Sword-Sworn

by Jennifer Roberson

  Bascha, where are you? Still in the lean-to, or did Nayyib get you to Julah?

  This was not how I had envisioned it. For several years I’d seen Del and me dying together, fighting any number of enemies. I had never envisioned us as old people, but as we were now. Certainly I had never considered Del might die of sandtiger wounds or poison, and me sentenced to die in a circle I was no longer allowed to enter.

  Never in a thousand thousand years had I ever expected to declare elaii-ali-ma. Despite my time as a chula among the Salset, I considered myself truly born the day Alimat’s shodo had accepted me for instruction. The day I had taken my name. The day I had defeated Abbu Bensir in an impromptu practice match with wooden swords.

  That image, unexpectedly, was abruptly clear and immediate. I had been seventeen, or as close as I could reckon my age. Abbu was a good ten or more years older, the acknowledged sword-dancer of sword-dancers. He wasn’t taking lessons anymore; he had made his living hiring out for years. But he had come back to Alimat to visit the shodo. Where he had heard of a tall, gangly kid who promised, with proper instruction, to be as good—or better—one day.

  I smiled crookedly. Abbu had intended to laugh at me, albeit quietly, noting all of my bad habits for the benefit of others. And when he had tossed the wooden sparring blade to me, he had anticipated demonstrating to all the other wide-eyed students how my height and gangliness would hurt me in a circle.

  Instead, my greater reach and speed, despite my awkwardness, had landed a blow to his throat. To this day he spoke in a husky rasp.

  I had eventually grown into my gangliness, adding flesh and muscle. Strength had been trained, quickness refined. I was unlike Abbu or any other Southroner, and I could not apply all of the lessons to my particular body. Instead, the shodo had adapted to me by developing other forms. In a matter of a few years, more quickly than any prior student—including Abbu—I had attained the seventh level.

  Then, and only then, had I departed Alimat to make my own way.

  The way that brought me here so many years later.

  I got up and stripped off the robe, tossed it on the bed, and knelt to retrieve the broken leg. Once again I opened myself to the power that wasn’t magic but that might allow me to live. The rites and rituals of honing the body, controlling the reflexes, taught me by the shodo; and the discipline of honing the mind, controlling that power, trained into me by the blue-headed priest-mages of ioSkandi.

  The woman was long-limbed and agile, winding her legs around mine in comfortable abandon. She wore no clothes and had teased me out of my own. The initial passion was spent; now we lay very close, almost as one. Smiling, I twined my fingers into the silk of her hair, wrapping each: thumb, forefinger, next finger, next, and eventually the little finger. I felt the binding, tested it, tugged, then let the hair side through. Fair hair, nearly white; and skin lightly gilded from the blaze of the sun. I ran hands across that skin, stroked it with fingers—

  —and sat bolt upright on the pallet I’d pulled from the three-legged bed and put on the floor.

  I could see nothing in the night but raised my hands regardless. I counted, tucking fingers down as I named them off in my head.

  Right hand: Thumb. Four fingers.

  Left: Thumb. Four fingers.

  And again, and again. The woman was gone—Del was gone—but the fingers remained. I could feel them.

  I stayed awake the rest of the night, arguing with myself. When dawn finally crept slowly into the room, segmented by airholes, I was able to see truth at last.

  Thumb. Three fingers. And a stub.

  I lay down again, making fists of my hands. With two thumbs and six fingers.

  Thinking: No Del, either.

  Dreams, I decided bitterly, conjured pain as well as pleasure.

  THIRTEEN

  ON THE MORNING of the tenth day, I awoke not long after dawn. As always, the room I inhabited was quiet, dim, isolated, cut off from the ordinary noises of Umir’s rousing household. But this time my body was poised and alert, my mind calm and prepared. Even without counting the days, I knew.

  I lay on my back on the pallet and extended arms into the air. Examined hands, front and back. I had not dreamed again of having all my fingers. What I saw now was what I expected to see: that which had been left to me atop the stone spire after Sahdri had amputated two fingers in an attempt to also amputate my identity, the awareness that I was sword-dancer before anything else. Because he knew very well I would not become what he believed I should be, and could be, unless my past was extinguished.

  The weeks thereafter had been a true battle as I fought an enemy such as I’d never met, to retain my sense of self. I had very nearly lost. But eventually I had rediscovered what and who I was and had managed to tap into ioSkandi’s power. There atop the spire I’d been mage, if never priest, but also sword-dancer. And that, I knew, was all that would serve me now.

  Sword-dancer.

  Sandtiger.

  Both—or either—would be enough.

  I pressed myself up from the pallet. Used the crock. Spent time stretching myself into flexibility, cracked my joints, put my body through forms I could do in my sleep until every portion of me was loose. Took up a position in front of the door in the center of the room, composed myself, closed my eyes, and let myself go as I had in Meteiera, soaring without wings over the fertile valley at the foot of massive spires.

  Far below I saw a circle made of white stones set into the ground with expert precision. I soared lower, lower, and saw there a man, dhoti-clad; a man born of Skandi, with the height, breadth, power, and quickness characteristic of the Eleven Families who claimed themselves gods-descended. Both hands grasped a sword, a full complement of eight fingers and two thumbs wrapping hilt. It was a weapon, but also an extension of the man. Steel became flesh.

  He was alone and oblivious to the world at large. He danced there, he and the sword-his-partner, transforming the initial fundamental forms into a series of linked, liquid movements shaped, despite his size, of grace mixed with strength, a tapestry of motion on the frame of his will and spirit. Sweat sheened his body, slicking sun-browned flesh into a copper-bronze human sculpture of ridged sinews, tendons, and delineated muscle: the hard, ungentle beauty of a mature male trained beyond all others, fit beyond expectation, in body and mind. And then the first routines gave way to those known only by the best, known only of the best, kindling from the coals of talent into the intangible flame of rare gift.

  He was alone no longer. A woman came into the circle. She too carried a sword. She too was tall, long of limb and torso, powerful but inherently graceful, manifestly and splendidly female despite her size and strength. Blonde, pale, wearing only a leather tunic, she challenged him to a dance.

  When it was done, neither had lost. Neither had won. They had merely proven how perfectly matched they were, how exacting their precision, and how neither could be defeated.

  Smiling, sated on self-awareness, I wheeled away on the wind, soaring back toward the spire. I descended; and cool stone lay under my feet. Power thrummed in my bones, threaded itself through muscle, tingled in my scalp. I spread my arms and gazed open-eyed but blindly into the heavens, calling on all the skills of Alimat, the courage of a slave become a man, and the fierce determination of a Northern bascha.

  “Fill me,” I invited.

  That moment faded. I inhabited another. When I opened my eyes, I found Umir standing in the open door, staring at me oddly.

  Eventually he bestirred himself and spoke. “Dress yourself. My servants will prepare you, then escort you to the circle.”

  The tanzeer departed. His servants held a fresh leather dhoti, a flask of oil, new sandals, and an overrobe woven of gleaming bronze samite, the finest silk in the world. Once Del had worn one similar at Umir’s request, albeit white; and the interior had been lined with priceless beads, glass, and feathers. Mine, fortunately, was unadorned silk.

  Mute, detached, I stripped out of linen dhoti, pul
led on the soft suede. The servants poured oil into their hands and began to work it into my flesh. Once I might have wondered if the oil was tampered with in some way, but I knew Umir would not do such a thing for this match. He wanted a true dance. He wanted no one to say the Sandtiger lost because Umir had cheated.

  The servants shaved me, then attempted to help me put on the rest of the clothing. I refused both overrobe and sandals. Wearing only the dhoti, I was escorted out of the room in which I had been imprisoned for ten days, and taken out to Umir’s white-walled circle.

  My host had, as I had expected, assembled all of his guests along the curving, white-painted wall off the back of his house. Having been present at Iskandar, I could see Umir had not been successful in luring all sword-dancers to his contest. But the number was decent. They were most of them Southroners, but there was a fair proportion of foreigners. They were taller men, heavier; brown-haired, blond, even redheads, and everything in between with eyes of every color. Skin was tanned, freckled, or burned a permanent red from exposure to the harsh Southron sun. Though Southroners all resemble one another because of similar coloring and builds, the only likeness among the foreigners was a hardness in their eyes and the swords at hips and shoulders. There is a marked difference between men who wear swords for protection or impression, and men who make a living with a blade. An ease exists among the latter, a casual confidence in carriage, in self-knowledge. A sword is more than a sword. It is a part of their souls.

  Sabra, the first, if short-lived, female tanzeer, had made her exhibition garish and overly dramatic. Umir’s tastes and intentions were different. He neither announced my arrival nor my name; he knew, and I knew, there was no need. The Sandtiger had been promised to the winner.

  Some of these men had never seen me. Some likely hadn’t been born when I first left Alimat. These men gazed at me with a quiet avidity, marking how the man matched legend and rumor.

  Undoubtedly some found me larger than expected, others thought me smaller. If what Del had said of Meteiera’s magic lifting a measure of harsh usage from me were true, then perhaps I looked younger than many anticipated. But there was no doubt in any of the eyes that I was who I was. It was why I could go nowhere truly disguised. Nothing can hide facial scars left by a sandtiger’s claws.

  Something inside me kindled abruptly into memory, and regret. Now Del would bear her share, though fortunately her face was spared.

  If she had survived.

  The sword-dancers, as expected, took the measure of me: noted stature, the way I moved, the length of legs and arms, the depth and spring of my ribs—and the massive scar left there by Del’s jivatma—the architecture of bones and muscle, the fit of flesh over both. In the circle, everything counts. Particularly in a death-dance.

  They also, every one of them, looked at my hands.

  The pale sand was warm beneath bare feet, but Umir had selected a good time of day. Since it was Punja sand, the sun would eventually heat the intermixed crystals beyond endurance. But it was early summer and mid-morning, bright enough to see without squinting, not so warm as to burn the callused soles of a sword-dancer’s feet.

  I noted a few frowns, an occasional puzzled expression. After a moment’s detached reflection, I realized it was likely I resembled nothing of what those who knew me by sight anticipated. Skandi had changed me. But none of them knew about Skandi. I had simply disappeared after Sabra’s aborted sword-dance, after declaring elaii-ali-ma. All they knew was the here and now: an aging man who somehow looked younger, wearing double rings of silver in his ears, with hair cropped shorter than was his wont. The build was the same, the features the same; but the man, somehow, was not.

  There were men I knew. I watched their eyes meet mine, then slide away. Faces were stiff, set in expressions designed to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation while giving nothing away of their thoughts. Some of them had been friends. Some of them had been good friends. But such things meant nothing when weighed against the shame of elaii-ali-ma. Here, I had no friends. No honored opponents. Only enemies.

  Umir gestured me to halt. I acquiesced, marking the slant of shadows, how the sand had been raked. No clouds: Nothing would alter the intensity of the sun, thus altering the dance. I was aware of the servants just behind me. I smelled heat and sand and oil, the faint tangy musk of assembled, active males.

  Then I sent myself away… lost myself once more in the wind of ioSkandi, threading my way through the Stone Forest as I gazed down upon the circle, the man, the woman.

  Memory endured.

  I was sword-dancer.

  Sandtiger.

  Legend in the flesh.

  I smiled, returning. I was ready.

  Umir raised his voice. “Will anyone among you draw the circle?”

  No one moved. No one spoke. Everyone stared.

  The tanzeer made a placatory gesture. “Yes; I do understand. There is the matter of elaii-ali-ma. I neither disparage it nor mean you dishonor, nor ask you to forget. What I wish is to present that which most closely resembles what this man, this outcast, threw away. He should know what he had, what he shared with you, and what he has lost. The best of you will remind him, so that he dies comprehending the worthlessness of his life.” He paused. “Is there any among you who will draw the circle in which this man will die?”

  I heard a murmuring among them as they discussed it. Umir was asking a lot. I had no business being in a circle of any kind, yet here I was. They could accept the tanzeer’s suggestion or repudiate it even as I had repudiated the honor codes.

  Then a man pushed out from behind the others, unsheathing his sword. A tall, wide-shouldered, fair-haired man, bred of Northern climes. I knew those eyes. Knew that face. Had heard the voice, intentionally raised beyond the wall of my room so I might hear and know he was present. Recognized the sword; I had met him before many times, to drink with, to spar against, to share his food. He, his wife, his two little girls—now three, if I remembered correctly. They had cared for me after injuries more than once.

  Alric’s eyes met mine, blue as Del’s. I saw the faintest of flickers there, a tautening in his jaw. Though not born to Southron customs, he had learned them well. He lived among Southroners, danced among Southroners, was married to a Southroner. His habits were theirs. He understood them.

  He walked nearly to where I stood, set his blade tip into the sand and began to pace out the circle, drawing the line.

  Alric finished where he began. He turned to face me, studied me, seemed to look inside my soul. I wondered what he saw.

  Abruptly he pivoted. With long strides the tall Northerner walked into the circle to the very center, bent, and set down his sword.

  This time the murmuring became recognizable words of angry protest. The other sword-dancers were not pleased that one of their own spit in their faces by presenting me with his sword. Alric had just done his reputation among them irreparable harm; but then, Alric had always gone his own way.

  At least one man here would mourn my death.

  His message was clear: I need not worry that the sword I would use had been tampered with.

  And the other message: he had not won his dance. It would not be Alric I’d meet in the circle, who would, unlike the others, make no attempt to kill me.

  He inclined his head briefly, acknowledging me, then left the circle. Alric found a place to stand against the wall. He was alone, apart, as he had made himself by declaring his loyalty.

  Inwardly, I laughed. Already Umir’s plan had gone slightly awry. Rafiq had brought him the sword I’d bought in Haziz, which one of the servants nearest the tanzeer held. But it would remain unused. Now I had another. One I could trust implicitly, one that suited me in weight and balance; Alric and I were very similar in build, and I had sparred with it before. It also was offered by a friend to a man who supposedly had none among those who lived in the circle.

  Such intricacies of mind, such subtle subtexts, could do much for a man who meant to kill another, or
to preserve his own life.

  “Musa,” Umir called.

  After a moment bodies parted. A pathway was opened. A man came forward, walking toward the circle. I had half expected Abbu Bensir, but this man was not he. Much younger than Abbu, perhaps twenty-six or -eight; taller, though not as tall as I; heavier than Abbu, though not a big man; slightly lighter in skin, hair, and eyes. But he had the high-bridged nose and steep cheekbones present in so many of his countrymen. Not Borderer, I didn’t think. But a mix of something that gave him greater size than most Southroners and, I decided, more power. He moved with the lithe, coiled grace of the snow cats I’d seen high in Northern mountains, up near Staal-Ysta.

  He wore only a dhoti, as I did. No harness, no sandals. He carried his sword. His eyes were fixed on my own.

  The others called out encouragement to him. He ignored them. There was a tight-wound intensity in Umir’s new hired sword. His eyes did not leave mine. His expression was a predator’s, fixed and unwavering. Not for him the camaraderie before a dance, the jokes and wagers exchanged. He had come to kill me. He wanted me to know it.

  Musa, Umir had named him. I didn’t know him. I’d never heard of him. But he was here among the others and had obviously defeated those others; I discounted nothing at all about him.

  The tanzeer once again raised his voice. “As all of you have no doubt heard, the Sandtiger is no longer whole in body. But lest you believe him physically unable and thus offering no challenge, let me repeat what you may also have heard: this man killed one of you in Julah a matter of weeks ago. His name was Khashi.”

  There were quiet, abbreviated murmurs. Every man present knew already. Likely Rafiq had told them, bragging about how he had so easily captured the man who had so easily killed Khashi. Borrowing glory, Rafiq.

  I looked at Musa. Musa looked back. He borrowed no glory. The man’s carriage claimed the quiet confidence of the expert, requiring neither bragging nor flattery. The unsheathed sword dangled casually from his hand. His forearms and ribs were webbed with pale, thin, slit-like scars, unavoidable in the circle, but there were no scars of significance. Blades had gotten through his guard, had marked his flesh, but none of them had done true damage. Mere pricks and minor cuts. Either everyone he had faced had been no better than adequate, or he was truly good. Potentially great.