Showing a blackened tip only slightly tainted by blood.
No one kills that way. A clean thrust through ribs, through belly; a slash across abdomen. But no one threads a sword through ribs like a woman weaving cloth.
Except for Chosa Dei.
He lay on his back in the rain, digging mud with his feet. Trying to shred the cloth of his flesh so he could unstitch the hideous needle.
How can he be alive?
Because Chosa Dei wants the body.
I thrust my way through the gathered crowd and knelt down at his side. His eyes saw me, knew me; begged for me to help.
Slowly I shook my head: he’d known what the sword was. He’d told me about Chosa Dei.
“Why?” was all I asked.
His voice was wracked by pain. “She wouldn’t have me—have me … Xenobia wouldn’t have me …”
“Is she worth dying for?”
“They wouldn’t have me—have me … they said I was a bastard …”
From whom I had come, I knew. “Vashni,” I said grimly. “That’s your tribal half.”
Nabir didn’t nod. Black eyes were wide and fixed. “My brother,” he said. “My brother; yes? I must unmake my brother.”
“Nabir!” I shut my hand on his arm. “Give him up, Chosa.”
“I must unmake my brother.”
“But I’m here, Chosa. How do you plan to win?”
Nabir dug mud with his feet. “I knew what it was—I knew … with this sword, they might have me … with this sword, she might have me … the sword of the Sandtiger—”
There was very little blood. Chosa Dei was taking it all.
“Nabir—”
“I tripped … he made me trip … he took my feet away—”
Immediately, I looked. Nabir still dug mud, but there were no feet to do it. Only mud-coated stumps.
“—and I fell … and it turned … without a hand on it, it turned—”
“Nabir—”
“CHOSA DEI—don’t you know who I am?”
I put a hand on the hilt. Felt the virulence of his rage.
“Don’t you know WHAT I am?”
Only too well.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry … I’ve got no choice, Nabir.”
“I’ll give him back his feet—”
“No, Chosa … too late.”
“I’ll unmake YOU—”
“Not while I hold this sword.”
“You don’t want this sword—”
Two hands on the hilt. “And you can’t have this body.”
Nabir’s body arced. “SAMIEL!” it shouted. “The sword is Samiel—”
Eight
He wasn’t quite dead. But I knew I’d have to kill him.
“Nabir,” I said, “I’m sorry—”
—unthreaded the deadly needle—
Nabir was mostly gone. Chosa used what was left. “Sam—Sam—Samiel—”
“No good, Chosa. Now it’s just me.”
—blood and breath rushed out.
Unfettered rage exploded.
Hoolies, but this hurts—
I was aware, if only dimly, of the crowd gathered around. For the moment, what they saw was a dead man on the ground and another man by his side, holding on to the sword that killed him. What they heard was a low, keening wail like the moan of a stalking cat. They didn’t know it was steel. They didn’t know it was Chosa. They only knew the boy was dead in messy, spectacular fashion.
Faces: Alric. Lena briefly, with the girls; she hustled them back inside. Garrod, braids and all, working his way out of the crowd to the inside perimeter. And Adara, staring mutely, trying unsuccessfully to send Massou away. And many, many strangers.
No Del. Where’s De—
Chosa Dei was angry. Chosa Dei was very angry—and he took no pains to hide it.
It wasn’t unexpected. But the power was overwhelming.
I knelt in bloody mud while the rain ran down my back, wishing I knew what to do. Wishing I had the strength. Wishing I had the ability to unmake my perverted jivatma.
Heat coursed down the sword. In cold rain, steel steamed.
I shook. I shook with it, trying to suppress the raw power that strained to burst free of the sword. Chosa Dei was testing all the bonds, attempting to shatter the magic that bound him inside the steel. I knew better than to wonder what could happen if I just let him go, let him free—if he left the sword entirely, he’d be nothing but an essence, lacking face or form. In order to be what he wanted to be he’d have to have a body. He’d tried to take Nabir’s. He’d take mine if I let him.
In rain, the blood washed away, leaving the blade free of taint … except for the discoloration reaching nearly to the hilt.