Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (29 page)

therefore comprehensible but of a cold, quiet bitterness. "Do you have any idea," I began softly, with

careful clarity, "how many people have told me I have arts? Gifts? Powers? Have you any idea what it is

to be told, again and again, that if that art, or that power, is ignored, it could drive me mad? Kill me on

the spot? Shorten my lifespan?" I shook my head, hand tightening on my sword as every muscle in my

body tensed. "I was nothing. I was a
slave.
How is it that strangers— you, Sahdri, Nihko, others—can

see something I can't feel? How can you tell me I must do this thing, that thing, whatever thing it may be,

or the price will be too high to pay?"

He closed his eyes a moment.

"I'm just
a man,
Oziri! Nothing more. That's all I ever wanted to be, when I was a slave. A man.

And free. To go where I want, be what I want. No arts. No gifts. No powers. No

end-of-life-as-I-know-it punishment if I don't—if I
can't
—measure up. Messiah? —Hah. Mage?—I

want nothing to do with magic, thank you. And now dream-walker?" I shook my head vehemently. "No.

Never. I don't want it. And if that means you want to kill me because I'm not what the Oracle

prophesied, so be it. I'll meet anyone in the circle you like. Because that's what I am. Just a man with a

little skill, a lot of training . . . and no need at all to contend with arts and gifts and powers, be they

Southron, Northern, Skandic, Vashni, or anything else." I shook my head again as tension and anger,

now vented, began to bleed away into weary resignation. "This is
your
art, Oziri, this dream-walking.

Not mine."

After a moment he lowered his eyes and gazed into the coals. His fingers twitched, as if he wished to

take up herbs and toss them into the fire. But he didn't. He simply sat there, expression oddly vulnerable

for a Vashni warrior, and after a moment his mouth twisted as if he were in pain.

Then he met my eyes. "Will you trust me to lead you through?"

The question astounded me. "I just
told
you—"

"Yes. And I understand; your truth is a hard one, even for a priest. I have no intention of killing you;

we accept what the Oracle prophesied—
wait."
He lifted a hand to belay my immediate protest. "A man

is welcome to his own beliefs, yes?"

It took effort to accede, but I dipped my head in a stiff nod.

"We have hosted the woman, the Oracle's sister; and the young man who brought her here. And

now we have hosted you. I ask that the jhihadi repay us by allowing me to lead him through this

dream-walk."

The ice of anger was gone; its bluntness remained. "But it doesn't mean anything. Not to me."

"Then you lose nothing but a portion of time, while I ..." Oziri smiled ruefully. "Well, it means a great

deal to me. I risk losing a portion of my reputation. The Vashni hold priests to be incapable of mistakes."

I couldn't help but mock. "Will they kill you for it and boil the flesh off your bones?"

"No."

I shrugged with deliberate exaggeration. "Then it's not so much of a risk after all, is it?"

"They will boil the flesh off my bones without giving me the mercy of death beforehand."

It banished all derision, all protests, precisely as he intended. It's hard to ridicule that kind of imagery

when you know it isn't falsehood.

I still wanted to walk away. But his time cost more than mine.

Finally I nodded. "Then let's get it done. What do you want me to do?"

"Be seated. Be at ease. Trust me to lead you through."

I grunted dubiously. "I can't promise either of the last two."

"Then achieve the first." Oziri paused. "And lay down your sword. It is hard for
me
to trust a man

with a blade in his hand when he is the Sandtiger."

Once I would have been flattered. Now I just wanted to get it over with. I seated myself on the other

side of the fire and set down the sword not far from my knee.

"Breathe," Oziri suggested. "I believe we have established you have
that
art."

I shot him a disgruntled look. He threw more herbs on the coals. I gritted my teeth and tried not to

cough.

"Find your stillness."

That particular recommendation was really beginning to grate on me. I watched suspiciously as he

cupped both hands and wafted smoke at me. Another pinch of herbs went on the fire. "All right," I

muttered, and drew in a deep breath. "Now what?"

"What did you dream last night?"

Oddly enough, I couldn't remember. I'd slept very well after Del and I had made love, and no

recollection tickled my memory. Maybe, after the dream-walking lesson, I was all dreamed out. "I'm not

sure I did."

Oziri, saying nothing, took a generous amount of herbs from two bowls. He dumped them on the

coals. A cloud of pungent smoke wreathed the air between us, then drifted unerringly into my face. It

was nothing so much as a challenge to prove him wrong. To allow my childish obstinance to sentence

him to death.

But I really couldn't remember that I'd dreamed. "Wait—" I began, then broke into a paroxysm of

coughing, which succeeded in drawing even more smoke into my lungs. The world coalesced into a tiny

pinpoint of existence, then burst into a vast array of fragmented awareness. I felt parts of my body, my

mind breaking apart, spinning away.
"Wait
—"

Oziri laughed. "The gods are not gentle to unbelievers, especially those who repudiate their gifts."

I could barely see, could barely hang onto my senses. "You told me to trust you."

His eyes were like a dagger. His words opened my vitals. "I said I would see you safely through. I

did not say it would be a painless journey."

I reached toward the sword. Then memory stirred. Stopped me.

Oziri was right: I
had
dreamed last night.

"I remember," I blurted, startled. "I—"

—
remember.

And then forgot everything, including my name.

* * *

Del's face, when she dances—or even when she spars—wears one of two expressions: fierce

determination or an oddly relaxed focus. The former comes from a true challenge, to prove herself and

win; the latter from the knowledge that she
will
win, so the point is to refine her skill. Opponents and

enemies have witnessed both. So have I.

But this time, for the first time, I saw fear.

We were yet again in the common area of the Vashni encampment, pretending a portion of it was a

circle. After two more hard engagements Del stumbled back, regained her footing and balance, blocked

my blow. Steel clashed. She was breathing hard. "Let's stop."

I repeated the series of maneuvers, pushing her harder. Waiting for her body to fail.

She blocked me again and again, frowning. "Stop."

I tried a new angle. Blades met, scraped, screeched.

Her teeth were bared in a brief rictus of sheer effort. The exhaustion was obvious, and oddly

exhilarating. "—stop—"

Over the locked blades I looked into her widening eyes. I shook my head, on the verge of laughing

joyously. "You can't win by quitting."

This time there was no determination. No relaxation. Not even fear. Just astonishment.

"Come on," I jeered. "We haven't even begun."

Something flickered in her eyes. Then her mouth went flat and hard.

Laughing, I expected her to renew the match. Instead, Del pushed forward briefly, released her

sword entirely, threw both splayed hands into the air and took three strides backward as the blade fell.

The expression now was anger.

It wasn't surrender. She didn't yield. It was—cessation. And it left me standing in the middle of a

circle I'd drawn in the Vashni common, clutching my sword while hers lay at my feet.

I arched my brows. "Afraid, bascha?"

She was sucking air audibly. The single braid had loosened itself, strands straggling around her face.

She was ice and sunlight, and much too tough to melt. "What," she panted, "is wrong with you?"

"You asked me to spar with you."

She managed one word.
"Spar."

I shrugged. "You've always preferred a challenge to mere practice. Let's not waste our time."

Hands went to her hips and rested there as her breathing slowed. "That wasn't sparring. That was

anger, Tiger."

I shook my head. "I'm not angry."

"Angry," she declared. "And bitter."

"You're imagining things." I bent, picked up her sword. "Let's go again."

Del shook her head with slow deliberation.

"Afraid, bascha?" I smiled, tossed the blade. "Catch."

She made no attempt to do so. She merely stepped back and let it fall into the sand. Sunlight flashed.

"That," I said severely, "is no way to treat a good blade."

Winter descended. "Nor is your behavior any way to treat me."

"Oh, come on, Del! This is how it is. You work your body, work your mind, challenge everything

about yourself, until the weakness is gone. It isn't easy, no, but it's the best way. I've spent months doing

it—can't you at least invest a few days?"

Del bent, retrieved her sword, turned on her heel and walked away.

"Hey. Hey!" In several long strides I reached her. Reached
for
her. "Don't turn your back on me—"

Del spun. I saw the blade flash even as my own came up. They met at neck level. My blade was

against steel. Hers was against my throat.

She tilted her head slightly in an odd, slow, sideways movement almost like a cat preparing to leap.

But there was no leap. She stood her ground. "Angry," she said very softly. "Bitter. And vicious."

I blurted a laugh of incredulity. "Vicious!"

"And afraid."

Laughter stopped. "I'm not—"

"What did he do to you?"

"No one has—"

Her low voice nonetheless overrode my own. "What did he do to you?"

I smiled. "You really don't like to lose, do you?"

She made no reply. Just stared. Examined. Evaluated. I saw a series of expressions in her eyes and

face, but none I could name. They came and went too quickly: the faintest of ripples in her flesh, a

shifting in her eyes. Nearly nonexistent.

Delilah asked, "What did he say to you to make you so afraid?"

I denied her an answer. I took a step backward, breaking contact with her blade, and lowered my

own. "Go," I told her. "We're done for the day. If you aren't willing to do what it takes, I don't want to

bother."

A multitude of replies crowded her eyes. She made none of them.

I watched her walk away. The anger, the bitterness drained away. I felt oddly empty.

Empty. And afraid.

"Stop it," she said. "Stop it, Tiger!"

I said nothing. Did nothing. The voice was very distant. I could ignore it. Did.

"Tig—oh, hoolies," she muttered, and then a hand cracked me hard across the face.

She is a strong woman, and the blow was heartfelt. I came back to awareness abruptly, catching her

wrist. Realized I sat in the hyort we shared. I blinked at her, shocked. "What was that for?"

"To bring you back."

"Bring me back from where?"

"From the dream."

"I was dreaming?"

"Not now," she said. "You were awake. But—away. As if you returned to something you'd already

experienced." She indicated her head. "Inside."

I felt disoriented. Detached. "I don't understand."

She knelt next to me. Desperation edged her tone. "You have to stop this. This dream-walking."

I frowned, baffled. "Why?"

Del pulled her wrist out of my hand. "Because it's changing you."

"Changing me! How?" I noticed then that it was nearing sundown. I couldn't remember where the

day had gone. "I don't understand what you're saying."

"Five days ago you went to Oziri's tent after we sparred, and since then you've been—different."

I frowned. "I know you think I'm angry, but I'm not."

"I didn't say you were angry. I said you were
different."

"And bitter, you said. Vicious, even. Just because you can't match me in the circle."

Lines creased her brow. "What are you talking about?"

"The match earlier today. You were losing. You got angry. You quit on me, Del. You threw down

your sword and walked away."

Astonishment was manifest. "I have never walked away from a match in my life!"

"Earlier today," I insisted. How could she have forgotten?

Del recoiled. Pale brows knit together. I saw surprise and worry. "But we didn't. . ." She changed

direction. "Was that your dream?"

"It wasn't a dream, bascha."

She shook her head slowly, as if trying to work out a multitude of thoughts. "There was no match

earlier." Almost absently, she added, "Something's wrong. Something inside you."

I found it preposterous. "Del—"

She overrode me. "We haven't sparred since that first time, Tiger. Five days ago. That's the
only

time we've sparred. Five days ago. Two days after you got here."

I gritted my teeth, verging on frustration. "Earlier today," I repeated. "We had an argument in the

circle, as we sparred. You quit on me."

Del sat back, putting distance between us. Astonishment had faded. Now she stared. Examined me.

Evaluated. Comprehension crept into her eyes. "Tiger ... we need to leave this place. We need to go."

"Oziri says—"

"I don't care what Oziri says!" She lowered her voice with a glance at the open doorflap. "We have

to leave. Tomorrow, first thing."

"You're not ready to leave, bascha. You need to rest."