Roberson, Jennifer - Sword Dancer 06 - Sword-sworn

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PROLOGUE

THE SAND was very fine and very pale, like Del's hair. As her skin had been once; but

first the Southron sun, followed by that of the sea voyage and its salt-laden wind—and our visit

to the isle of Skandi—had collaborated insidiously to gild her to a delicate creamy peach. She

was still too fair, too Northern, to withstand the concerted glare of this sun for any length of

time without burning bright red, but definitely not as fair as she'd been when we first met.

Oh. That's right. I was talking about the sand.

Anyway, it was very fine, and very pale, and I had worked carefully to smooth it with a

good-sized peeling of the skinny, tall, frond- and beard-bedecked palm tree overlooking the

beach, the ocean beyond, the ship I'd hired in Skandi—and then I had ruined all that meticulous

smoothness by drawing in it.

A circle.

I had thought never to enter one again.

But I smoothed the sand, and I drew the circle, and then I stepped across the line into the

center. The center precisely.

Thunder did not crash. Rain did not fall. Lightning did not split the sky asunder. The gods,

if any truly existed, either didn't care that I had once again entered a circle, or else they were off

gallivanting around someone else's patch of the world.

"Hah," I muttered, indulging myself with a smirk.

"Hah, what?" she asked, from somewhere behind me.

I didn't turn. "I have done the undoable."

"Ah."

"And nothing has smited me."

"Smitten."

"Nothing has smitten me."

"Yet."

Now I did turn. She stood hipshot in the sand, with legs reaching all the way up to her neck.

They were mostly bare, those legs; she habitually wore, when circumstances did not prohibit, a

sleeveless, high-necked leather tunic that hit her about mid-thigh. In the South she also wore a

loose burnous over the leather tunic, so as to shield her flesh from the bite of the sun, but we

were not in the South. We were on an island cooled by balmy ocean breezes, and she had left

off most of such mundane accoutrements as clothing that covered her body.

I did say she had legs up to her neck. Don't let that suggest there wasn't a body in between.

Oh, yes. There was.

"Lo, I am smitten," I announced in tones of vast masculine appreciation.

Once she might have hit me, or come up with a devastating reprimand. But she knew I was

joking. Well, not entirely—I do appreciate every supple, sinuous inch of her—but that

appreciation has been tempered by her, well, temper, out of unmitigated lust into mere

gentlemanly admiration.

Mostly.

Del arched one pale brow. "Are you practicing languages and their tenses?"

"What?"

"Smite, smote, smitten."

I grinned at her. "I don't need to practice. I speak them all now."

The arch in the brow flattened. Del still wasn't sure how to take jiokes about my new status.

Hoolies, joking about it was all I could do, since I didn't understand much about the new status

myself.

Del decided to ignore it. "So. A circle."

I felt that was entirely self-evident and thus regarded her in fulsomely patient silence.

Her expression was carefully blanked. "And you're in it."

I nodded gravely. "So is my sword."

Now she was startled. "Sword?"

I hefted it illustatively.

"That's a stick, Tiger."

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "And here you've been telling me for

years I have no imagination." I pointed with said stick. "Go get yourself one. I put a few over

there, by that pile of rocks."

Both brows shot up toward her hairline. "You want to spar?"

"I do."

"I thought—" But she broke it off sharply. Then had the grace to blush.

Delilah blushing is not anything approaching ordinary. I was delighted, even though the

reason for it was not particularly complimentary. "What, you thought I was lying to you, or

giving in to wishful thinking? Maybe fooling myself altogether about developing new skills

and moves?"

She did not look away—Del avoids no truths, even the hard ones—but neither did the

blush recede.

I shook my head. "I thought you understood what all the weeks of physical training have

been about."

"Recovery," she said. "Getting fit."

"I have recovered, and I am fit."

She did not demur; it was true. "But you did all that without a circle."

So I had. And then some. Though I had yet to sort out how I had managed it. A man

entering his fourth decade cannot begin to compete with the man in his second. But even my

knees of late had given up complaining.

Maybe it was the ocean air.

Or not.

It was the 'or not' that made me nervous.

Clearing my throat, I declared, "I will dance my own dances, Del."

"But—" Again she silenced herself.

But. A very heavy word, that 'but,' freighted with all manner of innuendo and implication.

But.

But, she wanted to ask, how does a man properly grip a sword when he's missing the little

fingers on both hands? But, how does he keep that grip if a blade strikes his? But, how can he

hope to overcome an opponent in the circle? How can he win the dance? How can he, who

carries a price on his head, win back his life in the ritualized combat of the South, when he has

been cast out of it by his own volition? When the loss of the fingers precludes all former skill?

But.

I saw the assumption in her eyes, the slight flicker of concern.

"I have every intention of dancing," I said quietly, "and none at all of dying." For as long as

possible.

"Can you?" she asked, frank at last.

"Dance? Yes. Win? Well, we've never properly settled that question, have we? Some days

you'll win, other days I will." I shrugged. How many of those days I had left was open to

interpretation. "As for the others I'll dance with . . . well, we'll just have to wait and see." .

"Tiger-"

In the distance, the stud neighed ringingly. I blessed him for his timing, though he wouldn't

have much luck finding the mare he wanted. "Get the 'sword,' Del."

She held her ground. "If I win this dance, will you stop?"

"If you win this dance, I'll just have to practice harder."

"Then you still mean to go back to the South."

"I told you that. Yes." I studied her. "What, did you think I meant to live out my life here on

this benighted island?" Which had nonetheless,. saved our lives in more ways than one.

"I don't know." Her tone was a mixture of frustration, annoyance, and helplessness. "I have

no inkling as to what you will or will not do, Tiger. You're not predictable any more."

Any more. Which implied that once I had been.

I bared my teeth at her. "Well, good. Then I'm not boring." Once again I waved my stick.

"The sooner we get to it, the sooner we'll know."

Her expression suggested she already knew. Or thought she did.

"Not predictable," I reminded her. "Your own words, too."

Del turned on her heel and stalked over to the tree limbs I'd groomed into smooth shafts.

There was no point, no edge, no crosspiece, no grip, no proper pommel. They were not swords.

They were sticks. But whichever one she chose would do.

"Hurry up," I said. "We're burning daylight, bascha."

The world, through glass, is magnified. Small made large. Unseen made visible. Dreams,

bound by ungovernable temperaments and unpredictabilities, may do the same, altering one's

vision. One's comprehension. The known made unknowable.

Grains of sand, slightly displaced. Gently jostled one against another. Gathered. Tumbled.

Herded.

I blink. The world draws back. Large is made small; immense becomes insignificant. And I

see what moves the sand.

Not water. Not wind.

Blood.

First, they rape her. Then slash open her throat. Twice, possibly thrice. The bones of her

spine, left naked to the day in the ruin of her flesh, gleam whitely in the sun.

Blood flows. Gathers sand. Makes mud of malnourished dust. Is transformed by the sun

into nothingness.

Even blood, in the desert, cannot withstand the ceaseless heat.

It will take longer for the body, for flesh and bone are not so easily consumed. But the

desert will win. Its victories are boundless.

They might have left her alive, to die of thirst. It was their mercy to kill her swiftly. Their

laughter was her dirge. Their jest was to leave a sword within reach, but she lacked the

strength to use it against herself.

As the sun sucks her dry, withering flesh on bone, she turns her head upon the sand and

looks at me out of eyes I recognize.

"Take up the sword," she says.

I jerk, gasping out of sleep into trembling wakefulness, tasting sand in my mouth. Salt. And

blood.

"It's time," she says.

Her breath, her death, is mine.

"Find me," she says, "and take up the sword."

Del felt me spasm into actual wakefulness. She turned toward me and sleepily inquired,

"What is it?"

I offered no answer. I couldn't.

"Tiger?" She propped herself up on an elbow. "What is it?"

I stared up at the dark skies. Something was in me, something demanding I answer. I felt

very distant. I felt very small. "It's time." Echoing the dream.

"Time?"

The words left my mouth without conscious volition. "To go home." To go home. To take

up the sword.

After a moment she asked, "Are you all right? You don't sound like yourself."

I didn't feel like myself.

She placed a hand upon my chest, feeling my heart beat. "Tiger?"

"I just—I know. It's time." No more than that. It seemed sufficient.

Find me.

"Are you sure?"

Take up the sword.

"I'm sure."

"All right." She lay down again. "Then we'll go."

I could feel her tension. She didn't think it was a good idea. But that didn't matter. What

mattered is that it was time.

ONE

HAVING SAILED at last from the island, we now were bound for Haziz, the South's port city.

We had departed it months before, heading for Skandi; but that voyage was finished. Now we

embarked on an even more dangerous journey: returning to the South, where I carried a death

sentence on my head.

Meanwhile, Del and I passed the time by sparring. She didn't win the matches. Neither did

I. The point wasn't to win, but to retrain my body and mind. Tension was in me, tension to do

better, do more, be better.

"You're holding back," I accused, accustomed now—again— to the creak of wood and

rigging, the crack of canvas.

Del opened her mouth to refute that; holding back in the circle was a thing she never did.

But she shut her mouth and contemplated me, though her expression suggested she was

weighing herself every bit as much.

"Well?" I challenged, planting bare feet more firmly against wood planking.

"Maybe," she said at length.

"If you truly believe I'm incapable—"

"I didn't say that!"

"then you should simply knock me out of the circle." We didn't really have a proper circle,

because the captain had vociferously objected to me carving one into his deck, but our minds

knew where the boundaries lay.

Del, who had set one end of the stick against the deck, now made it into a cane and leaned

upon it idly with the free hand perched on her hip and elbow outthrust. "I don't think anyone

could knock you out of the circle even if you were missing two hands."

Not a pretty picture. "Thanks." I grimaced. "I think."

Blue eyes opened wide. "That's a compliment!"

I supposed it was.

Now those eyes narrowed. "You are using a different grip."

"I said I would." I'd also said I'd have to. Circumstances demanded it.

She unbent and put out the arm. Her tone was brusque, commanding. "Close on my wrist."

I clamped one big hand around her wrist, feeling the knob of bone on the left side, the

pronounced tendons on the underside. A strong woman, was Delilah.

Her pale brows knit. "There is a difference in the pressure."

"Of course there is." I was not altogether unhappy to be holding her wrist. "I have three

fingers and a thumb, not four."

"Your grip will be weaker, here." She touched the outside edge of my palm. Nothing was

wrong with that part of my hand. There simply wasn't a little finger extending from it any more.

"If the sword grip turns in your hand, or is forced back at an angle toward the side of your

hand . . ."

"I'll lose leverage. Control. Yes, I know that."

She was frowning now. She let her own stick fall to the deck. She studied my hand in

earnest, taking it into both of hers. She had seen it before, of course; seen them both, and the

knurled pinkish scar tissue covering the nub of severed bone. Del was not squeamish; she had

patched me up numerous times, as well as herself. She regretted the loss of those

fingers—hoolies, so did I!—but she did not quail from their lack. This time, in a methodical

and matter-of-fact examination that did not lend itself to innuendo or implication, she studied

every inch of my hand. She felt flesh, tendon, the narrow bones beneath both. I have big hands,

wide hands, and the heels of them are callused hard with horn.

"What?" I asked finally, when she continued to frown.

"The scars," she said. "They're gone."

I have four deep grooves carved in my cheek, and a crater in the flesh over the ribs of my

left side. I raised dubious brows.

"On your hands," Del clarified. "All the nicks are gone. And this knuckle here—" She

tapped it.—"used to be knobbier than the others. It's not anymore."

I suppose I might have made some vulgar comment about Del's intimate knowledge of my

body, but didn't. There was more at stake just now than verbal foreplay.

I had all manner of nicks and seams and divots in my body. We both did. Mine were from

a childhood of slavery, an enforced visit to the mines of a Southron tanzeer by the name of

Aladar, and the natural progression of lengthy—and dangerous—sword-dancer training and

equally dangerous dances for real. The latter had marred Del in certain characteristic ways, too;

she bore her own significant scar on her abdomen as a reminder of a dance years ago in the

North, when we both nearly died, as well as various other blade-born blemishes.

I had spent weeks getting used to the stubs of the two missing fingers, though there were

times I could have sworn I retained a full complement. Beyond that, I had paid no attention to

either hand other than working very hard to strengthen them, as well as my wrists and forearms.

It was the interior that mattered, not the exterior. The muscles, the strength, that controlled the

hands and thus the grip. Not the exterior scars.

But Del was right. The knuckle, once permanently enlarged, looked of a size with the

others again. And the nicks and blemishes I'd earned in forty years were gone. Even the

discolored pits from working Aladar's mine had disappeared.

Wholly focused on retraining myself, I had not even noticed. I pulled the hand away,

scowling blackly.

"It's not a bad thing," Del observed, though a trifle warily.

"Skandi," I muttered. "Meteiera." I looked harder at my hands.

"Did they work some magic on you?"

I transferred the scowl from hand to woman. "No, they didn't work any magic on me. They

cut my fingers off!" Not to mention shaving and tattooing my skull and piercing my ears and

eyebrows with silver rings. Most of the rings were gone now, thanks to Del's careful removal,

though at her behest I had retained two in each earlobe. Don't ask me why. Del said she liked

them.

"You do look younger." Her tone was carefully measured.

Ironic, to look younger when one's lifespan has been shortened.

"Of course, maybe it's the hair," Del suggested. "You look very different with it so short."

"Longer than it was." I rubbed a hand over my head; and so it was, all of possibly two

inches now, temporarily lying close against my skull, though I expected the annoying wave to

start showing up any day. Del had said the blue tattoos were invisible, save for a slight rim

along the hairline. But that would be hidden, too, once my hair grew out all the way.

"I don't mean you look like a boy," she clarified. "You look like you. Just—less used."

Hoolies, that sounded good. "Define for me 'less used.' "

"By the sun." She shrugged. "By life."

"That wouldn't be wishful thinking, would it?"

Del blinked. "What?"

"There are fifteen-plus years between us, after all. Maybe if I didn't look so much older—"

"Oh, Tiger, don't be ridiculous! I've told you I don't care about that."

I dropped into a squat. The knees didn't pop. I bounced up again. Still no complaints.

Del frowned. "What was that about?"

"Feeling younger." I grinned crookedly. "Or maybe it's just my wishful thinking."

Del bent and picked up her stick. "Then let's go again."

"What, you want to try and wear down the old man? Make him yield on the basis of sheer

exhaustion?"

"You never yield to exhaustion," she pointed out, "in anything you do."

"I yielded to your point of view about women having worth in other areas besides bed."

"Because I was right."

As usual, with us, the banter covered more intense emotions. I didn't really blame Del for

being concerned. Here we were on our way back to the South, where I had been born and lost;

where I had been raised a slave; where I had eventually found my calling as a sword-dancer,

hired to fight battles for other men as a means of settling disputes—but also where I had

eventually voluntarily cut myself off from all the rites, rituals, and honor of the Alimat-trained

sword-dancer's closely prescribed system.

I had done it in a way some might describe as cowardly, but at the time it was the right

choice. The only choice. I'd made it without thinking twice about it, because I didn't have to; I

knew very well what the cost would be. I was an outcast now, a blade without a name. I had

declared elaii-ali-ma, rejecting my status as a seventh-level sword-dancer, which meant I was

fair game to any honor-bound sword-dancer who wanted to challenge me.

Of course, that challenge wouldn't necessarily come in a circle, where victory is not

achieved by killing your opponent—well, usually; there are always exceptions—but by simply

winning. By being better.

For years I had been better than everyone else in the South, though a few held out for Abbu

Bensir (including Abbu Bensir), but I couldn't claim that any longer. I wasn't a sword-dancer. I

was just a man a lot of other men wanted to kill.

And Del figured it would be a whole lot easier to kill me now than before.

She was probably right, too.

So here I was aboard a ship bound for the South, going home, Accompanied by a stubborn

stud-horse and an equally stubborn woman, sailing toward what more romantic types, privy to

my dream, might describe as my destiny. Me, I just knew it was time, dream or no dream. We'd

gone off chasing some cockamamie idea of me being Skandic, a child of an island two week's

sail from the South, but that was done now. I was, by all appearances—literally as well as

figuratively—Skandic, a child of that island, but things hadn't worked out. Sure, it was the

stuff of fantasy to discover I was the long-lost grandson of the island's wealthiest, most

powerful matriarch, but this fantasy didn't have a happy ending. It had cost me two fingers, for

starters. And nearly erased altogether the man known as the Sandtiger without even killing

him.

Meteiera. The Stone Forest. Where Skandic men with a surfeit of magics so vast that much

was mostly undiscovered, cloistered themselves upon tall stone spires ostensibly to serve the

gods but also, they claimed, to protect their loved ones by turning away from them. Because

the magic that made them powerful also made them mad.

Now, anyone who knows me will say I don't—or didn't— think much of magic. In fact, I

don't—didn't—really believe in it. But I'll admit something strange was going on in Meteiera,

because I had cause to know. I can't swear the priest-mages worked magic on me, as Del

suggested, but once there I wasn't precisely me anymore. And I witnessed too many strange

things.

Hoolies, I did strange things.

I shied away from that like a spooked horse. But the knowledge, the awareness, crept back.

Despite all the outward physical changes, there were plenty of interior ones as well. A

comprehension of power, something like the first faint pang of hunger, or the initial itch of

desire. In fact, it was very like desire—because that power wanted desperately to be wielded.

I shivered. If Del had asked what the problem was, I'd have told her it was a bit chill in the

morning, and after all I was wearing only a leather dhoti for ease of movement as I went

through the repetitive rituals that honed the body and mind. But it wasn't the chill of morning

that kindled the response. It was the awareness again of the battle I faced. Or, more accurately,

battles.

And none of them had anything to do with sword-dancing, or even sword fighting. Only

with refusing to become what I'd been told, on Meteiera, I must become: a mage.

Actually, they'd said I was to become a priest-mage, but I'm even less inclined to put faith

in, well, faith, than in the existence of magic.

And, of course, it was becoming harder to deny the existence of magic since I had managed

to work some. And even harder to deny my own willingness to work it; I had tried to work it.

Purposely. I had a vague recollection that those first days after escaping the Stone Forest were

filled with desperation, and a desperate man undertakes many strange things to achieve certain

goals. My goal had been vital: to get back to Skandi and find Del, and to settle things

permanently with the metri, my grandmother.

I got back to Skandi by boat, which is certainly not a remarkable thing when attempting to

reach an island. Except the boat hadn't existed before I made it exist, conjured of seawrack and

something more I'd learned on Meteiera.

Discipline.

Magic is merely the tool. Discipline is the power.

Now I stood at the rail staring across the ocean, knowing that everything I'd ever been in

my life was turned inside out. Upside down. Every which way you can think of.

Take up the sword.

I lived with and for the sword. I didn't understand why I needed to be told. No;

commanded.

"You're still you," Del said, with such explicit firmness that I realized she was worried that

I was worried, not knowing my thoughts had gone elsewhere.

I smiled out at the seaspray.

"You are." She came up beside me. She had washed her hair in the small amount of fresh

water the captain allowed for such ablutions, and now the breeze dried it. The mix of salt, spray,

and sun had bleached her blonder. Strands were lifted away from her face, streaming back

across her shoulders.

I have been less in my life, dependent on circumstances. But now, indisputably, I was

more.

I was, I had been told, messiah. Now mage. I had believed neither, claiming—and

knowing—I was merely a man. It was enough. It was all I had wanted to be, in the years of

slavery when I was chula, not boy. Slave, not human.

I glanced at Del, still smiling. "Keep saying that, bascha."

"You are."

"No," I said, "I'm not. And you know it as well as I do."

Her face went blank.

"Nice try," I told her, "but I read you too well, now."

Del look straight at me, shirking nothing. "And I, now, can read nothing at all of you."

There. It was said. Admitted aloud, one to the other.

"Still me," I said, "but different."

Del was never coquettish or coy. Nor was she now. She put her hand on my arm. "Then

come below," she said simply, "and show me how different."

Ah, yes. That was still the same.

Grinning, I went.

When we finally disembarked in Haziz, I did not kiss the ground. That would have entailed

my kneeling down in the midst of a typically busy day on the choked docks, risking being

flattened by a dray-cart, wagon, or someone hauling bales and none too happy to find a large,

kneeling man in his way, and coming into some' what intimate contact with the liquid, lumpy,

squishy, and aromatic effluvia of a complement of species and varieties of animals so vast I did

not care to count.

Suffice it to say I was relieved to once more plant both sandaled feet upon the Southron

ground, even though that ground felt more like ship than earth. The adjustment from flirtatious

deck to solidity always took me a day or two.

Just as it would take me time to sort out the commingled aromas I found so disconcertingly

evident after months away. Whew!

"They don't need to challenge you," Del observed from beside me with delicate distaste.

"They could just leave you here and let the stench kill you."

With haughty asperity, I said, "You are speaking about my homeland."

"And now that we are back here among people who would as soon kill you as give you

greeting," she continued, "what is our next move?"

It was considerably warmer here than on Skandi, though it lacked the searing heat of high

summer. I glanced briefly at the sun, sliding downward from its zenith. "The essentials," I

replied. "A drink. Food. A place to stay the night. A horse for you." The stud would be

off-loaded and taken to a livery I trusted, where he could get his earth-legs back. I'd paid well

for the service, though the sailhand likely wouldn't think it enough once the stud tried to kick

his head off. Another reason to let the first temper tantrum involve someone other than me.

"Swords—"

"Good," Del said firmly.

"And tomorrow we'll head out for Julah."

"Julah? Why? That's where Sabra nearly had the killing of us both." Unspoken was the

knowledge that not far from Julah, at the palace inherited from her father, Sabra had forced me

to declare myself an outcast from my trade. To reject the honor codes of an Alimat-trained

seventh-level sword-dancer.

"Because," I explained. "I'd like to have a brief discussion with my old friend Fouad."

" 'Discussion,' " she echoed, and I knew it was a question.

"With words, not blades."

"Fouad's the one who betrayed you to Sabra and nearly got you killed."

"Which calls for at least a few friendly words, don't you think?"

Del had attempted to fall in beside me as I wended my way through narrow, dust-floured

streets clogged with vendors hawking cheap wares to new arrivals and washing hung out to dry

from the upper storeys of close-built, mudbrick dwellings stacked one upon the other in

slumping disarray, boasting sun-faded, once-brilliant awnings; but as she didn't know Haziz at

all, it was difficult for her to stay there when I followed a route unfamiliar to her. She settled

for being one step behind my left shoulder, trying to anticipate my direction. "Words? That's

all?"

"It's a starting point." I scooped up a melon from the top of a piled display. The

melon-seller's aggrieved shout followed us. I grinned, hearing familiar Southron oaths—from

a mouth other than my own—for the first time in months.

Del picked her way over a prodigious pile of danjac manure, lightly seasoned with urine.

"Are you going to pay for that?"

Around the first juicy, delicious mouthful I shaped, "Welcome-home present." And tried

not to dribble down the front of my Skandic silks. Still noticeably crimson, unfortunately.

"And I've been thinking ..."

Hoolies, I'd been dreaming.

And I regretted bringing it up.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Maybe . . ."

"Yes?"

The words came into my mouth, surprising me as well as her. "Maybe we'll go get my true

sword."

"True sword?"

I twisted adroitly as a gang of shrieking children ran by, raising a dun-tinted wake of acrid

dust. "You know. Out there. In the desert. Under a pile of rocks."

Del stopped dead. "That sword? You mean to go get that sword?"

I turned, paused, and gravely offered her the remains of the melon, creamy green in the

dying sun. I could not think of a way to explain about the dream. "It seems—appropriate."

She was not interested in the melon. " 'Appropriate'?" Del shook her head. "Only you

would want to go dig up a sword buried under tons of rock, when there are undoubtedly plenty

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PROLOGUETHESANDwasveryfineandverypale,likeDel'shair.Asherskinhadbeenonce;butfirsttheSouthronsun,followedbythatoftheseavoyageanditssalt-ladenwind—andourvisittotheisleofSkandi—hadcollaboratedinsidiouslytogildhertoadelicatecreamypeach.Shewasstilltoofair,tooNorthern,towithstandtheconcertedglareofthissun...

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Roberson, Jennifer - Sword Dancer 06 - Sword-sworn

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