Sword Breaker-Sword Dancer 4 (42 page)

"Shaka," I gasped hoarsely. "He knows ... he knows about Chosa--"

A hand was on my back. "Can you get up?"

"I'm too tired to try."

"Here." The hand closed on my shoulder, pressing against rigid flesh. "I'll help--"

It did help. I heaved myself up, managed to sit, then collapsed against the wall. The rock was very cold, but I was too limp to move. I drew up both knees and pressed an arm across my abdomen. My whole body wanted to cramp.

"We brought him here," I rasped. "Chosa--we brought him here."

"We had to," she said.

I rolled my skull against sharp rock. "We made a mistake. They'll tear me to bits, both of them... hoolies, it's a mistake..."

"Tiger." She touched a knee. "It had to be done. You couldn't spend the rest of your life fighting a sword. One day, you would have failed, and Chosa would have had you."

"He has me now. He has me now, and Shaka has him--" I grimaced. "Don't you see?

One of them has to lose--and I'm caught in the middle."

The hand tightened. "I can't believe Shaka would put you at risk. He caused Jamail to speak."

"Then why not restore me?" I scraped myself off rock and sat fully upright, tipping my head back to stare up through the massive mountain chimney to the blue sky overhead.

"Restore me, Shaka! So I can fight Chosa, too!"

The echo died away. Mutely, I looked at Del.

She rose. Went to the very center of the chimney. Tipped her head back and stared up, squinting against the glare. Sunlight bathed samite. She was white in the light of the day.

Her gaze came down. Frowning, she looked around. Assessed the wide-bottomed chimney. Then bent and scooped up pale sand, testing it in her hand before she let it fall back to the floor. "Punja sand," she said. "Fine, and full of crystals ..." She looked around again. "This is a circle."

I grunted. "No. Just a natural chimney. See?" I pointed. "Just a part of the mountain."

"A circle," she said again, and paced to the far wall. "Six and one half," she murmured.

"See? It's not accurate. A proper one is fifteen." Some of the pressure and discomfort had passed. I heaved myself up, cursing, staggered to my fallen harness, but didn't pick it up. I was too busy watching Del.

She rounded the chimney, testing cracks and crannies with deft, questing fingers. "A proper Southron one is fifteen; my legs are longer than that."

I stared at her. Braced legs and tipped my head back again, looking up. Dizzy, I squinted. The chimney looked natural, but maybe it wasn't. Magic had put Shaka here.

Magic, then, had made it.

It was, as Del said, a little more than fifteen paces in diameter, which made it a bit larger than a true circle. The bottom portion of the chimney was widest, curving smoothly into roundness. It was smokerock dark, but ice lined crevices and coated knobby protrusions, glittering in the light. The rounded chimney was striated by faceted ribs of stone spiraling toward the sky. It was hardly symmetrical, and it lacked a certain preciseness, being hacked out of sharp-angled rock. But the floor was properly sandy, and the circumference was round enough. One need only take up a sword and draw a formal circle.

Which I couldn't do anymore.

She dug into a crevice, judging its depth and width. Then withdrew her fingers. She stood very still, as if lost in thought.

"What are you doing?"

"I thought so," Del breathed, ignoring me altogether. "If he could be lured out ..."

I looked at her more sharply. "Del--"

She shook her head. Lips were compressed. She squeezed eyelids together for a brief, tension-filled moment, then opened them again. The line of her jaw was grim. "How are you feeling?"

I countered dubiously. "How are you feeling?"

She looked through me, not at me. Murmured something beneath her breath in an uplander dialect I didn't know. She bit into her bottom lip, turned it white a moment, then let it go again. The blood flowed back.

"Done," she said softly.

"Bascha..." But I let it go. She wasn't listening. "Yes, I'm feeling better. Why?"

Del unsheathed her sword and tossed the harness and sheath against the wall. With deft preciseness, she set the blade tip into the sand and began to draw a circle. She spoke quietly to herself, never pausing an instant. When she joined the ends at the far side, across from the narrow crack, she lifted her jivatma.

"What are you doing?" I asked, for about the thousandth time.

Del stood very still. The light from above bathed her, setting hair and samite to glowing.

Slowly the sword came up until it was in a familiar position: hilt at left hip, double-gripped; left elbow out for balance and dexterity; rune-scribed blade a diagonal slash lined up with her right shoulder, tipped outward slightly in precise, eloquent challenge.

"Take up your sword," she said.

I realized I stood very nearly in the middle of the circle Del had drawn. "Are you sandsick?"

"Take it up," she said.

I nearly laughed. "You yourself said we should never dance against one another with these swords. You always swore it was dangerous."

"It is." She didn't blink. "Take up your sword, Tiger. This is a true dance."

It was curt. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"Elaii-ali-ma. I broke all my oaths, bascha--I renounced my personal honor." Abruptly I was angry, because it hurt so much. "I thought it was plain enough. To you most of all."

"This dance has nothing whatsoever to do with any of that. Here, in this place, elaii-ali-ma is as nothing. This dance is the beginning. This dance is the ending."

Hairs stirred on the nape of my neck. "I don't like the sound of that."

Her tone was firm and sure. "Take up your sword, Sandtiger. We will settle it once and for all."

"You're sandsick," I whispered.

A wind hissed through the crack from the passageway beyond. It snatched tumbled fair hair and blew it back, baring the flawless face. Then rippled and caught the burnous, gusting beneath poised elbows. Heavy folds billowed, curled back; samite slapped ribbed walls. The full panoply of intricate sunset lining blazed forth within the chimney: all glass and brass and gold, and myriad brilliant feathers. Umir's costly burnous set the bastard circle alight, as well as the woman who wore it.

Ice glittered behind her, catching fire from sun and sword. "Dance with me, Chosa Dei. I stand proxy for your brother."

Forty-five

I scooped up the harness and sword. Then turned and stalked out of the circle--

Tried to stalk out of the circle. Something blasted me back at the boundary, flinging me back inside. I sprawled rather inelegantly, dumped flat on my back in the sand.

When the dust had settled and I could see again, let alone breathe, I sat up. Spat grit.

Scowled at the crooked slot I had intended to enter on my way back out of the chimney, but obviously wasn't meant to.

"You can't," Del said. "We came through the wards when we entered, but clearly we can't go out again. At least--you can't."

I twisted my head to glare at her. "Chosa didn't set wards around a circle."

"No. I did that. Or rather, Shaka did." She shrugged. "Did you expect him to give Chosa leave to simply walk out again, while Shaka remains behind?"

"I didn't expect anything. Except maybe a little more respect. And besides, how do we really know Shaka Obre's here, and that there are wards at all? I don't see anything."

"Not all power is visible. Weren't you the one telling me Shaka knew you were here, and that you knew he was here?"

Annoyed, I brushed sand off my chin. "I just don't see how you managed to ward the circle."

"I invoked Boreal. I think Shaka Obre is willing to use whatever avatar he can, since he obviously lacks a body. Just as Chosa does, which is why he wants you."

I grunted. "I'll reserve an opinion."

Del didn't answer. She just lowered her sword, stabbed it down into sand to sheathe it briefly, then stripped out of the burnous. She dropped it onto her harness into folds of Southron sunset, then pulled the sword out of the sand and stepped across the line.

Now two of us were bound. Me by wards and sword; Del by honor and oaths.

Barefoot, both of us, as was proper. I wore dhoti and necklet, Del wore Northern tunic.

And each of us had a sword.

I stood up. Pulled Samiel free of sheath and tossed the harness aside. Turned to face Delilah. "The last time we did this, both of us nearly died."

Del smiled a little. "We were young and foolish then."

"I'd like to get older and wiser. But you may not give me a chance."

Del's voice was soft. "No more delays, Tiger. We came to discharge your jivatma. Let us purify the blade, so it may be free of taint."

"And me," I muttered.

"And you," she agreed.

I took two steps away, turned. "Then let's get it done!" I snapped, and brought Samiel into position without benefit of preparation.

It was an ugly beginning, lacking elegance or power.

We each of us tested the other, tapping blades, then disengaging; sliding steel across steel, then snatching respective blades away before the intimacy increased. It was slow, disjointed, amateurish; nothing of what we knew, save both of us were afraid.

We dug divots in the sand, kicking showerlets of glittering crystal. Blades clashed, fell away; tapped again for a brief moment before wrists turned them aside. Then Del, muttering something, began to sing a song.

I stiffened. "Wait--"

But Del didn't.

Hoolies, if she keys her sword ... oh, bascha--don't do that. Because then the dance will be real... and I don't want it to be--I don't want to relive Staal-Ysta--

Del sang very softly. Silver blade took on the faint glow of palest salmon-silver.

Steel chimed, then screeched apart. I felt her pattern tighten; the increased power in the turn of wrists. Saw the tracery left in the air; an afterglow of jivatma forged and blessed in Northern rituals as binding as those I knew: the oaths of Alimat.

"Dance," Del hissed. "Come on, Chosa--dance--"

"Tiger," I said. "Tiger."

"Dance, Chosa. Or can't you?"

I snapped my blade against hers, felt the power in her counter, jerked mine away again.

"Do you want to summon him?"

A faint trace of sweat sheened her face. "Come out and dance, Chosa. Or have you no power to do it? No skill to guide the sword? No grace to create the patterns?"

"He's not a sword-dancer, he's a sorcerer--"

"Sorcerers can dance. Chosa Dei remakes. Can't he remake himself in your image? Can't he use your body as his? Can't he dance against a woman?"

"Hoolies, bashcha-- " I hop-skipped, ducked a pattern, came up and caught blade with blade. Steel screamed. I broke her pattern easily, practically throwing her sword back at her from the force of my riposte. "What are you trying to do?"

"Dance," she said. "Just--dance. But I don't think Chosa can."

And Del began to sing again, coloring her blade.

Vision blurred. Overlaid with my own present memory was one of a past time. Of a sorcerer blasting sorcerer with power of such magnitude it could remake mountains.

Inside me, Chosa laughed.

"Don't do this!" I shouted.

Delilah's song increased. And Chosa, in me, heard it.

"Don't, bascha--" I choked, recognizing familiar cramps. Sweat ran down my chest to dampen the top of the dhoti. "Don't do this to me--don't make me do this--"

Her pattern grew intricate, tying up my own, then sliding out of the knot. I trapped her, twisted, banged the blades apart.

They met again almost at once, clanging within the chimney. If this was what she wanted--

Inside me, Chosa took notice.

Boreal glowed salmon-silver. With every knot and swoop, Del smeared color in the air. A glowing afterimage of runes and blade and power.

I was irritated. I hadn't wanted this dance. Hadn't wanted this confrontation. I had not even thought about it, because each time I began to I recalled the dance on Staal-Ysta, when Del and I had been matched through trickery and deceit. We each of us had danced then using every bit of skill, because so much--too much--was at stake. In the end, the dance had won, because so many years of training can thwart even the strongest of wills. You just dance, because you have to. Because the body won't let you stop, and pride won't let you give up.

We danced, Delilah and I. Teased one another with steel, flicking tips at noses and throats to promise we could do better, knowing we didn't dare. This was not a dance to the death, not as it had been for Abbu and me, but a dance to the ending, when Chosa would be defeated and the sword would be purified.

We sweated. Cursed. Danced. Taunted one another. Bit lips and spat blood. Dug deeper divots in crystalline sand, bracing muscled thighs and hips to translate power into arms.

I exerted physical strength into the finesse of her patterns, beating her back with sheer power, until she darted in with quickness and grace and teased me into openings she was more than prepared to exploit.

Del slammed blade into blade, scraping edge against Northern runes. In the chimney, the noise was deafening, echoes increased fourfold.

I caught the blade with my own, twisting, and wrenched the steel apart, hissing invective at her for bringing us to this pass. I had long ago given up wondering, even a little, which of us was better. It simply didn't matter. Of course we said it did, merely to tease one another, but I knew in my heart of hearts we neither of us knew.

Del came at me, singing. Northern steel flashed in chimneyed sunlight, throwing slashes against ribbed walls. Clustered crystals of sand and ice glittered in cracks and crannies.

The sun gazed down upon us, benificent arbiter.

Steelsong filled the chimney, spiraling upward along smokerock ribs. We hammered at one another, knowing each blow would be caught, and turned, and blunted. Because neither of us wanted to die. We simply wanted an ending: Del, to discharge the blade and me; me, to be free of the blackness of spirit that had nothing to do with Chosa, and everything to do with dishonor.