A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

“It could.”

“So, again, and having finally talked myself through all of this, ’til I’m ’bout to lose my Goddamn voice: what is it you want from me, that you can’t get elsewhere? Specify.”

Once more, it turned those eyes on him, and Christ if he didn’t rouse in reply, shamefacedly.

“Were you a different man, Asher Rook, then I would tell you what I told this red boy’s soldier, earlier tonight,” the Enemy said. “To ‘trust yourself and do as your conscience dictates, when the time comes.’ But since you and I both know how unlikely it is you will listen to that most flaccid and decayed of organs, perhaps it is better for me to simply make you a promise, and take one in return: that if you agree to say what I tell you to whoever I tell you to say it to at the proper moment, then you will get what you want most.”

“Chess back, I take it?”

“Once things are in their proper places, I will have no need of this body. I can feel your lover on the rise already, clawing his way up through the earth; should he reach me in time, I will be glad to step aside.”

“And if he don’t get here by then?”

“He has you on his side, does he not? You, the soldier and the soldier’s woman, whose gift works best in graveyards, along with his own, not inconsiderable powers. So long as none of you allow this flesh to lie empty long enough to rot, I trust you to find some way.”

“The hell kind of god are you?” Rook asked it, amazed.

“Not yours, obviously. Which is just as well, seeing you owe him so very much, and have paid him so very little.”

Which was, if harsh, only true. And sounded all too familiar, to boot.

Restore the Balance, Grandma’d told him, which sounded like status quo regained. But where would going back to the way it’d always been leave Chess and him, anyways — or the rest of every other witch or wizard, inside Hex City or out, for that matter? Rook’s mind went straight to the Council next, tallying his allies, and found he admired even the shakiest of them far more than he’d ever trusted himself. Might almost risk making the further error of thinking his own mistakes were worth it, to bring them all together. For what had been built in Hex City had to be preserved, even at the cost of his own power, of Chess, of himself.

So it wasn’t really so much he might have to reconcile himself with dying, which at least was over quick enough, as it was that he might have to give away his own hexation, that very thing which made him him, and be fine with that. The same sacrifice he’d never yet been able to make, even for Chess’s sweet-and-sour sake.

Finally do what I always should’ve, and trust a god to make it so, much as I know better: trust, hope, have faith, or at least pretend to. Do I really have a choice, either way?

He’d been silent a long time, he supposed, at this point. That would have to end.

“Fool me once,” Rook said, out loud, to no one in particular. And gathered his strength.

Now everything was reduced to snatches, nothing more. He didn’t even recall agreeing to this particular bargain, though he knew he must’ve, since next thing he knew, he had his hand wrist-deep in the Enemy’s swinging rib-slats, feeling a hard, small something force itself into his palm. Rook drew out a jade ball, bright green on red, forearm suddenly bloody to the elbow; Tezcatlipoca folded Rook’s fingers inward, smiling, and sealed the whole with a kiss that bloodied Chess’s blue lips.

Swallow this, it told him. It will act as an anchor, so that I may speak to you unheard, without my sister’s eavesdropping.

Thing was the size of a horse pastille, but Rook had no heart to complain — just choked the jade ball down, hoping it’d strangle him. And was unsurprised, when it didn’t.

The Enemy nodded, and bent inward again, shifting into his lap. Told him, without moving that bloody mouth: And now . . . what small reward I can give, to tide you over? Indulge yourself, Reverend — you know you want to.

“Don’t mind if I do,” the Rev replied, hoarsely.

When I tried this with Ed Morrow, the red boy’s soldier, he sent me on my way. Then I thought of you.

“How flattered should I be by that, exactly?”

Not at all. But you do wish me to stay, nevertheless.

Rook looked at it, carefully. This close, the thing he held looked less like Chess than it ever had . . . and yet. If this really was as good as he was likely to get, why stint himself?

“Been a bad year,” he said, at last. And kissed the god of Night, Death and Magic, deeply.

Later still, skewered, Rook would feel his eyes roll back, borne away on a pain-pleasure flood centred in entirely unfamiliar regions; an only too-fitting crucifixion, offered up to seal the deal as half apology, half penance, with those too-calm eyes staring down at him, now gone all-black, amused to their impenetrable cores by the depths of his own self-hatred.

Ridiculous, really. Chess’d never required such of him, and wouldn’t wanted it, if he’d offered. Ride all damn day, he’d said, once, in a flirtatious mood; night comes, it’s your turn in the saddle, and don’t you think to spare me the whip, neither. And how they’d driven each other, after that — right into the mattress, up against the wall, on every surface that’d bear the weight, and some that didn’t. Had to pay extra for damages, after, but it was well worth the fee.

If you want it so badly, I have no objections, the Enemy would say, as he assumed position. But in truth, no matter how I try, I will never understand you creatures. Why do you torment yourselves so, when life alone will do it for you, if you only wait long enough?

While Rook bit his lip ’til it bled, huffed out a groan like Chess’s nice-sized piece had cat-barbs going in and braced himself in vain ’gainst the even sharper backstroke, praying hurtful joy might soon turn to numbness, if not release. Oh Jesus, hell if I know. Like the Roman Church and their confessional, putting absolution’s sacrament in the hands of petty men — it’s hubris pure and simple, sheerest impossibility. How can we possibly forgive each other? We can’t even forgive ourselves.