And the whirlwind, built with light, pregnant with its children, spun itself down and down, over my body.
Inside, all was quiet. Light spun and spun, but didn’t touch me. Sound pulsed in me, but I couldn’t hear it. All was still. All was silent. I knelt in the chimney with broken Samiel in my hands, offered to the light.
Come home, I said. Come home where you belong.
The whirlwind spun itself up. No longer was I shielded. I felt the stinging of the sand, saw the blazing of the starbursts, heard throb and roar and hiss. A keening, half-mad song of magic’s grief, mourning its desertion.
The whirlwind climbed. It jerked both halves of the sword out of my hands. They were spun into the whirlwind, flashing in meager sunlight bleeding down through fissures and holes. Though half-deafened by the wind and its wailing, I thought I heard a click. Metal on metal. Tumbling down from the whirlwind, wreathed in light, Samiel fell. I realized I was there in its path and threw my self aside as the sword came down and planted itself in the sand, whole once again.
The whirlwind spun and spun, climbed to the sky, fractured into fragments. In countless colors light rained down with a hundred thousand voices. It struck me: painless. Bathed my face. Ran off shoulders. Rolled down back and flanks. And the lights winked out.
Sand and dust settled. I was blinded by darkness at first. But vision cleared, and once again the sun crept through crevices. In its touch, Samiel’s new-made blade was blinding.
I stood up. I reached out, closed my hand around the grip, and pulled the blade free. It slid easily from sand, shed glittering crystal, was clean and bright and whole.
But Samiel wasn’t the magic. Samiel was merely the harbinger.
The sun was banished. Darkness reigned. And from every crack and crevice, every slot and fissure, light crawled out. It ran down the chamber walls, welled up from the marriage of stone to sand. Magic pure and potent. Power incarnate.
“Oh, hoolies,” I said. “This is going to hurt.”
Light crawled across the sand, trickled down the walls. I watched as it quested in the sand, like a puppy hunting milk. I stood there, waiting, breathing noisily. Then I drove Samiel, blade first, deeply into the sand. I sank down slowly. Gripping Samiel was all that kept me upright.
Come on, I said. Take me.
Light came. Touched. It crawled all over me, bathing naked flesh. I felt it creep slowly into every pore. My mouth, my nose, my ears. Lastly, my eyes. Tears ran backward. I tasted them in the back of my throat.
Magic kindled. Deep within my soul, within my sense of self, the spark grew larger. Breath blew upon it. Tinder caught. The fuel of my body burst into conflagration. I threw back my head and screamed. A hundred thousand voices sounded.
My flesh was unmade then knitted back again. Skin sloughed away, taking with it scars and the aches of age. Heat wreathed my bones, then transmuted into ice.
Take me, I said. Come home to me.
Joyously, power leaped within me.
I was what was needed.
I knew when all was done. I had ten fingers again.
I stood. Pulled Samiel from the sand.
“Bascha. I’m coming.”
Chapter 42
WHEN I GOT BACK DOWN TO THE MODEST MUDBRICK houses, I found Alric sitting on a bench outside his doorway. He kept his bandaged leg stretched and cradled his splinted arm. Tied to a leg of the bench was a buckskin gelding.
I stopped dead. “Not your horse! Alric, I don’t know if he can make it back. It’s hard riding I’m doing.” And harder yet because of time lost in the broken chimney.
Alric’s eyes were on the hilt sticking above my left shoulder. He looked at me, his expression oddly blank. “You didn’t have a sword when you went up there.”
“No.”
“That’s why you came back? To reclaim Samiel?”
“Yes.”
His gaze was quite steady. “Tiger, what’s going on?”
“I don’t have time. Truly. I have to go back to Umir’s to get Del and Sula.” I looked at the buckskin again. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” He bent somewhat, untied the lead-rope with his good hand. The horse was ready to go. All the botas I’d brought with me, plus several more, all filled, hung from the saddle. “I was not effective in watching your daughter.”
“Alric! It’s not your fault!” I stepped forward, took the lead-rope from his hand. “We’ll talk about this more when I’m back. In the meantime, just rest. Heal. Do you hear?”
He took a breath, let it out. “I hear.”
“Good.” I tied the lead-rope to my pommel, climbed aboard, untied the reins that had kept them out of the horse’s legs.
“There’s food in the packet,” Alric said. “Lena insisted.”
That did not surprise me. I shook my head, smiling, raised a hand briefly to Alric, turned the buckskin, and left at a swift lope.
I would not ordinarily get to know a horse—and have him get to know me—on a mad gallop across the desert. The buckskin was a willing goer, but because he was good at heart, not because I asked it of him. We did come to an agreement. I wouldn’t use my heels, and he wouldn’t add a hitch to his gait when I least expected it.
We rode through scrub trees, cacti, shrubbery, dodged rocks large enough to catch a hoof and roll. Down into the dry riverbed, clopped across slabs of stone embedded in the sand, a gallop with footing that wouldn’t harm his hooves, shod or not shod. Then it was up and out of the riverbed, onto the track that led to Julah. But I didn’t go into town. I swung the buckskin onto the northbound track and asked—asked—for more speed.
The earth beneath had been beaten to a fine dust over the years as people went northwards across the Punja or south to Julah or Haziz. It was safe now to gallop as fast as we could, moving aside when southbound wagons came to us from the north. People in wagons often raised a hand to me or called out a greeting. Some, grinning, asked me what the hurry was. But I had no time to wave or call back. I wondered if a vastly exaggerated tale would be born out of my gallop through the desert.
I eased the buckskin to a trot, then a walk, headed him off the track. I dismounted and dug a basin, threw my burnous over it and filled the hollow with the contents of two botas. The buckskin looked at me as if I were madman, offering too little water in a too-little trough. But he didn’t scorn to drink it. I drank some as well, then threw the burnous across the saddle and climbed back up on Alric’s horse. North again.
But oh, I missed the stud. He was not far from my mind. Perhaps on the way back I could spare the time to look for him, though it was unlikely he’d be where I left him, unless he was dead. I hoped he’d had the strength to make his way to the track.
The magic once again had stripped me of pain. No cramped muscles, no fire in and over my kidney. I felt fit, almost younger. I had forgotten what it was like to have magic in my bones, keeping its host whole. Yet again, it had not removed either the cavern Del had carved against my ribs, or the sandtiger scars on my face. But all others were gone, and I had ten fingers.
On. And on. Several times I stopped to water the buckskin as well as myself, let him have a breather. I had risked the stud far more than I would this one, who was Alric’s horse. Watered him more frequently, gave him breathers. And as we went on, my mind again filled with the vision of the stud, down in the dirt. I hadn’t ridden him to death, but closer to it than I liked. My hope now was he’d been found, maybe taken up by people in one of the wagons. He’d been too exhausted to cause trouble. They’d think he was docile. Then they’d learn the truth.
We left behind the scrub desert and entered the Punja. More frequent stops allowed us to continue the ride even at night. I did not stop for sleep as I had with the stud. The pain, the sapping of strength by the sun, was not a factor; that made the difference.
Alric’s horse was a good one, but I missed the stud. He was an extension of me. Stubborn, intractable, opinionated, certain he’s right about everything, prideful, domineering
, and any number of other attributes. In fact, he was too much like me. Or I too much like him.
Walk. Trot. Lope. Punja sand flew up as we loped, as we trotted. Footing was soft, but also gave from under hooves. It required more effort from the horse, tired him more quickly, but I had no choice.
With the sunrise, I said, “Bascha, I’m coming.”
For her, and for Sula.
As we neared Umir’s palace, the buckskin began to falter. His gait lost its rhythm. Breathing was loud. With grim determination, I unsheathed Samiel, used the flat of the blade, not the edge, and slapped it down on the buckskin rump. Three times. It startled the horse into greater speed again, much as I hated to demand it. Sweat foamed, ran down his body, darkened yellow-white hair into wet sheets. Black tail lashed, black mane flopped against his neck.
“Almost,” I told him.
I don’t know if he heard me. I don’t know if he cared. I was merely the demon upon his back.
White walls heaved out of glittering sand, blinding bright beneath the sun. So close now.
I used Samiel on the buckskin again. Heartlessly, I said, “You can rest when we’re there,” and hated myself for it.
Through gates into courtyard. Alric’s horse skittered across stones, too tired to fight for footing. I thought he might go down, but he stayed upright. I threw myself off, led him to the fountain. Could not, much as I wished to, allow him to drink and drink and drink. He was too weary to protest. Otherwise I’d never have won. Brief drinks only. Flesh quivered, muscles trembled. He was soaked with sweat.
I was here in the time allotted me. But Umir could wait while I tended the horse.
At last the bellows of the buckskin’s breathing eased. I let him drink more. And as he drank, I plunged my head beneath the surface, shook water out of my hair, scooped up handfuls for me to drink. The two remaining full botas were on the saddle; easier just to scoop up what was in the fountain.
I led Alric’s horse to a tree, one weighted with rich yellow blossoms. I tied him there, patted a shoulder, thanked him for his spirit and will. Then at last I turned to enter Umir’s palace, and I found a man upon the steps.
I knew him. The kid from Julah, who’d picked on Neesha. Khalid, whom I had defeated so badly before all the watchful eyes in Julah.
More of the puzzle pieces fell into place. It was Khalid’s doing, that Sula was here.
I paused, comfortable with the weight of Samiel slantwise across my back. “All this, because you lost? Because I made you angry?”
Khalid smiled. “Don’t discount the bounty. I was glad to do it, yes, but more pleased to be paid for it.”
He did not know what I was now. What I could do. To him, I was just a man. An aging sword-dancer with fading skills. Nor did he know what Samiel was. A named blade, blooding-blade; called here, jivatma.
I was dusty, sweaty, wet. But underneath it all, I was not tired to the bone. I wasn’t younger. I wasn’t better. I was me. But I was also no longer, as Wahzir had named it, an empty man.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I have business in this house.”
Khalid stared at me. “Do you really have magic now? Can you really open this book?”
I stared back at him. “Come and see.”
Khalid turned his back on me and walked into the palace.
Smiling, I followed.
Come and see.
Inside, I headed straight for Wahzir’s quarters and Del. Not surprisingly, several men appeared almost immediately to prevent me from doing this. I didn’t protest. I held out my arms so they could grip them tightly and keep me from moving in any direction. Also not surprising, Tariq and Hamzah arrived.
“I know,” I said, “you’re his pets. Or maybe part of his collection.”
Hamzah’s smile was slight. “We are what you once were. Sword-dancers.”
“With honor,” Tariq put in.
“You call this ‘honor’?” I asked. “I wouldn’t be so certain.” Khalid was behind me. He yanked Samiel out of the sheath.
There was a note of wariness in his voice. “Is the magic in this sword?”
I smiled at Tariq and Hamzah, answering Khalid. “It’s just a sword. I forged it in the North when I had nothing better to do. The magic you refer to is in me.”
Khalid moved. Two strangers held me. Tariq, Hamzah, and now Khalid stood in front of me. Tariq looked at the sword. Hamzah did not. He looked at me—of the three, the cleverest, and thus the most dangerous.
“Khalid,” I said lightly, “don’t be so certain you’re getting the bounty.”
He look up. “What?”
“You told Umir where I was. You did not capture me. That took Hamzah and Tariq. Umir will pay them.”
“He said he would pay me.”
I grinned. “Umir lies.”
Khalid looked uncertain. Then angry. He glared at me.
“Now,” I said, “let’s go to Del, shall we? Before I open that gods-cursed book, I have a task. And you can tell Umir that, Khalid. After you ask him about the bounty.”
Khalid hesitated, then gave Samiel to Tariq, turned on his heel and walked off, stiff through spine and shoulders. Hamzah laughed quietly. “He’s a fool, that one.”
“Del,” I said pointedly.
Tariq looked up from inspecting blade, hilt, grip, and pommel. “Is it a magical sword?”
I laughed at him. “Magical swords only exist in stories.”
Hamzah was watching Tariq. He appeared to be amused. “Here,” he said. “I have an idea. Just in case.” He took Samiel from Tariq, gestured to one of the men to release my arm. He presented him with the sword. “Umir will likely wish to put this in his collection.” His amused glance slid to me. “Just in case.”
And so Khalid gave up the sword, Tariq gave up the sword, Hamzah gave up the sword. Hamzah also closed a firm hand over my arm. “I realize you know the way,” he said lightly, “but allow us to escort you.”
Wahzir was bent over items on the long table. He glanced up as I was brought in with Hamzah and a stranger attached, trailing Tariq. Wahzir jumped up so quickly he bashed his thigh on the edge of the table and upset a bottle of ink. Or a bottle that looked like ink. Still the dry little man but with hunger in his eyes.
“You have it?” he asked. “You have the magic?”
“Del.”
“Alive. I have kept her so.” He stared avidly at me. “You have the magic?”
“I did. But they took it away from me.”
It completely baffled him. “Took it—?”
“The sword,” I said calmly. “Of course it holds the magic. That’s the way it always is in stories.”
“Who took it?”
“Ask Hamzah. He’s the last one to have his hands on it.”
“Oh, stop,” Hamzah said. “Now you’re boring.” He let go of my arm and gestured for the stranger to take himself away. He knew I wasn’t going to escape, or even attempt it. Del was here, and Sula elsewhere.
“Umir has the book,” Wahzir said. “Can you open it?”
“Of course I can open it. I closed it.” I walked away then, went into the alcove. Del still lay beneath covers, her head atop a pillow. Her color was normal. “Bascha.” I knelt down on the floor beside the cot. “Del. I’m here.”
She stirred. A glow began in my heart, a small, growing spark of relief and joy. As she opened her eyes, the spark became a flame. Delilah saw me. Delilah smiled.
Chapter 43
IPUT MY HEAD DOWN VERY CLOSE TO HERS, spoke so softly I knew no one else would hear what I said. “Bascha. Whatever happens, pretend you’re still very ill.”
Awareness and understanding flickered in her eyes. Still on my knees, I turned to Wahzir. “You said she was better. This isn’t better.”
“I said she was alive,” he clarified. “That’s all that was expected of me.”
“She can’t leave like this,” I snapped. “And we certainly aren’t staying here once I’ve done what Umir wants. What do you recommend? Can’
t you heal her?”
The hunger in Wahzir’s eyes was replaced with a smoldering anger. “I kept her alive. I can kill her also.”
“Umir wouldn’t like it.” Still on my knees, I looked at Tariq and Hamzah. “One of you had best go get my sword.”
“Nonsense,” Hamzah said curtly. “There’s nothing in that sword. You just want it close enough to use if you get the chance.”
“Then ask—oh. You’re here.”
Umir came in. He carried the book almost reverently. Khalid, accompanying him, had my sword. Very helpful of him.
“That’s not wise,” Hamzah warned. “Breaking codes and oaths does not make him any less dangerous a sword-dancer.”
Umir looked at him. “You have a sword, as do Tariq and Khalid. But it doesn’t matter if the blade is here. His woman is ill, and I hold his daughter. Use sense.”
I stayed on my knees.
Despite the dimness and shadows of Wahzir’s quarters, I saw color come into Hamzah’s face. He was angry, angry and embarrassed to be ridiculed for his concern. I very carefully kept my expression blank. Annoying him was one thing, angering him was quite another. Hamzah was not impressed by Umir the way Tariq and Khalid were. That made Hamzah dangerous. And Umir, I thought, didn’t know it.
“Is my daughter safe?” I asked the tanzeer.
Umir was insulted. “Of course she is!”
“Let me have a moment with Del. Then I’ll open your book.”
“Hurry!” Wahzir cried.
I’d been kneeling and I remained so. I turned back to Del, saw her watching me expectantly. She didn’t know all the answers, but she knew what the questions were. I smiled at her, then pulled back the covers. She still wore her short leather tunic. I placed one hand over her belly. Something inside me leaped. It made me gasp. This was no kindly power.
I leaned down, rested my head against the cot frame. Shut my eyes tightly. Felt a spark of something coiled down deep unwind itself. It found my spine. Ran up the cord to my neck, then down over shoulder to arm and the hand spread beneath it. I thrummed with it. Throbbed.
Sword-Bound Page 34