Sword-Singer Page 15

  Adara passed me the bota. “Your fever has broken. With sleep and food and rest, you should recover soon.”

  I grunted, handing back the bota. “I’ll be up in the morning.”

  “No, probably not.” Adara tucked the bota away. Her manner was oddly hesitant, yet also distinctly determined. “You and Del are—bonded?”

  “Not formally.” Bonding was a Border marriage custom. “Not even informally, really…we just ride together.”

  “And—sleep together.”

  “Well, yes. Usually.” I sighed and scratched my scars, thinking about my arm, which felt strangely numb. “At the moment, it might be difficult…and Del’s afraid of loki.”

  “I am not,” Adara said. Clearly and distinctly.

  Thoughtfully, I looked at her. Didn’t say a word.

  She lifted her chin and met my gaze. “My husband was often unable, once his heart weakened. So—it has been a long time.”

  I knew what it had taken her to say the words. In the South, women never initiate such things; it’s for the man to do. Adara was a Borderer and therefore somewhat freer, and undoubtedly a Northern husband had also contributed, but all the same it was an interesting—and courageous—proposition.

  And one I didn’t particularly desire, Del being more than enough.

  But how in hoolies do you tell a woman no?

  In the end, I didn’t have to. Adara knew it instinctively. For a moment she shut her eyes, then opened them again. Color bathed her cheeks, but she wasn’t humiliated. “I know,” she said quietly, without excess emotion. “I am only a Borderer. A woman who bears and raises children and lives in a single place. The sun has sucked the softness from my flesh and puts spots on my face. I have no gift with weapons, and I cry when I should fight back, and I couldn’t wield a sword if my life depended on it. I’m not the woman for you.”

  “You were the woman for Kesar.”

  “But I made him change.” She hated herself for it, now.

  I thought about what Del had said. How she had wondered if I wanted a softer woman, a woman with different appetites, with different needs in life. A woman like Adara. And now another woman asked the same question, although the words—and who said them—were different.

  I wondered if every woman alive wanted the life she didn’t live.

  The life she couldn’t live.

  Hoolies, what a curse.

  “I’ll get Del,” Adara said, and slipped quietly out of the wagon.

  Del came. She leaned against the wagon and peered in at me, hair hooked behind her ears. She was beginning to lose her tan, turning creamy pale again. “So,” she said, “it lives.”

  “More or less.” My throat hurt, and my chest, but at least my head was clearing. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Off and on, for four days.”

  “Four days!” I frowned. “It was only a little cut, and burned closed, like you said.”

  “Was,” she agreed. “But those were loki-touched swords, and the wound turned bad. I opened it and drained it.”

  I twisted my head and inspected the arm, pressing chin into shoulder. It was all wrapped up in cloth, but smelled clean enough. “Four more days lost, then.”

  Del shrugged. “Four more, six more…what does it matter? If I count each day as a notch on my funeral stick, I’ll die of senseless worry.”

  She sounded calm enough. “But, bascha—time is running out.”

  “Time does that.” Del leaned in, snagged the bota, unplugged it and drank deeply. “When you’re fit, we’ll have to portion out the food and necessary belongings, then go ahead on foot.”

  “Belongings?” I frowned. “We’ve been lugging ours along well enough. Why change now?”

  “Not ours. Theirs.” She shrugged. “They no longer have a horse.”

  I blinked. “You mean—you want the five of us to travel together?”

  Del tossed the bota back. “It’s been nearly six years since I came down the Traders’ Road. Roadhouses and settlements move even as we move; I don’t know them anymore. But I do know if we leave the Borderers here without protection, telling them help lies over the hill, they could all wind up dead.”

  I suppose I’d known that ever since we’d met up with them. But somehow I’d assumed we’d go on after helping them with the wagon. Now that help was pointless; without a horse to pull it, they couldn’t take the wagon.

  “I told them to pack up what they need, once you’re out of the way,” Del said. “I told them they can buy a horse at the next settlement, and another wagon, but to consider this one gone.” She stroked the wooden frame. “And it will be, by the time they have another. Thieves will strip this one clean, like carrion, and use the wood for burning.”

  “They don’t have money for a horse and wagon.”

  “We do.” Her tone was level. “I took the coin off the borjuni.”

  I contemplated her expression. I knew Massou reminded her of her brother, just as Cipriana reminded me of a younger, more innocent Del. And I suppose, in the back of my mind, I hadn’t ever really considered leaving them behind…at least, not seriously.

  “What’s the matter, Del?”

  Her face was stark. “I brought them, Tiger. The loki. When I got so upset in the valley…remembering my family—” She shrugged, oddly vulnerable. “It’s what draws them: strong emotion. If I hadn’t lost control—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told her. “We defeated them, didn’t we? We drove the loki away.”

  “Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “And now we must deal with the Borderers.” I nodded. “More delay, bascha.”

  “Yes,” Del agreed, “but what else can we do?”

  Which had also been my answer, the times I’d thought about it.

  Fifteen

  “First, there is the circle.” Del pointed at the curving line drawn so carefully in the turf. “And then there is the sword.” She unsheathed Boreal. “Lastly, there is the dancer.” She stepped over the line and into the circle, to stand in the very center. “This is the sword-dancer’s world.”

  I looked at two fierce, solemn faces. Northern faces, both, cream-fair and smooth, unmarred by a Southron sun. They’d left before it could bake them.

  Massou and Cipriana had taken to Del’s lessons with a vengeance, sucking up everything she told them and locking it away. For a purpose, too; Del had a habit of asking them, always when least expected, to repeat what she had taught them. Willingly they would: Massou so quick and eager, Cipriana more reserved. But she remembered everything, while Massou sometimes forgot.

  We had left the wagon behind and headed north on foot. My fever was gone, my head unstuffed, most of the coughing abated, but I felt the stiffness in my bones. Surrounded by four who were younger than I, unappreciative of the weather, I was feeling distinctly old and generally abused.

  In five days, we had developed a routine. Everyone carried his share without complaint, up the hills and down them, winding around the track, quietly accepting the burdens of the journey no matter how much he wanted to speak. Adara was accustomed to hardship and adapted very well; her children, though used to having a father do things for them, nonetheless were young enough to look on it as an adventure. Massou had the boundless energy and enthusiasm of all boys his age. His sister wanted to please the adults, needing our approval.

  In late afternoons, we halted, and then the lessons began.

  Adara said nothing as, day by day, her children learned the arts of the dance. Much of it was ritual, not an exercise of death; Del was careful in her phrasing and cut short Massou’s occasional lapses into bloodthirsty discussions. She was honest with them, answering all their questions, but she taught them to honor the dance and not glory in violence.

  They had only their father’s sword, and so they took turns. Del could not loan them Boreal, and I didn’t extend them the opportunity to try Theron’s sword. Ever since I’d stuck it in the ground, only to have that ground explode, I’
d been careful to keep it away from everyone. Del had said it wasn’t truly keyed, not like Boreal, but I didn’t want to take a chance on injuring boy or girl.

  One by one, they had their lesson. And then Massou, stepping out of the circle, looked with bright eyes to me. “Why don’t you dance with Del?”

  I was sitting on a hump of ground, observing their education. “I dance all the time with Del.”

  Cipriana’s smile was sly. “We mean—with a sword.”

  I slanted her a baleful glance. She reddened, giggled, then drew herself up straight. Fifteen years old, was Cipriana; not a girl, but neither a woman. Caught somewhere in between, yet fighting the constraints.

  Hoolies, that’s all I needed.

  Del’s smile was hooked down one corner of her mouth. “Why don’t you, Tiger? You could use the conditioning.”

  Yes, well, I could. The cold and arm wound had laid me low and I hadn’t danced in too long. It was past time I put in some practice, no matter how good I was. So I sighed, heaved myself up, and pulled Theron’s sword out of the sheath.

  Massou’s grin split his face as he spoke the traditional invitation. “Step into the circle.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” I went, stepping over the curving line, and saw Del’s peculiar expression. “Bascha?”

  It faded almost at once. “Nothing,” she said, “are you ready?”

  Probably not. I wore too many clothes and my joints were too stiff. The day was damp, though not rainy, but I’d found it didn’t matter. My bones hated the North.

  “Spar or dance?” I asked. There is a decided difference.

  “Spar,” she said. “I don’t think you’re up to dancing.”

  The turf was damp but not slick, knotted with sprigs and tufts that offered better footing. Northern boots helped; I’d have slipped easily in my sandals. “Then let’s get to it, bascha.”

  I’ll admit it, I was lazy. Lazy and out of shape. Sword-dancing requires daily physical and mental work, and I’d done neither lately. So when Del came at me, supple and strong, I wasn’t ready for her.

  Two quick engagements, and she’d forced me out of the circle.

  Massou’s eyes were huge. “Oh, Tiger!”

  Hoolies, you’d think he’d bet money on me! Cipriana said nothing at all.

  “We’re sparring,” I pointed out. “Practice isn’t for real.”

  Del was instantly ablaze with indignation. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” she asked. “Have you sat here for five days listening to me tell my ishtoya how to honor the rituals of the circle, and then ignore them yourself?”

  I cleared my throat. “Del—”

  “How can you claim yourself a sword-dancer if you don’t take it seriously?” Her hostility was inspiring. “How can you dishonor your an-kaidin so easily?”

  “Shodo,” I said coolly. “In the South, the master’s a shodo.”

  “Shodo, kaidin, an-kaidin—do you think I care for names?” She stepped to the edge of the circle. “I care about living and dying, Tiger, and how to uphold the honor of my an-kaidin.”

  “The same an-kaidin you killed.”

  It stopped her cold, of course; I’d expected it to. Color washed out of her face so fast I thought she might faint. But she held her ground, staring rigidly, though I think she was blind to me.

  Massou was open-mouthed, Cipriana pale. Neither said a word.

  “Yes,” she said finally, “but at least he was worth the dance.”

  That did it. With pointed deliberation, I stepped over the muddy line and back into the circle. “Fine,” I said, “let’s do it.”

  No more sparring. We danced, Delilah and I. On a damp, turf-soaked hillside in the downlands of the North. I forgot the children watched. I forgot Adara watched. I forgot I was out of shape. I remembered only the habits I’d been taught so long ago.

  Swordsong filled the campsite, the clash and clangor of magicked steel. Del didn’t key and I couldn’t, so the blades remained unlit, but silver was more than enough. It threw up a blinding curtain in the setting of the sun.

  Beneath the noise of the swords was a contrapuntal sound. I wheezed a little, sucking in air, and Del muttered to herself. It was a constant racket from both: gasps, grunts, in- and exhalations, the low-voiced undertone of the woman.

  As the dance progressed, Del’s noise gained volume. And I realized she wasn’t really muttering, instead she was instructing. She was commenting on my style, on my techniques, grudgingly approving or broadly disapproving.

  “What in hoolies—” I gasped, “—are you doing?”

  “You’re slow…you’re slow…your style is too sluggish—”

  “Hoolies, woman—I’ve been sick—”

  “And you could be dead—”

  Step, skip, jump.

  “—I thought this was only practice—”

  “—it is—”

  “—I thought we were only sparring—”

  “—we are—”

  Feint, slash, withdraw.

  “—you never did this before—”

  “—you never needed it, Tiger—”

  “—and now I do?—”

  “—you do. You’ve gotten sloppy, Tiger.”

  Sloppy. Sloppy.

  Take this for sloppy, bascha.

  “—better, Tiger—better—”

  And this, too.

  “—much better, Tiger. Don’t stop now—”

  Hoolies, the woman would kill me. And it would have nothing to do with her sword.

  “—if you hadn’t unleashed that banshee-storm, I’d never have gotten sick—”

  Duck, skip, twist.

  “—oh, I see—we’re going to blame me for this—”

  “—if it weren’t so thrice-cursed cold—”

  “—this is not cold, Tiger—”

  Boreal kissed my throat.

  “—hoolies, Del, that’s close—”

  “—and I shouldn’t have gotten through…blame only yourself, Tiger—”

  Blame this, bascha.

  Except I missed. And Del, as usual, didn’t.

  Ah, hoolies…it hurt.

  “Tiger?” Del knelt in boot-torn turf as I slowly sat up. “Tiger—is it bad?”

  Carefully, I felt the slice on my jaw. Not a lot of blood. Mostly injured pride. “My arm hurts worse.”

  Grudgingly admitting I was fine.

  Del’s brow smoothed. “I said you were too slow.”

  “Too slow, too stiff, too old.” I turned my head, spat; the dance had dug deep in my chest.

  Something flickered in blue eyes. Something akin to realization and apprehension. “Do you want to go back, then?”

  “Yes.” It was apprehension; I saw it. “But not until we’re done.”

  Her tone was uneven. “Done with what?”

  “With whatever you have to do.”

  Relief was a tangible thing, though she fought hard to hide it. “I’m sorry. I was angry. I forgot about your arm.”

  I stood up slowly, feeling my chest. “Maybe it’s what I needed.”

  Del stood too, turning to face her students. “I was wrong,” she told them plainly. “I was angry. Anger is bad in the circle.”

  Massou’s face was pale. “Could you have killed him?”

  “Yes,” Del answered honestly, “or Tiger could have killed me.”

  Well, it was nice of her to say so.

  “Could you?” Cipriana obviously missed nothing.

  I bent down and retrieved the sword. “Not today,” I told her. “Probably not tomorrow. But maybe the day after that…if I live long enough.”

  Within two days, I’d joined the lessons as well. I felt the better for it, even if Del did occasionally forget that I pretty much knew everything she was teaching. Admittedly our styles are very different, having come from different cultures, but there isn’t a whole lot she knows that I don’t. (Or, to be fair, the other way around.) At any rate, it was good conditioning and I needed it.

 
; Adara did not trouble me again with any manner of pursuit. I was a little surprised; didn’t she think I was worth it? And didn’t a woman expect a man to pursue her even if at first she says no?

  Except when I thought about it, I realized it might be a bit difficult. Loki or no loki, Del was always present. It would make any sort of assignation downright impossible.

  Although, I reflected, once I’d have tried it regardless.

  Just for the hoolies of it.

  Cipriana came around more and more. Quietly, she asked me to tell her stories. Real stories, she said, tales of victories in the circle. And so, in the evenings, as we sat around the fire, I fell into the habit of reciting things that had happened before, being very careful not to elaborate. Embellishment has its place, as Bellin the Cat would surely agree, but I felt it best not to make me sound too invincible; Massou and Cipriana might believe me and try to equal my feats.

  And, eventually, I worked my way around to Del. Who looked back at me gravely and did nothing at all to help out.

  “These are your stories, too,” I pointed out. “Don’t you tell tales in the North?”

  “The trueborn skjald is most honored among our people.”

  “Then—?”

  “I am not a skjald.”

  I scratched my claw-marked cheek in a bid for patience. “No, maybe not, but you can at least hold up your end of the history.”

  “Now you’re speaking of skjelps.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t smile. “Skjelps are historians. Skjalds are storytellers.”

  Hoolies, here we go. “And there’s a difference.”

  “Much like there’s a difference between loki and afreet.”

  “Loki?” Massou, of course, perked up. “What about loki?”

  “What about afreets?” Cipriana asked.

  Del grinned pointedly at me.

  I sighed. “Afreets are Southron demons. Playful demons. They can’t really hurt you, they just bother you.”

  “Loki can.” Massou was solemn, but curiosity lighted his eyes. “Loki can kill people.”

  Cipriana nodded. “Loki are evil demons.”

  Adara, silent up till now, added her encouraging comment. “Kesar used to speak of how, in the far north, loki would prey on entire settlements.”