Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 Read Online Free

in
    the shadow of an instant.
    Noise rushed in even as I rushed the cat. No, not noise: music. Something far more eloquent than anything so commonplace as noise. More powerful than sound.
    And abruptly I recalled what I had heard on the overlook by the lakeshore, kneeling with the sword. When the music of the Canteada had crowded into my skull.
    How they could sing, the Canteada. A race born of dreams, given substance by belief. Who had, Del told me once, given music to the world.
    Just as they'd given me some for the moment of the Naming.
    For the stud, I thought, it's worth it. The risk is worth the taking for all the
    times he's saved my skin.
    Only the thought, for a moment. And a moment was all that was needed.
    The cat flowed aside. The stud lurched up, staggered, ran.
    The mouth curled back and opened to display impressive fangs. But slowly, oh so
    slowly; didn't he know I sang his death?
    White cat with gray-irised eyes, and dappled, silver-splotched coat. The pelt would be worth a fortune; I'd take it once he was dead.
    --the sword was alive in my hands--
    "What's mine is mine," I told him, so he would understand.
    The sword was alive.
    The cat peeled back lips and screamed.
    The sword invited him in. Come closer, it said. Come closer.
    It made it all so easy.
    The leap was effortlessly smooth. Smiling, I watched it, admiring his grace.
    Watched the hind legs coil up to rake; saw the front paws reach out, claws unsheathed; saw the mouth stretch open, the gleam of ivory fangs. Laughing aloud
    in anticipation, I let him think he'd win.
    Then took him in the back of his throat and drove the blade through the base of
    his skull.
    Elation. Elation. And a powerful satisfaction.
    Not mine. Not mine; someone else's. Something else's--wasn't it? It wasn't me,
    was it?
    Something inside me laughed. Something inside me stirred, like awareness awakening.
    Oh, hoolies, what is it?
    I smelled burning flesh. Thought it was the cat's. Realized it was my own.
    I shouted something. Something appropriate. Something explicit. To release shock
    and rage and pain.
    Wrenched my hands from the hilt as the metal burned white-hot.
    Oh, hoolies, Del, you never warned me about this.
    I staggered back, hands crossed at the wrists, mouthing obscenities. Tripped, fell, rolled, sprawled flat on my back, afraid to block with my hands.
    Hoolies,
    but they hurt!
    I smelled burning flesh. Not my own, the cat's.
    Well, that's something, at least. Except he's too dead to feel it.
    I lay on my back, still swearing, letting the stream of obscenities take precedence over pain. Anything was welcome, so long as it blocked the fire.
    Finally I ran out of breath, if not out of pain, and opened my eyes to look at
    my hands. It was easy to see them; they were stuck up in the air on the end of
    painfully rigid arms, elbows planted in the ground.
    Hands. Not charred remains. Hands. With a thumb and four fingers on each.
    Sweat dried on my body. Pain sloughed away. I breathed again normally and decided to stop swearing; there seemed no point in it, now.
    Still on my back, I wiggled fingers carefully. Gritted teeth, squinting--and was
    immensely relieved to discover the flesh remained whole and the bones decently
    clad. No blisters. No weeping underskin, only normal, everyday hands, though the
    scars and enlarged knuckles remained. My hands, then, not some magical replacements.
    I felt better. Sat up slowly, wincing at the protest in my abdomen, and wiggled
    fingers and thumbs yet again, just to be sure. No pain. No stiffness. Normal flexibility, as if nothing had ever happened.
    Scowling, I peered at the sword. "What in hoolies are you?"
    In my mind was a word: jivatma. Oh, hoolies, bascha... what do I do now? What I
    did was get up. Everything appeared to be in working order, if a trifle stiff.
    Through wool I massaged the sore scar below my short ribs, then forgot it immediately; the cat was worth more attention. The cat--and the sword.
    I went over to both. I'd