by Katy Winter
He made himself see that the young man who lay here was a slave, with no will of his own, who owed absolute submission and obedience to a warlord and was now a Churchik warrior. Still, unusually, Ortok wouldn't leave him, and he wondered if now he'd be a journeyman musician about to travel to whoever in northern Ambros wanted a singer-composer. He turned his head and buried it in the cushions.
"Roll over, boy," he heard above him.
When the healer finished, he tapped Bethel gently on the shoulder and waited for the youth to turn onto his back. He stared at the young face that looked up at him and smiled.
"You heal quite quickly, boy. I'm leaving more ointment with Jane. Just don't knock yourself about and keep away from axes for a while. You should be able to dance with the other warriors at your celebration tonight." Bethel nodded, a hand rubbing across his cheeks.
"I thank you," he whispered. The healer held out a cup.
"Drink this, boy, and you'll feel nothing at all. It may even give you energy."
Bethel took the cup and upended it. The liquid tasted faintly bitter but he swallowed without a grimace. When the healer nodded at Jane and left the pavilion, the older man sat on the bed next to Bethel and clasped one of the limp hands.
"What is it, lad?" he asked kindly. Bethel gave an inarticulate moan.
Jane bent and gathered Bethel in his arms to gently rock him, Bethel's head against Jane's shoulder.
"There, lad," crooned Jane. "It's all been too much, hasn't it, and you're badly homesick. I understand, Beth. To have achieved so much and against the odds, too, you want those of your family to be with you - they'd be proud of you. I'm deeply proud of you, if that means anything." Bethel gave a sniff. "Beth, I know this isn't what you want and you're a musician, but you must acknowledge your achievement with pride and live confidently for a future that will, in time, get brighter."
"I am a slave, Jane, and the warlord will never let me be anything but that. I see no future beyond what he permits me."
"Perhaps," replied Jane, stroking the damp hair. "But life, Beth, is a funny thing with odd twists and turns of fate none of us expect. You'll be a musician, lad, because I believe that's your destiny. I pray we're not both slaves until the day we die."
"So do I," whispered Bethel.
"Courage, Beth," said Jane softly. "We must get you dressed for the parade."
Jane lifted a prettily decorated and ornately blown glass bottle that he gave to Bethel, who eyed it askance.
"What is it?" he asked dubiously.
"It comes from your master, lad."
Bethel looked blank, but Jane's face was bland. Bethel opened the bottle and sniffed, then hurriedly put the stopper back in. Jane raised an eyebrow.
"I can see what it is, lad," he observed.
~~~
Bethel sat astride his horse, calm and still, the worst effects of the oil gone. It only left him slightly light-headed and extremely relaxed. Today, he'd be made a Churchik warrior by right of trial and courage. In warrior dress and wearing a full complement of rich jewellery, he looked as magnificent as his chestnut destrier suitably adorned for the occasion, restlessly tossing its head and pawing at the dirt. When the horse continued to fidget, Bethel bent forward to quieten it.
He wasn't alone. All the young warriors were mounted on warhorses, including Manas, the latter's hair lengthening quickly these days. He also had the beginnings of a beard that Bethel didn't. They'd been ordered to ride onto the meadow as a group, but Bethel was, as usual, on the periphery by himself. When the young warriors heard the command to approach, Manas edged his horse close to Bethel who saw him coming and looked at him curiously. Manas drew in his horse and glanced uncertainly at his friend.
"Beth," he began tentatively. Bethel listened, but made no comment. Manas tried again. "Beth. It was not intended to be personal."
"Not personal?" echoed Bethel, looking up at that. Manas took hold of Bethel's reins and pulled his friend's horse to a halt.
"Listen to me, Beth. I hardly knew what I was doing - all I wanted was the trial to be over." Bethel took Manas' hands from his reins and nudged his horse forward. Manas urged his horse to keep up. "You do believe me, Beth? Gods, man," he added fiercely, "you damn near did for me!"
"Yes I did, did I not?" Bethel grinned across at Manas and put out his hand in a very non-Churchik gesture. Manas gripped it hard.
"We are even now, are we not, Beth?" Bethel started to laugh and so did Manas.
Now the warriors waited for the warlord to ride to the end of the line before reining in his horse in front of the first youthful warrior. It was a simple, but deeply significant, ceremony as the youths took the oath that bound them to Lodestok as their warlord for the rest of their lives. With head bowed, each youth first held out his wrists to the warlord as a sign of submission. He then moved his horse alongside the warlord's where he halted, to repeat an oath twice, once quietly to the warlord and secondly out loud so the assembled warriors could hear. With his head respectfully bent the young warrior received the ornate necklace that was clasped round his throat as a sign to all of his status.
The eleventh warrior was Bethel. He bowed his head and turned his wrists face out before moving his horse forward. As he obediently repeated the oath, the full significance of it came to Bethel and he felt choked when he uttered the words.
"Warlord, I obey, respect and submit myself to your authority and service and my life to you as your warrior."
Other words followed, but it was Sarssen, well back, who saw the agonised expression on the young face when Bethel raised his head and repeated the oath out loud a second time. As Bethel spoke, he finally knew what the warlord had done to him, the appalled recognition like a rock thrown at his head. He was bound more securely than he'd been with slave fetters and torc, both symbols of an individual without choice. When Bethel took the oath, which meant he accepted Lodestok as his legitimate overlord, the words weren't just said as a slave without rights or will, but were also spoken as a sentient warrior. He felt the words wrenched from him, suddenly felt even more a slave than before and knew, too, that sentient or not, he had to say words without any choice at all. Lodestok had bound him, by oath, knowing Bethel had to say the words and appear willing to do so in public. When he bent his head for the warlord to clasp the necklace about his throat, Bethel had to bite trembling lips very hard.
"Look at me, little flower," came the soft, deep voice. When Bethel obeyed, he saw malicious amusement in eyes that dominated him. "I accept you as my warrior, boy." The stress on "my" was audible only to Bethel. The voice went on gently. "You see, petal, you no longer need the torc, do you? You are irrevocably mine."
"My lord," Bethel answered quietly, shivers shaking him. He realised the implication of Lodestok's soft words. Irrevocable, in Bethel's mind, was an absolute. He felt more of his Samar identity was removed.
He sat as still as a statue for the rest of the ceremony, his mind refusing to grapple with the enormity of the oath he'd no option but to take. He thought of his home and of what he'd become. He thought no one saw him ride from the field when the warriors were dismissed, and no one saw a young Ortokian youth, now a Churchik warrior, fling himself on his bed, his head buried in cushions in unutterable despair, his thoughts of Sarehl and his home. In only moments, Bethel walked from his pavilion to his master's. The warlord's gesture at the end of the ceremony was quite clear; he expected his slave to be with him.
When Bethel entered his pavilion in the early evening, Jane saw he staggered, his face quite grey and his eyes cloudy.
"The warlord was drunk, was he?"
"Sort of," mumbled Bethel thickly. "Jane, my head aches and every part of me hurts."
Jane quickly filled a goblet and held it down to the slumped figure. Bethel took it. Jane sensibly left him alone as he bustled about preparations and spread out clothes Bethel would wear for the feast. When he saw Bethel close his eyes and let his head fall back on the cushions, Jane gave a tight smile and went
on with what he was doing. Bethel slept.
~~~
Bethel was in no hurry to dress. He just quietly pulled on clothes made in the southern warrior fashion that he resignedly tucked into long dark purple boots that were new. He commented on them.
"Aye," agreed Jane. "They came with the rest of the clothes. It's the warlord's express command that this is how you're to be dressed for the feast and celebration. There's new jewellery as gifts for you too."
Bethel nodded submissively. The over shirt was very full-sleeved with heavy cream lace at cuffs and throat. It was the same colour as the pants and was belted with a long fringed sash, interwoven with tiny slivers of gold and wound round Bethel's waist, twice.
Bethel automatically removed his mass of jewellery and looked across to where Jane pointed to a pile of new ear-rings, rings and bracelets. He slowly crossed to look at them, placed them as required, then lifted the warrior necklace he'd taken off. He stared at it, troubled.
"Lift your head," instructed Jane, seeing the hesitation and coming to Bethel's side. "Irrespective of what you become in life, lad, this is a moment of triumph. You must look at it that way. You're from another race and culture, yet competed against the best this society could pit against you. Hold your head high, Beth, and show pride." Bethel looked up at Jane and waited while the older man clasped the necklace round the young throat, settling it so that it wasn't hidden by the lace collar. "There, Beth."
Bethel went back to the bed and stayed there, resting, aware Jane approached with comb and brush. He rolled onto his stomach.
"Gods, Jane, I am always so tired," he muttered.
He cradled his forehead rather gingerly on a forearm that still ached from an axe blow and relaxed to the rhythm of the brush strokes that followed the combing out of the tangled mass of black curls and he did go to sleep again. Jane stared down at the very tall figure on the bed, noticing for the first time the breadth of the shoulders, this young one, he thought with a wry grin, not far from manhood. Though Bethel was very slender for his height, Jane could see, in the sleeping form, the potential for a strong mature man. He sat quietly until he felt the young one had to wake for the feast.
It was Sarssen entering the pavilion nearly two hours later that made Jane realise the feast couldn't be far away. Jane greeted the warrior affably. He watched Sarssen cross to the bed and glance down at the still sleeping figure.
"Exhausted was he, Jane?"
"You could say that," grumbled Jane, holding out a full goblet. Sarssen took it.
"The warlord?" he asked placidly, lounging to a chair and stretching out.
"Oh he's tired from the last days, there's no doubt about that," was the caustic reply, "but he was fine when he went to get his necklace. When he came back from the warlord, he wasn't. I've given him more to drink from the healer." The warrior was pensive for a moment, then looked up with an arrested expression.
"The warlord would send the boy oil for after bathing, Jane, as a token of his pleasure in the boy's achievement. What is in it?"
Jane didn't respond. He just picked up the bottle he'd quietly hidden under a table and passed it across to Sarssen who cautiously opened it, recoiled and stoppered it immediately.
"That explains it," he murmured.
"You know it, too, do you?" Jane asked sourly. Sarssen gave his slow smile.
"But of course, Jane. Where the boy treads, he follows me. If nothing else, the warlord is predictable. The warlord rarely uses this."
"What if he's got the same stuff?" demanded Jane.
"It is an oddity, Jane, how perfumes and such like, alter when exposed to air."
Jane's shout of laughter, and the warrior's deep responsive chuckle, woke Bethel. He stretched and rolled, then came up on an elbow, his big eyes coming to rest on Sarssen.
"My lord," he murmured sleepily, his hand going out without thought. Sarssen was quick to rise and take the hand in a firm clasp.
"Well, boy, you have done very well, have you not? How are the wrists?"
"Still a bit sore, my lord," admitted Bethel, with the faintest of smiles.
"You will be very tired, boy, and ache for a few days yet." Bethel stared up into the warrior's face.
"I thank you for all you have done for me, my lord." He bent his head and his colour was heightened. "I know I would not be here today but for you." Sarssen flicked one ruddy cheek.
"Boy, you have done a remarkable thing. You may not comprehend that yet awhile. No man from another state has become a Churchik warrior. You are the first. I am so proud of you, Bethel." Bethel lifted his head to stare fascinated at the warrior.
"Are you, my lord?" he asked incredulously.
"But of course I am, boy. Did you not think so?" Sarssen watched a fat tear creep down Bethel's face, and, glancing over at Jane, quickly read the message in the older man's face.
"I thank you for that, too," whispered Bethel.
"Foolish boy," said Sarssen gently, his hand on the youth's shoulder. "Before I take you to the feast, we must celebrate your success, because we are your adopted family, are we not, and should respond as such? I would not have it any other way." He helped Bethel to his feet and looked critically at him. "One thing I will say for your master, boy, is he knows how to dress you in clothes that make you look more beautiful by the day." His voice had turned to an affectionate drawl. "Nothing, Bethel, could heighten the colour of your eyes as what you wear tonight!"
He saw Bethel blush, then stammer and disclaim and smiled, aware he'd successfully distracted the younger man.
"Jane, fill the goblets and let us toast this new warrior!"
~~~
Bethel felt odd seated with the other young warriors, who sat around one very long table that groaned under an assortment of rich fare. He always thought the food consumed was the result of plunder from places like his home and it affected his appetite.
Usually, he crouched or kneeled next to, or behind, the warlord who occupied a place at the centre of the table full of haskars, his slave ready to come forward in response to the snapped fingers of a master. To not be acting as a slave tonight confused Bethel. It contributed to his sense of disorientation. During the afternoon the warlord made Bethel's slave status painfully clear, yet here he was now, sitting among those with whom he'd competed and also enslaved him. Bethel gave up trying to understand and drank steadily instead.
He was conscious, too, of a few friends around him, if he could ever call a Churchik a friend, but he was also aware of hostility to his status and knew he'd made deadly enemies when he defeated other younger warriors. He saw Kone's brooding and darkling looks and felt uneasy. He'd have to be more careful than ever and he knew it.
While the food was eagerly consumed, the wine and badran flowed freely. It wasn't frequently the Churchik celebrated, especially when they were on the campaign trail, because they were a warlike people, but when they did rejoice they did so with relish. The entertainment kept them all amused. The Merhandian tumblers and the Arkady acrobats had warriors laughing and the Doorec pipers had feet tapping, the acts following one another in profusion and the general noise raised to a higher level by the snarling dogs that competed under the tables for scraps. Every so often Bethel dropped a scrap and felt the pressing furry bodies that bickered over morsel ownership.
When food was eaten and warriors sat replete with full tankards or goblets to their mouths, Gariok rose and entertained as did his bards, then, when he felt he and the others wanted a rest, he sauntered down the tables until he came to where Bethel sat, the youth's head well down in an endeavour to be inconspicuous. With a strong hand, the Dominik gripped Bethel hard and easily hauled him to his feet.
"Take this pipe, boy, and recite for us. You must do your duty as an apprentice bard of mine. I do not intend to carry the full burden of entertainment, nor do others."
A rough shake and push propelled Bethel forward, until he reached the high table where Lodestok and the haskars stared down at him, the warlord thoughtf
ully and the elite with amusement. Bethel looked so different. Though the style of his clothes wasn't dissimilar and the colour he wore was nowhere near as bright as others wore, still he stood out. He always would. It was the slenderer build, the darkness of his eyes and hair, and, because he was still beardless, he looked absurdly youthful among even the youngest warriors. His beauty, too, made him conspicuous. Gariok stood next to him and that merely emphasised the boy's slightness.
"My lord," said Gariok, addressing the warlord. "I insist your boy entertains us. After all it is what he is trained to do."
"It is," agreed the soft, silky voice. "Get to it, petal. I dislike being kept waiting."
Bethel lifted his head, met his master's eyes and licked his lips before lifting the pipe to his mouth. Typically, as soon as he blew the first notes, Bethel was lost. He played, recited and chanted, unaware where he was. He didn't see the gaze from his master, a man who never took his eyes from the slender form that stood so still, the cold eyes fixed to the velvet, animated eyes and moving curved lips. Lodestok soaked in the deep voice that was powerful in recital, yet could fall to a whispering sigh when a saga demanded it and, for a time, he was far away, his thoughts on an ancient people, gifted musicians he'd read about at the Keep. Bethel may have lived the poetry and the music; there was no one there who didn't revel in it. Gariok sat back, a satisfied smile on his face as he, too, listened to a youth he knew was greatly and uniquely gifted.
When Bethel paused and stood uncertainly, he got a sharp nod from Gariok and thankfully went to his seat, his hands grasping a tankard so he could drink deeply. At that point, the pipers began to play for dancing.
The young warriors rose and threaded their way to a cleared space, but Bethel remained seated, his hands still clasped about the tankard. He listened to the music and watched the dancing and thought of Choice in Ortok, because he was at the age when he'd likely stand as he'd watched Sarehl and his mother do cycles before. When he felt a sudden rush of tears he swallowed very hard, wondering if he was mawkish because of the badran mixed with wine, or because he was now irrevocably committed to a war of which he was a casualty. He drank deeply again and sank back in his chair.