Weregild
Author: Carole Cummings
Date: 2012-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; M M Romance; Romance; Magic; Paranormal; M M Fantasy; Action; Gay; Lgbt; Epic Fantasy
Description: The amorality of gods makes it hard to tell bad from good and right from wrong. Fen Jacin-rei doesn’t care. All Fen cares about is saving his family, and he’ll sacrifice anything that gets in his way. Including his own soul. No longer willing to wait for the machinations of the gods’ minions, Fen accepts the trade Kamen Malick offers. Together they set out to rescue Fen’s family and kill the man who betrayed them. But Fen is an Untouchable, one whose mind hosts the spirits of long-dead magicians, and with Voices of the Ancestors screaming in his head, Fen finds it harder and harder to stave of
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press, LLC

Dreamspinner Press
www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright ©2012 by Carole Cummings

First published in 2012, 2012

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Glossary

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

* * * *

Acknowledgments

Not enough (because there will never be enough) thanks to Jenni, who loves me enough to beat me over the head with a tree until I see the forest. To Linda, who lets me borrow the brain, even though I always return it folded, spindled, and mutilated. To my LJ Enablers—Caroline, Connie, Donna, Julia, Marinella, and Marlene—who alternately wave pom poms and shake sticks at me, depending on what I need at the time.

To my husband, Eric, who continues to love my weirdness and continues to be proud of me. To the rest of my family—Jenna, Rachel, Eric Jr., Olivia, Aidan, Ellie, and Ethan—for existing and acquiescing to coexist with all the people in my head. And to my mom, my dad, my stepdad, and all my sisters and brothers, who apparently always knew I could, even when I didn't.

Finally, to The Readers. Because “putting it out there” is not an easy thing, but you make it worth the angst.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Glossary

Ada

Once Jejin, the land ruled by the Jin, until they were conquered by the Adan.

Adan

The people of Ada. They shared a close relationship with the Jin until the Binding War, when the Jin used their magic against the Adan and so severed the kinship. Decades later, the Adan overrode the Jin and began stamping out those of the Jin who had magic.

The Ancestors

Descendants of Temshiel and mortals. They were once the guiding Voices of the Untouchables, who spoke for the Ancestors and advised the Jin, until the violence of the Binding War sent the Ancestors mad, and thus the Untouchables.

Banpair

Magical beings who were once maijin but who have angered their god in some way and been banished. They maintain their magic but can no longer draw strength from their god and so must draw it from the emotions of the mortals around them.

Beishin

A term of respect for one's teacher or master.

Catalyst

An alternate title for Untouchable. Their purpose is to serve as a channel and Voice for the Ancestors, and to influence individuals and events per the Ancestors’ wishes.

Change

A term used by the Jin to describe the point at which a child with magic begins to manifest his/her powers.

Doujou

Ada's guard unit, like a police force.

Doujoun

A guard of the Doujou.

Eremite

Hermit

Ghost

A derogatory term used to describe an Untouchable.

Gods

Bear, Dragon, Owl, Raven, Snake, Wolf. Each god is represented by his/her namesake moon and reaches his/her apogee of strength when his/her moon is in its primary Cycle.

Heldesan

A country to the north of Ada.

Incendiary

The paradigm upon which the Untouchables were molded. Nonmagical beings and servants of Fate whose job it was to influence world events to Fate's desires. They were deemed too dangerous generations ago and stamped out by the gods.

Jejin

The land once ruled by the Jin until they were conquered by the Adan. The Adan annexed Jejin and made it a part of Ada.

Jin

A magical people of the land once known as Jejin before the Adan overran it and took the Jin prisoner. Jejin is now known as Ada. The Jin are descendants of the Ancestors, who were themselves descendants of Temshiel.

Ken-ken

A particularly vicious dog, known for its “happy puppy” appearance and used for guard dog purposes.

Kente

A country to the south of Ada.

Kiwa Shuua

Tsunami; tidal wave

Maijin

"Children” of the gods, but more involved with mortal concerns. Maijin are magical beings whose purpose is to interpret the laws of their gods in the mortal world and carry out the gods’ orders. Meant to balance out the Temshiel and represent mortals, where Temshiel represent the gods. Each maijin is sworn to only one of the six gods but must obey the laws of all of them.

Misin

An honorific used to address a woman, as in “ma'am” or “madam."

-onna

An honorific added to the end of a woman's name.

Rei

A word that means “ghost” in the Jin's language.

-seyh

An honorific added to the end of a man's name, used as an address, like “Sir."

Temshiel

"Children” of the gods. Some Temshiel were once mortal and some were created whole by the gods. Temshiel are magical beings whose purpose is to interpret the laws of their gods in the mortal world and carry out the gods’ orders. Meant to balance out the maijin and represent the gods, where maijin represent mortals. Each Temshiel is sworn to only one of the six gods but must obey the laws of all of them.

Thecia

A country to the south of Ada.

Untouchable

An individual of Jin descent who hears the Voices of the Ancestors. Known also as Catalysts, their purpose is to serve as a channel and Voice for the Ancestors, and influence individuals and events per the Ancestors’ wishes.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter One

Storm-month, Year 1322, Cycle of the Wolf

He hadn't been expecting to see Jacin again so soon. He certainly hadn't been expecting to see him before the small hours, and yet here he stood, rain-soaked and hollow-eyed, in the doorway of the little hut, blinking about himself like he'd forgotten why he'd come. Joori's mouth quirked up in an uncertain half smile—right up until he saw the two men who came up to stand behind Jacin in the doorway.

His first instinct—hunters? bandits? was Jacin some kind of hostage?—was to yank Jacin through the door and slam it shut. Too bad his body's first reaction was to freeze like a rodent beneath the shadow of a hawk's wings.

"Jacin!"

Joori was still gaping like an idiot and didn't catch Caidi before she made a run at Jacin, so she was rather open prey for the man who stepped forward to intercept her. Jacin didn't move—Joori couldn't. Just watched the man swing his little sister up onto his hip with a grin Joori didn't quite believe—more wolfish than friendly—then cut a narrow glance at Morin and a mocking one at Joori.

"Kamen Malick,” the man said, “you can call me Malick,” then he tipped a nod at Morin and spared a quick smile for Caidi as he tweaked her nose before turning his cool glance back on Joori. “Friends of your brother's. We're here to take you somewhere safe."

The other man, the big one, pursed his mouth in clear disapproval. “You plan on telling everyone you meet your real name?"

You-can-call-me-Malick just grinned. “It's Fen's family,” he said, like it was a perfectly reasonable retort.

Handsome. Friendly-seeming enough. The other man was big and blocky, a little bit scary, maybe, but not threatening, though a broadsword hung at his hip. The one who called himself Kamen Malick was armed, as well, but no weapons were drawn, which had to be a good sign—right? With Jacin just standing there, somewhat glassy-eyed, You-can-call-me-Malick smiling, all amiable amusement, and the other waiting in the doorway like an attentive steward, it all seemed absurdly unthreatening for a sudden appearance in the dark of night with a storm rolling steadily. And the statement—safe; could it be possible?—really should have set elation through Joori, not raise his hackles the way it did.

It was the hand on Jacin's shoulder that made Joori's eyes narrow. The casual way You-can-call-me-Malick tipped in and spoke something quietly into Jacin's ear as he set Caidi down and gave her a pat between the shoulder blades, then gently pushed her away from Jacin. The impossible to mistake marks just below Jacin's ear. And then the way Jacin merely peered at Joori, then at Morin and Caidi, said, “Take what you can carry; the cart's only big enough for Caidi and a few provisions,” then angled stiffly away from the door and out from under the grip on his shoulder to direct Caidi and Morin with the packing.

Joori had had his suspicions for years about what Asai had wanted with his brother—hell, he'd been pretty sure he knew exactly what Asai was about the night he stepped arrogantly into their dooryard—and Jacin's reticence and unwillingness to talk in detail about the man at all in the weeks they'd spent in this little hut had drawn conclusions of every sort of abuse and exploitation Joori could fathom. And he'd be damned if he'd see it done again—not in his name, never again.

He pushed past the cocky stranger with the too easy grin, growling a little at the way the man tried to angle himself between Joori and Jacin, like he was trying to keep Joori away—keep Joori away from his brother; how dare the man—and took hold of Jacin's elbow.

"Jacin, what's going on? Who are these people?” And then he peered a little closer. “Are you drunk? Or...?” His eyes narrowed, and he wheeled on the grinning stranger. “What've you got him on?"

You-can-call-me-Malick's eyebrows drew down. “What've I got him—?"

"I can barely see the color of his eyes for the pupils, and he looks like he's about to fall over."

"Joori, not now.” It was snappish and short. Jacin pulled his arm away from Joori's grip. “They're who they say they are. This is Malick. And that's Samin."

He waved at the man still standing like a block of stone just outside the door. Good thing too, because the hut was only so big, and Caidi was taking up half the floor with the pile of clothes through which she was sorting with Morin's help. Caidi was chattering excitedly, while Morin kept half a cagey eye on everyone in the room.

"Yori and Shig are keeping watch outside,” Jacin went on. “We're taking you to a safe place in the city. Get your things."

"A safe...?” Had he really said “a safe place"? In the city? Was there such a thing? Joori looked around. At Caidi and Morin obediently throwing together all the clothes Jacin had brought. At the man Jacin had called Samin standing out in the rain on the other side of the door, watching everything going on inside while simultaneously scanning the yard. At the other man—this Malick—smiling that self-satisfied smile, eyes far too focused on Jacin, even as he crouched down beside Morin to help shove balled-up clothes into a sack. At Jacin, making his stiff way over to the rickety board and staring down at the piles of food, like he couldn't decide what to do about them....

"Leave it,” Malick said quietly. “You won't need to worry about it anymore."

...at the way Jacin just nodded vaguely, compliant.

Joori gave Malick a bit of a glare as he stepped up behind Jacin, annoyed when Malick simply widened his smirk and shook his head, like Joori's distrust amused him. “Jacin,” Joori said, leaning in so he could speak softly, for Jacin's ears only, “are you sure this is real?"

Jacin turned to Joori slowly, gaze a touch murky, but by no means muddled. He was pale, going sallow, with twin spots of color on each cheekbone. “As real as I can manage,” he muttered, dropping his glance guiltily to the floor. Half moons like bruises blotted the thin skin beneath his eyes, and his jaw was clenched so tight Joori would swear he could hear teeth squeak.

"What's wrong with you?” Joori demanded. “You looked fine last night.” A little shredded around the center, but otherwise all right. No, that wasn't true, really—he'd looked exhausted, too, and there'd been... something. Something in his eyes.

"Nothing that won't keep.” Jacin tried to smile a little, but the ghastly thing that crooked at his mouth only knocked up the worry blooming in Joori's gut. “We don't have much time,” Jacin said. “I didn't know... I had no idea....” He paused, dipped his head again, and rubbed at his temple. “Asai... Fuck, Joori, I'm so sorry, I never—"

"I think that's got it all,” Malick cut in, shouldering past Joori to pull up beside Jacin. That too-possessive grip went once again to Jacin's arm. Tawny eyes settled far too keenly on Joori as long fingers curled around Jacin's braid. Smirking. Silent laughter bubbling just beneath it. Like he knew exactly what Joori was thinking, and thought it terribly funny. “We should go, Fen."

"Yes,” was all Jacin said. He reached out and gave Joori's shoulder a quick brush as he squeezed around him.

Biddable. Like what this Malick person said mattered.

Joori took hold of Jacin's elbow and stopped him, leaning in to speak softly into his ear again. Joori kept his narrow gaze locked onto Malick's smug one. “Jacin,” Joori whispered, “are you sure this is real?"

Jacin turned his head, met Joori's eyes. “It's real.” Then why did he look so damned miserable? “It'll be all right, Joori. I... this wasn't... I'm sorry."

"For what?” Joori shot a look at Malick, who was still holding onto Jacin's braid like some kind of leash. Joori set his jaw and tugged a little until Jacin took a step away. “Why are you sorry, Jacin?” He dropped his voice as low as it could go and still make sound. “What are you paying for this?"

Rising dread turned to unfocused alarm when Jacin whiffed a tired laugh. “No price,” he murmured. He craned his neck around to meet Malick's even gaze for a long, heavy moment, face unreadable, then straightened and pulled away. Joori was ridiculously relieved when Jacin irritably yanked his braid from Malick's fingers, and even more so when Malick let go. “We have to leave now.” Jacin turned to face Joori squarely, eyes flicking quickly over Joori's shoulder at the smirking man who watched a little too closely, then back again to Joori. “Please, Joori."

Joori looked at Jacin hard then turned his glance once again on Malick, let it narrow at the steady look he got back. “I don't trust him,” he said, voice deliberately loud enough that Malick could hear. Joori kept his gaze steady, even as Malick shrugged, indifferent.

"He never asked you to,” Malick said, then he sauntered on past and made it a point to drop a quick touch to Jacin's shoulder as he angled around them both and out the door, collecting Samin as he went.

Joori turned back to Jacin, anger receding and worry crowding back in at the weariness and wan cast to Jacin's face. “Jacin—"

"Brother,” Jacin cut in, closing his eyes for a moment as he sucked in a deep breath, then he leveled his gaze with Joori's. “Please."

Joori could only stare, mouth tight and unease roiling up his backbone. He nodded. Because really—what choice did he have?

* * * *

For all the rush and worry, Yori concluded, this “job” was turning out to be the most boring one she'd ever been on. Not for the first time, as she rolled her neck irritably, mouth pinching tight as rain trickled down between her shoulder blades, she wondered why she'd even been necessary to carry it out. The conclusion she drew was that she wasn't—neither were Samin or Shig, or even Fen, when it came right down to it. Maybe Shig, now that Yori thought about it, since Malick seemed to keep Shig close while he was using his magic, laying hands on her more than Yori thought entirely necessary, but Shig didn't mind and Malick was Malick, so Yori didn't say anything. Still, though, it seemed Malick could have done this job all by himself.

Well... all right, she supposed Fen's presence had been necessary, or Malick might have had some trouble getting the three refugees to come along as compliantly as they'd done, but other than that....

She didn't suppose she was too put out. She'd only gotten to see Malick do his trick with the Gates once before—most of their jobs fell inside the city's walls, and he used his magic so rarely she sometimes forgot he had it at all—and she rather enjoyed the high the aftereffects gave her. Nothing she understood, and nothing she cared to understand, but Malick had half explained it as fazing their corporeal realities while altering the perceptions of any who might cross their paths. Yori had just sort of nodded a, “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” at him, and enjoyed the bit of euphoria.

It didn't work with Fen, which surprised Yori a little, but wouldn't have done, had she stopped and thought about it. Magic didn't work on an Untouchable. Maybe she forgot because she hadn't thought of Fen that way since after that first night. She'd only noticed the braid anew as something compulsory and not really a part of him when they'd had to wait for him to make his own stealthy way over the Gate. Too bad for him. It was a heady thing while it was happening, Malick's magic, a little like coming down from poppy afterward, but even that bit of a thrill—and the knowledge that there would be another like it when they returned—wasn't enough to offset the squishiness in Yori's boots now, the too-steady rain seeping through her oiled cloak, and the annoyance that was Fen's little brother. And Yori had thought Fen was hard to get along with. She snorted.

"Why couldn't they have gotten a cart big enough for all of us?” Morin was snarking at Fen.

Fen mumbled something back at him that Yori couldn't hear, and though the tone sounded almost mellow to her own ears—or at least as mellow as Fen got—Morin's mouth still shut up tight and didn't open again.

Yori shook her head.

The strangest reunion she'd ever seen, though admittedly, she couldn't recall ever having seen one before. Still, though, she'd sort of expected hugs and shouts of relief; what she'd actually witnessed were intense looks between Fen and his twin, some sort of silent plea that the brother had accepted with clear reservations, and distrust and hostile looks at all of them, but particularly at Malick. The little one, Caidi, seemed to be rather a limpet where Fen was concerned, to which Fen submitted with some softening of his usual stony expression, and stiff embraces when she demanded them, but the other one, that Morin, was a bit of a puzzle. Not hatred in his eyes when he looked at Fen, but... Yori couldn't tell, really. He was too obviously afraid of both his elder brothers, and Shig engendered harsh distrust from the second he laid eyes on her—the hair was apparently too much for him—which turned to outright anxiety when she spoke. Though, Yori mused, the fact that Shig's first words had been, “Damn, but you're an angry little rabbit, aren't you? Stop thinking so loud, you're giving me a headache,” probably hadn't helped. Not the best way to introduce herself to a boy who'd been taught that magic, or even one's proximity to it, meant painful death. Pretty amusing, though, at least to Yori, but then, lots of inappropriate things amused her.

Samin terrified the boy, with his granite face and hard eyes, though that might have been because Samin had made the mistake of trying to smile at him. Not a pretty thing, Samin's smile, at least not ‘til you got to know him. For whatever reason moved little girls, it had stirred a giggling fit in Caidi, and she'd allowed Samin to lift her and plop her on top of the things they'd packed into the dray, and even obediently complied when he gruffly directed her to fan out her cloak to cover what it would. Yori thought perhaps she better understood the girl's good humor when she saw Caidi surreptitiously poke her tongue out at Morin as Samin settled her in for the ride.

The boy hovered about their edges now, sticking to a loosely defined middle ground between his two elder brothers. Fen kept his head down, jaw set, silent but for occasional monosyllabic answers to Caidi's chatter behind him in the cart that he refused to allow anyone else to help him pull, all the while pretending not to limp. The twin, Joori, had engaged Malick for a while in a conversation Yori hadn't been able to hear above the rain and the squishy grind of the dray's wheels on the road, but she'd heard Asai's name spoken sharply twice—first by Joori then later by Malick—before Malick had stopped abruptly. He'd jerked his head at Yori to take point while he pulled the brother to the side to growl something at him, low and intense and strangely cross. Malick's eyes stayed on Fen the whole while, though Fen hadn't seemed to notice anything but his own feet and the death grip he had on the dray's handles since before they'd even gotten to his family. Samin had offered four times now to pull it for him, and four times had been ignored, until Samin had given up and dropped back to slog along beside Shig as rearguard.

"You're Yori, right?"

Yori shifted a glance sideways and tipped a little nod. “And you're Joori.” She couldn't help the silly grin. “Sorta rhymes."

The chuckle out of the dark sounded more tense than sincere. “So, how long have you known my brother?"

With an irritable swat at some fringe that wouldn't stay put beneath her hood, Yori blinked rain out of her eyes, squinting at the blob of murk walking beside her that was Fen's twin brother. “About....” She paused.

Besides whatever had passed between him and Malick, she'd watched this one trying to wring conversation out of Fen since they'd maneuvered the little cart out of the scraggy yard of the hut where they'd been staying, and had been surprised that he'd been just as unsuccessful as she'd ever been. She would've thought Fen would be more communicative with his family, at least, considering what he'd apparently gone through to protect them. All things considered, perhaps it wasn't her place to be blabbing things Fen himself didn't choose to disclose.

"A little while.” She slanted a look sideways at the sigh that was nearly a growl, and steered the subject in another direction: “Has anyone told you we've a hot-spring bath where we're going? Bet it'll be nice for you to sink into that, won't it? I know I can't wait.” And she hadn't been living out in the middle of nowhere for weeks and weeks with no apparent bathing facilities but a half-full barrel in the dooryard.

"You've come very well armed,” Joori observed, ignoring her comment altogether, his voice just as deep as Fen's, but with a different nuance she couldn't quite ken yet. “I take it you don't have the same magic as that other one, with the hair."

Yori snickered at the description. She'd have to remember to tell Shig later. “That's Shig,” she told Joori. “My sister."

"I figured,” Joori replied. “You look a lot alike."

"Except for the hair, yeah?” Yori grinned.

"And you're prettier."

Yori only just kept from rolling her eyes. Honestly—men were so transparent. “So, you tried wringing answers out of Fen, then arguing them out of Malick, and now you're down to flattery.” She shook her head. “You're not even very good at it."

"Huh,” said Joori. “Strange, because I meant it.” Yori could just make out a shrug in the dark, then frowning features momentarily illuminated by a fleeting streak of lightning. “I won't say I'm above it,” Joori said over the quiet rumble of thunder, “and I certainly do want answers, but it's still the truth."

Yori gave him a slit-eyed stare as he walked along beside her, looking right back, his eyes a mere dull gleam in the night. She had to admit he was attractive. Identical to Fen in respect to facial features, but there was something about Fen—his hardness, maybe; that all-consuming rage too often in his gaze—that had... not repelled her, really, but at least put her off from the start. Unlike some infatuated dimwits, Yori had never had a single carnal thought about their newest duckling. This one, though....

"Fen works with us,” she told Joori.

"And you rescue the families of everyone who works with you?"

"Everyone who works with us is family."

Joori went quiet for a few moments, taking that in, then he turned his head to look at Yori. “He's been looking for our mother."

"I know."

"And you—?"

"Yes."

Silence again while Joori pondered whatever he was pondering, turning every now and then to walk backward for a second or two, likely eyeing his brother, before turning back. “He looks like shit,” he told Yori, low and just for her. “What's going on with him?"

Yori looked back over her shoulder, squinting, but all she could make out was Fen's hunched figure, stubbornly pulling the dray and trying to keep up with the pace she and Joori were setting. Malick was walking beside him now, and Morin hovered a little closer than he'd done before. Fen had stopped even the quiet, one-word answers he'd been giving his sister, a chore that Malick had seemingly taken to himself, though Caidi didn't seem to mind. In fact, she seemed charmed, which almost made Yori roll her eyes, but the girl couldn't be much older than ten, and it was Malick, after all. Samin had moved up to walk behind the cart, leaving Shig to watch their backs, which he wouldn't ordinarily have done unless Malick had told him to. It appeared Fen's brother was not the only one waiting for him to collapse, though Yori was putting her koin on Fen—he was too mulish to let his body stop if he wanted it to keep going. In Yori's observation, when Fen hit a wall, he just rammed until it fell down.

"He got a cut on his leg last night,” Yori said. “Umeia had to sew him up. Probably just needs a painkiller. And to stop insisting on pulling that dray by himself.” Bloody bonehead.

"I saw him last night.” Joori had turned again, cloak billowing around his knees as he pivoted to walk backward. Yori could see more of his face now, though he was still little more than a dim smudge against the foggy black. “I didn't notice anything wrong with his leg, although....” A shrug. “He was covered in blood."

It was the accent—that was what was different. Joori had the same voice as Fen, but Fen didn't have the twangy Jin accent. Huh.

"Yeah?” Yori shrugged too, but didn't volunteer anything. Like how Fen's descent from the top of the Gate had been more like a fall, and that he'd landed awkwardly then snarled off any concerned attempts to help. And how she was almost certain she'd heard a strangled wheeze of a scream when he was trying to drag the dray from the culvert where he and Shig had stashed it, and then nearly bitten Malick's hand off when he bulled his way in to help. Obstinate idiot. She'd have to make sure Umeia knew about it when they got back. Umeia would take care of it, whatever it was. He'd probably gone and gotten the thing infected, and Yori would bet some stitches got pulled when he was wrestling with that cart. What the hell were they supposed to do with all these people if Fen up and died on them? And anyway, what would...?

Wait.

"You saw him last night?” Yori frowned. “How? When?"

"Is he sleeping with that man? That Malick?"

Yori blinked, eyebrows snapping upward. Apparently, flapping from subject to subject was a family trait. She almost barked a laugh, but the question had been posed so... almost angrily, and the tone of it, the suspicion inside it, roused something oddly protective in her. Fen's brother or not, this Joori wasn't theirs, at least not yet, and what Malick and Fen got up to wasn't even her business, let alone his.

"I'm not quite certain that's your concern,” she told him, her own tone deliberately even and unruffled. “Or mine. Perhaps you'd best ask Fen."

Joori turned his head from his scrutiny of his brother, stared at Yori for several strides, then waved a hand vaguely over toward Fen, said, “Pardon me for a moment,” and he walked off.

Damn. Yori wished she could warn Fen, and apologize in advance for apparently setting his brother on him, but.... Well, maybe it would make him stop dragging that stupid cart for a little while, at least. Joori was right about that—Fen looked like shit.

Deliberately, Yori looked away, sent a glance ahead and to all points, scanning the shadows, but if anything was going to come at them, she was fairly certain she wasn't going to see it before it saw them, not tonight. No moons, a low-hanging fog, and trees bloody everywhere. She'd have to rely on Shig and Malick twigging in time. Anyway, they were halfway home, and nothing had happened so far, and she had more magic at the Gates to look forward to.

Biting back a bit of a sigh, Yori ignored the steadily rising sound of Joori's voice as he chastised his brooding brother, tried to ignore her numbing toes with rather less success, and tucked her hands up under her cloak to warm her fingers. If there was trouble, she'd need them flexible. Although, she mused, trying not to snort as Joori's voice rose again, and the sound of the dray's wheels on the road ceased abruptly, perhaps any trouble that might come wouldn't be from anything lurking out there in the dark.

Then again....

"Yori, look sharp!” Malick snapped as he flew past her, sword drawn and stalking ahead, a hot welter of power like she'd never felt in her life nearly swatting her aside when he brushed her arm. Had that come from Malick?

Body moving before she even told it to, Yori swung her bow around and nocked an arrow, feet planting themselves into an offensive stance, even as she squinted ahead in the direction Malick was striding. Trees and more trees, shadows and more shadows, and she'd been looking right at them only a second ago, but now... well, bloody damn. Now they were moving. And not in any way people moved—at least not people with bones beneath their skin. Vague man-shapes then hunched... somethings. It was fascinating and revolting all at the same time, and she hadn't even got a good look yet. She wished for a flash of lightning, just so she could see what the hell they were dealing with.

She spared a quick glance behind her, taking in the configurations, so she'd know if things got messy. Fen had shoved all of his siblings behind him. Morin and Caidi both huddled in the cart with Joori between them and his brother. Samin still stood behind the dray, sword drawn, watching Malick, and Shig had turned to face the rear, bright head atilt in the way it did when she let her own magic loose, seeking. Satisfied, Yori turned back, eyes flicking back and forth between the smoky curls of... whatever they were farther up the road and Malick as he stalked up to them, planted himself mere paces away, and drew himself straight. Threatening. Frightening in a way she'd never seen him before. Powerful.

"Three of you?” he taunted, swinging his sword lazily in a figure eight about his shoulders, smirking. “That's all?"

Rolling hisses gathered from the writhing murk as it wound into three distinct shapes then fanned out again.

"No,” Shig called from behind. “There's more."

Yori glanced back again, just long enough to see more of them pooling to either side of the dray, like twisting pieces of the stormy sky, thrashing themselves into shapes she almost recognized but couldn't quite settle in her head yet.

"Fucking Husao,” Malick muttered, jaw clenched. “Manipulative prick. Whatever you see,” he called, voice deep and resonant, almost eager, like he was looking forward to whatever was coming, “remember that it's all glamour. They're only maijin. They bleed and die just like everything else."

Terrific, Yori thought sourly, good to know, then sucked in a long breath and sighted down.

* * * *

It had to be Husao, Malick concluded, or Vonshi, or whatever Husao was calling himself at the moment. Malick watched the shapes take on substance, hunched beasts vaguely wolfen, snarling through slobbering, jag-toothed maws. They were still on Asai's lands, which made these Asai's creatures, but Malick had been covering all his people since they stepped foot out the Girou, and Husao and Umeia were the only ones who knew they were coming. Even if Husao hadn't told Asai directly, that split second when he'd dropped his protections over Fen's brothers and sister might have been enough for Asai to have twigged. And the wolf-shapes... just too damned obvious. Arrogant fucking prick.

Malick sneered.

He could strip away all their glamours, but he didn't want to give himself away if he didn't have to, and it wouldn't necessarily stop them from attacking, anyway—they weren't after Malick himself, after all, and they couldn't touch him even if they were. He could veil his own people and walk right past the threat, except his veil wouldn't work on Fen, he'd be exposed, and Malick didn't know for certain to whom these maijin answered. None but Wolf's-own could touch Wolf's Untouchable, but if even a single one of them was Wolf's.... And Asai was smart—he'd have thought of that.

"Shit,” Malick muttered, keeping his eyes on the creatures as he turned his head a little to call over his shoulder, “Fen? Don't get excited, all right?” then he sent his veil to Joori, Morin, and Caidi, heard Fen cry out a little when they disappeared in front of him, but Samin was rumbling something at him, so Malick had to hope he wouldn't do anything stupid. “Shig, I need you up here.” Well, he didn't need her up here, but touch just made it easier, and why expel more power than he had to? Shig didn't employ her usual ambling, I'll get there when I get there gait, but was at his side inside three breaths. Malick reached out with his free hand and latched onto her arm, let her magic curl in through his palm, and found Joori. Take them out of the cart, Malick told him, and bring them over here behind me. He felt the alarm, the confusion, the anger, and cut through it: No time for angst and avarice right now. Do as I tell you and your family will live. Stay there and stare, and your brother will throw himself in front of every one of these things to protect you.

"You're Temshiel,” one of the creatures growled, guttural and garbled through a throat and mouth not meant for speech. Another made a quick dive for the dray, prancing back with a leering grin as Fen's knives just missed its nose. Teasing. Taunting. Playing with its food, Skel would have said.

"Kamen,” the one in front of Malick rumbled.

Shit. Whoever this was, he or she knew him. Which meant Asai would know before the night was through.

"Uh-huh,” Malick replied easily. He flipped the handle of the sword in his palm and grinned. “And you're apparently exactly as smart as you look, and don't choose your allies very well. But don't worry—you won't be regretting it for long."

Something like a graveled growl, thick and wet, and the loose circle of shadowy not-wolves snorted through soggy muzzles. Bodies curled in and tightened the loose ring, long jaws pulling back in feral grins before the one in front of Malick morphed again. Wet fur turned to gleaming scales, multihued beneath a metallic matte as teeth became barbed fangs, paws became rough talons.

"Ooh.” Malick blew out a soft whistle. “D'you breathe fire too?"

"The earth-bound,” it hissed. Like it really did expect Malick to just shrug and hand it what it wanted.

Malick shook his head, still grinning, and slipped his hand once again to Shig's arm, said, “Sure. But you'll have to get through his brother first,” and sent, Move your bloody ass—hurry, to Joori at the same time.

Joori was already moving, but the prod quickened his pace. Fen seemed to have taken Malick literally and lunged at the closest of the man-sized pseudo-wolves, knives whirling, and face set in all too familiar rage. Malick did the same. He waded into the thick of the three before him, and watched out the corner of his eye as Joori swept his little sister onto his hip. Joori shoved Morin ahead of him, angling between Fen and Samin as he led them through the small pocket of calm in the middle of the abrupt melee. Just in time too; every one of the creatures that wasn't already engaged with either Malick or Fen went driving in for the dray, apparently assuming their quarry was still there.

"Keep down!” Malick called to Joori, then he swung his sword around, satisfied when it hacked through rigid scales covering a long neck, before he glanced again to make sure Joori had obeyed. Yori's bow was twanging, and she wouldn't be able to see Joori and the others if they got in her way. “Fen, I've got them,” Malick called, then, “Yori, shoot high—go for the eyes,” just in case, as Fen's siblings made their way to a huddled knot behind Malick, as close to the ground as they could get without actually crawling.

Shig liberated a knife from one of Malick's sheaths, but seemed to be concentrating mostly on pulling apart the glamours, distracting the maijin as they tried to maintain them. Samin and Fen simply engaged. Samin had gone out of practice with the sword, but it seemed all the sparring with Fen had done him some good; he swung the thing in wide, efficient arcs, wounding whatever was in his path with each blow. Fen was doing what Fen did—nothing more than a whirling flash of metal in the dark as he placed himself staunchly between the things and his siblings where they hunched behind Malick.

Malick parried a set of long, black talons with a sweeping drive, then lunged in right up close with a brutal swipe at a scaly thigh. The satisfying sensation of flesh and meat parting beneath his blade wound up through steel and into his palm. Grinning at the creature, Malick waggled his eyebrows, said, “I've always wanted to be a dragon slayer,” then flipped the sword up into his palm and drove it down, just so. It sank in just below where a clavicle would have been. Malick kept the plunge shallow, remembering only at the last second that to actually kill any of these creatures would mean his soul. Even as he pulled back, thrashing talons swiped out across his midsection, slicing easily through cloak and shirt, but only striking dull sparks from the mail underneath.

This was why maijin shouldn't play with glamours. They got too caught up in what they were projecting to remember they weren't actually as invincible as the things they pretended to be. Malick's sword sank again through the scales just as easily as it did through flesh. And maijin bled just as red.

A feral, hissing shriek turned to an angry scream as Malick took advantage of the creature's distraction and stripped its glamour away. He found himself staring down into eyes gone from cat-slitted yellow to just plain hazel. “Aw, shit,” he muttered. “Leu, what the hell were you thinking?"

One of Wolf's, as he'd suspected, but he hadn't suspected her. He'd always thought Leu was smarter than this. Shouts and hisses and low, rolling screeches were going on all around him, and all he could do was look at Leu as her mouth moved, blood dribbling out over her chin as she hung in his grip, gaping at him, long, shiny haft-less spikes dropping from her hands and falling to the mud, useless. Malick slid the sword loose from where he'd lodged it in her between her ribs, only watched as she stumbled back, gasping, trying to draw in breath and choking on blood. He must've hit a lung. It would hurt like hell for a while and make it hard to breathe, but she'd live. Good thing too, or he might've just fucked himself without even thinking.

Enough. He was going to end up accidentally killing one of them and burning for it, or one of his people was going to end up hurt. Malick dragged his eyes away from Leu and narrowed them over at Fen. Fighting side by side with Samin, but none of them were going after Samin. Instead, they were focusing their attacks on Fen, lunging in to swipe and snap, but....

It wasn't right. Yori had dropped back, bow nocked and cocked, but the creatures were positioning themselves so that she couldn't shoot without the risk of hitting Fen. They wound themselves in front of Samin so he couldn't get through them to aid. And yet, they weren't driving in for the finish—harassing Fen, swiping to wound but not to kill, mauling him, too obviously damaging him, and accepting their subsequent slashes from his knives with angry roars and hisses. They could have had him twice just since Malick had been watching, and they'd foregone both opportunities.

They weren't all Wolf's—couldn't be. They didn't quite dare kill Wolf's Catalyst, but it seemed they were willing to risk damaging him. Things could get out of hand very quickly if they got carried away with their glamours.

Malick set his jaw, turned back to Leu, catching her as she tried to make her slow way into the trees and go to shadow. He yanked her around and leveled a swift rabbit punch to the bleeding wound he'd given her, ignoring how she wheezed a thin curse as she went to her knees.

"Call them off, Leu.” Through his teeth, and to make sure she knew he meant it, he drew his fist back again. “Don't fuck with me—I'm not in the mood."

"Kamen, I only—"

"I know why you're here, and you've already lost the earth-bound.” He took her by her collar, snapped another blow between her eyes, all knuckles, and waited for a moment while she gasped and tried to writhe away. Malick only reeled her in closer, drew back his fist yet again, and jerked his chin back toward Fen. “Maybe I can't kill you, but I can hold you down while he does. Call them off."

She believed him. Without a word, she slumped, head bowed, and shut her eyes. Only a few seconds later, the creatures surrounding Fen widened their circle, fur morphing back to flesh as they withdrew, until Fen, the cart, and Samin were surrounded by eight men and women of varying sizes and ages. All of them held double handfuls of spiked weapons, some obviously limping or clutching at various limbs in suppressed pain. One of them had a white-fletched arrow jutting from her bicep.

"Yori, Shig, stand down,” Malick called, even as Yori snapped her bow up to take aim at now-clear targets. Yori didn't gripe out loud, but Malick could tell she was doing it silently.

He dragged Leu to her feet. “Just because Asai has claimed Wolf,” he told her, low and even, “does not mean that Wolf has accepted him to the Cycle. You might do well to give that some thought the next time he sends you out after me and mine.” He shook her a little then shoved her away, completely indifferent to her gasp of pain and the way she had to stumble to keep her feet. “Go back and tell Asai that his message has been received. And bring him back one from me.” Malick took a step toward Leu, satisfied when she backed up a pace, though she was clearly trying not to. “Tell him that Kamen sends him greetings from Skel. Tell him if he wants the earth-bound, or the Catalyst, he'll need to come through me. They're mine.” He stepped back, dropped the veil from Joori and the others, then yanked Joori to his feet, ignoring Caidi's little yip of fear and surprise, and locked his furious gaze to Leu's. “Wanna try and take him from me?"

"No!” Fen snarled behind him then cursed and spat, “Let me the fuck go!” likely at Samin, since he was the only one among them who could've held Fen back when he was in a fury. Malick didn't take his eyes off Leu to find out.

Leu held Malick's gaze for several long seconds then flicked it behind him, narrowed it. She nodded as her eyes went to Joori and then finally settled back on Malick. “We weren't to kill them,” she said then spat blood and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her chin jerked to the other maijin, still in a loose circle around them but retreating slowly and steadily, moving a little more quickly now at Leu's signal, melting into the shadows and scattering.

"No,” Malick snapped at her, “you were only meant to take the earth-bound, if you could, retreat if you couldn't. Want to know why?"

Leu shook her head, but Malick shot his arm out, took hold of her again and dragged her in.

"I didn't know it was you, Kamen,” she protested, but otherwise she didn't resist, keeping her hands out and open at her sides. “I didn't even know....” She paused, caught her breath. “I heard you'd gone to spirit."

"You heard wrong."

"I didn't know. I would not challenge Wolf's Temshiel."

"But you would challenge Temshiel in general?"

"No.” Leu's teeth clenched. She was too obviously having trouble getting a good breath, and a fine mist of blood every now and then sprayed from her mouth. “I didn't know until you veiled the earth-bound.” Her gaze turned sullen, almost accusing. “I thought you were just another mortal. You were concealing."

"And apparently with good reason,” Malick snapped. “What the hell are you doing here, Leu?"

She shrugged and looked away. “We were to take the earth-bound and allow the Catalyst to follow. Asai needed one of Wolf's... needed me to....” Her eyes shot quickly over Malick's shoulder again before turning to the ground, a hand climbing up to cover the gash. “He needed me to control the Catalyst."

"Yeah, well, from what I saw, the rest of them didn't have a problem helping you out with that.” Malick was afraid to even look to see how torn up Fen was. Umeia was going to kill him when he got them all home. Malick had already been waiting for Fen to collapse, though he miraculously kept not doing it.

"They'll be punished,” Leu wheezed, like that was supposed to make Malick feel better. “They weren't meant to attack him. They belong to Owl.” As though offering an excuse. Leu caught Malick's glower, leaned to the side to spit again, then turned back. “We were sent to watch for the Catalyst, and take the earth-bound while he watched. Asai said the Catalyst would fight us and that he would follow—I was to let him. That's all I know. I don't want to know anything else. I don't want anything to do with this. Nothing he offered could be worth.... Just let me walk away."

Teeth clenched, Malick growled then shoved her back. “Yeah, walk away, Leu. And if you've got a brain in your head, you'll keep bloody walking. You don't want to find yourself on the wrong side of me in this."

Leu backed away, gaze wary, hazel eyes never leaving Malick as she drifted backward toward the trees. “No,” she said, “I don't,” and then she was gone, a lazy whirl of shadows covering her as she vanished into mist and rain.

Silence fell for a brief moment, the transitory brilliance of distant lightning marking the still figures of Malick's little band like bright-lit sentinels. The rain was steady but light now, its constant patter a soft contradiction to the sporadic blat of thunder rolling overhead. Then, low but nearly vicious: “Who the fuck was that?"

Malick turned to Fen, still held tight against Samin's chest, a wide burst of sheet lightning making his eyes glint and glitter as they bored into Malick's. “That,” Malick sighed as he wiped the rain from his face then raked his hand through his hair as he turned to survey the surrounding trees, “was apparently Asai's first sally.” And he'd gone right for the jugular, first thing.

"I thought he wanted you."

"Yeah, well—"

"You said he wanted you. You said they'd be safe. You said Umeia was protecting them."

It was, quite possibly, the most words he'd ever heard Fen put together all at once.

"I did, they are, and she is.” Malick turned around again to see that Samin hadn't released his hold on Fen yet, though Fen had gone still—stiff, really. The rage and suspicion were almost tangible things. “Look, what d'you want from me? I'm not a bloody seer."

"Why not?"

"Why...?” Malick sheathed his sword to stall. “Because—” He ground his teeth.

He knew what Fen was thinking—the distrust and hostility were all over his face—and he was probably at least half-right in his dubious assumptions. Because yes, Malick had certainly calculated the value of using the annoying, possessive twin as bait, and hadn't yet discarded the notion. Not that he'd let Fen in on that one; not if he didn't want a knife to the ribs. Right now, Malick should probably be trying to soothe and placate.

He wasn't in the mood. All his careful caution to keep who he was, and exactly where he was, from Asai had just been blown to shit. And now he'd put Umeia right in the middle of it, too, along with Samin, Shig, Yori, and everyone he knew named “Fen.” Not to mention everyone at the Girou, because now that Asai knew who Malick was, he'd know how to look for him. It was only a matter of time.

The next time Malick saw Husao, he was going to fucking kill him. Slowly and with a smile.

"Joori,” Fen said, “get Caidi back in the cart. We're going. Samin, let me the fuck go. Now."

Malick shot a quick glance over, relieved when he saw that Fen's knives were in their sheaths. Still, he would have felt even better if Samin had managed to disarm Fen entirely.

"Mal?” Samin said, waiting for an order from Malick before he did as Fen demanded.

"Where you gonna go, Fen?” Shig asked, her voice quiet beneath the drum of the rain, honeyed in that singsong way she had when she was going all spirit-bound on them.

Terrific. Just what Malick needed.

"Not now, Shig,” Fen warned.

"Back to the little hut in the wilderness?"

"Samin, let me go!"

"Not ‘til Mal says so,” Samin answered calmly.

Shig snorted. “If he lets you go, you'll fall over."

"Fuck off, Shig,” Fen snapped.

A slippery little giggle warbled up from Shig's throat. “Think you're going to go after Asai now?” She tsked. “Angry ghosts with raging infections don't make for good assassins."

"Infection?” Joori took a step toward Fen, but Shig snagged hold of him and kept him back.

Morin turned a narrow look up at Malick, head atilt as he held his weeping little sister by the hand. “Infection?” he asked, low and quiet.

"Looks like.” Malick laid a hand on Morin's shoulder to keep him where he was. “Leg. Long story."

"Think you could do it this time?” Shig wanted to know. “Or will you just bare your throat and beg him for what you can't have?"

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about,” Fen grated, but his eyes were going a bit rabid and almost afraid. “Your voices make just as much sense as mine do."

Shig ignored him, voice dipping low, close to outraged. “You don't want to know, but you'll go anyway, won't you? You hate him as you hate yourself, so much hate you could raze the world, because no one else can hurt you like he can."

"Shig, don't fuck with me, I'm warning you."

"The pain's the only thing you understand, so you'll go to him to make sense of it all. You'll walk right into your own murder just to spite the man who would make himself your master."

"Samin, if you don't let me go, I'll—"

"That's a pretty suicide, innit?” Shig crooned. “Can't hate what you love and can't love what you hate."

"Why won't you just shut the fuck up?"

"Can't scream, so you'll let your knives do it for you, or let his make all your pain go away."

"Suicide.” Joori was staring at Shig, brow drawn down in a frown that turned him to the mirror image of his brother. He turned wary eyes on Fen. “Jacin—"

"Your blood's not yours to spill, isn't that how it goes, angry Ghost?” Shig hugged Joori's arm tighter as he tried to push away from her. “Can't keep the Blood of the ones you love in their veins, and can't sweat enough of your own to save them."

Fen actually snapped his teeth, eyes nearly crazed and wild, startling Joori into stillness. “Shut up, Shig.” Low and threatening; a clear warning.

"Mal?” Samin asked quietly.

Malick cut him a glance, shook his head. Shig didn't do something like this unless it was important, and it was, after all, why she was so valuable. “Let her go."

Shig ignored it all. “Can't spill your own blood, so you'll corner the man who won't love you into sticking a knife in you instead of sticking his cock—"

"Shut up, shut the fuck up!” So feral it was almost unrecognizable, buried inside a guttural growl as Fen thrashed against Samin's hold, surging against the tight grip and trying to lunge at Shig. Samin now had Fen's wrists locked in both his hands, arms crisscrossed over Fen's chest. Immobilized. Unable to reach for the knives he had everywhere, but it didn't stop Fen from trying to break loose. “You don't know a fucking thing about me, just shut—"

"Can't take care of them the way you think you should, so you'll leave them all to the Temshiel who's handed you his promise, and if he burns for it—"

"Leave him alone!” Caidi shouted, breaking herself loose from Morin's grip on her hand and skirting in to stand in front of her brother, all childish impudence and Fen-like audacity. “He's not a ghost, Joori said so. I thought you were a nice lady, but you're not, you're mean, and, and... and your hair looks funny."

Malick shut his eyes, pinched at the bridge of his nose, burying a tense and highly inappropriate snort inside a light cough.

Shig had no such qualms: she threw her head back and laughed. “Such a fucked-up family.” She turned a grin on Yori. “And you thought we had it bad.” She leaned down toward Caidi, amiable, almost conspiratory. “Never, ever leave him alone, pretty little forfeit. Alone is the one thing that'll truly break him."

Forfeit. That... didn't sound good. Come to think of it, none of this sounded good, and Shig was on a very rare roll. Despite the edge over which he could see Fen lurching, Malick had no choice but to let Shig keep going.

Yori took a cautious step in. “Shig, I think maybe—"

"Get away from her, Caidi,” Fen growled, jerking again in Samin's grip. Caidi didn't move, but Fen didn't even seem to notice, wild eyes blazing at Shig, gaze nearly empty of sense altogether, but overflowing with malice and rage. “Stay away from her,” he snarled at Shig. “Stay away from all of them, and stay away from me!"

"Poor Fen,” Shig sighed. “Standing here in the rain and watching yourself fail them all.” She took a step forward, shaking herself loose from Joori and shoving him backward. “Except no one sees living as a failure but you, Ghost. You think I don't know why you stare so at the Gates?” She shook her head. “Dying is the failure, Fen."

"Someone....” Fen's voice was mangled, rough, like it had to get through physical obstacles to claw its way up his throat. “Get her the fuck away from me!"

"Mal,” Samin said, low and warning, “I swear by the suns and every moon in the sky, I can hear the fucking cracks."

Malick could almost see them.

"Sorry, can't,” Shig told Fen. “You're all part of the pack now. And our alpha bitch won't stand for a forfeit of the weak and small."

Malick's eyebrows rose, despite the steady erosion of the entire situation. “Alpha bitch"—he'd have to tell Umeia that one.

"What are you going to do about your mother, Fen?” Shig went on, relentless.

"My mother is none of your damned—"

"You limp off to your self-destruction now, she'll spend eternity bound to the earth—"

"Fucking bitch, I swear—"

"—vying with the crows for seeds to sate her hungry soul, until her spirit's madder than your Voices."

"Stop it.” Thin and wound tight. “Don't."

Shig leaned in, right in Fen's face. “Shall we just pack up your brother now, and send him off to join her? At least she'll have company."

And Fen... snapped. Malick actually saw the break in reason.

Fen's eyes went blank, and his face pulled into a vicious snarl, so full of despair and deranged fury it actually hurt to look at him. A wordless roar broke loose from his chest and rolled up his throat, and he lunged with the strength of a wild beast. He managed to get an arm loose from Samin and went for Shig's throat, fingers hooked into lethal claws.

"Shig, that's enough,” Malick growled—too late, naturally; his timing was always shit—and swept over to Samin to help hold Fen back.

And it wasn't easy. He writhed like an oiled mink, kicking and punching and gouging. Incoherent curses and screeches grated out his mouth, until Samin actually threw his arms around Fen's torso and lifted him off his feet. Fen didn't stop, in fact intensified his struggles. He swung his head back, trying to connect with Samin's, and only managing to beat at Samin's shoulder with it. Joori wasn't helping—just as Malick got a good hold on Fen's flailing right arm, Joori latched on to Malick's, snarling, “Get off him, let him go!” until Yori joined the fray and pulled him away. Caidi was screaming back there somewhere, high-pitched and grating, making Malick's teeth hurt, so he clenched them as he grimly held on, buffeted by a mad strength he wouldn't have credited, until Fen actually threw Malick off and he stumbled a little sideways.

"Shifts to Null,” Fen muttered, thin and breathless as he struggled, eyes shut tight and teeth clenched. “Wolf calls the Prime to his own he sees the Eye and calls the... the Prime the Prime fuck... leers through a... Raven's Raven's duplicity the gods speak no more silent silent dead and quiet, aw fuck, shutupshutupshutup—"

"Jacin!” Joori was shouting. “Jacin, it'll be all right, just—” Trying to writhe out of Yori's grip just as frantically as Fen was trying to writhe out of Samin's, and only managing to drag Yori in a little closer as she held on tight. “Let me go, I can help him!"

Malick didn't think he wanted Joori to help him. As hard as it was to watch, as wrenching as it was to allow it to happen right in front of him, he knew now why Shig had pushed so, because he understood what Fen was saying, where it was coming from, what it meant. This was worlds different from what he'd heard last night on the roof.

"Dying magic Catalyst slides to Zero the Null veils the Eye a cloak of night sound the vaults of Raven cast acid to the sky they don't see like Owl won't hear mockery it's all gone sour worm-ridden carcass of faith and hope the gods won't save them they've all gone home... spitted... spitted....” Gasping now, strength running thin, and yet, still, Fen kept bloody fighting, kept struggling in Samin's hold. “Joori!” Fen screamed, fierce and desperate. “Our boy clinging to corpses wandering both edges... crux... crux of....” A harsh burst of air, and, “Aw, fuck, Beishin, please!"

It did something in Malick—a hard twist of real concern and compassion wound too tightly with fascination and darkling jealousy. That name—that name.

"Damn it, let me go!” Joori cried, Yori and Shig both hanging on now, with Caidi fluttering about, weeping, unsure to which brother she should go. Morin was just standing where Malick had left him, watching it all, his face unreadable. Joori's desperate glance fell on Malick, pinned him. “Stop it!” he said through his teeth. “He's falling apart, can't you see it?"

Yes, Malick could see it.

"Stop it or I will, Mal,” Samin growled, all caustic accusation. “Enough."

And yes, it was enough. Malick had seen enough, heard enough. More than enough. Except, before he could decide what to do about it, how to bring Fen out of it, Morin stalked past him, gave Joori a look that was half apology and half disgust on his way by, and stopped in front of Fen. Stood there for a moment and watched him struggle, listened to him mutter and scream. Waited for an opening then leveled a solid kick to Fen's thigh, right where the chunky line of stitches wound over thick muscle beneath the cover of his trousers. Morin couldn't have aimed it better if he'd inflicted the wound himself.

"For the love of—” Samin gaped at the boy then up at Malick. “Mal...."

Nothing squeezed out of Fen's chest but a thin, wheezy scream. His eyes went wide and shock-blank in clear agony, then his back arched and his eyes rolled back. It was worse than that night in the alley when Malick had taken him down. A single strangled sob leaked from Fen's throat as he went limp against Samin, head lolling back on one bulky shoulder, like all the bones in his neck had melted, and then all was still and silent.

They stared, all of them, the silence a live thing, until Joori stepped slowly over to Fen. “What...?” He shot Samin a murderous look before reaching out, laying a hand to the side of Fen's face then sliding it down to his chest. A long breath of relief sighed out when he apparently felt his brother's heart beating. Joori's arms went deliberately to hang at his sides, fists clenched, the muscles in his jaw ticcing and jumping, then he whirled on Shig, a too familiar snarl curling at his mouth, but it didn't have the same fire behind it Fen's did. When he got no reaction from Shig, he turned on Malick, barked, “Temshiel? You're bloody Temshiel? And this is the best you can fucking do?"

"It's not my fault!” Malick protested, reflexive, because, really—whose fault was it? He'd known what Shig was doing, and he'd let her do it, because there were things he needed to hear, and he apparently needed to hear them from right inside the madness of the Ancestors. He'd used Fen, pretty badly, but he'd gotten what he needed. Well, almost. For now. And he wasn't sorry. Mostly.

Except... how had Shig seen this, and Malick had missed it entirely? Now he recognized Fen's recurring derring-do for the repeated attempts at passive suicide they were. Malick might've taken too long to twig otherwise, and then it likely would have been too late. He'd bloody admired it, hadn't he? Stood there and watched Fen try to drive himself into apparently welcome death with a twirl of knives, and thought it was pretty.

"Don't hate, jealous lad,” Shig was telling Joori, though Joori couldn't seem to bring himself to look at her. “He had to say it so Malick could hear.” She turned her glance to Malick, reproachful. “And I had to show it so Malick would see."

Malick's mouth tightened. “Yeah, yeah, Shig, I get it, all right? Leave off."

"I tried to tell him you could help him make sense of it, but he doesn't listen."

"Yeah, I've noticed."

"Give him to me,” Joori said, staring down Samin, who still held Fen, though he'd adjusted him somewhat so the rain wasn't pelting his face. Fen was now draped rather awkwardly over Samin's shoulder.

Samin sighed, shot a look over to Malick, then shook his head at Joori. “I'll put him in the cart.” He didn't wait for Joori to protest, just turned and did as he'd said.

Malick watched. Something about the way Fen dangled over Samin's arm, the bonelessness of his neck as his head rolled about with Samin's stride, the way the tail of the braid dragged in the mud... it bothered him more than it should've done. He looked away, uneasy, only to have his gaze clash with the puppy-dog eyes of Caidi. She was staring at Malick, eyes a bit swollen, and he could only talk himself out of the uncomfortable thought that she was still crying and he was expected to do something about it because, what with the rain, he couldn't really tell, right?

"Is Jacin going to die?” she asked, voice low and wobbly.

Oh, hell.

"No.” Malick put as much force into the word as he could without turning it sharp and frightening her more. “No, he's not going to die."

Caidi seemed to unknot, just a little bit. She took a cautious step closer, big, worried eyes stubbornly holding Malick's. “Were those really maijin?” was her next quiet question.

Malick swiped at his face. “Yeah."

"And....” Her lip quivered. “And they were going to take Joori away?"

Malick sighed, only just kept himself from growling and snapping at her. What did she bloody want from him, after all? “I don't intend to let that happen,” was all he said, because it was simple, reassuring, and the truth.

Caidi thought about that for a moment, then took another step. It was all Malick could do not to step back in absurd retreat. From a little girl. Sucking the swagger right out of him. “And you're really—"

"Come along, Caidi.” Joori's hand landed on Caidi's shoulder, his angry gaze locking onto Malick, the disdain and blame perfectly clear. “I'm sure Kamen-seyh has Important Things to take care of.” The sarcasm all but dripped. Eyes still on Malick, Joori tugged Caidi away, like he suspected Malick might eat her just to be a prick. “C'mon, I'll give you a pig-a-back,” he said then turned Caidi around and pushed her over toward the cart, where Samin was adjusting Fen's cloak to cover as much of him against the rain as possible.

That left Morin. Staring at Malick like his sister had been doing, only his eyes were measuring... interested. When Malick had watched the brothers that night in the hut, Morin sneering and snarking and generally making everything more difficult than it had to be, Malick had thought he didn't much like the little shit. After tonight, he thought perhaps he'd jumped to conclusions. Fen covered every emotion he had with anger; this one covered them with pragmatism, and managed to keep a clear head because of it. Born to fear, knowing he would lose one brother, the constant threat of losing another and his mother.

Morin might be the sanest one in the whole bloody family.

"She was going to ask if you're really Temshiel,” Morin offered, like he was only doing his sister a favor and didn't really want to know himself.

"And you're not?” Malick asked mildly.

Morin shrugged, threw his cloak's hood off his head and scraped his fringe out of his eyes before pulling the hood back down. “It's only that I didn't see you do any magic."

"Well,” Malick said, giving him a small, conspiratory smile, “just because you didn't see a thing....” He chuckled a little when Morin rolled his eyes. “You should go see if your brother needs help."

A grim snort. “Which one?"

"Mm, good point.” Malick cocked his head. “How did you know?” he asked. When Morin's brow twisted, quizzical, Malick clarified: “I didn't tell you exactly where to kick him.” Malick paused once he'd said it—he hadn't told the boy to kick Fen at all, but... well, it had turned the trick better and faster than anything Malick had been able to come up with in the moment.

"Lucky guess,” Morin said, mouth screwing down into a bit of a sneer as he looked over toward the dray. He turned back to Malick with another shrug. “He used to wait ‘til we were all asleep before he'd go out to the wash barrel. I wanted to know why, so I....” He shifted uncomfortably. “I pretended to sleep. He's got... lots of scars. And those things chewed him up pretty good. Someone better have a look at that leg.” He sighed and shook his head. “Joori's going to kill me when he calms down."

"Hm,” Malick said, but he couldn't help the smile. He might like the little shit after all.

"We're ready, Mal,” Yori said, sidling up and bumping shoulders with him. “Samin's going to lug the cart, and Joori's going to carry Caidi. How we're going to get Fen back in through the Gates is for you to figure out. Can't exactly climb it this time, can he?"

"Oh, fucking hell.” Malick sighed. He slumped sideways into Yori and put his head on her shoulder. “If you love me,” he told her, “you'll just kill me now. Before Umeia gets me."

Yori shoved him off and shook her head with a grin. “Yeah, if,” she told him. “All this bother about maijin and Temshiel, and all I get is rain down my back, sore feet, and two lost arrows.” She gave him a poke in the ribs. “I want to see the magic next time too. C'mon, Morin, you're with me.” With another shake of her head, Yori prodded at the boy until he went along, then she looked back at Malick over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “And here I thought tonight was going to be boring."

Ha. So had Malick. Wouldn't that have been lovely?

Shig was the last one left, waiting for him several paces away, placid and with a tiny smile, for all the trouble she'd caused. It would take a while for the headache to hit her, but Malick had no doubt it was coming. And he couldn't be altogether sympathetic about it. He only scowled as Shig strolled up to him, looking for all the world like she'd just woken from a particularly pleasant nap. When she failed to wither beneath his glare, Malick just rolled his eyes and shook his head, then he started after the dray. “Not a word, Shig,” he growled, annoyed when she only snorted and followed along. “Not one bloody word."

* * * *

"Not a word, Malick,” Umeia growled as she slipped Fen's arm over her shoulders. “Not one bloody word."

"Umeia, you—"

"I don't want to hear it,” she snapped. “Samin and Yori already told me the important bits, and anything you have to say will be colored all too brightly with The World According to Kamen Malick paint, so just stuff it, now, before you make me kill you."

Fen snorted a little, too bendy and wobbly between them as they lugged him up the steps—wet and shivering, though Umeia could feel the fever burning through the chill—but he was at least mostly conscious and semi-aware. “Kill ‘m anyway,” he slurred, added, “Fucker,” and staggered a little against Umeia when he tried to pull his arm loose from around Malick's shoulders.

"I see you two are getting on just as pleasantly as usual,” Umeia observed then turned a scowl on Fen. “And you're no better,” she growled at him, pausing while Malick readjusted his grip then advanced another awkward step upward. “You knew that leg was infected and you went anyway. Stupid. It was stupid, Fen."

"Yeah, yeah,” he muttered then snorted again and went silent.

Umeia turned her wrath on Malick. “I'd ask what you were thinking, but I suspect you weren't thinking at all. At least not with the big brain. If you even have one."

"It wasn't my fault!” Malick protested. “It was his decision. He was going to go, one way or another. What did you want me to do—drug him and tie him to the bed?"

"Yes,” Umeia snapped as they cleared the top step to the third floor and started down the hall to the attic stairs. It was creeping up on the small hours, the doors to the rooms all shut and their occupants occupied. With any luck, no one would poke a head out. Umeia didn't want to have to drag Shig down here, not after she'd just gotten everyone dried off and settled in upstairs. “I don't think you understand how serious this is, Malick. Magic doesn't work on him, which means I can't fix this. All I can do is what a surgeon would do. He could lose the leg or die."

"His choice,” Malick replied, voice tight.

"Pfft,” Fen put in, stumbling again, and growling when it drove him too snugly into Malick.

"And it no doubt suited your purposes,” Umeia bit back. She shook her head when Malick narrowed his eyes at her over Fen's head. “Save it, I don't want to hear it. Just get him upstairs before that brother of his has an apoplectic fit."

Speaking of whom....

"I thought I told you not to come downstairs,” Umeia hissed.

Joori stood up from the bottom step of the attic stairs as they approached, eyes glittering in the low lamplight from the sconces, narrowed at Malick, mostly, suspicious and distrustful, but softening a little when they landed on Fen. “You all right?” he asked softly.

"Fine,” Fen told him, though Umeia didn't miss how he stared at the toes of his boots instead of his brother.

"He's always ‘fine',” Malick put in, sardonic, “except for the trail of blood behind us, anyway,” then he moved to push past Joori and up the stairs.

Joori merely angled himself into a firmer obstacle. “I'll take him,” he told Malick, eyes narrow little slits now, jaw clenched in very clear malice as he shoved his arm between Malick and Fen.

"I've got him,” Malick growled back, slanting his stance to block Joori's attempted coup and bully past him, jostling Fen into Umeia and nearly knocking her sideways, while Fen hissed in apparent pain. Like Fen was a bloody wishbone, and they were going to snap him in two to see who got the bigger piece.

Umeia's teeth tightened. “How about I take him while you two whip ‘em out and start measuring?"

They stared at her, both of them, like they had no idea why she'd be pissed off, which pissed her off more. Fen just topped it off with, “Let go. I can do it myself."

Umeia almost did, just to spite them all.

"You,” she snapped at Joori, “go up and tell Yori I need my bag then take the sheets off his bed so we don't foul them.” She turned to Malick. “You—get a better hold and take more of his weight before he takes us all down.” And then to Fen. “You—shut up and start hobbling. You're heavier than you look, and if I go tumbling and break a leg, I'll beat you with my crutch."

They all shut their mouths and did as she'd said, which was good, because Fen really was heavier than he looked; Umeia's shoulder was going numb and her balance was chancy, with him pointedly hanging mostly on her rather than Malick. Fen might look lean and rangy, but he was apparently all dense, compact muscle under the angles and sharp lines.

Yori trotted down as they reached the third step, sparing no more than a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders to Umeia then a smirk at Malick as she bounded past them without a word. “Tell Samin to hurry it up while you're down there,” Umeia said over her shoulder. She'd sent him down to bring up tea and something to eat for the new arrivals as soon as he'd dried off and changed, and he was certainly taking his bloody time about it.

Umeia smiled at Yori's quiet, “Yes, Umeia,” from the bottom of the stairs. At least one of them did as they were told.

"How did you get him through the Gates?” she asked Malick when they were halfway up. She'd fretted for nearly half an hour after Yori and Samin had gotten back with the children, wondering if Malick and Shig and Fen were going to have to spend the night outside the city, and what Umeia was supposed to do with Fen's frantic brother if they did. Malick had gotten them all in then sent them ahead while he went back for Fen and Shig, Samin had told Umeia, with which Samin had plainly disagreed—Joori, as well, from what Samin said; quite vocally too—but of which Samin, at least, had obviously recognized the necessity. Joori, not so much, since he'd apparently been seething ever since. And after Joori had told her exactly why he was seething, Umeia had only fretted more.

"I was going to go with old-fashioned bribery,” Malick told her, brooding. “Even got them to open up one of the accessory doors, but then they saw the braid.” He shrugged when Umeia shot him a frown. “It was either have Shig take care of them, or let them arrest me for interfering with an Untouchable. Or killing them all, but...."

Umeia shook her head. No wonder Shig had merely stomped past her and gone right to bed. Her head must be near to exploding. Umeia would stop in after she finished with Fen.

Joori was waiting at the door to Fen's room when they finally crested the top of the stairs, his jaw still set tight and arms wrapped stiffly about his torso. Vibrating. He didn't advance to try to take his brother back again, but Umeia could tell it was all Joori could do to keep himself still and wait. The younger ones—Caidi and Morin—were standing in the hallway between their new room and the one Yori shared with Shig, wrapped in blankets, watching as Malick and Umeia got their brother up the stairs. Again, Fen didn't look up, just hung his head, hiding behind his hair again, gaze on the floor as he shuffled. He stayed silent as Umeia and Malick maneuvered him down the hall and through the door to his room.

"All right, let's see what we've got here,” Umeia sighed, gratefully lowering Fen to sit on the bed and shaking out her arm as she stepped back.

With an irritated scowl, Fen shook off Malick's grip, but he paused in mid-growl, eyes abruptly sprung wide and anxious, and a sharp little gasp leaked from his throat when Malick moved away. Blindly, Fen reached out, grabbed hold of Malick again, catching only a loose shirttail at first, groping desperately, until Malick reached back and took his hand. The reaction was immediate: instant calm and instant frustrated shame for needing it.

Umeia watched it all with... too many emotions that pissed her off. She sighed. “Help him with the shirt and trousers, M—” She cut herself off, rolled her eyes when Joori's mouth went tight, and shook her head. “Never mind. C'mon, lad, let's get ‘em off."

She tapped at Fen's nearest elbow, satisfied when he only sighed and reached up to unlace his tunic, though she noted—and noted Joori noting—that Malick's hand went to rest on Fen's knee, and Fen didn't try to kill him for it, tightening his mouth only when the tunic gave him trouble. The tie was leather and soaked through, and squeaked when he tried to unknot it. Mouth set, Fen reached down to the sheath on his hip—stopped. He lifted a glare up at Malick.

"Who took my knives?"

"Samin's got them,” Malick said, fingers gently tightening on Fen's knee.

Fen chewed on his lip for a second. “Did... was I...?"

"Yeah, you were,” Malick said; Fen seemed to understand what Malick meant, because his shoulders slumped a little and he reached up to rub at his brow. “Fen, it's all right,” Malick assured him smoothly, “everyone understands, no one cares."

A lovely, tender moment—or at least as tender as these two got, Umeia supposed—but none of it was getting the job done. She shook her head. “Cut it for him, Mal, and let's get this done. Joori, help me get his boots and get the— Shit!” Mei snapped a look up at Malick. “What chewed through his boot like that? And....” Oh, for pity's sake. She'd been supporting Fen on the left, and it had been dark when they'd finally staggered through the alley doors. Umeia hadn't gotten a good look at him until now. There was a small puddle of blood pooling on the floor around the sole of his boot, and now that she looked, there really was a trail of it. And she'd thought Malick had just been doing his smartass thing. “What got at you, lad?"

"Wolves,” Joori volunteered with another glare at Malick, which Malick ignored.

The wolf-things Yori had told her about, no doubt, and about which that little Caidi was likely to have nightmares for weeks. These were no blade wounds, and the way the boot and trouser leg were torn to hell....

"Asai bought himself a coven,” Malick said, disgusted and quietly livid. “Came at us all wolfen. Cocky bastards. Leu and a mishmash from Owl and Snake.” A low snort, not the least bit amused. “Tried to pull on a dragon glamour when she recognized me, like she thought it would make some kind of difference."

"Leu?” Umeia would have thought Leu smart enough to stay out of something like this altogether. “She wouldn't do this, surely."

"She didn't, but her thugs did.” Malick grimaced, and very obviously choked back a growl. “She said they'd be punished for touching him.” A roll of his eyes relayed exactly how appeased he was with that.

Umeia looked down at Fen's leg, ran her fingertips gently over shredded fabric, and poked very lightly at the bloody, mangled flesh exposed through the tears. She stopped immediately when Fen hissed and flinched. It must really be excruciating if Fen was reacting like that to such a light touch, and with the infection she knew was already twisting beneath the torn stitches she could see.... “Damn it.” She nodded at Joori. “Boots,” she said then stepped back and out of his way.

"No,” Fen said. He shot Umeia a quick glance then leveled his gaze with his brother's. “Go, Joori. Take care of Caidi and Morin. Malick will help me."

If Umeia hadn't already been getting a pretty good idea of what the budding dynamic was between these three, the clenching of Joori's jaw and the flaring of his glower at Malick at the command would have told her in no uncertain terms.

"I'm not leaving you alone with him,” Joori said, low and even, then he snatched up Fen's left leg.

Before Joori could yank the boot free, Fen snapped his leg out, nearly knocking Joori sideways to the floor, jarring himself in the process, and going a frightening shade of gray as he swayed to the side. “I don't....” Fen paused, sucking in short, shaky breaths, and most telling, allowing Malick to hold him up to prevent him from listing sideways. “I don't want you here, Joori. Get out.” Hard and cold, like he was trying to take the concern in his brother's eyes and turn it into contempt.

To his credit—and Umeia's astonishment—Malick stayed silent, just watched as Joori's eyes widened then narrowed, homing in on Malick's hand again, set firm on Fen's shoulder this time. Joori peered at Fen steadily, shook his head. “No,” he said, quiet but fierce, then he surged in, angling himself between Malick and Fen and trying to shove Malick away at the same time. A solid right hook hit Malick's temple and sent him backward on the bed with Joori on top of him.

Fen went over to the side, rasping out a harsh yip when the raw meat of his leg hit the corner of the mattress. He would have fallen off the bed altogether if Umeia hadn't lunged in to catch hold of him and drag him away from the sudden brawl. “No, no, no,” Fen was muttering, shaking his head and bringing his hands up to crush his palms into his temples. “Stopstopstop, I can't... can't....” His eyes were squeezed tight and his muscles were rigid beneath Umeia's grasp.

Malick got the better of Joori quickly, flipping him over to his back on the mattress, knee pressing into his stomach and one arm pinned, grabbing for the other one. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he grated, snapping his head to the side to avoid a clumsy swipe of Joori's curled fist.

"He's paid enough!” Joori shouted back at him. “He's not some kind of—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!” Samin thundered from the door. “Are you bloody kidding me?” Yori stood beside him, shaking her head in consternation, steaming basin and Umeia's satchel in hand. Caidi and Morin stared, wide-eyed, behind them.

Fen's gaze shot up at Samin's outburst, plummeting right down into desolate when he saw his brother and sister. “Get them out of here,” he wheezed. “Get them out, get them out, get them out!"

"Yori, take the children down for a bath,” Umeia snapped, relieved when, yet again, Yori did exactly as she was told, settling the bag and the basin to the clothespress beside the door then hustling the children away.

The surprise and pause in action was just long enough for Malick to get hold of Joori's other arm and slam it down to the mattress, pinning him completely but for his legs, which kept kicking wildly as he tried to buck Malick off him. “He's not your whore!” Joori seethed.

Fen was stiff and shaking against Umeia. Now he took hold of her sleeve with clawlike fingers. “Not now, not now, I can't... the noise, I...."

"Oh,” was Umeia's inane reply. The noise—too much of it, and too much pain. He was losing whatever control he usually managed right in front of her. Of course. She spun a helpless look around the room then settled it on Malick. “You're going to have to do something,” she told him.

Samin had deposited the tray he was carrying on the clothespress by Umeia's bag. His glance snapped over at Umeia's quiet command, then locked with Malick's. A quick look sparked between them, then Samin nodded and stalked across the room, square jaw set. Bracing himself to the side of the bed, he gave Malick a short nod, and when Malick broke quickly to his right, Samin swooped in, took hold of Joori—still cursing and spitting—and hauled him to his feet.

"You son of a bitch!” Joori snarled, but Malick seemed to hear only Fen's raspy little, “Pleasepleaseplease,” and he left Samin to deal with Joori while he rushed over and wedged himself under Fen's arm again. Murmuring things Umeia couldn't hear beneath all the other noise, Malick took Fen's weight from Umeia just as Fen went boneless, gasping, allowing Malick to draw him in and push his face into the hollow between Malick's chin and chest.

Umeia used the opportunity to hustle over and retrieve the tea and her bag. Quickly, she threw a sleeping powder in—xsinzaua, because it worked damned fast, and getting Fen to pass out seemed like a very good idea right now. In fact, she wouldn't mind if every damned one of them lost consciousness. She added some painkiller, not even bothering with spices to soothe the bitter taste, and carried it over.

"Fuck,” Fen wheezed, muffled by Malick's still-wet tunic. “I can't... can't listen now, I can't... they can't ask it of me, not... it's not fair."

"Shh,” Malick soothed. He shot a sharp scowl over at Joori and began carefully leading Fen back over to the bed. “It's not, and you don't have to, not now. I'll keep it quiet for you, all right?"

"Quiet.” Fen choked on a groan. “I don't want him here,” he whispered. “Please.” With a shudder, he buried his face in Malick's shoulder as they sank to the mattress, burrowed close in a way that was almost touching, but mostly unnerving. It was so un-Fen-like.

"Here, drink this,” Umeia said, then she held the bowl to Fen's lips until he turned his head, eyes still shut, and let her pour the tea down his throat.

"What's in that?” Joori asked, all suspicion and anxious bravado.

Shaking her head, Umeia turned, looked Joori up and down—heavens, but he did look like his brother, especially with that glare burning holes in Malick—then pinched at the bridge of her nose.

She only had secondhand knowledge of what had gone on tonight, but she'd heard enough, and now she'd seen enough. With a heavy sigh, she left Fen to Malick and stepped over to Joori, caught his fiery gaze, and made her own as nonjudgmental as she could manage toward someone who'd just spat poison at her brother and all but accused her of drugging Fen for purposes all too clear. Then again, if she'd suspected that someone was doing to Malick what this one obviously thought Malick was doing to Fen....

"He doesn't want you to see him like this,” Umeia told Joori quietly. “It isn't that he doesn't love you—it's that he does."

Joori's jaw clenched tight, and he jerked his chin at Malick. “But he doesn't mind him seeing him like—?"

"Malick can make it quiet for him.” Umeia kept her voice low and patient. “Understand? Quiet.” She paused as Joori's face wrenched into something pained and close to resentful. “After whatever went on tonight,” she continued more gently, “I think he'll take anything that comes along with the quiet. Wouldn't you?” She took a step in closer, lowered her voice even further. “He's clinging to the edge by his fingernails, lad.” And the gods help them all if he lost his grip, because Umeia was sure it wouldn't be pretty—it wasn't pretty now. Good job they'd thought to take his weapons away.

"He—” Joori's eyes filled, and he blinked, looked away from his brother, and turned his gaze slowly to Umeia again. He leaned in, nearly whispering, “Please—what does he make him pay for it?"

She could have smacked him. She could have hugged him. She rolled her eyes. “Just because he lives in a whorehouse,” she said evenly, “doesn't mean he is one. Or that anyone expects him to be. Save your worry for someone who needs worrying about."

Joori's mouth tightened. “Have you met my brother?"

Umeia didn't answer, only turned an almost-thwack into a pat on his cheek and gave Samin a nod. “Let him go. He'll behave.” A narrow glare at Joori. “Won't you, lad?"

With a look that wasn't entirely unpleasant but mostly was, Joori shrugged out of Samin's grip, stared at Umeia for a moment, like he was thinking about saying something, then just shook his head and pushed past her toward the bed. Ignoring Malick's wary glance—which was not, again to Umeia's surprise, the least bit victorious—Joori crouched down. He grimaced at the mess that was Fen's right leg then peered up at his brother's face.

"Jacin.” When Fen only shook his head, Joori reached up, hands coming up to either side of Fen's face, turning his head and holding him still. He leaned in until they were brow to brow. “Jacin. Look at me."

Fen's own hand rose, shaky and tentative, and he laid it to Joori's arm. “Sorry, I'm sorry.” Pushed out on a strangled whisper.

"Stop it,” Joori said. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but Fen eventually did as his brother asked, tears spilling out the corners of his eyes the second he opened them. “I won't look, if you don't want me to see.” Joori's tone was soft, artless. “But you're my hero, Jacin. You always have been. Don't you know that?"

It was sweet. It was touching. And still, it made Umeia's teeth clench. Couldn't the lad see he was just making it worse? Couldn't he see his brother was already under too much pressure to rescue... well, everyone he loved? And now Joori wanted to go and wrap “hero” around his neck?

"You're the other half of me,” Joori went on. “You're my heart. I could never, ever see whatever it is you see when you look at yourself.” His voice went wobbly, and now his eyes were leaking too. “Don't make me lose you so soon after I got you back."

Fen murmured something Umeia didn't quite catch, but it sounded too close to, “I'm already lost,” so she pretended she hadn't heard it at all.

Joori must have heard it, though, because he winced then pushed himself back, stood, and swiped at his face with the crook of his elbow. Jaw set again, he directed a level look at Malick for a long, long moment, hands fisting then flexing as Malick merely looked back. No smugness, no challenge—nothing at all but steady resolve and confidence as Fen wilted into him again, shutting his eyes and shuddering quietly. The xsinzaua was kicking in, thank all the gods. With a deep breath, Joori dragged his glance away, shot it quickly around the room, nodded to Umeia, and left.

Silence lurched into the room, uncomfortable, until Umeia shook herself and peered at Samin, then jerked her chin. Without a word, Samin left, too, casting one last look at the bed as he pulled the door shut.

Malick gave Fen a careful jostle, sighing a little when Fen didn't so much as twitch in response. “He's out,” he said quietly.

Good.

"All right, then,” Umeia sighed. “If we're done with the melodrama, let's see what we're dealing with. I'll get the boots, you get the shirt.” She shook her head in dismay as Malick laid Fen out on the bed and she looked him over, taking in all the tears in wet fabric and the no doubt gory wounds waiting for her to uncover. “We'd better just cut off the trousers. Honestly, Malick, what were you thinking?"

Malick's mouth tightened as he sliced through the ties on the tunic that had started the whole mess. “I was thinking he'd been manipulated enough."

"Lovely,” Umeia retorted sourly and braced herself to tug the un-mangled boot off. “And trying to manipulate him into coming ‘round to your way of thinking never once occurred to you, I'm sure, what with your motivations being all pure and innocent."

"His father sold him, Umeia.” Angrier than Umeia would have guessed, the statement pushed out through his teeth and caustic, hands pausing on Fen's chest and curling into fists. “Sold him to fucking Asai when he was still a child. Now, if you want to tell me Asai's motivations are pure and innocent, and Wolf would approve, I'll be happy to—"

"And you're going to tell me that indulging his every whim—even the ones that might kill him—has nothing whatever to do with trying to gain his trust for yourself? You're going to tell me that you didn't basically sneak him out tonight under my nose because you knew he was in bad shape and I wouldn't allow it if I knew? You're going to tell me you don't plan to use and manipulate him and his brother, and those children, if you have to, just as much as As—"

"Do not put me in the same sentence with Asai,” Malick seethed. “I've got shit choices here, Umeia, but at least I don't dress up what I do with lies of salvation and promises I don't intend to keep. I haven't asked of him anything he didn't intend to do anyway, and I won't promise him anything I'm not damned sure I can give him. I can't help that Fen is the best chance I've got of getting Asai, I didn't do this to him, and I'm certainly not going to watch while he goes to the suns for that son of a bitch. Fucking manipulation. You want to talk about manipulation—"

"All right, all right, calm down.” Bloody hell, he was in deep, thrashing and telling himself he wasn't all the way down. Umeia shook her head. “Maybe he will take care of Asai for you. But, Mal... it won't solve all his... problems. And I cannot allow you to use those children. I've sworn. I'll fight you, if you make me."

She would too. Because drawing Asai out before he was ready, holding out as bait the very leverage they all knew he needed, was exactly the sort of thing Malick would do, what he probably should do, and what she should let him do. But he'd brought Fen to her for a reason, and maybe he hadn't known what that reason was—probably still didn't know—but Umeia understood it, and better than she had that night when she'd blithely sworn oath, all too confident then that she'd known exactly what she was doing. She wasn't just precautionary protection for Fen's siblings. She was the empress, hunching on her square of the chensuboard, shielding her pawns as both Malick and Asai maneuvered the rest of the board around them. Malick had wanted her there to protect them all from himself, just as much as from Asai. To protect his own soul and prevent him from straying too far from Wolf while he wended through what was to come. It was a difficult thing, removing oneself from mortal wants and concerns, while still maintaining in one's heart those things that kept one from becoming... well, Asai. Or even Husao. Malick had been trying to find that balance for far too long, and even when he tried to turn himself into something cool and callous, he still ended up on the heart-hungry side.

Wolf smiled on her little brother—oh yes, surely, the aloof prick—because Malick bloody suffered for what he was, and suffered harder when he tried to be something else.

No wonder he and Skel had understood each other so well. No wonder people threw themselves at him. No wonder broken hearts dogged his steps. How could you not adore someone who loved you a little bit merely for existing?

Umeia sighed. “Sometimes I wish you really were the ass you pretend to be, little brother."

Malick only clenched his teeth and started moving again. “We can't stay here for long,” he said, eyes on his hands as he maneuvered Fen out of the tunic, pausing to shake his head and growl at the bloody, twisted flesh of his forearm—that was going to need sutures too, damn it—then dragged him out of the layer of mail beneath the shirt. “It's only a matter of time before Asai finds me. And when he finds me, he finds you and everyone else. They were after his brother tonight. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that Asai plans to use him to blackmail Fen into doing what he wants, and he won't stop coming after him, even if he has to tear down the Girou around us. Or, more likely, pay someone else to do it for him. Fucking prick, he never has stooped to doing his own wet work.” Malick paused, shoulders hunching a little, the muscles of his back heaving with two long, deep breaths, but he still didn't look up. “I'm sorry."

"Save ‘sorry’ for when I ask for it,” Umeia told him as she dropped Fen's boot to the floor and went for the other. “Cut that trouser leg right up the center. We'll talk about the rest in the morning."

Because she'd be damned if she'd let Asai, of all people, drive her out of the home they'd made, or harm the people who made up their family. It had been too long since they'd had one. And she wasn't about to argue with her obstinate brother over it now.

Anyway, with what she saw when she finally got a look at Fen's leg, they likely wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. Umeia stepped back, hands on her hips. “Go get my bag off the clothespress,” she told Malick wearily.

She had work to do here, a duckling to tend.

Asai could just fuck off for now.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Two

It had been the briefest, tiniest of glimpses, but it had been... almost enough. A flash of potential, all in a smeary whirl—more like glimpses of images, really, and far too much cryptic symbology—but it had been enough to see that the Wheels were still turning. Fate was lumbering forward.

Strangely, it all seemed to flower outward from the little one, not from the twin, as he'd rather expected, but youth did burn brightest in his general experience. Jacin-rei's little sister was burning like the last gasp of a dying star. Asai frowned at the metaphor. He had a bit of a soft spot for mortal youth—they were such fascinating little portents, even the ones without magic, their fundamental belief in all things splaying them open like porous possibility—and he'd truly hate to see Jacin-rei lose more than he had to. Still, the boy might well make it necessary to take a ruthless step or two. Asai would debate the value of laying the responsibility at Jacin-rei's feet later, after Fate had set the Cycle, when Asai was better able to gauge the feasibility of keeping his Ghost. Guilt was always an efficient tool, when it came to Jacin-rei, but there was such a thing as too much of a good thing. Asai was going to have to be very careful when Jacin-rei found his way back to his beishin.

Still, he'd had his glimpse, he knew now, knew the who, the what and the where—on his own lands, for pity's sake; he could weep at the frustrating irony, in his reach all that time, and he hadn't seen it—but he couldn't help the frisson of unease that curled up his backbone. He needed Temshiel, certainly, but he hadn't counted on Kamen. In fact, Asai had rather thought Kamen had retreated to spirit after... well. And Asai certainly hadn't counted on the Catalyst's Temshiel being one of Wolf's-own. It could complicate matters beyond repair if Asai wasn't extraordinarily careful, and there wasn't time to start again. There was less than a decade left in the Cycle, and he saw no possibilities in any of the other pitiable Untouchables—whether born or as yet unborn—fated to be crushed in the Wheels before the Cycle was through. Not a true Catalyst among them. It was, and had always been, Jacin-rei who held the Balance.

Damn, damn, damn the boy for slipping his traces before Asai had set his course.

"Seyh?” Vonshi knocked softly on the jamb of the open door and entered the study with his head bowed in apology. “She will not leave, seyh. She insists she must see you."

Damn. He'd rather thought she wouldn't take, Lord Asai is abed, come back tomorrow, for an answer, but he'd hoped. He knew what he needed to know, and he saw no real reason to listen to her tell it to him. He'd caught the “where” from the little one, but the “who” came directly from Leu not an hour after she'd gone to collect her thugs. Asai had known she failed before she'd even crossed onto his lands.

He sighed, gave Vonshi a weary nod, and rubbed at the headache winding beneath his right temple. “Show her in, then."

He'd only caught a brief spark of his prospects through the little girl tonight, but it had been enough to show him what he had to work with now, before the veil had clamped down tight over her and hers again, even more impenetrable than it had been for all the months preceding. And no wonder—he was dealing with Kamen, Wolf's-own, already the strongest of the Temshiel, handed unprecedented power by his god when Wolf made him, and now in his own Cycle, apparently emerged from his retreat and taking up his place again. Tantalizing, to imagine all that power at Asai's own fingertips. The possibility was nearly torment for its lack of present reality, but that unease wouldn't leave him.

Kamen didn't take losing very well, and he'd lost spectacularly. And now he knew Asai was here, perhaps had known all along, and it was too much to hope he didn't know already what Asai was after. If he was still angry over Skel—and of course he would be; Kamen had petitioned to have Asai sent to the suns, for pity's sake—he might well do his best to interfere, would not hear the sense in the liberation of the Jin, and if Kamen learned that Skel's Blood had been instrumental in obtaining the Blood of others—Skel's Blood....

Asai couldn't help the shudder.

Still... he knew what appealed to Kamen, knew what set his too naked, mortal-bound heart to thumping, knew his rage, when all was said and done, was less on Skel's behalf than it was unreasonable emotional reaction to an affront to his senses of loyalty and justice. Knew why Kamen had loved Skel, what had attracted him. And Asai himself had built the Catalyst. Perhaps he'd foreseen more than even he'd suspected.

"This way, please, misin."

Vonshi's soft, creaky voice preceded Leu by mere seconds as she stormed past him and into Asai's study. Wet and bedraggled, a little bit bloody, and apparently altogether too angry for manners as she swung the door shut in Vonshi's face and advanced toward Asai. Hazel eyes were sliding yellow and cat-slitted then back to hazel again as she tried and failed to keep her temper entirely in check. Asai sighed again.

"You did not acquire the earth-bound,” he said bluntly, hoping to stem her apparent anger with an oblique accusation of failure.

Leu didn't appear to be inclined to cooperate. “How much of tonight did you see?” she demanded. “Did you know about the Temshiel?"

It was a difficult question to answer truthfully. In its broadest sense, yes, of course he had. It was the whole point, after all. But Leu might kill him for that, and she could, quite easily. She was in her own Cycle, too, and Asai was still a mere aspirant, still suffering the lesser powers of Raven while abiding Wolf, and always with the threat of banpair over his head if he ended up rejected by both. He couldn't allow it. He would accomplish great things; he'd foreseen it, and Wolf would welcome him. It would be Asai's right.

He chose to answer the question in the narrower spectrum of specific truth: “No, I did not.” Because he truly hadn't known Kamen himself would stoop to the rescue of a mere mortal—a waste of Temshiel power and resources, surely—and it only made that same unease tighten Asai's chest a little at the same time it stirred hope. It was all happening, what he'd foreseen, but it was too early, out of sequence, and the future had yet to set itself into unbendable shapes. The Temshiel was supposed to follow the Catalyst, damn it, not the earth-bound, and not yet.

Had Kamen done it for the earth-bound or for the Catalyst? And why? The earth-bound could be no possible use to Temshiel, but perhaps, if Kamen had done it for Jacin-rei....

The answers were imperative, and Asai had no illusions that Leu would have them. He wished she'd just leave, go back to the rock under which he'd found her, and leave him to his contemplation. Except she was the only one of Wolf's maijin who would suffer him in his “exile,” and he might need her. He'd wrung compliance from her through her mewling cries of completion, but women had an annoying tendency to gain clearer heads when they were vertical. Sometimes he missed Skel with burning regret.

Asai clenched his teeth and bowed his head respectfully. “I am sorry, Leu. I saw only—"

"I don't want to know what you saw,” she grated. “I don't want to know what you plan, I don't want to know you. I'm done, Asai."

He lifted an eyebrow, turned slowly, purposefully showing her his back as he angled behind the desk and sat down. Putting a bit of a barrier between them, however thin, but it wouldn't do to let her know it. “You would abandon your god's favored people so swiftly, Leu?"

Her eyes narrowed, gone to slitted-yellow once again. “I would abandon you and whatever you've done to draw Kamen's interest. Bloody Kamen, Asai.” She stepped over to the front of the desk, propped her hands on it, and leaned in. “He sends you ‘greetings’ from Skel."

Asai rolled his eyes, though his stomach dropped a little. “And isn't it just like Kamen to hold on to that old grudge to justify his opposition?"

"His opposition to what?” Leu snapped then held up her hand and pushed her back straight. “No. I don't want to know. I'm finished, Asai. Find yourself another of Wolf's to plead your case. If you can."

"You know I cannot.” And the more he thought about it, the angrier it made him. He was in the position he was in now because of Kamen. Forced to supplication, forced to seek acceptance with Wolf, when it should have been offered centuries ago, forced to kowtow to an inferior maijin to help him achieve what should have been given him. “I would bring glory to Wolf, Leu, you know I would, but I must have the earth-bound to do it. Your failure tonight has set back Fate—"

"Bloody hell, you're an arrogant piece of work.” Leu shook her head, eyes gone back to mere hazel again. Asai couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. “I'll admit I thought perhaps you'd been banished unfairly,” she said evenly. “I'll admit I thought your skills and your hopes for the Jin would please Wolf. But you cannot think to pursue whatever it is you're pursuing now. Kamen has taken both the earth-bound and the Catalyst to himself. He all but challenged you to try to take them from him. You cannot continue on this course, Asai. I have no desire to see another war between maijin and Temshiel, and I won't stand by and watch you start one. As Wolf's, I cannot allow it."

And there it was again—rubbing his nose in his status, or lack thereof. And this one was no better than a mercenary. Nothing—she was nothing, and she dared.... Didn't she know what he would be when Wolf accepted him? What difference could it possibly make to her how he did it? And what could possibly make her think she had the right? The bloody gall of the woman. Did she think he'd taken her to his bed because he'd wanted her? Was smitten with her?

Asai took a long, deep breath to quell his rising anger, stood, and paced slowly to stand beside Leu.

Perhaps it was only Fate that had put Kamen in his path as a too-wrathful barrier. Kamen was the most powerful of the Temshiel, yes, but Asai was... had been the most powerful of the maijin. And he would be again. And once he had Heart's Blood—Heart's Blood of not just Temshiel, but a Null....

A fair exchange for leading Wolf's favored tribes out of bondage, was it not? Asai was more than certain that Wolf would see it that way, even if Wolf's-own refused to. Heart's Blood might wobble the Balance a little, but what Asai did with it would set it back where it belonged, set it in stone for ages to come. Wasn't that worth the loss of one Temshiel and a few insignificant mortals? This apparent accord between Kamen and Leu was an obstacle, but not an insurmountable one.

Asai allowed a rueful smile to curl at his mouth. “You're right, of course,” he told Leu, reaching out to take her hand, pleased when she allowed it; he curled both of his own around it. “The war years were hellish, and their reflection through the mortal realm only hastened the Jin's subjugation."

It had done more than that—it had made it inevitable. Temshiel and maijin choosing sides, defining mortal boundaries to complement their own, and using their dupes as proxies in their own war. Pitting Jin against Adan, removing all too easily the centuries-old brotherhood between the two peoples. Except no one had foreseen the Jin unleashing their magic, knowing their mortal war for a thinly disguised divine one. Razing their own lands to rid themselves of the troublemaking trespassers of the gods, and sacrificing countless Adan in the process. And all with the justification that it would reinstate their own balance, while the minions of the gods battled over the world's. Charged with using their magic only to serve the Balance, forbidden from ever using it against those who had none, they'd thought the Adan would understand, would approve when all was said and done—they were brothers, in the end, were they not? They'd allowed the Adan to bind with them through their Blood, after all. They'd almost become different tribes of the same people. The end of a war that wasn't their own would surely justify the means.

Except it was merely a horrible beginning. They'd been warned by their Untouchables, and the Voices of the Ancestors had, for the first time ever, been ignored. Because no one—not even Wolf's own Temshiel—had understood until then that the Ancestors had not merely bound their magic to their people, but had bound themselves to their people through the lands. And when the Jin had turned their magic on their own lands to evict the sentinels of the gods—rent earth from bedrock, broke forests from their beds and burnt whole cities—it was more damage than the Ancestors could take. It wrung their sanity from them and took their guidance from their people, sent their Untouchables shrieking, made them living Ghosts, and opened a chasm between the Adan and the Jin that could not be repaired or forgotten.

The two peoples would not come together again, they would be forevermore out of balance, one enslaving the other. And now Wolf was in his Cycle, the prospect of freeing his people from their bondage never more possible—and Asai was in a position to hand it to his new god. And he needed the twin to do it. Because if Asai held the earth-bound—Jacin-rei's heart—in his hands, not even Kamen would be a match for the Ghost.

Considering all of that, everything that was at stake, everything Asai had done to bring about this particular future....

Did Leu really think Asai would pause to await her permission?

"Asai?"

Asai blinked, frowning for a moment while his mind came back from its wanderings. Leu was looking at him with a mix between irritation and concern, her hand still trustingly between his, her guard almost nonexistent.

With a smile and a self-deprecating chuckle, Asai shook his head, patted Leu's hand. “My apologies, I seem to have wandered.” He let the smile falter. “I had such hopes for the Jin, you see."

Leu sighed, slumped, and closed her eyes. “Asai, I think—"

She never saw it coming, the fool. One quick jerk of his arm inward, and two fingers set swiftly to her temple. Hazel eyes flew open, already blooming with petechiae, and then Leu merely crumpled at Asai's feet. Boneless. Soundless. Lifeless.

Asai stepped back, prodding her ribs a little with the toe of his slipper until her body rolled to the side. A temporary measure—she would be back and there would be others—but it would take time, and perhaps it would be enough. She would never plead his case to Wolf now, but she probably wouldn't have done anyway, and if Fate conformed to the paths Asai set, he'd hardly need her to. And by that time, there would be little choice but for all to see her folly and the necessity of her removal.

"Nothing personal,” he told the corpse. “You made a lovely obstacle, but an obstacle nonetheless."

At least there was no danger now that she might ally with Kamen and—

Kamen. Damn. Asai had almost managed to put Kamen out of his mind for a few moments. Almost, but not entirely, which was good, he supposed—Kamen was a danger to everything Asai hoped to accomplish, and Asai still had no idea yet if Kamen's presence was part of the future-possible he'd foreseen, that had led him here, or if he was to be the destruction of it. Asai had wanted Temshiel, but not this Temshiel, damn it. Why couldn't Jacin-rei ever do anything bloody right?

Asai shook his head, sighed. Back to the cards, he supposed. Back to his meditations. Back to the bones and the stones, and every divination tool he had, and the frustration of too-vague allusions and not enough distinct auguries. Another long night. And he didn't intend to spend it with Leu's empty shell.

"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 listening 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 went 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.

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 flurry 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 to 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.

"D'you have to put your feet all over him?” Joori griped.

Malick rolled his eyes, made it a point to rub his toes farther up Fen's leg, smirking as Joori's lip twisted and he pointedly looked away. “You had a hissy when I curled up with him, and my hands are starting to cramp,” Malick told him. “So, yes—since this is the most comfortable I've been in two bloody days, and I'm a little tired of giving a shit about your delicate sensibilities—I do have to ‘put my feet all over him'."

Joori glared, too clearly annoyed when Malick only gave him a flat stare. He'd been subjected to Fen-glares for a while now; Joori-glares were pretty mild, by comparison.

"You didn't ‘curl up with him',” Joori snapped. “You were all over him. You think I don't know what—"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure you know fuck-all about your brother,” Malick bit back, “and I know you know fuck-all about me, so maybe it would be best if you just kept your bloody unhelpful opinions to yourself."

"You're Temshiel.” Joori said it like it was the vilest curse he could muster. “What more do I need to know? You use and hurt and kill, and you aren't capable of caring who—"

"Yeah, I want to watch while you say that to Umeia. I'll make snacks and charge admission. Should be fun, since she's not slept much the past couple of days, what with trying to keep your brother alive and all, and she gets a little... cranky when she's tired."

Joori's mouth thinned, and he looked away, sullen, before he stood and made a slow circuit around the room. He paused at the clothespress, like Malick had watched him do every time he came to sit vigil by Fen. Fen's knives were all laid out atop it, cleaned and sharpened—Samin's alternative to taking a turn on bedside watch—the new long knives set carefully beside the others, lined up by size, with the little throwing knives taking up an entire row all by themselves. Belts and sheaths and straps were all oiled and hung neatly on the hook on the back of the door. Joori never paid much heed to any of them, other than a quick once-over, like he was taking inventory, making sure no one had made off with any of it, which pissed Malick off some, but was a small annoyance in the grander scheme of things about Joori that annoyed Malick.

Slump-shouldered, Joori paused to run careful fingertips over a small knife that looked like it couldn't be good for much of anything but perhaps whittling. The one Malick and Samin had missed that night when they'd disarmed Fen. The one Fen had used to break into the leathersmith's. Malick had wondered more than once why someone like Fen—a man who obviously had an eye for quality and a practical preference for utility—would even bother to carry a knife so useless when he had so many others.

"What d'you want with him?” Joori asked quietly, sincere and with as little rancor as Malick had heard from him yet.

It did nothing to assuage the annoyance. Malick leaned his head to the back of the chair and shut his eyes. “You're a rude, nosy little shit, Joori, and I don't like the way you ask that question.” So he felt no compulsion whatsoever to answer it, any more than he'd felt compelled to answer it the other twelve times Joori had asked it—or snarled it—which was good, actually, because even if Malick did feel obliged to answer, he wouldn't know how. There were too many things up in the air right now, too many possibilities, and Malick wasn't quite sure exactly how Fen—or his family—was going to fit into them. All he was sure of was that Asai was using Fen, had been using him for years, and Malick didn't like it.

"I tried to kill him with this,” Joori said quietly.

That got Malick's attention. He popped his eyes open. Joori's head was bowed, the useless little knife twisting at the ends of his fingers, eyes watching the lamp's light slide up and down the flat of the blade as it turned.

"On the day of his Change.” Joori's hand went around the small hilt, almost obscuring it completely, and he held it up, swung it in a halfhearted arc from his shoulder. Shuddered. “Except I couldn't do it. And later, when he came for him, he watched me cut Jacin to calm him down....” He trailed off, shook his head, thumb testing the sharpness of the blade. “It was the only way—at least the only way I could figure out, the only thing that... that made it a little quieter for him. And he just watched me do it, and d'you know what he said?"

He turned to Malick, like he really expected an answer, and when Malick just stared at him, Joori's mouth curled up in a bitter smile. “He said, ‘How very... interesting.’ Interesting.” His jaw clenched. “And then he used what I did, what I showed him, to....” He set the knife gently on the press, pulled his hand away, and wiped it on his trousers, like he didn't like the feel of it on his skin.

Bloody hell, this family's fucked-up-edness was so monumental Malick could earn himself a blissful eternity on Wolf's moon just by pulling one of their asses out of the fire. “Your brother used it to stay sane,” he offered, deliberately keeping his tone even—neither forgiving nor accusing, because it wasn't his place to tender either.

"Sane.” Joori heaved a weary snort, shook his head. He turned to face Malick, propping himself against the press, and crossed his arms over his chest. “He's my brother. He's my other Self. I love him more than I love myself, but I couldn't do what needed to be done to save him, not... not then."

Malick narrowed his eyes. “And you could now?” Joori merely stared at him, calm and seemingly reasonable; it sent a frisson up Malick's backbone. “Say what you mean, seyh.” Malick's tone was soft and deadly quiet. His eyes cut to Fen, lying on his back between them, as deeply unconscious as Umeia would risk, defenseless. Malick's posture tensed, his hand going slowly to rest over the knife on his belt, abruptly aware of all the weapons just lying there, right in Joori's reach.

Joori's gaze followed Malick's hand, stayed there for a long moment, considering, then flicked up to Malick's eyes. The corner of his mouth lifted again in that same bitter not-smile. “When Asai came for him, I let him go.” The words were said calmly, but there was far too much emotion clamped down beneath them for Malick to unsnarl, not when he was busy watching keenly for Joori to make an untoward move. “Jacin said ‘let me’ and I did,” Joori said softly, “because I didn't know what else to do and I was terrified, even though I knew, I knew he couldn't... he wasn't... he wasn't capable of making a decision then, not like that, not so soon after....” His voice had started to shake, and he shut his eyes, took a long, deep breath, and tried again. “The other night with Shig—the first time it hit him, it was worse than that. He wasn't in his own eyes. I tried to kill him, tried to end it for him, and I couldn't. And a few hours later, I was watching him make a life decision, knowing he couldn't, because I didn't know what else to do. I could kill Asai and run and hope, but I would've had to kill my father too—maybe Morin—and I...."

His gaze went to his brother, hung there. “Our father wouldn't love him. Refused to love him. He treated Jacin like a Ghost from the moment he was born. Our mother was mad for as long as I can remember, and only got worse as the years passed. She loved him, but....” Joori shrugged, eyes lifting to meet Malick's stare, unflinching. “Sometimes I wonder if I love him the way I do to make up for everybody else. And it still wasn't enough."

Bloody hell. Well, that certainly explained a lot. Malick shifted in the chair, propped an elbow to the arm of it, and set his chin in his hand, though he kept the other resting over his knife. “And that bothers you? That you're apparently not all things to your brother?"

Joori shook his head. “No, you misunderstand. I love him, he knows I love him, and that didn't used to hurt him, but now....” Again, he paused, drawing a long breath to calm himself. “This isn't jealousy, all right? This is... this is... fuck. I owe him, damn it, do you get that?” Malick tensed a little when Joori shoved himself away from the press and started pacing, but he seemed to have forgotten entirely about the knives—if he'd even really noticed them in the first place. He stepped over to the opposite side of the bed and knelt on the floor. Gaze locked to Malick's, Joori reached over, snatched up Fen's hand, squeezed. “He's been treated like he was nothing from the time we were born. He believes it, he always has.” Yes, Malick had figured that out just from Fen's unconscious ramblings. “But whatever that man did to him,” Joori went on, “it made him believe it more. And now you."

It wasn't a question, and it wasn't exactly a statement, neither of which mattered, because whatever Joori had meant by it, he'd almost certainly meant it to be just as offensive as it had sounded. So, Malick let the corner of his mouth curl up. Nodded. “And now me."

Joori glared, mouth set tight. Again, it had no effect on Malick but for sincere interest in how those eyes could ostensibly be exactly the same—same gray color, same flecks of amber, same ring of indigo, set in the same face—and yet they didn't set Malick's heart pounding, didn't tighten his trousers, didn't drag any reaction from him whatsoever but weariness and irritation.

"Is this a fucking joke to you?” Joori wanted to know.

"Yeah,” Malick snapped, patience very nearly used up after the last two days he'd had and having to deal with this one for far too many hours of them. “Yeah, it's a fucking joke to me to watch you strutting about here, thinking you know everything about him, when you actually know shit and can't admit it."

"Oh, and I expect you know every—"

"It's a fucking joke that you've apparently been regretting not putting him out of his misery when you had the chance—"

"That's a fucking lie, I never—"

"—and now you're trying to use the fact that you're pretty sure you can do it now as some kind of threat to make me say whatever the fuck it is you want me to say to put your guilty conscience at ease. It's a great big monstrous fucking joke that you seem to think you've got all his answers, and if we hadn't interfered with our inconvenient rescue, your brother and sister wouldn't right now be dead, and you wouldn't be a snotty, belligerent little bargaining chip for Asai to use against him, and stop squeezing his hand so tight—you think he's not in enough pain, you want to break his fingers too?"

Joori snatched his hand away, startled, and belatedly pissed that Malick had startled him. “If it hadn't been for your ‘inconvenient rescue',” he barked, “my brother wouldn't have to be drugged into unconsciousness, and he wouldn't need you fucking touching him all the time! Or was that why you sicced Shig on him? To push him over the edge so you could ‘rescue’ him too? He was handling it, he didn't need—"

"Yeah, yeah, big bad Temshiel. Destroyer of lives, seducer of innocents, and kicker of puppies.” Malick rolled his eyes. “Honestly, what have they been teaching you?"

"Seducer,” Joori sneered. “So you are fucking him."

"Not right this second, but yeah, I kinda thought that was obvious."

Joori flinched back like Malick had struck him. Strangely, though, it wasn't the anger and offense Malick had expected that bloomed in Joori's eyes—it was actual honest worry. “It was,” Joori said, oddly winded, somewhat deflated. “I just... I didn't think....” He shook his head, went silent, his hand unconsciously going back to cling to his brother's again. “Why can't you just leave him alone?” he asked, and it was a question, not a true demand, the confusion inside it real with no attempt to conceal it.

"Because he doesn't want me to,” Malick answered bluntly.

Joori's mouth tightened. “And you give everybody what they want, ‘cause you're just generous by nature.” The disgust and sarcasm were almost tangible things.

Malick's tolerance was already stretched thin. That remark, and the flat look that came along with it, snapped the fraying edges of it. “Listen, you little prick,” he said through his teeth. “You want to pretend you've got your drawers in a twist out of concern for your brother, you keep living the fantasy, but don't expect me to—"

"Don't you even care? Can't you see what it's doing to him? You're using him—just like Asai did."

"And you're a jealous little bitch who's so intent on not sharing his toys you won't even see that maybe you're not what's best for him right now."

"I'm not jealous, damn it, I—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you're not that deep. You think I can't see what—?"

"I think you see very little but what you want to see,” Joori grated. “Even Umeia-onna said it: he'll take anything that comes with the quiet. And you're what comes with the quiet. I'm not that deep?—well, you're not that special.

"Yori keeps telling me what a great man you are, how you saved her and taught her how to shoot, how you saved Shig, how smart you are, and, ‘Don't worry, Joori, Mal will take care of Fen,’ but then I ask her what you plan to do about Asai, and she doesn't know. She doesn't care if she doesn't know—she just assumes you're too smart to do the wrong thing, and that's fine, I get it, you've always come through for her. But see, I know about Temshiel, I know about maijin, and I know you wouldn't have staged your ‘inconvenient rescue’ without some kind of payment from Jacin, and I'm telling you—he can't pay it."

Malick sat back, eyes narrowed. And here he'd thought this imaginary “payment” Joori was all worked up about was of a sexual nature, and if it was, Fen was obviously already “paying” it. So... what the fuck was this, now? “Care to expand on that?"

Joori shut his eyes, raked a hand through his hair, and then leveled an even stare back on Malick. “Our father made it his life's work to not love his second son.” His voice was calm, even. “And yet still, that night the hunters raided and Jacin came for us... he fucking wept, Malick. He picked our father's dead body up from the ground and put him in the fire, said the rites, and he wept over the man who wouldn't love him. And he didn't even know it. He didn't know he was weeping, all the way to that bloody little hut on the coast, he didn't know how much he was hurting, how much the death of the man from whom he'd only ever wanted love and couldn't have it was killing him. He still doesn't know. If my father had been alive that night when Jacin came, if he'd come at Jacin with a knife, Jacin would have let him. Suicide, Shig said—and since I have to assume you keep her around for a reason, I know you believe it. And now you want to send him to kill Asai."

Malick... stared. Peered down at Fen with a frown he didn't try to hide. All right, so maybe the annoying twin wasn't so annoying merely out of jealousy. And maybe he had a point. Several points. There had to be a reason Asai had refused Fen all those years, and Malick knew it hadn't been out of honor. Asai wasn't exactly the self-denial sort, and he rarely did anything without checking his cards and stones and visions first. Asai had done what he'd done to Fen deliberately, and perhaps the whole unrequited aspect, torturing Fen with it all through the hormonal ambushes of adolescence... well, perhaps Joori did see that bit a little more clearly than Malick had been doing. And maybe Shig's taunts about Fen walking into knives had a lot more bite than Malick would like to admit.

And yet there were still things about Fen—about people in general, but his brother in particular—that Joori would never understand. He hadn't walked through the same fires, he hadn't seen enough beyond the seclusion of a Jin camp to know some of the things Malick could see without even having to look.

"Do you know what the hardest substance in the world is?” he asked Joori mildly, a sardonic smile quirking just a little when Joori frowned at the seemingly blind turn in conversation. Malick didn't wait for an answer. “It's a diamond. Harder than steel, harder than iron—it can cut through stone, if you know how to do it. Do you know how diamonds are formed?” This time he did wait, merely nodding a little when Joori frowned and shook his head. “Deep down in the bowels of the world—extreme pressure, unbearable weight. Anything else would crack or buckle. And when all of that comes together to form a diamond....” He paused, tilting his head. “Ever seen one?” Again, Joori just shook his head. “Umeia's got mine. I'll have to show you. They're fucking beautiful. There's nothing else like them. You hold it up to the light, look way down deep inside all its facets, and you're... overwhelmed. Something so strong and so beautiful at the same time, and if you look at it just right, it's even more beautiful. But the most interesting part about it is that the only thing that can cut a diamond is another diamond.” He looked straight at Joori. “Asai is no diamond."

Joori was staring at him, the scowl completely gone now, his expression thoughtful rather than hostile. “And what about you?"

"What? Am I a diamond?” Malick snorted. That was taking the analogy just a little too far. “Part of what makes diamonds so precious is their rarity,” he told Joori. “And those who manage to get hold of one tend to take proper care."

Malick watched Joori closely to see which part of that last statement he was going to latch onto. But all he did was push out a heavy sigh and turn a tired look on his brother. “Yeah,” was all he said.

Strange. It sounded like agreement. Felt like agreement.

"Why can't you just teach me how to do it?” Joori asked softly.

Malick blinked. “Do...?” There was no way in hell he was going to even venture a guess about what Joori thought Malick should teach him to “do.” Safer to ask. “Do what?"

Joori rolled his eyes. “Teach me how to kill Asai.” The “you idiot” was implicit.

This time, Malick actually barked a laugh. “Right, and why don't I just take that lamp there and set myself on fire, and spare your brother the trouble of killing me?"

"Why should he take all the risks?” Joori argued. “Why should you, even, or Yori or Shig or Samin? It's me he wants to use, and it's Jacin he wants to... whatever the fuck he still wants from him. Why should—?"

"He wants Fen to kill me.” Malick paused, watched Joori's eyes narrow, surprise and the faint dawning of calculation blooming behind them. Malick had to grin a little. It was probably the most he'd seen Joori resemble his brother yet. “Don't get any ideas,” Malick warned. “I'd hate to have to kill you in self-defense. Fen would be... unhappy."

Joori only shot him an annoyed grimace. “Why does he want him to kill you?"

Malick thought about it first, then said simply, “Blood magic,” and he left it there.

"So, why hasn't Jacin killed you, then?"

The question was so frank and ingenuous, Malick almost laughed again. He choked it back and merely shrugged. “Well, I'd like to think it's because he'd miss me.” He crooked a sly smile. “But it's more likely that he's recently had cause to doubt Asai's motives. And he's no longer Asai's dog."

Joori's eyes narrowed to slits. “He's yours, then, is he?"

"Yes,” Malick replied, blunt and terse.

Joori's mouth tightened again. “All right.” Like he thought Malick was waiting for some kind of agreement or permission from him. Malick rolled his eyes but let it go. “So, what happens next?” Joori asked. “I mean... you've got the others out at that Yakuli's now. If they find my mother there....” He trailed off, the honest question all too plain in his gray eyes.

"They were sent to spy and nothing else, unless they find Yakuli alone, which they won't.” The buzz in the city had been ramping up for days. Almost every lord and official was calling in his prefecture army and beefing up his private guard. They were on alert, especially those who “owned” stolen magic. No way would Samin and the girls have a crack at getting to Yakuli that easily. “If they find your mother, they will come back here and report it to me, at which point I will decide what to do about it."

Joori looked startled. “But, surely you mean to—"

"Yes, surely I do—if Fen is not well enough by the time we find her to do it himself. I won't take that away from him."

"And what about me?"

Malick frowned. “What about you?"

Joori's expression turned exasperated. “Asai's obviously expecting me to be a helpless hostage. Why can't I—?"

"No,” Malick barked, for the first time jolted enough that he almost lurched from the chair and took away the contact with Fen. He controlled it. “Listen to me, Joori—he's done all of this for you and your brother and sister. You won't—"

"But my mother—"

"He already knows she's gone, he has no illusions, and he'd sacrifice what's left of her to save you. Don't piss all over that—don't fuck up everything he's put himself through, everything Asai put him through—by thinking you can step in and play the hero."

"But if you show me how—"

"For fuck's sake, what part of 'no' do you not understand?” Malick leaned in, unleashed a touch of power and let it curl about him, watched Joori feel it and not quite understand, but his eyes widened and his expression tilted into worry. Perhaps a little dramatic, but it always seemed to do the job more effectively than forceful words did, or actual physical force. Malick had wished more than once that it worked on Fen. “You cannot ‘learn’ everything you would need,” he told Joori, “you cannot close your eyes and wish yourself a warrior. Not against maijin, and certainly not against this maijin. What you can do is get yourself caught or killed.” He pointed at Fen. “Either of which will break him. Now, if you love him as much as you say you do, the only thing you can do here, Joori, is to make sure neither of those things happen. Are we clear?"

Joori stared at him, that touch of wariness still lingering, mixed with a healthy dose of resentment now. His hand was clamped to Fen's like some kind of security blanket. Silence, drawn out and heavy, expectant.

With a subtle grimace, Joori looked away. “Why are you doing this?"

Malick rolled his eyes. “It's my job. It's what I do. He belongs to Wolf, and Wolf—"

"No.” Joori shook his head, eyes narrowed. “You actually give a shit. You care about him.” His head tilted to the side. “I didn't think you could."

Malick looked away, unaccountably uncomfortable. It was too close to Samin's accusations the other day. Would you be doing this if...? He shoved it away before he could complete the thought. Fucking Samin.

"Yeah, well... you don't know everything,” he said, because he couldn't think of anything more cutting.

Absurdly irritated, and irritated because he was irritated. It had always irritated him, that belief that Temshiel had no real emotions and didn't give a shit about the mortals who got caught up in divine machinations. Now it irritated him even more because he'd tried damned hard to be exactly what they thought of him, and....

He looked down at Fen and stifled a growl.

"All right,” Joori said again, and again, it had that note of consent in it, like Malick needed his consent to any of this. “I heard you and Umeia-onna shouting about hiding this morning."

Everyone probably heard it—Malick had rather lost his temper when Umeia refused to leave, and Umeia had lost her temper right back. It hadn't been until Fen had started to twitch, groaning weakly as they'd stared each other down over the bed, that Malick had realized he'd let go of him to stand and face off with Umeia. It hadn't ended the argument, at least as far as Malick was concerned, merely postponed it.

"It sounded like she won,” Joori went on, “so I'm assuming we're staying here and Asai will know we're here shortly."

There was no point in negating it, since it was all true—for the moment, anyway—and they hadn't exactly kept their voices down, so what had Malick expected? Malick merely scowled and nodded.

Joori nodded back. “Right. So, I'm also assuming you want Asai to know I'm here and you want him to try and come after me."

This time, Malick slouched back in the chair, suddenly weary beyond sense, and quite sick and damned tired of Fen Joori. “What I want,” he growled, “is for him to curl up and die, but he's damned uncooperative."

Eyebrow lifting, Joori snorted in rueful agreement. He sighed, levered up from his crouch beside the bed, and angled his hip to the mattress instead. Oh, good—it looked like he was staying. Another growl rumbled in Malick's chest, but he smothered that one too.

"Yeah, well.” Joori shrugged. “So, I'm to be bait, then."

It was so straightforward, so pragmatic. From willing hostage to willing bait. Idiot. What the fuck was he thinking?

"I think,” Malick said slowly, carefully, “Umeia and your brother both would kill me if I proposed such a thing."

Joori's eyebrow rose. “You think Umeia-onna doesn't know?” He smirked. “Seems you don't know everything, either.” Quite satisfied with himself, the little prick, and Malick refused to ask him to clarify. He just sat there, trying not to glower, until Joori got over his private little joke and said, “That Leu woman knew you. Even I can see where that leads. And even if Asai wasn't a seer, he's still a powerful lord. He'll find us. Umeia-onna has to know that."

Malick's lip curled. The little prick was right. And perhaps not as much of a prick as Malick wanted to believe.

"So,” Joori went on, “we're under Umeia-onna's protection, which means he can't kill us, so it seems—"

"No,” Malick interjected, because it could be deadly not to make this very clear. “It means it would be extraordinarily difficult for him to kill you, but it could be done. And it would be nothing at all for him to do to you what's been done to your mother. The only guarantee that comes with the protection is that no one can sniff you out using magic, and anyone who wants you would have to go through Umeia's magic to get to you, which very few could. It's not done for Temshiel or maijin to go after those marked as another's, but there are no laws against it. And if Umeia's killed....” He made the shrug and the wave of his hand look unconcerned, he hoped, but he still didn't like the way the words felt on his tongue.

Joori was right: Umeia knew. Which meant that she had plans of her own that she wasn't telling him. And just exactly where was Umeia, anyway? Maybe Malick should've just sworn the damned oath himself.

He almost snorted. Right. He'd never sworn oath to anyone. Ever. Not even Umeia. And he never intended to. There was no one worth that kind of risk. Skel had shown him that.

"All right,” Joori said, “that makes things a little less... safe, but....” He shrugged, peering over at Malick, calm and straight. “It doesn't really change anything. I want Asai dead. It's the only way Jacin will be safe from you both. If you won't let me do it, let me stop hiding. Let him find me."

Malick's eyebrow went up. “And then what?"

Joori looked at him like he'd lost his mind. “And then Jacin will kill him, of course."

"Of course.” Malick opened a hand. “But I thought you said he wouldn't be able to."

"And you said he would.” Joori tilted his head, challenging. “Or was all that ‘diamond’ twaddle just bullshit?"

This time, Malick's eyes narrowed. There was a trick in there somewhere, some kind of ambush waiting inside it all. This one was a bit slippery, sometimes deliberately unreadable, where Fen was just mostly hard to read by nature.

"No, it wasn't bullshit,” Malick said evenly.

"Good.” Joori looked a little too pleased for someone who seemed to believe he'd just talked himself into being bait for a maijin. Malick had to wonder if Fen was the only brother with a penchant for suicide. “I think we're agreed that Jacin doesn't need to know about this?” Joori asked.

"You know....” A small smile curled at the corner of Malick's mouth. Perhaps he'd just found the ambush. “If I agreed to this and your brother found out, he'd kill me."

And it wasn't just a euphemism—Fen really would kill him, or at least try.

"You say that like I give a shit,” Joori replied, still calm and cool, meeting Malick's gaze directly.

"Ah.” Malick nodded. Yes, there was the plan, even if it was half-formed and rather half-assed. Perhaps Joori honestly didn't think he was jealous. Perhaps he really did think that every single one of his motivations was out of a pure, perfect love for his brother. But what all this “bravery” in volunteering as bait came down to was that he would—at least he thought he would—hold the key to getting his brother away from the big, bad Temshiel, once all was said and done. Possibly even before—who knew? He might just spill it all to Fen as soon as Fen opened his eyes, and coerce him to gather the family and skulk away before they drew Asai's eye. They could do it now—Fen had money, and Umeia had handed Joori all the papers just this morning.

Fen might kill Malick, or he might not, but he certainly wouldn't have another thing to do with him, not even if Malick was the only one in the world who could save his mother's soul. And though Malick wouldn't let that stop him if it turned out to be the best or only solution, he didn't like Joori thinking he'd manipulated him into it. The little prick was already too smug by halves. Malick was torn between punching him in his smirking mouth and patting him on the head and giving him a biscuit. Good dog. Clever boy.

Trying to outmanipulate a manipulator. This should be fun.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Three

It annoyed Umeia a little that she had to jump through such hoops, but she dressed carefully nonetheless. No plunging neckline today, no swinging skirts or clacking heels. Traditional layered robes, held closed by a thick sash, and flat-soled leather shoes that squeaked when she walked and made her feel too short. She winced a little as she slipped the wig on—she looked idiotic and washed-out as a brunette, and she hated the feel of it swinging down her back—but steadfastly tucked brassy curls beneath it and carefully pinned it in place.

No glamour today, not where she was going. She couldn't take the chance that a hunter would smell her magic coming. And she'd had no choice but to shut herself off from Malick, which meant shutting herself off from his veil; with all the magic she spent keeping those to whom she'd sworn oath protected, her own veil just wasn't as strong.

"Him again?” Lex was propped on an elbow on the pillows, sheets in a tangle about his hips, pouting at her with a soulful sulk. Hurt.

Umeia rolled her eyes. Honestly, men were so... competitive. Or something. Sleep with them a time or several hundred, and they thought you should never, ever want another. As if anyone was that good.

"Who is he?” Lex demanded, gaze a bit fiery and all too becoming, for all that his attitude annoyed her. He did look rather decadent and tempting, lying there in the rumpled sheets, broad chest bare and black hair distinctly disheveled. Too bad Umeia couldn't be late today.

She turned to the glass above her vanity table, checking the set of the wig and the kohl around her eyes. “Someone who owes me some favors."

Lex's expression turned sour. “Oh, I'll just bet he—"

"Lex.” Umeia turned, snatched up her bag—small and plain, ridiculously sedate; she was supposed to be a lady, after all—and stepped over to the bed. She slipped her fingers into Lex's tangled hair and gently combed through a few snarls. “You're the Girou's right hand. You're not my mate.” She wasn't necessarily trying to hurt him, only remind him of his place, but she had to admit to a bit of satisfaction when his mouth tightened and his gaze cut away. She patted his cheek and walked over to the door, then paused with her hand on the knob and turned back to tender a smile—softer than usual, affectionate. “See that Haru and Fee are up in an hour—they're working lunch today, and I want Haru bright-eyed and smiling or he's going to the kitchens. I've wasted enough time on him."

With that, she opened the door and stepped through, turning just in time to avoid walking directly into Malick's chest. Bloody hell. She'd assumed he was still plastered to Fen's side where she'd left him.

"What are you doing down here?” she snapped, pulling the door shut behind her. “Why aren't you with Fen?” Perhaps going on the immediate offensive would spare her from an argument and a demand for an explanation.

Or not.

Malick's tired eyes raked over her. He only lifted an eyebrow at the wig, but rolled his eyes when his gaze landed on the shoes. “Off on business, I see.” He smirked—that cold one that made Umeia's teeth set too tight and her stomach drop just a little. “What more've you got to discuss with the good judge?"

Damn it. “Who says we're going to ‘discuss’ anything?” Umeia retorted. “I run a brothel, brother dear. Men have needs.” She made a business of smoothing the long hair of the wig over her shoulder. “Have to keep up appearances, then, don't we?"

Malick's expression didn't outwardly change, but somehow it seemed his gaze got a little cooler and his smirk turned to a jackal's leer. Umeia rarely had cause to be afraid of Malick—he could make her nervous when he wanted to, but hardly ever afraid—but the cold calculation in his face had a little too much potential right now. It almost never did her nerves any good to remember exactly what her little brother was and what he could do.

"I want to know what you're up to, Umeia.” Malick's voice was low, his tone even; Umeia wondered if he even knew how much threat was laced inside it. “You've got your own little game going on. What's it to do with Judge Canti?"

Despite her discomfort, Umeia's eyes narrowed. He had the nerve to accuse her of playing games. “It's no game,” she told him, trying to make her tone just as cold as his. “I won't let you play with the lives of those children. I'm doing what I need to do to protect them."

His eyebrows rose, sardonic. “From me?"

"Yes.” Frank and clear. There was no sense in trying to dissemble. Malick wouldn't have asked if he hadn't already known. “From any who might be a threat to them, which includes you. I swore oath, in case you forgot. At your request."

Not that she thought for a moment that he'd forgotten, but it wouldn't hurt to remind him in plain terms.

"And somehow, you neglected to include Fen in that oath,” Malick observed mildly.

She'd been wondering when he'd notice that. Fine. He wanted to draw lines in the sand? “I'm not the one with the death wish,” she told him coolly.

His eyes narrowed. “And that means...?"

Idiot. He knew exactly what it meant. “It means,” Umeia answered, almost ran her fingers nervously through the wig again, but made herself stand still, “that I won't swear an oath of protection to one who takes his own knives to himself so casually. I won't risk my own soul for one whose time has been counted in hours instead of years since the moment he was born.” She lifted her chin. “You want to pretend he's not doomed, little brother, you go ahead and keep those blinders on. But I won't let you risk those to whom I have sworn oath, and me, for someone who won't live out the month."

And it pissed her off—hurt her more deeply than she wanted to admit—that he'd want her to. Fine, he had a big, sloppy heart, and it was currently tangled around Fen, even if he wouldn't admit it, but damn it, Malick was the one who'd drawn her into all this. She'd accepted Wolf's charge because of him, so she could watch out for him. Didn't that count for anything? Could he really risk her so blithely?

"He's not doomed,” Malick snapped, heated, and Umeia breathed a little easier. It was so much better than that cool disdain of a moment ago. “He's meant to set the Balance, Umeia. Can't you see the convergence coming?"

"Oh, I see it,” she told him. “And you'll be the first with a knife through the heart when your pet Untouchable sees it.” She stepped in, teeth set. “What d'you think he'll do when he understands that setting the Balance means the destruction of his people? What would he think if he knew on which side you fought in the Binding War?” Her hands clenched into helpless fists. “Get the Blood of the Temshiel and save the Jin, that's what Asai ground into him, and once he understands that Kamen Wolf's-own tried to take away the magic of his own people—"

"I'm not debating this with you again,” Malick grated.

"That's because there is no debate! They were never meant to have it, Malick. The Ancestors thumbed their noses at the Balance when they bound themselves to the Jin, and the Jin nearly destroyed it altogether when they used their magic as a weapon. They only still exist because Wolf wishes it. And do you think your pretty Jin Untouchable is going to give a damn that the Temshiel who helped to put down his people did it with a protest and a petulant scowl on his face?"

Malick was silent for a moment, the rage down to a smolder. The pause gave Umeia hope, until he shook his head with that too-familiar obstinate set to his jaw. “Fen is Wolf's, too, he'll see the sense in—"

"Fen can't see sense in the change of the seasons right now!” Umeia barked. “Fen sees his family and their safety, and that's all. If he sees you as a threat to them, Malick....” She shook her head, slumped against the door, and vaguely wondered if Lex had his ear pressed to the other side of it. “I'm getting them out. For your own good. That's my business with Judge Canti, since you're so keen to know. I'm doing it before you have the chance to use them as bait, and what's more, I'm getting papers for Fen too. There's a caravan that leaves for Heldesan at the turn of the week. Funny thing—the drover says he'll take an Untouchable for a little more koin, and isn't it ironic, because one has been haunting his wagons off and on for several weeks, trying to talk him into taking half payment for getting three others out when he goes.” No surprise on Malick's face. She should've known. She curled her lip, annoyed. “Judge Canti needed a little more time to get Fen's papers through. Asai's spies are watching, and he had to be careful. I'm going to pick them up now, and you're making me late.” She pushed away from the door and tried to bully past Malick, but he gripped her elbow, squeezed.

"You're not taking Fen.” Calm and blunt, but his fingers dug into the tendon and sinew in the joint of Umeia's arm. “Take the other three, I could give a shit, but Fen stays."

This was why she hadn't wanted him to know what she was up to. “They don't shun Untouchables in Heldesan, Malick, they don't treat them like animals. He'll be—"

"He'll be right here with me, taking care of Asai."

It made her pause, the coldness and command in his tone. “You'd really risk the one who rules your heart to avenge someone you used to love?” she asked him softly.

His mouth tightened a little, but he didn't bother to negate it. “Ridding the world of Asai for good serves the Balance,” was all he said.

She almost laughed, but she was afraid she'd end up either braying like a madwoman or weeping hysterically. “And whether you want to admit it or not,” she said instead, “what Asai proposes to do will set it for centuries to come."

"A maijin ruling over both the Jin and the Adan will set the Balance?” He snorted. “I think you've been sampling the poppy a little too much."

She wished she had been. “Think about it, Malick. When the Ancestors gave their magic to their children, it rocked the Balance. When Skel gave Asai his Blood, it rocked it back again. The only thing that'll set it for good is if the magic is taken away altogether, but if Wolf won't allow the Jin to be stamped out, what other solution is there but to control it?” She paused, pulled her arm out of Malick's looser grip, and took his hand. “Killing Asai only puts things back the way they were. Do you really think that's all Wolf wants of you now?” She stepped in, peered at him closely, watching, and dipped her voice low. “And do you really think Fen will thank you for making him watch while you do what you know has to be done?"

Malick only stared at her for a long moment—too long—blank-faced and gaze frosted over, then he snapped his hand away from Umeia's, clamped down on her wrist, and dragged her in close. Teeth clenched, eyes on fire, he leaned down, right in her face. “Are you going to tell me that you want to allow Asai to do what he wants to do?"

Umeia kept her own expression calm, but her heart was battering behind her breastbone, and it was suddenly hard to swallow. “Not with your Blood, no,” she answered evenly. “But we're not the only Temshiel in Ada. We're not the only ones who sense a convergence. You can't tell me you haven't felt them."

He was looking at her like he had no idea who she was. Perhaps he didn't, if he thought she'd give him up like that, or just blindly go along with his plans for vengeance while he risked his own soul for a mortal—an Untouchable, of all people.

"You'd set someone else in my place,” he said slowly, “hand Asai what he needs to completely enslave an entire people—Wolf's people—all to keep from having to leave the whorehouse you call home?"

It sounded so selfish when he said it like that. And it hurt. “I would do what I must to keep the Balance and protect my own,” Umeia answered calmly. “You would see that, if you weren't being so blind. I wouldn't deliberately put another in your place, but I won't mourn if someone other than you is drawn into Asai's sight. We find ourselves in Ada, in Wolf's own Cycle, and if you were using your head, you'd see there was a reason for it. The Catalyst has done his part—pointed the way to setting the Balance—and Fen is now unnecessary, a risk we don't need. You should have killed him that first night, but since you didn't, I'll see that he and his family are safe, because I don't think you can. If I'd known the whole of it when you brought him to me, I wouldn't have sworn anyone oath at all.” She shook her head, sad and perhaps a little bit disappointed. “Bloody hell, little brother, you can't even be haunted by your own demons, you had to go and take on someone else's. You've done this entirely to yourself. I'm only fixing it."

She made to move away again, but this time, Malick took hold of her and slammed her back into the door, teeth bared. “Umeia?” came from the other side of it, Lex's voice with a good dose of worry, but he didn't try the knob. Umeia just kept staring into Malick's furious gaze, called, “It's all right, love, don't come out,” and tried not to wince at the strength and viciousness of Malick's grip on her arms.

"Take the others,” Malick snarled, “I don't give a fuck. But you keep your traitorous claws off Fen."

Umeia's eyes widened. She'd known Malick wouldn't like any of this, but... traitorous? “Malick, if you'd only—"

"Stay away from him, understand? No more nursing, no more potions, because I no longer trust you not to poison him."

Shocked, and she really shouldn't have been. It was only that it had been far too long since she'd had to be reminded how cold and cruel Malick could be. “I wouldn't bloody poison—"

He slammed her into the door again. “My heart is what made me Wolf's, remember?—you keep telling me that. You've just broken it, Umeia. Well done, you.” Seething with rage, for all the words were sorrowful. “You've gone against your own kind, your own Blood, and I should kill you for it."

Right now, she thought maybe he would.

"I won't,” he said, though his hands tightened, almost forcing a yip from her, but she kept it in. “Not now, anyway. But you'll take Fen's family with you, and you'll go. You're done here. Perhaps I'll see you in another few lives."

Umeia's stomach dropped, and her head went light. “This is my home,” she said, far too breathy and weak for her liking. “You can't—"

"Watch me,” Malick growled. “I can't trust you now. I've no use for you."

"Just because I see the merit in Asai's—"

"There is no merit in Asai's plots. Not if they come from betraying one of our own. Not if the means go against Wolf's own laws."

"The end would justify the means,” Umeia insisted, because surely Malick couldn't be this blind. He had to see—he was smarter than this.

But Malick only shook his head, some of the anger leaching into weary grief as he peered at her like he couldn't believe any of it was really happening. “You know,” he told her flatly, “that was exactly the Jin's argument for using their magic against the Adan in the first place. And if I knew Skel, it was his too."

Umeia flinched. “The Balance—"

"The Balance will be served, and you will have no part in it.” Cold and detached. “A Temshiel who would allow... enable the murder of another—"

"I wouldn't, you're deliberately misunderstanding, Malick."

"When Skel went to the suns, you mourned just as deeply as I did, and you swore that one day Asai would—"

"And he will!” Umeia cried. “Nothing's changed, damn it, why won't you see this? You act as though I've just ruined some grand scheme you've been plotting for decades, when in truth all you've been doing is lying back and pretending to watch. You've done only as much of Wolf's work as you had to, and that was only by happy coincidence.” Umeia sucked in a breath and tried to calm the slamming of her heart. She set a shaky hand to Malick's arm. “Now is your chance to set your hand to the Balance, Malick. Let Asai do all the work, let him take all the risk, use whoever blunders through his sights if they're not smart enough to get out of his way. If he gets his Heart's Blood, he'll have set the Balance, but if he doesn't, he'll end the Cycle with no god. He'll be banpair, little brother, godless and vulnerable. He'll try to cast his lot with Snake next, of course, but in the in-between—when Wolf wanes and before Snake waxes—he won't be maijin anymore."

She left the, And then you can kill him without risking your soul, just sitting there, all too obvious. But Malick's hard gaze hadn't softened, his grip on Umeia's arms hadn't relaxed.

"You miss the point, sister dear,” he told her flatly. “A Temshiel who would hinge the Balance on the fulcrum of the murder of another, and place it in the hands of fucking Asai—"

"Is that what you're really worried about, little brother?” Umeia kept her voice deliberately soft. “Or is it more that you no longer have any real reason to control the Untouchable? I'm about to take him out of your hands, and you can't stand it."

"You,” Malick said, low and deadly soft, “break my fucking heart. You're no better than Asai.” He shook his head, let go of Umeia like he couldn't stand to touch her for another second, and pushed himself back. “You're done here, Umeia. You've got two days. Best get your affairs in order."

She'd been reeling back and forth between terrified and frustrated—now it all went numb. “Malick, you—"

"It's Kamen to you,” he said coldly. “The others will be warned against you. I won't have the murder of one of our own on my soul."

She couldn't believe he was actually saying this. Couldn't believe he actually meant it, but she couldn't not see the authenticity in the hard gaze. “You would see me shunned?” she asked faintly. “You would cast me out for an Untouchable who—"

"Don't even pretend it's got a damned thing to do with Fen."

And he really believed it too; that was what rose Umeia's own anger and blotted out a little of the grief. “You're going to break him,” she told Malick, voice a little less shaky than it had been. “You're going to fail Wolf, and you're going to break his Catalyst. You're going to end up dead by the hand of the one you won't cast out, and the Balance will be served with your Blood anyway."

This time, Malick smiled—something cold and deadly that curled real fear in Umeia's gut, crawled up her backbone. “He won't break,” he told her, the cavalier tone only adding to her unease. “He'll submit. He's dying to. He doesn't know any other way. He's almost there already, and I'll have everything I need from the Ancestors themselves. I might even manage to sic him on Yakuli while I'm at it. Did you really think I didn't have a plan?” He took a step closer. Umeia was dismayed to find herself pressing back into the door again, caught in those dead eyes, that bitter smile. “The Balance will be served, Asai will be dead, and Fen will keep his mind, and all of this without touching your precious charges and risking your soul.” He shook his head, breathed a small laugh. “Now don't you wish you'd asked me before you betrayed me?"

Umeia shut her eyes, clenching her teeth to keep from weeping. Perhaps she had underestimated him, perhaps she had been too worried about his heart and forgotten too easily that Wolf had chosen him for reasons that had been made all too clear to her in the past several terrible minutes. “Malick, please—"

"Ah-ah."

Still with that smile. She wanted to... she didn't know what she wanted to do—smack it off his face, throw herself at him and beg him to forgive her, warn him again that Asai had managed to bend someone as smart as Skel to his thinking, so what chance did Fen have against him? And what chance did Malick have against Fen when he refused to see what a danger Fen was to him?

"Kamen,” she corrected, though it stuck in her throat. “Please. I only wanted—"

"I know what you wanted,” Malick cut in. “And I know why. It's the only reason you're not already dead."

Umeia flinched again. Because she knew he meant it. Bloody hell, how could she have forgotten what a cold-hearted bastard he could be?

"Then you know I would never—"

"Two days,” Malick told her. “Don't test my generosity."

"Umeia-onna? Is that you?"

The voice, so soft and tentative, made her jump. Her gaze snapped to the left, landed on Madi, standing in the hallway in a silken robe, sleep-tousled and frowning, his eyes drifting back and forth between her and Malick.

"Madi.” Almost relief as Umeia reached up and ran shaking fingers through the wig. “Yes, it's me. What do you need, lad?"

Madi looked between them, diffident. Umeia wasn't surprised. The tension was likely so thick, he could probably feel it. “Aki-seyh says he was too drunk last night to remember anything, and now he wants another round for free. He won't leave."

An hour ago, it would have been a problem of the highest priority.

"Go get Bone,” Umeia told him wearily. Let Bone handle it in any way he wanted to. Maybe seeing someone else beat to shit would make Umeia feel less alone.

"Right,” said Madi, his gaze drifting to Malick, a soft, hesitant smile tilting at his mouth. “Hello, Malick. I've been looking for you."

Didn't they all? Damn Malick, why couldn't he see?

"I've been busy,” Malick said, but the way he said it.... Easy and charming and cavalier, like he hadn't just completely destroyed Umeia a minute ago, and that fucking smile that made her want to fall down on the floor and sob. “How've you been?” Genuinely interested—he bloody gave a shit about how Madi was, when she was standing here shattering.

"All right,” Madi answered, leaning hip-shot on one leg, unconsciously seductive. “Missing you a little."

Too late, she wanted to tell the boy. Start picking up the little bits of your heart now, because he's got what he's been wanting for too long, and he's not even going to notice he's broken you along the way to getting it.

Malick grinned, stepping away from Umeia and toward Madi. “Only a little?” He laid a hand to Madi's shoulder then turned the grin on Umeia over his shoulder, a shark's grin, cold and hard, not a trace of the warmth directed at Madi only a second ago. “Two days, Umeia,” he said then turned back to Madi, gently prodding him down the hallway. “C'mon, let's go see if we can't charm Aki-seyh out of your room without bloodshed."

Umeia watched them go, numb. Disbelieving. Because this couldn't be happening. Two days, but he'd come to his senses before then, surely. Not betrayal, because she couldn't betray him, she loved him, she'd followed him into immortality, and immortality was fucking hard, but she'd done it, and continued to do it for him—he'd remember all that, she just had to give him a little while to cool down and think about it all calmly.

She wouldn't even make him apologize.

"Umeia?” Cautious and low, from the other side of the door. Umeia only just had the wits to pull herself away from it before Lex swung it open behind her and sent her tumbling. He peered at her closely, frowning, concerned. “All right, love?"

Umeia only stared, shook her head. “No,” she breathed, shaky and small.

No, she wasn't all right. She'd just joined the ranks of all the shattered hearts Malick left behind him, all the more cutting because she'd always thought she'd be exempt in the end.

"Come back to bed, love,” Lex said gently. He laid a hand on her arm and gave it a light tug. No demands for an explanation, no accusations, no hard stare that made her want to curl up in a ball. Just a soft gaze and real distress—for her—and the offer of whatever she wanted to take from him. Lex had always been so easy to be with.

She was going to miss him.

"Yes,” Umeia said, half-dazed, abruptly bone-tired and going a little weak in the knees. “Yes,” she repeated, and she let him tug her through the door, kept repeating it as he gently rid her body of its disguise and then rid her mind of everything else.

* * * *

Yori was loitering in the hall outside Fen's door, absently chatting with Caidi and pretending she wasn't waiting for Joori to emerge, when Malick plodded up the stairs. Head hanging, eyes bloodshot and rung with bruised half moons beneath, gaze inward, troubled, like Yori had never seen him. It gave her a nasty little turn. Malick didn't get troubled.

Maybe it was the business with Yakuli. They'd had themselves a good look last night, just like Malick had ordered, stayed out of sight of all of the guards and keepers—far too many for comfort, so Yori had been just as happy, what with them being on their own and no Malick—and had come back with all of the information he'd wanted. They hadn't gotten themselves a look inside the manor but for what they could see through windows from a distance, but Shig had confirmed Fen's mother's presence in a way that made Yori want to know exactly how she knew, but hadn't dared question.

It wasn't the only information they'd gathered, though. The knowledge that Yakuli had horses was what Malick had said led him to the Councilor—and again, Yori wanted to know how Malick had known but she hadn't asked—but saying the man had horses was like saying there was sand on the beach. Hundreds of them, running in loose herds in their fenced pastures that took up most of the swath of land on which the manor was sat. Secluded, ideal for a secret horse farm, farther outside the Gates than even Asai's lands, and too close to the camps for any “respectable” lord to want to venture there, though Yori hadn't really thought about why anyone would want to keep it a secret until she'd got a look at Samin's face.

"Warhorses,” he'd breathed, staring, then cursed vilely, hands clenched, like it was all he could do to look and not act. “This isn't a farm,” he'd said, eyes scanning the perimeter, calculating, “it's a training camp."

And Samin would know.

He'd walked into Fen's room without announcement or a request for permission as soon as they'd gotten back, and unceremoniously ousted Joori. It was all right with Yori. It meant Joori had to cool his heels with her in the common room, and they'd had a nice... chat.

All right, so they'd rutted like minks, and she was a little embarrassed, because they'd been right there in the common room, anyone could have walked in, and she'd only known him for a couple of days, which made her just as slutty as Malick, but.... Well, Joori was adorable, and sweet to her, with a hard edge beneath it that she'd only thus far seen directed at Malick and Shig, and it never failed to make Yori quiver. And anyway, anyone who loved as hard as Joori did had to be worth a little bit of sluttiness.

"Everything all right, Mal?” she asked as he fetched up in front of her. For some unfathomable reason, for just a slim fraction of a moment, the look he gave her made her want to pull him down and lay his head on her shoulder, stroke his hair, and... just... no. It was bloody Malick, for pity's sake. One good lay, and she was coming over all soppy. One bloody good lay, but still.

"Everything all right, Mal?” Caidi parroted, startling Yori a little, because she'd been more or less ignoring the chatter for quite a while, and she'd almost forgotten Caidi was even there, propped against the wall, mimicking Yori's own pose with her arms crossed over her chest.

Yori watched Malick's gaze drift down to Caidi, slide pensive, so unlike him, before he turned it back up to Yori again. For some reason, it made Yori think of the swath of power that had brushed past her the other night when Malick had barreled at the maijin. And then it all evaporated, between one breath and the next: Malick gave her a grin, tawny eyes dancing with mischief, just like always, and Yori wondered where all the strange, unfocused sympathy of a moment ago had come from.

"Everything's fine, love, no worries.” He reached over, tugged at Caidi's pigtail, and made her giggle. “Listen, I've been thinking....” He turned back to Yori, his stance lax and lazy. Casual, perhaps too casual, all easy charm, like she'd watched him turn on potential bedmates when he was on the make. “Umeia's going on a trip day after tomorrow, and... I'm thinking you might want to go with her."

Another time, it would thrill her. Now, she had to stop herself from slumping, though she couldn't keep her gaze from flicking toward the door of Fen's room. Malick caught her at it and gave her another grin.

"No worries. I wouldn't interfere with Young Love. I'm not taking you away from him. You'll understand when it's time."

Damn it, was that an actual blush creeping to her cheeks? “But what about Yakuli?” Yori couldn't help blurting, darting an uncomfortable glance down at Caidi, even as it came spewing out her mouth.

"Yeah, what about Yakuli?” Caidi chimed, and strangely, it didn't seem like she was just repeating it this time—it looked like she was fully aware of why the Councilor was a concern, and wanted to know what they planned to do about him just as much as Yori did. What was that the laundress next door always said? Little pitchers, big ears. Yori thought perhaps they should be a little more circumspect in what they let fly when Caidi was about, and stop assuming she didn't know what they were talking about when she too obviously did.

"Let me worry about Yakuli for now.” Malick gave Caidi's nose a tweak this time, to which she proved just as susceptible: she giggled again. Malick's gaze came back up to Yori, more intent this time. “You'll go with Umeia, yeah?"

Yori didn't even have to think about it. This was Malick, asking her to do something for Umeia. Of course she'd do it. “Yeah,” she said, then gave him a smirk, because for some reason, it looked like he needed... something. “But you'd better make it worth my while."

"Yeah, yeah,” Malick muttered, rolled his eyes, and then he turned for Fen's room. “Your reward will be out shortly. Preferably on his ear."

He dropped Caidi a wink then opened the door and stepped through, shutting it behind him.

"Why is Malick-seyh sad?” Caidi asked, her voice low in what she probably thought was a whisper.

Yori frowned first at Caidi then at the door. “Sad?"

Caidi didn't get a chance to answer; Joori abruptly threw the door open, slamming out into the hallway, though he stopped short of actually slamming the door. He pulled up short when he saw Yori, the dark scowl flushing his face going wobbly for a moment, like he was trying not to aim it at her, before he pointedly turned it to a smile.

"Um... h'llo.” Joori grimaced over his shoulder, mouth tight again. “Your boss said you wanted me.” Spoken with heavy sarcasm and a healthy dose of rancor, but Yori could tell neither was for her.

"Uh-huh.” Yori let the side of her mouth curl up in a bit of a smirk. “Are you complaining?"

Joori turned back to her, frowning, querulous, before his eyes widened and his cheeks pinked a little. Gah, he was adorable. And he wouldn't stand for someone bleeding another for their magic. And he was polite to Shig—well, acidly polite, but still polite, and Yori knew he didn't much care for her, nor could she really blame him, considering. And he was really good in bed. Well, it had actually been on the couch, but still—really good. He was fairly close to perfect.

"Oh!” Joori said—finally. Close to perfect, maybe, but a little on the slow side, apparently. “No, of course not, I....” He waved at the door behind him, paused for a moment, the silence awkward and uncomfortable, then he dropped his arm and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You look pretty today,” he offered.

Yori rolled her eyes—like she'd washed and twisted up her hair just for him, or something—though she couldn't stop the grin, and bloody hell, was she blushing again? Shig would laugh for days. And as long as Yori got a whole lot more of what she'd had last night, she really didn't care.

Caidi was looking between them, eyebrow lifted in an expression entirely too knowing and cheeky. “Samin-seyh was right,” she groaned. “Too bloody precious."

Yori watched her flounce away, still smirking, and peered up at Joori through her lashes. Joori was still staring down the hallway after his sister, shaking his head. “Somebody needs to put a bell on her,” he muttered then turned to Yori again. “You wanted me?"

Oh, yeah. But first: “How's your brother?"

Joori shrugged with a tired sigh. “Better, I think. Quieter. Malick says he's healing a lot faster than he thought was possible, and the wounds have just about closed over, so....” Another shrug. “He'll make it."

"Of course he will,” Yori agreed. “He's too stubborn not to.” Joori didn't look quite convinced, and Yori knew he'd brood and stew unless he was... distracted. Not that she had any selfish motives, of course. “I, um....” She hesitated, waved her hand toward the door of the room she shared with her sister. “Shig's down in the baths. She usually takes all morning."

Hint, hint.

Joori's eyebrow lifted, gaze going down the hall where Caidi had disappeared into the common room. “My sister...."

That had been halfhearted enough to make Yori grin. “Your sister's got Samin wrapped around her tiny little finger, and Morin's not too far behind. Samin's down in the common room, showing Morin how to properly wrap a sword hilt in wire in between bites of sugar dumplings."

"I... hm.” Joori frowned, eyes drifting down the hallway again. “I'm not quite certain I like that."

Yori shrugged, pushed away from the wall, and started to step slowly toward her room. “Would it make you feel any better if I told you it'll keep them all busy for at least another twenty minutes?"

Joori stared at Fen's door for half a second, then up the hall to the common room for another. Gnawing on his bottom lip, his gaze finally landed on Yori as she sauntered away, and after a brief, obvious struggle, settled on her ass. He pushed away from the wall and followed.

Apparently, it made him feel much better.

* * * *

It was nearly nightfall when Fen's fever finally broke. Malick could tell because the sluggish thrashing finally stopped, and the room fell silent—no more disconnected ramblings that still made too much sense. No more pain-filled groans and tears that came from inside the agony of near-madness. Malick hadn't liked all the mutterings about cherry blossoms—he knew the symbolism the Jin placed on the petals—but Fen was rather morbid by nature, so Malick chose to write it off to that. Besides, Fen was healing fast enough that Malick had to wonder if a bit of Umeia's magic wasn't leaking through, or if Fen really was that stubborn and dogged that he could heal himself at will.

Malick didn't suppose it mattered much—the worst seemed to be over. He'd thought perhaps he should go and tell Fen's siblings that the danger had passed, but he didn't think laying eyes on Joori was a good idea at the moment, and anyway, he was exhausted. After what had happened with Umeia this morning... well. It had rather drained him, made him angry and profoundly sad at the same time, and being with Fen had somehow eased him, even if—perhaps because—Fen didn't even know Malick was there.

He'd lain himself down with Fen instead of announcing the news to his siblings, and dropped into the first real sleep he'd had in two days. Perhaps more, he couldn't remember. Things had been a little hectic lately.

He was woken not by animal-like whimpering or too much heat baking off sweated skin, or even a hard shove off the bed and an indignant, How dare you, get the fuck off me. He was woken by dry lips set lightly on his own, a shaky fingertip sliding along his jaw. He dragged his eyes open, blinked slowly into somber gilt-gray, the soft light of the lamp wicked low dropping ashed-gold shadow over Fen's angular face, his bare shoulder and chest. Fen's straight nose was only inches from Malick's, his head sunk low on the pillow they shared.

Malick reached up and gently fingered strands of matted chestnut out of Fen's eyes. Almost enspelled. Malick wanted to say something, but nothing would come. He merely stared, allowed the silence to continue, held Fen's solemn gaze, and let Fen's fingertips explore the stubble on his jaw, press delicately to the bruise that still bloomed along the left side of it, slide up and set themselves lightly to his lips. Chaste. Intimate. Meaningful, somehow, but Malick couldn't guess at the meaning inside it all. Didn't want to. He didn't move when Fen leaned in again, slowly closed his eyes, slid his hand up to cup Malick's cheek and replaced his fingertips with his lips again—light and sweet and warm, and so... private. Profound, maybe.

People's mouths didn't have their own special taste, not like sentimental saps would wax. People tended to taste like what they'd last consumed. Fen tasted medicinal, like the cherry liquor laced with poppy and myrrh and cloves that Malick had last coaxed him to drink through semiconsciousness, and yet still....

It did things inside Malick's chest, took hold and turned everything on its head. Nothing sexual about it, no heavy, panting breaths or rise in libido. Only the soft intimacy, the warmth, the strange comfort, when he hadn't even suspected he needed comforting.

He didn't protest when Fen pulled back, only opened his eyes, kept his foot wedged beneath Fen's calf, ignored Joori's voice in his head that wanted to know if he really had to, and kept looking. Waited.

"My mother wasn't here,” Fen finally whispered, gaze a little sad, perhaps, but clear enough, considering, and steady. “Was she?"

It should have sounded a little bit insane, or at least strangely random, but Malick had been privy to quite a lot of things he perhaps shouldn't have been. He knew what Fen was talking about. He'd known what Fen was talking about since the first spate of vitriol and madness had come spiking from his tongue as he'd thrown himself at Shig.

Malick gave his head a minute shake, reached up and took hold of Fen's hand against his cheek, lightly kissed his palm, and set it to the mattress between them. “No. I'm sorry."

Fen sighed a little, nodded, and looked down. His fingers twitched against Malick's palm, but he didn't pull his hand away.

"How are you feeling?” Malick ventured. He was acting... odd. Too calm, too willing to accept Malick's touch, no snark and no scowls. Kissing him as a greeting, rather than punching him in the jaw for daring to take the liberty of sleeping beside him.

A small shrug was all Fen deigned to answer.

"D'you want something to drink?” Umeia had told Malick that Fen needed to drink a lot, to rebuild and to flush the rest of the infection out of his system. Even that small reminder made Malick's heart clench a little, and he put Umeia and her cruel betrayal firmly out of his mind.

But Fen shook his head, stared at his fingers, Malick's wrapped around them. Smiled. A tiny, reclusive thing, a wary animal poking its head out from its safe little den. Not the bit of a flicker he'd given Samin that first day, not the sly thing he'd trotted out of some half-assed seduction down in the baths—a real smile, a Fen-smile: a tiny, warm curve of the mouth, and a small lightening of the gray eyes that nonetheless seemed staggering in its hints at brilliance, and with no real prompting or work on Malick's part. It should have elated Malick. Instead, it made him uncomfortable. Still too quiet, too... off. Fen wasn't himself, and Malick needed him to be. Wanted him to be.

The poppy in that last elixir, Malick realized with a jolt that shouldn't have stung, but did. He should have twigged first thing, once he'd had a look at Fen's eyes—pupils blown wide inside a circle of indigo-banded gray. None of this was real, and it likely wouldn't stick, once the effects wore off. Good and bad both, Malick supposed. The absurdly alluring vulnerability was like some kind of drug, going straight to Malick's head and blurring thought and sense, but it wasn't what he needed from Fen. Wanted, certainly, but not needed.

He looked so young, when he was all soft and drowsy like this, defenseless without his shield of anger and caged violence about him. Lives uncounted, Umeia had told Malick, but to look at Fen now... fuck, Malick felt absurdly ancient. Unconsciously, his fingers found Fen's braid, wrapped around it loosely.

"They're here?” Fen whispered.

Considering all of the phantoms with whom Fen had been conversing for the past day and a half, Malick should have been unsure about whom he was asking now. And again, he wasn't.

"They're here,” he told Fen quietly. “Safe. They're all asleep now, but they've been wanting to see you."

Fen's eyelids lifted slowly, gaze somber now, the strange little smile gone altogether, and the way he peered at Malick was entirely too intense. He shook his head. “No."

Malick should let it go. He should let Fen hold onto whatever safety to which he thought he was clinging. He should let Fen keep whatever illusions he'd invented in his delirium and break them gently when Fen himself was less breakable.

He should do a lot of things he had no intention of doing. Surrender without fracture—Malick needed it, had to have it.

"Yes,” he whispered, watching as Fen looked down to keep the pain concealed behind his eyes. He squeezed Fen's fingers. “They need to see you. They need to know you're all right.” And they needed to know it before they were carted off to Heldesan, or Malick would never get Joori in the bloody wagon.

"Am I?” Fen snorted, then he shut his eyes with a sigh, lashes like soot fanned out over high cheekbones.

For one reason or another—Malick had stopped trying to rationalize the conflicting emotions Fen's mere presence rose in him—the sight touched a nerve, set it humming. Lashes thick and dark and longer than they needed to be, veiling Fen's eyes, like his scowls and glares tried to veil everything else.

"You won't see them?” Malick kept his voice mild, slightly accusing. “They're your family. All you've got. You're all they've got.” He paused, dropped his voice just a little. “Have you no feelings, Fen?” Pushing. Poking and prodding, stirring embers and hoping to fan them into flames.

Fen was quiet for a long time, mouth set tight and lashes battering against his cheekbones. “Too damned many,” he finally said. Soft. Detached. Fen's eyes opened, piercing. “I wasn't always like this, you know. I was a boy once. I wanted things.” He shut his eyes again. Went silent. Like that said everything.

There was a heavy twist in Malick's chest. He swallowed against it, listened to the rain for a little while and watched Fen's eyelashes flicker minutely as he half dozed. It was strange to imagine Fen as a child, strange to imagine him playing, laughing, hugging his mother, maybe, or even... no, not his father. Malick could imagine Joori doing all of those things, somehow, but not Fen—Malick just couldn't see the residual innocence required to imagine such a thing. Had there ever been innocence for Fen?

"You need to talk to Joori,” Malick told him, almost an order, really, but he shied from it at the last second.

Actually, Malick should talk to Fen first, put his own spin on everything before Joori got his nose wedged in, but.... He wasn't going to. Some games Malick didn't play, wouldn't play, and he'd be damned if he was going to allow that jealous twat to manipulate him. He'd told Joori as much, and Joori had smirked, pushed back the sweaty fringe from Fen's brow while he kept a slant-eyed stare on Malick. Malick rather looked forward to seeing the look on Joori's face when he found out he'd be leaving and losing his intended stranglehold on his brother the day after tomorrow.

"I don't want to see any of them,” Fen whispered, though he managed to push force into it, even for its softness.

Malick imagined he didn't, imagined Fen wouldn't want to see anyone, not for a long time. He'd remember what he'd likely looked like to them the last time they'd seen him, and then he'd double and treble it until he couldn't face them. But Fen needed poking and prodding sometimes, and he needed something to fight for, something to live for.

Malick only hesitated for a second then he leaned in, laid a soft kiss to Fen's brow. “They love you."

Fen didn't open his eyes, didn't flinch or shake his head or clench his teeth. And still, Malick felt like he'd just kicked him when he was down. Too easy to see, now that he knew what he was looking at. Damn Shig, anyway.

"It hurts.” Malick kept his voice soft, but his tone demanding. “Doesn't it?"

"You knew it would,” Fen whispered, his own voice hoarse, shaky.

Malick did, but he was a little surprised to hear Fen admit it.

"It's too heavy,” Fen breathed, almost no sound at all, laced with pain and shame and more guilt than could belong to any one person.

Admittance—I can't do this—and one that Malick never thought he'd hear, never thought Fen was capable of knowing, acknowledging, permitting. And once again, it made everything in his chest tighten and twist.

He wasn't talking to Fen now; he was talking to Jacin. Malick had wanted exactly this, only days ago, and now that he had it, Umeia's voice wanted to crowd into his head, warning, but he wouldn't let it. He knew what he was doing, but the doing was a little harder than he'd thought it would be. He wondered if this great chunk of misery in his chest was what people meant when they talked about broken hearts. A man far too young who'd lost far too much, was in danger of losing even more, losing it all, too many fates yoked to his back, and too much time spent killing—or trying to kill—the emotions needed to deal with it all, and yet still feeling far too much.

He wasn't equipped. It was breaking him.

No. It had already broken him—Malick had watched him shatter—and now Fen was groping about, trying to find all the pieces to put himself back together again, and failing.

"It doesn't have to be,” Malick told him and slipped his hand up to cup Fen's jaw, brushing his thumb lightly over a sharp cheekbone. “This is bigger than you, Fen. You don't have to carry it all yourself."

A tear slipped from the corner of Fen's eye, meandered down the side of his nose. Malick swept it away with his thumb, and then the one that came after it.

"She was wrong,” Fen murmured. “It isn't suicide."

Malick kept his mien neutral—no doubt, no belief—and only hummed a noncommittal, “Hmm.” Because there was a lot Fen didn't know about himself, and Malick knew what a death wish looked like.

"It isn't,” Fen insisted, his voice steadier than it had been, and he finally looked up, met Malick's gaze squarely. “She thinks she can read me, but she can't. She thinks she understands, but she doesn't."

"All right,” Malick said calmly. Because Fen believed what he was saying, even if Malick didn't. “Then why don't you explain it to me?"

Fen looked away again, his brow creasing in mild frustration. “I'll hold up my end,” he told Malick, fingers twitching slightly in Malick's grip, but he didn't pull his hand away. Not exactly an answer to Malick's question, but... maybe Fen thought it was. “I'll kill Asai. As soon as I can walk. I swore it and I will. You can't let Umeia withdraw her oath. You can't."

Ah. Yes, Malick supposed, in a way, it was an answer to his question. But not the whole of it.

"And what happens after that, Fen?” By the way Fen's frown deepened and he lifted his gaze to Malick's, questioning, Malick thought it was quite likely Fen had never thought beyond “Save my family, kill Asai.” Which was more of an answer than Malick thought he really wanted, but it wasn't anything he hadn't already had shoved in his face two nights ago, and then again this morning. “When your mother's put to rest, when your brothers and sister are safe, when Asai is dead—what happens then?"

Fen's mouth opened, but nothing came out of it, and he stared for several long, heavy moments before he looked away again. “I don't know,” he whispered.

"No?” Malick's eyebrows rose a little. “You wanted to save the Jin once. Have you changed your mind?"

A weary snort, and Fen rolled his eyes. “It was shit fed to me that I swallowed because I was in l—” His teeth clenched. “The Jin can't be saved. And if they could, I'm not the one to do it. I'm noth....” He trailed off, looked away again, and paused while he rethought what he was going to say. “I'm no one's savior. I'm Untouchable. Mad. A Ghost."

"And yet I'm touching you,” Malick said softly, squeezing Fen's hand again. “You're the Voice of the Ancestors."

A spark of Fen pushed itself through Jacin's more temperate gaze. “Like I said—mad."

Malick had been waiting for it, gently guiding the conversation to this particular end point, laden with potential. True surrender; complete submission. He needed it, and he needed Fen to give it to him, and it had nothing to do with Malick's own ego this time. It was the only way he was going to be able to save Fen from himself. And strangely, that was right now more important than Umeia's doubts and perfidy, Asai's plots, Yakuli's significance, or even the Balance itself. Malick told himself it was because he needed Fen whole, unbroken, he needed that diamond inside him and he needed it deadly sharp, but Umeia's voice kept trying to break through, and Malick once again clamped his mind down against it.

"You're not,” he said forcefully, “they are. And I can help you.” He pushed himself up on his elbow, disentangled his hand from Fen's and pushed him to his back. Contrarily gentle, Malick laid his hand flat to Fen's scarred chest and pressed his palm in until he felt the rhythmic thump of Fen's heart. “I can help you make sense of it, Fen, but you have to let me."

Like Malick had just punched him in the gut, Fen gasped, eyes shut, like all the pain had just ramped up again, blindsided him. His heart lurched and jolted beneath Malick's palm. “So quiet,” Fen breathed, “I... I don't....” He shook his head, helpless, before his eyes snapped open, narrowed, and his glittering gaze latched onto Malick's, nearly feral.

Bloody hell, he was quick, even in this strange, not-quite-Fen fugue he was in—before Malick even saw him move, Fen's arm had snapped up and his hand had latched onto Malick's nape, dragged him down. The move was too sudden, too importunate. Malick didn't have a chance to even try for leverage; his knee came up to try and brace himself and knocked into Fen's right leg. Malick winced, but Fen didn't even seem to notice, just pushed a harsh, “Please,” into Malick's mouth, hoarse and grating as Fen lifted his head, kissed Malick, rough and desperate.

Malick let him, went with it, allowed his mouth to open, accommodated without reserve or complaint when Fen's tongue pushed in. Groaned a little when Fen's hand gripped a fistful of hair and tugged, pulling Malick in, then twisted himself frantically until his hip pressed into Malick's groin. And when that didn't make Malick pounce him, fuck him into the mattress, Fen tried latching onto Malick through his trousers, except, instead of the rush of lust Fen no doubt intended, a rush of... something else hit Malick instead: anger mixed with a strange sort of hurt he couldn't fathom, and that twist in his chest clenched itself into a tight fist.

Damn it, he ought to give Fen what he was asking for, just to teach him a bloody lesson.

No.

Not like this.

Umeia had lost count at forty-five when she'd stitched up the mangled mess that was Fen's leg—Leu's idiots had taken an actual chunk out of his calf muscle, and miraculous healing or no, it had to still be hurting him—then another twenty or so on his arm, and he'd spent nearly two days in fever-induced delirium. He'd been awake less than half an hour, and already, he was trying to get around Malick by throwing sex at him like he'd throw a dog a bone. Fen had some pretty fucked up ideas about what sex was for, and Malick had no intention of proving him right.

Malick pulled back—and how had he gotten to be the one who was apparently bent on some convoluted idea of honor here?—kept pulling back even as Fen's grip tightened, strengthened, tried to keep him in place. Yanking painfully at Malick's hair and digging his fingers into the sinew and muscle of his neck. Fen's other hand came up, latched onto Malick's shirt, and bunched it into a grip Malick wouldn't have thought Fen capable of, not after how sick he'd been, how weak.

"Please,” Fen said again, too fraught and forlorn, a heavy note of the same despair in his voice that Malick had seen in his eyes for the first time in the middle of the night on a lonely road by the coast.

Every fiber of Malick wanted to answer to it, soothe it, but this wasn't the way, not right now. He used his position, and quite a lot more force than he would have thought, and pressed Fen down into the mattress as gently as he could while still managing to drag himself up and back.

"Fen,” he said, almost a shout, but not quite, “I'm not going to take it from you. I won't take away the quiet."

Bordering on frantic—a pale shadow of how he'd been the other night, but it had the potential to get there—Fen's gaze caromed about, looking for escape, perhaps, then settled quite suddenly on the cupboard beside the bed. Hung there. Stilled. Malick frowned and followed Fen's stare, but all he saw was the lamp and a dead moth lying beneath it.

"Oh,” Fen said, too shaky and stricken with grief, and he... sagged. He turned his head and looked up at Malick. Wary. Disbelieving. His eyes were wet—shameless want and entreaty—and so full of distrustful misery it nearly knocked Malick's breath from him.

"I won't take it from you,” Malick repeated. “Not until you're ready. And when you're ready, I'll give you a way to keep it if you want to, a way for you to choose. But you will have to listen. You will have to let me hear what you hear."

The aching hope that had just begun to unfurl in Fen's gaze curled in on itself, shattered. He shook his head, both hands still clutching at Malick. “Everything's a fucking trade, isn't it?” That familiar rage was sliding into his eyes, but the despondency still had too firm a foothold to let it bloom. “Temshiel, maijin, Balance, like I'm supposed to give a fuck. You'll save them if I kill Asai. You'll give me the quiet if I—” Fen's jaw clenched, chin trembling, and he was too obviously trying desperately to hold back the tears that were running freely from his eyes. “I would've anyway,” he whispered. “I was all right, I didn't know what I was even missing anymore, I'd forgotten what quiet was like, and then you... you... damn you!” His hands tightened again, the one at Malick's nape digging in painfully, and his face twisted in outrage and betrayal. “I would have done it anyway!” he cried, right in Malick's face. “You didn't have to... have to do this to me, I would have—"

"Fen—"

"I don't want to listen anymore.” Strained and raw, and Fen all at once stilled. His grip on Malick loosened, but didn't let go. “I can't.” Intense and just this side of afraid. “You ruined it. If I have to hear it I'll be as mad as they are."

"Not if you let me help you,” Malick told him as gently but persuasively as he could, because if he tried to force this, Fen probably really would lose his mind altogether, and for good this time. Malick shouldn't care, not if Fen still did what Malick needed him to do, but.... “I won't let it happen,” he told Fen. “It won't send you mad. Not if you let me show you.” He took his hand away from Fen's chest, released him, and instead moved it up to rest against Fen's cheek, heartened just a little when Fen's eyes closed and his head turned just the slightest bit into Malick's palm. “You trusted me this far,” he said, brushing his knuckles over Fen's cheek. “Just a little more."

Fen shook his head, huffed a hopeless snort. “I've never trusted you."

It should have pissed Malick off, but it didn't. Because there was a lot Fen didn't know about himself. And Jacin trusted everyone, no matter how they repeatedly gutted him for it.

"D'you even give a shit?” Fen asked, dull and beaten, but not broken. Not broken. “You were supposed to pretend you love me. That was the deal."

So quiet, so thin, like a fine-honed blade slipping through Malick's ribs. He couldn't speak.

"Did you do it on purpose?” Fen pressed, resentment seeping into the soft tone, twisting it harder. “Did you give it to me just so you could take it away? Make me beg so you could refuse?"

Like it had done when Joori had voiced an accusation too similar, it curled anger in Malick's gut, only this time it was laced through with that same odd hurt he'd felt a moment ago, sharper now. Resonant. And he had no idea why.

Not broken. The anger inside Fen's indictment proved it. That was the important thing. Malick repeated that to himself—twice. He should be feeling quite satisfied. He felt rather vile.

"Whose dog are you, Fen?” Malick asked, his tone gentler than the harsh question should merit.

Fen looked away, gaze sliding to the moth's husk again, hollow. Slowly, he let go of both Malick's neck and his shirt, arms flopping bonelessly to the mattress. “Yours,” he breathed. Defeated. Eyes still glued to the dead moth on the cupboard. “Fuck you,” he whispered, but it was dull and flat.

Mine.

Painful to look at, this surrender, but necessary.

Mine, Malick thought, bleak with anger that had no real direction and self-rebuke that most certainly did. Mine.

Somehow, it didn't have the sweet ring to it he'd been imagining.

"I need a wash,” Fen mumbled, the tone just catching the usual cool disdain and annoyance, almost like his normal self, but not quite. Still, it lifted a tiny weight from Malick's chest. “And I need to piss.” The glare Fen turned on Malick somehow brought everything to just outside of right. “Your dog needs a walk."

Not broken.
Mine.

Umeia's voice finally stopped its warning drone in Malick's head, and went silent.

It didn't make Malick smile, but it came damned close.

* * * *

Everything hurt. It seemed like the ghost of every wound he'd ever had was rising up to haunt him. He couldn't recall it ever affecting him this way before. He couldn't recall ever feeling it like this before. Maybe it was because he didn't have the screeching to distract him from it. Maybe it was because he'd never been attacked by a pack of maijin before. Maybe it was because the wounds were scattered, too many, all up and down his leg—and his arm too, now that he was paying attention—when always before there'd been a single, neat pinpoint of near-sanity.

Maybe there was just too much room in his head now, and his mind was trying to fill up all the corners left empty by the quiet.

Jacin shunted a growl to the back of his throat ‘til it strangled itself, and tried not to enjoy the swath of heat all along his back, the steady breaths rhythmically pushing against him, swaying him in a cadence that would probably normally induce sleep, but he'd been doing that for almost two days, and there were things he had to do. His head had been light when Malick had helped him down the hall to the too-small washroom they all shared, and lightheadedness would simply not do. So he'd eaten the noodles and cabbage with broth Malick had told him to eat, drank the tea and cherry elixir Malick had told him to drink, obedient and compliant—all the while keeping a hold, making sure a hold was kept on him, shameless and beyond humiliation by now, personal space apparently a thing of the past and not really missed—and tried not to feel too much like he was the trained dog Malick wouldn't shut up about.

Anyway, what did it matter? He was, apparently, incapable of functioning on his own. Better he be the lackey of a Temshiel than a maijin. For all the good he was currently doing anyone. Quite frankly, he couldn't understand why Malick thought he'd be useful at all. He'd already failed to kill Asai twice, and damn Shig to the suns for exposing those failures so cruelly. But Malick had come through on his promise, Jacin's family was here and safe, and Jacin had every intention of coming through on his. Because if he didn't hold up his end of the bargain....

An involuntary shudder wracked through him—dead hazel eyes and blood matted through tangled gold—and he rode it out, waited for all the flares and throbs of his body to settle back down to their steady sharp hum. Not his pain, that was what this was, why it refused to check itself like it had always done before. It wasn't his, it had been inflicted by someone else, and he'd had no control over it, and somehow, that distinction took it from pain to pain.

There was something profound in there somewhere, but Jacin had no idea what.

Brittle. He felt brittle. Cold, frosted over and breakable.

He opened his eyes, squinting a little against the low-wicked lamplight, gaze going immediately and unwillingly to the dead moth on the cupboard, and again, he had no idea why. He couldn't stop staring at it, like it was supposed to mean something to him, but if it was, he'd forgotten, and anyway, it made him uncomfortable, so it was probably best. He wished he could turn over, but the trip to the toilet had nearly undone him, and he'd been trying his best not to move too much since he'd been dumped back to the mattress with a groan. Anyway, if he turned over, he wouldn't be able to pretend that the body at his back was some nameless, faceless someone who wanted nothing more from him than his presence. He'd be forced to acknowledge that he was actually sleeping with Malick, and liking it, and concede that he was pretty much willing to do anything to keep Malick and what he offered right where he was.

Damn it. If there was anything at all good about a scattered mind and constantly trying to concentrate through too much noise, it was that it only allowed him to focus on one thing at a time, and he'd hardly ever chosen to concentrate on anything that made him uneasy—not unless Beishin had told him to. Now that there was no noise, his own thoughts shrieked just as loudly and made just as much sense.

He'd forgotten how to think like a normal person, that must be it, and every thought brought corresponding emotion with it. He poked and nudged suspiciously at the edges of it all, tried to find focal points inside it, but his mind wouldn't stop running away from him. It was too much.

"You're luckier than you know,” he whispered to the husk of the moth, and he rolled his eyes at himself. No wonder Shig accused him of attempted suicide.

"It isn't suicide,” he told the moth. It wasn't. Not that he had any real attachment to life, but his family did, and there were things he needed to do to make sure they kept hold of it. He couldn't die. He wasn't done yet. And if he died before he'd kept up his end of Malick's bargain, who knew what would happen to them? Temshiel weren't exactly known for their concern for mortals. He believed Malick would ensure their safety—he'd told Jacin tonight that their passage out of Ada was already arranged, thank every god—but if Jacin didn't do what he'd promised, he had no illusions that the bargain would hold. They'd see that his mother was found and her spirit put to rest because Jacin had fulfilled his end of that bargain—he'd joined them, and even thrown in sex as a dubious bonus—but he hadn't fulfilled his end of this one yet. He couldn't die yet. Shig was right about at least that, though he was loath to admit it: dying would be a failure right now, and the worst kind of failure for Joori and Morin and Caidi.

Living is your sacrifice. He remembered that from... somewhere. Probably because it felt so true. It made him tired all over again. He'd do it, though. Like everything else, there was very little choice.

He didn't think he was terribly grieved anymore about Asai. He wasn't even terribly appalled by the fact that he'd rested the fates of everyone he loved on his beishin's death by his own hand, but he couldn't help the fear and doubt. He'd known Asai was responsible from the very beginning. From the moment he'd witnessed him handing over amulets and snarling about “the spirit-bound” and “the earth-bound"—like they weren't even really people. And still, his knives had stayed sheathed when he'd run out into the night, and then again when he'd gone to Asai's with every intention of finally getting a confession out of him—torturing it out of him, if he had to. He was capable, he knew he was capable—he'd gotten Yakuli's name out of Sonji-onna, hadn't he, and he hadn't even really noticed the screams until after, when they wouldn't stop resonating inside his head—and yet, still, he'd twice walked out of Asai's house with no blood on his hands.

He wished he could talk himself into believing it was all the result of maijin magic—he'd never really loved Asai, Asai had just enspelled him, made it so his Ghost was incapable of lifting a hand against him—but magic didn't work on him, he was a void for it, and he had nothing on which to blame his failures but his own weakness.

Your emotions make you weak and foolish, little Ghost.

"Yes,” he whispered to the moth, “I know."

If he could take his knives to them, cut them ruthlessly from his heart, kill them, he would have done it a long time ago.

When have you ever failed at anything

Joori's voice, and Jacin clenched his teeth, hands fisting. He must have tensed because Malick's arm tightened around him for a second before relaxing again, his sleep undisturbed.

Every time you say something like that is another failure, Jacin thought bleakly. Fuck, how have you managed to stay so innocent?

And when had innocence become something to both resent and envy?

The rain lashed against the window. For some reason, it stirred a memory-scent of cherry blossoms, and he imagined them swirling on the wind, making abstract patterns of pink-tinged white, settling over everything like a warm, silent blanket. It comforted him, though he had a vague idea it shouldn't, but he'd apparently just recently become a person who took any comfort that was offered to him, regardless of price, so he ignored the puzzlement and unease.

A creak of floorboards just outside his door made him squint through the gloom, watching as the knob turned silently, and a sliver of slightly brighter light spilled in around the small figure peering in through the crack of the door. He'd been expecting Umeia, though he hadn't yet seen her since he'd woken, which he thought vaguely strange but not enough to spend thought on. He thought he'd have been fractionally happier to see her than he was to see Caidi.

"Jacin?” Caidi whispered, her small, high voice pitched to a low whisper in the dark. “Are you awake?"

He shut his eyes and pretended he wasn't. He couldn't see her, couldn't face her, couldn't face any of them. Didn't they know what he was? An abomination. Who had told him that? And why couldn't they see it? Why did they keep coming back to be shown again? Surely they'd seen enough by now to have learned to cut their losses while they still could.

"Jacin?” Closer now, and a little bit wobbly. Jacin could hear the throttled tears inside it. “I had a bad dream."

Predictably, his heart gave a little twist, because that was the way it always was with Caidi. He remembered her as a chubby little toddler, all golden curls and sunny smiles, and clinging arms around his calves. Giggles and trilling laughter, and bright hazel eyes that he now couldn't help imagining dull and dead. His mind instinctively shied away from it, curled inward, because perhaps if he stopped loving, he'd stop hurting.

Except he couldn't. She'd hardly changed at all—still bright as the suns and constant smiles, and an adoration in her eyes that made him want to howl, and yet he could never look away from her. He had to love her, she wouldn't give him a choice, and there was probably some resentment in there somewhere, but he could never find it.

"Jacin?” she whispered, shaky and small. “Please?"

Jacin sucked in a long breath, braced himself, and opened his eyes. No blood in her hair, no empty eyes that still somehow mocked and accused at the same time. Just a little girl who'd had a bad dream, a doll clutched to her chest and her heart in her eyes.

"Are you all right?” he whispered.

Tears spilled down her full cheeks, and still, she smiled—all wobbly and full of trying—as she took a hesitant step closer. “I had a bad dream."

He didn't ask her what it was about. He didn't think he wanted to know. “Why didn't you climb in with Joori?"

She shrugged, picked at the yellow curls on her doll's head. “He's sleeping on the couch down the hall."

"The couch?” Jacin frowned, but it didn't seem worth trying to decipher. “What about Morin?"

A scowl this time that he couldn't help labeling “adorable,” because it pursed her bow lips and crinkled her brow into much older shapes that looked sweetly incongruous on her little face. “He doesn't let me sleep with him, and anyway, he kicks.” She peered at him with wide eyes—blink... blink... blink—with just the right amount of tears collecting at the corners, and dropped her trilling imp's voice down to a pathetic murmur: “Pleeeeeease?"

Jacin almost laughed. Because Caidi might be sweet and mostly innocent, but she knew exactly what she was doing. She proved it when she grinned as he sighed and lifted the covers, all hints of tears and trembling lips instantly evaporating as she carefully climbed in. The exaggerated care with which she made sure not to bump any of the too-numerous bandages swathed over leg, arm, and torso touched him all unwilling, and that twist for which he couldn't resent her climbed up into his throat.

Malick stirred again, another unconscious squeeze around Jacin's ribs and a soft indecipherable mutter ghosting into his nape, and the warmth at his back and the warmth at his front did things inside him that felt too much like some heretofore unknown and unthought-of rapture. Unaccountably, his eyes filled, and he had to swallow several times to rid his throat of the accumulating lump.

"Have enough room?” he whispered, mostly for his own distraction.

In answer, Caidi burrowed into his chest, the chill porcelain of the doll between them, and pushed her head beneath his chin, like a cat butting at its owner for a thorough stroking. Jacin couldn't help but oblige: his hand lifted all by itself, laid a caress to her hair, fingers idly toying with the wave and curl of individual strands, the twinging it stirred under the bandage on his arm only a faint nuisance.

"Are you better now?” she whispered into his throat, her breath light and warm. “Joori thought you were going to die, I could tell, and anyway, he always worries about everything, but Umeia-onna said you weren't, and Malick-seyh was a little sad this morning, so I worried a little bit, too, but then he said at suppertime that you were getting better really quickly, and he wouldn't let you die, and he's got magic, after all, so I felt better."

All of it said in one breath in a low murmur as her hand crept about until it found his and latched on. Jacin's head was spinning a little, but he found the wit to whisper, “Yes, I'm better now,” even though it felt like a lie, so he amended it with, “I'm not going to die,” and left it there.

"Good,” Caidi breathed, “because I'd miss you, and anyway, who would take care of us then?"

It was like a knife in the chest. “Joori would take care of you.” Said less with soothing assurance for Caidi than desperate shame for himself. Take care of them? Was that what she thought he'd been doing?

"Joori can't kill the monsters like you can,” Caidi told him with a squeeze of her small fingers around his own, rough and callused against the softness of hers.

It was all Jacin could do not to snatch his hand away.

"I wish you could be in my dream,” Caidi went on wistfully. “You could have killed the monsters for me, and then I wouldn't have cried."

She had to shut up. He had to get her to shut up.

"It was just a dream.” He only just kept the tremor from his voice, though he'd tensed again and reminded his body that it was torn up and hurting, so he tried to concentrate on the pain, instead of the things coming out his little sister's mouth.

"Mother always said there's no such thing as ‘just dreams',” Caidi informed him sagely. “She dreamed once that Tai-onna died, and she really did, and Mother said she knew because she'd talked to her ghost in a dream, but Father told her she couldn't say things like that out loud. She dreamed about me once, too, but she said she couldn't tell me what it was because it would be like sealing my fate and it wasn't her place to seal anyone's but her own. D'you want to know what she dreamed about you?"

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

"Caidi....” He couldn't keep the trembling from his voice this time, couldn't help the vibrations running all the way up his body. Malick's arm tightened again, and his breath hitched a little, but he still slept on. It was the only thing for which Jacin was grateful at the moment. “I don't think—"

"She dreamed that you were walking in cherry blossom petals,” she said, warming to it, almost excited. “She said they were as deep as snow, and you were limping, but you were smiling too. She said there was a big wolf walking with you, and it growled at her until you told it not to, and then you hugged her and told her it didn't hurt anymore."

Bloody hell, his mother must have deteriorated steadily over the years if she'd taken to telling her tiny daughter her dreams.

"Caidi, go to sleep.” If his throat wasn't so tight, it would have come out as a bark. This was somehow worse than Shig's rambling accusations.

"But it made her happy, Jacin,” Caidi protested. “And maybe she dreamed about the maijin hurting you, because you were limping, but you told her it didn't hurt anymore, so it must be going to be all—"

"Sleep, Wolf's daughter,” Malick murmured. His hand had come up to rest at Caidi's brow, and Jacin hadn't even noticed, but he didn't chide himself for his lack of attention or his agitation, nor did he snarl at Malick for the liberty. Caidi's chatter abruptly stopped, and her small body sagged into the mattress, rolling slightly into Jacin's chest, limp in deep sleep.

He should be pissed off. He should be outraged, he should be plotting Malick's death for even touching Caidi.

He was relieved. And ashamed because he was relieved, and it all rose again to choke him. You're going to have to listen, Malick had told him, like it was that easy, like he wasn't using different words to say, Your sanity means nothing, not if you want me to keep your family safe, and Jacin hated him for it, but he couldn't make himself do anything about it. This dangerous Temshiel, just like Asai had once done, held Jacin's family's safety in his hands—and more, he held the quiet. And Jacin needed it. Wasn't all of that worth the ragged remains of his soul?

"I....” He couldn't get any words out. He couldn't shove Malick away from him and protect his little sister. He couldn't drag his hand from Caidi's. He couldn't do anything at all but lie there and shake.

"Shh,” said Malick, his hand going from Caidi's smooth brow to Jacin's cheek, stroking lightly, then to the crown of his head and on down his arm, over and over again, skimming over the bandage with gentle fingertips. “I know it hurts,” he whispered, slipping a tender, sleepy kiss just below Jacin's ear that somehow stirred a pleasant shiver while it calmed the tremors. “You don't have to say it, if you don't know how. But it only hurts because you don't know how to be anything but damaged, so you run away from the pure things people offer you until they corner you with love and there's no place to run anymore."

Jacin heard it, but couldn't make any real sense of it. Damaged. He couldn't argue it, but he also couldn't figure out exactly how Malick meant it—it was too broad a term to nail down everything that was wrong with him. Pure? Was Malick trying to say that his own motivations were pure? The Temshiel who'd, without excuse or apology, staked the lives of everyone Jacin had left on his ability to turn on the man he... on Asai?

He had a vague idea that it should piss him off—right, because you know me so well—and he could feel the familiar rage pooling in his gut, almost comforting, but he couldn't take hold of it.

"You can't stand to be content,” Malick went on, gently relentless, “because you don't understand it, and things you don't understand frighten the hell out of you."

Bloody hell, was everyone a fucking oracle?

Jacin's teeth clenched. “I don't—"

"I know you don't,” Malick cut in, stretched a little against Jacin's back and nestled in closer. “That's all right. I'll show you."

"Show me what?” Jacin snapped, too loud, but it didn't make Caidi even twitch, and Malick didn't answer, the steady rise and fall of his chest against Jacin's back speaking sleep, as though the past two minutes hadn't even happened.

Maybe they hadn't. Maybe Jacin was dead after all, and this was what it was like to have been sent to the suns—not the blissful oblivion of nothing at all, but enforced life that you couldn't make sense of, but went on and on and on. Maybe Shig had driven him completely insane and this was all the twisted conjuring of his own sick, guilty mind. Maybe he was still unconscious and delirious and he was lying on the road in Asai's lands in the rain, the torn corpses of everyone he loved scattered about him.

Maybe he was wounded and sick and exhausted, and living with silence for the first time in years. Maybe this was what sanity was like, and he'd just forgotten.

"If this is what sanity's like,” he muttered bleakly, cutting his gaze up to the cupboard, the corpse of the moth lying just like it had done since he'd opened his eyes, “I think I retract my wish for it."

"Too late now,” Malick murmured, making Jacin jump.

A growl rolled up Jacin's throat and he let it come. “Bite me,” he muttered. He hunched down over Caidi and buried his nose in golden curls. Ignoring Malick's snort, Jacin glared at the moth for a few unsatisfying seconds then gave up and willfully shut his eyes, imagined a blizzard of cherry blossom petals, and threw himself at sleep.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Four

The rain, Samin decided as he stared moodily out his small window, was only making things worse. And if there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was that things could always get worse.

"Bloody hell,” he muttered irritably, and buttoned his shirt with perhaps a little more force than was good for it.

There was only so much Samin could take, and he rather suspected he was reaching his limit, if he hadn't already. He couldn't tell. There was too much to take into consideration.

The revelation that he'd been working for a Temshiel all these years had been a little bit staggering, certainly, but Malick was still Malick, and it rather put some things Samin hadn't really thought about before into perspective. That icy look Malick could get sometimes, like all his emotions had just dried up and he could kill you without giving it a second thought, regardless of the years and experiences between you. How they'd all walked away from all of their jobs over the years without serious damage, even those they shouldn't have walked away from at all. How Samin had only rarely seen Malick use magic, but when he had, it had been a different sort every time, like he had every kind there was, and Samin had never been able to pin down exactly what Malick was—spirit-bound, earth-bound, elemental-bound... apparently, Malick could do it all. It all made sense, now, once you added in the word Temshiel, and it had clicked in Samin's head almost audibly when it had come out that crone's mouth.

Unexpected, certainly, but then Samin had been more or less making an effort not to see it, so it hadn't been shocking.

Lord Asai a maijin? That had been shocking, but again, it had put Fen's apparent past with him somewhat into perspective. Samin couldn't exactly blame the lad for getting as deeply entangled as it seemed he'd done, not when the man entangling him was centuries old and made to manipulate. It made Samin glad that Malick hadn't allowed him to kill Fen that first night in the alley. He liked to think his kills were morally justified ones, that he served the gods in some way by doing what he did. Killing Fen for what had been made of him, what he'd been duped into being, would have been an injustice, and Samin didn't need any more black marks on his soul. Anyway, he truly liked Fen, which had made the business of the other night actually hurt, and Samin hadn't thought that possible.

Now, the business of the other night—getting attacked by a pack of not-wolf maijin, and then watching Shig drive Fen into some kind of mental break... that was pushing things. Samin had worried that first night they'd taken Fen in the alley that Fen had the potential to be a real danger to Malick. Now he thought perhaps Malick was the bigger danger to Fen, and that if Fen one of these days put a knife through Malick's heart, it would be because Malick deserved it.

Samin's jaw clenched, and he dragged on his belt, slapped it through its clasp, and buckled it.

And yet, none of the recent events and revelations had shaken Samin's resolve to see it all through. What he'd seen at Yakuli's had, if not shaken it, at least wobbled it a little. Warhorses, gates and guard towers, barracks, and... more barracks. Something more was there, something big, Samin knew it, but he couldn't set it in its proper shape in his mind. And Shig's reaction... that had shaken him. She knew a hell of a lot more than she was saying, and everyone else was too preoccupied to notice. Malick was more obsessed with Fen than usual, Yori was so sickeningly smitten with Joori that Samin had taken to avoiding them both, and Umeia....

Fuck.

Samin pushed himself away from the window, quit the room, and stalked down the hall to the common room. It was Shig and Yori's turn to bring up breakfast, and he saw when he got there that they'd already done so, everyone already seated and digging in.

Caidi called a cheery, “G'morning, Samin-seyh!” to him when he entered, even though he'd told her at least two dozen times to leave off the “seyh,” but he couldn't help but smile back at her. He nodded at the more subdued greetings from the others, his gaze turning to Shig, not at all surprised when he noted that she was looking at him expectantly and hadn't even bothered to fill her plate yet. And he hadn't even known he was going to do this until ten minutes ago.

"Ready when you are,” Shig said.

Samin almost sighed, but kept it in, giving Shig a nod as he stepped in to pour himself a cup of tea to take with him. “Anyone take them breakfast yet?” He kept his eyes on his hands as he added the honey and stirred, but he would have to have been blind to have missed the abrupt tension in the set of Joori's shoulders.

"I was hoping—"

"You will,” Samin interrupted. “Shig and I have some business to discuss first, but you have my word that you will not be kept from your brother today.” Samin didn't give a shit what Malick's reasons were for keeping Joori at bay. It wasn't right, and Samin had had enough.

Joori subsided—perhaps a little confused but willing to accept the promise—but now Yori had turned suspicious. “What business?” she wanted to know.

"Business we can't discuss here.” Samin shunted a pointed look around the table, again a little thrown by Caidi's sudden but very sincere smile when he caught her eye. Save him, she was so bloody cute, and always happy to see him. If Malick was half as smitten with Fen as Samin was with Caidi, they were probably all in some very deep shit.

Yori half stood. “Should I—?"

"No.” Samin turned the remnants of the smile Caidi had raised on his face to Yori, and then darted a quick look at Joori. Winked. “You keep everyone else company, yeah? We'll fill you in later."

Yori subsided with a slight blush, which Samin had known she would. All the better. With things out of kilter between Malick and Umeia... well, he didn't know. Yori had been circumspect enough not to tell Joori yet that they'd found his mother—there would have been a hell of a scene already if she had, Samin had no doubt—but if she took up for Umeia in whatever this falling-out had been... Samin didn't like the thought that loyalties might now be in question, but Yori had always been Umeia's devotee, and her new involvement with Fen's brother might end up being more compromising than Samin would have even thought to consider a few days ago. Best he leave this one up to Malick.

Anyway, Yori didn't seem to mind the slight. She didn't even seem to realize there'd been one. If Samin was not very much mistaken, she and Joori were actually holding hands under the table. Samin rolled his eyes. Apparently, regular sex made one's brain go all slushy. Then again, that was hardly a revelation—look at Malick.

"Ready?” Samin grumbled at Shig.

Shig merely gave him that faraway smile that made his teeth want to clench, tossed an oblate absently from hand to hand, and gestured to the tray at the end of the table. Two covered dishes, two teabowls and a teapot, with all the necessary trappings. Samin tried not to see it as further evidence that Shig was at least one step ahead of him in everything. He merely bit his lip and took up the tray, sparing a nod all around as Shig sauntered past him and down the hall.

"Bye, Samin-seyh!” Caidi chirped.

Samin merely grunted and followed Shig down the hall to Fen's door. She didn't pause for the courtesy of a knock, but flung the door open and turned to Samin, tossed the oblate lightly in the air and caught it with a small shrug. The eerie little smile she'd been sporting tweaked just slightly ‘til it took on a hint of malice.

"Hey!” Malick's voice, still a little sleep-scratchy. “Don't you people bloody knock?” He cursed low and grumbled, “How'd you get over there?” somewhat thick and befuddled.

Samin didn't think that last was directed at him or Shig, but he couldn't tell yet—Shig was still semi-blocking his way. Samin lifted an eyebrow at her. He really wasn't in the mood for her games this morning, and they were games, he knew now. The other night on the road had been too carefully calculated for her to not have known what she was doing. She'd only been heeding the spirits, she'd told Samin later, like she didn't give the slightest fuck if he believed her or not, which he didn't, not anymore. “Heeding the spirits” Samin's great ass, and even if she was, a person just didn't do the sort of thing she'd done to Fen, and especially not to one of their own. It was things like that—the abuse of what some called a “gift"—that made Samin hate the idea of magic.

"Don't look at me,” Shig told Samin, tossed and caught the oblate again like she was a child playing with a ball. “This one's all on you.” She leaned up, lowered her voice so she was almost whispering in his ear. “Who d'you think will be left to deal with the afters? Shall we take bets?"

Too cryptic as usual, and she got far too much enjoyment out of it, like she always did. Things that, perhaps a week ago, Samin had thought a little unnerving but mostly cute and “just Shig” were suddenly grating on his nerves like sandpaper on sunburn. His jaw set tight. If his hands weren't so full, he might've hit her. All right, no, he wouldn't have. But he might have clenched his fists threateningly. Or growled. Or something. “Out of the way,” was all he rumbled, and when Shig pushed the door wider and stepped aside, Samin gave her a glare as he passed her that was thoroughly unsatisfying. His expression was probably fairly thunderous as he stalked in—not the best sight to greet one in the morning, Samin knew, and especially on a face like his—but he didn't care.

Samin peered over at the bed, surprised that Malick was the one in it, and that he was in it alone. Fen sat slumped in the chair beside it, thick-bandaged leg set stiffly in front of him, but Samin noted that he was extended far enough that his toes remained in contact with Malick's hip as Malick dragged himself up against the pillows and blinked at them blearily. Malick was fully dressed but for his boots, but Fen was clad only in linen drawers and an open tunic that exposed the swathes of bandages about his torso, but hid the one Samin knew had to be around his right arm. Samin had watched one of those things latch onto Fen's arm and shake its head like a rat terrier, and he'd watched Fen snatch his arm out of the clamped jaws without much apparent concern that he was leaving chunks of meat behind.

"You're looking better,” Samin said, a little embarrassed for the obvious lie, but it was what you were supposed to say to people in situations like this one, wasn't it? You look better, and, You've got some color to you, and all sorts of other polite propaganda. Certainly not, Fuck's sake, I can almost see through your skin, or, You shouldn't be sitting up like that; your head looks like it's too heavy and might fall through your neck and crush the rest of you. Still, Fen did actually look better than Samin had been expecting him to. Samin cleared his throat and kept himself from shuffling his feet uncomfortably. “More color to you,” he finished lamely.

Mostly true. Fen still looked halfway ghastly, but his hair was neater than two days of bed would have indicated, at least. Not washed, but combed and braided as efficiently and tidily as always.

Fen didn't answer, didn't even spare Samin a glance. His eyes were nailed to Shig, all narrow and murderously hostile, but with a glint of fear beneath the glare. Samin understood and was immediately sorry for it, but he'd had no choice—Malick wouldn't leave the room, and this couldn't wait anymore.

Samin set the tray on the edge of the bed, lifted the cover on one of the plates, and shoved it at Malick. The other made him pause—a neat mound of rice in the center, a bowl of broth to one side and a slice of bread with honey on the other. A soft chirp of a whistle from Shig, and when Samin looked over, she tossed him the oblate she'd been playing with. Samin didn't know who'd filled the tray for Fen, but for some reason, he suspected it was Shig, and the incongruity of the thoughtfulness of the gesture threw him a little. Samin pursed his lips, then poured Fen some tea and carried it and Fen's breakfast over to him. The tea Samin set on the little bedside cupboard, within easy reach, but the rest he set right in Fen's lap, purposely blocking Fen's line of sight to Shig. Samin waited until Fen slid a slow glance upward at him.

"Eat,” Samin commanded. He was still trying to out-glare Fen into compliance when Malick spoke up behind him:

"Shig, I need you to go down to Umeia's room and get me something."

Samin turned around, frowning. “We're here for a reason, Mal, I think—"

"Yeah, I gathered,” Malick cut in, sardonic. “And you'll have your say, but I need this first.” He turned back to Shig. “Umeia's got a ring in the little black-lacquered chest she's got on her vanity. It's got a diamond, set in a—"

"Umeia's got a diamond?” Samin couldn't help but blurt. He knew the Girou made a lot of money, but a diamond.

"Yeah,” Malick answered, shrugging absently, then he turned back to Shig. “Two, actually, but the one I want is a man's ring. It's got a thick gold band and the diamond is set in a bed of onyx. You'll know it when you see it.” He made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Quickly, please, I've got to piss."

Samin had no idea what one had to do with the other, but Shig didn't question it. With a shrug, she turned for the door. “And what shall I say if Umeia—?"

"She won't,” Malick cut in, voice abruptly flat. “Anyway, it's mine. Do it now."

Oddly, Shig snorted as she continued on her way to the door and quietly let herself out.

Samin turned to Fen. “I promised Joori he could come see you after we're done."

He'd expected an objection from Malick, but there wasn't one, just a sideways glance at Fen then a lift of the eyebrows at Samin. Nothing at all from Fen but absent picking at the rind of the oblate. His head was bowed, stringy fringe hanging over his eyes.

"They should all come see him when we're done,” Malick put in after a moment, that same sideways glance turned on Fen, watching, but there was still nothing from Fen. Malick sighed, hand absently moving down to settle over Fen's foot next to his hip as he gave Samin a bit of a grimace and a shrug. “They're leaving tomorrow."

Samin's mouth tightened. “And they don't know it yet.” It wasn't a question; more like an accusation.

"No,” Malick said tersely, gaze unflinching as he met Samin's.

"Damn it, Mal.” Samin turned a look on Fen again, but Fen seemed perfectly content to just slouch in the ugly chair and make cross-hatch scores in the rind of the oblate with his thumbnail. “Umeia's taking them.” That explained her apparent upcoming trip, at least.

"Yes,” Malick confirmed, voice flat, borderline hostile.

It made Samin's gut curl a little. “Are you going to tell me what happened?” More to the point: did Samin really want to know?

Malick scraped a hand roughly through his hair. With a weary sigh, he set his untouched breakfast to the side and leaned forward to pour himself a bowl of tea from the tray at the foot of the bed. “A long time ago....” His mouth pursed and he sat back, took a quick sip of tea, hand going once again to settle over Fen's foot. “A very long time ago,” he amended, “Asai managed to get hold of Temshiel Blood. The circumstances matter, but I'm not in the mood to go into them now. The long and short of it is that he's been using that Blood to make amulets for the Adan hunters. The Temshiel who....” Malick paused, teeth clenched. “...who donated the Blood was a Null. Like me.” He shot a glance at Fen, and when Fen just sat there, head down, fingernail still working steadily on the oblate, Malick shook his head a little and turned back to Samin. “With the right spells, the amulets can take away the magic of another. It's how the hunters can snatch their victims without getting set on fire or buried in a sudden earthquake."

Samin frowned. He'd always wondered how the Jin who fell to the hunters had done so without much resistance that he'd ever seen. Like most things, he hadn't wondered too deeply, and a flush now burned at his face as he realized he'd more or less written it off to innate weakness in the Jin. He flashed a discomfited glance at Fen, but Fen was still enraptured by the fruit.

"Asai,” Malick went on, tone cooling a little, “is apparently not satisfied with the power in his hands. He wants more. He intends to get himself Heart's Blood from a Temshiel.” He shot another glance at Fen then back to Samin, his gaze steady. “Fen was supposed to get it for him."

Samin's eyes narrowed. Heart's Blood. Not something one could bleed from another's veins, not if it was what it sounded like. “How—?"

"From a Temshiel's still-beating heart."

It rather confirmed the grisly picture that had been forming unwilling in Samin's mind. That Xari had almost said as much just the other day, but Samin had hoped maybe it was some kind of maudlin euphemism. Samin couldn't help the grimace.

"He wasn't told who he was supposed to kill,” Malick put in, his tone patient, almost gentle. “He was told only that playing the part Asai instructed him to play would save the Jin."

All right. Now the strange conversation between Malick and that crone made a whole lot more sense. Take the power of the Temshiel and Asai would set himself up as a demigod—that was the conclusion drawn then, and it seemed the most reasonable, Samin supposed. But now the situation at Yakuli's made even less sense.

"Asai must've seen that it wouldn't work,” Samin mused, trying to wend through the maze of the circumstances presented. “If Yakuli is his man, Asai must have foreseen something that would make him start building that army he's got. It's not a new thing. What Yakuli's got going on out there has been going on for a long time."

There it was again, fizzing at the base of Samin's spine. There was something too wrong about it all, but he just couldn't lay hands on it.

"You're assuming that Yakuli is his man,” Fen put in quietly, lifting his head for the first time since Samin had come in. “What if Asai is Yakuli's man? What if Asai's sight has been blocked, and he doesn't know anything about it?"

Samin frowned at Malick. “Is that possible?"

"If Yakuli's got enough spirit-bounds covering his footprints in Fate,” Malick said slowly, eyes pinned to Fen.

Fen's gaze snapped over to Malick, narrowed. “The man who... who came to Asai for amulets.” His voice was a near-whisper and somewhat hoarse. His fingers tightened about the oblate until pink juice ran between the fissures in the skin he'd made with his fingernail. “He was on horseback. And he spoke to Asai like he was a servant."

"Or like he thought Asai was his servant,” Malick put in. “If Yakuli thinks Asai works for him, believe me, Asai's got a reason for it. Asai serves no one, not even the gods, unless he absolutely has to."

Fen took this in silently, and with no outward reaction. His hollow gaze dipped down to the oblate in his hands for a long moment, unseeing, then shifted slowly to Samin. “What did you see at Yakuli's?"

Was my mother there? It was what the question really meant, and Samin peered at Malick, waiting for direction. Malick gave him a slight nod that only made Samin's throat go a little dry. Damn it, why did people keep giving Samin meaningful looks, like he had any say in any of this?

"Shig said she's there,” Samin told Fen gently. He paused while Fen's eyes squeezed shut and his hands tightened, pulverizing the oblate into a sticky mash of pulp and peel, then cleared his throat. “I'm not sure how she knows, but she was damned sure."

Malick sucked in a long breath, shrugged, and waved at the door. “She's hovering outside in the hall. I suppose we should let her tell us."

His eyes cut over to Samin's, unreadable, before shifting back to the door just as Shig turned the knob and stepped through. Samin wasn't sure he'd ever actually seen Shig look uncomfortable before, but by the hard look Malick was pointing at her, and the way her gaze looked all too knowing, if a little ashamed, Samin suspected she'd just been caught “listening,” and Malick knew it, and Shig knew Malick knew it.

Her guilty shrug and soft voice all but confirmed it: “I know what her spirit tastes like,” she said softly.

It startled Samin. He whipped around and met her green gaze, frowning. Her eyes went to Fen, though Fen missed the genuine sympathy in them, because he wouldn't look up.

"It's in your own Blood,” she told Fen. “She tastes like you."

Samin couldn't help the way his mouth twisted. “You've tasted Fen's blood?” The revulsion was no doubt in his voice, and he couldn't suppress the shudder.

Shig ignored him, still gazing at Fen with that soft sympathy, so at odds with the way she'd been behaving just lately. “Shall I tell you what she—?"

"No!” Fen's jaw was clenched, but even that couldn't stop it quivering. Then, low and shaky: “Yes.” He shook his head. “I... I don't know."

Lips pursed and brow twisted in compassion, Shig stepped slowly over to the bed, though she didn't round it to stand near Fen. Instead, she stepped up to Malick, held out her hand, and when he lifted his own, palm-up, she dropped a thick, glittering ring into his palm. “Umeia didn't say anything."

Malick's mouth tightened. “I didn't expect her to."

Samin again wanted to ask what was going on between Malick and Umeia, but it seemed like it wasn't the right time, so he waited for whatever Shig's newest drama was to play out. Shig crouched down, leaned an elbow on the side of the mattress, and leveled her gaze with Fen, though Fen refused to look up. All Samin could see was the lank fringe, the tip of his nose, and the rigid set of his jaw.

"I won't say unless you ask it,” Shig said softly. “It's yours to choose."

Fen's gaze finally jerked up, all bitter enmity. “Since when has what I wanted meant a damn to you?"

"Since always,” Shig answered simply. She leaned in, right over Malick's knees, like Malick wasn't even there anymore. Samin had the uncomfortable notion that he and Malick had just gone completely invisible. “You don't want to know, but you have to, yeah?” She shook her head. “Poor Fen."

Almost condescending, but... not. Still, it made Samin uneasy, like he should be coming to Fen's defense for something he didn't even really understand yet. Malick caught his eye, intent, and gave one minute shake of his head.

"Fen?” Malick asked, calm and mild. No prodding for one answer or another. Only genuine concern and the desire to know what Fen chose.

Fen said nothing, just stared at Shig, stone-faced. Shig seemed to think she understood what it meant, because she gave Fen that sad smile she'd been flashing about recently, said, “Maybe later, yeah? After Mal's done what he should've done days ago."

Malick glared, jerked up his knee, and knocked Shig off him. “You can be a real bitch sometimes, you know that?"

Shig blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “And you can be a lazy, stubborn bastard when there's something in it for you.” She turned her glance to Fen. “You can't ever trust him all the way,” she confided, earnest now. “He could've given it to you when you made your promise, but he had his reasons for waiting."

"Yeah,” Malick grated, “I did, so why don't you just shut the fuck up, if you're not going to say anything helpful?"

Fen was staring, like he wasn't quite tracking everything they were saying, or what it might mean, but he didn't open his mouth to ask. Samin wasn't quite getting it either, but there was a time for restraint and now was not it. “Give him what?” he asked.

Shig smirked at Malick, and when Malick glared at her, she opened her eyes wide, mimed shutting her mouth with lock and key, and sat back on her heels on the floor. Malick's fists were both clenched as tight as his jaw, but when he turned back to Fen, he made a visible effort at relaxing.

He held the ring up so the diamond gleamed in the lamplight, its bed of onyx giving it the relief it needed to practically dazzle the eye. Faceted prisms and glittering depths—beautiful.

"See that?” Malick asked, and just like Shig a minute ago, it was like he saw only Fen, and everyone else had faded from view. “The flaw in the center—look deep.” He reached out, snatched up Fen's hand, turned it over, and dropped the ring into his palm.

Fen was frowning, his gaze wary as he took the ring, but he did as Malick told him to: he held it up in front of the lamp. “It isn't a flaw,” he said slowly.

"No, it isn't,” Malick confirmed. “It's my Blood. I don't give it lightly. This is how Skel damned himself. One talisman, one person who we must choose very carefully.” He waved his hand at Fen. “Wear it, if you like, or keep it in a pocket. It's not as strong as touch, but it'll keep things quieter than what you can do yourself with the pain. It's yours for as long as our bargain stands, and if you keep your end, it's yours for as long as you want it.” He slanted a harsh glower at Shig. “Happy now?"

Shig shrugged, lifted an eyebrow. “Well, I'm not done yet, am I?"

"Gods on their moons.” Samin sighed and threw up his hands. “Can someone speak plainly for once? What the fuck is she not done with? What the fuck is going on with you and Umeia? What the fuck are we going to do about Yakuli and Fen's mother, and what the fuck are we going to do about Asai?"

Malick sat back against the headboard, flicked another sour glance at Shig, then turned to Samin. “She's not done because I want her here when Fen lets me hear the Ancestors.” Fen stiffened a little at that, but Malick didn't pause. “Umeia decided that Asai may have a point in what he's been plotting. I disagreed. Therefore, she is no longer welcome here.” He opened a hand when Samin let a gasp slip loose. “She's taking Morin and Caidi and Joori to Heldesan in the morning, and she's not coming back.” A slight hesitation, his gaze going again to Fen, softer this time. “It's Fen's to decide about his mother, and I have to think a bit more about Yakuli. As far as Asai....” Malick shrugged and waved a hand at Fen. “Fen has agreed to take care of him for me."

Samin eyed Fen dubiously. Not that he had any doubt Fen was skilled enough, but... he didn't look like he was entirely capable, at the moment. There were more bandages showing than there was skin, after all, and the other night.... Well, it was still fresh and somehow terribly raw.

Fen wasn't even listening, really—his eyes had been riveted to the ring since Malick had dropped it in his palm, and now he was slowly inching his foot away from Malick, the ring held in white-tipped fingers and face screwed up in skeptical hope. A long, bracing breath preceded the complete removal of contact, and Fen's eyes shut tight as he went still, breath held. Samin wasn't the only one staring; Malick and Shig had both turned to watch, their expressions remarkably similar—hopeful but nearly as cautious as Fen's own.

It was almost as though a great, silent sigh went through the room when Fen let his pent-up breath out in a gust, closed his fist tight over the ring and sank back into the chair. Relief. Profound relief. It lumped something thick and mushy in Samin's throat, so he cleared it.

All right, then. It seemed a crisis of sanity had been avoided for a change, rather than plowed into or exacerbated apurpose. Samin couldn't help but approve. But it seemed he now had more questions than when he'd walked in. The thing with Umeia was disturbing, but at the moment, not tactically significant. The thing with Yakuli, though....

"Shig?” Samin said, rather hoping she just knew, like it seemed she'd known all morning, what he was going to say or do before he did. But when she merely blinked at him—almost sly and challenging—Samin sucked in a long, calming breath and turned his gaze to Malick instead. “She knows more about Yakuli than what she's telling.” He shot a glance at Shig again, expecting perhaps pique or a roll of the eyes, but she was still just gazing at him calmly.

"Yeah,” she admitted with a casual shrug. “But you saw more than you want to say out loud. You don't want to be the one who makes it true. I don't know any more than what you've already figured. You just don't want to have to be the one to say it."

Samin was caught between a flush of embarrassment and anger. Because it wasn't anything that was at the top of his mind, even though he'd been pawing at it since last night, but as soon as it came out Shig's mouth, he knew it was true. He knew what had been bothering him about those barracks. And damn it, he really didn't like it that someone else could know better what was in his head than he did.

"Fine,” he snapped, turning a narrow gaze on Malick. “There was a set of barracks on the southern end of the estate. Enough to house two hundred men, at least. They were normal enough—the little I saw through the windows was standard military. Bunks and trunks and the usual. But there was another row of barracks to the west.” Samin paused, swallowed. Shig was right: he didn't want to have to say this, and especially not with Fen in the room.

"You already told me this,” Malick prompted into the silence.

Samin had. And had wondered at the time why Malick had questioned him so intensely about what Samin had thought very small, unimportant matters in the scheme of all the bigger observations, but Samin hadn't made the connection to the barracks before. Possibly deliberately hadn't made the connection because he hadn't wanted to know. And he'd just assumed Malick would question Shig, or Shig would volunteer what she knew, and what needed to happen would happen. Except Malick hadn't questioned Shig. And Shig hadn't volunteered. Like they were each waiting for the other to say something both of them already knew.

Samin nodded. “I didn't mention that they had no windows,” he said slowly. “It didn't seem important last night, I didn't really think much of it, except to estimate a count, but... well, and I couldn't get a look in. Yori was going to give sneaking past the guard a go, but Shig wouldn't let her."

"Too many charms,” Shig put in quietly. “They would have caught her.” She turned her gaze to Malick, sharp and fully “here” now. “There was too much magic flying about for me to be able to protect her."

Malick's eyes had gone narrow and distant: that detached look he got when he wasn't pretending he wasn't too smart for anyone's good. “How much magic? And what kind?"

"It's funny you never felt it, huh?” Shig said softly, no taunting this time, and none of her games, and the real meaning of it—just outside the reach of Samin's too-practical grasp—made ghost fingers crawl up Samin's backbone. “How d'you suppose anyone could hide all that magic from Temshiel?"

Fen had been removed enough from what was going on around him as to almost not be there at all. Now his eyes opened, narrowed on Malick, and his slouched posture had gone stiff and alert.

Malick didn't answer Shig's question. He met Fen's gaze somberly, all too knowing, and turned his glance slowly back to Samin, pinned him. “Samin?"

Samin's throat had gone a little tight. It was the look on Malick's face; it was what Samin was going to have to say next; it was the fact that Malick's expression seemed to imply that perhaps he already knew what it was.

"I think they were prisoner barracks,” Samin said, palms gone sweaty and heart skipping beats all over the place. “I think perhaps we know now what's happened to all the Jin who've been Disappeared."

How could anyone keep something this big from Temshiel? Shig had speculated. Samin was fairly certain they couldn't. Not Wolf's Temshiel, and not in his own Cycle. Which left the disconcerting, quite frightening conclusion: Wolf's Temshiel had known. And apparently done nothing.

* * * *

Joori skulked down the hallway, already aware that this had been a bad idea, but he didn't really have much choice in the matter. He'd already exposed himself, though the boy from whom he'd asked directions had seemed pleasant enough and unlikely to go running off for the Doujou or anything. By the way he'd talked, he'd assumed Joori to be a “new boy” and amiably pointed to the door Joori wanted then went on his way, clad only in a long, silky robe, completely unselfconscious.

Joori didn't think he could ever get used to a place like this.

He stood in the doorway, contemplating the veracity of what he planned to do. So far as “planned” went, anyway, which was to basically posture and bluff and demand, and pretend he knew more than he actually did. Not the best “plan” ever, but Joori was pretty new at this sort of thing. And if it didn't work....

He tightened his jaw. If it didn't work, he'd likely end up doing exactly what bloody Malick was so dead-set against him doing, which really would be a betrayal to Jacin in a way, but he'd rather save Jacin by betrayal than allow him to sacrifice himself for reasons that weren't even real. Which was likely why bloody Malick was so eager to be rid of Joori, and Joori would be damned if he'd just bow his head and say, Yes, seyh, like a good little Jin. Because he knew he'd never see Jacin again if he did.

Jacin wasn't going to go. Jacin had never had any intention of going. Jacin had always meant to put Joori and Caidi and Morin on that caravan and wave them goodbye. And these people were going to be all too happy to help him do it. Even Yori, and strangely, that one hurt.

Joori wasn't a fool—they'd had sex, not sworn their undying devotion. Yori killed people for a living, and what was more, she liked it. He'd never slept with anyone before who could probably snap his neck in the throes of orgasm with a flick of her wrist, and strangely, he found it bizarrely arousing in a way he probably never wanted to scrutinize. He'd never met a woman who could be so scary and so... womanly. He could love her very easily, and he knew she liked him—she sought him out most of the time, and it wasn't for any kind of distraction so he wouldn't realize what they were all up to. She liked him, she wanted to be with him.

Which made the duplicity hurt.

He expected it from Jacin. Jacin would lie, cheat, steal and sell his soul to keep them safe. Joori hadn't needed bloody Malick to tell him that. But in all that lying and cheating and stealing and soul-selling, Jacin never stopped to consider himself—he needed Joori for that, because bloody Malick certainly wasn't going to do something to protect “his dog” unless it directly benefited his own goals... whatever they might be. Right now, it seemed to Joori that Malick's goals were nothing more than vengeance for some past wrong, and bedding Jacin.

Joori didn't know exactly what Asai had done to his brother in the years he'd had him, but it was clear that Jacin's mind and heart had been twisted around the bastard somehow. Jacin was very good at what he did—Joori had seen that up close the night his brother had taken on two Adan hunters and five of the Doujou, and walked away from it with everyone else's blood on his face and his hands—but he doubted very sincerely that bloody Malick would ever understand just how firmly Jacin's heart ruled him. A man who had very little unencumbered access to his own mind had little other choice. And if Asai ruled Jacin's heart, Asai ruled Jacin.

It pierced Joori to think it, to know it, but Shig, the flighty bitch, had been right: Jacin would go to Asai, and he'd go armed and willing, but he'd be going to Asai to die. And bloody Malick either wouldn't admit it, or wouldn't see it at all.

Joori's options were limited, and he knew it. They were all basically helpless to these people, caught as they were in the heart of Ada and with only fake papers that proclaimed them Umeia's “property” to protect them. And Joori had no illusions that he could get through to Jacin. There was no one in the world more single-minded than his brother once he'd narrowed his focus to a specific goal. Jacin's goal right now was to get them all out of Ada then go to Asai and accept his end, and he wouldn't hear Joori's arguments or pleas. Joori had to accept it as simply the way Jacin showed his love, but he didn't have to accept it as the only option.

He squared his shoulders and raised his arm to knock on Umeia's door. It swung open before he'd had a chance to even curl his hand into a fist.

"Done hovering, then, are you?” Umeia's expression was wry, eyes weary.

He shouldn't really be surprised that she'd known. It was only that he'd never been around people who used magic so relatively openly before.

Joori chewed his lip and tucked his hands at the small of his back. He gave Umeia a quick bow of his head. “I—"

"Yes, yes, I know,” Umeia said. She crooked a cockeyed smirk and pulled the door open wider, then gestured Joori through. “In. Before someone else sees you."

He didn't even think twice, just obeyed, stepping past her and into her rooms. He was tempted to goggle a little—quite a lot more plush than anywhere he'd seen before—but didn't like the idea of exposing himself as the green provincial he knew he was. They already thought him dim, apparently. Joori saw no reason to bolster their opinions.

"Where does Malick think you are?” Umeia asked bluntly.

"I don't think he cares.” Joori shrugged. “He's been holed up in my brother's room and throwing me out every chance he gets. I've not been let in since Jacin woke.” He couldn't help the way his teeth clenched as he said it.

"And Yori?"

That made Joori flush a little. “No one has seen fit to tell me what's been decided for my life. I saw no need to burden any of the others with the little control over it I may still have."

Umeia gestured to the ornate chair in front of her vanity, waited until Joori had awkwardly seated himself, and then she perched on the edge of her unmade bed. Joori refused to blush.

"So, you're a clever lad, then, are you?” The tone was very lightly mocking, but Joori detected no real rancor. She was testing him, somehow. He wished he knew for what.

He lifted his chin. “In some things,” he replied evenly. “You've had a falling-out with Malick."

"That's not being clever. That's merely stating the obvious."

"All right, then.” Joori made himself sit back a little, made his muscles unknot. “It's obvious that whatever you rowed about, my brother is at the center of it. And since I know that you don't want to leave, and you're doing it anyway, the disagreement must have something to do with that."

Umeia stared at him, narrow-eyed and calculating. Joori made himself stay still beneath her scrutiny, made himself look back.

Finally, Umeia looked away. “You people know so very little of our kind,” she said quietly and turned her glance back to Joori, perhaps a little softer than it had been before. “Not your fault. You can't be expected to know. Not when the agents of the gods themselves keep it from you."

Joori frowned. “What does—?"

"You came down here for answers,” Umeia cut in. “So, hush while I give them to you."

A lift of an eyebrow Joori couldn't quite help, but he merely shut his mouth and nodded.

"You can't trust him,” Umeia said. She'd folded her hands in her lap before. Now her fingers picked and pried at each other. “Don't misunderstand me. He wants your brother to live. He wants you to live because your brother wants it. He won't lie to get his way. He won't promise you or anyone else anything he doesn't intend fully to give. But Malick can make a person....” Umeia paused, thoughtful, then pursed her full mouth into an unhappy line. “A man like your brother—someone who needs love like he needs breath; someone who's been denied it his whole life—a man like that will see his deepest, most secret wants in the smallest of promises. A tender touch is all it takes, and Malick... well.” She snorted grimly. “Malick's had lots of practice at loving. Our little Untouchable has had next to none at being loved.” Umeia met Joori's eyes squarely. “Malick has promised your brother that he'll get you out of Ada safely if he'll kill Asai for him in exchange."

"I know.” Joori kept the anger and hurt of it all to himself.

Umeia shrugged, like she knew anyway. “And he will. He's ordered me to get you out, and I've little choice. I've already sworn oath to protect you, and forgive me for being so blunt, but you're simply not worth burning for. So I'll do it—I'll get you out of Ada safely. Whether you want it or not, I will load you into a caravan bound for Heldesan, ride with you to the border to make sure you make it across safely, and I will defend you with my life if I must, if you're pursued. And then, once we're in Heldesan, I'll leave you, my oath fulfilled.” Her eyes narrowed again. “I am oathbound only for as long as you are in my care. Understand?"

Oh, Joori understood all right. They'd be dumped in a foreign land, refugees, unschooled in the hows of defense, making a living, or even speaking the language. And completely unprotected by the shielding veil of a Temshiel. If Asai decided he still wanted to use them against Jacin, all he'd have to do was come and get them. They might as well have targets painted on their backs.

"Then what's the point?” Joori's voice was a little harsher than he'd meant.

"The point, Fen Joori, is that Malick's promise will have been kept, a beacon of trust for your brother, who already trusts too much.” Umeia leaned forward. “And now the one Untouchable in decades who's managed to stay sane has no Voices to hear. Malick has given your brother the quiet he needs to keep his mind—stanchions on which to lay more trust—but he's taken away the Voices that were meant to guide him."

"They've never guided him,” Joori objected. “They've only ever—"

"And how d'you think he ended up here, with the very Temshiel who's got more reasons than anyone else in the world to want Asai dead? How d'you think he decided to put you into our hands? And however dangerous it may be for you to be in our hands, it's still safer for you than being in Asai's.” Umeia shook her head, strangely sympathetic. “Whether they said so in words or not, the Ancestors have guided him. For whatever reason, they wanted him here, they wanted you here. And now that you are, their Voices have been silenced."

Joori thought about it for a moment, just to make sure he wasn't hearing it wrong. “Are you saying you want him to be driven mad by them?"

"I'm saying that your brother's fate has been interrupted. So has yours. He's supposed to listen, Joori. It's what he's for."

"You're talking about him like he's not even a person,” Joori grated. “Like he's nothing but a tool for everyone else to use. You sound just like—"

"They've found your mother, lad."

It stopped Joori cold. And she'd known it would. For that, he could have throttled her.

"Where?"

Umeia's eyes were intense now, far more keen and bright than they'd been before. “Exactly where Malick has known all along they would."

"Wh... what?” Joori couldn't gain enough breath to even suck in a good lungful.

"I have to give him credit,” Umeia went on, like she wasn't crushing Joori's heart in her fist with every word, “he did everything right. He sent out his probes first, did his investigating, gathered his information.” She paused, lifted an eyebrow, her half smile almost condescending but not quite. “Let your brother see him do it all."

The implication was all too clear: “He set him up,” Joori breathed.

"See?” Umeia said softly. “You are a clever lad.” She stood, paced over to Joori slowly, her pointy shoes clicking and clacking on the polished floorboards. Her hand took hold of his chin gently, lifting his face up so she could look into his eyes. “Your kind were never meant to have magic,” she told him. “No mortal is, but some have earned the right—the Jin didn't have to. The Temshiel abandoned the Ancestors when they gave their magic to you, and then the Temshiel assisted the Adan in trying to tame it. That's what your Binding War was really about."

Joori's throat clogged on a negation he couldn't quite voice, unable to do anything but keep his gaze locked with Umeia's. He couldn't even jerk back from her touch.

"Malick fought on the side of the Adan,” she went on, relentless. “So did I. All Temshiel did, because that was what our gods commanded. But the rest of us walked away when a balance was struck, because that's the way of it with us. The Adan and the Jin have perhaps come to an unhappy standstill, but Malick has never stopped fighting the war, even when he was refusing to fight at all.

"What Asai wants to do would turn the Jin's slavery to regency. Do you understand what that means?” Umeia was fervent now, almost like she'd forgotten she was even talking to Joori, merely ranting to excise whatever anger had too obviously been boiling in her chest. “The Jin and the Adan would switch places. Your people would no longer be hunted, slaughtered, bled.” She took a long breath, as if to calm herself. “They would not direct themselves, granted, but they never have, really. They've always had their Ancestors for that."

She pulled back and tilted her head to the side. A knowing smile curled at her mouth, and she waved a hand at the door, just as a soft knock gently rattled the wood. Umeia placed a finger over her lips, gave Joori a wink.

"Enter!” she called.

Joori almost jolted when it swung open to reveal Shig on the other side of it, but Umeia's hand clamped on his shoulder, keeping him still. Shig peered at him with no surprise, only a bit of sadness in her green gaze. For some reason, it had the feel of admonition to Joori, and it was all he could do to meet her eyes squarely.

Shig turned to Umeia. “I expect you know what I've come for."

It was colder than Joori had been expecting. For all that he'd only “known” Shig for a very short while, he'd rather judged everything she did or said as abstractly passionate: listening to her spirits and following their guidance because she believed in their truths. Even when she'd been taunting Jacin into a mental breakdown, Joori had still been able to tell that she'd felt something, that she wasn't doing it just for fun.

This cold remove seemed... strange on her.

Umeia didn't seem to notice or care. She merely reached behind Joori to a small black chest on the vanity, whispered a quiet spell he couldn't hear until the lid popped open, and then she extracted a chunky, flashing ring. Without a word, she tossed it to Shig.

Shig caught it, still with that hard gaze, nearly glittering now. She closed the ring tight in her fist. “So, it all comes to this, then. Gentle, secondhand betrayal, ‘for his own good'.” She shook her head when Umeia only sighed, her own expression almost as hard as Shig's.

Shig turned to Joori, her mien softening, dipping sad again. “Perfidy is perfidy, Fen Joori,” she said softly. “All sides in a war can be justified. It only depends on which side you're standing when the justifications start spilling from angry hearts.” She turned back to Umeia, eyes going narrow. “And exactly where the betrayals began.” She held Umeia's gaze for a long time—so long that Joori began to wonder if they were holding some kind of mental conversation and had forgotten about him entirely—before Shig turned a sad glance on Joori. “Love gives even the weakest among us the power of cruelty,” she told him, her jade eyes harder and sharper than Joori thought he'd ever seen them. “And nothing rends a heart so cruelly as the misjudgment of it by one who is supposed to know it.

"Their souls are ever dipped in blood. It's their way—not ours. A bargain with a Temshiel, a bargain with a maijin. It's all the same. It all depends on the Temshiel.” A shrug. “Or the maijin.” She cocked her head to the side, gaze somber. “Either one will betray you for their own ends, even if they love you. But betrayal of the Blood....” Her eyes slid over to Umeia again, accusing this time, though with a strange glimmer of mourning at odds with the severity. “Hasn't he endured enough?” she whispered, and Joori had no idea if she was talking about Jacin or Malick.

Shig sighed and stepped over to Umeia. “Yori loves you hard, but in the end, our Blood wills out. She isn't yours. She's mine. I'm sorry.” A long look passed between them, another silent conversation, then Shig leaned in, kissed Umeia's cheek. Umeia shut her eyes, her chin quivering as Shig laid her head to Umeia's shoulder. “Goodbye, my Wolf-mother. You've weakened the pack, but I still love you."

Umeia was silent, but the grief coming off her was almost as strong as the burst of power Malick had thrown at Joori two nights ago. Joori wondered if this was part of her power—making others feel what she felt—and whether she even realized she was doing it, but his heart was actually hurting, and he didn't even like these people.

Umeia hugged Shig tight for a long, long time, until Shig pulled away slowly. Shig turned, and with one last quick look at Joori that he couldn't read, quit the room, shutting the door softly behind her. “Blood wills out, little earth-bound,” Shig said through it, and then it was silent.

Umeia stood rigid for a few uncomfortable moments, gathering herself. “Well, then,” she said briskly, and only then did Joori realize that she hadn't said a single word while Shig had been in the room. He had no idea what to make of that, but she wasn't nearly as together as she wanted Joori to think she was. She wavered a little as she made her way back over to the bed and inelegantly dropped to the edge of the mattress.

"I have just handed over your brother's salvation and his noose, all in one.” She said it so softly that Joori thought perhaps he'd heard wrong.

He frowned, asked, “What?” his own voice flat and hollow.

"She's right,” Umeia said, as though Joori hadn't spoken. “Betrayal is a common thing for our kind. Love is rare. But, oh, I do love my brother."

"Brother?"

Umeia smiled, soft and sad. “Malick,” she clarified. “He's my brother."

Right. Yori had told him that, had apparently only recently discovered it herself, and had been strangely awed over this new additional facet to the people who made up her “family."

"I love my brother,” Umeia went on. “Just as you love yours. And just like you, apparently I'm willing to betray him to save him, even though I never would have believed it last week.” Her hands curled into fists. “And he hates me for it, but at least he'll be alive, he'll have his soul."

She stood abruptly, paced in front of Joori. Her smile turned... scary, for all the grief packed inside it. “The Ancestors have led the Catalyst here, they've led you here, and all of this heard by their Voice through their shouts of insanity. So, tell me, clever Jin lad: what do you think the Ancestors would say to their Voice now? How would they guide him next, if only he would hear? If someone was not right this second handing him the key to never having to listen to them again?” She stopped right in front of Joori, grabbed hold of his chin, and jerked his head up, her eyes hectic, nearly blazing. “Would they ask for pseudo-salvation for their children, or another century of misery?"

Joori opened his mouth, but Umeia gave his chin a sharp shake.

"Think very carefully, Fen Joori, because you may be called upon to make the same decision for yourself."

She was terrifying in her heartrending anger. And just like it had been back in that hut when Malick had shown up, Joori couldn't move. He had no idea if he was truly frozen, or if Umeia was using some sort of magic to keep him that way, but he couldn't make himself move or look away.

"Salvation,” he heard himself answer, low and breathy, and completely unlike his own voice, and perhaps it wasn't, but it was the truth nonetheless, wasn't it? Anyone would choose salvation.

"Salvation,” Umeia echoed, tears filling her eyes before she blinked them away, turning her firm grip on Joori's chin to a soft caress to his cheek. “Yes.” She took her hand away and turned her back on him. “Malick hasn't seen clearly since your brother walked into my House,” she told Joori, her arms going about her torso, hugging herself. “And the rest of them are all his, even Yori, though it's going to break her heart to choose.” She shook her head, then bowed it. “Why d'you suppose it is that you and I are the only ones who can see?"

Something went cold in Joori, spangled out into shivers he only just managed to suppress. This one scared him even more than Malick did, and having his own thoughts and feelings compared to hers... it unnerved him. And the things Shig had said....

It had been a mistake to come here. It had been a mistake to think he knew what the fuck he was doing, that he could outguess these people, that he had even the smallest chance against them.

He swallowed, his throat only squeezing out a dry clicking sound. “I'm not sure I know what you mean,” was all he could think to mutter. Because he honestly didn't, and he had a feeling it was going to be important that he understand whatever this was very clearly.

Umeia turned around, all the sadness abruptly dashed, her entire being gone hard and cold again as she leveled an even stare on him. “Malick loves him, but he can't save him. And the only way either of them can save himself is to let go.” She shrugged, like none of it really mattered, like she could stop caring, just like that. “There's nothing we can do, lad,” she told him. “You came to me for answers, and there are none. None of us truly owns our own heart. The only things we truly own are our choices. Go now, please. I want to be alone."

"But....” Joori stood, fear giving way to renewed anger. “But what choices?” he all but shouted. “I don't know what you're talking about! How am I supposed to choose something when I don't know—?"

"I never said anything about your choices,” Umeia cut in softly, then she stepped over to the door and swung it open. “Best get along. They'll be done soon, and you don't want Malick knowing where you've been."

"But—"

"Go, Joori. I've had all I can take of this mortal business. Leave me to my own."

Joori had no choice. She wasn't to be argued with, not now, and if he tried, he had no idea what might happen. He didn't know these people, and he only knew enough about what they were capable of to be afraid.

He left, finding himself once again out in the hallway, in the same spot where he'd started, staring at the door again. Love and betrayal; cruelty and salvation. What the hell had just happened? And why did he feel even more unsettled and confused than he had before he'd come? And why—even though Umeia had done nothing he could truly define as “magical” and yet had still managed to nearly terrify him—did Joori find himself feeling oddly sorry for her?

"You're not a new boy,” said a soft voice to his right, “are you?"

Joori turned, found that same young man who'd cheerfully pointed him to Umeia's door standing just down the hall. Doe eyes, lightly kohled and slightly smeary, blinked at Joori with a sadness that hadn't been there before. The boy's pale skin was dewy, the ends of his silky black hair wetting dark splotches on the neck and shoulders of his robe.

Joori's mouth flapped. “I....” He didn't know what to say. He wasn't even supposed to be down here, wasn't supposed to let anyone see him, so how was he supposed to explain himself?

"I didn't realize until I was halfway through my bath, but....” The boy paused, eyes narrowing. “Umeia would have introduced you about. I would have met you already. So, that means you're not a new boy.” Soft eyes gone slightly sharper looked Joori over, appraising. “And you don't look like a customer."

Shit. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

"You're Malick's lover,” the boy went on, softly accusing, but mostly disappointed, his dark hair falling over his pale brow as he blinked his pretty eyes at Joori. “You're the one he was talking about."

It was all Joori could do not to turn his head and spit on the floor. Not only for being assumed Malick's lover, but for the fact that apparently Malick had been talking to this young man about Jacin. Like he had some kind of right.

Amazingly, Joori managed to keep at least most of his wits. “I, um... I'm not sure I should—"

"No, you probably shouldn't.” The boy sighed and gave Joori a small smile.

Not so much a boy, now that Joori was paying attention—he was probably a little older than Joori himself—but his manner and his wide eyes made him seem so. He likely got more trade that way, Joori thought with a little bit of discomfort. With a languidness that was probably ordinarily seductive, but now just seemed to be the young man's natural state of being, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and shrugged.

"I knew I couldn't keep him. Everyone knows they don't get to keep Malick, but they all try."

And how had Joori known that Malick was a promiscuous asshole? It figured. What was it about Jacin that attracted the most reprehensible sorts?

The young man was looking Joori up and down, as though trying to figure out what Malick's new “lover” had that he didn't. Still clad only in that silky robe, dark hair tousled and damp, and his stance a study in seduction. Joori had never looked twice at another man, but he'd make an exception for this one. He was already making an exception for this one.

An unconscious toss of the head, though it did no good—the boy's thick hair flopped back over his brow and into his eye again almost instantly. “He said you're what he's been looking for, for a very long time.” It was said with a bit of skepticism, but mostly curiosity.

Joori did not loose the derisive snort that was knocking at the back of his throat. Of all the predictable kiss-off lines.

"He didn't say you were Jin."

That one made Joori start, and his eyes narrowed a little. If this young man was jealous and thinking to take some sort of vengeance, go running for the Doujou—

"Don't worry yourself.” The boy smirked; it was almost friendly, rather than mocking, as Joori would have expected. “I'm half Jin myself, and have just as many reasons for wanting to stay out from under the Adan's eye. Aren't fake papers a wonderful thing?” A sudden grin flashed his small white teeth. “I wouldn't have even mentioned it, only I thought it was interesting."

"Interesting how?” Joori asked, strangely not frightened, or even uneasy anymore in the presence of this young man who thought Joori was Malick's lover.

"Interesting because he must really love you to risk so much for you."

Joori almost winced that time. Umeia had said that Malick loved Jacin too. Except she'd also said that Malick couldn't save him. She'd said a lot of things, in fact, and so had Shig, and Joori hadn't yet had time to figure out how much of it he believed.

The boy's smirk came back, turned a little sly. “You're very beautiful, you know. I imagine that's what caught his eye. You'd have quite a flock of admirers if you were a new boy."

It was so strange, standing here and listening to this young man speak to him like he was Jacin. Giving him Jacin's compliments, flashing him Jacin's smiles. It made Joori wonder what Jacin would do if he were the one standing here, listening to this apparent former lover of Malick's tell him he was beautiful and he'd make a good whore. It depended on which Jacin, Joori supposed—the Jacin he'd grown up with would likely have blushed and cast his eyes to the floor, mumbled polite thanks and edged away as quickly as possible. This new Jacin, the one it almost made Joori sick to admit he didn't really know anymore, this new Jacin would probably glare the boy into silence then stalk past him without looking back. Maybe even flash a knife at him to keep him from ever attempting conversation again.

Joori couldn't see himself doing any of those things.

"I'm sorry if you've been... hurt,” he told the boy, surprised at how sincere it felt.

Another shrug, and an elegant wave of a hand. “It's what we're made for, isn't it.” Phrased as a question, but it wasn't one.

"Who?” Joori asked.

That slender hand waved again, between them this time. “The Jin,” the boy told him. “A race made for pain. I'm only half, but that's the half the pain comes from.” He shrugged it off like he'd shrug off a coat. His head tilted and his mien grew concerned, apparently at whatever expression had blossomed on Joori's face. “Don't look so glum,” he said, tilting another of those soft smiles. “This is a good place. Pain-free, I promise. And anyway, Malick's one of the good ones. If someone like Malick loves you, you're not likely to ever feel pain again. It would have been nice if.... Ah, well.” The boy's expression had gone wistful for a few seconds before he shook it off and flashed another of those disarming grins. “I'm Madi, by the way."

"F—” Joori caught himself. He couldn't just go about blurting his name, even if this young man did seem kind and harmless. And anyway, the boy—Madi—thought he was talking to Jacin. “Um,” was Joori's considered reply.

Madi laughed, a gentle thing. “Right,” he said easily. “Probably wise, though it doesn't really matter—he's called me by your name more than once. You'll understand why I made it a point to forget it. I'll forget it for... other reasons, now.” He shrugged when Joori's mouth twisted. “I'll just call you Beautiful, then.” Madi winked then pushed himself away from the wall. “I need some tea. And you need to get yourself back upstairs before someone sees you. The others will be dragging themselves out of bed for their baths soon, too, and some of the customers stay overnight. We take care of our own here, but you can't stop talk once it starts.” He flowed through a shallow, graceful bow. “It was nice to meet you, Beautiful. Make sure Malick takes care of you, yeah?"

He gave Joori a lazy wave, turned, and sauntered away. Joori only stared after him for a moment, frowning.

This morning had just been too fucked up for coherent thought. He was going to have to clear his head and think about it anyway.

Slowly, he made his way back to the attic stairs, climbed halfway up, then sat himself on a step to consider. He could hear Caidi chattering at someone, a light, pleasant drone; he let it wash over him and took a long breath.

And discovered that it really didn't require a whole lot of thought, after all. It was easy, really. All he'd needed was a moment to catch his breath to reach the same conclusion he'd reached when he'd watched Shig push his brother into a complete break in reason.

Watched Malick allow it.

Malick loves him...

Joori was willing to concede that, as much as it surprised him. Annoyed him. Jacin was ridiculously lovable, and if it had been anyone else doing the loving, Joori would have rejoiced. He might be selfish, but he wasn't a total bastard, and it had been his dearest wish for as long as he could remember that someone might see the things in Jacin that Joori did and love him for it. And Malick's... obsession with Jacin did look suspiciously like something more than concern for the deal they'd made. So, it wasn't hard to believe that Malick might love Jacin—Temshiel or no.

It was just hard to believe that someone like Malick knew how to do it properly.

If someone like Malick loves you, you're not likely to ever feel pain again.

Uh-huh. That seemed to have been working out real well so far.

Joori shook his head, his mouth thinning down into a sour line. If Malick really did love Jacin, Joori would hate to see what he did to someone he didn't much like.

But Umeia wasn't much of an alternative. The way she had talked, it sounded like she approved of Asai and what he'd done, what he meant to do. Joori would bet just about anything that the real reason behind the row between Malick and Umeia had been that strange confession. Which was a reluctant point in Malick's favor, Joori supposed.

From slavery to regency, she'd said. Joori had laid eyes on Asai once in his life, but even he knew that someone like Asai wouldn't offer something like that without demanding a terrible price in return. Joori had a sick, sinking certainty he knew who was supposed to pay it. And Malick, no matter if he really did love Jacin or not, was sending him right into the teeth of the bargain to get chewed up and mangled.

This entire morning had been a complete waste of time and confusion, because Joori had known before he'd ventured down to see Umeia what needed to be done. What he needed to do.

Temshiel and maijin prowling around his brother like he was a coveted bone; assassins living in the attic of a whorehouse; death plots and stolen magic and Exactly where Malick has known all along...

Didn't that say it all, really? What was there to think about?

Blood wills out...

Too bloody right it did.

He needed to get his family out of here. He needed to get Jacin out of here.

Now.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Five

Xari hadn't read her cards last night. She'd been weary. She'd had more trade than usual—too many young men abruptly called up to serve their lord or prefect for reasons vague but urgent, protection against the growing shadow-threat of assassination, and wanting to know if there was danger ahead, would they live out their conscription—so she'd been tired. Tired but well-paid.

She hadn't read her cards.

The conflict and sorrow hit her first, and she sipped at it, allowing the strength of it to fill her before she recognized the taste and looked up.

"I did not expect you, Wolf's Daughter,” she sighed, weary all over again, and her day had only just started.

Umeia shifted a small shrug and took the chair across from Xari, demure. “Then that's one for me,” she replied, her manner respectful but harder than Xari had seen her before.

A practical woman, this Paladin of Souls, not chosen by Wolf but conscripted by Blood, and she wore her duties well. The Gift of healing, for it pleased her to right wrongs, and she was not afraid to unbind her heart to sway those gone to despair. Asai had scoffed once, predicted that Umeia's heart would one day bleed a little too much, likely for her brother, and there would be no more lifeblood for her to spare for herself, but Xari judged her too sensible and so had ignored him. Arrogant enough to make predictions without the tools necessary, her errant son, and Xari put him out of her mind.

She had not come veiled today, this proud child of Wolf, but wore the trappings of the Adan: formal robe, wide sash, sensible shoes, and a silky black wig to cloak the brasher style she favored. A respectable woman. No one would guess her preferred nighttime doings. No one would think to look twice at the plain woman, perhaps the mate of a mid-level noble, venturing out into the city on business that was her own and of no interest to them.

"The color does not suit you,” Xari told Umeia, her eyes rising pointedly to the wig. It didn't. It made her look tired and wan, and Xari wondered if the hollow-eyed look was a product of the wig or the reason Umeia had come.

Umeia's fingers rose to twiddle at the ends of her purchased hair, and she shrugged. She reached into her small bag and withdrew a handful of koin, counting ten onto the table. “I should like to see my cards, please."

Xari's eyes narrowed. Not like her brother, this one—Kamen “allowed” Xari to read his cards, he never asked for it, he didn't approve, and he rarely ever listened when she did it anyway. Xari had read once for this daughter of Wolf, just before she'd had Kamen buy the Girou for her, and then never again. Xari's cards hadn't seen far for her—they never did for Temshiel—but what they'd shown had been good.

"Perhaps you'd prefer to just tell me what it is you seek, child.” Xari's hands had already taken up the deck, the gnarled fingers of her glamour coaxing them into their proper places. “A reading can set a chancy future too firmly, if one does not understand the message entire."

Umeia's mouth pursed. “The cards, Xari. There are already too many chancy things. I would like something, at least, that I can see clearly."

Xari bit her tongue on the admonishments that wanted to come. The cards were not for building a future, not even for predicting one, truly. She should refuse. Trading in possibilities was a heavy responsibility, one Xari accepted with all due gravity, one that was too easily abused—just look at her son. But her curiosity had been stirred, and the chill just beneath the demeanor of this very warm woman worried Xari just a little.

Kamen could be a bastard, Xari knew, but he loved his sister. And Umeia would not have come here for something as simple as a row between siblings. Surely whatever this was had nothing to do with...?

Speculation was just as irresponsible as reading one's cards without the proper instruction in their meanings first, and useless, in the end. Xari straightened the deck then fanned it out.

Obediently, Umeia reached tentative fingers, chose a card, and slipped it from between its fellows. She held it to her breast for a moment, eyes shut, as though afraid to see, before she slowly turned it over to lie between them on the table.

It was all Xari could do not to gasp.

"Your card has changed,” she whispered, caught out in too many ways, a slow trickle of fear winding down her backbone. “Paladin of Souls you are no more.” She denied the shudder that wanted to ripple through her and lifted her eyes slowly to Umeia's. “What have you done, child?"

Umeia held Xari's gaze evenly. Her finger tapped the card on the table. “What does it mean?"

Xari swallowed, laying a bony hand over the Obelisk, fingers hiding the painted flames like they had a mind of their own and thought perhaps they could make it unreal just by virtue of their obstruction.

"Choices,” Xari said. “To fall or to fly. Let go or risk being shaken off.” She shook her head. “You must tell me why you've come, child. I cannot read properly unless I know—"

"The card, Xari,” Umeia cut in, a little harsh, just enough to remind Xari across from whom she sat. Kamen might overshadow his sister in power, but that didn't mean Umeia hadn't been bestowed with plenty of her own.

Xari drew herself up, met Umeia's eyes squarely. “Change.” She kept her tone even and bland. “Disastrous change.” She tapped the card. “The Obelisk of falsehoods, its foundation built on sand and gravel. Lies you have told yourself. Lies that set it too heavy on its perilous foundation. If you do not push it over yourself with elucidation, it will fall beneath its own weight.” Her fingertips drifted once again to the orange flames licking at the peak of the Obelisk. “Fire purifies. Its ash is virtue."

"So, I've been lying to myself,” Umeia said softly, her voice shaky, her eyes filling.

Xari resisted the urge to reach over and take up her hand. “That is one interpretation,” she said carefully. “I cannot know unless you tell me why—"

"Do you still love your son, Xari?"

Xari sat back, eyeing Umeia carefully. She reminded herself again who it was that sat across from her.

"Blood is Blood,” she said, wary now. “There are many things that can take the love in one's heart and change it, but very few that can wipe it out altogether. Even if we might wish it."

Umeia sucked in a long breath and nodded, a sad, shaky smile trembling her chin. “And you do what you do now—you plot with my brother—because you hope to save your blood, even though you know it will hurt him. Make him hate you. Perhaps kill him."

"He already hates me,” Xari said evenly. “Were it not for your brother, he would have already sought me out and sent me to spirit. And only one sort of death means anything to our kind. Hurt...?” She shrugged. “We have not the same goals, you and I. I am godless; you have never been. I would dig out the heart of Asai myself, if Dragon would but ask it and give me back my place. My own redemption is why I help your brother."

"And what about Wolf?” Umeia asked softly. “What if one of Wolf's-own was willing to speak for you, swear for you? Would you take Wolf for your god if he would have you?"

Again, Xari's eyes narrowed. “No Temshiel or maijin would refuse Wolf, should he call.” Her head tilted to the side. “And what would one of Wolf's-own ask for in return for this boon?” She didn't mention that Kamen had already made her the same promise, and a petition from him would likely go farther. Dragon might take her back before the Cycle shifted, if she had a hand in stunting Asai's plots, but a call from Wolf....

Xari would never have to fear her son again, even if he escaped the suns a second time.

Umeia leaned forward, her eyes intense, a light behind them that approached madness in its passion. “Warn my brother off. Lie to him, if you have to. He is no longer necessary to this grand plot you have between you, both of you tools of vengeance for Husao and nothing more. Leave the Catalyst to me."

Xari kept the shock from her face. “And what would you do with the Catalyst, Wolf's Daughter?” she asked softly.

Umeia's eyes hardened. Her mouth remained stubbornly shut.

A strange grief rose to Xari's heart. “Kamen Wolf's-own has claimed the Catalyst as his own,” she told Umeia calmly. “They are bound as tightly as souls can be without the pledge of oath. You yourself have sworn to those the Catalyst holds most dear.” Xari leaned in, met Umeia's cool gaze squarely. “What use for a Catalyst has Wolf's Daughter, Paladin of Souls that was?"

For a long moment, Xari thought Umeia would remain silent. But then her eyes shifted away, flickering down to the card on the table before lifting again to Xari's. “Blood is Blood,” she said quietly. “And I stand now on an Obelisk of lies. I would taste the ashes of virtue."

"The Obelisk is Death and Temperance both,” Xari warned. “Even falling can feel like flying until you're broken on the ground. You cannot know which it is that awaits you unless you tell me what answer it is you seek. Always more than one meaning in the cards—it is not the cards themselves that guide but the one who reads them."

Umeia only stared at her again, implacable, just as stubborn as her brother. Xari's mouth tightened, and she shook her head. She set to irritably dealing out the rest of the configuration.

"If you will not tell me, I shall read the rest myself,” she snapped. “Impudent children who think they can interpret for themselves what it takes centuries to—"

Umeia's hand pushed Xari's away, snatched up a clump of cards, and swept them to the floor. Xari wouldn't have been as appalled if Umeia had just plunged a blade through her heart.

"Wretched girl!” she cried. “What—?"

"Some things I would keep for myself,” Umeia said. She stood calmly and stared down at Xari, her face unreadable. “You've been as helpful as I expected you to be, Xari.” She bowed her head, bizarrely deferential, considering her blatant disrespect for Xari's craft and her tools. “Goodbye,” was all she said, then she turned and pushed through the curtains that hung in the doorway, their dangle and sway holding Xari's stunned eye longer than they should have done.

She shook herself, rubbed at her brow. She hated to be taken by surprise. She should have read her cards last night. She should have been more prepared. These precarious days called for vigilance, and she'd been caught lacking.

Sighing, Xari heaved herself up from the table and hobbled over to the cards scattered over the floor. Damn it, it was going to take an annoying amount of time she apparently didn't have to purify them so they would read properly again.

She needed to speak to Husao. And she needed to send for Kamen.

"This...” Xari muttered as she bent to one knee on the floor and reverently began to collect her cards, unsure whether to be dismayed or relieved that the Obelisk sat faceup atop the otherwise haphazard mess. “This absolutely will not do."

* * * *

"Yes,” Malick growled, wanting to be anywhere but where he was at the moment—sitting on Fen's bed with three sets of eyes staring at him in different degrees of accusation. “Yes, I thought we would likely find your mother through Yakuli, but I had hoped we wouldn't.” He shook his head when Fen's fists clenched even tighter, and Malick held up a hand, trying to stave off the wrath too apparent on Fen's face. If Fen had access to all those little throwing knives on his clothespress right now, Malick would already look like a porcupine. “I wanted to find her, Fen. I just didn't want to find her there."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Fen snarled.

Amazing what a little fury could do for him—he was healing faster than Malick had thought, faster than he should be doing, but a minute ago he'd been gray and exhausted. Now color flooded his face, and anger livened up his eyes.

Malick raked a hand through his hair, blowing out a long breath. He'd known this was coming, and he supposed he was lucky Fen hadn't already killed him. Damn it, how had he let himself get so mired in how he'd hoped this would go, as opposed to planning for contingencies when it inevitably went the way he knew it would?

Oh, right—optimism and libido. Lethal combination. Clearly.

"I'm subject to different laws than you are,” Malick tried to explain. “We don't have the same... values, morality, whatever you want to call it."

"So, that means you can turn a blind eye while all those people—?"

"No,” Malick snapped, “it means I should. It means I'm supposed to. Except I can't. I've never been able to, I've never... fuck."

With a vicious glare at Shig, Malick shuffled across the mattress until he was right in front of Fen. Fen made it a point to move his leg to the side to avoid touching him. Samin had conspicuously taken up a place right behind Fen's chair, his not so subtle way of informing Malick that, on this subject at least, Samin was firmly on Fen's side.

Malick sighed, trying to order his thoughts, irritated that they were so messy, when he'd known this was coming. He should have had a speech all prepared, a ready defense. Except he'd never been able to find one in him, not for this, and, Yeah, it pissed me off, so I flipped off the gods and went to sulk for a few decades, didn't even sound good in his own head. He expected it would get an even less enthusiastic reception out loud, considering his current audience.

"We serve the Balance,” he said, keeping his gaze on Fen, as open and honest as he could make it. “Sometimes the defense of innocents is a tool to do that. Sometimes looking the other way is. There is no moral choice for us. We do as the gods tell us, and if the gods are silent, we use our judgment, our knowledge of our gods and what they wish, and hope we don't fuck it up and burn for it."

Fen was still glaring, but he had that ring clutched tight in his fist.

Malick pointed at it. “You know, that won't work anymore if you kill me,” he said, a little bit desperately, and ignored Shig's little snort entirely. A lie, of course—the fact that it didn't lose its magic upon the death of its contributor was rather the appeal of Temshiel Blood in the first place—and Shig likely knew it. Shig seemed to know far too much these days, but she kept her big mouth shut this time.

Samin was frowning, skeptical. “So,” he said slowly, “you're saying that the gods want Yakuli to keep doing what he's doing?"

"No, not exactly.” Malick shot a look at Shig, but he'd already known she'd be no help. At least she wasn't glowering at him like everyone else was. “The gods don't care about right or fair or just. The gods want Balance.” No, that wasn't going to work. He was going to have to start at the beginning.

"There were Temshiel who made the mistake of loving mortals. And from that love came the Ancestors. The gods were angry, they wanted to wipe out the Ancestors and the Temshiel who made them, because they were a potential threat to the Balance—mortals aren't supposed to have magic just given to them—but Wolf called them all to his Cycle. In a sense, they all became Wolf's children."

"And their children became the Jin,” Fen said.

Malick was a little surprised—Fen was actually participating in a conversation, with him, and without having to be forced to it—but not terribly encouraged. Fen was still glaring, nearly vibrating with rage.

"Yeah,” Malick said. “The Jin have always been Wolf's favored children. But then the Ancestors pushed too hard. They bound their magic to their people. Even Wolf wouldn't come to their defense that time—they hadn't just threatened the Balance; they'd rocked it—and the Temshiel were ordered to abandon the Jin or burn. Most of those who'd either sired or birthed the Ancestors burned. But still, Wolf would not allow the Jin to be destroyed, and none of the other gods had the strength to defy him. So they simply waited until Wolf was no longer in his Cycle."

"The Binding War,” Fen said, eyes narrowed.

Malick stared. “You already knew."

What would he think if he knew on which side you fought in the Binding War? Umeia had asked, and for all that it had clogged anger and betrayal in Malick's chest at the time, it had still stoked the low simmer of unease to a smoldering coal. Because, yeah, what would Fen think? Except it appeared he already knew.

"How?” was all Malick could think to ask.

Fen only stared for a long moment, his face unreadable, then he shrugged. “I had a good teacher."

"Not Asai, surely."

"No."

Right. Husao. Maybe his pain-in-the-ass interference had actually proven helpful this time, because Fen had known for days that Malick was Temshiel, and he'd obviously already known what the Temshiel had been to the Jin, and he hadn't actually tried to kill Malick. Malick supposed that Fen having Husao as a tutor was perhaps one small blessing in Malick's own favor right now.

"Maybe he knows,” Samin put in irritably, “but some of us would like to know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Yeah, yeah,” Malick muttered as he scrubbed at his face. “No one knew that the Ancestors had also bound their magic to their lands. And when the Jin used their magic against the Adan, it was the last straw. Some believe Raven influenced them, but it doesn't really matter, in the end—they did it and they had to be punished.” He sucked in a deep breath. “So, Raven set the Temshiel on them. Even those of us who aren't Raven's had to obey. And since maijin and Temshiel are equal parts of the—"

"The maijin fought for the Jin,” Fen said, nearly breathless. He tried to stand, back away, but only ended up with his back pressed more firmly into the cushions of the chair. “Asai—"

"No, Fen.” Malick reached out, clamped down on Fen's wrist. Fen stilled, but Malick could feel the vibrations in the taut muscles beneath his fingers. “He'll tell you he fought for the Jin and he serves Wolf, but it's only true enough that it can't be entirely negated. He wants to get the Jin out from beneath Adan rule, it's true, but only so that he can rule them.” Fen snarled, tried to jerk his arm away again, but Malick jerked it right back. “Those charms, Fen—don't forget where they came from. Don't forget what he's done with them. Skel made them, but Asai used them. He's why all of those people have been Disappeared. The Adan never would have even known it could be done, were it not for Asai.

"He got hold of Temshiel Blood, and he saw what could be done with it, but he saw too late—he'd already betrayed the one who gave him the amulets and taught him the spells. Skel went to the suns for it, but if he hadn't, Asai would have seen him murdered for Heart's Blood."

"I don't understand,” Samin put in. “Why wasn't Asai sent to the suns too?"

Malick held back the growl, mouth pinched up in a sour grimace. He pointed at the ring. “One. We can make one. It's against the law to make more, but it's not against the law to take it when it's given, it's not against the law to use it however one sees fit. It's why we have to be careful when we hand them over. We're responsible for when they're misused, not the one misusing them. It may be difficult to believe it, but Skel had the best intentions, except....” Malick sat back, abruptly saddened and a little winded. “He made dozens. Maybe hundreds. The only intelligent thing he did was to keep the stronger spells to himself.” Because as bad as it was now, it could have been so much worse.

"What is any of this to me?” Fen asked through his teeth. “What are you trying to convince me of here? You've already said whose side you're on—shall I help you destroy the Jin altogether? Would that please your gods?"

"It probably would,” Malick snapped back. “But it wouldn't please me.” Fuck, had he really just said that out loud? “Why d'you think I walked away? Why d'you think I'm here?” He couldn't seem to make himself shut up. “I waited—for the first decade of Wolf's Cycle, I waited, I watched, but there was nothing. Nothing. No guidance, no direction, no call. I couldn't watch it done anymore. I couldn't stand to not do something. Except I have limits—I can't kill the men who are behind it all."

"Mal....” Samin was shaking his head, frowning, apparently trying to understand and not quite getting it. “I've seen you kill men who've—"

"I can take out the small fish,” Malick cut in, nearly desperate for someone to understand this, “the ones who don't affect the Balance, the ones who serve it by their deaths, who aren't protected by Fate, but I can't take out the ones who serve the Balance by living, no matter how repugnant they are. And Yakuli—somehow—serves the Balance. His existence serves Fate.

"I've slaughtered those who've stolen magic because I wanted to, because I enjoyed it, because the idea of allowing them to keep doing it makes me bloody sick to my stomach, and I couldn't stand not doing something about it anymore. If I could prove beyond a doubt that Asai is the one pulling Yakuli's strings....” He growled, teeth clenched. “If it was my choice, I would walk into that compound Yakuli's got going, tear it down around his ears, and cut Asai's throat while I was at it, but I can't. The whole place has invisible ‘Hands Off’ signs all over it."

"Why would it—?"

"I don't know,” Malick growled. “I'm a fucking minion, the gods don't bother to give me the bigger picture, and I don't always get to have morals, all right? I don't know why I can't touch him, I just know that I can't."

"So, why couldn't we?” Samin asked, no longer angry and accusing, but genuinely curious, too obviously already calculating strategies and points of attack in his mind.

Malick shook his head. “Because there's magic all over the place. Shig already said as much.” He turned his gaze squarely to Samin's. “I couldn't risk all of you when I knew I wouldn't be able to help you. I couldn't risk Umeia, who'd sworn you all oath."

I didn't want to send you all out on a moral quest, only to watch you all cut to pieces.

Malick didn't say it, but Samin was a practical man, a man who understood “acceptable risk” and recognized it when he was looking at “unacceptable risk.” He didn't acknowledge Malick's tacit apology with words, but the nod of his head spoke his acknowledgment for him.

Malick sighed just a little. Well, that was one of them.

"So, Heart's Blood really would free the Jin,” Fen said evenly, eyes still pinned to Malick, hostile and just as suspicious as he'd ever been. And yet he still held that ring protectively in his fist. “Asai wasn't lying."

Was that hope, deep down in that gray gaze? Fuck, Malick hoped not.

"It depends on your definition of ‘free',” Shig put in softly.

Malick braced himself. He could never tell these days if he was going to be sorry or vindicated when she finally shut up.

Shig crawled up onto the bed beside Malick, sat on her knees, and looked Fen in the eye. “Ever been imprisoned in your own body, angry Ghost? Ever had your magic forced from you at someone else's will? Ever had your body move to someone else's tune, like you were a puppet, but one with a mind—one who knew what was being done to them and couldn't stop it?"

She paused for a moment, staring at Fen, the silence filling with heavy tension, until Fen finally shook his head and looked away. He didn't see Shig's poignant smile.

"It hurts,” she said softly. “Whatever state your mother's mind is in right now, her soul is in agony."

Fen's teeth clenched, and he shut his eyes tight.

Shig leaned in, took hold of Fen's chin, and turned his head. She waited again until he opened his eyes, then murmured, “Would you be the one to justify the means to Asai's end?"

It was so like the argument Malick himself had made to Umeia that he almost jolted a little, peering at Shig with a jaundiced eye. She didn't appear to be playing by his rules anymore—she'd obviously been “listening.” It had been so long since he'd had to worry about it, that he hadn't even thought to keep her from doing it. And he had to wonder whose rules she was playing by... if any.

"You've not even heard the plan yet,” Shig told Fen, nodding over at Malick. “He's got one. He always does.” She leaned in farther, until her mouth was right next to Fen's ear. “Punch-drunk, angry Ghost. The risk of a soul. You sure you can live with it?"

Malick heard it, but he had no idea what it meant.

Fen apparently did, though. He snapped himself back, stared at Shig for a long time with narrowed eyes, then turned his piercing gaze over to Malick. Scrutinized him. Malick was finding it hard to sit still beneath the hard glare before Fen finally turned back to Shig, said, “Yes,” then he knocked Shig's hand away and cut his glance back to Malick. “What do you intend to do?"

Shit. Malick had already made his decision, hadn't he? He'd known all of this was coming, and somewhere down where he never looked, he'd known what he would do when finally put to it.

"Exactly what I promised to do,” Malick muttered. “Exactly what I'm forbidden to do.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. He flopped back against the headboard and rubbed at his brow, trying to pretend he wasn't risking everything with a promise he'd already made once, knowing even then he'd do it if it came down to it, regardless of the risk. “I'm going to help you get your mother."

And in order to do that, he was going to have to lead his people into the heart of Yakuli's compound, and he couldn't pretend he didn't hope Yakuli was there, would force Malick to kill him in “self-defense,” and he couldn't fool himself that it would be defense enough for the gods. In all likelihood, he was going to end up killing a man he was forbidden to kill, and he'd end up burning for it.

Bloody hell.

Maybe it really was love. Why else would he have just more or less sworn to give up his soul for someone who could barely stand to look at him?

"What did she say, Shig?” Fen asked hoarsely, his eyes shut tight again, head down, the ring clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

Shig sighed, bowed her head. “She said....” She bit her lip, but neither she nor Fen looked up. “She said, ‘No laws, my twice-born. All things come to Zero.’”

Nothing but the faintest strangled gasp from Fen, then he nodded, took a long, deep breath, and blew it out slowly. With a small shudder, he lifted his head, met Malick's gaze calmly, dry-eyed. He held up Malick's ring between long fingers.

"What exactly are you hoping to hear?"

Malick thought about how he should answer, if he should answer. Decided he'd come this far.

"I won't know until I hear it."

Fen's jaw set tight, but he didn't lunge for Malick's throat, and he didn't actually snarl this time. He sighed, rubbed at his eyes, then propped his elbow on the arm of the chair. He folded his fingers around the ring again and rested his chin on his fist.

"Fine,” he said evenly. “Do it."

* * * *

He felt a little uncomfortable with Samin watching, and he had no idea what the hell Malick thought Shig could “help” with, but Jacin submitted to it all without growling. It was necessary, or at least Malick seemed to think it was, part of the deal, and if it meant he'd never have to listen again, Jacin could endure it.

Letting go of the ring was... almost devastating. The first waves of noise nearly took him under. His mind already felt brittle, almost fragile, and the screeching, after not having to hear it for days, almost overwhelmed him at first. Blaring in his head, obliterating thought, consuming him, and only the frantically held-to knowledge that he could reach out and silence it all with a touch allowed him to keep hold of himself.

And save him, he missed the touch.

What was wrong with him? He'd been so long without the quiet that he'd nearly forgotten what it was like to have it, and now that he'd had it again, he was having a hard time doing without it. Had he always been this hollow thing, grasping with greedy fingers? A slave to touch, all right, he'd known that, but... like this? Trading everything, bartering his self-respect for it? No, not bartering—offering. Ruination by his own reaching hand, and he couldn't make himself stop wanting it.

A trained fucking dog. Slobbering after a bone, licking its master's hand for a taste.

Shame crept about his edges, and he waited for it to hook him in, pierce him, but nothing could touch him but a swirling confusion that was worse and more senseless than the usual insanity. Blathering in his head, bouncing against the inside of his skull, pulsing through his own confused angst and trebling it.

Too fucking loud, too fucking insane, and the touch me please that was ringing inside it was only making everything worse.

"All right, you're doing really well, Fen,” Malick said, his voice coming through amazingly clearly, and it was strange, because Jacin didn't think he was only hearing it with his ears. “Try and narrow it down to the words alone. I've got hold of the Ancestors’ magic. I'm going to boost it, all right? Can you feel it?"

Jacin frowned a little, because he could feel it, and he really didn't like it, not at all. Too strong, too resonant, too... everything. Malick's hand was clamped to Shig's instead of his, Jacin noted abstractly, and he wondered vaguely why that was, but he only had so much concentration, so he dismissed it. Dismissed his own pathetic worries and fears and wants, and tried to blank out everything but the shrieking.

"Try to picture it in your head. Like a... like a wave."

A wave of colors, and he could taste them, slithering over his tongue, down his throat, choking him. Red tasted of fire, and blue of words he couldn't understand, blurring together, anger chittering at the edges and tasting black, clogging his nose with its cloying silty rot.

"Ride it out, Fen. Set yourself astride it and ride it out."

Buzzing, almost vibrating his teeth with its reverberation, and he couldn't reach for the pain this time to dull it. Madness crowded in, he could almost feel it like a physical thing, trying to shove him from out his own mind. It took everything in him to keep his hands clamped to the arms of the chair, keep them from clawing for pain or silence—he didn't even care which this time.

"There it is. You're doing really well, Fen. Feel it?"

He felt... something. He latched onto Malick's voice like a piece of driftwood in turbulent seas. And strangely, the tidal wave in his mind wasn't a wave, it was a cool wind. He almost recognized its taste. Not dragging him under and drowning him. It was softly sweeping away debris. Not reducing the volume, but... clarifying what was left a little.

Wordswordswords, always too many and too close together, and he could taste-touch-smell them this time, nearly overwhelming, but only nearly. Still clogging, still cloying, and treacherous if he got caught in it, but not taking him under. How was he holding on? What was he holding on to?

"Out loud, Fen,” Malick told him calmly. “Anything you hear that's actual words, I want you to say them out loud."

"They don't make sense,” Jacin protested, teeth gritted, hands curled into fists and cramping, and holdonholdonholdon, don't let it all the way in, don't let go. The focus of his life for years had been keeping the insanity in, only spilling it when he couldn't help himself, and each time he'd let it out, he'd edged further from sanity, and it had been harder to claw his way back. “It's all just... frenzied."

"It doesn't matter what it sounds like.” Malick's hand went to reach out, but he caught himself and drew it back. “We all know it's not you, Fen. We all know the madness doesn't come from you, all right?"

How had Malick known that it had been a surge of fear down Jacin's backbone, when Jacin hadn't even known it himself? And how was it that Jacin found himself wishing that Malick could lay that comforting hand on him like he'd clearly intended, and it wasn't for the silence the touch would bring? Comfort. And it was killing him that he couldn't have it.

That cool wind again, like... like Malick. Like it had been that night when Jacin had given up, given himself over to both Malick and silence, and a breeze had blown through his mind and settled it for a little while. Settled him. Calmed him like he hadn't been since... he couldn't remember.

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 like 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.

At least this time, Malick didn't seem to notice Jacin's internal twists. Malick held out his hand to Shig. “All right, let's have a look and see if we can decode it.” He shifted a quick look up at Samin. “You should probably find someplace comfortable. This'll likely take a while.” And then to Jacin. He held up the slate, waved it between them. “None of it's you. So, stop it."

Jacin glared and sank back into the cushions of the chair.

Damn it, how did he always know?

* * * *

Yori was getting a little sick of playing babysitter. She was getting really sick of cooling her heels while the others discussed... whatever they were discussing. And she was getting bloody sick and damned tired of playing messenger.

"Another one?” She couldn't help that her tone was likely hostile and churlish. It didn't matter, anyway, because Ragi not only ignored it but topped it.

"It can't wait,” he snapped, standing just below the last step on the attic stairs, not quite daring to broach the attic itself. All the staff and all the help had been threatened with immediate expulsion from the Girou and possible death—depending on Malick's mood—should they trespass, and Ragi was keeping to the letter of the warning, grudgingly, if not entirely the spirit. “I need to see him now."

Well, at least it was a little excitement to break up what was otherwise a ridiculously monotonous morning. Not that Yori minded being “stuck” with Joori—even though he'd been annoyingly antsy and short-tempered—but she did sort of mind being “stuck” with Morin and Caidi, because their presence rather ruled out doing anything good to pass the time. They'd played cards—Suns and Moons because it was the only game Caidi could win once in a while—until they couldn't stand to look at them anymore, and then watched the rain until it stopped. In the lull, Morin and Joori had filled the silence by snarking at each other until Yori was ready to bash their heads together, and then did it some more until she actually threatened it. They'd been reduced to nursery songs before Ragi came along, so Yori had to concede that his annoying presence was at least distracting.

Yori's mouth twisted, and she rolled her eyes. “What d'you need Mal for, anyway?” she wanted to know. “He's got nothing to do with the bloody kitchens. Go bother Lex or Umeia."

"I don't need Lex or Umeia,” Ragi said, anger on his sour face as always, but there was a strange something else underneath it that, if Yori didn't know better, she'd have pegged as anxiety. What the hell?

"Is the kitchen actually on fire?” Yori asked sarcastically.

Ragi's mouth set tight, and his eyes narrowed. “I need Malick,” he bit out. “Now."

Yori's mouth tightened too. Ragi was so not the boss of her. “Well, you'll just have to write him another note, because he's not to be disturbed."

Ragi was not a huge man—tall, surely, and sinewy, no wider than Malick, really—but he seemed to expand right in front of Yori as his expression shut down into blank determination, and he braved the last step, took Yori by the arms, lifted her off her feet, and set her to the side. Yori was so stunned she almost didn't gather her wits before he'd started down the hall. Did the man not understand he was imperiously stomping his way right into the middle of a den of assassins?

Then again, no, Yori supposed he didn't.

"Hey!” she snapped, her pace a fast trot as she tried to catch up with Ragi's longer stride. “Hey! You can't—"

"Malick!"

A bellow, deep and clear, and echoing down the hallway at a tooth-jarring volume. Yori only just got her hand latched onto Ragi's sleeve before he snatched his arm away and opened the first door he came to: Malick's. “Malick!"

Bloody hell, if he was going to try going door to door, and if she didn't stop him, he was going to end up seeing Joori and the children, and she couldn't allow that. Damn it all, Joori probably had his ear plastered to the other side of the door, and would end up with a concussion if Ragi threw that one open like he'd just done Malick's. Not for the first time, Yori rued the fact that her weapon of choice wasn't something she could handily tote around in a sheath at her belt or tuck neatly into a boot.

"Malick!"

"Ragi, you can't do this!” Yori warned. “You're not even supposed to be up here, Mal's going to kill you if you don't—"

"Malick!"

Yori was just darting around Ragi, trying to get between him and the next door, which happened to be hers and Shig's, when Fen's door swung open across the hall, and Malick slammed through it, knife in hand and murder on his face. “What the fuck is—?” He stopped dead when he saw who it was, brow twisting. “Ragi. What are—?"

"No time,” Ragi cut in, like he hadn't just barged in where he didn't belong and was not barking orders like he had the right. “We have to go."

Malick was shaking his head, too obviously annoyed, but Yori was surprised to see no real anger. “We nothing,” he told Ragi. “I'm busy. Tell Hus—” Malick darted a look at Yori and pursed his mouth. “Tell your boss that it'll have to wait."

"It can't,” Ragi snapped back. “Didn't you get my note?"

Yori bristled when he looked at her accusingly, but she didn't have time to retort.

"I got it,” Malick answered. His teeth were clenching, and his eyes were taking on that cool look they got sometimes when he was trying to decide which would be the easiest way to kill a person. “He's your boss, not mine. I told you, I'm busy.” With a narrowing of his eyes, he tucked the knife back into its sheath, then opened Fen's door behind him and turned to go back inside. “I'll come when I—"

"Xari says the cards have changed,” Ragi said. Oddly, it sounded to Yori like it had an edge of desperation beneath it.

Maybe it did, because it stopped Malick, made him snap his glance back to Ragi over his shoulder, gaze narrow and burning a little about the edges. “Which cards?” he asked, even but deadly quiet.

Ragi held his gnarled hands palms-up in front of him, a strange twist of helplessness in the gesture. “All of them."

Malick stared at him for far too long, like he could look right through him to bone, then turned an intense look on Yori. “Where's Umeia?"

It was all Yori could do not to take a flinching step backward. She shook her head. “I don't know."

Yori hadn't seen Umeia since before Malick had told her they'd be taking Joori and the others to Heldesan tomorrow. She'd tried—had herself a look about the Girou last night, sent three messages through Lex, and if Umeia had been in her rooms either of the times Yori had knocked on her door, she hadn't chosen to answer.

Yori hated it. Umeia and Malick had obviously had a row, but it wasn't like they hadn't ever had one before, and Umeia had never stayed away from them then. It had only been a couple of days, but Yori missed Umeia, and the whole thing rather worried her.

Malick was still looking at her, his expression perhaps not quite as gritty as it had been a moment ago, a little softer but by no means soft, then he turned his glance to Ragi. “Go. I'll follow shortly."

Ragi shook his head, his jaw set tight. “He said—"

"It's the best answer you're going to get,” Malick snapped. “Give me a fucking minute, will you? Tell him I'll be there within the hour."

Ragi stared, obviously having some internal debate with himself, before he growled with a grudging nod. “Go to Xari's,” he grumbled. He turned a dour look on Yori then back to Malick. “And go veiled.” His usual scowl set firmly back in place, Ragi turned and left, his steps heavy as he made his way down the stairs.

Malick glared at the stairs for a long moment, breathing heavily, too obviously very angry, but it didn't seem to be directed at Ragi. Clenching his teeth on a throttled growl, Malick took a long breath, muttered, “Shit,” under his breath, then turned to Yori. He glanced down at her feet and barked, “Go get some shoes on. You're coming with me."

Yori barely had time to gape at Malick before Shig was poking her head out Fen's door. She lifted her eyebrows at Yori for a second, but only gave her a small smile before tugging at Malick's sleeve. “Mal?"

Malick was staring down the stairwell again, distracted, but his fists were curling and uncurling at his sides, and he still hadn't unclenched his jaw. “She has to be told sometime, Shig,” he said quietly. “Everyone's got decisions to make and sides to choose.” He shook his head then turned around to look at Shig. “Do you know what's going on with Umeia?"

Oddly, Shig couldn't seem to hold Malick's stare. She shot another glance at Yori then pointed her gaze to the floor. “I've said my goodbyes,” was all she said.

Yori frowned, but Malick narrowed his eyes. “You want to tell me what that means?"

This time, Shig met Malick's gaze squarely. “What d'you think it means?"

Malick seemed to know, because he growled again. He looked like he wanted to deck Shig, or maybe just whoever happened to be nearest. Instead, he just glared and turned back to Yori. “Shoes,” he snapped. “And get Little Lord Pain-in-the-ass and the others and bring them back here with you."

Yori already had the door to her room open when she heard Malick mutter, presumably to Shig, “Fen's going to fucking kill me,” but Yori didn't stop or look back. If Malick's mood was anything to go by, speed was highly recommended. She'd seen Malick really pissed once or twice, but it was usually because some target hadn't died as quickly and easily as assumed, or he'd lost more at cards downstairs than he thought right and proper. He'd never been angry with her. She didn't want to find out what it felt like. She threw open her wardrobe and shoved her feet into stockings and boots, and herself into Shig's waxed duster. Her bow and quiver stood in the back corner, and her hand paused as she reached for them—only briefly—then she followed her instinct and shouldered them.

Malick's order to collect Joori and the others turned out to be wasted breath. Joori was already hanging on Fen's doorjamb, leaning into the room, when Yori emerged back into the hallway. Caidi and Morin were still hovering at the door to their own room, eyes a little anxious, so Yori gave them both an easy smile and a little push down the hall. “What's going on?” Morin demanded as Yori planted them behind their brother outside Fen's door, laying a brief squeeze to Joori's shoulder as she pushed past him.

"Nothing bad,” Yori assured the boy, though she had no idea, in truth, and the tableau she walked in on seemed to belie her assurance all too plainly.

She was fairly surprised to see Fen standing, with only a hand braced to the back of the chair for support. He wasn't putting any weight on the bad leg, but he was still upright, which was fairly astonishing. Yori would've thought it would take at least a week or so, considering. Fen was glaring at Malick—nothing new—but Malick wasn't answering it with his usual smirk or leer; he was glaring right back.

"I'm not doing this again,” Malick was saying. “If we can still do it tonight, we will, but I'm not—"

"That's not what I was talking about, and you know it.” Fen's voice was venomous, filled with anxious anger. He shot a quick look over at the doorway, his mouth crimping a little at Joori's unabashed smirk—Yori had to roll her eyes—then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “I don't care about any bloody paradox, or any key. We agreed.” He reached out, took hold of Malick's sleeve, fuming and... bloody hell... why did he look so scared? “You promised."

Malick dipped his head, sighed heavily. “I know. I was there. And I'll deal with this when I get back."

"From where? What are you plotting now, and what—?"

"I can't fucking do this now, Fen!” Loud and strung far too tight. It stopped everyone. Malick looked at no one but Fen, who met his gaze with as much fire in it as Yori had ever seen. Gently but firmly, Malick took hold of Fen's arms and pushed him back into the chair. Fen had no choice but to buckle his good leg and make the descent as pain-free as possible, growling all the way down. “This is important,” Malick told him, still leaning over Fen, keeping his hold on his arms. “I wouldn't be going, else, damn it, you think I want to go? Now?” With an annoyed grunt, he straightened, turned to Shig and Samin, and waved at Joori in the doorway. “Whatever else Umeia's doing, she's still veiling them, and all of you. But watch. No one is to be left alone."

Odd. It sounded like Malick was warning them against trouble here at the Girou, which was... ridiculous. Obviously. And odder still, it sounded like he was warning them against Umeia.

Malick turned back to Fen, hands out, palms-up. Yori was sure she'd never seen him so close to begging before. “I'm not taking it back, all right? I swear. Just... give me ‘til I get back, and we'll figure it out. Please."

Fen's scowl was fierce as he waved angrily at his leg. “I haven't much choice, have I?” he snapped.

"The only thing that's gone halfway right today,” Malick muttered irritably then turned to Yori. “Let's go."

Yori jumped a little, shot her glance to Shig with a lift of her eyebrows, asking. Shig only gave her an unhappy smile and a shrug, but she nodded in reassurance. Yori breathed a tiny bit easier. Her normally calm and pleasant life seemed to be erupting into doubt and chaos with every passing moment, but Shig knew things, and that nod told Yori that it would work out in the end.

She let Malick take her arm and all but shove her through the door, but stopped when Joori stepped back a little, all smirks gone now. His hand came up but didn't latch on, too obviously wanting to reach out and stop her, but resisting the urge. Yori peered up at Malick, quirking an eyebrow. Malick only rolled his eyes, let go of her arm, and pushed past her.

"I'm going to get my coat,” he grumbled. “You've got thirty seconds."

Yori didn't wait for him to stomp across the hall and disappear into his room before she reached out for Joori's hand and clamped onto it.

"What's going on?” Joori asked, anxious and trying not to be scared, real caring in his gray gaze.

Yori could only shake her head. “I don't know. But it appears I'm about to find out."

And about bloody time too. She hadn't realized exactly how much had been going on just beneath her sight until now, and it wasn't like she could blame anyone else for it—she'd been smitten and enjoying herself, and letting everyone else pick up the slack. If she'd demanded answers the moment she'd realized she didn't have them all, they would have stopped and given them to her, but she hadn't. For the first time in her life, she'd had a real lover—not someone who used her body because they could, and not someone she'd paid to be nice to her for an evening and pretend she mattered. Joori liked her, wanted to be with her, and it seemed like it had made her brain go a little wobbly.

No more.

Yori straightened when Malick slammed back out of his room, stalked past her toward the stairs, and gave her a brusque wave over his shoulder without looking back. He grunted something that sounded like, “Come on,” and kept going.

Yori gave Joori a reassuring smile, squeezed his hand tight before letting it go, then took off after Malick. “I'll see you when I get back,” she told Joori. “Don't fight with Shig while I'm gone!"

"Be careful!” Joori called, just as Yori's foot hit the second step on the stairs.

She paused, then turned around to give him a grin. She'd heard it hundreds of times from Shig, from Malick, from Samin, from Umeia, but from Joori... it just sounded different. Made affection bloom in her belly and warm her through. “Yes, seyh,” she told him, thumping her fist over her breastbone, then she took off again, taking the steps two at a time to catch up with Malick.

She had no idea whatsoever where they were going, nor what they were going to be doing once they got there, but she was with Malick, and Malick would make sure everything turned out all right. He always had. Yori leapt the last three steps down to the third-floor hallway, pushing past a few of Umeia's lads and ladies loitering outside their doors. She gave Umeia's door a brief glance as she passed it then quickened her pace and trotted after Malick.

"All right,” Malick said as she caught up to him, and they started down the stairs to the second floor. “Let's get you up to speed on what's been going on."

* * * *

Joori only watched with a tight set to his jaw as Jacin hobbled from the chair over to the clothespress, because Joori had tried to help before, when Jacin had moved from the bed to the chair, and Jacin hadn't let him. “Hasn't anyone even thought to get you a crutch or something?” Joori asked with a pointed look at Shig, who merely looked back at him with a blithe little smile and no comment whatsoever. Samin turned and frowned at him, surprised and not happy about it, like he hadn't thought of a crutch and was annoyed with himself that he hadn't.

Jacin merely shrugged as he hitched up against the clothespress, breathing heavier than he apparently wanted to show, face set into stony lines, and a light scrim of sweat on his brow. “They don't want me up yet,” he said. “And I don't need a crutch."

Samin snorted a querulous little grunt, but said nothing.

A strange man, Samin. Big and blocky, and yet still strangely approachable. He looked like he could either pick you up and snap you in half or sling a thick arm over your shoulders and grin his jackal's grin, with equal ease. Predator or protector, and he slid between the two without so much as a hitch in demeanor. Edgy and on watch now, but he'd quietly and casually been helping a resentful and embarrassed Jacin into a pair of trousers when Joori had herded Morin and Caidi through the door, sliding the fabric up over the heavy bandages with a matter-of-fact gentleness that somehow didn't seem out of place. And the way he doted on Caidi was just... cute.

Joori shook his head. Had he really just put “Samin” and “cute” together in the same thought?

"I'm so boooooored,” Caidi moaned. She'd been sitting in the middle of the rumpled bed next to Morin, but now she threw herself facedown into the mound of sheets and blankets with a disgruntled sigh. “And I'm huuuuuungry."

Joori seized on it: “Yeah, isn't it past lunchtime?” He shifted significant, expectant looks between Shig and Samin, pleased when, unbidden, Caidi lifted her head and gave the room in general hopeful puppy eyes. Even Morin unintentionally cooperated, shifting his bored glance from its contemplation of the gray day through the window and letting it flick around, eyebrows raised. Joori buried a smirk when Samin's gruff face turned resigned.

Shig and Samin had been keeping them all corralled in Jacin's room since Malick had stalked off with Yori to wherever-the-hell less than half an hour ago, not leaving any of them alone for even a second, and not allowing them to even travel down the hallway to the washroom unaccompanied. With the exception of having taken turns to go back to their rooms to arm themselves—first Samin, then Shig, once he got back—they hadn't let the four of them out of their sight for even a second, Samin pacing about the room and Shig leaning with her back to the far wall, arms crossed over her chest. Joori wasn't sure if they were being protected or imprisoned, but since it prevented him from talking openly to Jacin, like he desperately needed to, it all amounted to the same thing. Time was running out all too quickly, and he was stuck just sitting here in limbo, waiting it out. It was making him insane.

"I expect they need to be fed,” Samin said, peering at Shig with a lift of eyebrows, as though looking for agreement.

She merely shrugged. “Mm,” she said. And then just stared, blinking slowly. Apparently, she had no intention of being the one to feed them.

Samin tried to out-stare her for a moment before his mouth clamped into a sour line. “Can you at least tell me nothing's going to happen if I go down for some trays?"

"Maybe—if I were a seer."

"Damn it, Shig, this is not the time for your games!” Samin turned scary when he was pissed: his face set itself into cut granite, and his eyes went flinty and flat. “Are we all right or not?"

Shig sighed, her expression and her stance both drooping just a little. “I'm not a seer, Samin,” Shig said, almost gentle. “I can't tell you what's going to happen."

So why did Joori get the feeling that she knew anyway? And why was he the only one who seemed to notice that she hadn't actually answered the question?

Samin's mouth tightened. “Fine,” he growled. “I'll go and collect a tray or two. You.” He jabbed a finger at Shig. “Pay attention. Do whatever it is you do, and watch, understand?"

Joori was dying to ask exactly what they were supposed to be watching for, but didn't necessarily care. One thing was just as bad as another, he supposed, and danger was danger. Which was all the more reason to get them all the fuck out of here, and the removal of Samin as a blockade was something to be encouraged.

"I get it, Samin,” Shig replied, her green eyes sharper than Joori thought he'd ever seen them, no amusement in her expression, no dreamy-eyed abstraction. “Go get some lunch."

Jacin hadn't seemed to be paying much attention, instead slowly making his way over to the door, where his belts and straps and sheaths hung from hooks on the back. He threw the longer ones to dangle loose over his shoulders; the others he bunched into one hand and used his other hand to hold himself up as he carefully made his way back to the clothespress.

"I would've got those for you if you'd asked,” Joori told him. Jacin might not have even heard him, for all the reaction he offered. Joori watched him flop the belts and sheaths over the knives laid out on top of the press before he began to methodically strap them on. Jaw clamped, Joori looked away and sent a steady look at Samin, who was peering at Jacin with something soft-ish and faintly approving. Joori shook his head. “Is there anything we're supposed to do while you're gone?"

"Stay here,” Samin rumbled. “And do what Shig tells you."

Joori merely lifted an eyebrow, his mouth forming into a thin line, his skepticism over being “protected” and possibly ordered around by someone who rarely even spared the attention to follow a conversation purposely plain. Samin ignored it, spared one more dark look to Shig, flipped it over to Jacin, then quit the room with a gruff, “I'll be back anon."

Silence fell; the occasional slap-and-slide of leather and steel as Jacin armed himself was loud inside it. Joori watched him for a while, watched the sweat build up on his too-pale face, the fine tremor in his fingers, the way his jaw tightened once in a while on a thwarted wince as he tied the butt of a sheath to his thigh with a leather thong to keep it in place. Joori looked away, shaking his head. What did Jacin think he was going to be able to do if they were attacked? He couldn't even walk without limping.

Joori throttled the urge to say as much, because Jacin wouldn't listen, and it would just piss Joori off more. “What's that ring?” he asked instead. It had been bothering him since he'd spotted it—partly because he knew who had to have given it to Jacin, and what Umeia had said when she'd handed it over to Shig, but mostly because Jacin had obviously accepted it.

"Yeah,” Morin put in, head tilting to the side in curiosity. Always on the lookout for stirring trouble, Morin. “What is that? Malick give it to you?"

Predictably, Jacin didn't answer, though Joori couldn't tell if it was because he didn't want to or if he simply hadn't heard the question. He'd seemed rather removed from them all since they'd been herded in, even Caidi, and Joori had seen Jacin sink inside himself and his inner-noise before.

"Hey!” Morin said, a little louder this time. “Jacin-rei, I asked—"

"Jacin,” Joori snapped reflexively, probably a little sharper than he should've done, but he was on edge and not in the mood for Morin's shit right now. “Why d'you have to do that?” he wanted to know, angry at too many things, and Morin taking every opportunity to emphasize the suffix of their brother's name had been a kettle set to boil for too many years. “Father's not even here anymore, and nobody else in the world but you calls him Jacin-rei. D'you hate him that much?"

Morin calmly looked at Jacin, watching him steadily strapping on belts and sheaths then sliding knives into them. “I called him that when I was little,” he told Joori, “because Father demanded it and it pissed you off. I call him that now because it's what he is.” He didn't blush or look away when Joori gaped at him, only shrugged, perhaps a little uncomfortable but not backing down. “I don't hate him,” he went on quietly then went back to watching Jacin, who was still behaving as though he was in the room by himself. “But you've done him no favors by pretending he isn't what he is."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Morin shook his head. “It doesn't matter, because you'll never see it. You've always refused to look.” A pause, and then Morin again met Joori's gaze squarely. “You're a good brother, Joori. But you're crap at accepting people for what they are."

Joori was still gaping. Was this some kind of really idiotic and unfunny joke? “Have you lost your small mind? I'm the only one who—"

"You taught him how to stay sane,” Shig put in quietly. Joori snapped around to stare at her, poleaxed, because even if what she'd said was true, how fucking dare she. This wasn't her family, she had no place in this conversation. She smiled at him, like she knew exactly what he was thinking, and it pissed him off, because she probably did. She shrugged and waved her hand in a vague gesture toward Jacin. “But you also taught him to hope for the impossible. He was always going to be what he is. Pretending he wasn't and convincing him to believe it seems... kinda cruel."

Joori's mouth flapped, dozens of hot retorts and plenty of vicious profanity accumulating at the back of his throat, vibrating, but Jacin's soft voice stoppered it tight:

"Shut up, Shig,” Jacin said, quiet and low but fierce, laden with threat. “You've no right to an opinion when it comes to my family.” He turned slowly, his eyes burning out of their bruised hollows like twin pits of fiery penury from beneath stringy, uneven fringe. He stared Shig down until she smiled a little.

"Umeia's coming,” she said, keeping her gaze steady on Jacin. Her smile remained, but she looked... odd now. Strained.

Shit. Did that mean Umeia was going to try and take them away now? Were they still expected to go with her? They still hadn't been told who they were being “protected” from, and Joori had no idea if they were going to be simply handed over to Umeia and expected to follow after her meekly, or if all this sudden tension was a result of whatever had happened between Malick and Umeia.

"What does that mean?” Joori asked Shig.

Strangely, considering his previous silence, Jacin was the one to answer: “It means we're leaving now.” He opened the clothespress and took out a hefty little purse that clinked with promise as he stuffed it down his shirt. “It means we're not waiting for Umeia, we're not depending on Malick, and we're not asking permission. We'll meet the caravan tonight, but we're leaving here now. Get your shoes on."

"Stunned” was probably a good word for the silence that settled. Probably a good word for the wave of relief and elation that swamped through Joori too. He thought he might be grinning.

"Yeah?"

Jacin nodded, said, “Yeah,” and then he limped back over to the door and snagged the long duster that hung on a hook, slipping it on to cover the crisscross of belts and straps that entwined him.

"You sure you want to do that, Fen?” Shig asked softly. “She's not alone."

Jacin's mouth tightened, and if possible, his eyes blazed harder. “All the more reason,” he grated. “Malick wants to keep them here. I can't allow that. It's my duty—not theirs."

Joori scowled. Wait, what duty? And what did Jacin mean by, Malick wants to keep them here? Had Malick broken his promise to get them out safely? Not surprising, really—he was Temshiel, after all—but was Jacin still intending to keep his promise to fucking Malick? Did Jacin still intend to send them away and keep a broken bargain, or was he cutting his losses and coming with them?

Surprisingly, Shig nodded, her mouth turning down into a gloomy frown. “True,” she said, somewhat sadly. “But the Ancestors told him to."

"Fuck the Ancestors,” Jacin snapped. “We're getting out of here. Now.” He peered at Shig evenly. “You going to try and stop us?” Challenging. Daring her.

Joori had no idea how to feel about that. What would happen if it really did come down to a fight? He'd seen Jacin at work before, but he wasn't in very good shape right now, and Shig could do things with her mind. Joori shot quick glances to Caidi and Morin, both of them staring wide-eyed, thankfully quiet and waiting to see how it all shook out, keeping an eye on Jacin for cues.

Shig sighed, eyes closing and hand coming up to rub distractedly at her forehead. “No,” she murmured. “I wouldn't be able to if I wanted to.” She dropped her hand and leveled an intent gaze on Jacin. Joori was surprised and dismayed to see a small trickle of blood leaking from her left nostril. “Don't forget what you are, Fen Jacin-rei. Don't forget what any of them are.” And then her eyes rolled back, and she slid down the wall into a heap on the floor.

Caidi gave a little meep! but stayed where she was, her huge hazel eyes going from Shig to Joori to Jacin then back again.

Jacin watched Shig's descent with abrupt alarm, breathed, “Shit,” then jerked his chin at Joori and swung the door open. “Move. Now. Go get their shoes and—"

"No need to panic, lad,” Umeia said calmly, her shapely figure framed in the open doorway. She held a crutch in her hand—the irony of it thoroughly stunting any sense Joori might have made of it, and any gratitude he might have had for it otherwise. Her eyes slid to the knives Jacin had unsheathed and clenched tight in his fists, then up to his face. She shook her head, grimaced. “You look better,” she told him.

Jacin growled, low and threatening. “What did you do to Shig?"

"Worried about her, are you? You don't even like her.” Umeia's gaze went to the huddled heap on the floor across the room. “Nothing too serious,” she assured Jacin. “Unfortunately, I caught Samin on the steps, but he's only got a bump on the head. Well, that and your lunch all over his trousers. Van and Bone are trying to move him now, but he's rather large, so....” She shrugged. “They'll both be fine. I only needed them out for a while."

"Why?” Jacin asked, all slit-eyed hostility.

"You already know why,” Umeia said, her demeanor more brisk and commanding than it had been just a second ago. “Malick wants to keep them here, doesn't he? You don't want it, and I can't allow it. I'm getting you all out.” She shot a look at Joori. “Do as your brother told you. Get ready to leave. There's not much time."

Joori looked at Jacin, waiting, because he wasn't about to trust any of these people, no matter that what he was hearing now seemed to be exactly what he'd been wanting since... ever. Jacin just looked back at him, then gave his head a little jerk toward the door—permission; command—so Joori chivvied Morin and Caidi off the bed and out of the room. He paused in the doorway and then turned to Jacin. “We go together. Right?"

Because he knew bloody well that Jacin had had no intention of leaving with them before all of... whatever all this was.

"Not now, Joori,” was all Jacin said, and since Caidi was already halfway down the hallway and Morin was staring at him with something between blame and gloom, Joori decided to leave it until he saw what happened next. Because what choice did he have?

With one last look at Shig crumpled on the floor, Joori followed Caidi down the hall to the room they'd been loaned. Caidi already had her shoes and cloak on, busy now collecting what few things they'd removed from the packs and sacks and shoving them wherever she found room. “Is Umeia-onna taking us somewhere good?” She picked up the porcelain doll Samin had bought her, her heart-shaped little face twisted in real concern. “Is Samin-seyh hurt? It sounded like he's hurt. Should we ask her? Is he coming too? We're not going to leave Shig-onna on the floor, are we? Won't Malick-seyh be mad if we leave while he's—?"

"Caidi.” Joori dragged on a pair of Jacin's boots and caught up his cloak and Morin's. “Let's just go now, and we'll talk about all of that on the way, all right?” Because any second now she was going to ask about Yori, and Joori was doing everything he could not to wonder if he'd ever see her again.

"On the way where?” Morin put in. “Does Jacin-rei trust her?"

Joori ignored the “rei” because there wasn't time right now. He threw Morin's cloak at him and swung the sack Caidi had loaded over his shoulder. “I doubt it, but he won't let anything bad happen."

Morin pulled the cloak on, then took one of the smaller packs and settled it over Caidi's shoulders before taking the bigger one for himself. “You really think he can stop a determined Temshiel?” he muttered, dubious.

Joori wasn't sure of anything right now, so he didn't answer. “Let's go,” he said. He pushed Morin out the door and waited for Caidi to trot past him before taking a quick look around the little room that wasn't home but almost could have been. He left the room and shut the door behind him, deliberately not thinking.

Jacin and Umeia were waiting for them in the hall, engaged in a low-voiced conversation that didn't look terribly friendly.

"...know all that,” Jacin was growling. “Did you think I was a fucking idiot? I know what Malick is, I know what Asai is, and I know what I have to do."

Umeia was looking at him with what looked like real sadness in her eyes. “And I can't change your mind?” she asked him softly. “You don't have to do this, lad."

"Yeah,” Jacin said. “She's my mother, so yeah, I do."

"Do what?” Joori asked as he herded Caidi and Morin in front of him. Because as horrible a person as it might make him, he was willing to sacrifice their mother if it meant getting them all out of here safely. And he only prevented himself from sinking into dark guilt and self-rebuke because he knew damned well that their mother would ask the same of him, if she could.

Jacin clamped his mouth shut and looked away, sending an angry gaze down the steps. Umeia merely stared at Jacin for a long moment, shook her head, and shut her eyes. Again, it looked like she was genuinely sad about something, but with all the confusion under which he'd been flailing since Malick and Yori had bolted out of here, Joori had no idea what to make of any of it.

"So be it,” Umeia said. She tipped a nod at Joori. “Help him with the steps."

Jacin wouldn't let him help. And he knocked the crutch out of Umeia's hand with a sneer, glaring as it clattered to the floor. Umeia only looked at it with a lift of her eyebrow, shrugged, and waved at the steps. Jacin descended more slowly than he would've done a few days ago, but he was steadier than Joori would have thought he'd be. Either he'd been overdoing the limp before to fool Shig and Samin, or he was underdoing it now to fool Umeia. Joori had no idea which, or why Jacin would do either, but it showed that Jacin was thinking, planning, and it gave Joori hope.

Joori had expected to be stared at as they went. The “lads and ladies” were all up and about now, socializing with each other or be-robed and headed for the baths. But no one seemed to even notice them. It wasn't like that night when Malick had got them through the Gates—there was no swell of magic, no vertigo or lingering high. It was just a complete lack of notice on the parts of everyone around them. Umeia's magic, Joori had to assume, though he hadn't known she could do something like this. Then again, she was Temshiel, and what did he really know about their limits?—if they even had any.

The back stairs past the kitchens still had evidence of the spilled trays Samin must have been carrying—rice and noodles everywhere on the landing—but there was no sign of Samin himself. Joori was surprised to find himself hoping Samin would be all right. Besides Yori, Joori thought he probably liked Samin the most out of any of these people. Straightforward and... what? Honorable, maybe. Or at least as honorable as an assassin could be, Joori supposed.

Umeia laid a hand on the handle of the door at the bottom of the stairs, the one that led in from the back alley. She turned to look at Jacin as she swung the door open. “I'm sorry, lad. But you won't listen, and I can't take any more chances."

Joori had no idea what that meant, but fear rose in his chest, sharp and cold, as Jacin froze. Umeia had already gotten behind him. Now she shoved him face-first into the wall beside the open door. Too fast to even see, she twisted Jacin's arms up behind his back, held at the wrists and hiked up at too-sharp angles between his shoulder blades. Pinned with a strength Joori hadn't really suspected, but Umeia looked so normal, so mortal, that he never really thought of her as Temshiel like he did Malick. Except, now that Joori tried to surge forward and knock her off his brother, he found he couldn't move, just like that night when the hunters had come for his mother, so he had no choice but to see Umeia as the powerful being she truly was. Paralyzed, forced to do nothing but watch, Morin and Caidi sentient dolls to either side of him.

"You fucking bitch!” Jacin cried, fathoms deep with pain and betrayal and deep-dark rage as his gaze found and held something out in the alley that Joori couldn't yet see. “You can't do this, you swore oath, you can't—"

"I swore oath to your family, Fen,” Umeia said gently. “And I'll keep it. I didn't swear to you.” She held on as Jacin struggled and snarled, but he was weak and hurt, and Umeia was apparently a lot stronger than Joori would have guessed. She angled herself flush behind Jacin, pressed him harder into the wall then closed her eyes and laid her cheek to his. “I'm sorry, lad. You chose your brother and I chose mine.” And then she set a kiss to Jacin's temple that only made him glare more fiercely at whatever had caught his gaze outside the door, breathe something that could have been a wheezy growl or a throttled sob. Maybe both. “I'll keep my promise,” Umeia said softly. “They'll be all right."

"No, they won't!” Jacin grated. He bucked his entire body, managing to jostle Umeia a little, but not get himself loose. “Fucking bitch, don't you know what—?"

"I expect I know a great deal more about all this than you do,” Umeia said calmly, adjusted her grip and flattened Jacin brutally into the wall, shaking her head as he grunted. “I'll keep them safe. Heart and body; breath and spirit.” Then she pulled back a little, turning her glance out the door. “He'll need to be bound—” She stopped when Jacin tried again to jerk in her grip, tried to get loose from her impossible hold, cursing and almost whimpering all the while. Umeia set her teeth and held on. “Probably sedated too."

The day was gray and damp, almost oppressive with the heavy warmth and the stench of the alley seeping in through the door. There was no real sunlight for shadows, but Joori could swear he saw one darkening the doorway, and the scent of jasmine leached in, winding through him. Jacin kept glaring and snarling and fighting as light footsteps approached. One cheek was still mashed into the wall, but his wild eyes never left whatever—whomever—they were watching as he breathed, “No. No.” And all at once he sagged, breath coming in harsh little hitches, face so filled with pain Joori could almost feel it twisting in his own chest.

Defeated, powerless, Jacin shut his eyes, teeth clenched tight.

"Beishin... please."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Six

It hurt. Because there was a time when that plea would have meant entirely different things, and there would not have been that heavy thrum of betrayal beneath it. There was a time when Jacin-rei would have begged his beishin for other things, and there was a time when Asai had been so sure in his refusal. He wasn't sure anymore, and seeing the boy's eyes devoid now of their dedication, their blatant love, seeing it all replaced with bleak despair and distrust.... It hurt. And Asai never would have thought it.

He only watched for a moment, watched the boy's thwarted writhing in the wolfling's hold, watched him try to flop himself about like a butterfly on a pin, watched the defeat take hold and the grief swell... shook his head sadly and sighed. Asai hadn't wanted it to be this way. He hadn't wanted to have to resort to such measures to regain his hold on his Ghost, and he certainly hadn't wanted to be forced to accept the wolfling's “deal” to get him back. But Jacin-rei had proven more unpredictable than even Asai had guessed, and there'd been little choice.

He was flirting with doom, now, he knew—Kamen would be blood-mad when he found out what his sister had done, and he would come. There would be nowhere for Asai to hide, so he simply wouldn't. He would take back his Ghost and gamble on the Catalyst and the Fate he'd foreseen all those years ago. Asai had no doubt that Kamen's anger could very well usurp his sense when it came to their laws. And the threat of the suns might not be enough to keep offended pride from feeding what was sure to be impressive rage. They might be forbidden to kill each other, but Asai had seen Kamen's fury before, and he had no illusions that sense and obedience to the gods would rule this time, if Asai didn't get Jacin-rei back in line. The little Ghost might very well be Asai's only defense against Kamen, and “stealing” him back like this was only going to deepen Kamen's ridiculous notions of justice.

There was still one card left to play. When Kamen came after Asai, the Ghost would not allow his beishin to fall to the Temshiel. Asai had built Jacin-rei to have no such choice. And the boy was a very skilled killer. Asai would get what he wanted out of this, in the end; it would merely be in a very different way than he'd foreseen.

Asai squared his shoulders, put on a soft smile, and allowed genuine affection and almost apology to curl through it. He stepped forward, said, “Hello, my wayward Ghost,” and he caught the eye of the earth-bound—the key to Jacin-rei's absolute obedience and cooperation. So close and yet now as untouchable as his brother. Asai refused to allow his disappointment to show. He held out his hand to... he couldn't remember the man's name—one of Snake's thugs that happened to be for sale when he'd sent out an eye for biddable minions... Itai, that was it—and accepted the length of rope he'd hoped wouldn't be necessary, though he'd known it would. “I've come to take you home,” he told Jacin-rei.

Would that it were so simple.

None too soon, though, from what Asai could see. Jacin-rei looked ill-used and hollow-eyed. He wasn't physically well, the offense of which curled much deeper in Asai than he'd supposed it would or should. Leu's bungling, he knew, and he spared a dark bit of a growl for her memory, but mostly for Kamen. Jacin-rei belonged to Asai, and the Temshiel who'd claimed him for his own had apparently not been taking very good care of him. Kamen was in his own Cycle, his powers were nearly limitless, and yet he'd allowed the Catalyst to be injured, and, it appeared, rather grievously. The boy was ill and raw, wide open, and in more pain than that which Asai had inflicted merely by showing up.

So many emotions swirling in his Ghost's eyes, and now they were crowding for dominance all at once: betrayal, hurt, fear, and hatred, the latter trying to overrule all of the former, and it almost made Asai smile. Love and hate were so very close, and one couldn't have one without the other. His Ghost was not entirely lost to him, not yet.

"Only me?” Jacin-rei whispered. Heartbreaking hope and far too much damnable suspicion.

Damn Kamen for the way he'd twisted the boy from the devoted Ghost he'd been to this sad, chary, defeated shadow. Asai hadn't wanted to use the boy's family against him; he'd only wanted to motivate his Ghost in the right direction. Well, he hadn't wanted Jacin-rei to know he was using his family against him. Moot, anyway, since Asai couldn't have them.

He took a step closer, raised an eyebrow at the wolfling when her mouth and grip both tightened, then dismissed her. She could distrust him and hate him all she liked. It would have no effect whatsoever on his place with Wolf when this was all through. With the tiniest of smirks her way, Asai raised his hand slowly, swept gentle fingertips over Jacin-rei's sweat-clammy cheekbone, then slid them farther up and pushed matted chestnut out of his eyes. Jacin-rei neither tried to flinch nor lean into the touch.

"Your hair, Jacin-rei,” Asai murmured. He watched the specter of Jacin prowl beneath the indigo-rung grays of Jacin-rei, watched the reluctant longing at Asai's deliberate soft tone well up beneath the rage. “These people have not been taking care of you properly.” Certainly he was no longer the clean, impeccable youth Asai had seen every day for almost a decade. And there would be words later about those marks on the boy's neck. Bloody Kamen. “You need your beishin to see to you, lad. You always have done. None other can love the unlovable, not like your beishin. Whatever these people have told you, little Ghost, whatever you might want to believe, only I can give you what you truly want. What you need, Jacin-rei. You do not exist but in my eyes."

You're nothing, and you know it—only I can make you something, and you know that too. Come with me, and I'll give you what you need, what you know you still want, even if you don't want to know or want to need.

Asai leaned in, lowered his voice, let his fingers gently tease at the wisps of chestnut that stirred with his own breath against Jacin-rei's ear, and went for the gut. “You have not yet attained perfection, little Ghost. How it must pain you, knowing they all look to you, and knowing you can never make the measure."

Failure. A not so gentle reminder. Cheap, perhaps, and a shortcut, certainly, but he needed his Ghost back, and he needed him walking the path Asai set for him, needed the promise of the Fate only this Catalyst could bring.

Except Jacin-rei's eyes hardened, and his teeth tightened impossibly. “Only. Me,” he shoved out between them.

Keeping the snarl from his face with a great deal of effort, Asai stepped back, refusing to spare a glance to the wolfling. He didn't need to see her to know she was smirking. He'd known the boy was going to take work; he reminded himself it was all going to be worth the effort. And that Jacin-rei would thank him when it was over. He half wished he could just lean in and kiss him, still him, promise him... confuse him, at the very least.

Not here.

Instead, Asai smiled and shook his head. He sighed. “You are, and have ever been, the only one I need, Jacin-rei. For you, I touch the Untouchable.” Sincere, because it was true, the way things should have been, had he not miscalculated that fateful night so badly, had Yakuli and his disastrous arrival at Asai's door not slipped right through his sight and taken him so unawares. Yakuli—so arrogant and disdainful of “Lord Asai"—would pay for it in pain and true terror when Asai finally revealed to him what he was up against, and if he played everything exactly right, Jacin-rei would believe that Asai was doing it all for him. Asai might even allow the boy the honors himself—after all, he'd done such magnificent work with Sonji-onna, by all reports—if Jacin-rei put the appropriate effort into relearning his place and purpose.

"Fen,” said the wolfling, calm yet commanding—so much like her brother that Asai's mouth tightened in distaste, “you for them. That was the deal. He'll take you with him and he'll leave them here with me. I promised you I'd see to them, I swore oath. You know I can't break it."

The boy stared at Asai all the while, narrow-eyed, searching, and... damn. Calculating. What had these people done to his Ghost? Jacin-rei did not calculate; Jacin-rei acted. Jacin-rei did what he was told. All of the work Asai had done over the years to ensure the boy's obedience was the only way to ensure Asai's own control and influence over the Catalyst's effect on Fate. Now, the boy was taking in what was happening around him, thinking about it, planning. Focus, where there'd never been any before but that which Asai instilled himself. He'd never been able to foresee Jacin-rei, but what he saw now in the boy's eyes didn't need sight. His own death shone out plainly.

It really wouldn't do.

"Let them go,” Jacin-rei said evenly, eyes sliding sideways to where his siblings were all but staked to the floor, still and silent as they should be. “Take off the spell, and I'll come with you."

As though he really had a choice. Still, it would probably be best if he thought he did.

Asai spread his hands out, palms-up. “You can see it isn't I who—"

"I know it's you,” Jacin-rei snarled. “Umeia might be a reprehensible traitor, but even she wouldn't stoop to Blood-magic."

The wolfling pinched her mouth up tight but said nothing.

All of this vitriol from his little Ghost. Asai had been expecting anger, had seen as much the night Jacin-rei came to kill him and couldn't, and he knew the boy's confused affections were what had kept him from doing so. Now, it appeared they were even more confused, and whatever Kamen's influence had been, it had rocked them down to a core of which Asai hadn't even been aware.

Damn Kamen, and damn Asai's own sight for not showing him that the Temshiel he needed would end up being the very one who could turn the boy against him. It hadn't altered what Asai could still see of Fate, but it was making it damned difficult to keep his own head in the midst of all the upheaval.

Asai shook his head, but kept his smile. “After we're safely away, Jacin-rei.” Kind and indulgent, to counteract the sting of denial. “Your brother will not—"

"My brother will do as I tell him,” Jacin-rei cut in. “Let them go, or you'll have to try and get that rope on me before I get to a knife and gut you.” He paused, smiled a little—sickly and full of hate. “I'm very fast, Beishin,” he said, low, almost seductive. “I did, after all, have an excellent teacher."

Impertinent little reprobate. Clearly, this was going to be more work than Asai had thought. Damn Vonshi for disappearing right when he would have been the most useful. More than two decades, Asai had groomed the ungrateful baseborn for this, and now that it was here and Asai needed him....

"He is extraordinarily fast,” the wolfling agreed, her snarky tone and slight smirk enough to coil a hot coal of anger in Asai's chest. “And I have no intention of allowing my charges to risk themselves. Give him this. He'll keep his word."

As if Asai needed this poor excuse for a Temshiel to tell him what his Ghost would and wouldn't do. Asai only just kept the sneer from his face.

"Anyway,” she went on with a slight tightening of her jaw, “he won't have much fight to spare in a moment.” She shifted her hold, wrenched Jacin-rei's arms higher up his back with one hand, nearly snapping his hands up to his nape, and with the other, she twisted a ring from his finger.

Asai hadn't noticed it before, but he knew right away what it was, and Jacin-rei's reaction when it was taken from him merely confirmed it. He gasped, almost moaned, eyes squeezing shut and jaw clenching so hard Asai thought it likely he was fissuring hairline cracks in his teeth. No wonder the boy had seemed so clearheaded. What had Kamen been thinking, entrusting such a thing to a Catalyst? Had it been bribe or gift? Asai had a feeling it mattered.

Still, the effect of its loss had done more than any force or coaxing Asai might have tried. Jacin-rei was a quivering mess.

Still smirking a little, the wolfling took the ring and ran it lightly against Jacin-rei's cheek; the boy gasped again and stilled, eyes shot wide and fixed once again on Asai. Still a little off-balance, but clearer now. A deliberate demonstration, and Asai had no trouble at all recognizing the wolfling's threat: give the Ghost what he asked for, or she would give him back the talisman that gave him sanity and walk away from their deal. Asai would never get his Ghost out of this dirty back alley without a horrible battle. Tirin and Itai had already demonstrated that they couldn't control themselves when it came to a fight, and the boy was already damaged enough—Asai needed Jacin-rei, and he needed him able. And the wolfling knew it.

"Why do you even care?” Asai wanted to know, irritated that his voice bent a little petulant. He couldn't help it. She hated him just as much as her brother did, and he had been able to detect no soft feelings for Jacin-rei whatsoever when she'd come to him with this trade. He couldn't understand why she'd try to make concessions to the boy now. Some sort of apologetic morsel to claim to her brother, perhaps?

The wolfling apparently heard Asai's confusion and annoyance all too clearly. Her smirk broadened, and she shrugged. “Because he is fast,” she answered. “And you won't be the only target his knives will seek when I let him loose.” Her eyes narrowed, her smirk gone. “I'm not doing any of this for you, Asai, and I have no ill-will toward him or his. Give the lad one thing he wants, one bit of reassurance that he's giving himself away for a reason.” She took the ring away again, shaking her head when Jacin-rei once again reacted as though someone were placing a hot iron to him. “He's not well, and he hasn't got much fight left, but he can do you and himself more damage than you want. Give him this."

Damn. She sounded like Vonshi, and yes, she was right, though it made Asai grimace to even think it. And what wouldn't he give to have that ring? If he'd known the spells to make it years ago, Jacin-rei would be nothing more than an extension of Asai's own will by now, but Skel had been... reticent. In that, at least. Asai hadn't yet foreseen the use of an Untouchable, and so hadn't pressed it. Yet another reason to regret his own premature... well, Kamen would surely call it a betrayal, but it was merely a parting of ways. Still, that ring would have been a damnably useful tool to make Asai's own tool even more effective, and it was completely out of his reach. The wolfling would never allow the boy to keep it, not when she was handing him to “the enemy.” Asai had to give her grudging credit, he supposed.

Asai eyed the earth-bound, frozen with an almost pitiable look of panic on his face. Strong, certainly, but his strength thus far had been invested in throttling and denying his magic. He wouldn't know how to use it now if he held it physically in his hands. Asai didn't think there would be much danger in letting him free. His role in possible futures had been voided. One thing, at least, that had played out as Asai had foreseen. And the other two.... Feh. Mortals and nothing more. They wouldn't have even been worth his notice at all, had it not been for their importance to his Catalyst. Still, all of this would have been so much easier if Yakuli had just done as he'd been instructed. Asai would make him pay, of course, but that wasn't helping him now.

He sighed. He bowed his head slightly to Jacin-rei, though he doubted the boy took it in, with his glazed eyes and wild look. Asai shook his head. So much of his work undone, and now he'd have to spend time redoing it. And this bold move would certainly shorten what time was left to him. Kamen would waste none of it in coming after what he deigned his.

Disgusted, Asai retrieved the amulet from where it hung around his neck beneath his cloak, held it in his palm, and whispered the spell. As soon as the earth-bound staggered forward, the wolfling shoved Jacin-rei at Asai and moved to restrain his brothers and sister. The strength of a Temshiel, obviously, but they had the audacity of youth and the ignorance of mortals. All three surged in at once, shouting and flailing. The littlest managed to writhe and twist her way through bodies and limbs to almost-freedom; she eschewed it in favor of throwing herself at Jacin-rei, even as Asai caught him. Mouth set tight, and grip tighter, Asai motioned for Tirin and Itai to hold and start disarming his Ghost. They each took an arm, though Jacin-rei wasn't fighting them, merely allowing Asai to set him upright on his feet as the little girl clung to him, limpet-like. He only stared down at his little sister, blank-eyed, as she wrapped her arms around his waist, weeping.

"Jacin!” she warbled. “Jacin, don't go, don't let that man take you away, please!"

"Let me go!” the earth-bound was shouting, caught up tight in the wolfling's chokehold, but fighting just as determinedly as his brother had done a moment ago. “You can't do this, you can't let him have him, you can't—"

"Joori, stop,” Jacin-rei breathed. He shut his eyes and tried to drag his arms away, apparently intending to reach down toward his little sister, who was still entwined around his waist, but Asai's men didn't let him loose, and he didn't struggle very hard. Just stood there as Tirin and Itai began taking his knives from their sheaths. A little more roughly than necessary, they pushed the little girl back now and then to reach a belt or a strap, but each time, she used the audacity and limber-limbed slipperiness of youth to shove herself right back in. Jacin-rei only sagged between them, and let his sister wind about him as Asai's men went about disarming him. Beaten. If he weren't being held as he was, he'd be lying face-first on the dirty stone of the alley.

"Caidi.” The boy's voice was thin and thready. Poor little Ghost. Asai almost wanted to stroke his cheek, soothe him. “Caidi, go to Joori. Please. Before they—"

"They won't do anything to your sister,” the wolfling put in, imperious and threatening as she watched Asai and his men with keen attention. “They can't."

All too true, unfortunately.

"And we're supposed to trust your word?” the earth-bound grated. “You bloody traitorous—"

"Stop, Joori,” the younger brother said, his tone far older than his apparent age, and the anger in his eyes calm and focused, where the earth-bound's was panicked and wild. The boy was just as caught as his brothers were, but he didn't struggle. He only stood in the wolfling's grip, and split an all too familiar glare between his captor and Asai. “You don't really think Malick-seyh is going to stand for any of this, do you?” he asked evenly.

"Malick-seyh,” Asai repeated, and he smiled a little, sliding a sardonic look to the wolfling. “Is Kamen still using his mortal name?"

Such foolishness. Why not just have WEAKNESS tattooed on his forehead?

"He's going to kill you both,” the brassy little brother said. “Jacin-rei sort of brings that out in people.” He smirked a little—a sly thing—and set his eyes directly on Asai. “He won't have to kill you, I guess. My brother will do that, first chance he gets."

"Oh?” Asai lifted an eyebrow. He really had to smile a little at the brash impertinence. “Which one?” The one in the wolfling's chokehold, or the one held between Asai's own men, arms spread wide and pinned like a man crucified? Asai's smile broadened.

The boy smiled back, as though they shared a private joke between them. “Take your pick, I guess,” he said. “Depends on which one gets the drop on you.” He shrugged, widened the smile. “Maybe even me."

"Morin,” Jacin-rei breathed, shoved out from between teeth clenched far too tight, “shut up. Please.” A look passed between them, something Asai would have to remember and analyze later, but it made the arrogant little misanthrope nod and shut his mouth, so Asai let it pass for now. Probably something noble and self-sacrificing on Jacin-rei's part, and selfish acceptance on the brat's. That, at least, was predictable. Ah, Jacin-rei—always and ever looking out for those he loved, never seeing them for the weaknesses they were, which was a little disappointing, but worked in Asai's favor this time. Jacin-rei's eyes lifted to his twin, commanding and pleading, all at once. “Don't do anything stupid. Don't let them do anything stupid. Caidi, go to Joori."

The little girl lifted her head, big eyes welling over, cheeks pale and stained with tears. “But—"

"Jacin,” the earth-bound whined. “You can't just—"

"C'mon, Caidi,” the brat cut in, eyes still on Asai, mouth still curled in that overconfident smirk. Asai marked it all for another time. Marked it very carefully, and with great relish. Someone needed to be taught a lesson about having the arrogance to try and challenge a maijin. “Don't make it worse for him,” the boy went on. And then he all but dismissed Asai—dismissed—turning his eyes to the earth-bound. “He needs us to stay alive. He'll take care of himself, and what he can't take care of, Malick-seyh will.” He leaned in as much as his restricted movements would allow, dropping his voice almost low enough that Asai didn't hear. “Let him be what he is, Joori. You just be what you are.” Another significant look Asai couldn't interpret before the boy's gaze slid back to the wolfling. “You can't think you'll be forgiven for this."

The wolfling grimaced, released her hold on the boy, and used both arms now to restrain the twin. “Hush and go get your sister, lad."

And why was Asai even standing here, wasting his time on this ridiculous little drama? He had what he needed for now, and he could turn Jacin-rei back onto the proper path without this nattering troupe of incompetents. He'd given his Ghost what he'd asked for; it was time to collect on his end of the bargain.

"Enough,” he snapped, giving his men an impatient wave toward the mouth of the alley. “Get him to the carriage, and make sure the curtains are drawn.” He tossed the length of rope to Tirin. “Secure his hands, and don't let his state of apparent dysphoria take you in. He is fast, and he will kill you, if you give him half a chance.” Asai almost smiled a little with pride. He'd taught the boy so very well, after all. Still, even if Jacin-rei did manage to gut these two fools, he wouldn't run far. He'd never leave his family at Asai's “mercy."

"No,” the earth-bound snarled, redoubling his efforts in breaking loose from the wolfling, but she grimly held on as he flailed. “I won't let you take him, not this time. Jacin!” he shouted, “Jacin!"

The little one screamed as Tirin shoved her away from Jacin-rei, and she fell to the ground in a tumbling little heap. It was a mistake—Asai could tell before she even hit the stones. The look of vague, helpless rage that had settled over Jacin-rei's face abruptly lifted and cleared, and his gray eyes burned. He turned, swift as lightning, and head-butted Itai, stunning him. Almost an indistinct streak of movement, Jacin-rei lunged out of Itai's grip, and right into Tirin, grappling at the man's belts where his own weapons had been thrust. Worrying, certainly, but not dire. Tirin still had the strength of a maijin to rely on, and Jacin-rei was more a frenzied madman than the efficient assassin Asai knew he had become.

Still... the lad was something to watch. He was fast. Nearly a blur to the eye, and Asai couldn't help the bit of admiration and loving pride. He'd seen Jacin-rei spar—with that... unfortunate young degenerate, and then with the shadows—but he'd never seen his Ghost actually fight before. Asai could only imagine what it would look like if he hadn't had the boy's knives taken from him, but this... this was something to see, all economical, unthinking grace and lethal instinct.

The twin was still struggling with the wolfling, the little one still sitting on the stones, shrieking, the younger brother trying to duck around the perimeter of the fray to reach her. Itai was hovering at the fringes, trying to clear his head, watching it all and waiting for a signal from Tirin to join in or take over. And all Asai could see was the Untouchable. Dodging and striking. A flying kick to Tirin's gut that left him gasping. Jacin-rei twirled back, braid flying, and landed on his good leg. An offensive stance, waiting for the right moment to drive in again.

There was no holding back in that narrow gray stare, no mercy. Nothing at all but caged malevolence and intense concentration on his own body and that of his opponent's. Nothing at all but cool, deadly intent, artful violence.

Jacin-rei was at an obvious disadvantage—Tirin and Itai were among the idiots who had torn him up the other night, and the boy was clearly favoring his right leg as he fought. That, and he was currently locked in combat with a maijin. And still, he attacked and parried Tirin, as though he was the one with supernatural talent. And the boy was unarmed. Tirin's blade never touched him.

Oh yes, this one would do the job on Kamen quite well, when his head was finally put back to where Asai needed it. And with the added advantage of being someone Kamen wanted up close....

It might all work out after all.

With efficiency and skill Asai just had to admire, his little Ghost blocked strikes and deflected thrusts of Tirin's sword, waiting for his moment, before he finally propelled himself across the small distance separating them. He hit Tirin low, driving in with his shoulder and knocking the sword to clatter across the stones of the alley.

They rolled. Tirin landed on top. With one hand, he tried to restrain; the other wrapped around Jacin-rei's throat. Asai almost put a stop to it there, but perhaps, if he allowed it until the boy lost consciousness....

The little girl screamed again. Scrambling away from the fray, she retreated back toward the wolfling, propelling right past the younger brother and throwing herself at the twin. He managed to get an arm loose and reach for her. Asai only just caught a glint of dull metal out the corner of his eye, only just registered what he was seeing pass from sister to brother. He turned back to shout to Itai and Tirin, but Jacin-rei had managed to get one of his knives back and was currently carving a wide, precise gash through Tirin's chest. And Itai was standing there, watching it in obvious disbelief

Magic swelled around Asai, thick and oppressive, raw and unfocused. Enough crude power to set his skin buzzing and make his mouth go dry. The wolfling shouted something, the ground rumbled a little beneath Asai's feet, and before he even had the time to acknowledge what it meant, all hell broke loose.

* * * *

Malick was extraordinarily unhappy, and he didn't much care whom he brought down with him. He'd been terse and snappish with Yori as they'd made their swift way to the Stallion, his longer stride and quick pace somewhat trying for Yori to keep up with. He'd ignored her huffing and the light scrim of sweat on her red face, and kept rattling off what had happened, what was happening now, what he thought might happen next, and how he was all kinds of pissed off that so little of it was under his control.

"So, Joori's not going anywhere, then?” Yori asked, which had only pissed Malick off more, though he shouldn't blame her for being pleased about the idea—she'd never formed an attachment to anyone else in all the years he'd known her; he should be delighted for her—but it was so far beyond what was actually important that it made him grind his teeth.

"The Ancestors seem to think he's significant to what's going on,” Malick had told her as evenly as he could, because it was just one more thing on which Fen would lay distrust, and it wasn't bloody fair, damn it. Malick had meant to get them out, he'd wanted to get them out—who wanted the annoying, jealous twin about mucking up the works, anyway?—but he'd forced the issue with the Ancestors for a reason, and now he had to suck it up and deal with what he'd gotten. Joori was some kind of key, according to the Ancestors, and there were bigger issues at stake here than Fen being pissed at Malick for not coming through on his promise.

They sat now in Xari's dark little parlor, listening to Husao blather about changing fates and what Wolf really meant—because, of course, Husao, one of Dragon's, would know better than Malick how to interpret Wolf's directives; Malick didn't even try not to roll his eyes—Yori listening attentively to Xari and Husao debate, and Malick grinding his teeth down to almost nothing. The day just kept getting better and better.

"But he clearly said that he was calling Kamen to his duty,” Husao argued. “'All fates rest on the Heart of the Null'. Surely that means—"

"The hand of Fate itself safeguards those who would mock Balance,” Xari put in wearily. “What Asai is safeguards Asai. Fate safeguards Yakuli. It does not mean what you want it to mean, and no amount of debating and choosing those things you want to hear will make it any more what you want it to be. The Balance comes before your vengeance, Husao.” She turned to Malick. “Your god has commanded you to risk your soul to do his work, to see to Asai, to see to Yakuli—and I would hazard any other who has dared to use Wolf's children so badly—but you have not been given leave to destroy out of hand. You risk the suns only if you disobey your laws while obeying Wolf. That is your conundrum. Only you are Wolf's-own. Only you can judge best what your god wishes of you."

"Yeah,” Malick snapped. “All I have to do now is kill Yakuli without actually going near him, and then let Asai walk away because Fate says I get to kill everyone but the people who badly need killing."

"You do not need to let Asai walk away,” Xari said quietly. “You promised—"

"No, I didn't.” Malick kept his tone firm and even, his stare hard. “I told you that there would be opportunity, but neither Fen nor I will wait for you to take it. It's up to you to be quick enough."

Xari might well want redemption for her god, but Malick wasn't about to let Asai slip away while she dithered about taking it. Because if Malick had made any promise at all about Asai's intended fate, it had been to Fen. Which brought up another point about which Malick wasn't too happy:

"Oh, right, and I also get to keep Fen's brother here—where Asai knows he is—and defend him against Asai, also without killing him, even though it's already pissed Fen off so badly he may never trust me again.” He slouched down in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared like a petulant child, and he didn't fucking care. “Oh yeah, I forgot—not only can I not fail Wolf or I burn, but I also can't fail Fen or I burn, even though keeping his family here instead of sending them away so they'll be safe is already a pretty big failure. I might as well just say, ‘Fuck it,’ and kill everyone, because I'm fucked any way I turn."

Xari tsked, shook her head. “Always you think in terms of who to kill and how to do so.” Her tone was chastising, but her hint of a smile was kind. “Do you never consider other paths?"

"Like what?” Malick wanted to know. “Tattle on Yakuli to the Doujou? Right. There are two judges I know of who don't have a full-Blood of their own or aren't waiting for one—two. Probably half the lords and prefects have been bought, and those who haven't are being steadily plotted against by those who have. The only people in Ada who aren't abusing magic, or are unaware that it's being abused at all, are the people themselves."

A grim, muffled snort from Yori's direction caught his attention, and he turned to her, asked, “What?” perhaps a little too sharply.

Yori's face flushed a little, and she sank in her seat, green eyes flicking around the table, overfaced. She hadn't said a word since introductions were made but for a soft, “No, thank you, misin,” when Xari had offered her tea, merely sitting quietly and trying not to stare at Ragi, who'd been equally as silent. Now, she gave Malick a wide-eyed look full of nerves that made him feel even worse. Made of stern stuff, Yori, a little biddable, perhaps, but not easily intimidated. She cleared her throat, glanced once again to Xari then Husao, then settled her gaze on Malick.

"Nothing,” she said with a self-conscious shrug. “You just said it: the people don't know. And the Adan fear magic, above all else.” She paused and waited for a beat, but when no one shushed her, she went on, “They're not going to like finding out they've been ruled by it all this time."

"True.” Husao sat back in his chair, his face, for the first time since they'd gotten here, thoughtful rather than imperious. He studied Yori for a long moment, so intense Malick could actually see Yori trying not to shift and blush, then he peered at Malick, head atilt. “I imagine that's what Yakuli's for."

Xari scoffed. “Even my arrogant get would not think to so blatantly usurp the Adan,” she protested. “Free the Jin and enable their rise back from enslavement, yes, but true rule? Such open involvement by a maijin—for that the gods would never stand. No.” She shook her head, eyes narrowed. “No, he is more subtle than simple revolution. Yakuli is a distraction and a tool, else Asai would have hidden the magic better. Yakuli might think he is to lead a coup, but Asai has no use for the Adan, for they have no power.” She flicked Malick a meaningful glance. “His cards still strive beyond his reach. He would grasp for the Sorcerer's mantle still."

Husao answered something, but Malick was no longer listening. Subtle.

Asai was subtle, yes. Too subtle for armies and revolts, unless there was something else beneath it that served his purposes. He might want a revolt, but if he stayed true to his patterns—and he hadn't done anything yet to make Malick think he wouldn't—Yakuli was a tool to be used and betrayed. Not meant to succeed, but to be conveniently disposed of by other hands besides Asai's own. No blame to Lord Asai. No crimes of which to accuse him. Asai meant to come out of all this as a savior, clean of all blame and able to stand before the gods and claim his place with Wolf.

Banished by Raven, but... had he been? Really? Could he have been sent to finish what had long been suspected Raven had started?

Wolf suffers not the duplicity of weaker gods

Right.

And was it possible that Asai was actually weaving between the two gods? Covering his steps in his intricate dance to appear as though he were adhering to the wishes of both, and all the while plotting for his own ascent to a status that rivaled them all?

The Adan would find the will to stand against magic. They'd done it before, when they'd marched on the Jin. They didn't hate the Jin—the tribes had blended too much; there were too many among them who had Jin blood in them for that—they feared them. They feared the magic that ran through Jin veins. The people of Ada didn't want the extermination of the Jin, or they wouldn't have bothered with camps. They wanted the extermination of magic. And if they knew that the elite who governed them—those who condemned and punished magic; those who made them fear even the smallest hint of it in themselves or their children—had all the while been torturing full-Bloods and using their magic themselves....

"Revolution” would be putting it mildly.

The government of Ada would be lynched wholesale. The people would be leaderless, directionless, ripe for subjugation. A repeat of the pattern that had been the doom of the Jin when they'd lost their Ancestors.

A raid on the camps would be the first step, Malick supposed. That was what Yakuli was for, though Yakuli likely had no idea he would be saving the Jin, rather than destroying them. In fact, he likely had no idea he was to be a mere captain to Asai and not a leader in his own right. Malick had no doubt Yakuli had very different objectives, and they were very probably implanted by Asai himself, or at least seized and encouraged. Because Xari was right—Asai didn't want rule, Asai wanted power. And what better way to get it than to have it handed to him willingly by those who'd been persecuted for it for a century and a half?

Free the Jin from their imprisonment, subtly guide them toward vengeance, because Asai was a subtle man. And while the Adan were distracted by the upheaval of their government, their beliefs, their lives, the Jin would walk back into their city and take back what had been theirs. Asai would not march at the front of the mob, but behind it somewhere, lending little pushes where necessary, using his talisman of Heart's Blood to “guide” them all, keeping his influence oh so subtle, because Asai was an oh so subtle man.

"Bloody damn,” Malick murmured. He looked up and caught Yori's eye, ignoring the droning of Husao as he continued to speculate with Xari.

It wasn't a bad plan, really. Malick even grudgingly approved of some of it. If it hadn't been Asai, who perverted everything in which he had a hand, and if it hadn't been for the fact that it happened to require Blood—any Blood; the Heart's Blood had become more and more academic as Malick thought the plan through—he might just sit back and watch it all happen. He was no longer just incensed by the fact that Asai had “purchased” Fen, made him a killer, manipulated him and used him, and all to crack open Malick's chest and siphon off his Blood. He was incensed that Asai thought he had the right to wield the power of gods. He was incensed that Asai had enabled Yakuli to build himself a full-Blood “farm” for the purpose, and he was profoundly offended that Asai could very well walk away from it all with ostensibly clean hands and everything he wanted.

"You've got it, Yori,” Malick went on slowly. “I think you—"

Pain first, driving right between his eyes, hitting him like a spike, then an overwhelming awareness of wrongwrongwrong.

"Shig,” Malick gasped, because it felt like her, and then it was gone, all at once, winked out, like a shout cut off. He snapped his glance back to Yori, saw that she'd felt it too; her face had gone pale, and her eyes had sprung wide and worried.

"Not dead,” Malick told her, because it felt wrong, but not that wrong. He yanked Yori out of her seat and snapped, “Let's go.” Because wrong was wrong, and speed felt very necessary. He didn't need to drag Yori after him, she was already on her feet and headed to the curtain that hung at the doorway, but he latched on anyway, told Husao, “We've got trouble,” and he yanked Yori out.

Yori, more than any of them, appreciated the experience of being one place one second and another the next. Malick had always brushed off her inquiries about the hows of it all with vague explanations of altering perceptions and sleight of hand, because it was a lot easier than trying to really explain it. Anyway, it fit with her reality of Malick as a lazy reprobate who happened to be good at killing the people she wanted dead—a lazy reprobate who had a little magic she couldn't quite classify. It worked for both of them, but it wasn't that simple.

Even as Malick stalked through the Stallion, dragging Yori behind him, Husao and Xari following after with a mix of annoyance and worry between them, Malick was already dismantling their physicality, breaking it down and dissipating it through the winds. Sternly, he called the captive ghosts of the earth, drawing in the life force of the air, blurring the reality all around them, and warning the spirits against laying claim to Yori's soul while he heaved her through their bounds. Still, they reached for her as Malick yanked her through. He could feel their euphoria at once again touching a living soul, a beacon of corporeal strength and the physical existence they either couldn't or wouldn't leave behind. Hungry ghosts, bound to the earth for so many reasons Malick had stopped caring, craving the flesh they could see but not have so fervently that it scattered their reason like the seeds that fed them but never satisfied.

Their whispers and pleas crowded in, but Malick didn't hear them as well as he did when Shig was with him. Yori might love it when he did this, but Shig hated it, and Malick couldn't blame her—for Shig it was like living for a second's-worth of eternity inside Fen's head, except Fen's spirits shrieked, where these only sighed and muttered longingly. It wasn't nearly as intrusive for Malick or Yori as it was for those two, and not for the first time, Malick was thankful he didn't have to hear it all the time.

He bulled through them all, ignored their shadowy grasping. Tightening his hold on Yori, Malick launched them both through the periphery of reality and took them home.

He guided them to the roof of the Girou, because he might be in a hurry and more alarmed than he could remember having been in a very long time, but he wouldn't help anything by blundering into an ambush. “All right?” he asked Yori as he let go of her hand and pushed her to lean against the door of the stair.

Yori's knees seemed a bit wobbly, and she was somewhat shaky, but the dreamy little grin she usually got when they did this was notably absent. She made a visible effort to clear the exhilaration from her mind and channel it into the job at hand.

"Yeah,” she said. She nodded sharply, took a long, cleansing breath, and straightened from her slight slouch. “Ready."

Good girl. More clearheaded and dedicated to her job than even Samin. Malick wanted to give her a quick hug, but she was working so hard at gaining all of her concentration, and he didn't want to break it. He could already hear the alarming sounds that were coming up from the back alley, and he felt Yori tense as she heard them too.

"I'm going down,” he told her. He patted her shoulder and made his careful way to the edge of the roof that overlooked the street first, noting a black carriage—horse-drawn, of all things—that was collecting a bit of attention from a few curious children and their mothers. It was past midday, and those who'd broken for lunch and crowded the streets for a few hours had already returned to their occupations, but the presence of an actual horse and the rich-looking carriage to which it was harnessed was drawing everyone that happened by. Good. Malick had no doubt whatsoever to whom it belonged and why it was here, and he might need every distraction he could get.

Mouth tightening, Malick stepped carefully over to the edge that overlooked the alley, saw Asai as expected, saw Fen, head bowed, defeated, held between two thugs—maijin, Malick could tell, and if he wasn't mistaken, two of those who'd been with Leu the other night. Saw Caidi clinging to her brother and saw the two maijin alternately trying to pry her off and work around her. Malick couldn't see Morin or Joori, but he heard Joori—"I won't let you take him, not this time. Jacin! Jacin!"—wondered vaguely where the fuck Umeia was, because whatever happened, she wouldn't have left her charges so open to ambush like this. But she'd been veiling against Malick since that day outside her door, and he couldn't tell.

He saw Caidi go flying, saw the flash of metal as her cloak flapped and tangled around her. Saw, even from four stories up, the look of knowing dismay on Asai's face and the abrupt focus in Fen's eyes.

Watched as Fen came alive and began to do what Fen did.

Damn, but those sparring sessions with Samin in hand to hand had done more than Malick could have hoped. He'd have to give Samin a raise. Even as the maijin got Fen down and ostensibly pinned, Malick didn't worry.

"Give me a count of ten, then go check on Shig and bring her up here if you can,” he told Yori, gaze locked onto the fray below. “Make yourself a little sniper's nest,” he said. “Double pay if you get Asai between the eyes. Triple."

A slight smile turning up one corner of his mouth, he gathered the air around him again, recalling the spirits, but a swell of magic that wasn't his own made him pause, half-pleased and half-uneasy. It was too crude, too directionless—dangerous for its untried simplicity—and filled with rage and fear that could only be Joori.

"Shit!” Malick muttered, giving his head a quick shake, then almost fell off the roof altogether when the pain hit him again. Visceral this time, bone-deep and agonizing, striating out through his chest in sharp waves, scattering his concentration and hold on the spirits, and making him gasp and nearly double over. “Umeia,” he breathed, because it didn't just feel like her—it was her. And so much wronger than it had been with Shig's truncated warning. “Fuck.” Veils dropped, protections shattered, and with them, the unmistakable feel of losing a part of himself, an almost physical wrench to his spirit.

Not like when Skel had gone to the suns, Malick told himself. Umeia's soul wasn't crying out, but Malick felt it as it was forced from her body, felt it with a gut-twisting grief as she moved from physical to spirit.

"Mal!” Yori shouted, impatient, like she'd already done it a few times, and he didn't blame her—the roof was shimmying beneath their feet, and he could hear the uneven grumble of the earth shifting beneath the building.

He took in a long breath and gave his head a sharp shake. No time. “Forget about getting Shig,” he barked, throat too tight, and vision far too blurry. “Just give me enough time to set up a gallery for you and start shooting. Get into position now. Move!"

Enraged almost beyond sense, Malick threw himself at the spirits and forced himself to the mouth of the alley below.

* * * *

Joori honestly had no idea if he'd really meant to do it. He supposed he must have done. He was furious enough—the betrayals, the lies, the bloody “protection” she dangled in front of Jacin's nose to turn him compliant—and he supposed he couldn't honestly say he didn't know he had it in him. His wrath was leaking out through his pores, combining with the spirit of the earth throttled inside him, letting it stretch its atrophied limbs and shake them loose, and he really didn't care who might get in the way once he really let them go, so he couldn't say his intentions were to ask nicely. But even as hope had curled bright in his chest when Caidi pushed the smooth handle of the blade into his hand, Joori hadn't really been sure he'd be able to do anything with it but wave it around until someone saw through the bravado and took it away. But it curled in his fist as tightly as the anger in his chest that rumbled out through the earth beneath his feet. And yet still, there hadn't been any real thought—just action.

The blade slid into Umeia's side with a lot more ease than Joori would have suspected. Killing and butchering chickens and rabbits and the occasional boar for their table had shown him that flesh was easy to part, but somehow, he'd thought it should be harder to slide a knife into an actual person. He'd known Temshiel could be hurt, could be killed, that they were almost as vulnerable as mortals when in mortal form. And still, he hadn't really expected the knife to actually do anything when he wielded it.

It sank home with a sick ease. He felt Umeia spasm at first, her grip tightening painfully before it loosened. Still without thought, Joori threw her off him altogether, pulled the knife back as he turned, and sank it into her chest.

The shock on her face made him want to start babbling apologies. The blood that pumped from around the blade and soaked his hand with sticky, wet heat made him want to vomit. He wrenched the knife loose, backed away, watched, dazed, as Umeia's hands fluttered for a half second, as a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of her mouth... as her gaze latched onto his. Confused accusation flared then snuffed like a star sparking out, and Umeia fell gracelessly to the floor at the bottom of the kitchen stairs, a bright puddle bleeding out around her.

"Oh,” Joori breathed. All he could do was back away, knife still clutched tight in a white-knuckled fist as he stumbled out the door and into the alley. “Oh... no.” It wasn't possible. He was only mortal—he couldn't have just killed a Temshiel, and certainly not taken one so utterly by surprise and so easily. But there she was, dead on the floor, and here he was, blood all over him.

The ground was seizing up beneath him, he could feel it all the way down through the rock, could almost feel its veins where the molten blood of the earth ran in honeycombed passages fathoms below. A fissure opened up, right between Joori's feet clad in Jacin's borrowed boots, and Joori merely watched as steam billowed out and bathed his face, searing his skin. The rest of the world clamored about him—Jacin fighting with the thugs Asai had brought, Asai shouting something to... someone, Morin doing... something. Joori registered none of it, only the nauseating tackiness of the blood all over his hands and how it at once both slicked and stuck his hand to the grip of the knife, like it was fusing with his skin and becoming a part of him. He wondered if this was how Jacin felt when he killed—just an extension of his weapon, the machine behind the implement that allowed it to do its blood-hungry work.

"Umeia,” someone said, breathless and full of dismay. Joori looked up into the eyes of a mousy little man dressed in loose linen and a stained white apron. Kitchen help, Joori's mind supplied uselessly, and he flinched back some as the man took hold of his arm, barked, “Stop it!” and backhanded Joori so hard his ears rang. He staggered, the wiry man's grip keeping him on his feet, and it was only very vaguely that Joori noted the ground had stopped shaking.

He turned back to the man, said, “What...?” but the man wasn't even looking at him, just holding onto his arm, his quick glance scanning up and down the alley and landing on....

"Oh, fuck,” Joori all but whimpered as he watched Malick stalking down the alley, face like thunder, eyes flat pools of obsidian. The air almost crackled around him as he stepped swiftly but all too surely. A young woman paced steadily behind him, her face murderous but calm, along with a tall man with dark hair that reminded Joori too much of Asai.

A small crowd was gathering at the mouth of the alley, and two more people—another man from the kitchens and a young woman who must be one of the doxies, apparently come from the middle of a bath because her hair was streaming wet and her robe was stuck to damp skin—had come up behind the one who held onto Joori. Joori dismissed all of them, only watched, terrified and awestruck, as Malick strode down the alley like a living storm. The brick walls of the Girou all but rattled in his wake, thunder booming overhead, and tension gathering to him like a curling fist.

He looked right at Joori. There was no pretending that Malick didn't see the bloody knife in Joori's hand, and there was no pretending Malick didn't know exactly what it meant and what Joori had done. The knowledge was all over his face. But Malick didn't come after Joori. His hand came up, slashed through the air, and Asai went flying back into brick and mortar. It came up again, and the two men Asai had brought with him went to join him—one just as bloody and dead as Umeia, but Malick didn't seem like he cared.

"You would dare,” he snarled at Asai, jerked a little and took a lurching step back, as though he'd been struck with an invisible mallet. Joori's eyes darted over to Asai, noted his hand up in the air as Malick's had been, felt the crackling of magic all around, raising the hairs on his nape and setting actual weight to his skin. “You've got some balls,” Malick seethed, “using his Blood where I can get my hands on you."

"You never did approve of even odds,” Asai answered coolly. “Kill me and risk the suns, Kamen. And you're just not the sacrificing sort."

Another gesture by Asai, and another blow knocked Malick back a few steps, but he kept coming, all seething rage and murderous intent. And all at once, Joori could almost understand what his brother might see in Malick. He was brilliant in his fury, diamond-hard in his pain, almost beautiful in his extremity of pure and perfect rage. He stopped where he stood, put his hands together in front of his chest, then slowly opened his arms. Joori watched, dumbstruck, as Caidi and Morin were gently pushed out from between Malick and Asai then nudged to relative safety a few feet away from Joori. Kept watching as Jacin stood right where he was, knife in his hand.

"Fen,” said Malick, eyes on Asai, “get out of the way."

Jacin was breathing too heavily, sweating too much, and his arm was bleeding right through the bandages and into the light brown of his duster's sleeve. And still, he stood calmly between maijin and Temshiel, said, “No,” and twirled the knife absently along his fingers.

Asai smirked a little, and Malick's jaw clenched, his hatred and malice almost physical things, swirling with the magic weighting the air.

Samin and Shig came spilling out into the alley directly behind Joori, but he almost didn't notice them. Not until arrows started hailing down from the rooftop. One hit the man Jacin had fought with, the one bleeding from a gory chest wound on the stone of the alley; if he wasn't dead already, the arrow through the eye had certainly finished the job.

Good shot, Yori. Get Asai with the next one, and I'll love you forever.

Asai and his one remaining man both shot their glances upward. Asai looked unconcerned, but the other man flinched to the side when another arrow sailed down to hit the wall right behind where his head had just been.

Smirking with a quick flick of his glance upward, Samin made his way over to Caidi and pushed her behind him. Shig sort of tottered down the alleyway toward Morin.

"He is mine, Kamen,” Asai said, his tone attempting snide but shaking a little around the edges. Fear? It sounded like fear. Scared of Malick, maybe. Joori could understand that.

"Is he?” Malick bit back.

Before Joori could figure out if that was as ominous as it sounded, a fist closed around him, took his air, took his sense and all ability to move. It wasn't until the reality of the sensation hit him that Joori realized he'd effectively killed their protection when he'd killed Umeia. And opened Jacin up unconditionally to every threat Asai wanted to level against him.

It was worse than the spell from the charm—at least with that Joori had been able to breathe. Not with whatever this magic was. Tiny little spasms shook him, and reedy noises were forced from his throat. He was almost immediately lightheaded, but he heard Malick curse, saw Jacin start toward him, then heard Malick bark, “Now, Fen.” Malick curled his fist and drew his arm back. Fire whizzed across the alley, spattered all around Asai, but didn't touch him, like there was an invisible wall about him, but whatever had held Joori let him go. Abruptly, he could breathe again. He sagged, the small man who'd struck him earlier gasping along with him, but still holding on, holding Joori up as he gagged and wrenched air back into lungs that felt altogether too small.

Malick took a step farther into the alley, toward Asai. Jacin was right behind him. Both of Malick's hands were seemingly on fire now as he advanced. The ground shifted again, but it wasn't Joori this time, though he could swear he felt a thread of... something running out of him, twining and twisting and curling into something bigger, stronger.

Piercing whistles were sounding the air from a few blocks away, and a reedy horn took up the call, sending it farther into the city. The alarm for the Doujou had been raised. Magic had been unleashed in the heart of Ada, and the hunters would be out and focusing in on them within probably minutes.

A hail of arrows pelted down from the roof, one right after the other, and all of them pinged off some invisible barrier and fell to the ground at Asai's feet. Joori could hear Yori cursing.

Asai was laughing. “The hunters come, Jacin-rei,” he said. “They've already caught the scent of your earth-bound brother. Who will protect them, now that their paladin is gone?"

Another ball of fire came hurling from Malick's hand and toward Asai. Malick took another step, Jacin flanking him now as it splashed about Asai like the first one had done. “Keki!” Malick shouted over his shoulder. Then he pointed a glowing hand down to the mouth of the alley. “Get them down there to Sia."

Immediately, the man holding Joori's arm started tugging him down to where Malick had pointed. Joori resisted a little, then met Jacin's gaze, read every plea and command inside it, and submitted to being pulled away, even as his brother advanced on a maijin.

"Mika!” Malick continued. The young woman who was still in her robe snapped to almost-attention. “Get every bound out of here before the Doujou shows up. Now."

Joori's head was spinning a little. He hadn't had any idea that there were others here with magic. What was this place? Some kind of haven for them? He let Keki lead him away several steps before he realized what he was allowing and dug in his heels.

"It will do you and them little good,” Asai put in, his smile arrogant, cool. “The alarm has been raised and the hunters called out. Will you veil them all, Kamen? Or will you leave it to your sister...? Oh!” He paused, the look of regret and sympathy on his face so overdone it was insulting even to Joori. “That's right,” Asai went on, “your sister's dead, by the hand of one of her own charges.” He shook his head, tsked. A sharp look swung up to Jacin. “How many of your own people fell to the hands of Temshiel? What vengeance do you suppose this Temshiel will take upon your kin for the murder of his own, little Ghost?"

Jacin jolted a little, his gaze sliding from Asai to Malick and back again.

Malick only looked back for a few seconds then rolled his eyes to the sky. He loosed a chuckle that couldn't have been less sincere. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

"Do what you were saved for, Jacin-rei.” Asai's voice was strangely soft, crooning, a lover asking for favor. It gave Joori a tiny little shudder down his backbone, even as he tried to shove Keki off him. “He will kill me,” Asai said, dark eyes pinned to Jacin. “You failed your mother because you would not listen to your beishin. This is what I have foreseen. This is the time for Wolf's Catalyst to do as his beishin has taught him. You must trust me, Jacin-rei. Stand with the Temshiel and you will fail them all. You will fail me. Would you see me fall to treacherous Temshiel?” Joori was dismayed down to his core to see that Jacin was listening. “You are a sigh's breadth from perfection, Ghost. So little have I seen for the Untouchable, but this... I saved you for this, Jacin-rei. I made you for this. Do it now and save your family, save your people."

Malick just stood there, looking at Jacin. Then he smiled a little, held his arms out from his body. “If this is what it takes, Fen."

Joori couldn't tell if it was sincere or mocking, nor at whom it was directed. He wondered if Jacin could.

"You're not his dog,” Malick said when Jacin just kept staring, “and you're not mine. Give him what he wants, and he'll own you and yours utterly. Do what you promised, and no one owns you. Either way....” Malick spread his arms wider, opened himself further, teeth clenched. “Make a fucking decision, Fen."

"Don't you see?” Asai asked as he took a step away from the wall, hands out. Another arrow flew at him, but he merely swept out a hand and flicked it aside. “You've no choice. You must come with me. You must do that for which you were made, before the vengeance of the Temshiel takes all you love from you. I have seen it, little Ghost.” Asai's dark gaze cambered over to Joori for just a second, a tiny smirk curling up one corner of his mouth. “Your brother killed his sister, Jacin-rei."

Jacin shut his eyes, hand curling more tightly about the knife, shaking.

And Joori knew that in that one, impulsive, bloody act, he'd put every single tool Asai needed to use against “his Ghost” right into his hands. Joori had done this. He watched Jacin, watched the despair take over.

Anger flared again in Malick's gaze, deepening his voice, threading it a little hoarse, but turning it strangely resonant. “By my heart,” Malick grated, took another step toward Asai, “by my body, by my breath and spirit, I pledge my oath to Fen Joori—"

"No!” Asai growled and flung his arm up.

Shadows curled all around Caidi like live things, coiling over her skin, down her throat as she opened her mouth to scream.

"Bloody fuck!” Samin rumbled, taking hold of Caidi and brushing at her skin, like he could loosen the shadows that were choking her just by the force of his will and brute strength.

Joori lurched back toward his sister, but Keki still kept hold of him, trying to drag him away again, his strength nearly shocking for someone a full head smaller than Joori. Keki only paused for a second to latch onto Morin and start dragging him too. “Leave it to Malick-seyh,” Keki said calmly, like they weren't here in an alley, magic off its leash and running wild all around them, and Joori's little sister wasn't right this second being smothered by shadows.

My fault, rammed about in Joori's head, crazed and sibilant and full of too much truth he couldn't deny. My fault, my fault, because if he hadn't killed Umeia....

Malick was holding Jacin back just as surely as this Keki was holding Joori. “Then do something!” Jacin spat, the second half of an argument Joori hadn't heard but the direction of which was all too apparent.

"I'm doing it!” Malick snapped back then pulled Jacin to stand beside him. He opened his hand, a nest of shadows swarming from his palm and curling out toward Caidi. They were just shadows, all misty black and somehow malevolent, Joori couldn't tell one from the other, and yet, weirdly, he could tell that Malick's were attacking and consuming Asai's. Caidi had faded to a dim little smudge inside the formless black mass, but now Joori could make out facial features, the gold of her hair.

Joori almost got hold of hope, almost began to think this wouldn't end as badly as he thought it might, when Caidi was jolted then lifted up. She shot into the air, right out of Samin's grip, little feet kicking. There were no screams as she sailed up and up, right past Yori, who still hung over the edge of the roof with her bow. Yori flung it over her shoulder as she watched Caidi ascend, made a grab for her, but Caidi was wrenched away in midair, still dark with shadows, and writhing.

"Fuck!” Malick barked, grimacing like he was in pain, flinching as though from an invisible blow, but his hand reached up, curled into a fist. Caidi was wrenched again, this time toward Yori, who reached so far past the roof's edge that Joori thought she might fall. “Keki!” Malick shouted.

The man who was holding onto Joori had started to vibrate, power leaking from him, raising the hairs on Joori's arm even as the man let him go and stepped away. Joori could feel the change in the air right away—the thickening of it, the shift of air currents. And again, that weird boost that he couldn't feel with anything he could name, but he knew it was coming from Malick. Caidi's abrupt up-and-down evened out as the man—Keki—steadily weaved his hand back and forth in front of his chest in smooth motions. The dark cloud that was all Joori could see of his little sister mimicked his movement. Joori could see Asai's own hand moving frantically, but whatever he was commanding wasn't responding. Keki and Malick had taken over this bit of magic completely.

People were hanging out of the windows of the Girou now, some screaming, some just staring slack-jawed. All of them alternated their disbelieving gazes between the ground and the air. A crowd was surging in from the mouth of the alley, some of them butting up against an invisible barrier, but most of them only gaped at the dark shape lurching over the rooftops.

And then the man next to Joori abruptly stopped vibrating as Joori felt that same malignant magic that had paralyzed him before take hold. Watched Asai's lackey tackle Malick from behind, driving his head into the stones with an audible thud, heard Jacin scream “No!” and it terrified Joori even more, because there was horror and real panic inside it. Jacin lunged for the man on Malick, wrestling the sword from his hand with the savagery of a wild animal. Turned it on him, nearly sliced his head clean off. Jacin screamed again, “Malick—help her!” desperate as he sent a panicked glance at the sky.

Asai moved in behind Jacin, eyes alive with clear intent as he reached for him. Malick stirred sluggishly on the ground just as Asai latched onto Jacin's braid, wrenched him close enough to whisper something into his ear. Joori had no idea what it could have been, but it made Jacin arch, scream, “No!” and turn on Asai, knife flashing in his hand, even as Asai swept his arm down in a wide, dramatic arc.

The shadows dissipated from around Caidi all at once, her little body thrashing out against nothing as she plummeted. Yori lurched after her again, reached out and made a desperate grab for her, but she stumbled over something, her arm tangled in her bow, and her balance teetered into nothing.

Oh, shit. Oh, no.

Yori's protection was gone now too. Joori had killed it. Had killed her, had killed Caidi, and oh, save him, what had he done? Even as he watched helplessly, he wished it was him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jacin's blade flash again, heard the scream of rage and despair, but Joori couldn't take his eyes off the sky.

Caidi didn't make a sound, but Yori yelped in surprise and panic as she fell, plunging down the four stories to the stone of the alley. She hit in a crunch of bone just after Caidi.

Strange, Joori thought—dazed and sickened, and oh so horrified—he would have thought it would have gone the other way ‘round, with Caidi crying out and Yori going silently, the good soldier to the last, and maybe it was because Caidi had already been dead, choked to death on fucking shadows, Caidi, please, I'm sorry, or at least unconscious, please let her have been unconscious, because perhaps hitting the ground would obliterate all pain, but the falling, the knowing, the last few seconds of that bright little life spent in terror, and maybe she'd dreamt she was flying, yes, she'd been flying, never expecting a tangle of blonde hair and broken bodies, and ah fuck, so much blood, and Joori couldn't even close his eyes.

Morin's wild screams and denials blended in Joori's ears with Samin's bellow of rage and grief as they both rushed over to the shattered bodies. Blind hope flared on both their faces, like anything that might be left of either Caidi or Yori could be saved. Joori vaguely wondered why he didn't hear Shig scream, why she wasn't going to her ruined sister, but then he remembered she'd be just as rooted as he was.

My fault, my fault, oh fuck, Caidi, I'm so sorry

Eight men from the Doujou were forcing their way through the crowd that had gathered at the mouth of the alley, three with the claret sashes of hunters striding ahead of them. Malick was just getting to his feet, the look of a man who'd lost all control entirely, and didn't know whether to rage or cry. The maijin who'd attacked him was lying in his own twisted heap at Malick's feet, but Malick looked like he wasn't even sure if he'd done it or not. And if he had, it wasn't enough.

Joori could only watch the men coming down the alley, watch one of the three hunters pointing out Shig then two others from the Girou Joori didn't know. And then, finally, Joori.

It was almost a relief. Let them take him. Let them do whatever it was they did with his sort, and then maybe little sisters wouldn't fall from the sky, and budding romances wouldn't be wiped out in a spray of blood over stone. Let him stop being the noose around Jacin's neck, and the stone around Morin's. No more leverage for Asai, no more threat to Jacin, no more Yori rocking beneath him, with her bright green gaze and constant half smile.

Fuck, he wished he could shut his eyes.

* * * *

"Fen,” Malick murmured, his voice quiet and deliberately smooth. Fen had been sitting down on the ground by the time Malick had disentangled himself from the bastard who'd blindsided him and caused him to lose his grip on Caidi. Fen had nailed the son of a bitch with his own sword, even as he'd turned on Asai, but now Malick had no idea if he should be expecting an attack from Fen for failing him so spectacularly, or the loss of sanity altogether.

Fen was too calm, too quiet, sitting there in the alley with Asai's bloody corpse beside him. And as much as Malick's heart broke for him, as much as it broke for himself, as much as he was right now mourning both Yori, whom he'd loved like a little sister, and Caidi, whom he'd been growing to, he still regretted that he'd missed it when Fen finally took Asai down.

Umeia, he wouldn't mourn—death didn't mean to him what it meant to mortals, and while Malick was pissed as hell that Joori would dare to do what he'd done, he was still just as happy to have Umeia out of his way. Because however this had all spiraled out of control, Malick knew it had started with Umeia. Perhaps his anger would cool over the next few lifetimes, and he'd seek her out again.

He could see how it had happened, how Fen had gotten Asai, just by the tale the corpse told: one of those little throwing knives jutted out from Asai's left eye. Whether Asai's men had missed it when they'd disarmed Fen or whether he'd somehow managed to get it back, along with one of his long knives, didn't necessarily matter. Fen had blinded Asai first then taken him down.

Just after his little sister had crashed to the stones? Or during? Just how removed from himself was Fen right now?

"The Blood of the Catalyst showers the Eye,” Malick murmured, “plucks it.” He nodded. Perhaps not exactly what Malick had thought it meant, but Fen had a way of taking the predictable and twisting it around until even the color of the sky seemed impossible to foresee. Even if Fen hadn't been Untouchable, Malick thought Asai wouldn't have been able to see him anyway. You just couldn't see Fen coming. Malick wondered if even Wolf could predict Fen completely.

Sucking in a long, deep breath, Malick stared down at Asai and shook his head. A knife to the heart after he'd been blinded, and a slit to the throat for good measure. Rather redundant, but apparently, Fen wanted to make bloody sure Asai was dead. But whatever instinct had given Fen the ability to carry it through only a few feet away from his little sister's shattered body, it had left him now. He was blank-eyed and far too composed.

The Doujou were slowly containing the crowd, and the hunters had moved in, carefully inspecting one bound after another. Husao and Xari were still watching from down the alley, waiting for a cue from Malick. He was a little surprised they were still here. They'd both more or less gotten what they'd wanted—it lay beside Fen in a bloody heap. As did Yori. As did Caidi. And they'd just stood there and watched it all happen. Anger burned in Malick's chest, but he put it aside.

Later.

"Fen, can you hear me?” Blood trickled down Malick's scalp, into his eye, and he flicked it away impatiently. He had to get some kind of control over the situation, had to get the Doujou and the hunters out of here, and without taking any of his people with them, and he had to get started on it now, before... shit. One of them was peering a little too closely at Joori, a look of satisfaction on his face. Perhaps Joori had just been figured for the earth-bound who'd escaped the raid all those weeks ago.

"Fen,” Malick repeated. He crouched down, very carefully out of easy reach of the knife, but it wouldn't make a difference, really—if Fen wanted Malick dead, he'd find a way. “Fen, can you hear me?"

"I hear you.” Even. Flat. No emotion whatsoever. Like there'd been so much of it that it had simply burst some sort of dam and left only empty desolation behind it. “Even falling feels like flying,” he breathed, teeth clenching tight, mouth quivering. “Falling... falling, for a little while... feels... just a little while, just...."

"Fen.” Malick reached a hand out but slowly drew it back without touching. “Fen, let me—"

"Say you love me.” Thin and raspy this time.

Malick jolted a little, unsure whether Fen was talking to him or Asai's corpse. And downright thrown. “What?” was all he could think to say.

"You promised.” Fen kept staring down at Asai's still face. “Everything's a trade,” he whispered hoarsely. “I kill Asai, you keep my family safe.” His gaze lifted, skimmed right over Malick and farther up the alley to where his sister lay and his younger brother mourned.

"I tried, Fen.” Even as Malick said it, he knew it wasn't enough. He would have traded himself for Caidi, but he'd been too late—his timing was always shit—hadn't gotten the words out in time, and he didn't expect any of it to make a gnat's wing's amount of difference to Fen. His little sister was dead, and telling Fen that her soul was intact, they'd meet again in another lifetime, wasn't going to make the hurt he appeared to refuse to feel any less.

"You said you'd pretend,” Fen whispered, desolation somehow leaking through, even though the tone was so dull it was almost hollow. “You promised. Say it so I can... so I...."

Malick's throat closed up. Joori was right, even though he'd never actually said the precise words—Malick wasn't good enough for Fen; he hadn't done right by him. Umeia had kept telling Malick his heart was what had made him Wolf's, and she'd been right, but Malick had still spent far too much time pretending he didn't have one. He'd remembered in his head what it was like for mortals to love, to lose someone they loved, but his heart had rejected the memories, rejected the pain that came with them. He'd remembered just enough to see the value of love as leverage, so he'd risked more than he should have done, things that weren't his to risk. And, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, wasn't going to be enough.

Wolf chose those who wouldn't lose their mortality in immortality, those who never forgot the pain of being crushed by Fate, who sought balance to the Balance and always remembered there were millions of smaller pictures inside the bigger one. Malick was Wolf's-own, but he hadn't been Wolf's-own since Skel, since... since almost the beginning.

If he'd known then... if he could get back there and start again....

"Make me this trade.” Fen's voice was low, and his eyes were back on Asai's face again. “A broken life for a few words. You don't have to mean it. You can lie.” He lifted his head, but his eyes slipped shut before Malick could get a look at what was in them. “Just say it so I can pretend for a little while. Say it so I can pretend it's worth it."

This morning, Malick might have said it was all worth it, regardless of how much it cost, how much it hurt, because it served the Balance. He couldn't make himself say it now. “Fuck, Fen, this is no trade! I think maybe I....” He trailed off, couldn't make himself actually say it—I think I do love you—so, he settled for, “I think I do, but it's been too long, I'm not sure I remember how to do it right. You can pretend having that from me is worth something, but you don't have to pretend it's there."

Fen only nodded slowly, dipping his head once again. “Fly as I fall,” he whispered.

Hollow eyes in a dirty face, spattered and smeared with blood, tears tracking pale swathes down his cheeks. Tone measured, calm, and expression flat, and yet still, those tears flowed unbroken and unchecked.

...he fucking wept, Malick.... And he didn't even know it.

Malick's chest tightened.

"I want to fly for a little while.” Fen's eyes opened slowly, focused down on Asai as his fingers—tacky with blood—traced a sticky line over Asai's cheekbone, gentle and so reverent it almost made Malick want to look away.

"He can just come back, can't he?” Flatter than before, but still soft.

Malick took a long, deep breath. “Yeah. Not right away, but yeah, he can come back."

Fen nodded again, still blank-faced, but maybe a little harder now. “But not if I take his heart, right?"

Malick winced—he couldn't help it. It didn't necessarily matter that it was exactly what Asai had wanted Fen to do to him. The very idea of it repulsed him, simply because he was as vulnerable to it as Asai was. Take the heart of either Temshiel or maijin, bury it instead of burning it, and bind them to the earth, along with all the other hungry ghosts. A cruel fate that made Malick shudder just thinking about it, but if anyone deserved it, it was Asai.

And they'd made a deal. After all, Fen had been trained for it. Malick wanted to smirk at the irony, but didn't have it in him.

"Untouchable,” he heard someone mutter a few feet away. “Lord Asai,” and, “murdered.” Too close, too curious. They had to get whatever Fen needed to do here to keep his tenuous hold on the odd, quiet sanity done, so Malick could begin the business of mopping up this particular mess.

Malick sighed, said, “That was the deal,” and that was all.

He merely watched as Fen nodded again, still calm, leaned down and ran his fingertips lightly over Asai's bloody lips, laid a kiss to them. “I loved you once, you treacherous fuck. It never had to be like this.” Then he snapped his back straight and plunged his long knife into Asai's chest with a nauseating force that broke through the breastbone on the first strike. Malick honestly hadn't thought Fen would have the physical strength left for it. The sick crunch of bone breaking and ribs parting was nothing compared to the sounds of Yori and Caidi plunging to their deaths. Those sounds would haunt Malick for a long time to come. This was merely... anticlimactic. Justice by proxy wasn't nearly as gratifying as Malick had hoped it would be. “I wanted to make you watch it,” Fen whispered, small and reedy, staring down at Asai, utterly blank-faced.

Malick had no idea what to make of the remark. And he didn't see the point in trying.

"Bloody... hell,” came a soft, breathy voice from behind him. Fen didn't even seem to notice it, but Malick turned and saw one of the men with the hunters’ colors staring down in apparent horror at Fen's gruesome task, which was a bit of a laugh, Malick thought. Considering all the butchery for which this man was likely responsible, a little blood and soft tissue couldn't be that bad. “Is that...?” The man wrenched his gaze away, fixed it on Malick, narrowed it. “What in the name of—"

"I'll have you release your captives now."

Fen's flat voice surprised Malick just as much as it seemed to surprise the man in front of him. Grimacing a little, Fen slid flinty gray eyes upward and shook the worst of the blood from his left hand, looking for all the world like he didn't have a man's heart sitting in the palm of his right. He fixed his gaze on the hunter, swung his head a little so that at least the top half of the braid slithered over his shoulder; the bottom half seemed to have been tangled beneath him.

"I said,” Fen repeated calmly, a steady thread of menace beneath it, “I'll have you release your captives now.” He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrow slits. “Or have you been purchased, as well?"

The man's eyes had widened at the braid, widened further at the seemingly coherent orders coming from the mouth of an Untouchable who sat in the middle of rather startling carnage with Lord Asai's heart in his hand. “You are—"

"Obviously,” Fen cut in, jerking his chin to indicate the men of the Doujou trying to restore order. “And I expect those men back there know the law. Are you interfering, seyh?"

The man looked at Malick like he really thought Malick was going to step in and save him from the bizarre situation. Malick was just pleased that someone other than him was on the receiving end of that glare. He didn't think he'd ever seen Fen so cold, so... distant. He'd never really worried about Fen before, not even when he perhaps should have done—for all his problems, Fen could take care of himself extraordinarily well—but Malick was worried now. The man's sister was splattered across the alley, his brother paralyzed by these men who wanted to take him away to the Courts, and he'd just killed the man he'd loved through years of adolescent fixation and dug his heart from his chest—and he didn't seem to have the ring, was wading through all this with the Ancestors shrieking steadily in his head. So, why was he looking saner than Malick had ever seen him look before?

"Fen,” Malick put in quietly, “what exactly are you doing?"

Fen looked up at Malick, that unsettling gray stare seeming to bore right through to bone. Malick had been wrong—it wasn't flat and it wasn't cold; it was the deepest pit of smoldering grief and rage he'd ever seen, so deep Fen was burning inside it. A star blazing too brightly until it tripped itself into supernova before collapsing in on itself.

You're going to break him, Umeia had warned. Malick didn't think so. Malick thought perhaps breaking wasn't the danger here. Malick thought the real danger was implosion. And the real problem with implosion was that it sucked everyone else down into the deep, dense void too. Strangely, Malick didn't find himself flinching from that perilous orbit.

"I'm a Catalyst.” Gritty. Like chewing on broken glass. “I'm tired of shit happening to me.” Fen held up his bloody left hand and waited until Malick held out his own and helped him to his feet. Teeth set grimly, Fen pulled the braid so it dangled plainly over his shoulder, leaning on Malick and favoring his bad leg as he dropped Asai's heart to the stones and crushed it under his boot. Several times. “I'm interfering,” he said, then angled away from Malick and limped toward his brother.

Malick only turned his head, watched him go.

You don't have to mean it. You can lie.

He nodded a little, breathed, “Yeah,” as Fen hobbled slowly away from him.

Malick didn't think any of the things churning about in his chest had a single thing to do with lying.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Malick turned to the man still gaping, shrugged with an I'm just following orders look, then smirked evilly down at Asai's corpse. Gave it a swift kick. “Bet you didn't see that one coming, did you?” he snarked then gave the other man a dark little glare and followed Fen.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seven

Failure—peerless and profound. He had, in a sick, convoluted way, finally achieved perfection.

You did this, little Ghost. Jasmine all over him, and a whisper amidst latent ruin, only a whisper, ringing, out-shouting the Ancestors in a voice that curled everything inside him to a hard, cluttered little knot. Your lessons always came to you too hard and too late.

Fuck you, Beishin, then a scream, but not his, because he was choking on the end of everything. Cool-metal-smooth-wood in his hand, and if he could just move fast enough, be good enough, live for a second in that impossible state of perfection, he could call it all back, and maybe.... Maybe then the hard thud of impact wouldn't somehow twine with Beishin's voice in accusation. No blood in gold hair, no blank hazel eyes staring, staring—I'm Wolf's creature too, Jacin. We're all made for sacrifice. Didn't you know?—gazing blank-eyed out into broken reality. Wrong, wrong, it was all so wrong, too loud, too true, too real, and hot blood on his hands didn't make it go back to the way it should be, because that broken little body was not meant for reality, wrongwrongwrong, and he couldn't feel. Couldn't call any of it back, couldn't batten back the voices with pain, because the agony inside shoved everything else down a sharded void. Down and down and down until there was nothing left but the shrieking and the deep-clawed rawness in his chest, in his mind, my fault, my fault, and he could hear but he couldn't listen, he'd refused to listen, failed, failed, and now....

It had to go away. All of it, it had to go away.

So, he flew. Cast himself over the precipice and spread tattered black-webbed wings. Waited for the ground to rise up and mangle him like it had done to her. Two down, three to go, because he'd have to watch them all die in front of him, one by one, that was the way true punishment worked, and he'd refused to listenlistenlisten, our boy, only say it once, and he'd missed it. Whatever it was, whatever could have called it all back before a spray of blood and bone over dirty gray stone, before the sick squelch of flesh beneath his boot. He'd missed it, and he'd pay, but only after he watched them pay first, two down, three to go, and fuck, he was so tired. Tired of listening, tired of talking, tired of trying to catch his balance in the sweeping winds of the hurricane, tired of being buffeted from one side to the other, the tugging, the twisting.

The first amulet broke easily. Lapis ripped from its chain around the neck of a hunter who just stood there and let him take it—let him—just watched as Jacin dropped it to the bloody stone—her blood, standing in a lake of her blood, wrong, so wrong, and why wouldn't it drown him?—and crushed it under the heel of his boot. And then he merely held out his hand, just held it out, didn't say a word, and two others were dropped into his palm. Cut amethyst, both of them, and they wouldn't shatter, and he hadn't even realized he'd been stomping for so long until Malick's hand laid itself to his arm, and he flinched away like he'd been burnt, because that he felt. Silence, fleeting and dead-cold, and the painshockgrief all rose up at once inside it, and he couldn't... couldn't....

He yanked himself away, watched the sympathy in Malick's tea-colored eyes, the helplessness, and hissed, because fuck him, too, fuck them all with their sad eyes that only watched her fall as they'd watched the Jin fall for decades. He snarled, let his good leg give beneath him and sank to the bloody cobbles, sat next to his sister's ruined little body and dropped the amulets into the blooming puddle of her blood. Took his long knife by the hilt and crushed them.

A shrilling shriek slammed into him, and it took him a second to understand it came from outside his head and not inside. Shig was a vague shape in his periphery as she wended her unsteady way down the alley toward Yori, grief too apparent in everything about her. Joori's voice came to him, as though from miles away, hollow and calling his name, then Morin's, and good, alive, both of them—at least for now—but Jacin couldn't hear it now, that was it, all he could take, had to go away, didn't want any of it, blocked it from his consciousness. He concentrated instead on the shrieking inside, because it was louder now than it had ever been before, cacophonous, but it was also more garbled because all the voices were his, with no sanity left inside them, and so safer than what was happening outside his head.

"The Girou is mine,” he said flatly, shattered, bloody amethyst cutting into the tips of his fingers, then he looked up, narrowed his eyes at the Adan man who thought it was all right to hunt Jin and take their Blood. “The Girou and everyone in it. We have dead to mourn. Leave us now."

He didn't know what happened after that. He had vague recollections of Malick speaking to the men of the Doujou, making up explanations on the fly and leveling threats—He's already said the Girou is his. You would interfere with the Untouchable? Leave him to tend to his dead—and ah fuck, his dead, and Jacin reached over, setting his fingers into sticky gold. “Need to... need to wash her hair.” Would he be able to without her skull falling away in pieces? He hadn't had the courage to actually look at her yet, only quick glimpses out of the corner of his eye of gold hair trailing in a puddle of scarlet, a little hand curled into a loose fist palm-up on the stones. He didn't know if he could wash her body, paint the prayers on her brow, say the rites, wrap the linens, light the pyre. He didn't even know if he could look at her all at once, see the damage, without losing his grip.

He couldn't see Yori, because he'd have to look past Caidi, and he couldn't, just couldn't. Couldn't make himself face these splinters of skewed reality, because if he looked, if he accepted, it would be reality.

Refused to look at Beishin, because his dead eye—the one without a knife jutting from it—kept going tea-colored, and he didn't want to know why.

Say you love me, say it, because... because.... He didn't know. A trade, and for what? Someone who couldn't truly die? Someone who would fight dirty, lie, cheat, and steal his way out of it, and never leave Jacin with this hollow nothing burning him up from inside?

Reality broken into tiny little pieces, like a shattered mirror, and he could see himself deep-deep down in each one, and he was screaming inside them. Bashing himself into oblivion as broken as this reality where little girls fell silently from the sky, and sharded reflections caught the not-sun and blinded him.

And then Samin was there, stooping down right beside him, staring into Jacin's eyes with stark grief and genuine sympathy that sliced into Jacin's gut like a knife. Samin didn't reach out, like Malick kept doing, and he didn't try to say things that would do no good. He merely looked, let Jacin see, let him watch the tears that leaked from a face that looked like it couldn't support them—water from stone—and tipped him a small, slow nod. Then he just turned, slid his arms beneath Caidi's small, broken body, lifted her and hugged her gently to his chest. He stood, eyes hard and cold now as he turned them on the hunters and the doujoun all around him, his big body vibrating for want of blood and vengeance, but his heart too obviously wrapped around the small bundle in his arms.

That, Jacin remembered. The look in Samin's eyes, the sounds of grief coming from Shig, her warbling voice whispering, whispering—you're all right, Yori-love, Umeia will see to you, she'll take you to Wolf—and Joori, pleading, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Hands on Jacin's shoulders, his arms, stroking his cheek, but he kept snarling and knocking them off, because he'd taken the silence before, and they'd punished him for it. Except the hands wouldn't let up, wouldn't stop, just kept pushing gentle comfort down his throat ‘til he thought he'd choke on it. C'mon, Fen, you can't see to your sister like this, and he wanted to ask, Like what? because what difference could it make, really, but it didn't matter enough to spend the thought and strength on forming the words.

Husao, I need you to see to these people—we can't let them remember all this, and especially not the Doujou.

It made sense somewhere, but Jacin didn't even reach for it. It didn't matter, he didn't care. Just went along and let the hands lead him... somewhere. Heard the steady thwip-thwip-thwip of a moth's battered wings, smelled jasmine twined with sage and pine, reached instead for the scent of cherry blossoms, but couldn't find it.

Faces going by, staring at him, and he stared back, wondering at the tears and the looks of pain and sympathy on the faces of strangers. Or maybe they weren't strangers, maybe he knew them and had forgotten. Maybe none of this was really happening, just another fever dream, more broken reality, and Caidi would wander in any second now to wake him from it and climb in next to him—Pleeeeeease, Jacin—and curl a warm swath against his chest with Malick at his back. Safe, safe, reality whole and unbroken, no dead sisters, no stolen mothers, no voices in his head throttling reason with madness, no dark, lying eyes or knives red with his beishin's blood, and, “Fuck,” he breathed. Hunched in, curling into the pain he couldn't feel that shattered all through him—inside and out—and those hands on him again, still, and he let them guide him, take him, show him.

Never loved me, never loved me, so blind, he'd been so blind, and, Shit, Fen, no wonder you're so easy to use. He shut his eyes and tried not to pretend the hands on him were long-fingered and demanding, and not callused and almost tender.

Didn't kill him soon enough, failed, refused the chance—twice—because I didn't want to see, didn't want to know

Hands, more hands, the same hands, they wouldn't go away, wouldn't leave him be. Peeling away layers and layers of blood, sayitsayitsayit, layers and layers of cloth, layers and layers of self, please just say it, like a snake sloughing skin, except nothing new grew back to take its place. Just raw, all over raw, and he wanted to roll in broken glass, grind it, because he could feel pain, but he couldn't feel pain, and surely it wasn't real punishment unless he could feel it, writhe inside it, scream in its extremity. Only numb and cold and nothing and more nothing. Voices riding over him, except they all sounded like his, screaming, and hands pushpulldragging him away from blissful ruination.

Malick's voice, overriding all the others—Damn it, Fen, don't let go now, not after all this—and he wished for a knife, because he knew what he was when he had a knife in his hand. Muscle and bone and sinew melding with steel and turning him into something other. Something that moved with almost-perfection, that didn't need any voice to drive it, any touch to silence it. And always, always the sweet potential of oblivion in the turn of the blade, rounding on him like a faithful dog turning on its master, except he was the dog, no one's master, not even his own. No reprieve, not even in that, no cool-metal-smooth-wood in his hand, someone had taken them all away, not your blood to spill, replaced his weapons—his last grasp at hope—with a ring shoved onto his finger that gave him silence he shouldn't have but couldn't refuse. Soft voices and soothing touches, blunting the sharp edges of his mind so he couldn't even turn that on himself, rip and tear and gnash and scream.

No, I'll take care of this, you see to the others. Get Ragi to help you with Joori and Morin, but stay close to Shig.

It echoed strangely, too resonant, like his skull had just opened up and everything was falling into his brain, everything. Too fucking loud, our boy, our boy, clinging to corpses. It wasn't there but he tried to listen anyway, he tried, but it all blurred together. Nothing, you're nothing, his father's voice, accusing—Abomination. He thought maybe he cried out at that one, but he couldn't hear through the pain and the echoes of pain. Thwip-thwip-thwip, and yet there was silence, hands on him, guiding him, so why could he still hear?

Jasmine, fucking everywhere jasmine, sage and sex leaking through it, drowning him.

Water against his skin, burning and prickling, searing little pinpricks at the lacework of stitches. It shocked him a little, throttled the numb agony in his head and chest and heart downward until he knew he was hunched on the bench of one of the shower-boxes. Water, heavy with the thick scent of minerals, sloughing over him, puddling at his bare feet in an ungodly cloud of pink as blood came loose from skin and hair. Hands on his scalp, the scent of pine soap in his nose, and Malick's voice a steady patter:

"...can't give up, all right? Not now, Fen, you're better than this.” A splash, and the soothing sluice of water runnelling over his head and down his shoulders, and Jacin reflexively shut his eyes against the sting of soap. “Fucking gods and their fucking cryptic fucking orders.” A soft growl this time, and the hands in his hair turned rougher. “I won't stand for it, Fen, y'hear? I don't give a shit anymore what Wolf wants, this all stops now."

...for you, he'll risk his soul. A mischievous grin beneath too-sharp jade eyes. Think you can live with that?

"I don't know,” he breathed, because he really didn't. He didn't know anything anymore, except he hurt, and he couldn't feel it, a great ball of agony locked inside his chest like a drop of Blood locked inside cut amethyst, and he wanted it but he feared it, because when it shattered....

"Fen?” Malick's hands had stopped tangling at Jacin's hair, and he took hold of Jacin's shoulders, turning him on the bench. Tea-smoky eyes peered sharply through the wavering lamplight. “Fen?"

And Jacin was naked, sitting on the bench and letting Malick tend him, clean him, wash his hair, and he should have been embarrassed or pissed or... something, but there was nothing there. Nothing but the heat of the water searing him to bone, but still setting shivers all through him, and a throng of emotions he couldn't name. He poked and nudged their periphery, distrustful, wary of setting them loose in a slurry of insanity, but they bunched in tight, curled in on themselves, and it was so new that he couldn't stop himself from worrying at it. Silence howled in his head, and he couldn't figure out why it hurt so much more than the noise, and yet it was numb, like a dead limb. He'd never not felt before, even when he'd wished he could dig the emotion out of his chest and kill it for good, and the lack of anything now, when it should all be killing him, rending him... it was too much, not enough.

You think I don't know why you stare so at the Gates? And maybe she did understand his horrified fascination, and maybe it mattered, he thought maybe it did, because it was reality now, his obsession with the near-dead. Watching them waiting to become ghosts, soul-hungry, watching the world around them pretend they weren't there, except he'd never really understood the emptiness of true hunger before. Strange and absurd, because he'd been a ghost for years—he really should have gotten it before now.

It wasn't right, it was all too wrong. She was gone and survival was his unforgivable sin, because he was the ghost, it should have been him, he was already halfway there, wrongwrongwrong—

"Stop it, Fen. You're not a ghost, damn it."

Say it, please, just say it, let me pretend I'm flying, unbreak this unbearable reality, wake me, kill me, help me, say it, only don't... don't just leave me here, not like this

All of it wrong, everything out of true.

It had to go away. It all had to go away.

Punishment without pain was meaningless; grief without heartache was... nothing at all. He owed Caidi more than that.

But this—whatever this agony-apathy was writhing through his every thought, his every sense, his every breath... it had to go away.

"I need....” He didn't know what he needed—he just.... “I need."

He latched onto Beishin's shirt and dragged himself up.

The kiss tasted metal-bitter, like blood, and even as Malick tried to wrench himself back and away, Jacin held on, pushed himself in. His patchwork leg bumped stone as he shoved them both into the wall, and it hurt, but he still couldn't feel it, so he drove himself into Beishin harder. Clamped his fingers to the hinges of Malick's jaw and squeezed until Beishin opened for him, gave in, let Jacin shove his tongue in his mouth, let him rock them together. Let him keep doing it until he dragged reaction from the both of them, until his breath ran out and he had to pull back.

"Fen.” A growl, and dark eyes narrowed with worry. “This isn't what you—"

"Fuck you,” Jacin grated, and he shoved himself in. “Always telling me what I need, what I am, what I'm made for, teaching me how to fail and nothing more, but you never really gave a shit, you only—"

"For fuck's sake—Fen!"

"—ever wanted someone to love you, worship you, but you wouldn't give any of it back, you never—"

"Fen!” A sharp shake this time, enough to rattle his teeth, then: “Who are you seeing, Fen?"

And Jacin blinked, shut his eyes tight, then opened them warily, and dark eyes had gone to old bronze again, so he looked away. “I....” Confused. Hovering on some kind of edge, and he had no idea if he should let himself go over it or not.

"Open your eyes, Fen.” Malick's hands—Malick's hands—slid up, fingers tangling in Jacin's hair. “Look at me, damn it."

The fingers tightened, held Jacin still when he would have pulled away. Instead, he opened his eyes, blinked, and squinted past the blur and distortion. Whispered, “Please,” and wished he knew what he was asking for.

"Who do you see, Fen?” Calm on the surface, but a little shaky beneath it. “Say my name."

Jacin swallowed, teeth clenched tight, because his chin wanted to quiver. Looked into light-brown eyes gone dark with concern and pain and compassion. Licked his lips and said, “Malick,” thin and reedy, “your name is Malick,” because he knew, no more blurring, no more mourning one who shouldn't be mourned, no more wishing for things he shouldn't want, and Malick's grip might have slipped, but he'd tried. Beishin's hand had swatted away that bright little life, Jacin's hand had failed to rise against his master—You did this, little Ghost—because he'd needed, and he shouldn't have, shouldn't now, but his mouth opened, breathed, “Malick,” again, because it felt necessary to make it clear. “I need to... I can't—” He sagged in Malick's grip, wilted against him, and whispered again, “Please."

Because it was Malick—Malick, not... him—and Malick had made it all go away once before.

Staring, drowning in silence, in nothing, the deadness inside him welling up into his throat and making it hard to breathe. He watched Malick watch him back, soft but measuring, trying to decide if Jacin's mind had finally snapped altogether.

Then, finally: “If this is what you need, then,” Malick whispered, and he let Jacin kiss him again, deep and heavy, as Jacin pushed in, in, in, trying to obliterate himself inside skin and bone and sinew.

Your emotions make you weak, little Ghost, and he knew it, knew it—they cut him down, turned him grasping and desperate, even when he couldn't feel them, and it wasn't fucking fair.

"No,” Malick breathed against Jacin's mouth. “Not a ghost, Fen, understand me?” Like Jacin had said it out loud—had he?—and latched on with his teeth, sank them into Jacin's bottom lip. “You're alive, and I know you don't want to be, but you're here."

Talk-talk-talking, he never just shut the fuck up, but his hands were moving, sliding over Jacin's back and pulling him in until their hips met with a heavy bump. A tingle of pain flared just a little in Jacin's leg as Beishin's erection slid against his hip through rough trousers, so Jacin let him keep talking.

"You can't be alive and a ghost at the same time, Fen. One or the other. Right now you're here, with me, and you're going to stay here—got it?"

Who are you going to see tonight while I'm fucking you?

Sick nausea curled in Jacin's gut, and he fisted his hands in hair that wasn't quite right between his fingers. “Why d'you care?” he nearly screamed, but he didn't have the breath for it.

Wrenched away, and forced to look into eyes that kept sliding from dark-dark-dark to light, smoky tea. “Why don't you?"

Make a fucking decision, Fen, so Jacin did. He angled himself away, backed up until he hit the other wall. Turned, propped himself up with his elbows, and bowed his head.

Submitted.

Waited.

"Fen,” Malick said—Malick, it's Malick—hesitant, and Jacin could tell he was going to balk, and he couldn't, because Jacin could still smell jasmine, and Malick's eyes wouldn't stop going dark and deep.

Malick had made it all go away once before. Malick had made it go away. Everything. And Jacin needed.

He didn't look back, he didn't move—he merely dipped his head ‘til his brow touched wet stone, said, “Trade me this,” and he didn't even care what he was bargaining for, desperate and pathetic, and he didn't care about that, either. Added, “Please,” again, because it was jammed up in his throat and he had to push it out.

Beishin picked her up and Malick dropped her. Joori killed her protection and Jacin killed Beishin too late. A perfect circle; perfect failure. So many ways reality could have remained whole, and yet it hadn't, it had shattered into a world where Caidi was dead and Jacin was alive and lost and drowning inside silence and not-pain, too much nothing, and, “Fucking son of a bitch, just give me this!"

Again, it rang far too loud, bounced around the damp stone, echoed in the blank spaces inside his head, and it was only vaguely and far too late that he realized he'd demanded it instead of bargaining for it.

"All right, then,” Malick said quietly, and Jacin wouldn't look, but he could swear he heard resignation inside that voice all at once tinged with husky seduction.

A solid line of hard muscle through damp linen at his back, and then he was shoved into the stone wall face-first, held there by a harsh grip on his nape, hot breath billowing over his ear and neck and shoulder. “You need it and you need it from me, Fen.” Almost a snarl, but it was low and sultry too. “You want to make it a trade, then here are my terms.” The grip on his neck tightened, and Malick pushed Jacin harder into the wall. “You'll see me and only me, Fen. You won't shut your eyes and pretend I'm him. You'll call my name. You'll stay here, with me."

Jacin tried to nod, but all he could do was twitch in the hard grip, shudder a little at the force of it. “Malick,” he wheezed. “You're Malick."

"What else, Fen?"

Jacin had to think about it for a moment, had to card back over the demand, before he ventured, “I'm here,” even though the words reeked of too much risk, but he didn't have it in him to panic.

A grunt was all he got this time, but the swath of heat at his back pulled away a little, let him suck in a great gasp, before slick fingers were on him, in him, twisting harshly, and he gasped again. Jasmine, choking him, and it wasn't right, it was supposed to be cherry blossoms, but pine-sage-sex kept leaking in and overwhelming all of it.

"Say it,” Malick growled, and when Jacin only clawed in a shaky breath, Malick twisted his hand again, ground himself hard into Jacin's hip. “Say it."

So, Jacin did, warbled, “Malick,” anything, just make it go away, and he was rewarded with a gentle curl of fingers that sparked shudders all up his backbone.

"More, Fen.” Malick's voice was dulcet and low this time, right next to Jacin's ear, and Malick's hand softened its grip on Jacin's neck, curled into his hair instead and stroked.

"I'm here,” Jacin repeated, the words unfurling into shapes inside him that took on sharp edges as he made them real, gave them power. Here, I'm here, except now that he'd said it, made the bargain, he didn't think he wanted to be.

Make it go away, it was all he wanted, but Malick wouldn't let up, he never let up, breathed, “You're here, with me,” in Jacin's ear, and Jacin shut his burning eyes, clenched his teeth.

The heat left him again, but the grip never did, and it was good, it held him up, anchored him, until Malick was there again. “Hair fucking everywhere,” he muttered, pushing in, taking Jacin's breath, and he felt it, felt a vague emptiness filling up, pushing him into the damp stone of the wall. Chill at his front, heat at his back, and raspy words spider-walking through senses that had been dead only a moment ago. “Here. You're here, Fen. Not a ghost, understand?"

"Not a ghost.” The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think about them, realize the danger implicit in the speaking, but he pushed it away, narrowed himself down to the seed of sensation, took hold, and gripped tight.

Rocking, rocking, slower than Jacin wanted it, stretched out on a sluggish ripple of time that morphed the seed into a coal, smoldering. Smoky tendrils striating all through him, waking things from which he shied, but Malick's voice kept wrenching him back. Say it—and Jacin had to answer, had to let it seep through him—I'm here—even though he had a vague, disturbing feeling he was betraying himself with every repetition. Huffing out a thin, wheezy breath as a languid sweep of fingertips curled down his thigh, up to his hip, and then inward. Took him. Held him. Blood-hot and firm. Pulled sensation from him, and pushed it back in.

Maddeningly slow, building pressure, and Jacin gritted his teeth, pressed his raw cheek into the stone.

Say it.

I'm here.

Blind and graceless, raking and breaking him, too much, not enough, sharp awareness—don't leave me here like this, it's all wrong, I can't, I won't, I need—and all the while smothering in thick, viscous nothing.

The urge to push back, snap his hips—harder, faster, please, I need—was overwhelming, but he couldn't move, could only sway with Malick's body, submit to his rhythm—in and out, back and forth—and let Malick keep pushpushpushing life into him, and he'd wanted it, he'd needed it, but it was so hard to remember now why. The sluggish burn at the bottom of his skin was scaring the shit out of him, and yet he couldn't tell Malick to stop, he'd made a mistake. He could only answer, “I'm here,” and “Malick,” every time the questions were put to him.

Long, driving strokes, slow and methodical, and it was sending him somewhere too deep inside himself, where sanity lived and reality threatened, and he had no choice but to let it enwind him, bind him. Hot, searing webs that wrapped about him, wound up from his thighs and into his chest. No control, closer and closer to that edge, and a soft lazy bite to his shoulder sent sparks beneath his skin that doused him in sensation, unlocked a groan from his throat that shattered out his mouth in ragged desperation.

"Please,” he breathed, his skin too tight, suffocating him with hazy flickers of veracity and a thin sheen of sweat. The chill that wouldn't leave him before had shape-shifted into driving heat when he hadn't been paying attention, clogged his throat.

"Say it,” Malick breathed against his temple, sped his strokes on Jacin's erection and twisted his hips, growled a little when Jacin couldn't hold onto a whimper. Wrapped Jacin's unbound hair in his fist and gave it a sharp tug. “Tell me."

"Here,” splintered from Jacin's throat, and it burned this time, seared down to his gullet, and oh fuck, it wasn't going away, this wasn't what he'd bargained for. “Malick.” Too soft, too hoarse, too broken, and he couldn't keep it back: “Help."

"Fuck,” Malick rumbled, his rhythm picking up pace, driving what breath was left in Jacin's lungs out into harsh little pants that heated the stone against his cheek. “Here, Fen. Not a ghost.” His head dipped down to Jacin's shoulder, the linen of his tunic damp and scrip-scraping along Jacin's back, more sensation, more friction and heat, overpowering. “Fucking... shit, Fen, love you.” So soft it was almost nothing more than heat against Jacin's skin. “Fuck... love you, love you.” Thick with emotion unanticipated, almost unwilling, and the shaky tone of confession slid a hot knife through all the knots tangled in Jacin's chest. That cool, calm wind inside him that said Malick to him, like even the physicality of Malick himself couldn't do, skimmed through every sense Jacin owned, took him.

Orgasm clamped him in a hard fist, wrung him and flung him, until everything inside him jinked and snapped, tore him loose and sent him spiraling. Whited him out, took everything out of him in a long, sharp, jacksaw wave of searing hereness. Shoved his face in it until he couldn't breathe.

Silence—absolute and profound. Stillness so complete he could feel the sweat drying on his skin.

Inescapable knowledge.

Gold hair stained crimson. A tiny, dimpled fist curled loose in a lake of blood.

Failure.

Thwip-thwip-thwip.

He came to still in the shower-box, still slumped against the wall, Malick still a swath of heat at his back, panting now, shaking from his own release, but everything inside Jacin had altered and shifted about in a jumbled welter of... everything. All the things that had been hovering at his edges before now bunched tight in his chest, knotting and wedging behind his breastbone, spreading out like a fist uncurling. Feeling, agonizing life, terrifying reality, and it all caved inward, striped his soul like welts from a whip and strangled him. He couldn't push it away this time, couldn't unfeel it. It shot him up, sucked him down, and he had no choice but to let himself be battered in the rush.

Unraveling.

Shattering.

Undone. Unmade.

Pressure—inside and winding out.

It was too much. He couldn't keep it in.

Jacin's head fell back to Malick's shoulder, breath curling out in a long, winding whimper that grew too fast into a moan then a sob. Pressing him down, crushing him with grief and rage and too much, too much, too much.

Long, strap-muscled arms wound about his chest, tightened—"It's all right, Fen, you're not alone, let it come"—and it all clustered together, built and built and built inside him, hurt him, burned him, scraped him raw and too open. That great, unfeelable ball of agony locked in his chest gathered into itself, burst, and splintered. Rumbled up his throat, wound through, and shoved out his mouth in a deep-dark, soul-scouring scream.

It drove right down into Malick's soul, wrenched it and twisted it. He'd never heard anything like it—the agony inside it, the betrayal, the deep-deep shocked misery of someone who'd been striving, waiting, waiting for something, anything, to be better, trying to fix it, make it better, when it just... wouldn't. Wouldn't get better, wouldn't be fixed, would only keep getting worse and worse, no matter what he did, how he tried. Wanting, wanting something that was gone forever, and holding himself responsible for failure because he couldn't take the entire world back in time and keep it there. It was all there, inside the scream that wound from Fen's mouth and curled its desolation into the stone all around them, gained emotion and momentum as it gained volume, encircling them in despair as Malick's arms encircled Fen and he lowered them both to the floor.

Ear-ringing; soul-wrenching. Lashing out at nothing and accomplishing nothing in return. All the loneliness, all the devastation, all the anger and hurt-grief-guilt, bleeding from Fen in useless shouts and shrieks ‘til it sounded like he might rupture his throat.

There was nothing for Malick to do but hold on, nothing for him to offer but inane platitudes just to give something voice, give Fen some kind of anchor on which to latch. So he kept rocking, kept whispering through the unending unholy howling—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm here, it's not your fault, not a ghost, not a ghost—wondering how there could be so much, so much, inside one person. How had Fen survived all this time with so much pain and rage and grief choking him? How had he kept his mind inside it, and with the Ancestors shrieking at him through it all?

And how had Malick ever, ever looked at the surface of the passion that bubbled beneath everything that was Fen and thought he wanted to watch as it all snapped its traces?

He'd thought it might be all right. Fen had been so calm, so focused—saw to Asai, took the amulets from the hunters, kept the Doujou from an attack before Malick had even thought to have Husao tweak them, because he couldn't bring himself to ask Shig. Malick had seen the storm twisting inside that gray gaze, but he hadn't suspected its violence. Not until Fen had shut down, gone silent, peered out blankly from a soul that was teetering. He hadn't even seemed to recognize Joori.

Drowning in the seductive numbness of shock. Steadily losing himself inside the beguiling void of nothing at all.

It took perhaps a second for Malick to see it, decide to get Fen out of there, get him somewhere quiet, somewhere private, wash the blood from him. And when Fen did start talking again, it had been to Asai.

Giving up, giving in, submitting completely with one simple turn of his body and a desperate plea. Malick saw it, understood it... couldn't stand it.

Fen had some not-very-healthy ideas about what sex was for, and the plea had nothing to do with the things people usually sought it for in too new grief. Please could just as easily have meant beat me, rather than help me. Malick would not be used as a tool for self-punishment, nor would he yield to being a stand-in for the man who'd taught Fen he had to earn love through impossibility and submission to another's will.

"Love” had merely seemed like something else to offer, something to say, something to give Fen because it seemed like he'd needed to hear it. Malick hadn't expected to actually mean it. Hadn't expected the sharp twist in his chest when he'd realized perhaps Fen wasn't hearing it from him.

Malick held on now, because there was nothing else he could do. Let Fen scream until his throat bled because he thought, vaguely, that explosion was somehow better than implosion.

Dimly, Malick noted Samin bursting through the heavy door of the bath, sword drawn and face set in the same grim lines they'd taken on since their comfortable little world had slipped and skewed. Drawn by Fen's screams, no doubt; on alert and assuming attack. Malick merely leaned himself a little backward out of the shower-box, and gave Samin a small shake of his head. Samin's shoulders slumped, and his eyes shut tight for a moment, before he tipped a jerky little nod and backed out the door again.

Malick watched the door settle firmly into its frame, curled in more tightly around Fen. Rocked and stroked and murmured through the keening that was less piercing than it had been, but Malick thought it was likely due to exhaustion, rather than a mellowing of the sharp emotion that had borne it. “You're alive, Fen,” he whispered. “Alive, not a ghost, and I know it doesn't take away the pain of losing your sister, but your brothers are still here, and they need you."

He hadn't meant to appeal to guilt or responsibility, and the second it left his mouth, he wanted to bash himself in the head for it. Still, it seemed to force calm where even the most tender, soothing words had been failing since he'd sunk to the floor with Fen a shuddering, wretched heap on his lap. The shivering kept up, the lurching breaths didn't subside, but Malick almost felt the shift in attention, the lift of a thin layer of haze.

"I thought....” Fen's voice was harsh, hoarse, hardly even there, and no wonder. He wrenched in a choppy breath that ended in a strangled sob, breathed, “I thought I was... I tried to... save... but I—"

"You did save them, Fen."

Malick had to clench his teeth, had to pause for a moment to consider what he needed to say here, because one couldn't speak to Fen like one would speak to any other—there was too much muddled inside him, too much ground in from a father who pretended he didn't have a son, and a “mentor” who fed on the self-hate and confusion it had wrought. And that wasn't even counting everything that came along with trying to keep his sanity through the desperate shrieking of the Ancestors. I won't swear an oath of protection to one who takes his own knives to himself so casually, Umeia had told Malick—bloody hell, had that only been a few days ago?—and Malick should have told her at the time, but there had been more pressing things to say then: there was nothing casual about Fen's pain, or his self-inflicted sanity. Fen thought his failings and weaknesses through very carefully.

"You were set up, Fen. Asai meant for all of them to die months ago, and you saved them then. You stole more time for your little sister, tricked a few more months for her out of a maijin, and Fen—she lived for those few months. She pushed new life into everyone around her."

"And now she's dead.” Too weak and thready, but Fen was following Malick's words, he was here, and that was better than it had been a few minutes ago.

"She is,” Malick agreed gently. “And I know it doesn't help now, but Wolf will take care of her, and you will meet her again. She's not really gone—she's just not here right now."

Fen didn't answer, only pulled a defeated silence around himself that was disturbing, perhaps, but not actually distressing, like before. They were speaking two different languages, looking at it from two different perspectives, and though Malick had endured today's losses with what felt a little too much like a mortal heart, he also had the knowledge of an immortal. He'd seen souls come back, had seen loved ones find each other again. Malick's pain wasn't nearly so deep. And Fen knew it.

He couldn't expect Fen to take any real comfort from it. Couldn't expect any mortal to take real comfort from it. Limited time and the non-remembrance of lives past were gifts, in their ways, but... not for something like this. Malick had jarred Fen back into here and now, except here and now, Fen had just killed the man he'd been in love with for years and torn his heart from his chest. Here and now, his little sister had just died horrifically in front of him. Even Shig—who regularly spoke to the spirits, who knew she'd see her sister again—was grieving and curled further into herself right now than Malick had seen her since she and Yori had first come to the Girou.

Shig. Damn. He needed to see to Shig too. Fen's sanity wasn't the only worry right now, though Malick had made it his priority, and for reasons he knew but wouldn't even try to define. There just wasn't time. Husao had taken care of the Doujou, but he couldn't take care of the entire city, and the alarm had gone up. There would be an investigation, probably underway right this second, and sooner or later, the vague non-explanations and apparent blank spaces in memory—not to mention the sudden loss of three amulets—were going to result in at the very least an enquiry centered on the Girou. Husao could buy some more time, but not forever. Those Adan who gave the orders were all too familiar with what magic looked like, and they knew even better what the seemingly invisible traces of hidden magic looked like. They'd figure it out. Soon.

Before Malick could come up with a gentle way to prod Fen into even a tenuous acceptance, Fen was pulling that iron control around himself again, stilling the shudders, settling his breathing, shoving everything back down to wherever it lived when he tried to deny its existence. Stiffening up, like he'd only just now realized where he was and the position he was in—that he was allowing it.

He moved, trying to pull himself away and get to his feet, so Malick angled himself back and up then dragged Fen up with him. Gave him a brief once-over—some popped stitches on both arm and leg, but most of the wounds had already knit new skin anyway, so a few bandages would do. Fen had never entirely shaken the fever, but Malick had been in the closest contact possible for the past however long it had been, and he didn't think it was anything to worry about right now. Fen seemed to heal himself, whether he wanted to or not, by sheer force of subconscious will. It amazed Malick, because he knew damned well there was no magic involved, and he also knew that Fen would like nothing better right now than to be dead out on those cobbles with his little sister. And yet, he couldn't seem to let himself die, not until he'd finished what he'd set out to do, had practically begged Malick to bring him back from the void into which Malick knew Fen would give just about anything to fall.

Malick didn't think about his own reasons for obliging. He told himself there were more pressing things.

Fen was shivering a little, and his skin was mottling with gooseflesh. The hob hadn't been tended for too long, the uproar outside having drawn any who'd been bathing at the time to the alley, and Malick had had other things to worry about when he'd brought Fen here. The jasmine oil he'd snapped up with the vague idea of washing Fen's hair then combing it out for him, giving the braid a go—and which he'd ended up using for an altogether different purpose—had toppled from the bench and now mixed with the bloody water at their feet. The bathsheets Malick had retrieved from the cupboard had fallen over the drain, soaking up oil and too-red water so they looked like viscous clots on the floor. Malick merely grimaced, didn't even bother to inspect his own boots and trousers after having been kneeling in the mess; just made sure Fen was propped up against the wall before he left him there to get fresh bathsheets.

"It doesn't end with Asai,” Fen said, hoarse and raspy, as he allowed Malick to wrap one bathsheet about his shoulders and mop at the miles of hair with the other.

Malick's eyebrows rose, but he kept his gaze on his hands. “No.” He dropped the bathsheet to the already ruined heap on the floor then gently steered Fen out of the shower-box.

"What will you do?” Fen asked, halting when they reached the door, his gray eyes, for the first time since the alley, peering straight at Malick, and there was no question at all that Fen was seeing him.

Like he'd done several times today, Malick paused, thought carefully about what he wanted to say, what he should say, what Fen needed to hear. “What d'you want me to do?” he finally asked, because he really wanted to know, and he really wanted to give Fen whatever he wanted, if it was in his power to give.

Fen didn't even blink, didn't hesitate. “I want you to do what you promised,” he said, his voice still low and so husky Malick wondered if he'd damaged his throat irreparably. “I want you to keep Morin and Joori safe and help me... take care of my mother."

Simple and direct—no concerns about the Balance, no thought whatsoever to any orders given from gods, or vague permissions with no promises attached to them. Fen wanted what he'd always wanted, his focus jarred and taken from him forcibly for a time, perhaps, but unchanged: Save my family, kill Asai. He'd accomplished the second part, but the more important part had gotten mangled and skewed in terrible ways today. It wasn't surprising that Fen would merely shift that narrow focus and keep trying until he was dead or broken completely. Because Fen didn't seem to know how to quit. And after everything that had happened, after watching Fen drag himself from the abyss and force himself to sanity when the call of oblivious madness must have been so sweet and seductive, Malick had no real choice.

All he could do was sigh, nod slowly, then lead Fen through the door of the baths and toward the stair. “Then that's what I'll do."

* * * *

So many people needed to die that Samin would have to spend his next sixteen lives hunting them all down. And unfortunately—or fortunately, he supposed, depending on one's perspective—most of the ones he knew were responsible for the current wrongness of the universe were already dead. And he hadn't gotten to kill any of them. He couldn't remember the last time everything had felt so wrong. Everything.

Samin shook his head, watched Joori methodically and gently try to peel the sticky, clotted clothes off his little sister's body, watched the tears flow steadily down his pale cheeks as he did it, watched him try not to wince every time his fingers glanced over a knot of bone or a gaping wound. Watched him try not to look at Shig doing the same for Yori, though Shig had stopped her weeping, gone silent. Watched him peer over periodically at the still-untended body of Umeia, who lay sheet-draped on one of the steam tables, where only an hour ago the kitchen boys had been preparing rice and setting up for supper.

Samin hadn't known where else to bring the bodies. Upstairs hadn't seemed right, and the floor of the Girou had seemed too open. And he had no idea if they were going to have the time for a proper pyre. The practical part of him had remembered the cold-storage room, and so had brought them all to the kitchens, evicted any who were still lingering, afraid to venture into the alley, and any who'd wandered back afterward to try to make sense of it all and begin the mourning of their surrogate “mother” and patroness. Some had tried to flee after the blatant display of magic, but the man Malick had called Husao had corralled them back and that Xari from the Stallion was now keeping them relatively quiet, either up in their own rooms or congregated out on the floor.

Most had stayed, gathered out on the floor where they made their living, getting slowly drunk and discussing the open secret of the Girou, which was a lot more open than Samin had known. Protected all this time beneath Malick's veil, hidden all this time by Malick's magic, but Umeia had been the face of it all. Umeia had been the one everyone had thought really in charge—even Samin. Even now, he couldn't tell how many of them were hiding magic of some kind, how many were just as shocked as he was at the number of those who'd somehow known to seek open refuge here, and how many had no magic themselves but had willingly accompliced those who did. Accompliced the woman who'd taken them in and sheltered them, and only now were they beginning to get the faintest clue that it had really been Malick all along. It had been his magic and his money that had given them new names, bought them new papers, helped some get out of Ada altogether, if that was what they'd wanted, and if they'd earned the help.

And now the woman they'd all thought of as some kind of House Mother lay lifeless on a steam table in her own kitchen. Samin didn't think it was entirely inappropriate of him that he was glad it was Umeia and not Malick.

It seemed wrong, though, that no one was tending to Umeia like they were for Caidi and Yori, but Lex was still trying to pull himself together, and anyway, it wasn't really his place. Lex wasn't Umeia's mate, merely her favored companion, but certainly not the only one. It was Malick's place, but Malick was... busy.

Samin's mouth turned down, and he shut his eyes, trying not to see Fen, bared in every way, collapsed in grief against Malick down in the baths. Tried not to hear the soul-wrenching screams and cries. Tried not to understand the desolation.

The incense was heavy in the air and it burned his nose, stung his eyes. Shig had lit too much of it, but Samin hadn't wanted to tell her to quit at the traditional three.

Morin was staring at him when Samin looked up again, red, puffy eyes too keen in understanding, a little bit grateful, maybe. Unaccountably, Samin wanted to hug him.

He liked the whole family more than he ever would have thought he might. Maybe even loved them a little bit. He hadn't really thought he liked children, but Caidi had gotten to him in ways....

He pushed the thought aside when more tears threatened. He hadn't wept enough, no one had—there weren't sufficient tears in the world to do justice to three such worthy lives gone—but he'd wept plenty for now. There were other matters.

The day had been full of failures and mistakes. That little girl had been taken right out of Samin's hands. Out of his hands.

The feel of her quivering as he'd tried to brush away the shadows. The look in her eyes through the murk, the fear, the confusion. The sick sinking of his gut when he'd grabbed for her foot as she lifted up past him and... missed. Just missed.

Samin clenched his teeth and shunted it aside. A thousand horrible, painful deaths for Asai, with Samin himself twisting the blade, would not be enough.

"I need more water, Morin,” Joori said quietly, his head bowed over Caidi, his shoulders still steadily shaking as the cloth he used to bathe his little sister's body grew redder, along with the basin of water he'd been using to rinse it out.

Morin merely nodded, sucked in a shaky breath as he moved to angle himself around the pastry counter where Caidi lay and retrieved the basin to clean and refill it. He stopped in mid-step, frozen like a rabbit, but wary-eyed and tense, one hand curling into an unconscious fist as his swollen, hazel eyes riveted to a spot behind where Samin stood.

Samin didn't really need to turn, but he did anyway. Saw Malick's eyes take in the scene, wincing only slightly when his gaze landed on Umeia's covered body, turning pained and sad when it took in everything else. Fen was leaning into him heavily, a bathsheet wrapped around him like a blanket, his own gaze steady but carefully not looking at anything at all.

Joori had frozen too, staring at Malick with eyes both terrified and defiant—ready to apologize and defend his actions at the same time—and turning confused when Malick did nothing but meet the stare then move on to Morin. He sucked in a long breath, then said evenly and without any sort of dramatics: “By my heart, by my body, by my breath and spirit, I pledge my oath to Kel Saminil, Kojoi Shig, Fen Joori, and Fen Morin. Should my life be required in return for their safety, I pledge it willingly, by forfeit of my soul should I fail."

The silence was complete. Stunned. More loaded than it had been a moment ago when Morin and Joori had caught sight of Malick, fearing an attack. Even Samin was shocked. Malick just wasn't the sort.

"Mal,” Samin said, his voice strangely reverent. “We haven't even—"

"It doesn't matter,” Malick cut in, his own tone still even and quiet, matter-of-fact. “Whether you stay or you go, you've earned it and more."

"What about my brother?"

Surprisingly, it came from Morin, not Joori, like Samin would have thought. The boy's face was a little too pale, like he expected to be struck down for the impertinence, even with the promise of the oath, but his chin was up and his gaze was steady, if a little too obviously terrified.

Malick's gaze went to Morin, and for the first time, Samin noted how tired he looked, how drawn. How sincerely grief-stricken he was at what had happened today. And again, Samin was a little taken aback. Because Malick simply wasn't the sort. Or hadn't been.

"Your brother won't accept it,” Malick said calmly, though his mouth turned down in obvious disapproval as he said it in a way that told Samin it was a fresh argument, and it wasn't quite done as far as Malick was concerned. But Malick only shrugged, sighed. “Anyway, I'm not sure it would work. Magic just kind of... slides off him."

"Terrific,” Morin said with a curl of his lip and a roll of his eyes, both directed more at the universe in general than Malick in particular. He was a snarky little shit who gave his brothers grief at almost every opportunity, but he loved them in his way—oddly, Samin had seen it that first night when the boy had kicked Fen to put him down.

Malick ignored the comment, merely shifted his gaze to Joori, and jerked his chin. “Take your brother upstairs and help him dress."

Joori only stared for a moment, blinking, then he looked down at the red-soaked cloth in his hand, at his little sister. “But.... I was—"

"I know,” Malick cut in, and Samin nearly smiled at the gentle tone, and the surprise on Joori's face when he heard it too. “Morin can take over for a little while.” With a slight flicker of his gaze toward Caidi, Malick shook his head and gave Fen's shoulder a squeeze. “She's not going anywhere."

Joori winced a little, but he didn't snap back. Nodding slightly, he ran a gentle hand over Caidi's brow, whispered something to her that Samin didn't try to hear, then turned to rinse his hands.

"Still think you can live with it, angry Ghost?"

It halted everyone, because Shig hadn't said a word since they'd begun their mournful tasks, and to hear her speak so calmly now—without the spirit-driven singsong it seemed they'd all expected when she finally decided to speak again—was strange and disconcerting.

The question had been directed at Fen, and Samin had no idea what it meant, but Fen seemed to. He didn't answer it, though, merely stared at Shig with flat regard, too wrung out and stricken to muster much else. He looked, in fact, now that Samin was letting himself really look, like a man who was gazing directly into the empty perdition of the suns, and just barely hanging onto whatever precarious hold he'd been able to snatch.

Malick was right—the lad needed his brother. Samin was just surprised it had been Malick's idea.

Shig was staring back at Fen, her jade eyes too sharp for someone who was so deeply in mourning, but not hostile, though the question had almost sounded so. She looked... interested. Curious. She merely shrugged when Fen didn't answer, looked away, and went back to her task.

They were all silent as Joori made his way over to Fen, took his brother's weight from Malick and began angling them both out of the kitchens.

"Watch it on the stairs,” Malick said as they retreated. “And take him to my room. There are rolls of bandages and a jar of salve in the cupboard under the washstand."

Joori didn't answer, but he turned back to look over his shoulder, searched Malick's face, and nodded solemnly at whatever he found there.

Malick waited until they were well-gone before he turned back. And then he merely looked at Shig, gestured her over. She came quietly, with a subtle show of relief, but the tears that had dried up a while ago were once again misting her eyes as she stepped willingly beneath Malick's arm and laid her multicolored head on his shoulder.

"Better, love?” Malick murmured, smiled a little sadly when Shig merely nodded and began to sob almost silently into his shirt.

Malick looked back at Samin. “Fen still intends to go after his mother.” His glance cut briefly to Morin then down to Shig before it settled again on Samin. “If either of you has any objections, now's the time to voice them. Any debt either of you has ever thought you might owe me has been....” His eyes went to Yori's body then back again to Shig. He shut them briefly and looked away. “It's been paid.” He nearly spat the word.

Giving them yet another opportunity to back out, now that the warning of things getting ugly had been made terrible truth. As if any of them could have witnessed what went on today and merely bowed their heads and stepped back. Malick had to know better, but Samin supposed he respected the fact that he took care to make the offer. Still, Samin didn't justify the opportunity for cowardice; he merely waited until Malick's gaze lifted again and settled on him.

"Plan?"

A ghost of the familiar cocky smile flickered at Malick's mouth, and he lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Always."

Excellent. Mayhem. It did a body good. Just point Samin in the right direction.

Samin shot a quick look at Shig, returned her watery little smile with one of his own, then turned back to Malick. “When?"

* * * *

How, Joori wondered, still dazed and never far from tears, could it be possible that he was still standing here, that the blood on his hands had washed off—just washed off like it didn't belong there—that life, his life, just kept going, when the lives of his sister and his too-new lover were over, just... over? Gone and done, and here he was, still breathing, still functioning, when it was supposed to have been him, it should have been him, and he knew they all knew it, he knew they all wished it had been.

That was all right—he wished it too.

"Brother."

Jacin's voice was hoarse, because he'd been screaming, they'd all heard it, all the way from down in the baths, but when Joori had moved to go to his brother, Shig's lethal look had stopped him cold. Just a look, not even a movement to back it up, no overt threat, but it was hard and cold and cruel, and he'd allowed it to back him down, even with his brother's shrieks arrowing right into his chest. And when Samin had come back from his dash with no blood on his sword and the screams still ringing, Joori had known. And wanted to die all over again.

"Joori,” Jacin rasped. He took hold of Joori's hand around the comb, and stilled it. Pushed it away and turned.

Joori couldn't meet Jacin's eyes, couldn't do anything but stare down at the comb in his hand, a long rope of Jacin's hair still twisted between his fingers, because he was supposed to be braiding it, just like he'd used to do when he'd known Jacin like he'd known himself. When life still had dubious hope, but hope. When Joori could almost always find the right words to say, the right reassurances—I won't let it happen, Jacin, you're not a Ghost, you'll never be a Ghost. Except now Morin's words—you've done him no favors by pretending he isn't what he is—kept coming back to him, and Joori didn't really understand them any better now than he had when Morin had leveled them at him, Morin of all people. He had a vague notion that he should understand them, that they meant something he wasn't seeing, something that could have made today not happen if he'd only understood, only seen, because it was all down to him, all his fault, every bit of it, and they all knew it.

Morin's knowledge poured out from hazel eyes so like Caidi's, so like their mother's; shone in those strange, soft looks he kept shooting Joori as he'd untangled blood-sticky gold and added the flow of unending tears to the water that kept turning red too soon. Except Morin kept not saying it, kept not rubbing Joori's nose in it, and it was so unlike Morin that Joori just couldn't wrap his mind around it.

Be what you are, Morin had told him, and Joori had, or at least he'd tried, but it hadn't mattered, hadn't made a single bit of difference, and now Joori wondered if it meant something else altogether. Perhaps it had been an admonishment, a sarcastic prediction of coming failure, because Morin knew, Joori knew he knew, even if no one would say it.

Shig's knowledge was too quiet, too composed for someone who had never seemed interested in or able to care about the corporeal life that went on outside of her multicolored head. “Too many are bleeding just as red as you today, angry earth-bound,” she'd told him, her own hands just as covered in murky scarlet as his were as she lovingly bathed her sister's face, dropped soft kisses to Yori's closed eyelids. Joori wished he could do the same, but he hadn't had the nerve to presume Shig would allow him near. “It wasn't yours to die today, and it was never yours to save them.” She'd lifted her head then, looked right at Joori, her jade eyes red-rimmed and far too bright. “You're just not that special."

It had cut, and it shouldn't have. Shig was no one to him, just one more obstacle to saving his brother, and now Joori had to wonder if he'd thought her an obstacle because she—just as much as everyone here, the world in general—was a threat to Jacin, or merely a threat to Joori's place beside him. Because Malick had told him, had accused him, had warned him, and now they were dead, gone, dropped from the sky to—

"Brother, please."

Jacin's voice was shaky, and the pleading inside it all too real, right on the edge of... something, the bottom of whatever abyss from which he'd been screaming, and it hadn't been Joori who'd pulled him out, brought him back.

"Joori, I can't.... Please, I need you."

Again, it hit him in the heart, drove through him like a spike, and he hadn't realized he'd dropped to his knees, laid his head in Jacin's lap. Weeping, clutching, a long clump of silky-damp hair gripped too tight in his fist, and, “I'm sorry, Jacin, I'm so sorry,” leaking from him in weak hisses like a kettle gone to steam.

"Please, Joori. Don't... I can't....” Thin, almost insubstantial, wobbling the edge.

It took more than Joori knew he had to get hold of himself, to breathe again, to lift his head and look into those eyes that were so like his own, and yet so much deeper, with so much more inside them. Dry now, no tears, but swollen and bloodshot, and going hollow with grief. Grief that Joori was forcing on Jacin, making him watch and feel, and trying not to let himself drop back into it, because Malick wasn't here this time to pull him back out, only Joori, and Joori had failed everyone else in his life, but... he couldn't fail Jacin.

"Jacin,” Joori whispered. He let go of the comb and pulled Jacin's hands from his hair, where they'd gone to comfort and soothe, when it should be Joori offering those things, padding the edges of the madness that hovered about his brother constantly like a fist inside a glove, ever-ready to start squeezing, throttling. And perhaps Joori didn't know everything he'd thought he did, perhaps Malick was right and Joori didn't know Jacin at all anymore, but he knew who Jacin had been, and he knew that everything inside Joori himself—every whisper of blame, every accusation of failure—was trebled and quadrupled in his brother's precarious mind, in that heart that felt too much, and was too forgiving of everyone but himself. “Jacin, whatever you're thinking, you're wrong.” Joori swallowed when Jacin shut his eyes, jaw clenched, like he was still holding back those screams that had pierced Joori so profoundly they still rang inside his head. “It wasn't supposed to be you, it wasn't your fault, you couldn't have stopped any of it."

Somehow, it was the wrong thing to say. Jacin hadn't been shaking a few seconds ago, Joori was sure of it. He was doing this wrong, he had no idea how to do this, how to reach the boy Jacin had been back when Joori really had known him, when they'd truly been two halves of the same Self. Back before the world had taken away their shared life, imperfect as it had been, and given them only this unending penury to take its place. And he had no one to ask how to do it right besides Jacin himself.

He curled his hands around Jacin's, ignored the chunky ring and what he knew it meant, and squeezed. “Jacin... tell me what you need. Tell me what to do."

Maybe it was the right thing to say—it took that hollow chasm out of Jacin's eyes, turned his gray gaze so fierce it almost singed Joori's skin. Jacin turned his callused hands in Joori's, gripped so tight Joori almost yipped.

"Don't die,” Jacin hissed, nearly violent in its strange sibilance, this voice that was a ghost of his normal even tones, like perhaps he truly was the ghost of Jacin—he was Fen now, he was Jacin-rei. Jacin was buried too deeply beneath layers and layers of pain and a stratum of cold, hard frost, and his heart along with him: not burned to cinder and his spirit released from the ashes, but pulled from his chest and stomped. His hungry ghost bound to the reality Joori had tried so hard to pretend didn't exist, feeding on rage and grief like others fed on seeds. And Joori just hadn't been able to see it, admit it. “I need you to live, Joori. I need Morin to live."

His hands were so strong, long fingers that looked so much like Joori's, but Jacin had always been more dexterous. Jacin had always been able to set his hand to a task and pull from it exactly what he wanted. Joori hadn't ever even been able to whittle without clumsy mistakes and mangled fingers. The only thing Joori had ever been able to make his hands do with any alacrity was weave that fucking braid, and he thought the irony of that might just kill him if he let himself think about it too hard.

Jacin snatched his hands away, cupped Joori's face between them, so gentle, so earnest. “Brother,” he rasped, asking, “please."

No laws, their mother had told them. But she'd never said anything about a request from the one person Joori couldn't refuse. And like anything Jacin asked of him, Joori had no choice but to give it to him.

Xari sighed, peering at the motley assembly, mourning their mistress on the floor of a whorehouse, and wondering, as mortals were wont to do, what came next. The man they called Lex had emerged from his grief for his apparent lover—Xari's eyebrows had risen a little when she'd understood what he'd been to the Girou's patroness, but in approval; the man was quite nice to look at—and begun the mundane business of picking up pieces, showing others by calm example how to do the same. Mortals were so alike in the ways they dealt with what they knew but never quite believed was only temporary death, and Xari absorbed the pain and sorrow like another would absorb a good meal.

Kamen would not allow Lex to tend to Umeia's body, and Xari could feel how it rankled, how it hurt, and she pulled that into herself, as well, ignored Husao's curled lip when he looked at her and understood what she was doing. She didn't look away—it was what she was. Banpair, she saw it in his eyes, and she merely shrugged. He took his strength from his god; she had no such luxury. Not yet. And it was kinder to bleed off—feed off—misery than take away from any joy mortals could grasp. At least in Xari's opinion. There were maijin who sucked away any emotion they could gather, obsessed by it, who harmed or maimed or even seduced only to incite such passion, and then slurped it like addicts.

Xari took what she needed, and only when she needed. A true banpair, after all, could not hope to be claimed by any god. And a godless maijin needed the strength and power to do the deeds required for that divine acceptance. Xari did not intend to remain godless, and she trusted no promises. She would earn her place once again—with Dragon, if she would take her; with Wolf, if she wouldn't—and standing by and watching her son destroyed was simply not enough. The Obelisk had taken Xari's intended penance out of her hands, her own fear had stalled her feet when she'd had a brief flicker of a chance to redeem herself through her son's death, but she'd foreseen her own in the doing, and had hesitated. And the Catalyst had not waited for her to catch up. Kamen had warned her, and still, she hadn't been quick enough. There were no choices left to her now, only one moment left to seize. She would have to find her redemption through the salvation of one who had no intention of being saved.

"There is more to do,” she told Husao, her voice flat but calm.

Husao merely looked at her, sighed. “Kamen will—"

"Kamen sees naught but his Catalyst,” Xari snapped. “Kamen lets it blind him and too many will fall with him.” She shook her head. “You have your vengeance, Husao, and you have your god. You've none left to please, no redemption for which to beg. The Untouchable is Kamen's redemption. Asai was to be mine. Kamen will understand."

Husao merely shook his head, giving Xari a sad smile that looked entirely too authentic to be real. “No, Xari, he will not,” he said, but he stood, held out his hand.

Xari took it and allowed him to lead her up the stairs and to the Catalyst.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eight

What comes after?

Someone had asked him that. He could hear the echo of Malick's voice inside it, so maybe it had been him. Jacin hadn't really thought about it before, hadn't had an answer then, but he knew now what had been at the back of his mind, tucked away inside some twisted bit of hope he still had hidden in there: Kill Asai, fix his mother, bring his father back to life and make him love him, stop the screeching in his head so he didn't totter on a perpetual knife-edge of insanity, stop the hurt, stop the pain.... The list went on, foolish and deluded, but it had been there, and it was there still, even though he knew none of it was possible.

There was nothing to do but start picking up the pieces of his shattered reality, fit the ragged edges into shapes that didn't make him scream. Keep Malick's ring on his finger because it was already too late, he'd missed... something. Beishin was dead, Caidi was dead, Yori was dead, and the Ancestors might have told him how to save them, but he hadn't been listening. Or maybe they wouldn't have told him at all, maybe they would have merely kept shrieking their agony at him, because what difference did it all make to them? It didn't matter, he hadn't been listening, couldn't bring himself to listen now. He needed the silence, needed to think, wake up the bits of his mind that had gone to sleep inside the Ancestors’ nightmares and use them to save what he had left.

He kept the ring on his finger. Clung to the bits of himself that still felt like sanity.

"What now, Jacin?” Joori asked him softly, his fingers slowly plaiting. It felt nice, it felt like home somehow, so Jacin just let him keep doing it, even though Joori'd had to start over twice for the shaking and the pattering drops of grief that kept rippling at the false calm of his surfaces.

Jacin turned his head to his brother but didn't actually look at him. “Now, we go on,” was all he said. Because it was all he knew.

Joori was silent for a long moment, braiding more carefully than he really needed to, stretching the process into curling silence, and Jacin didn't mind, so he didn't say anything. Joori's hands were still shaking, Jacin could feel the tremors, and his voice quavered a little when he sighed and started, “Malick... I mean Kamen... damn it.” That last was soft and heartfelt, and Jacin felt a small tug as Joori unwove a few inches of the braid then started again. “Did he ever tell you how he... how he was made, or...?” Another pause. Jacin could almost see Joori's tightened jaw and fierce glare in his mind, but he still didn't turn to look. “I mean... Jacin, what do you know about him?"

Jacin's mouth turned up at one corner, bitter irony, and he shut his eyes, leaning his head back against the top of the chair's cushion.

"He's Temshiel,” he said, almost a whisper, because he couldn't seem to manage anything above. “He was made—turned; whatever they call it—by Wolf in the last Cycle before the Binding Wars. He's apparently young for Temshiel, and he thinks he's more jaded than he is, and he had the brass to strike a bargain with Wolf to bring Umeia along with him."

Jacin paused, almost smiled, because it was actually sort of amusing to imagine—Malick, still mortal, offered immortality and power by a god, and still having the audacity to level conditions, because it probably never occurred to him that he shouldn't. Vanity, apparently, did wonders for a person's expectations.

"He fought on the side of the Adan,” Joori put in quietly.

Jacin merely shrugged. “He's Temshiel,” was all he said, because it wasn't something he could hold against Malick like perhaps Joori did, because Jacin understood it. War was an ugly thing, impersonal, waged by the minions of jealous gods who seized on the too-personal fears of mortals to sway them to one side or the other. Malick was no different from that Adan doujoun who'd wanted to help Jacin the night he left the camp, and couldn't, bound by the laws and the reprimands of his superior. If you were someone's dog, you did what they told you. Simple.

"He's scary,” Joori ventured.

"Hm.” Jacin opened his eyes to look up at the ceiling, the gray light of the waning day casting goblin shadows through the rain on the window. “He's always felt like a cool, calm wind to me,” he whispered, a little surprised, because he hadn't realized before how true it was, but it still felt strange to think it. He put it away, because he couldn't trust his own perceptions anymore. He never could, really, but now he kept seeing Beishin's eyes, hearing his voice, and he couldn't trust Beishin, so he couldn't trust himself. “He says he loves me."

Joori's hands paused, and he drew in a sharp breath. “And...?"

"And.” Jacin shut his eyes again, Beishin's shark's smile curling behind them. “People lie. But sometimes the lies they tell are telling in themselves."

"But you trust him anyway."

A shrug. “I suppose."

"With your life?"

Jacin held back a snort, because Joori wouldn't understand. What difference does it make? he almost asked, but Joori wouldn't understand that, either, and Jacin couldn't muster the strength for an argument. “I suppose,” he said again.

I had hoped that you might trust me enough, dare I think... love me enough, to keep your faith, your belief.

Jacin's mouth tightened, and he clamped his eyes shut harder.

Shut up, Beishin.

"Mm,” Joori hummed, and his hands on Jacin's hair went a little rougher. “Not much reassurance, I think, when you don't give a shit if you live or die."

It was bitter, and it made Jacin sigh. He opened his eyes, sat forward, and tugged the half-woven braid from Joori's hands. “I can finish."

Joori was silent again, brooding, before he gently took back the braid from Jacin. Jacin let him. “I'm sorry,” Joori said quietly. “I don't mean to... I only....” Jacin chanced a look upward, saw tears thicken Joori's gaze, and so looked away again. “She's already gone, Jacin. We've sacrificed Caidi to avenging her, and she's still gone. I don't want... I can't lose any more. Neither can you, and you know it."

It wound in Jacin's chest, tightened. How was it that Joori could hurt him like this, when Jacin knew he only ever tried not to?

"I've heard the voices of mad spirits for what feels like thousands of years,” Jacin told his brother, the hoarseness of his voice making it only just audible over the soft patter of rain on the window and roof. “Desperate agony, terrible knowledge, and the excruciating inability to do anything with it, to even understand the knowing, just having it inside you, gnawing at you, and you can never quite catch it, force it into sensible shapes. It's maddening. It's unbearable.” Joori had stopped braiding again, likely horrified, but there could be no mercy in this. “I won't leave her soul to that,” Jacin went on, ruthless, because it was true, and because love was a weapon, and Joori wielded it with too-sharp precision. Jacin didn't want it anymore; it made him weak, it distracted him, it made his heart a soft, dangerous thing, and the howling loss inside him for Caidi only drove that home in ways that could crush him if he let them. He couldn't let them. “I won't allow another to leave her to it, not if I can stop it happening.” The heavy rasp of Jacin's voice scraped his throat, making his eyes tear and blur. “If you can leave the woman who bore you to that fate, you're no brother of mine."

And yet you could doom the man who taught you, who cared for you, who lov—

Shut up, shut up, you didn't, you don't.

Joori went rigid, shocked, and Jacin almost went on, almost drove the knife in deeper, because if he couldn't cut the love out of his own chest, maybe he could cut it from Joori's, kill the weakness inside himself by proxy.

Would you be the doom of your brother? Would you fail your mother?

Shutupshutupshutup—

But Joori only snorted, something bitter and disbelieving. “And you'd sacrifice us for it?"

Your emotions make you weak and foolish, little Ghost. A lesson was necessary.

I'm trying very hard to learn it, Beishin.

"If I had to.” Cold and even, and why was his chest hurting even more than his leg? Why was his throat locked up so tight, making his already hoarse voice into something like gravel screeing down into the depths of perdition?

"Malick said you wouldn't."

"Malick was wrong."

"Yeah?” Joori shifted back behind the chair again, resumed weaving Jacin's hair into its hated braid. “You're a liar, Jacin,” he said, though it wasn't harsh or accusing. “And the lies you tell are telling in themselves. Five minutes ago, you were begging me to live, and now you're trying to cut me out, cut Morin out, cut your own heart out like you cut out—"

"Believe what you—"

"Oh, don't worry,” Joori said easily. Jacin could hear the smile in his voice, and it was cold and calculating. It made him want to scream. “You'll get what you want out of me,” Joori went on. “I'll live because you've asked it of me, I'll make sure Morin lives because you've asked it of me, and because I know what it would do to you if you had to watch us die too. I'll live and I'll make sure Morin lives because I owe it to Caidi for what I did to her—"

"Joori, it wasn't your—"

"I owe it to Yori too, I even owe it to Umeia."

"You don't owe—"

"We'll live, even though it's profoundly unfair that I don't get to make the same demand of you.” He set both hands to Jacin's shoulders, leaned down, and laid a kiss to the crown of his head. “And you can go and save Mother,” he whispered into Jacin's hair, “knowing that there will be no more bodies for you to prepare, no more pyres to light."

Save him, Joori could be even more ruthless, could out-cruel Jacin without even batting an eye.

"Malick wasn't supposed to love you, was he, Jacin-rei?"

The name—rei—from Joori's mouth shocked Jacin, stilled him, when he might have pulled away, fled, because this was altogether too close to... something. Something terrifying, something he couldn't look at, couldn't hear, not when his mind was working, when he could understand.

"Temshiel don't know how, do they, and you thought you were safe. He was supposed to use you and leave you, and instead he handed you his heart, offered you his soul, and now you have to figure out what to do with it. Because love isn't a safe thing for you, is it... Ghost?"

It was soft, right next to Jacin's ear, warm breath and sonorous accusation. It was only vaguely that Jacin felt the hot splash of tears hit his neck and realized Joori was weeping inside the words that came through a smile Jacin couldn't see.

"Love only means you'll have to watch someone else die. You were down to two and now you're back up to three, and you can't take it, I know you can't take it, and it's all right.” Joori's arms wrapped about Jacin's shoulders from behind, locked his back into the cushions of the chair, and only now did Jacin realize he'd stopped breathing and thin tears were flowing down his cheeks. His heart was battering beneath Joori's palm where it rested over Jacin's breastbone. “You can stop loving us for a while if you need to, Jacin. I won't fight you anymore."

Abruptly, Joori let go, came around to the front of the chair, and leaned in, setting his hands to both sides of Jacin's head, eyes both soft and intense. “Be the Ghost,” he said, fierce and from between clenched teeth. “Give Fen Jacin-rei all the pain and power, because he's the only one who can bring my brother back to me. Because if we have to be alive, then so do you."

It knocked the breath from Jacin, echoes ramming around the empty spaces in his head, feeding off each other and gathering resonance, until it all wound together, deafened him, numbed him. And then, with a calm, soft kiss to his brow, Joori straightened, brushed a tangle of fringe out of Jacin's eyes, and started braiding again.

Jacin didn't know what to say, so he said nothing at all.

* * * *

Xari had been correct—Husao had gotten his vengeance, had gotten it without risk, had skirted the shifting lines of true interference, and could stand before his god with no need for defense. But for the matter of the amulets bearing his son's Blood, he could walk away, be done with it all, and make no enemies. Xari might be godless, but she was still formidable, and would do whatever she must to change her status. She'd been prepared to kill Asai herself, a hopeful offering to Dragon in reparation for her silence when she'd understood what her son and Skel had been plotting so long ago. She'd hesitated, and the Catalyst had beaten her to her redemption.

And Kamen.... No one wanted to make an enemy of Kamen. Even those Temshiel who'd been drawn by the swell of power in the city, the aura of conflict, were hovering the edges, staying close but not venturing into Kamen's sight yet. Husao could feel them, biding and watching, and wondered if any of them would be foolish enough or think themselves strong enough to take a stand against Kamen when his intentions became clear. Because it was not difficult to see that Wolf's aim was very different from that of the other gods, and where Wolf pointed, Kamen led. Even when he didn't think he did. Wolf too obviously intended to save his children, and as far as Husao could tell, none of the other gods had yet ventured to gainsay him openly—or at least, none of them had deigned to guide their Temshiel to do so.

To be expected, he supposed. It was Wolf's Cycle, his power at its apex, and Kamen was its conduit, the bloody fist at the end of Wolf's long arm. And none, thus far, not even Kamen, had broken the laws of the gods. Raven and Dragon risked, at the very least, bending them, if they moved against Wolf now. It would be interesting to see if Kamen could manage to achieve his god's goals without crossing the sometimes blurry lines of the others', but Husao thought that if anyone could maneuver around it all, it would be Kamen. Reason enough for Xari to throw her lot in with Wolf's-own, in Husao's considered opinion, but Xari did not trust easily, and had witnessed too often the machinations and duplicity of the gods and their servants to count on Kamen's promise of entreaty to Wolf.

The gods offered no guarantees.

And as the harsh judgment of Husao's own son had proven, intention meant nothing; only action mattered. Skel had intended to set the Balance back on its fulcrum, empower the Adan to remove the Jin entirely, take magic from mortals who never should have had it. What he'd actually done had sent him to the suns. The laws were not theirs to break. Even in his darkest grief, Husao had known that, had known what his son's fate would be, even though Skel's intent had been to restore order and edict, and bring glory to his god. In the end, it hadn't mattered. Even had Skel achieved what he'd wanted, single-handedly set the Balance, it would not have mattered; not when he'd broken the laws to achieve it. Not even the gods themselves broke the laws they'd made.

Xari would not be judged by her intention to aid Kamen by destroying her own son. She would be judged only by what she accomplished before the end of the Cycle, and so far, that had been little. She had not taken the brief instant of opportunity. Her chances of being forgiven and reclaimed by Dragon were better than her chances of being accepted by Wolf, and pleasing Dragon by ridding the world of the Jin abomination would secure her endorsement.

Husao had no such dilemma. Dragon had not directed her Temshiel to take a side, and so he didn't. He'd gotten mostly what he'd wanted. He backed neither Jin nor Adan, and though Xari and he shared a god, they had only very briefly shared goals. They were not allies, not unless Dragon told them to be, and Husao had one last promise to keep, one last task to arrange, if he could, about which he had told Xari nothing. He kept it that way now. If honoring the Mage's promise got him that last thing he needed, he would keep it.

He led Xari up the flights of stairs to the attic floor, following the throb of the earth at the bottom of his spine. The Paradox had allowed his power to unfurl itself, had allowed Kamen to take it and treble it, use it. Husao didn't know how the earth-bound had managed to keep it suffocated all this time, but he didn't think it would willingly go back down to wherever the boy had shoved it before. He was pulsing out power like a beacon, ripe for the hunters, were it not for Kamen's veil. Ripe for a ground-shaking disaster, as well, if provoked. The boy had no real control.

There were reasons most mortals should not have magic. Ironically, the Adan had put themselves in even more danger by taking away the ability of those who had it to learn to use it. The amulets had always been a shaky stop-gap—proven as such through the riots that still sprang from the camps now and then—because Asai had at least been wise enough or manipulative enough not to hand those who used them their full power. If the Jin were a different people, they would have already risen up and crushed the Adan, amulets or no.

They found the Paradox and the Catalyst in a modest set of rooms at the top of the stairs. Jacin-rei was sitting, stiff-backed and blank-eyed, in an ugly overstuffed chair, clean and put together, but Husao still winced at the change in the boy who'd fled Asai's only a little over two months ago. His brother was just tying a leather thong at the end of the long plait, his gaze narrowing as Husao and Xari entered, though Husao didn't miss the subtle touch Jacin-rei laid to his brother's arm, or the young man's quiet acceptance of the silent command. Both sets of gray eyes were wary, though, taking in the sight of beautiful Xari without her glamour, watching both her and Husao himself with hostile curiosity.

Jacin-rei's left hand went behind his back; the other went openly to the hilt of one of the several knives at his belt. Lazy tension wound over him, but he didn't move against them as they entered. Merely stared, asked, “Yes?” quite calmly, and he watched as Husao politely directed Xari to the couch opposite the brothers. They all stared for a long moment over the divide of the tea table.

"Hello, Jacin-rei,” Husao said. He smiled and nodded at Xari. “I am Husao. This is Xari. We are....” He paused, his smile going a bit crooked. “We are old acquaintances of Kamen's. We have—"

"Acquaintances,” Jacin-rei cut in, eyes just a touch narrower than they'd been a moment ago. “Not... friends? Allies?” He paused, one eyebrow lifting in challenge. “Enemies?"

Xari snorted. “Enemies of Kamen's would not live past the doorstop,” she informed him, and slid a warm smile between the brothers with easy charm. Husao had forgotten how lovely and appealing Xari could be when she didn't wear her crone's face. “And our kind do not have friends. Allies?” She shrugged. “When it suits us."

The brother's mouth tightened. “You're Temshiel,” was all he said, but he managed to put a curl on the tone that slid it derisive.

"I am maijin,” Xari corrected with a slight lift of her chin. “Husao is Temshiel."

Jacin-rei merely blinked at them, unimpressed. “What d'you want?"

Blunt and to the point. Husao had always liked the boy. He smiled again, sat back, gave Xari a slight lift of his eyebrow and a shrug. He was merely here to observe and wait for opportunity to present itself. Xari's business interested Husao only as much as it intersected with what remained of his.

A stir somewhere in the dark depths of Husao's perception. He noted it and shot a look to Xari, but she didn't look back, so he couldn't tell if she'd felt it too. Likely not. It was so light and subtle a touch that Husao wouldn't have felt it himself, had he not already been stretching his senses to keep sentinel for the probes of hunters. And he recognized the talent and technique. Kamen was keeping a close eye on those under his veil. Quite possibly unfortunate for Xari; she was still included in that number. Husao sat back and waited. He was only here to watch and wait, after all.

Xari leaned in, raven hair falling loose over her shoulder, the beaded tassels of her bright violet shawl chiming softly as she moved—not quite seductive, not yet, but not ruling out the possibility, either, should she need to fall back on it. “The Catalyst has today served the justice of the gods.” Her voice was smooth and honeyed. Nothing at all like the creaky-hinge sound when she wore her glamour. “The treachery of Asai has stood as mocking example for too long. Wolf is well-pleased."

Jacin-rei just kept staring, amber-shot gray eyes managing to burn from out of the hollow, dark-rung caves of their sockets. He didn't say a word, but Husao knew the boy, had made it his business to know the boy, and I don't care managed to ooze out from his blank-bored expression like a physical taste of bitter metal.

"We have come,” Xari continued then paused when Husao subtly cleared his throat. Her mouth tightened only slightly, but she merely went on, “I have come to offer retreat and safety to you and yours.” She smiled again, warm and almost sweet, directed at the brother, who seemed to be the better choice for charm. Trying to charm Jacin-rei right now would be like trying to seduce a stone. And as with all things, Husao knew—and so did Xari—the way to Jacin-rei was through those he loved and couldn't protect. “I can do what has already been promised to you,” Xari continued. “I can get you out. You seek now vengeance, and for that you cannot be blamed.” Her expression went sympathetic, kind. “Your grief is profound and just. What happened today was....” A soft sigh, and Xari shook her head, almost reached out but seemed to think better. “I can see that your sorrow is oceans deep. Today should not have happened, and were it not for Kamen's own desire for vengeance, it would not have done. He has used you, lad. You know this."

Wisely, she kept away from the subject of Asai, and how he'd used the boy in ways that were much deeper and far more destructive.

All through the little speech, Jacin-rei neither flinched nor looked away. He hadn't reacted at all. Now, he merely blinked, then shot a flat look up to his brother, who only shrugged. Jacin-rei turned back to Xari. “And?"

Xari frowned. “And he has used those you love to a horrible end. Not his intent, to be fair, but reality nonetheless. You have already been betrayed by Kamen's own Blood. Do not allow your grief to swottle you into allowing him to further that betrayal.” Again, she leaned in, beautiful face as close to sincerity as Husao had ever seen it. “He would use you still. He would set you against Yakuli, risk you and yours, and all so that he needs not risk his soul."

"He's sworn us oath,” the brother put in. He slid an uncertain glance at Jacin-rei, but when Jacin-rei didn't chide him, only kept staring, he turned back to Xari, who'd abruptly lost her smile. Husao understood why—Kamen had never sworn oath to another soul. Ever. “I won't defend him,” the boy went on boldly, “I don't much like him, but he's—"

"He has set aside the wishes of the gods for the obsession of his lust. He has—” Xari cut herself off, mouth pinched up tight, and she looked at Jacin-rei with such rueful sympathy that Husao almost believed her himself. “Forgive my audacity, lad, but Kamen's passion for you has set aside his reason. He would tie the world in knots if he thought they might bind you to him. He would not mean to harm your own, but he is both well-intentioned and merciless—it makes him dangerous."

Jacin-rei continued to look unimpressed. “And what is the advice of a maijin on the matter?"

Xari didn't hesitate. “Get you gone from here,” she told him, real urgency in her tone. “Leave the Adan and the Jin to their own misery. Leave Kamen to his machinations. Any Temshiel who must use mortals to achieve his ends cannot own the power necessary to hand you what you would wish. Asai has taught you that cruel lesson. I have no goal but to aid the Catalyst. My power is at your disposal."

Husao only just managed to choke back a snort. Propping the power of a godless maijin against that of Wolf's Temshiel in his own Cycle—indeed. Had no one informed Xari that this Catalyst would know better? That Husao himself had taught him better? No, he supposed not. At least, Husao had never seen the need to inform Xari of anything but what he wanted her to know, and it appeared Kamen had been just as circumspect.

The brother's eyes had gone a bit wistful at the promise. Husao supposed he didn't blame the boy. After the tragedies of the day, he was likely ripe for any promise at all that would keep him from losing the rest of those he obviously loved, including his Catalyst twin, upon whose shoulder his hand had rested and now gripped tight. Jacin-rei's eyes, however, were sparking with anger, near-loathing.

"And this from a maijin,” Jacin-rei said, something dark and dangerous seething beneath the calm tone.

Husao could tell that Xari was treading very perilous ground, and by the way she stiffened just the slightest bit, he could tell she did too. Still, she had a great deal to lose, and Husao had seen her wend her way through much worse and come out bruised and a little battered, but victorious.

"A maijin,” Jacin-rei went on, “who scoffs at the ‘plots’ of a Temshiel, as though the very word isn't breath and bone to her, as though she herself has never—"

"A maijin,” Xari cut in, her tone going deep and imperious, “who can offer you what none other will—who has offered you what none other can.” Her hand fisted, went to her breastbone, and thumped once. “The mother of Asai offers you and yours safety and protection for the rest of your days."

That got a reaction—from both brothers. The earth-bound heaved out a sharp little gasp and clutched even tighter at his brother's shoulder, but Jacin-rei went white, all color draining so quickly from his face it was like watching someone turn to wax.

Xari's mouth quirked up in a not-smile, careful to keep her mien sincere as she nodded. She shifted her chin a little to indicate Husao next to her. “The father of Skel, he that was betrayed by Asai, offers you his thanks."

Very carefully speaking only the truth, nothing Husao would move himself to negate, but in such a way that implied Husao was willing to offer much more. He didn't gainsay it. He merely dipped his head in acknowledgement, because it was true, he was grateful, and it was not up to him how Xari's words were to be interpreted by hopeful minds. He was, after all, only here to watch. Though, strangely, he was finding himself mildly pleased every time Jacin-rei balked at being maneuvered.

"What do you want?” Jacin-rei asked again, sharper this time, with more emotion whirling inside it than he would concede to show otherwise.

"But I've already told you.” Xari let her smile bloom again, though she kept the triumph out of it. “I want to take you away from here,” she said, earnest. “I want to reward you by doing what's been promised you over and over, and yet has never actually been granted."

Jacin-rei was silent for a while, thinking, then he jerked his chin up, brusque. “I have other matters I must see to. I cannot leave yet. And I no longer trust any other to take my kin from my sight."

All too reasonable, as far as Husao was concerned. Jacin-rei had never had to be taught a lesson twice.

Xari shook her head. “Do not allow your wish for vengeance to put your own into the very danger from which you wish to save them. I know who you seek, and I know what you will be up against, should you do what I see burning in your eyes.” She stood, then slipped down to her knees at Jacin-rei's feet. This time, she did reach out, laying a slender hand over the one curled into a tight fist over the hilt of a knife at Jacin-rei's belt. “Yakuli will come to his just end. I have seen it."

It was a lie—Husao knew she'd seen no such thing. His own sight was much deeper and far-reaching than Xari's, and he'd seen a very different possible future for Yakuli, now that Asai's machinations had come to an abrupt end and left Yakuli's ambition unchecked. With the army Asai had helped him build, and the host of mindless full-Bloods he'd both stolen and grown, Yakuli's potential for power was almost limitless. Only one future-possible remained beyond Husao's sight, and he was quite confident that the reason for his blindness was sitting right in front of him.

Jacin-rei couldn't possibly know all of this, but it didn't seem to matter. The anger that had been swelling in his gaze now flared bright into rage. And yet still, he kept himself motionless, that control Husao had watched him build like a suit of armor over the years, plate by torturous plate, now wrapped about him in unbending rule of Self.

"You've seen it,” Jacin-rei said quietly.

Xari seemed to know there was something lethal crouching inside it, but she didn't seem to know what. She kept herself still now too, only narrowing her eyes a little when Jacin-rei's head tipped to the side, questioning, and he subtly shifted his elbow until his brother angled himself behind the chair.

"What else have you seen?” he asked, his raspy voice somehow curling sinister, though the tone hadn't changed. “Did you see what happened today?” His gray eyes snapped to Husao. “Did it serve your gods? Is that why you stood there and watched them fall?"

Husao was almost certain he was the only one who saw Xari flinch a little, but he wouldn't rule out the possibility that Jacin-rei had seen it too. The boy had grown a new canniness since Husao had seen him last.

"I have not the power,” Xari said, defensive now, “to pluck a child from the sky and bend the air about her.” She said it with just the right amount of contrition and accusation, leaving Jacin-rei free to draw the conclusion that Kamen had the power and yet had failed.

Jacin-rei didn't seem to be cooperating. “What power do you have? You make promises of protection, and yet admit you haven't the power.” With a curl of his lip, he knocked Xari's hand away from his, leaning forward in his chair until his nose was only inches away from hers. “You sent for Malick this morning. You drew him away. You made it possible for Asai to come here and do what he did."

Drawing all the wrong conclusions, but harboring all the right suspicions. Xari most certainly had not colluded with Asai, but she very well might collude with Yakuli—one or the other didn't really matter to Jacin-rei, and Husao saw no need to correct him.

"The cards had changed.” Xari had gone tense now. Husao could almost see the threads unraveling from her hand. “I sent for Kamen to warn him of the duplicity of his own."

"And by doing so allowed that duplicity to come to pass. The future is a chancy thing, and sometimes, the mere speaking of it can change it in ways that cannot be foreseen. One who deals in it should know that.” Husao recognized the words, could almost hear Asai's voice inside of them, and he suppressed a small shudder. Jacin-rei didn't notice, only kept glaring at Xari, then he shook his head. “Who is your god?"

Xari blinked, hesitated for only a second before she lied, “Dragon."

Husao understood her reluctance to admit she had no god and thus no power to carry through on what she was offering, but he thought it a mistake nonetheless. The jump in direction might have seemed like it came from scattered reasoning, but there was purpose beneath it, and it was never wise to bluff when one didn't have at least an informed guess as to what one's opponent held in his hand.

Jacin-rei's gray gaze settled on Husao, still burning with that simmering rage, but leashed and held back tight. “And you?"

Husao merely shrugged. There seemed no need for hesitation or prevarication on his part. “Dragon."

A slow, bitter smirk curled at Jacin-rei's mouth, and he nodded. “So, you cannot touch Wolf's Catalyst,” he said, his hoarse voice low and quiet, but still managing to ooze menace and derision. “And yet you need Wolf's Catalyst gone from Ada. Away from Yakuli.” He sat back, his hand coming out from behind his back and going without obvious thought to cover that of his brother's still on his shoulder, a chunky ring Husao recognized right away flashing in the watery light through the window. “Care to tell me why?"

Husao had watched enough. And that ring told him things for which he needed no cards or stones or portents. Xari had just roundly lost, had lost before she'd even mounted the attic stair, and Husao had no wish to sit here and watch her try to recover the unrecoverable. Jacin-rei's suspicions, though wrong, were not going to be assuaged, certainly not by Xari.

With a sigh that was sincerely sympathetic, Husao patted Xari's arm, said, “Perhaps that question would be best answered by Kamen,” and he turned to look over his shoulder. Husao merely lifted an eyebrow when Kamen wavered into sight, as though he'd been standing there all along, but Xari went rigid and shot up from her crouch at Jacin-rei's feet. So she truly hadn't felt the stir before. No surprise, but Husao couldn't help but feel a little sorry for her—she was only doing what they all did. And it was certainly her right to look out for herself.

"Oh, I don't know,” Kamen said mildly as he sauntered around the back of the couch and hitched up beside Xari, setting his arm around her shoulders. “Fen seems to be doing fine on his own.” Anger rumbled beneath the blithe tone, and when he turned his eyes on Husao, only the knowledge that Kamen was much angrier with Xari than he could be with Husao kept Husao from tightening his shields. “But perhaps we should have proper introductions first, yeah?” A grin that most would probably perceive as charming, but Husao had seen the ruthless spite in that light-brown gaze before. “Why, Husao,” Kamen said, mock-ingenuous, “no reunion? No glad embraces for the one you nearly helped raise? Everyone's all dressed up for the occasion, not a glamour in sight. Surely you've nothing to hide from the Catalyst?"

Damn. This was entirely unnecessary. And a brief flash of the very near future told Husao it was also quite dangerous. But then, that would be Kamen's point.

"Kamen,” Husao said evenly, “there is no reason to hurt the boy."

"No, there isn't,” Kamen agreed, still hanging over Xari's shoulders, casual, like an old friend, keeping her in place, but there was nothing casual about the look in his eyes. “Nor was there any reason for him to have to watch his sister die while you just stood there and watched him carry out your vengeance for you. You could have helped, Husao. You didn't."

"I saw to the rabble,” Husao protested mildly, “and that was a gift. Surely you didn't expect more from me.” He leaned forward. “You knew my role in this, Kamen. And you know Dragon's—"

"Don't hide behind your god, Husao, it's beneath you. Dragon issued no decree against saving the lives of a little girl and a young woman who managed in her twenty short years to earn more grace than you've done in centuries."

"You seem, Kamen,” Husao observed dryly, “to have re-found your tender sympathies for mortals.” He slid a slow glance to Jacin-rei before turning it once again on Kamen. “One wonders if it can do anything but harm to those mortals. Even when you try to save them, they just seem to... slip through your fingers."

Unfair and rather cheap, but Husao had to at least try out a tentative defense. Kamen's wrath had been stirred, his Catalyst toyed with. There would be no quarter, not even for those who were just here to watch.

Kamen bared his teeth—a wolf's leer, fitting to his namesake god—and turned to Jacin-rei. “Fen, I'd like you to meet the Temshiel who's been posing as my patron, the Mage, though I think you'll be more familiar with the name by which his glamour is known.” He looked at Jacin-rei squarely, no smile now, only an honest compassion that nonetheless managed to manifest sharp and hard. “Fen, this is Vonshi."

It seemed to take far too long for it to sink in. Jacin-rei went blank again, the hand closed over his brother's tightening then relaxing, tightening then relaxing, while his expression slid from stunned-empty to confused to pure and profound wrath. Both hands snapped to the knives at his belts, and he was on his feet and coming for Husao in the time it took for his brother to gasp, “I know that name,” in bewildered surprise.

Kamen didn't move, just watched and kept his hold on Xari as Jacin-rei kicked the tea table out of the way, stumbled a little when his leg almost gave out, but kept his feet and leveled his blades at Husao's throat. “You knew.” Breathless and thin, and the hurt inside it was all too plain beneath the rage.

Husao didn't move. And strangely, he wanted to. He couldn't explain it. He wanted to reach out to the boy, set a hand to his shoulder, like he'd done so many times, to calm him, soothe him, reassure him. Damn it, he liked the boy, he'd made him those revolting sweet bean-paste cakes for the gods’ sakes, for years, and there was no reason in the world why the new hatred in those gray eyes should bother Husao so much—Catalyst or no, the boy was still only mortal—but it did.

"I knew,” he admitted.

"Did you know where she was?"

Husao cut a look to Kamen, lifted his eyebrow.

"Don't look at him,” Jacin-rei snapped. “Did you know Yakuli took my mother?"

Husao sighed and very gently lifted a hand and pushed the blade closest to his throat away. Jacin-rei merely whirled it smoothly and resettled it against the blue veins at Husao's wrist, effectively pinning his hand to the arm of the couch, then flicked the other knife beneath Husao's chin. Precise and faster than even Husao could follow. He could feel the fine-honed tips of both blades and yet neither of them even pricked the thin skin where they were set.

"Better tell him the truth,” Kamen warned with an annoying smirk. “I doubt even you can foresee his next move."

Too right. Husao grimaced. The boy was not only Untouchable, but he moved almost entirely on instinct, without thought, which made him almost impossible to foresee. Like Asai, Husao had only ever been able to predict Jacin-rei by concentrating on those around him, and though Husao's sight was fathoms deeper than Asai's, he'd still never been able to see Fen Jacin-rei himself with any real accuracy. He had, however, just witnessed a too-quick vision of quite a lot of blood, so it would be best to tread very carefully. Under other circumstances, death now would be inconvenient, at worst, but Jacin-rei knew how to make it so Husao couldn't come back, and he wasn't altogether sure Kamen wouldn't just stand there and watch the boy do it.

"I saw,” Husao admitted, tightening his mouth a little when the brother hissed a string of foul invective behind Jacin-rei, but Husao kept his attention on the knives and the hard gray stare boring into him. “You must understand, Jacin-rei: one mortal life carries no weight within the Balance. You would not have moved against Asai without cause, and you were the only one who could remove him with neither damnation from the gods nor the forewarning of his own sight. It only made it more... poetic that he was the one who taught you how to bring about his own end.” Husao shrugged, careful not to shift those parts of himself still veritably pinned at knifepoint. “You have lost very little, in truth. As Xari says, you could very well leave Ada now with your brothers and your sanity, and you would still be leagues ahead of any other Untouchable in the last century or so."

"You....” Stricken. Disbelieving. Enraged.

Husao frowned. The boy had to have known, but it seemed that actually hearing it out loud still shocked him. His eyes had gone glassy, and his skin was going to ash.

"Fen?” Kamen put in, and when the boy didn't acknowledge him, he shot a furious glare at Husao that really should have at least set his eyebrows on fire. “Fen, are you—?"

"My father, dead,” Jacin-rei breathed. “My mother... taken. My brother almost taken, my... my sister....” He swallowed, mouth quivering. “And you knew. All your teachings, all your kindnesses."

"Fucking hell,” the brother hissed behind him. “And I thought you were bad, Malick."

Kamen's smirk widened. “Oh, I am. Just in a different way.” He tightened his arm about Xari, jostled her, as though in affection. “Right, love?"

Husao ignored them. “They were meant truly, lad,” he told Jacin-rei kindly. “I wanted you—"

"You wanted me to do your wet work for you.” Jacin-rei's voice was still hoarse, but the shakiness of only a second ago was morphing into something harder, colder. “And a mad Untouchable would have been worthless."

It would likely be a mistake to smile and pat the boy approvingly for his deductions, so Husao remained still and silent.

"That night.” Jacin-rei's eyes went a little foggy, and both knives relaxed their pinions very slightly. “The door opened. It was locked, I know it was locked, but it opened. I heard....” He shook his head, betrayal and deep, dark wrath curling together in his gaze, sending it nearly half-wild. “You knew even before he did."

Husao recognized this look, breathed a little easier, because he knew the boy very well, and Jacin-rei was nothing if not ever-anxious for stern direction when his mind began to wander into places he didn't really want to see. “Look at it with your head, boy, and not with your heart. Your emotions make you addled, they always have done.” Husao was gratified when the gray eyes snapped into focus, a little less so when they narrowed, sharpened. “Of course I knew. It was I who veiled your brothers and your sister as they huddled in Asai's wilderness.” Jacin-rei flinched, ever so slightly, and Husao took it as progress. “Had I not, Asai would have had them before that first night was through. I protected them to the very limits of my laws—for you."

"Because you needed me sane. Because you needed the threat. Because my emotions make me addled and weak, and you needed me just sane enough to obey when you pointed the Catalyst at his beishin."

"Of course not.” Husao breathed an impatient sigh, almost shook his head, but the blade was still far too constricting. “I needed you strong. I needed you ready. I needed you to draw Kamen into your scope, to give you the proof that would incite you and the strength that would enable you."

"He told me you'd come,” Kamen put in, maliciously helpful, his light-brown eyes near sparking with dark amusement and scorn.

And how did all of this get to be a veritable trial for Husao, when it was Xari who'd been attempting to take Kamen's Untouchable away? It wasn't fair.

"And told you to kill me if I didn't,” Jacin-rei agreed softly, then he paused, head atilt. “And my family?"

Husao didn't answer. Without Jacin-rei to dangle them over as impetus, his family had no value, but for possibly to the Adan. Husao might have alerted Kamen to their existence, left it to him, but then... he might just as easily have simply forgotten about them altogether, left them to starve or survive as Fate decided. Looking into Jacin-rei's eyes, Husao did not need to be told that admitting as much would be... unhealthy. And yet, he somehow couldn't make himself speak a lie.

He needn't have done either—Jacin-rei knew. Husao could see it in the wrathful cant to his expression, the pain beneath it. “I... see,” Jacin-rei wheezed, windless, then he jolted enough to make Husao flinch as sharp blades pressed his skin. Jacin-rei gasped and growled, “Shut up, shut up!"

For a moment, Husao thought the half-crazed command had been directed at him, and the awareness of the knives overrode the indignant annoyance at the impudence. But then Kamen stilled, said, “Fen?” in such a way that it made Husao take a sharper look at Jacin-rei.

Anger. Confusion. Betrayal. And very little clarity.

"You told him to kill me,” the boy said.

Husao should perhaps tread a little more carefully. “I did not want you dead, lad. Understand.” Husao paused and took a moment to think about what he should say, because he'd seen that vagueness in Jacin-rei's eyes before, but he'd never seen it mixed with such hatred. “If you didn't join them, yes, you would have been got out of the way. Your Samin would have done the deed, because even that first night, Kamen was too besotted and would have balked. I couldn't have you going back to Asai, Jacin-rei. Nor could I have you running about loose. And I knew that you would... appeal to Kamen."

Kamen snorted, snarked, “Perfect, Husao, that'll calm him down,” then he snorted again at the brother's low, indecipherable mutterings, but Husao was almost certain he made out the word pimp hissed out on a sneer. He scowled.

"So, you used me to gain his complicity.” Jacin-rei's head tilted to the side, a listening posture Husao had seen too many times, but now... it just didn't seem right. The boy had Kamen's ring, after all. “Why?” Jacin-rei whispered.

"He was using my son's Blood!” Husao burst out, then he sucked in a quick breath and made his heart slow its rhythm, made his breathing even out. “Control—that was all Skel ever wanted. To level the ground, arm both sides equally. Balance. He never would have used the amulets and spells the way Asai has done—he would have killed Asai himself and damn the suns, if he'd known. But he was in love, just as you—"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, enough!"

Jacin-rei's voice was low and rust-raspy, and again, Husao wasn't even sure it was directed at him, but it stopped him, nonetheless.

Not Xari, though. “You see now, lad,” she said—quite bravely, Husao thought, considering Kamen's arm was still locked around her, and his jaw was set in cold anger. Then again, Kamen couldn't kill her, and though he could be maliciously creative in the ways of hurting a person, still, one could recover from hurt. “The machinations are too large and far-reaching. They began before you were even born. Husao saw you before Asai did—he attached himself to Asai the night Asai bargained for you with your father. He showed Asai the vision, pushed it into his mind as though it were Asai's own."

Husao's mouth pinched in tight. Thank you, Xari. He wasn't surprised, but he was annoyed. He'd only come to observe, after all. He'd had no intention of making things more difficult for Xari, but it seemed she had no compunction about making things more difficult for him. And the damnable flashes of splattered blood would not stop lurking just at the edges of his sight.

"I needed you,” Husao said, calm and frank. “I needed Kamen. Neither of us could kill Asai ourselves, and he was more powerful than any maijin, even his own mother. He was virtually invulnerable, except to the one person he could not foresee. Planning was his mistake. I could see his ripples in Fate and work them against him, but he couldn't see yours. It's why your presence was imperative. No one knows what you'll do—not even you. It makes the future harder to predict, even for me. You're already a blank spot in Fate. Your effect on it is colored ever in gray. But put you with Kamen, the one who craved vengeance almost as deeply as I, the one who would gladly help you find yours...."

He trailed off, let Jacin-rei fill in the rest, because the boy wanted to see it, wanted it all to have a purpose he could understand and take for his own. A directionless paladin looking for a lord to lead him, give him aim, and Husao had given him Kamen, had virtually handed them both Asai—what more could they want from him?

"What d'you want to do, Fen?” Kamen asked—no concern, only mild curiosity.

Husao nearly rolled his eyes. He respected Kamen, truly was grateful for the role he'd played in Husao's own vengeance, but sometimes he couldn't help but feel that all that power was wasted on one who was still too close to mortal.

Jacin-rei was still glaring at Husao, cold and maybe slightly less deranged than before, but with no less hatred. It still twisted foolish regret in Husao's chest. He truly did like the boy, after all.

"I don't know,” Jacin-rei rasped. “Do you want him dead?"

Kamen shot Husao a look that was both snide and appraising. Husao's lip curled. How very... sweet—offering to kill him for his lover. Husao wondered if this was their idea of romance.

"Don't care, really,” Kamen said. “It's your quarrel, your choice."

Jacin-rei peered over at Xari, jerked his chin. “What about her?"

"Xari?” Kamen's arm tightened around her shoulders, and he grinned. “Aw, she only wants what's best for you, dontcha know.” The sarcasm all but dripped. “It's up to you. She'll walk out of here and head right to Yakuli, so think about it.” He shook his head and peered down at Xari. If Husao didn't know better, he might have said he saw real regret in Kamen's chiding look. “Wolf would've taken you, y'know, even without your son's blood on your hands. You should have thought this through a little better. You watched Umeia make her mistakes, and then you came right behind her and made them again.” His mouth went thin, cruel. “You're veiled until you leave the Girou, and that's only to protect everyone else, but after you leave here, you're on your own. If Fen doesn't kill you now, I mean."

Jacin-rei turned back to Husao, stared at him for several long, silent moments, then shook his head, lowering his knives. “I was promised by the Mage that the man I wanted would twitch at the end of my blade."

It was all Husao could do not to show his relief. His cautious exhilaration. The blood spatters slowly faded from the edges of his vision, but that was now almost inconsequential. This was what he'd been watching for. Husao nodded. “You were."

"I was also told the Mage keeps his promises."

"He does.” Husao tilted his head, shot a look at Xari. “Kamen is right—she will leave here and go to Yakuli, warn him."

Xari's mouth tightened, but she said nothing. And what had she expected? She'd hardly shown Husao any loyalty.

"She won't need to,” Jacin-rei said. He sheathed his knives and began a slow limp toward the door, pausing only long enough to snap up a clump of fabric on the couch beside Husao that resolved itself into a rumpled duster. Jacin-rei dragged it on as he walked away. “I've already made other plans. I don't really expect you to keep your word, but it would be nice."

Kamen blinked, didn't even try to hide his dubious surprise as he said, “What?” He let go of Xari and followed after Jacin-rei. “What plans?” he wanted to know, pressed, “Hey, Fen,” and disappeared down the small foyer that led to the hallway. He was only out of sight for a second before he returned. “Either of you touches the earth-bound, and I'll do to you what Fen did to Asai, and damn the suns.” He pointed at Xari. “You—run away. I see you again, you die.” Then to Husao as he pointed at the brother, “Keep him here and don't let her touch him,” as though he had the right to make any demands of Husao, and then he was gone again

Husao was left with the earth-bound and Xari. Both Husao and Jacin-rei's brother merely watched as Xari backed away from them with a cagey look then lifted her chin and faded to shadow. Husao turned to peer back at the door, but the brother shifted a flat look on him, kept it there. Husao gazed back at him levelly, expecting to be compelled to sit through an indignant defense of his brother, perhaps, or acidic vitriol for manipulating him and his family.

The boy only shook his head, curled his lip. “Fucking Temshiel,” was all he said.

* * * *

"Fen, damn it, hold up!"

How, Malick wondered, could the man still move so fast, when he was making an obvious effort not to limp? He only caught up relatively quickly because of the inevitability of the stairs slowing Fen down a touch. Malick took hold of Fen's arm through the sleeve of the duster, and debated making a point of mentioning that it was the only one he had left, since Fen had gotten the other one sliced up. Instead, he merely held on as Fen navigated down the first step, surprised when Fen let him.

"What other plans?” Malick demanded. When Fen had left the baths, he hadn't seemed capable of even thinking straight, let alone planning, and Malick could only wince at the multitude of “plans” that might have presented themselves to one so grieved and muddled.

Then again, Fen had been awfully damned controlled with what had just happened in Malick's sitting room. He'd been more than controlled—he'd been almost irresistible in his calm threats and clever maneuvering of both Temshiel and maijin, directing the questioning perfectly to gain the closest thing to the truth either Xari or Husao would give, and then deciphering yet more truth out of the lies and the things they wouldn't say. Malick had been semi-hard since Fen had drawn his knives, and had been wondering just how sick and callous it would be if he shoved everyone else out the door, even if it would have been for nothing more than a quick cuddle or an intimate look. Until Fen had abruptly left the room and headed downstairs.

Whoa, wait a minute— “Hey, what are you doing going downstairs?” Malick hitched up on the second step and held fast to Fen to make sure he did too. He didn't necessarily care to ask Husao to adjust the memories of all those people down there again, and there was no way he was asking Shig. “Fen, talk to me. What's going on?"

Fen tugged a little at his arm, but when Malick didn't let go, he seemed to consider his own chancy balance, weigh a tumble down the steps against all the other injuries... sighed. He turned to Malick, no longer hazy-eyed and tottering on the edge, but clear and calm, gray eyes like twin lakes on a winter's night, flecked with the phantoms of amber stars.

"I told you before,” Fen said. “I'm tired of things happening to me. If I can't get them out, I'm not going to sit here and wait for someone to take them. You keep saying you want to help me, but you want to keep Joori here because insane ghosts told you he's a key. You can't help me get Yakuli because some god who's not even yours says you can't. Fine. I understand. I don't even fault you for it. Your laws are not the same as mine, but it works both ways."

Malick had to stare. It was so strange—he'd barely been able to get two sentences at a time out of Fen before, and now, when Malick had honestly been expecting to have to drag Fen out from inside himself at least once an hour, he was suddenly the village crier. And he could barely even speak, his voice was so hoarse.

"Both ways how?” Malick asked carefully.

"I don't have the same power as you,” Fen told him, “but I also don't have the same restrictions. And I've a city full of people who still believe in Untouchables enough to keep shrines and obey the laws concerning them. My kind were the Ancestors’ Voices once."

He tugged his arm out of Malick's grip. Malick just let him go, watching as Fen took hold of the railing and began making his way down the stair again. That last sentence might have been cryptic, if Fen had said it to someone else. Malick was very much afraid he understood exactly what it meant.

"Fen.” He took the three steps down Fen had managed then took another and angled himself into a blockade. “Fen. Tell me you don't plan to announce yourself to the Courts and try to have Yakuli arrested. Because I've gotta tell you—that's a really terrible plan."

"All right,” Fen answered. “I don't plan to announce myself to the Courts and try to have Yakuli arrested."

Malick's mouth tightened, and his teeth clenched. “And is that the truth?"

Because one had to be very clear, when it came to Fen.

"Yes, it's the truth."

"All right.” Malick leaned his shoulder into the wall, narrowed his eyes. “So, what are you planning?"

Fen stared at him for a long time, measuring, maybe, but Malick couldn't tell. It was intense, anyway—more intense than he'd thought Fen capable—and he was caught between being uncomfortable beneath that close concentration and being overjoyed that Fen had found it again. Malick really had worried.

"You're really not like them, y'know.” Fen shrugged when Malick tilted his head, and he pitched a vague wave over his shoulder. “Husao and Xari. Even Umeia. You're not like them. You plot too much, and you manipulate when most of the time all you have to do is ask, but... you could've been a lot worse, I guess."

Malick had no idea if he should be pleased or insulted. And he wasn't about to be distracted. “Fen—"

"I saw you grieve for those you love, which means you can. It surprised me.” Another shrug. “And I see the disgust every time Yakuli comes up. I think you really do want to stop him."

That one made Malick glower. “Well, of course I do, I wouldn't—"

"Shig says you'd give up your soul for me."

Malick blinked, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. “...Sorry?"

Would he?

He shook his head, scowled. No, of course not.

Wait, would he?

"I don't want that,” Fen said. “I don't want your oath. I don't want anything but what you've already sworn to Joori and Morin. Let the woman do what she will. Don't let anything happen to my brothers. Leave Yakuli to me."

All right, that really didn't sound good. “What are you planning, Fen?” Malick asked quietly.

"I'm planning to be a Catalyst,” Fen told him, too calm, too cool. “I'm going to be Untouchable. I'm going to see who dares to touch me."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Malick was a little disturbed that it had come out so high-pitched, but right now, it was hardly even worth noticing.

Fen only shook his head, prodded Malick backward until he had no choice but to move out of the way or flip ass over elbow down the steps. “Honestly,” Fen said as he strode down one step then two, “I would have thought a Temshiel would recognize a simple plot when he saw one."

"Maybe I'm dim,” Malick growled, keeping pace. “Humor me."

Fen stopped, turned slowly to Malick, his eyes gone avid, a little bit scary, and his mouth turned up in a smile Malick had never seen before—sly and cold and just one shade shy of creepy. He leaned in, right up close. “He's still here."

Malick's eyes narrowed and his stomach dropped and went cold. “Who, Fen?"

"He's not bound to the earth. He's bound to me.” It should have been impossible for so much fear and desperation to come through in a voice that could barely climb above a whisper, but Malick heard it all too clearly. “One more hungry ghost haunting me.” Fen held up his hand, flashed Malick's ring. “Got rid of the Ancestors, and now I've got him. Fucking figures."

Malick leaned back, peered at Fen intently, a little sad that the intermittent clarity and confidence seemed to be coming from a diseased root. And more profoundly disappointed than he might have suspected that Fen's sanity was once again—no, still—in serious question.

"Uh-huh,” Malick said calmly, but with a slight tinge of panic he sent, Shig! I need you upstairs—right now, and even managed to smile a little as he did it. At least he thought he did. Everything had gone kind of numb. “And is he the one who made this plan for you, whatever it is?"

Fen snorted, rolled his eyes. “He only ever planned for me to fail.” His eyes filled, and he clenched his jaw against it. “I've had... enough of that."

There wasn't enough time and there weren't enough words to make Fen believe he wasn't what his father and Asai had taught him he was. “Fen,” Malick said through his teeth. “What plan?"

Fen leaned down ‘til they were almost nose to nose, snarled, “The same plan I've always had! The same plan I had when you mugged me in the alley and then told me I could kill for you or die. The same plan I had when you promised to help me, except you keep. Not. Doing it."

"I'm doing it!” Malick protested. “I'm doing it now, today, ask Samin. I've a plan of my own, and if you'll—"

"No, I've had enough of your plans,” Fen seethed, and though the look was vicious, Malick was almost pleased to see it—it was better than that blankness or that calm almost-amusement of a moment ago. “The point of a plan is that it should eventually become action. Yours never do. I'm not waiting for you anymore—I'm going to find my mother."

"By yourself?"

"Who else? You can't do it—you go after Yakuli and you risk your soul. I have no gods, and I doubt there's anything worth saving of my soul."

"I know you'd like to think that, but you—"

"Burn your dead, Kamen. Joori has agreed to see to Caidi."

Malick's glance shot up the stairs, noted Joori hovering just inside the door to Malick's rooms, peering around the frame. Joori said nothing, but he tipped a subtle nod and made small shooing motions with his hand. Malick's eyebrow went up, and his mouth turned down. “Has he, then.” As bland and even as he could make it. Apparently, there were things Malick had missed and needed to know, and if he couldn't get them out of Fen, he'd get them out of Joori. He looked back at Fen, eyes narrowed. “And you'll be doing what?"

A hard, sharp grin that Malick had never seen before, and rather hoped he'd never see again—it made Fen's eyes go flinty and... empty. Like a dead man's eyes.

"Am I your dog, Kamen?” Fen's throaty voice had gone low, a near-seductive tone to it that made Malick shudder just a little.

A tiny whiff of cherry smoke curled into his nose, and Shig's light touch tendriled at the back of his mind. Malick thought about using her power to see for himself, but told her, Have a look at Fen—is Asai still here? instead. He didn't spend nearly as much time with the spirits as she did, and he wanted no mistakes.

A short moment's pause before Shig answered, No. They can't find him. They never could. Caidi was looking for him, but I sent her to Joori and Morin then guided her to Umeia. They'll all go peacefully when the fire frees them.

Malick blinked, shook his head. There was nothing to say to that, really, or maybe there was too much, so he merely said, Thank you, and then he cut her off.

He rubbed at his brow, tried to remember where he'd left off with Fen—Am I your dog, Kamen?—and decided there was no reason in the world to answer it less than truthfully. “No,” he said. Because he never had been, really. And the way things had worked out, it seemed Malick was his, rather than the other way around.

Fen leaned down again, very slowly, and brushed his lips over Malick's, gentle and slow and almost tender. Paused when the movement hovered just at the edge of a kiss. “Then stop asking me stupid questions,” he breathed, “and get the fuck out of my way."

Malick licked his lips as Fen pulled back, scrutinized the gray gaze looking back at him, but the intense, even stare could mean too many things, and he apparently wasn't going to be allowed the time to find out what. He cut another look up at Joori, saw the clamped jaw, the urgency of his gaze, then merely curled a snarky smile at Fen, said, “Woof,” and stepped aside.

Fen smirked, but it was flat, and when he peered down the stair as Malick moved out of his way, it curled wider, almost wicked. Shig was there, leaning against the wall and smoking, her bright, multicolored hair, without the braids now, pulled back into a neat, subdued tail at the back of her neck. A crutch was propped beside her.

"I've decided I can live with it,” Fen told her. “But it seems I won't have to. I'm no one's redemption."

He didn't look at either of them again, just made a point of trotting a little too carelessly down the steps, refusing to limp, and only paused when Shig stuck the crutch out, blocking his path. “Sure, Fen,” she said, took a long drag and blew a thin stream of smoke into his face. “But then, you still think you have to do everything by yourself, even though you know damned well you can't.” She shrugged, pulled the crutch back, and shoved it into Fen's chest. “Here. This'll help you get to your suicide faster. I'll tell Caidi not to bother to wait for you."

Fen's teeth clenched tight, his eyes blazed, and he grabbed the crutch, swung it back over his shoulder the way Samin swung his sword just before he decapitated someone. Malick sucked a quick breath in, tensed to jump between them, but Shig didn't even blink. In fact, she smiled. Held her smoke out to Fen.

"Don't touch Joori.” Fen's voice was low and thick, the threat even more clear than the crutch raised over his shoulder like a ready bludgeon. “It wasn't his fault."

Shig turned a slow look up the stairs, past Malick, before she let it drift back down to Fen. “You Fens punish yourselves so thoroughly, anything I might do would be redundant.” She shrugged and waved the cherry smoke under Fen's nose. “Kinda takes the fun out of it."

Fen stared at her for a long, long moment, rigid, too obviously close to murderous. And then he just growled, flipped the crutch down, and shoved it back at her. He took the smoke, stuck it in the side of his mouth, and walked away.

Malick and Shig merely watched him go. Strangely, so did Joori.

"He thinks it's Asai,” Shig said quietly. “But it's really just him."

Malick slanted a curious look at her. “You can ‘hear’ him?"

"No.” Shig snorted dully and shook her head as she lit herself another smoke. She propped the crutch against the wall. “I just know how he thinks.” A wink as she squinted through a puff of smoke. “I watch. I see."

"If there's no one about who will tell him he's a failure,” Joori put in behind Malick, “he'll invent someone."

Malick turned to him, eyes narrowed. “All right, what's his too-likely very stupid and almost certainly suicidal plan?"

Joori ventured out into the hallway. Malick wasn't surprised to see Husao right behind him.

"Jacin doesn't plan,” Joori said. “Jacin does. The Ancestors said I'm a key, so he's going to destroy the lock.” He darted a glance over his shoulder at Husao then back again to Malick. “It's a bit simple for a grand plot, so I guess I'm not surprised you had to have it explained to you."

Malick might have scowled at that, but he let it go. “And you agreed to it?” he asked, surprised. Joori was the last person Malick suspected would let Fen walk out of here to do what he meant to do.

Joori shrugged. “You won't let him go alone, even if you have been forbidden. I don't really care if you risk your soul, as long as he walks away from whatever's to come. And this one—” He jerked his head over his shoulder at Husao. “—he can't stand that his son's Blood is being used.” His mouth pulled down, and he turned to face Husao squarely. “That's why you promised him what you did. You never actually cared about my brother. You helped him because he meant something to your schemes, not because he meant something to you. And the worst part about it is that you have no idea, nor do you care, what that's done to him, on top of everything else."

Husao had the good grace to look away, but his expression showed none of the remorse Joori was probably looking for. Joori's mouth tightened, and he turned back to Malick. He placed his fist over his heart and dipped his head low. “Kamen-seyh,” he began, caught himself when his voice wobbled a little, and cleared his throat. “Kamen-seyh, there is nothing I can say to—"

"There isn't,” Malick cut in—partly because there really wasn't, and partly because the entire family truly had suffered more than their share, and he saw no point in adding to it. “It was a mistake, Joori, but you should never have been put into the position of making it. All of us share the burden of what happened today, but it was Umeia and Asai who allowed it to happen. I might have done exactly what you did when the dust settled—I don't mourn for Umeia."

"But....” Tears were crowding Joori's eyes, and he turned a quick glance at Shig then winced and looked down. “Yori,” he breathed, “and Cai... Caidi."

"Will go to Wolf and be reborn,” Malick said gently. “You'll see them again, and that's the best I can offer you. You made a mistake. So did I.” Because he'd always had shit timing, and it just kept getting worse. And his mistake was the biggest, when it came down to it. Umeia might not have had Malick's own power, but she'd always been more Temshiel than Malick had been, no matter how he'd tried to outdo her in hardness and indifference. He'd trusted her with his mortal's heart, and he should have known better. He'd been shown better only days ago, and today had still happened.

Joori shook his head, but couldn't seem to lift his gaze from the floor. “Shig,” he said and just stopped there, like he couldn't make himself say another word.

"Shig's forgiveness is up to Shig,” Malick said, “and I don't have time to concern myself with it now.” He cut a rueful look at Shig. “At least we know she's not going to kill you.” He was pleased when she managed to pull up a smirk, though it was weary and quite sad.

Malick turned to Husao, then nodded at Joori. “Is he right? Did you make your promise to Fen for the amulets?"

Husao's mouth twisted down. “I'm not quite certain an explanation of my reasons is either necessary or yours for the asking."

Malick's teeth tightened. “Then try demanding. Let's don't forget, Husao—you I can kill."

"He loves Fen in his way,” Shig put in, her voice tired and dull. “He just doesn't recognize the sentiment.” She sat now on the bottom of the stairs, staring at the lit end of her smoke, absently bobbing it up and down to force tiny smoke rings from the end. “You Temshiel with your hard hearts. You work so hard on forgetting what love is that you have no idea what to do with it when you have it. P'raps if you could remember what it was, you wouldn't have to manipulate so much to get what you want.” She took a drag and blew the smoke out slowly. “And p'raps mortals wouldn't hate and distrust you so much."

She turned, peered at Malick intently. “You're back at Zero, Kamen. You've started again. Don't fuck it up this time, yeah?"

Malick's eyebrows shot up, but Husao growled. “Impudent tripe,” he snapped. “You dare to interpret the mind of—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up,” Malick grated. “That right there—that's what I've always hated about this business. That's what made me want to walk away from every one of you and never have to deal with you again. Immortality doesn't make us better, it makes us afraid to lose it. Power doesn't make us superior, it makes us lazy. We're supposed to be the teachers of mortals, we're supposed to guide them to keep the laws of the gods, and yet when those laws were broken by our own kind, I asked for justice and found I stood alone.” He looked right at Husao, face set. “Even Skel's father would not demand a reckoning from his god, because he was too afraid he might be turned away.

"Yori lived less than two decades, and still, I'd put her honor against yours any day. Now, make up your fucking mind—are you prepared to take a stand or not?"

Husao looked away, jaw tight. “I intend to do what I can to the limits of the laws.” His chin lifted, and he looked back at Malick. “That is all I will promise.” He held up his hand when Malick's lip curled up in a sneer. “However,” he went on, “your Catalyst already changes the future, I can see the ripples in Fate winding out from the void of his presence even now, and the laws glance off him just as fluidly as magic does. The Paradox is perhaps the key, but the Catalyst is a battering ram."

Malick narrowed his eyes a little, but it wasn't at what Husao had said. There was a light tug at his veil, and he angled a sharp look at Joori. “Where is Morin?"

Joori blinked, his brow beetling when Shig barked out a surprised laugh, which rather answered Malick's question. Damn it all.

"How was Fen planning on getting out to Yakuli's?” he asked Joori.

"Steal Asai's coach,” Joori answered immediately. “Limp if he had to."

"Shit!” Malick shut his eyes, thought about it. He could stop Morin easily, but... perhaps it was better this way. At least if Malick knew where everyone was and he kept them close, he could keep an eye on them all, and Fen was less likely to do something deadly stupid if his brother was with him. “He's not limping,” Malick muttered as he opened his eyes and sighed. “And I imagine he'll get more than one surprise when he gets to Yakuli's.” He looked at Joori's confused frown and rolled his eyes. “You Fens just can't seem to take simple instruction, can you? A fucking family trait, innit?"

Joori was shaking his head. “What? I don't know what you're—"

"Shig,” Malick cut him off, “go find Samin and tell him we're moving the plan up a few hours. I'll want you both ready in five minutes.” Shig said nothing, just kept chuckling to herself, something dark and without real humor, and went to do as he'd bidden. He turned back to Joori. “Your brothers are both being idiotically brave. I don't imagine I could stop you from doing likewise unless I chained you up and left you here with an armed guard."

Joori stared at him, suspicious. “I assumed you'd take me along, whatever happened. Your ‘key', after all."

"Yeah, well, I was thinking of picking the locks myself,” Malick muttered, and realized only that second that he was completely sincere. He'd planned to take Fen along to Yakuli's because he knew Fen wouldn't allow him a choice, but Joori's presence had been conspicuously absent from the scenario of anarchy and mayhem Malick had sketched out for Samin earlier. Somewhere in the back of Malick's mind, at the bottom of his heart, the suns had stopped being such a horrifying threat, and been replaced with the peril of causing Fen one more second of pain. Malick shook his head. “Your brothers have altered the plan a little, but they haven't ruined it, yet."

Now, Joori looked alarmed. “Wait, your ‘plan’ was to let Jacin go and do whatever—?"

"Why would I stop him, Joori? This is his right. It's your right, it's Morin's. I swore to help him, and I intend to.” He waved back at the door to his rooms. “There are weapons in the chest beside the bed. Arm yourself as you prefer. We haven't time for lessons on how to use them all, so only take what you think you can swing and do some damage.” He waved again, more forcefully this time, until Joori shook his head with a clench of teeth then did as Malick had told him.

Husao watched Joori go then turned a narrow stare on Malick. “Just exactly what do you plan?"

Malick merely grinned, shrugged. “Yakuli's not the only one with his own private army."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Nine

He chose a small axe first, because he knew how to swing one—all out and from the shoulder, aim for the joints, and make the cut clean. He chose a long, curved knife, because the one he'd had at home for slaughtering had the same arc, though it was a little shorter, and he'd appreciated the way the curve lent a certain neatness and precision when cutting the throat of an animal for the table. He chose several others simply for their look, the way they fit his grip, and though one looked suspiciously like a boning knife, it was sharp and the small serration at the tip would likely....

Joori sucked in a breath and made himself stop thinking. He'd never thought himself particularly bloodthirsty, but he'd learned quite a lot about himself today, and he didn't think he liked any of it.

"It isn't how many you take."

Shig's soft voice came from behind him where Joori crouched on Malick's floor, beside Malick's bed, arming himself with Malick's weapons. He didn't turn, only paused for a slow breath, curled the short sword he was holding in his palm, testing its weight. “No?"

"It's how you use what you have,” Shig told him. “Here."

Joori turned just in time to see a flash of silver netting coming at him, and he reached instinctively to catch it. It runnelled over his hand like musical water, catching the light of the lamp on Malick's bedside table.

"It's Fen's.” Shig shrugged and looked away. “Guess he forgot it."

Joori's mouth tightened. Sure he had. “What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Huh.” Shig's eyebrow went up, slightly mocking. “If you really need me to tell you, no amount of weapons is going to help you.” Her mouth tilted up at one corner at Joori's glare, but she only shrugged again. “Wear it. You made your brother a promise. I assume you want to at least try to keep it."

"How did you—?” Joori stopped, holding back a growl. He knew exactly how she'd known, and she probably knew exactly what he was thinking now. And what could it possibly matter? There was nothing in his head for which he didn't wish he could find words, and she'd been right before: he didn't bleed any redder than she did. “Thank you,” he made himself say. He turned the mail in his hands then laid it carefully on Malick's bed and stripped his jacket. He dared a glance over his shoulder as he took off his tunic and pulled on the light armor, trying not to remember what had happened the last time Jacin had worn it. At least there was no blood on it that he could see.

"I brought this for you.” Shig's voice was very soft this time—no scorn, no disdain Joori could detect.

Joori turned again to see Shig holding out a broken arrow, its fletching snow-white, straight and intact. Strange, because he knew damned well where it had come from. He'd watched Shig carefully maneuver the quiver from Yori's body as he'd just as carefully maneuvered the cloak from Caidi's.

Not absolution, this gesture, and Joori supposed he was a little relieved that he knew it. He didn't think he could stand it, and it wasn't really hers to give.

And only now did he note that Shig had her sister's bow slung over her own back.

"It was Umeia's garden,” Shig said, swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “On the roof,” she clarified. “Yori... there were pots knocked over, and....” A pause, and she shook her head, then looked down at the arrow in her hand. “Malick always teased Umeia about it. Her garden. Said it was a good thing she never had children because she'd forget them every autumn, and they'd blow away in the wintertime. Yori tripped... she never trips, she's always so... so graceful, but the pots, they must've... she was trying to—"

"Stop,” Joori said, and it was too thick, too hoarse, so he cleared his throat. He paced over to Shig slowly, gently took the arrow from her hand. Shig just let it go, but her hand curled into a tight fist as it fell back to her side. Joori wanted more than anything to reach out, lay a hand to her shoulder, but he didn't have that right. He didn't know what to say, everything he said anymore turned out terribly wrong, and he thought Shig might actually kill him if he said he was sorry, even though she, more than anyone else, would know how much he meant it. “I could've loved her,” came out his mouth before he even realized he was going to speak at all, but he couldn't regret having said it, even if Shig didn't want to hear it from him. “I think I did love her. If I could turn it back, trade, I'd do it in a second. For both of them. For all of them. But all I can do is try and be someone she would have loved back."

And that was it, all he had to say, and it wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough. He clenched the slender arrow in his hand, his fingers lightly skimming the jagged ends where it had broken in the middle, tracing the feathery splines of the fletching, careful not to spoil their pristine set.

"It's not meant as a weapon,” Shig murmured, reached out and set the tip of her finger to the arrow's fractured shaft, pressing until the splinters broke the skin. Her gaze lifted slowly, locked onto Joori's. “It's meant as remembrance. It's meant as... a talisman.” Somber, she lifted her hand to her mouth and licked the blood from her finger. “C'mon,” she said, and turned to leave. “Everyone's ready. It's time to move out. Malick doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Joori couldn't help the dour snort. “I'll bet,” he said as he turned back to the bed to retrieve his tunic and jacket. He laid the arrow on the coverlet more carefully than he needed to while he dressed again. Checking himself over, feeling like a bit of a pretender with all the weapons strapped over him—like he was trying to be Jacin, and maybe in a way he was—he slid the arrow into his belt along with the knives; the axe hung solidly against his hip, but somehow, the arrow that weighed next to nothing felt heavier.

"He wants to save your brother."

Joori shut his eyes, bowed his head, and sucked in a long breath before he could make himself turn back to Shig. “He wanted to save Caidi too,” he said quietly. No recrimination, no blame, because it wasn't Malick's fault. But it was still the truth, and even if Malick loved Jacin more than himself, more than anyone or anything, it still wasn't a guarantee. Every one of them could lose everything they had today. And for all his apparent magic, Malick couldn't just wave his hands and make it so they wouldn't.

"I'm not trying to reassure you,” Shig said, her tone less cautious, more stern. “I'm trying to tell you how it is, how it's going to be. He doesn't only want to save Fen's life—he wants to save his mind. He wants to save Jacin.” She paused when Joori flinched, then opened her hand, as if in apology. “To save Jacin, he needs to save you, he needs to save Morin, he needs to save your mother's soul. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Joori wished he could say “yes” because it seemed so important to her. But he couldn't. “No,” he said, thick with regret.

Shig didn't seem like it upset her. Her mouth curved up gently, almost a smile but not quite. “He won't be looking out for himself. He's immortal, but he's not invulnerable. And he risks far more than any of us.” Her head tilted to the side. “Your brother thinks he could take it if Malick gave up his soul for him. What do you think about that?"

It almost made Joori groan. Jacin could barely take having damned Asai's soul, and Asai had done more damage to Jacin's sanity than the Ancestors. And Malick had told Jacin that he loved him, was launching an assault where he wasn't supposed to go for him.

No, Jacin wouldn't be able to take it. Even if he walked away from Yakuli's with Joori on one side and Morin on the other, their mother between them, sacrificing Malick's soul would haunt him, just like the ghost he'd conjured of Asai was doing now.

Bloody hell. Now Joori understood what Shig was trying to tell him.

"You want me to watch Malick's back?” Because, really—why not just cut Malick's heart out now and have done with it?

"Whatever else you are or are not, you're a key, set in Malick's hand. Keep close. Fen can look after himself."

"No,” Joori said, too breathy with the sudden new tightness in his chest. “No, he really can't."

Shig snorted this time, a real snort with real amusement inside it. She patted his cheek. “When he's got a knife in his hand? Yeah, he really can.” She jerked her head over her shoulder, waved at the door. “Let's go. They're waiting."

Abomination. Nothing.

Perhaps, Father. Then again, you couldn't save anyone, either. So, what does that make you?

He lost time as he drove. He didn't know if the horse simply followed the road or if he'd actually steered it while his mind buzzed and fuzzed in some gray limbo that wasn't real thought but not really not-thought, either. He ignored the malicious whisperings of his own personal ghosts, but found himself strangely relaxed when Caidi rode beside him, silent and smiling on the box, small fingers making designs in the raindrops puddling on the puckered leather of the box's seat. He thought maybe he wept, because the water on his face felt hot, but he was smiling, too, so he didn't think about it too much.

"We're here, Jacin-rei.” It sounded strange, that name in her small, high voice, but her hazel eyes were kind, full of love, for him, so that made it all right. He'd already lost her, so loving her couldn't hurt any more than it already did.

Jacin turned his glance outward, noting the walls that rose up through the surrounding pines, the towers set to either side of the tall, sturdy gates. Torches were set at strategic intervals—enough to give the guards light by which to see, but not enough for a potential enemy to get a line on them in the dark. Jacin could hear the faint spitting of the rain hitting the flames, see the vague shadows of the men walking sentry, carefully avoiding the flickering pools of light the torches threw outward. One of the men had paused, stock-still and alert. Jacin could almost feel the hard gaze squinting in the dark, watching him.

More shadows wound all around, too insubstantial to be mortal, and too animate to be actual shadows. Maijin, perhaps? More of Asai's cronies come to stop him? Or just more of Yakuli's stolen magic, forewarned by Asai's mother? It didn't matter—none of them moved toward him, none of them seemed to be advancing, trying to block his way, so he ignored them. They were watching, surely, but not yet challenging.

The rain had turned into cherry blossom petals, fluttering down to cover his lap, coat his skin. A thick layer weighted Caidi's gold curls like a veil, and she stuck her hand out to catch some, like one would catch snowflakes.

"What do they mean, Jacin?” she asked him, and her eyes weren't wide-open and ingenuous, but knowing and expectant.

Jacin peeled off his glove and stuck his hand out, as well. The slight flash of Malick's ring in the dark distracted him a little before he turned his hand palm-up, watched the petals fall into it like hundreds of silent, sweet-smelling auguries. A warrior dead in battle, each one of them, and he was holding their spirits in his hand. Perhaps Joori would one day hold Jacin's spirit just so, make a wish on an errant petal, and blow it into the wind. Release his haunted soul from its hopeless sentry of earthly planes.

Was Jacin a warrior? He'd like to think so.

"Death."

Caidi giggled, high-pitched and so engaging he had to close his eyes and catch his breath. “Transience,” she corrected sweetly.

Jacin opened his eyes, blinking away the petals that had stuck to his lashes. The smallest of smiles crooked at the corner of his mouth. “D'you even know what that word means?"

Caidi's smile didn't go away, but it changed, slid into something too old for her heart-shaped little face. “The Ghost won't survive the night,” she said, reached out her small hand and laid it over the petals in Jacin's palm, as if to comfort him, but Jacin didn't need comforting—it would be a relief. “Perhaps we'll go to Wolf together with Mother. Perhaps we'll say goodbye over the flames of the pyre until the next time we meet.” She squeezed his hand, laid a kiss to his cheek, and he was surprised by how warm it was. He'd always thought death turned one cold, but he was the cold one, and it seemed somehow right. “It all depends on who rises from Fen Jacin-rei's ashes,” Caidi said into his ear, her breath hot against his cheek. “What do you fight for, lordless paladin? How many souls would you damn to have your vengeance?"

Jacin smiled a little and turned his face so he could bury his nose in gold curls and their mantle of cherry blossom petals. “All of them,” he said, his voice a whisper inside the soft patter of the rain. “For you, for her—damn them all."

She giggled again, rubbed her warm nose into the crook of his neck, and said, “Sure, Fen,” just like Shig. “Back to Zero, love,” she told him in their mother's voice. “A paladin can be his own lord, you know.” And then she was gone, his cheek cold, and his hand empty. Not even a single cherry blossom clung to his fingers, but he could smell them, sweet and fresh against the rain.

"The Ghost won't survive the night,” he breathed as he ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers, Caidi's touch still tingling through the petals that weren't there.

He thought of Joori, his love and his anger, and Jacin regretted that he hadn't even thought to take his brother in a last embrace before he'd left the Girou. He thought of Morin, his quiet contempt that wasn't really contemptuous, a remnant of their father that Morin had somehow managed to rise above in ways Jacin couldn't even fathom, had managed to love around it where their father had been afraid to try.

He thought of Malick, who was indeed well-intentioned and merciless, and more than dangerous, in ways Jacin never would have thought to consider before. Who professed to love a Ghost, and who'd handed him silence in exchange for justice. Who bargained away his own soul in exchange for Jacin's vengeance.

His hand curled into a fist, and he shook his wet hair out of his eyes, then sucked in a long breath. With a shift of his shoulders, he tightened his jaw and levered himself to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a dim flash of gold in the dark and turned to smile once again at Caidi—

A gasp of dismay choked him, and he fell back clumsily onto the cushioned seat of the carriage.

"Um,” said Morin softly as he dipped his head and peered up cautiously from beneath lank fringe, the toe of his shoe making idle patterns in the mud. “Hello, Jacin-rei.” He shrugged, looked away with a self-conscious shrug. “Who are you talking to?"

"Who's there?” came from the gate, harsh and challenging. “Approach and be seen."

Jacin turned to peer in the direction of the voice, noted the wide shape of a man striding swiftly toward them, noted the shadows pooling lazily between Jacin himself and the gate... and then he turned back to stare blankly at his brother. Ridiculous with a broadsword almost as long as his leg sheathed at his hip, one of Jacin's own knives clutched in his hand, and a hard set to his hazel eyes that made Jacin's stomach bottom out and go cold. Too small in the dark, too vulnerable, too... mortal.

"Who's there?” the guard barked again, more hostile this time, and he just kept coming toward them.

Jacin watched him come, looked back at Morin. Watched the shadows swarm into firmer substance, but they still didn't take form.

"I....” was all Jacin got out, because what the hell was he supposed to say? I've come to kill your lord? They weren't supposed to touch the Untouchable, weren't supposed to stop him, but these were Yakuli's men, and if they knew what their lord was doing—and really, how could they not?—it wasn't as though they actually obeyed the laws in the first place.

Jacin let whatever he'd meant to say trail off, just watched as another guard broke off from the rest and ventured forward, something Jacin thought looked like a cudgel in the dark held out from his body; it turned out to be a torch, and the man lit it, making the horse puff a nervous protest. It took a second for Jacin's eyes to adjust, then another second for the guard to take in the braid and step back instinctively. His look was measuring, thoughtful, then he craned his neck a little, looked behind Jacin... fixed his gaze on Morin.

"Oh,” Jacin breathed. He peered back at Morin, who was dragging the long sword from its sheath in a clumsy stop-and-start ‘til he finally cleared it from the stiff leather. “Shit."

* * * *

Malick had been unable to keep the smile from his face since before he'd left the Girou. He stood now with his little “army” on the small rise above the drainage culvert across the road from Yakuli's gates, veiled securely and watching. Maijin and Temshiel both had gathered, a picket between Fen and Yakuli—perhaps called by the gods, but Malick rather thought not. It wouldn't matter, in the end. None of them could touch Fen, and the guards who could would be no match for him, even injured as he was. Fen on a mission was a force all his own.

Fen was never more sane than when he was focused, and he was never more focused than when he had a knife in his hand. He needed this. Watching his sister die, haunted by ghosts that weren't there—the Almighty Cock had perhaps calmed Fen, but it hadn't steadied him. Fen was the only one who could do that. Left to himself, Fen's mind turned inward, poisoned itself then gnashed itself to pieces. Silence gave him focus, but he sabotaged it by inventing ghosts to fill the void of quietude. Battle gave him no choice but to focus.

"Watch this,” Malick murmured to Joori, then he grinned as Fen spun down from the box of the carriage and waded in.

"I've seen it before,” Joori bit back anxiously. “Aren't you going to go and help him?"

"You want I should distract him?” Malick asked easily. He nodded as Fen shoved Morin toward the carriage with one hand and cut down the first guard with the other then spun around to take another in the midsection as he barreled toward him. Malick didn't even have to look to know Joori was on the verge of rushing forward, so he reached down and clamped a hand to Joori's arm, said, “Not yet,” and winked.

Joori's mouth tightened to a thin, snarling line. “You're a sick son of a bitch,” he growled.

"And incredibly sexy,” Malick told him, exhilarated and a little giddy with adrenaline. “You forgot ‘incredibly sexy'."

A derisive snort from Joori this time, an irate mutter, “No, I really didn't,” and another snarl as he tried and failed to tug himself loose from Malick's hold when he saw two more guards detach themselves from the contingent at the gate and move toward his brothers. Morin kept hedging away from the carriage, waving that ridiculous sword around, and Fen kept trying to shove him back and make him stay, but Malick knew all too well the stubbornness inherent to all those named “Fen."

"Gah, look at him go,” Malick breathed as Fen leapt back up into the carriage, climbed atop it, then jumped down the other side, nailing one of the advancing men with a hard blow of a knife hilt to his temple. Even knowing it all for the tacit self-destruction it was, Malick couldn't stop watching, couldn't stop appreciating.

Samin sidled up to Malick's left. “You might want to pay attention to the reinforcements coming about from the west side,” he said calmly.

Malick rolled his eyes. There were only ten of them, for pity's sake. “Stop distracting me when I'm being lascivious,” he grumbled.

"Like you ever stop!” Joori snapped and tried once again to yank himself from Malick's grip. “Those are my brothers over there, and Morin has no idea what he's doing! If you're not going to—"

"Morin is in less danger than Fen is,” Malick told Joori evenly. “I've got him under my protection, remember? And if you think these men are any danger to Fen, you haven't been paying attention.” This last as Fen took hold of the horse's halter, used it to lever himself into some flippy move Malick had never seen him do before, and then land in a way that Malick had no doubt popped a few of those stitches Fen didn't seem to be feeling at the moment. In the same motion, Fen took the legs out from under one man and slapped at the horse's rump, sending it and the carriage careening into another. It was clever and spectacular to watch, but it left Morin a little too open for Malick's liking, so he kept a close eye.

Still, he couldn't help but shake his head a little and puff a laugh. “Bloody acrobat too. Gotta love him.” There seemed to be no end to Fen Jacin-rei.

"What about all those shadows, Mal?” Samin asked quietly.

Malick's mouth tightened as he scanned the perimeter again. “I guess they're here to keep me out. But they can't touch Fen, and they can't stop Shig from tapping into my magic. After Fen gets past these stooges, I'll take care of the shadows, and you just slide on through. Shig and I will take care of the rest.” He turned to Samin, grinned again. “Just like we planned."

"Did you plan that?” Shig asked behind him. She pointed past Malick's shoulder to the gate, creaking open too slowly to allow the ten men trying to come through it past all at once. They streamed out, only one of them stopping to engage Fen. The rest of them headed right for Morin.

There it was. One way or another, Yakuli was watching what was going on at his gates, and had either figured out Fen's weakness or Xari had told him long before Fen had even gotten here. Samin made to surge forward, but Malick held him back just as firmly as he held Joori. He couldn't veil Morin without Fen freaking out, so Malick turned to Shig.

"That's you, love,” he said and gave to the pull that immediately wound through him.

She hadn't done this before. It had always been Malick taking her power and boosting it, using it like it was his own. Now it was reversed, and there hadn't been much time for him to coach her through the skill. Her aim was good, but there was no finesse, her assault clumsy and heavy-handed: three men went down in a spray of blood and brains; the others fell in varying forms of distress, gushers of blood spurting from every visible orifice.

"Mm,” Malick hummed, a grimace flattening his mouth. “Not pretty, Shig."

"I can't decide between the head and the heart,” she murmured back. “The head's faster, but the heart's easier.” She sniffed, shrugged. “Anyway, it's not supposed to be pretty."

Well. That was true.

"All right, Samin.” Malick let go of Samin's arm, nodding at Fen as he grabbed hold of Morin and dragged him through the now unmanned gate of Yakuli's estate. “Stick with them. No one can find any of you using magic, and by the time you get done with your end, Yakuli will have a lot less of it than he does now.” Samin nodded and made to trot after Fen and Morin, but Malick grabbed his arm again, jerking him about until Samin was facing him. Malick leaned in, right up close, and dropped his voice. “Watch his back, Samin.” He opened his mouth to say more, but there was nothing else there, except, “Please."

Samin merely nodded, resolute, clamped his hand briefly over Malick's, then hustled after Fen and Morin, hop-scotching with surprising grace over the scattered bodies of Yakuli's guards and disappearing through the open gates. Malick turned to Shig.

"All right, love.” He leaned down, planted a firm kiss to her brow, then stroked her cheek. “You know what to do."

Shig gave him a smile that was grim and eager, all at the same time. With a long look at Joori, she turned slowly and headed back out into the trees.

Malick watched her go before he turned back and surveyed the shadows steadily calling substance to themselves, forms solidifying, some faces he knew, some he'd never seen before. An even dozen, three of them maijin, and not a single damned one of them Wolf's-own.

What the hell? Was he the only one here? He would have thought at least Imara would have shown up. She owed him, after all. Then again... no. He knew what he was in for if this went wrong. It was probably better this way.

He took a long, deep breath, peered sideways at Joori, and pulled up a smartass grin.

"So, then,” he said, as he drew his sword and nodded for Joori to draw a weapon of his own. “Haven't you just been dying to kick some Temshiel ass?"

* * * *

There was no ass kicking. Not that Joori had really expected there to be, at least not from him. They were Temshiel, after all, and he was just... nobody, really. Still, Joori had rather been expecting... well, something other than this.

The rain had stopped, at least, the clouds rolling back, as though at Wolf's own command to reveal his face through the heavy banks of bruised gray that swathed the sky. Joori wondered if that was a good or a bad thing, and decided it didn't matter, because no one would probably tell him anyway. The air was rimy and warm, and it seemed like every single night insect in the world had congregated around them and started to sing, grating at his nerves almost as badly as Malick was.

There was a lot of staring, at first. A lot of measuring gazes on the parts of the strangers, and one or two bored yawns on the part of Malick. “This is the part where they try and intimidate me through numbers,” Malick stage-whispered at Joori, and Joori had no idea if he should laugh or growl. The last of his family had just disappeared into, from what Samin had said, something that was closer to a military complex than a lord's estate, crawling with magic, and Malick was out here cracking wise. And Joori was having a hard time not barking a nervous little giggle in response.

Malick was insane, clearly, but Joori hadn't quite realized until now that it was catching.

"Peace, Kamen,” said a woman who was really too beautiful to be real as she stepped forward from the loose picket and drew up in front of Malick.

"Why do people always start conversations with me like that?” Malick wanted to know.

Joori only rolled his eyes. “Can't imagine,” he muttered under his breath.

The woman smiled, though it looked like she was trying not to. “How are you, Kamen?"

"Why, what've you heard?” Malick retorted, that same snarky grin stretching his mouth, but even in the dark Joori could see the sharp watchfulness, the calculation in Malick's gaze.

The woman smirked a little, then absently adjusted the two belts that hung crisscrossed over her hips, the ornate hilts of short swords jutting from their sheaths. Dark as the night and twice as lovely, full lips pulled slightly back from straight teeth that nearly sparked in the darkness. Her eyes were bright, alive, and full of sharp humor Joori couldn't comprehend.

"Lots of things,” she said mildly. “First, that you'd gone off to spirit to sulk for a while."

"Ah, not true.” Malick's stance went from aggressive to flirty. Joori just rolled his eyes. Honestly. “Spirit's no fun,” Malick went on easily. “You know me, Sora—I prefer more...” He paused, winked. “...physical stimulation."

The woman snorted. Joori almost groaned when she ran a hand through her jet-black hair, twining her fingers through the ends. “And then that you'd gone mercenary,” she continued, leaning in closer and twisting her tone just this side of sultry. “Just what kind of ‘physical stimulation’ are we talking about, Kamen? Getting it up without a weapon in your hand becoming a problem?"

"Ah, love,” said Malick, “when used properly, it is a weapon in my hand."

"Oh, for pity's sake,” Joori muttered. “You can't just hand him straight lines like that. Can we just get to the bit where we decide if we're on the same side or not?"

The woman—Sora—turned her cool gaze on him, looked him up and down, then lifted an eyebrow at Malick. “New toy?"

"That would be my brother,” Joori barked. “Who happens to be—in case all of the all-knowing, all-powerful degenerates present have forgotten—walking into a nest of minions and their pet Jin slaves, among which happens to be my mother, so if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if we could either get on with killing each other or get on with helping!"

Sora stared at him for a long moment then turned her gaze blandly to Malick's. “Excitable little earth-bound, isn't he?"

Malick only shrugged. “Mortals."

Joori growled, his hand fisting tightly around the knife in his grip, but before he could snap out a retort, one of the men broke loose from the rest of the picket and came forward, a sardonic smile curling at his full mouth. “Excitable or no, the lad has a point.” He stopped, turned a brilliant smile on Malick, and held out his hand. “It's good to see you, Kamen,” he said as Malick eschewed the hand and instead sheathed his sword and embraced the man with a sincere-looking smile of his own.

"It's been a long time, Tatsu,” he returned.

Bloody hell, were all of these people fucking gorgeous? Did the gods pick them for prettiness? This one's hair was a little longer than Malick's, dark gold shot through with copper and pulled into a loose tail at his nape. His pale skin was gilded by the torchlight, and silvered by Wolf, highlighting the sharp cheekbones and perfect nose. The muted glow of Raven and Dragon pulled sparks of claret and tawny amber from the loose bits of fluff that framed his face.

No wonder every Temshiel Joori had met so far seemed sex-obsessed. They could probably get it any damned time they wanted it. Well, that Husao didn't seem quite as perverted, but Joori figured he only had to give it time before the man's inner-reprobate poked its.... Right. That was a metaphor that could go nowhere but the gutter.

Tatsu thumped Malick firmly between the shoulder blades before he drew back, but he held onto Malick's arms and peered at him closely. “Now, Kamen,” he said soberly, “tell me."

"You might prefer I didn't.” Malick's tone was just as solemn. He nodded at two men hovering just at the edge of a circle of torchlight. “And not with those two here.” He peered sideways at Tatsu. “They attacked Wolf's Untouchable on Asai's orders last week. Get rid of them, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

Joori narrowed his eyes at the men, a little startled. He hadn't recognized them—he really only remembered that Leu woman—but he supposed Malick would know. Strange. Joori had been picturing them in his remembrance as ugly and perhaps even malformed, to match their reprehensible actions of that night, but it appeared maijin were just as beautiful as their Temshiel counterparts. His teeth tightened, and he couldn't help glaring.

Tatsu merely shook his head. “They are Owl's,” he said gently. “They were not trying to kill your Untouchable. They were trying to put him out of the way. They were trying to help."

"By nearly ripping off his leg?” Malick snapped.

The malice in it shouldn't have surprised Joori, but it did. Malick could go from cavalier seducer to vicious sorcerer in the turn of a breath, and it appeared that nothing could do it so predictably as a threat to Jacin. Joori should have been heartened by it, but Jacin and Morin had gone through those gates at least five minutes ago—anything could happen in five minutes.

"By making it impossible for him to participate in Asai's plots,” Sora put in. Her mouth twisted wry. “Obviously, it didn't quite work out that way."

"Obviously.” Malick's eyes narrowed. “And what d'you know about Asai's plots?"

"Nothing,” one of the maijin informed Malick boldly, though he kept his distance. “But one only needs to know of Asai's existence to know he had at least one bubbling. Owl commanded, so we followed."

"Owl commanded?” Malick's eyes narrowed further, and he shot a quick glance around, concentrating, taking in all the faces, before turning back to the maijin. “Asai sent Leu to spirit for it."

"No,” the man disagreed. “Asai sent Leu to spirit because she was Wolf's, and her usefulness to his plots had ended. She did not move against you that night, Kamen. And so he knew she would not."

Once again, Malick's gaze swept them all, thoughtful, before his grin bloomed again, turned wicked. “I see Owl, Snake, and Bear. Raven is not represented here this evening."

"The gods do not choose sides against one another,” Tatsu chided mildly.

"Uh-huh, right, of course not,” Malick agreed, borderline sarcastic, his hand coming up to squeeze Joori's shoulder.

Joori frowned at him, but Malick was peering at both Tatsu and Sora with something that approached keen delight. Very evil keen delight, by the glint in his eye. Joori was desperate to ask him what the fuck was going on, but that hand on his shoulder might not be meant for comfort—it might be meant for restraint—so he kept his mouth shut.

"Raven has avoided the appearance of duplicity,” Tatsu said, though he grimaced and shook his head. “Asai, after all, acted alone, and for the—"

"Yeah, yeah, for the glory of Wolf,” Malick scoffed with a roll of his eyes. “And Wolf has not commanded his Temshiel to act on his behalf. Now I see why none other of Wolf's-own have come."

"Our task tonight,” Tatsu continued, “is to see that none of Raven's interfere. Nor any of Wolf's.” He stopped, shrugged, as though unhappy with what he'd been apparently commanded by his god to say. “None but you, Kamen."

So, what were these people saying? They weren't going to attack them, but Malick was on his own, anyway? That, regardless of what Wolf had actually said, Malick took all the risk here, and could be punished if he didn't step around the conflicting laws and commands just right?

Malick didn't seem surprised. He didn't even seem put out.

"Hung out to dry,” Malick said agreeably. “Yeah, I know, I was told. So, why all this?” He waved his hand to indicate the others hanging back and watching silently.

"The gods do not choose sides against one another,” Sora put in, “but they often change their minds. And after the... disturbance today....” She paused when Joori stiffened, shot him a quick glance but again disregarded him. “The Untouchable could no longer be dismissed as ambiguous anomaly."

Malick snorted. “Ya think?"

"It is Wolf's Cycle,” Tatsu said. “A time of change. It is not ours to know what the gods foresee, and Bear certainly has not confided her divine sight to me.” He paused, smiled a little. “It would seem to me, though, that the gods bide and watch. The Ancestors have lost their Voice, and the Jin have been set as a wedge in the Balance.” His eyes cut to Joori then back to Malick. “You alone hold the key, placed in your hands by Wolf himself."

"Yeah, and if I fuck it up....” Malick muttered, but his hand tightened on Joori's shoulder, so Joori again kept his mouth shut. “So, what if I do fuck it up?” Malick asked. “Are you saying the gods will move against Wolf?"

Sora laughed, reached up, and patted Malick's cheek. “Ever the inflated ego, Wolf's-own,” she chided, though she winked and her smile seemed real enough. “I doubt any god would rest on one possibility—even one with such possibilities as Kamen."

"Aw, you say the sweetest things,” Malick cooed.

He fucking cooed. Joori thought his head might actually explode.

"The spirit-bound wields your power,” Tatsu said, but he raised his eyebrows like it was a question, waited for Malick to nod, and then nodded back. “I don't want to know your intentions, and none can testify to what they don't know.” He paused, smirked a little, but it was friendly, like he and Malick shared a secret. “Yakuli was claimed by Fate, Kamen, and so is protected by the gods. He is as untouchable to you as your Catalyst is to me.” He leaned in and set a hand firmly to Malick's shoulder. “Let those you would lead do what you've trained them to do. You know what happens if you fuck it up. So, don't fuck it up."

"Damn, Tatsu,” Malick said, wiping at the corner of his eye with his knuckle, “you make me teary when you go all poetic and squishy like that."

It was bloody surreal. Joori only just kept himself from making the rounds and punching each and every one of them in their pretty faces. “If you all don't mind,” he said through clenched teeth, “some of us lowly mortals have families in danger. D'you think we could possibly—"

"Right,” Malick cut in. He gave Joori's shoulder one more squeeze and an affectionate pat that Joori managed to take without growling. “One more thing.” Malick turned a serious gaze on Tatsu and Sora. “Where does Dragon stand in this?"

Sora rolled her eyes. “Dragon stands as ever, where it is most beneficial to stand. Her Temshiel abets the Untouchable, and her maijin abets the would-be usurper, and neither of them do so by her command.” She shook her head. “Dragon will have someone on whom to place all blame when you're through, Kamen, regardless of whether or not you're still standing amidst the rubble."

It sounded awfully damned cold to Joori, but Malick merely nodded, like he was satisfied with the answer. “Good enough,” he said, confirming Joori's thoughts, then he turned his full attention on Joori, nodding at the gates. “Tatsu's been keeping the guards away while we've talked, but once we're through the gates, we're on our own."

"Yeah, I figured that out,” Joori muttered with a disdainful glance at Sora and Tatsu, and then all the others for good measure. “Standing back and watching the lowly mortals fight it out, yeah? I've never seen so many machinations and manipulations in all my life. Why can't you people just do once in a while?"

Tatsu merely opened a hand. “Then what would be the use for lowly mortals?"

Joori sneered, but Malick took hold of his arm and shoved him toward the gates. “Play nice, children,” he chided with a smirk Joori wanted to clock right off his face, but at least they were moving again, finally, so he let Malick prod him along. “Oh, and Tatsu,” Malick called over his shoulder, “I think you still owe me a drink from that time in Thesia. You remember—you said she had twelve tattoos; she had fourteen."

Tatsu merely grinned and waved, then called back, “I'll buy you a whole bottle,” but Joori pushed out an irritated sigh and shook his head, shrugging Malick's hand off his shoulder as he cleared the gates.

Fucking Temshiel.

* * * *

Samin knew exactly where Fen would be heading—both he and Malick had predicted it so firmly there wasn't even any leeway to make a bet inside their shared conviction—so he hastened his pace, because he didn't want either of the brothers to charge into a place like that without someone there to steady them. And he couldn't let himself be distracted from his own gruesome goal for the evening by allowing himself to be drawn into Fen's. He just wished Morin had been able to go with Shig—the boy shouldn't have to see what was coming—but Shig was occupied with directing those from the Girou, and would need all her concentration before everything was said and done. Timing was going to be everything tonight.

Yakuli's men were already on alert, the commotion at the gates having stirred them, and more of them wandered the paths and perimeter of this hideaway fortress than made Samin comfortable. Most of the attention, however, seemed to be centered on the walls and towers and secondary gates. Samin hadn't yet overheard anyone mention a search for intruders, so he hoped they were still on plan. Though Shig would have let him know, if they weren't. And with most of the personnel here paying more attention to looking outward from the estate than inward, Samin had so far been able to get about his business.

Through the parting clouds, he caught a flash of blooming moonlight refracted by Morin's gold head, farther ahead than he'd thought, so he double-timed it. He stopped as briefly as was possible to unhook the various hasps on the corrals and pens then quietly shoo the horses out of them. One or two would usually do the trick. When the others saw their fellows wandering by with horsey-smirks on their faces, they typically ambled out too. Anyway, it wouldn't matter. As soon as Samin sent the signal to Shig that all the gates were open, she'd take care of getting the horses to scatter.

One bit of ammunition moved from Yakuli's pocket and into the blue. The countryside would be richer in horseflesh than it had ever been before.

Samin would have to double back later, make his way to the southern end of the place where the barracks for Yakuli's men were, because he knew there were more stables and pens down at that end. He took the western side first. Because that was where the prisoner barracks were, and he knew Fen knew it too.

Malick had wanted to wait until full night to begin the assault, but Fen had rather screwed that strategy all to hell, so the camp wasn't near fully asleep with only a skeleton watch. Too many were venturing out, now the rain had stopped, and with Wolf deciding at the most inopportune time to have himself a wide-eyed look, Samin was far too exposed for his liking. Wolf splashed silver over the earth, while the scimitar-splinters of Raven and Dragon lent bloody shadows. Samin had never thought the effect particularly eerie, but now it curled something uneasy in his gut.

There were plenty of outbuildings and storage huts and the like to duck behind as he made his way along the paths, but the corrals and pens themselves were right out in the open. He had to be sly and stealthy, and though he could lay tentative claim to sly, he had never even pretended at stealthy. He just wasn't built for it.

Quiet and as low to the ground as he could get and still stay on his feet, he made his way to another pen, unlatched it, then dug his knife into the wood and popped the hasp off. His eyes all the while scanned up ahead, trying to spot another glimpse of Morin's bright head bobbing along in the moonlight, but it appeared that Fen was being even more careful than Samin. Samin hadn't caught so much as a hint of them since that first one as he'd followed after them and confirmed they were heading where he'd figured they would head. He grimaced a little as he queered the hinges on the pen's gate so it couldn't close again. He wasn't really surprised—Fen, after all, moved like the Ghost they named him, and he had every interest in making sure Morin did too. Still, Samin wished someone else could take care of the horses. He really didn't want those two walking in on what he knew was in those barracks, not by themselves.

Subie gave a rumbling little burp in the distance, and Samin's mouth tightened as he worked at the iron latch. Wouldn't now just be a spectacular time for an eruption or an inopportune quake? Fucking Ancestors. If it hadn't been for them....

Finished, he resisted a growl as he pocketed the hardware. He'd throw the hinges and bolts later when there was no chance he'd be seen doing it. He didn't want any of Yakuli's men finding them and fixing the gates too quickly. Cautiously, Samin turned and scanned again, using the thick post of the pen against which he crouched as flimsy camoufl—

Samin sucked in a thin breath and held it as the slender chill of a blade pressed against his jugular from behind. From behind, for fuck's sake! There was nothing behind, there was a post behind, and a pen behind that. How the hell had someone—?

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Samin let the breath go, rolled his eyes. He'd know that snarl anywhere, even low and raspy as it was. “Bloody hell, you scared the shit out of me."

Fen withdrew the knife so that Samin could turn around to look at him where he crouched on the other side of the fence. He blended into the shadows much better than Samin ever would, though the bloody streaks on his face stood like stark, black slashes on his skin. He was glaring, but that was normal, so Samin ignored it.

"What the fuck are you doing here?” Samin snapped. “By yourself, for pity's sake. No, not by yourself, you've got your little brother—” Samin stopped, shot a quick look around, then frowned at Fen. “Where's Morin?"

A darker pool of shadows just to Fen's right swirled in a way that was unmistakable to Samin, but then he'd seen it rather often just lately. As they settled and dissipated, Morin crouched, grinning, beside his brother, a chunky flash of a ring Samin was dismayed to recognize set loosely on his index finger. Samin narrowed his eyes at Fen. “Aren't you supposed to be wearing that?"

Fen only shrugged. “It was given to me. As far as I know, there were no restrictions on its use."

Now was really not the time to argue semantics with Fen. And especially now that Samin knew it might not get through all the noise.

"Isn't it brilliant?” Morin enthused.

Samin's mouth pinched down. “Mm, brilliant,” was his dubious reply. “Malick teach you how to use it like that?” he asked Fen.

"I already knew the spell. I used to have a—” Fen stopped, mouth tightening. “Don't look at me like that, Samin. Malick won't be damned for protecting Morin, and he needs it more than I do. Now, what the hell are you doing here? And what's with the horses?"

They'd already been sitting here too long. Samin decided a quick explanation would have to do. “I'm here because you moved up the plan for tonight, and left the rest of us little choice."

Fen glared. “I wasn't about to wait for another—"

"Save it,” Samin snapped. “We haven't time to debate it. We're here now, so we might as well get on.” He waved at the gate of the pen. “I'm letting the horses loose, so that when the alarm goes up, and it will, it'll at least cut down one advantage, and hopefully distract while we're at it. After I'm done, I'm to signal Shig so she can get them to bolt, and then I'm to head to the prisoner barracks and....” He trailed off, kept his gaze even on Fen, unflinching. Fen knew what Samin meant to do there—Fen intended to do the same thing himself, after all.

Fen stared at him. “Malick's here?"

"You know he is, or at least you should.” Samin was a little tired of watching the two of them wend through their trust issues. Now was not the time. “He bloody told you he had—"

"He bloody told me a lot of things,” Fen said through his teeth. “Where's Joori?"

Samin opened his mouth, cut a glance down to the great big knife gripped in the gloved hand resting on Fen's knee.... He shut his mouth.

"Son of a bitch!” Fen breathed. He shot a tight-lipped glare at Morin, who had the good sense to shrink a little and keep quiet. With a long, heavy breath, Fen shut his eyes, pinched at the bridge of his nose. Morin shot an asking glance at Samin, but Samin could only shrug and tilt him what he hoped was a comforting smile. “Fine,” Fen finally muttered as he rubbed at his brow and peered at Samin. He waved his knife at the buggered latch on the post. “Show me how to do that. We'll move a lot faster if Morin and I help you.” He paused, and then reached out, laid his hand to Morin's shoulder and pointed a level stare at Samin. “And then you can help us."

They did move a lot faster. By the time they'd gotten through all of the pens and stables and corrals, the guards had discovered the problem with two of them, and a low buzz was humming, suspicion flaring almost visibly in the straightened backs and the way their eyes flickered everywhere at once. Samin was surprised he and Fen and Morin had managed to get all of the pens and corrals taken care of before he was forced to call on Shig. He'd optimistically hoped for maybe half, because really, even preoccupied with other tasks, looking in other places, a whole camp full of soldiers could hardly miss five hundred horses wandering around the estate. Fen and Morin had worked quickly, and could move a lot more freely than Samin could. They'd managed at least two-thirds of the lot.

Now Samin pulled them both toward the nearest building—a small tack shed, apparently—made sure they were all on the shadowed side with their bodies pressed flat, and gave Shig the signal. Morin had to cover his mouth and stifle a laugh when all the horses in their sight suddenly grunted or squealed or blew then took off at a dead run in the direction of the main gates. Shouts went up and whistles blew. In the confusion that ensued, Fen said the spell that would cover Morin once again in shadows, and they all took off for the first set of barracks.

Fen couldn't run. It was only now that Samin thought to wonder how he'd been walking. Adrenaline, likely, but whatever it was, it was wearing off, and Fen's limp was so pronounced it was almost a hobble. “Hobble,” hell—it was a full-fledged loping shamble. Samin discreetly adjusted his own gait to Fen's slower pace, and hoped like hell that bit of shadow to Fen's left was Morin.

A heavy pop! sounded from the south end of the complex. Samin turned with a bit of a grin, and took hold of Fen's elbow to turn him too. The northwestern side of the estate, where they stood, was set in the dip of a midsized rise then angled back up to where Yakuli's manor overlooked the whole of the tree- and wall-rung camp. Samin's grin broadened when he imagined the man himself peering down to watch the distant flames curl up over the rise as red-orange bloomed against the sky. Shouts went up, and were immediately drowned out by another pop! that Samin thought probably sounded much more dramatic when one was right up close to it.

"That'll be Malick,” he told Fen. “Taking out the soldiers’ barracks.” He breathed in deep, not yet able to catch a whiff of the smoke that he knew would be black and thick once the flames took hold of the wet wood. It didn't matter—he knew it was there. “Ah, mayhem,” he sighed then snorted as Fen rolled his eyes a little and took off again. Samin watched the brilliance of the fires coat the sky then followed.

Fen was panting by the time they hitched up at the first of four long, squat buildings that Samin was all too sure housed what was left of the Disappeared. Windowless and wood-framed, the buildings were all walled and roofed with woven reeds, wet and sharp-smelling with the rain. There were no guards here, which was what had piqued Samin's suspicions the other night when they'd come to spy, though now that his suspicions were all but foregone knowledge, he understood why. There would be no need to spend men and resources guarding those he knew would be inside. He'd seen it in another life, when he'd worn the livery of an arrogant lord who lusted after a pretty young Jin girl, not for her looks or what was between her legs, but for what ran through her veins.

Samin turned to face Fen squarely, though he knew before he even opened his mouth he'd be wasting his breath. Still, decency demanded, so Samin obeyed:

"Fen....” He paused, set his teeth. “You don't have to do this.” He nodded down at Morin as the shadows once again swirled and revealed him, leaning against his brother—Samin wasn't sure if it was comfort for Morin himself or support for Fen. “He shouldn't see this,” Samin told Fen. “This isn't—"

"I'm not a child,” Morin cut in, and indeed, his voice was low and calm. Not the reedy denial of a thwarted not-yet-grownup, but a reasonable statement of fact. “You said this was my right."

"You're not a child, and it is your right.” Samin looked at Fen again. “I've seen this before. So have you. You know what's in there. One at a time is hard enough to look at, but this is....” He trailed off. He'd said what he'd felt compelled to say. It was up to Fen.

Fen didn't answer, only turned to his brother and took one of his knives from a sheath strapped to his thigh. It was long with a wicked curve, and glinted with what seemed like its own malicious wink in the moonlight. He curled Morin's hand around the hilt. “From here—” Fen laid his finger to the left side of Morin's throat, just below his ear. “—to here.” Swept across to the other side, an invisible smile-shaped outline. “Firm and steady. Keep yourself to the side. If blood doesn't spray, you're not doing it right."

Stone-cold and emotionless. It made Samin shudder, and Morin paled a little. Samin watched the boy's throat bob as he swallowed heavily, and his hand came up to lay over where his brother's gloved finger had just traced, as though trying to erase the touch, or protecting himself from the reality of it.

"They won't feel it,” Samin offered as he shot an annoyed glance at Fen, but Fen merely stared back at him, that blank-eyed look with which Samin had become too acquainted and wished he'd never have to see again after tonight. “They've all gone beyond feeling their bodies,” Samin told the boy. “What we're doing tonight is a mercy."

"Yeah,” was all Morin said, voice thin as he cut a look Samin couldn't read up at Fen.

Fen, apparently done with it all, merely gave them each a flat, flinty stare then pushed past Samin and opened the flimsy door to the long hut. Morin took a long, deep breath, loosed a full-body shudder, then firmed his jaw and followed his brother. With a grimace, Samin shot one more glance down toward the flames at the other end of the camp, sent, We're going in, to Shig, and took up the rear.

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Chapter Ten

"Bloody hell,” Joori breathed as he watched the nut-sized ball of fire leave Malick's hand then whiz toward the barracks and explode into a great splatter of flame. The blast was nearly deafening, the flare nearly blinding, whooshing out and up. The heat and intensity sucked all the breath from Joori's lungs, baking his skin. The roar of the flames drowned out the thunder of hoofs—apparently Malick's signal to start burning the place down around them, though he hadn't bothered to tell Joori as much, only shoved him out of the way of the stampede and toward the barracks and then started lobbing fire. Joori watched the blaze for a long moment, watched Malick grin as shouts and screams went up from the conflagration. Joori only stared, wanting to frown or scowl, but his jaw was hanging. He'd thought Malick scary before—he'd had no idea. “There are men in there,” Joori said, his voice thin and thready as Malick yanked him along and headed for another building.

"Yeah, no shit,” Malick said absently, another tiny sphere of fire already twitching at the ends of his fingers as they dodged out of the path of another several now-terrified horses. “Kinda the point."

"But....” Joori stumbled a little, watching the macabre scene behind them as vaguely man-shaped globs of flame stumbled out of the building, their screams lancing into his head and grinding right down his backbone. He had no love for these men, certainly, but... what a horrible way to die. “Isn't there another—?"

"Heads up,” Malick barked, shoving Joori so hard he landed on his ass, all the air huffing out of his lungs. Joori thought at first it was merely an over-cautious way for Malick to spare him from the side effects of another conflagration as the little ball of flame left his hand and headed for the second barracks. But then he noted the shapes of men, not on fire but silhouetted by it, and headed straight for them. “Draw a weapon, and stay back,” Malick said over his shoulder then barreled in to meet them.

What looked like at least two score of men were rushing toward the first fire. Some broke off and headed toward the second fire when they spotted it. None had seemed to notice Malick and Joori yet except for the few who'd caught Malick's attention. Most of the men Joori could see looked like they were attempting to either help the screaming masses of melting flesh and bone that used to be their comrades or gathering in some semblance of order to fight the fire. “A distraction,” Malick had told Joori, to give Samin time to find Jacin and Morin, and to give them all time to do what they'd come here for.

This was certainly distracting.

Joori climbed slowly to his feet, pulled the little axe from his belt, and stared. He'd already watched Malick quietly garrote three men as he and Joori had crept their way down here. Had watched him engage in the briefest of sword battles and thoroughly rout the guard with whom he'd engaged so quickly and easily that Joori had to wonder why Malick would even bother hiding at all. If he just marched in here like he'd marched down the alley before, surely they'd all just lay down their weapons and run.

Maybe it was his ruthlessness. Malick enjoyed the fighting. He took every cheap opportunity presented, went for every soft spot and weakness, aimed for the quickest kill. Malick, in short, fought dirty. Nothing was beneath him. For pity's sake, he was sneaking up on men asleep in their beds and setting them on fire. Which... now that Joori thought about it, was more merciful than what these men did to the Jin they managed to get hold of. At least they got a pyre of sorts, they'd be reborn—as pigs or hens for a Jin's table, if there was even a tiny bit of justice, but still.

There were six men now, the reddish glint of their weapons swirling around them, smearing into Joori's vision as they all centered on Malick. Joori didn't have to see their faces to know their intent was to kill and not capture. They ran right past Joori, not even seeing him. Joori wondered for a moment if Malick had veiled him and he'd missed it, but it didn't feel like it had that night on the road, and Malick had aimed pretty well for the shadows as he'd thrown Joori down. So Joori sank a little deeper into the murk and watched.

Malick was grinning, something wicked and hard. His sword glittered and his knife arced, and Malick was fast, he was good, he was intense, but he wasn't... well, he wasn't Jacin. Joori had watched his brother take down twice this number in half the time at Yakuli's gates. These men were getting in far too close for Joori's nerves. Their blades hadn't yet connected but they were at least grazing, and Malick....

Malick wasn't using his magic.

Malick was defending almost as much as he was attacking. Malick was dropping back two steps for every one he gained. Malick was the sole center of attention for six armed men who were out for blood.

Malick was sweating.

And five more were coming.

Why wasn't Malick using his magic, damn it? Didn't he know Jacin was going to be pissed if Joori just stood here and watched Malick die? And what was Joori supposed to do if Malick did? Joori would be effectively stranded in enemy territory, and they knew he was here. Well, not him specifically, but they seemed to know—

"Joori!” Malick shouted, grunting when he had to make a quick retreat. He whirled away from his closest opponent, drove his knife into the chest of the one coming up behind him, and spun right back into the center again. “Two more!” he told Joori. “Get them and then run for the gates! Go!"

It took a second for the command to make sense to Joori, because there were actually four more, and another five would be close enough to engage in seconds. And then he realized what Malick was saying. He was telling Joori to leave him to this and go take care of the other two barracks. And then to run away.

Run away to what? What good would living do now, if Malick was right this second in the middle of failing? And if Malick failed, what happened to Jacin and Morin?

Anyway, what good would taking out the barracks do now? Everyone was alerted. Those not scrambling to deal with the fire were scrambling to regroup and figure out where the attack was coming from. And only if the entirety of the men here were complete morons would it escape their notice that the attack was coming from where it obviously appeared the attack was coming—namely, right where he and Malick were standing. Whatever Malick's original intention might have been, the barracks were either now empty or in the process of emptying, and there was no point in abandoning Malick to set them on fire.

And anyway, why the fuck was Malick not using his magic? Why was any of this even necessary? Did Malick enjoy the danger of it all that much?

Jaw set now, Joori tossed the axe in his hand a few times, familiarizing himself with the grip. He curled his fingers about it just so and slid the briefest of touches over Yori's arrow wedged in his belt. He was a key, he reminded himself as he watched the men approach. Not something important, probably, but something that unlocked something important. Maybe this was what he was supposed to be doing.

He stepped from the darkness and met the men coming to join the battle head-on.

Surprise got him his first kill, coming out of the shadows as he did. The axe hit the joint between neck and shoulder with a squelching thunk, and the man took another two steps before he realized he was dead and went down. Unfortunately, he took the axe with him, and Joori lost the advantage when he forgot he had other weapons to draw and spent a few too-precious seconds trying to work the axe's edge loose from bone.

The second one was pure luck. Panicking just a little, trying to get his axe loose, Joori finally remembered he was still heavily armed. He tried to pull a knife, ended up with the broken arrow. He waved it clumsily to the side as he crouched a little for leverage and yanked at the axe. The second man died when Joori tripped backward as the axe came loose. Their feet tangled and the man ended up with Yori's arrow through his throat.

Bloody damn, Yori, he thought, winded, I really did love you. I do love you. I think I'll always love you.

"Joori!” he heard Malick shout, the clash of metal on metal strangely sweet and harmonic. “Son of a bitch!"

Joori had no idea if it was directed at him, the men Malick was fighting, or just life in general. Buzzed, almost high on panic and adrenaline, Joori laughed, something chillingly feral. The scent of blood, hot and metallic, was all over him, all around him. The scent of battle and his own rank sweat swamped through him, blending with the reek of smoke and sizzling fat, hazing his mind, his sight.

Violence had a taste, saccharine and sickening, and Joori drank it in.

Instinct took him, and he let it. Rolled because it told him to. Felt a peculiar little grin stretch his mouth as he watched the wide blade of a sword sweep the space where his head had been just a second ago. He came up swinging the axe, spun like he'd seen Jacin do. He didn't hit anything this time, but he didn't trip, and the four men surrounding him all flinched back. Instinct again moved him, took him back several paces ‘til he was no longer surrounded. But instinct couldn't suddenly turn him into a master warrior, and it couldn't make him disappear so he was no longer the center of attention to three men who were.

Restless, Subie gave another annoyed rumble in the distance, enough of a tremor that Joori felt it through his feet. Something in him seized it, took the strength of it in through his skin and twined it with the spirit that crouched in his core. Instinct again, all over him, a tingle over his skin, almost a warm whisper in his ear. Overwhelming and worryingly seductive.

He set it loose, everything, the unfurling spirit inside him weirdly grateful, like it wasn't really a part of him. Not his, but something other that lived inside him. The sheer might and fury of it almost sent him to his knees, but he kept his feet, took the adrenaline washing his nerves and twined that too. It wound out, and Joori let it, could almost see it as it spiraled from his body and back down into the earth, shook it. This time, when a split in the ground opened at his feet, he didn't panic—he aimed.

Like he'd watched Malick do in the alley, Joori flicked out his hand toward the man nearest him, loosed a savage shout of both terror and exaltation, twined too tightly together for him to tell them apart, then he flattened his hand palm-up, and snapped his arm. Shoved everything in him to follow the motion. And as the ground rose up then collapsed, taking the guard down with it in a great, crushing roar of destruction, Joori watched the man mashed and buried in front of him, and... felt nothing. No disgust, no compassion, no joy. Just stared for half a breath, set his jaw more firmly.

Turned his stare up to the next man.

* * * *

It was... ingenious, if extremely risky. Husao had never seen nor heard of another instance in all time when a Null handed over his power to a mortal. There were no laws against it because it simply wasn't done, would likely never have occurred to anyone else but Kamen. Temshiel of Kamen's sort were rare—even Skel had not been ready for the Null power Bear had given him as a sort of answer to Wolf's making of Kamen—and none had ever been made without having first served for centuries before as Temshiel. Many had thought Wolf soft or even reckless when he made Kamen.

Husao had reserved judgment and merely waited. He, better than most, knew the vagaries of sight, and he was not foolish enough to think his own on a par with the gods'. Wolf had a purpose for Kamen, and Husao wanted to watch as he served it.

He nodded at Tatsu as he walked calmly through the Puppet Master's gates, waited for a challenge, but neither Temshiel nor maijin objected, merely stood to either side of the gates and watched him pass. Sora gave him the smallest of smiles, but Husao didn't know if it was merely courtesy, or if her sight had shown her something his hadn't. It was certainly possible. His sight was deep and wide-reaching, hers more short range and immediate; he wouldn't be surprised if she were able to see and interpret the night's events better than he could. He thought about stopping and consulting with her, but she might say something that would change his mind, and he didn't want that.

Husao kept walking, following the call of his son's Blood that had settled a sick weight in the center of his chest over a century ago, calling to his own Blood wordlessly like the low-level howl of a mindless revenant. The one mercy of the suns was that death was immediate, oblivion complete. Husao wondered if Asai had known that making and continuing to use those amulets would only perpetuate the torture of the last of Skel's sentience. Skel's death had been neither immediate nor complete. Asai hadn't paid nearly enough.

Perhaps this night, Husao could finally put the last of his son to rest, even as Jacin-rei did the same for his mother. Husao calmly stepped out of the path of a clutch of wide-eyed horses, screaming past him toward the gates. He smiled as one of the buildings on the southern end of the camp went up in flames.

Kamen's plan was simple in its audacity, sublime in its cunning. Draw all eyes to himself with chaos and mayhem. Allow the spirit-bound to use his magic, allow her to draw on the power of all those about her and slip it into the wash of magic all over this place. Mask it, diffuse it, so that none would feel it when the Puppet Master's Disappeared were put to rest, one by one, because unlike Temshiel magic, mortal magic died when the body did. Sleight of hand at its craftiest, because Kamen would get for his Catalyst everything he wanted, would destroy the Puppet Master and his “farm” like he'd been wanting to do since he'd returned to Ada, and he would break no laws in the doing. No Blood was exchanged, neither given nor taken, only Kamen's power, and that merely borrowed.

It was brilliant.

Husao's sight had refused to show him the possibility until Jacin-rei had walked out Kamen's door, so his own plan was much simpler: follow the call of his son's Blood, find the amulets and destroy them while Kamen and his people took all the risks. He would break no laws, and though it might put him out of favor with Dragon for quite a long time, he could not be punished.

The earth shuddered beneath Husao's feet, just as another several dozen horses screamed past him, wild-eyed and obviously panicked, and for a moment Husao thought the rumble had come from their hoofs. It was the tingle of magic that moved with the tremors that told him he'd misinterpreted, the swell of power over and above all of that of the Temshiel and maijin and half-Blood mortals that still bided at the gates, the pulse of it that came from the Puppet Master's estate like a sick, thumping heartbeat.

The futures-possible slipped through his sight like so much smoke, roiling and changing from one breath to the next, and he supposed it was because Jacin-rei was here, his changing directions determining one possibility then shifting it as his direction mutated and his focus altered. Not thinking things through, because Jacin-rei didn't think things through unless he was forced. Jacin-rei did, surrendered his mind to the din and moved on instinct alone. So Husao tried to focus on the others—watched the earth-bound die in endless horrible ways, saw him live as a result of miniscule changes in actions around him, saw the same with the younger brother and Kamen's own people, and all the Temshiel and maijin around them, all of the Puppet Master's men, and the Puppet Master himself.

There were just too many. Prediction was impossible.

All but one, and Husao followed the call to the place from where it wailed the loudest. Not, as he'd speculated, to the manor that sat atop the place, but to a long, squat reed and thatch building on the northwestern end. One of several, but the pulse pounded from one in particular, and Husao simply let it pull him.

No guards here, and he supposed with his son's magic beating at him from the other side of that door, he wasn't terribly surprised. The dawning knowledge that Xari was there, as well, however—that surprised him. And it really shouldn't have.

Husao hated surprises.

Setting his teeth and tightening his shields, Husao veiled himself and stepped through.

* * * *

Samin had expected it to be dark, and it wasn't. He'd expected it to reek, and it didn't, at least not in the way for which he'd been prepared. He'd expected to have to take care of perhaps a few guards or at least caretakers, and he hadn't. He'd expected to be overcome by the sight, and in that he wasn't disappointed.

It hit him as soon as he neared the threshold—the stench of lye and soap, nearly overpowered by the scent of blood. Not the smell of decay and waste he'd been expecting, but not any better, really. He'd seen this before, so he shouldn't allow it to affect him the way it was doing, but the sheer scale....

Not even beds, but merely slatted frames, one atop the other like bunks, stretched out along both walls in straight rows. Pale, nude bodies lay on each of the frames, each with clean swaths of linen wrapped around both wrists, eyes thankfully closed in most cases, but some stared sightless up into nothing.

They looked clean, which surprised Samin. They weren't emaciated and wasting away, which surprised him more. He could still see the sunken face of that little Jin girl all those years ago, could see the brittle set of starvation and dehydration in her wasted body; could feel the dry silk of her hair between his fingers, the thin bones in her neck as they snapped against his palms.

"They've no hair,” Morin breathed, thin and shaky.

Samin peered up, almost surprised. He'd been so caught up in his own revulsion, he'd nearly forgotten he wasn't alone here, nearly forgotten what it was he was supposed to be doing. Gently, he angled Morin a little bit behind him and met his wide, terrified gaze with whatever calming comfort he could muster, which wasn't much. He laid a hand to the boy's shoulder.

Fen just stood there, blank-eyed, taking it all in without apparent emotion, shifting his level gaze up and down the aisles of bunks and bodies. Searching for one that looked familiar, perhaps, or maybe just deciding on the most efficient method of doing the job they'd come to do. Samin couldn't tell, and either was just as likely when it came to Fen. And then Fen shot a flat look to Morin, tapped the tip of a bloody blade to his bottom lip—a thinking pose, but it didn't look like he was really thinking—and stared like he was trying to fathom who Morin might be. His head tilted to the side, his stare, if possible, going even harder. Samin recognized the listening posture, came this close to swatting Fen out of it—he had enough unpleasant sensations crawling up his backbone, thank you—but he waited it out, trying not to wonder what those lunatics in Fen's head were screeching about now, and why they couldn't just shut the fuck up and die like they were supposed to.

And then Fen's eyes cleared, or at least some of the emptiness left them, and he turned his cold gray gaze on Samin.

"I'll start down the other end.” He flipped the knives in his hands, blades-out, and walked away.

Samin just watched him go, a little stunned, and he shouldn't be. He'd seen Fen put everything away but the killer before. But this....

"Why don't they have hair?” Morin warbled at him, and Samin dragged his eyes away from Fen's back, turned to the boy.

Wide, hazel eyes glittered in the low lamplight, tears held back and dammed, because I'm not a child, and no, he wasn't, really, but he was, and one of these mindless lumps of mortality used to be his mother. They were all someone's mother or sister or father or son, and how was Samin supposed to explain to this boy why, among all the other, more atrocious atrocities and degradations, they'd had their hair taken from them too?

The cold, observant part of Samin supposed the shaved heads made practical sense—no lice or fleas to worry about, none of the diseases they carried—but the part that thundered profound offense in his chest wondered if it was just another way to make these people seem more like nameless animals. There were no wounds on their heads, like the one that had scabbed over on that little girl by the time Mizin had led Samin down into his cellar and showed her off with smugness and a loathsome show of pride—pride, like she was some sort of pelt he'd made into a coat to boast of his prowess. And Samin really had to wonder how these people had been turned mindless without the evidence of the spike to the brain he'd seen on all the others.

"To make it easier to keep them clean, I guess,” Samin told Morin, relieved when the boy just accepted it silently and didn't ask him any more. Because Samin had his own questions and the answers seemed suddenly imperative.

Like, how was it that these people weren't emaciated and steadily dying? They were being fed somehow, or there wouldn't be so many of them, and what there were would be skin and bones, lasting maybe a month, if the “caretakers” were careful, two if they were lucky. There were at least a hundred in this barracks alone, and another five buildings besides.

Some kept their pet full-Bloods alive and compliant through drugs, Samin knew, but that altered the Blood in ways Malick understood and Samin didn't, but he believed Malick when he said it made the amulets weaker and the spells not as reliable. The men who'd bought Shig and Yori had kept Shig alive and bleeding for them only because they hadn't the funds or connections to pay one of those skilled enough to jam a spike into her brain without killing her. They'd kept Shig compliant through drugs, and Yori compliant through Shig.

These people didn't look drugged. These people looked... asleep. Pale, perhaps, but healthy enough. The only evidence of harm was those bandages on their wrists, and even those looked clean.

Confused, deeply uneasy, Samin sent his thoughts out to Shig, even more uneasy when nothing came back to him.

A rustle at the other end of the long room jerked his attention back, even before Fen's hoarse voice, tone sharp and urgent, snapped, “Morin! Run!"

Without thought, Samin shoved the boy behind him, raised his sword, and watched as shadows came to life to either side of Fen, took on substance. Fen stood between them, knives ready, backing up a few paces so he could watch them both as they solidified between him and the set of bunks over which he'd been working. Samin made out the bright glistening tracks of blood on the throats of two of the prone bodies, his ears picking up the wheezy gasps of emptying lungs and the steady drip-drip-drip of blood hitting the rush-covered floor. But his eyes watched the shadows recede, watched that Xari woman emerge from them with a man Samin guessed was Yakuli, because that was just how Fen's luck seemed to run.

"There is no need for panic,” the man said smoothly. He flashed a sad smile at Fen then a cordial nod down to Samin. Samin's gut gave a twist. “Nor is there a need for violence,” the man went on, indicating with a graceful wave of his hand Fen's knives, and the blood dripping from them, then the gaping wounds on the throats of the two soon-to-be-corpses. “I intend no harm to you or yours,” continued Yakuli. “In fact, I think you and I can come to a very satisfactory arrangement between us, young Fen-seyh."

Xari stepped forward and bowed her head to Fen, by all appearances deferential and respectful, but the woman was maijin—they all knew how to lie and make it look good. “Things are not as you see them, lad,” she said, a thick thread of condescension in her tone, like she was speaking to a small, stupid child. Her smile was beautiful on her gorgeous face, but there was nothing real about it. Samin wondered if Fen could see it, too, wondered if he could see anything clearly, or even think, with that ring wedged on his brother's finger and not his own. “I tried to explain it to you, but Kamen will not....” Xari shook her head, mouth turning down. “Kamen sees only you, and would give you what you ask for, even if it is not his to give.” Her smile came back, soft and motherly; it made Samin want to gut her. “You asked for Yakuli's head,” she told Fen with a wave at Yakuli. “Kamen would give it to you, even though it would mean his soul. Even though I warned him that death and violence were not the only ways to—"

"I didn't, actually.” Fen's voice was hoarse and low, still with that flat quality to it, but Samin could hear the anger building beneath it. For whatever reason, it made Samin breathe a little easier, and he patted Morin's shoulder again when the boy edged to his side. “I didn't ask for Yakuli's head,” Fen went on, nodding at Yakuli. “Your head. I didn't ask for it. I asked Malick... Kamen to help me find my mother.” The knife in his right hand turned and twirled, spinning along his fingers, blade-hilt-blade-hilt, casual, unconcerned. “If there's a better way, perhaps you'd like to tell me now, before I, um....” A pause, and a thin, scary-looking grin bloomed on Fen's face. “The Ancestors are very loud tonight."

He left it there, kept that creepy grin. Samin supposed Xari and Yakuli knew what it meant. Samin certainly did. And hoped like hell Fen was bluffing.

Yakuli seemed unaffected, merely met Fen's smile with a friendly one of his own, and nodded agreeably. “Yes, we can come to an accord like reasonable men. Asai often spoke of his beloved Untouchable.” Samin didn't miss Fen's flinch, and he knew Yakuli and Xari didn't, either. “Told me proudly more than once that you were unlike any other in decades. That you were sharp and strong enough to do what he needed of you, though....” He paused, smile falling down into sympathy. “Xari has told me how you turned on your master. I am very sorry it became necessary, lad. I know he loved you in his way."

Fen flinched again, and Samin took a quick step forward, said, “Fen,” surprised when Morin clamped on to his coat and held him back.

"Don't,” Morin whispered, urgent. “He knows what he's doing, and they'll kill you if you interfere."

The hard look Xari shot Samin confirmed it, but... damn it, was he supposed to just stand here while they ripped away whatever flimsy stanchions Fen was standing on? How much could Fen take before he broke completely?

"I see it grieves you,” Yakuli was telling Fen. “And I am sorry for the losses you have suffered.” He took a step in toward Fen—not too close, and he didn't reach out for him. “It can stop now, Fen-seyh. You and yours can walk away from here now, with my blessing. As Xari has already promised, you can leave Ada, and leave behind forever the shadow of threat that hangs over your earth-bound brother."

As if the mention had called it, the ground beneath their feet rumbled enough to nearly unbalance Samin, and he reached out for Morin to keep him steady. Samin had no way of knowing if it was Subie or Joori, but the way things were going, he'd bet on whichever was more likely to get them all killed in the messiest way possible.

The lamps swayed on their rope fixtures on the ceiling, casting shadows everywhere, and the frames of the bunks creaked and shivered. Samin hoped like hell none of those bodies got dumped from them. That would be just a little too much creepiness.

Fen didn't move through it all, just stood there and waited for the ground to stop shaking, kept staring, still outwardly calm. Samin wasn't close enough to see Fen's eyes, but he imagined they'd gone stormy and confused.

"My mother,” was all Fen said when the ground stopped rolling beneath him, but his voice wasn't as even and calm as it had been.

"Ah!” said Yakuli. He smiled wide—warm and gracious—and shook his head. “I'm sorry, lad, where is my head? Of course, of course.” He peered at Fen with something akin to friendly warning. “Your mother is not here in this room. I have moved her somewhere safe.” He shot a quick smile at Xari. “You understand, lad,” he said to Fen. “One cannot strike a proper bargain if one hands everything over too quickly.” He reached into his high-necked tunic and pulled out an amulet. Even from where he stood, Samin could hear Fen's growl, but Yakuli merely gave him another condescending smile, reached out to the body lying nearest him, and whispered a spell.

Samin didn't have the wits to watch Fen's reaction. He was too caught up in his own. He took an involuntary step backward when the “body” sat up, blinked its eyes against the lamps, turned its head from side to side, and settled its gaze on Yakuli. A gasp left Samin when its mouth turned up in an obsequious smile, and it dipped its head then rasped, “Good evening, Beishin. How may I serve you?"

"You see, Fen-seyh,” Yakuli said. “Things are not as you seem to think them. There is hope yet for your mother."

Fen only stared for several long, silent moments, narrow-eyed, then he flicked a wary glance at Yakuli, and a downright distrustful one at Xari. And then his face set, lost all expression, and Samin had no idea what to make of that.

The... thing's eyes were as blank as Fen's were. Samin wondered if Fen could see it, too, but he thought perhaps not. The voice was hoarser than even Fen's, but this one sounded like it was more from disuse than strain, and the movements were too mechanical, the facial expression a weird imitation of Yakuli's own.

Hadn't someone called this man a “Puppet Master"?

"Watch,” Morin whispered behind Samin, just that, just that one word, but it was soft and firm, like he knew exactly what Samin was thinking.

Samin made himself look back at Fen, profoundly relieved when he saw Fen seeing it all, that he'd been seeing it all. Still, Samin's lungs filled with air again when he saw the disgust and rage well up in Fen's face, and his hands grip tight around his knives. Fen didn't believe these people were still inside themselves any more than Samin did.

It was clever, Samin had to give Yakuli that, and if Fen were a man who didn't expect to get fucked over by everyone at every opportunity, he might have fallen for it. As it was, Fen flicked a glance at Samin. Samin might not really know exactly what it meant, but he knew Fen well enough to understand that it at least alluded to MAYHEM in big, bold, capital characters.

Yakuli must have seen it, too, because the bodies on the frames all began to stir at once, jerky, loose-limbed motions as they were clumsily pulled from their prone positions and began to get to their feet. Samin only stared at them for a moment, more revolted than he'd ever been in his life. This man wasn't only Disappearing these people and using their Blood to arm his men with the amulets he made from it—he was turning them into an army of revenants he could control using their own magic.

The disgust overwhelmed him, took him. He waded in with his sword swinging, disgusted all over again at how Yakuli was too obviously using them as a wall to keep Samin and Morin away from Fen, at how easy it was to land blows on them because they didn't back away or flinch. At how they just kept coming, regardless of how thoroughly he hacked them.

They were slow, but they were effective. They kept Samin and Morin penned on the opposite side from where Samin had last seen Fen, and who knew what might be happening down there now, because Samin couldn't bloody see, damn it.

Morin was faster, but then he would be. He swung around Samin and launched himself at the nearest bunk, flew up it like a monkey climbing a ladder, and cut the rope that held the nearest lamp to the ceiling. Oil splashed out over the damp reeds on the floor, and fire followed immediately, catching the pools and drops of oil and climbing to the thin wood of the bunks. Yakuli's puppets just kept coming, stepping into the flames like they didn't feel them, body hair catching fire and burning down to skin.

Samin nearly jumped out of his own skin when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. And then he almost gutted Husao, just for making him nearly jump out of his skin.

"Get the boy,” Husao ordered brusquely. “There are more souls to save than these."

Samin saw the sense in it and tried to see the stomach-curling roast going on in front of him in terms of saved souls, rather than senseless horror. Except he couldn't quite get past the horror. He did manage to nod, though, managed to force a swallow down his bone-dry throat, but didn't manage to do much more than wheeze, “Oh, shit,” as he went after Morin.

Shig, he sent as he snagged Morin down and again pushed him behind him, firming his grip on his sword, I think we're going off plan here. He clenched his jaw, snapped, “On your right, Morin!” and kept swinging, even as Husao grabbed his surcoat from behind and dragged him out.

* * * *

The look in Joori's eye must have been a little wild, maybe even crazed, because the three men, trained as warriors, armed well and thoroughly competent, stared at him, frozen—afraid. And then they began to back away.

Joori laughed again, a deranged little titter that sounded nothing like him, and he sidestepped the loose, cracked earth at his feet, moving deliberately toward the men, instead of away, like he should be doing. He had no idea what he intended to do—make a great, big hole and drop them into it, maybe, or bury them alive—but he was vibrating with strength, with power. Every bit of him shuddered with something deep and driven, and he didn't want to crush it down again, didn't want to stuff it back inside himself where it had lain somnolent for so long he'd almost forgotten it was there.

And then Malick laid a hand to his arm, and it all went away. Just went away. Gone. Everything around Joori went dull, muffled, as though someone had just thrown a thick blanket over him.

"Run,” Malick told the men, flat and even, and they didn't even turn to check with each other—they spun around and ran.

Joori watched them go, a strange sense of loss he didn't want to define burning through the weird, heavy fog. It felt a little too much like thwarted lust, and if it turned out that was what it was, he didn't want to know it. Anger curled through him, and he didn't know if it was at them, at himself, at the spirit of the earth that lived inside him and turned him into something he didn't want to look at... it could have been any of them, all of them, and he didn't know what to do with it. So he pointed it at Malick.

He wrenched his arm from Malick's grip. “Now you decide to use your magic? Where the fuck was it when you were over there fighting for your life, huh? What am I supposed to do if—?"

"You're supposed do what I bloody told you to and get out!” Malick snapped. “My magic is being used for other things at the moment, and what isn't is being spent on protecting everyone else, which includes you and your brother, so I'd prefer it if you didn't take stupid chances like wading into a clutch of professional soldiers and not running when I tell you to!"

Damn, Malick could be scary when he wanted to be. With the wavering light of the fire crawling all over him, throwing his face into alternate flame and shadow, and his eyes catching the conflagration, flaring it out like it was inside him....

Joori deflated somewhat, choked out a wheezy little, “Oh,” and then he just let Malick shove him away from the great crevice in the ground Joori had wrought when he'd been pretending to be someone strong, away from the fire and the bodies scattered around it, around them.

"Yeah, oh,” Malick muttered, pushing Joori along, dragging him into a run, away from the barracks and up the incline. Their pace an increasingly faster clip, they wove in and out of intermittent copses of pine and larch. They kept to the shadows and moved much more stealthily than they'd been doing down at the barracks in consideration of all the eyes now no doubt looking for anything that didn't belong there. An ambush in the dark tended to make those ambushed a little more cautious.

They ran until they reached a stand of pines about fifty paces from the closest building, just outside the ring of fence enclosing an empty paddock. Joori didn't even protest when Malick turned him roughly so they were facing each other. Panting, they both bent over, clutching their knees.

"Look,” Malick finally said, too obviously forcing calm into his tone, pausing another few seconds to catch his breath, “I know you don't like me much, and I know you don't trust me.” He straightened, pushing at Joori's shoulder until Joori stood straight to face him. “I don't care if you like me,” Malick told Joori evenly, “and I don't need your trust. What I do care about is Fen walking away from here tonight with everything he needs to keep his mind—that means you and your brother alive and walking, your mother put to rest, and Yakuli with a gaping hole in whatever part of his body will bring death the quickest. If you want to help him get all that then you will do what I tell you, when I tell you, and you won't take another chance like that."

Joori wouldn't have believed it if he wasn't looking right at it—Malick was pissed, really pissed, but underneath that, way down deep, he was scared. Malick was scared. And Joori had done it. Joori kept staring. Because he couldn't seem to do anything else. It was, he thought, quite possibly, the first time he'd actually really seen.

To save Jacin, he needs to save you, he needs to save Morin, he needs to save your mother's soul.

This was Malick he was looking at—not Kamen, not Wolf's Temshiel, and not the smirky smartass who'd cavalierly flirted and bickered with immortals at Yakuli's gates.

The man who still lived inside the immortal. The man who'd set his sights on the pretty Untouchable, and ended up with his heart and soul wound too tightly about Fen Jacin-rei.

Damn Shig and her annoying insights, anyway.

Abruptly, somewhat shockingly, there was nothing Joori wanted less in the world than Malick dead. Not that Joori had particularly wanted Malick dead before, he'd only wanted him gone, out of his brother's life altogether, but now he really wanted Malick not dead.

"It was....” Joori hesitated, pretending he needed to catch his breath, but it was more to stall, because he hadn't really meant to speak at all and now he was caught. He licked his lips, tightened them. “You looked like you needed help,” he said, tentative. “I'm supposed to be your key, and you told me to run. What's the point? And if you haven't enough magic to go around, it seems like—"

"I've exactly enough magic to do exactly what I need to do,” Malick snapped. “And speaking of which.” He peered closely at Joori in the dark, glaring. Then shocked him by abruptly giving Joori a firm clap on the shoulder. “Good going back there. Be careful how you use it—you're about as elegant with it as Shig is with mine—but damn, you've a lot of it, and you could too easily take yourself out next time. Just because it comes from you doesn't mean you're invulnerable to it."

Joori was... annoyingly touched and ridiculously pleased. Still, even through his irritation with himself, it pinged something in the dark part of his heart he hadn't known was there until tonight. “Why can't you direct it?” he asked Malick, a little rush in his chest winding out as the idea took shape in his mind. “I mean, take it like you did before, make it stronger, and we could just crumble the whole place, open it right up, and everyone—"

"And everyone here would go down with it,” Malick finished for him. “Which would be fine, if it were only Yakuli and his men, except it's not.” He paused, grim but strangely sympathetic. “Your mother's not the only one in need of saving, Joori."

Oh. Right. As Malick had said before—kinda the point.

"Anyway,” Malick went on, “I can't actually kill Yakuli."

He could tell Malick was seething about it. Joori didn't blame him. It seemed so... arbitrary. So unnecessarily complex. Malick could walk in and direct chaos and destruction, but he couldn't actually kill the one man who desperately needed killing. He could give his magic to Shig to do whatever the hell it was she was doing with it, but he couldn't let her use it to kill Yakuli.

"That's....” Joori shook his head, teeth tight. “That's really stupid,” he muttered.

"Yeah,” Malick agreed. “All right, the good news is that whatever Xari's up to, she didn't warn Yakuli we were coming. Or at least it looks that way. The bad news is—” Malick stopped abruptly. His eyes went vague for a second, narrowed, then widened, and he shot his glance up the hill.

Joori turned to follow it, scanned the rise but saw nothing. Joori was just about to turn back to Malick, ask him what was wrong, when a brief flicker caught his eye to his right, disappeared for a second, then flared up like an unfurling fist. It took a moment for Joori to make out the shape of another barracks through the flames, another moment for him to realize that what he'd been unconsciously waiting for wasn't happening—there were no men stumbling from the building, aflame and screaming.

"That,” Malick said slowly, “was not supposed to happen yet."

* * * *

He was selfishly sorry he'd given Malick's ring to Morin. The Ancestors were loud, insistent, the chaos a crescendo that would have deafened him, had he been hearing it with his ears, and it was making it too difficult to think, to track, to do anything at all but what his body told him to do. The residual pain of mostly healing injuries couldn't cut through it all like it had always done before.

not be thwarted Wolf acid to the skies Raven duplicity only one only on

A big man, Yakuli—younger than Jacin had thought, and not nearly as revolting-looking as he'd imagined. Men like this should be ugly, twisted out of shape and plagued with growths, so people could tell just by looking that they should turn and run the other way. This man was almost handsome, with his sandy-blond hair, and eyes nearly the color of winter pine. Wide and fit, a full head taller than Jacin, and with a voice that could either command or seduce, depending upon how he wielded it.

Jacin remembered the voice. It had been seared into his memory that night when he'd watched and listened from a hallway window as that voice demanded more ammunition against his family. And Asai's response had delivered the first real blow in the violent deconstruction of Jacin's life. And so to hear Yakuli nearly cooing at him, trying to pretend to be a friendly, reasonable man....

It made him sick. It burned through the noise where thought and pain could not. It nearly sent him screaming just as loudly as the Ancestors, who wouldn't shut the fuck up for even a bloody second.

"Ever had your body move to someone else's tune, like you were a puppet?” Caidi asked. Jacin could barely hear, because the Ancestors were singing, singing, loud and nearly painful in their harmonic perfection—clinging to corpses Wolf leers through a veil of burning skies to Raven's duplicity—and Caidi grinned at him, like she heard it too, so Jacin grinned back.

Look at them, Asai whispered. Alive. Your mother is still alive. You can still save her, you can save them all.

Asai told Jacin everything he wanted to believe, and Caidi told him everything he feared. Even now, he wanted to believe his beishin, wanted Asai to lead him, tell him, show him, but Beishin lied, Beishin told him things he wanted to hear, wanted to believe, and all of it was lies. I know he loved you in his way, Yakuli had said, all sincerity and somber compassion, but Yakuli lied, too, and Jacin knew better, had finally learned better. Beishin had never loved him, Jacin would never be perfect, and so he would always fail. It still hurt, but at least now he knew what to expect.

He widened his smile at Caidi, flicked his glance up to Samin, surprised and not at all pleased to see that Morin hadn't listened to him and run when Jacin had told him to. Some part of him had been weirdly relieved when Morin had emerged from Asai's carriage and Jacin had realized he wasn't Joori. Joori would argue with him and lose precious seconds, if Jacin told him to run, always trying so hard to be the protector, but Morin didn't like Jacin much and wouldn't have to be told twice to abandon him. And yet there he still was.

Then again, where was he supposed to go? Xari was maijin, and Yakuli apparently had complete control of enough magic that he could keep Blood flowing through the veins of corpses and animate them to strike a lopsided “bargain” he likely had no intention of honoring anyway. Malick had sworn protection for Morin and Joori, but Malick couldn't kill Yakuli, and Yakuli had no such restrictions when it came to killing Malick. If Jacin wanted to keep Joori and Morin alive, he'd have to keep Malick alive, and to do that, he'd have to kill Yakuli.

"Where is she?” Jacin grated.

Yakuli smiled, that kind, condescending thing. “She is waiting for you. Let me take you to her."

The creatures that used to be people began to stir, began to move with lurching purpose, and it made Jacin's stomach flop about, but he didn't move, didn't react. Samin would protect Morin, and Malick still had him shielded. Yakuli was trying to distract him, and Jacin was already too distracted as it was.

The Ancestors shrieked, agonized and wordless, the volume nearly crowding out everything else, but Jacin couldn't let it. He kept his hands from flying uselessly to his head to try and block them out. Fire flared, right at the spot Jacin knew Morin and Samin were trying to hold their ground, and he let his concentration slip just enough to hope Samin knew what the fuck he was doing, before he trained all of it on Xari and Yakuli again.

"Tell me where she is,” Jacin rumbled.

"Do you know what Asai wanted?” Yakuli asked, like almost-corpses weren't closing on Jacin's brother down at the other end of the hut, and the hut itself wasn't going up like a candle. “How much did he tell his Ghost, I wonder...?” Yakuli sighed, leaned casually against the bunk behind him, eyeing Jacin thoughtfully. “Asai was an ambitious man. He wanted to provoke chaos and then rein it in, make himself the hero of the Jin as he was the hero to the Catalyst."

It was all Jacin could do not to flinch, but he might have paled a little. Perhaps he did, because Yakuli's smile got a touch more smug. Smoke curled into Jacin's nostrils, and he forced himself to breathe shallowly, not to look at what was happening down at the other end as Samin snapped out orders to Morin, and Morin answered them in breathless mumbles. The thunk and thud of butchered meat and falling bodies battered at the back of Jacin's senses, rising bile that he willed away.

"I don't want chaos,” Yakuli went on. “I want order. Do you know why my careful plans, half of my painstaking work is now lying in smoking heaps about my estate?"

burning skies clinging to corpses our boy liste

Smiling wider, Yakuli held up a hand when Jacin curled his lip and tightened his fists about the hilts of his knives. “It is because I cannot see you, Wolf's Catalyst. The Voice of the Ancestors. The Abomination that should have never been at all."

once only once our boy we've chosen only say it once

"Look around you.” Yakuli waved his hand back over his shoulder to the fire that steadily ate away the other half of the long hut, creeping closer, then to the blank wall behind Jacin, presumably to indicate the encampment in general. “Asai is now dead because he could not see you clearly enough to know the knife was coming for him. Such treachery he must have felt in his last moment, betrayed so profoundly by the one he loved so well.” He grinned. “Your comrades even now waste precious magic with each of my children they cut down."

will not be thwarted cast acid to the sky

"And all because the Abomination wants his mother back.” Yakuli's teeth tightened, and the friendly facade vanished. Those of his “children” that had still been on their feet abruptly dropped like dead things.

balk batter baffle them all crushed and craven 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 the gods speak no more silent silent dead and quiet

"Tell me where she is,” Jacin said evenly, “and I'll go.” And he wasn't even sure if he was lying or not. He couldn't think clearly enough.

Yakuli pulled out of his slouch against the bunk, leaned in. “She is merely one more spirit-bound to me. Her worth does not approach what you have cost me tonight. But do you know what your worth could be?"

"He doesn't know about Malick,” Caidi told Jacin. “If he did, he wouldn't be piddling about here, he'd be trying to add him to his ‘fold'. Xari didn't warn him."

Relief washed through Jacin, and he hadn't even known he'd been anxious about it. Good. As long as Malick stayed alive, so would Joori and Morin.

Yakuli took a step closer. “A blank spot, Untouchable even to Fate, defying sight by your mere presence.” His brow creased, and he peered at the lifeless bodies littering the floor, cooking slowly, then turned a thoughtful glance on Xari. “I wonder if—?"

"You cannot touch the Untouchable,” Xari told him, her expression unreadable. “The gods—"

"The gods approve,” Yakuli cut in, his tone derisive. “If they did not, they would have moved the Temshiel, and we would not be here talking about it."

"He wants to make you one of his ‘children',” Caidi whispered. “He wants to see if the magic that took their spirits from them would work on you."

Jacin's gut roiled.

Xari looked calmly enraged. Jacin couldn't decipher it, so he didn't try.

"Where is my mother?” he snarled, one last time, and he twirled his knives to make that clear.

Yakuli laughed this time—laughed—and shook his head. “Do you really think I know? Did you suppose she had some special import for me? That she was somehow more than all of my other children, merely because she is special to you?"

Yes, Jacin supposed he had.

"She is one Jin among hundreds,” Yakuli went on, almost sneering now. “She is clean. She is cared for. She will live longer than perhaps even you will, and her magic is being used as it ought, not hidden away in a prison camp and wasted on one who has neither the wit nor will to use it. You should be thanking me. I have done more for the Jin and their magic than the Ancestors and the gods combined since before the Binding War.” He grinned again, dipping his head on an ironic bow. “And I thank you for bringing the possible value of the Untouchable to my attention. I don't believe I would have thought of it, had the little lost Ghost not been so... persistent in his want for his mother."

Mocking. Taking because he could. Withholding because it amused him, and threatening to take even more.

And Xari was just standing there.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fucking fair.

Jacin couldn't decide which one to go for first, but he had two hands, after all, so he went for both of them at once. He lunged in, blades twirling horizontal, aiming for quick double-decapitation—let them try to use their magic to fix that—but they were both too fast. Shadows swirled around them, and they were both suddenly behind him. Jacin spun, brought his knives up in defense. Xari didn't move on him, just stood there and watched, but Yakuli drove in with a hard fist to the side of Jacin's head that set him staggering. Fucking shadows.

Shit. He hadn't thought of that. And he didn't have Malick's ring to fight back in kind.

He wheeled around again, a little off balance, his head humming so loud it almost drowned out the Ancestors. Furious, he raised his knives again, and again, Yakuli was gone in a swirl of shadows. This time, Jacin spun around and aimed for the empty space behind him, but Yakuli apparently didn't use the same tricks twice—he rematerialized right back where he'd started and nailed Jacin again, this time in the temple. Go with the impact, don't resist it, don't try to absorb it, you'll take less damage that way—Samin's voice, steadily instructive, somewhere in the back of Jacin's head. He followed the advice without thought, yet still, it was all Jacin could do to keep his feet. He reached for the frame of a bunk, clung.

"Told you, I did,” Xari snapped, then took Yakuli by the collar like a recalcitrant child and shook him. “Mortals with your foolish attempts to finesse and beguile with all the cunning of a gullible newborn. Told you, did I not? You cannot touch the Untouchable.” She turned her glare on Jacin. “He bargains with what he does not have,” she told him. “He cannot give you your mother back, this you know. But he can take more than you can give and keep your mind.” She shoved Yakuli away. “A trade. A true bargain. Take your brothers and go, take Kamen with you, and I will place your mother in the pyre myself. You don't know what I've seen, child. You don't know what Kamen will forf—"

"Lie,” Jacin growled. He gave his head a bit of a shake to try and clear it, but his vision was doubling. Smoke curled into his nose, down his throat, and he tried to keep himself from choking on it, tried to keep himself from panicking when the other end of the hut suddenly went up in a great whoosh of flames and the walls collapsed outward. “All you know is self-interest and betrayal,” he sneered at Xari, then he pushed himself away from the bunk and stood straight. “Come a little closer, and I'll show you what happens to those who betray me."

Raven's duplicity Wolf will not be thwarted

Xari's eyes narrowed. Jacin had no idea if it was a giveaway on her part or instinct on his. He spun again, slashed at darkness, almost giddy with satisfaction when Yakuli barked a curse. His voice was edged, brittle with pain. He solidified a few feet away from Jacin, his arm bleeding and rage twisting his face. Jacin snorted, head still a little light, knees still a little weak, but the look on the man's face—surprise, affront, indignant anger—Jacin had to laugh. He couldn't help it.

the one the only one listen always listen our boy we've chosen

Enraged, Yakuli swirled into shadow, came up at Jacin's left and leveled a solid blow to his kidney then whirled away again. Gasping now, the snorts more like animal grunts, Jacin tried to turn, came up short when Yakuli was there again. This time, an elbow smashed into Jacin's jaw. Sweet copper exploded in his mouth, and his head throbbed with noisepainvoicesrage. Jacin swung wild, knife flashing out from his hand. Aiming for the throat and only getting a good gouge down the side of Yakuli's face. The yelp of pain was satisfying, but Jacin had stupidly left himself open for a ruthless thump to the ribs in payment, and it took his breath.

Again, he lashed out, felt one blade sink home somewhere, but he couldn't tell where. More shadows, too fast to track, then his head was yanked back by the braid, so hard and quick he felt the heat of strained joints and tendons burning up behind his jaw. He had perhaps a second and a half to register the smoke gathering in great, thick clouds at the ceiling. He jammed an elbow back, hoping to hit ribs, before Yakuli's fist again eclipsed his vision. Jacin managed somehow to keep his feet when everything went black for a second, managed not to sway when the pain finally hit him and made him wonder if Yakuli hadn't actually taken off the top of his head.

And all the while, he managed to keep slashing, keep swinging, keep whirling until he made himself dizzy. His knives missed more often than they hit, but they were hitting, and he had to be doing some damage. Not nearly as much as Yakuli was doing to him, but at least Jacin wasn't bleeding yet, and he knew Yakuli was. He couldn't get a long enough look at Yakuli to confirm it, but the blood on the edges of Jacin's knives told him so.

Once again, his braid was gripped, yanked, only this time, Yakuli used it as a tether and swung Jacin headfirst into a wooden bunk. Jacin's chest and face took the brunt as the bunk shattered beneath him and he went to the floor amidst a pile of kindling. It took him a few seconds longer than was healthy for him to get to his feet again.

Too strong, too fast. Jacin had taken out a maijin, had held his own with a Temshiel who made it a pastime to fight dirty, and this man who couldn't even use magic against him was beating the shit out of him. It was ironically fucking hilarious.

the one the only one listen always listen our boy we've chosen

Chosen.

Chosen

It was too fucking funny.

He laughed when Yakuli's sweeping kick took his legs out from under him. Laughed some more when Yakuli's hands on the back of his coat—Malick's coat... where the fuck was Malick?—lifted him back up and pulled the coat down so his arms were clumsily pinned to his sides. Jacin had lost a knife somewhere, and he couldn't even get his vision under enough control to look around for it, but he gripped the other more tightly, slashed out blind. Reeling, he wheezed out a truncated snort when another blow landed on his temple and his vision blacked again. He was on his knees on the floor, the coat half-on and half-off, when it came back again, and he dragged himself up, coughing through the chuckles as smoke filled his lungs and took all the breath he'd managed to get back.

the one the only one listen always listen our boy we've chosen

"Stop it!” Yakuli growled. “Stop fighting. I need you alive, boy, but I don't need you undamaged."

Jacin couldn't. Couldn't stop fighting, couldn't stop laughing because he couldn't stop fighting, even though he knew he'd already lost. He'd finally lost it. He was standing here—well, wobbling—in the middle of Yakuli's compound, on a mission to put his mother's soul to rest, the walls on fire and spreading to the part of the roof that hadn't collapsed yet, right over his head, and his sanity was finally dripping from him like so much wax from a high-wicked candle.

chosen our boy only say it once

Because they'd chosen. All these years, all the madness splitting his head, his self, and this was what the Ancestors had chosen. He wasn't even really surprised—after all, they were even more insane than he was.

Abomination, his father told him, and Jacin snorted some more, wheezed, “Yeah, I know,” and he watched as Caidi only shook her head and gave him a sad smile.

He was still laughing when Yakuli drew the shadows in once more and came barreling at him. The force hit Jacin in the chest, pounding all the air out of his lungs. Like he was a giddy twig in a hurricane, Jacin flew through the burning reed walls and slammed to his back in the grass. Small flames crept all around him, burning through Malick's coat and singeing his skin before he could gather the wits to thump them out. Yakuli drew two long swords from the scabbards at his sides and went to shadow again. Jacin just kept laughing.

* * * *

Malick couldn't chance going to spirit to get himself and Joori up the hill. There was too much going on, too much magic flying around, and it was hard enough to make them cooperate when they weren't so distracted. So he ran, dragging Joori after him, and when the guards were too thick of an obstacle, they ran veiled.

He knew when Shig disobeyed his orders and abandoned her position just outside Yakuli's gates, because he felt the shift in focus, felt her intentions. Even had he not approved, he wouldn't have argued with her, because she wouldn't have listened. And anyway, the whole point of what she'd been doing had been rendered moot by that fire at the prisoners’ barracks, so leaving her out there idle would be a waste.

The whole fucking thing had been a waste. Plan—ha! It would have been bloody beautiful, if everything had stayed on track, but it had all depended on timing, and Malick's timing had always been shit. No, not just shit—a great big steaming pile of it. Only this time, it had been Fen's fault, and Malick firmly intended to let him know all about it when he saw him again. If Fen had just waited another two hours....

Your friends at the gates are following me, Shig told him.

Malick just rolled his eyes. Ignore them. As long as they don't get in the way, I don't give a flying fuck what they do. He supposed he should be grateful—he knew at least Tatsu was taking the risk so he could keep an eye on Malick, make sure he didn't do anything stupid—but everything about this plan had just turned stupid, and Malick wasn't going to be pleased if someone else came along and made it stupider. Get everyone with you up to the prisoner barracks, he told Shig. Use whatever you have to use to get Yakuli's men out of your way, but double-time it. Everything's going to shit way too fast.

And he just knew it was somehow Fen's doing.

Sure, Mal, was all he got back.

"Are those....?” Joori slowed beside Malick, huffing and blowing as he squinted up to the top of the rise. “Malick, what the hell is that?"

Malick followed his glance, knowing, but even knowing didn't stop his stomach from turning over when he actually saw. “What d'you think?” he snapped at Joori, his voice strained, and not just from exertion. “It's your brother trying to take on the world all by himself again."

Joori jerked back, as though Malick had struck him, his gaze going a bit wild. “Is that... is he...?"

Malick didn't know what Joori couldn't finish, and he didn't have time to wonder. His attention was nailed to the two figures silhouetted by flames atop the rise. And then completely arrested by something else altogether.

"Fucking shit!” Malick snarled as he grabbed hold of Joori's arm again and shoved him back into a run, up toward the fifty or more armed men making their way steadily toward the spot where the two figures whirled and clashed. More flames flared on the other side of them—another barracks going up—and Malick's heart tripped up into his throat when he saw the lean figure of Fen stumble backward, almost falling into the fire before he caught his balance again.

Subie growled again, louder this time, and the ground shook, harder than before, harder even than when it had been Joori. Malick spared a glance up toward the mountain, small puffs of smoke belching from its peak and silhouetted by Wolf. It might have been portentous, or even picturesque, under different circumstances, but Malick didn't have the time.

"Oh, no,” Joori wheezed, than screamed, “Jacin!” and doubled his pace, running through guards who were too busy trying to figure out what was going on to snatch for him or try to stop him. Joori barreled through and knocked them aside like he didn't even see them. Malick reached out, snapped his veil down around Joori, stopping him, and then down around himself so he could get close enough to assess the situation before he barreled in too.

Coming up behind you, Mal, Shig told him, and went silent again. Malick watched Yakuli point downward. And you've got at least fifty coming at you, he sent back, and they're all charmed. He was selfishly relieved that Yakuli's men would be concentrating on Shig and her band, instead of outnumbering Fen. Malick just stared as Husao rushed down past him and toward Shig. Finally moved to help, maybe? Still merely watching it all for his own weird entertainment? Malick didn't really care, so long as he stayed out of Shig's way. Husao's on his way down, he told her, then he shoved it all away, because Shig had Malick's magic, and her own little army at her back—Shig could take care of herself, but Fen....

Two figures, framed by flames, and then one went down, staggered back up, and spun into a clumsy whirl. Malick could not mistake the long tail of the braid streaming out behind Fen as Yakuli caught him in mid-leap with what looked like a hard kick to his gut. Fen flew back and went down again. There was no efficient grace or straightforward elegance to Fen's movements this time. There was merely a blow then a clumsy plunge to the ground. A bone-saving roll like an afterthought or maybe instinct, then Fen dragged himself up to his knees.

Son of a bitch had no idea how to quit.

Fen was at least on his feet again by the time Malick reached Joori and dropped his veil. Joori was livid, but Malick had expected him to be. Malick merely ignored the snarling and cursing and kept a firm grip as Samin trotted up to Malick's side, dragging Morin and his too-big broadsword along behind him. Morin's sword was bloodied, and there were streaks of it on his face. His eyes had that wild, half-shocked, half-exhilarated look to them that was too distinctive of a first kill. Malick might spend time later lamenting that the boy had been forced to it, but the world was tough all over, and Malick had other things to worry about right now. He looked both Samin and Morin over, judged them both unhurt, and saved all the rest for later. With the unspoken order to hold him back, Malick shoved Joori, still cursing, at Samin, sucked in a long breath, and took stock.

Shig and her party had been engaged about fifty yards down the hill, and though Malick could feel that Yakuli's men all had amulets, none of them were those the hunters carried, the ones made from Skel's Blood. One lucky break, in this night severely lacking them otherwise, but it made him wonder uneasily why, and if Yakuli had a nasty surprise just tucked up his sleeve and waiting. Maybe Yakuli really hadn't known they were coming, which made no sense at all, because Xari had warned him—hadn't she?

Malick's magic through Shig was nulling out the magic of the amulets Yakuli's men wore. The only weapons of any use to them were those made of steel. Shig's party returned the fight in kind, kept the fight to physical weapons and hand to hand, and though it was riskier, Malick approved. Malick wondered if Husao had anything to do with that as he stood at the edges of the battle itself and watched, his face twisted in obvious concentration, intent on observing Shig. Throwing magic around was how the Jin had gotten into this whole mess to begin with, after all, and Malick might not have liked what had happened to them, might have been pissed as hell that the gods seemed to condone it, but he'd always agreed that magic was not a tool for war. Regardless of their foolishness and the suffering they'd caused their own children, the Ancestors had never meant their magic to be used that way.

Satisfied that Shig had her end under control, Malick turned back to Fen, glad that he was at least on his feet again, but dismayed down to the ground that he looked so... not-Fen.

Laughing, the grin curling at his mouth manic as he chuckled and muttered things Malick couldn't hear and probably didn't want to. He looked like every Jin Untouchable Malick had seen in the last century or so—blank-eyed and tattered, mumbling to himself, and just... not well. He was limping worse than he'd been before, and he didn't even seem to notice. Blood dripped from a split in his lip, down his face from an apparent head wound, and wide swaths of what Malick was pretty sure weren't shadows bloomed all along the left side of his face and his right temple. How the hell had—?

And then Yakuli went to shadow halfway through a charge, and Malick knew.

Bloody hell, and Fen had thought Malick fought dirty. Joori was still snarling at Samin, had latched on to Malick's sleeve, tug-tug-tugging then wrenching, but Malick just shook him off, called, “Fen!” and started running.

* * * *

The whistle of air on steel was what moved Jacin to roll to the side and to his feet, surprised that he could hear it through the singing and the screeching, and the low, humming roar of the flames. Or maybe he felt it, Yakuli's sword coming for him, and what did it matter? Yakuli didn't even bother with his shadows for a while, just came at Jacin, both swords swinging. Jacin was surprised, because they looked like good weapons—heavy, quality steel—but Yakuli twirled them with no apparent effort, and aimed to damage, maim, or at least cripple with every swipe.

Jacin flew and spun and slashed, taking hits when necessary, and inflicting them every chance he got. And he couldn't stop laughing.

Catalyst and Incendiary light the lamps of the sky and burn the heavens whet your blades with the rites of vengeance our boy chosen the key rites of vengeance

Too many disadvantages. Jacin had to get up close to use his weapons, and Yakuli didn't. He blooded Jacin at least a little bit more every time he attacked. And with access to the shadows any time he wanted them, it was only going to be a matter of time. The throwing knives were useless against someone who could disappear every time Jacin reached for one. Meant to fail, and maybe so, Jacin didn't expect to get out of this alive, but he did expect to do a hell of a lot of damage before he went down. Maybe give Malick enough time to find Jacin's mother and get everyone else out, because Malick had promised. And now, in what were likely his last moments, Jacin chose to believe that promise.

He clung to it, laughed out his last breath as he went flying backward once again and landed hard on his ass. A pounding kick to his ribs splintered little snaps and cracks through his chest as pain exploded through him. Choking on breathless snorts, Jacin went down on his back in the grass again. The red-gold-orange of more fire than he remembered smeared through the trails of the stars spangling at the edges of his vision.

Subie snarled out another complaint. The ground shook, making Jacin's teeth rattle. He laughed harder. And even as he watched Yakuli coming after him, watched the flames curl and snap all around him, heard Joori's voice coming to him from far away, shouting, “Jacin!” in a voice edged with stress and panic, Jacin couldn't stop laughing.

"The ground trembles and shifts to Null,” he snorted then let it all bubble up his throat, spill out his mouth: “The gods have all gone silent and Wolf calls us home your Blood our Blood our boy clinging to corpses only say it once—"

"Shut up!” grated Yakuli.

"—listenlistenlisten Wolf suffers not the duplicity of weaker gods he calls the Prime to his duty, the key, the key...."

Jacin was still laughing as he pushed himself along the grass on his back, but it felt more like sobbing in disguise. His chest was tight, and his mouth was moving with no more control over what came out of it than Yakuli's creatures had over theirs. Fuck, his head hurt. “Wolf speaks we've chosen our boy say it once—"

"Stop it!” Yakuli snapped, but Jacin couldn't. Could only shuffle back a little more when Yakuli advanced on him. Not bothering with his shadows anymore, because what was the point? Jacin was lying on his back in the grass, crazed laughter and incoherent Voices frothing from his mouth like a rabid animal—what kind of threat could he possibly be?

Out of breath, Jacin throttled the snorting down some when Yakuli drew the swords at his sides up and to the ready. Let it burble back up when Yakuli took a step in. Saw Malick out the corner of his eye, careening in toward Yakuli, sword swinging in a glittering arc to his side. Watched some man he'd never seen before step in and hold Malick back, and then a woman with skin as black as the night hustle in to help him. Good. Jacin had already been responsible for the damnation of one soul; he didn't want Malick's on his conscience too. He didn't think he could take it, not after tonight, not after actually seeing what it meant to have one's spirit taken away, and who would be left to help these people if Jacin was dead and Malick was damned? Who would see to Jacin's mother? Who would take care of Joori and Morin?

"You've always known you couldn't live with it,” Caidi told him as she crouched down beside him and ran her warm palm over Jacin's bloody temple. She leaned in, laid a kiss to his cheek, soft and sweet, then pulled back, her hazel eyes glinting gold and dangerous in the wavering firelight. “The Ghost breathes his last and the Catalyst moves back to Zero.” She grinned, a Caidi-grin, all bright eyes and dimples. “Time to start again, love."

"Yeah,” Jacin agreed. He matched her grin and laughed some more. He had no idea what the fuck she was talking about, but he was breathing his last, Caidi said so, and it made him giddy. He rolled slowly, got an arm and a knee beneath himself, only to have them flail out from under him again when Yakuli's boot crashed into his gut and shoved all the air out of him.

Still chuckling—he couldn't help it—Jacin collapsed back, because he couldn't breathe for the smoke and the laughter, and his arms were too shaky to hold him up.

Wolf was bright in the sky, too bright, hazing his vision even more, making his head thump. He watched Yakuli lift his sword, saw the reflection of Wolf on the flat of the blade as it glinted and gleamed. Jacin winced as Wolf's mirrored light speared into his eyes, as he squinted through the flames at Wolf's face.

"Leers through a veil of burning skies,” Jacin wheezed, and what did it matter? He was failing, he was meant to fail, made to fail, and the Ghost would not survive the night, Caidi had told him so, and Caidi was the only one he could believe. Wolf grinned down, watching him fail, Raven and Dragon ghost-red splinters behind him. Jacin could almost hear Wolf laughing through the Ancestors’ lunatic shrieking, louder and louder, taking him over. He couldn't think, so he stopped trying, gave himself to the voices and the madness, and narrowed himself down to instinct alone.

"Fen!” someone shouted, and he thought it was Malick, but it was miles away, and Caidi was giggling, so he only shook his head.

"Ghost,” he corrected, grinning over at Caidi, her gold hair washed crimson in the firelight, then he shoved himself back when Yakuli's blades came at him. Because he was Jacin-rei, he was the Ghost, and the Ghost would not survive the night, but he wasn't going down alone, and it was just too fucking funny.

"Be the Ghost, Jacin-rei,” Caidi told him, and it was strange, because it was a tiny little whisper, but he could hear it through the Ancestors’ screeching songs, so he did as she told him to, because Caidi wouldn't lie to him.

Laughing again, loud and full this time, because he had the breath for it now, Jacin rolled to the right and onto his feet when Yakuli's crossed swords came down, a glittering X aiming to take his head from his shoulders. “Catalyst and Incendiary,” Jacin wheezed as he dodged away from a swipe, “light the lamps of the sky and burn the heavens whet your blades with the rites of vengeance."

Diving to the side, no thought, Jacin's hand drew a small knife all on its own from the straps on his forearm, flicked it at Yakuli. Some hard little coal in his mind that burned through the madness purred in satisfaction as it sank into a meaty thigh. “Wolf will not be thwarted,” Jacin breathed, “the Ghost unlocks the door to our grave the Prime turns the key to rebirth Wolf opens his arms and brings us home."

"Get him, Jacin-rei,” Caidi whispered. “No one can kill the monster like you can."

The Ghost grinned as he spat blood, drove in and up with his knives, then whirled back and away.

* * * *

Joori “saw” it half a second before it actually happened. Caught somewhere in someone else's dream, time slowing down around him, moving with syrupy lethargy as battles clashed and fires flared, and Wolf stared down from the sky and watched it all. It was like seeing one reality overlay another, witnessing the tiniest snatch of What Will Be while What Is played out all around him.

Watched himself watching as Malick charged in toward Jacin, obviously intent on helping, and was stopped and held by Tatsu and Sora.

Watched as Jacin flew in at Yakuli, knives aglitter in the wash of fire and moon, and landed a solid slash across Yakuli's chest before being driven back again.

Watched as Yakuli looked down at where his tunic had been sliced and then smiled as the glimmer of mail flashed out. He drove in at Jacin, returned the favor, only Joori was wearing Jacin's mail, and Yakuli's hit drew a splash of blood that turned Joori's stomach and made Jacin stagger.

Watched Jacin go to his knees, and Yakuli raise his sword.

Watched himself tear loose from Samin and rush in toward Jacin, just as Malick used a short burst of magic to knock Sora and Tatsu off him then raced in toward Jacin too.

Watched himself get to Jacin first, try to drag him away and to safety, only to get Yakuli's blade through the throat. Joori actually felt the pain of it as he watched Malick charge in—radiant in his dread; terrifying in his rage—and cut Yakuli down.

Felt the elation, too short-lived, before he heard Jacin's screams of grief then the laughter as Joori watched himself fall into his brother's arms. The sky rumbled and roiled, and Wolf grew, grew, until he filled it, filled Joori's vision, and he watched Malick look up, sad and resigned, but not sorry, not sorry, smile down at Jacin and shrug like it didn't matter as Wolf swallowed him up.

Watched the battles rage and the not-dead burn, watched Samin try to protect Morin and save Shig at the same time, and watched as he staggered away when they fell beneath a swarm of hauberks and Yakuli's coat of arms.

Heard the laughter, the screams, coming from Jacin, and knew, knew they would never stop, that Jacin was gone, and all that was left of him was laughing itself to death on the trampled grass of Yakuli's compound beside Joori's dead body.

Samin wept as he cut Jacin's throat, stopped the laughter and gave him the only sort of brutal mercy a man like Samin knew. Tatsu and Sora withdrew, mourning one of their own, and Husao looked down into Joori's dead gaze, his eyes hard and his expression angry.

"Let him be what he is,” Husao told him sternly. “You must be what you are."

Not a dream—a vision. A vision from a Temshiel seer.

"The future is such a chancy thing,” Husao went on then lifted an eyebrow, like he thought Joori might be too stupid to understand what he was saying. “Chancy and all too changeable, if we know what to do with it."

Think very carefully, Fen Joori, because you may be called upon to make the same decision for yourself.

Horrible, sickening irony that Umeia's advice would come to Joori now.

And then he was back in Samin's grip, watching blood splash as Yakuli's sword connected with Jacin's chest, and Joori lifted a hand to his own breastbone, felt the mail beneath his palm as Jacin went to his knees. Watching it all happen again, reliving it—Malick charging toward Jacin, Tatsu and Sora stopping him then being shoved away as Jacin fell and Malick shouted and Joori shoved at Samin's hand on his arm.

He'd tried so hard, right from the beginning, to protect Jacin, to love him by keeping him, and everything he'd done had turned out wrong. He'd stepped in where he shouldn't, and Caidi and Yori were dead because of it. He must be what he must be their mother had told him, and then Morin, years later, had echoed almost the exact same words, and Joori hadn't understood them, denied them. He wasn't sure he understood them now, but he'd just been shown a future where Malick had given up his soul for Jacin, and Jacin had given up himself to the madness as he watched.

And all because Joori had stepped in again where he shouldn't.

Don't die. It was the only thing Jacin had asked of him—possibly ever. I need you to live.

This time, when he shoved loose from Samin, Joori still ran to Jacin, but he didn't step in, didn't try to drag him away like he'd watched himself do before. He only stood there, kept watching as Malick raised his sword on Yakuli, his eyes on fire, that scent of ozone snapping around him like it had done in the alley, and raising the hairs on the back of Joori's neck. Joori wanted to shout out, warn Malick, tell him what he'd seen, but any warning he might have given died and turned to ash in his throat when Jacin rolled up to his feet, shouted, “Don't!” then lunged in and angled himself in front of Yakuli, just as Malick's blade plunged.

Time froze again, but Joori didn't think it was only him this time. He stared at the sword in Malick's hand, sunken halfway through Jacin's gut. Malick was just looking at it, shock-blank as his eyes slowly rose to Jacin's, his expression horrified and almost betrayed.

"I decided,” Jacin said thickly, that horrible smile gone now, and his eyes clear and lucid, “that I couldn't live with it."

Malick caught him carefully as he went down again, sinking to his knees, staring out around him, vague and distant, until his gaze landed on Joori. Unbelievably, horribly, Jacin smiled, that soft, warm smile that Joori had thought he'd never see on his brother's face again, so sweet, so full of love and... peace.

Joori's paralysis finally broke. He lurched in toward Jacin, helped Malick lower him gently to the ground. Malick was nearly babbling, “You bastard, you can't... Fen, I'm sorry, don't do this,” over and over again as he carefully pulled the sword from the wound then covered it with his hand to staunch the bleeding.

Joori shoved Malick away, because he couldn't make himself not do it, and replaced Malick's hand with his own, holding his brother's guts in and feeling his brother's blood spilling out all over his hand. Morin was yelling somewhere back there, hurling curses, presumably at Yakuli, but Yakuli was running away—running away!—and Samin was still holding onto Morin, so maybe some of them were for Samin too.

"Wolf will not be thwarted,” Jacin wheezed, “the Ghost unlocks the door to our grave the Prime turns the key to rebirth Wolf opens his arms and brings us home the Prime turns the key the key only say it once—"

"Jacin,” Joori pleaded, because he couldn't stand another word, not now. “Stop, just... stop."

Except it seemed like Jacin couldn't. “Catalyst and Incendiary light the lamps of the sky cast acid—"

"Incendiary,” Malick breathed—shocked, taken aback. “Incendiary.” He turned, looked at Joori, almost-horror. “Shit.” Breathless and stunned, then he turned back to Jacin again, shook him. “Fen. Fen! You can't do this. Incendiary, Fen, you don't know what—"

And then Xari was there, just looking, eyes riveted to Joori, like she was waiting for him to do something, and when he didn't, she turned her stare on Malick.

"Told you, did I not?” Her full mouth was turned down, her beautiful face twisted into regret. “He would not have thanked you for your oath. ‘Tis better that you did not give it."

"I couldn't,” Malick wheezed, his tone flat, distant. “He wouldn't let me, and then it didn't stick anyway.” He lifted his head, peering over his shoulder. “Tatsu!"

"So, you tried,” Xari said softly, almost fondly. “Of course you did.” She sighed, shot another look at Joori but quickly looked away again. “I have shown Wolf's key the path, in the end. My lot is cast.” With a half bow of her head, she held out her hands, and amulets dropped from them, one after another, like they were coming from nowhere at all. They piled up impossibly high—dozens and dozens of them—and then she paused, dangling one that perhaps had more significance than the others, because it seemed like she shuddered just from touching it. She tossed it over Malick's head, and Husao was suddenly there to catch it. Husao stared at it and drew in a shaky breath, strangely reverent. Xari just pushed out a long, tired sigh. “My part is done."

Malick didn't look, didn't thank her, didn't try to kill her, didn't even answer. Just turned back to stare down at Jacin as Jacin smirked back up, sucked in a heavy breath, and arched like it hurt him. “Always a fucking trade,” he rasped.

And Joori abruptly knew. Whatever it was he'd seen, it had been Xari's doing—she'd shown Joori a possible future and manipulated him into changing it, used his own hard-learned lessons against him, and turned it all into this. Maneuvered him into killing his brother. All she'd wanted, from the very beginning, was to save Malick, and apparently, the “trade” had been Jacin, just like it had been with Umeia. And Husao had known, had helped her do it.

How could Joori have trusted, even for a second, anything that came from the man who'd pretended to be his brother's confidant and caretaker, when all along he'd been setting Jacin up to be Asai's killer?

Fury welled in Joori's chest, all jumbled together with grief and regret. He choked down a sob that seized his throat, strangled him as he pulled his hand away from Jacin's wound, listened to Malick calling for Tatsu, like there was something he could do.

Subie shoved out another heavy rumble, and like it had done before, even as he watched Xari dissolve into shadow, the rage inside Joori reached for it, twined with the spirit that was bound to his own and curled, purring, through his core. Everything rammed up and out with the scream of rage that hurled itself from his chest. The Blood in Joori's veins joined with the fiery blood in the veins of the earth that ran beneath him, pulsing toward the heart that was Subie. The air shimmered, the ground broke and steepled then warped, dirt flying, rocks and pebbles pelting, and Joori didn't see any of it—you could too easily take yourself out next time—and Joori didn't care.

What did it matter? Jacin's blood was everywhere, all over him, leaking out and away, and Jacin's eyes were going cloudy, but his smile was still there as he whispered the Ancestors’ nonsense to Malick and reached for Joori with his blood-soaked hand. Men scattered, and screamed, and the earth trembled beneath them all and swallowed indiscriminately.

Joori felt Malick's eyes on him and met the stare, challenging, but Malick was looking at him like he was shocked and grieved and thrilled all at once, like he was exalted in the throes of some sublime epiphany. And still, Joori didn't care.

Grief, fury, betrayal—all of it roiled through Joori and wended itself into the ground around him. Curled in when his fist did, and thumped when he pounded at the ground as he watched Malick lean down, tenderly lay a kiss to Jacin's mouth, breathe, “Key,” and squeeze Jacin's hand then... smile.

How could he fucking smile, when Joori was sitting here watching his brother die and the world convulse and collapse around him, echoing the shattering of his heart? But Jacin was smiling, too, as his eyes went half-lidded, and Malick, weeping—fuck, he was weeping, Joori hadn't even thought he knew how—reached out a hand covered in Jacin's blood, clamped on to Joori's.

The shaking didn't stop like it had done the last time Malick had touched him—it grew, trebled and quadrupled. And when Malick gently lowered Jacin to his back in the grass, freed his arm then lifted it, snapped it straight with his palm up, everything in Joori followed the shove.

* * * *

Samin had a good hold on Morin when the first tremor shuddered beneath his boots—he'd had to, because Morin was too intent on getting between his brother and Yakuli—but when everything rippled and erupted beneath him, he lost his grip along with his balance, and Morin slithered loose. He didn't get far; he couldn't. The ground was shaking, caving in around the barracks like it was aimed, uprooting trees. Samin was just thankful that he'd dragged the boy out as far from the fight as he'd done. They'd been too open to attack for his liking at the time, but now, he was just glad there was nothing big enough to collapse on top of them and crush them. That was, if the ground itself didn't do the job.

Rocking and shaking, almost in time to Joori's shouts and screams of despair that echoed so disturbingly those of his brother only hours before down in the baths. Only these screams seemed to have a destructive power all their own. The jink and snap of the earth kept their undulating rhythm, until it all shifted, took on a new tone, and altered itself from an all-encompassing shudder to something deeper, something driven, something with purpose.

A little more stable now, Samin found Morin first, crawled over the rocking, broken earth to him and gripped the back of his collar. He peered up cautiously, saw the barracks flattened and smoldering, bodies everywhere, and Fen down on the ground right in the center of it. Malick leaned over Fen, one hand grasping Joori's in a tableau of shared grief and comfort, and the other raised... aimed.

Samin only just had time to understand that the quakes were coming from Joori, that Malick was taking them, directing them, before thunder rolled, lightning streaked, and Subie erupted with a great, spurting roar. Fire vomited from its peak, spewed from its vents. Great chunks of rock broke loose from all sides, hurled up and out, and careened back down its flanks. Lava flowed, beautiful in its lethal indifference to everything in its path. Samin idly wondered if it would reach the city and decided it could only be an improvement.

Gouts of liquid fire gushed from the mountain, Wolf's grinning face watching it all, long arms of flame crawling up the sky, as though reaching for the moons themselves. Clouds of thick smoke and pulverized debris flashed and glittered as ropes of lightning stretched from them to flitter over the falling peak.

The sound was deafening, all-consuming, as Subie pummeled itself. The ground continued to rock and sway beneath Samin as he kept his grip on Morin, watched Joori's face go from grief-stricken to awed to viciously exultant as one hand gripped Malick's, and the other gripped his brother's.

Malick's face stayed the same, focused, but stone-hard and blank as he aimed everything in himself and Joori at the mountain like it had, all by itself, ruined everything that was good in his life. Samin peered down at Fen's still shape, looking smaller than it should, and wondered if it had.

Samin's ears were ringing, his whole body numb but for the deep-set thumping that rattled his ribs and his teeth and jarred all up and down his backbone. And still, Subie kept snarling and crumbling and shaking, spewing out ash and smoke and fire, blotting out the moons as it collapsed in on itself. Gone in only a few timeless minutes, from a mountain that hunched over Ada and what used to be Jejin like a stern sentinel, to a bad-tempered smoking crater the size of the bay itself.

And then it all stopped, just like that, all at once. All that was left were the aftershocks, tiny little tremors that slithered through the ground then shook themselves out. Samin couldn't hear a thing, just a dull ringing behind his teeth, but he pulled himself up to his feet then dragged Morin up after him. He surveyed the chaos.

Everyone had gone flat to the ground. Samin couldn't distinguish the live bodies from the dead ones, so he didn't try. Just searched for Shig's distinctive multicolored head, relieved when he saw her getting to her own feet farther down the hill, shaking her head as if to clear it and then turning her glance his way. Samin tried to ask her if she was all right, but he didn't get an answer, so he waved. Shig waved back as she started up the hill. Samin let Morin do what he'd been wanting to do since he'd started that fire in the barracks—Samin let the boy drag him over to his brothers.

They picked their way over broken earth and crevices wide enough that Samin had to toss Morin over them first then jump after. Men in Yakuli's livery stirred, peering up cautiously from their flattened positions on the ground like gophers poking their heads from their holes. They seemed willing to ignore Samin and Morin as they stepped their way over and around them, so Samin returned the favor.

None of Yakuli's creatures stirred, though. Samin wasn't quite sure what to make of that. He hoped it meant Yakuli was dead, but he'd learned over the years that good luck was for other people, so he didn't count on it. Still, he didn't see the man anywhere, so the hope didn't die.

Husao was standing over Malick, two others Samin didn't know just behind him. They didn't look like they belonged to Yakuli, and the woman was bloody gorgeous with her dark skin and dark eyes, so Samin was willing to hold off on killing them until he found out if he should. Anyway, he was bone-fucking-weary, and the numb, shaky vibrations still working under his skin told him he was going to be sore as hell tomorrow. Cautiously, he scanned around for Xari, but he saw neither her nor Yakuli, and he counted it as a good thing.

"Is he dead?” Morin asked, his voice over-loud to be heard over the probable ringing in his own ears, but the tone was dull, detached. Like a boy who'd known all along he was meant to lose something, and was determined to accept it like a man when he finally did. Poor lad; just when he'd allowed his surly veneer to retreat behind the true one—

Another little aftershock fluttered beneath their feet, and more fountains of fire belched up from Subie's ruins. Shig fetched up beside Samin, looking unhurt but strangely confused, her expression flat and unreadable. Samin wondered if Morin knew he was clinging to Samin's arm hard enough to leave marks, but nothing in the world would move him to ask it out loud.

"He is not dead,” Husao answered, when neither Joori nor Malick turned to do it.

"Soon,” Fen said in a hoarse whisper, eyes half-shut and dull, blue-lidded and dark-rung. He gusted a snort that loosed a tiny spray of blood from his mouth, then smiled, all bleary and wistful. “Caidi said...."

Samin didn't find out what Caidi said, because Fen closed his eyes and passed out.

"Tatsu,” Malick growled, “don't fucking argue with me, I want—"

"I cannot touch the Untouchable,” the man Malick had called Tatsu cut in, blithely ignoring Malick's command not to argue.

Malick held out his bloody hand toward Tatsu, his eyes blazing, the muscles in his jaw ticcing and twitching. “Then give me—"

"No,” Tatsu snapped, and took a step back, out of Malick's immediate reach. “You know what you ask, Kamen, and you know what it would mean to a Temshiel not of Wolf. Threaten all you like, but I will not—"

"You will,” Shig interjected softly. “You can.” She laughed a little, though it was sad, maybe a little lost, and she leaned in closer to Samin, like she was afraid she might fall down. Samin looped his arm around her waist. “They're gone,” Shig told Malick, shaking her colorful head like even she didn't understand what she was saying. “It's all... it's gone quiet."

Malick stared at her, piercing at first, and then his gaze twisted with sympathy Samin wasn't quite sure he understood. “It worked, then.” Malick wheezed a small, dazed laugh, then slowly shifted his glance back over to Joori, who was just staring down at his brother, crying softly. “It worked,” Malick repeated. With a sigh, he leaned over, picked up one of Fen's knives from the ground beside him—one of the ones he'd bought the day he and Samin had gone to the Stallion—then caught Joori's eye. Made sure Joori watched as Malick took Fen's braid in his hand, slid his fingers along it, deliberate and tender, then gripped it in his fist and sliced it off just above Fen's shoulder. A collective gasp went up from all around, but Malick ignored it, gave Joori a grim smile, then turned back once again to Tatsu. “The Ancestors have gone home,” he said evenly. “He's not Untouchable anymore.” His eyes hardened, his mouth went tight, and he jerked his head down toward Fen. “Now fix him!"

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eleven

"You have to wake up now,” Caidi whispered, warm, sweet breath in his ear, but he was falling and it felt like flying, it was silent and it felt like rapture, not a sound, not even thwip-thwip-thwip.

Jacin didn't want to wake up, so he didn't.

* * * *

The sirens cranked, the wail reaching even as far outside the city as Lord Yakuli's estate. It took several hours for the Kiwa Shuua to hit, the lethal waves that crawled as high as the sky and rolled over the coast with deadly force. And if it wreaked even more havoc on a city already in near-chaos, at least it went a little way toward putting out some of the fires that had sprung up from falling ash.

The little grover's hut on the coast was pounded into driftwood and swept away as though it had never been.

The waves extended their destructive reach through Ada's Iron District, stretched their tendrils all through the Industrial Quarter and inched in toward the Judicial District, edging up the bottom steps of the Statehouse itself before they finally receded, taking ships anchored in the harbor out to sea with them. It would be weeks before a final count could be tallied in the wake of Subie's decisive fit of supreme wrath. Days of night before the ash and smoke cleared enough to allow the suns to burn through.

Retribution from the gods—the assumption ran rampant. Mortals tended toward Divine explanations when there wasn't another. In this case, they weren't entirely wrong, though the distinction would remain indistinct to most for a while yet.

Judges Canti and Girosui were well aware of that distinction. They had arrived at Yakuli's gates with a sizable company of the Doujou in time for the first tremors and witnessed the anarchy and resultant destruction. They followed in the aftermath with grave faces as the Temshiel Husao guided them through the surviving barracks and explained to them what they'd already suspected but could never prove. Neither of the men was able to keep their composure entirely. Girosui's cheeks were pale and wet when he emerged from the last barracks and called an order for the search for and arrest of Yakuli and his men, though all but those who'd been killed or injured too gravely to escape had already scattered.

"I have promised the Untouchable that Yakuli would twitch at the end of his blade,” the Temshiel told the judges, and though neither man could vouchsafe the promise, they both left pondering the possible advantages to an Untouchable testifying before the Courts, exposing the corruption of their fellows in public testimony. Justice's blade, so to speak. If the Untouchable survived, and if he remained as sane as the Temshiel claimed him....

The judges left Yakuli's estate already in deep discussion, planning their approach and debating details, with no doubt between them that what they did next would change worlds. The Temshiel Sora and the maijin Xari accompanied them. It would not do for the last two uncorrupted Court officials to fall to the treachery of the corrupt, just as the wheels of true justice began to turn. The fruition of the years-long conspiracy of Canti and Girosui to break the back of the Court was within their reach, and they were determined to see Ada once more a state in which they could take pride. With no magic to fear, the Adan could no longer justify the imprisonment of the Jin, and once the Court was exposed for the den of snakes Canti and Girosui had known it to be for too many years, perhaps they could begin the process of restoring honor and morality to Ada.

The end, they decided as they mobilized the Doujou and began the search for Yakuli, should begin in the Courts, from which the dishonor had taken seed and its rotted, twisted roots had spread.

The end should begin with the Untouchable.

* * * *

"It's time to open your eyes now, Jacin."

Caidi's voice was soft, cajoling. Almost wheedling. It made him smile.

He smelled cherry blossoms, felt them on his skin, feather-light on his closed eyelids.

"C'mon, Jacin, pleeeeeeeease?"

If she'd been anyone else, it would have been annoying, the whiny tone grating. But she was Caidi, so it was neither.

Jacin flickered open his eyes, blinked again as the layer of cherry blossom petals scattered and flittered off his lashes. He was blanketed in them, thick as a fresh fall of snow, warm and soft. He breathed in, sucking their light scent down deep into his lungs.

"Transience,” Caidi told him, and she giggled.

Jacin turned to her, gave her a smile. “Death,” he corrected.

Hazel eyes sparked mischief. “You're so morbid."

She shook her head, long, gold curls whorling around her open, smiling face as she leaned over him, almost nose to nose. She dropped a light kiss to his brow, and a swarm of moths flurried from the sea of petals, rising up through the branches of the cherry trees. Jacin watched them, squinting against the soft sunlight quivering through leaf and blossom, until he lost them in the patches of sky he could see through the thick puffs of the treetops and falling petals.

He hadn't heard a single, frantic beat of wings.

"It's so quiet here,” he breathed.

The fluted peal of Caidi's laughter was like bells. She sat back, hair and cloak dusted with petals. “It has nothing to do with ‘here',” she told him. “Wolf called the Ancestors home, and Joori and Malick set them free. You don't have to listen to them anymore.” She stroked his cheek, her small fingers just as soft as the petals against his skin. “You did well, Jacin. Wolf is pleased. You've earned his favor. Even salvation will be in your grasp, if you choose to reach for it.” Her hand pulled away, and she sat back, her smile sympathetic. “But not yet. You can't stay here."

"No?” There was no alarm; only curiosity. “Where, then?"

Caidi pursed her bow lips. “You have to go back,” she told him gently.

Now there was alarm. Jacin sat up, petals scattering everywhere. “But you said—"

"The Ghost will not survive the night.” She shrugged guiltily, even blushed a little. “The Ghost is gone. Jacin-rei is gone. There is only Fen Jacin now."

It wasn't silent anymore. His head was pounding with the thumping drumbeat of his own heart.

"I don't want it,” was all he could wheeze out on a thin thread of breath.

Caidi's eyes were glistening now, her smile trembling. She launched herself at him, wrapping her small arms around his neck. Jacin shut his eyes tight, breathed her in. “You can't stay,” she whispered. “You have to open your eyes now."

Jacin only shook his head and held Caidi in a grip that was likely strangling the breath out of her, but he couldn't help it. “I can't—"

"Yes,” she told him, her tone gentle but firm. “You can. When have you ever failed at anything?” Brutal for its sweetness. She turned her face into his neck, whispered, “No laws, Jacin. The one whose face hovers over yours when you wake from your death-sleep—that will be the one."

"I don't want—"

"We're all made for sacrifice.” She kissed him, then pulled back. Jacin resisted, clung, but she wrested away just enough that she could lay her brow to his. “Since when have any of us had a choice?” Her hand gripped his shoulder, shook, and her voice deepened, a harsh note of command. “You have to wake up now."

"No.” Weak protest, but it did no good. Already, the light was thickening, going smoky, and it was getting harder and harder to catch the sweetness of the cherry blossoms.

Caidi pulled away entirely, tears on her full cheeks, and she leaned in, kissed away Jacin's. When she drew back from him again, Jacin could see the shapes of the trees through her, and his throat clenched, his chest hurt.

"I'm tired,” he said, not even ashamed that his tone was edged in desperation. “I can't... I want....” It lost itself before he finished, because when had it ever mattered what he wanted? He tightened his jaw to make it stop quivering. “Where is Mother?"

Because Mother had always loved him, even though she wasn't supposed to, had touched her Untouchable son, dried his tears, because he was Wolf's but he was her own, and she'd held to him even through her husband's condemnation, her own madness. Mother would let him stay. He'd weep and let her wipe away his shame, and she'd let him stay.

"Mother isn't here,” Caidi told him gently. “She awaits the fire."

She was fading, and it made the tears come harder, the anger rise. “So do you!” he rasped.

"But I have to go now too,” she answered. “You only needed me for a little while. You don't need me anymore."

"Yes, I do!” he cried, tried to snatch at her, but it was like trying to catch water. “Caidi, please—"

"The Ghost is gone. Back to Zero. You have to start again, Jacin."

He didn't want to start again. He wanted an end.

"I'm so tired, Caidi.” Weeping. Sniveling like a child. He didn't know what to say, how to make her stay, how to make her let him stay, except, “Please. Don't go."

But Caidi only smiled at him, that bright Caidi-grin as she faded to almost nothing, shook him again and snapped, “Damn it, Fen, wake the fuck up!"

Jacin's eyes flew open, squinting against sunlight that wasn't there, lashes thick and clumped with tears. Pain stitched itself to the corners of his awareness, but it wasn't sharp and focused like a knifepoint; more dull and dissipated, a low ache that throbbed beneath his skin, wound itself into muscle and sinew, just enough to let him know it was there. The ceiling was familiar, but not quite, rough beams and whorls of plaster that he almost recognized, but wouldn't, because he didn't want to. He breathed in, trying to catch the scent of cherry blossoms, but all he smelled was sage and pine soap and light, musky sex.

His vision was smudgy, at best, but still, almost reluctantly, he blinked at the blur, focused on smoky-brown hair and a handsome face hovering just above him, tea-colored eyes watching, narrowed in worry. “About fucking time,” Malick breathed. He gave Jacin a grin that held not even the slightest hint of snark or a gleam of disingenuous pretense. Relieved. Glad.

That will be the one, Caidi's voice whispered.

No. It was supposed to be Joori, maybe Morin, or... anyone else.

Instead it was Malick. It was always Malick—dragging him back, making him stay, telling him he was things he knew he wasn't, almost making him believe them, when he knew it would only rip him up later.

"Oh,” Jacin breathed, shut his eyes and tried not to start bawling again, “it's you."

* * * *

The days passed in clear spots between long periods of fugue. There was no great ball of emotion in the middle of his chest threatening to shatter. There was silence, deafening, and there were his brothers, hovering close, almost clinging, and there was a pyre that was almost too big for the Shrine's altar, but it was somehow fitting that they all burned together.

It had been Morin who had found their mother, and it had been Morin who had ended her torture, though Jacin thought the torture had only just begun for Morin. Jacin took their word for it that the tight-wound mass of linen held his mother's body, and that Joori had painted the prayers on her brow and Caidi's before they'd been lovingly and securely wrapped for the fire. He didn't demand that they be unwrapped so he could see them one last time, so that he could see for himself that the prayers were flawless with no errors to prevent their acceptance and eventual rebirth. He didn't want to have to see his mother the way Morin and Joori had seen her, didn't want to see her naked scalp, shorn of the golden cascade she'd bequeathed to her daughter, and would now be just as gone as hers was. He didn't want to have to see the ragged smile-that-wasn't-a-smile torn into her smooth throat.

He only watched the blaze catch and climb, tried not to gag on the thick haze of incense, and looked for Caidi's face through the flames but didn't see it, listened for her voice telling him goodbye, that he'd see her again, but he didn't hear it. He wondered if it would be unseemly for him to stretch his hands out over the fire to warm them—he was cold, all the time, freezing—but he didn't know, so he didn't chance it.

It took him a week to notice that all his knives were missing. He didn't care enough to wonder where they were.

A very near thing, the gut wound, Joori had told him. Another Temshiel had tried to heal him, but it hadn't worked until Malick shoved his magic into the mix and made it work. Apparently, Jacin was still mostly immune to magic. Except for Malick's. He wondered if he hated Malick for that.

Scabbed over and just raw enough that Jacin could poke and pick at it now and then if he wanted to feel something. Except Malick always seemed to show up, fussing and cursing and redressing just when Jacin got a good flow going. Like he could smell the blood or something. Jacin stopped picking at it.

The Girou went on. Malick told Jacin that Umeia would have wanted it to, like Jacin might care, told him he'd signed it over to Lex, and since Jacin had no idea who Lex was, he didn't answer. He never answered, but that didn't stop Malick from talking. Because Malick never let up.

Shig slept with Samin now, because she couldn't sleep alone, and Morin and Joori couldn't stay in the room where Caidi's first real bed sat with its pretty linens, so they shared Jacin's. Malick didn't exactly tell Jacin to share his bed with him, but it was where Jacin had woken up that first day, and it was where he always ended up shuffling back to when he was forced from its seclusion. Sometimes Malick would make him move to the couch in his little sitting room, but most of the time, he just let Jacin stare at the wall from his little cave of blankets and bedding, and ignore time.

Sometimes Jacin heard Beishin, heckling him, telling him it hadn't been the Ancestors who'd made him insane, and sometimes he saw his father, looking at him with disdain and disgust. But then there would be Joori, holding onto him, weeping into his shoulder, maybe, or just sitting quietly beside him, nudging Jacin when he forgot halfway through a bowl of rice that he was supposed to be eating. Or Morin, snarking at his idleness as Jacin lay on Malick's great big bed, burrowed in and barricaded, though it didn't keep them out. Sometimes Morin read aloud from books Samin had found for him, pretending he was just doing it because he felt like it and not because he was trying to get something from Jacin that Jacin suspected he couldn't give. He never remembered the stories.

"You would've been proud of him,” Samin had told Jacin, his gruff voice a weird anchor in the silence that had felt somewhat comfortable between them before it was broken, and now in hindsight seemed tenuous, like it had never felt with Samin. “He almost couldn't see for the tears, but I told him he wouldn't be a man if he hadn't wept, and that seemed to make him feel better.” A long, timeless pause before Samin went on, “His hand was steady. He gave her a clean end. Just like you showed him."

Jacin thought Samin made a better father for Morin than their own had done. He thought perhaps he should tell Samin this, but he lost time, and when he found it again, it had gone dark and Samin was gone.

Shig, it seemed, was always curled up in Malick's big, ugly chair whenever Malick would drag Jacin from the warm cocoon of the wide, goose-down mattress and fine, heavy linens and dump him on the couch for a while. Jacin didn't try to decide if it annoyed him. Anyway, he was forever cold anymore, and the fire was out in the sitting room.

He still had a limp, some of his wounds bone-deep, the mangled muscle of his calf beyond full healing, but the short, enforced walks didn't pain him as much as he'd pretend if Malick tried to make him leave the room for a trip any farther from its threshold than the baths. Somehow, though he always started out on the couch alone, with Shig in the chair across from him, Jacin usually managed to drift from his haze after a while to notice that she'd moved to the couch to curl up against him like a cat on a hearthstone

"Malick wants to take us to Tambalon after Yakuli's trial,” Shig said softly. She puffed a light, humorless snort, and shrugged. “I wonder if I get seasick?"

The streaks of green and blue and red weren't as vibrant a contrast to Shig's blonde hair as they'd been, like all her losses had dulled her on the outside as well as on the inside. She missed her sister. She probably missed Umeia. She missed her spirits. Jacin almost understood it. It was hard to get used to all the empty space, all the silence, when you were so accustomed to shoving your thoughts through the noise. Like trying to batter through a stone wall, and then the wall crumbles, and you go careening off the cliff on the other side of it. And you can't even pretend you're flying.

"How do you go on?” Shig asked him, her voice weirdly solid without its edge of singsong. “What do you hide behind, now that the braid can't hide you anymore?"

Jacin had thought maybe he'd like her more without all her spirits telling her how to sucker-punch him. He didn't. With the exception of a reflexive touch to the ragged ends of his now shoulder-length hair, he didn't bother to answer her.

Had he hidden behind it? He didn't think so. More like it obscured him and everything he was to the point where hiding was entirely unnecessary.

"You have to start again now too,” Shig whispered, wrapping herself around his arm like ivy. “You wanted an end, and instead you got a beginning. Poor Fen."

He almost wanted to shove her away, tell her to fuck off, but he couldn't make himself muster the will, and still, he didn't bother to answer her.

He didn't bother to answer anyone. Not even his father. Not even Beishin. He would have answered Caidi, maybe, but she never came.

Instead, always, right beside him—holding him up, pushing him forward, telling him he wasn't nothing, poking him, prodding him, annoying him enough that he was sometimes moved to growl a warning—it was Malick, tarnished bronze eyes watching, waiting for something. Except Jacin didn't know what it was, and he couldn't make himself care. But he let Malick do it, let Malick take him to bed at night and curl himself around him, hold him, warm him, and Jacin slept and felt improbably safe and distantly... something. Grateful? Surely not.

* * * *

The Statehouse loomed up, a penumbra of shadow slinking down the marble steps and onto the slate path that led from the street. Jacin toed the line of sunshine that edged the shadow, peered up, and squinted, looking for the blue hulking haze of distant Subie that wasn't there anymore. Smoke still tendriled from its sunken caldera, a thin, gray line linking heaven to earth, and he fancied he could see the ghost of Wolf hovering above it, grinning, so he cut his eyes downward.

It still smelled of seaweed and rotten fish. The floods had reached right to these very steps; he could still see the mud line on the riser of the second. He imagined there was probably a great deal of detritus lingering as a result of the destruction of the Kiwa Shuua, and he also imagined they must have passed at least some of it on the way here. He hadn't looked.

"Just ignore them,” Malick told him, his arm heavy across Jacin's shoulders as he frowned at the gathered onlookers, mouth set grim. “There'll be a crowd in the courtroom, too, but they'll at least have to be quiet in there."

Jacin hadn't noticed the din. He was good at ignoring noise. He noticed the stares, though, because they were different than the brief glances, the shocks of recognition, then the quick aversion of gazes. These gazes drilled into him, looked at him—curiosity, hostility, sympathy, expectation. No one got too close, though, as if an invisible bubble kept them back, and Jacin vaguely wondered if Malick was doing it, but it didn't really matter.

"What do I do about the carriage?” Joori asked Malick. Jacin peered back over his shoulder, saw Asai's expensive coach hitched to Asai's expensive horse, Morin with a hand on its harness, staring about, wide-eyed. Samin—as he always seemed to be these days—was standing just beside Morin, eyes sharp on the crowd, watching for threat. Jacin really should thank him some time.

He'd been told that he'd been taken from Yakuli's and back to the Girou in that same carriage, and he supposed they must have all made the trip here in it too. He didn't remember. It should have bothered him, but it didn't.

The weight of Malick's arm shifted on Jacin's shoulders as he half turned, thin stripes of chill blooming where his warmth had rested just a second ago. Jacin shivered a little.

"Just hand it over to him,” Malick answered, jerking his chin at a thin young boy—a page, perhaps—clomping down the steps of the Statehouse, preceding a stout man with a somber smile. The man's bald head caught a stray glint of the sun-through-shadow as he descended and stepped up in front of them. The toes of the man's flat, leather shoes, like the toes of Jacin's scuffed boots, edged along the band of light and shadow on the walk.

"Fen, this is Judge Canti,” Malick said. He paused while the man dipped his head respectfully, seemingly not offended when Jacin only stared. “He'll be leading the questioning."

"Your Husao has told me much about you, Fen-seyh,” the judge said, meeting Jacin's flat stare with apparent interest, his pale-blue eyes bright with intelligence and a hint of craft. “I trust you're prepared for what is to take place today?” The upward slant of the tone made it into a question, and Canti's eyes shifted from Jacin to Malick, directing the query at him.

Malick's hand tightened on Jacin's shoulder. Jacin was tempted to shrug it off, but he didn't. “Fen will—"

"Jacin will do what he can,” Joori cut in, sliding a dark, warning look at Malick, but he didn't snarl or growl, like he might've done before. He looked at Jacin, his mouth dragging slightly upward in a grim smile. “He's had a... a bad time.” He was either talking to Malick or Canti, but he was still looking at Jacin. “We never promised anything.” Joori sucked in a long breath and turned to the Judge. “We don't know what to expect today. But Jacin... well, he's Jacin. He comes through. It's what he does."

Jacin didn't know if he was inspired or horrified.

He knew what today was about in a vague, esoteric sort of way, knew what they were expecting of him, what was at stake. He just didn't know if he could do it. Didn't know if he cared to try.

"It is fitting,” Judge Canti said with a somber smile, “that great change should come through Wolf's Catalyst."

Jacin wanted to vomit.

He'd been a catalyst. Nothing more. The stumbling, fumbling center around which great things had occurred. He hadn't saved the Jin. He hadn't saved his mother. He hadn't saved anyone. Everyone else around him had managed to walk away from Yakuli's with at least one kill to their credit, even Morin, but Jacin had failed to accomplish even that much. It had been bad enough knowing that Asai had always meant for him to fail. What was he supposed to do with the knowledge that his god had intended the same?

Meant to fail. Made for it.

Perfection at last.

They'd quarreled about today, Joori and Malick—Malick contending that Jacin needed to be pushed, Joori contending that he couldn't take being pushed any more—and Jacin had wondered if Joori realized they were bickering right in front of him, over him, around him, like Joori used to argue with their father about their mother. It was his own fault, Jacin supposed. He could have argued for himself, but he didn't feel like it.

He let everything sink into the background—whatever Judge Canti was saying to Malick and Joori, and whatever they were saying back, the steady murmur of the crowd as they watched—and let Malick hold onto his arm as he hobbled up the steps in Canti's wake. He didn't even curl his lip, just let Malick give him a little push as they stepped into the courtroom, and Canti gestured for Jacin to follow him. Canti ushered him to a small, raised platform edged with a polished walnut railing, and Jacin let his mind drift inward, let all the expectant gazes recede to irrelevance.

Found Yakuli's hate-filled glare, and let himself smile, just a little.

Remembered dark eyes and the scent of jasmine. A deep, smooth voice in the dark of night demanding magic from a maijin. The squelching crunch of a small body caroming into the cobbles. Remembered soft, hazel eyes, and a slender hand touching him when touching was forbidden.

And when Canti raised his voice, asked the Untouchable to speak... Jacin let his mouth open.

Let himself tell them everything.

* * * *

The breeze was cool and crisp for all it was briny, ruffling at his fringe, obscuring his vision for seconds then blowing back and clearing it again. He hadn't gotten used to the hair yet, his head still felt too light, so he'd let Joori pull it back into a stumpy tail at the back of his neck this morning. Joori had grinned like Jacin had just asked him if he wouldn't mind taking a bag of gold off his hands.

The voyage to Tambalon would take three weeks, if the weather was good, and the captain had assured Malick it would be. A thick, swart man, pierced and tattooed and unexpectedly jolly, the captain had seemed to take great pleasure in accepting their papers when they'd boarded. It was the first time ever, he'd said, that he'd taken a Jin onto his ship without the risk of the gallows, and if there was anything they needed in the coming weeks, they'd only to ask him. Jacin didn't need anything. Jacin had spent the first week exactly as he planned to spend the rest of them—planted in a spindly deck chair, one of several on the port stern, watching the waves, smelling the sea, feeling the wind on his skin, and the vague sting of salt.

The crew was small and went about their business with comforting ease, their chatter gruff and their looks at Jacin cursory and pleasant enough. A mix of Heldes and Thecians, their mingled accents were strangely reassuring in their distant snark and banter, a soothing background hum beneath the sound of the sea and the indecipherable buzz of his thoughts. No one stared, and no one sneered. They did what needed to be done and left Jacin to his solitude, such as it was. Malick was forever hovering, poking, prodding, trying to get conversation that Jacin wouldn't give, and Jacin's brothers were almost as bad. Samin more or less respected Jacin's wish for silence, but Shig didn't. Sometimes Jacin thought she annoyed him more than Malick did.

It wasn't until just two days ago, when he'd found himself alone on the deck and realized it was for the first time—and that only for perhaps five minutes or so before Joori swung himself up on deck, a bit wild-eyed then too obviously relieved when he spotted Jacin—that it dawned on him why he was so rarely free of company. He'd almost snorted. Almost. The call of the depths might have been enticing, if he could bring himself to bother caring. For the first time, he connected it with the missing knives. He couldn't decide if he was offended or amused.

The water was pleasantly calm today, the breeze light, so the crew had finished whatever it was they did before Jacin had even gotten up here this morning. He'd only seen one or two a few times since, adjusting and checking sails and doing incomprehensible things with ropes. Jacin ignored them, and they never seemed to mind.

Shig sat in one of the chairs, two down from Jacin's right, but she looked tired and drawn, so Jacin pretended not to see her. He wasn't the only one who'd had a shitty time of it, and he probably had it a little better than she did right now. He didn't miss his voices, and he had another on whom to lean, even if he told himself most of the time he'd rather not. Not that it mattered—Malick didn't let up, and he apparently owned more patience than Jacin would have suspected.

Odd. Unfathomable, really. Jacin was extraneous now. He'd done what he'd promised, fulfilled his end, and so had Malick. They were square.

So why was Malick still here?

"Are you that determined to be a ghost?” Shig had asked him just last night as she'd sat in that same spot and held a smoke out to him, eyeing him narrowly as he took it and sucked in a long drag. It had been windy last night, more than usual, and he hadn't been able to see the stream of smoke as he'd blown it back out, but he'd tasted the sharp cherry tang on his tongue, felt the low burn as his lungs compressed and expelled. “You don't have to drive yourself with the pain anymore.” Shig's voice was soft, just loud enough to hear above the wind and waves, and Jacin watched as she flicked her own smoke over the rail. “And it's still all right to snatch the things that take this new pain away. They'd want you to, don't you think?” She leaned back in her chair, turned her head, and looked at him straight, eyes sharp and lucid. “Alone is the only thing that'll truly break you, Fen. I know love's not a safe thing for you, but he loves you. He risked his soul for you because he loves you, and you couldn't let him do it, because....” She paused, tilted her head. “Why d'you think that is?"

She'd asked it like she didn't think she already knew the answer. And Jacin didn't think she'd like it if he gave her the real one. Because it had nothing to do with love or anything else so soppy and dangerous. It had to do with right and wrong, and he'd chosen “right” as what he'd thought to be his end had loomed over him in the perdition of souls Yakuli had created. He hadn't wanted to be responsible for the damnation of one more soul, had thought the gods might let him rest if his last act was one of repentance and sacrifice. And then Malick had snatched that end away from him.

Shig snorted, like he'd said it all aloud. “You're the only one who's ever seen living as a failure, Fen. Maybe you didn't do all the saving, but none would have been saved without you.” She tilted her head, shook it. “You saved their souls, Catalyst, including his. What more did you want?"

Jacin had merely stared, for quite a long time, and Shig had stared back with a small, weary smile. She wouldn't look away, so Jacin did. He'd gotten up, taken one last drag from the smoke, then pitched it over the side and gone to bed.

"You're just a living ghost, Fen,” Shig had called after him. “Did he risk it all for nothing?"

Jacin had found the energy to flip her off as he descended the rickety stair to the sleeping quarters below.

Malick hadn't been in the tiny cabin, hadn't been there to chatter at him and drown out Shig's voice with snarky teasing, or news of Ada and the release of the Jin, or just his presence. Somehow, the emptiness of the cabin stung.

The bunks were hard and small enough that Jacin wondered if mats wouldn't have been better, but he hadn't complained that first night after they'd boarded and Malick squeezed into Jacin's with him, crammed him up against the curve of the hull. He'd gotten used to Malick's shape against him as he slept, had gotten used to the particular level of heat he generated. Always with Jacin's silent permission, his acceptance. He didn't even have the dignity of denial, only the indignity of pathetic, nameless need. Malick never touched him, except to hold him, talk to him softly until he drifted into sleep, and that queer feeling of safety kept hovering at Jacin's edges. It bothered him a little, because he'd never really thought safety was a thing he craved, but he didn't allow it to niggle him enough to turn Malick away.

It didn't seem fair that he had safety he'd never thought to ask for, never assumed he deserved, when others who deserved it more were gone.

Perhaps Shig was right: perhaps he really was a living ghost. Because whatever this was he was doing, it couldn't possibly be living. Then again, how would he really know? He'd never had an actual life before.

He'd tossed about in the scratchy blankets and wondered—as he'd done when he'd looked through Yakuli's genteel bullshit and seen the monster looking at him from behind leaf-green eyes—what had he been expecting? What had he really been expecting?

That he'd somehow go home? That his father would be resurrected and finally love him? That his mother would be restored and somehow stop her steady slide into gentle insanity? That Joori would be safe, and Morin would torment them all, and Caidi would be... Caidi?

What had he thought? Had he thought at all?

You thought you'd be dead.

Yes. He had. And then he'd never have to deal with hurt or shock or pain or questionable sanity ever again. And he didn't know what to do with himself, now that even that had been denied him.

...it only hurts because you don't know how to be anything but damaged...

Did it hurt? He couldn't tell. It didn't feel like much of anything, except... not right. And how did one go about learning to be “not damaged” anymore, anyway? Was it like scabs and scars over one's soul, and eventually, one just... stopped seeing them? And how long did it take?

He wasn't supposed to love you, was he, Jacin-rei

"No one was.” It trickled out on a thin thread of breath, like he couldn't help himself.

What was he supposed to do with it? What did he know about any of this? He was trapped in reality, snared in a life he didn't know how to live, and it was fucking cold. A shiver rippled through him, as if he'd called it, and he admitted the wish for a wide stripe of heat at his back, warm whispers at the crown of his head.

He was supposed to use you and leave you, and instead he handed you his heart, offered you his soul, and now you have to figure out what to do with it

Could he just... skip ahead to the not-damaged-anymore part? If he spoke it aloud, gave the words power, could he make them real?

Because love isn't a safe thing for you, is it... Ghost?

"Not a Ghost.” He whispered it. Tried it out. And waited.

Nothing. Still. Nothing but the chill and... that was it.

He'd spent a lot of time lately feeling numb and cold, or just nothing at all. There were days at a stretch that passed him by and he didn't even notice. He liked Malick's warmth. It had taken a while for it to leak through the cold, the numb nothing, but it was one of the few things he knew now, and he liked it. It placated... something down deep he couldn't define.

He was biding in some odd limbo, a place where he could see life, touch it, but he couldn't feel it. Malick made him feel. Made him.

Forced him to acknowledge that he was sick of the cold. Sick of himself.

A living ghost.

Malick's relentless presence was a persistent, bizarre comfort, and Jacin had allowed it to prod him into staying here when he really didn't want to. Last night, Shig's voice haunting him, the taste of cherry smoke burning his tongue, he'd allowed it to prod him into turning to Malick when he'd finally entered the cabin quietly, climbed in, and wrapped himself around Jacin. Allowed it to guide his hands, watched Malick's expressions change as Jacin allowed his fingers to roam and explore. Allowed himself to feel every detail beneath his fingertips—time the pulse, map the dips between muscles, trace bone and sinew, stalk the thump of blood through vein—until Malick met his eyes, asking.

Jacin answered. Slowly and with all his attention.

No bargains this time, nothing to trade but mutual want.

Malick had made it all go away for him before. Maybe he could make it come back.

Sayitsayitsayit—

"Do you love him?” Joori had asked Jacin only a few days ago, leaning against the railing as Jacin sat, otherwise alone on the deck, staring out to where the bruised line of the horizon smudged from sea to sky. No anger that Jacin could detect. No derision. Only curiosity, with perhaps a touch of worry.

Jacin had snorted a little, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and sighed. He hadn't answered, but he figured Joori knew what he meant, even if he wasn't sure himself.

He thought he might be getting used to Malick, but that might have just been because he was there, wouldn't let up, and Malick had at least believed it when he'd told Jacin he loved him. He seemed to be acting like it, but then, how would Jacin know, really?

"Don't lie to me,” Jacin had told Malick last night, afterward, when they were both still flushed and sweaty, skin sticking to skin, and the smell of sex down deep in their pores. “Don't manipulate me. Don't manipulate them."

A warning of sorts, and Malick seemed to get it, even if the threat was minimal—he was Temshiel, after all; what could Jacin really do to him besides walk away?—but Malick hadn't smiled or smirked, or even rolled his eyes. He'd only nodded, his expression this close to grave, and sincere, as far as Jacin could tell. “I won't,” was all he'd said.

"You really want this?” Jacin had to ask it, had to know. You really want me? Why? What's to want?

There was no hesitation from Malick, no apparent equivocation. Only a simple, and apparently sincere, “Yes. I do."

Touch the Untouchable. Love the unlovable.

In that moment, peering into tarnished bronze, looking for prevarication and finding only somber confession, Jacin thought maybe he could love Malick, if Jacin were a different person.

"Well,” Jacin had answered slowly, confused, not quite believing, “all right, I guess.” For as long as it lasted, at least. Until Malick one day looked into Jacin's eyes and realized there was nothing there.

Malick had merely snorted and buried his face in Jacin's hair.

It might be possible for Jacin to be an actual person one day, to love someone. Someday. Maybe. When love stopped feeling like such a terrifying risk. Right now, “love” was, quite simply, beyond him, at least until he figured out what real life was supposed to be, and what he was supposed to do with it. He didn't have Beishin to tell him anymore. No more braid or traditions to label him, no more vengeance to define him, no more fear to cage him, no more knives to show him the hard reflection of a face he didn't know mirrored back at him in their polished blades. He was going to have to define himself, because for all that Malick wouldn't let up on him, wouldn't let him retreat, he still never forced anything on Jacin but the present. He wouldn't tell Jacin what to be, even if Jacin asked him to.

Jacin might be able to love that. Eventually. Maybe.

Maybe that was what “starting again” meant.

"Bloody Fens,” Malick muttered behind him, just as Joori flopped into the chair at Jacin's right, and Morin into the one at his left. Jacin hadn't heard them coming, but Morin and Joori at least were looking awfully smug and pleased with themselves. “Throw the whole lot of you overboard, that's what I'm going to do,” Malick was grousing. “Then we'll see how bloody clever you are. Try those smartass remarks when you're choking down sea water. Ha!"

Morin unfurled himself over the chair like a particularly satisfied cat, gangly limbs longer than Jacin had noticed before, Morin's gold hair flopping about his face as the salt-wind licked at it. He slid a sly grin at Joori. “Try it,” he said with a wicked flick of his glance over Jacin's shoulder, the grin still stretched wide. “Samin will have your guts.” He pointed the grin at Jacin then flopped back in the chair again, all relaxed confidence and easy snark. “Samin likes me."

"Are you threatening my lads, Mal?"

Even without the comment, Jacin wouldn't have needed to turn to know Samin was trailing the others; his heavy tread was unmistakable, even on the deck of the small ship. Casually, Malick leaned against Jacin's chair, his hands on the back of it, fingers just touching Jacin's shoulders through his light coat. A spark of brilliance caught the corner of Jacin's eye as the sun reflected off the ring on Malick's finger, and then an oblate appeared over Jacin's left shoulder. Jacin took it and didn't even roll his eyes.

I'm Untouchable. Mad. A Ghost.

And yet I'm touching you.

"Your lads,” Malick griped, “have taken to torturing me for sport just lately. Do something before I kill them.” Jacin felt the shift in weight as Malick turned toward Shig. “How are you, love?"

Shig shrugged, gave Malick a small smile. “It's nice here,” was all she said.

Samin was smiling when he sidled around the chairs and hitched up against the rail, leaning over to have a look at the foamy curl of the ship's wake. He'd spent most of the first two days below deck, retching his guts out, and the few times he'd ventured up, he'd had a sickly greenish cast to his skin. He looked much better now.

"C'mon, lovie,” he said gruffly, and he gestured over to Shig.

Shig only hesitated for a second before she pulled herself up from her chair and shuffled over to Samin. She even gave him a small grin with a touch of cheek in it as he lifted her by the hips and planted her on the railing, legs dangling over the side of the hull. Samin was careful to keep a good hold on her as she leaned over and spread her arms like she was flying.

"What did you do to Malick?” Jacin asked Morin. His voice was still just as raspy as the last time he'd used it. It probably always would be now, just like his leg would never be right again.

Jacin couldn't quite fathom the look of wide-eyed surprise Morin shot him. Morin covered it quickly with the crooked smile that made him look so much like their mother that Jacin's heart took a bit of a lumping lurch behind his breastbone.

"I didn't do anything,” Morin protested. “I only said I was surprised he wasn't as pretty as all those other Temshiel.” He widened his eyes, all innocence. “It was sort of a compliment!"

"How,” Malick growled, “was that a bloody compliment?"

Morin grinned wider. “Jacin never liked his men pretty,” he told Malick, as if he would really know, but Jacin didn't contradict him. “He likes ‘em wide and stocky.” Morin looked Malick up and down, then shot an appraising glance at Samin; Samin caught it, rolled his eyes at Jacin, but he didn't ruin Morin's fun, either. “You'd better watch yourself,” Morin said, dropping his voice and looking over his shoulder at Malick. “I dunno. You look more butch than those other Temshiel, but I think Samin might be more—"

"Stop, or you'll give Joori a nosebleed,” Malick cut in, and gave Morin a light cuff behind the ear.

"Help!” Morin cried, and he shot up from his chair, knocking it with a clatter to the deck as he leapt over toward Samin and wedged himself under Shig's out-flung arm. “Save me from the big, bad Temshiel!"

"Kicker of puppies,” Joori snorted, and rabbit-punched Malick's arm in retaliation for the cuff Malick gave him to match Morin's.

Amazingly, they were all smiling, laughing, like they were normal people, living normal lives. How long had that been going on?

Jacin shook his head, letting his glance rove over all of them, one after another, looking closely, like they were completely new people. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they'd all started again. So... where did that leave Jacin? Did he care?

You can't stand to be content, because you don't understand it...

Pensive, Jacin turned his chin up, peered at Malick, who grinned back down at him and waggled his eyebrows.

That will be the one. His mother's voice, soothing like it had always been.

"So, what'll it be?” Malick wanted to know. “Going to defend me or leave me at their mercy?"

So, you have a decision to make here, Fen.

A decision. It was so much easier not to make them. He was horrible at it, anyway.

...if you choose me, there is no going back.

Someone who couldn't die. Someone who would fight dirty, lie, cheat, and steal his way out of it. Never leave Jacin with a hollow nothing burning him up from inside. He'd get sick of Jacin eventually, it was inevitable, once Malick really got to know him and realized there was nothing there to know. Once he looked deep enough to see the empty, hollow nothing that Jacin really was. But here, now....

Alone is the only thing that can truly break you.

And there it was—that simple. Almost the only thing he knew right now was that he didn't want to be alone anymore.

Jacin stared up, refused to let the confusion that was hovering at the back of his brain bloom, pushed back everything but here and now, just so he could get a good look at it. Was he broken? He thought about it... decided that he couldn't decide. He was still mildly sore from last night; it didn't displease him, and it had nothing whatever to do with pain. His mind was calm, his thoughts his own. And he wasn't cold. There was a weird, creeping thaw going on inside him somewhere, and he coveted the warmth.

He shrugged. “You're plenty pretty,” he said, then just turned his gaze back out to the water, daring Malick to try and cuff him.

Malick didn't. Instead, he paused for a moment, silent, then he let loose a breathy little chuckle. “Well, I'll be damned. Fen, did you just make a joke and say something kinda nice to me? At the same time?"

Had he? Jacin turned a glance up to Shig, caught her knowing little grin, the sly look of conspiracy, and refrained from growling at her. “I guess I did.” He slanted a look over at Joori, raised his eyebrows a little to see Joori smiling at him so hard his eyes were starting to water. Jacin was a bit bemused but didn't comment. Instead, he drove his fingertips into the rough rind of the oblate before he craned his neck to look at Malick again, flicked a chunk of peel at him, and nailed him right between the eyes with it. “Now, leave my brothers alone or I'll gut you."

Malick's hands both went to Jacin's shoulders, clamped on and kneaded—strong and sure but gentle. Joori was smiling, almost smug as he slouched down in his chair beside Jacin. Morin's grin was wide and pure as he climbed up beside Shig, Samin gripping them both securely, while Morin leaned over the railing, arms outstretched, whooping a pleased cry as he pretended to fly.

Yori was missing, the hole she would have filled with her dry, careless wit noticeable. Caidi was missing, the lack of her laughter like a mournful cry in Jacin's chest.

Silly Ghost, Caidi told him in a voice that was more memory than phantasm. You're so morbid. Jacin sank down in his seat and decided he could always brood later. Decided he was cracked a little, maybe, but whatever this was, it didn't feel like broken. Maybe this was the way it was supposed to feel when you started again.

Back to Zero. Maybe he was capable of it.

Anyway, it was a place to start.

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Carole Cummings lives with her husband and family in Pennsylvania, USA, where she spends her time trying to find time to write. She's the recipient of various amateur writing awards, and several of her short stories have been translated into Spanish, German, Chinese, and Polish.

Free shorts, sneak peeks at WIPs, and other miscellany can be found at www.carolecummings.com.

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Wolf's-own by Carole Cummings

Wolf's-own: Ghost

Wolf's-own: Weregild

Wolf's-own: Koan

Wolf's-own: Incendiary

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Published by

Dreamspinner Press

382 NE 191st Street #88329

Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Wolf's-own: Weregild

Copyright (C) 2012 by Carole Cummings

Cover Art by Anne Cain annecain.art@gmail.com

Cover Design by Mara McKennen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61372-405-7

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

March 2012
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-406-4

Visit www.dreamspinnerpress.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Glossary

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

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