Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (36 page)

"What, then, bascha?"

"When I killed my an-kaidin."

So. There was more to Del's scars. Deeper than even I'd thought.

"That song--" I began, but Del's tone cut me off.

"It was easy," she said. "Easy. I thought it would be hard. I thought it should

be hard... but it was easy, Tiger."

After a moment, I nodded. "The mechanics of death aren't so difficult when you've been properly trained. You were. So I think--"

Del's head rolled slightly against my shoulder. "I don't mean the mechanics of

death. I mean the death itself. When I took the an-kaidin's life. When I took him into my sword." She paused. "When Boreal became mine, truly mine, as a jivatma must become... a blood-thirsty, blooded jivatma"

I could see little of her face. Mostly tangled hair. But her tone said more than

enough. "Bascha--"

Yet again, she cut me off. She sat up, throwing off the blanket from us both, then lurched upward to her knees. A quick glance slanted my way told me to be still; I was. And Del drew the sword.

In the cave, it rang. It sang, as much as a Canteada. And I realized, in that moment, that the world was made of music. Lifesong, deathsong, dreamsong. The cycle personified.

"Sword-singer," I said.

Del twitched, holding the sword. Turned her head to look at me over a shoulder.

"Sword-singer," I repeated. "The dance requires a song."

Delilah began to smile.

"It's what you do, isn't it?" I asked. "Sing. To your sword. Your opponent.

Your

gods. To pay tribute to the world." I nodded slowly. "I remember the old man's

words... the old Northerner in Harquhal, who sold you the leathers and furs and

wool." Again, I nodded. "He told you to sing well."

Del dragged in a breath. "No dance is danced in silence."

"And it's how you key the sword."

"Part of it," she agreed. "There is more to it than that, but yes... the true name, the song--all is required."

"And I suppose the song must be special, like the name? A personal song?

Something no one else can know?" I frowned. "But that doesn't make sense, bascha. If someone hears you sing, the song is no longer secret."

Del turned, still holding the sword. Still on her knees. And then she tucked heels beneath buttocks and sat, laying the jivatma across her thighs. One hand

on the hilt. One hand on the blade. With infinite gentleness.

"You make a new one," she said, "each time. You touch yourself--what you are, what you were, what you can be--and shape it into a song. It's as much you as your hand on the hilt, but drawn from a deeper level. From the you no one else

may know." Behind dirt and blood and tangled hair, the flawless face was somber.

"You sing yourself into the sword, so the sword becomes part of you."

"Then why bother to blood it?" I asked. "Why all this nonsense about blooding it

by taking the life of an honored enemy?" I straightened a little, frowning.

"What happens if the enemy isn't honored? What happens if you have to kill before you're ready?"

Del's tone was steady. "A sword requires blood. First blood is part of the ritual; it is a rite of passage." Gently, she fingered the blade. "A boy becomes

a man. A girl becomes a woman. A sword becomes a jivatma. Until then, it isn't

whole."

"You didn't kill an enemy. You killed a friend instead."

She didn't so much as twitch. But then I saw blood on her fingers. Blood running

into the runes.

"In the name of my need, I killed," she said. "I killed my honored an-kaidin, and took him into my sword."

"And are you content with it?"

Steadfastly, she stared at the blade. "It was what I had to do."

"And are you content with it?"

Her hand tightened on the hilt. Tendons stood up in the flesh. "There are times

I hate this sword. There are times I hate myself."

"Do you regret what you have done?"

Del looked straight at me. "No," she said, "I don't. And that is what frightens

me."

We stood beside the loki ring at dawn: Del, myself, Garrod, and the Borderers.

Fog gathered above us, skirting the top of the canyon. Below, mist clung to us,

dampening our hair. My nose and ears were cold.

Massou tore free of his mother and ran to Del. "I'm sorry!" he cried. "I'm sorry!"

I saw her flinch. I saw her recoil. I saw her fight back the response that might

have destroyed him, in his frenzy to make things right.

"I'm sorry!" the boy cried, clinging to Del's waist. "It wasn't me, I swear...

it wasn't... it wasn't." Sobs broke up additional words, rendering them incoherent.

It was plain all of them knew. And all of them remembered. Cipriana's face flamed red. She refused to look at me. Adara was less humiliated, but I saw how

hard it was even for her to meet my eyes. She clutched her skirts in fists.

I cast a glance around the canyon. Once again the other Canteada were hidden, leaving the songmaster to represent them. But I recalled them, the night before.

Recalled them with candles and wardstones, melting out of the darkness to sing

the Borderers free. To imprison the loki in a ring I wouldn't break.

Such a delicate thing, the ring. So transient on the surface. Smooth, rounded stones placed in a careful circle in the center of the canyon, not far from the

songmaster's cave. In it resided loki. Daeva. Shedu. Rakshasa. The demons of childhood's dreams.

"We have to go," I said. "We can't stay here. This is a place of peace, and we

have warped the song."

I felt Del's glance. Well, I was just as surprised. But I knew what I said was

true.

"What about us?" Adara asked softly. "I know you must go on, but what are we to

do? As you say, we can't stay here."

Garrod stood just behind Del, whose face was freshly scrubbed but still showed

bluish bruising. His lids were lowered, hiding pale eyes. But they lifted, flickered, raised; he looked at the Borderers. "I'll take you," he said.

Cipriana's head came around. She stared at him in surprise.

Massou still clung to Del. "Can't you take us with you?"

I saw plainly she was uncomfortable, recalling the loki-Massou. With effort she

kept her tone steady and didn't draw away. "No," she said quietly, touching the

tousled blond hair. "No. I must go on. There is a thing I have to do."

Adara was looking at Garrod. There was hope in her green eyes, but also a trace

of confusion. And I recalled that Garrod was mostly a stranger to them, since he

had known only the loki within them.

The horse-speaker looked at me. "I'll take responsibility."

I raised brows. "Can you?"

The scarred lip twisted a little. "After the dreamsong, yes. And I think it's time I did."

Adara smoothed her skirts. "We're going to Kisiri."

Garrod smiled a little, flicking a glance at Cipriana. "Kisiri is a long way upland, but the uplands are my home. I will take you there safely."

I'll admit it, I was relieved. Del and I simply couldn't afford the time to escort the Borderers, but neither could we leave them behind without worrying about their welfare. Now Garrod could do it for us; it would be good for us all.

Cipriana looked back at him. "We haven't any horses."

Braid beads rattled as the horse-speaker laughed. "Leave that to me. I know ways

of getting horses."

"Through trickery?" I asked. "The Canteada don't ride; there are no horses to steal."

Ice-water eyes appraised and found me lacking. But the smile appeared again.

"The songmaster told me last night there is a settlement half a day south. I plan to buy the horses, Southron... with the money you will lend us."

"Lend you--"

"Or give," Adara said softly. "You did promise to buy us a horse and wagon to replace the ones we lost."

"Yes," Del said, "you did."

I scowled at her. Dug down to drag free my coin pouch. Counted out coin, passed

it over to Garrod.

Adara's hand flashed out. "I will tend the money."

The horse-speaker looked like he'd swallowed something sour. Grudgingly, he handed Adara the coin. She tied it into her tunic as Del nodded approval.

Trust a woman to want the money. It's the woman who always spends it.

"I'll go get the stud," I said, hearing him nickering in the distance.

He was happy to see me, I think. Certainly pleased to stick his nose into my neck and blow mucus all over me. I swore, shoved the nose away, tugged the stake

from the ground. Turned and saw Cipriana.

Color stood high in her face. She hugged ribs and stared at the ground, wanting

to speak but clearly unable.

The stud reached out the ever-questing nose. Touched her face. Nuzzled. Then snorted all over her.

Cipriana was less than pleased, wiping a forearm across her face. I pushed the

stud away, then abruptly knew what was wrong.

No. What was right.

"All that time," I said in discovery. "All that time... He knew something was wrong. Remember?"

Cipriana just stared, still scrubbing at her face.

"He bit Massou," I said, "and was always restive around you. The stud knew something was wrong. Garrod even said so. He just couldn't say what or why."

As if to prove me right, the stud sidled casually toward Cipriana. The girl sidled closer to me, then caught herself and lunged back. Color flamed in her face.

I whacked the stud on the nose, but only halfheartedly. "It's all right," I told

her. "I don't blame you--it wasn't your fault. You had nothing to do with it."

"But--all those things I said." The girl could barely speak. "Those things I said and did--"

"It wasn't you," I repeated. "Not you, not your mother, not Massou."

"But--I liked you. I did." She sounded surprised, which was a bit disgruntling.

"And then I acted like such a fool, saying and doing those things... trying to

make you--want me." The color stained her throat; I saw a film of shame-sweat on

her face. "I acted like a Harquhal cantina girl, selling herself for coin."

"You acted like a woman who wanted a man," I told her bluntly. "Cipriana, you're

young, but not that young. You have nothing to be ashamed of. There will come a

day soon--" abruptly, I thought of Garrod "--maybe sooner than you think, when a

man will return that favor--" now I thought of her mother, "--after you are married."

Shyly, Cipriana smiled a little. "That's what my mother said."

"Then maybe you should listen to her. She hasn't done so badly." I turned, headed slowly back toward Del. "Never blame yourself, Cipriana. Not for honest

feelings. It's better to say them out loud."

Coyly, she lifted one brow. "And do you say them to Del?"

Resignedly, I sighed. "Probably not enough."

She matched my pace. Then held something out. "I don't want this," she said.

"It

was Rakshasa's, never mine."

I took it. Looked at it: a string of lumpy stones, red-brown against my palm.

Rubbed smooth from years of wear.

In my mind, I saw Del's throat. Saw myself putting it on her, as she had put it

on her mother.

Cipriana smiled. Then ran ahead to her mother.

Thirty-one

The hounds were arrayed around us. I'd forgotten how ugly they were.

The stud, naturally, was less than happy with the standoff. He recalled all too

clearly the bites and nips and clawings he'd received from them before. He stomped and pawed and snorted, trying to warn them away.

"Hoolies," I said, "now what?"

Del sat behind me on the stud, hands locked into leather. Thinking only about the journey, we'd left the canyon far below us, as well as the wardsong, forgetting it was the only thing that had kept the hounds at bay.

"This," she answered quietly, fumbling at her woolen tunic.

I didn't turn to look, not wanting to take my attention from the hounds. So I couldn't see what she did. All I knew was, one minute we were surrounded by white-eyed beasts, the next moment they were gone. Fleeing like beaten dogs.

Now I twisted a little. "All right, bascha... what'd you do?"

She looped something over her head, held it out to me. I took it: a thin leather

thong and a tiny metallic tube, glinting silver in faint foggy sunlight.

"This?" I asked suspiciously. "What in hoolies is this?"

"Something from the Canteada." She kicked the stud, urging him forward, even though she was behind the saddle; it made me sit up and take notice.

"Hey--" I reined him out of a hop, skip and jump into a more decorous pace, still studying the thing on its thong. It was hollow. One end was open. There was also a hole in one side. "A whistle?"

"The songmaster said it would keep the hounds at a distance."

"But not send them away."

"No. They appear to be under a geas, or some other sort of binding. They'll probably follow along, but at least we won't have to worry about them keeping so

close."

"I don't like it," I said.

Del sighed. "Is there anything you do like?"

I answered promptly. "A sword, a circle, a good woman. A Southron sword that is--I could do without this one."

"And a Southron woman?"

I guided the stud through the trees, slipping the whistle thong over my head.

I've never been one to ignore an advantage, regardless of origins. "Southron women," I said calmly, "have certain points in their favor. They're more biddable, for one; you don't much have to worry about them getting all uppity if

you ask them to do something. And they're definitely good at domestic things, like cooking and cleaning and tending a man's gear. And they know how to please

a man, in bed and out, being brought up to know who's in charge."

Del was silent a long, thoughtful moment. I grinned at the stud's ears, waiting

for her response.