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

by Robin Lythgoe

  “As if you care.” He yanked the wood free, flipped sand up at Iniki’s face, and followed through with another jab at his chest.

  Iniki knocked it aside and stepped back, twirling the pole around him in a wide arc. When he moved that fast, the blur reminded Sherakai of wings. “My opinion of you is practical. The jansu has instructed me to teach you not just how to defend yourself, but how to defeat your enemy.”

  Stepping forward, he smacked Sherakai on the shoulder, then his knee. “Chimoke dan Aruchi has taught you the basics and a little more. The staff is one of his best weapons and, given time and commitment from you, he could have made you a master.”

  Sherakai glared. Another overhead strike forced him back into a lunge, blocking high.

  With each succeeding move, Iniki guided the youth into one of the standard practice routines.

  “Good,” he said again when they’d fallen into a rhythm. “Now faster.” He matched action to words, pressing the youth just enough to challenge him.

  Somehow, Iniki had dulled Sherakai’s seething temper. He was angry still, but thoughtful rather than helpless. The constant twinge in his side became harder to ignore. His ribs burned and the pressure of hard breathing didn’t help. It took several moments to notice that Iniki had chosen a pattern that took the strain off his wound. But when he could no longer swing without wincing, his tutor stepped back and planted the butt of his staff in the sand.

  “Enough.”

  Gratefully, Sherakai leaned on his own pole. “You knew Master Chimoke?” he panted. Iniki wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Yes. We fought together. If he is a master with a staff, he is nearly a god with a sword.”

  The irreverence drew a sharp look.

  “I’ve seen a little of his style in your sword work,” the mage continued. “You have promise, boy, but you lack commitment.”

  Insult or compliment, he could not tell. “I don’t want to be a warrior.”

  “Your family and social obligations aside, do you know another way to protect your family from the danger they face?”

  “You’re going to teach me how to kill Bairith?” Pain cut short his bark of laughter.

  Iniki shrugged. “I will teach you how to best your enemies. What you do with that knowledge is up to you. What he does with your possession of that knowledge is up to him.”

  “Are you not sworn to him? Aren’t you supposed to protect him?”

  “I am, and I do. One day you will discover that not all rules and promises are black or white.”

  Sherakai’s brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “You will see.” Iniki straightened. “Go find the healer. Tell him I said not to play any of his fool games, I want to beat the crap out of you again tomorrow.”

  Uncertain what to make of the unusual conversation, Sherakai only nodded.

  “Well? What are you waiting for? Go.”

  Chapter 59

  Tylond was not in his offices. Sherakai sat himself on a stool and waited, and when Tylond came, he sent the demons out. The mage poked, prodded, and tested Sherakai’s strength and his patience. He drew arcane symbols on the boy’s forehead and chest then proceeded to work a magic spell. He said it was to help him heal, but it hurt. The magic jangled up and down Sherakai’s nerves until he could bear it no more.

  “Is this another incomprehensible lesson?” he asked through gritted teeth. What happened when magic filled a body completely? Did it burst?

  “It is a restoration,” Tylond corrected. Irritation cut through his absorption in the way the magic affected his patient’s frame.

  Sherakai’s fist ended the spell and bloodied the healer’s nose. He found it intensely satisfying to discover he had that much strength and that much freedom of choice.

  Tylond’s yelp of surprise was the only crack in his cool demeanor. He wiped the blood with a towel and cleaned his face at the washstand. When he’d inspected the damage in a mirror, he returned to where Sherakai sat. He looked him up and down critically, then slapped him, hard. “If you touch me again, I will hurt you.”

  Sherakai resisted the urge to press a hand against his burning cheek. “Then I must make sure I don’t cripple you. I wouldn’t want to thwart your petty vengeance.”

  Tylond grunted. “You are a curious boy. Too stupid for my liking, but maybe that can be fixed, too.”

  “I am not too stupid to know a healer can’t mend a sickness of the brain.”

  “Knowing everything is a nasty problem for boys your age. Gets them into a lot of trouble.”

  “If you are going to threaten me, you’ll have to do better than that.” Healers were supposed to heal, not hurt.

  A sly smile slid across Tylond’s face. “I’m not threatening, merely teaching you a lesson you would do well to remember.”

  As Bairith’s toady, Tylond would not likely get away with abusing the jansu’s favorite new toy—at least not without his express approval, and even participation. Had he not already made it a practice to hurt him? Tylond enjoyed the pain Sherakai suffered. He was every bit as dangerous as the jansu.

  He lowered his head, relinquishing victory—in this battle. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good. Mind yourself, and there may be hope for you yet.” From a shelf, the healer fetched a ribbon, a slate, and chalk. “On your feet, now.”

  “Are you a tailor, too?”

  “Hardly.” His mouth turned down as he waited for the youth to stand, eyeing him critically from head to toe. “You’re not much, are you?” he muttered, and set about measuring arms, legs, chest, shoulders, waist, hands, and even feet.

  “I am enough.” When he had doubted, his father and Captain Nayuri had taken him to task. He wanted to believe them and worked hard to please them. “If you’re not taking my size for clothing, what are you doing?”

  “Alterations.” Tylond tapped Sherakai’s elbow and gestured with two fingers. “Do you have elvish blood? You look a great deal like Bairith.”

  “No, I don’t.” It answered both points. Obediently, he held his arm out. “I would like to have my own clothes.” He hadn’t seen them since his arrival. Worse than that, he’d lost his mother’s letter, the letter to his uncle, and his brother’s Passage necklace. It distressed him that he couldn’t keep possession of such small, important items.

  “I am not your manservant.”

  “But you are measuring me.”

  “Indeed.”

  The measuring became more intimate than he liked. With an effort, he refrained from punching the slender half-elf again. Tylond remained silent as he scratched figures onto his slate. Sherakai took the opportunity to do his own sizing-up. The bird-fine structure of the man’s face belied his strength. Striking as his features were, they came nowhere near Bairith’s beauty. It seemed odd calling a man beautiful, but he supposed it made sense. Stallions were beautiful, weren’t they? The comparison drew a grimace. A stallion was a horse, and Tylond a cruel savage. His hands curled into fists.

  “Be still,” Tylond scolded. “And stop that.” He set a vial on the table nearby. “This will help your recovery. No, it is not poison. That would be contrary to the jansu’s plans for you. Drink it down. Now. You’ll get another dose before you go to sleep for the night.”

  “I don’t want it. Mage Iniki said to tell you not to play any of your fool games.”

  “I don’t really care. Drink it on your own, or your guardians will help you.” So sharp was his smile that the edges might wound a man.

  Sherakai eyed the vial distrustfully. “Is this the same as the potion you gave me before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I definitely don’t want it.”

  The healer walked to the door and opened it. Fesh slipped inside, trotting around the room, sniffing this and that. “Come here, pup. Hold the brat down.”

  “No.” He didn’t like when the beasts forced him to do anything. More than that, though he didn’t understand why, he disliked putting them in such a position
.

  Fesh stopped at Sherakai’s feet, gray eyes curious and apprehensive.

  Sherakai pulled the stopper from the vial. The acrid smell stung his nostrils. He had to pinch them closed to toss the contents as swiftly as possible down the back of his throat. He gagged. The bitter concoction burned coming back up, then going back down again.

  Fesh whined.

  Tylond smiled. “Good boy.”

  “What does it really do?” He swallowed repeatedly, trying to rid himself of the awful flavor.

  “As I said, it will help you recover. Do you know anything about herbals? Healing magic? I thought not. This opportunity to observe how your body reacts when strained by injury will allow me to make the proper adjustments.” Such anticipation crackled through the healer’s aura that Sherakai could see it. “It is going to be such a delight working on you.”

  “You already worked on me,” he pointed out, wrapping an arm around still aching ribs.

  “My boy,” he chided, “we have hardly begun.”

  Chapter 60

  Tylond took him to a small room next to his offices. It had no windows and no furniture but the bed. He said nothing at all, but closed the door behind him and locked it. Uneven light drifted in through the space beneath.

  It was a waste of time to test the latch, but Sherakai did it anyway. He called softly to the beasts, hoping they stood guard on the other side of the door. It would be easier to endure the drugs with company. Neither of them answered.

  Before long, the shivering began. It lasted forever, and the more he shivered, the more he hurt. Pounding on the door and hollering availed him nothing. He retreated to the corner with the thin blanket he pulled off the bed.

  From shivering uncontrollably, he went to restless pacing. Back and forth, back and forth until he was dizzy all over again and had to stop, but he needed to move. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. When he tired of that, he swung his upper body from side to side, arms out at first, then just his elbows so he could move faster, harder.

  He tried the door again.

  He hollered again.

  Skin crawled and muscles twitched. Nothing he did helped ease the discomfort.

  “The Meditations,” he said out loud. “You can do those.”

  Cross-legged on the bed, he fought to center himself. The oft-repeated words ran off his tongue and made a brief oasis—until it disintegrated and he couldn’t get it back again. He rocked himself, arms wrapped around his belly, ribs aching.

  Dizziness returned with a disconcerting familiarity. The room swam so badly he thought he would retch. When he tried to lie down, his hand missed the bed altogether. He landed on the floor, panting, eyes squeezed shut to make the room stop spinning. He dared not move, not even when the cold of the stone floor seeped into his skin, his muscles, his bones—maybe all the way to his heart.

  Will my heart freeze?

  No, darling, that wouldn’t do at all.

  His eyes shot open. “Who said that? Who’s there?”

  Silence answered.

  Skin cold and clammy, he crawled up onto the bed and huddled there in a miserable heap. The room eventually slowed its motion and he wanted to weep with gratitude.

  Best not. They might be watching.

  “Who are you?”

  Again, silence was the only reply.

  Be calm, be logical, he chided himself, and rolled slowly onto his back. The room rocked like a boat, and he remembered Maiden Lake and his cousins. Trailing a hand through the water while his uncle and father sang as they rowed. The scent of moisture and algae. His mother holding his little sister Kanya and laughing, sunlight on her face.

  He dozed. Hunger and thirst woke him, and they proved difficult enemies to ignore. With nothing to see and nothing to do, the complaints of his empty stomach drove him to distraction. His lips stuck together. He imagined his belly caving in until his backbone showed through. Melodrama at its best. Mimeru would somehow fit teasing into a scold.

  Gods—No, no swearing. Sun and moon and stars. Yes, better—was she still locked in the Hole? How long had he been here?

  He slept. He had to sleep.

  Tasan lounged against one wall, keeping a watch over him, blue eyes bright. His head kept sliding off his shoulders and he kept pushing it back again. It slipped from his grip—

  And Sherakai woke yelling, pressed against the head of the bed. Fazare sat at the other end, his hide scraped raw from being dragged over the earth. His mouth moved, but no sound came out of it.

  “What?” Sherakai croaked. “I can’t hear you.”

  “I said open your mouth.” Dry, cool hands cradled his face. “Drink this.”

  “Water?” he asked, squinting at the dark figure over him.

  “Yes.”

  It wasn’t.

  He slept like the dead. Walked through his dreams with the dead. They spoke of things he couldn’t hold onto. Their words slipped through him like water through a sieve.

  “Come on, then,” a man said, hauling Sherakai up off the bed like a rag doll.

  He nearly collapsed like one, too. “Why?” The word barely made a squeak.

  “You’re to see the jansu.”

  His head lolled. The room swung precariously.

  “You hear me, boy?” the man demanded in a louder voice. Grumbling, he slung Sherakai’s arm over one shoulder and dragged him out of the room. He cried out and flailed. Another guard appeared and took his other arm. He had all the strength of a newborn, and he could not move fast enough to keep up and his feet dragged on the stone. He let out a choked sob of protest at the scraping burn.

  “You say something’?” the first guard asked, slowing.

  He nodded. “My feet,” he managed.

  “What about ‘em?”

  Sherakai wished he could take advantage of the moment. Slam his knee into the fellow’s nose. Take the torch he held and thrust it into the other guard’s face or belly. Take off running. Instead, he swallowed painfully, trying to lubricate his throat.

  “Can you even walk, boy?”

  His lip curled. “Yes. In a minute.”

  They didn't wait. He dangled between them up two flights of stairs and across the courtyard. Sunlight seared his eyes and the wind wanted to take the skin right off his bones. The pair hauled him up another twisting tower stairway. The exercise and daylight helped to clear his fuzzed brain.

  “Put him there,” came the instruction when they got him through the door of a spacious room.

  Sherakai smelled Bairith before he saw him. The scent the jansu had worn before, sickly sweet, gagged him. He had nothing in his belly, so catastrophe stopped there. A thick rug underfoot was like heaven. He wanted to linger a moment, but the guards turned him around and pushed him into a plain wooden chair with flat panels for arms.

  “Did he give you any trouble?” Bairith asked.

  “No, m’lord.”

  The jansu moved in front of Sherakai to look him over. Sherakai squinted against the brightness.

  “Give him a little water. I don’t want him to cramp.”

  The irony did not escape him, and when the cool edge of a cup touched his lips, he reached blindly to hold it and drink. Sweet and cold, the water hurt his teeth. A few swigs came nowhere close to satisfying his need. “More,” he rasped.

  “In due time.” Bairith waved the guard aside. He reached out as though to touch the youth’s face, then stopped. His fingers folding into a fist as gently as a flower closing. He tucked his hand into the sleeve of his robe. “I hope you have had sufficient time to reconsider your answer to my proposal.”

  He covered his lapse in memory with a glare.

  “Have you nothing to say?”

  “I’d rather die than help you or be beholden to you for anything.”

  A knowing smile touched his mouth. “Does your father feel the same way? Would he rather see his beloved son die to preserve his quaint sense of honor?”

  “Better to have quaint honor than none a
t all.” Honor… proposals… The facts oozed back into his brain and turned his stomach again.

  The smile widened. “Spoken with all the passion and loyalty of an ignorant child.” He held one finger up to forestall an angry outburst. Light gleamed on a ring of gold and sapphire. “I find it charming, however impractical. Look at your situation from the wider view. I can afford to give you the education your father could not. I can open the world up to you, Sherakai. Coin, clothes, horses, women, power—Anything you could ever want.”

  “I want my brothers back.”

  He laughed quietly, musically. “There are limits. When we lose that which is dear to us, we must rise above the loss. Join me. Make a new place at my side.”

  “Why me? Why any of us?”

  The mage stilled and his focus shifted inward. Sherakai sensed it as plainly as the sun falling across his arm through the diamond-latticed window.

  “Because,” Bairith said very softly and with utter sincerity, “you were made for me.”

  It would be pure folly to antagonize him although Sherakai wanted badly to spit at him, hit him, anything but sit there and listen to his raving. If he rebelled, Bairith would hurt him, perhaps even unto death in spite of himself. Worse, he would hurt Mimeru. The road ahead terrified him. Sherakai licked his chapped lips. “I will never be yours.”

  “I think you will.”

  He lifted one shoulder and let it fall again. It took a surprising amount of energy.

  “Tell me, my son, how do you feel?”

  “Unrelated.”

  A blank expression slowly gave way to another small smile. “I will fix that.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Oh, it is no bother at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.” The mage took a slow turn around the chair. The touch of his eyes was like a physical stroke here at Sherakai’s shoulder, there upon his tangled hair, and then across his fingers.

  Sherakai pulled his hand close to his chest but the sensation of warmth remained.

  “I have watched you for a long time. Did you know? Probably not. Adolescents so rarely recognize a world outside their own sense of self, especially you humans.”