Wolf's-own: Weregild Read online

  "Vonshi!” he called, shoulders slumping wearily as he slouched back around the desk, and threw himself into the chair. “Vonshi, I need you!"

  * * * *

  Not at all the same tableau as the one he remembered so fondly, and yet it had only been yesterday. When had he gotten so soppy? It wasn't even long enough yet to be considered nostalgia, for fuck's sake.

  Samin set the tray in the middle of the table, watching little Caidi's eyes light up at the sugary lumps of fried dough and the mound of fresh fruit. He quirked a smile and dropped her a wink when her shining eyes met his.

  "Rice and fish first,” Joori chided as both Morin and Caidi made grabs for the treats before he'd even finished pouring them their tea. Morin glowered for a moment, mutinous, but Joori death-glared him into compliance. Morin reached for the paddle sullenly, dropping a mound of rice into Caidi's bowl before he got his own.

  Samin only shook his head, exchanged a smirk with Yori over the teapot, and let it broaden when she rolled her eyes.

  "Let them have them.” Yori reached over to ruffle Morin's blond mop with a challenging smile at Joori. “When's the last time you had anything fresh-cooked, eh?” Still smiling at Joori, she reached out and dropped two dough balls onto each of the children's plates, along with an oblate each, widened the smile to a grin, and propped her chin in her hand. Batted her eyes.

  Shig didn't even try to hide her snort. Joori's gaze snapped over to her for a moment, hardened, but when it went back to Yori again, it tilted just a little, and he shrugged.

  "Whatever Yori-onna says,” he told Caidi and Morin, allowing the tiny curl at the corner of his mouth to slide a bit sideways, bloom into a smile again.

  "'Yori-onna',” Yori snorted as the children dove for the sweets with smiles of their own.

  It was so strange to see a smile on that face that was Fen's, but wasn't. It was strange to see that face sitting across the table in Fen's accustomed place but without Fen's accustomed precisely portioned breakfast, without his chronic ready tension, and without the braid. It was even stranger to hear strings of words and actual conversation come from that mouth in a cadence and accent that was twangy and somewhat lilting, rather than the smooth, dulcet rhythm Samin had gotten used to. And the expressions, the glares—they were almost funny. When Fen glared at you, you instinctively checked to make sure you were armed, and when he spoke, you listened for the snarl and made sure you had a clear shot to the exits, just in case. When Joori came at you, it was more like being scolded by an unhappy duck—all squawks and flapping about, and empty attempts at offense he couldn't carry through. The lad was strong, Samin would give him that, no life of idle luxury, certainly, but restraining him after having spent most of last night restraining his brother had shown Samin a marked difference. Joori might be able to defend himself, if armed, but if someone skilled came at him with intent, it would be the end. And offense was out of the question.

  Samin would have to speak to Malick about teaching Joori some things.

  "You saw my brother this morning?"

  Joori's voice had changed from the light teasing note of only a moment ago into something cool and hard. Samin looked up from his rice to see Joori's still-angry gaze leveled at Shig.

  Shig was sitting sideways in her chair, half-sprawled over the back of it, all easy negligence as she nodded and stared at the ceiling like she was reading invisible sonnets scribbled over the beams and plaster. “Mal wanted me to see if I could read him when his head's not so busy."

  Morin stopped munching on his sugared dough ball, expression going from happy indulgence to almost sick as he set it slowly back on his plate and peered blankly at his older brother. Joori's mouth had screwed down into an angry line.

  "And could you?"

  Shig sighed, shrugged a little, eyes drifting slowly down to meet Joori's squarely—unapologetic, which Samin could tell pissed the lad off more than he already was. Shig wasn't about to apologize for last night, and Joori wouldn't accept it if she did. The lines had been drawn between these two, and quite firmly, and Samin couldn't say he really blamed Joori. It had been hard enough for Samin to watch. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Fen's own brother.

  "Magic doesn't really work on him,” Shig explained. “I can usually hear his voices, because the Ancestors don't so much speak to him as blare the crazy at him.” If Shig saw Joori's wince, she didn't acknowledge it. “I can only get little bits and pieces of what they're saying sometimes, but most of the time I just hear a noisy white buzz."

  Joori shut his eyes for an uncomfortable moment, jaw clamped tight, then shook himself and gave Shig a glare. “You didn't answer my question."

  Shig's mouth curled up at one corner, sly. “No, I didn't,” she answered then grinned when Joori growled a little.

  "Shig,” Yori put in, mild warning. Then she lifted an eyebrow when Shig rolled her eyes and went back to her contemplation of the ceiling. Yori turned to Joori. “She's not always this annoying,” she told him, almost sympathetic. “You just have to get used to her."

  A disgusted snort was all Joori offered by way of reply.

  "Can you read me?” Caidi asked, eyes wide with fascination and a little bit of fear as she methodically obliterated her breakfast while staring at Shig.

  "If I wanted to,” Shig said, distracted, “but Mal doesn't like it when I poke about our own."

  "But it's all right to ‘poke about’ with Jacin?” Joori snapped

  Samin stepped in before it could degenerate. “He's not exactly in any shape to tell us anything, is he?” He held up a hand when Joori opened his mouth on what was likely meant to be a scathing retort. “I know what last night looked like to you, and I know what all of this might look like to you now. But we like Fen, he's our own, and all of us want to do right by him.” Samin sighed and took a noisy slurp of his tea. “He keeps things very close, your brother.” He met Joori's hostile gaze with a clear one of his own. “Last night wouldn't have had to happen, if he'd just told us before."

  "Told you what?” Joori barked. “That he's been used and hurt, and keeps on getting used and hurt, and now he wants to d-die?"

  His voice had cracked on that last, like he hadn't meant to say it, admit it. Samin could tell it was taking everything in him not to let his eyes fill and spill over.

  "He was hanging on for you,” Shig murmured, then she turned her head and leveled an intense gaze on Joori. “If he thought you wouldn't starve out there in the wilderness, he'd have walked into a knife on our last job."

  Joori paled, flinched like she'd slapped him. Caidi seemed to have lost interest in her breakfast for the first time since she'd sat down at the table, but Morin gnawed on a pickle, eyes flicking back and forth between Shig and Joori, watching.

  "But... but my....” Joori swallowed, shook his head. “My mother."

  Shig's gaze went back up to the ceiling. “We'd already promised him that,” she said softly. She shut her eyes and leaned her head to the side, resting it on her arm over the back of the chair.

  Joori was silent for several long seconds, staring at her, expectant, before he lost his patience. “What the hell does that mean?” he snapped.

  Samin sighed, the face of his own pretty, long-dead reason for vengeance rising to his mind's eye before he thought to push it away. “He doesn't want to have to look,” he told Joori. “You wouldn't want to have to look. And you sure as shit wouldn't want to have to take a knife to your own mother."

  Shig opened her eyes at Joori's throttled gasp, peering at Samin sideways. She smiled, soft and sad, then closed her eyes again.

  Samin let his gaze travel around the table then turned an even stare to Joori. “His only reasons to keep fighting were your safety and putting your mother to rest. You're safe now, and we promised the first night he came to us that we'd find your mother. Apparently, he trusts us to do it, even if he's not around to make sure we do.” He paused, just to ponder that bit of revelation, and to make sure Joori was listen
ing so he wouldn't have to say it again. “He doesn't have any reasons anymore. And like you said—he keeps on getting hurt. How long d'you think you could take living your brother's life?"

  It made Samin sad to say it out loud. It made him a little bit angry to watch the hurt rise in Joori's eyes, the betrayal. It had taken Samin perhaps a day to see the desperation in Fen, five minutes to see the constant struggle for sanity, and the occasional loss of it, the despair afterward. Fen's own brother couldn't possibly have missed it, not unless he'd been trying not to see it. Samin had figured from that first night that he was witnessing Fen's candle flaring toward the end of the wick—either the insanity would finally win, or death would take him, one way or another—but Samin could tell just by looking that Joori would never accept it.

  There were two kinds of compassion, in Samin's experience—the kind that wept over a wounded animal and watched helplessly as it thrashed in its final agony, and the kind that put it out of its misery, quick and clean. Fen was the latter, something Samin shared and understood, but this brother of his was definitely the former. It wasn't Samin's to judge which way was the better one, but he did anyway. Last night had been just as bad as Samin had been expecting since that first night in the alley, except it had been pointed in a direction that had surprised him—Fen had really meant to kill Shig, and anyone who got between them. He might have even killed one of his brothers or his sister in his madness, because for several terrible moments there, Fen hadn't been seeing any of them. And if Fen ever got past the point where his sanity was salvageable... well. At least Samin knew he could deal with it. He was quite certain Joori couldn't. Wouldn't. There was a fine line between cruelty and mercy, and Samin, at least, knew on which side he stood. Joori didn't even know the line existed.

  "I want to see my brother,” Joori said, quiet but forceful, then he stared around the table, waiting for a challenge.

  Yori and Shig both looked at Samin, expectant, like it was his to give or deny permission. His mouth set tight when, eventually, every gaze at the table drifted toward him and hung there, waiting.

  Samin sighed. “Umeia's in there now.” What was he supposed to say? He wasn't the boss, and surely Fen hadn't meant that he didn't want to see his brother ever again.

  "I need to see my brother.” A thin note of reluctant pleading, and more obvious demand.

  "I'll take him in after breakfast,” Yori volunteered softly, shooting a look at Shig, as though looking for affirmation. Her chin lifted a little when Shig only gave her that soft, sad smile. Yori slipped her glance back to Joori. “Umeia says he's been kind of out of it. He's... he's not well at all.” She leaned in a little. Samin wondered if she knew her hand had come up to lightly cover Joori's. “In any way,” she went on, solemn but determined. “Get it? It won't be fun. It won't make you feel any better. It'll likely make you feel worse."

  Fen, too, if he was even aware enough by now to track the people around him. Samin had no idea, but if last night and the night before were any clue....

  "It's not me I'm worried about,” Joori answered.

  Samin didn't think he quite agreed, but Joori at least believed it. Samin gave Yori a shrug and a nod. “If Umeia says it's all right."

  "Can I go too?” Caidi asked, soft and hopeful.

  Samin could see the protective, likely harsh denial rise in Joori, so he cut it off. “Then who will help me pick out pretty linens?"

  He slid his expression into exaggerated disappointment as Caidi turned to him, looked him over, skeptical. “What do you want with pretty linens?” Stern directive in her incongruously high little voice.

  Samin set his forearms to the table and folded his hands, leaned over them, and dropped his voice to a confidential murmur. “There's a pretty little girl I've just met, and pretty little girls need pretty bedcovers. I think it's a rule."

  Caidi stared, almost smiling, but still unsure. “I've never had a real bed before,” she told him. “Mother and Father had a bed, but we only ever had mats. And my mat burnt up. Everything burnt up."

  There were no tears, and her face didn't crumple, but the strange practicality of the statements twisted in Samin's chest. They weren't even real beds—just wood-framed cots with straw mattresses all crammed in one communal room—but this little girl acted like it was all something new and wonderful. Joori was staring at his sister with real pain on his face. Morin was focusing on his unfinished breakfast, mangling a sugary dough ball between nervous fingers.

  "Well, then,” Samin said gruffly and tilted Caidi a smile. “You'll be needing new linens for your new bed. I know a place in the district, not too far. And if you're very good, Shig knows a doll maker who uses real silk ribbons."

  "You want to take her out into the city?” Joori asked, frowning, suspicious.

  Caidi's eyes had sprung wide, like the implications hadn't hit her until her brother had said it. “I've never been in the city before."

  She'd never been anywhere before—nowhere but a run-down Jin camp and a run-down little hut by the coast. And strangely, Samin wanted to be there and watch those expressive eyes when she saw what she'd been missing.

  "It's safe,” Yori assured Joori. “Shig will make sure no one notices."

  Her hand was still resting lightly atop Joori's, Samin noted with a mix of chagrin and amusement, and Joori was letting her keep it there. Shig had been taunting her sister just yesterday about... such things, but Samin wasn't sure he approved of the direction Yori's attentions were currently pointing. Not that it was any of his business. And maybe getting laid would get the stick out of Joori's ass.

  "Umeia's working on getting you all papers,” was all Samin said.

  Caidi stared at Shig for a while, brow crinkled down in a stern pout that was just far too adorable on her pretty little face. She leaned in toward Samin, waiting until he ducked down so she could whisper in his ear. “Does she have to come with us?"

  Samin throttled the smirk and choked back the snort. It wasn't really funny. The girl was obviously still smarting over last night, but the protectiveness and ire in her sweet little voice was just so disconsonant he couldn't help but be amused.

  "Well, if she doesn't,” Samin whispered back, “how will we ever find the doll maker's?"

  Samin watched Caidi's gaze go suspiciously to Shig again, hanging there for several moments as Shig lifted an eyebrow. Caidi looked at Joori. She widened her eyes, asking, and when Yori squeezed Joori's hand, he shut his eyes, sagged, and then gave his little sister a bit of a smile. He nodded, though he shifted a warning glare at Samin directly after.

  Samin wasn't the least bit offended. He nodded back. “It'll be safe. I promise."

  "Can Morin come too?” Caidi piped in.

  Samin grinned at the way Morin's expression went hopeful, even though he was very clearly trying to look disinterested. “Well, he'll have to, won't he?” Samin tweaked Caidi's nose and made her giggle. “Who else will we get to carry back all the sweets?"

  They'd near demolished all of the confections leftover from last night's supper. Samin hadn't been quite sure if it was real hunger, a bid to distract themselves from what was going on behind their brother's closed door, or just the new experience of being spoiled. Considering the blissful sighs and groans they'd oozed when Yori and Samin had taken them down to the baths, Samin was betting on the latter.

  "Sweets?” Caidi's eyebrows shot up, and her clear hazel gaze sparkled. “Can we bring back some for Jacin and Joori?"

  Bloody damn, she was cute as a bug. Samin had to really work at it to not go all melty inside. He throttled the, Whatever you want, that tried to blurt itself and molded it into, “If you're very good and listen to Shig and me while we're out and about,” instead, but he could tell by Shig's smirk that she had at least some idea of what he hadn't said.

  Shig stood, all languid grace, and held out her hand to Caidi. “C'mon, we'll see if your cloaks are dry, and then I'll help you fix your hair."

  Both Morin's and Caidi's gazes w
ent to Shig's hair, faces pinching just the slightest bit in worry, before drifting back down to Joori, as though for help. Joori had his hand over his mouth, rubbing firmly like he had a hell of an itch, but Samin caught the slant of amusement he directed at Yori, and then the roll of Yori's eyes.

  "No dye,” Yori told her sister firmly. “And no braids."

  Shig flipped her off with a grin.

  * * * *

  Its wings were dusky white, just this side of gray, translucent as they rammed against the glass of the lamp. Sparks of flame shone through them as they thwip-thwip-thwipped, beating their urgent rhythm—thwip-thwip-thwip, thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip—then a defeated plunge to the bedside cupboard before it flipped itself back into pathetic flight. Began to thrash itself to death against the glass that separated it from the lethal flame it craved.

  Fly as you fall, he whispered to it, his own voice strange inside his head, echoing and empty. Even falling feels like flying.

  He wanted to fly.

  Jacin? Are you awake? A shift that set his head whirling and his stomach tumbling, and pain—pain—striating out through every nerve ending. Jacin, can you hear me?

  Something—no, someone—squeezed his hand. He wanted to do something, but he couldn't decide if he should squeeze back or shove the grip off him, so he didn't do either.

  He shut his eyes. Drifted.

  Has he woken up at all? Said anything?

  He's... very sick, lad. The wounds are healing already, but the infection.... It's got into his blood.

  So much blood, and none of it his own, and fuck, he ached.

  Boiling skies of verdigris, bruised with violet. Cherry blossom petals coasted on a gust of warmth, spiraled above him in a whirl, like a miniature blizzard, then pattered down to settle over his face, his eyelids, his hair. Entombed in a sweet-soft shroud, and inside the silky miasma, it was silent. He thought he should be glad, but he only felt naked and terrified and alone.

  He was freezing, but the petals stuck to the sweat coating his skin. They itched, and he wanted to shake them all off, scratch everywhere, but if he moved, the shadows flickered at the corners of his eyes, and he didn't want to see what was inside of them. There was hopelessness in there, way down in the shadowed depths, and something inside them whispered at him—nothing, you're nothing—and he didn't want to listen, and maybe if he didn't look, he wouldn't have to hear.