Sword-Maker, page 7
“Then sell it. Give it away. Break it. Melt it down.” I shrugged. “I don’t care, Del. If you win, you can do whatever you want.”
Slowly she shook her head. “You have no respect for things you don’t understand.”
I cut her off. “Respect must be earned, bascha, not bought. Not even trained, as it is in Staal-Ysta. Because until tested, respect is nothing but a word. Emptiness, Del. Nothing more than that.”
Still she shook her head. “That sword was made for you—made by you—”
“It’s a piece of steel,” I said curtly.
“You completed the rituals, asked the blessing—”
“—and stuck it into you.” I shocked her into silence. “Do you really think I want a sword that tried to kill you?”
Del looked at Boreal, sheathed by her side. Remembering the circle. Remembering the dance.
Her tone was oddly hollow. “I would have killed you.”
“You tried. I made you mad, and you tried. Fair enough—it was what I meant to do, to throw you out of your pattern.” I shrugged. “But I didn’t want to kill you. I didn’t intend to do it. The sword wanted to do it … that bloodthirsty, angry sword.”
“Angry,” she echoed.
“It was,” I told her. “I could feel it. Taste it. I could hear it in my head.”
She heard something in my tone. “But—now it isn’t angry?”
I smiled grimly. “Not so much anymore. Just like that hound, it got what it came for.”
Del nodded slowly. “You killed someone, then. After all. You’ve quenched your jivatma.”
I squinted thoughtfully. “Not—exactly. Killed something, yes, but not what you might expect. And not in the way you told me.”
Del, frowning, was very intent. “What have you done, Tiger?”
“Killed something,” I repeated. “Cat. White, dappled silver.” For some reason I said nothing about the pelt, which I’d tucked away into saddle-pouches. “But I didn’t sing.”
“Snow lion,” Del said. “You didn’t sing at all?”
“I’m a sword-dancer, Del. Not a sword-singer, or whatever it is you claim. I kill people with my sword. I don’t sing to it.”
Del shook her head thoughtfully. “It doesn’t really matter if you didn’t sing aloud. Even a mute can earn a jivatma. Even a mute can sing a song.”
I scowled. “How?”
She smiled. “A song can be sung in silence. A song can be of the soul, whether anyone hears it or not. Only the sword counts, and it only requires the soul and all the feelings in it.”
I thought of the song I’d heard on the overlook by the lakeshore. The song I’d heard in my head ever since I’d named the blade. Thanks to the Cantéada, I’d been unable to forget it.
And now it was my sword.
“I don’t need it,” I declared. “I don’t want it, Del.”
“No. But it wants you.” She pointed to my sword. “To find you, I used my jivatma. I painted the sky with my sword—you saw all the colors. You saw all the lights. All from a song, Tiger—and you could do the same.”
The questions boiled up. “Why did you do it? And how did you find me so fast? Especially with that wound … it should have put you down longer than my own did.” A sudden chill touched a fingertip to my spine. “You didn’t do anything—odd—did you? Make any promises? Any pacts? I know how you are about those things.”
“What I do is my business.”
“Del—what did you do?” I looked harder at the strain etched into her face. “What exactly did you do?”
Her mouth was flat and hard. “I have a jivatma.”
An answer, of sorts. It told me more than enough. “So, you sang to it, did you? Begged more magic of it? Offered up even more of your humanity in exchange for arcane strength?”
“What I do—”
“—is your own business; yes, Del, I know, I know … you’ve always been at such pains to make certain I understood that.” It was all I could do to keep my tone even. “How did you manage it? Magic?” I lifted eyebrows. “Is that how you caught up so fast?”
Her face was pensive. “There is no magic about that, Tiger. They told me you were bound for Ysaa-den. I know the North well—I took a shortcut.”
I waited. She offered nothing further. So I asked. “Why did you paint the sky?”
After a moment, she shrugged. “I thought it might bring you in.”
It was something. From her, it was everything. “But you came to me,” I said. “After I left you in the clearing. You came to me.”
She touched the hilt of her sword. Very gently. “I realized, after I did it, and you came, that you wouldn’t stay. That I’d have to go to you.” Del smiled sadly. “A man’s pride is a powerful thing.”
I scowled balefully, disliking the twinge of guilt. “I’ve got no use for painting the sky.”
She laughed a little. “Maybe not. But there are other things. Other magics available; you’ve seen my jivatma.”
“Hunh.”
Del shrugged. “You swore to me you’d never use it. You’d never kill, never blood it. But you have killed, Tiger, and you made your blade a song.” She looked again at my sword. “Whether you like it or not, there’s magic in your blade. There’s power in your blade. And if you don’t learn to control it, it will control you.”
I looked at Boreal, so quiescent in her sheath. I knew what she could do. But only at Del’s bidding. If left to her own devices—
No. Don’t think about that. Think about something else.
“You,” I said, “are sandsick. So now it’s your turn to watch.”
And as Del, disgruntled, glared, I bundled myself in bedding.
Eight
It’s very easy to fall into old patterns. Del and I had been together long enough to develop certain rhythms in our day-to-day existence. Simple things, mostly: one of us built and tended the fire, another laid a meal; each of us tended our horses. We knew when to rest them, knew when we needed rest, knew the best times and places to stop for the night. Much of what we did required no conversation, for most was a reflection of things we’d done before.
It was easy to forget. Easy to recall only that we were together. And then something, some little thing, would crop up and remind me that for the space of six weeks we hadn’t been together—and I’d remember the reason why.
We rode toward Ysaa-den, following hound spoor. Saying little to one another because we didn’t know what to say. At least I didn’t. What Del thought—or knew, or didn’t know—was, as always, her own business, and always exceedingly private, unless she chose to share. For the moment, she didn’t.
She rode ahead of me. The stud didn’t like it, but I was pacing him. I didn’t want him to overextend himself. So I made him stay behind the blue roan and content himself with second place. Trouble was, he wasn’t.
Del’s back was straight. She rides very erect anyway, but I knew some of her exceptional posture had to do with the wound. No matter what she said, or didn’t—or how much magic she had used—I knew it was hurting her. And I knew what an effort it took for her to keep on going.
Boreal cut her back in half from left shoulder to right hip, as Samiel did my own. I glared at Boreal, thinking bad things about it. Thinking also about my own sword; what did it want me to do? What would it force me to do?
And then I forgot about Samiel, looking again at Boreal. Noting how quietly she rode in the leather sheath. How meekly the weapon rested, hiding deadly blade. Hiding alien, gods-blessed steel that sang a song of its own, just as Delilah did.
And in cold, abrupt clarity, I wondered just how much of Del’s obsession was born of blade instead of brain.
I knew little of jivatmas other than what Del and Kem had told me. And even then, I hadn’t put much stock in what they said. It wasn’t until my own new-made sword had made his bloodthirst known that I’d realized just how independent a jivatma could be. Which meant it was entirely possible Del wasn’t fully responsible for her own actions. Hadn’t she begged, on more than one occasion, for Boreal’s aid? For power?
I glared at the hilt riding so high on her left shoulder. Had Del somehow willingly subjugated her own personality to the demands of a magicked sword? Did she need revenge so badly?
She had sworn oaths. I swear a lot myself, but generally not oaths. At least, not the binding kind; the kind that make you do something you’d really rather not do. But Del was different. Del took vows and oaths and swearing much more seriously. It was what had driven her to become a sword-dancer. To give up a child. It was what had driven her south, alone, to search for a kidnapped brother.
It was what had driven her to seek out a sword-dancer called the Sandtiger, who knew people she didn’t, and how to find them.
A man makes of himself many things, depending on his needs and the shaping of his life. Me, I’d been a slave. And then a free man seeking power to make a real life for himself. A life of his own choosing without demands from other people.
Well, yes, there were demands. If I hired on to a tanzeer, I was his to command. But only if what he wanted agreed well enough with my willingness to do it. And there were things I was unwilling to do. Killing people who deserved it, or who gave me no other choice, was something I’d come to terms with many years before. For a long time, killing was almost enjoyable, because it released some of my anger. After a while, having grown up a little, hostility was no longer so evident. I was free. No one could ever make me a slave again. I no longer had to kill.
Except it was the only thing I was good at.
Sword-dancing was my life. I’d freely chosen it. I had apprenticed formally and become a seventh-level sword-dancer, which made me very good. It made me what I was. A dangerous, deadly man.
Who hired out his sword to anyone with coin.
By nature, we are solitary souls. After all, it’s hard for a hired killer to have a normal life. Whores don’t mind sleeping with us so long as we pay them and they can brag about it—and sometimes our fame is payment enough—but decent women don’t generally marry us. Because a man who sells his sword for a living always walks the edge of the blade, and a woman who wants to grow old with her man doesn’t like to lose him young.
There are exceptions, of course. Sword-dancers do marry, or take a woman as their own without benefit of rites. But most of us don’t. Most of us ride alone. Most of us die alone, leaving no woman or children to grieve.
There was a reason for it. Domestic responsibility can ruin a sword-dancer’s soul.
And now here was Del. No longer the same Del. Forever a different Del. Not because of the girl she’d borne, though it did make me think of her differently. Not because we’d shared a bed so many times in the past. But because of what she had done and what I had done; because of what we’d become.
Loyalty is a sacred thing. A thing to be admired. A thing to be treasured. It isn’t something two people in our profession, where loyalty is so often purchased, experience very often. Loyalty within a circle is very rare indeed, because too often someone dies, or sacrifices pride, which can destroy a relationship. But for a while we’d known it. For a while we had lived it.
But we’d both of us forsworn the virtue in the circle on Staal-Ysta.
Oh, hoolies, bascha, what I’d give for the old days.
But which old days? The ones with her, or without her?
Without was easier. Because with I’d nearly killed her.
Del turned in the saddle a moment, hooking hair behind an ear. It bared her face. A fine-drawn face of magnificent planes, and too many of them visible. Pain, oaths, and obsession had reshaped youthful flesh into a mask of brittle beauty. A cold, hard-edged beauty that made me think of glass.
Glass too often breaks. I wondered when she would.
Just after dawn I awoke, looking for Del. It was something I’d found myself doing each morning since we’d joined up together, and it irritated me. But each morning I did it anyway. For reassurance.
And each morning I said to myself: Yes, Del is alive. Yes, Del is here.
It isn’t a dream after all.
Grunting, I sat up. Tried to stretch muscles and pop joints without waking her, because no man likes a woman to see how he’s growing older, how the years are taking their toll. And then I stood up, slowly, and walked, equally slowly, over to the stud. I checked him every morning, just to be sure. The claw slashes were healing well, but the hair would come in white. Like me, he’d carry the scars to his death.
Still, he seemed in much better spirits—or maybe it was just that the gelding’s presence made him take more of an interest in life. Whatever it was, he was more like his old self. His old, unpleasant self.
I ran my hand down the stud’s shoulder, peeling winter hair. It was nearly spring; he was beginning to shed his fur.
“Tiger.”
I glanced back and saw Del standing beside the fire. She had shed all her wrappings and faced me in white woolens, pale hair braided back from her face and laced with white cord. She took the sheath and harness into her hands and slid Boreal into dawn. Rune-worked steel gleamed. “Will you dance with me, Sandtiger?”
I turned from the stud to face her squarely. “You’re in no shape to dance, Del. Not yet.”
“I have to start sometime. It’s been much too long.”
For some strange reason it made me very angry. “Hoolies, woman, you’re sandsick! I doubt you could hold a stance for more than a single eyeblink, and certainly not against any offense I might show you. Do you think I’m blind?”
“I think you’re afraid.”
Something deep inside twisted. “That again, then.”
“And again, and again.” She lifted the deadly jivatma. “Dance with me, Sandtiger. Honor the deal we made.”
Pride made me take a step toward my sword. But only a single step. I shook my head at her. “Not this time, bascha. I’m older, a little wiser. You can’t tease me into the circle. Not any more. I know your tricks too well.”
The tip of her sword wavered minutely. And then flashed as she shifted her grip and drove the blade straight down, deep into the earth. “Tease you?” she asked. “Oh, no.” And before I could stop her, Del knelt before her sword. She tucked heels beneath buttocks and crossed wrists against her chest. The braid fell over her shoulder to dangle above the ground. “Honored kaidin,” she said, “will you share with me some of your skill?”
I stared at the Northern woman offering obeisance to me, and all I felt was anger. A deep and abiding anger so strong it made me sick.
“Get up,” I rasped.
All she did was bow her head.
“Get up from there, Delilah.”
The full name made her twitch, but it did not force her up.
In the end, knowing from experience the strength of her determination, I crossed the clearing to her. She knew I was there; short of being deaf, she could not miss my string of muttered oaths. But she didn’t rise. She didn’t so much as lift her head.
I reached out a rigid hand. What I grabbed was Boreal.
“No—” Suppressing a cry, Del fell back. Illness and pain had taken her strength, stealing away her quickness. In my hands I held the proof.
“Yes,” I said clearly. “We made a deal, bascha, and I will honor it. But not yet. Not yet. Neither of us is ready.” I shook my head wearily. “Maybe it’s just that I’m older. Maybe it’s that I’m wiser. Or maybe it’s just the blind pride of youth that makes you risk yourself.” I scrubbed a hand across my brow, thrusting fallen hair aside. “Hoolies, I don’t know—maybe it’s just sword-dancers. I used to do the same.”
Del said nothing. She half-knelt on the ground, pressing herself upright with one hand while the other clutched her ribs. Color stood high in her face. Flags of brilliant crimson against pearl-white flesh.
I sighed. Set Boreal’s tip against the ground and pressed her down, slowly, so she stood freely upright. Then I gingerly lowered myself to Del’s level, kneeling carefully, and unbuckled my heavy belt.
Del’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you something.” I dropped the belt, pulled up layers of wool. Exposed my rib cage. “There,” I said. “See? Your handiwork, Del. A clean, perfect sword thrust. And it hurts. It hurts like hoolies. It will for some time to come, Del—maybe even forever. Because I’m not as young as I used to be. I heal slower. I hurt longer. I learn from my mistakes, because my mistakes are around to remind me.”
Del’s face now was dirty gray. She stared transfixed at the ugly scar. It was more vivid than it might be because, coming north, I’d lost much of my color. Livid purple against pale brown is not an attractive mix.
“I hurt, bascha. And I’m tired. I want nothing more than to go home, to go south, where I can bake myself in the sun and forget about Northern snow. But I can’t until I’m finished with the job I said I’d do. And in order to finish the job, I have to stick around.”
Del swallowed hard. “I only want to dance.”
I tugged my tunic down. “I won’t ask you to show me yours, since I’ve got a good idea what it looks like. It was me who did it, bascha—I know what the thrust was. I know what it did to you. If you went into a circle now, you wouldn’t survive the dance.” I picked up my own sword, still on the ground between us. “I almost killed you once. I won’t risk it again.”
“Too much time,” she whispered.
With a grunt, I stood up. “You’ve got all the time in the world, my Northern bascha. You’re young. You’ll heal. You’ll recover your strength. You’ll dance again, Delilah—that I promise you.”
“How old are you?” she asked abruptly.
I frowned down at her. “I thought I already told you.”
“No. All you ever said was you were older than me.” Surprising me, Del smiled. “That I already knew.”
“Yes, well … I imagine so.” Irritated, I scratched my sandtiger scars. “I don’t know. Old enough. Why? Does it matter? After all this time?”
“You’re the one making age an issue, Tiger. I only wanted to know how old the old man is.”
