Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  “I thought I might find you here.” Imarasu gathered her fern green skirts and picked her way down the incline to sit in the grass next to Sherakai. She waved him off when he would have risen to help her. “You used to like to play here when you were small, throwing rocks in the moat and making my hair gray with fear you’d throw yourself in.”

  The memory jumped to the surface, bright with sunlight sparkling on water. “I didn’t?”

  “Oh, certainly. Tasan fished you out and immediately began swimming lessons.”

  “I remember. I must have been—what, about four years old?”

  Her laughter caressed his ears. “Yes. A fish, Papa called you.”

  “I liked being in the stables better.”

  “You and the horses.” She tugged his braid. “Dragging me from one terror to the next. Papa blamed me for your adventurous spirit.”

  “You? Why?”

  “Because he was so practical and sensible. The other boys all looked exactly like him. You looked like me, so it must be my fault.”

  “Perfectly sound reasoning,” he nodded. “I remember certain… adventures.” Horse racing, hunting, questionable tests of skill. “Were you adventurous when you were a girl?”

  The fall of her lashes hid a sudden mischievous glint. “Maybe.”

  “I’ll bet you were. Papa would never have fallen in love with someone whose greatest escapade was embroidery.” It felt strange when she tucked her arm in his and leaned her head on his shoulder, but he liked it. “I remember how he used to pull you into his arms and dance with you, singing you songs.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. A wave of sadness chased away her laughter.

  He picked another memory, one less thorny. “I remember helping you gather herbs. And I remember finding a pot of woad dye to play in.”

  “My blue baby!” She easily followed the distraction he offered. “You couldn’t have been even four, then.”

  “No, but it was my first time as the repeated center of attention. And I was blue.”

  “From the shoulders down. It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.” She pressed her head against his shoulder again, her laughter soft and sweet. “It was so hard to be mad at you. You have a good memory.”

  “Been living on it for a long time.” He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, careful not to dislodge her.

  Imarasu straightened to study his profile, then rubbed his back. “Was it very bad, sweetling?” she whispered, her voice unsteady.

  When had the moat last been dredged? Bubbles drifted across the moat’s surface, chased by flying insects. A pair of swallows cut through the air, dipping low. “You look so pretty this morning. That shade suits you.” He was glad to see she’d chosen not to wear the saffron. The green restored the color to her eyes and made her young again.

  She continued rubbing his back, the way she’d done when he was sick or frightened as a child, but she trembled.

  “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  “Abrupt,” she agreed, her voice husky, “and as clear an answer as if you’d told me that it was too terrible for words.”

  “I did not mean to upset you.”

  “You did not mean to tell me at all.” She managed to admonish him and convey her love at the same time. “Do you still?”

  A splash and bubble came from directly in front of them. The silver back of a fish flashed in the new light, there and gone again, from bright to shadow quicker than the eye could follow.

  She wiped her face on his sleeve. “You can tell me anything. I will not love you any less.”

  “I do not want to make you cry.”

  “Too late for that, little dragon.”

  He stiffened at the nickname, jaw clenching.

  “Kai? What is it?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Nothing. Not really. He calls me that, but only when I please him.”

  Imarasu straightened her skirts as she drew her knees up in a reflection of his own position. Her warmth reassured him “Did he beat you?”

  “Yes.” Safer to give her that much knowledge than the whole truth.

  She shattered that hope with her next question. “Why didn’t you come home?”

  He lowered his knees to sit tailor-style. With his index finger, he dug a stone out of the grass and lobbed it into the water. It fell with a dull, hollow plunk. “I tried.”

  “Surely Mimeru—” She stopped and took several careful breaths. “Mimeru would not stand by silently while he abused you.”

  “No, Mama. She did her best to help me.”

  Voices drifted from the path behind them, workers on their way to the fields. One of them laughed. The good humor made a stark, awkward contrast to the vision of his sister laying in the road with the quarrel in her eye, blood as bright as rubies across the snow.

  “I haven’t heard from her since—” Imarasu had to pause again to make her voice behave. “Since shortly after the wedding. I’ve written, but there’s been no word.”

  Had no one discovered her body? What had Bairith done with her? How long had it been? Years… Sherakai dug in the grass for another stone, but all he found were roots and dirt. “He wouldn’t let me write to you.” He waited for this change of subject to fail as badly as the first.

  His mother gave him a worried frown. “She’s worsened, hasn’t she?”

  That was one way to put it. It was wrong to keep news of her daughter’s death from her. What words would make it easier for her to bear?

  “She was so sick,” she continued, oblivious. “I wanted to go to the Gates, but Papa forbade it. My children,” she lamented.

  He put his arm around her. “She is better now.” No pain, no sorrow, no fear. “Lord Chiro is… domineering.”

  “He let you come to visit. Surely you could have brought her with you.”

  “It was not my choice,” he murmured.

  “Kai?” Imarasu straightened and turned a puzzled frown on him. “Why didn’t he send a guard with you to keep you safe?”

  He bit back a bark of inappropriate laughter. “I didn’t need one, Mama.” He ducked his head.

  “With the Romuri raiding and thieving as they are? And that—that monster of theirs butchering everyone in its path?”

  The label she gave him only drew a sigh.

  “It’s—it’s reckless and irresponsible,” she went on. “After what happened to your father—” A wildness came over her and she clutched the fabric of her gown in both hands. “How dare he put you in danger like that?” she hissed.

  It took a moment to process. Bairith had lied about his father’s death. Of course he had, but to what purpose? Establishing his own innocence? Setting himself up as the hero, riding the filthy murdering enemy down? His mother wasn’t the right person to ask.

  Sherakai searched for soothing words, stroking her hair. The gray in it was coarse and out of place. “The Romuri were driven back. There are none for fifty miles or more.”

  “Did he at least continue your lessons in swordplay?”

  Play was not a word he would have chosen. “He did. I can amply defend myself, I promise.”

  She twisted to face him. “You dislike it. Swords and killing.” Sharp. Challenging. Eyes narrowing.

  “True.”

  She gave a little snort and relaxed against him again, looking out over the water. “And people believe the rumors that you’ve fought in the war. There, do you see the ducks?” She pointed. Sunlight glinted on the iridescent blue and emerald feathers of two matriarchs and their young.

  Such innocents, gliding across the surface like monarchs of their domain, unaware how swiftly they could turn into dinner. “Mama…”

  “Look at those adorable little ducklings. See how the sun makes them glow?”

  Her own trusted men had pointed out his involvement in the conflict with the Romuri. He had not denied it. “Mama.”

  She lifted her faded green eyes to his, reluctant apprehension chasing away the moment’s animation.<
br />
  “I was in the war. It is likely I will be again.”

  She stared at him. Opened her mouth. Closed it again. He wished he did not have to watch the struggle between denial and grief. “What did he do to you?” she whispered.

  Sherakai took her hand in his. He traced each of her fingers, then lifted them to kiss gently. The stark expression in her eyes threatened his resolve. He pressed another kiss to her forehead. Was it wrong to ask for her help when his story would break her heart? He wasn’t certain he could go on without her level-headed advice and maternal comfort. Stars, but he had missed that… “This time with you,” he said slowly, “is helping me sort things out. I need to try to put them in order.”

  He was scaring her. She trembled like a bird, eyes wide, cheeks ghost pale. Her hand turned in his and gripped tight. The effort needed to keep her composure must have been monumental. “Of course,” she managed.

  “I love you, Mama. More than anything.”

  Her mouth quivered. “Not more than horses, though.”

  “Yes, more than horses. Very much more than horses.”

  Doubt warred with hope. “You will tell me? Later?”

  “I will tell you. I promise.” He would tell her what he could, what he dared.

  “I have herbs to tend to.” I will hold you to that, her eyes said.

  “Would you like some help?”

  She sniffed and drew herself up, the mantle of jansu-sa settling around her shoulders. “Do you have the time?”

  He got his feet underneath him and stood to give her an elegant bow. “I am at my lady mother’s service.”

  Chapter 51

  Sherakai was aware of a figure approaching behind him long before it stopped a dozen feet from him. It was no threat, so he said nothing. Neither did his visitor. He could wait, tenaciously if necessary. It was not. The figure slipped to the side and crept nearer before stopping again. Waiting. Watching. From the corner of his eye, he made out a blue dress with a pale yellow apron tied over it. Kanya, with a basket gripped in both hands, stood poised like a deer ready to flee at the first movement. He plucked a piece of grass and gazed out over the field. The Indimi-o per’la Tojitu had taken flight upon his arrival, but he had the advantage of a small hillside overlooking them. While most of them grazed, five or six dashed back and forth. Flaxen manes and tails gleamed, spirits high.

  After a moment or two, he picked several more stalks and began to knot them together.

  His visitor edged closer. “Why are you sitting here?”

  “Because the grass smells good.” Because sunshine and blue sky. Because wrestling matches he always lost to his older brothers. “There’s a nice view here, too.” Beyond the hedgerows dividing the pastures, the land sloped into a distance filled with rolling hills and patches of forest stitched together with sparkling streams.

  “Aren’t you hot?”

  He glanced up from his work to look at the sun, at the horses, then back down again. “It feels good. Like the way a slice of bread right from the oven tastes.”

  She considered this seriously, then inched closer. “That is a silly thing to say.”

  He nodded. “Most likely.”

  She kept her gaze on his flying fingers. “What are you making?”

  “Well…” He frayed a few blades with his thumbnail, “There was once a little girl—I’m sure she’s grown now and has become a beautiful young lady. I used to make grass dollies for her, just to see her smile.”

  Kanya put her basket down and sat beside him where she could better watch his creation take shape. “You must have liked to see her smile a lot.”

  “Oh, I did. It made her cheeks bright and her eyes shine. It gave her the prettiest little sparkle of mischief.”

  “You promised you would write to me.”

  He nodded again. “I know. I am sorry I did not. There was a cruel ogre guarding the paper and ink; he let no one past.”

  “There’s no such thing as ogres.”

  He crooked a brow at her. “That is not true. I have seen them myself.”

  Eyes the same color as his own widened. “You have?”

  “Yes. They come in a surprising number of shapes and sizes and colors.”

  “I thought they were supposed to be brown.”

  He added blades of grass as he continued to shape the doll. “Maybe the people that wrote about brown ogres didn’t know about the others.”

  “Did they frighten you?”

  He gave her another sideways glance. “How old are you, Kanya?”

  Small fists knotted in her lap. He should remember! “Nearly fifteen.”

  The same age he’d been when Bairith captured him. His brow wrinkled. He’d fit an impossible length of time in those two or so years. “Then yes, they did frighten me.”

  “Why is my age important?”

  “You are old enough now to understand that sometimes even adults are afraid.”

  “I learned that a long time ago,” she said, very prim, very matter-of-fact.

  “I suppose you did,” he murmured. More leaves and more fraying produced a skirt for the doll. It took two tries for him to get it tied on properly. He held it in the palm of his hand, remembering how bright the days before Elinasha’s wedding had been.

  “For you, my lady,” he said, holding it out to her. “I’m afraid I’m a little out of practice.”

  She frowned at it. “I thought you forgot me.”

  “Oh, Kanya…” Instinctively, he reached for her. She shied away. How many knives did Lord Chiro have to pierce Sherakai’s heart? “I will never forget you, no matter how far I am or how old I get. I swear it.”

  She said nothing. Sherakai let his gaze fall to the slightly misshapen doll. He could not even tell her he’d remembered her every day. Instead, he had buried memories of those he loved deep inside, away from Bairith’s attention so that the mage could not tarnish them or take them from him.

  Kanya took the sad little gift. “It’s beautiful,” she said, and leaned near to him to kiss his cheek, then got to her feet. “Mama asked me to bring you to her sitting room if I found you. Will you come?”

  The sound of Imarasu’s clear, sweet alto came to them before they arrived at the chamber. Face alight, Kanya smiled up at Sherakai, then hurried ahead. He found her on a low stool at his mother’s side. Imarasu sat near the wide windows, a small harp propped against one shoulder as she played and sang. Her eyes lifted when he leaned against the doorframe to listen, and she smiled at him.

  She sang of pastoral things, fields and streams, sunlight and birdsong. It was a song she had often sung when he was home, before everything had come apart. Arms folded, Sherakai’s fingers kept the rhythm, tapping against one elbow. When she reached the chorus, Imarasu bowed her head to him in an invitation to join in. He declined silently but drew up a bench worn smooth by the backsides of many Tanoshi children.

  Kanya joined her, though, and Sherakai thought he had never heard a sound so sweet. “That was pretty, Mama,” she said when the song ended.

  “Thank you, sweetling, for lending your voice.”

  “It was pretty,” Sherakai agreed. “Will you sing another?”

  “Only if you will join us,” Imarasu announced.

  He shook his head. “I haven’t sung in a long time.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “It’s true,” Kanya piped up. “We don’t sing much anymore.” She chewed on her lip, suddenly self-conscious.

  “I can vouch for the sweetness of your voices. Mine would sound like a frog in comparison.”

  “I very much doubt that.” Imarasu plucked a few strings. “Will you humor an old woman and try?”

  “Please?” Kanya pleaded. “After a song or two, the frog will jump out and you’ll sound the way you used to.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m really—”

  “Delighted to accept our invitation?” Imarasu prompted.

  He held his hands out in defeat. “It’s your ears that wil
l suffer.”

  A delicate trill of notes issued from the harp. “Do you remember this one?”

  He hummed the line that came after, then nodded.

  “A brooklet runs

  Close by the edge

  Of the towering forest green.”

  Imarasu bobbed her head and added the stringed harmony. The melody danced through Sherakai’s memories, shaking free scenes of his mother gathering all the children to sing together. His father’s deep baritone had anchored them in song, in life.

  “The branches bow

  To dip their leaves

  In the cool and pleasant stream.”

  Kanya picked up the melody the same time Imarasu did, and the pair smiled at each other. Sherakai’s voice grew rough for a moment, but she took his hand in hers, and he smelled grass and sunshine. Because he’d done it a hundred times before, he dropped into a tenor harmony on the chorus.

  Too soon, the verses ended, marked by a flourish on the harp. Kanya clapped her hands and Sherakai could not help a crooked smile of pleasure.

  “Look at you.” His mother’s eyes were suddenly damp. “You are so beautiful when you smile.”

  He ducked his head.

  “Boys aren’t beautiful,” Kanya informed her, taking her grass dolly from the basket to straighten its outrageous hair. “They’re handsome.”

  “Yes, they are. Some more than others.”

  “You, my lady, may be slightly prejudiced,” Sherakai murmured.

  “Sing for us, Kai?” Hope shone in Kanya’s eyes. “Just you. I saw the frog jump out. You sang wonderfully.”

  Was she using the doll against him? Sherakai quirked a brow at his mother. “You planned this, didn’t you?” he accused without any ill will. He felt the fraud. A patricidal, often berserk ogre, getting cozy with his unsuspecting dinner.

  Saints protect him, he had yet to eat people.

  “Yes.” She flashed a victorious smile. “How well did I do?”

  To his own ears, his answering snort sounded a trifle desperate, but Imarasu strummed her harp, choosing a song he knew well and loved. My Love She is the Fairest Light. Romantic, fanciful. He’d had to sing it in a higher key than his older brothers. She chose the original pitch. “You would make a brutal general,” he surrendered, and cleared his throat.