Blood and Shadow (The Mage's Gift Book 1) Page 9

  Chakkan looked skyward. “Please, dear Creator, forgive me for fostering deviousness in an innocent…”

  Chapter 12

  “Remind me, you’re the youngest of Tameko’s boys, aren’t you?” Scarecrow-thin Lord Iwara squinted down from his extraordinary height.

  “Yes, sir.” Sherakai turned an empty goblet over and over in his hands while he watched a troupe of lithe elves perform an exotic dance.

  “And where are the rest of you? I’ve heard such rumors…” He trailed off, leaving a space for Sherakai to fill in.

  “Rumors are like fires. Are you fanning the flames, Iwara?” Bairith cut in from Sherakai’s left side where he too watched the dancers as they dipped and twirled in the torchlight.

  “Merely trying to separate the wheat from the chaff.” The lord gave a noisy sniff. His long nose amplified the volume.

  “And tripping over your tropes.”

  Sherakai ducked his head to hide a snort of surprised laughter. He’d not expected humor from his frosty brother-in-law. On closer inspection he found only sharply edged criticism, which was much more in character.

  “It’s unfortunate the others are missing out on the occasion,” Bairith continued. “Lady Elinasha makes a fetching bride.”

  “Unfortunate for them to miss out, yes,” Iwara echoed with a cultivated sneer. “But how proud Tameko must be of such stalwart, devoted sons.”

  “Are you suggesting that I am not?” Sherakai asked.

  His mouth turned down in a sour expression. “How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen years?”

  “More or less.” He wished he had a sharper wit, then immediately felt guilty. The best way to defeat your enemies is to first disarm them with kindness, Papa’s voice reminded. He could only imagine the expression produced by grinding his teeth and smiling at the same time.

  “You don’t know your own age?” Iwara chided, exchanging a dubious glance with Bairith. “What a backward child. And here I thought Tanoshi’s children received impeccable tutoring. I know the man he employs comes with high recommendations. Isn’t he a relative of the king’s chancellor?”

  Bairith laid a hand on Sherakai’s shoulder and the youth looked at it sideways. False humor, false affection… Where would they lead? “I’m sure Sherakai won’t need his services much longer, then you can make a bid for the tutor if you value him so. Perhaps you can persuade Tameko to put in a good word for you with the king.”

  At the very moment Iwara realized his unintentional insult to both host and king, Sherakai’s tension eased abruptly, leaving him lightheaded. There was no reason for it except magic. A chill raced down his spine. Before Bairith followed with another manipulation of his emotions, Sherakai stepped away. He disguised his flight by exchanging his empty goblet for a full one from a servant passing by with a tray.

  Bairith smoothly snatched the vessel from his fingertips. “Thank you, dear boy.” He sniffed at the contents and smiled. “How clever of you to remember my favorite wine.”

  They both knew he hadn’t done it on purpose and had no idea what the goblet held. Was this an attempt to keep him from over-indulging? Should he be grateful? He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “You are welcome. Lord Iwara, may I get you something?”

  “No, but you can take this off my hands.”

  He thrust his cup out and Sherakai mustered a smile as he accepted it. Kindness, he reminded himself. He didn’t understand how someone could get so worked up about a tutor. He appreciated the man, but the jealousy struck him as petty, particularly today. Fiddling with the goblet, he looked past the dancers, searching for Chakkan. How hard could it be to steal a uniform? He’d had no trouble at all acquiring a canvas bag in which to carry his blanket-wrapped weapons.

  “On second thought, I would like another of those little seed cakes,” Iwara announced.

  Conveniently, the performance ended and the musicians struck up a familiar tune to encourage the guests to dance. Smile in place, Sherakai stepped away from Iwara’s reaching hand and offered a small bow. “If you will excuse me, I’ve promised a dance to your lovely daughter.” His departure did not prevent him from overhearing Iwara’s carefully pitched parting shot.

  “He’s promised to another girl, isn’t he.” It was not a question, and he didn’t expect an answer. “He’ll never measure up to his elder brothers or his father. Fine men.”

  “He is young yet. A firm hand might yet make something of him,” Bairith observed.

  Make something of this, he grumbled crossly to himself. Green eyes glittering, he intercepted pretty Harasha and summoned a winning smile. “Are you enjoying the dancing?” he asked.

  Her eyes lit when she saw him. “That depends on the dance,” she replied, lowering her lashes demurely, “and upon the ability of my dance partner.”

  Boldly, he took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. She colored beautifully and the pulse in her neck leaped in response. “Which is your favorite?”

  “I cannot say. The night is not yet over, and the dancing has not ended.”

  “True,” he agreed, pulling her a little closer than was strictly proper. “Will you allow me the opportunity to prove my skills?”

  Two or three heads turned their way, expressions not a little inquisitive. Whatever was the jansu’s son up to?

  Harasha looked as though she’d won a royal prize. Still, she played the game. “If I am to judge fairly, then I suppose I must.”

  “You are gracious to indulge me. May I have this dance, or have you already promised it to another?”

  Her gaze slid away to something or someone over his shoulder, then back. Her father, if Sherakai was any judge of space. “As it happens, I am free.”

  “I have not heard sweeter words all day.” She laughed with delight and Sherakai guided her toward the colorfully lit dance area. Even as he did, clapping and exclamations drew his attention toward the gate. He could not see through the crowd and looked askance at Harasha.

  “What could it be?” she asked.

  “Shall we go see?”

  Eyes bright, she nodded and held onto his arm as they wove in and out of the crowd. A corridor opened to allow a horse-drawn wagon through. Silken ribbons and festoons of flowers decorated the bed. Even the horse wore ribbons and tassels. A guardsman led the animal, trying to keep it from sidestepping into the curious onlookers.

  “Look, another gift!” someone exclaimed.

  “How pretty!”

  “Who sent it?”

  “What do you suppose it is?”

  “… so generous…”

  “… lucky bride and groom!”

  With a smile for Harasha, Sherakai led her toward the dais where family members gathered. The colorful light of the torches illuminated the large box on the wagon’s flat bed. Constructed of highly polished cherry wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, hinges of bright silver reflected the light like mirrors, capturing every hue and sending it back into the night. The box alone was an extravagant gift.

  “Who sends this?” Tameko asked, stepping forward.

  “A young boy brought it to the edge of town, Lord,” the guardsman replied. “ He said he’d been paid to deliver it to the wedding. He didn’t know the name of his employer, but he had the coin and was pleased to show it.”

  Tameko laid a hand on the horse’s neck, murmuring to quiet it. Then he walked around the wagon, inspecting the box from all sides before he turned to his new son-in-law. “Will you leave us all in suspense, or will you relieve our curiosity?”

  Okata approached the edge of the dais, laughing. “After all the generosity that has been shown to us today, it would be ungrateful to dally.”

  A smattering of clapping followed his words, and the guests shifted, pushing closer, trying to see.

  Tameko gestured to the guardsman, then looked about for a few others. “Come,” he said. “Lift it up on the platform so everyone can see. If the giver is here, we encourage him—or her—to join us.” He held out a hand in invitation. A
stir rippled through the crowd as people looked about to discover the identity of the gift-giver, but no one stepped forward. It took four of the guardsmen to transfer the box to the dais. Curious members of both families waited, whispering among themselves. A handful of the nobles backed Tameko, half intrigued, half suspicious.

  Harasha leaned close to speak against Sherakai’s ear. “Go be with your family, Sherakai.”

  “You’ll save my dance?” he asked her.

  “I promise.” She really was very pretty with her big, dark eyes and a mouth that loved to smile.

  Squeezing her hand, Sherakai made his way onto the dais. At the edge of the crowd across the way, he caught sight of Chakkan. His friend nodded and sent a meaningful look toward the gate. Perfect. He could slip away as soon as the gift was unveiled. He nodded back, then turned as his father called his name. It came as a surprise to be invited to stand with Tameko and the leaders of the other Houses. One or two of them eyed him narrowly as he took his place, his father’s hand settling on one shoulder.

  “Good friends and new friends,” Okata addressed the crowd, and the murmuring died to expectant silence. Elinasha stood beside him, and he reached to take her hand in his. “Once again, we thank you for your generosity and for the joy you have brought us on this first day of our lives together.”

  “Open the box!” someone called out, and a little titter of laughter flitted through the people.

  “As you wish.” Okata bowed, stepping forward to release the latches. He folded the top back and froze, all the color draining from his face.

  “Okata?” Elinasha whispered.

  He spun to her, catching the back of her head to press her face against his shoulder. “Get back!”

  Unattended, two of the box walls fell outward, one after the other. They hit the dais with a sound that made everyone jump and gasp. Something fell out, and it took a moment for Sherakai to realize it was an arm. Light glistened on the stains darkening fingertips. The minutest shift of his gaze took in the box’s interior. Sightless blue eyes stared back at him from a ravaged face.

  “Tasan…”

  Horror took his knees out from under him. Tameko caught him and shoved him away from the terrible vision. Wails of utter agony tore the fragile fabric of the celebration. Shouts and the frantic whinnying of the horse followed. Sherakai tried to go back to his brother, but grasping hands held him back.

  “Come with me. Sherakai!” A rough shake rattled him. Bewildered eyes found Captain Nayuri regarding him fiercely. “Come,” he repeated in a voice meant to exact obedience. An iron grip around his upper arm shoved Sherakai into motion toward the doors of the keep though for a futile moment he resisted.

  “But Zar and Toru—what about them? Where are they?” Panic lent him strength. He struggled wildly against Nayuri. “They can’t be dead! We have to find them!”

  “Beseni! Omakan!” the captain barked, and a pair of guardsmen materialized, grabbing hold of Sherakai’s arms. “Get him inside. Stay with him. Let no one else near him. No one, do you understand?”

  “Let me help.” A face loomed out of the confusion. Bairith of Chiro. “I am Gifted, I can help him.”

  “Get back, sir.” Nayuri stepped between the mage and his lord’s son. Firelight gleamed on the blade that appeared in his hand.

  “You don’t understand.” Bairith held both hands up, placating.

  “You may see to him if and when his father decides you may. Until then, you can best help by directing your own people.”

  “Tasan! Papa!” Sherakai cried, twisting in the hands of his captors. Heedless of his struggles, of his need, the two guardsmen dragged him into the hall. An instant later the great doors boomed shut.

  Chapter 13

  “Will you keep me a prisoner in my own house? Is that the way things are now?” The question, meant as a rebuke, took on another meaning entirely as the words paraded out of Sherakai’s mouth. His stomach rolled at the realization that the guardsmen might be his captors. They might have played a part in murdering Tasan, if they had not done the deed outright.

  “You are not a prisoner.” Beseni propped himself beside the door, arms casually folded across his chest. Omakan slept on the cold stone floor nearby, but out of the way if his partner should need to move quickly. He’d cushioned his head on the bag of grain they’d used to cover the crack beneath the door.

  How anyone could sleep in such conditions amazed the youth. An underground storage room offered no comfort at all. The tiny oil lamp sitting in the middle of the floor barely provided enough light and gave no warmth. Sherakai escaped the immediate cold of the stone by perching atop a wooden crate. His back against another and knees drawn up, he tried not to shiver. The insidious chill permeated everything. He had no blanket and nothing to wrap around himself.

  “Then let me go.”

  Beseni shook his head. “Not yet. Now hush, you must be quiet.”

  “I will not hush! I’m cold and I want to see my father.”

  “When your father is ready to see you, we will go to him.”

  Hissing his disgust, Sherakai slipped off the crate to pace, beating his hands against his legs to restore circulation. The noise prompted Omakan to open his eyes, but only for a moment.

  “Why did you bring me here instead of my room?”

  “Safer.”

  He had to admit that he would not think to look for himself in a lowly storage room. Not at first, anyway. “Father didn’t tell you to. Not here.”

  Beseni quirked a brow.

  “Look at this.” An impatient wave indicated their surroundings. “No bed, no blankets, no food, no water. Nothing!”

  “Safer,” the guard repeated.

  “How?”

  “Nothing gives away the possibility that you might be hidden here.”

  “How safe is it if there’s only one way out?” he pressed, testing. Half a dozen times since the two had dragged him here he’d tried to figure a way to get past them and through the little door hidden in the middle of the wall to the left of the exit. Did they know of its existence? Secret passageways riddled the thick stone walls of Tanoshi Keep, claustrophobically narrow and tight. Imitoru had shown them to Sherakai. He and Fazare often used it to spy on Tasan, and Sherakai’s curiosity led him to further exploration. They wouldn’t be doing that any more. He pressed his fist against his mouth hard to counter the stinging in his eyes.

  “There’s at least one more.” Beseni stroked the hilt of his knife and smiled with fierce humor.

  The blood drained from Sherakai’s face. “Will you kill me, too?” he whispered. He had to get away from them! One, maybe, he could knock unconscious, but what about the other? The only weapon he had was his eating knife—a poor defense against swords, and him no warrior at all.

  “What do you mean, too?” Omakan growled, sitting up so unexpectedly he made Sherakai jump.

  He stumbled against a barrel and caught it to steady himself. “You killed my brother!”

  “First of all, no, y’daft wight. Secondly, if we’d wanted to kill you, we’d have done it the minute we got you off to a nice, quiet place. Thirdly, we are loyal to the jansu, or we wouldn’t have been picked for nursery duty.”

  “Go gently, Omakan, can’t you see he’s terrified? I was teasing, Master Sherakai. I shouldn’t have.”

  “I am not terrified, I am not daft, and I am not a child. I need to get out of here. Now.” It took everything Sherakai had to back up his words with the air of confidence and expectation his father always wielded. He lied about one thing: he was more frightened than he’d ever been in his life. They knew it, too, and Beseni shook his head.

  “Try to get some sleep.”

  “How? How am I supposed to sleep in this—this tomb when I have one dead brother and two more missing? Some maniac is trying to ruin us and for all I know you’re part of it! And you want me to sleep?” His voice cracked on the last word, adding insult to injury.

  “Suit yourself,” Omakan grumbled, s
ettling himself back down on the unforgiving stone floor. “Go ahead and keep hollerin’, too. That way, if the maniac is lookin’ for you, he’ll be sure to find you.”

  Sherakai opened his mouth to retort, then snapped it shut again. Neither of the men said anything more. In an effort to control the threat of helpless, despairing tears, he began pacing again. Four short, maddening steps marked his boundaries. How long had they been down here? What was happening out there? Who had killed strong, noble Tasan? He rubbed his head hard, fingers catching in the intricate braids he wore. Impatiently, he jerked the ties free. Back and forth he stalked, tugging knots out of locks that hung halfway down his back. Long hair—and intricate braids decorated with beads, rings, feathers, and sometimes even small works of art—showed social status. It made no obvious impression on his keepers.

  “Please,” he said, coming to a stop, “can’t you go see what is happening? See if my family is—is well?” He couldn’t bring himself to say “still alive.”

  “We have our orders,” Beseni replied gently. “We wait for the captain.”

  “What if he doesn’t come?”

  “We’ll sneak you out of the keep.”

  “Will that be before or after I die of starvation?”

  At Beseni’s feet, Omakan piped up again. “You ate enough over the last few days to keep an entire village happy for a month. Surely you can manage for a day or two.”

  “Omakan,” Beseni chided, poking him with the toe of one boot. He’s not like us. He didn’t say it aloud, but the words seemed to hang in the air.

  “You should be careful how you talk to me.” Sherakai scowled at him, not that either of the men saw in the faint light. Besides, Omakan’s eyes were closed.

  That didn’t last. He cracked one open and looked at the youth for a long time. “It’s a hard thing,” he said at last, “when someone’s feelings are hurt by the truth.”

  Sherakai stared right back at him, blinked hard, then went to climb back on his crate. Arms wrapped around his updrawn knees, he laid his head down. He felt small and foolish when he needed strength and bravery. What would Tasan do? Probably bash in the guards’ heads and win free. If they were traitors, how would he know? Tasan knew—had known—the guards better than Sherakai did. But Tasan’s Gift had not been as strong. His own eyes closed, he tried to focus on what he could feel from the two. Omakan was relaxed enough to snore softly. Beseni was… what? Patient. Worried. That might mean anything. Sherakai was worried; he’d have to work on the patience.