Wolf's-own: Koan Read online

  He'd thought at first that he was enamored with Fen's aesthetic beauty. Angular and sharp-boned, every slant and slope in exactly the right place. Eyes like storm clouds over a roiling sea, flecked through with the light of the suns forcing their way from the other side in scattershot amber. And oh bloody hell, the fucking hair.

  He'd thought it was Fen's face: perfectly proportioned, perfectly angled, perfectly exquisite. He'd thought it was Fen's body: deliberately sculpted and honed, and all the more beautiful for the intrigue of the scarred map of self-inflicted sanity. He'd thought it was Fen's hair: an outward symbol of inward bondage, and the bit of rebellion in the choppy fringe that hid his eyes, but never well enough. He'd thought it was the way Fen moved and glared and spoke and sneered. He'd thought it was the way Fen snarled and spat and fought and came this close to actually winning.

  And it was. It was all of those things. Except all of those things Malick could have walked away from. And yet somehow, he couldn't walk away from Fen. Malick told himself it was because he just didn't want to.

  Fen was not whimsical. There was no laughter with Fen. Fen's approach to life was not carefree. Fen's approach to life was wholly self-destructive, and yet Fen wouldn't permit that destruction until he'd saved everyone he loved. The way Fen loved was, in and of itself, a prelude to suicide. Fen was not safe.

  Fen was a black hole, all unknown and unwilling, sucking those around him into hopeless orbit. Malick had passed the event horizon almost the moment he'd plunged into amber-shot gray banded by indigo.

  Not merely fractured inside, but shattered, and yet Fen wouldn't just accept a cudgel to his beautiful face for those he loved; Fen would wield one. Fen would learn the heft of it, how to swing it with the most precision, which point of the body to target, and he'd do it better, faster, and with a strange elegance that wasn't elegant at all, but still dangerously seductive. He'd take your cudgel to the face, then snatch it away from you and very efficiently set about killing you with it. And then he'd make you thank him for letting you take the image of his terrible radiance to hell with you.

  There was a feral beauty in that sort of brutality, one that took that pedestal Malick had set in his heart, decades and lifetimes ago, and rocked it. One that made it all too imperative for him to irrevocably accept Kamen into his skin.

  Kamen was necessary to save Fen and Jacin and Jacin-rei. Malick was necessary to care enough to keep the trinity from splintering into irretrievable pieces. Kamen Malick was necessary to show Fen that living in the same skin with all of the parts of himself, without losing any of them, was possible.

  It had, apparently, never really been about aesthetics for Malick.

  There were probably some things Shig would tell him, things about broken dolls and wanting to fix them, or damsels and wanting to rescue them; Umeia would speculate that Fen's unwilling and oh so carefully hidden vulnerability appealed to Malick's predatory instincts. Malick knew some of those things might be a little bit true, but they weren't all of it.

  It was the beauty in the shards of a riven soul; it was the beauty in watching that soul pick up each jagged piece, examine it, judge its worth, then discard it with learned indifference, or fit it back into the mosaic of Self, use it. The very tragic beauty in watching Fen do all of that not for himself but for everyone else. A cudgel to the face was nothing, when compared to forcing life and sanity you really didn't want on yourself because someone else needed you to.

  Malick would have liked to say he'd known he was in trouble from the start. He'd dismissed it when Samin warned him, scoffed when Umeia did. Umeia thought she knew him, but she only knew Malick; she'd never understood Kamen. Malick had told Umeia she was being absurd, she didn't know what she was talking about, and in many ways she hadn't. Still, in that one thing, she'd seen when he had refused to, and it had almost cost him everything.

  He'd denied he was in deep when he'd watched the trinity that was Fen shatter then rebuild itself on a lonely road in the middle of the night; he'd denied it when he'd watched Fen put a knife through the eye of the man he'd loved nearly all his life then pry his heart from his chest and stomp it; he'd denied it when he'd spoken the words and told himself he'd only said them because Fen needed to hear them. He'd even denied it when he'd found himself not just willing but eager to break the laws of his gods to save Fen.

  When Fen stepped in front of Kamen's sword, Malick couldn't deny it anymore. When Malick understood what had been hidden beneath “Untouchable” as life bled from the wound Kamen had inflicted, Kamen stepped in again and forced life where it was not wanted.

  He remembered wondering if Wolf had known all along, if it had all been planned exactly as it had played out, and he supposed it was likely. If Husao had seen all of the esoteric and mercurial reasons why Fen would become life and breath for Malick, it was almost blasphemous to imagine that Wolf hadn't. Just as blasphemous for Malick to raise his fists to the sky and curse Wolf for it, though he sometimes did it anyway.

  Kamen never did. Kamen understood. Malick grudgingly admitted that he did too.

  Asai had failed mostly because he'd underestimated Fen, but partly because he'd only glimpsed Malick through Skel. Asai had known Kamen; he'd never known Malick.

  Kamen was Wolf's, but Malick was Fen's, and he would no longer deny it. For Fen, Malick could be just as fierce and merciless as Kamen ever was.

  It wasn't going to be easy, showing Fen what he was now, watching as Fen came to understand the necessity of living. The onus now strapped to his back of doing so for others yet again. It was hard and cruel and just fucking tragic, and Malick bled with it.

  Cruelty had never come easily to Malick; Kamen, however, had been born of it, had suckled at the teats of ruthlessness and brutal malice.

  And he was, after all, neither Kamen nor Malick, in truth; he was one or the other and neither and both. He was Kamen Malick. He was Wolf's-own.

  So, then. Wolf's will be done.

  There was a vicious sort of beauty in that.

  * * * *

  Change-month, Year 1322, Cycle of the Wolf

  "It's a panther,” Samin said, fairly confident, though he'd never seen a real one. The fact that this one seemed a docile, playful thing, and not the sly, vicious beast he remembered reading about once upon a time, gave him some doubt, but the black, glossy coat and the teeth were rather indicative, so he stuck with his assessment.

  "Panther,” Morin breathed, fascinated. He peered up at Samin, asking.

  Samin merely shrugged then watched as Morin crossed the street and approached the woman who held the big cat's leash. The apparent mascot of The Lucky Panther Theater in front of which it lounged, the panther's ears pricked up a little as Morin neared, its yellow eyes attentive but only mildly so, its concentration more on the thorough stroking the woman was giving its lazily switching tail. Several men waiting in the queue for a serving of vinegary rice rolled in spicy tuna from the little booth next door eyed the panther with interest, but they appeared to be more intent on lunch than entertainment. Samin couldn't hear what Morin said to the woman as he pulled up in front of her, but she smiled wide then threw her head back and laughed, and nodded assent. She looked up and winked at Samin as Morin dared a touch to the panther's head. The great, rumbling purr of the thing—that Samin could hear.

  "Aren't you going to pet it?” he asked Shig.

  Shig squinted over her shoulder with a twist of her eyebrows then followed the tilt of Samin's chin across the street. She looked the panther over critically for a moment then dismissed it. “Naw. Too tame."

  Samin snorted. If it was tearing through the streets and ravaging innocent passersby, then she'd probably try petting it. Shig was definitely unique. Samin was still smiling and watching Shig tease a rat-sized monkey—waving the last piece of her fried sticky dough on the end of a stick as the monkey chittered at her from its perch atop its owner's fruit stall—when Morin ambled back across the street, flushed and grinning.

  "Aw, that big
thing with all those teeth and you still have all your fingers?” Shig finally let the monkey have the pastry, chuckling when it snatched the stick from her, too, then waved it at her with an indignant squawk. “How are you going to get yourself any lovely battle scars to attract the girls if you won't tease vicious animals properly?"

  "What are you talking about?” Morin shot right back, grin stretching. “I tease my brothers all the time."

  Samin shook his head and ruffled Morin's hair then gave him an affectionate cuff. He was glad they'd come along. Besides getting accosted every five seconds by some hawker or stall owner trying to shove their wares down his throat, Samin was having fun.

  "C'mon, then,” he said and chivvied Morin and Shig ahead of him along the market's crowded thoroughfare. “I think the smoke shop is down that way,” he told Shig. The day was getting on, and Joori would probably be fretting by now. Not that Joori fretting was anything unusual, but they'd been out and about long enough for Samin's feet to start hurting anyway, and he didn't like to cause any of the boys distress if he didn't have to. Balancing Morin's wish to go everywhere and see everything right now with Joori's inability to leave Fen to his own devices and keep both Fen and Morin in his sight at all times was a little bit taxing, but Samin did what he could. Anyway, Samin agreed that Fen shouldn't be left unsupervised just yet, and with Malick out for the morning on some mysterious errand, Samin had approved of Joori staying behind. At least this time. Samin rather thought—

  "Seyh! Seyh!"

  Samin didn't growl as the young man with the funny little spectacles caught his sleeve. He must've scowled, though, because he was let go immediately, and the strange young man backed up a pace with a quick assessing glance at Morin and Shig.

  "Ah,” said the young man and dipped his head on a small nod. “I apologize, but....” He trailed off and again looked at Shig.

  Shig smiled, all friendly welcome. “It's your business, after all."

  Samin had no idea what that meant, but he followed Shig's gaze to the little stall from where the young man had leapt and raised his eyebrows. Necessities was written on a small placard and nailed to one of the posts holding up the stall's roof.

  Morin was frowning, taking the young man in. On the small side but wiry-looking, and dressed in loose tunic and trousers that looked like he'd put them together with a disparate array of eye-wateringly bright handkerchiefs. Dark, sleek hair was gathered neatly into a long, loose tail at his nape. His smile was small but sincere enough beneath those strange violet spectacles, and he offered a deferential manner to Samin that Samin was still trying to figure out when Morin stepped in a little.

  "Ooh,” said Morin. “Lookit the fish."

  The booth was rather plain, compared to the others they'd seen down around the main square where the temples sat. As they got closer to the Ports District and the inn where Malick had put them, the atmosphere grew just a touch seedier, but still not seedy.

  Bamboo shelves stood prominent in this man's shabby booth, one lined with little bowls containing a single fish each. Ruby-colored and cobalt, velvety black and silklike jade—their fins were long and flowing, as though decked in the formal robes of the Adan. Samin privately decided they were pretty enough, but they looked rather bored and sickly, and he hoped he wasn't going to have to talk Morin out of one.

  Shig was rather bolder than Morin: she stepped around him and right up to the young man, who watched her, patiently expectant, with a serene smile on his somewhat pretty face. Shig turned her grin on him and dipped her colorful head in a respectful bow. She offered her hand, but not as though she meant to shake with the young man. “Seyh,” was all she said, then she put her hand palm up in front of her and merely waited.

  The young man's mouth split in a dazzling grin, and his small hand settled atop Shig's. “Ah,” he said with a knowing nod, “a child of Wolf, with the kiss of your god upon your brow. You've the mark of the spectral domain all about you like invisible skin.” He closed his eyes briefly, a light frown beetling his thin brown eyebrows, before he peered at Shig with keen interest. “You've lost your cursed gift, girl. Have you come to seek it again?"

  Samin's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned in to make sure he didn't miss anything. Did that mean what he thought it meant?

  "I'm here to learn from my god if he wishes me to have it,” Shig answered.

  Which was certainly news to Samin. He hadn't even known it was possible, and now he wondered if he even liked the idea.

  Shig was still grinning, but her tone was strangely somber. “I didn't lose it, seyh—it was taken from me when the Ancestors went home."

  "Ah!” the man said again, eyebrows rising, making the spectacles slide a bit down the bridge of his nose. “Not Jin, though.” He enveloped Shig's hand in both of his. “Half-Blood, then,” he said with a satisfied nod. He peered at Morin now, renewed interest in his gimlet gaze. “I've not seen a full-Blood before.” He smiled again when Morin took a small step back, wary, but the young man didn't look offended. “Fear not, young Jin. You are not in Ada, where I hear even now your kind struggle for that which they know not how to grasp."

  Morin frowned; he looked like he was trying to decide if he should be insulted or not. “What does that mean?"

  It meant that just because the Adan had no more cause to fear and imprison the Jin, it didn't necessarily mean that the troubles of the Jin were over. The gossip Samin had heard coming from across the sea had not been entirely good news, and with every additional report, he was just as happy to be well-rid of it all. He'd seen no reason to trouble the boys with it, and definitely not Fen; he hoped he wasn't going to have to shut up this nice-seeming stranger.

  "You will know when it is time, I've no doubt,” the young man answered with a knowing smirk for Samin that Samin didn't like at all. The man patted Shig's hand then released it. “Fate is not yet done with any of you, I think."

  "Well, I'm done with Fate,” Morin muttered and picked up a walking stick that had been propped against the support post beside him.

  "That, young seyh,” the young man chided, “is not what you need,” and he took the stick from Morin's hands. The young man set a protective hand about the wolf's head that topped the stick and peered at it closely, as though looking for damage, before he slipped it under a table weighted down with what Samin could only think of as junk. “Someone else will be by for it eventually, no doubt,” the young man said then pushed up the spectacles and peered at Samin again, as though waiting for him to say something.

  "No doubt,” was all Samin could think of. He gave Morin a little nudge. “Come on, have your look so we can go. D'you want a fish or not?"

  "Eh,” said Morin, attention diverted once again to the bamboo shelves and their bowls. “I just thought they were interesting. They looked better from farther away, anyway."

  Samin nodded. “Is that all they do? Just float about and stare?"

  "You thought they might juggle?” The man's smile was not unkind as he loosed a thready little giggle into his sleeve. “Here now, girl, back away before you bring it all down on my head.” He shooed Shig away from where she'd been dipping her fingers into one of the bowls; she went with a smirky little smile and a wink at Samin. “Think you they serve no purpose, eh?” The young man seemed to be talking to himself as he pulled down two apparently random bowls and brought them carefully over to set them on the table before Morin. “Sometimes the purpose of a thing is merely to share its beauty with the world.” An impish grin spread across his face as he scooped his hand into one of the bowls, dumping a satiny garnet fish into the bowl of one that looked like liquid turquoise. “And sometimes, the beauty merely hides its purpose."

  The reactions were immediate: droplets splashed up and out as the fish went for each other with a viciousness that surprised Samin. From floating placidly in their separate bowls like lumps of pretty jewels, to blood in the water in a second and a half. Morin only stared steadily, like he was analyzing tactics or something, thoughtful
.

  The young man snorted a little and turned his attention back to Shig. Boldly, he tugged at a stray green curl that had come loose from the striated tail at her nape. “Such a beacon to the spirits you must have been, girl. Bravery or arrogance?” He dropped a quick, knowing wink. “Or brave arrogance?"

  Shig let loose a small giggle; if Samin didn't know better, he'd think she was flirting. “Necessity,” she told the man with a sly glance at the placard that apparently was meant to describe his business. “The spirits can be difficult, but also useful, if one can master them."

  "Mastery!” The man's eyes went wide, and he reared back the slightest bit. “It is no wonder, then, that Wolf looks so fondly upon your own spirit.” He dipped his head in an echo of the respectful bow Shig had given him a moment ago.

  "Um... I think....” Morin's face was screwed up in mild revulsion. He peered at the young man, then gestured him over. “I think the blue one won."

  Ech. Samin's lip curled a little at the bloody bowl, and the blue fish once again floating placidly in the middle of it, the mangled fins of the other fanning down over its back from where it hovered, dead, just beneath the skin of the water.

  Morin just kept staring at it, a deep furrow in his brow. He didn't shift his glance as the young man wordlessly dipped his hand into the bowl, caught the victor and dumped it unceremoniously into the empty bowl and set it back on the shelf.

  It took a moment, but Morin eventually shook himself. “What are those made from?” He cut a meaningful glance at a row of amulets, a little bit challenging, maybe, but he didn't seem to want to dare to actually touch them.

  "From the earth, the sweat of my brow, and the blessing of my gift,” the man answered.

  Morin narrowed a skeptical look upward. “No Blood?"

  The young man nearly choked. “Never!” He waved an imperious hand out in a sweeping gesture. “The Adans’ ways are not ours, young full-Blood. Look away from your past oppression, or you may lose forever the ability to see beyond it."