Wolf's-own: Weregild

by Carole Cummings

  Focus.

  He was fulfilling a bargain he'd made with a Temshiel, and he was necessary to what Malick wanted. Malick wouldn't let him get lost inside the insanity. Malick wasn't done with him yet. It was a cold thing, but a comfort nonetheless. Jacin's mental wind of noise and color was diligently sloughing away, without him even paying it any attention at all, and wordswordswords crowded behind it.

  Not yours to spill, rolled through Jacin's head, and he let it out in an unwilling whisper. And then the floodgates screeched open, and he couldn't stop it: “Sound the vaults of Raven, Wolf calls the Prime to his own."

  Sliding right through his mind and out his mouth, slippery and too fast. His hand made a reach—for Malick, for the ring; he didn't know—and he willfully restrained it. It was all he could do not to chew on the inside of his cheek to throttle it, pound a fist to his healing wounds and let the pain bloom, crowd it out, shut it up.

  "Wolf will not be thwarted, he sees the Eye and calls the Prime to his own, leers through a veil of burning skies to Raven's duplicity, and sends his call, start again, start again, the Prime has started again, back to Zero and rise to One, take up the call, Wolf's-own, the Blood of the Catalyst showers the Eye, plucks it, plucks it—"

  "It's getting away from you.” Malick's voice, calm and soothing, and Jacin latched onto it with a mental fist. “You're letting the noise crowd in again, Fen. Relax. You won't get caught in it, you can have the quiet anytime you want it."

  "Malick,” Shig put in, her voice a little high, excited, “it's like hearing the voices of the gods!"

  "No shit,” Malick snapped impatiently. “Now, shut up for a minute, can't you.” Jacin had squeezed his eyes shut somewhere along the way, but he could almost feel Malick turning back to him, could almost see his countenance softening. “You're there, Fen, you've got it. Don't worry about what any of these words mean, don't worry how any of it sounds or where it's coming from."

  Right. Don't worry about any of it, let Malick keep doing whatever it was he was doing, and what exactly was he doing, anyway? Taking Shig's power somehow and using it to turn Jacin into some kind of channel, or maybe just boosting it with his own. Jacin wasn't sure he cared. He just wanted it over. He let himself ride on the wave of non-reality, on the wind that Malick stirred inside him, and let the rest ride along with it, outside of him.

  "The earth shifts to Prime, the key, the Paradox, the Paradox, the key, mustn't take the key from the hand of the Prime, the gods have all gone silent and Wolf calls us home, your Blood, our Blood, our boy, clinging to corpses, only say it once, listenlistenlisten—"

  "Fen, you're letting it get too much again, just—"

  "Eremite!” It rocked out of Jacin's chest, loud and resonant, like it hadn't even come from him. Colors swamped through him again, bleeding out his mouth, he could taste them all, all at once, until the wave washed him under completely, bleached out to white and engulfed him. “Wolf waits for you to take up your Sorcerer's mantle. The Obelisk falls even now. Will you hear your god?"

  Without his permission, Jacin's eyes popped open to see Malick's expression gone intense, his gaze instantly locked to Jacin's, light-brown eyes all but burning. Jacin couldn't pull his own eyes away, couldn't control his own body. Panic, sharp and bright, drowning in white as utter silence broke through, heavy inside his head, pregnant and waiting. He leaned in, helpless to stop it, words forming on his tongue, booming out his mouth: “Will you hear?"

  "Yes,” Malick breathed, too keyed-up for volume, maybe a little manic, but he took the time to tip a reassuring nod. “It's all right, Fen, just let it come."

  Jacin couldn't have stopped it if he'd wanted to. It was stoppered up back there somewhere, push-push-pushing like something wanting to be born, and it wasn't about to be denied. It shoved.

  "Justice is balance,” came rolling from his mouth, deeper and clearer than anything that had ever twisted sense from the noise before. Everything else had faded to a chaotic quiet at the back of his mind—even him. “All fates rest on the Heart of the Null, yet the hand of Fate itself safeguards those who would mock Balance. Flout Fate to your own damnation. Fail the Fool and fail the Cycle. Wolf suffers not the duplicity of weaker gods. He calls the Prime to his duty. He calls his children home."

  And then it all left him, like someone had just drained his mind, all color gone, all sense gone with it, all strength. The waves turned to a tempest and blanked into howls.

  Shig was literally bouncing on the bed, beatific. Malick was staring at Jacin, dumbstruck, like he was the one with a precarious mind, thoughts rocketing around behind his eyes too fast for sense.

  "Fen?” he said, leaning in, brow furrowing a little as his eyes cleared and he looked at Jacin with blooming worry. “Fen, are you—?"

  "I need....” The clarity was gone, all at once—pop!—leaving Jacin muddled and lightheaded, the shrieking risen again and pulling him under. His hand flailed out, desperate and directionless. “I need...."

  Malick's hand snapped up, took firm hold of Jacin's. The silence covered him like a warm, petal-soft blanket, and he smelled cherry blossoms.

  "What the hell just happened?” Samin's voice, too fuzzy—from behind him, from all around, from far, far away, from the other side of the world, for all he could tell.

  "Dizzy,” Jacin heard himself mutter.

  "Yeah, I have that effect on people sometimes,” Malick snorted.

  "That was Wolf's voice!” Shig said, too obviously semi-euphoric, her voice bounding around the sudden quiet in Jacin's head, echoing ‘til it made no sense at all. “Malick's been given—"

  "Whoa, hey, Fen!” was all Jacin heard, then everything went black.

  He came to with his head hanging heavily between his knees, a cold, wet cloth pressed to the back of his neck and a gentle hand settled over his shoulder blade. It took him a moment, but he eventually understood that all the noise was gone again, he was alone in his head, and the only sounds he heard were the soft drone of the rain and the voices of people with corporeal bodies attached to them.

  "Shig, you've got to calm. The fuck. Down,” Malick said above him, beside him, and he wasn't surprised because, even without the silence, Jacin would've recognized the touch. Wanted more of it, and wanted to take a nice, heavy mallet to his already pounding head for even allowing that notion to slip into conscious thought.

  Bloody hell, he was craving a cuddle. He wanted a fucking cuddle. He wanted to wake up all over again with a warm body snugged up against his back and the pleasant weight of an arm draped over his ribs. It was humiliating. Had he no dignity left at all?

  "No, you've got to get more excited,” Shig shot back at Malick. Even without seeing her, Jacin could tell she was grinning and giddy. “Fuck's sake, Mal, you've just heard the voice of your god, you can't tell me—"

  "Yeah, and he's just ordered me to put everyone I know on the line. He's told me to break the laws, and did you happen to notice how there was no assurance I wouldn't end up sent to the suns for it? Ever heard ‘damned if you do, damned if you don't'?"

  A pause. “But... surely....” Samin's voice, strained and hesitant.

  "Surely nothing,” Malick snapped. “It changes nothing, except now I have the very slim comfort that at least my god has as much morality as I do. I was beginning to wonder."

  They all went quiet for a few long moments. Jacin could almost imagine them all frowning, broody.

  Samin breached the silence with a skeptical tone. “I thought magic wasn't supposed to work on Fen."

  "It didn't really work on Fen,” Malick said, thoughtful. “It worked on the Ancestors."

  "What's the difference?"

  "Plenty.” Curt and clipped. A gentle squeeze to Jacin's shoulder. “You going to make it?"

  Jacin sucked in a long breath, gathered himself, and tried to straighten up. He growled a little when Malick had to help him, but it was mostly at himself.

  "Bloody damn,” Samin said with a bit of a wince. “You look lik
e shit."

  Jacin felt like shit.

  "You want us to go?” Malick asked. Someone had slipped the ring onto Jacin's finger, he noticed, but Malick's hand still stayed where it was. “We could take this to my—"

  "No,” Jacin cut in, a little shakier than he'd prefer. “I need to....” He paused, then turned to Malick. “Was that really Wolf?"

  Malick nodded. “Yeah, it was."

  "Has that ever happened before?"

  "What, a god speaking through a Catalyst?” This time, Malick shook his head. “No. The gods used to speak through the Incendiary, but there are no Incendiary anymore, so sometimes they'll use Temshiel if they have to. Catalysts have always been the Voices of the Ancestors, and the gods have never approved of them."

  "Except for Wolf,” Shig put in.

  She was still far too bouncy. It almost made Jacin smile until he remembered he was still pissed at her for the other night. Which reminded him that he was pissed at Malick for withholding the Yakuli thing, so he shrugged the hand off his shoulder.

  Malick let him without protest. “Except for Wolf,” he agreed. “But even Wolf has never spoken through any but the Incendiary and the Temshiel.” He tipped a wink and a small grin at Jacin. “Guess that makes you special."

  Oh good. And what the fuck was an Incendiary, anyway? No, he didn't want to know.

  "How d'you know it really was Wolf?” Jacin asked. The voice had been different, all of it had been different, but the Ancestors were long-dead lunatics with magic. Impersonating a god didn't seem to be something too far outside the realm of believability.

  "It was,” Malick said firmly, if a little reluctantly.

  Jacin supposed he had to take Malick's word for it. He didn't like taking Malick's word for anything. Malick was too good at telling only partial truths and making it look like it was your own fault for not seeing what he hadn't told you.

  Except....

  There was a too evident sense of morality in there, a strangely consistent opinion on right and wrong, and a willingness to skirt the laws that bound him to keep his own conscience. Such as it apparently was. He'd told Jacin once that there was no such thing as right or wrong, good or bad, only better and worse, and it seemed that Malick really did keep to his own unique opinion of what justice was.

  Jacin hadn't understood Malick at all, at first, and he still didn't mostly, and what Malick had said to him last night had hit something, something that hurt, because he'd known it for truth right away—things Jacin didn't understand scared the shit out of him. Because, for the most part, he didn't have the resources normal people had to figure them out.

  He didn't necessarily need those resources with Malick, because if he waited long enough, listened, Malick would eventually explain the things Jacin didn't understand. Not always in words, but once Jacin had understood that Malick was pretending to be something he wasn't just as desperately as Jacin was himself, the sense came quite a lot easier.

  Not the hard, cold, manipulative bastard he was trying to be; Jacin could see that now. Hard, cold, manipulative bastards didn't cuddle and stroke and soothe, even when they weren't aware the one being cuddled, stroked and soothed was awake to notice. No matter how much Malick supposedly needed Jacin for his plots and plans, there was something else in there, something soft and smushy armored beneath the calluses. Temshiel with a mortal heart—it was almost worth a bit of pity.

  Jacin could kill Asai and stand before the gods with a firm defense. Malick couldn't. He'd offered to risk his soul, before his god told him he should, and Jacin believed he'd meant it, even if he'd been intending to do it in a way that minimized the risk as much as possible, but who wouldn't, really? And if Malick was truly punch-drunk, like Shig said, and taking all that risk for Jacin... well, that was a mark on the soul Jacin would accept. Which was strange, but Jacin was used to not making sense, even to himself, and it turned out he was quite a lot more needy than he'd ever realized, so he stopped thinking about it.

  "What does it mean?” he asked, unsure what he wanted clarified, but willing to accept clarity on just about anything right now.

  "It means,” Malick said with a weary sigh, “that apparently Wolf and Raven are having a little pissing contest, and we get to be good little toadies and put ourselves on the line so they don't have to.” He shook his head. “I think I know what Umeia was talking about now,” he muttered, seemingly to himself, but then he lifted his head, peering at all of them. “There is no one way to keep the Balance. If Asai gets his way, it would set it firm in its fulcrum for... centuries, maybe forever. But his way isn't the right way, damn it, I wish Umeia would....” Malick sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Although, the ‘right’ way depends on which perspective you're looking at it from, I guess."

  "And you've been commanded to look at it from your own,” Shig put in, still a little high and smiling more than was probably appropriate, considering the subject matter.

  "Commanded, but not guaranteed protection,” Malick griped. “But yeah. In the end, Wolf wants it, and I'm Wolf's.” His mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “About fucking time too."

  "'Fail the Fool and Fail the Cycle,'” Jacin quoted, peered up at Malick. “What does that mean? Fail how? Who is the Fool?"

  Malick twitched a little, but that was all. He looked at Jacin straight, said, “I don't know,” and he held the gaze, unblinking.

  Jacin narrowed his eyes, but Malick was a difficult person to read when he wanted to be. Had Jacin just been thinking he could almost trust a Temshiel?

  "So, we're going after Yakuli, then?” Samin asked.

  Jacin couldn't tell if the fierce look on Samin's face was fear or aggression. Aggressive fear, maybe.

  A light knock on the door made them all turn in time to see a folded piece of paper slip beneath it. Shig got up to retrieve it, read it with a frown, then handed it over to Malick as she climbed back up beside him on the bed. “It's from Ragi."

  Malick frowned at it, too, and opened his mouth, but then closed it again and merely slipped the note into the pocket of his shirt. “It'll have to wait,” he grumbled irritably. “Can't do six things at once."

  He lifted his eyes again and looked at each of them in turn. “We're going after Yakuli. We go back tonight. I want to see the place for myself. And once we see, we come back here, and you'll think long and hard about whether or not you really want to do this.” He turned his glance to Samin. “I gave you the chance before. I'm going to give it to you again. Once more. I want no decisions until tomorrow, but once you've made them, there's no going back. Understand?"

  They both nodded, Shig finally having lost all of the bounce from before, her gaze solemn. Jacin noticed Malick didn't look at him while making the offer. Jacin was in it until the end, one way or another. Which was exactly where he wanted to be, so he didn't take offense.

  "Which way d'you think Yori will jump?” Malick asked Shig reluctantly. He shrugged when Shig snapped a narrow glance to him, offended. “She's always been Umeia's,” Malick said. “I only—"

  "No, she hasn't.” Shig's tone held a hint of challenge inside it. “She's mine. She always has been. Just as much as I'm hers. And we all know which way I'll jump."

  It seemed to be enough for Malick. He gave Shig a small smile and a nod.

  "So, when do we go?” Jacin asked into the silence. “I mean... it's only....” He set his jaw. It was too late for sentiment. “My family leaves in the morning. I... I should... see them for a little while."

  "You should,” Malick agreed, “and you can see them all night, because you're not going with us."

  Jacin's eyebrows snapped down, and his heart picked up pace. “You can't keep me from—"

  "Yeah, I can, actually.” It was hard, and colder than Jacin had seen Malick for a while now. He made a visible effort to soften it. “Fen, be reasonable. You can't even walk."

  "I can walk! I'm fine.” Well, better, anyway.

  "Yeah, ‘fine'.” Malick rolled his eyes.
“You're always ‘fine'. And what happens if we get halfway there and you're not ‘fine’ anymore?"

  "I've got the dray.” Jacin frowned. “Haven't I?” He couldn't remember. In fact, he had no idea if they'd brought it back to the Girou or if they'd abandoned it outside the Gates.

  "A dray would blare our arrival to anyone within a mile, and I can't veil you.” Malick looked sincerely apologetic now. “Anyway, who ever heard of arriving for battle in a dray?"

  The wholly inappropriate attempt to lighten the mood a little fell predictably flat. Jacin knocked his glare up a few notches in case Malick tried to pretend not to notice.

  Malick sighed. “Fen, think about it. You know it's how it has to be. We couldn't attack tonight, even if you did manage to limp there. There is no way in hell we can get to her until we know exactly what we're up against. I need to see it for myself, because there are things even Shig can't see."

  It all made sense. And Jacin hated him for it.

  "And what the fuck am I supposed to do?” he snapped. “This is my mother! You promised. We made a deal—"

  "And I'll keep it, damn it.” Malick was trying very hard not to be offended, Jacin could tell, and didn't entirely care. “I'm sorry I won't be able to keep it before the others leave, but that's not your failure, it's mine. You can face them without hiding this time, all right?"

  Jacin flinched. Damn it all, how did he keep... understanding like that, when Jacin hadn't even been aware of exactly what he'd been thinking?

  "You can be really cold sometimes, Mal,” Shig said, except she nearly chirped it, like she was admiring, rather than chiding.

  "Yeah, well, sometimes he needs a kick in the ass,” Malick sighed. “And since he's already beat to shit....” He gave Jacin a bit of a glare that Jacin returned with interest, then he turned to Shig. “Did you get all of what he was saying before written down?"

  Jacin winced this time when Shig nodded and retrieved a marked-up slate from the mattress behind her. No one had told him they'd be writing it down, which probably meant they'd be reading it, and he was going to have to hear how crazy he'd sounded. It was different when it was happening—he didn't have enough of his mind to know how bad it sounded out loud when he lost hold of it like that, because he was usually too busy trying to keep it in. And now his mind was relatively his own, wreathed in a quiet to which he was getting far too accustomed and far too quickly, and they were going to make him hear it anyway.