Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (13 page)

When that faded, I eased her down again, smoothing sweat-damp strands of hair away from her face.

"I'm here," I told her. "I left you in Staal-Ysta, when I thought you would die—when I thought I had

killed you . . . I'll never leave you again. I'm here, bascha."

The claw stripes above her breasts were oozing blood again. I dampened more cloth, cleaned the

wounds, then pressed a folded pad against them, tucking it under the shredded ruins of her tunic.

The last of the roof branches I'd cut down no longer flamed. Light was fading. Outside the lean-to,

the white gelding pawed at sand and soil. In a brief break from tending Del I'd watered him, given him

grain, but he wanted grazing. Though he'd proven his willingness to stay put, I couldn't risk losing him as

well as the stud. He was tied to the lean-to. If the gods were merciful, he wouldn't pull it down on top of

us.

My own bedding, still on the stud, was gone. But the gelding's saddle, set next to the shelter, had

borne a rolled-up Vashni blanket. I tugged it over, threw it across rocky soil, set my rump upon it. I

ached in every muscle, and my eyes were burning with exhaustion. I rubbed them, swore at the gritty

dryness that stung unremittingly, then slumped against the boulder forming the back wall of the lean-to.

Sharp pain forced a grunt of surprise out of me. I sat forward again, reaching over the top of my right

shoulder. Stung? But the boulder had no cracks, no crevices to host anything, being nothing more than a

giant, rounded bulwark at the bottom of the modest mountain.

I brought my fingers around, tipped them toward firelight, rubbed my thumb against sticky residue,

then sniffed fingers.

Blood.

I felt again behind my right shoulder, sliding my hand beneath the tattered remains of my burnous.

Found two curving gouges there the length of palm and fingers, bleeding sluggishly.

I shut my eyes. Oh, hoolies . . . when I'd slung the spitted sandtiger over my right shoulder—

In my rage and fear, I'd felt nothing at all.

I tore the burnous off my torso, grabbed up the Vashni bota, squirted liquor down my back, aiming

for claw marks I couldn't see. A burning so painful it brought tears to my eyes told me I'd found the

target. I hissed a complex, unflagging string of Desert invective, breathed noisily, nearly bit my bottom lip

in two.

When I could speak again, I looked at Del, whom I had liberally drenched. "Sorry, bascha—" I

croaked. "—I had no idea it would burn so much!"

The world revolved again. Now I knew why. Knees drawn up, I leaned my head into them as a

stiff-fingered hand scrubbed distractedly at the back of my skull, scraping through short hair. Before, in

ignorance, all my thoughts on Del, it had been a simple matter to ignore the signs. But now, knowing,

feeling, they were manifest.

"Not now," I muttered. "Not
now
—"

Not yet.

We had only once been injured or sick at the same time. And then it had been on Staal-Ysta, forced

into a dance that had nearly killed us both. Northerners had cared for her in one dwelling, while others

cared for me. When I was healed enough to ride, knowing Del would surely die and that I could not bear

to witness it, I left.

I wouldn't leave her again. I'd sworn it. But this time, now, there was no one to care for either of us.

I licked my lips. "All right," I told myself hoarsely, "you've been clawed before. Neither time killed

you. You have some im-

munity."

Some. But enough? That I didn't know.

I traced the curve of my skull, growing less distinct as my hair lengthened. Beneath it there were

elaborate designs tattooed into my skin, visible now only at the hairline above my forehead. They marked

me a mage. IoSkandic. A madman of Meteiera.

I wiped sweat from my face with a trembling hand. Could magery overcome sandtiger poison?

Could magery heal?

I knew it could kill.

Del made a sound, an almost inaudible release of breath coupled with the faintest of moans. I tried to

move toward her, but my limbs were sluggish. Cursing my weakness, I made myself move. I nearly

toppled over her, but a stiff arm jammed against the bedding kept me upright.

"Bascha?"

Nothing. Sweat ran from her flesh, giving off the stale metallic tang of sandtiger venom. I tasted the

same in my own mouth.

Time was running out. Hastily, clumsily, I snagged the water bota, soaked the still-damp cloth,

draped it across her forehead. Droplets rolled down into the hollows of closed eyes, filling the creases of

her lids, then dribbled from the outer corners of her eyes, mimicking the tears Del never wept.

I tucked the bota under her right hand, being careful not to jar the bound forearm. I curled slack

fingers loosely around the neck. I checked bandages for fresh blood. Found none. Felt a stab of relief

like a knife in the belly.

"Hold on," I murmured. "Just hold on, bascha. You can make it through this."

The gelding whickered softly. I glanced out. There were, I realized, three fire rings in front of the

lean-to, overlapping one another, merging, then springing apart again. I scowled, narrowing my eyes,

trying to focus vision. Nothing helped.

I swore, then grabbed a corner of the Vashni blanket. Tugged it toward Del. Managed to pull it atop

her, cover most of her body save head and sandaled feet.

"I know it's warm," I told her, "especially with a fever. But you need to sweat it out. Get rid of as

much as you can." I stroked roughened knuckles against one fever-blotched cheek. "When I can, I'll go

to Julah. Fouad can find us a healer. Then—"

I broke it off.
When. Then.
Who was I fooling?

If Del were conscious, she'd insist on the truth.

On Meteiera, near the Stone Forest where the new mage was whelped atop a rocky spire, I had

conjured magic. I had dreamed and made the substance of dream real. Set scars lifted by magery back

into my flesh. Formed a seaworthy boat out of little more than stormwrack and wishing.

Now I wished Del to live.

I bore tattoos under my hair and lacked two fingers, souvenirs of Meteiera, where mages and

madmen lived and died. I had been then, and could be now, what I needed to be.

Del's life was at stake.

"All right, bascha, I'll try." I drew in a deep breath, sealed my eyes closed. "If I'm a mage," I said

hoarsely, "if I'm truly a mage, let me find the way . . ."

I had done it in Meteiera, knowing nothing of power beyond that it existed. Blue-headed Nihko had

told me those of us—
us!
—with magery in our blood had to use it, had to find a way to bleed off the

power, lest it destroy us. But I had escaped the Stone Forest before learning much beyond a few simple

rituals and prayers and the discipline of the priests; I was but an infant to the ways of the mages of

Meteiera.

Discipline.

It claimed its own power.

I gathered myself there beside Delilah, body and soul, flesh and spirit, and tried to find the part of me

that had been born atop a stone spire in far-off ioSkandi. I knew nothing of the doing but that I had done

it. Once, twice, thrice. Since then I had locked the awareness away, concentrating only on the physical,

the retraining of a body lacking two fingers.

A shiver wracked me. Something slammed into my body, buffeting awareness like a wind snuffing

out candleflame. Weakness swam in. I meant to move aside; I
tried
to move aside, to find and lean

against the wall of stone regardless of claw gouges, needing the support. But my limbs got tangled. I

could not tell what part of me were legs, which were arms, or if I even retained my head atop my

shoulders.

Power eluded me. What strength was left diminished like sand running out of a glass.

Fear for Del surged up. "No—" I murmured, "—wait—" But all the strength poured out of my body.

I slumped sideways, vision doubled; fought it, attempted to push myself upright; went suddenly down

onto my back on hardpacked soil and sand. "—
wait
—"

An outflung arm landed against unsheathed blades propped against the sidewall. I felt one of them, in

toppling, fall across my elbow. It was the flat, not the edge—but by then I didn't care.

I was dimly aware of a flicker of stunned outrage, and a voice in my head.
Not
like this
—

In the circle, yes. If a man had to die. But not from the last wayward scratch of a dying sandtiger.

"Bascha—" I murmured.

But the world was gone.

NINE

BONES. Bones and sand. Bones and sand and sun. And heat.

Parched lips. Burned flesh. Swollen tongue. Blood yet running, smearing her thighs. Except

there are no thighs. No lips, no flesh, no tongue. All has been consumed.

From a distance, the bones are thread against sparkling silk. But closer, ever closer, pushed

down from air to earth like a raptor stooping, thread takes on substance, sections itself into skull,

into arms, and legs. Silk is sand. Crystalline Punja sand.

Scoured clean of flesh, ivory bone gleams. Delicate toes are scattered. Fingers are

nonexistent. Ribs have collapsed into a tangled riddle. The skull lies on its side, teeth bared in a

rictus, sockets empty of eyes.

I am pulled into them, lips brought to dentition, live teeth clicking on dead. Against my mouth

bone moves. "Find me," she says.

I want nothing to do with her. With it. With what the bones had been.

"Find me," she says. "Take up the sword."

The hand captured my head. For a moment I feared it was sand, and sun, and death. But the hand

cupped my head, lifted it, set bota against my lips. Living lips, not bone. Water trickled into my mouth.

It was enough to rouse me to something akin to panic. I lifted both arms, grasped with trembling

hands, closed on leather water-skin. Squeezed.

"Not so much," he chided.

He. Not she. The dead woman was gone.

I drank. Swallow after swallow. Then he pulled it away.

"Not so much," he repeated.

I wanted all of it.

"Del," I croaked. Swollen lips split and bled. Swollen eyes wouldn't open. "Del. . ."

"She's alive." Damp cloth bathed my face. "I swear it."

"Poison," I said. "Sandtiger—"

"I know. I recognize the wounds. Here. A little more."

More water. I drank, wanting to drown. "Del?"

"Alive."

"Poison . . ."

"Yes."

Dread was a blade in the vitals. "She's dying . . ."

"Maybe," he said.

Del's bones in the sand?

"Don't let her die."

"It wants a healer," he said. "I need to go back to Julah."

Julah. "Fouad's," I told him. "Cantina."

"Later," he replied. "I'll stay awhile yet."

"I won't die," I said. "Not from a sandtiger."

I heard a breath of laughter. "I don't doubt it."

"Del?"

"Alive," he repeated.

"You swore."

"Yes. I'm not lying. She might die, but she's not dead yet."

It was something.

"Who are you?" I asked.

But before he could answer, the world winked out.

When next I roused, the weakness was less. I still lay on hardpan, itching from sand, but a light

blanket was thrown over me and another, still rolled, pillowed my head. A bota lay at hand, as I had left

one for Del. I shut fingers on it, brought to my mouth, drank and drank and drank.

"Del?"

No answer.

I opened my eyes. I had no idea what hour it was, or day. Merely that I was alive despite the best

efforts of my body to die.

"Bascha?" My voice was hoarse.

No answer.

I collected strength. Hoarded it. Hitched myself up on an elbow. Saw the colorful Vashni blanket

and the body beneath.

Shadow fell across me. I glanced up, staring blearily at the opening and the man squatting there.

"You?" I croaked.

Stubble emphasized the hollows and angles of his face. He was dark as a Southroner, but with the

faintest tint of copper to his tan. And those honey-brown eyes, liquid and melting, fringed in black lashes

Del would claim too lush for a man, and infinitely unfair when women would kill for such.

"Me," he agreed.

I slumped back onto the ground, wanting to groan. Didn't, since we had company. "If you've come

to challenge me—
again
— you picked a bad time."

"So I see. And no, I haven't. I've learned a little since you killed that sword-dancer in Julah."

When was that? I didn't remember. A day ago. A month. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I am," he said, with grave dignity entirely undermined by a glint of irony in his eyes, "looking after a

man who has repudiated his honor. And the infamous Northern bascha who should be lacking in such,

being merely a woman, but who appears to have it regardless. Or so some say." He crawled into the

lean-to, sat down beside me. "I couldn't ask a dead man what
elaii-ali-ma
meant," he said, "but I asked

another sword-dancer when he came into town."

"Oh, good." I managed my own irony despite the hoarse voice. "Then you know. You don't have to

challenge me to a dance, because there can be no dance. But you can kill me if you want to." I paused.

"If you can."

The faintest of smiles twitched one corner of his mouth. "Well, that would at the moment be a simple