Sword-Singer

by Jennifer Roberson

  Well, no, I couldn’t. Unless she told me, which she hadn’t.

  “I don’t want to lose you,” I said. Then regretted it instantly.

  Luckily, Del only bristled. “You don’t have me, Tiger.”

  “No,” I agreed, “not lately. You and your loki obsession—”

  She said something nasty about the loki in succinct, scatalogical Southron.

  “I imagine they’d like that,” I pointed out. “After all, you’re the one who explained it to me…how they’re attracted to men and women ‘in congress,’ as you put it.”

  “They are.” Only her lips moved; her teeth were tightly locked.

  “Well, then, we don’t have anything to worry about,” I smiled sweetly. “Do we?”

  Del swung around and walked.

  It was the stud who warned us. Maybe by then Del and I both were sick of walking, saying nothing but thinking a lot; we simply didn’t notice. But the stud did, luckily.

  Ears snapped forward. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled noisily, as horses do when they’re unsure. And then he stopped dead in his tracks, popping the reins taut in my hand.

  I smelled them before I saw them. I remembered the smell well—the putrid, musky stench of death—from brief captivity in the canyon. “I thought you said the hounds were gone.”

  “They were.” Steel sang as Del unsheathed her sword. “They went back through the canyon after you, then simply disappeared.”

  “Well, they’re back now.”

  We weren’t following a path, exactly, just making our way on the strip of ground between canyon and cliff wall. Trees hedged both sides thickly, close-grown or more widely scattered, while rain dripped from bare branches. There was little coverage, but the hounds knew how to use what of it there was.

  Wet leaves don’t make as much noise as dry ones. Water muffles sound, glues them together, provides a soggy carpet. But they aren’t soundless, either, and I heard the hounds around us. Front and sides and back.

  No trap-canyon, this time. This time they didn’t need it.

  It was, as always—at least to me—a day of grays: ash, iron, olive. And now the hounds as well, dull slate and dappled silver, at one with the rain and at one with the cliff, paying mind to neither. In silence they slipped through the trees, heads dipped low, tails tucked, manes flopping on big shoulders.

  One-handed, I drew my sword. “What in hoolies do they want?”

  “Us,” she said.

  “You.”

  Del glanced at me sharply. “You don’t mean—”

  “I do. You went up that trap-canyon wall and they came in after you. It wasn’t me they wanted. They only chased me because you were already gone. Even then, they were rather halfhearted about it. What are there—thirty? Forty? Fifty? More than enough to pull the stud down, and yet they really did nothing at all.”

  “Nothing,” she echoed. “I’ve seen the stud, Tiger, and I’ve seen you. That’s not all horse blood on your clothing.”

  Well, no, but I hadn’t really taken the time to inspect it. I was stiff and sore and maybe a bit ragged around the edges, but I was well enough.

  “I’ll say it again; it’s you,” I told her. “If they could speak, I’d ask them.”

  Del said nothing, watching as the hounds spilled out to encircle us. They kept their distance, giving us plenty of room, yet I had the feeling that if we moved, they’d go right along with us. Once again, they worked us, like a dog set on Southron goats.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “The voca would never rescind my year of response.”

  “Who?”

  “Voca. Those who gather in judgment.”

  “Theron came after you.”

  “Theron applied to collect the blood-debt. By voca law, he was required to give me the choice between entering the circle or going home to accept the judgment of my peers and teachers.” Her face was stark. “As you know, he chose to dance against me. He lost, because of you. It means no other may challenge me, until the year is up.”

  “We’re awfully close, bascha. With all the delays we’ve had, it’s only a matter of weeks.”

  “Yes, Tiger. I know. But they would never have sent the beasts. It isn’t the voca’s way.” Her expression was grim. “They would send men, Tiger, and maybe women. All carefully trained sword-dancers.”

  “Then why do these hounds want you?”

  “Maybe it isn’t me.”

  I frowned. “I know it’s not me, Del.”

  “Not you, not me.” She lifted the sword a little. “Maybe they want this.”

  I shook my head. “What would a pack of hounds want with a sword, Del? They can’t exactly use it.”

  “They’ve been herding us from the beginning.”

  “Well, yes—”

  “They’ve never really attacked us, mostly driving us toward the north.”

  “Well, yes, it does seem—”

  “She didn’t hold them, Tiger. When I sang. They seemed to relish the power, instead of fearing it.”

  I thought it over. They had. “Still, Del, I wonder—”

  “They’re escorting us to someone. Someone who wants this sword.”

  I sighed. “Seems a bit farfetched to me, Del. Why send a pack of nightmare hounds when a man—or men—could do as well, if not better? After all, hounds don’t have hands to carry a sword.”

  “They don’t need hands. They’ve got us.”

  I glanced out through the drizzle. Gray on gray, perfectly still, in a perfect perimeter. Staring at Del and her sword. “It just doesn’t make sense, bascha.”

  “Evil rarely does.”

  I glanced at her sharply. “What do you mean, ‘evil’?”

  “It depends on your definition,” she said, “but evil is usually bad.”

  The stud still stood and stared, watching the beasts rigidly. Hot breath warmed my shoulder. “Then you’re saying there is a sorcerer—”

  “Or loki,” she said calmly. “Loki require power. And power lives in this sword.”

  I recalled how she’d yelled at me not to use my borrowed sword in the loki ring. Could they have siphoned off whatever power remained and used it for themselves?

  And now they required more.

  “Loki,” I said in disgust.

  “A sword is a sword,” Del said. “A jivatma is more than a sword. If I key her fully, her power can be used against us.”

  “Well, then, let’s not go keying her, shall we?”

  Del smiled a little, wryly. “How many do you think we can kill before they kill us?”

  “You just said they don’t mean to kill us.”

  “Probably not, if we cooperate. But I don’t intend to go with them.”

  There comes a time when talk is exhausted and earns you nothing. There comes a time when action is the only answer, regardless of the odds. Del and I had known for some time that it would come to this; we’d put it off because no one wants to admit his powerlessness over something that can kill him. It’s a way of cheating death.

  But it all runs out eventually, and what you want is blood.

  I gave the stud his freedom as well as a pat on the neck. “Well, then, bascha—looks like we have a fight on our hands.”

  Del sucked in a deep breath. “Let’s take it to them, Tiger.”

  Oddly lighthearted, I grinned. “Is there any other way?”

  Twenty-five

  Trouble was, we never got to take it to anybody. Because even as we moved, ready to commit carnage, something stopped the hounds. Something stopped us.

  A sound. A high-pitched, whistling sound that dipped and rose, floated, wound its way around trees, slid down trunks to splash against the ground, spreading out to entrap our feet.

  The stud, wandering off, stopped. Shook his head violently, flopping ears. Then pinned them back flat and curled his upper lip, displaying impressive teeth.

  The hounds, gray on gray, melted back into the trees, rumps dropped low, leathery ears pinned, manes bristli
ng. Beasts they might be, and conjured by sorcery, but they responded like whipped dogs, running for a bolt hole.

  Del and I weren’t much better off, until the sound altered. No more the whistle designed to pierce fragile ears, but a flirtatious, fluting song, wreathing branches and clinging, running and humming amid cracks in the craggy cliff face, echoing out of the canyon. And then even that died, leaving us in silence.

  Del sighed. “Cantéada.”

  “What?”

  “Cantéada,” she repeated. “I think you’re about to meet one.”

  “One of these music people?”

  “You heard him, didn’t you?”

  I frowned. “You mean it was music that sent the hounds away?”

  “Music. Magic. One and the same with the Cantéada.” Del put away her sword, smiling. “Look, Tiger. Do you see him?”

  I looked. No, I didn’t; I saw no one.

  And then I did, and stared. “Hoolies, Del! What is that?”

  “That is a he,” she said. “Cantéada, and songmaster. Tanzeer, you might call him; he’s the authority in the clan.”

  He. It, more likely; he was like nothing I’d ever seen. Not even in my dreams.

  He was smaller than Massou, yet something spoke of greater age. Coming out of rain it was difficult to see him because his coloring was similar. Pale, translucent flesh, oddly opalescent. And he was ugly. He was ugly. There was no other word for it.

  But he made me forget it when he spoke, because when he spoke he sang.

  *Came you here to kill?*

  All I could do was stare.

  *Came you here to kill?*

  He was looking at me, not at Del. Slowly I shook my head, not knowing what else to do.

  A delicate, blue-nailed finger lifted gently toward my sword. *Steelsong kills.*

  A polite way of calling me a liar. “Del—”

  “Your sword is naked,” she told me quietly. “Sheathe it; he might accept your denial. Right now he won’t.”

  I sheathed. “What is that thing?” I whispered. “Not human. Not animal.”

  “Cantéada,” she said softly. “As children we are taught they brought music to the world. But I never thought I’d ever see one, until this morning. I wasn’t even sure they were real.”

  I looked at the little man. He reached my waist, barely, barrel-chested with spindly limbs, and long, eloquent fingers. He wore only a leather kilt. His eyes were palest purple, a bit like Theron’s blade. The pupils were weirdly catlike.

  *Steelsong kills,* he repeated.

  Del drew in a deep breath. “Steelsong kills,” she agreed. “But so do beasts like those.”

  The Cantéada tilted his head. *Sendsong halts/Steelsong no longer needed.*

  I frowned. “What’s he saying?”

  Del smiled a little. “Don’t you wish now you understood music better? He’s saying we don’t need our swords anymore. The hounds have been sent away.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “Cantéada never lie.”

  “Oh, right. You yourself just told me you thought they lived only in stories. Now you expect me to believe this little man is some magical creature who sings instead of talks, and won’t ever lie to us?”

  “He has no reason to lie.”

  “Hunh.”

  *Arguesong discordant.*

  Del promptly laughed.

  I sighed. Looked at the Cantéada. Such a strange little man, with his prominent jaw and mobile mouth, and a throat that swelled when he talked, very much like a frog’s.

  “We’d prefer not to kill them,” I said politely, “so long as they don’t kill us. If, as you say, your song has sent the hounds away, will it be for good?”

  Birdlike, he tilted his head again. His ears, too, were overlarge, vaguely pointed, with the slightest suggestion of mobility. His hair, thin and silver-gray, rose from a peak at the top of his forehead and ran in a crest down the back of his neck, feathering out on either side. It was more like down than hair, I thought. And, like hackles, the crest could rise, speaking a language of its own.

  * Distance diminishes/Diminishment obscures.*

  “What?”

  Del sighed. “I think he means if we get too far, the song diminishes and the spell stops working.” She frowned. “Can’t you understand anything?”

  “I know he’s singing, bascha—I can hear a few of the words—but noise is noise to me.” I paused. “What do you hear, Del?”

  She smiled with a startling serenity. “Everything. All the tones, all the inflections, all the subtleties. It’s clearer even than our speech, because it expresses the emotions.”

  I was skeptical. “And this is the man—the thing—that rescued you this morning?”

  “When we climbed out of the tunnel, he was waiting. The threat of death drew him, and some of the others. Cantéada despise death.”

  “Don’t they die?”

  “I should have said, Cantéada despise murder. No matter what the victim.”

  I sighed and went over to catch the stud’s dangling reins. “I’m not too fond of it myself, particularly when I’m the target. Well, what do we do now? Will he take us to the others?”

  “I think it’s what he came to do.”

  “So what are we waiting for?”

  Del sighed. “Maybe a little courtesy.”

  “Courtesy has its place,” I agreed, “but right now so does promptness. I’d sort of like to gather together our little clan, take stock of things, then get the hoolies out of here before we lose more time.” I stopped. “So should you, Del. It’s your skin the voci want, not mine.”

  “Voca,” she corrected.

  “Voci, loki, whatever. Let’s just get moving, bascha.”

  The Cantéada, listening, seemed to understand before Del said a word. He turned, leaped up a tree, flung himself through branches. From tree to tree he sped, agile as a monkey. In his wake floated a fragile, fluting whistle.

  “Followsong,” Del explained. “Well? You were the one in a hurry.”

  I clicked to the stud and walked.

  The rain worsened before it got better. Del and I were both soaked to the skin. Rivulets ran down my back, tickled buttocks, squelched inside my boots. Hair was plastered against my head, spilling droplets whenever I moved. I was wet and cold and miserable, like a cat caught in a downpour.

  Well, so I was; cat and caught.

  I blew out an impatient breath. It plumed in the air much as the stud’s did, wreathing his nostrils in transient steam. Dark brown ordinarily, he was nearly blackened by the rain. Wet tail slapped at hocks and stuck, briefly, before it was freed again by the motion of his walking.

  “Hoolies, I hate the wet. What I’d give for a little sun and warmth.…”

  Del didn’t smile. “What would you give?”

  “What?” I frowned, not following. “Oh. Hoolies, I don’t know. It was only a manner of speech.”

  “If you really want the sun, they can probably get it for you.”

  “Who can?” I followed her gesture. “Him? You’re saying that little man can control the weather?”

  “I think the Cantéada can do anything.”

  “They’re men, Del…or something thereabouts. Just because he can scare away beasts doesn’t mean he can actually change the weather.”

  “Of course not.” She was strangely solemn. “No more than I can with my jivatma.”

  So much for a fair fight. “I don’t understand your sword anymore than the Cantéada, bascha, but I’m not certain even their magic can change the weather.” I peered up at thick dark clouds caught on the cliff to our left, rolling up to spill over its edge like bolts of crumpled, pearlescent silk. “If they could control it, wouldn’t they? Why live in rain and cold?”

  “To maintain the balance,” she answered, ducking a hanging limb. “Here in the North, we believe there is a balance struck between heat and cold, good and bad, men and women. Opposites all, but important to one another. Without one, the other wo
uld fail.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I think men would be better off without women.”

  Her mouth twisted a little. “For a while, probably. Of course, men don’t live forever. Too stubborn. Too violent.” Her expression was innocent. “Once you’d killed one another off, what would be left? A world without men or women.”

  “He’s stopping,” I said suddenly.

  Del glanced around, then nodded. “We’re very near their canyon. This way, Tiger.”

  The trees were very thick, branches so tangled I couldn’t tell one from another. Trunks were striped from rain, gathering in crotches and broken knots until it spilled over edges. Mud and leaves balled on the soles of my boots. I followed in silence, still leading the stud, and hoped the homes of the Cantéada were big enough to house me.

  We came, quite unexpectedly, face to face with the edge of the world. Out of trees into nothingness; the ground was no more than a sword blade, and I balanced on its edge, close to falling, until Del caught my arm and pulled me back.

  “I forgot,” she said.

  “Forgot what?” I cried, stumbling back. “Forgot the world stopped just as I walked off the edge?”

  Del sighed. “It wasn’t that bad, Tiger.”

  “Hoolies, woman—if I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to get me killed.” I paused. “Maybe I don’t know better; were you?”

  “Hardly.” Her tone was dry, but she didn’t look at me. Then the tone changed into wistful admiration. “Oh, Tiger, isn’t it beautiful?”

  To her, undoubtedly; Del was raised on uplands, downlands, heights and sharp-carved canyons. She had suckled on wind and rain.

  But not me. Not me. I looked out into nothingness and saw only an emptiness filled with clouds.

  The world had ended. What lay before us was a canyon cut out of rock, but filled to choking on clouds. I could see little but the layers, cluttering up the other side as well as the distant bottom.

  Beautiful. Maybe. But I wanted a little sun.

  “How in hoolies do we get down from here?”

  “Follow him down, Tiger. The songmaster’s waiting for us.”