Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (50 page)

Herself, not himself. Del. He said Del. He meant--Del? Had the old man gone sandsick?

No. No, of course not. He knew precisely what he was doing.

And now, so did I.

"No," I said calmly, "that wasn't the agreement."

It sent a tremor through all the spectators. Telek stepped forward quickly.

"This man came to me and asked me to purposely lose the dance, so as to give him

his elevation and free him to leave Staal-Ysta. He deliberately called the honor

of Staal-Ysta into question, as well as my own." His tone was thick with contempt; he was doing it very well. "I agreed for the sake of the moment, so I

could discuss it with the voca. It was decided to let the dance go forth, but with a new champion. One whose honor is already lost."

"Then how can she uphold the honor of Staal-Ysta?" I snapped. "If she has none,

she can hardly be champion!"

Telek inclined his head. "This is a way of gaining it back. Commonly done, I believe, even in the South. A service done for someone can cancel a debt, regain

employment... certainly regain honor."

I looked at Del for the first time. She was staring in horror at Telek.

Stigand took over again. "Let it be so, then, as decided by the voca: Del shall

act as champion, representing the North and Staal-Ysta, the place that gave her

succor in her extremity. Should she win the dance, her exile will be commuted;

she will be free to come and go as she pleases."

A shiver ran down my spine. For all of that, she would do it. For honor and freedom and Kalle.

"Let it be so: Should the Sandtiger win, he gains the rank of kaidin and his freedom from the pledge made by the an-ishtoya. But if he loses, he stays."

It didn't sound so bad, when compared to what Del stood to lose. One year.

That's all, out of however many I had left. It would be easy enough just to give

Del the victory and stay the year, if only to avoid this dance.

But Del would never stand for it. And I wasn't sure Stigand would, either. I knew if Del did win, they'd find another way of getting rid of her, probably permanently; they had shown their true colors. They wouldn't let her stay here

with Kalle. They'd contrive yet another way to rid themselves of the an-ishtoya.

And I wouldn't be here to stop it.

Which meant I had to win so I could get her out of here.

While she tried to beat me.

"Del," Stigand said, "will you accept your place as champion?"

Her tone sounded merely controlled, but I knew how to read it. She was decidedly

unhappy. But also just as determined to do what she had to do. "Yes. I accept."

"Then place your sword in the circle."

I watched her walk out of the people to the circle. Black clothing, blonde hair,

white flesh; too white. All the color was gone from her face.

She stepped over the curving line, moved to the center, placed Boreal on the turf next to my unnamed blade.

Mutely, she turned and walked back out, then swung just outside and faced me, taking off her harness.

Mouthing: "Tiger, I have to."

All I did was nod; she didn't need anything more. We knew what each of us would

try to do, and using every skill we knew.

Probably even some tricks.

Del dropped the harness to the ground. Her hands were empty; her eyes were not.

Blue, bleak eyes, full of realizations.

She had brought us to it. And now maybe I would end it, forcing her to yield.

"Prepare," Stigand said.

I saw her body change. I saw her manner alter. Del was a sword-dancer; no matter

what she felt, the dance was most important so long as she was in the circle.

There would be no weakness displayed, no matter what she thought. No matter how

she feels, facing me for real.

It nearly made me smile. Now, maybe we'd know. Maybe once and for all. We'd find

out which of us was better.

But I didn't think it was worth it.

"Dance," Stigand said.

This was what we lived for, both of us, this; sword-dancers and -singers born of

hatred and prejudice and the desire for revenge; shaped by pride and need and a

desperate determination.

Both of us.

Dance, Stigand had said.

How we danced, Det and I.

Danced.

Sweated.

Bled.

She rained blows: I turned them aside.

She painted the air with exquisite patterns: I slashed neatly through them.

We thrust and feinted and parried, each of us; searched for openings and weaknesses in a dancer who provided nothing but consummate skill, combining strength and power and speed, dexterity, wit, flexibility. And other things unnamable; the intangibles that separate the good from merely adequate, the superb from very good.

Until, eventually, it comes down to Del and me. No more than that, because no more is necessary; just Del and me; Delilah and the Sandtiger, clean and pure and proud: Southron strength against Northern quickness. Masculine power against

feminine finesse. To artistry and artfulness, seeking out the chinks.

Patterns broken, blows turned aside.

Parried thrusts and lightning ripostes.

Even hacking and slashing, eventually, when it seemed the only way.

Like mine, Del's breath ran ragged. We neither of us had been North long enough

to adjust, although Del was closer than I. Certainly close enough to sing; all I

tried to do was breathe.

She could, I knew, sing me out of the circle. And would, if I didn't stop her; I

could see the song beginning. She was turning to her jivatma, tapping some of the power. Not a lot, I knew--she didn't want to kill me--but drawing as much as

she needed to win.

I had none to tap. My sword was screaming for blood, screaming for life, and I

couldn't give in to it.

So, I was left with only one way to stop her: to blunt her personal power and replace it with my own twisted version, one built of innuendo, of lies, of suggestions, all intended to force mistakes she'd otherwise never make because

Del never makes mistakes.

But now she'd have to, if I was to win this dance.

And I had to win this dance.

I watched her closely, moving all the while. We teased one another with blades,

scraping, tapping, sliding, coyly promising nothing we wanted to give. With Del

and me, sparring, there is always a sexual element, a vicarious intercourse, because we are so well matched, in bed and out; the dance becomes a courtship as

much as ritualistic combat.

But this time it went far deeper. We each of us needed a gratification the other

wouldn't, couldn't, didn't dare give.

Yet now there was something more. Something growing. I sensed it before I knew

it, and when I knew it, it frightened me. What I felt was anger.

Not really at Del, at this moment, because this moment was only the dance.

But

at the stupidity that put us here, dancing against one another for the pleasure

of Telek, Stigand and others, who wanted both of us gone. Who wanted both of us

dead, and were willing to cheat to win.

Anger. Now, at Del, who had so determinedly ignored my personal needs to tend only to her own. Who had so easily put me back into bondage, not thinking what

it might do.

Quiet, abiding anger. Until it grew. Until it passed out of me into my sword and

into my dance, and reached out to touch Del.

Our patterns grew more intense. Our engagements more demanding. And anger slowly

increased, robbing me of comprehension outside of the driving need to win.

How many times had Del and I met in the circle, sparring? How many times had we

stepped out again, not really knowing who was better, but inwardly claiming superiority?

Hadn't Del even done it aloud at the kymri?

It had never been decided. Now, maybe, it would be.

Time to end this farce.

She hung back, legs spread, flexed, always moving, at least a little, never stopping at all, never giving me time to judge. Beneath the silver bracers I knew her wrists were iron, yet prepared to paint with steel.

I needed my breath to fight, but words can be just as effective. And as few as

possible, designed to cut her open and destroy her personal song.

I let my anger flow into my tone. "Recognize this?" I asked. "Listen, See if you

do."

Across the circle, she opened her mouth as if to sing, but I beat her to it.

"The an-ishtoya who wants freedom--"

Del didn't so much as flick an eyelash.

"--the an-ishtoya who needs to blood a jivatma--"

Still no response. Her expression, as always, was fierce. But this time she meant it for me.

"--who will do whatever is required--"

She darted in, tapped my blade, dodged back again.

Hoolies, I hate her speed. She leaves me in the dust.

"--to regain what was lost."

It got through. Something flickered in her eyes. I cut the wound deeper yet.

"Sound familiar, Del? Are you seeing yourself?"

Clearly, she did. I saw the startled shock in her eyes, and dawning acknowledgment.

One final blow: "I'm taking you out of here. To the South once I'm done, where I

can have it all: jivatma, power, Delilah." I paused for effect. "Once I've put

you in your place."

It worked. She was furious, too furious for total control. Instantly I followed

up my advantage, meaning to shatter her guard.

Trouble was, I tripped on ragged turf. It was only a slight misstep, but more than enough for her. The advantage became Del's.

She broke through, thrust, cut into me, just above the wide belt. I felt the brief tickle of cold steel separate fabric and flesh, sliding through both with

ease, then catch briefly on a rib, rub by, cut deeper, pricking viscera.

There

was no pain at all, consumed by shock and ice, and then the cold ran through my

bones and ate into every muscle.

I lunged backward, running myself off the blade. The wound itself wasn't painful, too numb to interfere, but the storm was inside my body. The blood I bled was ice.

"Yield!" she shouted. "Yield!" Shock and residual anger made her tone strident.

I wanted to. But I couldn't. Something was in me, in my sword; something crept

into blood and bones and sinew and the new, bright steel. Something that spoke

of need. That spoke of ways to win. That sang of ways to blood--

"I'll make you," she gasped. "Somehow--" And she was coming at me, at me, breaking through my weakened guard and showing me three feet of deadly jivatma.

"Yield!" she cried again.

My sword was screaming for blood.

You may be forced, she had said, and the results could be disastrous.

I shouted aloud, denying it. Trying to control it; knowing I could not. The sword was far too powerful.

So this is what it is, I thought fleetingly, to have a jivatma, even unnamed: power, strength, an incredible dedication.

Like Del's.

Hoolies, what would it be if I blooded it?

And that was precisely what it wanted.

Wild magic, Kem had warned. Unsung, unkeyed, unharnessed. And now I paid the price.

But not as dearly as Del.

Forty-four

He stood at the edge of the overlook. Below him lay Staal-Kithra, lumpy with barrows, dolmens and passage graves; the glass-black lake flanked white on white, stark peaks against bleak sky. And Staal-Ysta herself, in the center, floating black on black on winter water, with rack upon rack of bare-branched trees punching wounds in the sky, like swords.

He turned, and the bright, rich cloak unfurled; furled back again to lap at the

heels of his boots. He strode free, to the bay stud who waited, and patted him,

rubbing the dew-speckled muzzle buried in twin spumes of steam.

And then strode away again, carrying the sword.

He took it to the edge, unsheathed and naked of runes, and set the tip to the ground, and thrust, driving it into turf, into soil, into the heart of the North.

Silently, he knelt. Slowly, stiffly, on one knee only, the right; left foot planted flat, holding himself rigidly upright. He reached out both large hands

and trapped the hilt in them. The wind whipped back his cloak.

It was a cold, bitter wind, thrusting fingers into bronze-brown, too-long hair;

scraping nails along the right cheek laid bare by sandtiger claws that showed even through the beard, cutting four curving lines from cheekbone to jaw.

An icy, vengeful wind, bordering on banshee.

The hilt, as always, was warm. The twisted, silk-skinned hilt, promising him power.

He listened, holding the sword. And he heard the song, if only faintly.

Little

more than an echo thrumming on memory. And then he knew: Canteada. Their song was in his head.

Their song was in his sword. He had only to learn how to sing it.

The stud, bored, snorted. It roused him; he rose, pulled the sword from the ground, then stopped very short.

Runes ran down the blade. Clean, newborn runes. Telling him a name.

The color was gone from his face. He stared at the runeworked blade, gripping the twisted hilt. And then looked down at Staal-Kithra, Place of Spirits; the place of deaths and births. Mouthing the newborn name.

"Samiel," he said. "Now we're even, Del."

Carefully, he cleaned the blade on his cloak, then took it back to its sheath and harness, hanging on the saddle. He put it away, sliding it home, hiding the

glory of sky-born steel.

He swung up, suppressing a groan; hooked the cloak out of the way so it wouldn't

foul on gear or harness, or irritate the stud, who required no excuses.

Once more, only once, he glanced back. Then gathered reins and spun the stud, digging divots in turf and dirt. Destroying all the pawprints.

"Come on, old man," he said. "We've got the hounds of hoolies to hunt... and now