If that were true, it was because something inside me, some facet of the magic, lent me an edge. When I danced, I felt four fingers on the hilt. Not three. My grip was the grip it had been before losing them. And I had no explanation. Only gratitude.
I closed my hands lightly over the sword. Went into my head. Dug into my soul. Peeled the flesh off the bones, shed muscle and viscera, until I found the magic buried so deep inside.
It wasn't a flame, but a coal. It burned steadily, unceasingly, using me as the fuel. It would kill me one day, merely because it existed. Because my mother was of the Stessoi, one of the gods-descended Eleven Families of Skandi, and those gods had been capricious enough to set their mark on me even as my mother, and I, lay dying in the Punja near my father's body. Because I was ioSkandic, a mage of Meteiera, meant to leap from the spire to merge with the gods when the madness overcame me.
In ten years. Twelve.
I had a son. A daughter. I had Delilah.
I wanted to live forever.
Or at least as long as I possibly could as man, not mage, without the interference of a magic I never wanted. Even though I'd used it.
"Find me" she had said, "and take up the sword."
My mother had died giving birth to me. But she had served me nonetheless by setting me on the road to this place. To this moment. To this decision.
No other was possible.
I found the coal inside. Took it up. Blew gently upon it. Felt the heat rise; saw the flame leap. I coddled it. Cradled it. Nursed it into being. Kept it alive. Bade it serve me.
Made it serve me.
Once I had had a sorcerer inside me. And in my jivatma.
It was time to put the mage that was me in the jivatma. The power, if not the man.
For the first time since I'd been reborn atop the spire in Meteiera, I thanked the priest-mages who had altered mind and body. Because in doing so they had given me the key.
Discipline.
"Mother," I said aloud; and discovered how odd it was to use the word as an address. A title. "Mother, you bred me for this. Bred itin me, bequeathing me something else of your people besides height, coloring, even keraka. Magic, magery, is not a gift I desire, or require. I wanted freedom—and won it because of Stessoi magic. I wanted to be a sword-dancer—and became one because of Skandic strength, the heritage of you, my father, and everyone before us. But now comes the time for me to look forward instead of backward. To, as Del would say, make a new song. To do that, I must make a new man. One who wishes to live for the children he has made, children who are of Stessoi flesh and bone even as I am. But also of the North, and of the South. If to do that I must cut away a part of me that you gifted me, so be it. I have made the choice."
There was no answer. I had no bone to fuel the dream-walk. But I had clarity of purpose, and the certainty to fuel that.
It took time. It nearly took me. But I felt the flame of the power become conflagration, feasting on my flesh. I poured it into and through my arms, down into the sword. Into Samiel, whose song I sang in a broken, shaking voice.
Discipline.
And when it was done, when the magic that had, at age sixteen, won me my freedom, resided in the sword, I stood up from the sand. Walked to the chimney wall. Found a crevice. I thrust the jivatma blade into the stone as deeply as I could.
And then I broke it.
I was a sword-dancer. It was all the magic I needed.
I smiled even as I wept. Even as I placed the two halves of the broken jivatma with Del's. Even as I shakily put on dhoti and sandals and went back through the slot, leaving layers of grease and skin.
In the tunnel, I collected my empty harness.
When I walked up the canyon I was thinking about Del. Not about circles, or sword-dancers, or elaii-ali-ma. Not about challenges. Not about dancing. Not about the price for breaking lifelong oaths.
Certainly not about Abbu Bensir. But he was there. And I understood why. On this day of all days, we had finally arrived at the moment we both had known would come: the dance that would define us both.
He stepped out of the doorway of my house as I approached. He wore only a dhoti and held a sword. "You were hard to find," he told me, "but then I heard about Alric and his family heading down here with a kid who'd been seen with you and Del, and I knew."
I said nothing. I waited.
His tone changed. "Sandtiger," he said, "by the rite of elaii-ali-ma I am not required to challenge you or to meet you in the circle. I am required only to kill you. But I have not forgotten the ignorant boy who, all unknowing, taught me a lesson before others at Alimat, even before the shodo. For that, I will offer you the honor of meeting me in the circle."
Very slowly, I unbuckled my harness. Dropped it to the ground. Spread my hands. I had no sword; I could not accept.
Abbu Bensir smiled. "The boy has said he will lend you his."
The boy. My son. Who had once been taught by the man before me.
"Where are they?" I asked.
Abbu stepped out of the doorway into the yard. Neesha came out. And Alric.
The big Northerner said, "Lena's with Del. She's fine."
"Does she know?"
Something spasmed briefly in Alric's face. "She's asleep."
Ah. Well, probably for the best.
Abbu nodded. "I have asked the boy to start the dance for us. Shall we waste no more time?"
"The boy," I said, "has a name."
"Nayyib. I know. I met him some years ago, apparently, though I confess I don't recall." He flicked a glance at Neesha, standing white-faced in the dooryard. "Give him your sword."
We had met several times, Abbu and I. That first time at Alimat, when I nearly crushed his throat. His voice still bore the scars. Once or twice after that, merely to spar because we ran into each other in a distant desert town with no other entertainment. Then for years, nothing. The South is a large place, and we ranged it freely. We were to meet again at Iskandar during the contest, but I'd been kicked in the head by the stud and was in no shape to dance. More recently, we had met at Sabra's palace, where I had aborted the dance by declaring elaii-ali-ma.
To this day neither of us knew which was the better man.
I walked over to Neesha and looked him in the eye. "I thank you for the honor of the use of your sword."
He wanted to speak. Didn't. Just unsheathed and gave me his sword.
I led Abbu to one of the sparring circles and waited. He studied it, walking the perimeter, noting how the turf was incised and marked with small pegs denoting the circle, so the grass wouldn't cover it. Inside, the meadowgrass was beaten down, crushed by feet. He walked there, too, to learn the footing. In a strange place, we would not have done so; but this was my home, and Abbu was due the chance to learn what its circle was like. He set his sword in the center, then walked away. I did the same. We faced one another from opposite sides.
He was older than I, smaller, lighter. But he'd always been fleet of foot. Age lay on him more heavily than the last time we'd met, but he was as fit as ever.
"I hear you danced against Musa."
So, he knew him. Or knew of him. "Umir's idea. But yes. I did."
"I hear you killed him."
"He insisted."
"Ah." Abbu nodded. "Musa was a proud boy. I did warn him it would get him killed one day, if he didn't quench it. I didn't believe it would be this soon."
"How well did you know him?"
"I taught him. Oh, not as the shodo taught us. He didn't stay with me for years, learning the forms. He came to me with a natural skill honed by other instructors: the sword-dancers he'd already defeated. He wished to defeat them all and desired my help. When I saw how he danced, I gave it to him." His creased face tautened briefly. "I did not believe you could defeat him."