore two pelts. I sat like a furry lump on yet a third pelt, managing to keep my eyes open a slit as Halvar regaled—in uplander—the village with my exploits.
Well, our exploits; Del was not left out.
“Stay awake,” she hissed, sitting on the pelt next to mine.
“I’m trying. Hoolies, bascha—what do you expect? Aren’t you tired after everything we did?”
“No,” she answered cruelly. “I’m too young for it.”
I chose to ignore that, since I knew very well she was lying. Maybe she wasn’t yet sleepy, but certainly she was sore. It showed in all her movements. It showed when she sat very still. “How much longer do we have to sit out here?”
“Until the celebration is finished.” Del watched Halvar, half-following his words even as she spoke to me. “We’ve eaten, and now Halvar’s retelling the story. Once that’s done, they’ll all sing a song of deliverance. Then everyone will sit around retelling the story, marveling at the accomplishment, and drink to your health.” She paused, observing me. “But since, from the look of you, I doubt you can manage that, you’ll probably be able to slip away.”
I nodded, stifling a yawn. It took all the strength I had.
Halvar said something to Del, glanced past her to me—Del had wound up beside the headman to translate—and repeated to me whatever it was he’d said to Del, just to be polite. I caught one word out of twenty: song.
I nodded. “Sing, then. I’m listening.”
Del slanted me a disapproving glance, then spoke briefly to Halvar. In response the headman grinned, turned to the gathered villagers all wrapped in warmest furs, and announced something. Yet again I saw musical instruments brought out.
I sat there with a polite smile pasted onto my face and tried to look interested as Ysaa-den launched into song. My own bout with singing in order to defeat Chosa Dei had not resulted in improved comprehension or appreciation; it all sounded like noise to me, though admittedly with a pattern. I suppose it was even pretty, if you like that kind of thing.
Del apparently did. She sat all wrapped in white fur with her eyes fixed on distances, losing herself in the music. I wondered if it took her back to her childhood, when her kinfolk had gathered to sing. And I wondered, suddenly, if she had ever sung to anything or anyone other than her sword.
At the end of the song Halvar turned yet again to us and said something. This time Del looked surprised.
“What?” I asked, rousing.
“He’s bringing the holy man out to throw oracle bones.”
“So, the old man likes to gamble.”
Del waved a hand. “No, no—to really throw the bones, as they were meant to be thrown. Before people began using them for wagering.”
I wanted to say something more, but the old holy man had appeared. He stopped before us, bowed to us both, then sat down on the spotted pelt Halvar carefully spread. He was a very old man, as holy men often are, having stuffed so much ritual into a single life. With the Salset there’d been the shukar, sort of a holy man/magician; I wondered if Northern customs were the same.
The old man—white-haired, blue-eyed and palsied—seemed to be waiting for something. And then one of the younger men brought a low tripod and set it carefully before him. Onto the triple prongs was placed a platter of polished gold. Its rim, curving upward gently, was worked in Northern runes.
I blinked. “I thought you said Ysaa-den had only two copper pennies.”
“In coin,” Del agreed. “That’s an oracle stand and platter. Each village has one … unless it’s stolen, or traded away.” She shrugged. “Some of the old ways die when the need to survive is greater.”
The old man took a leather pouch from beneath his furs and carefully untied the drawstring. He poured the contents into one palm: a handful of polished stones. They were opaque but oddly translucent; pale, pearlescent white showing green and red and blue as the old man spread them in his hand. One was fiery black, but alive with so many colors I couldn’t name them all.
I frowned. “Those aren’t really bones. Those are stones. Oracle bones are bones.”
“Bones of the earth,” Del said. “They’ve been carefully carved and polished.”
I grunted. “Maybe so, but they’re not the sort of oracle bones I’m used to.”
“These work,” she agreed.
I opened my mouth to protest—yet another story—but didn’t say anything. Even though I didn’t believe in foretelling, I knew perfectly well what Del would throw in my face if I said anything rude about the old man and his stones. She’d mention Chosa Dei, whom even she thought was a story until he’d nearly killed her.
So I didn’t give her the chance.
The old man threw his stones onto the golden platter. They rattled and slid, as expected, falling into random patterns. Only to the man who uses them to foretell, the patterns are never random. That much even I knew.
He threw seven times before he spoke. And then he said a single word.
This time Del frowned.
“Jhihadi,” the old man repeated.
Del glanced at Halvar, ignoring me entirely. “I don’t understand.”
Halvar shook his head, mystified as Del.
“Jhihadi,” the old man said, and swept the stones into his hand.
A great silence lay over the gathering. No doubt everyone had expected profound words of wisdom, or a promise of good health. Instead, the holy man of Ysaa-den had given them a word none of them knew.
