Sword-Maker(124)
“You are strong enough for Chosa Dei. You are his match, or better … he cannot defeat you.”
The words were getting harder to say. “You don’t know that, bascha … he nearly beat me today …”
“But he didn’t. You stopped him. You fought him, and you beat him. You have every time, and you will every time.”
More pain flowed away. With it went much of my sense. “I have—to get rid of … it …”
“Then have it discharged properly.”
“Shaka Obre,” I mumbled. “Maybe the jhihadi … may be the jhihadi …”
Del smiled a little. Through the veil of my lashes, the tense Northern features softened. “If the jhihadi has time for such.”
“Hoolies … tea … strong …”
Cramps began to untie. I let the relief wash in, denying it nothing now. It could take me, it could have me … and its gift was akin to bliss. “Oh, better … better …” I drifted drowsily, letting the huva take me. And then words fell out of my mouth. “I asked Sula,” I slurred. “I asked her about the truth.”
Del’s fingers slowed, then resumed their steady kneading. “What did she say?”
It was hard to stay awake. “She didn’t know the truth … she said she didn’t know …”
The fingers now were gentle. “I’m sorry, Tiger.”
My tongue was thick in my mouth. “And then—she died. She died.”
The hands stopped altogether.
My eyes were too heavy to open. “I’m sorry—bascha …”
“Don’t be sorry for me.”
“No … because—because of Jamail.” The world was sliding away.
“Jamail! What about—” She broke off.
It was harder to make the effort. “I didn’t—I’m sorry—I meant …” Vision was slowly fraying.
Del said nothing.
I walked the edge of the blade. One—more—step—
“That’s not—that’s not how—” I licked dry lips “—I meant it to be different—”
Del sat like a rock.
One more tiny step—
I was nearly incoherent. “I’m … sorry … bascha—”
The rock moved at last. Del lay down beside me, one hip jutting toward the sky. I felt the angle of her cheekbone against the loosening flesh of my shoulder.
So—close—now—
She rested her arm on my chest and put the flat of her hand over my heart, as if to feel its beating.
“—Del—”
She locked her feet around mine. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for us both.”
—over the edge—
—and off—
Nine
Del’s face was white. “This is serious.”
After a moment, I nodded. “That’s why I brought it up.”
“If the name is freely known—”
“It wasn’t my fault, bascha. Nabir said the name.”
“But—how did he know?” She waved the question away before she finished the intonation. “No. He knew because Chosa Dei told him. Chosa Dei was in him … the jivatma had no secrets.”
“You’re saying if my blade ever cuts into someone, he’ll know all about the power?”
Del’s tone went dry. “While he’s dying, yes. But I don’t think it will do him much good.”
Alric came into the doorway. “I couldn’t help overhearing … and anyway, I heard the boy scream it out yesterday.” He shrugged. “If you’re worried about the blooding-blade’s name being known, I don’t think it’s as serious as all that.”
Del scowled at him. “You’re Northern. You know better—”
“Because I’m Northern, yes.” Alric shook his head. “Named blades aren’t known down here, Del. Not by very many. And the people I saw in the crowd yesterday were Southron, most of them; the name won’t mean a thing. Certainly they won’t realize that to know the name means they can freely touch Tiger’s sword—and even if they did know it, I doubt they’d do anything about it.” His expression was grim. “You weren’t here yesterday. You didn’t see what happened.”
“No, but I know the results.” Del still looked concerned. “Southroners may be no threat, but if there were Northerners present—”
“—then they know it, too.” Again, Alric nodded. “But even in the North jivatmas are mostly legend. Unless you’ve trained to be a sword-dancer, you don’t hear so much about blooding-blades.”