Wolf's-own: Koan

by Carole Cummings

  With a sigh that was too dramatic for its lack of an audience, Imara shut her eyes against the fat, heavy snowflakes and reached, looking for a hint of direction, latching onto the trace of color that Kojoi Shig had left in her wake. Spirit-bound, that one had been, but spirit-blessed she was born—a Sensitive, if Imara didn't miss her guess. The imprint was too distinct, the favor of not-quite-lost souls almost a tangible thing. Whether Shig heard the spirits or not, they still followed her, watched her, which would have been useful, if Naro-yi hadn't obscured his path and, thusly, the paths of Imara's charges.

  Nothing for it, she supposed. She'd just have to follow the traces until they ran out and figure out where to go from there. Focusing on the threads of color Shig had left behind, Imara let loose the tethers of corporeity and began to ease herself into the periphery of hazy ephemera where the spirits cried their sorrows, searching for lost reality.

  And stared, wide-eyed, as Fen Jacin flung himself from shadow and pitched himself toward her dissipating physicality, long knife raised and flashing with intent.

  With a quick snap and surge, Imara hurled herself into spirit, watching, appalled, as Fen Jacin's knife brutally slashed through the air where her mortal body had just stood. His arm followed the arc of the knife, hand sliding through where Imara's chest would have been, the semicontact shoving a queer tremor through a body that wasn't there anymore. Thank the gods she'd been going to spirit, rather than shadow, or the strike would have done her for certain. Imara almost didn't hear the voices of the spirits immediately crowding in, almost didn't feel the tug and grasp of hundreds of ghost-fingers reaching for her. That she could still see Fen Jacin—when she knew very well he couldn't be seen from the spirit planes—shocked her. The sensation of Fen Jacin's touch shocked her more.

  Dark depths and primal strength; power she couldn't quite touch or understand, but it was there, all around her, and it tasted like damp earth and ashes. Alien and old. It nearly sent her reeling from the grip she had on herself. She held on. She had no wish to stumble away from her own being and end up wandering around the spirit realm, just as lost as the rest of them. Or pulled inside whatever it was that glanced a blow to her spirit. Because whoever this was wearing Fen Jacin's face, it most certainly was not Fen Jacin.

  And whatever it was, it was not of the gods.

  If Imara had possessed any physicality, she would have shuddered.

  She stayed still, ignoring the spirits whispering their pleas, resisting and deflecting their greedy snatching, while she watched Fen Jacin's face curl into a feral snarl, watched his entire body ripple then... almost melt, before it wisped out of being like a candle snuffed. She couldn't credit the relief that swamped her, but she couldn't deny it, either.

  Imara didn't slide back into blood and bone, and she didn't even consider trying to follow after whatever had just skimmed through her soul with a touch that felt too much like violation. As calmly as she could, she reached out to the spirits crowding in on her, set a light touch to the rainbow tracery that Shig had left behind and gathered it to her. Take me to her, she told the spirits, and she let them lead her.

  * * * *

  "Can't be coincidence,” Goyo muttered to himself as he stood between Serenai and Seb outside The Gates of Rapture and listened to them snarl at each other. When they all cut their glances to the alley where Basu was emerging through the door with Ari's sheet-draped body, Serenai's fury spiked.

  "This was an attack on Raven,” she hissed at Goyo. “The man was Jin.” She spat it.

  And how many Jin were in Mitsu right now, except for those Kamen had brought with him? Goyo was pretty sure the answer was very few, if any. The Jin had been an imprisoned people for over a century; it wasn't as though one often found one of their kind abroad.

  Goyo didn't let his breath pull sharp or his eyes narrow. He merely listened quietly, waiting for these two to spill out in five minutes of argument what it might have taken him hours of careful questioning to get otherwise.

  "I want The Gates searched and I want him found,” Serenai went on. “It was a deliberate assault."

  "It was a fight into which your sister stepped without cause,” Seb retorted, and though it was purposely calm, Goyo could see the anger beneath it. Seb looked at Goyo. “The Patrol has no authority here. If you want to search you'll have to—"

  "If this place cannot maintain its promised neutrality,” Serenai snapped, “then the Patrol very well ought to—"

  "Ari knew the rules when she walked through the door. So did you."

  "And do the rules apply to a Jin attacking a servant of Raven with no consequences?"

  "I think you'll find, Raven's-own, that those who saw the conflict saw Ari impose herself where no imposition was necessary and attack a man already being restrained by my men.” Seb's eyes were bright with anger. “If you want to know the truth, Ari got what she deserved for her devious stunt. If she'd not been sent to spirit for it, I would have thrown her out. As it is, she's banned. Don't make me do the same to you."

  "Like you threw out Leu?” Serenai snarled. Goyo couldn't help the tiny jolt this time, which was a shame, because Serenai saw it. She curled a malevolent smile at Seb and jerked her chin at Goyo. “Tell Snake's-own how it really went, Seb. Tell the Patrol where you took the Jin and Wolf's maijin."

  Goyo merely raised his eyebrows and peered at Seb. He'd like to hear this. He didn't know precisely what to make of any of it yet, but he was pretty sure he knew who the Jin in question was, and he was pretty sure he knew why Leu would be involved, and he was pretty sure he knew where they'd gone. He was also pretty sure Serenai knew too. What Goyo wasn't sure of was why Rihansei would get involved in any of this.

  "The Patrol has no authority here,” Seb repeated. “There was a fight, it was settled, and it's over. If Raven's-own feels the need for revenge...."

  Seb paused respectfully as Basu passed him, on his way to deliver the mortal remains of one of Raven's-own to Raven's house for the spirit's proper release. They all waited while Basu laid Ari in the back of a cart and covered the body against the wet fall of snow.

  "If Raven's-own feels the need for revenge,” Seb resumed when the sedate little cart was out of sight, “then we can arrange for Rihansei to meet with Raven's high priestess and discuss terms."

  Serenai rounded on him. “You think I don't know what this is about? You think I don't know what that man is?"

  "On the contrary,” Seb answered, deadly soft, “I'm quite certain you do. Which is why, I must assume, your sister went after him as she did—in Rihansei's house!” He paused then took several deep breaths until the choler that had risen receded to a more sedate pink. “Should Raven's high priestess wish to have words with Rihansei, I've no doubt Rihansei will have some choice ones of his own for Raven's high priestess."

  Well. Goyo had been looking for a trail. It appeared he'd found one.

  Serenai cut a fiery glance at Goyo. “And will the Patrol bow to the authority of Rihansei, as well? Is Mitsu not a place of laws?"

  Goyo dipped his head respectfully, though he found it quite funny to be chided over “laws” by one of Raven's. Serenai and Ari were probably two of the most underhanded, devious Temshiel he knew, but the rest of Raven's weren't really all that far behind.

  "The pillars of Mitsu,” Goyo answered, “stand upon the ancient foundations maintained by Rihansei and his monks. As you well know. Balance, after all, Raven's-own.” He almost smirked when Serenai's mouth dropped open, but wisely kept himself in check. “It would take more than the foolishness of one Temshiel to shake them.” He turned to Seb. “I should like to see Rihansei."

  Goyo ignored the abrupt smugness in Serenai's expression as she lifted her chin at Seb. Seb didn't seem like he was capable of the same right now; his teeth tightened and his color rose again, and he turned his gaze deliberately to Goyo.

  "Rihansei is engaged. Perhaps another time."

  I'm sure he is, Goyo didn't say. “Surely he can find a moment. I
come on an errand from Dakimo."

  "Dakimo?” Serenai very visibly restrained herself from taking hold of Goyo. “I can understand a peddler of ancient, obsolete magic like Rihansei allying with Wolf, but Snake?"

  Goyo kept his gaze on Seb. “I have need of Rihansei's... opinion on the matter of the banpair.” He cut a meaningful glance at the door to the tavern. “I can wait."

  Seb sighed, mouth tight, but he nodded and turned down the alley. When Serenai made to follow along with Goyo, Seb raised a hand but he didn't look back. “Not you,” was all he said and kept walking.

  This time, Goyo did smirk.

  * * * *

  Damn it, Shig really wished there'd been time to visit the temples they'd passed on the way here. There was a peculiar... pull inside her, almost a call that, if she still had her magic, she would have plowed through danger or fire or banpair—or even dangerous banpair on fire—to heed. She paused to chuckle a little at that image. Anyway, she didn't have her magic anymore, so she wasn't quite sure what to make of it. And there were too many other things going on right now.

  It was nearing dark when they'd finally entered The Gates of Rapture, a dingy little place that really didn't live up to its name. There'd yet to be any word from Imara, and strangely, Naro-yi seemed somewhat pleased about that. Shig wondered if he'd been leading a solicitor's life for too long—perhaps he thought he was jaunting off on a little adventure with Kamen's pet mortals, something to spice up what appeared to be a rather sedate life for a maijin in Tambalon. Which would be fine with Shig, so long as he didn't mistake the gravity of the situation for the overwrought drama of whatever saga in which he thought he was playing a part.

  She took a sip of her drink and tried to figure out how much of the conversation she'd missed while her mind had been wandering.

  "... an assumption that's been rendered frequent fact over the years.” Naro-yi sighed with a shake of his head. He peered at Morin's genuinely interested expression and gave him a smile. “Advocates, young Fen-seyh. Not the mischief-makers some would make us. Temshiel are the hands of the gods, but sometimes, the gods can't see everything. Sometimes a hand can swat preemptively, and the realization of what the other hand is doing comes too late. Maijin balance out the Temshiel. Or, rather, I should say the Temshiel were made to balance out the maijin.” He lifted his chin a little proudly. “We are older than the Temshiel, you know. And we were not always of the gods."

  "And what about Asai?” Joori put in, his tone even, but Shig could definitely sense the wariness and hostility beneath the polite tone. “Are you saying—?"

  "Can we not do this now?” Samin cut in.

  Joori's pause was very brief. “Sure,” he retorted, a little too easily, “we can talk about all the Incendiary bullshit instead."

  Shig almost snorted. Poor Samin. Shig could tell he was trying to think, and neither the conversation nor the atmosphere could really be helping.

  "Not here,” Naro-yi said, politely enough, but it was still abrupt and commanding for all that. He shot his glance all around the room, then looked kindly at Joori. “It is, perhaps, a subject best left for a more private setting...?"

  Poor Joori too. It was kind of a lot to have dumped on him in the relatively short walk here, and he wasn't the most even-keeled person in the first place. Morin seemed to be more intrigued than upset, but he wasn't exactly happy about it, either. He exchanged a long look with Joori, both of them then peering appraisingly at Naro-yi, before they subsided with matching nods. So cute.

  Samin looked at Naro-yi and jerked his chin over his shoulder to the rough-hewn bar of The Gates of Rapture. “Malick said there was a man here who could maybe help us. Can you... um.” He shrugged, picked up his beer and took a healthy swallow. “Can you tell who it is?"

  Shig wanted to hug him. Samin was rather out of his element here. Spying and scheming was usually Malick's job, and Samin was just too straightforward to be any good at it. And it didn't look like the crowd in this place would take terribly kindly to questions.

  "Oh, goodness no,” Naro-yi chuckled. He held his little cup of ginger wine like he didn't actually want to touch it, grazed its base over the warmer, then set it down delicately on the sticky table with a purse of lips. “One doesn't use magic in a place like this. I'm not sure I could if I tried. And I don't think I'd make any friends if I did.” He shrugged his shoulders as though trying to dislodge a heavy weight. “The wards are quite good and very strong."

  "So, there's magic here besides... you people,” Joori said, his gaze drifting around, as though he could see it if he looked. His eyes widened, then narrowed down with worry. He snapped a look at Shig. “But I thought... the Ancestors...."

  "They're gone, Joori,” Shig told him quietly. Not that she could blame him. Magic hadn't ever been a cause for optimism for the Fen family. “They can't come back. It's only that they weren't the only ones with magic."

  "It's why the gods were angry.” Naro-yi's voice was hushed, and he again scanned the room warily. “When the Ancestors gave their magic to the Jin, that is. It angered the gods. Mortals are not supposed to be given magic—they are supposed to earn it."

  Joori's eyes had never lost the bit of fear; now his gaze turned somewhat suspicious. “Do I want to know how that happens?"

  "No,” Shig put in and patted Joori's cheek to distract him, then tuned them out again. A budding crisis averted—she'd done her good deed for the day.

  Smirking a little, Shig had a look around the place herself, took another sip of her grain liquor and blinked against the watering of her eyes. She couldn't quite tell if it was because of the harsh fermented taste or the poppy smoke, but figured neither was going to be conducive to a clear head eventually.

  She gave the motley crowd a good look while she still could.

  Shig used to watch people, because if she didn't, she might get lost in the clutch and reach of the spirits and wouldn't know the difference. So, she'd paid attention to mundane things, things on which she could focus and concentrate through the haze of drugs: the way a person's jaw flexed when they tried to hold something back they really wanted to say; the difference in hue between a flush of embarrassment and a flush of arousal; the change in the timbre of a voice when it went from request to subtle demand.

  It had been a way to hang on. A way to keep the world from flattening down to the ephemera of the spirits that constantly tugged at her. A way to keep them from dragging her to a place where physical touch couldn't be felt, where you forgot what your own voice sounded like, so you could never be entirely sure if you were the one doing the thinking. Where tactile comfort was a thing you remembered and craved, and you couldn't help tearing what was left of your mind to pieces because you couldn't have it anymore.

  She'd been stoned all the time for almost five years straight, when she and Yori had been yoked to the argent and his caravan, but she'd still known how much Yori had hated letting those men touch her, yet hated even more the idea of Shig paying for it if she didn't. Shig had known for years that Yori wanted to die, that she'd hung on for Shig, and therefore made Shig hang on for Yori, and Shig had known that hating Yori a little bit for it was probably something for which she should be duly ashamed, but... she wasn't. Yori had found her own way to cope with it all by turning it into hatred for anyone Malick told her was an enemy, and then into killing those she hated; Shig found hers by letting herself hate Yori a little bit while she loved her with everything in her.

  Shig missed her spirits some, but not as much as Malick thought she did. Which was fine, because it made Malick be nice to her, even when she was a little bitchy, and it amused her to no end, so she let him keep thinking it. Malick hated dealing with the spirits, hated the greedy grasping, and hated having to harden himself so he didn't feel the sympathy and compassion that might make it possible for them to take hold. He didn't deal with them like Shig used to do—he could, but he avoided it unless he was cornered into it—so he didn't have the same remove she did, the same a
lmost-disdain that had allowed her to half dwell with them but never let them have her.

  Malick hadn't gone to spirit since Shig had known him, but she thought Naro-yi's assessment was probably too right: he wouldn't dwell with them any longer than he absolutely had to.

  They'd been people once. They lied, just like people did. They got angry, sometimes petulant, sometimes jealous. Some would hover and whisper and cajole, and if you took their advice, did what they said and fell flat on your face, they'd perch in your head and chuckle at you until you wanted to take a mallet to your skull. Some genuinely tried to help, but were so far gone into the inevitable insanity that they had no idea their “help” was no help at all. You couldn't watch their facial expressions to try to interpret the things they said, you couldn't discern tone of voice or the reflexive tap of a foot; you had to let them touch you so you could taste it, and even then sometimes you got it wrong. Shig had let them guide her only as far as she could see for herself. Everything else, she'd backed up with real knowing.

  People were so much easier. And paying attention to them was as much a survival tactic as learning how to swing a sword. In fact, for Shig it had worked even better so far.

  "That man right there,” Shig said, careful not to actually point, because pointing in here just seemed like a bad idea.

  She directed her gaze through the dim-lit tavern, over the heads of those gathered ‘round tables or off in dark corners, though not doing what Shig was used to seeing people doing in dark corners. Everyone in here was talking, drinks and card games seeming more distractions than reasons to gather. The place served no food, had no musicians and no whores. It was, apparently, a place to meet in neutrality and exploit privacy. And everyone seemed to be meticulously respecting that privacy but for one man. Burly, scruffy and white-bearded; he seemed to be deep in conversation with another man—who Shig absently named Tall-dark-and-gorgeous, but that wasn't the point right now—but still he peered over at them unblinking from his seat in a shadowy corner not three tables away. Peered over at Joori, really, which was what made Shig stop and pay attention. Because this wasn't a look of “I want that” like she'd seen on some people looking at Joori as they'd drudged through the rain on the way here; this was a look of definite interest—just not that kind of interest.