Read Online Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 by Jennifer Roberson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Roberson
Ads: Link
said,
"they have learned. And we are back where we started."
"Not quite," I muttered. "Too much sand blown out of the desert."
Del frowned. "What?"
For some reason, I was irritated. "We're not back where we started because too
many things have changed." I shifted position, felt the pull of newly stretched
scar tissue, tried to hide the discomfort from her. Just as she hid her own from
me. "Go back to sleep, Del. I'll take first watch."
"You're in no shape for that."
"Neither of us are, but we'll each of us have to do it. I just thought I might
as well start."
She considered protesting, but didn't. She knew better; I was right. And so she
went back to her bedding on the other side of the cairn and wrapped herself in
pelts. All I could see of her was the dim pale glow of her hair.
I sorted out my own tumbled bedding and made sense of it again. And then I settled carefully, snugging deep into cloak and pelts, and prepared to wait through the night. I wanted to give her till dawn; she'd done the same for me.
Trouble was, I couldn't.
It didn't take much. Just a glance at Del on the far side of the cairn, all bound up in pelts and blankets. The glow of the moon in her hair. The sound of
her even breathing. And all the feelings recalled.
I sat there rigidly, half sick. Joints ached, my wound throbbed, the flesh of my
throat complained. Even my head hurt. Because I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw
threatened to crack.
Just tell her, you fool. Tell her the truth.
Across the cairn, she settled. Hurting at least as much as I, inside and out.
Deep in my belly, something tightened. Not desire. Something more powerful yet:
humiliation. And more than a little discomfort. Of the spirit as well as the flesh.
Oh, hoolies, fool, just tell her the truth.
Just open your mouth and talk; it's never been very hard.
You made Del ask for atonement. She's at least due an explanation.
But that she hadn't asked for one made me feel even worse.
Something inside of me quailed. Guilt. Regret. Remorse. Enough to break a man.
But the woman was due the words.
I stared hard out into the darkness. The night was quiet, save for its normal song. It was cold--colder in bed alone--but spring promised warmer nights.
Already the color was different.
You're avoiding the truth, old man.
The woman is due the words. The least you can do is say them out loud where she
can hear them, instead of inside your head.
Easier thought than said.
I looked at Del again. And knew all too well that even though she was--and had
been--wrong, I shared the responsibility of putting things to rights. Of admitting my own faults. Because when things have gone awry, it takes two to straighten them out.
I drew in a deep breath, so deep it made me lightheaded, then blew it out again.
And finally opened my mouth. This time the words would be spoken instead of locked away.
"I was afraid," I told her. "I was scared to death. I was everything you accused
me of earlier. And it was why I left Staal-Ysta."
I knew she was still awake. But Del said nothing.
"I left on purpose," I continued stolidly. "I wasn't driven out, or invited out,
or even asked to leave; I was a kaidin, according to all the customs, and they
had no right to ask it. I could have stayed. They would have let me stay, to see
if you lived or died... but I couldn't. I saw you lying there in the circle, cut
open by my sword, and I left you behind on purpose."
Del was very still.
I scraped a tongue across too-dry lips. "They put you in Telek's lodge--in Telek's!--because it was the closest. Because they thought you would die, and that your daughter deserved to watch. To hear the funeral songs."
Her breath rasped faintly.
"They stitched me back together--you carved me up pretty good--and gave me the
gifts bestowed upon a new kaidin. I had, they said, conducted myself honorably,
and was therefore due the tribute as well as the rank. They patched me up, gave
me gifts, rowed me across the
"they have learned. And we are back where we started."
"Not quite," I muttered. "Too much sand blown out of the desert."
Del frowned. "What?"
For some reason, I was irritated. "We're not back where we started because too
many things have changed." I shifted position, felt the pull of newly stretched
scar tissue, tried to hide the discomfort from her. Just as she hid her own from
me. "Go back to sleep, Del. I'll take first watch."
"You're in no shape for that."
"Neither of us are, but we'll each of us have to do it. I just thought I might
as well start."
She considered protesting, but didn't. She knew better; I was right. And so she
went back to her bedding on the other side of the cairn and wrapped herself in
pelts. All I could see of her was the dim pale glow of her hair.
I sorted out my own tumbled bedding and made sense of it again. And then I settled carefully, snugging deep into cloak and pelts, and prepared to wait through the night. I wanted to give her till dawn; she'd done the same for me.
Trouble was, I couldn't.
It didn't take much. Just a glance at Del on the far side of the cairn, all bound up in pelts and blankets. The glow of the moon in her hair. The sound of
her even breathing. And all the feelings recalled.
I sat there rigidly, half sick. Joints ached, my wound throbbed, the flesh of my
throat complained. Even my head hurt. Because I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw
threatened to crack.
Just tell her, you fool. Tell her the truth.
Across the cairn, she settled. Hurting at least as much as I, inside and out.
Deep in my belly, something tightened. Not desire. Something more powerful yet:
humiliation. And more than a little discomfort. Of the spirit as well as the flesh.
Oh, hoolies, fool, just tell her the truth.
Just open your mouth and talk; it's never been very hard.
You made Del ask for atonement. She's at least due an explanation.
But that she hadn't asked for one made me feel even worse.
Something inside of me quailed. Guilt. Regret. Remorse. Enough to break a man.
But the woman was due the words.
I stared hard out into the darkness. The night was quiet, save for its normal song. It was cold--colder in bed alone--but spring promised warmer nights.
Already the color was different.
You're avoiding the truth, old man.
The woman is due the words. The least you can do is say them out loud where she
can hear them, instead of inside your head.
Easier thought than said.
I looked at Del again. And knew all too well that even though she was--and had
been--wrong, I shared the responsibility of putting things to rights. Of admitting my own faults. Because when things have gone awry, it takes two to straighten them out.
I drew in a deep breath, so deep it made me lightheaded, then blew it out again.
And finally opened my mouth. This time the words would be spoken instead of locked away.
"I was afraid," I told her. "I was scared to death. I was everything you accused
me of earlier. And it was why I left Staal-Ysta."
I knew she was still awake. But Del said nothing.
"I left on purpose," I continued stolidly. "I wasn't driven out, or invited out,
or even asked to leave; I was a kaidin, according to all the customs, and they
had no right to ask it. I could have stayed. They would have let me stay, to see
if you lived or died... but I couldn't. I saw you lying there in the circle, cut
open by my sword, and I left you behind on purpose."
Del was very still.
I scraped a tongue across too-dry lips. "They put you in Telek's lodge--in Telek's!--because it was the closest. Because they thought you would die, and that your daughter deserved to watch. To hear the funeral songs."
Her breath rasped faintly.
"They stitched me back together--you carved me up pretty good--and gave me the
gifts bestowed upon a new kaidin. I had, they said, conducted myself honorably,
and was therefore due the tribute as well as the rank. They patched me up, gave
me gifts, rowed me across the
Similar Books
