He tried to relax the way his father had taught him. The Meditations were written so long ago the authors had been forgotten. The words created patterns. The patterns were designed to soothe. Little by little, he became aware of aches and pains, trophies from the struggle after—after the box had been opened. No, I don’t want to think of that! In his mind's eye, his brother’s lifeless hand had flopped onto the dais. His unseeing eyes had stared blankly at the beautiful colored torches.
His head jerked up.
“Shh. Still,” Beseni whispered, turning to the door. The edge of his knife caught the light from the lamp, but Omakan put it out and plunged the room in blackness.
The sound that had awakened Sherakai came again, a little tapping pattern. He held his breath, fearful, expectant. A hiss, then a snick came to his ears. A line of brightness split the dark from floor to ceiling. He squinted as it grew. Beseni slipped out and the door closed partway again. Omakan stood between Sherakai and the exit, eyes on the hall outside, blades in both hands. The scant light showed a wildly fierce expression. Before he could question it, the door opened wide.
“Sherakai.” The figure stood in silhouette, but the voice was unmistakably Nayuri’s. “Come with me.”
He stumbled a little as he jumped down from the crate. To his surprise, Omakan’s hand on his arm steadied him. That quick, the blades disappeared. “Thank you,” he murmured instinctively, and followed Nayuri out into the hall. Lamps burned at uneven intervals. The guards fell in behind as they made their way through the twists and turns, then up the stairs that led to the main floor of the keep.
The high windows let in the weak gray light of early dawn. Absently, Sherakai brushed at the dirt and cobwebs staining his clothes, drew a hand down his face, then wondered if he was just smearing grime. An eery quiet filled hallways that had only yesterday resonated with voices and music.
“Where is everyone?”
Nayuri, impeccable in his uniform but looking as though he’d had no sleep, said nothing.
“My father?”
“In his study.”
“Is he all right?”
“As well as can be expected.”
Sherakai quickened his pace to keep up, his heart skipping a beat. “Is he wounded?” he demanded, laying a hand on the captain’s arm.
It did not slow his steps. “Only in his heart.”
“What about Fazare and Imitoru? Have you news?”
“I am sure your father will tell you everything he wishes you to know, Master Sherakai.”
He wanted to scream his impatience. Teeth clenched, he let the captain move him swiftly into the gathering hall and from there to the corridor where the study lay. A servant waited outside the door with a bowl of water, a wet cloth, and a fresh tunic. He held the bowl while Sherakai washed, then looked askance at the wild hair, but said nothing. Dirty wedding finery exchanged, Beseni tended to Sherakai’s hair, twisting it into a utilitarian braid. Sherakai fastened buttons from neck to shoulder, then down to his hip. The servant handed him a sash.
“Thank you,” he murmured to them both, and the guard merely inclined his head. Sherakai looked from him to Omakan. “I’m sorry. For earlier.” His apology won a smile from Beseni and a nod of approval from the other.
“Come, Master Sherakai. Your father is waiting.” Nayuri opened the door and moved out of the way.
Tugging the sash straight and lifting his chin, Sherakai stepped inside.
Chapter 14
Glorious sunlight challenged the solemnity of Tasan dan Tameko’s Departing Rites. Bright birds whistled brazenly as they flitted overhead. Saffron banners, the color of mourning, fluttered in the breeze. The tantalizing scent of furan kore-o wafted through the air. Sherakai remembered the little cakes from his grandfather’s funeral. Delicate almond confections with creamy filling, woven pastry tops resembled the covers of coffins. Morbid, but delicious. After devouring at least a dozen he’d snuck back for more. Chakkan was less proper then. He'd used a lidded tankard for a stash the pair of them hid in the stable loft for a midnight treat. Now the thought of eating anything made him queasy.
The priest’s voice rose and fell in a gentle melody. In the Shiran tradition, the Old Tongue was used for prayers and chants. Although Sherakai understood the essence, he didn’t want to focus on the words that sent his brother’s spirit into the afterlife. Grief filled the space where his family stood. He couldn’t block it. He couldn’t cry as the women did. He couldn’t look at his father either, knowing the jansu’s face would be as hard as though carved from stone.
And what was he? Empty as the drum the priest’s acolyte beat with a stick wrapped in wool. Hollow. A second boy rhythmically shook a hollow gourd filled with grain. It made a soft, shushing noise that did nothing to comfort anyone.
The castle is secure, Papa had told him after he’d been freed from the storage room. Beseni and Omakan will stay with you while you sleep.
Sleep? I can’t sleep. Not after—
You will. I need you rested, Sherakai. Your mother has readied a drink for you. It will help.
It had. He’d slept dreamlessly and woken stiff, as though he hadn’t moved in days. Most of the trappings from the wedding were taken down while he was insensible. In their place hung ribbons of washed-out orange tied with the feathers of crows and ravens to remind the departed to fly straight into the arms of the All Father. The ravens, heavenly messengers and guardians, would protect him on his journey.
What dangers did spirits face? He remembered nothing useful from the priest’s lessons. There were many stories about men suffering the whims of the lesser gods, and only a handful of tales recounting divine intervention in times of trouble. The gods had their entertainment and when the spirit left its mortal shell why would they care?
He fidgeted, wanting to escape the weight of emotions around him, and the reminders of his own loss. His mother put a hand on his shoulder, pinning him in place with a touch as light as a blade of grass. Imarasu kept her attention straight ahead, silent tears streaming down her face. She had never seemed so beautiful, nor so fragile. His gaze followed hers to the banners fluttering behind the priest. The House colors hung on lower poles and took a secondary position to the mourning banners. Horses on a burnt-orange field signified the herds Tanoshi raised and trained. Blue with a silver compass star angled through the corner. Strength and endurance in service. The house motto. Tasan's service had ended.
This loss was hard to endure. How much worse must it be for his parents? Only a few weeks ago he’d seen Tasan lean on Papa’s shoulder while the two of them watched Tasan’s little son Kirenko play at sword-fighting. “When you told me I couldn’t know a parent’s feelings for his child until I had one, I didn’t really understand,” he’d said with a crooked, rueful smile. “It is more satisfying—and terrifying—than I ever imagined.”
Tameko had nodded, a pleased expression on his rugged face. “And it never ends.”
“I still terrify you?”
“You, no. The events you’re involved in, yes. But seeing you work, watching you with your family—I am so proud of the man you’ve become.”
Jealousy had stabbed Sherakai’s heart. How he wanted his father to look at him with such warmth of approval! He hadn’t thought then of the son Tasan had lost. Little Kirenko hadn’t understood where Dasaki had gone, and kept asking when his older brother would come home. Slouching down in his seat, he eyed the toes of his boots glumly. Tasan was wonderful. Sherakai was… impulsive, reckless, and given to daydreaming. He didn’t know where to even begin learning to be like Tasan.
Imarasu’s grip on his shoulder tightened. He wondered if she didn’t have some small Gift. How else could she drag him upright again without a single word? There came the sound of rustling as people got to their feet. Sheepish, he realized the service had nearly come to an end. Standing, Imarasu leaned on Tameko. Sherakai rose, then stood there like a pole trying to decide what to do with his hands. He cast a sidelong glance past his m
other. Tameko stood with fingers loosely linked in front of his body and his back straight. Sherakai mimicked his father’s stance.
The priest and his acolyte lifted their voices in the Farewell. The congregation hummed a plaintive bass mourning in response. Fare well. How did a dead person fare at all? Did a spirit get hacked to pieces along with its body?
Remembrance of Tasan’s arm tumbling onto the platform prompted a string of visions from his awful dreams. Limbs making their impossible way across the ground on their own. Swarms of black flies everywhere. Headless Tasan walking about, unable to direct his feet. In the dream he still had his feet.
Marks on his remains bore mute testament that he’d fought hard. That’s what the whispered rumors said, and Sherakai couldn’t imagine Tasan’s death any other way. At least not while he was awake…
His mother’s tears ran unchecked. Papa’s, too.
What would Tasan do if he were here now, at someone else’s funeral?
Strength and endurance in service.
How might he serve?
He linked his arm with his mother’s and she took Sherakai’s hand. Her grip was painful, but after the first breathless shock he squeezed back. She relaxed a fraction. The gentle, deep hum seemed made to fit the magic and he had no difficulty at all drawing it into himself. He held it, eddying within, trying to decide how best to offer comfort. He’d done it with the animals, but his mother was not an animal. It was the same principle, though, wasn’t it?
Gently and tenderly, he formed the magic into peace, into relief. When the shape satisfied him, he eased it around his mother like a shawl. He felt her tension dissipate, though the grief remained, an inconsolable weight on her frail shoulders. Not perfect, but better.
Her eyes met his. After a moment or two, she squeezed his fingers again.
The tears he lost were for her.
The Farewell ended at last, and the congregation drifted away, leaving the family alone for a moment of private prayer and meditation. Hushed voices drifted across the yard. Even the children kept quiet, restrained by the air of sadness.
Sherakai wiped his tears away and lifted his head. Gaze drawn to the House banner and its flowing horses, his vision blurred again. Tasan would never again ride at the head of a herd of the Indimi-o, racing the wind. It was so wrong.
He bit his lower lip between his teeth.
The aro slipped from his grasp. Imarasu drew his hand through the crook of her arm even as an odd caress swept through his core. Startled, he looked at the people surrounding him.
Bairith’s sea-blue eyes held Sherakai’s, piercing, demanding. He’d never realized how indescribably intense they were. If he could have moved, he’d have answered that summoning. Then, as if nothing unusual had happened at all, his brother-in-law bent his attention to Mimeru.
The priest struck a small brass gong, and the acolytes came to tie black feathers into the braids of family members. The departed would be safe, protected and guided by the messengers of the Creator. Friends and relatives escorted the family away from death and back to the warmth of the living.
As people milled about, someone laid a hand on Sherakai’s shoulder. Bairith, somber and unsmiling, urged him to turn. He shifted his hand to the youth’s jaw and studied him for a long moment. “I know how close you and your brother were. He was a fine man and we will all miss him.”
The desire to shove the man away, to shout useless imprecations at him, at whoever had murdered Tasan, and at the gods almost overcame him. "Did your brother get killed?" he asked, blunt and angry.
"Yes." The lack of inflection robbed the announcement of emotion. "I hope you will take advantage of me. Of whatever I may offer to help you."
Comfort seeped through Bairith's touch. “Thank you,” Sherakai said stiffly. Blind, aching, he jerked away to lose himself in the crowd.
Chapter 15
Only two days after Tasan’s Departing Rites, he still ached, head and heart. He did not want to meet with anyone, but it would be rude to keep such an honorable guest waiting upon Sherakai’s mood. Our lives go on, Papa had informed him. You can do this.
Proctor Omuri from the school in Kesurechi was not at all what Sherakai had expected. Tall and slender without being boney, he radiated an air of easy confidence. He wore a short, fitted tunic of vivid azure with wide, slashed sleeves and an undershirt of goldenrod. Breeches of dark plum were tucked into his boots. The boots were marvelous. Off-white with deep cuffs, etched brass disks for the laces marched in a line down the outer sides. Rings bedecked his fingers and delicate slivers of bright metal hung from his ears. He would have looked like a dandy but for the way he shone. Bold clothing aside, the man vibrated with energy.
“Young master, I am Omuri dan Enirun, proctor for the Ayama College of Magic. I am so pleased to meet you,” Omuri greeted with a quirk of his mouth and complicated flourish of his hand.
It was not a proper bow. The word foreign came to mind. He hesitated, then inclined his body slightly, polite but not subservient. “Proctor,” he murmured. “You are to… test me? My father has written to the school already. What more is there to know?”
“Fathers sometimes exaggerate,” Omuri said without criticism.
“Not mine.”
“All the same, the college requires all prospective students to meet with a proctor and answer the questions put to him or her. Not even the children of kings are exempt.”
“I see. My apologies, I meant no insult.”
“None taken. I have had many responses, including violence, scorn, and insult. Mild surprise followed by unquestioning parental loyalty is a pleasant alternative.”
“Thank you, sir.” He had seen a lot of people over the past few days. Surely he would remember such a gaudy fellow. It would have been a subject fluttering from gossip to gossip. Elinasha would have been keen to talk to—and about—an interesting foreigner, but she was already gone to Kelamara with her husband's family. He couldn’t turn to his more traveled brothers, but Mimeru would still be at Tanoshi for a few more days. It was not the long visit he’d hoped for when Mama had suggested she could stay on, but he’d take what he could get. “I beg your pardon. I did not see you at the wedding…”
“Nevertheless, I was there.”
“Did you dress up for this meeting?” Too late, he realized how rude he sounded.
“No.” Humor gleamed in Omuri’s eyes. “I dressed down for the wedding. It seemed the polite thing to do. Your lovely sister was supposed to be the one capturing everyone’s attention. She wouldn’t have appreciated being eclipsed by an outsider.”
“Better a gaudy outsider than a dead brother. Not that you are gaudy, sir.” His cheeks flamed.
“That is true. I wish things had gone differently. I’m very sorry.”
“Why? You didn’t know him. You don’t know me.” The man’s presence during a time of personal tragedy only increased Sherakai’s resentment.
“Death is a difficult thing in the best of circumstances. Murder of a loved one is a horror no one should have to endure. The savagery inflicted on your family can have no excuse—and whatever prompted it is an excuse, make no mistake.” Thoughtfulness settled on Omuri like a cloak. After a moment he shook his head and rose from his casual perch on the corner of Tameko’s desk to move to the window. “Come here. Let me look at you.”
Obediently, Sherakai crossed the room to join the mage in the flood of bright sunlight. With a light touch Omuri took Sherakai’s chin and turned the boy’s head this way and that. His brows knitted, then he stepped back to fold his arms and lean one shoulder against the window frame. “What do you see when you look out the window?”
“My home. The courtyard. People and horses. The gate. Sky and sunlight.” No doubt his companion saw the same thing.
The proctor shook his head. “Anyone can see that. What do you see?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know if I can put it into words. Some things… glow. People and animals more than the keep or… or wagons
.” Narrowing his eyes, he focused on the scene below. “Plants less than animals. Inusha—that horse there with the arched neck and tail—has little sparks coming off her. She’s excited to run, but the horses in the wagon traces are dull. They’re tired and thirsty.”
“What color is Inusha’s glow?”
“G-greenish blue. Like turquoise.”
“What color is the glow of the wagon driver?”
His gaze shifted and held for the space of twenty or thirty heartbeats. “Sort of… gold. Tarnished brass, maybe.”
“And mine?”
The man’s earnest attention unsettled him. Focus vanished. “I don’t know.”
“You can do this,” he coaxed softly, and closed his eyes. “There. That should make it easier.”
“You were shielding.”
“Of course.”
Sherakai licked his lips. This was simple, he reminded himself. Just because someone was waiting for an answer didn’t change what it was or what he could do. He closed his own eyes and let the sounds of activity in the courtyard wash over him and ground him. Omuri breathed easily, neither moving nor speaking. Sherakai had the impression that the proctor enjoyed this. Taking a breath, he focused his vision on the man’s forehead. He gleamed. Not bright, but insistent. There was no mistaking the appearance of light around him. “Orange,” he said at last, “but it’s hard to make out. It is different than the wagoner.”
“Excellent.” Omuri opened his eyes with another smile.
“What is it? I saw my brothers glowing when we were at the Starglass. Why do people have different colors? And why does the color change if they are using magic?”
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