Del’s brows arched. “That is one way, yes. But then you would be dead; what sense is there in discharging a sword if you won’t be alive to use it?”
I didn’t even bother to reply to that. “Is there another way?”
“Yes. But it was not a thing taught on Staal-Ysta.”
“Where is it taught?”
Del shook his head. “I think it would take someone who understood the magic of jivatmas. Someone also who understood Chosa Dei, and the threat he represents. Because Chosa Dei himself is powerful; if the discharging were not done properly, he might free himself.”
“He’d have no body,” I pointed out. “This one is sort of a mess.”
Del shrugged. “He’d find another. It might even be yours, since by then he’ll know you so well.”
Flesh froze. “What?”
Del sighed, frowning, as if frustrated by my ignorance. “Chosa Dei is no longer alive, no more than Baldur is in my sword. But his spirit is there, and his soul; the things he most believes in. You will feel it, Tiger. You will feel him. After a while you will know him—you will have to—and he will know you.”
I scowled. “Does he know he’s in this sword?”
Del shrugged. “But even if he doesn’t, it doesn’t really matter. Chosa Dei unmakes things to reshape them to his desires. He will try the same with your sword.”
“What if I gave it to someone else?”
Del smiled crookedly. “What blooded, named jivatma allows anyone else to touch it?”
“If I told him Samiel’s name, he could.”
One of her shoulders twitched. “Yes. You could. And then he could touch your sword. But not being you, he could hardly control the magic. Nor control Chosa Dei.”
I said something brief and very explicit.
Del ignored it. “I wonder …” she murmured.
“Wonder? Wonder what? What are you nattering about now?”
Her face was pensive. “Shaka Obre.”
“Chosa’s brother? Why?”
“Because maybe, just maybe, he might be able to help.”
“He’s a story, bascha.”
“So was Chosa Dei.”
I scowled. Considered it. “I don’t need any help from a wizard.”
“Tiger—”
“I can handle this on my own.”
Pale brows arched. “Oh?”
“Just give me a little time. I’ll work something out. Meanwhile, let’s get out of here.”
I made it three steps. “Tiger.”
I swung back. “What?”
Del pointed at my sword, still mostly buried in Chosa’s remains.
“Oh.” I went over, bent down, didn’t quite touch the hilt. “What’s supposed to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s helpful,” I told her. “I thought you knew all this stuff.”
“I know some ‘stuff,’” she agreed. “But you’ve done something no one else has ever done.”
“No one?”
“No one. An-ishtoyas seeking the blooding-journey always take sponsors with them to prevent disasters like this.”
“So what you’re saying is, I’m on my own.”
Mute, Del nodded.
Being best at something is often entertaining. But being first is a little different; it can be dangerous. And I’ve never been quite cocky enough to risk myself like that.
I sucked in a deep breath, stretched out my hand—
“May I suggest something?” Del inquired.
My hand jerked back. “What?”
“Make certain you are stronger. Now. This moment. If Chosa senses any weakness, he will use it for himself.”
I cast her a baleful glance. Then straightened and kicked the sword out of the crispy, shrunken pile of cloth, bones, and flesh.
Steel clanged across the stone floor. Nothing happened. The sword just lay there.
Except the blade was dull.
Frowning, I stepped across the remains and stared down at the sword. The hilt was the same as always—bright, brilliant steel—but the blade was smudgy dull gray, almost black. The tip itself was black, as if it had been burned.
“All right,” I said. “Why?”
Del stood next to me, sword in hand. She looked down at her own blade, which was a pale salmon-silver. When keyed, it burned richer and brighter. Nothing approaching black. No jivatma I’d ever seen had ever been this color.
“I don’t know,” she said. “No one knows what the color will be until the jivatma shows it.”
“But you think this is it.”
Del sighed a little. “I think so. It comes on the heels of quenching and keying.”
“I don’t like black or gray. I’d prefer something brighter. Something more desertlike.”