Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (9 page)

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