Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  “When I tell you to do something, you will listen and you will obey.” The edge in his tone hurt as much as the cane, lacerating Sherakai’s battered senses. The assault left him gasping and shivering. “When I tell you to use every advantage, do not pretend you are stupid and forget to use your greatest weapon. You are a mage, boy. Remember it. Use it.” Tossing the switch away, he stalked toward the exit. “Get him out of my sight. Take him to his cell.”

  Chapter 7

  Sherakai guessed he’d been in the cramped cell for at least two weeks, if not longer. Food—good food—continued to arrive for the duration and he was grateful for that small fortune. The cold seeped so deep into his bones that, after a time, he had stopped shivering. The constant ache never left. When he slept, nightmares woke him, drenching him in sweat that made the cold more bitter. Iniki’s blood painted him in a red the darkness of the Hole could not hide, and he could not wash away no matter how he tried. All the while, the Air mage recited an endless lecture in a distant, cold voice. Sherakai did not understand the language. The stable hand he’d killed took his turn, too. His dying breaths cut through Sherakai’s soul. The accusing look in his eyes followed him everywhere. And then there were the kathraul’en…

  At last, he stood at the edge of the rug in Bairith’s office. He thought it contrary to nature that the fire’s warmth should make him shiver all over again. He hunched with his hands tucked into his armpits, gaze to the floor, teeth clenched.

  It took a long time to thaw. The melting ice in his blood should have left a puddle beneath him, but the tiles remained dry. Slowly, slowly, the tension in his back and shoulders eased. He wouldn’t let it go completely, but focused on every breath, every rustle of fabric as Bairith shifted, lest the mage creep up on him unaware. When he rose from his desk, Sherakai stiffened. Bairith stopped in front of him and lifted one hand.

  Sherakai’s head twitched aside, expecting a blow, but the touch that came was the gentlest of caresses. Bairith smoothed the youth’s hair, then fingertips sought his chin to urge it up.

  “Look at me,” he murmured.

  Sherakai resisted, even as his frail composure frayed.

  “Look.” Insistent and compelling.

  He flicked a glance up at the sea-blue eyes, then away again.

  Bairith sighed and put his arms around Sherakai’s shoulders. “My dear boy. It gives me no pleasure to see you like this. You must know how it breaks my heart that you struggle so to learn obedience. You have a strong will, Sherakai. That is a good thing, but it needs focus and direction.”

  Sherakai made no move to either return the embrace or escape it. He didn’t think Bairith had a heart to break, but he didn’t care. Apathy—was that what he bore? No, there was more. Fear and dread embroidered the edges of his senses.

  Bairith stepped back to take Sherakai’s face in his hands. The youth refused to look any higher than the half elf’s mouth, which dipped downward at the corners. “I beg you not to make me continue to punish you. Bend your will to mine, like son to sire—We are not so far apart, you and I.”

  He used his Voice. Sherakai followed its course as it passed through his skin to sink into muscle, bone, and blood. It shimmered a little here, dimmed there as if it couldn’t decide whether to be light or shadow. It molded his will, inclined him toward his captor in mind, but not in heart. It couldn’t touch his heart…

  He let Bairith press his head down to rest against his shoulder. Let the mage hold him and rub his back as though it would bring comfort. Let the scent of his clean perfume seep into clothes and into skin. He did not return the affection and said nothing. Neither of them moved until a light tap came on the door. A servant carried in a tray with cups and a pot of brewed chicory root.

  Unresisting, Sherakai suffered Bairith to lead him to one of the low couches drawn up to either side of the fireplace. The servant prepared a cup for each of them, then slipped out of the room. Sherakai held the drink in both hands with the too-long handle pointing away from him. The scent of the brew wafted on the steam. Bitter with a hint of underlying sweet, the rich calm of a dollop of cream. The quiet beauty appealed to him.

  “Drink,” Bairith suggested.

  He did as he was told. The warmth and the flavor slipped down his throat to curl in his belly. This one thing is mine, he thought. I can find comfort in simple things. And when there is nothing, then I will remember this. Aishe’s flaxen mane flowing in his face as they sped over the hills. Making straw dollies for his little sister. The weightlessness of flying off the cliff into the water of the Starglass. The way sunlight shone through spring leaves.

  “You are far away.”

  He lifted his gaze to regard Bairith’s countenance. Not his eyes, no. He didn’t understand why or what it was, but danger lurked there. Deliberately, he thought about rain pattering on Tanoshi’s stable roof, and the dusty, sweet scent of hay.

  “You are comfortable.” When he said nothing, Bairith stroked the back of Sherakai’s head, drawing his hair out over his neck. “We will start in the practice chamber tomorrow morning. Unless you have objections?”

  He recognized the question for a challenge. He tipped his cup a little. The tiny bubbles from the cream around the edges lingered for a moment before sliding down to meet the liquid again.

  Bairith relaxed against the couch. The pair sipped their warm drinks while the fire danced and crackled, oblivious to anything but its own life. When he finished, the mage went to a bookshelf and withdrew a tome bound in nut-brown leather. “Are you familiar with the discourses of the scholar Yousrin Sahamis? He wrote in depth on the relationship of one sphere of magic to the other.”

  Opening the book, he drifted back to stand by the fire, turning the pages to the light. When he began reading, it was in Suminian. Sherakai recognized some words, but not all. The mage clearly didn’t want to waste time. How many lessons here? Language, magic, companionship, the link…

  The tattoo beneath his shirt sleeve itched. Setting his empty cup on the tray, he clamped his hands together and listened. He’d always loved books, and the vastness of information they contained thrilled him. It wasn’t a punishment to learn now, although Bairith proved a formidable tutor. Sherakai would happily read until his eyes bled, and answer questions until he couldn’t remember his own name rather than attend lessons in arms.

  Regretfully, book studying was only a minor part of his education…

  “Begin.”

  Sherakai regarded Bairith with resignation but did not lift the staff he’d been given. The practice chamber seemed different now. Iniki dan Sorehi’s larger-than-life presence no longer filled it. Did his spirit linger? If Bairith had left his own wife lying in the road, what reason did he have for tending to a hireling? If the dead did not have the Final Rites performed for them, would they forever wander this world? He received a smart blow to his shoulder for his disobedience.

  “Let go of your imagined hurts,” the mage instructed. “Let go of all that used to be. You are a new thing, Sherakai. Be it with all your will.”

  He said nothing. He tossed the staff to the sand and braced himself for today’s beating. Bairith’s staff slammed across his shoulders, driving him to the ground with a grunt of pain. Though he might appear ethereal, the half elf could deliver a powerful punch. He had no qualms about using it, either. For eight days in a row, Fesh and Teth had brought Sherakai to the ring. For eight days in a row, he’d refused to fight. He had bruises and cuts to show for it, and a new respect for Bairith’s knowledge and expertise. The jansu knew how to beat a man without breaking a single bone.

  He needn’t cover his face. Bairith wouldn’t knock out his teeth or crush his nose. A black eye was a different story. Sherakai had two twice over. On his knees, he put his hands on his thighs and waited. He had yet to find a way to will himself into unconsciousness.

  Bairith hefted the staff and walked once around the downed youth. “I brought you here to teach you, little dragon.” Delicate fingers tapped one at
a time along Sherakai’s shoulder. Like a bug waving its limbs before settling on its direction down his spine. “I thought myself patient before your arrival. Surely I qualify to be counted among Alshan’s beloved saints now. As you might. I have never met a man so willing to die before he will surrender. It is a puzzle.”

  In silence, Sherakai repeated the meditations he’d had to memorize when he was younger, one after the other. If he got through all of them, he’d start again at the beginning. In eight days, he hadn’t yet made it past the fourth.

  The mage’s touch shifted to Sherakai’s hair. He played with it a little, combing out the strands and letting them fall again. “It’s growing. I like it longer. The weight of it pulls out those tiresome waves.”

  His mother’s hair was wavy and tended to curl on the ends. What were the words of the Second Meditation? I am strong. I am enough. Despair did him no good, but determination did. Maybe.

  “I have considered long and hard about how to persuade you out of your despondency. I am embarrassed not to have thought of the answer before, though when the idea first came to me I set it aside as too extreme.” Bairith tipped Sherakai’s face upward. “And yet you continue to push me to extremes, Sherakai. Why?”

  He had no reply that would satisfy the mage, so he gave nothing.

  Bairith motioned to two figures standing near an exit. One was a soldier in armor and leather, the other a youthful servant under the direction of the master armorer. The servant waited for the master’s attention with eyes downcast. The soldier pushed the youth out onto the sand. “You will resume your training,” Bairith said. “With no stinting on your part—or that boy will die.”

  “You’d kill him because you’re upset with me?” he blurted, appalled. “No.”

  Bairith lifted his hand.

  “No!” Sherakai cried, daring to grab the jansu’s arm and pull it down. His heart pounded in his ears. The guard didn’t move.

  “Your cooperation is crucial, boy. Will you give up your foolish resistance?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, defeat settling on his bruised shoulders like a yoke made of lead. Where were the gods? Did they mean to strip away everything he believed in? Everything important to him?

  Brows drawn, Bairith considered him, probing through the link with the magic. With a dismissive motion toward the soldier, he moved a short distance to assume a ready position. “Pick up your weapon.”

  Chapter 8

  Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the library windows, defying the pervasive shadows. Pale motes shimmered in the bright shafts. Dust and polish, leather and parchment perfumed the room. The diamond leading crosshatched the pages of the open book in front of Sherakai. This part of his education came as no hardship. He would have enjoyed talking to the librarian, but the books he was required to read were always placed on the same table, awaiting his perusal. Now and then he fantasized about rearranging all the books, but this was a library, and the keeper of the books was not responsible for Sherakai’s solitude.

  Sometimes he heard voices down hallways, laughter or singing. He’d pause to listen, but Fesh and Teth didn’t let him linger long. After a time, he concluded that he either lived in a ghost castle, or Bairith had deliberated arranged to isolate him.

  The beasts and his books provided the only company he enjoyed.

  He had always liked to read about other places and people, languages, and customs. The subjects of geography and government had once bored him, but they were now elevated to things that kept him out of the practice chamber. They protected him from the necessity of learning offensive and defensive tactics. True, a good number of the books analyzed battle strategies. He couldn’t avoid that facet of his life. Bairith drilled the details into his head by challenging him with war games played out on various maps. But reading absorbed his attention. Reading warded off emotion. Reading provided an escape.

  It didn’t completely shut off awareness of the world around him. Not anymore. The door opened and closed, putting an end to his solitude. A mild resentment floated through him, chased by a cool draft through the room. Boot heels tapped on the glorious polished wooden floor, paused, then continued. The resentment grew when the steps turned toward Sherakai but faded just as quickly. It was a useless emotion. Resignation replaced it.

  The chair across from him scraped as the intruder pulled it out and sat. Folded arms leaned on the table. Sherakai lifted his attention from the book to face Deishi dan Arunakun. Finely arched brows tugged together as if he were puzzled. Sherakai cataloged the man’s warm amber aura, the way he moved, each feature. One day—soon, no doubt—he would pluck the memory out to turn it over in his mind. A simple thing for when there was nothing.

  “I haven’t seen you in some time,” Deishi said. Not since we fought.

  “That is true.”

  “The jansu has me practicing in the afternoon now.” His smile was crooked. “I came from there a bit ago. It’s not the same without Mage Iniki.”

  “No.” Familiar nausea wallowed around in his belly. He didn’t need to close his eyes to remember the spray of red over the snow. It was always there, one unexpected word away. The embroidery on Deishi’s sleeves made a nice distraction. Auburn foxes and green ribbon chased across ivory fabric. The obvious disparity in their clothing didn’t stir him. It was a pretty thing to savor.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” His voice trailed into silence.

  Sherakai didn’t help him finish.

  One of the beasts shifted, the sound the softest of rustles, to remind them both that they were not alone.

  Deishi blew a slow breath. “I am not angry with you, you know.”

  In the general scheme of things, Deishi’s approval or disapproval mattered not a whit. Still, his forgiveness comforted Sherakai. It, too, was a simple thing.

  “I was for a few days.” He shrugged, the earlier smile only a ghost. “I had a dreadful headache. You drugged me. I might have helped.”

  Sherakai shifted his gaze to the book. With one thumb he rubbed the sloped corner of stacked pages. “I couldn’t ask that.”

  “Why not?” Blunt and curious, but not accusing.

  Sherakai wound that into the Deishi memory and hoped it would stay there. “It would not be fair to involve you. I thought you would be safe. I am sorry I failed.”

  Deishi leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs, arms folded.

  Sherakai moved his feet out of the way, hooking his ankles around the legs of his chair.

  “Because you can’t trust me?”

  “Because I can’t trust him.”

  “Perhaps I can choose my battles for myself.”

  “This is not your battle, Deishi.”

  “It is if we are friends.”

  He held himself still, letting the words echo. He could treasure those, too. “Thank you,” he said at last. “It is a valuable gift, but I must decline.”

  “I can’t be your friend, or the other way around?”

  Sherakai frowned. “Friendship is a—partnership. I can offer nothing in return but confusion and grief.”

  Deishi grunted and unfolded his arms to drum fingers on the table top, irritation beginning to seep into his countenance. “I’m sure there will come a time when our places will be reversed. Friends help each other up and help each other out.”

  Deishi did not understand the severity of the situation. “If you are my friend, then I have a favor to request.”

  “Ask.”

  “Leave,” he said, tucking his elbows against his sides and leaning forward. “Leave the Gates and never come back.”

  Deishi stiffened, startled and angry. “If you are in trouble—and you clearly are—how can you suggest that?”

  “Because you are a good man. The jansu will turn you inside out, strip away your soul, and then leave you squirming on the ground.”

  His mouth turned down. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Fine, then take care of yourself in another place. Another co
untry, if you can get that far.” He sat back again.

  Deishi resumed his drumming. “You are serious.”

  “I can afford to be nothing else. When I would not bow to his will, he threatened to kill an innocent boy. He is not given to idle promises, Deishi. Does that do anymore to convince you how dangerous he is? Do not forget my brothers and their companions, my sister, and the troop assigned to escort me to Kelamara. More than twenty lives lost, Deishi. Do you really think he would hesitate to put a blade through your chest if it served him?”

  “It wouldn’t be easy for him.” Deishi could say such a thing without bragging.

  “He is a powerful mage. He can make you stab yourself with your fine sword, or he can compel you to run me through. And he can do it while you’re conscious and completely unable to resist.” A doubtful expression met his assertion. Sherakai sighed. Destroying this budding friendship was preferable to seeing Deishi slaughtered. “I am a Spirit mage, too. He brought you here so I would have an equal to practice on. Slaves and soldiers were not… suitable.”

  Would the gods forgive him for leaving out the fact that it was his idea? He massaged the bridge of his nose. “I requested you. Well, not you in particular. I needed to master certain aspects of my Gift so I could use them to escape.”

  “With no concern for your victim?”

  “Of course I was concerned. But I didn’t know—I didn’t realize—” He pressed his lips together, then forged ahead. “I didn’t realize the depth of my own ignorance. He forced me to make you hurt yourself.”

  Deishi’s hand went instinctively to his thigh and his eyes widened. “Forced you?” he echoed, disbelief competing with dismay. Sudden comprehension dawned. “He threatened your sister, didn’t he?”