The priest-mages had taught me discipline was the key.
And conviction.
That the choice, the power, was mine. To make, and to use.
Something in me broke loose, answering. It — no, I — was swept up and up, high overhead, looking down upon the circle as I had before. Looking down upon a man, down upon myself, as I had before, and my opponent. But this time, in this circle, the opponent was not Del.
Two men, one young, one older, met within three circles: one of smooth, white-painted adobe; the second a blade-thin etching in white sand; and the third, the circle drawn in their own minds.
The younger man charged. The older met him, his smile a grimace, a rictus of effort. Muscles knotted beneath the browned flesh of both bodies, tendons stood up in ridges from neck to shoulder. Sweat bathed them, running like rivers in the hollows of straining flesh. Hands gripped hilts: four fingers, two thumbs on each.
On each.
The older welcomed the younger, challenging every fiber of his strength, every whisper of finesse, every skill and pattern he had ever learned. Challenging his belief in himself. Challenging his certainty of the older man’s defeat. And the older challenged as well his own inner fear that he was unable because he was no longer whole. In the valley, in the circle, in the shadow of stone spires, he had been whole.
And was again.
"Now," the older man roared.
Back, and back, and back. Blow after blow after blow, the older drove the younger across the circle, forced him to stagger back, and back and back; shoved him over the line; smashed him down into the sand as the onlookers moved out of the way. The younger lay on his back, red-faced and gasping, sword blade in one hand feathered with sand. The older placed a callused foot upon the flat of the blade and stepped down. Hard.
Vision faded. Detachment dissipated. I blinked. Shook sweat away from my eyes. Was, abruptly, myself again, here in Umir’s circle.
I was aware of silence. No one even breathed.
The tip of my own blade lingered at Musa’s throat, pinning him with promise. I took my left hand off the grip and looked at it. Counted three fingers.
Three, and one stub.
There had been four on the hilt. I was certain of it. Four fingers and one thumb on each hand.
How in hoolies? — never mind. Time for that later.
I bent then, breathing hard, reaching down as I shifted my left foot. I pulled Musa’s sword up from the sand, then flung it away hard to clang against the opposite wall. I flicked a glance out of the corner of my eye and saw what I had expected: Alric stood just behind Umir.
"Alric," I said between inhalations, "take that sword Umir’s servant is holding."
The big Northerner did so and quietly moved forward to place it across Umir’s throat. "Anything else?"
"Yes. Escort Umir into the house and have him give you a book."
Alric blinked. "A book?"
I smiled as I watched the color spill out of Umir’s face. "It’s called the Book of Udre-Natha. Umir places great value on it. I’m going to hold it hostage." I glanced briefly down at Musa, still lying beneath my sword. His breath was audible, chest heaving. "In the meantime, Umir will also have our horses readied — packed with food, water, grain and, of course, the book — and waiting for us in the front courtyard." Now I slid a glance over the assembled sword-dancers, swallowed, and raised my voice. "It was promised to me if I won: no one would challenge me inside Umir’s domain. Right, Umir?" No answer. "Umir, if you ever expect to get your book back —"
"Yes," he said sharply. "I did agree. I will honor that agreement."
"And I think no one here will argue over the results of this dance." I glanced down. A thin line of blood trickled across Musa’s neck, mingling with sweat. "Will they?"
Musa said nothing. Neither did anyone else.
I drew in a breath. "I made a choice that day when I stepped out of Sabra’s circle and declared elaii-ali-ma. We all of us make choices. Some are good, some bad, some are right, some wrong. And we all pay the price. I accept that I am dishonored, that I have no place among you. I made the choice. And I make another now: to let this man live."
I backed away, taking my sword with me. Musa remained sprawled in the sand a moment longer, then hitched himself up onto his elbows.
"Why?" he rasped.
I smiled. "Some day, when you meet yourself in the circle — and you will, because we all do — you’ll know."
I turned away. Musa’s sword lay against the opposite wall, well out of reach. Though I meant what I’d said, I wasn’t entirely stupid; you don’t leave a loser’s weapon close at hand.
Of course, I had reckoned without the insanity of irrational pride.
I heard him move and knew, even as I spun. Musa was up on his feet again, charging at me. Time slowed as he came: I saw the ripple of a tic in his cheek, the strain of tension reforming his facial muscles.
Oh no. No.
He came on. Despite the fact that he lacked a sword, and I did not.
Stop now. Save yourself…
But he did not. He gathered himself. Took that fatal leap. Committed himself. So I committed as well. I ran him through with my blade.
There was no triumph. I felt hollow. Empty. "You had the world," I told him, meaning it.
Musa’s world — and his legs — collapsed. He knelt in the sand, choking on blood. I withdrew the blade sheathed in his chest. Blood ran down steel and pearled in white sand.
I was aware of movement. I looked up, lifting the sword; saw men stirring. But no one spoke to protest. Musa had effectively killed himself, though I had been the man holding the blade.
Alric, escorting our friendly host, came out of the house again. "Everything’s ready."
I nodded. I cast a glance at the waiting sword-dancers. I couldn’t help but smile at the irony. "I expect I’ll see some of you again," I said, "but not for a few days or so. Until then, why not avail yourself of Umir’s hospitality? Since none of you won his offer of lifetime employment, you might as well enjoy it while you can."
I heard at my feet, from the kneeling man, an expulsion of breath. Musa seemed to fold in upon himself, upper body collapsing upon the lower. The sweat-drenched hair fell forward as his head lolled upon his neck.
A waste. A waste of pure talent, barely matched skill. Banished by pride even greater, and thus presented to death — like dessert on a plate.
The body fell.
I turned then and walked away. Alric let go of Umir. We swapped swords with practiced lateral tosses, then ducked into the shadowed coolness of Umir’s house.
"Nicely done," Alric commented.
"I thought so."
"Do you think they’ll wait until you’re out of Umir’s domain?"
I led him through the front door into the courtyard. "Not on your life." Well. Not on mine, at any rate.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
I headed for the gelding, waiting patiently with his reins in the hands of one of Umir’s grooms. A harness was attached to the pommel; I shoved the sword home in the sheath. "I am going to Julah. Aren’t you going back to Lena and the girls?"
"Eventually. Right now I thought I’d ride with a friend who’s in trouble."
"Big of you, Alric." I grabbed reins and swung up.
He grinned as he mounted his own horse. "I thought so."
I sank heels into the gelding. Together, at a gallop, the Northerner and I departed Umir’s courtyard.
FIFTEEN
Some distance from Umir’s house Alric and I fell into the walk-trot-lope combination that transported us as far and as fast as possible without ruining the horses. I discovered the white gelding, for all he was a ridiculous mount for the desert, was indeed a comfortable ride in all his gaits. Too bad he needed black paint and fringe to make it practical. And just now he lacked both after his sojourn at Umir’s; fortunately it was nearing sundown as we approached the big oasis a day’s ride from Julah.
The oasis
was a popular stopover for travelers, and thus five different routes met here. There were palm trees aplenty, plus water plants around the edges of the small artesian spring that had, over time and with human help, been widened into a pool. Desert folk honor such places by treating oases as sanctuary. Animals and humans are watered, then everyone retreats to their own patch of soil and sand to pass the night without fear of attack, Since it was early summer, more people were on the roads. The oasis was crowded.
Alric and I dismounted, led the horses to the pool, let them drink enough to cool their throats, then pulled them away and commenced the struggle of man against thirsty horse. Trouble was, they’d get sick if they drank too much too fast when they were hot. Alric and I walked them a bit as dusk approached, then led them to water again. We filled canvas horse buckets, gulped a few mouthfuls for ourselves, then made our wandering way, trailing tired horses, through the cluster of tiny campsites to find our own, settling finally for a single unclaimed palm tree on the outskirts. There we unsaddled, spent some time rubbing the horses down, then pegged them out — and carried botas back to the pool to tend our own thirst in earnest.
Kneeling at the water’s edge, I sluiced my head and face, then squirted the contents of a bota down my bare torso, front and back. Once I’d refilled the waterskin, I released a gusty exhalation of relief.
Alric, squatting nearby, grinned. "He will live?"
"He will live." I used a forearm to wipe water from my brow. "But he’s getting too old for this."
The Northerner grunted. "Didn’t look like it to me earlier today."
I inspected the thin crusted slice along one of my ribs, dismissed it as unimportant. "Trust me, I am."
Alric stoppered his bota and rose. I splashed another handful of water through damp, spiky hair, then pressed myself up from the ground. At a more decorous pace we strolled through the oasis, exchanging nods of greeting with other travelers. I smelled sausage and spiced mutton and journey-loaf baking on a flat rock. Danjacs and oxen called to various brethren, while horses snorted disdainfully down haughty noses. I thought of the molahs of Skandi and the steep, zig-zagging trail up the caldera face.
"So," Alric said, "Just what was all of that about?"
"All of what?"
"All of everything."
Back at our lone palm, we grained the horses sparingly and began to unpack our gear, unrolling and spreading blankets on the warm sand. "Elaii-ali-ma."
"Oh, I heard about that." It didn’t mean the same thing to him since he was a Northerner born and trained, but he understood what it was for me. "I mean, where have you been, what’s happened to you, how’d you lose your fingers and get those tattoos, and why did you want Umir’s book?"
"Oh, that everything." I sighed, shoved saddle pouches under one end of the blanket, stretched out with my head pillowed on wool and leather as I chewed idly at dried cumfa. I’d already told him briefly about Del’s predicament and how I hoped to catch up to her in Julah, supposing Nayyib had taken her there. "We’ve led rather interesting lives for the past several months."
Alric flopped down on his blanket, thrusting a thick, blond-furred forearm beneath his head. "I always like an entertaining story before I go to sleep."
So I told him. Not everything. Nothing about magic, save to explain that Umir’s book supposedly contained all manner of powerful spells. And nothing at all about my limited life expectancy, or my dreams of a dead woman and a sword. But I didn’t need to. Even abbreviated, it was story enough for Alric.
When I finished, he lay in silence for a time. Then he grunted. "I see I’m missing a great deal, being a staid married man with four children."
"Four! Last time you had three."
"Lena’s expecting again."
"Hoolies, Alric, you and Lena are worse than sandconeys. Do you plan to populate the entire South?"
"I like children."
"Good thing!"
"Lena likes children."
"Even better, since she has to bear them."
He cast me a speculative glance. "Don’t you ever plan to have any?"
I cast him a look in return that informed him he was sandsick.
"You and Lena can make up for my lack."
Alric laughed. "Fair enough. It gives us an excuse for more." He was sandsick. "In the morning," I said abruptly, "you head back home. There are five roads out of here; they can track us this far from Umir’s, but then they’ll have to split up to sort out where I’ve gone."
It caught him off-guard. "I’d thought to go on to Julah and help you with Del."
I shook my head. "I appreciate it, Alric, but you’ve got three children and a fourth on the way. You don’t need any part of my trouble. Go home to Lena." I might not want my own kids, but I didn’t want to be responsible for depriving others of their father. "I’ll be fine."
After a moment he agreed. "You certainly handled Musa easily enough."
"Hardly ’easily.’ I’ll feel it in the morning. Hoolies, I feel it now!"
"Musa doesn’t."
I swore with feeling. "That was sheer waste. Talent like his doesn’t come along very often."
"From what I hear, not since you did."
I made a noncommital noise. Once I might have complimented him on his insight, but Del had impressed upon me that one needn’t brag to establish one’s credentials.
Or something like that.
Chewing tough cumfa, Alric observed, "Musa made the choice. He might have let it be."
But Musa was — had been — young, supremely talented, confident, and he could not believe I had beaten him. Not a man who had dishonored himself.
After a moment, Alric asked, "Will you answer a question?"
I couldn’t figure out why he felt he had to ask permission. "Sure."
"What will you do if Delilah is dead?"
Oh. Now I knew why.
"Tiger?"
"I haven’t thought about it."
My tone did not dissuade him from further inquiry. "Not ever?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I hitched myself up on an elbow and scowled at him. "What kind of a conversation is this? How about I ask you if you’ve ever thought about what you’d do if Lena died?"
"I have. I do. Every time she goes into labor."
I blinked. It’s not the sort of thing men speak about very often, if at all. "Well, I suppose that’s a risk you have to take if you’re going to have kids." Which was a pretty lame comment, but I didn’t know what else to say. I flopped back down on my blanket. Since he’d brought it up — "So, what would you do if Lena died?"
"I have three daughters to care for. That is what I’d do."
"As a sword-dancer?"
"Oh, no. I would have to find another life. Something with no travel involved, so I would be there for my girls." He spoke so matter-of-factly about giving up the life he had always wanted. Maybe that’s what happened when you got married and had kids. Gave things up. No wonder I didn’t want any.
"As you have no children," Alric said, "what will you do if Del is dead?"
I really didn’t want to walk this particular conversational road. Especially when I had no idea where or how she was. "Go on," I replied briefly.
"Doing what? You can’t accept dances anymore."
"I own one-third of a cantina."
Alric turned to stare at me incredulously. "You’d spend the rest of your days serving liquor and wine-girls?"
"No," I replied crossly. "I mean I’d collect my share of profits. They’d be enough to live on even if I can’t dance. But it doesn’t really matter, because I have plans."
"What plans?"
"Alimat fell years ago. The shodo died. There hasn’t been one since then — at least, not of his ability." I raised my hands into the air, inspecting them. "Even if I hadn’t declared elaii-ali-ma, I’m a little bit hampered as a sword-dancer. So I thought I’d take a whack at being a shodo."
"You? A teacher?"
I scowled a
t him, lowering my hands. "Why does everyone always sound so surprised?"
Alric examined my expression. "Because you are not in general known for your patience, Tiger. And those who have a particularly rare gift for something — in your case, sword-dancing — often make the worst teachers. They can’t teach what comes to them naturally and unbidden."
"How do you know I can’t?"
"Tell me how you defeated Musa."
"I just — beat him."
"See?"
"Come on, Alric! Do you want me to give you a blow-by-blow description? You were there."
"How do you know precisely where a man will be in the circle, Tiger? How do you know what move he will make before he knows?" He grinned as I stared at him in surprise. "Yes. I have seen it in you. As I saw it on Staal-Ysta, in one of the sword-singers there. I asked him once. He couldn’t tell me. He said he simply knew. He saw it in his head."
"Time just — slows." It was the first time I had ever spoken of it to anyone. It sounded ridiculous. And impossible.
Alric sighed. "You can’t teach that, Tiger."
It stung. "You don’t know. I might be able to."
The big Northerner snorted. Then he rolled over, displaying a broad back. Such faith he had in me.
But maybe he was right. Maybe I couldn’t teach anyone anything. I just didn’t know what else I might do.
I stared into the deepening sky, watching the stars emerge out of daylight into darkness. Firelight flickered at ground level, illuminating soil and sand, the dark, angular faces of Southron travelers. The aroma of mutton and sausage drifted our way. I heard quiet murmurings in several dialects, laughter, a child crying, and a faint, yearning melody sung softly by a woman.
Bascha, I said, please don’t be dead.
* * *
I awoke to the sound of a baby screaming. At first I tried to block it out by pulling a corner of the blanket over my head, but it didn’t help. Eventually I gave up, squinted out at the early morning sun, then pushed myself upright. Musa may have landed only one minor blow, but the dance alone had resulted in sore muscles.
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