Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  The rakeshi was his…

  Every awful inch of it.

  How did one measure the essence of a living thing? Volume? Circumference? Did it have weight? He didn’t feel any heavier now than he had before—but he caught himself and heaved a grunt. Pain and shock already made him stupid.

  If the demon was his—an extra portion of energy residing within his frame—maybe he was going about this the wrong way.

  Freedom first, he decided, refusing to succumb to a suddenly racing heart. He had to extricate his leg, and he had to stay conscious to do it. The distinct aroma of rotten potatoes did nothing to help. Maybe that’s why the birds had wanted to eat him instead of the monster.

  “Because I’m so tender and flavorful,” he declared as he pulled his scarf out from under the neck of his armor. Tying it over his mouth and nose took enough effort that he needed to rest for a few minutes. Sweat made his skin damp. Sand and dirt stuck to it, along with a feather or two.

  The monster refused to budge.

  He set to digging out rocks. Success came at a price. Shifting the rock gave him a little leeway to move his leg, but the motion robbed him of sensibility.

  One bird returned.

  He woke to find it sitting on his groin, contemplating a meal as well armored as a turtle. Sherakai chose not to point out the error of the bird’s thinking, but groped along the ground for a suitable stone. It made short work of the bloodthirsty creature.

  Hours wore away as he labored, then he finally dragged himself from beneath the monster. Teeth gritted, he silently and urgently recited all the meditations he could remember. Propped against a smooth-faced boulder, he drank the last of his precious water and braced himself to challenge the rakeshi.

  It took every bit as much focus and willpower as digging himself from under the fallen giant. A darkness abided within him. Brushing against the outermost edges of it made his heart beat faster and his breath catch. There were the shadows, too, that Bairith and Tylond had used to hold him together. Black threads wound around and through him everywhere. Knowing they existed and observing them personally were two different things. It sent his mind skittering sideways to avoid the reality.

  And then came a touch, a featherlight brushing of consciousness. It was wildly out of keeping with the enormous sense of power that wielded it. He had the distinct impression of size. Of eyes at first silvery gray, then fading to cauldron black. Of anger and a deep dissatisfaction, unimaginable patience waiting, waiting…

  With a strangled yell, Sherakai wrenched himself sideways. He smacked his aching head in the process and jolted his leg, setting it afire all over again. It didn’t rid him of the beast’s presence. The thing surged within him, bringing the disconcerting sensation of being in two places at once. It moved his head—and he saw a darkness blot the space a few yard away.

  He reached unerringly for his sword.

  The darkness folded, and Lord Chiro stepped out.

  “Still no success, I see.” The jansu’s imperturbable voice stripped him bare and pinned him down for an inspection as chill as any northern wind.

  Sherakai heaved a sigh, rubbed his abused head, and didn’t answer the obvious. The last time he'd seen the mage, he'd succumbed to despair and begged for help that was refused. Never again.

  As polished as if he’d just stepped out of his dressing room, the mage pursed his lips. “Come deal with this.” He gestured to someone behind Sherakai.

  A small woman scampered to Sherakai’s side. A pale blue gaze met his, then darted away. With no warning or fanfare, she cut away his pant leg and the remains of his boot. Her no-nonsense clasp on his broken shinbone made him stiffen. A noise came out of his throat, but he refused to let it shape itself. To scream was weakness; pain was his, and pain was energy. Hadn’t the jansu said so hundreds of times?

  With an effort, he reversed his instinct to pull away from the agony, and embraced it instead, biting the inside of his cheek until it bled. He could do this; he’d done it countless times before.

  At last the little healer straightened, hands clasped tight beneath her breasts. Bairith nodded. “Can you stand?”

  The woman gasped.

  “Yes.” It would hurt like blazes, but he knew better than to gainsay the jansu. It helped to have the boulder to lean against. He ventured a tentative step, testing his strength against the dizzying pain.

  The jansu studied his pupil for a moment. Expression neutral, he turned his attention to the fallen beasts. “Two?” he questioned. As if Sherakai had conjured them solely to impress him. As if the first had been as good as dead when the second appeared on the scene. “And yet you can’t conquer the rakeshi, which has no material body at all.”

  Memory of that brief contact made him cold. He shivered. “I’m trying. Truly, I am.” Just nod, he thought. Accept that. Accept me.

  “You must focus. All I ask is that one simple thing.”

  “I’m sorry. I will do better.”

  It was incredible that Bairith could hold such anger inside him—vibrant and bright as a flame in the link—and still look as calm as a statue. He closed the space between them and gripped Sherakai’s jaw in one hand. His perfect mouth tightened.

  “Not if you are afraid. And you are afraid, boy, I see it in your pattern.”

  He could hardly deny it to a Spirit mage, bond or not. His attention fastened on a mark he had never seen before. Pale as moonlight, diaphanous as a spider’s web, two jagged lines marked the left side of the jansu’s face from cheekbone to jaw.

  He’d done that. He could almost remember it, but—how? When?

  “Why do you fear?” Bairith inquired, shattering the memory to dust. “Do you not trust me?”

  The healer inched away as quietly as she could. He ignored her. Sherakai wished he could follow her. He didn’t trust the jansu, not for one second. He couldn’t say that. Couldn’t say, either, that he wanted approval for the two great creatures he’d conquered. For the flock of scavenger birds he’d defeated. He wanted recognition for extricating his broken leg on his own. For trying so hard to use the Healing magic, for doing good at something. Anything.

  “I will do better,” he repeated in a murmur. He lowered his lashes, unwilling to meet the jansu’s blatant displeasure.

  Bairith stepped away, giving a little push that humiliated more than it injured. “That will not be necessary.”

  “Sir?”

  The jansu considered the lightning-filled horizon, then shook his head. “It’s time to put you in the field. The years spent in the Twixt were never intended for one spontaneous match, although that would have been a stupendous victory.” He regarded Sherakai with the hint of a sneer. “You could have saved us both considerable years and effort.”

  “How?”

  “By doing what you do best. You should have killed that pale excuse for a champion.” His fury vibrated like a taut rope.

  Ah, there was the longed-for acknowledgment. He was extraordinarily good at killing.

  He’d slain so many, man and beast alike, but the instant he’d refused to kill the archer his life had taken an abrupt and painful twist. It was his turn to look at the skyline. If this wasn’t the ‘field,’ what was? Alshan? His dreams would run with blood forever. But Bairith always did what he did for Sherakai’s own good, didn’t he? “And us?” he asked.

  “The road before you is paved with gold.” And there was that small, sweet smile meant for Sherakai alone, just for asking the perfectly right question. Such a sudden departure from the anger…

  Was there a variety of gold the color of the deepest crimson in the world? It didn’t matter if he wanted it or not, the ever-present tug of the link compelled him along the path. He bowed his head and thought of his boyhood home with its familiar walls and scents and sounds. Then he collected his weapons and forced himself into motion. Bairith would use magic to travel. Sherakai would walk. The pain in his leg as he made the journey to the arena on his own would give him a good point of focus. “
I’ll get started, then.”

  Chapter 40

  The days spent waiting on the jansu’s will grated on Sherakai’s nerves. Would Bairith Mindar send him out with a troop, a smaller group, or on his own? The chance to fight against the Romuri bore a certain appeal. They had crippled his father and his country. They never stopped badgering the Alshani—and yet they had never conquered them, either. He could be part of pushing them back and ending this constant war. Maybe, just maybe, it would somehow atone for the loss of his brothers.

  While the waiting was hard, the nightmares were harder. He could not escape the blood-soaked scenes of terror and dismay, the limitless variations on the remaking he’d undergone, and the deaths he’d dealt. They even haunted him during the day. And then the rakeshi would take over. Sherakai would regain consciousness long hours later. If the position of the sun didn’t alert him, the now-familiar discomfort of the creature’s possession did. There was always the sensation of occupying a body that didn’t quite fit. He ached—head, skin, bones… He had to move physically to reclaim himself.

  The walls of his tower rooms confined him as securely as the Hole, though it pleased him to have more room to pace. When pacing no longer sufficed, he threw himself into forms.

  Bairith did not come to see him; no one did. He was released from his gilded cage with no warning or preparation whatever. The guards appeared at the door to inform him the jansu awaited him in the courtyard and it was time to gear up and leave. He found himself torn between relief and resentment.

  Sherakai didn’t know what to expect when he joined the soldiers in the yard, but none of the scenarios he’d imagined had included this. Their wary curiosity and suspicion came as no surprise. They’d seen him sparring and stories spread like leaves on the wind. It was the horses that shattered him.

  He had only to walk into the walled space and the animals closest to him backed away, shaking heads and whinnying their alarm. Even the war hounds retreated, hackles raised and lips curled. In a matter of seconds, the area around him cleared of everyone but the less sensitive humans.

  The first mount they brought bolted without warning. The second went into a bucking, kicking frenzy with devastating results. The third was defeated by the full weight of the stable master and a groom on his bridle.

  Sherakai backed away, head spinning and heart hammering. By the One and all his Companions, this couldn’t be… “I can go afoot,” he said at last, the words ash in his mouth.

  “You won’t be able to keep up,” the weather-beaten sergeant in charge of the group said.

  “I will.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Bairith approached the terrified horse with a hand held out. Aro gleamed as he spoke a spell. His fingers touched the velvety nose, and it settled into quivering nervousness. “Come, Sherakai. All is well.”

  It was not well. Horses had never pulled away from him before, never shown fear for his mere presence. The loss sickened him.

  “Come,” the jansu repeated when he stayed rooted to the ground. He tugged him closer with the magic in the bond.

  Sherakai closed the distance with reluctance. The horse dreaded him, even through the effects of the spell. Don’t cry. Don’t ever cry. The rakeshi did this. Bairith Mindar did this. “Thank you,” he offered instead. He spoke quietly and made no sudden moves, but when he took the horse’s bridle the animal rolled its eyes and tried to step away. “Easy, easy…” He stroked its twitchy shoulder gently. It didn’t help, nor did trying to use his own magic to soothe it. He wanted to ask why this was, but too many people surrounded them.

  Unhappy with the delay and superstitious about the cause, the soldiers murmured among themselves. They speculated about what might be wrong with him, and whether he was a freak like the others.

  What others? There were more like him? More like Fesh and Teth? Bairith, if he heard them, did nothing to ease the situation.

  Curiosity that the jansu would accompany the troop on the excursion vanished with the realization that Bairith would want to oversee Sherakai’s performance. Occupied with the skittish horse, reflecting on the attitude of the men, he kept his silence.

  “My company displeases you?” Bairith inquired. He wore a split tunic of emerald green embroidered at yoke and cuffs, and contrasting pants of pale doeskin, every inch the refined prince. He might have been setting out for a banquet instead of battle.

  “No, lord.”

  The jansu’s horse, a beautiful stallion of gleaming gold and flax, kept up a stiff, fast walk. Glassy eyes on the road, its ears canted at an awkward angle as if it didn’t really listen to what was going on around it. Like a shell, Sherakai thought. His own mount’s behavior made for an uncomfortable, challenging ride that not even the rich scents of full-blown springtide could ease.

  “Then what is this cloak of disappointment you wear, waiting for me to admire?”

  “I do not mean to upset you.” He tried to keep emotion out of his voice and out of the link. “I used to handle horses very well. It was a useful talent.”

  “And now you have others.”

  “I do, lord.” The stiff-legged gait his horse managed was dreadful. “I let the confusion of the moment overcome me.”

  “Did it mean so much to you?”

  It did. By all of the gods, it did. “It is the past. I am not that person anymore.” An ocean filled the gulf between his dreams and his reality.

  Bairith’s pleasure danced through the link. “You have come a long way. The improvements I’ve made suit you, and it gladdens my heart that you accept them now.”

  He had no choice in the matter. “The latest is difficult. It does not… fit well. I would ask a question, if I may.”

  “I enjoy your questions.”

  Yes, provided they were the right questions. “The rakeshi is strong; I cannot always control it. Do you wish it to control me?”

  “No.” Though soft, the word carried an unexpected weight of vehemence. “That was never my plan. A blending of your keen wit and the rakeshi’s superior strength and abilities will give me an unparalleled advantage.”

  “For what?”

  “Redemption.”

  “From what?”

  “For what,” he corrected. He let that dangle in the air between them for a long space, then caressed Sherakai with a thread of reassurance. “I know how hard it has been for you. I know it will be harder yet, but you must trust me.”

  Nausea twisted his belly. Vindication bought by the weapon the jansu forged in Sherakai would be a terrible thing. Was he strong enough to withstand that battle when it came? Of course he was; Bairith tempered and tested him continually. He was created for one purpose, and one purpose alone. And then, when that day came, would he be free? He could—he must—last that long.

  Eventually, Sherakai abandoned his seat aboard the poor horse to run alongside. Lord Chiro did not approve. “The animal is a tool, not a companion to be pampered.”

  His feet hitting the dirt in a steady rhythm gave him a tangible focus. “The spell ruins him—like using a sword to cut down a tree ruins the edge of the blade.”

  “Your edge will be ruined before your reach the battle.”

  “No, lord, I have you. As fine a whetstone as ever lived.”

  Bairith narrowed his eyes. “If you’re trying to compliment me, you could do better than comparing me to a rock. Mind your manners, boy.”

  Manners were slippery as eels. They got him into trouble when he tried to do as instructed, or they deserted him when he needed them most. It was no hardship to fall behind the horses. His erstwhile mount benefited from his absence, and his position protected Sherakai from the necessity of conversation.

  It was a small village Lord Chiro had chosen, the homes humble structures of wood with thatched roofs. The single exception was a stone building on a hillock on the outer edge. Peach and gold ribbons denoting the goddess Ayusashi fluttered from either end of the lintel. The white of the All Father streamed from a round brass shield hung abo
ve the door. Polished to perfection, it reflected the setting sun and refracted it in dozens of brilliant rays cut again and again by the wind-blown streamers.

  Gloved hands lifted to protect eyes. Riders shifted their mounts to move out of the light.

  Beside Lord Bairith’s magnificent mount, Sherakai studied the scene with blatant curiosity. Here in the borderlands, the people tended to leave the All Father to his own devices while they worshipped the Lesser Gods. Even so, he would have expected the red and orange of Faitaidan, the god of courage, rather than the colors of the goddess of tolerance and love. The Romuri often translated “courage” as “war.”

  “We’re ready on your orders, m’lord,” the sergeant said, pushing his own horse forward and Sherakai out of the way.

  The horse didn’t like the presence of the rakeshi one little bit, and Sherakai tactfully moved away to give the horse—and his betters—space. He could still hear them quite well.

  “The dying light seems fitting,” Bairith nodded. “Carry on.”

  Sherakai’s brows knit. “And me, lord?”

  “Wait with me. ” He started down the narrow street and Sherakai followed until they stood in front of the church, facing the meager green.

  “Gather together!” the soldiers called out.

  “Why? What news?” someone asked.

  “Move along, move along.” They prodded and directed the growing crowd with the short spears typically carried by light cavalry. They used their horses, too, to herd people like cattle.

  “By whose command? Who are you? What’s happened?”

  “Into the square with you and you’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

  Rather than calming them, the blunt words and rough handling agitated. Several figures darted away or pushed back. The war hounds chased any that escaped and trapped them until the soldiers came to return the unruly villager to the green.

  “What is happening?” Sherakai didn’t like the prickle of apprehension creeping over his skin. “You’re not going to kill innocent villagers. Are you?”