“You have you. That ought to be enough.”
Del’s look was deadly. “You are ignorant.”
I arched eyebrows. “Am I?”
“Yes. You know nothing of Northern kin customs. Nothing at all of family. Yet so quickly you undervalue things I hold very dear.”
“Now, Del—”
Del’s impatience was manifest. “I will tell you once. A last time. I will tell you so you know, and then perhaps you will understand.”
“I think—”
“I think you should be quiet and listen to my words.”
I shut my mouth. Sometimes you have to let women talk.
Del drew in a steadying breath. “In the North kin circles are very close. They are sacred … every bit as sacred as a circle is to a sword-dancer. Generations live within a single lodge, sometimes as many as four if the gods are generous in portioning out our lives.” Briefly she nodded. “When a man marries, the woman comes into his lodge—unless he has no kin, and then he goes into hers—and so the circle widens. Children are born, and still the circle widens. And when sickness comes and the old ones die, or even the newborn babies, the circle grows small again, so we may support one another. So we may share in the pain and the grief and the anguish, and not try to withstand it alone.”
I waited, saying nothing.
“Brothers and sisters and cousins, aunts and uncles and grandfolk. Sometimes the lodges are huge. But always filled with laughter. Always filled with song. Even when people die, so the soul departs in peace.”
I thought back to the lodges on Staal-Ysta. Big wooden lodges overflowing with people. So different from what I knew. So alien in customs.
Del spoke very softly. “When anything of substance happens, kinfolk always share. Courtships, weddings, birthings. And deaths. The songs are always sung.”
She paused, swallowing, frowning, then continued. “A father begins one for the lost child, and the mother takes it up, and then the brothers, the sisters, the aunts, the uncles, the cousins, the grandfolk … until the child is sung to sleep forever. If it is a husband, the wife begins. A wife, and the husband begins, and so on. The song is always sung, so the newly passed know a life beyond the world. So that there is no darkness, but only light. The light of a day, the light of a fire … the light of a star in the night, or the glint from a jivatma. Light, Tiger, and song, so there is no need for fear.” She drew in an unsteady breath. “But now, for me, there will be no song. There is no one to sing it for me.” She controlled her voice with effort. “No one for whom I may sing it; Jamail and Kalle are gone.”
It called for something. Something of compassion. Something of understanding. But I found myself lacking the words, the tact, the necessary understanding, because I had known the need for revenge. The need for spilling blood.
And so I blurted the first words I stumbled upon because they were easiest. Because they required no compassion—only quiet, deadly passion. “Then let’s rid the world of these hounds, bascha … let’s rid it of Ajani.”
Del blinked heavily. But her tone was very steady. “Will you dance with me, Tiger? Will you step into the circle?”
I looked at my sword, lying quietly in its sheath. I thought of its power. I thought of a man named Ajani, and the woman once called Delilah. “Any time you like.”
Lips parted. I knew what she wanted. To say here, now, this moment. The temptation was incredibly strong, but she denied it. And made herself all the stronger.
“Not now,” she said quietly. “Not even tomorrow. Perhaps the day after.”
She knew as well as I even the day after was too soon. But by the time that day arrived, we could put it off again.
Or not.
I rolled forward onto my knees, pulled one of my pouches close, dug down into its depths and pulled from it the ash-dappled pelt. I tossed it gently at her.
Del caught it. Let it unfurl, exhibiting all its glory. And looked to me for an explanation.
“Your birthday,” I told her. Then, feeling awkward, “I’ve got no use for it.”
Del’s hands caressed it. Much of her face was hidden behind loose hair. “A fine pelt,” she said softly. “The kind used for a newborn’s cradle.”
Something pinched my belly. I sat up straighter. “You trying to tell me something?”
Del frowned. “No. No, of course—” And then she understood exactly what I meant. She tossed back pale hair and looked me straight in the eye. “No, Tiger. Not ever.”
“What do you mean, not ever?” And then I thought about how some women couldn’t have children, and regretted asking the question. “I mean—no, never mind. I don’t know what I mean.”