Sword-Maker(21)

“What I do is my business.”

“Del—what did you do?” I looked harder at the strain etched into her face. “What exactly did you do?”

Her mouth was flat and hard. “I have a jivatma.”

An answer, of sorts. It told me more than enough. “So, you sang to it, did you? Begged more magic of it? Offered up even more of your humanity in exchange for arcane strength?”

“What I do—”

“—is your own business; yes, Del, I know, I know … you’ve always been at such pains to make certain I understood that.” It was all I could do to keep my tone even. “How did you manage it? Magic?” I lifted eyebrows. “Is that how you caught up so fast?”

Her face was pensive. “There is no magic about that, Tiger. They told me you were bound for Ysaa-den. I know the North well—I took a shortcut.”

I waited. She offered nothing further. So I asked. “Why did you paint the sky?”

After a moment, she shrugged. “I thought it might bring you in.”

It was something. From her, it was everything. “But you came to me,” I said. “After I left you in the clearing. You came to me.”

She touched the hilt of her sword. Very gently. “I realized, after I did it, and you came, that you wouldn’t stay. That I’d have to go to you.” Del smiled sadly. “A man’s pride is a powerful thing.”

I scowled balefully, disliking the twinge of guilt. “I’ve got no use for painting the sky.”

She laughed a little. “Maybe not. But there are other things. Other magics available; you’ve seen my jivatma.”

“Hunh.”

Del shrugged. “You swore to me you’d never use it. You’d never kill, never blood it. But you have killed, Tiger, and you made your blade a song.” She looked again at my sword. “Whether you like it or not, there’s magic in your blade. There’s power in your blade. And if you don’t learn to control it, it will control you.”

I looked at Boreal, so quiescent in her sheath. I knew what she could do. But only at Del’s bidding. If left to her own devices—

No. Don’t think about that. Think about something else.

“You,” I said, “are sandsick. So now it’s your turn to watch.”

And as Del, disgruntled, glared, I bundled myself in bedding.





Eight




It’s very easy to fall into old patterns. Del and I had been together long enough to develop certain rhythms in our day-to-day existence. Simple things, mostly: one of us built and tended the fire, another laid a meal; each of us tended our horses. We knew when to rest them, knew when we needed rest, knew the best times and places to stop for the night. Much of what we did required no conversation, for most was a reflection of things we’d done before.

It was easy to forget. Easy to recall only that we were together. And then something, some little thing, would crop up and remind me that for the space of six weeks we hadn’t been together—and I’d remember the reason why.

We rode toward Ysaa-den, following hound spoor. Saying little to one another because we didn’t know what to say. At least I didn’t. What Del thought—or knew, or didn’t know—was, as always, her own business, and always exceedingly private, unless she chose to share. For the moment, she didn’t.

She rode ahead of me. The stud didn’t like it, but I was pacing him. I didn’t want him to overextend himself. So I made him stay behind the blue roan and content himself with second place. Trouble was, he wasn’t.

Del’s back was straight. She rides very erect anyway, but I knew some of her exceptional posture had to do with the wound. No matter what she said, or didn’t—or how much magic she had used—I knew it was hurting her. And I knew what an effort it took for her to keep on going.

Boreal cut her back in half from left shoulder to right hip, as Samiel did my own. I glared at Boreal, thinking bad things about it. Thinking also about my own sword; what did it want me to do? What would it force me to do?

And then I forgot about Samiel, looking again at Boreal. Noting how quietly she rode in the leather sheath. How meekly the weapon rested, hiding deadly blade. Hiding alien, gods-blessed steel that sang a song of its own, just as Delilah did.

And in cold, abrupt clarity, I wondered just how much of Del’s obsession was born of blade instead of brain.

I knew little of jivatmas other than what Del and Kem had told me. And even then, I hadn’t put much stock in what they said. It wasn’t until my own new-made sword had made his bloodthirst known that I’d realized just how independent a jivatma could be. Which meant it was entirely possible Del wasn’t fully responsible for her own actions. Hadn’t she begged, on more than one occasion, for Boreal’s aid? For power?