Sword-Maker(10)

Or did she do it to tell me the same?

Hoolies, that was done with. The circle had made its choice.

All in white, Delilah: in the South, the color of mourning; in the North, I didn’t know. Belted tunic, baggy trousers. Heavy cloak, free of all adornment, save for the moonwashed silver of fur gaiters cross-gartered around her shins, and brown leather bracers warding most of her forearms. They shone with silver bosses, as did her belt; silver brooches clasped the cloak. Loose hair tumbled over her shoulders.

I thought: I can’t do this.

And knew somehow I would.

“Well,” I said lightly, “what do you offer a wraith?”

“Amnit,” she said, “if you have it.”

There was nothing in her tone except familiar quietude. No trace of emotion; I hoped mine showed the same.

“Oh, a bota or two.” I pulled one up from the ground, let it dangle from my hand. The leather bag twisted on its thong, then unwound in the other direction in a slow, predictable spiral.

She sat silently in her saddle, watching the bota spin. In the poor light her eyes were black. Too black in a too-white face.

Oh, hoolies, bascha. What do we do now?

She watched the bota spin.

Wondering what to say?

No, not Del. She hones words as well as weapons, but uses them less often.

She finally looked at me. “I came because I need you.”

Deep in my gut, something spasmed.

Del’s voice was steady; she gives little away in speech. “No one will dance with me.”

Of course. That. Nothing else, for her. Her needs are different from mine.

The wound ached afresh. I set the bota down, carefully exhaling. “Oh?”

“No one,” she repeated. This time I heard it clearly: pain, anguish, grief. In Del, always muted. Nearly always hidden. Often not present at all.

Anger stirred. I suppressed it instantly, idly rubbing a bearded chin. “But you think I will.”

The gelding stomped. Del sat it out, hands only loosely holding reins across the pommel of her saddle. Her eyes were very steady. “You are the Sandtiger. Southron, not Northern. My dishonor means nothing to you.” For only a moment, she paused. “After all, you were the victor.”

I made no answer at first, letting the words settle. Victor, was I? In a way; I had won the dance, and therefore won my freedom. But winning is often losing; the taste of victory, in this case, was decidedly bittersweet.

I stared hard at the glow of the cairn. Coals and color ran together, filling up my eyes. Quietly, I said, “I very nearly died.”

Softly, when she could, “I traveled farther than you.”

I looked at her sharply. The residue of fireglow overlay her face, hiding expression from me. And then it faded, slowly, and I saw the expression. Saw the determination.

I wanted to laugh. Here we were arguing over which of us had come closer to dying, and each of us responsible for the other’s circumstances.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. And then both emotions spilled away. In their place was anger. “I nearly killed you, Del. I stepped into that circle hoping only to beat you, to stop you, and yet I nearly killed you.” I shook my head. “It’s different now. Nothing can be the same.”

“Sameness remains,” she countered quietly. “There are still things I must do before my song is sung.”

“Like what?” I demanded. “Hunt down Ajani and kill him?”

“Yes,” Del answered simply.

Rising so abruptly pulled the new skin around my wound. But it didn’t stop me. It didn’t stop me at all. I took the shortest route: straight across the fire cairn directly to her gelding, where I reached up and caught Del’s left wrist before she could react.

It isn’t easy to take Del unaware. She knows me well enough to predict much of what I will do, but not so well as to predict everything I will do. And this time, she couldn’t.

I heard her blurt of shock as I jerked her down out of the saddle. Heard my grunt of effort mingled with her sound.

It was awkward. It was painful. She is tall and strong and quick, but now weakened by her own wound. She came free in a tangle of stirrups, cloak, harness and sword, arms and legs awry. I knew it would hurt; I meant it to hurt. But at least it hurt us both.

She came down hard. The gelding snorted and sidled away, leaving us room as he avoided further hostilities. I grunted again as my half-healed wound protested. Sweat broke out afresh.

Hoolies, this hurts.

But I didn’t regret it at all.

The pommel knot of her sword knocked me in the chin, though not hard enough to do damage. Not hard enough to loosen my grip. Not hard enough to stop me as I dumped her on the ground.

Breathing hard, I stood over her, tucking down toward the right a little to ward the wound from more pain. “You stupid, sandsick, selfish little fool, haven’t you learned anything?”