“Everything all right, here?” one of the town guards called.
“Aye,” the mage replied, anger threading his voice. “Fool boy said he could control that horse.”
“I did!” he exclaimed, trying to shake away the stars. As if the ache in his jaw wasn’t enough, his captor dug his fingers into the muscle at the base of his neck.
“I should have known better.”
“You want a healer?”
“No. Got one of our own, thanks. Bachisuta! Where the ‘byss are you? You men, get these horses settled!”
Soon, too soon, the mess was sorted out. Sherakai was tossed up onto his horse, and the company trotted down the road and away from any chance of rescue. No one said anything to him. Why would they? The mage rode close, even so. When the town and the last few outlying houses fell out of sight behind them, he turned off the road and swung down from his horse.
“Get down,” he said.
Whether Sherakai wished to comply or not, there were hands to help him. The mage looked at him for a long, uncomfortable time, his face set in rigid, angry lines. Lip curling in disgust, he punched Sherakai in the belly. It was so unexpected that the youth went down in a heap.
“I ought to beat you,” the mage gritted out.
“Do it,” Sherakai dared, sneering up at him. “Do it!” he shouted, willing it to happen.
Some still on their horses and others on foot ranged about, silent and watching. The mage stepped forward, fist curled and arm pulled back to strike him again—and then stopped. A wary look came into his eyes. “Bring me the bit.”
Chapter 36
Leaves of gold and crimson still clinging to branches screened Sherakai’s first sight of Nemura-o pero Sinohe. The Gates of Heaven. Most districts had a keep or a stronghold from which its jansu governed. They went by the same name as the district itself. Bairith had given his fortress its own name.
The storm finally wore itself out, but the mud and the swollen streams remained. Everything was washed out, tired. The fortress showed little of the grace and arching beauty common to the region’s architecture. An iron gateway bared its teeth at them in a challenging snarl from the heavy jowls of the twin gatehouses. Sherakai glanced at it listlessly, then away. Every single attempt he made to escape had failed. He had failed.
The road to the Gates required taking the road to Tanoshi for most of the distance. Sherakai prayed to the gods that they’d run into a Tanoshi patrol. If they did, he never saw them. He wouldn’t have put it past his captors to dispatch them as brutally as they did the others. They took the fork south without hindrance.
He ached worse than he'd ever ached in his life. His captors tied him to the saddle, unable to move without help. Riding in exactly the same position for days left him stiff as a board. He sported more bruises from his last aborted attempt to escape. The lack of exercise did no favors for his healing leg. And then there was the mage’s bit.
The length of rough metal abraded his mouth and made him gag. After more than a week, he had not grown used to it. He could count on the thing to relieve him of every meal, leaving him weaker by the day. A harness of leather straps and buckles kept it in place on his head, and no amount of pushing at the bit with his tongue or rubbing his face on his shoulder loosed them.
Aside from the physical hurt, the thing made him dizzy. At first he’d thought it was just from the strong metallic taste and the gagging, but eventually he realized that he couldn’t feel anything beyond his own misery. All the emotions that used to flow around him from man and beast had evaporated. The rich energy of life, of magical things—gone. Understanding certain strong aspects of someone’s character—also gone. He didn’t even dream any more, or if he did, he couldn’t remember. Empty as a pocket, he went where he was told to go, did what he was told to do.
The road passed a collection of deserted houses. Half of them had fallen down. Tattered rags at a few windows bore mute testimony that people once cared for these buildings. Weeds and vines obscured the outlines of walls. Not a single dog or chicken peered at the passing troop from the safety and protection of a doorway. Sherakai glanced down a narrow street, then let his dull attention return to his horse’s mane.
A short time later the troop clattered over a bridge crossing a deep ravine. Plain stone posts topped with iron braziers marked regular spaces. The Gates of Heaven stood just beyond. A man sent ahead warned the jansu of their arrival. Another quartet of guards arrived to take Sherakai into custody. The master wished to see him at once. Four guards to keep one bone-weary, ineffective youth under control. It was the height of absurdity.
They led him down and down, deep into the bowels of the earth, into the embrace of halls that would never know the sun. Shadows lurked in the corners, cold and unwelcoming. They came into a wide hall lit with brightly burning lamps hung from brass hooks. At the end of the passage stood brassbound double doors of polished oak. To either side stood a pair of guards fitted out in dark purple, the white windflower embroidered on their chests.
Sherakai stared at the effeminate flower and didn’t say a word.
At a discreet tap, one of the doors swung open and Sherakai was ushered into a huge room lit by an unfathomable source. Tall, heavily carved columns marched from one side to the other. A floor of pale, polished marble reflected the ambient light, the pillars, and a circle of iron braziers as tall as men. Within that space, a circle of brass runes was imbedded in the marble. Acrid, purple-tinged smoke hung in the air above each brazier, roiling faintly but otherwise lingering in place. The smell stung Sherakai’s nostrils and the inside of his mouth, and the cruel bit kept him from licking his lips.
The sound of boots and clattering armor echoed. The guards halted inches from the outside edge of the rune circle, their steps in perfect unison. Silence settled around them. On the far side of the circle stood a low couch. Dark purple like the uniforms of the guards, costly furs draped it and silken pillows adorned it. A man lounged there, and after an immeasurable time he rose. The smoke followed him, obscuring his figure.
“Come,” he said, holding out a hand, graceful fingers gesturing. Unlike the other sounds, that single word did not echo, but hung there with a life of its own, warm and inviting.
Sherakai didn’t budge. A guard shoved him in the back with the butt of his spear. He stumbled forward, fell to one knee, then staggered upright again to face his captor. The flickering light and strange smoke intensified the half-elvish features of Bairith Mindar, Jansu Chiro. His brother-in-law didn’t look like a psychotic murderer. He looked as uncanny and beautiful as he always did, but more somehow. Garbed in long robes of sapphire and emerald, long black hair fell like silk past his shoulders. Caught up in a simple half-tail, it revealed the modest points of his ears. Sherakai didn’t think he’d ever seen Bairith’s ears before, and he stared. High cheekbones in a pale face emphasized the mage’s sea blue eyes. His mouth, for a man, was perfect. He was perfect. Terribly, beautifully perfect.
Uncertain wonder made Sherakai take an unsteady step back. Immediately, he reclaimed it, drawing a smile from his adversary.
Hands tucked into wide sleeves, Bairith walked around his acquisition, examining him from every angle. Once, twice… Another half turn took Bairith behind him, where he stood for a long, long time. Sherakai did not move. Did not dare. Finally, Bairith touched the short, filthy hair. “I wish you had not done that,” he murmured. Two tugs loosed the leather straps holding the bit in place. His lean forward as he freed it from Sherakai’s mouth brought him close. The sharp scent of sweet cicely the jansu wore wafted around him and made the youth’s eyes water.
“There, now,” Bairith murmured. “All is well.”
All the ways his fledgling magic had ever filled him rushed back. The surge staggered him, but Bairith’s hands settled on his shoulders to steady and support. Sherakai stiffened instinctively. Before he could strike out or twist away, the hateful touch disappeared.
“I think we can do without this.” A gua
rd took the bit, and Bairith circled around again, keeping a discreet distance. “Welcome home, my boy,” he said, warm and tender.
Denial blossomed in Sherakai’s chest. He licked the corners of his chafed, bleeding mouth and gave the mage his fiercest glare. “Where are my brother and sister?”
Bairith waved a negligent hand and smiled. “I can’t say about Imitoru, but Mimeru is in her rooms. I’m sorry you had to suffer this indignity. I hope you can forgive Mage Iniki for taking such drastic precautions. Your particular Gift gives you a remarkable advantage and I look forward to teaching you how to control it.” He went to a small table near the end of the couch. Glass clinked as he poured from a crystal decanter. When he returned, he offered a drink to Sherakai. “You must be thirsty.”
The words awoke in him a raging need. Rather than surrender to it, he struck out and knocked the glass from the jansu’s hand. Surprised at his success, he stared at the arc of crystal and liquid, then the spectacular crash as the vessel broke into a thousand pieces upon the stone floor. Astonishment freed his pent anger. Fists clenched—and still bound together—he threw himself toward the mage. “Thirsty for your blood, vanu! Murderer!”
The pair of guards at his flanks caught him with dismal ease. One on either side, they lifted him right off the floor.
The repeated humiliation was not to be borne. A vicious twist to the right sent pain shooting through his side where his ribs had broken. The guard’s hold slipped and Sherakai lashed his body the other direction, trying to use the advantage of momentum. His bound fists thumped into the leftward guard’s unyielding armor. More by accident than design, his foot crashed into the man’s groin. The guard grunted and doubled in half, releasing his grip. The rightward guard grabbed at him and Sherakai drove his head backwards. He was delighted to feel the crunch of his opponent’s nose collapsing though the blow made his own head ring.
Sudden freedom ignited hope in Sherakai’s bosom. He whirled toward the nearest of the two remaining guards—and straight into a meaty fist. The blow struck his shoulder and spun him completely around. The fourth guard came into view brandishing a short club, his arm drawn back to deliver a blow.
“That is enough.”
The cool voice poured over Sherakai’s anger and turned his purpose to pudding. It did not stop his staggering steps. He flinched and turned his head aside, anticipating a blow that never came. The guard caught his shoulder instead, keeping him upright. Hardly a difficult feat, considering the disparity in their sizes.
“Kneel.”
Confused, Sherakai found himself on his knees, staring at the embroidered edges of Bairith’s robes. Figures stitched in silver thread around the hem twisted and cavorted in the uneven light. He got one foot beneath him to push himself up, then stalled. The wish to fight ebbed from him like so much water. Rasping breaths drew a wince. His arm pressed against his side to relieve the ache of ribs healed the same way as his leg: too fast. With an effort, he lifted his gaze to Bairith.
The mage smiled. A somber green light haloed his shape but did not quite touch him. “You are endowed with a somewhat tenacious nature.” He took another slow turn around Sherakai. “That is a good quality. Honed, it becomes perseverance. Sadly, your brothers did not possess it in sufficient quantities, and they lacked the skill to wield it.”
The spell that trapped him did nothing to dull Sherakai’s hatred. “My brothers were steadfast and strong. They were good men!”
“Mm. Tasan had potential. He wasted his life with his noble sacrifice.” His mouth curled in distaste. “The others were empty wretches. Practically useless.”
The desire to kill surged in him again. He tried to stand.
“You will remain on your knees,” Bairith said, and Sherakai swore at his powerlessness to ignore the order.
“Your brothers were unfortunately—Shall we say ‘fragile’? They were larger than you, yes. Older and more experienced, too, which one might think would give them an advantage.”
Coming to stop, he tapped one elegant finger against his mouth. A tiny frown indicated contemplation. “You are,” he observed with some disappointment, “much smaller than they. It will take some work to change that…”
Change his size? Years might do such a thing, if he was lucky, but he had never been as large or as muscular as the others. They had teased him often. Pretty Kai! Dainty Kai! Far more suited to be a bard than a warrior. ‘Ware, or he’ll slice you with the sword of his wit!
“Never mind.” The jansu straightened. “All things in their due time. The guards will show you to your chambers so you can bathe and dress for dinner.” He nodded and the men’s ungentle hands lifted Sherakai to march him out of the room.
“Let me go!” he demanded, kicking and writhing. The closing door cut off Bairith’s calculating expression. Then a rock solid fist clipped his chin.
Chapter 37
The guards took Sherakai to rooms fit for a prince. A king! They occupied the entire third floor of one of the castle’s five massive towers. Opulent blue-gray silks decorated each space, along with luxuriant furs, rich wood paneling, extravagant furniture, and thick carpets of a design he had never seen.
One room was devoted entirely to the purpose of bathing. He thought his bedchamber at home might fit into it with room to spare. A wide marble fireplace set between two soaring windows warmed the space. Silk curtains, hung from swinging rods overhead, captured and directed the heat. Thick furs protected bare feet from the cold tile floor, and plants—living plants!—softened the corners. Ginger and citrus scented the steam rising from a brass bath enough to fit two. Servants waited with thick bath sheets, brushes, and trays of oils and soaps. In one corner, perched on a padded chair, a lutist played soothing tunes.
It could not have been a more blatant contrast to conditions on his journey.
The guards removed the ropes binding Sherakai’s arms and two youths his own age took over. Gentle hands removed filthy travel clothes, helped him into the bath, then washed him from head to toe. They did not speak a word except to murmur quiet guidance now and then. Their every move was orchestrated and choreographed to eery perfection. They tenderly dried the water from his body, then led him to a table and instructed him to lie face down. Suspicion tickled his belly, and then surprise as he was treated to a long, deep body rub. Wounds cleaned and dressed, manicured, pedicured, and perfumed, the servants led him to the sleeping chamber. He was only allowed to look longingly at a bed big enough he might become lost in the multitude of pillows piled on it.
While Sherakai stared, the servants dressed him. Fragile undergarments and an equally fragile white shirt went next to his skin. Soft doeskin pants and the traditional heiban machi followed. Warm woolen slippers covered his feet. A padded and wrapped hat the servants called a javannu covered his ‘unfortunate hair.’ Strangest of all, one of the boys applied kohl around Sherakai’s eyes, whispering instructions not to touch it, else it would smear and ruin him. He didn’t particularly care what happened to the stuff, but torture by cosmetics paled in comparison to the misery of the last several weeks. He felt like nothing so much as a lamb dressed for the slaughter.
Bairith’s private dining room was smaller, but just as sumptuous. The entire gathering hall of Tanoshi Keep could not match the richness of just one of these rooms, though Sherakai had never wanted for material comforts. While he admired the beautiful things around him, his disgust for their owner overshadowed any desire for them.
“You look much refreshed,” Bairith greeted. He took Sherakai’s hands in his own to lean close and kiss the youth’s cheek. Sherakai jerked away instinctively, but the jansu seemed not to notice. “Your leg pains you? I noticed you were limping.”
“It will pass.”
“We will see to it.” Bairith gestured to a high-backed chair as a servant pulled it away from the table. The guards took up positions right behind Sherakai as he sat, looming and threatening. “I trust you’re finding everything to your satisfaction?”
&
nbsp; Who could not be satisfied with such service, such abundance of things? Sherakai merely folded his hands in his lap. Servants flowed like a river, setting out course after course of magnificent food: spicy sausage pastries, seasoned ham, saffron rice with sunflower seeds and nuts, ribbons of chard leaf with slivers of garlic, heaping bowls of honeyed figs, and several dishes Sherakai didn’t recognize. He contemplated refusing to eat or drink anything, but there were speedier ways to die.
He ate.
Meals on the road had been difficult, and the dreadful mouthpiece had robbed him of weight his slender frame could ill afford to lose. The sight of so much rich food repelled him. He chose the most bland of the dishes, and those that wouldn't sting his sore mouth. He ate in silence and wondered what would become of all the food the two of them wouldn't eat.
The jansu played the genial host and told stories of the places he’d traveled and the peoples he’d met. He shared amusing anecdotes about peculiar cultures and snatches of history. He’d heard some of it before, but this time Bairith made a special effort to bore Sherakai to sleep. A growing fog of exhaustion made it nigh impossible to stay upright, but Bairith blathered on.
When the meal ended at last, Bairith insisted they enjoy glasses of the finest izaku in all the known world. The wine, he explained, was distilled from the juice of pomegranates. It received its delightful piquancy from the addition of ice pepper. Sherakai did not like the syrupy stuff and set it aside. The jansu gave him an indulgent smile and stirred the dregs with an implement of gold shaped a little like a spoon. Then he licked the grainy residue from the ends and closed his eyes in appreciation. “It has such a lovely, spicy bite…”
Blood and Shadow (The Mage's Gift Book 1) Page 23
