Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  “I dream about dead people. Heartless men stretching my joints until they break. Body parts, usually not attached. Being chased and caught. I’m cold all the time. Sometimes—a few times a week—I dream about beating your head in with a rock. It’s messy. It makes me vomit when I wake from it.”

  If he’d hoped to shock or alarm the healer, he failed. “Mm, I suppose it would. Do your dreams involve killing anyone else?”

  “The jansu. Will you tell him?”

  “Of course.” He listened to his patient’s heartbeat and his breathing, made him swallow several times, and peered into his ears. The magic shifted when he drew upon it.

  “I imagine he knows already.” Sherakai pulled back his sleeve, revealing the tattoo.

  Tylond ignored it. “Lift your shirt.” He inspected the bruises, prodding here and there until he provoked stifled grunts from his patient. “Lie down.” He proceeded to tug Sherakai’s arms and legs, twisting them as he did and pinching his muscles. His ribs received a similar treatment, manipulated firmly—and uncomfortably—beneath his skin.

  “Very well, sit up. Fesh, come hold him,” he ordered finally.

  Trepidation made Sherakai stiffen. “I’m fine. May I go now?” He’d pushed himself halfway up off the cot before Tylond pushed him right back down again.

  “Not likely.”

  Fesh slunk in behind Sherakai, trapping the youth’s arms at his sides. His teeth clicked in quiet agitation.

  Tylond held a cup to Sherakai’s lips.

  “Please don’t—” he got out before the wood banged against his teeth and bitter liquid poured into his mouth. He struggled instinctively. Fesh squeezed. He choked, swallowed, and the deed was done.

  When Tylond turned away to replace the cup, Fesh dabbed moisture from Sherakai’s face. Licking his lips was a mistake. He dragged his tongue over his sleeve to rid himself of the harsh flavor.

  The shader saw and grimaced in disgust. “I shudder to think of the unlearning you have to do. Hold him again,” he instructed Fesh. Placing both hands on Sherakai’s head, he grasped the aro. The room twisted. Eyes narrowed, Tylond worked to repair more of the damage the youth had suffered. The Healing energy, coupled with ribbons of dull black shadows, sliced through Sherakai. It was no more or less than the mage had done since that awful day in the depths of the keep when he’d been strapped to the table and broken. As it had then, it burned something fierce.

  Sherakai bore it as long as he could, then tried to pull away. Fesh held him easily in place.

  “Bare an arm,” Tylond ordered, even more pale than usual. Perspiration gleamed on his face.

  Fesh freed Sherakai to get one arm out of its sleeve. Dread and reaction to the magic had the tonic creeping back up his throat. Tylond merely slipped a metal cuff onto his wrist, then placed his finger on a colorless flat stone held in the center. Magic prickled Sherakai’s skin and flickered around that single digit. Something inside the thing released, touched him. He jerked away but couldn’t escape it.

  Tylond peered at him expectantly. “Tell me when it’s working.”

  Sherakai glared at him and wished he was strong enough—and brave enough—to punch his delicate halfer nose. Were all half elves as horrible as the two he knew? After a moment, he noticed a thread he could only describe as bubbles seeping up his arm. “It’s warm. What is it?”

  “Good.” He straightened and shooed at them before going to his work table. “Now you are dismissed. You’re expected. Your guards know where to take you.”

  Fates forbid that he’d just give him directions. Sherakai slid the armlet up and down, then experimented by lifting it away from his skin. Nothing happened, but the fizziness stopped. “What if I take it off?”

  “You will be unable to carry out your tasks. Lord Chiro will be displeased. I will likely have to heal you again,” he sneered, suggesting another beating.

  Why spend so much effort mending him if they meant to break him again? Tylond liked hurting him but didn’t seem to object to the repairs that required. Bairith hid his pleasure better.

  Mouth turned down, Sherakai got up and straightened his shirt. Fesh wrapped the discarded sash around his waist, then trotted off, eager to be gone. Sherakai paused in the doorway.

  “I died, didn’t I?”

  “Nearly so. You have Lord Chiro to thank for your continued existence.”

  Or Lord Chiro to curse… “It wasn’t a favor.”

  Tylond glanced up. “You’re an astoundingly ungrateful brat.”

  An insulting retort perched on his tongue; he swallowed it down. “Yes, sir,” he said and slipped out after the beasts.

  Teth led the way to the lower regions of the castle while Fesh walked alongside Sherakai. He feared the surgery room again, but Tylond remained behind and he got no sense of dread from Fesh. The familiar route took them to the practice chamber. It was empty but for a single figure executing forms. The nearer they came, the more Sherakai recognized the presence of his would-be master in his veins and under his skin. He scratched. It didn’t help.

  The trio drew to a stop and watched the half elf’s graceful movements. He owed much of that poise to his heritage though elven blood did not assure aptitude with weapons. Or so Sherakai had been told. Bairith wielded two ash training swords as if he’d been born with them in his hands. As smoothly as flowing water, he bent, twisted, slashed, and stabbed. He hated to admit it, but even Tasan had not owned such natural, such perfect strength and grace. Tasan had practiced the Amagari per’la Sujike, the Warrior’s Path; Lord Chiro was the Path.

  These forms differed in subtle ways from what Master Chimoke taught, and again from what Mage Iniki had practiced. He folded an arm across his belly and pressed the opposite hand against his mouth. Crimson on the trampled snow. An expression of surprise. The shock of death staring at him… Variations of the theme haunted his every night. It had grown worse now since the magic Bairith and Tylond had performed. One-eyed Mimeru followed him. “You’ve always been such a beautiful boy.” She sounded far away. “Sweet and honest, brave, curious. You weren’t supposed to let him take that away from you. Why couldn’t you leave the killing to someone else?” Tasan’s blue, blue eyes stared at him mournfully from his decapitated head. “Our House will suffer no shame for your honest endeavors.”

  “Sherakai.”

  He sucked in a breath and took an involuntary step. Bairith stood before him, elegant brows upraised. He extended a sword, hilt first.

  “Is the amulet too much, little dragon?” At his blank look, Bairith cradled both swords in the crook of his arm and touched the armlet under Sherakai’s sleeve. “We’ve placed a spell on it that will slowly feed magic to the spell Tylond laid on you. It should aid your recovery.”

  “That’s all it does?”

  He tipped his head and smiled. “That’s all.”

  Sherakai looked away. Bairith had captured him not once, but three times. The mage could—would—do as he pleased with him. “Is this—” he started, then stopped. “It is fine. Strong, but fine.”

  Bairith regarded him for a long, silent moment, then held out the practice weapon again. “We have work to do to prepare you to face Deishi.”

  He accepted the weapon and turned it in his hands. He’d just risen from his deathbed, and he was to fight? Today? A sigh wafted from him as he imagined his brothers dying the same way. A little at a time, brought back from the brink again and again until they could stand no more of such terrible magic.

  “You’ll begin with forms, then I will test you sword to sword. No doubt it will take a while to overcome the initial clumsiness of your greater height and reach.”

  Confirmation of his suspicions did nothing to ease the crawling horror that had awakened when the beasts first bathed him. His qualms only grew as he went through the motion of living.

  Bairith stepped out into the middle of the sands. In his loose silk pants and tunic decorated with azure and green, he was a peacock with a wren in his wake. He wore well-m
ade, buff-colored boots. The color of bird feet.

  Sherakai chewed on his lip. Sitting himself down, he removed his plain shoes and unwound the wraps. No sense getting sand in them to chafe him. Barefoot, he followed the jansu, the sand cold between his toes. Since when did you care about your appearance? he asked himself. Since always. A petty truth. At home, he had often dressed carelessly, but in fine, comfortable clothes. No one would have mistaken him for a servant. You aren’t a servant, Tanoshi, you’re a slave, a toy for a madman to play with until you’re no good to him anymore.

  “You should not doubt yourself so.” Bairith assumed the opening position of Regami-san Kajima, the Flowing River. It would certainly challenge Sherakai’s fitness. “You have ability born in you. I will give you the strength you need to master it.”

  “Even if it kills me?” He didn’t want affirmation. He didn’t want interaction.

  “It will not.”

  Sherakai refused to let the next question past his lips. Bairith volunteered an answer anyway.

  “In all my years I have seen no other with such potential. I have tested many. You are the only one I have bound to myself. When you falter, my strength will be yours. Soon you will learn how to make all strength your own.”

  The man spoke in riddles and wishes. Sherakai was weak, and he knew it. They all knew it. What was it about that statement that stirred dread within him?

  “Begin.”

  Chapter 6

  Sherakai slept like one of the dead after that. He wished he could stay that way, but Fesh and Teth dragged him out of bed to repeat the process every day. The gruel went away, replaced by hearty meals to help him regain energy, put on weight, and build strength. His single attempt to forego eating bought Fesh a beating. The beast didn’t complain and didn’t stint on his duties though for three days after he listed to the side when he walked.

  Shortly afterward, Tylond took away the armlet. He did not excuse Sherakai from drinking the tonics he prescribed morning and night. The blue tint colored his tongue, he discovered. If he drank the stuff indefinitely, would it turn him completely blue?

  Deishi awaited him in the practice chamber one day. He wore a brigandine, breeches worked with plates of metal, vambraces, and a workaday helm. Arms folded as he stood near the area set up for spectators, he contemplated a sword laying on a bench in front of him.

  Sherakai paused. Live steel? Teth nudged him behind the knee, moving him along to a place at the opposite side of the chamber. A glance around showed not a single person lurking to watch the debacle. He thought it strange, but on second thought decided it would be easier for the jansu if there were no witnesses. Fesh trotted ahead to gather the equipment Sherakai would wear. Deishi glanced their way, his face stern and his brows furrowed. Why? He wasn’t the one that need worry about getting his head removed.

  When Sherakai rubbed his soon-to-be severed throat, Teth thumped his chest hard to get his attention. He pointed two talons at the youth’s eyes, then tapped his own chest. Look at me.

  Surprised at the trust extended, he could only nod.

  Teth motioned again. Following the creature’s emotions helped him understand the gist of what he meant. You are strong. You are fast. Win.

  Then the pair bustled around him, fastening on minimal armor and clapping a helm on his head. Fesh offered a steel sword on outstretched hands.

  He couldn’t thank the beasts for their eager cooperation in getting him geared up. Instead, he let out a harsh breath and tested the weight and balance of the blade. It was sturdy but dull. Typical for work in the ring.

  “You are looking fit and well-rested.”

  He had not seen Bairith approach, and worry for his life—no, for the pain that would come when it ended—had kept him from noticing the shift in the link. He scratched the tattoo hiding beneath his sleeve but didn’t reply. What could he say? Thank you, I’m grateful this will finally be over.

  Bairith put both hands on Sherakai’s shoulders. “You’ve recovered your strength well. The magic has been in every way successful. Do not doubt it. Do not doubt yourself. Deishi has greater skill and practice, but you fight in a different manner. Use it to your advantage. Use everything to your advantage, do you understand?”

  Sherakai’s jaw knotted.

  The mage’s sea-blue eyes glittered bright as chips of glass, the will behind them demanding and insistent. Bairith clapped his shoulders once, then turned him toward the ring. Deishi walked across the sand to take up position. His gut in his throat, Sherakai shifted the sword until it fit comfortably. Make it quick, Deishi.

  Bairith made a sweeping motion with one hand. “I offer my apologies that it took so long to answer your request, Deishi dan Arunakun. In the next moments, you will have your satisfaction, or Sherakai dan Tameko will prove his choice. Begin.”

  The jansu mocked foolish traditions, but he made use of this one quick enough. Proving whether or not one was in the right by the strength of their sword was, in Sherakai’s opinion, about as foolish a tradition as one could ask for. He wrinkled his mouth and approached Deishi. The two beasts trotted after him, then circled wide around the pair, hemming them in. Deishi shot them a glance, then returned his attention to Sherakai.

  “We need not do this,” Deishi offered.

  With his blade, Sherakai gestured to Teth. “We do.”

  “What will they do? Bite me if I don’t cut you?”

  “Probably worse. Just get on with it.”

  Deishi shifted sideways in a loose circle. When he attacked, he drove in with a series of overhand strikes aimed at Sherakai’s head. Sherakai brought his sword up in both hands, parrying with Puku-o dir’lo Degai—Birds in the Air. He wanted to focus on the forms, on the answers they provided, but Deishi moved like the wind. He slipped this way and that, forcing Sherakai to abandon the familiar patterns. Nothing had changed since the days they’d sparred under Iniki dan Sorehi’s eye.

  Deishi delivered a stinging blow to Sherakai’s arm with the flat of his blade. Sherakai drew back, smarting. Deishi followed, expertly pushing the advantage while Sherakai struggled to keep up. The clash of metal hurt his ears. Fear danced up and down his nerves. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to live, not as Bairith’s creature.

  “Mind your feet, gods curse you!”

  “I don’t care about my feet.” His sword shivered under a vicious blow. His arms trembled in response. “You can win this easily. Make it clean. That’s all I want.”

  “What are you asking?” Disbelief shaped the fine brows.

  “You are so much better at this than I am. Just promise me you’ll get away from here. Forever.”

  Anger sparked through Deishi’s aura. The tip of his sword circled once, twice. It sliced the sleeves of Sherakai’s shirt to ribbons, scoring the flesh beneath.

  It burned, and he cried out. “Do it!” he demanded. Begged.

  The sword nipped at Sherakai’s, down then out. Sherakai’s weapon flew end over end to thump into the sand a good twenty feet away.

  The blow contorted his wrist, and he clutched it against him. Touching his fingers to his neck, they came away bloody. He was not prepared for the fist that slammed into his chin, laying him out flat. He should have been. It had happened often enough in the past. A knee on his chest drew a grunt. Cold steel kissed his throat, and he squinted to bring Deishi’s furious face into focus.

  “I am not going to kill you, gajin,” Deishi said with a growl. Fool. It was true. He’d been a fool to hope for an easy end. “I’m no murderer.”

  “But I am.” It broke his heart to say the words out loud. His own desperate desire for freedom aside, he would do—had done—anything to save his sister’s life.

  Something cool and dry touched his forehead, carrying the scent of leather and linseed oil. The weight of surprise and regret. From the corner of his eye he caught a flicker of motion where he knew there could be nothing. Whatever the source, it was not Deishi. Sherakai didn’t have time to wonder. The blade tast
ed his blood again, pricking a little deeper.

  “You killed Master Iniki?”

  Bairith’s voice, carried by the power of his magic, cut in. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Yes.” Guilt and remorse clogged Sherakai’s throat. “And the stable hand.”

  “You,” Deishi repeated, dumfounded. “Why?”

  “For Mimeru. And the jansu murdered her anyway. He had her shot. In the eye.” It was hard to breathe through that memory, no matter how many times the scene played through his head. “Please, Deishi…”

  The young lord stared at him for an interminable moment, then got to his feet. The point of his sword pressed against Sherakai’s throat, wavered, then drifted away.

  “I have my satisfaction,” he told the mage flatly.

  “I do not.” While the two of them spoke Bairith had approached and stood holding a bamboo switch, ice in his eyes. “Your satisfaction is a few drops of blood? What is that? Weakness.”

  “There was no point in killing him over an imagined insult.”

  Bairith’s frigid voice slashed through the silence. “Perhaps I should kill you for your fickleness.”

  “You want him dead?” Deishi held out his sword. “Do it yourself.”

  “You misunderstand the exercise.” He made a brushing motion. “Leave us.”

  Deishi had no choice but to submit to a command laden with magic. His face and his posture betraying his angry disapproval, he strode from the practice chamber.

  “Fesh. Remove his armor.”

  The creature hastened to Sherakai’s side. As the leather came off, he checked his charge for serious wounds, clicking his teeth and growling softly.

  “Put it away. Both of you wait at the door until I am finished here.”

  Fesh looked back and forth between them, then loped away. Fierce Teth joined him by the benches. They both waited, stiff and prickly with apprehension.

  As Sherakai peeled up a scrap of his sleeve to see the damage, Bairith’s rod lashed him repeatedly. Instinctively, his arms lifted to protect his head. He reeled away in shock as the blows continued to fall across his back and shoulders, searing as they left crimson welts. The mage didn’t stop until the youth had fallen to his knees, sobbing in agony.