reaches, gestures. There, she seems to say, though her mouth does not move. There. Take up the sword.
It lies just out of her reach, as if flung down or lost in battle. It is more than a sword, I see, but jivatma, fashioned in the North of Northern rites. Yet it isn't Boreal. Isn't Del's sword.
It is mine. Samiel.
'There,' she says, 'take up the sword.'
Sand drifts. Obscures the body. Carries flesh away. Bones remain. It isn't Del anymore but the other woman.
'Find me,' she says. 'Find —'– ,– ;
'—me,' I finished, and realized I was awake.
The sword lay beside me, where I had placed it. Not Samiel, just the sword I'd bought in Haziz. It bore no runes, no Northern magic. Was nothing more than steel, with a leather-wrapped hilt.
In the darkness, I lifted the sword. Closed one hand around it. Felt again the pressure of four fingers.
Four, not three.
I closed my other hand around it, resting the pommel against my abdomen so that the blade bisected air. And again, four fingers.
After a moment I set the sword down beside me and inspected my hands. Felt two stumps where little fingers had lived.
Find me, she had said. Take up the sword.
Find who? What sword?
'What in hoolies do you want?' I said. 'And what am I supposed to do about it? If you want me to do something, you've got to give me more to go on!'
Of course, then I felt utterly absurd for talking aloud to a dream. But I was getting more than a little tired of obscurity. I've always been a vivid dreamer, but this was new. And already old.
I considered the situation. I had fully intended to go to the fallen chimney formation to search for Samiel. Del and I were on our way there when the sandtiger had attacked. So if I was heading there anyhow, why would the dreams seem to be commanding me this way and that, like a recalcitrant child? And what did the dead woman have to do with any of it? There had been no one but Del and me in the chimney when Chosa Dei met Shaka Obre for the final time. We'd escaped. No one had been killed. What did my jivatma have to do with the skeleton?
I sat up, planting my feet on the floor. Out of sorts, I scrubbed at mussed hair. I was bone-tired still, since sleep had brought me no rest. Finally I lighted the candle on the table, then bent down to dig through saddlepouches. I found Umir's book and propped it on my lap as close to candlelight as possible.
It was a plain, leather-bound book. No inset gemstones, gold or silver scrollwork, no burned-in knotwork designs that might set it apart from other books. I knew it was expensive; all books are expensive and owned only by the wealthy. But it didn't look particularly special. The hinges and latch were made of tarnished copper, and time-darkened gut threaded the pages onto the spine. I wondered briefly if it was locked against me, but the latch opened easily enough. I turned back the cover and saw the first page: fine sheepskin vellum, scraped to a clean, level sheet. The first letter on the page was bigger than the rest, much more ornate, painted in remarkable colors. The print itself was plain black ink.
I squinted at it in poor light. Before Meteiera, I hadn't been able to read anything other than maps, since mostly those were made up of symbols denoting roads, mountains, water, rather than words. Words I'd never been able to sort out in my head, but I'd never really tried. Del could read, so I'd relied on her on the few occasions it mattered. Mostly, it didn't. Then in ioSkandi, atop the spires, something had happened. Something had changed me. Not only could I read, but I comprehended languages I'd never before learned. I'd always had a few to hand—you just learn phrases over time—but now I knew them all. Fluently.
I could read Umir's book.
Something deep in my belly fluttered. It wasn't quite fear, nor was it excitement, nor, happily, was it nausea. Then I realized it was the first blossoming of anticipation.
The Book of Udre-Natha was, supposedly, a grimoire containing spells, incantations, summonings, and other magical oddments. Umir had fancied himself a practitioner of the arcane arts, and indeed I'd seen him do a few tricks. But I had spent most of my life denying magic existed, so I'd paid little enough attention to such things. In time, I'd rather uneasily come to the conclusion that it did indeed exist, and some could even summon and manipulate it to almost any degree—as apparently I had managed to do once or twice. But I didn't like to think about it.
Certainly not in connection with me.
I carefully turned the pages, noting colorful first letters throughout, and diagrams, drawings, even maps. The handwriting changed frequently, which suggested more than one man had written it. Though I could read the words, they spoke of many things unknown to me. It was a comprehension of parts without understanding the whole.
Then, paging through, I came across a brief scribbled note saying something about some kinds of inborn magic coming to life late, residing unknown in the body and mind. That a man might live most of his life ignorant of his power until something kindled it. Then, suddenly beset by magic like a blind man given sight, he could react in one of several different ways. All of them seemed to entail some kind of danger to himself or to others.
One line in particular caught my eye. Magic must be used, it said, as a boil must be lanced, lest it poison mind and body.
Very familiar words. Sahdri had said something similar, as had Nihko.
I wondered, then, if my unwillingness to use whatever power I supposedly had was causing the dreams. If I had locked my magic away somehow, was it now seeping out around the edges? Would it burst free unexpectedly one day, threatening me and others?
Sahdri had said Skandic mages went mad from the magic, and that was why they exiled themselves to ioSkandi. That the discipline and devotions learned there in Meteiera could control the worst of the power when coupled with judicious use of it. But it was a finite period of control, because eventually every priest-mage merged with the gods. Of course, their idea of merging was actually self-murder, since they leaped off the spires. So I guess they really did go mad.
I'd never thought of magic as a disease before, but the book sure made it sound that way.
I read another line. Magic manifests itself in uncounted ways no one may predict, depending on the individual. But it is known that overuse of the power may kill the man, and denial of it after manifestation may also kill him.
Oh, joy. Either way I could die.
Ten years, Nihko had told me I had left. Possibly twelve. Not exactly what I call fair compensation for having magic in your blood.
Sighing, I closed the book, fastened it, set it on the table. Blew the candle out. Went back to bed.
This time I didn't dream.
SEVENTEEN
FOUAD STARED at me. He wore brilliant orange this morning. 'Are you sandsick?'
My face got a little warm. 'No.'
'What in the names of all the gods for ?'
'The horse,' I muttered.
In his eyes I saw all manner of thought. Likely none of them had to do with the sanity of one particular sword-dancer. 'You want Silk's tassels for your horse.'
I stared down fixedly at the saddlepouches on the bar, picking at leather thongs. 'Yes.'
Amusement was replacing the incredulous note in his voice. 'Are you sure this is not for yourself?'
I glared at him. 'No, it's not for me!'
He cocked his head thoughtfully, examining me. 'I don't know—you might look good with women's tassels
