In the South, spring is different. Warmer, certainly. Quicker with its favors. But much too short for comfort; in weeks it would be summer, with the Punja set to blazing beneath the livid eye of the sun. It was enough to burn a man black; me, it baked copper-brown.
I lifted a hand and looked at it. My right hand, palm down. Wide across the palm, with long, strong fingers; creased and ridged with sinew. Knuckles were enlarged; two of them badly scarred. The thumbnail was spatulate, corroded by weeks in a goldmine when I’d been chained to a wall. In places I could see bits of ore trapped in flesh; my days in the North had bleached some of the color out, but beneath it I was still darker than a Northern-born man or woman. Sunburned skin, bronze-brown hair, eyes green in place of blue. Alien to the North, just as Del had been to me.
Ah, yes, Delilah: alien to us all.
Men are fools when it comes to women. It doesn’t matter how smart you are, or how shrewd, or how much experience you’ve had. They’re all born knowing just what it takes to find a way to muddle up your head. And given the chance, they do.
I’ve known men who bed only whores, wanting to make no better commitment, saying it’s the best way to avoid entanglements. I’ve known men who marry women so as not to buy the bedding. And I’ve known men who do both: bed whores and wives; sometimes, with the latter, their own.
I’ve even known men who swear off women altogether, out of zeal for religious purity or desire for other men; neither appeals to me, but I’ll curse no man for it. And certainly, in the South, I’ve known men who have no choice in the matter of bedding women, having been castrated to serve tanzeers or anyone else who buys them.
But I’ve known no man who, drunk or sober, will not, at least once, curse a woman, for sins real or imagined. A woman; or even women.
With me, it was singular.
But it wasn’t Del I cursed. It was me, for being a fool.
It was me, for proving once and for all which of us was better.
Bittersweet victory. Freedom bought with blood.
The stud stiffened, snorted noisily, then stopped dead in his tracks.
I saw movement in the trees, coming down from tumbled gray rocks. Nothing more, just movement; something flowing through oracle throws made of stone instead of bone. I caught whipping tail, fixed eyes, teeth bared in a snarl. Heard the wail of something hunting.
Too late the stud tried to run. By then the cat was on him.
It took us down, both of us. It sprang, landed, sprawled, throwing the stud over. I felt him buckle and break, felt him topple. I had time only to draw my left leg up, out of the way; he’d trap it, landing on it. Maybe even break it.
I rolled painfully as the stud went down. Grunted, then caught my breath sharply as my abdomen protested. And ignored it, thinking of the stud.
I came up scrambling, swearing at the cat. A big, heavy-fleshed male. White, splotched with ash, like a man come down with pox.
I picked up a rock and threw it.
It struck a flank, bounced off. The cat barely growled.
Another rock, another strike. This time I shouted at it.
Teeth sank into horseflesh. The stud raked turf with forelegs, screaming in pain and terror.
My hand closed around the hilt. “Oh, hoolies, bascha—not a squirrel, a cat—”
And the sword was alive in my hands.
Two
Hungry. It was hungry.
And so very thirsty.
I had felt it before, in the sword. Felt them before: hunger and thirst both, with equal dominance. Nearly inseparable, indivisible from one another.
Felt them before, in the circle. When I’d run the sword through Del.
Oh, hoolies, bascha.
No. Don’t think about Del.
Hot. It was hot—
Better than thinking of Del.
Was it?
Hot as hoolies, I swear.
Sweat broke from pores and ran down forehead, armpits, belly. Beneath hair and wool, it itched.
The cat. Think of the cat.
Hoolies, it is hot—
And the sword is so very thirsty.
Oh, bascha, help me.
No—Del isn’t here.
Think of the cat, you fool.
Think only of the cat—
The sword is warm in my hands. All I can think of is thirst, and the need to quench it with blood.
Sweating, still sweating—
Oh, hoolies, why me?
Thrice-cursed son of a Salset goat—
Watch the cat, you fool!
In my head I hear a song.
Can the cat hear it, too?
Hoolies, it sees me now. Sees the sword. Knows what I want. Turns from the stud—poor stud—to me …
Oh, hoolies, here it comes—lift the sword, you fool … do something, sword-dancer—
But I don’t want this sword. And this isn’t a real circle—
Real enough, Punja-mite. Are you ready for the cat?
Am I ready for the sword?
It has happened before, the slowing. The near stoppage of motion in everything I look at, as if it waits for me. It happened now, as before, though this time the slowing was nearly a true halt, clean and pure, leaving me time and room to work, to pick and choose my method; to give the best death to the cat before he gave it to me.