by Katy Winter
The festivities went on and so did the dancing. Bethel found he was pulled into the dancing group where he was taken firmly by the hand by one of the dancers. Young Churchik maidens cavorted about the young warriors in a disturbing and highly erotic fashion. Bethel suddenly began to enjoy himself and allowed the dancers to sweep him along, until breathless, he was finally allowed to sit again and sank back with something of a giggle.
His mind wasn't entirely clear because he'd consumed a large amount of wine and badran, but he was well aware of the persistent attention he received from one girl - she disturbed Bethel considerably. She was little past a child, but then, Bethel was little past boyhood either. When the girl caressed him, Bethel felt himself respond and involuntarily looked up and across to the warlord. When Bethel saw Lodestok wasn't attending, he breathed a little more easily, though he wished the girl would leave him for another.
She refused. She curled herself round him as did others with warriors at Bethel's table, Bethel aware that, under different circumstances, he'd take her with him for the night. When she kissed him passionately on the lips then put her tongue in his mouth, Bethel pushed her away, another glance over at the warlord again as he did. Lodestok hadn't missed the kiss or open mouth. He sat very still. The hand clenching his goblet was white at the knuckles and his eyes began to dangerously glitter, then, when he saw Bethel push the girl away, a grim smile came to tightened lips and lit cold eyes.
The danger moment passed, but it left Bethel shaken and discomposed. He suddenly felt disinclined to participate, because he knew the way the warriors would celebrate wasn't for him. When he thought briefly of Sasqua, it hurt. He wondered if he'd ever live a normal life and savagely grasped at a full goblet, downing the wine in one draught. Bitterness and self-pity swamped him. He knew a desperate desire to go home where he could be an ordinary seventeen cycle boy. He didn't want to be a Churchik warrior. He wanted to be a Samar, among his own kind. He felt every bit the warlord's slave.
If Lodestok didn't suspect the turmoil in Bethel's mind, Sarssen did. He caught a brief glimpse of the tears and knew no one else had. He also saw the boy's face when the dancer kissed him - what he saw in the lovely, but sad eyes, was a desperate hunger and yearning to be like the warriors around him. Sarssen saw, too, the homesickness and sense of isolated alienation. It had never left Bethel. Sarssen recognised that he could identify with the southern world, through his half-Churchik heritage and southern Yazd mother, unlike Bethel who grew in a northern culture, so different, they couldn't be compared.
Sarssen was concerned because the boy was at such an emotional peak anything could happen. Therefore he watched from a distance, ready to risk entering Bethel's mind to ensure the young one didn't endanger himself and watched as Bethel downed goblet after goblet of wine, hoping the boy became so drunk he'd become incapable of doing anything at all. He noticed, as time wore on, that quite a few of the young warriors were already in such a state.
In the early hours of the morning, Manas, who was very drunk indeed, staggered to his feet, and, grasping Bethel by the hand pulled him out to where there'd been dancing. Sarssen glanced surreptitiously at the warlord who merely raised a mobile eyebrow in surprise and looked faintly amused. Bethel tripped over his feet and his hair fell across his face. With unconscious elegance he regained his balance and stood leaning on Manas for support, one hand gracefully flicking back his hair. Sarssen noted, with approval, that Bethel started to laugh.
"Thish," began Manas, in a distinctly slurred voice, "is Beth and we will dance for you." He put up an unsteady hand, hung onto Bethel and looked enquiringly into his face. "Can you remember the valat I showed you long ago, Beth?" He hiccupped and swayed. Bethel nodded, his hair falling forward again. Manas turned to the pipers who grinned and watched as he tried to snap his fingers. "The pandean dance," he mumbled. "Play that."
The pipers knew exactly what he wanted as they'd played it, often, for the twosome when they were younger. Manas was surprisingly agile and light on his feet for one so large-boned, as well as very drunk, and had almost as much grace as Bethel. As soon as he heard the music, Bethel left his clumsiness behind and once he got his rhythm matching Manas' he lifted his head, tossed back his hair and danced with young enthusiasm and energy. He and Manas were boys again.
The two youths made a striking and very attractive pair as they wound round each other and weaved in and out with sheer exuberance. Sarssen thought he'd seldom seen Bethel so happy, his eyes alight and laughter bubbling from him. When the pair finally collapsed in a laughing, breathless heap, they needed other warriors close by to help them back to their table. Sarssen hoped the dancing helped Bethel, but he kept his eye on the boy all the same.
An hour later, when some of the revellers were thinking of retiring, Manas and Bethel linked arms, swaying together as they left the table and began to move erratically for the entrance. They didn't get far because they were too drunk and their steps were decidedly unsteady. They paused. Manas peered closely at Bethel.
"Beth, my friend," he said earnestly. Bethel looked back at him.
"Yesh."
"You are a warrior."
"So are you," agreed Bethel.
This seemed so funny they both had to sit again while they laughed and leaned on each other for support. As they did, the warlord calmly rose, and, leaving his table, came to stand in front of them. Bethel's laughter was quenched. Even Manas quietened.
"My lord," he stammered, uneasily trying to rise.
"Go to bed, warrior," said Lodestok quietly. Manas patted Bethel on his uninjured shoulder and endeavoured to leave with dignity. The warlord stared down. "Well now, little flower, you are a very elegant dancer. There is no end to your talents, is there, petal?" He held out a hand to assist Bethel to his feet. Bethel took it, but swayed. "How drunk are you, little flower?"
"Very, my lord," answered Bethel, with surprising clarity.
"Are you coming with me, boy? I am going to bed." There was no need for Bethel to answer. The warlord turned to leave, but not before saying gently, "Bring more wine, flower, so we can celebrate your success together. Your master has pride in his slave's achievement."
Bethel's drunkenness seemed to evaporate a little. When the warlord left, he sank back to the table with his head in his hands and a despairing sigh escaped him. He became aware of Sarssen's regard and, lifting his head, looked steadily back at the warrior.
"I know what you are going to say, my lord," he said, before Sarssen could speak.
"Do you now, boy? How perceptive of you." Bethel's words were faintly slurred.
"You are going to tell me to have courage and go to him like a good boy, are you not?" Sarssen studied the youth thoughtfully.
"You are in a remarkably aggressive frame of mind, boy," he replied mildly. "Do you always get like this in your cups?"
"Do not mock me," growled Bethel, lurching to his feet.
"Do not make me, you foolish boy," was the placid response.
"Are you ordering me to go?" Bethel thought he sounded childish and when he glanced quickly across at the warrior he knew he did.
"Beth," said Sarssen kindly, "I know what you want. You have done so well and achieved so much you deserve to celebrate as others do, but you cannot have what you want now." Sarssen kept his voice low.
"Why not? I am a warrior. Why can I not do what other warriors do?"
"Your time will come, Bethel, believe me. Just try to be patient, boy." Sarssen came across to Bethel and gripped the boy by the shoulders. Bethel tried to move but couldn't.
"I will not go. I am a warrior and I do not have to go. I ache so, my lord, I ache." Bethel leaned his head against Sarssen's shoulder.
Sarssen had no hesitation in entering Bethel's mind. In his muddled and drunken state, Bethel felt a powerful presence that eased his anxiety, homesickness and aches. When the sensation stayed with him, he felt oddly comforted. Looking wearily into Sarssen's face, he put a hand uncertainly to his head and in t
he sympathetic green eyes read what he already knew.
"I must go to him, must I not, my lord?"
"Yes, boy, you must. You are his slave. Do not forget the wine he wanted, will you?"
Sarssen watched while Bethel hunted around for two full wineskins and then turned unsteadily back to face him, a smile trembling on his lips.
"You made me a warrior, my lord," he whispered, "and I thank you."
Sarssen said very gently and quietly, "You have done well, boy. Come to me tomorrow. I wish to speak with you." Bethel nodded and his hair fell over his face again.
"Yes, my lord."
He meandered over to the entrance, half-blinded by his hair, and disappeared. Sarssen guessed he was still so drunk he'd not care a damn what was done to him.
~~~
The following morning Bethel awoke with a very hazy recollection of events. Not only that, he felt ghastly. He looked across at the warlord who was still deeply asleep, even though Bethel judged it was nearly midmorn. He licked dry lips and stretched carefully so he didn't disturb Lodestok.
Evidence of the early morning's revels was all about the pavilion, clothes scattered randomly wherever his tired eyes looked and goblets flung on the ground haphazardly beside limp wine skins. Bethel groaned inwardly at the thought of the tidying he'd be expected to do, and, at the same time, remembered someone saying, the evening before, that the army was due to begin another northwards surge now celebrations were completed.
That thought made Bethel lie very still. His heart hammered with the realisation that this would be his first move as a Churchik warrior, his lifestyle would change in some way and the warlord's expectations of him would alter too. Panic gripped him when he considered how woefully unprepared he was to be a fighter, least of all one in the Churchik mould. He licked suddenly dry lips again and turned his head to stare briefly at his master.
As always, he sensed the ruthless power of the man who dominated his every waking thought and move, and he gave a faint whimper at the knowledge he'd never escape the custody of the warlord. He looked at the huge hands that had hurt him so often and then turned his head away, unable to bear thinking about what the warlord had done to him for six cycles now. He decided he had to rise.
Carefully he eased himself from the bed and hunted vaguely for wearable clothes. Fully attired and hauling on boots, he discovered he was ravenous. Noiselessly, he crept from the pavilion on tiptoe to organise food for his master as well as something for himself. Rifling through the food stores in a way that would have brought down the wrath of the warlord's chief cook, Banic, on his head, Bethel managed to find a sweet cold roll that he ate quickly, while he sorted out food he knew would tempt the warlord who was invariably irascible after a hard night.
Bethel paused. He sensed he wasn't alone. Puzzled, he lifted his head and listened, but it wasn't a sound he'd heard. The sensation stayed with him. He turned back to the food, wondering idly if Jaden played with his mind, quickly put defences in place, and, as he did, at the same moment sensed a strongly negative reaction to them. It startled Bethel. His head reared anxiously. He swallowed hastily and began to cough helplessly on a crumb.
When he took an unwary step back, he heard a vexed sound. Instantly, he pivoted on his heel, again nearly treading on the catlin who sat directly behind him. Bethel had never set eyes on a catlin, so his astonishment was genuine. Ever gentle, he stooped with his hand out. The catlin moved to him immediately, rubbed itself against him and then jumped nimbly to his shoulder where it twined itself through his hair and flexed very sharp, honed claws that hurt. Bethel ignored that but was nonplussed.
He murmured very quietly, "Now then, little fellow, who or what are you? I have never seen your like before." The catlin looked directly at him, its eyes large and its bushy grey tail switching from side to side.
"I'm Ot," it announced very clearly in his mind.
Bethel gave a muffled cry. It was partly of surprise and partly of anxiety and confusion. It made the catlin dig in its claws even harder. Bethel winced. He put a hand to his mouth. The voice in his mind spoke again, a little impatiently,
"You do mindspeak, son of Alfar and Melas, don't you?" Bethel croaked, then swallowed nervously. The catlin rattled at his ear. "Don't you?" it repeated. "You can, you know, if you'll only try."
Bethel struggled to concentrate his mind so he could focus his energy to one point, and a faint, vague response formed as a result that he hoped the creature received.
"No, I have never done so." The catlin just kept rattling, flexing and twining.
"You have the ability," it sent, "or I wouldn't be here. Why don't you use your talent and why do you call?"
Bethel was by now very confused. He had a shocking hangover, was bruised and cut from days before, and ached because the warlord wasn't especially gentle in his celebration with his slave. He never was when he was very drunk. Bethel was hungry. He also thought, in sudden fright, of the warlord waking without there being food in front of him. The catlin sat quite still. He watched the young man lick his lips.
"You fear him deeply, don't you?" Bethel gave a shiver as a mental affirmative. "I've been watching him," the catlin observed. "He demands your total obedience and you give it. I know how he sometimes hurts you. I understand."
"Who are you?" Bethel whispered out loud. Another shiver took him when he thought of what the warlord could do to him again.
"Get your food for your master," instructed the catlin. "You ask who I am. I'm a catlin. I bonded with a nymph who died. I was allowed to choose one of her line and I chose you, but clearly you're not ready."
The catlin watched while Bethel filled plates and drinking vessels. These were placed carefully on a tray before Bethel turned as if to go, then he stopped suddenly when he remembered the catlin and felt a surge of panic shoot through him at what the warlord would do to any creature that got close.
"You're quite right. I can't go with you, but I'm always with you," came the voice in his head. Then there was silence.
Bethel still stood, too surprised to do anything. He didn't understand what the creature was saying and his head ached too much for him to try to sort it out. He became aware he was alone, and began to move forward, rather nervously, in case the catlin should again suddenly materialise under his feet.
He entered the pavilion just as the warlord yawned, stretched languorously, opened lynx-like eyes and turned to pull furs securely round him. He watched Bethel approach with the tray. He pulled himself up on the cushions, took the proffered plates without a word and ate, his eyes settled coldly on the youth crouched on his mat, eating with a will. Bethel no longer waited these days for food from a master's plate. Lodestok had dispensed with that in the mornings some cycles previously.
"You have an appetite, boy," he mused between mouthfuls. Bethel looked up with an infectious grin that brought a reluctant smile to icy eyes.
"It must be being made a warrior, my lord," Bethel responded, absently munching on a thick chunk of loaf.
The warlord made no further comment, though he continued to watch Bethel who remained unconscious of the regard and kept eating. Lodestok ate slowly and thoughtfully. After Bethel consumed all he wanted, he leaned back against the nearest chair, a tankard held in his left hand while his right hand brushed irritably at the mane that kept falling into his eyes. He drank, then placed the tankard on the ground with a faint sigh.
"Play for me, boy," instructed the warlord, his tankard to his mouth.
Bethel stretched across to another chair, picked up the estibe and curled himself, cross-legged, into his characteristic playing pose, then began to pluck the strings. Lodestok watched long, sensitive fingers coax music from an impossibly difficult instrument, Bethel playing without conscious thought and his face barely visible through the shroud of black hair that the young man no longer noticed while he played. Lodestok leaned back on the cushions, sipped every so often from his tankard, then his eyes closed as he listened. When the second piece of mu
sic ended, the warlord opened his eyes, waited for Bethel to raise his head and then gestured.
"Leave the estibe," he said quietly.
Bethel placed it carefully on the chair. In obedience to the crooked finger, he crossed to sit next to the warlord on the edge of the bed. Lodestok didn't speak for a few moments. He just ran his hands carelessly through the mass of curls, but when he spoke, Bethel had to strain to listen because the warlord's voice was so soft.
"You are now a man and a warrior, little flower. How does that feel?"
"Not much different, my lord," replied Bethel honestly.
"But it is, petal, it is. Very different. You are no longer a child."
Bethel felt a wave of sickness wash over him and wished he'd not eaten so much. He'd always known the warlord would tire of him one day, but somehow he'd always managed to put that thought from his mind. Had his being made a warrior all been part of the warlord's cruel joke? Was he now to die? He almost groaned as he bent his head. He heard the soft voice continue.
"You will forgo your lessons from today, little flower, and join Haskar Bensar's junior troop. Though you will still go to Gariok, it will be as Bensar dictates. You will live as a warrior, boy, among warriors. You will become a proper one, not just in name. Do you understand?" Bethel shook so much with relief, he could barely answer.
"Yes, my lord," he whispered hoarsely.
"I wonder if you do," came the chill voice. "You will have no privileges, boy, and be at the bottom of the warrior hierarchy. I will have no soft warriors about me. You should comprehend that clearly." Bethel's lips were dry again. He licked them.
"My lord."
"You will obey Bensar as you would either Sarssen or myself. Do I make myself plain, little petal?"
"Very plain, my lord."
"Your slaves will be with you. Your pavilion is being dismantled even as I speak. You know, do you not, that your service to me is paramount, boy, and that you will also continue to come to me of an evening?" Bethel kept his head bent.
"Yes, my lord," he answered without hesitation.