Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (42 page)

hasn't ruined him; he always was a fair man."

"And Stigand isn't?"

"Not unfair. Just hard. Demanding. Difficult to know. He is of the old school,

as Baldur was... and Baldur's best friend." She sighed. "It was Stigand himself

who gave me the choice between being sword-dancer or kaidin... I insulted him when I left Staal-Ysta. He expected me to stay. And then, of course, I killed Baldur. He has hated me for that."

I could see why. But I didn't say it to her. "Telek seemed reasonable."

"Telek is a good man. He and his woman took Kalle as their own and have given her a fine home."

"But she isn't their own," I said. "Kalle is your daughter."

Del's expression wasn't one, being masked again. This time I couldn't read it.

"I may not live beyond tomorrow, depending on the verdict. What good would it do

Kalle to lose a mother she doesn't know? A mother she never had?"

I had no answer for her, because she wasn't arguing with me. She was arguing with herself.

Lines dented her brow. "Why should a child be taken from the only parents she has known, given to a stranger, and told to love her as a mother?"

Still I made no answer.

Del threaded fingers through hair, scraping it back from a haggard face.

"Why,"

she began raggedly, "am I expected to want the girl? I'm not fit to be a mother."

Delilah was, I thought, more fit than many women. I've seen her with children before.

But I was afraid of this one. Of who and what she was; of what she represented.

Of the threat she distinctly provided.

"About this trial," I said. "Just exactly what will it be?"

"Exactly? I don't know." Del shrugged, slumping down against the wall. "We'll find out in the morning."

"I'd rather know now."

"You'll have to be patient, Tiger. We're to stay in here until we're sent for."

I frowned. "And not go out at all? But what about--"

She waved. "The nightpot's over there."

It was, I thought, sufficient to end the conversation. And so I bundled myself

up in one of the pelts, stretched out, slept--

--and dreamed of dozens of blonde little girls clinging to Del's sword.

Preventing her from using it even to save my life.

I woke up later, long enough to eat and drink what we were brought, then went back to sleep again. The trip north had taken its toll, and I was incredibly tired. I didn't think Del would mind; she was asleep herself.

I hoped her dreams were better than mine.

I slept heavily, woke up in the dead of night. Sleep was completely banished; I'd done my catching up. I got up, used the pot, looked around the lodge.

The light was bad, but I had marked where the door was. Quietly I grabbed Theron's sword, made my way down the corridor between the parade of posts, unlatched the door, slipped out. Didn't make a sound.

The night was cold. The mud and turf underneath my feet had frozen into hardness. Light was negligible, but reflection off the mountains lent enough to

see by. I sucked in frigid air, wishing I'd brought a pelt.

The hand came down on my shoulder. I twitched, swung, lifted the sword, saw Telek's face in the dim light. We were of a like size and build, though there the resemblance stopped. He was fair to my dark and probably a year or two older. Young compared to the rest.

He'd untied and loosened his braids. Light brown hair flowed around his shoulders. But that was the only difference from the man he'd been before.

In fluent Borderer, he reminded me I should remain inside.

"I know that," I agreed. "But when I'm told for no particular reason that I shouldn't do a thing, I generally try to do it. It's my way of fighting injustice."

He took his hand from my shoulder. "You think we're being unjust when we expect

you to honor the customs of Staal-Ysta?"

"I want to see Stigand."

Telek drew in a breath. "Now? Why? What business have you with him?"

"Private business, Telek. Will you take me to him?"

Grimly he shook his head. "At dawn the trial begins."

"Which is why I want to talk with him now. He won't have time, later."

"Custom requires--"

"I don't give a danjac's rump what your custom requires," I snapped. "This has

to do with that woman in there, the one you've all declared a blade without a name, when she has a greater sense of honor than any of us on this island." I jerked my head toward the door. "I've spent almost a year with her, Telek...

I

will swear on anything you name that what she did was out of need, not desire;

out of conviction, not caprice. And I will swear also that she bears the guilt

with honor, as a true an-ishtoya should, paying respect to her training, her sword, her an-kaidin. She does not dishonor you, or anyone in this place. She does not dishonor Staal-Ysta."

The dim light hid much of his face in shadow. "And if I require you to swear the

oath you offered?"

"Do it," I said curtly.

His mouth curved a little. "Then I will," he said smoothly. "I require you to swear by the life of Delilah's daughter that you will not interfere with the trial, but will accept its requisites. No matter what they are."

My blurted response was automatic. "But Kalle is your daughter."

Telek's gaze didn't waver. "Yes," he agreed tautly, "and that is what you will

say if Del asks you for advice concerning Kalle's future."

It was, I thought, an ironic, if interesting, pact. I was afraid Del would decide to stay here, to keep the girl, forsaking the life we'd shared. Telek was, too--if for different reasons.

It was an easy oath. But it made me feel dirty.

Telek latched the door. "I'll take you to Stigand's lodge."

The old man was distinctly displeased to see me. He spoke in rapid staccato uplander to Telek, who answered calmly, quietly, reasonably. And eventually Stigand agreed to listen.

We hunkered down in his compartment within the rectangular lodge. His woman was

rolled up in pelts, sleeping soundly. Snores issued from other compartments, and

the noises of coupling. A baby squalled briefly, stopped. One of the dogs yipped

in dreams. I would have preferred more privacy, but short of going outside it seemed none existed.

Telek took his leave. Stigand waited in silence after waving me to begin.

He was old. Older by night, with his braids shaken loose and a pelt wrapped around his shoulders. I saw the seams of scars in his face, the crookedness of

his nose, the line of a jaw that lost more teeth each year. Outside, facing Del,

he had been a strong, if aging man. Now he was simply an old one.

I drew in a deep breath. "Friendship is an honorable thing," I said quietly.

"The bond forged between childhood companions, swordmates, fellow ishtoya, kaidin, and an-kaidin, is something to be cherished. Something to be respected.

A thing of deep and abiding honor."

Pale blue eyes stared back. He didn't even blink. He was going to be very tough.

"Men who grow old together in adversity and mutual admiration are closer even than babies born at one birth. But one must die first. One always dies first, leaving the other to grieve."

Still the old man said nothing.

"His death was hard enough," I said, "but does it deserve another? Is that what

Baldur would want?"

Stigand's lips worked briefly. "It might be what I want," he said.

After a moment, I nodded. "But it's also what she wants, Stigand. To avenge the

death of her kin. The slavery of her brother. The loss of innocence at the hands

of a Northerner who cast off his honor long ago, replacing it with brutality."

"We gave her a place," he said. "We gave her skills and a trade. We even gave her honor, offering her a thing no other woman has ever been offered."

"You didn't give her honor. What Del has, she earns."

"She repudiated Staal-Ysta."

"She had other responsibilities."

"She blooded her sword in one of us--"

"And now Baldur will never die."

It startled him. He gaped.

I nodded. "You may have buried his body in Staal-Kithra, but his spirit survives

in her sword. His teaching survives in her sword; Baldur's wisdom is undiminished. His skills are not forgotten. He teaches her every day."

"You say, Southroner--"

"I have seen her dance."

"You don't understand our customs--"

"I have danced against her."

Stigand glared. "Does that make you any judge? What do I know of you?"

"Probably nothing," I admitted. "In the South, I am known, and well... but this

is the North. This is Staal-Ysta. I am most likely an empty name. But it might

mean something to you if I say I defeated Theron."

Wrinkled lids twitched. Now he was paying attention. "He was sent to give her the choice."

"And he did, but badly. He wanted to dance against her." I shrugged. "Del accommodated. But I was the one who killed him."

"Have you proof?"

I put the sword into the dim light. "I don't know its name," I told him, "but this is Theron's jivatma. Would I have it if he lived? Would it be a powerless

blade?"

The old man looked down at the sword set across my lap. I rested my hands upon

hilt and blade, letting him see what I did. Letting him see I survived; once, I

wouldn't have.

Stigand put out a gnarled hand. I saw blotches on it, twisted sinews, swollen knuckles. He touched fingers to the runes.

"It must be painful for you," I told him quietly, "to look at the woman who took

the life of your friend. If you give me the chance, I will take her away from here."

It startled him. He jerked back his hand and stared. "Take her out of Staal-Ysta?"

"Provided she's alive."

Slowly, he shook his head. "I am not the sole judge. The voca is made of ten men."

"But you hold the power here. Traditionally, they defer to you; I can see it in

Telek. You could sway the decision."

Stigand hissed something angrily in uplander. "Do you know," he choked, once he

had recovered his Borderer, "do you know I could have you killed for this?

For

asking such a thing?"

"I'm asking out of need."

"What need?" he demanded. "What is the woman to a man like you, a Southroner, to

whom women are merely things?"

I fought to remain calm. "Everything Baldur was to you. I honor her as much as

you honored him."

Stigand spat by my knee. "You know nothing of honor. If you did, you wouldn't be

here like this, trying to twist me this way and that. Trying to shape justice to

your liking. What do you know of honor?"

"I know the circle," I told him, "the sword-dance. If you like, I'll swear by that, so you'll know I mean what I say."

Tears glittered in rheumy eyes. "He was my friend."

With difficulty, I swallowed. "We have a saying, in the South, about cats. A desert cat, born of the Punja, an animal worth avoiding. We say: 'the sandtiger

walks alone'."

Stigand stared; I went on.

"But this one has tired of that. The Sandtiger has chosen a mate...

swordmate,

bedmate, lifemate. Yet now you place her at risk; do you think I will let you do

it?" I leaned forward, over the sword. "Old man, I will honor your customs to a

point, because they are worth it--to a point. But if you sentence that woman to

death, I'll exact my own revenge. A sandtiger's revenge."

His chin trembled. "You threaten an old man."

"No." I shook my head. "I address a warrior, Stigand. I address an an-kaidin.

I

address a man I respect, because, in my tongue, you are a shodo.

Sword-master.

One who teaches others the circle, and the beauty of the dance."

Stigand looked at the sword. "That is not yours."

I took it out of my lap and set it on the rugs. "Then I gladly give it up. It belongs in Staal-Kithra."

The old man frowned. Worked his tongue against his teeth. Glanced briefly at the

woman still sleeping in her pelts.

Heavily, he sighed. "It is hard to lose a friend."

"Even harder to lose a mate."

"Go," Stigand said.

I started to rise, held back. "May I have an answer?"

"In the morning," he answered gruffly.

Alarm flickered dully. There were nine other men involved. Without assurances from this one... "Shodo--"

"An-kaidin," he corrected. "I have told you to go."

Hoolies. There was nothing left to do.

I rose. Looked down at the jivatma I'd carried so long. Then bid it a silent farewell, turning to walk away.

"Southroner." I swung back. Stigand's expression was enigmatic. "How many years

have you?"

It caught me off guard. "Altogether?--I don't know. Thirty-four, maybe thirty-five... I grew up without mother or father."

"How long a sword-dancer?"

I shrugged. "Eighteen years, give or take a day. Without knowing my age, it's difficult to say."

His gaze held my own. "Baldur and I were born on the same day in the same village, seventy-two years ago. From birth we were companions. It was a strong

bond, and one we greatly honored."

Silently, I nodded.

"My woman and I have been together more than fifty years. That bond I also honor."

Baffled, I frowned.

Stigand's tone was rough. "That is my answer. Now go." Silently, I went.

Wishing

I knew what he meant.

I made my way back toward the compartment Del and I shared in Telek's lodge.

But

I stopped short before reaching it, pausing to look down on Telek himself, asleep in a corner with his woman and the daughter Del had borne.

Mostly they were lumps beneath pelts, huddled together against the cold. The girl slept between them, snugged up for body warmth, but one arm was free of pelts and blankets. One small, slender arm, with delicate hand and even more delicate fingers. And I wondered, looking at it, if that hand would ever hold a