by Katy Winter
"I didn't run away, my lord," Bethel stammered, his voice shaking. "I swear to you I didn't."
"Do you tell me, boy, that my warrior is a liar?" The warlord saw shock and bewilderment on the lovely face.
"No, my lord."
Lodestok ran his hand idly through the dark curls and said in his silkiest tones, "Then you must be lying, must you not?"
"No!" Bethel flinched as the fingers in his hair curled into a fist.
"Then explain yourself, boy. You have exactly one minute." Bethel took a deep breath. His voice was unsteady.
"I didn't wish to wake you, my lord. Lord Sarssen told me to get up at dawn to prepare to serve you when you woke, so I did - but it was very early."
"So?"
"I walked, my lord, to be close to the forest."
"Why?"
"I used to go there to be alone and to think. It was part of our home."
"And?" was the menacing prompt.
"When I was teased, my lord, it helped. I swear to you again, I wasn't running away. I -." The warlord looked at the tear-stained face, aware this was one face tears couldn't disfigure.
"Where would you run to, if you could?" he interrupted.
"There is nowhere," came the choked voice. "I've nowhere to go, my lord."
"So you were passing the time. Is that your explanation?"
"Yes, my lord."
"It is a most feeble one, is it not?"
"It's true." A hand lifted Bethel's head and he was subjected to a long scrutiny.
Lodestok was silent for a moment, then said coolly, "You do not lie, do you, boy?" Bethel shook his head.
"No, my lord," he whispered.
"Have you ever lied?"
"No, my lord. I was taught always to tell the truth."
"An odd custom," mused the warlord, letting Bethel go. Bethel stayed on his knees, until Lodestok's next words had him scramble to his feet. "I believe you, boy. I would, however, advise you to stay close to my pavilion in the early morning, so this confusion does not recur. It might try my patience too far should you be brought to me again."
The following morning, Bethel was awake and ready to serve the warlord the instant Lodestok opened his eyes. Food was eaten in silence, Bethel crouched on the mat he was told was his, waiting to be given food left over from the warlord's plate. He usually ate ravenously in the morning. He was always hungry.
After Lodestok had risen and was helped dress by an anxious child whose fingers trembled as he laced long, heavy boots, he sat back in his capacious chair, his brooding glance settled on the boy, and he continued to observe the boy dispassionately until Bethel shivered with apprehension. He wondered what error he'd made.
"Fetch a comb and brush for my hair," he was instructed.
Lodestok's eyes didn't leave the boy when Bethel stooped to pick up a comb from the chest behind him and was silent while Bethel carefully combed out the knots in the thick blond hair, then brushed it until it shone. When the boy came to stand in front of the warlord to comb out the luxuriant beard, Lodestok held him firmly between his knees and let Bethel finish, before he spoke in his soft, coldly indifferent voice.
"You will go to Kjurt, boy. Ask Sarssen to take you to him." Bethel sensibly stood quite still, his eyes lowered in the accepted manner of the slave. "You will tell him I wish you in clothes that fit and you will request Sarssen to inform Kjurt that he is to come to me for orders concerning your attire. You look a disgrace, do you not? Take off your boots!"
Lodestok released the boy so Bethel could sink to the ground where he struggled with boots that were too small and hurt his feet. The warlord frowned thoughtfully.
"Stand!" Bethel obeyed. He no longer reacted to Lodestok's stare. Nor did he blush when the warlord's eyes travelled from the black curls to the bare feet. "Does anything you wear actually fit, boy?"
"No, my lord," murmured Bethel, resignedly hauling on the jerkin that had again slipped sideways off his right shoulder.
"Tell Kjurt I do not want to see you clothed in such ill-fitting garments again."
~~~
Within a week, and they were the longest ten days Bethel had spent in his life, he learned that his whole existence had one sole purpose. It was to please the warlord. If he didn't, he was harshly punished. He quickly learned to bend his head as a sign of inferiority and submission and to instantly obey a raised hand or finger, or clicked fingers from anyone. He quickly learned the warlord's gestures that meant instant responses - they included when to raise his eyes, how he was expected to crouch or stand and those gestures that were aspects of intimacy Bethel both profoundly dreaded and loathed.
He realised how true Sarssen's words were, that as a slave he meant nothing to anyone, was expendable and had no rights of any kind. He accepted the cuffs and knocks from nearly everyone with whom he came into contact, while he struggled to come to terms with a style of living alien to him. Pain and exhaustion he learned to tolerate as something he'd never live without.
Bethel always quaked when the warlord coldly eyed him. When he entered the warlord's pavilion and saw Lodestok lounging, the boy obeyed the order to approach with utter despair and fear. He knew what to expect. As a consequence of what he had to endure he developed a severe nervous stomach. At times, it was so bad Bethel crawled from the warlord's pavilion to be sick when Lodestok, in the early hours, pushed him roughly to one side. He never saw Sarssen quietly there, an observer, though, through his haze of distress he knew someone came to him, made him drink from a chipped beaker and wrapped a cloak about him.
Bethel listened to Sarssen and, as advised, refused to show pain: his sobs were silent, so the warlord seldom saw the tears that streamed down the young face and soaked the cushions. It was a lesson from Sarssen Bethel never forgot.
The boy also couldn't bear to be touched. When the warlord was busy with his haskars, Lodestok invariably pushed the boy into a crouch between his huge thighs, and there Bethel was fondled when Lodestok became bored with proceedings, just as Sarssen was before him. His cheeks flaming with embarrassment, Bethel bent his head, so he didn't have to see amusement in senior warrior eyes. He hated the huge hands that caressed him. Even worse were the times when the warlord hauled the boy to a stand, his grip so strong, Bethel, clamped against a massive chest, could scarcely breathe.
He endured the warlord's touch, because he was his slave and had no choice, but with others Bethel flinched away should anyone go near him. Sarssen saw this and understood it. As he could tell Bethel was a highly tactile and affectionate child this saddened him, but there was nothing he could do about it and he just had to watch Bethel's withdrawal as it happened by the day, the big, beautiful eyes full of anxiety and sadness. Sometimes Sarssen saw curiosity in them, but not often. He now knew the touch he felt in his mind, and secured, came from Bethel and he began to wonder who and what this child was. He decided he needed advice.
In those early days, too, Bethel found the warlord's displeasure brought immediate and painful results. Warriors didn't hesitate to thrash boys very thoroughly, so, if Bethel made the slightest mistake he received the riding crop or whip, whichever the warlord had to hand, nor was Lodestok sparing in his chastisement. The warlord had a very heavy hand. Bethel lived in an unrelieved and heightened state of anxiety and stress.
Bethel learned to accept punishment without outward response. He acknowledged this was the Churchik way. To protect himself, he watched and copied others. He never repeated a mistake. After a season in the southern camp he was beaten less because he recognised that the slightest transgression in Churchik society merited a physical response of some kind. It was a hard way for the boy to learn, but he did and very quickly.
As the weeks passed, Bethel surprised everyone by surviving. Sarssen watched the boy with developing interest, especially as he'd been told by a modest little healer that this boy was one sought by the Conclave, knowledge that made the warrior purse his lips and become highly thoughtful. It wasn't something he shared with his ma
ster. Though Lodestok was no less brutal, the boy retained an innocence that hung about him and was most appealing. His face remained delicately girlish and his expression gentle, even if the lustrous eyes showed spurts of fear.
Sarssen noticed the boy's mental resistance grew stronger. Bethel learned, in the cruellest way, to transcend the merely physical and the warrior now knew the boy lived beyond the immediate moment, though he wondered how an untrained mind could do this. In a child it was extraordinary. Sarssen pondered if this boy's survival was because he somehow, probably unconsciously, transcended the moment whilst still bodily present. If this was so, the child had breathtaking talent. The warrior was sure that was why the boy was still alive. His interest grew. Whatever was asked of him, Bethel gave, passively accepting anything done to him and never again did Sarssen see the boy fight the inevitable as he did the day he was branded.
His docility awoke an unpleasant suspicion in Lodestok's mind. The warlord was unused to boys who didn't scream at him. Bethel didn't. The warlord, belatedly wondering if the boy was enchanted in some way, entered the boy's mind as Bethel lay sleeping, his entry violent as suited his character and also so clumsy Bethel woke with a start. Lodestok read nothing in the boy's mind other than a desire to please him. Seeing no guile and no threat he left the young mind as abruptly as he entered it, leaving Bethel to struggle with a headache for two days afterwards. Sarssen was aware of the instant.
Officially, Bethel became the warlord's page and cupbearer, though all warriors knew exactly what he was, many senior haskars noting the similarities to how Sarssen was treated cycles before. As time passed, few noticed or commented on Lodestok's curly-headed boy. Bethel was hesitant. He showed servility in deferring to everyone and seldom spoke unless directly addressed. His eyes were more eloquent than words.
He slipped about the camp like a shadow, obeying instantly any order flung at him. He had an understood routine and didn't deviate from it, Sarssen noticed, the boy clinging to that as a drowning man would to his piece of wood. His face developed the blank, wooden look often seen in slaves as they worked. He learned to avoid Correc, too, because the haskar looked for him, and when he found Bethel he not only molested him, but flicked him with a whip.
As summer drew to a close, Sarssen became aware there was a frailty about Bethel. The boy was alarmingly thin. He was growing rapidly too, but there was a new transparency about him. There was no lustre in eyes that were dark-rimmed and the cheeks were hollow, something Sarssen thought the warlord would have noticed. Bethel had been a slave for not yet a season.
Late one morning, Sarssen found Bethel sitting disconsolately beneath a tree that overhung the path that once led to slave pens now empty. The caravans had gone some time before, so only a deathly quiet hung over the ruins of Ortok these days, a brooding melancholy that spoke of tragedy and betrayal. The boy sat on a crudely carved seat made from a hollowed out log and from there thought of his home that once existed not far distant. His big eyes strayed wistfully in that direction, his grieving thoughts with a dead family with whom he'd have shared his eleven cycle day two days before. He looked up and saw Sarssen, immediately bent his head and tried to be as small as possible. The warrior went to a crouch beside him.
"You are growing very fast, boy," he observed, in a neutral tone. Scared eyes looked up at him, so Sarssen carefully looked into the distance.
"Yes, my lord," came the small voice.
"You are also very thin." Out of the corner of his eye, Sarssen saw Bethel lick his lips. He recognised and understood that anxious gesture very well. "You eat little, do you not, boy?"
"I'm never hungry now, my lord."
"I am not criticising you, boy," Sarssen said quietly. "It is just that you must eat or you will become seriously ill. When a boy grows as fast as you seem to be, the body needs nourishment. Where do you go for food after you serve the warlord in the morning?" Sarssen watched the head go down, but not before he saw the trickle of tears down the pale cheeks.
"I don't go anywhere, my lord," came the subdued reply.
"And at midsun, boy?" Bethel shook his head, a thin hand surreptitiously brushing at the tears. Sarssen's voice was sterner. "Have you a death wish, young one?" Bethel stayed silent. "Are you ill, boy?"
The lack of a response made the warrior wonder if the boy had lost the will to live and merely went through the motions of existence. Sometimes it took a while for the reality of life to come home to slaves and Sarssen wondered if, perhaps, this had suddenly happened to Bethel, the boy now aware of what indefinitely faced him. Many a slave had simply lost hope, given up and died. He stared at the bowed figure. He spoke calmly.
"Come with me, boy." Bethel rose and meekly trailed in the warrior's wake. In Sarssen's pavilion, the warrior looked at Bethel contemplatively. "Get onto the bed, and wait. I shall be back presently."
Bethel docilely clambered onto the bed, and lay stretched out. When Sarssen returned, he wasn't alone. Bethel, staring at the two men who entered, recognised the second man as the senior healer, Lokar, his reaction to Lokar instant, his fear deep and warring with bitter loathing. All Bethel knew, as he lay there looking up at the healer, was that this man could cause him considerable harm and because he sensed an unusual power about Lokar, he instinctively withdrew into himself. And he was thankful he did. He felt Lokar's probe in his mind at the same moment, but, preoccupied, didn't see Sarssen study his white face with intense interest. He again wondered what this child instinctively recognised and why.
Lokar was of medium height, tawny haired and clear-eyed, as the Yazd were wont to be. He was slender but well formed, with harsh features and forbidding eyes. He quickly read Bethel, more out of curiosity than anything else, sensing nothing other than the usual despair to be expected in one of Lodestok's boys. The boy, he thought, was like all others, but so far had outlasted most. Lokar took in Bethel's thinness and pursed his lips. His voice was remote when he spoke.
"What ails the boy?"
"He is not hungry and eats little. He is too thin and lacks energy," Sarssen said coolly. "His master would wish to know why."
"He's going to be very tall. He outgrows his strength," came the uninterested reply. "His growth will continue for cycles. It's not uncommon at this stage of childhood. How old is he?"
"Boy?" asked Sarssen quietly. Bethel stared up at the two men apprehensively.
"Eleven cycles, my lord."
Lokar opened a bag he carried and pulled out instruments that made the boy tense and Sarssen's eyes widen. Lokar was neither gentle nor considerate, his instruments hurt the boy considerably and he finally flexed the fingers of his right hand as he pulled on a glove. He lifted up an instrument that made the boy quiver with fright.
~~~
Sarssen went very early to the slave train that accompanied the army north. There he paused, looked around, then stooped to enter an enclosure. An elderly man looked up and round and frowned.
"Why have you come?"
"It is the boy again, Seignore."
"Hush," came the sharp response. "I'm Morjah. What is it?"
"I asked Lokar to see the boy. Bethel is unwell. When he saw Lokar, I sensed a depth of fear and loathing that astonished me, then the boy simply placed a block."
"I wonder how he can do this. I need to meet this boy, Sarssen, as soon as it can be managed. Would you think about this? And why Lokar? We know he works for the warlord, but this makes me think very hard."
"The boy reacts purely on instinct. Is that usual?"
"No. Explain."
"His resistance is passive, his submission abnormal, a reaction only based on extreme personal need. Pure instinct drives him."
"In a completely untrained mind that is extremely dangerous."
"Has he recognisable talent?"
"If he has, it's most unusual." There was a pause. "Would you say his passivity is the same as yours?"
"No," was the immediate response. "Mine is learned. The boy's is not."
"Tr
agedy or trauma can, rarely, bring a seer to self-awareness, but other than that," mused the older voice. "But this isn't what we were led to expect. Can talent manifest itself subconsciously as protection? Is this possible with a child? And Lokar – now I do wonder about that." Again, there was a long pause. "Leave, now."
~~~
Lokar's treatment was effective. Within days, Bethel was eating and had energy, but he was bored and it showed. He was a normal eleven-cycle boy who'd led a highly organised and stimulating life in Ortok, both at school and at the Academy. Here, apart from being instantly physically responsive to the warlord, the boy had no intellectual stimulation. Sarssen was well aware of the boredom the boy felt. He tried to keep Bethel busy. He thought it might be wise to suggest to the warlord that some useful learning would be in order before the boy got into mischief, not necessarily of his own making. Events overtook Sarssen's good intentions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When the assault came on Ortok in all its brutality and ferocity, Luton was in the open spaces behind his home, and that was despite the air of gloom that hung over the city. He and his twin had set up a maze of sorts. Before Daxel went to Sarehl's that morning, he flung a challenge at Luton to have the maze worked through by the time he returned.
He was so engrossed, he scarcely looked up at the sound of thundering hooves or the noise that came from the front of the house. What did attract his attention was the smashing sound of wood at the front entrance. Immediately, he stood still. He knew a moment's panic. While he stood irresolute, there was more crashing and splintering of wood followed by a muffled scream. There was silence. He could hear the sound of heavy tramping round the inside of the house and tried to listen.
Instinctively, Luton rushed inside to look for his mother. A huge hand caught him by the hair from behind and gripped him so hard he gave a gasp of pain and fright. From that moment, the boy was subjected to a brutal, mental battering that left him almost mindless.
He was dragged roughly by the hair to the front room of the house where he saw Lban, the young Ortokian bully who'd thrashed both the twins in the past, the man flanked by Churchik warriors on either side. His look at Luton was one of contempt. He looked very like one of those who stood next to him.