“This is a Vashni custom,” I said. “I’m not Vashni.”
“But you dream,” he countered, “and your dreams trouble you. If you can walk them, you’ll understand what it is you’re to do.”
Del and I asked it simultaneously. “Do?”
He smiled. “Listen,” he said. “Find the stillness. Walk the dreams. They will tell you.”
I glared. “You’re being obscure again.”
Oziri rose with his bota of noxious liquid. He glanced briefly at Del, then looked down at me. “They are your dreams,” he said. “It’s for you to find the meaning in obscurity.”
I waited until the doorflap fell behind him. Then I flopped down on my back, grabbed the nearest waterskin, and dragged it over my face. I growled sheer frustration into leather.
After a moment Del lifted the bota to examine my expression. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave tomorrow?”
I yanked the waterskin out of her hand and let it settle its gurgling weight over my face again. “Don’t interfere.” My words were muffled by leather. “I’m trying to smother myself.”
“With a bota?”
“Why not?”
“I can think of better ways.”
“Oh?”
She peeled the bota back, tipped it off my face. She studied me a moment. Then, as she leaned over my face, her mouth came down on mine.
When she was done, I reminded her that kiss or no kiss, I could still breathe.
She kissed me again. This time she also pinched my nose closed.
I ruined the moment—and the kiss—by laughing. Del removed her fingers, removed her mouth, and stared down into my face. Loose hair tickled my neck.
“Are you truly all right?” she asked.
I was still grinning. “I seem to be.” I threaded fingers into silken hair. “It really was like a dream. Except it didn’t feel like mine. It felt like—his. Or, rather, it felt like his life, and I was there. Watching.” I frowned, stroking the ends of her hair across my mouth. “Except it was more vivid. I could smell, and taste, and feel, too. Usually I just see and hear in my dreams.”
Del nodded. “Are you going to go to Oziri tomorrow?”
“You were the one who said it’d be rude to refuse.”
“That was before you collapsed in a heap with your eyes rolled up in your head.”
The image was perversely intriguing. “They did that?”
“They did.”
I felt my eyelids. “Hmmm.”
“Very dramatic,” Del added. “I thought you might break out into prophecy at any moment.”
“You did not,” I said sternly. “Besides, that doesn’t really happen. Only in stories.”
Del shrugged. “Jamail apparently did it. That’s why the Vashni called him the Oracle.”
I gazed up at her. I didn’t want to think about dream-walking or oracles or stillness anymore. I tugged her hair. “Come down here.”
Del followed the pressure on her hair and stretched out next to me.
“Just how tired are you?” I asked.
She suppressed a smile. “Oh, very tired. Extremely tired. Excessively tired. Far too tired for what you have in mind.”
I sighed very deeply. Extremely, excessively deeply. “And here I was hoping it might be you I dreamed about.”
Her fingers were on my belt, working at the buckle. “If you walk anywhere,” she said, “I’m going with you.”
The belt fell away. I arched my back so she could pull it out from under me. It took but a moment to free myself of the damp burnous. Then I performed for her the identical service, stripping away folds of cloth.
I turned her under me, taking weight onto knees and elbows. “How tired was that again?”
Del’s hand moved downward from my ribs. Closed. “You tell me.”
True to my word—well, actually it was true to Del’s expectations, because I didn’t feel like opening a debate—I met her for a brief match the next morning. The last time we’d sparred was aboard ship on the way to Haziz, and it had been Del’s task to challenge me enough to help me regain fitness and timing as I adapted to the lack of little fingers. This time it would be me leading her through the forms trying to improve her fitness.
She had, of course, not bothered to don her burnous. Her cream-color leather tunic showed the aftermath of her encounter with the sandtiger, but a Vashni woman had patched it and stitched up the rents as Del recovered. The new leather didn’t match, being the pale yellow hue of foothills deer, but the tunic was whole again.
Del, however, wasn’t. In exploring her body the night before I’d examined with fingers and mouth the scars she bore, but I’d seen none of them. I knew better than to react as she exited the hyort, sword in hand—I was already outside—but inwardly I quailed to see the damage. Her right forearm bore a knurled purplish lump of proud flesh around the puncture wound and a vivid ditch left by a canine tooth as she’d wrenched her arm free. At the point of her jaw a claw tip had nicked flesh clear to bone. There were other scars, I knew—those stretching from breast tops to collar bones; and the punctures and claw wounds, not to mention the cautery scar atop her left shoulder—but the tunic covered them.
I caught her eye, then tossed her the leather thong I’d bought with a smile from a Vashni woman repairing a hyort panel. Del caught it, suspended it in midair, noted the curving black claws. Between them, acting as spacers, were the lumpy red-gold beads formed of heartwood tree resin. She’d worn them strung as a necklet as I wore my claws; I’d stolen them earlier this morning, since the Vashni had taken the necklet off to treat her wounds.
“Welcome,” I said, “to the elite group of people who’ve survived sandtiger attacks.”
Del looked at me over the necklet. “How many are there in this elite group?”
“As far as I know, two.”
She nodded, half-smiling, and hooked the necklet one-handed over her head. “Too long,” she murmured. “I’ll shorten it later.” Then she lifted her sword and placed both hands around the grip. “Shall we dance?”
“Spar,” I corrected.
Her jaw tightened. “Spar.”
“Until I say to stop.”
That did not please her. “You’ll say to stop after one engagement.”
“I will not. Three, maybe.” I waved fingers at her in a come-here gesture. “We’re too close to the fire ring. Let’s go out into the common area.”
“Here, then.” Del tossed me her unsheathed blade, which I managed to catch without cutting off any vital parts—I scowled at her even as she smiled sunnily—and accompanied me out to the common as she worked at the knot in the leather thong.
By the time we reached the spot I’d selected, she’d shortened the necklet and retied the knot. Then she flipped her braid behind her shoulder, gestured for the sword, and caught it deftly as I tossed it. Well, that ability she hadn’t lost.
More than two weeks before, I had been clawed and sick from sandtiger poison, then unceremoniously hauled off to Umir’s with both hands tied at the wrists, and imprisoned in a small room out of the sun and air. Such things should conspire to rob me of any pretense to fitness and flexibility, but I’d spent my ten days of imprisonment profitably in near-constant exercise accompanied by good food and restful sleep. I had then met an excellent sword-dancer in the circle, which had the effect of not only challenging my body but my confidence. Aside from missing two fingers—actually, because of missing two fingers—I was in the best condition I’d been in for years.
Del, on the other hand.… Inwardly I shook my head, even as I pointed to the spot where I wanted her to stand. I took up my own position, closed my hands on leather wrapping, nodded. She came at me.
It is impossible to spar in silence. Steel brought against steel has a characteristic sound; blade brought against blade is unmistakable. Before long we had gathered onlookers. I was too focused on the match to listen to what they said, but many comments were exchanged. I didn’t doubt some of them had to
do with a man meeting a woman; Vashni women, who look every bit as fierce as their men, do not avail themselves of the sword. No women in the South did. Oracle’s sister or no, once again Del was opening eyes and minds to the concept that a woman too could fight.
Probably everyone watching expected me to “win.” But, as I’ve said before, that’s not what sparring is all about. Del and I worked until the sweat ran down her flushed face, the breath was harsh in her throat, and her forearms trembled. I let her make one more foray against me, turned it back easily, then called a halt.
“Don’t fall down,” I told her cheerfully as she stood there breathing hard, “or they’ll think I’m punishing you unduly.”
Del shot me a scowl.
“Not bad,” I commented.
The scowl deepened.
“Go cool off,” I ordered.
She wanted very badly to say something to me, but she hadn’t the wind for it. Instead she turned, visibly collected herself, and stalked back through the ring of hyorts. Upon reaching ours, I did not doubt, she’d suck down water, then collapse. Or collapse, then suck down water. Once she could move again. Actually, she’d gone longer than I had expected. It was sheer determination and stubbornness that carried her, but such things count, too, when it comes to survival.
After the physical exertion, the taste of Oziri’s herbs was back in my throat. I hacked, leaned, spat. Heard onlookers discussing the origins of the scar carved into one set of ribs. I wanted badly to tell them Del had been the one to put it there so they’d understand she was indeed a legitimate sword-dancer, but I decided against it. Anything that demoted me from jhihadi could well end in my execution, if I believed Oziri’s explanation that anyone else in Vashni territory was put to death. And I had no reason to disbelieve him. One had only to look at all the human bones hanging around the necks of men and women alike.
I turned to follow the departed Del, found a warrior standing in my path. “Oziri,” he said merely.
Numerous refusals ran through my mind. All of them were discarded. Glumly, carrying a naked blade, I followed the warrior.
TWENTY-ONE
I DUCKED inside Oziri’s hyort. “Do you mind if I check on Del?—oh, hoolies, not this again!” I waved herb smoke from my face. “I thought you said this wasn’t necessary.”
Oziri was once again seated on furs. The hyort, as before, was closed and stuffy. “It won’t be necessary, eventually. It is now.”
“You going to give me another bone?”
He tossed a pinch of herb on the coals with an eloquent gesture. “No. This time I want you to walk your own dream.”
I squinted against the smoke. “You want me to dream while I’m awake?”
“Not to dream but to recall your dreams. In detail. That is the walk. A man with the art may summon them at any time, may return to them, so he may understand their message.”
“And what happens if he doesn’t wish to understand anything? If he just wants to go on about his life like everyone else, blessedly ignorant?”
“A man with the art can’t ignore such things. There is no blessing in ignorance, only danger.”
I eyed him warily. “Where are you going with this?”
Oziri sighed. “You have, I’m sure, been bitten by sandflies.”
I blinked, wondering what that had to do with anything. “Anyone who lives in the desert has.”
“And you recall the fierce itching that accompanies such bites.”
Dryly I said, “Anyone who lives in the desert does.”
“And if you were bitten but could not scratch?” Oziri smiled faintly. “It would be hoolies, as you call it.”
An understatement. “So?”
“Consider dreams as sandflies, and walking them, understanding them, is the scratching of the itch. One or two sandfly bites, unscratched, are bearable, if annoying, but what of an infestation? Bite upon bite upon bite, until your flesh is swollen on the bones. Without relief. No scratch for the itch.”
I grimaced, wanting to scratch simply because of the image he painted. “If you say so; I’m not going to argue with my host. But we haven’t established that I have any art.”
There was—almost—a scowl on Oziri’s face. “Last night we established that indeed you have the art, when you reacted to the bone. Now you must learn to walk the dreams, to recall them at will, so you may understand them.” He paused. “And scratch the itch.”
“Uh-huh. And the sandflies are supposed to give me messages.” I started to laugh, but then without warning something boiled up inside me, an abrupt and painful frustration so desperate, so powerful, it overwhelmed. I wanted to wheel around, tear the doorflap open, stride away from the hyort. I wanted to get Del, throw our belongings into pouches, saddle the horses and go. Just go. Forever. Away.
I wanted to run.
To run.
Oziri’s eyes flickered. “I know.”
Stunned, ashamed, angry, I guarded neither words nor tone. “You know nothing.”
“I know,” he repeated.
The anger separated itself from frustration. It was an alien kind of anger, shaped not of rage and therefore comprehensible but of a cold, quiet bitterness. “Do you have any idea,” I began softly, with careful clarity, “how many people have told me I have arts? Gifts? Powers? Have you any idea what it is to be told, again and again, that if that art, or that power, is ignored, it could drive me mad? Kill me on the spot? Shorten my lifespan?” I shook my head, hand tightening on my sword as every muscle in my body tensed. “I was nothing. I was a slave. How is it that strangers—you, Sahdri, Nihko, others—can see something I can’t feel? How can you tell me I must do this thing, that thing, whatever thing it may be, or the price will be too high to pay?”
He closed his eyes a moment.
“I’m just a man, Oziri! Nothing more. That’s all I ever wanted to be, when I was a slave. A man. And free. To go where I want, be what I want. No arts. No gifts. No powers. No end-of-life-as-I-know-it punishment if I don’t—if I can’t—measure up. Messiah?—Hah. Mage?—I want nothing to do with magic, thank you. And now dream-walker?” I shook my head vehemently. “No. Never. I don’t want it. And if that means you want to kill me because I’m not what the Oracle prophesied, so be it. I’ll meet anyone in the circle you like. Because that’s what I am. Just a man with a little skill, a lot of training… and no need at all to contend with arts and gifts and powers, be they Southron, Northern, Skandic, Vashni, or anything else.” I shook my head again as tension and anger, now vented, began to bleed away into weary resignation. “This is your art, Oziri, this dream-walking. Not mine.”
After a moment he lowered his eyes and gazed into the coals. His fingers twitched, as if he wished to take up herbs and toss them into the fire. But he didn’t. He simply sat there, expression oddly vulnerable for a Vashni warrior, and after a moment his mouth twisted as if he were in pain.
Then he met my eyes. “Will you trust me to lead you through?”
The question astounded me. “I just told you—”
“Yes. And I understand; your truth is a hard one, even for a priest. I have no intention of killing you; we accept what the Oracle prophesied—wait.” He lifted a hand to belay my immediate protest. “A man is welcome to his own beliefs, yes?”
It took effort to accede, but I dipped my head in a stiff nod.
“We have hosted the woman, the Oracle’s sister; and the young man who brought her here. And now we have hosted you. I ask that the jhihadi repay us by allowing me to lead him through this dream-walk.”
The ice of anger was gone; its bluntness remained. “But it doesn’t mean anything. Not to me.”
“Then you lose nothing but a portion of time, while I…” Oziri smiled ruefully. “Well, it means a great deal to me. I risk losing a portion of my reputation. The Vashni hold priests to be incapable of mistakes.”
I couldn’t help but mock. “Will they kill you for it and boil the flesh off your bones?”
“No.”
<
br /> I shrugged with deliberate exaggeration. “Then it’s not so much of a risk after all, is it?”
“They will boil the flesh off my bones without giving me the mercy of death beforehand.”
It banished all derision, all protests, precisely as he intended. It’s hard to ridicule that kind of imagery when you know it isn’t falsehood.
I still wanted to walk away. But his time cost more than mine.
Finally I nodded. “Then let’s get it done. What do you want me to do?”
“Be seated. Be at ease. Trust me to lead you through.”
I grunted dubiously. “I can’t promise either of the last two.”
“Then achieve the first.” Oziri paused. “And lay down your sword. It is hard for me to trust a man with a blade in his hand when he is the Sandtiger.”
Once I would have been flattered. Now I just wanted to get it over with. I seated myself on the other side of the fire and set down the sword not far from my knee.
“Breathe,” Oziri suggested. “I believe we have established you have that art.”
I shot him a disgruntled look. He threw more herbs on the coals. I gritted my teeth and tried not to cough.
“Find your stillness.”
That particular recommendation was really beginning to grate on me. I watched suspiciously as he cupped both hands and wafted smoke at me. Another pinch of herbs went on the fire. “All right,” I muttered, and drew in a deep breath. “Now what?”
“What did you dream last night?”
Oddly enough, I couldn’t remember. I’d slept very well after Del and I had made love, and no recollection tickled my memory. Maybe, after the dream-walking lesson, I was all dreamed out. “I’m not sure I did.”
Oziri, saying nothing, took a generous amount of herbs from two bowls. He dumped them on the coals. A cloud of pungent smoke wreathed the air between us, then drifted unerringly into my face. It was nothing so much as a challenge to prove him wrong. To allow my childish obstinance to sentence him to death.
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