Sword-Maker (Tiger and Del, Book 3)
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He was a champion of sword magic sworn to track the hounds of hoolies. Yet before Tiger waited perils far deadlier than any hounds--the Dragon's Lair. A magical novel of sword and spell from the author of Sword-Dancer and Sword-Singer.
passing, a supremely ridiculous statement. He was horse, not human. Ah, hoolies, who cares? If Garrod said he would... I pushed away a damp muzzle come questing for reassurance. Del sheathed her sword. "Jamail," was all she said. That decided me. "Don't be sandsick," I snapped. "Jamail's the Oracle; do you think anyone will hurt him?" "I thought he was dead, and he's not." "So be happy about it. Let's go." Garrod handed her reins. "Waste no time," he repeated. "I can hold the other horses,
young. Of course I want to believe. But it doesn't mean I do." I wondered, not for the first time, what childhood for Del had been like. I knew bits and pieces only, because that was all she'd shared, but it wasn't hard to put a few of them together. I imagined a pretty but strong-minded girl who preferred boys' doings to girls'. And who, as the only daughter, was allowed the freedom to be a boy, even symbolically, because it was probably easier for father and uncles and brothers. Easier for a
that. Making is very simple; I unmake, yes? That is my personal gift; the magic of Chosa Dei. I take what has been wrought and drain it of its power. I unmake it most carefully, then reshape it to personal needs." I stopped short as the voice died out, fading behind me gently like a candle carried away. I spun in place, sword tip scraping the wall. Nothing lay behind me. Nothing but emptiness. Oh, bascha. Bascha. The voice echoed far down the tunnel, "--know what you are? Do you know what you
briefly, flicked a glance at Del, looked immediately back to me. "May I have more aqivi sent over? It would be an honor to buy you a jug." "Wait," I suggested. "Who described me so well?" "Your son, of course. And he was quite complimentary--" He frowned minutely. "Although he said nothing of a beard." I wasn't concerned about the beard. Only about my "son." Evenly, I asked. "What was his name? Did my 'son' give you a name?" The man frowned briefly, considered it, then shook his head. "No.
an odd thought: would Del try to kill me to keep me from killing myself? Somehow, I didn't laugh. Not looking at my sword. I approached it carefully. Felt nothing. No fear, no apprehension, no desire to do myself injury. Just a mild curiosity as to what the thing had wanted. It didn't say a word. I bent. Closed one hand around the exposed portion of the hilt, avoiding the blade itself. Worked the sword from the fissure and turned it right side up. Black crept up the blade. This time it