Sword-Maker, page 41
Hoolies, everything fit. A mute who wasn’t a man, but wasn’t a woman, either.
Oh, bascha, look.
Steelsong filled the air, punctuating the Oracle’s words as he lifted an arm to point.
“Jhihadi!” someone shouted. “He’s naming the jhihadi!”
The crowd behind me surged forward. Jostled, I nearly fell. A hand on my left arm steadied me, another hooked into my harness; Alric was on my right.
Alric was on my right.
“Jhihadi!” the crowd roared, as the Oracle made it clear.
The man on my left laughed. It was a wild, exultant laugh filled with surprise and gratification, and an odd sort of power. “All that money spent on a false Oracle, and now the real one picks me anyway …” He tightened his grip on my harness. “Now all I need is this.”
I knew as I turned to look. By then it was too late.
Ajani wasted no time. He locked one hand around the hilt and jerked my jivatma free, shoving me back as he moved. I very nearly fell.
He watched me out of pale, icy eyes. Saw me stagger. Saw me struggle. Saw me gather flagging wits. Saw me open my mouth to protest.
And smiled. “Samiel,” he whispered. The blade flared to life.
Oh—hoolies—Ajani—
Ajani with Samiel.
Ajani with Chosa Dei.
Who now was pointed at me.
I heard Alric’s curse. Saw Ajani’s eyes. How could I have confused them?
“Thank you,” Ajani said. “You made it easy for me.”
I sucked in a breath, trying to hold off disorientation. “You don’t know what you have. You don’t know what that sword is.”
Ajani’s voice was smooth. Incongruously soft. “Oh, I think I do. People are talking about it … even my own men, who saw what you did with it and remembered what the boy said.” The smile was brief, but warm. “I know what a jivatma is. I knew what to do with the name. It will be very useful for a man just named jhihadi.”
I kept my tone steady. “If your men were there, you know. You know what else it can do. What it can do to you.”
All around us the people fled.
Ajani lifted the sword. I thought about what it would be like for Chosa Dei to have me at last. And what it would be like when he—in my skin—tore Ajani to pieces.
It might be interesting. But I’d rather just be me.
Beyond me, Alric shouted. Said something about men: borjuni.
I looked only at Ajani, who held my jivatma.
And then heard Delilah’s song, cutting through the circle.
Oh, bascha, bascha. Here is your chance at last.
The song rose in pitch. The circle was filled with Northern light so bright even Ajani squinted.
I pointed a courteous finger toward the woman who approached. Politely, I told Ajani, “Someone wants to see you.”
By the time he turned, she was on him.
Seventeen
I knew she should be tired, after dancing with Abbu. But this was Ajani at last; I knew it didn’t matter. Del could be on her deathbed and Ajani would get her off it.
So she could put him on his.
She drove him back, back, into the crowd; the crowd scrambled away. And then surged close again, surrounding Alric and me, murmuring about the jhihadi and the woman who tried to kill him.
Hoolies, they believed it! They thought he was the jhihadi!
Which meant if Del killed him, the crowd would tear her apart.
“Don’t kill him,” I said. “Oh, bascha, be careful—think about what you’re doing.”
I didn’t expect an answer. Del didn’t give me one.
They’d kill her. They’d shred her to little pieces.
Bascha, don’t kill him.
Unless I could get to Jamail. But I knew better than to try. I could barely stand, jostled this way and that. And even if I could, the Vashni would kill me outright for daring to approach their Oracle, no matter what the reason. Already things had gone wrong; the Oracle had spoken, and a woman was trying to thwart him.
The Oracle’s own sister.
Jamail, remember me?
No. He’d only seen me once.
Jamail, remember your sister?
But between Jamail and his sister were hundreds of Southerners: tanzeers, sword-dancers, tribesmen. Even the Oracle might have trouble getting through the crowd, now the jhihadi was named.
Jamail no longer mattered. His part in the game was done.
The crowd closed up tight. Hoolies, Del, where are you?
The crowd abruptly parted.
“Tiger—down—”
Alric’s hand on my harness jerked me to the ground. Then his sword was out and slicing through someone’s guts.
What?
What?
Ajani’s fellow borjuni. Now become holy bodyguards warding the jhihadi.
Oh, hoolies—not now. My head hurts too much and my eyes won’t focus.
I rolled through screening legs, scrabbling away, cursing as fingers got stepped on. Wished I had a sword.
Above me, battle commenced. Alric was all alone.
Hoolies, where’s Del?
And then I saw the light. Heard the whistle of the storm. Felt the sting of flying dust. With the power of jivatmas, they built a private circle. They created a fence of magic made of light and heat and cold.
“I need a sword,” I muttered, staggering to my feet.
In the circle, the wind howled. Ajani had my sword.
“Tiger! Tiger—here!”
I turned; caught the weapon. An old, well-known blade. I stared in muddled surprise.
Through the brief gap, Abbu Bensir grinned. “You’re mine,” he called, “not theirs.” And was swallowed by the crowd.
More of the new jhihadi’s borjuni friends arrived with weapons drawn. Alric and I didn’t count them; we knew they outnumbered us. But we also knew how to dance. All they knew was how to kill.
Time. Too much, and the tribes would reach the circle Del shared with Ajani. They couldn’t break through until the dance was done and the magic muted, but in the end they’d reach her. In the end they’d kill her.
If she was still alive.
Too much time, and Ajani’s borjuni bodyguards would wear down Alric and me. Too little, however, and we might be able to get away, if we had a bit of luck.
Luck decided to call.
“Duck,” a voice suggested. I didn’t wait; I ducked. The thrown ax divided a head.
Bellin laughed aloud. “Practicing,” he said.
Now we were there. The fourth was still in the circle.
Come on, Delilah, beat him.
Fire flared in the circle. People began to scream.
At first I assumed it was in the natural course of fighting, since by now others had joined in as well. And then I realized it had nothing to do with fighting, and everything to do with magic.
Chosa Dei wanted his freedom. Others would pay the price.
Even Del might.
Not again, bascha. You already paid it once.
Ajani was shouting something. I couldn’t understand him; my head pounded unmercifully and my vision still was muddled. But I heard Ajani shouting.
He said something about Shaka Obre.
Ajani didn’t know Shaka Obre.
I cut down a borjuni. “Hold him, bascha—hold him—”
Boreal keened. A cold wind burst out of the circle, shredding silk and gauze. It frosted hair and eyebrows. Those who still could, fled.
I sucked in a breath and jerked my borrowed blade from a body. “Sing up a storm, bascha …”
In a mad dash to escape, people fell over one another. I saw their breath on the air.
Winter came into the circle. Summer drove it back. The blast of heat baked us all; I blocked my eyes with an arm.
Samiel burned white-hot. The air was sucked out of lungs.
The hostility around us turned abruptly to fear. Even Ajani’s borjuni exuded a different stench.
Ajani. Ajani in the circle.
With Del.
Hoolies, bascha, where are you—?
Shouting died away. Light coruscated. All the rainbows danced, though there was no rain to form them. No moisture in the air. Only scorching heat.
Ajani was shouting still. Del stalked him in the circle. Back, back, back; Boreal teased Samiel, salmon-silver on black.
“Dance,” Del invited. “Dance with me, Ajani.”
Back. Back. Back. He tried to parry, couldn’t.
I saw the bared teeth, the strained face. Saw the fear in piercing eyes. It wasn’t fear of Del, but of what he felt in the sword.
He was a very large man, a man of immense strength as well as strength of will. But he didn’t know Samiel. He didn’t know Chosa Dei.
“Too much for you,” I muttered.
Ajani shouted something. Tendons stood up in his neck.
Heat exploded from the circle. Nearby, a blanket roof caught on fire. Then another. People began to scream. People began to run. Iskandar was on fire.
Wind ripped through the streets, spreading flame in its wake. Now burnouses caught fire, and people began to burn.
“No,” Del declared.
Boreal’s song-summoned banshee-storm howled out of the sword, shredding Samiel’s flame. Winter came at Del’s call. Fire doesn’t burn in sleet.
It was abrupt and unpleasant. It doused Iskandar completely, then wisped into nothingness. I was wet, cold, sweaty. But so was everyone else, even Ajani’s borjuni.
With renewed vigor, they attacked. With renewed vigor, I repulsed. Next to me, Alric fought; behind me Bellin counted Ajani’s supporters as they moved in to surround us. He called out greetings to each, naming them to their faces, which served to startle them. For Alric and me, it was an infallible way of knowing which man meant us harm.
Bascha, I said, I’m coming.
Something stung a rib. I smashed the sword away, then buried my own in a belly. Ripped it free again to turn on another man, but a misstep sent me by him. I staggered, tried to catch my balance, was swallowed by heat and cold and light and all the colors of the world.
Bascha, bascha, I’m coming—whether I want to or not.
I broke through, swearing, and fell into the circle, landing hard on a shoulder. Abbu’s sword spilled free.
Hoolies, my head hurts … and the world’s gone gray again.
Inside, the storm was raging. A hot rain fell. Steam rose from the ground. The breath of winter blew, whistling in my ears. Numbing nose and earlobes.
Boreal was ablaze with all the colors of the North, all the rich, vivid colors. Samiel was black.
A new thought occurred: If Chosa Dei takes Ajani, Del can take Chosa Dei.
But Del didn’t wait that long.
Sprawled on the ground, I saw it. Hatred. Rage. Obsession. The memory of what he’d done; of what had shaped her life. Of who had shaped her life, bringing her to this moment; bringing her to the edge, where balance is so precarious, so incredibly easy to lose. She teetered there, on the edge, looking just beyond. Acknowledging the price, because she’d paid it so many times.
Paying once more would change nothing. And also change everything.
Delilah’s long song would end.
Wind screamed through the circle. It caught on blades and tore, shrieking an angry protest. Ajani’s face was stripped bare. An unforgettable face; an assemblage of perfect bones placed in impressive arrangement. A Northerner in his prime: taller than I, and broader, with a lion’s mane of hair equally thick and blond as Del’s, flowing back from high brow. The magnificence of a woman made masculine for a man.
Bellin had summed it up: his burning was very bright.
His burning was too bright—Chosa Dei looked out of his eyes.
Pale, piercing eyes alight with unholy fire. With the knowledge of promised power.
Time to extinguish him, bascha—before he extinguishes us.
Del stopped singing. Del lowered her sword. And stood there waiting for him.
Waiting? Waiting for what?
Was she blinded by his burning?
No, not Delilah. This was the man who had made her, the way I made my sword. In blood and fear and hatred.
Ajani bared his teeth. “We meet again,” he said. “This time to end it, yes?”
Del, like me, stared. His features were softening. The perfect nose, the set of his mobile mouth; the upswept angle of Northern cheekbones, slanting down his face. Ajani was being unmade.
Hoolies, bascha, kill him!
She slashed the blade from his hands. Her own was at his throat. “Kneel,” she said hoarsely. “You made my father kneel.”
Bascha, that isn’t Ajani—
My sword lay on the ground. My clean, silver sword made of unblemished Northern steel.
My empty, unblemished sword.
Oh, bascha—wait—
“Del—” I croaked.
Ajani bared teeth at her. Chosa Dei stared out of his eyes. “Do you know what I am?”
“I know what you are.”
Ajani shook back his hair. The shape of his jaw was changing. He was wax, softening. Light a candle; he would melt.
Del’s voice was deadly. “I said: kneel.”
Around us, beyond the circle, hundreds waited and watched, too frightened to attempt escape. I lay on the ground and panted, trying to clear my head. Thinking: If I can get to the sword—
But Ajani was too close. He had only to pick it up. He would pick it up—
“Del—” I croaked again. It was all I could manage.
Ajani did not kneel. Chosa Dei wouldn’t let him.
“I am power,” he said. “Do you think you can defeat me? Do you think I will do your bidding, after waiting so long to do mine?”
Hoolies, he didn’t need a sword. All he needed was himself.
Bascha—bascha, kill him—don’t play games with this man—not even in the name of your pride—
Ajani spread his arms. There was no wasted flesh on him, nor a pound out of place. He was taut, fit, big. He made me look puny. His magnificence rivaled Del’s.
“Do you know what I am?”
And I wondered, as I watched him, which man asked the question.
Del shifted her grip. The sword scythed down from above. She sliced a hamstring in two.
He fell, as she meant him to. It wasn’t a proper posture, but no longer did he stand upright to tower over her. To tower over me as I staggered to my feet.
His burning was very bright.
“Now,” I whispered intently.
Del began to sing.
Chosa Dei was in him, but some of Ajani was left. Northern-born, he knew. I saw it in his eyes; in Ajani’s still-human eyes, as the flesh of his face loosened. I saw it in his posture as he slumped before the sword, wearing a bloody necklace. Boreal was thirsty. She tasted him already.
Del sang a song of the kinfolk she had lost. Father, mother, grandfolk, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins. So many kinfolk murdered. Only two of them spared: Jamail and Delilah, the last of the line. The man could never sire a son; the woman could never bear one.
She would kill Ajani. But in the end, he would win.
Delilah ended her song. Stood there looking at him. Did she feel cheated, I wondered, that Ajani wasn’t alone? That when the moment came, she would kill more than the Northerner?
Chosa wasn’t stupid. He reached out. Touched the sword. Closed slack fingers on the grip. Dragged it up from the ground. Black flowed into the blade; better a sword than useless meat.
Pale hair tumbled around his face. His magnificent Northern face, with no hint of softness about it. Chosa Dei was gone.
Ajani shook back his hair, holding the blackened jivatma. But he didn’t try to use it, with Boreal kissing his throat. All he did was stare at the woman who held Boreal, progenitor of storms.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Del didn’t bother to tell him. “You have a daughter,” she said.
And then she took his head.
Eighteen
The body slumped to the ground. Del, set free at last, staggered back and fell.
Oh, hoolies, bascha … don’t pass out now.
She tried to get up, and couldn’t. Exhaustion and reaction stripped her of her strength. All she could do was gasp, clinging to her sword.
Hoolies, Tiger, move—
The private circle was gone, banished by banished magic. Anyone who reached us now would find us easy to touch.
Del had killed Ajani. To the rest, he was the jhihadi.
I heard the ululations, the shouts of angry tanzeers. The clash of Southron steel.
“Sorry, Esnat,” I mumbled. “I think Hadjib will get his war.”
Samiel, I knew, was the answer … before they got to Del.
Bellin got there first. “Don’t touch it!” I shouted.
He dove, thrust out with his axes, scooped up the blade. As I took an unsteady stride—Del and I were a pair—the sword came flying to me. I plucked it out of the air.
Southroners stirred, shouted. They saw the headless jhihadi; the woman with the sword; the Sandtiger with another. And a foreign boy with axes.
Bellin grinned at me. “Do something,” he called. “You’re supposed to be good with that thing.”
Do something?
Fine.
How about a song?
The crowd surged forward en masse. But I cut the air with a reblackened sword and the crowd lurched back again. Across from me stood Alric, teasing the air with his swordtip. Promising violence.
Alric. Bellin. Me. And Del, but she was down. For now we had stopped the crowd, but that wouldn’t last long. We needed more help.
Samiel might give it. All I had to do was sing.
Sing. I hate singing. But how else do you call the magic?
Bellin juggled axes. It was an impressive feat; also a useful one. They’d all seen how he used them. Everyone hung back as Bellin moved easily around Del and me, building a fence of flying axes.
“Just curious,” he mentioned, “but why are you singing now? Especially when you do it so badly?”
I just kept on singing. Or whatever you want to call it.
“Jivatma,” Alric said briefly, as if it answered the question. For some, it might; for Bellin, it answered nothing.
“Get Del,” I said, and went right back to my song. Samiel seemed to like it.
Oh, bascha, look.
Steelsong filled the air, punctuating the Oracle’s words as he lifted an arm to point.
“Jhihadi!” someone shouted. “He’s naming the jhihadi!”
The crowd behind me surged forward. Jostled, I nearly fell. A hand on my left arm steadied me, another hooked into my harness; Alric was on my right.
Alric was on my right.
“Jhihadi!” the crowd roared, as the Oracle made it clear.
The man on my left laughed. It was a wild, exultant laugh filled with surprise and gratification, and an odd sort of power. “All that money spent on a false Oracle, and now the real one picks me anyway …” He tightened his grip on my harness. “Now all I need is this.”
I knew as I turned to look. By then it was too late.
Ajani wasted no time. He locked one hand around the hilt and jerked my jivatma free, shoving me back as he moved. I very nearly fell.
He watched me out of pale, icy eyes. Saw me stagger. Saw me struggle. Saw me gather flagging wits. Saw me open my mouth to protest.
And smiled. “Samiel,” he whispered. The blade flared to life.
Oh—hoolies—Ajani—
Ajani with Samiel.
Ajani with Chosa Dei.
Who now was pointed at me.
I heard Alric’s curse. Saw Ajani’s eyes. How could I have confused them?
“Thank you,” Ajani said. “You made it easy for me.”
I sucked in a breath, trying to hold off disorientation. “You don’t know what you have. You don’t know what that sword is.”
Ajani’s voice was smooth. Incongruously soft. “Oh, I think I do. People are talking about it … even my own men, who saw what you did with it and remembered what the boy said.” The smile was brief, but warm. “I know what a jivatma is. I knew what to do with the name. It will be very useful for a man just named jhihadi.”
I kept my tone steady. “If your men were there, you know. You know what else it can do. What it can do to you.”
All around us the people fled.
Ajani lifted the sword. I thought about what it would be like for Chosa Dei to have me at last. And what it would be like when he—in my skin—tore Ajani to pieces.
It might be interesting. But I’d rather just be me.
Beyond me, Alric shouted. Said something about men: borjuni.
I looked only at Ajani, who held my jivatma.
And then heard Delilah’s song, cutting through the circle.
Oh, bascha, bascha. Here is your chance at last.
The song rose in pitch. The circle was filled with Northern light so bright even Ajani squinted.
I pointed a courteous finger toward the woman who approached. Politely, I told Ajani, “Someone wants to see you.”
By the time he turned, she was on him.
Seventeen
I knew she should be tired, after dancing with Abbu. But this was Ajani at last; I knew it didn’t matter. Del could be on her deathbed and Ajani would get her off it.
So she could put him on his.
She drove him back, back, into the crowd; the crowd scrambled away. And then surged close again, surrounding Alric and me, murmuring about the jhihadi and the woman who tried to kill him.
Hoolies, they believed it! They thought he was the jhihadi!
Which meant if Del killed him, the crowd would tear her apart.
“Don’t kill him,” I said. “Oh, bascha, be careful—think about what you’re doing.”
I didn’t expect an answer. Del didn’t give me one.
They’d kill her. They’d shred her to little pieces.
Bascha, don’t kill him.
Unless I could get to Jamail. But I knew better than to try. I could barely stand, jostled this way and that. And even if I could, the Vashni would kill me outright for daring to approach their Oracle, no matter what the reason. Already things had gone wrong; the Oracle had spoken, and a woman was trying to thwart him.
The Oracle’s own sister.
Jamail, remember me?
No. He’d only seen me once.
Jamail, remember your sister?
But between Jamail and his sister were hundreds of Southerners: tanzeers, sword-dancers, tribesmen. Even the Oracle might have trouble getting through the crowd, now the jhihadi was named.
Jamail no longer mattered. His part in the game was done.
The crowd closed up tight. Hoolies, Del, where are you?
The crowd abruptly parted.
“Tiger—down—”
Alric’s hand on my harness jerked me to the ground. Then his sword was out and slicing through someone’s guts.
What?
What?
Ajani’s fellow borjuni. Now become holy bodyguards warding the jhihadi.
Oh, hoolies—not now. My head hurts too much and my eyes won’t focus.
I rolled through screening legs, scrabbling away, cursing as fingers got stepped on. Wished I had a sword.
Above me, battle commenced. Alric was all alone.
Hoolies, where’s Del?
And then I saw the light. Heard the whistle of the storm. Felt the sting of flying dust. With the power of jivatmas, they built a private circle. They created a fence of magic made of light and heat and cold.
“I need a sword,” I muttered, staggering to my feet.
In the circle, the wind howled. Ajani had my sword.
“Tiger! Tiger—here!”
I turned; caught the weapon. An old, well-known blade. I stared in muddled surprise.
Through the brief gap, Abbu Bensir grinned. “You’re mine,” he called, “not theirs.” And was swallowed by the crowd.
More of the new jhihadi’s borjuni friends arrived with weapons drawn. Alric and I didn’t count them; we knew they outnumbered us. But we also knew how to dance. All they knew was how to kill.
Time. Too much, and the tribes would reach the circle Del shared with Ajani. They couldn’t break through until the dance was done and the magic muted, but in the end they’d reach her. In the end they’d kill her.
If she was still alive.
Too much time, and Ajani’s borjuni bodyguards would wear down Alric and me. Too little, however, and we might be able to get away, if we had a bit of luck.
Luck decided to call.
“Duck,” a voice suggested. I didn’t wait; I ducked. The thrown ax divided a head.
Bellin laughed aloud. “Practicing,” he said.
Now we were there. The fourth was still in the circle.
Come on, Delilah, beat him.
Fire flared in the circle. People began to scream.
At first I assumed it was in the natural course of fighting, since by now others had joined in as well. And then I realized it had nothing to do with fighting, and everything to do with magic.
Chosa Dei wanted his freedom. Others would pay the price.
Even Del might.
Not again, bascha. You already paid it once.
Ajani was shouting something. I couldn’t understand him; my head pounded unmercifully and my vision still was muddled. But I heard Ajani shouting.
He said something about Shaka Obre.
Ajani didn’t know Shaka Obre.
I cut down a borjuni. “Hold him, bascha—hold him—”
Boreal keened. A cold wind burst out of the circle, shredding silk and gauze. It frosted hair and eyebrows. Those who still could, fled.
I sucked in a breath and jerked my borrowed blade from a body. “Sing up a storm, bascha …”
In a mad dash to escape, people fell over one another. I saw their breath on the air.
Winter came into the circle. Summer drove it back. The blast of heat baked us all; I blocked my eyes with an arm.
Samiel burned white-hot. The air was sucked out of lungs.
The hostility around us turned abruptly to fear. Even Ajani’s borjuni exuded a different stench.
Ajani. Ajani in the circle.
With Del.
Hoolies, bascha, where are you—?
Shouting died away. Light coruscated. All the rainbows danced, though there was no rain to form them. No moisture in the air. Only scorching heat.
Ajani was shouting still. Del stalked him in the circle. Back, back, back; Boreal teased Samiel, salmon-silver on black.
“Dance,” Del invited. “Dance with me, Ajani.”
Back. Back. Back. He tried to parry, couldn’t.
I saw the bared teeth, the strained face. Saw the fear in piercing eyes. It wasn’t fear of Del, but of what he felt in the sword.
He was a very large man, a man of immense strength as well as strength of will. But he didn’t know Samiel. He didn’t know Chosa Dei.
“Too much for you,” I muttered.
Ajani shouted something. Tendons stood up in his neck.
Heat exploded from the circle. Nearby, a blanket roof caught on fire. Then another. People began to scream. People began to run. Iskandar was on fire.
Wind ripped through the streets, spreading flame in its wake. Now burnouses caught fire, and people began to burn.
“No,” Del declared.
Boreal’s song-summoned banshee-storm howled out of the sword, shredding Samiel’s flame. Winter came at Del’s call. Fire doesn’t burn in sleet.
It was abrupt and unpleasant. It doused Iskandar completely, then wisped into nothingness. I was wet, cold, sweaty. But so was everyone else, even Ajani’s borjuni.
With renewed vigor, they attacked. With renewed vigor, I repulsed. Next to me, Alric fought; behind me Bellin counted Ajani’s supporters as they moved in to surround us. He called out greetings to each, naming them to their faces, which served to startle them. For Alric and me, it was an infallible way of knowing which man meant us harm.
Bascha, I said, I’m coming.
Something stung a rib. I smashed the sword away, then buried my own in a belly. Ripped it free again to turn on another man, but a misstep sent me by him. I staggered, tried to catch my balance, was swallowed by heat and cold and light and all the colors of the world.
Bascha, bascha, I’m coming—whether I want to or not.
I broke through, swearing, and fell into the circle, landing hard on a shoulder. Abbu’s sword spilled free.
Hoolies, my head hurts … and the world’s gone gray again.
Inside, the storm was raging. A hot rain fell. Steam rose from the ground. The breath of winter blew, whistling in my ears. Numbing nose and earlobes.
Boreal was ablaze with all the colors of the North, all the rich, vivid colors. Samiel was black.
A new thought occurred: If Chosa Dei takes Ajani, Del can take Chosa Dei.
But Del didn’t wait that long.
Sprawled on the ground, I saw it. Hatred. Rage. Obsession. The memory of what he’d done; of what had shaped her life. Of who had shaped her life, bringing her to this moment; bringing her to the edge, where balance is so precarious, so incredibly easy to lose. She teetered there, on the edge, looking just beyond. Acknowledging the price, because she’d paid it so many times.
Paying once more would change nothing. And also change everything.
Delilah’s long song would end.
Wind screamed through the circle. It caught on blades and tore, shrieking an angry protest. Ajani’s face was stripped bare. An unforgettable face; an assemblage of perfect bones placed in impressive arrangement. A Northerner in his prime: taller than I, and broader, with a lion’s mane of hair equally thick and blond as Del’s, flowing back from high brow. The magnificence of a woman made masculine for a man.
Bellin had summed it up: his burning was very bright.
His burning was too bright—Chosa Dei looked out of his eyes.
Pale, piercing eyes alight with unholy fire. With the knowledge of promised power.
Time to extinguish him, bascha—before he extinguishes us.
Del stopped singing. Del lowered her sword. And stood there waiting for him.
Waiting? Waiting for what?
Was she blinded by his burning?
No, not Delilah. This was the man who had made her, the way I made my sword. In blood and fear and hatred.
Ajani bared his teeth. “We meet again,” he said. “This time to end it, yes?”
Del, like me, stared. His features were softening. The perfect nose, the set of his mobile mouth; the upswept angle of Northern cheekbones, slanting down his face. Ajani was being unmade.
Hoolies, bascha, kill him!
She slashed the blade from his hands. Her own was at his throat. “Kneel,” she said hoarsely. “You made my father kneel.”
Bascha, that isn’t Ajani—
My sword lay on the ground. My clean, silver sword made of unblemished Northern steel.
My empty, unblemished sword.
Oh, bascha—wait—
“Del—” I croaked.
Ajani bared teeth at her. Chosa Dei stared out of his eyes. “Do you know what I am?”
“I know what you are.”
Ajani shook back his hair. The shape of his jaw was changing. He was wax, softening. Light a candle; he would melt.
Del’s voice was deadly. “I said: kneel.”
Around us, beyond the circle, hundreds waited and watched, too frightened to attempt escape. I lay on the ground and panted, trying to clear my head. Thinking: If I can get to the sword—
But Ajani was too close. He had only to pick it up. He would pick it up—
“Del—” I croaked again. It was all I could manage.
Ajani did not kneel. Chosa Dei wouldn’t let him.
“I am power,” he said. “Do you think you can defeat me? Do you think I will do your bidding, after waiting so long to do mine?”
Hoolies, he didn’t need a sword. All he needed was himself.
Bascha—bascha, kill him—don’t play games with this man—not even in the name of your pride—
Ajani spread his arms. There was no wasted flesh on him, nor a pound out of place. He was taut, fit, big. He made me look puny. His magnificence rivaled Del’s.
“Do you know what I am?”
And I wondered, as I watched him, which man asked the question.
Del shifted her grip. The sword scythed down from above. She sliced a hamstring in two.
He fell, as she meant him to. It wasn’t a proper posture, but no longer did he stand upright to tower over her. To tower over me as I staggered to my feet.
His burning was very bright.
“Now,” I whispered intently.
Del began to sing.
Chosa Dei was in him, but some of Ajani was left. Northern-born, he knew. I saw it in his eyes; in Ajani’s still-human eyes, as the flesh of his face loosened. I saw it in his posture as he slumped before the sword, wearing a bloody necklace. Boreal was thirsty. She tasted him already.
Del sang a song of the kinfolk she had lost. Father, mother, grandfolk, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins. So many kinfolk murdered. Only two of them spared: Jamail and Delilah, the last of the line. The man could never sire a son; the woman could never bear one.
She would kill Ajani. But in the end, he would win.
Delilah ended her song. Stood there looking at him. Did she feel cheated, I wondered, that Ajani wasn’t alone? That when the moment came, she would kill more than the Northerner?
Chosa wasn’t stupid. He reached out. Touched the sword. Closed slack fingers on the grip. Dragged it up from the ground. Black flowed into the blade; better a sword than useless meat.
Pale hair tumbled around his face. His magnificent Northern face, with no hint of softness about it. Chosa Dei was gone.
Ajani shook back his hair, holding the blackened jivatma. But he didn’t try to use it, with Boreal kissing his throat. All he did was stare at the woman who held Boreal, progenitor of storms.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Del didn’t bother to tell him. “You have a daughter,” she said.
And then she took his head.
Eighteen
The body slumped to the ground. Del, set free at last, staggered back and fell.
Oh, hoolies, bascha … don’t pass out now.
She tried to get up, and couldn’t. Exhaustion and reaction stripped her of her strength. All she could do was gasp, clinging to her sword.
Hoolies, Tiger, move—
The private circle was gone, banished by banished magic. Anyone who reached us now would find us easy to touch.
Del had killed Ajani. To the rest, he was the jhihadi.
I heard the ululations, the shouts of angry tanzeers. The clash of Southron steel.
“Sorry, Esnat,” I mumbled. “I think Hadjib will get his war.”
Samiel, I knew, was the answer … before they got to Del.
Bellin got there first. “Don’t touch it!” I shouted.
He dove, thrust out with his axes, scooped up the blade. As I took an unsteady stride—Del and I were a pair—the sword came flying to me. I plucked it out of the air.
Southroners stirred, shouted. They saw the headless jhihadi; the woman with the sword; the Sandtiger with another. And a foreign boy with axes.
Bellin grinned at me. “Do something,” he called. “You’re supposed to be good with that thing.”
Do something?
Fine.
How about a song?
The crowd surged forward en masse. But I cut the air with a reblackened sword and the crowd lurched back again. Across from me stood Alric, teasing the air with his swordtip. Promising violence.
Alric. Bellin. Me. And Del, but she was down. For now we had stopped the crowd, but that wouldn’t last long. We needed more help.
Samiel might give it. All I had to do was sing.
Sing. I hate singing. But how else do you call the magic?
Bellin juggled axes. It was an impressive feat; also a useful one. They’d all seen how he used them. Everyone hung back as Bellin moved easily around Del and me, building a fence of flying axes.
“Just curious,” he mentioned, “but why are you singing now? Especially when you do it so badly?”
I just kept on singing. Or whatever you want to call it.
“Jivatma,” Alric said briefly, as if it answered the question. For some, it might; for Bellin, it answered nothing.
“Get Del,” I said, and went right back to my song. Samiel seemed to like it.
