Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  He scrubbed his face, then massaged his throbbing temples. Elinasha’s tincture had done nothing to ease the ache. Neither had mediating a discussion between Suchedai Ginsaka, the stable master, and the head groom. After that, he’d rolled up his sleeves and gone to work restoring a wall in need of repair. Fortunately, it needed only physical labor and not the skills of an engineer. That labor had drawn attention until he pulled a pair of idle bystanders into the job. Bright sunlight reflecting off stone and pavement for hours fed his headache. Did the shadows that held him together eat sunlight? How strange that would be…

  He’d been unable to talk to his mother, though reports indicated a slow recovery. Either she refused to see him—unlikely—or the women had chosen to keep him away. Today, he hoped, but later.

  He considered soaking his skull in a bucket of fresh, cold well water.

  Alternatively, a steam and a rubdown sounded divine, but who would he compel to do the job? Chakkan? He hadn’t seen him since that evening in the garden, and who was he to think he had any right to such human things?

  He dragged himself out of bed, washed, shaved, and pulled his rumpled travel clothes from the bag he’d packed. He’d brought exactly two sets of clothing. Dangling his shirt from one finger, he wrinkled his nose. He didn’t remember ever having to wash his own things or even having to see that they made the journey to the laundress. With a grimace, he hung it and the equally dirty pants over the back of a chair and dressed in the other set. It hardly mattered what he wore on the return to Lord Bairith’s keep.

  Today’s braids were utilitarian: one down the middle and one on each side, tied into a single tail. With a grimace, he worked his fingers through the plaits to loosen the pull on his scalp. His mother used to braid his father’s hair, and his as well. Presumably, his brothers’ wives did theirs; who had done Imitoru’s? He vaguely remembered an attendant Toru had collected during the war. Auburn hair and sloe eyes.

  Sherakai made his way down the stairs in search of a meal, rubbing his neck as he went. Halfway down the steps, his vision shifted. He sat down abruptly, one hand against the wall and his heart pounding so hard he couldn’t hear. Bright edges illuminated each step, each seam in the masonry. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought for calm.

  A sense of solace and strength curled through him. It took several moments to realize the source: the link. Though miles away, he was certain he could detect the scent of sweet cicely. The jansu kept a discreet distance after Sherakai had left the Gates. He pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed the rakeshi would wait just an hour. Half would do. He would find Chakkan—and force his friend to lock him in a cellar room until this madness passed.

  He inhaled deeply and got to his feet. The stairway remained steady; no bright edges now marked the path. Nodding to himself, he finished his descent at a slower pace. As he traversed the gallery, he heard voices from the end of the entrance hall. It was typical for petitioners and merchants to plead for aid or offer contracts. He had yet to deal with any of them himself.

  “My Lord Sherakai!” someone called out as he reached the arched double doors to the gathering hall. “There he is.”

  An oblique glance revealed Captain Tuketa, Ginsaka, and a smartly uniformed soldier garbed in blue and green. “Not today,” he muttered under his breath. Halfway through the doorway, what his eyes had seen caught up with his brain: a half-dozen royal men-at-arms. With bared weapons. Dauntless. The king’s own.

  “Please, you are making a mistake.” Ginsaka, who never raised his voice, sounded angry. Or cautionary…

  “There is no mistake.” Tuketa’s voice was equally distinguishable, edged with anger and purpose. “Take him.”

  A short command and the rattle of weaponry propelled Sherakai into the hall. Three doors led out of the great chamber: one at the far end leading outside, one more on either side. So many people filled the room. They were grouped here and there talking, moving through the space in twos and threes. A chattering, laughing handful of children dashed past, his sisters-in-law behind them. A commotion at the outer door resolved itself into a pair of pike-bearing Dauntless shoving their way through a trio of clerks. His mother and Kanya sat at one of the low couches—his mother—heads turning in surprise.

  “No.” With a hiss, he spun toward the exit on the left. Two men in the garnet robes of Shiran priests blocked the passage. The arrival of the king’s guardsmen interrupted their discussion.

  “Sherakai dan Tameko. Halt and surrender yourself into the keeping of our illustrious master and protector, his royal majesty King Ilaroya.” The stentorian voice and flowery announcement drew every eye in the room. Presumably the captain of the Dauntless guard, he was a tall man with a flamboyant mustache and an unmistakable air of arrogance. The half-dozen guardsmen that ran in after him, however, were all business.

  He paused, heart pounding again, headache ratcheting up to a furious level. Thankfully, his vision remained steady. “For what cause?” he asked into the sudden silence.

  The captain’s well-manicured mustache twitched in displeasure. “High treason.”

  A gasp came from where Imarasu sat, then a gentle murmur as someone sought to restrain her.

  “There have been witnesses,” Tuketa supplied stiffly. “Lords Motogin and Heku. They have no reason to lie.”

  They might have every one of a thousand or more golden reasons if they’d been bought. He recognized the names of two minor noble families. He couldn’t recall having met either, but his father had dealings with them. Abruptly, the image of a letter floated before his eyes, the writing in his own hand. A letter to do with the horses when Papa had been gone to the king’s funeral, he thought. “I acknowledge no such thing, but in the interest of peace I will submit to your escort.” Better to go with them than to risk a fight here where innocents could be hurt or killed.

  “Sherakai, no!” Horror transformed Imarasu’s features. “This is wrong! My son is innocent of this malicious charge!”

  “Whether or not it is true,” the Dauntless officer said, “it is my duty to bring him before the royal judgment seat. Lay down your weapons, sir.”

  Without making any sudden moves, he drew the single knife he wore and crouched to put it on the floor. He kicked it toward the guardsmen.

  “The rest as well.”

  “I have none, as you can see.” He lifted his empty hands.

  “Search him.”

  Sherakai submitted to a methodical examination, both hands held out to his sides. Dozens bore witness to his compliance.

  His mother surged forward. “An honorable man would have made such a charge in private. Do you seek to destroy Tanoshi?”

  Rila, sensible woman that she was, caught her arm and kept her from charging into the knot of soldiers.

  “He is the one who ran.” The Dauntless captain was quite pleased with this observation.

  “He did not run. He walked into this room with far more civility than did you and your men-at-arms.” Fragile she might be, but Imarasu still possessed a backbone.

  “Mama.” Sherakai spoke gently. This tumult would do her health no good. “I will be all right.”

  “I won’t lose you again.” She held herself straight and dignified, every inch the jansu-sa.

  He took a step toward her. The six guardsmen took two toward him. “I will be all right,” he repeated. “You can rely upon Suchedai Ginsaka, but I would suggest to you both that you replace the captain of the guard.” If Bairith didn’t own the man outright, he’d no doubt had a hand in planting rumors meant to sprout thorns and outright briars. Tanoshi could be no safe haven for the jansu’s reluctant son.

  With a growl, Tuketa shot forward, aiming a punch at Sherakai’s jaw. It didn’t connect. Two Dauntless caught him and forced him back. “You cannot get away with that.” With a snarl, Tuketa shook the men off and yanked his tunic straight.

  Sherakai ignored him. With a hand over his heart, he bowed to his mother. She would defend him; Elinasha he was not so cert
ain about, but she held her baby to her breast and said not a word. He inclined his head to her, and she nodded back with a troubled frown. Why, he couldn’t fathom; surely this suited her wishes that he be gone from Tanoshi.

  “Shall we, gentlemen?” he asked.

  The guardsmen who’d searched him took him by either arm to shepherd him toward the entrance hall.

  “You’ll need to wear these.” Ilaroya’s captain produced a finely crafted set of manacles embedded with the telltale green-tinted gray of bleakstone.

  A sour taste shot up his throat, sharp with dread. Every sense within him tensed. “With all due respect, I decline.”

  “With all due respect, you don’t have a choice.”

  “How dare you?” Imarasu cried out. “It is insulting enough for you to blacken his name in public, but you will lose your office for this, I swear it.”

  He paid her no mind. “Hold your hands out.”

  He resisted instinctively. The guards, just as instinctively, gripped him harder to force his hands out for the manacles. He jerked one arm free to slam his elbow into the guard’s chest and send him stumbling backward. “Don’t do this,” he growled through gritted teeth. Already he felt the unsettling shiver of displacement as the rakeshi shifted within him. “This is a mistake.”

  “The only mistake was not putting you down when you knelt on that floodin’ bridge like the worthless dung you are.” Tuketa’s punch connected this time.

  Sherakai shook it off and balled his fists. Bright lines etched everything around him, every face, every arm, every weapon. He slid backward, deeper, further away. The strain of the last few days ground at his control. “Do not hit me again!” he begged.

  A guardsman jammed his spear at Sherakai’s side, shouting at him to get down on his knees. Fire raked his ribs as the blade sliced through clothes and skin and slipped free, tinged crimson. The guard that still hung onto his arm dragged him downward. The rakeshi did what he always did when faced with overwhelming enemy numbers: he killed them.

  Tuketa died first because he was near, and because he burned with hostility. The rakeshi wrenched the spear out of its owner’s hands. Four bluecoats went down before they could even think to get out of the way. The captain charged him with no more than a roar and a sword. The others had the good sense to work together and for a moment gave the rakeshi a challenge. They were not the king’s elite for nothing.

  Dancing backward into the entry hall, the rakeshi lured them out, two at a time. Another fell. The spear broke. He ducked, jabbed, and grabbed up the man’s sword to meet a rush.

  Shouts and screams and chaos drew the Tanoshi guard. Uncertain whether to help him or stop him, a handful herded the rakeshi back into the gathering hall. He carved his way clear with brutal, deadly efficiency. Sudden, unreasoning rage boiled through him. Shocked him. It brought him up for the space of one heartbeat. Two. A blow struck him from the side, shattering the possibility of salvation. He struck back. He struck again and again until there was no one left to challenge him.

  Chapter 56

  He walked through the hall with a sword in each hand, stepping over the bodies of men, women, and children, breathing in the stench of blood and evacuated bowels, hissing it out again between clenched teeth. As rage waned, shock swelled. Awful light poured into the cramped, half-blind place in the back of his own head where Sherakai had been unceremoniously shoved.

  The smell nauseated him. He dropped one of the blades to put his hand over his mouth, only to taste blood. It saturated his ruined shirt and jerkin, stained once-tan pants. Sickened, he fell to his knees to heave, but the rakeshi shifted and forced him up again, wary, defensive. It refused to let go its hold, but with no challenge to face, no more anger to exercise, it had little strength. Confusion gnawed at Sherakai’s senses as he strove to uncover what had gone wrong.

  Murder on a grand scale, that’s what.

  No, something more than that. Something specific and… painful, he surmised.

  Unable to stand still, he stalked through the keep. The carnage distracted him. All the way through the gathering hall, and not a single body moved, not a soul cried out. It was the same in the corridors, in the entrance, the gallery, up the stairs, and throughout the low halls.

  There was no one to shout him away from the frightening space between trapped helplessness and this. Dread guided his steps back to the gathering hall. Five, six times he traversed the length without looking at the empty faces he passed. Seeing them, identifying them, would prove the nightmare as reality.

  Gashes and scrapes from the fight burned across his chest and shoulders, his arms. Blood oozed down his fingertips. In its way, the hurt insulated him.

  The sound of swearing drew his gaze to the crimson-spattered doors. A man stood there, wide-eyed with horror. Likely one of the locals, come to hall on an errand.

  Sherakai opened his mouth, but words wouldn’t shape. He lifted his sword—and the man fled.

  He wished he could…

  Licking his lips, he finally forced himself to see the bodies strewn around him. The suchedai. Both priests. A woman he recalled serving as nanny to Fazare’s children. Dauntless and Tanoshan guards. His mother…

  With a moan, he collapsed on his knees beside her, sword clanging on the tiles. He reached for her, hesitating before his filthy hands touched her. He plucked at the edges of her overdress to cover the wound. It didn’t stay closed. He pressed his wrist to his forehead, trying to think what he should do. Her eyes regarded him in wide astonishment. No understanding, no accusation, no forgiveness, just surprise. He couldn’t look at her. Every breath came sharp and ragged.

  Kanya had been beside her. And Rila, he thought. He found his little sister halfway across the room among the splintered remains of a table. Her neck was broken and the side of her face was a single massive bruise. Even in death, Elinasha clasped her children close. He saw two of them half under her. Rila lay near Imarasu, one hand covering the gap in her belly, the other stretching toward—no. He couldn’t deal with that.

  He clutched his head with both hands and turned in helpless circles, mouth stretched in a silent scream. Fingers like claws tangled in his braids. He ripped them free. The motion tore out leather ties and long strands of hair, and he shouted and beat his fists on his thighs. Dropping to his knees, shoulders hunched, his eyes fell on a discarded knife. Scarlet stained the blade.

  Maybe his.

  Probably his…

  He picked it up and hacked the braids from his head. One. Two. Three. He sawed off great handfuls of hair and threw it away from him, shouting. Bleeding. Then he threw the blade, too. It landed out of his sight with a noisy clatter.

  He knelt there with his hands braced on his thighs, head bowed. Hours might have passed before he got up again. Turned in a circle again. He wiped his hands on his bloody pants but it did little to clean them. He went to his mother and straightened her sprawled limbs, then found a discarded scarf to conceal the disaster of her chest. It seemed rudely bright with its pattern of swirling ribbons and flowers. Sitting on the floor, he pulled her into his arms and held her. What could he say? What were the right words? Would she hear him if he said them?

  He started to hum, then to sing, his voice as charming as gravel. “My love she is the fairest light…”

  Later, a long time later, the glow of a torch appeared in the doorway. The amber nimbus slowly drew nearer. Sherakai had not been aware of darkness falling; didn’t care. The scent of sweet cicely wafted around him, incongruous.

  “Oh, my son,” Lord Chiro said softly, heavily. His fingers brushed through the butchered hair. “What have they done to you?”

  “I did this.” His voice was hoarse and without inflection.

  Bairith crouched next to him. “You were betrayed.”

  “Not by everyone.”

  “No? Who tried to stop this? Who came between you and the traitors?”

  Sherakai’s brow furrowed.

  “You stood alone.”


  The earlier confusion tugged at his memory, the remembrance of an intrusion that hadn’t belonged. Something razor-sharp and out of place. The harder he struggled to recall it, the slipperier it became. “She stood for me.”

  “She let others hold her back, protect her from danger.”

  “That is as it should be.”

  “She was supposed to protect you. She was your mother.”

  His throat tightened, and he looked away, into the shadows lurking at the corners of the room. They writhed and looked back.

  The jansu got to his feet and went away, taking the light with him. When he returned, there was another man with him. The torchbearer put a small rug down and Bairith knelt upon it. He had a pail of water and a cloth to bathe Sherakai’s face and hands.

  Sherakai did not resist the ministrations but stared unseeing into the darkness. He ignored the movement of both jansu and silent servant until they tried to take Imarasu from him. “Don’t.”

  “It is time to come away from this place.”

  “I have to bury them. I have to see that their Last Rites are performed.”

  Bairith sighed and caressed Sherakai’s face. “Sherakai, my dragon, you must leave that to others. Soon the soldiers will arrive, and there will be many more of them than came the first time. I cannot let them have you.”

  “You should. I have no one anymore. Nothing.”

  He pressed a tender kiss to Sherakai’s forehead. “It may seem that way, but you have me. You will always have me.”

  Chapter 57

  He had no recollection of the journey from Tanoshi to the Gates. He had no recollection of their arrival, of sleeping or not sleeping, nor even the anguish of nightmares. Awareness of his surroundings crept up on him, layer after layer of a delicate, thick cocoon peeled away. There was a voice murmuring soft things he didn’t quite hear and couldn’t understand.