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

by Robin Lythgoe

  Sherakai watched it as he ate.

  Bairith watched him.

  The two demons sat one on either side of the doorway and didn’t move a muscle.

  Sweet butter on thick slabs of steaming oat bread, soft-boiled eggs, and apples made an appetizing meal. He opened his mouth to ask when the demons would eat, then stuffed a chunk of bread in instead. He did not want to talk to this man.

  Bairith looked at him askance. “You may speak.”

  The condescension rankled. “I have nothing to say.”

  “You will not lie to me.” Calm and certain.

  Sherakai thought he very likely would if it got him what he needed. Would it count against his honor to tell falsehoods to a kidnapper and murderer? He pushed a slice of fruit around on his plate. The idea that lying would bring him down to his opponent’s level wouldn't leave him. It may also damage his chances of escape. “I have nothing I wish to say.”

  “Regardless, I bid you to say it.” The smooth modulation of Bairith’s voice encouraged cooperation and played tricks with reason. It made the idea sound like the most sensible thing in the world.

  “I wondered when the demons eat. And do they sleep?” His tongue had turned traitor. Sherakai sat up a little straighter, felt his heart beat a little faster. Resisting that magic would require knowledge he didn’t have. Would Bairith teach it to him, knowing it would hinder his ability to manipulate his captive?

  “They are not demons.”

  The next question followed the first as easily as rain tumbling through a gutter. “What are they?”

  “Fesh and Teth.”

  His mouth curled in a grimace of disgust. “Their names can’t be the same as their race or breed.”

  “Oh?” Bairith shifted his chair back a few inches and crossed his legs, casual and comfortable. He looked particularly refined in a long tunic of dark blue edged in gold cord. Kohl intensified the color of his eyes. He lifted his cup, a thing of fragile beauty shaped like an opening tulip, and cradled it in both hands. Translucent sides showed the dark liquid within. Steam floated upward in lazy ribbons.

  Sherakai did not want to respond, but the question—the Voice—insisted. “That would be like naming you Jansu Halfer.” He had the piquant satisfaction of delivering an insult, yet remaining innocent. If Bairith were going to force him to speak what he was thinking, it served him right. On the other hand, Bairith might take insult and find a new way to punish him. “What were they before?”

  Bairith took a sip. “Would you like some tea? It is famous for its ability to stimulate clarity. Niram’dha, it is called. From Suminia. Are you familiar with it, or was your father unable to provide such luxuries?” He paused. “You do know where Suminia is, do you not?”

  The taunt made Sherakai’s mouth tighten, and for a moment he kept his gaze fastened on the creature in the cage. It sang still, but its expression bore an air of worry. For what? Did it know something he didn’t? “I do. Are you trying to provoke me?” he asked.

  “No,” Bairith smiled. “Only to test you.”

  “For what reason?”

  “I must know what qualities you possess if I am to shape your character.”

  “You have no right to force your teachings and beliefs on me.” His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth and he wondered where his self restraint and careful thought had gone.

  Bairith took another drink of his tea. “I must make use of the available tools.”

  Sherakai stood, his chair shrieking against the stones as he shoved it out of his way. “I am no tool,” he ground out.

  The caged crooner paused, then continued in a warbling voice, hunching down against the bars. Fesh and Teth both turned their heads toward the pair. One of them whined.

  “Oh, but you are, just as your father is, and his father before him. Tools for the crown, tools for the people, tools for the gods…” He took one last drink and set the impossibly delicate cup on the table before rising to his feet. “The only question is what degree of independence you will retain. Walk with me.”

  Once again, Sherakai obeyed without thought. It frightened him how swiftly he reacted to orders from his captor. He had every intention of resisting, at least long enough to know he still had choices, yet his feet fell into step with Bairith’s. The demons trotted along after him. Not demons, Fesh and Teth, whatever that is.

  As they traversed the long corridor, he scraped his memories for lessons about his Gift. He’d seen no telltale glimmer to betray the magic, but Bairith had clearly used it on him. Granted, he hadn’t always seen his father’s or Tasan’s aro, either. Usually it had taken powerful usage on their part to make it obvious.

  What did that say about Bairith? That his ability to compel obedience came as easily as breathing? With no Gift of their own, Imitoru and Fazare would have been completely helpless against it. Sherakai’s mouth drew down. He had been helpless.

  A touch to his shoulder brought his attention to the jansu. They stood at the top of the stairs—stairs as wide as an entire room—and gazed down into the gathering hall. Pictures hung on the walls in imitation of windows, draperies drawn back to reveal images of every variety. Padded, velvet covered couches were placed against the walls. Braziers burned at regular intervals, set atop man-high pillars. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling in the center of the room. Three concentric rings held small transparent glass bowls. In each bowl a clear bright light flickered. The polished marble floor reflected the light. It was an extravagance of magic like nothing Sherakai had ever seen. Not even the king boasted such waste.

  He had never seen the hall completely lit before, and never gone inside. His visits were limited to stalking the corridors with Fesh and Teth. What circumstance prompted this display? “Is someone important about to visit?” he asked, curious.

  Bairith said nothing, but led Sherakai down the stairs and across the room. Huge columns hewn into stylized figures of men held up the ceiling. Tipping his head back, Sherakai saw that each bore its own expression, and none of them were happy. Upon a dais at the far side of the room stood a long table and chairs for at least twenty. In the middle, where it commanded a view of the chamber, a single chair dominated—high-backed, richly upholstered, intricately carved. Fit for a king. Behind the table a fireplace took up most of the wall. Crisscrossed swords made a hatching above the mantel all the way to the ceiling. Draperies concealed doorways to either side of the fireplace. Bairith took him through one.

  In stark contrast to the hall, the corridor was empty and austere. Widely spaced cressets lit the space but left pools of shadows across the floor. Familiar territory, but not yet fully explored. Bairith took him from room to room: a long chamber with another dining table, several parlors, a vaulted library with books from floor to ceiling. Sherakai would have stopped there, but the jansu led him on. A ballroom for dancing, a minstrel’s gallery, another solar (and half-a-dozen curious ladies), another gallery—this one lined with artwork—and then on to the service area and the enormous kitchen, storerooms, pantry, buttery, bottlery. The tour continued through the armory, the barracks, and the stables, then up winding tower stairs. Now and then the jansu paused to explain a room’s purpose or recount a tidbit of history. On the topmost floor of the tower, windows shaped to the curve of the walls afforded a view in every direction. Sherakai suspected the expense of the glass and craftwork would leave him breathless.

  Fesh and Teth broke away from their position at his heels to circle the space. They sniffed here and peered there like any good guard dog might. Then they settled in a patch of sun near the steps.

  Ignoring them, Bairith opened several of the windows. A chilly breeze blew in, crisp with the scent of approaching winter. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

  Sherakai went from one opening to another, marveling at the tapestry of rolling hills and rocky crags. A noisy clatter from below caught his attention. He leaned out to see a large troop of soldiers marching out the gates. Cavalry led the way, and when he craned his neck to s
ee around the angle of the wall, he could make out the supply wagons. Such a large company of soldiers leaving the keep so soon after the others made him uneasy. “Where are they going?” he asked.

  “On a peacekeeping mission.”

  He cast Bairith a skeptical glance.

  The mage tilted his head, amusement dancing across his features. “The demise of King Muro has left a chasm in the line of succession. There is a veritable army of contenders for the throne.”

  Would it come to war? If it came to war, his battle-scared father would not personally engage, yet Tanoshi lands would be defended if in danger. Unrest within Alshan would embolden the Romuri and put Tanoshi lands on the front lines. “Are you a contender?”

  Bairith laughed, the sound warm and gentle. “I have no interest in ruling this provincial little plot of land. But it could be yours someday. All of this from the Midland Sea to the Starlight Ocean could be yours.” He held his hand out to the view.

  “Mine? How?” In spite of himself, his curiosity was piqued.

  “Earn it.” He turned away, hands clasping behind his back as he circled the room at a leisurely pace. “Do you want it?”

  Chapter 53

  Him, king? He couldn’t even imagine such a thing. It was a far cry from his plans to work for Tasan, raising and training the Indimi-o. Three brothers between him and an inheritance had guaranteed his extremely minor position on the social scale—and he had no trouble with that. Approved of it, even. He’d seen how governing the district had taken his father away from his beloved horses, especially these last few years. He had no wish to bear a king’s crown and a king’s headaches. “No.”

  Bairith’s cool gaze rested on him. “You Tanoshans are a consistent lot. Do you actually believe all that foolishness about the warrior’s path and serving king and country? Grace before power and humility before honor?”

  “It is the way to preserve peace.” Sherakai frowned, disliking the way the jansu belittled his parents and their teachings.

  “I disagree. Power preserves peace. Grace gets a man kicked in the teeth. You have only to look at the devastation King Muro left behind to see that the man with power keeps all the yapping, ill-mannered pups at heel. Without a strong leader they snap at this bone and that, fighting over the scraps just so they might claim possession.”

  Sherakai bit his tongue on a sharp reply. The conversation brought back to him all the dull lessons in diplomacy and politics his father and his tutors had tried to drill into him. Only now the words carried an unexpected weight. “You are powerful,” he pointed out carefully. “How does tormenting and ruining my father preserve peace? He did nothing to provoke your anger.”

  “Ah, but he did.” Bairith’s fine mouth flattened into an uncompromising line. “He had something I needed, something wonderfully unique, and he refused to either give it to me or bargain for it.”

  “You wanted him to sell you his son. What kind of madman asks such a thing?” How he kept his voice calm he did not know. Aversion threatened to curl his tongue.

  Bairith waved a dismissive hand. “It happens all the time, in every corner of the world.”

  “Not in Alshan.”

  “Yes, in Alshan,” he mocked. “The nobility pretends it is above such things, but the lower classes know better. There are people who sell their children so they can put food on the table for the rest of the family, or keep a roof over their heads.” He waggled one long, slender finger. “And then there are those who sell their relatives—or any other convenient dupe—to pay off bad debts, to buy position or authority, or to get just one more drop of Felicity.”

  He’d never heard the word ‘felicity’ used that way. How one could buy or trade a person for any reason utterly escaped him. The other things Bairith suggested did not fit Sherakai’s experience of a world where men worked hard for their day’s pay and were treated fairly. Even he and his siblings, offspring of a nobleman, were required to perform labor or service contributing to the well-being of the district. “If the people were reduced to such poverty, how did the king prevent them from rebelling?”

  “Through power, my dear boy.” The jansu’s smile softened the edges of disbelief and the music in his Voice offered a solution to the obvious dilemma. “The kind of power that can be yours. As my ward, my apprentice, I will teach you. Together you and I will be unstoppable.”

  Sherakai thought he saw a glimmer of pale green light, but when he tried to look directly at it, it disappeared. “I thought you did not want to rule Alshan.”

  “That is true. I have my sights set on something much more meaningful.” He glided closer, paused to study Sherakai’s eyes as if they held some deep secret, then passed him to gaze out the window. “You and I will carry out a restoration, Sherakai.”

  He took an involuntary step after the mage, drawn by the sense of grandeur, of inescapable destiny. He could be part of something great…

  What? The voice of logic intruded into his vision. His father and all three of his brothers had denied Bairith’s request. He rubbed his side, suddenly aware of aching ribs. Iniki had given him another drubbing this morning, and he found himself grateful for the distraction it left. An honorable, lofty goal did not need to be brutally enforced.

  “You made the same offer to my brothers, didn’t you?”

  “No. They did not offer your attributes or charm.” Graceful as a bird, the jansu leaned against the window sill. A little breeze fluttered the fabric of one sleeve. Intensity turned his sea blue eyes a stormy gray. “Tasan might have had the talent to succeed. The others did not, though I did my best to bring out latent abilities. You are much stronger in your Gift than Tasan. I can see it in you, vivid as a beacon and bewitchingly untamed.”

  Flattery and insult wove together in a confusing braid. The man had no honor at all. “You murdered my brothers. I want nothing to do with you.”

  Bairith did not bother responding to the repeated accusation. He pushed off the wall and strode toward the stairs. At a sweeping motion with his arms all of the open windows banged shut. Fesh and Teth jumped to their feet, chittering. “Think it over,” he said as he descended. “And consider history.”

  Alone with the creatures, Sherakai pressed one arm against the persistent discomfort of his side. Every single encounter with Bairith left him drained and off-balance. Iniki beat the stuffing out of him daily with obvious joy. Not only did Sherakai have to accept their treatment, he needed to figure out a way to grow from it and reap some benefit. He had a new appreciation for the training his brothers undertook. They had scars to prove their victories and stories to describe them.

  Used to have. “I suppose, technically, they still have them, don’t they?” he asked Fesh and Teth.

  The pair watched him with expectant expressions.

  He turned his head toward the windows, no longer seeing the hatched view of the scenery. There was no way to mistake the threat the jansu made. Cooperate or die. But Bairith didn’t want Sherakai’s death, he wanted something Sherakai had or could do. Something to do with his Gift. And if he didn’t give it willingly, the mage would take it, as he’d tried to do with the others.

  One, others may use you, his father had said. Two, you may use others.

  He did not want to be used, he didn’t particularly want to die, and he had yet to come up with a practical plan to escape. Of course he’d never been given such a spectacular and thorough tour of the keep, either. He knew a great deal more now than he had this morning.

  Turning to the creatures, he held his hand out in a silent offer of a head-scratching. Fesh happily complied, eyes slitted closed in appreciation. Teth, much more aloof, inched closer without making it look purposeful. He allowed the touch, then moved his head to accept an unhurried scratching along one cheekbone. His position allowed him to keep an eye on his ward that way. Teeth slightly bared reminded Sherakai who was in charge.

  “Tell me something,” he said. He might be obliged to use them if he could not persuade them to join h
im. “If it were up to you, would you choose me or him?”

  Chapter 54

  After the display in the great room, Sherakai was unsurprised to receive orders to allow the creatures to bathe and dress him. This night’s costume belonged in the wardrobe of a prince. Tiny pearls and gold beads decorated a knee-length brocade tunic of blue violet worn over wide-legged pants the color of flax. A heavily embroidered sash went around his middle, offsetting the tunic’s high, flaring collar.

  The thing they put on his head required half an hour to adjust properly. It, too, bore pearls and beads, and had the added splendor of a delicate brooch securing a trio of peacock feathers.

  Fesh brandished the kohl, only to have it snatched out of his hands by one of the servant boys. The other produced a pair of magnificent earrings. When they discovered his ears were not pierced, the pair stared at him in frank dismay. The first started toward him with an expression of determination.

  Sherakai leaped backwards up onto the seat of the low-backed chair. “You will not stab holes in my ears!” He pulled dignity around himself like armor. “I’ll bleed all over my clothes, and even if you prevent that my ears will be bloody and red. How can I be beautiful with bloodied ears?”

  They exchanged a long glance. The taller one chewed on his lip, then shrugged and slipped out the door. The companion fetched a jar from the kit they brought every time they attended to him and pointed at the chair.

  “No. If you’ve any other fancies to drape on me, bring them out and I’ll put them on myself.”

  The boy sighed and snapped his fingers, catching the attention of Fesh and Teth.

  “You cannot be serious…”

  Pointing and hand-clapping ensued. The demons—no, not demons, but he could hardly call them ‘experiments’—scampered at him. He put one foot on the back of the chair and shifted his weight backward. He hit the floor still standing, and with the chair as a temporary barricade.