Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (19 page)

Someone--something--was dead. The remains were sprawled on the floor.

"I did that?"

Del lowered her arm. "You have no idea, have you? You truly don't know what you

did."

"Apparently I killed someone. Or something; what is that?"

"Chosa Dei," she answered. Then, ominously: "Chosa Dei's body. His spirit is somewhere else."

"Hoolies, not here, I hope. I'd just as soon not tangle with him again any time

soon." I sat up all the way. Glanced around the chamber. "I see you did in the

hounds."

"I did. You did. What is important is that they are dead. I think all of them are dead." She shrugged. "Not that it matters now, since Chosa Dei is--gone."

I rolled shoulders gently, rubbed at tension in my neck. "Well, it's what we came to do. Now Ysaa-den is safe, and so are all the jivatmas."

"Oh?" Del asked. "Are you so certain of that?"

"He's dead, isn't he? Isn't that Chosa Dei?"

"His body," she repeated. "His soul is in your sword."

I stopped breathing again. "His soul is where?"

"In your sword," she answered. "What do you think you did?"

"Killed him." I paused. "Didn't I? I took him through the ribs. It should have

killed him."

"Not that. I don't mean that. I mean what you did when you sang."

A chill washed across flesh. "What?"

Del's eyes sharpened. "You sang. Don't you remember? You dropped down from the

roof of the chamber into a mass of hounds, and all the way you sang. You didn't

stop once." She shrugged. "It wasn't very good--you have a truly terrible voice--but that doesn't matter. What matters is that you meant it. What matters

is that it worked. You unmade Chosa Dei, but you also remade your sword."

"What?"

Del spelled it out. "You requenched, Tiger. Just like Theron did."

Theron. I thought back months and months and recalled the Northern sword-dancer

who had come south hunting Del. He had a jivatma, as she did; a true-made, true-quenched jivatma. But he had addressed a new need and requenched his Northern blade in the body of a magician. It had given him an edge. It had nearly defeated Del. Nearly defeated me.

"Well," I said finally. "I didn't do it on purpose."

Del turned on her heel and walked away. I think she was still angry, though I didn't really know why. I had just saved her life. I had just saved the world.

I smiled wryly at that. Then worked my way to my feet and went over to the body.

Well, it was sort of a body. It was charred and shrunken and crisped, collapsed

upon itself. It was half the size of me. It was smaller even than Del.

Does a soul take up that much room?

It was odd looking down on the remains of a man I'd never seen, but killed.

There were no recognizable features, no normal hair, nothing that spoke of a man. He was a shape, nothing more; it left a bad taste in my mouth.

From the pile of loose cloth and crisped flesh gleamed the hilt of my requenched

jivatma. Chosa Dei's new prison.

"I'll break it," I said. "I'll melt it." I glanced at the crucible. "I'll melt

it into slag, then get me a Southron sword."

Del spun. "You can't?"

"Why not? I don't want to lug around a sword with him in it."

Del's face was white. "You have to lug it around. You have to carry it forever,

until we find a way to discharge it. Don't you understand? Chosa Dei is in there. If you destroy the sword, you'll destroy his prison. You're his ward now.

His own personal ward. Only you can keep him imprisoned."

I very nearly laughed. "Del, this is ridiculous. Are you really going to stand

there and tell me that Chosa Dei is in my sword, and that if I personally don't

guard him, he might get out again?"

Under the blood, she was white. "Always," she said, "always. Always you must doubt."

"You've got to admit it sounds pretty farfetched," I told her. "I mean, you were

the one who told me Chosa Dei was only a legend, something someone made up for

stories."

"I was wrong," she declared.

I stared at her. Here I'd been trying to get her to admit such a thing for the

last two weeks with regard to her behavior on Staal-Ysta, and she still hadn't

done it. But she was more than willing to say the three magical words when it came to Chosa Dei--or whoever he was.

I itched all over from sweat and crusted, smelly blood. Thoughtfully, I scratched through my beard to complaining flesh beneath. "Let me see," I said.

"You expect me to spend the rest of my life making sure Chosa Dei stays put."

"No, not your whole life. Only until the sword can be discharged."

I frowned. "How do we do that? And what exactly is it?"

Del lifted her own sword, still clasped in her right hand. "There is power in here," she said. "Wild magic, and controlled magic--the control comes from a proper blooding and keying, as well as strength of will. But there is a way of

discharging the power, of channeling it elsewhere, so the sword is a sword again." She shrugged. "Magic is magic, Tiger--it has a life of its own.

That's

why, when Theron died, you could use his jivatma. The magic had been discharged."

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."