“Sometimes,” Bairith whispered, “I forget what I am about, he is so very fine. I could watch him for hours. I do. Or talk to him—He doesn’t converse the way he used to. I miss that. I imagine what it would be like to travel the world with him, to see it again through his bright eyes. He is so curious, so frank.” He fell silent, thoughtful. “Perhaps one day… We have much to do before then. He will break the Parting; I knew it in my heart, even before the witch’s vision.”
Sherakai listened in increasing astonishment. Did the man truly believe the words coming out of his mouth? He spoke them earnestly, confidentially, and the light of truth adorned them.
“It is forever the way of seers to speak in riddles. How does the dragon figure in what she sees now? ‘Like copper in the sunlight, magnificent wings lifted, ruination and healing in every line and motion,’” he quoted, Voice resonant with longing, lyrical in its eloquence.
A shiver ran through Sherakai.
“There is no copper in you, and now no wings.” He heaved another heartfelt sigh. “We will have to make do, won’t we? In the meantime, there is Mage Tylond to consider. Did I give you leave to kill him?” The tenderness fell from his voice like crackling ice.
The rakeshi flinched as if struck. Sherakai shrank, too, the lash of the jansu’s Voice was that sharp.
“You may not have liked him, but he was the best healer this side of the Midland Sea. What lies ahead will be difficult without him. You must learn control, Sherakai.”
The rakeshi lashed at the mage who easily blocked it, seizing the flying fist and giving it a brutal twist. He might have shaken that off, might have freed himself of an exaggerated perception of pain, but a tremendous weight on his shoulders drove him to his knees.
Bairith kept him there, the aro vibrating all around them. Sherakai could not grasp it though he did his utmost. It was like trying to catch a fish in the river. What trick was this?
When he stopped struggling, the jansu resumed talking. He pitched the nonsense words to soothe. Bit by bit, he let up on his grip, then on the compulsion. “Look at me,” he said after a time.
When Sherakai lifted his gaze, he could see without intense color varnishing everything like a fever dream. Jagged surges of energy continued to burn his eyes and pierce his eardrums.
“What is your name?” the jansu asked.
“Sherakai,” he managed after several tries. His voice didn’t sound like his own. “I am Sherakai.”
“Where did you go?”
Where could he possibly have gone, trapped as he was? An uncertain glance revealed Tylond’s mangled corpse. He stared at it in horrified fascination. He’d seen worse in the arena but had never wreaked such furious damage himself. Still, he recognized the awful tears and the position of the half elf’s limbs as his own work.
“Do you remember what happened?”
He nodded, then shook his head. Shards of memory drenched in blood stabbed him.
“Why did you do this?”
The answer hovered on the edge of recognition.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Hurt,” he echoed in a rasp. The shader had abused him every chance he got, even when he was supposed to be helping. He deserved to die, but not like this.
The jansu took Sherakai’s face in his hand again, dragging his gaze away from the bloody disaster. “Take your time.”
He jerked a nod. “Hurt. All the time.” His voice was chains dragged over stone. He wanted to sit down, but Bairith held him physically and magically. Hands flexed, sticky with blood. The metallic tang of it filled his nostrils.
“And now that you’ve slaughtered the only mage who can ease that hurt, what do you propose?”
“Get it out of me.” The surrounding energy fractured, echoing him. Desperate need constricted his throat and made his eyes burn. “Get this thing out.”
“Mm.” The jansu released his hold and went to the table to find a cloth and a pail of water. Dipping the rag, he wrung it out. The cascade of cool bliss conflicted with each sharp plink against Sherakai’s eardrums.
“It hurts,” he whispered again.
“Yes.” Bairith returned to his side.
As the jansu bathed his face, Sherakai closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.
“Time and again, you dismiss the gifts I give you. You are never pleased, no matter the effort or the cost I go to on your behalf. Do you think this came easily?”
Though the jansu spoke in a soft voice, ice slithered down Sherakai’s spine. “No,” he breathed.
“Do you believe me without wit? Without experience?”
“Please forgive me, lord,” he begged on a breath. “Please.” He didn’t know what to ask for, didn’t know what he needed.
“You wear my patience thin.” He dipped the cloth in the water again. Sherakai listened to it weep when the jansu twisted it. “Who will heal you now when you’re badly wounded?”
“You, lord.”
The mage made a sound through his nose, though nothing so inelegant as a snort. “A poor plan, I assure you. My talents lay elsewhere, which is why I had Mage Tylond in my employ. I understand the rakeshi has an ability to repair itself. I suggest you make use of that.”
Savoring the drag of fabric across his skin, Sherakai longed for Fesh, or even Chief Hamrin to minister to him. Anyone with a beating heart.
“Open your eyes.”
Obediently, he looked up at the mage. Bairith gave a terse nod.
“Are you listening to me, or off in one of your daydreams?”
Sherakai had learned long ago to do his daydreaming when he was alone, and the visions that haunted him day and night were hardly voluntary. “I am listening. I don’t have any Healing ability at all. How am I to—to use the rakeshi’s skill?”
“It is as much a part of you as your hand. You have only to exercise the muscle.”
It was not a muscle he could even recognize. “Will you show me?”
The jansu’s fine brows furrowed. How could such beautiful eyes be so terrible?
“Please?” He swallowed the fear and humiliation clogging his throat. Buried his despair.
Bairith moistened the cloth again, using it to wipe his own hands. “No, this is a lesson you must master on your own. That is your preferred method of education, is it not? Perhaps time in the Wilds will do you good. You will start tomorrow in the Twixt.” He found another towel to dry his hands, then motioned to Tylond’s body. “Clean this up and change your clothes. You reek. When you’ve finished, you may wait in your room.”
Chapter 38
Seven bodies littered the space around the rakeshi. Cats of some sort, but with dusky brown scales. Tufts of hair marked their ears, snouts, and the ends of their tails. As if to make up for the ridiculousness of their appearance, they sported a fearsome set of canines. Talons as long as his fingers were as sharp as any knife he’d ever used. Half his size, they were creatures of the Wilds, and he’d seen worse. Fought worse. Killed worse.
It was part of his training.
While the terrain changed a little during his travels, the smell and the heavy sky always stayed the same. Dusty hills stretched away to either side, cloaked with shadows that breathed out despair. Stunted shrubs hunched against a harsh, fitful wind full of grit and the stench of smoke and barren hope. Texture had flavor. Sound had scent. Sight had sentiment. The concept bore the weight of familiarity to the rakeshi; Sherakai struggled to understand it.
Breathing hard from the fight, he stalked from body to body, looking for any sign of life. As he walked, he shook his head and rubbed one ear to ease its ringing. His inspection didn’t prevent him from checking his surroundings, pausing to listen—for what it was worth—and sniffing the wind.
Precaution paid off.
Another pair of the things shot out from behind a low bush, shrieking fit to raise the dead. The piercing quality of their voices was enough to drop a man in his tracks, clutching his head to cover his ears—if he wanted to die. When the first
leaped at his face, the rakeshi buried a hatchet in its shoulder. Its scream twisted higher then ceased abruptly as it fell.
The other creature aimed lower, plowing into the rakeshi’s hip and knocking him sideways. Talons tangled in his armor and bore him down. His grip on the hatchet lost, he punched with his free hand, then brought his sword around in a whistling arc.
The cat-thing yelped and tumbled away.
In an instant, he’d regained his feet. It did the same, sinuous in spite of the gash in its side.
A flicker of appreciation.
A glimmer of steel.
It screamed as it died, amber eyes filled with malice, talons clutching the parched earth.
Crouched and wary, the rakeshi made a slow circle to inspect the surrounding terrain. Once, then again. Nothing revealed itself to his hyper-vision; his ears continued to jangle. A low growl sifted through his chest, daring another attack, but all was quiet.
After a time, he cleaned the sword and sheathed it, then retrieved his hatchet. That creature alone lived still, and he knelt to put a hand on its flank. It snarled, but it couldn’t reach him. Fresh blood pulsed from the terrible wound behind its shoulder. Fresh fear emanated from its heart.
The rakeshi twisted its head curiously.
The cat creature’s scales were smooth and malleable when he stroked one way, edged and prickly when he stroked the other. When it thrashed its tail, he caught it to explore the tuft of hair at the end and provoked a reverberating whine. It tried to free itself; tried to snap at him.
He grabbed its scruff in a grip hard enough to make the creature hiss. After the briefest of consideration, he lowered himself to drink in its scent, musky and warm with a tangy, verdant undertone, like sage.
He licked his lips.
The creature’s mouth opened wide, but its scream lacked its earlier intensity. He gave the cat-thing a shake and it stopped, panting and growling, ears laid flat to its skull.
Inhaling the scent again, he drew upon the braided energy of terror, rage, and life. He pulled it completely out, then eased back on his heels to savor the sensation. Like an elixir, it cleared his head. It effervesced through his veins and flooded his innards with a thrill that shuddered his entire body.
The intoxication didn’t last nearly long enough.
A headache seized hold of him like a live thing. Both hands clutched his skull and he cried out, bending double. His vision flashed between bright and dark. Need dragged at him. He didn’t understand it and couldn’t answer it if he wanted. Spasms contorted his body. He lost the contents of his belly. When that subsided at last, Sherakai wiped one arm across his face.
The specter of the dead creatures met him and he turned aside to heave again. Head down, he squeezed his eyes closed and focused desperately on every breath.
It wasn’t death itself that nauseated him.
It wasn’t the sight of strange animals, or even the fact that gore painted a horrendous picture.
He’d consumed their very essence…
He staggered to his feet and stumbled away from the grisly scene. It was impossible to give back, and he deeply doubted his ability to stop the beast from doing it again. Was the rakeshi some sort of perverted shader? Gods help him…
What was he going to do?
Not stand here like a first-decker shocked to immobility. The place smelled of death, and that would bring other predators. He struck out up the closest hill. Motion awakened his senses to the wounds he’d taken. He kept walking as he assessed them: bruised ribs and hip—neither broken. The armor on his left shoulder was torn. Blood oozed from beneath it. His cheek burned, too, so a gash there. The shoulder was the worst. He probed the ruin of leather and plate, and pulled out a gleaming black talon. Poisoned?
He sniffed at it, but only smelled blood and no tang of venom or aro. Drawing his knife, he cut away the remains of his shirt sleeve to use as a makeshift bandage. A blood trail would bring nothing but trouble.
It made him angry.
The chains that bound him continued to thwart every attempt to break free. He was saddled with a demon every bit as vile as the mage who had put him here. He couldn’t control it. Even unfettered hatred of it posed danger.
It. Him…
Bairith Mindar.
Sun and stars, was the beast going to take over his mind, too?
No, he reasoned, he still had his wits after the rakeshi surrendered its hold on his body. But how would it influence him over time?
Angry, so angry, he climbed the jumble of rocks that lay atop the hill and strewn down one side. It offered a semblance of safety he could ill afford to waste. His torn shoulder made the ascent difficult, but pain was magic and magic was strength. Still, it left him breathless. He surveyed the area, then wriggled himself more comfortably into his rocky cradle.
His head ached fiercely. The beast lingered close to the surface.
He unsheathed his hatchet and set it nearby. Then, fingers against torn skin, Sherakai focused on finding and wielding the right threads of magical energy. He knew what they looked like and how they felt; he’d seen Mage Tylond using them often enough.
The aro eluded him. The sweat of effort beaded on his forehead and dripped from the end of his nose.
Thoughtful, he lifted his gaze to the brassy sky. He couldn’t use the Healing magic until he understood it better. Knowing the jansu, he’d have plenty more opportunities to learn about it. The mage wouldn’t let him die, though he’d already come close on four separate occasions since he’d been in the Wilds.
Sherakai picked up the hatchet and held it in his lap. He would do everything in his power to access the Healing talent. It would make him less dependent on the binding spell Bairith had put on him so long ago. Make him less dependent on the mage himself. If he could sever that thread, he’d be one step closer to freedom…
Chapter 39
Endless battles and one small misstep later, he watched a single black dot flutter in the miserable sky. Its wide, uneven circles hypnotized. Sherakai let the spell carry him unresisting, drifting into oblivion.
When he opened his eyes again, the grit of sand and sweat clung to skin and lashes. The dot had multiplied. Several more smudges wheeled above him, close enough now to make out wings. The unpredictable Wild breeze cut through them, sending one of the figures looping away and back. It came screaming the same song of defiance he’d heard every wretched day and night. He closed his eyes—
A tug and a fiery stab brought him awake again. His yell sent the birds, heavy, broad-winged things, flapping off. They settled again nearby, but for the one. Balanced on the shoulder of the newest corpse, it caught torn leather in its beak and pulled at it with dogged determination. The leather belonged to what was left of Sherakai’s boot. His calf was wedged between rocks and trapped beneath the outflung arm of his enormous opponent.
His attempt to sit up made him dizzy, sent fire running up his leg, and did nothing to dislodge the bird. It resembled the familiar buzzards of Alshan, but with fleshy yellow spikes protruding through the dark feathers at the back of its head. Bigger, too. Freaky blue eyes ogled him.
“Go ‘way,” he grumbled, and flapped a hand at it.
It chuckled and shifted on the dead thing’s pauldron. Wings rustled. Hooked talons left gouges in the metal.
Its fearlessness emboldened the others. A pair hopped closer. One dared a nip at Sherakai’s head where blood oozed from a gash.
“Hai! What are you doing?” He waved his arm to shoo it away. The motion twisted his trapped leg and stole his breath.
The bird fanned its wings, hissed, and darted another vicious peck at him, quick as a viper.
Sherakai punched it hard in the chest. The blow should have broken bones, but the bird’s only concession was a brief retreat, hissing and squawking, then it attacked again. He gained time to scrabble for the sword he’d dropped, but the angle was bad. A wild cut drew blood, but the thing came at him again. A second blow took its head off. By then its mat
es joined the fray, screaming, beating their massive wings, diving at him for just a single taste of his flesh.
He screamed right back, brandishing his blade when they came within striking distance and throwing rocks at them when they retreated.
Feathers whirled and floated. The wind cried and sand scraped across body and soul.
Four more carcasses littered the ground, and the birds gave way. They stalked to and fro while they discussed the situation among themselves in high, creaky voices. The bright blue of their eyes suggested intelligence. They proved it when four of them rushed Sherakai from the front while another pair dove at him from behind.
His vision shifted. His perception shifted.
He was aware of movement—of leaning back to take advantage of the earth, of his sword dancing between the gray sky and dusky shapes, then of twisting to the side to snatch up a dropped mace. It was heavy, and when the bizarre battle gave him a moment he traded it for one of his knives.
Quiet descended without warning. A single bird perched atop a tall pointed rock well out of reach. A listless breeze stirred scattered feathers. Gazes locked, Sherakai felt about for a fist-sized rock, then heaved it with a shout. “Hah!” A surge of magic urged it to get away while it still lived. It took off with a scream and a noisy rustle of feathers.
Wiping his knife on his pants, he stowed it and looked around. Carnage met his eye in every direction, starting with the gigantic creature laying across his leg. Its partner sprawled at the top of the ravine. Taller than him by half, both were broad-shouldered, bull-necked, and had entirely too many teeth. What were they? Ogres? Trolls? He’d never encountered one in the arena and didn’t mind that at all.
The presence of the rakeshi began to fade again, and he pressed his wrist against his forehead, hard. “No. Don’t go yet, gods curse you. Help me heal. Help me!” He fumbled to catch hold of the magic again before it was too late. Pain is energy. I am pain. Pain is mine.
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