Sword Sworn ss-6

by Jennifer Roberson

  The color ran out of her face. "No, Tiger. I was never in Meteiera. I never saw the Stone Forest. I stayed in Skandi until Prima Rhannet’s ship sailed." Something flinched in her eyes. "We all thought you were dead."

  "You were there, Del. I remember it clearly." So very clearly. I was naked. Alone. Bereft of everything I’d known of myself, whelped again atop the rock. Until she came. "You were there."

  Del shook her head.

  "You’re forgetting things," I told her, beginning to worry. "What happened in Meteiera a few weeks ago, and the sparring match earlier today. Maybe if you talked with Oziri —"

  "No." Her tone was certainty followed by puzzlement. "Tiger, we left Skandi months ago. Not weeks. And we sparred five days ago. Not since. Certainly not this morning."

  I opened my mouth to refute the claim, but she sealed it closed with cool fingers.

  "Listen to me." Her eyes searched mine. "Trust me."

  I had trusted this woman with my life more times than I could count. I was troubled that she could be so terribly confused, but I nodded. I owed her that much.

  "I need to go," she said. "I need to leave. Will you come with me:

  "Why do you need to leave? You’re safe here. You’re the Oracle’s sister. They’d never harm you."

  "I need to leave," she repeated. "I promised Neesha we’d meet him."

  It took me a moment to remember the kid. Then I frowned. "You don’t owe him anything."

  Her voice hardened. "I owe him my life, Tiger. And so do you."

  "Maybe so, but —"

  "It’s time for me to leave," she said. "Will you come with me?"

  "Del —"

  "Please, Tiger. I need you."

  The desire to refuse, to insist she stay with me, was strong. I felt its tug, its power. Leaned into it a moment, tempted. I owed a debt to the Vashni for tending her, and Oziri had much to teach me. But I owed a greater debt to the kid for keeping her alive so she could be tended.

  She’d said she needed me. That was very unlike Del. Something serious was wrong with her.

  With her. Not with me.

  I nodded. "All right, bascha. We’ll go."

  Del averted her head abruptly and returned to packing. But not before I saw profound relief and the sheen of tears in her eyes.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The stud, for some reason, didn’t want me near him. I found it decidedly odd; he can be full of himself and recalcitrant, but not generally difficult to catch and bridle. When I finally did manage both, I noted the rolling eye and pinned ears. He quivered from tension, from something akin to fear, until Del came out to saddle the gelding. Then he quieted.

  "He knows, too," she said.

  I tossed blankets up on the stud’s back. "Knows what?"

  "That things are not right."

  I had no time for oblique comments and obscure conversations. I had agreed to go, but I regretted it. "Things are what they are."

  "For now," she murmured, and turned her full attention to the gelding.

  Annoyed, I did the same with the stud. We finished preparations in stiff, icy silence.

  It wasn’t until Del and I had made our carefully courteous farewells to the chieftain and actually mounted our horses that Oziri appeared. I heard Del’s hissed inhalation and murmured curse as she saw him walking toward us. I reined in the stud and waited. I could feel Del’s tension. It was a tangible thing even across the distance between the two horses.

  I had seen and heard him laugh. He was a man like any other, given perhaps to more dignity because of his rank but equally prone to expressing his opinion in dry commentary. But as he approached, I saw he wore no smile. His eyes, lighter than most Vashni’s, were fastened on Del.

  Yet when he arrived at my stirrup, the sternness vanished. "So, you have learned all there is to know about dream-walking. I am amazed; it takes most men tens of years to do so."

  I tilted my head in Del’s direction. "This is for her. There’s an errand we must do. A matter of a debt."

  Irony. "Ah. Of course. All debts must be paid."

  The stud shifted restlessly, bobbing his head. He watched Oziri sidelong, pinning his ears, then flicking them at the sound of my voice.

  "It’s easier for me now," I told Oziri. "As you said, the herbs aren’t necessary. It’s just a matter of discipline and stillness." I shrugged off-handedly. "There’s much left to learn — but it’s a beginning."

  "Beginnings," Oziri said, "may be dangerous."

  I laughed. "More so than endings?"

  The Vashni didn’t smile. He reached to his neck, lifted a bone necklet over his head, and offered it. "This will guide you," he told me. "Wear it in honor."

  On horseback I was too tall, even bending, for him to slip it over my head. So I took the necklet into my hands, noticed the meticulously patterned windings of the wire holding the necklet together, and put it over my head. Human bones rattled against sandtiger claws.

  I opened my mouth to thank him but was distracted when Del’s white gelding, painted and tasseled, sidestepped into me. The toe of her sandal collided with my shin bone. When I glanced at her, annoyed, she had the grace to apologize. But her eyes were not so abashed, and they were very watchful. Almost as if she’d done it purposely.

  I shot her a quelling glance, then turned back to the warrior. "We’ll be back this way."

  Oziri smiled, looked at Del on the far side of me. "Yes." Then he dipped his head in eloquent salute. "May the sun shine on your head, Oracle’s sister."

  I glanced at Del, expecting her to reply. But something in her eyes said she would not return the courtesy. I was appalled. She was the one who’d been warning me about rudeness and the possible consequences.

  Then something shifted in her posture. Tension departed. She inclined her head briefly, wished him the same.

  As she rode away, I muttered an aside to Oziri. "Women."

  But the Vashni didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t agree. After a moment I knew he wouldn’t. Somewhat nonplussed, I turned the stud, saw Del ahead, waiting, and rode up to join her.

  A strange thing: her eyes were anxious. But it faded as I reined the stud in and gestured her to go ahead down the narrow thread of a trail Vashni hunters used. She murmured a Northern prayer of thanksgiving I found utterly incongruous, and took the lead.

  from the Vashni encampment it was a long day’s ride to Julah, and Del wasn’t up to it. She said nothing, simply straightened her shoulders from time to time and kept riding, but I could tell she was exhausted. When we came across an acceptable place to spend the night, I called a halt. We had water enough in botas for ourselves and the horses, and though there was no grazing, we also packed grain. Thin pickings for the gelding and the stud, but we’d make Julah easily the next day. I figured we’d stay overnight, then head out toward Umir’s.

  Del is not one for asking or expecting help, so I offered her none as we unsaddled and hobbled the horses. I kept an eye on her, though, and saw how stiffly she moved, how carefully she balanced the weight of saddle, blankets, and pouches, gear she’d ordinarily swing off her horse easily. The spot I’d selected was open ground save for a huddled fringe of scrubby brush, with more sand and soil than rocks; Del dug in against an upswell like a coney, flipping her saddle upside down to form a horseman’s chair. Once she’d watered the gelding and made certain he was comfortable, she flopped down on her blanket and leaned against the saddle. Her eyes drifted closed.

  She wore a burnous, as I did. Save for the nick at her jawline, none of her scars were visible. But she was still too thin, and weariness hollowed her face.

  I walked over, dropped a bota down next to her, and announced, "I’m cooking."

  Del’s eyes opened. "Cooking?"

  "Yep. Here." I tossed her a cloth-wrapped packet. "Jerked meat."

  She grimaced, peering down at the packet that had landed in her lap. "What kind of meat?"

  "Who knows? But it’s not cumfa. That’s enough for me." I dug more ou
t of the pouches, slung a bota over beside my own saddle and bedding, found the flint and steel and placed it on my blanket. "Not much wood here. I’ll go scout around."

  "Tiger?"

  I turned back, asking a question with raised eyebrows.

  She studied me a moment, as if weighing me against some inner vision. Then she relaxed. "Thank you."

  Now I frowned.

  "For coming."

  I shrugged. "Sure. I figure we can track down the kid, make sure he’s all right, then head back to the Vashni."

  Her hands froze on the packet of dried meat. Tension returned tenfold. "Go back! Why?"

  For a moment I didn’t know. I was completely blank. Then awareness returned, and the answer came without volition. "Because I don’t know enough yet about the dream-walking. There’s much left to learn." I gestured at the ground. "If you want to start digging a hollow for the fire, that would help. And find rocks for the ring."

  Del said nothing. Just stared at me. Fear was in her eyes; stiffened her body.

  "What?" I asked.

  She opened her mouth the answer, then shut it. Shook her head.

  After a moment, annoyed, I waved a dismissive hand in her direction and went off in search of decent wood.

  Later, after we had a bed of good coals for warmth and eaten our fill of seasoned jerked meat, Del unsheathed her sword and began to hone and oil it. I knew I should do the same with my own, but I felt just lazy enough to stay put, relaxed against my upturned saddle. I blinked sleepily as I stared into the fire ring, transfixed by the red glow of chunky coals.

  Del’s face bore a pensive expression. "How many days has it been since the sandtiger attack?"

  I thought about it. Realized I didn’t know. "A week, I think. Maybe ten days. Why?"

  Muscles leaped in her jaw. But she didn’t reply. Her eyes assessed the blade as she ran the stone against it. Her expression was odd.

  "Being sick can make you lose track of time." I hoped to set her at ease, if she was worried she lost a few days. I watched her hand move in an even, effortless rhythm: down the blade, running the stone against steel, then carrying it back to the hilt where the motion began again. I smelled oil, tasted the metallic tang in my mouth. The sleeve of her burnous fell back; I saw the knurled scar on her forearm. "You were lucky that healed so fast."

  "I haven’t lost track of time," she said quietly. "But I think you have." She glanced up, then set sword and whetstone aside. For a moment her hands were pressed against her thighs as if she sought self-control. "Could I see that?"

  Her eyes now were on my chest. I glanced down at the Vashni necklet. Thin wire gleamed faintly in firelight. I pulled it from around my neck, tossed it across to her.

  Del caught it, held it up, turned it in the glow of coals so she might examine details more closely. "The wirework is exquisite."

  I watched her handle the necklet, noting how she tested the strength of the wire, examined how it all fit together. Her face as oddly tense. Then she slipped the necklet over her own head, arranged it against her burnous. "How does it look?"

  "A little long for you. But it was made for a man."

  Her fingers ran down the bones. Then she arched her back in a brief stretch, yawned, pushed to her feet. "I need to find a bush," she said, "and then I’m going to bed. Could you tend the horses?"

  I nodded, leaning forward to add a couple of broken branches to the coals. Del disappeared. I got up and went to refill the horse buckets, check the picket pegs, exchange a few pleasantries with the stud, who had indicated no particular joy at having me back in charge of things; I made my own pre-bedtime donation, then settled down again beside the fire.

  Del was gone longer than anticipated. When she came back, it was without the necklet.

  I frowned. "What happened?"

  She was arranging her bedding. "I found a bush."

  "Not that. What happened to the necklet?"

  One hand flew to her chest. She looked down, then back at me. "It must have broken."

  She did not sound very concerned, which annoyed me; the necklet had been a gift. "It was wire, Del." I sighed, shutting my mouth on a complaint; she was clearly too tired to discuss it. "I’ll go look."

  "Oh Tiger, just wait until tomorrow. There’s not enough light to see by."

  I gathered bunched legs beneath me to push myself upright. "I’ll just poke around anyway."

  She uncoiled in a single sinuous motion and stepped beside the small fire, sword in hand. The tip kissed my throat, holding me in a kneeling position.

  I was stunned. "Del —

  Tersely she said, "You won’t find it, Tiger. I buried it." Coal-glow painted her face into relief, underscoring the hard set of her jaw, the jut of sharp cheekbones. "I was hoping there would be no need for this. But it’s time you came to understand that something is indeed very wrong with you. And has been since you took up with Oziri."

  I was frozen in place, caught between rising and sitting. It was not an appropriate position for oblique movement, which I realized was deliberate. Del knew me. Knew how I moved. Knew how to effectively put a halt to any intentions I might devise.

  She wore the mask I’d seen displayed to opponents. "Do you wish to try me, Tiger?"

  I eased myself down. My own sword, still sheathed in its harness, was within reach, but I knew better than to dare it with her blade at my throat. "You didn’t want to see the necklet," I accused. "You wanted to get rid of it."

  Del said nothing.

  "What is it you think is ’wrong’ with me?"

  She ignored the question. "Tell me again how many days it’s been since the sandtiger attack."

  I held myself very still. "Six or seven. Why?"

  "How many days were you at Umir’s?"

  "Two or three. Why?"

  "How many days did we stay with the Vashni?"

  I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. Not with the sword at my throat. "Del, this is —"

  "How many, Tiger?"

  My teeth clicked together.

  The tip bit in. "Answer me."

  "Five."

  "And how many since we sparred? You know — the match you say I walked away from."

  "Three or four, I think." I drew in a careful breath. "You really have lost track of time."

  She bit down on a sharp blurt of disbelieving laughter. "I have — ?" But she checked it visibly. I saw something in her face, something like pain. But the sword did not waver. The tip had seated itself in the hollow of my throat. The cut stung.

  I attempted sympathy. "Bascha, put it away. You’re exhausted and confused. You need more rest —"

  She cut me off. "What I need is for you to come to your senses. To realize what he’s done to you."

  "What who’s done to me? What are you talking about?"

  Her tone was bitter as winter ice. "The Vashni."

  "Oziri? Hoolies, bascha, he was helping me learn how to —" I stopped. Couldn’t breathe.

  "How to what?" she asked, when I didn’t finish.

  Something built up in my chest. Something that twisted. Something that threatened to burst. I felt as if I were on the verge of a firestorm.

  Oh, hoolies. Oh, gods, no…

  Del’s tone changed. No longer was there challenge. Now there was expectation. "How to what, Tiger?"

  I couldn’t speak. The heat, the pressure increased. Pain filled my chest.

  Her tone was almost a whisper. "Say it."

  I took the step into conflagration. Denial kindled, exploded, then crisped into ash. Was blown away. Comprehension, confession, slow and painful, began to come into its place.

  I couldn’t say it.

  "He did this," she said. "The Vashni. He did something to you. Now do you understand why I wanted to leave?"

  Years of being stubbornly, selectively blind and deaf to certain impulses and speculations had created habits I found comforting. Habits that I could live with. Denial afforded me freedom. But I had stopped denying it in Oziri’s presence. H
ad accepted it.

  "Say it, Tiger. What he was teaching you. Admit it."

  A spasm ran through my body. The words, slow, halting, laden with need, seem to come from someone else. "How to work magic."

  Oh, hoolies… Memories came back then, came pouring back, tumbling one over the other like stones in a flash flood. I took what I could of them and fitted them into a whole. Hours. Days, weeks. All had been lost to the dream-walks, the learning of the art. Now I understood Del’s concern. Del’s fear. Her desperation.

  The Vashni had indeed done something to me: stolen sense, taken time. Turned me from my course. Set me on a new one.

  Nihko had begun the process. Sahdri had explained it. Oziri had advanced it.

  Oh, but it was so much easier to disbelieve, when faced with a terrible truth. A truth I could not accept, because the fear of it would overpower me. Incapacitation. I might as well be dead.

  And I would be dead, according to the priest-mages of ioSkandi. To Umir’s book.

  Why would any man wish to be a mage, if the cost was so high?

  Why would I?

  I wished it because I’d wanted it. Needed it in the nights of my childhood, desperate to escape the Salset and the life of a chula: dreaming of a sandtiger, making it come to life; dreaming of Del atop the stone spire, who replaced a stolen scar and thus identity; dreaming of a boat to carry me to Skandi.

  The intent had not been magic. Never. I had only ever, a very few times, wished to make a miracle to change what I could not bear.

  Messiahs made miracles. Mages made magic.

  Maybe one and the same.

  I swore, then drew up my knees and leaned over them, elbows planted, clenching taut fingers in my short hair. I wanted to pull it out by the roots, as if that would erase the knowledge of what Oziri had done. Of what I had become.

  Dreams could merely be dreams. But dreams could also be more. Now I walked them. Began to understand them. Summoned the magic within them, using the power Oziri sought, and found, and rekindled within my bones.

  Nihko had told me. Sadri had told me. I had denied them both. But somehow, with Oziri, I had not. Maybe it was because enough time had passed since my "whelping" atop the spire. Maybe it was because I was in the South again, and my walls were down. Or maybe it was because Oziri forced the issue. Whatever the reason, he had made me understand what I was. What I could do. What I had done.