I nodded. "Neither did Musa."
Dark eyes flicked to Neesha. "Now."
Neesha stood two paces away. Alric had moved to stand behind me, well out of the way.
I looked at my son and nodded.
His jaw clenched. "Dance."
It was a fast-moving, vicious fight, unlike anything Abbu and I had engaged in before. But then, though not friends, we had been friendly rivals, more interested in the challenge. We had never fought to the death. Even before Sabra, he had retained the honor I'd always seen in him, doing his best to respect the honor codes despite Sabra's desire for me to die.
He respected those codes now. But this time he wanted me dead.
Within four engagements each of us had drawn blood. I had a slash across one thigh and a cut along my ribs, matching the one Musa had given me on the other side. Blood dripped from the inside of Abbu's right arm, but it wasn't a mortal wound. We were a long way from dying.
And I had discovered that the ritual I performed to rid myself of the magic had also tired me. I felt as if a part of me were missing; and maybe it was. The fingers were. No more was there the odd conviction that they were still attached. My hands were as Sahdri had made them: a thumb and three fingers, no more. The stumps were sore. My grip was weakened. As Abbu engaged my blade again, the sword twisted in my hands.
Abbu Bensir was not as young as Musa, but he was far wiser. He would not make the mistake Musa had.
And I could die for it.
My world closed down. My mind registered all of the factors that affected a dance, such as footing, footwork; how the light lay; the reach of blades and arms; the rhythm of my breathing and his; even the blood running down my flesh. The canyon was filled with the belling of blades, the screech of steel on steel.
Yet again his blade touched me, slashing high across one hip. I broke away, stumbled, felt more blood running, saw the light in Abbu's eyes. He came in, blade raised and moving. I blocked it, held it, spun away. Felt the pain in my hip. Felt the sudden tilt of the world.
I took a step forward. Went down. Caught myself with both hands splayed against the ground. The hilt of Neesha's sword remained beneath my right hand, but I couldn't grasp it properly. The stump banged against leather grip, sending fire through my arm.
Abbu came on. I grabbed the fallen blade, stayed on my knees, brought the hilt up. I planted the pommel in his belly even as his sword sang down on the diagonal, slicing straight into the meat up my upper arm. I felt the steel grate on bone.
But Abbu had lost the impetus of his blow when I jabbed the sword hilt into his abdomen. He fell back, gasping, slightly hunched. I got to my feet, aware that the wound was a bad one. The arm didn't want to work. I wavered, nearly fell down, caught my balance with effort. Blinked as sweat ran into my eyes.
Abbu went to one knee. He cradled his lower belly with his left arm. His face was gray.
I was one-armed now. I stayed on my feet with effort, aware of the roaring in my ears. And then, as it so often did, time slowed for me. I had no magic, but I had skill and the odd accuity that always served me.
Abbu got up. He winced as he straightened, then wrapped both hands around his sword hilt. He came across the circle. Slowly. So slowly.
I saw the blade rise. Saw my blood on it. As he came on, I let go of the sword—Neesha's sword—in midair and caught it upside down as it hung there at the apex. I held it overhand now, the pommel exiting above my thumb. I pulled it and my arm back across my body, elbow bent; as Abbu closed, I snapped my arm toward him in a backhanded, punching thrust, keeping the power close to my body. The desperate maneuver allowed Abbu inside, to make contact with my body, but by then my blade had been shoved straight through his body. I heard his outcry, felt the warmth of his breath on my face, took his weight on my right shoulder as he fell forward.
With the last bit of my strength, I thrust him away from me with my right arm, letting him take Neesha's sword. He fell hard, full-length, his head smacking dully against the ground. The sword stood up from his body.
They were with me then, Neesha and Alric. I felt hands on me, holding me upright, supporting my left arm. Someone tied something around my upper arm to try to slow the bleeding. But I pushed them away, staggered to Abbu. Saw the blood on his lips. Before I could say a word, before I could speak the ritual blessing for a seventh-level sword-dancer at the edge of death, he was gone.
Over.
Ended.
The first of the shodo's greatest lay dead in the circle.
This time I didn't fight them as Alric and Neesha gathered me up, kept me on my feet, aimed me toward the house. We were nearly there when I saw Del in the doorway. Hollows lay like bruises under her eyes, and her lips were pale. One hand clutched the doorjamb; the other lay across her mouth, as if to physically restrain the fear that she would not confess.
But a smile of relief began behind the hand, and she lifted her fingers away. She reached out, closed that hand on the back of my neck, shakily pulled me close. Her robes were immediately soaked with my blood. "Come inside."
Alric and Neesha got me there. Del directed them to the bed in the other room. I protested weakly. "What about the baby?"
"She's in the cradle," Del told me. "She missed her father proving once and for all that he is the greatest sword-dancer in the South."
"Well," I gasped, "she'll probably see it again."
Alric and Neesha helped me to sit on the bed. Unconsciousness crowded in. I was aware of people moving around, bandaging me, of words exchanged about a heating knife; but none of it made any sense. Everything felt distant.
"What about you?" I asked Del, even as they made me lie down.
She had moved around to the other side of the bed. She sat down, caught her breath, then took my right hand. "I'm here."
I wanted to tell her she had no business sitting up in bed hanging onto me so I could hang onto her, but then Alric thrust a twist of cloth between my teeth, told Neesha to hold my arm, and pressed the red-hot knife blade against the wound in my upper arm.
I woke the baby up. Del said something about having two screaming infants in her house, and then she very suddenly lay down next to me.
Ridding my mouth of cloth, I croaked, "You all right?"
Her head moved against mine in a weak nod.
I glanced at Alric, who was dropping the knife into a wooden bowl. "You enjoyed that. Making me yell."
He grinned. "So I did."
Now I looked at Neesha. "Still want to be a sword-dancer, after seeing that?"
He drew in a breath. "After seeing that, I want to be nothing else."
Guess it was in the kid's blood after all. I smiled faintly to tell him I approved, then rolled my head toward Del. I heard the sounds of Neesha and Alric leaving. The baby had gone back to sleep. I thought her mother was on the verge herself. "You awake?"
Her voice was a breath of sound. "Barely."
"I have a question."
She was fading fast. So was I. "What?"
"Who's really the best? You or me?"
Del lifted her head enough to stare at me in wide-eyed, rigid disbelief. Then dropped it back down again. "I guess we'll just have to have a dance to find out."
"All right. Tomorrow?"
"Fine," she murmured.
I turned my head enough to feel her hair against my face. Opened my mouth to tell her we'd have to be vigilant about the men who lusted after our daughter—and then exhaustion hit me over the head with a cantina stool.
A woman. A son. A daughter.
Was this what I had expected?
No.
But it was what I had dared to dream, at night among the Salset.