Wolf's-own: Koan Read online

  Maybe Jacin just wanted to give him something in return.

  "Jacin,” he repeated. He shut his eyes and slid his fingers along the notches of Malick's backbone between his shoulder blades. “In here, it's Jacin."

  * * * *

  Malick didn't dare even whisper it. Not yet. It was too fragile just now. Fen probably didn't even know what he'd just handed Malick, and Malick didn't want to do anything too overt and make him know. Sometimes, you just had to let Fen stay still and calm in his own self-delusion. And sometimes, you had to prod him out of it, force him to know things, see things, but not everything and not all the time. You just had to know the difference.

  A bloody-mindedly determined paradox, Fen Jacin. Seeking identity by giving himself away. It would be a mighty effort for Malick not to succumb to the omnipotence Fen kept trying to hand him. Not get caught up in Fen's delusions and take up the heroic space Fen kept assuming Malick should occupy. Grudgingly assuming, which was a paradox around which Malick couldn't even begin to bend his mind.

  The name was a gift, but more than that too. A sign. A real, undeniable, fuck-you-Malick-Imara-was-right-and-by-the-way-the-gods-hate-you sign.

  Malick couldn't stop looking at Fen and waiting for another that would negate it.

  Son of a bitch.

  Malick didn't want to see, but he couldn't look away. Fen was... perhaps not ready, but as close to it as Fen could come. And Malick had no real choice anymore, as had been pointed out to him this morning. Fucking Imara. Still—Malick had been waiting for Fen to hand him a sign, and Jacin had done it for him. Even if Malick wanted the choice, it was no longer his.

  And with everything that had gone on lately.... Malick sighed. And mentally cursed Imara. Because she was a screaming bitch, yeah, but mostly because she was right, even if she wasn't right in the right way. Fen needed to know, he needed to know what he was, and he needed to decide what he was going to do about it. Fen might be neck-deep in denial, but he wasn't stupid. His mind could be a brittle, unpredictable thing sometimes, but he knew something was coming, Malick could tell. How could he miss it? The Almighty Cock was going to fall off from overuse pretty soon, if Malick didn't tell Fen what Fen very obviously didn't want to know. And Malick was somewhat attached to it. He'd miss it.

  Not that he was going to have much use for it for a while, Malick supposed. He was going to be lucky if Fen....

  No, he wasn't going to even think that far ahead. In this one thing, he rather understood Fen's habit of avoiding knowledge. Because sometimes it burned and stung and stripped you raw. And Malick knew he wouldn't be contemplating forcing this on Fen now—tonight, even—unless he'd been forced into it himself.

  He nuzzled into Fen's shoulder, careful not to wake him just yet. Soon, but not right now. Malick wanted to savor.

  So, fine, he'd tell Fen about the Incendiary, show him it wasn't all as bad as he knew Fen would make it, not really even that much different than Untouchable, except Fen wouldn't have insane ghosts yammering in his head all the time. And then he'd keep Fen from tipping right over from sort-of-not-really-suicidal and into determined-death-wish. Because Fen wasn't quite ready, but he was as close as circumstances were going to allow, and it couldn't wait anymore.

  Malick grimaced, letting his hand drift up to slide his fingers through Fen's dark hair spilled across the linen of the pillowslip. His fingers lingered on the little braid at Fen's temple before moving on.

  Thing was, Fen didn't want choices. And he wasn't going to be pleased with Malick for forcing this one on him. Nor would he likely understand that it wasn't Malick doing this to him. Fen could raise his fists to the empty air and curse the gods, or he could turn his wrath on something tangible. Most likely on Malick, because he'd be handy.

  Sometimes it really sucked to be a minion.

  Malick stayed still, just listening to Fen... Jacin—a soppy little smile surprised Malick as he paused to shape the name silently on his lips—listening to Jacin dozing, his skin warm against Malick's, wire-strung nerves gone loose and pliable. Malick soaked it in, preemptively regretful, molding the shapes and sensations and textures into his consciousness, because he might not be having it for very long. Which was going to fucking hurt.

  Loved him. Really, honestly, deep-down-heart-clenching loved him.

  Fucking hell.

  They always had their best talks after sex, when Fen was all loose and dazed and didn't remember to shut Malick out until Malick was already too deep into the “conversation” for Fen to ignore. And it had to be done. It was, after all, Malick's job.

  Burrowing down tight for just another moment, Malick sucked in a long breath, firmed his grip on Fen then slowly let it loosen. He set his hand to Fen's shoulder and lightly shook.

  "Jacin, wake up. We need to talk."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Three

  Goyo stopped in the middle of the street, head cocked, gaze distant. Entirely oblivious to the shoppers and passersby who growled at him as they jostled past him.

  Something... new, but.... No, something familiar, but... not that, either.

  He reached, stretched his senses, dipped over toward the domain of the spirits, but only halfway. Listening. Seeking.

  No stir, no sudden shift in attention, no swelling buzz in the hubbub of white noise that was the ordinary chatter of drifting souls looking for a spark of life on which to latch. Not even a tiny shock of curiosity.

  Frowning, Goyo sniffed the air. Nothing. Just the smells of Mitsu—the salt breeze from the sea, the stench of guts and blood from the fishing boats in the harbor, the sweat, the hot oil from the kettles bubbling in food stalls, and here, close to the temples, the heavy perfume of incense, thick as a cloud. Nothing he hadn't smelled before. Nothing new.

  "Pardon me, sir, you'll have to move."

  Scowling, Goyo dragged his gaze outward, focusing on the patrolwoman who'd chided him. Though, now that he was looking, perhaps “chided” wasn't the right word. Taken an opportunity to speak with him, perhaps. There was recognition and a shy bit of admiration in her gaze. She was young—maijin newly turned, if his guess was right—and so many of the Patrol were vying for a place in the hunt right now, wanting to be one of those who brought Tambalon's banpair predicament under control. Goyo had never had so many trying to curry his favor before.

  He adjusted his mien to match the patrolwoman's. It wouldn't do to annoy the Patrol. Maijin though he was, he still had to work with them. And he was rather in the way, he supposed. The streets in Mitsu had never been sufficient for such a teeming mass, and those paths to the temples were always clogged. He probably could have picked a better spot for his sudden... whatever it was.

  "Please do forgive me."

  Goyo bowed with a smile, as charming as he could make it, and moved along. He'd been heading toward Snake's temple, meaning to consult the seer-priest again, because he'd grown bored with the fruitless hunt and was hoping for new direction, however vague. He veered instead toward the Ports District. No rhyme, no reason, except that whatever it was he hadn't just felt had come from that direction. Or not come from that direction. Whatever.

  Perhaps he should begin visiting the inns and taverns again. There was always interesting talk, at least. Most of it rumor, true, but sometimes, if you listened properly, you could find the seed of verity inside the anecdotal entertainment. And the recent gossip had been terribly intriguing, if completely unbelievable. At least Goyo didn't believe it. He'd seen the last moments of the last Incendiary, after all. He wouldn't believe that any god could be so cruel as to chance something like it again.

  Just the idea of it sent shocks of disquiet all up and down Goyo's spine. Incendiary were too dangerous, too much unpredictable risk in mortal form. At least, that had been the gods’ excuse for eradicating them. Goyo saw through the indefensible defense—everyone saw through it—but he accepted it, because he knew. Dropping an Incendiary into the world untethered was like dropping a newborn into a pool
of sharks. Temshiel and maijin alike would sniff him out, hunt him down, and claim him for their own god, or do him in altogether to keep the others from claiming him.

  Hitsuke had only survived as long as he had because—

  Goyo cursed. He shouldn't have allowed his mind to wander there. A century wasn't long enough, he was continually surprised to realize, every time he made the mistake of letting Hitsuke enter his thoughts. Goyo still missed him. He'd been new when he'd known Hitsuke—perhaps that was why he'd never managed to shake the gloom. Young and impressionable, and Hitsuke had certainly made an impression. And Goyo had certainly not been bored.

  Maybe that was it. The not-taste on his tongue, the frisson of phantom feeling on his thumb... like when he'd wiped tears of agony from Hitsuke's cheekbone. The blood of Incendiary had a smell, a taste, but there hadn't been blood that day, only screams and tears, and Goyo had tried to wipe them away and had tasted... something on the back of his tongue, but it had hardly even registered at the time. It hit him now with a strange vertigo of not-really-remembrance, and it made him shudder. He hardly ever thought about that day. He made it a point not to. He hadn't remembered that not-taste until just this second.

  With a shake of his head, Goyo set it aside, realized he'd wandered all the way to the piers and was staring morosely out into the gloaming over the rise and curl of the water. The breeze shifted his dark hair around his face, and he shunted out a light growl, dug around in his pocket until he found a bit of leather to tie it back. A ship's bell rang out somewhere farther down the coast, the trill of it carrying on the cool draft that flittered past Goyo's ears, tickled at his nape. Wolf had already crested over the water, his silver face rising up as though mounting the waves themselves, only the barest red glow tingeing his flank where Raven and Dragon followed like two jealous siblings intent on missing nothing. Which was probably fairly close, Goyo thought, squinting at the horizon for a trace of jade. Owl began her secondary phase soon, riding Wolf's coattails, lending her pull to providence and purpose as the New Year approached, but Goyo couldn't see the hue of harbinger in the sky yet, not with the blood of Raven and Dragon staining it.

  And when had his temper swung over to maudlin?

  Goyo snorted. It came out rather flat.

  Bloody hell, he'd been in a good mood only a little while ago, and all it took to turn it sour was—

  His head came up, eyes narrowed. There it was again. Not a scent, but a... stir. A shift. Something. Something that put Goyo in mind of the uneasy wakeful slumber of an infant child in its cradle, trying to decide if it was hungry enough to wake fully, open its mouth and bleat its discomfort; a tiny peck of a beak from the inside of a shell. Goyo stood there for hours, meditating, reaching, stretching, but never grasping hold. Still, it was out there. He knew it. Felt it. He just couldn't touch it.

  Something.

  Nothing he could pin. Nothing he could identify. Something worth his attention, though. Something not boring.

  Something waiting to be born.

  With a narrow look up at the moons, and then a searching one at the inns and taverns that lined the piers, Goyo decided that perhaps it was time to find out if there had been any recent arrivals of interest in Mitsu.

  * * * *

  "Incendiary.” Jacin whispered it slowly, testing it out, saying it out loud to see if the shape of the word matched the dread in his chest when Malick had spoken it. It had taken him a night and a day to even attempt to try to repeat it, and now that he had....

  He just didn't know. And spending nearly two days huddled in this bed and determinedly not thinking had given him nothing but a blank spot where some kind of erudition should be. He supposed he must have slept somewhere in there, eaten, taken care of necessities. He knew he'd smoked quite a lot, because the room reeked of it, and his lungs felt gritty. Maybe he'd been drinking too. He couldn't remember. He remembered clinging to Malick, though. And Malick letting him. He remembered letting Malick fuck him only a little while ago. No, not letting him—begging him for it. But it hadn't made it all go away this time.

  "It isn't that different, you know."

  Malick's voice was quiet, almost gentle, his breath a warm spangle at the nape of Jacin's neck. It didn't lend the comfort Jacin knew Malick intended, though; in a haze of self-imposed nonexistence or not, Jacin still knew that Malick had simply been biding his time, waiting for something from Jacin before he pounced. And now Jacin had given it to him. Because Malick never let up.

  "Incendiary were the paradigm for the Catalysts. It was what the Ancestors intended when they made the Untouchables. Except they kinda... y'know—fucked it up a little.” Malick paused, then said more softly, “Fen... this doesn't have to be as appalling as I know you're thinking it is."

  Was Jacin thinking it appalling? Maybe. He couldn't tell. He still didn't seem to be thinking much of anything. There was a white roar just at the edges of his consciousness, and it was yawning wide and deep, deeper than the past two days of pretending he didn't exist had been. He wasn't sure yet if it was comforting or terrifying.

  "Voices?” he rasped.

  Malick's grip on him tightened. “No, Fen. Your chosen god may choose to speak through you, but it's a rare thing, or was, back when the Incendiary were... well, not such a rare thing."

  Right. Back before they'd proven too dangerous for even their own gods and had been stamped out.

  "But it wouldn't be like the Ancestors,” Malick went on, his tone still gentle, a touch wary, and his hold on Jacin a little too firm to be merely for Jacin's own preference of comfort. “Not dozens of voices crying insanity at you, Fen. You have to believe this. Like that day at the Girou, remember?"

  Oh, yeah. He remembered. A shudder rippled through him, and Malick soothed it with a firm stroke up and down Jacin's arm.

  "It's dangerous.” Jacin let it hang there, not bothering to tag the tone with a question, because there was no point. Malick wouldn't have been so careful about it all otherwise. Probably because he didn't know what answer Jacin was hoping for. Then again, neither did Jacin.

  "It's... complicated,” Malick answered. “King-maker and god-slayer, world-changer and world-destroyer. No magic, no tricks, only the power of will. An Incendiary wants something badly enough, they find a way to make it happen. It makes you... valuable."

  Valuable. Jacin would've snorted, but all his breath seemed to be locked somewhere between his chest and his throat. “How long have you known this?” A paper-thin whisper, not even laced with accusation, because Jacin hadn't that right—he'd been doing everything possible to make Malick keep it to himself, hadn't he?

  "Since you stepped in front of my sword. Since you spoke it as you lay bleeding."

  Jacin buried his face in the pillow. Right. Just one more way his own mouth had betrayed him, even if the words hadn't been his, just more insane babble forced on his mind then his tongue by the Ancestors’ madness. Bloody hell, would he never get away from them?

  "I couldn't tell you then,” Malick went on, “you weren't ready. But there are others who know, and I couldn't not tell you anymore."

  Jacin could shut it all down now—just let the hysteria burble out his mouth in cackling laughter, or just start sobbing out the hitching breaths and curses that were gathering in a hard knot in his chest. Except he couldn't, not really. His blood still wasn't his to spill. It never would be.

  "Others?"

  "Like me, Fen. Temshiel, maijin. Word spreads quickly among my kind. No one's exactly on the hunt, because only a few know you're here, and the ones who do are scrambling for a clue from their gods for an idea on what to do about you. There hasn't been an Incendiary for over a century, and they were rare even before that. The last one—” A low-level growl was creeping into Malick's voice, a weird muffled resentment that Jacin couldn't pin. Malick cleared it away with a firm kiss to Jacin's hair and another tightening of his grip. “But rumors spread quickly, and there were others there, they heard you, and some will come looking fo
r you."

  "Why?"

  "Because, like I said, you're valuable. But you're dangerous too. There's too much of an Incendiary's own will tied into their power, and their will is tied to their chosen god's. The last one thwarted Raven quite soundly and was punished horribly for it. There hasn't been one since. Not until you."

  Not precisely what Jacin had meant. More like, “Why me?” but what difference did it make, really?

  "I don't care about any of it.” Tears were too close behind the statement, burning behind Jacin's brow, and fuck, he couldn't ever seem to help it anymore, crying like a little girl every time some new betrayal came along, and he'd even been expecting this one, damn it, shouldn't he be able to control this by now? “Was... was I...?"

  Your sister did not have to die, Jacin-rei. That was not my doing, but yours. You have refused to be what you are....

  It had stirred fury and resentment before; now the ring of it sounded too much like truth. Jacin swallowed, several times, but it wasn't helping to get breath past the chunk of old-grief-made-new lodged in his throat. “Is this what I've always been?"

  Malick stilled. Which pretty much answered the question. “Fen, you have to listen to me, all right? You can't make this—"

  "Oh, fuck!” Jacin curled in, dug his fingers into his scalp. The abyss opened up, vast and razor-splined, but it wasn't white and buzzing like it had been before—it was dark, blank-black, and filled with the screams of the dead. “Ohfuckohfuckohfuck—"

  "Fen, no, you have to listen to—"

  "I could've saved... I wanted so badly for... for—"

  "I know, Fen, but even if it had been what you're thinking, it wouldn't have worked that way. You're Fate's creature, and Fate can be fucking cruel. There always has to be Balance, and the price is always bloody. You didn't do any of it, Fen. You were both then, Incendiary inside Untouchable, but as Untouchable you couldn't—"

  "You just said my will is what—"

  "Not then, Fen, damn it, you have to listen to me. Caidi and too many others like her were always going to be the price of saving the Jin, the other end of the Balance that Fate demanded. You couldn't have saved her. That's why you have to know now, that's why you're dangerous, because you always have to be three steps ahead of Fate to know if the price will be worth what—"