Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  “No, your worship. I think you’ve covered every angle.”

  The lecturer lashed out with shocking speed, knocking Finhaam clear into the wall half a dozen feet behind them. He struck with a grunt and fell to his knees. The lecturer delivered the same look down his nose. “You are fortunate I am in a genial mood today.” Gliding away, he resumed his discourse as if there’d been no interruption.

  Sherakai rose to help Finhaam, but Hamrin caught his arm and shook his head. Reluctantly, he returned to his seat.

  It was a moment before Finhaam joined him, dabbing at a bloody lip with one sleeve. “Who knew the bug had it in him?” he muttered with feeling.

  They worked in silence after that while the speech droned on. It was, as Finhaam had pointed out, nothing he hadn’t heard before. Sherakai listened with half an ear as he studied the others in the group. Forty-two, he counted. Some he recognized from yesterday’s melee; some faces were new. Concentrating on their auras, he made out nine that might be mages. The aro of this place held an odd taint, and he cautioned himself against expecting it to behave exactly as he was used to. As he polished a piece of armor, he closed his eyes and focused on the flow of energy through the gathering. Like a bit of wood sanded only on one side, it was smooth here and prickly there.

  He was aware at once when the lecturer stopped talking, and when he left the sands. He rose with the others to warm up his muscles, then donned his armor. Hamrin helped him with the fastenings. As he did, he gave curt instructions. They were allowed one weapon for each hand and no more. They were to pair off for practice according to a cast of lots. There were to be no fatal injuries. Other than that, there were no rules. The governors would watch the matches.

  Sherakai offered a small bow and went to choose his weapons. The energy around him increased; he breathed it in, then turned to his first opponent.

  What was the punishment for killing someone during practice?

  The accident was not Sherakai’s, but Finhaam’s. The other boy’s opponent lunged sideways to avoid an excellently timed swing of the blade and lost his footing. Wings arched outward for balance.

  Sherakai saw it happen as if in a dream where an errant shaft of light illuminates a subject, imbuing it with a surreal quality. A flash from the clouds overhead reflected on Finhaam’s knife as he flicked his hand up to protect his face. Graceful as a dancer.

  His opponent stumbled into him.

  Finhaam’s eyes widened. His mouth opened in a shout lost to the cries and grunts and clashes of two score combatants. The winged one slumped forward. Finhaam backpedaled from beneath him.

  An ear-splitting, tear-inducing shriek dropped every fighter in the arena where they stood. Weapons fell to the sand as hands clasped heads and bodies writhed in pain.

  Sherakai was not immune.

  The screech severed his connection to the aro like a knife cutting a cord. He strove to find it again, to manipulate the air around his ears to block the noise. As abruptly as it had begun, the sound ceased. Cautiously, Sherakai sat up. The other fighters lay on the ground groaning and weeping.

  A dozen figures appeared as if from nowhere. They wore spectacular armor of a dull-colored metal idealizing their physique. He couldn’t imagine any man that brawny without the aid of magic. Stylized masks hid their faces. Three went to Finhaam and the dead winged creature while their companions trained their weapons on the downed fighters. They were the strangest things Sherakai had ever seen. Braces connected two tubes. The topmost sported an open-mouthed representation of a strange bird on the front and a handle on the back. The beaks were blackened as if by fire. He smelled fire.

  The skin across his belly tightened.

  One of the guards dragged the corpse into a doorway that had not been there before. Two lifted Finhaam as if he weighed no more than a toddler and followed. When they were safely away, the others retreated into the same space, then sealed it shut behind them.

  Sherakai rubbed one ringing ear as he got to his feet. Picking up his weapons, he moved toward the invisible door.

  “Sherakai!” Hamrin shouted.

  The other masters hollered at their own charges, helping them up, cuffing them into action as if nothing strange had happened. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe this was as common as breakfast.

  He dragged himself to a halt. “What will happen to him?”

  “The governors’ll decide. Ye were just going to take this lunk down,” he reminded. Turning Sherakai around, he shoved him toward his opponent. The creature was himself being chivvied by his instructor, though the youth hadn’t a clue what he was saying. He imagined something along the lines of “Flatten him, but not permanently.” One could hope.

  The lunk proved to be no challenge at all after the siren. Frightened at best and disoriented at worst, three quick, hard blows put him on the ground.

  Sherakai looked down at him, turning his spears over in his hands and biting his upper lip. Taking advantage that way awoke a swell of guilt. He’d only compounded the matter by fueling his attack with resentment and anger.

  “Well done.” Hamrin clapped his shoulder and pivoted him to face a towering blue creature with scales, a beak, and four arms.

  Was it too much to hope he’d wake up and find himself secure in his wretched little cage? He shook himself, drew upon the aro, and sprang.

  Chapter 20

  As it happened, Hamrin was not completely right—or maybe not completely honest—about the results of crippling one’s opponent. During the first horribly misnamed ‘game,’ the novices were divided into teams and pitted against each other. To the death. Unconsciousness removed a fighter from play. None of them were so dispassionate that they could blithely finish off those unlucky souls. Sherakai was responsible for three knock-outs, two broken legs, and a mangled hand—and he was sent to wash and eat with the rest of the survivors.

  He hadn’t escaped unscathed, but his connection to the aro had kept him from serious injury.

  As it also turned out, the lunk was the only one he could find who could speak a language he understood. The fellow’s accent and taciturnity proved as challenging as any of the bouts he’d fought.

  “What will happen to those who fell during the match?” he asked at dinner when Hamrin went to talk to a man-like thing in a gray robe. He had to repeat himself and gesture. He hoped practice with Fesh and Teth at hand signing had helped. A throbbing, stiff shoulder made the gestures awkward, but he persisted.

  Lunk lifted his massive shoulders and shook his head. “Guvners,” he said.

  “I see. How long have you been here?”

  Another shrug. “Short.”

  “Days? Weeks?” He opted for simple questions lest he confuse the huge novice.

  “More. Not long as Kizazeel.” He pointed a blunt finger at a young… man with a brown-and-white striped face and feathers for hair. “And Finhaam.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “From Strobloc.”

  “What is it like?”

  “Like home.” He heaved a mournful sigh and pushed a mound of what might be mashed potatoes to the other side of his plate.

  “Trees or desert?” Please answer with more than two words…

  “Home.”

  “Sounds nice.” Sherakai pursed his lips and nodded sagely. “I’m Sherakai,” he offered with a smile.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “You no need. You make wind.”

  Sherakai paused with a bite of food on his fork. He didn’t perceive mockery or sarcasm; clearly, the phrase didn’t mean the same thing to his companion as it did to him. He opened his mouth to ask for an explanation, then decided against it. “What shall I call you?” He couldn’t very well call him lunk. It was rude, no matter how much truth it held.

  “Do not.”

  “You’re not real talkative, are you?”

  Lunk studied Sherakai with a thoughtful expression. “Why
talk?”

  “Because it is polite,” supplied a sweet, musical voice to Sherakai’s left. A slender creature set a half-finished plate of food and a mug on the table, then slipped onto the bench beside him. “And because whatever we are forced to become in the ring, we can be—How do you say? Mosarcorais.” She held up a hand with incredibly long fingers and crossed two digits.

  Sherakai gave a start when he noted the impressive talons tipping each finger, so near to his face. He stared.

  Golden eyes above a long, flat nose dominated her features. Antlers as black as night swept backward, with one prong arching upward and the other down. Straight black locks cascaded over her shoulders. Her pale skin looked like velvet. He was intrigued when he realized it was covered with short, soft hair. She wore a loose, sleeveless gray blouse belted over billowing tawny-colored pants. Several necklaces and bracelets carved from wood and bone completed the outfit.

  “Do you know the word?” she inquired, pretending oblivion to his ogling. She waved her crossed fingers carelessly, redirecting his attention.

  He blinked and blushed. “Together?”

  She nodded and made a ‘more’ motion. “Being to being.”

  “Understanding? Tolerant?”

  “Yes!” she beamed. “Thank you. I am Cerrisiel, Prince Sherakai.” She fluttered the backs of her fingers against her bowed forehead.

  His face heated a little further. “I am no prince, but I am pleased to meet you.”

  “Oh, it was said you were.”

  He conjured a weak smile. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Is favored,” Lunk said as if everyone knew this.

  “Favored for what?”

  “Oh?” Cerrisiel’s marvelous eyes widened, and she twisted to study Sherakai. “Ooooh.”

  “Favored for what?” he repeated.

  “Hero. Lythor, maybe. All say it.” Lunk shoveled food in his mouth. Bits fell out. They missed his plate.

  “I don’t.” He had no desire to be a celebrated murderer. Sherakai tossed back the remains of his ale, putting an end to the silliness. “What’s a Lythor?”

  Lunk had the decency to swallow before he answered. “Anvil.” He spoke in riddles.

  “Better to become a hero than not,” Cerrisiel pointed out. She gave his arm a sympathetic caress. A cooing sound startled him.

  Hamrin chose that moment to drop onto the bench opposite the three, glowering like a thundercloud. He waited in silence for Sherakai to finish his meal and ignored the other two.

  Neither Lunk nor Cerrisiel spoke, and it wasn’t long before they took their leave. She kept her eyes lowered, except when she slid him a sideways, sympathetic glance.

  “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “Yair being moved.”

  “Like a piece of furniture?”

  Hamrin’s brow wrinkled. “No, fool. Ye scrubbed six without a death blow. Mind, one of them is still fainted, so there’s hope.”

  “Hope someone died?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Some argued ye were rightly distracted from the gull with the maimed hand. Even so, that leaves four marks against ye. Ye should move up four decks. The jansu bought two.” The corners of his mouth curled down even further. “Could be worse, I suppose.”

  “What does that even mean?” The rules and terms of the arena were utterly foreign. Hamrin might as well have informed him he was going to be spun like a top and fitted for new clothes. It made that much sense.

  “It means that yair moving up two decks. A deck is a floor, a floor is a rank. This is the bottommost. The first. The fledglings. Ye’ll be third deck now, and ye’ll fight against those who’ve been in this game longer. Ye’ve got the jansu pulling strings and juggling magic balls like a madman. If ye pull another stunt like that, ye’ll wish ye could die.” He shoved himself to his feet. “I’m to take ye to Mage Tylond. Yair next match is in two days.”

  Chapter 21

  The jansu had said nothing to Sherakai when he arrived. The upper chamber occupied one of eighteen towers marking the outer wall of the arena itself. The room’s furnishings echoed those at the Gates. Huge tapestries over richly paneled walls. Thick rugs cushioned the stone floor. Near the windows stood three brass telescopes inscribed with glowing figures.

  Mage Tylond received the cursory order to “see to the boy.” As he made his examination, Bairith waited nearby with his fingers laced at his waist. A neutral expression graced his fine features. In loose white pants and a navy tunic embroidered in silver, he manifested restrained elegance.

  Sherakai mulled over his surprise that they’d not returned home to the Gates of Heaven. Nemura-o pera Sinohe. The name sounded beautiful on the tongue. The words themselves represented hope, though that had never been his experience within those walls.

  Gods above and demons below, why would he think of it as home?

  With his lord looking on, the healer treated him with uncommon circumspection. “Roll your shoulder.”

  Automatically, he complied with Tylond’s low-voiced order. Magic warmed muscle and sinew. Either the healer was being gentle today, or Sherakai had become used to the pain of healing. He hardly noticed it. The same was true when Tylond healed a pair of fractured ribs. The collection of bruises and cuts amounted to nothing more than brief stings.

  Deliberately, he turned his focus inward to the link. He’d paid it scant attention since coming to the Twixt, and now found its presence subtly different, though he couldn’t say specifically what had changed. He puzzled over it while Tylond poked and prodded and asked him the occasional question.

  When he finished, Tylond returned his salves and vials to his kit.

  “You may leave us,” Bairith informed him.

  The healer inclined his head in compliance, gave Sherakai an amused glance, then withdrew.

  Fesh collected Sherakai’s shirt from where it hung over the back of a chair and held it out.

  “Wait.” The jansu approached. He walked once around his prize, then again, measuring the details of his physique. The second time, magic glittered on his fingertips as he inspected the shape of muscle, the strength of bone, the hardness of his belly, the width of his shoulders. When he stopped in front of Sherakai, the two stood eye to eye. “You are not the child that first came to me all those months ago.”

  “No, lord, I’m somewhat taller now.” Obvious, but safe. Only the tiniest bit critical. He’d added layers of muscle weight to the height Bairith had given him. He was too big and heavy to race his beloved horses properly now. Even so, his connection to the animals might still give him an advantage over his brothers.

  As if his dead brothers would ever race him again.

  Bairith smiled faintly. “You are quite fine. I have watched your matches. I am not alone in my belief that you stand on the cusp of brilliance, though many scoff and say it is much too early to tell.” He unfastened the cord that held Sherakai’s hair. That, too, had grown. It now hung to his shoulders. The beasts plaited it in sections to keep it from coming loose and getting in his eyes when he sparred. Bairith combed through the strands, fingered the texture, then stroked Sherakai’s stubbled jaw. “I want you clean-shaven.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Do you like a beard? Does it make you feel more like a man?”

  He hesitated, then gave a single nod. “My father and brothers—”

  “It adds a certain something.” Bairith rubbed the rough hairs, then tilted Sherakai’s face to the side. “A maturity. A sense of ruggedness. But I do not want you to look rugged, my boy. In fact,” he moved away to seat himself on a throne-like chair at one end of a long, heavy table. The other chairs were plain in comparison, but beautiful nonetheless. He did not invite Sherakai to sit, to put his shirt on, or relax in the slightest. “In fact, we will have new garments for you. Clothing to emphasize your youth and detract from your frame.” He drummed his fingers on the table, contemplating further enhancements.

  “You wish to hide what you have made me?” />
  “For your first real game, yes. Your opponents will underestimate you. Their error will be revealed on the sands when you fight.”

  The bout this morning had seemed entirely real to him. He was not used to fighting against multiple foes; he’d clutched his wards desperately and focused on simple survival.

  His nerves prickled as the link came alive, and he tensed.

  Bairith clicked his tongue. “You were to have had more practice against a group. You would have done had you listened to Hamrin. He did tell you how to win, did he not?”

  “He said I must kill my opponents.” Sherakai did not wish to kill. It made his stomach clench, but he didn’t say so aloud.

  “Yes.” His expression softened. “Do not fear, little dragon, you will not die. You are bound to me.”

  Another twist of his gut. “Are others so bound?”

  “To me?”

  “To their owners.”

  The jansu’s brow lifted at the word choice. “I imagine so.”

  Sherakai closed his eyes. Such an opponent would come back again and again. “Can they be killed?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Do not worry yourself, I will take care of it.”

  The statement didn’t reassure him, though he believed it implicitly.

  Bairith rose and went to the windows overlooking the arena. The awful sky flashed as it always did. The noise of the crowd—did the stands ever empty?—roared like a waterfall, ceaseless and grinding. Distance, glass, and magic muted the sound but did not reduce its weight. When at last the mage turned from his contemplation, he motioned Sherakai to join him, then took his face in both hands. His gaze hardened; the aro shifted minutely. “You will fight again in two days. You will do so as you have never done before, my dragon. You will conquer. Do you understand?”

  The spell moved through him like winter. He swallowed. “Yes, lord.”

  Bairith regarded him for a long, uncomfortable time, then stepped back. “I’ve paid dearly for your place. It would be better for everyone if you regained the cost.”