Sword-Maker(29)

No. No.

You fool.

“Tiger,” she said again. Unrelenting, as always.

You sandsick, loki-brained fool.

Del unsheathed. Light took life from Boreal.

She wouldn’t sing. She wouldn’t. And neither, I swore, would I.

Oh, hoolies, bascha … I don’t want to do this.

Del’s face was composed. Her tone divulged nothing. “Step into the circle.”

A tremor ran through my limbs. Something pinched my belly.

Bascha, please don’t make me.

Del began to smile. Bladeglow caressed her face. It was kind, too kind; she was older, harder, colder. The light gave her youth again. Boreal made her Del again. The one before exile. And Kalle.

Something tickled the back of my neck. Not an insect. Not a stray piece of hair, falling against bared flesh. Something more.

Something that spoke of magic, whispering a warning to me.

Or was it merely fear, setting my flesh to rising?

Fear of my sword? Or of Del?

Oh, hoolies. Bascha.

“Tiger,” Del said. “Have you gone to sleep standing up?”

Maybe. And maybe I am dreaming.

I slipped out of my harness. Closed my hand around the hilt and drew the blade from its sheath. Hooked the harness over my saddle and walked toward the circle.

Del nodded, waiting. “It will be good for us both.”

My throat tightened. Breathing was difficult. Something stirred in the pit of my belly. I bit into my lip and tasted blood. Tasted fear also.

Oh, bascha—don’t make me.

“Gently, at first,” she suggested. “We both have healing left to do.”

I swallowed tightly. Nodded. Made myself step over the limb-carved line.

Del frowned slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Do it,” I rasped. “Just—do it.”

She opened her mouth. To comment. Question. Chastise. But she did none of those things. She simply shut her mouth and moved away, closing both hands on Boreal’s hilt. Slipping smoothly into her stance. That it hurt showed plainly in the soft flesh around her eyes and the brief tensing of her jaw, but she banished pain. Spread her feet. Balanced. Cocked the blade up. And waited.

In a true dance we would put our swords on the ground in the very center of the circle, and take up our positions directly across from one another. It was a race to the swords, and then a fight. A dance. Combat to name a winner. Sometimes it was to the death. Other times only to yield. And occasionally only to show what dancing was all about.

But this was not a true dance. This was sparring only, a chance to test one another’s mettle. To learn how fit we were. Or how much we needed to practice.

I needed it for the beasts. Del for Ajani.

One and the same, perhaps?

She waited quietly. I have seen her wait so before, always prepared, never wavering; completely at ease with her sword. It no longer struck me as odd, as alien, that a woman could be a sword-dancer. That a woman could be so good. Del had made herself both; I had seen—and felt—the results.

Sweat ran down the sides of my face. Tension made me itch. I wished myself elsewhere, anywhere, other than where I was.

Del dipped her sword. Briefly. Slightly. Barely. A salute to her opponent. In blue eyes I saw concentration. And no indication of fear.

Did it mean nothing at all to Del that she had nearly killed me?

Did it mean nothing at all to Del that I had nearly killed her?

“Kaidin,” she said softly, giving me Northern rank. Giving me Northern honor.

I lifted my sword. Shifted into my stance. Felt the familiarity of it, the settling of muscles and flesh into accustomed places. Felt the protest of scar tissue twisted into new positions.

Sweat ran into my eyes. Desperation took precedence over other intentions.

I lowered the sword. Swung around. Stepped out of the circle completely. And cursed as my belly cramped.

“Tiger?” Del’s tone was bewildered. “Tiger—what is it?”

“—can’t,” I rasped.

“Can’t?” She was a white-swathed wraith walking out of the circle, carrying Boreal. “What do you mean, ‘can’t’? Are you sick? Is it your wound?”

“I just—can’t.” I straightened, clutching at abdomen, and turned toward her. “Don’t you understand? The last time we did this I nearly killed you.”

“But—this isn’t a real dance. This is only sparring—”

“Do you think it matters?” Sweat dripped onto my tunic. “Do you have any idea what it’s like stepping into the circle with you again, two months after the last disastrous dance? Do you have any idea what it feels like to face you across the circle with this butcher’s blade in my hands?” I displayed Samiel to her. “Last time it—he—did everything he could to blood himself in you … and now he’s even stronger because I did finally blood him.” I paused. “Do you want to take that chance? Do you want to trust your life to my ability to control him?”