by Katy Winter
"You have rare talent, boy, have you not?" Lodestok pulled himself upright, a hand still stroking the curls. "You will put the estibe away for now and serve me. Later, before we retire, you will play again, little petal, and you will sing."
Bethel looked up again at his master, for the first time responsively, the warlord suddenly conscious he'd never before seen his boy smile in so natural a way, and he smiled back with warmth. At the same moment, he had the sense he experienced cycles before when he'd given Sarssen a ring. Now, as then, he inexplicably made a decision. This child would be trained in another ancient tradition, this time a bardic one. His smile was instantly gone.
Later that evening, the camp heard Bethel play the estibe for the first time. Lodestok lay on the bed, the boy held next to him, the warlord suddenly aware that as Bethel played, the chords seemed to vibrate through him as if he was the instrument itself. His eyes glowing with pleasure, Bethel played. When the music stopped, this night there was no savagery.
~~~
The night Bethel was poisoned, Sarssen left Lodestok's pavilion as soon as the warlord turned from him and slept. He dressed noiselessly and went to his own pavilion, where he threw himself on his bed and stretched out in a highly contemplative frame of mind. He stayed that way for a long time, to all outward appearances deeply asleep. When his eyes opened slowly, the green colour was intense.
Sarssen was like a shadow as he made his way through the camp. He followed a direct route, though he made a brief detour not far from the main healers' tent. It was very early in the morning, so, apart from sentries on duty, the camp was unnaturally hushed, the air was chill, and Sarssen's breath was the only indication of his presence. He had to skirt the recumbent bodies of slaves hunched miserably as they tried to garner warmth from long dead fires and also had to dodge the debris that seemed an ever present feature of a huge army on the move.
He reached a small cluster of unsels, paused at one, quickly entered, then trod purposefully over to a pallet, and, kneeling beside it, his hand went very quickly to cover the mouth of the man lying there. There was a brief struggle before the prone body lay still, the head turned up to Sarssen in alarm.
"Sit!" instructed Sarssen sharply, taking his hand from the man's mouth.
It was a young man who hauled himself up onto a cushion. He had long brown hair and almost orange eyes that matched an olive skin, was slender but not tall in the southern way and wasn't much above twenty cycles. He carried the Vaksh slave mark of Lodestok's.
"My lord," he said, with just the correct note of deference, though Sarssen was quick to hear the derision in the voice. The warrior wasn't much older than this young man.
"Because, Demeth," Sarssen spoke softly, "you are out of favour, does not mean you are entitled to dispose of those who are." Demeth's eyes narrowed.
"What are you suggesting, my lord?"
"That you poisoned the boy," responded Sarssen, his voice amiable but his eyes hard. "You will tell me the truth, will you not?"
"I have been here for days, my lord. Anyone will tell you I have been unwell."
"Not as unwell as you are going to be," suggested the warrior. "You were always a liar, Demeth, and you have not changed." Sarssen's voice was suddenly implacably cold.
"Don't try to threaten me," warned Demeth, pulling back from the warrior. His eyes darted uneasily.
"Why is that?" asked Sarssen, with false affability.
"He said I wouldn't be hurt," Demeth muttered resentfully.
"Who did?" asked Sarssen, leaning over the smaller man. Demeth shrank back.
"No one," he mumbled. He gave a strangled cry when Sarssen's hands gripped his throat.
"Who?"
"No one," repeated Demeth.
He was suddenly conscious of his vulnerability lying down. He knew as well as anyone that Sarssen was a formidable fighter. Though the warlord had permitted Demeth to learn warrior skills, he wasn't trained in the same way as Sarssen, nor was the young man a proven tempkar. He made a move to get from the mattress and was flung roughly back.
"Tell me who encouraged you to poison the boy, Demeth. I am angry with you. Can you think why?"
"Leave me alone!" Demeth caught at one of Sarssen's wrists as he spoke, then froze at the ice in the warrior's voice.
"Demeth, many innocent slaves died for what you did in a fit of jealousy. You have that on your conscience whereas I will have only one death on mine, will I not?" Demeth didn't answer. "The warlord would never have taken you back, you know," Sarssen went on. "He had finished with you because he became bored. That you were permitted to live should have been enough for you, you fool."
"Not true," gasped Demeth. "Lokar said he could make the warlord -." He looked up into green eyes that were both cold and held an arrested expression. Sulkily, he sank back on to the mattress, his hands up defensively.
"Go on," invited Sarssen, his eyes frightening in their intensity.
"There's nothing else. Lokar just said the boy had to be disposed of, that's all."
"Not quite," came the soft response. "Demeth, you deserve to die and you will do so by my hand, but first -."
Before Demeth had a chance to defend himself, strong thumbs jerked up his head until his orange eyes met green ones, and, with shock, he knew his mind was dissected with ruthless finesse. He recognised he could hide nothing. That it was a warrior who did this to him was unbelievable.
He saw himself take a pouch of poison from Lokar and add the septan to one of two goblets, the goblet he chose plain, the one he ignored, ornately chased. He saw himself outside the pavilion, waiting, until he heard the boy's cries, then he saw again his smile of triumph as he moved quietly away. Sarssen read more and it profoundly disturbed him.
Demeth blinked. He realised that Sarssen was bent over him with an unstoppered phial in his hand.
"Drink this, Demeth," the warrior ordered in a cold, curt tone. Sarssen was almost unrecognizable. Demeth began to sweat with fear.
"No!"
Demeth stammered and pleaded, his words not touching the warrior who stared down at him with an expression of bitter contempt. Sarssen brought the incoherent babbling to an abrupt halt by pushing the phial closer to Demeth's mouth. Demeth could crawl back no further. He knew he couldn't hold off the stronger man, but though weakened by shock and fright he wasn't so weak he couldn't fight for his life. The resulting tussle ended when Demeth felt his head jerked back and was forced to swallow from the phial. He gave a choked splutter. His look of disbelief as he stared up at Sarssen was replaced by appalled comprehension when the first wave of pain caught him. He tried to speak, but failed. He curled up on the mattress, agonising cramps shaking him.
Sarssen didn't speak. He rose and impassively watched as Demeth went into convulsions. It took Demeth five minutes to die, and in that time Sarssen could have been a statue. Only when Demeth lay still did the warrior pick up the empty septan phial and leave the tent. He didn't give Demeth a second look.
Sarssen made his slow way to another part of the camp where the enslaved healers were quartered. Unlike other slaves, these men had rude shelter of a sort that protected them from the worst of the elements, mostly rough cloth flung from pole to pole in a series of screenings. The warrior stooped at one of these and entered. He sat very still and waited until a quiet, calm voice spoke.
"Why have you come, lad? It's not wise you do."
"Morjah," responded Sarssen, in a deeply respectful voice. "There is something you must know."
"Open to me," instructed the soft voice in reply. There was a long silence, then a protracted sigh. "Lokar," came the voice. "The boy's seen as a threat. Now why I wonder? You know, my lad, I begin to see things much more clearly than before."
"Lokar will try again, Seignore. When the boy was ill some seasons ago and Lokar came to examine him, the boy's reaction was one of fear and loathing; it surprised me then as I told you. What must I do?"
"Nothing," came a warning voice. "Nothing at all. You'll le
ave this to me. I have thinking to do and decisions to make." There was a long pause. "Betrayal is hard to accept sometimes, Sarssen. I must be very sure. We all must be." There was an even longer pause. The voice, usually gentle, was frigid. "For the love of the gods, watch the boy as closely as you can, but without endangering yourself."
"If Lokar is a threat, Seignore, he is very powerful and has influence. He also has my master's ear."
"True," agreed the voice, now gently amused. "And I hope no one, especially Lokar or his closest healer, Jaden, remotely suspects your healing or reader-seeker skills. Go now, lad, quickly. Don't return here. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Seignore," murmured Sarssen. "And I do dissemble. My ignorance appears abysmal. Some amongst us, though, are deliberately selected, as you know, to learn the rudiments of field medicine for when the next battle comes."
"Well and good," came the growled response.
~~~
Sarssen had to quickly decide a plausible reason for why Bethel was poisoned, nor could he say it was Demeth as it would immediately implicate himself, lead to awkward questions he didn't want asked, but mostly, it would alert Lokar. It was best Lokar believed Demeth was unsuccessful in his part and the warrior thought, justifiably, that Lokar wouldn't bother contacting Demeth again for some time until the fuss over Bethel died down. He would then wonder why the young man had failed but Sarssen would try to think of an answer to that later. That evening, as he again served the warlord, he had an answer ready when Lodestok raised the question of poisoning.
"A jealous ex-lover, my lord," he suggested, with an indifferent shrug. Lodestok looked momentarily startled, then started to laugh.
"Possibly, Sarssen, possibly. We shall leave it at that, but the boy must have his food watched. I do not wish a repeat. I find I wish to keep him."
"Of course, my lord."
"You understand me so well, young man, do you not?" commented Lodestok, a smile touching grim eyes.
"I try to, my lord. I have been your slave for long cycles."
"Indeed," concurred the warlord. He saw the head bow in acquiescence and his smile appreciatively deepened. "And you will continue to be so."
~~~
Sarssen noticed the music revitalised the boy. Bethel's energy returned and his eyes brightened. He found solace with the estibe, and to Sarssen's surprise and gratification, Lodestok encouraged him to play it. The music both sustained and nourished him. Every night, Bethel sat cross-legged at the warlord's feet while Lodestok lounged in his chair listening to the estibe, his countenance grim but approving. The immediate camp grew used to hearing music at erratic hours that depended on the warlord's whim of the moment.
Bethel was allowed to spend time with the musicians. He practised with them, learned how to play the estibe properly and played the pipes and horns too. Time was rearranged in Bethel's daily schedule to now include formal musical development.
"I wish you to become a musician in the mould of an ancient tradition, boy," Lodestok said to Bethel one evening. "There were once those on Ambros who had great talent. You will follow in their footsteps."
Bethel, looking up from the estibe, didn't understand the warlord's words, but he knew to respond suitably.
It was Sarssen who came to fetch the boy from the musicians. Before making his presence known he'd often stand back and watch, and it was then he saw how the love Bethel had for his music drenched every part of him. Bethel lived the music and always smiled when he played, his face mostly hidden by the bent head and the curtain of black hair.
Sometimes, at the end of a session, Sarssen would wait to see if Manas came across to Bethel to study the Samar boy as he played. If he did, Bethel would suddenly look up to find a hand held out to him, then the musicians would grin, pick up their pipes and play for the boys to dance. Sarssen thought, with a deeply wistful sigh, the boys looked happy. Bethel looked so content, the warrior always felt a wrench. What neither he nor Bethel saw was Lodestok, who more than once watched the boys dance, the steps both Samar and southern. It was while he observed the twosome that a smile touched the set grimness of hard lines about the warlord's mouth.
These were moments Bethel cherished in a life of intimidation and frequent despair. He was an apprehensive boy and often looked haunted, constant threats making him nervous and easily startled. But he survived and he did that, Sarssen thought with a smile, remarkably well.
Ambrosian Chronicles
Third Age
11205
The youngest son of Alfar and Melas has been located. Tragically, the southern warlord found the boy and enslaved him. We gather, from those nearest the boy, that his existence is an exceptionally fragile one. We've urgently advised the Mishtok that this boy's life must be sustained at all costs, but we also sadly acknowledge this may not be possible. The boy lives at the will and whim of his master.
The boy has, we believe, remarkable beauty and talent: he's a most gifted musician. There's also a catlin that waits for the boy. That tells us much.
An Adept watches him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Once more the caravan snaked its way south. It was noticeably smaller from when it started out in Ortok so long ago. The landscape changed, no longer gentle and undulating, but dry harsh country, boulder strewn and inhospitable. It stretched for mile after mile in every direction, a treeless scape with a raw beauty all of its own. Stretching far away in the distance soared peaks that awed Luton. They were huge and majestic. He watched them every day as the caravan crawled steadily closer towards them, knowing they'd left his own lands and that they'd entered Dakhilan land because Shek told him so.
Luton still suffered fatigue. His days of grinding toil never seemed to end, so much so he'd climb onto his mattress at night gritting his teeth against aching bones and his feet, though healed, still bore deep, ridged scars that throbbed by the end of the day. He was reasonably well fed by a slave's standard and rarely beaten because he always did what he was told, but he stayed extremely thin and half-starved, the left over food from Shek's plate not enough for one who grew as Luton did.
The blank look in his eyes didn't lift. He'd been forced to accept his friend had died, and that he may have done so to help Luton made the boy carry a heavier burden than before. He was disconsolate and totally withdrawn. His aches continued as one day succeeded another. His growing pains were acute, he was often aware of hunger and lived in a constant state of fear and frequent dread. His mental anxiety had no outlet. He was very alone. By the time the passes were reached Luton was implacably remote, and even if Shek didn't notice any change in the boy the old warrior did. He didn't say anything, but studying Luton one day, he shook his head.
They left the lowlands behind and began a long, slow and tedious climb from the inhospitable valleys they'd traversed to the mountain passes. There was more vegetation as they climbed and the cold intensified as well. Luton shivered woefully at night. When Shek noticed how cold the boy was, Luton was thrown a cloak one evening that he used to wind round himself in a desperate effort to garner some warmth. His bare sandalled feet never got warm, either rushing all day or when he was curled up at night trying to rest and the chill wind cut through his emaciated frame like a knife. His teeth chattered with the cold. He did better than those in the caravan.
Several thousand began the trek from Ortok, in forty caravans. Many hundreds died. More succumbed each day. It was a death march. Luton had to help dig shallow graves, his face emotionless while he dug and watched as bodies, already rigid, were tumbled into pits. Without being aware of it, he obeyed the order to throw back dirt, the tears freezing to his cheeks as he struggled to obey.
The weather got colder and damper the higher up the pass they went. There was no longer anywhere to bury bodies. They were left where they fell. Where Luton had thought clear weather was the norm for the mountains, he soon learned what mountain climates could be, listening to howling winds at night and then struggling agai
nst them by day. He found damp chilling mists on rising in the mornings, coldness about the enveloping dankness that got into his bones.
He was incredulous at the first flurries of snow, putting out hands to flakes that eluded him and standing as he watched the flurries of snow drift past. His enchantment was soon a thing of the past. Snow and ice became things of misery for him. Only at night was he in shelter because all day he worked in appalling conditions, his gaunt frame bowed against cold and wind. He wrapped his feet in skins that gave minimal ease, but his hands and face were red and raw, his hands even blistered and his lips chapped and painfully cracked. He struggled to put one foot in front of another, as he'd done so long ago. Shek had no pity.
"Get used to it," he advised Luton one evening when Luton fell to his mattress, a hand to bleeding lips. "Slaves work in all conditions or they die."
While Shek rode, Luton trudged behind trying to follow where the horse had been. When it was too misty or treacherous for Shek to ride, the warrior strode ahead and left Luton to lead the horse as best he could. Luton thought he'd feel anger or resentment. He felt nothing, just a sense of chilling cold and utter exhaustion.
Three-quarters of the way up the second pass, the highest they would have to traverse, the vegetation thinned to the extent that all Luton could see in front of him were huge peaks covered in ice and snow. They towered broodingly over the caravan. Luton encountered his first blizzard.
There was little shelter. The trail they'd tortuously wound round for days narrowed to the point where men could only travel, at most, two abreast. The caravans moved only very slowly, because they were just beginning to grind to a halt for the warriors and the barkashads to stop and refresh themselves. The blizzard came without warning. The warriors and many of the slave overseers had already reached a huge overhang above the trail that gave them some shelter. The caravans weren't so lucky. Nor was Luton. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to control Shek's horse that refused to budge. The boy tugged unavailingly.