by Katy Winter
Her sixteenth cycle had come and gone. Looking at her closely one day, Autoc saw the beginnings of physical maturity. His smile was a little crooked because, since Ortok nearly six cycles ago, he'd come to think of Myme Chlo as the lad, Chlorien. Now it was clear the lad was becoming a girl again. Autoc didn't worry, even though he knew they still had a distance to go. He shrugged, his eyes resting on the slim boy wrestling with Jochoh in the sand. Those tussles would have to stop soon, he decided, because body contact wasn't now appropriate. He set his mind to that tricky issue. The mage knew that his perceptions of Chlorien were very much sharper than anyone else's, so he decided he'd just watch and wait, thinking wryly as he did so, that it was fortunate desert dress wasn't close fitting.
~~~
Days and weeks passed. Autoc knew, as Choja did, that they were pursued. Choja looked at the mage one morning while they all rested, the tribesman's keen eyes staring thoughtfully beyond the camp.
"Are they close to us?" he asked unexpectedly. Autoc glanced up from contemplating the sand and shook his head at Choja.
"Choja, you're too acute for your own good," he reproved in an amused voice. "And to answer you, my young friend, no, they're quite some distance back. One of them slows them somewhat, because they have to carry him. He has desert fever."
"He'll most probably die," was the quiet, unemotional response.
"He's certainly very sick," murmured Autoc.
"Who guides them?"
"Kosko and his men, Choja." Choja sucked in his breath with a hiss in the manner of all tribesmen.
"How many?"
"There are eight of them, and then there are the two who pursue us." Choja relaxed back on the sand and began to draw idly beside him. After a moment's reflection, he spoke again.
"Are they the southern mage's men?" A smile lifted the corners of the mage's mouth at that and Choja saw it, his eyes lighting responsively.
"Yes, Choja," answered Autoc. "They're his men." Choja gave a satisfied sigh.
"Now we know."
"Now you know," agreed Autoc, his smile broadening.
"And they have a degree of power, haven't they?"
"Aye, Choja, indeed they have."
"And they frighten the boy?" Autoc's smile disappeared.
"Very deeply, my friend, and for good reason. They'd not deal gently with him. Neither," added the mage, his voice ice cold, "would their master." Choja glanced up at Autoc and what he read in the mage's face gave him pause. He frowned.
"He'd harm the boy?" he asked curtly.
"After he'd played with the boy and used him for his own ends, the mage would destroy Chlorien utterly, but not in the way you might expect." Autoc's voice was so quiet Choja found it barely audible. The next words made him shiver. "Ambros would deeply rue Chlorien's loss." The tribesman felt it was almost as if the mage prophesied and he shivered again. When he felt able to speak, he spoke with a little difficulty.
"We must guard the boy well."
"Yes," mumbled Autoc. "We do, Choja." Choja got to his feet his eyes restlessly scanning the horizon. He looked down at Autoc again.
"We still have several weeks of travel, Schol. Let me know if that man dies."
"I will."
Choja turned and walked away. He called in his men and issued an order that was simple and clear, all the tribesmen nodding silently before they, too, turned away. Chlorien was never aware of it, but a tribesman shadowed her every move. If she and Jochoh wandered even a short distance, there was always a tribesman there to bring them back and settle them quietly in the centre of the small camp. They were kept constantly occupied. While Chlorien slept, either Jaim or Autoc stayed awake guarding her.
Four days after the mage and Choja spoke of the sick man in their pursuit, Autoc sought out the tribesman. He found Choja crouched beside a horse, his hand gently running over its hock. He immediately straightened, patting the animal before leaving it.
"You want me, Schol?"
"Ohb's died. They've moved on without him."
"That's one less to follow us."
"Aye," said Autoc reflectively fingering his beard. "The other's the dangerous one. Remember that of Queeb, Choja, for the future. He'll cause you considerable trouble in cycles to come."
As he spoke, Autoc turned, unaware that another shiver of premonition shook Choja while he stood still, his eyes again scanning the desert. Like the mage, Choja stroked his beard, deep in thought.
~~~
They came out of the desert some weeks later, to find plains that mostly consisted of stony ground, grass and occasional clutches of scrubby bushes that stretched for miles beyond them. It was still very hot, though summer had peaked some weeks before and autumn wasn't far away. They now all rode, rather than led, horses through sand, the animals laden enough with essential supplies. Choja only allowed horses to be ridden when they were on reasonably firm ground. They'd all come to a halt some miles beyond the last desert oasis. Choja meditatively sat his horse, his eyes sweeping the empty wastes.
"Uninviting," he said finally. Autoc had drawn up beside him and now a smile came to his eyes when he looked across at Choja.
"Aye," he assented. "Very."
Chlorien and Jochoh began to ride off with the intention of exploring, but a tribesman followed them and very gently but firmly shepherded them back.
"Is this where we leave you, Schol?" Autoc's eyes stayed fixed to Choja's. Reluctantly, he nodded.
"You must go back to your father, Choja. He'll badly need you over the coming cycles, and also has much to teach your lad, hasn't he?" A grin crossed the tribesman's face.
"True, Schol." He paused then said diffidently, "If you need us again, you know you can call on us, don't you?"
"You'll see me again, Choja, be assured of that." Autoc held out his hand and had it gripped hard.
"And the boy?" asked Choja quietly. Autoc looked over at Chlorien, the smile fading from his eyes.
"We can hope you see him again, Choja," he said gently. "I'll do all I can to bring him to fulfilment, but I can't make promises." He heard a sigh escape the tribesman.
"The boy's become a son to me, Schol. I don't wish him hurt."
"Neither, my friend, do I," responded Autoc softly. "Know that I'll always be there for him."
Choja and his men didn't linger. Chlorien was disappointed and sad and her farewell with Jochoh was tearful. Finally, she stood in front of Choja, her head up and eyes looking full and trustingly into his. Choja placed his hands on her head, a surprisingly gentle expression on his face.
"Blessings, sapling. May you keep inner serenity and return to us – you're one of us, child, and always will be. Remember, enlightenment comes from within, as you learned in the desert, and know that to be alone isn't the same as loneliness of the spirit. Always try to draw strength from that." His hands went down to gently touch her mouth. Chlorien didn't see Choja's expression when, without thinking, she threw her arms round him, Ortok-fashion, and hugged him hard. He responded without being aware of it.
"Thank you, Choja," she whispered, her eyes brimming. She turned and walked quickly away, Choja's eyes following her.
Choja's farewell with Jaim and Autoc was as brief, the tribesman looking at Jaim and saying, "You're no old man, Jaim. My father and I picked that a long time ago." Jaim gave a snort of disgust, though his tawny eyes showed appreciative amusement. Choja just laughed. "Come and visit us again," he invited. "Even come as yourself!"
To Autoc, Choja said little. He held out his clasped hands, nodding when the mage placed his around them; they remained that way for long moments before Choja stood back.
"Until another day, mage," he said quietly. Autoc stared at him.
"Aye, Choja." Then he touched the tribesman's arm. "Beware of Queeb and those with whom he associates. They represent betrayal of the worst kind. And Choja, a young man will come, in one way or another but probably unexpectedly, who looks like Chlorien, only his eyes are purple, not violet. He's a musician and v
ery gentle. Take care of him for me, won't you, because he, too, has his part to play in the affairs of Ambros. He means much to me. He may even come with one who will surprise you." Even though another deeper shiver shook him, Choja placed his hand over Autoc's.
"Of course, I will, Schol. Blessings for your journey, wherever it takes you."
"And on you and yours, Choja," said Autoc, his voice low.
Choja went across to his horse that was being held by one of his men. Once he was mounted, he looked down at the mage, his deep green eyes looking wicked.
"My boy and I'll pass very close to those who follow, Schol. We'll lead them southeast for a while, despite the seeker skills you say Queeb has." Autoc's eyes lit up with laughter and he chuckled.
"Aye, Choja, we thank you."
Choja raised a hand and the tribesmen wheeled as one. Choja didn't glance back, but Jochoh did, his hand raised in farewell. The mage saw Chlorien's lips tremble and drew her close, a comforting hand on her head in his usual fashion of reassurance.
"Easy, little one," he sent. "Easy. I know it's hard to always move on, but so it must be. Be calm knowing how much you've been offered and in knowing how much you're loved."
Chlorien buried her head in the mage's chest. As she did so, Autoc entered her mind and erased the memory block he'd put in place in Indigo.
Ambrosian Chronicles
Third Age
11210
We note restlessness among the mage catlins who come and go from Yarilo in extraordinarily erratic patterns. This isn't something we've seen before, so isn't entirely understood any more than it's clear why only few mages bond with both catlin and dragon.
Our Archmage tells us the catlins behave in the same way when they briefly drift to Lilium. It's suspected the catlins are establishing themselves on Ambros in strategic locations so they can transmit directly from the Watchers. Catlins belong to no one and exist nowhere in particular, their peculiar habits known only to themselves and sometimes, though rarely, to the mages with whom they bond. That so many are seen at one time to be interested in Ambros, raises fascinating questions.
We know Luton is back at the Keep with his master, Malekim, but assume he'll go north to join up with the warlord's army. Malekim will, eventually, follow. We speculate the mage may not be as strong as he hoped and that has slowed his plans, but we don't under-estimate his power. Though we don't know what's been done to Luton, our misgivings are deep. How his mind may have been altered and for what purpose causes us profound concern, because he becomes, by virtue of that tampering, a random and unpredictable factor impossible for us to either evaluate or prepare for. Equally disturbing is our suspicion about how Luton was found.
The Strategos will soon leave Sushi land and travel to the capital of Kyaran. Kyaran is a large, sprawling country, impossible to defend. Daxel, Luton's twin, is expected to travel with him.
It is cycles since we heard of our senior mage and master who accompanies the Strategos' sister. The Archmage speaks little of either, other than to reassure us they're safe and continue to travel north. We'd like to know more of them but we must be patient. That they're not mentioned much suggests their significance.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
With the army, Ensore was well out of the Cartokian kingdom once the warlord arrived. Her forests and mountains helped the defenders, who swept down in organised raiding units and hindered Lodestok's advance. The warlord seethed impotently and out of revenge fired much of Cartok as he came to it.
Ensore was at least three seasons ahead of the warlord, but didn't move his men at the same punishing pace that Lodestok set. Sarehl was in Taki, the principal seat of Duke Nakron of Sushi. There he was busy advising the duke on the disposition of his troops for withdrawal and encouraging him to move with some haste.
Even though the Marshal's sister, Kasan, was quartered in Taki as guest of the Duke, Ensore made the northern army skirt the city and kept the force as close to Lake Imaq as he could. From there the Marshal headed for the north coast that he intended to follow before he turned inland again. Sarehl had chosen the most efficient route.
His aim was to finally reach the foothills of the Chasa Mountains, a huge, forbidding range of peaks that only broke into a narrow saddle to create the boundary between the Confederated Princedoms of Elba and the larger kingdom of Kyaran. Here, Ensore would settle his army and wait. He knew, if necessary, they could retreat towards the mountains themselves, deep into Elban and Kyaran land. It was hoped that by then the Marshal and the Strategos would have an army big enough, and disciplined enough, to confront the warlord. Ensore knew, from Sarehl's letters, that the Strategos found his time in Taki interesting, but also, at times, deeply frustrating.
Sarehl spent many hours with Nakron. The Strategos' persuasion centred on his ability to persuade the man and show how little the Lentens, Criars and Cessars, all Samars, and also the Cartokians, had suffered from actual physical brutality and enslavement. True, their homes no longer existed, but their peoples were comparatively intact.
Nakron and his advisers, called Oms, listened to the Strategos with interest and appreciation and, though at first incredulous that what they heard could be true, they soon became introspective and subdued. Initially, Nakron baulked at having to abandon his palaces, but a private interview with Sarehl made both the Duke and his ruling Mudem agree that palaces could be rebuilt, whereas shattered minds and bodies couldn't. Though the Strategos never referred to his own sufferings and injuries, everyone who met him knew the scar and the dragging limp had been inflicted by the Churchik. Kalor made sure of that.
It was after a meeting with the Oms that the Strategos was found standing in one of a suite of rooms assigned him by the Duke. He wasn't alone. He and Kaleb were talking and looking over a map that was spread out across a table on the far side of the room, but now Sarehl limped over to the window and stared out with a sigh. Kaleb sat.
"Tired?" asked Kaleb, from the comfort of a chair.
'No," replied the Strategos. "I'm thinking of Ens and Dase. It's such a long time since we've seen them. I miss them. Dase will be a young man now - at home he'd be standing at Choice this summer. So would Lute, and next summer it would be Bethel's turn if he so chose. It seems so long ago."
"Aye," murmured the healer, sympathy in eyes that rested on the very tall figure. "But times draw us closer, Sarehl. Methinks all of us will be together sooner than any of us might expect."
"You mean the warlord chasing us north?"
"Aye, I do. There won't be running in the north indefinitely. You and Ensore build a formidable force that'll eventually stand and confront Lodestok. When that happens you and I won't be in advance of the army. We'll be with it. Already, with highly persuasive advocacy, you've brought in the Cartokians and the Sushi. We'll move next to Kyaran, won't we?"
"Yes. So you think I'll see Dase or Ensore before then, do you?"
"Possibly, Sar. I think you'll find they catch up with us quite quickly from now on. Ensore could go faster if he chose to, couldn't he? Would it be likely that battle will be met on Kyaran soil?"
"It's a scenario I've -." Sarehl broke off, because the door burst open to admit a tall and sturdy boy with wild copper hair and wicked big blue eyes. "Brue!" scolded Sarehl mildly. "How many times do I have to tell you not to rush into other peoples' rooms?"
"I'm glad you're here," announced Brue, ignoring the first part of Sarehl's speech. "I've something important to tell you, big brother. Do you want to hear?" Kaleb grinned widely, while Sarehl eyed his youngest brother in mock despair and amusement.
"You're an urchin!" the Strategos remarked. His eyes ran over the very dishevelled but unrepentant figure.
"But listen, Sar, only listen!" Brue's eyes blazed with excitement. "I've heard about Bethel! Well," he added conscientiously as his seniors were momentarily bereft of speech, "I think it's Bethel because he sounds as if he looks like you, Sa
r, though..." He paused, then hurried on. "I don't really remember him as my brother."
Before either man could speak, the door opened again and Kalor came striding into the room, his eyes lighting on Brue.
"There you are, you confounded whelp," he said explosively. "You deserve a sound thrashing, my lad, and you're going to get it. It's a question of whether I give it to you or whether Dalmin gets to you first." Brue withdrew a step, his expression ludicrously apprehensive.
"Sar!" he said plaintively. Sarehl merely looked on.
"Don't come to me if you've done something you shouldn't," he laughed, watching Kalor advance on the boy and come to a halt in front of Brue, strong hands rested on the young shoulders. Brue stood still. "What's he done this time, Kalor?"
"You explain what you've been doing, lad," suggested Kalor. His eyes laughingly met Sarehl's over the boy's head. He swung Brue sharply so the boy faced his brother. Sarehl crossed his arms and surveyed Brue.
"I won't do it again," Brue said in a small but mutinous voice. "You don't need to do anything."
"I decide that, lad, not you," responded Kalor, his grip firming. "Speak to your brother, boy."
"I don't think I should," prevaricated Brue. He noticed the keen stare his brother gave him.
"Oh, but I'm sure you should," responded Kalor, giving the young shoulders a sharp shake. Brue's eyes flickered up to Sarehl.
"I went riding a long way. I came on the camp of a far advance scouting party of Churchik. They were with what I think you call men who choose to fight," he blurted out.
"You did what?" Sarehl's voice ripped across the room, vibrant with wrath and incredulity. Brue became defensive and hunched himself.
"He was to be with Dalmin yesterday, but Dalmin got caught up in some sort of protocol. The lad decided to entertain himself," explained Kalor.
"You young idiot!" burst out Sarehl, his brows hitched together. "Do you think I want to lose another brother? Do you? Gods grant me patience!" Brue began to look rather forlorn and his lower lip trembled.
"I didn't think -," he began.
"You never do think, Brue. You always act first and think later," cut in Sarehl. "You're eight cycles, Brue, and too old for pranks of this sort. You know what the Churchik can do. Gods, have you forgotten so soon?"