Chapter 16 Safe Than Sorry
Safe Than Sorry
The salle—once a small refectory—was long and high, its walls pierced by high narrow windows, soupy winter sunshine highlighting golden motes of falling dust. A stone floor had been washed almost daily for years, but nothing could remove the faint odor of institutional cooking and the sharpish odor of men crammed shoulder to shoulder on hard wooden benches, hunched over their bowls.
Racks of weapons stood at prescribed distances—but nothing modern. The salle was where a Son trained with edge, bludgeon, and chain, not with bullet or bolt.
“Good night?” Erik held the satin-polished iron bar level, his back straight, and waited for his Younger to inevitably lose patience.
“Exciting.” Jake’s hair glowed under buzzing fluorescents and thin grey winter sunlight. His eyes hooded as he moved in, stave blurring and bending fractionally as both velocity and gravity clawed at its length.
The noise was immediate smithy-clattering slipslither music punctuated by soft exhales when a blow landed exactly as planned.
Erik played it safe, holding defense against Jake’s battering.
Younger Sons often had an edge in speed, but as Father said, age and treachery were more than enough to meet youth and skill.
“Everyone wants a piece,” Jake continued, backing up a few steps and regarding him. “We were on the jump all night long. Here?”
“The same.” Erik hoped the lirai hadn’t felt the gathering predators too much; every time he returned to the baffle outside her door, everything behind was silent save for the quiet thunder of her pulse. “Looks like everyone knows we got lucky.”
He wanted to add what the fuck is Control thinking, but the person making actual decisions about bringing a potential in would be a fully trained lirai; Control was just passing along the news.
“Can’t hide it.” Jake’s smile was a snarl. He smelled of rain even after a shower and less-physical cleanup, and the deep unsteady fume of rage hung on him, too.
Younger brother with the fury, an Elder past anger and holding out against insanity, a Father who had mastered both, that was the way of the Sons.
At least, so far as the Mad God’s whispering could be mastered without a lirai’s presence—or a seal, for those truly lucky bastards who managed to earn a Dreamer’s trust—to hold it at bay.
Erik moved, breaking his steady defense pattern for a short, brutal flurry. They were both breathing in great deep swells by the time he retreated, and Jake’s gaze had taken on a hard seamless glitter.
“Thought you were supposed to be fast,” Erik taunted.
“Thought you were supposed to be smart,” Jake spat, and threw himself at his tormentor.
Iron was fun, but you had to keep its shear tolerances in mind or you’d end up with shards and regret. Erik batted aside a barrage of testing blows, knowing his own slight smile would irritate Jake all the more.
“Temper, temper,” he crooned, and had the distinct satisfaction of seeing an opening in his little brother’s pattern.
Erik’s stave leapt, and good thing it was blunt instead of edged.
Even so, and at minimal strength, the strike tossed Jake half the salle, and the Younger landed hard but balanced, feet barely touching before flashing in a complicated pattern to bleed momentum.
“Asshole.” But Jake was slowly learning to throttle the anger. Maybe he’d make elder status soon, heading out to another trio, and another younger brother would move in to keep Ignatius and Erik cheerful. “So? Did you?”
Are you still on that? “Did I what?”
“You didn’t.” Jake tch-tch’d, like Father when more-than-usually disappointed.
Erik shook his head, his pulse barely rising above somnolence.
He remembered being in a Younger’s shoes, the scratching impatience, the deep welling ferocity.
Once the discomfort was gone the greater insanity began to rise, the god whispering in your blood with the papery sound of a thousand blinking eyelashes against damp silk. “Not gonna, Jake.”
“Better safe than sorry.” The mulish set to his Younger’s mouth meant Jacob knew he was wrong, but he wasn’t going to back down just yet.
so be it. Beating sense into your junior was a time-honored Sons tradition.
“Exactly.” It wouldn’t do any good to explain—once Jake got an idea he was like a terrier, shaking until nothing remained but a rag. Still, Erik tried anyway. “We’re gonna be with her a while.”
“The sooner one of us seals her, the sooner we can—”
“What, fuck up our only chance with a lirai?” Some of Erik’s weariness probably leached into the words. “She ends up hating us and we’ll be back out on rotation, maybe with a different Father.”
“So?” Jake’s chin set even further, and with his long nose, he looked more like a petulant teenager than a full-fledged Son. At least he knew better than to bring this up with Father, or so Erik hoped. “Change’ll do us good.”
“Don’t try it.” Erik didn’t like giving an ultimatum—it was the quickest way to make Jake decide to risk whatever he was warned against—but what else could be done? “The last thing she needs is more trauma.”
“It’s not like it won’t happen anyway, sooner or later.” Sweat had begun on Jake’s forehead, a slight healthy glow. The chiming of metal on metal was almost soothing; he batted a stray strike contemptuously away. “And I’d be respectful.”
“Sealing a lirai without consent isn’t respect, Jake.” Why did they need to have this conversation more than once? Was Younger Brother working himself up to something unwise? “Come on.”
“She’d get over it.” Jake’s smile was a masterpiece of fetching fecklessness. “They always do.”
“Uh-huh.” There were songs about a lirai sealed against their will, all laments. Every single one was plaintive. “Would you?”
“Shit, man…” Jake bashed aside both the question and Erik’s next blow. “She’s got it easy. Just sit up there while we’re bleeding.”
“Remember what your first nights in dorm were like?” Erik tapped a halfhearted return-strike aside.
“Or your first live-fire run? Now imagine not knowing what the hell was going on.” And not having a weapon handy to fight with.
A Dreamer’s concentration of numinous force was instinctive, even if it blinded them while utilized.
A Son, picking it up and channeling, became several orders of magnitude more deadly to the Mad God’s other followers, not to mention mere garden-variety predators.
The point seemed to get through to his little brother, though Jake’s lower lip pooched out a bit. He was giving ground, slowly but surely, the iron staves just barely kissing before springing apart. An onlooker might have thought they were dancing. “We’ve explained everything.”
“And you think that’s good enough?” Erik’s pulse dropped, a sure sign that he was taking this more seriously. He moved in, a flurry beating little brother back, and back, and back.
“We’re Sons.” Like Jake would say water’s wet or it’s winter. “It should fucking well be.”
Momentary distraction gave Erik the opening he needed, and his stave blurred in a complicated pattern to distract the eye before he snap-kicked and sent Jake flying. The sudden silence after clash-chiming steelplay was alive with echoes.
The end of Erik’s stave, round and polished, lingered under Jake’s chin. “It takes time,” he said, almost kindly. The anger was the last thing to go before simple endurance became a Son’s watchword, waiting for the whispers to finally drive you closer to him.
The only thing standing in the way of that slow, agonizing slide was a lirai. He couldn’t quite blame a Younger for just wanting the soft, corrupt whispering to stop.
“You’re just like Father.” Jake’s cheeks were scarlet. They should be; he’d been taken by a sucker move. “A fucking coward.”
He didn’t really mean it, but still, the jab almost stung. Erik found his mouth curving, a cruel grimace very nearly passing for a smile. “Yeah, but I’m the coward who knocked you on your ass.”
Jake almost surged up, but Erik’s stave didn’t move, and he kept his Younger there long enough to make the point before retreating with a light fencer’s shuffle, weight and weapon balanced at every moment.
“Shit.” Jake wiped at his bleeding mouth. He also winced, a little theatrically; for all that the mark granted much greater endurance, it didn’t halt pain. “Sorry, Erik.”
“Not necessary.” And it wasn’t. You became an Elder when you could forgive the petty shit; Erik had the idea it might take a while for his companion. “Just glad one of us can still feel, you know. Anger.”
“Yeah.” Jake rose, a single graceful motion. “Wanna switch to knives?”
Not today, little man. And especially not after he’d won one; Jake got mean after a loss.
“Nah.” Erik stepped back again, clearing his weapon to assure himself of free play, a movement so habitual it was now instinctive. “I gotta report to Father.”
“Great. I’ll take Her Majesty breakfast.” Even that prospect didn’t cheer Jake up much. “She better not give me another list.”
“If she does, you’ll smile and be happy to have it.” It was a risk, but Erik decided to turn his back while racking his stave. The skin between his shoulderblades roughened.
“I guess.” Jake didn’t move. Was he watching; did he understand the message?
“Cheer up, little brother.” The words threatened to stick in Erik’s throat. “I’m giving her to the Flame; you’ll be the one she likes after that. It’ll be easy.”
In other words, don’t be selfish, wait your turn. If Erik had just learned that lesson he might not have become a Son; the trainers and winnowers went through orphanages looking for barely controlled powder kegs with the requisite mental—and moral—flexibility on a regular basis.
An utter bastard survived the training better, even if they were sometimes lost when the god’s crimson mark was first applied.
“Silver linings.” Jake still hadn’t moved, and he sounded thoughtful, now.
Erik did him the further courtesy of not looking back before palming the door to the locker room open. Trust was rare, even among your brothers.
So was respect.