Wolf Who Rules

Chapter 11: Paper Scissors Stone

“I would be happier if one of the other heads took them.” Ginger Wine eyed the trucks arriving with the Stone Clan luggage.

Wolf nodded, staying silent. In truth, none of the heads of households wanted the Stone Clan taking up occupancy at their enclave. Ginger Wine, however, lost the decision because not only was she was the junior-most head, but her enclave was also the smallest, meaning she would put the smallest number of Wind Clan folk out when the Stone Clan turned her enclave into a temporary private residence. The households of the three incoming domana was reported to be less than forty people combined. Ginger Wine’s enclave had fifty guest beds, thus a loss of only ten beds.

“I’ve never hosted someone from the Stone Clan before,” Ginger Wine said. “I hope they eat our food. We don’t have spices or the pans to cook Stone dishes, but I will not have them in my kitchens.”

Wolf could not understand the fanaticism with which the enclaves defended their kitchens. He had had to settle several disputes between his own household and Poppymeadow’s. He had learned, though, that there was only one correct answer. “If they will not eat, they will not eat.”

Ginger Wine chewed on one knuckle watching as the luggage was unloaded onto the pavement. The first trunks off, logically for a war zone, were the sekasha’s secondary armor. Sword and bow cases followed. As Ginger Wine’s people struggled to lift off the shipping containers holding spell arrows, she murmured around her finger. “I want double my normal remuneration.”

“Done.”

Wolf arranged to have his Rolls Royces ferry the Stone Clan domana from the palace clearing. The first pulled up in front of Ginger Wine’s and a single male got out. As there were no sekasha attending the male, this had to be Forest Moss. Wolf couldn’t tell if the male was pure Stone Clan genome. Forest Moss had the clan’s compact build and dusky skin tone. His hair, though, fell shocking white against his dark skin. The lids of his left eye were sewn shut and concave, following the bone line of his skull, showing that the eye had been fully removed. Scars radiated around the empty socket, as if something thin and heated been dragged from the edge of face to just short of the eye. The scar at the corner of the eye, however, continued into his eye. After a score of near misses, that last one had burned out the eye.

The right side of Moss’ face was smooth and whole, including the brown eye that glared at Wolf.

“Forest Moss on Stone.” Moss gave a coldly precise bow.

“Wolf Who Rules Wind.”

Moss’ one good eye flicked over him and scanned the sekasha. Without the matching eye, Wolf found it difficult to read the male. “Yes, you are. And these are your lovelies. Very, very nice.”

Wolf took the comment as a compliment and acknowledged it with a nod. There seemed, however, something more to it — like oil mixed in water, invisible until they separated.

“Otter Dance’s son,” Forest Moss said. “He comes of age this year, does he not?”

What did this battered soul want of Little Horse? “Yes.”

“Tempered Steel.” Forest Moss named Little Horse’s paternal grandfather as he held up his left hand. He lifted his right hand, saying, “And Perfection.” Who was Otter Dance’s mother. He put his hands together and kissed his fingertips. “What a creature the Wind Clan has crafted.”

It was a mistake to respond to Forest Moss’ first comment; Wolf would not repeat his mistake. While the sekasha could be ruthlessly practical, it was insulting to suggest anything but chance had brought the two most famous sekasha bloodlines together in one child.

Wolf gave him a hard stare, warning him not to continue on the subject.

“What a look! But I am mad. Such looks are seen only by my left eye.” Forest Moss touched his ruined cheek to indicate his empty eye socket. He cocked his head, as something occurred to him. “The last thing I saw from this eye was Blossom Spring from Stone being drowned in the pisshole by her First, Granite. The oni had raped all the females from the start. The sekasha had their naekuna but the domana—” Forest Moss sighed and whispered. “Those mad dogs are so fertile they can even spawn themselves on us. Of course — a half-breed child would have given the oni access to the domana genome — so the sekasha had to act. The oni had taken Granite’s arms and right leg, one bone at a time. They thought they had made him helpless, but still he managed to pin Blossom facedown in the sewage. She thrashed beneath him for so long — I would have thought drowning was faster. It was quiet. So very quiet. None of us daring to say a word until it was over. Shhhhh. Quiet as mice, least the oni hear and realized that their rabid seed had taken and carry her off to bear their puppies.”

Wolf steeled himself to keep from stepping back a step from the elf. Was Forest Moss as mad as he seemed, or was this an act to let him be as rude as he wanted? Or was the male deluding only himself, thinking that he was “acting”?

“What of your domi?” Forest Moss leaned close to whisper, his one eye bright. “Did those rabid beasts fuck her? Fill her up with their seed? Will there be puppies to drown in the pisspot?”

Wolf would not validate this conversation by explaining that Tinker would be infertile from her transformation long after the danger of pregnancy was past — regardless of what the oni did to her. “You will not speak of my domi again.”

“I am not the one to fear. All your lovelies standing around you are the ones to fear. They hold our lives in their holy hands, judging every breath we take. They have to be strong because we’re so weak. I fully expect that someday one of them will decide I’m too damaged to live.”

“Hopefully soon.”

Forest Moss laughed bitterly. “Yes, yes, actually, soon would be nice. I’m too afraid to do it myself. I am a coward you know. Everyone knows. That’s why I have no sekasha.”

Ginger Wine had heard the whole exchange. A gracious host, she bowed elegantly and offered to escort Forest Moss to his room, but a tightness around her eyes meant she was keeping fury in check. Wolf’s people might not know Tinker, but she was his domi, and they wouldn’t take criticism of her lightly.

While he suspected the humans might blame Tinker for Pittsburgh being stranded, the elves always knew it was only a matter of time before the odd cycle of Shutdown and Startup would end. Humans never continued anything for long. As long as the Ghostlands didn’t present them with more problems, most elves would see Tinker’s solution as a good one.

Alertness went through his Hand, and Wolf turned to find Jewel Tears standing there.

She wore the deep green that always looked so beautiful on her. Her dark hair braided with flowers and ribbons, most likely taking an hour to create. She had two spell spheres orbiting her. One cooled the air about her. The other sphere triggered favorite scent memories in those around her. The spheres always had made him leery. He knew that it was impossible for the spheres to collide with anything, but he always flinched when they got too near his head. Nor did it help that the one always made Jewel Tears smell like his blade mother, Otter Dance.

Around them the sekasha acknowledged each other’s presence and waged their still and silent dominance battle. Not that it was much of a contest — Jewel had only been able to recruit a vanity hand of recent doubles. Against his First Hand, they were just babies.

“Wolf Who Rules Wind.” Jewel Tears smiled warmly at him, and bowed lower than necessary, almost spilling her breasts out of her bodice.

“Jewel Tears on Stone.” He bowed to her, wondering what her flagrant display meant. Was this strictly a personal invitation, however improper, or was the Stone Clan making use of her?

She stepped forward, rising up on her toes as if she meant to kiss him. He stopped her with a look. The spell spheres orbited them as she stood frozen in place.

“Wolf,” she whimpered.

“You are not my sekasha, nor are you my domi.”

“I should be!” She jerked her chin up and glared at him. “You asked me! I told you that I needed time to consider it. I finally make my decision, pack my household to join you here in the Westernlands, and I get your letter saying that you were taking a human — a human — as your domi.”

“I gave you a hundred years. When I was at court last, thirty years ago, we did not even speak to one another.”

“I–I was busy, as were you. And a letter? You could not come and tell me yourself?”

“There was no time.” He wondered what she hoped to gain with this tactic. He would not break his vow to Tinker, no matter how guilty Jewel tried to make him feel. Because Jewel never responded, she had no legal recourse.

She reached out to neaten his sleeve. “We courted for years — that slow exquisite dance of passion. The boat rides on Mist Lake with the whiting of swans. The picnics in the autumn woods. The winter masquerades. We took the time that is proper, to learn each other, to know that we were right for each other. What do you know of this — this — female? How can you know anything?”

He knew even if he tried to explain how a lifetime of understanding could be distilled out of twenty-four hours, she would not believe him. The elves never did — with the exception of Little Horse. “I knew enough. This is not court, where you have eternity to decide, because nothing changes. I was willing to risk whatever may come because if I did not put out my hand, and take her then, she would have been lost to me forever.”

“What of your commitment to me?”

Wolf controlled a flash of anger. “I waited. You did not answer. I moved on.”

“I needed time to think!” she cried and then looked annoyed that she had raised her voice. “I thought you knew me well enough to understand my position. I do not have your resources as the son of the clan leader — a favored cousin to the Queen. You would have been forgiven for taking a domi outside your clan. Both Wind and Fire want you merely because of the other clan’s interest; Wind would never turn you out for the Fire to take in. I do not have your luxury. I had to consider long and hard my responsibilities to my household before committing to you. I couldn’t risk not being able to support them if neither Wind nor Stone sponsored me.”

“If you had come to me, told me your concerns, I could have done something to guarantee that you would always have Wind Clan sponsorship.” Even as he said it, though, he knew that it was better that she hadn’t. He had made a mistake in asking her to be his domi. When he brought her to the Westernlands, dismay had spread across her face when she realized they would spend the rest of their lives in the wilderness, far from court. It had opened his eyes; he had fooled himself in how well they suited one another. He’d been willing to honor that commitment a hundred years ago, even after that realization. Even as recently as thirty years ago, he might have still taken her as his domi. In the last two decades, though, he had considered himself released of his pledge.

Jewel tried to make it all seem his fault. “I was supposed to trust you to take care of me when you couldn’t be bothered to explain anything to me? You would go off and leave me with no idea what you had planned, what you were doing, when you were going to come back.”

“I trusted you to do what you needed to do. I thought you trusted me.”

A look flashed across her face before being hidden away, but he knew her too well not to recognize it and could guess her thoughts. One thing you learn well at court was to trust no one. Not only did she not trust him, she thought him weak for expecting it.

But this left one question. “What made you finally decide?” he asked.

Her nostrils flared and she glanced away from him. “Things have not gone well for me. Some of my ventures failed — I had miscalculated the risks involved on one and in trying to cover my losses, things — cascaded. I was forced to give up my holdings.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “My household was losing faith in me.”

So coming to him was not an act of love but of desperation. It would also explain what she was doing here now — without holdings, she would lose her household and then her clan sponsorship. Jewel Tears was too proud and ambitious to live under someone else’s rule. If she was that destitute, though, she wouldn’t have the funds to set up a holding at Pittsburgh; it could only mean that the Stone Clan chose her and advanced her stake money.

Did the Stone Clan think that if something happened to Tinker, he would turn to Jewel Tears? How far were they willing to go to put their theory to test? He knew Jewel well enough to know that she would let nothing stand in her way of her ambitions. That had been one of the things he loved about her.

Tinker wished the machine room didn’t feel so much like a trap. Whoever designed the room had never considered that there would be anything as dangerous as the black willow between the back room and the front door. Being around the black willow made everyone nervous. There were no signs, however, of it reviving despite a full day of summer heat. Oilcan rotated the steel drums of metal filings, taking the ones saturated with magic to some place to drain and replaced them with fresh drums. Tinker could see no overflow of magic. Still, the sekasha all kept their shields activated just to use up local ambient magic.

She had the old spell jack hammered out of place. She was now carefully prepping the site to lay down the new spell and cement it into place.

Stormsong settled beside her, her sheathed ejae across her knees, her shields a blue aura around her. “Do you mind if we talk?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

Stormsong gave a slight laugh, and then continued with great seriousness. “It’s not my place to advise you. It should be Pony, as your only beholden, or Wraith Arrow, who is Windwolf’s First, but—” Stormsong sighed and shook her head. “Wraith Arrow won’t cross that line and Pony — that boy has a serious case of hero worship for you.”

“Pony?”

“You can do no wrong in his eyes. You know all, see all, understand all — which leaves you up the shit creek because you really don’t and he won’t tell you squat, because he thinks you already know.”

“So you’re going to tell me?”

“You rather walk around with your head up your ass and not know it?”

Tinker groaned. “What am I’m doing wrong now?”

“You need to choose four more sekasha, at minimum.”

Tinker sighed. “Why? Things are working fine this way.”

“No, it’s not, and you’re the only one that doesn’t see that. For instance, Pony is just a baby to the rest of us.”

“He’s at least a hundred.” She knew he was an adult, although just barely, like she had been as an eighteen-year-old human. Unfortunately, now she fell into a nebulous zone of being just barely adult for years and years.

“He just left the doubles this year.” Meaning last year, he could use two numbers to indicate his age. “Only half of Windwolf’s sekasha are in the triples — the rest are older.”

“How old are you?” Tinker was fairly sure Stormsong was one of the younger sekasha. She was starting to be able to look at elves and see their age indicators. It was odd, to have her concept of Windwolf slowly change from “adult” to “her age” as her perception of all elves changed.

“I’m two hundred.” Which made her Pony’s age, because to the elves that hundred year difference barely counted.

“So we’re all same approximately the same age.”

“You wish.” Stormsong took out a pack of Juicy Fruit gum and offered her a stick. “Yeah, physically Pony and I are like a human teenagers, but we’ve still had a hell of lot longer than you to figure out people.”

Tinker took the gum and let the taste explode in her mouth. “What’s your point? Is Pony old or young?”

“That is my point.” Stormsong took a piece for herself and put away the pack. “He’s the youngest of the sekasha, but he’s your First.”

“Are you trying to confuse me?”

“Anything regarding you, Pony is in charge, but he’s the youngest of the sekasha.”

This was starting to make her head hurt. “Are you talking…seniority?”

“Seniority. Seniority.” Stormsong took out a small dictionary, flipped through it, and read off the entry for seniority. “Precedence of position, especially precedence over others of the same rank by reason of a longer span of service.”

“Oh that’s not fair,” Tinker complained. “You get a dictionary. I want one for Elvish.”

“We don’t have such things.” Stormsong put away the dictionary. “They would be too useful.”

Tinker had to put “Elvish Dictionary” on her project list.

“Yes.” Stormsong continued. “Pony needs seniority over those he commands, which he doesn’t have because none of us are yours. What’s more when the bullets start to fly, we need to know which way to jump. Pony doesn’t need to think. But the rest of us — we have pledged our lives to Windwolf — it’s him we should be thinking of — but we know that only Pony is watching over you.”

“I told Windwolf I’d think about this.”

“Humans have a wonderful saying: assume is making an ass out of ‘u’ and me. Windwolf assumes that Pony will guide you in your choice, and Pony assumes that you know all.”

“So you’re doing it.”

“Hell, someone has to.”

“If it’s Pony’s job, shouldn’t I just tell him that I don’t know shit?”

Stormsong gave her a look that Tinker recognized from years of being a child genius.

“Oh gods,” Tinker cried. “Don’t look at me that way!”

“What way?”

“The ‘what a clever little thing’ look. It horrifies me how long I’m going to have to put up with that now that I’m an elf.”

Stormsong laughed, and then lapsed into Low Elvish, sounding properly contrite. “Forgiveness, domi.”

“Oh, speak English.”

“Yes,” Stormsong said in English. “You should talk to Pony, since those you hold need to work well with him. Let me give you pointers he might not think of — he is still new at this. Blind leading the blind and all that shit.”

“You’re not going to take ‘later’ as an answer?”

“Kid, how splattered with shit do you need to get before you realize it’s hitting the fan? We’re fuck deep in oni, Wyverns and Stone Clan. Now is not the time to be worrying about chain of command.”

Stormsong had a way of driving the point home with a sledgehammer. Tinker just wished she wasn’t the one being hammered. “Fine, point away.”

“What all sekasha want is seniority. To be First. Failing that — in the First Hand.” Top five she meant. “Forever at the bottom is a bitch. Pony was wise to seize the chance to be your First once he saw what you were made of. You’ve proved yourself with keeping both Windwolf and Pony safe from the oni — that’s what a good domi does — so all of us are willing to fill your Hand.”

“But…” Tinker swore she could hear a ‘But’ in there somehow.

“It would be best for all—” Stormsong paused and then added, “— in my opinion— that you don’t choose from Windwolf’s First Hand.”

“Why not?”

“Most domana fill their First Hand with sekasha just breaking their doubles. The domana want the glory a hand gives them, and the sekasha see it as a way to be in First Hand. We call it a vanity hand. The thing is that most domana can’t attract a Second Hand because not only the incentive of being First is gone, the sekasha of the Second Hand have to be willing to serve under the First Hand. Likewise the Third Hand knows that they will be junior to the First Hand and the Second. Adding into this is the personality of the domana: does the positive of being beholden to that domana outweigh the negative of not having seniority? Many domana can only hold vanity hands.”

“Okay.” Tinker had assumed that all domana had multiple hands. Apparently not.

“Windwolf’s grandfather — Howling — helped tear us away from the Skin Clan and form the monarchy that keeps the clans from waging endless war. When he was assassinated, his sekasha became Longwind’s — but not as his First or Second, since those were already filled.”

“Ouch.” Tinker wondered how this related.

“Yes, it was a step down for them — but they saw it fitting since they failed Howling,” Stormsong said. “Windwolf wanted his First Hand to advise him on setting up in this new land, setting up new towns and lines of trade, something he didn’t think doubles could help him do. So he approached the sekasha of his grandfather’s Hands and they accepted. It would make them First Hand again, but more importantly, they believed in him. Wolf Who Rules has always lived up to his name.”

“So, the First Hand, they’re all thousands of years old?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” So maybe she wasn’t so good at guessing age — none of the sekasha struck her as older than late twenties in human terms. Tinker finished setting the non-conductive pins that would hold the spell level. “Can you take down your shield? I’m going to set the compressor spell into place.”

Tinker didn’t want to risk brushing the spell tracing up against an active spell. Stormsong spoke the command that deactivated her shields. A slight pricking that Tinker hadn’t really noticed vanished, making her aware by its absence that she had been feeling the active magic.

“Thanks.” Tinker took the filigreed sections of the spell out of their protective packing and fit them into place.

Stormsong watched her for a few minutes before continuing her explanation. “It was his First Hand that let Windwolf to pull a Second and Third Hand made up of triples and quads.”

“So why—” Tinker paused to make sure all the pieces of the spell were stable and level. “Why shouldn’t I take any of Windwolf’s First? Wouldn’t that help me, like it helped him?”

“It would help at a cost to Pony. There’s no way he could be First to one of Windwolf’s First Hand. Also, the First Hand are the ones that see you most as a child that needs firm guidance until you finish growing up. Lastly, they’re all technophobes.”

“Ick!” Tinker picked up her cordless soldering iron and started to tack together the pieces of the spell with careful, practiced solders.

“The younger sekasha won’t bring you as much honor as those from Windwolf’s First Hand but they’ll be the ones that ‘fit’ with you best. When Pittsburgh appeared, Windwolf realized that he needed sekasha willing to learn technology — and that recent doubles would be the most open-minded. That’s when he picked up his Fourth Hand.”

“You don’t think Pony will know that they’ll fit best?”

Stormsong sighed. “Pony’s mother, Otter Dance, is Windwolf’s blade mother.”

“His what?”

“Otter Dance is Longwind’s favorite lover among his sekasha.” Stormsong explained.

Tinker was missing the significance. “Pony is Windwolf’s brother?”

“Genetically — no — but emotionally — yes — in a way.”

“Oookay.” Tinker wondered what Windwolf’s mother felt about it. Did she see her husband having a lover as some kind of a betrayal? Or did the fact there was even a special name — blade mother — mean that it was somehow expected. Certainly Stormsong seemed to think this was nothing hugely remarkable.

“It has been assumed since Pony’s birth, that he’d look to Windwolf,” Stormsong continued. “In my opinion — that assumption did what all assumptions do.”

“Make an ass out of you and me?”

“Yes. Pony is fucking amazing, but neither Windwolf nor Pony seems to realize it. Windwolf still sees Pony as a child, and he’s not!”

Tinker thought about Pony doing exercises up in their oni cell, wearing only his pants — chiseled muscles moving under silken skin dripping with sweat. “My husband needs his eyes checked.”

Stormsong laughed. “I’m glad you snatched Pony up. As long as you don’t do something to fuck him up, maybe he’ll one day realize how special he is. Until then, he’s going to overcompensate for what he sees as his own weakness. Pony might point you toward someone from the First Hand and then try to bow out — all in the name of doing right by you.”

Tinker focused on the last of the solders, clenching her jaw in annoyance at Stormsong’s comments about Pony and Windwolf. It felt wrong to hear anything negative about either one of them, like she was being disloyal. Really, what did she know about Stormsong other than she was one of Windwolf’s trusted bodyguards? Besides the fact that she nearly died for Tinker?

Tinker sighed as she forced herself to consider that maybe Stormsong was right about all this — that it was vital she pick out four more guards immediately and that Pony needed a good slap up against the head. She found herself remembering that Pony had waited without comment for her to decide to accept Bladebite.

“Is Bladebite from Windwolf’s First Hand?” Tinker tried to sound causal about it.

Stormsong nodded.

And if Tinker hadn’t dodged the question, she would be stuck with Bladebite trying to control her. She sighed. “How do I tell Bladebite no?” Surely she didn’t have to tell him yes just before he offered. That would be a stupid system — but the elves never struck her as completely logical. “Can I tell him no?”

“You can say that you don’t think you fit with him. That’s copasetic.”

Copasetic. Tinker shook her head, remembering the days immediately after she became an elf — everything made more confused by the fact that Pony didn’t speak English or understand the differences between the two cultures.

“When the Queen called Windwolf to Aum Renau,” Tinker said, “why didn’t Windwolf leave you with me?”

“My mother is Pure Radiance and my father is the Queen’s First. They have not seen me for a hundred years and wanted me there. Windwolf thought it unwise to not bring me.”

Tinker stared at the elf in amazement. “The oracle and a Wyvern? What the hell are you doing with Wind Clan?”

“I had — issues — with court. Windwolf offered me a chance to escape all that and I jumped. Considering what my mother named me, she probably wasn’t totally surprised.”

Yes, Stormsong sounded more like a Wind Clan name than Fire Clan.

It occurred to Tinker then what ‘fit’ was about. She felt comfortable sitting and talking with Stormsong. Annoying as the truth was, Tinker trusted her judgment. And it would be good to have someone that understood what it felt like to be the outsider.

“So,” Tinker said to Stormsong. “Are you offering?”

Stormsong looked puzzled a moment, and then surprised. “To be yours?”

“Yeah. I–I think we work.”

Stormsong blinked at her a few moments before standing, the scrape of her boots on the cement loud in the silence that fell between them.

“I can understand if you don’t want to.” Tinker busied herself checking the solders. All that was needed was to cement the spell into place, wait for the cement to cure, and the black willow could be safely stored indefinitely. Or at least, until it she figured out what her dreams meant.

“I want to be honest with you.” Stormsong paced the perimeter of the room in her long legged stride. “But it’s like opening a vein. It’s a painful, messy thing to do.”

Tinker lifted her hand to wave that off. “I don’t think I can deal with painfully messy at the moment.”

“You should know stuff like this before you ask. That was the whole point of the conversation. You have to make informed choices.”

Tinker made a noise. “I’ve been doing fairly well lately blindly winging it through mass chaos.”

Stormsong scoffed and then sighed. “I’m probably the most misbegotten mutt puppy ever born to the elves. Most people think my mother made a horrible mistake having me. I don’t fit in anywhere.”

“At least you stayed an elf, instead of jumping species like I did.”

Stormsong laughed. “There are times I wished I could. Just be human. Lose myself among them. But a hundred years of sekasha brainwashing made that all impossible. I can’t walk away from it. I tried, but I can’t. I like being sekasha too much.”

“Not to belittle your difficulties, but I really don’t get the problem. You’re a sekasha. I need sekasha. We work together well — at least I think we do. Or is that you hate my guts?”

“I would die for you.”

Tinker wished that people would stop saying that to her. “I’ll take that as a ‘no, I don’t hate you’ and frankly, I’d rather you didn’t die. Now, that’s painful and messy, and not just for you.”

Stormsong laughed and then bowed low to Tinker. “Tinker domi, I would be honored to be yours. I will not disappoint you.”