Sword-Maker(28)

“Yes, you do.” Del smiled, if only faintly. “I mean, not ever. Only Kalle. I made it so.”

“What do you mean, you made it—” And, hastily, “No, never mind.”

“A pact,” she explained simply. “I asked it of the gods. So I could be certain of fulfilling my oath. Kalle had delayed me enough already.”

I blinked. “That sort of thing isn’t binding.” I paused. “Is it?”

Del shrugged. “I have not bled since Kalle’s birth. Whether it was that, or the gods answering my petition, I cannot say. Only that you need have no fear I will make you something you have no wish to be.”

So. Yet another piece of the puzzle named Delilah clicking into place.

Only Kalle, forever, who was no longer hers. And never could be, now.

Thanks to me.

Thanks to my sword.

Oh, hoolies, bascha … what’s to become of you?

What’s to become of us?

After a moment I reached out and touched her arm. “I’m sorry, bascha.”

Del stared at me blindly, clutching the moon-silvered pelt. And, eventually, smiled. “Giving up on the wager already?”

It took me a moment because I’d nearly forgotten. “No,” I retorted sourly, “I’m not giving up on the wager. But I’ll make you wish I had.”

She slanted me a glance. “I don’t sleep with my father.”

Hoolies, she knows how to hurt.





Ten




“Here,” Del announced. “It is as good as anywhere else, and we may as well see if either of us is capable.”

Having been lulled halfway to sleep by the rhythm of the stud and the warmth of the midday sun—well, maybe not warmth, exactly; at least, not the sort I was used to, but it was warmer—I had no idea what she was talking about. So I opened my eyes, discovered Del dismounting, and hastily reined in the stud.

“Good as anywhere else for what?—and what is it we’re supposed to be capable of?” I paused. “Or not?”

“Probably not,” she observed, “but that had better change.”

I scowled. “Del—”

“It’s been long enough, Tiger. Ysaa-den is a day away—and we have yet to dance.”

Oh. That. I was hoping she hadn’t noticed. “We could wait a bit longer.”

“We could wait until we’ve ridden out of the North completely … but that wouldn’t fulfill your promise.” Del squinted up at me, shielding her eyes with the edge of a flattened hand pressed against her forehead. “I need it, Tiger. And so do you.”

Yes, well … I sighed. “All right. Draw a circle. I’ve got to limber up a bit, first.”

What I had to do was remind aching joints and stiffened muscles what it was to move, let alone to dance. We had ridden northeasterly for six days, and I was beginning to think tracking the hounds to their creator was not such a good idea after all. It hurt too much. I’d rather be holed up in some smoky little cantina with aqivi in my cup and a cantina girl on my knee—no, that would probably hurt too much, too. Certainly it would hurt too much if I did anything more strenuous than hold her on my knee, which meant why should I bother to hold her on my knee at all?

Hoolies, I hate getting old!

Del tied her gelding to a tree, found a long bough and proceeded to dig a circle into the earth, thrusting through deadfall, damp leaves, mud. Pensively, I watched her, noting how stiffly she held her torso. There was no flexibility in her movements, no fluid grace. Like me, she hurt. And, like me, she healed.

On the outside, if not on the inside.

Del stopped drawing, threw the limb aside, straightened and looked at me. “Are you coming? Or do you want a formal, ritualized invitation?”

I grunted, unhooked foot from stirrup, slowly swung a leg over and stepped down. The stud suggested we go over to the gelding so he could get in a few nips and kicks, but I ignored his comments and tied him some distance from the blue roan, who had done his best to make friends. It was the stud who was having none of it.

Slowly I unhooked cloak brooches, peeled off wool, draped the weight across the saddle. It felt good to be free of it; soon, I hoped, I could pack it away for good. I wouldn’t feel truly free until we were across the border and I could replace wool and fur with gauze and silk, but ridding myself of the cloak was something. It allowed me to breathe again.

My hand drifted to the harness worn over the tunic. Fingers tangled briefly in beads and fringe, then found their way to leather straps, supple and soft, snugged tautly against soft wool. Across my back, slanting, hung the sheath with its weight of sword. My hungry, angry sword.

“Tiger.”

I shut my eyes. Opened them again, turning, and saw Del in the circle, all in white, glowing in the sun. It was a trick of clear, unblemished light unscreened by a lattice of limbs, but nonetheless it shook me. It reminded me of the night not so long before when she had stood in fire of her own making and all the colors of the world. Then I had thought, however briefly, she was spirit in place of woman. Looking at her now, blazing so brightly, I wondered if maybe I had killed her—