by Katy Winter
"Beth!" sent Sarssen urgently. "The boy was torn with distress at my going. I heard his cries and despair. Mage, Malekim is in our camp and the boy is unprotected by your bringing me here. Will you not let me return to care for him?"
"I closed you both down for that reason, young one. Be easy, Bethel's in no immediate danger. The only peril he faces is war and in that we must hope he's untouched."
"He will suffer alone," sent Sarssen sadly. "I do not find that of comfort."
"You can't be with him as well as retain your powers, my friend. You're needed for what's to come and you must trust me. Bethel's catlin sustains him though the boy's unaware of that. He'll just know relief from his profoundest anguish."
"Will not Malekim know?" asked Sarssen, frankly astonished.
"What mage knows where a catlin is?" retorted Autoc. "I never have a clue where mine may be. Catlins are even more unpredictable than mages. Bethel will join you in mind when the time's right, warrior. Everything in balance, Sarssen. Remember that."
Sarssen responded in his calm way, fully awake, his talent reasserting himself and making him as patient as he invariably was.
"What would you have me do, mage?"
"That's better," approved Autoc. "Now you're more in balance. You have two things you must do. You'll lead the Adepts, warrior, with yourself at the head."
"Is the Mishtok not to lead?"
"He's failing, Sarssen. He wasn't young when called upon so many cycles ago. He's over a hundred cycles. You forget you're considered to be extraordinarily young for your status. The other Adepts touch eighty plus cycles. I need to conserve the Mishtok's strength."
"The second thing, mage?"
"That hopefully involves both Bethel and Lute. We pray that's so, but time will tell. You'll be told more of that when the time comes. You remember your time with me in the desert?"
"I remember clearly, mage."
"That's important, Sarssen. We hope Bethel will be with you for the meld. For now, learn to know and understand the Shadowlanders - your future is tied to them more than you know."
Sarssen went to respond even as he felt the mindmeld dissolve. He sank back onto the ground, sound asleep in seconds. His slumbers were dreamless.
~~~
The time passed pleasantly for Sarssen. Though he knew himself to be under unspoken restraint this didn't fret him, the man merely observing a people so different from those he'd been raised with. His memories of early childhood were vague but he thought that perhaps these forest folk were more like the Yazd of his mother's people, their quietness and refusal to be hurried bringing back recollections of a small child surrounded by like people.
He was left alone unless Indariol came to him, but that he was welcome was apparent in gestures and expressions. In the early days Sarssen initiated nothing, but, as the days passed, he made one or two overtures that were very promptly reciprocated. No longer did he sit alone. He was gathered in among a small group where he was invited to speak of who he was and of his years with the Churchik. Deeply reticent, Sarssen only offered discussion on the southern people, the war, and its affect on Ambros. Indariol noticed that no one could draw the warrior out on anything personal. The man was like a closed book, his control formidable.
The Aelkin decided the warrior had eschewed female company for overlong, so he invited Ayesha, his gentlest and eldest sister, to come by during travel breaks or of an evening when camp was set. She was clearly drawn to this enigma of a warrior. Sarssen studied her calmly and responded with courtesy, but that was all. Indariol smiled.
Living among the Shadowlanders Sarssen's respect for them grew as did his belief the warlord made a serious error of judgment in bringing such people into the war. He believed it could be the undoing of the warlord, though he kept his misgivings to himself. As fighters Shadowlanders were ruthless and very frightening. Sarssen wouldn't forget the way his two captive companions were dealt with. It made him shiver and he was used to death. It had been part of his existence for cycles. These people had insight into the motives of others in an uncanny way. How they could sort out the workings of minds other than their own he had no idea, but he knew he was probably not totally immune to their most skilled practitioners, Adept though he was.
He knew they were highly intuitive. They appeared to have a body of knowledge that was passed from one generation to the next which, he learned from Indariol, wasn't unlike the way of the Gnosti either. He'd long suspected the southern steppefolk had such a tradition but he couldn't be sure. The Shadowlanders passed on knowledge both in a written form as well as orally. He saw none of this because there were few children around, but he learned a great deal about both steppe people and the Shadowlanders once he was able to meet up with and talk to Setoni.
The meeting of the Adepts came about soon after Sarssen's captivity. He stood meditatively watching a group gather herbs in a dell not far from him, their chattering and laughing making him feel he'd transcended normal life for a while because their unconcern and mirth was so far removed from the arena of war. Then he became aware of someone behind him, turned, and stared thoughtfully at the slight man regarding him out of shrewd, very pale grey, almost clear, eyes. Sarssen stepped forward.
"Adept Setoni," he said with pleasure, his eyes lighting. He went to one knee with clasped hands extended.
"No, no," responded Setoni gently, acknowledging the courtesy extended to one of far superior age. "My young friend, it's a delight and privilege to meet you after all these cycles." Setoni pulled at Sarssen's hands and the warrior rose, his superior height and breadth of shoulder dwarfing a man over fifty cycles his senior. Setoni twinkled up at him. "You're indeed southern, Sarssen," he chuckled, suggestively nodding at a clump of sweetgrass. Both men sank into it, Sarssen with a rueful sigh.
"I have inherited my father's build," he grinned. "From a limited memory I do not think I resemble the Yazd in any way, though I truly am a half-breed." Setoni considered him.
"That may be true, lad, but you're clearly not fully Churchik."
"Choja said the same thing," murmured Sarssen.
"Choja?" asked Setoni, with a lift to bushy, silvered eyebrows.
"Sophysun of the Wildwind tribes," explained Sarssen. "He did not believe I was a Churchik though he had trouble sorting out what I was. There is a man who would intrigue you, Setoni. So would his father."
"I wish to hear of them," admitted Setoni interestedly. "Sarssen, there's so much we have to discuss and even more we have to learn of each other, isn't there?"
"I am open to you," offered Sarssen amiably.
"Do you find that easier now, young one?" Sarssen sensed the concern in the light voice.
"Setoni, I have had cycles to adjust to the responsibility I never asked for. I do not find melding difficult anymore and several calls on my mind at one time are no problem."
"It was a cruel thing to throw at you," apologised Setoni. "Normally a Post-Level Four has at least thirty or forty cycles in which to learn to adapt to the demands of Adepthood. You had none. Your command of a meld and your adaptability left us frankly astonished. It made us realise how deeply talented you are. Morsh knew. We didn't, though I think the Mishtok knew."
"The situation demanded unusual measures, Setoni. I accepted that."
"You were still extraordinarily young to be forced to confront so much, young one. Nor could we be with you during your first trials. That caused us much distress. We honour you indeed, Sarssen. You must believe that." Sarssen smiled across at the Adept who still looked genuinely concerned.
"I thank you," he said gently. "I had Morsh and he prepared me as thoroughly as he could under the circumstances. He showed me how best to protect myself, how to absorb and resolve, all in the space of a few hours. I had no time to think, Setoni. Perhaps," added Sarssen reflectively, "that is what saved me. I just had to get on and do."
"It was Jaden who betrayed Morsh, wasn't it?"
"Yes, though to do the man justice he had little idea
who Morsh really was, though that is no excuse for causing the death of another. Neither, thank the gods, did Lokar know. Jaden did what he thought right because he believed Lokar wanted Bethel dead, and it meant, by betraying Bethel, Morsh was inevitably implicated - a casualty if you like." Setoni saw the green eyes harden. "Jaden nearly succeeded too. It took considerable mental agility to get over that particular hurdle."
"Where is Jaden now?"
"I have taken him as my slave," came the cool reply. "That way I can care for him since he is as mindless as a small babe."
"Why did he try to use the boy so?" asked Setoni, an ache to his voice. "He must've known how wrong it was."
"Ambition," suggested Sarssen. "Jaden longed for power. To some it matters little how they come by it."
"True," sighed Setoni. "Some say Jaden got his just desserts," he added slowly.
"He had much to answer for," came the steely reply. "I would have wished he was able to stand his Conclave trial, Setoni."
"You would see justice done," said Setoni, a smile creeping to his eyes.
"Yes," admitted Sarssen, the severity of his expression lifting to a reluctant smile. "I believe we should all be answerable for what we have done."
"Ah!" came the enigmatic comment. "Sarssen, would you let me read you, young friend? I would like to know how Bethel is and I believe you've seen Lute. That one troubles me, but you'll see why when you cross-read."
"I am ready," answered Sarssen.
Through his contact with Setoni, Sarssen learned a very great deal about the steppefolk and he discovered more about the Shadowlanders. He realised that neither peoples was so much different from the other. That puzzled him. Both peoples were literate and enlightened, accomplished and cultivated, too, in the way that Sarssen believed the Ortokians were before their destruction.
The Shadowlanders were clearly well-informed, but Sarssen suspected omniscience about them at times, though he doubted they read minds in the way of the Yazd. They were forward-looking and shrewd. After a spell with these people Sarssen felt no desire to leave, his only burning anxiety being the welfare of Bethel. He sensed real empathy with Indariol and Ayesha and began to spend most of his time with either she or Setoni. For some unknown reason, he felt he'd come full circle and was home.
Ambrosian Chronicles,
Third Age,
12218
We watch as events unfold. We know Nikos Rox has arrived at the northern camp where Chlorien has been reunited with her brothers and our Archmage. She struggled with acceptance of her origins, as did we, but there is now understanding.
We suspect Autoc is very active on Ambros again. Since Malekim is now in the camp of the southern army, both Bethel and Sarssen were endangered by his presence and ability to use them as he does Luton. We gather that their talents are significantly suppressed and that could only be done by a senior mage-master of Autoc's standing. When asked about it, the Archmage merely smiled and refused to comment, other than to say that for what comes, Sarssen can't stay in the southern camp.
We fear the escalation of conflict comes very, very close. Malekim will force a confrontation, but not before he tries to assess his daughter's power. The moment of truth for Ambros dawns. The balance is, indeed, fragile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lodestok accompanied the mage, both men mounted, to the fringe of the camp. Waiting astride a huge caparisoned black stallion sat a robed and hooded Luton. He was motionless and very threatening. The horse pawed the ground but was stilled by long thin fingers. The figure's stillness was menacing. He awaited his master.
Their horses' noses almost touching, Malekim stared into the black, stony eyes, Luton not even blinking. He could've been granite. The warlord watched, faintly bored.
"Are you ready, slave?"
"Yes."
"Are you obedient?"
"Yes."
"You have your instructions, slave." The contempt in the mage's voice was biting but Lodestok noticed Luton ignored it. "You'll obey them implicitly or you know what awaits you. You won't enjoy my anger, Luton."
"No," came out barely a whisper.
"Go then!"
~~~
On the day Luton was to meet and challenge his sister Daxel sat quietly on the ground in Ensore's private pavilion where he comfortably scanned a book he'd borrowed from Kaleb. Ensore lounged back in a chair in a rare moment of relaxation, a tankard in one hand, his other holding open the pages of a very much larger tome. It was very peaceful in a time when there was little rest for fighting men.
Daxel rolled and turned onto his side to rest on his left elbow, his head bent. He yawned and glanced up into amused and enquiring grey eyes.
"Bored, lad?"
When Daxel grinned, Ensore could see why this young man so easily captivated hearts. He was a most attractive and personable young man with far too much charm for his own good and though he didn't know it, his smile was inviting, and, for women, seductive, the eyes flashing in a bewitching range of sudden mood changes. You could read both Sarehl and Daxel's eyes. Ensore thought, too, that Daxel was a likeable young man. The smile in his eyes deepened.
"A little," acknowledged Daxel honestly. He flexed his fingers.
"We must find you a mate, lad. That would steady you down and occupy you, wouldn't it?"
The appalled look on Daxel's face sent Ensore into a fit of laughing, especially when he saw the relief set in when the young man realised he was being teased.
"That's not funny, Ens," he reproached his mentor. "You're older than me and you aren't mated."
"A Chamah has to be very careful," explained Ensore mendaciously, on a chuckle. "Lad, you looked as if you faced execution." Daxel grinned.
"I don't have any wish to mate," he announced firmly.
"No, Dase," agreed Ensore amiably. "That's very obvious." He looked at the sudden blush that touched Daxel's cheeks.
"There's only one way to learn and to seek out a mate," came the defensive reply.
"Naturally," said Ensore, even more amiably. "But, please, lad, not the Cartokian commander's daughter! I won't be able to explain that affair away and you may well have found yourself mated if Sarehl had felt pushed in that direction."
"Nalie came to me," explained Daxel, with something of an injured air. He added broodingly, "Ongwin does choose his moments."
"Ongwin, lad, probably only just saved you from the completely unwanted congratulations you'd now be receiving. Cartokians, Dase, consider the physical act as the mating part of their marriage ritual. Gods, do you listen to what we try to tell you?" Daxel's head went down abruptly.
"Yes, I do. I've always listened to you."
Ensore considered the bowed head and said quietly, "Yes, lad, you have. I shouldn't have spoken harshly to you and for that I'm sorry. It's just you're still so young and I don't want to see you hurt. You mean too much to me for that."
Daxel carefully closed his book and stretching, placed it on the table next to Ensore, before he hauled himself over to the Marshal so he could sit at his feet. His head leaned back against Ensore's knees. He felt the hand on his head.
"Lute's over there in the other camp, yet I can't see or sense him."
"No, lad, I know you can't. It troubles you, doesn't it?"
"He's so close," muttered Daxel despairingly. "If I could just touch him, Ens, just enough so he knows I exist. I know if he felt me it would help him."
"Deep down he'll know that, Dase, and one day he'll know all you've tried so damnably hard to be to him."
"I pray for that," whispered Daxel.
Ensore went to speak, but stopped because Kaleb appeared at the entrance, his glance alighting on Daxel. He strolled in casually, his look at Ensore a warning one, and stopped next to Daxel, stooping so he could touch the young man.
Daxel automatically looked up, his eyes locked with the healer's and he was immediately held. He seemed to drift. Carefully, Kaleb pulled back the young head
and made the sleepy Daxel swallow three times from a cup he brought from behind his back. When Daxel suddenly drooped and slumped sideways, firm hands held him.
"Help me get him on your bed, would you?" suggested Kaleb, his stare into Ensore's countenance bland.
"What are you doing?" asked Ensore, somewhat exasperated.
"Protecting his mind from what's to come."
"What's that exactly?"
Ensore rose, marked his place in the volume before snapping it shut and placed it on his chair. Carefully he helped the healer lift and carry the tall figure across to the bed, gently rolling Daxel onto it and settling him comfortably. Kaleb made sure the young man was well covered.
"It's summer," protested Ensore, watching the covers being tucked around.
"He'll shiver and feel the cold, my friend." Kaleb straightened. "Lute's about to challenge Chlorien."
"Oh gods. It's come to this, has it?" Ensore chewed rather savagely on his lower lip.
"It had to, Ensore. Malekim wouldn't have it otherwise. It'll seriously hurt Luton, that's why we want this boy well insulated against an unexpected attack."
"By his twin brother?"
"No, unlikely. More likely by the mage while he thinks we're pre-occupied."
"Will he do this?"
"I don't know," returned Kaleb frowning. "But we don't want any nasty surprises, do we?"
'No," agreed Ensore hastily. He looked down at the sleeping young man. "I keep forgetting he's his twin's other half because I've never seen Lute, not even in the way that you have, Kaleb. What are you going to do with the boy?"
"His mind will be kept closed and shielded while the challenge is given and met. Don't leave him, Ens. I'll return for him when it's all over. If he calls out, answer him, and hold him if he seems to need that." Ensore nodded.
"Anything else?"
"No," responded Kaleb, with a smile.
"And you, Kaleb, what will you be doing?"
"I'll be working with others ensuring the Adepts can work uninterrupted. We don't want mage tricks while they're busy."
"As there were with Lokar and Jaden?"
"Aye," winced Kaleb. "As there were with them. We won't show such trust or ignorance again, you can believe that."