by Katy Winter
Also by Katy Winter
The Ambrosian Chronicles
Book 1: Warlord
Book2: Children of Ambros
Book 3: Circling Birds of Prey
Book 4: The Dawn of Balance
Book 5: Light Dancing on Shadows
Book 6: Quenching the Flames
Book 7: Metamorphosis
JEPAUL
By
KATY WINTER
Published by The Furhaven Press
Copyright Katy Winter 2017
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-0-473-38897-3
DEDICATION
TO PAUL
CHAPTER ONE
The light energy pattern faltered then pivoted, as though, incredibly, it listened. It remained static, hovering. The cry was faint but came again more strongly, until the third sound was muffled and lost through the mists of time and space. The light energy still paused. Then it reversed its direction at impossible speed. It projected itself through darkness, near the brink of the abyss that it skirted, and coursed through emptiness and past worlds innumerable until it reached Shalah. And there it hung, waiting.
Quon, Maquat Dom Earth, disbelieving, turned his head sharply upwards as if he sought something elusive, sensed a presence, then saw, briefly, a startling image that went as fast as it came. He gave himself an admonitory shake. His concern was with the cry that came from one bullied and at times savagely beaten, but this time the cry was truly one of pain and anguish, as fleetingly gone as the image he’d so briefly glimpsed. The Maquat made haste to find the child.
Jepaul heard the thundering hooves and continued to run as fast as panic allowed. His boney chest heaved with exertion and his heart simply hammered in his chest with fright. Despairing at the sounds gaining on him, he finally crumpled and lay gasping for breath, aware three horses drew up around him, their flailing hooves barely away from his head.
A Varen dismounted to stare down at the boy, his expression more sympathetic than coldly disinterested as he held down a gauntleted hand.
“You can't escape us, child,” he said calmly. “The Varen are everywhere. Wherever you try to run, we'll find you.”
Jepaul lifted a scared face to the Varen who still regarded him.
“You chased me.”
“Yes. You've been named. Despite your youth you must answer to the Red Council. How old are you?”
“Eight syns,” mumbled Jepaul.
“Indeed you're still only a child. It seems harsh you be treated this way, boy, but I obey orders in the nature of our kind. Come, show me your caste so I know I have the right child.”
Jepaul shrank close to the ground.
“Master,” he whispered, huddling abjectly.
“Are you emtori caste as we were told?”
“Yes.”
“Then you're very lowly. You can't ride with me being so.” The Varen gestured to one of the silent riders, waited while the man fumbled in front of him, then took the thrown rope that he stooped to wrap firmly about skinny wrists. “You'll not be dragged, that I promise you. We'll slowly walk the horses so you'll not have trouble keeping up with us.”
“You're kind,” murmured Jepaul humbly, aware this huge man could break him in two with his bare hands. He got a kindly look before the Varen mounted and made his horse walk.
Quon, hidden in the bushes not far from the home Jepaul had almost reached, watched proceedings in frank horror. When the small group disappeared he sat trembling. His old limbs felt like water. Forcing himself to concentrate he tried to sort out the implications of what could happen to this wraith of a child. Jepaul might be inordinately tall, but he was like a wisp he was so fragile-seeming and insubstantial, his bones easy to break and slow to mend.
Stoned by children who shunned a low caste boy, Jepaul often sported awful bruises and cracked bones. His odd eyes were invariably sad yet incredibly soulful, wide and appealing. They were amber which was unusual enough. What made them uncanny and seem to penetrate the subconscious of the viewer, was the depth to them and the wide black pupil. It could dilate to cover the whole iris or merge to a slit. That difference also made him a target.
Jepaul came from a line of low caste, though he vaguely heard tales that once his ancestors had been anything but humble and were once honoured. Now they were reviled. He didn't know why. Nor did he understand his difference. He was an only child. His mother died shortly after his birth and his father disowned him before he came to the age of being accepted as a son at three syns. He always said Jepaul was a genetic throwback. He was considered to be an abomination that should never have been allowed to survive.
Quon wondered why he was so newly and peremptorily drawn to the city where the child lived. It was there he found an orphan left to fend for himself or starve. At only three syns old, Jepaul had been, in effect, left to die. Quon had cared for Jepaul for most of the boy's life, so, understandably, it was to him Jepaul had tried to run for protection when chased by the Varen or when hurt by his peers and elders.
Now Quon had to make the decision to return to a court and world he'd been alienated from for many, many syns, though he still wondered what prompted him to be where he was at all. He thought it was probably Salaphon and that brought those bonded with him to mind. He’d been in touch with them, on and off, as he wandered Shalah, Quon increasingly alarmed by the world he inhabited. So much had gone wrong over the syns. With a sigh the old man got slowly to his feet, grasped at his staff, and began a slow arduous walk behind the horsemen.
As he walked, Quon wondered what had alerted those in power to a child he'd tried so hard to hide from their attentions. He worried that Jepaul had acted out of character in some way. Alarmed, he tried to hasten. As he did, he thought back to when he first saw Jepaul. It was so vivid. Again, in mind’s eye, Quon saw the very small child who stared up at him, the little pinched face showing eyes that made the old man stare down harder.
The eyes were very big, deep-set and fringed by long, dense eyelashes that were as black as the finely etched eyebrows set high above the eyes, but it was their colour that was startling. They were lustrous amber. And the irises were most unusual for one born on Shalah. The child looked starved, deeply scared and, as Quon drew nearer, he cringed lower into the ditch where he’d been dumped days before.
The boy was clad in rags and he was barefoot. Quon’s eyes became riveted to those feet – this child had five toes on each foot. The old man swallowed a sudden obstruction in his throat. Alarm shook him. The child, seeing the man’s eyes settle on his feet, went very white and cowered lower, his feet curled under him in an effort to hide them. The boy was abject. A stirring of pity caught the old man. Immediately, impelled but unsure why, he stretched down a gnarled hand to the boy who again looked up, his expression wary and scared. The child gingerly took the hand and allowed himself to be pulled from the ditch. This wisp of a child was as light as a feather and like a wraith.
Quon looked at the boy’s very cropped hair, copper/auburn lights playing through the dense curls in the sunlight. He frowned in an effort of memory but the fleeting thought was gone. He studied the child again, aware of an odd feeling, almost one of nostalgia. He let go the boy’s hand.
“Who are you, little lad?”
“Jepaul, Master.”
“I answer to Quon, child, not master.” The child stayed silent and still. “You are very, very thin, little fellow.”
“I’s left in the ditch. Unwanted,” came the reply.
“I see.” Quon eyed the child thoughtfully. “You were left to look after yourself?” The child nodded. “Who by?”
“Mesmauve.”
“Who is he?”
“Father.”
Quon frowned again. At that the
boy’s lips quivered in such a way it made Quon immediately touch him reassuringly.
“Why?”
“Mesmauve said I’s to die. He said I -.” The child paused. “Shame him,” he added in a broken whisper.
“Why do you shame him? Because you have five toes on each foot?”
“Yes,” came huskily, the small voice breaking.
“And the torc you wear?”
“Emtori.”
“So you’ve been left to starve?”
“Yes.”
“And what is your name again, little fellow?”
“Jepaul.”
“And how old are you, Jepaul?”
Jepaul shrugged and stayed silent. Quon again eyed him meditatively as well as measuringly. Then he sighed very heavily and leaned on his staff while the boy, curious now, eyed him in turn.
“You’d better come with me, child. At least I’ll give you something to eat. Has anyone else offered to feed you or to care for you?” Jepaul shook his head slowly and sadly. “How long have you been here?”
“Five days.”
Quon’s temper, remarkably slow to rise, began to simmer when he looked up and down the broad road. It was criss-crossed by leafy avenues, with people and vehicles constantly coming and going, but everyone studiously ignored the sight of an emaciated child and a very, very old man. Quon muttered. Then he felt a hand slide into his, turned, and looked down with a faint smile, only to be touched to his very soul by the radiance that shone out from this waif when he smiled back. It touched every part of Quon. This was a most unusual child indeed. He was quite other-worldly.
So it was that Quon took this child of lowest caste. He tracked down Mesmauve who snarled at mention of the boy’s name and spat a foul epithet at Quon, but at least the old man got answers to Jepaul’s lineage and background. He also learned that the child had emtori duties. The answers made Quon wend his reflective way home.
He came to the city-state of Castelus because he felt impelled to do so. He knew he had to be where he was, when he was, but he was profoundly puzzled. He sensed a strange bond with this waif who now lived with him in the house Quon rented only days before. Quon cared for him and watched him closely. He could see and sense something different about this child. He wondered if Jepaul had hidden and unsought gifts that made him unique and probably unlike others on Shalah, though he didn’t immediately sense telepathy that should alert anyone to the boy.
The frail child grew into a frail boy; maltreated by all other than his protector, he was shunned by most and bullied by those he served as emtori. He had to accompany a merchant’s son to school. He toted the older boy’s books, and fetched and carried all day without respite. He had no food either and stood all day. If he faltered he was severely beaten.
Quon had sleepless nights as he pondered the fate of this wraith of a boy. Jepaul’s strange eyes were often alight with a glow unlike anything Quon had ever seen in anyone born on Shalah: the boy’s spirit was afire because he was so extraordinarily imaginative and it was to his small and magical world that he withdrew. And what would be his fate? Was Jepaul, this child of light and creativity, a soul of enchantment, a poem of life himself, to endure a hellish world in the factories and sweatshops that stood awaiting him?
Quon was thinking about all this as, grasping his staff tightly, he moved as fast as old bones would let him. It was at that moment he felt the oddest sensation. It was almost visionary. He sensed a being close to him. The sensation swept over him, touched deep within, then was gone. He had a split instant vision of a man's far distant outline. And it had followed hard on the anguished cry that Quon, startled and unsettled, realised he’d heard in his mind. And it was Jepaul.
“I'm coming, child,” he muttered. “I'm coming.”
Jepaul found himself in a place he'd never seen, because one of his caste wouldn't dare approach such magnificence. The palace of the Cynas of the state of Castelus, huge and crassly opulent, was aggressively and assertively placed on a hill and surrounded by monstrous walls that were intimidating just to look at. Even the approach to the nearest gates was built on massive proportions, dwarfing those who guarded the walls and entry.
The Cynas was unapproachable. He was deified and untouchable. To people, like Jepaul, he wasn't real simply because he was rarely sighted. It was said he was venerable and once, so long ago now, had tried to rule with compassion and justice, unlike now when his reign was synonymous with awful cruelty. It seemed he was set ever further apart from those he ruled. Those to whom he gave power weren't wise. Nor were they sparing in their use of terror to maintain a social system that kept the majority subjugated and ignorant, while those in power gained ever more wealth and influence.
Too frightened to look where he was taken, Jepaul stumbled along. He finally reached the base of the slope that would take him and his captor through the massive walls and into the palace. The walk seemed interminable. It was there that the Red Council of Castelus held session. All Shalahs knew about the Red Councils in city-states across their world. They were to be feared. They stayed close to their Cynases and wielded immeasurable power. Jepaul knew only a little about the shadowy Red Council of Castelus. But he knew enough to recognise it was a state instrument of unmitigated repression and the power exercised by its seven members never gainsaid. Their word was law. He suddenly whimpered like a kicked dog. Hearing the sound below him, the Varen dismounted, gave his horse to a companion whom he dismissed along with the other, and then stopped to stare down at the boy.
The child was so thin and insubstantial the Varen paused, his gaze coming to rest on a thick thatch of unruly auburn curls cut short as was proper for one of such caste. Long hair was only worn by high caste. The boy was strangely appealing and pretty in an oddly touching way, but his looks were unlike any other on Shalah.
“Boy,” the Varen said softly. Jepaul instantly raised his head, the big eyes frightened and questioning. “What's your name?”
“Jepaul, Master.”
“I'm reluctant to see you hurt, Jepaul, but if the Red Council demand your presence, none can deny them.”
“I know,” whispered Jepaul, helplessly kneading his bound hands.
“And the Varen always find their quarry.”
“I know that too,” mumbled Jepaul timidly, his eyes bravely searching those of the older man.
“Is there no one able to help you, or speak for you?”
“Quon.”
“Where is he?” Jepaul shrugged expressively. “Was it to Quon you ran?”
“Yes.”
“He's your father?”
“No,” murmured Jepaul fatalistically. “My father abandoned me when I was three syns old and my mother's dead. Quon cares for me.”
The Varen felt stirrings of pity for this attractive waif.
“Once you're in the court audience room, child, I'll try to find this Quon and bring him to you.”
“You're kind.” Jepaul smiled shyly, the smile illuminating a thin face and transforming it. “Only Quon's ever been kind to me.”
“Come along then,” said the Varen, then he stopped. “If I take off these ropes, will you try to run from me?”
Jepaul looked at his surroundings and sighed.
“There'd be no point,” he replied with surprising maturity. “If I did you'd find me and be so cross you'd probably thrash me.”
The Varen eyed him, then grinned in spite of himself.
“Quite a lad,” he murmured, occupying himself with wrestling free knots that had tightened.
Freed, Jepaul rubbed absently at chaffed and reddened wrists, and he made no sound when he felt his left hand taken in a firm grasp as he was led forward.
He knew they had reached their destination when he was halted at enormous doors he could only gape at. They towered over him. Each was so ponderous, it took four guards to haul back one intricately moulded and gilded door that ran almost from floor to a massively high beamed and painted c
eiling. Jepaul was over-awed.
When he felt able to raise his head for a tentative peer, he saw seven cloaked and hooded figures in a circle in the centre of the hall. At that sight, he knew an instinctive and inexplicable panic that told him to run. A shudder ran through him, so deep the hand holding his firmed reassuringly.
A voice came sibilantly from the circle.
“Place the child in the centre where the shadows are least.”
Jepaul jumped and uttered a yelp as the hand holding his led him inexorably to where a finger pointed to the middle of the circle. It briefly opened to let him through.
“Leave him there!” came the barked command from elsewhere in the circle.
The Varen obeyed and precipitately backed, conscious the boy cast him a terrified, bewildered look and tried to follow him. The circle closed. Jepaul couldn't move. He was held rigid. The Varen bowed, let out his breath and retreated, determined to find the child's protector. He knew time ran against him if the Council had issued a summons.
Jepaul stood silent, aware of a flow of power that encircled him and held him in whatever way the Council wanted. He blinked and his eyes were mere slits of black.
“You're of Merilyn's line?”
“So they tell me,” he answered hesitantly.
“Don't you know?”
“I don't go to school other than to help others of higher caste,” answered Jepaul honestly and humbly. “The emtori don't learn.”
“Who is your mother?”
“Daphre.”
“And she's dead?” Jepaul nodded. The voices seemed to come at him from all about the circle and echoed eerily in his head. “Your father?”
“He's Mesmauve. He rejected me. I'm outcast.”
“Why did we feel your cry in our minds days ago?” Jepaul looked genuinely flummoxed. “You showed telepathic ability, boy, something emtori may not have. To use it, as you flagrantly did, earns you the sternest penalty.”
“I - I'm not that way,” stammered Jepaul, his hands up defensively.
“What happened to you days ago? We traced the cry to you.” Confusion on the young face was so patent there was a long silence. “You don't recall then?” Dumbly, Jepaul shook his head.
At that instant, he felt minds like razors cut neat deep tracks across his brain. He squirmed, screamed, fell to his knees and clasped his head in his hands. When the sensation didn't stop but intensified, he fell flat to the floor and moaned out his pain with deep wrenching sobs. The release left him unable to breath. His raised face, terrified and pathetic, was bleached and the big eyes were wild. He heard conversations in his mind but was detached from him, then a sharp sibilant voice made him turn his head.
“Stand, you!” He stumbled to his feet. “Remove your boots.”
Feeling as if he was in a nightmare, and also feeling dreadfully sick and giddy, Jepaul obeyed. He stood barefoot. Jepaul was born with five toes on each foot, not the four of Shalahs, a taint that cursed his family from generation to generation. It was revealed now in this only son of the long ancient line of Merilyn.
“You used telepathy. You say you didn't, son of Mesmauve. We believe you've no knowledge of how or why you did such a wicked thing and you understand little if anything of such an act. It seems to have occurred solely when you were beaten. Still, you're tainted and emtori. That makes your use of any mind ability an obscenity and a blasphemy. No one of your lowly caste can be permitted to walk freely after doing such a thing. You have nothing to offer our society and are thus quite expendable. Your life, child, is forfeit from this moment.”
Jepaul spun frantically around. His eyes searched for any sign of compassion but saw only remote hooded figures. The circle of power was broken. The shadows about the figures deepened. Jepaul sank to his knees. He felt himself roughly hauled to his feet by a Varen he didn't recognise, the man's face an inscrutable mask of cold indifference. The boy hung limply, shock making him unable to respond.
“What's your will?” asked the Varen of the silent circle.
“He's guilty. Take him, cleanse his body, purify it of vile taint, then deliver him to the heavens. Make the despatch swift since he's still a child. Bring the body to us once the deed's done, no later than early sun. He fasts to help speed the purification.”
“It will be done,” promised the Varen. His hand closed like a vice over one of Jepaul's.
“No!” gasped Jepaul, coming to life and struggling for all he was worth.
He was swung into strong arms and clasped against a powerful chest in a crushing grasp that held him helpless as he was carried from the hall. He sensed he was carried a long way. Then the Varen's stride slowed, he entered a small ante chamber and stopped next to another Varen. Jepaul felt his head tilted sharply back. Fingers gripped his cheeks to make him open his mouth before liquid was poured effortlessly down his throat. He briefly gagged, then went limp.
He found himself in a cage. It was capacious and reasonably comfortable, the rugs thrown on the floor warm and soft. The liquid he was constantly given was sweet but strong. He lost all sense of time. His pupils dilated and he thought he floated outside himself more and more with each chalice he was given to drink. The hours passed. With no food inside him and only the constant drinks, he sank ever deeper and was completely disoriented.
The purification was cruel and awful. He howled at the excruciating pain of it. Every part of him inside and out felt on fire as liquid was constantly poured into his every body opening, even his ears, so the purifying liquid could do its work time after time. When the rites were complete and the boy allowed back in the cage he looked like death. Those who worked on him guessed the step to that state wouldn't be lingering.
He was left alone on the floor of the cage, the boy unable to make any sense of himself or his surroundings. He was in severe pain too. When commanded to, he drank with pitiably shaking hands. In time he lost all understanding. The only sensations he had were associated with the dreadful aftermath of purging as he slipped mercifully towards a coma. His limbs became numb. By now the hour was advanced and dawn would be upon the city within, at most, three hours. Jepaul was ready for the final stage of execution.
He heard a voice. It was very far away, but he definitely tried to hear it. It was insistent.
“Jepaul! Jepaul!”
He mumbled, tossed on the rugs and began softly to cry. He felt a gnarled hand grasp his. From the depths of semi-consciousness, he clung to it with every ounce of strength he possessed. Then he began to fade again, only vaguely aware of jumbled voices, half-heard words, but deep anger in one man's voice close to him. Then he was lifted. He drifted completely away.