“You have such strength, yet you fumble with it like a child.” His mouth pursed in dissatisfaction. “Focus is critical. Tylond, will he scar?”
“If it pleases you,” the healer offered with a hopeful smile.
“It will not.” Bairith took another turn around his captive while Sherakai tried to puzzle out what he meant. Would his escape have succeeded if he’d concentrated harder? Or, considering the question to Tylond, did his comment have something to do with the kathraul’en?
“If I may suggest it, perhaps a scar or two will remind him of his circumstances.”
“You may not. Your task is to keep him whole and beautiful.”
Neither option reassured Sherakai. The healer enjoyed the pain of his patients too much; Bairith’s interest in his physical appearance nauseated him.
“As you wish, my lord.” Tylond inclined his head and spoke sweetly, but his pale eyes hardened to ice.
“Deishi has asked that you repay the insult you gave him, Sherakai.”
Sherakai darted a glance that way. To his credit, Deishi neither raged nor sneered, but waited stoically for the jansu’s judgment.
“You have broken his trust. He has underestimated you.”
“Sir?” Puzzlement colored Deishi’s question.
Bairith made a dismissive motion. “You are older than he, Deishi. You have a superior education and are considerably more experienced, and yet he got the better of you. Commendable, don’t you think?”
Deishi blushed.
“He might have killed you. Instead, he let emotion get in the way.” The mage drew his fingertips along Sherakai’s jaw. Sherakai lowered his lashes and willed himself not to shiver. “What will it be, then? Swords?” Bairith asked, in direct opposition to the softness creeping over his expression.
“That is hardly fair.” Deishi’s sword skills were unquestionably better than Sherakai’s. “An apology is sufficient.”
“Why?”
Deishi wrinkled his brows, as if the answer should be obvious. “He embarrassed me, he didn’t destroy me.”
Bairith spun away from Sherakai, snapping his fingers. “Emotion! Both of you must learn to control your passions. Passion blinds a man. It makes him stupid.”
“The Creator has given us hearts as well as minds. Shall we insult him by favoring one above the other?”
Bairith’s smile revealed satisfaction. “And thus we come to the nub of the matter. The two work better when used together, don’t they?” One hand behind his back at his waist, the fingers of the other waggled as he paced. “Let us imagine for an instant that a mere boy was able to trick his betters and drug a man. He slept through two entire days, only to awaken with the equivalent of a hangover. Headache, vomiting, unbearable dizziness; no doubt you’re familiar with the symptoms.”
Two days? Sherakai lifted his head, eyes wide. I’m so sorry, he mouthed.
Deishi’s perfectly shaped mouth tightened, but he kept it closed.
“Worse,” Bairith went on, “an entire bottle of dzumari—which I believe you favor?—got ruined in the process,” he chided. “What was the first thing that happened when you regained your senses? Did you feel or did you act?”
“I felt.” And then, at a gesture from Bairith to go on, he said, “I was embarrassed. And when I found out the extent of the trick, I felt betrayed and angry.”
“If I have the story straight, you said Sherakai would pay for what he did. Easy, in the heat of the moment, to declare such a thing, isn’t it? Passion rules.”
“While I waited for his return, I had time to think. What he did was wrong, but I would not add to it by committing another error.”
“Mm… So you forgive your attacker. Out of the kindness of your heart.”
“For an apology, yes,” he replied, stiff and stoic. “Is that not mind and heart working together?”
“Is it?” Bairith countered, and held his hand out toward Sherakai. “Did he nearly kill you accidentally—an ignominious way to die—or did he intend to kill you and fail miserably by incorrectly measuring the dose? Will you teach him that he can do what he pleases, and the only cost is an apology?” He twisted the word into the utmost folly.
Deishi did not answer.
Bairith walked back and forth between the pair, stripping first one and then the other down to the bone with his eyes. With magic. Shame followed and, like a worm, it dug about endeavoring to unearth a desire to please. But Bairith had ordered Sherakai not to speak. He clung to that, stubbornly refusing to blurt foolish apologies and excuses.
“What of your heart, Lord Chiro?” Deishi either did not grasp the danger or he let his passion defeat him. His fine eyes glittered in challenge, and Sherakai feared for him. “Your harsh treatment doesn’t hide your love for Sherakai.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, stared at Deishi as if he’d had lost his mind, then lowered his gaze again to the floor. “If this is love, I want nothing of it,” he muttered. Fesh glanced at him, but the others carried on as if they hadn’t heard.
“Do I detect jealousy?” Bairith glided close to Deishi. His aspect lit up like the dawn at the possibility. It was beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful. “Jealousy is a dangerous emotion, for it twines tight with love.”
Fesh inched close to lean against Sherakai’s leg. He touched the knobby head gently in acknowledgment, then pushed him away with his knee. No sense getting the poor beast in trouble for having a heart. Intelligence shone in the creature’s gray eyes. Flopping sideways with a show of indifference, Fesh resumed his silent observation.
“I am not jealous.”
“You crave what he has. And what is that?” the mage pressed.
“Everything,” Tylond put in, breaking his unusual quiet. “What is not to love about our Sherakai? He’s so… moldable. So gifted. Who would not want to claim the future laid out before him?”
“Do you?” Bairith’s words speared the healer, harsh and demanding.
Tylond nodded thoughtfully. “Fame. Fortune. Respect. Power. And you, my master, to support him in all times and in all places. I would stand in for him, yes.” He unfolded his arms to offer both hands, palm up. “Alas, my one small Gift is not enough for the task ahead. Even so, it is yours.”
Teth growled, earning a ringing slap in the ear from Bairith. The creature grunted and shook his head before lowering it, keeping a sideways eye on the jansu.
“What is this task you speak of, Healer Tylond?” Deishi asked. “Why the secrecy? Clearly you want Sherakai and only Sherakai for something. It must be quite particular.”
Tylond gave him a chill smile.
“Have you ever been in a situation where too much information handicapped you?” Bairith pitched his voice just so. It suggested an adult question posed to a child.
“No.”
“Not a single instance in which you were so busy thinking about the outcome that you could not focus on the current moment?”
“No, my lord. Knowing what is to come gives a man the opportunity to prepare for it.”
Honest and straightforward, Sherakai judged, but oblivious to the kind of men he dealt with.
Bairith made a small noise like laughter. Still smiling, he returned his focus to Sherakai. “Would you like to know what lies ahead, little dragon?”
“As you wish, lord.” What Sherakai wanted made no difference whatsoever. He had no say in the destiny Bairith mapped out for him, and no wish to earn another beating.
A feathery curiosity brushed over him. “You are learning,” the mage murmured approvingly. “Still, your recent behavior calls for a tightening of the reins. For both of you.”
“I’m sure we have much to learn.” Deishi didn’t quite manage diffidence.
“Indeed you do.” So sharp was Bairith’s voice that it cut like a whip. Deishi and Sherakai both flinched. “You will have your satisfaction, Master Deishi, in three weeks. I suggest you use the time wisely. You two,” he snapped, flicking his fingers at Fesh and Teth, “take Sherakai
to his new quarters. Get him clean, then bring him to the surgery.”
“Surgery?” Sherakai echoed, perplexed.
“Now, please.”
Already moving to obey, Teth shot Bairith a murderous look, lip curled in a silent snarl the mage did not see. Fesh clicked softly and nudged Sherakai.
“Will I have new quarters as well?” Deishi asked.
“Not now.” Bairith dismissed him with a shooing motion and turned his attention to Tylond. “Can you make him ready?”
The beasts shepherded him out the door and around the corner, Tylond’s self-satisfied reply following.
“Of course, my lord.”
Chapter 3
The beasts took Sherakai to a room in the nether regions of the castle, close to the vaulted practice chamber. To the right of a heavy oak door was a low bed. A single lamp sat on a plain wooden trunk, but there were no rugs to soften the stone floor and no fireplace. Next to the bed stood an empty half barrel. It was a far cry from what he had become accustomed to in the quarters fit for a prince.
“Will you forgive me?” he asked as they stripped his soiled clothes off with typical lack of fuss.
Fesh licked his hand. Sherakai pulled it back with a yelp that made the creature chortle.
“Sorry. And I’m really sorry for what I did to you, locking you up in the dungeon. I’d have brought you with me if I could. If there wasn’t the—the magic tying you to Bairith. I’m sorry he hurt you for what I did.”
Teth might not be cuddly, but frank understanding filled his craggy face.
“You’d have come with me, wouldn’t you?” he whispered.
Teth ignored him and tossed the clothing into the hall. Fesh whined and pawed Sherakai’s arm. Then he waved at the barrel. His elbows knocked the sides when he crouched in it. When the creatures poured tepid water over him, he squeezed his eyes shut. They scrubbed his skin raw with rough brushes and coarse soap. It didn’t smell particularly good but left him considerably cleaner. No oils. No long rub-down.
“This is better,” he said to the pair as they worked and he shivered in the cold.
Fesh poked him in the ribs, disbelieving.
“He was trying to buy me with the other room. Rooms,” he corrected, teeth chattering. “I’m a prisoner, and this is more like a prison. Don’t you think?”
Teth barked, grabbed the youth’s hair to pull his head down, and poured water over it while Fesh scrubbed.
The burlap sack they used to dry him removed another layer of skin, he was certain. From the trunk, Teth withdrew plain workaday garb. First, shapeless small-clothes and wide-legged pants that tied below the knee. Then an undyed woolen shirt that hung halfway down his thighs, and a strip of cloth to serve as a belt.
“How the mighty have fallen, eh? Do I get stockings? Shoes?”
The pair debated. Fesh, always more considerate toward his ward, waved his arms and snapped his fierce teeth. Teth glared at him and stalked to the trunk, where he dug woolen wraps and low leather boots from inside. He flung them at his companion, then sat beside the door with an air of strained patience.
Fesh let Sherakai struggle for a few minutes, then took over the job. In short order, he’d wound the fabric down his lower leg, looped, tucked, and tightened.
“Very nice,” Sherakai allowed, and copied the pattern on his other leg. Boots were easily dealt with, and before long the three were on their way. The word ‘surgery’ conjured images of mangled limbs and gaping wounds. Accidents happened, and he’d seen the results now and then.
He wished he could ask his guards what to expect. No doubt Mage Tylond would be in charge, and that didn’t bode well. “Are they going to hurt me?”
Teth growled again and loped ahead.
They escorted him down a hall from the practice chamber, into an area he’d never encountered. The walls were rough-hewn, but the floor was worn smooth as if by the passage of many feet over a long time. It smelled damp with an undertone of acrid smoke. They passed several doors with barred windows in them. Here and there a shadowed face peered out at them. From one he heard crying. From another, the sounds of a demented soul howling and throwing himself at the barrier.
It did nothing to reassure him. Dread made his skin clammy and his lips dry. “Will you stay with me?” He knew they couldn’t help him escape whatever awaited him.
Gray eyes sorrowful, Fesh huffed a sigh and nudged Sherakai’s hand so that he might rest it on his head as they walked.
They didn’t have far to go.
Teth growled yet again when they approached the open door to a well-lit room, then led the way inside with hackles raised. Oil lamps hung from rings attached to posts. They gave off a murky, pleasant odor. A wooden contraption with glass globes dangled from the ceiling over the table. Whitewashed plaster covered the walls. A raised fireplace kept the chamber warm. All very lovely except for the tools on the wall and shelves filled with questionable-looking bottles. Even the dried herbs hanging from the beams took on a sinister appearance.
“Ah, there you are.” Tylond glanced up as he poured gurgling liquid from an amber flask into a ceramic bowl. “Come. Remove your clothes and sit.” He waved toward a high, slatted bench reinforced with iron bands and stained in patchy black.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have mud in your ears?”
“No.” Neither of the creatures moved to disrobe him. Fesh sat by the bench. Teth stalked around the room, sniffing this and looking at that, snarling. “I am not hurt or sick; why do I need to undress?”
Tylond set the flask aside to search through a wooden box filled with small glass cylinders. “Speaking of hurts, how is your shoulder?”
“Quite fine.”
“Good, good. Will you do as I told you, or do you require help?”
Fesh whined a little, low in his throat. He might not like the healer, but he’d do what he was ordered. Sherakai didn’t dare soothe him for fear of getting him in trouble. They were kind to him—unless they were ordered otherwise, he reasoned. His fingers shook as he unlaced his boots, unwound the wraps, then removed his shirt and pants. He folded the clothes and laid them on the table. When he hoisted himself up, he saw a hole the size of a melon in the middle of the floor with an iron grate set into it. Dark discoloration stained a space around it.
Tylond finished rolling up his sleeves and tying them in place, then brought Sherakai a mug filled with dark liquid. “This should be cooled enough to drink now.”
He accepted it warily. “What will it do to me?”
The healer tipped his face toward the ceiling. One hand lifted, thumb and forefinger pinched together. “When we were in his lordship’s office I thought you’d learned at least a small amount of submissiveness. I must have been mistaken.” He snapped his fingers. Fesh twitched. “As always, you are full of questions, nattering away like a fishwife. You cannot grasp the fact that I’ve had years of training and experience, and I actually know what I’m doing.”
“You may, but I don’t.” He sniffed at the contents. They smelled bitter but not unpalatable.
Tylond folded his arms. “I don’t particularly care if you take it or not, though I guarantee it will make things easier for you.”
Fesh rose to put his crooked hands on the edge of the table. He nudged at the bottom of the mug with his snout and trilled softly.
“I’m going to be sorry if I drink this and sorry if I don’t, aren’t I?”
Tylond gave him a thin smile. “Sometimes you are not as stupid as you look.”
“I cannot say the same about you.” He upended the mug, drinking the brew down as fast as he could. He wondered how well his bravado hid his uneasiness. The aftertaste drew a long, convulsive shudder.
Tylond plucked the vessel from his fingers and returned to his workbench and his concoctions. Whatever the man was up to, he wouldn’t kill Sherakai. The knowledge offered little comfort. The sound of chopping, grinding, and stirring brought a memory of his mother. She had often prepa
red herbal potions to ease a baby’s cough or relieve the pain in Papa’s gimpy knee. Did Tylond ever make such mild remedies? Mama used to hum when she worked. Tylond did not.
A slow warmth grew in Sherakai’s belly and crept through his limbs, weighing him down. Outlines blurred at the edges and acquired a comfortable glow. “Am I getting sleepy?” The slurring of his words appalled him.
“If you are lucky.” Tylond came to peer at him.
Another indistinct face hove into view behind him. “Is he ready?”
“Nearly, my lord. Lie down, boy.”
“D’rather sit up.”
“Anything but cooperate, yes, I am aware.”
Sherakai found himself looking up at the wavering lights overhead. The table was cold against his back.
“Fesh, hold him.”
The creature’s weight on his chest pressed a grunt from him. Sad gray eyes hovered close and warm breath feathered across Sherakai’s face. Bairith and Tylond pulled his wrists and ankles in opposite directions, then buckled thick leather straps around them. They were cold, too. Another strap kept his head still; they cinched it so tight his brains might pour out his ears. Fesh touched his nose to Sherakai’s, then leaped to the floor.
Lazy warmth prevented him from moving, from fighting his way free of the trap and the secrets it promised. “What are you doing to me?”
“His shoulder isn’t going to interfere, is it?”
“No. The straps will hold him still. The beasts, if necessary.”
They fastened a set of bands over his chest and shoulders. Tylond tightened them, grunting with the effort.
“Legs?” Bairith asked
“Of course. We don’t want him lopsided.” Another band went across Sherakai’s hips.
“Please stop,” he begged them. Bairith didn’t intend to kill him, but had he intended to kill Fazare?
“Fesh. Teth. Wait in the hall.” Cool fingers pressed against the side of his neck. “His heart is beating too fast. Did he not drink the tea?”
“He did, my lord. I can apply a spell to calm him.”
Flesh and Bone Page 3