Grasping at Shadows [2/5] (Suikoden II, Jowy and the Highlanders)
"Jowy and the Highlanders" almost sounds like the name of a band. That's not this 'verse, though.
Also, writing this much Luca Blight really does necessitate showers afterward.
Title: Grasping at Shadows [2/5] (AO3)
Author:
puella_nerdii
Fandom: Suikoden II
Characters: Jowy Atreides; Luca Blight, Seed, Culgan, Rowd, Riou, Leon Silverberg, and eventually the entire Highland cast.
Rating: R (...is "Warning: Luca Blight" sufficient? If not, violence-bordering-on-graphic, war crimes, and shit-gets-real thematic content should cover it.)
Words: ~6.3k in this chapter, ~16.7k overall.
Notes: This fic is unofficially subtitled Jowy Atreides's Terrible Life Choices, by the way. The entire thing, particularly every instance of the word "Silverberg" in it, is Mithrigil's fault, and she knows why.
Summary: "I'll stop this war my own way. No, I'll never let a war like this break out on this soil again. And as you say, I'm prepared to be dishonored, if need be. Nevertheless..." - Suikogaiden 1, Chapter 2
Jowy Atreides wants to slay a monster and bring down a nation. But he has to strike in the right place at the right time, and strike deep while hiding his intent, and the monster is watching -- and laughing.
Chapter One
Chapter Two: Jowy makes his bid for power, and ends up with far more than he bargained for.
No plan is too simple for an incompetent commander to ruin. Or almost ruin, in this case. Jowy and his forces and the Muse refugees arrive in time to rescue Rowd's worthless neck, and the look on Rowd's face almost makes saving his life worth it. He dismisses most of Rowd's forces, and no one other than Rowd himself questions Jowy's decision. It's strange, but not unwelcome. Jowy figures that the men are happy to be escaping with their skins intact, after the near-disaster.
His men do protest when he announces his plan to free the soldiers from Muse, and protest even louder when he re-arms them. They quiet down when Jowy points out the Highland soldiers disguised in Muse's ranks, joining them in their march through Greenhill's gate.
He wonders how much he'll even need the saboteurs. With Greenhill's food stores shrinking and everyone's tempers fraying, the outcome's almost inevitable. It's been inevitable since Teresa Wisemail decided to welcome the soldiers in. Did she know what she was setting herself up for? He'll get the chance to ask her soon, if the reports of fighting in Greenhill's streets that his scouts send him are right.
They are, as it happens. Greenhill's gates open from the inside, and not a drop of Highland blood's been shed since Jowy took command.
His soldiers celebrate well into the night and drink to his health. Seed says the beer is the coldest he's tasted in years. Jowy can't tell. His lips and fingertips and tongue feel numb.
***
"The students are not to be harmed," Jowy repeats, because it's better to say it too often than not often enough. "Understood?"
"Understood, sir." The captain salutes. "I'll see to it that my men behave themselves."
"Good."
"Why should they?" Rowd appears at Jowy's elbow, and it occurs to him that he could have Rowd disciplined for insubordination now. Maybe he should, to drive home which one of them is in command now. The captain eyes them both, hesitates, inches away. Jowy doesn't blame him.
"The acting mayor is in hiding, likely somewhere in this city or in the surrounding forest," Jowy says. "Her people love her, and if they don't want us to find her, we won't. We have to win their cooperation. Burning their homes to the ground and harming the students won't let us do that."
Rowd scowls. "If his Highness was here-"
"His Highness gave me the command. You saw as much." You could have volunteered, Jowy doesn't say. Then you could have killed all the children you wanted to. "And these are my orders. I've given the citizens of Greenhill my word that they won't be harmed unless they take up arms against us, and that we'll make sure they're fed. I gave the students my word that they'll be able to continue their studies in peace."
"And you think that'll keep them quiet?"
Jowy ignores the scoff in those words. "They're hungry and they're exhausted. We're offering them peace."
"Offering them weakness, more like. Think they'll trust a word out of your liar's mouth after your trick with the Muse soldiers?"
Jowy grits his teeth, stares ahead. "Yes," he says, and doesn't add more. Why bother explaining himself to Rowd when he doesn't have to? "Return to your tent and wait for your orders. You're dismissed."
Rowd makes his salute look like an obscene gesture.
***
Jowy has a tent to himself again. It's the largest one in the field, with Highland's colors decorating the flap, but he never feels like he has much space in it. Even when no one's standing around the meeting table, their echoes fill the space, thicken the air enough to leave impressions of their shapes in it.
If you stand above other men, you cannot hide from them, Marcel told Jowy once. Hundreds, even thousands, of eyes look up at you.
Five thousand of them now. Five thousand, not counting Greenhill's citizens and Muse's soldiers, and not counting everyone receiving reports of what he's doing. He sits on the edge of his bed, flexes his fingers. The edges of his Rune glow in the light from the globes planted around his tent; the Rune soaks more and more of that glow in until it's trapped under his skin, spreading up his arm. Everyone's watching the Rune, too, and some of them might know its power better than he does. It's strange-he always feels its presence, but he's had so little time to pay real attention to it, explore it beyond the flashes of itself it reveals to him unasked.
If it's a remnant of the first Sword, the one born from the tear Darkness shed, it should be able to destroy anything. So why can't it destroy Luca Blight? Does Luca have a True Rune, too? If he does, shouldn't Jowy be able to sense that?
Maybe it has nothing to do with Luca and everything to do with him. Maybe the Rune hasn't shown its full power because he's not strong enough to unlock it.
He shuts his eyes and stretches his hand over his head, palm facing out. The Rune pulses faster and faster and he focuses on that, breathes to its rhythm. There are different gates that control the flow of magic through his body, and Jowy unlocks the lowest one, the one that governs the most basic spells. Energy surges through his veins, seeks to escape through and be shaped by his Rune, but he contains it, redirects it, channels it through the second gate. His eyes sear and water and that won't be the worst of it if he keeps this up, but he has to, has to see just what this power can become if he builds it enough, shapes it right. The third gate opens next and Jowy can't tell if his lungs are filling with air or with raw magic-he's never tried to contain it this long, never made it double back on itself until the pathways through his body sing and chatter with power-
"General Atreides, sir!"
Jowy snaps to attention and the flow of magic surges one final time, then stills. His bones ache, but at least none of the magic escaped his body. His Rune still seethes black as a brand, though, and he tugs his sleeve over it before he says, "Enter."
"It's Captain Rowd, sir," the soldier says, pushing the flap aside, his face the color of old porridge. "There was an incident in Greenhill-"
Jowy stands. "What kind of incident?"
"Sir." The soldier swallows. "There was a rumor that Lady Teresa was hiding in an inn at town, and-"
He can guess the rest. Damn it. Damn it. "Was anyone killed?"
"No, sir, but they threatened to torture-"
"Bring him to me." He should have done this at the beginning, should have forced Rowd into line from the start. Now his men's confidence might slip through his fingers, and Greenhill's trust, and if he loses those this has all been for nothing. "If he refuses, bring him here under guard."
Rowd apparently doesn't refuse, because only two soldiers accompany him to where Jowy waits. A good portion of the camp's gathered around, too. Good. This can't be a private matter anymore.
"Captain Rowd," Jowy says, and waits. Rowd doesn't salute, and Jowy continues to wait.
"What?" Rowd finally snaps. "You got something to say or not?"
"Something to say or not, sir." Seed steps out from the growing crowd, and Jowy tries not to let his shoulders unstiffen too visibly. Is he starting to win Culgan and Seed over? It's dangerous to assume, but still.
"He's your commanding officer." Culgan joins Seed, and the air is still from all the drawn and waiting breaths. "You know the right form of address."
"Sir," Rowd grits out, spit gathering in the gaps between his teeth.
"Do you remember what I promised the citizens of Greenhill, Captain?"
Rowd glares.
Some of his Rune's energy still lingers in Jowy's body, and he draws on it now to sharpen his voice, straighten his spine, make the air around him hum. "I asked you a direct question, Captain."
"Yes, sir." Rowd doesn't stop glaring.
"Then why do I hear that you and your men broke into an inn and assaulted its owners?"
"Because they were hiding-"
"Did you find Lady Teresa in the inn, Captain?" Jowy asks.
"…no. Sir."
"Did you find any sign that she'd ever been there?"
When Rowd stays silent for too long, a man steps forward, his eyes cast down. Jowy recognizes him even with his face half-hidden. He's one of the men usually in Rowd's company, standing in attendance around his tent. Jowy keeps his face impassive, but his pulse picks up.
"We didn't, sir," the man says.
"Thank you, soldier," Jowy says, and the man can't step back into the crowd quickly enough. "You broke my word, Captain Rowd."
Finally, Rowd looks Jowy straight on, and his sneer breaks open into a laugh. His eyes are small and watery, Jowy realizes, like a rat's. "Your word?" Rowd repeats, and Jowy's hand closes around the hilt of his sword-no. It isn't his sword. It's the knife.
"What good is a traitor's word, sir?" Rowd continues, and Jowy darts forward, slams his knee into the back of Rowd's before Rowd can duck away. Rowd's knees smack the ground hard and Jowy draws the knife and holds it to Rowd's throat in the space of a breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Culgan inclining his head in approval. He'll process that later. Either the soldiers have fallen silent or something is muffling Jowy's ears, some thick whirring sound that isn't quite a roar.
Rowd's voice cuts through it, even though he only mutters. "Or a traitor's blade."
Jowy steadies his hand, presses the tip of the knife into Rowd's throat. Sweat beads on the point, not blood, but if he pushed in a little harder-Rowd understands, for once, and goes still as a stone.
Luca would be laughing now, a part of Jowy thinks, one that's stepped back from the rest of this. "Ask Anabelle," he says. He says it quietly, but with the field this still, everyone hears.
He pulls the knife away from Rowd's neck. Rowd doesn't move. "You are relieved of command until His Highness or I reinstate you," Jowy says. Rowd jerks forward like he means to tackle Jowy to the ground and several of Jowy's other captains move in, swords readied to restrain Rowd if they need to. He doesn't have time to marvel at it. "Tomorrow, you will make a formal apology to the citizens of Greenhill and tell them that we offer twenty thousand potch and Highland citizenship to whomever brings us Teresa Wisemail. Alive."
Rowd's jaw works, but he says nothing, and unless Jowy's mistaken, his silence is less sullen this time.
"I'll decide on appropriate punishments for your men later." Jowy sheathes the knife at last, but the sound of it scraping into its sheath lingers. "You're dismissed."
Rowd hauls himself to his feet stiffly, like his limbs are thawing out after a deep freeze. "Sir," he says, the corner of his lip curling, but leaves it at that. Jowy stays where he is until Rowd disappears from view, and waits for the rest of the soldiers to trickle off. They do, but Seed and Culgan stay behind, join Jowy to watch the rest leave.
"Not bad," Seed says. "My old man would like your style."
"Do you think Greenhill's citizens will accept your offer?" Culgan asks.
Jowy keeps his focus ahead. "Only one of them has to."
***
One of them might well have. Jowy doesn't get the chance to find out.
His gut tells him that Rowd won't make good on his apology, or on Jowy's promise, so he follows him to the town center. His gut didn't tell him that Nanami and Pilika and Riou would be waiting there, too. Or that Riou would see him and look at him, and that look would seal Jowy's voice away better than any words ever could. The crowd surges and turns in on itself and Riou vanishes into the thick of it. Jowy knows what order he's supposed to give, the only order anyone could give when they spot the enemy commander walking around in their territory, but the words won't come.
Teresa's people won't let her surrender. They beg her to leave, to save herself so she can return to save them. And as long as she's free, Highland will never truly hold Greenhill. But Luca doesn't have to know that, does he?
It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't matter either way. He went to Greenhill to prove himself and Greenhill doesn't mean anything more to him than that. Why should it?
He's still wondering about that when Pilika tries to run into his arms again.
She cries and clutches at his coat and tries desperately to form his name, and if only Jowy could take her into his arms again and hold her high, hear her laugh-
Then Nanami's shouting at him, holding back tears, telling him that it's all a lie and he can't be following Luca's orders, and he knows it's as much of a lie to tell himself he can hold Pilika like that again.
But it's not too late for the three of them, and he tells Riou to run. Relinquish command of the Unicorn Army, and run. You'll only make this longer and bloodier if you don't. There's no reason for you to fight. Greenhill doesn't mean anything to Riou, either, does it?
"I can't just run away," Riou says, and his eyes have never been that sharp before, that clear. His silence after that is almost as piercing as his stare is, and it cuts deeper than any knife, any sword. Jowy wants to tell him to stop, to go, just go, to take him by the shoulders and make Riou understand that he'll never win this, he can't, he and Nanami and Pilika will end up with their heads mounted on Luca Blight's battlements and Jowy will have to watch them die and stop himself from screaming.
Riou leaves, finally, and it's all Jowy can do not to fall to his knees. Thank the gods that Seed and Culgan drive Rowd off for him; it gives him enough time to pull himself together and ask them why, at least.
"We love Highland," Seed says. "It's a wonderful country."
"We can't stand idly by and let it be destroyed," says Culgan. "The only thing Luca Blight will bring about is ruin, and that has never been our intention."
They pledge their loyalty to him. They don't bend their knees or offer their swords, but they don't need to. What they're offering is almost too much, and he knows he doesn't deserve it, but he needs this, and he does treasure this, and he knows it isn't enough when he says, "Thank you."
"So now that we're doing this," Seed says, "there's someone you should meet."
***
"Thank the gods we don't have to go all the way to Kalekka, huh?" Seed crosses his arms and leans back, surveys the darkened windows of the house they're standing in front of. House isn't quite right; it's not as large as the Atreides estate in Kyaro but it's stately enough in its own way, two stone storeys with a grooved roof the color of pewter. The surrounding forest is thick enough that the lawn in front stands out as the only flat ground in sight. There are no other houses nearby, only a well with the same architecture as the house and a storehouse around the far corner.
"Kalekka's in the Scarlet-Toran," Jowy corrects himself, "isn't it?"
"Yeah. Usually he's down there these days, but I told him to come on up a while back. Figured he wouldn't want to miss any of this." Seed raises his fist high in the air, pounds on the door loudly enough that a group of crickets chirp in alarm, and hollers, "Hey, old man!"
A deep, humorless voice answers, "I'm not giving you any money."
"I don't need money! Luca Blight pays well."
Culgan rubs the bridge of his nose like he's trying hard not to sigh.
A few moments later, the bolt scrapes through the lock and a man opens the door from the inside. He's tall and thickset, with a dark moustache and a heavy scarf, and Jowy gets the distinct impression that he's looking over all three of the men on his doorstep at once. "Did he send you here?"
"Nope." Seed takes a few steps back, jerks his thumb at Jowy. "I brought a friend."
"I'm not giving your friend any money either."
Seed grins. "How about a kingdom?"
The man turns to Jowy, eyes tight and shadowed. "You're Atreides."
"Yes," Jowy says, and meets his gaze.
He nods. "Come inside. Culgan, good to see you again. Seed, go entertain your nephew."
"I have a nephew?"
"He's seven."
"Well, shit."
"Please don't swear in front of him, he repeats everything he hears. Atreides, come this way," he adds, and indicates a sitting room to his left, overlooking the forest.
Jowy brushes the hilt of his sword with his thumb, but the house doesn't seem to be crawling with soldiers, and the man doesn't look like much of a fighter. Not that he should place much trust in appearances, considering. The man raises his hand and waves over a servant, who doesn't look like much of a fighter either, then sends him out for wine. He and Jowy sit down at a scratched wood table that looks like it's seen more books than guests.
"I expected a boy," the man says. "I'm pleasantly surprised."
"Sir," Jowy says, because it's better than what?
"You have no idea who I am, do you."
"General Seed didn't mention your name."
"He's become more prudent in recent years." There's the hint of a sigh on the man's breath, but no smile. "I'm sure you can make an educated guess. How is your recent history?"
This man's connected to Kalekka, Seed said. That means more than just a town's name, doesn't it? He thinks back to the books on his stepfather's shelves, remembers showing one to his tutor and pointing to the words he couldn't understand at the time. Atrocity. Depredation. Carnage. It's why Jowston can't be trusted, his tutor told him.
"Were you there during the massacre at Kalekka?" Jowy asks.
"They still call it a massacre up north," the man says. "That surprises me as well. Yes, you could say that."
The servant returns with three glasses and a cask of wine. He pours for the man first, who drinks, then offers the glass he drank from to Jowy while the servant refills the next one.
Jowy eyes it, his hand wavering in front of the glass. Why did the man do that? Is he trying to prove that the drink isn't poisoned? The blood drains from Jowy's fingertips. Of course. If the man isn't built like a warrior or marked like a mage, then he must have other ways of defending himself. And if that's true, drinking from the same glass as that man is no guarantee of safety. He sets his hand back down on the table.
A long moment passes while the second and third glasses are filled, and the man's eyes don't leave Jowy the entire time.
"Bring that to Culgan," he tells the servant, and offers his hand to Jowy between the other two untouched glasses. "Leon Silverberg. You've made the right choice, Atreides."
Silverberg? Jowy hopes he hasn't stumbled into an even worse nest of vipers, but it's probably better to have a Silverberg working for him than against him. He accepts Leon's hand; Leon's handshake is firm but not aggressive. "Thank you."
Leon nods, relinquishes Jowy's hand, and takes up one of the wine glasses. He drinks, and makes no indication that Jowy should do the same. "Are you still at a stage where you could give up on this and keep your head?"
"No."
"Good. So you have me. How do you plan to use me?"
"I can't kill Luca Blight through raw strength," he says, and tries not to flinch as the words twist in his chest. "I need a different kind of power."
"Good, because I'm not in the business of providing raw strength." Leon sets his glass down, taps a finger on the base. "That's still not what I asked you. If you want ideas on how to kill him, go to any tavern south of Lakewest. I'm sure you'll hear a thousand of them. What do I have that you need?"
"An idea that works."
"Ha," Leon says, but it isn't a laugh. "In that case, why haven't you gone over to the Unicorn Army?"
The question stings more than a slap. Jowy looks down.
Leon doesn't press. After another long sip of wine, he glances over Jowy's shoulder at Culgan in the doorway. "Good vintage?"
"Excellent." Culgan says. "Kanakan?"
"Zexen."
"A little new to call it a vintage."
"Perhaps," Leon agrees, and turns back to Jowy. "How much does Luca trust you?"
He puzzles that out while he speaks. "It's hard to say. I know some of his men are still watching me, and I know he wouldn't hesitate to kill me. But he hasn't killed me yet." He hesitates. "I think-I think he sees something in me. Something that interests him."
"Show me," Leon says, with a slight wave of his right hand.
Jowy understands, and raises his own. The Rune's outline isn't as stark as it was, but its edges still shine wetly in the lamplight.
"Knowing Luca, it's not that it interests him. He intends to keep close what he can't take by force, the same as you."
It makes sense. He lowers his hand. "So what do I do with that?"
"Use him the same way. What does he have that you can't take?"
Jowy opens his mouth, then closes it.
Leon drinks, this time at length, and the servant comes to refill his glass, then Culgan's. Jowy's remains untouched. Jowy hears, faintly, Seed and a child laughing in some other part of the house. Seven, Leon had said. His grandson isn't much older than Pilika, and here he is, laughing.
"You did well at Greenhill," Leon says.
"Thank you."
"What was your reward for that?"
"Luca said he'd grant me a request. He didn't specify what kind."
"So, short of his head and his kingdom, what do you want most of his?"
"I don't want his kingdom," Jowy begins-and stops.
Oh.
"Better for him to think you want his kingdom than for him to think you want his head," Leon says.
"It's not his kingdom," he says, and leaves the yet implied. "Agares is still reigning, and enough men are loyal to him." Jowy pauses. "And Princess Jillia is in the line of succession, too, though I don't think she'd contest her brother's claim."
"But should something happen to Luca," Leon prompts, with a tilt of his wine glass for emphasis, "well. It's not as if he's getting married any time soon."
"He won't. But she might."
Leon nods, and if approval isn't exactly plain on his face, at least it's written in the creases of his eyes. "He'll think you're just another young lord angling for power if you try for that."
"Then I'll need to show him something else, too, won't I?"
"You will," Leon says. He drinks the remainder of the wine in his glass and sets it down, empty.
***
When Jowy asks for Jillia's hand in marriage, Luca doesn't behead him on the spot. He forces himself to breathe, stare straight ahead, avert his eyes from the blade shining in Luca's hand. "I know your Highness does not make oaths lightly," he says, and lowers his voice. "Also, I've got an idea."
"What is it? Speak up." Luca raises his sword. Jowy won't let himself flinch. "If I don't like it, I promise I will cut off your head."
He lowers his voice. "I shouldn't speak in front of so many, your Highness, if you take my meaning."
Luca does, and though he waves his sword dangerously close to Jowy's face he eventually sheathes it. "Come to my quarters later and tell me this idea of yours," he says. "You'd better not be wasting my precious time."
I won't be, Jowy tells himself, over and over again until Luca summons him half an hour later.
"Well?" Luca asks once the tent flap flutters shut behind Jowy, and drums his fingers on the hilt of his sword. "What's this plan?"
There isn't much point in asking Luca whether he has permission to speak freely; if he doesn't, he'll know. He might as well get to the heart of it, then. "If you make me your brother, I'll make you king."
For a moment Luca stares, silent, his hands still-and then he laughs once, sharp and cutting. "You'd make me a king?" he repeats. "You would make me a king. Tell me, boy, how do you plan to do that? That old bastard won't even drink water unless someone else sips it first. Gods know what he gave to Harmonia to get a pair of Howling Guild bodyguards, but he has them. And he won't grant private audiences to anyone." He scoffs. "Ha. I almost want to hear this. Let's see how long my patience lasts."
Jowy flattens his hands at his sides. Steady, he reminds himself. Steady. "I haven't yet sworn the Knight's Oath to Highland. I'll need to before I marry Jillia."
"If you marry Jillia," Luca corrects, draws his sword just far enough out of its scabbard to make sure Jowy sees. Thankfully, he sheathes it again.
Jowy inclines his head. "As your Highness says. I know the form of the ceremony." Marcel made him and Marco learn it years ago, back when he refused to say which one of them he planned on naming heir. Well, the choice is obvious now, at least. "Only the king, the oath-taker, and a witness are present. The witness drinks the Wine of Fealty as a sign that the bond between knight and king will ripen over time-"
"To show the wine isn't poisoned, you mean." Luca lets out a short breath thick with contempt. "I know all this. What's your point?"
"After the witness drinks, the oath-taker cuts his hand and adds his blood to the wine, am I right? And the king drinks it to seal the oath."
"Yes. What of it?" Before Jowy spells it out, Luca continues: "Are you planning to poison him? I've tried. If his Howling Guild hirelings sniff out any poison on you, they'll shove it down your throat. Or they'll shove that black powder of theirs down it instead and make you swallow a lit coal after."
Oh gods. Jowy pushes those images as far away as he can before they make him cringe even more. "They won't find the poison if it's in my blood," he says, and waits.
The only thing worse than Luca's laughter is Luca's silence. The longer it stretches, the harder Jowy's pulse beats, the more his Rune itches under his skin, the tighter his throat swells from trying not to scream and the tighter his legs lock, keeping him from running.
Then Luca chuckles, darkly, and that chuckle breaks into howls of laughter. Jowy wishes they didn't sound so human. Any other man would have run out of run out of air from laughing that hard. But Luca doesn't even sound like he's gasping for breath when he says, "You'd poison your own blood! Ha-ha! Beautiful. Bad blood will out, isn't that what they always say?" He grips Jowy's shoulder, and now his laughter shakes Jowy, too. "And now it will! Oh, it's perfect. Perfect. It's almost too good to waste on that son of a bitch."
"He can't refuse to let your Highness serve as witness to your own sister's betrothal," Jowy says, and the only sign Luca heard him at all is his widening grin.
"Damned right he can't. Heh. Just imagine the look on his face-and it can't possibly do justice to the real thing, can it? Don't pick something that'll kill him too quickly." He hauls Jowy closer, close enough for Jowy to see flecks of spittle form at the corners of Luca's mouth. His teeth are shining. Jowy shouldn't look at them. "I want to hear him scream for mercy. I want to see him writhe like the worm he is."
The heat, the hatred behind that almost makes Jowy stagger backwards. He doesn't, and swallows to get his bearings. "It'll need to be a poison I can build up a resistance to."
"Of course, of course. You wouldn't want to go to all that trouble to marry my sister and end up dead by your own hand." Finally, finally, he lets Jowy go. "We'll tell the old bastard the good news when we return to Highland."
"When will that be, your Highness?"
"Soon," Luca says. His smile doesn't change. He bends over the map of the City-State laid out on his table, grinds his finger into where Muse is marked as though he's crushing an insect. "But first I'll show you something. Call it a way of welcoming you into the family."
***
No one says why so many refugees fled Muse last night. By now, Jowy knows better than to ask; it's not like his orders are going to change. The edge of Luca's smile is as sharp as his blade when his and Jowy's forces thunder across the plains to the north, close the distance between them and the refugees. The refugees straggle towards the Matilda border in ragged clumps, not even the most basic of formations. Luca's orders ring out loud enough that the refugees must hear them, too.
"Hunt them down and round them up," he shouts, spurs his horse across the vanguard so all his soldiers see him. "Kill any who resist, and bring the rest of those pigs back to Muse alive!"
There are no questions, no hesitations. As one, the soldiers lift their arms and answer, "For Highland and the Prince!" Jowy lifts his sword with the rest, and if he shouted the words too, well, he can't pick his voice out in the crowd.
Some of the refugees fight back. Some. Not enough that anyone could call them a fighting force, let alone an army. Most of them scatter and run when Jowy's company charges, and at his signal the rest of his forces flank the refugees before they flee too far, pen them in. The ones who don't run-he has his orders. It's not an excuse. It's what he has to do. He doesn't have to raise his sword, really. His horse is trained to kick and trample with only the slightest flick of the reins or press of Jowy's knees, and none of the refugees he runs across are pikemen. He doesn't want to look any more closely than that.
It doesn't last long, at least. "Mercy, please," one woman cries, flings herself almost prostrate in front of Jowy's horse. The horse shies back before it crushes her, and now the other refugees nearby have taken up the cry: mercy, mercy.
"Do you yield?" he asks her, and with one final glance at the closed gates of Muse, she nods. Her nose is swollen, but not from crying. The crooked bump looks like a break that hasn't quite had time to heal. Jowy looks down, then over the top of her head, at the refugees slowly pulling themselves back into a clump ringed by his cavalry.
This is his first field command in battle, isn't it?
"You know your orders," he tells his men. "Take them back to Muse. If they go peacefully, don't harm them."
None of the refugees thank him, thank the gods. Some of them keep crying, especially the youngest-
He closes his eyes, for all the good it does. "Let's go," he says. "Muse isn't far if we start now."
***
"General Atreides, sir," a soldier says when Jowy dismounts just outside the gates of Muse. "His Highness requests your presence at Jowston Hill."
Jowy nods. Seed and Culgan swing off their horses, pass off the reins to their grooms and start to walk behind him, but the soldier holds up his hand. "His Highness only requested to see General Atreides, sirs."
"Well, all right." Seed casts a wary glance at the hill. "See you later, then."
"We'll wait for you at camp," Culgan says, his tone more guarded than usual, which doesn't help the flutters in Jowy's stomach.
The shops in Muse are all boarded up and shuttered. Most of the citizens have nailed planks over their windows, and some of them glance out between the slats as he passes, only strips of their faces visible. Even more of them flood the streets, Highland soldiers shepherding them into the town squares and clinics and the parliament building, anywhere large enough to hold a number of them at once.
Jowy keeps walking. He doesn't have time to look. He shouldn't. A weight settles in his chest anyway, squeezes tighter with each step, and leaving the gates of the city proper doesn't ease it much.
At the top of the hill, Luca braces his hands on the battlements, glowers down at the city. He's taken off his gauntlets, though he hasn't bothered with the rest of his armor. "I hate this stinking city," he says when Jowy approaches.
Your Highness, Jowy means to greet him with, but can't quite.
"Look at all those maggots wriggling around," he says. It's almost the same tone he used when he spoke about his father. "Disgusting, aren't they?"
Jowy glances down, but Luca doesn't seem to expect an answer. "Pathetic," he continues. "How that sniveling old fool almost lost to them thirty years ago, I'll never know. Time to correct one more mistake of his."
But he's already won, hasn't he? What more-Jowy's throat closes. That's never a good question to ask.
"Give me that knife," Luca says. Wordlessly, Jowy hands it over, and Luca slits his palm on its blade, forms a fist and squeezes drops of his blood onto the stone.
"Come out and have your fill!" he says.
What? Jowy almost asks, but the blood at Luca's feet shines crimson, spreads to outline strange symbols that hurt Jowy's eyes to look at. The symbols blaze black and a shriek rips the air apart-winds slice his cheek, sharp enough to draw blood, and tears stream from his eyes when those winds try to yank them out of their sockets. He coughs, and the wind spins away into the clouds over Muse, gathering and churning. Luca's gripping the battlements again, mindless of his blood slicking the stone, and his face-
Jowy looks at Luca's eyes and sees the world burning in them.
That unearthly wail splits the sky again and a second wail joins it, a third. There are other screams underneath that too, he realizes, his stomach twisting. He can't pick out individual voices, and thank the gods for that. They blend into one ragged and fraying howl that he can't block out, no matter how tightly he clamps his hands over his ears. He won't ever be able to block it out. He fights his own body to move forward, to look down from the battlements and see-
Oh gods.
Oh gods.
Beside him, Luca shakes with laughter and Jowy stares into the seething darkness and can't tell what he sees, only that the cloud's thickening like it's gorging itself on-on those soft lights getting sucked deeper and deeper into it. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands.
He doesn't need to see. The screaming's enough.
The cloud condenses into a column, shoots up and takes shape: a shining silver wolf, its jaws wide and slavering. Both sets of jaws. It's grown a second head. Both heads howl, and Jowy's Rune blazes to life like never before. Its power drills into his skull and red stripes streak across his vision and every breath stabs him and it's too much. He needs to send it somewhere. He can't hold it in. He can't. Someone, something, has to stop screaming.
"Look at how beautiful it is!" Luca crows, and steps away from the battlements at last. Power ripples through Jowy's veins as that thing continues its-its feeding, and he grits his teeth and fights against that pull. No. No closer.
"There's nothing like watching their filthy souls being sucked into oblivion," Luca continues.
Their souls? The blood drains from Jowy's face even if his Rune throbs hard as ever. He grips the battlements tighter, hopes Luca doesn't see.
He does. "What's wrong? Don't you think it's beautiful? I thought a bastard like you would. You are a bastard, aren't you?"
A bastard in what sense? Jowy doesn't want to ask. "Why do you say that?"
"Because you interest me," Luca says, smears the last of the blood on his hand over the stone. It's fitting. "Your eyes are different from those other pigs' eyes. There's darkness in them, lurking under the surface. You must feel it, too."
"I'm grateful to my father for taking me in, whatever his relationship is to me," Jowy mumbles. He turns and nearly runs back down the hill, and Luca doesn't have to chase him down. Jowy still feels Luca at his shoulder, his laughter echoing on and on.
---
--
on to chapter three
.
Also, writing this much Luca Blight really does necessitate showers afterward.
Title: Grasping at Shadows [2/5] (AO3)
Author:
puella_nerdii
Fandom: Suikoden II
Characters: Jowy Atreides; Luca Blight, Seed, Culgan, Rowd, Riou, Leon Silverberg, and eventually the entire Highland cast.
Rating: R (...is "Warning: Luca Blight" sufficient? If not, violence-bordering-on-graphic, war crimes, and shit-gets-real thematic content should cover it.)
Words: ~6.3k in this chapter, ~16.7k overall.
Notes: This fic is unofficially subtitled Jowy Atreides's Terrible Life Choices, by the way. The entire thing, particularly every instance of the word "Silverberg" in it, is Mithrigil's fault, and she knows why.
Summary: "I'll stop this war my own way. No, I'll never let a war like this break out on this soil again. And as you say, I'm prepared to be dishonored, if need be. Nevertheless..." - Suikogaiden 1, Chapter 2
Jowy Atreides wants to slay a monster and bring down a nation. But he has to strike in the right place at the right time, and strike deep while hiding his intent, and the monster is watching -- and laughing.
Chapter One
Chapter Two: Jowy makes his bid for power, and ends up with far more than he bargained for.
No plan is too simple for an incompetent commander to ruin. Or almost ruin, in this case. Jowy and his forces and the Muse refugees arrive in time to rescue Rowd's worthless neck, and the look on Rowd's face almost makes saving his life worth it. He dismisses most of Rowd's forces, and no one other than Rowd himself questions Jowy's decision. It's strange, but not unwelcome. Jowy figures that the men are happy to be escaping with their skins intact, after the near-disaster.
His men do protest when he announces his plan to free the soldiers from Muse, and protest even louder when he re-arms them. They quiet down when Jowy points out the Highland soldiers disguised in Muse's ranks, joining them in their march through Greenhill's gate.
He wonders how much he'll even need the saboteurs. With Greenhill's food stores shrinking and everyone's tempers fraying, the outcome's almost inevitable. It's been inevitable since Teresa Wisemail decided to welcome the soldiers in. Did she know what she was setting herself up for? He'll get the chance to ask her soon, if the reports of fighting in Greenhill's streets that his scouts send him are right.
They are, as it happens. Greenhill's gates open from the inside, and not a drop of Highland blood's been shed since Jowy took command.
His soldiers celebrate well into the night and drink to his health. Seed says the beer is the coldest he's tasted in years. Jowy can't tell. His lips and fingertips and tongue feel numb.
***
"The students are not to be harmed," Jowy repeats, because it's better to say it too often than not often enough. "Understood?"
"Understood, sir." The captain salutes. "I'll see to it that my men behave themselves."
"Good."
"Why should they?" Rowd appears at Jowy's elbow, and it occurs to him that he could have Rowd disciplined for insubordination now. Maybe he should, to drive home which one of them is in command now. The captain eyes them both, hesitates, inches away. Jowy doesn't blame him.
"The acting mayor is in hiding, likely somewhere in this city or in the surrounding forest," Jowy says. "Her people love her, and if they don't want us to find her, we won't. We have to win their cooperation. Burning their homes to the ground and harming the students won't let us do that."
Rowd scowls. "If his Highness was here-"
"His Highness gave me the command. You saw as much." You could have volunteered, Jowy doesn't say. Then you could have killed all the children you wanted to. "And these are my orders. I've given the citizens of Greenhill my word that they won't be harmed unless they take up arms against us, and that we'll make sure they're fed. I gave the students my word that they'll be able to continue their studies in peace."
"And you think that'll keep them quiet?"
Jowy ignores the scoff in those words. "They're hungry and they're exhausted. We're offering them peace."
"Offering them weakness, more like. Think they'll trust a word out of your liar's mouth after your trick with the Muse soldiers?"
Jowy grits his teeth, stares ahead. "Yes," he says, and doesn't add more. Why bother explaining himself to Rowd when he doesn't have to? "Return to your tent and wait for your orders. You're dismissed."
Rowd makes his salute look like an obscene gesture.
***
Jowy has a tent to himself again. It's the largest one in the field, with Highland's colors decorating the flap, but he never feels like he has much space in it. Even when no one's standing around the meeting table, their echoes fill the space, thicken the air enough to leave impressions of their shapes in it.
If you stand above other men, you cannot hide from them, Marcel told Jowy once. Hundreds, even thousands, of eyes look up at you.
Five thousand of them now. Five thousand, not counting Greenhill's citizens and Muse's soldiers, and not counting everyone receiving reports of what he's doing. He sits on the edge of his bed, flexes his fingers. The edges of his Rune glow in the light from the globes planted around his tent; the Rune soaks more and more of that glow in until it's trapped under his skin, spreading up his arm. Everyone's watching the Rune, too, and some of them might know its power better than he does. It's strange-he always feels its presence, but he's had so little time to pay real attention to it, explore it beyond the flashes of itself it reveals to him unasked.
If it's a remnant of the first Sword, the one born from the tear Darkness shed, it should be able to destroy anything. So why can't it destroy Luca Blight? Does Luca have a True Rune, too? If he does, shouldn't Jowy be able to sense that?
Maybe it has nothing to do with Luca and everything to do with him. Maybe the Rune hasn't shown its full power because he's not strong enough to unlock it.
He shuts his eyes and stretches his hand over his head, palm facing out. The Rune pulses faster and faster and he focuses on that, breathes to its rhythm. There are different gates that control the flow of magic through his body, and Jowy unlocks the lowest one, the one that governs the most basic spells. Energy surges through his veins, seeks to escape through and be shaped by his Rune, but he contains it, redirects it, channels it through the second gate. His eyes sear and water and that won't be the worst of it if he keeps this up, but he has to, has to see just what this power can become if he builds it enough, shapes it right. The third gate opens next and Jowy can't tell if his lungs are filling with air or with raw magic-he's never tried to contain it this long, never made it double back on itself until the pathways through his body sing and chatter with power-
"General Atreides, sir!"
Jowy snaps to attention and the flow of magic surges one final time, then stills. His bones ache, but at least none of the magic escaped his body. His Rune still seethes black as a brand, though, and he tugs his sleeve over it before he says, "Enter."
"It's Captain Rowd, sir," the soldier says, pushing the flap aside, his face the color of old porridge. "There was an incident in Greenhill-"
Jowy stands. "What kind of incident?"
"Sir." The soldier swallows. "There was a rumor that Lady Teresa was hiding in an inn at town, and-"
He can guess the rest. Damn it. Damn it. "Was anyone killed?"
"No, sir, but they threatened to torture-"
"Bring him to me." He should have done this at the beginning, should have forced Rowd into line from the start. Now his men's confidence might slip through his fingers, and Greenhill's trust, and if he loses those this has all been for nothing. "If he refuses, bring him here under guard."
Rowd apparently doesn't refuse, because only two soldiers accompany him to where Jowy waits. A good portion of the camp's gathered around, too. Good. This can't be a private matter anymore.
"Captain Rowd," Jowy says, and waits. Rowd doesn't salute, and Jowy continues to wait.
"What?" Rowd finally snaps. "You got something to say or not?"
"Something to say or not, sir." Seed steps out from the growing crowd, and Jowy tries not to let his shoulders unstiffen too visibly. Is he starting to win Culgan and Seed over? It's dangerous to assume, but still.
"He's your commanding officer." Culgan joins Seed, and the air is still from all the drawn and waiting breaths. "You know the right form of address."
"Sir," Rowd grits out, spit gathering in the gaps between his teeth.
"Do you remember what I promised the citizens of Greenhill, Captain?"
Rowd glares.
Some of his Rune's energy still lingers in Jowy's body, and he draws on it now to sharpen his voice, straighten his spine, make the air around him hum. "I asked you a direct question, Captain."
"Yes, sir." Rowd doesn't stop glaring.
"Then why do I hear that you and your men broke into an inn and assaulted its owners?"
"Because they were hiding-"
"Did you find Lady Teresa in the inn, Captain?" Jowy asks.
"…no. Sir."
"Did you find any sign that she'd ever been there?"
When Rowd stays silent for too long, a man steps forward, his eyes cast down. Jowy recognizes him even with his face half-hidden. He's one of the men usually in Rowd's company, standing in attendance around his tent. Jowy keeps his face impassive, but his pulse picks up.
"We didn't, sir," the man says.
"Thank you, soldier," Jowy says, and the man can't step back into the crowd quickly enough. "You broke my word, Captain Rowd."
Finally, Rowd looks Jowy straight on, and his sneer breaks open into a laugh. His eyes are small and watery, Jowy realizes, like a rat's. "Your word?" Rowd repeats, and Jowy's hand closes around the hilt of his sword-no. It isn't his sword. It's the knife.
"What good is a traitor's word, sir?" Rowd continues, and Jowy darts forward, slams his knee into the back of Rowd's before Rowd can duck away. Rowd's knees smack the ground hard and Jowy draws the knife and holds it to Rowd's throat in the space of a breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Culgan inclining his head in approval. He'll process that later. Either the soldiers have fallen silent or something is muffling Jowy's ears, some thick whirring sound that isn't quite a roar.
Rowd's voice cuts through it, even though he only mutters. "Or a traitor's blade."
Jowy steadies his hand, presses the tip of the knife into Rowd's throat. Sweat beads on the point, not blood, but if he pushed in a little harder-Rowd understands, for once, and goes still as a stone.
Luca would be laughing now, a part of Jowy thinks, one that's stepped back from the rest of this. "Ask Anabelle," he says. He says it quietly, but with the field this still, everyone hears.
He pulls the knife away from Rowd's neck. Rowd doesn't move. "You are relieved of command until His Highness or I reinstate you," Jowy says. Rowd jerks forward like he means to tackle Jowy to the ground and several of Jowy's other captains move in, swords readied to restrain Rowd if they need to. He doesn't have time to marvel at it. "Tomorrow, you will make a formal apology to the citizens of Greenhill and tell them that we offer twenty thousand potch and Highland citizenship to whomever brings us Teresa Wisemail. Alive."
Rowd's jaw works, but he says nothing, and unless Jowy's mistaken, his silence is less sullen this time.
"I'll decide on appropriate punishments for your men later." Jowy sheathes the knife at last, but the sound of it scraping into its sheath lingers. "You're dismissed."
Rowd hauls himself to his feet stiffly, like his limbs are thawing out after a deep freeze. "Sir," he says, the corner of his lip curling, but leaves it at that. Jowy stays where he is until Rowd disappears from view, and waits for the rest of the soldiers to trickle off. They do, but Seed and Culgan stay behind, join Jowy to watch the rest leave.
"Not bad," Seed says. "My old man would like your style."
"Do you think Greenhill's citizens will accept your offer?" Culgan asks.
Jowy keeps his focus ahead. "Only one of them has to."
***
One of them might well have. Jowy doesn't get the chance to find out.
His gut tells him that Rowd won't make good on his apology, or on Jowy's promise, so he follows him to the town center. His gut didn't tell him that Nanami and Pilika and Riou would be waiting there, too. Or that Riou would see him and look at him, and that look would seal Jowy's voice away better than any words ever could. The crowd surges and turns in on itself and Riou vanishes into the thick of it. Jowy knows what order he's supposed to give, the only order anyone could give when they spot the enemy commander walking around in their territory, but the words won't come.
Teresa's people won't let her surrender. They beg her to leave, to save herself so she can return to save them. And as long as she's free, Highland will never truly hold Greenhill. But Luca doesn't have to know that, does he?
It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't matter either way. He went to Greenhill to prove himself and Greenhill doesn't mean anything more to him than that. Why should it?
He's still wondering about that when Pilika tries to run into his arms again.
She cries and clutches at his coat and tries desperately to form his name, and if only Jowy could take her into his arms again and hold her high, hear her laugh-
Then Nanami's shouting at him, holding back tears, telling him that it's all a lie and he can't be following Luca's orders, and he knows it's as much of a lie to tell himself he can hold Pilika like that again.
But it's not too late for the three of them, and he tells Riou to run. Relinquish command of the Unicorn Army, and run. You'll only make this longer and bloodier if you don't. There's no reason for you to fight. Greenhill doesn't mean anything to Riou, either, does it?
"I can't just run away," Riou says, and his eyes have never been that sharp before, that clear. His silence after that is almost as piercing as his stare is, and it cuts deeper than any knife, any sword. Jowy wants to tell him to stop, to go, just go, to take him by the shoulders and make Riou understand that he'll never win this, he can't, he and Nanami and Pilika will end up with their heads mounted on Luca Blight's battlements and Jowy will have to watch them die and stop himself from screaming.
Riou leaves, finally, and it's all Jowy can do not to fall to his knees. Thank the gods that Seed and Culgan drive Rowd off for him; it gives him enough time to pull himself together and ask them why, at least.
"We love Highland," Seed says. "It's a wonderful country."
"We can't stand idly by and let it be destroyed," says Culgan. "The only thing Luca Blight will bring about is ruin, and that has never been our intention."
They pledge their loyalty to him. They don't bend their knees or offer their swords, but they don't need to. What they're offering is almost too much, and he knows he doesn't deserve it, but he needs this, and he does treasure this, and he knows it isn't enough when he says, "Thank you."
"So now that we're doing this," Seed says, "there's someone you should meet."
***
"Thank the gods we don't have to go all the way to Kalekka, huh?" Seed crosses his arms and leans back, surveys the darkened windows of the house they're standing in front of. House isn't quite right; it's not as large as the Atreides estate in Kyaro but it's stately enough in its own way, two stone storeys with a grooved roof the color of pewter. The surrounding forest is thick enough that the lawn in front stands out as the only flat ground in sight. There are no other houses nearby, only a well with the same architecture as the house and a storehouse around the far corner.
"Kalekka's in the Scarlet-Toran," Jowy corrects himself, "isn't it?"
"Yeah. Usually he's down there these days, but I told him to come on up a while back. Figured he wouldn't want to miss any of this." Seed raises his fist high in the air, pounds on the door loudly enough that a group of crickets chirp in alarm, and hollers, "Hey, old man!"
A deep, humorless voice answers, "I'm not giving you any money."
"I don't need money! Luca Blight pays well."
Culgan rubs the bridge of his nose like he's trying hard not to sigh.
A few moments later, the bolt scrapes through the lock and a man opens the door from the inside. He's tall and thickset, with a dark moustache and a heavy scarf, and Jowy gets the distinct impression that he's looking over all three of the men on his doorstep at once. "Did he send you here?"
"Nope." Seed takes a few steps back, jerks his thumb at Jowy. "I brought a friend."
"I'm not giving your friend any money either."
Seed grins. "How about a kingdom?"
The man turns to Jowy, eyes tight and shadowed. "You're Atreides."
"Yes," Jowy says, and meets his gaze.
He nods. "Come inside. Culgan, good to see you again. Seed, go entertain your nephew."
"I have a nephew?"
"He's seven."
"Well, shit."
"Please don't swear in front of him, he repeats everything he hears. Atreides, come this way," he adds, and indicates a sitting room to his left, overlooking the forest.
Jowy brushes the hilt of his sword with his thumb, but the house doesn't seem to be crawling with soldiers, and the man doesn't look like much of a fighter. Not that he should place much trust in appearances, considering. The man raises his hand and waves over a servant, who doesn't look like much of a fighter either, then sends him out for wine. He and Jowy sit down at a scratched wood table that looks like it's seen more books than guests.
"I expected a boy," the man says. "I'm pleasantly surprised."
"Sir," Jowy says, because it's better than what?
"You have no idea who I am, do you."
"General Seed didn't mention your name."
"He's become more prudent in recent years." There's the hint of a sigh on the man's breath, but no smile. "I'm sure you can make an educated guess. How is your recent history?"
This man's connected to Kalekka, Seed said. That means more than just a town's name, doesn't it? He thinks back to the books on his stepfather's shelves, remembers showing one to his tutor and pointing to the words he couldn't understand at the time. Atrocity. Depredation. Carnage. It's why Jowston can't be trusted, his tutor told him.
"Were you there during the massacre at Kalekka?" Jowy asks.
"They still call it a massacre up north," the man says. "That surprises me as well. Yes, you could say that."
The servant returns with three glasses and a cask of wine. He pours for the man first, who drinks, then offers the glass he drank from to Jowy while the servant refills the next one.
Jowy eyes it, his hand wavering in front of the glass. Why did the man do that? Is he trying to prove that the drink isn't poisoned? The blood drains from Jowy's fingertips. Of course. If the man isn't built like a warrior or marked like a mage, then he must have other ways of defending himself. And if that's true, drinking from the same glass as that man is no guarantee of safety. He sets his hand back down on the table.
A long moment passes while the second and third glasses are filled, and the man's eyes don't leave Jowy the entire time.
"Bring that to Culgan," he tells the servant, and offers his hand to Jowy between the other two untouched glasses. "Leon Silverberg. You've made the right choice, Atreides."
Silverberg? Jowy hopes he hasn't stumbled into an even worse nest of vipers, but it's probably better to have a Silverberg working for him than against him. He accepts Leon's hand; Leon's handshake is firm but not aggressive. "Thank you."
Leon nods, relinquishes Jowy's hand, and takes up one of the wine glasses. He drinks, and makes no indication that Jowy should do the same. "Are you still at a stage where you could give up on this and keep your head?"
"No."
"Good. So you have me. How do you plan to use me?"
"I can't kill Luca Blight through raw strength," he says, and tries not to flinch as the words twist in his chest. "I need a different kind of power."
"Good, because I'm not in the business of providing raw strength." Leon sets his glass down, taps a finger on the base. "That's still not what I asked you. If you want ideas on how to kill him, go to any tavern south of Lakewest. I'm sure you'll hear a thousand of them. What do I have that you need?"
"An idea that works."
"Ha," Leon says, but it isn't a laugh. "In that case, why haven't you gone over to the Unicorn Army?"
The question stings more than a slap. Jowy looks down.
Leon doesn't press. After another long sip of wine, he glances over Jowy's shoulder at Culgan in the doorway. "Good vintage?"
"Excellent." Culgan says. "Kanakan?"
"Zexen."
"A little new to call it a vintage."
"Perhaps," Leon agrees, and turns back to Jowy. "How much does Luca trust you?"
He puzzles that out while he speaks. "It's hard to say. I know some of his men are still watching me, and I know he wouldn't hesitate to kill me. But he hasn't killed me yet." He hesitates. "I think-I think he sees something in me. Something that interests him."
"Show me," Leon says, with a slight wave of his right hand.
Jowy understands, and raises his own. The Rune's outline isn't as stark as it was, but its edges still shine wetly in the lamplight.
"Knowing Luca, it's not that it interests him. He intends to keep close what he can't take by force, the same as you."
It makes sense. He lowers his hand. "So what do I do with that?"
"Use him the same way. What does he have that you can't take?"
Jowy opens his mouth, then closes it.
Leon drinks, this time at length, and the servant comes to refill his glass, then Culgan's. Jowy's remains untouched. Jowy hears, faintly, Seed and a child laughing in some other part of the house. Seven, Leon had said. His grandson isn't much older than Pilika, and here he is, laughing.
"You did well at Greenhill," Leon says.
"Thank you."
"What was your reward for that?"
"Luca said he'd grant me a request. He didn't specify what kind."
"So, short of his head and his kingdom, what do you want most of his?"
"I don't want his kingdom," Jowy begins-and stops.
Oh.
"Better for him to think you want his kingdom than for him to think you want his head," Leon says.
"It's not his kingdom," he says, and leaves the yet implied. "Agares is still reigning, and enough men are loyal to him." Jowy pauses. "And Princess Jillia is in the line of succession, too, though I don't think she'd contest her brother's claim."
"But should something happen to Luca," Leon prompts, with a tilt of his wine glass for emphasis, "well. It's not as if he's getting married any time soon."
"He won't. But she might."
Leon nods, and if approval isn't exactly plain on his face, at least it's written in the creases of his eyes. "He'll think you're just another young lord angling for power if you try for that."
"Then I'll need to show him something else, too, won't I?"
"You will," Leon says. He drinks the remainder of the wine in his glass and sets it down, empty.
***
When Jowy asks for Jillia's hand in marriage, Luca doesn't behead him on the spot. He forces himself to breathe, stare straight ahead, avert his eyes from the blade shining in Luca's hand. "I know your Highness does not make oaths lightly," he says, and lowers his voice. "Also, I've got an idea."
"What is it? Speak up." Luca raises his sword. Jowy won't let himself flinch. "If I don't like it, I promise I will cut off your head."
He lowers his voice. "I shouldn't speak in front of so many, your Highness, if you take my meaning."
Luca does, and though he waves his sword dangerously close to Jowy's face he eventually sheathes it. "Come to my quarters later and tell me this idea of yours," he says. "You'd better not be wasting my precious time."
I won't be, Jowy tells himself, over and over again until Luca summons him half an hour later.
"Well?" Luca asks once the tent flap flutters shut behind Jowy, and drums his fingers on the hilt of his sword. "What's this plan?"
There isn't much point in asking Luca whether he has permission to speak freely; if he doesn't, he'll know. He might as well get to the heart of it, then. "If you make me your brother, I'll make you king."
For a moment Luca stares, silent, his hands still-and then he laughs once, sharp and cutting. "You'd make me a king?" he repeats. "You would make me a king. Tell me, boy, how do you plan to do that? That old bastard won't even drink water unless someone else sips it first. Gods know what he gave to Harmonia to get a pair of Howling Guild bodyguards, but he has them. And he won't grant private audiences to anyone." He scoffs. "Ha. I almost want to hear this. Let's see how long my patience lasts."
Jowy flattens his hands at his sides. Steady, he reminds himself. Steady. "I haven't yet sworn the Knight's Oath to Highland. I'll need to before I marry Jillia."
"If you marry Jillia," Luca corrects, draws his sword just far enough out of its scabbard to make sure Jowy sees. Thankfully, he sheathes it again.
Jowy inclines his head. "As your Highness says. I know the form of the ceremony." Marcel made him and Marco learn it years ago, back when he refused to say which one of them he planned on naming heir. Well, the choice is obvious now, at least. "Only the king, the oath-taker, and a witness are present. The witness drinks the Wine of Fealty as a sign that the bond between knight and king will ripen over time-"
"To show the wine isn't poisoned, you mean." Luca lets out a short breath thick with contempt. "I know all this. What's your point?"
"After the witness drinks, the oath-taker cuts his hand and adds his blood to the wine, am I right? And the king drinks it to seal the oath."
"Yes. What of it?" Before Jowy spells it out, Luca continues: "Are you planning to poison him? I've tried. If his Howling Guild hirelings sniff out any poison on you, they'll shove it down your throat. Or they'll shove that black powder of theirs down it instead and make you swallow a lit coal after."
Oh gods. Jowy pushes those images as far away as he can before they make him cringe even more. "They won't find the poison if it's in my blood," he says, and waits.
The only thing worse than Luca's laughter is Luca's silence. The longer it stretches, the harder Jowy's pulse beats, the more his Rune itches under his skin, the tighter his throat swells from trying not to scream and the tighter his legs lock, keeping him from running.
Then Luca chuckles, darkly, and that chuckle breaks into howls of laughter. Jowy wishes they didn't sound so human. Any other man would have run out of run out of air from laughing that hard. But Luca doesn't even sound like he's gasping for breath when he says, "You'd poison your own blood! Ha-ha! Beautiful. Bad blood will out, isn't that what they always say?" He grips Jowy's shoulder, and now his laughter shakes Jowy, too. "And now it will! Oh, it's perfect. Perfect. It's almost too good to waste on that son of a bitch."
"He can't refuse to let your Highness serve as witness to your own sister's betrothal," Jowy says, and the only sign Luca heard him at all is his widening grin.
"Damned right he can't. Heh. Just imagine the look on his face-and it can't possibly do justice to the real thing, can it? Don't pick something that'll kill him too quickly." He hauls Jowy closer, close enough for Jowy to see flecks of spittle form at the corners of Luca's mouth. His teeth are shining. Jowy shouldn't look at them. "I want to hear him scream for mercy. I want to see him writhe like the worm he is."
The heat, the hatred behind that almost makes Jowy stagger backwards. He doesn't, and swallows to get his bearings. "It'll need to be a poison I can build up a resistance to."
"Of course, of course. You wouldn't want to go to all that trouble to marry my sister and end up dead by your own hand." Finally, finally, he lets Jowy go. "We'll tell the old bastard the good news when we return to Highland."
"When will that be, your Highness?"
"Soon," Luca says. His smile doesn't change. He bends over the map of the City-State laid out on his table, grinds his finger into where Muse is marked as though he's crushing an insect. "But first I'll show you something. Call it a way of welcoming you into the family."
***
No one says why so many refugees fled Muse last night. By now, Jowy knows better than to ask; it's not like his orders are going to change. The edge of Luca's smile is as sharp as his blade when his and Jowy's forces thunder across the plains to the north, close the distance between them and the refugees. The refugees straggle towards the Matilda border in ragged clumps, not even the most basic of formations. Luca's orders ring out loud enough that the refugees must hear them, too.
"Hunt them down and round them up," he shouts, spurs his horse across the vanguard so all his soldiers see him. "Kill any who resist, and bring the rest of those pigs back to Muse alive!"
There are no questions, no hesitations. As one, the soldiers lift their arms and answer, "For Highland and the Prince!" Jowy lifts his sword with the rest, and if he shouted the words too, well, he can't pick his voice out in the crowd.
Some of the refugees fight back. Some. Not enough that anyone could call them a fighting force, let alone an army. Most of them scatter and run when Jowy's company charges, and at his signal the rest of his forces flank the refugees before they flee too far, pen them in. The ones who don't run-he has his orders. It's not an excuse. It's what he has to do. He doesn't have to raise his sword, really. His horse is trained to kick and trample with only the slightest flick of the reins or press of Jowy's knees, and none of the refugees he runs across are pikemen. He doesn't want to look any more closely than that.
It doesn't last long, at least. "Mercy, please," one woman cries, flings herself almost prostrate in front of Jowy's horse. The horse shies back before it crushes her, and now the other refugees nearby have taken up the cry: mercy, mercy.
"Do you yield?" he asks her, and with one final glance at the closed gates of Muse, she nods. Her nose is swollen, but not from crying. The crooked bump looks like a break that hasn't quite had time to heal. Jowy looks down, then over the top of her head, at the refugees slowly pulling themselves back into a clump ringed by his cavalry.
This is his first field command in battle, isn't it?
"You know your orders," he tells his men. "Take them back to Muse. If they go peacefully, don't harm them."
None of the refugees thank him, thank the gods. Some of them keep crying, especially the youngest-
He closes his eyes, for all the good it does. "Let's go," he says. "Muse isn't far if we start now."
***
"General Atreides, sir," a soldier says when Jowy dismounts just outside the gates of Muse. "His Highness requests your presence at Jowston Hill."
Jowy nods. Seed and Culgan swing off their horses, pass off the reins to their grooms and start to walk behind him, but the soldier holds up his hand. "His Highness only requested to see General Atreides, sirs."
"Well, all right." Seed casts a wary glance at the hill. "See you later, then."
"We'll wait for you at camp," Culgan says, his tone more guarded than usual, which doesn't help the flutters in Jowy's stomach.
The shops in Muse are all boarded up and shuttered. Most of the citizens have nailed planks over their windows, and some of them glance out between the slats as he passes, only strips of their faces visible. Even more of them flood the streets, Highland soldiers shepherding them into the town squares and clinics and the parliament building, anywhere large enough to hold a number of them at once.
Jowy keeps walking. He doesn't have time to look. He shouldn't. A weight settles in his chest anyway, squeezes tighter with each step, and leaving the gates of the city proper doesn't ease it much.
At the top of the hill, Luca braces his hands on the battlements, glowers down at the city. He's taken off his gauntlets, though he hasn't bothered with the rest of his armor. "I hate this stinking city," he says when Jowy approaches.
Your Highness, Jowy means to greet him with, but can't quite.
"Look at all those maggots wriggling around," he says. It's almost the same tone he used when he spoke about his father. "Disgusting, aren't they?"
Jowy glances down, but Luca doesn't seem to expect an answer. "Pathetic," he continues. "How that sniveling old fool almost lost to them thirty years ago, I'll never know. Time to correct one more mistake of his."
But he's already won, hasn't he? What more-Jowy's throat closes. That's never a good question to ask.
"Give me that knife," Luca says. Wordlessly, Jowy hands it over, and Luca slits his palm on its blade, forms a fist and squeezes drops of his blood onto the stone.
"Come out and have your fill!" he says.
What? Jowy almost asks, but the blood at Luca's feet shines crimson, spreads to outline strange symbols that hurt Jowy's eyes to look at. The symbols blaze black and a shriek rips the air apart-winds slice his cheek, sharp enough to draw blood, and tears stream from his eyes when those winds try to yank them out of their sockets. He coughs, and the wind spins away into the clouds over Muse, gathering and churning. Luca's gripping the battlements again, mindless of his blood slicking the stone, and his face-
Jowy looks at Luca's eyes and sees the world burning in them.
That unearthly wail splits the sky again and a second wail joins it, a third. There are other screams underneath that too, he realizes, his stomach twisting. He can't pick out individual voices, and thank the gods for that. They blend into one ragged and fraying howl that he can't block out, no matter how tightly he clamps his hands over his ears. He won't ever be able to block it out. He fights his own body to move forward, to look down from the battlements and see-
Oh gods.
Oh gods.
Beside him, Luca shakes with laughter and Jowy stares into the seething darkness and can't tell what he sees, only that the cloud's thickening like it's gorging itself on-on those soft lights getting sucked deeper and deeper into it. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands.
He doesn't need to see. The screaming's enough.
The cloud condenses into a column, shoots up and takes shape: a shining silver wolf, its jaws wide and slavering. Both sets of jaws. It's grown a second head. Both heads howl, and Jowy's Rune blazes to life like never before. Its power drills into his skull and red stripes streak across his vision and every breath stabs him and it's too much. He needs to send it somewhere. He can't hold it in. He can't. Someone, something, has to stop screaming.
"Look at how beautiful it is!" Luca crows, and steps away from the battlements at last. Power ripples through Jowy's veins as that thing continues its-its feeding, and he grits his teeth and fights against that pull. No. No closer.
"There's nothing like watching their filthy souls being sucked into oblivion," Luca continues.
Their souls? The blood drains from Jowy's face even if his Rune throbs hard as ever. He grips the battlements tighter, hopes Luca doesn't see.
He does. "What's wrong? Don't you think it's beautiful? I thought a bastard like you would. You are a bastard, aren't you?"
A bastard in what sense? Jowy doesn't want to ask. "Why do you say that?"
"Because you interest me," Luca says, smears the last of the blood on his hand over the stone. It's fitting. "Your eyes are different from those other pigs' eyes. There's darkness in them, lurking under the surface. You must feel it, too."
"I'm grateful to my father for taking me in, whatever his relationship is to me," Jowy mumbles. He turns and nearly runs back down the hill, and Luca doesn't have to chase him down. Jowy still feels Luca at his shoulder, his laughter echoing on and on.
---
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on to chapter three
.