My sword was screaming for blood.
You may be forced, she had said, and the results could be disastrous.
I shouted aloud, denying it. Trying to control it; knowing I could not. The sword was far too powerful.
So this is what it is, I thought fleetingly, to have a jivatma, even unnamed: power, strength, an incredible dedication.
Like Del’s.
Hoolies, what would it be if I blooded it?
And that was precisely what it wanted.
Wild magic, Kem had warned. Unsung, unkeyed, unharnessed. And now I paid the price.
But not as dearly as Del.
Forty-four
He stood at the edge of the overlook. Below him lay Staal-Kithra, lumpy with barrows, dolmens and passage graves; the glass-black lake flanked white on white, stark peaks against bleak sky. And Staal-Ysta herself, in the center, floating black on black on winter water, with rack upon rack of bare-branched trees punching wounds in the sky, like swords.
He turned, and the bright, rich cloak unfurled; furled back again to lap at the heels of his boots. He strode free, to the bay stud who waited, and patted him, rubbing the dew-speckled muzzle buried in twin spumes of steam.
And then strode away again, carrying the sword.
He took it to the edge, unsheathed and naked of runes, and set the tip to the ground, and thrust, driving it into turf, into soil, into the heart of the North.
Silently, he knelt. Slowly, stiffly, on one knee only, the right; left foot planted flat, holding himself rigidly upright. He reached out both large hands and trapped the hilt in them. The wind whipped back his cloak.
It was a cold, bitter wind, thrusting fingers into bronze-brown, too-long hair; scraping nails along the right cheek laid bare by sandtiger claws that showed even through the beard, cutting four curving lines from cheekbone to jaw.
An icy, vengeful wind, bordering on banshee.
The hilt, as always, was warm. The twisted, silk-skinned hilt, promising him power.
He listened, holding the sword. And he heard the song, if only faintly. Little more than an echo thrumming on memory. And then he knew: Cantéada. Their song was in his head.
Their song was in his sword. He had only to learn how to sing it.
The stud, bored, snorted. It roused him; he rose, pulled the sword from the ground, then stopped very short.
Runes ran down the blade. Clean, newborn runes. Telling him a name.
The color was gone from his face. He stared at the runeworked blade, gripping the twisted hilt. And then looked down at Staal-Kithra, Place of Spirits; the place of deaths and births. Mouthing the newborn name.
“Samiel,” he said. “Now we’re even, Del.”
Carefully, he cleaned the blade on his cloak, then took it back to its sheath and harness, hanging on the saddle. He put it away, sliding it home, hiding the glory of sky-born steel.
He swung up, suppressing a groan; hooked the cloak out of the way so it wouldn’t foul on gear or harness, or irritate the stud, who required no excuses.
Once more, only once, he glanced back. Then gathered reins and spun the stud, digging divots in turf and dirt. Destroying all the pawprints.
“Come on, old man,” he said. “We’ve got the hounds of hoolies to hunt…and now a sword to catch them.”
He turned the stud loose and went east.
Sword-Singer Page 39