Del stared at me in amazement.
Defensively, I shrugged. “Well, we all have our preferences. Mine isn’t gray and black.”
“Maybe it’s what happens when you requench.”
I stood staring down at the dull-bladed sword, hands on hips, chewing a bloody lip. Then, with an impatient twitch of shoulders, I bent and picked it up.
Nothing happened. Nothing at all. The sword felt cold and dead.
I frowned. “What’s it supposed—”
“Tiger!”
This time I landed flat on my rump on the floor with my knees bent up, feet flat, bracing myself upright, and stared in astonishment at the sword lying but three feet away.
Still gray and black. But the black was a little higher.
Del’s hand was over her mouth. After a moment, she spoke through her fingers. “Are you all right?”
“Did you have to punch me again in the chest?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I’m all right.” It hurt more this time to stand up, but I managed it with a minimum of fuss. And then I stood there for a moment or two, trying to banish disorientation, and scowled at the sword. “He’s angry.”
“Who?”
“Samiel. Chosa Dei is just shocked. He didn’t realize he was dead—or whatever it is he is.”
Del took a step forward. “Does he know?”
“Know what?”
“Where Shaka Obre is?”
“Oh, for hoolies—” I glared. “I said I’d handle this, bascha—without Shaka Obre’s help.”
“It was a thought,” Del commented.
I walked to the sword. “Right now all I want to think about is leaving.”
“How?” Del asked. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time we tried to go through the wards?”
I remember very well. You don’t often forget waking up in the middle of a tunnel in a mountain shaped like a dragon. “But now Chosa Dei is dead, so the wards are out of a job. Besides, I think if we used a piece of this Northern magic you’re always talking about, we ought to be able to figure out a way.”
“Only if you can figure out how to pick up your sword.”
Basically, it was easy. All I had to do was show Chosa Dei who’s boss.
Del and I crossed to the “curtain.” Further study told us nothing more than we already knew: the thing was a ward set by Shaka Obre, intended to keep Chosa Dei imprisoned. It let out the smoke, let people in—though where they wound up was not quite certain, as I could testify—and prevented Chosa’s escape.
Prevented our escape.
Sweat ran down my temples. “Now,” I suggested, gripping the hilt with both hands.
Del frowned at me. “You don’t look—”
The blade shook; I shook. “Now. Not tomorrow.”
Del turned, raised her sword, glanced across at me. I mimicked her posture; together we sliced through the curtain as if it were nothing but silk.
Wards wisped into smoke. The prison was breached at last.
After six hundred and forty-two years, Chosa Dei was free of his mountain.
But until we found Shaka Obre, I’d never be free of Chosa.
Seventeen
We sat in the headman’s lodge in Ysaa-den, repairing what we could of battered flesh and spirits. We were alone, as always, being honored with solitude. With one another’s help we had washed blood and grime and stink off, replacing missing or ruined clothing with articles given us by Halvar and his wife. Now I sat on a warm pelt with eyes scrunched closed, legs crossed, gritting teeth as Del tended puncture wounds and tooth tears with herbal paste.
“Sit still,” she commanded as my eyes snapped open.
“It hurts.”
“I know it hurts. It will hurt worse if you let these bites get infected. Especially this one here.”
She did it on purpose. I flinched, swore at her; swore at her harder as she merely smiled and smeared more salve into a bite very low on my belly. Del had peeled the loosened waistband of my trews away, baring scraped and bitten skin, and now took pleasure in poking and prodding.
“I can do it,” I said. “For that matter, Halvar’s wife can do it; she offered.”
“Everyone in Ysaa-den offered, Tiger; you’re a hero. They will give you anything you ask, if they can.” Del sat back on her heels. “Am I to suppose you want their two copper pennies, now?”
She wore blue in place of filthy white, a cool soft blue that heightened the color of her eyes. Pale lashes, pale hair, paler skin; she was, no doubt, feeling every bit as tired and battered as me. But somehow she didn’t look it.
“No,” I answered testily. “All I want is to be rid of this sword, so I can live in peace. Or, more immediately, a warm bed and a bota of aqivi; since this is the North, I’ll take amnit.”