Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  There was as much chance of that as there was of the moon sprouting wings and flying out of the sky, but he refused to let the request defeat him. Bairith had taught him so many things over the years. “May I speak what I am thinking?”

  “By all means.”

  He leaned forward, elbows to knees and hands clasped loosely between them. “At Tanoshi, I left my childhood behind—Something you’ve long encouraged.” The jansu made a noise in his nose, but let Sherakai continue. “It was terrible, but you nursed me through the hurt and confusion. You reminded me of the future I might experience. You have shown me more patience than I deserve. It may take some time—” all of eternity “—to completely embrace the role you plan for me, but I have shown my willingness, have I not? I will conquer the rakeshi, but it is hard, lord. The creature is powerful, and the process is painful.”

  Bairith crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. “Have I not taught you how to deal with power and pain?”

  “You have, and for that I am grateful, but it is easier said than done. You have told me I’m strong and resilient. I will use that and every other gift you have given me to succeed. I—I need you to believe in me,” he whispered.

  “I do, or you would not be here.” Disapproval spoiled his mouth.

  “Then what would you have me do?”

  “You wish a task?”

  “If that is sufficient for you.”

  “Very well,” he said after a long silence. As if he were a god promising a reward to a particularly faithful disciple. “I want you to kill King Ilaroya.”

  Sherakai sat back, not hiding his puzzlement. “Why? He is your man, isn’t he?”

  “For what it’s worth.”

  “Is he broken? Wanting in some way? Has he betrayed you?”

  “Does it matter? He is a tool.”

  “Like me.”

  Anger sparked in Bairith’s eyes. “It is your choice whether to be a tool or a partner, Sherakai. You dare to question me?”

  “I do, sir. Partners share information and decisions. As long as I don’t understand why you want a thing done, I am only the tool by which you’ll accomplish it. This love you want from me is not that of son to father, but hound to master.” A growing sense of frustration spurred him to stand.

  Bairith’s anger escalated straight to a fury that lit his aura so brightly even a blind man could see it. “You have overstepped your bounds, boy.” Ice was warmer.

  In retrospect, he should not have been so… specific. Should have avoided the subject of love entirely. “Yes, sir, I’m sorry. I truly do not know where the lines are.” As far as he could tell, they kept shifting, but pointing that out would not be a wise course of action. “Shall I go down to the cells?” Down to the Hole, tucked in amongst all the other dark, tiny prisons.

  The astonishment on Bairith’s face was priceless. “If that’s what you’d like.” He finished the izaku in one swallow. “What are you waiting for, boy? Go.”

  Chapter 66

  “Well, that was stupid,” Sherakai announced to the air, striding down the hall. Antagonizing Bairith would make things harder, not easier. Stupid, stupid! And just because the jansu hadn’t explicitly sent him to the Hole didn’t mean he wouldn’t find another way to teach him a lesson.

  “Stupid,” he repeated, punctuating his opinion with a stabbing index finger. His feet carried him to the underground practice chamber, not the dark cells below the keep. The former offered a way to vent, the latter only a way to sulk. He would have enjoyed a partner to spar with, but the soldiers immediately vacated the sands. He couldn’t blame them for not wishing to risk their lives. Hot on the heels of that thought came the desperate wish to have someone besides Bairith to talk to. He hadn’t seen the nameless woman since that day at the arena when she’d told his murky future. The servants did their best to avoid him, and he rarely saw any of Jansu Chiro’s acclaimed guests.

  He headed for an empty bench to set aside his tunic and boots. Resentment seethed through him. Ignoring those who watched, he began with the First Forms he'd learned as a child and went all the way through to the last, then did them again. Faster. Harder. Then again. When that no longer sufficed he ran around the huge room, but no matter how many times he circled the walls it didn’t challenge him as it had when he was a boy with two demons nipping at his heels. He missed them far more than good sense allowed. They’d been his keepers, not his friends.

  Liar.

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re gone, and the question is moot. And here I am, talking to myself.” Gods protect him.

  Boredom overcame him before exhaustion did. Fetching an ash staff, he went through all the exercises he’d ever learned in the Twixt. He repeated them over and over again until the pattern became a monotony. Angry that he could find no relief in the exercise, he pushed harder, faster. His blood simmered through his veins. The impatience of those who refused to come out on the sand until he left it increased his temper.

  He cracked the staff into two over his knee.

  “I think you won that round.” Bairith’s frigid voice carried across the chamber.

  A growl tickled Sherakai’s throat, but he didn’t let it out.

  “I’ve brought you refreshment.” He lifted a plain cup in invitation. The other hand held a bottle. "You know you've been at this for hours?"

  “Water is fine, thank you, sir.” He sounded rougher than he liked, more prickly than was wise.

  “Are you questioning my judgment again? Questioning my faith in you? I have planned every step, every lesson, every conclusion.”

  Sherakai pushed the broken ends of the staff into the sand. “I have disappointed you before because I do not know the goal.”

  “I know the goal.” Unnatural silence filled the chamber. ~I know you.~

  His instinct was to protest. He resisted the urge and nodded. Forced the wariness out of his stance.

  “Come.”

  Sherakai came, obedient hound that he was.

  “Drink.”

  Reluctant, resigned, he accepted the cup and sniffed. Izaku. Of course… “It would be prudent to dismiss the men first.”

  “That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?”

  Sherakai’s jaw worked. This, then, was the punishment for his rash words, and innocent bystanders were only tools, after all. He nodded understanding and steeled himself to swallow down the syrupy poison. It took an effort not to gag on the gritty ice pepper.

  Bairith refilled the cup. “How many will you require?”

  “Men or drinks?”

  The jansu smiled.

  “One glass of wine usually arouses the rakeshi. Three frees it.” Be swift, you bloody beast, be deadly to this single soul.

  “Three, then.” Izaku was so much stronger than wine. “Sergeant!” he called without looking away. Anticipation winked from him in little pops and gleams. “A dozen of your men. Sherakai needs some exercise.”

  A dozen would keep him busy for a few minutes. Sherakai held the mage’s gaze as he drained the second cupful then spat the dregs into the sand, ignoring Bairith’s crooked brow. There was no moment of transition between his normal vision and the rakeshi’s. Between one blink and the next harsh crimson light edged the jansu's form and outlined his features. Pain pierced Sherakai’s temples, eliciting a startled grunt. The cup broke in his fist.

  “That was quick.” Boldly, Bairith caught Sherakai’s jaw to tip his face this way and that, scrutinizing his favorite pet for defects.

  The rakeshi responded as it always did when threatened or surprised. It knocked its attacker’s arm away and sent a solid punch straight at his throat—a punch that didn’t connect, though it sent Bairith tumbling. Screaming in frustration, the rakeshi leaped onto the downed mage and struck repeatedly at the invisible barrier. Each punch triggered an explosion of crackling energy.

  Bairith resisted, his chanting forced out past a grimace of effort. Shouts came from the men on the benches and the gallery overhead.

&
nbsp; The rakeshi ignored them and kept pummeling the hateful mage. Bairith had created a force to be reckoned with; a force he did not begin to understand. The barrier shattered. The rakeshi immediately redirected its assault, aiming a blow at Bairith’s face. A jerk of his head saved his skull from being caved in. Black eyes bleeding shadows, lips skinned back from teeth, the rakeshi caught the mage’s hair with one hand and his jaw with the other. Muscles flexed to tear the two apart.

  A hurtling body struck him full force, knocking him away from his prey, but he was up again in a heartbeat. His attacker was not so quick, dead before he could even push himself upright. His two companions leaped at the rakeshi, swords gleaming gold in the torchlight. Dozens of soldiers poured onto the sand. Mortal bodies and ethereal magic slammed into him from all sides. The burning light that marked edges and boundaries deepened and shimmered like garnet. The noise, the pain, even the energy of chaos combined in him and the sands ran red…

  The intermittent thud against the hollow of his shoulder shifted gradually. One thump at a time, it went from present, to annoying, to painful. He kept his eyes closed until he sorted out his circumstances. Trussed like a pig… The damp smell of stone… Heat and hissing from a torch—no, a pair of them… Two individuals close by… Repeated jabbing… Likely a spear. The softest rustle of fabric preceded another poke. He couldn’t move, so he settled on a sudden accusing stare.

  The soldier nearly dropped his staff as he backpedaled. “It’s awake!”

  The second guard took a good step back, too, but at an angle to give him a clear view. “Hold your head up.” He slid his blade free of its sheath.

  Sherakai lifted his chin. He knew exactly what the man was after. “Better?” he asked. The torchlight burned his eyes.

  He nodded. “They’re green.”

  The first man called down the hall. “It’s awake!” Someone further away repeated the report. Their purple-stained breastplates sported Bairith’s white windflower. The Gates then, not the Twixt. It hardly mattered. He discovered he was encased in rock. That explained the inability to move, though his head and his feet were free. Shattered marble tiles, splintered wood, and smashed glassware lay around him in pools of water. The remains of a broken chest were embedded in the stone near his elbow. Paintings hung askew on the walls, a rug was charred beyond salvaging. Bloodstains everywhere sucked at the light.

  What in the flooding Abyss happened here?

  He closed his eyes against the glare and strove to recall what had come before the soldier woke him. His head throbbed with an intensity peculiar to the rakeshi’s occupation but worse, far worse than anything he could remember since the dreadful day it had been put into him. Remember—ha! His memory was riddled with holes.

  Voices and footsteps alerted him to the jansu’s arrival. Mages followed in his wake, recognizable by the ostentatious badges they wore. He should know them. They had no doubt participated in the spells Bairith had orchestrated on his behalf. He swallowed the familiar sour flavor of dread. If he objected to the physical agonies he often suffered, he hated the magical variety even worse.

  Bairith went down on one knee, cupping Sherakai’s cheek. Apprehension shadowed his sea-blue eyes. “Welcome back. Are you wounded, my son?”

  Sherakai pursed his mouth to consider. “Nothing lethal.”

  He gestured for a mage to join them. An unfamiliar healer put a hand on Sherakai’s exposed shoulder. Magic rippled through him.

  The throb in his head increased. Nerves and muscles bunched, immediately prepared for action. An uneven bronze outlined everything close by.

  The healer cried out and yanked his hand away, cradling it as though hurt.

  “How unexpected,” Bairith observed, dismissing him with a wave. “Easy, easy. You are safe. Do you recognize where you are?”

  “The Gates. North hall.” His voice grated like stones ground together. He tried to shake off the disconcerting shift in his vision.

  “Good. How does it feel when your eyes change?”

  Such sympathy for his affliction and discomfort… “It makes my head hurt.”

  “Describe it.”

  He opened his mouth, then paused. Bairith should be able to perceive the sensation through the link as if it were his own, shouldn’t he? “Can’t you feel it?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but at a distance. It is safer that way, you understand. Tell me?”

  Didn’t he just. The lofty jansu wouldn’t want to suffer himself. “It’s hard. I can’t think.” What he needed was a bucket in case he lost his last meal.

  Bairith stroked Sherakai’s head, crooning softly.

  His lashes drifted down, not quite closing as he let the sound and the accompanying magic wash over him. Gradually, the pain dissipated. “What happened?”

  “You were magnificent.”

  The reverence in those words brought his eyes open again.

  “Your rakeshi came out in all its glory. It took four mages to stop you. How clever of you to lure them into a hall where they couldn’t come at you more than one or two at a time.” Admiration saturated his voice and brightened his countenance. “I did not expect you to break out of the room where we trapped you. All in all, you felled half a company of soldiers and nearly the same number of servants. Several visitors from the capital got in your way and—Let’s say their stay will be permanent. I have truly never seen the like. You continue to exceed all my wildest dreams.” He pressed a fervent kiss to Sherakai’s forehead.

  All that blood, all those lives, and still Bairith Mindar survived. What if he was blessed by the gods? No, he refused to believe that.

  It is not just your life that depends on your freedom, Sherakai… You must weigh their few lives against a host I cannot measure. Crimson rivers. Your hands, your arms, your face all painted in blood.

  “Who said that?” he whispered.

  Bairith frowned. “Are you unwell?”

  He wanted to point out that giving and taking beatings took a lot out of a person. He opted for bluntness. “My head hurts, I’m tired, and I might vomit on you. Sir. May I have a drink of water?”

  “Of course, my dragon. Water,” he snapped over his shoulder. Then he turned his attention to the magic needed to release his prize from its cage of stone. Rock crumbled to bits and fell to the floor, revealing Sherakai’s slashed and bloodied tunic. Crimson oozed from the skin beneath. “You must be still.” Bairith’s Voice trapped Sherakai as neatly as had the stone. He hardly had the strength to groan. Tendrils of energy filled the link, soothing and healing.

  The rakeshi didn’t react to that, blast its scaly hide.

  After a time, the other mages slunk away. The crowd of soldiers thinned, too, as they resumed their duties.

  “Better?” The jansu was so solicitous in the wake of what he’d caused.

  “Yes. Thank you, lord.”

  Gentle fingers combed through his hair.

  Sherakai focused on his captor again. He had not escaped unscathed. Bruises marred his face, one eye was bloodshot, and he sported a newly healed cut on his cheek. The same cheek, he recalled, that the rakeshi had once opened. It wasn’t enough, but it was something. And was it his imagination, or did he see a trace of strain in Bairith's eyes? He'd hoped for so much more than that from the bleakstone. His clothing, on the contrary, showed not a hint of violence. He sighed.

  He wanted nothing more than to yank the knife from Bairith’s belt and plunge it into the man’s chest, but he mistrusted his own strength right now. The jansu had an uncanny ability to wield magic whether wounded or not. The bleakstone was the only way. More bleakstone. The paltry amount he'd consumed hadn't put much of a damper on his abilities.

  He clenched his teeth against frustration and a warming temper to imagine a drift of fluffy white feathers falling on him from the sky.

  “Is the rakeshi pressing again? So soon?”

  Couldn’t he just go to his room and sleep for a few days? “Always.”

  “But it does not always win f
ree.”

  “No, sir.”

  “So you do have some control over it.”

  How he wished. “No, sir. I don’t know what keeps it from killing us both. Probably not feathers.” If he could use pain as energy, could he do the opposite and force himself to pass out? The effort of gathering the inky threads almost did the trick.

  “The aftermath is strong this time,” Bairith murmured. “Can you stand, or would you prefer to be carried up to your room?”

  Never cry. Never let them see your weakness. “I can walk.” It was probably a stupid choice. There didn’t seem much advantage in getting part way up all the many stairs to his grand tower chamber only to fall down them again. If he broke his neck, it’d take a long time to recover. Time in which Bairith’s interminable questions might uncover his plans. Definitely a stupid choice…

  “That’s my dragon,” the jansu said approvingly. “You are, without a doubt, my finest creation.”

  Chapter 67

  He didn’t fall down the tower stairs. He liked to think pride kept him upright, or at least personal stamina, but it was more likely the will of the rakeshi. It would do the beast no good to have the body it wore broken to painful—but not dead—bits on the ground floor flagstones. Outside his room he found the slave boy pressed against the wall, practically willing himself to disappear into the stone. Terror leached all the color from him. His heart beat so fast it was a wonder it didn’t burst.

  Sherakai let out a rueful sigh. “Let me pass, besh me. I’ve no need of you tonight.” He didn’t know why he fell back on that old, familiar endearment from his youth. Little one.

  The boy flicked him a startled look, then backed as far into the corner as he could get, head down, eyes averted.

  Sherakai paused in the doorway. “Have you somewhere else to sleep?”

  A whimper and the barest head shake were his answer.

  What could someone so young and helpless have done that the jansu would give him into the care of a monster? Or if it was a bribe the lad took, what payment was worth such a price? “Shackles come in all shapes and sizes,” he observed, stepping into his chambers. “Come inside. Turn down the bed and fill the wash bowl, then we’ll have our cup of tea.”