No Deadly Thing

by Tiger Gray

  Follow me.

  The voice was not so much a voice unto itself as it was the utter absence of sound, as if silence could have a form all its own. He knew it belonged to the doe. He lifted his head and rolled as a branch crashed to earth beside him. He stared dumbly at his palms, now blistered, and the familiar agony made it so he almost lost that other voice.

  Choose.

  Choose what? He wanted to scream. How was there a choice in this? The voice responded as if its owner had heard his thoughts.

  To live.

  Not for the first time, he felt the diseased hands of his own self-loathing reach up to clutch at his throat. The world grayed out as what remained of his breath rattled in his overtaxed lungs. Too easy, to wait here for death, to choose that relative peace over whatever the world wanted him so badly for. But the image of the doe, the way his spirit had fluttered with terrible hope, made him stir.

  Hope might have roused him, but it was rage that drove him to his feet, made him climb over those broken trees, made him accept the burns on his palms and knees he earned by doing so. Could he even run, chase this mad vision now? How many times could he put his body through these things, before he broke and his soul went beyond the veil forever?

  He could see her, at the edge of the flames. She didn't acknowledge the fire. It bent around her, leaving her untouched. She was pristine, even in a land made of ashes. She turned to watch him, a faint soap-bubble rainbow hanging in the air around her.

  Why? He shot after her, maybe intending to vent his anger on this creature that had come to toy with him, but he knew that was a futile and impotent thing to wish. Still, he ran because he could do nothing else. Why do I keep getting sent back?

  The agony in his body was unbearable, but it was the hurt in his soul that was the worst. He'd known, ever since Kir had started breaking him, that she'd taken something essential from him. That he was destined to be half a person forever, like an amputee, one of those soldiers who had the misfortune to stumble over an IED, or maybe more like one of the men who couldn't take it anymore, guys who came home from war only to throw themselves in front of a train. What could the divine possibly want with him, that he couldn't ever seem to find that final peace? He couldn't even die properly.

  I am only an avatar, she said, her mindvoice like phantom bells, the way a church bell kept ringing bellow conscious listening even after the clapper had stilled. She didn't move as he came towards her, but at the last second she leapt free of the tree line. He went too, without thinking, and stumbled at the sight before him. A clearing, wide and green. No fire. No forest. No pursuers. He choked on a sob and clutched at himself, only then realizing that the pain had diminished the moment they'd crossed the threshold.

  I am an archetype.

  The doe stood luminous in the middle of this vast expanse. There was no end in sight, but he could smell clean water, and feel the spark of some magic he couldn't understand and had never felt before.

  "Tell me." He said, and this time he sunk to the ground as though praying. "Tell me why."

  Suffering one, you are chosen. Surrender.

  He felt a desolation then that stole his voice, despite the respite of this place, despite his healed body. Chosen? To suffer? For nothing? For the amusement of the unknowable and perhaps uncaring divine? The doe flicked her ears towards him, pink on the inside like the heart of a flower.

  Go back, and see.

  What if I don't want this?

  Then you may stay here and die.

  He wished to have, for once, a choice that was not so stark as this. He could only tremble as she picked her way through the field towards him, and her soft muzzle on his hands finally made the tears he couldn't summon before spill free.

  Return, and I promise you, you will find something to live for.

  Ashrinn closed his eyes in weary acceptance, and the scene whirled away into nothing.

  ***

  Mal dozed outside Ashrinn's hospital room, almost sliding out of the chair. He was too tall to fold himself into it in the first place. He woke just in time to catch himself from falling on his ass. Or maybe he'd sensed what was going on with his friend, he thought as he stood. The nurses were in there, scraping off the muck of skin and god knew what else from the burns on Ashrinn's arms. Usually Mal comforted himself with the thought that Ashrinn couldn't feel it when comatose, but this time Ashrinn was awake.

  Mal pressed himself to the window as he usually did, palms flat on the glass. Ashrinn was watching him now, and Mal felt the shadow of what he had when he'd first come here, that emotion that had made him nearly pass out in this same hallway. It was hard to watch Ashrinn in so much pain. Where had that confident kid he'd met in the mess hall over two decades ago gone? Ashrinn now was just a ghost.

  It had taken six months before Ashrinn had even opened his eyes, more or less, and even now Mal wasn't sure how much Ashrinn was aware of. He made a mental note to bring Daniel down here. The mage still hobbled around on a cane, but he could make it this far, albeit painfully and slowly. It helped the both of them to see each other, Mal knew.

  "You want to come in?" Cora asked, slipping out of the room and closing the door carefully behind her. Mal felt sick, knowing that going in now wouldn't make up for having turned down her offer the first time.

  He could have died and I wouldn't have been there to comfort him. No one would have. He felt a surge of hatred for Kir and himself both. He didn't want to go in now, either, but he swallowed his fear this time. "Yeah," he said, too gruff.

  He waited as the nurses finished with Ashrinn's new bandages. They'd had to go from gauze to autoclaved scraps of cloth and such in places. Mal felt that irrational anger, that they would give Ashrinn that kind of help. He knew logically that everyone was wearing substandard bandages, that they were running out of drugs and even the energy to run the machines was in short supply. Still.

  At least his face had mostly healed over; Mal knew Ashrinn would have hated people seeing him with his head all wrapped. The guy could be fussy and vain even when he was stuck in a hospital bed.

  Ashrinn peered at him when he came in, and Mal saw that he was grey with the pain of having his skin scraped.

  "Hey, tough guy," Mal said, snagging a chair. He didn't have to wear the protective coverings now that Ashrinn had healed some, and he thanked the natural paladin resistance to infection for that. Maybe they could at least touch hands, then.

  Ashrinn managed a smile. The skin on his cheeks was too smooth, and it gave him an eerie and almost inhuman quality. "Came to see me, hoss?" he croaked. He coughed and Mal handed him the cup of water waiting on the bedside table. Even the extra cups were plastic wrapped. Jesus.

  "Don't start. I've been here enough that they ought to be renting me a bed."

  "Get me the hell out of here."

  "No can do, partner. Look at you. What would you make, you reckon? Ten feet? Twenty?"

  "Still outrun you," Ashrinn said, grinning now though his gaze was still dark with what must have been constant discomfort, at best.

  "Yeah," Mal said, laughing, "I just bet you could."

  The silence stretched between them. Mal hesitated for a long moment, then reached out for Ashrinn's hand. His friend's grip was surprisingly strong.

  Mal pulled back too fast and Ashrinn winced. Mal stood up too fast, too, and babbled something about having to go. He tried not to look Ashrinn in the face as he escaped into the hospital proper.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mal stood in the recessed doorway of Ashrinn's house, Talasi pressed to his leg as though that might hide her.

  "I don't know about this, Malkai," she whispered. "Mages from my school operate under a strict code of personal privacy."

  Damned if he would let Talasi talk him out of this. He had to do something, even if he couldn't go after Liu and Coren like he wanted to. He puts thoughts about what he'd learned at the Academy away. No sense in getting riled about it now, though he didn't have any intention of shari
ng that family connection with anyone. It was probably bullshit anyway.

  "So what do you do when one of you goes rogue?"

  He passed his hand over the door. The magery wards there hummed with power, concentric circles of washed out yellow light. As usual he tasted it more than he saw it, like water with a lemon slice floating in it. The barriers were as real as the locks in a high security facility and a hundred times more difficult to crack. Unless you had the key. Which he did, if Talasi would cooperate.

  "This is why you should call Daniel. If you really think something's going on, he has more authority than me. He's a hunter. I'm just a professor."

  He knew Talasi was full of it. He'd never seen a better water mage than her and she had a lot of clout back at the Collegium.

  "I can't do that. He's on Ashrinn's team. I don't want him to know, especially since it's just speculation."

  "Exactly! Speculation and suspicion! Not probable cause!"

  "I don't know. I hear a struggle, don't you?" He smiled his best innocent smile. She heaved a huge sigh and began the counter weaving. Power hummed through his body and the fine hairs on his arms stood up.

  "It's true, though," Talasi's hands were bright with strands of power, gathered there like yarn for some complex knitting project, "You don't have the right to do this."

  "What if I don't give a good goddamn?"

  He knew Talasi believed in the justice system. She had to, as a lawyer, or she'd have burned out a long time ago. He would have agreed himself, before this. But now he had a hard time seeing the wisdom in hanging on to what they were used to when he didn't even know if they had a central government anymore. What was the point in harping on about laws like probable cause when people were starving to death? It was easy to talk about that shit when things were civilized.

  "Some marks on Ashrinn you can't explain?" The protections unraveled and he popped the physical lock, slipping into the gloom inside. She continued, "He's been in the military his entire adult life. You can't possibly know or remember every injury he's ever had."

  "I would have noticed those burn marks on his forearms, Talasi," he said, patience dangerously frayed, "those would be impossible to hide. If you got it in combat, you'd get a stay in infirmary and most likely a decoration. If you got it during your off time, you'd get hauled up for damaging government property. It's not the kind of injury you just put Bactine on and forget about."

  He didn't wait for her to respond. He moved down the hall, past the living room and kitchen. Truth be told, he didn't know what he was looking for. He felt a pang of worry at the sight of the counters and stove, unused since Ashrinn had been away. His friend still wasn't out of the woods and Mal didn't want to think about those work surfaces remaining unused forever.

  He willed his Othersight to drop down over his vision like a pair of night vision goggles. He wasn't any great shakes at using it, but electric blue symbols telescoped into life right away. They bloomed on the walls in concentric circles, each ring inscribed with arcane writing. Kir had poured so much obsessive power into these spells that he couldn't avoid looking at them if he wanted to.

  He squinted. The reality bending theory threatened to bend his mind as well. "What do they mean?" He asked, reaching out to touch one. A crackle of static electricity made him reconsider.

  "Silence spells. This whole place is as sound proofed as an interrogation chamber. And as well protected. Be glad we didn't try and blast our way in here."

  He'd wanted to be wrong. He leapt to poke holes in his theory. Maybe he was wrong. There could be any number of explanations, Talasi was right. Still. The feeling that something was hinky wouldn't shake, and trusting that feeling had kept him alive all these years. He was inclined to put his faith in it this time too.

  "Why are you doing this Malkai? Why now? You told me you spotted those wounds a long time ago."

  "Because I'm an asshole, that's why. Is that what you want to hear? Because I'm a fucking idiot?"

  "Don't you bite my head off. You can keep your issues to yourself. If you feel guilty I'm sorry, but don't you even dream of taking it out on me. Especially after convincing me to commit breaking and entering."

  Mal pawed at his face, frustrated.

  "I'm sorry. Maybe you're right."

  Isn't it more likely he's the one hitting her, if there is abuse going on?

  He stood in the darkened doorway of Ashrinn's beloved kitchen and thought of the man that usually gave life to the space. He thought of how his friend could hardly bring himself to kill weeds when gardening, how once Ashrinn had limped outside with a giant spider cradled in his palms, how he had released it into the outdoors rather than smash it. Where plenty of people would have killed the thing on sight, Ashrinn had smiled as he'd let it go. Could Ashrinn, the man who damn near burst with pride every time he saw his son, the man who was so good and gentle with Mal's own children, be the sort of man who hit his wife? Had he forced her to place these wards?

  He thought, too, of that secret part of Ashrinn he'd never been able to understand or get at. And how many military men, haunted by dead friends and combat decisions that never sat right no matter how necessary they'd been at the time, took their fear and anger out on spouses who didn't understand? Too many, and Ashrinn had gone certifiable more than once. It was possible. He had to admit it was possible.

  But it was the image of Kiriana's eyes, black with rage, that stayed with him above all. How she'd been ready to kill him, that night in his own living room. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd peeled back a crisp white coverlet only to find a mutilated body; she'd been so angry because he'd attacked her disguise. If he were a betting man, he'd have put money on it.

  "Malkai?" Talasi asked. The quaver in her tone upset him. Maybe she had the same thoughts. Which made it real. If someone else could even entertain the notion, it meant he couldn't leave it be.

  "This isn't normal behavior, is it?"

  Talasi's answer came in halting bursts. "Yes and no. Mages --- from our mage school, especially --- are notoriously paranoid, and it isn't uncommon for our spaces to have a few silence wards, especially a workshop. The whole house, though? It's... odd."

  "Do you think it's possible?" He couldn't even say it plain.

  Talasi's face had transformed into hard planes and angles, seriousness personified. "You'd know better than I would. You're the police officer." She smoothed the front of her plum dress with prim hands, though a tremor in her splayed fingers gave away her upset. "I don't much like the idea that I might have helped train an abuser."

  He flinched at that word. "I'm not trying to --- "

  "That is what you're saying, Malkai. Isn't it?"

  He couldn't take her gaze, panther-gold in the dusk and just as fierce. He scanned the room and took a long time to answer. Talasi wasn't the only one who didn't want to admit that maybe, just maybe, things at the Pinecroft household were less picture-perfect than they appeared. Could he really have missed the signs for so long? How could he deal with it every day on the job, yet go home and miss it over and over when his closest friend could be suffering?

  "Yeah. That's what I'm saying."

  What the hell is he doing, letting her treat him like that? He's a fucking Unit operative.

  He didn't look at Talasi. He could imagine her stricken expression just fine. He didn't need to see it too.

  He wrinkled his nose; Kir's white gardenia perfume hung in the air like an echo. It wore on a man's senses after a while, and his stomach turned. Did years of combat training do you any good in your own home?

  "I can't accuse her on Mage authority without some kind of proof."

  "Well, help me find something then!" He stormed up the stairs, headed for the bedrooms.

  "You know damned well that the odds of finding any obvious evidence are nil." Talasi pursued him far faster than her short legs would seem to account for. "If she is responsible, I'm surprised she was clumsy enough to leave burn marks, let alone leave anything inc
riminating lying around. That's why I think you're wrong! Kiriana might be hard to deal with sometimes, but she was always very controlled. Pyromancers had to be, or they'd have their powers locked away. They're not exactly popular."

  "We all lose control sometimes."

  "Make sure you don't."

  "If I'm right? No promises."

  He took a cursory look into Coren's room. It was as though the boy would return any time. Coren's flannel blanket, rumpled. A mug of coffee-- though he reckoned it was mostly mold now by the smell--on the nightstand. A composition book, open on its spine.

  He thought of both Coren and his poor confused Liucy. Talasi patted him on the hip, the best part of him she could reach at her height, but said nothing. He thanked her inwardly for not calling further attention to his emotions. He didn't think he could handle worrying about the children on top of everything else, not right now.

  There wasn't a lot of room for Ashrinn or, for that matter, for Coren in the rest of the house. The things of Ashrinn's that were there were sparse. Mal handled each of those things --- a worn book of poetry, a photo album from the desert --- as though they were touchstones, allowing him to somehow reach out to the man still fighting for his life in the hospital.

  Talasi opened the door to the master bedroom and he went in after her. He knew they didn't have long until Kir returned. Frustration welled up in the back of his throat as he scanned the room. Nothing. Cherry wood bedframe and a dark purple silk duvet cover, all Kir. Cinnamon colored walls and carpet the color of cream-top milk.

  The only indicator that Ashrinn lived here at all was a small, slender vase on one of the bedside tables. Mal guessed it had recently held one of Ashrinn's beloved roses. He imagined one of the garden club events his mother had been so fond of, with Ashrinn smack dab in the middle of a clutch of old ladies. Ashrinn's roses were at least as good as the ones his mother had gushed about when he was a boy.

  He sat on the bed, defeated. He was missing something, but damned if he knew what. Talasi approached him as though he were a snoring junkyard dog; you never knew when the damn thing would wake up and bite you. He tried to muster the energy to glare at her but found he didn't have it.