Sword-Singer Read online

  Del looked down at the harness and sword in her hands. For a long moment she didn’t move. And then, slowly, she knelt. Placed Bron’s jivatma on the boot-trampled ground. One hand touched the hilt. She looked up at the watching voca.

  “It was enough to send Bron,” she said tightly. “More than enough. You could give me no punishment as hard or harder than that, even naming my execution.”

  The old man’s expression didn’t change. “It was why we sent him.”

  Del rose. Turned on her heel and marched away. Heading straight for the lodge the younger man had indicated.

  Those in front of it parted, let her through, said nothing as she opened the wooden door. I saw hard features and harder eyes. I saw anger, grief and resentment. But I also saw respect.

  The door scraped against dirt. Del forced it, went inside. I pulled it closed and latched it.

  The interior of the lodge was mostly dark, lighted only by vents and the smoke hole, as well as a single lantern depending from the roof beam. The lodge was wide, squat, divided down the center by two rows of posts, evenly spaced to provide a corridor without walls. On either side of the post rows were compartments, something like large box stalls. In them I saw women and children, as well as dogs and cats. The earthen floor was hardpacked and covered with straw for warmth. It was like nothing I was accustomed to.

  More than ever I missed the South.

  “Kalle,” Del said quietly.

  No one answered. No one moved. And then one of the women bent, whispered something to a small girl, sent her forward to greet Del.

  Sent her forward to meet her mother.

  A single glance told me. There was no need for an explanation. And Del offered me none. She simply turned the girl to face me, turned to face me herself, let flesh and bones tell the story.

  “Kalle,” she said simply. “The result of Ajani’s lust.”

  Oh. Hoolies. Bascha.

  “Well,” I said inanely, “at least she takes after her mother.”

  Slowly, Del shook her head. “Mother and father. Ajani’s a Northerner.”

  Thirty-six

  She was five years old, and magnificent. Small, delicate, shyly beautiful, like a fragile, pristine blossom. But she was also clearly a child: active, awkward, blunt. Plainly she stated her preference, which was to be with her mother, not Del.

  Del let her go, binding her to nothing. She made no claims on the girl’s loyalty, since there was no foundation for it. She made no claims on courtesy, either, understanding a child’s thinking. She simply let Kalle go outside with the woman she knew as her mother, in name if not in blood, and sat down in a corner compartment the rest left conspicuously empty for the blade without a name.

  She knelt. Unbuckled harness and jivatma, set both aside in silence. Then pulled a blue-speckled pelt over her legs and looked up at me, still standing, too full of thinking to sit.

  Del pulled up legs, clasped her arms around pelted knees, sighed a little, wearily. “When I escaped from Ajani and his men, I had nowhere to go. All of my kin were dead, except for Jamail, and him they took south almost at once. I knew better than to try and rescue him without weapons, without proper training…I’d have failed. He’d have been sold anyway, and probably me as well…so I went north. North to the Place of Swords.”

  “A difficult journey, alone.”

  Del scooped tangled hair back from her face. “By the time I arrived, I was heavily pregnant. But I had made up my mind, and nothing would turn me from my course. I didn’t want the child, I couldn’t love the child; it was nothing more than the result of casual seed spilled by a wolf’s-head Northerner…why should I want his byblow?”

  Why, indeed; the question made sense. Yet it sounded so horribly cold.

  “The voca refused to turn me away, offering succor to someone in need, but neither would they admit me as ishtoya. It was only once I swore to prove myself after the birth of the child that they agreed to even consider admitting me as a probationer. And so I bore Kalle in the dead of winter, and when I was physically able I showed the voca I knew how to handle a sword.” She sighed. “Not as well as I needed to, for my purposes, but enough to convince them of my worth. And so they admitted me.”

  Del and I had been together nearly a year. Prior to that she’d been in Staal-Ysta for five. But she’d also borne a child; it meant she’d had, at most, four and a half years of training.

  I sat down across from her, leaning against the divider. “So very good,” I said quietly, “in so very short a time.”

  She didn’t avoid my gaze. “I had a need,” she said. “A great and terrible need. You have seen the result.”

  “Revenge.”

  “Rescue,” she countered, “that first, always. Revenge later, yes. I want to collect the blood-debt Ajani owes me.”

  “As the voca wants to collect the one you owe Staal-Ysta.”

  “Once again, a choice,” Del said. “In killing Theron, you gave me the rest of the year to live in freedom from the blood-guilt. Even then, I might have ignored the summons and remained in the South, free of the voca, declared a blade without a name.” Fingers smoothed the pelts stretched over her knees. “But I have a name, a true name, and I won’t let them strip it from me.”

  “And if death strips it from you?”

  Slowly, she shook her head. “I will be buried in Staal-Kithra, with Bron and others like him. An honorable death; my name will be carved into the dolmens and sung in all the songs.”

  My mouth twisted wryly. “Immortality, such as it is.”

  Del sighed. “A Southroner wouldn’t understand—”

  “I understand death,” curtly, I interrupted. “I understand permanence. Your name might live on forever, but I’d rather you did, too.”

  Too abruptly, she changed the subject. “There is amnit,” she said, “if you want it. And food. We’re not prisoners, as Stigand said; we have the freedom to do and say what we want, so long as it is in here.”

  “Stigand being the old man?”

  “Yes. The other, the youngest, was Telek.” She smiled, but only briefly, as if too weary to hold it. “When I left, he was but newly made an-kaidin. At least it 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 r
ather 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.”