“Hush!” he hissed, driving his fist into the man’s face.
The familiar burn of energy and anger under his skin assured their deaths.
“Not now, not now, not now,” he chanted between gritted teeth. Crouched on the steps, he rocked to keep that energy from exploding through him and ruining everything.
Feathers, he wished. “Gods, Ru! Where are you? Help me. Please help me…”
The rakeshi’s claws scraped his senses. Impatient. Hungry.
He dumped the bodies in an empty room and continued up the stairs. “I can’t do this. No—you can’t do this. Not now. Do you want to be Bairith Mindar’s thrall forever? We can’t leave anything here but ruin. Do you understand?” he shouted, pacing through his chambers furiously.
His skin shivered, and he tasted anticipation. Was it a reprieve?
Move, just move.
The slave boy crept out from the little bed he’d built behind the couch, pale as a ghost. Fear rounded his eyes and blanched his features.
“You,” Sherakai ground out, and the boy covered his face, bent in half on his knees. The rakeshi’s instincts carried him across the room in four strides and lifted the boy to slam him against the wall.
He cried out. Tears ran down his cheeks from clenched eyes, but he didn’t fight back. Didn’t even grab hold of his captor’s arms as anyone might instinctively do.
Helpless. Innocent…
“You are Bairith Mindar’s spy.” He thumped the boy against the wall again, half furious, half forgiving.
“He makes me!” The boy still kept his gaze down. “Please don’t kill me, sir. Please…”
“What do you suggest I do instead?” The harshness of his voice only made the boy shrink. “I can’t let you go.”
“Knock me out. Tie me up. Please,” he begged.
Which was more insane—to murder a child or to let him go free to ruin this single, slender chance of escape?
“Fine.” He let the boy go and took a step back.
The boy collapsed.
“Gods above and demons below, get up. Bring me a belt from the wardrobe. Quick, now.”
The boy staggered up and hurried into the bedchamber. When he reappeared, he had the belt and a cloth in one hand and a small jar of salve in the other. “Y-you’re hurt.” He pointed to Sherakai’s roughly bandaged hand. “P-please let m-me tend you? Before you—” He bit his lip and bent his head so far his chin touched his chest.
It would be easy to hate himself right now. “Best hurry,” Sherakai said, his voice a fraction softer. Instinct told him he couldn’t waste time, couldn’t trust this child.
Shivering with terror, the boy did as he was told. He bared the wound and washed it with a touch both trembling and surprisingly gentle. Afterward, he smeared it with enough salve to cover Sherakai’s entire forearm. Excess was safer than failure. When he finished bandaging it again, he held out his hands, wrists together.
Sherakai scowled. “Help me into my gear. You know how?”
The boy bobbed his head up and down like a maniacal toy and fetched him a fresh tunic. His eyes widened all over again at the weight of the coin-heavy jerkin from the arena. Then came his war gear—battlefield armor and sturdy boots, weapons taken from the downed guards, his own knives. He had a small pack with food enough to get him through a few days, and his field kit in case he was injured. Dropping the little jar of bleakstone powder in his pocket, he coiled lengths of twine steeped in rosin and stuffed them in his belt pouch.
He looked up to find the boy standing stiff as a staff, face scrunched and shoulders hunched. “I said I wouldn’t kill you.”
The boy jerked a nod, clearly disbelieving.
“Come here.”
What could he do but come?
From his pocket he took three silver coins and pressed them into the slave boy’s hand. “These are mine. I want you to have them. Now… turn around.” He guided him so the child’s back pressed against his belly. He folded stick-like arms across his chest and trapped them there with one arm. The other hooked around the boy’s neck.
Silently, the boy cried.
“I am going to put you to sleep, besh me. You’ll wake in a few minutes or so. When it goes badly, and it will, just run as fast and as far from here as you can, understand?”
Another jerky nod.
“Thank you for all the nights you’ve kept me company.” Sherakai squeezed until the fragile body went limp. It made him angry that the boy didn’t fight back when he thought himself dying. Bairith's fault. Gently, he deposited the little spy on the bed. None of his own things would fit the boy, but he wrapped a pair of good, heavy tunics in a blanket, fastened it with a pair of belts and tucked the boy’s hand beneath one in the hope he’d understand he was to take the lot.
Then it was back down the stairs, openly this time.
“Halt!” A trio of guards met him on the ground floor. Two aimed cocked crossbows at him.
“We’re under attack,” he bit out. “Do you want my help or not?”
“It’s not you?”
He canted his head. “If it was, wouldn’t you be dead now?”
They shifted nervously, the way they always did. He recognized them. Two of them enjoyed having him in chains so they could heap abuse on him. Insults. Refuse. Well-aimed kicks. He cracked his knuckles. He should crack their heads for what they’d done.
“Where are you headed?” the third asked.
“The fire. The fight. Stay out of my way.” He didn’t linger to see whether they’d agree with him, offer to help him hunt, or run away screaming. Brushing past them, he left the corridor and headed for the kitchens.
He had another mage to kill.
Chapter 70
Surveying the chaos in the kitchen from beside a wide door, Sherakai concluded that he failed miserably as a strategist. First the nameless woman, then the mages, now this. “Make up fronts,” his father had once told him. “Prepare for the absolute worst on every side.“ He’d never fully comprehended that advice before.
He stepped out of sight and leaned against the wall to consider his options.
Why was the corridor empty?
Whatever the reason, only a fool would let the opportunity pass. What is the worst thing that could happen? he asked himself in his father’s voice. Apart from the healer, there might be a mage or two left—he didn’t know actual numbers. Soldiers were the next likely threat. Servants might attack.
How will they do that?
Boiling water or fat. A rolling pin or pan. A torch.
He grabbed a lamp from its hook on the wall, drew a knife, and strode down the corridor. While lighting the lengths of silk he’d hidden where the oil was stored, a pair of servants came in.
One of them shouted before he died.
The other only froze in place, which was a sad way to go, but unavoidable.
Why are you so calm?
He lit the last wick and headed out the door. Because I’ve waited a long time for this. Another thought occurred to him. Bairith taught me well, and Mimeru told me to use everything I learned to defeat him. Everything.
He’d learned to lie, manipulate, steal, cheat, sneak, and kill with terrifying skill. The woman—Bairith’s wife or mistress—had taught him, too. Her lesson? Sacrifice.
The butler was nowhere in sight when Sherakai came to the cellars. Bypassing the superb stock of wines, he went straight for potent drinks. He worked swiftly, uncorking half a dozen bottles and setting them in a box. To those he added lengths of prepared cord, then did the same to the bigger casks. He set them afire, lit the cords in his collection of bottles, picked up the box, and strode out.
As he passed doorways, he chucked his incendiaries into storage rooms. Near the kitchen doors, a few folk milled around. A lanky man wearing an apron saw him and pointed.
“What are you doing down here?”
He put down the empty box and held up both hands. “You need to leave. All of you.” Not slowing, he shoved through the
little knot. “People!” he shouted to get their attention. He didn’t want to kill them or cause their deaths. If he could get them moving, many might be saved. Predictably, someone screamed when they noticed him. “People, the castle is under attack. You must get to safety.”
“He’s going to kill us!” a woman quavered, pressing the hem of her apron to her cheeks.
“Are you?” Another woman pushed forward. Strong-jawed and brown-haired, the insignia of the healers hung on a cord around her neck.
“It’s a popular opinion. The jansu requires your attention. I’ll take you to him.”
“Is he wounded?”
Sherakai tipped his head to one side. “He is unwell. He excused himself from dinner to go to his rooms. The attack began shortly after.”
“Is it possible he was poisoned?” A frown puckered her brow.
Behind the mage, the uneasy servants grew even more restless. “What are we going to do? Where will we go?” they demanded.
The concussion from the cellar staggered Sherakai and saved him from answering anyone. He gripped the healer’s shoulders to keep them both up. His vision shifted. Muffled screaming filled his ears. Terrified servants, stablehands, and a few soldiers tangled in a frenzy of confusion. Sherakai dragged the healer out the door and down the hallway. Smoke billowed from the rooms behind them and flames shot out the doors.
The mage struck at him and shouted words he couldn’t make out. Sidestepping into an alcove, he pressed her roughly against the wall. His hand over her mouth stoppered her protests. Suddenly still, she stared at him with wide eyes. Her heart thundered like a wild thing. The delicate scent she wore teased him, insisting on identification.
He did not have time for this…
Chamomile?
Waves of terrified energy surrounded him. The demon’s claws pricked at him relentlessly. His plan and his need demanded action. In spite of the assault on his senses, Sherakai couldn’t kill her.
He lifted his hand to hold up a warning finger. “Stay with them,” he growled. “Help them.”
“What—what about the jansu?”
“Do you know where your partner is?” he asked. I do. Dead in the bottom of a wardrobe. Such an undignified price to pay for his master’s offenses.
“In the infirmary or his rooms. I’m not sure…”
He nodded. “Get these people safe.”
“What will you—Yes. I will.”
“Hurry.” Letting her go, he stepped back, a fist pressed against his forehead as if that might dislodge the rakeshi.
She hesitated, then ran. A moment later he heard her shouting instructions. A male voice joined hers and soon the servants streamed out the other side of the kitchen. Away from him. Away from the stairs and the gathering hall.
Fires and mayhem in at least two of the castle’s wings quashed the need to work in secret. Sherakai plucked a torch from its holder. One of the weapons he’d taken from the soldiers was a long-handled war hammer with a heavy iron head on one side and a curved spike on the other. He gave it an experimental swing as he trotted into the hall. The familiar, eerie glow of the rakeshi’s vision outlined everything. A half-dozen people milled about, aristocrats by their clothing. They caught sight of him and fled through nearby doorways, brief sparks swirling in the wind of catastrophe.
Moving swiftly, Sherakai thrust the torch into draperies and tapestries, lit the wicks on the devices he’d set, and kicked over candelabra. Predictably, the nobles sent their guards to deal with him. The torch and hammer made a fine pair of weapons. The demon working its way toward freedom didn’t care who got in front of it or why.
Chaos, Sherakai thought, inside and out.
‘Less thinking, more wrecking’ did not diminish the rakeshi’s keen awareness of its surroundings. It guided the body it wore around billowing flames and away from falling stonework. It moved him against fire-lit shadows bearing swords and lances.
Beautiful, beautiful chaos…
This was not the same as the scores of times he’d observed disaster from a virtual prison in his own head. Almost, he felt like two beings working in tandem. Almost… Still, when he tried to seize control, his will was swatted aside like a cat flicking away an annoying fly.
Once again at the top of the stairs leading down to the gathering hall, the rakeshi paused. A familiar scent caught its attention. Sweet cicely. It turned around in a complete circle, sifting through the smell of smoke to find the source.
“SherakaaaAAAIIII!” The sound of the name built from a shout to a roar. The smoke below shifted to purple and parted like curtains drawn, revealing the figure of Bairith Mindar, Jansu Chiro.
Chapter 71
The mage held a black staff before him. Thick strands of aro twisted from its base like roots through the floor, connecting it to the Heart. From its length power pulsed, creating a wavering spherical halo. He lifted a cylindrical container. Purple light winked off a bracelet encircling one wrist and attached to rings on each finger by chains. The words he whispered to it scraped and clawed like thorns against the ears.
Pure, unadulterated fury swept through Sherakai—through the rakeshi—a fire in its own right. He leaped down the stairs at the hated mage. As he did, Bairith threw the vessel to the ground. It burst like glass and a multitude of inky shadows spewed from it. Kathraul’en. They shrieked with unholy glee as they swarmed up the steps and wrapped around the rakeshi’s legs, scratching, biting, tearing. The war hammer obliterated a dozen or more with every stroke. In the other hand, the torch he still held did the same.
Sherakai wanted to scream in frustration and run away before it was too late.
The rakeshi wanted blood. With a roar, he hurled the hammer at his foe. It slammed to a standstill inches before Bairith’s staff.
The jansu lurched backward, but kept himself upright.
Yanking a sword free of its sheath, the rakeshi waded through the kathraul’en. Slashed to ribbons, the shadow things shrieked and fluttered and disintegrated. Still more of them clung to him, digging in their talons, biting, hissing their spiteful lies. The rakeshi hit the barrier that had stopped the hammer. It gave but did not fail.
Bairith sneered. “Do you imagine you are a match for me, boy?”
The rakeshi shifted one foot for balance and set to hacking at the shield. At the same time, he deliberately pushed the torch forward. Its flame sparked, jumped, shivered as it moved closer and closer.
Consternation preceded a barked command. It was in that same, hackle-raising language Bairith had used to loose the kathraul’en. The shadows needed little encouragement to renew their attack.
Without the slightest hesitation, the rakeshi pulled the spluttering torch from the shield of air and whipped it through the heaving black mass. The shrieking continued, but with a mind-bending warp of pitch.
Bairith pushed the staff forward. Dense air wrapped around the rakeshi’s face and filled his nose and mouth. He fell to one knee, dropped the torch, and swung his blade double-handed. The connecting blow created a tremendous, rippling shock wave that tumbled him over twice and sent him sprawling.
The mage staggered sideways, weaving like a drunkard. Blood trickled from his nose and his ear. He put out a hand to steady himself, rage glaring from his eyes.
With a howl and a shake of his head, the rakeshi was up again. He kicked the sputtering torch across the floor toward the mage’s robes. Scooping up the war hammer as he ran, he lobbed it hard. It struck Bairith’s shoulder, spinning him around. Flames shot up the cloth. With a cry, he shrugged them off and staggered away, falling to his knees.
Purple-tinged smoke billowed outward, enveloping the rakeshi. It stung his eyes as much as the kathraul’en claws stung his skin under the torn fabric of his shirt sleeves. Worse, it made him dizzy. It also revived memories of the rune-carved chamber far beneath the keep. He backed away from it, one arm over his face, burning eyes casting about for a weapon, a solution.
“Found your Fire, did you?” Bairith asked, reg
aining his feet. Was that a hitch in his voice? “Didn’t I say you would? I always knew the strength in you. The determination. I put it there, little dragon. I made you. You are mine now and forever. You can no more change that than you can change the path of the sun.”
Shadows hissed and wound up the rakeshi’s legs. Sharp claws pricked through leather pants. The splinted greaves didn’t slow them a whit. The rakeshi swept them off with his sword, but the multitude had no visible end. More roiled closer to take their place.
Flames consumed a pair of couches to his left. He waded into the flames. Kathraul’en screamed and died. Bairith cried out in pain. Ruthlessly, the rakeshi drew on the energy of that sweet, awful emotion. On the other side of the blaze, he found a woven mat, singed on one long edge. He ripped it in half and tied the pieces around his shins with the rope he’d turned into wicks. The irony was not lost. Walking through the fire burned the kathraul’en, made his greaves hot, set his leather gear to smoking. He flexed his free hand and shook it. The burns darkened, drawing a growl from deep within his chest.
A solid fist of air punched his back, throwing him to the floor. He nearly lost the sword. Flames scorched his face. He dropped flat and pulled himself along the tiles until he was clear, coughing and blinking. Somewhere in this ruin there had to be water. He tasted the air, grimacing at the flavor. A table, a ghost of luxury in the madness, took shape. A splotch of red and white rimmed with orange sat atop it.
From overhead came a deep, groaning noise. Stones tumbled and bounced, cracking the floor, punching holes through wrecked chairs.
“Do you think you can hide from me?” Bairith’s voice drifted through the smoke, overcame the crackle and hiss of flames.
Kathraul’en skittered along beside the rakeshi. Climbed onto his arms and shoulders. Caught hold of his hair and whispered at him.
Rabbit, rabbit, trying to hide. We seeeee you…
Almost perfect.
Never quite.
Never right.
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