Sword-Singer

by Jennifer Roberson

  Her face was white. “You ask that, not knowing what you ask?”

  “Maybe I would if I had an answer.”

  Del stared at her sword. It was plain I’d put her in turmoil, though the indications were subtle. Del masks her face well, but I’ve learned to read the signs. She stared at her sword as if hoping—or honestly expecting—it would tell her what to do, but in the end she decided all by herself.

  “He’ll have to know,” she said obscurely, “one way or another.”

  Not what I call encouraging. “Del—”

  “I swore oaths,” she said, “as I told you. But these are oaths of a different nature than the kind ordinarily sworn. They have to do with Staal-Ysta, and what it makes you; what you become to name a jivatma.” Her gaze was on Boreal. “I have no doubts you have sworn oaths in your life, Tiger, and they are as binding as you make them…but in the North, it’s different. In Staal-Ysta, more different yet; the binding is permanent, made of blood and steel and magic and the blessings of the gods.”

  “Now, Del—”

  She lifted a silencing hand. “I am giving you an answer to your question. Never say I didn’t warn you; it’s more than most people get.”

  Part of me wanted to break it off; obscurity irritates me. But Del was clearly serious, and it wouldn’t hurt to listen.

  At least, I didn’t think so. “All right, bascha…go on.”

  “When you set yourself a task, you make yourself a song. And go on singing it until the task is completed.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Del’s face was expressionless. “My first task was to find Jamail and bring him home. As you know, I couldn’t do it; that part of the song was destroyed. But there still remains another. A bloodsong, Tiger—a deathsong. My task is to kill Ajani and the men who accompanied him. Until that is accomplished, my song can never end. And a song without an end is not a true song at all, but merely meaningless noise.”

  In the distance, hounds yapped and howled. I glanced around, then back at Del. “Something like that,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, “but forever. Noise without purpose or ending.”

  I nodded. “What it means is a sword-dancer out of control. One without purpose or honor.”

  “I am hard,” Del said. “Hard and cold and cruel. But my song has an ending. My blade has a name.”

  “For how much longer?” I asked. “If the voca finds you guilty and orders your execution, your task will remain undone. Your song will never end. Your oaths will all be broken.”

  “No,” she said, “they won’t. I made a pact with the gods.”

  I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. Del was too serious.

  I pointed at the sword. “Clean that thing and let’s go.”

  Thirty-two

  I woke up because I was cold, and because someone was spitting on my face. Not a good way to start the day.

  I swore beneath heavy blankets, heaved myself up, realized the sky was doing the spitting; wet, cold things were falling out of it. Not rain; I know rain. Something like sticky ice.

  “Del!”

  She woke up. Peered at me sleepily. “You’re letting in the cold.”

  So I was. I lay down again, but stiffly, blankets hooded around my head. “Del—what is this?”

  “Snow.” She hitched herself closer, hair catching on my stubble. “Why—what did you think it was?” When I didn’t answer, Del pushed herself up on one elbow and looked at me more closely. And then she began to laugh.

  “Not funny,” I muttered. “How was I supposed to know?”

  Del was stretched against me, feet intertwined with mine. I felt the trembling of her laughter; heard the giggles she tried to suppress.

  I turned over onto my side, facing her beneath blankets. Cold snuck into the folds and chilled exposed flesh, turning it rose-red along the angles of Northern cheekbones. I reached out and smoothed back hair. It was good to hear her laugh, even at my expense.

  I pushed the blanket off her head. Snow stuck on hair and lashes, turning to droplets on her face. Barehanded, I touched her cheek. “How long has it been since you laughed? Like this, I mean; really laughed?”

  Slowly, the smile fell away. Tears of merriment dried in her eyes. She said nothing at all in answer, too startled by my question. There was wariness in her expression as well as bafflement.

  Her tone was odd. “I don’t know.”

  I traced the thin lace of a silvery scar threading the flesh of one cheek. “A week ago you stood before your sword and named yourself hard and cold and cruel, sworn to avenge your family. I won’t disagree; sometimes you are. But you can also be other things. A woman of passion and laughter.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe once.”

  I grunted. “More than once, bascha. I’ll swear to that. I share your bed, remember?”

  Del sighed. We are not a man and woman for soft words between us, being too ruled by other things; locked too tightly into our roles and allowing no latitude. But I would be a liar to say I didn’t think them. To say I didn’t feel them. And I think Del would, too.

  It was a soft and silent dawn, except for the stream nearby, and filled by falling snow. It was cold, but we were not, for the moment warmed by new thoughts and feelings, not thinking about the weather. And then she lowered snow-frosted lids and shuttered her thoughts from me, turning away a little.

  “Don’t,” was all she said.

  “Del, I don’t mean to hurt you. I only mean that if you push yourself any harder, wind yourself any tighter, something is going to break.”

  Tautly: “There are things I have to do.”

  “Not at the risk of destroying yourself.”

  “Ajani did that a long time ago.”

  Inwardly, I swore. Outwardly, I shook my head. “And so you have reshaped the real Delilah into someone she is not.”

  “Am not,” she said softly. After a moment, she shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m not. I don’t know what I am, other than what I have to be.” Del resettled the blankets. “Not so different from you.”

  I rose, took up harness and sword, stood up to meet the dawn even as it fell down to meet me. Such a soft, gentle thing, sneaking up like a woman’s caress. Flakes fell out of the sky and took roost on any part of me they could touch, melting or sticking together. The world itself was blurred, softened by falling snow. I couldn’t hear anything but my own breathing as I exhaled a cloud of steam.

  “I’m a killer,” I said. “Strip away the pretty words and the real ones come to the surface. Men hire me to kill; it is what I do.”

  She twisted to stare at me. Her face was pallid with shock.

  “Not always,” I said. “Sometimes the job has nothing to do with killing. But I am effective because I can kill, and people know I will do it. It frightens them into docility, into payment…into doing whatever I tell them, being hired to tell them things. I don’t take sides—or very rarely. Mostly, I just take money. I take money to dance.” I slid the sword from its sheath. “I’m a whore in my own way, ruled by greed, not retribution. But I think I’m happier than you.”

  Del folded back the blankets and sat up. Snow gathered on head and shoulders, clinging to her hair. “Why are you telling me this? What point are you trying to make?”

  “No point. I just want you to realize that it’s an ugly sort of life you’ve portioned out for yourself, in the name of retribution.”

  Del’s mouth nearly dropped open in amazement. “You don’t think I should hunt Ajani down? After what he did?”

  “I didn’t say that, now, did I?” I turned from her, found a tree limb, began to draw a circle. Snow would eventually hide most of the line, but it really wouldn’t matter. We’d know where it was. In our hearts, if nowhere else. “I just meant you ought to give yourself room to be Delilah along with the sword-dancer known as Del.”

  Damp hair straggled on either side of her face. She gazed at me blindly, locked away in her head.

  I straig
htened, tossed the limb aside. “I have hated as well or better than anyone, in my life, maybe even you. Because much of it wasn’t a life. I never had anything—or anyone—to lose, except myself. I don’t doubt that if I’d had kin stripped from me as you did, as well as innocence, I’d be angry, too. I’d want revenge, too. But destroying myself in the process isn’t a choice I’d make.”

  Del’s stare sharpened. She frowned a little, thinking about my words, then stood up and brushed off snow. “A woman is required to be stronger,” she said quietly. “Even in the North, even in Staal-Ysta. Tougher. Stronger. Better—if she is to be judged worthy at all. And so there are sacrifices—”

  I didn’t let her finish. “Did they demand those sacrifices? Or did you simply offer them, determining them yourself?”

  Del stood very still. “I don’t know,” she said numbly. “I can’t remember, now.”

  It made me angry, that she could be so focused on hatred and revenge that she could forget herself. I stalked back through the snow to face her squarely. “Be you,” I told her curtly. “Just you, whoever that may be…that’s what I want from you. And if it means traipsing across two countries to find the man who killed your kin, so be it; I don’t much like him, either. If it means going into sleet and snow and banshee-storms, I’ll do it willingly. Not happily, but I’ll do it; there’s enough between us for that, even if you won’t admit it. But if it means warping yourself into a travesty of Delilah because it’s the only way, I say it isn’t worth it. You deserve better than that.”

  Softly, she said: “I’m afraid.”

  “I know you are, bascha. I’ve known it all along. But it doesn’t make you a bad person.” I smiled, reached behind her left shoulder, drew her Northern sword. “Step into the circle, Del. Let’s do what we do best.”

  Good idea, bad execution. I’m not used to snow. And so I performed badly, giving Del an easy match, but in the end it served its purpose. She was thinking about the dance, not about herself, and it burned the tension out.

  “No, no,” she blurted, as I let one of her subtle wrist patterns break through my haphazard guard. “If you do that in Staal-Ysta, you’ll impress no one.”

  I grunted, moving away again. “I didn’t know I’d have to impress anyone. We’re going there for you, remember? Not for me.”

  Her mouth was flat and grim. “You are the Sandtiger. One of the greatest sword-dancers in the South. If you think you can go to Staal-Ysta and not be called upon to dance, you are sandsick.”

  One of the greatest, not the greatest…as usual, she knew how to provoke me. I beat her blade back, then followed it up with a slashing blow that, had it connected, would have severed an arm at the shoulder.

  “Better,” she said grudgingly, skipping out of the way.

  Better, schmetter. I was the best. “How long is this trial supposed to take? I mean, we will be done before spring, won’t we? We won’t have to winter here?”

  Del moved warily, testing my intentions. Snow still fell, but softly, clearly not bothering her. But I could do without it. I don’t like footwork fouled by slush.

  “Maybe,” she said quietly, mostly under her breath.

  “Maybe? Maybe? You mean—this thing could last for months?” I dropped my guard completely, calling off the dance. “Just what will you have to do?”

  “I don’t know. Tiger, don’t stop. You need to learn how to move. Snow, mud and slush can be difficult to dance in.”

  “I’m not dancing!” I shouted. “I’m coming along for the ride, and that’s it. I suppose if someone invited me to participate in a friendly little wager revolving around a dance, I’d do it, but that’s as far as it goes. I’m not a performing dog.”

  “No, but you are my sponsor.”

  Dimly I recalled having agreed to some such title. “I said I’d back you at the trial.”

  “And if the trial is a dance?” Del had stopped moving, too. We faced each other across the circle, fogging the air with our breath. “Here in the North, such things are often decided by combat. It seems the fairest thing.”

  “Wait a minute. Do you mean to tell me that you’ve dragged me all the way up here to do your fighting for you?” I stared at her in astonishment. “Hoolies, Del, you’re sandsick! For as long as I’ve known you, all you’ve done is fill my ears with all this noise about you being as good a sword-dancer as any man—including me—and now you tell me I might have to dance in your place?” I shook my head. “What kind of a deal is that?”

  Del nodded grimly. “Not much of one, is it? But it may be the only deal. Who can say what the voca will do?”

  “You,” I accused. “I’ve seen that look in your eye…you’ve got a good idea.”

  “No,” she demurred calmly. “Now, about your footwork—”

  “To hoolies with footwork, bascha…I want to know what I face!”

  Del glared across the circle. “I don’t know!” she shouted. Then, more quietly, “But you just said again you’d go with me, so I guess we’ll find out together.”

  I said something very rude in Desert dialect, because Del didn’t know it, and because I didn’t really want to call her names, but felt I had to do something. So, all that being said, I continued to scowl at her. “Sometimes,” I said, “sometimes.”

  Del waited, brows arched.

  “Sometimes,” I muttered again, stepping out of the circle.

  “Where are you going, Tiger?”

  “To wash my face,” I answered. “Maybe the cold will shock me awake, and I’ll know this is all a dream.”

  I tromped down to the rushing stream, sheathing my sword, and knelt down on the snowy crust at the edge of the water. I had every intention of thrusting my face into the water, but something kept me from it. Something told me it would be terribly, horribly cold; too cold, even, for anger. I paused, considering it, and then felt the familiar warning tingle in my bones.

  “Magic,” I blurted, disbelieving, then spun in place to warn Del.

  Unfortunately, the magic came from behind. From the water. It reached up and dragged me down.

  The stream was no deeper than possibly two feet, no wider than maybe three. But suddenly it felt like a river in full spate, sucking me into the depths.

  I was, of course, cold, being soaked through in an instant. I was also frightened and angry; what in hoolies had me? And what could I do about it?

  I gurgled Del’s name. Knew she’d never hear that, but surely she’d hear my splashing. I was kicking like a danjac, trying to thrust my head above water so I could breathe again.

  Hands were on me. For just a moment I thought they belonged to Del, coming to my rescue, and then I realized the hands were on my front, not my back, and were dragging me farther down.

  Can’t be real, I thought. The stream isn’t deep enough.

  Hands dragged me down.

  Hoolies, not like this…I’m a desert man—

  And then I realized the water was warm. Incredibly warm. So were the hands, tangling in my hair. Threading fingers through my beard. Pulling my face toward hers…

  Hers?

  Hoolies, I’ve gone sandsick. Or have I? There’s a woman staring at me…a gray-haired, gray-eyed woman, young, not old, but all gray, gray and pallid white, but the lips are carmine red.

  Hoolies, I am sandsick!

  And then, abruptly, something grabbed me by the hair and yanked me up out of the water.

  It hurt. I yelled, struggled, splashed, was rewarded by yet another yank on the hair.

  “Get out!” Del shouted. “Get out of the water now!”

  Well, I was trying. But so was the other woman, who reached up to catch my hands.

  Hoolies, two women?

  “It’s an undine!” Del shouted. “Tiger—fight her off! She’ll drown you if you give in!”

  Red lips smiled at me. Gray eyes beseeched my own. Wet hair tied itself in knots around my wrists.

  Del yanked harder yet. “Get out of there!” she yelled.

  Hool
ies, one woman wanted to drown me, the other to pluck me bald.

  The hair was like wire around my wrists. I tried to twist loose, failed; lunged toward the side even as Del took a harder grip. I landed face down in the snow with half of me still in the water.

  One hand was free. “Knife,” I croaked, and felt Del press hers into my hand. Quickly, I cut the hair that bound my right wrist and felt the tension slacken.

  “Get up,” Del said, “get away. She can still reach you from here.”

  I pushed to my knees, to my feet, staggered two steps, stumbled, got up and ran again. Fell down again in exhaustion.

  “Far enough,” Del said. “Give me the hair, Tiger.”

  It was all I could do to breathe. I held up my arm, felt her strip the hair from my wrist. Watched, hacking loudly, as she threw it on the fire.

  I thought the water would quench the flame. But for a moment it burned very brightly, red as blood, and then the hair ashed away into nothing, leaving behind an acrid stink.

  I sucked in a wheezing breath. “What in hoolies was that?”

  “Undine,” she told me. “She wanted you for her own; unfortunately, she would have drowned you. It’s the only way she could have kept you.”

  “Kept me for what?”

  Del shrugged. “What most lonely women desire…she wanted a man of her own.”

  Coughing interrupted my outraged expression of horror. I was wet and cold and shivering; if I wasn’t careful, I’d freeze. “That—thing—wanted to keep me?”

  “Legend says undines—always female—can gain a human soul if they conceive by a human man.” She shrugged. “I guess she wanted a soul.”

  I peered at her out of stinging eyes. “You’re awfully calm about it.”

  “She didn’t want me.”

  I tried to sit up and failed. “First the loki, now this. Is this how the North is? Filled with frustrated female spirits?”

  Del laughed aloud, then smothered it, but the amusement remained in her eyes. “Here,” she said gently, “I’ll build up the fire. You strip down and get under the blankets; I’ll come in beside you.”