Sword-Maker(97)
“Old men,” she said quietly, “often lose their power.”
“And sometimes they don’t.”
“But all old men die.”
I shook my head. “I can’t make it any easier for you, Del. Yes, he could be dead. But you don’t know that.”
“And I wonder: will I ever? Or spend the rest of my life not knowing if there is anyone left of my blood.”
“Believe me,” I said roughly, “you can learn to live with that.”
Del’s hand closed over the blade. “And do you say that because I am a coldhearted, judgmental bitch?”
I looked at her sharply, startled by the question. More startled by the raw tone. “No,” I answered honestly. “I say that because it’s what I’ve done.”
“You,” she said blankly.
“Me,” I agreed. “Are you forgetting the circumstances? No mother, no father for me … no brothers or sisters, either. I haven’t the vaguest idea if there is anyone left of my blood, since I don’t know what blood it is.”
“Borderer,” she said. “Borderer, or foreign.”
I straightened. “That’s what you think?”
Del shrugged. “You have the size of a Northerner, but your color is mostly Southron. Not as dark, of course, and your features are not as harsh. You are a little of both, I think, which might make you a Borderer.” She smiled a little, assessing. “Or a foreigner. Have you never imagined it?”
That, and more. Everything. Every day of my enslavement. Every night in my bed of dung. Admitting it to no one. Not even to Sula, or Del. Because the admitting could make me weak. The weak do not survive.
“No,” I said aloud, driving the weakness away.
“Tiger.” Del set the sword aside. “Did it never occur to you that the Salset might have lied?”
“Lied?” I frowned. “I don’t understand.”
She sat cross-legged. Fingers curved around her knees. “You have spent your life believing you were left in the desert to die. Abandoned by mother, by father … that’s what you have said.”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Who told you?” she asked gently.
I frowned. “The Salset. You know that. What is this all about?”
“About lies. About deception. About pain inflicted on purpose, to make the foreign boy suffer.”
Something pinched my belly. “Del—”
“Who told you, Tiger? It wasn’t Sula, was it?”
My answer was instant. “No. Sula was never cruel. Sula was my—” I stopped.
Del nodded. “Yes. Sula was your salvation.”
In my hands I clutched the harness. “What of it?” I asked. “What has Sula to do with this?”
“When were you first made aware you weren’t Salset?”
I had no real answer. “I just always knew.”
“Because they told you.”
“Yes.”
“Who told you? Who told you first? Who told you so young that you would never think otherwise?”
“Del—”
“Was it the adults?”
“No,” I said crossly. “The adults completely ignored me until I was old enough to be useful. It was the children, always the children …” I let it trail off. Recalling all too well the painful days of my past; the nightmare of childhood.
Recalling and wondering.
Could it have been a lie?
I sat very still. Everything was suddenly, oddly, clear, the way it is just before a sword-dance. When you walk the edge of the blade, knowing an instant can make the difference.
All my senses sharpened. I knew who and where I was, and what I had become. And I knew it was hard to breathe.
In perfect stillness, Del waited.
“The children,” I repeated, feeling the abyss crack open below.
Del’s face was taut. “Children can be cruel.”
“They said—” I broke it off, not daring to say it aloud.
After a moment she took it up. “They said you’d been left for dead in the desert by parents who didn’t want you.”
“They all said it,” I murmured vaguely. “First one, then all the others.”
“And you never questioned it.”
I couldn’t sit there anymore. I couldn’t sit at all. How could I just sit—?
I thrust the harness aside and stood up stiffly, then walked away four paces. Stopped. Stared blindly into darkness.
Swung back numbly to challenge. “There was no one to question. Who was I to ask? What was I to say? I was a chula … chulas don’t ask questions … chulas don’t talk at all, because to talk invites a beating.”
“There was Sula,” she said gently.