Sword-Maker(23)

“Tiger.”

I glanced back and saw Del standing beside the fire. She had shed all her wrappings and faced me in white woolens, pale hair braided back from her face and laced with white cord. She took the sheath and harness into her hands and slid Boreal into dawn. Rune-worked steel gleamed. “Will you dance with me, Sandtiger?”

I turned from the stud to face her squarely. “You’re in no shape to dance, Del. Not yet.”

“I have to start sometime. It’s been much too long.”

For some strange reason it made me very angry. “Hoolies, woman, you’re sandsick! I doubt you could hold a stance for more than a single eyeblink, and certainly not against any offense I might show you. Do you think I’m blind?”

“I think you’re afraid.”

Something deep inside twisted. “That again, then.”

“And again, and again.” She lifted the deadly jivatma. “Dance with me, Sandtiger. Honor the deal we made.”

Pride made me take a step toward my sword. But only a single step. I shook my head at her. “Not this time, bascha. I’m older, a little wiser. You can’t tease me into the circle. Not any more. I know your tricks too well.”

The tip of her sword wavered minutely. And then flashed as she shifted her grip and drove the blade straight down, deep into the earth. “Tease you?” she asked. “Oh, no.” And before I could stop her, Del knelt before her sword. She tucked heels beneath buttocks and crossed wrists against her chest. The braid fell over her shoulder to dangle above the ground. “Honored kaidin,” she said, “will you share with me some of your skill?”

I stared at the Northern woman offering obeisance to me, and all I felt was anger. A deep and abiding anger so strong it made me sick.

“Get up,” I rasped.

All she did was bow her head.

“Get up from there, Delilah.”

The full name made her twitch, but it did not force her up.

In the end, knowing from experience the strength of her determination, I crossed the clearing to her. She knew I was there; short of being deaf, she could not miss my string of muttered oaths. But she didn’t rise. She didn’t so much as lift her head.

I reached out a rigid hand. What I grabbed was Boreal.

“No—” Suppressing a cry, Del fell back. Illness and pain had taken her strength, stealing away her quickness. In my hands I held the proof.

“Yes,” I said clearly. “We made a deal, bascha, and I will honor it. But not yet. Not yet. Neither of us is ready.” I shook my head wearily. “Maybe it’s just that I’m older. Maybe it’s that I’m wiser. Or maybe it’s just the blind pride of youth that makes you risk yourself.” I scrubbed a hand across my brow, thrusting fallen hair aside. “Hoolies, I don’t know—maybe it’s just sword-dancers. I used to do the same.”

Del said nothing. She half-knelt on the ground, pressing herself upright with one hand while the other clutched her ribs. Color stood high in her face. Flags of brilliant crimson against pearl-white flesh.

I sighed. Set Boreal’s tip against the ground and pressed her down, slowly, so she stood freely upright. Then I gingerly lowered myself to Del’s level, kneeling carefully, and unbuckled my heavy belt.

Del’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you something.” I dropped the belt, pulled up layers of wool. Exposed my rib cage. “There,” I said. “See? Your handiwork, Del. A clean, perfect sword thrust. And it hurts. It hurts like hoolies. It will for some time to come, Del—maybe even forever. Because I’m not as young as I used to be. I heal slower. I hurt longer. I learn from my mistakes, because my mistakes are around to remind me.”

Del’s face now was dirty gray. She stared transfixed at the ugly scar. It was more vivid than it might be because, coming north, I’d lost much of my color. Livid purple against pale brown is not an attractive mix.

“I hurt, bascha. And I’m tired. I want nothing more than to go home, to go south, where I can bake myself in the sun and forget about Northern snow. But I can’t until I’m finished with the job I said I’d do. And in order to finish the job, I have to stick around.”

Del swallowed hard. “I only want to dance.”

I tugged my tunic down. “I won’t ask you to show me yours, since I’ve got a good idea what it looks like. It was me who did it, bascha—I know what the thrust was. I know what it did to you. If you went into a circle now, you wouldn’t survive the dance.” I picked up my own sword, still on the ground between us. “I almost killed you once. I won’t risk it again.”