Sword-Singer

by Jennifer Roberson

  Stigand made a sound of derision. “Are you a fool? Are you blind? If he loses, he dies…Theron’s death is therefore avenged, and the an-ishtoya loses her bargaining stone. There is nothing left with which to buy her year. The voca will exile her immediately.” The tone was thick with satisfaction. “It’s already been decided, Telek, as of this morning. The dance will be to the death.”

  So, Theron’s death did rankle. There would be no simple exhibition in the circle, no clearcut pitting of Southron against Northern to see if I was worthy of elevation. No, nothing so simple as that. It was to be vengeance after all, and a chance to send Del away in dishonor, a blade without a name.

  And a mother without a child.

  I gripped the newborn sword. I felt its warmth, its strength; felt the promise of power unkeyed, untapped, straining to break free. Wild magic, indeed; it needed harnessing. Demanded a proper song.

  And suddenly I was frightened, because I knew what I could do. It would be the ultimate victory. The ultimate revenge.

  Del had done it once. Why not do it again? He was not my an-kaidin, but most distinctly an enemy. If not precisely honored.

  Something deep inside told me it was an ironic sort of justice.

  I smiled down at the sword. Thinking: Telek will be shocked.

  And so will the old man.

  Forty-three

  I basin-bathed in icy water, then put on the clothing borrowed, ironically, from Telek: blue-black tunic and trews, silver-tipped fur gaiters, silver-bossed bracers and belt. All I left off was cloak and brooches, putting them aside for later. After the dance was won.

  I buckled on my harness with its weight of Northern steel. Before, with Singlestroke, I’d worn the straps and sheath without even thinking, because it was second nature. Then, once I’d been left with broken steel, I’d carried Theron’s dead jivatma because I needed a sword, chafing at the need.

  But now the weight was different. Much less, because, oddly, it felt a part of me. And much more, because I knew the truth of the sword; that—blooded, keyed, invoked—it could prove—would prove—the most devastating weapon a man could hope to own.

  Or hope not to own.

  Skepticism is healthy. It keeps you from growing vulnerable to words of manipulation. Disbelief, in its place, is also occasionally healthy, because the proper amount keeps you honest. But when I put my hands on the twisted-silk hilt and felt the growing impatience in the sword, the power and strength and life suppressed only by my denial, I knew there was no more room for disbelief.

  It’s difficult admitting you’re wrong. Even more difficult admitting it when you have scoffed and otherwise ridiculed the truth with blind, unremitting determination, so blithely confident of your own infallibility. But then one day—or one night—the truth is put into your hands, and you realize those stories and songs and legends told by Northern strangers are truths after all, and that no one has lied to you.

  Not even the Northern bascha, who has lied about so many things for so many different reasons.

  No. Not so many. Two.

  One: fear of execution; facing such a verdict from such men as Staal-Ysta’s unpredictable—and bloodthirsty—voca, I too would have used whatever was at hand—even, I thought, Del.

  Maybe.

  Maybe?

  Hoolies, I don’t know.

  And two: fear of losing Kalle; fear which was, perhaps, misplaced, since she’d voluntarily ‘lost’ Kalle long ago, but maybe not, because the very existence of the child now promised endless possibilities.

  The possibilities that now drove Telek to dance to the death with me; that, and his father’s desire for vengeance.

  My hands lingered on harness straps, fingertips caressing the supple leather. Telek came quietly to stand beside me.

  “It’s time,” he said softly.

  I turned. Looked directly into his eyes. They gave nothing away. I hoped mine didn’t, either.

  “Tiger.” At the end of the post-lined corridor, by the door, waited Del. Black-clad, braid-wrapped Delilah, wearing a deadly jivatma.

  Deadlier than mine, since the soul—the pure power—in my sword was as yet untapped by blood and song.

  But for how long?

  It is intoxicating: power. In and of itself, but also the knowledge that it lies so closely to hand.

  All it requires is death, blood, a song.

  Hoolies, I want to go home. Back where I belong; where I understand how things work, things without much magic other than simple tricks and sleight of hand; back where swords are swords, clean and bright and deadly, with no recourse to such power as Boreal, who summons, at Del’s whim, all the terrible, awesome strength of a Northern banshee-storm.

  I’m a Southroner. What do I want with banshee-storms?

  What do I want with this dance?

  A chance to go home again. A chance to be warm again.

  And now a new and frightening desire: A chance to blood my sword.

  I walked out with Del. It seemed a fitting thing.

  Stigand himself drew the circle in the turf, cutting through winter-brown grass to hard dark soil beneath. It was in the very center of the oblong field where Del had faced the voca before, surrounded by the lodges, where all the others had gathered to watch: men, women, children; some warriors, some not, but all witnesses. Just as they gathered now.

  The old man finished. Nodded. Gestured for me to put my sword in the very center of the circle.

  I stripped out of harness and unsheathed the new-made sword. In morning light it was momentarily bright white, unblemished, free of runes that marked it named and blooded. But the blinding light faded. There was no color to it other than that of newborn steel.

  Shortly, there would be blood. And, maybe, runes?

  I discarded the harness. Walked silently to the center, put down the unnamed sword, turned and walked away. To stand just outside the circle.

  Stigand nodded briefly, then pitched his voice to carry. “We have before us the Sandtiger, Southron sword-dancer, who has been pledged to live in Staal-Ysta a year. But he contests this pledge, claiming he knew nothing of it and therefore is not bound by it. His claim has some merit.” The faded eyes looked at me, showing me nothing but neutrality. “The an-ishtoya, known as Del, pledged the Sandtiger in order to delay for one year her permanent exile for the murder of her an-kaidin. In good faith, the voca accepted that pledge. But now the validity is called into question and must be settled in the circle.”

  I looked at Telek, standing with the other members of the voca. His sword peeped over his shoulder.

  Stigand went on. “It’s the decision of the voca that a champion shall be named to dance against the Sandtiger. It’s the decision of the voca that this dance shall decide the following: that should the Sandtiger win, he will be elevated to the rank of kaidin and may leave at any time. But should the champion win, the Sandtiger agrees to abide by the original decision and remain here for one year.”

  At this moment, Telek expected me to be very calm, too relaxed, not anticipating the truth. Undoubtedly he intended to come at me instantly, hoping to catch me off-guard, so he could kill me easily.

  No, I don’t think so.

  Stigand droned on again. “This champion shall represent the best we have to offer: strong, proud, determined, dedicated to upholding the honor and customs of Staal-Ysta even against a sword-dancer as devastating as the Sandtiger.”

  That was for my benefit; I didn’t bother to smile.

  “This champion shall, if need be, die in ritual combat to uphold the honor of our ancestors and the gods.”

  Telek’s smile was wry as he listened to the pompous statement. I wondered idly: Are gods impressed with such?

  “This champion shall present herself before us: the an-ishtoya known as Del.”

  Herself, not himself. Del. He said Del. He meant—Del? Had the old man gone sandsick?

  No. No, of course not. He knew precisely what he was doing.

  And now, so did I.r />
  “No,” I said calmly, “that wasn’t the agreement.”

  It sent a tremor through all the spectators. Telek stepped forward quickly.

  “This man came to me and asked me to purposely lose the dance, so as to give him his elevation and free him to leave Staal-Ysta. He deliberately called the honor of Staal-Ysta into question, as well as my own.” His tone was thick with contempt; he was doing it very well. “I agreed for the sake of the moment, so I could discuss it with the voca. It was decided to let the dance go forth, but with a new champion. One whose honor is already lost.”

  “Then how can she uphold the honor of Staal-Ysta?” I snapped. “If she has none, she can hardly be champion!”

  Telek inclined his head. “This is a way of gaining it back. Commonly done, I believe, even in the South. A service done for someone can cancel a debt, regain employment…certainly regain honor.”

  I looked at Del for the first time. She was staring in horror at Telek.

  Stigand took over again. “Let it be so, then, as decided by the voca: Del shall act as champion, representing the North and Staal-Ysta, the place that gave her succor in her extremity. Should she win the dance, her exile will be commuted; she will be free to come and go as she pleases.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. For all of that, she would do it. For honor and freedom and Kalle.

  “Let it be so: Should the Sandtiger win, he gains the rank of kaidin and his freedom from the pledge made by the an-ishtoya. But if he loses, he stays.”

  It didn’t sound so bad, when compared to what Del stood to lose. One year. That’s all, out of however many I had left. It would be easy enough just to give Del the victory and stay the year, if only to avoid this dance.

  But Del would never stand for it. And I wasn’t sure Stigand would, either. I knew if Del did win, they’d find another way of getting rid of her, probably permanently; they had shown their true colors. They wouldn’t let her stay here with Kalle. They’d contrive yet another way to rid themselves of the an-ishtoya. And I wouldn’t be here to stop it.

  Which meant I had to win so I could get her out of here.

  While she tried to beat me.

  “Del,” Stigand said, “will you accept your place as champion?”

  Her tone sounded merely controlled, but I knew how to read it. She was decidedly unhappy. But also just as determined to do what she had to do. “Yes. I accept.”

  “Then place your sword in the circle.”

  I watched her walk out of the people to the circle. Black clothing, blonde hair, white flesh; too white. All the color was gone from her face.

  She stepped over the curving line, moved to the center, placed Boreal on the turf next to my unnamed blade. Mutely, she turned and walked back out, then swung just outside and faced me, taking off her harness.

  Mouthing: “Tiger, I have to.”

  All I did was nod; she didn’t need anything more. We knew what each of us would try to do, and using every skill we knew.

  Probably even some tricks.

  Del dropped the harness to the ground. Her hands were empty; her eyes were not. Blue, bleak eyes, full of realizations.

  She had brought us to it. And now maybe I would end it, forcing her to yield.

  “Prepare,” Stigand said.

  I saw her body change. I saw her manner alter. Del was a sword-dancer; no matter what she felt, the dance was most important so long as she was in the circle. There would be no weakness displayed, no matter what she thought. No matter how she felt, facing me for real.

  It nearly made me smile. Now, maybe we’d know. Maybe once and for all. We’d find out which of us was better.

  But I didn’t think it was worth it.

  “Dance,” Stigand said.

  This was what we lived for, both of us, this; sword-dancers and -singers born of hatred and prejudice and the desire for revenge; shaped by pride and need and a desperate determination.

  Both of us.

  Dance, Stigand had said.

  How we danced, Del and I.

  Danced.

  Sweated.

  Bled.

  She rained blows: I turned them aside.

  She painted the air with exquisite patterns: I slashed neatly through them.

  We thrust and feinted and parried, each of us; searched for openings and weaknesses in a dancer who provided nothing but consummate skill, combining strength and power and speed, dexterity, wit, flexibility. And other things unnamable; the intangibles that separate the good from merely adequate, the superb from very good.

  Until, eventually, it comes down to Del and me. No more than that, because no more is necessary; just Del and me; Delilah and the Sandtiger, clean and pure and proud: Southron strength against Northern quickness. Masculine power against feminine finesse. To artistry and artfulness, seeking out the chinks.

  Patterns broken, blows turned aside.

  Parried thrusts and lightning ripostes.

  Even hacking and slashing, eventually, when it seemed the only way.

  Like mine, Del’s breath ran ragged. We neither of us had been North long enough to adjust, although Del was closer than I. Certainly close enough to sing; all I tried to do was breathe.

  She could, I knew, sing me out of the circle. And would, if I didn’t stop her; I could see the song beginning. She was turning to her jivatma, tapping some of the power. Not a lot, I knew—she didn’t want to kill me—but drawing as much as she needed to win.

  I had none to tap. My sword was screaming for blood, screaming for life, and I couldn’t give in to it.

  So, I was left with only one way to stop her: to blunt her personal power and replace it with my own twisted version, one built of innuendo, of lies, of suggestions, all intended to force mistakes she’d otherwise never make because Del never makes mistakes.

  But now she’d have to, if I was to win this dance.

  And I had to win this dance.

  I watched her closely, moving all the while. We teased one another with blades, scraping, tapping, sliding, coyly promising nothing we wanted to give. With Del and me, sparring, there is always a sexual element, a vicarious intercourse, because we are so well matched, in bed and out; the dance becomes a courtship as much as ritualistic combat.

  But this time it went far deeper. We each of us needed a gratification the other wouldn’t, couldn’t, didn’t dare give.

  Yet now there was something more. Something growing. I sensed it before I knew it, and when I knew it, it frightened me. What I felt was anger.

  Not really at Del, at this moment, because this moment was only the dance. But at the stupidity that put us here, dancing against one another for the pleasure of Telek, Stigand and others, who wanted both of us gone. Who wanted both of us dead, and were willing to cheat to win.

  Anger. Now, at Del, who had so determinedly ignored my personal needs to tend only to her own. Who had so easily put me back into bondage, not thinking what it might do.

  Quiet, abiding anger. Until it grew. Until it passed out of me into my sword and into my dance, and reached out to touch Del.

  Our patterns grew more intense. Our engagements more demanding. And anger slowly increased, robbing me of comprehension outside of the driving need to win.

  How many times had Del and I met in the circle, sparring? How many times had we stepped out again, not really knowing who was better, but inwardly claiming superiority?

  Hadn’t Del even done it aloud at the kymri?

  It had never been decided. Now, maybe, it would be.

  Time to end this farce.

  She hung back, legs spread, flexed, always moving, at least a little, never stopping at all, never giving me time to judge. Beneath the silver bracers I knew her wrists were iron, yet prepared to paint with steel.

  I needed my breath to fight, but words can be just as effective. And as few as possible, designed to cut her open and destroy her personal song.

  I let my anger flow into my tone. “Recognize this?” I asked. “Listen. See
if you do.”

  Across the circle, she opened her mouth as if to sing, but I beat her to it.

  “The an-ishtoya who wants freedom—”

  Del didn’t so much as flick an eyelash.

  “—the an-ishtoya who needs to blood a jivatma—”

  Still no response. Her expression, as always, was fierce. But this time she meant it for me.

  “—who will do whatever is required—”

  She darted in, tapped my blade, dodged back again.

  Hoolies, I hate her speed. She leaves me in the dust.

  “—to regain what was lost.”

  It got through. Something flickered in her eyes. I cut the wound deeper yet. “Sound familiar, Del? Are you seeing yourself?”

  Clearly, she did. I saw the startled shock in her eyes, and dawning acknowledgment.

  One final blow: “I’m taking you out of here. To the South once I’m done, where I can have it all: jivatma, power, Delilah.” I paused for effect. “Once I’ve put you in your place.”

  It worked. She was furious, too furious for total control. Instantly I followed up my advantage, meaning to shatter her guard.

  Trouble was, I tripped on ragged turf. It was only a slight misstep, but more than enough for her. The advantage became Del’s.

  She broke through, thrust, cut into me, just above the wide belt. I felt the brief tickle of cold steel separate fabric and flesh, sliding through both with ease, then catch briefly on a rib, rub by, cut deeper, pricking viscera. There was no pain at all, consumed by shock and ice, and then the cold ran through my bones and ate into every muscle.

  I lunged backward, running myself off the blade. The wound itself wasn’t painful, too numb to interfere, but the storm was inside my body. The blood I bled was ice.

  “Yield!” she shouted. “Yield!” Shock and residual anger made her tone strident.

  I wanted to. But I couldn’t. Something was in me, in my sword; something crept into blood and bones and sinew and the new, bright steel. Something that spoke of need. That spoke of ways to win. That sang of ways to blood—

  “I’ll make you,” she gasped. “Somehow—” And she was coming at me, at me, breaking through my weakened guard and showing me three feet of deadly jivatma. “Yield!” she cried again.