Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  Were all spirits required to speak in riddles? “What secrets?” he dared.

  There came a pause, and a sound as if of rustling, though the water didn’t move. Then, The other half of your truth.

  Sherakai drew one wet hand down his face. His own opinion aside, he knew one thing for certain: getting away from Mage Bairith and breaking the cursed bond was a step in the right direction.

  “How will I find the other half of my truth?”

  Patience.

  Strength.

  Heart.

  He groaned.

  Sorrow and sympathy eddied around him, but each emotion was lightened by hope.

  You need not be alone. You will know love and laughter again.

  Do not forget to look for the beautiful things in life, Sherakai-who-is-more.

  They are not found in coin or jewels or power.

  You carry them with you even now.

  “The feathers…” He slipped off his perch and swam to the shore, then made his way to his pack. His pants made a fine towel before he donned them, then he went to set the feathers adrift one by one upon the water. “Will you have all of them? I can find more.”

  Gentle laughter caressed him.

  You already gave us your gift. But for these we will give one to you.

  Sherakai’s brow wrinkled in bemusement. What had he said when he—Oh, stars and saints.

  A curious plop! drew his attention, and he looked up to see a bright silver cylinder break the surface of water and bob there for a moment before it began floating toward him. Metal. The length of his forearm. As it came closer, he could make out the shape of a crest etched upon it. “That’s impossible,” he said, stunned.

  Jurakannin, the voices named the armguard as it touched the rocks at his feet and began to sink.

  He caught it before it disappeared, perhaps forever. “Jurakannin,” he repeated. “The House Guard. This was my father’s and his father’s before him.” Who from his House would have surrendered such a valuable heirloom to the Starglass?

  A gift for love and for peace.

  Sherakai shook his head and swallowed a lump in his throat. His heart ached for his father, for surely it had been he. A sacrifice for his missing sons. Had it led him to Imitoru? Or had his father gone to the Gates again, knowing he would never leave them?

  “What did you tell him?”

  That answer belongs to Tameko dan Yasuma alone.

  A silence fell as they lingered. He could feel the weight of them. For once, it was not an unpleasant thing. Normally, bracers came in a pair, but if a mate had ever existed, it was long lost. This one was made to wear on the left arm. It was a beautiful thing, and very clearly not pure silver, for it never tarnished. A second layer formed a smooth pocket to hold a small dagger. A leaping daxar, the Tanoshi mountain cat emblem, was etched into the surface. It looked more fierce than any mere metal figure should.

  With a sense of nostalgia, Sherakai caressed the dagger’s hilt. He remembered sitting on his father’s lap as a child, listening to stories about Tameko’s exploits and his father’s before him. Earlier tales were fewer. Sherakai’s great grandfather had been killed when his son, who would become the famous Yasuma the Arrow, was young. Some of the stories, though, involved the bracer, which could only be worn by the rightful blood-heirs of House Tanoshi. None but they could put it on or take it off. None but they could remove the little dagger it held.

  Tameko dan Yasuma had worn it. A hundred times, maybe a thousand, he had freed the dagger and allowed his sons to hold it, simple and solid, gleaming in the firelight. He’d made it look so easy.

  Little Sherakai dan Tameko had tried with all his innocent strength to unsheathe the dagger. He had never succeeded.

  It felt the same today as ever it had. Cold, uncaring metal.

  “I don’t know why you’re giving this to me. It belongs to Imitoru now.” In his mind’s eye he could see his brother wearing it. No longer as carefree and easy as before, new lines on his face, but capable. Always capable. “Will you keep it for him? For us? And give it back when it is time?”

  The weight of the air increased. The sense of rustling swept around the pool again, then the rain fell sudden and hard, as if the very sky wept.

  We will. We will, Sherakai-who-is-to-be.

  Chapter 61

  Keeping to the hills southeast of the keep, he avoided the village. Passing the fields where the Children of the Wind ran, he refused to spare any time watching them. Mourning them. Like a ghost, he picked his way past orderly farms. The weather became his advantage, chasing most folks indoors.

  As the little cottages grew closer together, he took to the well-worn track that led directly to the keep. A pair of trees perched on a small rise. Coming around it put the rain at his back—and in the faces of two blue-clad soldiers walking toward him with heads down. He reversed until the meager shrubs hid him. Up the chest-high embankment he darted, stepping from stone to stone. On his belly, he slid through the wet leaves and grass.

  The pair turned the corner, voices muffled. They passed the place where he’d left the track, then stopped to peer in the direction it led. Standing close together, they muttered about the weather and anyone with good sense. They didn’t see the rain slowly pound footprints into oblivion. Nor did they look up onto the shoulder where Sherakai was only scantily concealed as he spied on them. One dug a flask out from beneath his cloak, and they dawdled, sharing a drink before finally heading back.

  He slipped down and followed them until the track met the road. Where there were two, he figured, he could expect an entire squad or more. He moved like a shadow from ditch to shrub to rock pile. Thirty yards from the wooden bridge crossing the outer moat, he watched the soldiers climb the incline toward the main gatehouse where rain blackened the heavy slabs. They were closed. The interior of the structure was dark, but he could make out a blue-garbed figure on the wall. Clearly, he wasn’t going in the front door. A change of plans, then.

  The woods to the east and north took him out of his way but provided the best shelter. Trees, rain, and falling darkness became his co-conspirators. When he judged he’d traveled far enough, he stopped and faced the keep. Eyes closed, he drew on the air with a crooked finger. Mentally, he traced the passages he and Chakkan had taken the night of their aborted rescue mission. When Nayuri had hauled them back to the keep, they’d gone through a ravine partially hidden by sprawling oaks.

  Out in the field he walked until he came to a ditch. The ditch became a tiny stream as he followed it into the woods, and then into a ravine as deep as he was tall. He slowed his steps as he continued. Half his attention was on his surroundings and the other on his memory. He stopped when he found a large boulder protruding from the hillside. Across from that was the path, hidden by impenetrable shrubbery.

  “This would be a good time for you to help, beast,” he muttered out loud. If the rakeshi understood him, it didn’t let on.

  He made his way up out of the ravine and pressed through the branches, pausing every few steps until he reached a clearing. To one side lay a slab of rock, its edges obscured by vegetation and a vine sprawled over it. Perfect.

  It was short work to cut the weeds away, but levering the stone aside resulted in choice words, a smashed finger, and the sacrifice of skin. As he slid down through the opening, his foot rolled across something and went out from under him. He caught himself and crouched, searching with one hand. He choked back a laugh when his fingers closed around a torch he and Chakkan had left behind. Another lay nearby.

  The space was too cramped to push them beneath a belt or strap, so he held them in one hand as he crawled into the tunnel. Pitch black, it stretched ahead of him all the way to the base of the keep’s inner wall where it bordered the second moat. The door with its secret combination of latches blocked his path. He hoped he’d remember the pattern.

  This particular bit of passage was long and straight. He didn’t need to see to navigate it, but he might want the torc
hes in the twisting corridors beneath the keep. No sense wasting whatever fuel remained on them.

  Dangling roots trailed over his head and back as he crept on hands and knees, thumping the torches along with every ‘step’ forward. Invisible spiders plagued his imagination for the first few yards. Stupid, he thought, when I’ve faced worse enemies in the arena.

  They could bite.

  He could sicken.

  But he would heal because Lord Chiro Mindar had wrapped him in a spell that refused to let him die.

  “Stupid to be killed by a spider in a squatty little tunnel anyway,” he grumbled. More fascinating than spiders was the pale glow of life from the roots. Knobby, irregular strands hung down from the ceiling. The sturdier limbs sticking out from the walls caught his attention first. He touched them to make sure his eyes didn’t deceive him. He had to focus hard to see the smaller roots, but the hair-like threads of the tiniest eluded him altogether. During the process, he also discovered that he could make out his hands and, quite faintly, the outline of his sleeves.

  Suddenly, he found himself scooting back the way he’d come. It was awkward and he thumped his head on the ceiling, else he’d likely have kept going. What a sight that would make, wriggling up to the jansu on all fours.

  “Bloody link.” That made him laugh with ghoulish humor because it was true. Blood had created it, blood sustained it. He huffed a breath that lifted the short fringe of hair over his forehead. Starting forward, he applied himself to contemplating his pretty little feathers. After a while—after he had begun to think the tunnel had developed an offshoot, and he was crawling clear to the other side of the massive keep—his thoughts about feathers shifted to thoughts about chickens. Preferably roasted.

  The sensation of clear space just ahead brought Sherakai to an abrupt stop. A different shade of darkness marked the edges of the doorway. He explored the floor with one hand and found the drop-off. Whether it was pure stupidity or blind luck, they’d left the door open. It took some maneuvering in the tight quarters, but he managed to turn around. Feet first, he dropped to the ground below. There was no sense closing the door now—he’d likely be coming back this way. Unless he killed all the soldiers currently occupying Tanoshi.

  If he remembered correctly, the corridor slanted downward from here as it moved toward the center of the keep. A series of closed doors punctuated either side of the hall. With one hand on the wall and the unlit torches in the other, he went on. Rather than feathers and chickens, he chose to focus on the depth of the darkness and the utter quiet. It reminded him of the Hole. His fingertips trailed over ridged door frames and ancient panels. Between each was plain stone. How many? He couldn’t remember or didn’t know. A strong memory of firelight glittering on wet stone came at him.

  The space closed in and he stilled, heart pounding for no particular reason he could discern. He listened past the sound of his heart and lungs and heard nothing but still, deep silence. The corridor ended, and it was a few minutes before he remembered the ladder carved into the stone. Up he climbed, blind. What had been a comfortable reach before was now awkward and confining. This is how Chakkan had felt then, squeezed into a tube of stone that might conceivably become his tomb.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Darkness and stone absorbed the apology. Chakkan’s end had come on the edge of a sword instead. He’d never wanted either for his friend. “I’m sorry for everything…”

  No, no, don’t think about Chakkan. Think about the cool, soothing dark. Think about… the larders. Surely there’s food in them if there are soldiers nearby.

  He came to the top, wiped his face, and carried on through a passage so low he had to walk stooped over. It didn’t get better, but grew uncomfortably narrow. Slender halls cut across his route and he had to backtrack twice. The second time, he paused at the juncture to light a torch and study the walls and doors. Who had built this maze, and why? If his ancestors had imprisoned and tortured people here, at least the spirits had the decency to leave him alone.

  What if he got lost?

  “Then you’ll be hungry for a while, won’t you?” he said aloud. Thumping a fist against the wall, he moved forward. Chakkan must have wanted to punch him in the nose.

  The passageway squeezed even tighter, then stopped altogether. If there wasn’t a secret door at the bottom, he was in trouble. How Chakkan would have laughed to see him crammed into this space, trying to maneuver the torch without catching himself on fire. The flame danced and swayed.

  “Ah,” he said to no one. This door still stood open, too. He might as well have left signs for Captain Nayuri to find. It would have been a logical decision for the man to go to the other end to wait, skipping the lengthy, cramped journey in the dark.

  He crouched to listen for noise on the other side of the wall. Satisfied, he left the torch just inside the passage to burn itself out where the light and smell would not give him away. He would prefer that his visit go unnoticed. Prone on the floor, he hitched himself through the ridiculously tight opening. His jacket caught and tore. The long crawl at the other end had worn the knees of his pants. Maybe midgets had built Tanoshi.

  Free at last, he stood at the entrance to the vast kitchens. None of the stoves were lit, and not a single candle or lamp pierced the gloom. He stood beneath an overhead window, looking up at the sky. The storm had blown over. Thick trailers of cloud hid more stars than they revealed.

  He made a meal of jerky, cheese, and a trio of soft apples. The more perishable items were gone. Stacks of barrels and crates indicated plans to move the rest. What would be left here? Ghosts?

  Wiping his hands on his pants, he headed for the gathering hall. Might as well face them now…

  Chapter 62

  Up the stairs to the main level, he hesitated in the doorway to the gathering hall. Dreading what he’d see, he forced himself to go through. The sound of his footfalls disconcerted him. They leaped away from his feet to chase across the vacant chamber. They found no one. Tanoshi stood like a great, towering husk. The trappings of everyday living remained: pictures and wall hangings, candles in the lanterns, curtains on the windows, couches and tables arranged around the room. Except where they weren’t.

  Emptiness marked places furniture had once occupied. Where a picture had hung. One naked window stuck out starkly amongst its better-dressed neighbors.

  The bodies were gone.

  Of course, they were. Families reclaimed their kin. Someone, he supposed, buried his.

  There were no mourning streamers anywhere in or on the keep.

  Tanoshi had the king’s soldiers patrolling her ramparts instead. Curious, Sherakai made his way to the doors leading outside. Deep gouges scored the intricate wood flooring. Faded, rusty stains marked the boards and the walls. He loosed one latch, gave it a gentle push, then shoved a little harder. It didn’t budge. They’d boarded it up or nailed it closed, and he winced to think of holes in the beautiful panels.

  Did they believe the ghosts he’d made here too frightful to live with? Too dangerous? Did they imagine him still roaming the halls, waiting to pounce on the unwary?

  Abruptly aware of the smell of earth and flowers and rain, he pivoted to face an indistinct figure. She wore the suggestion of a long gown and flowing hair. She was pale and shimmery as if the slightest wind would blow her away. The space that was her mouth moved, and from it came the whisper of leaves blowing across pavement.

  “Mama?” he ventured, though she didn’t seem familiar to him.

  The spirit spoke again with a hiss of sound and a hint of determination. A chill wafted from her, carrying a deeper scent of earth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t understand you.” He could see right through her. He’d seen through Mimeru, Chakkan, and the others, too, but they had appeared more substantial. How peculiar and how… unnerving. He tried to go around her.

  She moved with him.

  No matter which way he went, she blocked his path. “Please let me pass. I’ve com
e here to find something, and then I will leave.” Could he walk through her? Aside from the chance of offending her, what would such a thing do to him? Unwilling to take this particular risk, he circled the edges of the room until he came to the doors where the fight began.

  With the spirit in his peripheral vision, he glanced around the floor and behind the doors. He searched through the cabinets standing to either side. Someone had carted the bodies away, mopped the floors, and tried to set things to rights.

  What did they do with the bleakstone cuffs?

  Frustration simmered through him. It made him less heedful as he stalked through the room, scouring tables and cupboards, bowls and chests.

  The link stirred, tingling with curiosity.

  The rakeshi shifted as well, and Sherakai stopped to rub the back of his neck. Be calm, be still… Where would those who cleaned have put the cursed things? Had the help come before or after the soldiers arrived? Before, he decided. The villagers were loyal to Tanoshi and had loved the jansu and his wife.

  Not the youngest son so much…

  With a noise in his throat, he stalked out of the gathering hall and crossed the corridor to his father’s office. Everything looked the same as when he saw it last. He went through boxes and chests, but didn’t find the delicately fashioned manacles. He didn’t find them in any of the downstairs rooms. For a little while, he paced across the entrance hall.

  The spirit followed him, its wailing hushed. Why? Who was she? If ghosts were going to torment him, they ought to be those he knew.

  “What?” He rounded on her. “What do you think I can do? You are dead! Leave me alone.”

  She flickered like a flame in the wind and gave a long, thin cry that pierced him to the bone.

  “Stop it,” he ordered, glowering.

  She didn’t.

  What were the chances that the soldiers outside would hear and come to investigate? He couldn’t waste time arguing with a spirit.

  Ignoring her, he reconstructed the fight in his mind. The soldier pushed him. He’d pulled away, knocked one man aside, and got punched in the face for his efforts. Another had panicked and tried to pin him down with a spear while his partner forced Sherakai toward—