by Katy Winter
Kher had little time to spare for Luton because his days were hectic, but he arranged for an unsel to be set up for Luton next to his pavilion so he could keep an eye on the young man. Now he watched Luton stoop and turn back into the unsel where he pored over texts he'd carried all those miles north from the Keep.
The haskar often entered the unsel to see the thin shoulders hunched as Luton sat at a rudely thrown together desk, a long finger scanning lines and symbols and the lips moving silently in a rhythmic incantation. It froze Kher because he always felt Luton withdrew when he studied and the shade was so close, almost perched on the back of the chair.
The only time the young man recalled where he was, was when he was quietly spoken to by Kher who was the one person who could touch him. Then Luton stared up at the haskar. His expression was unreadable to all but Kher who saw it as deeply respectful, he'd stop what he was doing, turn, and hold out clasped hands. When the Haskar took the hands in a firm grasp, Luton was willing to be drawn to his feet, his robe sweeping the ground.
Up until today the warlord had been quite uninterested in the mage's apprentice. After Kher sighed over Luton and left his own pavilion, a senior haskar strode towards Luton's unsel. He bent almost double to get inside. Once in, he had to stoop. Luton had his back to the warrior and made no move.
"You are a slave, are you not?" came the barked question. Startled, Luton swung round. He nodded.
"I'm the sorcerer's apprentice slave," he agreed.
Sendak hadn't seen Luton before. Few warriors had because Luton rarely moved beyond his unsel other than for ablutions. Kher had arranged for him to be given food in privacy. It was the warrior's turn to be surprised.
"Where are you from, boy?"
"Kher tells me I'm a Samar, from Ortok."
"Kher tells you? Has a slave no respect for a warrior? He is Haskar Kher or my lord to you, boy, and you remember it!"
"I will," said Luton obediently.
"Have you a brother?"
"I'm told so, my lord."
"Come with me, boy. The warlord has expressed a wish to meet the sorcerer's apprentice. Leave what you are doing and follow!"
Outside the unsel Sendak studied the young man curiously, fascinated by both Luton's apparent indifference to himself and by the aura of power around him that set Luton apart. He also knew there could be no doubt he looked on Sorien's brother.
Luton stood at the entrance to the warlord's pavilion awaiting the order to enter. It came.
"Enter," came the cold, deep voice.
Luton advanced to the centre of the pavilion where he waited quietly, unaware of icy eyes that swept over his figure and became riveted to his face in sheer disbelief and surprise.
"Look at me, slave apprentice of Blach."
Luton obeyed instinctively, his black eyes meeting the warlord's and holding in a way that considerably startled Lodestok. The dark eyes were as cold as his own. They were insensate, he thought, staring into them intrigued. Then an unexpected shiver crawled over the warlord that made him pick up his goblet. He drank steadily.
"Your name, slave?"
"Luton, my lord." Lodestok swallowed hastily again.
"Luton," he murmured. He considered for a long moment. "You, then, are the twin son of Alfar of Ortok, brother of Daxel."
"So I'm told," returned Luton indifferently.
"Do you not know who you are, boy?"
"I know nothing, my lord," responded Luton. "I'm a slave belonging to Blach. My home's at the Keep with my master."
"You have no memory," stated the warlord, drinking again. He rose and filled his goblet before lounging back to the chair, his eyes still on the very thin face.
"I don't know what memory is, my lord. I owe obedience to my master."
"And Bethel, your brother?" Luton hesitated.
"I met him as he travelled south."
"And?"
"I sensed his prolonged and dreadful suffering, my lord, and recognised I also distressed him though I couldn't understand why. I'd like to know him. He's very gentle." The warlord's eyes flashed in warning but Luton ignored the sign.
"What makes you say he has suffered?" Black eyes held the pale blue ones, Luton speaking without fear or emotion.
"He belongs to you as I belong to my master. You've profoundly hurt him many times and in many ways that mark him for life. It shows whether he wishes it to or not."
"He is my slave to do with as I wish."
"He knows that," said Luton quietly. "He's known that from the day you found him, became his master and dominated him in every way physically and emotionally. He's never denied his slavery."
"Have you, boy?"
"No," said Luton simply. "Without will there's little to live for. One just is. My brother will die as surely as I do, both of us slaves."
"Your brother has will, boy, you should believe that. I have not taken that from him."
"Perhaps," said Luton, inclining his head. "Time will tell. I have no will, my lord."
"No," agreed the warlord, stroking his beard. "No, I can see you do not. Do you know how like Sorien you are, boy?"
"Sorien?" Luton turned on the question, obedient to the hand wave signalling him to a chair. He sat erect and unmoving.
"Bethel is now my son, or did you not know?"
"Kher told me it was so." The warlord raised an eyebrow.
"Did he so?" he mused. "My younger son answers to Sorien."
"For now," agreed Luton. Normally Lodestok would be nettled by such intransigence on the part of a slave but he found Luton an intriguing enigma.
"I ask again," he repeated coolly. "Do you know how alike you are to the other? The family resemblance is very strong though your younger brother has remarkable beauty."
"Kher says we're alike. I see only that our hair's the same, my lord."
"Your faces are so, boy. The eye shape is identical though the colouring is different. Your expressions are similar and you are both from a very tall race. You lack animation but that, I suspect, is something only your master can explain. Has your essence been removed, Luton?" Luton characteristically shrugged.
"My master owns me, my lord. I know nothing else."
"Do you feel anything?"
"Nothing," came the reply.
"And pain, boy? Can you know and sense pain?"
"Yes, my lord. My master lets me feel it when he wishes to chastise or teach me. I don't welcome it and try not to earn it. Sometimes," and here the warlord heard an odd note in the deep voice, "I earn it when I don't know where I've erred."
"I see," said Lodestok thoughtfully, studying the thin but very attractive face with moulded lips, sculpted features and large wide-opened black eyes that should've shone with sense. "You lack strength, boy, and you are very frail."
"My master uses me as he will, my lord," was the indifferent response. "I don't question what he does to me."
"No," said the warlord gently. "Tell me how you spent a day at the Keep." He lounged back prepared to listen.
The velvety voice reminded him so much of Bethel, he even sensed the young man could be talking with him. As Luton spoke slowly, Lodestok thought back to a conversation he'd had with Blach cycles ago, long before the warlord began his northward conquest. It made Lodestok contemplative. In pensive mood he made no attempt to further the talk when the quiet voice came to a halt. He just frowned, his eyes resting on the young man's profile that so resembled Bethel's. The brothers were uncannily alike.
Lodestok had an unerringly accurate memory, the man able to recall the slightest inflection in words or tone in specific conversations held many cycles before. He was acutely sensitive to nuances. Now he recalled the day at the Keep with clarity. The warlord had known for some time that Blach was no mere sorcerer and was a mage of some power, though Lodestok had no knowledge of exactly who Blach was. He'd long suspected the mage had his own reasons for wishing to hide his real identity. No fool, the warlord had given much consideration as to why the mage encouraged
him in his conquests and he was well aware that where Blach gave he expected returns in full measure.
He'd also suspected, some time since, that the family Blach resolved to destroy were of significance and had angered the mage in some way. It fascinated Lodestok that of the family two were now part of the southern army. He was untroubled by the coincidence. He was happy to leave the vendetta, or whatever it was, where it belonged. What did make him increasingly wary was Blach's motives in relation to himself. He felt the mage's arrival would be timely.
The warlord clearly remembered the mage's instructions regarding Myme Chlo and Sarehl, both of whom escaped their intended fates and he recalled how the mage had casually dismissed the other sons. They, too, were marked for death but again fate intervened and they were alive, Bethel his slave, and a brother who was now in the north and a slave of the mage.
Lodestok found it disconcerting in a way though he bore no ill-will towards the young man sitting so remote and still. He could even feel pity for the apprentice, because Lodestok suspected the young man had been cruelly tampered with and soon the young man would be casually disposed of. As he pondered he conveniently forgot Bethel's life was an equally tenuous one.
He wondered why the mage had sought out a son he earlier dismissed as only fit for death but his thinking brought him no answers. He stared at the finely etched face, conscious Luton had turned his head to absorb the scrutiny, his large black eyes, heavily fringed like Bethel's, unblinking and his lips folded firmly together. As had others before him the warlord found the face most appealing but compellingly lonely and sad. It unexpectedly touched some chord, very deep, in Lodestok.
He thought back to how Lban, with relish, described the death of this boy's mother and half-father and the pleasure he'd derived from putting Luton in a slave caravan that would be the boy's death. In a sense, mused Lodestok, the caravan was a death of sorts because it brought Luton to the mage. Luton wasn't now alive. Lodestok emptied his goblet.
"Tell me of your travels north, boy," he instructed, absently rising to re-fill his goblet.
Luton's discourse was brief and unvarnished. It ended abruptly. Again the warlord found himself drawn back to study the young face carved in indifference and wondered how this young man, not far beyond youth, would be with animation. He found himself wishing to see it. With an ironic acknowledgment that he profoundly missed his slave, he spoke curtly.
"You survived against the odds, boy."
"So did Bethel, my lord," was the quiet rejoinder.
"And you live."
"Like Bethel, I exist," came the gentle contradiction. The warlord spoke very softly and silkily.
"Existing is living, boy." He was surprised by the faint shake of the dark head, a gesture so like Bethel's the warlord thought he had Bethel in front of him. Luton bent his head.
"Barely," he whispered.
"What do you do all day?" asked the warlord, after a prolonged and uncomfortable pause during which he came to certain unpalatable truths about his treatment of his slave.
"My master has set me tasks, my lord. These must be achieved before he calls me."
"Or you will be punished - that is so?" Lodestok thought the dark head nodded rather wearily. "We are at war, boy. Soon there will be a resumption of fighting. You do not fight?" Luton gave a shrug.
"My master tells me what I must do, my lord. I await his commands." Lodestok raised a hand in dismissal.
"Few have seen you, nor do you cause trouble. Keep it that way, boy, unless I can make you a warrior."
"Yes, my lord," was the docile response as Luton rose, bowed his head submissively and backed from the pavilion. He left a profoundly thoughtful warlord going over their conversation in his mind.
The warlord's later questioning of Kher as regarded Luton was rigorous and persistently penetrating, though Lodestok made no further attempt to converse with the young man. If he saw the tall thin figure in the distance he abruptly turned from it because it was too reminiscent of one absent slave. Though the warlord would admit it to no one, Luton's unemotional assessment of his younger brother disturbed Lodestok in an unusual and aggravating way. Lodestok didn't forget.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Choja stood in the northern desert, his eyes, narrowed to slits against the glare, sweeping the dunes in expectation of movement. Beside him stood Jochoh, a young man grown. He stood as still and silent as his father. Choja had sent men north as a compulsion he didn't understand and it made him edgy. They'd moved very quickly, the sense of urgency compelling.
Choja felt a shiver of premonition such as hadn't touched him in cycles, not, he reflected with a wistful sigh, since Schol left them accompanied by the young boy. He wondered that he should be thinking of Chlorien now and also thought maybe it was Schol who urged him to be where he was for some reason .
His and Jochoh's harsh green eyes matched uncompromising faces that at a young age became set in harsh lines. This, and their tattoos, gave them a fierce look. Briefly Jochoh fidgeted with a necklace he wore while Choja ran his left hand over the bracelet adorning his right wrist.
They remained standing watching, until Jochoh stiffened at the same moment as his father.
"Sophysun," he murmured.
"Yes, son," answered Choja. "I see them but they come very slowly. Have we suffered injured yet again?"
Wisely Jochoh refrained from comment, his eyes not shifting from the blurred forms in the distance. Neither he nor his father moved forward. They just waited patiently. They watched a group of tribesmen draw closer. It was then Choja could see the reason for their slow progress, the men carrying two litters between them. This brought a frown to the green eyes. As things stood with the Wildwind tribes during this time of upheaval and violence, the last thing needed was additional problems. His frown deepened with the men drawing up in front of him and setting down the litters. Choja stared down at the litters and hissed.
"Who are they?" There was a short silence before a spokesman spoke quietly.
"We don't know Sophysun. We found them staked out some distance north, exactly where you sent us."
"Why didn't you leave them there? Their fights are nothing to do with us."
"They're not desertmen and are savagely beaten, Sophysun, nor are their marks of a fight on them. It didn't seem honourable to leave them."
Choja's breath hissed inward again. He took a longer look at the litters.
"One of them's a Churchik!" he spat. The spokesman shifted his bare feet uncomfortably.
"But the other has the colouring of the boy Chlorien, Sophysun," he volunteered rather tensely.
When Choja stooped to look more closely at the second litter, another shiver ran over him from his bare toes to his scalp. He went to one knee. He could clearly see that the long, dishevelled curly hair was indeed black under the coating of dust and he signalled to the spokesman to help him uncover and turn the second body onto its back, catching his breath when he looked at the battered face.
"Gods," he said breathlessly. He heard a choked sound from Jochoh. "Who'd do this to any man?"
"Kosko's men, Sophysun. It's none of ours. Why would we kill a man so? It's easier with a sekran and faster. We found their clothes, too, desert wear and warrior dress." Choja stared down at the naked body so badly bruised, cut and burned from exposure to the desert sun.
"This one's not so very old either. Bring them!"
When Choja turned away he saw Schol very clearly in his mind and heard the soft words again as he'd done many times before, but never quite believing them:
"A young man will come who looks like Chlorien; he'll be a musician and very gentle. Take care of him, won't you?"
He thought again how Schol warned him how dangerous Queeb could be, the warning timely as the Wildwind tribes plunged into an internecine war as bloody as any for hundreds of cycles, fomented and encouraged by Queeb and Ohb. And now, thought Choja, this young man not so different in age from Jochoh had come but looked close to death. Choja q
uickened his pace.
His men brought the two litters into an oubla rapidly erected and where Jochoh and his father now waited. Choja was explicit in his instructions of what Jochoh was to do, the young man crouched beside the first litter, a water bowl beside him, cloth, and a cup. Everything Choja did, Jochoh would copy.
Choja soaked the encrusted blood around Bethel's eyes, nose and lips, washed the dust from thickly caked hair and from cheeks covered with livid bruises and sun blisters. He moved down the slender body trying to avoid burns that blistered the skin over and near wounds, lifted back the very long hanks of hair, carefully easing free strands caught in crusted scabs and winced at the extent of the young man's hurts. Finally, he and a tribesman pulled a long soft robe over the dark head before they lifted only light covers over the inanimate form. Bethel was flat on his back, his head a little raised.
Choja knelt close, a cup in one hand. He put it to Bethel's mouth.
"See if the boy will drink," he instructed one of the tribesmen, his voice guttural and not unlike the Churchik.
Jochoh managed to open Sarssen's mouth to get liquid in. Bethel's mouth didn't open. Choja gripped the young cheeks to force his mouth open, just enough to tip water down. Some went down the young one's throat but most of it trickled out the corners of his mouth.
"Tilt his head further back," suggested Choja.
This time they were more successful. Water went down and stayed down. Choja let the dark head fall to one side and got to his feet, his eyes deeply troubled. He waved Jochoh and the tribesman away then went to look more closely at the warrior.
He looked down at a very large man of breadth of shoulder and muscled physique, athletic, with a mane of long wavy hair that was silver blond rather than the Churchik yellow, the long limbs as badly beaten as the boy's. Though the face was cut, bruised and sun blistered so it wasn't immediately recognisable, Choja decided it wasn't an entirely Churchik face.
He wondered for a moment then, on a whim, knelt again and carefully looked inside Sarssen's mouth where the branded tongue was quite visible. He found Bethel's tongue bore the same slave brand and he was puzzled. He stared more closely at each man, even briefly uncovering them so he could study the identical and exceptionally deeply cut symbols that both carried on their chests. He noticed the jewels in the foreheads were the same.