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

by Robin Lythgoe

  “You’re one to talk. You never outgrew yours.” He shivered inside at his temerity, but Bairith only crooked one elegant brow.

  “You’ve no need to be hostile; I have only your best interests at heart.”

  “You mean your interests.”

  “They will soon be the same. The journey will be more comfortable if you accept the inevitable and stop fighting it.” He gestured, and a trio of servants materialized.

  Heads bowed and eyes averted, they set a small, ornate table beside Sherakai’s chair. Two of them turned to help their master remove his wide sash and voluminous robe. The third pulled the thick drapes over the window. Then he placed a shallow box on the table and began removing items: a candle; a glass as fragile as light; a small, needle-sharp dagger; a mortar and pestle; a few round, shriveled berries; flint and striker; and a small bowl he filled with dried leaves.

  Tense with suspicion, Sherakai pushed himself to his feet. “I told you I want nothing from you but to have my brothers returned. Mimeru, too.”

  “And to be sent home, yes, yes. Sit down.” Bairith waved one hand negligently and Sherakai sat so hard it wrung a grunt from him. The power of the mage’s Voice would not be denied. Calmly, Bairith rolled up the sleeves of his fine silk shirt. “Come, my pets. Hold him still so he does not take injury.”

  Chapter 61

  Insubstantial shapes detached from the corners and slithered across the floor. Here and there were hints of eyes, hands, feet, distorted bodies.

  With a cry, the youth leaped up again, but the shadows caught him easily. Their touch pricked his skin, and they were cold, by the blessed Saints, they were cold! The shadows wound around his arms and legs and neck, binding him to the chair as securely as chains. Sherakai fought like a madman to free himself.

  “You know of the kathraul’en, don’t you? I apologize, but I don’t know the name for them in your tongue. Literally translated, the word means ‘shadow demon,’ but they are so much more than that. One might as well call a thunderstorm a breeze.”

  The explanation only drove him to struggle more fiercely, desperate to escape. Demon spawn, he’d heard them called. Shadow sludge. Only the most perverted and corrupt of mages dealt with such monstrosities. If he had thought Bairith deranged before, this only proved it. “No! NO!” he screamed as more of them crawled over him. They had no discernible mass, yet they weighed him down, dragging at his body, at his soul.

  Bairith waited with a patient, expectant expression until Sherakai finally stilled, gasping and sweating. “You’ve no need to fight so. I would give you a decoction of mercywort to help you relax, but it will interfere with the process. Trust me, all will be well.”

  He held his hands out, and a servant—one of the untalkative boys— stepped forward with a bowl to wash them. He dried his hands on a cloth dangling over the servant’s shoulder, and the boy retreated. Bairith used the flint and striker to light the candle, then set the bowl of leaves to gently smoldering. He cupped his hands around the tendril of smoke, chanting. The smoke gathered in his palms. When he moved his hands apart, fingers spread, it divided into ribbons. Each moving on its own, they curled around Sherakai. The smell was bitter and made his eyes burn.

  “W-what are you doing?”

  “Correcting a lack. Forging a bond. Although different than those occurring naturally, it will serve our purposes.” He dropped the berries into the mortar and set the pestle to them.

  “I don’t want a bond. What if I refuse it?” He didn’t know whether such a thing was possible or not.

  “No matter.” The warmth and richness of Bairith’s Voice soothed frayed nerves. Setting the pestle aside, he picked up the dagger. With two quick moves, he made shallow cuts on his forearm, one across the other. He held his arm out to let the blood drip into the glass. “I have so much to teach you, Sherakai. It pleases me that your father was so… unschooled. You will have much less to unlearn.”

  Powerless, he could only watch the proceedings helplessly. With every moment, his heart beat faster and his breath came quicker. A prickling dizziness warned him that he was likely to pass out if he kept it up, but he could not force himself to calm. The gods had done nothing to save Captain Nayuri, and he had been a good, faithful man. What interest would they have in one faithless boy? He prayed anyway, with all the strength he still possessed. The shadows writhed and hissed.

  Bairith held the blade over the flame, burning away the blood that remained. It was still hot when it touched Sherakai’s arm, a quick kiss one way, then the other, opening his skin the same way it had the mage’s.

  His instinct to yank away availed him nothing. The kathraul’en held him immobile, and when Bairith picked up the glass, they held his arm out over it. He choked back a furious sob, watching the crimson trickle.

  As he tipped the contents of the mortar into the liquid, Bairith spoke a spell, his voice lilting, flaxen. Such a comparison made no sense, but logic didn’t change it. He dipped the dagger into the blood and stirred. Burgundy and steel reflected light from the room’s lamps, flickering like tiny, warm stars.

  The chant scraped Sherakai’s nerves and woke in him the itchy restlessness he’d felt in the cell. The kathraul’en did not release their spiny grip. He wanted to shake his head, to release himself from the surreal vision. With each word the mage uttered, the color leached from the blood and into the blade, concentrating near the tip. When the liquid was completely clear, the chanting stopped. Bairith held the dagger up to the muted light, turning it this way and that. It shone like a garnet.

  He gave a curt nod and set the glass down. The stuff inside was clear as water. “Hold him still, my pets. We don’t want to hurt him more than necessary.”

  “Stop,” Sherakai pleaded.

  Slender fingers took hold of his wrist. On the inside of his right arm, just below the elbow, Bairith touched the tip of the knife. “This will sting, but it will be over soon. It would be best if you can push yourself into the hurt.”

  He did not understand what Bairith meant, but the mage had lied. The cut didn’t sting, it burned like a red-hot brand. Sherakai’s eyes flew wide with his scream.

  “Hush, my son, hush,” Bairith murmured as he began to trace lines upon the skin. He resumed his spell-speaking, brows drawn in concentration.

  “Don’t do this!” Sherakai cried. And then, more softly: “Please.”

  The dagger’s point scored the skin. It must have taken superb control to keep the pressure exactly so, exactly constant. Sherakai watched with morbid fascination as the lines glowed a deep, dark red. His muscles shivered uncontrollably. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out again. The metallic flavor of blood filled his mouth. It almost took the edge off the burn. He wanted it to.

  As the lines shaped an intricate circle of flowing script, the pain intensified. It was not limited to the area of the emblem. Pressure moved up his arm. Veins bulged. Muscle rippled. A rush of incongruous eagerness poured through him. That was followed immediately by pleasure, determination, and an astonishing sense of covetousness. They did not fit him. He did not want them. He flailed, trying to hold onto his sense of self before it was lost.

  “Stop!” he cried again and again. Stop, stop, stop, until the words bled into one long, terrible shriek.

  Bairith’s voice thundered over his, silk turned to steel, until it reached a crescendo Sherakai could no longer endure.

  Chapter 62

  Delightful warmth cocooned him. The heaviness of his lids kept him from opening his eyes, but he managed to peek through a tiny crack. Sunlight streamed through tall windows bracketed by forest green brocade. The glass thrown open, a breeze rustled the fabric. It carried the smell of horses and hay, the clop of hooves, and the good-natured chatter of men already at work—as well they should be. By what miracle had he slept so late?

  Somewhere nearby, a woman sang, the lazy tune tugging him back to the depths of sleep. He knew he must rise and gathered himself to push aside the bedclothes. A
gentle hand on his forehead restrained him and his eyelids fluttered in an effort to open.

  “Mama?”

  “Hush, child, it is not yet time.” His mother did not call him “child.” The Voice, definitely a woman’s, pushed him toward sleep.

  “I had a terrible dream,” he whispered, dark lashes obediently closing.

  You are a terrible dream, someone said.

  “What do you see?” A man’s voice, familiar, but the identity refused to shape. It came from far away, wrapped in wool. Immediately, or some time after the song?

  “Nothing.”

  “Do not lie to me.”

  “I would not, my lord. It is soon yet. Nothing has changed.”

  A short silence followed, and then: “What does that mean?”

  She drew a slow breath in through her nose, then let it out carefully. “Perhaps the spell did not work. Or he may die.”

  “Are you saying that I have killed him?” Outrage.

  “He is not dead yet,” she pointed out. “There is still a chance, but you forced this too soon. It is dangerous.”

  What were they talking about and who were they? Why were they in his room?

  “So you said,” the man snapped. “I had no choice. He is something altogether different from the others. If I had not secured him, I would have lost him completely.”

  “You still may.”

  “I have not yet, and I have no intention of allowing such a thing.”

  Another intake of breath marked fear. “Give him more time, I beg you. This is not the way.”

  Suspicion sliced the air. “Have you seen something you have not shared?”

  “No, it—” She hesitated. “It is only my own feelings.”

  Silence hovered for a long, uncomfortable moment, run through with suspicion, then determination. “Go. Tell Iniki to bring the others.”

  “My lord,” she pleaded.

  “Now.”

  A small, choked noise escaped her as she rose with a rustle of fabric and hurried away.

  The bed shifted under a new weight, different from the woman’s. More intent, darker. “You are too young to know,” the man said, “but you will learn. You are mine, Sherakai, and after searching for so long I will not let you go. Not now, not ever. I see myself in you. It is the only explanation I have for recognizing you as I do, for I am no seer. No,” his voice faded to little more than a murmur. “I lost that a long time ago.”

  Silence settled around them, and Sherakai’s fragile grasp of reality slipped away. He floated through dreams both familiar and strange. Working with the horses at Tanoshi and helping his mother gather herbs was peaceful and sweet. He recognized nothing about the other dreams. Strange faces and foreign places slid past as though he stood beside the real dreamer, observing over an unseen shoulder.

  Eventually, a pervading iciness dragged him out of the realm of sleep. He lay on his back on a floor of bare stone, shivering so hard it hurt. Indistinct figures surrounded him, backlit by wavering torchlight. They were chanting, but the indistinguishable words slid over and around each other in a constant rustle of noise and aro. He blinked and squinted, trying to make sense of it, but his vision remained fuzzy.

  Light danced around him, multicolored, effervescent, beautiful. The tiny motes drifted together and coalesced into something more distinct but still insubstantial. A shaft of gleaming purple formed above his chest. One word pierced the steady murmur, and the shaft drove into him with such power and unexpectedness that it made him convulse. He could not scream. He could only gasp like a fish as his lungs filled and his blood percolated impossible color.

  The purple had no sooner faded than orange took its place, sweeping through his frame like a wildfire over the grasslands, swift and hot. He opened his mouth and spewed flames rather than the intended scream. He blazed up and outward until he joined the torch fires, making them flare all the way to the ceiling.

  Green grew up out of the stone, winding tendrils around and through him. They pulled him down and down, into the cold embrace of earth and stone where he could neither see nor breathe. Then blue lifted him free again, only to saturate him completely. It seeped away, taking him with it, washing him away, covering him in black as deep as a bottomless pit.

  When he thought he must surely disappear, a clear white light reclaimed him. It knit him back together, every particle fused with the colors that had gone before. He sat up with a gasp—

  —and came nose to nose with a demon.

  Fesh jerked back with a yip of surprise.

  Sherakai jumped, but didn’t get as far. Breathing hard, dizzy, he took in his surroundings. Gray light filtered through windows clothed in blue, not the green of home.

  “Have I been dreaming?” he asked.

  The creature looked at him, head tipped.

  Sherakai pulled his arms from beneath the covers. The tattoo glared back at him. Redness marked the skin around the edges of the design, and to touch it set his skin afire. He winced, and his attention slipped to his hands. Blackened bruises marked wrists, palms, and forearms. Apprehensively, he looked down at his chest. A messy starburst of similar bruises stood out against pale skin. His feet, ankles, and calves looked much the same. A whisper came to him—not in his ears, but in his skin, his muscle, his blood. It weighed upon him with a sense of purpose he did not understand.

  “Dear Creator,” he breathed. The room spun viciously and he fell back into the pillows, covering his eyes with both hands. It didn’t stop the images, the memory of lying on the floor while magic twisted through him and ripped him to pieces.

  Well, not literally. He still had all his parts. He lifted his head to look again, to make sure. The recollection sickened him. It made him angry, too. Did Bairith think he would get away with doing whatever he pleased to him? What had he done?

  Fesh thrust a cup of water out over his face and chittered softly.

  The scent of it tugged at Sherakai, bringing him up on one elbow and sending a strange, cool spark through him. He sniffed, then drank, eyes closed as the liquid relief flowed through him. He had never tasted water so good.

  “Thank you.” Surrendering the vessel, he pushed himself up. He turned his arm to examine the awful mark again. What did it mean to be bonded to someone? The bonds he’d known before had been links of affection, family, friendship… Those could not be forced; that defeated the value. A slave, then? Had his father ever mentioned such a thing? Alshan had laws against slavery.

  Beside him, Fesh shifted and extended his own arm.

  “What is it? You have a mark, too?”

  Cautiously, he combed through the coarse hair. There, in roughly the same place as his own, he found a dark berry stain. Did Fesh’s grayish skin make a difference in the color, or was it something that would change over time? He compared one to the other, and could find no difference.

  “What does it mean?” he whispered.

  Fesh wrapped his fingers around the youth’s hand, talons like daggers rested against his wrist. His delicate touch did not inspire fear. And, as Sherakai concentrated, he realized an unmistakable sense of understanding, of protectiveness.

  The creature pulled away, hands folded untidily at its chest and gaze going to the door. The uneven click of claws crossing from tile to carpet announced Teth’s return, but it was Bairith who appeared in the doorway.

  Chapter 63

  Satisfaction preceded a slow smile. “Ah, you’re awake. Very good.”

  “Not really.”

  “As opposed to being dead?” the jansu inquired. He glided to the bedside, effortless and elegant in an ebony-edged tunic of garnet. He exuded control and order. Not a hair on his head was out of place. A silver brooch in the same style as the tattoo fastened his lapel. As always, the aromatic scent of sweet cicely followed him.

  Sherakai pursed his lips, then shook his head. “As opposed to being your captive, I’d rather.”

  Fesh slipped off the bed to go sit with Teth by the door. The jansu ignored them.
“You are sore and out of sorts.”

  Sympathy ribboned through him. Sherakai gave a soft grunt. “What did you do to me?”

  “I created a bond, a connecting path between the two of us. We are joined together now, my son. Blood to blood, and magic to magic.”

  Sherakai flinched. Bile tickled the back of his throat and his hands tightened on the bedclothes at such a violation. Fingers of thought not his own stole his privacy. His fear, his anger, his hatred, all were laid bare to his worst enemy. “Mind to mind?” he asked, his voice coming out like a rasp across metal. This could not be real. He prayed he’d misunderstood.

  Warmth and tenderness shone in Bairith’s eyes. “Even so.”

  He didn’t want to know Bairith, didn’t want to communicate with him, and he didn’t want to be privy to what went through the man’s sick mind. If only Mimeru were safe, he could tell his captor exactly what he thought. His jaw inched out and he turned his gaze to the blinding light flooding through the window. Gray, he recognized, but painful to behold. Why?

  With a delicate touch, Bairith put his fingers beneath the youth’s chin. “Let me see you,” he ordered when Sherakai would have pulled away.

  The words demanded a response from every muscle in his body. They drew ruthlessly upon his mind and his heart, and he had no choice but to obey. It seemed a futile defense, but he closed his eyes.

  “Look at me.”

  Just so, the words. Neither harsh nor loud, but they stripped him of his will.

  “You do have your mother's eyes, though you resemble me. Beautiful, intense emeralds.” He turned Sherakai’s head this way and that, then let him go, only to pick up his wrist to examine the tattoo. His dark brows furrowed faintly as he rubbed one finger over the angry mark. “You are in pain.”

  The stroke would have brought him to his knees if he’d been standing. As it was, the room swam and his voice came out a croak. “You can’t be surprised.”