It wasn’t easy getting through the slot. Neesha had been right about leaving layers of skin on the rock. But the grease served me well, and at last I scraped myself into the chimney.
The chamber was small, about one-quarter the size of the original circle. Sunlight worked its way down through cracks, illuminating the area, but the chimney wasn’t a chimney anymore. Mostly it was a pile of rocks and sections of ribbed wall. But the floor was still the pale Punja sand Del and I had discovered before.
I glanced around. Found what I expected: Del’s jivatma. Boreal lay in two pieces. I didn’t touch them. I set down my sword and bent to unlace my sandals. When that was done, I stripped out of my dhoti. I collected my sword, moved to the center of what remained of the chimney chamber, and sat down cross-legged with the jivatma across my thighs.
In fractured light, I looked at my hands. Two thumbs, three fingers on each. The stubs were no less obvious than before, but I hadn’t really noticed them for a while. The training I’d done on the island near Haziz still served me. Since settling in the canyon, I had spent every day working through the forms, keeping myself fit. Sparring matches with Neesha and Alric — I had refused to fight Del once I knew she was pregnant, which irritated her to no end — maintained my speed, strength, and technique. In fact, Alric said I was better than before.
If that were true, it was because something inside me, some facet of the magic, lent me an edge. When I danced, I felt four fingers on the hilt. Not three. My grip was the grip it had been before losing them. And I had no explanation. Only gratitude.
I closed my hands lightly over the sword. Went into my head. Dug into my soul. Peeled the flesh off the bones, shed muscle and viscera, until I found the magic buried so deep inside.
It wasn’t a flame, but a coal. It burned steadily, unceasingly, using me as the fuel. It would kill me one day, merely because it existed. Because my mother was of the Stessoi, one of the gods-descended Eleven Families of Skandi, and those gods had been capricious enough to set their mark on me even as my mother, and I, lay dying in the Punja near my father’s body. Because I was ioSkandic, a mage of Meteiera, meant to leap from the spire to merge with the gods when the madness overcame me.
In ten years. Twelve.
I had a son. A daughter. I had Delilah.
I wanted to live forever.
Or at least as long as I possibly could as man, not mage, without the interference of a magic I never wanted. Even though I’d used it.
"Find me" she had said, "and take up the sword."
My mother had died giving birth to me. But she had served me nonetheless by setting me on the road to this place. To this moment. To this decision.
No other was possible.
I found the coal inside. Took it up. Blew gently upon it. Felt the heat rise; saw the flame leap. I coddled it. Cradled it. Nursed it into being. Kept it alive. Bade it serve me.
Made it serve me.
Once I had had a sorcerer inside me. And in my jivatma.
It was time to put the mage that was me in the jivatma. The power, if not the man.
For the first time since I’d been reborn atop the spire in Meteiera, I thanked the priest-mages who had altered mind and body. Because in doing so they had given me the key.
Discipline.
"Mother," I said aloud; and discovered how odd it was to use the word as an address. A title. "Mother, you bred me for this. Bred it in me, bequeathing me something else of your people besides height, coloring, even keraka. Magic, magery, is not a gift I desire, or require. I wanted freedom — and won it because of Stessoi magic. I wanted to be a sword-dancer — and became one because of Skandic strength, the heritage of you, my father, and everyone before us. But now comes the time for me to look forward instead of backward. To, as Del would say, make a new song. To do that, I must make a new man. One who wishes to live for the children he has made, children who are of Stessoi flesh and bone even as I am. But also of the North, and of the South. If to do that I must cut away a part of me that you gifted me, so be it. I have made the choice."
There was no answer. I had no bone to fuel the dream-walk. But I had clarity of purpose, and the certainty to fuel that.
It took time. It nearly took me. But I felt the flame of the power become conflagration, feasting on my flesh. I poured it into and through my arms, down into the sword. Into Samiel, whose song I sang in a broken, shaking voice.
Discipline.
And when it was done, when the magic that had, at age sixteen, won me my freedom, resided in the sword, I stood up from the sand. Walked to the chimney wall. Found a crevice. I thrust the jivatma blade into the stone as deeply as I could.
And then I broke it.
I was a sword-dancer. It was all the magic I needed.
I smiled even as I wept. Even as I placed the two halves of the broken jivatma with Del’s. Even as I shakily put on dhoti and sandals and went back through the slot, leaving layers of grease and skin.
In the tunnel, I collected my empty harness.
When I walked up the canyon I was thinking about Del. Not about circles, or sword-dancers, or elaii-ali-ma. Not about challenges. Not about dancing. Not about the price for breaking lifelong oaths.
Certainly not about Abbu Bensir. But he was there. And I understood why. On this day of all days, we had finally arrived at the moment we both had known would come: the dance that would define us both.
He stepped out of the doorway of my house as I approached. He wore only a dhoti and held a sword. "You were hard to find," he told me, "but then I heard about Alric and his family heading down here with a kid who’d been seen with you and Del, and I knew."
I said nothing. I waited.
His tone changed. "Sandtiger," he said, "by the rite of elaii-ali-ma I am not required to challenge you or to meet you in the circle. I am required only to kill you. But I have not forgotten the ignorant boy who, all unknowing, taught me a lesson before others at Alimat, even before the shodo. For that, I will offer you the honor of meeting me in the circle."
Very slowly, I unbuckled my harness. Dropped it to the ground. Spread my hands. I had no sword; I could not accept.
Abbu Bensir smiled. "The boy has said he will lend you his."
The boy. My son. Who had once been taught by the man before me.
"Where are they?" I asked.
Abbu stepped out of the doorway into the yard. Neesha came out. And Alric.
The big Northerner said, "Lena’s with Del. She’s fine."
"Does she know?"
Something spasmed briefly in Alric’s face. "She’s asleep."
Ah. Well, probably for the best.
Abbu nodded. "I have asked the boy to start the dance for us. Shall we waste no more time?"
"The boy," I said, "has a name."
"Nayyib. I know. I met him some years ago, apparently, though I confess I don’t recall." He flicked a glance at Neesha, standing white-faced in the dooryard. "Give him your sword."
We had met several times, Abbu and I. That first time at Alimat, when I nearly crushed his throat. His voice still bore the scars. Once or twice after that, merely to spar because we ran into each other in a distant desert town with no other entertainment. Then for years, nothing. The South is a large place, and we ranged it freely. We were to meet again at Iskandar during the contest, but I’d been kicked in the head by the stud and was in no shape to dance. More recently, we had met at Sabra’s palace, where I had aborted the dance by declaring elaii-ali-ma.
To this day neither of us knew which was the better man.
I walked over to Neesha and looked him in the eye. "I thank you for the honor of the use of your sword."
He wanted to speak. Didn’t. Just unsheathed and gave me his sword.
I led Abbu to one of the sparring circles and waited. He studied it, walking the perimeter, noting how the turf was incised and marked with small pegs denoting the circle, so the grass wouldn’t cover it. Inside, the meadowgrass was beaten down, crushed by fee
t. He walked there, too, to learn the footing. In a strange place, we would not have done so; but this was my home, and Abbu was due the chance to learn what its circle was like. He set his sword in the center, then walked away. I did the same. We faced one another from opposite sides.
He was older than I, smaller, lighter. But he’d always been fleet of foot. Age lay on him more heavily than the last time we’d met, but he was as fit as ever.
"I hear you danced against Musa."
So, he knew him. Or knew of him. "Umir’s idea. But yes. I did."
"I hear you killed him."
"He insisted."
"Ah." Abbu nodded. "Musa was a proud boy. I did warn him it would get him killed one day, if he didn’t quench it. I didn’t believe it would be this soon."
"How well did you know him?"
"I taught him. Oh, not as the shodo taught us. He didn’t stay with me for years, learning the forms. He came to me with a natural skill honed by other instructors: the sword-dancers he’d already defeated. He wished to defeat them all and desired my help. When I saw how he danced, I gave it to him." His creased face tautened briefly. "I did not believe you could defeat him."
I nodded. "Neither did Musa."
Dark eyes flicked to Neesha. "Now."
Neesha stood two paces away. Alric had moved to stand behind me, well out of the way.
I looked at my son and nodded.
His jaw clenched. "Dance."
It was a fast-moving, vicious fight, unlike anything Abbu and I had engaged in before. But then, though not friends, we had been friendly rivals, more interested in the challenge. We had never fought to the death. Even before Sabra, he had retained the honor I’d always seen in him, doing his best to respect the honor codes despite Sabra’s desire for me to die.
He respected those codes now. But this time he wanted me dead.
Within four engagements each of us had drawn blood. I had a slash across one thigh and a cut along my ribs, matching the one Musa had given me on the other side. Blood dripped from the inside of Abbu’s right arm, but it wasn’t a mortal wound. We were a long way from dying.
And I had discovered that the ritual I performed to rid myself of the magic had also tired me. I felt as if a part of me were missing; and maybe it was. The fingers were. No more was there the odd conviction that they were still attached. My hands were as Sahdri had made them: a thumb and three fingers, no more. The stumps were sore. My grip was weakened. As Abbu engaged my blade again, the sword twisted in my hands.
Abbu Bensir was not as young as Musa, but he was far wiser. He would not make the mistake Musa had.
And I could die for it.
My world closed down. My mind registered all of the factors that affected a dance, such as footing, footwork; how the light lay; the reach of blades and arms; the rhythm of my breathing and his; even the blood running down my flesh. The canyon was filled with the belling of blades, the screech of steel on steel.
Yet again his blade touched me, slashing high across one hip. I broke away, stumbled, felt more blood running, saw the light in Abbu’s eyes. He came in, blade raised and moving. I blocked it, held it, spun away. Felt the pain in my hip. Felt the sudden tilt of the world.
I took a step forward. Went down. Caught myself with both hands splayed against the ground. The hilt of Neesha’s sword remained beneath my right hand, but I couldn’t grasp it properly. The stump banged against leather grip, sending fire through my arm.
Abbu came on. I grabbed the fallen blade, stayed on my knees, brought the hilt up. I planted the pommel in his belly even as his sword sang down on the diagonal, slicing straight into the meat up my upper arm. I felt the steel grate on bone.
But Abbu had lost the impetus of his blow when I jabbed the sword hilt into his abdomen. He fell back, gasping, slightly hunched. I got to my feet, aware that the wound was a bad one. The arm didn’t want to work. I wavered, nearly fell down, caught my balance with effort. Blinked as sweat ran into my eyes.
Abbu went to one knee. He cradled his lower belly with his left arm. His face was gray.
I was one-armed now. I stayed on my feet with effort, aware of the roaring in my ears. And then, as it so often did, time slowed for me. I had no magic, but I had skill and the odd accuity that always served me.
Abbu got up. He winced as he straightened, then wrapped both hands around his sword hilt. He came across the circle. Slowly. So slowly.
I saw the blade rise. Saw my blood on it. As he came on, I let go of the sword — Neesha’s sword — in midair and caught it upside down as it hung there at the apex. I held it overhand now, the pommel exiting above my thumb. I pulled it and my arm back across my body, elbow bent; as Abbu closed, I snapped my arm toward him in a backhanded, punching thrust, keeping the power close to my body. The desperate maneuver allowed Abbu inside, to make contact with my body, but by then my blade had been shoved straight through his body. I heard his outcry, felt the warmth of his breath on my face, took his weight on my right shoulder as he fell forward.
With the last bit of my strength, I thrust him away from me with my right arm, letting him take Neesha’s sword. He fell hard, full-length, his head smacking dully against the ground. The sword stood up from his body.
They were with me then, Neesha and Alric. I felt hands on me, holding me upright, supporting my left arm. Someone tied something around my upper arm to try to slow the bleeding. But I pushed them away, staggered to Abbu. Saw the blood on his lips. Before I could say a word, before I could speak the ritual blessing for a seventh-level sword-dancer at the edge of death, he was gone.
Over.
Ended.
The first of the shodo’s greatest lay dead in the circle.
This time I didn’t fight them as Alric and Neesha gathered me up, kept me on my feet, aimed me toward the house. We were nearly there when I saw Del in the doorway. Hollows lay like bruises under her eyes, and her lips were pale. One hand clutched the doorjamb; the other lay across her mouth, as if to physically restrain the fear that she would not confess.
But a smile of relief began behind the hand, and she lifted her fingers away. She reached out, closed that hand on the back of my neck, shakily pulled me close. Her robes were immediately soaked with my blood. "Come inside."
Alric and Neesha got me there. Del directed them to the bed in the other room. I protested weakly. "What about the baby?"
"She’s in the cradle," Del told me. "She missed her father proving once and for all that he is the greatest sword-dancer in the South."
"Well," I gasped, "she’ll probably see it again."
Alric and Neesha helped me to sit on the bed. Unconsciousness crowded in. I was aware of people moving around, bandaging me, of words exchanged about a heating knife; but none of it made any sense. Everything felt distant.
"What about you?" I asked Del, even as they made me lie down.
She had moved around to the other side of the bed. She sat down, caught her breath, then took my right hand. "I’m here."
I wanted to tell her she had no business sitting up in bed hanging onto me so I could hang onto her, but then Alric thrust a twist of cloth between my teeth, told Neesha to hold my arm, and pressed the red-hot knife blade against the wound in my upper arm.
I woke the baby up. Del said something about having two screaming infants in her house, and then she very suddenly lay down next to me.
Ridding my mouth of cloth, I croaked, "You all right?"
Her head moved against mine in a weak nod.
I glanced at Alric, who was dropping the knife into a wooden bowl. "You enjoyed that. Making me yell."
He grinned. "So I did."
Now I looked at Neesha. "Still want to be a sword-dancer, after seeing that?"
He drew in a breath. "After seeing that, I want to be nothing else."
Guess it was in the kid’s blood after all. I smiled faintly to tell him I approved, then rolled my head toward Del. I heard the sounds of Neesha and Alric leaving. The baby had gone back to
sleep. I thought her mother was on the verge herself. "You awake?"
Her voice was a breath of sound. "Barely."
"I have a question."
She was fading fast. So was I. "What?"
"Who’s really the best? You or me?"
Del lifted her head enough to stare at me in wide-eyed, rigid disbelief. Then dropped it back down again. "I guess we’ll just have to have a dance to find out."
"All right. Tomorrow?"
"Fine," she murmured.
I turned my head enough to feel her hair against my face. Opened my mouth to tell her we’d have to be vigilant about the men who lusted after our daughter — and then exhaustion hit me over the head with a cantina stool.
A woman. A son. A daughter.
Was this what I had expected?
No.
But it was what I had dared to dream, at night among the Salset.
FB2 document info
Document ID: xitsa-09ce5701-84d5dfcb-0c3845ca-529dcfc3
Document version: 1.1
Document creation date: 2013-12-09
Created using: FB Tools, sed, VIM, Far, asciidoc+fb2 backend software
Document authors :
Stas Bushuev (Xitsa)
Document history:
Version 1.1: Converted to FictionBook 2 (Xitsa)
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
Sword Sworn ss-6 Page 38
