by Katy Winter
The Mishtok listened to the surges of conversation and argument, making no further comment before he walked quietly to a chair and sat wearily, aware how very deeply tired he was. He relaxed back yawning. His guards went down for barely a second.
He was quite unprepared for the attack when it came, only dimly conscious that it came as a result of treachery. The agony as his mind was torn apart in a vortex of violence was unbearable. Even as he felt all sense of reason would soon be lost, the Mishtok suddenly knew who was behind the power that so viciously attacked him, and he knew that the assault, through him, was intended to destroy the Conclave and all who were present. As he'd suggested only moments before, it was to be the end of the reader-seekers on Ambros.
His brain burned. His skull felt hollowed out. He was allowed a glimpse of the southern mage himself; the man stood still, his eyes pitiless and his mouth twisted in a cruel smile of triumph. The Mishtok fell to the floor, his hands to his head. He writhed. His mouth opened to choked screams.
As the Conclave gathered round the Mishtok it was the Adepts who knelt beside him, held him and tried, through desperate concert, to reach and ease the tortured mind. He put out a feeble hand to grasp at the nearest Adept.
"Aceke?"
"Yes, Monseignore."
"You are chosen."
Aceke stared down into eyes that looked as if they burned. The Mishtok was suddenly very weak. His voice, struggling through lips that also burned, was painfully distant. The man seemed consumed by inner fire. It was a horrific sight.
Aceke bent his head. He heard one word uttered before the Mishtok gave an awful howl that seemed to shake the walls of the Conclave. Aceke stumbled back. His face was blanched and his eyes closed as he mouthed words that no one could hear, then he raised his hands above his head and fell to his knees. His head was clasped in his hands.
The Mishtok lay still, his face an unrecognisable mask. It'd taken a strong combined effort by the Adepts to block out or neutralise the Mishtok's agony. Despite the hurried blocks thrown up universally, it touched every person in the hall, many crouched in attitudes of terror or revulsion. Many more would simply not recover. The Adepts took immediate action. It was critical if the Conclave was to survive.
~~~
That evening, four men stood silently outside the Conclave hall, on the shallow broad steps that led to terraced gardens. One was the newly chosen Mishtok. Aceke wore the long white robes of office. His steel-gray head was bent as he stared at the crystal he wore on a chain. He was a spare and elderly man of little height, so the robes looked too heavy for such physical frailty. The other men wore the cerulean robes of the Adept. It was an Adept who spoke first.
"There's been betrayal, Reverence." The Mishtok raised his head.
"It would appear so. You'll all exercise extreme caution wherever you find yourselves. You'll trust no one."
"Where will you travel, Reverence?"
"North."
"Can you safely negotiate the fighting?"
"They haven't yet overrun all the south. I must get to the north as soon as possible."
"Who'll travel with you, Monseignore?" The Mishtok looked at each man who flanked him.
"I travel alone. It's best that way and will occasion less comment. Setoni, you'll go east to the steppes where you know what to do." Setoni bent his head in acquiescence. "Leon, you'll go up through Samar, before turning northwest." The Mishtok was thoughtful for a moment. "Has Dakhilah fallen yet?"
"Yes, Reverence," said Leon quietly. The Mishtok frowned, not speaking.
"And me, Reverence?" The Mishtok stared thoughtfully at the third man.
"You, Morsh, have the hardest road to travel. You'll become part of Lodestok's war machine, where you will be used as a captive reader-seeker. Do you understand what that means?"
"Yes, Reverence."
"You may well die, and not easily." The Adept's head bowed. "You'll also come across those from among us who, I'm ashamed to say, work willingly with the warlord. You must watch for them and advise me of them."
"I will, Reverence."
The Mishtok quietly turned to the other two Adepts and raised his hand in dismissal. Without further comment, the Adepts bowed their heads in acknowledgment and moved away. The third Adept remained, his eyes looking into the distance. The Mishtok gave a deep sigh.
"How many escaped, Reverence?" came the Adept's soft and gentle voice.
"Barely one third of the Conclave, my friend, now moves about Ambros. We've lost all the others." There was a long and poignant silence. It was broken by the Adept once again.
"Do you wish to say anything else to me, Reverence?" The Adept had an attractive smile that warmed his clear eyes.
"One will come to you as a child, from an unlikely quarter," murmured the Mishtok. "You'll know him as exceptionally gifted. Train him to the highest possible level. Another boy may come later, a child of such rich talent I hope and pray you're still alive to train him likewise. I have fears for you, my friend, very deep fears. If I ask too much -."
The Adept held up a hand and shook his head. Without being aware of it, he then drew the hand across his eyes; he blinked, deeply conscious of both his vulnerability and his mortality.
"I'll do what I can," he responded softly.
"You'll have to travel in the caravan disguised, Morsh. We don't know who goes with the warlord, willingly or no, or at what level of competency they are. I will maintain a link block with you at all times so you appear no more than a Level Two, something you must maintain." Morsh nodded. "And you must physically disguise yourself as well." Again, Morsh nodded. "Before that, it's necessary you're absorbed among captives at Valshika, prior to being part of the caravan going north. That will be your first contact with the child." Taking the Adept's hands in his, the Mishtok gave a sad smile. "Remember, Morsh, the warlord's only a tool, but a lethal one. He runs in harness with the sorcerer." Morsh gave a slight shudder, unaware of the fleeting and speculative glance the Mishtok gave him when he spoke of the sorcerer.
"I won't forget, Reverence."
The two men stood together for a long time. The sky darkened around them.
Yarilan Chronicles 2469, Crescent Astral Yarilo Cycle 2209.
We have tidings that grieve us deeply and will, doubtless, be felt in the same way on Lilium.
The Mishtok has been killed and another chosen in his place. If what the new incumbent tells us is true, then Ambros faces troublesome times. We only hope he misheard the words of his dying predecessor.
We're now aware of the fluctuations in southern Ambros and suspect that the sorcerer, Blach, is more than he appears. The Watchers are vigilant and wait for any further movement in the aethyr. The last disturbance, alarmingly, coincided with the death of the Mishtok.
We've been advised that the Adepts, from a tragically depleted Conclave, have been sent across Ambros as we suggested. One Adept's path could bring him pain and grief, but we have no other choice of action.
We await events. We'd record at this point, that one of our master mages has gone to Ambros. He's not in regular contact with Yarilo. Our archmage asks after him constantly; we note the mage's catlin regularly arrives in the Archmage's tower, something of significance since such frequent manifestations are unusual.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Myme Chlo was a raven-haired girl full of life, vital and inquisitive. The deep violet eyes she was born with never changed. They were darkly intense and penetrating in one so young.
She was a happy child. Her elder brothers doted on her and her mother admired her very quick mind. It was said that it seemed Myme Chlo would be a scholar like her father. She was tall and as slender as her brothers, her dusky curls the same, so the familial resemblance was striking.
When she wasn't at school, she preferred to be alone if she wasn't with Bethel. This happened increasingly, because Bethel was singled out very young as a potentially dee
ply gifted musician; it meant he now trained daily at the Aesthetics Academy after school. Both his and Myme Chlo's favourite area for playing was down beyond where the canals petered out into a large pond. Here she talked to nature as though she was a part of it, her mind always open. Sometimes Bethel would accompany her and happily hunker next to his sister, drawn to the still water, a faraway look in his beautiful eyes.
As she grew older, Myme Chlo became a tomboy. She romped and brawled with her brothers, or, if she was alone, scrambled up into a huge tree where she would curl up unobserved. All an onlooker could see were small bare feet and a mischievous grin that peered through the foliage. Melas despaired as she mended one torn garment after another, her expression at her daughter resigned.
Myme Chlo wandered by the pond, often in an abstracted, oddly mature way. She'd peer closely at flowers and shrubs, pluck pieces off them and turn them over repeatedly, or sometimes she'd hitch her skirt, wading out to her favourite rock where she'd sit as still as a statue. The water whirled around her but she'd just sit hunched, her chin on her knees, seemingly unaware of anything moving near her.
~~~
On this day, as she sat on her rock warm in the sun, she called all the fish to her, laughing as they thrashed round her in panic and confusion, their mouths gaping. Then the little girl held up her hand and the frothing surge instantly stopped. All about Myme Chlo was breathless stillness. She looked into the water, her expression serious, then she slipped off the stone and began wading thoughtfully to dry land.
As she walked home she saw the scholar approach, his long stride enabling him to reach her very quickly. He waved. She responded, coming up to him at a run, her face flushed in welcome.
"Well met, little one," he greeted her, stooping to swing her up into his arms. He gave her a kiss, then dropped her lightly back on the ground. "Going anywhere in particular?" he enquired, taking one little hand firmly in his.
She hopped and skipped as they walked along, the scholar obligingly having turned in her direction. Myme Chlo decided to head for the common. She was suddenly terrified when a voice in her mind agreed, stopped, and stared incredulously up at the scholar. He nodded and quietly mindspoke her again. This time she shivered when she heard him speak.
"Don't just stand there," he chided her. "Just keep walking as though nothing's happened."
Obediently, she responded to the pressure on her hand. She mindspoke back without even thinking about it, an innate ability that brought a smile to the scholar's eyes that she didn't see. Her abrupt question made his smile deepen.
"Who exactly are you?"
"You know better than to ask," he responded. "I'm the scholar."
"I know that," came the aggrieved thought.
Myme Chlo peered up at the slow smile that spread across the scholar's face. The little girl struggled to keep up with his pace, a pucker between her brows, then she realised with surprise that they'd bypassed the common and had reached the first meadow. Here the scholar let go Myme Chlo's hand. He fished around in his pocket for his pipe and pulled it out, noticing at the same time that the little girl stared fixedly at him.
"How did you know I'd changed my mind and wanted to come here?"
"I read your mind," the scholar responded coolly, lighting his pipe absently.
"How can you talk to me in my mind?" she demanded, standing quite still. "I won't move until you tell me."
"Do as you like, little one," replied the scholar, contentedly drawing on the pipe. He was eyed with surprise and respect.
"I'll pick some flowers for Mam," Myme Chlo suggested, looking around her.
"Come on then, I'll help," offered the scholar.
He wandered away to the other side of the meadow, curls of smoke bouncing back over his shoulder. They spent quite a few minutes gathering a bouquet, the scholar ambling benevolently here and there, while the little girl skittered to and fro with boundless energy. Puffing, Myme Chlo collapsed in the middle of the meadow to begin sorting out the flowers. The scholar dropped some more in her lap. He sat quietly beside her, idly flicking at some long grass. The meadowgrass was lush and flowered, its scent heady in the heat. The air was still and warm.
The scholar lay back, his head on his arms, his pipe half in his mouth as he stared lazily up at a clear blue sky. Myme Chlo got her flowers sorted, wriggled her toes in the grass and absently plucked some maisy flowers to begin making a chain as Bethel had taught her. To better observe her, the scholar rolled onto his left elbow, uprooting a long grass blade to chew on as he did so.
"You did an unusual thing today, didn't you?" he said conversationally. Myme Chlo looked up from her chain enquiringly. The scholar watched her face impassively as he continued. "You broadcast all over the place when you were at the pond, did you know that?"
"No," came the quick, defensive reply.
"I think you do," the scholar said wryly. "And quite enjoyed it too, didn't you?"
"I didn't mean to hurt anyone." The head came up again, as big violet eyes met the scholar's. "It was fun."
"Power isn't fun, little one. Badly used it can be dangerous and can make people afraid of you."
"It's only happened once." Myme Chlo looked very small and apprehensive. She bent her head at the scholar's next words.
"No, my dear, it hasn't, though this was your loudest broadcast. You speak to trees, animals and birds too, don't you?" A look of fear crossed the small face.
"How do you know? Do you follow me?" When the scholar burst out laughing, Myme Chlo relaxed and the fright faded from her eyes.
"Not at all, little one, not at all. I'm far too busy to do that. No, I pick up your broadcasts all the time."
"Oh," said a small voice. "I didn't know that."
"I've noticed an increase in their frequency, child. Why is that, do you think?" Myme Chlo went very quiet. "Tell me, little one."
"I'm so bored," blurted out Myme Chlo.
"Ah," mumbled the scholar. "Why are you so?"
"I want to talk with people, but they put me with babies. Bethel understands me - Lute does a little -." She stopped and looked down at her chain.
"Tell me what happened before, at the pond." The scholar chewed a bit more off the end of the grass stalk, his eyes not wavering from the bent head.
"I don't really remember."
"It's important that you do," persisted the scholar, vaguely searching for another blade of grass.
"I didn't actually think of the fish. It just happened."
"That's what I was afraid of," was the soft response as the scholar clambered to his feet with a faint sigh. "Let's get moving, child. You want to get the flowers fresh to your mother." Myme Chlo rose, the chain on her head and her hands clasping a large bouquet. She watched the scholar who walked about in a circle and looked occasionally across the meadow.
"What are you doing?" she asked, staring up at him.
"I've lost my hat," he replied. Myme Chlo got the giggles.
"You're wearing it," she advised him, pointing to his head.
~~~
Myme Chlo had her seventh cycle day that week. The scholar was painfully aware how fast the seasons passed. The little girl's carefree existence ended. When she wasn't at school with her siblings, she was expected to be at study with the scholar. Her wanderings and musings were curtailed. Myme Chlo, yawning widely, arrived home in the early evening for late meal. No one asked her what she learned. It was just accepted that Alfar's daughter seemed to be developing the same gifts as her father and extra tuition was beneficial for her.
All Melas' and the children's needs were met by their father's brother, Chlorim, who adopted them all on Alfar's death. They wanted for nothing because he was a childless and very wealthy merchant. The children adored him. He responded in kind.
Their home was seldom quiet. Children constantly rushed to and fro. Left to their own devices, the children played and squabbled as children do. They fought too, all of them close in age; like cubs they rollicked, laughed and crie
d, Myme Chlo as much a fighter as the boys, though she seldom won encounters anymore than did Bethel. He was such a gentle boy he'd succumb, helpless with laughter, to his elder twin brothers.
With a smile in her eyes, Melas sat on the verandah in the evenings, watching the boisterous foursome from her rocking chair. Sarehl also sat, but on the steps just below her, grinning while he took bets with his mother as to who'd win the evening's encounter.
Sarehl was seventeen cycles and extremely tall and gangly. He was thin, but the breadth of shoulder hinted at a frame much like Alfar's and Melas often looked at him, seeing her mate in him, even to the smile and the temperament. Sarehl was a full student at the Antiquities Centre where he was learning his craft very fast. The masters were impressed by him. Favourable comments were made to his uncle. Chlorim, in turn, told Melas the boy would be a senior in the next cycle. That made Melas very proud.
Bethel was eight cycles and treated Sarehl as a surrogate father. He was slender and physically a very lovely boy, with huge luminous purple eyes and jet shoulder-length curly hair like his mother's and Sarehl's. He was a dreamy and gentle boy, thoughtful and sensitive; he stared upon the world with innocence and wide-eyed curiosity, the child completely wrapped in his music. It was his life.
He studied at the Aesthetics Academy. He'd immediately attracted the attention of the masters, his formidable gifts such that he was admitted at an extremely young age to study, two masters devoting as much time to him as they could. He was fascinated by what Myme Chlo could do with her mind and he absorbed avidly everything she learned about mind control. After Sarehl, Myme Chlo was closest to Bethel.
The twins were identical in appearance, but Dase was the more outgoing boy. He was boisterous and adventurous, dragging his none too reluctant twin, who was more introspective, into one scrape after another. Where Dase led, Lute happily followed, his big black eyes eloquent when they found themselves in trouble. They were self-contained, mischievous and often quite unpredictable.
They were very tall for nine cycles, thin, their long black curls swept back and held by ribands at the nape of the neck as Sarehl's was. They weren't especially studious. Even so, Chlorim had decided they'd eventually be apprenticed to merchants to learn trades. Melas just shook her head at them. Looking at them now, Sarehl wondered what trouble they brewed, the two dark heads together as they whispered and giggled.