The return to Nemura-o pera Sinohe opened a floodgate. He couldn’t go anywhere without spirits hounding him.
“Betrayer. Murderer!” Chakkan, sparking furious energy, hovered half in and half out of a wall one afternoon.
Sherakai's heart flew up into his throat, then slid slowly back into place. The glimmers of aro were incongruously pretty. Strangely, the rakeshi did nothing. "Leave me alone," he managed.
“I trusted you, and you killed me.” The voice echoed through the hall, through Sherakai’s head.
“You didn’t trust me anymore. I saw it in your eyes.” The chance to mend that fence had been snatched right out of his hands.
“You killed me!”
“I didn’t mean to!” he shouted, surging forward, fists up.
The hall was empty.
The spirits didn't leave him alone after that. Chakkan, Elinasha, Ginsaka, the Dauntless soldiers, Red, Finhaam, and a hundred others. They plagued him with unintelligible whispers. Glimpses out of the corners of his eyes. Scents of things that could not possibly exist where he was. This way lay madness.
“I can’t go crazy,” he muttered under his breath. “Do you hear me, creature? Rakeshi?” And what would you do if it answered?
He needed answers from someone. When he tried to call Mimeru to him, his failure left him half disappointed, half relieved. That night he dreamed he was in the practice arena, alone as usual. It was eerie how deserted the chamber was. Did the men avoid it because he was here, or did he only imagine he saw anyone at all? He stretched, then moved through the practice forms. I dance the Dance. I am the Dance.
His staff burst into flame. He threw it away with a shout of surprise. The walls, nowhere near the thing, caught fire and soon the entire keep was engulfed.
He woke in a sweat with the smell of smoke surrounding him. The bedclothes tangled around him as he scrambled free. No fires burned in his quarters, in the hall, or in the main building. When he returned to his bedchamber, the smell lingered. A ghost scent for a crazy man.
Three days later, the jansu sent Sherakai out with a company of soldiers. High summer offered long hours, good travel conditions, and endless opportunities for honor and vengeance if one valued such things. The soldiers encouraged and challenged each other with wild promises. Sherakai stood apart, untouched by their boasts, letting their energy buffet him. On this day, the sky was achingly bright and the air rich with the scent of plant life.
“Here,” the jansu said, pressing a corked bamboo tube into Sherakai’s hand. “A gift. Two pinches in your drink or your food before you sleep.”
The expected twitch of revulsion and denial didn’t come. Instead, the apathy the spirits and nightmares had knocked loose settled around him again like a shroud. Beneath it, though, he imagined a spark—a spark he must protect. He regarded the sea-blue eyes without expression. Accepting the tube, he tucked it into the pouch at his belt alongside things he actually needed for survival—flint, fire starter, needles and thread, healing salve, whetstone, a twist of cord, and the like.
"I worry about you."
He inclined his head. “You needn’t.”
“A father does. Do not block me, my dragon,” Bairith remonstrated gently. “Loose your wards.”
“I cannot. Not since the rakeshi.”
The jansu caught Sherakai's arm, then linked their elbows together companionably. “That would explain the distance that has grown between us. I have an idea how to handle it, but I wish to study the situation thoroughly before we proceed. In the meantime, you have been having nightmares, and there are increasing reports of you talking to yourself. What do the spirits tell you?”
“Riddles.”
The jansu laughed softly. “It is not deliberate. Their view of existence is different from ours. They cannot always express themselves in a way the earthbound can understand.”
“Are those who have died more recently as confusing?”
“I imagine there is a period of shock to adjust to.”
Sherakai’s brow puckered. “You think it’s funny.”
“When it is not infuriating, yes. Have they shared anything you understood?”
“Yes.” The pucker faded. “I am a traitor.”
“You remember your betrayal.”
“Yes.” Yours or theirs? The question lived at the forefront of his mind. In the midst of the wrongness in Tanoshi’s gathering hall had come another offense. Something apart from fists and physical weapons had struck him. Something had turned a fight for escape into a massacre.
“It is good they are no longer a weight on your shoulders.” The jansu rubbed Sherakai's shoulder. “Lean on our bond, Sherakai, it will make the recovery that much easier. Your well-being is more important to me than anything else.”
“Forget them and move on?” he asked, surprised at the mildness of his tone. The little spark burned a little higher, steady and secret.
“Not at all. You misunderstand. I know how you must have worried about them. I—” He hesitated. Slowly, he descended the benches to the sand, then turned back with a sorrowful expression. “They should have made you happy. When the nightmares return, come to me. I will help you.”
Sherakai prodded at the spark, half wishing it would erupt into a raging, uncontrollable storm. The rakeshi flexed. Willing. His conscience shrank. There were too many innocents here. He wouldn't involve them. He was more than that.
Used to be more than that…
It was a claim he believed less and less, for he owned the beast’s memories, too. He could remember with crisp precision the sensation of skin giving beneath his claws, of bone cracking and muscle tearing. He knew intimately the diverse flavors of blood, of Life. How many lifetimes had he spent in the Twixt, where his sole purpose was to kill?
One victim he recalled with strange clarity: the half elf archer. Slender as a reed, but with the promise of whipcord strength. Fear and determination in marvelous eyes. A quality more than outward appearances had touched a chord in Sherakai, though he could not put a finger on what or why. If he had understood the cost of keeping him alive, would he have made a different choice?
See? he asked the god that would not answer him. I still own one tiny ounce of humanity. If I did not, I would not care about any of them. Ever. His conviction was tenuous, and Bairith patiently whittled away at it.
He shook his head and turned to go, but Bairith caught his face in both hands. “I know you’ll make me proud.”
Tearing people apart was such a praiseworthy talent… “Yes, sir. Just tell the captain to keep his men out of the way.” He walked off then, not waiting for the others, not bothering with the pretense of a horse. Even before he reached the deserted village below Nemura-o pera Sinohe he’d increased his pace to a mile-eating lope that kept him well ahead of the troop.
It was evening before they caught up with him at the appointed stopping place. Next to the road was a small meadow encircled by towering evergreens. It boasted stone cooking pits, a wooden pen for the horses, and access to a stream. At one end stood a large semi-permanent structure with thick beams holding up a roof to offer token shelter.
The captain in charge didn’t care whether Sherakai went ahead or behind. As long as the jansu’s pet showed up at the right place at the right time to do his job, he could do as he pleased. The man paid more attention to the war hounds than to him.
While he traveled the same direction the soldiers did, he was not welcome in the group. He made the animals skittish and the men stupid. The latter came in two varieties: those satisfied with bad-mouthing him and those who felt the need to challenge him. Sherakai never stayed in camp long enough to give them much opportunity to do either. He avoided camp completely, except to get food and orders.
A week of fast travel brought them to the battles at the border and the bald-faced lies about who they were fighting. Every day was a nightmare and headaches became the rule rather than the exception.
One night he perched on a hillside above the e
ncampment, watching the comings and goings. Idly, he played with the little bamboo tube Bairith had given him. End over end it twirled between his fingers. A scout rode in and leaped off his mount, giving the creature’s shoulder an affectionate pat. A nearby group called out greetings. Laughter drifted up the slope. Amber firelight warmed the faces of the soldiers and Sherakai caught the scent of roasting meat. Earlier, a pair of men had brought down a doe. Drifting behind them like a shadow, he’d listened to them exchange increasingly wilder stories about their hunting prowess.
It reminded him of Fazare and Imitoru—and it angered him that he’d been robbed of that kind of camaraderie. He couldn’t ride. He couldn’t walk through a crowd without fearing he’d leave at least half the people dead.
The little spark he'd felt before flashed higher. Brighter. A very real madness came upon him. It was not a howling, frothing lunacy, but one of icy purpose so sure, so rigid that nothing could stand against it.
His vision shifted. The gleam outlining the fires below stung. He turned away and a low growl worked its way through his chest. Still, his senses remained his, and not the rakeshi’s.
What could he do to break free of the chains that bound him?
Abandon fear. Bairith had already done his worst.
Exercise reason and logic. If one couldn’t meet an enemy head-on, he could use distraction and deception.
Turn pain into strength. He had nothing more to lose. Nothing kept him from using everything he had and was.
Kill his captor. Yes…
He set the bamboo tube on a rock half buried in the dirt and got to his feet. It splintered beneath his heel as he ground it and its unpalatable contents to dust.
Another burst of laughter brought his attention back to the bright blaze below. So many things could burn… The crackle and sear of fire would make a fine counterpoint to the ice spreading through his veins. A lovely sort of poetry.
He dreamed of fire again that night. During the days that followed, he imagined the ways a flame might be nurtured from a tiny spark. Every bloody death committed because of Bairith Mindar hardened his determination. Every insult at the hands of the soldiers, no matter how ignorant, crystallized his anger.
I will not be his…
The captain died, and the sergeant that replaced him decided to make use of the irons brought along “just in case” Sherakai should need to be controlled.
He didn’t argue. The pasty-faced sergeant, a man both shorter and wider than he, clapped the manacles on with relish. As he chained him to a tree, Sherakai entertained a dozen ways he could kill him if he were so inclined. The effort wasn’t worth his time or his soul. He gave a polite nod and told the man goodnight.
After that, he made sure he wasn’t in camp at all when they settled down for the night. He appeared for food in the morning and took what he needed for the rest of the day from the cook’s high-wheeled wagon at noon. The cook never said a word. One day the man produced a canvas sack from beneath the wagon seat and handed it to Sherakai. Inside was the makings of a decent meal. From that point, there was always a sack for him under the seat. He thanked the cook each time with a nod and wondered at the unexpected kindness. It did nothing to thaw his fury.
His limited freedom took on a new hue. As he ranged around the slow-moving troops, he listened to the birds singing and the wind whispering through the fading leaves on the trees. Underfoot, bleached grass gave off a dusty, hay-like smell when he trod it. The quiet gurgle of a stream captivated him. The sky was so blue it made him want to weep. He found a soft, fluffy feather caught on a branch and as he walked he brushed it back and forth across his lips. Another day and another feather began a silly, useless collection. But he liked to look at them and he liked their texture against his skin. He marveled that because of something so fragile, birds could fly. The closest he’d ever been to flying was leaping from the cliff above the Starglass or riding the Children of the Wind.
He held on to those solitary, peaceful moments with single-minded determination. All of this—and more—would soon belong to him again. He laid his plans as carefully as if laying a fire. Tinder. Kindling. Fuelwood.
Stay away from the Fire, Sherakai. Do not touch it. It is terribly beautiful, but terribly dangerous…
The seer’s words twisting through his thoughts were relentless.
“I can’t touch Fire anymore, can I?” He couldn’t manipulate the aro at all, though it still affected him. He could see, hear, and smell so keenly it sometimes hurt. Awareness of his surroundings and those that moved within it had not abandoned him. If anything, the rakeshi made better use of it than Sherakai ever had. Recognition of magic use came like a prickle across his senses, a word on the tip of his tongue, or a sense of having already experienced the situation. He couldn’t identify the sphere, but given enough time, he could discern its direction.
The single exception to his otherwise broken magic was the ability to turn pain into energy, into strength. What else did he have? Determination, resilience—Bairith had often remarked on those attributes—strength, and a swiftly unraveling mind.
He would use fire.
But, he reasoned, Bairith could use his magic to extinguish it.
Then Bairith’s ability must be extinguished.
He knew exactly how he could do it, too.
When at last the company set its course for Nemura-o pera Sinohe, Sherakai set his for Tanoshi.
Chapter 60
Four times he found himself on a path directed away from Tanoshi and toward Nemura-o pera Sinohe. The last time, he stopped to pace, hands on his hips. His detour had not escaped the jansu’s notice, and the link compelled him to return.
He could not give in to anger. What emotion would convince the jansu to allow him a little slack on the leash? Calm, yes. And he must not focus on his destination. It was far more difficult than he expected.
For a day and a half, he concentrated on his tiny collection of feathers.
See what Lord Chiro makes of that.
His determined single-mindedness affected Sherakai’s speed. It also gave him a headache of impressive size. On top of that, for some curious reason, it made him hungry.
He did not arrive at Tanoshi until early evening two days after leaving the soldiers. It shouldn’t have taken so long, but his roundabout trail had added more time than he’d planned. No doubt the volume of consequences would increase as well.
Low, dark clouds hurtled across the sky, carrying barrages of rain and hail. He took shelter only once, and more because he wanted to eat than because of any damage the storm might do him.
Perhaps it was sentiment, perhaps mere foolishness, but he took the turnoff to the Starglass Pool, else he’d have come home sooner. The dark sky and the enclosing walls turned the waters inky black. A pitter-patter of insincere rain pocked the surface, but the wind didn’t reach into the protected space today. He’d been there before when it had. He and Chakkan would scream with laughter as it whipped their hair, the ferns, stray leaves and flowers caught up in the wild energy. Water, too. They’d get drenched whether or not it rained.
How many hours had he and his brothers and his friends spent swimming, climbing, and playing here? The pool was said to be a place of magic. That if one gave a gift—not just any gift, but something prized by the giver—the pool would reveal that person’s path to peace.
Was it possible?
“I would give anything I have to find that path,” he murmured. “I have nothing.”
Was that true?
“A heart and soul. The strength of my body. They are not exactly gifts one can toss into a pool for—what? Spirits? Gods?” He’d never been entirely certain what power claimed the Starglass for their own.
He stood there on a broad boulder for a little while, then thoughtfully removed his warrior’s gear and his clothing to slip into the water. The temperature took his breath the way it always had but, as ever, a few laps chased the chill away. He remembered the place where he could sit again
st the wall of the canyon, still in the water, but with his head free, only now his chest and shoulders were, too.
Curiosity pricked the link.
Swimming, he thought, and easily let images of the place fill his mind. Did the elegant Jansu Chiro ever swim? Naked in a pool in the hills?
Perish the thought.
He didn’t know if the impression was his own or Bairith’s. It was mildly amusing, either way. When the sense of the mage had faded, he cupped water in both hands and let it trickle out—once, twice, then let his hands float palm up on the water.
“This is me. This is what I am. All I am.”
Not all… Not yet…
His skin prickled. That was unexpected. He hadn’t imagined he’d receive any sort of reply, least of all without even trying. No prayers? Magic? Grief and pain?
Questions hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he remembered Iniki’s warning about asking the right questions. “Have I a gift worthy of you?”
Yes.
What? A padded jacket, weapons, his field kit, a small pack with minimal rations, boots, clothes—nothing he couldn’t make do without. Perhaps something he could fetch from Tanoshi.
No.
All he could think of was his collection of feathers. His brow wrinkled. Otherworldly souls were certainly odd creatures. “Very well. I want to know my path to peace,” he said slowly, “but not at the cost of others.”
Such a great heart.
After all he has known.
There are more trials to come, Sherakai-who-is-more.
It was true, he was no longer just Sherakai. “Is there a way?” he whispered.
Your strength is your burden and your salvation.
The seer had said the same. Frustration bubbled within him.
Hush, hush, child… We have faith in you. We have faith in your companion. In this wrong you believe, there is right we know. You will learn. Today there are secrets you must protect. Tomorrow there are chains to break and choices to make. You decide the path you take, whether it will be true. When it will be true.
Flesh and Bone Page 38
