Blood and Shadow (The Mage's Gift Book 1)

by Robin Lythgoe

  Finally, Bairith—and the four guards—walked Sherakai back to his quarters. While he spoke low to the men, Sherakai pushed aside the drapes and looked out the window.

  The tower occupied the northern corner of the castle and looked down on the inner ward and one side of the valley. High, thick walls created a formidable barrier to the outside world. Overhead, clouds still hid the stars. Their earthy counterparts winked and glimmered further down the hill. Tanoshi Keep was only four day’s ride away, yet it had taken weeks to make the roundabout journey.

  Fingertips touching the cold, rippled glass, he imagined an autumn evening at House Tanoshi. His father would be sitting by the fire, sharpening the sword he no longer used. His mother and his brothers’ wives would sew or spin. Someone would be crooning as they rocked a baby to sleep. Lamps would supplement the light of the fire, washing everything in mellow amber. One of the hounds would occupy a place close to Papa. Maybe there would be thick slabs of spice bread, warm enough that a dollop of butter would melt right into it…

  “Come sit down, Sherakai.” The voice shattered the wonderful image. Sherakai dragged his attention to where Bairith rested his hands on the back of an ornate wooden chair with a well-padded seat. “I have something to give you.”

  He shook his head; he wanted no gifts from this man. None of his costly clothes, his mountains of food, his multitude of beautiful things would bring back what Sherakai wanted: his brothers and his home.

  “Come,” came the word again, more compelling than before, but gentle still.

  He wanted to resist, but the word held power that weeks of fatigue could not refuse. He found himself in the chair, comforted by its support beneath his weary bones, pleased by the softness of the cushion, the smoothness of the polished wood that fit just so under his hands.

  “I know you are tired and wish to rest. I will keep you only a moment or two, I promise.” Bairith removed the javannu. Where it went, he knew not. Fingers combed through his short hair, over and over, soothing him, mesmerizing him. He did not want that, did not want this cursed murderer touching him! He struggled to rise, but the slightest touch on his shoulders pressed him down again. Comfort enfolded him, reclaimed him. Bairith’s voice in his ears became the murmur of a stream. The words lost their shape, but the sound remained. His eyes stayed open and he saw everything clearly, but the furniture, the fire, even Bairith stood at a curious distance.

  “Bring them,” the jansu said, and the door opened. Two guards stepped in, thick leashes held in their hands. At the end of the tethers sidled a pair of creatures straight from the Abyss. Black hair covered lean, hunched bodies. Long, spindly front limbs ended in misshapen, clawed hands. Those in back resembled the hindquarters of a dog. Elongated skulls sported long jaws from which protruded razor sharp fangs. Gray eyes in one and brown in the other showed cunning and intelligence beyond that of any animal.

  “Fesh and Teth,” Bairith announced as though introducing nothing more important than a pair of servants. “Your attendants.”

  Immobile, Sherakai stared in astonishment. Were they real or figments of his imagination? Fear pushed his sluggish heart into a wobbling canter.

  “Come. Sit,” the jansu ordered the creatures. The guards unclipped their leashes, and the pair slunk forward to sit on either side of the chair. One sniffed at Sherakai’s hand then licked its chops. From within his robes, Bairith withdrew a small, ordinary knife. He turned Sherakai’s limp hand over and sliced the fatty base of his thumb.

  Sherakai flinched in surprise and pain, but still couldn’t move a muscle. Was this the same kind of magic the other mage had used to bind him? He did not like this dream, if such it were, and struggled to free himself from it.

  Bairith repeated the process on his other hand, then pressed the bleeding wounds against the creatures' heads. He chanted in a low voice, unrecognizable words rolling off his tongue. As they did, the beasts shivered and whined. They shifted restlessly, but kept their places. Sherakai thought he heard their names—and was certain when Bairith spoke his. A sharp prick came in each of his fingertips, his toes, every tooth, and a hundred places between. As Bairith continued his spell, the pricking became a tug. The tug turned into a pull so sharp it set every nerve to jangling like a wild thing. Eyes widening, Sherakai watched threads form between each stinging point and the horrible creatures. He fought against it in vain. His Gift was as insignificant against Bairith as a stick against a flood.

  “Keep still,” the mage barked, irritated.

  He would not! He refused to submit meekly to torture and madness! Teeth clenched, Sherakai pushed the threads away. It hurt as though he were tearing out parts of himself. The creatures howled, and Bairith’s voice rose above them, his spell-weaving become a command. Desperately, Sherakai reversed his actions and tried to pull the threads back into himself. He had more success at that, but the creatures came to their feet, writhing as they tried to escape. Their howls increased to very human screams. The guards crouched next to them, wrapping arms around the distorted bodies to hold them. A third guard moved behind Sherakai to clamp a hand around his throat and apply steady pressure.

  As consciousness began to fade, the tugging renewed and the dog beasts quieted. Darkness edged his vision, but it did not cover the helpless sense of violation.

  “There,” the mage said at last. He released Sherakai’s hands and gently stroked the animals’ misshapen heads. “There, it is done. All is well. Hush, hush…”

  The grip on Sherakai’s throat loosened and he could breathe again. Blood pounded in his ears. Spots danced in front of his eyes. Dizziness made the room sway. Curling his burning hands into fists, he hugged himself, glaring murderously at Bairith.

  Unperturbed, the mage straightened. Taking in the blood smears on the youth’s fine clothing, he pursed his lips in disapproval. “Fesh and Teth will tend to that, then I recommend you get some sleep. We have much to do on the morrow.” Bloodied hands held before him where they would not soil his own clothes, he swept out of the room with the guards at his heels.

  Chapter 38

  The door shut, the lock snicked into place. Both beasts followed a few steps after, lips pulled back from menacing teeth. Sherakai launched himself from the chair, only to have his knees go out from under him. He pitched headlong toward a sturdy table leg. An inch before he smashed into it, talons gripped his shoulder and flipped him to the side like a rag doll. Flat on his back on the cold tile, he stared up at the toothy maw of one of the creatures.

  Blessed Saints, how had it moved so fast?

  The click of claws to his right alerted him to the approach of the other. Trapped between them, chances of making it to another room—and a door to slam shut—evaporated. He had no weapon for defense but hands and feet, and no experience whatsoever at combat with demons. His attacker lowered its head and took a step forward.

  The table presented the only avenue of escape. Sherakai scrambled to his hands and knees and hurled himself underneath and to the far side. Scrambling, pivoting, he shoved his shoulder against the thing to knock it over. He succeeded in sliding it across the floor, which was of no use at all. A book lying on its surface became a missile to hurl at the nearest demon. It ducked easily out of danger. Another book flew, but the creature skipped out of the way with the ease of a dancer. The pair watched him with curiosity. The gray-eyed one feinted to the side, then back, tongue lolling out one side of its mouth in a wicked grin.

  Sherakai’s groping hands found a brass urn. He pitched it at the closest. Not waiting to see if it found its target, he bolted for the bedchamber. From behind him came a solid thump, then a huff, a scrape, and the clatter of candlesticks falling. A vase smashed to the floor, the jangle of broken pieces scraping eardrums and taut nerves. One beast vaulted up over the table to get to him. The other careened into view around the corner, grinning like a maniac.

  Sherakai shoved at another chair as he passed, tumbling it into the demon’s path. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it
reach out and casually knock the obstacle aside. Then he was through the bedchamber door, grabbing the panel to slam it closed behind him. The instant the door kissed the frame, he shoved the latch down. It shuddered as one of the creatures crashed into it, then the other. A third time, it shook under the impact of attack. There came a whine, then soft chuffing. The click of claws pacing. Then nothing.

  Stretching his battered senses, he made out their presence on the other side of the barrier. He was safe for now—or as safe as he could hope under the circumstances. Sliding down the door, he leaned against it and waited for his heartbeat to steady. On the bright side, he’d be able to sleep on the enormous bed rather than in the bath.

  He’d no sooner congratulated himself on that fact than he heard a scratching on the wood at his back. “Go away.”

  Instead, the latch scraped as it lifted.

  Alarm brought him straight up off the floor. He jammed the latch downward again and hung on. “Go away!” he shouted, looking around the room wildly. The bed was far too big and heavy for him to move. The same went for the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. Perhaps the trunk at the end of the bed…

  Sherakai beat his fists on the door and shouted again, hoping to scare the demons away for the precious seconds needed to turn the trunk into a barricade. A gravelly yelp sounded. He took it for a sign and leaped into motion. The trunk was heavier than he expected. Fuming under his breath, he wriggled the thing away from the footboard and slid behind it. Bracing his back against the bed, feet on the trunk, he shoved toward the door as hard as he could.

  As it sailed across the floor, the door swung open.

  Frustration converted immediately to fear. “No!” he shrieked.

  One black-furred body slipped through the space, a misshapen hand on the latch. Up and over the sliding chest the beast vaulted, yipping in excitement. Its twin peered inside. The chest hit the door and knocked the demon back out again.

  Sherakai wasted no time, but twisted down and to the side, scooting under the bed. It was low enough that he barely fit with two or three fingers’ space between him and the boards. He tried to jerk one of the slats free. It didn’t budge, so he reached for another and heard the trunk scrape across the floor. “Come loose, curse you!” he shouted at the dumb wood.

  The mattress oomphed as a weight hit it. The demon barked and bounced from one end to the other.

  Sherakai cast a look around, searching for the second creature. Seeing its crooked feet leaping about on one side of the bed, he scrambled to the other. Right in front of his nose, the bed-hopping demon came down. Elbows bent, it looked under the bed, teeth bared.

  Sherakai scooted backward, only to have his ankle clasped in a spindly grip and jerked. Teeth clenched to keep from screaming, he jerked back. A thump and a whine followed, but no release. Frantic, he kicked with his other foot—and made contact. The yelp pleased him on a visceral level. The renewed tug on his leg did not.

  “Let go! Let go!” he demanded, and jammed one hand beneath a slat, holding on for all he was worth. Another two kicks connected.

  Claws scratched on the floor on the other side of the bed.

  Sherakai struck out at the monster’s face as it scuttled close, missed, and had his fist grabbed. In a heartbeat, it had hold of him by the other arm as well. Unbelievably, it braced one foot against the side of the bed and pulled, hooting its victory.

  However, its companion had Sherakai’s foot and was disinclined to surrender. Yipping and hooting, they tugged him back and forth, first one way, then the other. His desperate struggles had no effect on them. When the rhythm of their pulling synchronized, Sherakai thought he would lose a limb.

  The creature holding onto his arms let go of one to wrap both hands around the remaining wrist. It braced both feet against the bed, and pulled with all its might. The other beast wasn’t losing any ground, either. Sherakai guessed that it, too, had braced itself against the bed rail. His shoulder gave with an agonizing pop. He screamed.

  The barking and yipping and tugging stopped immediately, but they didn’t let go.

  Sherakai’s breaths came in ragged sobs. He couldn't move, even if he could have figured out which way to go.

  Over the expanse of the bed, the demons chittered softly to each other, voices going up and down as if they held an actual conversation. Is he tenderized enough now, do you think? Raw or cooked? Arm or leg?

  His foot was released. Instinctively, he drew it up against his body. The bed gave above him as the foot holder leaped over and dropped to the other side. The arm-holder pulled.

  Complete and utter darkness descended.

  Chapter 39

  Three faces stared down at him, only gradually gaining features as Sherakai’s eyes focused. Bairith and the air mage he recognized; the third was a stranger. Their expectant gazes made him uncomfortable. Looking past them, he took in the blue-gray silk on the walls, gold-framed paintings, carved oaken furniture. He squinted at the tall windows. Recognition sank through him.

  “Well?” Bairith’s voice slashed through the silence like a whip and drove away the last vestiges of drowsiness.

  Sherakai’s attention jerked back to him.

  The jansu made an elegant motion with one hand and Sherakai tracked it unconsciously. “I assume you have an explanation for this. Or are you so backward in your manners and education that you are accustomed to destroying property that does not belong to you?”

  Heat scorched his face. Memory of the chase, and of being trapped and torn made him grasp his shoulder. It ached, but no worse than the constant pang of the broken bones he’d suffered on his journey. He’d been magically healed, then, though the cuts on his hands burned like very devils. Cloth bandages covered them, which seemed odd. He dared a look at the third man, who watched with a calculating expression. The healer, or someone else? He wore no insignia to name his Gift. His attention was anything but caring and concerned.

  “Your beasts hurt me.” Sherakai’s voice was rough, sullen.

  “What did you do to them?”

  “Me?” He blinked in astonishment. “I tried to keep away from them! You locked me in here with them.”

  Bairith folded his arms. “They are your bodyguards, boy.”

  “Bodyguards,” he repeated stupidly, at once pricked by the juvenile title and horrified by the thought of those things trailing his every step. “I don’t need bodyguards.”

  “That is for me to decide.”

  He pushed himself up on his elbows, anger and determination hardening his jaw. The movement revealed how his neck and throat hurt from the guard subduing him. He refused to acknowledge it. “You need to decide to let me go. You are keeping me here against my will.”

  “Your will is, shall we say, uninformed.” He waggled two fingers at the air mage. “Iniki, let the creatures go.”

  Iniki inclined his head and snapped his fingers. At once, the demons skittered forward to throw themselves at Bairith’s feet. They did not touch him, did not make a sound.

  “Dress him,” he ordered them, “and bring him to me.”

  Before the three disappeared, Iniki offered a smile that sent a shiver coursing down Sherakai’s spine. Even before they’d gone, the two demons scampered to the wardrobe. Twisted fingers prying open the doors. Exchanging little yips and hisses, they had an outfit picked out for their charge in short order.

  Apprehension clutched his belly as he watched them jump onto the bed with the costly clothes. Upright, they waddled like the monkeys in King Muro’s menagerie. The resemblance to cuteness ended there.

  “Put those down,” he ordered with false bravado.

  They did, but he doubted it was because he intimidated them. One went to the chest of drawers, and the other straightened the blankets and chittered at him.

  Sherakai bolted off the other side of the bed.

  The demon shot after him and caught his uninjured arm before he could commit to his next move. It peered up at him from all too human eyes. Frozen in place
, Sherakai had ample opportunity to examine the creature up close. Much too close. Its nose was long and flat, the gray eyes set too high and tight on its head, and the jaws bristled with crooked teeth. Sunlight gilded the coarse black hair covering its wiry body and gleamed on beaded streaks of crimson across its shoulder.

  “Demons have blood?” he blurted.

  The thing regarded him with silent patience.

  Heart thudding in his chest, breath uneasy, Sherakai shifted to see more of the demon’s back. Long welts stood up in ridges beneath its pelt. Some of them oozed. “Is that—because of hurting me?”

  The demon blinked solemnly, then tugged on his arm. When Sherakai resisted, it tugged harder and chittered at him. The second one rocked a chair back and forth and held up a hairbrush. There were no words to describe how incongruous, how surreal the whole situation felt. Nursing the idea that he might be feverish, he let the first demon lead him to the chair. They surprised him with their carefulness as they brushed his hair, washed his hands and face, and dressed him. He took exception to the latter when they tried to remove his night shirt.

  “Leave off!” he exclaimed, backing away from them and toward the clothes they’d left on the bed. “I can dress myself, thank you very much.”

  With a mournful expression, one of them pointed to the welts on the other’s back.

  His jaw inched out. “Are you going to tell him I wouldn’t let you dress me?”

  The gray-eyed one took a step back.

  Sherakai pointed out the door. “Out. I don’t need an audience. And close the door behind you.”

  Just when he thought he’d have to find another method of persuasion, they trotted out, closing the door behind them.