Wolf's-own: Weregild Read online

  The cherry trees rustled—thwip-thwip-thwip—and shadows fluttered over his closed lids, and the sound made him sad, so fucking tragic, but he didn't know why. Something about wings and flames, and falling, falling, falling, tumbling down to start all over again, and even falling felt like flying for a little while until you burnt up your wings in your headlong plunge into the fire. Burning. Cleansing. Resting, finally resting, except there was something he hadn't finished; he wasn't done.

  Hurts

  Everything hurt, even his heart. Maybe if he took a knife, carved it out....

  No. They'd taken his knives away. Defenseless.

  He's in pain, Umeia.

  I know.

  He tried to open his eyes, but the petals weighed them down, so heavy, so he stopped trying.

  I can't do much more, Mal. Something cold and wet touched his brow, and he shivered, choked as something strong and bitter was poured down his throat.

  Just keep it quiet for him. He shouldn't have to fight the fever and the damned Ancestors at the same time.

  The Ancestors. Wasn't he supposed to be listening? Shake off the petals, and maybe the noise would block out the pain, but the silence was so seductive, so he kept still.

  Quiet. Beautiful. Just the sporadic thwip-thwip-thwip and the closing of a door, but the shadows hid the noise, he could see them out the corners of his eyes, even with them shut and covered by the petals.

  Tired. So fucking tired.

  I know, Fen. You're very sick.

  Sick? Well, yes, he'd been that for a while, but....

  No—tired.

  Fucking exhausted. Wasn't he finished yet?

  Your brother wants to see you, Fen. Do you think you can keep your eyes open for a moment?

  No. He shook his head, a strange muffled fear in his gut. The shadows will see me.

  He curled himself in, shied from the murk at the edge of everything and coiled into a tight knot inside his own mind, all alone, desperation and relief all at once, because it was a quiet place, but it wasn't a safe place. Sharp and dangerous, feelings he didn't understand lashing out like whips, cutting him, and each blow crackled in his mind with a voice of its own, echoing in the silence and slipping away before he could put a name to it.

  I got a new doll, Jacin, see? Her hair's like mine.

  His eyes slid open, because he never could refuse her anything, but the scream that wanted to come only shoved out his throat in a thin whimper. Blood in her gold hair, streaming down into hazel eyes, so blank-empty, and he couldn't save her, and she kept smiling at him, a cold, dead thing.

  I'm Wolf's creature too, Jacin. We're all made for sacrifice. Didn't you know?

  Moth's wings beating at shadows behind her, frantic and useless, and his mother's eyes staring vacantly from Caidi's heart-shaped little face, then Shig, smirking—Come along, pretty forfeit—and Jacin shut his eyes tight.

  You're not the only one who's had a shitty time of it, angry Ghost.

  Jacin only clenched his teeth. Why can't you ever shut up?

  You still fear death, Dani told him. Blue eyes flashed with lust and disdain, thick dying sunlight catching at caramel-colored hair and setting it aflame. Pine soap, smoke and sage, and light, musky sex—familiar, but not Dani, and did he really give a shit?

  Jacin shook his head, pushed his body into Dani's. Begging. Shameless. I don't. I can't.

  What would be the point?

  Liar.

  No, I—

  Failure.

  Fuck you, he growled, but Dani only laughed, so Jacin just let go, fell down into the darkness and pretended he was flying.

  C'mon, Fen, open your eyes. Talk to me.

  He frowned. How was he supposed to open his eyes when the petals weighted them shut? And anyway, talk about what? He didn't want to, he didn't have time... wasn't he supposed to be doing something?

  I have to listen. They'll only say it once, and when you touch me I can't listen.

  A soft rustle, a rough hand at his cheek, and then that pine-sex-sage smell was all over him, overwhelming the fragile scent of the cherry blossoms, and... did he mind? No, he didn't think so.

  D'you want me to let go?

  Did he?

  ... No

  Of course not.

  Too weak, too many emotions he couldn't not feel, even when he buried them deep and snarled them into silence, strangled them until he couldn't breathe, and still he couldn't make himself pull away from that touch. Not... not perfect, and tears burned behind his eyes.

  Fuck, Fen. Soft and sad, then gentle, callused fingers threading the sweaty tangles off his brow. You're not supposed to be. It's what makes you beautiful.

  Beautiful. Time lost, and yes, he was beautiful in the silence and the not-hours of blank, empty nothing. Warmth all along his back, and an arm curled over his ribs—like he was someone's lover—the steady rise and fall of another's chest against his back, the heated susurrus of warm breath just behind his ear, and it felt so fucking good he could've cried.

  Was this what it felt like to die? Had he gone to the suns?

  'S not so bad.

  He was falling, but it felt a little bit like flying, so he didn't mind.

  A shift behind him, then beneath him, and his body rolled, limp and lifeless, and he waited for someone to light the pyre.

  You're not dead. Angry. Impatient. You're just stubborn and broody, and you're pissing me off. A long pause, still and silent, then, softer: Fen. Please.

  He opened his eyes, watched the moth thump itself against the glass—thwip-thwip-thwip—its wings like tattered lace around the edges now. The lamp was wicked lower, persuading the shadows from out of their corners, but the frantic bashing went on and on and on, so he shut his eyes again.

  So fucking tragic. Such a waste.

  It didn't stop—it never ended. An endless circle, the arc feeding into itself, eating itself, spiraling into infinity, because there was no such thing as a perfect circle.

  You're losing it, lad, Vonshi said softly. Focus on the graze of ink on the paper

  Careful brushstrokes, but he couldn't stop his hand from shaking, and it didn't matter, because he was losing himself in the ink drops, letting them suck him down into the pitch.

  Hardly perfect, is it, Jacin-rei?

  He tried not to weep, but the tears were searing his eyes, and they hurt, and no, it wasn't perfect.

  Hardly.

  Nothing, you're nothing.

  Yes. I know.

  He'd always known. He'd never thought otherwise.

  Another squeeze of his hand, and, Fen, damn it, open your fucking eyes, stop being so bloody dramatic.

  Rough, that voice, like fine liquor, and it brought the quiet with it, kept the shadows cowering in their corners, so he let himself hear it.

  Can't, he wanted to say, but the petals crept down his throat, wedged in his chest, sprouted and took root, and it hurt, but he couldn't cough and dislodge them. He wondered if a sapling would shoot from his mouth if he tried to talk, so he didn't, and the silence—inside and out—made him wonder again if he was dead.

  Is that what you want?

  Malick had him shoved up against the door of the baths, and his hands were running over Jacin's bare shoulders, hot and callus-rough, thumbs settling first in the dual grooves of his collarbones then sliding up to rest—no, dig in—at the pulse points at his throat. Jacin let his head fall back, arched his neck, surrender, and there was no surrender without peril, so he risked it all.

  You want this, Fen, is that it? The smile was flat, all teeth and contempt, and the gliding strokes of Malick's thumbs increased in pressure, cutting off air, and Jacin was mortified to realize it was making him hard. Hot breath gusted over his face as Malick dipped in, dragged his mouth up the line of Jacin's jaw, whispered, Did you think I wouldn't give it to you if you asked me to? He squeezed.

  Jacin shook his head, shut his eyes, the shadows of moth's wings rippling through his lids—thwip-thwip-thwip in time to the fl
urry of his heart—so he opened them. Watched the petals settle in Malick's hair like snow, watched them reflect, white and empty, in the smoky tea of his eyes. The pressure knocked up, not just cutting off air this time but stealing it, Jacin's pulse thudding through the silence in his head. No. He pushed it out through the bracken in his throat. No, I—

  You like it when you're outnumbered, don't you? You need the risk. You love all the gorgeous possibility.

  Jacin's eyes slid shut, and he couldn't stop them. He didn't understand, and he couldn't think—all the blood was blocked from his brain and pooling in his groin. Possibility of what? but when he opened his mouth to ask, petals and moths came fluttering out, and something warm and garlicky went in, and he didn't have the energy to choke, so he swallowed it.

  Sorry, I know it's disgusting, but Umeia will kill me if I don't make you drink it all.

  I don't do this out of cruelty, Jacin-rei.

  No, of course he didn't, he was Beishin, and Beishin had saved him, saved his family, and was going to save the Jin, so Jacin let him pour the brew down his throat and made himself not throw it back up. Except Beishin was maijin, and didn't love him at all. He opened his eyes and stared into the deep-dark of Asai's, furious and humiliated when his vision blurred and hot tears ran like water down his cheeks.

  Hate you, he grated, fucking hate you, I loved you, I would have done anything for you, how could you do this to me? And yet still, he was reaching out, leaning in, desperate for everything that wasn't his—life and love that didn't hurt, and silence he didn't have to ask for—and he threw himself into Beishin's arms, begging, Please, please, just... just say you love me, just once, lie, promise me, I'll believe it, I can't do this anymore, I can't—

  Untouchable, his father told him, shoving him away, and Asai only looked at him and smiled that shark's smile that made Jacin want to scream and weep and fuck him right into the ground, all at the same time.

  Jacin-rei, cover yourself.

  Jacin looked down, almost sobbed—naked, exposed, showing him everything, giving it all away so Beishin could use it to flay him, again and again and again, smash his face into his failures, make him look at them up close.

  Jacin.... When have you ever failed at anything?

  Oh, no. No.

  He couldn't look up, couldn't meet Joori's eyes, couldn't bear the love, couldn't stand to see the forgiveness for his sin of survival, because love wasn't a pretty thing for Jacin, not something warm and comforting in which to hunker when a storm set to brewing. It was loss, it was bitter hope, another soul strapped to his back, another danger of grief, another motive to wear like armor when his knives sang.

  Ah, my own. A soft touch to his cheek, cool against his hot skin. Don't cry, love.

  Jacin kissed her palm, whispered, Mother, choked and thin.

  Mustn't fail them. Promise me.

  Jacin swallowed, nodded without thinking, the steady faint tattoo of petals on his bare skin and thwip-thwip-thwip in the back of his head. I promise. He could have dropped to his knees and howled, it hurt that bad, wrenched, but the shadows were curling again, restless, and he didn't want them to see him, so he stayed still and silent.

  No laws, she whispered as she kissed his brow, and Malick squeezed his hand again, but Jacin didn't squeeze back.

  I'm sorry, was all he could manage, hoarse and hollow. Sorry, I'm so sorry.

  Malick only shook his head, peering at Jacin's mother. She wouldn't want you to be. He turned back to Jacin. Open your eyes, Fen. C'mon, wake up.

  Are you dead? Jacin asked his mother.

  She smiled, and he could see it in his mind, but he couldn't open his eyes, he couldn't.

  No, she said. I can't die ‘til you save my soul.

  He thought about that for a long time. With a reckless snatch at hope, he asked, Am I?

  There was a touch at his brow, and he worried that someone was trying to paint the prayers on his skin. He didn't want them. He didn't want to go to the gods. Fuck the gods. He batted the hand away.

  Malick growled at him, but his father shook his head. You're an abomination, my own. You must set the Balance before you can rest.

  Abomination...? He opened his eyes, looked at Malick, but Malick turned away, so he shut them again. He'd never been called that before, but his father said it, called him “my own,” and he'd never said that before, either, so it must be true. And it felt too right.

  Nothing, you're nothing.

  Why did they keep telling him things he already knew? And if he already knew them, why did it hurt so much to hear them?

  My twice-born, my boy of too many lives. Save him, her hands felt so good on his face. It was you that first time, too, though that wasn't your first time, oh no. Lives uncounted, my sad little Ghost. I knew when you came to me again—they thought I wouldn't know my own, but I did. Snapped your neck the first time because I couldn't bear for the Ancestors to have you, but you.... She sighed, stroked his cheek, wiped his tears like she'd done when he was small and his father wasn't looking. You were determined. You would be born, and Wolf would have you.

  He didn't know what to say. What was anyone supposed to say to that? And of all the things he could have said, strange how, Why couldn't you have done it this time too? came spilling out before he could stop it.

  Is that what you want, Fen? Malick asked him, except there was no stranglehold this time, only that hand gripping his own. You think dying will fix it all for you?

  No, he whispered. He opened his eyes, watched the petals fall and coat the little cupboard where the moth lay, brittle and ragged-winged, dead. No more thwip-thwip-thwip, just a soft fall of cherry blossoms threading itself into a shroud. He wanted to howl. No, not fix it—just... make it stop hurting so much.

  Everything hurt. Everything.

  I know. A heavy sigh, and more cool-wet at his brow. But dying won't fix it. Living is your sacrifice, Fen. I'm sorry.

  Sorry. Jacin snorted, squinted through tears at the husk of the moth. We're all made for sacrifice, and he shut his eyes, let himself fall—

  Yes. Soft and faraway. But I can help you endure this one.

  —and for a little while, it felt like flying.

  * * * *

  "If you're so worried about keeping it quiet for him,” Umeia had told him, eyeing Malick's hand where it enfolded Fen's atop the coverlet, “I can always go down and get your ring for you.” He hadn't been able to tell if she was smirking or sneering.

  She hadn't wanted to give Fen suuzai—too strong, she'd argued, too addictive—but it was the only thing she had that would put him deeper than the xsinzaua, would sink him down to a level where the voices couldn't go while Malick took care of other things.

  "No ring,” Malick had told her, taking care to make his voice hard, to rule out argument. “Not yet."

  Umeia never was easily intimidated. She ignored his tone—no, she smirked at it. “Afraid of what might happen if he can have the quiet without having you?"

  Malick hadn't answered.

  The suuzai did the job, put Fen under deep. He wouldn't have to suffer the Ancestors while Malick briefed the others and set them to their jobs for tonight. That was all he cared about. Fen had made it through the cutting and cleaning and stitching last night with only the xsinzaua, but it wasn't strong enough to keep him under when he didn't have the quiet. Malick had been sitting here for a night, a day, and now going on another night, and he'd seen what happened when he let go, listening to it all, which was harder than he'd imagined it would be. It was disquieting enough when he was holding on, so he tried not to let go if he didn't absolutely have to. Fen's mind never seemed to bloody stop—not even when Malick had curled up with him last night, held on—but at least now the rest of him was still, and the constant anxious muttering had stopped. Malick didn't like to think what had been happening on the inside while he'd been gone, though.

  He willfully pushed aside Umeia's knowing mockery. She could think what she wanted, but there was a point t
o not giving over everything all at once. Fen had to be in exactly the right place, exactly the right state of mind, before Malick could hand him silence without the tether of Malick himself.

  It would have to keep.

  Joori was sitting on Fen's bed, glaring at Malick, when he got back to Fen's room. Malick ignored him, sat in the chair Samin had dragged in from Malick's own room, shucked his boots, and propped his feet on the bed, digging his toes under Fen's leg—contact—and getting himself as comfortable as possible. And he was sure he wasn't imagining the slight release of tension around Fen's mouth and eyes when Malick touched him, which only made Malick feel worse for having left, which was stupid, but still.

  He'd only been gone less than an hour, after all, but it had been longer than the quick piss breaks and the hurried bath this morning. He wouldn't have left at all, but Umeia had insisted that Morin and Caidi needed to spend some time with their brother, and she knew damned well that Malick wouldn't give Yori and Samin and Shig their instructions in front of them. So he'd agreed on the condition that she'd dose Fen with the suuzai, and then gotten his people together in his own rooms and mapped out what he wanted from them.

  A survey of Yakuli's estate—nothing more. A count of guards, some idea of the routines of the place, and a detailed map of the property, or as detailed as they could get without being detected. No killing tonight, no being seen, nothing at all that might alert the Councilor that he was next on the list and spur him to hare off, like Pon had been trying to do. Malick wanted to know exactly what they were up against, wanted to make bloody sure Yakuli was the man who had Fen's mother, before he even considered a course of possible action.

  Malick stretched in the chair, bones not quite realigning and muscles too tight, wound through with knots. Still a little sore from the night before. He wasn't used to spending so much time in one place, and certainly not used to spending so much time on a metaphorical tether. He made sure his socked foot stayed in contact with Fen's shin through the blanket and stretched again.