Blood and Shadow (The Mage's Gift Book 1)

by Robin Lythgoe

  The proctor laughed softly. “Have you turned into a magpie?”

  Sherakai blushed and ducked his head. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be. Passionate curiosity leads us to question and explore. It fuels our knowledge. To answer your questions, all things possess energy. Living things possess and use more. They give off light that only some spirit mages can see. It is called an ‘aura’ and it is colored by their personality and by their emotion. The aro itself is energy, and the colors you see correspond to the sphere being used. Fire is amber or orange, earth is green or brown, air is purple, water is blue.”

  “And spirit?”

  “Pure spirit is white, though it can gleam like polished silver.” A wistful look came into Omuri’s eyes, there and gone. “It is generally more complicated than that, though. It is often tinted by the user’s strongest secondary magic. You will learn more about that later. Now is not the time. Shall we sit? I will make some statements, and I want you to tell me if they are true or false. Listen here.” He tapped Sherakai’s chest.

  Sherakai followed him to the chairs in front of the empty fireplace, rubbing his breastbone. “What sort of statements, Proctor?” He knew only general information about magic unless it was his own. And what did the proctor know about that? About him?

  “True and false.” Amusement glimmering on him, he sat in Tameko’s chair and propped one elegantly booted foot over the opposite knee. “Your name is Sherakai dan Tameko.”

  “Yes,” he answered dubiously.

  “Your father is a good, noble man.”

  Sherakai frowned. “Yes, he is.” As if there could be any doubt.

  “He served as general of the army for the king until a few years ago.”

  “True.”

  “But he doesn’t quite understand you.”

  His frown deepened. “That is a trick question. Sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn’t.”

  “True, then.” Omuri’s fingers drummed on his knee. “Spirit magic is the greatest magic.”

  “True and false.”

  The proctor pointed at him sharply and nodded, then went back to drumming his fingers. “You’ve never been in love.”

  He colored. “True.”

  “That is not a bad thing. You’re young still. You dream in color.”

  “True, but what has that got to do with anything?”

  “I’ve never met a mage who didn’t dream in color. I am unmarried.”

  Sherakai blinked. “How would I know that?”

  Omuri tapped his chest. “Listen. I am unmarried,” he repeated.

  Why did his pulse race? Because he faced a challenge? How to conquer this one? His jaw worked as he considered his options. Then he focused again on Omuri’s brow, taking in the color of the glow that emanated from him and playing over in his head the three words he’d said. “True.”

  Omuri gave no indication if he’d guessed correctly or not. “Loyalties can change.”

  Chakkan’s earnest face appeared in his mind’s eye. His friend was loyal to the jansu, but he was also true to Sherakai. Would that someday change? He gave a little shake of his head. Focus, Kai. Was the man suggesting that his loyalties would take a new direction? Loyalty to what or who? No, whether they might or not was a question for the future. This question spoke to generalities. “True.”

  The test continued with Proctor Omuri firing declarations about a multitude of varied topics. They stopped once for a light meal, then moved on to another phase of the assessment. This time, he pressed Sherakai to name emotions in others, then to influence emotion upon them. He handled the first part well enough, but failed miserably at the second. In his opinion, it was wrong to deliberately manipulate feelings in another, and these people were friends or counted on the district for a living. Worse, they’d just suffered a horrible tragedy.

  Illusion, too, he failed, though he managed to conjure a faint, useless blob of light.

  Omuri gave a noncommittal nod and led the way back inside. In the study he resumed his seat by the fireplace. “Summon a spirit for me,” he ordered.

  “A spirit? Like my brother?” he asked, horrified to the sudden brink of tears.

  Omuri regarded the youth coolly. “While that might be easiest to do, both because of your closeness and his recent passing, I do not recommend it. You have not yet accepted it. The wound is too raw in you.” He was nothing if not forthright.

  Sherakai looked away. Teeth clenched, he tried to regain control of his emotions. Perhaps Tasan’s spirit could tell how he’d been killed, and by whom. Slowly, he sank into the empty chair. “Glims investigate murders, don’t they?” Glim and shader—or sometimes shiver—were bynames for those with spirit magic. The last two terms referred to those who dealt with negative energy.

  “Yes, from time to time. I am sure your father has already considered that option, and perhaps even taken action on it.”

  “Has he told you so?”

  “I have not spoken to your father since the wedding.”

  He lifted his chin. “Tell me how to do it.”

  The proctor played with one of his rings, then shook his head. “Have you dealt with spirits before?”

  “I don’t think so. I have to soon though, do I not?”

  “‘Soon’ being a relative term. Have you ever found yourself in someone else’s dream?”

  With a short huff of breath, he leaned back and folded his arms. “No.”

  “Would you like to rethink your answer? I can tell when you lie, and it is not to your advantage.”

  “You are not going to tell me, are you?”

  Omuri remained unruffled. “I ask the questions, you answer. I understand your frustration, but I will think less of you if you take it out on me.”

  What would pressing the matter do to his position at the school? Truth to tell, he thought less of liars himself. His father would be disappointed and hurt, and shame welled up in him. “I am sorry, sir. That was unwarranted. I hope you will please forgive my… recklessness. I only want to help, but I am not taken seriously.”

  “Oh, you are wrong about that, Sherakai,” said Omuri with a soft intake of breath. “The letters your father wrote show his love for you as well as deep pride.”

  “For me?” Why? His brothers personified everything good and strong and noble. Fazare might be less wonderful, he supposed, but even he embodied all a jansu could ever want or need in a son. Sherakai embodied the rash, the impetuous, the impulsive. He sucked his lip between his teeth. Omuri did not respond. In the silence that followed, Sherakai realized that he could, if he tried hard enough, tell if the proctor lied, though an officer of such high station could presumably display whatever emotion he chose. Right on the heels of that thought came another. “Proctor Omuri, what do you do with the novices that are… unsuitable?”

  The man crossed one leg over the other and bounced his foot. The fingers laced calmly over his belly contradicted the movement. “Nothing. Do you think we should?”

  “I—” he faltered, then lifted his chin, challenging. “Papa says an untrained mage can be a danger to himself and to his community.”

  “The college is an independent entity, and the kings of the Westlands have very strict rules about what the governors may do with their people. We leave the impending doom for them to manage.” His bright eyes glittered. Curious to discover whether it was in malice or or humor, Sherakai touched the aro.

  Nothing.

  The man was not a proctor for nothing…

  “Do the people you test ever get angry that they are not chosen?”

  “Yes.” He tipped his head. “Some of them are so vengeful you’d think we’d ruined them.”

  “They hurt you? Or the school?” Sherakai asked, scooting to the edge of his seat, eyes wide.

  Omuri crooked a brow. “You are full of questions.”

  A grin stole the look of avid curiosity. “You are full of answers.”

  “That is fair.” He laughed. “Yes, those too unskilled t
o qualify for the college sometimes lash out. Some of them blame us, some direct their anger at whoever they believe is responsible. There was a boy once, about your age, but shy. He had a minor talent with water. Curiously, he turned to fire for his retribution. His father had a vineyard of some small renown and wanted his son to learn the trade. The boy doused the vines with oil, then he burned them.”

  “Great saints—”

  “How quaint.”

  “Why would he do such a thing to his family?” He could imagine the destruction and, just as easily, the grief and horror of the boy’s parents.

  The proctor shrugged. “We do not have the entire story. You may ask one more question, then you will answer mine truthfully and without interruption. If we finish in time, perhaps we can discuss more of your questions.”

  “How much time—” Sherakai caught himself and bit his lip. It made the proctor laugh quietly. “How do you choose what makes an acceptable student?”

  “I can’t tell you all the workings of the college before you are even a student.”

  “But I will be.”

  “You are so certain?” Omuri inquired with a lift of his brow.

  Flustered, Sherakai looked down. “Papa—My father says he cannot teach me all I must know.”

  “He is wise to recognize his limitations, and to take the steps to protect you, the family, and the district. Now, let us continue.” Rising, he went to the desk to retrieve a box Sherakai had not previously noticed. “I have here several objects. You will do your best to tell me where they have been, who has handled them, and how they were used.”

  Intrigued, he accepted the box and peered inside. “What if I can’t?”

  “What if you are not allowed any more questions until you do?” Omuri countered, then clapped his hands twice. “Come! Come! Get to work!”

  Chapter 16

  The sharp clack of wood against wood marked the points of the Amagari per’lo Sujike, the Warrior’s Path. Blades sheathed in wooden scabbards bound with ribbons kept the students from doing each other serious harm. In spite of what had happened to House Tanoshi, Tameko would not give Sherakai his first sword—one fashioned for his hands alone—until his Second Rites took place when he turned sixteen. The sword he carried now was well made, a soldier’s sword and utterly common. Master Chimoke dan Aruchi told him that the tool mattered less than the honor and ability of the man who handled it, and made him work harder.

  The Amagari per’lo Sujike reminded Sherakai of the complicated dances of his people. Forms for different combat weapons set it apart. Through each of the practices ran the strong backbone of the Path itself: the ability to defend oneself with or without a weapon against an armed and armored opponent. Whatever shape it took, the Path demanded much in the way of strength and agility. Sherakai had little trouble with the latter, but he struggled with the moves requiring weight and muscle. His failures only made Chimoke increase his exercises, and he seemed impossible to please.

  Tameko disdained the notion of a tutor privately training his sons for the battlefield as many of the ruling Houses did. Without practice against able, worthy opponents, they would be handicapped and useless. Guardsmen, most of whom had seen battle personally, taught his boys. They learned how to hold their own on the field just as easily as they could within the educated circles of Alshan’s elite Houses. As the youngest and the smallest, Sherakai had never belonged in the same class as his brothers. He hadn’t cared. What he lacked in fighting prowess he made up for in his ability to ride, his manner with animals, his love of books.

  The day he’d spent with Proctor Omuri had opened his eyes to a different defense: magic. But the proctor had returned to Kesurechi and Sherakai’s journey to the college had been postponed so that Sherakai might stay to help his parents until his brothers were found. You might very well learn to use magic to defend yourself, his father said, stern as stone. But that could take years, and until that time you will need to use your hands and your head. Besides, you can’t use magic all the time or in every situation. I will rest easier knowing you can take care of yourself.

  He went to the practice ring every day, as always, and dreamed of a life that didn’t include sweat and swords and blood. After an especially difficult session, Sherakai finished the last of the forms with the group Chimoke had assigned him. Sweat dripped from his nose and pasted his sleeveless tunic to his body. He was grateful the practice sword lay at his feet already, else he might have dropped it.

  Step, stretch, reach… arms sweeping in a gentle arc… Lift to the sky… extend and fold toward the ground… straighten and circle the arms up, then down to his knees in prayer… Relief filled him. He’d done it. Head bowed, muscles trembling, he hoped Chimoke did not release his students too quickly. He was not yet ready to get up and try to walk away. The slow, measured tread of the teacher’s boots on the hard-packed earth disappeared beneath the crash of weapons the other group wielded. Sherakai twitched as fingertips touched his head, startled.

  “Look,” Chimoke said, and Sherakai lifted his head. The teacher looked into his eyes for a long time, then slowly nodded. “You have done well today.”

  “Kawa mima, hato.” Thank you, sir.

  “Chakkan.” Two fingers signaled the young guardsman to rise to his feet. “Take the young lord to the bathhouse and tend him.”

  Chakkan bowed deep in reply. Chimoke clapped his hands, marking the end of the session. Shoulders relaxed, necks stretched. The others in the group got to their feet to go about their duties. When they had dispersed, Sherakai eased himself up. He hurt in places he hadn’t even known he owned. Silently, Chakkan led him to the stone building housing the community baths. From a tall barrel, he dipped water and offered the ladle. Sherakai drank thirstily.

  The entrance room had benches around the walls and pegs on which to hang clothing. His hands still shook as he undressed. In the bathing room, he crouched on the slatted wooden floor while Chakkan poured tepid water over his body, washing away the dirt and sweat of the practice yard. Without a word, he handed Sherakai a lump of soap and a coarse sea sponge. When he’d scrubbed himself, another bucket of water rinsed the suds away.

  The third room held a raised box of stones heated from beneath. Water poured over filled the air with steam. Sherakai stretched out on a tall, narrow table and Chakkan set to work, first rubbing oil into his back, then kneading the tension out of stiff muscles.

  “He’s been hard on you lately,” he commented.

  Sherakai grunted.

  “I can’t decide if it’s because he’s trying to prepare you, or if he’s trying to wear you out.”

  “The latter.” His voice was muffled.

  “Is it working?”

  “Not enough to keep me from thinking.”

  A small pause. “What are you thinking?”

  “I need to go to where Tasan and the others were taken so I can see it, Chakkan. I can’t help thinking something was missed. Something that will lead us to Toru and Zar.”

  “Your father won’t allow it, and the watch is so tight now we won’t be able to just slip out.”

  “Will you still come?”

  “You have another plan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stars.” He outlined one shoulder blade with his fingertips, then echoed the motion with his forearm. “I suppose I must. Someone has to keep an eye on you. What are we doing this time?”

  “Using the hidden passages.” Chakkan was his best friend; of course he had shared them. Not all of them, mind, but enough that he could get around the keep nicely without ever being seen.

  Chakkan stilled, then started again. “What if I don’t fit any more?”

  “You’ll get stuck, scream like a girl, and ruin everything.”

  “You should remember the position you’re in when you’re taunting people who are bigger than you,” he pointed out calmly. “Did you figure out how to open the door?”

  A stone portal framed with curious figures blocked the one passage t
hat appeared to lead beneath the double moats. Just like the others hidden within the keep, it had no visible hinges, no obvious latch, and no discernible button or lever to release it.

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” Chakkan echoed. “How?”

  “I compared it to the others. The one in the gallery is most like it, so I studied the way it works. It’s like a code, you know, but—Anyway, I figured out what parts might be catching.”

  “Have you tried it yet?”

  “No, but it’ll work.” He didn’t doubt it for a heartbeat. “We’ll take the horses from the west enclosure. Can you get the dogs, do you think?”

  Chakkan made a noise in his nose. “I’ll try. When?”

  Sherakai thought for a little space. “Tomorrow, after the moon rises.”

  “Good, I won’t have to wait long to see my life flash before my eyes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve always heard that’s what happens when you’re about to die—which is what will happen if the jansu finds out what I’ve done. I hope he makes it a quick but stirring end.”

  “You’re so melodramatic.”

  “As if you have any room to talk. And do I complain about you?”

  “Always.”

  Chakkan poked Sherakai’s side. “I do not!”

  “Ow! Now you’re going to have to start all over again. You’ve completely unrelaxed me.”

  “Fine. We’ll start at the beginning. With ice water.”

  “You wouldn’t dare…”

  Chapter 17

  Little more than whispers, the two figures slipped through the shadows blanketing Tanoshi Keep. Barefoot, their feet made hardly a sound on the rich wood of the main floor. Twice, they pressed into dark corners, avoiding guards. Sherakai’s heart beat fast. He led the way to the kitchens, then down into the chilly stone of the lower levels. Turning left at the bottom of the stairs, he put one hand against the wall and ran lightly down the hall. A right turn and a few steps further, he halted and went down on one knee, slipping a leather sack from his shoulder. After he drew on his boots, he rummaged inside to withdraw a candle, flint and steel. A moment later, the tiny flame illuminated the hall.