Bellin had summed it up: his burning was very bright.
His burning was too bright—Chosa Dei looked out of his eyes.
Pale, piercing eyes alight with unholy fire. With the knowledge of promised power.
Time to extinguish him, bascha—before he extinguishes us.
Del stopped singing. Del lowered her sword. And stood there waiting for him.
Waiting? Waiting for what?
Was she blinded by his burning?
No, not Delilah. This was the man who had made her, the way I made my sword. In blood and fear and hatred.
Ajani bared his teeth. “We meet again,” he said. “This time to end it, yes?”
Del, like me, stared. His features were softening. The perfect nose, the set of his mobile mouth; the upswept angle of Northern cheekbones, slanting down his face. Ajani was being unmade.
Hoolies, bascha, kill him!
She slashed the blade from his hands. Her own was at his throat. “Kneel,” she said hoarsely. “You made my father kneel.”
Bascha, that isn’t Ajani—
My sword lay on the ground. My clean, silver sword made of unblemished Northern steel.
My empty, unblemished sword.
Oh, bascha—wait—
“Del—” I croaked.
Ajani bared teeth at her. Chosa Dei stared out of his eyes. “Do you know what I am?”
“I know what you are.”
Ajani shook back his hair. The shape of his jaw was changing. He was wax, softening. Light a candle; he would melt.
Del’s voice was deadly. “I said: kneel.”
Around us, beyond the circle, hundreds waited and watched, too frightened to attempt escape. I lay on the ground and panted, trying to clear my head. Thinking: If I can get to the sword—
But Ajani was too close. He had only to pick it up. He would pick it up—
“Del—” I croaked again. It was all I could manage.
Ajani did not kneel. Chosa Dei wouldn’t let him.
“I am power,” he said. “Do you think you can defeat me? Do you think I will do your bidding, after waiting so long to do mine?”
Hoolies, he didn’t need a sword. All he needed was himself.
Bascha—bascha, kill him—don’t play games with this man—not even in the name of your pride—
Ajani spread his arms. There was no wasted flesh on him, nor a pound out of place. He was taut, fit, big. He made me look puny. His magnificence rivaled Del’s.
“Do you know what I am?”
And I wondered, as I watched him, which man asked the question.
Del shifted her grip. The sword scythed down from above. She sliced a hamstring in two.
He fell, as she meant him to. It wasn’t a proper posture, but no longer did he stand upright to tower over her. To tower over me as I staggered to my feet.
His burning was very bright.
“Now,” I whispered intently.
Del began to sing.
Chosa Dei was in him, but some of Ajani was left. Northern-born, he knew. I saw it in his eyes; in Ajani’s still-human eyes, as the flesh of his face loosened. I saw it in his posture as he slumped before the sword, wearing a bloody necklace. Boreal was thirsty. She tasted him already.
Del sang a song of the kinfolk she had lost. Father, mother, grandfolk, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins. So many kinfolk murdered. Only two of them spared: Jamail and Delilah, the last of the line. The man could never sire a son; the woman could never bear one.
She would kill Ajani. But in the end, he would win.
Delilah ended her song. Stood there looking at him. Did she feel cheated, I wondered, that Ajani wasn’t alone? That when the moment came, she would kill more than the Northerner?
Chosa wasn’t stupid. He reached out. Touched the sword. Closed slack fingers on the grip. Dragged it up from the ground. Black flowed into the blade; better a sword than useless meat.
Pale hair tumbled around his face. His magnificent Northern face, with no hint of softness about it. Chosa Dei was gone.
Ajani shook back his hair, holding the blackened jivatma. But he didn’t try to use it, with Boreal kissing his throat. All he did was stare at the woman who held Boreal, progenitor of storms.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Del didn’t bother to tell him. “You have a daughter,” she said.
And then she took his head.
Eighteen
The body slumped to the ground. Del, set free at last, staggered back and fell.
Oh, hoolies, bascha … don’t pass out now.
She tried to get up, and couldn’t. Exhaustion and reaction stripped her of her strength. All she could do was gasp, clinging to her sword.
Hoolies, Tiger, move—
The private circle was gone, banished by banished magic. Anyone who reached us now would find us easy to touch.
Del had killed Ajani. To the rest, he was the jhihadi.
I heard the ululations, the shouts of angry tanzeers. The clash of Southron steel.