Read Online Sword Breaker-Sword Dancer 4 by Jennifer Roberson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Roberson
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murdered kin, it does not make the accomplishment less valid, nor the ability less dangerous. She has honed her skills, her talent, her mind, shaping the woman into a weapon. She knows how, and when, to kill. She even knows why.
One of Del's strengths is a remarkable control: the ability to do what needs to be done without expending anything more, in strength, breath, and state of mind, than the moment absolutely requires.
Fear destroys that control. In anyone, that is frightening. In Del, it is lethal.
I did not lift Samiel. I did not so much as blink.
Del waited. Lids lowered minutely as she glanced quickly at the tip of the blade, measuring discoloration; then back at me, weighing me, until at last the assessment was done.
Almost imperceptibly, the posture relaxed. But not the awareness of what had taken place, or what I had accomplished in my "discussion" with Chosa Dei.
I decided now was not the time to resort to irony. "Sulhaya, " I said quietly, using her own tongue. "It's what I'd have wanted, too, had I lost the fight to Chosa."
Still Del waited. Measuring and weighing, if at a quieter intensity. Clearly, the initial danger had passed; she weighed me differently, now.
Eventually, she smiled. "Your accent is atrocious."
Relief was overwhelming; I did not want to deal with Del's fears just yet, because they magnified my own. "Yes, well... you don't say thanks very often, so how am I to know?"
Lips twitched. She took down the sword, easing the tilt of the blade. "Are you all right?"
Now I could be the me I knew better. "Stiff. Sore. A little shaky." I shrugged. "More in need of a bath than ever before. ..." I raked a hand across my belly. "Hoolies, this stuff itches--"
Del squatted, picked up a sliver, inspected it. In starlight, it glittered like ice.
"Interesting," she murmured.
All of ten feet separated us. Del knelt in sand. Before me gleamed a fractured sheet of glinting, magicked glass. "Do me a favor," I said. "Go get me my sandals?"
In the desert, at night, it is cool, belying the heat of the day. I lay on spread blankets, wrapped in underrobe and burnous, and tried to go to sleep. We had, at best, three hours before the sun climbed into the sky. Only a fool would waste them.
I shifted minutely, trying not to wake Del, who is a light sleeper, but also trying to settle myself yet again. For a moment the position felt just fine--then the impulse renewed itself, as it had so many times, and I scratched abraded flesh.
A finger poked my spine. "Sit up," she said. Then, "Sit up. Do you think I intend to lie here all night while you scratch yourself raw?"
She sounded uncommonly like many mothers I had heard chastising children. Which made me feel worse. "I can't help it. All the dust and grit and glass powder is driving me sandsick."
The finger poked again. "Then sit up, and I'll tend to it."
I rolled and levered myself up on one elbow as Del knelt beside me. "What are you doing?"
She motioned impatiently as she dug a cloth from the pouches and reached for a bota.
"Strip out of everything. We should have done this sooner."
"I can't bathe, Del ... we can't waste the water."
"To me, the choice is simple: we wash off as much of the powder as we can, here and now, or spend the rest of the night awake, with you scratching and complaining."
"I haven't said a word."
"You say more than most without even opening your mouth." Del pressed folded cloth against the lip of the bota and squeezed. "Strip down, Tiger. You'll thank me when I'm done."
Since once Del has her mind set on a thing there's no arguing with her, I did as ordered and shed everything but the dhoti. A glance at arms and legs, lighted by stars, displayed the powdering of glass and sand adhering to skin and hair.
Del clucked her tongue. "Look at you. You've scratched so much you've got raw patches.
And stripes--"
"Never mind," I growled. "Just do what you want to do."
Unexpectedly, Del laughed. "Quite an invitation..." But she let the
One of Del's strengths is a remarkable control: the ability to do what needs to be done without expending anything more, in strength, breath, and state of mind, than the moment absolutely requires.
Fear destroys that control. In anyone, that is frightening. In Del, it is lethal.
I did not lift Samiel. I did not so much as blink.
Del waited. Lids lowered minutely as she glanced quickly at the tip of the blade, measuring discoloration; then back at me, weighing me, until at last the assessment was done.
Almost imperceptibly, the posture relaxed. But not the awareness of what had taken place, or what I had accomplished in my "discussion" with Chosa Dei.
I decided now was not the time to resort to irony. "Sulhaya, " I said quietly, using her own tongue. "It's what I'd have wanted, too, had I lost the fight to Chosa."
Still Del waited. Measuring and weighing, if at a quieter intensity. Clearly, the initial danger had passed; she weighed me differently, now.
Eventually, she smiled. "Your accent is atrocious."
Relief was overwhelming; I did not want to deal with Del's fears just yet, because they magnified my own. "Yes, well... you don't say thanks very often, so how am I to know?"
Lips twitched. She took down the sword, easing the tilt of the blade. "Are you all right?"
Now I could be the me I knew better. "Stiff. Sore. A little shaky." I shrugged. "More in need of a bath than ever before. ..." I raked a hand across my belly. "Hoolies, this stuff itches--"
Del squatted, picked up a sliver, inspected it. In starlight, it glittered like ice.
"Interesting," she murmured.
All of ten feet separated us. Del knelt in sand. Before me gleamed a fractured sheet of glinting, magicked glass. "Do me a favor," I said. "Go get me my sandals?"
In the desert, at night, it is cool, belying the heat of the day. I lay on spread blankets, wrapped in underrobe and burnous, and tried to go to sleep. We had, at best, three hours before the sun climbed into the sky. Only a fool would waste them.
I shifted minutely, trying not to wake Del, who is a light sleeper, but also trying to settle myself yet again. For a moment the position felt just fine--then the impulse renewed itself, as it had so many times, and I scratched abraded flesh.
A finger poked my spine. "Sit up," she said. Then, "Sit up. Do you think I intend to lie here all night while you scratch yourself raw?"
She sounded uncommonly like many mothers I had heard chastising children. Which made me feel worse. "I can't help it. All the dust and grit and glass powder is driving me sandsick."
The finger poked again. "Then sit up, and I'll tend to it."
I rolled and levered myself up on one elbow as Del knelt beside me. "What are you doing?"
She motioned impatiently as she dug a cloth from the pouches and reached for a bota.
"Strip out of everything. We should have done this sooner."
"I can't bathe, Del ... we can't waste the water."
"To me, the choice is simple: we wash off as much of the powder as we can, here and now, or spend the rest of the night awake, with you scratching and complaining."
"I haven't said a word."
"You say more than most without even opening your mouth." Del pressed folded cloth against the lip of the bota and squeezed. "Strip down, Tiger. You'll thank me when I'm done."
Since once Del has her mind set on a thing there's no arguing with her, I did as ordered and shed everything but the dhoti. A glance at arms and legs, lighted by stars, displayed the powdering of glass and sand adhering to skin and hair.
Del clucked her tongue. "Look at you. You've scratched so much you've got raw patches.
And stripes--"
"Never mind," I growled. "Just do what you want to do."
Unexpectedly, Del laughed. "Quite an invitation..." But she let the
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