Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  Their swords crashed and shrieked against each other.

  Deishi kept his arm across his oozing belly. Sherakai kept his elbow tight to his side. He parried every furious blow, refusing to take the offense. Instead, he focused his attention on soothing Deishi, but the jerky blows wouldn’t allow him to settle into an easy rhythm. “We are friends,” he said.

  “No.” A flick sent his sword tip at Sherakai’s cheek. It bit deep. “You used me, and I let you. I forgave you.” He kept his body turned, presenting a smaller target. “And all along you never cared about anyone but yourself.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You manipulated me.” He grunted as he struck. “Told me you were trapped.” A sneer ruined his face. “Liar.” Incredibly, his life draining away, he still found the fortitude to fight. His sword lifted again.

  Bafflement dissolved. Bairith had done this, poisoned kind Deishi with lies and shades of the truth. He reached for the only defense he could—the aro. Wicked, icy calm filled his veins. “I don’t want you to die.”

  “Fine—by—me.” He hacked at Sherakai, his signature grace gone.

  Every shift of body, air, and sand was Sherakai’s to know, to use. He slipped away from each blow, a minute adjustment of his sword deflecting the edge of Deishi’s blade. “You should have left Chiro.”

  Energy pulsed around them, beautiful and deadly.

  “Says the shader who dragged me here in the first place.”

  Was he a shader? He didn’t think so. “Stop, and I will take you to Mage Tylond myself.”

  “Mage Tylond, who brags about the astonishing creature he’s made of you.” He sneered and let go his belly to throw a punch at Sherakai’s nose.

  Sherakai read the bunch and flow of muscle. A flutter of air against his cheek marked the passing fist. Deishi staggered and crashed into him. The weight against the knife in Sherakai’s shoulder sparked a blaze of agony, but agony was only energy. He let go the sword and wrapped his arm around his friend’s waist. “Drop your blade.” His low Voice against Deishi’s ear throbbed with magic.

  He heard a thud. Deishi’s breath came labored and rasping.

  “Is that how it’s to be, then? You’ll compel me to disarm myself so you can jam your dagger into my heart?” Deishi challenged.

  Awkwardly, gently, he eased his friend to the sand to cradle Deishi against his chest. He gritted his teeth against his own pain. He wasn’t sure which of them groaned; the sound scraped through him like sand against glass. It was a moment before he could catch his breath again. His gaze settled on the gaping wound in Deishi’s belly. There was no way he could pick him up and carry him to the healer’s quarters in time to save him. No way he could run there and drag Mage Tylond back. He hadn’t seen this much blood since he’d taken Iniki’s life. “I don’t know how to heal you,” he confessed.

  Deishi laughed roughly.

  “Finish him.” Bairith stood close now, gleaming with exaltation.

  “He’s already finished.” Why? “Let me say goodbye.”

  “Your tender heart is only prolonging his suffering. You are a riddle, little dragon.”

  “You can’t be better than I am,” Deishi whispered.

  “I am not. You are the better man. I envy you.”

  “Then you’re a fool.”

  “Maybe.” In the calm of the battle’s aftermath, he could press truth against Deishi. “I am sorry for all that’s happened to you because of me. I would trade you places right now in a heartbeat.”

  Deishi struggled to focus. Frowned. “You’d rather be the dead one?”

  He nodded. “I would, but I would not wish my life on you in a thousand years.”

  “What you said before—” He winced and gritted his teeth. “You were trying to protect me.”

  “I did a lousy job.”

  “If it’s true, then I forgive you.”

  He didn’t deserve forgiveness. He should have compelled Deishi to leave. Why hadn’t he? The realization of what he’d done fractured his calm. His vision blurred. Don’t cry. Don’t ever cry.

  “This—hurts a lot more than I expected.” Deishi clutched Sherakai’s arm as a spasm shook him. “Help me. Please. End this.”

  The request robbed him of breath. He sat there for a moment, speechless with horror. Sick. More blood on his hands… But hadn’t he already killed him? A gut wound, he’d been told, was a long and terrible way to die. “Very well,” he managed.

  It took an eon to work up the courage to pull the knife out of his shoulder—a blinding experience in itself—and set the edge to his friend’s throat. With his waning strength, he couldn’t pierce the boiled leather to his heart, not from this angle.

  “I wish I had some sage advice for you.” Deishi smiled. “Be true.”

  “I will try.”

  Tears blinded him. Liquid warmth poured over his hand. Again.

  Chapter 17

  “Ah, there you are,” Bairith announced. As if Sherakai’s beastly guardians would not deliver him precisely when and where the jansu dictated, pressed and dressed the way the jansu requested. They’d chosen good work clothes and sturdy, plain boots this time.

  He stopped at the edge of the rug. Fesh and Teth dropped to their haunches at his heels.

  With a smile, Bairith stood from behind his desk. “Come,” he said, waving Sherakai to join him near the window. He tipped the youth’s face to let the morning light shine on it. It was a peculiar habit and often practiced.

  Sherakai did not respond, even when the mage ran a thumb over the cheek Deishi had cut. There was nothing left of the scar. Tylond had seen to that. When Bairith placed a hand against his chest, Sherakai stared past him out the glass. What season was it? What year?

  “You look fit.”

  “Yes, sir. Mage Tylond heals my cuts and breaks.” Not his wounds, no. His heart wasn’t cut, it had been smashed, one ruinous blow after another. Was he still supposed to protect the remaining rubble? To what end?

  “Excellent.” Bairith’s hand lingered, the familiar scent of sweet cicely wafting around them. “Hamrin tells me you’re proceeding ably with the new techniques he’s teaching you.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, noncommittal. In the weeks since Deishi’s death, Hamrin had proved an able teacher though not, perhaps, as skilled as Iniki. He was no mage, either.

  “Are you enjoying your lessons?”

  “Yes, sir.” It didn’t matter if he did or didn’t, they would go on anyway. Answering in monosyllables was a surefire way to draw the jansu’s displeasure. His heart was so numb he almost didn't care. Almost… “His style differs from yours and Mage Iniki’s.”

  “An important observation—and one that leads to the reason you’re here.” Bairith moved toward the bookcases. At a touch and a murmured phrase, a click sounded, and a shelf shifted. He swung the hidden door outward and gestured to the space. “The warding responds only to me, so you cannot pass without my aid—should you be so inclined.”

  “Where does it go?” He asked because it was expected. The haze of grief and despair numbed his natural curiosity.

  “To the next step in your lessons.”

  Sherakai followed him into a room devoid of windows. Against the far wall stood a frame of white wood. The intricate, stylized carvings brought elves to mind. His mother had a cherished mirror done in the same fashion. This one did not have glass in it, but a surface like eddying water. Within it swam scores of muted, multicolored fireflies.

  As if fireflies could swim.

  “This is a portal. Is it not breathtaking?” Bairith held both hands out toward it, as if presenting a miracle.

  Unnerving might better define the way the hairs on his arms stood up and his stomach slewed sideways. He shrugged to dismiss the sense of uneasiness. “Yes,” he said anyway. “I have never seen one.” He wanted to back up and walk away as fast as he could.

  “They are rare.” Bairith was pleased with his treasure. “It required a full quorum of mages on
either side to form and anchor it. The well maintains it.”

  The well, he surmised, would be the runic ring in the cavernous chamber far below. Or rather, the runes held the fount of energy. He could not comprehend either the power that had gone into it nor the weave of the individual magics. “On either side?” he echoed.

  “Yes. Here—and at its destination.” The doorway brightened gradually to the eye, and Sherakai sensed the swell of its power along every nerve. It drew a wince.

  Silently, Fesh pushed his nose into Sherakai’s hand. Teth stood back a little, mouth curled into a snarl, standoffish as usual. It wasn’t a new look on him, but the creature’s displeasure did nothing to reduce a growing sense of apprehension.

  “Come,” Bairith bade, lending the word just enough aro to make Sherakai step toward the portal without conscious thought.

  Teth growled low, yet stood steadfast beside his ward. Fesh followed Lord Chiro into the strange space. As he crossed the threshold, Sherakai took a breath and held it lest the liquid fill his mouth and nose. Curiosity kept his eyes open.

  However it looked, it did not feel like water.

  He had the impression of an expanse spreading out in every direction—above and below and around. A brief sensation of falling tightened his belly and his jaw. Blurry flashes full of noise and images assaulted him. He had no time to puzzle them out before his foot found earth again.

  Bairith’s hand on his arm stopped his lurch. An involuntary gasp filled his lungs with moist air and his nose with a sharp metallic scent. Teardrop shapes hung on the walls in iron brackets, emitting a yellow-green glow that lent a ghastly, sick cast to skin. It was the first time he’d ever seen Bairith’s countenance truly hideous.

  The jansu smiled. His teeth gleamed celery green, but the color of his eyes defied naming. “The transition takes getting used to.”

  His voice was muted. Sherakai worked his jaw to get his ears to pop. “Will I be taking it often?”

  “I hope so.”

  Bairith strode ahead, tugging Sherakai by the link in his wake. Resentment settled on him. As if the persistent ill light wasn’t unsettling enough, the harsh scent of the place crawled up into his sinuses and settled there. He couldn’t dwell on resistance which only brought punishment. This fresh torment, and a far off sensation he felt more than heard, shrouded the calamities he carried like dead weights in his heart. Tension set his teeth on edge and pushed his hatred for Bairith, his aching sorrow for Deishi, and the gaping loss of Mimeru to a numb corner of his mind.

  Massaging the bridge of his nose did nothing helpful.

  “You will stay here for a time,” Bairith informed him. “There are rooms on the levels below this. Chief Hamrin will continue to oversee your instruction.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Bairith cast him a sideways glance.

  He ignored it. Too close to one of the lurid, awful lamps, he put his hand up to block the light. He was all the way past it before he realized he’d felt no heat. The second one received a closer examination. He squinted at it, but saw no opening where one could add oil or light a flame. It didn’t flicker. He held his hand up to touch the second one and was surprised to find it cool.

  “Magic.”

  “Fire?”

  “Not here.”

  “Where is ‘here’?”

  “Far from the child you used to be.”

  Their footsteps led through a maze of corridors. Smooth, tight-fitting stones lined the walls but the undressed floor was worn by the passage of time and countless feet. Only the regular placement of the magical lamps broke the unending expanse of rock. As they continued, the thrum he’d sensed earlier intensified to a pulsing sound not unlike a waterfall’s roar, except that it would crescendo, then subside again. The weight of it magnified the ache of both head and heart.

  They left the hall to wind up several flights of stairs and the noise briefly muted. From the stairway, they crossed another corridor to a pair of towering black doors. Ivory inlays as delicate as brush strokes formed the single figure spanning both panels: a snarling beast with the face of a dog and the body of a snake. The whole was lacquered to a high gloss, reflecting the sickly light of the lamps. Such was the workmanship that Sherakai wanted to stop and study the design, throbbing headache or no. But Bairith pulled open the doors—each a span thick—and a deafening cacophony staggered him.

  Bairith glided into the racket of shouts, growls, hoots, whistles, screams, clapping hands, and stomping feet. To either side, Fesh and Teth urged Sherakai along a walkway between rows of seats while he gawked like an idiot. Living beings of every shape and size filled the seats of the gigantic arena. Here, a man with stick-like limbs sported skin like bark and a wild white mane. There, a thing waved its many blue arms and pursed fat orange lips to spew shrieks flecked with spittle. Three creatures wreathed in shadows watched him with eyes like rubies.

  The smell from the corridors disappeared under a miasma of sweat, stale alcohol, strangely scented smoke, and reeking perfume. Overhead, a miasma of gray clouds tinged a discordant shade of gold formed a roiling dome over the arena. Dark gashes like claw marks appeared in places, then faded again into the background. Sheet lightning flickered, yellow and ghastly, and the threat of rain hung in the air.

  “What is this place?” he shouted, bending closer to Fesh’s ear.

  Fesh made a vulgar gesture with one knobby hand, then pinched his nose. A stinking backside.

  The pair led him down steep steps covered with a thick, garishly colored carpet. Ahead of them, Bairith made a turn and disappeared. A moment later fierce Teth pointed Sherakai in the same direction, to stairs leading downward again. At the bottom, a turn to the left revealed a balcony shaded by a purple-and-white striped awning. Behind the railing stood low couches and pillows on a scattering of deep rugs. A slim humanoid creature worked the ropes of a fan set high against the inner wall. Sherakai stared at its yellow eyes, strip of stiff inky hair, and cat’s tail. The creature ducked its head and refused to meet his gaze.

  From another cringing servant, Bairith accepted a tall silver cup with two handles. “It is only watered wine,” he explained with an indulgent look, offering it to Sherakai. “Sit, my son, and enjoy the games. Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, thank you, sir.” Shouting and crashing drew his attention to the arena floor, where a dozen leonine creatures fought like demons. “Where do all these creatures come from?”

  “Some from right here in the Twixt. The rest from our world or others.” He laughed at what must have been a look of stupefaction. “You did not think ours was the only world in all the universe? How provincial.”

  Stung, Sherakai turned back to the fighters. Two colors of sashes divided them into teams. They wielded sickles and chains with ruinous, bloody results. In a matter of minutes, they’d torn each other to shreds. Sherakai stared in morbid fascination at gore strewn across the sand.

  Only one beast still stood when the battle ended. One arm hung limply at its side, and its hide was rent in many places. It lifted its muzzle and gave a series of ear-splitting hoots, then sank to the ground.

  The crowd threw back a roar that curdled Sherakai's blood. An involuntary shiver coursed over him.

  “That one will move on to the next level if it survives. I do not much care for these fights. They’re too fast and they lack finesse, but they get up the blood of the spectators, and that’s critical.”

  “Why?” Sherakai asked, perching on a well-padded chair. Below, the victor was carried away, the remains cleaned up, and the sands raked smooth.

  “An excited audience turns a better profit. The more excited they are, the more wildly they bet, though if the fights are over too soon they become a little… vexed.” He accepted a plate full of dainties from another servant and settled into his pillows. “You needn’t worry; our box is well warded.”

  He could only imagine what would happen if the audience erupted into violence. Thousands of faces fused into
a kaleidoscope of color and shape, making it next to impossible to focus on any one being. Disconcerted and dizzy, he turned his attention back to the sand. He’d read stories of death for profit, but they’d happened in barbarian countries far away and a long time ago.

  Two pairs of multi-limbed creatures fought until only one remained standing. A mock war was staged—complete with rousing speeches and a display of lights created with magic. After that, the fights resumed in earnest. Chief Hamrin joined them, watching the combatants with narrowed eyes. From time to time he nodded to himself. It wasn’t long before Sherakai wished they could leave.

  Hours later, the jansu was still criticizing the different styles of fighting, the fighters, and those that arranged the battles. The numbness brought on by Deishi’s loss expanded as life after life was casually wasted. Shouts of victory or outrage and the exchange of glittering coin marked each death. Several visitors stopped by Bairith’s exclusive box. With them came gold, written agreements sealed with blood and magic, and new wagers.

  It seemed a lifetime before the jansu tired of the grisly sport. In the corridor behind the stands, the gigantic black doors thankfully muffled the unending noise. Sherakai's ears rang, his head throbbed, and his soul ached. He followed Bairith and Hamrin down to the floor where they’d originally entered.

  “I leave you in the chief’s care,” the jansu announced, his voice too loud in the sudden quiet. He placed his hands on Sherakai’s shoulders and kissed his forehead with great tenderness. “You will not disappoint me.”

  “Sir.” Bairith would be satisfied—or not.

  With an indecipherable smile, the jansu went one way while Hamrin and the demons herded him down the hall the other direction.

  “Nervous?” Hamrin asked, his accent murdering that single word with no obvious effort.

  Knowledge of his purpose in this hideous place sat like lead in his gut. “Should I be?”