It was not Jake. It was not Jake, for all that it looked like him. And yet some part of Roland reached out harder than ever, knowing the horror as a truer son than his beloved boy.
"Mordred." He said the name before his conscious mind had realized what this meant, what it had to mean.
"Hile, Gunslinger," came the reply, and there were two voices in it. "Hile, daddy-sai. Not that you have ever called me son."
"Get out of him. If you want to talk then do in person."
"And die under thy guns for the crime o' being born? Nay. I be young, but not so stupid as all that." The boy-thing smiled fiercely, angry and feral. "I never asked ta be of the Red. I never asked ta be a monster. It was my fathers as made me into this and you know it."
"Would you come to us if I swore an oath of safety?"
"Trust a chary-ka like you ta keep an oath o' peace? You couldn't keep such if ya tried. But I'll stop bein' whole and speak through thought alone if you prefer."
"Stealing my son doesn't make you whole, boy."
"I AM YOUR SON!" Jake's eyes began to cry. "Deny all you like, but we share khef and ka all the same.
"Son of blood and son of soul: put us together an' we be whole. It's a poor father as loves one son and not the other, White Daddy."