Nayuri disapproved.
In a voice as crisp as a winter morning, Sherakai informed him he would have no trouble remaining mounted. If the horse happened to take a tumble, he’d rather not have a foot stuck in the gods-cursed stirrup.
The horses walked along for several paces in a silence even the rain could not affect. The men nearby pretended they saw and heard nothing.
“Come with me,” Nayuri said, and urged his mount to a quicker pace.
To refuse would be an insult sure to result in unpleasant consequences, and the captain had the authority to do nearly anything he pleased. Teeth gritted, Sherakai followed as Nayuri led the way to the crest of a knoll.
Gloved hands folded on the low pommel of his saddle, the captain lifted his eyes to a horizon blurred by clouds and rain. Below, the guardsmen and pack horses filed past, mud squelching and leather creaking. “News of Lord Chiro’s betrayal is difficult to accept,” he said at last.
“There’s no proof he’s done anything wrong.”
“Nothing absolute,” Nayuri agreed. “But incriminating evidence suggests him. The style of the gift box. His repeated requests to take you to Chiro—”
“Papa told you about that?”
“Naturally. The burn on Fazare’s hand, and now—”
“What burn?”
The captain held his palm up and drew one finger along the outer half. “It was incomplete, but it looked like it might be the shape of a flower.” He took the badge out of his pocket. “Like this. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I am convinced that a badge fell into a campfire. Fazare fell during a struggle. He burned himself.”
It was days between Tanoshi and Chiro. There would have been campfires. Fazare would have fought to get away. “If he wants me, why hurt the others?” Sherakai asked.
Nayuri let out a breath through his nose. “Vengeance? Persuasion? Accident?” He shrugged.
Sherakai tried to fit those possibilities against what he knew of his sister’s husband. It left his head hurting as much as his backside did.
“What else is troubling you?”
Denial sprang to the tip of Sherakai’s tongue, but he bit it back. Lying was dishonorable, and he could not afford the slightest loss of integrity in the eyes of his people, or even himself. Never forget who you are, his mother had commanded him. He remembered the nights spent in his father’s study, the pair of them in front of the crackling fire for lessons the older man was forced to compress into the short time they had. Teeth clenched to prevent a flow of sudden emotion, then he swallowed. “There is nothing that need concern you.”
“Your trouble is my trouble.”
“You may dismiss yourself of that notion, captain.” He tried to insert a note of authority, to establish a proper distance between the lord’s son and the lord’s servant.
“I cannot. I am responsible for your well-being.”
Heat crept into Sherakai’s face. The insinuation that he needed a nursemaid mortified him. He struggled to come up with an appropriate response. Did Tameko have such little faith in his son? Or was he so determined to protect him from the fates of his older sons he would not allow him to pass out of childhood?
“You seem… out of sorts,” Nayuri continued, unruffled as always. He held himself straight in the saddle, even as he turned to study his charge. “I had hoped having your friend here would help, but your attitude seems to have put him off. This is a difficult and frightening situation you are in. It is also an opportunity for growth.”
“By learning how to tie knots and shave twigs from branches?”
“Even so.” He inclined his head gracefully. “It is upon small foundations that great things are built. The more a man knows, the better able he is to handle himself in any circumstance.”
Resentment pushed at him. At its edges, Sherakai heard his father telling him the same thing, however different the words.
Nayuri’s steely gaze remained on him, unflinching. “Not only might these trivial tasks some day save your life, but they offer a distraction today.”
“Why would I want one?”
“Dwelling on uncertainties undermines strength.” He pressed a fist hard against his chest. “It eats at self-confidence and feeds fear. Fear feeds anger. Anger puts distance between friends.”
“How do you stop being afraid?” Sherakai blurted.
Nayuri had no such trouble, and took his time. “Sometimes, young master, you cannot,” he murmured. “Sometimes you must accept that it is there and act anyway. The way you conduct yourself illustrates the truth of the man you are. The poorest beggar is more honorable than the richest king when he does what is right and good. Only you can decide what you will do and the reasons you will do so.”
Sherakai pulled his gaze away, feeling a tremble run through him. “And when one is forced to act?”
“When the captain gives a soldier orders to dig a latrine, for instance?” A hint of humor flickered about him. “The soldier’s performance of his duty says everything. There is pride to be taken in good work, but nothing of value in labor resentfully and carelessly performed.”
“That is what Chimoke says.” He missed his teacher with an unexpected acuteness.
“Master Chimoke was not chosen for his skill with arms alone—although it is impressive.”
Eyes cast down, he thought how his teachers and his parents would view his recent behavior. He had vowed not to fail them, but hadn’t he already started down that path? They expected him to act honorably. The lessons they’d taught had often seemed dull and unimportant, but here sat Captain Nayuri, announcing his belief in a system Sherakai doubted. There were so many rules, so many shadings to the choices one made! How often he’d chafed under it in the past, and yet what had been the first thing he’d feared? Bringing dishonor to his parents.
“I want you to remember something,” Nayuri said. “Every one of these men is prepared to die to preserve your life. Do not mistakenly think they are paid coin enough to make the sacrifice meaningful. Coin is useless when you're dead, and what does the average man know of the Creator's secrets? Hope for reward in the afterlife is not enough motivation to lay down one's life.” Rain ran along the captain’s pointed helm and trickled in a rivulet down the back of his cloak. The garment’s high collar, tucked up under the edge of his cap, kept the water from leaking beneath. “It is your challenge, your duty, to make their deaths worthwhile.” Nayuri’s horse shifted, giving its sodden tail a swish. Something about the man softened a fraction. “Your father is important to me. You are your father’s son, and in you I see much potential, much promise.”
“What does that mean?” Sherakai tried to resist the impulse to wipe his wet face.
Nayuri ignored the faint note of bitterness. “I value you. I would see you achieve that potential.” With a click of his tongue, he started his horse down the hillside, leaving his young charge to follow.
Chapter 29
Misting rain discouraged idle conversation as the company rode. That suited Sherakai just fine. He didn't want to talk to anyone. Hunched beneath his oiled canvas cloak, Nayuri’s words refused to leave him. Things he’d learned from previous lectures wound into the tapestry, balancing concepts at the same time they raised more questions. He had spent years at the feet of tutors, teachers, and priests, and he'd been a willing student. He had learned so many things! Why, then, did it seem as though he knew nothing at all? And how did one man make him feel chastised and encouraged at the same time?
Another rider bumped his knee. Sherakai peered from under his hood to see Chakkan holding an apple out to him. “Thank you.” He rubbed the fruit absently on the wet leather covering his breeches and took a bite. Crunchy and tart, it provided a strong contrast to the dreary rain, the squelching mud. “Chakkan?”
His friend grunted a wordless acknowledgement.
“I’m sorry.”
The silence took on the flavor of suspicion. “For what?”
Sherakai contemplated the texture of t
he emotion, then sighed. “For being an idiot.”
“It’s not the first time, I’m sure it won’t be the last.”
“I will try to pay better attention next time you tell me I’m behaving badly.”
Hooves squelched in the mud underfoot. Nothing was dry any more, in spite of the precautions they’d taken. When Sherakai wriggled his toes in his boots, they squished. Gratefully, he whispered his thanks to the Creator that the wind remained calm.
“Who says I’m going to tell you again?” came the petulant question.
A genuine smile, the first in days, tugged at his mouth. “Do I have to rely on rank and order you to do so?”
Chakkan’s leather-shrouded head bobbed in time with his horse’s steps. “Nah… Telling you that you are a halfwit, a dunce, and a donkey’s behind is a privilege and an honor I hold dear. It is my solemn duty to serve at every opportunity.”
Sherakai glowered. “Careful, now.”
His companion tapped his forefinger against his lips. “I could be more creative.”
“I could relieve you of duty.” He couldn’t.
“I could tell Shakuri Chimoke that you kissed his daughter.”
Silence for the space of a good dozen steps. “Very well. There is little he can do about it when I am far away in Kelamara.”
“Do you really think that will stop him from hunting you down?” Chakkan asked.
“For what?” he exclaimed. “All I did was kiss her!”
“Kiss who?” asked Captain Nayuri, suddenly on Sherakai’s left.
His face flooded with color.
Beseni materialized like a specter out of the mist and rain. Gray leathers and gray horse concealed him as well as any deliberate disguise. Horses fatigued from five straight days of travel danced in apprehension or stopped altogether. Those that came behind milled uncertainly. Hansa’s hound sat in the lee of a tree trunk just off the path, just as drenched and tired as everyone else.
“What is it?” The captain’s voice cut through the confusion like a knife.
“A dozen riders headed west. I didn't see any scouts with them.” If they had scouts, they were already out in the field, ahead of the men they rode with.
“Oh really...” The way the captain dragged the word out made the newly short hairs on the back of Sherakai's neck stand up. “Did you get a look at their colors? We're crossing Iwara's lands.”
Beseni shook his head. “You want me to get closer?”
“No. We assume they are hostile and act accordingly. We double back, cut behind them and turn toward the road. Keep an eye on them. Bring word if they change their route.”
“Yes, sir.” Smartly, Beseni wheeled his silvered mount and disappeared into the rain again.
A soup-like fog obscured any sense of direction. A road might have helped, but they stayed off the roads and skipped from path to path. Sherakai admired Beseni's ability to keep track of the course. From time to time, he focused on his own sense of direction. He needed the distraction of the exercise as much as he needed the connection to his home.
Their new path took them abruptly into the hills. Up and down ravines they went, dismounting to help tug their horses up steep sides. Soaked and covered in mud, men and beasts alike slipped and stumbled. Muffled swearing mingled with the steady patter of water and the occasional percussion of tumbling rocks. Nayuri guided them along the ridges when he could, but the hills ran counter to the direction they needed to take.
Perhaps two hours later, Beseni joined them again, breathless. He shook his head and reported, “They are following us, Captain.” The plan failed but confirmed that the strangers meant them no good. His agitated mount stamped the ground.
“North to the river,” Nayuri ordered. “On foot. Quick time. Rest the horses so they’ll be ready to run.”
What followed was the stuff of stories Sherakai had heard in the gathering hall—stories of war and raiding, of chasing and being chased. The captain’s orders galvanized the men, and Sherakai echoed them, leaping to the ground, running beside his horse, checking his weapons as he ran. Tension ignited from man to man, and from them to the horses. The pace challenged him. Sweat mingled with rain and ran cold down his spine. Would he have to use his blade? He drew a hand across his face, skin wet but lips and throat dry as he recalled that slaying a man in battle achieved one's Second Rites without prayers, ceremony, or blessing. The blood would be his marking, the terror his prayers, the danger his ceremony.
They ran through the gathering darkness, hands on bridles to lead the horses, to hold themselves up when they stumbled and fell. Tree branches whipped at them. Autumn leaves, leached of their bright color by the lateness of the day, cascaded to the ground behind them, helping cover their flight. They only stopped to help fallen companions. There was no light. There was no talking. Hour after hour they pushed on, not even taking time for a meal. Sherakai didn’t want to eat, his stomach knotted so. Were these men that chased them Bairith’s men, too, like the man the dog had killed? Had Bairith killed Tasan and Fazare, and taken Imitoru? Bairith had asked for Sherakai, but killing his brothers didn’t seem like a smart way to change Tameko’s opinion. What did he want Sherakai for that he would hunt him down? That he would kill to get him?
When they came to the river, Nayuri turned upstream when the obvious course was down and ordered them into the water. Rain swelled the banks. Although the bed was fairly even, moving against the flow taxed them all. Nayuri did not let them stop until they’d passed three likely places to exit the river. Sherakai looked at each with longing and kept going. His hands and feet—even his fear—were frozen. He couldn’t tell if the constant drip from his nose was sniffles or rain. To make matters worse, a fierce wind sprang up, numbing him to the bone. Time after time, it whipped his hood down. Eventually, he just let it lay. Up or down, it was impossible to be any wetter or any colder. Water trickled beneath his collar. Wet cloth chafed his skin. Wet boots rubbed blisters onto his feet.
Unable to stop shivering, he swayed in the current.
“Sherakai, come out of the water.”
He blinked stupidly at the captain. Aishe moved for him, pulling him up out of the river and onto solid ground. When the stallion stopped, he stopped. The horse’s head drooped, forelegs splayed. The captain barked out orders to the company. Sherakai stared in blank incomprehension. The words, blurred by the roar of the river and exhaustion, were so much noise in his ears.
“Here. Drink this.”
Nayuri pressed a flask into his wooden fingers and propelled his hand upward. The bite of alcohol came as a shock. He choked and coughed.
“Easy.” The flow slowed for a moment, then the flask tipped up again. “Another. Try to keep it inside. It’ll help warm you. We’ll see what we can do about getting you dry.”
“Th-thank you.” The warmth spread through his chest and belly, but it didn’t keep his teeth from chattering.
“Can you tend your horse?”
Sherakai nodded.
“Good. Take him over there. When you’re finished, take your clothes off.”
“Do what?”
The captain did not answer, but disappeared into the storm. Shoulders hunched, Sherakai blinked after him in utter confusion. Why in the names of all the blessed Saints would he want to take his clothes off? He’d freeze! A little voice in his head pointed out that he was already freezing and the lack of covering probably wouldn’t make one bit of difference to anything but propriety.
Propriety mattered.
But, the voice reasoned as he coaxed the stallion along, you were never shy about letting the servants bathe you.
The servants were different.
Why? Weren’t soldiers technically servants?
He would not undress. There were standards whether he was treated like a recruit or not.
‘Over there’ turned out to be a place against the wall of the bluff beneath which the river ran. Rocks on one side, trees on the other, it was somewhat protected from the wind blast
ing over the landscape. Sherakai began taking the tack off his mount. Stiff, cold fingers made him fumble. He leaned his head against the stallion’s shoulder, and the horse turned to give him a gentle nudge.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and pressed his hands against the damp hide, trying to absorb some heat. “Give me a moment.”
He could fall asleep right where he stood, he thought, eyes closed.
Aishe disagreed and took a step to the side. It was enough to bring Sherakai upright, blinking again, surprised.
“Sorry,” he repeated, and got back to work on the buckles and rings and straps. It took forever, and then there was no place dry to stow the gear. With a sigh, he set it on the ground at his feet and crouched to search his bags for the curry brush. As he dragged it down Aishe’s dirty, wet hide, he daydreamed about a lovely, hot bath. A servant to scrub the grime from his body and wash his hair. Perhaps a nice, long massage for all those sore muscles.
“Sapling.”
Some mulled wine would be heavenly.
“Master Sherakai.”
A firm grip on his shoulder sent the images scattering. When he turned to the speaker, the world swayed dangerously.
“Ekiwo, give me a hand.” The name sounded familiar, but the voices had a strange, faraway quality. “Sherakai, come sit down.”
“Can’t,” he mumbled. “M’feet fell off. I dunno where.”
“They’re still here. Sit.”
Hands guided him, pushed him down. It disconcerted him, but he couldn’t figure out what to do about it.
“I want to lay down. My head feels funny.”
“Right here, lad.” Rough cloth scraped over his skin.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Think nothing of it. You just rest.”
Chapter 30
All too soon, someone shook him awake. “Time to get moving.”
Blood and Shadow (The Mage's Gift Book 1) Page 19
