And no Northern bascha with whom to pass the time, in argument or in the circle.
I cleared my throat. “I’ve got nothing to do.”
“After what I have done—”
“I’ll get over it.”
It was abrupt. Off-handed. Casual. It was also enough. We’re neither of us good at putting feelings into words.
Del pulled furs into place and lay down on her bedding again. Her back was toward me, right shoulder jutting toward the roof. “I would like that,” she said.
I lay there thinking about it, overwhelmed with new feelings. But I was exhausted from the sword, and it took too much effort to think about emotions. Del had made her admission. Del had fulfilled the task I required of her. So now all I had to do was just shut my eyes and let it go, sliding away. Tumbling into darkness. The pain was gone for good, and the lure of sleep beckoned. Beckoned. Beckoned—
It was pleasant drifting there, just at the edge of the eddy … at the point of dropping off—
“You’re not old,” Del said. Very low, but distinct.
Sleep retreated a moment. I smiled and yanked it back.
Going home, I thought, and slid off the edge of the world.
Part II
One
“Tiger,” she said, “you’re whistling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Not now, no—but you were.”
“I don’t whistle, bascha—too much like music.”
“Whistling is music,” she pointed out, “and you were doing it.”
“Look,” I said patiently, “I don’t sing, I don’t hum, I don’t whistle. I don’t do anything even remotely connected with music.”
“Because you’re tone-deaf. But that doesn’t mean you can’t do any of those things. It just means you do all of them badly.” She paused. “And you do.”
“Why would I whistle? I’ve never done it before.”
“Because, thanks to the Cantéada and your jivatma, you have a better understanding of what power music holds … and maybe because you’re happy.”
Well, I was happy. I’d been happy ever since Del had made her admission. Happier ever since we’d traded uplands for downlands and then downlands for border country; before an hour was up we’d be out of the North for good.
But I don’t know that it made me whistle.
I drew in a deep breath, then exhaled in satisfaction. “Smell that? That’s air, bascha … good, clean air. And warm air, too . . no more frozen lungs.”
“No,” she agreed, “no more frozen lungs … now we can breathe Southron air and have our lungs scorched.”
I just grinned, nodded, rode on. It felt good to be aboard the stud again, riding down out of hills and plateaus into the scrubby borderlands between the North and Harquhal. It felt so good I didn’t even mind Del’s steadfast silences, or the dry irony of her tone when she did speak. All I knew was that with each stride closer to the border, I was closer to home. To warmth and sun and sand. To cantinas and aqivi. To all the things I’d known so well for the last twenty-some-odd years of my life, once I was free to know them.
“Hah!” I said. “See? There’s the marker now.” Without waiting for an answer, I booted the stud into a startled, lunging run and galloped the distance remaining between me and the South. I sent him past the stone cairn, then rolled him back, held him in check, watched Del negotiate the same distance at a much more decorous pace.
Or was it reluctance in place of decorum?
“Come on, Del,” I called. “The footing’s good enough. Let that blue horse run!”
Instead she let him walk. All the way to the cairn. And then she reined in, slid off, looped his reins around the pile of stones. Saying nothing, Del walked a short distance away and turned her back to me, staring steadfastly toward the north.
Oh. That again.
Impatiently I watched as she unsheathed, balanced blade and hilt across both hands, then thrust the sword above her head as if she offered it to her gods. It brought back the night she’d called colors out of the sky and painted the night with rainbows. It brought back the night I’d realized she wasn’t dead; that I realized I hadn’t killed her.
Impatience faded. Del was saying good-bye to her past and her present. No more Staal-Ysta. No more Kalle. No more familiar life. As much as I was pleased to see the South again, it wasn’t the same for her. It never could be, either, regardless of circumstances.
The stud stomped, protesting inaction. I stilled him with a twitch of the reins and a single word of admonishment; for a change, he paid attention. Then he swung his head around as far as he could swing it, staring toward still-invisible Harquhal, and snorted. With feeling.