I stopped short, breathing hard, but Del made no answer. Or else I couldn’t hear it in the maze of the dragon’s entrails. I sucked breath and ran on again, bootsteps echoing in the tunnel.
“—were a means, nothing more. I have no particular liking for beasts; I’m not a man for pets. But I had to start somewhere, so I fashioned myself a—hound, I think you said, yes? Well, then, a hound. A good and loyal dog ready to die at my command. Of course, then I needed more; harvesting jivatmas is difficult. A single beast wasn’t up to the task, so I had it bring me another human. Who in turn could bring me another. Villagers all, yes? Until I had enough, and sent them after jivatmas.”
I took the left branch. Its ceiling was higher; I ran.
Hoolies, hoolies, bascha—what have you gotten yourself into?
The voice boomed by my side. “—no, no, not ‘make’—I do better than that. Making is very simple; I unmake, yes? That is my personal gift; the magic of Chosa Dei. I take what has been wrought and drain it of its power. I unmake it most carefully, then reshape it to personal needs.”
I stopped short as the voice died out, fading behind me gently like a candle carried away. I spun in place, sword tip scraping the wall. Nothing lay behind me. Nothing but emptiness.
Oh, bascha. Bascha.
The voice echoed far down the tunnel. “—know what you are? Do you know what you are?”
I listened as I ran, but heard nothing of Del’s answer.
“—think you have denied yourself the awareness, afraid to admit the truth, yes? I can smell that sword; I can taste it—I have tasted it all along. There is no hiding it from me, in sheath or in a song. Nor can you hide it now; I can unsing what you sing, unmake what you make.”
This time I heard Del’s voice: “Why?”
The sorcerer’s tone was gentle. “So I may unmake the wards. So I may unmake my prison.” The tone abruptly altered; Chosa Dei was angry. “So I may unmake my brother, who put me in this place!”
The tunnel branched yet again. I started through it; stopped. It branched yet again. The dragon was full of tunnels, and Chosa was in them all.
Oh bascha, bascha. How in hoolies do I find you?
Fifteen
Rock bit into my knees. Blade clanged down. I realized I had fallen.
Behind me, the beast growled.
I lurched up, caught weapon, whirled. Spitted him as he leaped, then jerked the blade free and struck again as a second hound appeared, lunging out of ruddy shadows. Behind him was a third.
Blood sprayed freely as I scythed through rib cage and spine, shearing the third hound in half. I felt a flicker of pleasure; the jolt of victory.
And then I recalled Chosa’s words: that the beasts had once been human. Villagers from Ysaa-den. Sword-dancers from Staal-Ysta.
Bile rose. Briefly, only briefly, the hilt slipped in my hand. And then I smelled the stink. Felt the blood crusting on my face. And knew if I had hesitated the unmade men would have killed me.
Chosa Dei had Del. He no longer needed me. He no longer needed my sword; he had the one he wanted. Had the one he required to set himself free of his prison so he could find his brother and unmake Shaka Obre, who had had the abiding good sense to put Chosa away in a mountain where he could harm nothing and no one.
For six hundred and forty-two years.
Six hundred and forty-one; for the last six months or so, Chosa Dei had been busy.
And where, I wondered fleetingly, is Shaka Obre now?
Chosa Dei’s voice slipped through cracks. “—and a woman is stronger, yes? A woman has greater needs. A woman has greater will. A woman, when she decides to be, is much more dedicated. Much more determined, yes? More focused on her need.”
Del’s voice echoed oddly. “Some might say, more obsessed.”
“But yes—yes, of course! Obsession is necessary. Obsession is required. Obsession is the master when compassion undermines.” I heard Chosa laugh. “Now I understand. Now I comprehend. More than a jivatma. More than a blooding-blade. More than a sword-dancer’s weapon; it is your second soul. It is a second you—”
“No!” Del snapped. “I’m more than just a sword. More than just a weapon. More than a need for vengeance—”
Chosa sounded startled. “What is greater than vengeance when it has brought you so far? It has shaped you; it has made you—”
“I made me! I made this jivatma. It didn’t make me.”
“It unmade you,” Chosa answered, “to make you something else, yes? To make you what you required; vengeance is powerful.” The sorcerer’s voice altered subtly. “Tell me the sword’s name.”
One thing she’s not, is stupid.