Sword-Singer Read online

  At a dead run and bareback, the stud was hard to stay aboard. I hugged him with all the strength in thighs and calves, locking my left hand in the stiff upstanding hair of his unclipped mane. My other hand was full of sword, which I did not, at this speed, dare to put away. I’d probably cut off my left arm.

  We threaded our way through the canyon, dodging overhanging cliffs and jumping ribs of rock. At times the cliffs loomed perilously near my head, threatening to scrape off my ears, but I bent low and tried to stay as unobstructive as possible. At this particular moment the stud didn’t need my help; he seemed to know what he was doing. But then again, during a runaway, the stud usually does.

  At last we reached the earthfall. I knew better than to try riding up it to the plain; the footing was impossible, too soft for stud or man. And so I went straight, leaving the narrow canyon behind, and entered the riverbed instead, the wide floodplain of vanished water. A canyon remained, but here the walls parted, taking leave of one another. To my left reared the plainside cliffs, to my right the low, ridged line of reddish wall, reminding me of the tunnel I’d sent the others into.

  The others. I cursed, twisting on the stud, to look back the way we’d come. The canyon vanished into little more than a thready black line, made invisible by distance.

  Hoolies, where was Del?

  Where, for that matter, were the hounds?

  Was it possible—? No, probably not. And yet it wasn’t me they’d been after, but Del. And Del had walked up walls, disappearing into nothingness. I had no idea how well the hounds took a scent, but it was possible they’d lose her entirely. It was even possible, I hoped, they’d give up chasing me.

  Briefly, I patted the stud. “Bet you’d like that, old man.”

  He labored beneath me. I didn’t like the sound of his breathing. If he ran much longer at this speed, he could break his wind. Or throw shin splints. Or even break his legs. All of which would render him useless to me or to anyone else. And a horse no longer useful…I swore violently. No. He deserved better than that.

  I twisted to look back again. No hounds, though I could hear howling in the distance. I sucked in a deep breath, considered things a brief moment, made my decision. Carefully I eased the stud’s headlong gallop, slowing him to a lope, then to a jagged trot. And, at long last, into a stumbling walk.

  I hooked my leg over and slid off the right side instead of the left in order to keep the sword clear of the stud, who stumbled and weaved so badly I was afraid he might swing his head and smack into the blade itself. I caught up the reins and led him, searching for a break in the low canyon wall. I wanted to get out of the riverbed, wide as it was, and find higher ground, a place where I could keep an eye out for hounds while I gave the stud—and myself—a rest.

  Something caught my eye. A notch in the ridged wall. It was possible…yes; not only possible, but definite. The notch was a jagged break that cut through the line of wall clear to the riverbed. A rough, treacherous stairway up to level ground.

  Rain had smoothed the stone, wearing down jagged edges. There were hollows where puddles gathered, shoulders curved like a woman’s, crannies wide enough for booted feet and shod hooves. It was not, thank the gods of valhail, incredibly steep, but it would still be a tough climb for the stud. He was horse, not mountain goat.

  Tough climb for me, too. I didn’t dare lead him up because once he’d gathered his willingness he’d also gather speed. Horses, when left to themselves, climb such things in leaps and bounds; I’d end up splattered all over the rock. And I couldn’t ride him up; it was too steep, too treacherous to burden him with my weight, and—without a saddle—I’d probably come off. But I doubted he’d go up it alone without some sort of encouragement, so I stuffed his head into the break, tugged the bit forward, stepped aside quickly as I slapped him once again with the flat of Theron’s sword.

  Maybe he was a mountain goat after all…three lunging strides took him halfway up, where he slipped, slid, scrabbled, then caught himself and lunged upward again, until he cleared the top.

  “Wait for me,” I said lamely, and sheathed my sword at last.

  He did wait, being too exhausted to go on without me. Upon topping the break myself, I found the stud engaged in standing still, head drooping in weariness. Lather flecked chest, shoulders, flanks; sweat ran down between his ears to drip off the end of his nose. He was breathing like a bellows.

  “Sorry, old man…nothing else we could do.” I caught a rein and examined him quickly, gritting teeth as I noted the damage. Red flecks stained salty white lather. Blood ran from chest, flanks, hocks, ankles. The hounds had stripped hair and flesh away in their bid to pull him down. He needed rest, attention, food and water. And I could give him none of it; the hounds were far too close.

  I shivered. Glanced skyward. It was early yet, but again clouds snuffed out the sun and gave me gray light instead of yellow, softening the hard edge of the day into one of dampness, of muted sounds and colors. When the rain began to fall, I was unsurprised, and equally unhappy.

  It was little more than a heavy mist. But I was miserable nonetheless, longing for my desert. I wanted warmth. I wanted sunlight. I wanted sand beneath my feet, instead of turf and leaves.

  And now that I had the stud again, I also wanted Del.

  “Hoolies, you’re sandsick.” I said it aloud, and emphatically, generally disgusted by the intensity of my longing. “You spent thirty-some-odd years without anyone, and now you’re bleating like a newborn danjac begging for his mother.” I scratched the stud’s wet face. “First of all, you’ll undoubtedly find her soon enough—they’re not that far from here; second of all, even if you don’t, it means you can go home again. To the South, where it’s warm and bright and mostly free of this thrice-cursed rain. Where cantina girls sit on your knee and men buy you aqivi, counting it a privilege, telling stories later of how they spent time with the Sandtiger. Where the circle is drawn in sand, not mud; where opponents don’t mutter of Northern patterns and Northern an-kaidin; where the tanzeers know your name and offer gold if you’ll do them a service. And where, for that matter, you don’t have to worry if the Northern bascha might get herself killed in the circle, leaving you alone in the world again—”

  I stopped. The exhausted stud stared back at me with an abiding disinterest.

  “Oh, hoolies…I am sandsick.” I turned the stud north and walked. Hunting the Northern bascha.

  The hunt took until late afternoon, and when it ended I was the hunted, not the hunter, because it was Del who found me instead of the other way around.

  I was relieving myself when she melted out of the mist, damp hair straggling down her back. She saw the stud, not me; I’d left him in the open while I sought the trees. I considered calling to her, then discarded it. The reunion could wait until I’d finished.

  Del went directly to the stud, speaking to him quietly. He whickered a little, nosed her, rubbed his head on her shoulder as she stepped close to stroke his neck. I finished, took two steps, stopped. Said nothing. Instead, I listened to her, and looked.

  “Poor boy,” she said softly. “Poor brave boy, so torn by teeth and claws…you’ve been badly used, haven’t you? Asked to run and fight and run some more…and given no chance to rest.” She smiled a little as he butted against her and rubbed harder, relieving the unpleasantness of damp hair against equally damp wool. “Poor Southron-bred boy, so tired of all the cold and rain and damp…as much as your rider himself, my poor beleaguered Sandtiger, so far from what he knows.”

  Del glanced around, still rubbing the stud’s head. She’d scraped wet hair back from her face, which sharpened the angles of her features and robbed them of feminine softness. I realized, looking at her anew, she’d lost weight, and tension had tautened the flesh at the corners of her eyes and mouth. It aged her, made her look more determined than ever; stole away the lightheadedness of youth to show instead the burden of responsibilities no one should ever have to know, regardless of gender.

 
My poor brave Delilah, so driven by the dual needs for forgiveness and retribution.

  I stepped out of the trees and went down to her, watching the alteration in her eyes as she saw me; the brief glow of relief that said, “he is alive, he is whole, he is still the Sandtiger.”

  In which case, I had an image to live up to.

  “Well,” I said lightly, “took you long enough.”

  Del smiled, showing teeth. “We did consider leaving you.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “We needed the horse.”

  So we did, since five of them were dead. “How are the others?”

  “Adara is tired and letting everyone know about it. Garrod is still upset over the loss of his horses; he’s a horse-speaker, after all. Massou considers it all an adventure, and Cipriana—well—” Del shrugged. “She wanted to come along, but Adara made her stay behind.”

  I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Hoolies, Del, what am I to do with her? She’s just a girl—”

  “And if she were older?” Del smiled again, arching suggestive brows. “She’s not really all that young, Tiger. I’m only five years older.”

  “I know, I know…don’t remind me.” I sighed. “Sometimes I think you’re too young for me.”

  “Me, too.” Heartlessly. “Someone like Garrod, now…” Her expression was elaborately thoughtful.

  “No,” I said flatly, “not Garrod. Not for you. Not a man who might have taken part in the murder of your kinfolk.”

  It effectively robbed the moment of humor. The ice was back in her eyes. “Garrod did not,” she said coolly, “but plainly he knows about it. He would have to; he has ridden with Ajani.”

  “Ridden with him?” I frowned. “Knowing him is one thing; riding with him is another.”

  “He knows him. He said so. He’s ridden with him, too. But not lately, he says, and never to murder people.” Del’s tone was so flat it underscored her anger more than shouting could have. “There is a distinction somewhere, but I have yet to see it.”

  Garrod’s habits were worth discussing, I thought, in view of his link to Ajani, but there were more pressing matters. Like the hounds. And I said so.

  Del shook her head. “For the moment, they’ve disappeared. But I think they’ll be back.” She braced as the stud rubbed against her again. “You may be right, Tiger. I think they’re after someone—or something—in particular…and I think they’re conjured beasts. They aren’t natural. Otherwise they wouldn’t be so selective, so single-minded. And they’d never have let you and the stud break free.”

  “I sort of wondered about that myself.” I gathered dangling reins. “He’s too tired to carry double, bascha. We’ll have to walk, if you’ll lead the way.”

  She gestured in a northerly direction. “Back that way a couple of miles. In a canyon…” She smiled oddly a moment. “A very remarkable canyon.”

  “Not another trap-canyon.” I started walking, leading the stud.

  “No. Oh, no. And there is no danger of the beasts attacking there. The magic is too strong.”

  “Magic.” I stopped walking. “Magic?”

  Del nodded. “A very powerful magic, like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

  I grunted. “I’ve seen a little in my lifetime, bascha, and I haven’t liked any of it. The hounds themselves are magic—even you admit it.”

  “Even I admit it,” she agreed patiently. “Yes, the hounds are born of magic; and yes, a malignant magic…but the Cantéada aren’t.”

  “The what?”

  “Not what: who. The Cantéada.” Del sighed, looking uncharacteristically fatuous. “Oh, Tiger, if only you could understand…”

  “I’ll try,” I said dryly. “Explain it to me.”

  Del shook her head. “Explaining won’t help. You wouldn’t understand. I don’t think you can understand; not you.”

  I wasn’t particularly pleased by her conviction. “How do you know that? I’m not entirely blind—”

  “Not blind,” she said, interrupting, “deaf. At least deaf to music.”

  “Music.” I sighed, scrubbing my face again. “Bascha, can’t you be a bit more specific? All this jabber about music and magic—”

  “All this ‘jabber,’ as you put it, is as specific as it gets.” Del pointed north, suggesting we continue our journey.

  I urged the stud forward again. “You’re telling me these Cantéada people are musicians.”

  “No,” she said softly, “I’m telling you the Cantéada are music.”

  I grunted. “Same difference.”

  “You are surly, aren’t you?” Del shook her head. “I said you wouldn’t understand.”

  “What I understand,” I told her plainly, “is that we’ve been singled out by a sorcerer who’s set the hounds of hoolies on us for no particular reason, as far as I can see, except maybe for some sort of peculiar entertainment. And I don’t much like it.” I scowled at her. “I don’t like it, I don’t like this, I don’t even like this country.” I sucked in a deep breath, stopped walking again, continued unabated, since she was listening, “I’ve been wet since we got here, half-frozen by your sword; attacked by loki, live and dead bodies; savaged by conjured hounds, made to suffer the amorous advances of mother and daughter, all the while being turned neatly away by you. Do you blame me for being surly?”

  Del gazed at me thoughtfully. “You’re tired,” she said finally. “You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”

  “Eaten, schmeaten,” I snapped. “I’ll feel better when we’re done with whatever it is you need to do and we can go back South again, where it’s warm and bright and dry.”

  Del took the reins from me. “And if we don’t start moving, Tiger, we’ll never go anywhere.”

  Surliness, like the rain, was completely unabated; I turned on my heel and moved.

  Twenty-four

  To our right cut the narrow canyon the stud and I had traveled twice, once in, once out. To our left jutted a damp, rocky wall rising well above our heads. Its face was gray and blue, slick and sleek with rain as it drizzled out of the sky. The cliff wall looked like someone had hewn it out of the earth with a giant ax, leaving it choppy and sharp and striated. But the jagged, angry face was softened by moss and fallen leaves, littered green and gold and carnelian, with a touch of faded plum.

  “The colors are different here,” I said, rustling through rain-washed leaves.

  Del glanced at me, then looked at the craggy cliff face, at bare-branched trees, at leaf-softened, otter brown ground. After a moment, she nodded. “They are deeper, richer, older…not impermanent like the South.”

  “Impermanent.” It sounded odd.

  “Oh, yes. In the South the colors are subtler, more subject to whims of weather. To simooms, blowing sand across the miles. To lack of water, sucking moisture and color out of trees and vegetation. And to the sun, stealing the life from everything, man and animal alike.”

  I frowned. “You told me once you liked the South.”

  “I respect it. I admire its strength, its fierce beauty, its determination to survive. But this—this—” One arm encompassed cliff, canyon, forest, “—is what I have known since birth. These colors are my own; even the smell of the North, the taste of rain-soaked ground. This is what has shaped me.”

  Something blossomed inside me. Such a tiny little bud, threatening to unfold. “You sound like you mean to stay here.”

  Del looked at me sharply. And then glanced away.

  The bud became a bloom and showed me the colors of my fear. “Bascha—when this is all done, we’re going South again. At least, I am. Aren’t you?”

  She still didn’t look at me. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Women are spontaneous creatures. They don’t generally think things through on a logical level, relying mostly on emotion. They tend to make snap judgments and stick by them stubbornly merely for the sake of appearances, to save face and salve pride, even if you show them they’re utterly wrong. Rarely do they look
at all the angles, seeing only what they desire. They see, they want, they take, or find a man to get it for them.

  They talk off the top of their heads, regretting it later, always, then denying they ever said it.

  Women are fickle creatures.

  And not so different from men. Which meant I knew what Del’s evasiveness indicated, regardless of what she said.

  She said she hadn’t decided, which meant, of course, she had.

  I stopped walking abruptly, which stopped the stud. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve dragged me all the way up here on some thrice-cursed mission of forgiveness, yet you have no intention of going home?”

  She didn’t answer at once. Then, softly, she said, “I am home, Tiger.”

  Hoolies. So she was.

  My tone was curt. “Del—”

  “I said I hadn’t decided.”

  “And when will you decide?”

  She shrugged. “When I do.”

  That was helpful. I scratched at my scars, dragging broken nails across the distinctive claw marks. I hadn’t been able to shave for a couple of days and the stubble was driving me crazy. “And when, do you think, might that be?”

  “I don’t know!” Her shout echoed in the canyon, climbed the cliff wall, lost itself in trees. The stud flicked his ears.

  “Ah,” I said, “I see.”

  Del’s face bloomed angrily. “How am I to know?” she asked tightly. “How am I to know if I will even have a life to live until I have faced the ishtoya and an-ishtoya, the kaidin and an-kaidin? I must go before them and abase myself, ask their forgiveness, their judgment, their penance. How can I say what I will do with my life when they may not let me keep it?”

  “Oh. I think they’ll let you keep—”

  “You don’t know that, Tiger!”

  Clearly I had upset her. “Now, Del—”

  “Don’t!” she said furiously. “Don’t patronize me. Don’t dismiss my fear as if it has no validity. Don’t pat me on the head and say you’ll make it better. Don’t promise to chase away the shadows because you don’t know what they are.”