by Katy Winter
"Warlord, Lokar's sudden illness shows no signs of improving, even though I've tried every remedy he instructed me to follow. He steadily weakens, despite all our efforts. He can barely speak. He believes he was mindread, but by whom we don't know."
The warlord stayed silent, but raised the goblet to his lips and his gaze remained intently fixed on the healer's face. Jaden coughed. He stared at the wine he swirled in his goblet, the healer unwilling to break a silence that was taut with tension. The warlord stretched.
"How long has he been ill?"
"As he is, only two days, my lord, though he admitted feeling unwell prior to that. Overnight he found he could no longer mind meld with me. It's a block we both struggle to comprehend. He started to lose the ability to speak fluently or cogently." Jaden paused. Lodestok waited. "My lord, Lokar describes his mind as being forced in on itself, any thought deeply painful. He speaks quite disjointedly most of the time. I struggle to make sense of what he says."
"But you cannot identify what ails him?" The warlord's voice was still very soft and quiet. Bethel, crouched beside the far table ready to serve whenever he received the order, shivered at the icy menace of tone because he knew what it betokened. It was the prelude to a flare of temper.
"We can find no physical reason for the malaise, no."
"Emotional then?"
"No, Warlord, we think not. There's something odd about this none of us understand, least of all Lokar." Jaden looked thoughtful and he spoke in the tired way of someone who's had little rest or peace of mind. "Lokar's muscles are wasting in spite of his fight."
"What other healers do we have who near Lokar's status?"
"No one, Warlord. He's our most senior healer."
"I thought not." A frown crossed the warlord's face at that. "Who comes closest to him, Jaden?"
"I do," murmured the healer.
"And you are?"
"Post-Level Three."
"Who would then follow you?"
Jaden continued to stare into the goblet, before answering with a sigh, "There are other Level Twos, Warlord, and numerous others at a lower level. Seven or eight Level Twos come to mind, among them Marih, Tullbac, Morjah and one Bkarjkar. All are limited in their skills."
"They teach, though, as I require? They have skills enough for that?"
"Yes, Warlord, they do. They have, some more reluctantly than others, learned to accept you as master. They function as you require and for the purposes you desire. That won't change, but none of them has the skill required to help Lokar."
"All well and good," growled Lodestok, upending his goblet. "But that does not explain Lokar, whom we still need. Boy, wine!" The clicked fingers were an imperious summons to which the boy responded automatically. Bethel rose noiselessly, served both men and then retreated to immediately crouch, conscious of Jaden's steady regard. He bent his head and remained hunched. "Could any of those, whom you name, know more than you think, Jaden?" A smile lighted Jaden's drawn face at that.
"No, Warlord," he responded, shaking his head. "They're all only Level Two and have no abilities beyond that. Lokar subjected them to a thorough scrutiny, cycles ago."
"I see." The warlord chewed on his beard. "I will see Lokar myself. You may go."
The warlord entered a small pavilion, where Lokar lay, unmoving, on a soft-mattressed bed, his head rested against cushions piled high behind him. Upon Lodestok's entrance, the healer opened eyes with so much weariness in their depths the warlord was momentarily taken aback. Lodestok stood staring down thoughtfully before he drew up a chair and disposed himself comfortably in it, his long legs fully stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
"What tires you so, Lokar?" he asked coolly. The healer's eyelids blinked as if the effort of speaking was too much.
"I'm dying, Warlord," Lokar responded, his voice so faint Lodestok had to bend forward to catch the words. The warlord frowned.
"What makes you sure that is so, healer? I confess to finding your condition inexplicable."
"My life force is being drained." A glint touched the healer's tired eyes. His voice was a faint rasp.
"You are a Post-Level Four, man," said the warlord impatiently. "Not only that, but you are Blach's reader. How can this be happening?"
"I've tried to find the source of the power," whispered Lokar, coughing weakly. "I discovered too late what was happening and now..." The voice trailed to a long silence, then the healer coughed again. He whispered, "There's a delicious irony to this, Warlord."
"Is there? Do you care to explain?"
Lokar shook his head. When he tried to speak, his words were barely audible and took huge effort, the rasping voice grating to the ear. Lodestok stared down at the wasted face and fury caught and shook him.
"I need you, damn you, Lokar. You control Lian and you follow Blach's henchmen. How can I find that wretched youth without you? Jaden is next in seniority - can he not send to Blach for help?"
"Too late," mumbled Lokar on a weak, mirthless laugh. "The sorcerer sends to us. We're forbidden to reciprocate. I wouldn't be so foolish. Whoever does this, knows that. This someone's a power higher than me, Warlord. Only an Adept, and they no longer exist, or the Mishtok himself were he still alive which I know he isn't, could do this. That's unlikely. We're taught to heal, not harm or kill. Our vows make us do so." The length of time it took Lokar to utter these words left him helpless and unable to speak further.
"How, Lokar, do you know there are no Adepts? Or that the Mishtok of the Conclave is dead?" Lodestok's frown deepened. "You broke your vows some time since, healer, did you not?" There was no reply. "Perhaps," the warlord mused, "someone feels this is a fitting punishment for you. You helped to bring Lian to me. He was drained too, Lokar. Were you part of that? You speak of irony - you now suffer what you did to others, is that not so?" There was no response. The warlord became deeply thoughtful. "Is there something else you did for the sorcerer that might lead an Adept, if one escaped, to take revenge upon you, Lokar, something perhaps connected with the very Conclave itself?" Lodestok looked searchingly at the healer and saw a shadow flicker across the etched face, though Lokar wouldn't reply. "I wonder," murmured the warlord, stroking his whiskers. "I believe, my healer friend, that there is more to this than I immediately perceive." Lokar tried to raise a hand.
"I said it was ironic," he murmured.
"Are you in pain?"
The warlord had no need of an answer, because at that moment a wracking shudder shook the healer. Lodestok could see how impotently Lokar fought an unseen force that continued to shake him as if he were a rag doll and showed him no pity whatsoever.
"Justice," Lokar gasped, his eyes closing.
"How long has he got?" snarled the warlord, getting to his feet and his cold eyes settling on Jaden. Jaden shook his head.
"A matter of days at the most, Warlord," he answered with a deep shiver. His eyes turned to watch the tremors that still shook the healer with cruel indifference.
"He is no longer of any use to me. Advise me when he is dead."
As he spoke, Lodestok gave the healer a last look before he swung round and strode from the pavilion, unaware of Lokar's opening eyes and the venomous look he got.
Lokar suddenly died early that evening. Since the warlord left him, he was in continual torment. He tried to speak. He was soon too weak to frame sentences and could barely utter single words to healers who gathered round him. He managed to be alone, briefly, with Jaden, but as hard as he struggled, in frustrated rage, he could say little. Jaden knelt at the head of the bed, his head tilted to catch anything the healer might say and Lokar's claw-like hands held in his. The healer well nigh physically, as well as emotionally, cringed with revulsion and horror when he glanced down every so often at the skeletal face. The lips twisted as the body contorted.
It was clear, in Lokar's final hours, that something crystallised in his mind that he struggled to voice to Jaden. The effort was too much. He was too close to death to frame anything co
herent. It maddened both the dying man and the healer who sat trying to read lips that barely moved.
"Child," Lokar moaned. He actually howled. Jaden shuddered. Lokar tried to get his breath. "Watch," he whispered, panting with effort. "Look for the power."
Jaden said suggestively, "Do you want me to watch any child?" Lokar flung his head back on a fainter howl, his fingers curling round Jaden's. Jaden gripped hard. "A Churchik boy?" There was no response. "A slave boy?" There was still no response. "Is there some reason you wish me to watch a child? Is it the warlord's boy?"
"Source of power."
"What do you mean? What one? Is it the slave boy? He has no source of power."
"Not him. It is – the one."
"Is there another with power? Where?"
Jaden saw Lokar try to respond. The healer was unable to. On a whimper, Lokar's head drooped. Jaden watched blood ooze between clenched teeth. He felt he watched the very essence that was Lokar squeezed until there was nothing left, and he knew the healer was dead because the hands he held relaxed. Jaden felt deadly fear creep over him. He sat there shivering, unable to move from beside a man he'd willingly obeyed for cycles and who'd been deliberately struck down in such a cruel way.
~~~
Bethel was thirteen cycles. He was certainly not the half-starved, bewildered child yanked from the slave pen of Ortok, and though the boy was very tall there was no gangliness and much grace. Bethel was still slender and retained the beauty that so attracted Lodestok. While there was resignation in the expression and the child-like innocence was gone, the gentleness was still there, and so, at times, was the dreaminess that characterised the child. There was also now a smouldering sensuality about the boy that the warlord couldn't resist, the curved lips full and inviting. The creamy marble skin stayed soft and clear. The thick black curls were very long these days, so long they well hid the torc Bethel was forced to wear. The warlord decided he liked the boy's hair long and untied, so it was, a tumbling mass that snaked down his back and covered his thin shoulders. There was less fear and terror in the huge purple eyes; it was more apprehension, and, at times, sad world-weariness.
Bethel had learned to be whatever the warlord wanted. He passively submitted to Lodestok's demands instantly. He'd forced himself to adapt to the world he now found himself in, yielding, without a fight, to the social constraints placed on one of contemptible inferiority. Much of his time, over the last two and a half cycles, was spent honing and practising the mind skills Myme Chlo taught him until now Bethel could slip easily from one mental plane to another. It was a daily struggle for the boy, Bethel living moments of terror when he thought the warlord pierced the fragile mental defences he'd set up. It was those, and only those, that allowed Bethel to function at all.
When he was with Lodestok, Bethel mentally withdrew so the continuing brutality he experienced didn't devastate him as it would a less talented child. Bethel neutralised pain so it was bearable and was mostly successful, sometimes less so. On those occasions, after being thrashed, or pushed away in the early hours of the morning, the boy would sob helplessly into the cushions before falling asleep. The warlord never saw Bethel weep as other boys did. As an insensitive man to the woes of others, and especially towards his boys, he didn't expect sensitivity in anyone else, so, while Bethel performed as the warlord desired, and played the estibe, Lodestok was content.
So Bethel grew steadily. The seasons passed. He was now almost six feet tall and nowhere near finished his growth. Though Bethel had accustomed himself to being a warlord's slave, he was unaware Lodestok wasn't abusing him as much as he'd done only seasons earlier. It was Sarssen who noticed, in some alarm, Lodestok's growing affection for the boy. As the relationship developed the warlord began to gentle in his private moments with Bethel, but, had he been told he felt emotion for the slave boy the warlord would have been incredulous and Bethel's life would have come to an abrupt end. Any gentleness was not displayed in public where Bethel was frequently ungently cuffed, or pushed, or even pulled about. The warlord still had violent tempers that spilled over onto his slave.
Bethel wasn't often chastised for mistakes these days either. He was obedient and willing. He applied himself to every form of learning he was confronted with and didn't flinch when his master was rough or brutal with him in front of others - slaves submitted to everything and to everyone, a belief the boy accepted as part of life and something he took with clenched teeth and bent head. Bethel still never attempted to fight his slavery, as did so many others.
Now, he moodily contemplated the dismantling of the warlord's pavilion. He had little to do and twitched at the full material at the cuffs of the blouson he wore. The depth of red tamis emphasised the darkness of his hair and eyes, a colour deliberately chosen by a warlord who took the dressing of the boy seriously. Bethel submitted, without demur and silently, to whatever he was told to wear. He gave a faint sigh.
He thought back to his morning of archery training with Sarssen and Manas, hearing again the brief words of praise he'd earned from the tempkar. Bethel respected Sarssen very deeply and obeyed him instantly because of it, but he also feared the warrior's strong hand that he'd felt more than once for repeated errors. Bethel found the man close-lipped and remote, well aware it was Sarssen and not Bensar who was responsible for his training.
Bethel learned Churchik. He was slow to understand it at first and found it extremely difficult to pronounce, but bullied and beaten by the warlord the boy became fluent in the language within a cycle of his captivity. He was fascinated by southern history, and found, if Lodestok was in an amiable mood, that he'd talk to the boy about the past. The warlord encouraged Bethel to learn in all areas and as time went on, he pushed the boy into learning martial arts and into occasional episodes of training with the sons of warriors other than Manas.
He sent him to study with captive scholars and reader-seekers, as well as work more with Gariok and the musicians. Bethel dreaded that he'd find their family scholar enslaved. His relief to find he was not so demeaned was touching. The more Bethel learned, the more he had a reluctant and grudging understanding of the man who was his master. He realised it was rare for one who came from a Vaksh background, to rise to such eminence and power in a dominant and xenophobic society like the Churchik.
At first the readers were unprepared to accept Lodestok's pleasure-boy, but, as they watched him study, some changed their minds. One man, a low level healer called Morjar, had shown interest in Bethel from his first days with the warlord, adopting and teaching him from the time the boy was eleven cycles. Bethel learned rapidly to distinguish between those willing to serve the warlord and those who weren't; he was automatically drawn to the latter.
As time passed, Bethel instinctively recognised, though he never said anything or gave the slightest sign he knew, that Morjah was more than he appeared, the healer able and more than willing to teach the boy reader-seeker sensitive and unusual skills. Morjah positively encouraged the boy. Bethel was an apt student. He thirsted for knowledge and kept his mentors busy, though no one knew of the additional teaching Bethel received every day from Morjah.
Within a cycle and a half Bethel understood the rudiments of seeking and reading and was astonished by the power this gave him. He was taught by Morjah to control his mind, and, being conscious of the warnings he received about the use or abuse a mind could be put to, Bethel was unlikely to abuse any gift of knowledge so freely given.
His introduction to warlike arts was extremely tough, even for one treated more gently in the early days because he was the warlord's boy. At thirteen cycles he joined a young troop on and off and wasn't spared the whip if he made mistakes, nor did the Churchik boys treat him kindly. He adapted remarkably quickly to sharply spat out orders and became part of the troop that wheeled with frightening precision.
His horsemanship improved rapidly after the warlord regularly whipped the boy for being a fool. He was given his own stallion that he was left to master for himself,
senior warriors watching his efforts through cynical and amused eyes. Once he could've fallen and broken his neck had the angered warlord not been close at hand and prepared to act most promptly. The result for Bethel was dire - to feel Lodestok's wrath was one thing the boy most dreaded.
Bethel didn't dare fail at anything the warlord set him. Not only did he dread the punishments for failure, he knew his existence depended on his pleasing an exacting master. So the boy overcame his fear and revulsion, ignored his scruples, gritted his teeth and set out to succeed. He learned that he followed Sarssen and strove to equal the warrior, his worship of the tall tempkar showing in his huge, wistful eyes.
Bethel pulled again at his cuffs and looking up, saw the warlord stride towards the half-disassembled pavilion. Lodestok was frowning heavily. Bethel took a quiet side step and slipped away from all the noise and swearing that accompanied the moving of the army. He wandered to the edge of the encampment where no one bothered him, and stood staring into the far distance at northern Blenharm forest.
Over the cycles he'd heard broken off bits of conversation about the forest refugees, but nothing about any of his family. For the first few seasons of Bethel's slavery the refugees had been taken as a joke, amusing the warlord and his warriors very much. However, a season after Lodestok began his push north from Ortok, Bethel noticed a change in the warlord's attitude to the raiding groups that swept down onto the southern army's flanks. The warlord now took the refugees much more seriously.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It was when Bethel was twelve cycles that he heard his elder brother's name mentioned and his heart almost turned over in hope that perhaps Sarehl had escaped. Then a black depression settled on him. He realised how unlikely that was, because not only did he have to accept that Sarehl wasn't an uncommon Ortokian name, he knew, too, that Sarehl was dying the day Bethel saw him beside the slave pens. Bethel spent wretched days grieving anew for the young man he loved so much.