Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

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??There is a binding,” Grandma said, “that makes a circle of two willing Hataalii. It sets their power to feed each upon each other, a combat which becomes partnership, perfect Balance. Each takes power from the other, and is instantly restored by the power they have taken. They may then live together, so long as chance permits.”

Rook blinked. “Doesn’t sound so — ”

“Listen, fool: they may live, I said. But not as Hataalii.”

It took a long time for Rook to find the words. But even when he said them, they sounded meaningless — ridiculous.

“You mean give up the hexation. Both of us.”

Grandmother didn’t move, even to nod — so Rook leaned forward instead, barely aware that some range of motion was beginning to return. “But . . . not permanently, right? You can break it, when you need to. . . .”

I could live with that, his mind gibbered to itself; Chess need never know what he didn’t already suspect. Keep the law’s eyes off each other, mask themselves to stay safe then unsheathe the power only when absolutely necessary, a lock-boxed magic shotgun.

And now Grandmother did shake her head, of course. Dashing all his hopes with one simple word: “No. It can be broken, yes. Once broken . . . never remade. Because the power, once bound and balanced, cannot be divided again. It must go with one or the other. And the one left empty . . .”

. . . dies. Anyhow.

“Did you really think there would be no price?” Grandmother asked, after long silence — more honestly curious than contemptuous, for once. “Even foolish as you are, have you really learned so little?”

No, thought Rook, numbly. Knew there’d be one, ’cause there always is. Just — not this.

Take away the magic, and Reverend Rook was just a fallen preacher turned outlaw, gone in one fell swoop from demigod to dirty joke. Everything Rook had been, he had thrown away for hexation’s sake. If he gave that up, what was left?

But then again . . . Chess would be losing more than he knew, too: his miraculous marksmanship, lizard-swift recovery from wounds and such. Hell, even the slow-burning brightness that turned men’s heads might drain away, leaving nothing behind but a too-pretty little man with a too-bad attitude, no longer fit for his formerly natural-born twin occupations of shooting and screwing. Could he ever forgive Rook, if he learned the Reverend had bargained away what made him special? Even if it saved his life?

If neither of us were hexes, could we even stand each other?

Grandma still held him down, a hundred ghost-hands ’round his throat, unwilling to give him even the slightest chance to refuse. Like she didn’t trust him far as she could throw him — by magical means, or otherwise — to not want both his cake and eat it too.

Knew him pretty well, all told, considerin’ how recently they’d met.

“. . . no,” he managed, at last, then coughed hard and spit, half-expecting to see a chunk of lung in the sputum. “I think — not.”

Grandmother’s brow, already hard-rucked, threw up fresh lines. “What?”

He could see it in her eyes, again — that brief flash of weary sympathy. Oh, grandson, do not make me make you do right —

Don’t worry, lady. You won’t get the opportunity.

“I accept,” he said, out loud. And — not to Grandma.

Then saw her draw breath to protest, just barely — begin to, anyhow. But the answer was already returned before the old woman could even complete the action, through channels so obscure he had to strain to even perceive them fully: a tintinnation, borne by dust and blood.

That silver no-voice, so sweet and dry and dreadful: husband, husband, yes

(you will not regret this)

No? Rook thought. Then: Probably not, no. Knowin’ me.

And — back to Grandmother, still caught in that half-tick of timelessness, her brown face turning purple. Rook felt her influence fall away, probably only accelerating as her head grew lighter, her eyes stung and swum. It occurred to him that putting her out of her misery sooner rather than later would be a truly Christian mercy.

And the glow starting to leak from every pore, laid overtop her lines like a badly exposed plate, emulsion popped and bleeding black light . . . all that wouldn’t have the slightest bit to do with him feeling oh-so-forgiving, would it? The magnetic pull of one hex for another, increased thousandfold by proximity to death.

A departure-born mutual arrival, rape and sex combined, with only one still left standing to savour the doubled load. . . .

Oh Jesus, it’s not like that. Can’t be. I just want — I don’t — I don’t hate her that much.