Sword-Maker(154)

Bellin laughed aloud. “Practicing,” he said.

Now we were there. The fourth was still in the circle.

Come on, Delilah, beat him.

Fire flared in the circle. People began to scream.

At first I assumed it was in the natural course of fighting, since by now others had joined in as well. And then I realized it had nothing to do with fighting, and everything to do with magic.

Chosa Dei wanted his freedom. Others would pay the price.

Even Del might.

Not again, bascha. You already paid it once.

Ajani was shouting something. I couldn’t understand him; my head pounded unmercifully and my vision still was muddled. But I heard Ajani shouting.

He said something about Shaka Obre.

Ajani didn’t know Shaka Obre.

I cut down a borjuni. “Hold him, bascha—hold him—”

Boreal keened. A cold wind burst out of the circle, shredding silk and gauze. It frosted hair and eyebrows. Those who still could, fled.

I sucked in a breath and jerked my borrowed blade from a body. “Sing up a storm, bascha …”

In a mad dash to escape, people fell over one another. I saw their breath on the air.

Winter came into the circle. Summer drove it back. The blast of heat baked us all; I blocked my eyes with an arm.

Samiel burned white-hot. The air was sucked out of lungs.

The hostility around us turned abruptly to fear. Even Ajani’s borjuni exuded a different stench.

Ajani. Ajani in the circle.

With Del.

Hoolies, bascha, where are you—?

Shouting died away. Light coruscated. All the rainbows danced, though there was no rain to form them. No moisture in the air. Only scorching heat.

Ajani was shouting still. Del stalked him in the circle. Back, back, back; Boreal teased Samiel, salmon-silver on black.

“Dance,” Del invited. “Dance with me, Ajani.”

Back. Back. Back. He tried to parry, couldn’t.

I saw the bared teeth, the strained face. Saw the fear in piercing eyes. It wasn’t fear of Del, but of what he felt in the sword.

He was a very large man, a man of immense strength as well as strength of will. But he didn’t know Samiel. He didn’t know Chosa Dei.

“Too much for you,” I muttered.

Ajani shouted something. Tendons stood up in his neck.

Heat exploded from the circle. Nearby, a blanket roof caught on fire. Then another. People began to scream. People began to run. Iskandar was on fire.

Wind ripped through the streets, spreading flame in its wake. Now burnouses caught fire, and people began to burn.

“No,” Del declared.

Boreal’s song-summoned banshee-storm howled out of the sword, shredding Samiel’s flame. Winter came at Del’s call. Fire doesn’t burn in sleet.

It was abrupt and unpleasant. It doused Iskandar completely, then wisped into nothingness. I was wet, cold, sweaty. But so was everyone else, even Ajani’s borjuni.

With renewed vigor, they attacked. With renewed vigor, I repulsed. Next to me, Alric fought; behind me Bellin counted Ajani’s supporters as they moved in to surround us. He called out greetings to each, naming them to their faces, which served to startle them. For Alric and me, it was an infallible way of knowing which man meant us harm.

Bascha, I said, I’m coming.

Something stung a rib. I smashed the sword away, then buried my own in a belly. Ripped it free again to turn on another man, but a misstep sent me by him. I staggered, tried to catch my balance, was swallowed by heat and cold and light and all the colors of the world.

Bascha, bascha, I’m coming—whether I want to or not.

I broke through, swearing, and fell into the circle, landing hard on a shoulder. Abbu’s sword spilled free.

Hoolies, my head hurts … and the world’s gone gray again.

Inside, the storm was raging. A hot rain fell. Steam rose from the ground. The breath of winter blew, whistling in my ears. Numbing nose and earlobes.

Boreal was ablaze with all the colors of the North, all the rich, vivid colors. Samiel was black.

A new thought occurred: If Chosa Dei takes Ajani, Del can take Chosa Dei.

But Del didn’t wait that long.

Sprawled on the ground, I saw it. Hatred. Rage. Obsession. The memory of what he’d done; of what had shaped her life. Of who had shaped her life, bringing her to this moment; bringing her to the edge, where balance is so precarious, so incredibly easy to lose. She teetered there, on the edge, looking just beyond. Acknowledging the price, because she’d paid it so many times.

Paying once more would change nothing. And also change everything.

Delilah’s long song would end.

Wind screamed through the circle. It caught on blades and tore, shrieking an angry protest. Ajani’s face was stripped bare. An unforgettable face; an assemblage of perfect bones placed in impressive arrangement. A Northerner in his prime: taller than I, and broader, with a lion’s mane of hair equally thick and blond as Del’s, flowing back from high brow. The magnificence of a woman made masculine for a man.