Sword-Sworn

by Jennifer Roberson

  Del is not one for asking or expecting help, so I offered her none as we unsaddled and hobbled the horses. I kept an eye on her, though, and saw how stiffly she moved, how carefully she balanced the weight of saddle, blankets, and pouches, gear she’d ordinarily swing off her horse easily. The spot I’d selected was open ground save for a huddled fringe of scrubby brush, with more sand and soil than rocks; Del dug in against an upswell like a coney, flipping her saddle upside down to form a horseman’s chair. Once she’d watered the gelding and made certain he was comfortable, she flopped down on her blanket and leaned against the saddle. Her eyes drifted closed.

  She wore a burnous, as I did. Save for the nick at her jawline, none of her scars were visible. But she was still too thin, and weariness hollowed her face.

  I walked over, dropped a bota down next to her, and announced, “I’m cooking.”

  Del’s eyes opened. “Cooking?”

  “Yep. Here.” I tossed her a cloth-wrapped packet. “Jerked meat.”

  She grimaced, peering down at the packet that had landed in her lap. “What kind of meat?”

  “Who knows? But it’s not cumfa. That’s enough for me.” I dug more out of the pouches, slung a bota over beside my own saddle and bedding, found the flint and steel and placed it on my blanket. “Not much wood here. I’ll go scout around.”

  “Tiger?”

  I turned back, asking a question with raised eyebrows.

  She studied me a moment, as if weighing me against some inner vision. Then she relaxed. “Thank you.”

  Now I frowned.

  “For coming.”

  I shrugged. “Sure. I figure we can track down the kid, make sure he’s all right, then head back to the Vashni.”

  Her hands froze on the packet of dried meat. Tension returned tenfold. “Go back? Why?”

  For a moment I didn’t know. I was completely blank. Then awareness returned, and the answer came without volition. “Because I don’t know enough yet about the dream-walking. There’s much left to learn.” I gestured at the ground. “If you want to start digging a hollow for the fire, that would help. And find rocks for the ring.”

  Del said nothing. Just stared at me. Fear was in her eyes; stiffened her body.

  “What?” I asked.

  She opened her mouth the answer, then shut it. Shook her head.

  After a moment, annoyed, I waved a dismissive hand in her direction and went off in search of decent wood.

  Later, after we had a bed of good coals for warmth and eaten our fill of seasoned jerked meat, Del unsheathed her sword and began to hone and oil it. I knew I should do the same with my own, but I felt just lazy enough to stay put, relaxed against my upturned saddle. I blinked sleepily as I stared into the fire ring, transfixed by the red glow of chunky coals.

  Del’s face bore a pensive expression. “How many days has it been since the sandtiger attack?”

  I thought about it. Realized I didn’t know. “A week, I think. Maybe ten days. Why?”

  Muscles leaped in her jaw. But she didn’t reply. Her eyes assessed the blade as she ran the stone against it. Her expression was odd.

  “Being sick can make you lose track of time.” I hoped to set her at ease, if she was worried she lost a few days. I watched her hand move in an even, effortless rhythm: down the blade, running the stone against steel, then carrying it back to the hilt where the motion began again. I smelled oil, tasted the metallic tang in my mouth. The sleeve of her burnous fell back; I saw the knurled scar on her forearm. “You were lucky that healed so fast.”

  “I haven’t lost track of time,” she said quietly. “But I think you have.” She glanced up, then set sword and whetstone aside. For a moment her hands were pressed against her thighs as if she sought self-control. “Could I see that?”

  Her eyes now were on my chest. I glanced down at the Vashni necklet. Thin wire gleamed faintly in firelight. I pulled it from around my neck, tossed it across to her.

  Del caught it, held it up, turned it in the glow of coals so she might examine details more closely. “The wirework is exquisite.”

  I watched her handle the necklet, noting how she tested the strength of the wire, examined how it all fit together. Her face was oddly tense. Then she slipped the necklet over her own head, arranged it against her burnous. “How does it look?”

  “A little long for you. But it was made for a man.”

  Her fingers ran down the bones. Then she arched her back in a brief stretch, yawned, pushed to her feet. “I need to find a bush,” she said, “and then I’m going to bed. Could you tend the horses?”

  I nodded, leaning forward to add a couple of broken branches to the coals. Del disappeared. I got up and went to refill the horse buckets, check the picket pegs, exchange a few pleasantries with the stud, who had indicated no particular joy at having me back in charge of things; I made my own pre-bedtime donation, then settled down again beside the fire.

  Del was gone longer than anticipated. When she came back, it was without the necklet.

  I frowned. “What happened?”

  She was arranging her bedding. “I found a bush.”

  “Not that. What happened to the necklet?”

  One hand flew to her chest. She looked down, then back at me. “It must have broken.”

  She did not sound very concerned, which annoyed me; the necklet had been a gift. “It was wire, Del.” I sighed, shutting my mouth on a complaint; she was clearly too tired to discuss it. “I’ll go look.”

  “Oh, Tiger, just wait until tomorrow. There’s not enough light to see by.”

  I gathered bunched legs beneath me to push myself upright. “I’ll just poke around anyway.”

  She uncoiled in a single sinuous motion and stepped beside the small fire, sword in hand. The tip kissed my throat, holding me in a kneeling position.

  I was stunned. “Del—”

  Tersely she said, “You won’t find it, Tiger. I buried it.” Coal-glow painted her face into relief, underscoring the hard set of her jaw, the jut of sharp cheekbones. “I was hoping there would be no need for this. But it’s time you came to understand that something is indeed very wrong with you. And has been since you took up with Oziri.”

  I was frozen in place, caught between rising and sitting. It was not an appropriate position for oblique movement, which I realized was deliberate. Del knew me. Knew how I moved. Knew how to effectively put a halt to any intentions I might devise.

  She wore the mask I’d seen displayed to opponents. “Do you wish to try me, Tiger?”

  I eased myself down. My own sword, still sheathed in its harness, was within reach, but I knew better than to dare it with her blade at my throat. “You didn’t want to see the necklet,” I accused. “You wanted to get rid of it.”

  Del said nothing.

  “What is it you think is ‘wrong’ with me?”

  She ignored the question. “Tell me again how many days it’s been since the sandtiger attack.”

  I held myself very still. “Six or seven. Why?”

  “How many days were you at Umir’s?”

  “Two or three. Why?”

  “How many days did we stay with the Vashni?”

  I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. Not with the sword at my throat. “Del, this is—”

  “How many, Tiger?”

  My teeth clicked together.

  The tip bit in. “Answer me.”

  “Five.”

  “And how many since we sparred? You know—the match you say I walked away from.”

  “Three or four, I think.” I drew in a careful breath. “You really have lost track of time.”

  She bit down on a sharp blurt of disbelieving laughter. “I have—?” But she checked it visibly. I saw something in her face, something like pain. But the sword did not waver. The tip had seated itself in the hollow of my throat. The cut stung.

  I attempted sympathy. “Bascha, put it away. You’re exhausted and confused. You need more rest—”

  She c
ut me off. “What I need is for you to come to your senses. To realize what he’s done to you.”

  “What who’s done to me? What are you talking about?”

  Her tone was bitter as winter ice. “The Vashni.”

  “Oziri? Hoolies, bascha, he was helping me learn how to—” I stopped. Couldn’t breathe.

  “How to what?” she asked, when I didn’t finish.

  Something built up in my chest. Something that twisted. Something that threatened to burst. I felt as if I were on the verge of a firestorm.

  Oh, hoolies. Oh, gods, no…

  Del’s tone changed. No longer was there challenge. Now there was expectation. “How to what, Tiger?”

  I couldn’t speak. The heat, the pressure increased. Pain filled my chest.

  Her tone was almost a whisper. “Say it.”

  I took the step into conflagration. Denial kindled, exploded, then crisped into ash. Was blown away. Comprehension, confession, slow and painful, began to come into its place.

  I couldn’t say it.

  “He did this,” she said. “The Vashni. He did something to you. Now do you understand why I wanted to leave?”

  Years of being stubbornly, selectively blind and deaf to certain impulses and speculations had created habits I found comforting. Habits that I could live with. Denial afforded me freedom. But I had stopped denying it in Oziri’s presence. Had accepted it.

  “Say it, Tiger. What he was teaching you. Admit it.”

  A spasm ran through my body. The words, slow, halting, laden with need, seem to come from someone else. “How to work magic.”

  Oh, hoolies… Memories came back then, came pouring back, tumbling one over the other like stones in a flash flood. I took what I could of them and fitted them into a whole. Hours. Days. Weeks. All had been lost to the dream-walks, the learning of the art. Now I understood Del’s concern. Del’s fear. Her desperation.

  The Vashni had indeed done something to me: stolen sense, taken time. Turned me from my course. Set me on a new one.

  Nihko had begun the process. Sahdri had explained it. Oziri had advanced it.

  Oh, but it was so much easier to disbelieve, when faced with a terrible truth. A truth I could not accept, because the fear of it would overpower me. Incapacitation. I might as well be dead.

  And I would be dead, according to the priest-mages of ioSkandi. To Umir’s book.

  Why would any man wish to be a mage, if the cost was so high?

  Why would I?

  I wished it because I’d wanted it. Needed it in the nights of my childhood, desperate to escape the Salset and the life of a chula: dreaming of a sandtiger, making it come to life; dreaming of Del atop the stone spire, who replaced a stolen scar and thus identity; dreaming of a boat to carry me to Skandi.

  The intent had not been magic. Never. I had only ever, a very few times, wished to make a miracle to change what I could not bear.

  Messiahs made miracles. Mages made magic.

  Maybe one and the same.

  I swore, then drew up my knees and leaned over them, elbows planted, clenching taut fingers in my short hair. I wanted to pull it out by the roots, as if that would erase the knowledge of what Oziri had done. Of what I had become.

  Dreams could merely be dreams. But dreams could also be more. Now I walked them. Began to understand them. Summoned the magic within them, using the power Oziri sought, and found, and rekindled within my bones.

  Nihko had told me. Sahdri had told me. I had denied them both. But somehow, with Oziri, I had not. Maybe it was because enough time had passed since my “whelping” atop the spire. Maybe it was because I was in the South again, and my walls were down. Or maybe it was because Oziri forced the issue. Whatever the reason, he had made me understand what I was. What I could do. What I had done.

  But not what I might yet do.

  My walls were down now, shattered upon the sand. Del, who realized it, released a long breath of eloquent relief and set down her sword. Knelt beside me. Put one hand on my own where they viciously gripped my hair.

  I closed my eyes. I closed them very tightly. I thought my teeth might crumble.

  The hand closed, offering comfort. Her tone was meditative; as a Northerner, she had never feared or denied magic. Nor refused to employ it herself. “From when I met you, I knew. There were signs of it… but you denied it. Refused to believe, despite evidence. Even when I showed you Northern magic. Even when you worked it.”

  I said nothing.

  “I learned my magic,” she said. “It’s part of being a sword-singer, part of Staal-Ysta. That’s what jivatmas are. We sing the power into being, to wield the blade.”

  She had told me this before. I wanted her to stop. Wanted not to listen.

  “I have no magic,” she said. “Only the sword. Only the song.” Her fingers traced the back of one hand. “But you… you need nothing but yourself.”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a part of you, Tiger. Just like your sword skill. Don’t deny it.”

  Eventually I untangled fingers and looked at her. “I have to.”

  “No.”

  “If I don’t…” But I let it go. I shook my head again, releasing pent breath. “It’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  I sighed heavily, scrubbed wearily at my face. My eyes felt gritty. The beginnings of a headache throbbed at the base of my neck. “Did you really bury the necklet?”

  “I cut the wire into pieces with my knife, then buried each bone in a different place.”

  Relief was palpable. Then comprehension followed, and amusement. No wonder it had taken her so long to find the appropriate bush. I wasn’t certain anything in the necklet had controlled me or was meant to control me, but self-awareness had returned only with distance from Oziri and separation from the necklet.

  “Good.” I could not meet her eyes, so I stared hard at the stars for a long time. I heard the coals settling, the faintest of breezes skimming the surface of the soil, the restless shiftings of the stud and Del’s gelding. “Four weeks,” I said. “Give or take a day.”

  Del was puzzled. “What?”

  “Since the sandtiger attack.” I was certain of it, as much as I could be. It felt—right.

  Del smiled. “Yes.”

  “There’s something I have to tell you. Something you must understand.” I swallowed heavily, aware of pain in my throat, the fear she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, accept it. “Bascha—you really were there. Atop the spire in the Stone Forest. With me.”

  Her tone frayed. “Tiger—”

  “In my dreams,” I told her. “And that’s what saved me. That’s what kept me sane. So long as I could hold onto the memory of you, could conjure you in dreams, I knew I would survive. I lost myself for a while, even lost two fingers—but I came back from ioSkandi, came back from the spires.” I took a deep breath. “I’ll come back from this.”

  It was Del’s turn for silence.

  “I don’t—I don’t remember what Oziri did. What he told me, or taught me. Enough, obviously, to find and refine whatever was born in me, what bubbled up from time to time before going dormant again, until Meteiera. Apparently he brought it back into the open.” I laughed sharply. “If I couldn’t remember what day it was, how can I be expected to remember what he did? But what I don’t understand is why.”

  Del pondered it. “Perhaps he realized what was in you, and wanted it for himself,” she said. “I think as long as you denied what you were, he could use you. Perhaps he felt your magic might augment his, make him something more than he was. But if you knew what he wanted, you would have resisted.”

  “Would I?”

  “Oh, yes. You let no man use you, Tiger. Not Nihko, not Sahdri, not Oziri.”

  “But they have. Each of them.” Others as well, over the long years. “For a time.”

  “And you have walked away from them all.”

  Or been dragged away by a very determined woman. I sighed. “So,
you think if I admit what I am, I’ll be safe from manipulation?”

  “Maybe.”

  I scowled. “That’s not much of a guarantee.”

  Del’s brows arched. “With the kind of lives we lead, that’s the best I can offer.”

  True enough. I ran a hand through my hair, scrubbing at the chill that crept over my scalp. “Dangerous.”

  “What is?”

  “A man with a sword who lacks proper training.” I grimaced, said what I meant: “A man with magic who lacks proper training.”

  Sahdri had said it, atop the spires. Umir’s book set it into print. Oziri had proved it.

  “Unless he is strong enough to find his own way.”

  I grunted. “Maybe.”

  Del smiled. “I will offer a guarantee.”

  I laughed, then let it spill away. “I can’t believe that all dreams are bad, bascha. Everyone dreams. You dream.”

  “But I am not a mage.”

  She had said it was born in me. So had Nihkolara, and Sahdri. Oziri. Even Umir’s book. Dormancy until Skandi, from birth until age forty—except for a sensitivity to magic so strong it made me ill; until ioSkandi, when Nihko took me against my will to Meteiera, to the Stone Forest; to others like him, like me. Where, atop a spire, a full-blown mage was born.

  Denial bloomed again, faded. Was followed by the only logical question there could be.

  What comes next?

  TWENTY-THREE

  I AWOKE with a start, staring up into darkness lighted only by stars and the faintest sliver of moon. Sweat bathed my body. I swore under my breath and rubbed an unsympathetic hand over my face, mashing it out of shape.

  “What is it?” Del’s voice was shaded by only a trace of sleepiness.

  We lay side-by-side in our bedrolls with the dying fire at our feet. Desert nights are cool; I yanked the blanket up to my shoulders. Muttering additional expletives, I shut my eyes and draped an elbow over my face. “I was dreaming, curse it.”

  After a moment, with careful neutrality, she queried, “Yes?”

  “I’d just as soon not, after my recent experiences.” I removed the arm and looked again at the stars, shoving both forearms under my head. “How in hoolies am I supposed to go through life without dreaming?”