“I didn’t. I manipulated you.”
“The way you did when you made me stab my leg?” He gleamed again and the aro shifted to Sherakai’s left, then to his right.
“Yes. I didn’t think it would be so easy. You’re usually much more pig-headed.” He struck out to the right. The edge of his hand cleaved through an unorganized glob of speeding water, ruining it but drenching himself in the process. The other one was going to hit him—and so was Deishi.
He dropped into a crouch, blocked Deishi’s strike with his forearm, and plowed his fist right through the second water ball to punch him in the chest again.
Deishi grunted, danced backward, and kicked.
Soaked, half blinded by water in his face, Sherakai braced himself for the surge of energy coming his way. He hooked his arm around Deishi’s calf and twisted as hard as he could.
Deishi cried out as they struck the sand, then lay there panting.
“Are you hurt?” Sherakai asked, cautiously extricating himself.
His opponent caught his hair and dragged him close. One leg trapped Sherakai’s.
Sherakai flailed and well-nigh lost his sense of the magic.
“No,” Deishi gritted in his ear. “Surprised.” Easy as throwing a lamb for shearing, he tossed Sherakai on his back. Their arms and legs twisted together. “That’s a choice trick to have up your sleeve. And devious,” he added, grunting when a fist landed in his side.
“And using water’s not?” He writhed until he got the heel of his hand up under Deishi’s jaw and shoved. At the same time, he flung out an impression of pain. It was a sensation he knew intimately, and he could mimic it to perfection. The spell went wide and messy. Energy flickered all over the place, but it did the job.
With a muffled shout, Deishi thrust him away and clutched the back of his neck.
Sherakai rolled with the momentum and leaped up and out of range. Hands raised at the ready, he approached. A kick in the side or in the head would completely disable him—maybe kill him.
“Enough.”
The word sliced through him and scattered his fierce focus. Automatically, he backed away. Fists pressed together in front of his chest, he bowed to Bairith as the jansu stepped onto the sand. Tylond accompanied him, and the beasts came behind.
Deishi moaned and sat up, rubbing his neck. “That hurt, you rank toad sucker.”
“No, it didn’t.” He hadn’t actually injured him, had he?
“It felt real enough. Am I supposed to trust you? I ought to hit you for that.”
How easy it would be to accept this man’s friendship. How awful it would be to see him slaughtered the same way Mimeru had been. “Trust only yourself. Leave this place, Deishi. Please.”
Then Bairith and Tylond were there, and he dared say no more. He kept his hands where they were and his eyes on the sand.
“Let me have a look at you.” Tylond went to one knee to examine Deishi’s injuries.
The joy in the magic and his own reaction to it faded beneath Bairith’s withering anger.
“You’ve done this before.”
“No, sir.”
The force of the slap across his cheek turned his head and made him take a step to keep his balance. He did not look up. His jaw worked for a moment. If he voiced an opinion or an explanation, he’d feel the sting of Bairith’s hand again. Or worse.
“Tell me, then, how you were able to do something so difficult and so demanding of focus the very first time you attempted it?”
“You taught me.” He’d been punished before for practicing what the mage instructed. He could not win this game if he rebelled, he could not win it if he cooperated.
Silence filled the chamber as attention from those watching turned to him. How he wished he could disconnect himself from that awareness. The others, he decided, were waiting for Bairith to strike him again.
He pressed his fists together. He suspected he’d get a beating whether he remained silent or added more detail. “After we practiced all week, you told me to look at things differently, so I did.”
“Very well, then you can do it again.”
“I can try.”
“Yes.” He studied the youth a moment longer, then spoke over his shoulder. “Is Master Deishi fit?”
“Yes, lord.” Deishi got to his feet, dusting the sand off his pants.
“Yes, lord,” Tylond echoed, mocking. “Your clever boy merely inflicted the sensation of pain. And a few goodly bruises.”
“Good news,” Bairith announced without inflection. He snapped his fingers for the beasts and moved away. “Carry on.”
The same tricks would not work twice. He slid sideways, stalling as he strove to unite his sense of self to his sense of the surroundings. They were not separate things.
Deishi's fist against his cheek produced stars, followed by a foot slamming into his ribs.
Fight. That’s what they were here for. Fight until the other man lay in the sand, unconscious, broken, unmoving. It didn’t matter, as long as the game played out. Don’t want to get your head kicked in? Move faster.
Sherakai quick-stepped away, minimizing the next blow as best he could. Deishi followed with another punch. Sherakai ducked and rammed his elbow into Deishi’s ribs. Back and back he moved, the magic flickering like sparks along his senses but remaining out of reach.
Instinct urged him to duck. Water splashed harmlessly into the sand a dozen feet away. Deishi blocked a roundhouse kick. His next punch rattled Sherakai’s teeth.
He sucked in a breath—and choked. Water filled his mouth and his nostrils.
Deishi hit him again.
He spun, kicked, and twisted away, but he couldn’t breathe. Right behind him, Deishi pummeled his ribs again and again. Sherakai went down, clawing at his face while the water crept across his skin to his ears.
Jaw set, face hard, Deishi stood over him with open hands ready to defend himself.
Gods above, he was going to die. That didn’t frighten him as much as the pain of coming back to life. The light of the torches grew darker.
No. No! He could use the pain, use the fear, the way Lord Chiro repeatedly insisted he must. The panic belonged to him; he could do anything he pleased with it. Even as the darkness consumed him, he flung his terror at Deishi.
Chapter 11
Waking to utter darkness scared him breathless. The noisy clattering of his heart, however, announced his continued presence among the living. He didn’t move right away. The air tasted and smelled foul. No sound but those he made greeted his ears. Relentless cold crept through him. The longer he lay there, the more the weight of the surrounding earth oppressed him.
Hands trembling, he explored the surrounding space. Rock, not a grave.
He jerked upright, crying out, shaking like a leaf. Fists tight, he fought to calm himself. Fighting for such a thing didn’t work. He breathed through his nose—too fast—until his face tingled and dizziness assaulted him.
A lot of good passing out would do…
He spoke the first meditation that came to his mind, repeating the chant aloud until the words fell into a steady rhythm. Finally, his racing heart settled. Propping his head in his hand and leaning his elbow against his knee, Sherakai let out a long sigh.
He was in the Hole.
He could survive that. He had done so often already. On the bright side, it freed him from Bairith’s less-than-tender ministrations and demanding lessons. He didn’t have to see Tylond’s hungry smile, listen to his insults, or try his utmost to avoid a Healing.
It was dark. So what? The lack of light didn’t hurt a person. The shadows, the kathraul’en that often lurked in the corners, they might hurt him.
He stuck his jaw out, then eased his senses through the enclosing space. The darkness tasted of stone and damp. Smelled curiously of gray streaked with the color of mud. Satisfied to find himself alone, he checked himself for injury. Nothing. Good.
The last thing he remembered—
He jolted u
pright again. He’d drowned! No, that couldn’t be true or he wouldn’t be here. Tylond would have him in his healing chamber, or in the surgery room. Or he’d already been there, and they’d put him here to recuperate. After a fight, his body should hurt. It didn’t.
“Fesh?” he called out. “Teth?”
Of course they did not answer. The lessons found in solitude would fail with their presence.
Heedful of banging his head on the low ceiling, he got to his feet and did his best to stretch stiff muscles. He could do strength-building exercises as long as he minded the tight space. Keeping as limber as possible would save him from other kinds of abuse when Bairith finally dragged him out again. He couldn’t complain, either, for the warmth the physical activity provided.
The isolation gave him ample time to think. Time, too, for practicing his magic. Would Bairith sense his return to consciousness through the cursed link? There was one way to find out. Wards first, although without an opponent to defend against he couldn’t be sure they succeeded. He went through the steps the jansu had given him, then tried it a different way. He didn’t want to copy what the lying, cold-hearted, murderous snake had taught him.
And he had time, nothing but time…
His father’s lessons had been grounded in love.
“Why can’t you teach me, Papa?”
“I wish I could, son, but what I know is not enough for the potential I see in you.”
Potential that Bairith had seen, and Bairith meant to claim.
“Help me do this right, Papa.”
Eyes closed—though it hardly mattered in the dark—he built a dense wall around his inner self. Then another around that. He placed each virtual stone with precision and sealed it into place with the mortar of his will. As he worked, he put his hand against the rock wall of his cell. He could build his wards to mimic that. He could make his own shelter deep within. Strong as a mountain. Impenetrable.
The arrival of food interrupted his construction. A thick steak, roasted onions, and a loaf of bread washed down with stale water to fatten up the jansu’s prize war master. Stupid name. Stupid idea to saddle on a scrawny boy. He enjoyed the meal anyway, licked the platter clean, then settled down to work at his Gift again. First, he checked the double ward he’d built. The clatter of the door flap and dishes had scattered his focus but hadn’t completely destroyed the construct. He needed to practice with noise distracting him. Another time…
He let the simple awareness of magic drift around in his head like wispy fog in a cave. What did he know? His own truths, yes. The things he’d discussed with his father: sensing emotions, communicating with animals, perception of his surroundings. Papa had encouraged him and tuned him. Like a lute, he thought with a wistful pang. Papa could play a little, enough to accompany the family when they sang. He never minded the endless teasing he’d received. He’d learned on campaign, long before he became King Muro’s general. “The fruits of boredom,” he’d claimed. “Bet you wish I’d have been bored longer, eh?” He would laugh his hearty laugh. Mama would kiss him and tell him it was his sweet music that had won her heart and not his prowess with a sword or his vast knowledge of horse manure.
“Deishi said you came for me, Papa,” he whispered to the darkness. “It’s been a long time since then. Are you safe? And Mama? Are you still trying? Please don’t stop trying…”
He scrubbed his face. “Don’t go down that path,” he scolded himself. “Papa won’t give up on you. Not ever. You’ve got to keep working, too. How are you going to get away next time? You can’t win at arms unless you use magic.”
He gnawed on his lip as he considered that.
Bairith had been surprised with what he’d done on the tower, and at the defense he’d used in the practice ring. He could touch each of the threads of aro. Every one. His father’s lessons echoed in his mind. Those with the Gift of Spirit could often manipulate a second thread. The same wasn’t usually true of those mages with different Gifts. It was unheard of for a person to be able to use all of them, a product of myth.
Until Bairith had declared otherwise…
Madness or truth? Bairith said it was hard, but possible. Although he was too despicable for words, he was also very well educated. Well traveled, too. Maybe he had seen such a mage in his journeys.
Bairith wielded more than one thread… Sherakai rubbed his face, thinking. One was Spirit, obviously, and it was likely the strongest. How could an observer tell which others he could control? Deishi had told him Bairith could manipulate Earth. Because Sherakai hadn’t seen it happen didn’t mean it wasn’t so. And he healed. Sherakai had been the recipient of those questionable services. Healing required Spirit and Earth. Gods, he was a gecking idiot not to have remembered that earlier! Deishi himself claimed Water, and why invite the young lord to the Gates for instruction if Bairith, too, couldn’t wield Water? He had nothing to go on but suspicion.
Dragging his fingers down one cheek, he tried to recall times when the jansu had done something extraordinary. Sudden realization straightened his spine. Why hadn’t he realized before now that Bairith had used magic to catch up with him and Mimeru? Air, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
A breath puffed his cheeks and escaped in a little “oh” of surprise.
But Bairith had brought a troop of soldiers with him. Could he move them, too? He didn’t know if such a thing were possible, or how to measure the strength needed for such an undertaking.
Four out of five of the Gifts…
The notion of so much power in the grasp of one man—one monster—made his bones turn to jelly and his belly clench. With such abundant magic available, why did Bairith need him? Could he not touch Fire? Or maybe he could, but he couldn’t use it. But if he needed Fire, why not compel a sparker?
Sherakai had experience with being compelled. The spell could make the subject perform, but it lacked exactness. Very well, Bairith needed a Fire mage with the Gift of Spirit.
Him?
Hands over his eyes, he prayed. “Blessed Creator, if I have such a Gift I beg you to keep it from Bairith…”
The Creator forbore to reply. Questions continued to crowd for attention. Bairith wanted a prime—someone who could manipulate all the magics. The jansu was close to being one himself. Surely if he meant to claim Alshan, he already had more than enough power to do it. What, then? What?
“Well and good, I can touch all the threads.” Being able to use another—any other—would give him an advantage in his escape. “Being able to touch them increases the chances of being able to use them. Papa said I might have a small Earth Gift.” That, Tameko had explained, squared with Sherakai’s awareness of his surroundings and his ability with animals. It made little sense to him then, but he trusted his father more than anyone in the world.
Settling his fingers against the stone again, one at a time, he extended his senses toward the stone. Trying to move solid rock on his first attempt seemed daunting. And audacious. Clay, maybe. Sand, yes.
Papa had hired an Earth mage to do repair work on the keep walls and to build a new granary. Out of curiosity, Sherakai had watched for a while. He had no idea how the man had actually shifted the earth.
Moving his perception through the stone—Spirit magic—immediately challenged him. He needed to know the depth of the rock, but how to measure distance? It wasn’t at all like empty space. Pressing gently yielded little result. Pressing hard stymied him completely. Without a reference to guide him, the distance meant nothing. Still, he had time for patience, and exercised it until it finally petered out. He was ready to abandon his attempt to find the cell next to his when he fell through. Not literally, of course, because rigid stone prevented him, but magically. It felt so real that he smacked his head.
“Ha!” he shouted in surprise and delight, just as the panel in the bottom of his door banged open. Light spilled in. So did his food.
“You stupid geck!” the guard yelled and kicked the door for good measure. “You want your dinner on th
e floor, is that what?”
“No, but thank you!” he called back, grinning. Stuffed eel this time. Not his favorite, but he liked the spiced meat inside the little packets as well as the accompanying cabbage and more onions. He got the idea the vegetables came from leftovers for the servants. No harm in exercising the skill the proctor from the college had taught him.
The papery outside skin of the roasted onion crackled as he cupped it. “Show me where you’ve been, little onion,” he murmured as he searched for the remnants of magic within it. All things have magic in them to one degree or another, with the degree decreasing the more a thing is changed. Fire had changed the onion and, with a bit of experimenting, he recognized how. He couldn’t find the energy of fire itself.
He put such effort into discovering the onion’s past that perspiration slicked his brow, but at last he was rewarded with a vague image of a hand plucking him—it—out of a bowl. Beyond that, he had the impression of smoke-stained walls and the gleam of fire. It didn’t prove his theory, but as he chewed a pungent bite, another thought occurred to him: Bairith hadn’t had him practicing this aspect of his Gift.
He’d done warding as well as reading and manipulating emotions. The awareness of his surroundings came to him naturally, and Bairith had given pointers now and then to improve that ability. The mage hadn’t let him get near any animals unless one counted Fesh and Teth. People-wise, he didn’t get near anyone but Bairith.
More food for thought…
He took another bite. Juice ran down his chin. He licked it absently.
Bairith was teaching him how to manipulate—or at least control—pain as well. It required will and magic. That his future would require such an ability offered no comfort. Had Tasan and Fazare failed to manage both and so died?
Finishing his meal, he wiped his hands on his pants. Such manners would appall his mother. He dismissed a pang and checked his cramped accommodations with the tiniest thread of magic he could create.
On the ceiling near the door, he found a kathraul lurking. It disappeared the instant his magic brushed against it. A little while later the door opened. The light of a single torch seared Sherakai’s vision, but it didn’t stop Teth from dragging him out into the hall. The beast clicked its teeth in agitation. A low warning growl came from Fesh, and Sherakai dug his heels in instinctively.
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