Sword-Maker(111)

“I’d never ask it of you.”

No, maybe not that. “But you did try to sell my soul to Staal-Ysta for a year.”

Del stiffened beside me. “And how many years will you remind me?”

I lay there not breathing. Not because of her tone, which was a combination of shame, distress, irritation. And not because of her posture, which bespoke the deep-seated pain. But because of the words themselves.

“Years,” I echoed softly.

“Yes.” She was irritated. “Will you bring it up once a year? Twice? Even once a week?”

I swallowed heavily. “Once a year, I think.”

“Why?” The cry was instinctive. “Haven’t I said I was wrong?”

“Once a year,” I repeated, “because it means we have that year.”

Del lay very still. She didn’t breathe, either. “Oh,” was all she said, after a time of consideration. Of self-interpretation.

The prospect was frightening. But also strangely pleasing.

I’m not alone anymore.

You could argue I hadn’t been, not really; not since Del and I had first joined up, except for a couple of enforced separations. But we had not, until this moment, explored anything past the moment. Sword-dancers never do.

Men and women must.

Which led me to other things. “I wonder if he is …” I let it trail off.

Del shifted beneath blankets. “Wonder what? About who?”

“If he really is my son.”

She smiled. “Would it please you if he is?”

I thought about it. “I don’t know.”

“Tiger! A son.”

“But what good is it to discover you have a grown son you never knew existed? And that if he does exist, it’s only because of a bedding you can’t even remember.”

Del’s tone was dry. “Have you had so many as that?”

“Yes.”

She eyed me askance a moment, then rolled her head straight again and stared up at the lightening sky. “Well, a son is a son. It shouldn’t matter how he was gotten, just that he was.”

“How Kalle was gotten matters.”

I thought she might snap at me, as she can. I thought she might swear at me, as she can; I taught her most of the terms. I thought she might even withdraw altogether; she’s very good at that, if she’s of no mind to share. Del hides herself very well.

But this time she didn’t try.

Del sighed heavily. “Kalle was never Kalle. Kalle was a cause. Kalle was an excuse. She justified the pain. She made it easier to hate.”

“So you could give her up.”

“Yes. So I could fulfill my oaths.”

“Which were made before you even knew you were pregnant.”

Del frowned. “Yes. I made them even as my kinfolk died; even as Jamail burned; even as Ajani broke my maidenhead. Does it matter when? They were made. Well worth the doing. The honor is worth the strife.”

Like Del, I stared at the sky. “You gave up a child. Why should I acknowledge mine?”

After a lengthy, painful silence, Del turned her head away. “I have no answer for you.”

“There isn’t one,” I told her, and rolled over to pull her close.

I had fully expected, when Del discovered it, she would say something about the new sword. But not that it was broken.

I turned from arranging bedding to dry in the sun. Except there wasn’t any; clouds still choked the sky. “What?”

“It’s broken,” she repeated.

“It can’t be!” I stepped across bedding and stopped dead by the new scabbard. It lay precisely where I had left it: on a blanket by Samiel.

The sword was spilled out of the scabbard. The blade was broken in half.

“Bad steel,” she said.

I shook my head. “It wasn’t. I’m sure of it. I examined it carefully.”

Del shrugged; the weapon, being plain, unmagicked sword, held no interest for her. “When pressed too hard, it can break. Who did you dance against? Alric?”

“Del, I didn’t dance. Not against anyone. All I did was buy this sword. I’ve never even sparred with it.”

“Bad forging, then.”

“I’d never buy a bad sword. You know that.” Now I was irritated. It shouldn’t matter that it wasn’t a Northern jivatma, only that it was a sword I was entrusting my life to. Or would have, had it been whole. I inspected the sword closely. “The hilt and this half look perfectly normal. Let’s see the rest of it.”

I picked up the scabbard, turned it upside down, shook the rest of the blade out. It landed on the hilt half with a dull, ugly clank.

Del’s indrawn breath was loud.

“Black,” I said blankly.

“Just like your jivatma.”