Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (40 page)

Halfway to the shoreline, Del stopped. Turned back to look at me. "Not lumps,"

she said, "barrows. See the stones? Cairns and dolmens, marking the passage graves."

I stopped so short the stud walked into me. He snorted, shook his head, nudged

my elbow.

Hoolies. Graves.

I drew in a breath. The lumps--barrows--closest to me had no stones, being merely turf-covered, oblong mounds. But those closer to Del, closer to the lake,

boasted conical piles of weathered dark stone, or large, flat rock caps, some standing on end, others resting across them like a table top. There were, I saw,

runes, carved into the standing stones.

"Staal-Kithra," Del said quietly. "Place of Spirits."

I shivered. "How do we get to the island? There's no boat. And I don't plan on

swimming--particularly as I can't."

"There will be a boat." Del stared out at the island. "There's something I must

do, first. And then we will see if we're given leave to go to Staal-Ysta, or if

it is too late."

In the distance, I heard the whinnying of a horse. So did the stud; he lifted his head and answered, pealing the sound through clear winter air.

"Someone's coming," I said.

She shook her head. "Not yet. Someone will come for the stud, yes, but not until

it's time." She nodded her head eastward, along the shoreline. "The horses are

kept over there, a mile, maybe two, at the settlement. They're tended by the children, who take turns. It's a way of teaching them responsibility. But there

are adults, as well; families of the ishtoya and an-ishtoya. Those of higher rank may keep their families on the island."

"Why so far? Why not here?"

"Staal-Kithra," Del said simply. "Only the dead live here."

The stud whinnied again, smelling mares; other stallions. I gathered slack rein

and kept him close even as he protested, not wanting to lose him now. I might need him again. And soon.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"Tell the voca I am here." Del peeled back her blankets, slipped them, folded them carefully and placed them on the ground. Wind rippled the wool of her tunic

and gaitered trews, plucking at leather fringe and knots. "It shouldn't take long, Tiger."

Standing amidst the barrows and cairns and dolmens of Staal-Kithra, Place of Spirits, Del drew Boreal from her sheath and held up the jivatma as she had done

before, on the border between North and South, balancing hilt and blade on the

open palms of both hands, offering Boreal to the skies, to the gods, to her kin.

Maybe to the spirits.

Or maybe to the voca who waited to pass judgment.

Then, without speaking, she shifted her stance. Brought the sword down, altered

her grip, plunged the blade into the ground so the hilt stood boldly upright.

Del knelt and began to sing.

Across the water, awareness stirred. It lifted the hairs on the back of my neck.

Behind me, the stud blew noisily. Uneasily. I felt his intensity, his arrested

attention, torn from mares and stallions to focus on Del and her sword. And her

song.

She sang until the boat bumped into the shoreline. And then she stopped and waited, leaving, for the moment, Boreal sheathed in living earth.

A man. A Northerner. Blond. Young. Not much older than Del herself.

Blue-eyed,

as I expected, and spectacularly good looking. He moved with grace and economy,

a mixture not trained but born, and he had it in abundance.

Like Garrod, he wore braids. But his were wrapped with gray fur from top to bottom, laced with black cord. His clothing, too, was black; plain, unadorned black, except for the leather harness. He'd studded it with silver to match the

hilt of his sword, worn in harness behind his right shoulder.

Left-handed, then.

"Bron," Del said. No more than that, but I heard surprise, pleasure and thankfulness in her tone. Saw the slight lessening of rigidity in the line of her shoulders as she knelt.

"Delilah." He stopped before her, looking briefly past her to me. His expression

was stern, austere, too stark for a face such as his, made for laughter and lightheartedness. But there was nothing of it in his tone. "An-ishtoya," he amended, lids flickering only minutely.

"Sword-dancer," she told him quietly, speaking Borderer. "Give me no rank, Bron;

you know why."

Again he looked to me. Said something to her in a dialect I didn't know.

Del answered him in the same, tilting her head slightly in my direction, and I

heard the word for Southroner.

It mattered. His mouth tightened. His expression grew more severe. He spoke in

accented Borderer, welcoming me, clearly preferring the pure uplander dialect but speaking instead a tongue I knew. I could not be kept in ignorance. I was the an-ishtoya's sponsor.

Or would be, eventually, when Bron gave us leave to go--

But he didn't.

"The year is done," he told her, "by three days. I am sent to tell the blade she

no longer has a name, and to invite her to step into the circle. Here. Now.

In

Staal-Kithra, as is fitting, with the spirits of others as witnesses, before the

blade without a name can profane the Place of Swords."

Jerkily, Del stood up. She pulled the blade from the ground. "I have a name,"

she said firmly.

"For three days past, you have not."

"I have a name," she said.

Slowly, he shook his head.

"Bron--" But she cut it off. Swung to face me. "Sandtiger," she said evenly,

"will you honor us by drawing the circle?"

I looked at Bron. He was fair, as are all Northerners, but having ridden with Del, I knew the signs. He had placed himself under rigid self-control; he liked

it no more than she. But he was as bound by the honor codes as the woman who would face him.

I unlooped the stud's picket rope and peg, pushing it into the soft turf easily

with a single thrust of one foot. Stepped away, unsheathed my sword.

No. Not mine. Theron's. And Bron knew it.

Very cool, he was. But I've learned to judge the eyes, the flesh, the tautness

of tiny muscles. One ticked by his left eye.

They waited in silence, Del and Bron, as I drew the circle. Turf gave way easily

beneath honed steel, parting to show damp earth. Their footwork might obscure it, altering the line, but I knew they would not require me as arbiter, to warn

them if they moved too close. Clearly, Bron and Del knew one another well.

I stepped away. Cleaned my blade. Sent it hissing home into its sheath.

Waited

as they stripped off harness, gloves, placed them outside the circle, placed blades in the center, then took their positions on opposite sides, outside, waiting for my word to begin the dance.

For the first time in my life, I changed the ritual. "Three days," I said,

"is

nothing. She is here. She is prepared to face the voca, to accept their decision. Isn't this a bit unnecessary?"

Bron was shocked. He stared at me, speechless, then sent a furious look at Del,

as if to blame her for my behavior.

"Or is it that you want to die?" I asked. "Because you will. She's that good, Bron. But then, you know that. You've danced with her before." I folded my arms.

"Why not call this off and let the voca decide instead? There's no need for bloodshed--" I paused "--yet."

He said something to Del in fast, pure uplander. I understood nothing of it, save the anger in his tone. His control was beginning to slip, but only a little. Not enough.

Del shook her head. Taut-faced, she looked at me. "Tiger, please... begin the dance."

"Why?" I shrugged. "Neither one of you wants to dance. I can see it. Can't you?"

I paused. "Yes. You can. Though neither wants to admit it." I shrugged again, casually. "Well then, why not simply get in that boat, row to the island and take this up with the voca? Don't they have the authority? Aren't they the arbiters?"

Bron snapped something curtly. It flushed her face with color. "Don't dishonor

me," she said; not begging, asking. "Don't dishonor the circle."

I looked at Bron. At Del. Inclined my head and unfolded my arms. "Prepare."

Northerners both, they sang. Soft little songs of death in a language I didn't

know. Nor did I care to know it.

"Dance," I told them curtly.

Thirty-five

In my life, I have seen many sword-dances. Most I haven't actually witnessed, being part of the dances themselves, but I knew, watching Del and Bron, I was seeing the purest form of the dance. The magic of trueborn talent.

Here the style was different from the one I'd been taught in the South.

Instead

of brute strength, there was finesse; in place of power, dexterity. And speed,

and incredible reflexes. I am big and strong and powerful, difficult to bring down. But Del is quickness personified, subtle and calculating, trained to wear

down stamina and to irritate, to frustrate with sheer skill, which, in the long

run, can destroy an opponent mentally. He will make mistakes. She will not.

We have sparred many times, Del and I. We've even danced for real, though only

in exhibition. But now, against Bron, in a Northern circle and facing a Northern

opponent, Del's skills unveiled themselves entirely, and showed me a new kind of

brilliance.

One of Del's peculiar gifts is the ability to force mistakes, to create instability on the part of her opponent. She'd done it with me. And now she tried to do it with Bron.

But Bron was also good, as good as any I've ever seen, and he wasn't about to fall victim to her tricks.

The swords had been keyed by the songs. Del's was salmon-silver, Bron's copper-gold. Together they reclaimed winter and made it spring again, setting the smudgy gray sky alight with illumination born of Northern stars and nightskies.

They were perfectly matched. The dance was magnificent. But I knew one of them

had to die.

Sword-dancers. Sword-singers. Each beautifully trained. And each one clearly focused on the need to kill the other.

Blades clashed, whined, scraped free. Spat sparks in the blue light of winter.

Alien runes tied alien knots, then unwound and started all over again, with more

determination.

I saw the patterns begin to form in the air between them. They built a lattice,

each of them; wove a living tapestry of subtle, significant strokes, reflecting

their signatures. The Northern style is one of wristwork, like a painter at a canvas. Dab here, swirl there, complex curlicue here. Except their brushes were

made of steel, and the paint they spilled was blood.

Sweat sheened both faces. Exhalations plumed the air. Bron's expression was one

of tense expectancy, a careful calculation of her movements. But I saw him begin

to relax, to loosen, shedding the tension in his muscles and allowing them to flow. He was incredibly graceful, particularly for a man; he was deer to my bear. Fur-sheathed blond braids swung free as he moved smoothly, easily, clearly

accustomed to the lumpiness of the turf. He was untroubled by its texture, as Del had suggested I become, and hadn't.

Del inhabits a different world when she dances, rising above normal physicalities and their limitations. It's almost as if she becomes the sword she

wields, employing all the knowledge of her slain an-kaidin.

But I knew she would tire faster than Bron, no matter how good her skills, because she'd been too long below the border; her breath would run out before his, leaving her dizzy and fighting for air. It had to be finished quickly.

But I didn't see how it would be. I didn't see how it could be.

The blades were blurs of light, setting the day afire. Patterns dripped in the

air like honey from a hive, running out of a spoon. Against the backdrop of lake

and island, they knit themselves new colors and overwhelmed the gray of the day.

Hoolies, let it be ended. Before I dishonor the dance.

Del cried out. In strength expended, power expelled, in utter extremity. She cried out something in Northern, then braced herself for the blow.

It came swiftly, scything through the air. Bron severed all his remaining patterns with the boldness of his stroke, and tried to run her through the belly.

Boreal flicked. Met his blade, held firm. Turned the force of the blow aside, if

not the blow itself, and screeched in discordant protest as Bron's blade slid across runes.

I saw the fabric of Del's tunic separate. I saw pale flesh beneath. I waited for

the blood, but nothing showed itself.

Hilts hooked. Then Del snatched hers back, reclaiming the blade; leaned away quickly, came back, with a twist of determined wrists.

Bron's blade had missed. Boreal did not.

She took him through the belly. It was a clean, simple thrust, missing bones that might turn the blade, allowing it lethal freedom instead. Her an-kaidin would have been proud; the death was worthy of her.

Bron fell, pulling free of the sword. His own blade swung wildly, then tumbled

out of his hand to lie unattended just out of the circle. He remained within.

He gazed up at her in surprise, then said something in uplander. Del answered in

the same tongue, kneeling down by his side. She was clearly exhausted, winded by

exertion. Her hand shook as she touched his.

I don't know what more he said. I don't speak uplander, and his life was nearly

spent. But it meant something to Del; she bent forward and kissed his brow.

When

she straightened, he was dead.

Del sat very still for a very long time. Slowly her breathing stilled, ran smooth. I saw the expressions in her face: grief, guilt, regret, a hardening of

resolve. But the latter was most extreme; it changed her face from flesh to marble and stripped it of humanity.