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

by Robin Lythgoe

  Letting out a shaky breath, he sank onto the edge of the bed. “How can this be real?” he asked. “And how in the bleeding Abyss am I going to get out of it and home again?” Captain Nayuri was dead, killed horribly. Beseni, Araki, Hansa… all of them gone. Chakkan—

  Shoulders hunched, he pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. A sob caught in his throat. He stifled it with one fist. He couldn’t bear to think what had become of his friend, nor how he was ultimately responsible. Just as sickening was the memory of the beautiful Indimi-o per’lo Tojitu, broken, mutilated, bleeding. On the edge of the bed, he rocked himself back and forth until the tension burst from him. He leaped to his feet to stride to windows.

  Set into deep walls, they reached all the way to the ceiling with cushioned benches in front of them. Dozens of diamond-shaped panes framed in wrought iron let in a patchwork of bright light. Distracted by the bandages on his hands, he pulled them off. Bright morning light illuminated fiery red gashes. They weren’t long or deep, but Bairith had cut him. Even worse, he’d hurt him with his magic. What did it mean? What had he done? Hands clenched in renewed shock and anger.

  With a cry, he thumped his fists against the window. It didn’t produce so much as a rattle. He tried the latches. They were loose, but the windows did not open when he lifted them. Breaking the glass would avail him nothing if he couldn’t get past the grille. And if he did, he had a climb of three stories to reach the courtyard below.

  He would have to find another way out.

  Someone had removed his shirt and the heiban machi, but he still had his pants. Yanking them off, he tossed them to the floor, stomping on them in a fit of childish temper. It was several moments before he finally donned the clothing set out for him. Beautiful stuff, from the warm woolen under shirt, to the high-collared tunic and trousers. Jaw knotted, he laced the shirt, then dragged the tunic on. Elegant boots completed the outfit. They fit as if they’d been made for him.

  His boot heels clicked across tiles the color of sand. Pretty, but he preferred the warm wooden planks of his father’s house. Thick rugs covered the floor in strategic areas and left free the places that received the most traffic.

  Pulling open the door, he found the demons sitting in his path, expressions inscrutable. “Shall we be on our way, then?” he asked with more bravado than he felt.

  They were not done with him yet. One straightened Sherakai’s shirt. The other tied a wide belt around his waist. They slipped rings on his fingers and a pendant over his head. Then, pulling him down to their level, they hid his hair with the javannu again. He did not understand how a hat could replace braids.

  The brown-eyed creature flourished a jar of kohl and a small, smoothly rounded stick.

  One hand raised to forestall the application. “I will not wear that again.”

  The gray-eyed one caught Sherakai from behind, holding him in a headlock. He stiffened, and the kohl waved threateningly before him.

  “Face paint is for women.” He struggled. His demon captor simply tightened his grip until the world began to darken. Sherakai stilled. Gritting his teeth against the humiliation, he let the wretched demon apply the kohl and straighten the javannu. His hands received new bandages. When they allowed him to rise, he inspected his face in a looking glass. It didn’t look as bad as he’d imagined. Or hoped. It would have served them right—and Bairith, too—if they got the goop all over his face. He tugged his collar down to inspect the bruises. Why hadn’t the healer removed them? Punishment? A reminder? He snorted and turned to the demons. “Lead on,” he said, attempting a growl and an authoritative wave of his hand.

  Chittering happily, the two galloped around the apartment like children, then darted to his side to drag him to his appointment.

  Chapter 40

  The demons trotted beside Sherakai the entire way, staying close enough to nip in the bud any attempt to bolt. It was one thing to hear scary stories from one’s brothers and quite another to be in one.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” Bairith asked.

  The demons pulled out a chair at the mage’s right hand and pushed him into it. He’d have fought, but mindless flailing wouldn’t get him anywhere. His escape would take thought and planning. Do not underestimate the power of self-control as a weapon, his father had often instructed him. He recovered as gracefully as he could and the creatures sat behind him. One at either elbow, impossible to ignore. “Do you want polite small talk or the truth?”

  Bairith smiled, evidently surprised at the response, but pleased even so. “I’m glad to see you still have your sense of humor.”

  Anger held his tongue as white-clad servants brought plates of dense yeast cakes shiny with melted butter. While Bairith poured ruby red syrup over his, another servant produced a bowl of stewed oranges. When one of them dipped a spoon into a bowl of white things that looked like worms— with heads—Sherakai put his hand over his plate. “Please take me seriously when I say I would prefer bread with butter and jam, and perhaps a few eggs.”

  The servant at his elbow froze, spoon hovering halfway between dish and plate. He looked to Bairith, who nodded his permission.

  “I understand your appetite has not yet fully returned,” the jansu said.

  “No, it hasn’t been the same since my brother arrived at the wedding in pieces.” Nightmares had changed his memories. He could no longer tell which parts of them were real beyond the horrendous image of unseeing eyes staring from Tasan’s ruined face. “Why did you hate him so? What did he do to offend you?”

  Bairith cut a tidbit from his cake, then regarded the crimson-dripping bite appreciatively. “I didn’t hate him at all. I had high hopes for him. It is a shame he ruined them.”

  “By protecting himself?”

  From a flagon covered in brass leaves, a servant poured dark liquid into a delicate cup with a long handle. It reminded Sherakai of a ladle. Steam wafted upward, carrying the mouth-watering scent of roasted chicory root. His brows knit when Bairith added a scoop of butter to the drink.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Being gifted myself, Tasan’s ability intrigued me. I requested that he attend me here. He declined. The wedding provided the perfect opportunity to ask again. He misunderstood the presence of my soldiers and folly ensued. I understand he fought bravely, but he still died. My men brought your brothers in his place.” He took a sip of his drink.

  “So instead of letting them return to Tanoshi with Tasan, you hacked his body to pieces as a wedding gift to my sister?” Distress took his voice up an octave. His hands fisted on the table.

  “You assume that I dismembered him myself. You will recall that he was in a pitched battle,” he said drily. “I knew your parents would want his body returned. You may rest assured that the men responsible for what happened are no longer breathing.”

  “If this was all a mistake, why didn’t you free Fazare and Imitoru? Why didn’t you tell us what happened? You lied to us!” He saw denial form on the jansu’s face. “You left out the truth so you could paint yourself innocent.”

  “I left out parts of the truth to spare your parents and to avoid a war. A war, I might add, that would divide your sister’s loyalties.”

  “Or see you executed and leave her rid of you.” Fury shone in his eyes and shot through his blood in bright gleams.

  Bairith rested his utensils on his plate to study the youth with a growing interest. “Yes, a political detail that would pain the king. The old king, that is…” He let suggestion dangle for a space, then changed the subject. “The Gift of spirit is not as common as the others. Frankly, I am astonished to discover that I watched you grow up and never saw you coming into yours. Has it only recently happened? I can’t imagine you being able to hide something so bright.”

  Sherakai scowled. “Why did you kill Fazare?”

  “Quite a fighter, your Zar.” Smiling, the mage continued wit
h his meal.

  He bridled at the familiar byname. “Don’t call him that. It is a family name.”

  “Your sister is my wife. I am family.” So reasonable, so composed.

  “Does she know you killed them?” His jaw inched out, challenging.

  “But I didn’t. I am not responsible for the choices your brothers made.” He ladled up a spoonful of the oranges in their spiced syrup. A beam of sunlight made the silver sparkle and the translucent oranges glow like jewels. A troubled frown formed. “Mimeru has been unwell, as you are aware, and Tasan’s death laid her low.”

  “What have you done to her?”

  One elegant brow arched. “I have done everything in my considerable power to cure her, or at least improve her condition.”

  “And what is that, exactly?”

  One of the room’s pair of doors opened and the servant returned, silent as a moonbeam.

  “Ah, here is your meal at last. Enjoy it,” Bairith encouraged with a graceful gesture.

  The servant offered a plate heaping with dark, steaming bread slathered in golden butter. A tiny bowl held bright red strawberry jam. Two eggs cooked into perfect circles still sizzled at the edges. His mouth watered, but he waited until the woman cleared her master’s dishes before he repeated his question. “What is wrong with Mimeru?”

  “If you must know, she has a sickness of her, ah, feminine parts.” Bairith couched the phrase delicately. “Because of it she has been unable to conceive.”

  Living and working on a horse farm, the birthing process and the parts concerned were no mystery. He’d helped with more than one delivery. Anxious for his sister, he still couldn’t help noting that her condition had one favorable outcome: it kept this monster from reproducing. “I would like to see her.”

  “Of course you would.”

  Sherakai frowned, uncertain if the answer was permission or merely agreement. The food in front of him insisted on his attention. In spite of his resolve to nibble only, he soon found himself scraping the plate. He’d never had bread as light, nor jam as flavorful, nor eggs cooked to such perfection. With the last chunk of bread on its way to his mouth, he froze. The thoughts were not his own, and the deception reminded him of the way the chair in his room had felt supremely comfortable—right until Bairith laid open the skin on his hands.

  Deliberately, he set the crust on his plate and put both hands in his lap. “I would appreciate it if you would not use magic on me,” he said stiffly.

  “Never?” Amusement glittered in the mage’s aura. “I’m afraid I can’t promise that.”

  “What,” he managed after a moment, “do you mean to do to me?”

  “Teach you, to begin with.”

  “I am to attend Ayama College in Kesurechi.”

  Bairith dabbed his lips with a snowy cloth napkin, folded it, and set it aside. “That won’t be necessary now. You will be tutored here, and far more efficiently. In fact, you are my only student, so your studies will not be watered down or hindered by those less clever. I will devote a great deal of time to your education.” He smiled, and a chill inched down Sherakai’s back. “We shall get to know each other so well.”

  Panic urged him to run. He dug his nails into his burning palms, trying to make himself sit still and think. Servants and guards—and the awful demons—would cut his escape short if he fled now, and he wouldn’t leave without Mimeru. No, he would have to make a careful plan, starting with the demons. How, by all the saints, could he best them? Trap them in the trunk in his room? Toss them out a window? They’d probably just bounce off the iron grill. A hysteric giggle threatened to choke him. He coughed.

  “Are you not pleased?” Bairith inquired in a voice oozing honey.

  No! He wanted to scream. He swallowed it aborning. “I am… astonished.” The sheer gall set his head to buzzing. “It is a… generous offer, I’m sure, but… I have already accepted the honor of attending the college. They are expecting me.” He thought he managed to be polite in tendering his refusal. He still didn’t meet the jansu’s gaze, focusing instead on his fork. How much strength would it take to plunge into the mage’s chest? Would he know it was coming? Would the fork break on bone?

  If he sensed what went through the youth’s head, Bairith didn’t show it. “Then they will be disappointed. I’ve no doubt they will recover.”

  “I’m afraid I must decline.” There, a little more forceful, but still respectful.

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

  Up his head came. “You are going to hold me here against my wishes.” He should have expected nothing else.

  “I have every confidence your wishes will change.”

  “How can you possibly know that? Because you will make it so with your magic?”

  “If necessary.”

  “Why? What do you want with me and my brothers? What did we do to you?” The words came out suspiciously like a whine, but the thought of being held prisoner here and taught the ways of a madman scared him. It was hard to comfort himself with the hope that his father would come—did he even know yet that Sherakai had been captured? Did he know who had done it?

  “It is not what you did to me, but what you can do for me. Tasan’s death was a tragic accident.” Bairith waved his hand in dismissal. “Fazare, as much as you might not wish to hear it, killed himself.”

  “What?” Shock robbed his voice of volume. Bairith’s mouth continued to move. Noise like a tumbling waterfall filled his ears, and couldn’t even form an image of Fazare. It was Tasan he saw, and the severed limbs didn’t match the word ‘suicide.’

  “What?” he said again, louder. The mage stopped talking. “What do you mean he killed himself?”

  Bairith studied him with pursed lips and fingers drumming upon the table top. Finally, he shook his head. “No. Best to leave that where it stands. It is difficult to comprehend, I know. Trust me when I tell you that the news will become easier to bear with time.”

  “No. No, it won’t. And how can I trust you? You killed my brothers and you kidnapped me. My sister—” He pressed his lips together so hard it hurt. Behind him, the demons stood, whining softly. It scarcely registered. “You threatened my father with legal action for a sickness she didn’t have until she married to you. You are completely without honor.” What was honor to a man such as this? When it didn’t matter, such an insult meant little.

  “You are young—”

  “No.” He cut the man off with a jabbing finger, aro prickling through him as he stood. “Do not speak. Your words are empty of truth.”

  Bairith said nothing. He merely observed the youth with a patient, hungry smile.

  Sherakai turned and fled.

  The demons followed him to his quarters and into the bedchamber. They followed him when he paced from there to the sitting room. They watched him with unnerving intensity whether he collapsed on the floor and wept, sat in a chair and stared into space, dozed on the enormous bed, or emptied his bladder. When nightmares woke him, one would jump up to sit on the bed, pressing against his leg. He shoved it away and hid his face in a pillow. It didn’t help. The parade of gut-wrenching images destroyed his sleep.

  Dragging a blanket around him, he sat on a window bench. Rain or perhaps hail pelted the glass. He put his hand to one cold pane and his forehead against another. “Please come find me, Papa,” he whispered.

  Chapter 41

  A woman came every day after that to tend to Sherakai’s hands. On the third day she removed the bandages. They healed well, leaving only delicate red seams that would fade in time. In her basket, she carried herbs for headaches as well, and tried to persuade him to take a tincture. He didn’t trust anyone in this place and declined. He’d rather live with the horrendous throb in his skull than drink their poison. She looked at the tray of gruel and toast, hardly touched, but didn’t comment. He did not tell her how sick he felt. She probably guessed.

  “Where is my sister Mimeru?” he asked her. She wore fine clothes and her han
ds were soft. She was no mere maid and, since she didn’t use magic on him, he thought she was likely not a Gifted healer, either. In spite of sharpish features, she had a pleasant face. Hair the color of Mimeru's peeked from beneath a blue kerchief, and she had exotic eyes the color of lavender blossoms.

  “In her rooms.”

  “May I see her?”

  She did not respond, but took his jaw in cool fingers and held him to study his eyes. She laid the back of her hand against his forehead, checked his pulse, then looked at the bruises on his neck.

  “What is your name?” he asked, studying her features. The structure reminded him of Bairith, but more fragile, more otherworldly.

  “Rest today,” she said on the first day, ignoring the question. And, “It would do you good to exercise,” she said on the second.

  On the third, he changed his tactics from polite to assertive. “I want to see my sister. Take me to her, please.” His father’s—or Bairith’s—ability to command with his Voice would have come in handy. The woman only regarded him with something between curiosity and melancholy.

  “The master wants you to break your fast with him today.”

  One of the creatures rose and disappeared into the bathing room. Whatever it did in there brought a sound like falling water.

  “And if I do not?” Sherakai asked, glancing after it.

  She put her things away in her basket. “You will.”

  “What do you mean? He’ll send his thugs to drag me to the dining room?”

  She looked meaningfully at the demon sitting at the foot of the bed. It offered a toothy grin. Did it understand the exchange?

  “You will attend him on your own or you will do so under constraint. That is your choice. You will find he can be a generous host.”

  Surely she knew how ridiculous that sounded.

  “What did he do to me?” he demanded, holding up his hands. “The other night when he cut me and—and—”

  “He bound the creatures to you. They will keep you safe.”