Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 3 - Sword Maker

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Sword-MakerSword Maker

Book 3 of the Sword Dancer series

By Jennifer Roberson

Sword Maker

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part I: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten,

Eleven,

Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen

Part II: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten,

Eleven

Part III: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten,

Eleven,

Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen

Prologue

She is not a woman for idle conversation, having little patience for

small talk,

and even less for excuses and explanations. Including those dealing

with life

and death; mine, or her own. And yet I resorted to both: excuses,

explanations.

Somehow, I had to.

"It wasn't my fault," I declared. "It wasn't. Did I have any choice?

Did you

leave me any choice?" I snorted in derision. "No, of course not--not

you... you

leave no choice or chance to anyone, least of all me... you just stare

me down

across the circle and dare me to take you, to cut you, to chop you down

with my

blade, because it's the only thing that will make you admit you're just

as human

as anyone else, and just as vulnerable. Just as fragile as anyone, man

or woman,

made of flesh and blood... and you bleed, Del... just like anyone else-

-just

like me--you bleed."

She said nothing. Fair hair shone white in firelight, but blue eyes

were nothing

more than blackened pockets in a shadow-clad face lacking definition or

expression. The beauty remained, but changed. Altered by tension,

obsession,

pain.

Behind me, tied to a tree, the stud snorted, stomped, pawed a thin

layer of

slush away from winter-brown turf. Pawing again and again, stripping

away even

the turf until what he dug was a hole.

Horses can't talk, not like humans; they do what they can with ears,

teeth,

hooves. What he told me now was he didn't want to eat. Didn't want to

sleep.

Didn't want to spend the night tied to a bare-branched tree, chilled to

the bone

by a Northern wind that wouldn't--quite--quit. What he wanted was to

leave. To

go on. To head south toward his desert homeland where it is never, ever

cold.

"Not my fault," I repeated firmly. "Hoolies, bascha, you and that

storm-born

sword of yours... what did you expect me to do? I'm a sword-dancer. Put

me in a

circle with a sword in my hands, and I dance. For pay, for show, for

honor--for

all those things most men are afraid to name, for fear of showing too

much...

well, I'm not afraid, Del--all I know is you left me no choice but to

cut you,

coming at me like that with that magicked sword of yours--what did you

expect? I

did what I had to. What was needed, for both of us, if for different

reasons." I

scratched angrily at the scars in my right cheek: four deep-scored claw

marks,

now white with age, cutting through the beard. "I tried like hoolies to

make you

quit, to make you leave that thrice-cursed island before it came to

something

we'd both regret, but you left me no choice. You stepped into that

circle all on

your own, Del... and you paid the price. You found out just how good

the

Sandtiger is after all, didn't you?"

No answer. Of course not; she still thought she was better. But I had

proven

which of us was superior in the most eloquent fashion of all.

Swearing at the cold, I resettled the wool cloak I wore, wrapping it

closely around shoulders. Brown hair uncut for far too long blew into

my eyes,

stinging, and my mouth. It also caught on my short-cropped beard

repeatedly, no

matter how many times I stripped it back. Even the hood didn't help;

the wind

tore it from my head again and again and again, until I gave up and

left it

puddled on my shoulders.

"You and that butcher's blade," I muttered.

Still Del said nothing.

Wearily I scrubbed at brows, eyes, face. I was tired, too tired; the

wound in my

abdomen ached unremittingly, reminding me with each twinge I'd departed

Staal-Ysta far sooner than was wise, in view of the sword thrust I'd

taken. The

healing was only half done, but I'd departed regardless. There was

nothing left

for me in Staal-Ysta. Nothing at all, and no one.

Deep in the cairn, flame whipped. Smoke eddied, tangled, shredded on

the air.

Wind carried it away, bearing word of my presence to the beasts

somewhere

northeast of me in darkness. The hounds of hoolies, I called them; it

fit as

well as any other.

I waited for her to speak, even to accuse, but she made no sound at

all. Just

sat there looking at me, staring at me, holding the jivatma across

wool-trousered thighs. The blade was naked in the darkness, scribed

with runes I

couldn't--wasn't meant to--read, speaking of blood and forbidden power

too

strong for anyone else to key, or to control, with flesh, will, voice.

Del could control it. It was part of her personal magic; the trappings

of a

sword-singer.

Sword-singer. More than sword-dancer, my own personal trade. Something

that made

her different. That made her alien.

Whose name was Boreal.

"Hoolies," I muttered aloud in disgust, and raised the leather bota yet

again to

squirt Northern amnit deep into my throat. I sucked it down, gulp after

gulp,

pleased by the burning in my belly and the blurring of my senses. And

waited for

her to say something about drink curing nothing. About how a drinking

man is

nothing more than a puppet to the bota. About how dangerous it is for a

sword-dancer, a man who lives by selling sword and skill, to piss away

his edge

when he pisses liquor in the morning.

But Del said none of those things.

I wiped amnit from my mouth with the back of a hand. Glared at her

blearily

across the guttering fire. "Not my fault," I told her. "Do you think I

wanted to

cut you?" I coughed, spat, drew in breath too deep for the half-healed

wound. It

brought me up short, sweating, until I could breathe again, so

carefully,

meticulously measuring in- and exhalations. "Hoolies, bascha--"

But I broke it off, confused, because she wasn't there.

Behind me, the stud dug holes. And he, like me, was alone.

I released all my breath at once, ignoring the clutch of protest from

my ribs.

The exhalation was accompanied by a string of oaths as violent as I

could make

them in an attempt to overcome the uprush of black despair far worse

than any

I'd ever known.

I dropped the bota and rose, turning my back on the cairn. Went to the

stud, so

restless, checking rope and knots. He snorted, rubbed a hard head

against me,

ignored my grunt of pain, seeking release much as I did. The darkness

painted

him black; by day he is bay: small, compact, strong, born to the

Southron

desert.

"I know," I said, "I know. We shouldn't even be here." He nibbled at a

cloak

brooch: garnet set in gold. I pushed his head away to keep curious

teeth from

wandering to my face. "We should go home, old son. Just head south and

go home.

Forget all about the cold and the wind and the snow. Forget all about

those

hounds."

One day he would forget; horses don't think like men. They don't

remember much,

except what they've been taught. Back home again in the South, in the

desert

called the Punja, he would recall only the grit of sand beneath his

hooves and

the beating heat of the day. He'd forget the cold and the wind and the

snow.

He'd forget the hounds. He'd even forget Del.

Hoolies, I wish I could. Her and the look on her face as I'd thrust

home the

steel in her flesh.

I was shaking. Abruptly I turned from the stud and went back to the

cairn.

Leaned down, caught up the sheath and harness, closed my fist around

the hilt.

In my hand the cold metal warmed at once, sweet and seductive; gritting

teeth, I

yanked the blade free of sheath and bared it in firelight, letting

flame set

steel to glowing. It ran down the blade like water, pausing only

briefly to pool

in the runes I now knew as well as I knew my name.

I was shaking. With great care, I took the sword with me to one of the

massive

piles of broken boulders, found a promising fissure, wedged the blade

into it.

Tested the seating: good. Then locked both hands around the hilt,

meaning to

snap it in two. Once and for all, to break it, for what it had done to

Del.

Samiel sang to me. A small, private song.

He was hungry, still so hungry, with a thirst that knew no bounds. If I

broke

him, I would kill him. Was I willing to run that risk?

I tightened my hands on the hilt. Gritted teeth--shut my eyes--

And slid the blade, ringing, very carefully out of the fissure.

I turned. Sat. Slumped, leaning against the boulders. Cradling the

deadly

jivatma; the one I had made my own.

I rested my temple against the pommel of the twisted-silk hilt. It was

cool and

soothing, as if it sensed my anguish.

"I must be getting old," I muttered. "Old--and tired. What am I

now--thirty-four? Thirty-five?" I stuck out a hand and, one by one,

folded thumb

and fingers absently. "Let's see... the Salset found me when I was half

a day

old... kept me for--sixteen years? Seventeen? Hoolies, who can be

sure?" I

scowled into distance. "Hard to keep track of years when you don't even

have a

name." I chewed my lip, thinking. "Say, sixteen years with the Salset.

Easiest.

Seven years as an apprentice to my shodo, learning the sword... and

thirteen

years since then, as a professional sword-dancer." The shock was cold

water. "I

could be thirty-six."

I peered the length of my body, even slumped as I was. Under all the

wool I

couldn't see anything, but I knew what was there. Long, powerful legs,

but also

aching knees. They hurt when I walked too much, hurt after a sword-

dance. Hurt

when I rode too long, all thanks to the Northern cold. I didn't heal as

fast as

the old days, and I felt the leftover aches longer.

Was I getting soft around the middle?

I pressed a stiff hand against my belly.

Not so you could tell, though the wound had sucked weight and tone. And

then

there was the wound itself: bad, yes, and enough to put anyone down for

a couple

of weeks, but I'd been down for nearly a month and still was only half-

healed.

I scratched the bearded cheek riven by scars. Old, now; ancient. Four

curving

lines graven deeply into flesh. For months in the beginning they'd been

livid

purple, hideous reminders of the cat who had nearly killed me, but I

hadn't

minded at all. Not even when people stared. Certainly not when women

fussed,

worried about the cause. Because the scars had been the coinage that

bought my

freedom from the Salset. I'd killed a marauding sandtiger who was

eating all the

children. No more the nameless chula. A man, now, instead, who named

himself the

Sandtiger in celebration of his freedom.

So long ago. Now the scars were white. But the memories were still

livid.

So many years alone, until Del strode into my life and made a mockery

of it.

I scratched the scars again. Bearded. Long-haired. Unkempt. Dressed in

wool

instead of silk, to ward off Northern wind. So the aches wouldn't hurt

so much.

The sword, in my hands, warmed against my flesh, eerily seductive. The

blade

bled light and runes. Also the promise of power; it flowed up from tip

quillons, then took the twisted-silk grip as well. Touched my fingers,

oh so

gently, lingering at my palm. Soft and sweet as a woman's touch: as

Del's, even

Del's, who was woman enough to be soft and sweet when the mood suited

her,

knowing it something other than weakness. An honest woman, Delilah; in

bed and

in the circle.

I flung the sword across the cairn into the darkness. Saw the flash of

light,

the arc; heard the dull ringing thump as it landed on wind-frosted

turf.

"I wish you to hoolies," I told it. "I want no part of you."

And in the dark distances far beyond the blade, one of the beasts

bayed.

Part I

One

Only fools make promises. So I guess you can call me a fool.

At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. The hounds that dogged Del

and me

to Staal-Ysta, high in Northern mountains, were vicious, magic-made

beasts, set

upon our trail by an unknown agency. For weeks they merely stayed with

us, doing

nothing other than playing dogs to sheep, herding us farther north.

Once there,

they'd done much more; they attacked a settlement on the lakeshore,

killing more

than thirty people. Some of them were children.

Now, I'm no hero. I'm a sword-dancer, a man who sells his sword and

services to

the highest bidder. Not really a glorious occupation when you think

about it;

it's a tough, demanding job not every man is suited for. (Some may

think they

are. The circle makes the decision.) But it's a job that often needs

doing, and

I'm very good at it.

But it doesn't make me a hero.

Men, I figure, are pretty good at taking care of themselves. Women,

too, unless

they stick their pretty noses into the middle of something that doesn't

concern

them; more often than not it doesn't, and they do. But children, on the

other

hand, don't deserve cruelty. What they deserve is time, so they can

grow up

enough to make their own decisions about whether to live or die. The

hounds had

stolen that time from too many settlement children.

I owed nothing to Staal-Ysta, Place of Swords, which had, thanks to

Del, tried

to steal a year of my life in the guise of honorable service. I owed

nothing to

the settlement on the lakeshore, except thanks for tending the stud.

But no one

owed me anything, either, and some had died for me.

Besides, my time on the island was done. I was more than ready to

leave, even

with a wound only halfway healed.

No one protested. They were as willing to see me go as I was to depart.

They

even gave me gifts: clothing, a little jewelry, money. The only problem

was I

still needed a sword.

To a Northerner, trained in Staal-Ysta, a jivatma--a blooding-blade--is

a sacred

thing. A sword, but one forged of old magic and monstrous strength of

will.

There are rituals in the Making, and countless appeals to gods; being

Southron,

and apostate, I revered none of them. And yet it didn't seem to matter

that I

held none of the rituals sacred, or disbelieved (mostly) in Northern

magic. The

swordsmith had fashioned a blade for me, invoking the rituals, and

Samiel was

mine.

But he didn't--quite--live. Not as the others lived. Not as Del's

Boreal.

To a Northerner, he was only half-born, because I hadn't properly keyed

him,

hadn't sung to forge the control I needed in order to wield the power

promised

by the blessing, by the rituals so closely followed. But then, clean,

well-made

steel is deadly enough on its own. I thought Northern magic redundant.

And yet some of it existed. I felt it living in the steel each time I

unsheathed

the weapon. Tasting Del's blood had roused the beast in the blade, just

as her

blade, free of the sheath, had roused the trailing hounds.

I did not leave the sword lying in dirt and turf throughout the night.

Old

habits are hard to break; much as I hated the thing, I knew better than

ignore it. So I fetched it, felt the ice replaced with warmth, shoved

it home in

its sheath. I slept poorly, when at all, wondering what the hounds

would do once

I caught up to them, and if I'd be called on to use the sword. It was

the last

thing I wanted to do, after what Del and others had told me.

She had said it so plainly, trying to make me see: "If you go out there

tomorrow

and kill a squirrel, that is a true blooding, and your sword will take

whatever habits that squirrel possesses."

It had, at that moment, amused me; a blade with the heart of a

squirrel? But my

laughter had not amused her, because she knew what it could mean. Then,

I hadn't

believed her. Now, I knew much better.

In the darkness, in my bedding, I stared bitterly at the sword. "You're

gone," I

told it plainly, "the moment I find another."

Unspoken were the words: "Before I have to use you."

A man may hate his magic, but takes no chances with it.

The stud had his greeting ready as I prepared to saddle him. First he

sidled

aside, stepping neatly out from under the saddle, then shook his head

violently

and slapped me with his tail. Horsehair, lashed hard, stings; it caught

me in an

eye, which teared immediately, and gave me cause to apply every epithet

I could

think of to the stud, who was patently unimpressed. He flicked ears,

rolled

eyes, pawed holes in turf. Threatened with tail again.

"I'll cut it off," I promised. "As far as that goes, maybe I'll cut

more than

your tail off... it might be the making of you."

He eyed me askance, blowing, then lifted his head sharply. Ears cut the

air like

blades. He quivered from head to toe.

"Mare?" I asked wryly.

But he was silent except for his breathing. A stallion, scenting a

mare, usually

sings a song loud enough to wake even the dead. He'd do the same for

another

stallion, only the noise would be a challenge. This was something

different.

I saddled him quickly, while he was distracted, untied and mounted

before he

could protest. Because of his alarm I nearly drew the sword, but

thought better

of it. Better to let the stud run than to count on an alien sword; the

stud at

least I could trust.

"All right, old man, we'll go."

He was rigid but quivering, breathing heavily. I urged him with rein,

heels, and

clicking tongue to vacate the clearing, but he was having none of it.

It was not, I thought, the beasts I'd christened hounds. The stink of

them was

gone; had been ever since I'd left Staal-Ysta. Something else, then,

and close,

but nothing I could name. I'm not a horse-speaker, but I know a little

of equine

habits; enough to discard humans or other horses as the cause of the

stud's

distress. Wolves, maybe? Maybe. One had gone for him before, though he

hadn't

reacted like this.

"Now," I suggested mildly, planting booted heels.

He twitched, quivered, sashayed sideways, snorted. But at least he was

moving;

insisting, I aimed him eastward. He skittered out of the clearing and

plunged

through sparse trees, splattering slush and mud. Breathing like a

bellows

through nostrils opened wide.

It was an uneasy peace. The stud was twitchy, jumping at shapes and

shadows

without justification. Most times, he is a joy, built to go on forever

without

excess commentary. But when he gets a bug up his rump he is a pain in

mine, and

his behavior deteriorates into something akin to war.

Generally, the best thing to do is ride it out. The stud has been a

trustworthy

companion for nearly eight years, and worth more than many men. But his

actions

now jarred the half-healed wound, putting me decidedly out of sorts. I

am big

but not heavy-handed; he had no complaints of his mouth. But there were

times he

tempted me, and this was one of them.

I bunched reins, took a deeper seat, and slammed heels home. He jumped

surprise, snorting, then bent his head around to slew a startled eye at

me.

"That's right," I agreed sweetly. "Are you forgetting who's boss?"

Which brought back, unexpectedly, something I'd heard before; something

someone

had said regarding the stud and me. A horse-speaker, a Northerner:

Garrod. He'd

said too much of our relationship was taken up in eternal battling over

which of

us was master.

Well, so it was. But I hate a predictable life.

The stud swished his tail noisily, shook his head hard enough to

clatter brasses

hanging from his headstall, then fell out of his stiff-legged, rump-

jarring gait

into a considerably more comfortable long-walk.

Tension eased, pain bled away; I allowed myself a sigh. "Not so hard,

is it?"

The stud chose not to answer.

East, and a little north. Toward Ysaa-den, a settlement cradled high in

jagged

mountains, near the borderlands. It was from Ysaa-den that reports of

beast-caused deaths had been brought to Staal-Ysta, to the voca, who

had the

duty to send sword-dancers when Northerners were in need.

Others had wanted the duty. But I, with my shiny new Northern title,

outranked

those who requested the duty. And so it was given to me. To the

Southron

sword-dancer who was now also a kaidin, having earned the rank in

formal

challenge.

I tracked the hounds by spoor, though with slush dwindling daily there

was

little left to find. Prints in drying mud were clear, but snowmelt

shifted

still-damp mud and carried the tracks away. I rode with my head cocked

sideways,

watching for alterations, but what I saw was clear enough: the beasts

cut the

countryside diagonally northeast with no thought to their backtrail, or

anything

set on it. Ysaa-den was their target as much as Del had been.

We had come down from above the timberline, now skirting the hem of

upland

forests, slipping down from bare-flanked peaks. Uplands, downlands; all

terms

unfamiliar to me, desert-born and bred, until Del had brought me north.

Only two

months before; it seemed much longer to me. Years, maybe longer. Too

long for

either of us.

The turf remained winter-brown and would, I thought, for a while.

Spring in the

uplands was soft in coming, tentative at best. I knew it could still

withdraw

its favor, coyly turning its back to give me snow in place of warmth.

It had

happened once before, all of a week ago, when a storm had rendered the

world

white again and my life a misery.

The trees were still bare of leaves, except for those with spiky green

needles.

The sky between them was blue, a brighter, richer blue, promising

warmer

weather. Beyond lay jagged mountains scraping color out of the sky.

Pieces of

the peaks lay tumbled on the ground, rounded by time into boulders

scattered

loosely here and there, or heaped into giant cairns like piles of

oracle bones.

Chips and rubble fouled the track, making it hard to read. The stud

picked his

way noisily, hammering iron on stone. Stone, as always, gave.

In the South, spring is different. Warmer, certainly. Quicker with its

favors.

But much too short for comfort; in weeks it would be summer, with the

Punja set

to blazing beneath the livid eye of the sun. It was enough to burn a

man black;

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Sword-MakerSwordMakerBook3oftheSwordDancerseriesByJenniferRobersonSwordMakerTableofContentsProloguePartI:One,Two,Three,Four,Five,Six,Seven,Eight,Nine,Ten,Eleven,Twelve,Thirteen,Fourteen,Fifteen,Sixteen,SeventeenPartII:One,Two,Three,Four,Five,Six,Seven,Eight,Nine,Ten,ElevenPartIII:One,Two,Three,Four,...

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