Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  Pressed low into the corner to avoid the ceiling, he hugged himself against the chill. “There are things the jansu cannot know,” he guessed. “Because then he would—What would he do?”

  "He has his own part to play."

  “And I must submit to him to become—broad and solid?” He was fairly certain the advice had little to do with the surgeries Bairith and Tylond had performed on him.

  "You must endure."

  Enduring and submitting were not the same thing, but the simple plans he’d once harbored crumbled further every day. Sherakai rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What is the first key?”

  "Strength of heart and mind."

  “You’re joking…”

  "It is what I am given." He tipped his head, amusement writ clear in his features.

  “But you don’t believe it, do you?” He was talking to a spirit, to the remains of a man who had repeatedly driven him beyond his endurance and then asked for more. Why did it matter what opinion dead Iniki held?

  "Persistence and determination can be useful tools."

  Which was neither agreeing nor disagreeing, to Sherakai’s way of thinking. “What is the second key?” The key that would help him survive imprisonment and transformation.

  Iniki remained still for so long that Sherakai thought he would not answer. Then, "I cannot tell you what it is, but I can tell you that it will come into your hands more than once."

  “How will I recognize it?”

  "You may not."

  Great. His cheeks puffed with a gusting sigh.

  “You’re not being very helpful. Can you tell me about the watchmen?”

  "I can. The Watchmen are an ancient order of mages. They hunt the world in search of those able to control all aspects of the aro. They are skilled in reading the signs and portents.”

  “You said they would mistake the truth. What did you mean?”

  "You are marked."

  Another evasive answer. Were all spirits so exasperating? “Marked for what, Mage Iniki?”

  "A great task."

  “Is there any way I can get out of this—this fate? I don’t want to do it. I don’t even know what it is.” That made him angry. Spirits or gods, how could they push him around and expect his blind cooperation? “Tell me what it is!”

  Iniki faced the low door. "Release me, Sherakai. He comes."

  “No. Tell me what I’m supposed to do. Tell me how any of this makes sense!”

  The spirit’s gaze raked him, burned him. "Release me or we will fail. We will all fail."

  Sherakai’s hands curled into fists. Doubt assailed him. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe any of this. What proof is there that you’re not just an illusion, a hallucination?”

  "Yours is a true Gift. See for yourself. "

  “What does that even mean?” he cried.

  A muffled order came from the other side of the door. Keys rattled, then one fitted into the lock.

  "It is not a shard, as most are. As mine is. You will either claim it or it will claim you."

  He shook his head, disbelieving, yet haunted. “Captain Nayuri said the same thing about it being a true Gift, and that woman used those exact words. How could you know that?”

  "Indeed." He held the palm of his hand out toward the door, and every ounce of air surged to hold it closed. The thickness of the iron panel muted the sound of swearing in the corridor.

  Sherakai gasped for breath that did not come. Stars danced in his his peripheral vision. Iniki regarded him with terrifying fierceness.

  "Every moment you hesitate will become Bairith Mindar’s victory, boy."

  In the end, it was a single word that decided him. The spirit became Sherakai’s familiar teacher and tormentor, mentor, enemy… and friend. Boy. He’d only ever used it when his student disappointed him, but now it held the weight of encouragement. The tiniest flick of the spirit’s fingers gave him air to breathe.

  “I release you, Iniki dan Sorehi,” he rasped. Saying the words filled him with the certainty that he would never see Iniki again. “Wait!”

  Bright torchlight replaced pale blue as the door crashed open.

  “Where is he?” Lord Chiro demanded, fury icing each word.

  “Gone. He’s gone…” He blinked at the light spilling in through the doorway, at the pain of loss. Don’t cry. Never cry, he reminded himself, drawing a forearm across his face.

  “Come.” Like an order to a dog.

  When he hesitated, scar-faced Hamrin ducked inside the cell. The man hauled him out roughly and shoved him to his knees before the jansu. Sherakai braced for a beating.

  Instead, Bairith studied him with narrowed eyes and a probing intensity. “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing.” He sighed. That kind of brevity wasn’t enough of an answer, however truthful. “That there were things he couldn’t tell me. The first key is strength of mind and heart. I am stubborn.”

  Bairith snorted. “Why did you release him? You know I had not finished with him, and there was clearly more you could have asked him yourself, had you kept your wits about you.”

  Staring at the jansu’s knees, he couldn’t help but notice how the mage swayed slightly, as if weak or dizzy. Had Iniki done that to him? “He sucked the air out of the cell.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I’d have died.” He did not like dying. “If I died, the compulsion would have been severed anyway.” He guessed at that; had no proof.

  “Mm.” The sound carried the distinct flavor of displeasure.

  Sherakai remained in place, silent. Silence did not prevent the jansu’s use of magic. The link throbbed with the desperate desire to tell Bairith anything and everything he knew, understood, or speculated. He could not, must not tell him what Iniki dan Sorehi had said, lest the jansu somehow profit from it. Moreover, he couldn’t give away the fact that he was trying to hide something. He’d succeeded before when he’d escaped the Gates; he could do it again now.

  With no time to consider his choices, he focused on an image of his father sitting across the is’fidri board. Wrong! he thought, too late.

  “You think this is a game?”

  “I think I preferred simple games with my father to whatever it is you and the spirits and whoever it is you’re battling are doing with me.” He had nothing new to offer, so he kept his mouth shut despite the effort it required.

  Logic suggested that Bairith would ferret out his emotions. Twist them until he experienced every one as if for the first time. Logic did not explain the sensation of having his nerves pulled out like weeds in a garden. With every breath he expected disaster.

  Hamrin leaned against the wall, arms folded, a lantern at his feet. Three guards stood a short distance away, still and quiet as if they’d been carved of wood. Light gleamed from their eyes. The scent of burning oil hung in the air.

  Sherakai could not escape the conviction that he was being used: by Bairith, by the spirits, by the very gods. How did one fight foes like that?

  Don’t cry. Don’t ever cry.

  Bairith gripped Sherakai’s chin and lifted his face to the light. Sea blue eyes shone with an eerie determination hard to endure. “He lied to you and betrayed you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Iniki could have told you how to succeed, how to overcome the fears that are your enemy. He could have told you how to accomplish what you require in the swiftest way. And without wasting the lives of those you claim to care about. Oh, he put on a good show of friendship and protectiveness—”

  “Against you.” A rash accusation.

  “—voicing threats he could not keep. And tell me, little dragon, why you would need protecting from me? I have loved you. I have fed and clothed you Healed you when you are ill and wounded. Taught you how to be swift and strong, how to endure. I have challenged you to excel, and I have opened to you the path to your true Gift.”

  There it was again…

  “What is a true Gift?” he asked.
>
  “It is the ability to manipulate all the threads of aro. To be an aziri, a prime, a true king over men and magic.”

  That did not quite square with what Iniki had told him. And Bairith had said a spirit might attempt to mislead but had to tell the truth. Perhaps the shards Iniki had mentioned were like the separate strands of a rope, and ordinary mages only had access to some of the strands.

  “Men are jealous of you, Sherakai. They always will be. You are special—they will want what you have, and they will do anything to get it. When they cannot take it, they will lie and deceive. They will lead you astray. They will try to demean you. They will try to use you for their own gain.”

  Sherakai’s mouth tightened. He focused on the jansu’s far-too-perfect nose lest resentment for the irony get the better of him.

  “Do you see, my son?” Bairith’s voice stroked his senses, softer than down.

  Still held captive, he gave the barest of nods. “I do see, lord,” he breathed.

  The mage released him and offered a hand to help Sherakai to his feet. “You must protect yourself. Always.”

  “How?”

  One hand on Sherakai’s shoulder, the jansu walked up the corridor. “Physically. Magically. Emotionally. It is my purpose, my deepest wish, to teach you.” As they passed, the guards fell in behind them. There was no sign of Fesh or Teth. “Every lesson, every test I ask of you is designed to make you stronger. You must be strong to endure the world you will face.”

  “I am stronger now.” Doubt wrinkled his brows. After all he’d been through, he should be. “Am I not?”

  “Indeed you are. I am most pleased with your progress.” The mage caressed Sherakai’s hair where it fell over his collar.

  Like a traitor, his heart swelled with pride. He leaned into the stroke, caught himself and straightened—but not before Bairith sent a little sideways smile his direction.

  Chapter 16

  Lord Chiro stood at Sherakai’s elbow. Across the sands, Deishi performed the steps of the Warrior’s Path, warming up for their rematch. Perfectly fit, it was clear he’d been practicing. Hard, from the looks of it. Why, why was he still at the Gates? Sherakai had not seen him in a long while, months perhaps. He could not keep track of passing time.

  With a grimace, he wiped his face on what little showed of his sleeve. He was already quite warm. Bairith had made sure of that.

  “You are ready now. You will defeat him.”

  He was not so certain. Deishi might not have the advantage of size and reach anymore, but he was more experienced and had a natural knack for a pursuit Sherakai loathed. “Yes, lord.”

  “Permanently.”

  The chamber tipped a fraction. “What?”

  “He is your enemy. Kill him.”

  How could anyone say such terrible words with such dispassion?

  Cool fingers turned Sherakai’s head and their eyes met. “Deishi dan Arunakun is accustomed to getting what he wants. He cannot have you; he cannot have what you are, or what you will become.”

  “He does not have me,” he ventured, disbelieving. He forced his focus to move a fraction, away from an appetite Sherakai could not yet name, though it became more familiar day by day. Coal black eyelashes were a minimally safer foal point, and not so obvious as looking away.

  “Young Deishi is wealthy, gifted, talented, and capable—on or off the field. He is intelligent and quick-thinking. He is motivated. Why, after all, should he settle for being a younger son when he might have so much more?”

  Deishi was indeed all of those things, and Sherakai envied him. Envied his easy, graceful manner, his natural charm. His freedom. He could leave this place and carve out the life he wished. “I do not stand in his way.”

  “Oh, but you do. You are in an exceptional position, with exceptional skills. He wants them and they will never be his while you still breathe.”

  “He is my friend,” Sherakai protested. Deishi had always been kind to him, even after the debacle of his attempted escape. Across the arena, a servant stepped forward to help the young lord into his armor. It was boiled leather, much the same as what Sherakai wore, with spaulders to protect their shoulders, and forearm guards. For their thighs they had the many-layered juta, reinforced with strips of steel and covered with leather. No helms.

  So many opportunities for damage…

  “He is my friend,” he repeated in a whisper, wondering how the pair of them could get out of this mess.

  “He is not.” A flush of color brushed Bairith’s cheeks. Anger leaped through the link. “You are thinking with your heart again. Your heart cannot win. At this very moment he schemes to betray us. Practice,” the mage went on, “skill, logic, and magic. Those are your weapons. That is where your heart belongs, little dragon, and with that we will triumph.”

  Sherakai frowned as Bairith moved toward the spectator benches where he would have an unrestricted view. His heart, illogical thing that it was, felt tugged in two directions. Surely the mage manipulated the link between them.

  “Take your marks,” Bairith called out.

  A servant boy handed Deishi a sword then hurried away, head down.

  Hamrin tapped Sherakai’s shoulder and held out the youth’s weapon. Naked and cold, it glittered in the lights surrounding the arena. “Use yair heed,” he growled in his atrocious accent, and Sherakai had to focus to understand. “He will. Hees backhond’s weakest”—And still stronger than most—“anny can’t switch honds fast as ye.”

  Advice from Hamrin shocked him as much as the cool grip against his palm. “I’m not really to kill him, am I?”

  Hamrin wrapped his hand around Sherakai’s where it held the hilt and he squeezed hard. “Swordplay, not wordplay.” He let go with a shove and walked away to stand next to the jansu, arms folded and face unreadable. Beside him, Bairith’s reverent expression was disconcerting.

  “Tanoshi,” Deishi greeted, cool as well water.

  A chill coursed through him. “Deishi.” He inclined his head, speaking low. “He wants me to kill you. How are we to get out of this?”

  “I plan on getting out alive.” Steely resolve robbed his voice and eyes of their familiar warmth. “Unfortunate for you, I daresay.”

  “You’d kill me?” Sherakai blinked in astonishment.

  It gave Deishi the advantage.

  Sherakai lifted his weapon and flinched aside, but not before receiving a cut across his shoulder. Deishi spun and kicked high, following with a slash of a knife that appeared in his off hand.

  Sherakai stumbled backward, overbalanced, and went down.

  Deishi pounced. Sherakai fought from his back, the jangle of sword on sword crashing against his ears. His position was untenable. He tossed a handful of sand, but Deishi expected it and threw an arm up to protect his eyes. He didn’t expect the sensation of panic Sherakai hurled at him.

  He retreated.

  Sherakai scrambled up and sped after him, intent on taking him down before either of them were hurt. “You don’t have to do this, Deishi.”

  Deishi got his sword up before he was struck. Weapons flashed, fast and hard. “Do you think a scrawny child like you can win against me? This is no game, fool.” He punched with his knife hand.

  The blow grazed Sherakai’s jaw as he pulled a fraction of an inch out of harm’s way. Grabbing Deishi’s wrist, he slammed a knee into his gut even as he gave a violent twist to his arm.

  A grunt punctuated the brief pause. Pain sizzled through Deishi’s aura. Sherakai shoved harder, forcing his friend down to the sand. “Stop. Please,” he begged.

  From the benches Hamrin yelled at them, sharing advice equally between the combatants.

  Deishi growled and twisted, dropping the rest of the way to the ground and rolling to kick at Sherakai’s legs, hard. Solidly braced, it hurt, but didn’t unbalance him. Water flooded across Sherakai’s face, suffocating him. Making him angry. He’d let Deishi’s baffling attitude distract him. He struck blindly with his sword, a two-handed blow.
The water disappeared, and he gasped air. Licked moisture from his lips. Droplets on his lashes distorted his vision and he dashed them away with one hand. Crimson stained a gaping split in Deishi’s leather armor. Horrified, Sherakai took staggering steps backward “Stars, I’m so sorry—”

  Movement preceded a sharp stab of agony in his right shoulder between the body armor and the shoulder protection. Deishi’s thrown knife stuck deep, though how he’d mustered the strength for it, Sherakai didn’t know, unless the cursed jansu had laid some awful compulsion on him. His sword slid from nerveless fingers.

  Blood marred Deishi’s bared teeth. Still, he struggled to his feet. Breath ragged, he gathered his senses and stepped forward again.

  “Enough!” Sherakai cried.

  Deishi spat and lifted his blade.

  Sherakai feinted and danced sideways. Shoving his toes hard into the sand beneath his fallen weapon, he kicked it up to his left hand. The kick lacked strength, and he had to stoop to catch the sword.

  It saved his life.

  Deishi’s blow caught him across his shoulder, bit, then slid downward. He cried out in pain and anger. “Deishi! Don’t let him do this to you. To us!” Frightened and furious, he backed away.

  Deishi followed. Crimson coated the lower half of his battered armor and ran down one leg. He pressed his forearm across the opening.

  “Send for the healer—Deishi is badly wounded!” The smell of blood tickled Sherakai’s throat. He wanted to gag.

  “Finish him.” Even across the distance separating them, Lord Bairith’s voice came quiet as a serpent sliding through sand.

  Sherakai swung his head toward the mage, incredulous.

  Deishi’s blade thrust at his belly, but the force behind it was so weak the weapon didn’t penetrate. What pushed the air from Sherakai’s lungs and yanked his attention back to the fight was a solid punch of water in his gut. Drenched, he countered and knocked Deishi’s sword aside, but his friend swung around and came at him again. His mouth curled in a snarl. “You cannot be better than me,” he barked. “I have years on you, and you haven’t the heart for this. You never did.” Bloody teeth clenching, he dug deep and found the energy to engage.