Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (37 page)

"If Southron women are so wonderful," she said at last, "why is it Southron men

are so quick to steal Northern women?"

My grin went away. Finally, I said, "Probably because they're different. In coloring, customs, personality."

"Which could mean Southron men actually prefer women with more independence and

spirit."

"Could," I agreed cautiously, "but never once have I heard a Southron man expressing a desire for a contentious woman."

"There is a distinct difference," Del said, "between a contentious woman and an

independent one."

"Only women who are truly unhappy will seek out that sort of independence," I countered. "I'll bet if you asked most Southron women which kind of lifestyle they prefer, they'd take Southron over Northern."

"Maybe," she agreed coolly, "at first, because they know it... but only until they had a chance to experience our freedom."

"Not if it cost them their men."

"A true man wouldn't be threatened by an independent woman."

"How do you know what a true man is or isn't threatened by?" I demanded in disgust. "With you sitting so close against my back, there's no way I'd mistake

you for a man. Which means you can't know."

Del scootched back a little, which wasn't what I'd intended. "I can know,"

she

answered readily, "and I can prove it by asking a simple question: are you threatened by me?"

Oh, hoolies. She's so good at laying traps.

"Well?" Del, again.

"A lot of men would be--"

"Are you?"

"--and probably with reason. You're a man's fantasy, maybe, but not the sort of

woman--" I broke off there because the hole was getting deeper.

"Tiger, answer the question. Are you threatened by me?"

"If I said yes, I'd be lying. But if I said no, I'd sound like an arrogant fool."

"That never stopped you before."

So nice, was Del. "No, I'm not threatened by you."

"Which means that a true man can accept independence in a woman."

I chewed on that a little. I'm not so stupid around women as to believe all their flattery, backhanded or not.

"Now," she said, "what kind of woman am I not?"

Hoolies. She'd noticed.

I sighed. "Not the kind of woman Southroners marry."

"Only the kind they dream about...if they have room for imagination along with

ignorance."

"Now, Del," I sighed again, giving it up; it wasn't worth arguing. "Of course Southroners dream. All men dream. And I'd be willing to bet that Northern men dream about Southron women."

"I have no argument with dreams," she said tartly. "It's when men oppress women

in reality that I become concerned."

"The North and South are two different places, Del... with different people, different customs, different gods. One isn't better than the other... it's just

different." I paused. "And anyway, where'd you become so vocal about women's independence?"

She didn't answer at once. When she did, her tone was odd. "Mostly, from my family," Del said softly. "My mother was a strong, strong-minded woman who raised her sons to respect her gender and taught her husband to, as well. I was

her only daughter... I grew up doing all of the things my brothers and uncles and father did, even to learning the knife and sword, and how to fight like a man. But it was in Staal-Ysta where I learned to be myself. Where I learned to

be a person instead of male or female."

Staal-Ysta. I recalled the name from something Garrod had said. Ask her, he had

told me. Ask her of Staal-Ysta.

So I did.

Del didn't answer at once. And, sitting squarely in front of her, I couldn't see

her expression. All I had to go by to judge her reaction was the tension in her

body, by necessity close to mine.

Eventually, I asked again.

"Place of Swords," she said finally. "That's what the words mean."

Poetic enough, I thought. Appealing, too; being a sword-dancer, I kind of liked

the picture the words painted.

But Garrod hadn't meant to ask her merely about the name. "What does the phrase

'a blade without a name' mean?"

Behind me, Del stiffened. Only slightly, but I found it remarkable nonetheless.

"Where did you hear that?"

I might have lied. But I didn't. It seemed a fair enough question. "Garrod.

He

was angry... upset about the horses. He said something--" I paused, frowning,

"--something about you being a blade without a name." I shrugged, guiding the stud. "He said it was a thing of Staal-Ysta."

"So it is." Her tone was cool.

"Something secret, I take it."

"A blade without a name translates to outcast, outlaw, wolf's-head," she explained precisely. "It indicates someone outside the honor codes of the voca."

"By choice."

"By choice," Del agreed. "Someone who can't learn the codes, or can't finish the

training, is merely told to go home. But an an-ishtoya who refuses the final training that would make him a kaidin, yet uses his sword skills for harm, is considered a blade without a name."

"You didn't become a kaidin?"

"No. But I chose to become a sword-dancer, which is open to students as well.

And I live within the codes."

Something tickled me in the belly. "How close are you, Del? How close to breaking the codes?"

"A matter of weeks," she said without hesitation. "If I fail to reach Staal-Ysta

within three weeks, to stand trial before the voca, I will be declared a blade

without a name and subject to execution by any who wish to try."

I'd known that. Just not the language. "One more thing," I said. "Does your song

have an ending?"

She said nothing at all at first. And then: "Stop this horse."

At first, I didn't. "Del--"

"Stop this horse."

I'm not deaf; she was upset. She didn't yell, but then Del doesn't need to.

She

knows how to use her tone. Accordingly, I stopped the horse. Looked around as Del slid off to stand in damp leaves. Saw the ice in her eyes, but also the blaze behind it.

Hoolies. Now I'd done it.

"Del--"

"Come down," she said.

"Come up," I countered. "You yourself said there are only three weeks left before the voca can make you an outlaw. Shouldn't we be going?"

Del drew her sword. "Come down," she said. In the distance, hounds bayed.

I scratched stubble. Considered entering into argument. Decided against it; that

look in her eyes told me to take her seriously and not waste any more time.

I swung a leg over and slid off the stud, retaining my hold on the reins. It wouldn't do to lose him now, after going afoot before.

Del thrust the blade into the ground. It sank halfway in the damp, decaying layers of rain-soaked leaves, then slid into mud and held. She took her hands from the hilt.

"I can't give you the oaths," she said, "because they are private things. But I

swore them on the souls of murdered kin, wrote them in my own blood, told them

to the runemaster who set them into the blade." Fingers indicated the alien glyphs running from hilt to tip, though half-buried in the ground. "To abdicate

those oaths dishonors my sword, my training, my kin. Do you think I could do that?"

"I only asked--"

"You asked if my song had an ending."

"Well, yes--"

"Without knowing what it means."

"Well... yes--"

"Without knowing what you asked."

And again yes. "Garrod said I should ask you."

Her tone was bitter. "And do you always do what young Northern strangers ask you

to do? Especially one whose own personal honor is highly questionable?"

I ignored her questions. "Maybe Garrod was right to do it."

It took her off guard. "What?"

"He said even an upland horse-speaker knows about Staal-Ysta and the honor codes

of the voca. It seemed to make a difference. But I, being a Southroner, know nothing about the place. Nothing about the customs." I looked at Boreal, then over to Del. "Does your song have an ending?"

Her face was white. "You ask that, not knowing what you ask?"

"Maybe I would if I had an answer."

Del stared at her sword. It was plain I'd put her in turmoil, though the indications were subtle. Del masks her face well, but I've learned to read the

signs. She stared at her sword as if hoping--or honestly expecting--it would tell her what to do, but in the end she decided all by herself.

"He'll have to know," she said obscurely, "one way or another."

Not what I call encouraging. "Del--"

"I swore oaths," she said, "as I told you. But these are oaths of a different nature than the kind ordinarily sworn. They have to do with Staal-Ysta, and what

it makes you; what you become to name a jivatma." Her gaze was on Boreal. "I have no doubts you have sworn oaths in your life, Tiger, and they are as binding

as you make them... but in the North, it's different. In Staal-Ysta, more different yet; the binding is permanent, made of blood and steel and magic and

the blessings of the gods."

"Now, Del--"

She lifted a silencing hand. "I am giving you an answer to your question.

Never

say I didn't warn you; it's more than most people get."

Part of me wanted to break it off; obscurity irritates me. But Del was clearly

serious, and it wouldn't hurt to listen.

At least, I didn't think so. "All right, bascha... go on."

"When you set yourself a task, you make yourself a song. And go on singing it until the task is completed."

I frowned. "I don't understand."

Del's face was expressionless. "My first task was to find Jamail and bring him

home. As you know, I couldn't do it; that part of the song was destroyed. But there still remains another. A bloodsong, Tiger--a deathsong. My task is to kill

Ajani and the men who accompanied him. Until that is accomplished, my song can

never end. And a song without an end is not a true song at all, but merely meaningless noise."

In the distance, hounds yapped and howled. I glanced around, then back at Del.

"Something like that," I said.

"Yes," she said, "but forever. Noise without purpose or ending."

I nodded. "What it means is a sword-dancer out of control. One without purpose

or honor."

"I am hard," Del said. "Hard and cold and cruel. But my song has an ending.

My

blade has a name."

"For how much longer?" I asked. "If the voca finds you guilty and orders your execution, your task will remain undone. Your song will never end. Your oaths will all be broken."

"No," she said, "they won't. I made a pact with the gods."

I wanted to laugh, but didn't. Del was too serious.

I pointed at the sword. "Clean that thing and let's go."

Thirty-two

I woke up because I was cold, and because someone was spitting on my face. Not a

good way to start the day.

I swore beneath heavy blankets, heaved myself up, realized the sky was doing the

spitting; wet, cold things were falling out of it. Not rain; I know rain.

Something like sticky ice.

"Del!"

She woke up. Peered at me sleepily. "You're letting in the cold."

So I was. I lay down again, but stiffly, blankets hooded around my head.

"Del--what is this?"

"Snow." She hitched herself closer, hair catching on my stubble. "Why--what did

you think it was?" When I didn't answer, Del pushed herself up on one elbow and

looked at me more closely. And then she began to laugh.

"Not funny," I muttered. "How was I supposed to know?"

Del was stretched against me, feet intertwined with mine. I felt the trembling

of her laughter; heard the giggles she tried to suppress.

I turned over onto my side, facing her beneath blankets. Cold snuck into the folds and chilled exposed flesh, turning it rose-red along the angles of Northern cheekbones. I reached out and smoothed back hair. It was good to hear

her laugh, even at my expense.

I pushed the blanket off her head. Snow stuck on hair and lashes, turning to droplets on her face. Barehanded, I touched her cheek. "How long has it been since you laughed? Like this, I mean; really laughed?"

Slowly, the smile fell away. Tears of merriment dried in her eyes. She said nothing at all in answer, too startled by my question. There was wariness in her

expression as well as bafflement.

Her tone was odd. "I don't know."

I traced the thin lace of a silvery scar threading the flesh of one cheek. "A week ago you stood before your sword and named yourself hard and cold and cruel,

sworn to avenge your family. I won't disagree; sometimes you are. But you can also be other things. A woman of passion and laughter."

She shrugged. "Maybe once."

I grunted. "More than once, bascha. I'll swear to that. I share your bed, remember?"

Del sighed. We are not a man and woman for soft words between us, being too ruled by other things; locked too tightly into our roles and allowing no latitude. But I would be a liar to say I didn't think them. To say I didn't feel

them. And I think Del would, too.

It was a soft and silent dawn, except for the stream nearby, and filled by falling snow. It was cold, but we were not, for the moment warmed by new thoughts and feelings, not thinking about the weather. And then she lowered snow-frosted lids and shuttered her thoughts from me, turning away a little.

"Don't," was all she said.

"Del, I don't mean to hurt you. I only mean that if you push yourself any harder, wind yourself any tighter, something is going to break."

Tautly: "There are things I have to do."

"Not at the risk of destroying yourself."

"Ajani did that a long time ago."

Inwardly, I swore. Outwardly, I shook my head. "And so you have reshaped the real Delilah into someone she is not."