__The Bird Bone Flute__part 14
By Blackmare



Giles woke later than usual the next morning, his shoulders slightly sweaty where her thick fur touched his skin. He and the wolf lay back to back like mismatched bookends, sprawled on their sides down the length of the bed. He did not remember when she had arrived, having slid into deep sleep as soon as she'd gently ousted him from her awareness. But he did remember what they had found, and Giles felt a rush of profound gratitude that she was here, her warmth a glyph of warding against the horror of that empty place. Compared to that void, even oblivion was a destination.

He shifted his thoughts deliberately away from that wound in the world. His memory was getting better at retaining the complex aromatic details of these experiences, and he smiled to recall the way a mouse's jagged scent trail had virtually glowed against the velvet darkness of the forest loam, and how that vignette became a drama when a stride further along the sharp, focused trail of a hunting shrew had crossed the mouse's line and seized it, both vivid scent streaks disappearing off into the bracken, pursuer and pursued. Such a small story, precious and complete, and he would never have known it without her.

She stirred, pressing her spine against him while stretching her long legs out straight from her belly, splaying her toes wide and then subsiding with a deep sigh. He had to disturb her slightly in order to climb out of the bed, as she'd trapped him on the side against the wall. Whuffling, she nosed her way deeper into the residual warmth of the duvet he'd abandoned. Giles drank his first cups of tea on the porch, watching the sky do a typically English metamorphosis from sun struck and cloud-scattered to steel gray and glowering in about twenty minutes. They were definitely in for some weather, and he felt the need to meditate a bit on what he'd learned yesterday. Fortunately he had just the sort of pleasant chores to do that helped him sift these problems.

The overcast sky delivered its promise of warm drizzle shortly before noon. The mild rain--a thin fog, really--brought the late summer aromas of freshly-baled straw and bramble roses in through the open door. Giles had lifted the drop leaves of the table and arranged letters, books, ledgers, and conservation supplies in orderly piles on it and for several feet around it in all directions, carefully leaving a path between his chair and the tea kettle. He lit three of the oil lamps to supplement the subdued daylight then settled happily to his task, humming to himself and occasionally glancing over to the wolf where she slept stretched out on the rug.

It had been several years since he'd done archival conservation work, but his hands remembered their skills and he delighted in the simple pleasure of brushing glue onto the translucent Japanese kozo paper then stroking the silky sheets carefully over torn pages to make them whole and strong again. Mending and stabilizing these aged documents brought him a profound satisfaction, something he suspected might be due to the bibliographic tendencies of his Gilesian magic. As he finished each item he installed it carefully in a labeled archival folder with its fellows, and settled the finished folders inside new, standard-sized boxes ready for their next library position. Now and then the wolf would twitch in a dream, or sigh, then roll over to sleep again. The warm light, the familiar scents of his contented companion, the leather bindings, book glue, and the complex, unmistakable aroma of things written long ago combined to offer Giles the deepest peace he'd known in years.

When he first heard the pop and crackle of tires on the gravel drive it took him a moment to figure out what it was. He glanced up through the front window and saw a silver sedan coming out of the hairpin turn at the bottom of the drive and his heart clenched so sharply that it hurt. The wolf was awake instantly, across the room and alert beside him, her paws placed carefully among the documents as she reared up onto the table to see what had startled him.

"You mustn't let them see you!" Giles hissed, leaping across the room to open the window opposite to its fullest extent. She moved right with him, vaulting onto the bed and out the narrow opening. She hunkered down under the lush daisies and hollyhocks below, staying close to the wall.

"Don't run 'til I have their attention!" He didn't know if she understood the exact danger, but he believed she could handle herself in this kind of situation. If only he had the same confidence, he thought dryly, taking several deep breaths and slamming himself tightly closed, petal by petal, over the precious gift of her blue light and the flicker of his own reviving magic. He centered himself just as he would before squaring off against a known and exceptionally dangerous opponent. By the time he heard the first car door thump closed he was as ready as he could ever be to face them.

Giles stepped out onto the porch as the second door closed. He recognized the driver as Andrew Blythe, several years his junior in the Analytic Division with a special talent for finding and evaluating Potentials. He was a kind fellow, an enthusiastic scholar blessed with an astonishing memory for languages and cricket trivia. He had happily faded from the training room floor once he'd satisfied his course requirements in combat and was now slightly soft around the middle although he retained the poise of one fully capable of defending himself if necessary. Given his passenger, it probably wouldn't be, even if they blundered into a colony of Ssurissal demons guarding their chicks: Senior Watcher Cedine Merteuil, petite, graying, fit as a whipcord, and, among her other Council responsibilities, Chief of Internal Investigations. There was no one Giles could be less pleased to see, either in London or invading his precious sanctuary here.

"Hello, Giles," Andrew said cheerfully as he walked around the car.

"Hello, Dr. Merteuil," Giles nodded at the woman, "Hello, Blythe. What brings you two up here to the back of the beyond?"

"I'm checking on a Potential outside of Carlisle, and Dr. Merteuil asked to come along so she could stop in to see you," Andrew answered, clearly oblivious to the tension between the other two. Giles and Merteuil regarded one another; he sensed she was trying to bait him onto the defensive and he refused to allow that to happen. Speaking quietly through this armed stalemate Giles said:

"Let's move in out of the rain." He gestured them toward the open door, "Please mind your step, things are rather spread out at the moment." Wiping his feet conspicuously on the porch mat in the hope they would take the hint, he stepped inside and walked over to start the kettle.

"Quite a project you've got going here," Blythe said as he surveyed the piles."

"The abbey has some important historical materials that need attention before they're shipped down to the Canterbury archives," Giles answered civilly, though he did not offer any additional details. Obliquely he watched Merteuil move to the table. Without asking permission, she picked up a stack of papers and began leafing through them. She set them down and started on another, and another, as Giles spooned tea into the pot and watched her. He concentrated on breathing through his nose, on holding himself very quietly: he knew he must not offer her any kind of psychological purchase or she would grasp it and throw him down hard.

"Business records, parish correspondence, lists of livestock," she said in clipped, perfect English. She moved to the first stack of books. "Marriage registers. Deaths. Baptisms. Wills." Her stern tone kept the slight lilt of her Touraine accent from softening the honed edges of her words. Merteuil slapped a ledger shut and turned to him.

"Where is the rest of it?" she asked, fixing him with a look that would have curdled her students and spooked most of her colleagues. Giles stayed still.

"There is a great deal of material. Did you have something specific in mind?" he answered, keeping his tone perfectly level. He wanted her to give him some indication of exactly what she wanted; he was not about to offer her a menu.

"Mr. Giles, you were seriously remiss in your preparation for this assignment." Her voice was soft, but cut nevertheless. "This area has a history of dimensional events, class four and higher, the most recent occurring 132 years ago."

"Really?" Andrew interjected, his interest suddenly peaked.

"A lacunal aberration, variable locus, highly intermittent," Giles answered, holding Merteuil's gaze.

"I didn't know you were off to poke around a portal," Blythe said enthusiastically.

"Neither did I," Giles said, "I found out after I arrived."

"Because you couldn't be bothered to check the archives before tearing off," Merteuil said sharply. "Did you think you were being sent on some sort of holiday at Council expense?" Her tone finally registered with Blythe and he stepped back suddenly, quirking an eyebrow at Giles and giving a slight shrug that indicated his unease.

"I had slightly less than two hours to review the assignment, clear my calendar for an indefinite period, pack, and fetch the van. I was only directed to come, assist the abbot in any way I could, and collect the donated materials," Giles responded, refusing to rise to her goading, "I can show you the memo if you'd like to see it." He kept his voice level, polite, and lightly touched with astonishment. It was imperative that he keep the conversation neutral; taking a defensive position would lend credence to her accusations and taking the offensive with her would cost far more than he could afford. She studied him for several long moments, her pale eyes inscrutable. He suspected that someone in the London office had remembered the significance of this place a few days after he'd already gone and had tried to cover their arse at his expense. But she could not accuse him of shirking orders he had never actually received.

"Where are the records of the phenomenon?" she asked finally.

"Right there," Giles indicated the stack of boxes with orange labels arranged against the adjacent wall. He did not elaborate.

"Show me."

Giles stepped over, opened a box and hefted out a sixteenth century illustrated demonary. It was one of the volumes whose leather binding was rapidly disintegrating into rank, red powder under the influence of a fungus with literary leanings. He handed the book to her, mildly pleased when she had to pull the heavy thing close to her chest to balance it. The cover laid a wide swath of dark rot dust down the front of her ivory silk blouse. Her eyes narrowed and she turned to set the volume on the table. Andrew scooted over to peer over her shoulder, his archivist's antennae twitching with curiosity. As Merteuil flipped through the thick pages with their carefully inked text and images Andrew made small noises of recognition and several of sounds of happy discovery.

"This is quite wonderful," he said. "I've never seen such good documentation of Brenthinovian attack formation before. And that third species looks entirely new to me." Merteuil glanced over at him in mild disgust before turning away and leaving Andrew absorbed in the text.

"There should be other records, more information than just this kind of thing," she said, flicking her fingers dismissively at the big book.

"Can you be more precise about what you're looking for?"

Merteuil gave him another of those stern, assessing stares and then looked back at the pile of boxes. Giles hoped they didn't have time to make him unpack the entire lot. She stiffened and seemed to reach a decision.

"We are looking for information about an animal, some kind of magical guardian mentioned in local legends when the Council investigated events here in the 1870s. We were never able to ascertain whether or not the creature exists, although the fact that the nearby villages weren't wiped out repeatedly over the centuries suggests that there is something protective operating here. Since there has been so little recent activity we feel that such a creature, if it exists, could be better placed in a location currently experiencing difficulties."

"Do you have any sense of what kind of 'creature' this is?" Giles asked, struggling to keep his heart rate under control. He knew he could not actually lie to her. "If the aberration is dormant, why would a guardian stay? Wouldn't it just move on?"

"That is exactly what we expect you to determine." She answered, speaking as one unwillingly giving a crucial assignment to an unreliable underling. "Surely somewhere in this lot you will find at least part of the information we need. Speak to the locals, paying particular attention to traditional tales and songs. If there is such an animal, it is imperative that we find it and learn how to control it. It is too valuable a resource to be unsupervised."

Giles felt his heart falter, and his guts seize. He just stared at her. From a pocket inside her tailored suit jacket Merteuil withdrew a long envelope and handed it to him. He took it with fear-stiffened fingers.

"Here is a more detailed description of the assignment. We'll be back in four days to ascertain what you've accomplished." What that, she turned tightly on her heel and walked out the door, crisply ordering Blythe away from his perusal of the demonary.

"This is terrific stuff, Giles," he said over his shoulder. "I hope to have a better look at it when we're back through here," and he trotted over to open the door for Merteuil. "See you soon, then!" he said cheerily as he ducked into the driver's seat, oblivious to Giles' stunned silence.

For several minutes Giles just stood there, barely able to breathe. It didn't matter that he had not read the memorandum: he had accepted it from her, and he could feel its influence starting to spread from his fingers to his hand, a creeping, caustic stain. As long as he stayed still, his will cloaked and quiet, nothing happened. But he knew the moment he moved to disobey, as he surely would, the entire force of the Council's binding would close down around him. At this moment, the only question was whether or not he would survive long enough to reach the abbey to warn them. Whatever happened, he had to try.

Cautiously, he took a deep breath, restoring his center. He did not dare reach for the comfort of her light in him, or awaken the challenge of his own power. There was no way he could disguise his actions: in taking the memo to the abbey he was directly disobeying a Council order and he had no defense against whatever punishment the binding would inflict on him then. Given the depth of his rebellion and his utter conviction that refusing them was the right choice, he had no doubt it would be deadly force. He closed his hand hard around the letter. Sent a fervent prayer of gratitude to the Powers for the gift of his time here; for the love and mercy of a wild, brave heart; for the opportunity they had given him to know himself.

Then he stepped toward the door, his intentions clear, and the binding shrieked a warning inside his head. When he leapt off the porch into a dead run for the abbey, it clamped down hard around his mind and started drilling inward, shredding everything as it went.

Nothing, ever, had hurt so much.

At the top of the hill he stumbled and went down, vomiting violently. Giles surged to his feet and kept running, catching sight of Herself pelting up the valley toward him. He could not spare the energy to acknowledge her, focusing only on the path to the abbey. Each footfall on the soft ground sent another sharp pang deep into his psyche, perforating his awareness and shattering his vision with bursts of broken memory. He vomited several more times, shaken from his stride by the force of the heaves. There was nothing left in his stomach now but the spasms did not abate and he knew soon he would be bringing up blood. His nose had already started to bleed, and he choked on the sticky stream as he struggled to breathe.

The wolf fell into stride beside him as he staggered down the shallow incline to the abbey's back pasture. He dared not even look at her. She matched him for a few yards and then she was gone, streaking out ahead of him directly for the abbey compound. Giles just kept running. Or rather, he kept surging forward in broken steps, more stagger than speed left to him now. His t-shirt and sweats were streaked with blood and bile and his breath rattled in his lungs. Beyond words, beyond hope, beyond all but the simple will to get there, he kept going.

James came tearing out the garden gate to meet him, the wolf skittering frantically at the tall monk's heels. Giles collapsed into the man's strong arms, clung to him through another bout of dry heaves, and then thrust the crumpled memo into his hands.

"Stay with me, man," James pleaded, "I can't carry you the rest of the way to Joseph." Giles jerked his head in acknowledgement and struggled to keep his feet, able only to think of one step and then another, occasionally pausing to drag down another bloody breath. Black splotches clumped together in his peripheral vision, swelling inward until they nearly eclipsed the daylight. He didn't fight it anymore: he had made it here, warned them. They would not fail her as he had. At the door he fell and could not get up again. He heard Amos calling and felt the two men hoist him into a wheelchair.

"Let's get him to the cot in Joseph's room," James said as they maneuvered the chair through the halls. Giles heard the scrabble of the wolf's claws behind them as she followed the procession; ahead of them he heard Joseph praying in Latin, his voice faint but firm. Between them, James and Amos got Giles stretched onto the narrow bed.

"I'll go get my kit," Amos said, shuffling off as fast as his damaged hips would let him go. James smoothed out the damp, stained envelope and handed it to Joseph. James turned back to the cot only to be bumped aside as the wolf insinuated herself into the cramped confines of the small room. She clambered up onto the cot and stood over Giles' legs, placing her paws carefully before arranging herself alongside him, her head resting on his belly. The last thing Giles remembered was burying his left hand in her mantle, then the pain flared again and he finally surrendered.

* * * * *

When he surfaced, the light had changed. He sensed areas of soft gold and deep shadows but could not focus on either. It was much easier to concentrate if he kept his eyes closed. The most important thing was the warm weight beside him, although he could not say why. If it went away nothing would ever matter anymore. Giles could hear voices speaking quietly nearby.

"Can you give him just enough to keep him calm? I think if he doesn't actually fight it, the binding will stay quiet."

"I dunno, Joe. If 'e's 'ad a stroke even a wee bit'd kill 'im."

"I don't think there is really much physical damage-" this offered by a third voice, just as gentle but stronger than the other two.

"I'm inclined to agree. I think the spell just inflicts psychic pain and the physical effects are his body's reaction to that."

"It looked bad enough t'kill 'im."

"Oh, I'm sure it was. Much easier for them to explain away an accident or suicide than a murder."

"And these people are supposedly on the side of the light?" the strong voice again, breaking in anger.

"Yes. I'm sure they justify this kind of thing as part of the greater good."

"Can they no' see what 'e is, what 'e could be?"

"Only enough to be afraid of him."

"So they put this leash on him."

"Yes."

"Whut a fuckin' waste, pardon th' expression."

"Indeed."

There was a long pause. Giles turned his head, tried to get his eyes to focus on the speakers.

"We'd better risk it. I don't think he'll survive another round of that."

"Right, then. I'll try," there were sounds of jars being unscrewed and paper packets rattling. He heard water poured and suddenly the room filled with a complex scent, sweetly sharp like ripe fruit, but bitter underneath, too. "E'en if't works, he canna keep takin' this."

"I have an idea, but I need him to be conscious and calm."

"He'll no' be thinkin' too clearly."

"Hopefully he won't have to be."

"Are you going in with him?"

"Only a little way. He has to do most of this himself."

"Joe, are you sure you're up to this?"

"No, I'm not. But I don't think we have any other options," he paused, "Besides, she's here and I think she can help." Giles felt the warm weight shift away and clutched at it, suddenly terrified it would leave him. It immediately settled itself over him again. He was so close to remembering where he was, yet somehow every time he tried to grasp it, it eluded him. So frustrating.

"Amos, is it ready yet? He's getting too close, it'll hit him again."

"It'll do. Can ya git 'im up a bit, then?"

Giles heard shuffling, then felt long arms slide under his neck and shoulders, heard a grunt and felt himself hoisted.

"'ere then, ya must drink this, man." A warm cup rim pressed his chin, the intricate scent rising from it as liquid washed against his lips. He opened to it, tasted honey first, then the bitterness came, and that strong, complicated flavor that he could not name. Swallowing took concentration and he didn't always succeed. The hands holding the cup shook a bit, urged him on, but did not overwhelm him. When he'd drunk it all, the long arms laid him down again and gentle hands wiped away what had spilled.

"Give 'im a bit o'time and 'e'll be ready."

"Thank you Amos. Can you make me some of that ginger stuff? I think it'd help me prepare."

"'course," Amos said exactly as the other voice said.

"Joe, I don't think you're strong enough to do this. Isn't there another way?"

"If there is, I can't see it." There was a lull in the conversation in which Giles heard more water poured, smelled ginger and lemons. He felt his awareness rising oddly, lightened and eased somehow but also without purchase or direction. For some reason he couldn't remember how he came to be here, or why, yet that failure didn't bother him.

It ought to, he thought, I shouldn't forget things. It's lax. Sloppy. Dangerous--could get me killed. Or something. Why don't I care? He shifted on the cot, realized he was naked under a sheet with a warm body beside him. Fur against his skin. Giles stiffened, clenched his arm around her.

"Don't let them see you-," he gasped as the pain flared again.

"Easy, Rupert," James said, stroking his head. "She's safe here. You need to relax. It only hurts when you fight it."

"Bloody hell," Giles gasped, "it never felt like this before."

"I think it's because you've never really tested it," Joseph said, "and this is the strongest you've been since they laid it on you."

"Like a Chinese puzzle, then," he observed hoarsely.

"Wha'?" Amos asked.

"They keyed the spell's power to his own: the better he's able to fight it, the worse it can hurt him. He harder he pulls, the tighter it holds him, like one of those Chinese finger traps," Joseph answered.

"That's just vile," James growled.

"Aye. So what's t'do, then?"

"Well, if it really is made like that trap then first he needs to stop fighting so it will loosen a bit. The dose'll help. Then I think it's time to dismantle the damn thing."

"I don't know if you can," Giles said softly. "I did consent, so it's anchored pretty deeply."

"But is it anchored in granite or gravel?" Joseph asked.

"You said they used my own honor to bind me."

"To enforce their will, yes, but the structure of the spell is based on something else. That's what I hope we can undermine."

"But doesn't my original consent prevent that?"

"That depends on what, exactly, you consented to, Rupert. We need to get at your memory of the exact wording they used."

"God, Joseph, that was eleven years ago, and I was really wrecked at the time," his voice faded with despair. "I don't remember what I said."

"Actually, you do," the abbot said kindly, "you just can't access it. I think I can, if you'll trust me. I need to go into your memory and I can't do that without your permission."

"A mind walk?"

"No, it's more like browsing in a rather cluttered library. I won't be anywhere near your consciousness, that's not the way my gift works."

"What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to concentrate on everything you can remember about the context. Scents, sounds, textures, movement--try to be as specific you can. Each sense has its own pathway to memory, and I can follow them to where they converge in that event."

"James thinks it's too dangerous for you."

"It is not his choice to make."

"But-"

"Be still, Rupert. I am doing it for you, and for Her, because she has chosen you." Joseph's voice brooked no disagreement.

"Oh." Giles moved his hand along her shoulder. He could feel her tension as she pressed herself against him.

"It would be best if I could lay my hand on your head."

"Can you reach me?"

"Yes." Giles felt Joseph's warm, dry palm settle on his forehead.

"Keep your eyes closed. I want you to drift backwards into what you do remember. Stay focused on your senses. If you can, try not to react emotionally to any of it; pretend you're watching it happen to someone else. Can you do that?"

"I'll try."

"Then begin..."

* * * * *

The smell of the cold sea, sand against his face, salt stinging his broken skin. The hot breath of the little dog, and the strong, gentle prodding of a man's hands. Can you walk? Is anything broken? Trying to stand, falling with dry heaves, shivering so violently he cannot speak...

Giles pushes forward a bit, skimming his memories of the hospital, of the drive through the sunlit countryside, so clean and open after the long months in dim squats and the gray maze of dockland alleys. And within that sweet light he unexpectedly recalls Roderick's soft voice singing to him:

Come away you human child,
to the waters and the wild,
with a fairy hand in hand,
for the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand...


Yeats: Rod is singing Yeats to the broken, stinking body piled into his passenger seat like a bundle of kindling. Giles wonders how could he have forgotten such a loving gesture.

Too soon they enter the dense noise of city traffic. Quick turns through the narrow canyons of the streets, going this way and that, challenge his nausea. The headache grows until he shakes with the force of it. So thirsty. His mouth tastes like copper, like leather.

Beloved, gaze in thine on own heart,
The holy tree is growing there...


Oh, god, what had he done to his heart? Where it should have been he found something dark and sticky, rank and scorched. He shakes his head against Rod's gentle song, denying the gift of those words: no, not beloved, never holy, just vile and shattered and very rotten at the core. But the loving voice continues, softly urgent, the words a gift and something more that he is too shattered to understand.

The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.


The car pauses at the entrance to the Council compound as the heavy steel gate rolls sideways to let them into the courtyard. Men and women crowd around the car, blocking the light, all of them asking:

What happened? What happened? Two men heave him out, damn he reeks of black magic. They aren't gentle and don't give him time to find his feet. Rod argues urgently with them, tries to follow. A scuffle, then shouting:

I have to go with him. He needs me! I must speak to him! One deep, stern voice cuts him off,

We'll take care of him, sir, we have staff trained in this sort of thing. Rod cries:

Remember, cariad, remember! then Giles cannot hear him anymore.

Inside: a long corridor, dim, sloping down. He tries so hard to walk but they won't let him. The cold air smells of stone, iron, and secrets. Turning sharply through a studded oak door they unload him onto an Oriental carpet in front of a huge, dark desk in a room with no windows.

If he pukes on that rug it'll come out of your sorry hide a vicious voice hisses with an accent he cannot place. He lies very still now, trying to focus on the carpet's pattern, beige and burgundy, twisted ivy with fantastic serpents in it. Smells like cedar wood and something else, sour and stale. The floor is cold, even through the thick carpet. His thigh muscles are twitching and he feels as though the something is buzzing underneath his entire skin. Voices above him; the sharp, quiet one commanding the others. He hears his name. Twice. When the boot hits his flank he hears a wet crunch and his own gasp, not even enough breath left in him to yelp. But he does vomit blood, and the hands snatch him sideways onto the stone floor, swearing in a language he doesn't recognize. A woman's voice, very fierce.

Get him into a chair you idiots. And try not to kill him this time. Her tone is indifferent, chastening them for damaging a utensil she might need later. So, boy, she spits her words right into his face, are you done playing? Did the Sleepwalker finally eat your petty little dreams?

He has no words to answer her and starts to slide out of the chair. They tie him in: chest, wrists, ankles. A hand in his hair holds his head up so he must look at her. A small woman. Without his glasses he cannot see her face at all.

She barks an order and a stocky man steps up beside her, leans close enough that Giles can smell his breath: mint and wet ashes.

Should we do it now, then? the woman asks impatiently and the man's doughy hands run over Giles' broken face, finding all the bruises from the fight and his flight down to the sea. The man thumbs up Giles' eyelids one at a time, peers in, grunting. Giles focuses on the man's astonishingly perfect teeth, sees they are stained piss yellow. He feels a damp palm on his forehead, a fist over his heart.

It's mostly dead in there, I think. Might come back, though. Probably better do it. Don't expect we'll get another chance if he lives.

She moves around Giles, prodding.

I don't know why they bother. None of the father's quality has shown up in the son, to be sure. That outcross to the Thorne line was risky, and look what it got them. Pity they don't cull anymore. She grabs his chin, shifts his head left and right, snorts her disgust and drops him. Bloody nuisance is what he is. Do it.

The stocky man pulls on a dark robe, dismisses the two who carried Giles here. When the three of them are alone the man lights a brazier on the desk, chants something guttural, and throws herbs into the fire. The smoke stings terribly, jerking Giles awake like smelling salts but much harsher. Pulls him back to the surface with barbed hooks set deep into his consciousness.

Rupert Giles, you have broken fealty with the Council and have been cast out from among us. Do you petition to return?

Coughing, Giles struggles to speak through the thirst and the bile.

Yes.

Will you accept due punishment for your crimes and do penance for your wickedness?

Yes.

Will you consent to be bound in obedience to your oath, your honor hostage for your words and deeds?

Yes.

Do you swear all this on your vocation, knowing that defiance of that vocation now means death?

Yes.

Then so mote it be. He cuts the bonds holding Giles to the chair, then with the same knife slices deeply across both of Giles' palms. Together the sorcerer and the small woman yank Giles' long, thin arms over the desk so his blood drips down into the acrid flames. The chant is too fast to follow, in a sibilant tongue Giles does not know. He feels a band of pain tightening around his forehead, a stutter in his heartbeat, and then nothing, nothing.

* * * * *

Giles woke to hear two voices singing the last notes of the compline psalms somewhere nearby. The wolf shifted, reached up and kissed him lightly on the throat. He rolled onto his side and curled around her, drawing her shoulders in tight to his chest and listened, grateful to be alive, suspended in the safety of the single lamp's amber light, the simple strength in those voices, and the sweet warmth of her fur. When the psalms were done and the stone house was silent again, he could hear the faint, wet rattle of Joseph's breathing.

"Rupert? You back with us?" Joseph whispered, struggling to breathe.

"Joseph?" Alarmed, Giles uncoiled himself from around the wolf and the two of them slipped from the cot to crouch beside the abbot's bed. "Oh lord, that really was too much for you, wasn't it?" The abbot's lungs hissed and clicked with each shallow breath. Giles searched for the man's brittle hand among the bedclothes.

"Worth it, though," Joseph rasped out. "Got what we needed." He sounded satisfied even through the wheezing.

"We did?" Giles asked softly, his guilt and anxiety about Joseph's condition stifling any hope he might have had for his own healing.

"Yes, we did." Joseph paused to breathe a bit before continuing. "But apparently you don't see it," he chuckled but it immediately broke into a chunky cough and Giles moved to support him until the spasm passed. "No surprise, really, since this is all rather new to you. But now we can do what needs to be done."

"Right now you need to rest," Giles said gently but firmly.

"Oh, I will, but I can get you started on the next thing if you're ready." He coughed again and Giles helped him sip some water from the bedside glass.

"Is there something you can take? Should I get James?" Joseph flicked his hand dismissively before letting it fall back onto the duvet.

"Let him sleep now. What's left is for you to do--," he nodded toward the wolf sitting attentively beside the bed "-with her help, I think."

"And that would be?"

"Go into yourself, find the binding, and let your birthright blow it away like the trespass it is."

"I can do that? Won't that--," he hesitated, trying to find the words, "wouldn't I just set the thing off again? I don't think I can take much more of that."

"I doubt any spell of theirs is a match for what you've got inside you."

"But it's anchored in my consent-"

"Which is why you can do this. That's what I found, your exact consent." He had another spell of coughing and Giles' anxiety for him increased. "It was even better than I'd hoped," he said finally, setting his hand on Giles's hand.

"Really?"

"Yes. The crucial wording was: 'Do you swear all this on your vocation, knowing that defiance of that vocation now means death?' and you said 'Yes.' So they have no real hold over you."

"Um, that sounds like a hold to me."

"Rupert, remember our chat about vocation? True vocation?"

"Yes."

"And my suspicion that you have a true vocation as a hero-companion?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"And now you've been chosen by a hero, and you've accepted her choice, right?" Joseph reached over to toward the wolf and she stretched her nose up to meet his fingers before turning to look intently at Giles.

Giles rocked back on his heels, a bit stunned and not quite able to hold all the pieces together at once. Joseph waited while he struggled to work it out.

"So I didn't swear on the vocation they had in mind at the time."

"Right. You swore on the one you were actually born with, which has little to do with the Council, although Slayers probably do come into it somewhere."

"And since I have accepted my true vocation-," his hand found its way onto the wolf's warm shoulders again, "-then that is the thing that holds my honor hostage."

"Exactly."

"So the Council's binding really is sitting on pretty shifty ground, isn't it?"

"More to the point, that binding is now actually a threat to the oath you swore on your true vocation because it threatens the hero who chose you. So you are entirely within your rights--even obligated--to resist it." Joseph's excited vehemence triggered another round of coughing and Giles rose to lift the abbot upright so his lungs could clear more easily.

"Will you please let me call James? Make you some tea?"

"Tea would be good," he said hoarsely.

Giles stood slowly, steadied himself against the wall, and tottered over to the kettle. He found several packets of herbs by the tea things.

"Is there one of these that would help?"

"The one that smells like mint and roses." Giles sniffed several before he found the right one, and by then the water was ready.

"Amos is quite the herbalist, isn't he?" Giles remarked as he poured water over the fragrant leaves.

"What Amos doesn't know about plants, or any other growing thing, doesn't bear mentioning," Joseph answered, affection clear in his voice. "We're blessed to have him. Thanks," he said, curling his hands around the warm mug. Giles crouched down beside the bed again, one arm still steadying the old man's shoulders as he sipped the tea. Giles' other hand found its way back into the wolf's deep mantle and she pressed close to his naked skin, warming him where they touched.

The tea eased Joseph's breathing considerably and some of the lines of effort faded from his face. Settling back into the pillows he smiled at the two of them, a bit of humor stirring in his eyes. He handed the empty mug back to Giles and said:

"So, Rupert, are you ready to be free of them?"

"Lord, yes," he said, though his certainty about this did not find a matching confidence that he could do what was necessary to make it happen. He stroked the wolf's sleek head and toyed with her soft ears for several long moments.

"I'm a bit leery of that pain, though. And confused: if it's so right for me to resist, why did the binding activate in the first place?"

"It's a pretty simplistic structure designed to monitor your attitude toward Council orders and react accordingly."

"And it was right on target. I don't think I've ever been so angry at them before." Joseph cocked his head and studied Giles for a moment.

"You hid your magic from them today, didn't you?"

"Of course."

"It's much stronger up here, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes." Giles looked down at the wolf sitting beside him. "She calls it out of me. But I haven't found the courage to really explore it yet."

"Other than your fighting prowess, the magic's been pretty quiet since the incident with Randall, then?"

"Um, not exactly. Mostly it's anger. Really violent anger. It's much harder to manage now that I don't get as much sparring time as I want. Until you explained it to me I never would have thought the Thorne magic was the source, but it makes sense."

"But you're calmer here?"

"I've never felt anything like the peace I've found here."

"No wonder you buried it when they showed up."

"Well, that, and the fact that it's all tangled up with Herself. I don't think they could sense me and not sense her, too. I had to protect her from them."

"At any cost."

"Yes."

"So when the binding activated, you didn't even try to defend yourself." Giles shifted at bit, processing this.

"No, it never occurred to me."

"I think that's the only reason it hit you as hard as it did."

"Hmm." They sat in silence for a bit.

"It's time for a pre-emptive strike, Rupert. None of us want to see you suffer like that again."

"You're saying I should try to find the spell and purge it?"

"Yes. Now that we know it won't damage your honor to do so." Giles pivoted on the balls of his feet and slumped down to sit on the floor with his back against the bed. The wolf shifted away until he was settled, then leaned back against him when he draped his arm around her. Joseph coughed again, and Giles noted sadly that the abbot's wheezing had returned.

"You're giving me back my free will."

"No, Rupert, you're taking it back from the ones who stole it from you." Giles let out a long sigh.

"And they made damn sure that I believed I couldn't be trusted with such a thing."

"That's not their decision to make." When Giles didn't answer, Joseph said gently, "Free will's a wondrous and scary thing. We're all given our very own packet of it right from the beginning, and we're all held accountable for how we use it."

"You don't believe in destiny, then?"

"Of course I do. But destiny doesn't conflict with free will, my boy. Yes, sometimes we have things foisted on us that we can't refuse and can't control, but we never lose the right or the responsibility to choose how we respond to those things."

"I see."

"What they tried to turn against you wasn't just your honor, it was your spirit, your very self. I think that's worth fighting, don't you?"

Giles looked over to find the wolf studying him closely. He bowed his head toward her until they were forehead to forehead and she sighed. He felt his eyes prick with tears, an echo of the deep grief from two days ago. Joseph stirred slightly, shifting on his pillows, then it was quiet again. A long while later, Giles asked in a hoarse voice:

"How do I do this?" He felt Joseph's hand on his head briefly.

"She'll help you; I think she's already started. When you saw her in your dreams, were you in a particular place? A huge house? A city, anything like that?"

"A landscape rather like the one here, actually: rolling hills, forest. A river."

"What condition was it in when you were there?"

"Well, the first time it was so beautiful, full of life. There were magnificent horses. But I was covered with blood so they ran from me." Joseph could hear the sadness in his voice, the longing.

"And the next time?"

"Everything had died. Drought. It had been like that for a long time, I think. The river was gone, the trees were bare and nothing lived there anymore. I was so thirsty. I've never felt anything like that before, I thought it would kill me, it hurt so much. So I went looking for water. I walked up the river course a long way. There was no trace, not even wet sand. But then I found--," his voice broke and he stopped. Joseph touched him gently again, acknowledging his pain.

"I found myself there. The way I used to be, the way I was when I raised Eyghon, and when I killed Randall. And I was burying the source of the river with huge stones until it couldn't flow anymore," he paused, then very faintly, "and I think I tried to kill myself there, too."

"Do you know what that landscape is, Rupert?" Joseph asked softly.

"Not really."

"It's one of the gifts she can give us. She can show you the condition of your soul."

"Mine's a pretty dead place," Giles said. "Why am I not surprised?"

"No, dear boy, not dead. Damaged. Abandoned. But not dead."

"Not yet, anyway."

"What did that place need more than anything? You felt it yourself."

"Water."

"And once there was a river, yes?"

"Until I killed it."

"You said you buried it. Piled stones over it to block it at its source."

"Yes."

"Rupert, what is the river, really? What power runs right through the center of who you are?"

"The Thorne magic."

"So it's time you freed the river," Joseph said gently.

Giles was silent then, absorbing this. The wolf reached over and chucked him gently under the chin with her nose so he would turn and look into her golden eyes. Power shone deep in them, lithe and shifting, patient and exquisitely honed. He realized she had been waiting for this moment, for his understanding to ripen enough so that he could make this choice freely, entirely aware of the consequences of either releasing his birthright or denying it completely. Giles slid his fingertips lightly along her soft cheek, cupped her jaw in his palm. She leaned into him, waiting.

"Yes. I'm ready now," he said to her. She blinked once, slowly, acknowledging his answer.

"Then go and dream, Rupert. She'll be with you there."

Giles looked over his shoulder at the abbot.

"Should I stay here?"

"Why don't you shift into the room you used that first night. That way you don't have to listen to me wheeze."

"And you don't have to listen to me, either," Giles said wryly. "The last two times weren't very subtle." He rocked forward and stood slowly, startled to discover how badly his legs were shaking.

"The stuff that Amos gave you will help you sleep," Joseph said, noting Giles' slight sway. "And it makes you rather unsteady on your pins so be careful going down the hall."

"Indeed," Giles said, looking around the room. "Um, are my clothes anywhere nearby?"

"They were pretty disgusting by the time you got here. James put them in the laundry but I doubt they'll be dry before morning. There's a big towel over on the bureau, though."

"Thanks, though at this point modesty does seem rather superfluous," Giles said, wrapping the cloth around his waist.

"But dignity isn't," the abbot answered mildly, concluding with a cough.

"Are you going to be alright alone? Would you like more tea?" Giles asked.

"Yes, I will, and no, thank you. James checks on me before matins," he waved his hand in gentle dismissal. "Go on, you have work to do and I want to see what'll happen next." Giles gave him a long look, and a shy smile.

"Right, then. I'll see you in the morning," and he squeezed the abbot's shoulder affectionately as he padded quietly out into the hall and down to his room, the wolf's nails clicking faintly on the slate beside him. Joseph's wet cough carried all the way down the corridor.

* * *