Sword-Singer
Page 33
I took it out of my lap and set it on the rugs. “Then I gladly give it up. It belongs in Staal-Kithra.”
The old man frowned. Worked his tongue against his teeth. Glanced briefly at the woman still sleeping in her pelts.
Heavily, he sighed. “It is hard to lose a friend.”
“Even harder to lose a mate.”
“Go,” Stigand said.
I started to rise, held back. “May I have an answer?”
“In the morning,” he answered gruffly.
Alarm flickered dully. There were nine other men involved. Without assurances from this one…“Shodo—”
“An-kaidin,” he corrected. “I have told you to go.”
Hoolies. There was nothing left to do.
I rose. Looked down at the jivatma I’d carried so long. Then bid it a silent farewell, turning to walk away.
“Southroner.” I swung back. Stigand’s expression was enigmatic. “How many years have you?”
It caught me off guard. “Altogether?—I don’t know. Thirty-four, maybe thirty-five…I grew up without mother or father.”
“How long a sword-dancer?”
I shrugged. “Eighteen years, give or take a day. Without knowing my age, it’s difficult to say.”
His gaze held my own. “Baldur and I were born on the same day in the same village, seventy-two years ago. From birth we were companions. It was a strong bond, and one we greatly honored.”
Silently, I nodded.
“My woman and I have been together more than fifty years. That bond I also honor.”
Baffled, I frowned.
Stigand’s tone was rough. “That is my answer. Now go.”
Silently, I went. Wishing I knew what he meant.
I made my way back toward the compartment Del and I shared in Telek’s lodge. But I stopped short before reaching it, pausing to look down on Telek himself, asleep in a corner with his woman and the daughter Del had borne.
Mostly they were lumps beneath pelts, huddled together against the cold. The girl slept between them, snugged up for body warmth, but one arm was free of pelts and blankets. One small, slender arm, with delicate hand and even more delicate fingers. And I wondered, looking at it, if that hand would ever hold a sword, as her mother’s did. If the girl would ever step into a circle.
Fine pale hair spilled out into the fur of pelt-swathed pallets. Most of her face was hidden, but I saw the mouth—Del’s mouth…the subtle cleft in her chin—Ajani’s, I wondered? The curve of one cheek. And lashes curled against it.
I turned. Moved to rejoin Del in our compartment. Found her eyes open, looking at me; saw the shine of tears in them. Saw the desperate tension in the line of her mouth as she fought to keep from giving herself away.
I wanted to tell her it didn’t matter, that I understood. That I comprehended the incredible tension she had been under, knowing she had left a child behind; I even recalled our brief discussion of mothers and fathers, and children born to sword-dancers; Del’s pensive melancholy, the undertone of despair. I wanted to tell her it all made sense now, that I understood, and didn’t blame her for it.
But as I lay down beside her, Del turned from me toward the wooden wall and shut me out decisively.
I spent the remainder of the night wide awake. So, I knew, did Del.
Thirty-seven
Just before dawn, Del and I were separated. I wasn’t happy about it, being more than a bit concerned for her state of mind, but Telek assured me it was customary. His woman, Hana—with Kalle as a helper—took Del into a compartment at the far end of the lodge. Telek himself took me into the one he shared with his family and presented me with fresh clothing.
“Northern garb, not Southron,” he apologized courteously. “But we are of a like size, and there is none here other than our own.”
I shrugged. “If I’d come north with only a dhoti, burnous and sandals, I’d have frozen my gehetties off long ago—or so Del repeatedly told me.” I smiled even as Telek did. “I’ve gotten used to the weight.”
He cast a glance down the way at Hana, busily aiding Del. “I won’t ask what passed between you and Stigand last night—it’s your business—but I will ask you to recall the agreement you made with me.”
I was stripping out of garters, gaiters, boots. “Yes. I remember. I will abide by the requirements of the trial.” I tugged the tunic over my head. “I don’t suppose you could give me an idea what to expect?”
Telek shook his head. “I am only one man. The voca is ruled by a majority. Even if I told you the sentence I might prefer, others may desire otherwise.”
I scratched my chest, loosening hair bound up by close confinement. Hoolies, but what I wouldn’t give to wear the silks and gauzes of the South again, unfettered by scratchy wool, heavy furs, stiff leather!
“And what you want, Telek, is to see Del gone from Staal-Ysta.” Stigand as well, though I didn’t say it; I figured the trial’s results would speak for themselves.
Telek’s face was grim, eyes oddly hostile. “I am afraid,” he said quietly. “Afraid she will grow too attached, if she stays, and will lay claim to Kalle.”
I lowered my voice, not wanting Del—or Kalle—to hear. “But she gave her to you, didn’t she? Asked you to raise her daughter?”
Briefly, he nodded. “The day after Kalle’s birth, she was given into our care. We named her, not Del. I had been kaidin to Del’s ishtoya before she was elevated to an-ishtoya and became Baldur’s—she knew me, respected me, honored me…and it was a joy to accept the girl. Hana is—barren.” He flicked a glance down the post-lined corridor; everyone else save Hana, the girl and Del was gone, including the dogs and cats. “It was a gift of the gods. But now—”
“Now you’re afraid the gift will be rescinded.” Grimly, I nodded, tugging on fresh woolen trews. “No more than I am, Telek. I think we have much in common.”
He frowned, passing me the brushed wool undertunic. “What would you have to fear, Southroner? What is Kalle to you?”
“Change,” I declared succinctly. “I happen to like my life. I like the freedom, the challenge, the risks. And I like sharing it with Del…unencumbered, you might say, by anything as significant as a child.”
“Significant,” he echoed. “Indeed, a child has significance. And the man or woman who can’t see that is without honor.”
Honor, again. A familiar refrain. “It’s not that I don’t like children, or that I think Kalle isn’t a beautiful little girl—”
“—but you don’t want the responsibility.” Telek nodded. “Once, I felt the same. But then once I swore never to take a woman to wife, preferring the ease of uncomplicated relationships.” His smile was wry. “We all change, Southroner. Sooner or later. Some of us more than others.” His gaze was on Del’s distant head bobbing above the privacy divider.
It sobered me. Too often I didn’t bother to think about what would happen when I got old—well, older, maybe not old—and was unable to earn my living as a sword- dancer. There weren’t a whole lot of old or older sword-dancers around; age takes its toll, and we tend to kill ourselves off.
So I don’t think about it much. I decided not to think about it now.
I finished dressing in silence. The borrowed clothing was of good wool dyed a deep blue-black: long-sleeved tunic with fringe depending from the neck, ornamented with silver beads that clattered as they collided; soft-combed trews, silver-tipped fur gaiters cross-wrapped from ankles to knees; heavy leather bracers stretching from wrists to mid-forearm, weighted with round silver bosses.
Hoolies, such vanity!
More yet: a matching belt so wide it guarded nearly my entire midsection, also elaborately bossed, and finally a heavy wool cloak dyed a rich, bright indigo-teal, to set off the darker color of tunic and trews.
Telek twisted it from shoulder to shoulder, folding it back, then pinned it in place with massive silver brooches, one on each shoulder. The weight of the cloak spilled down my back, reaching to my boots.
“You’d drown anyway; Del says you can’t swim.” Telek grinned. “Except for the sun-coppered skin and brown hair, you could be one of us.”
“No thanks,” I said politely. “Too many traditions attached…I’d rather just be a Southron sword-dancer, whose only obligation is to survival in the circle.”
“A worthy ambition,” Telek said quietly, then nodded his head in Del’s direction. “The an-ishtoya, Southroner—Baldur’s greatest student…and his greatest failure.”
I turned. For a moment all I could do was stare at Del—white-faced, stark-faced Del—who wore the same color Bron had, in the circle: somber, unrelieved black, as well as fur-sheathed, cord-wrapped braids. As I did, she wore bracers on her forearms, but in place of leather they were silver. At her left shoulder rode the jivatma named Boreal.
She was magnificent. She was also hard and cold as death, whose color she wore so well.
Her expression was implacable. “They are calling for us.”
Telek nodded, preceded us out of the long lodge. His light brown hair had been freshly braided and wrapped by Hana, and he wore subdued brown. The cloak was warm sienna, reminding me of the South.
As we passed, Hana reached out and caught Kalle by one shoulder, pulling her out of the way. Del paused, abruptly knelt, brushed back the girl’s fine hair. “I will make you proud of me today.”
I saw the blossom of fear in Hana’s face, though Kalle merely smiled, not comprehending the undercurrents of the moment.
I looked at Telek. His face was grim and hard, though I saw something else in his eyes. Apprehension, impatience, a tremendous tension struggling to show itself in spite of the iron grip he had on his emotions. He saw me looking at him, abruptly pushed open the door. “The circle awaits, Del.”
She rose. Fingertips lingered briefly in Kalle’s hair. Then she walked resolutely away from the girl.
As we stepped out, I was grateful for the voluminous cloak. Pinned back for effect and ease of movement, it lacked the freedom I needed for total warmth, but at least there was a little. The air was crisp and clear and cold; snow and turf crunched under my boots.
The light, as yet, was newborn, filtering through bare-branched trees to paint faint striped patterns on the ground. It lent everything an ethereal, blue-gray tint, polishing the silver of the sword hilts strapped to so many backs. Everyone was gathered, even the smallest of children.
In the center of the clearing stood nine men, among them Stigand. Each of them bore a sword. Telek gestured me to stand aside, away from the center, though separate from the audience. Del he took to the very center, before the voca, and commanded her to stand before those who would judge her.
She took her place. She was in profile to me, sharp as glass, rigidly correct. Whatever sentence they would declare, she was ready for it.
Telek went first. He drew his sword, stepped close to Del, set its tip into the ground. And pressed, thrusting it down, until the hilt and half the blade stood upright in the dawn.
Nine men followed suit, until she was caged by a circle of swords. Her own she wore on her back.
Stigand stood in the middle of the line of men, side by side, framed by those who were younger and stronger than he. But none, I knew, with his power; I hoped it would be enough.
For the sake of the an-ishtoya’s sponsor, he spoke in Borderer. “Declare yourself before us.”
“Delilah,” she answered quietly, “daughter of Staal-Ysta.”
“Why are you come before us?”
“To stand trial for the death of the an-kaidin Baldur, whose life I took last year.” Del drew in a breath. “To expiate the blood-guilt and to pay swordgild for his loss.”
The silence was heavy. Unobtrusively I glanced around, trying to judge the others. I saw stiff Northern faces; heard crisp Northern comments in the tongue I didn’t know. They were not disposed to give her leniency for the death of the old an-kaidin.
“Tell us why,” Stigand said.
“I needed to blood my jivatma.”
“But why blood it in Baldur? He was not an honored enemy—he was an honored friend!”
Oh, hoolies. Now Stigand was angry.
“I needed him,” Del said. “I needed him in my sword.”
Stigand’s voice shook. “Tell us why, then. Tell us why it was worth his life.”
Del told him. She spoke to Stigand, not to the others, though they could hear as well. So could everyone else. Quietly, unemotionally, she related what had happened to her family. How Ajani and the raiders had destroyed everything she knew. The dry factuality of her report stripped the impact completely from it, and made me fear for the result.
At last she finished her explanation. It wasn’t really a defense, being little more than a tale related, and I was afraid the icy control she exerted over herself would prejudice them against her.
Now it was my turn.
Stigand’s eyes were sharp. “Will the an-ishtoya’s sponsor step forward and declare himself?”
It wasn’t really a question, though he phrased it as one. I stepped forward a little, heard murmured comments, tried to catch Del’s eyes and failed. Her gaze was locked on the voca.
“I am the Sandtiger,” I said. “Born of the South, born of the Punja…I’m a sword-dancer, seventh-level.”
The declaration produced silence.
After a moment, Stigand nodded. “This man is known to me. He is indeed the Sandtiger, bearing the scars of the cat he killed to gain a name, won in honor and dignity.”
Well, there hadn’t been much dignity about it, really. The cat had nearly killed me. It had been sheer good fortune that I’d dodged the worst of his paw-swipes while managing to pin him against the rocks with my crude spear, until I pierced his vitals.
Honor? Maybe. I’d just wanted my freedom; it had seemed the only way.
Stigand droned on. “You have come to Staal-Ysta as sponsor to the an-ishtoya.”
I said I had.
“Knowing what the responsibility entails.”
Well, more or less; I’d support Del’s story and tell them I thought her actions had merit. I said so.
“Willing to accept that responsibility in whatever form it takes.”
Inwardly, I sighed. Told him I’d agreed. Wished they’d hurry up.
“How well do you know the an-ishtoya?”
Hoolies, at this rate it would take all day just to establish my credentials!
Briefly, I told the voca I’d spent the last ten months riding with Del, and that I probably knew her as well or better than anyone, since we’d been bedmates as well as swordmates, and had sparred with her in the circle as well as dancing in exhibitions, and had accompanied her on missions of employment, easily verifiable if they wanted to take the time to track down our Southron employers.
I thought that might shut him up; it would take a very long time.
Stigand’s expression was fierce. “And do you support everything the an-ishtoya has said? Do you support her reasons for killing Baldur?”
It was a true test, and tricky. I’d have to choose my answer carefully.
Cursing my lack of fluency in Borderer, I nonetheless embarked on what I hoped was an eloquent, impassioned defense of Del’s actions. But halfway through I ran out of eloquence entirely, stopped, took another step forward.
“It doesn’t matter,” I told them. “What matters is the voca’s interpretation of her actions, not a decision based on wrongness or rightness. We all have been faced with doing things we’d rather not do. I doubt any of us enjoys killing people, but we do it when we have to. I say that have to is determined by the strength of the circumstances.” I drew in a breath. “Del swore an oath on the souls of her murdered kin as well as her jivatma that she would avenge their deaths. That in itself has honor, as taught here at Staal-Ysta. But she knew her chances of succeeding were slight; a woman alone, no matt
er how good with a sword, can’t overcome twenty or thirty men.” I gestured briefly in Del’s direction, indicating the sword. “She could count on no one but herself—collecting a blood-debt is a thing left to kin, and she had none left—so she called upon the only man she knew capable of giving her the strength, support and power she required—she called on her an-kaidin.”
“She killed her an-kaidin!”
Stigand’s impassioned cry hung in the morning air. And I thought, looking at him, I’d been a fool to hope he would suggest as a just sentence anything but her death.
I wet my lips. “But Baldur isn’t dead. He lives on in her jivatma.”
“Not possible,” Telek declared.
I disagreed. “Don’t Northerners believe that by blooding a jivatma in the body of an honored person, enemy or otherwise, that the sword takes on the attributes of that person?”
Telek gestured. “There is more to it than that.”
“Broken down,” I said distinctly, “that’s basically what it means. And maybe what it is; I’ve seen jivatmas ‘die,’ when deprived of the sword-dancer’s life. First Theron’s sword, then Bron’s…they became merely swords instead of remaining jivatmas.”
The voca exchanged glances. Clearly I’d unveiled nothing new, but maybe they’d hoped I wouldn’t know so much about their customs.
“So,” I said quietly, “Del called on Baldur to help, and Baldur did. He stepped into the circle. He danced with his best an-ishtoya. And he died, so that Del’s jivatma could live. So that she could collect the blood-debt, in true Northern style. With true Northern honor.”
The old man stared at me. I saw grief, anger, acknowledgment. But he said nothing. He merely swung around and walked away, while the other nine followed him.
Hoolies, I hate waiting. But waiting is what we did, Del and I. While all the others stood and watched, waiting as much as we did.
Eventually, Stigand came marching back with the voca. Took his place again before Del’s cage of swords. Said nothing as the others fell in to flank him; Telek avoided my eyes, as did Stigand.
Not a good sign.
The old man looked straight at Del. “You have killed one of our number. That is unforgivable. But so are the deaths of others.”