Sword-Maker(8)

I broke it off abruptly. I realized precisely how stupid I sounded, talking to a sword.

Well, talking to a sword isn’t so bad; I think we all do it from time to time, before we step into a circle. But talking to a magicked blade made me most distinctly uneasy; I was afraid it might understand.

I wiped sweaty palms on my clothing. I hadn’t imagined the feelings. I hadn’t imagined the shame.

And, most definitely, I hadn’t imagined the power demanding to be unleashed.

Coiling itself so tightly, like a cat before it springs.

In my head, I heard a song. A small, soft song, promising health and wealth and longevity, as if it were a god.

“Jivatmas die,” I said hoarsely. “I’ve seen it before, twice. You aren’t invincible, and you don’t make us immortal. Don’t promise me what you can’t.”

Notes wavered, then died away. I bent and scooped up the sword.

In my hands, it burned.

“Hoolies—” Flesh fused itself to steel. “Let go!” I shouted. “You thrice-cursed son of a goat—let go of my hands!”

Steel clung, caressed, absorbed. I thought again of melted eyes in a blade-riven skull.

“Hoolies take you!” I yelled. “What do you want, my soul?”

Or was it trying to give one?

—on my knees, now—

—hoolies, oh, hoolies—stuck to a sword … oh, hoolies, stuck to a sword—

—and for how long?

Sweat ran down my body. In the cold night air, I steamed. “No one ever told me—no one ever said—no one warned me about this—”

Well, maybe they had. I just didn’t listen much.

Sweat stung my eyes. I blinked, ducked my head into a shoulder, rubbed wet hair away. I stank of sweat, old wool and grime, with the acrid tang of fear.

I drew in a ragged breath. “What in hoolies am I—”

Fire lit up the sky.

At least, I think it was fire. It was something. Something bright and blinding. Something that damped the moon and the stars with a delicate, lace-edged beauty.

And beauty it was, like nothing I’ve ever seen. Nothing I’ve ever dreamed. Kneeling with the sword clutched in my hands—or the sword clutching me—I stared, mouth open, and let my head tip back so I could see the glory of Northern lights. The magic of sky-born steel, rune-wrought by the gods, baptised in human blood.

Celebrated by song.

Dancing in the sky was a curtain of luminescence. The colors were muted magnificence, flowing one into the other. They rippled. Dripped. Changed places. Met and melted together, forming other colors. Bright, burning colors, like fire in the sky. The night was alive with it.

In my head I heard a song. A new and powerful song. It wasn’t one I knew. It wasn’t from my sword, too new to sing like that. From a sword with a little age. From a sword who understood power, being cognizant of its own, and how to guard the gift. A sword born of the North, born of ice and snow and storm; of the cold winter wailing of a keen-edged banshee-storm.

A sword who knew my name; whose name I knew as well.

Samiel fell out of my hands. “Hoolies,” I croaked, “she’s alive.”





Four




I denied it. Immediately. Vehemently. With everything I had; I did not dare allow myself to believe it might be true, because hopes hauled up too high have that much farther to fall.

Oh, bascha. Bascha.

I denied it. Desperately. All the way down through the darkness, picking my way with care. All the way down through boulders, slipping and skidding on rubble. Through the shadows of looming trees.

Choking on painful certainty: Del is dead. I killed her.

Fire filled the sky. Such clean, vivid colors, rippling like Southron silks. Boreal’s doing, no other: steel brush against black sky, with artistry born of magic.

Doubts, like smoke, blew away, leaving me empty of breath.

—Delilah is alive—

I stopped walking. Stopping sliding. Stopped cursing myself for a fool. And stood awkwardly, rigidly clutching a tree. Trying to breathe again. Trying to comprehend. Trying to sort out a welter of feelings too complex to decipher.

—Delilah is alive—

Sweat bathed me. I leaned against the tree and shut my eyes, shivering, releasing the air I’d finally gulped. Sucking it back in even more loudly. Nearly choking. Ignoring the knot in my belly, the cramping of my guts, the trembling in my hands.

Trying to understand.

Relief. Shock. Amazement. An overwhelming joy. But also compelling guilt and an odd, swelling fear. A deep and abiding despair.

Delilah is alive.

Gods of valhail, help me.

Colors poured out of the sky like layers of ruffled silks: rose, red, violet, emerald, a hint of Southron yellow, traces of amber-gold. The blush of burnished orange. The richness of blue on black and all the shadings in between.