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.'
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.
