Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (52 page)

Del sighed. "I should have known you wouldn't appreciate the moment."

I grinned. "It's not a moment, bascha. It's a
baby."

She reached out a hand and stroked the wrappings. "I thought maybe we could call her Sula."

It shocked me. I could think of nothing to say.

"That woman gave you your freedom," Del said. "As much as there was to be found in the Salset.

Not enough, I know—but more than you might have had otherwise."

After a moment, when I had my emotions under control, I nodded. "Take her," I said. "Bascha—

take her."

She heard the tone in my voice. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Nothing, bascha." I leaned forward, steadied the little bundle as she was taken

from me, then bent down and kissed Del's forehead. "Rest. I'll come back later."

I waited until she had settled the baby beside her. As her eyes drifted closed, I left the room.

Alric saw my face as I came out of the house. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"You look—odd."

"I'm fine."

"Then why are you in harness?"

"There's something I need to do."

"Tiger—something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," I repeated. "There's just something I need to do." I paused. "Alone."

Alric was troubled. He and Lena were sitting outside the house on the wooden bench I'd built. The

chickens Mehmet had given us darted around the dooryard, and the half-grown gray tabby cat was

chasing an insect. We had, in six months, accumulated all the trappings of a regular family: a house,

chickens, mouser, two goats.

And now a daughter.

"I have to, Alric. I'll be back later."

He nodded and let me go.

I met up with Neesha and Ahriman at the passageway into the upper canyon. Ahriman was a short,

compact Southroner with black hair and eyes. He was several years younger than Neesha and rather shy

in my presence. Which made it difficult to get him to actually attack me in the schooling circle. He did

better with Neesha, whom he did not hold in awe.

"How's Del?" Neesha asked at once.

"She's fine. So's the baby."

"She had it?"

"Her. She had 'her.' " I nodded. "A little while ago."

Neesha was studying me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Tiger-"

I stopped him with a raised hand. "Nothing is wrong. Go on up and see Del and the baby—she's

your half-sister, after all. I'll be back."

Neesha didn't look any less concerned than Alric. But I had no time for them.

No time for much of anything.

The climb up to the broken chimney was easier now than when I'd made it six months before. Not

only did I know where I was going, but I was utterly focused on my goal. When I reached the tunnel, I

didn't think twice about the darkness. I ducked my head, went inside, followed it back to the slot near

the boulders blocking the rest of the passageway. There I took off the harness, dropped it to the dirt

floor, and pulled the stopper from the little pot I'd collected on the way out of the house. I smeared

grease on my abdomen and spine, tossed the empty pot away, unsheathed the
jivatma.
I left the harness

where it lay.

It wasn't easy getting through the slot. Neesha had been right about leaving layers of skin on the

rock. But the grease served me well, and at last I scraped myself into the chimney.

The chamber was small, about one-quarter the size of the original circle. Sunlight worked its way

down through cracks, illuminating the area, but the chimney wasn't a chimney anymore. Mostly it was a

pile of rocks and sections of ribbed wall. But the floor was still the pale Punja sand Del and I had

discovered before.

I glanced around. Found what I expected: Del's
jivatma.
Boreal lay in two pieces. I didn't touch

them. I set down my sword and bent to unlace my sandals. When that was done, I stripped out of my

dhoti. I collected my sword, moved to the center of what remained of the chimney chamber, and sat

down cross-legged with the
jivatma
across my thighs.

In fractured light, I looked at my hands. Two thumbs, three fingers on each. The stubs were no less

obvious than before, but I hadn't really noticed them for a while. The training I'd done on the island near

Haziz still served me. Since settling in the canyon, I had spent every day working through the forms,

keeping myself fit. Sparring matches with Neesha and Alric—I had refused to fight Del once I knew she

was pregnant, which irritated her to no end—maintained my speed, strength, and technique. In fact, Alric

said I was better than before.

If that were true, it was because something inside me, some facet of the magic, lent me an edge.

When I danced, I felt four fingers on the hilt. Not three. My grip was the grip it had been before losing

them. And I had no explanation. Only gratitude.

I closed my hands lightly over the sword. Went into my head. Dug into my soul. Peeled the flesh off

the bones, shed muscle and viscera, until I found the magic buried so deep inside.

It wasn't a flame, but a coal. It burned steadily, unceasingly, using me as the fuel. It would kill me one

day, merely because it existed. Because my mother was of the Stessoi, one of the gods-descended

Eleven Families of Skandi, and those gods had been capricious enough to set their mark on me even as

my mother, and I, lay dying in the Punja near my father's body. Because I was ioSkandic, a mage of

Meteiera, meant to leap from the spire to merge with the gods when the madness overcame me.

In ten years. Twelve.

I had a son. A daughter. I had Delilah.

I wanted to live forever.

Or at least as long as I possibly could as man, not mage, without the interference of a magic I never

wanted. Even though I'd used it.

"Find me"
she had said,
"and take up the sword."

My mother had died giving birth to me. But she had served me nonetheless by setting me on the road

to this place. To this moment. To this decision.

No other was possible.

I found the coal inside. Took it up. Blew gently upon it. Felt the heat rise; saw the flame leap. I

coddled it. Cradled it. Nursed it into being. Kept it alive. Bade it serve me.

Made
it serve me.

Once I had had a sorcerer inside me. And in my
jivatma.

It was time to put the mage that was me in the
jivatma.
The power, if not the man.

For the first time since I'd been reborn atop the spire in Meteiera, I thanked the priest-mages who

had altered mind and body. Because in doing so they had given me the key.

Discipline.

"Mother," I said aloud; and discovered how odd it was to use the word as an address. A title.

"Mother, you bred me for this. Bred it
in
me, bequeathing me something else of your people besides

height, coloring, even keraka. Magic, magery, is not a gift I desire, or require. I wanted freedom—and

won it because of Stessoi magic. I wanted to be a sword-dancer—and became one because of Skandic

strength, the heritage of you, my father, and everyone before us. But now comes the time for me to look

forward instead of backward. To, as Del would say, make a new song. To do that, I must make a new

man. One who wishes to live for the children
he
has made, children who are of Stessoi flesh and bone

even as I am. But also of the North, and of the South. If to do that I must cut away a part of me that you

gifted me, so be it. I have made the choice."

There was no answer. I had no bone to fuel the dream-walk. But I had clarity of purpose, and the

certainty to fuel that.

It took time. It nearly took me. But I felt the flame of the power become conflagration, feasting on

my flesh. I poured it into and through my arms, down into the sword. Into Samiel, whose song I sang in a

broken, shaking voice.

Discipline.

And when it was done, when the magic that had, at age sixteen, won me my freedom, resided in the

sword, I stood up from the sand. Walked to the chimney wall. Found a crevice. I thrust the
jivatma

blade into the stone as deeply as I could.

And then I broke it.

I was a sword-dancer. It was all the magic I needed.

I smiled even as I wept. Even as I placed the two halves of the broken
jivatma
with Del's. Even as I

shakily put on dhoti and sandals and went back through the slot, leaving layers of grease and skin.

In the tunnel, I collected my empty harness.

When I walked up the canyon I was thinking about Del. Not about circles, or sword-dancers, or

elaii-ali-ma.
Not about challenges. Not about dancing. Not about the price for breaking lifelong oaths.

Certainly not about Abbu Bensir. But he was there. And I understood why. On this day of all days,

we had finally arrived at the moment we both had known would come: the dance that would define us

both.

He stepped out of the doorway of my house as I approached. He wore only a dhoti and held a

sword. "You were hard to find," he told me, "but then I heard about Alric and his family heading down

here with a kid who'd been seen with you and Del, and I knew."

I said nothing. I waited.

His tone changed. "Sandtiger," he said, "by the rite of
elaii-ali-ma
I am not required to challenge you

or to meet you in the circle. I am required only to kill you. But I have not forgotten the ignorant boy who,

all unknowing, taught me a lesson before others at Alimat, even before the shodo. For that, I will offer

you the honor of meeting me in the circle."

Very slowly, I unbuckled my harness. Dropped it to the ground. Spread my hands. I had no sword;

I could not accept.

Abbu Bensir smiled. "The boy has said he will lend you his."

The boy. My son. Who had once been taught by the man before me.

"Where are they?" I asked.

Abbu stepped out of the doorway into the yard. Neesha came out. And Alric.

The big Northerner said, "Lena's with Del. She's fine."

"Does she know?"

Something spasmed briefly in Alric's face. "She's asleep."

Ah. Well, probably for the best.

Abbu nodded. "I have asked the boy to start the dance for us. Shall we waste no more time?"

"The boy," I said, "has a name."

"Nayyib. I know. I met him some years ago, apparently, though I confess I don't recall." He flicked a

glance at Neesha, standing white-faced in the dooryard. "Give him your sword."

We had met several times, Abbu and I. That first time at Alimat, when I nearly crushed his throat.

His voice still bore the scars. Once or twice after that, merely to spar because we ran into each other in a

distant desert town with no other entertainment. Then for years, nothing. The South is a large place, and

we ranged it freely. We were to meet again at Iskandar during the contest, but I'd been kicked in the

head by the stud and was in no shape to dance. More recently, we had met at Sabra's palace, where I

had aborted the dance by declaring
elaii-ali-ma.

To this day neither of us knew which was the better man.

I walked over to Neesha and looked him in the eye. "I thank you for the honor of the use of your

sword."

He wanted to speak. Didn't. Just unsheathed and gave me his sword.

I led Abbu to one of the sparring circles and waited. He studied it, walking the perimeter, noting how

the turf was incised and marked with small pegs denoting the circle, so the grass wouldn't cover it.

Inside, the meadowgrass was beaten down, crushed by feet. He walked there, too, to learn the footing.

In a strange place, we would not have done so; but this was my home, and Abbu was due the chance to

learn what its circle was like. He set his sword in the center, then walked away. I did the same. We

faced one another from opposite sides.

He was older than I, smaller, lighter. But he'd always been fleet of foot. Age lay on him more heavily

than the last time we'd met, but he was as fit as ever.

"I hear you danced against Musa."

So, he knew him. Or knew
of
him. "Umir's idea. But yes. I did."

"I hear you killed him."

"He insisted."

"Ah." Abbu nodded. "Musa was a proud boy. I did warn him it would get him killed one day, if he

didn't quench it. I didn't believe it would be this soon."

"How well did you know him?"

"I taught him. Oh, not as the shodo taught us. He didn't stay with me for years, learning the forms. He

came to me with a natural skill honed by other instructors: the sword-dancers he'd already defeated. He

wished to defeat them all and desired my help. When I saw how he danced, I gave it to him." His

creased face tautened briefly. "I did not believe you could defeat him."

I nodded. "Neither did Musa."

Dark eyes flicked to Neesha. "Now."

Neesha stood two paces away. Alric had moved to stand behind me, well out of the way.

I looked at my son and nodded.

His jaw clenched. "Dance."

It was a fast-moving, vicious fight, unlike anything Abbu and I had engaged in before. But then,

though not friends, we had been friendly rivals, more interested in the challenge. We had never fought to

the death. Even before Sabra, he had retained the honor I'd always seen in him, doing his best to respect

the honor codes despite Sabra's desire for me to die.