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Authors: Jennifer Roberson
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lake." I swallowed painfully; it was much harder
than I'd imagined. "I knew you were alive. When I left. I knew. But I thought you would die. I thought you would die. I thought--I did--I just... and I couldn't--I just couldn't--" I let it trail off. The emptiness was incredible.
"Oh, hoolies, Del... of all the lives I've taken, I couldn't face taking yours."
Silence. It hadn't come out the way I'd wanted it to. I hadn't said everything
that needed saying, that I wanted to say; I couldn't. How could I explain what
I'd experienced when I'd felt my own sword cut into her body? How could I tell
her what it was to see her lying on hardpacked dirt like a puppeteer's broken toy, bisected by my sword? How could I tell her how frightened I had been, how
sickened I had been? How much in that moment I had wished myself in her place?
How could I tell her I was absolutely certain she would die--and I couldn't bear
to watch it?
And so I had left her. While she lived. So I could remember her alive.
For me, it was very important. It was necessary. It was required, as so many things have been required of me. Required by myself.
Silence, while I sat there waiting for her to say something about my cowardice.
My lack of empathy. My willingness to leave her on Staal-Ysta before her fate was known. I'd made her ask my forgiveness; now I needed hers.
And then, at last, a response. But her tone was oddly detached. "You should have
killed me. You should have finished it. Blooding and Keying in me would have made you invincible." Del sighed a little. "The magic of the North and all the
power of the South. Invincibility, Sandtiger. A man to be reckoned with."
I drew in a steadying breath. The worst, for me, was over. I think. "I'm already
that," I said dryly. "I'm everything I want to be right now, this minute, here.
I don't need magic for that. Certainly not the kind of magic that comes from killing people."
Del tightened wrappings, locking the cold away. Locking herself inside, as she
did so very often. "You should have killed me," she said. "Now I have no name.
A
blade without a name."
There was grief. Anguish. Bitterness. The painful yearning of an exile for a land no longer hers. For a world forever denied, except in memories.
I stared blindly into the dark. "And a song that never ends?"
Clearly, it stung. "I will end it," she declared. "I will end my song. Ajani will die by my hand."
I let a moment go by. "What then, Delilah?"
"There is Ajani. Only Ajani."
She was cold, hard, relentless. Focused on her task. Her sword had answered her
plea.
But how much of it was the sword? How much merely Del? How responsible are any
of us for what we do to survive, to make our way in the world?
How hard do we make ourselves to accomplish the hardest goal?
Quietly, I said, "I'm not going South."
Huddled in bedding, Del was little more than an indistinguishable lump of shadow
against the ground. But now she sat up.
The moonlight set her aglow as blankets fell back from her shoulders: pristine
white against dappled darkness. Her hair, unbraided, was tousled, tumbling over
her shoulders. Curtaining the sides of her face.
She stared at me, frowning. "I did wonder why they told me you were going to Ysaa-den. I thought at first perhaps they lied, merely to trouble me--it was far
out of my way, and yours, if I was to go to the South--but then I found your tracks, and it was true." She shook her head. "But I don't understand why.
You've been complaining about the snow and the cold ever since we crossed the border."
I listened to her tone, hearing echoes and nuances; her fight to maintain balance. "I don't like it," I agreed. "I didn't like it before we crossed the border. But there's something I have to do."
I also didn't like the look of her. The intensity. She was too thin, too drawn,
too obsessed with Ajani. The sword had cut her flesh, but the man had hurt her
more.
Del's tone was carefully modulated so as not to show
than I'd imagined. "I knew you were alive. When I left. I knew. But I thought you would die. I thought you would die. I thought--I did--I just... and I couldn't--I just couldn't--" I let it trail off. The emptiness was incredible.
"Oh, hoolies, Del... of all the lives I've taken, I couldn't face taking yours."
Silence. It hadn't come out the way I'd wanted it to. I hadn't said everything
that needed saying, that I wanted to say; I couldn't. How could I explain what
I'd experienced when I'd felt my own sword cut into her body? How could I tell
her what it was to see her lying on hardpacked dirt like a puppeteer's broken toy, bisected by my sword? How could I tell her how frightened I had been, how
sickened I had been? How much in that moment I had wished myself in her place?
How could I tell her I was absolutely certain she would die--and I couldn't bear
to watch it?
And so I had left her. While she lived. So I could remember her alive.
For me, it was very important. It was necessary. It was required, as so many things have been required of me. Required by myself.
Silence, while I sat there waiting for her to say something about my cowardice.
My lack of empathy. My willingness to leave her on Staal-Ysta before her fate was known. I'd made her ask my forgiveness; now I needed hers.
And then, at last, a response. But her tone was oddly detached. "You should have
killed me. You should have finished it. Blooding and Keying in me would have made you invincible." Del sighed a little. "The magic of the North and all the
power of the South. Invincibility, Sandtiger. A man to be reckoned with."
I drew in a steadying breath. The worst, for me, was over. I think. "I'm already
that," I said dryly. "I'm everything I want to be right now, this minute, here.
I don't need magic for that. Certainly not the kind of magic that comes from killing people."
Del tightened wrappings, locking the cold away. Locking herself inside, as she
did so very often. "You should have killed me," she said. "Now I have no name.
A
blade without a name."
There was grief. Anguish. Bitterness. The painful yearning of an exile for a land no longer hers. For a world forever denied, except in memories.
I stared blindly into the dark. "And a song that never ends?"
Clearly, it stung. "I will end it," she declared. "I will end my song. Ajani will die by my hand."
I let a moment go by. "What then, Delilah?"
"There is Ajani. Only Ajani."
She was cold, hard, relentless. Focused on her task. Her sword had answered her
plea.
But how much of it was the sword? How much merely Del? How responsible are any
of us for what we do to survive, to make our way in the world?
How hard do we make ourselves to accomplish the hardest goal?
Quietly, I said, "I'm not going South."
Huddled in bedding, Del was little more than an indistinguishable lump of shadow
against the ground. But now she sat up.
The moonlight set her aglow as blankets fell back from her shoulders: pristine
white against dappled darkness. Her hair, unbraided, was tousled, tumbling over
her shoulders. Curtaining the sides of her face.
She stared at me, frowning. "I did wonder why they told me you were going to Ysaa-den. I thought at first perhaps they lied, merely to trouble me--it was far
out of my way, and yours, if I was to go to the South--but then I found your tracks, and it was true." She shook her head. "But I don't understand why.
You've been complaining about the snow and the cold ever since we crossed the border."
I listened to her tone, hearing echoes and nuances; her fight to maintain balance. "I don't like it," I agreed. "I didn't like it before we crossed the border. But there's something I have to do."
I also didn't like the look of her. The intensity. She was too thin, too drawn,
too obsessed with Ajani. The sword had cut her flesh, but the man had hurt her
more.
Del's tone was carefully modulated so as not to show
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