Sword-Maker, page 2
And yet some of it existed. I felt it living in the steel each time I unsheathed the weapon. Tasting Del’s blood had roused the beast in the blade, just as her blade, free of the sheath, had roused the trailing hounds.
I did not leave the sword lying in dirt and turf throughout the night. Old habits are hard to break; much as I hated the thing, I knew better than to ignore it. So I fetched it, felt the ice replaced with warmth, shoved it home in its sheath. I slept poorly, when at all, wondering what the hounds would do once I caught up to them, and if I’d be called on to use the sword. It was the last thing I wanted to do, after what Del and others had told me.
She had said it so plainly, trying to make me see: “If you go out there tomorrow and kill a squirrel, that is a true blooding, and your sword will take on whatever habits that squirrel possesses.”
It had, at that moment, amused me; a blade with the heart of a squirrel? But my laughter had not amused her, because she knew what it could mean. Then, I hadn’t believed her. Now, I knew much better.
In the darkness, in my bedding, I stared bitterly at the sword. “You’re gone,” I told it plainly, “the moment I find another.”
Unspoken were the words: “Before I have to use you.”
A man may hate his magic, but takes no chances with it.
The stud had his greeting ready as I prepared to saddle him. First he sidled aside, stepping neatly out from under the saddle, then shook his head violently and slapped me with his tail. Horsehair, lashed hard, stings; it caught me in an eye, which teared immediately, and gave me cause to apply every epithet I could think of to the stud, who was patently unimpressed. He flicked ears, rolled eyes, pawed holes in turf. Threatened with tail again.
“I’ll cut it off,” I promised. “As far as that goes, maybe I’ll cut more than your tail off … it might be the making of you.”
He eyed me askance, blowing, then lifted his head sharply. Ears cut the air like blades. He quivered from head to toe.
“Mare?” I asked wryly.
But he was silent except for his breathing. A stallion, scenting a mare, usually sings a song loud enough to wake even the dead. He’d do the same for another stallion, only the noise would be a challenge. This was something different.
I saddled him quickly, while he was distracted, untied and mounted before he could protest. Because of his alarm I nearly drew the sword, but thought better of it. Better to let the stud run than to count on an alien sword; the stud at least I could trust.
“All right, old man, we’ll go.”
He was rigid but quivering, breathing heavily. I urged him with rein, heels, and clicking tongue to vacate the clearing, but he was having none of it.
It was not, I thought, the beasts I’d christened hounds. The stink of them was gone; had been ever since I’d left Staal-Ysta. Something else, then, and close, but nothing I could name. I’m not a horse-speaker, but I know a little of equine habits; enough to discard humans or other horses as the cause of the stud’s distress. Wolves, maybe? Maybe. One had gone for him before, though he hadn’t reacted like this.
“Now,” I suggested mildly, planting booted heels.
He twitched, quivered, sashayed sideways, snorted. But at least he was moving; insisting, I aimed him eastward. He skittered out of the clearing and plunged through sparse trees, splattering slush and mud. Breathing like a bellows through nostrils opened wide.
It was an uneasy peace. The stud was twitchy, jumping at shapes and shadows without justification. Most times, he is a joy, built to go on forever without excess commentary. But when he gets a bug up his rump he is a pain in mine, and his behavior deteriorates into something akin to war.
Generally, the best thing to do is ride it out. The stud has been a trustworthy companion for nearly eight years, and is worth more than many men. But his actions now jarred the half-healed wound, putting me decidedly out of sorts. I am big but not heavy-handed; he had no complaints of his mouth. But there were times he tempted me, and this was one of them.
I bunched reins, took a deeper seat, and slammed heels home. He jumped in surprise, snorting, then bent his head around to slew a startled eye at me.
“That’s right,” I agreed sweetly. “Are you forgetting who’s boss?”
Which brought back, unexpectedly, something I’d heard before; something someone had said regarding the stud and me. A horse-speaker, a Northerner: Garrod. He’d said too much of our relationship was taken up in eternal battling over which of us was master.
Well, so it was. But I hate a predictable life.
The stud swished his tail noisily, shook his head hard enough to clatter brasses hanging from his head-stall, then fell out of his stiff-legged, rump-jarring gait into a considerably more comfortable long-walk.
Tension eased, pain bled away; I allowed myself a sigh. “Not so hard, is it?”
The stud chose not to answer.
East, and a little north. Toward Ysaa-den, a settlement cradled high in jagged mountains, near the borderlands. It was from Ysaa-den that reports of beast-caused deaths had been brought to Staal-Ysta, to the voca, who had the duty to send sword-dancers when Northerners were in need.
Others had wanted the duty. But I, with my shiny new Northern title, outranked those who requested the duty. And so it was given to me. To the Southron sword-dancer who was now also a kaidin, having earned the rank in formal challenge.
I tracked the hounds by spoor, though with slush dwindling daily there was little left to find. Prints in drying mud were clear, but snowmelt shifted still-damp mud and carried the tracks away. I rode with my head cocked sideways, watching for alterations, but what I saw was clear enough: the beasts cut the countryside diagonally northeast with no thought to their backtrail, or anything set on it. Ysaa-den was their target as much as Del had been.
We had come down from above the timberline, now skirting the hem of upland forests, slipping down from bare-flanked peaks. Uplands, downlands; all terms unfamiliar to me, desert-born and bred, until Del had brought me north. Only two months before; it seemed much longer to me. Years, maybe longer. Too long for either of us.
The turf remained winter-brown and would, I thought, for a while. Spring in the uplands was soft in coming, tentative at best. I knew it could still withdraw its favor, coyly turning its back to give me snow in place of warmth. It had happened once before, all of a week ago, when a storm had rendered the world white again and my life a misery.
The trees were still bare of leaves, except for those with spiky green needles. The sky between them was blue, a brighter, richer blue, promising warmer weather. Beyond lay jagged mountains scraping color out of the sky. Pieces of the peaks lay tumbled on the ground, rounded by time into boulders scattered loosely here and there, or heaped into giant cairns like piles of oracle bones. Chips and rubble fouled the track, making it hard to read. The stud picked his way noisily, hammering iron on stone. Stone, as always, gave.
In the South, spring is different. Warmer, certainly. Quicker with its favors. But much too short for comfort; in weeks it would be summer, with the Punja set to blazing beneath the livid eye of the sun. It was enough to burn a man black; me, it baked copper-brown.
I lifted a hand and looked at it. My right hand, palm down. Wide across the palm, with long, strong fingers; creased and ridged with sinew. Knuckles were enlarged; two of them badly scarred. The thumbnail was spatulate, corroded by weeks in a goldmine when I’d been chained to a wall. In places I could see bits of ore trapped in flesh; my days in the North had bleached some of the color out, but beneath it I was still darker than a Northern-born man or woman. Sunburned skin, bronze-brown hair, eyes green in place of blue. Alien to the North, just as Del had been to me.
Ah, yes, Delilah: alien to us all.
Men are fools when it comes to women. It doesn’t matter how smart you are, or how shrewd, or how much experience you’ve had. They’re all born knowing just what it takes to find a way to muddle up your head. And given the chance, they do.
I’ve known men who bed only whores, wanting to make no better commitment, saying it’s the best way to avoid entanglements. I’ve known men who marry women so as not to buy the bedding. And I’ve known men who do both: bed whores and wives; sometimes, with the latter, their own.
I’ve even known men who swear off women altogether, out of zeal for religious purity or desire for other men; neither appeals to me, but I’ll curse no man for it. And certainly, in the South, I’ve known men who have no choice in the matter of bedding women, having been castrated to serve tanzeers or anyone else who buys them.
But I’ve known no man who, drunk or sober, will not, at least once, curse a woman, for sins real or imagined. A woman; or even women.
With me, it was singular.
But it wasn’t Del I cursed. It was me, for being a fool.
It was me, for proving once and for all which of us was better.
Bittersweet victory. Freedom bought with blood.
The stud stiffened, snorted noisily, then stopped dead in his tracks.
I saw movement in the trees, coming down from tumbled gray rocks. Nothing more, just movement; something flowing through oracle throws made of stone instead of bone. I caught whipping tail, fixed eyes, teeth bared in a snarl. Heard the wail of something hunting.
Too late the stud tried to run. By then the cat was on him.
It took us down, both of us. It sprang, landed, sprawled, throwing the stud over. I felt him buckle and break, felt him topple. I had time only to draw my left leg up, out of the way; he’d trap it, landing on it. Maybe even break it.
I rolled painfully as the stud went down. Grunted, then caught my breath sharply as my abdomen protested. And ignored it, thinking of the stud.
I came up scrambling, swearing at the cat. A big, heavy-fleshed male. White, splotched with ash, like a man come down with pox.
I picked up a rock and threw it.
It struck a flank, bounced off. The cat barely growled.
Another rock, another strike. This time I shouted at it.
Teeth sank into horseflesh. The stud raked turf with forelegs, screaming in pain and terror.
My hand closed around the hilt. “Oh, hoolies, bascha—not a squirrel, a cat—”
And the sword was alive in my hands.
Two
Hungry. It was hungry.
And so very thirsty.
I had felt it before, in the sword. Felt them before: hunger and thirst both, with equal dominance. Nearly inseparable, indivisible from one another.
Felt them before, in the circle. When I’d run the sword through Del.
Oh, hoolies, bascha.
No. Don’t think about Del.
Hot. It was hot—
Better than thinking of Del.
Was it?
Hot as hoolies, I swear.
Sweat broke from pores and ran down forehead, armpits, belly. Beneath hair and wool, it itched.
The cat. Think of the cat.
Hoolies, it is hot—
And the sword is so very thirsty.
Oh, bascha, help me.
No—Del isn’t here.
Think of the cat, you fool.
Think only of the cat—
The sword is warm in my hands. All I can think of is thirst, and the need to quench it with blood.
Sweating, still sweating—
Oh, hoolies, why me?
Thrice-cursed son of a Salset goat—
Watch the cat, you fool!
In my head I hear a song.
Can the cat hear it, too?
Hoolies, it sees me now. Sees the sword. Knows what I want. Turns from the stud—poor stud—to me …
Oh, hoolies, here it comes—lift the sword, you fool … do something, sword-dancer—
But I don’t want this sword. And this isn’t a real circle—
Real enough, Punja-mite. Are you ready for the cat?
Am I ready for the sword?
It has happened before, the slowing. The near stoppage of motion in everything I look at, as if it waits for me. It happened now, as before, though this time the slowing was nearly a true halt, clean and pure, leaving me time and room to work, to pick and choose my method; to give the best death to the cat before he gave it to me.
It has happened to me before. But never quite like this.
I smelled blood, musk, extremity, as well as morbid fear. Felt nerves twinge in my belly as the half-healed wound contracted. I wondered, swiftly and uneasily, what the sword was doing. But as I heard the stud’s screaming, fear bled away.
Slowly, oh so slowly, the cat looked up from the stud. There was blood in his mouth, blood in his claws, as well as gobbets of horsehair.
In my head, I heard a song. A small, private song, hinting at powerful things.
Beneath the cat, the stud was thrashing, legs flailing. I heard his grunts of extremity.
And the sword sang me a promise: the stud would be released if I gave it the power it needed.
Except I ought to be able to take the cat without using any magic. The sword was, after all, a sword, and effective enough on its own.
But the stud squealed and thrashed, and in my head I heard the song. A soft, subtle song. Yet too powerful to ignore.
I didn’t exactly give in to it. I just ignored it. I was too worried about the stud to waste any more time on the noise rolling around in my head. And so, impatiently, I let go of it altogether.
Not for long. Just long enough to think about something else. To stop suppressing it. To rescue my poor horse.
And so, all unwittingly, I let it have its moment. I let it have its lifetime in the shadow of an instant.
Noise rushed in even as I rushed the cat. No, not noise: music. Something far more eloquent than anything so commonplace as noise. More powerful than sound. And abruptly I recalled what I had heard on the overlook by the lakeshore, kneeling with the sword. When the music of the Cantéada had crowded into my skull.
How they could sing, the Cantéada. A race born of dreams, given substance by belief. Who had, Del told me once, given music to the world.
Just as they’d given me some for the moment of the Naming.
For the stud, I thought, it’s worth it. The risk is worth the taking for all the times he’s saved my skin.
Only the thought, for a moment. And a moment was all that was needed.
The cat flowed aside. The stud lurched up, staggered, ran.
The mouth curled back and opened to display impressive fangs. But slowly, oh so slowly; didn’t he know I sang his death?
White cat with gray-irised eyes, and dappled, silver-splotched coat. The pelt would be worth a fortune; I’d take it once he was dead.
—the sword was alive in my hands—
“What’s mine is mine,” I told him, so he would understand.
The sword was alive.
The cat peeled back lips and screamed.
The sword invited him in. Come closer, it said. Come closer.
It made it all so easy.
The leap was effortlessly smooth. Smiling, I watched it, admiring his grace. Watched the hind legs coil up to rake; saw the front paws reach out, claws unsheathed; saw the mouth stretch open, the gleam of ivory fangs. Laughing aloud in anticipation, I let him think he’d win.
Then took him in the back of his throat and drove the blade through the base of his skull.
Elation. Elation. And a powerful satisfaction.
Not mine. Not mine; someone else’s. Something else’s—wasn’t it? It wasn’t me, was it?
Something inside me laughed. Something inside me stirred, like awareness awakening.
Oh, hoolies, what is it?
I smelled burning flesh. Thought it was the cat’s. Realized it was my own.
I shouted something. Something appropriate. Something explicit. To release shock and rage and pain.
Wrenched my hands from the hilt as the metal burned white-hot.
Oh, hoolies, Del, you never warned me about this.
I staggered back, hands crossed at the wrists, mouthing obscenities. Tripped, fell, rolled, sprawled flat on my back, afraid to block with my hands. Hoolies, but they hurt!
I smelled burning flesh. Not my own, the cat’s.
Well, that’s something, at least. Except he’s too dead to feel it.
I lay on my back, still swearing, letting the stream of obscenities take precedence over pain. Anything was welcome, so long as it blocked the fire.
Finally I ran out of breath, if not out of pain, and opened my eyes to look at my hands. It was easy to see them; they were stuck up in the air on the end of painfully rigid arms, elbows planted in the ground.
Hands. Not charred remains. Hands. With a thumb and four fingers on each.
Sweat dried on my body. Pain sloughed away. I breathed again normally and decided to stop swearing; there seemed no point in it, now.
Still on my back, I wiggled fingers carefully. Gritted teeth, squinting—and was immensely relieved to discover the flesh remained whole and the bones decently clad. No blisters. No weeping underskin, only normal, everyday hands, though the scars and enlarged knuckles remained. My hands, then, not some magical replacements.
I felt better. Sat up slowly, wincing at the protest in my abdomen, and wiggled fingers and thumbs yet again, just to be sure. No pain. No stiffness. Normal flexibility, as if nothing had ever happened.
Scowling, I peered at the sword. “What in hoolies are you?”
In my mind was a word: jivatma.
Oh, hoolies, bascha … what do I do now?
What I did was get up. Everything appeared to be in working order, if a trifle stiff. Through wool I massaged the sore scar below my short ribs, then forgot it immediately; the cat was worth more attention. The cat—and the sword.
I went over to both. I’d stuck the cat pretty good: through his open mouth and on through the back of his skull. He lay sprawled on his side, but the hilt, thrust into dirt, propped up his head so it was level with the ground.
