Sword-Singer

by Jennifer Roberson

  Del looked straight at me. “No,” she said, “I don’t. And that is what frightens me.”

  We stood beside the loki ring at dawn: Del, myself, Garrod, and the Borderers. Fog gathered above us, skirting the top of the canyon. Below, mist clung to us, dampening our hair. My nose and ears were cold.

  Massou tore free of his mother and ran to Del. “I’m sorry!” he cried. “I’m sorry!”

  I saw her flinch. I saw her recoil. I saw her fight back the response that might have destroyed him, in his frenzy to make things right.

  “I’m sorry!” the boy cried, clinging to Del’s waist. “It wasn’t me, I swear…it wasn’t…it wasn’t!” Sobs broke up additional words, rendering them incoherent.

  It was plain all of them knew. And all of them remembered. Cipriana’s face flamed red. She refused to look at me. Adara was less humiliated, but I saw how hard it was even for her to meet my eyes. She clutched her skirts in fists.

  I cast a glance around the canyon. Once again the other Cantéada were hidden, leaving the songmaster to represent them. But I recalled them, the night before. Recalled them with candles and wardstones, melting out of the darkness to sing the Borderers free. To imprison the loki in a ring I wouldn’t break.

  Such a delicate thing, the ring. So transient on the surface. Smooth, rounded stones placed in a careful circle in the center of the canyon, not far from the songmaster’s cave. In it resided loki. Daeva. Shedu. Rakshasa. The demons of childhood’s dreams.

  “We have to go,” I said. “We can’t stay here. This is a place of peace, and we have warped the song.”

  I felt Del’s glance. Well, I was just as surprised. But I knew what I said was true.

  “What about us?” Adara asked softly. “I know you must go on, but what are we to do? As you say, we can’t stay here.”

  Garrod stood just behind Del, whose face was freshly scrubbed but still showed bluish bruising. His lids were lowered, hiding pale eyes. But they lifted, flickered, raised; he looked at the Borderers. “I’ll take you,” he said.

  Cipriana’s head came around. She stared at him in surprise.

  Massou still clung to Del. “Can’t you take us with you?”

  I saw plainly she was uncomfortable, recalling the loki-Massou. With effort she kept her tone steady and didn’t draw away. “No,” she said quietly, touching the tousled blond hair. “No. I must go on. There is a thing I have to do.”

  Adara was looking at Garrod. There was hope in her green eyes, but also a trace of confusion. And I recalled that Garrod was mostly a stranger to them, since he had known only the loki within them.

  The horse-speaker looked at me. “I’ll take responsibility.”

  I raised brows. “Can you?”

  The scarred lip twisted a little. “After the dreamsong, yes. And I think it’s time I did.”

  Adara smoothed her skirts. “We’re going to Kisiri.”

  Garrod smiled a little, flicking a glance at Cipriana. “Kisiri is a long way upland, but the uplands are my home. I will take you there safely.”

  I’ll admit it, I was relieved. Del and I simply couldn’t afford the time to escort the Borderers, but neither could we leave them behind without worrying about their welfare. Now Garrod could do it for us; it would be good for us all.

  Cipriana looked back at him. “We haven’t any horses.”

  Braid beads rattled as the horse-speaker laughed. “Leave that to me. I know ways of getting horses.”

  “Through trickery?” I asked. “The Cantéada don’t ride; there are no horses to steal.”

  Ice-water eyes appraised and found me lacking. But the smile appeared again. “The songmaster told me last night there is a settlement half a day south. I plan to buy the horses, Southron…with the money you will lend us.”

  “Lend you—”

  “Or give,” Adara said softly. “You did promise to buy us a horse and wagon to replace the ones we lost.”

  “Yes,” Del said, “you did.”

  I scowled at her. Dug down to drag free my coin pouch. Counted out coin, passed it over to Garrod.

  Adara’s hand flashed out. “I will tend the money.”

  The horse-speaker looked like he’d swallowed something sour. Grudgingly, he handed Adara the coin. She tied it into her tunic as Del nodded approval.

  Trust a woman to want the money. It’s the woman who always spends it.

  “I’ll go get the stud,” I said, hearing him nickering in the distance.

  He was happy to see me, I think. Certainly pleased to stick his nose into my neck and blow mucus all over me. I swore, shoved the nose away, tugged the stake from the ground. Turned and saw Cipriana.

  Color stood high in her face. She hugged ribs and stared at the ground, wanting to speak but clearly unable.

  The stud reached out the ever-questing nose. Touched her face. Nuzzled. Then snorted all over her.

  Cipriana was less than pleased, wiping a forearm across her face. I pushed the stud away, then abruptly knew what was wrong.

  No. What was right.

  “All that time,” I said in discovery. “All that time…he knew something was wrong. Remember?”

  Cipriana just stared, still scrubbing at her face.

  “He bit Massou,” I said, “and was always restive around you. The stud knew something was wrong. Garrod even said so. He just couldn’t say what or why.”

  As if to prove me right, the stud sidled casually toward Cipriana. The girl sidled closer to me, then caught herself and lunged back. Color flamed in her face.

  I whacked the stud on the nose, but only halfheartedly. “It’s all right,” I told her. “I don’t blame you—it wasn’t your fault. You had nothing to do with it.”

  “But—all those things I said.” The girl could barely speak. “Those things I said and did—”

  “It wasn’t you,” I repeated. “Not you, not your mother, not Massou.”

  “But—I liked you. I did.” She sounded surprised, which was a bit disgruntling. “And then I acted like such a fool, saying and doing those things…trying to make you—want me.” The color stained her throat; I saw a film of shame-sweat on her face. “I acted like a Harquhal cantina girl, selling herself for coin.”

  “You acted like a woman who wanted a man,” I told her bluntly. “Cipriana, you’re young, but not that young. You have nothing to be ashamed of. There will come a day soon—” abruptly, I thought of Garrod “—maybe sooner than you think, when a man will return that favor—” now I thought of her mother, “—after you are married.”

  Shyly, Cipriana smiled a little. “That’s what my mother said.”

  “Then maybe you should listen to her. She hasn’t done so badly.” I turned, headed slowly back toward Del. “Never blame yourself, Cipriana. Not for honest feelings. It’s better to say them out loud.”

  Coyly, she lifted one brow. “And do you say them to Del?”

  Resignedly, I sighed. “Probably not enough.”

  She matched my pace. Then held something out. “I don’t want this,” she said. “It was Rakshasa’s, never mine.”

  I took it. Looked at it: a string of lumpy stones, red-brown against my palm. Rubbed smooth from years of wear.

  In my mind, I saw Del’s throat. Saw myself putting it on her, as she had put it on her mother.

  Cipriana smiled. Then ran ahead to her mother.

  Thirty-one

  The hounds were arrayed around us. I’d forgotten how ugly they were.

  The stud, naturally, was less than happy with the stand-off. He recalled all too clearly the bites and nips and clawings he’d received from them before. He stomped and pawed and snorted, trying to warn them away.

  “Hoolies,” I said, “now what?”

  Del sat behind me on the stud, hands locked into leather. Thinking only about the journey, we’d left the canyon far below us, as well as the wardsong, forgetting it was the only thing that had kept the hounds at bay.

  “This,” she answered quietly, fumblin
g at her woolen tunic.

  I didn’t turn to look, not wanting to take my attention from the hounds. So I couldn’t see what she did. All I knew was, one minute we were surrounded by white-eyed beasts, the next moment they were gone. Fleeing like beaten dogs.

  Now I twisted a little. “All right, bascha…what’d you do?”

  She looped something over her head, held it out to me. I took it: a thin leather thong and a tiny metallic tube, glinting silver in faint foggy sunlight.

  “This?” I asked suspiciously. “What in hoolies is this?”

  “Something from the Cantéada.” She kicked the stud, urging him forward, even though she was behind the saddle; it made me sit up and take notice.

  “Hey—” I reined him out of a hop, skip and jump into a more decorous pace, still studying the thing on its thong. It was hollow. One end was open. There was also a hole in one side. “A whistle?”

  “The songmaster said it would keep the hounds at a distance.”

  “But not send them away.”

  “No. They appear to be under a geas, or some other sort of binding. They’ll probably follow along, but at least we won’t have to worry about them keeping so close.”

  “I don’t like it,” I said.

  Del sighed. “Is there anything you do like?”

  I answered promptly. “A sword, a circle, a good woman. A Southron sword that is—I could do without this one.”

  “And a Southron woman?”

  I guided the stud through the trees, slipping the whistle thong over my head. I’ve never been one to ignore an advantage, regardless of origins. “Southron women,” I said calmly, “have certain points in their favor. They’re more biddable, for one; you don’t much have to worry about them getting all uppity if you ask them to do something. And they’re definitely good at domestic things, like cooking and cleaning and tending a man’s gear. And they know how to please a man, in bed and out, being brought up to know who’s in charge.”

  Del was silent a long, thoughtful moment. I grinned at the stud’s ears, waiting for her response.

  “If Southron women are so wonderful,” she said at last, “why is it Southron men are so quick to steal Northern women?”

  My grin went away. Finally, I said, “Probably because they’re different. In coloring, customs, personality.”

  “Which could mean Southron men actually prefer women with more independence and spirit.”

  “Could,” I agreed cautiously, “but never once have I heard a Southron man expressing a desire for a contentious woman.”

  “There is a distinct difference,” Del said, “between a contentious woman and an independent one.”

  “Only women who are truly unhappy will seek out that sort of independence,” I countered. “I’ll bet if you asked most Southron women which kind of lifestyle they prefer, they’d take Southron over Northern.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed coolly, “at first, because they know it…but only until they had a chance to experience our freedom.”

  “Not if it cost them their men.”

  “A true man wouldn’t be threatened by an independent woman.”

  “How do you know what a true man is or isn’t threatened by?” I demanded in disgust. “With you sitting so close against my back, there’s no way I’d mistake you for a man. Which means you can’t know.”

  Del scootched back a little, which wasn’t what I’d intended. “I can know,” she answered readily, “and I can prove it by asking a simple question: are you threatened by me?”

  Oh, hoolies. She’s so good at laying traps.

  “Well?” Del, again.

  “A lot of men would be—”

  “Are you?”

  “—and probably with reason. You’re a man’s fantasy, maybe, but not the sort of woman—” I broke off there because the hole was getting deeper.

  “Tiger, answer the question. Are you threatened by me?”

  “If I said yes, I’d be lying. But if I said no, I’d sound like an arrogant fool.”

  “That never stopped you before.”

  So nice, was Del. “No, I’m not threatened by you.”

  “Which means that a true man can accept independence in a woman.”

  I chewed on that a little. I’m not so stupid around women as to believe all their flattery, backhanded or not.

  “Now,” she said, “what kind of woman am I not?”

  Hoolies. She’d noticed.

  I sighed. “Not the kind of woman Southroners marry.”

  “Only the kind they dream about…if they have room for imagination along with ignorance.”

  “Now, Del,” I sighed again, giving it up; it wasn’t worth arguing. “Of course Southroners dream. All men dream. And I’d be willing to bet that Northern men dream about Southron women.”

  “I have no argument with dreams,” she said tartly. “It’s when men oppress women in reality that I become concerned.”

  “The North and South are two different places, Del…with different people, different customs, different gods. One isn’t better than the other…it’s just different.” I paused. “And anyway, where’d you become so vocal about women’s independence?”

  She didn’t answer at once. When she did, her tone was odd. “Mostly, from my family,” Del said softly. “My mother was a strong, strong-minded woman who raised her sons to respect her gender and taught her husband to, as well. I was her only daughter…I grew up doing all of the things my brothers and uncles and father did, even to learning the knife and sword, and how to fight like a man. But it was in Staal-Ysta where I learned to be myself. Where I learned to be a person instead of male or female.”

  Staal-Ysta. I recalled the name from something Garrod had said. Ask her, he had told me. Ask her of Staal-Ysta.

  So I did.

  Del didn’t answer at once. And, sitting squarely in front of her, I couldn’t see her expression. All I had to go by to judge her reaction was the tension in her body, by necessity close to mine.

  Eventually, I asked again.

  “Place of Swords,” she said finally. “That’s what the words mean.”

  Poetic enough, I thought. Appealing, too; being a sword-dancer, I kind of liked the picture the words painted.

  But Garrod hadn’t meant to ask her merely about the name. “What does the phrase ‘a blade without a name’ mean?”

  Behind me, Del stiffened. Only slightly, but I found it remarkable nonetheless. “Where did you hear that?”

  I might have lied. But I didn’t. It seemed a fair enough question. “Garrod. He was angry…upset about the horses. He said something—” I paused, frowning, “—something about you being a blade without a name.” I shrugged, guiding the stud. “He said it was a thing of Staal-Ysta.”

  “So it is.” Her tone was cool.

  “Something secret, I take it.”

  “A blade without a name translates to outcast, outlaw, wolf’s-head,” she explained precisely. “It indicates someone outside the honor codes of the voca.”

  “By choice.”

  “By choice,” Del agreed. “Someone who can’t learn the codes, or can’t finish the training, is merely told to go home. But an an-ishtoya who refuses the final training that would make him a kaidin, yet uses his sword skills for harm, is considered a blade without a name.”

  “You didn’t become a kaidin.”

  “No. But I chose to become a sword-dancer, which is open to students as well. And I live within the codes.”

  Something tickled me in the belly. “How close are you, Del? How close to breaking the codes?”

  “A matter of weeks,” she said without hesitation. “If I fail to reach Staal-Ysta within three weeks, to stand trial before the voca, I will be declared a blade without a name and subject to execution by any who wish to try.”

  I’d known that. Just not the language. “One more thing,” I said. “Does your song have an ending?”

  She said nothing at all at first. And then: “Stop this horse.”
/>   At first, I didn’t. “Del—”

  “Stop this horse.”

  I’m not deaf; she was upset. She didn’t yell, but then Del doesn’t need to. She knows how to use her tone. Accordingly, I stopped the horse. Looked around as Del slid off to stand in damp leaves. Saw the ice in her eyes, but also the blaze behind it.

  Hoolies. Now I’d done it.

  “Del—”

  “Come down,” she said.

  “Come up,” I countered. “You yourself said there are only three weeks left before the voca can make you an outlaw. Shouldn’t we be going?”

  Del drew her sword. “Come down,” she said. In the distance, hounds bayed.

  I scratched stubble. Considered entering into argument. Decided against it; that look in her eyes told me to take her seriously and not waste any more time.

  I swung a leg over and slid off the stud, retaining my hold on the reins. It wouldn’t do to lose him now, after going afoot before.

  Del thrust the blade into the ground. It sank halfway in the damp, decaying layers of rain-soaked leaves, then slid into mud and held. She took her hands from the hilt.

  “I can’t give you the oaths,” she said, “because they are private things. But I swore them on the souls of murdered kin, wrote them in my own blood, told them to the runemaster who set them into the blade.” Fingers indicated the alien glyphs running from hilt to tip, though half-buried in the ground. “To abdicate those oaths dishonors my sword, my training, my kin. Do you think I could do that?”

  “I only asked—”

  “You asked if my song had an ending.”

  “Well, yes—”

  “Without knowing what it means.”

  “Well…yes—”

  “Without knowing what you asked.”

  And again yes. “Garrod said I should ask you.”

  Her tone was bitter. “And do you always do what young Northern strangers ask you to do? Especially one whose own personal honor is highly questionable?”

  I ignored her questions. “Maybe Garrod was right to do it.”

  It took her off guard. “What?”

  “He said even an upland horse-speaker knows about Staal-Ysta and the honor codes of the voca. It seemed to make a difference. But I, being a Southroner, know nothing about the place. Nothing about the customs.” I looked at Boreal, then over to Del. “Does your song have an ending?”