Sword-Maker(147)

Del smiled. “I have no doubts about your confidence. What I have doubts about is your willingness to recognize that you are not in proper condition.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine is not fit.” Del straightened from the wall. “I don’t want you to walk into that circle thinking Abbu stands no chance. He is good, Tiger—I have sparred with him myself. You are good, also—I have danced with you myself. But if you refuse to acknowledge the truth of the matter, you’ve lost before you’ve begun.”

“I have no intention of stepping into the circle without being careful, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Hoolies, bascha, you’d think I’d never danced before!”

Del looked directly at me. “How many times have you been wounded in the circle?”

“More times than I can count.”

“How many times have you been seriously wounded in the circle?”

I shrugged. “Two or three times, I guess. It happens to all of us.”

“And how many times have you come very close to death in the circle?”

“All right,” I said, “once. You know that as well as I.”

“And you have not danced a proper dance since then.”

The defensiveness was abrupt. “I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean.”

Del didn’t smile. “Of course you’re afraid.”

“Del—”

“I saw it, Tiger. I was in the circle, remember? The last time you tried to dance, the fear drove you out.”

I forgot all about Massou and Adara and Alric. “That was fear for you! It had nothing to do with me.” Angrily, I glared. “You have no idea what it was like for me seeing you sprawled on the ground with steel in your ribs. You don’t know what I felt. You don’t know what I thought. When I stepped into that circle on our way to Ysaa-den, I was on Staal-Ysta again. All I could think about was that dance, and I was afraid it might happen again.”

Del drew Boreal. “Then dance with me now.”

“Now? Are you sandsick? Besides, you’re supposed to go meet with Bellin, remember? He’ll have information about Ajani.”

“Now,” she said coolly. “A warm-up will do you good. It will loosen all your muscles … quiet your noisy knees.”

“Oh, good,” came from Massou, before Adara could hush him.

Hoolies, hoolies, hoolies. I don’t want to do this.

So tell the bascha no.

Not so easy to do.

Especially when she’s right.

I wiped the blade clean. Glanced up at the sun. Knew we had the time. “Alric?”

He nodded. “I’ll play arbiter.”

Adara, muttering, forcibly dragged Massou to the end of the alley. He protested, of course, but she didn’t let him go. Eventually he subsided, since she threatened to take him away entirely if he didn’t shut his mouth.

There was no need for a circle, so we didn’t bother to draw one. We just faced one another in silence, took the measure of each other, thought our private thoughts.

Mine were not happy ones. I don’t know what hers were.

“Dance,” Alric said.

Hoolies, but I don’t want—

Too late, Tiger. Nothing to do but dance.

Nothing to do but sing—

No—don’t sing—

Don’t give Chosa Dei the chance—

Northern steel clashed. The sound filled up the alley.

Get looser, I thought. Get looser—

Del’s blade flashed. In and out of shadow, slicing the sun apart. Shattering the daylight with the brilliance of magicked steel.

Gods, but she can dance—

Well, so can I.

Of their own accord, my feet moved. I felt the acknowledgment of muscles too long kept from the circle; the sharpening of eyes. Focus came back quickly, blocking out the alley, the sun, the others gathering. All I saw was Del. All I heard was Del: the sloughing of her feet, the keening of her steel, the breathy exhalations.

This is the true dance, where two perfectly balanced halves come together at last and form a perfect whole. This is a dance of life, of death, of continuity; the world within seven paces. Nothing else exists. Nothing is as important. Nothing can fill the need the way a proper sword-dance can, danced with a proper opponent.

There is no other for me.

Ah, yes, bascha … show me how to dance.

And then, abruptly, my sleeping sword awoke. Chosa Dei awoke. I felt him swarm through the blade from wherever it was he lived. Felt him test my strength. Felt him gather himself. Knew what he meant to do.

Confusion diluted the focus, seeping through concentration: But I haven’t sung. I haven’t even thought of singing.

Chosa Dei didn’t care. Chosa Dei was awake.

Oh, bascha—bascha—