by Katy Winter
"Naturally not," Jaden managed to reply smoothly, "though I'm sure you're incorrect. Morjah was a principled man."
"Sad you could not save him from the warlord's wrath," was the rather acid comment. The warrior filled a goblet and turned to face Jaden, nodding his head in dismissal.
Jaden was obliged to bow low and back from the pavilion as Churchik custom demanded. The warrior sank into a chair and closed his eyes. He knew perfectly well who'd told the warlord about Morsh and Bethel, and while Jaden suspected the warrior knew, he was unsure and would be wary. Sarssen didn't forget the look he'd received from the healer and was relieved he'd made the little man expose more of himself than was wise. The warrior saw he'd laid a base for deep hatred. He was going to have to be very careful and not just of Bethel.
As a result of this conversation, Bethel found his days altered. It was mostly because Sarssen made suggestions concerning the boy's training that found immediate favour with the warlord. Bethel continued to serve Lodestok, but found that any small amount of time he'd enjoyed for himself was gone, and although he resentfully acknowledged this was because of his behaviour with Morjah he felt he'd been thoroughly punished. His resentment was obvious. He mutinously spent longer hours with Sarssen, his grudging so apparent he got his ears soundly boxed.
Sarssen made the boy's training considerably harder. The drills were so gruelling, Bethel teetered between exhaustion by day as well as by night. His sessions with Jaden were fewer and overseen by either the warlord, or Sarssen, he rushed between Lotos for his regular lessons and Gariok for bard training, was then with the musicians, and had to fit in training spells over and above his time with Sarssen. He was forced to make time for rigorous sessions with Egmon, the official Churchik historian.
And he learned harshly that in the warlord's eyes all aspects of his education were equally as important as warrior skills. He discovered this when he faltered in a recital for the warlord one evening and suffered the inevitable consequences. He was instructed to always have a book with him, that he was expected to read whenever he had a spare moment.
Bethel's life was now fuller than the one he'd led in Ortok. It was varied, stimulating and challenging, and at no time did the boy have a chance to show boredom. If anything, he was so busy he was in a constant state of tiredness, the boy's growth still rapid and absorbing much of his energy and depleted reserves.
The weeks passed and then another season. Bethel adapted to the new order. He found inner strength and a growing understanding of his place as it evolved in Churchik society. He was beginning to mature from boy to youth. Lodestok watched over him. His possession of the boy was an all-consuming passion. Sarssen watched and prayed the boy didn't fall from the pedestal Lodestok had placed him on because the boy's fall from grace would be a brutal and tragic affair.
Jaden watched also for any opportunity to chasten or tempt the boy to over-reach his abilities. He did this in his teaching by admonishing and chiding Bethel, whilst at the same time making the boy chafe at nearing a skill that was then withdrawn. The healer felt it was only time before youthful impatience overcame prudence and Bethel made a mis-step, but Bethel, his previous experience with Jaden and Morsh's fate clearly at the forefront of his mind, was too alert by far to fall for the healer's traps. He'd learned and now willingly played Jaden's game without ever going as far as Jaden wished him to.
Sarssen, aware of the cat and mouse game being played, kept a distant but very wary eye on them, the warrior quite prepared to intervene if Bethel was pushed too far. He knew the two had to be together, even though he was well aware of the tension it created in both boy and man. It was, however, no plan of Sarssen's that he be accused of protecting Bethel and he knew the boy had to learn to sit inside the enemy's mouth and survive it. So far, the boy was doing exactly that.
~~~
If Bethel was asked, in the days that followed, if he was dissatisfied with his life, he'd have to be honest in saying he was resigned to the life set out for him. While he rode alongside Lodestok, he accepted, as a slave, what his life had now become. He could see no future beyond it and knew only a fool would look beyond today when he belonged to the warlord.
Bethel was now a proficient archer. He could handle a sword competently. His self-defence skills were notable, though he hated wielding an axe and was physically not built for wrestling. He now wore a jewelled knife belt that was a gift from the warlord. Though he was never permitted to wear it when he went to the warlord's pavilion he quickly became a dangerous opponent with a knife, something not missed by Manas.
He was more than an adequate rider. To Lodestok's amusement, he saw Bethel attempt some of the more daring feats on horseback that warriors' sons had shown him, though he had some tricky moments when he was nearly unseated - but he succeeded. It brought an appreciative gleam to cold blue eyes. If the warlord was still occasionally cruel with him Bethel passively took it, head down and teeth clenched.
By the time Bethel was fourteen cycles he was as much a part of the warlord's life as Lodestok was of his. His past life as a child in Ortok began to fade. Whether he knew it or not, or would have wanted it, he was becoming assimilated into an alien culture though the essential boy didn't alter. He took great care not to arouse Lodestok's anger as he'd done a season and a half ago over Morjah.
~~~
He rode next to Lodestok one morning in late winter. The ground was hard and white, the breath from horse and man alike curled into the air and the chill made one want to gasp. Shivering despite his heavy cloak Bethel stared thoughtfully ahead, unable to move far because he was, as usual, shackled by ankle and neck. The warlord had been taciturn since they'd risen in the early hours and any comment he made was curt and abrupt. Sensing this, Bethel made no attempt to speak. He was dreaming as he'd begun to do, when he saw the warlord lean across and felt his horse pulled in close to Lodestok's.
"How do you enjoy the cold, my youthful flower?"
"Not very much, my lord."
"Are you comfortable, petal?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Then converse with me, my bud." Bethel looked sideways at the warlord.
"What do you wish to hear from me, my lord?"
"Your early life would doubtless entertain me, petal. You may begin by telling me of your home and how you began to play music." The warlord had never discussed Bethel's early life so this made the boy feel distinctly nervous. "Shall we start with your family?" continued the cold, smooth voice.
"Certainly, my lord."
Aware that at any moment the warlord might clumsily plunge into his mind, Bethel obligingly began to describe his home. He was ordered to supply the names of his siblings, describe them and give their current ages if they were still alive. He had to describe his parents and what their status had been in Ortokian society. He was then commanded to give as full an outline of social structure as he could though he was very hazy on some areas, explaining he'd only been a child when he was taken away. There was no comment to that, the warlord curtly asking him of Ortokian beliefs, politics and trading. The inquisition went on for over an hour. At length Bethel's voice faltered and he fell silent, unsure how to continue. Lodestok was looking straight ahead as he spoke.
"Some time ago, my lovely flower, we mentioned a brain behind the forest depredations. Do you remember?" His mouth a little dry, Bethel moistened his lips.
"I don't remember, my lord." The warlord's voice was extremely gentle.
"Do not be ingenuous, little petal. It does not suit you."
"I remember, my lord."
"I thought you would, boy." There was a long pause. "The name was?"
"Sarehl, my lord."
"Ah yes, of course, Sarehl. My lamentable memory." Bethel gritted his teeth. He was well aware of the acuteness of Lodestok's memory.
"It's a common enough Ortokian name, my lord."
"Is that so, petal?" Lodestok slowed both horses to a halt and turned in the saddle to look directly at Bethel. He tapped his bo
ot with his whip. "Did you lie to me?"
"Not intentionally, my lord."
"No?"
"No, my lord. My brother -." Lodestok interrupted Bethel and cracked his whip in the air so the horses began a slow walk again.
"Just so, boy, your brother. So the man I spoke of is your brother?" Bethel licked his lips in his nervous habit.
"Not necessarily, my lord. My brother was nothing like the man you describe. He was a scholar at the Antiquities Centre and knew nothing of military matters. None of us did. You must believe me, my lord."
"Oh, I do, flower, I do. The sack of Ortok was too easy." While Lodestok considered that, Bethel felt a shiver crawl up his spine and shake him. "This brother of yours, petal - why do you think the man I spoke of is not Sarehl?"
"He was -." Bethel broke off.
"Yes, petal?" was the gently menacing prompt.
"He was fatally hurt, my lord. I - I saw him and he w-was dying."
"How unfortunate," murmured Lodestok, pulling in a familiar gesture at Bethel's curls beneath the hood of his cloak. "Still, little flower, I suspect our genius for strategy is your brother. That will provide a useful and interesting scenario, will it not?"
"As my lord wishes."
"Such a willing and compliant little flower that you are, petal," came the faintly sneering voice, at variance with the caressing hand. "You will tell me more, very much more of your eldest brother, but later. Stop your horse."
"My lord?" Startled, Bethel reined in his horse and sat still in the saddle.
Irritably, the warlord snarled for the slave who acted as his groom. When the man appeared from behind Bethel's horse, almost on the command, the warlord bent and handed him a key.
"Unlock the boy's chains," ordered Lodestok sharply.
Trembling with haste, the groom unlocked the chain from the torc to the warlord's wrist and then hurriedly went to his knees so he could unlock the chains from the stirrups. When the shackles and the chains fell away, the groom stooped to pick them up.
"Leave them," growled Lodestok, catching the man with the butt of his whip. "Give me the key!"
The groom proffered it and then retreated to a safe distance when he saw the warlord suggestively finger his whip. Bethel looked from his master to the fetters and chains lying on the frozen ground, his eyes wide with shocked disbelief.
"Come closer, little flower," invited the warlord. Bethel edged his horse as close as he could to Lodestok's. "Lean over towards me."
Bethel obeyed. Lodestok calmly snapped the dangling chain from the torc, let the chain fall to the ground and showed amusement at the boy sitting speechless, his huge eyes dark. For three cycles Bethel hadn't known life without chains. They were so much a part of him, he couldn't comprehend he was free of them. He was suddenly aware the warlord spoke to him.
"You see, my adorable young flower, you will not run from me because you have nowhere to go. You would know too, would you not, that those who watch you would find you and your return to me would be, shall we say, unpleasant." Bethel swallowed hard.
"Yes, my lord."
"You will always be mine, child, will you not?"
"Yes, my lord," agreed Bethel again, thinking of his tongue, the tattoo, his face scar and the heavy torc he still wore.
"Quite so," mocked the warlord omnisciently. "You will remain my obedient," Bethel flinched and Lodestok gave a deep chuckle, "flower, who will help me find his brother." Bethel felt coldness grip round his chest. "Oh yes, flower, I know where he is. He has left Lenten and is near Cartok. You are quite correct when you say he was hurt, boy. I thought Lban's instructions concerning your family were quite clear, but it seems that despite your brother's very serious injuries, he somehow escaped. I should dearly like to know how and he will tell us when we find him. I now realise, petal, that you, as a member of a fated family, were marked for death too as I recall. Lban assured me the male line was dead. Clearly it is not." Lodestok paused, unaware of the stiffening figure beside him, or the stifled gasp the boy gave when he heard Lban's name mentioned. Bethel's mind reeled at the warlord's words concerning his family. The cold, soft voice continued. "It is your brother who organises the attacks against us, boy, which is an irony in itself." The warlord looked thoughtfully across at the pale-faced boy. "I believe there is a very strong family resemblance, though he lacks your utter beauty. Is he as compliant as you, I wonder?" Bethel shivered as he always did when Lodestok threatened him. "No," continued the warlord gently, "I do not imagine he is. However, should you, boy, cause me even the slightest anxiety -." He finished suggestively.
"No, my lord, I promise you I shan't."
There was such agitation in the young voice the warlord was satisfied. He'd been resting his hand on Bethel's head but now, smiling grimly to himself, he picked up his reins and kneed his horse forward.
"Then we understand each other, my petal, do we not?"
His heart heavy and his mind full of Sarehl and his siblings, Bethel realised that indeed he still wore chains - he just couldn't see them. He saw the warlord observe him and quickly nodded.
They rode on for a distance before the warlord glanced briefly at the youthful profile, saying, "Do continue to entertain me, boy. You were speaking of the structure of politics, were you not?"
~~~
Bethel wondered if he dared approach Sarssen to talk to him about his family and anxiously mulled this over in his mind for the rest of the day and most of the night. Without Morjar, with whom he talked and from whom he received calm, sage counsel, Bethel was bereft. He was rarely alone with the warrior, so had to think when might be the best time to seek him out, the warrior, more often than not, remote and self-contained. The only time Bethel saw him relax was when Sarssen drank with a particular group of tempkars, and even then, he thought, the man remained detached.
Bethel finally decided, after tossing restlessly all night and being rebuked by the warlord for disturbance, to have the courage to ask Sarssen if he could speak with him before training in the morning. When Bethel approached Sarssen very early, almost before sunrise, his fingers entwined and his voice breaking as he spoke breathlessly, the warrior calmly sat the boy on a barrel by the mess where Bethel found him. He told the boy to take a deep breath. Bethel's look up at him was a pleading one.
"Speak, child," came the cool, deep voice.
"I don't know who to talk to now Morjar's gone, my lord."
"Did you tell your fears and worries to Morjar?" Bethel nodded. "Did that help?" Bethel nodded again. "Do you wish to do the same with me? Is that what you are trying to ask me, child?"
Bethel's head went down and he wrung his hands anxiously. He trembled with stress and apprehension. Sarssen immediately went to a knee beside him and a finger went under the boy's chin so Bethel had to look up at the warrior.
"You are badly frightened, Bethel. What troubles you?" Sarssen read a desperate desire to trust him in the big eyes now swimming with tears, but he also read profound fear of the Churchik. "I would never betray you, child, to anyone, and that includes our master. You must feel free to trust me, even though I am a warrior and one of a race that enslaved you. I once told you to remember, in the darkest times, that you are not alone. Do you remember?" Bethel nodded a third time. The tears gathered in his eyes fell and his hands still kneaded together. "Come, child. Try to trust me."
Sarssen's hand went from the young chin to Bethel's hands. He pulled the boy to his feet and quietly guided the youngster to his pavilion where, this early in the day, they would be safe from prying eyes and listening ears. He felt a convulsive grip on his hand as they walked and suddenly realised what a huge leap of faith, trust and courage it was for this boy to even come to him. It not only made him thoughtful, but humble as well.
Sarssen listened to the tumbled words that poured incoherently from a distressed boy, gently dried the tears and spoke reassuringly about the boy's family in a way that quietened fright and shock. Worried that Bethel may unintentionally react negatively
to anything else his master may say about his siblings, the warrior touched the young mind, but in a way that enabled Bethel to function as he usually did.
When Bethel left to find food for the warlord, Sarssen lounged on his bed, going over what the boy told him and what he already knew about this unusual family from mind melds with the Adepts. He knew, where Bethel did not, that his siblings were alive, but the reason for their being selected for destruction eluded him. He suspected the Mishtok knew more than he discussed with his Adepts.
Third Age
11206-7
The Mishtok has advised us of the loss of his ablest and most talented Adept, Morsh. We grieve with him because the Adept had clarity of vision rare in an Ambrosian. It's also drawn to our attention that the Adept had an unusually gifted student with whom he worked for fifteen cycles. His name is Sarssen. This young man's status has abruptly altered as a result of his mentor's death; that there should be a rise to such eminence of one so extraordinarily young confirms Morsh's belief in his student. We'll follow this individual's progress with considerable interest and already have an understanding of his origin and background. He seems to be quite remarkable and profoundly gifted. As an Adept he has been in contact with the Conclave and with the Mishtok.
Morsh also taught the Samar son we mentioned before - Bethel. He remains vulnerable and we anxiously support his protection. We're assured it's being done in the least conspicuous way to avoid arousing suspicion. The boy's skills are, as yet, undeveloped, but the raw potential is apparently very rich.
We have more news of the southern sorcerer. Though we can't prove that it was he, we suspect the attack on the Mishtok and the Conclave was perpetrated by him and we no longer believe the sorcerer's name is Blach. Upon suggestion by the Rox, we've instigated a search for Malekim. His continued disappearance causes deep unease, both here and on Lilium.
Our suspicions appal us. The Watchers assure us they're alert - they say it's only a question of time before the sorcerer's forced to reveal himself, though they've expressed concern at the distortion in the aethyr at the time the Conclave was attacked. They say the breach was enough to give them a glimpse and it's that flash of sight that's made both them and us most uneasy. We wonder, too, just how strong the link is between the sorcerer and the warlord.