Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (10 page)

in it, to shout aloud that I was right.

But I didn't. I was too busy trying to breathe.

Eventually, my eyes stopped tearing, my ears ceased ringing, my chest halted its

heaving. I sat up. Spat out dirt. Sneezed. Picked grass out of my hair.

Peered

through the acrid smoke and saw Del doing much the same. She was all right, then; it meant I could gloat with impunity.

Except I wasn't so sure I wanted to, anymore.

The sword stood upright between us, untouched by the blast that had thrown us both to the ground. The earth around it was scorched, but the blade was clean of

ash or charring. It glowed a pale, luminescent purple.

I stood up slowly and slapped dirt and ash from my burnous. "Well," I said lightly, "time to get a new sword."

Del remained seated. She contemplated the glowing blade. I saw astonishment and

disbelief. Careful consideration. The line deepened between her brows as she scowled at Theron's sword. To herself, she said, "It isn't supposed to do that.

Theron is dead."

"Now do you believe me?"

She didn't even glance up. "Touch it, Tiger."

I nearly gaped. "Touch it? Touch that? After what it did before? You're sandsick, bascha. We're leaving that thing stuck here in the ground for the next

fool who comes along, and welcome to it!"

She shook her head. "We can't. It's a jivatma--made for a particular person.

It

would dishonor the sword to leave it. We should take it to Staal-Ysta, for proper burial at Staal-Kithra."

She was rattling off strange names, but I was too upset to ask her about either

of them. "Hoolies, Del, it might have killed us both."

"No," she said calmly, "I don't think so." She chewed her bottom lip and looked

from the sword to me. Twice, then once more. Thoughtfully. Deeply. As if she considered something new and wholly unexpected. And then she smiled slowly, so

slowly, as if she realized something, and she laughed, as if what she considered

was also an answer to a question. "The child goes where the man may not..."

The

phrase trailed off, but the light in her eyes did not. "Perhaps, after all, I can win."

"Del--"

But she thrust herself up from the ground abruptly, ignoring the beginnings of

my question. She pointed to the sword. "I swear, you can touch it. You can use

it. It's nothing but a sword."

Wariness made me curt. "You said that once before."

She pursed her lips and nodded. "Yes. I did. It was. And it is again; I promise."

"Then why is it glowing?"

"Because, somehow, you keyed it. Not properly--you don't know the rituals--but

somehow you touched the soul within the blade." Del shrugged. "There is too much

I cannot tell you, because you are not ishtoya. There are secrets, Tiger, that

only the an-kaidin know."

"You know."

"Yes," she said, "I know. But I am sword-dancer, not an-kaidin; it is not for me

to tell you."

"Then you pull it out of the ground."

Del sighed. "I can't. You've keyed it, Tiger. Only a little--not enough to make

it serve you as it served Theron--but enough to make it aware of the differences

between us." She tilted her head left, toward the hilt of Boreal. "Before you knew her name, you couldn't touch my sword without feeling her warding power.

Well, I can't touch Theron's sword."

"Then neither can I. I don't know that thrice-cursed blade's name any more than

you do."

Blandly, Del smiled. "Apparently, he or she doesn't care."

" 'He or she,' " I muttered blackly, and turned my back on them both.

Del waited until I had caught the stud, who had retreated from the explosion, and was in the saddle again. "You are the Sandtiger," she said calmly. "How will

you live without a sword?"

She knew, did Delilah, so very well how to appeal to pride in addition to masculinity. But I decided it wouldn't work. "I'll get another sword."

"Where?" With eloquent exaggeration, Del spread empty hands and looked around.

"Is there a tree of them nearby? Are they sown and reaped like crops?"

I set my teeth and forced a benign smile. "I can buy one in the next village."

"And if we are accosted before we reach one, what will you do then?"

My smile died; the question made sense. "I can go back to Harquhal, where there

are swords aplenty."

Del's hands slapped down. "Then do it," she said curtly. "And why not stay there, too?"

I smiled smugly, certain of my victory. "Because you don't want me to."

I had expected a reaction, but not the one I got. At my words she looked at Theron's sword, still planted in the ground. Then switched her gaze to me.

Considered something briefly; didn't like the result. She opened her mouth, clamped it shut, muttered something to herself as she scowled toward the mountains, as if they were to blame.

"I am enough," she said in a grim determination. "I will be enough, no matter what they say." And then she subsided once more into bitter silence, and shut me

out again.

Not at all what I'd expected. Something was bothering her, and it was serious.

Certainly more than I thought our squabbling was worth, considering it was mostly an excuse to work off tension.

She made up her mind. In silence I watched Del catch and mount her gelding.

She

pulled his questing nose away from the stud's curling lip and aimed him northward, planting sandaled heels against the flesh of his flanks. Naturally the stud tried to follow, to regain the lead and put the gelding in his place,

but I held him back. He snorted, stomped, jerked at tautened reins. Noisily swished his tail and tried to sidle his way of the hill, as if I might not notice.

I noticed. I let him sidle. Over to the sword, still stuck in the ground. I scowled down at it, hating the pale purple glow. It reminded me of Theron, who

had painted the night alive with the sword during our final dance. Now it was only the merest shadow of its former self, but that shadow was more than I wished to acknowledge.

Del's gelding snorted. I glanced after her and saw she was not waiting. She rode

steadily north, steadily upward, intent on her destination. Willing to leave me

behind.

Ah, hoolies.

I sighed. Glanced around. No, swords do not grow on trees, nor like crops are sown and reaped. And only the gods knew when I'd be able to get another.

Hoolies. I hate it when Del is right.

I leaned down and grabbed the hilt, noting absently that the hairs were stilled

on my body and the itching had gone away. The feeling of wrongness abated, leaving me in relief, as if I had punctured the boil.

Gritting my teeth, I jerked. The glow dimmed, then died. The blade slid free of

the earth. It was only a sword again.

And I was a fool. Again.

Seven

At sunset we turned off the road and made camp against the shoulder of a hill,

avoiding established campsites, in a wind-smoothed hollow carved out of thick turf. We settled in like ticks into a dog, staking out the horses, laying a fire, dragging dinner from saddle-pouches: dried cumfa, sticky dates, a loaf of

pressed bread, a bota of sour wine. None of it was particularly appetizing, but

it served. And it was Southron; I felt a strange urgency to keep myself to what

I knew for as long as I possibly could. Soon, too soon, I would know nothing at

all.

I ate, drank, sat huddled on my blanket as the last shred of sunlight faded out

of the sky. Decided to make conversation; it was better than Northern silence.

"A bumpy place, the North."

Del stopped squirting wine into her mouth. She frowned, bemused. "Bumpy?"

I lifted a single shoulder. "Bumpy. Hilly." I made an undulating gesture with one hand. "No level ground."

"Here, no," she agreed. "We are in the foothills, the downlands. Soon we will be

in the uplands... after that, the mountains. But there are meadows, and valleys... enough level ground on which to build and dwell." She wiped a trickle

from her chin, sighing, straying from me even as she spoke, though physically she went nowhere. "To see the forests again, and the grass, and know the whiteness of the snow--"

"Snow?" I turned my head to look at her. "We're going into snow?"

"Yes, of course... we are bound for the mountains beyond Reiver's Pass."

She was incredibly matter-of-fact. Uplands, downlands, mountains and Reiver's Pass... I debated pointing out to her that I knew nothing of her Northern geography, nor of Northern snow.

I took the bota as she handed it over, sucked down wine, handed it back. Del accepted it but did nothing--with it, watching me instead. "You're still upset,

aren't you?"

Upset. Well, that was one way of putting it. All I knew was that something yet

again was causing my hairs to stand on end.

I sighed in annoyance and stabbed a foot at turf, thrusting sandal into soil.

"I

swear, there's something here."

"I thought you were feeling better."

"I was. It's come back." It had, about the time we'd spread our blankets.

Unease

built steadily. I'd tried to shake it off, but all it did was intensify.

"Look,

Del, I know how it sounds--how do you think I like it?--but I don't know what to

tell you. I just sense something, feel something ..." I shook my head, breaking

it off. "It's like being in the circle with a dangerous opponent. You don't know

what he'll do, but you know he's going to do it."

"Superstitious Southroner." Del grinned and shook her head. "I don't mean to make fun of you, Tiger--not really. But you have said much the same to me a time

or two, when I have spoken of something I can't properly explain. You used to call me witch, remember? Northern sorceress." She tilted her head a little.

"But

what am I to call you?"

"A fool," I said irritably. "Why not? I begin to think I am one."

"Not a fool," Del mused. "No, something more, I think. Something entirely different."

I snapped my head around. "What?"

She shrugged a little, plugging and unplugging the bota. "What you did with Theron's sword..." Her voice trailed off.

"Well?" I sat upright. "Yes?"

Del was frowning again. "I could lie, and say it was nothing. But it was something, Tiger."

I swore with distinct succinctness. "And do you plan on telling me what it was?"

She shook her head. "I can't. I don't know myself. Just that--well . , . you say

you feel something here, and obviously you tapped it."

"Tapped it." I nodded. "I see--I tapped it. With that sword."

"I don't know how--"

"Hoolies, Del, seems like there's a lot you don't know." I flopped down on my blanket.

She sighed. "Always, it comes to stories... tales of this and that. Who knows what is truth or falsehood, or if there is a difference?"

I scowled. "Stories have their uses. Just look at that boy, Bellin, wanting to

travel with us... and who are you to deny their effectiveness? I don't doubt men

are always talking about the blonde, blue-eyed bascha who wields a sword like a

man."

"I wield it because of a man." Del stared down at the bota, hunching one shoulder, "By now, probably--had the raiders never found us--I would be married,

bearing babies, tending a household, tending a man... doing all the things a woman usually does." She raised her head and stared across the fire into the blackness beyond. "But who is to say I would be happier in that life, instead of

the one I have?"

"But this life was born of tragedy."

"Yes. And if giving up this life was a way to bring all my kinfolk back, I would. Like this." She snapped her fingers. "But it would not; I am what I am and have what I have. There is no turning back."

I propped myself up on one elbow. "What if there is, Del? What if your blood-guilt is pardoned? You left Jamail behind. There is no more kin-debt facing you. What would you do then?"

Her face was hidden by hair. "I am a sword-dancer, Tiger. It is my life; I chose

it."

"For a purpose," I said quietly, "and that purpose is nearly over."

She turned her head to look at me. "And if I said the same to you?"

I shook my head. "It doesn't apply, Del. I became a sword-dancer--"

"--out of a desire for revenge," she finished evenly.

"Don't lie to yourself, Tiger, any more than to me. You are what you are because

you hated enough to survive, to acknowledge that hatred, and to use it." She frowned intently, trying to find the words. "What the raiders did to me was not

so different from what slavery did to you. It broke us, warped us, remade us, shaping dedication out of destruction... defiance out of despair." She drew in a

breath, released it. "I thought I would never say this--it is not a thing of which to be proud, in the face of kin-blood spilled--but I will say it plainly,

to you, who should understand: I am the better for it, regardless of the cause."

I thought, briefly, of all the years of slavery. It was so easily done. I had been free longer, now, than I had ever been a slave, but the memories remained.

I would never forget them.

I am whatever I am, I said. I am what I have made me, regardless of the reasons.

But I could not say it to her.

I rose, rearranged the fit of my burnous, snicked the sword against its sheath.

"Think I'll take a look around."

Del looked after me but made no move to follow. I turned and started the climb

to the top of the hill.

The downlands, she had called them. Mere foothills, insignificant in comparison

to the mountains. But already I was aware of an oppression bearing down upon my

spirit. I was accustomed to the vast reaches of the Southron desert, the wasteland of sand and sun. Here there was vegetation in abundance, rich, aromatic earth that sang with the promise of a life I'd never known, even air that smelled and tasted different. All around me the downlands rose in perverse