Dawnbreaker: Legends of the Duskwalker - Book 3 (37 page)

“But that was the point, wasn’t it?” Wren said. “Your purpose, in the old world. So you could go places and do things without anyone being able to track you. So you were protected from certain kinds of attack.”

Haiku nodded.

“But not everyone had people like that?”

“No. Only a few other houses. Eighteen Zulu, the Fell, the Empty Frost. You must understand, at that time, disconnection was considered a punishment worse than death. It was reserved for the most terrible of offenders, whose desire to do harm was so great they could not be trusted with even the most basic contact with others. House was one of the first and few to recognize the value that it offered.”

There was more than Haiku was saying; there was a hole in the midst of the words, like water flowing around a stone beneath the surface. Wren could feel it tugging at the corners of his mind as his subconscious continued assembling the pieces. His heart beat faster, though he didn’t know why.

“So, you were what, then?” Wren asked.

“Whatever we needed to be. Messengers, couriers, protectors, observers. Gatherers of information.”

And though he didn’t want to hear the answer, Wren couldn’t stop his mouth from forming the word.

“Assassins?”

Haiku looked to him then, for a long moment. “Sometimes.”

“Is that what you were? Is that what... is that what Three was?” Wren asked. He didn’t want to think of Three that way, didn’t want to think of him as a trained killer, but he had to know. He feared he already did.

“Three,” Haiku said. He paused, obviously choosing his words with care. “Three was many things, Wren.”

“But he killed people? For the House?”

Haiku drew a deep breath, exhaled. Nodded. Wren’s heart dropped at the confirmation, his body cold. Everything he knew about Three, everything he believed about the man, obliterated into chaos.

“There is more than you know,” Haiku said. “More than you can understand. Three was no murderer. He was a great man. One of the greatest.”

“I don’t know how you can say that.”

“Because I knew him, Wren. I know the burden he bore.”

Wren’s mind swirled. He’d come here, to train under Foe, specifically because of Three. Only because of Three. Only because he believed that if there was any chance of ever becoming like him, that was his best hope for the world. Had it all been for an illusion? For a lie? He didn’t want to be a killer.

“But I don’t understand,” Wren said. “The oath. What about ‘In all ways, at all times, I safeguard life’? What about ‘Life, my charge’? How can you say you’re protecting life if you’re a house full of killers?”

“I should certainly hope my children are not
killers
,” Foe said from behind. Wren whirled around at the sound of his voice, startled. The old man was in the doorway, leaning against the frame. How long had he been standing there? “And I’m certain my son would not call his own brothers and sisters such a thing.”

“But...” Wren responded, “Haiku just said...”

“Assassins, boy,” Foe said, walking into the room. “I would not expect you to understand the difference, nor is it a distinction most people have the clarity of perception to make. But I must insist upon it. An assassin is not merely a killer. A killer cannot rightly be called an
assassin
just because it makes him feel better about his deed.”

“It doesn’t matter what you call it,” Wren said. “It’s still taking a life.”

Foe searched his eyes for several seconds. Then he pulled out a chair at the table, angled it so that it faced Wren. As he lowered himself into the seat, the corner of his eyes wrinkled ever so slightly as he sat down, as if it hurt him to do so. Though maybe Wren only imagined it because of what Haiku had told him.

“Your brother,” Foe said. “Asher. When your time here is done, what is your intent for him?”

It was a question Wren should have had an answer for by now. In truth, he hadn’t fully considered it. Or rather, he had refused to let himself think too deeply about the reality. Foe must have read it on his expression.

“My House is not one of illusions, boy. You know the answer, though you do not wish to see it.”

“I just want him to stop,” Wren answered quietly.

“‘Whatever it takes’,” Foe said, “I believe those were your words.”

It was true, that’s what Wren had said. And at the time, he had meant it. Now, with the spotlight shined on the reality of what lay ahead, it once again looked nothing like he had imagined. How had he ever imagined turning Asher back without realizing what that would actually require?

“I don’t want to be a killer,” he said, and the words seemed weak and full of fear.

“I should certainly hope not,” Foe replied. “It takes no special skill or talent or training to be a killer. You want to take a life? Easiest thing in the world. A knife. A rock. Hands.” Foe snapped his fingers. “There, you took it. Stole it. It’s yours now. What will you do with it?

“Can’t sell it. Can’t give it back or give it away. It’s yours now, you took it. Yours, always and forever.”

He leaned forward and looked Wren in the eye.

“How many lives can you live, boy?”

He continued to stare into Wren’s eyes for a few seconds, searching them as he so often did. He seemed satisfied with whatever he found there, or perhaps simply felt that his point had been made. He sat back again and stroked his beard once more.

“I should be very disappointed if you thought I was teaching you all this merely to turn you into a trained
killer
,” Foe said. “An assassin, however, is something far greater; one who knows that necessary violence, precisely channeled, can affect change far beyond any one individual’s usual reach or impact. Empires have been raised and have fallen at the hand of one skilled assassin. Unfortunately most of history is filled with too many killers and of true assassins, far too few.

“This is a heavier subject than I wanted to cover with you this soon,” he said. “But since the discussion has already begun...” He sat back, gathered his beard in his hand, stroked it. “You have lived out in the world. You’ve seen the trouble people face from day to day, the suffering they endure. What, from your observation, would you say is the basis for such suffering?”

The magnitude of the question was well beyond Wren’s ability to answer; he at least had the wisdom to recognize that he was far too young to answer such a complex and deeply philosophical question.

“I have no idea,” he said.

“Ah, come now,” Foe said. “Surely you are still young enough to see it.”

Still
young
enough?

“I don’t know, Foe,” Wren said.

“What do you
think
then? There’s no penalty for being wrong.”

Wren thought about all the things he’d experienced in his few years: his time with Mama and RushRuin; their escape and Asher’s pursuit; Morningside’s rise and fall. Was there a common thread? Something present in all of it?

“Fear?” he guessed.

Foe dipped his head slightly. “A good guess,” he said, “and partially true. But deeper than fear. Fear must have a cause.”

Wren thought about fear, something he knew very well. And there were so many things to fear: pain, thirst, lack, loss of loved ones, uncertainty. He shook his head, not even willing to venture a guess.

“There are many variations on the theme, many ways that we react, and lash out, and damage one another. Even the most well-meaning of us. But taken on a grand scale, above the individual, above the community, there is a central problem of humanity, and it is one of
justice
. A great deal of our troubles arise because evil flourishes while goodness is ground under its heel. The sense that something is wrong with reality, that the world is broken, flows from the suffering of the innocent.”

Wren didn’t have to hear any more to know where this was going. He might not have known much about history, but he knew enough to recognize the direction Foe was taking him.

“So you just kill the people you think are evil?”

“No,” Foe said sharply. Then he softened, “No, boy, that way lies nothing but wasteland. When you start down that path, you are quickly on your way to genocide. We are no purifiers. This is why truth must be our foundation. We must perceive the world as it truly is, not as we would wish it to be. That includes rightly perceiving ourselves, and knowing our own nature. Regardless of intentions, given enough power, our nature would drive us to become the very thing we were established to war against. We are, therefore, first and foremost, at war with ourselves.

“But the wisdom of your youth has revealed the snare. In developing the capability to defeat evil, we empower ourselves to become that which we were created to restrain. That, in fact, is the natural outcome of such things. Without vigilance, it is the inevitable end. Now, I hope, you begin to see the importance of the oath you have sworn. Why it is necessary.”

Wren recalled the high ideals embedded in the words he’d sworn with the shedding of his blood: truth, discipline, life, honor, service.

“It all sounds like exactly the opposite of what you actually do,” he replied.

Foe smiled. “As intended by design. Even when taking one life in order to preserve others, that final act must be ingrained as a
violation
of our nature, rather than as its fulfillment. That is the only way to ensure that the decision is treated with the proper care and gravity.

“Violence is rarely a good solution to a problem, boy. Unfortunately, when it
is
a good solution, it is usually the
only
solution. A sad reality, but one we do not shy away from acknowledging. Sometimes the only counter to an evil, violent man is a good man more skilled in violence.”

Wren shook his head, though not necessarily because he disagreed with what Foe had said. It was a lot to process. Too much, maybe.

“Stand up, boy,” Foe said. “Here, next to me.”

Wren stood up out of his chair, and obediently took his place next to his teacher. Foe reached down and gently took Wren’s hand in his, felt each of the small fingers in turn. Then, with a fluid motion, Foe wrapped his hand around Wren’s pinky and swiftly bent it. Pain lanced through Wren’s hand, down through his wrist and up into his forearm; cold and electric, it stole his breath.

“With the correct pressure, properly applied to even the smallest member, I exert my will upon you,” Foe said. “I can make you kneel.” He flexed Wren’s finger down and back, and in response Wren dropped to a knee. “I can make you rise,” Foe said. He twisted Wren’s finger a new direction and helplessly Wren followed back up to his feet. Foe released the finger and placed his hand on top of Wren’s head. “When the pain commands, the body seeks escape, no matter how small the threat. Animal, man, community, nation. It is no different.”

He reached down again to take Wren’s hand, but Wren was too quick; he pulled his hand away and took a step back. Foe smiled.

“And already you have learned the second lesson,” he said. “When my nature is properly understood, I can exert my will with no pressure at all. You may sit.”

Wren returned to his seat and massaged his hand. And though he understood the supposed wisdom of the method, he wished very much that Foe had other ways to practically demonstrate his lessons that didn’t involve pain.

“The reality is that this works for good or for ill. The laws of society operate on this principle. For some, punishment is required to understand the law. For others, the mere threat of punishment is enough. But what happens when those who victimize the innocent become too powerful to be confronted by those who would enforce the law? Or when the law itself is unjust? When the innocent suffer under laws written not to restrain evil, but instead to benefit a favored few?”

He let the questions hang in the air; questions of depth and weight that Wren had never even thought to consider.

“When a malignant cell grows and spreads,” Foe continued, “is it better to let it continue until it destroys the entire body? Or is it best to cut it out while it is still small, before its corruption is complete?

“This is one of the purposes for which House Eight was built. To exert the proper pressure on the smallest possible member, to correct course when all other options have been exhausted. Above nation, above race or creed. We stand apart. In the world, but not of it... It is a terrible responsibility to bear, and one we accept with trembling.”

Foe’s explanations had begun to work on Wren; already he felt his perception shifting. He’d never considered how a law wasn’t the same thing as justice before. But hadn’t he seen it for himself, firsthand? Wasn’t that just what had happened in Morningside, even when he himself sat as governor? Even so, for all of Foe’s words, there was one question the old man hadn’t answered. And maybe couldn’t.

“But how do you know you’re right?”

Foe raised his finger and then pointed at Wren, as if to say Wren had just put his finger on the very heart of the matter. “When you are young, you are clear-eyed; you are not confused about what is good and what is evil. It is only as one ages that one becomes seduced and persuaded by the illusions that convert one to the other. In the old way, we dealt primarily in information. Gathering it, disseminating it, evaluating it. Often we were the liaison between bitter enemies, without their knowledge. I do not exaggerate when I say wars were averted because of it. But when it came time to act rather than advise, we did not trust ourselves alone. Other Houses operated independently from ours. Only when consensus was reached did we move forward. But even then, we can never be
absolutely
certain. Absolute certainty is the province of madmen alone.

“In reality, the mathematics of death are not complicated. It is the
uncertainty
that stops most people, the gap in which they allow themselves the illusion that perhaps with a little more time, another solution will appear. Countless souls have been lost to such vain hope, long after it was proven baseless. But there is a necessary precision to the calculation that escapes most. When removing a cancer, taking too much is just as deadly as taking too little.