Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  Demolishing stone, stalwart soldiers, fierce servants, and doubtlessly ferocious members of the aristocracy had weakened him badly. The izaku haunted him. Why? It was only alcohol, but for days afterward he had unsettling headaches and trouble seeing.

  His indisposition prevented him from poisoning the jansu. He needed to continue the dosing so that Bairith would not have a chance to recover what he'd lost—however small that might be. Every inch counted, and Sherakai couldn't afford to waste the small supply that he had.

  It was the stupid feathers that eased his pain and calmed his nerves. Such innocuous things, they were easy to conjure up, easy to drift with. He couldn’t sit around thinking about feathers all the time, though, so he gravitated to the great underground practice chamber. There was no fear of engaging in a too-vigorous training session. No one even ventured to linger to watch him now. He walked in, and everyone else walked out. Soldiers, servants, and spectators alike.

  The spirits alone lingered. He made no effort to listen to them, but went through the routines old Chimoke dan Aruchi had taught him at Tanoshi. Iniki dan Sorehi had instructed in a similar style, but Sherakai executed the forms that differed in silent homage to the Air mage. The things he’d learned in the Twixt—with or without Hamrin Demirruk’s tutelage—had once shocked him with their clumsiness and brutality. Over the years he’d absorbed them, adapted them, made them useful. Then the rakeshi had taken everything Sherakai knew instinctively and made it new again. Made it more. Made it better.

  The torches cast his solitary figure in hazy shadows. He danced with them in slow motion, watching the way light and sand and steel moved while he let instinct direct his body. After nearly a fortnight, he was satisfied with his recovery. He felt fit. Felt strong. The only trouble with that was the creeping sense of impatience plaguing him.

  A figure passed through one of the openings onto the sand, paused, then continued.

  What do you suppose the sergeant is here for? Bread and cheese and a nice chat about the old days?

  Sherakai twisted his sword to catch the torchlight and fantasized about tossing the flames in the air. Using them to light all the wicks and oil-soaked rags he’d set about the keep.

  Feathers, Tanoshi, he warned himself.

  A discreet throat clearing announced the arrival of his visitor from twenty allegedly safe feet away.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Tezi,” he greeted. The blade scooped up a handful of sand, leaving a brief trail of glitter and dust.

  “Sherakai, sir.” No one was ever certain what title to give him. Frightened people—at least the soldiers and castle folk he occasionally spoke to—bestowed honorifics he didn’t possess. Angry ones conferred creative but ugly labels. Sensible men like Tezi chose quiet respect. “The jansu requests the pleasure of your company.”

  The tip of his sword dipped downward and Sherakai rested it in the sand, both hands on the pommel. Why, he wondered, did the jansu not make use of his precious link to summon him? He’d used it before. Were there limits? What were they, and why? “Instructions to come at once, and to be sure I’m in an agreeable mood when I arrive.”

  Tezi gave him a half smile. It wasn’t as free as it once had been. The scar cleaving his face might have something to do with that. “He’s waiting for you in the sunroom.”

  An unexpected change of pace. He lifted the sword to his shoulder. “Will you walk with me?”

  “If it pleases you, sir.”

  A note of reservation in his voice pricked at Sherakai’s sensibilities, and the choice of words was all too familiar. “It would, but only if we go as companions. Equals.”

  “We are not equal.”

  “No,” he conceded softly, and bowed his head. “Please forgive me, Sergeant. It was an ill-considered request.” Silence greeted him. He turned away to go clean his sword on a soft cloth, then wash his face in a barrel of water.

  To his surprise, Tezi shadowed him and handed him a towel. Neither spoke as they crossed the sands, nor for the entire trip to the sunroom perched atop one of the keep’s towers. Sherakai stopped on the landing at the top of the stairs. A pair of doors faced them, beyond which another battle awaited. Did flames await there, or more feathers?

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what? I’ve done naught.”

  “You’ve granted me your time and your good company.”

  Tezi grimaced. “A rock could have done as much.”

  “My experience with rocks has been less… sympathetic.” He could like this man, in another place, another time. He had nothing to offer in return. Dared not even warn him to flee, except—“I wish you far from this unhappy place, Tezi.” If only he would go! Spinning on his heel, he strode purposefully to the sunroom door.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Scarcely had he raised a fist to rap on the wood before he was conscious of an invitation.

  ~Come, my son.~ With it came a sense of pleasure and purpose.

  “Sherakai?”

  He left Tezi confused. Better that than dead. Into Bairith’s sunlit lair he stepped, closing the door behind him then bowing just enough to be polite. “Lord.”

  “Join me,” the jansu instructed, pouring a second cup of steaming tea.

  There were delicate confections and bowls of exotic fruits on the table. No sign of the sad little caged creature this time. Sherakai glanced around the room as he took a seat, but they were alone within the room’s stark confines. Bairith seemed to have forgotten his appreciation for luxury here. Later in the day the sun streaming through the glass roof and wall would turn the place into an oven unrelieved by draperies, tapestries, or carpets.

  “I was scrying your practice this morning. I cannot describe the joy and satisfaction you bring me, my dragon. Chamomile. Honey?” He lifted an exquisitely crafted jar.

  “Please.” He helped himself to a sweet cake and fruit. “Thank you, sir.” This was ridiculous, as it always was. So… utterly inane.

  “This is nothing. It is you who deserve praise. I asked a thing of you, and you neither flinched nor hesitated. Not for the briefest instant.” A certain reverence shone in his features. “You knew what would happen when you drank the izaku.”

  “Yes, lord.” Sweet, flowery tea. Tender cakes as fragile as wishes. Don’t think about dead men and body parts. A calculated cost weighed against a nightmare future.

  “You enchant me.” Bairith lifted his impossibly fragile teacup and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. “You have always enchanted me. You have become so much more to me than ever I planned. Stand at my side as my son.” He lifted his hand, stopping whatever protest Sherakai might make. “I have given your complaint some thought, and I have reflected on your actions over these last months. You have fought me for so long, is it any wonder that I expect you to continue to fight? You have trained me well.”

  Despair dragged at him like lead. He would never earn the jansu’s trust and respect, never please him, never—Never care, gods curse him! Determination knotted his jaw.

  “I have told you that you are my redemption. You are the key that will unlock the glory that is rightfully mine. Yours one day…” He did not have to move to stroke Sherakai with the aro.

  Sherakai did not flinch. He wanted to know what so many died for. Why he had been forced to sacrifice so much.

  The jansu’s expression took on a musing look and his voice dropped to a whisper like dry leaves. Memories skittering down forgotten halls. “They were tearing each other apart, elves and humans locked in a savage battle, each race determined to triumph. Who but the heir to both bloodlines could unite the races and bring the conflict to an end at last? My father the king chose me. Me, and no other. Can you imagine the burden of such a role? The weight of so many lives in my hands?”

  Suminia had suffered racial tensions and wars for decades. Given Bairith’s frequent references to the empire, Sherakai had always supposed it his homeland. But the empire was made up of dozens of small kingdoms. Which had
spawned him?

  “For my father,” Bairith went on, “for our people and our lands, I acquiesced, only to be harried by jealous vipers on every side. Devils they were, demanding the impossible, criticizing and accusing. Lying.” He made a motion with his hand, reminiscent of a snake. His eyes lost their focus, and he stilled.

  Sherakai waited in patient silence. When nothing more was forthcoming, he took another piece of fruit. The shadow cast by the sun crept away. He marked it by counting the floor tiles. It was tempting to close his eyes and nap in the growing warmth, but he didn’t like to make himself so vulnerable this near to the mage. Daydreaming was bad enough.

  He imagined a man. Elvish. Noble. A warrior by the scars he bore. Proud one moment and outraged the next, shaken and furious. A beautiful, dark-haired woman, also elvish, cradling a newborn child. A son with a shock of sooty black hair. Growing quickly. Going from pretty baby to long-limbed youth. Sharp-featured, but handsome in an unconventional way.

  He couldn’t daydream about people he’d never met… “Who are they?” he asked abruptly, breaking the spell.

  Bairith drew a hand down his face, wiping away the sorrow there as if it had never been. “Ghosts. You are not the only one haunted by his past. In the end, they betrayed me. So tangled were their lies and so deep their bitterness that they banished me. Then, fearing what they conjured in their imaginations, they fortified my exile with the strongest of magics. An assembly of mages created what is called a Parting. It is a barrier meant to keep me forever from my home.“ Revulsion pursed his mouth and shuddered through the link. His head tipped back, sending his hair cascading over his silken robe. Ink spilling over parchment. “So… grotesque.”

  None of his history lessons included the tragic tale of a prince being banished permanently from his homeland by magic. “How so, lord?”

  Bairith spun on him, eyes blazing. “They painted me the blackest of villains, tore me from my home, and denied me any defense—and you dare ask such a thing?”

  Sherakai thought what a hypocrite Bairith was. Were his bullying tactics any less despicable than those of his erstwhile countrymen? “I ask only if the magic was grotesque.”

  The jansu stared at him the way he always did, as if he could see into every nook and cranny of his heart. His hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly. Danger crackled around him.

  “I want to understand.” Sherakai kept his voice quiet and lowered his eyes. Strange how such a simple thing made one appear less threatening, more obsequious.

  Those sea-blue eyes, frosty as winter, continued to weigh and judge. At last satisfied, Bairith gave a terse nod. “Monstrous. Unspeakable. Even now, even so far away, the memory of it wakes in me a passion beyond mere words. Fear and fury and incredulity such as you cannot conceive. Oh, my dragon… Such an obscenity cannot stand.”

  Indeed, Sherakai thought wryly, and waved a hand to brush away a pair of fragile, floating feathers.

  The jansu reacted like lightning, aura glinting with the sudden manipulation of aro. His hand flashed out in a slap.

  Sherakai caught his wrist. Sparks exploded. His vision shifted and he tightened his grip, hard and fast. A warning hissed between his teeth. Why? he wondered, jostled aside within himself, but not shoved aside entirely. Why give warning instead of ripping the mage to shreds where he sat?

  Silence prickled between them, drawn out past the measure of heartbeats.

  “Why,” Bairith finally inquired, “do you insist on challenging me?”

  He didn’t trust his voice, but he was bound to answer. “I gave no challenge.” Gravel over wood. It had sounded worse. “You tell me I have earned a measure of trust, yet in the middle of your tale, you strike at me. Why? Does my mere existence provoke you to violence?” It was possible that Bairith had caught and misinterpreted his reaction to the obscenity. Another thought occurred to him. His brow furrowed. “Am I somehow bound up in the creation of your Parting?”

  Bairith shifted to free his arm, but he did not step away. Brave to risk the rakeshi. Or brazen to assert his dominance. He mimicked the gesture Sherakai had made. “What was that, if not dismissal of my grief?”

  “Feathers.”

  “I do not find your feathers amusing.” To be sure, the mage seemed still on the verge of violence, all set about with sharp edges and barely controlled energy.

  “They disorient me as well,” Sherakai admitted. He could not lace his voice with the aro, but he knew how to posture to soothe, to invite confidence. “Better a few exasperating feathers than the beast’s rage, I think. While I might strive to do your will, he fights against us both.”

  Eyes unfocused, Bairith fingered the silvery scar the rakeshi had left on his cheek. “It hates me. Me, personally.”

  “It does.”

  “Why is that? The spells were perfect. There is the bond between us. It has neither the intelligence nor the cause of our first undertaking for such individual hostility.”

  Copper scales. Dusky talons. Groans to shake the earth. What were these shards of memory?

  A single talon scraped the underside of his skin, so sharp it ought to break through. Sherakai clenched his teeth against it. What was the beast waiting for? Sherakai breathed into the hurt, opening himself up to whatever the creature might do. Take me. Use me. Have your vengeance and mine, too. Kill him now.

  The sting eased and feathers drifted around him, charred and black, falling into fires that burned all around him.

  His disappointment echoed the jansu’s. “The rakeshi was your second choice,” he surmised. If the rakeshi threatened to destroy him from day to day, a greater creature would long ago have had him for dinner and spit out the pathetic remains. “What was the first?”

  “A failure, though not for lack of great sacrifice. The seer assures me it was for the best.” Pride lifted Bairith’s chin and gleamed in his eyes. “‘Like copper in the sunlight, magnificent wings lifted, ruination and healing in every line and motion.’ Symbolic, yes, but splendid. Prophetic.”

  He was splendidly ruinous, that was certain. Evidently he’d ruined the seer’s vision as well, for he hadn’t the slightest scrap of Healing ability, either physical or magical. “Will you tell me how I am to unlock the barrier?”

  Bairith rose to go behind Sherakai, stroking his shoulders, then setting in to knead them deeply. It felt good.

  “You, my heart, answer three requirements of the puzzle on your own. You can manipulate each sphere of magic. You have developed the strength and stamina to do so. Lastly, you have a remarkable inheritance. The blood of mages and pathfinders, leaders and warriors runs in your veins. So very much potential.” He kissed the top of Sherakai’s head. “I have shaped it, tempered it, and made you virtually unstoppable. Together with my own skills, the Parting will shatter and blow away like so much dust in the wind. Then you and I will clean our house and establish order once again.”

  Slyness slithered through the link like a snake. “You must access your ability to heal, Sherakai, for then you can give me a son.”

  “A son, lord?” he echoed, the concept so outlandish that it saved him anything so foolish as horror or revulsion. Such strong emotions would surely garner the mage’s attention.

  “Yes…” He pulled his chair close and sank down beside Sherakai, gripping his arm. Sea-blue eyes glowed with a fervor made vile by the twist of shadows through his aura. “You and I will repair the seer’s body.”

  “Your wife?”

  “I will make her so when your seed swells her belly.” He rose again, anticipation fueling him. Back and forth to the window, his pale silken robes fluttered around him. He wrote lines in the air as he figured and plotted. “Her family will be restored and granted suitable lands. The people will have their half-blood prince to soothe their savage senses, all the letters of the law properly stitched together.”

  Behind their backs, Sherakai thought. “The seer is half elven, is she not?”

  “As am I.” He smiled as if he’d just solved the
problems of the known world in one masterful stroke.

  The seer was lovely in a foreign, exotic way. Very much older than he—and Bairith’s mistress to boot. Yet Bairith expected the man he repeatedly named his son to bed her and, if she should so happen to become pregnant, he would deign to marry the woman. Then he would raise the child as his own. And what of the man he already called his son?

  Sherakai cast about for one of Hamrin’s droll expressions. Well, scramble me and fry me up for supper… “It’s an audacious plan, sir.” In a dozen different ways. And it had yet to consider a way to deal with the rakeshi’s less than amorous opinion of women. “Is the archer from the Twixt an obstacle we must deal with?”

  The jansu twisted to face him, features calculating. “What do you remember of him?”

  He leaned back and crossed his ankles. “You wanted him dead rather more intensely than you wished the same of any of my other opponents.” A shrug lifted one shoulder, dismissing the memory of shimmering water and extraordinary devotion before it became lodged in his thoughts. The man was a quirky distraction all too liable to get him in trouble. “Why is he so important?”

  A little frisson of anger rippled through the cloth of pleasure. “You ask much.”

  “Is it too much to share with a son? Too much to tell the sword—nay, the dragon that will restore and defend you?”

  He made a noise in his nose, and the anger dissipated. “You are still as demanding as ever.”

  The door he’d been allowed to peek into was shut in his face, the lock turned. He itched to burn it down. Why was everything about fires he couldn’t even light properly? Fires and feathers…

  Chapter 68

  Sherakai thought—and dreamed—a lot about feathers. It didn’t require the slightest spark of temper or impatience. He could be sitting at another tedious meal with the jansu, and suddenly feathers.