Sword-Singer Page 31

  Del knelt and began to sing.

  Across the water, awareness stirred. It lifted the hairs on the back of my neck.

  Behind me, the stud blew noisily. Uneasily. I felt his intensity, his arrested attention, torn from mares and stallions to focus on Del and her sword. And her song.

  She sang until the boat bumped into the shoreline. And then she stopped and waited, leaving, for the moment, Boreal sheathed in living earth.

  A man. A Northerner. Blond. Young. Not much older than Del herself. Blue-eyed, as I expected, and spectacularly good looking. He moved with grace and economy, a mixture not trained but born, and he had it in abundance.

  Like Garrod, he wore braids. But his were wrapped with gray fur from top to bottom, laced with black cord. His clothing, too, was black; plain, unadorned black, except for the leather harness. He’d studded it with silver to match the hilt of his sword, worn in harness behind his right shoulder.

  Left-handed, then.

  “Bron,” Del said. No more than that, but I heard surprise, pleasure and thankfulness in her tone. Saw the slight lessening of rigidity in the line of her shoulders as she knelt.

  “Delilah.” He stopped before her, looking briefly past her to me. His expression was stern, austere, too stark for a face such as his, made for laughter and lightheartedness. But there was nothing of it in his tone. “An-ishtoya,” he amended, lids flickering only minutely.

  “Sword-dancer,” she told him quietly, speaking Borderer. “Give me no rank, Bron; you know why.”

  Again he looked to me. Said something to her in a dialect I didn’t know.

  Del answered him in the same, tilting her head slightly in my direction, and I heard the word for Southroner.

  It mattered. His mouth tightened. His expression grew more severe. He spoke in accented Borderer, welcoming me, clearly preferring the pure uplander dialect but speaking instead a tongue I knew. I could not be kept in ignorance. I was the an-ishtoya’s sponsor.

  Or would be, eventually, when Bron gave us leave to go.

  But he didn’t.

  “The year is done,” he told her, “by three days. I am sent to tell the blade she no longer has a name, and to invite her to step into the circle. Here. Now. In Staal-Kithra, as is fitting, with the spirits of others as witnesses, before the blade without a name can profane the Place of Swords.”

  Jerkily, Del stood up. She pulled the blade from the ground. “I have a name,” she said firmly.

  “For three days past, you have not.”

  “I have a name,” she said.

  Slowly, he shook his head.

  “Bron—” But she cut it off. Swung to face me. “Sandtiger,” she said evenly, “will you honor us by drawing the circle?”

  I looked at Bron. He was fair, as are all Northerners, but having ridden with Del, I knew the signs. He had placed himself under rigid self-control; he liked it no more than she. But he was as bound by the honor codes as the woman who would face him.

  I unlooped the stud’s picket rope and peg, pushing it into the soft turf easily with a single thrust of one foot. Stepped away, unsheathed my sword.

  No. Not mine. Theron’s. And Bron knew it.

  Very cool, he was. But I’ve learned to judge the eyes, the flesh, the tautness of tiny muscles. One ticked by his left eye.

  They waited in silence, Del and Bron, as I drew the circle. Turf gave way easily beneath honed steel, parting to show damp earth. Their footwork might obscure it, altering the line, but I knew they would not require me as arbiter, to warn them if they moved too close. Clearly, Bron and Del knew one another well.

  I stepped away. Cleaned my blade. Sent it hissing home into its sheath. Waited as they stripped off harness, gloves, placed them outside the circle, placed blades in the center, then took their positions on opposite sides, outside, waiting for my word to begin the dance.

  For the first time in my life, I changed the ritual. “Three days,” I said, “is nothing. She is here. She is prepared to face the voca, to accept their decision. Isn’t this a bit unnecessary?”

  Bron was shocked. He stared at me, speechless, then sent a furious look at Del, as if to blame her for my behavior.

  “Or is it that you want to die?” I asked. “Because you will. She’s that good, Bron. But then, you know that. You’ve danced with her before.” I folded my arms. “Why not call this off and let the voca decide instead? There’s no need for bloodshed—” I paused “—yet.”

  He said something to Del in fast, pure uplander. I understood nothing of it, save the anger in his tone. His control was beginning to slip, but only a little. Not enough.

  Del shook her head. Taut-faced, she looked at me. “Tiger, please…begin the dance.”

  “Why?” I shrugged. “Neither one of you wants to dance. I can see it. Can’t you?” I paused. “Yes. You can. Though neither wants to admit it.” I shrugged again, casually. “Well then, why not simply get in that boat, row to the island and take this up with the voca? Don’t they have the authority? Aren’t they the arbiters?”

  Bron snapped something curtly. It flushed her face with color. “Don’t dishonor me,” she said; not begging, asking. “Don’t dishonor the circle.”

  I looked at Bron. At Del. Inclined my head and unfolded my arms. “Prepare.”

  Northerners both, they sang. Soft little songs of death in a language I didn’t know. Nor did I care to know it.

  “Dance,” I told them curtly.

  Thirty-five

  In my life, I have seen many sword-dances. Most I haven’t actually witnessed, being part of the dances themselves, but I knew, watching Del and Bron, I was seeing the purest form of the dance. The magic of trueborn talent.

  Here the style was different from the one I’d been taught in the South. Instead of brute strength, there was finesse; in place of power, dexterity. And speed, and incredible reflexes. I am big and strong and powerful, difficult to bring down. But Del is quickness personified, subtle and calculating, trained to wear down stamina and to irritate, to frustrate with sheer skill, which, in the long run, can destroy an opponent mentally. He will make mistakes. She will not.

  We have sparred many times, Del and I. We’ve even danced for real, though only in exhibition. But now, against Bron, in a Northern circle and facing a Northern opponent, Del’s skills unveiled themselves entirely, and showed me a new kind of brilliance.

  One of Del’s peculiar gifts is the ability to force mistakes, to create instability on the part of her opponent. She’d done it with me. And now she tried to do it with Bron.

  But Bron was also good, as good as any I’ve ever seen, and he wasn’t about to fall victim to her tricks.

  The swords had been keyed by the songs. Del’s was salmon-silver, Bron’s copper-gold. Together they reclaimed winter and made it spring again, setting the smudgy gray sky alight with illumination born of Northern stars and nightskies.

  They were perfectly matched. The dance was magnificent. But I knew one of them had to die.

  Sword-dancers. Sword-singers. Each beautifully trained. And each one clearly focused on the need to kill the other.

  Blades clashed, whined, scraped free. Spat sparks in the blue light of winter. Alien runes tied alien knots, then unwound and started all over again, with more determination.

  I saw the patterns begin to form in the air between them. They built a lattice, each of them; wove a living tapestry of subtle, significant strokes, reflecting their signatures. The Northern style is one of wristwork, like a painter at a canvas. Dab here, swirl there, complex curlicue here. Except their brushes were made of steel, and the paint they spilled was blood.

  Sweat sheened both faces. Exhalations plumed the air. Bron’s expression was one of tense expectancy, a careful calculation of her movements. But I saw him begin to relax, to loosen, shedding the tension in his muscles and allowing them to flow. He was incredibly graceful, particularly for a man; he was deer to my bear. Fur-sheathed blond braids swung free as he moved smoothly, easily, cl
early accustomed to the lumpiness of the turf. He was untroubled by its texture, as Del had suggested I become, and hadn’t.

  Del inhabits a different world when she dances, rising above normal physicalities and their limitations. It’s almost as if she becomes the sword she wields, employing all the knowledge of her slain an-kaidin.

  But I knew she would tire faster than Bron, no matter how good her skills, because she’d been too long below the border; her breath would run out before his, leaving her dizzy and fighting for air. It had to be finished quickly.

  But I didn’t see how it would be. I didn’t see how it could be.

  The blades were blurs of light, setting the day afire. Patterns dripped in the air like honey from a hive, running out of a spoon. Against the backdrop of lake and island, they knit themselves new colors and overwhelmed the gray of the day.

  Hoolies, let it be ended. Before I dishonor the dance.

  Del cried out. In strength expended, power expelled, in utter extremity. She cried out something in Northern, then braced herself for the blow.

  It came swiftly, scything through the air. Bron severed all his remaining patterns with the boldness of his stroke, and tried to run her through the belly.

  Boreal flicked. Met his blade, held firm. Turned the force of the blow aside, if not the blow itself, and screeched in discordant protest as Bron’s blade slid across runes.

  I saw the fabric of Del’s tunic separate. I saw pale flesh beneath. I waited for the blood, but nothing showed itself.

  Hilts hooked. Then Del snatched hers back, reclaiming the blade; leaned away quickly, came back, with a twist of determined wrists.

  Bron’s blade had missed. Boreal did not.

  She took him through the belly. It was a clean, simple thrust, missing bones that might turn the blade, allowing it lethal freedom instead. Her an-kaidin would have been proud; the death was worthy of her.

  Bron fell, pulling free of the sword. His own blade swung wildly, then tumbled out of his hand to lie unattended just out of the circle. He remained within.

  He gazed up at her in surprise, then said something in uplander. Del answered in the same tongue, kneeling down by his side. She was clearly exhausted, winded by exertion. Her hand shook as she touched his.

  I don’t know what more he said. I don’t speak uplander, and his life was nearly spent. But it meant something to Del; she bent forward and kissed his brow. When she straightened, he was dead.

  Del sat very still for a very long time. Slowly her breathing stilled, ran smooth. I saw the expressions in her face: grief, guilt, regret, a hardening of resolve. But the latter was most extreme; it changed her face from flesh to marble and stripped it of humanity.

  Carefully, Del cleaned her sword. Rose. Stepped out of the circle. Sheathed her sword and put on the harness, then bent to collect his things, including the now-dull jivatma.

  She gazed past me to the east. “They’re coming for the stud.”

  I turned. Saw two children, a girl and a boy; the girl was maybe twelve, the boy a year or two younger. Tow-headed like them all.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  Del stared at me. A new and frosty austerity was in her eyes, as much as had been in Bron’s. “That I was to honor my an-kaidin.”

  I frowned. “That’s all?”

  “All that was necessary.” She looked down at the harness and sword, briefly caressing silver studs. “Bron and I were swordmates for as long as I was here. His an-kaidin was mine; we were his favorite an-ishtoya.”

  Privacy has its place, but her manner was too rigid. “What else, bascha?”

  Del looked at me. “He told me the name of his sword.”

  “Told you—” I stared. “But I thought you said a Northerner never does that…that it destroys all the magic—lessens the power, or something.”

  “It was a gift to me,” she said bleakly, “to mark the things we once shared as ishtoya and an-ishtoya. And so they would know he forgave me the blood-debt; one is enough, he said.”

  “Del,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

  After a moment, she nodded. “Sulhaya, Sandtiger. I know what you tried to do…how you tried to stop the dance.” She shrugged a little, stark-faced. “But if you break one ritual, one oath, the others become as worthless. The bindings come undone.”

  The children had finally reached us. I pulled the peg, looped the rope so the stud wouldn’t trip, handed the rein to the boy, who reminded me of Massou. Who reminded Del of Jamail.

  I turned back to her. “What about the body?”

  The impersonality of it rocked her. “Bron—” But she stopped; hardened her tone, said the voca would send someone to give him burial in Staal-Kithra.

  I nodded. Looked at the island, floating on winter water. “I don’t know how to row.”

  “That’s all right. I do.” Resolutely, Del turned toward the lake.

  Staal-Ysta. A stark, bleak place, afloat in the center of a glass-black lake: a deep-cut cauldron filled with too dark wine, all hedged with white-flanked mountains. Born of the desert, such an abundance of water was incomprehensible to me. But here it was, everywhere: the lake, the snow, even the touch of the air. Everything was wet, in an odd, indefinable way.

  I looked at Del’s face as she rowed. She had masked herself to me, but I had learned to peel it back and discover what lay beneath. The tension of arrival at last at the place of her training had taken its own toll. Bron’s death—and the manner of it—made it even worse.

  She had built her wall again, the old familiar wall employed as a shield before, when we’d first met, made of harshness, coldness, ruthlessness. The angles of her face were sharp as glass; I expected the cheekbones to cut through flesh.

  I am not a man for leaving a thing unsaid if I want to say it, no matter what the situation. But this time, under these circumstances, seeing her face, I held my silence. Del was somewhere else. When she wanted me, when she needed me, I’d be available.

  She brought the boat in deftly, snugging it up into the cove out into the edge of the island itself. Holding the rope as well as Bron’s harness and sheathed sword, she jumped out onto the shore, setting the boat to trembling and grating against the bottom, and waited for me to join her. She said nothing.

  I rose carefully, made my way forward, judiciously selected the best place to land, and leaped. I landed in mushy, lake-wet turf and mud, slipped to one knee, got up with a muttered curse. Del anchored the rope beneath a stone, then swung around and headed inland.

  There was, I saw, a pathway cut through the trees. Feeble sunlight caught on naked branches and wet dark trunks, playing vague shadows against snow and bare brown turf. Mine, blurred, walked with me, stretched taller by elongation. A bearded, bearlike man made of wool and leather and hair, with a sword strapped to his back.

  The trees gave way abruptly to a large oblong field, cleared of stumps and vegetation, where wooden lodges skirted edges in curving symmetry. Smoke threaded the air from each, gray on gray, and bluish. Long, rectangular lodges, cracks stuffed with turf and mud and bits of wood to keep out the winter cold.

  Gathered outside of the lodges, bared blades glinting dully in the dull light of a blue-gray day, were more than a hundred Northern warriors, and a handful of equally fair-haired women. All with swords. All in silence. All watching as we approached.

  Del wore her own jivatma, snugged home in its leather sheath slung in a slant across her back. In her hands she carried Bron’s, harness straps wrapped like swaddling around the sheath. She carried it like a woman would a baby, with care and pride and honor.

  I let her go before me, taking precedence over the man. In the South, when required—and it had been, all too often—she had done the same for me.

  Del walked directly to the end of the oblong circle, paying no mind to those who watched. And when she reached the end, facing the ten men who waited before it, she paid no homage to anyone but stood straight and tall and proud. Delilah to the bone.

  “H
e died well,” she told them, in clear Borderer for my benefit. “He honored his an-kaidin.”

  Ten men. The voca, I knew. Strong men all, of all sizes, some gray, others blond, one even with light brown hair. They were scarred, hard men, accustomed to hard lives, and unlikely to be softened by her sex. If anything, made tougher; I could see it in their eyes.

  One of them said something in pure uplander. He looked past her to me, undoubtedly questioning my presence.

  Again in Borderer, Del told him I was her sponsor.

  He changed languages adroitly. The oldest of them all, I thought, with snowy braids and wind-reddened skin. But he was at least as tall as I, and nothing about him spoke of weakness. “A blade without a name is due no trial, and therefore due no sponsor.”

  Del’s tone was stiffly formal. “Three days,” she said. “I have known such trials to take three weeks, when left to the voca. Am I not due consideration for the weather? For hardships? For sorcery leveled against us?”

  That sharpened ten pairs of eyes, all shades of blue and gray. A pale race, the Northerners; I felt sun-charred by comparison, copper-brown with bronze-streaked hair.

  “What manner of sorcery?” the old man asked.

  Del shrugged. “Hounds. Beasts. Even now they wait across the water…unless they know how to swim.”

  Lids flickered. He started to glance at the others, changed his mind. Clearly it was something to be considered. And since Del hadn’t told them about the ward-whistle, I wasn’t about to, either. It’s nice to have an advantage.

  “Trial,” he said at last. “Beginning at dawn tomorrow.”

  Another of them spoke. “You know the rituals, the constraints. You are not to go out of Staal-Ysta. Not to bare your jivatma. Not to invoke its power. You are to remain closeted until the trial. Not a guest, but neither a prisoner; nor will your sponsor be dishonored, so long as he honors the customs of Staal-Ysta.” He was younger than the others; brown-haired, gray-eyed. Something softened the line of his mouth. “Kalle is there,” he told her, and nodded toward a lodge.