Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  Chapter 47

  On his knees at the edge of the rug in the jansu’s office, Sherakai’s bowed head allowed him to close his eyes against the brilliant sun piercing through the window. Weeks in the Hole had sensitized him. It had also kept him from hurting anyone but himself. When he’d prowled up and down the short space, driven by the energy coursing through him, he’d wanted to convince himself this was exactly where he should be. Yet all he thought about was getting out…

  After an eternity, Lord Chiro got to his feet to come around the desk. He circled Sherakai several times, as he was wont to do when he considered his treasure. It might lead to a caress, or perhaps a beating. One could never tell.

  Each turn blocked the warmth of the sun on his hands and thighs. He opened his eyes just enough to watch the velvet slippers peeking from beneath layered robes of olive green and russet. Deep borders were embroidered in thread the color of the sky in summer. He remembered the sky as if it were a dream, white clouds chasing across blue depths. Flocks of red-tailed buntings flitting here and there, calling to each other. To-wee, to-woo… The smell of green grass, flowers, water, horse hide…

  He sighed.

  “Where are you?” the jansu inquired.

  “Here, lord. At your feet.”

  He’d never been required to kneel before. Did it mark fury or fear? The link prickled with life as it always did, but surrendered little from Bairith beyond power and presence. For a bond meant to connect them and allow them intimate familiarity, it seemed peculiarly one-sided.

  “You tire of kneeling?”

  Did he detect a challenge? If he had more practical access to the jansu’s side of the link, he would know. Did he really want to? No. “The sun is bright today. Warm.” Wonderfully bland, absolutely true.

  The jansu said nothing. It should be safer that way, more comfortable, but Sherakai had learned better. His displeasure and devotion both had claws. He placed his hands atop Sherakai’s head. With the touch came a familiar warmth. Affection, even a trace of Healing. Comfort. His fingertips slipped down his champion’s face and beneath his chin. He met the sea-blue eyes without flinching.

  “You are distant.”

  “How so, lord? You have my undivided attention.”

  “I am not certain,” he murmured, his examination intent. The aura surrounding the mage was hard to see, but the play of light through it suggested magic.

  “I have disappointed you again.”

  “No. I gave you significant strength; the magic and essence of the rakeshi has multiplied it. You are formidable.”

  He had blood dreams to remind him of that, even when awake.

  “Not, however, against me,” the jansu whispered, placing a single finger over Sherakai’s mouth. He was silent again, then tapped Sherakai’s lips twice before folding his arms across his chest. “Would you care to test me again?”

  “Again?” he echoed, hands tightening against his thighs.

  “You do not remember.” The trailing statement invited Sherakai to supply details.

  “I recall sparring against you and losing. Always losing.”

  “Do you remember returning to the arena after you fought along the borders?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “You returned me to Chief Hamrin’s care.”

  “And do you remember any of your fights after that?”

  “Yes, lord.” He didn’t want to remember them; he couldn’t forget.

  “You lost every one. Eight. In a row.” His emphasis conveyed his aggravation.

  The slightest thread of apprehension tugged within his chest. “Yes.”

  The jansu’s expression didn’t change. “Do you remember the ninth, or what came after it?”

  He had an urge to scrub his face. Instead, his hands remained in his lap, carefully, deliberately loose. “Some of it. My opponent—”

  “Was winning.”

  “Yes. No. I wanted to win on my own, without the rakeshi.” He swallowed a sense of helplessness. “It is too violent, too brutal.”

  “Too,” the jansu echoed, mouth curling in a sneer. Small as it was, it carried a world of meaning. “Too efficient for your prim senses? And yet you tried to use the rakeshi against me.”

  Sherakai’s head twitched in denial. “That is not possible; you control me. Us. There is the link…” His voice trailed away into a tangle of uncertainty and stupid hope. He pushed them down before they betrayed him.

  “Yes.” Only that word. With it, magic whispered through the invisible, inequitable bond. It coaxed trust like an old friend, gentle and insistent.

  Foreboding filled him. The distinct sense of claws scraping across stone sent a chill creeping over his skin.

  Lord Chiro tilted his head. “You have changed.”

  Anger flared. He had been changed.

  “Easy. Stay.” The jansu pressed his open hand on Sherakai’s head, his Voice laden with compulsion.

  Sit. Stay. As if he were no more than a hound. He should be used to such orders, such invasions. Still, he balked, for all the good it did. The constraint held him down and he could not shake it off. The noise that leaked out of him sounded pathetically like a whine. He hated it, hated the sensation of being muzzled like a dog. The jansu kept him down until Sherakai stopped struggling, then longer, until he began to relax. Who was he to fight Bairith Mindar’s strength and skill? Who was he to think he could overcome the demon-beast forced on him? His shoulders sagged, his muscles let go their tension.

  “Good,” the jansu soothed, “that’s good. It will be easier now.”

  Easier for himself, or easier for the jansu? He did not ask. What was the point? The rakeshi dragged its claws across the underside of his skin, then stilled.

  Lord Chiro returned to his chair and sat with his elbows on the arms and his fingers steepled. The thoughtful expression eased into one of solicitude. “This has been so very hard on you, my dragon. How I wish it could be different, but you have been sorely tested and you have not crumbled. You have not shattered. You are resilient beyond my wildest dreams.” His smile was as satisfied as a cat in the cream. “I hope you will allow me to bestow a reward.”

  Could he refuse? “Lord,” he murmured.

  “I understand how you miss your family. It is past time you paid them a visit.”

  “My family?” he whispered on a strangled breath. He had never even imagined such glorious, ghastly largesse. “I would rather stay here with you,” he managed.

  “Nonsense.” The jansu waved one hand extravagantly. “Take a few weeks. Go to Tanoshi and enjoy your kin. I know you will come home to me.”

  Of course he would… “Don’t kill them,” he begged. “Please promise they’ll be safe.”

  The jansu gave him a look of gentle benevolence. “Their safety is in your hands, Sherakai.”

  Chapter 48

  Days on the road, gloriously alone, Sherakai weathered an entire storm of emotions. Chief among them were worry, fear, excitement, nervousness, hope… He could not—must not—entertain them lest Lord Chiro take and twist them. It had been easier to suppress his feelings with the violence of the arena to distract him. On this journey, he had no sparring companion. No guards, not even a servant.

  Why?

  That had been his first surprise after the shock of actually being sent home. The second was discovering the season. It should still be winter. It was not.

  Green hugged the ground along the road. Drifts of sunny yellow daffodils wafted their intoxicating scent, competing with the pink blooms of weaver’s rush growing near the rocks and boulders. Birds fluttered in all directions, singing as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  Their joy lent Sherakai speed. He went on foot most of the way. Lord Chiro had spelled a horse for him, but the awful glazed eyes and unnatural walk sickened him. It moved as if it had no will of its own. He wasn’t sure it did. It plodded behind him on a long lead. When he stopped to rest or eat, it stood with legs spraddled and head down. It grazed listlessly, utterly
unaware of him. Attempts to relieve the poor thing only made matters worse. He’d been robbed of his skill with animals. Did any of his old ability remain?

  He didn’t feel like himself anymore. This life, this world, were the stuff of Twixt tales. But he was going home, and his mother—might well turn him away, and with good cause. If he could see her again, though, and have a moment to memorize her face again…

  He would make himself crazy trying to guess what would happen when he got to Tanoshi. Running relaxed him, and he was going home. The freedom of traveling by himself made him almost giddy.

  In one of those strange contradictions of life, it took forever to cover no great distance at all. His heart arrived long before he did, and he was helpless against the swell of emotion when he crested the hill and Tanoshi spread out before him. He had to stop then, walking back and forth across the road. Hands propped on his hips, he drank in the gently sloped roofs and pale walls. Banners flew from the peaks, the house colors twining with trailing streamers of orange-yellow.

  The color of mourning…

  Still? How long since his father had died? He had no idea—none at all. The muddle of time made him breathe faster, made his chest ache.

  Stop it, he ordered himself, clenching and unclenching his fists. This is a stupid time to panic.

  Another thought occurred to him: What if someone else had been killed?

  There was only one way to find out. Tugging the lethargic horse behind him, he trotted toward the keep, slowing only as he came to the bridge over the moat. His footsteps whispered across the wood. The horse’s steel-shod hooves beat out a slow, deep staccato. He stopped before the closed gates.

  He had seen them barred only a handful of times in his life. Most of those had happened after the death of his brother Tasan. They could use a fresh coat of varnish, and some roof tiles were missing.

  “State your business,” came a call from the gatehouse stretching over the great slabs of ironbound wood.

  Sherakai tilted his head to squint up at the shadows. He made out the pale shape of a face, but no details unless one counted the crossbow bolt aimed at his chest. “I’ve come to see my mother.”

  “Her name?”

  Did the guardsmen not recognize him? “She is Imarasu meru Tameko, House Tanoshi.”

  “House Tanoshi has no sons.”

  Sherakai took an involuntary step back, his breath catching in his throat. It was a double blow. Imitoru, in spite of desperate hopes, had never returned. “Has she disowned her youngest?”

  “He has pledged his allegiance to House Chiro.”

  “That is a lie!”

  The bellies of bows with notched arrows appeared between the bars to either side of the speaker.

  Sherakai retreated another step, showing his empty hands. “I beg forgiveness. I mean no insult, shakuri.” He used the respectful address. Sir.

  “Then be on your way.”

  He lowered his head and bit the inside of his cheek so hard it drew blood, seeking refuge in physical pain. He swallowed the taste of metal and looked up again, trying to remember the polite protocols that might get him through the gate. “Please convey my condolences to Jansu-sa Tanoshi and tell her this poor orphan would pay his respects to a grieving widow.”

  “She will not see such as you.”

  The waters of the moat below blurred as Sherakai’s jaw worked. He should have expected Bairith to poison Tanoshi against him. The jansu had used him to make papa into a liar and a fool. After the celebration dinner he’d thrown, and after whatever bragging he’d done about Sherakai’s exploits in battle, why wouldn’t everyone at home believe he’d turned his back on House Tanoshi?

  Getting inside the keep was no challenge. He could go through the secret entrance and neither tradition nor honor would stop him. That was the way Bairith would have him do things.

  “If that is the lady’s decision, I will abide by it.” He pointed back the way he’d come. “I will await her word at the end of the bridge.”

  The retreat to the outside edge of the keep proper was symbolic. It showed a lack of ill intent and demonstrated propriety, though his choice of phrasing suggested a subtle threat. Honor and protocol demanded that Jansu-sa Tanoshi herself must send him away. If she chose to abandon tradition, the soldiers would either tell him to leave again or simply shoot him.

  Sherakai pulled his horse around and withdrew. Tying the lead to a bridge post, he stowed his pair of knives—the only weapons he’d been allowed—then removed his boots. It didn’t just show submissiveness, but proved he had no other blades hiding in them. The eyes watching from the gatehouse would see. They would judge. He moved to the center of the space and went to his knees. Humility. Patience. Respect.

  It was two days before the gates swung open to allow a troop of soldiers to exit. Two days in which Sherakai argued with himself over whether to wait or to go. To apply his lessons in patience or retreat from a battle he could not win. What was the truth of his world if his own mother did not want to behold his face again?

  His need kept him on his knees in the beautiful, treacherous sun. When night fell, he unsaddled the horse and moved it to graze. He ate bland road rations. He bathed in the waters of the moat, unwilling to present a sweaty, dusty countenance if it happened he should be allowed inside. Each morning, dawn found him kneeling in the same place, hands resting on his thighs.

  It didn’t matter if he were armed or not, a dozen swords and two crossbows marched themselves into his reach. Another figure trailed them. Though the soldiers blocked his view, he could make out the fluttering edge of a saffron gown. His mother? His heart gave a painful thump.

  As they approached, Sherakai studied the faces of the men. He recognized most of them; had Lord Chiro changed him so much that they could not see the boy they’d once known?

  The group formed a bristling semicircle between him and the woman they protected, weapons in hand. Not polite by any means. The crossbowmen positioned themselves on the outer points with a clear path to his chest. A man he did not recognize stepped away from the others and came to stand in front of him. He chose a prudent position out of easy reach and out of the line of the bows. His insignia marked him as a captain. Nayuri’s replacement, then.

  “Lay down your weapons.”

  “They are on my saddle, shakuri.” He kept his voice quiet, deferential. It was more difficult to keep his attention on the stark, plain features of the captain. He wanted to look for the woman’s face.

  “Search him.”

  Another breach of protocol, but not altogether unexpected. Sherakai put his hands behind his head, calm and deliberate so he would not rouse the rakeshi. The captain pursed his lips and gave the barest nod of approval. He held his gaze while two men came forward. They each took a wrist, one to contort around behind his back and the other to pull his arm straight out and twist. It hurt. He refused to react. They patted him down roughly. When they found nothing threatening, they returned his hands to their place behind his head.

  Of all the homecomings he might have imagined, he had not expected to be made to feel like a criminal in his own home. And why not? Wasn’t he? He’d murdered countless men, including his own father. Did they know that? If they did, they’d have shot him already.

  The captain regarded him for a long time, his dissatisfaction clear in his pale eyes. Finally, he moved aside. Two guards shifted, and the woman stepped between them.

  Years of practice allowed Sherakai to stifle the sob of relief that caught in his chest. There was no mistaking Imarasu, despite drawn features and painful thinness. Heavy streaks of silver marred once black hair. The high-necked saffron gown made her complexion sallow, and the brightness of spring grass in her eyes had faded to an indistinct gray-green, but he knew her at once. It took all his willpower to keep from leaping to his feet and rushing to her.

  She held claw-like hands at her waist. They trembled. She trembled.

  The captain put a hand out. “You should stop there, Lady
.” She did as he suggested, halting well beyond Sherakai’s reach.

  It is enough, Sherakai told himself. To see her, to smell the scent of orange blossoms and spice she always wore, was all he asked for. It was more than he deserved. He memorized her all over again, swallowing repeatedly against the lump in his throat. He would not give in to tears because they would blur his vision.

  “Sherakai?” Her voice was as thin as her body.

  “Vanu, Mama.” His didn’t sound much better.

  She glanced to the captain as if for confirmation, but he had only doubt and a sword to offer. Ignoring the captain’s murmured protest, she closed the distance between them to touch his cheek, then his dark braids. Her mouth quivered, and she pressed her lips together so hard it must have pained her. Her fingertips brushed both his shoulders, then caught his face to study his eyes. “You are so much… bigger.”

  “I am,” he admitted, and didn’t move. Didn’t dare. He offered a rueful grimace instead. “Ruins my hopes for racing horses.”

  One hand covered her mouth as if to suppress a scream. Tears swelled, and before the captain could react, she fell on Sherakai. Arms around his too-broad shoulders, her sobs broke his heart.

  He embraced her, closed his eyes, and just held her. She was so small, so frail! It tore at him, even while he drank in the unrivaled joy of her presence, her acceptance. He did not see, but his senses told him when the men sheathed their weapons, and when some of them turned away to give a semblance of privacy. The captain remained beside them, silent and unmoving. Eventually, Imarasu’s sobs abated. She rested her forehead on Sherakai’s shoulder, sniffing and struggling to regain control of herself.

  “A kerchief, shakuri?” he asked, and a cloth was pressed into his hand. Gently, tenderly, he shifted his mother’s weight so he might wipe her cheeks. She let him, though she did not lift her head until he gave her the damp cloth.

  Then green eyes met his, searching, yearning, flooding with tears all over again. She wiped them impatiently. “Help me up.”