Quenching The Flames 6e1t1c

The Ambrosian Chronicles

With a range of characters rivalling "War and Peace", "The Ambrosian Chronicles" is a unique fantasy saga of epic proportions. Set in the world of Ambros, the story follows the fortunes of one family of gifted individuals, caught up in the struggle to save their world from a force of evil, bent on revenge for events in the far past. Will Ambros survive the conflict? The answer may be found in the seven volumes of the "Ambrosian Chronicles", all written by Katy Winter and published by The Furhaven Press. Available as e-books from your favourite e-book on-line booksellers.

The books making up the saga are:

Book One: Warlord Book Two: Children of Ambros Book Three: Circling Birds of Prey Book Four: The Dawn of Balance Book Five: Light Dancing on Shadows Book Six: Quenching the Flames Book Seven: Metamorphosis

THE AMBROSIAN CHRONICLES BOOK SIX

QUENCHING THE FLAMES

by

KATY WINTER

Published by The Furhaven Press Smashwords Edition

Copyright: Katy Winter 2014 All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-0-473-28719-1

Some explanatory lists to aid the reader.

The Churchik warrior hierarchy:

Warlord - has overlordship of all ranks. Below him, in order of seniority are: Elite Haskars (some were on the Warlord's Council) Haskars Tempkars Acedars Beduars Warriors who are the lowest ranked.

The Unseen Ones and their chosen species: Abus - Shadowlanders Benth - Mages of Yarilo Crue - Wildwind Desert tribesmen Huma - Rox Lais - Gnosti Marl - Dragons on Ice Isle Minac - Conclave of Reader/Seekers

Misa - Sinhalien of the southern steppes Obli - Dryads and nymphs from the north of Ambros Sympho - Rox

The Conclave of Reader/Seekers:

Headed by the Mishtok (Aceke) Adepts - Setoni, Leon and Morsh (aka Morjar).

The Family of Melas and Alfar of Ortok:

Bethel (aka Beth) Brue - son of Melas and Bruno Myme Chlo (aka Chlorien) - daughter of Melas and Elbe Sarehl the eldest son Twins Daxel (aka Dase) and Luton (aka Lute)

The Dahkilan Family:

Ensore - Chamah (ruler) of the state of Dahkilah, Marshal of the United Forces of the North. Eli - younger brother of Ensore (sets up the Intelligence network of the northern forces.) Kasan - sister of Eli and Ensore.

Characters known by more than one name or title:

Aceke - aka Mishtok/Monseignore Ahliah - aka Crown Prince of Kyaran Alfarbeth - aka AlfarBeth/Alfar Asok - aka Hasuran Autoc - aka Scholar/Schol - 'Father' to Chlorien, and Master Mage of Yarilo Bene - aka Benhloriel/Burelkin - Archmage of Yarilo Bethel - aka Beth/Sorien (Churchik) Blach - aka as Sorcerer of the Keep/Malekim Choja - aka Sophysun Chojoh - aka the Sophy Daxel - answers to Dase

Ensore - aka the Marshal, also the Chamah, ruler of Dahkilah Foresters - aka as Sache, Dalmin, Arth, Kalor, Ensore. Gariok - aka as Dominik/ Arch/Bard Goldlas - aka Melas Indariol - aka Aelkin of the Shadowlands Kalbeth - aka Lodrin (Churchik)/ Little Beth Kalor - a Cyrenic aka as the Domon Kasphros - aka Kash Leon - aka Adept of the Conclave/Seignore Luton - answers to Lute/Luteriel/Shasah (Churchik)/Karek the slave boy Malekim - aka Elbe/Elbahkin - Master Mage of Yarilo Master Ermyn - aka Aesthetics Academy Guildmaster Melas - aka Goldlas Myme Chlo - answers to Chlorien Obli - aka Oren/Oric/Cupa/Oreth Sarehl - aka as Strategos Sarssen - aka Losaren (Churchik)/Adept of the Conclave Setoni - aka as Adept of the Conclave/Seignore

Also see the Glossary at the end of the book.

THIRD AGE: THE BEGINNING

A quotation from Ochleos Rox, Guardian on Lilium, to the Mages of Yarilo, and to the Conclave of Reader-Seekers on Ambros. Third Age 0207. Through the struggles that have come, and will come again, shall a balance be restored to Ambros. It must be understood. The Watchers and Guardians must be ever vigilant. Those to whom the balance is entrusted must fulfil their duty by ensuring it. They must look for the child who's made a shadow and thus becomes a child of the dark. There'll be a child born of light and of dark, who'll of all kinds be made into one. The child will have power. Teach the child to use it wisely so that it doesn't become an instrument of chaos. The paths of these children, and those touching them, will be hard. They'll be torn between powers they can't comprehend. Watch for all the children who hold the balance of Ambros in their hands. In the binding, those of the dark and the light will unite to become one. Only then will the balance be immutable and Ambros finally at peace. This wisdom is given to me to on to you. Take heed. Ignore it at your peril.

The Ambrosian Chronicles Third Age 12223 Astral Cycle Spring Fading: Semi-full Rising Summer

There is much we could write but we no longer send such full Chronicles to the Conclave. We keep them on Yarilo for our records. This is the last I send to the Conclave and is merely a summary of what has occurred. The bonding that will see Ambros fulfil Ochleos Rox's prophecy is still to happen, nor do we know where Malekim is though we guess our new Archmage, Autoc, will be advised in time. We still wonder if he is somewhere on Ambros, but Autoc believes, from discussion with the Gnosti, Jaim, that it's not so. We know well who Cupa is. So we await Malekim's fate. This time we will not plead for him as Benhloriel did, so very long ago. Ice Isle will not plead for Malekim either. Estbane has made that very clear. They tell us they await, with much anticipation, for Harth's release which they hope comes close for the first time in ages. Goldlas flits about Ambros with ease. She stays close to the Keep which intrigues us. All our lost Archmage's greatchildren come nearer, every day, to full realisation of talent. They move steadily towards fulfilling their destinies which will be rich indeed. It would have given Bene so much joy. We still grieve for his ing as Lilium grieve for Nikos,' too. Autoc tells us this had to be for the prophecy to be fulfilled. We accept that. All that concerns us is the instability in the south among the Churchik. We await events.

CHAPTER ONE

Union of dark, Union of light, Quenches the flames, And dispels gathering night. ~~~ "Who is Malekim?" "What is Malekim?" "Where is Malekim?" The voices of the Unseen Ones echoed eerily in the mage's head, his attempts to block the mocking tones ineffectual. "Where's my father?" he demanded, irritably. "Dire will find me. I'll be his son once more, as I once was." There was cold finality to the voice that answered. "Dire's with us," was implacably stated. "He knows no sons." "You unmade one of your own?" asked Malekim, incredulously. "Spare us your limitations, Malekim." "Then where is he?" "He's with us. You won't know him, nor he you. He's no longer as you knew him. Think on that, Malekim." "So you broke my father as you try to break me?" "Such a puerile mind," scoffed a jeering voice. "Dire is us. You're not worth

wasting time on, Malekim. You never could see beyond yourself!" Malekim fell silent and brooded, until another voice spoke. "So you challenge us, yet again, mage?" "Why is that?" came another voice. "Foolish Malekim," said another. "Such arrogance!" sneered another. "Pitiful fool," growled yet another voice. "Can't you answer us, Malekim?" The mage swung his head from side to side. He clenched his hands, then put them to his head to push back the echoing voices that laughed, distant and mocking. "Probe his mind again!" instructed a voice that chilled to the marrow. "We'll find it. Be certain of that, mage." Malekim knew the probe came. He tensed and tried to put up a barrier. He felt it brushed aside. He opened his mouth to a howl that filtered away into nothingness, his mind entered and remorselessly peeled, layer by layer, as he did to others for long cycles. Another dissection began. His mind and emotions were stripped and bared for analysis once more, slowly, with infinite patience and without pity, the first probe ed by a host of others. It was only the beginning. ~~~ The land the Sinhalien occupied swept down from the mountain ranges, into land once occupied by conquering Churchik who all but annihilated the original inhabitants, the Kerulen and Nuurans. They were peoples equally fierce, quarrelsome and bloodthirsty as the Churchik. Those conquered lands were parcelled out between warrior lords who bickered bitterly and went to war over little bits of land. These same lords built mostly small, but some significant and well fortified cities, among them Idon, Oresh, Eparat, Ingh, Neymor, Arandl, and chiefly, the premier city-state of Andish. Cordior was an ancient eastern city that pre-dated any of these. Andish was equivalent in status to Valshika, so was

populous, prosperous, wealthy and influential. It was part of Esok's inheritance. The city now found itself on the border of the lands taken by the Sinhalien, though the rest of Esok's estates rested in Sinhalien hands and he chafed at their loss. Not once did he advocate war. It was to Andish Kher went once again. It was in Esok's abeya that he now stood, moodily staring out the window. He awaited Sarssen who'd been gone a day and a half. With him were his son and the Saturim. While Kher felt very on edge, his High Council stalked to and fro, the warriors aware of Kher's tension and wondering how he might react, especially where his son was concerned. All knew Luton had a daughter who lived out in the plains. It was Esok who spied the riders in the distance. He called sharply to Bethel, who sat nervously and still at the other end of the room. "Sorien! Come here!" came the uncompromising order. Bethel obeyed instantly, his head bent in the presence of so much authority. " your brother, Tempkar, as we know you can do." Anxiety was in Bethel's sending. "Sarssen!" "There is no need for alarm," sent back Sarssen. "What ails you, Beth?" "I'm in the abeya with the High Council. They're anxious over your long absence and the warlord's deeply troubled." "Are you troubled, too?" "A little. There's tension here, Sarssen." "We are close now. Tell them the Sinhalien are not folk to rush." Bethel sighed with relief, only to find, when he turned, that he looked into several pairs of cold, interrogative eyes. "Sorien?" demanded Esok. "All's well, my lord. My brother says to tell you the Sinhalien will not be hurried."

Bethel was glad when he got a curt nod of dismissal from Sendak. He sensed the awful silence that gripped everyone lift as he left the room and the constraint was broken by murmurs and laughter. He was delighted to escape. He didn't see Sarssen or his brothers for some time because they were closeted with the High Council for long hours. Not knowing what else to do, Bethel decided to go for a long brisk walk to clear his head, a walk that took him beyond the city gates but westwards, well beyond the boundary area in dispute. It was pleasant land though the air was cold and the winds that swept down from the mountains chilled to the bone at certain times of the cycle. Bethel pulled his cloak about him as he always did in the winter, wherever on Ambros he was. He found himself thinking back to Ortok and then to the new city of Samar, his thoughts oddly jumbled and incoherent, something strange in one about to be pledged an Adept. He couldn't explain his sudden, unexpected concern about his son and his whole southern life. Then he reflected that it was probably because of his experience in Samar, then Correc's insurrection which led to his pronouncement that saw people die, only to then find himself swept east where he was being held in reserve as a go-between. Times had been turbulent. And so on he walked, unaware how far from the city he walked. With his height and length of leg, he covered the miles quickly. He finally came to, stopped startled and turned, trying to re-orient himself. He saw nothing recognisable, but sensed an alien presence that made him whirl about in an attempt to pin who or what it could be. He found nothing. Alarm crept through him, the warrior conscious how foolish he was to come out so far alone. There was another warrior lesson he'd let himself forget and he thought, with a rueful smile, of the verbal scold that would've earned him from Lodestok. "We don't hurt our mages," came a thought in Bethel's mind. He swung round again, wondering if it was Ot playing games with him. Then he realised it couldn't be. The voice wasn't catlin. He telethed on a very wide band. Heads on Yarilo and Lilium lifted at the call of distress and dragons trumpeted quietly on Ice Isle. Goldlas jerked herself awake, her head tilted to the cry from one she knew was her offspring. Expressions were wary. Sarssen and Luton, seated in the abeya, were caught as unawares as Autoc, who lounged back comfortably in his quarters in Valshika, a book in his lap that he

snapped shut with an arrested expression. Bethel received instant reassurance from all three men, but above them came the voice again. "You called, Bethel. Don't you know me? I answer you, child. I answer you." "No!" shouted Bethel, out loud, whirling around. He heard Autoc's calm voice above the other. "Beth, lad, calm yourself. This is Scholar. Amril came to me this way and I reacted as you do now. You're in no danger, Beth, believe me." "Who's Amril?" "Beth," laughed the mage. "Stop staring around you in a distracted way. Amril's my dragon. Can't you answer yours, lad? It's not right to call then not respond." "I didn't call." "You must have," sent Autoc, encouragingly. "Or maybe you ed a high level of imbalance that made your dragon come. They're highly protective, lad." Bethel stood still, too surprised to speak, then he turned up his head. He stared at the sky to see a huge form approach at phenomenal speed. "Scholar! I think a dragon comes. What do I do?" Bethel crouched on the earth, only conscious of Autoc's placidity and strength. They buoyed him. Sarssen and Luton were no longer in a link with him. He shivered when the huge form towered over him, wings moving rhythmically and the enormous talons spread ready for landing. As the creature settled, it tilted its head as though it listened. Its eyes spun rapidly, then, when Bethel felt astonishment then sheer exultant delight come to him from Autoc, he still didn't dare look up. He felt the blast of air that came to him every so often when the dragon breathed. "I'm Dramas," came a very soft and gentle voice in Bethel's mind. Bethel felt Autoc's presence recede. "I didn't mean to frighten you, child. Won't you even look at your dragon who's waited for you, oh, so long now?" Timidly, Bethel lifted his head. The young warrior found he stared up to a head

that rested on the ground not far from him. He trembled with shocked disbelief. "Ah!" crooned the dragon, his eyes whirling faster. "Benhloriel lives in you, child. I knew it was so. Ah, little mage." "You're truly a dragon!" Bethel tentatively took a step forward. "Come closer, young one cast in Benhloriel's image. We don't hurt mages." "I'm not yet mage," answered Bethel uncertainly, drawn and fascinated by the spinning orbs of green. When he came to a halt to one side of the massive snout, eyes stopped whirling to peer down at him with intense curiosity. "Ah," sighed the dragon again. "Indeed Bene lives in you. Your worries and uncertainties brought me, child. It may be too early, but I think it's time I was wide awake. Let me look at you. You have your greatsire's height, his build, even his face and oh, the eyes, too. But you're Cynthas as well." "The brothers all look alike," offered Bethel, brave enough now to touch the head he stood next to. Eyes swivelled at the touch and he heard a chuckle sound very deep in his mind. "Are you all so beautiful then? Benhloriel certainly was," commented Dramas. The dragon sensed the surprise. "But you are, young one. Never has a dragon had such loveliness as his, not since I first touched and melded with your greatsire. And here is another." "Am I so like him?" "So very like." Bethel sensed a surge of grief in the dragon that ed very quickly. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, Bethel. I'm so used to Bene. We knew each other intimately and I forgot you wouldn't expect me. It'll take time for us to adjust one to the other, child, but adjust we will. You give me life, Bethel." There was a rumble of what Bethel assumed was utter pleasure when he stroked the head again, this time more strongly. "The eye ridge likes to be touched," offered the dragon. Bethel stretched high on tiptoe to oblige. "You were my greatsire's dragon then? I never knew him, but Sar did." There was regret in the deep voice.

"Then you may meet him now, child. Look into my eyes, Bethel. Don't be afraid, but be prepared for much." Bethel stared directly into the green eyes. He was drawn to the extent he no longer felt conscious of anything, other than the dragon's being, as, in the meld, he was swept backwards and forwards through Dramas' experiences. He saw his greatsire. He felt the profound love and rapport between mage and dragon, then sensed the shattering grief and despair experienced by the dragon when Bene finally faded. He mourned, with Dramas, for the dragon's mage who gently and quietly ed, his life as Archmage dissipating. He lived the joy of the dragon being allowed to refuse a ing over and being offered the choice of another meld. He was taken to when Dramas chose a child of Melas. Bethel became Dramas. He looked down at a boy curled up in a pavilion on a huge bed, an enormous warrior sprawled half across him and knew he stared down at himself. In that instant, he knew Dramas chose him. And he learned how the dragon waited, in a half-quiescent state, for the boy to hopefully grow, survive, and maybe one day call him. As Bethel lived within the dragon, he knew, without any doubt, that Dramas was as bonded to him as strongly as he was bonded, and still was in a residual sense, with an Archmage of Yarilo. "I knew you'd come if you could, Bethel," Bethel heard in his mind, as the meld dissolved. It was a most gentle meld, because the dragon knew the young mind, though maturing every day, wasn't ready for a full dragon meld. "I'm with you, Dramas." "Always, child, always. When you call, young one, I'll come. Find your balance again, your concerns of no moment. Let them go. Your son has his own strength, as you have yours, both alike but utterly unlike." "Dramas?" "Child?" "Will it be long before I go with you?" "I think it won't be long, Bethel." Bethel stood back, his eyes briefly meeting with Dramas'. When the young

warrior smiled, he couldn't know how Dramas saw, once more, the blinding smile of a youthful Benhloriel. It once drenched his dragon with a sense of warmth and wellbeing. Dramas felt that again, the pleasure from it washing over him. Bethel watched the dragon rise. His wings beat with enormous sweeps of power, he ascended strongly, turned, banked, and was gone. But Bethel wasn't alone. He looked to his feet to see the catlin owlishly eying him, his long fur ruffled in the wind. Bethel stooped and scooped him up in his arms, the creature held close to his chest. He bent his head. "Do I grow as you hoped, Ot?" "Dramas thinks you do," sent the catlin, his paws curled neatly on Bethel's arm. "And you?" "We think you've come a long way. I've decided that maybe, after all, I'm glad I chose you." Bethel began to laugh and with the catlin held firmly, he began the long trek back to the city. Once inside the gates he walked steadily to his rooms, carefully ignoring the glances cast at the catlin he cradled, entered a chamber and sank into a chair. Ot rested on his chest, flexed a paw, lapped at it, and then, because Bethel's eyes closed, the catlin slept also. Sarssen quietly entered the room. He noiselessly took a chair close to Bethel near the window and relaxed back comfortably. He sat staring out into the open moorland that led to the mountains, his mind abstracted. Kher was as ruthless as Lodestok in analysing every detail, word and nuance of the meeting with the Sinhalien. He was verbally probed until his head felt like Samar reeli wool. He was exhausted and would've given anything to emulate Bethel who lay sprawled out, his head lolled to one side, mouth slightly open, and his breathing easy and deep. The catlin had gone but Sarssen knew Ot had been there. Sarssen turned to study the young face. Bethel gave he and Luton a fright, the latter especially because Luton hadn't ever been directly telethed and thought, for a moment, that Bethel actually yelled beside him. Luton's fright, mixed with Bethel's, poured into Sarssen. It took all the warrior's concentration to respond to both Luton and Bethel, so he was greatly relieved when he felt Autoc's strong

presence and was advised to withdraw. Sarssen then had to cope with an agitated Kher who came threateningly to his feet, until he saw Luton relax back with a sudden laugh. He promptly sat again, relieved. There was also startled hostility in other eyes, too, noticeably Sendak's, so much so it took all Sarssen's tact and ingenuity to explain there'd been unexpected confusion with Bethel. When he saw cynical disbelief curl Sendak's lips at his plausible and glib explanation, he felt, wearily, it was the best he could do. Sendak snorted. Sarssen was thinking about that when purple eyes opened and Bethel sat abruptly, his head in his hands. "Sarssen?" he said muzzily, blinking. "Deeply sleeping, were you not, Beth? Have you met your dragon?" Long fingers delved and writhed through the already disordered mane. "Yes," came the muffled reply, as though Bethel were drunk. Sarssen grinned understandingly. "I know how you feel. I was left very drowsy the first time Elbaroth came to me." Bethel muttered something incoherent. "Wake up, Beth." Bethel coughed, rubbed his eyes, then coughed again and stretched. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't think I was so weary." "Meeting dragons can leave one enervated, Beth. Do you like your dragon?" When the purple eyes became dreamy and luminously soft, Sarssen saw, apart from the beard, the boy again. Bethel looked like the child a warrior had just set eyes on. "Yes, I do. He's my greatsire's dragon." "Is he indeed?" murmured Sarssen, his eyes with as faraway an expression as Bethel's. "Then he answers to Dramas, Beth, and has awaited you a long time. Tell me about him." Sarssen listened to the voice that was so musical and soothing, and he saw yet

another step forward for this young man. He didn't interrupt or ask questions. When Bethel stopped speaking, neither man said anything. The two just sat, as they often did, in companionable silence and it was only with dusk coming that Bethel stirred himself and pulled the estibe into his lap. ~~~ Two days later, Sarssen rode out to the Sinhalien alone, this time hopeful of meeting the leader of the plains people, something both Lute and Dase assured him would happen. Those back in Andish watched the warrior be instantly surrounded by Sinhalien horsemen and disappear. The warrior didn't feel threatened or uncomfortable among these people who reminded him, in odd little ways, of both Shadowlanders and desert folk. That thought intrigued him. But neither did he take their good-natured smiles for granted. He knew a smile could shield sleight of hand, and the daggers these men wore weren't purely decorative. Often the smiles didn't touch the eyes, something that made him wary. He rode with the group of riders for close on an hour he judged, few words exchanged, before they came to an unexpected halt and signalled to him to dismount. He wasn't where he and the twins were taken before where they spoke with only one man. The plainsfolk had moved. The Sinhalien who talked with him days previously came from an obtusa. These obtusa were skin-like beehives, something akin to what both the Wildwind tribes and the Gnosti used, only the Gnosti didn't use hide. The Sinhalien greeted Sarssen affably enough, but as he led the warrior past numerous obtusas and neatly arranged fires, there was no smile in the grey eyes. As they walked, Sarssen was repeatedly asked questions he'd been asked before, but this time he was left alone at a fireside where he was told to sit and wait. Within minutes, he became conscious of an older woman who squatted beside him and held out a cup. She nodded at him. "Drink, brasangan of our daughter," she said, quietly. Sarssen stared at her. He tried to read the grey eyes but met nothing but cool gravity. He bent his head and drank. "Is it drugged?" he asked, as he drained the cup and returned it. He didn't see the faint flicker of a smile.

"No, young man, it's not drugged. You've already experienced that, haven't you? It could've killed you. You've also been truth-read." Sarssen looked up at the now standing woman. "A retrogressive and progressive seer," he uttered softly, in astonishment. "You are rare, plainswoman." The smile touched the grey eyes. "You've talent, young one. I feel it about you. You're an Adept and god-touched, too, aren't you?" Sarssen nodded. She stooped again and stared at him before she flinched back. "You're more than Adept, aren't you?" she exclaimed. "The drug that nearly killed you is only istered in exceptional circumstances. It's potent but opens the..." Her voice trailed away, but she stared down at Sarssen, fascinated. "Yes. Though I mean no harm to anyone. I never have." He felt a hand on his arm but didn't look up. "It took me by surprise, young one. You don't alarm me. On the contrary, you've a gentleness about you that's uncommon in one of your kind. I find you unusual. You're called Sarssen, aren't you?" Sarssen nodded. "And has the drink warmed you?" "Yes. I thank you." "Now, if you will, you'll come with me. I answer to Sagi." "Soji spoke of you," replied the warrior, rising and turning to look down at the woman. "She has much affection for you." "She's our daughter," said Sagi, smoothing out the material of her skirt. "As a seer she has unusual abilities that continue to grow. She teaches those among us with ability so we develop new skills. She's a blessing. Where does the talent come from, Sarssen?" "I am unable to explain that. Latent talent was there, as you know, but I cannot help but wonder if Soji's experiences not only shaped her, but also moulded her ability in a quite unique way. I do not believe another Soji will be born." Sagi considered Sarssen for long moments. "Like yourself, Sarssen, a gift to Ambros from a most unlikely paternal source?"

She saw the shaken head, gave a laugh and patted his arm in a motherly way. "You're too modest, Sarssen. I can't explain what it is about you, young man, but there can't be any doubt you're siblings." Again Sarssen shook his head. "Maybe it is the blondness?" "No." Sagi shook her head decisively. "It's in the expression when you both look thoughtful. Come, Sarssen. You're awaited." Sarssen followed the tall woman to an obtusa set apart from the others. Sagi stooped to enter but Sarssen was well-nigh bent double. When he straightened, his head touched the roof in a way that made him automatically hunch. "You're very tall, like the Samars," observed a deep, cool voice. Sarssen looked down into appraising, tranquil grey eyes that held his calmly. Asok sat on a mat, cross-legged and completely at his ease. "Will you not sit?" Sarssen noticed Sagi was gone. He sat, his knees drawn almost up to his chin and hands clasped about them. He was much too big to comfortably sit cross-legged though he did so as a youth. "I'm Asok," came the composed voice. Sarssen was aware of a long scrutiny. Imively, he sat waiting. "Not a man to be hurried," murmured Asok, in amused tones. "And you are?" "Sarssen." "Is your status as a warrior not important to you then?" "Not especially, plainsman." "Tell me about yourself." "The tale is a boring one," demurred Sarssen. "Let me be the judge of that," suggested Asok, gently but firmly. With a sigh, Sarssen began. "I am the result of the rape of a Yazd mother by a Churchik warrior father. My father was Alleghy, warrior lord of Lodestok's. My mother and I were enslaved on a caravan. She died and I was given to the warlord as a gift. I remained the warlord's slave almost until he died. I have talent."

"That's very brief, Haskar, isn't it?" Sarssen noted Asok knew precisely who sat in front of him. His use of the title showed that. "Yes," he acknowledged. "I told you it was boring." "So you did." The warrior saw amusement in depthless eyes that continued to study him. He remained quiet. "And I'm no fool, Sarssen. Let me tell you about yourself, young man. Yes, you're the product of rape, but I also believe your mother was a reader-seeker of some skill and was renowned as a healer in Hissue where her skills were valued. You inherited talent from her. You were unknown to Alleghy. We believe you were protected from him from birth so you could be taught as much as it was dared to a small child. It was Alleghy who gave you to the warlord and saw you enter slavery. You were barely eight cycles old, a mere small child. You lived a hellish existence, my young friend, as the warlord's slave, and suffered appalling abuses we'll gloss over. You were made a warrior and survived all those long cycles by sublimating your talents and by making yourself indispensable to your master's comfort and peace of mind. The warlord came, we gather, to care very deeply for you. You were taught by an Adept, named Morsh, who travelled with the warlord. It will come as no surprise to me to learn you have, at the least, Adept status within the Conclave, but you can confirm or deny that." A small chuckle escaped Sarssen at that. It brought a gleam to the grey eyes. "You then undertook the protection of a Samar boy in ways that nearly repeatedly cost you your life and you taught him, too, because, like you, he had extraordinary talent and had to survive as you did. You came to care for that boy. When he was made a son of the warlord's, beside you, that child became your brother in every way. That boy is Bethel, brother of Lute and the young Saturim. You've survived wars, Sarssen. But most of all, you've walked a knife edge for most of your life as you had to constantly adapt or die, so I would suggest to you that your inheritance has come at a very high price indeed. Perhaps, had you been asked, you'd never have wished to pay it. So, having said all that, and I haven't mentioned your courage in allowing your talent to be openly recognised within Churchik society, would you be honest with me, young man?" Sarssen stared into shadowy grey eyes that changed colour constantly, from light dun to dark slate, most like an ocean.

"I shall try," he compromised, on a smile. "It is not in my nature or experience to freely offer trust, but I have always tried to be honest. My father once said I would be honest though it led to my swinging on a gibbet. I believe he spoke true." "Spoken like a cautious and intelligent man," commented Asok. "I'm no threat to you, Sarssen, none at all. Perhaps that may help." "Nor am I a threat to you or your people, plainsman." "No," concurred Asok, contemplatively. "That's despite apparent power that hangs about you like a mantle, young one. It's not threatening - your people, however, are." "I regret that." "So do we," answered Asok. "We deplored what became of your people. They weren't always so. Tell me, are you mage?" "In the way of Lute?" "Yes." "No, I think not, though I believe I may be mage one day." "And you're more than Adept, aren't you, young one?" Asok watched a dull redness colour Sarssen's pale cheeks, but the warrior stayed imive and controlled. "It is not in my power to answer that," Sarssen responded, with charming frankness. His candidly, wide opened eyes meeting Asok's made the plainsman give a fruity chuckle. "All you need know is I am Adept." "Then tell me, Adept, how well did you know Lute before he was freed from Malekim's malign influence?" "From the time the boy came to the northern camp, plainsman, I learned to know him just a little. He was kept apart, isolated, and stayed very close to his master once Malekim arrived in the camp. Lute was not even encouraged to be with Beth. In fact the mage actively discouraged , so I saw him from a distance

rather than came to know him. It was Beth who refused to be put off." "The younger son, the musician?" "The boy enslaved with me, yes." "Was Lute as Soji described?" Sarssen raised an eyebrow. "Frail, tormented, and without apparent life?" "Oh yes," murmured Sarssen, immediately. "He was scarcely alive that boy, a shell if you like, the essence slowly wrung out of him by an exacting and singularly vicious master. He was a tragic figure, if that is what you ask." "How much talent has he?" "Hard to judge," replied Sarssen, promptly. "Malekim taught what he wished the young one to know, so Lute's power could link in with, and enhance, his own. Nothing was shown the boy for Lute's sake alone. That is not the mage's way. So it is difficult to assess what Lute's power is based on, how at source it is, or whether Malekim created something that will go with him." Sarssen paused and frowned. "Not the latter, I think, because Lute's power hasn't noticeably diminished. We must just accept that Lute has considerable power not yet tapped, like Beth." "Is it a force for good or for evil?" Sarssen didn't hesitate. "For good," he said, directly. "Malekim didn't specifically try to shape Lute in his image, thank the gods, because Lute's primary function was to augment his master's skills. He had no intention of letting Lute survive beyond the final, crucial meld, plainsman, so there would have been no point in the mage wasting precious time and energy in moulding someone other than to shape them to that specific purpose. Lute was as expendable as a limp wineskin." Asok stared thoughtfully at the ground. "A very cruel use of a boy, warrior, wasn't it?" Sarssen nodded. "And the twin we have met? The Saturim - has he equivalent talent?" His forehead now quite furrowed, Sarssen thought long before answering slowly, "He is not mage, if that is what you ask, but he has another form of talent that touches me. The whole family seems to be affected in one way or another."

"Can you explain?" "Not easily. Sarehl, the eldest, has perception that goes beyond the normal and he is, I think, a colossus among men, even if he would vigorously deny that. He is a modest and unassuming man, plainsman, but unique. Like him, Dase has the same ability to understand instantly, to comprehend quite effortlessly what others might be trying -." Sarssen broke off with a sudden whistle of recognition. "Of course," he berated himself. He saw Asok regard him with tolerant amusement and curiosity. "What have you just gained insight into, warrior?" "Plainsman, Lute is mage and so will Beth be, but where they are mage, Dase and Sarehl have another equally devastating talent that neither is even aware of. I swear I am right." "And what is that?" "Empathy," stated Sarssen, bluntly. "An abnormal degree of empathy. Their gifts are such I suspect they could not just become another's personality and imagine their experiences with them, they could quite easily manipulate and go forward within the individual as well. Gods, why did I only come to this?" "A form of telepathy?" "Such as reader-seekers have, plainsman? I am sure you are aware the Conclave has the greatest skill in that area, as do the Shadowlanders, nor, plainsman, would it startle me to find it a skilfully honed practice among your kind. But no, it is a different skill from that. It is an enormous power indeed. Kalor has talked about the youngest brother who is so sensitive he picks up things from people in the oddest and most unexpected ways, quite unconsciously. He did it with his discovery of Malekim's henchman who dogged Chlorien and the mage. Could it be that Brue has a brush stroke from the same canvas? The gods!" "And the daughter?" "Chlorien is mage, plainsman, indisputably a potentially very powerful mage. Three of the Archmage's greatchildren are mage, plainsman, but the other three have equally unnerving talents that make them formidable indeed."

"And they're unaware of these talents?" "As empaths?" Asok nodded. "Totally and utterly." "Then, Sarssen, you would agree this is a conversation that goes no further." Sarssen lifted his head. His green eyes danced with the strangest light, before the sensation Asok experienced while looking into them left him, and he saw the warrior nodded at him. Asok blinked and became deeply thoughtful. The silence was prolonged because at that moment a young man stooped at the entrance and entered with a tray balanced casually on one hand. He knelt to serve Asok. "Pasangan," he said quietly, his head bent in a way that reminded Sarssen of the southern young. Here, it wasn't an act of submission, but one of respect. The young man was as lithe and graceful as the steppe grasses he grew up among. He turned to serve Sarssen. "Brasangan," he whispered in a muted, patient voice. Sarssen took the cup and wafer that accompanied it. "From Soji's description, I believe you must answer to Asokin, young man." The young head was raised so the warrior could see sombre yet tranquil grey eyes. "That's so," was the reply, before Asokin rose and backed unobtrusively from the obtusa. Sarssen felt more at ease and stretched out his cramped limbs into a more comfortable position. Nonchalant eyes scanned his very large figure. "You're all built on large lines, aren't you?" asked the plainsman, conversationally. The calm observation brought a smile to Sarssen's face. "That comes from an ancient heritage." "Indeed, we appear clumsy beside folk like yourselves." Sarssen would think of Asok's comment at a later time when the words would come back to tease him. "You're not as big-boned as most we've seen." "That is the Yazd in me," commented Sarssen, reflectively rubbing the tip of his nose.

"Probably," agreed Asok, placidly. "The young Saturim now - is he typical of his race? Soji told us repeatedly that Lute was exceptionally tall." "Not entirely true of all Samars, though they tend to be generically tall. The twins are exceptionally so, but then so is Sarehl. They are supposed to take after their sire who was dark and tall, and from all s their greatsire was the same build. The boy I befriended tops them all. He has an inch or so on me." "Are Samar's dark like the Saturim?" Sarssen shook his head on a definite negative. "Quite the reverse, plainsman. Most I have seen are not blond, but not dark either, more in-between with brown hair and eyes. Dase has the black eyes like ebon that Sarehl has, that colouring coming directly from the father. I believe it was considered most unusual in Ortok." "Everything about them appears to be abnormal," remarked Asok, disionately observing the matting. Sarssen's sudden laugh made him look up. "Warrior?" "Nothing," apologised the warrior, with a likeable grin. "It is just that some of us have spent cycles trying to come to grips with this family and what they mean for Ambros, so your description has an inescapable irony I find amusing. Indeed, abnormal seems an understatement." "Then I the jest, young man," smiled Asok, with a friendly nod. "Drink, warrior. We have much to discuss." He waited while Sarssen obliged, then went on seriously, "I ask that you tell me everything you can recall from the time the warlord attacked us and was repulsed at Lake Kanibadam. Were you there?" Sarssen gave a convulsive shiver that put the humour in his eyes to instant flight. He may not have been present at the fights with the Sinhalien, but he was the boy who accompanied Lodestok on that last trek to look at burned plains that spread for miles in all directions. He'd never forget the treatment he experienced at his master's hands that night and for nights afterwards, the memory etched at the heart of what Sarssen was. Asok saw the fleeting pain that touched the warrior's face, and would've commented on it had there not been something in Sarssen's expression that warned him of anguish too terrible to be recalled in words.

"No," answered Sarssen, through dry lips. "I went with my master later to look at the burned lands." "I see," said Asok and he thought he did. "I ask you because you're clear-sighted, look to the future, and have a maturity that goes far beyond your cycles. Speak to me, Sarssen." Sarssen leaned back on his elbows. He began to talk slowly, as if recall was elusive at times, his voice quiet, his words direct and when they flowed more easily they came fluently. Asok sat motionless. His expressive eyes stayed fixed to a face that was, in its own way, more than handsome; it was aesthetic and evenly modelled with the high brow decorated by a large, rich blue stone. Asok recognised it as the same as adorned Lodestok's forehead. It was the stone of Valshika. The warrior's eyes were wide spaced and well opened, the flawless green of them suggesting depths of untapped talent and making them as unreadable as any eyes Asok had seen. The nose was classical and straight, without the aquiline trend that characterised the Churchik, but was also lacking in the warlord who was a most fine-looking warrior. The cheekbones were more prominent and higher than one would expect in a Churchik and the mouth, finely moulded, curved upwards at the corners in a way entirely un-southern. The very faint, jagged scar from eye to ear was partially hidden under a long, blond beard with reddish-gold tints and the moustache was clipped short above the upper lip. Here was no lush, drooping moustache affected by the warlord. This man's lineaments lacked the bulk of the usual warrior - though he had the height and more, plus the breadth of shoulder, he lacked the massive barrel chest and heavily muscled thighs common to his race. The man gave the appearance of being physically strong, athletic and probably possessed the irable prowess associated with his kind. Asok took in the branded tongue that he fleetingly saw, only once, and that was enough to painfully confirm for him that he spoke with an emancipated slave who was a survivor indeed. The hair wasn't the yellow blond of the Churchik either. Asok reflected idly that the ashen colour was more akin to steppe colouring than the Churchik, and he noted it was properly swept back in the warrior queue.

And though Asok knew warriors walked about festooned with assorted jewellery, still, Sarssen's made him blink. The warrior wasn't just ornamented with the multiples of everything, from ear-rings to necklaces and bracelets, he had a ring adorning every finger, and the heavily jewel encrusted collar that he wore was very fine and worth a fortune. Asok considered the warrior must be very sure of his skills to flaunt such wealth abroad. And so Asok listened. Refreshments were brought and consumed. Asok didn't rush the warrior, nor, when Sarssen paused or became singularly reflective, did the plainsman speak or interrupt. He left Sarssen to pick up where he left off. When the warrior finally fell silent, Asok stretched. "I'm honoured by your confidences, young one," he said. "May I now ask a few questions?" When Sarssen lifted a hand and rubbed it across his eyes in a gesture of tiredness before he nodded, Asok went on, "You've not been permitted much rest since your return from Samar, have you?" "No," itted Sarssen, altering his position. "The attack orchestrated by your enemy Correc has been completely dealt with?" "Yes," answered Sarssen, amused and interested that the plainsman should know so much. Clearly he had well informed sources. "And your wound is healed?" "I do not notice it," replied Sarssen, opening his eyes very wide and staring contemplatively at the plainsman. Asok just smiled calmly at him. "Now, my young friend, I would like answers to questions that have puzzled me, things maybe you can explain." Sarssen found the questions searching and perceptive and they made him answer as honestly as he could. From the inscrutable face opposite he had no idea how his answers were received. Again a long silence fell in the obtusa while grey eyes continued to dwell on the warrior. Then Asok spoke decisively. "I offer this, warrior. Consider carefully before you reject my proposal. As a pledge of the new warlord's good intentions, he sends his son to us to remain with us until a peace is signed. Our daughter's inheritance is to be transferred in

its entirety to us, this being especially so because some of the land we've taken in Kerulen and Nuur belonged to Alleghy and won't be given back. That land, plus whatever else Alleghy left Soji, will be put in trust for Soji's children. This would be seen as a gesture of goodwill from the Churchik. We will withdraw to within a five mile distance of the base of the mountains, that being the new boundary. We always claimed the mountains as ours, but now it will be formalised in a treaty of peace. We'll accept a Churchik ambassador who may carry arms but none of his escort may do so - if they come, they do so in trust. Lastly, Soji's death sentence must be commuted so there's no stain on either her or her children and she must be free, should she choose, to travel throughout Churchik lands. We demand nothing else, and we want nothing else. When we withdraw, it will be completely. An ambassador is welcome, but, for a time, we shall not reciprocate. It's our way and has to be understood." Asok looked placidly across at the warrior in expectation of a response. It was slow in coming. "You hesitate, Sarssen. Why is that? We cannot trust the Churchik until we see evidence of their good faith." "It is not that. That is understood." Sarssen again rubbed his eyes. They felt grainy. "Tell me," invited Asok. "It is your demand concerning Lute." "What of it?" Sarssen wet his lips. "The young man is precious to the warlord." "That also is understood." "The boy has suffered much over the cycles, in indescribable ways you may not comprehend. I could not agree to compound his griefs." "He wouldn't be hurt, warrior." "Haskar Kher would kill without thought for the consequences should he think Lute is threatened."

"Yes, young one, I believe he would and justifiably so. His love for the young man deserves respect. The Saturim respects the Suldan for the very same reason. So I can only ask, what else can Kher offer us as a pledge, other than this son who means so much to him?" "Believe me," said Sarssen, shrugging helplessly, "I will do my best. I can do no more than that." "Assure the warlord his son will face no danger. On the contrary, I think he needs time with his daughter. She certainly needs time with him." "One thing you may not know," warned Sarssen. "Lute has mated with the Sophysun's daughter. Lute must return within a given time span to be accepted as the father, as a fully fledged mate, and as a member of the Wildwinds." "Then," returned Asok, gently but inflexibly, "the warlord will wish to accelerate the g of a treaty. I'm agreeable."

CHAPTER TWO

By the time Sarssen returned to Andish it was dark and the waiting haskars and High Council had long dined and drifted off to entertainments arranged for their benefit by their host. Riding back slowly, Sarssen hoped his mount had the sense to head for home. He closed his eyes and only opened them when he saw the lights on the gates yawning above him and heard the scraping of extremely heavy bolts that allowed him access. He felt drained and didn't look forward to confronting the very real anger he'd experience when he spoke to Kher. He made his unescorted way to his chamber, a flaming torch in one hand and the other brushing away at slaves who rushed to assist his tired progress. He paused on the threshold and blinked at it being so warm in the room and so comfortingly lighted. Placing his torch in a wall sconce, he saw a fire burned steadily and advanced gratefully towards it, chilled hands out to it. Still enveloped in cloak, he crouched. "I have sent for a bath," said a voice behind him. Hands gently went to the cloak. "Here's mulled wine for you. Give me your cloak." Sarssen rose and turned to see Bethel hold out a goblet to him. Smiling appreciatively he took it, relinquished the cloak and crossed to the chair drawn up close to the blaze. "What a caring, thoughtful man you are, Beth," he murmured. "I thank you for this." He watched Bethel kneel in front of him so he could haul off one soaked boot after another and place them to one side of the fire. "You're cold, Sarssen, and probably famished as well. I've arranged for food to follow your bath." "Will you me to eat, little brother, or have you done so?" Bethel shook his head then rested against Sarssen's knees, a habit that would never leave him. "I did not eat. I waited for you." "Foolish fellow," said Sarssen affectionately, his hand running through the dark

curls springing free. "You must be starving." "Yes, I am," grinned Bethel. He turned to stare into the fire, only reacting when there was a knock on the door that opened to it slaves carrying hot water. The bath full and well-nigh overlapping the sides, Bethel tested it. "Very warm," he advised the warrior. Sarssen quickly stripped and sank into the water with a sigh of pleasure. "Did you by any chance bring your estibe?" "Of course," responded Bethel, promptly. "Then play for me, Beth. I would appreciate it. It is so soothing." Sarssen lounged in the water, lazily watching Bethel settle himself. First the young man threw more wood on the fire and got it blazing again, then sat crosslegged, as he invariably did from the time he was enslaved at ten cycles of age. As the long, sensitive fingers plucked strings coaxingly and music began to spill about the room, Sarssen saw Bethel as a boy, with the same curtain of hair and intensity in the purple eyes when he glanced up every so often. The musician was away in another world. Being honest with himself, Sarssen had to it how utterly bereft he'd be without this young man in his life. Thinking that, he sank lower, let the water flow about him and felt the peace of mind Bethel's music always engendered in him. Later, amused by how ravenous Bethel was, Sarssen ate well. "When did you eat last, Beth? You seem starved," he observed, watching Bethel wrestle a cob to submission and strip it cleanly. Bethel glanced up from the food, shrugged eloquently and confessed he'd forgotten. "Before midsun, I think," he added, pensively. The remains of the cob was devoured and Bethel took food from another platter. "Gods, Beth, no wonder you eat so." Sarssen sliced more meat that he ed to Bethel just as the young man crammed a generous portion of vegetable loaf into his mouth. He had to chew vigorously before he could converse further or ask any more questions, so Sarssen just good-humouredly filled the younger man's goblet and let him eat.

After that, he quietly outlined what had occurred with the Sinhalien. The sparkling gaiety that characterised their meal disappeared and the mirth in the big eyes died abruptly at the mention of the demands concerning Luton. There was a quick shake of the dark head. "Lute has suffered enough, Sarssen. I don't think that's reasonable," Bethel said in a flat voice. "I would not argue with you, Beth," responded Sarssen, absently spearing a piece of meat that he lifted to his mouth. "Asok apparently thinks it is the one sign of good will he can rely upon. I can see his point of view." "The warlord will not hear of it, will he?" Bethel fidgeted with his goblet. "Does this man Asok know what Lute means to the warlord?" "Oh yes," said Sarssen. "He is very well aware, Beth, have no doubts about that. That is why he offers this option. In a way it cannot be refused. Asok is an intelligent and far-sighted man, Beth, and not one to fool with. He has much wisdom and makes a formidable adversary. I begin to think he never wanted the lands he took." "No?" questioned Bethel, intrigued. "No. He took them so he could use them to bargain with at a later date that suited him. That time is now and ensures, he hopes, a lasting peace for his people. A shrewd man, Beth." "And this with Lute? He does this to force the issue of peace?" "Exactly, Beth. That is so." "It is shrewd," acknowledged Bethel, slicing his meat, "but it will gravely anger the warlord." "That, Beth, is what I am afraid of," returned the warrior. Bethel stared moodily into the fire. "Lute has to go back to the desert and he has to go in a short space of time." He turned questioningly back to the warrior and saw how thoughtful Sarssen was.

"Asok is counting on that," the warrior answered coolly. He watched Bethel take in a deep breath then fall silent. Both men mulled over the conversation, neither offering any comment when a slave entered to remove empty platters and to place fruit, jellies, creams and filled pastries in front of them. Another jug of wine ed the first one now almost empty and finger bowls were set to the side of each diner. A very large dish of assorted sweetmeats was placed in the centre of the table before the slave withdrew, a shy smile coming to his strained face at the warriors turning as one to smile and thank him for his trouble. He bowed and scuttled from the room. Bethel helped himself to a pastry and munched thoughtfully. His free hand was at his temple where the long fingers twined in the unplaited curls, pulling them full out then letting the curls bounce back. It was a very Bethel characteristic. He'd done this for as long as Sarssen had known him, a boyhood trait that would never leave the young man. It was as much part of his individuality as Luton's shrug, nod or shake of the head. While Bethel's attention was elsewhere, the warrior studied him. He considered the line from the eye to the ear was barely discernible, the scar so very faint you had to look for the slave mark, so individually Lodestok's. The beard was long and silky, more like the twins' than Sarehl's that was coarser where it grew over his facial scar, and the purple eyes still shone with that rare and enticing luminosity that so fascinated a warlord master. All Bethel's gestures suggested natural grace and he was indisputably as elegant as his elder brothers. The effeminate delicacy was still there in the features, but was an odd contrast to the undeniable strength in the framework of one who would be a powerful man like Daxel. The musician walked with a sense of purpose. The innocence was tempered by experience, some of it cruel, and by a sense of self-worth. Bethel matured every day. Sarssen thought none would be wise to read the young warrior as simply an ingénue because of his wide eyes, his gentleness of manners and his still girlishly beautiful looks. A taste of the mature Bethel was seen in his dealings with Agge, and, though the young man had reacted unconsciously, Sarssen and Kher both saw the adult who was probably not so unlike his greatsire, reflected Sarssen to himself. Bethel was certainly akin to his eldest brother. Sarssen thought of his melds with Chlorien. Asok had spoken of Sarssen's mantle of

power. Sarssen saw it coming to Bethel with each ing season. Sarssen knew the young man was rarely intimidated by authority or cowed. Bethel gained in assurance the more he was with his brothers. He walked tall and straight, his head only bent when he was among haskars. But what Sarssen sensed most, was that in a few cycles from now, Bethel would stand equal in any society on Ambros and the potent but untapped power that began to hang about him, would endow him with unmatched confidence and authority. Like Sarehl, Bethel would, in time, stand above other men. His gifts made that inevitable. The warrior knew he'd always see and know the boy, but he suspected, as cycles ed, there would be few who did. Bethel wouldn't ever bully, threaten or intimidate, nor would he outwardly change that much, but his developing talent would set him apart, as Luton's would. It would make others wary and respectful. Sarssen suspected all Bethel's siblings would find the same thing in time. Only when the musician was wrapped in his music would men feel he was truly one of them. As Sarssen contemplated these things he knew he saw himself and not just Bethel, and his lips twisted in a wry smile of self recognition. He saw Bethel consume several pastries and now peel a usi, discarding the skin and holding the fruit to his mouth to catch the very sweet juice. "You look a boy!" exclaimed the warrior, with an amused grin. "Why not just eat it whole and that way you will catch all the juice? This way it will roll down your sleeve!" "Anything to oblige," twinkled Bethel, suiting the action to the word. It kept him fully occupied for several moments while Sarssen quietly ate through three pastries. He declined the fruit pushed to him and settled instead on the sweetmeats. They didn't move from the table until Sarssen pushed back his chair, dabbled his fingers in the water bowl and dried them on the napkin. Then he rose in a leisurely way, stretched, and calmly replaced the jewellery he removed prior to bathing. Pushing Lodestok's gift to him onto his finger he stared gravely down at the huge stone, his expression sombre as it went from that to the ring that symbolised he was made a warlord's son. Then he lifted his head to look across at the lounging Bethel. "Keep the fire going for me, will you, Beth?"

"Of course, Sarssen. I'll be waiting." ~~~ The senior warriors gathered in one of Esok's suras, eating and drinking, some from the High Council, had gathered privately and deliberately. Their expressions were grim and uncompromising, their discussion long and sometimes acrimonious, as was the way of the warrior, but reluctant consensus appeared to have been reached. It was unwillingly by some who wished to act now. "So we agree on essentials, do we not?" asked one haskar, pursing his lips. "It appears so," came the uncompromising answer. "But there is no action necessary at this time?" "Not at the moment, though there is still much I find disconcerting and threatening." "As do we all," growled another. "So we wait to see what the outcome is?" "We do, though that does not alter the concern we all have concerning the future for the Churchik. That remains unresolved." "For the moment." The tone was one of menace. "Samars must be stopped." "And what about those not with us?" "They will face us at the appropriate time." "Not all know we meet – in fact only the few of us here. I believe the time is not now, we should act with caution and this discussion does not go beyond this chamber." All present rose as one, huge men of overbearing threat who genuflected to the most senior among them who stayed, silent, as the others left the sura. There was a brooding quality about the figure who sat contemplatively, shrouded in

shadow, before he, too, rose, and with an unpleasant smile stalked uncompromisingly from the room. The door closed behind him. He reed all those enjoying Esok's hospitality, but he entered the room alone. ~~~ Sarssen found Kher in the warlord's suite, the older man rested in a chair, a book in his lap and Luton lounged on the floor at his feet. The young man lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, a very large book open in front of him. The fire blazed and this intimate room was extremely warm with heavy curtains to block out the seeping cold and both carpet and rugs densely piled. Kher politely put his book to one side when he saw Sarssen stand quietly and unobtrusively at the door. Luton glanced up with an amiable grin then went back to his book. "Come in, Sarssen," invited Kher. "I have been waiting for you." "I bathed and ate, my lord." "Sensible," commented Kher, his eyes scanning the tall figure that approached and sat. "Lute, summon a slave, would you?" Luton rolled over, snapped shut his book, rose gracefully and crossed to the rope that hung by the entrance. The door opened immediately. Luton spoke briefly and quietly to the slave then sauntered back to fling himself into a chair next to Kher's. Nothing else was said until the slave served refreshments and was dismissed, then Kher glanced speculatively at Sarssen. "Speak of what ed today with the Sinhalien." Once again Sarssen repeated himself, briefly, but to the point. Occasionally, the warlord nodded or made a comment of approval. He made no attempt to argue much of what the Sinhalien demanded and was quite content to let Soji's full inheritance to her adopted people. In fact, Sarssen thought he saw relief touch the pale blue eyes at the suggestion. It removed a difficult problem in the easiest possible way. Kher raised an eyebrow at being told the Sinhalien would pull back but only to within five miles of the base of the mountain. "Is this negotiable?" "No, my lord," answered Sarssen, shaking his head.

"How many city-states does that mean we will have to completely surrender?" "None of any significance, my lord. Only two small towns will be affected and they are mostly empty as a result of the conflict. The Sinhalien may utilise them as guard posts perhaps." "I see. Please continue." "My lord, the Sinhalien are sixty or more miles into Churchik lands. I believe their offer to withdraw to five miles is a strong indication they have honourable intentions and it is a gesture of good will. They could demand at least half those lands." Kher nodded. "I do not argue with you." He gave a sudden shrug. "It returns almost all Kerulen and Nuur land, so we can be grateful for that." He was content for an ambassador to go to the Sinhalien though somewhat disappointed there'd be no immediate reciprocity, and was more than amenable to lift the order demanding Soji's execution. He told Sarssen Soji was welcome to travel her homelands unmolested and merely added benevolently that the sentence should have been revoked earlier had he thought about it. Other aspects of Asok's demands were discussed and essentially agreed upon. At that point Sarssen became quiet in a way that made the warlord stare owlishly at him. "And the final demand, Haskar? There is something else because methinks it troubles you. So far everything you have outlined and discussed with me is reasonable and the other minor and agreements you mentioned can be sorted easily enough. So what is it?" "There is one other condition, my lord." "Yes?" The voice had gone cold. Sarssen glanced across at Luton, shrugged helplessly and spoke bluntly. "My lord, Asok demands that your son goes to him and remains with his people, until the peace is signed, as a pledge of your good intentions." Kher's reaction was predictable. There was no explosion of fury such as Lodestok would have indulged in. There was a sudden and frightening silence. Instinctively, Sarssen lowered his head in the conciliatory and non-threatening

gesture of old, but not before he saw eyes, like stones, yet at the same time vibrant with implacable fury. Luton stiffened, then as quickly relaxed. He turned to the warlord. "Father," he began, tentatively. "No!" was the icy yet harsh response. Luton rose to cross to the fire and back, his eyes dwelling pensively on Sarssen. "Sarssen, would I be under any threat?" "No, Lute. Asok assured me of that. He did not lie." Sarssen's throat felt unably dry. "He knows what I mean to my father?" "Yes, Lute, he knows that well." "He knows, too, then, that I am mated?" "Yes, Lute, indeed he does." "So he takes this action to force the pace of peace?" Luton's stare at the warrior was intense. Sarssen nodded. "Do you trust Asok, Sarssen?" Sarssen looked Luton in the eye. "Yes, Lute, I believe I do. I do not forget what he and his are to my sister or to your child. He also thinks your daughter needs time with you, something I believe too." "I see," said Luton, in a constricted voice. He looked across and down at the warlord, his expression deeply troubled. "Lute," cautioned Sarssen, very quietly but with some urgency. "Be careful with your father. Any perceived threat to you and he will not be around to listen to reason." "I understand," responded Luton, hastily. "Leave my father to me, Sarssen. I'll speak with him." He ushered Sarssen to the door, saying rather bleakly, "I know knives kill, Sarssen, but I'm not that easy to destroy." A shadow crossed the

attractive face and clouded the black eyes. "As you know, don't you?" "Yes, I know," answered Sarssen, in a perturbed voice. "Lute, think long and carefully before you act. More than your life hinges on the next weeks here." "I will do as you say. I don't act rashly." Luton closed the door and returned to the warlord, knelt in front of him, his head bowed. He said nothing until he felt the hand on his head in the familiar paternal gesture of affection. In response, he spoke. "Father, you know I will obey you as a son should." "Yes, son, I know that." "May I speak openly then, Father?" "My son may always speak unrestrainedly to his father, Shasah." "Father, this demand asks much of you and causes you much distress, something I'd spare you if I could. But I believe our options are extremely limited. I know under what pressure you are to go to war to retrieve lost lands, an act that could have far greater consequences than many are aware of. I know how you dread such a scenario. It seems to me that Asok maybe understands us better than many know themselves. His demand, under other circumstances, is not unreasonable. In the south, sons have been bonded over for cycles at a time to ensure the good will of the father, and as you know, Sarssen has recently freed bonded sons kept at Valshika for cycles." "Not you, son," uttered Kher, in the same harsh voice. "I won't go, Father, against your wishes, but, if you were sure of my safety, would you consider letting me go?" The hand on the dark curls stilled, there was a long silence, then the strong hand transferred to the bearded chin and long, powerful fingers brought up Luton's head. "What are you saying, boy?"

Luton's eyes met ones that shone with so much love for him and such unbearable anguish, the young man couldn't speak for a moment. Overcome, he swallowed a lump in his throat. What hit him was the realisation that behind that love was a deep fear of loss, something that made him grasp the warlord's hand in a very tight grip. "Father," he stammered, feeling a boy again. "Harth's with me. You mustn't forget Harth." "I do not," returned Kher, more calmly. "Explain, son." "Harth would know if I was threatened, Father. He would know before I did." "So?" "If my going is for the Sinhalien to carry out an act of betrayal, Father, a dragon's anger is far worse than your own and they wouldn't succeed." "I cannot allow the possibility to come about, Lute." Kher still gripped the chin, his eyes fixed to Luton's. "Who could get to you in time, son? Could Harth?" The warrior knew Luton never lied. "They can't touch me, Father. I promise you this. I've never lied to you and I don't now. I'm a mage, whether willingly or no, so it would be unwise to threaten me in any way and I also learned self-defence at the Keep. Sarssen and Beth will maintain a link with me all the time I'm there. Dase would sense anything untoward at the same time as I would, probably before me, so with those about me acting as remote guards, I'd be in no danger. I don't get the feeling, from listening to Sarssen, that the Sinhalien mean me harm. Rather, I sense they believe this is the only real lever they have to pressure peace." Kher let go Luton's chin, and, his voice breaking, he drew the young man into a close clasp. "Son, it tears at my essence to send you into possible danger. More than most, you have suffered so, Lute, I believe it is time you were left in peace. You are the most precious thing I have, my son. I can say no more than that, other than that I would give my life for you, child, if I had to. If they would take me instead it would make sense."

"No, Father," said Luton, in quick alarm. "You're critical here at this stage of Churchik change. You must see that." "Perhaps, son, perhaps." His head resting against the warlord's chest, Luton felt his father's enormous distress. It troubled him. A large hand ran through his hair and he heard Kher's voice, steadier now. "If I agree to this, son, and I am not convinced I shall, I will meet this Asok to warn him that should anything happen to you, the war that will follow will not stop until I have utterly destroyed every living Sinhalien I can find." A shiver crawled up and down Luton's spine, because the young man was aware the threat was neither idle nor made lightly. He felt Sarssen's concern was justified. ~~~ The High Council met the following morning, their arguments about the demands from Asok tossed to and fro. Sarssen was quite surprised at the reaction to the request for Luton to go as hostage, those opposing the granting of permission outweighing the others by three to one. The majority of the Council cautioned against trusting people who refused to even speak with the Churchik. Sarssen was rigorously questioned and thoroughly grilled for two hours before discussion became general, at which point Sarssen thankfully sank back in his chair and went back to listening rather than commenting. The High Council also asked to speak with the Saturim whom they listened to silently, their faces giving nothing away as Lute's double outlined how he perceived matters with the Sinhalien. He addressed all present directly and as equals, no response to warrior protocol shown. The ambassador was cool, his voice clipped. Nor did he waste or mince words. After he spoke he didn't wait to be dismissed, nor did he ask to be excused. He merely turned on his heel and left the chamber. It was apparent the warriors were torn two ways, the divisions deep. They wanted to conclude a war that had dragged on for over five cycles, mostly with loss to the Churchik in of land and life, and it was imperative the lost territories be recovered for the sake of the stability of the warrior hierarchy. It would settle mutinous grievances arising from dispossession. It would also assist in the income generated to pay towards reparation, thus easing the load some haskars felt they had to carry while others did not. Peace, at this time, was vital

to the Churchik, something of an irony, reflected Sarssen, watching faces about him. Also, the warrior lords were anxious that nothing should be done that could precipitate them into a widening war of revenge should anything happen to the warlord's son. Though some were warlike, they were well aware that the Churchik, if the truth were told, weren't honestly in a position where war would be to their advantage. They'd have preferred a quick, decisive clash that would free them up, in later cycles, to take retributive and punitive measures against those foes who humbled them now. From that point of view, a written peace had no appeal, but each warrior could see that Asok had cleverly limited their options, something Sarssen was glad he didn't have to spell out. The hierarchy knew well how terrible Kher's anger would be should Luton be hurt and none doubted the consequences. Sarssen didn't want to contemplate them. Like him, the warriors realised, as one, that Asok had been manipulative in hastening the end of war. With gnashed teeth, they came to an agreement. Finally, Luton was summoned. He was calm, walked with his graceful stride to stand beside his father and kept his head deferentially bent. Kher spoke and Luton listened. The only movement about the young man was in the changing expression of the black eyes that could be seen when he was curtly bidden to raise his head. Kher stopped speaking, his head turned to his son. Luton just smiled and held out his hand that the warlord grasped while the warriors again argued and questioned Luton. Finally, Luton stepped forward. "If my father permits, my lords, I will go as hostage to the Sinhalien. I only ask that be expeditiously drawn up." No one smiled because the seriousness of the situation was well comprehended. Sendak swung round to stare at Luton. "You realise the risk you take, do you, Shasah?" "I'll take precautions, my lord." Sendak's smile was sour. "See that you do, Beduar. I am not at all happy with this arrangement. You are dismissed." Luton bowed and was gone.

"If," said Kher, in a menacingly chilling voice, "my son goes as hostage, he does so strictly on the understanding that we have reached here. My decision will be final." ~~~ Two days later, just inside captured Churchik territory, Kher and Asok met. To an onlooker nothing of much importance seemed to be said or done. They would have missed much. Each man left the other knowing clearly that should anything go wrong, vengeance of the worst kind would result. Kher was prepared, after a long talk, to believe he could entrust Luton to Asok, while Asok read the same qualities of integrity and honour in the warrior. He saw other things about Kher Lodestok had lacked. Mostly, he saw innate goodness of nature and an all-consuming, ionate love and protection of his son whom he feared could be hurt yet again. Asok saw what it cost the warlord to turn and call his son to his side, where the young man was held in a crushing embrace, simply and lovingly. When they fell apart, the plainsman watched how they quietly conversed in low voices before the warlord gently gave the young man a shove. "Go now, son. The father will await his son." "The son counts the days to his return to the father who loves him," returned Luton, his voice quite gentle. He added, "He'll come, Father – I promise." Kher's eyes followed the willowy figure that mounted and rode slowly to the waiting Sinhalien. "You have been warned, plainsman," came the arctic tones. Asok nodded. He waited for Luton to reach him, stretched across to take the young man's reins, and then, with his men, he swung the horses about. Kher remained motionless, his eyes, tear-filled, fixed to the tall, dark figure that rode so easily and looked relaxed. Blindly, Kher turned to his horse. When he groped for the reins, his hands met other strong ones that clasped his briefly, then let go the reins into the warlord's shaking hands. Stiffly, Kher mounted. "He will come back, my lord, and he will bring new peace to the south. The time he spends in the plains will be good for him, I believe, and time with his daughter will be rewarding for both. Lute hasn't seen Jonqi for a long while now.

You have so much in your son to be proud of, my lord, and Lute has the same justifiable pride in his father." Kher blinked rapidly as he drew his horse close to Sarssen's. When he felt more composed and able to converse comfortably, he glanced at the warrior with a smile in his eyes. "Alleghy was a fool not to follow his concubine's progress, young man," he said, sincerely. "He should have known his eldest son because you are worth the others put together. Sven was a violent young fool, full of brilliance and daring certainly, but lacking basic commonsense, and Loki? Well, Loki was a youth still, I suppose, but he lacked the substance of a true warrior. And for Alleghy's brother to repudiate you is beyond my understanding. Had I not a son in Lute, Sarssen, I would have been proud to call you son." Sarssen took in a deep breath. That was an uncalled for compliment indeed. "Why did Alleghy hate you so, because he did, did he not? He never missed an opportunity to put you in your place." "I was merely a slave boy not meant to survive the violence and brutality of the warlord's more extreme moments of lust," answered Sarssen, candidly. "I grew up, then I became a warrior which was something he found offensive and intolerable. I was slave caste, after all. Then I was chosen by the warlord to become his son. He tried to have me chastised, sent me with bad reports to the warlord in the hope I would be soundly flogged, whipped me at every turn, and made me feel my slave status whenever he was around. Once, the warlord did not play the game and I believe, though I was not told directly, that Haskar Bensar was told to make Haskar Alleghy's status very clear. This came to me much later, my lord." Kher eyed Sarssen incredulously. "Bensar was told to show Alleghy...?" His voice trailed off in disbelief. "And this was done?" "So I was told, my lord. It made Haskar Alleghy like me even less." "I am not surprised," uttered Kher. "For one haskar to inflict such humiliation on another is unspeakable." "That is why the haskar did not like me," offered Sarssen. Suddenly, Kher threw back his head and laughed. "He had no hold over me, my lord. I owed him nothing."

"Did you hate him?" asked the warlord conversationally, after the gales of laughter that shook him subsided. He decided he'd enjoy the saga of Alleghy's discomfiture more in private. Sarssen shook his head. "No, my lord. I was afraid of him at first, then wary, then I came perhaps to despise him. His actions over Soji angered me, but the man is now dead so cannot answer in his own defence." "You are charitable," observed the warlord. "His brother's spite and the boy's greed could have killed you." "Yes, my lord," responded Sarssen, placidly. "Had it not been for you, my lord, I might well now be dead. Talent was enough to condemn me, let alone being Alleghy's son." "Could we have killed you?" Sarssen gave a low laugh. "That I cannot answer, my lord. None of us are indestructible." "Do mages easily die?" "No, my lord, I believe not." "Then, young one, under the current circumstances, I take comfort from that." The two men rode the rest of the way back to the city in silence, Sarssen tactfully reserved and Kher restless and brooding. Sarssen suspected the next weeks would be frenzied ones. It would see the work on a satisfactory treaty leading to very late nights and little pleasure during the day, nor would he be surprised if he was drafted in on the wording that was to be used so as to avoid any later confusion or misinterpretation.

CHAPTER THREE

While Luton rode with the Sinhalien, Charilae was introduced to warrior society and attended her first formal function. She'd spent weeks of immersion in social graces and now Evereh and Xotica wished to flaunt their young beauty who had blossomed under their aegis. Their kindness and Xotica's affection had effected a marked change from the girl who knelt abjectly in the eligh awaiting expected execution. She'd come, unknowingly, to eletom. Today, she walked confidently, the queenly head held high, and now, clad in rich and becoming robes of deepest gold, she took the hand of a patently iring young warrior who asked her to dance. He looked down to her burnished chestnut head, then, when he addressed her, Charilae raised eyes that made the young man's heart race. They were soulful, bewitching, unusual and deep mead gold to match her robes. Charilae drew all eyes. "Your protégé is a most lovely little creature," observed Haskar Onde, iringly. "Indeed." Evereh preened himself. "When Easmonda came to us she was a sad sight." "Then you and the Karina have done wonders for her. I find it difficult to believe that Correc should have thrown such a child." "It shocked us all," observed Evereh, dourly. "And for a father to enslave his own still disgusts me." "She shows little sign of slavery. Quite the reverse. Did Karina Agge not want her? Is that it? We all knew she was a very strong-minded woman." "Easmonda says very little. All we can gather is that her mother was Dahkilan, a woman Correc met when he was in Elibera and took as his concubine. Few knew he later married the woman, then, after her, he wed Agge. Easmonda's beauty is clearly inherited from her mother, something that would be anathema to Agge. Easmonda has little of her father in her appearance." "Presumably that is why no one guessed Correc threw a half-breed. How ironic!"

"Quite," came the acid agreement. "So, what are your plans for Easmonda?" came another voice. As Onde moved away, another warrior lounged against a post so he could observe both Evereh and Charilae. "We were merely asked to take the child and teach her how to present herself as a woman," was the response. "Well," commented Buse, thoughtfully, "you have succeeded. I may be older, Evereh, but I am a widower and though Easmonda may not have Karina status as such, still, she would make a pretty handful for a haskar, especially one of wide experience such as myself. Or there are others who could comfortably take her, hopefully as wife, but not necessarily." "Possibly," concurred Evereh, his eyes back on Charilae doing a turn in the dance. "The child is technically Tempkar Sorien's, so the decision about her future rests in his hands." "Do you have no plans for her?" "Maybe," smiled Evereh. "I doubt Sorien will have any use for her, other than the obvious." "What about Losaren?" "It was he who asked us to undertake Easmonda's tutelage, so he may have some plan in mind for her. Sorien does his brother's bidding." "As Correc's daughter she could be tied in marri to a house of your choosing, Evereh, if you play your cards right," suggested Buse, turning to watch Charilae. "You were a friend of Correc's and the house of Glisk is an honourable one. With an appropriate warrior Easmonda could benefit your house, especially if you have her bedded in marri and the child born of the union is a boy. That boy could later challenge Sorien and Losaren, certainly for part of Correc's estate forfeit to them by the Suldan for their offspring." Evereh looked long at Buse. "Quite," he acknowledged, noncommittally. "And," went on Buse, persuasively, "those lands would accrue to your house.

Think on it, Evereh. She could be a useful and valuable commodity for you – or someone else who can see how she could be successfully manipulated if you do not." "We shall see," offered Evereh, thoughtfully. "At the moment she is our guest and we still have work to do with her." "All going in a satisfactory direction," concurred Buse, with a smothered laugh. "You are a shrewd man, my friend. I have always said so." With that Buse moved away. ~~~ Luton's first hours with the Sinhalien were, understandably, very nervous ones, until Asok made it quite clear to the young Samar that he was unquestioningly accepted. Only Asok referred to Soji and that was so obliquely and calmly that Luton wasn't bothered by it. No one else mentioned her. Still, he was delighted to be re-united with Soji. She told him she'd seen him coming for weeks and hugged him in a warm, sisterly embrace that gave way to a greeting from Leontok. He took both Luton's hands in a warm, welcoming grasp. "It pleases us to have you with us," said the young plainsman. "Jonqi's talked of you for weeks now, assuring us you were coming, but she seemed to have no idea we awaited you." "Where is she?" asked Luton, eagerly pivoting to look about him. He stood outside the family obtusa. Soji simply stared at him, clearly overcome by how this warrior looked cycles after her first encounter with him. She thought he looked so very much stronger, whole, and as if he were truly fully alive and fulfilled. It filled her with a sense of relief and pleasure he should be so. "She's with the children in another camp at the moment," returned Leontok, casually. He guided Luton forward. "We don't feel we know you as well as the Saturim," he added, stooping at the entrance and pushing Luton in ahead of him. "You're to live with us. Do you mind?" "No." Luton shook his head. "Do you?"

"Of course not," laughed Leontok. "We've wanted to get to know you ever since we saw you in the Shadowlands. You must let me say you look so very different, Luton." "Call me Lute. Everyone does. And yes, I was still not very well when I saw you. I never really had the chance, even then, to meet you properly." "You look more like the Saturim, doesn't he, Soji?" Soji gave a soft laugh and hefted a small child onto her hip. "Yes, very. You're as you should've looked, Lute. It gives me such pleasure to see you like this." "Thank you," was the courteous response, before Luton crossed to her to stare thoughtfully down. "Who's the child?" "His name's Etiokin," Soji responded. "He's our youngest. You'll not recognise Carok, he's grown so." "And Jonqi?" "Ah, Jonqi," sighed Soji. "She's grown a great deal since you last saw her, Lute. She comes to maturity this season. I'd hoped you'd be here for that. She wanted it as well." "Maturity?" repeated Luton, blankly. "She's still a child." "Fast growing through childhood," said Leontok, with an amused smile and signalling that Luton sit and take a cup. "Jonqi approaches girlhood and in another few cycles matures into womanhood. Time flies quickly for the young." Luton was silent. "Girlhood comes with physical maturing, Lute. Jonqi comes to this. It's begun for her so she goes through the ceremony associated with it. She's been brought up to it and anxiously awaits the sign she leaves childhood behind her." "Doesn't she sleep here?" asked Luton bewildered, staring about him. He drank from the shallow cup of welcome, drained it, and set it carefully on matting. "No," chuckled Leontok. "Jonqi's long slept in the girl childrens' obtusa, as Carok sleeps with the boys. At four cycles Etiokin will move there, but by then

Carok will be maturing. The ceremony will see Jonqi move to the obtusa with the maturer girls. They'll help her grow and understand, where children no longer satisfy her urge to know." "And the ceremony?" "Her coming to fertility is a time of rejoicing," said Leontok. Then, aware of Luton's expression and the confusion in the dark eyes, he tactfully changed the subject, talking instead about the war, warriors and Luton's time in the desert. While he spoke, Soji prepared Luton's bed and carefully set out the modest selection of clothes and items he'd brought for his stay. Then the young man was whisked away to in the eating. ~~~ Over the next weeks, Luton felt increasingly at ease in the familial relationship and the tension, painfully evident, left him. He was watched from a distance and discussed, but none other than Soji and Leontok accompanied him until it was thought he was comfortable about strangers. It was seen he liked solitude, so when he walked out from the obtusa one morning, to stare longingly over the plains, Leontok, after talking with his father, suggested Luton might like to wander out alone for a time. "Is this allowed for a hostage?" asked Luton, surprised but gratified. "You're hostage in name only, Lute," he was reminded. "We think of you as family, or if you prefer it, as guest, but not hostage, no. You're free to wander where you wish." Luton gave a deep sigh. "I thank you," he said, with southern courtesy. He raised his hands above his head. "The plains that stretch from the south to the Dahkilan Mountains have spiritual significance for me, ever since I crossed them as a slave boy with Kher, and then again later, when I was taken north to the southern army of the warlord's. As a slave, I used to appreciate the sense of freedom the plains gave me, so much so I could imagine I wasn't being taken south to a master I knew would hurt me. Kher gave me that freedom. For those weeks, crossing the open spaces, I was truly happy." Luton paused and stared about him. "On the trip north to the army I was deprived of sensations as you know them and felt no emotion, yet Kher said I responded to the plains, again, as though they gave me

something as the desert does. The solitude doesn't frighten me. Rather it nourishes me. Can you understand?" "Yes," answered Leontok. "Yes, Lute, I can." Luton glanced back at Leontok with a trace of unexpected diffidence. "I never mean to be rude, but at times I crave to be alone. It's part of what being enslaved did to me." "I believe, from something my father said, that the Saturim has the same need. After communicating with us, we'd see him look longingly out where you wish to go, so yearningly in fact that my father told him to go and return when he wished. He'd come back, tension drained, eyes clear and he'd smile in a way that made Soji say she saw you as you should've been. Is it being a twin that you're both affected so?" Luton fumbled with his belt. "I don't know." He again stared away. "If you're one, savagely split in two, a half taken away completely from the other that is still emotionally alive, then you seek the inner and outer sanctuaries of silence and aloneness. That's so you can try to come to grips with what happened to your shattered identity. Dase was emotionally alive but devastated and crippled, while I was closed, locked away, unable to relate to anything or anyone. Later I was emotionless, so I was, in effect, as good as dead. It was in the silence and isolation imposed on us that Dase and I finally found each other. So that loneliness was both a hell and our hope the one for the other. It will never leave us. I think, maybe, when Dase or I go out alone, we still unconsciously seek the other, even though we know the other's there and can be touched. Can you understand that?" "I think so." "Silence, peace, aloneness became our respective sanctuaries, our salvation if you like, and we'll always be drawn to areas that fulfil that essential need in us. I thank you for letting me go." "Before you do, Lute, may I ask you something?" "Of course." Luton swung round to face Leontok squarely.

"Are you unhappy with us, Lute?" Luton shook his head, the slow attractive smile Leontok liked so much coming to the dark eyes. "No, Leon, I'm not unhappy. Quite the reverse." Leontok nodded briskly, then turned away. As he walked, he thought he'd never heard Luton utter so many words at one time, the warrior reticent to the point of taciturn, patient, sometimes withdrawn, quiet, unobtrusive, singularly considerate and courteous, but always that distance removed. But not today. Something in the plainsman rejoiced at that, as though a gate firmly locked opened just a little to allow the glimpse of a deeply sensitive individual destined to mostly walk alone. Leontok felt unably drawn to the tall man, unaware he'd come to feel very protective of this young man. Asok saw it but made no comment. He was content to let things take their course. ~~~ It was two weeks before Luton met his daughter again. He roamed the camp, learned games and cards that he was quick to prove more than skilled at, so much so he began cheerfully to fleece his hosts. Leontok threatened not to play with such a devastating opponent. He began to run out into the long grasses where he'd lie for hours at a time, alone, but blissfully content while he watched the clouds scurry by. It was on his return from a foray in the grasslands that he met Jonqi again. He was in the obtusa, stooped over a glass that let him see to comb out his thick mass of hair, when he sensed he wasn't alone. He turned his head, the comb entangled in a knot. He left it there while he stared at the boy, hand in hand with a tall, leggy girl. Jonqi stopped dead, the boy stared unrecognisingly with wide eyes, let go the girl's hand and turned from the obtusa entrance. He fled at sight of the stranger there, but Jonqi just stayed where she was, her big eyes filling with tears. Luton thought how very much the steppe child she was the way she stood there, motionless. Jonqi was tall for her cycles and thin in the way Luton knew he was at the same age. Her black curls were extremely long, so long Luton suspected they'd never been cut, and the black eyes were as big and lustrous as her father's. She was clad in simple steppe clothes, and, even in winter, she was barefoot like any plains child, while her skin was as pale as her mother's. Luton saw a young

Bethel. The face was so like. Luton made no move either, other than to haul on the comb that sprang free and fell to the mat. They stayed, eyes locked to one another's. Then Luton held out his arms, his voice husky. "Jonqi," he whispered. "Jonqi." Her tears spilled over as she ran to him and felt long arms wrap round her. "Pasangan. I dreamed you came but when I woke you weren't there. You took so long to come." She cuddled in close, delighted that his beard should tickle her forehead. "How long are you here?" Luton put his lips to the top of her head. "For a little while, child. Already I've been here nearly two weeks." "Two weeks!" exclaimed Jonqi, aggrieved. "Why wasn't I brought here sooner?" "That I can't answer. Ah, Jonqi, how you've grown. You're so tall, you're up to my chest. You're going to be a tall young woman." "They say Masangan's tall for a woman," Jonqi answered, lifting her head from against his chest. "And you're taller than most." "I guess I am," agreed Luton, sitting down on a pallet and drawing Jonqi into his lap. Jonqi snuggled against him. "I have so much to tell you," she confided. "Do you want to know?" Luton nodded. He settled back against banked up cushions so he could lie back comfortably and listen to the placid, deep little voice. Jonqi talked with him as though they'd not been apart for cycles, her hands stroking his face every so often while she described new experiences, her steppe pasangan's city where they most often lived these days, of her schooling that showed she was far advanced and of lessons in seeing she had from her mother and Sagi. Her bond with Asok was deeply rooted. It showed in the way she referred to him, her eyes soft and luminous like Bethel's. Clearly she liked to be with the plainsman whenever she could. She was also very attuned to Setoni. "Do you play the siku, Jonqi?" asked Luton, when a somewhat artless recital of her life came to a breathless end. Jonqi nodded. "Is it here?" Jonqi burrowed under some cushions at the end of the pallet and put the pipes to her lips.

"I play them like this," she announced and played. Luton tilted his head and listened to a delightful melody played with verve. She played another piece then discarded the pipes so she could cuddle back close to Luton. "Do you like to play the siku?" "Sometimes," she confessed. "Only when I feel like it." "What would you like to know?" Luton asked. "Tell me about the trip through the desert and the desert people," urged Jonqi, her eyes shining. "And tell me, too, what you had to do to become a haskar's son, because Masangan tells me you've become one. What did you have to do?" Curiosity shone in the ebon eyes. So Luton obliged. First he told how the warlord died and then how a new warlord now ruled in his place, and he felt her excitement when she squirmed against him at the news Kher was now warlord. "So you're the son of a warlord?" she asked, incredulously. "Yes, child, I am." "Are you here because of that?" "Not entirely," replied Luton. He stroked the dark head. "Jonqi, I'm here because of you. I wish to know you again and share your company. It's too long since we were together." He heard the murmured assent. "The other reason I'm here is to end the war." "How?" "Peace are being drawn up now, Jonqi. I'm here as the Churchik pledge of good faith." Jonqi wrinkled her nose distastefully. "What if you should decide to leave?" "I wouldn't, child. Nor do I wish to. I have you again you see." Jonqi blushed adorably and wriggled her bare toes.

"I come to the first step of maturity, Pasangan." "So Leon tells me." "There's a ceremony." "Yes, I know." "Will you come?" "Do you wish me to?" "Yes," whispered Jonqi, burying red cheeks against his chest. "I want you to witness the first touching." "Then I'll come, Jonqi, of course." Overcome, Jonqi got a fit of very girlish giggles. Luton lightly tickled her. She collapsed and laughed up at him in so natural a way, Luton felt he'd never been apart from this child. While she chuckled and squirmed he told her about Choja and Chey, until suddenly she sat bolt upright and stared with disarming solemnity at her father. "Who's Chey?" "She's my new mate," explained Luton, unsure what the girl's reaction might be. He was disconcerted to see her eyes danced. "Is she with child then?" she asked. It was Luton's turn to be surprised. "Yes," he itted. "How could you know their rituals, Jonqi?" "Though it wasn't so with Pasangan and Masangan, we, too, have mating rituals like that, though not always." She paused, thoughtfully. "It's after that the true mating follows and the man or woman become adult. It's part of what I'm learning as I prepare for girlhood, Pasangan. I begin on the path to understanding the body and the pleasures it can give." "Gods," mumbled Luton, feeling hopelessly out of his depth. "That's the Churchik way, I think," pursued Jonqi, with laughter in her eyes. "I'm

part Churchik, yes?" "Yes, child," agreed Luton. "And part Samar?" Luton nodded, wondering what came next. "Is it the Samar way?" Luton felt on much safer ground. "No, Jonqi, it's not. Things are done quite differently there and not in front of others as is common in the south." "Were you Samar or southern with Chey, Pasangan?" "Southern," confessed Luton, thinking back to sessions with Choja. "You're still young to think of the rituals for mating, little one. There's much maturing to come for a nearly twelve cycle girl." The puckish look that suffused the small face with mischief was gone in seconds. Jonqi shook her head. "I'm to be mated at seventeen cycles, Pasangan. Didn't you know?" "No, child. How could I? How can you be so sure?" "My mate awaits me as I await him," came the surprisingly mature answer. Luton stared down into the sombre face that showed placid eyes of conviction. "Jonqi love, what's this? Does Soji know?" Jonqi shook her head. "Masangan doesn't know, but she has no plans for me other than my growing to maturity among the steppe people." "And your mate, child. Who is he?" "Kasphros." "Kasphros?" repeated Luton, in stupefied tones. He frowned at the elusive thought that caught at his mind but naggingly refused to coalesce into a cohesive image. He struggled with recall that stayed maddeningly vague. He grasped at a thread. "The ceremony, Jonqi," he said, urgently. "The ceremony in the Shadowlands. Is that what it's partly about, little one?" "Yes," came the direct answer, without equivocation or anxiety. "We're bonded

one to the other, Pasangan. The bond may never be broken. Wherever I am, Kasphros will come." "And he knows this as clearly as you do?" "He knows. I'll wait for him." "Little daughter," began Luton earnestly, "does this cause you distress? Tell me if it does, I beg of you." The black eyes upturned to his sparkled. "I'm happy, Pasangan. I know it's my future." "It's understood and expected, is it?" Jonqi nodded. "Did you have a choice, Jonqi? I must know this, because to me it's very important." "You had none, Pasangan, none at all, but I did. I was shown what life for me could be should I choose it." "Were you offered something pleasant in return for that choice offered you?" "No, Pasangan. I wasn't given or promised anything. I saw what could be, that's all." "And you chose that, by yourself? No one prompted or forced you?" "No, Pasangan. I chose at the moment Kasphros nodded to show he, too, understood and accepted. It was then we were bonded." Luton gazed into eyes that were identical to his own. "All I care about, little daughter, is that you're happy. That is vital for me." "Why, Pasangan?" Luton struggled with emotions that showed in fleeting expressions on his face. His eyes looked deeply sad. "Jonqi, I don't know if you understand your origins." "I think I do, Pasangan. Why do you ask?" "Do you know what happened to your mother, child?" Jonqi shook her head. "Then, little one, I must tell you so no one else does in the cruellest way. You must understand that I was a mage's slave, Jonqi. I had neither emotions nor

feelings, and, though this may be difficult for you, it means I couldn't know finer emotions like love, caring, sensitivity to hurt, or anything like that." "What are you saying, Pasangan?" came a husky voice. "It means I was a walking husk. I couldn't even cry, child, and had no recognition of what tears were. My master made me only from the time I woke, drained of everything I once was, in his Keep." "Where I saw you?" "Yes." "Where the tall, hairless man punished you and did horrid things to you and others, but mostly to you?" "Yes," murmured Luton, taking Jonqi's hands firmly in his. "Jonqi, my mage master sent me to mate with your mother. Neither of us knew, neither had choice, none at all. I obeyed my master because if I didn't he hurt me very badly, and your mother obeyed her father because that's the way a Churchik child behaves, especially a girl-child." "Did you hurt Masangan?" "Yes," whispered Luton anguished, his head bending over Jonqi's. "And I was born after that?" Luton nodded. "Masangan took me away from the Churchik, but she never said why." "She took you away, child, because my master said you were to be taken to the Keep to be with me. There he'd have done to you what he did to me. You'd have been his slave, just as I was." Luton felt the quiver that ran through the child. "And, in time, he'd have used you as he used me. Both of us would've died after that. That's how the mage thought." "Masangan saved me?" "Yes, Jonqi, she did. She showed great courage. You should never forget that and she could so easily have died. She came to the mountains, because she had visions while she carried you, vivid seeings of Sagi, my greatdame, and the

mountains that saved you both." "And to the steppe people like Pasangan." "And to people like Leon, yes." "Did the Churchik like me?" Luton stayed silent, unable to tell a child that her conception and birth were considered an abomination. "Pasangan?" "Not especially, little daughter, because, you see, you closely resemble me and I was a slave from inferior northern peoples." "Are all Churchik cruel like that?" "No, little one, they're not. Kher was kind to me and I love and honour him as my father. He's not a cruel man. Many Churchik are honourable men who are respected. Sadly, your greatsire Alleghy wasn't one of them, not in that way, though he was recognised as the epitome of what a fierce warrior should be." "He sired brasangan." "Yes," answered Luton, with an effort. "Brasangan's a warrior, and so are you. You're not cruel." "No, child, neither is Kher. He wants to meet his greatchild." "Me? I'm a warlord's greatchild?" "Indeed you are, little love. He wishes to know you and would like you to be recognised as part Churchik. Like your Uncle Sarssen, you're half-Churchik, and he's now recognised." "I'm a half-breed." Jonqi considered that. "Brasangan's sons are, too," she finally announced. Luton grasped the gist of her remark very swiftly. "Shae is, yes, and it's true Kalbeth is as well. Does it worry you?" "No," answered Jonqi. "It's because I hurt your mother and brought you into Ambros that way, that it

means everything to me you're happy, Jonqi," whispered Luton. "It's not your fault I was born," said Jonqi, suddenly and with remarkable fierceness to her voice. She spoke with considerable maturity. "It was the nasty, nasty mage who took you and wanted me. Where is he, Pasangan?" "I believe he's gone from Ambros, child, but I sometimes wonder if..." Luton's voice trailed to a long silence, before slender fingers caught Luton's beard and gripped strongly. "He won't be allowed to hurt you again, Pasangan. Kasphros and I'll see to that, and one day, cycles from now, he'll know." "Jonqi love, what are you saying?" Dark eyes met and held with dark eyes. "He won't be allowed to hurt you again, Pasangan, I promise." "What does this mean?" asked Luton, bewildered. "Jonqi, what can you know? Are you in danger?" The little head lifted to show wisdom in eyes that belonged to an experienced adult and not to a child at all. Luton had the oddest sensation he looked through someone of infinite cycles who made him feel very young, humble and small. The look faded and all Luton saw was a child, a very pretty one, with a roguish smile and a shaking head. "I'm in no danger, Pasangan. After all I live in the steppes, don't I?" Jonqi gripped her father's hand tightly, gently pulled down his head and kissed him, daughter to father.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ensore looked up from a letter he was perusing. He was on his way to the rump of the southern army, a long journey that at times was bitterly cold. He pocketed the letter from Sarehl which was a long, meaty epistle. It ed a brief note from Kalor and a hastily scrawled note from Brue, telling Ensore that he and Maren were finally relieved from Sushi so Maren could now, at last, take up t military istration of Samar with Kalor. Kalor's brief note declared this arrangement was most acceptable, because it relieved him of time to spend helping to supervise Kaleb's burgeoning vineyards that were most promising indeed. He wrote of his delight to be with Brue again who was nineteen cycles. That made Ensore sigh deeply, because he thought how time had flown from his receiving Sarehl's letter telling him Brue was found. And back then, Brue was only five cycles. Kalor's description of Brue was vivid. It spoke of the young man as mature for his age and a fine, responsible junior officer. Sarehl's drawing of his youngest sibling was even more revealing. He wrote of Brue as quiet, thoughtful, an astute observer, no longer a boy but a young one now confident, assured and more than willing to respond to responsibilities. The promise Maren had seen in the boy had come about. Sarehl described a very tall, big-boned youth with long copper hair worn Sushi fashion and Sarehl also wrote, laughter coming through the lines, of Brue's developing and respectable red beard. Ensore found it hard to credit that the carefree, confiding and naughtily buoyant boy, with the irrepressibly twinkling blue eyes, could have become a serious, reflective and strongly empathic young man with a beard, someone remarkably like his eldest brother. Brue's caring for Maren and his wife sounded especially touching. Apparently emotion overcame him when advised by Nakron that they could accompany the young Samar home and make their home there with the young man if they wished. Neither Maren nor Ceda hesitated. Where Brue went, so did they. At present they lodged with Sarehl and Kasan but already Maren had intimated he would like to own his own home. Impishly, Sarehl wrote to Ensore telling his friend that not only was Maren being given a home, but a substantial estate upon

which he could build what he liked. It sounded as if Maren's future in Samar was assured. Sarehl wrote of Lian who'd made several visits since Ensore left Samar and how close he'd become to Alfar who stayed roguish, inattentive at school and always restless. Chloris was the same as ever. Sarehl's description of her was especially detailed because he was aware of Ensore's interest in, and adoration of, the child who'd succeed him as Chamah. Tamas grew very fast and was apparently now quite leggy, his hair as black and curly as his father's and he was blessed with the same black eyes. He was all Samar, still shy and retiring, but attracted to people who drew. He stayed close to Chloris, whose artistic talents continued to develop and flourish, her gifts very real, the little boy encouraged by his sister to draw pictures whenever he was with her. She showed them to their parents who raised eyebrows. The work was quite unexpected in a child so young and made Sarehl wonder if Tamas would be itted to the Artist Guild at an unusually young age, just as Bethel was accepted as a prodigy. Sarehl decided to keep a close eye on this most unassuming child, who, again like Bethel, seemed in his own little world, at times distant from those about him. And the twins continued to grow and flourish, their cantankerous and demanding start to life settled into placidity. It seemed they attracted a good deal of attention simply because they were twins, something that made Ensore smile. His smile broadened at Sarehl's expressed hope they'd be more like Chloris than Alfar, because his observations of the little boys made him think they'd indeed be a very real handful. Sarehl's rambling discourse was intended to give amusement and it did. Ensore read how Manas was considerably more settled in Samar and appeared attracted to a Samar woman, a comment from Sarehl that made the Ensore give a startled chuckle. And he read of Samar's progress, written in such a way it entertained Ensore enormously. He decided that no matter how much the Curule protested, he'd be back in Samar within another cycle. Correspondence might be full, but Ensore confessed to missing Sarehl very much. And Ensore thought back to Kaleb's latest letter that was as descriptive and

entertaining as Sarehl's, the news quite different because the healer was constantly in touch with Sarssen. That he and the warrior had undergone some ceremony he understood. He read of the insurrection against Sarssen and Bethel with bated breath, then read how the pair were swept off to the east with the new warlord to help settle the long running territorial dispute with the Sinhalien. He knew they'd meet up with Daxel and wondered if they'd enlightened the young man about Samar. He hoped so, but wondered when Daxel made no mention of it in his letters. Coached by Ongwin, Daxel wrote long and regular letters that Ensore cherished, his eyes brightening when he was handed a missive in Daxel's bold handwriting. The Chamah knew Luton was back in Caciqua, so that pleased him because it meant Daxel would be with two brothers again. Ensore wondered if Luton might be drawn into the matter of the Sinhalien because, like Sarssen, he was connected with those people through Soji. The Chamah grinned at reading of Luton's mating, recalling Sarssen's comments about the possibility of such long seasons ago, the warrior acute as ever. And thinking of Luton made Ensore think of Daxel. He was aware that it was more than time he recalled the young ambassador and sent a replacement. He allowed Daxel to assist Kher because the young Saturim had excellent arbitration and conciliation skills, but he also felt the young man's time in the south had served its purpose and it was time for Daxel to move on to other things. He read Daxel's description of his meeting with Autoc with a wry grin twisting his lips, but when he wrote back his comment about it was cursory. Daxel could tell him more when he was recalled. Thinking about Daxel made the Chamah stare more thoughtfully into the fire because he knew the Saturim's future had to be settled and very soon. He acknowledged that he missed Daxel very, very much. ~~~

Slave traders looked cursorily at the tall thin boy, about nine or ten cycles, who stood in front of them, barefoot, clad in rags, his filthy head hanging limply. "He's a mute," spat one slaver. "He was with the woman who died yesterday. Is he any use?"

"Not much," grunted a second slaver. "He's an ugly, dirty little beast, too, so of no value south for Chika, and he's no meat on his bones to be useful for labour." "He can wash dishes," muttered a third man, a hand hard on the boy's shoulder. He swung the child round and gave him a shove, then a very hard kick on his skinny bum as the boy stumbled, tripped and fell. That caused considerable amusement. "Get up, fool!" mocked the first slaver, watching the boy get uncertainly to his feet and edge away from the men at the fire. "Get to the pots, boy, now!" came the barked order. The child nodded forlornly and turned. He obeyed orders until night fell, then, unobtrusively and unnoticed, the boy crept silently to where new earth was heaped and there he went to his knees, tears dripping down his face as he thought of his mother, gone from him. He stayed still for a very long time, then, without looking back, he began to run, as fast as he could, the food and water he'd stolen, slung in a sack he had flung over one shoulder. And after he felt safely away from the slavers, he kept moving, always eastwards as if by instinct, the boy hiding by day and only moving under cover of darkness. If he saw people he waited at a distance until, after nightfall, he felt he could creep close and steal what he could, mostly leftovers thrown away from sites. As time ed he became very, very thin, waiflike and skeletal as Luton was in the mountains. And the eyes never lightened – they were permanently dark. ~~~ Time ed. Luton alternated his time wandering the grasslands, with his daughter with whom the bond deepened by the day, and with his extended family through Jonqi. Luton and Asokin developed a comfortable rapport and Leontok's affection for the tall Samar grew the more they were together. Leontok told Soji he didn't think the twins were identical, both so completely different in personality and certainly in expression. Soji smiled. She thought back to the strikingly handsome youth who held everyone momentarily breathless when he entered a great hall cycles ago, and, like others present, Soji was struck by the magnetic quality of the young man. He was tall with a broad-shouldered physique. Though the fever frailty was part of him even then, he was as like Daxel as could be. That was before the mage's

worst abuses began. Whenever Soji thought of the mage, she became unable to breathe without a strange constriction that clutched at her throat and chest. Her first comprehension that the mage, who had Luton and wanted Jonqi, was Malekim, shattered and terrified her. It took weeks for her to recover from the shock. Her revulsion and fear made her so physically ill she was unable to eat or sleep, nights spent in tormented sweats and nightmares that very nearly made her lose her reason. Only gentle kindness and time helped heal Soji. She learned to push the thought of the mage away, but now, with Luton's presence, the mage intruded into her thoughts and she began to dream again. It was only Jonqi's casually dropped comment that made Soji breathe more easily. "Pasangan says he was told the mage's gone from Ambros, Masangan." "What's that?" asked Soji, lifting her head quickly to stare at her daughter searchingly. "It's true," returned Jonqi, with a smile. "He doesn't know where the mage's gone, but I believe Pasangan won't see him again." "I pray you're right," uttered Soji, turning back to sorting clothes. She changed the subject. "These are what you'll wear for the first part of the ceremony, Jonqi. Do you like them?" Distracted, Jonqi crossed to her mother's side. "Oh, Masangan," she squeaked with delight, her hands going to her mouth. "Red becomes a child with dark hair and eyes," said Soji, smoothing out soft fabric. ~~~ Jonqi's day came and went. She was brought from the children's obtusa for the ceremony that celebrated her move from childhood to girlhood and was proud to see that Luton stood close to watch the moment. The physical aspects of the ceremony made Luton very uncomfortable but he saw how Jonqi responded, wide-eyed and with surprised pleasure. When she was carried back to the girls' obtusa, no men were permitted there, but later, hours later, Soji came to tell Luton that Jonqi was now in the familial obtusa and wanted him.

He found the child sprawled out. "Jonqi, you're no longer a child." "No," whispered Jonqi, hoarsely. "Little one." Luton sat beside her and lifted her into his arms. He gently rocked her to and fro. He began to unconsciously sing a lullaby that he ed his mother sang to a fretful or crying Brue, a tune that simply arrived in his mind and needed to be sung again now. He felt the girl relax in his arms, so much so that when Soji came an hour later, the dark eyes were the usual placid ones and Jonqi lay comfortably in her father's arms. When Soji quietly ed Luton a cup she indicated was for Jonqi, the girl obediently drained it, gave a contented sigh, and closed her eyes. Within minutes she was deeply asleep. "Something disturbed her, Lute," whispered Soji, coming forward to help Luton lift Jonqi and settle her on the pallet, covers carefully drawn about her against the chill of the night. "She was happy enough with the ceremony," said Luton, straightening up outside the obtusa. "Is it usual for there to be pain afterwards?" "Yes," replied Soji, with a little smile. "She'd never been touched in such a way. No steppe child is until this age, but it'll be gone very quickly." "So it wasn't that?" "No." Soji shook her head. "She woke in the middle of the ceremony, something unusual in itself because the drug a child's given is strong for the moment. She began to cry for you. She's never done that before." Soji saw Luton's look of anxiety and added quickly, "It wasn't that she was afraid or hurt, Lute. She just needed to be near you." "What are you saying?" "I'm glad you were here for her, Lute, that's all. She needed you." Soji hesitated, then went on, "Lute, I sense she's bonded to you in some way, that her life's entwined with yours, and, though she's my child too and lives here among us,

her spirit goes with you. At this moment of intense excitement, sexual discovery and step forward into the unknown, she needed that bond to be expressed in a physical way, with you and no one else." There was an even longer pause as Soji stared at Luton, his eyes locked with hers, his questioning. "Lute, I sometimes think you gave her more than just life. I believe that in our mating you gave something of your inner self, some of your essence maybe, that's unexpectedly become a part of Jonqi. It draws her to you in an inexplicable way. I don't believe the mage intended that to happen. Am I making any sense?" "Does she fret for me?" asked Luton, incredulously. "Not as such," answered Soji, with a troubled expression. "Only when she senses you're coming but you haven't arrived. Then she becomes restless. I sometimes wonder if she's just seer, Lute." She gave a convulsive shiver. "I also wonder if your master saw so far ahead, he knew what she might become or what he wanted her to be." "That's possible," answered Luton, his eyes becoming instantly sombre. He knew enough now not to speak openly about Malekim, and already he could see Soji's eyes were drenched with awful dread. He gave her a quick, reassuring smile, talked inconsequentially about other things, then quietly escorted Soji from the obtusa, sure in his mind that she was diverted from a thought that made Luton highly apprehensive. He began to things about those days at the Keep, how Malekim judged the timing of the visit to Chika, the length of time the journey must take, and the suggestion implanted in his mind that he'd know at the exact moment when he was required to act. He thought back to how he chose Soji on what could almost have seemed a whim, but was not - it was very carefully planned and how he insisted on immediate mating. Like Soji before him, he shivered. He was so disturbed he took off into the steppes, unaware of Leontok's long stare. He loped along, troubled by coincidences that kept rearing their heads and by being taken back to the Keep, a place he tried to forget. He suddenly ed, with vivid clarity, how Malekim spoke of the inner aethyr in alignment, the outer aethyr clear, but only for a very short space of time. Luton thought back to the urgency with which he forced Soji to repeatedly respond, part of the deliberate conditioning.

He finally sank down into lush grass and grasped his head in his hands, suddenly and blindingly aware Jonqi's birth was unlikely to have been a random event, that she was carefully conceived, but by whom? Did Malekim know Jonqi would be born? Was he determined to alter her future by making Luton conceive her at a specific time? Once the child was born, she'd have been crafted by the mage. Malekim must have known what talents a child of Lute's could have, that she'd be a daughter and could, as she matured, somehow be bonded with another in a way that was detrimental to his purpose. But he also needed her should Luton fail. So the mage had to take the risk of Jonqi being born, but she'd only be allowed to come after Malekim manipulated time and engineered her coming so her future would be in his hands. Such power left Luton feeling quite limp and sick. Again he was flung back to the Keep where the mage turned on him with inordinate rage and vindictive spite when Jonqi, so skilfully prepared for a set purpose, disappeared. Luton gave a low moan and rolled on to his stomach. It took him time to sort out thoughts that ran about chaotically, but when he did, he could only be thankful to Soji, a woman to whom Ambros undoubtedly owed a great deal. He struggled to focus his mind on the ceremony in the Shadowlands, but again, when he tried to concentrate, his mind shied away from the event that was shrouded in vagueness. Jonqi's words came back, but try as he did he could only make limited sense of them. Frustrated, he gave up and walked very slowly back to the camp. He decided that when he got back to Andish, he was going to have a very long talk with Sarssen. Leontok eyed him but made no comment. ~~~ Of an evening, there was invariably music or dancing, or both, because it was something that drew the steppe folk together by blazing fires. On these occasions, it was brought home to Luton how much a steppe child Jonqi was with her dancing among adults and children alike, and, though she was gangly and long-limbed, she didn't lack either grace or fluidity as a dancer. No steppe child of any age, even the toddling youngsters, looked gawky. They were as strong-limbed as the reedy prairie grasses and they moved as sinuously. Nor were movements rushed. This was a most peaceful people. Only Jonqi's unusual colouring made her stand out.

Wistfully, Luton watched dancers. He did so this evening, only to be distracted by Jonqi coming to bend across him, catch his hand and drag him to his feet. He was as natural a dancer as his brothers, but he didn't know the steps and pulled back a little, reluctant and feeling very exposed all of a sudden. "Show me a southern or Samar dance, Pasangan," demanded Jonqi, on a merry laugh. Helplessly, Luton stood there, aware of curious eyes. It was then he saw Asok come to him, his hand out to Jonqi who delightedly took it and skipped. "I want Pasangan to dance with me, Asokgansan." "Yes, I know, child," replied Asok imperturbably, a smile in his eyes when they met Luton's. "Come with me, child. Your father will dance with you later. You should first watch how a southern dance can be performed between a warrior and a southern woman." Asok was given a grateful, rueful smile. In answer to an unspoken signal, Leontok brought Soji over to Luton, placed her hand in his with an encouraging smile and gently but firmly gave them a shove towards the area cleared for dancing. It left Luton to stare down at Soji with an uncertain look on his face and a questioning look in the dark eyes. He saw she regarded him with an impish light in her eyes. "I like to dance, Lute. Can you do steppe dances?" Luton shook his head. "I watch, but don't think I'd be comfortable." "Not even southern dances?" Soji teased, her eyes now dancing. "How could a southern Sarat, the son of a ruling warlord no less, not know southern dances?" "Of course I do," he responded, with a reluctant grin. "Soji, my dear, you're being mischievous." He got a laugh. Soji took his other hand. In time to the drum and the pipes, she slowly began to move her feet in a southern vallet. Luton forgot where he was and responded. Dancing in the fire light they made an attractive couple that drew all eyes. The dance was a dignified and elegant one with complicated steps that looked deceptively simple, the two quietly circling each other one way then back the other. Asok, relaxed, watched. Sagi made her way to Asok and sank down by him. "He could've had her willing." His grey eyes understanding, Asok nodded once.

"She cares much more for that young man than he's aware of," he said, in his calm way. "He knows," Sagi whispered. "He knows very well, Asok." "It's one of life's sad ironies, perhaps," was the stolid response. "We'll hope nothing comes of it." Asok turned his head to study his mate interestedly. "Nothing will come of it, Sagi, nothing at all. Soji cares deeply for our son, has chosen her future which is here among us, and the young warrior has his path to follow likewise, wherever it may be. I can tell you, my dear, his path doesn't lie here with Soji. Jonqi's path runs with his, though how I can't say, but that young man's future was shaped for him as long ago as Soji's was for her. Their paths crossed and re-crossed, and may well do again, but they'll always diverge after a brief touching that has nothing physical about it. Their affection one for the other is as deep a bond as you'll find, but you have nothing to fear of two young people sharing a moment of what might've been. I've suggested they spend as much time together as they can, since I think the one offers something intrinsically valuable to the other. He won't be long with us on this occasion." "How can you know that?" asked Sagi, staring intently at her mate's profile since he'd turned back to watch Soji and Luton dance. "Lute's father will have peace ready for g very, very soon. You can believe that." "You engineered that," said Sagi. Limpid grey eyes that were utterly expressionless were turned on her. "How could that be, my dear? Are you suggesting I'm a devious man?" "No," gurgled Sagi, shaking her head. "Just a very clever one." She considered the twirling pair, watched how Soji laughed up at Luton and how he grinned down at her, then involuntarily turned to look across at Leontok. Like his father, he was infuriatingly imperturbable at times. He lay back on an elbow, a smile in his eyes and Jonqi lounged placidly in his lap. "He's a sensitive and unusual young warrior, isn't he?"

"Very gifted," agreed Asok. "That young man has wisdom and experience beyond his physical cycles, both achieved through harrowing suffering that none born on Ambros should've endured." Sagi noticed the hardness to the usually mild voice. "You respond to him, don't you?" "Oh yes, Sagi, very much. Jonqi closely resembles him in many ways." "Will he take the child with him?" Immediately, Asok shook his head quite deliberately. "Not this time, Sagi, nor the next, but one day Jonqi will choose to leave us for a while and on that day we must let her go. To hold her, gifted as I believe she is, would be wrong. I suspect she'll go to the Conclave and Setoni will be there for her. I won't be surprised if he awaits her, knowing that's the path she'll tread." Asok paused, then added, "Her fate's deeply entwined with that of her father. , Sagi, a child's a gift, only lent once and never given to own. That little one has a future that will often bring her home to the steppes because here will always fulfil an essential need in her, but she'll not stay." "This is her home, Asok, isn't it?" "Without doubt, this is the little one's home. She'll always come back, drawn in spite of herself. Jonqi's a steppe child. It's what Soji wanted for her child. She never wanted Jonqi to be a Churchik child, and she isn't, nor could she be." ~~~ Three nights later, Luton taught Jonqi southern and Samar dances. Smiles came to faces of folk who watched the very tall man take a small step to match the length of the girl's step and, after he made a move, she copied it, until Jonqi felt confident enough to begin to dance. Asok noticed Luton was patient, at ease, and amused, his black eyes dancing as well as his feet. Asok considered his daughter was very good for Luton. They were a delight to watch as the bond steadily deepened. Luton and Leontok rode together, their hours often spent beyond the camp where they mock battled on horseback and raced their mounts for bets. Along with the amusement went lessons that taught Luton as he was taught in the desert. He was

shown how to survive in the grasslands that could be surprisingly harsh to the uninitiated, not unlike the desert in many ways. Luton felt at home and comfortable with his surroundings, each day that ed making him increasingly rested. He was never bored. And he showed Leontok how he could handle horses. Leontok was impressed that Luton could ride as easily bareback as he could with a saddle and looked as though born to be on a horse. He was staggered that Luton hadn't known anything about horseflesh until he was enslaved and simply shook his head when he heard Luton's first experience nearly knocked him sideways and almost broke his arm. He watched Luton put a steppe horse through its paces, the horse responding to the young warrior as if Luton had ridden the creature all its life. Leontok pursed his lips and gave an inward whistle of appreciation. Luton did each move effortlessly and precisely. When Leontok asked him to repeat the performance in front of Asok, Luton shied away from the suggestion in a way that made Leontok wonder how he could get the young man to show his prowess. Shrewdly, Leontok sauntered back to camp to arrange a competition that gathered in men he knew would be a challenge for Luton, hopefully an irresistible one for a young warrior who loved to gamble. Leontok was right. Luton heard of the competition that would test prowess on horseback and general horsemanship, and agreed to compete. With a quiet smile, Leontok merely nodded and turned away. The following day saw Luton watch the assembling of steppe men of all ages, some quite elderly. They were universally tall, at least six feet, slender yet wiry in much the same way as the desert people, their muscles like whipcord and all had grey eyes that could look stony and as empty as an abyss. Once you were among them, the eyes were expressive, the slight slant to them making them utterly different from Luton's wide, well opened dark ones. He was in the middle of the group, his extra six inches of height and dark free-flowing hair distinguishing him from a distance. Non-participants sat ready to be entertained and the young were full of anticipation, their little faces expectant. Competition was always keen and honed both defensive and hunting skills. Sagi sat with her three daughters about her, the young women tall like her, with their long, very thick white tresses swept up and

knotted on top of their heads, the manes then cascading down shoulders and backs. The heads of hair were beautiful and contrasted sharply with the cropped heads of the boys and men. With their olive skins, the women were most striking. The eldest was quite lovely, the slant to her eyes less pronounced and the eyes much wider than usual with large dark irises. Cetiti had Jonqi in her lap, Carok lounged in Tagari's, and the eldest daughter, Katakin, rocked Etiokin backwards and forwards. Sagi glanced at each child in turn, thinking that Soji had an unusual selection of children. Carok wasn't noticeably a steppe child in appearance as a small child, but now he most closely resembled his father, his white hair cropped, eyes faintly slanted and grey-blue, but his skin pale like his mother's, not olive. Etiokin was quite different again. He had yellowish blond hair, pale blue eyes, the olive steppe skin, but unlike Carok who was slight, Etiokin was going to resemble the Churchik. Already, at this tender age, he was extremely sturdy and at least twice the size of a steppe boy of the same cycles. Luton couldn't help thinking he had an uncanny resemblance to Brue. And Jonqi was unlike her halfbrothers as could be. The only thing they shared was placidity and quietness. Luton was unsurprised to find the children this way. The steppe folk were, without exception, calmly reflective people who didn't just talk for the sake of sound and they weren't frightened of quiet - it wasn't something to be filled or silence broken. Like the desert people, they lived within their surroundings as a living part of it, nor did they impose upon it. Luton observed that nature didn't chatter needlessly and inconsequentially either. Seated upon the steppe horse, in many ways the antithesis of the warhorses he was used to, he thought about his love of open spaces, the forests that spiritually fed him, the water that exercised such an attraction, and his constant need of solitude. This life offered him all but the forests and he realised this lifestyle, partly nomadic, exactly suited his temperament. He gave a slight sigh. Whatever happened in the coming cycles, he knew he'd want to come back. Then he was called in challenge to better those who went before. All his concentration went into his relationship with the horse. He encouraged it to move in dance-like rhythms, much in the way he taught the Lachir stallions cycles before much to the bemusement of the Keep guards who couldn't believe their eyes at such an unexpected sight. Luton became quite lost in what he was

doing. The onlookers were quiet. Eyes strained to watch a rider handle a steppe horse with artistry and skill. When he finally made the horse paw the earth and then bend briefly to its knees, Luton gave a grin of sheer exuberant delight. He looked up to applause of real appreciation. When Leontok approached he obligingly jumped to the ground, gave the steppeman the reins in a self-effacing way, and quietly crossed to where Asok sat watching him. Asok's look up at Luton was warm, a smile deep in grey eyes that were more often than not unfathomable, like Sarssen's. He spoke in his usual unhurried way. "We rarely see that quality of horsemanship, young one. Sit beside me and tell me how you learned such skills." Luton lounged down, long legs stretched full out and the long length ed on an elbow. "I learned at the Keep." He picked a piece of grass and nibbled at it. "There are magnificent stallions there that no one else could ride. Well," he temporised, "the guards could, but barely. They were tolerated, no more." "But you rode them?" "I taught myself to ride the stallions bareback. I never saw saddles anywhere so I could do little else." "They're thought to be savage, Lute." "I had no fear," said Luton, a touch bleakly. "I could feel nothing." "How old were you, boy?" "As I recall I was about fifteen cycles, Asok." Luton plucked another blade of grass. "I don't know what my exact age was because I lost track after Ortok. It became irrelevant when I had to live one day at a time and was never sure I'd see another. My master told me my age so I'd no reason to doubt him." "Did you learn to ride as a youngster in Ortok?" Asok watched the slow, characteristic shake of the head, a trait in the warrior that appealed to him. "I'd never ridden a horse. The first time I truly came in close with one was when Ortok was invaded and a warrior flung me across the back of one. It was a huge warhorse. My next experience was being ordered to care for Shek's

horse." With gentle encouragement and subtle questions from Asok, Luton spoke of his first days enslaved, the branding, the hunger, the caravan, fever and the clawing climb over freezing mountain trails. Asok heard no complaint in the voice but he saw traces of utter pain sometimes touch the eyes. He knew Luton deliberately understated what was an agonising time of unremitting pain, hardship, grief, misery and complete despair. He saw a tall thin Jonqi, starved, ill-clad, abused, sick and broken. It made him inwardly wince. It was the first time Luton spoke to anyone in the steppes about his life. Asok listened to Luton saying his first lesson in horse care came with a kick, and that was the first time Luton ever heard Asok actually chuckle. "So did you ride the warrior's horse, young one?" "No, Asok." There was the shake of the head again. "You forget I was a slave. A slave didn't own anything. Only overseers and warriors had horses. I lost Shek's horse in the mountain and suffered for it." "Soji tells us you have vicious scars down your back. Is that from then?" "Yes," murmured Luton. "I was held against a cavern wall and flogged. It nearly killed me at the time. I wished it had. I tried to die but Shek threatened me if I tried. He had a way of making me obey." Asok looked intently at Luton, saw a look deep in the eyes that made him flinch again, then prompted gently, "And then?" "Kher came," answered Luton, simply. "He was sent to take me to the Keep." "Did he know to whom he took you?" "No." The shake of the head was immediate. "By then I was terrified of horses. Nor could I ride. Father taught me to ride. Every evening he took me out to teach me and he was patient, kind and gentle. I grew to care for my horse and before long I cared for all the horses the rest of the journey south." "And then you met the stallions?" "Then I met them, yes," agreed Luton, nodding.

"They have such a fierce reputation, Lute. Yet you had no fear." "After a day at the Keep I believed I was born there. I had no emotions, Asok. You forget I was only permitted to know physical pain as a form of control." He saw Asok take a very deep, controlled breath. "I had no knowledge of fear other than that surrounding instant obedience to my master. The lack of slavish and immediate compliance brought excruciating consequences I prefer not to recall." Asok heard the strain in the warrior's voice. "So you rode the stallions bareback, yes?" "Yes," nodded Luton. "Whenever my master punished any of the mutes, or me, I'd go to the stallions. I now think, though I felt nothing tangible, I sought comfort with them. And they gave it to me, too." "Who cares for them now?" "The guardians of the Keep." "Do the mares foal?" Sadly, Luton shook his head. Asok saw melancholy on the bearded face. "Why not?" "They can't," answered Luton, slowly. "All the mares have died." Asok glanced thoughtfully at him. "How many stallions are there now?" "About fifteen, I think, maybe seventeen. That includes Oblique." "Oblique?" "The stallion I brought with me from the Keep the last time I was there. I had to return there you see, so I brought Oblique out with me. I think it was Father's suggestion, but I forget. Oblique's stabled in Andish though few can get near him." "Can any get near him?" asked Asok, with a sudden smile that lit up his face. With a boyish grin, Luton shook his head. "Not easily. Only Beth and Dase have no fear of him. Father can touch him but

doesn't care to unless he has to, and Pic will, under duress. Oblique just tolerates him." Luton saw confused amusement in the grey eyes and hurriedly explained. "Beth's my younger brother and is the musician the warlord took as his slave. Dase is known to you as the Saturim. And Pic's the huge black mute slave from the Keep who goes nearly everywhere with me. He was my guard and guide in the Keep, you understand. He won't leave me." "What will happen to the stallions, young one?" Luton scratched his beard. "Dase wants one, the Chamah would appreciate one or two, and Beth hankers after one as well. The rest will probably die of old age sometime." "That would be a pity." Asok waved towards the steppe horses. "We helped these steppe horses evolve," he said, quietly. Luton nodded, his dark eyes shining. "They're so fleet of foot and have stamina that puts most horses to shame. They're magnificent animals." "A stallion such as you describe, Lute, would inject new blood into them," suggested Asok. Luton looked surprised. "But they're perfect now," he protested. "No," argued Asok. "Not quite. With the cycles of breeding they begin to show some loss of bone mass. Stock needs reinvigorating from time to time." A smile played about the corners of his mouth. "Could you spare a stallion, Lute?" "Would he be free, Asok?" "Is that important, young one?" Luton nodded. "Why?" "They've been stabled for so very long. I yearn to see them run in the fresh air, able to kick up their hooves and gallop free." "He'd be like ours, Lute, in huge corrals until he's broken to touch. Would that be a problem?" "Not with the touch of the steppe folk, no," answered Luton, his eyes gleaming. "That would be comparative freedom compared with what a stallion has now,

wouldn't it?" When Luton smiled, Asok saw how delightful it was because the whole serious face was expressive. "How many could you take, Asok?" Asok rarely looked startled, but he did now. "I asked for one, Lute, only one." "How many could you take?" repeated Luton. "Ten, maybe twelve. However many there were." "Then you may have all those not spoken for," said Luton, flatly. He turned so he looked directly at Asok. "In those stables, beautiful horses will die having known nothing much but the Keep and an occasional gallop outside it. You offer them freedom of a sort and a chance to breed. They'll live on. It's all I ever wanted for them. I love those horses, that I think once belonged to Sarequin the Sage, and would only give them to people who love horseflesh in the same way. If you'd give them a home, Asok, you'd do them and me a kindness." "You'll have no excuse to regret giving them to us, young one." "I know that," answered Luton, his eyes out again to the plains while Asok pondered the reference to Sarequin. "There's only one thing I ask." "Ask it, young man." "That it's you or Leon who break them in. No one else. I've come to know and trust you both, so I ask this." "It'll be done as you wish," said Asok, with finality. "They'll stay within the confines of the family as our personal property, only their offspring being given to others. Will that ease your mind?" "Thank you," came words of real gratitude. "Likewise, young one," came the soft reply.

CHAPTER FIVE

Luton was out riding alone the day Asok sent for him, so when the young warrior arrived in the formal obtusa, flushed from the wind, his unplaited hair was in a wild tangle and his eyes shone enquiringly. He came to a dead stop at the sight of a very broad back, his eyes anxiously scanning the warrior who stood there. Then Asok watched the cheeks whiten with sudden fright. "Father?" whispered Luton, in a hoarse whisper. "My father? Is he well?" Esok turned round, surprised. "I welcome you, boy," he said, with genuine pleasure. "You look very well though somewhat dishevelled." He saw the blush rush to the thin face and smiled indulgently. "This life obviously suits you, Shasah. I cannot recall having seen you look in such health. Your father asked that I see you to assure myself, and him, you are not ailing." He saw the anxiety still in dark eyes fixed questioningly to his. "The Suldan continues to prosper, Beduar. He is in excellent health likewise." "My lord," bowed Luton, with a sigh of relief. "I thought your being here might mean he was ill." "Not at all." "Would you tell my father his son is well and thinks constantly of him." "He has been under gnawing worry about you, boy, but all will be well. It will be my pleasure to relieve his mind." Esok put down a sheaf of papers he'd been casually perusing, to cross to Luton and place his hands on the younger warrior's shoulders. His eyes searched the young face, long and thoroughly. "The steppeman said you were contented, Shasah," he commented, after a long pause. "I see that for myself and can reassure your father you are so. We hope it will not be long before you return to him." "I thank you, my lord." Esok released him, returned to Asok to whom he spoke a few words before he

exchanged formal courtesies, uplifted the sheaf of papers, inclined his head respectfully to the steppeman and left the obtusa. "A warrior of worth," commented Asok, holding up a long sheet of parchment for Luton to scrutinise. "Here is the outline of a formal peace treaty, Lute. I'll take my time perusing it, and, if all's satisfactory, it'll be signed. Your bondage will then be over." He saw Luton's blush deepen and it brought a lurking smile to the back of the grey eyes. "It's not been bondage," stated Luton bluntly, his colour now very heightened. "Time among you means much to me, and in the open spaces I renew the spirit and learn much. You and your people, in your own way, have given me what no others have." "And what's that?" "The way you view the world and live within it. You're much like the desert folk who'll soon make me one of their own, and something akin to the Shadowlanders, too, if Sarssen's to be believed. If Jonqi couldn't be with me or raised in Samar, as I was, I'm deeply glad she grew among you here." "You'll not leave us for good, young one, and when you do come and go, as you surely will, you'll come to another home. We can't offer more than that." "You honour me," whispered Luton. Asok saw moisture in the dark eyes when Luton turned to leave and added gently, "Your acceptance of what we are, your understanding and respect for what we hold dear, honours us in turn, Lute." ~~~ Asok took two weeks to consider the proposals and draw up amendments. That done to his satisfaction and the treaty sent back to Kher for his approval and consideration, Asok waited in the typical patient and leisurely way that characterised these folk. Since moves had been made towards a permanent settlement, Asok was content for the Churchik, and especially the Saturim, to resume access to Sinhalien land for the purposes of discussion. The blanket refusal to allow with Luton was lifted. This meant the steppe folk saw the twins together for the first time, and, like other peoples, they couldn't stop

staring at them. Soji sought a common link between the two and finally found it in the laughing black eyes, Daxel's wicked and provocative, Luton's gentle and teasing. Each time she looked from one to the other, she realised how different they were. Daxel was heavier built, physically immensely strong, the dare-devilish attitude tempered by maturity and ambassadorial responsibility but still a part of the young man. Since he'd left Dahkilah and been in Churchik company his hair had grown, so that from a distance it didn't look noticeably shorter than Luton's. He was an extrovert, highly charismatic and with a personal magnetism that was frankly irresistible. He was courtly in the Dahkilan way and devastatingly charming. That, coupled with his physical attributes, made Sagi again raise an eyebrow at Asok. "Such charm he has," she observed candidly one day. "If I were younger and foolish, I would fall hard for one such as he." Asok merely smiled, his eyes resting meditatively on the young man sprawled carelessly outside Leontok and Soji's obtusa, his dark eyes rested on Luton who cradled Jonqi. Soji saw Luton as frailer. It wasn't just that Luton lacked the physical robustness of his twin. She felt he was still obviously emotionally battered and scarred, less inclined to assume he was welcome, often still withdrawn, less prone to sudden laughter and one who watched others as if he sought the key to understanding them by monitoring their actions, reactions and words. Where Daxel was direct, Luton hesitated. He was an introvert. Though he was introspective and reserved among people he didn't know, he had enormous appeal that wasn't just physical. He was equally as handsome as Daxel with the same charm that was just as attractive. When Soji watched the two together across the obtusa, she knew that Luton, for all his mildness, had very real power and she sensed something in Daxel that burned deep, though it wasn't the same power that enveloped the young warrior. In Daxel it was something else entirely, unshaped and unrecognised. What she did recognise was that both young men were forced to maturity too fast, something they came to grips with now, Luton and Daxel older than their physical cycles. Soji knew the same thing happened to her, so thought that was how she recognised the signs in others.

She watched the brothers indulge in horse racing with Leontok, the Samars equally superb horsemen, and was amused by the occasional mock fights that were more akin to friendly brawls before the brothers lapsed into quiet reflectiveness. They made a unified unit when together. The childhood brawls caused entertainment for the watchers. Once Luton would succumb but now he began slowly to hold out against his brother's superior strength, refusing to yield and stalwartly wearing Daxel down, much to Daxel's amusement. They scrapped, laughed, teased and enjoyed each other's company in a way that showed how complete they were when together. Apart, they were highly individualistic. Together they melded to the one, as Luton tried so painstakingly to explain to Asok; it showed in the way they thought alike and in the way one instinctively followed the cue of the other, even in speech. Often they glanced at each other with a knowing, secret smile, or would catch the other's eye unexpectedly in such a way they both laughed spontaneously. Or else an expression would flit across one face then the other as a continuous, smooth movement. Through closely observing them together, Asok began to understand how much Daxel had suffered as the sentient twin and thought, at last, he came to a true comprehension of the reason for the look in the Saturim's eyes when they rested on his brother wherever Luton was. The loving care and protectiveness showed, too, in Daxel's touch when he went to talk with or just sit with his twin, no words exchanged and none needed. Sometimes Asok saw the Saturim's dark eyes thoughtfully follow Luton and the plainsman sensed Daxel's continuing concern about a brother he constantly monitored when he was around. Asok's respect for Daxel increased over those days. He suspected Daxel would kill without a second thought if he considered Luton was again endangered in the slightest way, and, studying Luton one evening, Asok wondered if the young warrior realised just how cherished and guarded he truly was. He got his answer in conversation the next day when Luton spoke of his brother. "Dase experienced just a taste of my experiences, Asok, and from me he knows as well. It's made him even more protective of me than he was when we were children. Dase never tolerated anyone touching me." Luton gave a reminiscent chuckle and added, "Once when Bruno thrashed us for some mischief we were in, Dase flung himself in front of me so I couldn't feel the belt." Another chuckle followed. "Bruno firmly sat him. He upended and thrashed me, hard as I , then stopped because he saw how Dase wept at my crying and his

helplessness to stop it." Luton thought, then finished pensively, "Dase would kill for me, Asok, and I'd die for him." Asok believed him. ~~~ Luton did, however, become conscious of a subtle change in his brother that he couldn't quite interpret. It wasn't dramatic. Daxel was just quieter and slightly withdrawn in the way of his twin, so that in itself was unusual and enough to attract Luton's attention. It made the young warrior decide to study his brother more closely, to see if the perceived difference had anything to do with Daxel's being away from Andish and the Churchik. Luton noticed it didn't seem to be anything to do with the children, among whom Daxel was considered a great favourite. It was Daxel's eyes that finally gave him away and gave Luton the answer to what puzzled him. He followed his brother's suddenly serious gaze across to the far side of the obtusa where they rested on Asok's eldest daughter, Katakin. Luton's recognition of his twin's emotions coincided inevitably with Daxel's immediate realisation that Luton knew his innermost thoughts. Daxel's eyes met his twin's with the most sheepish look Luton had ever seen in his brother, but he also read defensiveness. That his rakehelly brother might succumb to a pair of fine grey eyes made Luton want to laugh, but the acute apprehension in his twin gave him pause. Instantly, his eyes showed only delighted understanding. The defensive hunch all the brothers assumed, when they were embarrassed, disappeared and a rueful smile came to the black eyes. Luton had no doubt that Daxel had finally met the woman with whom he could mate, but that it should be an older woman in her late twenty cycles, Daxel's own age, who was quiet and of placid demeanour, he'd not thought possible or likely. All Daxel's amours were vivacious, younger and extremely dashing. Luton reflected, with an inward grin, that Katakin was none of these things. He studied the woman sitting cross-legged next to Soji, Etiokin in her lap. Luton considered that, of the daughters, she was most like her father, her grey eyes calm and unreadable, her manner unhurried and her speech only offered seldom. She also gave no sign she responded to Daxel any differently from the way she treated Luton, the latter surprised a woman so self-contained and

restrained would appeal to Daxel. Then Luton thought of Chey. Though he and Daxel were unalike in so many ways through experience, they were still close and similar enough to be drawn to mates of similar disposition. When Luton thought again of Chey, he saw similarities between the two women immediately, only Katakin was older. Asok noticed the Saturim stayed longer and longer as the days ed and assumed it was to accompany his brother. It was Leontok who observed Daxel's interest in his sister. He said nothing. He just watched interestedly. He noticed Daxel did nothing that would set Katakin on her guard or make her selfconscious; he just always managed to edge out whoever was closest to her so she talked with him and gave him her undivided attention. Leontok couldn't help grinning appreciatively at how skilled and polished the Saturim was at setting women at their ease. It was after two weeks of these tactics that Leontok saw his sister's eyes begin to follow the tall figure wherever it went, then, when Daxel began to stay until very late, then overnight, Katakin was more than happy to dance with him. Daxel carefully never singled her out. Whenever he danced with others or paid attention to another woman, Katakin's eyes were on him. When he danced with Luton, the two figures weaving about each other, she leaned back on her elbows with a private little smile playing provocatively about her mouth. Leontok saw the smile Daxel received was more intimate and encouraging than the ones Katakin gave her other numerous irers and he noted, for the first time, that Katakin could gracefully blush. He noticed other things about his sister that amused him, too. The long, white tresses were now held by ornamented and jewelled pins and clips, the ears now wore multiple long, pendulous ear-rings that Katakin scorned to wear not so long since and slender wrists bore bracelets where they were bare. A dark stain at the corners of her eyes emphasised the slight slant, openness and size of the lovely grey eyes and heightened the size and darkness of the irises. Daxel's eyes flashed with light. Katakin's shone with a new brilliance. Soji noted the change but opened her eyes very wide indeed when told by her mate that Katakin was enchanted by a Saturim who was reciprocally entranced. Soji got the giggles. Three weeks after the amended draft of a treaty was brought to Asok, the plainsman declared he was prepared to sign a full treaty but the g was to be on Sinhalien soil, not Churchik land. It would signal Luton's release from the

steppes. Thus instructed, Luton grinned affably at Asok, shrugged, said he'd be around so much he'd seem a fixture and then wandered off again. Asok nodded to himself, satisfied. It was a very steppe way of looking at relationships. ~~~ Kher and three warriors were invited for the g. Luton accompanied Asok to the border to await the warlord, the young warrior flanking Asok on the left with Leontok to the right and Shemal, a venerable steppeman, behind them. Kher rode slowly, Sendak beside him and Bethel and Sarssen behind. Kher tried to discern if one of the distant figures was his son. When he got closer he could see that indeed a rider was Luton, the young man calm, at ease, looking very contented, his seat relaxed and the reins lying slack in his hands. Just as the Churchik drew in close, Asok spoke softly to Luton. "Go to your father, Lute. It's been cruel for him. He awaits you." Kher was already dismounted. He stood waiting, a huge and formidable figure, his face stern but the pale blue eyes moist, welcoming and warm. Luton slipped from the saddle, strode quickly across the ground to the warlord, fell to his knees, his clasped hands held above his head. Kher gripped the hands tightly. "Father, your son returns." "They have been long, lonely days for the father," replied Kher, huskily. His voice was unsteady, then broke as he went on, "Lute, my boy." Luton rose so father and son could embrace and the younger man could characteristically rest his head on the older man's shoulder. "All's well, Father." Kher released him and scanned him carefully. "You look so well and happy, Shasah. Are you?" Luton nodded. "And my greatchild?" "Very like her father everyone says," responded Luton, guiding the warlord across to the un-mounted steppemen. "I've loved being with her, every day." Asok and Kher eyed each other, then Kher courteously bent his head as a gesture of respect. Asok reciprocated, but made no effort to speak. It was left to the warlord to make the first move.

"I thank you for the care of a son dear to me. He looks as well as I have seen him." "He's at peace among us and has had time with his child. We accept Lute as one of us." "You honour him." "As he honours us." Asok's gaze shifted beyond the warlord to where the warriors stood as immobile as the plainsman himself. Only his grey eyes moved. "I see Sarssen. He's welcome among us. By his looks, the boy beside him is another brasangan of Lute's?" Kher looked enquiringly at Luton who responded. "He speaks of brother, Father." Kher glanced back at Asok. "Yes, that is Sorien, a younger brother. He answers to his given Samar name of Beth." "Then he's the talented musician Sarssen befriended," stated Asok in his calm, deep voice. "Of him I've heard much. He's also welcome. And the third warrior?" "He is Haskar Sendak of the High Council." Asok stared thoughtfully over at the huge warrior before he spoke again. "Not a man to display his colours. I mislike the hunger that shines at the back of the eyes. The cub would be slaughtered and eaten." Kher blinked. He had no time to consider the words, but Luton, close by, heard them and turned his head to study the rigid warrior with new interest. Asok said little, but what words he uttered were always to the purpose, nor did Luton intend to forget those quietly stated ones. It made him feel vaguely uneasy. He watched Asok gesture to his companions, both still unmoving. "I answer to Asok, Hasuran, as you know. This is my eldest son, Leontok Wind Rider, and Shemal, High Elder of Storm." Kher nodded at each rider in turn as custom in the south dictated and responded to the two younger men. "I come as Haskar Kher, Suldan of the Churchik, Saratquan of Caciqua." He turned his head to Asok. "In my capacity as warlord, I will sign the peace

between your people and mine." "Follow," ordered Asok, mounting his horse with enviable ease and turning it, all in the same moment. Kher noticed Luton did the same as if he was born in the steppes. ~~~ The g of the treaty was brief and anti-climactic, witnessed by Sarssen and Sendak for the Churchik, and Daxel and Shemal for the steppe folk. The Saturim stood at the formal obtusa, waiting. The peace now formal, celebrations were in order. The Churchik were invited to participate, so Kher, strangely drawn to a people who'd done so much for his son, accepted with alacrity. He wanted to know more about such elusive and philosophic folk, since not once, in all the time they'd been in with the Sinhalien, had he witnessed anything other than patience and unruffled composure. Over the cycles he received reports of these people that suggested they were deadly fighters and as coldly merciless as the Shadowlanders, the comparison constantly drawn between them both intriguing and puzzling the warlord. He'd believed them ionless. He was also a warrior with Lodestok at Kanibadam and saw them, more than once, in action. It was that belief that made him so reluctant to let Luton anywhere near them. Even with his son restored to him, Kher suspected he'd never fully understand Asok who was reputed to be as unapproachable and formidable as Indariol of the Shadowlands. So he sat back with a ceremonial cup to hand, to watch the singing and dancing. His cup was never empty because a child would appear at his elbow from nowhere, eye him directly and solemnly, fill his cup, then, like a wraith, disappear. Asok sat next to him. Kher could only ire one who could sit cross-legged without moving for such long periods of time, and sensibly took his cue from Sarssen and Luton who were completely relaxed and lounged back, cups to their lips. He noted that Bethel, often reticent, was quite happy and taken under Leontok's wing. The plainsman was clearly telling a joke because Bethel began to laugh and shake his head, his big eyes dancing with delight. Sendak stayed rigid and uncompromising, his expression forbidding. He drank little. His eyes roved about the camp, absorbing every detail of it. It was several hours later that Kher saw Soji. He now rested back in one of the

seats the Sinhalien thoughtfully provided for he and Sendak, out of deference for their size, and it was from there his eyes became riveted to a small group milling about a farther fire. His gaze was arrested by the sight of a tall, slender woman with yellow/blond hair and pale, blue eyes who absently fed sticks into the fire. A small child was at her hip and a steppe boy trailed along beside her, occasionally throwing in sticks as well and laughing up at her. Kher leaned forward to Sarssen. "Is that your sister Soji?" Before Sarssen could answer, Kher found himself confronted by Leontok. "You refer to my mate Soji. And, yes, she's Sarssen's sister. With her are our sons Carok and Etiokin. Do you wish to speak with her?" "I knew her once when she was young," answered Kher, his eyes not leaving the slight woman. Leontok's face was expressionless. "Her memories of Churchik warriors are very unhappy ones, Suldan. I won't make her come if she's distressed by your presence." "I understand," returned Kher, quietly. He saw Luton change his position so he was directly in front of Asok. Then he watched Leontok stride to Soji, talk with her, gesture, point in the guests' direction, then gently put his arm about her shoulders. Soji glanced nervously at the warriors and shook her head. Kher saw Leontok bend his head and talk long and quietly, then, calmly and ively, he guided her to where the warriors sat. "Do not rise, my lord," warned Sarssen, turning his head back to Kher. "In plainsman that is a threat and Soji is now fully a steppe woman, not Churchik." Kher nodded, leaned back and waited. He looked up into a troubled face, blue eyes highly apprehensive and the skin unusually pale. Kher ed Soji as a very pretty, rounded child, but now he looked up at a young woman who'd suffered a very great deal. He thought it showed in the strained expression and went deep in the eyes. She was tall as would be expected, but looked frail. A touch of Luton, was the thought that flashed through his mind. She clung to the small boy as if for comfort.

"My mate comes to you, Suldan, because you have Sarssen and Beth with you, and you're father to Lute and friend to Dase. Nothing else draws her." "I you, Soji," said Kher, very quietly. "I last saw you in Chika. I have profound regrets for what occurred there and for the treatment meted out to you afterwards. I ask you to believe that, child." Her blue eyes flickered with an expression of disquiet in response. "I you likewise, Haskar Kher. You showed me thoughtfulness and kindness where no others did." Her voice was soft and pleasant. "I have many regrets, child. You are chief among them. I want you to know you may come to the land of your birth if you so wish. You are free to come and go as is your birthright." "I thank you, my lord." Kher thought she looked anything but gratified and more as if it was something she'd never choose to do. He doubted she would again set foot on Churchik land. Her life was here. He watched the flicker of the eyes towards the silent Sendak, a warrior who knew her very well from birth and throughout childhood and into girlhood, because he was a friend of her father's and a regular visitor to Alleghy's city-states. Soji grew among Sendak's daughters who were like sisters once. Now Kher saw the stony stare she received. He looked long at the uncompromising warrior profile before he held out his hand to the young woman. Soji had taken in a deep breath and retreated a few steps. "Will you not come and sit by me, child, and let me meet your son? He is most like his father, is he not?" Soji quivered. "Soji, I would not hurt you," added Kher very, very gently, his hand still extended. "I wish with all my heart others had not done so, but I cannot undo what was done. All I can offer is my respect, concern and friendship, in the hope they may come to mean something to you." He saw Soji still hesitate, drawn, but too frightened to trust a Churchik, reprisal always at the back of her mind. Kher wouldn't have been surprised had she turned and fled. Then he saw Luton rise and take Soji by the hand before turning to Leontok. "Leon, Soji will stay with me and be quite comfortable." The warlord watched Leontok nod imperceptibly, touch Soji gently on the shoulder and withdraw

without a word. "We will show off this steppe child to the warlord, Soji. Come." Kher made no comment, but let his hand drop. Soji looked up at Luton with absolute trust and let him lead her to Kher where he assisted her to the ground. He carefully made sure her back was to Sendak, so she faced only the warlord, himself, Sarssen and Asok. That was unthreatening. Etiokin crawled to the warlord's booted feet. Boots fascinated him. Little hands went straight to them in such a way tension was broken by laughter, Etiokin pulling at the laces whilst staring solemnly up at Kher, then, bored with laces that didn't give, he tried to climb into the warlord's lap. At this Soji demurred and went to take the child, but instead Kher swung the little fellow up in the air and set him on his knee where he was merrily able to bounce up and down. By the time Soji had described steppe life for Kher, and the warlord had also met Carok, more steppe child than Churchik, Soji was able to laugh, shake her head at her younger son's antics and came rapidly to feel at ease with Kher. She was even able to look squarely at him, encouraged by the warmth of the smile in his eyes. And Soji met Bethel. She surveyed the very tall young man who was pushed towards them before Leontok made himself scarce, fully able to realise for the first time that not only Indariol spoke the truth. So did Daxel and Luton. Bethel was beautiful, very. He walked gracefully, his fine jewellery enhancing a figure that moved as sinuously as any steppe man. He came across, sank down beside Sarssen, got quietly teased, was introduced to Soji and promptly attracted Carok who clambered all over him. Asok remained unmoved throughout, but his eyes weren't still. When Bethel sank down near him, the plainsman studied the young musician with enormous interest, his scrutiny intense. Bethel turned to face him, once, a smile lighting the expressive and indescribably lovely eyes, before the young warrior averted his head. Asok warmed to Bethel instantly. While he thought about Bethel and his brothers, Asok could see, from the corner of his eye, that a new group formed up to dance. Jonqi was among those on the outer fringe. Asok's eyes glinted when he realised, from the sharp inward hissing breath beside him, that the warlord had seen her too. It was Kher's first sight of Luton's daughter. No Churchik had seen her since infancy; Sendak's last sight of her was when she was barely a cycle old.

Kher watched the dancers begin. Jonqi was lithe, taller than girls around her, and elegant as she fluidly twisted round the other dancers, unaware of curious Churchik eyes that studied her. Sendak watched her as intently as Kher, well aware the child with the dark colouring could be none other than the child Alleghy sent off to go to the Keep. It was when Jonqi was tired that she deliberately stood and looked about. She spied her mother, crossed to her and collapsed down beside her, one foot upturned so she could remove a prickly bit of scrub. Like all the young, she didn't speak. She just leaned against her mother, felt the hand ripple through her very long hair and stared up at the sky. After regaining energy, she leaned across to grasp Luton's hand. "Tonight we party, Pasangan. Asokgansan says we fight no more. Isn't that so?" She still tugged energetically at Luton whilst applying to Asok for confirmation. Asok stroked her cheek. "That's so, little one." Kher watched Luton heave himself up, his dark eyes laughing into hers as he asked, "Well, little daughter. What shall it be?" "The southern dance you showed me. There's southerners here." Kher was unsurprised they were so alike. Daxel had told him they were and that the daughter bore only a fleeting resemblance to the mother. She was, indeed, as Daxel said, pure Samar in appearance. But she was a steppe child in totality. Another cultural cross, thought Kher, fascinated. As he watched Luton and Jonqi walk to other dancers, he was aware of the Saturim bearing down on them, his hand out and down to Soji. When she took it, laughing but protesting, he pulled her to her feet. "Dase," she murmured, staring back at Kher. "Etiokin asks that his slumber be undisturbed," responded Kher adroitly, glancing down at the curled up bundle in his lap. "And Carok appears to have decided Losaren is suitable for his requirements." Since Carok was sprawled across Sarssen's lap, Soji had to laugh again and was soon gone. Leontok suddenly appeared, grasped Bethel by the hand and dragged

the young warrior off to dance. Bethel went with alacrity. Not much later, Kher saw the warrior with a young steppe woman about his age, and, when they came closer, and the warlord saw how lovely she was, his smile widened. Asked by Asok if he, too, wished to dance, a chuckle escaped Kher. "I thank you, Asok, but my dancing days are well over." "Surely not?" mocked Asok, with gentle humour. "It is, however, restful to observe the energy of others." The amused comment even drew a laugh from Sendak who'd been dour for most of the celebrations.

CHAPTER SIX

When Luton and Jonqi came back, Kher could see, clearly, how like her father she really was. Seeing them side by side, front on, gave him an excellent chance for comparison. The black, thick unruly head of curls and the dark eyes were his, her skin paler than his, more Churchik, but the tall slenderness was as Kher imagined Luton looked at the same age. He thought, with a stab, that she was close to the cycles Luton was when Ortok was brutally sacked. It actually made the warlord flinch. The innocence and childish joy he saw in Jonqi was quenched in her father in a matter of hours. It made Kher feel fiercely protective of this unknown child. He was determined to ensure this girl, so much the image of her father, was never subjected to brutality or unspeakable cruelty, savagery and pain. Recovered from the excitement of the dance, Jonqi settled herself more comfortably between Luton's stretched out legs, her head rested back against his chest. Now she faced Kher and was almost directly below him. She still didn't speak. Looking down at her, Kher could study her without being too obvious. Her face was shaped like Bethel's, as fine and delicately moulded, the cheekbones high and quite broad for such an oval, elfin face. Her black eyes were as widely spaced and opened as were the eyes of all the brothers Kher had met, and were set below arched black eyebrows. The eyes were like the brothers, too, thickly lashed, the lashes long and curling. Kher judged that in cycles to come she'd be a very lovely young woman. As he thought this, the placid eyes met and held with his in a way that made him know, he didn't know how, that this child was from a long line of rarely gifted Churchik seers, revered over long ages for their far-sightedness. That it should have come down through Soji was unusual enough, but that it should have touched yet another generation, and only through half-Churchik blood, was frankly extraordinary. "You're Pasangan's father," Jonqi said, flatly. The soft young voice was oddly devoid of expression. "Yes," agreed Kher, bewitched by beautiful magnetic eyes that searched his. "I'm the child to be taken to the Keep," the girl went on quite quietly, her eyes

flickering away from Kher's then back again. "I am very glad your mother took the action she did so you were not, child." "You love Pasangan." "Yes, child, I do." "Pasangan cares as much for you, too." Jonqi observed the warlord disionately then fell silent, the serene black eyes still intently staring up. "You become, through that relationship, my greatchild." "Pasangan says so." "That is so," answered Kher, amused but oddly touched by this strange child who spoke in statements. "You look very like your father, Jonqi." "Yes," she agreed, imively. "I'm a half-breed, part Samar. That's why the Churchik hate me, especially Masangan's pater," she added. Kher heard an indrawn breath from Sendak at such a blunt, unemotional statement from a child. That was all she said, before the long-lashed eyes closed as though the warlord didn't exist. It left Kher intrigued, his stare down at the attractive countenance highly thoughtful before he was distracted by something Sendak said to him in a low voice. A moment later Leontok came for the children. Kher didn't see either Jonqi or the boys again, though he later saw Soji some distance away with her mate. With the drawing in of darkness, the celebrations slowed and quietened. And it was then Asok turned to Bethel who lay flat out on his back, his eyes staring up into a cloudless sky. "Do you play pipes, Beth?" Bethel rolled onto an elbow, his eyes fixed to Asok's in a way that made the plainsman feel a stirring deep inside that surprised him. He wondered what talents Bethel had and whether he'd been instantly read, then changed his mind. It was something else about this young man that stirred him. He couldn't place it.

"I can play them, yes." "We've heard of your music over the cycles. We'd be honoured if you feel able to play, unless the instruments are too unfamiliar." "Southern instruments were, but I taught myself to play them. What do you have?" "Over there," said Asok, indicating with a pointed finger to where musicians had laid down instruments. Bethel heaved himself up, strolled across the ground, crouched, and began interestedly to lift first one instrument then another, finally settling on a complex set of pipes that he fingered carefully. A few experimental puffs followed. He carried the pipes back to the fire to settle, Asok noticed, cross-legged next to Sarssen. No steppe people had heard Bethel play. Nor, until that evening, had they heard the pipes played in such a way, a range of music wrung from them that was extraordinary. He seemed to make them sing and vibrate. After the first few notes, silence fell on those gathered, eyes riveted to the young warrior's face, his features highlighted by the flickering light of the fire. Sarssen had told Asok Bethel was a singularly beautiful young man. Tonight Asok saw the young man was very much more than that, more than captivating for a warlord. He lived within the haunts of music that lifted and fell in continuous melody. It was when Bethel put the pipes to one side and sang, unaccompanied, that Asok felt something inside him swell and give in response. When Bethel played the pipes again, the steppeman wiped away tears from his cheeks. Sagi, who came close to him at the start of the playing, saw the gesture. Asok grasped her hand. Her eyes were wide with surprised appreciation. Asok saw only Bethel. The luminous eyes seemed to see beyond and through those gathered, something ethereal and remarkably spiritual about the piper, as though he sat utterly alone in another time and place. "His music calms the essence," faltered Sagi, in a whisper. "All who listen are held in a common bond of complete harmony, whoever they are." "Yes," breathed Asok. "Indeed, my dear, that's so. Can that be his purpose for

surviving? None across Ambros can ignore the evocative messages within his music." Asok fell into solitary brooding silence. "He's god-touched, Asok." "Like Sarssen." "And Lute." "Is he so, too? That doesn't surprise me. I've suspected as such ever since he came to us. You felt it?" "Yes, but it seems he's unaware of it. Sarssen knows Beth is touched – he told me. Such times we live in. By the way, my love, Sarssen has another name." "Oh?" "The warlord calls him Losaren, the Churchik name given by Lodestok, just as Beth answers to Sorien, but I heard Beth once call Sarssen Sarequin." Sagi heard the soft sigh from Asok. "Does he indeed?" he murmured to himself. "Ah, Setoni, I miss you, my friend." Asok turned his head to his mate. "As you say, my dear, such times as we live in." "The twins are strikingly handsome young men, but Beth's quite beautiful, isn't he?" "Breathtakingly so," concurred Asok, conversationally, "and no conceit either." "No, none at all," mumbled Sagi. "He has untapped power that flows through him, but it's his musical talent that most touches me. Lean on me, Sagi dear, and enjoy his music." It was while Bethel played that Luton edged closer to Sarssen, his dark eyes like burning coals in the night light. "Sarssen," he whispered, with some urgency. "Lute?" Sarssen swung his head round so he faced Luton. "What troubles you?"

"It's Jonqi." "Come closer," invited Sarssen. "She is perfectly safe. No threat touches her." "No, I know that. It's about her talent I wish to speak with you." "Sagi assures me she is a gifted seer. I sensed that in the Shadowlands for myself." "Nothing else?" Sarssen frowned in the darkness. "Should there be?" "Her maturing woke something in her. Sagi senses it and so does Soji, nor is it connected with her being a seer. It seems to worry Jonqi." "I see. She is young to come to any understanding of talent, Lute. Not even Malekim taught you until you came of a mental age, and I certainly never let Bethel know anything of what he'd learned until he was sixteen or seventeen cycles. I was taught very young but the need was urgent and there was no choice. Likewise with Chlorien, but she was clearly marked for it and was taught in a particular way accordingly. Autoc is a most skilled, erudite mage. There is no necessity to push Jonqi. Are you saying you think Jonqi has the same talent as Beth's or your own?" "No," answered Luton cautiously, as if he groped his way while he thought. "But I do wonder if she has latent advanced reader/seeker abilities." "Allied with her abilities as seer, that would make her a powerful young woman, Lute." "Yes," replied Luton, uncomfortably. "Are you wondering what you have created, Lute?" asked Sarssen, very softly. "Are you worried?" "Yes. Power in young hands or wrongly manipulated can cause such pain and havoc," whispered Luton, a note of real distress in his voice. "Am I not enough of an example?"

"No, Lute, you are not. You have not created a monster, be assured of that, nor do I believe she is in your mould, or Beth's for that matter. She is unique. That child recognises what pain is, saw it in her father, respects it, but retreats from it. No more than you could she harm another living creature. That I promise you." "Thank you," came a grateful voice from the darkness. "If she manifests the first signs of talent, then she can be easily and painlessly assessed. What do you wish me to do?" "Could you see her tomorrow before we leave? It would ease my mind. Her happiness is very important to me. I also want to talk to you about things connected with my master." Luton felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder comfortingly and knew he'd sleep with an easy mind. Sarssen, on the other hand, was left with all sorts of thoughts rushing about in his head. ~~~ Morning came with a wintry blast that had all shivering after the spring warmth of days past. Luton was to leave with the warriors who stayed restfully overnight in a most comfortably appointed obtusa. Parting from Jonqi upset Luton, especially when he saw the look in her eyes. The girl showed restraint and maturity that deserted her when Luton walked slowly from the obtusa. Her sobs were deep and bitter. Their mutual hug was intensely emotional, however unspoken it might've been. It was then Sarssen entered the obtusa. The warrior paused at the sight of the crying child, swiftly crossed to her, went to his knees and gathered her into his arms where he rocked her. "No, no, little Jonqi," he remonstrated. "Your father will be back. You know that as well as I do. Where he could never reach you, now he can, easily. You give him such joy, child. I see that in his eyes." He kissed the tearstained face upturned to his, seeing, in the gulp and rapidly blinking eyes, a young Bethel distraught and hurt. He made soothing noises. Jonqi hiccupped, rubbed at her face and eyes and stared up at the warrior. "He'll come back?"

"Of course, child. You are his daughter." "I'll wait for him, Uncle Sarssen. I'll know when he comes." "Of that I have no doubt, Jonqisan." "He knows I'll be mated, but he promises to come before then." "Are you to be mated, little one? This is news to me. To whom?" "To Kasphros." That was a doubler for Sarssen. He blinked, thought hard, then suggested, "You wish to mate with him, is that what you mean?" He watched the dark head shake. "Look at me, child. I shall dry your face and eyes." Sarssen pulled out a lace-edged cloth to do that, but only gave a cursory wipe of the cheeks before he felt the slight figure in his arms go limp, their eyes locked. Sarssen was drawn through the meld into the mind of the child, and then further, to the part of mind that wasn't child at all and was the source of the being called Jonqi. It pulsed with an energy and light that was powerful and strangely alien. Even her colour, a vibrant orange-red, wasn't constant, the hues within it changing ceaselessly. There was nothing restless about the charged ripples. They were fluid, tranquil and quite ordered, but they were unlike anything Sarssen had seen before. He thought it was a little like what he briefly saw in Bethel and Luton, both godtouched, and wondered if what he saw now was what the brothers had as well. Carefully, he traced a straight line through a mind easily accessible and without blocks. Jonqi hadn't known fear, so had no need to block. As he did, he thought of what Luton told him of Jonqi's conception and he was deeply disquieted. Quietly Sarssen withdrew, eased the child down on the mattress, drew up warm covers about her and watched the girl snuggle down comfortably, her head rested on one hand. She stayed, deeply asleep. Sarssen stood watching her, his brows drawn together in a pensive frown, until he was recalled by Asokin. "Brasangan, the farewells are being said. You're sought."

"I come," answered Sarssen, stooping to brush a hand across the young curly head. He found Luton striding about in an unusually restless fashion, Kher watching him with a shade of concern in his eyes. When Luton saw Sarssen, he pounced on him. "Sarssen?" "Gently, Lute," Sarssen reproved him. "You cause your father anxiety so calm yourself. I have seen Jonqi and you are quite right. She has talent, but what it may be eludes me at this moment. It is nothing to worry about. But it may ease your mind if I tell you I believe it unwise to let any talent surface at this young age, certainly reader-seeker talent that she clearly has." "So, Sarssen?" Luton restrained impatience. A hand on his shoulder acted as a warning. He quietened immediately. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm just worried." "I have closed Jonqi down." "Permanently?" "Until either myself or an Adept deems her the right age to activate the talent, Lute, yes. She will be more comfortable, because she was a little frightened by burgeoning skills she is by far too young to comprehend. Such talent made her edgy and restless at times, something of an alien emotion for a child brought up in the steppes. She will be Soji's placid steppe child for cycles to come, then, when she is ready, she will stay that way because she will be old enough to understand what her talent actually means." "The next maturation at fourteen cycles? Will that trigger the same thing again?" "No, Lute, she is closed down." "It will make her maturing to womanhood that much easier, Sarssen." "Then that is satisfactory." "And her skills as a seer?"

"Quite untouched, Lute." Sarssen heard the heart-felt sigh of relief. "Go to your father, Lute. Give a plausible reason for your restlessness, yes?" "Yes," answered Luton, a hand raking through his hair. "But first I must farewell Sagi. She has so mothered me over the time I've been here." Luton was honest with the steppe-woman about Jonqi. He openly itted that signs Sagi noticed weren't aberrations but were the signs of things to come. She noticed that any of Luton's confusion surrounding Jonqi's welfare was gone. "You seem happier about the child," she observed, after Luton stooped to kiss her cheek. "I am," confessed Luton. "I've spoken with Sarssen who took what action he thought appropriate." "Which was?" "He's neutralised her talent, Sagi. She'll be unaware of it and it can't either evolve or develop until those skilled in reading and seeking allow it to." "It makes it easier for the little one to stay with us, Lute. Developing as she was may have caused problems we may find difficult to overcome. There are none here, for instance, who can teach her." "Sarssen says she's by far too young to learn." "He's wise," decided Sagi, with a lurking twinkle. "It's important Jonqi stays with your people, Sagi. She's happy here. She's one with you." "One day her place won't be here, Lute." "Maybe." "She'll need to be close to her father, at least for a while." Sagi saw the sombre expression in the dark eyes, then it faded when she encouragingly touched the young man's arm. She was rewarded with the smile

that so moved Obli. And it was then she understood what it was about this youthful warrior that so affected her. It was restrained power, tempered by suffering and experience, that produced in Luton an overwhelming comion and ionate caring for those he loved. Sagi felt those sensations as she stood next to him, because they emanated from the young man in waves. Luton took Sagi's hands in his, held them for long seconds, then released them and waited for the steppe-woman to raise her head. When their eyes met, for the briefest instant, she read him instinctively. Awed, she finally watched the tall figure stride away, and then, needing to be alone, she walked directly out into the grassy spaces. Luton's farewell of his twin wasn't emotional. It was simple. They hugged one another, Samar-fashion, then fell apart, both laughing as Daxel walked his brother to Oblique. "Don't forget you owe me a horse like him," warned the Saturim, helping Luton mount. "Aren't you glad I brought him south with me? I might've kept him." "He'd have bitten you!" retorted Luton, settling himself. "Then where would you have been?" "Sore," laughed Daxel. "Lute, may your mate bring you joy. Are you going to her soon?" "I'll stay a few weeks in Caciqua, Dase, but can't linger much longer." "Harth?" "Harth," nodded Luton, in confirmation. He gripped his brother's hands in his. "You stay until the treaty's copied?" Daxel nodded. "Don't try so hard to deny your own happiness, Dase," he entreated. He saw the wry twist to the Saturim's lips. "I your words to me, Dase. You told me not to hold myself cheap. I say the same thing to you now." "Lute," whispered Daxel. "Have courage and a belief in yourself, brother mine. I have it in you. I'll await your call, Dase. It'll come, whatever you may think, and I'll share your happiness as you share mine."

Speechlessly, Daxel stared up into dark eyes that smiled affectionately and understandingly into his. He shook his head, squeezed Luton's hand, and stepped back so Oblique, fretting and fidgeting, could move forward. Daxel watched his brother ride across to the group of warriors and raise his hand in farewell. "It's kind of you to stay for the final copy of the treaty, Saturim. We shouldn't hold you here long." Daxel turned to see Asok study him. "It's my pleasure," he murmured, nodded sharply, and turned on his heel. Gray eyes followed him contemplatively. Daxel strode across the small camp to the obtusa where he knew Jonqi was and Sarssen had been. He guessed he'd find her there, possibly distressed, so paused on the threshold in case she should indicate she wanted to be alone. When there was no movement, he advanced to the mattress, knelt beside it and gently smoothed the tumbled curls from Jonqi's cheek. The dark eyes opened and Jonqi put a hand to her mouth at the sight of the image of her father solemnly watching her but saying nothing. "Uncle Dase," she whispered, sitting and her arms imploringly out. Daxel gathered her in. He didn't see Katakin at the entrance, watching and listening. "Ah now, Jonqi, Lute had to go. He's expected back in the desert, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care for you, child. Just because he's mated with another, it's not the end of his relationship with you. Your relationship with your Da runs very deep in you both, and your closeness will grow and grow, Jonqi, but his coming and going is something you and I both have to come to with. It's what the war did to us, little one. Nothing can change that." Jonqi stared up into a grave face. "Brasangan," she said, clinging tightly. "I know it's hard for you and life seems cruel, but certain things have to be. Listen to me, Jonqi." Jonqi nodded. "With all my heart I wish our home wasn't destroyed by the Churchik. Then Lute and I'd have grown up together in a family that was happy, all together as we were meant to be. But if that had happened, you wouldn't have been born, I wouldn't be here loving you, nor would Kalbeth be born. None of us would know the other as we do now. So, little one, when I feel at my most lost and lonely, I take comfort from knowing we have each other and can stay in touch all the time. That goes for you and your Da, Jonqi."

"Are you lost and lonely, too, without my Da?" "Often, Jonqi, but not as badly as I was. That's because I know Lute and I won't always be apart. Does that help just a little?" Jonqi's grip round his neck tightened. "Jonqi, your Da loves you very dearly. We both know he'll come back, don't we?" A tearstained face peered up anxiously. "You miss him when he goes, too, don't you, Uncle Dase?" "How could it be otherwise?" returned Daxel, calmly. "You see, Jonqi, for so very long I completely lost him so I'm always afraid I might lose him again. It's a silly thing, but it's a constant fear that stays with me. You can't understand, little one, nor should you." "Da says my home's here, yet I wish he could stay with us." Daxel heaved a heartfelt sigh. "We all have our roads to travel, Jonqi. I'm sure yours somewhere runs with Lute's." "Are you leaving, too?" "Soon, little one. I'm ambassador after all, and now a peace exists between your people and the Churchik, my task's done. I must return to the man who sent me here." "Ensore the Chamah." "To Ensore, yes." "A long way from here?" "Yes, child, a long way." Daxel saw the deep yawn the girl couldn't hide and made an accurate guess. "You didn't sleep last night, did you? Was it because you were upset at Lute's going?" Jonqi nodded. "So you're sleepy, aren't you?" There was another nod. "Such a silly girl. Lie against me a little, Jonqi, and let me tell you a story that Samars in the north tell children who need to rest. To really listen carefully, you have to close your eyes." Daxel talked slowly while he wiped her cheeks, then, as he saw the girl drift

gently, he quietly covered her again and noiselessly left the obtusa. At the entrance he pulled up short, because he saw Katakin there looking at him in a disturbing way that made him involuntarily extend his hand to her. Then he just let his hand drop and walked past her. Katakin followed him at a discreet distance. She watched him wander some distance away from the camp, to throw himself down in the grass and moss, quite regardless of the damp on the ground or the chill in the air. Katakin noticed he lay as he and Luton habitually did, on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, his head rested in cupped hands. He didn't see her approach and made no sign he knew she was there. Looking at his profile, Katakin saw tears crawl down his cheeks to fall steadily to the ground. He ignored them. She hesitated to intrude at such a personal moment and moved stealthily backwards, but not before some sound made Daxel become aware of her. Sharply, his head turned and she saw him stare up at her with hopeless longing. It made her stop. She went to him, sank into the long grass and held out her hand. "What troubles you, Saturim?" Daxel took her hand, caressed it in a way he wasn't aware of, then let it go. He sighed. "Is it Lute or Jonqi?" "Partly both," he replied, with a shrug like Luton's. He rolled over, sat, brushed a shaking hand across his face and pulled in his long legs. "It was kind of you to follow me, but quite unnecessary." "Don't play with me, Saturim," came the soft response. Daxel averted his head and spoke with a very real effort. "Katakin, don't do this to me. If I had it, I'd offer you everything. Don't you understand I've nothing to give, nothing?" "I should be the judge of that, Saturim, shouldn't I?" Katakin would've said more but Daxel raised a hand to silence her. "I don't approach a steppe lord's daughter when I have nothing. Gods forbid, I'm not so presumptuous, Katakin. I'm an ordinary man from Ortok. A simple man, woman, nothing more and nothing less. I belong nowhere. Through my life close to the Chamah and in his service I'm much Dahkilan, but I possess nothing other than a half-Samar identity. I'm dispossessed even of my homeland, a wanderer if

you like, maybe even an adventurer, probably until the day I die." "I see another Dase," went on the soft voice. "You're the Chamah's chosen adopted son, the captain of a combined Samar/Dahkilan troop and an ambassador for Dahkilah. You carry a title that goes back cycles and carries honour and distinction. Dase beloved, if I can accept you for what you are, why can't you, too?" Daxel remained silent, not trusting himself to speak and deliberately turned from her. Katakin surveyed him thoughtfully, then added in her calm, reflective way, "If you had self-worth, Dase, would you ask me to be your mate, or is it that you truly don't want me? Tell me the truth." Stung, Daxel swung back to face her, his eyes flashing incredulously and in such disbelief Katakin had all the answer she needed. "You can ask me that, Katakin? Do you now mock me as well?" She shook her head. His voice became husky. "Gods, this is too much." He bent his head, fingers writhing through his curls and savagely tugging at them. "You don't answer me, Dase," she chided him. She made him lift his head and saw so much love for her in his eyes she had to hurriedly swallow. "I ask you again, Dase. Would you wish me to be your mate?" The words were wrung in an anguished whisper from Daxel. "Yes, Katakin, you know that, but it can't be." "Come to me, Dase." Helplessly, he was held by eyes that locked with his, then he felt himself drawn very close until Katakin was directly above him, her lips brushing his forehead and cheeks. She saw yearning in the dark eyes. "No, Katakin. Stop before it's too late." "It already is," whispered Katakin, quietly lying across him. Daxel struggled, but hands distracted him and a mouth, finally closing over his, rendered him unable to utter a protest. "It will be, Dase," Katakin whispered, after she lifted her head. "You've given me your answer and now I give you mine. It's what we both want, isn't it?"

Her hand slid expertly under his belt in such a way that Daxel knew he couldn't fight against the inevitable, his response immediate and ionate.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Asok was in his personal obtusa with Sagi seated beside him, watching their eldest daughter. Katakin sat in front of them on a mat, cross-legged, a cup to her lips and since her cheeks were tinged such a delicate pink, Sagi drew her own conclusions, ones she imagined her mate drew earlier as well. She was amused. Asok's grey eyes surveyed Katakin intently. "Speak, daughter. It's obvious something prompts you to seek us out, and together." Katakin didn't speak immediately, so there was a continuing silence. She drank and licked her lips. "Pasangan, I wish to mate." "That, too, daughter, is self-evident," was the placid reply. Katakin's colour deepened as she met her father's imperturbable gaze. "I have already, Pasangan," she confessed, lowering her head in some confusion. Sagi and Asok exchanged entertained glances. "That comes as no surprise either, child." There was a touch of humour in the plainsman's voice not lost on his mate. "What troubles you, daughter?" "He won't seek your or Masangan's acceptance, Pasangan." Asok stared at Katakin's bent head. "That's unusual," he commented, rather dryly. "A man who mates isn't usually so reticent about his commitment." "He wasn't entirely willing," itted Katakin, lifting her head to show heated cheeks. Asok's expression showed surprise. "A reluctant mate, Katakin? Did you drug then rape him? That seems rather a drastic step, child." That made Katakin laugh. "No, Pasangan. He wanted to mate but he lacks self-esteem. So I had to -."

"What, child?" "To encourage him in a way he couldn't refuse, otherwise I'd have lost him and not got him back." "And have you got him?" "A tenuous hold," itted Katakin. "He knows he's made a physical commitment but fights even that, so I made him stay that little bit longer." "And now?" Asok's eyes were warm with amusement. Sagi's positively danced with sheer delight. "I seek counsel. I don't know what path to follow." "The Saturim leaves us earlier than anticipated then, does he?" Briefly, Katakin's eyes met her father's in startled enquiry. His were understanding. "Yes," she whispered. "How did you know?" "Leon misses little, daughter, your mother even less. They knew a little in advance of me." "Do you both disapprove?" "No, daughter, we don't, but we see a few obstacles ahead should a mating proceed. We suggest you speak freely so we can decide on the most appropriate form of help." Asok and Sagi listened but said nothing, though the smile in grey eyes spoke volumes. It was only when Katakin fell silent that Asok stretched and spoke. "I shall send to the Chamah, daughter, and to the young man's elder brother, known, I believe, as the Strategos of Samar, but aside from that, Katakin, the Saturim could live with us if he wished. We see contentment in him when he's here or comes in from the grasses. As our eldest daughter you'll inherit considerable wealth and lands that you'll be free to share with the mate of your choosing. That's our way." "He won't."

"Then you can't force him to accept it, Katakin. It would be wrong," answered Asok, coolly. "I don't wish to lose him." "That's not in dispute, girl, but you must let the young man have his pride. He's been stripped of so much else he must be allowed to retain that." "What was Samar? Dase won't talk about it." "Your mother knows more about Samar than I do. Listen to her, child." Katakin did. Finally, after a very long, thoughtful pause she asked wistfully, "How old was Dase when his father died?" "Not two cycles, if I have that correctly from Setoni. It was the eldest brother who raised the younger ones." "So he knew no father as I do?" "Not in that sense, other than the Strategos." "Sarehl," said Katakin, succinctly. "That explains Dase's closeness to him. And Lute's." She fumbled with her skirt, then asked, "Did they have slaves?" "Slavery's as abhorrent to them as it is to us. It's unknown in northern Ambros." "To confront it must've been a shock." "Young Lute and Beth survived on will and talent alone." "And Sarssen, don't forget him," interpolated Sagi, dryly. Asok nodded then turned back to his daughter. "So, child, when will the Saturim come back?" Katakin gave a shrug. "Where did he go? Towards Andish?" "Out into the steppes." "Ah!" Asok nodded. "You've asked him to return soon?"

"Yes, but he made no promises." "Not a rash man," smiled Asok, showing his teeth. "When he returns, daughter, you'd be wise to bring him to me. I'll await him." ~~~ Daxel reappeared, heavy-eyed, in the early evening, uncommunicative and brooding, his expression unusually bleak. He sought out Katakin to explain he intended to leave in the early morning for Andish, before he'd depart, first for Caciqua, and then further northwest to Dahkilah. Katakin stared hard at him, searching the black eyes that refused to give anything away, and when she asked him why he felt such an urgent need to leave he paled and concentrated on the ground. "I'm an ambassador, Katakin. I expect to be immediately recalled to Dahkilah." Katakin said nothing. "I'm more than half a cycle beyond my original term. I don't know where I'll go next - it's up to the Chamah to decide." Unwarily, Daxel glanced into her face and saw such a look there he went on unsteadily. "Don't make this unbearably hard for me, dear one. You're punishing me enough as it is." Katakin touched his cheek. "If you truly want to leave me, Dase, I'll not hold you." Fiercely, Daxel grasped her shoulders and gave her a shake. "That's not honourable, Katakin," he said vehemently, shaking her again. "No, it's not," she answered shakily, as she smiled mistily up at him. Daxel lifted her off her feet and held her in an embrace that made her breathless and give an inarticulate squeak. "Damn you, woman," Daxel whispered huskily into her hair. "Why won't you let me go and give me peace of mind?" "What about mine?" she asked reasonably, conscious of the strength in arms that held her. Lying beside Daxel later, Katakin rested on an elbow so she could look down at the darkly-bearded face beside her, the black eyes staring intently up into hers but the expression profoundly troubled. She brushed back tumbled locks that

strayed across his face. "Come, beloved. Pasangan wants to see you." Daxel shook his head. "No," he whispered. "Oh gods, Katakin, what have we done? What have I let myself do? You're a witch, woman." Daxel pulled her head close so he could devour her face with eyes that shone like polished ebon. "Katakin, don't make me go to your father. The gods, he may wish to beat me!" "You're too big," she teased. "There must be another way, Kat, there must be. Come away with me." "No, Dase. We'll be mated in the proper way," she reproved him, a glint in her eye that made Daxel surrender without another word. Meekly he took clothes held out for him, silently dressed, then nervously hung back when he was fully clad. "Katakin," he whispered, in a dry voice. "Katakin, I'm not sure about this. There's so much here that's not right." "Come." Katakin saw deep apprehension in her chosen mate, but she firmly grasped his hand and led him to Asok's obtusa, where they found he and Asokin engaged in a game of cruci. Asok imperceptibly nodded at his son who rose in one fluid movement and was gone, leaving his father to push the boards and pieces to one side. He gestured Daxel and Katakin in, the latter responding but the former hanging back. "Come in and sit, young man," instructed Asok calmly, waiting for Daxel to go to the matting. He glanced casually at Katakin. "Leave us, daughter." The look directed at her by the Saturim wasn't missed by either father or daughter. With Katakin's quiet withdrawal, Daxel was left confronting the plainsman who looked at him expressionlessly. Feeling like a boy in dire trouble with Ongwin over an unwise tryst, Daxel sat with his knees drawn up to his chin, very conscious of the cool, appraising stare he received, an unblinkingly unnerving one at that. He thought of the warnings Ensore had given him about amours that could get him into trouble, but as he thought that, he defended

himself by telling himself that Katakin was different and he dearly loved her. "Katakin tells me you chose to mate," came the slow, rich voice. Daxel licked his lips and tried to avoid the stare that put him so out of countenance. "Have I transgressed social mores of the Sinhalien?" he asked, quickly and defensively. "No, young one, our young are free to mate as they will, though we hope the intentions of the one to the other are well-intentioned." Asok surveyed Daxel with an appreciative smile in the grey eyes. "Ever the courtly ambassador, aren't you, Saturim? Who else would ask such a thing?" Daxel's eyes met Asok's and were the first to fall in embarrassed confusion. "That was unworthy of me, Hasuran, and insulting to your daughter," he said, quietly and contritely. "Yes, Katakin and I've mated, more than once." "Was it against your will, Saturim?" Daxel's blush was immediate and deep and he stared intently at his knees, unwilling to face a possible expression of sardonic mockery. "Not entirely," he itted, honestly, "though I tried to make Katakin see it wasn't appropriate. She..." The voice trailed away. "I know exactly what my daughter's capable of, Saturim. You have my sympathy if you've truly been caught in a net not of your own weaving." "No," answered Daxel, hastily. "I don't criticise Katakin." "So you were willing, but unwilling?" "I feel as though by yielding, I've committed an offence against a woman and her people that shames me." "Why should you feel that way? Physical expression of emotion isn't confined to one." "You trusted me, Hasuran, so much so I had liberty to come and go because you respected Lute. In a way, by mating with Katakin, I've abused that trust and that placed in me by Ensore. He expected me to know and observe the bounds of

what's considered tolerable behaviour for an ambassador." "Did you mate with my daughter on a casual whim then?" "No!" "Then, young man, you're very hard on yourself, aren't you?" Asok saw despondency in the expression and hopelessness in black eyes when they briefly met his and fell. "I know what I'm not," answered Daxel, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "And what's that?" "I'm not presumptuous enough to ask a father's permission to mate for life with his daughter when I've nothing to offer her, other than emotion. I've had to live like that most of my life. I couldn't subject Katakin to that." "Can you explain?" "I've lived on hope for cycles. It's not a recipe for life that has much to commend it." "It's brought you this far, Saturim." "Yes, but that's as far as it goes." "You're very blunt," observed Asok placidly, his eyes not leaving the extremely handsome face. Daxel shrugged. "I cherish few illusions. Without your home and being stateless, that happens. I was also a half empty husk for cycles." "It would seem you have no self-esteem either, young one." Asok noted with amused approval that the dark eyes flashed. "I may be homeless and have nothing to offer your daughter, but I'm not entirely insensitive and can recognise when I've done something extremely foolish that could be hurtful to someone else. I never set out to seduce or hurt Katakin. How could I?" Daxel's voice shook and Asok noticed that under stress this twin's

nostrils quivered as Luton's did. There was so much of the one in the other. "I regret offering to act as ambassador for the Churchik. I should've asked the Chamah to take me back to Elibera. It was ill-judged of me." "Are you saying you regret meeting us, Saturim?" Asok saw horrified shock in the black eyes when Daxel realised the faux pas he'd made. It was a social solecism of the worst kind. "No," Daxel managed, then threw back with spirit, "My coming hasn't been felicitous for Katakin, has it?" A faint smile came to the plainsman face. "On the contrary, Dase," he replied, quietly. "I've never seen our daughter so contented, though she expresses grave concern regarding you." "Let me tell you something," begged Daxel. Asok courteously inclined his head. "I come from a state that no longer exists and my origins are humble. We had no material wealth, though we had riches that counted for so much more, and merely had a scholar father and an artist mother. Our father may have achieved renown had he not been murdered by the mage at an early age, because I believe he was a truly gifted man and would've deserved recognition. In Samar we had no titles or social status other than those who were chosen, every few cycles, to be s of the city, or were considered to be Paramon, our city representative. The only other status was for Guild Masters. So, you see, I've no titles, no land, no wealth, no influence. I'm as you see me and have no expectations of any of those things during my lifetime. I'm merely a soldier in the Dahkilan troops." Daxel gave a melancholy smile that went straight to Asok's heart. "I don't think Katakin would like to spend the rest of her life in barracks, do you? We tend to live rough, as I've done since I was twelve cycles, and much of the time we're on patrol of one kind or another. Apart from returning to Dahkilah with the Chamah and the brief time I've spent as ambassador in Caciqua, I've never known a home or a stable environment since a childhood in Ortok. Katakin deserves better than that, and you should see that. You have a responsibility to ensure she mates with someone who can give her more than mere emotion. Emotion doesn't feed hungry mouths, Asok." "No," agreed the plainsman, gently. "I assume the lack of stability in your life is why your brother Sarehl means so much to you." Daxel raised a head that showed eyes so profoundly sad, Asok was momentarily taken aback.

"I thought only my youngest brother and I escaped the slaughter at Ortok," Daxel said, in a rather withdrawn way, "and Brue was taken from me within a day of our rescue, though I didn't know it then. I'd no idea where he'd gone, so was alone, calling and seeking Lute. Sarehl was dear to us, because he acted as our father and raised us to help Mam, nor did I know he'd escaped until many weeks later when Ensore brought him into a makeshift camp. Sar was almost dead, but seeing him gave me hope again. Hope flickered and died on and off for cycles for us both, until Sar found Brue. For cycles I felt surges of Lute's agony, then a deadness I can't explain to anybody though I knew Lute hadn't died in a physical sense, just in every other way. It left me only half alive. I finally reached and touched Lute, saw him, and urged him to be willing to live again. And then I saw Beth, poor little Beth. His sufferings were so awful, like Lute's, and so prolonged." "You say you knew Lute was alive?" Daxel shook his head. "After a while, not entirely, certainly not after a cycle or so," he responded, slowly. "Surges of his anguish and pain came in strong waves, then he'd fade from me leaving me with a sense of deadness." He stopped, then with an effort went on. "Later, it was as if he was removed from me. We know now he was. Malekim closed him to all but himself and refused to let Lute feel, but I didn't know that, so I kept calling, every day. In a sense we both endured a living death. I didn't even know if either Chlo or Bethel was alive." "Tell me about those days, young one." Daxel gave a hopeless little hand gesture, then, encouraged, he spoke hesitantly, carefully choosing his words until he became more fluent and relaxed, his voice sometimes cracking. Asok, as usual, did and said nothing. He simply let Daxel talk. It was after a long silence fell that Asok said thoughtfully, "So you feel, because you have no home for Katakin and nothing tangible to offer her, you can't permanently mate with her?" He saw anguish in the young face before Daxel looked away with a nod. "Nothing else stands in your way?" Daxel shook his head. He swallowed and uttered in a rush. "Children, Asok, must know where they belong so they have balance and identity. I did once - I don't anymore. I can't inflict a life of uncertainty on either

them or Katakin." "Could you bear to live in Samar, young man, as different as it will be? It can't ever be the same, but you're intelligent enough to know that." Daxel stared at the plainsman and sighed. "If I could go home, Asok, I would." "Then why don't you, Dase?" Daxel stretched out long limbs, before he replied in an even, controlled voice. "I don't feel easy enough in spirit to play verbal games, Asok, nor do I like to be mocked. I came at Katakin's request." "I never play games, young man, nor is it my habit to indulge in pointless mockery. Doing so says more about the one who mocks than the mocked themselves. You'll learn I do not make idle conversation." The voice was pleasant enough but there was a steely note to it that put Daxel on his guard. "I asked you a civil question, Saturim. I ask again, why don't you go home?" Puzzled, Asok watched the storm of emotions that followed each other swiftly across the young face and were reflected in challenging, angry eyes. Daxel spoke with rigid control and through clenched teeth. "I told you, I haven't got a home." "But you have," argued Asok softly, still watching Daxel closely. "Why else would the warlord have sent a friend of Beth's as ambassador to Samar, to one entitled Strategos of Samar?" "What?" gasped Daxel, feeling as though he'd been hard struck by a rock. His mind reeled. "I've been gone from Caciqua with your need of me, but I never heard about this." "Perhaps it wasn't considered important for you to know," suggested Asok, kindly. "Are you telling me you know nothing about Samar?" "Samar?" "The name of your brother's city-state."

"Gods!" whispered Daxel, rubbing his eyes. In them, Asok saw incredulity and disbelief replace the bitterness and anger of only moments before. "Sar? A citystate? But how can this be? Ensore said nothing to me, other than that he went north with Sar to see how badly things stood in Samar and to look over a small city the Dahkilan built for defensive purposes. And Sar's said nothing in his letters, though I knew from Beth and Lute that he stayed north in preference to returning to Dahkilah. But this!" His dark eyes narrowed. "Scholar!" he exclaimed. "He knew! He came from there to see me, I swear it. He was as offhand about things up north as Ensore. Why didn't anyone tell me what was happening?" Daxel's voice completely broke. "Dase," said Asok, with great gentleness. "You've had to cope with a very great deal, not the least being made to act as ambassador among people who represented all you hated for a very long time. It might've been considered it was enough for you to deal with. Maybe it was thought you'd not be ready to go to a home that isn't your home. Do you understand?" Daxel nodded. "Beth may have spoken of it. Did he?" "Yes," mumbled Daxel, wiping a hand across his cheeks. "But he didn't say very much." "He had Correc's invasion to deal with, Dase, and was then rushed east. And Lute, like Beth, may've been waiting for you to mention Samar. When you didn't, he may have thought you weren't at ease about it and not ready either for discussion or a return north. Or they may have thought you knew all about Samar from Sarehl and there was nothing further to discuss. Do you want to go home?" "Yes," whispered Daxel, in a husky voice. "Yes, Asok, I want to go home, so very much." He thought about Bethel's brief comments and odd glances in his direction as if his brother waited for a response that didn't come. It was the same with Luton. Now he understood. He wondered why Autoc was so casual, and then began to have an inkling that perhaps it was feared he couldn't cope, especially as he fought over going south to the Churchik. Overwhelmed, Daxel put his head in his hands and stayed that way. There was a very long silence until Asok spoke again.

"Dase, I thought you knew." Daxel didn't move. "Since Lute had a vague idea something occurred in the north, I assumed you were aware as well. I apologise for throwing news of such importance at you in so crude a fashion." There was a pause, then, "I've received an invitation from the Strategos asking if we'd care to exchange ambassadors, his suggestion of one Saxen being one he considered appropriate. Do you know one answering to Saxen?" Asok saw a glimmer of genuine hope shine in black eyes lifted to his. "Saxen?" repeated Daxel, stupidly. Then the eyes that looked slightly glazed cleared abruptly and Daxel smiled. "Saxen? Of course I know him. We grew up together. He escaped with his father and ed the Cartokian army." "I believe he's back in Samar, Dase." "Then what you say must be true. Sar didn't just go back to look. He went back because he decided he'd do what Lute and I wanted, something to save Samar from disintegrating into petty little fiefdoms. What it must've taken to do is something I can't comprehend. No wonder Ens stayed up north! Asok, my mind whirls and I'm so confused." The head went down and Daxel softly wept. Asok left him to go outside where Katakin sat patiently waiting. He stared down at her, a lurking smile in eyes that rested on her upturned, enquiring face. "You've chosen a man of very strong will and equally deep ions, Katakin, haven't you?" At that there was an answering smile in her eyes. "Yes, I have." "He's as deeply scarred as Lute, daughter, but in a different way. It'll take time to heal his hurts, child, you understand?" Katakin nodded and loose hair fell about her face. "I understand that, too," she replied, softly. "I want to be there for him." Asok considered her. "His pride's not false, Katakin, nor based on conceit or arrogance. He's intensely gifted in his way, not as Lute is, but I suspect no less so. What do you think?" "He understands so easily and at times seems to go beyond mere comprehension, as if he has skills he's not aware of. It shows in his eyes."

"You're no fool, daughter," commented Asok, iringly. "That young man barely touches on fulfilment. You'll have to go along with him if he's to achieve it. And that's understood, too, is it?" Katakin nodded. "I ire his honesty and deeply rooted sense of honour and what's due to it. He's a chivalrous young man, daughter, in a true courtly Dahkilan tradition that takes me back to when we traded freely, oh very long cycles ago, child, and the manner of those we met weren't so unlike. Maybe those days come again to Ambros. It makes me wonder if he, too, was meant to survive, to come south, to be with the Churchik so, with his skills, he could act as a bridge between peoples that may broker what could well be lasting peace in the south. Time will tell. None of that family was born just to live out an ordinary existence, Katakin. Their destinies shine before them." "Like yours," said Katakin. "And Masangan as well I sometimes thought. Do we have any say about our futures?" "Oh yes indeed, daughter," laughed Asok. "The paths are there for us, and we choose one that we tread until the path forks and again we have to choose. Our choices can make or break the futures for others, so that's why we should choose extremely carefully. Have you?" "Yes, Pasangan." "Dase is an unusual mixture of north and south. He still seeks what path to follow but his decision, I suspect, comes very close, and bound in with that are his feelings for you. Katakin, they run very, very deep. It would be a foolish woman who betrayed or scorned those." Katakin looked directly and unflinchingly at her father. "I've chosen him, as you and Masangan chose each other, and Dase chose me weeks ago." A rare smile lit Asok's features at that. "Then, daughter, you'll know and achieve happiness, of that I'm sure." With that, Asok turned from Katakin and stooped to re-enter the obtusa. Daxel had stretched out, but upon Asok's entrance he obligingly and courteously coiled himself into as small a knot as he could. Asok, sinking gracefully into the crosslegged pose, said kindly,

"Stretch out, Saturim. You look distinctly uncomfortable." He got a boyish grin. "I apologise for the lapse in manners earlier," Daxel said, extending cramped legs full out. "I unwittingly goaded you, Dase. You need apologise for nothing." "Asok, my mind's in chaos. I need time for reflection if indeed it's true Sar's gone home." He lingered over the word "home", his tone almost a caress. He glanced across at Asok, a smile trembling on his lips. "Home," he repeated. "Gods, but I've yearned for so long to go home, to have somewhere I belong." "It may surprise you to realise I do understand, Dase, and what this means to you. I'll not hold you here any longer. The final copy of the treaty can be sent to the warlord through another agency, so you need have no worries about that." "No." Daxel shook his head. "I complete what I've begun, Asok. I'll wait and take the treaty with me to Caciqua, then I'll go north to Dahkilah and to Ens. He'll be able to tell me so much more." "Very well," agreed Asok, the smile in his eyes deepening. "However, doesn't this change things, Saturim, in your own mind if not in mine? I take you for what you are, as does Katakin, but you can't. Is a brother of the Strategos of Samar and the adopted son of the Chamah of Dahkilah not worth anything in your mind?" "I was churlish," whispered Daxel, colour sweeping across lean cheeks. "I was distressed by what I'd done and what you might think I'd done and the reasons for it. I'm not usually so disordered in my thoughts." "You feared I'd think you mated for the sake of my daughter's wealth and lands?" "Yes." Daxel's head stayed down. "Any father would." "I'm not such a fool. I know how you feel for our daughter - I saw it in your eyes some time ago, as did her mother and brother. Nor have you broken any trust vested in you by me or the Chamah, but have done what hundreds have done before you. That's all. You've fallen in love." "My estate," mumbled Daxel, hurriedly, head lifting. "I still haven't anything to

offer Katakin." The cool grey eyes actually sparkled. "You offer yourself, Dase, and that's enough, more than enough, believe me. Katakin doesn't seek wealth, titles or status. What she wants and what you can give her, is a home. Dase, would you listen to some advice? I rarely give it." "Of course." "You see Samar as your home, where you believe you'll find the source of harmony, fulfilment and contentment you lost when your home was destroyed?" Daxel nodded. "Then be guided by me, child. Home can actually also be where you make it." He saw the dark eyes widen, startled. "Is this camp any less a home for Jonqi than her pasangan's city miles away in the mountains, perched on a plateau?" "No, I suppose not." "What makes her home here?" "She has the people about her who mean the most to her, her needs and wants are met and she's happy." "Then that, Dase, if you nothing else." Asok saw Daxel look very thoughtful, his eyebrows contracted. "And you may think that at this moment you have little to offer, but in time you will, in the most unexpected way." Daxel stared hard at the plainsman as if trying to divine Asok's thoughts. Asok saw Luton looking at him. "What then do I do?" Asok considered it was time the Saturim was allowed to go away to think. "It would be sensible for you to be formally mated before you leave to go west, wouldn't it? And since you're content to remain a few days more among us, arrangements need not be made in haste. I believe the Chamah now travels south of Dahkilah because he heads for the army of occupation. Yes, Saturim, we have our own sources of information." Daxel shut his mouth and grinned. "I'll write both to your brother Sarehl, and to the Chamah."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ensore was well south and riding with his men in a westerly direction when he was advised by Ongwin that riders approached from the southeast, a reasonably large force, too. Ensore, very much at ease and comfortable away from Elibera's stifling protocol, ordered a stop and camp set. He dismounted a little stiffly and yanked his cloak firmly about him as the air was still bitterly cold at the end of a savage winter. It might be early spring but he only felt minimal warmth from a weak sun during short daylight hours. He couldn't a southern winter as vicious as the one just past. He could tell the riders were still some distance away, the plumes of dust very faint, so much so he doubted he'd have seen them had Ongwin not drawn them to his attention. He noticed how stiff Ongwin had become over the last two cycles, the older man showing his age in thick, white hair and pronounced grey and white streaks in a chestnut beard. Ongwin was at least seventy-five cycles, if not more, so was remarkably spry for one who'd had to live it rough for some cycles now. Ensore felt it was wrong to have brought the man from the comfort of his estates in Elibera, but Ongwin had insisted, rather gruffly, that he would travel with the Chamah. Ongwin may have been showing his age, but there wasn't anything wrong with his eyes. He often saw where younger men didn't and his accumulated wisdom was invaluable. Ensore treasured the man who'd fathered him for cycles now. Both he and Ensore walked over to where a fire was being set, stamping their booted feet to keep warm and blowing on gloved hands that had lost feeling in finger tips. Breath curled in the cold air. Glancing surreptitiously at the older man, Ensore saw Ongwin was tired. With a smile he accepted a tankard from one of his men while Ongwin gratefully took another, no need of conversation and none offered. By the time the fire had begun to blaze and throw out a little warmth, the sound of hoof-beats was more pronounced. Loath to leave the fire, Ongwin turned his head; Ensore didn't move at all. He'd no idea who came and wasn't especially interested. Vaguely, he heard the shouts of arrivals and the jangling of harness and spurs, but he wasn't really listening because he was so far away with his

thoughts. Ongwin was now over with the guards. Ensore just hunched closer into his cloak. He was suddenly conscious of quick steps, then of a figure crouching down beside him, the voice beseeching but delighted. "Ens, it's me! It's Dase!" Ensore looked round, too surprised to do other than stare at the dark bearded face and bright, laughing eyes. Daxel's joy at being back with the Chamah showed in the sudden rush of water to the black eyes. Without a word, Ensore rose, held out his arms and enfolded Daxel in a strong embrace, his eyes misty as well when he finally let go the young man, pushed him back a little and studied him. Daxel saw the misty eyes. "Lad, it's wonderful to see you again. I wasn't expecting you, but it's well you're here. I've missed you a very great deal. Ah, but you look so well, lad. What brings you north just now, Dase? Is all well in the south that you come?" "It's a long story," returned Daxel, his voice still thick and croaky. As the Chamah read his face, so he read Ensore's and what he saw there both disturbed and warmed him. He saw fatigue in the grey eyes and lines where none had been, but he also saw unadulterated pleasure, relief, and a deep measure of love. He set himself back to survey his mentor. "You look so tired, Ens," he began, gruffly. "What've you been doing? Is it that Curule again?" Ensore's tired eyes lit up with the amused smile Daxel had missed. "No, no, lad, nothing too strenuous. I feel the cold." He saw the dubious expression and went on with a laugh. "You're like a breath of fresh air, Dase, truly you are. Come, lad, sit by me and tell me your news. Have you eaten?" Daxel shook his head. "Are all your men with you?" Daxel nodded. "We'll have a merry age west then, won't we?" Daxel curled up next to the Chamah, his head leaned back against Ensore in the manner of the boy from cycles ago. It made Ensore relax. It was undeniable Daxel was happy to be back with the Dahkilan, but that the young man had subtly changed and matured was also apparent. Ensore let Daxel talk, read Asok's letter without comment, managing not to raise an eyebrow at the startling contents and merely consigned it to his cloak pocket for later deeper perusal. He listened to talk of Luton and Bethel, of Sarssen, Kher, Caciqua and life as an ambassador among the Churchik. He sensed shocked disbelief at Sarehl's return

to Samar, and the difficulties of an adjustment to slavery that was an abhorrence still picked up from the voice. Then Daxel veered to the question of the Sinhalien. Here, Ensore became particularly attentive to the nuances and tone of the deep voice that spoke of the steppe people with respect and affection. The Sinhalien/Churchik conflict was briefly outlined, the saga unfolding to its resolution, and the Chamah was left with a definite impression of a resourceful warlord and an adroit Asok. Then Daxel deliberately deflected any further questions, instead asking Ensore what he'd been doing, how folk he'd not seen for over a cycle were, and listened fascinated to the story of Sarehl and Samar. His eyes widened the more he heard, until he stuttered in amazement and real delight. He couldn't hear enough, questions tripping off his tongue like forked lightning, until Ensore laughingly brought things to a halt. "You'll wear me out, lad," he expostulated, aware Ongwin had approached several times then tactfully retreated. "Dase, we've long days to talk. It's just so comfortable to have you back." "I'm so glad to be here," murmured Daxel, turning up his head so he could peer up at the Chamah. "It feels right," he added. Ensore stared solemnly and enigmatically down at the dark curly head. By now it was quite dark, so the two men had to walk carefully over to where they knew food was being prepared. Ensore sniffed the air to be rewarded with a loud voice calling, "Not long, my lord. If you want to hunker back by the fire, we'll serve you there." "Go along, lad," suggested Ensore, with a grin across at the standing Daxel. "You can come back and see me later. Don't forget to speak to Ongwin. He's very fond of you." "I'll go now," returned Daxel. He strode determinedly away from the fire and purposefully towards the figure of the older man who stood half in shadow next to the men busy preparing food. Ongwin held him firmly and long, telling him he'd been gone too many seasons and it was more than time he came home. Daxel's mischievous grin at that made

Ongwin wonder what devilry was afoot but Daxel refused to say anything, shook his head at the older man, made some teasing comment and started to laugh. Later Ongwin and Ensore saw him eating with men he'd become re-acquainted with and who ragged him about the length of his hair. They watched the playful exchange of blows, heard Daxel's merry laugh and knew he gave back better than he got. The gales of uproarious laughter were testament to that. It was late when Daxel finally ed Ensore in the latter's tent, Daxel yawning and stretching. "I've lost at starquon again," he itted with a lazy, contented sigh as he curled up on one of the pallets. "Gods, Lute's bad enough, but I think your guard are better than they were or I've lost my touch." "Ahliah'll be pleased to think you have," chuckled Ensore, irrepressibly. "Aye," laughed Daxel. "You know, Ens, I missed you damnably and kept turning to you to ask your advice but you weren't there. So I'd say to myself, what would the Chamah do now? Then, if that gave me no answer, I'd think of Sar, then Ongwin. Sometimes that helped but not always. Ahliah would've consigned the whole lot to perdition, wouldn't he?" "Probably," agreed Ensore. "Why didn't you?" "You'd entrusted me with responsibilities, Ens." "So I had, lad, so I had, and I believe you carried out your function with dignity and a high degree of conscientious skill. Kher speaks most favourably of you and regrets your time comes to an end." "Does he?" asked Daxel, jerking up his head to stare owlishly at Ensore. He yawned again and ran a hand through his hair. "Get yourself wine, Dase," invited the Chamah, holding out his goblet. "Indeed he does. I had a letter from him not so long since. He has considerable affection for you, too, and quite marked respect. That's an honour, lad, coming from a man of Kher's calibre." "I came to like and respect him, too," confessed Daxel, filling the goblets and

handing one back to Ensore. "I never thought I'd say it, but many Churchik aren't so dissimilar from us. Han and Emil are very pleasant men who have a deep regard for Lute, almost as if he was their younger brother. It's such a mix in their society, Ens. You loathe so much, yet find you have something in common after all. I found it baffling and it troubled me." "That came through in your letters, Dase. Sometimes I wondered if I did the right thing sending you south. It seemed you hurt a great deal, though the mage helped you see things more clearly." "Yes he did," answered Daxel, with alacrity. "He made me see I harboured thoughts of revenge and hatred that I wasn't especially aware of. By making me see them, they ceased to have so much influence." "Your description of your time with Autoc was vivid, Dase. I felt I was there." "You were, Ens," said Daxel, simply. "You always are." He saw Ensore's pensive expression and cocked his head. "You helped raise me after all!" The gravity of Ensore's expression vanished, he burst out laughing and shook his head at the young man grinning widely at him. "Abominable lad you are, Dase," he said softly. "Now tell me about Asok's letter." "It happened as you thought it might, Ens." Daxel blushed in the half-light of the lantern. "You told me it was time I settled and that to mate would do me good." The smile in the grey eyes regarding him warmed him. "I've done so." "Indeed, lad. Asok mentions it's to his eldest daughter?" "Katakin." Ensore studied the young face thoughtfully. "And is she in your usual style, Dase?" Daxel blushed ever deeper scarlet before bending his head. "No," he itted, gruffly. He hesitated, then said, "Lute says Katakin's very like Chey." "Don't keep me in suspense, lad," begged Ensore. "Tell me about her."

"What's there to say?" asked Daxel helplessly, and in such a way the smile in the Chamah's eyes turned to a reprehensible twinkle. "What does she look like, lad?" he encouraged. "She's as the steppe people are, Ens, quiet and tranquil. She never hurries. I've never seen any of them upset. To look at she resembles them all." Ensore was privately delighted because Daxel was more smitten and profoundly in love than he could ever have believed. "But," he reminded Daxel quietly, his eyes fixed to the young, flushed face, "I don't know what they look like." Daxel moved restlessly. "She's tall for a woman. She has the olive skin and long, thick white hair women have and worn up more often than not. They have slanted grey eyes, but Katakin's are bigger than usual and much darker." Daxel paused and lifted his head. "I find her beautiful," he added, simply. "How old is she?" Daxel thought for a moment. "Twenty-seven cycles." "So you are much of an age though she's younger than you, whereas Chey is considerably younger than Lute." "I guess," agreed Daxel, with a nod and drinking. "And Lute?" "He knows. He told me my mating comes as no surprise. We're twins after all so it was likely we'd be drawn to the same kind of mate. He's happy for me because he believes I'm content." "Are you, lad?" "I think so, Ens, especially now I'm back among my own. I confess being south was a strain that it isn't for Bethel or Lute who are used to so much. They're not as adversely affected, I don't think."

"They've been forced over cycles to adapt so that's probably true enough," commented Ensore lazily. He drank. "When did you decide to mate, Dase?" he asked, casually. He watched the flush spread across lean cheeks before the head endearingly went down again. Ensore waited, intrigued. He was sure this was an unusual mating. "Katakin decided," confessed Daxel, in a muted voice. There was a long silence before Daxel dared to raise his head, only to see that Ensore's eyes danced with unholy amusement, then, at Daxel's look he broke into unrestrained laughter. It made Daxel rise and cross to where the Chamah lounged, the younger man's gestures and expression mock-threatening. "No, lad," remonstrated Ensore, half choked with mirth. He tried to control it. Finally, he had to put his goblet down beside him while, shaken with laughter, he watched Daxel retreat to the pallet and collapse onto it. He went over, stood above the young man, then knelt beside the pallet just as Daxel lunged up at him in a sort of pounce. Ensore grabbed Daxel's wrists and flung him back, his grey eyes glinting down. "Dase! Dase!" he chortled. "Never did I think to hear that such a sensual rake as yourself would have a woman decide on your mating!" Daxel wriggled, then fell back because Ensore was a very strong man. "I'm not a rake!" he muttered. "A rakehelly boy you were, Dase, and don't deny it. I never knew where you'd be at next. Come, lad, it that what you say's as unlikely as that I'd ever be a southern warlord." Daxel gave a reluctant grin. "Oh damn you!" he swore. "See where honesty gets you? You'll rag me about this until the end of my days, won't you?" Still holding the tall figure prone, Ensore chuckled. "It's tempting, lad," he teased, his eyes still alive with laughter. "Oh aye," acquiesced Daxel, resignedly. He stared up at Ensore. Released, he

ruefully ran a hand through ruffled curls, sat sheepishly and refused to meet Ensore's glance. Ensore lay back on his own pallet, leaned across to his goblet, sipped meditatively from it, then asked quietly, "Why was it she who decided rather than you, Dase?" The explanation came hesitantly and shyly, Daxel finishing by saying defensively, "I meant no insult or ingratitude, Ens. I know how you've honoured me and care for what you've done, more than you know. You can't not know what you mean to me." Ensore placed his goblet beside him so he could stretch across and catch at the expressive and agitated hands. He spoke in his quiet way. "Dase, I understand. You don't need to explain." "It's honest to say I've no titled birth because I haven't, nor have I lands or wealth to offer a steppe lord's daughter. I'm just an Ortokian who'll never have those things. Until Katakin came along I never cared, nor did I think such things especially important." "And now?" "I don't think they are. Asok made me see that to think worldly things make the man is a nonsense. He made me look something of a fool for placing such emphasis on them." The dark head lifted uncertainly. "I thought Asok might be half-inclined to have me whipped for presumption and I dreaded to think what he might say. I know you'll laugh, but the gods I fought mating with Katakin. Fighting her was as hard as any battle up north." Daxel didn't see the smile come back to grey eyes at that. "You lost, lad, I gather." "You don't know Katakin," mumbled Daxel, despairingly. "Is she so strong then, Dase?" "She wanted us to mate, Ens, so we did. I wasn't entirely unwilling. As I say, you don't know Katakin when she's set her mind on something."

"But I wish to, lad, very much," drawled Ensore, in a teasing voice. "She sounds a remarkable young woman." Daxel gave a reluctant smile but it was also a proud one. "She has her father's strength of will," he itted. "Then," observed Ensore, with a deep chuckle, "she'll make a formidable mate." "She has lands and wealth," went on Daxel, pensively, "but I won't take them. They're hers and for our children should we be blessed with any." "No, quite proper," agreed Ensore lazily, his voice at variance with the forehead furrowed in thought. He lounged on his pallet beside Daxel's. "Asok wished us to be formally mated before I left the south to return to you for a new ambassadorial posting. He's written to Sarehl as well as to you." "Sar will be delighted for you, lad," said Ensore, very gently. "Where am I to go next, Ens?" "Well, lad, Sar and I've not decided, though your mating changes things, doesn't it?" "Why?" asked Daxel, curiously. "Katakin says she'll go where you send me." "Far north, lad? Would she like that, do you think?" "Where north?" asked Daxel. "We had the Kyaran kingdom in mind for you, but not immediately because we thought a season or two among us would do you good." "Yes," replied Daxel, quickly. He slewed round so his eyes looked into wickedly quizzing ones. "You mean to Krynn?" Ensore nodded. "But Gilga's still there, isn't he?" "Only for another three seasons, Dase." "Does Ahliah know?"

"Not yet." Daxel's eyes blazed with pleasure. "I'd like it," he confessed, candidly, "especially after the Churchik. I wonder how the court will react to a steppe potentate's daughter?" "They'll fall over themselves with flattery and protocol, lad, the poor young woman addressed as princess until she's ready to scream. Is there no protocol in the steppes?" "I've only seem them in camps," itted Daxel, with a shrug. "Kat tells me they have protocol in the cities and I sensed there's an unspoken hierarchy that no one disputes." "So Katakin won't feel so out of place then, will she?" "They'll stare at her looks," murmured Daxel. "She's so different." "You got used to it, didn't you?" Ensore got a sudden grin and a nod. "So tell me now, before we retire, what's formal mating as mentioned by you and Asok in his letter?" He felt the young form stiffen and raised an eyebrow. "Is it something like pudha with the Churchik, Dase?" Daxel gave a slight shiver before slowly he recounted, in some detail, what the ritual was. Ensore felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise and said frankly, "I think you coped remarkably well with something so unexpected." Daxel shrugged Luton-fashion, then suddenly grinned. Both men were silent, each preoccupied with private musings. Ensore roused himself first. "It's good to have you back again, Dase, so sorely missed as you've been," he murmured, absently. "Likewise," mumbled Daxel, sleepily. "I feel I've come home." Ensore sat very still, suddenly aware what Daxel had unwittingly said, and he wondered if indeed Dahkilah would be his home now and not Samar after all. That was an intriguing thought. He waited until Daxel had gone to sleep before he managed to stretch across to his cloak and extract the letter from its pocket. By lantern light he re-read Asok's letter, deeply pondering by the time he came to the end of it.

He read it again then quietly tore it to pieces. Ensore divested himself of boots, decided he was too tired for anything else so extinguished the lantern and lounged back, his mind irritatingly active. ~~~ Ensore was glad to be back with the rump of the northern army, his days trailing there lightened and pleasurable with Daxel for company, the young Saturim keeping the Chamah amused, often convulsed with laughter and his expression a warm and contented one. Ongwin could have blessed Daxel. Seeing Ensore so relaxed and contented made his senior adviser feel less concern about a man he'd watched age prematurely over the last few cycles. Ongwin saw the younger Chamah-Elect when Ensore had Daxel for company, so he pushed the young man to accompany the Chamah as much as possible, encouraged them to eat together and saw again how Ensore came across to the men more often of an evening to gamble. Lately, the Chamah had simply retired away. Now he stayed up until all hours, drank, happily gambled, laughed, and reeled to his bed with a chuckle before rising at dawn with a reluctant moan. More often than not of a morning, Ongwin saw Daxel trot across to the Chamah's tent with a hot drink held in one hand, this intended to ease the waking and groaning that half the camp could hear, before Daxel's infectious laughter rang out above it. Ensore was truly at home among both officers and ordinary troops alike, grins of affectionate welcome on faces wherever he walked. He soon realised how many had gone either west, east or north from the army's train, those left mainly the hard core fighting men. The aristocracy, assorted other entitled lords and dignitaries, had all returned to resume duties in their lands. The small army that was left was surprisingly united considering it was made up of such disparate groups. The Gnosti were especially restless. Ensore gently suggested it was more than time they went north, thanked them again for their and saw them on their way within a matter of two days after his arrival. He was happy enough to let others go as well. He learned there'd been no skirmishing along the no-man's land patrolled both by the northern army and the Churchik, something he'd anticipated could eventuate. He was gratified it hadn't. On the contrary. Over the cycle only reparations were brought regularly, no angst from warriors and certainly none

offered by northern patrols. What Ensore did discover was that warm relations of a sort had developed between some warriors and the army, with more understanding and good will shown than existed before he left. There was considerable tolerance. He saw this for himself when he went out on a regular patrol, only to stiffen when he saw two Churchik warriors ride casually towards him. His instinct was to go for his sword but he kept still, took his cue from those with him and waited to see what the two warriors would do. Without concern they cantered up, called out affably and invitingly, then offered an exchange of exotic southern fare for Dahkilan wine. Ensore was immediately prepared to be amused. He watched the Sushi patrol cross to the warriors, examine the food, then, to Ensore's surprise, produce two casks of wine he'd not known they carried. The warriors grinned, dismounted, laughed, gestured and helped the Sushi load the packs of food before they hoisted up the heavy casks that were expertly tied to their mounts. It was unhurried and amiable. The warriors waved insouciantly as they departed. A few days with the army convinced Ensore that enterprise and commerce could thrive anywhere and under any conditions. The Chamah/Marshal spent two quiet weeks speaking with people in authority from all the states still with troops in the south and checking that so far all of the treaty were being met. Only reparations were still outstanding, as they would be for cycles yet. He and Sarehl had agreed that before the northern army was completely disbanded, it'd be necessary for Ensore to negotiate an agreement with Kher that took only the reparations into . The last of the army could then be disbanded and folks long from home would be free to return to a new life, wherever it would be, if that was their wish. Already, however, Ensore had promised the surviving westerners, including the Faradhi, Yazd and pitifully few Saad, that Dahkilan troops would always be deployed along their new boundaries for as long as they were required, and he suspected that could be for quite some time. At this stage, Ensore sent an envoy, with armed escort, to the Churchik patrol leader, requesting a meeting with the Suldan as soon as could be arranged. While he waited for a reply, he set about reducing the army's size, then began to practise his swordsmanship and fitness by competing with Daxel, the young man now so quick the Chamah was caught more than once and got nicely pinked

several times. Ensore felt he'd become woefully unfit, so he challenged Daxel in a variety of ways that brought a sparkle to dark, flashing eyes and truly physical bouts of wrestling that saw the two men fairly evenly matched, neither giving way. And Ongwin beamed on them benignly. He thought Ensore began to look younger, leaner and fitter, and where there was bored tiredness or indifference, there was energy and renewed interest about the Chamah. It made Ongwin thoughtful and worried about how Ensore would react to Daxel's moving on. That immediate worry was set at rest one evening when Ongwin tentatively broached the subject of Daxel. "No, Ongwin, the lad's with us yet awhile. I've told him so and he seems contented enough." "That's excellent news," said Ongwin, with tremendous relief. "He seems fully occupied." "Aye, he is. And later, I've told him I think he could do with an easier ambassadorship than he had down south." Ongwin's heart sank. "Oh, my lord?" "Yes, Sar and I've decided to probably send him to Krynn." "That's a long way with a new mate, my lord." "Yes," agreed Ensore, nonchalantly. "But since I intend it to be for only a cycle and it brings him into company with Ahliah, it'll be a good move." "And you, my lord?" "Oh, I'll keep busy," answered Ensore, with a mischievous look in his eyes and a confident lilt to his mouth. "Sarehl expects me back, after all." "The Curule, my lord?" "Hang the Curule!" chuckled Ensore, irrepressibly. Ongwin had to be satisfied with that.

~~~ Even if the warlord refused to sign a new agreement and the northern army was forced to linger, Ensore felt there was no need for such a large concentration of troops to be stationed where they were, especially since newly re-formed southern states busily established formidable standing armies of their own that could give a good of themselves should conflict arise. Borders, once open and somewhat ill-defined, were rigidly patrolled these days, access no longer automatic, even for the few traders who once again began to ply trade between states. Defensive walls, once seldom seen in the west, were being doggedly and solidly built by the remnants of communities the Churchik tried to annihilate. Should the Churchik display militant tendencies, there'd never again be an easy road to the destruction of others. With the west and close southern neighbours of the Dahkilan, such as Mashhad and Mahdia, increasingly more fortified, and the Churchik contained to the east by the Sinhalien, Ensore was satisfied latent aggression wouldn't amount to much. Nor were the Churchik likely to move sharply northwest of Cyrenia or Qara, because fierce tribes, blood-thirstier even than the Vaksh and the Churchik themselves, roamed the hills and valleys in tiny groups that raided each other. They took frightening, cannibalistic revenge on their opposition. They may have been scattered small groups but they were uncomfortably savage and in only a matter of cycles few would be left if their instinct to eat each other continued at the current unabated rate. They were fanatically devoted to a god that demanded ever more dues and worship through the spilled blood of brothers. They were also xenophobic to a marked degree. Not once, in hundreds of cycles, had those folk come south, and Lodestok had been wise enough to leave them alone. So Ensore had the pleasure of seeing units of men peel away from the main army, day after day. Troops who were part of a massive army in the north now walked or rode steadily away from a long war, though it was clearly understood that the north could rapidly mobilise and become a united force in of any state that might be threatened by any southerners. The established communication network, long ago set up by Ensore and Sarehl, remained in place and the restoration of the Conclave gave Ambros renewed security against any would-be aggressor. The Chamah knew it'd only be a matter of time before reader-seekers would be in courts acting as advisers or simply present to promote the interests of the Conclave. As before, many would

quietly, unrecognised for what they were. It was the Conclave way. Ensore kept Daxel busy by sending the young man to each group of men about to disband and dismantle camps dotted across the landscape. Orderly withdrawal was down to the young captain who eagerly responded. He was also encouraged to be with his men and to continue to drill them and keep them alert. Sometimes the men set obstacle races, both for riders and those on foot, and then they betted on the outcome, Ongwin and Ensore watching with enormous amusement as men and horses ran, or rode neck or nothing, in an effort to win. Daxel was always a participant. It was apparent he won a lot of money through these encounters, but it was equally obvious he lost as much playing starquon with Ensore's guard. They ed the boy with affection. None of them treated him any differently from days gone by, so it was very quickly that Daxel happily settled back into a routine that was his life for as long as he could . Ensore saw the contentment. It warmed him. Ongwin studied the young man over a number of days, before he was drawn to comment about Daxel again. He and Ensore had just been served food by a guard. On the far side of the fire, Daxel busily helped himself, unaware of the long scrutiny he received from the Dahkilan. "Dase seems happy enough still, my lord," he observed, sniffing at his plate and sampling the food. Ensore thanked the straightening guard in his easy, friendly manner, then he, too, glanced over at Daxel. "Yes, the lad's happy here. I've thought long about that young one," he went on, meditatively. "Especially after receiving that letter from Asok." "My lord," began Ongwin tentatively, his knife smoothly slicing open the loaf that he proceeded to break into smaller edible pieces. His eyes went back to Daxel ensconced by the fire among the guards, one guard tousling the now shorter dark curls as Daxel turned his head to make some retort on a laugh. Ensore saw the playful punch, accompanied by a grin, when the guard repeated the gesture with a chuckle and noted how well Daxel responded to the inevitable teasing he got from men older than himself. The young man had long since learned to laugh it off and was more than capable of giving back as good as he got, sometimes thought Ensore with a reminiscent smile, better than he received. He'd seen his guard flummoxed before now.

"Speak freely, Ongwin," invited Ensore, scooping up a generous serving of vegetable that fell to his plate. This time he got it and chewed vigorously. "It just seems to me, my lord, that the lad truly feels at home amongst us. Not in Elibera, I know that, any more than you feel comfortable there, but in a general sense he's very like one of us. Even the title seemed to help him." "I don't argue that, old friend. So?" "I know his whole heart's set on Samar, but mightn't it turn out that Dase reacts to the new city in much the same way Beth did?" Ensore studied his plate reflectively. "It's more than likely," he itted. "Dreams seldom live up to expectations, do they?" "Though he may not be abused like Beth, still, that could have a negative affect on Dase, my lord, something doubtless you'd wish to avoid?" "Quite so, old friend. You remain ever astute," approved Ensore, with a slow smile. "Your answer to the perceived problem?" "I thought, especially with the lad being newly mated, you might care to consider settling some land on him that he could be taught to manage. He can't stay a soldier all his life, unless you wish him to become a member of your elite guard, my lord?" "No." Ensore shook his head. "That's not Dase's destiny at all. Tell me what you think about him, Ongwin. What's different about him? Think back over the cycles we've known him. I've been puzzling this out for cycles." "My lord?" "We'll come back to that," promised Ensore, chuckling. "About the question of land. Would he take it?" Ongwin scratched his beard. "Now he's mated and has responsibilities he may see things differently, my lord." Ensore shook his head. "Not that way, I think, old friend, though the thinking's sound. I've another idea.

I've written to Sarehl and hope for his approval." "What's that, my lord?" "The southern-most area of the Samar states is badly in need of restoration to some sort of order, Ongwin, something I clearly saw for myself going to Samar and returning from it. There are two wrecked cities there, three if you count what was the very small city of Siar, and that last borders on mostly unsettled northern Dahkilan land that could be properly developed. We didn't raze those cities though they need to go if people are to start again. The towns are wrecks, as you saw." Ensore saw the quick understanding in the older man's eyes and read delight in the dawning smile. "My lord, that would do well for Dase, if Sarehl will agree to it, and Dase himself, of course." "That way, if all goes as I plan, my friend, Dase could be a sort of liege lord of a combined territory to both his elder brother and to me - that's until we felt he was ready for independence. At the moment he's lamentably lacking in statecraft, isn't he?" Ongwin gave a broad grin and nodded. "Dase's army would consist of his own troop for starters, both Samars and Dahkilans loyal to him. Not one would leave him, of that I'm sure. They eat from his hand. And Dase would have with both societies of which he's a part, with access to and fro from one to the other." Ongwin's tired eyes were alight with pleasure. "That would be the ideal solution, my lord. It answers all Dase's needs to perfection. If only Sarehl will agree. How much Dahkilan land would you give him? It's fairly inhospitable land that marches alongside Samar and isn't much populated. It's more a trading through piece of country and at times quite barren and wild. It needs a lot of work outside the wrecked towns as well, because roads are a mess of neglect." "The question of Dahkilan land, Ongwin, I leave in your capable hands. If the land is hostile or barren it'll give the lad something to develop for himself, won't it, and I'm sure I'll not miss it, now will I?" "No, my lord," murmured Ongwin, highly amused. "Bear in mind, too, my friend, that Dase will need a city, so bend your energies to that, will you?"

"Of course, my lord," answered Ongwin, giving way to a chuckle. "What do we do with the lad meantime?" "I'll find plenty for him to do in Elibera, never you fear," laughed Ensore. "His lessons in statecraft will be rigorous, as no doubt you'll teach him. He'll have a mate and possibly a child who will keep him fully occupied, as will his toing and froing to Samar and back. I see Dase as being worn out. Kalor will keep him on his toes, too, militarily. So will Sarehl. I'll make quite sure his time's not his own until he leaves for Krynn, then returns to lands in some sort of order." Ensore paused and cocked his head. Ongwin simply shook his head at the Chamah. "How long's it taken you to work all this out, my lord?" he asked, affectionately. "Since Dase ed us," came the lazy response. "I merely await Sarehl's reply." "Do you anticipate a refusal?" "No," said Ensore positively, a smile creeping to the grey eyes and making him look quite mischievous. "No, I don't, old friend, because, you see, it'll be Sarehl gifting most of the land, no one else." "Shrewd of you, my lord. I understand. Will you tell Dase?" "Not for a while yet," came the comfortable reply, as Ensore sank further back onto an elbow, his eyes lifting from contemplation of the fire to glance cursorily at Ongwin. "I also think the remains of the gutted cities should be used as in Ortok, then the ground levelled and planted. You, Ongwin, will have to arrange for those who built Samar to be re-organised and moved south. I feel I've done my dash!" Ongwin started to laugh and Ensore ed him, his mirth rich and bubbling from him. Ongwin, looking sideways at the Chamah, thought he saw a perceptible lifting of the tension that was part of Ensore for too long. The grey eyes looked happier than they'd done for cycles, the settlement of Sarehl having meant a great deal, but the resolution of the dilemma over Daxel now meaning the Chamah could relinquish his anxieties about two people close to his heart. Ongwin felt the sense of enormous relief, too, his shoulders suddenly held well back when he quietly retreated. Ensore decided to keep his reflections on Daxel's empathic talents to himself,

sure in his own mind that he held the key to what the gifts of the three brothers were. It had puzzled him for cycles, but he suddenly saw things very clearly, as if a misty veil lifted and allowed him to see for the first time. Ongwin's place was taken by Daxel. "I challenge you to a game of secat, Ens," announced the young man, throwing himself down beside his mentor, putting his still full plate to one side so he could quietly nibble from it and throwing dice down directly in front of the Chamah. "I set the challenge at five, so that's not too hard for you, is it?" "Cheeky boy!" reproved Ensore, on a wide smile. "Clearly, my lad, you're asking to be well thrashed this evening. What money do you place on your five?" "I'll go to ten," responded Daxel on a throaty laugh, a hand busy fishing out coins from his pocket that he shoved to the middle ground between them. "Be serious, lad," remonstrated Ensore, pushing twice the number of coins into the middle. "I'll double your bet, and will add twice that as the winner." Daxel's lips pursed in a whistle. "Ens!" he protested. "Those are high stakes. I can't match them." "Not a gambler," teased Ensore, taking a tankard from one of his guards who stayed to watch, interested in proceedings. "I am!" declared Daxel, stung. He looked at the ring Sarehl gave him cycles before in Krynn, saw Ensore study him and shook his head. "Not this. It's a gift from Sar." Ensore nodded. "I'll do treble kitchen duty if I lose," he added, a mite dismally. "Ah, lad, so you're a gambler after all," came the unruffled voice. "I know how you hate that duty, lad, so you're on. Throw!"

CHAPTER NINE

Ten days later the warlord's reply came. It was courteous, apologised for delay, but explained that the Suldan was en route from Andish in the far east and rode at some speed for Caciqua. The Chamah and his guard were invited to the citystate. The invitation was for the express purpose of discussion about a new agreement that could be held in more salubrious surroundings. Ensore pondered the missive for hidden meanings or threats. He found none and after consultation with Ongwin and his senior most trusted men, Ensore decided he'd respond and go to Caciqua, but Ongwin insisted the most senior of the elite guard would accompany the Chamah as well as himself. So Ensore quietly awaited the warriors who'd act as his escort across Churchik lands, only the faintest flutterings of apprehension in Ensore's mind. Daxel was highly nervous of the venture and begged Ongwin to send him instead of Ensore, then, when Ongwin flatly refused to consider such a proposal and Daxel's distress deepened, Ongwin called in the Chamah. It took a lot to settle Daxel. Ensore finally yielded to the imploring voice accompanied by hand gestures expressive of acute anxiety. The young man's words were eloquent. He persuaded Ensore to take him. "Ens," he urged. "I know them. I've learned to read what seem blank expressions, and, though I'd rather not speak the language unless compelled to, I've come to understand that as well. Sarssen was right when he said much of importance isn't said but is insinuation, undercurrent, nuances of tone and so on. You know nothing about these things where I'll be forewarned." "He's got a point," itted Ongwin, reluctantly. "You could do with having the lad along. It wouldn't hurt, I suppose, would it?" "Please, Ens, I beg you," beseeched Daxel. Ensore read real fear for him deep in the dark eyes. "Very well, lad, you may come, though I think your fears for me are groundless. I don't think Kher means me any harm."

"I'm not thinking of the warlord," muttered Daxel, through clenched teeth. He ignored Ongwin's arrested look and swung round on his heel. ~~~ Within two days the Churchik arrived, their attitude most respectful. They were led by a warrior instantly recognised by Daxel before he saw the blond head bend briefly then lift. The quiet bass voice was familiar. "I answer to Haskar Han, my lord," bowed the warrior, rising elegantly and formally in the saddle. "My men are personal warriors of the Suldan's. We welcome you." Before Ensore could suitably respond, Han turned his head slightly to study Daxel. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Saturim. You are missed about Caciqua." He saw Daxel's formal response, but also noted the smile of welcome in the dark eyes. He gave a smile involuntarily. "I answer to Dan Merlon Ensore, Chamah of Dahkilah, Marshal of the combined northern forces, Haskar. I welcome you among us likewise." Ensore spoke in his usual calm way, ever courteous, but even as he spoke he wondered how on Ambros Daxel had adjusted to the guttural speech. He guessed one would adapt, though he felt he'd lose one word in three until he got used to it. He was suddenly relieved Daxel would be in the Churchik city to help him should he simply not understand. He watched Daxel advance towards Han, his hands out and saw the warrior quickly dismount so he could respond. "It's good to see you, Han. Are you well?" "Aye, as you northerners would say," replied Han, with an irrepressible chuckle. "And the warlord?" "He is well, Dase, and hoped you might accompany the Chamah." "And the Sinhalien?" "They withdraw by the day. There have been no clashes, nor are any expected." "And Lute and Beth?"

"They are well though not long for Caciqua. Lute must go to Indigo soon, and I suspect Sorien and Losaren will leave for Valshika as well. Their time with us has been enjoyable. We will miss the brothers when they leave, all of you." Daxel nodded. He smiled warmly at the warrior. Then he stood back to formally bow to Ensore. It was all done in a way that startled the unsuspecting Chamah, though he appreciated the grace with which it was done and the reason behind the effusive protocol and flattery. "Dan Merlon, my lord," Daxel intoned, with all the Dahkilan reverence he could muster. It was so like the flattering, sycophantic courtiers of Elibera that Ensore and Ongwin were hard put to it not to laugh, neither man daring to catch the other's eye. The voice went on. "I would like you to know, my lord, that Haskar Han helped care for my brother over the cycles." "Then I know you by name, Haskar," said Ensore, suitably impressed and appropriately responsive. "Lute's often spoken of you and one Haskar Emil as having treated him with considerable kindness and affection." With a roguish sideways twinkle at Ongwin, he pushed Daxel across to the horses, dismissed any attempt to assist him to mount and said, without a quiver in his voice, "Saturim, your Chamah is ready to proceed and awaits you." ~~~ Once they were well inside Churchik lands, the journey to Caciqua was no more than at most, a leisurely ride, and since the weather showed definite signs of becoming daily warmer, riding was extremely restful and pleasant. They saw few signs of activity about them, the only Churchik being those who either kept well away or made a brief, curt sortie over to see who they were before they, too, drifted away. Nor did the accompanying Churchik force their attentions onto their guests, Ensore conscious they seemed mutually entirely at ease with Daxel who often rode with them. Clearly, he knew them well and also liked many of the small escort as well. Ensore's guard, however, never relaxed vigilance, the food prepared for the Chamah's delectation tasted before being presented. It was late on the seventh day that Caciqua hove into view. The city was built on an outcropping. It was surrounded by huge, immensely thick walls and stood like a powerful symbol above the rest of the surroundings that were southern bleak. Ensore could see towers that soared into the sky, then later, when they

approached the outermost northern gate, he was impressed by the actual structure of this walled city. He hoped at some stage he may have a chance to see part of it, but doubted that would be possible, certainly not yet with the wars barely over. It strongly reminded him of Elibera. All drew to a halt just inside the gate and waited. In only minutes Kher appeared with Luton beside him, the twosome approaching smartly through an inner arched courtyard. Han bent his head and stayed that way. Kher drew abreast of Ensore and nodded with a smile. "You are welcome to Caciqua. Chamah?" "I'm Dan Merlon, the Chamah of Dahkilah," bowed Ensore, rising gracefully in the saddle. "I answer to Ensore, Suldan." "I answer to Kher." Kher's eyes swept past Ensore to rest briefly on Daxel, an odd light in them that wasn't missed by the Chamah. "I see you return briefly to us, Saturim. You are most welcome again. You will find your quarters as you left them." Kher turned his attention back to Ensore. "You honour us with your presence, Chamah. I ask that you follow us." On the words, Kher swung his horse back and round, Luton not far behind, but before he rode on Luton turned his head to smile warmly at Ensore and to wink conspiratorially at his brother who simply grinned. Ensore smiled amiably and gave a wave, aware that here southern protocol would be adhered to, especially in public, and Luton wouldn't make a mis-step. After all, he was a Churchik son. That was something that gave the Chamah much to ponder as well. He'd not had much time with the young Lute since the desert because his meeting with him in Elibera had, of necessity, been only in snatches so tied up in consecration formalities was a tired Ensore. Now the Chamah saw a young man who was mated and a Churchik son, living in the setting that was his future. Nor had he seen the twins together for a while. Following the twosome through the complex streets of the city and seeing people fall back instantly to grant age, Ensore began to have an inkling of what life might be in a society he could already tell, through observed behaviour, was rigidly hierarchical and authoritarian. It reminded him uncomfortably of some aspects of Elibera that he intended would see changes. Mostly what he noticed was that here, in Caciqua, supremacy lay in domination through militarism that

controlled and dictated every aspect of life. He was to see it repeatedly, in women who clearly were submissive, and in slaves who prostrated themselves as an instinct of sheer self-preservation. Ensore hadn't seen slavery other than with Bethel and Sarssen in Lodestok's company, but now, in this first ride, he did. He could see why it disturbed Daxel. To be forced to accept that his brothers were part of the subdued and servile ranks Ensore now saw, expressions blank or cowed, must have been deeply traumatic. It made the Chamah have a fleeting moment of regret he'd subjected Daxel to this. Ensore thought of Luton, the tall, erect figure in front of him who rode so effortlessly, and it seemed incredible the young warrior should be here, alive and whole. He'd been flogged, spent cycles subjugated, abused, and was subject to the cruellest of masters who intended to dispense with his slave on a meadow in Elba. Yet here Luton was. Ensore's mind veered to Bethel. Seeing slaves about him made the Chamah realise why it was such a struggle for the musician to discard the slave and emerge as an independent identity. In so many ways his slavery was more personal and emotionally destructive than Luton's ionless state that acted, oddly enough, as a shield. Malekim wouldn't have meant his treatment of his slave to have any benefit, but the boy's blank condition was a kindness. Bethel's life, in entirety, was an on-going emotional and physical violation, every day, from the time he was a child. The terror and intimidation Ensore guessed was a waking part of Bethel and Sarssen for cycles, he saw now in scared faces turned up to stare at him. It twisted in the Chamah like a knife. He thought Bethel's, Sarssen's and Luton's survival and sanity nothing short of miraculous. ~~~ The Chamah was housed in capacious and rich quarters that held every conceivable luxury and some that made him blink. His first personal experience of slavery was when he was confronted by those filling his bath, the men watching the running water intently and testing it to make sure it was exactly the correct temperature. "My lord," bowed the first slave, crossing to Ensore and kneeling with his head pressed to the Chamah's boots.

"Yes?" asked Ensore, awkwardly. He wished desperately that the slave would rise and leave the room so he could wearily undress and relax. The head lifted a little and the voice was tentative. "If my lord would rise, I will undress you." Ensore sighed and yielded, more from a wish to cause the several slaves no distress. He knew from Daxel what awaited an unsatisfactory slave. He was expertly stripped and lifted carefully into the bath, where many hands gave him a most thorough clean then left him to rest back. He saw the slaves return with warmly heated drying cloths they wrapped about his dripping body. He was vigorously massaged, then dressed after he explained what clothes he wished to wear and his hair was carefully dried and combed before being brushed until it shone. His beard was combed and neatly trimmed. His nails were immaculately attended to. Nor were his other wants ignored. Wine was constantly beside him, his goblet replenished when it was only half-emptied, and a dish of sweetmeats and pastries graced the table at his elbow. Then the slaves left, all but one who crouched down beside Ensore's chair. Concerned and unsettled by the man's stillness and abject posture, Ensore debated what to do about him. He was relieved when Daxel, bathed and changed, his dark curls showing signs of having revolted against attempts to flatten them, entered the chambers. His eyes ran round the room and he laughed. "Such luxury," he mocked. "My suite's most comfortable and well appointed but is barely a sixth the size of this." "I rattle around in here," protested Ensore with a smile, gesturing Daxel in. He pointed to the silent, crouched man. "What do I do with him, lad? He looks so frightened." "He is," came the grim reply, as Daxel advanced and sat opposite the Chamah. "He's waiting for extra commands, Ens, such as filling your goblet or whatever. They're taught to go into the crouch." "As Beth did with the warlord," said Ensore, broodingly. "That, Dase, was one of the most uncomfortable meals I've ever eaten. It was an effort to swallow." "I wouldn't have been able to," answered Daxel very quietly, his head averted. "Do you wish the slave to remain?"

"No," replied Ensore quickly. He watched Daxel click his fingers that had the slave slither to the door, round it and be gone. "The gods, lad, what do the clicks mean?" "I'll show you," said Daxel tonelessly. He went through the various routines effortlessly, even the finger and hand signals taught every slave painfully and thoroughly. "Does Lute know all these?" Daxel shook his head. "No, Lute says his master used some gestures but very few and mostly mindspoke him, but Bethel knows every movement by heart. Sarssen told me they both do. It's as deep as the slave brands." "Dase, how did you get used to it?" Again the dark head shook. "I didn't, Ens. I refused to have slaves about me, as you can do. Emil and Han helped me by telling slaves not to approach my rooms. I was only served at table. To think that -." He broke off, his lips tightening. "Your brothers were reduced to this," finished Ensore for him. "Yes, lad, I know. I think I begin to really understand just a little and it makes me wonder at myself for having made you stay to confront this. You showed courage, Dase." "I tried," confessed Daxel. "I respect and like Kher, and I think some Churchik traits have much to recommend them, but slavery will always be utterly abhorrent to me. Everywhere I see Lute and Beth cringe back, submissive, and subservient to the whims of others. It appals me. I can't accept it." He paused, then went on. "Lute and Sarssen told me my men should mix and we tried. In fact, as time ed we did reasonably well I thought, but only with the warrior class. No one else matters here, Ens - they can live or die and no one cares. I've seen a slave beaten until he could hardly stand, the poor creature curled into a knot to avoid the blows." "Like Lute and Beth." Daxel nodded. "Aye. Not as badly as Lute was flogged, but bad enough. As I imagine Beth was when the warlord regularly took to him. Ens, I tried to pretend it wasn't happening but you can't block that sort of thing out. At meals you'll see how Beth and Sarssen lived with the warlord for most of their lives, the only

difference being that Kher doesn't take his slave boys to bed with him, nor does he have sudden, violently uncontrollable rages - as Lodestok did with them." Ensore finished the wine in his goblet and looked intently in the mirror at Daxel's close reflection before turning to fully face the young man. "It's hit you again, lad, hasn't it?" Daxel threw himself into a chair. "I can't live with this any longer having been away again. I want to go home," he uttered frankly, hands raking through the curls in a typical Daxel gesture of frustration or distress. Ensore said gently, "So did Beth, lad." "He went home, didn't he?" Ensore nodded. "Then that's all he wanted, as I do." "But it wasn't, Dase, you see," explained the Chamah carefully, aware of the long, hard stare he got. "Why? What happened to him? He said nothing much to me, though some of his comments baffled me until I knew what Samar really was. I can't wait to go there again." Ensore had to choose his words thoughtfully. "Beth clung to a dream, Dase. Seeing here only a touch of what the lad endured for cycles makes me understand that desperate dream. He wanted to go back to Ortok, to his home, to his music and the Academy, and to settle down to raise his son as he was raised by Sarehl and your mother." He hesitated, conscious of intense eyes focused on his face. Ensore gave a slight sigh. "The dream wasn't reality, Dase. Beth found he couldn't go home, because the home he'd dreamed about for cycles wasn't there and what he'd left behind was irrevocably and irretrievably gone. The Academy was there and his master came again. And Sarehl was there. But that's all he had to cling to, Dase, of a dream that sustained him for so long. It wasn't much and it wasn't enough either. There wasn't anywhere he found he could settle. Things were unfamiliar and alien, and he found, saddest of all, that he couldn't raise Kalbeth there." Ensore saw shocked surprise in the black, searching eyes. "Why not?" Daxel asked, his brows knit with thought.

"Samar's a new city, lad, it's people not as they were when you grew up in Ortok as boys. The people are as badly scarred as any on Ambros, bitter, hating, confused and alienated." "So why does this touch on Bethel and little Kal?" "The folk of Samar will accept you more readily than they did Beth, Dase. Even Lute wouldn't find life easy there, not at the moment." "Why me?" "You're only a little bit different, Dase, more Dahkilan than southern. That can be tolerated, especially when it's grudgingly accepted that Samar needs Dahkilans for a while yet to ensure the fledgling city-state survives. And you're not linked with warriors, Dase." "Are you saying Beth was rejected by his own kind?" demanded Daxel, in a stifled voice. Ensore looked deeply sad. "Aye, lad, he was." He held up a warning hand at the flash he saw in the dark eyes. "No one's told Sarehl, Dase, nor can you. There's a very simple reason why he shouldn't know. If he thought, for a moment, that Beth and Sarssen were spat at, verbally abused, Beth taunted and Kal cruelly tormented at school, he'd turn his back on a city and people who so spurned his loved ones. And Samar needs him, Dase." Ensore saw incredulity and anger in black eyes that burned. "They did what?" Ensore sat silent for a long moment, then went on pacifically, "Dase, I don't want you to return to somewhere with the same illusions as Beth, nor do I want you badly hurt and turned in on yourself. People are hurting and when they do they lash out wildly and indiscriminately. Folk know beyond any doubt what Beth and Sarssen suffered, but they prefer to see them as tainted by the time they spent in Churchik hands, especially as they see them come beyond their experiences. That neither had choice about being taken and then moulded as warriors and the warlord's sons is seen by these folk as irrelevant. It's something they prefer to forget. It's so easy to forget what others have endured when you see those people walk tall and grow in confidence. Memory becomes conveniently selective when

you have your freedom back and you're allowed to totally live for yourself. You can then sit down and tell yourself that your real, and imagined wrongs, can be put at the feet of ones like Beth and Sarssen who are more than survivors, Dase." Ensore saw tears fall before Daxel bent his head in his hands, and it brought the Chamah to his knees beside him. "Oh, Dase, Dase, I'm so sorry to tell you this. I didn't mean to distress you, but nor do I want you as badly hurt as Beth. It served to reinforce for Beth the rejection he expected when he was freed to come to the northern army and to his family." Daxel struggled to speak in a choked, husky voice. "Why little Beth? Gods, it's pathetic, that's what it is. Beth's been crucified over and over again. So's Lute. Why can't people leave him alone?" "I can't answer that, lad, except to say that folk are jealous of what they see as Beth's good fortune, his unmarred beauty and his gifts." "They're small recompense," muttered Daxel. He stared up at Ensore. "And Kal? He's a child, Ens. What's he done to anyone?" "Nothing, Dase, nothing at all," returned the Chamah. "He's a half-breed, so that immediately makes him vulnerable and a target for sick people." Ensore saw a stricken look come to eyes that held with his. "The gods, Ens," whispered Daxel in agitation, his eyes wide with horrified comprehension. "My children will be half-breeds, won't they? Will they, too, be rejected in the place where I was born? And my mate as well?" "Your children won't be half-Churchik, lad," reminded Ensore. "But they'll be southern." "Sadly, lad, these are things you'll have to think about. At least Jonqi wasn't considered unacceptably different by the Sinhalien, was she?" "No," murmured Daxel. "Does that mean my life must be lived among them, too, because my own people reject what I've done?" "I hope not," comforted Ensore, rising stiffly and crossing to his chair. "In time, I pray the worst aspects of the damage inflicted by the war will ease. But it'll take

time." Daxel sat straight, his face subdued and his eyes sombre. "And Bethel, Ens? What'll happen to Beth? He must have his home to return to. Would his coming with me help?" He saw a smile creep to serious grey eyes that regarded him with deepest affection. "It's a generous thought, Dase, but what you must accept is that Beth's gone home to where he really belongs." "In the south? He doesn't belong there. He belongs with his family in Samar, with Sar, and me, and later Lute." He saw the shake of the head. "No, Dase," argued Ensore, very gently. "Lute's the son of a Saratquan and you know his base is there, certainly for now. He's told you so." Reluctantly Daxel nodded, a cuff brushing across his cheeks. "And Beth belongs in the south just as much as Sarssen belongs in Valshika. It's their base for now. Beth's completely accepted in his adopted society, lad, something I think we're all coming to see and understand, as must you. Lodestok said he'd set the path for his sons and that they'd fight it, but walk it they would." "And you're saying he was right?" "I believe so, Dase, yes, and from what I've heard from Kaleb, it sounds as if Kal's happier in Valshika than Samar, perhaps not for ever, but certainly as a child." "Away from Sar?" "No." Ensore considered. "Kaleb says the lad pines for Sarehl and his family, but responds positively to everything else." "Torn like his father?" "Oh Dase, I do hope not. He'll come and go from the south. He'll always constantly be part of his Samar family and aware of his roots in a way denied Beth. Sarehl and Beth are quite determined about that. He'll come frequently to Elibera." "But slavery?" questioned Daxel, bemused. "How can Beth live with it?"

"He doesn't," answered Ensore, matter-of-factly. He saw the glance of surprise. "Kaleb writes that Dainstok has no slavery and Beth works to get rid of it in his other cities, but mostly in Thorik, where Jane says it's still entrenched. It's considered offensive there, so fewer traders even try to visit. Sarssen has an uphill battle because Valshika's very big and slavery is even more deeply entrenched in every part of society there, but it'll come. It's only a matter of time. Nor, if you think about it, will Lute have slaves. Caciqua may be slower to change but it'll happen. Already some far-sighted warriors, who've visited Dainstok and Thorik, look at how prosperous Beth's cities become and some have seen at first hand what a free place is like." Ensore smiled across at the young man sitting silent. "Beth will come and go up north, Dase, and you'll see much of him, I promise you. But you have to come to , as he currently does, with the understanding that his present home and pivot of stability is in the south, certainly for the foreseeable future." "And mine, Ensore? Where's my home now? I'm more Dahkilan than anything else, aren't I?" "That, Dase, is for you to decide. Just go back to Samar, take the city for what it now is, but don't expect to immediately find your home, lad, because it's not there, not yet." Daxel spoke in a slow, measured way. "Asok told me that home can also be where you make it. Maybe he was trying to warn me, too, do you think?" "I think so, yes. He sounds very wise," agreed Ensore, rising. He stooped to ruffle the dark curls in ing. "Come now, lad, we'll be expected and I confess to being starved." He watched Daxel rub his face, run a hand through his unruly hair and about his collar. His expression was grave. Ensore made no attempt to brighten him, because he felt Daxel needed time to think and he also hoped a suggestion about land and a city might later take root in a thoughtful and more receptive mind.

CHAPTER TEN

Ensore was delighted to see Sarssen and Bethel seated in the warlord's private sura that could comfortably hold and serve up to twenty people. Ensore assumed the formal dining halls would hold hundreds like the banqueting rooms at Elibera. He thought this arrangement intimate and pleasant, like his own suite at Elibera. Kher saw reciprocal delight in warrior eyes when Bethel and Sarssen sighted the Chamah, the latter his usual urbane and charming self, his greeting warm and welcoming. Kher watched them shake hands in an entirely non-southern way. He decided it must be Samar or Dahkilan to make this gesture, then watched Sarssen calmly cross to Daxel, put a carelessly affectionate hand briefly about the young man's shoulders, say something, laugh, then turn back to Ensore. Bethel's reaction was spontaneous. He rushed to Ensore, hands out and eyes alight with delight. The warlord didn't miss how affectionate the Chamah's embrace was, the strong arms about the young warrior very firm indeed, before Bethel literally danced with sheer joy to his brother, anticipation in every part of him. Unexpectedly, he paused, halted and hesitated, because he sensed and saw the seriousness about his brother that momentarily unnerved him. "Dase?" he asked uncertainly, his delight quenched. "Little brother," whispered Daxel huskily, his voice quavering in a way that made Luton study his twin and hastily approach. "Little brother Beth." Kher saw grief touch Daxel's eyes as he went quickly forward. Daxel strode to Bethel, drew him into an extremely fierce embrace that was held for a very long time, before the older brother whispered into the younger one's hair. Daxel's eyes were bright with tears and he had to blink very hard. Kher turned to his son to see Luton stare intently at his twin, as though he just realised what it was that upset Daxel and made him hold his brother so closely. From Bethel, Daxel swung to Luton, arms out. Since the meal was relaxed, Daxel had time to recover his complexion. Ensore was able to mostly sit and observe those about him and that was despite Kher's

asking him many questions that kept the Chamah occupied. He noted that the three ex-slaves unfailingly, but unobtrusively, thanked slaves for any service, however small, and he saw the gratitude in servile eyes before a slave hunched down awaiting another gesture, flick of the fingers, or direct order. The Chamah could see Bethel as a slave, so vividly, his food refused to go down easily and it was only after the slaves were casually dismissed that he felt able to fully relax. He was also suddenly aware there were more non-Churchik than Churchik in the warlord's sura, a thought that struck him as oddly absurd when they sat in comfort in the warlord's palace in Caciqua. As the evening developed, it became a family night. Kher quietly sat back, goblet in hand and took in each member of the laughing, lounging group. His eyes went from Luton, cross-legged on a rug at his feet, to Sarssen, who lounged with twinkling eyes in a capacious chair designed with Churchik size in mind, and to Bethel, who leaned back against the warrior's legs, his estibe beside him on one side and a goblet on the other. Then Kher eyed Daxel who sat next to Ensore, the Chamah disposed most comfortably, the man laughing at something Luton said. Kher couldn't having seen Sarssen so at ease, contented and actually restful, the company about him clearly congenial as well as now familial. The warlord decided the best way to understand these people was to watch and listen. Their difference never failed to intrigue him. He felt inexplicably drawn to the Chamah, too. When more wine was to be served and Kher was about to signal for a slave, Luton shook his head, just as Bethel gracefully got to his feet to pick up the huge carafe, all done in one fluid trained movement. Ensore saw the automatic slave and winced. He watched Bethel serve, thanked him, caught Sarssen's eye, knew the warrior divined his thoughts, and sighed ruefully. When Bethel went back to curl up at the warrior's feet, Kher watched a large hand briefly touch his shoulder in a gentle way. "The Suldan might enjoy some music, Beth," Sarssen suggested. Bethel glanced across at Kher. "My lord?" "Yes, Beth, I would enjoy that, I thank you."

"Play something you wrote, Bethel," said Daxel, suddenly. He leaned forward. He'd been rather quiet most of the evening, something not missed by the company. Kher's eyebrows were eloquent of surprise. "Are you a composer as well?" he enquired. "Yes, my lord, a little." "When did you begin that, as a boy still?" "No, my lord," smiled Bethel. "I lacked the skill. I began when the treaty was signed," he explained. "Father encouraged me in this and listened to everything I composed." He hesitated, then added, with a touch of melancholy. "Master Ermyn, my late Academy Guildmaster, was rather more critical, but he did approve of some of my later efforts and told me he thought composition would become increasingly important in my life. He believed it would become allconsuming." Bethel gave a little laugh before bending his head. "So the Academy Master survived, did he?" Bethel nodded, his hands running across the estibe in a gentle ripple of sound. "What happened to him that he later died?" Bethel plucked a full chord. "He was very old, my lord, at least ninety or more cycles before the invasion and the war took a dreadful toll of him. He saw all the journeymen die but four. One of them, Malo, didn't survive the wars. I don't think the others did either. And most of the apprentices were executed where they sat in their seats at the Academy, the only survivors being those who weren't at training at the time of the attack. Ermyn's Academy, that he'd cherished as a centre of talent available to all Ambrosians, was destroyed in front of him. He grieved for me especially." "Why?" "Because, Kher," put in Daxel, very quietly, "Ermyn told Sarehl and Mam that Bethel was an unusually gifted child, one of such talent it would be rare for another like him to ever come again to Ambros. He wept when he told Sar that the child's loss was stupid, pointless and a tragic loss for all Ambrosians. He watched our little brother snatched from the steps of the Academy, and had to live with the knowledge that someone, with something so precious to offer our world, was either enslaved or probably despatched."

"I see," said Kher coolly, his eyes on Bethel who was deeply flushed and pretended to play with the estibe. "Your reunion with him, Beth, must have been overwhelming for you both." "It was, my lord," confessed Bethel. "He lived long enough to be reinstated at the Aesthetics Academy. It was there he took me very rapidly through my journeyman steps, and from there through my final training to be a master musician. He was a supremely gifted man, my lord, and he meant a great deal to me." "He was someone who drew you to your new home, Beth?" "Yes," whispered Bethel. "And now he's gone." Bethel nodded. "And you are a Samar master musician?" Bethel nodded again. "There are none with your skills and gifts anywhere on Ambros now, Beth, or so it seems to me. You are Master Bard and Master Musician, so much rests on your very young shoulders, does it not?" Bethel looked up startled, not entirely sure what the warlord inferred, but Sarssen understood instantly. There was a pause while the warlord thought, then he went on, "Why did your master not like your music, Beth?" "Father did, my lord, though he preferred some more than others. He said my music soothed him." "I meant your Academy master, Beth." Ensore saw eyes flicker to Kher uncertainly. The warlord saw it and added quietly, "You may answer quite openly, Beth. You have never done anything else, have you?" "No, my lord." "Then what did he criticise?" "My lord," answered Bethel, in a low voice, "he said my anguish came out in the music that tended to be musically correct yet discordantly dissonant, and, because I'm lost and confused, the compositions lack cohesion or fluidity." Kher stared down at the cross-legged figure, asking softly, "Did you agree with that harsh assessment, Beth?" Bethel lifted his head.

"I knew he was right, my lord, but I couldn't hear it for myself, not until later. He had an unfailing sense of what was aurally in place, if you can understand." "I think so. And now?" "In Samar, Master Ermyn said my later work showed more peace of mind and was, as he put it, more aurally graceful." Kher smiled broadly. "And are you content with it yet?" A sudden smile touched soulful eyes before Bethel turned his attention to the estibe. "No, my lord, I have a very long way to go." "Then play whatever you wish from your own works, as your brother suggested." Kher leaned back, goblet to mouth, ready to be entertained. Bethel obliged. What he played first was powerfully emotional and intense. Kher wondered how anyone could have written something so poignantly evocative and knew, without being told, that the young warrior played one of his earlier works. Kher saw the reaction he felt in the faces about him. Ensore's expression was one of aching sympathy, Sarssen's serious and deeply thoughtful and the brothers looked almost tearful. When Bethel stopped at the end of the piece, then ran a hand across the strings as a prelude to a new tune, Luton watched Bethel glance up and round at Sarssen, his head tilted back. "You have not heard this. I wrote it the day our father died." It was a complex and long piece that wasn't remotely soothing. All the years of pain, confusion and the mixed emotional response the musician had to Lodestok, could be both felt and heard. When Bethel sang to it, the deep voice sometimes quavered. The words were guttural then soft, the music rose then fell, loud and brash, then became dulcet before it changed abruptly again. It actually tore at the nerves. The composition was raw and full of pathos. It frequently jarred with a deliberately placed discord that rasped the senses. Kher was relieved when it finished, but he said nothing. Luton stretched across to touch Bethel. "It's getting easier, Beth, isn't it?" Bethel nodded and immediately, with

something of a wicked grin, played a southern melody that made Luton smile down at him. "Are you tempting us to dance, little Beth?" he enquired as the music stilled. Bethel just shook his head. He put the estibe to one side with a yawn and stretched out so he leaned against Sarssen. He drank without speaking. Conversation became general, though Ensore noticed how Daxel's eyes flickered often to Bethel in a troubled way, as though the young Saturim tried to work through news of a brother that was upsetting. Kher noticed it, too. As the evening progressed Kher's interest in Ensore was obvious, so much so that he changed his seating so he could accompany both the Chamah and Sarssen, their conversation animated and frequently intense, broken by smiles and gestures. Daxel ed his brothers lounging on the mats, the three talking in low voices, teasing and finally degenerating into a bantering physical romp that showed how much boys they still were. Kher had become inured to this cub-like behaviour and was still diverted by the sight of it. He turned to Sarssen. "Was Sarehl as much of a romp when he was younger and uninjured?" he asked. "I think not, my lord. From what I know, Sarehl had no siblings his own age and was about eight or nine cycles older then the others who were very close in age. I believe his father was murdered by Malekim when the twins were not much more than a cycle and Bethel was a small infant. It meant Sarehl had to mature very quickly to help his mother raise the little ones." Sarssen reflected. "I understand that Sarehl was extremely close to his father Alfar, my lord. His loss must have deeply affected the boy. That is why Bene meant so much to Sarehl and then later Autoc filled a very real gap. I suspect, my lord, Sarehl was as close to his father as Lute is to his adopted one." Kher stared fixedly at Sarssen before he spoke again. "Such a truly remarkable man he is," was all he said. The playful threatening and mock aggressive displays showed the personalities of the brothers so clearly, the haskar unsurprised when Bethel collapsed in the early stages. The twins were more evenly matched these days though Daxel was quick to pull back, but tonight they were lethargic and laughed as much as Bethel. Kher watched Daxel lazily prod Bethel, then sit, a hand raking through

his hair before he yawned. Bethel edged away, unaware Luton closed in behind him and waited with wicked intent, his eyes shining with anticipation. They watched Bethel get away from Daxel, only to fall prey to Luton. The resulting tussle surprised everyone, not least the twins. Bethel energetically flung Luton back, held him down and refused to let his brother budge. Daxel thought about going to Luton's aid but stopped at the sight of Kher's up flung hand. "Well, son," enquired the warlord, surveying the pair, "what are you going to do?" "Surrender," advised Sarssen, on a chuckle. "There is sauce for you, young Sarat." Laughing up at Bethel, Luton fell back resignedly. "You're very strong, little brother." Purple eyes smiled down into black ones. "I'm not a warrior's son for nothing, Lute," Bethel grinned. "My training was as tough as it comes, nor could I survive as a weakling. Can you imagine the warlord's son being incapable of warriorhood?" "No," mused Luton, thoughtfully. When Bethel pulled back, an obliging hand down to assist his brother, Luton smiled across at him. "We're warned now, Beth, aren't we, Dase?" Daxel nodded. He wanted to be alone with Luton. The warlord saw the exchanged looks and spoke diplomatically. "Saturim, you appear tired after so long a journey. Lute, I suggest you go with your brother and ensure he has all he needs." Kher got a grateful smile from Daxel and a mildly enquiring look from Luton who instantly crossed to his brother. The two young men quickly left the sura. It was Luton who spoke as the pair traversed a wide flight of stairs that wound upwards in a long spiral. "What troubles you, Dase?" "Beth," was the monosyllabic answer.

"What about him?" "The treatment he received in Samar. Did you know about it?" "A little," acknowledged Luton, slowly. "Sarssen spoke briefly about it, but Beth said nothing." "That fits the character of our little brother, doesn't it?" asked Daxel, rather bitterly. "He takes whatever's thrown at him, doesn't he? The gods, but he needs protecting from his own gentleness as he did when he was a child!" "Sarssen watches over him, as he's done for cycles." "I know," muttered Daxel, "but in Beth's own home that shouldn't be necessary. Here in the south, yes, but Samar?" "Ironically," began Luton quietly, "Beth needs less caring for here than in the north." "That's what Ensore was trying to tell me." Daxel grasped his brother's arm in a way that brought Luton to a halt. "Lute, Beth should be at home among his own kind, not forced to accept something alien that can only be second best. He's as Samar as we are. He belongs with his family, nowhere else. Why do we give in to ignorance and prejudice?" "Dase," answered Luton very gently, his hands going about Daxel's in a firm grasp. "What faces Beth in Samar?" "I know," whispered Daxel inaudibly, his voice profoundly shaken. "If he was to go there, certainly he has Sar and the Academy, but his son would again be reviled for being a hated half-Churchik. So all Beth's efforts to try to be acceptably Samar would be in vain, because always there'd be his son's birth flung at him. Beth has beauty and gifts we didn't know to treasure when we were children, Beth just one of us, but now we know there's something unique about him. Whatever it is about him should come to a flowering where he can be at peace." "Among the Churchik who vanquished and enslaved him and his people?"

"Dase, Beth's essentially happy here. You must see beyond his slavery, as I do, as you do with me. Beth's accepted among his adopted kind, as am I, our positions unique in themselves. We're honoured warriors, Beth deeply respected as a tempkar and his son acknowledged without emotion or bias." "Not by all," reminded Daxel, curtly. "No, not by all. Correc and allies showed us that, I grant you. But where Beth's chosen to live, going between Dainstok, Valshika and his other cities, he's at ease now his master's gone and he has a chance to come to with what he's become. His confusion lessens by the day. He said in Samar he believed he'd have to renounce all he'd become if he was to be accepted fully and integrated back into Samar society. In other words, Dase, he felt he was expected to reject twelve or more cycles of existence just so the taint of Churchik about him was removed - or sanitised out of him. How could he do this? And would it even be fair to ask him to ignore everything he's achieved? I think not, Dase." "And in the south?" "He doesn't have to strive for acceptance. He's integrated, is ired for his remarkable achievements and here he has to prove nothing, Dase, nothing. He's done that in the cruellest and most punishing way. Here he can go forward. In Samar, I suspect he'd go backwards, hurt through rejection and the abuse heaped on his son." "Does he want Kal to become Churchik?" "No, Dase, he doesn't. I suspect the boy may become a warrior, but he'll be in a mould quite unlike anything seen among the Churchik. I believe he'll most closely resemble you, Dase, of us all." "What?" gasped Daxel, about to mount the stairs and coming to a stop in midstride. "You have the qualities we both ire in some southern warriors, brother. And I've seen how Kalbeth models himself on you, nor will he forget while he's south, not the way Sarssen and Beth plan to have the boy going north on and off until warrior training takes over fully for a while. Kal will see you regularly, and Sar, too. He'll become a skilled cavalry officer, Dase, just like yourself, but with an overlay of Churchik, hopefully the best warrior qualities we can instil in

him." "And Beth?" "Ah Beth!" sighed Luton. "Beth will develop in the way most comfortable for him. He'll be in and out of Samar, Dase, seeing you and Sar, but always now, his base will be here. That's how it has to be, but I hope he'll be comfortable and respected in Samar again one day." "Will either Kal or Bethel see Samar as their home?" Luton scratched his beard. "I don't know," he replied, honestly. "Kalbeth, yes, because he'll grow alongside the new city and know nothing else. But Beth? Maybe in time, Dase. Will it be home to me?" "Will it, Lute?" Luton looked his brother straight in the eye. "Will it be home for you, Dase? That's what matters, I think." "I've hoped and prayed for so long." Daxel's voice broke. "To see us reunited, back home as a family again, was all I ever wanted." "So it was for me and Beth, believe me, but can it be home for us all as if nothing's happened?" "I still hope," whispered Daxel, aware Luton led him gently forward. "Then, brother mine, so do I," comforted Luton, kindly. "Go to Samar, Dase, and see for yourself. Then tell me what I want to know. Is it your home, spiritually and physically? If it is, it'll be mine, too, and one day Beth's. If not -." He broke off with a shrug. "I need to know as desperately as you do. So does Beth, just as much. Help us with this, Dase." Arms about each other, the two men mounted the remaining stairs in silence, both wrapped in intensely personal thoughts. ~~~ The two spoke many times over the succeeding days, not just about Bethel either. Daxel came to a reluctant understanding of how life stood for his younger

brother. They spoke again about their respective futures as each twin saw it, each for himself and for the other. They fully discussed Samar in detail after listening to Sarssen, Ensore and Bethel's graphic descriptions. It made them feel more hopeful, too, that, in time, so much that they hoped might've been saved of Ortok, and Samar in general, might repeat itself in the new city. They marvelled over what appeared to have been accomplished. They had nothing but praise for Sarehl and those closest to him. They laughed heartily over Kaleb and his wine, chuckled at the thought of Kalor staying among Samars rather than going home to Cyrenia, and looked gratified and happy that Brue was at last permanently reunited with their eldest brother. Such talk eased personal fears and private griefs. Daxel deliberately took time to be with Bethel, begging his brother to be open with him about Samar. The older brother listened to the hurt that still came through the deep voice that sometimes was gruff or cracked at unexpected moments, and it was after this that Daxel was able to see why Bethel's home was, most probably, in the south, though he encouraged Bethel to have hope that Samar would, one day, be his home again. The young warrior was clearly valued for what he was and happy to see his son more settled and quickly adapting to some southern ways. When Daxel suggested Kalbeth might like to visit he and Katakin, wherever they might be, he was rewarded with a wide, beaming smile of sheer delight and a nod. "Kal adores you, Dase," explained Bethel, his eyes alight. "Of course he'd love to spend time with you. He should, too. I don't want him forgetting he's Samar, so the more he sees of you, Sar and Brue, the better. And he'll transfer how he feels to Lute, too, because of you." "Is Brue Samar?" quizzed Daxel, impishly. "I think he's all Sushi myself." "No," decided Bethel, with a quick shake of the head. "He's a mix like you, Dase." Bethel added as an afterthought, his voice quite odd. "Dase, we're all mixes, aren't we? I am, Lute is, you are, and Brue certainly is. The only Samar amongst us, who grew to maturity in Ortok, is Sar." "And Chlo?" mused Daxel, caught by Bethel's comment and acknowledging the truth of it. "What's she?" Bethel shrugged and changed the subject but Daxel had the question he'd

absently posed coming repeatedly into his mind for some days before, unanswered, he dismissed it. ~~~ The brothers spent the days agreeably. They rode, honed sword skills, wrestled, threw knives competitively, gambled, challenged each other at every opportunity and laughed as they'd not done for cycles since they were boys. An intimate understanding enabled them to again be brothers, in the fullest sense of the word. They finally accepted each other without reservation, simply aware of the stability of the relationship which gave them strength and confidence through the renewal of the familial bond. Hurts were aired then dispensed with and deeply engrained fears were, at last, after long cycles, laid to rest. Hope for the future replaced the regrets and griefs of the past, all three able, in the future, to share and grow with the other. The three older men saw new awareness about each young man and total acceptance of the man each had become. It was healthy and positive. The Samars were, again, brothers. And the brothers went fishing. Luton took them to the choicest spots where they set lines, squabbled amiably over who caught what, just as they did as boys and played starquon after Daxel showed his brothers how the game went. Then the twins showed Bethel steppe board games that the young warrior quickly became proficient at and he showed them the card games Lodestok played with his sons. Luton fleeced his brothers unmercifully. Then they talked, romped in fun fights, again reminiscent of boyhood and as siblings, argued, and fell into happy silence, no words necessary while the golden hours whiled their way past. ~~~ And while the brothers enjoyed all Caciqua had to offer, Sarssen, Ensore and Kher came to an amicable agreement that saw a new treaty drawn up ready for g, neither Chamah nor warlord in any seeming haste to do this. Discussions were lengthy, but more often than not veered far beyond the immediate need that brought Ensore to Caciqua. The subjects covered ranged diversely from Samar, that fascinated Kher, to military arts, northern economies, new hopes for Ambrosian trading and the establishment of regular trading centres recognised throughout Ambros, to questions of governance and social attitudes and mores.

Kher couldn't hear enough about the rebuilding of Samar and the effort going in to re-establish a society such as Luton was born into. The men touched on slavery, Kher commenting quietly that it was obvious the Chamah found it distasteful. "I do find the concept repugnant," Ensore itted. "Because of Shasah and Beth, Chamah?" "Call me Ensore. Everyone else does," suggested the Chamah, with his pleasant smile. "I'm not one for protocol, much to the despair of those in Elibera." Ensore paused. "No, not just because of Beth and Lute, though knowing what their fates were makes it worse." "What then?" "No choice, Kher. None at all." "Yes, that is true. Slaves lose their freedom of choice." "I know my society isn't perfect," sighed Ensore. "The gods, Suldan, sometimes I think some amongst us aren't much higher than slaves. But then I come here and see real slavery and I know the lot of my people may be tough, their advancement only through birth or status, but we don't enforce servitude upon them. They're not repressed through fear and pain." "But oppressed none-the-less, yes?" "Through birth, sometimes, yes, I suppose. It's something I'm trying to change, and I will." "So you agree there are menials in all societies, Ensore." A smile touched pale blue eyes at the Chamah's pained expression. "But people should have choice even as menials, Kher." "In an ideal world, Ensore, I would agree. Shasah and I have long conversations about this. He had no choice." "Neither did Beth," said Ensore, soberly. "Nor the other wretches I see about me.

I don't believe, Kher, I have the right to impose life or death, or a living death, on another." "So how do you deal with serious criminals?" "They go through the due legal process," explained Ensore, wearily. "And if found guilty?" "They're executed." "Their choice is somewhat limited," suggested Kher, with the smile deepening. "True," agreed Ensore. "But , Kher, they had the choice to commit that crime in the first place. No one made them do it, nor was it done through pain or fear." "What is it that so bothers you about the concept of slavery? Some slaves are well fed, well cared for and respected within the warrior household, though I confess that is unusual rather than the norm. Most have lives of misery." "There are children taken, Suldan," began Ensore carefully, "who are deliberately altered to make them appealing to warriors, both boys and girls. They're enslaved for life. I see people who, through no fault of their own, have lost their basic Ambrosian rights, with no dignity or right of speech. No appeal to justice is theirs. In every sense they wholly belong to another who has the power to do whatever he may wish with that individual, be it kind or cruel. Slaves are subjugated without free will, branded as a possession and live at the whim or mercy of masters who can praise or flog them. They become husks of beings, Suldan, quite deliberately reduced to this so they remain submissive and regimented. They're most often taken from states and countries that knew no slavery. They're forced to knuckle under to the threat of brute force or suffer the consequences. And they owe total obedience in the most mindless sense. Slaves kiss the rod or they receive it in full measure. That's what bothers me, Kher. And I see it, still, in two brothers in a way that will never fail to disturb me, as doubtless Lute does you." "You are an eloquent speaker, Ensore." Kher stared thoughtfully at the Chamah. "It affects you as badly as it does the Saturim, does it not? But then, you

moulded that boy." "Not deliberately," smiled Ensore, reminiscently. "It just so happened the boy had no one else to turn to when his elder brother was so close to death. You didn't know the lad then, Suldan." "No," answered Kher. "Tell me how you found him." "The boy was twelve cycles, Kher, and old before his time. He was a thin, gangly lad, with a mop of lank, unkempt hair. The lad was more than sad, completely withdrawn, inwardly grieving and hopelessly lost. He was a tragic figure, Kher, you must believe me. Every time another group came to the camp he'd be there looking - you know who for. It was the senior healer at that camp who linked the lad with the man I finally brought in." "Sarehl?" "Sarehl, yes." "How badly hurt was the Strategos?" "Hasn't Lute told you, or Dase?" asked Ensore, profoundly surprised. "Dase has a little, but he finds it hard to speak of those times and the suffering inflicted on those dearest to him and Lute only knows what Dase tells him." Kher saw the smile in the friendly, grey eyes fade. "When I travelled north through Ortok on my way to the warlord, I met and spoke with one named Lban. Through him I learned of the Strategos' injuries and that he was left out to die, nothing else." "Lban," said Ensore, in frigid tones quite new to the warlord. He saw eyes like flint meet his. "Dase told us what Lute did to that man. At the time I considered it nothing short of justice. I still do." Kher didn't speak. He just waited. "Sarehl should've been dead before I found him. I thought he was. We still don't know how he was alive. I used to ride the forest perimeter, because in those early days we had to scavenge for all we could since we were shocked and essentially disorganised. It was one morning I was out riding, checking for cast away clothing and acting as a patrol, when I thought I saw a bundle of rags at the very edge of the forest. It

was Sarehl, Suldan. He lay unconscious. He was so emaciated he makes your slaves appear well fed and healthy. His face was cut open. His hips and legs were broken and twisted. Even his skeletal stomach was raw, as were the fronts of his legs and arms and the palms of his hands. That came from being dragged a considerable distance at the hooves of a warhorse and then from having hauled himself, on his stomach, from your camp. His nails were worn to the bone. Though I thought he was dead, I was deeply touched because he was clearly a man of enormous, though futile, courage. That courage made me believe the man deserved a decent, honourable burial so I put him across the horse and took him back to camp. He later told me it took him four or five days to crawl to shelter from your camp. He was seriously feverish and so weak he could scarcely lick honey from his lips, so I imagine he looked as Lute did at his worst, only with the addition of horrific injuries." There was a long silence that Kher broke. "And then?" "I tried to save him," said Ensore, bluntly, "but his face festered and I knew he was dying. Had we not got him to a healer further north, he would have. Kaleb still draws in his breath at how close we were to losing Sarehl. He says it was a matter of less than an hour and I believe him. Fever killed him physically, but agonising pain and dreadful nightmares slowly affected his will to live. This was rekindled by his discovery that Dase was alive and near. It helped bring a tiny measure of comfort to him." "The fever presumably came from infected wounds. That I understand, Ensore. But why did he have nightmares?" Ensore's eyes hardened implacably again. "A boy who was a son to Sarehl was penned next to his pallet in your camp. The boy repeatedly called to his eldest brother to save him, but that brother was unable to respond or help the boy finally taken away. During screaming fits, Sarehl kept asking if the boy was brought in." "Beth?" "Bethel," confirmed Ensore. "When did he know what happened to the boy?"

"When we felt he was strong enough to tolerate the anguish of the truth, and by then it was too late. We couldn't save Beth." "No," murmured Kher. "You could not save Beth. No one could." "Yes they could," contradicted Ensore, looking across at Sarssen who stood at a window staring out, quite divorced from the conversation about him. "Indeed yes," concurred the warlord. "Of course. He saved Beth many times." Kher drew in a long breath before resuming. "The warlord considered the Strategos to be a remarkable man, Ensore, and I believe that as well. To show such restraint in the face of what was done to him and his is extraordinary. In our society, a man who lost his son in such circumstances would have sought out and killed those who so treated his son." "Apparently Lodestok said the same thing to Sar." "And what did the Strategos say to that?" "I can't answer that. I just know they talked together a very great deal. Your society may have externally shaped Beth and Lute, but it hasn't destroyed the essence of what they are or what Sarehl and their mother raised and taught them to be. Those inherent qualities are as much part of the adults as they were of the children. At heart they're the true Ortokians as much as Sarehl. They're not the new Samars." "I do not dispute that, Ensore. So where do these young men belong?" Ensore rubbed his beard. "That's not easy to answer either. Sarehl's busy recreating a Samar state but is mated with my sister, so there's a mix; Lute's a southern Sarat mated to a desert woman; Dase has strong Dahkilan overtones about him and is mated to a steppe woman; and Beth? Beth has a half-Churchik son and is both a Saratquan as well as Samar's master musician. I don't know where they belong, Suldan. I suspect they belong everywhere, but nowhere in particular." "Very profound, Chamah." Kher thought a moment, then asked, "When did the Saturim become mated? And to whom? This is news to me." "Not long since, Kher," smiled Ensore. "He's mated to Asok's eldest daughter.

He came straight to me with the news." "I see. Life's complications continue." Kher looked across at Sarssen who'd come back to them and now sat lazily in a sprawl. "Do we lose Beth, do you think, Sarssen?" Sarssen shook his head. "I think not, my lord. Beth is more and more settled as the weeks and my guess is that he'll comfortably range between two cultures as the cycles come and go. As you told him, Ens, he will find things increasingly easier. I think, my lord, you will find he has come to that understanding himself." The discussion moved on to the future of the children, to widely differing opinions concerning succession, social customs of land rights, tribal laws, and then, reluctantly, to the new agreement that was fetched and signed. There was no longer any excuse to linger. Ensore advised his men to be ready to move out at dawn the next day, and was up betimes himself so he could eat a last meal with the warlord. Their conversation was affable and easy, with the development of a burgeoning friendship and certainly mutual respect. On leaving, Ensore said in his quiet way, "You've made me welcome, Kher. I'd ask that at some time, when you're able, you return me the honour by gracing Elibera with your son, daughter and greatchild." The rarely seen warm smile lit the warlord's blue eyes. "I thank you, Chamah. Rest assured, one day we will come."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sarssen and Bethel accompanied the Chamah and Saturim, so the entourage exiting the gates of Caciqua was a substantial one. They rode for the northern camp to disband the last of an army no longer required. Daxel had instructions that meant he stayed with the Dahkilan once the army was reached and then was to go with Ongwin. He questioned this until Ensore explained he wished to visit Enouri and Kaleb while he was still south. With quick understanding, Daxel nodded, and, to Ensore's relief, asked no more questions. Daxel knew Bethel was going to Enouri with Sarssen to face his initiation as Adept. It was something Bethel explained to his brothers at some length so they could comprehend what he'd be doing and the reason for it. From Enouri, Ensore, and the guard who travelled with him, would return to Dahkilah while Sarssen and Bethel returned to their southern homes, Correc's insurrection now a thing of the past. The only thing that disturbed Ensore's tranquillity was the young woman who rode out from Caciqua, flanked by Bethel and Sarssen, the young one erect in the saddle, dignified and elegant, her head held high. He didn't know her. He hadn't seen her about the palace, but despite that, the Chamah found her looks such he was drawn to closely study her, something in her appearance that was strangely familiar, as if he'd known her previously but knew he hadn't. He was puzzled. He couldn't pin the thought about her that came and went. He decided he needed Eli. He also noticed Ongwin eyed the young woman with interest, but from a discreet distance. The chestnut hair was as rich as Ensore's, but it was the eyes that fascinated him, flecked as they were. Ensore thought at first they were tawny, but on nearer inspection he drew in his breath because they were an unusual colour. A very unusual colour indeed. They were deep mead gold. That in itself made the Chamah decide to question Sarssen about her, since it was apparent she was submissive to both he and Bethel in an intriguing way. Clearly, she was in awe of Sarssen. She was responsive in little unobtrusive ways to Bethel, somewhat reserved with others about her whom she tended to shun and she obeyed the two men without demur. Nor did she initiate anything. "Who is she?" asked the Chamah one evening.

"She answers to Easmonda, my friend," answered Sarssen, aware of Bethel's quick, surprised glance. "Why does she travel with us?" "She goes to Enouri. It is thought she has talent." "Where is she from?" "She is an ex-slave, daughter of Correc and a slave, and now, through the right of warrior ritual and Churchik martial custom, Beth's slave, though not I suspect for very long." "What?" "Ironic, is it not?" agreed Sarssen, with an odd little smile. "Beth had no idea what to do with her and asked me to settle her at Enouri where she can live free and able to use her talent. Her future remains uncertain." "Correc's daughter?" demanded Ensore, incredulously. "A half-breed? After what he said about you and Kal? I can't credit a warrior would choose to crucify one half-breed while having one himself. It doesn't make sense." "In our society it does," answered Sarssen, with a degree of grimness. "Do as I say, not as I do is a warrior motto." "The gods!" said Ensore blankly, relapsing into silence. ~~~ Charilae learned a great deal about Sarssen and Bethel while they were away from Caciqua and far eastwards. She learned to trust a little. The family sheltering her encouraged her and offered her security in a way that was novel. It steadied her. She began to respond. She developed into a young woman who drew all eyes, very lovely, unassuming, and with innate elegance. She was graceful and modest and though she never put herself forward, was now comfortable in social settings and conversed easily, no longer tongue-tied or cowering. She remained slight but had confidence and dignity. And Haskar Evereh made sure she was seen at every opportunity, his eyes

watchful for all reactions to his protégé and his mind busy with sorting out who were ones who may be acceptable to the house of Glisk. Already overtures concerning Charilae had been made, comments and suggestions gently rebuffed as Evereh quietly explained that the girl was not his property to dispose of. Not yet, thought some, as they went their way. They were happy to see what eventuated, but eyes stayed rested on the girl's face. Evereh kept his own counsel, but had long discussions with his wife about Charilae's future. Even Kher commented favourably upon her appearance the first time he saw her, and in such a way she delicately blushed and dropped a deep curtsey that drew a smile from the stern face. "I am impressed with you, Easmonda. You radiate new beauty that is enchanting, so you will be missed when you leave with Sorien and Losaren. Have you been happy in Caciqua?" "Yes, my lord, very." "Then that is most satisfactory. You will always be welcome here, child. that." "My lord," came the bemused whisper at such unexpected indulgence. Then Charilae backed gracefully and sought refuge again with Xotica. ~~~ The day before she was due to leave Caciqua, she was summoned to Kher and went with some trepidation. Her adopted family went with her in . To her surprise, the warlord wasn't alone, both Bethel and Sarssen accompanying him. "Easmonda," said the warlord's deep, cold voice. He looked over the young woman in a critically appraising way, hands clasped in front of her and her head correctly bent. "I have been asked, child, to release some of your father's estate so you may duly inherit. Neither Tempkar nor Haskar wish to retain this aspect of Correc's wealth, though you understand the bulk of his estate is forfeit to them whether they want it or no. I believe they do not, but it is my wish and will be obeyed. Their offer is extremely generous." "I understand, my lord," whispered Charilae, overcome.

"Then lift your head, Easmonda." Charilae saw Bethel advance towards her with a very large and heavy casket held in outstretched hands. "Take it, child." With trembling hands Charilae gingerly took the casket, but it was so big and weighed so much Bethel had to help her hold it. He stooped as Charilae went to her knees, the casket settled in front of her. "You may open it, Easmonda." Charilae did so, tentatively. There she saw a richness of jewellery in profusion, so exquisite, she went quite white. There were pieces she ed seeing adorn her mother that brought the lovely woman's image into sharp focus in her mind. "My lord," she gasped, tears brimming with gratitude in eyes turned up to Kher. "It seems appropriate that a daughter of such beauty, who closely resembles her mother from all s, should be properly gowned and ornamented as befits a senior haskar's daughter." Kher strode forward and held down his hand. "I have also been asked if you can be made a fosterling, Easmonda. How do you respond to that?" Charilae took the hand but could only gape speechlessly up into the older man's face. "Haskar Evereh wishes this to be formalised since you are now without parents or near kin. It gives you status as Karina, where before you were stateless and without rights through familial loss. An orphaned Churchik's lot is an unhappy one, something you have discovered for yourself, yes?" "Yes, my lord." "It is an unusual situation I find myself in," went on the warlord, thoughtfully. "I have been told that already arrangements have been made for you at Valshika, under the guidance and care of Haskar Losaren, such arrangements not able to immediately be altered. Should the fostering go ahead, you will still travel with the haskar because you are still technically Tempkar Sorien's property, nor will that existing state alter until your return because fostering is not achieved overnight. I wish to know your thoughts on the matter, Easmonda. I know the tempkar's." With an effort, Charilae pushed the casket to one side and rose. Kher helped her. She looked imploringly across at Xotica who rustled over to her and clasped her fondly. "Child, you may not inherit from us because we have legitimate children before you, but you are welcome to share our home. Through us you will hopefully

have a full and rich future by association with our house." Xotica glanced across at her mate, a huge Churchik with grizzled blond hair that had thinned, his queue a matter of form rather than substance. He had a harsh face, deep lines etched in it, and his eyes were cool, calculating, but certainly neither hostile nor unkind. He was kin of Sendak and had never made any secret of his friendship with Correc, something Bethel and Sarssen were well aware of, but Charilae wasn't. The irony wasn't lost on Kher either. Sarssen picked up a great deal about plans for Charilae's future from Xotica's words. "The girl is welcome in our home," Evereh said finally, after a prolonged pause. "She brings lightness." Charilae turned in Xotica's arms and faced Bethel who still stood apart from her, his head bowed as tempkar in the company of haskars. "My lord," she uttered, in a low voice. Bethel raised his head, his eyes profoundly sad and rather empty Charilae thought. Her heart jumped. He spoke without emotion. "If it's your wish, then I will not stand in your way. I'm emancipated from slavery. So should you be. Choose, Easmonda." "I would be fosterling, my lord," murmured Charilae, her head turned to Kher. He smiled frostily down at her then nodded dismissal. Charilae backed from the audience chamber as fast as she could, the casket left for Evereh to carry. "I will have the documents drawn up," continued Kher, as though Charilae was still there. "Xotica, you will have Easmonda prepared for travel at dawn. A messenger will be sent to Valshika when all legal matters are settled, but until then she remains under the aegis of Haskar Losaren. Is that understood?" "Yes, my lord," answered Xotica, dropping into a very deep curtsey before she, too, was summarily dismissed with a nod. Sarssen couldn't help thinking how affronted Ayesha would be at such curt, offhand tactics and an inner laugh shook him. "Have you anything to say, Evereh?" "Yes, my lord. I wish to speak with the haskar and tempkar."

"Then I shall leave you," responded Kher. He was gone on the words. Evereh prowled the chamber, his eyes coming to rest on Sarssen who now sat comfortably, then on Bethel who still stood to attention in the company of authority. "It is kind in you to allow the child reinstatement among her own," said Evereh, after a while. "The status of Karina will help her marriage chances, so she can be creditably and comfortably established as befits a daughter of a warrior lord. She will, we hope, bring honour to the house of Glisk." His meaning was patently clear. Sarssen wondered who Evereh had in mind for Charilae. Evereh paused, then went on. "You are generous, too, in asking that immediate wealth in jewels should be hers. It is not inconsiderable wealth either. They will properly and richly endower her. Was it you, Losaren, who asked for this?" "I suggested to Sorien that it would be an appropriate gesture under the circumstances, Evereh, but the offer came from him. He appealed to the Suldan on the girl's behalf." "Then you are indeed a most generous young man, Tempkar." Bethel lifted his head. "My lord," he said, quietly. "It is your genuine wish that she accept her new status? That release also comes from you?" "Yes, my lord." Evereh contemplated the young warrior with the distant expression. He decided, yet again, that the Samar tempkar was a man he'd never fully comprehend, the man one of complexities and never-ending surprise. "Though I did not Haskar Correc's actions, I naturally sympathised with his cause that I thought just, Sorien." "I know," answered Bethel, simply. "And knowing that, you cede your control and authority over what is left of his immediate family to me? Not," Evereh added, rather testily, "that we were aware

he had another daughter or that Agge had her treated in such a reprehensible fashion." Bethel thought that description of Charilae's life an understatement, but he bit his tongue and responded suitably. "It is Easmonda who matters, my lord. It's not pleasant being a slave so I wouldn't willingly inflict such a state on anyone. My brother will vouch for her care and safe return." Bethel turned and bowed formally to the haskar before he strode from the room. Sarssen rose in a leisurely way. "Sorien says it clearly, Evereh. The girl will spend her time with us, then will return to you. It is a solution to the child's dilemma that pleases us." "You are a strange man, Losaren. Sometimes I believe there is no understanding you at all. What your ulterior motive may be I have no idea, but I doubt the boy has any. Is he as guileless as he appears?" "Not guileless, Evereh, simply honest. He has no wish to own anything, an attitude to life I find has its own implicit charm." "Humph!" said Evereh, staring very long before he, too, stalked from the room. It left Sarssen smiling at a private thought that clearly afforded him immense amusement. ~~~ Bethel pounced on Sarssen, in some agitation, later that evening. Bethel was flushed and stammered. "Sarssen, Charilae does not go to Valshika. Nor does she answer to Easmonda though I knew I had to follow your lead on her name. I did not know where to look!" "I noticed that, Beth," said Sarssen, in tender amusement. "My lord, you lied to the warlord." Sarssen's eyebrows rose eloquently.

"Did I, Beth? What is this then?" "About Valshika. She is going with us to Enouri where you believe they'll discover she has talent to Level Two. You told me so!" "So I did," mused Sarssen thoughtfully, and in a way that made Bethel dance to him in exasperation, his hands out to grasp the warrior's shoulders. He had his hands gripped instead and was brought to a stand-still. "Well then, Beth, memory is such a selective thing, is it not? We shall simply have to call in on Valshika either before or after going to Enouri. Which would be better, do you think?" "Sarssen!" "We shall detour before, I think, Beth." Bethel began to laugh in such a way Sarssen let him go with a broad smile. "Where does Charilae think she's going?" Bethel asked. "Oh Charilae will go where we go," responded Sarssen, on a deep chuckle. "The girl has talent, Beth. She is also highly intelligent and a survivor, so she will play whatever game we do. She did just now. I have considerable respect for that young woman." "Is she honest with us?" "She is as open and candid as you are, Beth, make no mistake about that, but a girl with talent and no status in southern society is not in an enviable position, is she?" "You engineered this," accused Bethel, swinging to stare intently at the older man. "Now would I?" asked Sarssen, with an injured air. "You wanted her to be honourably placed and given back what is rightfully hers. Why?" "That would be telling," teased Sarssen, incorrigibly. "Maybe I just felt sorry for her, no?"

"Possibly," replied Bethel, then he gave a shout of laughter. "My lord," he gasped, "you've relieved me of a slave. How can I thank you?" "And such a remarkably pretty one, too, Beth. Are you sure I have not instead done you a disservice?" Bethel blushed hotly. "Well? Is she not an attractive young one then?" ~~~ Bethel and Sarssen's men carefully watched Charilae, as instructed, while their lords were absent in Andish and several of them offered to take her riding after she shyly asked Haskar Evereh if that was permissible. He encouraged her to go. It was from these men she finally learned the truth about Sarssen and Bethel. The lies she was fed shocked and distressed her, as did the festering hatred of the men her mother fostered in her. Her rough words to Bethel before he left and her unnecessary reserve with Sarssen made her cry into her cushions. That men who suffered so much worse than herself and should hate all her kind, but for some reason didn't, merely enhanced her sense of guilt. With the ing days she began to ask the men more questions, suddenly aware these men with whom she rode were more than happy to discuss lords of whom they were inordinately proud. The older ones told her about the younger Sarssen, while others spoke freely of the dark haired warlord's love boy who grew to maturity among the Churchik. She learned both young men survived extraordinary odds and appalling treatment and gleaned far more than either Sarssen or Bethel would have expected. From casually dropped words she knew both men had unusual loyalty from their men, were profoundly respected, and were considered fierce, redoubtable fighters. She learned that the musician was gentle indeed. When the two returned to Caciqua, Charilae was distant and shy but always courteous and responsive, her eyes resting on either man if he was present in the same room. ~~~ Charilae saw the Chamah from a distance. She assumed he was the man her mother had so often spoken of as a man who'd mature into a great leader. How her mother knew this Charilae never knew. But she watched how dewy-eyed her mother got when she spoke of Dahkilah and how the words came out with ionate longing and deep grief. Such memories were seared in Charilae's

mind. And now she saw the Chamah. She thought he carried himself with quiet dignity and reserve. He looked a kind, well-intentioned man. She was still afraid of Kher and in complete awe of Luton. This intensified when she learned the tall dark Sarat, who occasionally danced with her, was Bethel's brother. She thought the Sarat and his twin would be kind. She couldn't talk much with the Saturim when she found herself in his company one day, because he was so very like Luton and she'd never sighted twins before. It actually confused her. Sarssen remained gentle with her but his aura of power and decided air of authority kept her in awe of him, too. She treated him with deep respect from the moment of his return to Caciqua and she just watched Bethel from a distance. Her eyes always rested on the musician whenever he was present. She was pleased to ride out from Caciqua, even if it was to an unknown that held its own fears for her, but she also missed the security Evereh's family gave her and the sense of being wanted. The fact that she was to be fostered made her feel more hopeful about her future, and the kind gesture of Bethel, in allowing her a rich dowry and her freedom, dispelled any lingering doubts she may have secretly held about his intentions towards her. Characteristically, this made the young woman eye the tempkar in some confusion, because, over the last season or so, she'd become used to hearing herself described in glowing and favourable . Clearly the warlord's boy didn't look in her direction in that way. She was oddly piqued. She wondered if his time with Lodestok had given him a taste for boys, so much so he wasn't attracted to women. But then she saw him dance and outrageously flirt with other girls, laugh, jest, then shake his head, and then, one morning, she heard enough gossip about the young warrior's alleged past sexual prowess to make her blush. She turned away, then crept back closer to the door so she could listen to the chattering group. Charilae's curiosity and pique grew. On the day they all rode from Caciqua, she became conscious of the Chamah's intense regard. Though it was disionate and highly appraising, it unsettled her. Finally, she let her horse fall back until she was no longer in his sight. When they drew up to set camp, Charilae quietly dismounted and went with Bethel's men to help where she could, this taking her away from the Chamah and the Saturim. Both men made her feel constantly on edge though neither spoke much

to her. Indeed Daxel tended to merely say a few kindly words when he saw her and then ignored her unless she was drawn to his attention. Ensore said nothing. He just stared, a puzzled frown in his eyes. Once all were fed and rested, Charilae withdrew a little way, from where she listened to Bethel's powerful oratory, singing or music. His southern sagas were stirring, but what struck hardest was his recitation of verse he picked up in Elibera, ones Charilae recognised as fragments her mother had sung to a small child. Then she silently wept, her head bent so no one would notice. Ensore did. It made him insatiably more curious about one who should be so moved by Dahkilan music and poetry. Charilae wondered what her future would be, was afraid to confront it though she knew it could only be better than her past and recognised that it wasn't threatening. Still, after seasons of security in Caciqua, she felt vulnerable among people who were strangers. She felt alone. Sometimes, overcome, she wished Bethel had sentenced her to death. At night she lay awake, her mind restlessly going over what had been and what might come. A few nights from Caciqua, her restlessness got too much so she slipped like a shadow from her unsel to wander freely about the silent camp. A few men on duty saw her but made no comment. She came to a stop while she decided which way would be best to go so she disturbed as few people as possible. Then a shadow crossed directly in front of her. Her heart hammered. She remained motionless, afraid. Then she saw who the shadow belonged to. It was Bethel. She watched him stride beyond her, her startled gaze riveted to a small creature that sat elegantly draped across his shoulders, Bethel seemingly indifferent to it. Thinking Bethel must know somewhere quiet because he was so restful, Charilae followed him until she found herself a little beyond the camp. She crouched when he came to a halt and stared about him, before he threw himself down in the long grass, the creature giving an indignant squeak at such cavalier treatment. It settled itself so Bethel could stretch out his legs, the young warrior flat on his back, hands up and under his head. Bethel stared pensively into the dark sky. Charilae could vaguely see that whatever the creature was it was very furry, rubbed itself round the prone figure and licked Bethel's cheek. Though Bethel didn't speak, she was convinced he and the creature communed in some way. It showed in the flick of the creature's ears, the switch of the long tail and the swivelling head.

After ten minutes or so, Charilae was astonished to see the creature simply disappear and turned her head backwards and forwards to see where it might have gone. She slipped away a short distance and sat in silence, wrapped in thought as she watched Bethel roll onto his stomach, pluck a blade of grass and gnaw thoughtfully on it. A voice intruded on her reflections. "Come on out, Charilae," Bethel invited softly. His deep velvety voice made an appreciative shiver run through her. She froze. She thought about backing to the safety of the unsels and the nearest fire, but trembled so much her legs wouldn't behave. She stayed motionless. She watched Bethel rise in a leisurely way, discard the grass and stand for a few moments, his tall figure forbidding because he'd suddenly started to fill out, and, from a distance, began to closely resemble Daxel. He crossed to where she was. "I did not mean to intrude, my lord." Charilae shook with anticipation of the physical violence she'd become used to, dismayed when Bethel didn't respond. She looked up. She saw a hand held down, and, when she dared to search his face, partially lit by the brightness of mid-eve, she saw it wore a most gentle expression. "Will you not stand, Charilae?" he asked, quietly. She shook her head. "My legs will not let me," she whispered. "Take strength from my hand," offered Bethel, calmly. Gingerly, she took it and allowed Bethel to get her steady. "Did Correc beat you as the warlord beat me?" Charilae nodded. "Were you often beaten, my lord?" "Always. A slave usually is," came the reply. "Was the warlord cruel to you?" "Oh yes, very," answered Bethel, absently. "It was his way. It is the Churchik way. That is something you found, did you not?" "Yes," mumbled Charilae. Her voice quavering, words came in a tumbling rush.

"Before you left for Andish, my lord, I said things I regret. I know you are neither evil nor cruel, though I was led to believe you were and I was told my father's cause was just. I did not know the truth. I do now. I want to say I am sorry." Bethel didn't move and he still held her hand. His voice was distant. "It does not matter, Charilae. You acted in the only way you could. We all have to. I cannot go home to be the person I wanted to be, because the home I loved and yearned to return to has gone and will never come again. It no longer exists. I was made a warrior lord as my son will be. We are what my master intended we would be. I never won against him and I do not now either." "Are you saying his influence goes beyond the grave, my lord?" asked Charilae, deeply troubled. "Oh yes," responded Bethel, definitely but quietly. "It spans the cycles to come. I know that now. Once I fought it with my whole being. In ways I probably still do and always will. The lives of slaves will not necessarily ever be of their choosing." "What did we do to you, my lord?" whispered Charilae, tearfully. "The gods, what have we done to ones like you?" "The Churchik destroyed, Charilae, everything they could, in the name of glory and conquest. The warrior class saw it as their destiny." Bethel spoke quite quietly. "But in the process they also hurt themselves and now have to try to recreate themselves through those they let live. That is the irony of the invasion. I may never go home to what I knew as a child, but neither can the Churchik live as they once did." "They are unchanged." Bethel shook his head, a slight smile touching eyes that looked far away. "Maybe, but I think not, certainly not in the long term." "The Churchik have hurt you so very badly, my lord, and so did I through thoughtless words." Bethel considered her for long moments then changed the subject. He asked abruptly, "Why are you wandering alone and at such a late hour?"

"I cannot sleep," she confessed. "Sometimes I get so desperate I have to get up and walk about. That way I can sometimes settle." "I do not sleep either," sighed Bethel. "Why is that, my lord?" She saw the very faint flinch before Bethel spoke in a detached way. She even heard a chill touch his voice. "The warlord did not encourage sleep in his boy, Charilae. He was nocturnally very active. I learned in the early days never to fall asleep until he did, so it was often not far from dawn before I could rest. I have gone without a lot of sleep most of my life, though now I am able to rest more if I wish. Habits die hard though, do they not?" "Do you not get very tired, my lord?" came the naive question. Charilae saw a smile touch Bethel's beautiful eyes and the tone warmed too. "I was constantly tired, though I managed spells of rest through the day," Bethel itted. "But you get used to most things in time. I have." "So have I, my lord." Bethel met the golden eyes when he bent his head, the thought that they shone with the most magnificent glow staying in his mind. "Why do you not sleep, Charilae?" "I think, my lord," she began, in a choked voice, "it would have been better I died." "I used to think that, too, you know. Why do you think it now?" "I fear the future, my lord, and I feel so alone." She felt Bethel's arm go about her. "That is foolish talk for one who has everything to live for, Charilae. You are still very young, barely seventeen cycles, so your life only begins now as you walk a new path. We may call at Valshika for a few days but Losaren is taking you to Enouri so they can decide how much talent you have. It's supposed to be a happy, restful place. I'm sure you will find contentment for as long as you are there. Is that not worth living for?"

"I do not know." "I'm going there as well, you know." Charilae reared her head in surprise, her eyes round. "You, my lord? I thought you left us to go to stay in Dainstok." "No. I know as little as you do what awaits me." "Why do you go, my lord?" Bethel made her walk again until they reached the camp. "I am to be initiated as well." "What level?" breathed Charilae, fascinated. "Did you not know I am to be Adept?" "No," gasped Charilae. "Haskar Losaren is Adept, is he not?" She didn't see the broad smile on the face above her. "Yes, he is Adept. He wishes to leave you with another Adept, a very kindly man who taught me to heal and saved my eldest brother when no one else could. You need have no fear. As you come to with your talent and learn to use it, I believe you will find peace." "Did you find peace that way, my lord?" Charilae missed the twist to the lips, the smile going awry. "A little," said the deep voice above her. "But I had to hide my talent for longer than you, so it has become engrained in a way I find difficult to alter. I am only learning to come to with what I am and confess it is not easy. I need Enouri to help me, just as you do." "I will be left there." "Yes, for the time being, it is best." "And you, my lord?" Bethel shook his head. "It is not possible for me to stay, Charilae. I will come and go as Losaren does.

We cannot just stay and rest. Our lives do not run that way." Bethel realised they were outside Charilae's unsel. He removed his arm from about her and took two steps back. "Go and rest," he advised, turning about and striding into the darkness, unaware of hungry golden eyes that followed him. ~~~ The following day, Charilae was gratified when Bethel rode back to be beside her, obviously with the intention of accompanying her. They conversed on a wide range of things including her own background and circumstances. Bethel shivered convulsively when he listened to the young faltering voice describe her mother's death, and felt, the more he heard, that Sarssen's comment about Ambros being well rid of Agge was more than justified. Her spite and cruelty weren't directly alluded to but Bethel picked up enough. He felt that, in spite of all he'd endured, he'd never been turned on or tormented by the family he loved. It was a thought that stayed with him. Charilae spoke without rancour, in the same way as the past warlord's sons spoke ionlessly of their experiences to outsiders. Her father's changed attitude, to a girl he'd clearly petted previously, badly hurt Charilae. Bethel saw it in her eyes when they fleetingly met his. When he asked if Correc had actually had his own daughter branded a slave, she shook her head, explaining, with a painful blush, that she was destined to be a warrior's lesser concubine. Bethel shivered again. He was horribly aware what sort of fate that was for any girl, her life one of ridicule and abuse. Charilae added bleakly that to have been branded would've made her useless for other than a general harem, something Correc's pride wouldn't allow even though encouraged in those thoughts by Agge. Bethel encouraged her to talk, listened attentively and every so often interpolated either a question or a response. Then he fell quiet, mulling over what she'd told him. She couldn't draw him out and found he'd only converse in a general way. He was charming and elusive. He refused to speak of himself, carelessly deflecting any questions that might be seen to be personal, any impulsiveness she might have suspected about him reserved for those intimate with him. There were few, Charilae learned, who were. The young warrior's defences were formidable. He'd spent too long guarded against unwanted intrusion to relax now, and, since his life had depended on his control, he merely responded in a detached, courteous way. His

unapproachability surprised Charilae, used as she was to Churchik ways. There was no unspoken undercurrent, no nuance, nothing, just bland conversation. When she said her father had much ired the warlord and been favoured, Bethel didn't take the offered bait. A faint smile curled his lips but he made no comment. Frustrated, Charilae changed tack. Finally, the travellers met up with the remains of the northern army. The Churchik escort had left them some miles before to return to Caciqua. Charilae didn't see anything of Bethel because she learned he was busy with the northern army. Sarssen instructed her to be ready to ride the next day since she was being escorted to Valshika by his men. Charilae felt nervous but she just dropped a curtsey and backed away. Sarssen saw her on her way at dawn the following morning. "When will I go to Enouri, my lord?" asked Charilae. "I will be occupied with Bethel for some days after we reach Enouri, my dear. After his initiation, you will be sent for. You need have no fear you will be forgotten." And so Charilae rode without looking back, unaware of the Chamah who came up to the warrior so he could study the slight disappearing figure. ~~~ In camp all were mostly left to their own devices. The men soon knew the disbanding could begin in earnest whenever they pleased. The atmosphere was pleasant and very relaxed, the men of all ranks cheerfully gambling, racing and competing in trials of strength or fortitude. It was entertaining, too. Ensore continued to thrive as he had since Daxel's return. The thinness about his face was gone and he strode about with a smile for all and sundry, even those who came to him petitioning him to take them to Dahkilah to start a new life, the people dispossessed and without much will. Temperatures were warm, folk drank freely, and there was spontaneous dancing all about the camp. Ensore was happy where he was and saw how contented Daxel was, the dark eyes shining when they met his. Such festivity and revelling came to an end when Daxel was summoned one morning to Ensore's pavilion.

"Ah, Dase," Ensore greeted him. "It's time you and your men were on your way to Dahkilah, Dase." "Must we?" murmured Daxel. "I'm so happy here." He glanced at the Chamah and added impulsively, "So are you, aren't you?" "Aye, Dase," came the quiet answer. "But I can't sit about forever, can I?" "No," came the reluctant answer. Daxel sat and as usual raked a hand through riotous curls. "You'll accompany Ongwin, lad. He and Eli continue to be responsible during my absence, you understand that?" "Yes," sighed Daxel, with a resigned grin. "I suspect what I'm about to face." "What's that then?" "The same Ahliah faced in Krynn," answered Daxel, without hesitation. "You want me to learn statecraft, don't you, though the gods know why." "So you can help Sarehl with Samar," came the flippant reply. Ensore stretched, rose and crossed to look down at Daxel, who lounged, relaxed. "Dase, you've training of your men to continue. Ongwin will take you in hand again and you'll need to be backwards and forwards between Elibera and Samar so you can be in touch with Maren and Kalor. They'll eventually want you and your men there as part of Samar's defence so they'll have a lot to teach you. Sarehl will have things for you to do. So will Eli." "Eli?" questioned Daxel, in utmost surprise. "Of course, Dase," said Ensore, with amusement. "He has to stand in for me all the time, so it will assist him if you can relieve him of some of the more onerous state duties. You're equipped for that now, my lad, by virtue of your status and link with the royal house." "Oh the gods!" moaned Daxel. "I'll have no time for myself!" "None," agreed Ensore, unsympathetically. "And don't forget you must return to the Sinhalien, too, for the ceremony of inclusion. Will you bring Katakin north

after that?" "It's my wish," responded Daxel, quickly. "Then she'll come with you to Elibera. I've already suggested to Ongwin this may happen and that married quarters for you must be arranged immediately. Will there be a child, Dase?" Daxel blushed very deeply. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Katakin refused to tell me. She said it wasn't appropriate." "So remind me. When are you supposed to return?" "Not more than a season from when I left, Ens." "Then you'll go to Elibera. You'll remain there for the rest of summer, then take a quick visit to Samar before you go south to the Sinhalien. By the time you return, I'll be north again, though whether in Elibera or Samar I don't know. Is that how you see things, Dase?" "Aye," sighed Daxel. Daxel left with Ongwin, the older man with explicit instructions in his pocket and a clear understanding in his mind after a thorough and prolonged discussion with his Chamah. He and Ensore parted with laughter. Daxel grinned impishly at his mentor, embraced him, promised to do as he was told, then turned away to farewell Bethel and Sarssen. His embrace of Bethel was long. "Go easily. May the spirit stay with you, Beth." "And may the spirit stay with you, too," murmured Bethel. Daxel stood back and surveyed his brother. "There's such strength in you, little Beth. I'll see you soon." ~~~ The dismantling of the camp continued at an accelerated pace. Finally, there was just the rump which consisted mainly of some Samar men, but mostly Dahkilans, along with the dispossessed who'd not had the energy, courage or will to seek

their former homes. Sarssen was now anxious to proceed northwards towards Enouri. He'd not forgotten Correc's insurrection and though he was happy enough with Autoc being in Valshika, he felt he'd been gone long enough. He wanted Bethel's initiation done so they could return home. Ensore gathered the last men to him. He told them to be ready for a return north on the morrow, waited at dawn next morning to see them leave, with stragglers, still in tow, making a caravan. After seeing the last trace of them vanish in a plume of dust, he turned to Sarssen. "My friend," he observed. "The northern army is no more. Let's move to Enouri." Sarssen looked at the skeleton guard who grinned amiably back at him. "Certainly," he twinkled. He swung round to Bethel. "Are you ready, Beth?" "Yes," came the yelled answer from somewhere beyond him, before Bethel emerged with a smile, waved, tied a bundle to his horse and mounted. Conversations were desultory as they travelled, the men of quiet disposition, thoughtful individuals preoccupied with private musings. Charilae would've seen a new side to Bethel. He was completely at ease with the two older men who gently teased him and made him laugh. He even responded to jocular comments from the few guards, aware they reacted to him as they did to Daxel, something he took as a compliment. Terrin adopted him, encouraging the young warrior to trysts that tried his skills. Ensore and Sarssen watched with approval and amusement. Since Ensore and Sarssen simply treated him like a younger brother, the guards followed suit and the band became a large family in which Bethel was comfortable. He whistled, warbled, sang, recited, or played the pipes, whatever took his fancy. Nor was he his usual restless self at night. Calmness touched him when he rested on his elbows and stared into the fire glowing softly in the dark. Sarssen wasn't conscious of the young man prowling half the night either. He considered that a good omen. His music was gentler and soothing, as befitted his state of mind. Ensore thought perhaps Bethel's filling out the body, that was thin for so long, suggested Bethel relaxed and no longer lived purely on nervous energy. It boded well. The days ed agreeably, their arrival in Enouri eagerly awaited by one healer who stood on the watch for them, his translucent eyes gleaming with sheer

delight at their approach. Their welcome was noisy and full of laughter. Sarssen was anxious that Bethel's initiation be expedited as quickly as possible, so arrangements were hastily made for the ceremony to be prepared for early the next day. Bethel came through unscathed, but found that was only the beginning. He began to attend formal sessions that had his waking hours so fully occupied he didn't wander much of an evening, the young warrior seeking his spartan quarters where he collapsed in a heap, robe discarded and covers drawn haphazardly about him. This intensity and immersion went on for three weeks. Bethel found he was then taken by one Adept or another, for a day at a time, so the teaching, analysis and understanding could be adapted to his personal circumstances. He rarely saw Sarssen, other than of an evening when they all dined together and Bethel entertained with music. The discipline at a higher level was rigorous and quite harsh, but Bethel was brought up with the Churchik. Discipline wasn't new to him. Others brought to Enouri and expected to respond to certain demands found it very difficult or impossible. Bethel didn't. He thrived. He was soon instructed to take his place as one who taught others, an unnerving command. He found his ability enhanced with each succeeding day. Sarssen, gratified, noticed a significant difference in Bethel. He became aware that the sense of latent power that had hung about the young man now tangibly enveloped him. The authority about Bethel was new, too. He looked, at last, like a man coming to with himself and his place in the world. He comfortably participated in conversations with anyone who approached, the self-effacing warrior gone. The expression was serene in a way that reminded both Ensore and Kaleb of Sarehl, his eyes stayed clear and searchingly perceptive, sometimes all-knowing. The penetration about the eyes was Sarehl, too. Constantly, images of the youngest and eldest brothers merged as Bethel gained in insight and confidence. He was more equable, and, when Bethel spoke of the warlord, he did so without the minute flinch or shadow that used to cross his face. Sarssen smiled benevolently at him. He seldom saw the slave boy, but every so often a gesture, a stiffening of the shoulders, or an expression in eyes or face, showed the warrior that the memory was still very much alive and the hurt far from resolved.

Thinking it was time for Charilae to be brought north to Enouri, Sarssen sent for her, aware that by the time she came it would be almost time for he and Bethel to return south. He felt Enouri would have offered as much to Bethel as it could at this stage.

CHAPTER TWELVE

As they awaited Charilae's arrival, both Sarssen and Kaleb became aware of a change in the Chamah, Ensore's interest now absorbed by a reader/seeker he'd just met. Sarssen was amused, Kaleb outright intrigued. Taran hadn't been in Enouri long, only two days in fact, so Ensore's interest was prompt indeed. Taran wasn't a girl. The Chamah judged she was at least in her late twenty cycles, maybe even in her early thirty cycles, a healer at Level Three because she often had novices clustered about her while she walked and talked with them. There was no doubt she was fully Yazd. It showed in the clear eyes that were unusually large and expressive with the same transparency of Kaleb's. Her very thick head of wavy hair was simple nut brown with no traces of chestnut, blond or auburn to highlight it and she was surprisingly tall for a Yazd. Her figure was so slight, the Chamah mused she could for a boy. With the novices she was patient and tolerant. She was unhurried. There was an unruffled sedateness to her demeanour that strongly appealed to Ensore. He began to watch for her. She became aware of the Chamah the third day after her return. She'd just dismissed the novices and now sat herself comfortably under an ajeh tree, the branches sweeping low over her head and giving her shade without blocking out too much warmth. She'd plucked flowers from them and was busily making a chain out of them, her fingers working swiftly, her expression thoughtful. So fully absorbed in what she was doing, she saw and heard no one. It was only when she sensed someone stand above her that she glanced up demurely, a question in her eyes. Ensore hesitated. "May I you?" He saw the singularly lovely smile that lit up the face and sober eyes. "Certainly, my lord," she responded, promptly. "You know who I am then," commented Ensore on a faint sigh, stooping and sliding down the tree trunk to sit next to her. "Everyone knows who the Chamah is," she answered, in a soft placid voice.

"That," Ensore announced in a long-suffering voice, "is all I need." "Don't you like being Chamah?" she asked, not adding his title in a way that pleased Ensore. There was a teasing laugh in her voice that attracted him. She kept twining flowers. Ensore studied her, aware she wore no ornamentation. "I am the Chamah," he returned with another sigh, running a hand through his hair, "whether I like to be or not. I wasn't asked what I wanted to be. It's a pleasant escape to come to a place or be with friends who don't care whether one's a Chamah or not." "I imagine that's so," replied the woman, calmly. "I've just returned from Dahkilah and in Elibera the protocol's stifling. I was glad to leave it." "Ah, then you know our ways." Ensore studied her again, arrested. "What, may I ask, is your name?" "I answer to Taran, my lord. Taran, daughter of Aran and Tol." Ensore stared for long moments. "The name becomes you," he said abruptly, then looked away. "Can you tell me why a Yazd has just been in Dahkilah? It's odd that a young woman should be roaming Ambros in such unsettled times as these." "I was sent, as a Level Three, to those who cared for me when I was a child and who still shelter other junior levels, some of them in Elibera." "In Dahkilah?" asked Ensore, startled. She nodded. "When the Churchik invaded, my lord, my parents sent me there because they recognised I had talent. They had the foresight to smuggle me out." "What happened to them, Taran?" "What happened to many, my lord," she replied, levelly. "They were put to death before anyone thought of placing them in a caravan for slavery. I can be thankful for that, I suppose." "Where were you sent?"

"As close as possible to the north-western border. The people who took me in and gave me a home were Arritritans." "Arritritans?" repeated Ensore, blankly. "So you were taken deep into the mountains?" "Yes." "Were many Yazd there?" "Yes, my lord. When Dahkilah fell and your father executed, many went north ahead of you, more than you may imagine. Many others fled to sanctuaries within Dahkilah the warlord and Churchik knew nothing about. They were hidden by other than Arritritans too." "And you stayed?" "Yes, my lord. I was finally taken to Elibera when the Churchik were pushed out. Then I came in a caravan to Enouri before I was sent back again. As I said, I've just returned, and with many lower level readers, too." "And you're Level Three?" "Post-Level Three, yes," agreed Taran, with a quaint little shrug. "It's not uncommon." "But going to Level Four is," countered Ensore, swiftly. "Are you?" He saw the surprised blush. "It would be an honour to achieve that, my lord, if I can. If the gods will it, so be it." "This, then, is your home now?" Taran nodded. "I have no other, my lord." ~~~ The next days Ensore found her again. They walked and talked, Taran interested, articulate and extremely well informed, her questions thoughtful, intelligent and

shrewd. When she left him, Ensore was conscious of dissatisfaction. He began to overtly seek her out. When she confessed to a love of riding, Ensore took her out for long rides. Kaleb quietly took the novices and gave them to another healer. "What do you think, Sarssen?" he demanded. "About what?" "Ens and Taran. Do we encourage it or what?" "We mind our own business," chuckled the Mishtok. "The Chamah has a mind of his own and a will of iron, so if Taran continues to fascinate him, as she clearly does at the moment, then he will take her to mate despite what anyone may say. If she has no status at all, so much the better. I find the situation delightful." ~~~ Ensore remained captivated. It was soon obvious Taran wasn't immune to his undeniable charms either. She looked for him as he'd looked for her. Her eyes were always welcoming when they lighted on his tall, athletic form headed in her direction. She thought Ensore was changed. He always gave the appearance of being cool, calm, self-assured, even distantly reserved. Now he was restless and in earnest pursuit. Taran sensed ion in a man she thought was probably charming but become unsusceptible and possibly indifferent after cycles of having most unsubtle lures flung in his direction. Now this nonchalant, self-contained man was disturbed, his grey eyes showing a range of emotions that were startling. And Taran changed, too. Poised and perhaps even staid, the healer was now unusually responsive and actually vivacious in his company. She was more highly strung than the Chamah thought. He knew she was sensitive, but now she reacted in ways that showed a woman with a sober exterior hid quite another creature altogether. It excited Ensore. Aroused, the chase intensified. When he saw the soft and tender expression in her eyes raised to his, ion swamped him and made the Chamah shake. Taran looked at the man who did so much to save Ambros and she was under no illusions as to what it cost this man and his friend the Strategos. The toll taken showed in Ensore. She felt he was forced to age too fast and shoulder burdens

far too heavy for a man to carry. She discovered a yearning in herself to ease the premature lines that had already developed on his face, and she longed, as she listened to the Chamah speak in frustration of the Cu-Inam and the Curule, to help him bring such a hidebound society to a sense of the new reality confronting Ambros. Irrevocably, she fell under his spell. Ensore encouraged her to. And, inevitably, they mated. Ensore arrived at her allotted chamber at an early hour one evening, having excused himself from the company. No one said anything. The guards remained discreetly where they were, though Ensore hadn't ordered them to and expected one to follow him. None did. The guards knew which way the wind was blowing. "I think it's time I came to you," he said softly, as he entered the room. "I doubt you would come to me. Am I welcome, or do I misjudge your response to me, Taran?" Taran looked up from the book open in her lap, smiled invitingly, closed it and placed it on the floor beside her. "Are you sure this is what you want, Ens? I'll not hold you to anything, you know that." Ensore crossed to her and held down his hands. "I know what I want, Taran. I've never been so sure in my life." She let herself be pulled to her feet. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked, conscious of being drawn into a very strong embrace from which she'd no desire to escape. "No," whispered Ensore, kissing her hair. He drew her to the bed and pushed her to it. "No, Taran," he repeated. "I've come to ask you to be mine. Have you been with a man before?" Dumbly, she shook her head. She saw tender laughter in his eyes. "And don't you dare ask me how many times I've been with a woman," he teased, provocatively. ~~~ In the morning, Ensore stirred first. He stared down at the long, wavy hair scattered across the cushions, ran his hand through it, delighting in the thick softness between his fingers. He was raised on an elbow, his expression pensive

but that of a man who knows satisfaction in every part of him. It radiated through grey eyes. Taran stirred. She blinked, lightly touched his face, then his beard and lastly his hair. Her teeth closed gently but unmistakably on the beard so he was forced to bend his head, then fall back on the cushions with a soft laugh. "I'll never let you go, Taran. You know that, don't you? You've no longer any choice, my dear, have you?" He spoke thickly. She shook her head on a smile. "Nor have you," she returned, releasing his beard. Her eyes were misty. "I won't leave you, Ens. I've waited so long for you, Chamah, the wait's made you doubly precious. You'll never be rid of me." "You know what life can be in Elibera, Taran, but you don't know what it's like for royalty. You thought it stifling. It's more than that. It's something hard to bear." "You've spoken of how you want change, Ens," she whispered. "Well, now you'll have me to you in that. You don't want Chloris to grow to Chamah-hood in such conditions, do you?" Ensore shook his head. "It's easier with two than just one fighting on his own." "True," muttered Ensore, his fingers entangling in her hair again. "I wonder if Kaleb and Sarssen know what's happened." A trill of laughter broke from Taran. "They're not as blind as you think, Ens, nor are your guards." "The Chamahdan, my own," crowed Ensore, his eyes responsively alight. With a sigh, Ensore submitted to entirely different demands on his royal time. ~~~ Ensore went straight from Taran's humble chamber to the Mishtok's quarters, which, though spacious and comfortable, were comparatively austerely furnished when compared with the voluptuous opulence of Valshika. There he found Sarssen, Bethel and Kaleb. They were cosily ensconced around the smallest table in the area the warrior had designated for eating, the men quaffing mead and full plates at each elbow testament to the fact it was early meal. Ensore strode in without ceremony. When he saw an empty tankard and food set on

platters, he quietly helped himself. Then he ed the diners. "I wish to speak with you," he announced, nonchalantly. "I think we can guess," teased Kaleb, with a broad smile. "Probably," returned Ensore, with his slow smile. He ruffled his beard. "Though I suspect the Curule won't be pleased. Their Chamah has acted, again, beyond their jurisdiction and in a way that'll bring down their wrath on his head." "The chestnut head will hold," said Sarssen succinctly, with a dawning smile. He saw Bethel's quizzical expression. The young warrior turned his head enquiringly to Ensore. "Am I missing something?" Sarssen laughed and raised his tankard. "Probably, Beth, but then, no one can blame you because you've not had two moments to yourself for weeks, have you?" "No," answered Bethel, with a mock-darkling look at the warrior. "So what is it you want to speak about, Ens?" "As Sarssen and Kaleb seem to know, or at least expect, Beth, I've mated," explained Ensore, bluntly. He saw Bethel's blank expression. "To Taran," he went on, kindly. "I thought perhaps you had a partiality for her," Bethel said, rather shyly. "You both seem so comfortable together, as though you've known each other all your lives." "You miss little, Beth," observed Sarssen, with quick approval. "You have touched on one of the reasons why the mating will be a lasting success." He turned his head to survey the Chamah. "She is your friend, Ens, as well as your mate?" Ensore nodded. "Yes," he responded, simply. "She's the one with whom I'll willingly share the rest of my life." "The gods bless you, my friend," murmured Kaleb sincerely, his hand going out across the table to be grasped firmly then released. Ensore saw delight in the

clear Yazd eyes. In Sarssen he saw amusement and understanding. "Indeed," corroborated Sarssen. "May you both know life long contentment and fulfilment." Bethel followed Sarssen in offering his hand. "I don't know what you feel, Ens, but I can see it. That makes me happy for you." "Young one," answered Ensore warmly, his hands gripping Bethel's for a long moment. "When you come to the same feeling one day, I'll be the first to touch your hand in celebration." He saw the minute shake of the dark head before Bethel drank deeply from his tankard. Sarssen distracted attention from Bethel by asking laconically, in his laziest drawl, "And the Curule?" "Chamahs don't just decide for themselves who their mates will be," stated Ensore. "That would be scandalous! No, lists of suitable candidates are already drawn up that can be scanned, names studied, omitted, replaced, argued over and so on. Several are already under discussion. Then the Cu-Inam is invited to look over the list of suitable prospective brides and, from them, a final list is then submitted to the Curule who con it again until four names are left. These are presented to the Chamah who must analyse each potential bride with the Curule. He or she may not make a decision without the consent of the full Curule." "The gods!" breathed Kaleb, stunned. "That's no mating, man, none at all!" "Chamahs don't mate, Kaleb. That's what I'm trying to tell you. We wed. We breed possible Chamah offspring, but not necessarily so, we obey the Cu-Inam and the Curule, then we die so another fills our shoes. And so on it goes." "What were you going to do about the bridal list, Ens?" asked Sarssen, curiously. "I was going to refuse to consider it," answered Ensore, in a flat voice. "That defiance alone would have brought the wrath of both Curule and Cu-Inam about my ears. I'd have fled to Sar." "I assume," probed Kaleb gently, "that the brides are Dahkilan." "Certainly. How could they be anything else when they've been raised to believe

the greatest sacrifice they can make is to be chosen to warm the Chamah's bed and give him children? The gods!" Ensore gave a shiver. "Even the thought of such a loveless match gives me shiverbumps." "I think you should have a mating ceremony here." It was quietly uttered, but Bethel's comment brought heads round to stare at him. "That way the Curule and Cu-Inam can't say things were done indecently or in haste, can they?" The three men gave crows of laughter. Sarssen got his breath back first. "What a man you are, Beth." He glanced at Ensore, then back at Bethel, while Kaleb still chuckled to himself. "Why can the witnessing not be done here, too, if that is what is required under Dahkilan law or protocol?" pursued Bethel casually, wiping his fingers on a napkin, then twirling a curl round a finger. The men eyed him again, eyes alight with amusement. "Beth has a point, of course," said Sarssen, starting to laugh. "Beth, you never fail to astonish me," he murmured. "Ens?" asked Kaleb, trying to look serious and failing. "How will they react to the ceremony being actually presided over by the Mishtok at the Conclave, my friend?" Sarssen enquired affably, drinking deeply. Ensore considered, a hand back at his beard. "It's a sound suggestion." He turned to Bethel and grinned at him. "Shrewd thinking, young one." Bethel grinned back at him. "Ens," began Sarssen again, "if Adepts and the Mishtok carried out a formal anointing ceremony followed by a most discreet witnessing, that would be accepted by the Curule, wouldn't it? And we can draw up a formal marriage contract that gives the evidence required when you return to Elibera." "We'll still have to undergo Dahkilan ceremonies," Ensore mumbled. "I can't escape that. But what you suggest might mollify the Cu-Inam, if not the Curule. The gods!" he suddenly moaned. He saw three pairs of eyes stare interrogatively. "The Curule may well decide to invoke the witnessing, especially since I've essentially defied them by mating outside Dahkilah and with one considered, still, a foreigner."

"Would they?" asked Kaleb, astonished. "To punish and show me they're still in control, oh yes," answered Ensore, bitterly. "If they try that there'll be serious conflict between us," he added, trenchantly. "No need," put in Bethel. "Any witnessing or whatever will be done. It can only happen once." "Be prepared, though," warned Sarssen. "I suspect, Ens, you may need the services of your own trusted healer." "You think Kaleb should return to Dahkilah with me? What about the Conclave?" "It will survive while he is away," returned Sarssen, his eyebrow raised at Kaleb who began to laugh again. "It cannot be immediately, but there is no reason why Kaleb cannot go to you in Elibera to you before all the marriage protocols begin. He and Sarehl should hold some people at bay." Ensore nodded. "Ongwin will, too," added Bethel. "I think Sarssen's right, my old friend," agreed Kaleb. "You'll need all the you can get. Will Dase be there?" "Yes," nodded Ensore again. "Then with them in , and with your mate, there'll be some interesting moments," suggested Kaleb, on a chuckle. "When should the ceremony be?" asked Ensore, doubtfully looking back at Sarssen. "Tomorrow," said Sarssen, energetically stretching. "We need to make the pair of you honest, do we not?" Shouts of laughter followed that sally and the conversation became general and animated. ~~~

It was very early the next morning that Kaleb found Taran very pale, her hands gripped together, her voice failing her when she tried to speak. He crossed to her, sat her on the bed and held her hands. "Ens told me to tell you, Taran, that if what's proposed is something you can't face, he won't go through with it either. There's no pressure about this." Kaleb paused. "It was only mooted so the possibility of a more public display in Elibera won't happen." "I know," whispered Taran. "And you know you and Ens are among dear friends." Taran nodded. "Do you think you can go through this if we make it as easy as we can?" Taran looked hard at the healer and her voice was barely audible. "It'll make things easier for Ens, won't it?" "Yes, my dear, immeasurably." "What must I do?" "Can you trust us enough to leave things to us?" Taran nodded mutely, as her hands were released. "Then, my dear, I wish you to drink what I'll place in this cup. Take your time." Kaleb rose, crossed to the table by the window and filled a cup from a flask he drew from his pocket. "I'll return soon, child." Quietly Kaleb left the room. He met Sarssen outside, nodded, and watched the warrior stride down the corridor. Taran rose restlessly, moved to the table, hesitated, looked at the cup and took a deep, wavering breath. She downed the contents. She lay quietly on the bed, feeling suddenly calm and slightly disembodied. Kaleb returned. He looked down at her, placed another cup on the table, then carefully laid robes on a chair before he crossed back to the bed. "Can you get up?" he asked. Taran blinked at him and took his hand. "There are robes on the chair for the ceremony, Taran. Dress when you're ready, then drink from this cup on the table." Taran nodded when Kaleb smiled at her and left the room.

Two initiates entered and began carefully to dress Taran in a fabric she was only vaguely aware was very light and felt like finest silk, the robe pulled over her tousled head. She felt a belt go round her waist and fingered long tassels, before she was coaxed into a long, sleeveless over-robe that fell in folds to her feet. She knew bracelets ringed her arms up to the elbows and felt a heavy necklace clasped about her throat, before she was sat and her hair brushed until it fell in glossy waves about slight shoulders. She stayed barefoot. She took the cup and drank, the taste faintly bitter, then the initiates were gone. Kaleb returned to stand silently at the door for long moments. Taran was scarcely recognisable. The woman, who looked unblinkingly back at him, was slenderness clad in garments that draped elegantly about her in shades of palest blue. He recognised the bracelets as Bethel's and the necklace as Sarssen's. Taran looked very, very lovely and quite unlike the docile, modest Level Three of the day before. "Very well indeed, child," said Kaleb, crossing to her. "How do you feel?" "Strange." "Good," murmured Kaleb, satisfied. ~~~ Ensore stood under the tree where he had his first conversation with Taran. They both wished the ceremony to be there. He was flanked by three Adepts as well as the Mishtok, all in full Conclave regalia. Sarssen glanced at Ensore, saw the man's pupils were very dark but the Chamah most relaxed in a gratifying way. They all looked up at the approach of Kaleb who escorted Taran, their expressions varied but unfailingly deeply appreciative at the sight of the woman who walked steadily towards them. Ensore's expression was incredulous with sheer delight and pride as his eyes went from the soft, wavy hair, to the jewellery and to the robe-clad body. His pulse quickened. When Taran reached him and looked up at him, her eyes responded to the emotion in his. For a Chamah who fought stifling protocol all his life, the ceremony was a joy because it was simple, short, powerful and appropriate and Bethel sang what he wrote for the occasion. Immediately after the formal ceremony the bridal couple took celebratory cups, the contents of which left them oblivious to anyone

around them. Friends waited tactfully until the appropriate moment before they stepped forward as witnesses, then immediately left. Ensore and Taran were alone. It was considerably cooler by the time they ed their friends, the Chamah tired but deeply content and Taran still scarcely recognisable. She crossed to the seated men. "Thank you all," she said gratefully, as she pushed Ensore to his friends, one of whom had two goblets ready for them and gave them to the Chamah. Holding out her hand, Taran spoke again. "I believe these bracelets are yours, Beth, and this, my lord," she added, as she turned to Sarssen, "is your necklace." "They suit you, Taran," grinned Bethel affably, taking the bracelets. "Better you than us, my dear," observed Sarssen, clasping the necklace round his throat. "Do you anything?" asked Kaleb, a lamentable twinkle in his eyes. Both Ensore and Taran shook their heads. "Only, I think we were together after the ceremony," murmured Ensore. "You were." Bethel's grin reprehensibly deepened. "Beth!" rebuked Sarssen, with an irrepressible chuckle. "The Curule?" asked Ensore, ruefully. Kaleb shook his head. "No need to worry about that aspect at all, dear friend. Sar would wish to be here, but since he isn't, we know his thoughts and heart will be," he commented. "And he'd approve of the way all was done, too." "Kalor won't let me forget this," muttered Ensore, fully and sheepishly comprehending the comments, at the same time as he nodded in response to Kaleb's remarks about Sarehl. He responded to raised goblets in a toast.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On an evening when the Chamah and his anointed mate sat silently outside staring at the sky in companionable silence, Charilae arrived with her escort that reported to Sarssen and Bethel. The escort received instructions and left Enouri almost immediately, their only pause being for refreshment and to rest the horses. Charilae was taken to meet Kaleb, the small man coming to her with a welcoming smile. She looked into the gentlest, kindest eyes that warmed her. "You're Charilae, child." "Yes." "And you have talent?" "I think so. Haskar Losaren thinks so, my lord." "I answer to Seignore, Charilae." He took her hand. "Don't be afraid, child. No one here will hurt you." She was firmly guided forward, only glancing back questioningly at Bethel and Sarssen. The latter nodded at her. Bethel just stood still, watching her. "What you need, child, is a hot bath and some food before you should rest after the long journey. Did you enjoy Valshika?" Charilae had found Valshika daunting and the man they called Scholar disconcerting, even though he was kind, attentive and ive. There was something about him that made her instinctively wary. She found Kalbeth offputting at first because she'd not known he was the image of his father. Gamot amused her because he patently fell for her charms. He slavishly rushed to do all he could for her, his puppy-love so serious Autoc was relieved when the order for Charilae's departure came. Charilae thought how well she was treated and indulged. "Yes," she answered, after a long pause. "They cared very well for me." ~~~

Charilae was left in a small chamber, sparsely furnished after the luxury of Valshika, where she bathed, combed out her long tangled curls, then looked for her clothes. Instead, she found an initiate robe made of heavy cloth that fell about her in folds and was deeply hooded. A belt completed the ensemble. She stayed bare-foot. Quietly, she drifted to the small table by the bed where refreshments were neatly set out, but instead of using the chair she sank to the hard mattress and ate and drank there. She became unusually drowsy and felt strangely dizzy. To keep her vision clear she lay back on the cushions. Her next sensations were very mixed. She knew people were about her, but when she tried hazily to sit or climb from the bed firm hands kept her prone. She sensed she was confined to the bed by soft restraints that refused to give. "Lie back, child," came a calm voice. "You are held down so you do not harm yourself." She thought the voice was Sarssen's. When a hand lifted her head and put a cup to her lips she began weakly to cry and tried to toss her head in refusal. A very firm hand tilted her head and her mouth was opened so she had to helplessly swallow. She became queasy. The room rocked. She lay still, unable to make her limbs respond, nor was her mind clear. Slowly and inexorably she felt a mind in hers, the probe like a very fine, honed knife that gently peeled layers of her mind in an ordered way. It wasn't painful. It was just she knew she was powerless and this disabling impotence frightened her to such an extent she cried out and tried to fight in the only way she knew. Her body strained and heaved against the restraints. Voices reassuring her were dim. Then she forgot them. Her past surged through her with sudden, uncontrolled and violent force, as if the knife cut through a flood bank and the force of dammed water tore through the breach. She felt swamped. She was a child crouched against a tree. Hands gripped hers as she screamed in agonised terror and anguish. She watched her mother bleed, break, and finally, die. She saw herself as a child emotionally crippled by the viciously savage loss of a mother and the change in attitude to her on the part of a father. She saw herself repeatedly assaulted by one petty cruelty after another. They were as debilitating and hurtful as the blows inflicted on her by her father when he was angry with

her and took to her with unwarranted violence. When yet another warrior deemed her unsuitable, she went through the thrashing Correc gave her, the girl flung to the floor, skirts torn from her so the whip would cut. It did. The haskar's contempt for her was shown in curled back lips. She saw herself cringe back from a well aimed riding crop or boot that caught her at unexpected moments. Then she saw herself condemned to die for a father's error of judgment, aware of the irony of a daughter, for whom he knew no comion, being sentenced with his wife and family. She thought again how unfair it was that she should be condemned for the actions of a man who came to hate her very existence. She re-lived the first stirrings of talent, terrifying for her because she didn't know what it was that touched her. It was alien. She was beside her dying mother. The face of the one she loved so deeply was battered. All that was recognisable were eyes that stared into her daughter's, while words struggled to be formed and died away on a choked gurgle that heralded death. Power surged through the child with terrible force, unleashed by grief, anger and impotence, but it only showed in a trembling figure that knelt at the side of the pit, hands clenched and eyes dry. Charilae didn't shed tears for cycles. She went utterly inward. She moved forward to the power as it manifested itself, barely controlled rage and despair at her father's callous indifference, cruel jibes and harsh thrashings. She sublimated wayward emotions because, instinctively, she knew to unleash them would see her face as vicious a death as her mother. Increasingly brutalised, the flurries of power came more often, only to be sharply curbed. Since they began to make her physically ill and mentally very distressed, she taught herself to ignore them. In time, with extraordinary control, she succeeded. And at Enouri, held flat while she re-lived all this, she screamed. She felt as if she was heaved about on a wave that threatened to drown her. She panicked because she felt she suffocated. She felt spun about like an ocean pebble. Her eyes opened wide. She howled with such anguish and ion she set the teeth of those close to her on edge. Hands tried to comfort her. Briefly, she was beyond those beside her. Her talent, newly unleashed from cycles of suppression, was out of control. It lashed her mind. "Get more of this down her," commanded a quiet voice that seemed very far

away. Feeling a cup at her mouth, Charilae clawed at the hand. Her hands were taken in a cool grasp. Just as she went to howl again, liquid was tipped smoothly down her throat and the cry turned to a gasp before she coughed, spluttered, then sank back. She calmed. As her hands grasped at air, they were again taken and held in a strong grip that was immensely reassuring. The somersaulting in her mind quietened and Charilae gave a soft sigh. She sensed a hand sponge her face and neck in a way that was cooling. When another cup was pushed at her lips, she drank eagerly without thought, licked her lips, realised the room was stable and heard distinct voices about her. "Rest now, child." Charilae recognised the deep, serene voice, turned her head to it and knew it was the warrior who held her hands. "My lord," she whispered, hoarsely. "Rest," repeated the voice. "Touching talent that has been suppressed through terror and anger can leave the mind battered when it is released. That is what happened to you. That is over. You will come to peace of mind that is quite new and you will learn that talent is not destructive at all. Are you easier now, child?" "Yes." The flecked golden eyes momentarily cleared, and, as they did, Charilae saw how deep the green eyes meeting hers were and how profoundly understanding and comionate. When her eyes blurred again, Sarssen's grip tightened then he released her hands. Furs drawn about her made her feel safe. A hand gently touched her forehead. "My lord," she murmured, drowsily. "Sleep, Charilae. Sleep." ~~~ Charilae didn't look back. Seclusion with other female initiates didn't trouble her

and she contentedly devoted herself to study, conscious no one made her do anything. She was expected to want to learn if she was to stay in Enouri, but no one chivvied or harassed her and she found initiates learned at the pace they chose. Some wanted to learn as quickly as they could, while others savoured the time they had at Enouri and prolonged the experience as long as they reasonably could. Charilae fell between the two. She also decided she was in no hurry to go back to Caciqua. "What about your fostering, Charilae?" asked Kaleb, one morning. He'd seen her make her solitary and meditative way to the Scholaria, the glorious golden eyes big and bright and the mane of chestnut hair shining in the early sun. She made a striking yet restful picture. It made Kaleb smile. This girl was quite different yet it wasn't yet two weeks since her arrival. Charilae turned to the healer with a girlish grin. "Seignore," she replied. "The fostering must wait. Haskar Kher said it takes time, did he not?" "So Sarssen tells me, child, yes." "And news of its completion comes to Valshika. That all takes time. I am happy here, Seignore." "Then that's well and good," remarked Kaleb, with a smile. "Is there anything you want?" Charilae shook her head, then hesitantly asked, "I have not seen Tempkar Sorien, Seignore. Has he left Enouri?" "No, child. He's still here, but is with Adepts most of the time. His healing requires time and depth." "Because of the warlord?" "That's so, Charilae, yes." "I did not know what was done to him until his men spoke of he and the haskar. It makes my experiences insignificant, does it not?" Kaleb took her arm. "No, child, not at all. Beth's life isn't comparable to anyone's but Sarssen's. Your

trials are no less devastating but are completely different. Never think of suffering in those , Charilae. That's an important lesson. You know your formal initiation is with the other first level aspirants, don't you?" "Yes." "You'll be ready tomorrow early-sun?" "Yes, Seignore." ~~~ And Charilae was. She watched the proceedings with interest. She said her Conclave vows as did others. With them, she was led, in silence, to kneel before the Mishtok where each initiate spoke the sacred oaths in the service of the Mishtok. There were nine initiates. What shocked Charilae was to find, when she lifted her head to the Mishtok, resplendent in his robes, that familiar green eyes stared solemnly into hers. That Sarssen was the Mishtok took her breath away. She stuttered the last few words of the final oath, the simple words eluding her and making her stammer over them as though she were still a child. Her knees buckled. Her mind reeled with the knowledge that she must be one of the few Churchik, other than, possibly, the Suldan, who knew that one of their kind, half-bred like herself, was such an exalted personage. As more days ed, golden eyes looked optimistic and unclouded and the queenly head was held high and the step was light. Charilae often saw Sarssen. She thought he looked regal in his robes, but she also saw the face and expression as stern and remote, though she knew he wasn't. She heard him addressed as Monseignore or Reverence, never as Sarssen or Haskar. It was as if he shed that identity here and assumed another. Even Kaleb referred to him as Reverence, and Charilae saw he meant it. It was no lip service. The other Adepts treated the Mishtok likewise. Three weeks after her arrival, she finally saw Bethel. It was some weeks since his initiation. Charilae noticed a significant difference about the young man, a very real sense of rippling but controlled power that enveloped him in a nonthreatening way. Charilae could actually feel it. There was authority about the tall figure, too. The expression was serene and there was clarity in the beautiful eyes. She sensed purpose about him. With a twinge, she thought he had the appearance of a man who finally came through from darkness to light.

~~~ It was the day the Chamah and Taran were to leave Enouri with the bulk of their guard. The guard not travelling with them lounged comfortably, tankards in hand, ribald comments back at those who left for Elibera. That any guard stayed behind followed a conversation between Sarssen and Ensore the night before. "I know, now, from what you've told me, Sarssen, that Kaleb can't travel with us." "Not yet," sighed Sarssen. "There is Conclave business he is involved with that is still unfinished, but I hope it will not be too long. I would like to think Kaleb can head your way when Beth and I also leave Enouri, or very soon after. Will that be too delayed for your comfort, Ens?" "No," responded Ensore, glancing across at Taran who teased a laughing Bethel. "This time I'll have a mate who'll me." "Indeed," chuckled Sarssen, then he became unusually pensive. Ensore looked hard at him. "Sarssen?" he queried, a slight frown in his eyes. "Ens, would you be happy for an escort to remain to later go north with Kaleb?" "Do you mean some of the guards?" "Yes." Sarssen hesitated. "Ens, normally I would happily send men from Valshika, but I feel.." Ensore eyed the warrior with a measure of concern. "Something troubles you, Sarssen. What is it?" "Just an uncomfortable presentiment. I cannot explain it but it makes me want to keep all Beth's and my men close and alert." Ensore pursed his lips. "Taran and I'll be more than safe with a slightly smaller escort, Sarssen. That's not a problem. We'll move very quickly to Elibera and be out of the south in good time. And I'll leave enough men to ensure Kaleb's safety as well. There's more than enough men for both of us."

As Ensore and Taran rode from Enouri, Sarssen's words revolved round in the Chamah's mind. He wouldn't forget them. Nor did he forget the young woman he saw again who rode from Caciqua with them. He saw her just before he left, her head turned to face him and Ensore knew a flash of recognition that ed instantly. ~~~ Bethel and Charilae met again. It was on a path under overhanging trees that obscured the walker's view. They collided, fell back, laughed and greeted each other. "My lord," said Charilae, with a shy little smile. Bethel stared at her. "You look very well, Charilae," he greeted her in response, his gaze frankly iring. She lifted her head. "So do you, my lord. Have you farewelled the Chamah?" "Aye," chuckled Bethel, absently running a hand down his beard. "That mating should set things in a pelter in Elibera. I wish I could be there to see it." "When do you leave, my lord?" "That is down to Sarssen," responded Bethel, with a rueful grin. "When he thinks I've been here long enough." He glanced down at Charilae. "Where are you going, my dear?" he asked conversationally, taking her arm in his. Nothing loath, Charilae went with him. "To meditate, my lord, as I do at this time each day." "Does it help?" asked Bethel interestedly, waiting for the young head to lift so he could glimpse the enchantingly pretty face and extraordinary eyes that reminded him, oddly, of Sarehl's twin son. "Yes, my lord, very much. I am happy here," she added impulsively, her cheeks rather flushed. Bethel studied her then said quietly, "That is how it should be, Charilae. I am happy for you. Do you still ride?" Charilae shook her head. "Why not?"

"I have been learning about other things, my lord," she answered virtuously, a smile in her eyes and a laugh in her voice. Bethel responded to the teasing note. "Then that will have to be remedied, my dear," he laughed. "Would you like to go riding with me daily while I am still here?" Bethel had the answer in the golden eyes. "Oh yes, my lord, very much." "I'll ask Kaleb. I can see no reason why it shouldn't be possible." Bethel came to a halt and was gone. Charilae gave a skip, then decided she'd run, her feet kicking up leaves. When she ed Bethel the next day, she thought he looked more like the young warrior at Caciqua now he was in riding attire and not robed. She responded to the idle chatter, answered with alacrity and was delighted when Bethel suggested they should shake the fidgets from the horses with a good gallop. Her eyes gleaming, she replied by digging her heels into her mount's flanks. Sarssen and Kaleb watched them from a window, both men following the diminishing figures as they thundered from sight. "They make a pretty pair, don't they, Sarssen?" "Aye, Kaleb, they do," agreed Sarssen. "She cares for him, though whether she knows it or no is another matter. It shows in her eyes when she looks at him." Sarssen scratched his beard. "Bethel is not ready to mate," he observed, quietly. "Nor does the thought enter his head. He merely finds Charilae a very charming and pretty companion, one moreover who has developed since he last saw her. She is also very much younger. Beth is twenty-seven cycles. She is barely seventeen cycles." "She's an attractive child." "Most appealing, but not likely to attract Bethel at this stage." "Later?"

"Who knows?" smiled Sarssen. "Would you object?" demanded Kaleb. "Why should I?" asked Sarssen, in plaintive and bewildered tones. "Beth makes his life. He will choose who attracts him in the end, not me." "Now, Sarssen," chided Kaleb, with a sideways look up at the warrior. "You know as well as I do that should a girl be considered ineligible and not meet your stringent criteria, you'd dash her hopes. Tell me I lie." "That, Kaleb," remonstrated Sarssen, with a reluctant chuckle, "is most unfair. It is my duty to protect the boy both from others and himself. I would fail as a brother should I do otherwise." "Oh Sarssen!" reproved Kaleb, on a gurgle of mirth. "Seriously, my friend, would Charilae be ineligible?" "Not at all," came the bland reply. "In fact quite the reverse, though I suspect Evereh has plans for her. But as I said, Beth is not ready and will not be either until he comes to with who he is." "How's he progressing? We see a marked change in him. Setoni finds the lad more open." Sarssen sighed and thought before he spoke. "Lodestok's damage goes so very deep, Kaleb, Beth's experiences so much more recent than mine. I have had time to adjust whereas Beth still lives his experiences. I can be more objective. He has not reached the ability to detach himself yet. I know I touch him but it is seldom I am able to hold him. Until I can hold him steady he will not be able to fully respond to begin complete recovery. We have such a long way to go." "You worry about that lad, don't you?" "Yes," agreed Sarssen, musingly. "You have seen for yourself how unusual the manifestation of his talent is. As I have said, it seems to develop in odd little jumps and surges that are erratic, hard to follow and discipline, and happen as of instinct." "Is that the mage talent?"

"That I cannot answer." "Maybe Autoc can." "That is probably so." "Beth's god-touched like you, Sarssen. Doesn't that help him?" Sarssen's smile deepened, the laughter crinkles at the corner of his eyes pronounced. "Had he not been, my friend, Beth would not be sane today, be assured of that. His inability to cope with transition from one state to another would have taken Beth to the verge and beyond." "I see." Kaleb was thoughtful, then asked tentatively, "And he cares nothing for Charilae?" "Not a whit," responded Sarssen cheerfully, in such a way Kaleb had to laugh. "What else is it you wish to ask me about Charilae?" "Who is she, Sarssen? There's something about her, isn't there?" "Is there?" came the offhand reply. "Yes," answered Kaleb, with determination. "You may try to fob me of by feigning indifference, my friend, but you've gone to considerable lengths to help that girl and I want to know why." "I dislike seeing suffering in others, Kaleb. Is that not sufficient answer for you?" "No," said Kaleb, bluntly. "The gods, man, but you are persistent," exclaimed Sarssen, half-amused and half-rebukingly. "It's how I learn things," explained Kaleb, with a disarming chuckle. "She's no ordinary reprieved slave girl, is she?" Sarssen glanced down, his eyes alight with laughter. "Do you miss anything, my friend?' he enquired. "You ignore even my subtle

rebuffs, do you not?" "You may reprove me all you like, Sarssen, but Charilae isn't what she appears." Kaleb rubbed at his eye. "It's something about her that makes me wonder. Maybe it's the eyes." "Keep going," suggested Sarssen, "and see if you can get there on your own. Follow the eyes." Kaleb frowned. "The eyes," he murmured. "The eyes. What is it about them I should recognise? They're unusual, aren't they?" "Very." The two men stood in companionable silence, Sarssen's expression faintly mocking until he saw Kaleb stop gazing out the window then turn slowly to face him and stare up, eyes wide and disbelieving. "But, Sarssen, it can't be. It's simply not possible. I know the eyes match, but how could he? He had no offspring. No, that's impossible..." Kaleb's voice trailed to silence while his brows knit in a furrow of concentration. Sarssen raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Because the last two chose celibacy, there is no reason to believe all who went before did. In fact, they did not. After all, I am not celibate, am I?" "But he had no child. That's known. Or is it?" "Mating was not considered out of order you know, quite the reverse," observed Sarssen, reflectively. "Perhaps celibacy became a habit? What mattered, and will matter, is that priorities have to be kept in order, that is all. Again, I am no exception." "The gods!" stuttered Kaleb. "This is too fantastic, my friend. I can't believe where this may lead us." He scratched his cheek. "The golden eyes," he muttered. "Of course, they are so very unusual as you say." "I thought so when I first sighted the child, yes," agreed Sarssen, imperturbably. "I should've picked it earlier," Kaleb reprimanded himself.

"True," mocked Sarssen on a chuckle, then he relented when he saw the healer's chagrin. He made an ission. "It did not come to me immediately either. Also, I had an advantage over you, Kaleb, because I had my suspicions confirmed some time since." Kaleb tilted his head back in enquiry. "I wondered when the girl said she was a Dahkilan mix, though the thought that occurs to us both now eluded me then. Agge called Charilae a half-breed of a half-breed, a mongrel in effect, so that set me wondering. Then when Bethel interrogated the girl he sensed her talent at the same moment I did. She was quite clearly Yazd somewhere, but I was confused about her pedigree. There she was, with a Churchik father, a Dahkilan mother and a strong touch of Yazd overlying those. It was an intrigue." Sarssen gave a half-smile. "It did not take long for me to start asking questions. My wonderings were confirmed when she told me who her mother was." Kaleb's eyes widened with anticipation. "Her mother's name was Charasan." The healer looked suitably blank. "My friend," chided the warrior, gently, "you need to spend time in the library of Elibera. It is an enlightening experience. While I was there for the Chamah's consecration, I came across old manuscripts that outlined Eliberan pedigrees and nobility listings. Throughout the histories the name Charasan cropped up quite often, and Charilae is not unknown either. In Dahkilan, Charilae means "line of the blood" - did you not know that?" Puzzled, Kaleb simply shook his head, his expression fascinated. "Charasan," went on the warrior softly, "will mean quite a lot to the Chamah, my friend. Haven't you noticed how Ensore stared at the girl?" "Yes," confessed Kaleb, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "But I have had so much on my mind." "Aye, my friend, I know. Let me explain. Ens stared at Charilae because, Kaleb, golden eyes are rare, unique even to one household. Even her hair matches Ensore's. I think you will find that golden eyes only come down through the royal Dahkilan line. The Chamah may not be a direct descendant in the line of father to son or daughter, but he or she invariably stays within the bounds of the royal lineage." Speechlessly, Kaleb gazed up at the warrior. "Before they hung her, I went into Agge's mind, barely in time I might add. Only minutes later and I would have been cheated of an experience that was one of the least pleasant of my life." He saw Kaleb shiver and knew the healer thought back to his meld with Malekim's henchman. Sarssen put an arm about the stooped shoulders. "Charasan's tragedy was allowing herself to be led to trust Agge, the poor foolish woman desperate to speak of her origins to someone. The gods, but she trusted the wrong woman. Agge was horrified when she learned what Charasan was.

Being unspeakably vicious and ambitious, as well as insanely jealous of Charasan's undeniable beauty, she decided that a mother and daughter of royal Dahkilan descent were a threat. She reasoned, probably with some justification, that if Correc was ever to learn he had a direct link to the line of the Chamah, Agge would be relegated to second wife, Charasan would be reinstated as first wife and Charilae sold off to the very highest and wealthiest bidder her father could find. No slavery for little Charilae, but a jewel of influence to be flaunted and used to the fullest. Agge may even have seen herself as dispensable because by then she had given Correc sons and a daughter, young though they were. Her fears were possibly real. Correc was a cruel, rapacious warrior, Kaleb, as I think you have come to realise and cast in the typical Vaksh/Churchik mould. He was ambitious and totally ruthless. Agge's life would possibly have ended abruptly had she made a fuss. So what did Agge do? She took matters into her own hands. To ensure she had utmost control and Correc remained in ignorance, she had Charasan accused of adultery and executed. She intended to completely reduce Charilae by any means she could, short of having her put to death. Agge preferred the irony of a living death for the royal line of Dahkilah, one of slavery and abuse. It amused her. She encouraged Correc to be cruel to the child. She insisted on her being slave, though Correc refused to have the girl branded, Charilae intended to be a lesser warrior's lowest concubine. You will not know what that means, Kaleb, but you can believe me when I tell you it is a life of degradation and humiliation, prostitution in effect, and not very subtle either." "Dear gods," whispered Kaleb, appalled and sinking into the nearest chair by the window. Sarssen sat, too. "The other thing Agge did, my friend," and here the deep voice sank very low," was to ensure there was an end to the royal line of Dahkilah in the south." Kaleb glanced across at the warrior, the healer's cheeks quite blanched and his hand to his mouth. "Tell me, though I can guess." "Charilae has been steadily poisoned to ensure her sterility. It was Agge's cruel joke on both Correc and the lesser warrior who would have taken a barren concubine." Sarssen watched Kaleb take in a wavering breath. "This way, Agge

made quite sure that her line, through Correc, would inherit the warlord's titles, estates and wealth. Eventually, it was hoped, his leadership as well. You must Correc was the warlord's favourite until Beth and I came along. We wreaked havoc with his and Agge's plans." "This explains the insurrection against you and Beth, doesn't it?" Sarssen nodded. "Correc must have hated you." "Yes, he did," commented Sarssen, reflectively, "but not as much as Agge. Her plans were deep laid and bore fruit until the warlord made us his sons. That set her back, but she was prepared to wait. Our father's death was premature, because it caught her unawares and meant we inherited very quickly. I think there would have been a revolt at some stage, well organised and orchestrated, that would have given Father some very bad-tempered moments, but his death meant those siding with Correc had to act more precipitately than they were prepared for." "Correc would have mounted a challenge to Lodestok?" "In Agge's mind the suggestion was there. And Correc made a comment before we fought together that made me wonder." "But what madness!" exclaimed Kaleb, in disbelief. "The warlord would have cut them to pieces." "Probably," concurred Sarssen, with a trace of ice in his voice, "but not before the Churchik convulsed and ate each other, metaphorically speaking. It is a fear of Kher's, and not a foolish one either. For a time dissent has gone underground, where doubtless it will stay. The head may have been cut off but the trunk and the limbs still writhe." The metaphor wasn't especially appealing, thought the healer with distaste, but applied to the Churchik it was probably apt. "And you and Beth are safe?" "Safe enough at the moment," agreed Sarssen, his eyes warming with sudden amusement. "Churchik politics are fluid like desert politics, Kaleb. One has to keep a step ahead." He saw Kaleb study the carpet square. "It nearly tore Bethel apart to condemn people to death, Kaleb, but with Agge he did us all a favour. The woman was quite evil."

"Where does this leave Charilae?" "I am not sure," confessed Sarssen. "I leave you to find out if the poison given the child has irreparably harmed her, but I think it may have. That is tragedy enough for the girl. On the other hand, she is undoubtedly royal and is now fostered by one of the elite, highest ranked warriors on the warlord's Council. Her position is assured. She is also part Yazd reader/seeker." "Would the Dahkilans let one of royal blood align themselves with a Churchik warrior house?" demanded Kaleb, incredulously. "It seems a contradiction in ." "I think, when the time comes, Charilae will choose for herself," said Sarssen, placidly. "That is a very intelligent girl who finds herself very quickly." "So the Churchik executed both the Chamah and one of his line, and then enslaved and abused another," mused Kaleb. "That won't predispose them favourably in Dahkilan eyes." "No. Ensore must be told I suppose, but first I wanted the child to have a chance to heal. Does she?" "Yes," nodded Kaleb, definitely. "Though she needs longer with us." "She should stay here," suggested Sarssen, "for as long as you deem she needs to. Fostering takes time and I can delay her return to Caciqua indefinitely. I also think the girl should remain in ignorance of who she is until you feel she is ready to know." "I agree," answered Kaleb, quietly. "And Ens?" Sarssen shrugged. "I shall have to speak with him because I am not sure of the ramifications of the Dahkilan royal line, so he will have to enlighten me. Nor am I sure now is the right time for him, as preoccupied as he is. He will be close to home soon, yes?" "It seems so." "He can not delay a return to Elibera for too much longer, however much he may try to prolong the journey."

"You won't write to him about this then?" "I think not," came the reder. "The gods, Kaleb, but I need a drink. Thinking of Agge makes my mouth feel dry." "I'm not surprised," answered Kaleb, rising and crossing to where goblets and wine were neatly set out. He smiled absently, then an impish light glowed in his pale eyes. "You've quietly set things for Charilae in train, haven't you?" Sarssen shook his head. "Yes, you have, my friend, and you're as aware as I am that Evereh will have plans for Correc's pretty daughter!" Kaleb paused, then suddenly laughed. "Think what an excellent mate she'd make for Beth and how that would set the Churchik in an uproar!" ~~~ The two young ones ed their days very pleasantly. Charilae discovered one subtle change in Bethel. When he spoke he was his affable self, still guarded, but when she mentioned the warlord in ing, as she did previously, she saw no shadow cross his face and there was no flinch. There was just a considering expression. All Bethel would be drawn to say was, "Your father was indeed favoured by the warlord, Charilae, so in his eyes we were upstarts and usurpers. We know that, but there was nothing we could do. As you know, slaves do or they simply die. It is also understandable that your father thought so highly of the warlord. They were both Vaksh warriors in a dominant Churchik world." Charilae looked for the familiar disquiet in the velvet eyes, but in its place was patience and resignation. Charilae thought the young warrior looked philosophical, with a touch of Sarssen about him. She was sad, therefore, when Bethel told her he was leaving Enouri to return with Sarssen to Valshika, though he explained he'd be back regularly because it was what was expected of him. He seemed quite happy and spoke with some enthusiasm about being back in Dainstok. Charilae sensed a slight undercurrent of impatience to be gone now travel was mooted. She stifled a sigh and thought her rides came to an end. When she said as much Bethel stared at her, burst out laughing, and said he'd arranged for her horse to stay so she could ride every day. It was a touching thought for her comfort and one she appreciated. Even as she thanked him she thought her rides

would seem lonely indeed without his company, something she'd come to expect and depend on. She farewelled him modestly, took his hand, then quickly withdrew. Sarssen was anxious to return to Valshika. He was quite content for Bethel to return regularly to Enouri because he believed the time there affected the young man in the most positive sense. Sarssen saw the sad light in Charilae's eyes at their leaving, but as he'd not yet decided on the best way to approach Ensore about her identity and the timing was inappropriate, he just farewelled her in his usual way, advised her to enjoy her prolonged stay and assured her she'd be advised of fostering papers when they arrived in Valshika. Sarssen just said to Kaleb that the news of Charilae could wait and Kaleb, thoughtfully considering the pros and cons, was inclined to agree.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Bethel was in high spirits, happy to play the pipes while they rode at a leisurely pace. Looking across at the young profile Sarssen was satisfied, and, whenever Bethel turned his head, the warrior saw laughing eyes and he hoped Bethel's long road to acceptance of self began auspiciously. "You are remarkably chirpy," he observed. Bethel's grin widened. He gestured with one hand to the landscape. "I am, Sarssen, I am. I travel with my brother, have my horse and my music and the whole of Ambros before me. And I go home." Sarssen started to laugh, though the words startled him. "Aye, Beth." "Are you happy, Sarssen?" Sarssen nodded, conscious of bright, quizzing eyes. He was aware, too, that indeed he was contented, especially as Ayesha came south with Shae half a season before while he and Bethel were at Enouri. He thought about her now with yearning. He knew she was at Valshika with Autoc who wrote to tell the warrior of his mate's arrival, but he also picked up from the letter that Ayesha found life in the south very unsettling. Sarssen knew she awaited him anxiously and wondered if she would soon be ready to start the trek home to the Shadowlands, her decision to go north understood. The south disturbed her because it was too alien and restrictive, so she and Sarssen had agreed she'd go north as soon as she and Shae had enough time together with Sarssen in Valshika. Sarssen accepted Shae would go north with his mother where the little boy would spend much of his childhood. The demands that accrued about the warrior were going to make it impossible for him to give time to his son, something he was conscious of, as was Ayesha. Sarssen also had the ability to move about Ambros more easily. Sarssen's answer to Bethel followed a long pause. "Yes, Beth, I believe I am. I have my brother's company, his music, so yes, Beth,

I am." "You miss Ayesha, don't you?" "Yes, I do. We seem to see each other in snatches. I hope our lives will settle now, Beth, so we can establish ourselves more comfortably." "You need time with Shae, too," observed Bethel. "Will he and Ayesha be long in Valshika before they head north?" "I hope so, Beth." "You will get a very big welcome," murmured Bethel. "If Shae recognises his estim," answered Sarssen, ruefully. Bethel eyed him. "I think he'll know his father, Sarssen." There was a long pause. "I wonder," pondered Bethel, twirling the pipes, "where Lute is?" "Back in the desert, Beth. He will have been there a while. I imagine he is now Asoja Black Eyes. You will not find him back in Caciqua for some while." "And Dase is back in Dahkilah." "Until he goes back to the plains to be treated in the same fashion as Lute. Interesting parallel between those brothers of yours." Sarssen saw the tilted head. "There you have identical twins, torn apart and raised so differently they might have been strangers at one stage, yet they sought and found mates who are similar and come from cultures that have an extraordinary amount in common. You know, Beth, I sometimes wonder whether there can be a link somewhere, in the dim distant past, between desert and plains folk. Your brothers have been drawn to follow the same mating path. That intrigues me." "I have vague recollections of them when we were young," mused Bethel. "The overall impression is of their oneness, they thought alike, gestured the same, spoke together, sometimes with the same words, and their expressions were identical. I see that quality back when they are together now, so maybe it was not really lost but just submerged. When they chose to mate, that likeness that is the basis of their personality and twin-ship, simply guided them."

"Quite probably," agreed Sarssen. "Our family has spread around, hasn't it?" "Families do, Beth." "I don't imagine Mam would have foreseen how much." "No, Beth, she would not. Had nothing happened to Ortok you may all have stayed together in one city-state, or at least had it as your home base, but I doubt many families will go back to such cocooned existences again." Bethel was thoughtful for a minute, then spoke with only the faintest touch of difficulty. "Ortok was my dream home, wasn't it?" "Yes," replied Sarssen, very gently. "Samar's different - new people, a new place, a new and different time. There is no Ortok." Sarssen shook his head. "It is there in isolated pockets, Beth. Sarehl can see it. He will develop and mould it in with the new because he has that ability." "So it matters very little where I start my life from, does it?" "You have already started, young one," countered Sarssen. "But it is home I return to now, isn't it?" Sarssen glanced across at the youthful figure astride the magnificent chestnut. "Yes, Beth, it is. Does that worry you?" "No," was the immediate, untroubled answer. "It did, not so long ago." The dark eyes sparkled. "It does not now," Bethel responded, pipes up to his lips. "No," murmured Sarssen in surprise, his eyes rested on the fingers moving over the stops. "I believe it does not, Beth."

He sat back in the saddle to listen to music he'd not heard before, unsure whether Bethel composed it while he rode or whether he'd written it at Enouri. It didn't matter. It was restful and suited the warrior's mood exactly. ~~~ Their days back to Valshika were untroubled. No one came across them, they were happily solitary, unruffled by anxiety or stress, nor was there pressure to make them hurry. Since it was hot, Sarssen didn't want to push the horses too hard. They stopped often. The time idled restfully by. Sarssen kept working with Bethel as he and the Adepts did at Enouri, though he was content to mostly let the Adepts teach the young man. He learned through that experience that Bethel responded most openly to himself where he struggled to do so with others, the unconscious blocks having to be recognised and voluntarily removed before progress could be made. It was instinctive, done by Bethel over cycles to ensure his survival. Not once did he see what he'd done. Sometimes Bethel still blocked Sarssen, but, again, it was unconscious when he mentally turned from the Mishtok in refusal. Then he became aware and responded. And out in the wilderness Sarssen found he failed less often, Bethel finally responding. With the ing days, the warrior was able to go in deeper probes and finally delved down to where he ed Autoc took him, long cycles ago. He saw the actual part of Bethel's essential being that was god-touched, where the energy rippled in the way Sarssen saw it in Jonqi, but this was quite different. He quietly skirted it, unwilling to go where he might unintentionally harm the young warrior. At last he managed to hold Bethel in a prolonged and stable meld, the young man not fighting to withdraw and setting no defensive blocks. He was completely open to Sarssen, accepted what he was told and shown, and responded to the reciprocal opening offered him by the warrior. It was the first time. Yet, despite that, Sarssen wasn't entirely convinced he'd brought Bethel to a full realisation of self. Something nagged uncertainly at the back of the warrior's mind, but every time he tried to pin what bothered him, the concern evaporated in a frustrating way. However, by the time they reached Valshika, Sarssen felt they'd made marked

progress. Bethel's dreamy smile suggested the young mind was elsewhere, probably composing, thought the warrior entertained. If they were seated, Bethel curled up at the warrior's feet as of habit, let his head rest back against the broader chest or knees, and stayed there, unmoving and silent, playing the pipes. ~~~ Kalbeth and Autoc stood outside the city walls awaiting the approaching travellers. Bethel was unsurprised when he heard the young voice in his mind. "Pater, you're coming home at last." Bethel saw Sarssen's raised eyebrow. "Sarssen?" "When did he begin that, Beth?" Bethel quickly responded to Kalbeth, then to Sarssen. "Like father like son," he grinned. "He was doing that before we left to go east, though not as clearly and confidently." Sarssen nodded appreciatively. "I see," he mused pensively. "Is he also reader/seeker, Beth?" Bethel shrugged eloquently. "Only a mage could tell us that!" Both men burst out laughing then rode in silence, the two figures clear in front of them. Within hailing distance, they saw one smaller figure begin to run at speed. The boy covered the ground so fast Bethel had to draw his mount close to Sarssen, throw the warrior his reins and jump from the saddle, arms wide in welcome. He caught Kalbeth and swung him round and round, until the boy was so breathless with laughter and from running he begged to be set down. On the ground he stared up at his father, the big blue eyes full of delight. "It gives the father such joy to see his son, Kal," said Bethel, an arm about the boy's shoulder holding Kalbeth close. Sarssen heard the southern mode of speech that made him smile, especially the boy's instant response. "The son's so happy to be back with his father," he whispered. Bethel's free hand caressed the young cheek.

"And how goes your warrior training, son? Can you swing an adult axe yet?" Kalbeth, his eyes alight, gave an excited skip. "Of course I can, Pater. And Scholar says I learn well. He says you'll be pleased with me." Bethel smiled down into the upturned face and gave the shoulder he held a squeeze. "And your music? You don't neglect that, do you?" The dark curly head was vigorously shaken. "I'd never not play, Pater," Kalbeth answered, seriously. "It was music that kept you alive for me." Bethel had started walking forward as they conversed, but he came to a sudden stop and knelt on the earth so he and Kalbeth were eye to eye. He took the boy's hands in his and spoke gravely. "That pleases me, Kal. I often play for you and what I hope will be your future. Son, I don't much about Sasqua. You'll more of Mater than I do, but the one thing you should about her is that she loved you and you were born of a moment of both ion and love." Bethel hesitated. "I was still barely out of boyhood, Kalbeth, but I know I cared for her and she gave me something very special that meant a great deal to me. Though I didn't know you were born, that doesn't make you any less precious to me. I feel our shared love of music helps bind us as father and son, especially as your mother so enjoyed the music we, too, shared together." "Scholar says music's part of man's essence. He says it can define much about life, especially for you and me in the future," stated Kalbeth, the fine-boned face staring at its replica. "He says music can bring calmness of the spirit." "I guess he's quite right, son. I hope to be alive for you through my music for long cycles. Have you tried composing yet?" The two were walking again as Bethel spoke. "I don't feel ready to do that yet, Pater. Did you at eleven cycles?" "No," laughed Bethel. "No I most certainly did not." He glanced up from his son to see the leisurely figure of Autoc approach. He nearly stopped again at Kalbeth's next words.

"At my age you were taken as the warlord's love slave, weren't you, Pater? And you had no chance to compose because of that?" Bethel stared down into the very beautiful face, with innocent eyes that stared up at his, and knew honesty was the only way to handle this. "Yes," he replied, quietly. "I was taken. It was the most destructive experience of my life." "I know what he did to you," came a gruff little voice. Bethel kept walking, a slight hand held in his. "No," he said, very gently. "No, son, you don't know, nor can you appreciate what happened. Nor will you ever know. It's best you do not, son." "He hurt you very, very badly, Pater, didn't he?" This time Bethel did stop and kneel again. "Yes, son, he did, very, very much. You see I don't lie to you. There were times when I wished to die. In the later cycles, had I known you existed that would've given me hope but I didn't know. I had to suffer mostly alone. It was Uncle Sarssen and people like Jane and Manas who gave me the will to live, nothing else." He paused to look deeply into the blue eyes that so directly met his, quite unflinching. "How much do you know, Kal?" "I heard about you when I first came to Valshika, then I talked with Scholar every time I heard the warriors say something about you, or the boys spoke of you at school or in the dormitory. You can learn a lot by listening, Pater." He saw Bethel's nod, then went on painfully, his cheeks reddening. "I know all about what warriors do with young boys. They said the warlord was the worst." Kalbeth hung his head. "Scholar made me talk about this, Pater," he whispered. "Go on, son," said Bethel calmly, aware Autoc had reached Sarssen and amiably greeted him. "In school, boys talk all the time about things. They told me I'd be taken and taught at eleven cycles, Pater, so I's anxious when we came south again. Scholar told me I mustn't fear what happened to you will happen to me." "Quite right, son. It won't."

"I was afraid, you see," confessed Kalbeth, "because the boys told me things hurt until you got used to it, then it wasn't so bad. Most even said they enjoyed becoming adults. They often spoke in a lot of detail, Pater." Bethel put his hand under the young chin to gently lift the young head. "And?" "I thought a warrior might take me as his slave when we battled over Valshika, to get at you. Everyone says I'm much too pretty to be a boy." "That didn't happen either, Kal." "No," agreed Kalbeth, licking his lips. Bethel saw trouble deep in the blue eyes. "What else, Kalbeth?" "Warriors spoke of the warlord and described what he used to do to boys, as he did to you. They said the boys occasionally died. I shouldn't have listened, but I did. Don't be angry with me, Pater." "I'm not angry with you, Lodrin. But I want to know why you listened." The boy's flush deepened. "I wanted to know what truly happened to my father," he whispered. "I needed to know, because I never understood why you didn't just ride away from the warlord." Bethel drew the smaller figure close. "Did you honestly think it was that easy for me, Kal, or that I could just have done that?" "Yes," answered Kalbeth, his cheeks now very ruddy. "Do you have a clearer understanding now, son?" "Yes, Pater, I think so." Kalbeth spoke with great difficulty. "Scholar tells me the warlord made you suffer so, Pater." Kalbeth swallowed and the voice was very small. "I'm sorry I thought you didn't want to come home to us. I know better now. I'm sorry, too, that Sire hurt you so badly. I was a bit afraid of him, yet you said he was very kind to me and spoiled me and I quite liked being with him." Kalbeth gave a shiver. "I do understand, Pater."

"Then we have come another step together, Kal, haven't we?" Kalbeth nodded and Bethel stiffly stood, regarding his son. "I'm home with you now, son, and no one will take you from me. Nor would I allow any to touch you. You can believe that." Kalbeth looked up into a face that told him Bethel meant what he said. Autoc and Sarssen reached them, the warrior leading both horses, the men still talking when they reached father and son. Kalbeth went into the southern stance and greeting of Churchik child to senior warrior, while the mage casually looked directly at Bethel, read the purple eyes and smiled at what he gained from that. Bethel saw the long arms open wide and allowed himself to be fondly clasped. "Scholar," he murmured. "Our gentle Bethel," answered the mage. The deep serene voice washed over Bethel like a caressing wave. "Lad, you're coming to with yourself, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes." "Sarssen makes me see," came the honest reply. "Does it frighten you, lad?" "Sometimes," responded Bethel, frankly. "But not as much as it did. I see a path I can follow where once I saw no direction at all." "Healing takes time, Beth, for all of us. I want to have time with you again." "Aye, Scholar." "And are you an initiated Adept of the Conclave?" Bethel nodded. "Yes, Scholar, I am." "Excellent," beamed Autoc, cheerfully. He turned twinkling eyes on Sarssen. "I'm pleased that's done." "It was your will, mage. I believe it has done Bethel nothing but good." "But of course." "And have you entertained yourself pleasantly in our absence?" Sarssen

enquired, in a lazy drawl. "Yes, very tolerably amused," responded Autoc, easily. "I've enjoyed Ayesha's company very much, and little Shae. And you can explain the presence of the young Dahkilan woman to me, can't you? I'm curious to know what motivates your actions in that direction." "I do not doubt that," murmured Sarssen. He glanced down at Kalbeth. "Beth, you and the boy should walk ahead. That way the mage can ride Brun." Bethel swung round, smiled at Autoc, shrugged affably, and, with an arm about Kalbeth began to walk briskly ahead. The mage mounted Brun, brought the fidgety horse under control, steadied him, then turned his attention to the two figures in front of them. "How goes Bethel since his induction at the Conclave?" "Adept training certainly helps him, mage. Since he is used to rigid discipline the constraints of such pose no problems for him and he is remarkably quick to adapt. His has always been a malleable disposition. If nothing else, Autoc, Beth is a highly motivated and self-disciplined young man." "And your work with him?" In depth, Sarssen quietly explained what he'd tried to do and how successful he felt he'd been. Autoc listened without interruption. There was a frown in his eyes. "You still sense a final block somewhere. Is that what you're saying?" "It is what I sense, mage. I wonder if it is beyond my ability to touch." "Maybe," pondered the mage, a hand at his beard. "You don't know exactly what it is, do you?" Sarssen shrugged eloquently. "I believe it is Lodestok, mage. It is, perhaps, Beth's first terrifying and devastating hours. It was when everything he was as an individual child, disappeared under a brutal and painful assault. He was made to see that the Samar boy would no longer exist. A Samar slave took the child's place. It is possibly that moment of abnormal subjugation we spoke of before." "And you sense this will hold him back from recovery?"

"If it is what I suspect, mage, I think you will find Beth will struggle in the long term." "Superficially healed, but the depth of rot deep within will eat away at the very essence of the young man?" "Yes." "And his ability to partially close down, for want of a better description? Is it purely in a spiritual sense?" "No, mage, I think not. Beth's responses are pure instinct and the result of an unrecognised defence. It comes about when he yields to it because he can no longer contemplate the alternative." Autoc was pensive, then said briskly as they neared the gates where two figures awaited them, "I'll touch him, Sarssen, to see if I can find what holds him back. Then we can work on it. I just hope I don't cause more harm than good, because this is exceptionally deep and must be a profound subconscious rejection." Autoc paused. "He's still far advanced from when I last saw him, my young friend. You've worked miracles." "Beth truly comes alive, mage, as you hoped he would after so long in the shadows. Beth stands fully in the sun for the first time since he was a child." "Very apt," murmured Autoc. ~~~ Sarssen found the demands on his time at Valshika as onerous as ever. That, coupled with the demands of a young son and a mate he wished to spend time with, kept him busy. His and Bethel's inheritance had to be dealt with, too, especially since his return from the north gave him little opportunity to properly reorganise city-states, evaluate lands and decide what needed to be done with some estates untouched for cycles. Nor had he been given a chance to exactly assess his and Bethel's actual wealth. During the warlord's life, all Sarssen did was carry out istration.

Now he needed to spend considerable time sorting out what he wanted from the inheritance. Already Rupon gathered Sarssen would be a quite different master with emphases placed on quite different things. He sighed. Now, with Bethel beside him and his son perched up in front of him, Sarssen began making regular circuits of the city-states and various holdings, the warriors making themselves available to the people in a way Lodestok never did. It made hospodars they met reel under regular orders that were to be instantly obeyed. The new Saratquan of Valshika applied many of the lessons he learned from Ensore, Kaleb and Sarehl, whilst in Samar. It led to a more efficient streamlined istration, orders carried out quickly where once they took weeks, often longer, and institutions and attitudes that prevailed in Valshika showed subtle but definite signs of change. The slave traders, already wary of Dainstok and Thorik, became nervous as they sensed the winds of change coming to Valshika. Slavery wasn't outlawed, but it was socially distasteful in the palace of Valshika. Nor were traders welcome there as they were in the past. Bethel's lessons in statecraft began. They were as rigorous as those Daxel confronted in Elibera, the young man often leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh, his eyes fixed yearningly to the window. Sarssen knew Bethel longed to be outside or back in Dainstok, but the older man said nothing, merely ing more documents across the broad table with the curt injunction that they were to be carefully perused, assessed and commented on. While Bethel was thus occupied, Sarssen enjoyed time with Ayesha. Sarssen granted Bethel frequent reprieves. These times saw them gallop freely, or Bethel swim, fish with Kalbeth, hunt with the Awd and his birds, or simply walk the magnificent and extensive gardens where he spent so much time with Lodestok. Here, Bethel rested back, pipes to his lips, eyes closed as he let time slowly ebb by. Sarssen noticed Bethel's distress about the city was gone. So was the haunting memory of their father. The warrior rejoiced. He noticed that whenever Bethel went to Lodestok's tomb, something he did frequently in the first days but less and less as days ed, the young warrior returned to the palace sombre-eyed, but the expression lifted quickly. Sarssen knew he had huge tasks ahead of him once Ayesha went north again. Not the least was the unravelling of the domestic shambles in city-states, other than Valshika, that Lodestok bled but essentially ignored. He had building up of the Conclave with the responsibilities the title of Mishtok entailed as well.

He tried to give time to Shae, too, as well as Ayesha, the little fellow a child who responded to Autoc, was sturdy and still the image of his father. He had a very strong will, too, and wouldn't hesitate to challenge his father, this latter trait leading to stern interludes that amused Ayesha as her eyes went from father to son. Sarssen wasn't a typical Churchik father but neither was he tolerant of defiance or disobedience. "I confess, mage," he itted ruefully to Autoc one evening, after Shae was swept off to bed, "Shae shows the signs of a child who sees too little of his father." "True," agreed Autoc with a twinkle, pipe to his mouth. "Does he disobey you so freely?" "No," laughed the mage. "He knows tomorrow's lessons may be harder if he does." Sarssen ran a hand through his hair. "Why does he challenge me?" "He needs to know you, so he tests you to see what you'll accept and what brings retribution." Autoc smiled at Ayesha who twinkled back at him, a goblet to her mouth as she turned her head to again study her mate. "It's also the little boy's way of getting attention from one he eyes with enormous respect. You're a huge fellow after all." Sarssen and Ayesha broke into laughter. "To him I must be," Sarssen agreed. He saw sympathetic understanding in the mage's expression. "What do I do, mage? Advise me." "Send him home with Ayesha, Sarssen. He's been with you long enough for you both to establish a father/son relationship. You're no longer a stranger to your own child. That's why Ayesha came south when she did." The mage raised an eyebrow at Ayesha and got a nod in response. "Shae was old enough to learn to identify with his warrior father, but having done that, he's ready to return to the Shadowlands until he's older. He'll see you regularly from now on, but he'll be where he receives the constant attention and discipline he needs." "And later?" "Isn't the warrior line of Val to continue through your son, and through Beth's?"

asked Autoc, with a quirked eyebrow. Sarssen took a deep breath, stared long at the mage, excused himself and left the room. When Ayesha quickly placed her goblet on the table and followed him, Autoc smiled serenely and went back to his book. Ayesha and Sarssen talked, and even amicably argued, late into the night, Sarssen finally agreeing with Ayesha as he held her strongly, his lips to her hair. Their discussion saw Ayesha's Samar escort depart Valshika the next day, a small Valshikan detachment going with them through Churchik land before the contingent returned south. Two weeks later, Rupon was astonished to receive the order that saw Ayesha's and Shae's belongings packed in haste for an unexpected and imminent departure. The last order Rupon got was one that puzzled him, but, as usual, he made no comment. "See my horse saddled, Rupon, if you will, also one for the Saratquanta and Tempkar Sorien. I will take the boy to those who will escort him north. They do not come to the city. We must go to them." Rupon thought that an odd start, but he was also aware there was considerable awe and debate about the Shadowlanders. He wasn't surprised, from all he'd heard, that if that was who awaited the Saratquanta, they might refuse to enter a Churchik city, but he also wondered why the large Samar contingent had left weeks earlier. Sarssen's voice interrupted his musings. "You will also have a large fur ready for my son." Rupon's eyebrows shot up but he merely bowed and effaced himself. ~~~ Once more Ayesha and Sarssen walked contentedly in Lodestok's gardens, the big man with a hand about the smaller woman's shoulders. They discoursed quietly, her auburn head lifting so she could look up at her mate, her expression as tender as his. They spoke long about their daughter who stayed north with Ayesha's family. Sarssen believed, as did Ayesha, that the north was where she'd live, because the warrior felt southern society, such as it was at the present time, wasn't a climate appropriate for a Shadowlander girl. Ayesha didn't argue. She'd seen for herself how hard it was for a boy in the south.

Shae was brought to his father's sura late in the afternoon, the little boy already knowledgeable about southern ways, young as he was. He bowed, then stood with hands clasped behind his back, the little blond head, with the swept back hair, appropriately bent. "Shae," came the deep, calm voice. "Padril," answered Shae, raising his head to see arms held out to him. He rushed across to be enfolded in a crushing embrace, before he was hoisted up so he could look at his father. Sarssen looked down into the pretty face, the green eyes so flawless like his own. The small brow was barely visible under the silky fringe that came to rest against arched eyebrows, and the small quite pointed Shadowlander ears were weighted down with two studs and one set of pendulous ear-rings made of rich gold. They were heavy for such a young head. Sarssen glanced at the ringed fingers and the necklace that was identical to the one Kalbeth wore and never took off. Neither did Shae. Aware the boy hadn't yet been blessed and accepted by the ruling Suldan, Sarssen sighed. He realised he'd have to bring the child south specifically for that to be done. He wondered, at the same moment, if all this jewellery would stay a part of his son, or whether back among the Shadowlanders it'd disappear. He hoped not. He thought it suited the boy. "You know I am taking you back north with Madril, Shae?" The little head nodded. "And you know I am your estim?" Shae nodded again, his head tilting when he was rested in Sarssen's lap. "Padril is proud of his little son, Shae, and loves him very much. Will Shae this?" "Yes, Padril." Shae put a hand to the beard bent over him. "Padril," he whispered, turning in the capacious lap so he could clamber back into Sarssen's arms. "What is it, little fellow?" "Shae love Padril. Shae naughty, but Shae love Padril." "Padril knows that. All children are sometimes naughty, Shae, not just you. And because they are, does not mean they are loved any the less." Sarssen saw a lack of understanding in the young face. "It does not matter that you are naughty, Shae. Padril still loves you very much."

"Shae miss Padril." "I will miss you too, little fellow. But I will see you again, many times. You understand that?" The head nodded vigorously. "And you will wait for me, yes?" "Yes, Padril." "And before we leave, son, have you said goodbye to Beth and Kalbeth?" The head nodded. "And Mishak?" There was another nod. "And Scholar?" Sarssen saw the cloudy look come to the lovely eyes as they misted. Clearly, Shae was very upset at this parting. He nodded, tearfully. "Did he say anything to you, son?" "Yesh," came the faint lisp of lingering babyhood that touched Shae when he was upset. "He says he's with me. How, Padril?" "Inside, little fellow. He is with you inside so, wherever you go, he goes with you." Shae touched his stomach. "Not there, Padril," he replied, sadly. "There, and here," answered Sarssen softly, a gentle hand brushing Shae's forehead and heart. "You cannot see or feel it, but he is there." He turned to pick up a goblet that stood on the table beside him and quietly held it out to his son. "Drink this for me, Shae. It will make your long journey seem very short." Shae eagerly grasped the goblet, tilted it, and trustingly drained it. He keeled over immediately. Sarssen studied the unconscious face. He bent his head to kiss the warm lips, then carefully lifted the child, wrapped a large fur about the limp figure and strode to the door without further ado. He found Rupon awaiting him in the courtyard. His stallion impatiently stamped and snorted, the reins held by a nervous sineig most willing to hand them over to Sarssen after the warrior gestured Rupon forward to take Shae. "Is the boy ill, my lord?" "No," responded Sarssen, placidly. "Scholar says he is drowsy because he did not sleep well last night and was busy being rushed about for his trip north. He merely sleeps at the moment."

Rupon looked down at the limp bundle in his arms and decided not to question any further. Shae was drugged. Anyone could see that, but it wasn't a hospodar's place to query what a Saratquan might do. He went along with the plausible deception. "Yes, my lord," he agreed stolidly, waiting to hand the boy to his father. "What an excellent hospodar you make, Rupon," said Sarssen, appreciatively. Rupon saw the depths of understanding and amusement in green eyes observing him. "Yes, my lord," he smiled, aware again of considerable liking for this man. The smile broadened as the warrior's horse clattered noisily from the courtyard. Bethel and Ayesha met father and son several miles east of the city, where both men dismounted and Bethel looked at the sleeping boy. Ayesha crossed to them where she looked down at Shae, thoughtfully. It was Bethel who commented. "He looks quite knocked out, Sarssen. Is he?" "Completely, Beth. Hold the child for me, will you?" Bethel obliged while Sarssen strode forward. Elbaroth wasn't long answering, nor did Sarssen delay. He assisted Ayesha up the dragon side and along the edge of the spine to a pouch for her first dragon ride. Her grey eyes were wide with apprehension. Sarssen whispered to her just as she sank deeply into the pouch. Then, with Shae clasped in strong arms, he very carefully climbed the dragon side, and navigated spines and scales to clamber along the edge of the ridge to the pouch closest to the dragon's neck, where he and Shae sank from sight. Elbaroth trumpeted and was gone, so fast, Bethel blinked. Ruminatively he walked back to Brun, mounted, gathered the black's reins, also those of Ayesha's mount and quickly turned back for Valshika where he quite deliberately took Sarssen's mount to the farthest stables. There, on a pretence of saying he thought the stallion had a shoe loose, or worse an embedded stone, he said he wanted each shoe checked before he returned in four hours to collect the animal that was to be held there pending his return. Bethel then shot back to his quarters by a circuitous route, unobserved by anyone. He met Kalbeth just released from a spell of training. The boy limped and

looked tired, so Bethel escorted him to his private sura where he plied Kalbeth with food and drink. He didn't speak because clearly the boy was tired. He knew Sarssen monitored the boy's progress every day. Sarssen studied the young one to make sure the child's needs were properly met and development was satisfactory, any changes to his routine having to show they were beneficial. The boy's days were so busy he fell asleep in the dormitory without second thought. Since he was also in a phase of extremely rapid and painful growth Sarssen gave orders that powders were included in his food to ease the discomfort of stretching limbs. He showed obvious Churchik traits in a more solidly constructed physique than Bethel at the same age. Looking down at him, Sarssen kept having sensations of deja vu, sometimes ready to swear he stared down at a boy called Bethel who looked straight back up at him. It was quite disconcerting. The only difference, and it was a striking one, that dispelled the strange sensation, was that these big, lustrous eyes were blue, curious, alert, and invariably sparkling. Then Sarssen felt a wrench deep inside because he couldn't help but think of the inevitable comparison. At this age Bethel was this way, a trusting and very tactile boy who, like Kalbeth, had only known love, tolerance and gentleness, until the Churchik took him. Sarssen would veer away from uncomfortable thoughts. Kalbeth woke early these days, childhood indulgence well behind him, went to school by sunrise, ate at midsun, went to the anzamam for an hour, then was out training until dark with only the brief break such as he now enjoyed with Bethel. The boy was allowed to be with Autoc, before he practised his music, ate with his elders, and finally, yawning prodigiously, was taken off to the dormitory by Mist. One day succeeded another, the routine unvarying, the demands hard. It was out in training that Kalbeth learned about the Churchik side of his heritage and it was hard learned. Instant obedience and submission were things Bethel and Sarssen had taught him and he understood such concepts, but now he learned their function as they applied to aspiring warriorhood. That was subtly different and very threatening. Kalbeth was a mite cowed by the menace associated with warrior training but he wasn't one to knuckle under. The young warrior hierarchy challenged him but he held his place from school and refused to flinch or budge. His status was unquestioned. Since essentially he had Bethel's and Sarehl's gentle qualities, some of the

lessons badly hurt him. Unlike Bethel, he had a father to turn to. Listening to Kalbeth this day, Bethel watched the retreating figure with a thoughtful air. The next morning saw him at the anzamam where he awaited his son. Anyone awake saw a very tall man work steadily with a thin boy, the latter taught more advanced defensive drills and warrior codes. They did meditation together, too. Up very early one morning, because his mind was too active for sleep, Sarssen saw Bethel walk briskly along the corridor, and, curious, he followed, to draw up short at the anzamam where he watched, with a smile, father and son come to grips. These sessions sharpened and toughened Kalbeth. He slowly altered his ranking, self-control enhanced by proper meditation techniques. Sarssen was pleased to observe that Kalbeth was a fulfilled boy who laughed, yawned, responded to gentle teasing, and whose warrior training didn't destroy his gentleness. On the contrary. What it gave the boy was pride and a sense of belonging. When Sarssen overheard him being referred to as the tempkar's Sarat, he saw a definite glow in the blue eyes and a faint flush come to the thin cheeks.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Every month Bethel went briefly back to Dainstok and Enouri. Only the mage and Sarssen knew Bethel went to Enouri, others left to think he'd gone on yet another sortie to one of his city-states. He now regularly called for Dramas. His time at Enouri was mostly spent in the practical application of skills taught him and that he imparted as a teacher to others. Though an Adept, Bethel was the first to it the more he learned the less he knew. He was willing to learn and these days he laughingly acknowledged mistakes in a way his mentors found most endearing. Sometimes he saw Charilae but not always, nor were his visits prolonged, but while he was there, if he saw her, he'd invite her out riding again. He found, after a time, that he looked for her. He discovered that she, too, like himself, had changed. Gone was the still timid girl. In her place was a maturing young woman, self-assured, contemplative, intelligent and highly perceptive with a mind that could, and was, willing to challenge his thinking. That charmed and intrigued Bethel. He learned to respect and like that. She laughed readily, too, and had a strong sense of the ridiculous. She was becoming, Kaleb said mildly to Leon one day, intuitive to a marked degree, but also unusually strong-minded with a very decided will. Leon simply chortled. Another aspect to Charilae was revealed as well. Bethel discovered she was no fool. Freed from fear for herself, she was astute at summing up people and situations, was quick to anticipate, nor did she like dissembling, her strictures on any she suspected entertaining Bethel enormously. Though she bore herself regally and with dignity, Bethel saw the girl behind the woman, especially when she rode hard in an effort to best him in a race. Then her hair tumbled as wildly as his, she laughed so much she gasped for breath in the air that got increasingly colder, and her eyes shone like liquid gold when they caught the light and flashed. When she got off her horse and collapsed in the fallen leaves under the trees, Bethel saw the girl smile up at him. Something inside him was touched and responded. Winter came and went. Spring arrived. Bethel became conscious of not really wanting to leave Enouri, especially if it meant leaving Charilae.

Sarssen sometimes accompanied Bethel to Enouri, on one occasion taking papers for Charilae to sign that gave Kher authority to sanction her fostering. The warrior noticed Charilae signed them absently but without marked enthusiasm and made no mention of a return to either Caciqua or Valshika. She wanted to stay where she was. Sarssen wasn't disposed to argue, his lazy glance from under eyelids summing her up far more accurately and quickly than she might have wished. Sarssen saw changes in both Charilae and Bethel. He said nothing about them until spring was well on Ambros, then, one pleasant afternoon while he and Kaleb enjoyed a ramble through the now well established gardens, he spoke of Charilae. "Charilae has developed into a most interesting young woman with a formidable mind. What level is she fully functioning at, Kaleb?" "Post-Level Two," answered Kaleb, stooping to sniff at a bloom before moving on. "From having no understanding or training she has come quickly to that." "Yes, as you say, she has a marked intellect." "Level Three, Kaleb?" Kaleb pursed his lips. "Setoni believes she should study for it." "And you?" "I don't want to push too far too fast. I prefer they consolidate, especially when they've absorbed so much as fast as Charilae has." "I tend to agree," answered Sarssen, absently. "When does Setoni leave for the Sinhalien?" "Late spring, Sarssen." "I see. And you leave very soon." Kaleb nodded. They walked on round several paths that brought them to an archway through which they could see a shrubbery with seats. They drifted to them. "Beth develops very fast," mused Sarssen. "I always knew he was highly intelligent with an acute mind that couldn't come

into its own while he was so awed by our father. Bethel never bested the warlord in argument and felt intellectually inferior for a long time." Sarssen gave a reminiscent chuckle. "I was exactly the same until I learned how to present an argument or neatly side step-it. Beth just came to that at the time the warlord died, more is the pity. The warlord would have responded with pleasure and alacrity to another son who challenged his thinking. Father had a staggering grasp of concepts, Kaleb, and a mind that absorbed like a sponge. He never forgot either and had near perfect recall of conversations or comments heard cycles before. It was quite frightening at times." "He was extremely intelligent," commented Kaleb, easing himself onto a seat. Sarssen sat too. "Sar itted to iring the man's mind." "However grudging one may be of granting any kinder quality to him, it must be said the warlord's mind was indeed a fine one. He was insatiable to learn." "Did you care for him, Sarssen?" asked Kaleb, greatly daring. He saw a twist to the lips before the warrior spoke. "Of course, Kaleb. He was my father. As such I owed him honour and respect. It is the Churchik way." "And love, Sarssen?" "He loved his sons, Kaleb. Let that suffice." Kaleb tactfully turned to stare to the shrubbery that extended to another walk between bell trees laden with fruit. He glanced at the warrior profile. "The time's finally coming, Sarssen, when Beth will want to mate," he suggested, a hint of impish laughter in his voice. He watched Sarssen's head turn to face him. "Indeed, Kaleb, you may be right." "Do you think you should write to inform the Chamah that he has a relation mated to Beth or shall I tell him when I get there?" "That would be precipitate," suggested the warrior, with an odd little smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"I don't think we need to write at all about anything now I come to think of it," went on Kaleb, with an answering grin. Sarssen cocked an interrogative eyebrow. "The Chamah's formal bridal ceremony will be in the coming season, won't it?" "I guess so," replied Sarssen. "I doubt he and Taran will manage to beat off the Curule and Cu-Inam over that one, however hard they try." "Even the witnessing insisted on again? Ensore will fight that, my friend." "I am glad I am not in his shoes," responded the warrior, lightly. "You've had your share from all s," commented Kaleb, wryly. "So, thinking of the ceremonies, as I say, there'll be no need to write about Charilae." "True," agreed Sarssen. "Of course, we will all be invited, will we not?" "Aye." Kaleb looked a trifle anxiously at Sarssen. "Will it be safe for you and Beth to leave Valshika, Sarssen?" "You are thinking of our last stay away, are you not?" "Yes." "I think so, Kaleb. I anticipate no immediate or overt threat to be countered. We must have Kher's acceptance to be so long away again, but I do not anticipate a refusal." "And Charilae? Will she go?" "Why not?" mused the warrior, tugging on a fruit just above his head and biting into it. "Will Kher permit her to go?" "Oh, I think so." "What excuse will you make?" "The truth, my friend. What else?"

"But hasn't she just signed fostering papers that hand her into Haskar Evereh's care?" "Yes. She now has Karina status within Churchik society, Kaleb." "I don't think I'll ever understand Churchik thinking," sighed Kaleb, despairingly. "It's so convoluted and complex." "Not like the Mahdians," chuckled Sarssen. "Kaleb, Charilae is now integrated into a society that rejected her as an orphan. She can stand as Correc's daughter again and also as fosterling to the house of Glisk. She has a dowry of sorts, since Beth and I plundered everything we could that was given us so it could be returned in a jewel casket - her lands are forfeit to us but there is nothing we could do about that. As Karina, firstly of a highly respected though dead haskar, and then Karina again of the senior haskar of the line of Glisk, she has freedom of movement, may speak freely, can make decisions because she is beyond the seventeen cycle, just, and is free to travel if she so wishes. She may choose a mate, too, though Evereh's consent will, of course, have to be sought." "If she chooses to mate with Bethel that'll raise some interesting questions then, won't it?" "If it comes about," teased Sarssen. "I shall tell Kher, that after having studied the young woman closely, I believe she has strong Dahkilan connections that it would be kindly to foster so her family may be enlarged in her . Kher will not argue that. He has a strong sense of family. I will then suggest she ride with us from Valshika, later returning with Kher to Caciqua where she can take her place at court." "Will she be happy with that arrangement?" "I hope so," said Sarssen coolly. "It is what will most likely happen." "She's happy here." "True, but she cannot stay here forever, any more than I can. It is not the way her fate draws her, nor Beth for that matter." The men rose, Sarssen taking a last bite from the fruit. "I wonder," he went on, "how the Curule have reacted to the royal line once again mating outside Dahkilah and without their express authority? And to a Yazd no less?"

"A Yazd who stayed in Dahkilah for much of her youth," reminded Kaleb, starting to laugh. "And the gods alone know how they'll cope with the royal line, if Charilae is what you say she is, and she links with the Samar taint." He wheezed fruitily. "It would not please them," observed Sarssen, highly amused. "Too bad," grinned Kaleb. "So," murmured Sarssen nonchalantly, falling into step with Kaleb, "we say nothing until we are all assembled in Elibera once again. That makes sense I suppose, yes." "And Charilae and Beth may never happen, Sarssen." "Maybe," came the cautious reply, before the warrior added curiously. "You never spoke of the poison given the girl. What of it?" "Agge should be pleased," said Kaleb, venomously. "Sterile?" "I'm almost certain of it. Should she and Beth mate, my friend, there'll be no offspring, not unless there's a miracle." "Do you believe in miracles, Kaleb?" The healer turned his up head so he could study the warrior's face. He thought of the cycles they'd endured, then nodded. "Yes," he said quietly. "I hope. And you, Sarssen?" "Dreams and miracles, Kaleb? Of course!" And it was the next day after this discussion that Kaleb left Enouri with the remainder of Ensore's guard for company. They headed for Elibera. ~~~ While Bethel went backwards and forwards to Enouri for short stays and worked hard at learning statecraft so he could ister the entire inheritance if he had to, he continued to spend time with the mage. Autoc talked with him in his own

quiet, unobtrusive way. With Autoc, Bethel was as open as he was as a child. Repeatedly, Autoc probed the young mind and took Bethel with him. But on this day there was a subtle difference. It was the mage who found the deeply locked part of Bethel that couldn't open or let go, the part of Bethel's memory he refused utterly to face or acknowledge existed. And Autoc saw what he'd hoped he'd never have to see again. He looked at a writhing, grovelling boy who gripped furs with clutching fingers, his head face down, as he struggled to fight with everything he had against pain and a grown man's cruel strength. He lost. Autoc then watched the child lifted and flung onto his back. He lay, defenceless, under the eye of a huge warrior who took the boy's wrists in a biting grasp that held the boy prone. The warrior's eyes were alight with an emotion that made the mage quiver. It was more than rapacious. Autoc heard the softly spoken words uttered with menace. "You will submit, totally, to me, boy. Your obedience in thought, body and deed is only to me, no one else. Do you understand?" Cold blue eyes stared down into eyes that held hopeless despair and watered at the pain from gripped wrists. Words were wrung from the boy. "I submit and obey, my lord," Bethel whispered. And it was that moment Autoc knew Bethel couldn't face. It was the instant of the musician's absolute surrender and total yielding in every part of him. The child was barely conscious. But even so, the sublimation of most of what Bethel was, the child of Ortok, was here, locked away at that moment so only the newly enslaved persona that was now Bethel, remained. The mage took in the body that flinched at the slightest touch, a child broken to a new master's will. Only the mind, struggling to use what Chlo taught it, managed to survive completely intact. Autoc thought he'd seldom seen so pitiful a sight, other than Sarehl, and Luton at his worst. He felt deeply ill. He understood why Bethel locked this memory away deeply and securely, confronting such anguish impossible, and he wondered if the young man was even capable of coping with the flood of emotion it would unleash. The mage dithered throughout the onset of spring and still remained uncertain

for weeks about how to deal with such a destructive episode in Bethel's past. Taking the young man back to Lodestok's first violation of an innocent boy profoundly worried Autoc. Finally, and with extreme reluctance, he decided there wasn't an easy way. He recognised that Bethel had to be taken back to acknowledge this time, even though the mage was well aware doing so could destroy much of the progress Bethel had made. Autoc was also conscious that, despite the strength of the godtouching, without truly facing and comprehending what Lodestok had done, Bethel, in the future, couldn't be fulfilled as either a fully healed man called Bethel, or as a mage. Autoc came to a sad recognition that Sarssen was right when he worried bitterness would stay deep in Bethel's subconscious and would ultimately over-ride everything Bethel was taught. With pity, love, and deepest misgiving, the mage took Bethel back to his first night with the warlord and the following few days that so traumatised a child. He had to free the real Bethel, a persona the Ortokian child so profoundly sublimated to ensure survival. Sarssen was warned. He knew the moment Bethel was taken back. The scream echoing in his brain, of sheer terrified anguish mixed with intense, appalling physical pain, made him fling his hands to his head and fall to his knees, the sura where he was rocking about him. Abruptly, he himself was taken back to a pavilion where a huge warrior repeatedly and physically forced him to abject submission, with callous indifference, in the same way. Sarssen was jerked from that memory. He was peremptorily summoned back to the present. The mage struggled to control a mind that nearly tore itself apart. Unable to face what tortured and debased him, Bethel took the only escape he knew, and, again, he did it through pure driving instinct. In indescribable fear and panic he both left himself and began to fade. The mage watched, disbelieving. Sarssen didn't miss the anxiety in the command to an instant mind meld. For the warrior it was overwhelming to find himself swept up as the minor part of such a sudden and powerful mage meld, because Autoc didn't have time to explain details or use the usual finesse. Autoc swept out into the inner aethyr where Bethel fled. The young essence hung uncertainly because Bethel had only traversed the lines once and that was cocooned in a meld with Sarssen to hold Luton. Now he was alone and extremely vulnerable. Uncertain which line to

pursue he teetered and spun round, first one way then another, the blue ribbon twisting into a knot. Autoc/Sarssen sent with some force to touch Bethel. His blue wavered. A faint distorted answer reached them. "No more." "No, little brother, no more I promise you. Come to me, Beth, come to me." There was no response. The ribbon quivered, unravelled, then went into a tighter knot. "Beth," they sent gently. "Beth!" A weak voice responded. "I can't." "Let me come to you, little brother." Autoc snapped the meld, so abruptly Sarssen flinched. "Hurry, Sarssen, hurry! Beth will unravel out here. He doesn't know how to contain himself in the aethyr. He'll come to you as you're an integral part of him. Go!" "I'm lost," came a wavering voice. "Wait for me, Beth." "I wait." Sarssen knew exactly what he had to do. He crossed the lines until he reached the still blue knot, then, as he did cycles ago with Luton, he caught the colour and enveloped the blue with his silver, curling round it and holding it steady. Sarssen eased them back onto a safe line and there he stayed. "Hold to me," he sent, urgently. "I can't." "No, Beth. Stay! Hold to me. I have you, child, I have you. Open yourself to me, Beth, so I can help." "Not again."

"No one will hurt you so again, Beth, I promise you. Have I ever lied to you, little brother?" Sarssen imagined the shake of the dark curly head in answer and knew that, on Ambros, he wept. Every part of him sent an appeal. He knew time ed and Bethel could be lost. He sent desperately, "For me, Beth. I beg of you, for me, for me! Please come back to me! Beth!" As it always did, something inside Bethel responded to Sarssen. Weakly, Bethel fully opened to the warrior who swept in, Autoc with him, as they flooded Bethel with comfort. And then the unexpected happened. Stability in the combined meld fluctuated. Bethel faded. He took the two men with him. On Ambros their bodies became transparent, then firmed, then faded again, in a series of alarming pulses. Rupon stood at the door to the warrior's sura horrified yet fascinated. Hurriedly, he shut the door and mounted guard. He didn't dare re-enter the room. With his eyes closed, he prayed to whatever gods might exist that the Saratquan would survive whatever encounter he experienced, the hospodar now fully convinced of the warrior's Yazd heritage. He shuddered. The triple meld was swept beyond the aethyr. Sarssen was bewildered. Autoc was astonished and marvelled at Bethel's instinctive assertion of talent. Bethel was unthinkingly carried along with the others, his fading more by accident than design. His pattern in the meld lacked strength or definition, a fact that set the mage's senses tingling. The mindlock one moment hung in stasis, then plunged into such frigidity the men back on Ambros shivered. The atmosphere then became stifling, sticky and cloying. Abruptly, the air about them was so poisonous they gagged and choked in their Ambrosian forms. The gases ed to a light drifting mist that surrounded them. It was innocuous, but seemed sentient. Beyond it, but occasionally disappearing behind curling swathes of mist, stood an arch and gates, indistinct and insubstantial, but to the mage's eye they were real enough. Sarssen didn't see anything much. In utter disbelief, Autoc, caught in the meld, could only stare, drawn. He realised the weak calling in teleth was actually Bethel's, the young mind yet

again gone outside itself and beyond he and Sarssen. It was surreal for the mage. In answer, forms coalesced at the arch. Then the figures firmed more deeply, stood, and gestured. It was no longer a welcome. "Go, boy," the meld heard, conscious Bethel was again fully back within them. He struggled very weakly to be free. "It's not time, Bethloriel. You're out of time." Bethel's struggles stopped, the mage and Sarssen aware he pulsed so faintly within them he could die. At that instant, they felt their meld come up against enormous pressure. The meld was dissolved. They were flung back so hard, and with such violent force, both Autoc and Sarssen, on Ambros, howled. The last thing Autoc was aware of was vivid purple eyes that held his for the few seconds the mage was actually conscious at the arch, Autoc only half aware of orangered eyes behind them. Sarssen had no awareness. He and Autoc discovered they hung limply on the brink of the inner void, their grasp of the last line tenuous. Bethel's blue ribbon hung motionless beside them. "Bethel," instructed the mage, his sending sharp. They brought Bethel back. The mage was badly shaken. Sarssen was stunned and almost unconscious. Bethel breathed very shallowly. The mage thrust Sarssen from the meld the moment Bethel was safely back and integrated on Ambros, then began to work in the unconscious mind. Sarssen came to. He staggered to his feet, his brain clouded and woolly. He couldn't think. He stumbled across the room, wrenched open the door and swayed there, unable to go further. He gripped the door frame for long minutes. Rupon looked at the ravaged face and croaked. "My lord? Can I help?" He carefully stood to one side as Sarssen lurched to the left and down the corridor, unaware he was addressed. Sarssen entered the chamber where the session with Bethel began. The warrior softly and entreatingly called Bethel's name as he went down beside where the young man flung himself, arms protectively about his head and the body defensively curled into a tight knot against what he simply couldn't bear to experience again. He was lifted to the mage's bed, then Sarssen sat beside him, Bethel's hand in his.

"Stay with him," curtly instructed the mage. "I'll be back directly. Understand me, warrior, he's alive. Do you understand me?" Unable to verbally respond, Sarssen nodded. Rupon tentatively knocked, but, getting no response he quietly entered, only to draw up short at the tableau. When Sarssen looked up, the hospodar saw emotions in the warrior, that, for the first time in Sarssen's life, ran completely wild. "My lord," Rupon whispered. "I shall get food and wine." Sarssen simply nodded, his eyes unusually alienated and with a look to them that was profoundly frightening. "Anything else, my lord?" persisted Rupon. "Comb for his hair," whispered Sarssen, hoarsely. As he took the comb and began to gently run it through the tangled hair, Autoc returned, goblet in hand. "Lift him," he ordered, nodding at both Rupon and Sarssen. Seeing how the warrior shook, the hospodar was quick to obey and carry most of Bethel's weight. He watched Sarssen clamber fully onto the bed, then Rupon very gently lifted Bethel's limp head so it could rest on Sarssen's chest. Autoc tilted the goblet, the mage quite deliberate when he forced the slack mouth wide open. Swallowing hurriedly, Bethel coughed. Autoc repeated the gesture until the goblet was empty, then he nodded dismissal to Rupon, thanked him, and turned back to the bed to watch Bethel. The big eyes closed, there was a sigh, then Bethel lay calmly as if he'd gone into a heavy sleep. "What did you give him, mage?" asked the warrior, trying to order his thoughts, his voice still husky and faint. He coughed. "Something to make him far too disabled to give a repeat performance," was the decidedly grim response. Autoc put a hand on Bethel's head. "It's Scholar, Bethel. You can hear me, can't you? Respond to me!" Startled eyes opened to stare directly into unyielding, frosty blue ones. "You'll stay with me now, won't you?" Bethel tried to speak but was too shocked. Water spilled down ashen cheeks. Autoc brushed them away, his touch a caress.

"I'm so deeply sorry I hurt you, lad," he whispered. "The barrier's well and truly broken, isn't it?" Bethel blinked. "You nearly let fear and panic destroy you, Beth. Are you easier now?" Bethel's hand in Sarssen's flexed. The mage nodded at Sarssen. Despite his throat feeling oddly constricted, he managed to speak. "Beth, I will let you rest against the cushions now." As he spoke the warrior eased himself from under Bethel. Sarssen felt the intensity of Bethel's gaze and turned his head to look down. The mage knew the exchanged look he saw between the brothers would stay etched in his memory. "Leave us, Sarssen," suggested Autoc. "Only I can help Bethel now. If I need you I'll call. And keep Kalbeth well away. There's no point distressing the child unnecessarily." When Sarssen began to walk away, instinctively he turned back. "I am always with you, Beth. Call me, little brother, and I will be there." At the door Sarssen hesitated, then heard very softly spoken words. "You'll feel him again soon, so be ready to me in holding him, won't you?" Silently, Sarssen nodded. "He must come to with this, my young friend, but I assure you, he'll not go the way he did." And Bethel was taken back to where it all began. Too debilitated and incapacitated by the drug he was helpless and he had no power to challenge an Archmage. With the mage and Sarssen shielding and encouraging him, he surrendered to the memory, his surrendering to them as complete as it was to Lodestok. Even as Autoc was with Bethel, again he sensed the malign touch in the warlord and knew the malevolence was Malekim. He saw how the manipulation was done, Lodestok an unwitting tool. Unresisting, Bethel re-lived the physical and emotional capitulation to his master, not even flinching when the nightmare ed in front of him in all its stark realism. He felt the huge warrior brutally corrupt and shame him, destroy his innocence and trust, and lost to Lodestok's power and cruelty. He saw his world shatter. And he slowly came to an understanding how this defilement left him emotionally crippled and devastated and, finally, comprehended how he sublimated the awful experience in an effort to forget. Then, when he realised how defenceless he was so mentally maimed and fragile, he crumpled, and the

battered mind came to rest. Bethel was unaware of the breaking of the meld because he slipped into sleep that was deep and peaceful. He woke in the early hours of the morning, wanting to fend for himself. The mage gave him a very sweet drink that gave him renewed strength, Autoc encouraging him to drink, just as he did a boy sick in bed in Ortok prescribed vile medicine. The memory of that made Bethel give a smile. He drifted back to sleep. The mage didn't look especially well. Always gaunt and loose-limbed, now he looked scraggy, all skin and bone, and his eyes, usually so urbane and amused, were extremely hard and forbidding. When Sarssen came into the room, woken very late by Rupon who threatened anyone should they cause the Saratquan to be disturbed, the mage looked haggard, his eyes dark-ringed and abnormally steely. Autoc looked up with a weary smile. "He'll be fine." A smile faintly touched green eyes in response. "You look in bad shape yourself, mage. Can Beth be left in my care now?" "Yes." Autoc spoke a trifle thickly and in such a way Sarssen gave him a long appraising look, then the warrior strode across the room to guide the mage to a chair. "You may be mage," said Sarssen, sternly, "but you are also my guest and you will permit me to treat you as one." A reluctant laugh was dragged out of Autoc as he took the goblet Sarssen filled and handed down. He drank from it steadily. "I have taken the liberty of changing your quarters, mage, so Beth can stay here undisturbed. Sineigs will move your belongings later. I have also ordered you a bath, and food and drink. I suggest that after you bathe and dine, you should rest." A glint of amusement shone in the blue eyes. "Thank you, young man. I shall, of course, oblige." Sarssen's gravity relaxed. "You may mock, mage," he grinned. "I found a bath most restful." He wandered over to look down at Bethel. "The damage was deep, was it not?" "Yes. In that you were quite right. It was, as you so correctly said, a canker that

couldn't heal itself. That abnormal sublimation of self was exceptionally and rarely powerful. I've never come across anything like it." "Mage, in the meld, where did we go?" "Go?" asked the mage, with an assumption of surprise. "I am hazy," conceded Sarssen, in a perplexed way, "but I seem to recall we were dragged through the aethyr lines and somewhere beyond where mist veiled things. I cannot properly . I even thought I heard Bethel called by a different name." "I do not recall such," mused Autoc. He stared down into the almost empty goblet. "Are you saying Bethel faded again?" "I was not there to see him," responded Sarssen, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "Rupon said something about my coming and going. He has been most solicitous. Could I, too, have faded as I've seen Bethel do?" "A meld can do that if it's stressful," lied the mage, in a casual tone. "Don't you know that?" Autoc saw the surprised shake of the blond head. He went on calmly, "You may have seen something I missed," he acknowledged, in a baffled way, "but then at the time I was trying to hold both you and Beth in a strong meld. At the edge of the aethyr one can imagine one sees things. Was there anything else?" "Shapes," pondered Sarssen. "I thought I saw shapes. Did you?" Autoc shook his head. "No," he laughed. "Nor did I hear voices or see anything definitive. It was a difficult meld that took you to your limit. That may have been all it was." "Possibly," agreed Sarssen. He gnawed on his beard in a way that showed he wasn't entirely satisfied. He glanced up, caught the mage's eye, went briefly quite limp, his eyes glazed, then he shook his head and the green eyes cleared. Sarssen turned round confused. "Did you ask me something?" he asked, puzzled.

"No," answered the mage, quietly rising and leaving the room. As if aware someone else sat close to him, Bethel opened eyes that still held a trace of bewilderment. "Sarssen." There was no doubting the pleasure in the voice. "Just look at you, foolish boy," Sarssen answered, a break in the quiet voice. "I hoped to the gods I would not see you so again." Sarssen swung round on the bed, pulled covers over them both to keep out the chill, just as Bethel gave a most contented sigh. When Sarssen knew Bethel slept again, he drifted too. That was how Rupon found them when he knocked, then tiptoed into the room. The hospodar surveyed the warrior brothers with an indulgent smile, then quietly set about preparing for food. Since Sarssen was slumped sideways furs had come adrift, so Rupon carefully lifted them back then left the room to get food and drink. When he returned a while later with a heavily laden tray, he didn't approach the bed but instead busied himself placing the assorted dishes on a table he cautiously pulled right next to the bed. He glanced down to the warriors, only to see lazy green eyes watch him, so indolent were they that the hospodar almost gave a yelp of sheer relief. It was the Saratquan he knew who studied him. He bowed very low. "My lord." "Rupon, I thank you for your service, but mostly I thank you for the loyalty and care you have shown. You should know that it raises you beyond mere hospodar in my esteem." Rupon stood erect. "You honour me, my lord." "As you honour rather than simply serve me," returned Sarssen, with a swift smile. "To see you restored to yourself is all I would wish," answered Rupon, fervently. Sarssen heard the immense relief behind the words and his smile broadened.

"An unnerving experience, I grant you," he conceded. He saw Rupon's eyes flicker with disquiet and consternation to the younger man. "He looks wan, Rupon, but he recovers." "That pleases me, my lord. There are many in the palace who have considerable affection for the young tempkar." "Rumour has not spread, has it, Rupon?" "My lord." Sarssen saw the hospodar draw himself very straight, an affronted expression on his face. "I have spoken to no one, nor shall I. The business of the Saratquans concerns themselves, no one else." He paused. "However, my lord, with the inevitable slav-, sineigs, there will be talk of a sick warrior." "True," agreed Sarssen, with a kindly look up at Rupon. "You may let it be known Tempkar Sorien has a most severe and possibly infectious stomach indisposition. Should that suffice?" "Indeed, my lord," Rupon bowed, the glimmer of a smile in the stony eyes. Sarssen took a platter from Rupon and bit into a piece of hot dripping spicy bread. "I am so hungry. This is excellent, Rupon." "I was concerned you had eaten little, my lord. I will send up fresh mulled wine shortly." Rupon effaced himself and was gone. The two men ate companionably, the warrior surprised by how much food Bethel devoured once he woke, before he pushed empty platters to the far side of the table, refilled Bethel's goblet then his own and leaned back against the cushions. By evening Bethel was propped up by cushions, able to converse comfortably, though he chose to rest rather than talk. The eyes, though tired, were quite clear. ~~~ When Kalbeth was allowed in to see his father, he went as pale as Bethel. It took all Sarssen's adroitness to reassure him Bethel was just tired, then, when he suggested Bethel might like to hear music, Kalbeth responded immediately, saying he'd brought a pipe. Rewarded by his father's smile, he quickly clambered

onto the end of the bed and began to play. Bethel watched his son dreamily. In the middle of a piece, Autoc entered. The mage gestured to the boy that he keep playing and walked to the bed with a hand stretched down. He studied the young face as his hand was grasped. Sarssen didn't miss the look in blue eyes that briefly lifted, nor would he forget how shocked and buffeted the mage was. Contemplating Autoc, Sarssen thought the man magically restored. As if he read Sarssen's thoughts, the mage turned to him, the eyes familiarly serene and smiling. Autoc fumbled in his pocket for his pipe, found it, resurrected it, tamped down the existing contents, then lit the pipe and puffed gently. Satisfied, he let himself down into a chair and closed his eyes so he could truly appreciate the music. When he bade Sarssen a good night's rest, he said placidly, "Time will tell whether we've succeeded, but I think we have. What Bethel needs now is rest, company he enjoys and activities that solely give pleasure. Nor too much studying at Enouri, or on state affairs for a while, but, instead, days spent about his lands with you, his son, and his music. He should also go up north to be with his family as well." "Not at Enouri?" "His brain needs rest. Like yours, his has driven him for cycles. You both need to stand back a little. Life is for living, young friend, not for constant service. Enouri has served its purpose for Bethel. It's been re-established and now functions satisfactorily." Autoc paused, then added, "Beth needs time to heal now, just as you do. You re-lived your experience with the warlord, just as Bethel did. I felt your anguish, Sarssen, and I saw as well." The warrior nodded. "Full healing may take cycles. Who knows and does it matter? That it's begun is all that's important." The mage stretched and yawned. "Find the lad a mate, young one." A smile came to green eyes that still looked strained. "I think he may have found one," Sarssen explained, a mite guiltily. Autoc gave a shout of laughter that brought up Kalbeth's head and made Bethel open his eyes. "You never fail to surprise me, young man," he observed, his eyebrows raised in

surprise. "And who might she be?" "Charilae, mage." Autoc whistled. "Charilae? I notice you've not told me of this." "I am not entirely sure," itted Sarssen. "But they do seem to have a deep rapport that augurs well." "Has she not just become a fosterling of the house of Glisk?" "You are singularly well informed," commented Sarssen, startled by the mage's awareness of things Churchik. "Mages have to be," came the dry response. "Isn't she?" "Yes, mage, she is." "Then if Beth's interest takes him there, that'll be all very interesting and stimulating, won't it, especially from both Dahkilan and Churchik points of view. How very amusing!" Baffled by such a cryptic response, Sarssen tilted his head, got a laugh, and another good night. He was left stroking his beard. ~~~ By the end of spring, Bethel had been back to Enouri a few times. Sarssen stayed there several times. And Kalbeth moved into serious warrior training. A boy at nearly twelve cycles was no longer considered a child. From midsun his training was so intense and extremely rigorous, that by evening he was so tired his curly head drooped over either lute or estibe, nor did anyone have the heart to jerk him awake. He was now very tall and with the familial broad shoulders. At this moment he was preoccupied with coming to with his mount, the stallion continuing to challenge the boy. Sarssen watched the child's efforts in some amusement. Since Kalbeth now began warrior training in earnest, the warrior told Bethel it was time the boy was given his stallion. It wasn't a chestnut like Brun, but a magnificent grey with a strong will. Both Bethel and Sarssen thoroughly coached Kalbeth on the handling of a stallion but now, out in open

land, the stallion looked to break for freedom in a way that meant Kalbeth had his hands full. Bethel glanced first at Autoc who smiled affably, then at Sarssen who grinned back, and decided to refuse to notice the horse and young rider. When the grey tried to bolt, Sarssen watched out of the corner of his eye, ready to take immediate action if necessary, but both warriors waited to see if Kalbeth could fight the stallion and win. He did, but Sarssen knew the horse would still try the young rider for a while yet.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Chlorien stood outside the gates of Ostika, drew in a deep breath, then turned her head down to the Gnosti accompanying her. "It's time, Disah. I feel it. I've farewelled Assian." "Where do you go, child?" Calm, violet eyes met perceptive, tawny ones that reminded Chlorien vividly of Jaim. Disah saw composure about the slight figure that none other than the Gnosti had seen. It came, very slowly. Poised balance touched every part of her. Even so, the old Gnosti knew that full acceptance and understanding, which would guide her to new peace, could only come when she finally reached out to touch the one who'd finish the very slow healing process begun in the Shadowlands cycles before. "I think," Chlorien began, a hand up to shade the glare from the rising sun, "I must go to Elibera." "Jaim may be there by now," observed Disah disionately, his gaze out across the landscape bathed in a reddish glow. Chlorien sighed. "The Chamah's celebrations will draw people from all parts of Ambros." "Is that why you go?" Chlorien shook her head. "No," she replied, quietly. "I go because my brothers will be there and I want to be with them. There's so much to tell them and to explain. I need to see them." She added deliberately, "When I choose to face my destiny, Disah, I want those closest to me to know who and what I am and why I follow that destiny. That's important to me." "And to them, too, child," agreed Disah, glancing up at her. "And after Elibera?" "I don't know." Chlorien stared into the distance.

"I think, child, you'll know when the time comes and you'll respond instinctively." "Maybe," responded Chlorien, with a smile down at the Gnosti. She knelt to embrace the small man, got a fierce hug in return, straightened her belt and drew her cloak firmly about her. "Tell the musician we hope to see him here. All your brothers in fact, girl. Tell them that, won't you?" Chlorien nodded. "You've offered me so much," she murmured. "I don't think I can ever repay you." "Nonsense," was the bracing retort. "Go forward with clear vision, an uncluttered mind, and with hope and faith, Chlorien. Believe in yourself. Isn't that what Autoc said to you long cycles ago?" "Yes." "He's exceptionally wise, child. You should heed what he said." "I will now," Chlorien murmured. She pressed Disah's hand to her lips, let it go, gave him a smile and walked slowly away without looking back. Disah didn't wait to see her go. He turned and went through the gates, quietly ordering the guards to close them. Chlorien simply came to a stop and waited for Abylon. ~~~ Kher and Luton walked through palace gardens redolent of heavy scents and fruiting bushes bent low to the ground with provender. "You and Chey can be ready to move north tomorrow, son, and the children will be no problem?" "Yes, Father," answered Luton, absently. "I've learned to order things better. You said you'd teach me and you have. I also have Pic." "He is a blessing, son."

"Yes," agreed Luton, with a half-smile. "You knew well what you were about to let him come with me." "Singular devotion to you, boy, that he es on to your offspring," observed Kher. "It would be an unwise man who threatened them, son." "Aye. He lets Chey feed and cradle the girls, but should she lift a hand to do what he considers work he chivvies her to rest or entertain herself somewhere else. If one child cries he considers it his prime responsibility to deal with it. He even shook his head at me when I went to the cradle." Kher gave a deep laugh. "Be thankful, Lute. As time es you will be increasingly conscious of what an asset the man is." He glanced at his son. "Have you any plans, son?" "No," answered Luton, turning to his father in surprise. "Why do you ask?" "You seem very contented in Caciqua, Shasah." "It's my home, Father. Where else should I be?" "Will you return again to the Keep, Lute?" Luton considered, then nodded. "Yes, Father. The stallions need to be organised for their removal to the steppes and I must get one here for Beth. He reminds me often I promised him one." "And you still intend taking those you brought here north with us?" "What better bride gift for the Chamah than a Lachir stallion, Father?" chuckled Luton. "His prestige will swell enormously among the pompous retinue that make up his court." "And one for Dase." "Of course." "Next time you go to the Keep, Lute, I will go with you." "Drawn by the ancient scripts, Father?" "Indeed, Lute, indeed. Something nags at my mind and tantalises me about the Keep and the secrets it holds, because secrets they are."

"Aye," mused Luton, amused. "Will after Elibera be soon enough for you, Father?" "Aye, boy, as you northerners say," retorted Kher, eying his son thoughtfully. He saw the sudden grin. "And Katakin, Shasah? That is all arranged as befits the steppe lord's daughter?" "Dase wrote me very clear instructions," answered Luton, then he gave way to mirth. "Father, Dase has succumbed to Ongwin's teachings. His letters have the touch of a master who knows how to write explicit directions and that skill can only have come from Ongwin. Dase and I were hopeless students, truly we were." "I thought Dase extremely well taught and informed," commented the warlord, idly inspecting a stunning purple bloom that caught his fancy. He sniffed it, got a good whiff of pollen and abruptly sneezed. "Under duress, Father, under duress." "And my teaching you, son, was it under duress?" Luton laughed, his dark eyes wickedly alight. "But, Father," he protested, "you threatened to beat me if I didn't learn, so what could a dutiful son do but submit to your authority?" "You, boy," Kher informed him with a twinkle, "are getting entirely out of hand. Perhaps I should thrash you just to remind you of your status as my son." "I meekly surrender to your superior strength and wisdom, Father," came the quizzing reply. Luton just grinned at the playful shaking he got before they walked on. ~~~ It became time for a move northwards to Elibera to attend the formal bridal ceremonies of the Chamah and Chamahdan. Festivities and celebrations were well under way so there was no time to waste. Since Jane knew he was to accompany them, Sarssen knew all would be near readiness for departure in Dainstok. The only hitch was Bethel's deep reluctance to again leave an old dog that followed him everywhere and these days slept on the bed curled in hard

against his master. Only Mishak's promise of care made Bethel consider going north. It was Jane's earnest request to Sarssen that made Sarssen reconsider taking the animal such a distance. When he suggested to Bethel they could make some arrangement for carrying Lute in some way and taking Mishak as well to care for him, he was amply rewarded by the appreciative, slow smile. The expression clouded every time Lute was mentioned. Sarssen was sent word by Kher that going north again was entirely acceptable. There would be no anxiety about Valshika because Han would stand in during the Saratquan's absence. Rupon made some sour comment about that under his breath, but fortunately Sarssen didn't hear it. When he discovered that Han would be going between Valshika and Caciqua to assist Emil, the warrior was startled until informed the Suldan, much to everyone's utter astonishment, had been invited to the celebrations as well. Emil would hold Caciqua. Sarssen learned that the High Council was approached, the majority expressing a belief the warlord should accept the invitation, and, surprisingly, Sendak and Efaron were among those most anxious for Kher to go. Esok remained neutral but mostly in tacit . Sendak's enthusiasm made Sarssen uneasy but he couldn't pin what made him that way, nor could he point to any instance where Sendak had been other than a model warrior and commander. Sarssen brushed the uneasiness to one side. Kher and his party would meet up with Sarssen's coming from the west. Sarssen had already sent an escort to Enouri for Charilae who was to be met, outside Dainstok, by Jane, Mishak and Gamot. He, Bethel, Kalbeth and the mage were, briefly, at Thorik before all were to meet up in Valshika to start the trip north. The warrior didn't mention to Bethel that Charilae was going to accompany them - he just hoped it would come as a pleasant surprise. ~~~ Three days out of Thorik, the foursome stopped at their usual time to set camp, Kalbeth taking the horses and caring for them as he was taught. Sarssen and Bethel erected shelter and gathered wood for a fire while Autoc supervised in a lazy and amused fashion, the mage quickly sorting food to be cooked. Then he and Sarssen lounged back, the twosome idly watching Bethel, assisted by Kalbeth, cook the food, something Bethel had chosen to do. He enjoyed it.

Father and son likeness was such it was uncanny. The expressions, gestures and mannerisms were so alike because Kalbeth unconsciously emulated his father. Both older men noticed this, neither spoke of it, but clearly they both thought about it. The mage approvingly saw how close Bethel and Kalbeth became, the two laughing together. Kalbeth watched his father squeeze the juice from a plant, then mix in some powder ground down from another, his eyes wide at the generous amount. Bethel used whatever was to hand and liked food extremely spicy. The first time Kalbeth ate some of his father's food he nearly choked and had to gobble copious quantities of badran to allay the burning in his throat. Over time he got used to it. Sarssen never noticed it because he liked hot food. Bethel was sparing in his use of hot condiments until this evening when he absently added a great deal. He served the stew onto platters, placed highly spiced herbs and roots beside each serving and leaves of hicot that he soaked in oil. It smelled pungent but appetising. Autoc's first mouthful made his eyes water. He spluttered and looked reproachfully at Bethel as he gasped, grabbed his tankard and quickly drank. "Lad," he choked. "What are you doing to us?" "Isn't it to your liking, Scholar?" asked Bethel, innocently. He took a mouthful, then, realising that it was very hot, his eyes became alive with laughter. "I warned you the food could be spicy." He saw Sarssen's grin. The warrior chewed vigorously, quite immune to the spices. "Gods, lad," exclaimed Autoc, mopping his eyes. "What's in this?" He saw Bethel about to describe the contents and raised a hand. "No, don't bother. I'll just eat small portions then drink. Sarssen, have you got a cast-iron throat and stomach that you can sit there imperviously munching?" "Aye," responded Sarssen, lapsing into northern idiom. "I am used to Beth's cooking." "Well!' exclaimed Bethel indignantly, taking another generous mouthful. "This meat has excellent texture and great richness of flavour. It goes well with the badran. What do you think, Lodrin?" Kalbeth's grin went from ear to ear. "I just put in what I was told and then stirred it," he answered, virtuously. His hand going to Kalbeth's head, Sarssen burst out laughing.

"You wriggled out of that one most astutely, did you not, youngster?" he enquired. "Seriously, Kal, do you like it?" "Yes," Kalbeth nodded. "Though I think there's far too much fen." "You're quite right," mused Bethel, tasting the stew again. Autoc ate cautiously, then said cheerfully, "It grows on you once you get used to it, lad," he conceded. "It's actually very good. Jaim would approve." "Over winter in the north I was sent to help with food, Scholar. I watched how food was prepared and often cook as they do. Sometimes Banic allowed me to watch him, too, but not much." "Banic?" The mage tilted his head at Bethel. "Sire's cook," put in Kalbeth. He glanced across at Bethel. "He lets me hang around in the kitchens, Pater, and gives me titbits." "Does he now?" asked Sarssen, entertained. He got another grin from Kalbeth. "Banic thinks you are too slight and need feeding - am I right?" Kalbeth nodded, because his mouth was full. "He felt the same way about you, Beth." "Did he?" asked Bethel astonished, the food at his lips halted. "Well," observed the mage, smacking his lips, "you cook better than I do. Jaim constantly carped and criticised Chlorien, too, because I was the one who taught her, so he simply took over. Very tasty his meals were. Believe me, the man has a genius for cooking." Bethel stared across at the mage thoughtfully. "Where's Chlo, Scholar? I know she went to the Shadowlands, then back to Choja to be with both the desert folk and the Gnosti who travelled with the army going south, but where did she go from there?" "She's also been on Lilium, lad." Autoc saw Bethel's puzzled expression. His own was melancholy. "No, lad, you don't know where it is and it's irrelevant." He was conscious of Sarssen's acute scrutiny but chose to ignore it. "I think you'll find she went, finally, to Ostika."

"Ostika?" "Jaim's home, lad, ?" "Oh aye." Bethel rubbed his eyes, then began to scoop up gravy. "What's she seeking, Scholar, that she wanders Ambros so much?" "Herself and her destiny," said Autoc, very quietly. "Can't she find that within in the way you showed her brothers?" "It seems not," answered the mage, with a twisted smile. "Will she find the answer she seeks, Scholar?" As he spoke, Bethel emptied the container onto Kalbeth's plate, watching the boy dip his bread in the remaining gravy. Kalbeth was never full. "Did you?" responded the mage. His eyes met the purple ones. Bethel didn't blush or stammer, nor did he blink or hesitate. There was quiet assurance and maturity in the eyes. "Once I was able to touch the wellspring within, and had your and Sarssen's help, yes, I did." Bethel ate and swallowed, then added, "I know who and what I am and take pride in that. I've no wish to be anyone else." Sarssen, also dipping bread in the gravy, looked quickly across at the mage, but Autoc was still watching Bethel, a smile in the blue eyes that made them appear as soft and luminous as Bethel's. "And what are you, lad?" "As you know, Scholar, I'm many things. I'm a Samar master musician, the warlord's son, an Adept of the Conclave, a Saratquan, a tempkar and a southern bard master. I'm Ortokian but have also adopted what I wish of the Churchik, though there's much I reject. My skills and talents I now see as blessings rather than curses. I know, deep inside, Scholar, that my life only begins." Sarssen saw the mage's eyes glow with the oddest light, Autoc almost transparent before he became quite solid again. "You're whole, lad, aren't you?" Bethel cocked his head.

"If I understand the meaning of that in entirety, Scholar, then yes, I am. I feel so. No doubts assail me. I feel no conflict." "Ah Bethel, beloved boy," sighed the mage. "At last, child, at last." Autoc drew out his pipe and began indolently to puff on it, watching the spiralling plumes of smoke as he leaned back onto his elbows, his eyes calm, deep and completely unreadable. And that was how he stayed while he watched Bethel and Kalbeth clear away. As they wandered from the fire, Sarssen spoke in a contemplative tone. "When do you leave us, mage?" Autoc turned his head, his inscrutable gaze coming to rest on the warrior. "Always one step ahead, aren't you, Sarssen?" "Maybe," smiled Sarssen, shifting position to be more comfortable. "You think perhaps I've outstayed my welcome, warrior?" When Sarssen shook his head, Autoc saw the startled expression in the green eyes. "No, mage, never that. How could it be? I just thought you had achieved what you came to do." "And what was that?" The mage's blue eyes stared unblinkingly. "To heal Beth and teach Kalbeth." "And what of yourself, young man?" "I have learned, mage. You have taught me, too, and made me face much of who and what I am." "Oh?" came the interrogative question. "How could that be? I'm not conscious of having taught you anything." "Is that not what the best teachers say?" demanded Sarssen, meeting the gaze squarely. He saw a smile curl the mage's lips. "You lead, mage, and you make your student see. I feel, through helping Beth, I have become whole, too."

"Yes, you are," agreed Autoc, serenely. "Kalbeth no longer needs me just now either, all he's learned not to be forgotten. You'll ensure he doesn't, won't you?" Sarssen promptly nodded. "In your own ways you're all whole, though Kal will have moments of doubt he must be helped through. That's the way of the young and he must be constantly reassured about his northern family who are so much a part of that young one as well. That's crucial for his development." "What is the boy's future, mage?" Autoc's smile was now broad. "Now, Sarssen, do you really expect an answer?" Sarssen gave a rumbling chuckle. "It was worth a try, Autoc," he responded, breaking into laughter. Laughing in concert with the warrior the mage went back to his pipe, not speaking further. Since the man's expression showed he'd drifted well away, Sarssen was quite happy to lie back, stare up into a darkening sky and think about nothing in particular. Kalbeth and Bethel returned to the fire to find the two men peacefully resting, the mage leaned back against a scrubby bush that gave his spine and the warrior sprawled out. Autoc looked comfortably at the figures standing just beyond him. He still puffed away merrily on the pipe in a way that suggested the mage was deeply content. He once looked so in Ortok. The blue eyes went from father to son, the expression in them enigmatic. Bethel found the eyes unfathomable and the scholar a paradox, something puzzling about the man that Bethel knew was inextricably bound up with the power that was an indefinable part of being a mage. He simply accepted it without question. "Is your brother asleep, Beth?" asked Autoc, taking the pipe from his mouth. When Bethel swung round to walk over to Sarssen, the mage held out a hand to Kalbeth. Bethel saw the green eyes indolently open and wink at him. "No," Bethel called across to Autoc. "He's wide awake." He curled up next to the warrior and watched Kalbeth do the same next to the mage. As he did with Chlorien, Autoc pulled the boy between his legs, to find he looked down upon a similar dark curly head. Again he felt a tug on his heart as he rested a gentle hand on the young pate.

"You're happy, Kal, aren't you?" Kalbeth squirmed round so he could look up at Autoc. "Aye, Scholar." The face and big eyes were so like Bethel, the mage, as happened with Sarssen, had the oddest sensation he stared down at a child from Ortok with his siblings and mother. Autoc gave himself a mental shake. "And though you'll also be south, Kal, do you think you can now cope with coming and going north to Samar, and I don't just mean being with Sar and the family?" Kalbeth nodded. "Though you know you'll be a warrior, Kal, you're also north-born, those earliest years having shaped you for your future in ways small children can't understand." Kalbeth nodded. The soothing voice rolled on. "Learn all you can from your father, lad, because he, like Uncle Sarssen, is unique. And Sar has so much to show his son, you Kal, as well. So do your uncles." Kalbeth nodded again, his eyes bright. "And your father may mate again, little Kal. Will that distress you too much, child?" The mage stared deeply into shining eyes meeting his and believed the answer he got. "No," answered Kalbeth, slowly and quietly. "You've shown me how much he loves me. And I know, now, how much he deserves to be happy." Kalbeth leaned back on the mage's chest. "And you won't forget what I've taught you, lad, will you? And you'll practise?" "Yes," whispered Kalbeth, snuggling close and enjoying the hold of long, strong arms. "When you're ready, lad, I'll know." "You're leaving me, Scholar, aren't you?" There was a quaver in the young voice that so reminded Autoc of Chlorien he had another moment of disorientation. Again, he had to bring himself sharply to the present. "Yes, lad, as mages have to do." A hand caressed the long curls. "You don't need me, Kal, at the moment. You have your own strength, as well as music to sustain and nourish you." The hug about the boy tightened. "Will I ever see you again, Scholar?" Autoc chuckled and again ruffled the dark

curls affectionately. "You'll never be rid of me, lad." There was a long pause. "Kal, it may not be for a time, but surely you and I'll meet up again, many times." Kalbeth gave a contented sigh. "Then I'll wait for you again, as I did before," he promised. Thinking how long a wait that might be, all the mage could do was look down at the dark head, a particularly unusual light touching his eyes. "Sleep easily, little Kal," he said, softly. He brushed his hand across the young forehead, a slender hand touched his, then Kalbeth slipped sideways, his eyes closing. Autoc carried the boy to the shelter, placed him very carefully on a pallet and pulled furs about the sleeping child even though the night wasn't cold. For long minutes he knelt there, thoughtfully studying the young tranquil face, before he rose and turned to look directly at Sarssen standing at the entrance. The green eyes were as unreadable as the mage's. They could hear Bethel playing the pipes. "You have sent the boy to sleep," said Sarssen, in a practical manner. "Yes, I have." "Is your leaving so soon?" Autoc rubbed his beard in a contemplative way, the man thinking before he replied. "I'll be gone shortly," he agreed, tranquilly. "We shall miss you very much, mage. You've become one of us." A smile came to blue eyes that looked a trifle sad. "Likewise, my young friend. My time among you has helped me in more ways than you can imagine. To see Kal grow and to see Bethel as he now is, as well as yourself, is a cause of deep satisfaction and relief. The day you come to Yarilo, Sarssen, will be a rare treat for me. I'll live in anticipation of it. That's where mages go." Sarssen nodded slowly. "I recall Lute saying something about it but I was never sure. He said the name

Yarilo, connected with mages, was in some of the oldest manuscripts at the Keep. Am I then to be mage?" Autoc gave a surprised start. "Undoubtedly." He smiled benevolently at the warrior. "Continue to secure the Conclave, warrior, and enjoy your mating and the happiness it brings. Watch and enjoy Shae. He has gifts, my young friend. And most of all, Sarssen, enjoy peace of mind." The mage crossed to Sarssen and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Such unusual and expressive eyes that you have, young man," he murmured. "It's rare for so many young ones to be god-touched, Sarssen, rare indeed. Teach Kal as you taught Beth, and be as firm and as kind." Autoc paused, his glance down at Kalbeth highly thoughtful, before he turned and abruptly left the unsel, the warrior at his heels. Relaxed back against a tree again he watched Sarssen. The warrior lounged likewise but remained silent. Autoc spoke again. "Encourage Kal north, as often as it can be because he's a northern child and has adopted siblings there. He's also Sarehl and Kasan's son in all but name as well as Bethel's. Though Beth and Kal learn much of the same, their paths are quite different, the needs of both unlike." Sarssen nodded. "The boy's already in awe of you and respects you, too, nor does he have emotional blocks that hold him back like his father. Enouri may help him or not. If he goes it won't be for long. That's not Kal's future. He may even grow beyond the need to go there." Autoc stretched across to Sarssen and his grip on the warrior's shoulder was gentle, then suddenly tightened as Sarssen felt an upwelling surge of power in the figure next to him. It was all-encoming. "Care for Bethel. He's a uniquely gifted vessel that offers so much to Ambros. Let him fly free, but always keep in mind that it's music that's the source of his vitality and balance. He only thrives within it. Without it, he'll wither and die." The mage paused as he stared beyond Sarssen, a distant look in his eyes. He seemed to bring himself back to where he was, blinked and continued. "Bethel and Kalbeth know the south as home until they move easily between north and south, so keep it that way, Sarssen, because you're their anchor, their stability and the base from which they can grow. Your bond with Bethel goes deep - that won't change. I'll come and go, as mages do, but, very far into the future, when you hear me call from a great distance you'll know why I call, won't you?"

"Yes, mage," said Sarssen, a distinct catch in his throat. "I will know." Hands left his shoulders and the last Sarssen saw of the mage was gentle kindness and affection in the blue eyes. "The gods guide and protect you, Sarssen," was what he heard, before Autoc was abruptly gone. Sarssen was left to stare at the sluggish fire, his mind whirling. He couldn't think clearly and simply sat where he was, knees hunched and his head in his hands. Autoc strode across to Bethel who lay sprawled out on the grass on his stomach in the typical pose, his weight carried on his elbows and pipes up to his mouth, the long sensitive fingers lifting and moving. He glanced up, saw the mage, obligingly put the pipes beside him and rolled onto his side, a hand patting the grass. "It's not damp, Scholar," he said, invitingly. "You won't get wet." Autoc sat, smiled benignly and stretched out his legs in a leisurely way. "Play on, lad. It's a joy to listen to you again. It reminds me so much of all of us in Ortok and the Samar boy now a man." "Me, too," murmured Bethel, with a grin. He curled himself up, cross-legged. He played for a very long time, uninterrupted, swinging from one melody to another in rapid succession. Now standing at the entrance to their shelter, Sarssen looked across to the resting pair, felt he needed more time alone and walked away, Bethel's music floating around him in a way that eased a turbulent mind. Autoc stayed resting and let the music flow and ebb through him, until finally he put out a hand to Bethel's arm. Bethel turned his head and immediately laid the pipes on the ground, licked his lips and relaxed back. "Lad, I want to talk with you." "I'm listening, Scholar." "As I hoped you'd be one day, you're whole and heal, Bethel. But there's something you must . Will you do this for me, child?" There was an

intensity to the purple-eyed stare the mage got in response. "Aye, Scholar, you know I will. I'll promise if you like." "No, lad, that's not necessary. Your word's enough. Beth, what I've told you about your music. It's the centre of what you are, your being if you will, and the absolute pivot of your stability. Never forget that, lad, never." "I do promise you that, Scholar," came the deep, velvety voice. "Let music act as your guide for wherever you want to go or however you want to act, Bethel. It is you. It's a vital part of your very essence. Soon you'll go north to be reunited with loved ones again, but don't feel because you're there you have to make decisions. You don't Beth. Nor should you. Make no plans for the future, lad. Let it evolve about you without the pressure of goals that must be achieved. That's gone. Just always seek to maintain the inner balance and harmony I sense in you now. And, Beth, never make the mistake of looking beyond yourself for it - it's always within." Autoc saw a tear come to dark eyes. "Beth," he said, comfortingly. "Little Beth. There's no cause for sadness, child." "You're leaving, Scholar. To have you with us gives me the sense of peace I I once felt as a child." "Aye, lad, my time here comes to an end as it has to for a while. My time with you's given me such pleasure and eased a very heavy burden I carried for long cycles." He heard Bethel sniff. He saw him rub at his eyes in a way that reminded the mage so vividly of the Ortokian boy hurt by bullies or an unkind comment made at school. He drew the young man very close. "Gentle Bethel," he murmured. "Always a boy without a malicious bone in your body. Nothing's changed that boy from Ortok, lad, nothing, and nothing will. I see the child who came to me and also often ran to meet me. It's an oddity, Beth, but as I look at you, it seems time sometimes slips a gear and goes backwards." Autoc sighed. "Lad, enjoy Kalbeth and take pleasure from his growth and companionship. Shape him in your image, but listen to Sarssen's and Sarehl's advice, because they're wiser than their cycles. The boy has gifts you'll not recognise for long cycles. Just go forward and take life as it comes until we meet again. I'll be back and forth as mages do for a while. As you so aptly put it, youngster, this isn't an ending, but a beginning."

"Will I be mage, Scholar?" The voice was husky and Bethel had to cough to clear his throat. Autoc's hand brushed the dark curls. "Oh yes, lad, you're definitely mage." Autoc thought of Bethel's extraordinary fading and it made him give a small laugh. "There's no doubt of that, lad, none at all." "Like Lute?" "Like and unlike, Beth." "Dramas says I'm very like our greatsire, Scholar. Am I?" "There's so much of a younger Bene about you, Beth, you'd be surprised. Not that I knew the archmage when he was either a boy, a youth, or even a very young man, but often I see him in your eyes and your walk's the same as his when he was younger. The mannerisms aren't so dissimilar either." "Yet I'm like Sar." "Sar's very like the archmage, Beth. Ask Ensore and Kaleb. They saw it." Bethel was quiet then he spoke in a whisper. "When will I see you again, Scholar? I'll miss you." "Time es so quickly on Ambros, Beth, my time here again will come before you know it. I come and go from Yarilo. But one day, into the distant future, when I call you home, Beth, you'll come because you'll know it's time, won't you?" There was tenderness in the face that stared down at the dark head. "Yes." "Dramas tells me you make him very happy, lad, and since dragons and catlins are notorious gossips, neither you nor Sarssen can be completely away from me. Does that comfort you?" When Bethel lifted and turned up his head, Autoc was struck by the expression. It touched his very essence. "I'll come to you, Scholar." Autoc was conscious that, like his siblings, but in a quite different way, this

young one meant as much to him as if Bethel was his son. It must have shown in his expression, because Bethel flung his arms about the mage, before, finally, he fell back. ~~~ Sarssen and Bethel watched the mage walk beyond the small camp, stand tall, powerful and silent. Amril appeared, his landing agile and elegant, his eyes interestedly whirling at the two men beyond him. Both felt the dragon touch and responded. It made the mage turn to them again, wave nonchalantly, then clamber, with enviable and practised ease, into the dragon pouch. Neither man moved as the dragon surged upwards. Bethel felt an arm about his shoulder and leaned gratefully against the older man. "Autoc had to go. As he says, mages do what they must." "Aye," sighed Bethel, tiredly. "Come, boy, let us drink. I know I could do with badran, and why not? We have the evening in front of us, a fire, and your music, so?" "Yes," responded Bethel. "I do not know why I felt melancholy. The parting shook me." "Some partings do that, Beth. Come now." Bethel stared through the deepening gloom at the warrior. "Where's Kal?" he asked, suddenly. "The mage put him to sleep," explained Sarssen, amusement making him chuckle. "Now there, Beth, is a useful skill." He got a playful push for that and the comment, "I think we should get drunk." "What an unnerving thought," teased Sarssen, guiding Bethel back to the fire and feeding it so it crackled busily and flared up. "And if you do get drunk, I refuse to hold you upright in the morning! You have to get to Valshika, !"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Valshika was a hive of activity that was to culminate in a move north that day. In the central courtyard things looked chaotic, so much so Sarssen simply looked on in amusement mixed with despair, the Saratquan well aware they'd never be gone before midsun. Jane stood to one side, sourly observing the disorganised attempts at hurried last minute packing, while Bethel, Kalbeth and Gamot were in a small knot about whom others scurried. Next to them stood Mishak, gripping Lute by the scruff of the neck. So far this morning the dog had managed to create mayhem among the baggage set aside to be packed, his big paws scattering contents in all directions. With his tongue lolling out, he padded everywhere after Bethel and then stood four-square in front of anyone who tried to converse with his master. For comedy, Sarssen thought the present shambles hard to beat. He watched Bethel despairingly haul the huge dog to one side, tell him firmly to sit, then quietly leave him. Obedient as a young dog, Lute clearly felt, as an old dog, he had wants that conflicted with those of his master. Nor could Bethel scold or chastise him. Within minutes of being left, the dog was back at Bethel's side. And Kalbeth couldn't stop laughing. On the other side of the courtyard Mishak turned to see the dog again rush to Bethel, shrugged, and swung back to an escheli to point to the man's feet. He obviously asked where the escheli thought baggage should go and got an even more eloquent shrug than his own. Charilae had carefully organised herself some time earlier and was exactly where she was required for the moment of departure, if it ever came. She sat calmly on a box, her long riding skirt draped to the cobblestones, while she patiently sorted small herbal containers into appropriate lots. Sarssen noticed her golden eyes were deeply appreciative of the disorder about her. She was an oasis of calm in a sea of chaos. As Sarssen stood silently, he became aware Rupon approached, his face resembling pained despair though he tried to hide seething emotions under a mask of seeming indifference. The warrior wasn't fooled. "My lord," offered Rupon courteously, looking up at Sarssen with a very strained

smile. "Speak quite freely, Hospodar," invited Sarssen, cheerfully. Rupon cast a baleful look across the courtyard and set his teeth. "It appears to me we will be lucky to be out of Valshika by midsun." "Your guard is assembled and ready, my lord, and Haskar Han is comfortably settled into the guest quarters you specified were for his use." "Well done, Rupon," answered the warrior, iringly. "What else?" Rupon spoke with a touch of desperation. "My lord, perhaps you and yours could leave the courtyard and return to the blue sura where I have arranged for refreshment to be served." He added pleadingly, "I believe it will be for the best, my lord." Sarssen smiled down at him, a smile of genuine warmth and a knowing look in his eyes. "Getting us out from under foot, Rupon?" he quizzed, gently. Rupon had to smile back, the liking he felt for this warrior, an emotion once unfamiliar, was one he felt very strongly. "Quite so, my lord," he agreed, easily. "I will advise when all is in readiness." He watched Sarssen gather people together, then expertly shepherd them from the courtyard, the warrior nearly hit by a large piece of baggage that fell from a fretting horse. The sura was well set up, comfortable, agreeably warm, and the refreshments were sumptuous and inviting. Bethel flung himself in a chair next to a plate of cakes. The dog was flat out beside him, worn out by his earlier exertions and happily panting, his brown eyes fixed hungrily on the plate. Bethel moved it further back. Kalbeth and Gamot retired to a corner, where they ate with abandon and began to fool around, as boys are wont to do, both too full of energy and excitement to sit still. Jane sat by the window where Mishak quietly served him. Charilae sat a little apart, as was her habit, one hand absently toying with a cake and the other holding a goblet. Sarssen watched Bethel languidly rouse himself and yawn. Bethel gave Lute a stern injunction to stay that was met with a wag of the bushy tail and a resigned head placed on big shaggy paws, before the young warrior strolled in a leisurely way to Charilae, the plate of cakes in his hand. He squatted

down beside her in his friendly way, then lounged back next to her so he could lean back against the arm of the chair and stretch out his long legs. He looked up at her with such a laughing countenance, Sarssen involuntarily glanced at them with a speculative look. Within the hour, Rupon appeared in the sura. Tactfully, he suggested the travellers should prepare themselves to leave. Sarssen was frankly astonished, then laughingly told the hospodar he was a miracle worker. Rupon smiled rather dourly and explained, that without distractions, people worked efficiently and well. Sarssen took the point. The move out from Valshika was smooth thanks to Rupon's efforts and it was with an immense sense of relief that he saw the last rider through the gates. He gave the order for the northern gates to be shut and secured, as were all others. Security in the city would be extremely tight for the duration of the Saratquan's journey to Dahkilah. ~~~ It was a familiar routine for Jane and Mishak, also for Sarssen and Bethel, but was less so for Charilae. The two boys rapidly degenerated into noisy, boisterous youngsters out to enjoy themselves. Sarssen watched them thoughtfully. He was letting them have a considerable degree of rope, but Jane knew, when the rope was jerked taut, the boys would know about it and might even feel the bite of it. He'd not seen Kalbeth so unruly and put it down to Mist's absence. It wasn't doing Kalbeth any good and it certainly wasn't helpful for Gamot. Jane watched the pair one morning as they ran round and round the unsels being disassembled, one boy chasing Lute one way, before the second boy jumped out, yelled and chased the dog the other way. It was wearing and annoying. Bethel continued to be drawn to Charilae. He looked for her when a stop was made in the late afternoon. He often found her with an opened book in her lap or working with herbs. Bethel went down beside her so he could help, the two conversing in low voices or sometimes comfortable to work companionably in silence. Bethel went regularly. Nor was Lute with his master at these times, though Bethel never told Jane where he went or why he wanted Mishak to keep Lute with him. "I'm told very firmly, Sarssen, that the dog's to remain behind," explained Jane one evening, aware the warrior watched two boys fooling. Sarssen brought his

attention to Jane, his sleepy green eyes meeting Jane's laughing ones. "Where does he go, Jane, or do I not need to ask?" Jane nodded towards Charilae's shelter. "He doesn't tell me, my lord, but I'd have to be blind not to notice, wouldn't I?" "Does he now?" mused Sarssen, appreciatively. "Do you approve, my lord?" Sarssen grinned widely and retorted spiritedly, "Would Beth care if I did not?" "Yes," came Jane's immediate and bluntly brusque answer. "Yes, my lord, he would. You'd only have to make the slightest demur and the lad would shy well clear." The grin faded slightly. "I have heard that comment before," Sarssen said a mite testily, then he sighed. "Damn you, Jane, you are quite right. Gods forbid that I would meddle in this." Jane said respectfully, "You've had to interfere, my lord, repeatedly, to ensure that boy's survival, and if you felt you had to do it again you would, without hesitation." "Yes," Sarssen agreed. "I know I would, but there is no need here. He and Charilae have grown together slowly and I sense they give something profound one to the other." "Who is she, my lord?" Jane clicked his teeth. "I've heard talk of her, as have most people I suppose, but I suspect much that's said lacks truth. Gossip has only the barest grains of truth." "True," observed Sarssen, entertained. "What a cynic you are become, Jane." Jane just laughed and shook his head. "Wise Jane," went on Sarssen. "I suspect, my old friend, that she is related to the Chamah. What is certain is that Charilae is royal Dahkilan." Jane looked openly astonished. "But how can this be, Sarssen? She's said to be part Yazd and healer." "Yes, she is partly and distantly Yazd and will possibly attain Level Three status,

Jane, but it seems not to be common knowledge that some northern Yazd mated with Dahkilans many generations ago, very few, but some. All will out in time, you know," he teased, seeing Jane's face. "It comes out now in the golden eyes." "Does she know, my lord?" asked Jane, on a deeply indrawn breath he expelled very slowly. "No." Sarssen looked down meaningfully. "No, Jane, she does not." "Oh aye, I'm dumb, warrior. Does the Chamah know?" Sarssen shook his head. "Beth?" Sarssen shook his head, a devilish light playing in the usually placid eyes. "My lord, what game are you playing?" "None, Jane. The Chamah is preoccupied. And I do not tell Beth for a very sound reason. I want him to mate for affection. Nor do I want any undue pressure brought to bear on him. He is falling naturally in love with Charilae as she is with him. Let things take their course. If Beth thought she was royal he may involuntarily withdraw, so I want them to come to acknowledge and understanding of each other without complications." "Are there any?" asked Jane, bewildered. "Of course. What with Beth has ever been easy?" Jane looked sceptical. "What then, my lord?" "If Charilae is royal, do the Dahkilan claim and keep her among them as is her right under Dahkilan law? Or, as a Conclave Level Two does she stay in Enouri, as she may choose to do as she studies for a higher level? She has expressed that wish to the Adepts, Jane. Or, as Karina under Haskar Evereh's fostering, does she stay in Caciqua and marry to oblige her new foster parents? I cannot believe a haskar, such as Evereh, has no plans for the enlargement of his house through Charilae and her familial connections as the daughter of Correc. She will enhance his influence significantly now, let alone once it is known she is royal Dahkilan. She has signed the papers, Jane. As such she must have their acceptance to marry, and also the warlord's, because he is signatory to the fostering. Nor should you forget that Evereh was a friend of Correc's, not a distant one

either, and he is also allied to the senior of his line, a haskar you may have heard of called Sendak." Jane shook his head. "Neither of them bear Bethel and me any love. Nor will the Chamah bear any love for Evereh, the foster Churchik who was a close friend of the warrior who butchered Charilae's mother and reduced her daughter to slavery. You perceive how complex things might become?" "The gods," said Jane, rather blankly. "She'd be best to mate with Beth and be done with the whole lot." "It would certainly make things easier," murmured Sarssen. "Is that what you're waiting for?" demanded Jane, incredulously. "Now what is this, Jane? Are you accusing me of conniving behind Beth's back?" "No," answered Jane, grimly, "but I'll take a bet you won't sit round and watch Beth get himself in a tangle over the woman he may choose for his mate. You're always one step ahead, my man, and you know it." "Not always," murmured Sarssen, "but we do try." "Would Beth mate, knowing the Churchik protocols that must be undergone? He must be aware Charilae's signed papers?" "True." Sarssen played with his whiskers. "It depends how Beth chooses to mate. He may be all Samar, in which case we won't know until after the event, if you understand me." He saw the knowing look in Jane's eye. "Truly, Jane, I have no idea of the course of events. Bethel will choose and decide." "Will this Evereh you mention settle for that?" "That depends," mused Sarssen. "Jane, all this affords me considerable amusement and entertainment in ways incomprehensible to you." "I still think you engineered this, my lord." Jane got a wounded look. "And don't come the innocent bystander with me either," added Jane, tartly. "What about Kal?" He saw a distant look come to the green eyes. "The boy is so like his father I do not anticipate any problem, especially after he

rather shyly told me he sensed Charilae's affection for Bethel. He also feels a strong affinity with her. You may also notice she already shows unusual fondness for him." "Yes, that's so," agreed Jane. "What do you see in Kalbeth, Sarssen?" Sarssen blinked and turned his head to Jane again. "Jane, I see a boy as beautiful as his father, more spirited than his dreamy and gentle sire, but one who needs the same love and guidance as Bethel." Sarssen hesitated, then went on in a determinedly brisk manner. "If Beth agrees, Jane -." "He will," interrupted Jane, sweetly. Sarssen eyed him. "Perhaps, Jane, perhaps. I believe Kal should be with you and Mishak again, as he was as a child before you became tied up with Dainstok and Thorik. He thrived with you. Gamot is a likeable boy but his freedom makes him hard to handle. He drives Pic to distraction. I also think Mishak is at the stage where he should be seen to take more responsibility - what do you think?" Jane looked speculatively up at the warrior, a slow smile dawning on his face. "What are you asking me, my lord?" he demanded. "It's not entirely about Mishak, is it?" "Not entirely," itted Sarssen, on a sudden grin. "Jane, it is more than time you accepted the title of hospodar -." He broke off and held up an authoritative hand when Jane shook his grizzled head. "No, listen to me, Jane, and let me finish." He saw Jane mutter. "If you would accept that title, it would mean I could give Mishak one as well. It would give him authority over both Kalbeth and Gamot. Would he accept a direct transfer from Beth to Kal?" Jane chewed thoughtfully and thoroughly on his beard. "If he thought it entailed Bethel's gratitude but also meant he could still retain service to him, then yes, I think Mishak would respond. He's always been very fond of Kalbeth." "It would mean Gamot fully entered back in my service for the time being, though he would be taught to understand he would also still be subject to your authority, as well as Mishak's." "And Kal?"

"He and Gamot share quarters in a way that is quite unsatisfactory for both. They spark off each other in an undesirable way. I want Kal back with you as Beth was, but in the boy's case, subject to your discipline and care. As an appointed thalas, Mishak can be fully involved with Kal again and I know Beth will not grudge the youngster a rise in prestige and authority. Your status will give him joy, too, Jane. He has always hated slavery and wanted to reward you." "I don't argue," said Jane, wearily. "Has anyone prevailed against that persuasive tongue of yours, my lord?" "Oh yes," laughed Sarssen, ruefully. "The warlord bested me time and again." "He wouldn't now," growled Jane, in an under-voice. "Jane, Mishak would have the authority to control Kal. Mist disciplined and cared for the boy from the time of his birth and Kal would not act this way if Mist was here and not away in Cartok. Until Mist returns, then it must be Mishak who stands in for him – Mist would hope someone did. Kal needs someone young enough to interest him and participate in what he does, like Mishak, but not one as heedless as Gamot, and he needs to again develop a permanent relationship with other than me and his father, as he did before you left Valshika. This, I think, is very important." Sarssen paused, then added, "Once he had Sarehl and Dase, but they are not close by for him to continue to model himself upon. You cared for him when he first came to Valshika, but then you left, so, in a sense, Kal lost both northern and southern folk with whom he became close other than Mist. He needs those older relationships, too, Jane, and he will need them even more urgently if Beth mates. Will you not do this for me?" Sarssen held out his hand, to find it warmly clasped. Jane answered gruffly. "What exactly would you have me do?" "Sound out Mishak. I shall speak to Beth and say just enough to persuade him, then I ask that you set up Kalbeth with you from today. You and Mishak will be his base of stability all the time we travel and he is also to stay with you in Elibera, so there is continuity in his life. If Mist arrives in Dahkilah on his way south, there will be three people constantly around Kalbeth. Give him some freedom but not enough to encourage him to get into mischief,

keep him occupied and make sure his days are clearly set out for him so he has milestones to strive for and a regular routine he must follow. He needs to be made secure, Jane, something you can do for him as you did when he first came south." "The lad can walk and brush Lute and all," growled Jane, retrieving his hand. "Indeed," grinned Sarssen, amused. "Can I leave this with you, Jane?" ~~~ As usual Bethel was amenable to Sarssen's suggestion, though he wondered how Mishak might react, those doubts set aside when Mishak arrived and asked to be private with the tempkar. Bethel raised eyebrows at Sarssen, but ushered Mishak into the seclusion of his shelter. The warrior watched them disappear with a frown. "My lord," began Mishak, blushing. "You honour me by this title, but I choose to serve you, not for reward." "I am well aware of that, Thalas," said Bethel deliberately, seeing the tide of colour sweep across the young face. "I couldn't be more delighted to be able to show my absolute trust in you, Mishak. It's one way I can express my affection and respect." "I remain to serve you, my lord." Mishak gave a deep bow. "I shall care for your son as though he was you. I also trust Mist." "Aye, we all do. He's badly missed. I'm sorry Mist had to return to Cartok just before we left to come north, but he will, we hope, possibly be in Elibera before us, so he can take over Kal's care to relieve you in part. His position is unique and so is yours. You may have noticed that without Mist, Kal has been rather difficult because he kicks up his heels. I guess your first task is to apply a damper to over-enthusiastic spirits." "My lord?" Mishak tilted his head. "I am saying, Thalas, that you may use whatever methods are required to bring my son back to an understanding of his place and responsibilities, both as a northern boy and as a Churchik youth. I hope the voice will be sufficient

inducement to make Kalbeth come to order." "I understand you, my lord." "I am sure you do," smiled Bethel, reflectively rubbing his nose. "Mist would expect you to stand in for him, wouldn't he?" "Probably, my lord," agreed Mishak, leaving the shelter with a smile. ~~~ They were well northeast when they spied a camp set in a valley below them, the riders coming upon it quite suddenly. It was apparent it was Kher's camp. This spurred the riders to hasten their arrival even though it was barely late afternoon. The camp looked comfortable and somnolent, but at the sound of distant hooves warriors appeared from nowhere, ringed the camp and set themselves up defensively until they heard Sarssen's voice boom across the entrance to the valley. "It is Haskar Losaren from Valshika. We send our respects to the Suldan. Is that you, Haskar Emanu?" "It is," boomed out another voice. The encircling warriors went from offensive positions to relaxed ones of welcome, swords sheathed and axes rested on the ground. "You are in good time, Losaren. The Suldan will be pleased to know of your arrival." The small cavalcade made its ponderous way down the valley until they were close to the camp, where they were met by warriors who came forward with smiles and casual comments that set those about them at their ease. It took only a short time for an additional camp to be set. Luton advanced on the party with delight. His greeting of Sarssen was warm, and affectionately brotherly of Bethel, before he escorted Charilae off to Chey. He glanced down with interest at Charilae as she sat next to Chey, because he thought she looked so very different from the girl in the eligh. He thought, musingly, that she was graceful, assured and remarkably lovely, then, when he saw Bethel look across at her he became even more pensive. He ambled across the camp to grin affably at Jane in greeting and carelessly approached Mishak. The young Thalas responded suitably.

It was nightfall before a meal was ready, the two camps fully integrated, and family gathered about the large blazing fire that Luton kept enhancing with the click of the fingers. Kher ed those about the fire as was his habit, nodding at those he ed to get close to it. Warriors, Sarssen and Bethel included, rose and backed at his arrival. "Be seated," he said, calmly. He glanced across at Sarssen. "You seem settled enough," he observed. "I think so," answered Sarssen, taking a mouthful and savouring it. "You understand we await a party from the steppes?" "Yes, my lord. Lute wrote to us to explain the situation." "Did he?" murmured the warlord, amused. "Then his time as an ambassador and under my tutelage was not entirely wasted, was it?" "No," Sarssen laughed, shaking his head. "No, his hand is very fair and he gets his message across in a minimum of words." "Apparently reluctant youthful scholars, both boys," said Kher, taking a plate from Gamot. "Is Katakin with child, as is the fashion in the desert?" Sarssen lifted a startled head. "I have no idea, my lord," he replied. He watched Pic hoist first one infant into his lap, then another and added in jest, "I think Pic has his hands full with the little ones, my lord, without the addition of yet another." "They give him as much pleasure as work, while I, as greatsire, can simply enjoy them," observed Kher, on a rare smile. "It is the ideal perhaps." "They seem very placid children, my lord, and Chey appears to be well and happy among us." "She has adjusted easily," said Kher, considering between mouthfuls. "Lute was concerned she might be lonely for her home and family, but I see no trace of it. Do you?" "No, my lord, I do not. She has the air of a fulfilled and contented young

woman. With a mate such as Shasah it would be odd if she were not." "That is so," agreed Kher, chewing reflectively. "She has made no mention of wishing to return to the desert, even with the children, something I thought she might want. They, too, have to be inducted into the tribe, so will have to be taken there at some stage." Kher turned his head to study Charilae. "How goes the girl, Sarssen? She looks a woman at ease with herself and has a pronounced air of dignity and confidence that is pleasing. She is a most lovely young woman." "She settled well in the west, my lord," answered Sarssen, very carefully not alluding to Enouri. "She has developed poise and seems to know what she wants from life." "Let us hope it accords with the wishes of her foster-parents then," said Kher, swallowing and drinking from his tankard. "And Bethel, Sarssen? I notice a distinct change in that young man, if we are to speak of assurance and selfawareness. What has wrought such a significant change in him?" Sarssen was ready for the question that was answered quickly and without hesitation. "He has spent much time with the mage, my lord." "What mage?" asked Kher, raising an eyebrow. "The one who came to Dase in Caciqua, my lord. He also came to Beth with whom he spent time. It seems to have helped a great deal." "The mage called Autoc?" Sarssen nodded. "He seems to be going the rounds of the brothers, does he not?" Sarssen gave a sudden chuckle. "It almost seems so," he acquiesced. "He was with Sarehl in Samar, then south with Dase and Beth, so I wonder when he will appear to see Lute." "Did he accompany you on any part of your journey from Valshika?" "No," answered Sarssen. "He was well gone before then." "And I see Lodrin has sprouted again. He grows more and more like his father every day. Where is your son Shae?" Sarssen had waited for that question. "I would have brought him for your blessing, my lord, but the child is still very

young and would fret for his mother if she left him behind. I believe it only kind to send him north for a time. He will return when he is a little older." "Will he not be raised as a southern warrior then, Sarssen?" "Certainly, my lord," responded Sarssen, hastily. "But the boy is very young to be without his mother. At a few more cycles it will be reasonable to expect him to settle to life in the south." "I see," mused Kher, drinking again. He pensively surveyed the placid warrior. "Why is it, Sarssen, that I sense you do not tell me all, but only a part?" Sarssen refrained from tensing, but only just, and he found himself wondering at the warlord's uncanny acuteness at times. Too like Lodestok for comfort, he thought. "I cannot answer that, my lord. I have never lied to you or set out to deceive you either." "No," smiled Kher, his gaze not wavering from the handsome face. "But you are damnably elusive at times. What do you think I will do to you?" "Nothing, my lord, I hope." "I told you once to trust me, young man. Have you so easily forgotten?" "No, my lord." "Have you been at Valshika all the time you were west?" Sarssen sighed. "Not all the time, my lord. We travelled our estates much of the time, though I tried to be mostly in Valshika for my mate. We had time together." "She has gone north again?' "Yes, my lord." "Did she not wish to travel to Elibera with you?" "She has been gone for a little while now, my lord."

"Is she not settled in the south, Losaren?" asked Kher, bluntly. Sarssen sighed again, deeply, his expression rueful. "No, my lord," he answered, honestly. "Ayesha is a Shadowlander. She has a life markedly different from that usually lived by southern women, my lord, which for her is unacceptably inflexible and restrictive. Southern society could not be more different from her northern home." "I see," was the terse comment. Sarssen waited. "And where else did you go?" "Yazd lands, my lord, since they are partly my home as well." "Anything to do with the Conclave, by any chance?" "Yes, my lord, I had to go there, as did Beth. Our abilities make it necessary for us to be there, on and off." "And did you find what you sought?" "Yes, my lord, I thank you." Sarssen was thankful when Kher merely nodded and changed the subject.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They only had two days to wait before a lookout posted at the other end of the valley sent that a very small party approached, from the southeast, their pace brisk. Kher would have sent Luton out to greet the arrivals except he and Bethel were hunting and not yet returned. Kher sent Sarssen on ahead instead. When the warrior rode up a slight crest, he could clearly make out the group that rode towards them along the edge of a lazy, sprawling and shallow river they easily forded. He saw it consisted of two front riders, both mounted on steppe horses, another rider behind them on a large roan, then a guard of steppemen bringing up the rear, no baggage train behind them. It meant they travelled light and fast. Sarssen drew up his black and waited. The closer the riders came the more he was able to make out who the leading ones were. His eyes opened incredulously. Instantly, he spurred his horse forward, only coming to a stop when the front riders drew up with a flourish and a young rider flung herself to the ground and began to run to him with excited recognition. "Brasangan. Uncle Sarssen!" she called. "Aren't you pleased to see me? Is Pasangan here yet?" "Jonqi!" exclaimed Sarssen, delightedly. The warrior was quickly off his horse and swept the girl up in the air so he could look at her, shake her playfully and kiss her, before he swung her to the ground. "What is this, child? Lute never spoke a word of your coming." "He didn't know," said the second rider, very slowly dismounting with the help of the man who leaped off the roan to go to her. Sarssen turned to the woman. "I have seen you," he said, respectfully, "though I am unsure if we have formally met. I am Sarssen." "Yes, I know," answered Katakin. "I'm Katakin, mate to Dase and guide to Lute's daughter. She comes with me to represent our people at the Chamah's ceremonies. My father thought her coming appropriate for the occasion. It won't

cause trouble, will it?" "Gods no!" exclaimed Sarssen, one hand on Jonqi's head and his other out to Katakin who clasped it. She leaned heavily on it. It was then the warrior saw how far on with her pregnancy the steppe-woman was and added concerned, "Should you have come this distance, Katakin, in such a condition?" He met laughing grey eyes that twinkled. "Warrior, my people birth on horseback if necessary. A woman rides until the day of birth, then again a day afterwards. It causes me no distress, only fits of breathlessness every now and then, but I don't complain." "Does Dase know?" "Of course not," she retorted. "He'll know in the fullness of time." "That is not far off," responded Sarssen tartly, aware Katakin laughingly quizzed him, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Should you be incapacitated Jonqi stands in for you, yes?" "Quite so, warrior," she approved, the glint in her eyes pronounced. "It also means Jonqisan can be with her father and rekindle her relationship with other Samar of her family. My parents felt this was important. She comes close to moving from girlhood to maidenhood, a time of change and upheaval that is helped by a young one knowing exactly who she is and where she comes from. Jonqisan will learn this by being with birth kin. Her stability with us is unquestioned, so she has no need to learn of that part of her life. The other part of her life is quite unknown and needs to be recognised." "What wise people you are," ired Sarssen, with genuine warmth. "Guided in such a way, how can a young one fail to fully mature into total understanding of self?" He let go Katakin's hand so she could signal forward the man who helped her dismount. "Saxen, the ambassador to Sinhalien from Samar," she said quietly, allowing the man to help her mount again. He swung back to Sarssen, proffered his hand, then quickly took Jonqi and threw her back on her horse, where she settled herself with a huge grin at Sarssen. Then she happily rode alongside the warrior, suddenly quiet again after the first

exuberance of greeting. They were welcomed by Kher who came forward to the party, his blue eyes enquiring. Saxen was first forward and dismounted, so he could lead Katakin's horse forward. "Suldan," he said, only briefly dipping his head in the now familiar way of northern etiquette in the south. "I am Kher," responded the warlord, in his deep voice. "I assume you are Saxen, the Strategos's ambassador to the Sinhalien?" "Aye." "I answer to Kher, Saxen." "My lord." Saxen tilted his head back so he could look at Katakin. "I wish to present Serena Katakin, eldest daughter of Hasuran Asok, who represents her people at the Chamah's celebrations. She's also Dase's mate and sister to Lute." Kher moved forward, his hands out to assist Katakin to the ground. "I am sure I saw you when the treaty was signed. Could that have been so?" "Yes, Suldan," came the deep musical voice, the lilt at the end of a sentence refreshing and unusual. "I you." She laughed breathlessly, then saw how Kher's eyes widened. "I've already assured Sarssen steppe women travel until they reach term," she added, amused. "It would seem so indeed," agreed Kher, at something of a loss. He'd not had the chance to study Katakin closely, but now he saw she was extremely lovely, unlike southerners for appearance and quite at ease. He looked beyond her and got a shock. Walking towards him, her hand tightly clasped in Sarssen's, was Luton's daughter, the encounter so unexpected Kher almost forgot himself and gaped. Katakin turned slowly and had to smile. "My father asks for your kindness for his greatchild, Suldan. Jonqi comes to represent our people, too. You her?" "Of course," answered Kher, going forward. He stood still so Jonqi could stare

solemnly up at him. He found himself being thoroughly scrutinised by big black, soulful eyes that he could've sworn belonged to Luton. "You do not know how welcome you are, child." "Suldan." Jonqi dropped a curtsey. It was clearly something she was recently taught was appropriate for the societies she was about to enter. Kher hadn't seen any child do that in the steppes. "Your father is out hunting, but should return soon. He is with your Uncle Beth. What would you wish to call me, child? Suldan is my title, so there must be an alternative surely." "You are Pasangan's father." "Yes." "So you are my greatsire, too, like Asokgansan?" "That is so." "Do you wish to be?" Kher was startled and intrigued. No child had ever spoken thus to him. "But of course, Jonqi. Any child of my son's is mine as well and accepted and treated as such. I am honoured you may consider regarding me as a greatsire." There was a shrug reminiscent of Luton. "Then," said Jonqi, placidly, "you may call me Jonqisan and I will call you Khergansan." "Very well, child, if that pleases you," replied Kher, on a deep rumbling laugh, his eyes meeting with Sarssen's and full of amusement. He glanced across to Saxen. "You are welcome, Ambassador. If you will escort the Serena, I will have my men show your escort where they can settle, even if it is only for today. Doubtless we should move tomorrow." ~~~ Bethel and Luton arrived back to a camp that saw activity. They drew up interestedly, their catches slung in pouches that hung from shoulders. It was

Bethel who guessed who the arrivals were. "Look, Lute, steppe horses. That means Katakin must be here. Give me your pouch so you can go welcome her. She'll be so pleased to see you again. I will catch up with you later." "Oh aye," murmured Luton. He threw his reins to Bethel, dislodged the pouch that he handed over as well and strode purposefully towards the obtusas he could see to his far left. Before he reached them, he saw a small bare-footed figure come out of the nearest one, study him, then come to him at a run, hands out. Luton was so startled, he simply stopped dead. Jonqi came so fast she had to be abruptly halted by wide-opened arms that wrapped round her. "Jonqi, my love," Luton murmured, surprise still on his face. "Little one, what an unlooked for pleasure. I wasn't expecting to see you. How is this then?" "Asokgansan said I was to come so I could be with you and meet up with the Strategos again." As she spoke, Jonqi clung to him. "It's all so strange, Pasangan, so very strange, and already people stare at me. Am I so strange, too?" "No," laughed Luton. "No, child. They most probably just think you look very like me, Uncle Dase and Uncle Beth. And you do." Luton took his arms from about the girl and made her take a few steps back so he could study her. "Ah, but you've grown again, Jonqi. You'll be a tall girl." "Sagigansan says I am already. Pasangan, I've wanted to come and see you again, and I'll meet Uncle Dase again, won't I?" "Of course, love, of course. He'll be very involved with the Chamah's celebrations. But why you, Jonqi? Why were you sent, little one? It seems so odd Asok would send only a child." "He explained what my function may be," answered Jonqi soberly, the dark eyes serious. "I'm sent to help represent the Sinhalien, because they're my people." "That's so, Jonqi. I'm very happy you're all steppe child, as it should be." Luton took her hand in his and began to walk to the obtusa from which she'd run, asking after Leontok and Soji as they walked. "Is this your obtusa?" Jonqi

nodded. "Who then accompanies you and shares it with you?" "I do," said a quiet voice, just inside the entrance. Luton had bent his head, but at the voice he looked up quickly, to see the tall, slender woman with tranquil, grey eyes and white hair that fell in a cascading sweep from the knot on the top of her head. The woman was very advanced with pregnancy. "Is your memory so short, Lute?" she asked, with a chuckle in her mellow voice. It was very restful, even the teasing note to it. He went to speak, but she forestalled him. "I think, Jonqi, your pasangan has a very short memory." Luton gently pushed Jonqi through the entrance, then went to assist Katakin to a chair placed by the entrance for her comfort. He eased her down. "So," he said softly, but with delighted mirth in his voice, "the mating was a success, wasn't it?" "Cheeky," she reprimanded, on another gurgle. "It would indeed appear so, wouldn't it? I couldn't have managed this on my own." "Dase sent me no word of this, Katakin." "How could he?" Katakin demanded, her eyes crinkling with laughter. "Doesn't Dase know?" Katakin shook her head. "But why?" "What does a man want to know about the birth of his child? He'll be happy enough simply to know the child's born, won't he?" "Is this steppe fashion?" "I suppose so," agreed Katakin demurely and with a naughty, provocative smile. "Well," breathed Luton, momentarily bereft of words. "It's not the Samar way, Katakin. Dase will be mortified not to have shared every step of the way with you." He expected Katakin to be crestfallen, then, when she wasn't, he became suspicious. "Kat, you're playing with me!" he accused, calmly.

"You're so enchantingly easy to play with, that's why," she answered, before collapsing with laughter. "Lute, I meant to travel north a half season ago. That was until we heard from Setoni that the Chamah was mated and would go through a ceremony to which we were likely to be asked to send a representative. It was thought sensible I travel north then. I it I'd forgotten about the child since the whole process is a natural one and I had no signs until the growth started to be noticeable." Katakin glanced at Jonqi. "Why don't you go, little one, to see if you can find us wine?" "I'll find brasangan," announced Jonqi, quietly. She slipped from the obtusa. Luton slouched down into a rickety chair that he swayed in. He righted it and sat again. He watched Katakin try to get comfortable, a lurking twinkle in his eye. "Was there a reason Soji and Leon wanted Jonqi to come with you, other than, perhaps, to act for you if necessary?" "We thought it a plausible reason, Lute, for her to be with me, but the real reason Jonqi's here is because she comes to another phase of maturity, as she'll explain for herself. Gansan thought it was time she learned to relate with those of her Samar heritage since she constantly asks questions about them, day and night, her curiosity such we're unable to satisfy her. She asks about one Cynthas a great deal." "She was my greatdame and a nymph." "Ah!" sighed Katakin. "And does she resemble her?" "Yes, she does, but she's also very like my sister Chlo and surprisingly like Beth." "Yes, we noticed that. It was felt that her secure grounding with us meant she was ready to find out more about herself and face what might be uncomfortable truths, if there are any." "Is she restless and disturbed again?" Katakin considered. "No," she said, finally. "She's quite happy. It's just this curiosity and the constant flow of questions that leave us baffled and Soji exhausted."

"And being with this part of her family will settle this?" "We think so. Then she can move on and be curious about something else," answered Katakin, placidly. Luton had to laugh. "And if I come to term unexpectedly, what better representative could there be for the Sinhalien than Jonqi? She's mature for her cycles." "Oh, Katakin," chortled Luton, amused. "The Dahkilan will take it poorly should you go into labour and let yet another damnable Samar take your place of honour." "What's this?" demanded Katakin, entertained. She listened to Luton then wept with laughter at his description of the Chamah's consecration. "No, Lute, don't tell me more," she implored, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "The gods, brasangan, if it was like that then, how much worse will the nuptials be?" "I hate to think," responded Luton, darkly. "And Dase was caught up in this? He'd hate it." "Ah, but since then it's been shown to all in Elibera how precious he is to the Chamah, has a title and thus enormous status and consequence. I hope you're duly impressed because they'll expect you to be." "I think I'm beginning to regret coming north," replied Katakin, her chin resting in a cupped hand. "You mean it, don't you?" "Yes, I do, Kat. Dase didn't exaggerate. They'll be over the Saturimonda from the moment they hear of your arrival. You'll be swept away with your own personal attendants and Dase will be lucky if he can get near you. You'll need to be very firm with the Dahkilans, Kat." "A charming prospect," she sighed. "And the Suldan? Will he go north?" "Of course. You'll meet him properly later, but for now I think you should take the chance to rest." "Do I meet your daughters and Chey, Lute?" Luton nodded. "Who else is with you?"

"Beth and Sarssen. Kalbeth – that's Beth's boy, and Beth's retinue including a very large, old shaggy dog, and the company from Caciqua. I hope we can make you happy amongst us, Kat. That's important to me and not just because you're Dase's mate." "I'm sure I will be once I'm known to everyone," reassured Katakin when she saw the trace of anxiety in the dark eyes. Luton hesitated, then knelt and took her hands in his. "Kat, your mating gives me such joy. When I left the steppes I hoped so much it would happen, because I sensed Dase's deep love for you and your response to him. I knew the one he chose may lead him along a rocky road that could end in grief or bliss and so desperately hoped it would be bliss." Dark eyes searched her face. "You're so very alike at times, Lute," Katakin whispered huskily, tears making her blink rapidly to dispel them. "Seeing you like this makes me realise how dearly I've missed Dase and how I long to be with him. It does me good to set eyes on you again. Have you doubts , Lute? Be honest with me." "None, Kat, none at all. You're everything Dase needs. I hope he's the same for you." "Never fear about that. I've mated for life, Lute, for life." Before Luton could answer, a tall figure appeared at the entrance and quietly stood there, making no attempt to advance further. His only gesture was towards Luton who automatically rose. He sank back into the chair. He studied the man who came slowly forward, the same age as himself, brown-haired, his shoulder length hair held back by a head band in the Samar style. He had keen but kindly hazel eyes and a neatly trimmed reddish beard that was more in the way of the Cartokian military. He was solidly built but beside a Churchik would look physically nondescript. He surveyed the twosome, then paused again, before, with an inviting smile to Luton, he advanced, his hand out and down. "I'd know you anywhere, Lute. You're the image of Sarehl." Shock rocked Luton. He stared blankly up at the stranger whose eyes were oddly familiar as if they belonged to someone he'd known but forgotten. "Does a yata tree with three boys trapped up it for a night bring back any memories, Lute? It did Dase." Luton was stunned.

"S-Saxen?" he stammered. "S-Saxen? Is it possible?" Saxen's smile broadened. He grasped Luton's outstretched hand and held it firmly. "Gods, man, but you and Dase are so very alike still. I saw him on my way south and thought I looked at the Strategos. Lute," he went on gently, "it's such a joy to see you again after what happened to you. Yes, I know what went on." He saw Luton's face. "And isn't your little one a beauty? She upholds the tradition of the family and reminds me, all the time, of that minx of a sister of yours. Gods, but Myme Chlo was a tomboy." "Yes," swallowed Luton. "More boy than girl. She had to masquerade as a boy to ensure her survival, so at least she had practice at it." Then his voice broke. Staring up into eyes that took him back so many cycles, to a boyhood that seemed from another time, made him incapable of speech. He struggled to speak but his voice was so husky he gave up. "It's come as a shock, Lute, hasn't it?" asked Saxen, in his kindly way. "Stand, Lute, so I can welcome my dear friend as Samar to Samar." Lute rose as if in a dream, to be embraced by a long lost friend he thought perished in the fires of Ortok. "Easy, Lute, my old friend, easy." Saxen pushed Luton back to the chair. It rocked and had to be righted once again. "You'd be surprised by how many escaped, Lute, far more than was thought in the earliest days because so many simply fled in any direction to escape and never came together until we heard Sarehl was back in Samar lands. Hearing that brought home so many of us, from Ortok as well as elsewhere." Saxen saw Luton still looked dazed and added conversationally, "My father and I escaped to Cartok where we managed to eke out a life until I was old enough to be taken into the Cartokian army. Like Dase, I'm a Captain. That was until I resigned my commission to return to Samar, something my sons and wife weren't entirely happy about." He saw Luton's eyes clear. "Why not?" Luton coughed. "They're Cartokian," grinned Saxen, amiably. "Like you and your brothers, Lute, my children are cross-breeds. I suspect most youngsters born since the warlord's invasion are." "I guess." Luton coughed again. "Where's your family now?"

"Back in the steppes, Lute. I wouldn't drag them all this way when they weren't even going home." "My life was so different," murmured Luton, shaking his head. "So very different, Saxen." Saxen's voice was very gentle and deliberately quiet. "Lute, none knew what happened to you until reports filtered in that a sorcerer's apprentice bore an uncanny resemblance to the Strategos. It was only then we began to wonder whether it could be you or Bethel. As time ed it became common knowledge Bethel was enslaved by the warlord, so, as we knew Dase escaped, we knew the other slave had to be you. Nor can we comprehend the things done to you, Lute, though many of us saw the result. Just know how glad your friends are to have you back and to see you and Dase the one again. I never envied Dase's agony of mind." "No," whispered Luton, glancing up into comionate eyes that showed warm affection and profound respect. He managed a wry grin that went slightly awry. Saxen straightened. "You need a drink, Lute. This has all been something of a shock, especially with little Jonqi appearing unexpectedly." He was about to stride from the obtusa when Jonqi entered, a tray carefully balanced. "Ah, child, in good time. Do you serve your Da, m'dear, while I get wine into Katakin." He then busied himself with bullying Katakin to move to a mattress where she'd be more comfortable, piled up cushions behind her and scolded her when she tried to argue. She sank back and took the goblet with another of her infectious chuckles. "See what I have to bear?" she asked Luton, her eyes dancing. "Wait until Dase sights you," responded Luton, drinking deeply and letting Jonqi settle in close to him. "If you think Saxen fusses you, you understand little about your mate." "Did you behave so with Chey?" Luton coloured. "I suppose I did. Chey finally dismissed me and Pic behaves as though I intend to destroy my own." "Pic?" asked Saxen interestedly, his eyes not leaving the man with an arm curled about a girl who was his image. It was a sight that gave pleasure.

The men talked for a very long time indeed. The wineskin was limp and Luton was more relaxed. Katakin dozed. Eventually Jonqi slumped down in her father's arms and drifted soundly asleep. He left her. And Saxen used all his diplomacy to set Luton at ease, adroitly manoeuvring the conversation so the man lounged opposite felt no need to withdraw and chatted animatedly as he did with intimates. The more they talked, the more Saxen saw the results, not just of slavery, but of cruelty that went beyond an ordinary Ambrosian's understanding of the word. Daxel had talked of how healed his twin was, but Saxen knew them as boys like brothers to him, and underneath the calm exterior that quickly reasserted itself he saw, not just raw power, but also a hurt that would bleed on and off for cycles. It was the same as his twin. He understood the man's reticence about his life after Ortok, Luton only willing to speak of the time since he became Kher's son, and he tried hard to make Luton see that he'd be accepted without question if he returned to Samar, something he was urged to do. Luton didn't question or argue, but he recalled what happened to Bethel in Samar, realised he'd be welcomed by those who knew him, but thought too highly of Saxen to be bluntly honest about how others would receive a Churchik son and warrior. He thought Saxen and the warlord would get along very well. He was right. The evening saw everyone gathered about the fire. Katakin was brought at a slow walk, leaning on the ambassador's arm. Kher blinked in astonishment at just how very far advanced she was, then rose with alacrity to stride forward, startled surprise in his expression. "My child," he said, without preamble. "What is Dase about to let you wander the countryside in this fashion?" "Suldan," answered Katakin breathlessly, but her voice delighted. "Dase knows nothing, nothing at all, so won't this be a surprise for him?" "The gods!" exclaimed Kher, blankly. Then he saw the mischievous smile and took her other arm. "My dear girl, I think Dase has his hands full indeed. While you travel under my aegis, however, you will oblige me by letting those about you care for you." "Oh aye, as Dase would say," she sighed, letting the two men settle her

comfortably. She demurely folded her hands over the bulge. "Ambassador," said Kher, staring fixedly at Katakin before raising his head. "You have my sympathy. Has she done anything you suggested?" "Not much," murmured Saxen, on a laugh. He winked at Katakin and crossed to the warlord who waited for goblets to be filled by Gamot. "Does carrying her in a litter some of the time not slow you down?" Saxen saw Luton's conspiratorial grin and his own broadened. "No, my lord. Kat rides her horse every day." "What?" Kher jerked up his head, spilled wine from the two goblets he'd just taken and swore. He saw Luton and Saxen laugh, shook his head and waited for an escheli to dry both the goblets and his person, then he trod in a stately way to Katakin. He stooped with a goblet. "I think it would be best if you met Chey, Serena." "Suldan, I answer to Katakin. I use the steppe title as a mere formality, something that bores me." She twinkled up at the warlord, so frankly, he was disarmed by the big candid eyes. "You are become kin to me, child, so indeed I will call you Katakin." Kher eyed her thoughtfully. "You have a strong will, have you not?" "I'm a steppe woman, my lord. We're taught to guide our own steps and come to an understanding of ourselves." "And Jonqi?" "Likewise, my lord." "Then, child, if I request you to humour me by tolerating our caring and concern, that may at times seem intolerable and oppressive to one of your kind, will you do so?" Katakin considered Kher as Jonqi did once before, the look long, silent and appraising. "You're motivated by kindness for me, Suldan, and anxiety for Dase, so yes, I'll respond as you wish, other than riding. You must understand we're often well-

nigh born on horseback if we're on the move for any reason, my lord, and to travel any other way would fret me unbearably." "If you will promise me, young one, that at the very first sign of discomfort or pain, you will stop being so independent and respond to alternative modes of transport?" "Oh my lord," laughed Katakin, her eyes bright with amusement. "You hedge me at every turn, don't you? Has anyone got the better of you?" "You play with me, young one, but I am an old man with cycles of experience. What a consort you will make for Dase, but not yet, child, not yet. I have you at a distinct disadvantage, have I not?" "Yes," answered Katakin, honestly. "So I yield, my lord, and promise I'll speak out if I'm uncomfortable and let you and yours do whatever they believe is best." "Good girl," approved Kher, with glinting eyes that were very kind. "If I wasn't this way, I wouldn't do so as easily," threw back Katakin, on a saucy smile. "I know," chuckled Kher. "It is quite unchivalrous of me to take such an advantage of you, is it not?" He got a laugh. "You will find you have much in common with Chey." "Does she respectfully challenge things, my lord?" asked Katakin, on another deeper sigh. She drank, then sank back thankfully into the cushions. "She is a desert woman, my dear, from a life that encourages independence of thought and action as yours does. I answer, by the way, to Kher." Katakin considered the huge warrior. "What does Chey call you?" she enquired. "Patran. I am told it is the desert term for father." "Then, if it doesn't cause offence, my lord, I'll call you the same." Katakin saw deep surprise in the pale eyes that gave way to amusement and

appreciation, before the warlord bowed in his courtly way and left her drinking thoughtfully. ~~~ Soon, the whole party was again on the move. Kher's request that the steppe group travel with his wasn't questioned, though Katakin raised an eyebrow at Saxen and simply got a shrug. She relaxed back in the saddle that rapidly became more and more uncomfortable by the day. Katakin gritted her teeth. Chey rode beside her and Jonqi alongside, the steppe girl interested in her father's mate. Jonqi curiously eyed Chey, though the girl withdrew when spoken to. Today she was more forthcoming. "You're very like your father, Jonqi, but much prettier." Chey gave a soft laugh and turned her head to survey the tall girl. "Dasa/Kherin and Saribeth are dark like me, too, and so's Kalbeth," Jonqi observed to nobody in particular. "My brothers are unlike." "Yes. Lute tells me they're more steppe children in their looks, though he says Etiokin has more of a southern look about him that you don't. You're all Samar it seems. If the twins grow like you, we'll be delighted." "You're my new masangan as well, aren't you?" Well primed by Katakin and Luton, Chey was quick to reply. "Yes, dahlutsa Jonqi, I am." "What's that you called me?" "Where I come from, Jonqi, that's what you'd be called. Does it bother you?" "No." "It means, daughter of Luton." Chey watched a sudden smile sweep across and transform the serious but attractive face. "Please to call me that then, masangan Chey," came the contented reply. ~~~

Sarssen watched Jonqi closely while they travelled until, satisfied, he was happy to leave her to her own devices. He saw she was still the child he first met in the Shadowlands, bright-eyed, with serenity of expression and a refusal to be drawn out. The girl sat back in contemplative silence, assessing all about her in the way of the steppe folk who were her kin in a way Churchik could never be. Placidity and sureness of self were strong steppe characteristics that Sarssen constantly saw in Chey as well, the desert woman reserved other than with those she'd come to know. She and Katakin reminded the warrior achingly of Ayesha. Sarssen watched Jonqi and Kalbeth stay at a distance from each other, each watching the other then turning away, Jonqi without expression and Kalbeth shyly. This aloof steppe girl was the first family member Kalbeth had met who was close to his age and he didn't know how to approach her. He contented himself with eying her from a distance. The warrior took a hand. Preparing to mount their horses to resume the northwards trek, the youngsters found Sarssen beside them. "Kalbeth," he said, calmly. Kalbeth bent his head in a gesture Jonqi now knew was junior respect to senior warrior. "You will ride with Jonqi this morning. I do not think this is too much of a burden for you, is it?" He saw the cheeks blush scarlet. Jonqi stared at the very leggy boy standing still, reins clasped in one hand and the other clenched hard. "No, my lord." "So, little Jonqisan, you will accompany him, yes?" Sarssen got a calculating look, then a smile and a shrug. "I'll ride with him," she answered, after a prolonged, reluctant pause. Watching them from the corner of his eye, the warrior saw them mount and ride out together, neither prepared to break the awkward silence. He did nothing. Later, he saw the dark heads turned one to the other, heard a youthful laugh, and noticed their horses were close while they chattered. Jonqi listened to a garrulous Samar boy who impulsively gestured, while Gamot watched them with fascinated interest. They were so very alike. It was only when they saw the children together that onlookers realised how like brother and sister they appeared, much as Sarehl once saw Chlorien and Bethel as children. Since Kalbeth was gentle and unthreatening, Jonqi liked him

immediately, and, because she was quiet, the boy warmed to her. Their growing bond was sealed by the dog who attracted Jonqi instantly. She missed the dogs that ran with the steppe folk, so was drawn to the big shaggy animal, his insistent hairy paw clasped firmly in a slender hand. Jonqi lost her heart to Lute. Of an evening, she was found curled up next to him, her head rested on the shaggy ruff or flanks while she listened to Kalbeth play the pipes. Autoc would have seen Chlorien lying with her mate in Rox form. The only time Jonqi and Kalbeth mildly squabbled was over who had Lute to sleep with them. Bethel sorted that out by alternating nights, though neither child knew Lute crept away from them after darkness fell so he could sleep curled up close to his master. Bethel's hand was always on the dog as he drifted asleep.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Nor did Sarssen miss how the bond between Charilae and Bethel deepened day by day, until he was quite sure both were deeply and quietly in love. He said nothing. Neither did Bethel. So it came as a surprise to the warrior to be called to the warlord's small pavilion one morning, where he saw Bethel stand, hands clasped behind his back. "My lord," bowed Sarssen, his eyes flickering to the younger man. "Sarssen, Beth has asked that you be here. Can you tell me what this is about?" Sarssen knew immediately, his laughing eyes going to rest briefly on the figure that stayed still. "No, my lord," he lied. "I see." Kher studied the two men, then audibly sighed. "Tempkar, speak your mind." Bethel took a step forward, his eyes flickering uncertainly to Sarssen. "My lord, may I first speak to my brother?" "But of course," responded the warlord, starting to be entertained and intrigued. He waved nonchalantly at Sarssen. "There he is, boy. Speak away." Bethel crossed to kneel in front of Sarssen. "My lord, I speak to you as your obedient younger brother." Sarssen replied suitably, aware Bethel followed southern ritual where mating was concerned. That fascinated him because it was so unexpected. He wondered how far Bethel would take southern protocol. "Your elder brother listens." "I will be guided by your authority as my father's spirit and shadow." "That is understood. The honour of the line must be maintained." "I would not ask anything of you that led to disgrace, Losaren."

"A worthy son follows the course laid for him. He learns wisdom." "What I ask may be difficult, my lord." "Tangles can be un-knotted or fretted free, Sorien. That is not insoluble." Kher watched silently. Two non-Churchik spoke now as if they were born to the late warlord. "It is my wish to choose, my lord." "Is this move considered?" "Yes." "Then you must make the announcement of intention, younger brother." "Losaren, I ask that you show your pleasure or displeasure on my wish to take a wife." Kher started, astonished. "That depends on the wisdom of the choice, younger brother. It is essential you have thought through the implications of your chosen action. Have you?" "Yes, my lord." "Know I show no displeasure so far. The line of Val is an honourable and ancient one, so the lineage from which a woman comes is of significance. Ours do not align themselves with those considered unequal." "Her lineage is impeccable, my lord." "Then state who she is that you choose, Sorien." "I wish to take to wife, Charilae, daughter of Haskar Correc, fosterling to the honoured line and house of Glisk." Sarssen saw Kher's eyebrows contract in a sudden frown. "As you suggest, that raises complications. As your elder brother the mating is satisfactory. What is it based upon?" "Mutual esteem, Losaren," murmured Bethel.

"You will enlarge further later, Sorien, but, in the meantime, know your choice is accepted by me. I rejoice that you have come to this. Stand and respond to the Suldan in the appropriate manner. You have my permission as the head of the house of Val." Sarssen looked quickly over at Kher, who watched the young Samar rise, now a lurking twinkle in the pale eyes rapidly dispelled when Bethel raised his head. Kher signalled to Sarssen that he wished to be alone with Bethel. All Sarssen heard were Kher's vastly amused tones. "Well, Beth, so what have you been doing that I should be caught so unawares?" Sarssen wandered outside the pavilion, conscious he'd be called back inside sooner or later. Nor was he mistaken. Bethel came out flushed and in a hurry. He saw Sarssen and crossed to him with hands out in the impulsive northern way. Sarssen gripped them tightly. "Well, Beth?" "I have his acceptance and blessing, Sarssen." "As you have mine, Beth. Why did you not tell me what was toward?" "I was afraid it might come to nothing and thought I might look a fool." "Never, Beth, never." "You have known all along, haven't you?" "Yes, Beth. I have watched you both and know what you feel for each other. It is something hard to hide, little brother." "And when I asked you, just before, for your familial authority, Sarssen, you knew and approved?" "What are you asking me, Beth?" "Sarssen, if I thought you didn't feel comfortable, I'd struggle to mate with Charilae."

"Why, Beth?" "To do so without your true blessing and sanction would make it impossible for me to go through with something so important." "Beth, I kept well out of this because I know it has to be your choice and your decision, not mine. Nor must my emotions be allowed to influence you in any way." "I sensed you thought that way," confessed Bethel. "That's also why I approached the warlord as I did. But inside I knew you'd encourage our mating. I don't know how I knew, I just did. That was what helped me decide." Bethel hesitated, then looked directly at the warrior. "Sarssen, it's not possible for me to act in a way that runs counter to either your hopes or wishes. I watched you when you watched us and I saw the expression on your face and in your eyes. You're happy for me." "Oh Beth," sighed Sarssen, going closer to the younger man and holding him in a very hard embrace. "What am I going to do with you? You are becoming too acute for your own good. Go, Beth, and know I am indeed, as you say, profoundly happy for you." He pushed the young man back and eyed him, his eyelashes blinking somnolently. "And the mating, Beth? Samar or southern?" He saw the furious blush that came to Bethel's cheeks before the young warrior hastily bent his head, quite unable to parry that sally. Sarssen chuckled, patted Bethel's shoulder and went back into the pavilion. Kher looked up with a dawning smile. "Well, Sarssen, such a day. Have you been aware of the way the wind was blowing?" "Yes, my lord. They have been smelling of spring for some weeks and been companionable for considerably longer, but I must it Beth caught me offbalance just before." "Me, too," chuckled Kher. "I am surprised Sorien came to me. It suggests the marriage will be a southern one, does it not?" "Of that, my lord, I am not sure," answered Sarssen, cautiously. He saw the enquiring glance. "My lord, Beth is Samar as much as Churchik, so despite his

having correctly come to you for your acceptance, that may be as far as he goes with southern convention." "No marri then?" "I would doubt it, my lord. It is not Beth's way, nor the way of his people. I am not sure Charilae would respond well to it either." "That is the nub of the problem, is it not?" "Yes, my lord, I think it may be." "As a fosterling of Evereh's, the haskar will demand the full ritual rites and the witnessing in marri before full marriage is allowed. Consummation will only be permitted under those circumstances. It is Churchik tradition." "But Beth is adopted Churchik, my lord, and he has bowed to that by appealing to you, while Charilae is only part-Churchik." "Why do you call the girl Charilae?" "It is her given name, my lord." "I thought it was Easmonda. It is as such she was described to me by Karina Agge. It is also the name you used, Losaren." "Karina Agge gave the girl that name, my lord, and encouraged Correc in his use of it, because she found the other name heathen and outlandish. It offended her." "Why?" asked Kher, both bushy eyebrows raised. "The child is, I believe, born of a part-Dahkilan slave, so is mostly Churchik. Is Charilae not just an ordinary central Ambrosian name?" "No, my lord. And Charilae is not the daughter of a part-Dahkilan slave. Her mother was fully Dahkilan and the name Charilae is old Dahkilan." "Is it? Why the gods would the girl be called a Dahkilan name rather than a Churchik one? She may have Dahkilan heritage and be of two worlds, but Correc would insist on a Churchik name, surely? Or is that where the Easmonda comes in?" Sarssen stayed prudently silent until Kher stared very hard at him

and sat suddenly, a speculative look in his eyes. "Sit with me, Sarssen. There is something you need to tell me, is there not?" "My lord, this becomes rather difficult." "I am sure it does," agreed Kher, blandly. "Knowing your involvement, I guessed things might be tortuous." Sarssen crossed to a folding chair. "Charilae's mother was called Charasan, my lord. It is an unusual Dahkilan name, as is Charilae, though in only one particular line they repeat quite often. It seems Charilae was quite deliberately and specially named by her mother, my lord, not by Correc as would be expected, something he appeared to quite happily accept." "I see, so what is the significance of that?" "The names Charasan and Charilae come down through the royal Dahkilan line, my lord," explained Sarssen. "Charilae's mother would know the name would be recognised, so I suspect deliberately used it in the hope her child may one day be free to return north." He saw Kher jerk forward, then sink back against squabs that gave comfortably, his expression both disbelieving and shocked. "The gods, man! Are you saying that child is of the royal line of Dahkilah?" Sarssen nodded. "Did Correc know?" The warrior shook his head. "Beth?" Again Sarssen shook his head. "Take your time, Sarssen, take your time, and tell me what you suspect of Charilae." He listened in silence, his shrewd gaze resting on the younger man's face and not moving. At the end of Sarssen's recital, which took a little time, Kher drew in a deep breath and signalled that Sarssen fill goblets that sat on the table. Once the warlord had his goblet to hand, he took another very deep breath. "This raises questions, Sarssen, especially if your suspicions are right. When do you intend speaking with the Chamah?" "Immediately after his nuptials, my lord. It is only fair he knows of the child's existence. Had he known of her, Chloris may not now be heir-apparent. I simply cannot say." "Chloris?" repeated Kher, patiently. "Who is that?"

"Sarehl's daughter." "She follows the current Chamah?" "Yes, my lord. I believe she has been chosen and blessed as the Chamah-Elect. Their royal line does not necessarily follow in direct descent, though Ensore follows his father. That is apparently unusual." "So Charilae may have title and lands?" "Most certainly she will, if it turns out she is indeed nearly related to the ruling Chamah. She will be a woman of great significance and power. Her mother ensured her daughter, should she ever become free of the Churchik, would be found and restored to her own. You see the difficulty, my lord." "Yes," murmured Kher, thoughtfully. "I see several, as have you. You have worked hard to ensure she was restored to some status, Sarssen. That was generous and kind. She stands in your debt. Gods, man, the Chamah may refuse to let the girl return south as savaged as it appears she has been, even by her own father. And her mother was butchered, too. Yet she is bound through fostering to Evereh's line." Kher inwardly groaned. "Sarssen, you know who the senior of that house is, do you not?" "Yes, my lord." "It is Sendak." Sarssen nodded. "He resents you, Sarssen, though he accepts your and Beth's status, but he was friend to Correc and ed his cause. He will be most unwilling to allay himself with a foreigner like Beth. That will be anathema to him and his house." "I realise the difficulties, my lord." "How do we solve them?" "Beth may choose to do that his own way, my lord," suggested Sarssen, on a smile. "And Charilae has a decided will of her own. She will decide for herself." "Another Katakin? Surely not." "No, my lord, but I think we should let well enough alone and see what happens

over the journey to Elibera. Once there, Ensore can be told about Charilae. The problem concerning Haskar Sendak is beyond my ability to solve." "Another bitter grievance chalked up against me, my young friend," mused Kher. "I will be seen as encouraging intermarriage and the dilution of Churchik blood by allowing pollution from inferior races. Beth is Shasah's brother after all." "I suggest," said Sarssen, tactfully, "that this is only the beginning, my lord." "But it will not be allowed to quietly happen," said Kher, quickly. "I sense that." "My lord, there may be no personal grievance against you if it is known you were uninvolved and were only told after the event." "But I do know. Beth asked me." "But only we know that, my lord, do we not? Should they mate, as I suspect may happen, it was all done in the Samar way, a situation outside Churchik control or knowledge and in northern lands. Beth simply comes back from the nuptials, happily mated, and you only hear about it before we part for Valshika. You are not entirely sure you approve, but there is little you can do about it, other than gently reprove the warrior concerned for not having asked your express permission. You can put the rest down to Beth's not knowing exact Churchik procedure on the matter. After all, my lord, the boy had no way of learning such protocols while the late warlord was alive, did he?" Kher began to laugh. "No, he did not. Such a devious mind you have, Sarssen - I see how you survived cycles with your former master. It will neither mollify nor reconcile Sendak, but it will undoubtedly be effective with Evereh and take the sting from Sendak's backlash of displeasure. Beth will not sit comfortably around those of the house of Glisk." "No, my lord, he will not," agreed Sarssen, soberly. "It is not something that will easily slip my mind." Kher nodded curtly. "Make sure, Haskar, if you value your brother's life as I think you do, that you do not forget for a moment. Though he may now be kin to that house, and through marriage so will you be, it was neither desired nor granted through rite or protocol. That is dangerous in our society and makes one a target."

"I will , my lord." "So will I," came the sharp comment, before Kher indicated dismissal. ~~~ Sarssen withdrew in good order. He was aware the warlord was not, at this moment, in an amiable frame of mind because he felt, with some justification, he'd been placed in an invidious position from which it would require some degree of ingenuity to extricate himself. Sarssen knew Kher would do it after considerable mental thrashing about and would come out with flair, but the note of warning was one that made him frown as he pondered how best he was going to counter a threat that would be very real for the sons of Lodestok, especially for Bethel. The house of Glisk was very old and had a proud tradition. Sarssen said nothing to Kher about Charilae's talent. That, for Sendak, would be intolerable. Suddenly Sarssen saw the solution for Kher. Such an old house would honour any royal link. Agge knew it. That's why she set out to destroy both the daughter of the royal line and the offspring of it. Correc would have used the royal lineage to the fullest. If he could, so could the house of Glisk, a house much older and nobler than the Vaksh line from which Correc sprang. If Charilae was acknowledged as a royal and titled descendant of Dahkilah, Sendak's house would open its doors to one of such illustrious birth and, most importantly, wealth and prestige. And they'd do so willingly. That she'd married Bethel would have to be swallowed because his removal in the imminent future would be assumed. It would leave a young widowed woman who could later, after a respectable period of grieving, be wed to another more suitable mate, one probably already selected by her foster-house. She was fostered now as Correc's daughter, because her father was patronised by Sendak's house. As a royal Dahkilan she was potentially extremely valuable and a precious commodity. Sarssen decided he'd wait to point this out to Kher, because he realised without this lever the warlord would find it hard to make Sendak agree to endorse a marriage he'd hate. Bethel and Luton were continued anathema to the haskar though he said nothing, did nothing, and showed casual indifference to both young men and to Sarssen. Sarssen wasn't deceived. Sendak was a warrior who claimed full Churchik blood from a noble line. He

was a warrior lord incarnate, proud, obstinate and arrogant, who considered those defeated by the Churchik to be inferior and he had the typical ionate hatred of mongrels, though Charilae would have to be accepted as such since she was royalty. Sendak had bitter contempt for those with talent and was wont to despatch slaves without compunction. How he would react to finally knowing a woman aligned to his house, but also royal, had talent, Sarssen couldn't begin to contemplate, though the thought made him smile. Sendak was not unlike Alleghy and similar, in many respects, to Correc. Since the peace treaty he'd been a moderate, because he saw the Churchik warrior way of life in jeopardy if the Churchik did not withdraw and regroup in the south. He believed they over-extended themselves and needed time to retrench. Sarssen was sure the haskar looked at life much as Correc did and would march out with his warriors, intent on conquest and the taking of slaves and riches, much as he'd done all his life. His mindset was established. Once Churchik were over the worst effects of the war, Sendak would behave as of old. Sarssen knew Kher, as an older warrior raised in the same way, didn't see the man this way and realised that the future would require as adroit handling as the present and the past. It was a thought that made Sarssen sigh. He recognised that the change wrought in the warlord was down to the influence of a Samar son: Sendak, among many others, remained unaltered. The only thing Sarssen had to do, and he had to choose his moment carefully, was to tell Bethel, as gently as he could, what Agge had done to Charilae. Not a man to postpone the unpleasant, he waited until all was quiet about the camp one evening, he and Bethel the last to retire as usual, habits still too engrained keeping them awake longer than most. He was rested back, eyes on the glowing embers that slowly died. "Beth," he said, quietly. Bethel's head turned in the shadow. "Sarssen," came the soft reply. "I need to speak to you about Charilae." "Yes?" Sarssen saw the silhouette stiffen. "There is nothing to alarm you, Beth, nothing at all. What I have to say concerns Charilae's future as well as your own." He paused, mulling thoughts through.

Bethel stayed silent. "Beth, Agge hated Charilae and her mother. You know that." Bethel nodded. "If the woman could do anything to harm Charilae, she did it, and knew no regret for the way she acted." "I know that, too." "When those with talent arrive at Enouri, Beth, they are assessed for emotional and mental harm, but also, with the war having done so much bodily damage to people, initiates, or those aspiring to be, are examined by the healers in a most thorough physical way. If neglect shows, healers can be brought in to heal." "Are you saying Charilae is physically hurt?" "Profoundly, Beth." "In what way? I see no sign." "No, Beth, you would not." Sarssen stared at the still figure. "Beth, there is no way to gently tell you this, so bear with me. Charilae was fed poison by Agge. Its affects are extremely far-reaching." Bethel uttered no word. "Beth, Charilae will not bear children. The poison istered has no known antidote and ensures sterility in those exposed to it for a long time as Charilae was." "Why?" whispered Bethel. "Why did she hate the girl so much? What did Charilae or her mother do to Agge that the woman would go to such destructive lengths?" Sarssen was tempted to reveal the full truth then thought better of it. Bethel needed time. The revelation that his mate to be was sterilised because she was royal Dahkilan was inappropriate. "Beth, I cannot answer for one like Agge. All I can say is that she was insanely jealous of Charasan, and, because of that, sought to destroy everything connected with the woman, including that woman's child. It gave her vicarious pleasure to think she poisoned the daughter Correc tried to off to other warriors." "Perverted," mumbled Bethel. "Quite evil, Beth." Sarssen saw the head was bowed. "I am so sorry, Beth, if this

was important to you." "No," came the deep voice quietly. "Rightly or wrongly, I was happy to see your relationship bloom and I believed now was the correct time to tell you this." "Why not earlier?" "Because, Beth, I do not believe I misjudge you. Your love for Charilae does not hinge on her possible child-bearing abilities, does it?" "No, Sarssen, it doesn't. I'd have mated with her regardless. I still will." "I thought so, Beth. Can you tell me if you will mate the Samar way?" "Aye, we will. We both choose to do so." There was a long silence before Bethel spoke again. "Does Charilae know?" "No, Beth, she does not. It is your decision to make whether she should." "I will not," came the soft reply, from the darkness. "There's time enough for that to become known and for the moment she's happy." "And you, Beth?" "Nothing's changed for me, Sarssen. She's my mate." "I thought not, Beth, I thought not." Silence descended on the camp. ~~~ The journey north gathered momentum. The pace set was gruelling for the younger and especially for Katakin, who showed increasing signs of wilting with each succeeding day. As a healer, Sarssen kept a close watch on her. Relief was gratefully taken with the usual disarming smile, her bulk become cumbersome and very awkward, especially after riding hard most of the day. And every day brought Dahkilah closer. The mountains soon loomed and leered

down at the travellers. Sarssen, meanwhile, watched Charilae and Bethel with tender satisfaction. Bethel alternated riding with Kalbeth, Sarssen or Charilae. If it was with Charilae, Sarssen tactfully fell back. He didn't speak of Bethel's approach to Kher to anyone. He and Bethel enjoyed long conversations about mating since, so much so Sarssen wondered at the young man's obvious reticence to commit himself. At first he wondered if it was because of the poisoning, then dismissed that as an unworthy thought. Sensibly, he said nothing. To rush Bethel would make him shy like a half-broken colt. The warrior was content to let nature take its course. Charilae blossomed. Her eyes shone with radiance, the gold beneath the flecks deep and lustrous. Bethel stayed outwardly calm and inwardly profoundly committed, but there was one dramatic change. He was demonstrative. With Lodestok he was coerced to be responsive but it wasn't by choice, mostly lacked spontaneity and any touch was one of enforced obedience and habit automatically part of him, certainly until the last few cycles with the warlord. This was different. He was a highly tactile child. Now he was tactile again. He rediscovered the joys and sensations of touch and feel by choice, the long slender fingers that twined through the chestnut hair trembling slightly. He radiated a sense of wellbeing, as captivated by Charilae as he was at Enouri. He had the urge to share with her. In the evenings they walked amiably together, his dark head bent so they could comfortably converse. Everyone in the camp knew they were enchanted by each other but few knew how far the relationship had developed. Sarssen knew Bethel, now intensely private a man like his brothers, preferred it that way. Kalbeth frequently accompanied them too. After some days, it was noticeable Kalbeth was between them, both adults with an arm about him. Soon, reflected Sarssen whimsically, Kalbeth would be much too tall for Charilae to do that, tall as she was. "Are you losing your little brother, Sarssen?" asked Jane, one evening. "I think not," replied Sarssen, lazily watching flaring flames of the fire then edging back from it because it put out considerable heat. "It's good Charilae likes Kal, isn't it?"

"Very necessary," agreed Sarssen, strategically retiring further back. He drank from his tankard, then added calmly, "The boy is so like the man she loves, it would be odd if it were not so." "Kal's growing up very fast, isn't he?" "They do," responded Sarssen, indolently. "Yet he is as quick to learn as Beth. I imagine in many ways he is what Beth may have been at the same age had circumstances been different." "Was Beth ever naughty before I met him on the slave train?" "In the way of Kalbeth, no. He was much too repressed and hurt for that. But he did assert himself in odd little ways." Sarssen gave a reminiscent smile. "Beth is strongly individualistic. It seems all the brothers are. Interesting that." ~~~ That evening Bethel came to the shelter to see Jane watch Kalbeth settle onto a mattress, sat beside his son as he always did, told the large dog to lie, then began to tell the boy a saga. Kalbeth's eyes lit up as he snuggled wearily under the furs, his expression one of anticipation as he struggled to keep eyes open while he listened to the deep, velvety voice. It wasn't long before Kalbeth was deeply asleep. The saga had hardly begun. Bethel then rose to uncertainly face Jane. "Jane," he began, then paused helplessly. "Can I guess, lad?" Bethel nodded. "You've chosen your mate, Beth. Go to her." "I'll be back in the morning, Jane." "But of course, lad. I know that." Bethel saw affection and pleasure in the older man's face, crossed to him, knelt beside him and waited for Jane to hold him firmly. Jane's voice was husky. "It sounds like old times, Beth, only this is how it should be. You make an old man very happy, you know." "You must never leave me, Jane. You know that." "Aye, lad, that I do. Go now, Beth, go."

Jane watched the figure walk into shadow and apostrophised himself for a sentimental old fool, not caring a damn as tears fell down his face as he defiantly let them roll. To see Bethel happy was what he'd lived for, so long, he didn't realise the tears were of relief as well as joy. ~~~ Bethel ed Sarssen and Jane for the very early meal they usually enjoyed together since all the men were such early risers. He was quiet, but Sarssen picked up the suppressed emotion about the still figure and exchanged a rapid glance with Jane who casually observed Bethel but made no comment. Bethel ate absently but well and only seemed aware of company when Jane, barely repressing a broad grin, left them to go to check on Kalbeth. Sarssen spoke quietly. "It has happened then, Beth?" Bethel, twining curls about his finger, turned to face the warrior, his big eyes meeting Sarssen's. "What is that?" he asked casually, his colour heightened. "Oh, Beth," teased the warrior. "Dear boy, you broadcast all over Ambros. Do you take me for a complete fool?" He saw a deep blush suffuse the lean cheeks. "No," Bethel answered, a trifle gruffly. Then he stared, fascinated, at the warrior. "Were you -? Could you -? Gods, you can't have been -." Bethel broke off, his cheeks now flaming. Sarssen playfully pushed him so Bethel fell off his chair, off-balance, onto his elbows on the ground and stayed there. "No, Beth, I was not with you. I told you once, if you care to recall, that when the time came for you to mate I would know and not be there." A slender hand snaked out to grasp Sarssen's, in such a way the warrior responded by pulling the younger man to his feet and ruffling the windblown curls that bounced free. "Beth, I wish you joy. You do not know what this means to me." "Yes I do," whispered Bethel. "You brought me to this, I know that." He saw the dismissive shake of the head and smiled, twisting his head so he could look straight at the warrior. "I know she's Correc's daughter, but don't feel that should be held against her."

"No, Beth, of course not. Why should it be?" "Some might say I took advantage of her position since she was given to me as a slave." Sarssen broke into laughter. "Unlikely, Beth, highly unlikely. You forget she was raised beyond that and has her own considerable status now. The gods, Beth, everyone knows what you are like. That is the last thing anyone would suggest." "And you are content for me? Truly?" Sarssen stared into purple eyes that tied his heart in knots. "I ask again, Beth, should it matter?" "No," came a small boyish answer. "Maybe it shouldn't but it matters. It will matter with Sar, too, though somehow I think he'll know." "Beth, Beth!" Sarssen shook his head, nudging Bethel back to his chair. "To answer, you, I believe you will share much happiness with Charilae."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Elibera was in ferment by the time the southern party arrived. Already the Chamah's nuptial celebrations were in full swing, the city inhabitants enjoying themselves throughout prolonged holidays given in honour of the Chamah. Ensore wasn't in a convivial mood because his fight to have the witnessing of the nuptial bed set aside was an unpleasant one. The Curule was determined to teach the Chamah that their will concerning protocol was law and would be obeyed, but Ensore refused to buckle. He was deeply angry and frustrated. Clenching his teeth, Ensore left the Curule with stately dignity but inwardly seething with resentment. He was determined they wouldn't be allowed to get away with attempting to punish him for the way he chose a bride. He'd heard nothing but condemnation and criticism of that choice from the moment of his arrival in Elibera, so his expression at this moment was thunderous. Taran looked up at his stormy entrance, conscious his eyes looked stony and forbidding. "The Curule?" she asked, resignedly. "They'll take every ounce of flesh in chastising me, my dear. I've finally made them back down." "About the witnessing?" Ensore nodded. Taran shivered. "So what happens now?" she asked, repressing any nervousness she might feel. She intended the Curule wouldn't have the final say in the future, but her concern was with her mate, here and now. "Why do I have to spend so many fruitless days defending my actions? And defending you, as well as Dase and Sar? And my choice of Chloris? I've been humiliated and chastised. I'm told how reprehensibly I behave and how unfitted I am to be Chamah. I'd willing let someone else take my place!" shouted Ensore, in frustrated rage. "The gods, can I never win against stupid custom and bigoted old men?" Most unlike him, Ensore swore. "Ens, love," said Taran, reasonably. "As far as I'm concerned the Curule and CuInam are irrelevant, especially where mating is at issue. It's old news."

Ensore stopped stomping about the chamber, to stare at his mate with an arrested expression. Anger died from the grey eyes that looked suddenly apologetic. "Forgive me, my dear," he murmured, going to his knees by her chair where she sat plying a needle through tapestry in a restful way that calmed him. "The Curule simply must accept the Mishtok's document. Have they said they will?" "Aye," Ensore growled. He gritted his teeth, then ground them. "Finally, though every word was considered irregular and unacceptable. Oh the gods, Taran! Enough!" "Elibera doesn't do you any good, Ens. It makes you angry, fretful and deeply weary. I've made a decision about it." "Have you?" asked Ensore, amused by her decisive placidity and assurance. He relaxed back against her chair. "And what might that be?" "You'll spend at least a season of each cycle either in Samar with Sarehl, or with Dase wherever he goes, so you don't become cloistered and so frustrated you murder the of the Curule one by one. They will come to an understanding that Dahkilah will follow your blueprint in time." "And you, my dear?" laughed Ensore tenderly, a hand up to soft hair. "Do you imagine for a moment that I'll leave you behind?" "Who said you would?" she demanded, serenely. "Oh Taran, where would I be without you to soothe me and make the days here bearable?" "I don't know," she returned, cheerfully. "Now, Ens, my dear." "Yes?" mused Ensore, thoughtfully. "What is it?" "You may guess," laughed Taran, pushing the tapestry to one side so she could slide her arm about Ensore and draw him close. They'd barely dressed and had a goblet of wine, before a knock at the chamber

door brought their heads round, both wearing resigned expressions. Ensore threw up his hands in mock despair, crossed the room and wrenched open the door, expecting to meet a herald or page telling him he was due at a function. "Yes?" he asked. "My lord, there are new arrivals." "Yes?" he repeated wearily, thinking that was the last news he wanted. "And who are they?" "They're from the south, my lord. One is said to be the Churchik Suldan." "What?" exclaimed Ensore. He swung back to Taran. "My dear, it sounds as if parties from Valshika, the steppes and Caciqua are upon us." "It seems so," observed his mate, seeing the flush of pleasure come to Ensore's cheeks. "That means we'll meet Katakin, doesn't it?" ~~~ The arrival of the Chamah and his consort was unhurried, Taran elegant and selfpossessed and Ensore calm and welcoming. The scene they came upon was organised. Guards were being quietly sorted so they could be accommodated, horses gently led except for three that were held firmly by a tall figure Ensore recognised as Luton. He knew, too, he looked upon Lachir stallions and his heart raced with anticipation. He watched Luton disappear with grooms, the horses willingly following him but shying from others. He saw unfamiliar faces that baffled him. There was a seated woman with white hair and grey eyes whom he knew must be Dase's mate. A man hovered solicitously around her whom he thought he recognised. Beside the woman was a tall, slender girl who was so like Bethel and Kalbeth, Ensore drew in his breath. He thought she also closely resembled Chloris and Chlorien. Next to them was another woman, younger, blond, with dark green eyes, who nursed two infants and kneeling beside her was the most enormous black man Ensore had ever set eyes on. He knew immediately it was Luton's man from the Keep. Standing over them all in a protective way was the warlord, huge, uncompromising, power in every part of the man.

Then the Chamah's eyes lighted on Bethel. He had a chestnut-headed young man beside him who, in turn, had a hand on Kalbeth's shoulder. The boy had grown so tall Ensore couldn't believe it. Beside them was another older boy he didn't recognise, but who resembled the young man with Bethel and there was Jane he knew from up north. The large shaggy dog, Lute, was gripped firmly by Kalbeth. What arrested Ensore's attention was to see Bethel's arm about a young woman, who, when she turned to look up at the young warrior, was none other than Easmonda. Ensore simply stared at her. She was beautiful. And the look the two exchanged wasn't one of friendship either. Ensore was intrigued. He and Taran walked down the stairs, then stopped on the last step, pleased to see Sarssen extricate himself from the mass and advance towards them, hands out. From then on he and Taran were too busy greeting, welcoming and talking to notice any details. Ensore only became aware of Katakin's condition when she clumsily rose to meet him. "Oh, Katakin," he said, with quivering lips. "I asked Dase if this might be the case and I see it is. Sit, my dear." He turned to an attendant. "Fetch the Saturim and Seignore Kaleb. Make it quick." "My lord," bowed the young man. Ensore looked down at Katakin who sank back, relieved to be able to sit quietly, her hand at a very swollen belly. "How do you feel?" "Very glad to be off a horse, my lord, and to know I'm here." "A horse?" asked Ensore, then he threw back his head on a rich laugh. "My dear, I salute you. Dase told me about you, but now I see he spoke nothing but the truth. I think your time grows near, doesn't it?" "I think maybe sooner than expected," she murmured. "Perhaps the riding encouraged the child, do you think?" Her eyes regained their irrepressible twinkle and the disarming smile and dimple appeared. "I'm so glad to meet Dase's mentor, my lord." "And you've no idea how long I've waited to meet you, my dear. You're so truly welcome to Elibera." Ensore turned to Jonqi. "And who are you, young one?" "I'm Jonqi."

"Ah!" sighed Ensore, with complete comprehension. "We've heard about you, too, child, over long cycles. It's my pleasure to meet Lute's daughter after all this time." He was about to say more, when he saw Daxel's tall figure struggle to reach them through the throng, his eyes eager. The young man reached them. He sighted Katakin and swept to her side, about to lift her into his arms when he stopped, a ludicrous yet disbelieving expression on his face. "Kat!" he uttered, reproachfully. "Oh Kat, why couldn't you have told me?" He dropped to his knees and clasped her hands in his. "You might've let me ride to accompany you through Dahkilah, my love." He bent his head so he could kiss her belly, then, as Katakin released his hands, his ran slowly and joyfully over the swelling, gently across full breasts, up over her shoulders and to her throat, to finally rest on her face. Their kiss was long and tender. "Dase," whispered Katakin, suddenly reduced to tears, her hands tracing the line of his face. "So long apart, Dase. Too long." Daxel cradled her, wiped her cheeks and laughed softly. "This isn't my bold, independent Kat," he teased. "If this is what child-bearing does to a woman, it'll be the one and only." He saw the watery smile in response. "You've travelled far, my love. It's time you had someone to take control of things, isn't it?" "Perhaps," she murmured, resting her head on his chest thankfully. "The Suldan, Sarssen and Saxen have watched me, you can believe that." "I'll not just watch you, my dear," warned Daxel. "I'll order your life for you for the next while, you can believe that." "Hedged about that I am," uttered Katakin in mock complaint, a jesting tone to her voice, but the look up at her mate one of trust and unusual compliance. Daxel rose, turned, backed and nearly crashed into Jonqi who stood, a silent spectator, behind him. "Jonqi!" Daxel's delighted voice brought a smile to the girl's face. "What an unlooked-for surprise. Come to me!" He cuddled her, kissed the top of her head

and slewed round with a puzzled frown. "Where's your Da, Jonqi?" "With three Lachir stallions," said Ensore, calmly. "Dase, get Kaleb from the other side of the courtyard. I see he's with Beth. Then I think you should help Katakin to your quarters. Nor do I expect to see either of you until later. Take your time. You've been apart a long time." He glanced down at Jonqi. "And you, child? I'll arrange for your chambers to be next to theirs, but do you wish to be with them now?" Jonqi gave a very girlish giggle and shook her head. "No?" "They're like newly-mates," announced Jonqi. "No one wants children round at such a time. Neither did masangan and pasangan." "Mother and father," put in Saxen helpfully, his arrival making Daxel turn his head, scrutinise the ambassador and grasp him affectionately. "Saxen, old friend. How goes life in the steppes?" "Very pleasant," returned Saxen, turning to the Chamah. "My lord." "Saxen's the Samar ambassador to the steppes," explained Daxel, helping Katakin to her feet while he also signalled to Kaleb. He saw the healer nod in instant response. Ensore smiled in his affable way and put out his hand. "Of course. I thought I recognised you, Saxen. You're a friend of Sarehl as well and doubly welcome." He watched Jonqi back to Saxen who put his arms about her. "Gently," cautioned a voice behind Ensore. "Gently, Dase. She's closer to term than she thinks. The gods, but I'm glad she's here now." Kaleb shot forward and assisted Daxel with Katakin who stood more easily though she was short of breath. Kaleb smiled at her. "You're Katakin, my dear. Dase may have spoken of me. I'm the healer Kaleb." "Yes," answered Katakin, trying to breathe deeply. "Walk between us, my dear, and take your time." In an urgent under-voice to Ensore, Kaleb hissed. "Ask someone to call for another healer, my friend." Ensore nodded understanding. He was about to call for assistance when he found Charilae at his side and stopped, genuinely surprised. He looked into a face that

was physically the same as he ed it. Now, though, the young woman exuded calm confidence and maturity, no nervousness in her approach, only assurance and concern. "I called for another healer to assist, my lord. There is one waiting just through the archway." "I thank you. Easmonda, isn't it?" "I answer to Charilae, my lord. Easmonda was a Churchik name given to me in an attempt to disguise mongrel breeding. For a Churchik warrior of my father's standing I was something of a disgrace, as doubtless you understand." "I suppose so," mused Ensore, his stare at the young woman not discomposing her in any way. She held it and returned it. "Charilae is your name?" "Yes, my lord," she assented. "It's an unusual name for a southern girl." Ensore's brows knit as a thought came and went. "It is the name my mother gave me, my lord." Ensore would have probed more deeply had Bethel not crossed to them, his hands out in welcome. The Chamah wholeheartedly responded. "Beth lad, you look so well. Different, too, very different. You look a man at peace with himself. Are you?" "Yes," answered Bethel, with a beaming smile. "I see you have met up again with Charilae." "Indeed, "agreed Ensore. "I'm charmed. Taran will be, too." "It's my pleasure to tell you, Ens, that Charilae's my mate," said Bethel, quietly. Ensore blinked then had to try to marshal his thoughts. He replied with creditable composure. "Then let me be the first northerner to congratulate you both. My dear," he went on, turning to Charilae, "you are most welcome." He glanced at the darkly-

bearded face wearing a very boyish grin of pride. "Does Dase know?" "Not yet, Ens, but he'll guess soon enough. Lute did. I suspect Sar won't be surprised either. He'll just know as he always does." Bethel's look at Ensore was a cheerful one. "I look forward to seeing you and talking with you later. Is Sar here yet?" "Yes, but probably unaware of your arrival," nodded Ensore. "So you know Beth is mated," said an imperturbable voice behind Ensore. "Warrior." Ensore confronted Sarssen who regarded him with a lurking twinkle at the back of his eyes. "That young man's so changed I scarcely recognise the confident maturity. He reminds me vividly of you and has a strong touch of Sarehl about him as well." Sarssen merely nodded, then he saw the shrewd look in the Chamah's eyes and expectantly waited. "As for that lad's mating, you've played a very deep game, my friend," accused Ensore, breaking into reluctant laughter. "You can now tell me who that girl is, and no holding back or evasions this time." "You wound me by such suggestions," countered Sarssen, with a provocative and lazy chuckle. "Of course I shall oblige at the appropriate moment." "Now!" ordered Chamah authoritatively, aware of laughing eyes. Sarssen shook his head warningly. "The Suldan approaches, Ens. I leave you to your friendly obligations." With that parting shot that left Ensore seething but amused, Sarssen quietly bowed to Kher and withdrew. The Chamah turned to suitably respond to Kher's greeting and allowed himself to be taken across to meet Luton's mate. He wondered who the youth was who so resembled Mishak. He noticed Taran was already with Chey, her head tilted as she listened to the younger woman speak. ~~~ The evening saw reunions, sometimes emotional. Kher sat back fascinated by the interaction of people. He found the prevailing northern way unusual, because it was spontaneous, garrulously noisy, very relaxed and sensed it was certainly not Dahkilan. He was already aware of stifling pomp and ceremony. He stayed a

quiet spectator that withdrew into the background. He again thought, with a touch of sadness he often felt when he looked at Bethel, how savagely repressed that Samar's emotions were, so much so the young tempkar refused to show grief when Sarssen was abducted by the Shadowlanders. The warlord didn't think he'd ever forget a young man crouched weeping in the forest, who, at a touch, straightened, his beautiful face white, big eyes grief-stricken, the tall body rigid and the control absolute. As Kher watched those of Bethel's family about him now, he knew how abnormal Lodestok made one who was probably a most delightful child. Thinking that, Kher studied Bethel again. He sensed how changed the young man was and how confident, assured and matured from the still uncertain but increasingly exuberant young warrior who ran free in Caciqua. Bethel was a pleasing sight, and, despite the problems associated with his mating that had done him nothing but good. It was only when Sarehl entered that Kher saw how alike he and his younger brother were. There was no introduction of the Strategos. Kher had never met him or closely sighted him, but he knew who the tall man was the moment he entered the room. Sarehl stood quietly, a powerful presence, his dark eyes going from face to face before a smile came to dark eyes that could've been Luton's. The familial resemblance to all the brothers was staggering. Kher noticed it was Kalbeth who made the first move, his response to the man who held out his arms instinctive. It was the calling of a father to a beloved son. "Da! Da! Sar!" "Kal, Kal," mocked Sarehl very gently, his arms round the youthful figure. "Lad, you've sprouted again. Just look at you! You're much too big for me to lift, aren't you?" Kalbeth nodded, conscious of a laughing face above him. "Lad, you're turning into as lanky a pole as your father. Where will you end? And I swear you've got broader in the shoulders. Dase! Don't you think this one's broader in the shoulders than he was?" Kalbeth rested his head against Sarehl's chest. "Course he is," replied Daxel, ruffling Kalbeth's hair in ing and getting a look from Kalbeth that made him pause, stoop, kiss the dark head and move on. "I'm glad to be with you again, Da," mumbled Kalbeth, rubbing his cheek.

"We'll talk later, lad, won't we?" Kalbeth nodded. "Go and help serve drinks, Kal, would you?" Kalbeth responded with alacrity. Sarehl crossed to where Jonqi stood watching him quietly, the dark eyes intent. Sarehl drew her close, murmured something to her that brought a smile to the solemn face, then Kher saw her go to Kalbeth to help serve wine. The warlord wondered where Sarehl met Jonqi since they knew each other well enough. He pondered it, his gaze following the tall man. He was briefly distracted by Kalbeth who came across the room with a tray carefully balanced, the boy graceful as his father. "My lord," Kalbeth said respectfully, his head correctly dipping. "Boy," responded the warlord, taking a beautifully etched goblet that was filled almost to the brim with what he anticipated would be the best Dahkilah red wine from ancient cellars. "You are happy to be north again, I see." Glowing blue eyes lifted to Kher's. "Sar's my Da, too, my lord," Kalbeth volunteered. He saw the encouraging smile. "He brought me up until Pater was set free." He added shyly, as an afterthought. "Kasan loved my Mater. When Mater died, she became my Mam in her place." "Sasqua was your mother, yes?" "Yes, my lord." "And doubtless you think of the Strategos' children as your brothers and sister." Kalbeth's reply was painstaking. "Yes. Though not the twins so much, because they were small after I was mostly living in the south, but Alfar, Chloris and Tamas are, my lord." "The names are northern, boy. Which is which?" "Chloris is a girl, my lord," laughed Kalbeth, trying to stop a sudden unnerving fit of giggles. Kher eyed him tolerantly. "Go and enjoy yourself, Lodrin," he suggested, kindly. Kalbeth backed on the words and precipitately disappeared.

Kher then had leisure to follow the Strategos' progress round the room. Sarehl greeted Saxen with some jocularity that had the ambassador retort in kind, before the Strategos reached Katakin and stayed beside her for a long time, their conversing in low voices that broke occasionally into laughter. Sarehl drew in both Charilae and Chey who were meeting him for the first time. Kher saw how at ease Sarehl was among his own and how adroitly he made people, who were strangers, feel they were welcome and belonged. Charilae, Chey and Katakin all reacted as if they'd known him for cycles. He cradled each southern twin as though they were his own and chatted affably to Chey. He bent his head every so often to a small boy he had an arm around, the little fellow, with his father's colouring and wide black eyes, responding with a shy smile as he snuggled close. Kher thought how like Ensore Sarehl's mate was. It wasn't just a brother and sister likeness either. She walked with two children beside her. A boy, who was quite obviously mischievous, peeped out from behind his mother's skirts with a cheeky, endearing grin every so often, and a girl, with unusual hair and the most stunning green eyes, stared incuriously upon those about her. Her serious placidity and facial appearance were so like Jonqi's, they could've been sisters. And there again, thought Kher wryly, was the Bethel-shaped face he saw in Jonqi and Kalbeth. It made him wonder where that came from. Kher wasn't surprised when Pic obsequiously entered the enormous room - and was introduced briefly to Sarehl by Chey - to see the huge man gather up the twins, one in each arm, then nod imperatively towards the door, once, at Jonqi. Kher watched Kasan shepherd her children in Pic's wake, the little boy scooped up from Sarehl, so the room seemed suddenly empty. It freed Sarehl who rose to approach Bethel. The young warrior stood, relaxed, while he waited to be folded in a strong embrace before Bethel was pushed back and carefully scrutinised by an older brother. Words were few, but the depth of the bond was unmistakable in every gesture, look and expression. The warlord watched Sarehl stare long into the younger man's face, an intentness in his eyes, as if what he read in Bethel's was what he hoped to see. Clearly, what he sought was confirmed for him in some way. He was plainly delighted. His smile was a mixture of relief and joy. Kher watched Bethel stoop to Charilae and wait for her to him, and, though the warlord couldn't hear what was said, he saw how courtly and charming the Strategos was. He just knew the older man gently

teased the twosome who blushed and shook their heads on laughter. Kher was too far away on the far side of the room to distinguish Sarehl close up, but now, as the Strategos neared him, he clearly saw the limp he'd heard about and, at leisure, could study the man Lodestok itted iration for. Sarehl was with Luton. Kher thought back to Lodestok's comments and how the warlord described the Strategos in unexpected and unusually glowing . Kher could now make up his own mind. Lodestok used words such as urbane, civil, perceptive, comionate, diplomatic, courteous and affable. He spoke of a degree of empathy that drew people to Sarehl. That his brothers meant everything to him was undeniable. It was apparent in his reaction to them and them to him. Sarehl hadn't seen Luton for a while, probably since the Chamah's consecration, yet together it was as if they'd not been apart, the older brother with an arm about the younger. Kher thought back over what he'd heard of the Strategos over the cycles. Only now he began to have an inkling of why Lodestok found Sarehl such an intriguing enigma. No Churchik would have spared an enemy as this man did, his forbearance in the light of what was done both to himself and to his family, whom he profoundly loved and helped raise, almost incomprehensible to Kher. That was until he saw Luton and Sarehl close as they were now. He suddenly understood what nagged him as he watched Bethel and his eldest brother embrace. Sarehl did everything he could to ensure two young men weren't destroyed, and, if that meant being charitable to undeserving foes, then he'd do it without hesitation. His courage was remarkable. His tolerance and patience were extraordinary indeed. And now Sarehl was fully rewarded, because he watched devastated brothers grow, mature beyond their experiences and come back to him. Kher thought the man deserved no less than the love and respect he was unreservedly shown. Sarehl was now quite close to Kher. The warlord was able to see the faint but very deep scar on the handsome bearded face while Sarehl conversed amicably with both Ensore and Sarssen, the dark eyes laughing. Those men were flanked by two people new to Kher. One was a small, spare man with translucent eyes who was clearly Yazd and probably a healer, and the other was a tall, looselimbed man with a devil-may-care attitude, a lilting voice and a hopeless propensity for jest and mirth. His smile was infectious. He was obviously a close

confidant of both Chamah and Strategos. Sarehl turned his head. He sighted Kher who rose, the two men left facing each other. Kher was conscious of inscrutable black eyes, like Luton's, that met and held with his, the younger man's face expressionless. He wondered what reception a Churchik warlord would receive from a man his warriors so brutally and bitterly wronged, and briefly, breathlessly, thought he'd made a mistake in accepting the invitation to venture north. He'd done it in hope, but a blinding realisation made him recognise it was probably a forlorn hope he had to try to mend fences. It was too soon. He watched Sarehl calmly and unhurriedly limp forward, unbelievably with a hand extended in the Samar offer of recognition and possible friendship. The voice was as deep and mellifluous as Bethel's and Luton's. "Suldan," Sarehl said quietly, coming to a halt in front of the warlord. Kher had to look up slightly to another man taller than the Churchik. As he took the outstretched slender hand in his, he sensed the same gentleness of Bethel that characterised the Strategos. He nodded. "Strategos," he replied, in his clipped, neutral voice. Their hands parted but the eye remained. Sarehl spoke calmly. "I've only known of you through Lute, Suldan. I want you to know you have my deepest gratitude and respect for the way you cared for him. I know how much you love him, as Lute loves you in return. Without your intervention and care, I'm well aware my brother would've died. I'm beholden to you." Kher was rarely speechless. Now he just stared into dark eyes he suspected mocked him, but there was no mockery, only utter sincerity, Sarehl's smile as disarmingly attractive and appealingly wistful as that of his slave brothers. Kher's eyes instantly softened. "For cycles I've heard much of you, young Strategos, but nothing prepares me for the man you are, nothing. I'm more than delighted to finally meet the brother Lute and Beth so profoundly love and respect." In a gesture of enormous respect and friendship, it was Kher who this time held out both hands to Sarehl, a rare thing for a Churchik to offer another. Well versed

in cultural behaviour, Sarehl knew what this meant and was quick to respond, the hands clasped between his until he sensed Kher withdraw. "You may find you regret ing a highly garrulous, emotional and occasionally unruly family, Suldan, but nevertheless, Lute's father's one of us." There was a sudden laugh in the dark eyes in the way of Daxel that Kher found both charming and irresistible. "What a remarkable man you are, Strategos," he observed. "Know then I accept Shasah's family as my own. I consider it a privilege." Sarehl nodded. He half-turned because he sensed someone come beside him. It was Sarssen. "Brother, I've met your Suldan at last." "So I see," responded Sarssen, in his imperturbable way. He glanced at Kher. "I notice you watch Kalor and Kaleb, my lord. The smaller man is the healer who saved Sarehl and the taller man is a Cyrenic who answers to Kalor. He has stayed with you, Sarehl, in Samar, has he not?" "Aye," answered Sarehl. "He and another man look after the defence aspects of the city." "I would like to hear about this new city, Strategos," offered Kher, interestedly. "Lute and Beth have talked about it and so have you, Sarssen, but I would hear more of it." "You'll soon grow tired of it," warned Sarehl, as he courteously excused himself and moved on. Kher watched him. He agreed with Lodestok that Sarehl was a most unusual man indeed. He was graceful and dignified but something else besides. Kher was distracted from Sarehl by the entry of a very tall, broad-shouldered youth built more along southern lines than northern. Where Sarehl and his brothers were athletic, this young one had the potential to be a large and powerful man. He was copper-headed and had the bluest eyes Kher had ever seen, quite different from Kalbeth's that had a velvet quality. This tall boy was barely past youth. Kher thoughtfully studied the young bearded face and tried to place who it could be because the young one didn't closely resemble anyone there.

He stayed close to Sarehl with whom he clearly had a deep bond and kept near Daxel who treated him with casual but deep affection. So did the Cyrenic. The boy was clearly delighted to see Bethel and Luton who converged on him. They didn't shake hands but clustered about the boy, talking, gesticulating, asking questions, and obviously teasing him because he blushed fierily more than once, a hand up to his beard. He was family in some way, decided Kher, baffled. Then he saw Kalbeth approach the young man, saw the boy embraced wholeheartedly, then kept close with an arm about the shoulders, the two talking rapidly and laughing. Kher watched Sarssen sink into a chair beside him. "Who, Haskar," he asked, curiously, "is the red-headed boy with the Saturim?" "Unlike the others, is he not, my lord? The smile is the same, and gestures and expressions are very like, so you can tell he is a brother." "A brother!" exclaimed Kher, caught off-guard. "How is this?" "If you will recall, my lord, Malekim had a man sent north to mate with Lute's mother." Kher nodded sharply. "He is the son of the union, the child taken from Daxel on the day Ortok was sacked." "Of course," murmured Kher. "Was the father a Churchik?" "No, my lord. A southman certainly. His name was Bruno. Sarehl tells me he was a very big man, red-headed and blue-eyed, just like his son. He was a merchant and also had another son with him in Ortok. That boy over there answers to Brue." "Yes," said Kher, a hardness to his voice. "I Lban's description. That boy must have been the scarcest infant when Ortok was sacked." "Sarehl told me he was not quite three cycles." "His escape again?" "Dase saved him, then lost him almost immediately because all children under a certain age were rounded up and sent north to safety as soon as they were found." "When was that boy found?"

Sarssen indicated the languidly lounging Cyrenic with the wicked laughing eyes, who now talked to Brue, one hand rested on the youth's shoulder and the other lifting from Kalbeth's so the boy could answer an unspoken summons from the door. Averting his head, Kher saw Mishak and Kalbeth's immediate withdrawal. "That, as I said is Kalor, my lord. When Brue was around five cycles, Kalor found him after the child strayed from an orphan camp. It may be coincidence that the Cyrenic took the boy back with him, maybe not, but Sarehl took one look at the child and guessed who he was." "Was Brue with the northern army?" "On and off, my lord, from all s. Sarehl was finally induced to leave him in Sushi under the protection of a cavalry captain. When the Sushi ed the northern army on the march, Brue was with them. I think it would be fair to say he is quite Sushi, my lord, in many ways." "He is a fine-looking young man. Where does he live now?" "I recall a letter from Sarehl, my lord, that suggested Brue has come home to Samar at last." "And it was that boy's elder brother, one Lian by name, who was to have taken the sister Myme Chlo to the warlord?" "Yes, my lord." Kher became quiet, his mind busy as his eyes went from first one group to another, and Sarssen was content to lean back silently. Only a comment made by Kher, in a pensive tone, made him respond. "They seem happy, Sarssen." "Sarehl always said they were, my lord," he agreed, amicably. "Do you think so?" Sarssen yawned and stifled it inexpertly. "Yes, my lord, I do, but I also know they feel the incompleteness of the family though no on speaks much of it."

"The girl?' "Yes, my lord, Chlorien."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The following day saw the Gnosti arrive. Jaim's reunion was attended with laughter, more talk, and a long comfortable chat with Ensore and the warlord. Others looked on amused. The days ed memorably, though with the warmth at midsun people sought refuge under the enormous spreading cas trees that generously dotted the palace grounds. Ensore was an attentive and charming host and Taran excelled as his consort, the woman a marvel at organisation and with a genius for quietly drawing out even the shyest among the guests. Ensore watched her tactics with enormous iration and appreciation. Kher met Eli who cheerfully and insouciantly confessed he was behind the northern army intelligence network. He added, with candour, that he was the leader who led the highly successful southern assault, late in the war effort, against the Churchik overlords left to control Dahkilah to keep the mountain es open. Kher found this mercurial man with the ready laugh and devastating wit attractive and was often found deep in conversation until Aranda, Eli's new Dahkilan wife, reminded her consort he had another state function to attend. Kher smiled at the obvious frustration that clouded the grey eyes and tactfully retired so Eli could respond to the needs of state. And though the warlord was unable to go wandering about the city in the way of other guests, still he absorbed a very great deal from where he felt it was safe to go. He knew he was guarded and accepted that as a sensible and necessary precaution, even if privately it irked him. It irked Luton, too. The young man assured his father there was no question of lack of safety while he was around. "I know that, son," said Kher placatingly, one morning. "Then, Father, come with me when I go to the far side of the city with Dase later today. There are sights there that will interest you." "Son," answered Kher, calmly. "It would be unwise and impolitic for me to show myself around, nor would I like any incident to mar the joyous proceedings. The warriors remain in relative seclusion, while I am able to get around in a way that astonishes me. Let be, son, let be." He saw how disgruntled Luton was. "Shasah, Shasah," he gently reproved. "You forget, son, that you see me as most do not."

Luton sighed. "Ah, boy, do not try to hasten things that must of necessity take time. My being here is a remarkable thing in itself when you it was our people who, not so long since, slaughtered, tortured, debased and enslaved of this race. I am content, Lute." "Father," murmured Luton. "I don't mean to be impetuous. I just want you recognised for the man you are." "I think, son, that comes of its own good time." "Aye, Father." "Then, Lute, be off with you. What do you and Dase intend now?" "Immediately?" asked Luton, rising and indolently stretching. "Yes, now." "Dase has set up an equestrian obstacle course, Father." Luton pointed out the window that the warlord leaned next to. "He's challenged many of us to ride through it unscathed." "This ion of Dase's for gambling," murmured Kher, on a broad smile. "Then be gone, boy, and do not break your neck." He watched Luton grin and turn. "By the way, how go the horses you brought north?" "Ensore's stallion's still fighting, but that's partly because Ens has less time to spend on him, but Beth's and Dase's come along well. Dase rides Oblis this morning." "Why has he called the stallion Oblis?" "They're all named that way," said Luton, carelessly in answer. "The names just come. I think the stallions name themselves." Luton chuckled. "Beth's is Oblige, and I notice Brun keeps well away from him, and Ens' is called Oblith. There are your four Keep stallions, Father." "I see." Kher turned back to the window. "I shall see you later, son. Make sure you win!"

He heard Luton laugh behind him. ~~~ In the days leading to the actual nuptials, as festivities reached frenzied heights, Kher renewed his acquaintance with Ensore when the latter had any time to himself, the two finding each other's company compatible. The warlord found Taran highly intelligent, realised the Chamah would have a most formidable consort and suggested this to Ensore. Ensore's grey eyes lit up with amusement and he agreed, shaking his head ruefully. Kher also learned to know the Strategos better. The more he learned of the man the more his respect deepened. Sarehl never spoke of the war or about what happened to their family, but instead conversed widely. One evening, he briefly touched on scholarly pursuits, but so wistfully Kher was drawn. When Sarehl spoke of archival interests and antiquities in general, the warlord was caught. He was frankly delighted. "Tell me more, young man," he invited enthusiastically, his goblet out to be refilled. "You're interested in antiquity, Kher?" "Has Lute not told you then?" Sarehl shook his head, his expression a question. "No, not that I recall, but then I'm become forgetful." "Had I not been born to be Sarat of Caciqua, Sarehl, instead I would have studied under the scholars of all disciplines who ranged from city to city teaching. As it was, I had to stay in Caciqua so could not become an apprentice scholar." "You know I studied at the Antiquities Centre before Ortok was destroyed?" asked Sarehl, with a smile. "Yes, young one. Lute and Beth told me that." "Oh the gods!" said a voice next to them. It was Kaleb. He threw his hands in the air in a gesture of mock despair. "Once scholars find each other, that's it." He got a broad grin from Sarehl.

"Not so," countered Ensore. "I find this fascinating. Tell us what you will, Sar. Kher, Sar's discovering such things in Samar." Kher listened. So did Luton. The two men chipped in with things they learned at the Keep and that still tantalised them. Sarssen spoke of archives and the libraries of Valshika in a way that made Sarehl's dark eyes glow, and Kher enlightened listeners with things pertaining to the south. Even Bethel ed in, enlarging on things from his studies as a bard and master musician. The Chamah found himself sometimes rambling through his library with Kher. The men were also surprised by the knowledge of the women. Katakin was able to describe events and beliefs from the perspective of what steppe children were taught, and Chey did likewise, explaining how the Sophys encouraged all children to learn about all that lay within the Indigo archives. Sarehl saw the gleam that came to the warlord's eyes at the treats in store for scholars from all across Ambros. Kher learned of Sarehl's chronicles of the war and of the plans for campaigns and maps of troop dispositions for battle, now neatly sorted into Samar's new archival building. The building was called the Sarelam in honour of the founder of the city. Kher heard that already scholars gathered in the building's cloisters, where these days they argued amiably about what they discovered and what happened to Ambros over the last cycles. Kher was relieved to hear the archives were reasonably intact and listened enthralled while Sarehl spoke of very old manuscripts that, like the Keep, were written in indecipherable archaic script. There were ancient medallions with words on them, barely distinguishable, that scholars squabbled over interpreting. Kher thought of Valshika when he heard there were walls of documents and s going back to very early Samar days indeed. He heard there were parchments and scrolls as yet untouched and covered with dust and cobwebs, including annals, chronicles, and journals of both scholars and merchants who left their material behind when they left. It was a treasure trove that made Kher's eyes glisten with sheer anticipation. Sarehl assured a stunned Kher that all was very slowly being catalogued, so would one day be readily accessible. Kher shook his head. "Unbelievable, Sarehl. You house immeasurable treasure in your new city. I would see but a small portion of it to satisfy a craving for knowledge that has

never left me." Sarehl looked surprised, then gratified, and responded, so promptly, Kher blinked. "Then come north, Kher. Samar may be new but it rapidly develops as it once was. There's now a constant flow of people coming and going seeking knowledge and merchants move in and out freely these days. Kalor has his work cut out for him keeping up with the ebb and flow, don't you, Kalor?" This last was said with a laugh up at the tall man who just strolled across to them, his wink at Bethel producing a grin. Kher watched the Cyrenic, aware of the affection the man had for the Strategos as he watched him place a strong hand on Sarehl's shoulder. "It's you who keeps me busy, Sar, not the visitors or merchants. You're so confoundedly full of ideas I can't imagine where they come from." "Be warned, Kher," added Ensore, mischievously. "You go to Samar at your peril. Sarehl presses everyone into service of one sort or another." "Speaking of which," put in Kaleb, mildly. "How, Sar, are my vines? Have you been watching them?" "Growing," responded Sarehl. "Growing extremely well," added Kasan, hunkering down next to Luton. "There'll be Samar wine some day, Ens, then you'll be challenged, won't you?" Ensore shook his head. "They have our root stock so should come up with something approaching quality!" This was productive of a shout of mirth. "In fine Ortokian and Norshami vessels, too," said Kalor. "You should see the pottery and porcelain being made now, Ens. You'll be surprised at how fast the quality's coming back. That soft blue glaze is re-established and Sarehl's told you, hasn't he, how the guilds just begin to flourish again. All the old glazes and designs are being taught." Kalor glanced down at Bethel. Kher watched the young warrior. He thought Bethel looked very contented, the eyes calm and reflective like Sarssen's. "Talking of the guilds, Beth, the Aesthetics Academy is running but woefully without adequate guidance in some areas, and the Music Guild barely functions as it should.

When are you coming home to be the music master you now are? You're needed, lad. It's time the Academy begins to take shape. Sarehl could tell you we have requests from across central and northern Ambros for enrolment, assessment and desired placings, even from as far afield as Elba. There are tragically few apprentices at only the beginning levels who can't advance further without a master, and no new apprentices at all." All eyes turned to Bethel. Once he'd have painfully coloured and shrunk inwards. Now he wasn't remotely discomposed. "I've thought about it, Kalor, and know the need's urgent. My lord, if you are agreeable," he began, turning his head deferentially to Kher, "I wish to go north to Samar again after the celebrations here." Kalor and Sarehl were now quite familiar with southern etiquette so it came as no surprise to see Bethel thus appeal to the warlord. "Since you are so close, Tempkar, it seems foolish not to. What are your intentions, Beth?" "I want to re-establish the Music Guild so it functions properly, my lord, and oversee the organisation of the Academy. It was what Father and my late Samar Master asked me to do. Out of love and respect for them, I promised I would." Bethel added. "It would mean I didn't return to Valshika until autumn." Kher nodded slowly. Kalor noticed the authority over his warriors and wryly accepted that without Kher's nod, Bethel's return north may, possibly, be delayed. "That sounds most satisfactory, Beth." "Why do you have to ask permission of a Churchik as if you're still a small child?" asked a voice behind Kalor. Sharply Kalor turned, then shrugged and pulled the red-haired youth forward. "Meet the Suldan, Brue. He may tell you," he suggested impishly, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Kher hadn't seen the youth for some days, but was now conscious of deep scrutiny from eyes that met his without any awareness of a warlord's power or authority. It was a novel experience for Kher. He stared into the young face.

When Bethel went to speak, Kher held up his hand. "Your brother is no child, young man. Though it has taken me some time to realise it, your brother is a powerful man with considerable skills and not just as a warrior. He is also a Conclave reader/seeker and a Samar Guildmaster. However, despite these attributes, he is still a southern warrior. In my society a warlord has warriors who owe obedience and allegiance. They take oaths to that effect. It is therefore correct and courteous that Beth advises his warlord of his intentions." Brue held the warlord's eyes with his vivid blue orbs. "And if he doesn't, what then?" When he saw the chilly smile, Brue felt a faint shiver run up his spine. "Beth has chosen to live amongst us as Lodestok's chosen heir and younger son, child, so he is not in a position to choose to ignore the rules and laws that govern the Churchik society in which he lives. If he does, like any warrior, he forfeits the right to call himself such. It is that simple." "What would happen to him?" "Let us say his position might be uncertain, young man. Beth understands what being a warrior means where you do not." "Beth could just come to us here though, couldn't he, and live with us away from you?" "Yes, he could. Young man," went on Kher in a kindlier, warmer tone, "I could not stop either Beth or Lute from doing whatever they want, but Beth has taken oaths that govern his actions, and he is, in the truest Churchik tradition, a warrior, with all the virtues that implies. In our society, he is respected and accepted as such." Brue chewed on his lower lip, then he turned to Bethel who now stood silent, his gaze fixed on curtains framing the windows. "What do you say, Beth?" Bethel's gaze came to rest on his youngest brother. "I know it's difficult for you to understand, Brue, but in ways you may see similarities with the Sushi." Brue shook his head. "Yes," insisted Bethel, gently. "Some of your growing up was among Samars, but you also grew up in a

military environment where you learned to instantly obey the captain or his men. Yes?" Brue nodded. "And did you ever hesitate to obey Kalor?" "No," answered Brue immediately, his look across at the Cyrenic a swift one. "It was the same with me," went on Bethel, calmly, " except that in the south obedience goes through from childhood into maturity. If you lived with me, you might find it easier to understand." "I don't approve of slavery," said Brue, his nostrils flaring. "I saw what was done to you." "I didn't enjoy it, Brue, neither did Lute. It's degrading and often very painful. It was also very frightening." Brue gave a choked sound and rushed to his brother to fling his arms about him, his words coming in a rush of sudden distress. "To see slavery is something I couldn't bear," he whispered, gruffly. "You would be welcome in the south, young one," said Kher, into an awkward breach. "I believe the Saturim found us hard to tolerate or comprehend, but in the end he did in most ways. We have as much to learn of you as you have of us." The answer was muffled. "I can't come. You hurt and enslaved my brothers. You took them away and make them obey you still. I can't forgive that. And you tried to kill Sar. Dase says -." The young voice broke. Bethel calmly led the very upset youngster from the group, to find Sarssen had come forward and, with Bethel, escorted Brue from the room. There was an uncomfortable silence. Kher stared after them. Sarehl looked thoughtful, a hand at his scar, then he turned to Kalor and Kaleb. Both men had moved swiftly after Brue and Bethel but they turned, listened, nodded, and then left, both men solemn-faced. Sarehl spoke in his gentle, courtly way. "I didn't realise Brue repressed so much, Kher, because we tend to think he was only a very small child at the time his home was devastated. Perhaps we underestimate the damage inflicted on a child wrenched from his home and family who were the centre of his whole life. He lost both mother and father and

became an orphan at a formative time of his life. He knew emotional deprivation and loss of identity, too, like my other brothers." Sarehl paused, then went on at Kher's encouraging nod. "He's not been back in Samar with me very long either, so bringing him here where he'd be made to confront you was perhaps ill-judged. He meant no personal offence, Kher. His grief over Lute and Beth not yet coming permanently to Samar has affected him more deeply than I realised. Brue needs reassurance that his brothers will, one day, come back home." Recognising the diplomacy behind the words, Kher's smile went completely awry. His response was honest. "The boy hates what my people have done, Sarehl, that is the truth, and it is only natural he should. He is very young. I gather he grew up in a military atmosphere. Has he known any other life?" "No, not really," sighed Sarehl. "His upbringing has been as unnatural as that inflicted on all of them, only in a sense his loss was greater." He saw Kher's surprise. "The others," Sarehl patiently explained, "had childhood memories they could cling to that helped them through the very darkest times. They were memories they could build dreams and hopes around. Brue couldn't do that." "No, I see," mused Kher, impressed. "Brue grew up knowing only that the two remaining brothers he saw were devastated. He saw me seriously injured and Dase driven by a youthful desire for revenge motivated by sheer hatred. He also knew the Churchik brutally enslaved his other brothers and may well have slaughtered his sister. He learned the Churchik killed his parents. It's a heady diet for an impressionable boy. Though all that's cycles ago and he knows we've begun to rise above those who harmed us, you're still the first Churchik he's come face to face with since then. The others he saw were at a distance and in an arena of war. He hasn't seen your Samar ambassador or his guard at close quarters whilst in Samar." "It is hard for the boy," acknowledged Kher. "It might then be best if he was to see considerably more of me while I am here." He saw a smile banish the strain in the dark eyes. "That's an excellent idea. Kaleb will work with him and Kalor knows how to reconcile the lad to much."

"It has taken me a while to sort out the whys and wherefores of people here, Sarehl, but I am correct, am I not, in assuming Beth is now an Adept of the Conclave?" "Yes," nodded Sarehl, his eyes beginning to dance. "So, I judge, is the healer Kaleb?" The smile in Sarehl's eyes deepened. "To have healed you, he must be an expert healer." "That's so," agreed Sarehl, brightly. "And I heard the Chamah mistakenly refer to Sarssen as Mishtok. I do not think my ears deceive me, so I have drawn the conclusion that is why the healer sometimes forgets and calls him Monseignore. Am I also correct in that assumption?" "Lute and Beth told me you were acute," observed Sarehl. "Hasn't Sarssen told you?" Kher shook his head. "Does it come as a surprise?" Reluctantly, Kher found himself responding to Sarehl's evident amusement and mute invitation he it. "Not entirely, Sarehl, no. I already knew Sarssen was god-touched as Beth and Lute are. And there is an inescapable logic that tells me he, like them, is mageborn, but until I came here I had no inkling Beth was become Adept, nor the faintest suspicion Sarssen was Mishtok. I would know more of the haskar's background." Sarehl nodded. "So would we all," he agreed. "There's something very different about that man. We all feel it. Power clings to him, doesn't it?" Kher pursed his lips. "It does to Lute and Beth, too, and to you as well - even the Saturim is not untouched." Kher thought for a moment then added, a glint in his eyes, "It is ironic your youngest brother speaking of warrior obedience, is it not? Both Sarssen and Bethel know they can come and go as they please and that, in the end, I cannot stop them. Yet they do not." "Should they be so presumptuous, Kher, you'd confiscate their inheritance and banish them," said Sarehl, a serious note to his voice. "Not that I think such considerations motivate their response to you. They would survive without their southern inheritances. I would see to that. But they have earned them, Kher,

through much suffering." Kher pursed his lips. "Perhaps I could take that action, perhaps not. I am not sure even that would be possible. They are potentially very powerful men." "Then," replied Sarehl, placidly, "it says much for the way they were raised and trained in your society that they continue to willingly owe allegiance to you, Beth especially, when the draw of his Samar home is so strong." "I am relieved they do so," was the somewhat sardonic response. "We have seen enough unbridled power on Ambros." "I don't think either Beth or Sarssen would act to harm, Kher. They've both been far too badly hurt themselves to inflict such on others." "That is also a relief," murmured Kher, with a smile. "I take your point, Sarehl, and am comforted by it." ~~~ The following evening saw Brue directly approach the warlord, his ingenuous words robbing Kher of feeling any offence was intended. "I'm sorry," said Brue, simply. "I didn't mean to offend." Kher watched the youth imively, his cool eyes scanning the young face. Brue blushed. "Whatever my feelings are, Sar's reminded me I was in error and that guests don't embarrass other guests." This was said stiffly and with considerable effort of will. Kher's eyes stayed fixed to the flushed face. "I accept your apology, boy, and appreciate it. Let me say again, it is understandable you should hold me responsible for the sufferings your family endured." Kher saw the definite flinch. He judged Brue was profoundly hurt by the shattering of his family. "You seem cruel and warlike to us. Are you all like that?" came the very naive question that showed how boyish Brue still was. A smile glimmered in the cool eyes. Kher gestured to a chair, saw Brue hesitate, waited, and was rewarded with a tremulous smile and the chair drawn close.

"Churchik are a martial people, Brue," began the warlord, quietly. "Let me tell you about a people who so hurt your own. Yes?" Brue nodded. "Let me take you to the beginning." It was an invitation Brue, ever curious, couldn't resist. He drew his chair closer. Watching from a distance, Kalor caught Kaleb's eyes and jerked his head to indicate Brue and the warlord talking, the latter clearly amused, the smile deep in pale eyes. Kaleb was about to go to Kalor when he heard a gasp and swung round startled, his gaze coming to rest on Katakin who lay back in Daxel's arms. She was going into premature labour just as he suspected. After an hour it was clear birth was imminent. Daxel was in a hopeless fret and quite unlike Sarehl who stayed placid and interested at each birth of his children. "It's time you left us, Dase," said Kaleb firmly, but kindly. "Katakin has to concentrate on what she's doing and with you thinking she's falling apart every time she moans, you'll be more distraction than help." Another deeper moan made Daxel scamper from the room where Luton awaited him and purposefully took his twin away to make him tipsy. "Now, my dear, we begin," said Kaleb, in soft encouragement to Katakin. ~~~ Katakin was true to her word. She was up and about the next morning as if nothing had happened, Kaleb's stitches ignored as if they didn't exist. Her only concession to childbirth was her promise to the healer that she wouldn't attempt to ride. Dane-Meloki went everywhere with her, tied and held across her chest steppe fashion, the sling simple but effective, the child not fussed. Everyone was interested to see how the steppe folk treated their young. It was noticed the fractiousness of the first days was replaced by placidity, especially as Katakin utterly ignored cries she recognised were demands and not needs. As the days ed, the infant no longer demanded, was in a routine that never deviated and scarcely uttered a sound other than to gurgle at her mother or father. DaneMeloki already learned she was merely one of a people who had other demands on their time and energies and she fitted into a social fabric where she belonged and would grow, just as Jonqi and her siblings did.

Daxel was an inordinately proud father, the smile he wore staying with him for days. Ensore was delighted for him, Ongwin paternal, Eli captivated by the small mite and Taran amused by the men around her. "Why Dane-Meloki?" Ensore asked, two days after the child's arrival and any fuss about her died down. "Was the name thought of before she was born?" "No," answered Daxel, lounged back with a tankard to hand. He looked tired because his and Katakin's nights were broken, but he looked very restful, the sometimes smouldering eyes, that showed such a range of emotions, serenely contented. "Then what, lad?" "She's named for Ahliah's youngest sister, Ens, a girl I became fond of when I was in Kyaran. She didn't grow to maturity. That haunted Ahliah because he loved the little girl very much. It's for Ahliah we chose the name, even though Kat doesn't know him. Soon she will, won't she, if you still intend sending me to be an ambassador to Kyaran?" "A nice gesture," approved Ensore, raising his tankard. "And Meloki? It's got a ring to it and is most unusual." "It's a combination of her steppe greatsire, and Mam," answered Daxel, a slight catch to his voice. "I should have picked the Melas," Ensore replied. "You've given her a name no one else will have, Dase, be sure of that." "Dane was my choice, and Meloki came from Kat. I thought Melok was shorter but Kat assured me it sounded too boyish." "She's right," assented Ensore, on a yawn. "There's just one other matter, lad, I thought I should bring to your attention." Daxel turned his head so he faced the Chamah. "Any child of the Saturim must be blessed, Dase, and though DaneMeloki's birth marks the end of informal celebrations for my state marriage, the Curule has decided, somewhat hastily I might add, that she be blessed in the royal Dahkilan conventional manner." ~~~

The occasion had Ongwin's touch of theatricality and ceremonial pomp so beloved of the Curule and the ruling nobility. Though Ensore, with Taran's connivance, managed to rid his everyday life of cloying ostentation and ceremonial, he'd not yet got round to state functions. He sensibly decided to leave reform until after the marriage celebrations. So Daxel and Katakin were well and truly caught in the mesh, Katakin's protests and mutterings essentially ignored by those who fussed and fumed about her as she was dressed. The entire court was in attendance, eager and curious since many hadn't set eyes on the Saturimonda from the southern steppe lands and others wanted to see for themselves that there was another of new blood brought into the royal line. Some disapproved. The majority were becoming resigned to their most unusual Chamah and his unpredictable starts and waited with pleasurable anticipation. It was Daxel who carried the tiny infant, the child swathed in heavy robes that draped and fell over her father's hands. In one way, especially, it was a powerful spectacle because there were, gathered together, what constituted a very large extended family from many places on Ambros. When Charilae walked down the aisle with Bethel, all heads turned and excited chatter broke out at her chestnut hair and unusual eyes that many thought familiar, then stopped and started again when Chey was sighted in her mass of jewellery and visible tattoo. Luton's tattoo had gone unnoticed, but, if it was seen, it drew little comment. The Dahkilan had learned not to be surprised by anything connected with the Chamah's eccentric new kin. There were just raised eyebrows and eloquent sighs. There were also long speculative looks at the warlord who seemed impervious to everyone other than his immediate family and the couple awaiting a blessing on their daughter. Dane-Meloki made no sound when she was blessed. The ring placed in her clutching fingers afforded her gurgling amusement while she waited for her parents to take rings to be held in trust for her until she reached the age of ten cycles. At that age she would be blessed again and the rings would be placed on her hands, one on each finger. Leaving after the ceremony Daxel and Katakin were touched by the chorus that sang for them as they walked slowly down the aisle. Leading the singers was Bethel who remained standing after everyone else, true to Dahkilan protocol, sat again. Bethel's bass-baritone was powerful and melodious and rang about the huge building. He may have lost his boy soprano, but none who heard him sing

as an adult forgot the depth and magnificence of his mature voice. Daxel turned his head to his brother when he drew level with the singers, such delight and gratitude in the dark eyes Bethel almost stopped singing. Instead he just gave a nod in response, not missing a note. Just at the outside entrance, Ensore brought the short procession to a halt. Sarehl didn't blink when Eli rose and walked sedately, and with unimpaired calm, to be in front of Daxel and Katakin, unrolled a scroll and began quietly, but with authority, to read what was written on it. No one moved except Daxel who was clearly startled. "The Chamah makes it known that the Saturim is granted lands in the remote Lerge region of northern Dahkilah as a personal gift on the birth of his daughter. With this land deed goes the southern region of Samar, the Cesse, gifted this day by the Strategos of Samar to his brother. The boundaries of this new city-state have been drawn up by mutual consent so it may develop in the future. This is your Chamah's will." Silence fell. Kher was amused by the turn of events, Luton entertained and delighted for his brother, Sarehl smug and Ensore complacent. Bethel gave a huge smile. Katakin was speechless. Daxel stood stunned. He allowed Ensore to shepherd them out the entrance, and simply nodded when it was suggested Katakin might like to be with Kaleb so she could rest. Katakin vehemently shook her head. She refused to budge. When she saw Kaleb casually approach with a goblet she thankfully took it, and, to slake her thirst, she drank long and deeply, then blinked. She looked vaguely around, suddenly quite amenable to Kaleb's suggestion that perhaps she was more tired than she thought. She didn't see the healer's droll look at Ensore as he escorted her away. By the time Kaleb returned, he saw Daxel smiling and trying to fend off Eli who teased him in the usual bantering way. It had the desired effect. It brought a militant and retaliatory sparkle to dark eyes. "What a way to throw it at Dase," Kaleb observed to Ensore, who merely affably grinned. "It certainly had the desired effect on the nobility, didn't it?" He lifted a goblet. "Dase has been at me for some time to tackle them on my own , so no one can say I ignored the suggestion." The grin faded slightly when he saw mild

reproof in the clear eyes, and he hastened to add, "Listen to me, old friend - had Ongwin, Sarehl and I suggested this to Daxel, what do you think he'd have said? Would he just have accepted without qualms and unnecessary soul-searching? I think not." He saw the healer's arrested expression. "Just so, Kaleb. Though there's momentary disbelief, you'll notice Dase rapidly recovers and will doubtless give Eli his come-uppance any minute now, deservedly so, too, the way the man's giving him such a hard time. Also, , I had the announcement formalised as a royal proclamation. Dase is far too Dahkilan to renounce a royal decree even if Katakin would try, and, since it's Sarehl who's part of the conspiracy, Dase will accept it. You'll see." "Whose idea was this?" Ensore gave a charmingly, bland smile. "Mine, Kaleb. As always, Ongwin was indispensable in seeking out land that's barely inhabited by the Dahkilan. Those still on it have been told their titles will be confirmed in perpetuity by Dase." "What will he call himself?" "Saturim, probably, with allegiance to Sar and me until he's sure what he's doing." "What about his troops? Will he just abandon them? I can't see Dase doing that." "No," laughed Ensore. "His men are already a comfortable mix that works extremely well together. You've got Ortokian, Samars, and Dahkilans, all answerable to him. They'll be the backbone of his army to defend his city." "What city?" demanded Kaleb. "It'll have to be built," mused Ensore, amused. "And who'll run the lad's army while he's learning how to cope with all this?" "Who else but Sache, dear friend," replied Ensore, on a chuckle. "He has my blessing, though he doesn't need it. He shouldn't just be messing about in Dahkilah when he can hold a position of authority with Dase. And now Dalmin's back, he'll be part of it as well. Arth may be at some time in the future, but he's still busy up north helping bring things under control for Sarehl. He works closely with Maren. I wonder if, like Kalor, he'll stay in Samar?"

"And who'll teach Dase statecraft?" asked Kaleb, hard put to it not to burst out laughing. Ensore yawned. "Sar and I've already started, Kaleb. The lad's been learning for weeks," he murmured. "And Ongwin's a terror for that sort of thing. Dase has been under his tutelage and already knows laws backwards. Ongwin's a merciless tutor, something Dase knows from boyhood days." Ensore stretched back and crossed his legs at the ankles. "And Katakin?" "What of her?" asked Ensore, languidly. "What will she do while the poor lad's being run off his feet?" "She'll be an ambassadress in Kyaran once they go north. In the meantime she has an infant who will demand her attention," said Ensore placidly, in a way that showed he was enormously pleased with himself. "What? Kyaran?" Ensore nodded. "Does Dase know?" Ensore nodded complacently again. "Dase has learned a great deal since he returned to Elibera, Kaleb, so much so it shouldn't be too much longer before I send him north to Krynn. Ahliah will welcome the lad's company, won't he?" Kaleb's gravity deserted him and he went off into a peal of mirth. "You've thought of everything," he exclaimed, iringly. "Gods, who would have thought it? And Sar?" "Ask him," invited Ensore lazily, his hands going behind his head. His eyes briefly glinted. "Being given the chance to give away some of his indecently large territory delighted him. He didn't just give land to Dase either. Other Samars have been given land titles, too." Kaleb rested a hand on the Chamah's shoulder. "You, my friend," he uttered, "are the consummate conspirator." "Taran will cure me," answered Ensore, ruefully. Kaleb shook his head.

"She'll aid and abet you disgracefully, Ens, and you know it. She's delighted with all this, isn't she?" Ensore nodded. "I think, Ens, when ceremonies are completed in a few days from now, there'll be changes in Dahkilah." Closing his eyes, Ensore refused to be drawn. Kaleb moved away, to find himself face to face with the warlord who looked down at him from a vastly superior height, a decided smile in pale eyes. "He is enormously pleased with himself, is he not?' he observed calmly, nodding his head in Ensore's direction. Kaleb grinned. "Aye, he is," he agreed. "For so many cycles he's wanted to do something for Dase. Now he's relaxed because he's done what he set out to do. One day Dase will have his own home. Ongwin's been concerned Samar may unsettle Dase, both he and Ens worried Samar would be as much a dream for Dase as it was for Beth. They feared the shattering of a long held illusion would harm him, too." Kher's eyes became intent. "Was it then a dream for Beth?" he asked, quietly. He thought the eyes upturned to his were solemn but also tinged with melancholy. "Oh yes, Suldan. Beth went back to the dream he clung to all those cycles. It was what kept him alive and sane over that misery of an existence." "What happened?" Kaleb's eyes hardened. "He found a new city built on the devastation of what was his home. He could identify with the Academy, his former music master, and with his family -." Kaleb broke off. Kher watched him. "And?" he prompted, gently. "He was unconditionally rejected and reviled by people, many of whom he grew up with." Kaleb saw the shocked surprise on the warlord's face. "Oh indeed, Suldan. Even though every man and woman knew the living hell the lad endured for cycles, still many turned against him. They all know about he and Lute. It's common knowledge." Kaleb's voice broke in a way that made the warlord turn his head from looking across the room, back to look down at the healer. He waited for the little man to cough and continue. "Beth's suffering was different, because where Lute was insensible much of the time Bethel wasn't, the boy

sentient and feeling every ounce of abuse. How the boy didn't go insane staggers me." "I am sure it was Sarssen who saved him." "You're quite right," murmured Kaleb. "All you need to know is that Bethel was spat on, his son reviled as a half-breed Churchik and the son of a traitor to Samar." Kher drew in his breath, sharply. "Sarssen experienced it as well." "Does the Strategos know this?" Kaleb shook his head. "No, Suldan, and he mustn't either. He'd turn away from a people who so deeply hurt his brother. We need Sar in Samar." "Was Beth so hurt?" "Very, very deeply, Suldan, and profoundly shaken. After all he coped with, he hoped to return to his home where he could raise his son as he was raised, in a Samar city where he'd be understood and welcomed as a survivor. It didn't happen. Our hearts went out to Beth, you can believe that. Though Kalor dealt with things, the damage to Beth was done." Kaleb paused. "Sarssen was with him, so, as of old, he helped the lad. The Chamah helped, too. We all tried, in our own ways." "I did not know this," said Kher, eyes narrowed and his gaze going to the tall figure that stood silent and quiet some distance from them, Bethel's attention on Daxel. "In appearance he represents everything Samars have come to hate. Bethel felt he had to renounce all he was if he was to be accepted in Samar society. It was a cruel lesson to learn of the reality of life, Suldan, and not one Beth deserved. He told Sarssen he couldn't be anything other than what he'd been made by the warlord and, as a warrior, Suldan, he knows his physical home is in the south at this time." Kher remained silent. "Suldan, the dream that shattered devastated Bethel, because it truly was his only hope. I don't think the hope has completely died either." "He is a very fine young warrior," Kher said, thoughtfully. "Where is his spiritual home, Adept?" Kaleb's eyes shone.

"With those he loves, Suldan - the family in Samar, his brothers wherever they are, Valshika. It's also his music, being an accomplished southern bard and a master musician in the north. But he's also deeply and irrevocably Samar." "And the son?" "He'll most likely follow his father, Suldan. He'll hopefully grow up knowing two worlds, warriorhood as well as his Samar heritage, and we'll pray he's not as devastated and torn by that as his father. So far, Kal seems to thrive." "So Beth went home to a dream that shattered in front of him." Kher spoke to himself. "That was a savage blow for one who lived for such a moment, Adept." "It was," came the whole-hearted agreement. "It made the lad quite unstable there for a while." "Indeed," murmured Kher, his eyes travelling from Bethel to Sarssen who now stood next to the younger man, his hand on Bethel's shoulder. Bethel was laughing and shaking his head. The warlord asked abruptly, "Would Beth reject his warrior status if I offered him that option?" Startled, Kaleb looked up. He shook his head in a definite negative in a way that surprised Kher. "Suldan, Beth's very proud of being a tempkar. He told both Sarssen and Sarehl that. He says he's earned it a very hard way. He now knows people must accept him for what he is as he's learned to do." "Courageous boy that," observed Kher. "He is also as unusual as his brothers." Kher's expression softened as he took in the still lovely face, with the luminous eyes that so enchanted and enthralled a warlord it made him keep the boy close to him for cycles, quite bewitched by the gentle, appealing beauty. Kaleb left Kher with his brows knit together in thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jane had his hands full because he found he had Jonqi to care for as well as Kalbeth. Mishak found himself on the run, too, because Sarssen decided to send Gamot to serve the warlord for the duration of Kher's stay in Elibera, the few eschelis brought north unable to cope. Tearfully Gamot protested, then, when Sarssen managed to calm him but remained adamant, Gamot yielded to the inflexibility, whimpering that it was slavery again. It being purely a temporary arrangement meant nothing to Gamot. A large hand on his shoulder drew him close to the warrior. "I would let nothing hurt you, Gamot," said the indolent voice. "I promise you this, boy. You were scatty at the beginning of the journey here, but that is long since and was understandable after the life you were forced to lead. You work very well, young one. This is not a punishment. You work as you have done lately and rewards will come. Now serve the warlord as best you can, boy. It would be helpful to me." Gamot sniffed, nodded dolefully and left. Had Sarssen foreseen the consequences of getting Gamot to serve the warlord, he'd have thought twice. And whilst Gamot came to with his new function, Jane was sought out by Ensore who wanted advice on how to handle greybeards. Bethel's tales of Jane's refusal to let those from Dainstok and Thorik, who were entrenched, bully either himself or Bethel, brought a light to Ensore's eyes. He couldn't hear enough, had fits of laughter, and developed a fast and respectful friendship with Jane. "So this protocol thing that so sets up my back, ruffles your plumage, too, my lord?" Jane asked mischievously one afternoon. Lute snored peacefully at his feet. "It annoys me intensely," answered Ensore, dreamily, the Chamah relaxed. Usually Ensore cast himself into a chair and lounged idly, but today he was comfortable on the rugs, his fingers appreciatively running through the dense pile. "As Marshal I got used to an uncluttered existence." "You prefer utmost simplicity, don't you?" Jane watched the figure below him stir restlessly.

"Being Marshal gave me the taste of freedom seldom enjoyed by earlier Chamahs. There was a clarity of purpose and a simplicity to everything we did. Here I find myself embroiled in confusing ritual and protocol that I'd abolish if I could." Ensore watched Jane rise and fill tankards, took one and nodded his thanks with his lazy smile reminiscent of Sarssen. Ever taciturn, Jane said nothing. He just watched wistful grey eyes look out the window and across the courtyard to where Kalbeth and Jonqi sat, their dark heads together. Ensore shifted with a sigh and fell back on an elbow. "Time's not my own at present. Help me, I beg you. You've helped me with the Curule in ways they'll not be conscious of, so that pleases me, but it's the whole patronage structure that I think is so unnecessarily inflexible. Reform seems impossible to me. Have you had a chance to think of this?" "Aye. And nothing, my lord," came the firm response, "is impossible. Try explaining patronage again." The short spells with Jane gave Ensore food for thought and hope. ~~~ The actual ceremony came much too fast for Ensore who looked more hangdog with each succeeding day. Sarehl suspected that if it wasn't for Taran's strength and determination, Ensore would have fled Elibera never to return. Whenever he could, Ensore spent time with his friends and bore their interminable ragging with unabated good humour, aware it was this that kept his balance. Sarehl, however, revolted against having royal robes made to fit. "No!" he stated, baldly. "I'm not royal." "But you are," said Daxel, casually. "You're mated to royalty and for such a state occasion as this you have to look the part just as much as I do." Sarehl swung to face Ensore who shook his head. "Don't look to me, Sar. I'm rapidly learning to do exactly as I'm told without argument or comment. It makes life so much easier. It was only this morning I was advised how monstrously long the procession is going to be. The gods know how long it'll take us to get into the damned ovial, endure the ceremony, then get

out again." "What procession?" demanded Sarehl, staring down suspiciously at Kasan. "Kas, what aren't you telling me?" "You'll see at the rehearsal scheduled for midsun tomorrow," promised Kasan, on a guilty laugh. She tried to edge away but a long arm caught and held her. "Kas!" said a goaded voice that also laughed. "Well then," began Kasan, reluctantly. "Behind the Chamah goes his immediate family, Eli and Aranda, me, the children -." "What?" interrupted Sarehl, forcefully. "You're proposing to dress the children in those ridiculous state robes? Alfar will tear his to shreds - you'll never keep the boy still!" "I'll drug him," offered Kaleb, facetiously. Kher's eyes were warm with appreciation. Kalor chortled. He twinkled at the warlord who found him entertaining. "Gods," Kalor rumbled. "I foresee some merry moments." "Then," persisted Kasan, tossing back her hair, "Dase follows with his family, followed by Bethel and his, in company with Sarssen and Kaleb." "They won't be robed surely?" Sarehl turned to look at Bethel. "No, we'd feel hopelessly out of place," came the mild reply. "We shall wear ceremonial warrior garb, Sar." Sarehl looked interestedly at his brother. "Tell me, Beth -" he began, before he was cut short. "Lute follows with Chey and the Suldan -." Here Kasan gave Kher a delightfully limpid smile that got an answering one. "With them will be Jaim, and so on. Other dignitaries, royalty and ambassadors fall in behind them." "A pity Ayesha can't be here," said Kher, beside Sarssen. "It seems to be such a family occasion."

"She has our young daughter, as well as Shae, my lord," responded Sarssen. "Is your lad with the Shadowlanders then?" asked Jaim, crossing to Kasan and tousling her hair affectionately as he spoke to Sarssen. "My lord," came a voice at the entrance before Jaim could be answered. "There's one who begs audience with you. We don't know her and she gives no name other than to say she expects a welcome." Luton turned to Kalor. "Any guesses, Kalor?" Kalor shook his head. "This becomes more interesting by the moment, doesn't it?" he drawled. "How long is it going to take to get us all assembled for the morning of the actual ceremony, especially since it's at mid-morn, isn't it, Kasan?" "You'll be able to tell us after tomorrow's rehearsal," answered Kasan sweetly, her smile deceptive. Kalor shook his head and the tall figure backed hastily away amid much amusement. "No, Kas, no," he pleaded. "Don't do this to me." "You organise so well," returned Kasan, inflexibly. "Now, Kalor, you must be brave." "Oh the gods," groaned Kalor. "Why did I ever meet you, Sarehl? That's what I ask myself." The jesting was cut short by a curt announcement. "My lord, guests come." ~~~ All eyes went to the entrance. A woman stood there, her hand clasped firmly by a tall boy with copper-flecked eyes who stared curiously at those beyond him. Beside the woman stood Indariol, his expression quizzical. "Chlo!" gasped Sarehl, starting forward. "Ah, loved one! Your ing us unites us as we've not been for so very long. Chlo!" Chlorien let go her son's hand and responded to the embrace. "And Kasphros, you're so welcome!" Sarehl placed

his arm about the child who stared up at him without speaking. "Do you me, even though we've only met through your mother?" A head nodded immediately. "You're Sarehl. Father thought much of you," said Kasphros, in a voice that was very close to breaking with the onset of maturity. He looked about him. Sarehl turned to Indariol. Kasphros took several steps forward, his eyes scanning the room until they sought and found Jonqi, the girl lying comfortably on a rug flat on her stomach. She was asleep on her arms after having been propped up on her elbows, a book open in front of her. Those present watched Kasphros. "Jonqi," said Kasphros, the young voice husky. No one spoke. Everyone was fascinated. Jonqi stirred, rolled onto her side, rubbed blearily at her eyes and then stared across at the tall boy, his hand imperatively out to her and his extraordinary eyes intensely welcoming. Without hesitation, she rose and crossed to him. Their finger tips met, the fingers entwined and there was a crackling in the air about them as they drew close and stood looking at each other in silence. Then and there, Kher decided these two children were more than highly unusual, even their expressions not those of children. Then Jonqi stepped back from Kasphros with a broad smile and went to her father. The reunion began. It was a revelation for Kher who, as an outsider, kept well back so he could be a detached onlooker. He watched the Shadowlander he now knew was the Aelkin of his people. The man spoke first to Sarehl, then Jaim, followed by a gentle touch of both Luton and Bethel, before he turned in utmost pleasure to Sarssen whom he greeted as a brother, fingertips touching in a way that suggested to the warlord something of the one was felt or absorbed of the other. He guessed it was a signal of specific recognition. Such a gesture was new to him. And, yet again, Kher saw Sarssen in another light, as a warrior mated to the Aelkin's sister. Their communion, though brief, showed remarkable empathy, man to man. Indariol finally turned to see Jonqi who stood a little distance from him, her eyes deeply wistful as though she thought he may no longer recognise her and would sweep past. Kher was pleased to see the Aelkin pause and stare at the girl as though he couldn't believe who he saw. He smiled broadly and went

into a crouch, his arms wide. But what shook Kher was Chlorien's reaction to Luton and Bethel. She stood quietly, but she had such a powerful presence Kher's eyes were constantly drawn back to her. She welcomed Sarssen. She talked long with him and with Sarehl, before she was drawn to Ensore, Jaim and Kaleb. Her eyes lit up at the sight of those men, too. From them she turned to seek Luton. He stood to one side, his dark eyes fixed on a sister he'd not truly known for so many cycles she could well be a stranger. Their first was disastrous for Luton, the second, in the mage battle, devastating for both, and, later, he was with her briefly in the Shadowlands. His last was through a mindmeld. Now they faced each other. For observers, it was anticlimactic. Kher followed the tall young woman with long black curly hair and eyes of clear, cool violet, big and lustrous like Bethel's, her resemblance to that brother singularly striking. They could be twins. The power surging round and encoming every part of her was obvious even to the warlord. She carried an unusual tattoo similar to Chey's and Luton's. The long red skirt she wore was wound round her like a wrap, and the shift she wore over it softly draped into a flowing, trailing shawl that hung over one shoulder. Like her brothers, her hair was loose. Kher thought her a stunningly beautiful woman. He couldn't know how like Melas she was. Now she stared intently up at Luton. He stared back, neither saying a word. Then everyone in the room felt the odd little surge and flurry of power that went between them. Black and violet eyes mutually smiled, before Luton simply folded his arms about his sister and she leaned her head on his chest. While others went about their business, they stayed thus for a very long time. When they fell apart, Kher saw an expression on his son's face that touched him. It was from Luton Chlorien turned to face Bethel. He remained motionless throughout the greetings, his face a mixture of conflicting emotions and the expressive eyes starry with tears as he looked across at a sister he'd had no with since he was ten cycles old. It was a deeply poignant moment and clearly too much for both of them. Respectfully, heads bowed or turned away. This moment was only for the brother and sister. Even Sarehl walked to the far side of the room. It was Chlorien who moved to the brother to whom she was

closest as a child. Kher, unable to resist a glance, saw an indigo aura of luminosity spread from Chlorien and envelop Bethel where he stood, the young man transfixed and overcome by emotions he couldn't cope with. It was as if he was taken back to his first meeting with Sarehl, then with Daxel. As quickly as the aura came, the colour faded. At the moment brother and sister physically touched, Kher knew their minds effortlessly melded and they were together again as they longed to be. Bethel just held Chlorien against him with all his strength. Chlorien clung back, her face upturned. His head was bent, their eyes locked. It was an overpowering spectacle that made Kher catch his breath. His long fingers trembling, Bethel wiped Chlorien's cheeks and she swept tears from his face with a gentle hand. "I had so much to learn, Bethel, and faced many trials, but none were what you endured." "Myme Chlo," whispered Bethel, huskily. "There's so much to say, yet words won't come." "They will," she promised. "They will, Bethel. Walk with me, alone." Arms entwined, the two left the room. Kher saw Sarehl's, Indariol's and Kasphros' eyes follow them. Kher found Luton beside him, looked up, and saw the expression in the dark eyes. "Your family is together again, son, after so long." "Father." Luton sank down next to the chair. "I'd forgotten how like they are. They were very close as children, partly, I suppose, because they were nearest in age and Dase and I made a unit by ourselves. It's as if, by being together like Dase and me, they're complete, too, if you can understand." "Yes, Shasah, I can. And I see what her being here does for you and your brothers, son." ~~~ The dress rehearsal the following morning was the expected fiasco that at times

relapsed into hilarity and teasing that brought a twinkle to Sarssen's eyes. Kher thought it all predictably disastrous. Children cried or fretted and adults alternately scolded or cajoled. Alfar fell over his robes and cracked his head on a carved row of seats, the sobbing that followed quite heart-rending. Ongwin clawed at his hair. Kalor collapsed with mirth that irrepressibly bubbled from the man in a way that was hopelessly infectious. Kher noticed that the robed Strategos was quite lackadaisical as he ed the laughing Kalor. Kher hadn't seen Sarehl so pliable. Everything Kasan asked him to do was done promptly, and, when Alfar cracked his head, it was Sarehl who lifted and cradled him, caressing the chestnut head where it hurt. Tamas tried to pull off his robes with little agitated hands. A harassed but resigned Chamah smiled benevolently upon those assembled, the man trying to ignore the wails of bored, fractious children and the reigning chaos. Just as things were restored to order, Chloris wanted to relieve herself and Alfar sniffled mournfully as he tugged at uncomfortable robes. Tamas tried to hide under Sarehl's robes. And Kalbeth got an uncontrollable fit of giggles when Sarehl, trying to walk with dignity, tripped over his robe, almost fell, and relapsed, to Sarssen's amusement, into dark mutterings. Apart from these minor lapses, the rehearsal finally proceeded as planned, the only rebellious comments being from men who swore about being swathed in robes and cloaks that made them sweat and hampered freedom of movement. With dignitaries and royalty all arrived in Elibera, cosy, convivial evenings were at an end. Immediate kin to Ensore were swept into a round of court entertainment and protocol that gave them little time to themselves. Those representing their peoples, such as the warlord, Katakin and Chey, found themselves wrapped up in functions that seemed endless and monotonous, diplomatic etiquette complex and relentless. Since Sarssen was now known to be an Adept, he was expected to be present. Sometimes he gracefully bowed out and made Bethel or Kaleb stand in for him as Conclave representatives, while he returned to his chamber, yawning prodigiously from sheer ennui. The afternoon before the marriage ceremony, Kher, escaping from another round of formality that made Churchik hierarchy and protocol look like child's play, found Sarssen quietly snoozing under a tree in one of the secondary courtyards. The warrior obviously considered few would think to look for him there. Kher deliberately nudged him with a booted foot.

"Haskar," he said, sharply. Instantly, Sarssen's startled eyes opened to gaze sleepily into amused pale blue ones that considered him. They belied the harshness of voice. "My lord," he mumbled, hauling himself up so he sat and rubbed a hand across his beard. "It is unlike you to succumb so readily, Sarssen." Unable to restrain a yawn, Sarssen stretched, the green eyes quite tired. "My lord," he responded, without enthusiasm and about to get to his feet. A hand gesture stayed him. The warlord further forestalled him by easing himself down to enjoy the shade. Aware he was slightly dehydrated, Sarssen licked his lips. "I plead a legitimate excuse. I have been up and about at state and ambassadorial functions since early morn. I think if I have to mouth any more inane pleasantries, critical I do so, of course, being partly from a condemned Churchik race and therefore subject to acute suspicion, I shall simply fly away." The acerbity of tone was unfamiliar from the warrior. Kher looked hard at him, conscious Sarssen didn't look tired. He looked drained. "Fly away?" he repeated. Sarssen blinked and sat erect. "Metaphorically speaking, my lord," he murmured. Kher shook his head. "Not so, Haskar. Like my son, do you, too, have your dragon?" Green eyes met the warlord's, and, unusual in the warrior, Sarssen's fell first. "I do not see it as a threat, warrior." "Yes, my lord, I am bonded with a dragon." "It's name?" "He answers to Elbaroth, my lord." "And Sorien?" Sarssen nodded, wearily. "Yes, my lord, Beth's dragon came to him some time after mine came to me." "Do all mages have dragons?"

"I do not know, my lord, but I suspect not." "And the Scholar who regularly pops up on Ambros, Sarssen - has he a dragon?" "Yes, my lord." "Shasah told me the Scholar has formidable powers. Would you agree?" "Quite true, my lord. He can send me to sleep. Nor is there anything I can do to stop him. Chlorien had a most powerful teacher, my lord, even a frightening one except he is so calm and affable." "And who stands in for you at the function you so adroitly evade, warrior?" With yet another yawn, Sarssen answered with a smile. "Beth, my lord. The boy is as natural a diplomat as Sar and Dase, with the same charm and dignity. He displays the same qualities at home, and, because of it, he has royalty and dignitaries eating out of his hand. That is, of course, despite his being a Churchik warrior. He and Lute are receiving a great deal of pleasing acceptance, my lord." He saw Kher frowned and waited. "That is good," said Kher, abstractedly. Then he raised his head from contemplation of his boots. "I wish to speak with you about Beth." Sarssen hauled himself higher up the trunk. "He is now well adjusted, my lord. There is no cause for concern. He accepts who and what he is." "The Adept Kaleb tells me his people do not." Sarssen sighed. "Some time has elapsed since then, my lord, and people have had a chance to settle into their new city. Maybe things will be different for Beth this time round." Kher fingered his beard. "Perhaps. I have a proposal for you, Haskar. Would you consider it for me?" Sarssen turned his head so he faced Kher directly. "Of course, my lord." Suddenly he was no longer languid, his eyes piercingly alert, something Kher noted but refrained from commenting on.

"We lost many haskars, too many for the stability of the warrior hierarchy. Would you agree?' "Yes, my lord, I would." Kher looked on him with a kindly but speculative eye. "You are currently one of our youngest haskars, Sarssen, but you are no longer a young man." He saw the flashing grin. "We need younger ones to come forward who can be coached by older warriors, yes?" Sarssen nodded. "Also, movement through the ranks can no longer solely be on military merit." "No, my lord, I understand that." "So maybe we need to look at alternatives for rewarding warriors who serve their society and warlord in the capacity of ambassadors. Such warriors show the rest of Ambros that the elite culture from which they spring has laudable qualities. I do not believe such abilities demean the warrior. Quite the reverse." "I suggest many warriors would agree with you, my lord." "Even the Correcs, Haskar?" "Maybe not," conceded Sarssen, thoughtfully. "But I think the cycles to come will have warriors change their attitudes considerably as they see more of Ambros, not as conquerors, but as people who are part of the whole complexity of races that make Ambros what she is." "You still believe the Churchik have a role to play, do you not?" "Once suspicions and hatreds are laid to rest, my lord, yes I do." "With our people, Sarssen, military prowess must remain paramount. It's the source of what we are, but it can be enhanced by other attributes. In fact, it must be. Where we showed our strength and superiority must be shown in ways other than through physical domination of others. The challenges must come through the self and be more subtle. Perhaps we can become universally more learned and achieve another form of domination through an enlightened approach to those we meet." "Intellectual dominance," murmured Sarssen. "That is indeed a challenge."

"But not an unrealisable one. Think of Ortok, warrior. It was a cultural centre that attracted scholars and not just musicians and artists of all descriptions. Why would it be so difficult for warriors, ittedly bred for war, to become universally learned in the arts and the sciences? Such intellectual weapons are more powerful than any sword. The warlord made you in such a mould, Losaren." "Would the warrior remain, my lord?" As he asked the question, Sarssen couldn't know how much like a Druan Kher sounded. "I think so," mused Kher, fascinated by the picture he conjured in mind's eye. "War is an art, Sarssen, the skills learned through it valuable in all sorts of ways and not purely as defensive either. There were, once, I believe, such warriors, but long ago before memory. Think of coordination of mind and body, warrior meditation, the development of strength and physical prowess, horsemanship and leadership qualities, the ability to command, among many other laudable skills. I merely touch on a few attributes. Many things that come from warrior training are beneficial. What must change, is the arrogant assumption that through power and strength comes the right to subjugate those who until now were considered weaker and therefore inferior. What the Churchik have to learn is that weakness cannot be equated with inequality." Sarssen remained silent, intrigued by the way Kher's argument developed. "Societies must evolve, I think you would agree?" "Yes, my lord, I would. Stagnant societies that are complacent tend to die sooner or later." "I told Brue that we grew from a series of petty lords who feuded, with the fiercest overcoming and subjecting the weaker. This subjection spilled over to other people. Slavery was the result. We even absorbed the Vaksh though some survived to come to dominance, like the line of Val from which your father comes. He amalgamated us in a way not seen before and set a command structure in place that actually worked very efficiently, until, with him dissent was no longer advisable. That is why it is so important we go forward and not back to petty squabbling, that the existing social structure he forced on us, and the unity, too, is used to build on as a positive. If your father left no other legacy, he created a unified structure that can evolve. I do not want to lose the momentum of change forced

on us, Haskar. Strength lies in unity, in looking ahead, and in planning for those changes, because come they will, whatever any of us may think. Your father saw this very clearly." Sarssen stared down at the dirt, a finger idly drawing then erasing. "How does this affect Beth, my lord?" "That boy is a warrior, young man, and a very fine one. You know that as well as I do." "Yes, my lord, I do." "And all credit to you he is. You may think I do not know or suspect all you did for that boy, but I do, not just through what Shasah tells me, but through observation and piecing things together. Sorien came to your aid at Caciqua after you were both truth-read and by so doing showed the Churchik what he has chosen to be. Emil also told me he took back Dainstok by himself." "That is true, my lord." "Since he has chosen, Losaren, I would make him haskar because I believe he is ready. As a haskar he could contribute much." Sarssen nodded, delight in his eyes. "And Lodrin is presently Sarat?" Sarssen nodded again, a tinge of curiosity in his expression. "Bethel has some of Correc's estate held in trust for the boy, but the child is not katif of those?" "No, my lord, Lodrin is not katif of his own holdings. Beth also holds title, but only as a second son." "That must change. I want Sorien to be haskar for his own sake and not just a Saratquan because he is a younger son." Kher stared into the distance. Sarssen waited. "I wish Beth to feel he belongs in our society and not just accepted because he is an adopted son." "To be valued for himself and not just as Lodestok's son would mean much to Beth, my lord." "There are untouched lands north of yours, Haskar, inhabited, as I recall, by roving groups of bandits. There were also settlements destroyed, firstly by us because they refused to submit to being absorbed into the army, and then again

by disaffected Mahdians." "I think so, my lord. It is hard to tell exactly who the marauders are. There are also at least three city-states that were mostly razed where people eke out pitiful existences. Even the rich land about them is currently unproductive. It is a very lawless part of Churchik territory, my lord." "Could you help bring it back to prosperity?" Kher turned his head to stare directly at Sarssen whose smile was faint but resigned. "Jane could, my lord, with Kel's help." "Who is Kel?" "The leader of Beth's mercenaries who now make up his small but highly efficient army at Dainstok and Thorik. They are formidable fighters, quite fanatically devoted to Beth. Our warriors, too, would respond." "Good." Kher nodded with satisfaction. "Some of that land I want given to young Manas to complement his own. I intend to make him haskar as well. He deserves it. He and Beth are still friends, yes?" "Very much so, my lord." "Then the land of both will march side by side, Bethel's share to be his personal katif for his son. Lasca will also receive lands there. Can I leave this with you to consider and expedite, Sarssen? Can you draw up where you think boundaries should be?" "You give me much to consider, my lord. It will be as you wish," was the immediate response. Kher rose stiffly and glanced down with glinting eyes. "Do you wish for more land, Haskar?" Sarssen shook his head. "I have more than enough on my hands as it is, my lord, I thank you." ~~~ Manas arrived in Elibera the next day, his priority an immediate audience with his warlord that kept him occupied for some hours. After Manas answered

searching questions, described a rapidly growing new city that would one day be extremely prosperous, and then went on to outline how the bones of a newer city further south in Samar lands was being constructed for the Saturim, Kher was intrigued. He learned by what Manas didn't say how Samars reacted to Churchik. The young warrior's expressive shrug and expression showed his time as ambassador was anything but easy. "Do attitudes change, Manas?" Manas thought deeply. "The last season or two have been easier," he itted, candidly. "Were you spat on and verbally reviled?" "Sometimes, my lord, if I was unlucky enough to be placed in a situation where it could happen. Kalor and the Strategos tried very hard to make sure I was not exposed unnecessarily." "They were not so quick to notice Sorien's trials." "My lord?" "Sorien suffered the same abuse. I suppose it was such a remote possibility no on was prepared for it." "Beth?" Manas' eyes softened. "No, my lord, that is too cruel." "It occurred nevertheless." Kher went on calmly, "And your observations on the Strategos, Tempkar?" "An astute man, my lord, and extremely likeable. He asked me to be his friend since I was already one to his brother. I ire him intensely, my lord." "Well done, Manas," said Kher, his tone warm and complimentary. "And the Saturim? Did you meet him?" "Yes, my lord, on a number of occasions. He was prepared to respond to me because of my friendship with Beth and through his understanding of our people having been in Caciqua. He is formidable like the Strategos, but in a different way. They both have unusual charisma. The Saturim is sometimes so like his twin, not that I know Shasah well, my lord, that I used to think he was your son."

"Their closeness grows with their reunion certainly," agreed Kher. "I notice it myself." "Have you anything else you wish me to say, my lord?" "No. You are travel-stained and doubtless weary. Before you go, Manas, I wish to say two things. Your courage in confronting an impossible situation in Samar has not gone unnoticed and merits the highest reward. You will respond from today to the title of Haskar, and you may discuss with Losaren the way in which you wish to subdue lands being given you to enhance your status. That is all. You will be escorted to the company at midsun. I will see you there." Kher watched the erect young man jerk up his head with sheer pleasure, the pale eyes shining before Manas bowed deeply and backed from the room. Dismissed, Manas sought out his chambers and with utmost relief sank into the bath prepared for him. The long wavy flaxen hair floated out behind him as he sank back with a sigh. He'd only finished dressing and combing a curly and very bushy reddish beard, when his escort, plus page, arrived. "Ambassador," nodded Manas, surprised. "Ambassador Manas." Saxen nodded back. "I'm glad you're here. How goes Samar?" Manas grinned amiably. "Probably the same as the steppes. How does your mate fare down there?" "Very well. And your intended?" "She is happy in her home," answered Manas. He didn't flinch when Saxen took his arm in a friendly gesture that was entirely northern. Once a Churchik warrior would have taken that for the deadliest insult. Now Manas just went along, quite ready to chat with a man with whom he was on good , the page trotting along in front of them. Together they entered the dining chamber set aside for guests, the large airy room called the ankarium. Kher glanced up with a faint smile. Ensore and Taran, Sarehl with other of their family, including Chlorien, Indariol and Jaim, were busy at another reception with Chey, Kaleb assisted by Charilae, and Katakin with Daxel, so the group gathered was small. Sarssen nodded affably, Manas not

missing the warmth in green eyes when they met his. Luton smiled his pleasure at both men but it was Bethel, looking up, who was delighted. Kalbeth, accompanying the southern party, was quickly on his feet and across to Manas, head bowed as boy to warrior and hands immediately clasped behind his back. "My lord, it is so long since we saw you. Are you well?" Manas eyed the boy in mild surprise. Then he smiled. He tapped the curly head, waited for Kalbeth to lift his head, put a hand under the young dogged chin, and smiled down. "Boy, I hardly recognise you. Your growth is staggering. You will rival your father and the Strategos for height. And yes, I thank you, I am well. It gives me pleasure to see you again." Over the boy's head, Manas looked wistfully at Bethel who still sat with eyes that now shone with welcome. "Beth!" Manas patted Kalbeth gently, then put him to one side so he could stride purposefully to Bethel. Bethel rose, his arms wide in the characteristic Samar gesture that evoked an un-southern response. Huge arms gripped Bethel in a powerful grasp. Bethel was taller but Manas was built in the classic Churchik mould, six feet and five inches, broad-shouldered and with a deep chest and massively muscled thighs. Like Kher and Lodestok before him, he made Bethel look a mere stripling. When Bethel gasped at the grip, Manas let him go and playfully shook him. "Beth, you look so well. No, more than that. Let me see you properly." He pushed his friend back, sighed, then peered intently into dark eyes that suddenly misted. "You look so happy, Beth. Are you? Tell me!" "I'm content, Manas, yes. I can't express that more clearly. I've found who I am and know what I want to be and where I may choose to tread." Bethel saw the young warrior's lips quiver. "Truly, dearest of friends. And it was you and Luth who helped me get there." Bethel touched Manas' face, the hand gripped then released. "Ah, gods, but it does me good to see you again. How long are you here?" "I was told the ceremony is mid-morn tomorrow, so feel I timed my arrival very well, Beth. I return to my duties immediately the ceremony is over." "For more than his duty," added Saxen, slyly. "Come clean, my friend."

"What's this?" asked Bethel, in lively astonishment. "What have you to tell us, Manas?" Manas actually blushed, saw Sarssen's interrogative look, Bethel's surprise and a quizzical expression in the warlord's eyes. Kher nodded. "I have asked for the Suldan's blessing to mate, Beth, that is all." "No!" exclaimed Bethel, delighted. "Well, man, who is she?" "She answers to Elinadah, Beth." Bethel shook his head. "I don't recall any court women by that name, Manas. Is she from your home state?" "No, Beth," mumbled Manas, his blush deepening. He looked hugely sheepish. "From ours," put in Saxen, helpfully. A chuckle broke from Sarssen. "Samar?" asked Bethel, incredulously. "You've chosen a Samar mate?" "Now, Beth," reproved Kher, on a twinkle. "You have something to tell Manas, too, have you not?" He got a blank stare from Bethel, then Bethel realised what was referred to and blushed as deeply as Manas. Manas gazed intently at his friend. Bethel sidled away but a long strong arm held him. "No, Beth. You know my secret, I would know yours. Tell me who she is." "Oh Manas," laughed Bethel, succumbing to the hold. "I'm mated to Charilae and you're mating with a Samar. What an odd thing is life." "Correc's daughter?" asked Manas, stunned. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter, his eyes watering. "Oh the gods, what a jest! And how Correc would hate it!" "And what about your family?" retorted Bethel, shaking with laughter. "How will they cope with a Samar?" "Not especially well," conceded Manas, on a shrug. "But what I feel for Elinadah

goes beyond race. She is very dear to me. The Suldan has also just honoured me, Beth, both with status and new lands that are for me and mine alone. They are not inherited, so I will be able to offer her a comfortable life if she will come south." "What is her family?" asked Bethel, wrinkling his nose. "Before she lost her parents, she tells me her father was a recordist at the Archival Centre and her mother worked in leather." "Their names?" "Dareval and Khan." "The gods!" said Bethel, blankly. "Sar knew them. Our Mam would know them and our Da most certainly would. If they're who I think they were, Manas, they had two sons called Khanel and Dare, both enslaved, and a daughter, but her name wasn't Elinadah. Not as I recall." "What was her name?" "She was older than me, so she's not as familiar -." "Melinda," broke in Luton, quietly. "She was a couple of cycles older than Dase and me, but we all went to music together. She took life more seriously than we did." "Good grief!" exclaimed Saxen. "She wasn't the little girl with the long brown hair and long legs we used to tease when she insisted on practising the eafest outside the Academy? Surely not." "The same one," answered Luton. He looked across to Manas. "Does she know what happened to her brothers?" Manas shook his head, both he and Luton turning to Bethel. "Beth?" "Aye," murmured Bethel sadly, his eyes rather melancholy. "That awful winter, Manas, ? When it was so cold I'd have died had I not been kept warm by my master?" "Yes, Beth, I very well. It was hellish."

"Dare died. I think Khanel went not long afterwards. They weren't slaves to a warrior so their lot was cruel. I tried so very hard to help those like them, Manas, but I couldn't save them. They were starved and froze to death." Sarssen saw the grief in Bethel's eyes and the stricken look in Manas' when the young warrior had to face what his people had done to the brothers of the woman he'd chosen as mate. It was another awful irony of the legacy of war. "So why would the young woman call herself Elinadah?" Sarssen asked, to fill a wrenching silence. Kher stroked his beard, his eyes going from face to face. "I think I can answer that," he said, calmly. "If you listen to the Churchik pronunciation of the name, the 'm' is almost silent and the young woman has had the stresses of her name spoken incorrectly. We have broken it into three syllables, as Elin-a-dah. She must have answered to that for cycles." "What happened to her, Manas?" Pale eyes clouded. "She was taken by a warrior, as were most female survivors. She escaped. She was rescued by a group of northerners who sent her on to the northern camp. She was still barely past girlhood." "She'd have been not yet fourteen cycles when Ortok fell," explained Saxen, helpfully. "Still only a child to be taken by a warrior. Is the warrior still alive?" Manas shook his head. "So you know who he was?" Manas nodded. "Her caring for a Churchik warrior comes as a surprise then," observed Sarssen, placidly. "It says much for you, young Manas, that she mates willingly with one of a kind who decimated her own." "My lord," responded Manas, his voice muted. "I think we should all be seated," suggested Kher, into the ensuing silence. "I expect Charilae to us shortly and Kaleb as well, so we shall await them." On the words, the door opened and the two spoken of were politely ushered into the room. The meal was tasty and leisurely. Though some ate well, others did so sparingly because this wasn't a main meal, but one of the constant repasts that were brought throughout the day. By the end of it, people lolled about idly in comfortable chairs, conversation desultory. With Manas, Bethel was animated in

a way that again was different, as if the young man was an altered person with such a dear friend. Kher was with them, tolerably well amused by the two beside him. It was his carrying voice the others heard. "They dance beautifully together, especially when they are drunk." "My lord!" protested Bethel, jerking round his head. His eyes sparkled. "You malign me, my lord." "No, I do not," responded Kher. "It is true, Beth," chuckled Manas. "You only truly loosened up when you were almost too drunk to stand!" ~~~ That evening was one of the most enjoyable Kher could for a long time, music and dancing going on well into the late hours despite the Chamah's marriage the next day. Bethel played, sang and recited, sometimes ed by Manas who threw himself into the occasion with unusual verve for a Churchik. His time among Samars showed, thought Kher, appreciatively. Dahkilan musicians, coached for weeks now by Bethel, were willing to play a wide range of southern and northern music, so much so many of the dignitaries, and even royalty, rose to dance and mix freely with other races. Kher sat it out, Jonqi often close by if she rested from dancing. She'd developed a deep rapport with the warlord that saw her come to the huge warrior, trust in big, solemn eyes that stared up into pale blue ones. Kher fell for Jonqi. It wasn't just because she was another Luton, but because her quaint gravity touched him and he felt she was a rare creature. He was extremely protective of the child in a way that wasn't missed. From there she watched her father and Chey circle on the floor in the desert way, Daxel and Katakin beside them, the twins' eyes meeting every so often. The intimate smile flickered across both faces before the pattern of dancing separated them again. It was watching them that made Kher decide the steppe folk had a great deal in common with the desert folk. He watched Jaim circle with Chlorien, before the Gnosti wandered from brother to brother and Indariol swept Chlorien away. The young woman always kept to

herself, her only real being with the healer, Sarssen, her brothers and the Chamah. Her son danced mostly with Jonqi, the two moving so fluidly together it was as if they'd known each other from birth and danced every day of their young lives. Their bodies moulded sinuously. For such youngsters they made a most erotic pair. Bethel and Charilae danced. So did Kalbeth and Chloris. The Strategos' daughter enchanted Kher with her unusual head of hair and her magnificently big green eyes that flashed like amules. She might still only be a child, but the ChamahElect had all the signs of being a great beauty, long legged and with the familial height. She was a princess of Dahkilah, by virtue of her status. And that took Kher back to Charilae. When she danced with either the Chamah or Eli, the warlord could've sworn he saw a fleeting resemblance, even to Kasan and Chloris, but, when he tried to pin the thought, he couldn't decide if it was the angle of profile, the expression, the shape of the mouth, or just sheer imagination. Frustrated, Kher looked away. He was convinced of the royal link but wondered if it was close. He noticed Sarssen, most often with Indariol and Kasphros, had been reluctantly dragged to his feet and performed gracefully and creditably, something that afforded the warlord considerable amusement. It was rarely he saw the reserved warrior in such a role. Sarehl crossed to Kher, his dark eyes going from dancer to dancer, but resting mostly on Kasan who circled first with Kaleb, then with Kalor, before she was whirled away by Brue who laughed down at her. "Your mate is a very pretty and accomplished dancer," Kher commented. Sarehl turned his head. The black eyes smiled. "She's pleasant to watch," he agreed. "It is my regret you cannot dance with her, Sarehl. I imagine you did once." "Yes," answered Sarehl, with a faint trace of wistfulness to his voice. "Samars are bred to dance. Music is in them from head to toe. I danced at Choice, Kher, where I won my mate, so at least I had that. And cycles before." Kher was puzzled and it showed in confused pale eyes. "I was mated before I met Kasan, Kher." "Shasah said nothing of this."

"Perhaps he thought you knew." "I knew a woman was slain when you were attacked, but Lban did not tell me who she was. Your mate?" Sarehl nodded, his head turned back to the dancers, where partners changed and the rhythm of music picked up again. "Are you telling me that the warriors who so crippled and savaged you, also destroyed your mate?" When Sarehl looked back at Kher, the warlord saw only patient resignation. "They were about to commit unmentionable atrocities on Alicia, Kher, so I forestalled them in the only way I knew. I saved her from that. The warriors then killed my little son and infant daughter. They answered to Saren and Chlo." "Dear gods!" whispered Kher. He looked away, unable to speak more. Sarehl didn't speak for long moments, but when he did, it was very softly. "It was a very long time ago, Kher. I'd be lying if I said I didn't care, because I still do and I always will. Nor can I forget. But nor can I hold onto a grudge against a whole people because of the cruelty meted out to me and mine by several warriors from that race." He paused, aware of tense shoulders next to him. "I'd dearly love to dance again, but I can't, so I accept that. At least I have my life and those of my brothers and sister." A slender hand reached out to touch Kher's. When the warlord raised his head to face Sarehl, the Samar saw the pale eyes were moist and deeply sad. "Sarehl, I would not wish the atrocities you experienced upon any man or woman. Nor can I consider them justified. It was Lban who unwittingly treated me to the saga of how viciously you and yours were dealt with, the man without remorse or conscience, though a most competent and ruthless commander. I was baffled for long cycles as to why your family was singled out for such wanton and gratuitously cruel destruction, something that appals me and will always continue to come back to haunt me. I am a warrior, raised in the mould of those who destroyed so much of your life. In the eyes of many I am a cruel man, but I am neither rapacious nor savagely demonic. When I fight I endeavour to do so according to the oldest traditional warrior codes that pertain to honour and clean death. I did not rape women or

kill children. Nor have I ever comfortably fitted in with the cruellest methods of Churchik reprisal, either to themselves or to others, enjoyed by some of my race. Correc comes to mind, among many. The warlord raised cruelty and unspeakable violence to a high art form that ensured populaces were cowed and reduced rapidly to unconditional submission. Sadly, many of my race endorsed this approach and some acted in ways that few could ever accept as justifiable. Tactically, it worked, but it bothered me. And, Sarehl, slavery has been part of our culture for so long I saw no reason to question it either, not until Lute came into my life and I saw what a typical slave train did to a child. I can offer no excuse for your sufferings. They horrify me and fill me with revulsion and guilt." Kher gripped the hand in his, his hold convulsive as it expressed his distress. His voice unsteady, he added, "Your essence dances, Sarehl. You need nothing else." A smile transformed the darklybearded face. "You're not just a scholar but a philosopher as well, Kher." Sarehl considered the silent figure. "Though nothing can bring back those I loved, please know your words give comfort. You should believe that." Kher nodded, not trusting himself to speak further. He felt too much grief to. ~~~ And Bethel did dance with Manas as they did cycles before when they were both made warriors. Both were now tipsy, Manas more drunk than Bethel as he explained at some complicated length to Charilae who just laughed. Her being Bethel's mate was productive of unrelenting teasing, because the fact afforded the warrior immense and continuing amusement. Manas was caught with fat chuckles every time he thought of Correc who made Bethel's life hell for so long. He decided the outcome was a victory for justice. Correc was well served, dead or no. Watching the two warriors, Ensore commented to Sarssen that they acted like brothers. The warrior's equable reply made Ensore blink. "In a very real sense they are, Ensore. Firstly, through their deeply rooted friendship and secondly, through Beth's mating, intentionally so or not, to Sasqua."

"Sasqua," mumbled Ensore. "You've forgotten," chided Sarssen, grinning. "I attribute that to generous intakes of Dahkilan wine. Sasqua and Manas are related, so through the tortuous familial links that so bedevil Churchik society, Beth's become kin to Manas. And Manas has an even stronger bond through kinship to Kalbeth, ?" "Gods, I forget," muttered Ensore. He just started to laugh.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The day of the Chamah's nuptials dawned, very hot and clear as mountain summer days were wont to be. The activity about the palace was at fever pitch. Ongwin looked as tired as Daxel could . The man gratefully accepted the younger man's help. It saw Daxel take over much of the organisation, his methods of getting his own way now well-known and acknowledged as ruthlessly efficient. He had no time to waste on pointless protocol. No one dared gainsay him, as close to the Chamah as he was. Courtiers gritted teeth and nobility swore under their breaths, but Daxel got things done. His calm assumption of authority amused and gratified Ongwin who felt his teaching was vindicated. It was Daxel who marshalled people for the procession, the young man fully robed, coronet dangling from one hand and a list held lightly in the other. Katakin sat a distance from him suitably attired, Dane-Meloki lying complacently in her lap, the little girl more lightly robed. Jonqi, in cool steppe clothing, looked contemplatively about her. Her long flowing robe, swept into a short train made of a very soft silver-laced fabric, floated when she walked. A demi-train fell from her shoulders, the cloth such that it glistened when Jonqi turned and it caught the light. It was reminiscent of the estani that led Lian to his fate long ago. She wore Kasphros' bracelet that grew with her, and a charming necklet Kher gave her as a gift, the warlord quietly handing her a package as she was whisked off to bed by Pic only the night before. "What is it, Khergansan?" she asked, coming to a sudden halt. Pic towered over her. "It is for the greatchild of a warlord, little one," responded Kher, with a smile. "It is for tomorrow. Honour me by accepting it, Jonqisan." Jonqi went up on tiptoe, tugged imperatively at Kher's beard, then, when she had his attention and his head was bent, she kissed him hard on the cheek. "Thank you, Khergansan," she whispered, then fled, Pic lumbering along in her

wake. ~~~ Now, Ensore's immediate family stood idly about, Sarehl and Kasan in full state ceremonial robes that looked heavy and oppressively hot, whilst Chloris almost disappeared under the royal garb, the voluminous gown and cloak making her look even smaller than she was. Alfar strutted about, then got bored and tugged at robes that were uncomfortable before he began to tease Tamas. Beside him was Brue, clad in the dull gold of Samar, the chain rested against his chest holding a huge citron-coloured stone that was a gift from Sarehl. Every so often Brue squinted down at it. He had a hand on Kalbeth's shoulder. The boy was in ceremonial Churchik attire, from the slim cuffed pants gathered into a high waistband, to the full-sleeved blouse gathered into deep ruffled cuffs that fell over braceleted wrists. The overblouse, or sleeveless coat as it was more appropriately described, was formally cut, high collared and long, almost a robe that swept about him just above the ground. Kalbeth wore his closed. The coat was buttoned with rich jewellery from throat to hipbone from where it was allowed to gracefully fall in elegant folds. Ankle boots matched the pants and coat. It wasn't unlike male desert wear and reminded Sarssen of a slave boy sometimes similarly dressed by a warlord master. No one wore blue, since blue was the royal colour of Dahkilah. In deference to that, Charilae arranged for Kalbeth to be clad in cream. Bethel wore purple, appropriately to match his eyes. Like Bethel, Kalbeth's hair was gem-studded from the bottom of his twin plait to the top, and, because he now had his own katif, he wore the ceremonial sword under his long robe. All the warriors wore the same attire. Sarssen wore green. Kher and Luton wore Caciqua red, all warrior sword belts covered by wide cummerbunds tied in broad knots. Brue glanced at Sarssen, the man standing still and pensive, his eyes giving nothing away. Chey stood near him, her robe diaphanous, the twins on the carpet beside her. Charilae wore the female equivalent of southern warrior dress, purple to match her mate, the long slim skirt wrapped about her held in place by the same broad cummerbund warriors wore. Her blouse was the same as theirs, but the over-robe

was made of a soft draped material that fell in folds to the floor. She, too, wore her over-robe buttoned from throat to groin like Kalbeth, whereas the warriors wore theirs open. Eli, observing her, thought she looked every inch the consort of an elite warrior or a warlord. He studied her curiously, conscious she in some way reminded him of their mother and Kasan, then, shrugging, he turned away. It was Kher who now stared at her. With her chestnut hair falling loose from a heavy comb set just back from the forehead, Kher was convinced she was certainly as Dahkilan as Sarssen revealed, the glorious golden eyes nagging at him and making him determined to sort out her heritage before he returned south. Then he suddenly thought of Sarehl's twin sons. One of them had the same eyes. He was sure of it. That meant there had to be some sort of link between the young woman and the Chamah's sister, Kher quite convinced the eyes of one twin boy were definitely not Samar. They were pure Dahkilan. Suddenly Kher's lips pursed in a soundless whistle and he gave a saturnine grin. So, was the little Charilae of Correc somehow connected with the Chamah's sister and therefore indeed an innermost member of the royal line? And did Sarssen know exactly who Charilae was? Kher reserved judgment. Wrapped in thought, he watched Sarssen cross to Bethel. Sarssen saw a look of deep longing in tired purple eyes. "What is it, Beth?" "I long for quiet, Sarssen, just to catch my breath. The last few days overwhelm me." "Chlorien?" Bethel nodded. "The melds drain you, Beth, do they not?" Bethel nodded again. "But they provide insight and understanding, too?" "Aye, a great deal. Seeing Chlo and being with her again, with our family whole as we should be, gives me joy. But, Sarssen, it's so difficult just to be a family with so much happening, distracting us and demanding our attention. We need to be alone so we can truly be the family we were, even if it's for the briefest time." Bethel paused and rubbed his forehead, his hand brushing the Valshika stone. "Once the marriage is over, Sarssen, we'll split and go our separate ways, because that's the way of things and the way our lives have to run. I just wish we had time together, that's all." "Not such a difficult or unreasonable wish," answered Sarssen very gently, aware

of the profoundly wistful yearning in the voice. "It is almost over, Beth. You should be glad neither of our matings was like this. We would have gone mad." The warrior saw the dawning smile as Bethel retorted with spirit. "I'd run away, truly I would." He twitched at the heavy folds of his coat and swung it behind him. "I suspect Ens has thought hopefully of that option throughout the last season," answered Sarssen lightly, before, unobtrusively, he shepherded Bethel forward, and, though he continued to talk inconsequentially, his mind was hard at work. ~~~ By the time the procession was ready to move ponderously forward, Daxel looked reminiscent of a thundercloud. His expression only lightened when he saw the forward movement and knew one of the more nightmarish aspects of the day was done. He replaced his coronet. After a cursory look around, he took his place as Saturim and walked with infinite patience, taking the child Katakin held up to him. Dane-Meloki was sensibly sound asleep. Kher followed Chlorien and Kasphros. When a halt was called, the warlord was dreaming and kept walking, only to bump into the young woman who turned to stare up at the warrior about to profusely apologise. "My dear," he explained. "I can only apologise for my mind being a long way from here." He saw the crease between her brows lift and faint amusement shine in the eyes. It was only now Kher saw how like Bethel's eyes hers were. He only saw her at a distance or on the other side of the room, her introduction to him productive of a courteous greeting and an appraising look before she turned away. The eyes were as large and expressive, with the same silk fringe of curling long lashes, this frame enhancing the depth and colour, just like Bethel's. The facial shape was very similar with the fine and delicate bone structure, the skin the same soft alabas that in Bethel wasn't totally disguised by the beard, his cheeks still smooth. The mouth curved the same as her brother's but lacked the full alluring sensuality of his. And the black, thick curls were no different. At first glance, they were so alike as to make the comparison of twins quite a valid one. It was only when one studied the young faces that the differences

became real. The expressions were quite unlike. Where there was gentleness in Bethel's, Chlorien's eyes weren't as soft, hers compelling rather than appealing and full of warmth. What they both had was the astute penetration to the eyes that Sarehl had. Kher saw it more and more in the other brothers. In her, Kher sensed tempered power wrought by painful experience, but he also sensed pain deep within that, though accepted, would never go away. It was the pain of loss. He wondered where her mate was and whether the lack of same was what made her give off that sense of anguish. Instinctively, the warlord knew she'd learned to be impartial in judgment. She was thoughtful. Above all, there was a distant sapience about the expression and eyes that, in some inexplicable way, gave her the air of someone who was on Ambros, but not entirely. Kher got the impression that Chlorien looked beyond those about her. Kher wondered exactly what she was. Her dress was simple and uncluttered in the Samar dull gold, the robe cut high at the neck falling in graceful folds from the close-fitting waist. The collar of stones round her neck were gems Kher hadn't seen before, something that made him again think she wasn't of Ambros. He gave himself a mental shake for being fanciful, but the feeling refused to be shaken off. On one finger she wore a ring that looked more of a man's ring than that worn by a woman. Chlorien could have enlightened him, but didn't. She often stared at the ring she was given prior to the mage battle, going back in her mind's eye to Bene who quietly slipped it from his finger and carefully placed it on one of hers, quiet words spoken, done with a smile and a careless flip of her hair. When Chlorien felt his colour finally fade, she wept, her fingers running backwards and forwards over the ring from a man who gave his life to save hers. As she touched the ring that hung loosely, it shrank to her size and wasn't removed. Nor would it be. Somehow she knew it was part of a ring, the other half that should have been inscribed, missing. Chlorien blinked up at Kher. "There's no harm done, Suldan. We all dream at times." "Not when we are part of a formal procession perhaps," murmured Kher. He saw the smile. It was Bethel. ~~~ It was with relief that the ceremony came to an end and the procession wound its

way out of the huge ovial. Sarssen repeatedly blinked in the heat as the hours ticked by, the warrior enormously iring of Ensore and Taran who endured crushingly hot robes. The heraldic pieces and choral interludes were enjoyable. The pieces by Bethel were especially powerful and memorable, the deep voice soaring effortlessly up through the massively high arches, to fall echoing all about the ovial. Only the huge building acted as his amplifier. Bethel wasn't a southern bard for nothing. He held the many hundreds there utterly enthralled, some of whom hadn't heard him perform. As he was as a child, he became lost in what he spoke, sang or played. Sarssen thought he saw the boy again as Bethel performed. These moments were a light relief for Ensore, who, Sarssen noticed rather sourly, looked quite unwell and exhausted by the time he began the slow trek down the aisle. Taran was pale, her face drained and her eyes wide. The trains stretched many yards behind them and the crowns, worn uncomplainingly for hours, were mercilessly weighty. With their ing, the procession quickened. It was then the children began to be heard. Alfar tore at his coronet and flung it on the aisle, his little hands tearing at the cloak that hampered him. Kasan quickly retrieved the coronet and Sarehl was fast to sweep the cloak from the child's shoulders. Chloris began softly to cry. Eli took her hand. Dane-Meloki woke and started to whimper. The southern twins decided they were hungry at the same moment as En/Soreth, cradled by Sarehl, chose to wet himself, and Florin, hoisted onto Kasan's hip, belched and farted very loudly. Sarssen caught Bethel's laughing eyes and started to chuckle. He saw Kalor quickly stoop to retrieve a very frightened little Tamas and hold him close. He had Alfar by the other hand. He also saw Mishak, Mist, newly arrived, and Pic at the entrance. Mishak quietly took a yawning Jonqi by the hand, Kasphros went with them, yawning deeply but Mist let Kalbeth keep going after a nod from Sarssen. Other than Kalbeth, all the children were very quickly removed. Ensore and Taran disappeared, the near despair in Ensore's grey eyes fading as he made good his escape, Taran's hand firmly in his. Those clad in stifling robes rapidly departed, only to return more comfortably and casually attired. There was no time for family chats, because protocol demanded that guests, nobility, and ambassadors, not to mention foreign royalty,

however humble or exalted, had to be pandered to and entertained. Kher judged this would go on for some hours and ruefully acknowledged he was getting beyond this. He was tired. Kalbeth crossed to him with wine that he took with a smile, watching the boy go into the quaint bow that was a copy of the one Sarssen taught a slave boy cycles ago. "You look thirsty, my lord." "I am, child, I am. You did not sing, Kalbeth. I suspect we may not have the pleasure of it anymore." "My lord," blushed Kalbeth, fidgeting with the tray and the three chased goblets. "I detect the faintest huskiness, boy, that heralds the onset of maturity, yes?" "Pater and Da think so, too," confessed Kalbeth. "It comes to every boy, child." Kher looked the boy over and added in a voice of approval, "You look every inch a youthful warrior. I take pride in your appearance." "My lord," whispered Kalbeth. He pushed aside his coat robe and fingered the sword that rested neatly against his hip. "I thank you for this gift, my lord." Kher stooped to put a hand to the young chin. Deep blue eyes stared up into pale blue ones. "You are to be a young warrior, boy, with your own katif that you will one day rule as a mature man. You are the son of a haskar who is also an Adept and a mage. Make sure you that. Know that it took a great deal for your father to become these and realise that success can be achieved with the right attitude and effort. You understand this already, do you not, child?" Kalbeth tried to nod. "I know you will try to live up to what you see you could become. You are also Samar, with a very strong northern heritage. Take the best of both cultures, boy, and make your warlord proud of you." Kalbeth licked his lips. "I will, my lord. I promised Sire I would, too." Kher released the chin. "Good boy. And keep playing your music. You and your father give nothing but pleasure."

It was only a short time later that the warlord, standing close to the door, saw Mist appear, look at nobody in particular, and wait to catch Kalbeth's eye. When he did, Kher saw the boy look dubiously at Mist then go, with lagging steps, to the door. ~~~ By the time Ensore and Taran reappeared, some time after festivities picked up again, Sarssen thought they'd still be exhausted, so he was very surprised to see them relaxed, contented and complacent. Their movement through the crowd was easy and unhurried. Sarssen blinked. He turned his head to Sarehl beside him, both observing the bridal pair with interest. "They don't seem at all tired, Sarssen, do they? I am." The warrior's eyebrows were raised. "Odd, is it not?" he agreed. He glanced round to see if he could sight Kaleb and as the couple came close then moved on again, he studied their faces with interest. As if Sarehl read the warrior's thoughts, he mused, "I wonder where Kaleb is?" He caught the gleam in the green eyes and a spreading grin. "I would dearly love to know what he dosed them with," Sarssen murmured. "They are transformed." "Angwort?" suggested Sarehl, a mischievous twinkle replacing the slight frown in black eyes. "Kaleb's already dosed me, more than once, though I'd rather not take anything." "Not to have this dramatic effect," replied Sarssen, shaking his head. Then he pursed his lips. "Now could he?" he mumbled quietly to himself. Sarehl overheard, his expression alert and his head enquiringly tilted. "Where do you think Kaleb would acquire errac, Sarehl? Brought it with him in anticipation of this? It is quite hard to find, I can assure you. I must stop underestimating Kaleb's knowledge of herbal lore." "Errac?" repeated Sarehl, baffled.

"It is a powerful stimulant. It is more correct to call it an aphrodisiac, Sarehl, that must be used with considerable caution. I swear, just looking at their pupils, that is what they are on. What a stroke of genius." Sarssen began to shake with gentle laughter. "How long will the stuff last?" "Until the early hours of the morning, I would judge," was the casual response. "Then they will most certainly collapse and be very lethargic on the morrow. I wonder if Kaleb knows they must be flushed out with massive doses of water?" "Ask him," suggested Sarehl, complacently. He watched Kaleb thread his way through the throng to reach them. "Greetings," he called, rather breathlessly. He looked dishevelled and tired as he struggled past yet another knot of northern royalty that refused to move. When he was beyond them, he gratefully took a goblet Sarehl uplifted from a tray going past. "The gods but I'll be glad to see the end of today. We must be thankful, I suppose, that the Chamah takes only one wife." He drank deeply. "Errac?" enquired Sarssen, blithely. Kaleb nearly choked and looked reproachful. "Really, Sarssen!" he scolded. He drank again and then sighed. "That's much better," he murmured, rubbing a hand across his mouth. "Aye, I gave them errac, some of what I brought with me. What else was I to do with the pair of them looking half-dead? They have the night to get through yet and all the protocol that follows at the banquet this evening as well." "What else?" asked Sarssen, knowledgeably. He saw a faint flush. "Ens is very seriously stressed," Kaleb answered, bluntly. "He was ready to eat the Curule, swore at the Cu-Inam, cursed Eli, and Taran was as white as an actesi, or a reeli, if you prefer that analogy, Sarehl. We were at a crisis, or ime, if you wish to split hairs. I've never seen Ensore so and I've known him a long time. He was a man driven beyond limits."

"No, no," laughed Sarehl. "A reeli or actesi is fine and I've no objection to the word crisis in preference to ime. Go on, my friend. You see us agog." Kaleb's mildly aggrieved expression disappeared at the gentle banter and he began to laugh too. "Ens begged me to give them something." Sarehl and Sarssen both politely refrained from outright mirth. "I don't think either of them know where they are, or what they're doing," went on the healer, amused, "nor will they have the faintest recollection in the morning. Who cares? From the moment they drank their cups they were positively alive." He paused, then added meditatively, his eyes sparkling appreciatively. "Powerful stuff errac, isn't it?" Sarssen wiped his eyes and shook his head at Kaleb. "I am deeply relieved you were not around at the time I mated with Ayesha. What your assistance might have entailed defies thought." Another laugh caught and shook him. "How will Ens live this down?" "He won't need to. Just look at him! The grand seignore is nothing to his elegant and eloquent charm, is it?" Though the voice was humorous, there was a serious underlay to it that made both Sarehl and Sarssen look hard at the healer. "How bad was it, Kaleb?" asked Sarehl. "I think after this the Chamah will be on the way to controlling his country, a most formidable and determined Chamahdan at his side." Kaleb sighed. "The man's forbearance over the last season has been quite remarkable, both he and Taran pressured in ways few know little about. Dase tried to protect them. So did Ongwin. And I tried once I got here. It's that rather than today's ceremony that's made Ens unwell." Concern showed in green and black eyes. "He was taken very severely to task for his absences, my friends, had to vigorously defend your mating to his sister, Sarehl, and was forced to plead for Dase's acceptance and that of Chloris. His choice of wife and the method he chose to mate, has drawn constant carping and sharp criticism. Everything he tried to do was blocked." Kaleb paused, drank again, and when no comment was forthcoming, resumed rather pensively. "His life's been anything but pleasant or easy. Ongwin tells me he was extremely unhappy, certainly until he found Taran, because he misses you, Sar, and his other friends very much. Taran holds him steady. Having Dase close was very

good for him. That delighted Ongwin. Dase even took to some of the Curule one day, something that caught them unaware. It left them startled and displeased though quite unable to dispute what Dase had to say - he handles greybeards in such a delightfully innocuous way, doesn't he? They don't even know they're being manipulated with such charm and determination. It's a treat to watch Dase in action. Both Ongwin and he are worn, too. What Ens needs is peace and quiet with friends dear to him. The Curule saw, just before and after I gave Ens errac, what sort of man they'll deal with. Eli and I'll be privileged to the Chamah's memorable words as he flung himself out of stifling robes and finally ordered both Curule and Cu-Inam from the chamber. I think they still stood in hope he'd oblige by climbing onto the matrimonial bed." A laugh shook Kaleb. "I wish you could've seen their faces when they meekly filed out, one by one, as obediently as children and quite crestfallen." "Ens is such an amiable man," exclaimed Sarehl. "Errac changed him," came the succinct reply. "It would change anyone," reminded Sarssen, again succumbing helplessly to mirth. "Oh Kaleb, what a way you chose to cope! Not even I would have thought of errac." "Have you ever used it?" asked Sarehl, interestedly. "We have such things but not that. You see it at Choice." "The warlord was not averse to supplying his boy with it." Sarssen saw Kaleb's horrified look. He sobered quickly. "Yes, my friend, it had exactly the side effects you are thinking about and made those of us who took it extremely ill. Some died from it. The last time I was forced to take the wretched stuff I was eighteen cycles and it left me quite sick for at least three days." "Could you see?" asked Kaleb, curiously. Sarssen nodded. "Mostly blurred, but I managed to stagger about and do what was required of me. Morsh managed to stave off the worst symptoms and kept me on my feet." "Why does it have such disastrous effects?" asked Sarehl, his attention partly on the Chamah.

"Because, my friend," responded Kaleb quickly, "it's a potent poison. istered to adults is drastic enough, but most have a reasonably slow metabolic rate that means it doesn't hit the nervous system like a brick. Youngsters, especially children, have a faster rate that means the poison is absorbed more quickly and extremely efficiently. It would attack a boy's nervous system, wouldn't it, Sarssen?" Sarssen nodded. "A boy would convulse?" "Yes," came the unemotional response. Sarehl swung round to face Sarssen. "Bethel?" he asked, in a strangled voice. He read confirmation on the warrior's face. "Yes, once. Beth was a very sick boy. He was only twelve cycles. The warlord mostly used hane after that, because it had the desired effect without the worst aspects of errac, though he still took errac himself. He made himself develop immunity to it." "What's hane?" "A very powerful aphrodisiac, Sarehl, that leaves the recipient extremely willing and responsive. Under the influence of it, I can assure you there is nothing you can do to help yourself. Mind and body become entirely open. Hane sustains urges well beyond the normal, so you can imagine how useful it was for the warlord who had an intense, seldom sated appetite. It was also useful for a warrior who wished to either interrogate or physically subjugate anyone. I speak of hours, Sarehl, not minutes. An uninitiated man or woman, taking hane, were apt to be reduced to slavish obedience within a very, very short time. They were instantly amenable." "Gods," gasped Sarehl, grasping his goblet and drinking steadily. "Do we have anything like that, Kaleb?" "Yes," replied Kaleb, with a fatalistic shrug. "The use of drugs as stimulants isn't confined to the Churchik, Sar. Aphrodisiacs have been used for cycles, with varying degrees of success. Ludicor is one of the most potent I know. Nor would I offer it to anyone who wanted to retain their mind. It can blow a man's brain in a matter of minutes. All it sounds to me is that the Churchik have elevated the use of such things to an art form. That, in conjunction with their extremely sophisticated

understanding of the functions of the body and its responses, makes them unusual. I'm no fool. I've listened and watched for cycles, so much so I'm not wrong in thinking that bodily pleasures have been raised to a very high level of consciousness among southerners. Am I right, Sarssen?" Sarssen nodded slowly. "It is an important part of the culture, yes, man to boy, boy to man, and later as an adult whatever pleases him. A girl is the same only she is taken at an immature age and brought to an understanding by the man, though not fully touched." "Eletom," said Sarehl, knowledgeably. "True," smiled Sarssen. "Beth's awareness of such things should be sophisticated," added Sarehl as an afterthought, his dark eyes thoughtful. "As a Samar, he would be by now." "He should be able to offer his mate a great deal," agreed Sarssen, urbanely. Sarehl caught the twinkle in the green eyes, his expression relaxed and he began to laugh. "All very well for you, Sarssen! But what a way for you and he to have to learn." "I think Lute came to a similar fine understanding of the art before Choja was happy to see him mate," observed Sarssen, upending his goblet and placing it on a ing tray. He watched, indolently, until another servant came close, and then swiftly extracted another goblet before the tray was whisked past him, Kaleb watching the manoeuvre and iring the deftness and finesse. "Indeed." Sarehl looked anything but gratified, then another laugh shook him. "I imagine to Choja and the Churchik the ordinary Samar would seem uninitiated into the mysteries of experience and pleasure without prowess, skill or subtlety!" "Not to mention the Chamah, who had cycles to test the waters, metaphorically speaking," chuckled Kaleb. Sarssen observed the two men convulsed with laughter and gave way himself. Finally, he wiped his eyes. No one spoke until the warrior managed to gain

control of his voice. "So you think the Curule and Cu-Inam knew Ensore meant what he said?" "They knew," confirmed Kaleb, in a shaking voice. "Well done, Chamah," murmured the warrior, appreciatively. "And well done, Kaleb," he added. "Where, I wonder, would we be without you?" observed Sarehl, still chuckling. "I wonder that, too," returned Kaleb facetiously, on a grin. He glanced up at the warrior, then across at Sarehl. "You though, Sar, should more carefully monitor that youngest brother of yours." "What?' asked Sarehl, caught completely unaware, his surprised eyes turned down to the healer. "Kalor tells me Nakron has an eye on him." "What can you mean?" demanded Sarehl. Sarssen looked intrigued. Kaleb nodded his head at the dance floor in the huge throne room turned into a ballroom, since the formal one adjacent was readied for the many hundreds of guests who would arrive there for the sumptuous banquet. The Chamah's nuptials would be the talk of Ambros for cycles. Lavish and extravagant festivities, arranged all about the city, would end in the early hours with a firework display Ensore was tight-lipped about. Circling about a fluted column in the vast hall was Brue, devastatingly handsome, a laughing countenance bent down to a slight girl, no more than sixteen cycles at the most, who stared up at the young man with adoring eyes. Sarehl gave a long-suffering groan while Sarssen's eyes shone. "Who is she, Kaleb?" he asked, interestedly. "Kalor tells me she's Nakron's eldest daughter. She answers to Assyrah. A pretty name for a pretty child, but child she still is. I see no womanly attributes, do you, Sarssen?"

"No, none," agreed Sarssen, smoothly. "As you say, still only a child for parents to be seeking her a mate." "But despite that, notice, Sarssen, if you will, the expression on her father's face. Sarehl, you're acquainted with Nakron's wife, aren't you?" "Oh aye," sighed Sarehl. "Too well. Where is she?" Kaleb pointed to a small woman who stood a little removed from her spouse. She was drab, but as she watched Brue and Assyrah circle each other again, her eyes were calculating and she had a hardness to her mouth Sarssen found repelling. She was clearly ambitious. That schemes revolved in ducal minds was evident. "He is young to consider mating," the warrior observed, in a neutral tone. "How old is he, Sarehl?" Sarehl stared over at his brother. Big though the young man was he was extremely graceful and light on his feet, as Manas was. "He's nineteen cycles. And no, he's nowhere near ready to mate. Nor would I encourage it. Brue has a lot of learning and living to do. When did Kalor speak to you about this, Kaleb?" "Apparently Nakron's already made pointed comments directly to Kalor over the last season or so. Kalor says Nakron's wife - what's her name?" "Ileni," Sarehl answered, abruptly. "Ileni's been quite deliberately pushing Assyrah hard at Brue. She wants him to be more committed or at least to show his interest. Brue's only young, Sar, and knows nothing about the games of state or diplomacy." "Not yet," agreed Sarehl. "It sounds as if it might be time for one elder brother to interfere," suggested Sarssen, reflectively. "You could be quite ruthless. Or you may prefer a softer approach that will affect the girl less. It is not her fault after all. As we say, she is but a child." "Quite," agreed Sarehl, stroking his beard.

"Do you object to an alliance with the Sushi?" asked the warrior curiously, his eyes going back to rest on the young Sushi princess do a graceful and faultless pirouette. Sarehl shook his head. "Then what troubles you?" "I have other plans for Brue, Sarssen." "What do you plan?" Sarehl looked round, saw chairs set in a recess, the curtains that usually hid them pulled back so those who chose to sit and observe proceedings could do so. "Let's sit," he suggested, in a suddenly very tired way that made Kaleb study him. "Don't look at me like that, Kaleb. You know how I am when I've been forced to stand, sit, walk, and then do the same thing over and over again." Sarssen noticed the limp was more pronounced than he'd seen it and realised the demands of the ceremony and long, dragging processional were too much for the Strategos. He noted the moulded lips were firmly folded and there was a pronounced pain line between the eyes. He immediately turned. He sought fresh goblets while Kaleb and Sarehl unobtrusively and slowly made their way to the seats. Sarehl sat quickly. Sarssen ed them again. "Behold," he announced. "My slave training is extremely useful at times. You will notice there are not only goblets on the tray, but food and wine as well." "Commendable," laughed Sarehl. He moved slowly, aware of discomfort. He turned his head to see Kaleb hold out a phial to him. He shook his head. "Drink it, Sar. You've got hours to go before this ends. Without it, you won't make it and you know it. Come on, Sar, reserve your stubbornness for another time." Sarssen saw resignation in the dark eyes as Sarehl reluctantly took the phial, unstoppered it, upended it and drained it. Kaleb placed the empty phial on a ledge behind them. "It was troubling me, but I felt I'd taken enough," said Sarehl, in an aside. He took a cake from the plate Sarssen held out and devoured it so quickly the warrior offered him another. They sat in silence until Sarehl broke it. "I want Brue taught diplomatic skills in the way Dase was. They are very alike in many

ways. It was hard sending Dase to Caciqua but it was one of the best things Ens and I agreed on. He learned much, and came to with so much more. I want this for Brue. He has the same aspects of life to confront, and the same selfdiscovery to make that brought Dase to full maturity." "Where could he go first?" "To your people, Kaleb. Alace is due to complete his appointment in three seasons. It's time enough for Brue to study statesmanship and ambassadorial skills. Apart from anything else, he needs to be made more diverse since army life's all he's known." "Maren will miss him," said Kaleb, thoughtfully. "Why should he?" demanded Sarehl, with a smile. "The boy needs an adviser for his first posting. I'll send him somewhere that develops rather than tries him. He'd have close access to you at Enouri, Kaleb, and you'd see him on and off, Sarssen. So would Beth and Lute." "Very sensible thinking," commended Sarssen. "Nowhere could be better, and, as you say, it would be an easy thing for one or other of us to keep an eye on him." "Where then, Sarehl?" "The desert or the steppes," replied Sarehl, promptly. "Very shrewd," nodded Sarssen, approvingly. "Anything else?" "Some ideas," confessed Sarehl. "Samar lands in the far north, Sarssen, are almost totally controlled by roving bands of disaffected and mighty savage exslaves. They keep border patrols very busy, nor are they averse to slaughter for the hell of it either." "Getting rid of more of your land, Sarehl?" Sarehl gave a half-smile. "It seems to me that's where we now have to divert our attention, Sarssen. The Cartokians, and even the Sushi, won't take that sort of punishment indefinitely and will retaliate with a devastating punitive expedition. They may even suddenly consider conquest. For Samars I'm not keen to see that happen. Already plans for an attack on the whole border area are drawn up that should see us

sweep these outlaws back further into Samar territory. If we can do that, we forestall any reciprocal aggression. Sushi only has a very narrow south-eastern boundary that edges Cartok but they may decide to enlarge it." "Then?" asked Sarssen. Kaleb grinned at him. "Then I've organised those who merit land, through public vote, to be ready to go northwards where they'll be part of armed camps, well fortified from Samar and Lenten with both weaponry and supplies. There'll be sorties designed to cut the outlaws off from each other so they can be captured. Some may prefer to die fighting. I can't make that choice for folk so desperate and affected by the war they can't reason, though I dearly want them to come to the camps so they can be integrated into society again. I can understand how they feel, too," Sarehl added, aching sympathy in his voice. "I understand only too well, but we can't let this go on. Those who see others die or surrender may well decide to capitulate. But I don't have false hopes. Orders will be given that none are to be freed to begin the same sort of senseless thing again. The slaughter or re-enslavement of the emancipated must end. It's to be finished." Kaleb heard the finality in the deep voice and glanced at Sarssen who studied the darkly-bearded face. "Hard decisions, Sarehl," the warrior said, matter-of-factly. "Very," answered Sarehl. "But they have to be taken. I can't let the balance of central Ambros tilt in the favour of any northern state. Once that happens, you have no lasting peace. Before Lodestok, there was balance in central and northern Ambros." "What Beth and I confront in the south with those new lands given Kal and Manas," agreed Sarssen. He saw the sudden smile and nod. "Brue may be one I send north. By then he'll be old enough and have the wily Maren with him. It'll make the lad realise that what you have to fight for is worth guarding and holding, especially if it costs you to do it." "True," said Sarssen, with a grimace. "I intend Samar to be run without constant bloodshed. I've Kas' and my children to think of. One day I want them to know what peace means." Sarssen twined long fingers round the stem of his goblet, his attention fixed on

the ornate chasing about it. "How do you intend to tell a noble like Nakron that his daughter may not mate with Brue?" he asked inquisitively, lifting his head. Instantly, Sarehl's pensive look vanished and there was a laugh in his voice. "No, no, Sarssen. Nothing so lacking in finesse. I tell nobility their interest in my youngest brother delights me and enthuse on the beneficial aspects of such a mutually agreeable alliance." "You do?" murmured Sarssen, amused. "But of course!" continued Sarehl. "I outline my hopes for Brue and explain where his next cycles may be spent. The benefits from such experiences will enhance his marriageable prospects, won't they? A newly acquired son who is a diplomat and knows his way around southern Ambros can only be an asset to a court, yes?" "Rogue!" interpolated Kaleb. "I also say that by the time Brue returns to Samar, Assyrah will be matured into a consort any ambassador would be proud to call his wife. I'll barely have to hint at Samar lands in the north. Will you take a bet with me Nakron will be gleeful, but Ileni less so?" "Not me," responded Kaleb. "Such a devious mind, Sar!" "Ileni has three other daughters after Assyrah. She won't be pleased being told by Nakron to restrain her eldest so the Strategos isn't repelled by unseemly Sushi haste or eagerness. Can you believe she'll look at me in such a kindly light after this?" "I would not challenge you, brother," murmured Sarssen, the smile in his eyes deepening. "Nor would I consider betting against you. Now I see how you moulded an army that defeated the warlord." "And do you think, for a moment, that Assyrah will be kept as a potential mate to be taught statecraft and wifely obedience in preparation for her future role?" Sarehl asked, roguishly.

"You might be surprised," commented Sarssen, dryly. "You tend to underestimate your status, Sarehl. It may well be worthwhile for Nakron to let other daughters go through and hold Assyrah back, especially if he senses the strong possibility of a mating and Brue's affections aren't engaged elsewhere." "What a man for raising the stakes," stated Kaleb, in disgust. "Not at all," came the imperturbable reply. "Tell, me Sar," went on Sarssen, comfortably, "What happens if Brue chooses and mates elsewhere?" Sarehl grinned insouciantly. "Why, Sarssen, what a blight to throw on ducal hopes! Just think, they'll have a daughter fit to be a consort to any number of royal sons, won't they?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A languor fell over Elibera and those who feasted and danced until the early morn. The only people on the move were tired, yawning and irascible ambassadors and guests who only came for the celebration and were expected home. Slowly, entourages moved through the city gates at snail's pace. The only other activity, seen at the gates to the north, was a very small party that left soon after dawn, six riders who were hooded and silent. Sarssen, standing at a window, watched them go then turned away, aware that five days gave them little time. He hoped it would be enough. One of the people to ask where the family was, was Kher. He spoke to Sarssen. "Where is Shasah, Sarssen? And for that matter Beth? Lute did not me as is his habit and I find Oblique missing." "They have gone away, my lord. I hope you understand the need they have. It came to my notice that each member was tense and tired. The strains of having to cope with all that went on around them, or was demanded of them, was too much. Beth, for one, was unhappy. They struggle to reconcile themselves one to the other with the return of Chlorien. They have so much to discuss and understand and badly need time as a family." "Was it your suggestion they go?" "Yes, my lord, it was." "Well, Sarssen, between them they have enough dragons to repel the most persistent and aggressive attacker, have they not, that I feel no anxiety. Will you me to eat?" "I thank you, my lord." Sarssen sat. "And where do you go from Elibera, Sarssen?" Sarssen was helping himself to a bowl of fruit but stopped and looked up enquiringly. "I would like to see Samar again before I return south."

"Very well. Your trip south will be faster than mine, yes?" Sarssen picked up the reference to his dragon and nodded with a smile. "Yes, my lord." "And your mate and children?" "I will go to them, too, my lord." "Yes," agreed Kher, readily. "Still, you will not be very long behind me, will you?" "No, my lord," returned the warrior, taking a mouthful. "Who was it told Beth to call you Sarequin? I heard him do so one day." The question made Sarssen swallow unexpectedly and cough. He spluttered then choked, before recovering with a gasp. "My lord." His eyes streamed and he had to rapidly swallow from the tankard. He wiped his eyes. "I seem to have caught you unawares," murmured Kher. "Drink again, Haskar." Sarssen obliged, then sniffed. "Since Beth told me my name the same night I saw how marked he was, I can only assume the name came from whoever or whatever touched Beth. I really have no distinct recollection of anything else." "Or of being god-touched yourself?" "No." "Neither of you recalls what touched you. Neither does Shasah. Does that not strike you as odd?" "Yes, my lord. But then again, much that happened has been so strange and unpredictable." "Has it?" mused Kher. "I wonder. You know who Sarequin was, do you not? His name crops up at the Keep with great regularity."

"Yes, my lord, I know, though I am still vague on specifics about him." "He remains provokingly shrouded in records and quotes, Sarssen, little distinct that one can grasp as a certainty, though there is much about him. One could be forgiven for thinking the sage was actually a myth." Kher ate ruminatively, watching the warrior eat abstractedly. "So you have no idea who named you or why?" "None, my lord." Kher gave the ghost of a laugh that Sarssen, his head bent to his plate, missed. In his mind's eye, the warlord saw, again, the very tall, broad-shouldered man with the green smiling eyes who came to Luton more than once and walked through a dragon that he commanded. Then Kher thought again. He got a severe jolt. He glanced furtively at Sarssen who ate stolidly. What Kher recalled, shook him profoundly. The man, who came and went throughout Luton's troubled life, had recognisable green eyes that made the warlord again stare across at the warrior with dawning comprehension. Autchek, the old truth-seeker, had spoken nothing but the utter truth. Sarssen was indeed god-touched, but not just in the way of Bethel or Luton. Kher now knew, without doubt, where those flawless and magnificent green eyes came from. They were identical. The warlord didn't think the kinship was close, but there could be no argument about part of this attractive haskar's origin, none at all. Kher found he was being regarded quizzically out of those green eyes. "My lord?" Kher came back to the present, wondering if he was going to be plagued by eyes indefinitely as his mind skipped to golden ones. "Nothing, Sarssen. I was merely thinking." He sighed. "I shall leave for Caciqua in a week. You will advise me immediately upon your return to Valshika, will you not?" "Certainly, my lord," was the instant and courteous response. "I will see you before you go away, of course." "Yes, my lord."

~~~ Chlorien reached full understanding with brothers she knew accepted her. There were no reservations about her birth, her escape, nor her role in the mage battle. The loving security she knew as a child, surrounded by affectionate brothers, returned and warmed her. Sarehl and Daxel were easy to renew bonds with. Luton and Bethel took longer, her comprehension of their trials disturbing her again until she saw, as each brother talked with remarkable and brutal frankness of their experiences, how accepting they were. No grief shone in either black or purple eyes. These beloved brothers were resigned to who they were, confident in themselves, and both looked forward with eager anticipation to the future. It was Chlorien who had the most to absorb. They took unreservedly from her, melds long, exhausting, but rewarding. Their understanding of Autoc showed in glowing eyes and nodded heads. But it was the melds she had with her brothers that shook Chlorien and made her go away, alone, where she could weep unseen. Their physical experiences harrowed her to the very soul. Then she shook her head, wiped her eyes, and sought either the solitary musician, curled up out in a mountain valley, or Luton, sprawled in typical pose in a meadow of late summer resethi flowers. She learned to know Brue. She talked and ambled with Sarehl, walked up the mountain trails with Daxel, accompanied Luton to the river they camped by and where they sat companionably, and squatted beside Bethel in the meadow. There she listened to the haunting melody of the flutelike instrument he brought from Elibera that only Dahkilans played. Mostly they stayed together, laughed, gesticulated, talked, and were at ease, a family whose bonds were slowly restored. And over those days, Chlorien was suddenly settled. Her eyes shone with happiness the day they returned slowly to Elibera. It was as if she was reborn. Upon arrival, she didn't shrink quietly away or seek out Jaim or Indariol. She spent time with her son before she took him back to Lilium, the boy protesting until quietened. "Kasphros, you can't come with me to meet my destiny. It's something I do alone. I'm ready to face it as you'll be when your time comes. You've seen Jonqi again, and you've come to know those of your mother's family. They'll always love and respond to you when you're on Ambros. You must return home, son, to learn for what you'll be asked to do some day."

"Mam." Kasphros crossed to Chlorien, knelt at her feet and stared up at her from eyes that still tore at her. She saw Nikos, as she always would, in the son who resembled him so closely. "Will you stay on Ambros?" "Unlikely, son." "Are you of Ambros?" "Yes, Kasphros, more than you are. Maybe one day, in some ways less than you'll be." "When will we see our Mam again?" "Very soon, Kasphros, I promise. Come, son, translate with me." ~~~ Sarssen's next encounter was with Ensore and it concerned Charilae as the warrior knew it would. The Chamah now had time to think of things other than those immediately surrounding his marriage. He was keen to have answers to questions about Charilae that ran round and round in his head in an irritating fashion, her likeness to Kasan troubling him. It was the afternoon before Kher was due to leave for Caciqua. Sarehl and family had returned to the city. Ensore was sprawled out under a tree with his friends, the man looking at ease and comfortable with his back hitched up against the tree trunk, all the men holding tankards of cold ale that helped keep them cool. It was breathlessly hot, all sprawled out and indolent. Ensore gave a deep contented sigh. "That sounds like a happy man," Kaleb commented. Lazy grey eyes gazed affectionately at the healer. "I am, Kaleb, I am." The calmness that had always characterised the Chamah was back. Ensore stretched like a camitak. "After winter, Sar, Taran and I'll be in Samar. We'll stop briefly, en route, to see how the new city develops." His dark eyes serene, Sarehl nodded sleepily. "Then you can finally confirm what happens about Chloris, my friend." The grey eyes smiled.

"Taran and I've already discussed Chloris. She remains Chamah-Elect. What that does mean though, Sar, is that she must come to us in the not too distant future, certainly no later than thirteen cycles for some of a cycle at least." "Kas and I are agreeable," answered Sarehl. "We'll have to talk long with Chloris, but the choice will be hers." He hesitated, then added. "What about your own children?" Ensore shook his head. "Maybe, Sar, maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? But what has to be understood is that Chloris is accepted by the Cu-Inam and the Curule, yes, reluctantly I know, which is why they're eager to mould her to obedience. You don't play fast and loose with a succession. When I chose Chloris, it was done deliberately. She's grown up in that expectation as well, . I'm the son of a Chamah, but my father wasn't as you know, simply because the succession doesn't have to follow a direct line. If he'd followed normal practice I would've benefited." "Wishing was hoping," said Eli, humorously. He saw Sarssen's raised eyebrows. "You didn't know our worthy father, warrior. If you had, you'd understand. We owed him filial respect, didn't we, Ens, but I for one wouldn't say I dearly loved him." "No," said Ensore, reflectively. "Though his ghastly execution made us both realise what he meant to us, didn't it?" "Yes," answered Eli, rather bleakly. He looked across at the warrior. "Sarssen, to know what's about to happen to your father makes you wish you'd taken the time to say things to him and express emotions you took for granted, before it's too late. I may not have felt overwhelming love, but I cared all the same." "Naturally," responded Sarssen. "I'm surprised I'm Chamah," put in Ensore, mildly. "It shouldn't have happened. It was time for a woman to succeed and that placed Kas right in line as the obvious candidate." "Her relief must be enormous," grinned Kaleb. "That's why you chose a woman to succeed you?" "Partly. I wanted Kas' offspring to follow, yes."

"Who was the last woman Chamah?" asked Sarssen, falling back on an elbow and flexing a leg. Ensore had to think a long time before he could reply with certainty. "This is a bit complex. My mother had a sister. That sister's mother's mother was Chamah, if I have this right." "So your mother's greatdame twice removed," offered Sarehl. "No, Sar." Ensore shook his head. "My mother and her sister had different mothers. Let me just work this out again." He was silent, then began. "Mother was Tansora. Her sister, my aunt, was Elibeah. Tansora's mother, our greatdame, was Lamanah. Elibeah's mother was Simah. It was Simah who was the daughter of Ondona, the last woman Chamah. Eli, does that make sense?" "I think so," said Eli, wrinkling his forehead. Ensore saw Sarssen's broad satisfied smile. "Why do you smile?" asked the Chamah, amused. "If I've read your archives right, Ensore, Ondona was mated to the Mishtok in one of the most unusual crossbred marriages. It aroused considerable comment that a Dahkilan princess should have mated with a Yazd. Not that, at the time, it was ever known the man she deliberately chose was the Mishtok, nor is he written as such in your archives, but I recognise the name of Ondona's mate. I know, because our records at Enouri show a Mishtok mated with one Ondona of Dahkilah. I did not know, I must confess, that she was once Chamah, only that she was a royal princess. How fascinating!" "Did she?" questioned Ensore, quite astonished. "I must confess I'm a little hazy on such areas. I was so hedged about with tutors on all things, so many in fact, I think I deliberately tried to skip a great deal." He laughed ruefully. "Anything, Sarssen, just to get away! Some things, though, stay clearly to mind." "I know this sounds far-fetched, but unless the records lie," Sarssen shrugged, "we must accept them. They seldom do lie where s of births and deaths are meticulously recorded. They are in great detail at the Conclave and doubtless are here. You tell me Ondona's mate's name, Ens, and I will tell you if it tallies with our records."

"Very well," replied Ensore, lazily humouring the warrior. "That's easy enough. Eli, wasn't Ondona's mate called Juras?" "Aye," came the prompt response. Both Eli and Ensore turned their heads to stare at Kaleb who drew in a sharp breath and stared at the warrior. Though Kaleb had already picked Juras earlier, the added knowledge of Ondona and her being a Chamah was new to him. "Why?" demanded Eli, curiously. "What does it matter?" "Juras was our venerated Mishtok. Our library confirms this. I already knew that, as does Kaleb. It's part of our Conclave heritage." "I don't believe he was Mishtok," argued Ensore, flatly. "We knew he was Yazd, yes, but Mishtok? There must be some error." "I think not," said Sarssen, quietly. "I'd no idea you had Yazd in your line, Ens," said Sarehl, highly intrigued. "The gods, what a merry band of mixes we are." "Speak for yourself," chuckled Kaleb. "It comes out in the eyes," went on Sarssen, equably. "Well, that proves it," stated Eli, triumphantly. "We've all got grey eyes, not clear, translucent Yazd eyes like yours, Kaleb. So there's no connection." "Maybe." Sarssen scratched his beard. "Juras, according to the chroniclers, was a most eccentric but brilliant man who came and went from Elibera most regularly, sometimes almost to the day of a cycle. As Mishtok, he would have to. It was also written that he travelled south in an annual cycle, leaving Ondona by herself. It was a situation that led to tension and misunderstanding in the kingdom that a consort to a Chamahdan should come and go in such a manner. It was considered to be casual and rude and also led to resentment her spouse should be so much at liberty to choose where he would be and when. There was conflict with the Cu-Inam." "There would be," muttered Ensore. Sarssen took a long drink before he spoke

again, very quietly. "The chronicles repeatedly tell us that Juras was unusual for a Yazd. The man was taller than most and blessed with unusual eyes. They were strangely coloured - deep gold, unflecked and flawless. These were inherited by one of his daughters, Simah by name, who in turn ed them on to her child Elibeah. They seem to follow the female line, do they not?" Kaleb was watching Sarssen in amusement and comprehension. "So you were more than right, my friend," he murmured. "Such acute insight, Sarssen." He got a sardonic grin. Then Kaleb murmured, "Also from Mishtok to Mishtok?" "Mostly," Sarssen said, with a wink. Sarehl thought hard. "Now just a minute. I've wondered about the twins' eyes. I asked Kas about them but she said she knew nothing about golden eyes or golden-edged eyes. But it seems they do indeed come from your side of the family, Ens." "And to girls, too," murmured Kaleb, provocatively. He got a sharp look from Ensore. He saw Sarehl look hard at him, then as hard at Ensore, the man clearly puzzled. "Kas left Elibera very young," Ensore explained. "I always meant to tell you golden eyes showed up occasionally in the Dahkilan line when the twins were born, Sar, but I forgot." "Are golden eyes typical of the Yazd?" asked Sarehl, genuinely surprised. "I've never seen it before." "No!" responded Kaleb, positively. "Juras was quite unusual. Maybe he wasn't even fully Yazd. Who knows?" "So was Elibeah's daughter unusual," said Sarssen. "She answered to Charasan, did she not?" "Ah!" sighed Kaleb, satisfied. "I didn't know we had a Mishtok in the family, Sarssen, so surely other than to you it's unknown?"

"Probably." "So how do you know the name Charasan, or that there was a child given that name by Elibeah? Did it turn up in your reading, too, as incidental to the colour of Elibeah's eyes that come directly from Juras?" "Not entirely. It came to me in quite the oddest way." Sarssen drank again. "Charasan was killed in one of the last waves of Churchik assault. They tried to save her but she was swept away at the point of a sword. A witness said he saw her go down." Ensore's voice shook. Kaleb saw Sarehl stare at him but refused to hold the look. It made Sarehl turn his attention to Sarssen. "Brother, what do you know?" Sarssen was watching Ensore. "Was Charasan, as I suspect she was, my friend, chestnut-haired and with golden eyes like her mother Elibeah?" "Yes, she was. She was very lovely and scarcely eighteen cycles when the first Churchiks came." "She didn't die then, my friend," said Sarssen, very carefully and tactfully. "I think you should listen to me, Ens." When Sarssen finished speaking, he saw the Chamah had his head in his hands, the man barely able to speak he was so choked. Eli was motionless. Finally, after a very long silence, intensely poignant and filled with unspoken emotion, Ensore managed to gasp. "Stoned to death? For the gods, why? Ah, demons, Sarssen! What did she do to deserve that?" "Nothing, Ens. Nothing at all. Agge was a thoroughly vicious woman. She wanted Charasan to suffer because she resented her beauty, her lineage, and her probable hold over Correc should the haskar ever hear of her heritage." Sarehl had listened, alternating between fascination and revulsion. "Are you telling us my little warrior brother has mated not only with the

daughter of one of your profoundest enemies, but she's also of the royal house of Dahkilah?" "Charilae is Charasan's daughter, Sarehl. That is a fact. Nor does the irony escape me, I can assure you. I read that in Agge's mind before they hanged her." Ensore was silent, his eyes sombre and thoughtful. The man let the ensuing conversation drift past him, finally saying, "What a fool I am, Sarssen. I kept staring at the girl knowing there was something about her. It was the hair of course, and the lovely eyes, though Charilae's are flecked, aren't they? She's so like Charasan who grew up as a sister to us. Dear gods!" He turned to Kaleb. "Did you know?" "That she was possibly related to you, yes," itted Kaleb, "but not in what way or that it was so closely." "Gods," mumbled Sarehl. "The Curule will be enraged at this mating again with the wretched Samars." That brought some lightness to sad grey eyes. "That's a pleasurable thought," retorted Ensore. "Ens," said Eli, contemplatively. "You may not want Charilae to be included in things Churchik. After all, they're the ones who slaughtered her mother and enslaved her. I'm not happy at the thought of her going south again, other than strictly as Beth's mate." "That might be difficult," suggested Sarssen tactfully, watching all heads turn to him. He took time to explain just how complex Bethel and Charilae's situation was. It left the listeners bewildered and Eli pugnacious. "She needs no consent from a haskar down there. She's royal Dahkilan, damn it. For the love of the gods, I say to hell with the Churchik. She's our nearest cousin alive." "Yes, but she was raised as fully Churchik, has mated with a warrior and must live in the south at least for a time. She will choose her own path, Eli, you must believe that," said Sarssen, patiently waiting for the explosions that elicited to settle. It was Ensore who finally spoke.

"We need time to think this through. I'm so shocked and saddened. Yes, Eli, I don't argue, but Sarssen's right. This is extremely delicate and fraught. We don't just have Charilae to consider, but Beth as well. Let's put aside our outrage and dignity and think of them. I'm glad they mated when and how they did, Sarssen. Was it your hope, too?" Sarssen nodded. Ensore brooded, then asked, "Do you think she resembles her mother? I do." "From what I saw in Agge's festering mind, yes, she is very like and has little of her father, except of course her height. That comes from him." "Dear gods," suddenly uttered Eli. "Her mother's lands and title are still in trust, aren't they, Ens?" "Yes, in mine," concurred Ensore. "She was an only child, so her estates are vast and there's considerable wealth as well. There's also the royal title." "What is it?" Sarehl's eyes were keen. "Merlona," came the quiet answer. "The girl is actually Merlona, the Lady Dan, Charilae of Ilancat. I don't know what to say, Sarssen. You've stunned me. She's a woman of substance and significant power and could've been Chamahdan. Indeed she probably would've been my choice, had I known of her existence." There was a very long silence. Sarssen rose and began to unobtrusively top up tankards, as well as gather food onto plates that he put beside each person there. He and Kaleb looked at each other. Neither had the inclination to speak either, until the warrior said, "Charilae is a Dahkilan name of antiquity, is it not?" Ensore blinked at the warrior, his expression deeply forlorn and with a touch of desolation, then he nodded, with an effort. "Yes, of the royal line. Charasan did that much for her, should her daughter one day be freed from the Churchik. Only a fool wouldn't recognise it. Just a minute, Sarssen. You introduced that girl to me as Easmonda." "I had thinking about her to do," Sarssen excused himself. "I wonder," mused Eli, "if Correc knew?"

"No," said Kaleb, sourly. "If he had, the girl would've been sold off to the highest bidder. I only know of him through Charilae and that's enough." "Poor little Charasan," whispered Ensore, in a distraught voice. "For the gods, her death here in Elibera would've been preferable to the fate that awaited her." Sarssen nodded, his expression bleak. "I don't imagine Correc dealt gently with her." "No," Sarssen agreed. "Warriors took what they wanted. You all know that. Look at Beth and me. And Lute." "And that child suffered at his hands, too. Was Correc so brutal, Sarssen?" "He was cast in Lodestok's mould, my friend. You would expect no comion from Correc. The man was pitiless. In a way, Lodestok had more humanity, even if you had to seek to find it." "Yes," said Sarehl. "From Beth's description of Correc, his end at that Churchik's hands would've been cruel and slow." "Very." Sarssen stretched again. "Then perhaps Charasan was better off dead," said Ensore, sadly. No one felt equal to saying anything further. It was Daxel's arrival with a large tray of refreshments that was a welcome diversion. He was both fascinated and sickened by what Sarehl quietly recounted concerning Charilae. He made no comment. He just swallowed and stared at his brother. It was Sarehl who picked up the general conversation by asking, "When do we tell Beth and Charilae?" Sarssen spoke quickly. "They'll come back this way after Samar. You may decide to come back with them, Sar, and I can arrange to be here as well. It may be kinder to leave it till then. Beth has already had to cope with meeting Chlorien where Dase and you, Sarehl, had the chance to talk with her. Beth's was brief and intensely fraught." Sarssen hesitated, then added, "He and Charilae need time alone, too. Since they formally mated they have been surrounded by others without the essential privacy they need. You will understand what I mean, Dase." Daxel nodded.

"I understand," he agreed, calmly. "There is one other thing, Ens." Sarssen paused, while the others watched him struggle to find words. "Agge poisoned Charilae." No one spoke. The silence was deafening. "She was determined Charasan's line would die with Charilae. It will. Charilae cannot bear children." The silence stayed so fraught it was unbearable. It was Eli who managed to whisper, in a breaking voice, "Does Beth know?" "Yes." "And Charilae?" "No. Not unless Beth has chosen to tell her."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Kher's farewell to Bethel was brief. Since he had encouraged Manas to stay on longer in Elibera, he found the warrior engaged in a mock battle with the younger haskar, both young men stripped down in the heat, muscles rippling as they strained against each other, bare feet gripping the turf while they fought. They were ringed by onlookers. Kher walked across to look down at the combatants. He saw Sarssen, immensely amused, his hand on Kalbeth's shoulder while the boy excitedly yelled to his father. Switching his gaze to the boy, Kher realised how rapidly Kalbeth was growing. He turned to concentrate on the wrestling figures. Manas was the stronger of the two but Kher considered, studying the two men disionately, that his time as ambassador had softened him. Bethel was fit, lean and lithe. His body sinuously and continuously slithered from Manas' exasperated grasp, until Bethel got himself into a position where he could grasp the bigger, brawnier man. Now he held Manas. He refused to let go, sweat poured off him and he clenched his teeth in a grimace of determination. Manas tried to break the hold and fell to his knees, muttering in guttural Churchik in such a way it brought up Bethel's head, the young man laughing as he let go the burlier man. Instantly, Manas caught him and threw him down on his back to a chorus of indignant howls from the onlookers. Bethel was aware of a laughing face close to his own, before Manas stood to one side and pulled his friend to his feet. "Evenly matched," observed Kher, strolling forward. He watched the men fall apart and Manas stoop to get his wind back. The warrior shook his head. "No, my lord, I am unfit. Beth should never be able to best me at wrestling." Kher smiled at Manas. "He is not the boy of your youth, Manas. Beth is remarkably strong despite his deceptive appearance." He turned to Bethel. "Teach Lodrin to wrestle like that." Bethel grinned. He hauled on a tunic, pulled in his belt, buckled it, then swept a hand across a sweaty forehead to brush soaked curls that had strayed from his

queue and hung in his eyes. He became conscious Kher still watched him. "My lord?" "Lute has probably told you I leave shortly?" "Yes, my lord. I know you all return south." "You do realise your position among us, Beth, do you not?" "Yes, my lord, I do." Bethel looked directly at the warlord, his eyes clear. "I am haskar and a warrior. I am unlikely to forget, my lord." "Is Kalbeth yet in formal training? It is more than time he was, however hard it is for the young to settle to the fierce rigours and disciplines." "However hard it will be for him, my lord, I decided some time since he will be warrior trained. It is also his wish. Sar understands as well." "Sarssen, after a short spell in Samar and then with his mate, returns south, Beth, so he can work on Kalbeth's katif. He should not be expected to do this alone." Bethel heard the cautionary note in the cool voice. "I will do as I promised, my lord. Once the Guild and Academy are functioning I shall be at your service in person again." Kher held the straight look. "Should I have immediate need of you, Beth, like Shasah and Sarssen you can reach the south very quickly. Yes?" He saw a trace of anxiety in the velvet eyes though Bethel didn't flinch. "My son tells me mages have dragons." Bethel's eyes fell. "That is so, my lord, yes." "So," went on Kher, "should I need you, you will come?" Bethel nodded. "Then find your days in Samar with your family rewarding and happy ones, Beth." "I thank you, my lord." Thoughtful eyes followed the retreating figure of the warlord. ~~~

It was after she saw her son settle back on Lilium and had time with her daughter that Chlorien came back to Elibera. She wanted to be with her brothers. She was conscious Luton left for the south very soon and Bethel would go north with Sarehl. None of the brothers asked when they'd see her again, because as mage they knew she couldn't answer. Her power was recognised and respected, as was a belief she'd not live on Ambros. They all suspected where she'd go, but that wasn't discussed either. "Have you found your balance and sense of proportion both Nikos and Bene spoke of, Chlo?" asked Sarehl, one evening when she came to bid him goodnight. "Yes, I believe it will come now, Sar." "Go home, little Myme Chlo," advised Sarehl, gently. Chlorien lifted her head. "Go home?" she repeated, blankly. "What's there for me in Samar other than you and sometimes my other brothers?" "No, little sister, not to Samar. Go home to where you truly belong, child. Ask Abylon to take you there. He'll know the way." "Sar," she whispered, held close. "Can't you go yet, Chlo?" "I'm trying to reach out, Sar. I'm nearly there." "Come to me when you're ready and again when you find yourself, won't you, Chlo?" "You'll know, Sar. Nor should you forget you can meld with me, just as Dase can with Lute. In time we'll meld fluidly, all of us through me, but not yet. I need a little more time." "We can wait, Chlo. We can wait." ~~~ Time came close for Kher to leave. He stood absently at a window, watching

Chlorien and Bethel come from a palace park. They were unhurried, and laughing, Bethel with his arm about his sister and she with her head raised to the tall brother, her expressive eyes full of amusement and affection. Kher beckoned Sarssen over. "They make an unusually pretty pair, do they not?" He and the warrior watched the pair, now standing still. Bethel dropped a kiss on Chlorien's head at the moment she raised a hand that tenderly touched his cheek, the embrace setting off a charge of violet-blue energy that bounced from one to the other. Neither was aware of it. Sarssen recognised the blue as Bethel and knew, from what he saw of the mage battle in Chlorien's mind, that the indigo was hers. He was intrigued. Kher turned pensively from the window. "Power shrouds that young woman, Sarssen, and the others, too. Had she been in a position to dispense justice, she would not have dealt as gently with the Churchik as her eldest brother." Sarssen abstractedly lowered his tankard. "No, my lord, not in the same way as Sarehl." He drank. "She lost a mate in the mage battle. They were all devastated in one way or another. I suspect she may never recover from her loss and it is only when she finds balance will she know a degree of peace. I see her draw closer and closer to that every day, as if being with her family gives her the courage and reassurance she needs to take some final step." "Who was her mate?" "My lord." Sarssen turned deliberately away, unwilling to respond. "Do you know?" The cool voice demanded an answer so the warrior was obliged to turn to face his warlord. "My lord, I respectfully request you do not make me answer you. I was told in confidence and trust." Kher stared at Sarssen, then sighed deeply. "Very well, Haskar," he said, at last. "I accept you are bound by obligations other than to me." "My lord," answered Sarssen.

"Does my son know?" "I have no way of knowing, my lord." "And Beth?" "They may know after their sojourn as a family in the mountains, my lord." "Did Sarehl?" "I think he knew some time ago," came the quiet answer. "I think Dase might have an inkling as well. It will not surprise me to know those brothers met and knew her mate. He was with the northerners at the mage battle." "The man to one side of Chlorien and the Archmage?" "Yes, my lord." "Will she and her son live on Ambros?" "No," came the prompt reply. "I do not see their futures here. Chlorien also has a daughter." "I see." Kher studied the warrior's profile. "Not here on Ambros?" Sarssen shook his head. "If you wish to leave, Sarssen, you may." Kher was left wondering as he strode up and down the room, his pacing bringing little further enlightenment. Frustration at not being able to piece everything together made him unusually restive. The door opened and Chlorien entered. She just stood quietly watching the very large figure, her violet eyes curious and calm while she waited until Kher reached the far end of the room, to swing on his heel and prowl back again. He saw Chlorien and stopped in mid-stride, startled. "I neither heard nor saw you," he said, hastening forward. Chlorien walked into the room and stood observing him. "I've come to farewell you, Suldan." "I thank you for such a courtesy," responded Kher surprised, his tone grave.

Pale eyes stared down at a curly head like Bethel and Luton's, then, when Chlorien raised her head the warlord realised just how lovely she was, the eyes so like yet so different from Bethel's. Today they were unusually luminously soft. Hers were lighter but had the same depth and expression. "I've spoken with my brothers, Suldan. They've told me so much of you." Kher regarded her with warmth kindling his eyes. "Was it good or bad?" he asked, with a touch of rare humour. Chlorien's serious gaze changed to a twinkling one that transformed her and made her look very young and girlish. "Good," she assured him. Kher guided her to a seat and sat as well, watching Chlorien clasp her hands restfully in her lap in a way that reminded him vividly of Jonqi and Katakin. "Can you tell me why you are no longer Myme Chlo, though your brothers still call you that?" Chlorien studied the painted floor but glanced up fleetingly at the question. "The scholar who rescued me from Ortok thought it wisest I travel as a boy, Suldan. He knew there were those who sought me. He was right. He gave me the name." "And where do you go to now, young one?" "I don't quite know, though maybe I do," she answered, her voice deeply tired. "Sarssen tells me you seek inner harmony, my dear. I hope you find it." "So do I," she answered, in a whisper. She stayed where she was, content just to sit, then she turned to Kher and said, with all her brothers' impulsiveness, "Lute's spoken of you in such a way it makes me rejoice he's your son. That's what I came to say and to tell you what that means to me. And before I leave I want you to know, too, that the way you treat Bethel eases an ache that has never left me. Knowing you care for them and watch over them, makes that ache fade." She rose and faced the warlord who got to his feet in response to her move.

He took her hands in his and bent his head, his voice very gentle and kind. "They're finding peace, child, though they do so slowly. The process is sometimes painfully slow, but they reach out to find it. Do not seek so hard for yours, Myme Chlo. It may be much closer to you than you could possibly imagine and has been with you from the time you were a small child if you can only see it. Look within, deeply, young one, as you did when you were young and in Ortok, as well as later. Sometimes, we are so close we do not see or sense those who wait to help us. I believe that. I also think whatever, or whoever, only waits for your recognition and acceptance and is so close. Answer, child. Answer. Blessings on you, daughter of Melas." Eyes that met Kher's were indescribably sad and desolate, but at his words they suddenly held an arrested expression, as if Chlorien had a revelation. They suddenly misted as she spoke quietly. "Thank you, Suldan. Indeed, you're so much wiser than you know." Kher let go her hands and she was gone. ~~~ Sarssen glanced up at the entrance to his chamber, with its high vaulted and carved ceiling, to see the young woman framed by a huge arch that held a heavy decorative door swung on solid metal hinges. His eyes smiled a greeting. "Mage," he said, calmly. "Being with the truly unified family and seeing my brothers find peace, I, too, want to know it again. I'm so tired." Sarssen crossed to her. "I needed their unity. And I needed our unity as a complete family, as well as their acceptance, both of me and themselves, as things I could see and feel. They bring me to the realisation of what I am, as if something has crystallised inside." "You have sought for so very long, Chlorien." "Yes." "Have you found what you seek?"

"I think I'm about to." "Is it within or without?" Chlorien smiled. "The Suldan made me see it can be both - he's intuitive in a way that seems odd for a Churchik. Nor is he harsh. I believe what I seek's mostly within. I was looking in all the wrong ways, Sarssen. I thought I'd looked within, but maybe not in the right sense or fully in the right place." "Yes," nodded the warrior, in tender confirmation. He took her hands in his. "Have the courage to know wherein your salvation lies, Chlorien. You know, do you not?" She nodded. "And never wait to be fully prepared or utterly ready, child. None of us ever are." She nodded again. "Are you going?" "Yes." She spoke with some difficulty. "You've known since you met me, haven't you?" "Yes, child, I guessed." "Sar knows." "Probably, Chlorien. He knows his siblings better than they know themselves. He is a profoundly perceptive man. I think all your siblings know." "You'll be a mage, won't you?" "Yes, Chlorien, I believe so. No one can escape their destiny. None. Not even Malekim." "Be blessed, Sarssen," she whispered quickly, before wrenching herself away. Sarssen spoke to empty air. "And you, child." He stared pensively at the door only to see Bethel there, the young warrior's eyes watchful. "Chlo's gone?" "Yes, Beth. Did you sense it?" Advancing into the chamber, Bethel nodded. "She told me she had to go, but I already knew that."

"Do you know where she goes?" "I know," answered Bethel. "We all do now and it's right she goes there. You seem sad. Are you?" Bethel sat on the bed next to where Sarssen had sunk back, conscious an arm pulled him close. Bethel responded in his usual malleable way and leaned on the bigger man, his face upturned. "No, Beth, I am not." Sarssen stared into depthless purple eyes. "I am surprisingly content." "That then, as you and the warlord used to say, is good," replied Bethel, placidly. ~~~ Chlorien walked out through the gates of Elibera and far away to the meadow where she most often found Luton. Her hair blew about her. There was tremendous heat in the air that suggested an imminent summer downpour. She wasn't conscious of it. She stood still. "Ortoriol of the Shadowlands," she sent, the message strong but the voice highly uncertain. There was no response. "Scholar!" There was a brief pause, then Chlorien sent with urgent force. "I call to my father." She felt the surge of response that came from a distance and was very faint. "Little one. I heard you the first time but was far away." The voice grew stronger and was achingly familiar. It took Chlorien back to childhood. "I want to come home," she sent. "May I come?" The deep tranquil voice she yearned to have fill her senses swept over her. "Of course. I've been waiting for your call, little one. I'm still waiting as I promised you I would. It's time you came to your spiritual home. Call your dragon, child. You know where to come. Just think it and Abylon will bring you." ~~~ Chlorien stood where Abylon left her on Yarilo. She walked forward, into a

scented garden that seemed endless. The air was warm. She knew, with every fibre of her being, that she belonged here and on Lilium, but not on Ambros. She waited silently and still, until something made her turn. The scholar stood tall. His archmage robes accentuated his height, the tawny locks hung long and loose, and the eyes Chlorien loved so dearly looked gently across and down at her. "Little one," Autoc said, quietly. Chlorien walked slowly to him. She knew, as she took each step, that as she looked up at him she was whole as she'd not been since Nikos' death, and she wondered at the feelings that surged through her. She stood in front of him. "I wanted to come." "Yes, little one." Autoc held out a hand. "Come with me, child." Talking quietly, they walked towards the grand hall, only to find they were met by a most venerable Master mage, his robes swishing as he walked, his lined face kindly and the eyes very keen. He spoke directly to Chlorien. "Welcome to Yarilo, Myme Chlo who answers to Chlorien." "I've come," she answered uncertainly, a question in her eyes turned up to Autoc. "Indeed, you have, child." Elucien turned his head to Autoc. "You may leave her with me, Ortoriol. As you know, you're called." "Master," replied Autoc, his eyes on Chlorien. He spoke very quietly. "Chlorien." Again she turned to look up at him. The look in his eyes reminded her of Nikos. "I'll be back, child. All you need to do is wait, as I did for you." "I know," she whispered. She watched him throw back a cloak and her widening eyes went to the orb rested against his chest, barely substantial to the naked eye. She managed to speak. "Bene wore such a chain." "Yes, Chlorien, he did." "Is it his? Can you be -?"

"Go with Master Elucien, child." On the words, Autoc was gone. Chlorien looked at the very old mage contemplating her. "Master?" "You begin, child." Elucien gave a faint sigh. "Come, little initiate." He held out his hand. Helplessly, Chlorien clasped it. "Now look at me, child." When Chlorien did, under his intent gaze the Chlorien self sublimated itself to the power of an ancient mage. Her life on Yarilo only began. She was a child about to take the first steps. She woke in a chamber she knew was hers, small, comfortable but surprisingly bare and the clothes draped across a chair weren't hers. She was naked. Slowly, she clambered off the bed and donned the initiate robes, before she sat back in the chair and rested quietly, her eyes going to the restful scene out the window. As the days ed she lost all track of time. The sad, haunted look in her eyes slowly faded. She thought only of what she started to learn that totally absorbed her. Elucien, watching from a distance, was satisfied. ~~~ One afternoon, after Chlorien had been on Yarilo for a season, Elucien called to her as she walked meditatively in a garden, her mind on the weeds she was about to attend to. She swung round. "Master?" "I wish to talk with you, child. Can you spare me a few minutes?" Chlorien smiled up at him and nodded. She looked very young. It made Elucien purse his lips. Together they walked beyond the garden to a seat among others set randomly under trees, and there Elucien gently led her to a discussion of empathy and what it meant. He asked her about her life with Nikos, watching the flare of pain in the violet eyes as Chlorien spoke, something that made him highly pensive. "Tell me, Chlorien, how would one Rox feel for another?"

"They'd have instant and deep empathy." Chlorien had to think very hard. "It would be an unbreakable bond." "So a sudden parting would be painful, do you think?" "Yes." "Could it harm one or the other?" "Yes, I suspect so." "And how do you think a Rox and a half-Rox would feel if they were torn violently apart, rather than through a very gentle parting that was accepted by both and was understood?" Chlorien was thoughtful. "You are ready to think on these things, child. Go and do so. Answers come close for you if you keep your mind open as you are learning to do. Prepare yourself for an important step forward, Chlorien." ~~~ Autoc returned to Yarilo and stared out the tower window at the gathering of initiates in the courtyard below, a master mage talking with them and asking questions. Though it was a very small group, it was one rich in talent. Most would remain at ranked ranges of levels. The rare one would shine. He or she would catch the eye of a master and be chosen for advanced study and knowledge in a particular mage discipline, a lifetime dedication in itself. Chlorien was among them. Autoc was aware of her. He knew Elucien, for his own reasons, kept her in complete unawareness of his presence and he sensed the master's block in her mind from the time of her arrival on Yarilo. It would remain until such time as Elucien believed Chlorien was taught enough, and adequately balanced as well, for her to come to a fuller understanding of herself and her role as a very young and junior mage. The archmage was part of that. Chlorien had to clearly comprehend his role in relation to herself and to Ambros. Though the process of her reconciliation was begun, such things took time. Autoc grimaced at the thought. He strode from the room and navigated the circular staircase, two or three steps at a time. He decided to leave Yarilo again for a time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Sarehl looked up with a welcoming smile at Bethel and Kalbeth entering his spacious and comfortable study, the Strategos of Samar seated behind an ornately carved desk, in an equally elaborately decorated chair with thick squabs, high back and curved, broad arms. Documentation was scattered across the desk top, most with neat notations or a signature, all with the Samar seal. Sarehl noticed Bethel's resigned expression and Kalbeth's somewhat smug one, his raised eyebrow at Bethel productive of nothing more than an eloquent shrug for an answer. Kalbeth's breeches and shirt were torn. His face was a little battered. Bruises would be evident by morning. He looked battered if victorious. Sarehl wondered how long the vainglory would last and was thankful for Mist's arrival on the morrow. "Fighting again, young warrior?" he asked, hiding a smile by bending his head over the papers and pretending to shuffle them. Kalbeth gave his engaging grin, the big eyes unremorseful. He was quite unrepentant about the now very few brawls he got into. "Yes, Da." "Who was it this time?" "Sebec." Sarehl looked up with a straight face, his eyes meeting Kalbeth's. "Why?" "Same thing," was the offhand reply. Sarehl tapped the end of a pen on the desk, his dark eyes thoughtful. "Is it, Kal, about your being a Churchik and your father a warrior?" Kalbeth shrugged. "Who won?" Sarehl knew the answer immediately and nodded approvingly. "Good boy." "So he should," said Bethel indifferently, turning to regard his son who was now six feet tall. "Son, over the last cycle you've learned many youthful warrior skills

but you're still too slow. Those blows should've been dodged. Look what Sebec's done to you." "He's very much bigger than I am," came the aggrieved response. "Yes, Beth, he is," agreed Sarehl. "Now why is his name making me try to something about him? He's at least seventeen cycles and built more like Brue than any of us." "Is he indeed?" asked Bethel, in an amused voice. "Tell me, Lodrin, where would I find young Sebec?" "Where he always goes after he's thrashed me," Kalbeth said, morosely. He saw his father's changed expression. "To the tavern on the quayside behind school." There was no longer a grin. Kalbeth was hurting. "How often does he thrash you, boy?" Bethel crossed to Kalbeth and stared down at him. Kalbeth looked up, shrugged and saw unusually stern purple eyes that appeared menacingly hard. He answered as casually as he could. "Most days this week. Today I lost my temper." "Every day for a week," repeated Bethel, calmly. "Why have you said nothing?" "I take care of my own battles," muttered Kalbeth, rebelliously. "Commendable," said Bethel, coldly. Sarehl caught his brother's eye to see the expression was neither gentle nor amused. "Go and have a relaxing bath. That should help a bit, son." A hand ruffled the dark hair. "I am proud of you, Kal, but I need no boy to fight for me." Briefly, blue eyes sparkled, then dulled again. "Aye, Pater." "Where are you supposed to be, Kal?" Sarehl asked calmly, watching the thin boy limp to the door. Kalbeth turned with a strained face. "The Academy, Da. I'll still go." Sarehl looked quickly at Bethel who nodded abruptly. "I think, lad, it might be wiser that you bathe, eat and let the Academy slide for

today. Mist will be here tomorrow so that'll be good for you, Kal." Kalbeth shrugged and left. Sarehl looked over at his brother who stared imively out the window. "The gods, Beth. I'd no idea this was going on. You've been here a season, yet the child's tormented still. How serious has it been?" "He seems settled in school, Sar, and happy enough in himself, especially attending the Academy. I think this wouldn't have happened if Mist was here." "Kal thrives at the Academy, doesn't he?" "Yes," replied Bethel, head still averted. "But you're wrong if you think that's the main reason I brought him this cycle." "Oh?" "He's here to be with his family, Sar, more than anything else. If there was the equivalent of the Academy in the south he'd attend that and feel as contented, but he doesn't have the family he loves with him there." "He has his father, Beth." "Yes, of course, but you and Kas are important to him as Da and Mam and you always will be. I don't want that to change. He misses Chloris. Alfar, too, surprisingly enough. Their bond is very strong and he loves little Tamas. I want him to grow with his family and feel he's a vital part of it." "He is, Beth, believe me." "The next cycles see changes for him, Sar, changes that mean he's less able to come and go. That's why I keep bringing him north for as long as I can." Bethel paused. "His becoming a permanent part of a troop will make Kal think himself more southern again. I wanted to balance that by having him here as a Samar." "You try to balance north and south with him all the time, don't you?" "For his sake, Sar, yes." "He does understand, Beth. Do you realise that?" "He's begins to, Sar. He's more fully conscious of what he is. I want him to come

to comprehension of that before he reaches his sixteen cycle day, because from then he faces challenges if he's to achieve warriorhood. He won't be able to come and go as freely as absences will seriously disadvantage him. Nor do I want him torn and confused, not knowing who or what he is." "He'll know, lad. We may underestimate that boy's understanding. It's a common parental failing, Beth." "You truly think he's adjusted to both north and south, don't you?" "Aye, lad, I do. Kal's a very stable and well adjusted boy, Beth, a lad you should try to stand back from so you can be more objective about his maturing. He has his lapses - gods, we all do - but Kal takes all the right steps towards becoming a fulfilled young man." "He can thank you for that." "And you, Beth." "I'd no idea he was being beaten like this over the last week." "No, nor did I, and no, Beth, don't blame yourself because you've been busy at the Academy and didn't recognise any signs. Boys of Kal's age are very good at hiding signs of things they don't want their parents to know. Clearly, Kal didn't want this situation known. He's handled it fairly well until now. I've not seen him as battered as this. What happened today?" "I walked past," answered Bethel, simply. He turned to stare out the window again. Sarehl stared very hard at his brother. He thought Bethel resembled Daxel because he was now as powerfully built and very like their father. "I think you've something to tell me, lad, haven't you?" he asked, shrewdly, a knowing glint to the eyes. "No. Talking about it serves no purpose." "This has happened before, hasn't it, Beth? Every time you've come north in fact. Why was nothing said to me?" "Things are not as bad as they were, Sar."

"How bad were they, little Beth?" Bethel didn't move, his response indifferent. "Very." He inclined his head so he could survey his brother. "You want to know what it's been like, Sar?" Sarehl nodded. His brother's blunt description appalled him and had him on his feet, eyes blazing with disgust and incredulity. "Spat on?" he echoed. "No, Beth, no! Tell me I'm not hearing this!" He limped over to Bethel and swung his brother round. "For the love of the gods, why didn't you tell me? I might've helped. I don't know how, but I'd have tried." "Sar, everyone knew you'd be so deeply hurt at our treatment, you might well have turned from Samar." Sarehl held Bethel in a strong grip, but at those words he let his brother go and stood back a few steps, silently regarding the young warrior. His voice was constricted, words spoken with difficulty. "They were right, Bethel. I'd have left, then and there. That you, of all people, received such treatment is unspeakable and hurts me more than you can possibly understand." His voice cracked in a way that made Bethel go to him. When their eyes met, Bethel saw sadness in moist dark ones. "Sar, you're needed here and have achieved so much. Would the jibes and spitting of the few be worth throwing all this away?" "If I thought the harm done you or Kal was irreparable, Beth, then yes, I'd pack today and walk out the gates." "Then we did right to say nothing," observed Bethel, seriously. He got a searching look. "I think, from something Ens said, that Kalor dealt with people, but I'm not sure." "Do Lute and Dase know, Bethel?" Bethel nodded, slowly. "Are things easier this visit, Beth?" Bethel eyed his brother thoughtfully. "Tell me the truth, I beg you." "Yes," answered Bethel, seeing distress still in the dark eyes. He smiled. "Truly, Sar. Now the Guild's properly organised and functions as it should, with students

starting to steadily enrol at the Academy again, I'm seen as more the musician and less the warrior. People have also become far more accustomed to see the Churchik in a ive role with the ambassadorial entourage walking about so freely in the city. They see that though I'm a warrior, I'm also Samar. Apart from the trials that seem to beset Kal, things have settled a great deal. He concerns me because he's more vulnerable to attack than I am." "Other than Sebec, who torments him? Do they still call him the son of a traitor?" Sarehl stumbled over the word. His mind reeled that anyone could accuse Bethel of being such a thing. Bethel rubbed his beard in much the same way Sarehl did, his long fingers curling in the silky black beard. "Only one boy when we first arrived, but Kal settled that fairly promptly. I'm sure all's been well with him since then. The daily thrashings come as a surprise, and an unwelcome one. He's really thrived and been very happy." "Quite," agreed Sarehl, through gritted teeth. "Mist's definitely due here tomorrow, isn't he?" Bethel nodded. "Then the lad'll have someone to keep watch over him again. I wonder how long this has gone on – not that long, I don't think Beth. We'd have noticed if it had, I'm sure of that." "I think so, too," agreed Bethel, nodding. "I'll ask Kal, but I suspect this has been over a matter of days and not weeks. As you say, we'd have seen it. Maybe I shouldn't have left Mishak in Del-Floret with Dase. I should have brought him here as well." "You can still send for him, Beth." "I will," said Bethel, then he grinned in a way that made him look as boyish as his son. He was twenty-nine cycles. "In time, when we come, Sar, Kal should be warrior trained. I would dearly love to see any boy his age try his temper then. A thirteen cycle boy will be quite different from a seventeen cycle warrior." Sarehl's smile broadened. "There can be no break for him from about fifteen cycles on, can there?" Bethel shook his head. "No, Sar. The whole focus of his life will be on attaining warriorhood on his seventeen cycle day, so there will be no respite for him, both training and school intense. He comes to the toughest part of his life, Sar, a stage that will shape him

as I was moulded, too." "Meantime, little brother, what shall I do about Sebec?" Bethel's eyes gleamed with anticipation that enormously amused Sarehl. "Nothing, Sar. Nothing at all. Leave him to me." "With pleasure," responded Sarehl, aware Sebec was about to receive a severe shock and probably an unpleasantly physical one. The thought delighted the Strategos. "Then come and me for a drink at the "Samaran". Lute said he'd me there." "He leaves today, doesn't he?" "Yes, lad, his was a very fleeting visit." "He finds little things about the place that remind him so vividly of what was," mused Bethel, falling into step beside his brother as they sauntered from the room and down the corridor. "Then he says he wakes up and realises it isn't the same at all. It's disconcerting at times. I still follow the canals and then find they don't go where I expect." "Does Lute seem bothered by it, Beth?" "No," replied Bethel, after long consideration. "He was at first, then the next time he came he said it was easier. This time he seems quite comfortable. He strides about the place as though he's lived here for cycles." "Not like you were, lad." "No," acknowledged Bethel, wrinkling his forehead. "But now I go wherever I want and think little of it, even if I'm occasionally ignored. I'm used to that." "I think Dase being here helped Lute." Bethel nodded. "Yet Dase isn't here this time." "No, but Lute's his other half and as at ease. Does he like Dase's Del-Floret, Sar?" "Yes, lad, I think so, though he says little and just looks and thinks, like you.

That city's interesting, because the same architects and engineers who built Samar are involved, yet the city has a quite different feel from any I've been in. It's unlike here and quite unlike Elibera." "Samar was built from old Ortok," reminded Bethel. "And then they tried to incorporate as much as they could of the old city into the new. They didn't do that with Del-Floret, nor did they make it Dahkilan. It's an oddity, but I feel the place has character and identity, something uniquely its own. It's ideal for Dase because he's neither completely Samar or Dahkilan either, is he?" "No," answered Sarehl, ruefully. "Like you and Lute, he's a very thorough mix. Ambrosian is what I call you young ones." "Aye," said Bethel, reflectively. "Brue is. Have you heard from our youngest brother, Sar?" "No," responded Sarehl, on a chuckle. "He's barely got to Theryns. I'll hear from Maren in time. Dase only has a week in Del-Floret before he's off up north again to Krynn." "But he likes it there," protested Bethel, on a sudden laugh. "Kat's a continuing talking point and Meloki enchants the king and queen. It's said, Sar, that the king dotes on the little dark-haired Floretian with the soulful grey eyes. I say, beware Dase." Bethel saw the raised eyebrows. "Ahliah dutifully wed since he's Crown Prince, Sar, and his wife has even more dutifully produced a son." "Just before Meloki was born, yes. It's why Ahliah wasn't at the Chamah's marriage." Sarehl caught the knowing look in Bethel's eye, threw back his head and gave way to a laugh of sheer merriment. "You mean Kyaran royalty missed out on Dase and me, so they might think Dasultan and Meloki a fine match?" Bethel nodded, then he, too, burst out laughing. "You never know," wheezed Sarehl, on another gust of mirth. "You just never know." They met up with Luton who loped along the street to the inn, his hair blowing in the stiff breeze and his cloak clutched about him. He saw his brothers and greeted them cheerfully, before preceding them into the tavern where the innkeeper smiled affably and quickly filled three tankards. "There you are, Strategos," he said brightly, watching Sarehl fish in his pockets for coinage. He shook his head. "My pleasure, my lord. But for you I wouldn't be

running a snug little business like this. Profits are fine." "They won't be, my friend, if you keep refusing to let me pay the way of myself and my brothers." "Ah, that's nonsense, my lord," remonstrated the innkeeper. "I hear tell there's trade coming up from the south again. That can only be good for business. There's plenty from the north, my lord, but it'll feel like old times to hear there's folks and goods moving freely south of here again." 'Yes," agreed Sarehl, deliberately placing a coin on the counter. He watched the innkeeper grunt and reluctantly take it. The brothers sat in a corner. They no longer aroused any particular interest as they did earlier when the Strategos was seen to bring a warrior brother with him to the tavern, and then another warrior brother as well as Daxel. That provoked discussion. Now Sarehl's policy, of being seen in all public places with his warrior brothers, seemed to have the desired effect. There were no comments, no surreptitious looks, the brothers just accepted as being there. Sarehl was increasingly satisfied, though his mind brooded over Bethel's experiences among such folk as surrounded them here. It was Bethel's second long stay since the Chamah's nuptials. "Is Choice to be reinstated this spring?" asked Luton conversationally, ale flecking his moustache that he licked at lazily. "Aye, it's been asked for," replied Sarehl, placidly. He glanced at the innkeeper. "It'll be very good for business and should bring people from miles away, just as it used to. It's been an institution for so long, I think it should be revived." "We've all chosen," murmured Bethel, absently. "Aye," agreed Sarehl, with a twinkle. "Except Chlo." Luton drank and again licked his whiskers. "I suspected, as did Sarssen, that Chlo's salvation was Autoc. I wonder if either of them will come to Ambros soon?" "If there's a need perhaps," said Bethel dreamily, his eyes with a far away look to them. "If she's mage she'll doubtless learn on Yarilo, as mages do. If it's anything like the teaching I got from Sarssen, it will be very hard. I found it continually demanding, rigorous, and very, very wearing. I used to get so tired!"

"Hard taskmaster, was he, lad?" teased Sarehl. Bethel glanced at him. "Ask Kal. He'll tell you I speak nothing but the truth," the warrior grinned. "Speaking of studying," put in Luton, thoughtfully, "we've come across some very old musical manuscripts at the Keep, Beth, that need someone like you to look over them and decide what they might be. Even the notations are strange." "Is Kher still there?" asked Sarehl, very surprised. "No," smiled Luton, shaking his head. "As soon as I knew he was back in Caciqua, I took the stallions to the steppes, stayed briefly with Jonqi, then came here. Father won't leave Chey or the children alone. Though we can trace nothing, he senses undercurrents among the Churchik. It's why I don't stay." "Are you worried, Lute?" asked Sarehl, anxiously. "I'm uneasy," came the reply. "It's a constant state, isn't it, Beth?" "Aye," affirmed Bethel pensively, his eyes scrutinising his brother's face. "Does Sarssen know about this, Lute?" "When does the warrior not know what goes on, Beth?" threw back Luton, in a jocular tone. He saw grave purple eyes. "Yes, Beth, he's been with Father more than once. He's wary, but he says little and just watches." Bethel chewed on his lower lip. "He comes and goes north and south." "There's been no disturbance in Kal's katif to draw him away, has there?" Luton shook his head. "Is Kel back south yet?" "I think not, Beth. The fighting still goes on, but the last thing I heard from Sarssen was that Kel and Jane quelled many of the groups that continue to fragment. They seem to have a fairly iron control. Redoubtable those two, aren't they?" "Very," laughed Bethel. "And Manas is there now, too, isn't he?" "Apparently. This last season he and his mate have settled in the partially restored city once called Abbas. It's now called Maresh. Have you heard from him?"

"Only that Melinda birthed a son." "Indeed she has, Beth, she has. Manas has given his son an unusual name." Luton saw both brothers observing him and chuckled. "Broken with tradition, too, in the way the name was chosen. Not like Kal, Beth. Manas' boy is named after you." "After me?" exclaimed Bethel, choking on the ale. "His father will not be impressed by that. What is the child's name?" "Obethon." Luton saw the blank expressions, then burst out laughing. His mirth was so infectious people about grinned in sympathy and his brothers had to him, simply because of the absurdity that led to Manas choosing to do such a thing after so many cycles of war and hatred. ~~~ The following day Luton went south, but a Samar youth was summoned to the Academy. A guildman sternly told him to be seated and wait, the minatory accents making the youth quickly oblige. Sebec sat on the edge of the seat, his eyes wandering indolently about the huge, lofty hall with the beautifully carved and scrolled wood that went from ceiling to floor. He was a very large youth for his age, well muscled, tall, and certainly very much tougher than a boy of thirteen cycles who was as slender as a wheat stalk. Sebec had a shock of dark brown hair, hazel eyes, a pugnacious expression and he was restless. He shuffled his feet and twisted his hands together, in half a mind to leave. He wasn't sure he wanted to miss the challenge he'd enjoy with the pretty boy's father, a man, from all s, who'd be easy to handle, warrior or no. Sebec had scant respect for warriors. He thought they were huge men with little intellect. He heard a door open. Framed in the doorway was a very tall man of surprising breadth of shoulder. He looked powerful and athletic. Sebec recognised this had to be the master musician because his resemblance to his son was startling and threw Sebec completely off balance. He'd no notion Kalbeth was the physical image of his father. The man stood quietly surveying him, his summing up discomfiting and embarrassingly acute. Sebec stood uncertainly. When Bethel

said nothing, Sebec's smile became a sneer. That faded when their eyes met. "Enter," invited a deep, courteous voice. Bethel stood aside. Sebec entered. Bethel closed the door. The youth saw a chair close by and moved to it, but a voice like a whip crack made him flinch and stand motionless. His heart raced with fright. It could've been Lodestok speaking. "You do not have permission to sit," went on the voice. Startled eyes turned to look up into Bethel's and the experience of again meeting those large orbs shook Sebec, because they were cold and expressionless. They could've been made of ice. Bethel spoke very softly. "You were summoned here so I could see what sort of youth it is who attacks one less strong and younger. You may take pride in how you behave, Sebec, but spare me if I do not. I feel contempt. You treat my son with disdain, do you not?" Sebec was momentarily tongue-tied by such an unexpected and frontal attack. "Answer when you are spoken to." "Yes," Sebec got out. His failing courage resurfaced. "Why?" "Cos of what you are!" "And what is that?" enquired Bethel, politely. "You're a weakling and a traitor to the people of Samar. Look at you!" spat Sebec. "You've chosen to be a warrior. They're bastards, every one, and you should all be strung up. No man worth anything would let a warlord bed him as you did. It's disgusting! Will Kal be the same for another warrior then?" Bethel took a step forward, his eyes dark and steely. "I'll show you what I am, young man," he said sternly, through his teeth. "You can learn through a fight, can you not, since it seems that's all you're capable of understanding." Sebec took several steps back. "You asked me what I thought of you, so I told you!"

"So you did, explicitly. Now I shall use two words to sum you up, Sebec. Cowardly and ignorant." He saw the youth's hands ball into fists. "It's so much easier to throw insults than to receive them, is it not?" Sebec saw Bethel purposefully roll up his sleeves and hesitated. "Your fighting me isn't fair," he whined, uncertainly. Bethel's smile was unpleasant. "Neither is what you've been doing to my son." Bethel stripped off his jerkin. "Prepare yourself, boy," he invited. "Leave me alone," burst from Sebec, taking an unwary step back that had him slip and fall over the chair. A grasp of steel brought him back to his feet. "Come on, Sebec, show me how manly you are. I don't care what sort of lesson you learn from this, whether it be Samar or Churchik. Either way you'll learn and hopefully profit by it as well. What are you waiting for, boy?" Sebec had called Bethel weak and effeminate. He thought of his words now as Bethel squared up to him purposefully, his expression those who knew the deceased warlord would now recognise in the son. "No man," Sebec bitterly mocked Kalbeth, "would let another man treat him as your father let himself be treated." The last words were scathing. "Your father's such a woman, Kal." ~~~ The result of Bethel's disciplinary measures was far wider-reaching than he anticipated. That a known bully was dealt with, and in a Churchik way, caused both astonishment and approbation among Samars. It also brought a twinkle to Sarehl's eyes and a determination to write to Ensore who'd only just arrived back in Elibera from a prolonged sojourn in Samar. It also brought immediate benefits to the young warrior. He found himself spoken to more often and in an open, more respected fashion, nods that were grudging and frosty, now warmer and conciliatory. They were even accompanied by smiles. He was spoken to in greeting when he ed. The smile and gently spoken reply, in the deep voice, made Samars realise the Ortokian boy had, perhaps, not changed so much after all.

People who knew him as a child recalled things about him that they saw in the mature man. They were spoken of and ed by others who also recalled the shyly, elusive child prodigy with the endearing gentle manner, the youngster constantly protected against those who tweaked him about his looks and musical gifts. It was as if the real Bethel was seen for the first time, but the recognition came too late. The barrier Bethel confronted left its mark in all sorts of subtle ways. He was responsive and courteous. But he could no longer easily relate to people he turned to impulsively, as a freed slave, in the expectation they'd welcome him home and encourage him to live among them in peace with his son. He stayed detached. Sarehl saw it and commented to Daxel who ed through Samar on his way north to Krynn. Daxel just inimitably shrugged in the manner he'd unconsciously adopted from his twin. "They rejected him, Sar, so now they can't expect him to automatically respond to friendly overtures as if nothing's happened. It sounds unlike Beth not to respond." "He does," explained Sarehl, pulling at his beard. "I see him smile and talk, but it's as if only part of him's there." "That trait was there all along," said Daxel, not mincing matters. "He was always like that as a child, wasn't he? Somewhere else?" Sarehl reluctantly nodded. "Now, as an adult, with rejection and what happened to him it's maybe more apparent. Sarssen's the same. I think it goes back to their having to be so careful not to betray themselves that they only fully open to those they completely trust. Others they're friendly with and enjoy having around, but they retain that sense of remoteness. I guess they always will." "So neither, you're saying, will have the common touch, ever." Daxel grinned affectionately at his brother. "As much as you will," he responded. "You're not so different, Sar - all affability on the surface, but like them, and me, too, you're reserved and don't offer yourself up as an easy, readable target." Sarehl was about to retort when a boy went tearing past them, only to be halted by a stooped figure and a long arm that shot out to hold the child captive.

"Not so fast, Alfar. Where are you racing to now?" Alfar straightened his tunic and hitched at his breeches. "Let me go, Da. Warriors are going around by the canals and I want to catch them so I can watch." "Why aren't you in school, son?" "Da!" pleaded a small voice. Big grey eyes stared up at Sarehl who remained unaffected by the entreating eyes. The boy read the determination on his father's face and gave a sigh, his melting eyes turned to fix on Daxel. "Don't try playing off your tricks on me, Alfar," grinned Daxel. "I know most of them because I tried them on Sar when I was a boy your age." Sarehl gripped a small hand in his so firmly Alfar knew his cause was lost. "This ion for warriors, Dase," Sarehl said, in a worried voice. "It comes from the time when Alfar was a little fellow. It's when he first set eyes on Sarssen and Bethel whom he instantly respected and was awe-struck by. It could grow worrisome in time. There's no understanding in the adulation, none at all." "If the lad saw them in their natural setting he'd get over it pretty quickly," returned Daxel, eying the rebellious boy tugging at his father's hand. "They'd scare him witless." "Aye," murmured Sarehl, glancing down at his son. "Why aren't you in school, Alfar?" Prudently, the boy refrained from an answer. Sarehl considered a boy now seven cycles. Alfar was tall for his age, as was to be expected, his head covered by a riotous tangle of chestnut curls that bounced about his head as Brue's did at the same age, his skin as soft and creamy alabas as Bethel's. The eyes, so enchantingly roguish, were thickly and blackly fringed. The boy was very pretty with the black arched eyebrows that gave him so unusual and distinctive a look. There the prettiness ended. Alfar was a handful, wilful, and very, very naughty. Nor could he be made to mind his books. He was extremely bright, but like Daxel and Luton before him he was in eternal scrapes and got bored in minutes. Autoc had seen a very bored child not adequately extended and never in a stable

environment until he came to live in Samar. Sarehl spoke again, this time more gently, "Son, I asked you a question." "I left," came the honest answer. Turned around and given a little shove, he went to pull back. "No, Da, don't take me back." All Sarehl heard was Daxel's fruity chuckle behind him. After he watched Alfar marched to the senior master's room, the chestnut head bowed and the boy's steps dragging, Sarehl met Kalor as the Cyrenic rounded a corner and strode vigorously forward. He saw Sarehl and halted. "Well met, Sar," he said, cheerfully. "What are you doing here? Not that son of yours again?" "Aye," sighed Sarehl, wearily. "He's almost at the age Brue was when we gave him to Maren, isn't he?" Sarehl nodded. "And as much of a handful as well," pursued Kalor, eying Sarehl with amusement. "I think he's worse," moaned Sarehl, falling into step with his friend, then he had to laugh. "No he's not," Kalor assured him. "He's bored like Brue, Sar, and needs discipline." "I try, Kalor." "Real discipline," mocked Kalor, gently. "You've been tied up with war and peace negotiations, Sar. And you've established a city-state. You've also had to settle the whole Samar region, my friend. The result is that the child's not had the attention he needed some time since." Kalor saw the guilty look come to dark eyes. "I've not neglected him," Sarehl whispered. "I haven't, Kalor." "No, quite the reverse. He's over-indulged, Sar, because you've been so preoccupied. You couldn't do everything and be everywhere. No one criticises, my friend. Have you ever paddled that lad's backside for him?" Sarehl shook his

head ruefully. "When Kal kicked up larks in the baggage train, what did you do?" "Spanked him," itted Sarehl. "Did it hurt him?" "No." "Did it have the desired effect?" "Of course it did. Kal stopped straight away." Sarehl glanced at Kalor. "You're saying I should discipline Alfar more firmly, aren't you?" "Someone has to, Sar, or that boy of yours will become extremely difficult to handle in another couple of cycles. Like Brue he's a lovely lad, bright-eyed, intelligent and bored to tears by the routine he's subjected to. He's not being stimulated, Sarehl. Nor is he being extended enough and made to work to achieve anything. He's also been a child, like Brue, constantly on the move with no stable base. That's a shame." Kalor left the Strategos thoughtful, his eyes narrowed and his face set in unusually stern lines. The following days saw him study both Kalbeth and Alfar closely. The comparisons he obviously drew weren't ones that particularly satisfied him. He walked about the city with a preoccupied air, went less often to the Centre where he had his own private room to study in, and began to call in at school. What he saw disturbed him. Alfar was restless, distracted, refused to concentrate and barely finished anything. He slipped out from under whenever he could, and produced sloppy, untidy work. In his spare moments he drew pictures of warriors and warrior jewellery and weapons. Sarehl had long, intense talks with Kasan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Chlorien finally met Autoc again, but only for a short time. Elucien kept that meeting, and later ones, deliberately short and Autoc knew the conversations had to be general. It was only after Elucien spoke with Chlorien, one morning, that he decided it was time for the Archmage to more fully communicate with Yarilo's newest initiate. He simply left them together and walked slowly away. Chlorien sat near Autoc by a miniature waterfall. "You're Archmage." "I am," came the calm response. "I've been such a fool. I've sought inside and outside myself to try to bring you something in return for what you gave me. You gave me life, Father, and a chance to use gifts you let me know were there. I've travelled Ambros on a fruitless search." "Yes, I know, foolish child," came the deep, amused voice. Autoc crossed to be beside Chlorien. "My oneness is you, isn't it?" For an answer, Autoc put his arms round her and held her tightly as he did cycles before. "I'm not whole without you, Ortoriol, though I once thought I was." "Such misery you put yourself through, little one. Such anguish. Nor am I whole without you, Chlorien, but for another reason you don't yet understand. You will, one day, gods willing." Lips touched her head. It was such a familiar gesture Chlorien was taken back to a girl in the forest seeking solace from the only person left her on Ambros. "How you've made me wait, little one." Autoc pushed her back. "What made you come, Chlorien?" Chlorien quivered responsively when he ran his hand across her curls in the carelessly affectionate gesture she realised she'd so desperately missed. "Everything came together in Elibera, Ortoriol, with the family and Sarssen. Even the warlord helped. With my brothers I saw what they are and what I could be if only I was prepared to face who and what I am, as they've done. I finally

had the courage to acknowledge what the final steps would be. They've taken them. Even Bethel and Lute. They move forward in ways that show they're happy. If they could do it, so could I. Their worst fears were worse than mine yet they faced and defeated them." Chlorien sniffed, a hand going to a wet cheek. Autoc just left her to speak. "When you and I left Ostika, Father, Jaim told me to what I'd learned and not to forget those who loved me." Her violet eyes stared intensely up at the archmage. "I know he was looking at you as he spoke. I ed my answer." Chlorien felt secure, as if, at last, she'd found sanctuary where she could rest. "And what did you reply, little one?" "That I'd never forget those who love me, especially not you, Father, and that you're part of me. I said I'd be incomplete without you. I was. I blamed you for my losses, too, and for making me mage. I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so very sorry." "And what else did you forget?" Chlorien coughed miserably. "I only ed when I went back to Ostika. Assian made me see what I fought and how silly it was to live in the false world I created." She missed the flashing smile that came to blue eyes. "And I did try to seek Nikos and Bene within as suggested and I touched them in part, but I know it wasn't enough. It was only when I had the courage to go back to childhood and Ortok and faced what happened that I was able to truly reach them for a short time. I still can now, too. The Suldan also told me to go back to childhood to seek within. He said what I sought was closer than I thought. He was right. It was you." Chlorien wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Things I don't understand haunt me still. Always I see you, as I've done for cycles, and I hear your voice in my mind. Even at the height of my happiness and fulfilment with Nikos, you were always there." Again she missed the expression in his eyes, this time of fleeting grief, but when she did have the courage to lift her head and stare up, what she saw in them was boundless love and comion. "You made me promise to wait for you, child. Mages don't break promises." "I told you I loved you." Chlorien's eyes widened. "I said I always would. Do you ?" "Vividly, little one," responded Autoc, letting her lean her head against his chest.

"Amril was coming to take me home, Chlorien. I told you I cared deeply for you. You have no idea how much it made me ache to let you go then, but I had no choice because it was time for another who waited so very long for you. I didn't even have the consolation of knowing whether or not you'd call. All I could do was hope, little one. It's not a lot to live on. Your brothers know that very well." "You waited, Father. You waited for me," she murmured. "I've come home to you." She wept then, long and deeply, as if all the uncertainty and pain of the cycles she'd been apart from Autoc could be washed away. Half-lifted from the ground, she flung her arms about his neck, nor did the mage attempt to stem the flood of tears. Later, sat among flowers, Chlorien found herself lying between the mage's legs, her head rested back against his chest in the attitude she assumed as a child. Autoc leaned against the bole of a tree, one arm holding her close and the other playing lightly in the curls or wiping her cheeks. "You've been very lonely and lost, little one, haven't you?" "Yes. Elucien has shown me how badly." "You've been atrociously out of balance. Did Assian tell you so?" Chlorien nodded, gulped and sniffed. "Why did I forget what was so important to me? I learned so much, yet couldn't help myself." "We can learn things around us, child, but understanding ourselves isn't easy at all. You weren't ready to come home or to make the final commitment, young mage." "I'm ready now." Electric blue eyes rested enigmatically on the curly head, a smile reflected in them. "Then, little one, there's so much I can show you if it's so. If you're so ready, look at me and see if you really are able to understand." Chlorien half-turned and tilted her head. Violet eyes met with the archmage's.

His absorbed hers effortlessly and with such a surge of power she felt swamped. He steadied her and the meld they once enjoyed was recreated in full. Chlorien opened. She let herself go. She was taken to the glade after the mage battle, so she could truly see what she looked at but didn't comprehend. She saw Nikos fade and call her. She heard him ask her how she wanted to know him as he went. She saw him in his Rox form, his aura intact in cream, amber and gold. He was magnificent, proud, and noble. She felt his aura catch her indigo, sensed the peace that touched him right to the essence of what he was, and went to the columns of light. She recognised the pillars and was awed and terrified at one and the same time. She knew now that they held her while her essence streamed from her, flowing in and around her in disordered mayhem that was her response to the agony of grief and loss. It nearly destroyed her. The pillars held her steady, until her essence quietened and flowed quiescently back. Instinctively, she knew Luton had been there and the same was done for him. She was back in the grove. Her arms were wound round Nikos' furry neck, her head rested on his. She saw the shaft of light touch the ground near them. She intently watched it writhe in and out of recognisable shapes, engulf her, touch her with raw power, then leave her. Cycles before she trembled, alone, lost and wrapped in cruel loss. Now, with Autoc, she clearly watched two shafts the one that was Nikos. One of the shafts was Bene. He stared out with his enigmatic expression overlaid with one of triumph. And Nikos looked out of radiant eyes that glowed. It was a shock for Chlorien. The men were transformed, their expressions beyond description. Autoc held Chlorien steady when it ed in the young mage mind that neither Nikos nor Bene had died. Instead, they'd changed form, something both tried so hard to tell her. Shock and grief blinded her. What she saw, with proper understanding, was the third amorphous-seeming shaft totally absorb them as it shone richly amber, the colour blinding it was so bright. With her mind held firmly stable by Autoc, the meld drew her forward to another clearer image of the third shaft. It formed into a vividly recognisable, very tall, tawny-haired shape. And Chlorien knew who the figure was. He was within her now. She touched it, still part of a strange meld, unbearable joy sweeping across her, so intense she felt choked. At the instant she cried out, the archmage

snapped the meld so he didn't confront himself. "You couldn't understand, little one," he said, tenderly. Chlorien flung herself at him and now clung to him. "So battered you were, child. I tried to show you, offer comfort, but you were closed, Chlorien." Her eyes wide and disbelieving, Chlorien mumbled, "You came to our aid in the battle. That light was you, wasn't it?" "Yes, child, it was me. It was permitted when Malekim abused Harth. Until then I had to stand back. To watch Bene and Nikos was unbearable for me." Chlorien heard the awful anguish in his voice and when she leaned back to look up at him, she saw such deep pain in his eyes she actually flinched. "Father," she murmured. "Father." There was a very long silence Chlorien was unwilling to break. Finally, she whispered, "Your aura's so beautiful, so warm. It's like Nikos'." Blue eyes looked affectionately down into the small, almost pointed face of the nymph. "Tawny hair goes with an amber aura," Autoc answered, quietly. "Bene and Nikos are within you, aren't they?" "They're a vital part of me, Chlorien, yes, and a Rox never leaves another, child. Never." Autoc paused, then went on. "An archmage always absorbs certain aspects of his predecessor. You may touch them through me whenever you wish, though they are with you just a little, aren't they? I tried to give you that much, Chlorien. So did they. They waited within for you to reach out for guidance." "Yes," she whispered. "And now I understand what you offered me." She glanced down at her hand. "This ring was Bene's." "Yes, I know. I recognised it the moment I saw you, Chlorien, though it's not whole. When did he part with it?" "At the beginning of the mage battle." "So he knew," sighed Autoc, a shadow in his eyes. "He knew."

"What?" "That his time as Archmage finally drew to an end." Autoc glanced at the dark head. "He believed utterly in you, child, as both Nikos and I did. Nikos and I are so very close you see, and Bene was close to me, too. Very." There was an odd expression on Autoc's face that made Chlorien swing round to study him more nearly. "I always thought there was much of you in Nikos," she confessed, "though I could never understand why." Autoc looked as if he'd speak, then said nothing for a long moment. When he did speak, it was sombrely. "There's still much to learn, little one. Now is not the time."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Coming from Alfar's school one day, Sarehl bumped into Bethel who stepped back with a laugh and an apology. Together the brothers made their unhurried way down the street, Sarehl aware the glances at the musician weren't hostile and the young warrior was, unbelievably, simply called Master as his status as master musician demanded. Sarehl was frankly delighted. Then he began to swing the conversation round to Kalbeth, his questions about southern schooling ones that were probing and showed much thought had gone into the questions. Kalbeth found life easy after being in the south, his time at the Academy ones where he blossomed. His voice was now very scratchy and alternated between high and gruff in a way that made him blush. Sebec was forgotten. Mist returned from his second long sojourn in the north, and Mishak arrived in haste, only days later. Daxel told him he thought it time the Thalas went north, though if he asked himself why Daxel couldn't have answered. It was instinct. Asked about school one day, Kalbeth opened his eyes wide. "No one touches me, Pater," he answered, his eyes swerving interestedly to a pile of cakes close at hand. "Very good," commented Bethel, plucking idly at the estibe. "Sebec doesn't let them," went on Kalbeth in a casual aside, serenely unaware of exchanged looks between adults. "Oh?" said Bethel interrogatively, his hand on the estibe stilled. Kalbeth dragged his estibe into his lap with one hand while with the other he finished off a cake. "No," he replied, placidly. "A lot of the time he looks after me." "From tormentor to protector," murmured Sarehl, amused. "And do you still practise what Scholar and Sarssen taught you, Kal?" A tell-tale blush touched the cheeks. "There's so much to do, Pater, and Sebec takes me to so many things, sometimes

I forget." The dark curly head bent over the estibe. Bethel didn't say anything. He just stared at his son. It was Sarehl who spoke. "It's difficult for you to fit everything in, lad, isn't it?" Kalbeth nodded. "Then," said Bethel calmly, "we'll have to see to it, Kal, won't we?" Kalbeth nodded again. "Now, son, will you play the dance again? Last time you did, it was very good. This time I'll accompany you, but you begin." ~~~ Kalbeth's routine changed the next day. The boy pleaded and argued. Mist had a very long talk with Sarehl and Bethel. After school Mist met Kalbeth and took him to the Academy, no loitering on the way or skipping off with Sebec to watch acros, then it was Mishak who fetched him and took him to his rooms where he did exercises he knew he had to do. The time after that was his to be with his friends until the late meal that was spent with family. He struggled against the rigid hour with Mishak, yawning and reluctant. Mishak's suggestive tap on his belt reminded Kalbeth most uncomfortably of Sarssen. Bethel began to check on him and test him gently, his father as inflexible as the warrior. Kalbeth and Chloris were close. They spent what time they could together, mostly of an evening, because she was as busy as he was. He showed her chords on the estibe and she showed him how to paint furniture and do delicate inlay work, an old Ortokian art that fascinated Kalbeth. He squatted beside her while she worked on intricate designs on a box or a table surface, her mute invitation to him to in accepted. Her chamber was full of exquisitely painted furniture. Now she worked on some for her parents, plus two small tables she intended to give to Ensore and Taran. Bethel could see why she was already apprenticed to the Artist Guild. And he became increasingly aware of wistful grey eyes that watched he and Kalbeth play, Alfar drawn to fondle the instruments though he wasn't especially attracted to the estibe or lute. He showed a very real liking for pipes. An old Ortokian wind instrument, with a rich mellow sound, fascinated him. It was the eafest and quite light for a child to hold. Bethel encouraged the boy to hold and play with it, then, one evening, he showed the child how to play it. Alfar showed surprising aptitude. He repeated what Bethel showed him without an error. Bethel's eyes widened. Sarehl and Kasan were startled by the boy's

obvious interest because nothing had held the boy's attention as this instrument did. The boy refused to let go the eafest and became so tearful, Bethel had to rummage round to find one the child could keep. He also tactfully suggested Sarehl bring the boy to the Academy. His dark eyes questioning, Sarehl instantly agreed. Bethel put Alfar through the usual tests. He then seated himself at the tamatet and played a note. The boy's head lifted. Bethel played it again. He beckoned Alfar close, then casually and without apparent interest, invited the boy to sing the note. Alfar did, in perfect pitch, his eyes fixed to Bethel. Bethel tried other notes with the same result and swung round so he could pull Alfar between his knees. "Alfar, why have you never tried to sing before now?" The young head drooped. "Tell me, boy," coaxed Bethel. When the child trembled, Bethel put his arms about him. "You sing. Kal sang till his voice went funny," whispered Alfar. "I can't sing like that." "Silly boy," murmured Bethel. He touched the soft cheek. "You can sing, little fellow, and I think you may play the eafest, too. It's an instrument I love. My old master played it. If you learn it and do well, I may give you his eafest as a gift. It has a mellower sound than my desert pipes, doesn't it?" A nod showed agreement. "Now, will you sing just for me?" Alfar took a deep, quavering breath. "You'll recognise the tune, Alfar." Bethel smiled at the anxious face. "Take several very deep breaths, boy, then nod when you're ready and relax for me. Let the sounds simply come." Standing at the door, Sarehl was transfixed. He was drawn by the clearly audible and very sweet boy soprano he could hear down the corridor. Now he saw his son, in profile, sing for Bethel. He blinked. The voice wasn't the divinely inspired one Sarehl associated with his brother cycles ago, but it was pure and a delight. It was also effortless. Listening to Alfar, Bethel had already decided the boy wouldn't be a soloist but could be a very valuable chorister. He saw the movement by the door, glanced up from concentrating on the young face, and smiled encouragingly at his brother while he waited for the last note to die away. His attention went back to the boy whose eyes were imploringly turned up to his. Bethel patted Alfar's head. It was a gentle caress.

"That was soft on the ear, boy, and very pleasant. You have instinctive pitch. Ask your father what he thinks." Alfar's cheeks were pink. At this he went scarlet. He turned and recognised his father as Sarehl came forward. Sarehl stopped and looked down. "Alfar, I know I scold you much of the time but that's because you get into trouble so often. Despite that, you know I praise you when you achieve something, don't I?" The young head nodded. "And isn't what you've just done good?" The chestnut head bobbed assent again. Alfar looked unwontedly subdued, so much so his father stooped to lift the young head. "You've got a delightful singing voice, Alfar. Why haven't you made the effort to sing before this?" The boy stayed silent. Bethel spoke quietly. "Too many over-powering talents about him, Sar. It happens with children who don't feel they can successfully compete." "True," responded Sarehl, a hand at his beard. He regarded his son. "So, little man, where do we go from here?" "Can't I come to the Academy?" Alfar blurted out. "I'd try so hard if you let me come to Beth. I want to play the eafest so much." Sarehl released his son, his dark eyes mortified. "Gods," he muttered. "Am I so blind to the needs of my own son?" Bethel shook his head. "You showed no interest until recently, Alfar, did you?" The boy looked from one man to the other and shook his head. "No, Uncle Beth." An impish smile touched Bethel's eyes. "How do you go in school, Alfar? Be honest." The young face turned to him. "Not well, no?" "No, Uncle Beth," came the answer again. Sarehl put a hand on the young shoulder. "Why's that, little fellow?" Alfar looked up at his father, got an encouraging nod, and spoke in a rush.

"I want to be a warrior musician like Beth and Kal," he managed to get out in something of a stammer. He blushed deeply. "Don't be angry with me, Da." Sarehl's eyes had flashed, but then he just had a resigned expression when he answered calmly. "I'm not angry, son, not at all." Bethel looked singularly thoughtful, his reply measured but gentle. "It is no easy thing to become what Kalbeth aspires to and what I am, little fellow. Kal goes back to warrior training that's very hard on him, because warriors are trained to withstand pain and to be hit with the whip if they make mistakes. In a sense he's born to this in a way you aren't. You're a Samar, Alfar." "Kal says he's Samar and he's my brother," argued a small voice. Alfar turned to stare up at his father, his eyes steadily holding Sarehl's deeply concerned black ones. "Being a warrior isn't glamorous, son. You've a role to play in your own society for which you'll be trained." The head went down, the words barely audible. "Yes, Da." Sarehl looked helplessly at Bethel, the man perplexed and perturbed. Bethel glanced down at the child. "We can talk further on this, Alfar. Meanwhile, if Da's happy about it you may come to the Academy in the afternoon at the same time as Kal." He saw the bright eyes and smile come to the young face. "You'll be started in choral work and begin the basics on the eafest." Alfar grasped one of Bethel's hands in his, his voice shaking with relief and pleasure. "I'll try so hard for you," he promised. He swung back to his father. "You'll be proud of me, Da, won't you?" Sarehl chewed his upper lip as he swung the boy up in his arms and Alfar threw his arms round his father's neck on a little sob. Arms firmed round him. "Too much time on state affairs, Beth. It shows, doesn't it?" "Not irreparably," was the quiet reply. "Sometimes our choices are limited. Who should know that more than us?"

"Oh aye," sighed Sarehl, bending his head so he could croon to his son. ~~~ As the weeks ed and summer gave way to autumn with winds becoming steadily colder, Bethel began to think about a return south. He delayed as long as he could because he knew Kalbeth may or may not have another visit to Samar before he became a warrior. Bethel doubted it. Once Kalbeth steadily approached fifteen cycles, he'd only be able to be with his northern family in Elibera. He also saw how settled Alfar was at the Academy though the boy was still naughty at school and skipped it as much as he could. Sarehl assured Bethel the twins were as bad cycles before. Bethel grinned. Bethel's entire existence, other than immediate family concerns, was music. He lived it. It drenched him. Within it he knew utter contentment. It showed. The Academy was a veritable hive with no room for entrants, every place taken, young aspirants watching the warrior. They listened to him teach, thirsting for his music, daunted and fascinated by his gifts. Bethel was the only master. Only three apprentices who worked towards being journeymen survived to return to Samar, so it was that trio Bethel spent most time with. He wanted to get them to journeyman level so he could start them teaching those less advanced. He decided, some time since, that no journeymen would leave Samar until at least two new waves of them graduated, because until then the Academy needed them. Already the ancient choral tradition of Ortok was re-established, the practise of singing in the squares and at arranged concerts proving enormously popular with Samars turning up to such performances by the hundreds. Bethel was satisfied he'd set things going the way he wanted and that while he was south the momentum would carry on. Mostly, though, he wanted to compose. And Sarehl saw his younger brother as he'd always hoped he'd be. A southern warrior and bard certainly, but also a Samar, assured, confident and considerably more at ease in the society into which he was born. Bethel walked with pride. It was heart-warming and gave Sarehl considerable comfort. So when Bethel mentioned it was time for he and Kalbeth to go south, Kalbeth just grimaced and nodded and Sarehl felt no familiar stab of anxiety or sadness for his brother. He merely smiled and nodded as well. He and Kalbeth were lounged back on a cushioned settle, watching the twins roll

and fall over each other like mock battling cubs, Florin the more assertive one in the Daxel mould and the more ive brother, more reminiscent of Bethel and Luton. Their dark heads were dusky, streaked with chestnut highlights that glinted in the sun. Their eyes stayed unusual. They were truly a Dahkilan/Samar mix. Tamas was a restful delight for his parents, the boy growing more and more like his father by the day. Bene would've seen a young Sarehl. Kasan nursed their latest child, Asandra, her quiet grey eyes resting on a domestic scene that clearly gave her pleasure. Her concentration was on Bethel who quietly placed Alfar's fingers more correctly on the eafest that the boy practised with every night, his bond with Bethel deepening to one similar to Kalbeth's with Sarehl. Kasan's gaze then crossed to Kalbeth. He was snuggled against Sarehl in a relaxed manner, as he did from the time he was a very small child, his head back and eyes half-closed while he watched the twins. She thought the boy grew quickly, soon to become more youth than boy, and she knew it would be the usual deep wrench when he went south. Sarehl was bereft for days, though he refused to it it, while she felt a desolate emptiness, too, and Chloris was inconsolable. Alfar would hide his distress in another round of mayhem at school, because he wasn't able to express his emotions articulately any other way. Kasan prayed Bethel would be able to bring Kalbeth north just once more before he became a young warrior, but deep inside she doubted they'd see the boy until then other than briefly, on and off, at Elibera. It grieved her, especially for Sarehl. She came to at Sarehl's voice. "Aye, Beth, it's time. I know, though I wish it wasn't so. I keep hoping we can defer the day." Bethel shook his head, his head bent because he was now restringing his estibe. He pulled a string taut and secured it, then, aware of Sarehl's regard, he lifted his head with an enquiring look. "Sar?" "When does Charilae expect you, Beth?" "I told her I'd try to be back by the end of autumn at the latest, Sar. It means I can't delay much beyond next week, not if I want to stop off and say hello to

Ongwin and Sache in Del-Floret before I stay a few days in Elibera." "And Charilae's meeting you there?" "Yes." "She knows about the ceremony, doesn't she?" "I guess," sighed Bethel, running a hand across the estibe, fingers plucking at the strings to check the tuning. "She was too shocked, lad, and so were you. Is she happy to come now to formally have her title affirmed?" "She's proud of her royal lineage, Sar, and told Evereh so. Though she's my mate, she is still now part of his house and, as part of accepted Churchik protocol, asked him to confirm his for her reinstatement as royalty." "Did she get it?" "Reluctantly," smiled Bethel, whimsically. "Sarssen's sure Evereh had other plans, more beneficial to himself. However, his house has to be honoured that, as a princess who could leave the south and live in Dahkilah if she chooses, Charilae shows correct Churchik deference to his line. Not to acquiesce would be to insult her as royalty. Evereh also has to accept that Charilae has influence in Dahkilah he can only dream about." "And you, Beth? Where does it leave you?" "Hopefully, from the Glisk house point of view, highly and hopefully expendable," explained Bethel, in an unconcerned way. "It doesn't seem to bother you, lad," observed Sarehl, amused. "Charilae understands she's become a valuable commodity, Sar, and one that would be even more so if she were without a mate and no direct kin to interfere. I am seen as an encumbrance she could well do without." "And you have no worries, Beth?" Laughing, Bethel took his hands from the estibe and tried it again.

"It is the Churchik way, Sar. I would be a fool if I remained unaware of the wants of others or the ways they might go about achieving them. I've learned to look in all directions." "You sound like Lodestok, lad." "He taught me, Sar. I learned the skills of survival from him. I would be a poor son if I forgot them, wouldn't I?" "Do you miss him, Beth, still?" Bethel eyed his brother pensively. "Yes, in many ways. He stays part of me, Sar, and always will. I find myself thinking of him at odd times, almost as if he is with me in a very real sense. I no longer feel his actual loss - if you can understand." "Yes, lad, I can." Sarehl watched Bethel fine tune the instrument then begin softly to play. "Beth," he started, then hesitated. Bethel stayed his hands. He saw Sarehl's eyes drift to Alfar now comfortably ensconced on a cushion beside the warrior. "I'm wondering about Alfar." "He will miss me and Kal," itted Bethel, his glance at the boy with the eafest at his mouth a lingering and affectionate one. "But there'll be much he has to do at the Academy and Jeth knows what he is to teach the boy. Perhaps, eventually, the benefits will spill over to school. Such things often go hand in hand." Sarehl dislodged a dozing Kalbeth, who just smiled sleepily and fell back on the cushions. He crossed to be next to his brother. Bethel waited patiently. Sarehl took Bethel's hand in his. "Kas and I've talked for weeks about Alfar, Beth." Sarehl paused. "It's not been an easy decision for us to make, Beth, so bear with me while I try to explain. You know how the boy is about warriors. His adulation and interest is abnormal." He hesitated again, then went on. "He so ires you and Sarssen, and Lute, too, that he has no real understanding of what warriors are or the society from which they spring. Beth, we'd ask you to take Alfar back with you for a season at most, so he can see what reality is." Bethel looked blank. Uncomprehendingly, he stared at his brother. "Why, Sar, why? His life's here where it always will be. He's Samar, through and through." Sarehl gripped Bethel's hands hard. Surging and mixed emotions

showed in troubled eyes. "Beth lad, Alfar's got an odd notion of warriors because of what you are. Since you're gentle and musical, he thinks all warriors are as you and Sarssen. He's awed and obsessed. I've watched him, both at school and out of school. He runs from class if he hears or sees a warrior. The Academy has helped, but you haven't seen the drawings he constantly does at school that are meant to extol warrior virtues as he sees them. He does them in preference to work he should be doing. I've spoken to his masters who are as concerned for him. This lack of understanding is serious, Beth. If he doesn't learn soon what warriors are really like, and can be, he'll always yearn in a way that could unsettle him for cycles. This truly worries us." Bethel frowned uneasily as Sarehl drew up a chair next to him. "He's very young to be thrown into Churchik society, Sar. I can protect him only so far. He'll have to go to school and Churchik schooling is far, far harder than any of you know. A misdemeanour, slowness, slovenliness, unlearned lessons, or whatever, are rewarded with a harsh beating. I mean that. The thrashings are very thorough so a child never repeats the same mistake. There is nothing mild about the way warrior young are forced to learn. Here they play at school. Kal has had his moments. I was repeatedly thrashed until I could scarcely keep my feet." "How old was Kal when he went to school there?" "Eight cycles if I recall. Alfar's younger than that." "At what age do they start them at school?" "Three cycles." Bethel mused, his eyes lighting on the twins crawling up and round their mother, tugging insistently at her skirt. "The twins wouldn't be so far from going to school," he observed. "So Alfar wouldn't be the youngest there?" Bethel shook his head. "No, Sar, not by any means. But you forget, he is not the son of a warrior," he added gently. "If he was to come south and be under my full protection, he'd have to be formally adopted as my son to be considered of any status. Even then

the other boys will challenge that little fellow of yours. If he was made my son he'd have some immediate standing to start with." "Kal survived," persisted Sarehl. "Yes, and he also had the scholar." "Are you trying to say no, Beth?" Black eyes met purple as Bethel shrugged. "No, Sar, I'm not. I know you'd never consider this unless you were both deeply worried, but I just wonder if you know what you may be letting your little fellow in for. He must learn not to show pain for one thing." "What's that?" "They train boys quite brutally for that," said Bethel, bluntly, his description pungently descriptive. He watched Sarehl pull back, alarmed. "And, Sar," Bethel went on, "he must endure this without uttering a sound. To do so invites worse. Correc treated me to many variations on the same theme." "Gods," choked Sarehl, drawing back even further. "How long does that go on?" "Not for very long," answered Bethel. "A wise boy learns instantly. You would find an intelligent boy like Alfar would not need to be shown how he is to behave more than once." Sarehl twisted his hands indecisively. "Would that be his worst experience, Beth?" "Probably," smiled Bethel. "That and school. That, I suspect, will come hard until he learns what is expected of a Churchik child, because he'll be no exception. Kal wasn't." Bethel grinned. "The discipline wouldn't hurt the imp, Sar." "It hasn't hurt Kal." "No," agreed Bethel amused, his glance sweeping briefly to the sprawled out leggy boy. "Sarssen teaches him and will be instrumental in the warrior training that comes." He chuckled. "Kal thinks life's been hard so far. Reality will hit him hard. He has pudha and warriorhood to aim for as well."

"Would Sarssen teach our little fellow?" Bethel's eyes lit up. "Can you imagine him not? One word from him and we all jump. Sar, I had few thrashings from Sarssen, but I never forgot them or repeated a mistake. His hand is extremely strong. I think my thrashings were very hard. He didn't spare me." Bethel gave a laugh, then went on more seriously. "Your boy's never even been spanked, has he?" "Kalor thinks that's a mistake," murmured Sarehl. "But then, neither had you, yet look at you now." "That's not the best recommendation for thrashing the young, Sar," protested Bethel. "Oh gods, what does it matter? The boy can always go home if you can come and get him, Sar, from Elibera. I can get him there fast enough. If you wish him to accompany us, I'll do my best to get this silly notion of warriorhood out of him. He'll be directly under Mishak's authority and the warlord must accept him as my adopted son. The jewel will have to be removed later." Startled, Sarehl blinked. "Must it be that formal, Beth?" Bethel nodded. "For the boy's protection it is, yes. We might know it's for appearance's sake, but the Churchik do not. If he comes south at any time in the future and the stone stays implanted, he'll come as a haskar's adopted son and no one will touch him. As a young adult representing your authority, as doubtless he will, it could be more benefit than anything else." It was an observation that made Sarehl think very hard. "I won't mention that to Kas, Beth. She's already upset at the thought of the lad going south, so the thought he may face a very firm hand and implanted jewellery will distress her more." He had an afterthought. "Gods, will the boy wear jewellery?" Bethel's eyes sparkled wickedly. "But of course, Sar, even to pierced ears, but you can remove it on his return." "If he lets me, Beth," Sarehl muttered. "Beth, I hope we do right. I only think of what's best for him." Bethel put his arm about his brother. "He'll come to no harm, Sar, but to begin with he'll be a bewildered and frightened little boy, but Kal will be there and so will I. Charilae will mother

him." ~~~ Alfar could scarcely contain his excitement when told he was going south to live with warriors for a short time, his eyes gleaming with their usual wickedness. He scampered about in delight. However, as the day for departure dawned clear and cold, he was sombre-faced, his eyes big and decidedly apprehensive as one person after another farewelled him, his father last of all. He stood next to Bethel, very small and slightly trembling. Bethel pointed to Mishak who stood silently watching the child. "Go to Mishak, Alfar. The Thalas is in charge of you as Mist is of Kalbeth. You obey him without question, do you understand?" The chestnut head nodded. Alfar walked across to Mishak, a young man of few words, who picked up the child, flung him into the saddle and then mounted himself. His way of settling Alfar was peremptory and silent. Bethel crossed to Sarehl. "He'll learn a lot, Sar." He grinned at the sight of the small figure held securely by Mishak. "He learns already, I see. Come south for him if you wish, Sar, though I know you want to go back to the Shadowlands. You didn't find what you sought, did you?" "No. I think what I seek may not yet be set up. I'll return, perhaps after Alfar comes home." "Then come and let me show you my inheritance, Sar." As he spoke, Bethel mounted and gave the hand signal for forward. ~~~ Bethel rode hard. Kalbeth, Mishak and Mist were used to it. Alfar wasn't. It was also cold and the boy had spent most of his later life in heated palaces, nor did a small boy make Bethel slacken the pace. Alfar hadn't travelled so exhaustively in his life or so spartanly. Being up at dawn and hurriedly but thoroughly washed in cold water by a taciturn young man was a new and shattering experience. At midsun, the little boy was ordered to do first one thing then another, until he was back in front of Mishak till after dark. Tired little limbs hurried about so by the

time he was sat in front of the fire and fed by Mishak, he was exhausted. Before he was carried to rest, Bethel cradled him and crooned to him. The little boy grew increasingly tougher by the day. Life was as different from his Samar routine as could be. He received no special favours. Within a week, Alfar obeyed Mishak as instinctively as Kalbeth. Bethel thought that augured well. One lesson a little boy had already learned was that the wishes of one child counted for little. It was novel. Only once he went to argue with Bethel. It was the most unnerving experience of his young life, the stare he got the coldest he'd ever seen. He was subdued for some hours. Inside Elibera the boy was swept off to the palace nursery, much to his disgust, and there he was kept by Mishak. When he protested tearfully, screamed resentfully at Mishak then actually tried to outmanoeuvre the Thalas on arrival, he regretted it. When Mishak returned a few hours later, he spoke calmly. "Alfar." The boy uncurled on the bed, big grey eyes staring up at the Thalas. "Have you learned anything, boy?" Alfar nodded, slowly. "Then the lesson has been learned, has it not?" Alfar nodded again. "You will not need another reminder, will you?" Alfar's eyes went to the belt Mishak wore and he shook his head. He clambered from the bed. He ate in solitary silence, a forlorn little figure that stared at Mishak from under curling eyelashes. In bed and thinking life was very hard and he wanted to go home, Alfar sobbed himself to sleep. Bethel, meanwhile, was reunited with Charilae. He was with her when informed by Mishak that Alfar was put to bed early and wouldn't the company. "Oh dear," said Bethel, with a rueful smile. "What provoked that, Mishak?" "A tantrum, my lord," answered Mishak, expressionlessly. "And he has had his first taste of southern medicine, has he?" "Yes, my lord." Mishak had to respond to the broadening smile. "You told me I had to be extremely firm with the child." "Indeed," sighed Bethel, a hand raking through the curls. "How else will he survive once he is among warrior sons? He must obey and it must be

immediate." "Quite so, my lord." "Nothing to what a warrior will give him," muttered Bethel. He glanced at Charilae. "I think, my dear, it would be a kindness if I go to the boy. If it happens again, Mishak, he endures alone, but this time I'll go to him. He's a long way from home and probably badly frightened." "As you wish, my lord." Mishak bowed and withdrew. Charilae cocked her head at her mate. "What is this, Beth?" she teased. "Are you thinking of yourself or of Kal, or of both?" "He's only a small boy," protested Bethel. He got a roguish smile in response. "You are weakening, Beth." Bethel caught her about the waist so she couldn't get away, then stared gloatingly down at her. "After I've seen Alfar I'll return to you, my dear, and then we'll see who is weakening," he threatened, aware of laughter that gurgled in her throat. "I will call for help," she retorted. "Mishak and Mist can be remarkably deaf on occasion," Bethel warned her as he left the room. He only had two halls to go through to reach Alfar's small chamber. He went in slowly and carefully, eyes scanning through the unlit room for the head of the big bed. He saw a diminutive figure curled lost in the middle of it and crossed to sit on the edge, a hand going to the still boy. Alfar stirred, then gave a little cry. "Mam," he whispered, half-asleep. "Da, Da." "Hush, little fellow," soothed Bethel, stretching across so he could gather the boy into his arms. Alfar woke on a sob, stared through the dark, recognised Bethel and flung his arms about the warrior's neck. "I'm sorry," Alfar sobbed. "I'm sorry, Uncle Beth."

"There, there," whispered Bethel, rocking the child backwards and forwards. "What a way to learn, little man. This once I've come to you. If you haven't learned, I won't come again." Bethel just heard watery, muffled sniffs. "You must obey straight away, Alfar. Being with people from the south is different, isn't it?" The head against Bethel nodded vigorously. "And you're an unhappy little boy, too." The head nodded agreement again. "Never mind, little man. Tonight will soon be over and tomorrow's another day. The Chamah waits to see you." There was a wriggle of anticipation at those words and the sobs tailed away to a hiccup. Bethel eased the boy onto his lap, dried the wet cheeks, stroked the disordered hair and crooned a lullaby in the gentlest and most soothing of voices. He watched the big eyes slowly close and saw the thumb sneak into the corner of the mouth in the way of Alfar as a very small child. The boy slept. ~~~ That evening saw the travellers relaxed. Bethel lay on the carpet stretched back so he leaned against a seated Charilae's lap. She played idly either with his unbraided hair or his beard, in such a way Ensore eyed them amused. "You look comfortable, Beth. Are you?" Bethel grinned, sat, rolled into a crosslegged pose that was habitual and brushed hair from his face. "Aye," he replied, pulling his estibe close. Softly he began to pluck at the strings. Eli crossed to him to place a full goblet beside him. "Play something Samar, lad, would you?" asked Ensore, watching the calm figure in the centre of the mat. "It always reminds me of Sarehl, Kas and Dase." Bethel glanced up, the sensual mouth curved in the intimate smile Bethel showed only with family and that so entranced a warlord. "Then listen to this, Ens. I only wrote it last week at the Academy so even Sar's heard it just the once. See how privileged you are!" The look he cast up at the Chamah was quite saucy and made Ensore laugh. He sank back to listen to a complex piece with unusual harmony strangely soothing. "So restful, Beth," enthused Taran, when the fingers stilled on the strings. "It reminds me of spring in the mountains." Bethel looked across at her.

"So it should," he agreed, impressed by her rapid interpretation. His music was highly evocative. Taran heard water tumbling through brush, over rocks and stones and cascading in waterfalls, soft droplets mixed in with foam and spray. She even sensed colours and textures from nature interwoven with the music, something all sensed in Bethel's bardic renditions as well, cadences heard in what became mere murmurs of sound. The voice seemed to be an embodiment of all the elements of nature – fire, air, earth, water – all subtly and effortlessly moving from one to the other. At other times Bethel's voice was a deeply brooding presence that touched the listeners. "Can you play another piece?" asked Eli, sipping wine and his eyes on Charilae. Bethel obliged, so Ensore turned back to the letters Bethel had brought with him. Kalor's was a very long and chatty epistle, Sarehl's highly descriptive in his usual style, and Kasan's shorter but very to the point. In both her letter and Sarehl's were their reasons for sending their young son south with Bethel, what he read making the Chamah purse his lips and shake his head before he handed the letters across to Taran. She became deeply thoughtful after reading them. ~~~ The next morning saw Alfar wake to see Mishak standing over him, the Thalas' face more kindly than it was the night before. Mishak was friendly and handled him gently, so much so one little boy was magically restored, his natural ebullience re-asserting itself to such an extent he actually hummed as he dressed. Ensore greeted him with delight, swinging the boy high in the air to much giggling. He was affectionately cuddled by Taran, then Eli whom he adored, before he crawled to Bethel and stayed with him until it was time to eat. When Mishak appeared at the door, Alfar was a model child and trotted straight across at the curt beckon. Bethel was impressed. He and Ensore finally left the others so they could talk. The Chamah wanted to know about the decision to take a Samar child south to be among warriors. While Bethel talked, Ensore saw much about the young warrior that pleased him, especially the animated face and serene confidence. He sensed, from the way Bethel spoke, he was happily self-reliant, and saw, for himself, a dashing young warrior musician, quite undismayed by his imminent return to a fierce and martial environment. In so many ways, Bethel had risen above it. It no longer

dominated him. It was gratifying indeed. Ensore also recognised it wouldn't be long before this young man was at ease wherever he was, enthusiasm and hopefulness now part of him. Something inside Ensore rejoiced. He understood why Sarehl wrote he no longer feared for his brother. Bethel stood firmly and comfortably on his own. Ensore listened quietly then asked, "How's the lad coping?" "He's learned a great deal since he left home, Ens, for such a bold little fellow." "He looks a bewildered and lost lad to me, Beth. I won't hide my concern. Don't misunderstand me. I'm deeply fond of our little nephew." "I don't," returned Bethel. "I have misgivings, too, but I also know how strange an obsession the boy has with warriors, almost to the exclusion of everything else. He's even at the stage where he runs from home and school if he hears a warrior, or a group from the ambassador's entourage es by." "I see. You've given the poor lad a truly warped picture of a warrior, Beth, haven't you?" "It seems so," agreed Bethel, reflectively. "It's a dangerously false and twisted one." "What's the lad learned so far then?" "That Ambros doesn't revolve around him," answered Bethel, on a soft laugh. "He's under Mishak's control and the Thalas takes a hard line with boys. He did with Kal, too. Mishak expects obedience as it was expected of him as a slave, and, if he doesn't get it, he exacts it." "I think he hurt young Alfar," observed Ensore, frowning. "Yes, he did," acknowledged Bethel. "He took his belt to him." "Severe, Beth." "Alfar will come to no harm with me," answered Bethel, very quietly. He looked squarely at the Chamah. "I know you love the boy, Ens, and I've a great fondness

for him, too, but he can't be confronted with our world as indulged as he is in Samar. He'd not survive a day out of my sight and would be carved to pieces at school. I tried to tell Sar this. Alfar isn't gratuitously hurt, I promise you." "So what comes to the lad to prepare him?" enquired Ensore, curiously. "He's already begun," responded Bethel, on a yawn. He drank. "He must understand obedience and submission, and I mean exactly that. There can be no half-measures where he's going and he must be disciplined, Ens. That's crucial. He's begun to understand what obedience is. Mishak will continue to reinforce that. Alfar's a very bright little boy so he'll understand quickly. Nothing much more happens, except he learns codes of conduct and behaviour norms all Churchik children live by. You've seen them in Kal. They start with Alfar being rigidly disciplined in every aspect of his life, from when he opens his eyes in the morning to when he closes them at night. Already he adjusts to that. His temper last night was from tiredness, frustration, and a last effort to assert himself as he's used to being in Samar. He lost. He learned." Ensore smiled. "The lesson well learned, Beth. And from here to Valshika?" "More of the same. He learns his place and stays in it. It's repetition, Ens. Some say it's enforced behaviour through fear. Whatever it is, it's the Churchik way. Once you learn to live within those accepted social norms you cease to be so hurt by them, so it makes sense to conform. Non-conformity in the south is most unwise." "What will he find hardest?" "Our roguish little Alfar?" Bethel considered. "Immediate and total obedience to seniors. That will be hard for him, but nowhere near as hard as it would be if I threw him in without hardening. It's very difficult for others to comprehend how the young are taught in the south." Bethel curled his fingers in his beard as Sarehl did when he was thinking or unsure. "Tell me, Beth," invited Ensore. "You never have, you know. Tell me how you were taught." "Roughly," was the immediate response. "My learning wasn't entirely the norm

because the warlord controlled my every move." Ensore nodded. "I was beaten for every mistake I ever made, Ens, the thrashings thorough and prolonged." Bethel paused. "My master was very strong and made quite sure he hurt me as much as he could so I learned not to make the same mistake again." Bethel paused again. The Chamah inwardly winced. "Sometimes I could only crawl from where he dropped the crop. It soon made sense to me to make sure I knew everything he'd ask me. By the time I was twelve cycles I was beaten much less for errors. It came from learning a vital lesson of Churchik survival. Other beatings came when the warlord was in a temper. He inflicted pain indiscriminately at those times. He was terrifying, Ens." There was a longer pause. Ensore just waited until Bethel sighed and went on. "It was warrior training I next found so very hard because the slightest error earns the whip. Bensar had the art of flicking it in such a way it gave the maximum amount of pain and the warlord could hit you in the same place repeatedly if he chose. The warrior responsible for me wasn't averse to throwing me against a bench and thrashing me either if I ruffled his plumage, and Sarssen did a few times. It was enough. He's as strong as the warlord." Bethel actually winced at the memories. "You must have been sore much of the time, lad," said Ensore, with a twinkle in his eyes. Bethel suddenly grinned. "Oh aye, I was, Ens, I was. Once you learn it's not so bad. School, though, is hard on the young. Kal found that. The boys immediately rank themselves, nor is it easy to go beyond that ranking. It's tough, Ens. I didn't go to school. My life would have been kinder if I had because I needed no whip or crop to make me learn, the mistakes I made purely through terror of my master and they cost me. Alfar faces that, so he has to be equipped to cope. A Churchik boy of twelve cycles will have no hesitation in ranking a seven cycle boy, believe me." Bethel saw Ensore look very hard at him. "At school a boy can be whipped if he makes a mistake, something Kal saw done on his first day when he was about eight cycles. He was devastated and begged me to send him back to Sar." "What did you do?" "I told him he had to succeed." "Has he failed?"

"Once," itted Bethel. "It wasn't a major failing, but it was a fairly good beating from all s. Kal's remarkably studious in the south." "Gods," breathed Ensore. "Does Sarehl know this?" "Yes," answered Bethel, "I told him, more than once, but he seemed to think this is the only way to rid Alfar of his desire to be a warrior." "How can you prepare a child for this?" "Not easily," mumbled Bethel, stretching. "It shouldn't be too difficult to teach him the elements of self-defence because he's more of an aggressive little fellow than Kal was. He must also be taught to ignore pain. That's very much harder." "You mean you'll have to hurt him?" Bethel nodded wearily. "Mishak will do that. Jane taught Kal." "How do you do that?" Ensore looked shocked at Bethel's brusque description. "That's cruel, isn't it?" "Certainly," agreed Bethel, with a shrug, "but it's brutally effective and is how boys are taught to withstand pain." "Was that done to you, Beth?" Ensore saw the eyes briefly darken. "If I was unlucky enough to be caught by one like Correc, quite often in the first cycles, but the warlord had other ways, by far worse and infinitely more subtle, of ensuring my continued compliance. Sarssen and I survived by refusing to acknowledge physical pain." Ensore took a very deep breath he expelled slowly. "I'm glad it's Alfar going south and not me, my young friend." "He'll be well prepared, be sure of that. I care too much for the boy to do less. He'll be readier than ever Kal was because I know so much more now and can counter most negative aspects of southern life." "Will it cure Alfar of wanting to be a warrior?" Bethel began to laugh. "By the time I've taken him out and about my city-states in my role as haskar

and he's had a chance to see how warriors are in their own environment, he'll be well cured, mark my words."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sarssen appeared a day later. He was only briefly in the Shadowlands, as he often was, before he arrived in Elibera. Bethel was instantly aware a dragon was near. He didn't wait to be told the warrior was there. He just sought out allotted chambers, entered without a knock and stood with an anticipation of welcome. Sarssen was busy combing out his hair, but seeing Bethel he replaced the comb, stood, and took Bethel in an embrace before he pushed the younger man back. "You look very well, Beth. Samar suits you." "Aye, well enough, Sarssen. I believe I'm finally being accepted as Bethel from Ortok, son of Alfar, but it's so good to see you. It's been a while and I missed you. How's Shae?" "Sprouting in much the same way I imagine Lodrin did at the same cycles," grinned Sarssen. "Is he doing well?" "It appears so to me. He is a remarkably active child. When he came for a very short spell to the south, yes, asleep for the journey, Beth," and here Sarssen twinkled at Bethel with the reference to dragon travel, "I asked Jane to come from Dainstok to take him over during my absence. Prior to my leaving I saw him handling the boy most competently. I saw him spank Shae once when the little fellow decided he would try to control proceedings, Jane not hesitant about it either. He takes no nonsense, does he?" "No," laughed Bethel, amused. "And Adrial, Sarssen?" "She and Ayesha are well, I thank you. Adrial grows very fast. Ayesha asked to be ed to you." "And are you hungry?" "Yes," answered Sarssen absently, suddenly aware he'd left Shadoliokel hurriedly, the last sound assailing his ears that of a screaming little girl.

He lounged back on the bed so he could watch Bethel busy himself organising and preparing for food and drink, then, when everything was set to the young haskar's satisfaction he stood back, bowed in his quaint boyish way and waited. When the warrior seated himself, Bethel sat opposite. They talked of north and south. Sarssen listened to Bethel's descriptions of his life as master musician in Samar, the young warrior's description of Kalbeth's experiences with Sebec making Sarssen shout with laughter. After a long discussion about Samar and Bethel's family, Bethel quite deliberately began to enquire about the last seasons in the south. Churchik politics were so fluid and dangerous, they could change in a matter of days or hours. Sarssen described the progress in getting Kalbeth's katif into continuing order. He outlined the success Manas had in establishing himself close to what would be the new boundary between their territories and explained that Manas had made one of the decimated cities his new principal seat. It was very close to another Sarssen thought could be restored to some sort of order for Kalbeth, and his suggestion, that maybe Mishak could become hospodar of it one day, appealed to Bethel. Then the warrior spoke of continued disaffection among some warriors, the discontent starting to brew. Bethel frowned. It was within a short space of time that he was no longer master musician of Samar, but a warrior haskar of the south. Sarssen was amused by the apparent and definite transformation. When he heard about Alfar, he frowned heavily, made no immediate comment, but clearly he wasn't pleased. He switched to the forthcoming ceremony Bethel and Charilae faced. "You are prepared, are you?" he teased. "At least they can't make us go through a state nuptial." Bethel saw the glint in green eyes. "That must be Ensore's decision. The Curule may well be more subservient but they can still make demands that can make the Chamah's life somewhat difficult if he chooses not to oblige." "Gods," mumbled Bethel. "They've had over a cycle to prepare for this, so I hate to think what's been hatched. And without Ongwin here, who controls the Curule?"

"Taran," answered Sarssen smartly, on a chuckle. Bethel looked affronted at the obvious amusement the affair afforded the warrior. "It's all very well for you," he protested. "I'm the one who has to go through with this nonsense." "I wish you could see your face, Beth," chortled Sarssen. "No battle affected you as Dahkilan ceremony does." A helpless and eloquent shrug greeted that before Bethel rose and prowled restlessly up and down. "Since the royal house of Dahkilah has, again, chosen to align itself outside its own, the Curule will be more than ever determined to stamp their mark on proceedings. That was inevitable." "And to another damnable Samar," sighed Bethel. "No, they were not pleased," agreed Sarssen, laughing harder. "They wish to honour Charilae as well, which is understandable. Also, Beth, Samars, and that includes you, are not considered to be conformists, nor are you willing to accede to the wishes of protocol." "What?" gasped Bethel, swinging round from the window. "I so conformed to the demands of Churchik society I sometimes felt the Samar persona was a faint memory or a dream, and southern protocol has dictated my attitudes and behaviour for cycles. How can they think I'm non-conformist and opposed to protocol?" "In general, Beth, Samars are not pliable." Sarssen considered Bethel. "What you say is true, Beth, I do not deny that, but there can be no doubt you are highly individualistic as well. Maybe the Dahkilans misunderstand what you are." Bethel twisted his hair. "There must be a way you can minimise what Charilae and I face?" "I think not, Beth. Just resign yourself to whatever comes your way." Bethel relapsed into mutterings that only subsided when a servant entered with an assortment of sweetmeats and more wine. Then he told Sarssen what was discussed, and finally agreed upon, for Kalbeth in Dahkilah. The talks around the boy's status were long and intense, Sarehl and Ensore's agreement coming only after much consideration and argument over long weeks while Sarehl was

briefly south in Elibera and Del-Floret. Charilae wished to make Kalbeth formally an adopted son which would mean he participated in the rituals as a member of the Dahkilan royal family. She said she wanted to have this done, not only because she couldn't have other children, but because Kalbeth was her mate's sole child, and, as such, her wishes were appropriate and properly in accordance with Dahkilan law. As Charilae spoke, both Ensore and Eli felt it was her mother speaking. They acquiesced, Ensore aware of another impending battle with the Curule and the Cu-Inam, while Taran just watched and said nothing. It was Sarehl who protested, vehemently. He felt Kalbeth had enough of an inheritance down south and would also inherit through himself, more than enough for any child, but he finally succumbed when he saw Charilae's expression. He immediately crossed to her, stooped to say something, then sat beside her and took her hands in his. "It's nothing to do with your being Dahkilan and Churchik, my dear, I promise you. I just felt Kal has so much already. I don't mean to upset you, child. I wouldn't do that. This means a great deal to you, doesn't it?" Charilae nodded, her eyes full of tears. "You honour Kal, Charilae, in a way I hope he appreciates and understands when he's older. I know he'll become a son to you as he is to me." Charilae nodded again. "I didn't mean to distress you." Sarehl pulled her close in a hug, then dropped a kiss on her hair after he spoke words for her alone. That evening Sarehl had a very long talk with Kalbeth. He wanted to know what the boy thought and wanted. Afterwards, a decision was made. ~~~ When Bethel found out what was probably in store for Charilae and her consort, Ensore was quite regretful when he saw the hunted look. "I'm sorry, lad. There has to be a ceremony. The Curule insist on this, especially in the light of the death of Charilae's mother. They feel they must do this to vindicate Charasan. They're determined you be formally linked and the marriage ceremony be undergone in its fullest glory -." "No," came the faint protest, in the form of an interruption. Ensore smiled

affably at him. "But I refused to countenance that, lad," he continued, as if Bethel hadn't interrupted him. "It would be inappropriate. Sar and Kas didn't." He saw relief shine in the big eyes. "However," went on the Chamah bracingly, "I can't refuse the Curule their right to some ceremonial to show a scion of the royal house is honoured in the correct and traditional fashion. You can't escape that, Beth, and neither can Charilae." "I knew this came," murmured Bethel, tiredly. "Gods, but I need a drink." He strode to a table where clean tankards and a pod of ale stood invitingly. He helped himself. "Something like Dase experienced?" asked Sarssen, conversationally. "Similar," itted Ensore, on a broad smile. "A bit more complex." "No," groaned Bethel, tossing himself into a chair. "You, lad," consoled Ensore, soothingly, "are only consort." "Like Sar?" asked Bethel, jerking himself up with a horrified expression. "Such a pretty boy you will be with your robes and coronet, Beth," teased Sarssen, irrepressibly. Bethel turned a laughing countenance to Ensore who nodded. Bethel sank back in the chair and covered his face with a hand. "Sarssen, do something for the love of the gods and stop sitting there laughing, damn you!" "Since I thought you and Charilae might choose flight, the ceremony is for early morn tomorrow." Bethel went to rise but found Eli beside him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "We thought it would be kinder to get things over with, Beth," went on the Chamah innocently. "Have you told Beth his title?" asked Eli wickedly, his hand still on the young warrior's shoulder.

"Better you know," said Sarssen, cheerfully, "so you can suitably respond from tomorrow. They will not call you Haskar or Saratquan here, but by your formal royal title." "What is it?" "Merlon, Dan Bethel of Ilancat," replied Eli, with considerable relish. The looks on the warriors' faces made him give way to hilarity. "You'll only have to answer to either Merlon, Beth, or Dan Bethel," Ensore assured the speechless warriors. "And Kal?" finally asked Sarssen. "As Merlondhan he inherits from Charilae, according to our laws." ~~~ The next morning saw Bethel try half-heartedly to fight off those who descended on his chamber and swept Charilae from it. He saw Sarssen and Mishak enter carrying very heavy, ornate robes that took the two of them to bear without crushing. "No!" he stated, bluntly. "Those look appalling garments." The under-robes were plentiful and either buttoned or tied very tightly so the over-robes would fall in the required shapely but heavy folds. The final sleeveless over-robe had a very high collar and showed off the long voluminous, shoulder-gathered sleeves of the under-robe that hung wide and open at the wrists. The robe fitted breathlessly tightly at the waist, then fell away full-skirted to the floor and trailed out behind Bethel where he stood. The firmly pulled in and tied sash was gold, tasselled and wide. "I feel I'm dressed like a woman," Bethel complained, trying to kick out the skirts of the robes that cascaded in heavy folds about his feet. He couldn't recall how many under and over robes he wore, except there were many of them and they were extremely uncomfortable. Without oil, he'd have been badly chaffed. He patiently let serving men straighten here and there, or coax the robes to go where they would.

A heavy gold chain was flung over his head, the stone dangling from it huge, ornately set, and a huge example of the royal stone of Dahkilah. Bethel squinted down at it then had to lift his head so the warrior could replace his jewellery, every warrior piece replaced, including the Sarat collar. Asked to kneel, he very awkwardly obliged, aware of robes settling and rustling about him, the material of them stiff and unyielding. He felt cramped and uncomfortable. When only Bethel and Sarssen remained, the former struggled to his feet and almost overbalanced, unusual in so graceful a man. He felt the weight of the coronet when Sarssen placed it gently on his head. Sarssen had to manoeuvre the coronet so it didn't either hide the embedded Churchik stone of Valshika, or press down on it. "Gods," muttered Bethel. "It's so heavy!" Sarssen studied him and had to smile at the young man's beauty. No less was his regal and naturally elegant air. The warrior had to get Bethel to turn from the bed while he lifted the cloak, Bethel's shoulders momentarily sagging before he adjusted to the sheer weight and volume of it. 'What on Ambros are these robes made of?" Sarssen merely shrugged, pinned the cloak in place, then let the broad sweep of it spread out behind Bethel, well aware courtiers would drive Bethel mad organising it so it lay on the carpet just so. Since Bethel hadn't worn such garments, or had his movements so hampered and restricted, he was unused to moving in them. His steps were wooden. "You should move about," suggested Sarssen, genially. "You look stiff." "I am," retorted Bethel. "How would you like to be trussed up like this?" "I would not," replied Sarssen, sympathetically. "Like old times, Beth, is it not?" Bethel looked up from contemplating the intricate design of the chain. "Aye," he agreed, ruefully. "Then you showed me how to serve a lord." "Yes, that is so. Come now, Beth, imagine you merely serve a warlord again. Make your steps as small as they had to be when you were a slave in chains. Do you ?"

Coaxing and encouraging, sometimes breaking into laughter, Sarssen and Bethel began to walk up and down the large chamber, until Sarssen saw Bethel moved with his usual grace. Then he suggested Bethel sit and brought him wine. "Drink up," he advised. "Oh, Beth, I nearly forgot." Sarssen turned back to the bed to find and lift aloft Bethel's ceremonial sword. When he faced Bethel again he didn't miss the look of pleasure in the big eyes as the warrior buckled the sword belt just below the sash. The sword, slammed home, rested comfortably on the right hip. At that moment the door opened to it Kalbeth, robed and cloaked, his coronet set firmly among the dark curls. He looked very young and by far too lovely to be a boy, the glossy hair falling about his shoulders and his blue eyes shining with both anticipation and apprehension. Bethel looked across at his son, his sense of humour getting the better of him. "If we must dance about in these ridiculous robes, Sarssen, and look so out of place, we may as well enjoy ourselves. Kal, have wine. It'll fortify you." ~~~ The ceremony was as long as Dahkilan ceremonies usually were, the immediate participants left exhausted as they made their way from the ovial to the reception. Kalbeth looked quite pale. The warrior, falling in beside the boy, whispered to him that the worst was over. Kalbeth gave a tight smile. At the reception, Bethel discarded coronet and cloak, so for some it was the first time the Dahkilan saw the Churchik sword. It brought frowns and raised eyebrows, but no comment, then, when Bethel removed his son's cloak and coronet, it was seen Kalbeth wore the same. It made Sarssen smile. Kalbeth was going to be another Bethel. Sarssen was also amused by Charilae's attitude to nobility. Once she merited no notice, being deemed below significance, but now they clustered about her, patronage and approval sought by sycophants. Sarssen saw her lip curl and didn't miss the martial sparkle in the golden eyes as she moved easily, and with her own touch of dignity, from one group to another. She'd not forgotten being ignored and considered inferior.

Having surreptitiously removed the combs and clasps from his hair, Bethel was able to run his fingers through the curls so they fell naturally and now performed the same office for his son. Kalbeth grinned up at him, then sighed at the group of nobles who bore down on them. Standing apart from them, Sarssen observed how courteous the boy was in imitation of both father and Sarehl, accepting compliments and congratulations graciously and without a blush or blink. Kalbeth finally managed to escape. But he fell prey to several other groups. They were intrigued by the pretty boy most ignored or hadn't noticed before, his height for his age attracting attention as did his beauty. He had to use all his ingenuity to escape their crushing attentions. A Merlondhan was of utmost significance in the Dahkilan court, however young he might be, and pleasant memories or favours done him at such a tender age could mean amply reaped rewards in future cycles. So Kalbeth was besieged, many curious to know more about him. The demands of etiquette made the boy very tired. He finally found refuge with Sarssen whom he spied, set apart watching him, and reached him with a gasp of relief. The warrior pulled him in close, a hand rested on the young shoulder. "Overpowering for a youthful Merlondhan, is it not, boy?" "Yes, Uncle Sarssen. They ask so many questions." The grip on his shoulder tightened. "Then stay close, child. I shall deal with others who approach, yes?" "Yes, please," came the thankful murmur. Kalbeth shrank closer as yet another knot of well-disposed nobility bore down on them. Had he not been so tired, Kalbeth would've enjoyed the way Sarssen dealt with them, the warrior urbane and charming as he casually brushed aside curious questions about both Charilae and Kalbeth. He gave nothing away. "All I can tell you, gentlemen," he said finally, with a smile, "is that she is the daughter of Haskar Correc." He carefully forbore telling them that Correc died at his hands and that Bethel had ordered the execution of Correc's wife and daughter. He felt it might mar the occasion. Nor did he want this spoken about in front of Kalbeth who was still in

ignorance of the whole affair. Sarssen had already sent for Mist and now looked about for him. He knew Mist wouldn't be dilatory. He saw him by the east door. "Shall I take you across to Mist, Kal?" Kalbeth glanced up, fatigue deep in the blue eyes. "Thank you." He put a hand uncertainly to his head. "My head aches." Quietly, Sarssen shepherded the boy to the door, his height enabling him to take the most direct route, questions deflected and answers tossed back with an eloquent ease Kalbeth envied. Mist stepped forward, an arm going about the thin shoulders. "Come, Kal." "His head aches, Mist. He is also very tired. The weight of the robes and coronet are mostly to blame, not to mention the length of the ceremony." ~~~ The following day the travellers going south were farewelled. Sarssen accompanied them on a magnificent grey Ensore provided for the warrior from his extensive stables, but that was only after the warrior and Bethel were coaxed down to see the colt born of the Lachir stallion, the Chamah's greatest pride. Alfar rode with Sarssen. The little fellow's instinctive respect and awe of the warrior deepened by the day. The boy did and said nothing Sarssen could fault, and the warrior, ing the naughty imp from Samar and Elibera, had to smile. Alfar copied everything Kalbeth did and to Bethel's surprise the boy instinctively lowered his head to the warrior. Following his and Bethel's long and honest discussion in Elibera, Bethel willingly yielded to all suggestions the warrior made about Alfar, conceding he, too, felt anxiety. Sarssen was blunter. Instead of returning immediately to Valshika, they'd detour to Caciqua to ask Kher for his acceptance of what Sarssen called a silly start. Though he didn't approve of Alfar coming south and thought it an inopportune time, he took over the boy's training, instructing the child on Churchik etiquette and attitudes to children. Alfar listened wide-eyed and solemn in a way quite

unlike him, nor did he fidget, fall over or break things. It dawned on Alfar that life for a southern boy couldn't be more different from that of a Samar boy. Bethel showed him how to defend himself and Kalbeth showed him a taste of what he could expect. He gritted his teeth and learned to stand up for himself. His lessons on pain control were hard learned. When he was told by Mishak this ability was important for him when he went to school, and Sarssen reinforced this with a strong hand under his chin, Alfar's eyes watered but he stood quite still. "Well done, little boy," praised Sarssen, a hand ruffling the windblown curls. "We will make something of you yet." He saw adoration in the grey eyes upturned to his that made him very thoughtful. He began to appreciate Sarehl's concern. ~~~ The days ed. Evenings beside the fire were restful after hard days of riding. The two boys were sent to bed early. Charilae commented on Mishak one evening. "Mishak is very stern with them, Beth, especially Alfar. Do you think he is too stern?" She sorted cards in her hand. Bethel grinned and stretched out flat on his back. "No," he replied, "I do not. Do you, Sarssen?" Sarssen still gambled with Charilae, cards held in one hand. Mist simply lounged watching. Bethel and Mishak were forced to throw in their hands and withdraw. It was then Mishak went with the boys. Sarssen selected a card and discarded it, face up. "Five then six, Charilae. Read me or bet," he offered, watching her wrinkled nose of disgust in amusement. She stared long at her cards. While he waited, he responded to Bethel. "No, Beth, he is not too hard. They are still young and not entirely sure what they can or cannot do, though Kal reaches the age where discipline will no longer be required. After Alfar leaves for home, Mishak can turn his talents to my son when he comes south again." He heard a chuckle from Bethel. "You will not let me keep Jane indefinitely, will you, Beth, so while Kal is in Valshika I will have to demand you let Mishak care for Shae at those

times." "Willingly." Bethel laughed softly. "The little one seems unhappy," said Charilae, dithering over her discard. "Alfar is at the moment," itted Sarssen, "though most of the time he is happy enough. It is when something goes wrong he grieves for his home and needs his mother. He is not so unlike Shae. It is a hard way to learn that what one most wishes for can only sometimes be gained through unhappiness and often pain." "I think the little fellow is very brave," said Charilae. "He has no trace of Churchik in him, small child he is, to confront all this. Like you were, Beth." Bethel sat to fill his and Sarssen's tankards. "Yes," agreed Sarssen, looking up from his cards. "Now, Charilae, make up your mind, my dear. You must bet or show. What is it to be?" With an exclamation, Charilae surrendered and laid out her cards face up. Sarssen did likewise and Charilae groaned. "Is he beatable?" she despairingly asked Bethel. "Every night he beats us." Bethel just smiled and put pipes to his mouth, Sarssen shuffled the cards and replaced them in their travelling box, then stretched his long length alongside the fire, his head tilted to listen to the soft music. Charilae sank back on her elbows. Sarssen idly threw sticks on the fire. "You are right, Charilae, Alfar is a brave child. Despite all he learns, his home is not in the south the way Kal's is. He will survive his southern experience because we will ensure he does, will learn things of immense value that will stand him in good stead when he is mature and will have a clear memory of what southern society is like. He should be a more tolerant adult through that experience. Come spring, he will not want to be a warrior. A wiser and more disciplined son will return home to Samar." "That is what Beth said to Sarehl." Charilae shifted. "Is it not odd, Sarssen, that Chloris should be so different and Tamas is quiet, too." "Alfar is, I gather, more in the mould of Dase at the same age. Dase had stability

of home life, something our little fellow did not, any more than Brue who was as naughty and hot at hand as Alfar. A Strategos could not possibly do what was demanded of him, as well as spend time with his extroverted son. There can be no criticism of Sarehl for that. He tried to raise his son as he raised Kal and Beth, but Alfar's cast differently from them. It seems Brue and this boy require similar handling that asks more than just gentle guidance sometimes." "Sarehl spanked Kal." "True, but not his own son," answered Sarssen, with a whimsical smile. "It seems Alfar ran his father ragged from his first breath. There seem to be similarities with Shae, too." Charilae burst out laughing. "Sarssen!" she protested. "You think I do not see you mothering him in Ayesha's stead," accused Sarssen gently, watching her cheeks colour. "You are very kind to him, my dear." "I do try not to indulge him," she returned, the blush deepening, "but nor can I forget what being without a mother is like. And he is such a lovable little boy, even if he is wickedly bad at times when he is with us." It was Sarssen's turn to laugh. "He is a very lucky boy to have you in Valshika, Charilae. I see Kal already regards you as a surrogate mother to Kas whom he adores, so that says much for your relationship with him." "I have come to dearly love, Kal, my lord." "And it shows, my dear," the warrior said tolerantly, his expression kind. "It gives Beth immeasurable pleasure to see you together, too, as it does me." "I am coming to care for the little fellow, too," answered Charilae. "Yes," replied Sarssen. "That vivacious little face with the pert expression and sparkling grey eyes is irresistible. I find it so myself." ~~~ They arrived at Caciqua at the end of autumn, the weather bleakly cold with

constant freezing winds and interminable rain. Kher was delighted to welcome them. Their arrival at the gates was late in the day. Alfar was sound asleep in front of Sarssen and Kalbeth was nearly asleep in the saddle in front of Mist, the boy every so often jerking himself upright. The warrior shook Alfar awake lest, dozy, he fall from the horse. Escorted to Kher's private sura where the warlord was in company with Chey and the twins, they were cheerfully greeted. Kher's eyebrows shot up at the sight of the boy in Sarssen's arms, the child still only half-awake. Set on his feet, Alfar wobbled, until a sharp shake made him rapidly blink and stiffen into the acceptable southern pose. "Who is he?" asked Kher, frowning heavily. "He looks vaguely familiar." "Sarehl's eldest boy," answered Sarssen, calmly. He sensed the warlord's displeasure. "I see," came the caustic tone, the piercing eyes resting on Alfar in a highly unnerving way. "Then be seated at the table. Doubtless you are hungry." Too tired to eat, nevertheless the boy sat quietly next to Bethel, grey eyes curious but also quite frightened. Alfar was now in the south. He was close to a real Churchik warrior he'd only seen once or twice in Elibera, and that was from a distance. This warrior was near and he was very big indeed, bigger overall than Sarssen. Kher waited until slaves had scuttled in and out and food was being consumed, before he referred again to Alfar. "Why the child, Beth?" Bethel placed his goblet in front of him and succinctly explained the situation and the reasoning behind it. As he spoke Kher's eyebrows knit in an even deeper frown. "I do not like this, Beth," he said coolly, in measured tones. "I do understand the Strategos had no time to write with a formal request and to have a child so unfortunately and seriously besotted would also concern me. How old is the child? Nine or ten cycles?" "Just seven cycles, my lord."

"He is very tall for his cycles." "So was Sar, my lord, and so were Lute and me." "I can make no special allowances for your brother's child, Beth, nor is this a stable time in the south. Maybe the timing was inadvisable." "Sarehl asks only that the child stay in Valshika for, at most, a season before returning north by winter's end," said Sarssen, quietly. "I would formally adopt him as well, my lord," offered Bethel very quickly, hastening to add, "Whatever you wish, my lord." Kher's eyes dwelled on the small boy. "I saw him, I think, in Elibera. He was a somewhat unruly child as I recall the ceremony." "My lord," acknowledged Bethel, with a rueful smile down at the boy. "Sar's always found him a handful." "He will not be here," said Kher, in such quietly menacing tones Alfar actually shivered. "He would be ill advised to be so." Alfar kept his head very low. Kher still stared at him. "Stand, boy," he ordered sharply. The voice had such authority the child slithered from his chair and scrambled to his feet. "Approach." Alfar did and stood still, hands clasped behind his back and his head still lowered in the way Sarssen taught him was appropriate. Never had he been so glad of harsh lessons. "Your name?" The cold, indifferent voice frightened him. "Alfarbeth, my lord." The small voice quavered. "Another Beth," observed Kher, his frown lifting. "Am I to be beset by Beths?" His eyes stayed on the small figure. "So you wish to be a warrior, do you, boy? Look up at me when I speak." Seeking inward for courage and with an effort that required swallowing hard, Alfar obeyed. "Yes, my lord." Kher looked into the tremulous grey eyes, then at the chestnut hair and burst into jovial laughter. "What charming effrontery," he chuckled. "Come, child, and let me look at you."

Alfar was drawn very close between warrior knees until he was directly under the warlord's gaze. There, as he wasn't with Sarssen, he was conscious of the real power and bulk of this warrior, and he knew instinctively that, child or no, if he put a foot wrong with this huge man, the enormous hands could hurt him. It was his first true impression of the strength and threat of a southern warrior. He wanted to relieve himself, knew he couldn't, and stood rigidly still, his eyes not showing how scared he was. Inside the child shook like a jelly, just as Bethel and Sarssen did with a new warlord master long ago. An enormous hand tilted up Alfar's head so he had to look into eyes that paralysed him. Then Alfar blinked. He realised the eyes actually smiled down at him. He felt a little heartened. Even so, he saw beyond the smile and indifferent tolerance and blindingly knew he didn't want to be a southern warrior at all. He almost cried out loud, aware, small as he was, this was why he was sent south to see, at close and daunting quarters, Churchik warriors. It was a most salutary and frightening lesson. Alfar knew, as he stared up at Kher, that the lesson he was to be taught only began and he'd have to go through with it for at least a season. The little body trembled slightly. Alfar continued to stare up, drawn in afraid fascination by the mouth that moved, hidden in the bushy mane of a beard and moustache. "You are all Dahkilan other than eyelashes and eyebrows, are you not?" "Yes, my lord," he whispered. His chin was released. "Prepare him for the ceremony, Beth." Alfar saw the nodded dismissal and thankfully scampered back to his chair. "Does the child know what he has to say and do?" "Yes, my lord," replied Sarssen. "He is taught." ~~~ The ceremony was quite traumatic for the boy. It reinforced, in his muddled and drugged brain, that he wouldn't be warrior. The deep cut in his forehead hurt, the scented robes were strange, the ritual in front of terrifyingly alien but gigantic warriors, garbed in black cloaks and who eyed him silently, was a nightmare. Ears hurt. Piercing in the south was done with little regard for pain or subsequent discomfort, a child expected to simply lie still while the procedure was repeated for as many ear-rings as would be worn. Bracelets, arm clasps and rings felt unfamiliar, too. The stone implanted on his hairline made him give the faintest

gasp before he felt a necklace put about his neck. Disoriented after the ceremony, he was very frightened and began to call wildly for his mother and father. Next morning saw him told they were immediately leaving for Valshika. Alfar felt the necklace. Fingers went to his head to the stone implanted there, then curiously they went to still sore ears that sported studs. Awed, he sat bolt upright. All the jewellery was replaced. "Get used to it, little southern boy," advised Mishak, on a smiling drawl. "Those are not removed unless you bathe." Kher looked over the boy in the sura when he entered to the travellers for early meal. It was scarcely past dawn and Kalbeth yawned. "You look the part, child," was the warlord's bored comment. He snapped his fingers in a way that made Alfar jump at the slave who materialised beside him. "Seat the child." The night before Alfar was too tired to observe much and hadn't noticed those serving the food. Now he saw slavery. Sarssen had warned him and now he saw it. Young as he was, it seriously disturbed him to have a man crouch beside him in absolute submission. He was so agitated he ate very little. It prompted the warlord to glance at him. "Eat properly, boy. You will never grow if you do not." Reluctantly, Alfar toyed with food on his plate. Relieved and satisfied that attention had gone from him, he watched the huge warlord from under his dark curling eyelashes. He saw Kher play with his tankard. "Lodrin, you return to warrior training, yes?" "Yes, my lord." "What are you as pre-warrior, boy? Have you reached lanchik status yet?" He saw the deep flush and nodded encouragement. "Yes, my lord, before I went north with Pater." "That is very good. You will build on that. I see you have grown yet again, your growth truly remarkable. You had your thirteenth cycle day some time since, yes?"

"Yes, my lord." "Then to be lanchik before your fourteenth cycle day is indeed commendable, boy." Kher turned to Bethel. "He may slip backwards, Beth, if he keeps going backwards and forwards to Samar. Have you thought of this? It could make it difficult for the boy." "I have thought, my lord. Kal knows it may only be once more before he becomes warrior, certainly not after he becomes fifteen cycles." "He is close to fourteen cycles now, no?" "Yes, my lord." "Then he has pudha in two cycles. Who brings him to this? I know it is not northern custom, Beth, but he comes to manhood in the south." "I know," answered Bethel curiously unruffled, his eye catching Sarssen's. "I will ensure the boy is properly prepared, my lord," put in Sarssen, smoothly. "Lodrin knows what comes." "Do you, boy?" demanded Kher fiercely, from under craggy brows. "Yes, my lord," responded Kalbeth, quite untroubled. "A different approach?" "Quite, my lord," smiled Sarssen, his tone quite bland. "The boy has nothing to fear, nor need any believe the boy walks in ignorance." "Very well put," murmured Kher, suddenly most entertained. "I might have known." ~~~ Winter came quickly on the south, day after day unrelentingly cold. Alfar settled into a school routine that terrified him as much as it did Kalbeth. He was only punished once there in his first week, but in such a way he never did sloppy, scrappy work again. The boy knew his lesson next day, word perfect. Otherwise,

the sunnily-natured boy brought pleasure to those about him, his musical interludes a reward for sheer hard grind and extremely long hours at school. His ranking was vicious and surprisingly prolonged, because warrior sons discovered this Samar boy had a stubborn streak that made him refuse to yield. Sarssen was about to intervene when the rank settled and Alfar, knocked about, was victorious in holding his own against a bully of nine cycles. His kudos rose and so did his status. He was more a curiosity than anything else, his colouring attracting more attention even than Kalbeth's because children were used to Bethel's darkness, but they weren't accustomed to grey eyes or burnished chestnut hair. Alfar forgot to be homesick, made friends among warrior sons in a way that surprised the adults, and these friendships weren't casual. Sarssen suspected they'd be lifelong and they were deep. His and Bethel's serious misgivings melted away. Alfar happily fell into warrior ways of obedience and behaviour, so easily, it was more rapid than Kalbeth's adaptation. It troubled the boy not at all, the grey eyes bright. He followed Kalbeth around and became noticeably more self-reliant as the weeks progressed. Bethel was able to write to Sarehl that Alfar thrived. Kalbeth's time was tougher. He settled back into southern routine without difficulty, but, like Bethel at the same age, he was tall and thin and lacked brawn though the shoulders were wide. His friends ragged him about his girlish appearance but he was resigned to that. It was warrior training that tested him and made him anxious. He frequently earned the whip that flicked about him and hurt. Out in harsh and unforgiving conditions he struggled against cold that went through him like a knife. Music was his salvation. After a torrid session of training he curled up in a chair with pipes to his mouth while either Jane or Mist dried and brushed his hair. Looking down at him, Jane just saw the pale face and thin body of the father. He found it uncanny only the eyes should distinguish this boy from his father. Jane knew Kalbeth was the age Bethel was when he was flung into the slave train because of Morsh - it made Jane singularly protective. These days he came and went regularly to Dainstok and Thorik, as well as to Bethel's other cities, before he arrived back for long spells in Valshika, in part to remain an important part of Kalbeth's growing up.

So the days ed. Bethel was deeply engrossed in the affairs of state that Sarssen delegated to him. The warrior participated in rigorous training of all warriors before he took off north to keep an eye on Kel's progress with Kalbeth's katif. Sometimes he and Bethel were summoned to Caciqua. Sarssen went more often as an elite haskar on the warlord's High Council, where some warriors became increasingly aware of unrest in the far eastern reaches of Churchik lands. Sarssen uneasily thought back to what he read in Agge's mind. In Caciqua, Luton, back from yet another stay at the Keep where he worked and Kher visited most regularly to study, thought often of Asok's words about a particular warrior.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Alfar stayed longer in the south than was intended because in late winter a virulent fever swept through Valshika. Sarssen declared the gates locked and no visitors or trading caravans were welcome. Nor was anyone in the city allowed out, a fact that led to enraged merchants demanding they be released. Cold, haughty green eyes stared at them, unblinkingly. The illness was highly infectious. Charilae succumbed. One day the gates opened for a solitary figure who disappeared, then mysteriously reappeared with one clearly a healer judging by his garb. Kaleb wasted no time. Though Sarssen was a trained healer he never professed to have Kaleb's remarkable skills. They were sorely needed. Alfar was quiet and responsive, helped where he could and asked for nothing. Told he couldn't go home as expected, because there was no way Bethel would leave Charilae, let alone expect Charilae to accompany him on a northwards trek come spring, Alfar stood quietly, his eyes meeting Bethel's. Asked if the news deeply troubled him, Alfar shook his head. "We will arrange some way of getting you home, Alfar," Bethel promised, sitting and drawing the boy into his lap, "but it may not be for close on a season. I'm sorry." "I know," said the young voice. A small hand reached up to Bethel's beard and was held, purple eyes scanning the child's face. "Are you as unhappy as you were when we first came here, Alfar?" Bethel asked carefully. The chestnut head shook. "I know it was hard for you. It was very hard for us to prepare you for what you faced, little fellow." "I know that, too," came the gruff reply. "I didn't want you to come because of that, nor did I want to see you hurt as I knew you would be." "No," came the muffled answer.

"You were hurt, yes?" "Yes, Uncle Beth." "It was only the once in school, though, wasn't it?" Alfar nodded. "And you did learn from that?" "Yes, Uncle Beth," whispered Alfar. "And?" prompted Bethel, pulling the boy very close in an embrace. "I work very hard at school." "And do you still wish to be a warrior?" Gray eyes looked up thoughtfully before there was an answer. "I don't know, Uncle Beth, but I think I don't. Warriors aren't the same here as they are in Samar." "Not quite," agreed Bethel, with a tender smile down into the upturned face. "What do you mean by not the same?" Again there was a long pause. "Do you wish to stay in the south, little fellow, or do you want to go home?" "I want to go home." "But staying longer doesn't trouble you, because you know you'll soon go home?" "Yes." There was a hesitation Bethel picked instantly. "But? Tell me, Alfar." "I want to come back again one day, Uncle Beth," whispered Alfar, snuggling into Bethel in his usual burrowing way. He buried his head against Bethel's chest, the fabric of the doublet caressing his cheeks. "I'm happy with you." "It wouldn't be so hard next time, would it?" "No." "That's because you know how to behave among the Churchik and you're very

good at school here, aren't you?" The head nodded. "Do you think you needed to come south to help you?" "Yes," came the husky whisper. "So do I," responded Bethel, affectionately regarding the boy in his arms. "I think you respond very well to life in the south. You've grown up a very great deal." Bethel stroked the shining hair, his eyes dwelling pensively on the ringed fingers holding onto his doublet. "Has Mishak touched you?" "No." "You're doing very well, Alfar. I'm very proud of you." Smiling grey eyes looked up adoringly. "And," added Bethel, on a deep chuckle, "you play the eafest beautifully. Sar will be so proud of his son, you'll see." ~~~ And Alfar just continued to grow and thrive. When he left Samar he was tall for his age, but now he was a leggy boy rather than still a taller than usual child. By the beginning of summer the gates re-opened, trade flourished again and life went back to normal. Charilae stayed languid, any activity enervating her though Kaleb pronounced her well enough to be up and about. Reassured by the healer, Sarssen left for the Shadowlands and Bethel left for Samar so he could tell Sarehl all was well in Valshika. Kalbeth was disappointed he couldn't go to Samar with his father, the boy quite downcast when Bethel explained his decision to go for the very briefest of visits. "I understand, Pater," answered Kalbeth. "I just miss seeing Da and Mam." "And your numerous friends, Lodrin, I know. But," reminded Bethel very gently, "your boyhood rapidly draws to an end and you enter a new phase of growth and maturity that requires you to look at your situation a little differently. Warrior training's no longer a part-time sideline that comes secondary to everything else. It's becoming your life, Kal, and will be more so very soon. It will preoccupy you to the exclusion of many things. If you wish to be a warrior, there's no alternative." Bethel paused. "Had the illness not swept through Valshika, we'd have gone north long since and perhaps be contemplating a return in only weeks from now, but it wasn't to be." Bethel saw the boy's expression.

"No, Pater," said Kalbeth, in a stifled voice, the sparkle in the blue eyes quenched. Bethel looked at the boy who appeared a mere wraith he was so thin. He also looked weary. "I don't complain." Kalbeth's big eyes met his father's. "I just thought I'd go north to Samar, and hoped, that's all." Bethel strode across to Kalbeth and stared at him intently. "You miss Sar very much, don't you?" Kalbeth nodded. "I think of him a lot, Pater, and Mam. And I miss Chloris." His lower lip quivered. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm Samar at all, Pater, since I seem to be more southern by the day." "No, no," laughed Bethel, a comforting arm going about the boy. "I don't see a southern boy, Kal. Quite the contrary. I see a Samar boy with the beginnings of the bearing of a young warrior." He ruffled Kalbeth's curls. "Being immersed as you are, son, makes it hard for you to be objective and see what you really are. If I thought, for a moment, you were losing the Samar identity Sar made you, I'd curtail your training immediately and send you north. Believe me, son, because I've never been more serious." Bethel pushed the boy from him and nodded to emphasise he was indeed serious. "Thank you, Pater," murmured Kalbeth. "To hear that comforts me." He left his father staring enigmatically after him, his expression troubled. Bethel decided a chat with Sarehl was in order, so that Kalbeth could make a quick visit north to the Dahkilan border to spend some time with Sarehl, Ensore and maybe Chloris if she was in Elibera and this should happen very soon. ~~~ Bethel had to deal with problems that had mounted at the Academy. He had to immediately run the examinations so integral to progress within it. His visit was a fleeting one but would serve its purpose. His first days were quite fraught because there was so much to do, but once he had things running smoothly as they should, he was able to sit back. Until then he had little time to spend with his family and was only able to give the briefest of outlines about Alfar to his anxious parents. Now he was able to speak in more depth, their faces showing enormous relief their son wasn't just well, but happy. Kasan's expression lightened straight away.

"And was he hurt, Beth?" asked Sarehl, once the brothers were alone. "Yes," itted Bethel, honestly. "But I told you he would be, Sar. There was no way that boy could survive without rigorous discipline. He tried Mishak." "How?" asked Sarehl, in a hollow voice. Bethel answered mildly. "I told Mishak to be very firm. He used his belt." "I see. How Kalor once dealt with young Brue." Sarehl bit his lip and averted his head. "Did it have the desired effect?" "Oh yes," came the careless reply. "Alfar obeys Mishak without a second thought, owes submissive obedience to Sarssen, is biddable to Kal and never makes the mistake of being anything but very submissive to any warriors he meets. And he has met many." "And was he taught about pain?" "Mishak taught him as I said he would." "And you say he was quick to settle at school, but you made scant mention of any problems he may have had adjusting." "There was no point in telling you what might distress you," answered Bethel, bluntly but with a smile. "Alfar began school with the belief he could act and behave, despite our repeatedly explaining it wasn't so, as he was at home. His mind was disabused of that quaint notion very fast. He was dealt with in the typical and appropriate Churchik response to such a child, because his work, after innumerable warnings that he preferred to ignore, was rough, poor and quite unacceptable. I saw it." "I can guess," whispered Sarehl. He was pale. "The gods, don't mention that to Kas." "I warned you. Only with Kal it was because he didn't learn a section of history in the required fashion, so his chastisement with a belt was appropriate for the offence. Nor was he warned and allowances made and excuses accepted. Alfar was shown more tolerance and forbearance than Kal."

Bethel saw dawning realisation in dark eyes full of consternation, but he made no attempt to elaborate. Mishak was summoned to collect the boy, to find the little kneeling figure trembling with shock, his eyes frozen on the warrior still twirling a crop in his hands. Bethel continued calmly, "Your son's now a model student, his work conscientious and very thorough. I think you won't believe how far he's gone with his schooling. He speaks fluent Churchik, knows many of our histories both oral and written, his calligraphy is quite beautiful and his understanding of things mathematical and abstract is excellent. I've watched him perform in class and he's very good. I think he'll be missed." "Gods!" muttered Sarehl. "His ranking caused him problems because it went on longer than usual," mused Bethel. "But he made it himself, Sar. That's the point. And he showed stubbornness and determination that changed to defiance in a way that was quite unexpected. He has a lot of you in him and stood his ground. It brought the boy status and respect from some very tough young Churchiks. He's made some close friends, as well, who'll stay that way throughout his life - of that we're sure." "And you say the boy's happy?" asked Sarehl, incredulously. "The gods, but I need a drink." "Do," suggested Bethel, cordially. "May I have one, too?" "And Shae. Is he, too, at school?" "Until he went north, yes he was." "And has he had experiences like Kal and Alfar?" "A few," grinned Bethel. "He's another bold boy like Alfar, but because he's bigboned and will be like Sarssen as a man, he doesn't have difficulty with rank. It's barely changed from when he was still only really a little fellow and that's in spite of his occasional comings and goings." "And what about Alfar?"

"He wants to come home, Sar, though he says he wants to return south. Maybe. That's your decision." "I'm coming south, Beth," said Sarehl, quite quietly. Bethel slewed in his chair, almost knocking the goblet held down to him from his brother's hand. "You are what?" "You keep inviting me, Beth," protested Sarehl, waggishly. "Charilae isn't able to travel, nor are you happy to take a protracted journey from her. We understand perfectly well, so Kas and I've decided I'll go south to bring our son home. Kas and I expected to have Alfar home after winter. Kas misses her little boy, especially with Kal gone as well. I want to see Kal, too." "He misses you, too." Sarehl looked up quickly at that. "I was going to speak to you about that, Sar." Sarehl frowned thoughtfully, then went on, "Alfar should come home now. I should be there by the end of summer if I don't delay and Kalor's willing to come with a detachment of troops that'll be more than able to guard me. I've already arranged matters in Kalor's absence if he decides to come further south than Elibera. He may choose to go on to Cyrenia while he's south." "It will be a slow trip with the children, Sar. Asandra's still very young and the twins will be a handful in themselves." "Kas is staying behind, Beth. I wouldn't bring them south just yet. Two Samar children there's enough at this stage." "Sensible," murmured Bethel, impishly. "There's still unrest in the east. So when do you leave?" "It should be soon, Beth. Don't be surprised to see Ens with us, will you? I doubt he'll be able to hold off from this, nor will Taran make him. Besides, Chloris is going to Dahkilah with me so I can settle her there. That's another reason I'm bringing Alfar home. For Kas to have her two eldest suddenly removed is very hard. She still feels Kal's loss, you know, however much she understands the reason for it." "So do you," said Bethel, dryly. Sarehl faced him and sighed.

"Yes," he confessed, "I miss little Kal very much, Beth, as I miss you." "He cares about you, Sar. I wish I could've brought him, but it wasn't possible. At least I can come and go. He wrote you a long enough letter." Bethel stared hard at his brother. "Chloris worries you," he said, abruptly. "Yes, she does. It's an upheaval for a girl in her maturing cycles to move to a new home, even if it's only a trial." "She's very close to those who love her, Sar, with Dase in Del-Floret not so far distant and Samar within easy access. It's the far south that's so damnably far away." There was a silence then Sarehl asked, "When do you leave, Beth?" "In the morning," came the lazy voice. ~~~ On his way home, Bethel came to a decision. He'd no longer spend whole seasons in Samar unless he had his family with him, but instead would go to and fro on a reasonably regular basis that wouldn't arouse too much comment. It would make the running of the Guild and the Academy easier, because istrative problems wouldn't build up, nor would requests for auditions for places at the Academy. It would also make the control of his inheritance easier and he could, after discussion with Sarehl, sometimes take Kalbeth to Elibera. Back in Valshika he was back hard at work, his anxiety over Charilae not fully assuaged. She looked frail. The business side of his and Sarssen's inheritance meant Bethel couldn't be by Charilae's side as much as he wanted, the young warrior responding to immediate demands on his lordly time. He uplifted Sarssen's mantle while the warrior was north, and that included everything to do with the estates, all istration, moving about the states regularly and then north to Kalbeth's katif to oversee the reconstruction of the city. Kalbeth may have thought he was busy. Bethel was run off his feet. Jane was in Dainstok, busy overseeing a building programme. Kel briefly returned to Thorik before he was again at Valshika to report to Bethel, before he was north again, so neither he nor Jane saw how exhausted Bethel was. He was seldom in Valshika more than a night at a time. Inwardly he fretted about Charilae.

So Sarssen arrived south again. It was now well into the summer season and hot, one cloudless day following another and the looked for rain never coming. The land looked parched. Sarssen surveyed his household with interest, then asked Gamot to saddle him his horse since he was told Bethel was due home from Thorik in less than an hour. Sarssen set off to meet him, a wary eye open for any unexpected group of riders not sporting recognisable colours. The land was desolate except for the recent rewarding efforts to reforest the south. It showed in small irregular patches of green beginning to dot the landscape. Sarssen rode unhurriedly. He espied Bethel long before he was seen. He noticed Bethel rode alone and that made him frown. Clearly Kel was north again for this to be allowed, a somewhat alarming thought because there were still disaffected warriors and disappointed southmen or mercenaries who could make life difficult for a solitary rider a long way from home. Sarssen decided Bethel wouldn't ride alone again. By the time Bethel came closer, Sarssen could see he was in a brown study and though he rode erect in the saddle, his back very straight, he gave off a deeply careworn air. Concerned, Sarssen spurred forward his horse. Deeply thoughtful, Bethel heard the hoof-beats but only glanced up cursorily, assuming the rider would by him. It was a measure of his weariness and worry over Charilae that he didn't immediately respond to the call carried on the wind. It took Sarssen three calls to rouse him from his abstraction. Then he was transformed. His head reared up, the tired face broke into a smile and Bethel galloped to the warrior where he slipped from the saddle and just left the reins to dangle. Brun stood stolidly, so did Sarssen's Iscus. Bethel strode across to Sarssen who calmly awaited him and enfolded him in strong arms. "Let me look at you," instructed the warrior coolly, hands holding Bethel from him. Bethel obligingly stepped back, the welcome in his eyes touching Sarssen. "Gods, but it's good to see you. Welcome home!" "Not before time either," observed Sarssen with a smile, aware Bethel was gaunt and had dark-ringed eyes. He'd not had shadows like that for a very long time. "You do not look well, Beth. Have you been ill, too?" Bethel's grin was rather more wan than usual. "No, I'm fine. You look very well."

"Yes, I am. You, however, are not. What have you been doing, Beth, to make you look so?" "Nothing, Sarssen, I promise you." "Then we'll ride, Beth, and you can tell me all your news and what you have been doing." "How is Ayesha?" Bethel mounted on the words. "And Adrial?" He listened avidly to Sarssen's amusing anecdotal and somewhat rambling discourse, suddenly breaking into laughter that eased his tension. His shoulders un-hunched and he began to show more vivacity. He learned that though Adrial was going to be very tall, she was all Shadowlander and closely resembled her mother. "Do they tease Ayesha for bearing a second child to the same man?" asked Bethel, eyes alight. "Oh yes," answered Sarssen, on a fat chuckle. "I asked Istarial how they'd react to a third or a fourth and got the drollest look imaginable. I am hopelessly barbaric you know." And on it went, the deep rolling voice relaxing Bethel more and more by the minute. He spoke into the silence that finally fell. "Are you home for a while now?" "Aye, Beth. Why do you ask?" "I just wondered," mumbled Bethel, helplessly. "For the foreseeable future I will be at Valshika, that is so, unless Kher requests me." Sarssen hadn't missed the note of anxiety in Bethel's voice. Now he studied the profile. "Well, Beth, it is your turn to tell me what you have been doing. I have enjoyed myself. I am not sure you have." As he listened, Sarssen pursed his lips because it was obvious Bethel's conscientiousness had driven him hard. He'd undertaken far too much, work that should have been delegated. When he realised Bethel was seldom in Valshika he

was surprised, then concerned, and shook his head, finally moved to protest. "Beth, you will kill yourself. By all means come and go to Samar if that makes life easier for you, as I think it will. It will normalise your relationships there as well, but from today you stop doing the city circuit. I will resume a large proportion of the istration and you will spend more time back in the routine you assumed earlier. That means your estates, Beth. Kalbeth's katif we will think about and discuss." Bethel stared straight ahead. "I didn't want you to find things not to your satisfaction on your return." His voice was strained. "I owe you that much." Sarssen pulled up his mount, leaned across to grasp Bethel's reins in an iron hand, jerked Brun to a halt and found Bethel turned to face him, the expression startled. It became dismay when Bethel saw green eyes like flint look into his. "Never, Beth, speak to me in that fashion!" uttered the warrior, through clenched teeth. Bethel felt the grasp on his wrist and stayed still like the boy he once was. Sarssen saw the misty eyes and his expression gentled immediately. "Beth, your being so off-balance affects me more than either of us realise. The gods! Why else would I snap at you? I should not have reacted so! You are completely exhausted." "Yes, I'm tired." "And Charilae worries you." Bethel nodded, aware the warrior's hand was gone and the horses walked again. "And that means there has been little time for music?" "Not much, no," agreed Bethel, with an indifferent shrug. "Beth," said Sarssen, disturbed. "You have forgotten something most important, have you not?" He saw the look of weary enquiry. "Autoc told you music was critical to your balance, and I am dismayed, Beth, that you have let music slide. It is unlike you. It will also make you ill." "Music does not come easily at the moment," confessed Bethel, fidgeting with the reins. "That is hardly surprising," returned Sarssen. "Creativity and exhaustion are

mutually exclusive bedfellows, I would have thought." ~~~ Before the arrival of the northerners to Valshika, there were changes. Kaleb arrived so he could be there to spend time with the northerners whom he missed. As hospodar, a protesting Jane was made Hospodar-Elector, an appointment that made Jane directly responsible for the istration of Bethel's entire inheritance and able to make laws and changes pertaining to their running as he saw fit. He was still able to both Bethel and Sarssen, but essentially, as far as the day to day running of the cities and estates were concerned, he was the authority to whom others had to turn. Sarssen removed Bethel from being accessible. Mishak was further entitled to Thalasim. He took over full control of Kalbeth's katif. In time, Sarssen intended he'd succeed Jane when the older man decided he was weary and wanted to retire from active istration. And Rupon, stunned at his good fortune, reeled under the honour done him when he, too, was made a newly appointed Hospodar-Elector. He was further staggered by the granting of an annual income, something unheard of in the past, as he was made responsible for the full istration of Sarssen's estates and cities. In time, Sarssen intended to have Gamot trained under him. And the warrior didn't forget Kel. Kel was made Shye. It was a role that irably suited him and meant he controlled all military aspects of the cities and estates. His function extended to the maintaining of order between cities, the new roads being put in place, his domain. Sarssen was anxious to develop quick communications in the south, so having strategic points along new routes was a sensible precaution with raiders and opportunists about. Kel was to ensure continued safety. These arrangements took time, but, once in place, Sarssen was able to contemplate his function as Mishtok. Now he felt able to concentrate his energies to building up the Conclave as it should be. He was keen to spend time at Enouri so he could meet and evaluate potential students for himself. Like Bethel with Samar, Sarssen would very briefly come and go. With his troubled thoughts about his and Bethel's inheritance now appropriately settled, and the man able to consider his own needs and wants disionately,

he turned his mind to what would be best for Bethel. When he was with her, he talked through his thoughts with Ayesha who came up with a suggestion that made Sarssen blink at his stupidity and obtuseness. He wanted the right moment to broach it. This evening seemed a probable time. Sarssen lay stretched back in a chair made to accommodate a southern warrior, while Bethel, having played pipes and estibe for some time, was curled up in a chair, his instruments in his lap. He looked rested, the secret relief of not having to rush about showing in the relaxed posture and time spent almost exclusively on his music. Sarssen didn't encourage him back to Enouri either. He just calmly said he thought Bethel should concentrate on finishing his writing up of Dahkilan music. "Why do you not start a school for bards here in Valshika, Beth?" Bethel lifted his head from contemplation of his hands, his eyes wide with astonishment. "A bard school?" he repeated. "As you so often say, Beth, there is much that can be lost if those with talent are not properly fostered and encouraged. Much of what those like you know is not being ed on. We have lost too many of our bards, Beth. You, I think, are the last Churchik master bard, are you not?" "Yes," gulped Bethel, almost speechless. "Lute also asks you to go to the Keep. He says there is music there that has odd indecipherable symbols that he is sure have some sort of significance, though what remains obscure." Patiently, he watched Bethel drink, the astonishment fading to thoughtfulness. "Who would want a school?" "You would be surprised, Beth. Bards have always been highly respected in the south. Those with just minstrel skills were not, were traded easily, and often became slaves. I know of no time that a bard, even one taken prisoner, became a slave. He stayed on at his captor's court where he was well treated because of what he was. Long ago bards did not fight. They were considered to be precious vessels of the knowledge of a race. Gariok was such a one in that way."

"Gariok taught me that aspect of bardic history," murmured Bethel, twining curls about his fingers. "Why bards became fighters isn't known." "A school would bring other southern folk deeper south, too, Beth, which would be no bad thing. In time, when the Churchik remain seen as no threat to the security of Ambros, northerners with bardic talents may choose to learn here." "You think I should go to the Keep, too, don't you?" "Yes, Beth, I do. Kher tells me there are things there that will fascinate you for hours. There are names of musicians and troubadours the warlord had never heard of until he read of them there." Sarssen saw the big eyes glisten with anticipation. "And Lute does need help with musical notations that baffle him. He says he has never seen anything like them. That is what you are about, Beth, music. It is what you were born to pursue. Now you can. Nothing holds you back except yourself. Fulfil your destiny, little brother, and move with the gift of sound." Bethel stared respectfully at the warrior. "You speak so eloquently, Sarssen, and sound so like Scholar and Father." He twisted his hair the other way. "I do want to go. I just felt I was needed here." "Not now, Beth, no. All progresses as it should." "When did you think of a bard school, Sarssen?" "I did not," itted Sarssen, his eyes amused. He saw the interrogative tilt of the dark head. "Ayesha suggested it." "Ah," mumbled Bethel, drinking again. "You are master bard, Beth. Everyone knows and accepts you as Dominik. No one but you could do it either." "Bard training here in the south, and a music Academy in Samar," mused Bethel. Sarssen was heartened by the reaction, because Bethel's imagination was truly caught. It showed in the eyes. "Skills taught might overlap." "Possibly. Think about it." Sarssen smiled. "After Ens and Sarehl leave, it could be worth considering."

When he saw the familiar glow in the velvet eyes, the warrior's smile deepened, but he judged enough was said. Bethel's mind was working hard. Charilae and Kaleb, when approached on the subject, were highly enthusiastic. Bethel was quite taken aback. "What an idea!" breathed Charilae, golden eyes shining at the thought. She glanced at Sarssen. "Where could it be set up?" Kaleb and the warrior began to laugh. "So keen, Charilae?" teased Sarssen. "It is only a thought." "No," disagreed Charilae, shaking her head. "With respect, Sarssen, I think it is more than that, and deserves to be. It would mean so much. My father may have said and done some inexcusable things, but I believe he was right and meant what he said, when he lamented how many bards died during the war. In those last days back here in Churchik lands, he could not find even one for his cities, not one, Beth." She paused flushed, then went on, "Once every city-state boasted at least one bard, Sarssen, is that not so?" "Yes," concurred Sarssen, good humouredly. "And they had competitions, too?" "Yes again, my dear. I do not argue with you. I, too, think southern life sadly lacking with the ing of the bard because he was the spiritual lifeblood that linked each man to his cultural heritage." Charilae turned her head up to Bethel. "Beth, it is important as a means of keeping a people aware of who they are. Continuity should be understood. You understand the power of music and poetry and how valuable the art of oracy is as a means of communication. Teach it, Beth. Look at how Samar has responded to the Guilds and the Academy. It draws Samars together, gives pride, and teaches the people about themselves and how they became the way they are. And think of the sagas you currently write, some of which you begin to set to music, especially the ones about the war. Those will one day be sung, quoted and ed." Bethel saw Sarssen intently study him. "Are you, Beth?" "Yes," murmured Bethel.

"When did you begin this?" "In Samar. It just came to me that events could be as well ed in song as in any other form." "How many sagas have you written?" "Only five so far," returned Bethel. "That is a prolific output, Beth. And being set to music?" "Only this last few weeks now I have time to think about it again." "That is good," said Sarssen, with immense satisfaction. Kaleb glanced first at the warrior, then at Bethel. "How many bards were lost, lad?" Bethel looked helplessly at Sarssen, who just shrugged in a non-committal way. "Kaleb, I have no idea." "I cannot be exact either, Kaleb," added Sarssen, "because I was young when we set out for the north, not yet a man. In our father's immediate circle, Beth, there were over thirty or forty bards, all of whom perished. Over half of them were not warriors either. If I recall what I heard correctly, training of bards fell to one side with the war effort, only you being taken and taught as a new apprentice, Beth, because Gariok chose to teach you, so gifted he said you were. He told the warlord that. He was quite right. You learned everything from him, yes?" "Oh yes," sighed Bethel. "Most of the apprentices died, if not all, even the one who was youngest until I was enslaved. I think Brec was eighteen cycles. Gariok still taught them, but mostly it was me and he made all the apprentices perform until there were no more of them. By the end of the war I was the sole journeyman bard who was very rapidly brought to mastership over the last cycles in the north. Until he died in Elba, Gariok kept correcting and teaching me." Bethel rubbed his eyes. "Kaleb, he was a very quick-tempered man who made me sore if I didn't . He terrified me into learning all I could." He drank pensively. "He was a huge man, a most enormous warrior as big as my master. I can still see him. I always will. He stamped his foot at me if the metre was wrong or the wording even faintly imperfect, and he shook me as if I was a

piece of cloth. Once," he added reminiscently, with the shade of a smile, "I played and recited a saga as well as I could, knowing he sat directly to one side of me. He listened, his brow getting darker and darker until I nearly faltered. Gariok let me get to the end, then, in front of everyone there, he stood, unbuckled his belt, threw me to the ground and gave me one of the soundest thrashings he ever gave me." "I ," put in Sarssen. "You were a very sorry sight, Beth. You were scarcely able to stand for what came next. It was cruel." "Yes," replied Bethel, reflectively. "With every stroke Gariok repeated the words, 'wrong key, boy, wrong key.' In a sense I disgraced the bard as well as myself, something Gariok found inexcusable. I've never forgotten my mistake. Then he made me do another piece. By the time I was released, I crawled away somewhere sheltered so I could lick my wounds." Sarssen stared contemplatively at the attractive face with the rueful smile. "I have not heard the saga since, Beth. Have you recited it again?" "Yes. The next night my master instructed me to do it again. You were not present, but Gariok was. He stood behind me tapping a crop on his palm all the way through it. I sweated and shivered but got the key exactly right." "And since?" "No. I've chosen not to." Kaleb crossed to Charilae to see if she wanted more wine, but both she and Bethel shook their heads. "Will you recite and play it for us now, lad?" he asked, resuming his seat. "What one was it again, Beth?" "Our father called it `Flesh and Blood'," answered Bethel, placing the pipes on the floor beside him so he could lift the estibe into a playing position. "It's full of complex rhythms and opposing melodies that sometimes intentionally merge in with the text, so much so the voice has to rise higher to counter them. It's hard to balance the words and the music. It's one of the hardest and longest sagas I learned."

"What's it about, Beth?" "It can only be accompanied by an estibe. It's the saga of two Vaksh warrior brothers who withstood an assault by a group of Kerulen assassins. Though they died, their heroism roused the people's and later the Vaksh went on to exterminate most of the warrior class of northern Kerulen. I believe the story to be true. Most sagas are based on fact. Being a Vaksh, my master particularly liked that one and he used to make me do bits of it for him of an evening, quite often." "That, Beth," said Sarssen, "I did not know." Bethel glanced up at him, his fingers rippling across the strings. "No, I know." "Play some of it then," invited Kaleb. He settled himself down for a rare treat, his eyes on the musician in his typical pose, cross-legged, hair falling forward in a curtain of black that hid most of his face. Bethel began to play, so softly you had to strain to hear, his voice a mere melodic whisper. He recited and played for twenty minutes or so, the listeners still and rapt. "That's the beginning of it, Kaleb," Bethel said, lifting his goblet and drinking deeply. "As Sarssen can vouch, it goes on for very much longer." "It's a remarkable feat of memory, lad," commented the healer, with profound respect. "How long is it?" "Nearly two hours in all." "Gods," exclaimed Kaleb, awed. "Lad, it must be exhausting." Bethel's smile went awry. "That, Kaleb, was immaterial for a slave." "I guess so," responded Kaleb, broodingly. Charilae hadn't spoken, her mind clearly preoccupied, but now she turned impulsively to Sarssen.

"That is where the bard school should go, Sarssen." "What are you thinking about, my dear?" Sarssen stretched and yawned. "The slave hall and the surrounding markets. They are abandoned now, are they not?" "Yes. Public auctions are outlawed," answered Sarssen. "There is nothing in their place at present." "But there should be," urged Charilae. "It would be appropriate to put the area to a useful purpose. It would make better use of a place with awful memories for so many. While it sits vacant it acts as a dreadful reminder," observed Kaleb, "though a market doesn't sound like a school to me." "They are walled and enclosed squares, all linked one to the other," explained Charilae. "Some are roofed. I it from when Pater used to take us to see -." She broke off, blushing painfully. "To see the slave sales and often to buy," finished Bethel quietly. "'Beth, I did not -." Bethel interrupted her. "Charilae, I was a slave. Nothing can change that. I suppose I was lucky not to be sold on the open boy market to the highest bidder." "Like me," put in Sarssen, emotionlessly, "you would have been in a boy harem." He paused. "Probably not here now either," he added, as a caustic rider. Then he went on more purposefully. "Charilae, your idea has merit should Beth consider the proposal for a school to be a feasible one. It would mean a great deal of work to set up. The halls are intact, though as slave accommodation they lack other than the most basic and crude amenities. It is a start though. With forethought, I imagine the whole area could be refashioned into a school." "Squares could be turned into performance courts, Sarssen," suggested Charilae, "or teaching rooms." "More for performance, depending on the acoustics," murmured Bethel.

"Indeed it would need thorough preparation and planning," said Sarssen, at his laziest and with his slowest most indolent smile. He enjoyed indulging Charilae. "But I imagine it could be done with the necessary will." His eyes wickedly challenged Bethel who just grinned affably back at him, refusing to be drawn. "May I work on this, Sarssen?" Charilae turned eyes up to Sarssen who responded easily. "If you wish, my dear." Turning back to Bethel, she hesitated. "I would like to see something as wickedly destructive as a slave market made into a shrine, or a southern icon, that draws and fosters talent, my love. Music should flourish where fetters and whips once did. It would be an act of cleansing and atonement in itself." She didn't see Sarssen's nod of approval. "I'll help you while I'm still here," offered Kaleb, unexpectedly. "Maybe I can make a helpful suggestion or two." "Why not, my dear," said Bethel, his hand going down to Charilae. "If a school's to be built I'll do as others counsel, that I promise you. Having had to set up so much from scratch in Samar, I won't be journeying blind as I was there, though ittedly Master Ermyn was there for me." "You needed him then," reminded Sarssen. "You need no one now, Beth. You are master bard." "I still learn, Sarssen. I still learn. If a school should eventuate, it will keep me very busy. I will have no time for anything but that and Samar," Bethel warned. "Excellent," answered the warrior, on a low laugh. "But you forget the Keep, Beth. Bear that in mind." "Gods yes," muttered Bethel. "After Sar and Ens have gone I must attend to that as well." "Indeed you must," agreed Sarssen, aware of Kaleb's long speculative look. He met it with a slight shake of his head, in such a way Kaleb decided he'd later ask the reason why Bethel was to be so immersed in music he would think of little else.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Elucien stared thoughtfully at Chlorien. She sat, as she often did, in the herb garden. She had made such progress Elucien was impressed. He believed the time had come for another disclosure, so he waited until the young woman raised her head and violet eyes met his, an answering smile in hers. "Master?" "I think we should talk again, my dear. May I sit with you?" Elucien got a wide smile and Chlorien invitingly patted the seat beside her. "What are you doing, my child?" "Thinking," came the reply. "What about?" "The words I studied this morn, Master. They tease me because they don't always make sense and I know I have to understand them before Astor lets me go further." "The answer will come, child. Stand back from the words and let the mind simply flow round them. Let the effort of comprehension go. When you learn to do that, understanding will come quickly." "Master," came the quiet, resigned reply. "I want to go back to our last discussion. Are you ready, child?" Chlorien nodded. "We spoke of how you became absorbed by your own pain and how you coped with it." There was another nod. "I want you to think, again, beyond yourself. Put the persona Chlorien to one side and think of responses others may make to suffering. Can you?" "Yes." "Then listen to me, child. What I tell you will make you face yet another part of yourself. Are you sure you wish me to tell you?"

"Yes, Master," came the whispered words. ~~~ The arrival of the northerners took precedence over everything else. Kalbeth was released for the day, something that made the blue eyes light up with sheer pleasure, while Alfar wandered about in a state of suppressed excitement. Charilae was placidly contented and Kaleb anticipated a joyful reunion with people he missed by being in the south. Bethel set aside his transcribing of Dahkilan indigenous music, let his compositions and writing slide, and was more than responsive to Sarssen's suggestion that, assuming Sarehl's messenger was correct, the northern riders should be close approaching. Bethel was instantly on his feet, music forgotten. So from a distance the northern cavalcade, with a large combined Samar/Dahkilan escort, could see an advance party of only three riders. Ensore strained to see who they were, the Chamah wishing he had Ongwin's near perfect long sight. "Can you make out who they are, Sar?" he asked, edging his horse closer to Sarehl. Sarehl stared hard. "There are two dark-haired riders and the other is quite definitely Sarssen. How could anyone miss him? I think Alfar may be with him. One is Beth, and the other must be Kal. I do believe that boy must have grown yet again!" "Fourteen cycle boys do," teased Ensore. He gave a wave that was reciprocated, before the parties ed and dismounted. Sarehl's eyes were for two boys, one who leaped from the warrior's horse in one fluid movement. There was no typical stumbling or tripping. Alfar was graceful and lithe. The boy stood in the pose now natural to him, head bent, feet slightly apart and hands clasped behind his back. He was silent. It was unnerving for Sarehl. His first look told him several things. His baby son had matured to a boy, that child noticeably taller and gangly, and this was a different boy from the son who left Samar over three seasons before. Sarehl felt a wrench. He took in the swept back hair held in place with ornate combs and clasps, the jewellery, the erect quiet stance and knew Alfar had to be treated in the southern manner, certainly to begin with.

"Go to your father, Alfar," instructed Sarssen. Sarehl limped to the boy, his voice quiet and warmly welcoming. "It gives me such joy to see you again, Alfar." Instantly, the head came up, the jewel in the forehead caught the light, the grey eyes danced with sheer delight and the mouth opened to let out a sigh of happiness and relief. Alfar moved slowly forward. Sarehl noticed the irrepressible impetuosity was no longer there, nor did Alfar throw himself about like a misguided and dangerously erratic arrow. "Da," said the young voice, then the lower lip quivered. "Da! Da!" Sarehl stooped and swept the boy into his arms so he could clasp him close, expecting at any minute Alfar would wriggle or protest. The boy did neither. He just relaxed in his father's arms, his hands stroking Sarehl's face and beard, but he didn't speak. While others talked and laughed in greeting, Sarehl turned so he could face a tall boy who looked across at him with such wistful yearning he strode to him immediately. He put Alfar on the ground next to him, the boy just standing quietly as Sarehl opened his arms to Kalbeth. "Son!" he called, the response immediate. Initial greetings over, riders turned back to horses. Sarehl was about to suggest Alfar mount and ride with him, when he heard Kalbeth speak. "Alfar! You ride with me." Sarehl watched his son pivot on the words. Despite Bethel's assurances, Sarehl realised that indeed Alfar had changed and not just superficially either, the alterations subtle in many ways that maybe Bethel, inured to southern ways, didn't notice. This was reinforced for Sarehl from the first evening as he watched a son whose behaviour patterns were quite altered. Used to a garrulous and noisy boy who was the centre of attention and butted in on any conversation, Sarehl found the quietly attentive and responsive child a mite disturbing, the father searching for recognisable signs of the boy he knew. Alfar spoke when addressed but otherwise initiated nothing. The boy was courteous and immediately responsive, not overtly repressed or afraid, but the boisterous, uncontrolled child was gone.

Sarehl saw the child deeply respected Sarssen, still adored Bethel, was awed by Kalbeth, his affection that of a puppy who wasn't ever rebuffed by an older brother and the boy was profoundly submissive to Mishak. Sarehl saw that for himself when he saw the young man enter the room. He was accompanied by Mist. Mist nodded at Kalbeth who stopped what he was doing and bade the company good night. Mishak nodded sharply at Alfar likewise, the boy almost dropping the eafest in his haste to obey. It made Sarehl think very hard. At early meal next morning, Sarehl was very surprised to see the boys in the sura ahead of him. Clearly they'd been up considerably earlier because they'd finished their food and drank from tankards. Sarssen was also at the table. Bethel read letters, Mishak standing beside him and Ensore conversed amiably with Kaleb and Sarssen. Jane served Charilae who looked up with a smile. "Sarehl," she greeted the Strategos. "Did you rest comfortably?" "Very," he replied, seating himself opposite the boys. "Good morn, young ones." The boys merely murmured inarticulate responses in a way that made Sarehl look enquiringly at Sarssen. He obligingly broke off his conversation to explain. "Southern habits, Sarehl. You must excuse us. If you wish to speak, boys, you may." He saw Sarehl's utter astonishment. "I realise our ways are strange and inflexible to you but bear with us." Sarehl sighed and nodded, simply asking, "How on Ambros did you get Alfar to eat silently and in one place?" "Ask him," advised Sarssen, with a twinkle. Alfar looked up, his eyes very bright and happy. "Son?" Looking across at Sarssen, the boy went pink. "He taught me," he confessed, "with his hand, Da." "I see," said Sarehl, with immediate wry comprehension. He'd have said more but didn't, as he watched Mishak bend the boy's head to his tankard in a most pointed way that had Alfar gulp his drink, aware further conversation may not be wise. The boys drained their tankards and placed them

on the table at the same moment. Bethel looked up from a letter he perused. "Excused," he said quietly. "Mishak," he added. "A moment." "Wait," said Mishak patiently to the boys, as he went back to Bethel. "My lord?" "These letters mostly concern Kal's katif. Can I leave them with you for your comments?" "Certainly, my lord." Mishak uplifted the sheaf of sheets and returned to the boys. "Go now," he said, without raising his voice. Sarehl let out a deep breath. "Gods, they're so controlled, Beth. Were you so?" It was Sarssen who answered on one of his very deep chuckles. "No, Sarehl, no, you mistake. Compared with Beth and me and how rigid we were, they are a mere rabble. In the desert you saw us often enough. We were what I would call extremely disciplined." "We still are," murmured Bethel, with a grin. "Does it come as an unwelcome shock, Sar?" "I'll adjust," Sarehl assured him, winking at Charilae. "Just tell me when not to do or say anything, for the love of the gods." "Shall we train him too, Beth?" chuckled Sarssen, catching the appreciative gleam in the younger man's eyes when he turned his head to look at his eldest brother's amused glance. "Too late for that," murmured Sarehl, provocatively. "I might be tempted to retaliate." This was met with gales of laughter. Sarssen finally drained his tankard. "When you're finished, Sarehl, come with me to see some of your son's work ready laid out for you. I fancy you will be impressed. I most certainly am." ~~~ Staring at his son's work, Sarehl was incredulous. His mind was unwilling to believe that what he now saw could come from the untidy hand of a Samar boy.

The script was neat and flowing. Work was orderly, well set out with attention paid to the finest detail, was mostly marked correct, and the calligraphy was scrupulously careful for a boy who blotched nearly everything he wrote. Numbers were set out methodically and meticulously. Wondering, Sarehl touched each piece of work in turn. Next Sarssen showed him Alfar's music sheafs neatly tied, the annotations absolutely correct to the minutest detail. Sarehl saw only one untidy sheet and paused at it. "What's this?" "That was Alfar's first effort." His voice rather shaken, Sarehl asked, "The crop, Sarssen?" "Yes. Alfar was warned and prepared. He chanced it and lost." "Beth told me in not so many words." "He did not repeat that mistake. He is now possibly Elrik's finest student who will be much missed. Elrik has nothing but praise for your little boy, Sar, and believes, with the right direction, he could be scholarly. He said Alfar's hiccup was quickly dealt with and he wishes to speak with you about your son." "Like Kal," mused Sarehl, surprised to see Sarssen shake his head. "No, Sarehl, not like Kalbeth. Neither Kal nor Beth needed that kind of discipline. Unlike Alfar, and even Shae, they are yielding, that sort of discipline unnecessary and destructive. Kal had a taste of a warrior's belt from school here, and I even think Manas upended the boy for laziness, but that is all. There will be no need of more either. I thought he would be more like Alfar, but as the boy grows he resembles Beth more and more each day, less yielding ittedly but then he has not had to be, but with the same gentleness and anxiety to please. You can believe me when I say there will be no unwonted touching of that boy other than what he has to endure to become a warrior. And Beth, Sar, was nearly destroyed by the enforced discipline he endured for cycles, often day after day. I had to ister it for the boy's sake and to keep him alive in particular circumstances, but no child like him needs that to make him willing to learn or obey. Bethel would have done much better without it."

"And Alfar?" "You saw him as another Beth and Kal," suggested the warrior, "when in reality he is probably more another Dase." "True," agreed Sarehl, on a twisted smile. "I thought I did the right thing by him, but he didn't respond as they did." "Didn't you spank the twins when they were young?" "No," reflected Sarehl. "Our uncle did though and Bruno had a way of dealing with troublesome lads. He was so huge he just bent them across his knee and used his belt. Never on Beth. Never. Lute sometimes, Dase often. The little devil grinned up at Bruno, gritted his teeth, cried a little, then bounced off again as though nothing had happened, shaking his head and his eyes so merry. He was the naughtiest scamp imaginable." "I can imagine," laughed Sarssen. "Just like Alfar, but not Beth." "No one touched Beth, except for bullies." "Like Lban." "Like Lban," concurred Sarehl, grinding his teeth. "How would Dase have gone here?" asked Sarssen, diverting Sarehl's mind from brooding malevolently on Lban. "The gods!" gasped Sarehl, caught by the humour of the thought. "Precisely," grinned Sarssen, shepherding Sarehl through a door. "Come. The boy can't see or hear you, but we can see him. Watch." A trial to his teachers and often sent from class for disruptive disobedience, Alfar sat quite still, straight and with shoulders well back. The head was bent while he assiduously traced symbols onto paper. About him was silence. Sarehl looked at the huge Churchik warrior stand over one boy before he moved to Alfar, pointed to the page, said something, got a quick nod from the boy and moved on. Sarehl saw the crop lying suggestively on the table in front of the boys and, since he felt the threat himself, he imagined it motivated the boys extremely well. The

thought that it was applied to the small boy in front of him made his heart jump. Alfar's head stayed down and the hand moved steadily. At midsun, Sarehl saw his son again, but not Kalbeth who wasn't seen until the evening. Sarehl praised his son. Alfar yearned for a father to have pride in him and the smile he got in answer was all the boy needed. His eyes glowed. Sarehl had little chance to speak further, because Mishak whisked the boy from the sura to continue the routine established seasons before. So it was the evening that saw the family together, Alfar allowed to stay because his father was there. Ensore and Kaleb lounged, chatting, and Charilae set stitches in a very fine tapestry. All present had full goblets. "They lead a highly organised life," observed Sarehl. He stared at his son, then at Kalbeth who looked extremely worn. Training had taken a toll. He yawned. Beckoned, he ed others rising who settled themselves at the table as they began to serve themselves and each other. They all ate unhurriedly, conversation general and full of moments of laughter. It was very relaxed and quite un-southern. Sarssen conversed amiably with Ensore, while Kaleb stared fixedly at Kalbeth. Bethel spoke ruminatively. "You say their lives are organised, Sar. So was mine in Ortok, my routine leaving me little time at all." "That's true," mused Sarehl, consideringly. "With your music and school you were always occupied." "It's why I got so bored those early days with my master. I wasn't used to spending a day doing nothing other than be an object of attraction to another." Sarehl glanced at Kalbeth. He saw the tired grin and blue eyes lighten in response, before the dark curly head bent back to the plate. It was Sarssen who noticed the food on the boy's plate. "You do not eat much, boy. Why is that?" Kalbeth fidgeted with his knife. "I can't eat much, Uncle Sarssen."

"I ask again, why, boy?" "I've got stomach pain." The answer came with reluctance. Kalbeth saw the warrior's penetrating stare and blushed. "Eating after or before training makes me sick." Sarssen's eyebrow shot up and Bethel looked hard at his son. "Nerves, Lodrin?" There was no answer. "Lodrin?" "Yes, Pater," came the hesitant reply. "Gods!" muttered Bethel. "Would you believe it, Sarssen? Another one?" Kalbeth lifted his head. "You follow your father again, Kal." "You had cause," said Kalbeth. "So have you, son," contradicted Bethel. "Warrior training comes hard for those who are gentle but also want to achieve well. I do understand, Kal. You're very anxious, aren't you?" "I want you to be proud of me, Pater." "I am, Kal, I am. Try a little less. It all comes together in time but we all have to start somewhere. Do your best and your moves." Bethel paused. "You're very tired, son?" Kalbeth nodded. "Then perhaps Sarehl will excuse you from playing for him this evening." Sarehl nodded quickly. "There's always tomorrow, Kal. Sleep well, lad." Kalbeth was unaware of thoughtful green eyes that followed the tall, thin figure. Sarssen ran a hand down his beard. "I shall watch that boy and his troop tomorrow, Beth. Kal may need help. It bodes ill he develops a nervous stomach. Do you wish me to do this?" ~~~ Sarssen was true to his word. He watched with a critical eye. He decided he'd relieve the tempkar and take over some of the training. Instantly, he saw how morbidly tense and anxious Kalbeth was. As it did in Bethel, so the set of the shoulders gave away the son. Sarssen had the weird sensation he stared at a

young slave boy trying to prove his worth to an exacting master, rather than at a Samar boy trying to emulate his warrior father. Sarssen shook his head to dispel the odd fancy and rode forward. The young riders watched him with dawning consternation. Kalbeth bit his lower lip hard. Sarssen drew up his horse in front of the line. "Watch what I do, then follow it," he instructed in the deep, cool voice, turning Iscus who was frisky. He saw heads come up and didn't need to see one pair of blue eyes intensely follow his movements. He repeated the few manoeuvres, the young ones copying him. Sarssen faced them again. "Do it, all of you, on the crack of the whip." He flexed the whip as it flashed through the air, then was neatly and expertly caught again. The boys moved. Sarssen didn't miss Kalbeth's flinch when he obeyed. He made the boys do the same moves repeatedly until they wheeled as one with utmost precision, then he made each boy ride forward and go through the simple routine in front of him. His whip was flexed and ready should any falter. Sarssen saw how deep Kalbeth's apprehension was, his fear of failure almost paralysing him and making him do incorrect moves. The boy couldn't think in such a state. That he struggled in his father's shadow was clear. Sarssen spoke long and frankly with Bethel while Ensore, Kaleb and Sarehl stayed quietly in the background. None volunteered any comment. Sarssen didn't mince words. He ended quite abruptly. "That is the situation the boy is in, little brother. It is close to being a nightmare for him." Bethel twisted strands of hair restlessly through his fingers, his eyes meeting Charilae's then Sarssen's. "Sarssen," he mumbled. Charilae agreed with the warrior but felt this was Bethel's dilemma. It was Sarehl who broke a painful silence. "Sarssen's probably right, Beth," he offered, sensibly. "I've been thinking extremely hard about Alfar, and, hard though it's been for him, we did right to send him away. Chloris undergoes the same sort of adjustment. It may be the

best for Kal after all." "I make no demands of Kal," said Bethel, distressed. "No," agreed Sarssen, very quickly. "The boy makes them of himself, Beth. He wants to be you." "And Shae? Will he be the same?" "I will have learned through Kal's experiences, Beth," answered Sarssen. "He will not train as warrior in Valshika, no." "You really speak of a form of fostering then?" Bethel glanced at Sarehl with a question in his eyes. "I've never thought much about it," confessed Sarehl, honestly. "It's well entrenched in the north, especially with the sons and daughters of those in power or authority. There are fosterlings all over the place." "Think of Brue," suggested Ensore, tactfully. "It's a pity Kalor stayed on in DelFloret to assist Ongwin. He could've told you more about it." "Kal wishes to be with me," argued Bethel, so firmly it was clear he was showing an unexpected streak of obstinacy, an attribute once seen by the warlord in connection with Bethel's son. "I must respect that. He also needs me." "No one disputes that, Beth, least of all me," returned the warrior, equably. "Unlike Shae who knew his father existed, Kalbeth did not. That leads the boy to be very close to you. If he does train elsewhere other than in Valshika it would have to be somewhere reasonably near and accessible so he can stay in touch with you. Beth," he went on most persuasively, his tones such that they brought a reluctant smile to troubled purple eyes and a heartfelt sigh as well. "I still teach Kalbeth, but the time comes when he will maybe need to go to Enouri. If that happens he will be absent from you, yes?" "Sarssen," assented Bethel, his expression a cross between resigned and doleful. "He is now old enough not to feel threatened by your physical absence. The gods, Beth, he saw little enough of you while I was north."

"That's an unkind cut," murmured Bethel, strategically retiring behind wounded sensibilities. "But accurate," teased the warrior, watching colour steal into Bethel's cheeks. The younger man frowned still, fretful fingers well entwined in his curls. "Where would you suggest?" he asked. "Caciqua," said Sarssen, so promptly Bethel could only gape at him, astonished. "Think about it," onished Sarssen. "Lute is there, on and off between going backwards and forwards to the Keep. He is so very like Dase in many ways, Kal would be even more drawn to him than he has been. The boy was very close to Dase, as a youngster, was he not?" "Yes," replied Sarehl for Bethel. "Then he would relate well to Lute and I have no doubt Lute will keep a watchful eye on that son of yours, Beth. So will Kher." "True." Bethel sighed again. He gave the warrior a quick, appraising look. "You are backing me into a corner over this, Sarssen, are you not?" Sarssen shook his head at the younger warrior. "No, Beth. I know what the boy means to you and how you want the best for him, and since I care for Kal, too, it concerns me that he tries to compete with you. It will make him increasingly unwell. He struggles to imitate you, Beth, in a way that is laudable but cannot be allowed to continue. He is different and that difference and individuality must be allowed to flourish. Indeed, Beth, it must be encouraged. I see the stress this creates for him. I watched the boy train. His acute fear of failure leads him to make silly mistakes that cost him. Twice he caught the whip for no good reason other than rigidity brought about by that very fear." "Why would he be different with Lute? He, too, is warrior." "Yes, boy," came the deep reassuring bass, "but Lute is not haskar." At those words Sarssen saw instant understanding in the purple eyes. Bethel nodded. "I can't argue with that," he answered, on a sigh. "You speak the truth, Sarssen, so I cannot ignore it." He tried to untwist his fingers from the mangled curls. "I

do not want Kal to imitate me." "It's hard for the lad not to," commented Ensore, with a sympathetic smile at Bethel. "Especially when he positively adores that father." Bethel saw the charming smile and the uncertainty faded from his face. "I'll speak with him," he conceded, "but if the thought distresses Kal too much, I will not force the issue." "Just ask him, Beth, and see what he has to say," advised Sarssen. He diplomatically changed the conversation so a general discussion on the merits and drawbacks of fostering could give Bethel a chance to think. He halflistened, his mind pre-occupied by his son's needs and his own anxiety that those needs be adequately filled. He didn't argue against the benefits of one from one culture being immersed for a time in another, since it brought each to an appreciation of the other and to understanding. He knew what being ambassadors did for Daxel and Brue. He knew Kalbeth was fully sensible of the two lives he could lead as a man, the boy now able to easily move from one society to another with enviable ease, his adaptability remarkable. Bethel suspected that though Kalbeth would be a warrior and a musician, his son's future would be more north than south, though he could give no reason for feeling that way. It was just an instinct he had. Then Bethel was assailed by doubts about any fostering. He wondered if Kalbeth might have been happier never coming south. Maybe, he should have just been left to grow to maturity with Sarehl as a Samar without the stresses of warriorhood. Watching Bethel, Sarssen was well aware of all that ed through the young warrior's mind. Bethel's emotions showed on his face and in his eyes as clearly as they did when he was a boy. The warrior read him like an open book. When Sarssen glanced across at Sarehl, he saw the Strategos also read his brother's set expression in the same way. The young warrior stared fixedly out at nothing, uncertainty in every part of him. The evening crystallised things for Bethel in a way that brooked no argument in his mind. Kaleb had watched Kalbeth for days. His concern grew at how thin the boy was and he was alarmed at the failing appetite when one Kalbeth's age should be ravenously hungry and eating like a horse. Again, this evening, Kalbeth merely picked at his food. Then, halfway through it, he put his hand to

his stomach, looked up instinctively and dropped utensils that scattered to the floor. Kaleb met the look. "Your stomach, lad?" he asked, quietly. "So sick, Kaleb," Kalbeth managed. Bethel and Kaleb got to him at the same moment, the healer with a hand to the boy's stomach that felt tight. "Help me get the lad to his bed," Kaleb ordered, sharply. "And not in the dormitory either. Will Mist be there? Gamot will be in the dormitory awaiting Kal?" Bethel nodded. He helped Kalbeth to his feet and encouraged him to lean the lanky frame against him for . "Come, son," he encouraged. "All will be well, I promise you." ~~~ Kaleb returned before Bethel, a frown deep in his eyes. Charilae turned her head to survey the little healer, her expression perturbed. "What is wrong with him?" she asked, when none of the others spoke. Toying with the goblet he'd just picked up, Kaleb sat down. "I might be wrong," he began, "but that child suffers extreme nervous tension. He also has an upset stomach." He paused and drank. "Sar, that boy's gut is a mass of tension. No wonder he can't eat. From his neck to his legs his muscles are knotted. He's so thin he's got no reserves." "He's undergone a very great deal," observed Ensore, placatingly. "He's had a lot of adjusting to do in the last cycle, coming and going north and south. Warriorhood is hard for his type of personality and he had to undergo a ceremony in Elibera that exhausted him. He's had to adjust to his father mating, too, don't forget. If I was that lad I'd be a mass of knotted muscles, too, believe me." "Shades of Beth," said Sarssen, very quietly. All heads turned to him. "You know he has a nervous stomach, yes, but what you do not know is how he crawled from his master's pavilion, night after night, to be violently sick. Sometimes his

stomach pain was so bad he curled up in agony when he thought he was alone. I tried to put powders in his food, but for cycles he ate sparingly at night, if at all, for obvious reasons, so I was only partially successful. If the boy was in company he stood, tense and trembling like a leaf, but no one knew or guessed how his stomach troubled him. He hid it very well." "Could no one help him?" burst out Sarehl, his eyes darkly distressed. "Other than what I tried to do, no," answered Sarssen, bluntly. "There was no one to help Beth and the child knew it. He never asked for help, because he trusted no one, and never expected it, courageous little fellow he was. He fought it alone. I think it is why he stayed very thin for such a long time and only now, when he is sure and secure within himself, has he finally physically developed his potential. I see another Dase for physique. The warlord knew it was why Beth was so slight." "Aye," murmured Sarehl, away with his thoughts. Sarssen's words brought him back to the present. "I do not want to see Kalbeth go down the same path." Conversation lapsed then turned to other things, those in the sura aware Bethel would return when he knew Kalbeth was either comfortable or asleep or both. When Bethel returned quite some time later he smiled at the company, his manner relaxed, and he sat comfortably with a goblet raised to the warrior in a toast. He saw the response in smiling green eyes. "What's that for?" asked Kaleb, amused. "For Sarssen's sound advice, Kaleb," answered Bethel, glancing casually at Sarehl. He became aware his brother stared at him most fixedly and with deep concern, a stricken look on his face. "What troubles you, Sar?" he asked, in his gentle way. "Nothing," Sarehl hurriedly excused himself. He drank hastily. "I was thinking of Kal." That Bethel had suffered so long as a child, without help, made Sarehl feel distinctly queasy. Kaleb thought he looked very pale, the haunted expression of old in the dark eyes. "How goes the lad?" asked Ensore, ambling to help himself to more wine. He

sensibly topped up Sarehl's goblet on the way, well aware his friend needed time just to think. "He says he feels easier with what Kaleb gave him. He's drowsy." Bethel drank and swallowed thoughtfully. "We had a very long talk about warriorhood, too." "And the result?" asked Kaleb. "If the warlord permits, Kal will go to Caciqua." Bethel swung to face the warrior. "He's quite content to be there, especially as Lute will be around for him, but I also insist Mist goes with him, even if Pic's there and already protective of him." Bethel thought. "I told the boy he must practise all he's been taught by you, Sarssen, and by Scholar, and he must religiously maintain his music. All else can be set aside until after he becomes a warrior. I think he's been trying to do too much." "Now why," teased Sarssen, reflectively, "does that so remind me of you?" Laughing purple eyes met his quizzical ones. "I should've realised, with the increased concentration on training, he couldn't do so much." "He faces a punishing daily schedule," agreed Sarssen. "So he'll just do his training." Bethel glanced round the table to see if anyone raised objections. "Sensible," observed Ensore, placidly applying himself to a sweetmeat he'd been eying for a while, the temptation to ignore it too hard to resist. He succumbed and plucked it from the dish. "Better late than never," came the caustic response from the healer. "Sar?" asked Bethel, eying his brother keenly. "I agree," Sarehl said, quietly. "Kal needs a chance just to be himself." "And I've arranged for powders to be put in his food," pursued Kaleb, singlemindedly. "The lad's far too thin and still grows fast. He its to aches. Ens, he so reminds me of Dase – you, too?" Ensore nodded.

"And you too, Beth," said Sarssen. "You positively sprouted between thirteen and sixteen cycles, did you not?" "I don't growing pains," observed Bethel, harking back in his mind to those days. "No, Beth, you would not," agreed Sarssen, demurely. "That was one thing I managed to get down you." "What was?" asked Bethel, diverted. Other faces ed curiosity and varying degrees of amusement. "When you were granted a break at training, Beth, you were given a thick, syrupy drink, yes? You complained, ungrateful child, that it was very sweet. So it was. Banic and I came up with that concoction, but he was instrumental in keeping me supplied with it so you were given it daily." "You told me it was for energy," accused Bethel, blushing furiously and aware of the smugness of the warrior's grin and Charilae's soft chuckle. "I had to lie plausibly," responded Sarssen, with the utmost affability. "Well then," murmured Bethel, "all I can say is I'm grateful to you both. I had enough to cope with without growing pains." "Quite," nodded Sarssen. It was Sarehl who changed the subject back to the question of Kalbeth going to Caciqua, by suddenly asking, "But what happens about pudha?" "The gods," said Bethel blankly, his head swivelling back to Sarssen. "Sarssen, you've been teaching him." "Yes," answered Sarssen, somewhat sleepily. "You won't be in Caciqua," pointed out Bethel. "True, I will not. So?" "How can you teach him anything?"

"Kal knows well enough, Beth. Give the boy some credit for intelligence and natural understanding. His comprehension of the body, its functions and the delights it can offer is considerably advanced for a boy his age. You may safely leave that aspect of his enlightenment to me. He will be ready for pudha." The lazy green eyes twinkled appreciatively then the lids partially obscured them. Kaleb had to grin broadly at somnolence personified lounged in front of him. The warrior's drawl was positively indolent. Ensore and Sarehl broke into laughter. "Has Kal got a pool in the same room as his bed?" demanded Ensore. Bethel reared up his head in surprise, coughed on a mouthful of wine and nodded, his eyes watering. "Yes, but what on Ambros has that to do with pudha?" "Nothing. It just came to mind that Kal may find it beneficial to slip into the pool regularly to help tight muscles." "He does, I think," murmured Bethel. "Mist encourages that after training." "Such decadence," said Sarehl provocatively, humour in his dark eyes. "He has a voluptuous bed draped with silk and spread with opulent furs. From there Kal walks across a mosaic floor. He goes through an ornate and sculptured alabas bower to a pool, not a tiny one either, that is edged with statuary and potted plants in jars, hand cast and delicately painted. He then slides into heated water. If he stands still, he can see the magnificent tiled fresco depicting men and women, nude, and in suggestive poses that leave nothing whatever to the imagination. No wonder the lad advances so rapidly in his maturing. I notice his voice has steadied, too." Gales of mirth greeted this description of Kalbeth's chambers, but it brought a shaken head from Bethel, who managed to stop gurgling enough to say, "No, no, Sar, you mistake. His quarters have no bower, not yet anyway. Yours do though, as you so vividly describe. And , Kal spends time in the dormitory. There's no luxury there." "But the scene at the bottom of the pool?" quipped Sarehl. "Has he a scene of

frolicking nudes?" "But of course," replied Bethel. His look at Charilae was such she blushed. "Father thought of everything. He liked his guests to feel as at home in Valshika as he did himself!"

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Sarehl's time in Valshika was instructive. His first week he spent with his son as much as he could, aware his first impression of Alfar hardened rather than changed. The boy was remarkably mature for his age. The eyes sparkled with excitement and enthusiasm, but the wildness didn't come back. He stayed deferential. He knew his place and stayed in it. His father also noticed how the boy unconsciously copied mannerisms of those about him, and, where in Samar he lacked co-ordination, that, too, was changed, the child with the grace of Kalbeth. What Sarehl resignedly accepted was that his eldest son had badly suffered because of the war. His father was, of necessity, pre-occupied and his mother, already tied up with Kalbeth and Chloris, was, in a war setting, unable to devote the time needed to one highly intelligent but hopelessly bored, unchallenged child. Thinking about his son one day, Sarehl ruefully acknowledged Alfar evolved. And it wasn't in a stable, happy environment. The child's life was one of movement and constant confusion, with only occasional outbursts of laughter that were mixed in with the sober reality of war and survival. He craved stability, just as Brue had, and wasn't given it. Here, in the south, in a rigid, organised ritualistic environment, a little boy found the sanctuary he craved. Here, he knew security, a routine that never varied, and it was where he found a place that was exclusively his, where he belonged and could stay. Samar would be Alfar's home as an adult, but it was too soon yet for the child to identify with it, the city just another resting place in Alfar's mind. He'd known no real home. Sarehl now realised the boy was quite desperately seeking an anchor. His only way of showing his disturbance and need was through attention-seeking behaviour that brought all the results he least wanted. He'd not found an anchor in Samar. He found it in the south. Finding it may have caused Alfar pain, but he found it and it showed in happiness, pride, and an indefinable sense of achievement. Alfar thrived on challenges. He confronted many here and he won. Sarehl could only pray the child took this newfound balance back north, and knew, without anyone telling him, that it was the father

who had to learn the right way to handle this new child. This evening Sarehl studied the chestnut head bent over a plate, waiting to see what the boy would do. He neither spoke nor tapped his plate. He just waited. Sarssen glanced across at him with a smile. "You may speak with us, Alfar. Tell us what you did today." Alfar's cheeks rather pink, the boy began to prattle. Sarehl carefully watched how Sarssen and Bethel indulged him, encouraged and offered praise where appropriate, the boy's loquaciousness lasting at least ten to fifteen minutes, before the warrior spoke again. "Your day has been a full one, yes?" "Yes, Uncle Sarssen." Alfar's look up at the warrior from under dark curling eyelashes was enormously iring. "You must play the eafest for us later, young one," said Bethel. When Alfar went to speak, Sarehl noticed how Sarssen smoothly ensured he could not. "Excuse yourself, boy, and get your instrument. You may bring it immediately so you do not retire late to bed." Alfar slid gracefully from his chair and gave a quaint Bethel bow, Churchik-fashion, that he copied from Kalbeth. "I ask to be excused," he piped, as of habit. "Permitted, Alfar," smiled Bethel, watching the slim little figure run blithely from the sura. He turned to Sarehl, Ensore and Kaleb. "He's doing extremely well, his playing done with real feeling. There's considerable talent. His musical flair's different and unconsciously individualistic. As you've heard, he sings much more confidently and with more depth. It's pretty to listen to." "I see much in that young man of ours, Beth," said Sarehl, in a complimentary tone. "You and Sarssen have done so much for him." "And," amended Sarssen, "he has done much for himself. We showed him the way, but where some might have refused to learn, Alfar did. In a way, that suggests to me the initial fright and discomfort are outweighed by the considerable benefits. All credit goes to a brave little boy."

"Young ones adapt, don't they?" mused Kaleb. "I'd have died of fright confronted by what faced Alfar." "Me and all," agreed Ensore. "He looked an intimidated lad in Elibera, Sar. I was deeply troubled. So was Taran." "Children," began Charilae, "accept what an adult might query. Alfar knew he was here for a certain length of time, so he didn't question he had to stay and cope with whatever was thrown at him. He simply settled as best he could and did what was expected of him. Children tend to be ive about their worst experiences, nor do they complain in the way of adults. They do not question their lot in life and can be quite stoical." Though she wasn't aware of it she spoke of herself, indirectly of Bethel and Sarssen, and her comment was unanswerable. It effectively killed any further conversation until Alfar returned, beaming, with the eafest. At a signal from Bethel, he crossed to the young warrior to curl up at his feet, aware Kalbeth grinned encouragingly at him. Bethel was quite right. The young voice had steadied, the sweet soprano sounding to advantage when harmonised with Bethel's very light touch on the lute. If Bethel accompanied Alfar, the deep voice was so well controlled it was merely a whispering background to the boy's. Kalbeth didn't sing. His voice had broken, but as yet there was no sign of what might come to replace the soprano. The evening ed pleasantly and uneventfully, as did each succeeding one. ~~~ Ensore was fascinated by the palace that reminded him, as Caciqua did, of Elibera, his wanderings and musings taking him from one end of it to another, while Sarehl, sometimes with Ensore and often with Bethel, confined his energies to the archives and the huge library complex that housed unimaginable treasure from across Ambros. Into this treasure trove Sarehl delved, his reading and discoveries raising more questions than he got answers. Like others before him he was drawn further and further into enquiry that led him to wonder who the people were he constantly saw in tapestries, paintings and referred to obliquely as having been real. Sarssen told him what Kher and Luton discovered at the Keep, and Sarehl, thinking back to Shadoliokel, began to have half-formed thoughts that sometimes coalesced into coherence in his

dreams, then dissolved on abrupt waking. It infuriated him, because he often felt he was on the verge of coming to some truth that constantly eluded him. What was worse, he knew that what he sought came only in fleeting glimpses. He promised Bene he'd go to the Shadowlands, though why he kept being drawn there and what he assumed he was meant to find, he'd no idea. It plagued him. And here, in Valshika, were relics of an ancient time on Ambros that tantalised. Fragments of his and Lodestok's conversations came back to haunt him. He ed the warlord's cryptic utterances about knowledge at the Keep that he was privileged to see, some of the books from there brought to Valshika, no doubts as gifts from an appreciative mage. What they were was a mystery. Sarehl didn't know which books were referred to. He decided he'd just have to keep reading and hope he came across an illuminating manuscript. And Sarssen awaited a reply from the warlord that would either refuse or accept Kalbeth for warrior training in Caciqua. While he waited he took over Kalbeth's training. The boy looked increasingly at ease as he was shown more advanced manoeuvres, all taught at a leisurely pace by a warrior who was calm, patient and methodical. Nor was Kalbeth competing with others, other than in formal training sessions, and he was certainly no longer competing with his father. Sarssen quite deliberately taught the boy in areas none of the pre-warriors had learned in an attempt to make Kalbeth's life in Caciqua that much easier. Alone, with Sarssen guiding him, Kalbeth made very few mistakes. Like Bethel before him he watched, copied, and ed without too much effort. The drill came more readily. Glowing eyes lifted to the warrior's showed pride and the thin face didn't look strained. When Kalbeth exercised and practised with Bethel, Sarehl along to watch the tortuous and delicate manoeuvring involved, the Strategos saw how anxious the boy was that his father approve of all he did. The tension returned. There couldn't be any doubt Kalbeth wanted to be perfect in imitation of his father, and, though Bethel was gently ive, undemanding, and never criticised, it was Kalbeth who drove himself so hard. Sarehl sensed it would certainly be best for the child to be trained elsewhere. ~~~

During the long summer days of heat, Bethel took Sarehl about Valshika, often for a morning or a day, the two brothers either riding if far from the palace, or ambling if they were close where they could take rests from heat. Sarehl still couldn't sustain long walks. Frequently Sarssen accompanied them, his descriptions of the city showing how thoroughly he'd scrutinised every facet of his inheritance. Sarehl stopped to examine the slave market and the specially set up arena for the boy market that still, sometimes when Sarssen was absent, had flurries of activity. The latter was where pretty boys were, rarely now, paraded, naked. They were walked up and down, turned about, touched, the children nothing more than merchandise for those who looked them over, bargained over their heads, then took their chains to lead them to their particular form of slavery. Sarehl looked long at the line of blocks and chains that lay disused in the ordinary slave markets and was unable to speak. He could only thank the gods neither of his brothers, nor Sarssen, ended up there. Then he turned his horse around and refused to look back or go there again. Charilae's suggestion for use of the facilities made him glance quickly at her but still evoked no comment. Sarehl didn't trust himself to suitably respond. The Strategos and his brother were peered at from alleys and doorways, as they went along a seemingly continuous series of narrow ed streets and courtyards, houses without land between them structured in mostly identical fashion, the only distinction being the decoration. Archways from courtyard to courtyard made Sarehl suddenly look up, the man conscious people lived above the very arches they rode under, windows on both sides so the residents looked onto two courtyards. Affluent folk enjoyed those benefits of city living. Many streets were sloped, some very steeply, and most were extremely narrow and winding so horses had to go single file. Sarehl thought the streets would be excellent for an ambush. It was an uncomfortable thought he pushed away. Other streets were stepped, a fact that made the horses skittish. Being in a Churchik city-state should have made Ensore and Sarehl highly nervous, but overall they weren't. Both noticed how Bethel and Sarssen were unconditionally accepted as overlords. If Bethel dismounted and walked his horse, he was gently and reverentially touched, hands barely meeting the silk of his clothes before the people bowed, the soft yet guttural voices murmuring his

title. If Kalbeth was allowed release from training and was with his father, the same respect was shown him. Nowhere did Sarehl find hostility to his brother. He could only sadly compare that with Samar. He was also pleasantly surprised at the way warriors treated Bethel, their deference to him immediate, heads bowed unless they, too, were haskar. Those pledged to serve him for life fell to their knees. And none of it, reflected Sarehl wryly, had the slightest effect on his brother who stayed the same as he always was. Where others would be flattered by the adulation and grow carelessly arrogant, Bethel scarcely noticed the fawning. And Ensore found Kalbeth's attitude among warriors a revelation as well. His self-discipline was no less than Ensore ed Bethel's being when the young man stood for his warlord father, rigid, straight and with bent head. Kalbeth initiated nothing and didn't speak, his understanding of his subservience to seniors unquestioned. The visitors found Churchik children controlled in all sort of ways. It wasn't just physically, though that was what showed most clearly. If they got underfoot they were hauled back, soundly cuffed, or worse, and it was done without a second thought. Indulged they might be in the privacy of their homes, but away from them Ensore saw little gentleness. He and Sarehl also repeatedly saw warriors ride through the city, whips flailing to clear a age. Sarssen and Bethel never acted that way, nor were they ever uncomfortably crowded. Bethel was thorough in showing the guests the city. He attempted to hide nothing. They saw Valshika as it was, a southern Churchik city run by a warrior elite. They ed richly adorned dwellings, others less than humble, their squalor contrasting harshly with surrounding opulence that made them look like open ulcers. They ed hundreds of store houses crowded with all imaginable items of trade, saw many granaries that brought wealth to merchants, ed through industrial areas, saw houses of palace officials and then went further to estates of eminent warriors who enjoyed the Saratquan's favour. There were homes for s and for the kinsmen of high officers of state. But there were other houses, too, that made Sarehl and Ensore look askance, where slaves were still trained for export from one city-state to another. Obviously the trade may have been curbed, but it was still alive and flourishing, plenty of slaves around for trade purposes. Some slave merchants were

vociferous in their anger and resentment at the new Saratquan for inexorably closing down the slave markets. Many had already left for other city-states where business was brisk and lucrative. The visitors couldn't help but see slaves lined up along the roadway, chained to walls ready to be taken in long caravans. Ensore saw most of them were only children, some Alfar's age, others as old as Kalbeth. He averted his gaze, too disturbed to watch further. It was the boy harems that shocked and revolted Sarehl. He blenched at the slavery. Now, he saw boys given or sold into a life of degradation and misery, as young as five and six cycles, wrist-chained, walked up and down the cobbled streets, one group after another, for mile after mile in one part of northern Valshika, their masters touting them for business. As Bethel was, they were naked and heavily painted and adorned, often so lewdly, Ensore could only blink. Since it was summer and arched doorways were flung wide open, the Chamah could clearly see the activities within the boy harems, the boys silent and ive. Ensore stole a surreptitious look at Bethel, but the profile partly turned his way showed no emotion as the younger man rode slowly past. The Chamah assumed this would be Sarssen's next new law, but it would have to be cautiously done since it struck at the basis of warrior privilege and pleasure. Hawkers filled the streets, so many and so crammed together, the eye couldn't take it all in, from pastry sellers to women with baskets of food, their voices shrill in an effort to outbid a neighbour. Jars full of wine were paraded, as well as fish, bread, spices. Even horses were traded here. There were stands where you could buy embroidery, rugs, oils, perfumes, and always the sellers of jewellery who did brisk business in the south. Ensore was incredulous when he saw boiled leather armour that could be bought so cheaply, as could shields, knives and swords. Axes were in short supply. He paused to look more closely. The items may not be of warrior quality but still he was intrigued, the Chamah fingering one item after another. He decided, with a dry grin, that half of Valshika was armed, even only with knives. He suspected slaves carried them, too, though if found with any weapon they faced a severe flogging. There were also rich jewels here, but none of the rare onesl stones, a southern gem of great value. Nor did Sarehl see anything like the quality of the stones

embedded in the warriors, or for that matter in his son. What he did see were arms dealers, their glances about them uneasy and furtive. Frequently, they disappeared into the two or three-storied blocks and tenements built over the streets, where they dealt with wealthy merchants, especially those made rich through the slave trade. They came out, sidled about, then rapidly melted into the crowd, business complete. What Sarehl didn't know was how already some of the slavers vacated premises hawkers leaned against, their illegal sale signs scrawled crudely by them on the walls. The northern visitors were taken past monuments glorifying both Vaksh and Churchik overlords and warrior heroes. Some of the huge figures were overpoweringly realistic. Buildings, shrines, sacred precincts, and edifices for the traveller to rest in and contemplate surrounded by water and statuary, were in varying degrees of opulence and rich decoration. What looked to Ensore like a basilica, was set with rare gems in stunningly intricate mosaics. It had doors with gilt embellishment and the interior was overwhelmingly ornamented because it was built to glorify a warlord long dead. It towered over buildings around it, the workmanship breathtakingly fine and detailed. It was quite beautiful. However, most citizens avoided it, nor was it considered a place to rest because it was there Lodestok well blooded the steps to it with both slave and unfortunate Churchik lives. When Bethel distastefully recounted this, Sarehl shivered in spite of the warm sun on his back. It was where junior warriors were once laid to rest for mourning before the bodies were removed for cremation. On the fringes of the city were grids of streets full of shanties. Here the very poorest residents of Valshika found refuge, including runaway slaves who were ferociously protected by the local inhabitants. Many who lived here were refugees. They fled more northerly Churchik conquered cities that then fell to the retributive Dahkilan and others, cities fired in retaliation regardless of hapless, innocent residents, before men finally withdrew back to the mountains. Made homeless and destitute, the refugees flooded south to the nearest intact Churchik cities. Valshika was one of the nearest. Sarehl and Ensore were sharply bidden by Bethel not to dismount, though he swung to the ground to calmly walk among people who clustered about him, touched him and stared but didn't speak. Clearly, Bethel made it his business to come among these folk because they recognised and tolerated him.

Poverty was such that Sarehl and Ensore actually saw children being sold into slavery, the money avariciously grasped by the seller, most often a parent or older sibling. They saw a buyer from a harem study several boys, select two, then haggle over them, while beyond him, three girls, pretty and not much above ten cycles, were bought and now in chains. Ensore made a shrewdly accurate guess that they were destined to be warrior concubines or were for the brothels they regularly saw about the city. He had a hankering to move on and was conscious of a sense of relief when Bethel mounted and turned his horse. Riding back to the centre of the city through the high-walled streets, they saw lone trees struggling to survive in the intense haze of southern summer heat, the only areas that had thriving oasis-like greenery being inside fine walls with elegant mansions. It was testament to very real wealth in Valshika. It highlighted the gulf there was between penury and richness. As if to stress that, the riders found themselves looking up towards the enormous sprawling palace set atop the only hill in Valshika, the Saratquan's citadel. Leading to the eastern aspect of it were more broad leafy streets, where external carved and painted pillars fronted buildings and boasted more monuments to glory. Sarehl and Ensore listened to Bethel's descriptions of what Sarssen hoped to do about the poor in Valshika. It gave cause for hope in the future, though the road to achieve things was long and probably hard. Ensore thought of Elibera and realised his road was equally as tortuous and long. He thought, however, that though part of the social structure seemed to be in disarray, the city was in considerably better heart than many of the ruined citystates they saw on their way south. Sarssen was at pains to explain why those states had become brittle and then finally collapsed, the warrior squarely attributing it to Lodestok's incursions and intolerable demands. For the war effort, he often bled his own states before he bled everyone else's. Sarssen and Bethel had a lot of work to do in restoration. But here, in Valshika, his seizure of treasure through aggression had allowed him to build imposing facades, monuments glorifying conquests and it allowed him to unashamedly aggrandise a city he cared for. A huge beehive tomb of mercantite blocks amazed the northerners. A hundred and fifty-four descending steps took one down to the vault where a former warrior lord lay, much of his personal treasure still surrounding him in a silent, macabre display. It contrasted with the bleached bones of slaves who were

executed to accompany him on his death walk. It was a powerful scene that had Sarehl desperate to reach fresh air. ~~~ It was during their third week in Valshika that the northerners were taken to where Lodestok lay in front of the eternal flame maintained by the sons of the warlord, where incense burned and fresh flowers draped the sarcophagus. A life size sculpture of the warlord, carved, gilded, painted and enamelled was erected to one side of the entrance in a smaller shrine of its own. Ensore saw how Bethel reacted. The dark head was lowered, the hands clasped, as he walked forward then stood at the threshold, overawed by the figure of the warlord that stared down at him. He went to his knees. The three men waited respectfully for the young man to quietly enter. They followed, stunned by the magnificence that greeted them and the brilliant accuracy of the faces painted and carved on the sarcophagus. The figures of the warlord and his sons shocked them because they were so realistic. It was as if Lodestok mocked the Ambros he so nearly conquered. Sarehl looked for Bethel. They found him beyond the tomb, in a sanctuary that was enclosed and entered through a tall pointed archway. Beyond it was a very long, quite narrow oblong stretch of water set in marbled edging, the planting now well grown around it. The scene was extremely restful. Bethel sat cross-legged at the edge of the water at the far end, his head in his hands. He made no move when the men approached, but, when they stood quietly over him, he raised his head to show them black eyes that looked wild for brief seconds. Then the expression ed and the young warrior rose, genuflected to the pool, stared at his reflection and turned. "I would leave now, Sar," he said, in a neutral voice. None of the older men spoke, either then or as Bethel left the tomb, his ritual obeisance and humility before he finally backed from the tomb touching them in an indescribable way. What they all sensed was how powerful a bond there ultimately was between a warlord and his slave boy become a son. For Sarehl it was a revelation. ~~~

Sarssen expected a reply from Kher and the travellers had now seen most of the city. This day, Bethel took them by a different route, Kalbeth and Sarssen with them. They meandered inside the buildings occupied for the most part by the bureaucracy where literacy and numeracy was maintained as it was among the warrior class. Valshika, like Elibera and Caciqua, had a huge istrative centre that sprawled many blocks in all directions. The bulk of the population of Valshika was uneducated. It was here, in the istrative centre, that much of the oral tradition was kept alive. It was where the skills of bargaining and ing were taught and the higher understanding of mathematics, also the comprehension of, and the drawing up of contracts, skills of collective negotiation taught, as well as the art of drawing up articles of provision that left no room for argument. Here was Churchik commercial law, such as it was, in action. Sadly, Sarssen itted much had been lost with the war. It was here they came across countless records meticulously kept, mostly s, bound in volumes, hundreds of them, pertaining to the maintenance of slave inventories that were carefully and faithfully transported from north Ambros, all the way back to the warlord's city. Lists were endless. Some were reports of slaving raids long before Lodestok began his conquests. Sarehl and Kalbeth turned over other single sheets casually, until they both stopped dead. Kalbeth's hand trembled as they stepped back from one as if it burned them. The others went to see what made them react. The wording on the sheet was frozen in a scribe's hand and stared ruthlessly at the viewers.

To the Warlord Saratquan of Valshika: one slave. Samar boy. Name: Bethel of Ortok. Age: ten cycles. Marked/branded: qak curve (mouth), qah (face). 17th day Midsum, Cycle Rising.

Identifying features; long black hair, purple eyes.

Tears came to Sarehl's eyes as he stared at the blunt statement that announced his young brother was simply the property of another. It struck him with horrifying effect how absolute slavery was to the Churchik, the words glaringly monstrous in their lack of emotion or impact on the individual concerned. Glancing at Bethel, Ensore saw how utterly bleak the young man's expression was. There was no anger or resentment, just a depth of profound sadness that washed over the young warrior as he read of his ownership to the warlord. The purple eyes lifting from the sheet made Ensore wince. The expression was indescribable. Kalbeth stood silent and wide-eyed, his look at his father uncertain. It was Sarssen who glanced down at the boy, his deep voice calmly authoritative. "Come, Lodrin." A comforting arm about him led the boy away. Bethel watched them go then he quietly followed them without a word. Sarehl lingered. The words on the sheet resisted his attempts to leave, the print leaping up from the paper to him and holding him transfixed. It was Ensore who caught Sarehl's arm. He made Sarehl turn and it was he who pushed the sheet well back and under others. They toured the treasury. They actually ed through one of the palatial mansions occupied by ambassadors and their retinues. From there they wended their way back to the palace to dine sumptuously, the table strategically placed by the long windows by Rupon so those eating could see beyond Valshika itself. Plains spread east and west and, distantly to the northwest, there were sprawling hills that finally led to a small and insignificant mountain range. If the room was crossed, to the south, faintly discernible, was a river many miles away. Though few had traversed the sea where the river reached a delta, those who had seen it spoke of it being rough, unpredictable and freezing cold all cycle and frozen part of it. Churchik were not seafarers. It held no allure. Sarssen was amused by Bethel's fascination with it. ~~~ The summer heat intensified though the season drew to an end, quite abruptly. Thoughts of a return north came to minds and Kaleb knew he had to go back to

Enouri. Summers in northern Ambros were as hot but were very much shorter. Like there, the south was a climate of extremes, the sun boring down on denuded land, baking the ground solid. It was another reason why Sarssen sought to plant trees over autumn. It gave them a chance of survival. Plains swept remorselessly between city-states, the latter oases for worn and hot travellers who rested long before they moved on again. Traders were grateful for any respite. Ensore and Sarehl were impressed by the massive scale of reforestation. As they rode out one day to visit another city-state, they could see that in the future large areas of trees would span the communication routes so assiduously kept safe by Kel. They'd offer shelter that at the moment didn't exist. Sarehl and Ensore liked Dainstok where slavery as the Churchik knew it no longer existed, and they found Thorik pleasant, though slavery was still rife there, a fact that made Bethel shake his head and mutter darkly that it was time he did something about it. And they finally met up with Kel again. Ensore soon realised the man ran Bethel's armed force with merciless efficiency and skill, the Shye's loyalty to Bethel total. He saw how affectionately the men received the young warrior and had to grin when he heard the general comment that `the lad' was back. Bethel walked easily among all men, the young man clearly at home there. Sarehl soon realised, as did Ensore, that Bethel reorganised his cities along the lines Ortok was once run. That intrigued him, because Bethel was only a child when his home was sacked. He said nothing, just watched, and agreed with Ensore that Bethel's Samar heritage showed. They went to see Kalbeth's katif where they met up with Manas who made a special trip to see them, his young son Obethon slung in front of him. It was a merry party. As they rode about the lands, Mishak with them, Sarehl saw the young man's eyes were full of amusement while Kalbeth talked. Mishak may have been a man of few words but his affection and caring for the boys was very real. Ensore and Sarehl saw the ex-slave watch Bethel with worshipful eyes, Sarssen with inordinate respect and deep liking, Kalbeth with tenderness, and Alfar with genuine affection. The Thalasim was invariably taciturn and deferential but not submissive. ~~~

"And Correc's lands that accrued to you both?" asked Sarehl one evening, as they lingered over sweetmeats and Sarssen's latest efforts at making mead. "What about them?" asked Bethel, incuriously watching Charilae take another long swig from her goblet. Her face was delicately flushed. "Sarssen," he added, turning to Sarssen. "Is this stuff stronger than the last brew? I think Charilae's getting tipsy." "I am not!" she exclaimed indignantly, striving for dignity and failing miserably when she got the giggles. "I like it," she went on candidly. Sarssen smiled benevolently across at her. "It is stronger," mused Kaleb, taking the decanter and refilling both his and Charilae's goblets. "You can carry Charilae to bed," added Sarssen, with a wicked twinkle. He observed her with a lazy but sapient eye. "I guess you may have to if she consumes much more, though I am, of course, gratified you like it, my dear." "Well, while she drinks," mused Ensore, "what about Correc's lands? Can we visit them, too, before we leave? I confess I'd like to stay but the weather forces us to move on. No doubt, Kal, since Sarssen's heard from the warlord, you'll be going to Caciqua." Kalbeth nodded, but Ensore saw Sarssen shake his head. "We cannot go to see those lands, my friend. They run close to Soji's lands." Ensore showed instant comprehension. "Then some are quite some distance and very near to the new Churchik/Sinhalien border?" "Yes they are, most of them other than those you've seen that are in central Churchik territory." "And her inheritance is a sticking point with the warrior elite?" "Somewhat." "Is that the problem?" Thinking, Sarssen chewed on his beard ends. "Not entirely. Ens, you have doubtless heard rumours of disaffected warriors?"

"It's been hard to ignore comments and rumblings," agreed Ensore. "It is not rumour," stated Sarssen, bluntly. "The turbulence in the east causes Kher continued anxiety because it intensifies. It follows the g of peace that were anathema to many warriors. The humiliation of that, the desert trek and an enforced formal written peace with the Sinhalien, still rankle. You should not under-estimate the Churchik capacity for memory and desire for revenge, my friends. That would be most unwise." "But directed inward rather than outward?" asked Sarehl. "We are pre-occupied with our own woes at the moment," answered Sarssen coolly, "but you should know that haskars, like Evereh, believe it is warrior duty and honour to confront those they still consider inferior to themselves who should serve their superiors, and that includes Samars and Dahkilans. That attitude is deeply entrenched in the Churchik psyche, nor can it be dismissed or ignored. Sooner or later resentments against their victors will spill over into their external relations, unless, of course, strong leadership ensures it does not and there is the beginning of the change of the traditional mindset. You must understand Correc did not stand in isolation. Quite the reverse." "So what happens?" demanded Sarehl. "Are you or Beth in any danger?" "At the moment not directly, but where the warlord is being challenged there is cause for grave concern. One like Correc as a new leader would have a very different attitude indeed compared with Kher, one that would, unfortunately, be welcomed, too." "Is it as bad as that?" Bethel was conversing with Charilae but was now interested in the discussion. "The latest information suggests the brewing we suspected may be coming to the boil, Beth, yes. I have not been back for the last High Council meeting that is currently under way, but Lute tells me he senses alarmingly strong undercurrents. He also saw a group of haskars emerge from a discussion in another part of the palace, a gathering he knew nothing about. That bodes ill, Beth." "So are you affected?" repeated Sarehl, insistently. The warrior sighed patiently.

"If we have warrior lords becoming openly disaffected after the Suldan was elected through due process, then yes, Sar, Beth and I will have to lead men in our warlord's . There is no question about where our allegiance lies. It is with the warlord." "Will Lute be affected then?" pursued Sarehl, doggedly. "Of course," answered Bethel. "How can't he be when he's the warlord's son, and the lands of some of his inheritance from Bensar run between what was Correc's and Elerki's?" "Who's Elerki?" "An older haskar very close to Alleghy and Correc. He despises us and makes no secret of it either. Though he didn't take part in the uprising against us, he's restive and wants us out. He is spurred on by Kone." "Kone?" asked Kaleb, all at sea. Bethel's eyes clouded then cleared. "Kone is Elerki's son. Kone bears me no love and never has. When we fought for warriorhood he tried to maim me. His intention was purely that." Sarehl glanced across at the warrior to get a nod of confirmation. "True, Sarehl. That was what young Kone and his friends decided they would do, and they would have tried sooner had I not restrained them during training. On warrior day I could do nothing, though I knew the threat was very real, because they thought if they cut Bethel about, especially on the face, Lodestok would dispose of him." Sarssen paused then added curtly, "They were quite right. Bethel would have been staked or crucified." Bethel shivered and walked across to a window where he leaned to stare out, one hand gripping the sill. Ensore spoke quite calmly. "What happened, Beth?" "I seriously disabled him," came the cold response. "He's unable to father children and limps." Sarehl stared disbelievingly at his brother, but it was Ensore who broke the tension by starting to quietly laugh. "He must hate you, lad," he observed, slyly. Bethel turned from the window a

martial light to his eyes. "Oh he does, Ensore, he does. He'd do me a mischief if he could." "What did you do to him?" Sarehl's astonishment showed in his voice, then he began to shake helplessly at the thought of his gentle brother inflicting such an injury on one who set out to destroy him. It seemed poetic, if dangerous, justice somehow. Inner laughs rocked him. "It was during the knife fight, Sar. Kone slashed me across the face. He's a huge Churchik and was extremely burly and powerful at sixteen cycles, you can believe me. He got me down and pinned to the ground." Bethel's eyes glinted at the memory. "There was nothing I could do. I was effectively trapped, so I did the only thing that came to mind. I stabbed upwards with the knife." "Into the groin," whispered Sarehl. He winced at the thought. "Kone collapsed and knocked me out," explained Bethel. "They had to drag me out from under because Kone's full weight was on top of me. It was uncomfortable." That was too much for Sarehl. He went off into a peal of laughter that made Bethel start to chuckle. "Oh, lad, so nonchalant and understated about it!" gasped Sarehl finally, wiping his eyes. "So now he causes you trouble, does he?" "Elerki hates Beth, even more than Kone, because Kone is the eldest son from an inheritance point of view. Not even the best healers could undo Beth's damage." Sarssen stopped and looked an enquiry because things had got too much for Sarehl again. "He was one of those who strongly advocated our crucifixion and still does. Our treatment, if we fell into his hands, would be extremely unpleasant to say the least." Gravity came back to Sarehl's face, his voice suddenly sober. "The gods, but I hope you're careful." "We don't go east, Sar, you may have noticed," said Bethel, with a grimace and hand gesture of dismissal.

"Kher is under pressure because he was seen to take our side, not just when we were discovered to have talent, but later over Correc. The fact that any warlord would react the same way with a defiant haskar simply conveniently eludes those who criticise him. Then Beth mated with Correc's daughter. That was an act of iniquity in their eyes, the last straw if you like. Nor did Kher set it aside when the marriage did not follow Churchik convention. Now we owe him, Sar, and that debt has to be paid, in full." "Surely Correc's death and subsequent disgrace made the others think?" asked Ensore, drinking steadily and mutely inviting Kaleb to refill his goblet from the carafe beside him. "For a while," responded the warrior, rather amused. "Ens, we speak of warriors, not Dahkilans or Samars. They do not react in the way of northerners. They also see Samars, considered an inferior race, on lands they believe should belong only to Churchik, so that has to be dealt with. That is another problem for Kher who has a Samar son." "Won't Kal's going to Caciqua exacerbate matters then?" queried Kaleb. He stared down at Charilae falling a little sideways and her eyes closing in spite of herself. She looked very relaxed. "No," grinned Bethel, also glancing at Charilae. "Quite the reverse." The three men looked bemused and turned to Sarssen to enlighten them. "Do explain these complex southern ramifications," murmured Ensore. "Why does the lad going east not cause Kher problems?" "It is quite simple," answered Sarssen, mildly. "By voluntarily placing Kal under Kher's authority, Beth shows submission to the warlord. To entrust one's son in such a way shows enormous respect and fealty. That is how it will be seen by other warriors and it will enhance Kher's immediate prestige." "Couldn't that endanger Kal?" asked Sarehl, concerned. A worry frown was now at the back of his eyes. "With anyone other than Kher, yes," came the honest answer. "There is no one else I would trust, but Kal is under the warlord's protection. Things would have to be well out of hand for the child to be endangered. If he was, he would be removed immediately." Sarehl still looked a trifle uneasy. "If I had any doubts,

Sarehl," went on the warrior comfortingly, "I would not have made the suggestion." "And the warlord is willing?" "Yes. It eases the pressure on him. He also has a deep fondness for Beth so that probably coloured his attitude as well." "And the troubles in the east, Sarssen?" Ensore's grey eyes also looked slightly troubled. "There will be conflict, Ens. It is inevitable. In the south you have two ways of looking at the future - we remain the same as we have been for long cycles and endlessly fight among ourselves and alienate our neighbours, or we change and progress. It is that simple. In that situation there can only be one winner." "You have to win, Sarssen, don't you?" said Sarehl, his dark eyes intense and penetrating. "Yes, brother, we do. There is no other way for us to survive." "Does Kher know this?" "Of course," returned Sarssen, solemnly. "To his sorrow, he knows what comes, though he may wish it otherwise and has tried very hard to avoid it. At one stage I thought he might, but now I can see no other course for him." "I think we'd be wise to head home, Sar," advised Ensore, chewing on his beard. Sarehl nodded. Ensore turned his head to study Sarssen. "Not only that, Sarssen, but all garrisons will be put on alert, right from Dahkilah through to the west." "I thought they might be," came the imperturbable reply. "And that covers Yazd lands?" "Aye, it does." Sarssen glanced at Kaleb. "It is time you went back to Enouri, my friend." ~~~

The following day a letter came from the Suldan inviting Ensore and Sarehl to briefly call in at Caciqua on their way homewards. Since the travellers had to go east before turning northwards, this was a welcome diversion. Ensore had an inkling they may not be south again for a time if the omens were as bad as Sarssen feared, so he was anxious to see Luton and Kher before he went north. He knew Sarehl wanted to have some time with Luton. Charilae would stay in Valshika for the time being. Mishak wasn't going east either so it was only Mist who accompanied Kalbeth, the latter gratified to be accepted to train under the warlord but also deeply apprehensive. He was given stringent instructions by the healer whom he hugged hard, murmuring his thanks. Kaleb was to leave for Enouri. Alfar wandered about with unease, not sure whether to be happy or sad now his time for departure came. His sadness at fare-welling newfound friends was genuine. Sarehl saw tears in the grey eyes briefly turned up to Mishak. He also saw the real affection in the Thalasim's expression as he held the boy for a long minute, before the young man turned to Kalbeth. His hand touched Kalbeth's cheek and was held by long slender fingers. Kalbeth went to his horse without a word. His earlier farewell of Jane was emotional, because Jane now left Valshika for Dainstok and Thorik. Charilae hugged Kalbeth hard. "Come home soon, son," she murmured, when he stooped over her. "Mater Charilae," he mumbled. He yielded to an insistent tug that saw him bend his head to be kissed softly on the cheek. "We await the warrior son, Kal. Have a care to yourself."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Their arrival in Caciqua was anticipated. They arrived in good time. Nothing happened to impair a very pleasant and leisurely ride. Sarehl noticed Kalbeth cared for Alfar while Mist cared for Kalbeth. Bethel was cheerful and Sarssen entertained as he usually was. Ensore was placidly interested in everything about them. Sarehl was mildly in trepidation of being in a city where slavery was the norm, but he was anxious to see Luton again. So it was a rested but quite large party, with armed escort of Dahkilan and Samars, that approached Caciqua. They were formally welcomed as honoured guests. His reception left Sarehl breathless. Settled into luxurious quarters that seemed to be the norm wherever Sarehl travelled in southern palaces, the guests assembled in Kher's sura for refreshment. Kalbeth and Alfar were the last to arrive and entered, escorted by Mist who scowled at the company and retreated to await the boys. Kher was talking amiably to Ensore and Sarehl, but he turned at the entry of the boys. His expression was incredulous. Since he last saw Kalbeth the boy had shot up again to over six feet and Alfar wasn't the little boy of several seasons before. Like his cousin he was going to be exceptionally tall and lanky. It was Luton who crossed to Kalbeth and embraced the boy warmly, talked quietly with him to set him at ease, before he drew the boy forward to Kher. The warlord looked the boy over from his black curls to the big booted feet. "Welcome, boy." "My lord," murmured Kalbeth, inaudibly. "You are indeed the image of your father, are you not?" At the question the head lifted to show the warlord what was truly a mirror image. The boy, apart from eye colour, was his father all over again. Kher hadn't known Bethel at nearly fifteen cycles, but he guessed he looked at him now. It was uncanny. "Yes, my lord," came the faint answer. Kher's look was measuring.

"I have suggested to Lute that it is he who has responsibility for you, Lodrin. You will be with other lanchika, or are you up another step, boy?" "Yes, I am, my lord," managed Kalbeth, on a sharp intake of breath. "That is excellent. You will quarter with the others of your troop with whom you will school and train, nor will you be treated any differently other than being allowed your guard about you. What is his name?" "Mist, my lord." "While the family is gathered here you may eat with us of an evening, but once they are gone, you go to dormitory quarters where you will remain, yes?" "Yes, my lord." Sarehl's heart went out to Kalbeth. Bethel crossed to the young one. He placed an arm about him and talked quietly and reassuringly in a way that made the boy nod and manage a smile after a few minutes. The sparkle in the blue eyes stayed quenched. Kalbeth was justifiably afraid. Kher watched father and son, then turned his head to Luton who also thoughtfully watched them, a hand to his beard. "Another deeply sensitive one, Shasah?" "Very, Father. He's very much in the mould of his father. Dase cares very much for Kal and has a deep relationship with him." "Will he transfer that to you, son?" "I believe so, Father," responded Luton, in his considering way. "Then take the boy and settle him in. Keep a close watch on him. If there seems to be any trouble brewing, of any sort, son, I rely on you to let me know. The boy looks as ill able to care for himself as was his father. I do not want him unnecessarily hurt." Had Kalbeth heard those comforting words he might have been happier, but as it was, it was a tense, nervous boy led away by Luton, the older man talking softly again until the dark head lifted and a faint smile touched anxious blue eyes.

Kher turned to Alfar who now stood silently beside Sarssen. Pale blue eyes scanned the small figure. "Welcome, child." The boy bowed in the southern way that brought a smile to the warlord's face. "You have grown considerably, yes?" "Yes, my lord," agreed Alfar. "Have you learned to be a southern boy then?" "Yes, my lord." Kher's smile grew. "And do you still wish to be a warrior?" He saw the quandary in the grey eyes while the boy struggled between honesty and etiquette. Alfar compromised. "I don't know, my lord." The answer amused Kher and made him invite everyone to be seated at the table. ~~~ The days ed very fast. Time drew close for the northerners to finally leave. While in Caciqua, Sarehl struggled to cope with slaves who answered his every whim while Ensore was more phlegmatic having endured the same previously. And Luton kept a watchful eye on Kalbeth. Bethel worried about the boy because it was clear from the hunched shoulders and picked at food, that Kalbeth struggled to find his bearings and was tense and stressed. On the second day he received the whip for a shabby manoeuvre, on the third day was finally satisfactorily ranked and on the fifth day seemed miraculously to find his feet. He made no more serious errors at training and was quite happy at school. The shoulders straightened, the blue eyes cleared and began to sparkle again, and Mist gave Sarehl and Bethel most encouraging reports. Luton watched him like a hawk for the slightest sign of anything being wrong. And Pic loomed large, too, the huge man asking, through Luton, that he be allowed to care for Kalbeth for whom he had real affection. With so many overseeing the boy, it was thought he could develop on his own. Sarehl's misgivings eased. It was after nearly two weeks and the real penetrating touch of autumn could be felt that showed things with Kalbeth weren't quite right. It was Pic who

discovered the boy being seriously bullied though Kalbeth hid every sign and refused to acknowledge it. The huge man just happened to walk past the training ground that should have been quiet at that time of day. It wasn't. With Kalbeth in his arms, Pic sought Luton. He found everyone else as well, a stunned silence greeting his arrival. Luton reached Pic at the same moment as Sarssen and Bethel. Kher stood with eyes like chips of ice. Sarehl hadn't seen such frozen fury before. Ensore, ever calm, spoke quietly. "Lute, tell Pic to put the lad in a chair. Sarehl, get the boy wine." "Just a moment," said Sarssen, darting a warning look at Bethel who was rigid with anger. He watched Luton gesture to Pic who rested Kalbeth gently in a chair. It was Sarssen who knelt beside Kalbeth. "Where are you hurt, Kal?" "My side," whispered Kalbeth. "You have been kicked?" Kalbeth nodded. "Left or right?" "Left." "Why have you said nothing, boy?" "Not my troop," answered Kalbeth. "What did the boy say?" demanded Kher sharply, crossing to stare down at Kalbeth. "Those who bullied him were not his troop, my lord." "Older, Lodrin?" Kalbeth gazed up into cold pale eyes. "I want an answer, boy. Give me one." Kalbeth stayed silent. "This is not the normal ranking, Lodrin. Your reserve might be laudable in those circumstances. Now it is inexcusable. I am waiting." "Older, my lord," came the reluctant answer. Sarehl came beside him, a goblet in hand that Sarssen took and placed at the boy's mouth. "Da," mumbled Kalbeth, distressed eyes meeting and holding with Sarehl's before the Strategos placed a gentle hand on the young head.

Bethel went into a crouch beside his son so he could put an arm around him, a protective gesture Kher didn't miss, both Bethel's and Sarehl's expressions unyielding and forbidding. "This is unfortunate, Sar," Ensore said, placatingly, the man well aware how inflammatory the situation could be. He walked across to where Sarehl now stood in an uncompromising pose by the window, his stare back at Kalbeth an extremely brooding one. "The warlord assures me the situation will be dealt with." Ensore saw the odd obstinacy about the mouth he'd only seen a few rare times in Sarehl. His heart sank at the coldly uttered words. "I'm relieved. This, however, has gone on long enough. I gave a promise, under oath, to Sasqua, that I'd see no harm came to her son, the boy as much her son as he became mine. Life in the south isn't for Kalbeth." Ensore was alarmed. The situation could be confrontational between two brothers, Sarehl and Bethel ranged against each other. That was unthinkable. It could only result in one or other, or both, being badly hurt and would solve nothing. He also saw the warlord's long keen look at the Strategos, because Kher was suddenly conscious Sarehl may react in an unpredictable way where a son was concerned, especially after what was done to him and his family in the past by Churchik. Ensore raked himself down for being a fool. Sarehl had always thought of Kalbeth as his son, and though he'd borne sufferings inflicted on his brothers, Ensore knew Sarehl would go to war for his sons, just, he reflected, as warriors would. Hurt done to Kalbeth was something Sarehl wouldn't tolerate. The Chamah noticed with relief that Sarssen was on his feet and Bethel had eased Kalbeth back in the chair. Ensore once more jumped into the breach. "Sarssen, this is most serious," he hastened to say, praying the warrior would sum up the situation quickly and respond to defuse it. Ensore wasn't disappointed. Sarssen sensed the concern immediately. "Emil is dealing with the boys, my lord," he said pacifically to Kher. "Sarehl, they are not from the boy's troop but are from a senior troop. That being so, Kalbeth was in an invidious position where he could not fight back."

"What sort of society is it that a boy must take that sort of treatment without defending himself?" ground out Sarehl. He turned to confront Bethel. "He comes back home to the north, Beth." Sarssen saw the warlord's eyes flicker to Bethel who showed stress by licking his lips in a way not seen for a very long time. "We need to sit and talk this through, Sarehl," he suggested, quietly. "The Suldan is as aware as everyone here that Kalbeth is a son to you. Your concern is understandable." Sarehl swung round to face Sarssen. His voice was devoid of emotion. "Sasqua left that child in my charge, to raise as I raised Bethel. I won't leave that boy behind in the south. Enough is enough!" He turned back to Bethel. "Surely to the gods, lad, you can see that, can't you? Are you blind? What are you trying to do to the child, Beth, break him as the Churchik broke you? And Lute? Are two not enough for you?" Bethel stood unmoving, the warlord's gaze upon him. His eyes looked indescribably sad. Ensore was torn. "No, Sar," whispered Bethel. "How can you say that to me?" "Then let me take the lad home. He was happy in Samar with his siblings. You saw that. Is he happy here? He had no nervous stomach in the north. None of our family did. You didn't until the Churchik got you." "He had to fight and was mocked," said Sarssen, very gently. "Beaten by one," spat out Sarehl. "And one at a time. And that was resolved. Gods, but this sickens me!" Ensore approached him but was held at bay by a raised hand. "No, my friend. I know you mean well, nor do I mean offence to anyone, but Kal can't stay where he isn't safe. My argument isn't with you." Before anyone could speak, Kher's deep voice cut in. "To a certain extent I agree with you, Sarehl. I would not leave a son where he was unsafe and open to abuse." Sarehl was so startled his black eyes flew to meet Kher's blue ones, the Samar's expression blank. "Please," smiled Kher, indicating a chair and gesturing to the others they also sit. Sarehl shrugged and threw himself down. Bethel sank beside Kalbeth who was now relaxed and began to doze. "Sarehl, I have the deepest respect for you and understand your feelings. All I ask is that you give me time to sort out what happened and why and to take appropriate action. Then, if Beth believes, as you do, that Caciqua is

not the place for the boy, Lodrin will be released from his obligation to me immediately. I can offer no more than that, other than to say the boy is blessed to have two fathers who care so much for him." Sarehl blinked and nodded. "Aye, Kher, that's fair enough." The dark eyes lost the cold bitter look and merely looked melancholy. Kher's reminder that Bethel was Kalbeth's natural father touched him on the raw because he'd spoken to his younger brother in a way he knew was profoundly hurtful. He coughed. "Beth," he began. The dark head stayed bent over Kalbeth. "Bethel." At this moment Mist strode unceremoniously into the room, the doors flung hard back and the Cartokian's expression extremely forbidding. He looked across at Pic near Kalbeth and stalked across the floor without a word. Kher stared at him. "Why are you here?" "Damn Churchik protocol!" growled Mist, going down on a knee beside the boy. He looked up and across at Bethel. "I've just been to check Kal at the anzamam where I took him forty minutes ago, as I've done every day. Who took him from there?" Tears came to his eyes. A hand went down to the young head. "Little Kal, child, it's Mist." Sarssen intervened. "Lute, get Pic to take Kal to his quarters where Mist can care for him. Chamah, would you care to walk with me? My lord, may we be excused?" Kher was quick to see what Sarssen tried to do. "Certainly," he said, briskly. "Son, will you accompany me?" He watched Pic lift the boy and carry him from the sura, Mist close at his heels, then quietly left after Sarssen and Ensore, Luton beside him. It left Sarehl and Bethel. Sarehl stood where he was. "Bethel, I shouldn't have said what I did. Lad, I'm so deeply sorry. Forgive me, little Beth." "It doesn't matter," came inaudibly from Bethel.

"Yes, it does," answered Sarehl, limping across to be beside his brother. "Beth, I'd have been better to cut my tongue out than say such a thing to you, gentle man that you are." "You're right, Sar. I was wrong to give in to the warlord. I should never have brought the boy south, because you gave him so much more than ever I could." "No, lad," whispered Sarehl, his voice shaken. "Oh Beth, what have I done? I never meant you to think I criticised your decisions or fathering skills." "I was afraid," whispered Bethel. His voice broke as it hadn't done for a very long time. "When Father stood over me in his threatening way, I sensed he'd hurt me as he did over Sasqua. You see, Sar, I doubted I could take it again. So I gave in. I'm sorry it's made Kal suffer." "Beth, if anyone's making me eat my words and know remorse it's you, and you're doing it very well." Sarehl sat beside his brother. "Kalbeth was a happy northern Samar boy until I came along. I him as he was the first time I saw him." "No, Beth, no! He sought his father, his need very deep. He always asked who and where you were." "But he'd have grown with you, knowing just you as his father." "And been deprived of his natural father, Beth? Are you trying to say that would be better for him?" "Yes." Sarehl possessed himself of twisting hands, his voice now urgent and pleading. "Beth, I know you've agonised over whether Kal should be north or south. What I've just said in careless rage and worry has brought anxieties back, but you must listen to me." He peered at the still bent head. "Beth lad, please look at me." He met eyes that had a haunted, desolate touch to them. "Little brother, in his natural father Kal has the best of models. As a father you stand out as one who wants only the best for his son, as I do. Kal yearned to know his father. He was brought up on stories and descriptions of you that were intended to keep you alive to a little boy you'd never met.

What I said before wasn't jealousy of you as that father, Beth. I'm secure enough in Kal's love not to be so petty. What worried me was that those so imbued in southern ways may not see what harm's being done to a sensitive child very much more in your mould than I realised, or even you realise. Once I thought the lad was more like Dase, but the older he gets the more he resembles you. No more than you do I want to see him hurt by being made to be what he may not wish." "You think I make him warrior, don't you?" "No, Beth. I think he makes himself that way, but I'm dubious it's right for him. Nor, if I'm honest, do I think Kal will be happy in Samar without you. It's a dilemma, Beth." "What would you have me do, Sar?" asked Bethel submissively, no light in his eyes at all. It was as if he'd gone back cycles. "No, Beth," answered Sarehl, remorsefully. "Ah, but you always taught me when you were small, little Beth, and as surely as I sit here with you now, you teach me again. I'm wrong to impose conditions. Nothing's that simple or black and white, Beth, we both know that. It's Kal we must think about and what he wants for himself." "He told me he wanted to be a warrior and said he wished to be so under Kher's aegis here." Bethel wiped his cheek. "What more can I do?" "Nothing, lad, nothing," whispered Sarehl, caught by another wave of remorse. "Forgive me, Beth." ~~~ That evening saw a lively discussion about Kalbeth, the arguments going back and forth. Everyone was involved but the boy himself, though earlier he talked long, earnestly and honestly with both Sarehl and Bethel. Reluctantly, Sarehl had to it Kalbeth was essentially happy. He was still far from convinced the south was the place for Kalbeth and again was surprised when Kher often agreed with him, the warlord's comment, that he believed Kalbeth would spend more time north as an adult, catching him unawares. All Kher was at pains to point out was that not only had Bethel survived much harsher and crueller conditions, but was an accepted and generally respected member of Churchik society, the

warrior as gentle as Kalbeth. Finally, it was decided that Kalbeth would remain in Caciqua for a cycle, before there would be a full assessment of his progress, health and happiness. Sarehl would share in this because Kalbeth would regularly go north to the Dahkilan border if the Strategos would come south. It was as far north as Kalbeth could go without affecting the continuity of his training. Sarehl was content. He'd worried training could mean no more for a while, even to either Elibera or to the border, and that was despite Bethel reassuring him to the contrary. This also reassured him for Kalbeth, because Sarehl intended some of the northern family would accompany him so Kalbeth's familial bonds would remain intact. In retrospect, Sarssen was relieved the episode with Kalbeth occurred, for one sound reason. It ensured that Kalbeth's future was properly settled, those nearest him were reassured and a boy of two worlds would stay exactly that as he came to manhood, the boy not simply just another youngster in Caciqua. His double heritage would be assured. His two fathers would not have to see a young one torn and the youth would be truly Samar/Churchik. All concerns were fully resolved. The next morning Kalbeth nervously asked if he could re- his troop. "That is your wish, boy?" demanded Kher, from under beetling eyebrows. "Yes, my lord." "Then I suggest you learn all you can, Lodrin, since I have asked Sarehl to come and watch you tomorrow. You will be on your mettle, yes?" ~~~ The days continued to draw in. It made those present decide to wend their way northwards. Since Kalbeth was settled and walked about tall, eyes shining and his ready smile coming much of the time, Sarehl was inclined to believe all would be well. Luton and the boy clicked. Kalbeth transferred his boyish iration of Dase to the twin with remarkable ease, Luton's quieter teasing making him feel at home and comfortable because it reminded him of Dase's banter when he was a little boy. In time Kalbeth and Luton would clinch in mock battles the way the boy did with Daxel. And the boy's appetite became voracious, a sure sign Kalbeth was well. Even

Kher noticed the amount the boy put away. One evening Kalbeth ploughed his way silently and methodically through a mountainous plate of food, at the end of which he carefully looked up to surreptitiously see if there was any food left. A plate of sliced fruit and another of cake was at the end of the table. "You are still hungry, boy, are you not?" Kher was amused when Kalbeth jerked up his head, startled. 'Yes, my lord," he confessed. Kher nodded at the plates that were quickly ed down the table to him. He pushed them in front of Kalbeth. "Gods know where you put it, Lodrin," he chuckled, "but you are so thin I suspect you burn it up as soon as you get it. You are still growing, I see." He turned to Luton. "Son, he reminds me of you." Luton just grinned amiably at his father then at Kalbeth, watching while the boy ate four pieces of cake and twice that number of pieces of sliced fruit. Then he leaned back with a contented sigh. "Better?" enquired Luton, in a teasing voice. "Much better," agreed Kalbeth, with a smile. He turned his head to Kher who thought he'd seldom seen a lovelier smile on a boy. Instinctively, he smiled back. It was at that instant he knew what it was in Bethel that so utterly captivated Lodestok. Kher hadn't known Bethel as a boy but he saw what he must have been when he looked at his son. He knew, without doubt, that the young Bethel had no chance of escape once Lodestok set eyes on such beauty, charm and innocence. And like Jonqi, Kalbeth awoke a deep protective instinct in the warlord. He determined that no one would destroy this child's trust and innocence as Bethel's was. He looked again at the alabas skin, the fine-boned face with high cheekbones, the delicately arched black eyebrows that all the brothers and the sister had and the straight nose. The typical familial eyelashes were long, curling and very thick, and he had the same sensual mouth as Bethel's, a marked curl upwards that none of the other siblings had to the same degree. The hair could be his father's. Again he resembled the Samar side of his heritage as Jonqi did hers, and to a

ing observer he could be the son of any of the three Samar men who sat at the table. That was until you looked immediately from father to son, form and faces almost identical. It was the expressions that were different and the colour of the eyes, Kalbeth's like a clear north Ambros day, deep, trustful blue, and Bethel's like plush velvet. "The similarity's striking, isn't it?" purred Ensore, affably. "Once Kal's six feet seven or eight inches tall and sporting a beard, you won't be able to tell them apart." "No," agreed Kher, the smile still lingering in his eyes. While he mused on this the evening degenerated into a family affair, those at table rising and retiring to comfortable chairs where they could sprawl out or, as the boys were wont to do, spread out across the lush carpet. Still caught up in private thoughts Kher only came back to the conversation when it had become a roundly teasing one, in true northern fashion. Kalbeth, as usual, got the giggles and Alfar openly laughed, his little face bright and merry. After the usual familial tussles quietened, the warlord held down his hand, waited for Kalbeth to see it, then, with enviable ease, got the boy to his feet in one fluid movement, a firm hand staying on one shoulder. "You need to be taught defensive moves, boy," he suggested. "Being in such a family makes it a necessity, and not just wrestling either." "Aye, my lord," grinned Kalbeth. He watched the warlord stretch behind him and produce a goblet. "Drink well, Lodrin," came the kindly voice. He looked up as Chey entered the room, her eyes going from one dishevelled family member to another. "Romping again?" she enquired, crossing to be near Luton. She was met with nods and laughter. "Then I think it's time for some music before the children go to bed. Kal needs his rest and Alfar's started another growing spurt so he needs sleep as well." "The twins, my dear?" asked Kher, settling back in his chair, goblet in hand. "They're asleep," responded Chey. "Pic stands guard as usual. Mist's with him."

"You need to give your Cartokian some title, Beth," observed Kher. "He has served young Lodrin most faithfully and seems to show no disposition to return permanently to his own people. That he is prepared to live among those I believe he still considers his enemy says much for the man." "That is so," agreed Sarssen quietly. "What do you think, Beth?" Bethel twisted a curl about his finger as he thought. Sarehl thought the boyish trait still rather endearing in the grown man. It reminded him that Bethel was very much the boy from Ortok, the gesture a part of Bethel from the time he was very young. "Yes, I agree, but I've no idea what title he'd accept, because any southern one would be anathema to him and may well be more insult than anything else." "What function does he perform now, Beth?" asked Sarehl. "Is it changed from up north?" "He's still Kal's guard, Sar, almost to the exclusion of everything else. Does he do other for you, Sarssen?" Sarssen shook his head. "Then try Daryon," offered Sarehl, taking a small cake from a bowing slave with a nod and word of thanks. He bit into it and chewed contemplatively. "What's that?" asked Bethel, intrigued. "The name has a ring of authority about it." "The Daryon are the elite guards of the Ustomi himself. Hand-picked as youngsters, they grow up and are trained exclusively in his service. The title is an ancient and honoured one. Mist has done the same service for Kal from the time the lad was born, so I can't see why he shouldn't have the same title." "Would the Ustomi not object?" asked Kher, surprised. "I doubt it," came the stolid reder. "Why should he when it's intended to honour a Cartokian in the mould of those he uses and ires? I could ask him if you wish." "Then do," said Bethel quickly. "I've wanted to show Mist appreciation for a long time, so if the Ustomi doesn't object, this would be the ideal way of

rewarding him." "I'll send to Hambe as soon as I get to Dahkilah," promised Sarehl. He was unaware how his casually uttered words had a powerful affect on the warlord who stared at him. Sarehl's calm acceptance of friendship and easy relationship with pre-eminent rulers across Ambros never failed to surprise the warlord, especially since the Strategos set little store by it from the point of view of influence. People were simply his friends. He watched Kalbeth, curled up in front of his father, devour five small cakes in succession, before he stretched across to his estibe and began to pluck idly at the strings. Bethel already had his instrument ready to play and nodded at Alfar. The boy raised the eafest. Silence, other than music, fell around the sura. Kalbeth still didn't sing. His voice sometimes plunged to a surprisingly deep growl but because he was embarrassed by it, Kher noticed no one teased or even commented on it. Those not playing simply sat and listened. It was a domestic scene of real contentment. Into this came a distraction centred at the door to the sura. Few noticed it. Kher did. So did Luton. Kher's expression was extremely irritable, though his eyes widened when he saw it was Emil who stood there quietly, a small figure held by one large hand, the child dangled just off the floor. The figure was limp. Kher nodded an abrupt sign of ittance, so Emil swung the child to its feet and they both took a few steps into the sura. Other than the musicians who were pre-occupied, all eyes swivelled to the odd sight.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Kher stared across at the child. He precipitately rose. He strode rapidly across the room to stand over the boy who just looked up at him emotionlessly, his body still quite limp. The music came to an abrupt halt. "Where the gods did you find him?" demanded Kher. He spoke in the sharpest of tones. It made Emil wary and Sarssen very attentive. Clearly, Kher recognised this child, filthy though he was, starved and quite listless. The boy bent his head at the sharpness of tone. "He was crawling round the western gate, my lord, but even after being spanked and chased off he came back, again and again. Nor will the boy speak though he has been shaken enough. Finally Serrec brought the child in because he is starved and would probably have stayed outside the gates until he died. I bring him to you because it is your decision what is done with him. Shall I hand him over to the hospodars, my lord?" "No," said Kher, in a low voice. "No. Instead, Emil, get Pic here as fast as you can." "Yes, my lord," bowed Emil, releasing the boy. Luton crossed the room in rapid strides, his face puzzled at Kher's voice and his sending for Pic. Kher stooped to put a finger under the boy's chin, forcing up a young dirty, tearstained face. Seeing the eyes again made Kher quiver with recognition. Now, as they met his, they went from clear to distressed darkness, then clear again, fear warring with desperate hope. It was when Luton went to his knees beside the child that the eyes suddenly stayed clear and the boy made no protest when Luton opened the young mouth to quickly look inside at the tongue. The slave brand glared back at him. Luton promptly opened his mouth to point to his brand. The child nodded. "I was a slave too, little fellow," Luton said quietly so as not to frighten the boy. He looked into eyes as clear as Kaleb's. They were the strangest Luton had ever

seen as they went from clear to dark and back again, then, while he continued to stare at the boy, he spoke in an odd voice. "I don't think this child can speak, Father. That's why it was wrong for the guards to shake him." Kher took the boy by the hand and led him to his chair, where he sat and pulled the child between his knees. Luton followed. "If he is who I think he is, son, he will be mute. I shall soon know." Luton crouched lower down beside the boy, who was eleven or twelve cycles. The child tentatively touched the young man's face with a trembling hand, the fingers gliding backwards and forwards as if the child sought recognition by touch alone. Pic hesitated at the doorway. Gestured to enter, he hurriedly strode with his enormous steps to face the warlord. He stopped dead at the sight of the face upturned to Luton's, dropped to his knees, and, with eyes full of tears, tapped the young shoulder. The child turned his head, his eyes lit up and he began to cry though there was no sound, tears of relief pouring down the young face. He flung himself into waiting arms that wrapped round him, Pic's head bent over the young one. Luton tilted his head to Kher. "Father? How did you know Pic would recognise him?" "He is from the Keep, boy," answered Kher, his throat constricted. "I sent him through the age with his mother." The others in the room heard the unaccustomed huskiness. "Was I there?" wondered Luton. He watched Pic rock backwards and forwards. "Not that day, son, no," answered the warlord, very gently. Luton touched Pic's face. It was clear that one spoke to the other in the way of Keep days, neither man showing any expression while they communicated thus. Only Kher's face ed shock because he heard Luton's voice as clearly as if his son spoke beside him. That had never happened before. "Son," he went on, once Luton broke with Pic, "I gave the boy and his mother money. This child was so cold I gave him my cloak. If life became too hard for them, I told his mother to seek me out for help, something it seems the

boy has done for himself though it has cost him dearly by the look of him. Much longer abandoned and he would be dead. I would say his mother was Yazd. Her eyes were as clear as the boy's sometimes are. Where is she?" "Did you hear me speak to Pic?" "Yes, son, I did." "So did I," said a chorus of voices in concert. Luton still gazed at the boy who again touched his face. Now Pic had let him go, the child stood quite still and his eyes went from face to face. He was reassured. The very unusual eyes stayed quite clear. "I didn't know there were children at the Keep, Father. It astonishes me he was alive." Then he said quietly, "Father, he isn't just mute. He's deaf as well." "He's very, very thin," commented Ensore, with comion, "and one can only wonder what he looks like under all the dirt, poor little fellow. He must've been wandering alone for a long time." "And mute as well as deaf," whispered Sarehl, his heart going out to the forlorn little figure. "The gods, what a life he must have led. Poor little boy." "I wonder where his mother is," said Kher, thoughtfully. "The boy did not look like this when he left the Keep." He rested a hand on the greasy head. Pic and Luton were engrossed in sign language that had hands move so fast they were blurred. Pic would nod or shake his head, then shrug eloquently before the hands moved again. Luton's face was a mask of concentration. Sarehl watched. Alfar was quite still, fascinated. No one crowded a boy clad in torn rags. His feet were bare, the bony arms scratched and bruised, the tall body pitifully thin and the hair rank. Sarssen was interested in Kher's protective reaction and was intrigued that with the boy in the room, those present could hear Luton speak clearly in their minds. He said nothing. He just watched. He watched how Chey silently studied the boy very intently, before she left the sura, only returning when she had two slaves in tow, one bearing a very large bowl of steaming water and cloths, and the other with a child's robe over one arm. In his hands he carried a tray of food and drink. Glancing up, Kher could

have blessed the woman. Chey knelt beside the boy. "Come to me," she invited. Uncertainly he half-turned, his eyes on Pic. Pic nodded encouragement. She took his hand, drew him close, conscious the child eyed her askance but didn't attempt to move. She dipped a cloth in the water and carefully began to sponge his face. He flinched but stayed. He stayed tense while the wash continued, the rags removed until he stood naked and his head bent so he could watch Chey reach right down to his feet. Obligingly, he lifted one then the other. He was tall and emaciated, just like Luton as a slave. He touched Chey's cheek, tracing his finger on it before he let his hand drop. "Good boy," she said, softly. "I won't hurt you. You understand that, don't you?" He nodded. "Now, Pic, kneel and bend the boy's head over the bowl." It wasn't a thorough clean by any means, but the oil on his hair, once rinsed free, removed the very worst of the filth and took away the smell. The young tousled head rubbed dry he looked reasonably clean. Dressed in a robe, the boy was told to sit. Luton placed the tray in front of him, pointed at it, then at the boy. The child nodded. "You eat what you want, little fellow." The boy nodded and Luton nodded back. He turned his head to those about him. "He's from the Keep. He's about eleven cycles as far as Pic can because time and dates meant nothing at the Keep. They still don't. Pic says the boy answers to Obaron. He's deaf and mute. He's half-Yazd through his mother Obara. He was meant to go home to her people when they were released from the Keep. He knows nothing more than that. Pic doesn't know who the father is. He says Obaron was hidden by he and the mother because Malekim tortured then slaughtered any unfortunate slave offspring. Pic helped care for the little boy until my master went north. It was only then Obaron was brought from hiding. The Keep guards caught him and branded him as a slave." Luton saw the boy pause in his eating, his eyes dark when lifted to his, only changing to clear when Luton touched him with a reassuring hand. Luton saw the patience of an adult in the childish face and the utter resignation to his lot in life that showed in his own black eyes for cycles. The boy's eyes spoke to Luton

as Luton's did to Kher. Quietly, Sarehl rose to escort the boys to bed. Chey stayed in her chair by the boy and though she said and did nothing more, Bethel and Ensore saw her gaze stayed fixed to the boy's face, intense concentration on her own. It was as if she read something there that only she could see. Sarssen didn't move. His scrutiny of the boy was very thorough. "Obaron," he sent, very, very gently. There was no perceptible response. His face a mask of inscrutability, Sarssen sent again. "Obaron." The small head turned in the warrior's direction and the eyelashes flicked rapidly, twice, before the boy turned back to his food. Still Sarssen didn't move, but a satisfied smile came to green eyes that watched the child. Obaron ate slowly. He ate little and drank even less. He simply stayed curled up, head bent and hands loosely clasped in his lap. Luton began sign language again, something the boy easily understood. Sarssen interrupted him. "Not necessary, Lute," came the deep voice. Luton lifted his head. "Sarssen?" Sarssen glanced down at the boy now craned round to observe him more intensely. "He is half-Yazd, Lute. I do not know, but presumably his mother had talent if she was at the Keep. The boy can likewise communicate." Luton turned back to the boy and in sign language asked if this was so, unpleasantly startled when the child put small but long fingers to his head, his eyes now very dark and filled with tears. Luton held the hands. At Luton's touch, Obaron reluctantly nodded. "How did you know, Sarssen?" asked Luton, in a stifled voice. Sarssen stayed in his chair, aware unnecessary or precipitate moves could unsettle the boy. His eyes met Kher's. "I am trained in this, Lute. Just leave it at that, shall we?" he suggested, placidly. "Since the boy seems to trust you, and may recognise you as well, ask what happened to he and his mother." Sarssen saw Kher's hard look at him. Luton noticed, even as he sent, that the little face stayed unreadable.

"You can hear me, Obaron, can't you?" Obaron nodded nervously. "My father yes, the warlord," he agreed, then he paused. He saw the eyes flicker to Kher as the boy changed his position to be closer to the huge warrior. He responded immediately to the large hand held out to him. He shrank into Kher when the hand curled protectively about him. When Luton sat again, close to his father and Obaron, he was taken aback by profound emotions in the warlord's eyes that startled and baffled him. "Obaron," he began again. Clear eyes stared fixedly up at him. "Can you tell me why you are alone when you left the Keep with your mother?" Kher might hear Luton in his mind but only Luton, Sarssen and Bethel heard the soft boyish voice respond. "Obara's no more. The gods have taken her." "When did she die?" There was a long pause before the voice came again, surging with surprising strength and clarity for one so young. "Midsum, cycles since." "What happened?" Grief and pain accompanied the words, the boy's empathic powers remarkably powerful. "Obara said we were well on our way home when slave traders caught us. Obara wasn't well. She got sicker. It made the slavers angry, so they beat her. She died the next day." "And you?" "They did what all people do. They mocked and beat me. That's what people do to me because I don't speak. They don't think I understand what they say. When I sometimes miss what they say they beat me. They say I'm stupid. After that they leave me alone." "How did you get to Caciqua?" "I don't know," came the resigned answer. "I just ran away because the slavers said I was no use and didn't chain me. Before she died, Obara told me to go to Kher at Caciqua. I came. It's taken time to get here. Obara said he wasn't a cruel

warrior and would give me food and shelter. I waited at the gate. The guards beat me, but I stayed. I waited. It was Obara's wish." "So how did you reach here, Obaron?" "I came," was the simple, patient reply. Obaron's eyes never left Luton's face. "Who's your father?" The answer was prompt. "Obara told me I'm a child of the Keep." That made the three warriors stare at each other puzzled, but the next words meant something to Sarssen. "I'm one of two, the other within." Sarssen sent. "You, boy, are a twin, are you not?" "Yes, one of two." "Where is the other?" "He's no more." "He died?" "Obara says he died when we were born." Sarssen's sending was profoundly comionate. "What was his name?" "Obara said he called himself Eluth. I answer to Obaron." "You knew your name?" "We told Obara our names, yes." "Are you tired, young one?" asked Sarssen, very kindly. "Yes, very tired." "Lute, break the link." Luton obeyed. His eyes went from Ensore, Bethel, then to Sarssen and back again.

"Gods!" breathed Bethel, awed. "That child reads instinctively. Isn't that rare in one so young, Sarssen, and to know his name?" "Yes." Sarssen glanced sideways at Luton. "Rare indeed, Beth. The child is a powerful empath. Chlorien knew her name, too. Put the child to bed, Lute. I will tell Kher what the child said. Beth, see how Sarehl gets on with the boys. Kal may like you to be there." Watching the boy being led ively away, Ensore eyed Sarssen very thoughtfully, but he made no comment, only a hand going to his beard. "Tell me then, Sarssen," said the warlord. His cool blue eyes went from the disappearing child, first to Ensore, then to Sarssen. Sarssen recited the small boy's short tale in a colourless tone that gave away nothing the warrior might know, feel, or suspect. "He is a surviving twin, my lord," finished Sarssen. "Both were boys, Obaron and Eluth. I suspect Obaron may be the younger, but I cannot tell you why I think that." "It'll be interesting to see what the little fellow looks like after he's been properly bathed," murmured Ensore. "Maybe he looks mostly Yazd after all. I wonder what Kaleb would make of him?" Kher raised an eyebrow. "In what way?" "Sarssen could tell you," said Ensore, with a roguish twinkle at the warrior. "The Conclave's been extremely busy gathering up all the records and certificates of their major familial lines. They were thought to have been destroyed cycles ago. They've remarkably survived. They're in bad condition and some seriously damaged, but there's enough there for them to start trying to sort out relations of orphaned young ones who dribble back to Yazd land. Half-Yazd are arriving daily as well. They seek identity. I've no idea if Obara is a usual Yazd name, but archives may throw some light on it." "That is so," agreed the warrior, urbanely. "How far on is the Conclave in sorting the information?" Sarssen studied the Chamah for a long minute.

"Far enough to re-establish some orphans, my friend, but there is still a very long way to go. The damage done by Malekim is incalculable. I will ask Kaleb if he can help." "No help for the father though, is it?" murmured Ensore. He was aware he was shot a quick look of appraisal by Sarssen that told him what he wanted to know. "Probably not," answered the warrior, non-commitally. ~~~ Late meal was a quiet affair, no one especially talkative. Ensore chatted affably. Sarehl ably ed him in his usual cordial and well-bred manner. Luton seemed pre-occupied and Chey said very little. Bethel was abstracted, the young warrior turning to his music. When Sarssen appeared late and ate silently, Bethel paused in his music, glanced up, saw how unapproachable the warrior looked and bent his head to the estibe again. When silence fell, Bethel excused himself on the pretext of going down to see the latest colt to be born in Caciqua. Luton grinningly offered him company and Chey excused herself with a quiet smile. Sarehl pondered over the child brought to them. "Isn't it an odd thing that I seem to think I've seen that child before?" he murmured. "It's not possible of course, but the fancy took me briefly. He has a real familiarity about him." "Why do you think you have seen him before, Sarehl?" asked the warlord abruptly, watching how Sarehl's brows furrowed. "I don't know, Kher," he answered, genuinely puzzled. "It's just something about him that took me back cycles in a way I can't explain." "I see," came the detached response, no emotion in the cool voice. Sarehl and Ensore exchanged looks, saw the long stare Sarssen got from the warlord and thought it would be prudent and diplomatic to leave the two men together. Kher clasped his tankard. "Have you spoken with Kaleb?" Sarssen nodded. "Yes, my lord, I have. I did so earlier this evening."

"And?" "Obara is an uncommon name and comes from northern Yazd. Kaleb instantly recognised it. He asked me specific questions, my lord." "Such as?" "How old Obara would be now and a description of her." "That is difficult." Kher frowned down at his hands. "She would be in her early thirty cycles at the time she left the Keep, though Pic told me she was but a fourteen cycle girl on her arrival there. She was tawny haired, or more midbrown, though it was unusually streaked with very pale blond." "And was she mute?" "Most at the Keep were. She certainly was. Presumably that, plus her talent, was why the mage had her there. She was very thin and tired. I am not surprised she fell ill, weakened and died. I saw her cough blood." Sarssen stayed silent. "Is she in any familial listings, Sarssen?" Sarssen looked up from his goblet. "Oh yes, my lord, she is. She may well be in Kaleb's familial listing. That is why he wants to know so much. He wants to come to Caciqua immediately." "It is a long ride for an Adept, Sarssen." Kher gave a faint smile. "Is it not?" "Not if he rides my dragon, my lord," returned Sarssen, very quietly. He got a hard stare. "What do you know, Sarssen, that Kaleb should come so soon?" asked the warlord, persuasively. A reciprocal smile touched the green eyes. "Must I know something, my lord?" Sarssen asked, in a resigned voice. Kher's smile broadened. "Invariably, Haskar," he replied, amused. "Why else would you let Kaleb ride your dragon?" "For pleasure," parried Sarssen, amiably. Kher shook his head.

"You suspect something, do you not?" "I am wondering, my lord, yes. I do not deny that I am thinking very hard." "So," said Kher, softly, "am I." His pale eyes met the green ones and held. "I am no fool, Sarssen, and I see very clearly. In some way that boy touched me the first time I set eyes on him." "I could tell that." "Acute of you," growled the warlord, on a laugh. "I knew who Emil held this evening. I just knew." "The boy came to you, my lord, because you are not a cruel warrior," smiled Sarssen, the laughter lurking at the back of his eyes. He upended his tankard. "Tell me what you wonder, Sarssen," invited Kher. Ruefully, Sarssen shook his head. "Give me time, my lord. I would think this through very carefully. Once Kaleb is here then -." He broke off. "Watch Chey," advised Kher, calmly. Sarssen nodded. "I already have, my lord." Kher sat back, an odd little smile on his face as he raised his tankard and drank deeply.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Kaleb's arrival in the early morning brought everyone hurrying to greet him, the little man surrounded by those he'd come to consider his family. His own family was long gone through Churchik assaults on his people. He greeted the warlord courteously through vociferous Samars, the healer's eyes reminding Kher most vividly of Obaron's. There could be no doubt the child was Yazd. Kaleb spoke to each about him in turn with his gentle smile. He moved in his unhurried way, accepted refreshment and sank gratefully into a chair so he could watch those about him as he chatted comfortably with Sarehl and Ensore with the ease of long friendship. Eventually, Mist came for Alfar and Kalbeth. Chey sat with the twins playing about her skirt, their dusky heads unrelieved by the desert blond, the curls unruly as was only to be expected. Their eyes, settling to the harsh desert green, were alert and curious. Though they walked, they staggered as much and fell, much to their amusement. Kher frankly doted on them. They could do no wrong, Chey the daughter he never had. Everyone finally organised themselves and the chatter subsided to a low murmur of conversation. It died at Pic's entrance. He held the boy by the hand. The child was scarcely recognisable. He was scrupulously clean and properly clad as a southern boy in breeches, tunic and boots, the ruffled collar and cuffs of the tunic obviously causing him some discomfort because a hand tugged at them every so often. They were stiff so any child unaccustomed to them would have to adjust. What drew all eyes, however, was the mass of tumbling curls that now feathered uncontrollably all over his head and fell about thin shoulders. Kher's eyes widened because the last time he saw the child Obaron's head was mostly shaved. The lank tresses were gone. They were very dark, almost black, with a marked auburn hue that was most unusual. And the little piquant face was arresting. So white the night before, it was now tinged with a healthier colour. It was oval, finely boned and very, very pretty, the high cheekbones recognisable. Dark, thick eyelashes framed eyes that at this instant were clear, big, wide and quite unafraid. It was as if Obaron knew none in the room threatened him. When Kaleb rose and made his slow way across to him, Obaron looked up and

saw the healer's face. It was the first time any saw the boy smile. He was transformed. His sending was so sudden and strong it caught the talented ones by surprise. The smile touched every part of the child. He quivered in Pic's hold. His eyes changed colour back and forth until they stayed clear. "Obara's right. I found you! I found you!" "Gently, little one," came Kaleb's quiet voice. "You're Yazd, you're Yazd. I'm Obaron." "Then come to me, little Yazd that you are," offered Kaleb stooping, his arms wide. Obaron ran to him with absolute trust, no doubt in eyes now clear like pools of water. Stiffly, Kaleb scooped the boy in his arms and crooned to him as he returned to his chair, the boy held very tightly and possessively. Kher noted that. The healer's voice broke. "Ah, lad, but you're Yazd. To find a Yazd child alive and with talent means so very much, Ens, so very much." Obaron cuddled into him, still smiling, his eyes expressing utter delight. Kaleb's eyes were full of tears. "He's deaf and mute, my dear friend," warned Ensore, carefully. "I know," answered Kaleb, his lips lifting from the boy's hair. "Such a treasure he is." He glanced up and across at Sarssen, saw the warrior nod and nodded too. "Are you ready, Sarssen?" "I am with you, Kaleb." Sarssen closed his eyes. Kaleb tilted the boy's head, stared into the clear, happy eyes and concentrated. The child's eyes became milky and unfocused. When Kaleb broke eye , Obaron slumped. Kher half-rose. "It's alright, Suldan," Kaleb forestalled him, settling the boy more comfortably on his lap, Obaron's long legs dangling to the floor. "We've had to work very hard and fast in the mind of one so young and unused to our touch. It leaves a young one very sleepy." He ran a highly protective hand across the boy's forehead and the healer's eyes were even mistier. No one missed that.

"What did you learn?" asked the warlord, curiously. He saw a shadow cross Kaleb's face. The depth of melancholy in clear eyes was unnerving. The healer had difficulty speaking. "Tell them, Monseignore," he whispered, a break to the normally restful voice. "I -." His voice became suspended with tears. They fell down his face. He bent his head to the boy, the child so fiercely cradled against his chest those in the sura studied him with varying degrees of deep concern. None had seen the healer like this. Sarssen ran a hand through his beard as if what he had to recount was distasteful. It was. "Obaron's mother was a Yazd from the southern Orlarn region in the north of Yazd lands, from a small village called Latun. Her family were reader-seekers of varying degree, but none higher than Level Three. Obara was revered as a rare child seer and she had an unusual degree of talent that equated to Level Four. Though she was mute, it was no handicap. Had the Churchik not invaded she was to have been sent to the Conclave for training." Sarssen paused, his voice tense. "Her mother was Eshabe, married to a Level Three called Oper. He died in the first Churchik assaults. In the next assault Eshabe was raped then hung and the rest of the family, other than Obara, was slaughtered. There were no survivors of her immediate family but Oper did have one brother out of five who survived. He was the eldest and much older than Oper who was the youngest. This brother lost his mate to illness some cycles before the assaults began, so, since he was childless, he was close to his brother's family. Obara was barely fourteen cycles when this uncle tried to get her out of Orlarn. The man was desperate to save her because he'd heard rumours of mutes, talented or otherwise, being taken to a sorcerer. The tales of what awaited them was enough to convince him he had to get her out of Yazd land. He tried very hard. They were on the road for weeks. They even got to the tip of Orlarn but ran directly into a raiding Churchik party. The uncle was forced to watch while Obara was -." Sarssen's voice faltered uncharacteristically, the warrior unwilling to look up. He continued after a very long pause. "That is neither here nor there. Obara was lost to her uncle. She was taken to be included

in a special caravan being set up to take Yazd slaves to the Keep. They had eleven apparently. The uncle was sentenced to die the next day, but, though tortured, he escaped into Dahkilah. He never knew what happened to the last of his family and could never reconcile his conscience with his failure to save the girl. He loved her, very much. She was all that was left to him and she loved him dearly in return. That she birthed sons appears to him to be miraculous. The brother's name is Kaleb, Adept of the Conclave. Obaron is his brother's greatson." There was an unbearable silence. No words could express the shock and revulsion felt by those present. Nor could anyone make eye with another. They were stricken. In the end it was the warrior who rose, crossed to Kaleb and placed a hand on the healer's shoulder, before he walked across to the large jug on the table and picked it up. Silently, he went about to fill empty goblets. As usual, it was Ensore who broke the frozen tableau. He simply crossed to Kaleb and held down a hand that was firmly grasped. Sarehl's dark eyes looked tormented. He sat rigid. Bethel sat quite still, his eyes very dark and sombre. Luton didn't move either, his shocked eyes on the healer. Kher stayed motionless as well, his face expressionless, his eyes unreadable. Chey swallowed, her eyes going to the child curled in Kaleb's lap. The twins broke the tension by suddenly calling out. Saribeth staggered over to Luton and fell over his boots. Constraint fled. Saribeth laughed and waved her hands. Kherin went to her chortling sister, her arms up to her father. Luton was forced to take notice. So was Sarehl who was next to encounter a child falling over his feet in such a way he had to bend forward to rescue the girl who fell onto her head. Sarehl finally spoke awkwardly. "All you did for us, Kaleb, to help us come to with our grief, yet we didn't know how deep yours was. Dear friend, you did so much. I wish I'd known. Why didn't you tell us?" "The immediate anguish was gone by the time I reached Samar lands, Sar. Other things and needs took precedence." "I'm glad it was to us you came, Kaleb," Ensore said very softly. He went back to his chair. "It would have been our loss otherwise."

"Kaleb -." Sarehl broke off, at a loss for words. "I know what you're trying to say and how you feel and care, Sar," said Kaleb, with a heartfelt sigh. "I know, Sar. No words are necessary, young friend." "How close were you to safety?" asked Luton, hoisting Kherin into his lap. Kaleb eyed him sadly. "A mere mile or two, Lute, that's all." "So you're Obaron's only living family," said Ensore, prosaically. "A day of miracles indeed." "It would seem so," murmured Kaleb, smiling down at the figure in his arms. "He extends the family I am with now." "Perhaps," came Kher's deep voice. Sarehl lifted his head from Saribeth while Luton, preoccupied, hushed Kherin by rocking her and Ensore swung round to more closely observe the warlord. Bethel looked startled. It was Sarssen who gave the twisted, slightly melancholic smile at Kher's words. "Adept," went on Kher, his voice again husky. "I can say nothing to you that alters what was done to you and yours, my personal response the same as everyone else's. I am well aware the warlord dealt most viciously with your people, his policy almost one of genocide. Some among us protested, to no avail. That you heal us and tolerate us is something I find remarkable. You are a noble race with rare and wonderful gifts. That you were treated so brutally makes me deeply ashamed of what my own kind committed in the name of conquest." Kaleb bent his head in acknowledgment, then lifted it with a gentle smile. "That comforts me, Suldan. I suppose I'll take this little lad back to Enouri with me." "Perhaps," repeated Kher. He looked over at Luton to see he sat frozen, the little girl looking as if she played about a statue. The dark eyes were haunted as of old.

"Son," he said very tenderly, rising and crossing to Luton. He gestured to Ensore that he take Kherin, and, once the Chamah had the child in his arms, Kher went down beside Luton, just as a shattering sob broke from the younger man. Luton wept deeply and bitterly. Bethel and Sarehl looked at each other with sudden, shocked comprehension. Sarehl rose with Saribeth in his arms, but the warning shake of the head from the warlord stopped both he and Bethel in their tracks. Ensore's eyes showed comprehension. So did Kaleb's. "Leave us please," said Kher, in an under-voice. "Take the children. Chey, Lute will need you, my dear. You must stay." Sarssen stayed behind the others, his voice making Chey look his way. "He had no option when he was a slave, Chey. I have been in his mind and I can assure you he obeyed or he was punished in unspeakable ways. Lute was allowed no emotions and no feeling other than pain." Emerald eyes met desert green eyes. "He's my mate, Sarssen. It matters nothing to me. I'd not see him further hurt, nor will this boy harm him." "You knew from the first, Chey, did you not?" Chey smiled and nodded. "How?" "I looked on my mate as a child, Sarssen. Obaron's exactly as I imagined Lute and Dase looked at the same age, especially when those eyes shine black. When it was said he was a Keep child, I suspected, then I only had to look at him this morning. He's tall for his cycles, thin and slender, just like the brothers probably were. He has curly hair like theirs, and his face is the same shape with the same delicacy as Beth's and Kal's, even Alfar's. He has Lute's mouth and smile. I couldn't miss a child of my mate's, now could I?" "What an amazing woman you are, my dear," marvelled Sarssen. "And the child? What do you want for him?" "Kaleb will want to be part of his growing," answered Chey, thoughtfully, "and that's only right, but I think he should stay with his father until he finds his feet. When he's older, he can go to Kaleb at Enouri. He's gifted, isn't he?" "Intensely," agreed Sarssen, smiling down at her. Chey looked back up at him,

her gaze steady and confident. "I'll not let our son go readily, I can assure you." ~~~ Luton stayed comforted by the warlord for a long time, then he simply sank to the ground at Kher's feet so he could rest his head back in a wide, broad lap. Kher just kept his hand on the curly head in the gesture he knew gave comfort and reassurance. As time ed and Chey came to kneel beside him and held his hands in hers, Luton was able to talk, haltingly, his voice cracking every so often. The distraught guilt at having brought another child into Ambros by such brutal means, then finding the boy abandoned, eased as Chey and Kher talked quietly and with common sense. The haunted look to the eyes went. The hunched shoulders relaxed. It said much for Luton's maturity that he quickly regained composure. Cycles earlier, such a revelation would've devastated him. Now the black eyes looked as patient and resigned as his son's. It was the warlord who now attracted Chey. She watched the hand lovingly stroke her mate's head. But it was the pale blue eyes that struck her most, because they were softened, tender, and, at one stage, very moist as they rested on his son. She'd never seen Kher like that. It made her reach up to touch his cheek. His smile down at her made him briefly unrecognisable, before he blinked and looked back at his son. "You knew, Father." "Yes, son, I think I did. So did you, Chey, did you not?" She nodded. "There was something in the child that touched me as deeply as you did, Shasah, and in the same way. In my entire life, son, no one has touched me as you do. Obaron has the same affect." "I saw it in your eyes, Father," mumbled Luton. "Yes, son, I rather think you did." "What do I do?" There was a helpless note to the deep voice. "Exactly what Chey suggests, Lute. She could not put it more clearly. And the

Adept must take full part in the child's life. He's Obaron's only living relative on his mother's side. That is only right. The Churchik owe him that much, poor recompense for his loss that it will be." "Kaleb bears no grudge." "No, son," smiled Kher. "That is the measure of the man." Luton hesitated then took a very deep breath. "Father, you recognised Jonqi for my sake. I can't now -." "Shasah, no!" Kher's deep voice was mellow and now vibrant with emotion. "Son, never say the words you intend to utter. I can guess what they are. Your son will be as you are to me. As surely as I sit here, Lute, I know he is your son. Maybe nothing can be proved but it does not need to be - if I feel this way about the child, why do you question my willingness to accept him as your heir and my greatson?" "Father," whispered Luton. "I'm only worried about how this will be interpreted by your enemies." A hand touched Luton's cheek. "Enemies need to be recognised, Lute. This may well have a negative effect. Indeed it will cause anger that I have an unknown greatson, who, after you, is my heir. Girls from my Samar son are important, true, but do not have the same significance as sons among the Churchik. We shall see." The warlord thought. "Does having a son distress you, Lute?" When Luton lifted his head and tilted it so he could look round and up at Kher, the warlord saw the glow in the black eyes. "No, Father, never." "Nor does it distress me. Chey and I accept him without reservation. Now it is up to you." "Obaron's what you must've been like as a child, Lute," said Chey. "Daughter, I ask that the Adept let the boy come to us when he is awake. I want him to meet his father as soon as can be." Tenderly, Chey rubbed her hand against Luton's, before she rose and glided from the room. "She is a rare woman that, son," Kher observed, then he relaxed back, aware Luton rested, the dark

eyes staring pensively at the wall. His son was far away. ~~~ The family gathered in the small chamber ading the sura stayed silent as the realisation of who Obaron was sank in. Sarehl was shocked. Kaleb was ecstatic at the thought of family alive he'd thought long dead, though grieved at the story of Obara and her tragic life that came to a sad and lonely end. The Chamah was in pensive mood, Sarssen was reserved and his expression oddly forbidding, while Bethel roamed restlessly, hands twining together. "Sarssen," he finally uttered, urgently. Sarssen's abstraction dissolved. "Aye, Beth, I grant you it comes as a shock." He glanced across to read the eloquent question in the dark eyes. "Yes, Sarehl," he added, quietly. "I know. Beth brother, I suspected this was so, but you must let be. Kher must handle his son as he thinks best. Of us all, even Chey, and you, Sar, the warlord knows that young man best." "Lute's deeply distressed," managed Bethel. "The gods, I never knew about Kal. But at least he was born of emotions shared and was not left to be -." He left the sentence unfinished, emotions becoming too much for him. Bethel turned away to grapple with them alone. "Lute has reason to be upset," answered Sarssen, a hand pushing loose hair back from his face. "I know what Malekim made him do when Pic brought him food and a girl, Lute whipped if he did not partake of both. It was his master's command that he show maturity of body and mind. Lute had no idea what he did. He derived no pleasure over those cycles, believe me." He saw Sarehl's anguished expression. "Sar, he has gone well beyond that. From such evil has come an unexpected good in the form of Obaron. Pic tells me, if I followed the hand gestures correctly - no, Sar, I do not read him - that no girl or woman was sent more than a very few times to Lute. Bearing that in mind, it beggars belief that Obara should bear twins from such a brief and mechanical encounter. I doubt the mage knew she had. I am convinced she was not meant to, whereas I believe Jonqi's conception was quite deliberate. Obaron's is not." "Will Lute's suffering never end?" asked Sarehl in a hushed, constricted voice. "Must his past constantly rise to haunt and hurt him?"

"Obaron will not bring his father grief, Sarehl. On the contrary, I think the child will bring him considerable joy, and there will be deep understanding through Lute's having been mute. Obaron will identify with that. He already empathises with Lute and I suspect he knows of the mage's apprentice through his mother." "That's why he's so achingly familiar," whispered Sarehl, averting his head. "Despite his emaciation, he's so like the twins at the same age, even his expression at times when he's unafraid." "And like Obara," murmured Kaleb. "I see both sides in the child, especially in the eyes and the expressions, too." "A true composite of Yazd and Samar, something I think is fitting," put in Ensore mildly. "If Lute had to father a child without knowing it, then this has to be the ideal result, doesn't it?" He was stared out for a moment, then smiles broke the tension. Bethel sniffed and crossed to his brother. Sarehl gave him a quick hug, then pushed him to a chair. "Sit, Beth. The gods, where in damnation is the wine when we need it?" "I have it here," replied Sarssen, straightening with a full skin in one hand. With his free hand he waved negligently towards a table where goblets were halfhidden under a cloth. Wine drunk soon had the men settled back to converse more moderately and quietly. "How did Malekim not crush Lute?" asked Bethel, suddenly. "How did Lodestok not crush you?" returned Sarssen in swift answer, aware Bethel's eyes still burned dark. "I had you to protect me, and Morsh was able to help me, too." "You forget Lute was not alone. He had Kher and others who came to him in at unexpected moments." Sarssen thought back to the touch in Luton's mind, to the entity with whom he was inextricably bound in the forest, to Bene's appearance at the battle and to a dragon who abandoned an ancient and brilliant mage for a mere boy. Then he

continued speaking thoughtfully, his eyes straying to Kaleb who sat silent, the child curled up in his lap, the long legs still dangling. "Lute is unique. He has power. Odd though it may seem, it appears as though his suffering has in some ways made him untouchable, so guilt and grief won't torment him as it might have in the past. Chey is part of his balance. His recovery will be much quicker than might be expected." "I hope to the gods, brother," responded Sarehl tartly, "you're right. All I wish for is our being left to live our lives in peace." "Peace comes, Sar," cautioned Sarssen, pacifically. "Patience, brother. I suspect we are almost there." He caught a penetrating stare from Ensore and smiled blandly back before he turned to Bethel. "Lute will be fine, Beth. There is no need for you to worry about him. The boy has your face, Beth, Lute's mouth and Sarehl's expression. He has eyes from both mother and father and talent as well. He is a most unusual child indeed." "His talent is strange, isn't it?" Sarssen turned his head to Sarehl. "It almost seems compensation for the boy's lack of sound and speech," he answered slowly. "He can hear us in his mind. He has an advanced sense of what people feel and think and are actually saying. How he could do this I have no idea." "I feel as if I'm able to see within him and be within, too," murmured Sarehl, almost to himself. He was quite unaware of Kaleb's startled look that turned to immediate comprehension. And Kaleb still said nothing. Again the warrior caught a look from the Chamah, Sarssen suddenly conscious Ensore was quite well aware, as was Kaleb, of Sarehl's empathic powers, though he'd never mentioned them. More than ever, Sarssen was intrigued by the Chamah. "You have strong feelings, Sar," said Ensore, the look at the warrior defiant yet amused. "It's not surprising you relate so to the lad." He scratched his beard. "There's something else we're all forgetting, too, isn't there?" Enquiring eyes turned his way. Ensore studied the sleeping boy, then Kaleb in an affectionately measuring way. "Kaleb, nothing could delight me more than to welcome you to an ever extending family. Those of us here are all nearly related through mating

of one sort or another, aren't we?" No one spoke while this extraordinary comment was digested, then it was Bethel who broke into low laughter. "But of course," he gurgled. "You become kinsman to Lute, Kaleb. And, through him, you're kin to our Samar family that touches you, Sarssen, as well as you, Ens, and the folk of the steppes and the desert. It even links you to the Churchik. What an irony this is. We spread everywhere." "How appropriate," was Ensore's unruffled comment, just as Chey entered and stood watching those about her. "Is Obaron awake?" "He'll wake any time now," responded Kaleb, his glance across at the young woman uncertain. "Adept," she said, quietly crossing to him and going to her knees. "No one will deprive you of a child so precious to you. No such thought enters anyone's head. Nor would I permit it. The boy must come to know his father, but equally he must have time with the one Yazd family member remaining to him. You, like Lute, are his nearest kin. There's much to discuss about what would be best for him, but that only happens with you there and with mutual consent." "What hidden strengths lie in that youthful creature," observed Ensore, in an under-voice to Sarehl and Sarssen. Both men nodded. Kaleb's brow cleared. He stroked the boy's cheek so the child stirred and opened sleepy eyes. They stared directly up at the healer. "What's best for him is what matters," he said in a throaty voice, then he turned his head down. "You're Yazd. Obara said we'd find you if we were only patient. You feel for me, don't you?" "Yes, Obaron," sent Kaleb. "What's your name?"

"Kaleb." "Do you think you know me?" "I do know you, Obaron. Your mother's father was my brother, so you are my family. You're especially dear to me because of that." "Will you look after me?" "In every way I can I will, child, that I promise you." "Do you live here?" "No, I live where Yazd live." "Obara said we'd be safe with the Yazd. I wish she could be here with me." "I'm sorry she died before I saw her again, Obaron. I loved your mother so very much. She was highly talented like you." Chey saw the small hand go up to the older man's face and wonderingly stroke across and down it, the touch feather-light and curious. The eyes that opened dark were Yazd translucent, wide, innocent and thickly and blackly lashed. The lashes sometimes got entangled. Chey saw comion and love in Kaleb's eyes and utter trusting relief and enchanted contentment in the boy's. Obaron's hand slid to Kaleb's mouth. "Slave?" "No. I escaped. Your mother wasn't so lucky. I tried very hard to save her." "Eluth's no more. I wish he was here." "Do you still miss him?" "He ed to me. He told me he came and he did." "Where is he now?" Obaron touched his chest and head. "Within you?" Obaron nodded. "Did Obara know?" The dark head nodded. "Does it comfort you?" "He stays the same. He doesn't change or grow with me. He just is." Obaron

curled himself round in Kaleb's lap. "So you don't miss him?" "How can I?" asked the boy, a tinkle of laughter in the childish voice. "I'm Eluth/Obaron." "Who came first?" "I'm the younger. Eluth showed me the way, but said he couldn't wait. He wasn't afraid." "And you were?" "I sensed blackness awaited me once I left Obara." "And?" sent Kaleb very, very gently. The dark head drooped. "Eluth was no more soon after I arrived. He told me he was coming to me to be with me forever. I waited. And he did. The blackness was that. I knew." "Was he deaf and mute, too?" "No." The dark head shook quite definitely. "Just deaf. I was mute." Kaleb's eyebrows shot up in a way that fascinated intrigued onlookers. "Are you saying, little Obaron, that you weren't born deaf?" "I told you," scolded a small voice. "Eluth came to me. I'm Eluth/Obaron." "Indeed," breathed Kaleb, mystified. He gave the young head a friendly tousle and got a blinding smile, before Obaron buried his head in the healer's chest. Chey leaned forward. "Are you ready to come back with me now, Obaron?" she asked, her hand held out. The dark head lifted, eyes now dark scanning her intensely. "Who wants me?" he sent through Kaleb in response. "Kher, the warlord. He wishes to speak with you again."

Obaron scrambled off Kaleb's lap and took Chey's hand. Their departure was the signal for a rush of questions directed at Kaleb. The answers he gave left the men thoughtful and not a little baffled, Kaleb most confused of all. "Deaf and mute," mused Ensore, "though only born mute. Odd." "That will be no handicap for Obaron, I can assure you," answered Sarssen, in amused tones. ~~~ Chey found Luton stretched out, a goblet in his hand and the other running through curls. Kher had a sense of immense relief. Luton's face was animated, the eyes kindling, and though it was a weary man who clambered into a chair and threw himself down with his usual graceful abandon, there was just regret for cycles lost. Now he looked across at his mate holding his son by the hand, the child's expression curious when he saw the younger man rise and come forward to meet them. Chey dropped Obaron's hand. Luton stooped to gather both the boy's hands in his trembling ones, then, when he sat, Luton pulled the boy between his knees, a hand running over the curly head so like his own. He noticed the deep reddish glow that caught the light. Kher stayed where he was. Chey unobtrusively withdrew. "Obaron," sent Luton. Obaron squirmed round so the big innocent eyes could look directly into Luton's. "You're troubled," came the soft, boyish voice. "Obara said I mustn't upset others. Have I upset you?" "No, Obaron, quite the reverse. Obaron, listen to me. I have something to tell you that you'll find difficult to understand." He paused. The silence was deafening. "There is no easy way to tell you this, boy, but you are my son." There was no response. Luton persevered. "I'm your father, Obaron. I have no doubts. You must believe I'd never have left you, never, not if I'd known you existed. Gods, boy, you're my son. How could I?" There was another long silence, then a voice that wobbled precariously entered Luton's mind, the word tremulously uttered.

"Padre?" Then Luton felt the surge of shock and incredulous delight. It was overlaid by deep confusion and anxiety that was close to sheer terror. "I'm your father, Obaron, so you need feel no fear with me. I'd never intentionally hurt you." Obaron no longer looked up. "Won't you kill me?" came the soft words. Luton's expression was bewildered. His arms went protectively round the boy, his head bent to Obaron's. "No, no, child, of course not. I know that's what was done to children at the Keep with my master. We're perhaps both lucky we're alive in the south." "I know what the master did to you," came a whispering voice. "Obara told me. The other slaves told me through sign language. So did Pic. He told me more about you last night, too. I'm sorry he hurt you so much." "He hurt you, too." "Obara said I was lucky." "Son, we need time to talk. But know now that to have found you means a great deal to me. You can't possibly know how much." "Kaleb's my family, too. He's my padran's brother. I feel you." Obaron paused. "Padre?" There was a longer pause, then, hesitantly, "You're not ashamed of me because I'm deaf and mute?" A hand crept into Luton's to be firmly and reassuringly grasped. "For cycles I was mute, Obaron, and to all those about me deaf as well in a very real sense. I think you know this. So I understand how you feel, son, nor does it affect me. In retrospect, I am glad I was that way since it now enables me to truly comprehend and communicate so easily with you. My father says I still nod and shake my head as if I were mute. You do it, too." Obaron nodded on cue, then a boyish giggle escaped him that made Luton's eyes less sombre. "And you hear in your mind, quite clearly." "Eluth said I would, Padre." Luton decided he'd pursue that at a later date, storing it in his mind for reflection. "And you can tell what people say, Obaron, can't you?" There was no answer for

a moment then a reluctant reply came. "Yes." "Most of what is said you pick up. I watch you, son, as I watched people for cycles. I still do." "Yes." "Is it purely through lips, or those speaking directly mind to mind?" "I don't know." "Can you tell me what you sense then?" "Ripples," explained Obaron, succinctly. "Ripples in the air. I pick them up when they make sense. Sometimes I miss the very beginning or the end, but mostly I know what's said." "Amazing," marvelled Luton. "And those behind you?" "That's harder. Eluth told me to move my head a certain way to catch the ripples before they went past, so I do." "And understand?" "Yes." "What do you do with the ripples?" "I don't know. Obara says they're sorted. I don't understand." "No," sent Luton, very tenderly. "Nor does it matter, son." Luton stared down at the boy nestling confidently against him, big eyes bright. His heart twisted. "Times ahead may bewilder you, little man, so you know you come to me or Chey. Or you must go to Kaleb if things get too much. Will you promise to this?" "Yes." "Then I want you to come to Kher with me."

"He's a kind man. Obara said he was. He is. He gave me a cloak when I was cold. I ." "He's my adopted father, Obaron. He is fully a Churchik. I am a Samar. He's the warlord of the Churchik and I'm now a southern warrior like my brother Beth." "Could I be one, too?" "I see no reason why not, little fellow, though you must you're half Yazd and half Samar. I was mute but I learned martial arts. Come now to the warlord." Just as Luton was about to lift the child to his feet, Obaron flung his arms about his father's neck and clung to him, the eyes suddenly black and tear-filled. The words tumbled into Luton's mind, almost swamping him. "I saw you often, mostly through Obara's memories. That was in the Keep. You were tall and thin and you never smiled. You never seemed to see any of us. You walked right past us once but you didn't look. Pic told me why. I understand. You gave Obara her essence. It made her very happy even though she was sick. She told me you didn't hurt her. She liked you I think." The sentences were short and agitated as the boy struggled with empathic emotions pouring through him and into his father. Luton blenched. If he wasn't so emotionally bound up with the child he'd have coped better with the flood of grief, terror, distress and relief. "The sorcerer whipped you. Pic told me. And he did other horrid things to you. He did things to Obara. Sometimes he made you ill. He made Obara sick, too. I hate him, hate him, hate him." The young voice reached a crescendo in Luton's mind. He gasped. "I have the boy's grief and anger, Lute," cut in a deep, calm voice. "So has Kaleb. Obaron broadcasts on a wide band. I am here. Hold to us, Lute. The child's anguish es." Sarssen's cool sense and reassuring tones made Luton give a shaken laugh. "Sarssen," he sent. "It was so unexpected." "And extraordinarily ionate," observed Sarssen, in a deliberately neutral tone. "We have you both, Lute." He sent gently. "Obaron?" "I'm here," came a subdued little voice.

"I am Sarssen. You are with me. Do you feel easier now?" "Yes," came the small voice. "Who are you?" There was the ghost of a laugh in the voice that replied, "I am the big blond warrior who called you when you first came. You turned to me. Do you ?" "Yes. Kaleb called you Monseignore." "Very good," approved the deep voice, on a rich chuckle. "Can I come to you?" The reply was prompt. "Any time, child. You may send to me, too, since you have such a broad band of talent." Sarssen gently severed the connection, aware of a curious surging probe that he quietly repulsed. Talent indeed. "Lute, the warlord waits. He is a mite disturbed. Take the child to him." Kher patiently waited. He'd just witnessed the oddest scene he'd ever seen. With Luton's mind open to him in a way that still made his mind reel at such implications for the Churchik, he watched emotions chase each other in eyes and expressions, accompanied by hand gestures, that went from father to son, all in silence. It was an uncanny experience. "He understands what you say, Father," said Luton, gently taking the boy to the warlord. "Tell him who I am," instructed Kher, pulling the boy close so he could tilt and study the young face. "I have, Father. He says to tell you your cloak kept him warm." "That is good," said Kher, smiling down into the upturned face. "I am glad I could help you just a little, boy." Obaron stretched on tiptoe to touch the jewel in Kher's forehead, then the ear-rings, the bracelets and necklaces, each one after the other, before he pointed back to Luton. The eyes changed colour rapidly. "I am a warrior lord, child, as is your father. Warriors wear jewellery." Obaron nodded across at his father, then back at the warlord, before he pointed to himself. "Yes, you are the son of a warrior." Obaron repeated the nods and

pointing. "You wish to be one, too?" The head nodded. Kher didn't laugh. He just stared down into dark eyes that were now as black as Luton's. He was taken back, abruptly, to the mountains and the plains with a slave boy who needed no voice. These eyes were as dark and eloquent. Kher read them as easily as he once read Luton's. "Why?" He bent his head to speeding fingers gesturing, pursed his lips, tried to make sense of them, then resigned himself to the need of a translator. "Son, I must learn his sign language, but for now, what does he say?" Luton went into a crouch next to them, his fingers moving rhythmically in answer to his son. They didn't mindspeak. Both nodded or shook heads. "He says Obaron is the son of a warrior, that warrior the son of a warlord. He wants us to have pride in Obara's child born of warriors." "Tell the boy we already have pride in him, son. And more, make sure he understands he is half-Samar. It is important he grows knowing that." By the time Chey returned to take the child back to Kaleb, she found Obaron gesturing freely, a smile lighting the lovely eyes that shone clear. Luton was laughing. Kher was obviously entertained and utterly charmed, the cold to the pale blueness of Churchik eyes remarkably softened and affectionate. The boy was happy. She could tell that inside, he, too, laughed. She held out her hand and guided him from the room. The boy gone, Kher studied Luton once again sprawled on the carpet. "He will bring joy that one," he commented. "It wells within as it does in you, son. I sense it will bubble from him in time." "He's unusual," assented Luton. "He speaks in an odd way of his twin. He says Eluth told him to move his head a certain way, so he could pick up ripples or waves of sound. He also says his twin told him he would hear clearly in his mind. How could newly-borns know this?" Luton chewed on his lower lip, pensively. Then he went on. "He laughs, Father, such a boyish laugh. And emotions overwhelm him. I sense Eluth in him. It's as if he absorbed a dying twin so he became two in one, though whether Eluth develops along within I don't know. Eluth's there. I'm quite certain. It's also as if they're spiritually what Dase and I are, yet we're physically separate. Eluth and Obaron aren't."

"Can you speak to the part you think is Eluth?" "I doubt it," murmured Luton. "I need to speak with Kaleb and Sarssen." "He has talent?" "Oh aye, Father," answered Luton, relapsing unaware into northern idiom. "He's highly empathic, his coming within me and ing with me as part of me, like Dase -." Luton broke off, a stunned expression on his face. "What can this be?" he whispered, helplessly. "What are you thinking, Shasah?" "Dase, Father, Dase. I swear he's a profoundly gifted empath. Dase has the ability to enter another's mind. Not just that, he has the power to become as one with the person he chooses to identify with, to be them, to see through that person's eyes. He could shape thoughts, imagination and perceptions. He could also create visual imagination, the images he evoked real and lasting, the person he was with seeing that as him or herself. And Dase has no conception of this talent that runs richly through his veins. It's his lifeblood. How he must have suffered over me, Father – oh, so very much! I wonder he didn't go mad! The gods, why haven't I stumbled on this before?" "What are you saying, son? That Dase is a mage who works minds? Has Obaron the same ability? This is too fantastic!" "Like auto-suggestion?" asked Luton. His brain whirled with the realisation of what his brother might be. "No, Father. Dase doesn't indulge in wishful thinking. Nor is he mage. His talent's intellectual and sophisticated in a way utterly different from that of a mage. It's so hard to describe. He can, if he wants, move easily in the realm of abstract thought. He can wander through the workings of another mind as if it was his own, even transmitting thought transference if he wants to. Once I thought he brooded. But he doesn't, Father, not at all. It explains the introspection. It's because he struggles with concepts he barely yet conceives but knows are there, even if he can't utilise them or fulfil them. Father, that makes Dase rare." "The quality that draws people to him," mused the warlord, contemplatively. "He has unusual charisma your twin brother, Shasah."

"We can touch minds, Father. No wonder Dase stopped at a certain point, without the ability to go further. I showed him how I was taught so we could learn to meld comfortably. Dase doesn't think that way. He rationalises quite differently and follows mental processes quite unlike my own. I've sensed some power deep inside him for a while, but this? Why couldn't I see it?" "You were struggling to find your identity as Lute of Ortok, son," explained Kher gently, "then as part of a twin relationship. It took all your time and energy to sustain and restore things to the way they were." "The way they were," mumbled Luton. "We both tried to do that, Father. It was the way we were and how we related to each other as children. But we're adults. Our talents are utterly different and our identities, shaped apart and quite distinctive, aren't the same at all. The two are one, but totally individualistic at the same time. Father, we aren't as we were. We're beyond that. The gods, but it took a child to make me see this is so. It offers us so much more and will bind us even closer over the cycles. Ah, but this gives me such joy!" Kher saw a light in the dark eyes that was beyond his ability to describe. Though he wasn't entirely sure where his son led him, he was more than willing to follow. "And Obaron, son?" "Obaron's empathic, too, but to what degree I've no idea. Time will tell. Already his ability to be acutely perceptive and receive sensations and emotions of those about him is staggering for one so young, as if -." Luton groped for words, then stared thunderstruck at the warlord, his eyes widening. "Son?" "He picks up ripples in the air about him. He can feel them, as if they touch him as they . He may see beyond himself as Sar does." He stared still, stunned. "As Sar does? What am I saying, Father? How can I know this?" It was Kher's turn to shrug helplessly. "Sar sees so far into the distance. I've seen it repeatedly. He goes beyond himself. He engenders fierce loyalty like Dase. People are sympathetic to him and amenable to his wishes, mostly for the benefit of others, as if their will is to give him pleasure. He brings out what is noblest and most honourable in all men. Have you noticed this?" Kher was thinking of the warlord's odd reaction to Sarehl.

"Yes, I have, son, now you mention it." "Gods, can he, too, be empathic, Sar radiating some attraction that's irresistible? He's always intuitively understood others. He did when we were young, effortlessly, as if he was within our very beings, communing with us and mostly comforting us. My uncle used to joke that Sar knew us all better than we knew ourselves and could read what we thought just by looking at us. He could read us after all, Father. More than that, he was with us and within us, not just in spirit." "If what you say is true, Shasah," said Kher, with a very dry throat, "then his sufferings and grief over his family must have nearly driven him mad, too, your experiences re-lived over and again." The deep voice shook with utmost comion. "The nightmares he endured for seasons after Ortok," whispered Luton. "Was it all us he experienced, day after day, for cycles on and off? And was he living Bethel's experiences with Lodestok? Father, he and Bethel are rarely bonded, in a partial, perpetual meld. His agony of mind!" Luton's voice shook. He managed, "I thank the gods Ens, Kalor and Kaleb were there for him." "He would have been more than distraught." Kher coughed. "And then when you were re-united, he had to endure it all again, did he not? And especially with Beth with whom he again suffered as he tried so hard to help him – all of you." Luton nodded. "What a most remarkable man the Strategos is, Shasah, if what you say is true." "Oh it is," murmured Luton. "In those first days of , I wasn't aware what he did and I know he has no notion of it. I've just realised he was within reassuring me, shielding me from myself and encouraging me, just as Dase tried to do, but I couldn't see what went on about me. I've so much to learn, Father, so much." "And Beth?" "No, Beth's different again. He's highly intuitive and sensitive and he'll be mage, but no, again he is quite unlike." "And Chlorien?" Luton shook his head. "Mage?" "Mage," confirmed Luton. "It seems we're all different, Father. We all have

similar gifts, but they take us along very different paths and show in each in a singular and highly individual way. If Sar and Dase are empathic, and I believe they are, they'll act quite separately, but it offers them a freedom of thought and scope beyond what any of us can imagine. It'll be inspiring. And," he added, thoughtfully, "Brue, too, is touched. I'm sure of it. I wonder what it is within Sar that drives him to the Shadowlands." "He has gone there the once?" "Yes." "But did not find what he sought?" "No," mused Luton. "No, Father. He still seeks." "Will he go back?" "He says he has to, that what he seeks he'll know once he finds it." "Like us at the Keep?" Laughing dark eyes turned up to Kher's. "As you say, Father." "And Obaron?" "The possibilities for his future are endless, Father, aren't they? It seems his natural empathic abilities were dramatically enhanced when he absorbed something from a dying twin. I don't pretend to understand." "But still only a child," cautioned Kher. "And one storm-tossed and very vulnerable, son." "Yes," agreed Luton. He lounged to the warlord to collapse at his feet. "That's why I'm glad he's here with you. You helped raise a Samar boy and youth, so you'll be able to share it again with me." Touched, Kher stroked Luton's hair, the gesture still protective. "Son, I suggest something to you." "Father?"

"I want Obaron to undergo the ceremony that confirms him as your son and signifies my acceptance. With warrior s in Caciqua and resident representatives of the great Churchik houses and major city-states still here from the last Council session, we will have enough of status to ensure it is properly done. It is helpful some of the Council have not yet left from the gathering. I do not wish to delay the ceremony." Luton looked up at his father with a twisted smile. "Father, you honoured Jonqi by taking her as your greatchild and made yourself more enemies by doing that. She is half-Churchik. Obaron has no Churchik blood." Kher heard the faint trace of anguish in the voice. His voice was calmly authoritative. "If there is dissent, son, I would rather it was open where I can see it, as I said before." "There is, Father. I sense it." "Nor am I a fool, son. My eyes stay wide open all the time and my ears do not deceive me. I know what goes on around me. If the ceremony brings clearer disaffection, so much the better." Luton had an unpleasant feeling of unease that made him give an involuntary shiver. "I don't want to be the instrument of dissent," he mumbled. "Nor do I want that, son, but for Obaron's safety such action is urgently necessary. Once his presence is known and he is recognised as your son, while he remains unmarked and unaccepted as the ruling Suldan's greatchild, he will be most seriously in danger. The warriors can forget Jonqi because she is out of sight and out of mind. A greatson, and moreover one who will be resident here as heir apparent after you, poses much more of a threat and would be quickly disposed of." "I abide by your decision, Father," answered Luton in a low voice, aware that Obaron's coming could do more than bring joy to his family. It could have far-reaching ramifications for the south, because Kher's line, that was once seen to end with the death of his natural son, solidified with his adoption of Luton, and would be even more deeply entrenched with the knowledge of a greatson. Those who may have eyed Kher's inheritance as a

foregone conclusion, as a warrior lord without an heir, would be profoundly angered and resentful. Luton prayed the premonition that made chills dance up and down his spine was unwarranted, but despite the warmness of the room he shivered. All sorts of scenarios plagued him. Kher could be enticed east, on some pretext, where he could be contained while Luton was dealt with, permanently, as would be his son. Chey would be forced to return to the desert with the half-bred daughters because to stay in Churchik lands wouldn't be an option. Warrior lords would then ensure Soji remained an exile and her inheritors of Alleghy's estates could be isolated and potentially considered unconstitutionally allowed to inherit, even if this meant war with the Sinhalien. Some warriors would welcome the opportunity for revenge. Alleghy's lands would then be divvied out among elite haskars, just as Kher's would on his demise. Ardlok would be bribed and quietened.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The next two days saw activity both in and outside Caciqua, plans made for entertainment beyond the palace abruptly curtailed. Ensore and Sarehl delayed their anticipated leaving for a little while longer. Ensore wasn't surprised when Sarehl refused to budge until he saw Obaron was comfortable about his new family and the rite of succession for a child was properly undergone. Aware of tensions within the Churchik world, both Chamah and Strategos knew their departure couldn't be put off indefinitely, especially since Luton's edginess increased rather then decreased. Ensore sensibly said the warlord had enough to cope with, without the worry of northern leaders sitting on his doorstep. Reluctantly, Sarehl acquiesced. When Ensore quietly commented that the heirs to much of Samar were also in a southern city, Sarehl came to with a jolt. Kalbeth being south was more than enough. Duty yawned widely at Sarehl. Any token resistance to leaving was stifled. He just asked Ensore to let the child be accepted in the next day and then they'd be gone. Ensore benignly agreed, but urged leaving as soon as possible. Their guard were told to be ready and on alert. Kher absently nodded in response. Secretly, Sarssen was immensely relieved the northerners would soon be beyond the possibility of trouble. He was aware of tautness to Luton's shoulders that had nothing to do with a newly-found son, and was also blindingly conscious how Obaron's appearance changed the current balance of power in central Churchik lands. Like Luton, Sarssen knew that, from the southern perspective, Kher's line had suddenly solidified where once it would've died, those with ambitions to carve up his inheritance resentful enough of Luton, let alone a small half-bred child called Jonqi. And she was half-Churchik. No one knew Obaron was half-Yazd, nor would it be publicly revealed. However, it would become rapidly known he was Samar, resembled his father, was mute and was probably half-bred as well. This was more than some could stomach. against Kher would crystallise at the thought of just how entrenched his line now was, the greatson to be resident in Caciqua and probably warrior trained, as well as taught to follow his Samar father.

What also alarmed the Churchik reactionaries, was how Samars owned vast estates in western and central Churchik lands and even some to the east that were Alleghy's. Samars seemed to be everywhere they looked. In the west was a Samar with a half-bred Samar son who'd succeed him. This Samar, Bethel, had an adopted Churchik-Yazd brother, likewise established there who also had a half-bred son, part-Shadowlander. Further north, with estates running alongside Kalbeth's, was Manas. And Haskar Manas had married a Samar woman and brought her home. They had a half-bred son and daughter. In central Churchik lands was Caciqua. It would one day be owned day by a Samar with a mongrel son and daughters. Even worse was the bitter realisation that Bensar's lands, in both central and eastern areas, were carved up between Samars and half-bred offspring. The Samar tentacles seemed to spread everywhere. The final straw was Alleghy's lands, rich and productive, being bequeathed in trust for a traitor Churchik woman's half-bred children, also allied to the house of Samar. It appeared to the disturbed Churchik that half-breeds threatened to swamp their society and corrupt it unless stopped. Sarssen sensed the rumblings. Kher gave no sign he noticed them. Luton was stressed, Kaleb wary and Bethel singularly alert as he strode about the palace and city. ~~~ As closely situated haskars arrived, to others already in Caciqua with gifts for the warlord's greatchild, Obaron settled into palace life. Pic assumed control of the child's life. The boy was made part of the nursery where Dasa-Kherin and Saribeth continued to flourish under his care. Alfar lived under Pic's eye there as well and was at school in Caciqua since the stay was longer than anticipated. Pic also never lifted a watchful eye from Kalbeth either, the boy flourishing. Sarehl's anxieties for him died. If Obaron was overcome by events or people, he simply found a lap to crawl into where he stayed, big eyes sweeping the room. No one was permitted to crowd him. He was to come to people by choice. His devotion to Kaleb stayed. Fortunately, much of the vicious cruelty and terror associated with Keep life had ed by the boy. The day to day brutality missed him, perhaps because he was sheltered by his mother and Pic who shielded and guarded him, the latter zealously.

As a Keep child, he knew crippling fear and his life as a mute was highly uncertain, but his deepest fear was of being stoned to death by the Keep guards, a routine practice with children unlucky enough to be born. Obaron shouldn't have survived. His other recurrent nightmare was of the Keep guards. They didn't murder him as expected, possibly because Malekim had left the Keep, but what they did do was etched into Obaron's brain. They dragged an abjectly terrified child to the Keep smithy, where he was flung on his back on the cobbles, spread-eagled, to watch helplessly as the smith lowered a red hot brand to his tongue. Like Luton he wasn't given an anaesthetic. Only his father could understand the anguish of being mute and unable to articulate one sound of pain throughout the whole experience. Obaron learned to implicitly trust those close to his father. He was drawn to Sarehl. He stroked the black beard and touched the facial scar, his hand lingering gently on it before he traced it the length of the face. Then he pointed to Luton and touched the beard again. Clearly he was captivated by three brothers who were so alike. He responded immediately to Sarssen. He went to him without a second thought, his guarded little mind fully open to the warrior and completely attuned as well in a fascinatingly adult way. There was no reservation with Sarssen. Obaron was curiously amused by Bethel and Kalbeth, because they were so similar yet were father and son. He pointed from one to the other, his face crinkling with smiles, the grin going from ear to ear while he contemplated them. One day when Bethel stooped to put a gentle hand to the young head, Obaron caught it and held it to his cheek. Bethel spoke out loud. "May I lift you?" Obaron nodded. As Bethel swung him in the air to face him, hands went straight to the ear-rings and necklaces. "Obaron," Bethel sent. The head jerked up from the necklaces. "You're Beth. You've not spoken in my mind before." "Do you mind?" "No, I like it. You're Padre's brother, too." "A younger one, yes. One day you'll meet Uncle Dase, your Da's twin, then

you'll see how alike brothers can be. As children your age they were identical." "Like Eluth and me?" "Just like Eluth and you," came the quick, reassuring reply. "You can call to me at any time, little fellow. I'm open to you like Sarssen." "Monseignore?" "Monseignore, yes. You laugh because Kalbeth's so like me, yes?" "Yes." "You're very like your father, too." "Am I so alike then?" "Very. Uncle Sar says you're the image of Lute as a boy." Bethel felt the squirm of pleasure. "And Kalbeth can mind meld with you, too, if you want him to." Obaron wriggled in Bethel's arms to take a closer look at Kalbeth who played the pipes with Alfar. "Kal's nearly fifteen cycles, Obaron, and, like me, is a musician. He'll become a warrior." "Why are his eyes so blue?" "Because Kal's mother had blue eyes. She was Churchik, like Jonqi's mother. Jonqi is your half-sister." "You and Padre are Samar." "Yes, that's so." Obaron put a hand against Bethel's cheek. "Like Uncle Sar and Padre, you're gentle. Obara told me to always be gentle, so I must be like you. I can't hear your music as others do, but I sense it. It's special because it touches inside, even me." "And in turn, little fellow, you make us very glad we found you." "Monseignore says you suffered like Padre." Obaron was set firmly on his feet. Bethel looked down at the shorter rebellious curls on the top of the head. They rioted and were unresponsive to constant brushing, just like his own.

"As did others, yes, Obaron, that's so." "One day I'll be warrior then no one can hurt you again." "Then I thank you," Bethel answered, gravely. Obaron eyed Kalbeth solemnly then crossed to him, tugged his arm, made the pipes fall from the musician's mouth, and stared up into the Bethel face that resembled his own. Seeing Kalbeth and Obaron so close made those there realise just how alike they were. They could've been brothers. Obaron looked very like Alfar as well. Obaron crouched next to the older boy, fingers twining, then, when Kalbeth copied him, just as fast and fluidly as learned from Pic, the pretty face showed unmitigated delight. His fingers again moved rapidly, paused, then began a third time. Kalbeth responded, then he gave a chuckle and swept the boy into his arms. Obaron touched his face then pointed to Bethel. Kalbeth grinned roguishly at his father's look of enquiry. "He says, Pater, they tell him his face is most like ours and Alfar's, but he thinks we're much too pretty to be men." Gales of laughter met this. Bethel replied, "Tell him, son, very pretty men make fine warriors." From Kalbeth, Obaron turned to Ensore. The quiet man attracted him. He liked to stare into smiling grey eyes that often twinkled at him. He was a most endearing child. After two days, during which they'd eyed each other, he and Alfar finally began to do things together. ~~~ And whilst Obaron identified with those about him, Kaleb and Sarssen discussed his gifts, both men acutely conscious of the urgent need to train him in the proper use of those talents. Until Obara's death, his mother had done very well by a son so greatly gifted, but the uncontrolled rushes of empathic power spoke of a need now. It was decided that Kaleb, if Kher was agreeable, would take up residence at Caciqua for the first cycle of the boy's life there, so teaching could begin in earnest. It also meant Kaleb could coach a child who could read and write but

little else. Obara's resources were sorely limited. Asked about Obaron's talent, Sarssen didn't agree the child's talent should be damped in the way Jonqi's was, the warrior calmly pointing out, to both Kaleb and Luton, that this was Obaron's way of communicating. Jonqi was also seer. To remove or dampen Obaron's abilities could incalculably damage him, possibly irreparably. Kher was amenable, though he expressed doubt about Kaleb's contentment in an alien environment that could be stressful. Kaleb stayed untroubled. "I understand your reservation, my lord, but I assure you I'll adjust. Sarssen suggests I not be called Adept, since that's known only to a few. He thinks I should be Seignore to everyone unless, of course, I'm already called Kaleb." "Sensible," approved Kher, smiling thoughtfully. "Call me Kher," he invited. Kaleb stretched out a hand in friendship. "I'm Kaleb," came the simple response. ~~~ The day for the ceremony dawned clear but very cold. Autumn was well advanced, winter not far behind. Emil's nerves were on the fret at so many warrior retinues scattered about, his resources stretched to the limit. Obaron was surprisingly calm, the little face unworried and more curious than anything else. Luton and Sarssen carefully schooled him so he knew, when it came to taking oaths, he said them in mindspeak that would be translated, the boy nodding in response. None knew he was deaf, nor would they. The boy was prepared quickly and efficiently. Looking at the child, Sarssen again saw a similar boy thus prepared, only that boy was for the warlord's pleasure. When the dark curls were dusted with powder Obaron sneezed exactly as Bethel had done. Sarssen sighed. His hands trembling slightly, Obaron drank from the cup the warrior held down to him. "Good boy," sent Sarssen. Clear eyes looked up as Obaron drained the cup then darkened. The boy swayed. "Steady, boy. Take my hand." He drew the boy close and sat, the boy rested against him while he waited for the

bell that would summon them to the ceremony. Sarehl and Ensore hadn't seen full Churchik ritual clothing for a ceremony such as this. They thought it was impressive, but quite daunting, when Bethel and Luton came into the room. "Lad, you both look the part," Sarehl drawled. "I've not seen that dress before. Is yours the full haskar, Beth?" Bethel nodded, before he crossed to Ensore to give the laughing Chamah a playful shake. "Just wait until you sight the assembled haskars, Sar," he advised. "Lute and I may stand out in here, but beside them we're dwarfed. They can be quite overpowering." "Beth's right," added Luton. "You were badly frightened by them at your ceremony, weren't you, Beth?" "Yes," responded Bethel honestly. "I was." "With cause." Luton glanced at his elder brother. "See for yourself, Sar." Though Ensore and Sarehl couldn't attend the ceremony and it was Bethel's first actual witnessing, they did see the massing warriors. Though he'd not it it, a chill played up and down Ensore's spine at the sight of them. He might have jested with the brothers, but, like Sarehl, he was quiet and pensive as he took in the sheer physical power of these southern men, then, when Kher swept across to address some of them, the two northmen felt the raw strength that characterised the warlord. Like Lodestok before him, though different, he exuded it. Ensore thought Bethel looked young and fragile among them. That bothered him. It worried him to see Luton come beside the warlord, because he, too, looked so slender and somehow unnervingly vulnerable. The Chamah felt decidedly uncomfortable. He was about to turn away, when he became aware of another presence and glanced around to see Sarssen stride calmly past, a boy clutching his hand. As the black robed figure swept from view, both men let out a breath. They felt the aura of authority as the warrior went by. The ceremony ed without a hitch, though Sarssen often had to enter the young mind to reassure Obaron, the boy's empathic powers such that he sensed emotions even through the istered drug. He picked up shock and hostility

at his muteness, but before that he sensed incredulity and resentment that made his young mind waver. Sarssen steadied him. The formalities over, a boy was taken to bed. Pic attended to him and stayed by him, the boy's hand in his. Though invited to the subsequent festivity the northerners prudently declined, aware their presence would be inadvisable and unnecessarily antagonistic and provocative. A glint of an appreciative smile was in the warlord's eye at the explanation and he accepted it without demur or comment. Kher went back to the huge entertaining hall where dancers and musicians entertained and wine flowed freely. Celebration was in the finest Caciqua tradition. Bethel was with the musicians, lazily watching the acrobats and dancers, estibe to one side of him and pipes to the other. As bard he'd already been called on and obliged to applause and stamps for more. Aware he'd get no rest, he thought back to Kher's unmitigated delight at the suggestion he set up a bard school in the south. The warlord's was unequivocal. Bethel thought he needed bard apprentices just so he could get some rest on occasions such as these. Thinking that, he drank. Luton danced with Chey. Kher sat flanked at high table by his closest haskars, those near enough to grace Caciqua for the celebration. Some, including Esok and Caleik, as well as eastern haskars, were close enough at hand, these warrior lords either west on business, or recently at a High Council gathering. ~~~ So Sarehl, Ensore and Kaleb sat ensconced in a small private sura, in front of a fire, hot spiced liquid in their tankards and books in their hands as they relaxed in comfort. Kalbeth lounged with them, Bethel's instructions he wasn't to wander alone with so many warriors about carefully heeded. His blue eyes closed sleepily while he stared at the fire. Sarehl lifted his head to study the sprawled, lanky figure, so like the twins before the assault on Ortok, his mind on Alfar and the way his son would have to be handled on the return north. The door was unceremoniously flung open. Pic entered, tears writhing down his black cheeks. Kalbeth was instantly awake. He responded to Pic's urgently jerky hand gestures, his concentration on fingers desperately sending a message of despair and anger. Kalbeth's fingers twined in the effort at communication. Sarehl blessed the boy for having taken the time and trouble to learn from the

big black man. The men were anxiously alert. "Gods!" translated Kalbeth, going white. "He says Obaron's gone." He waited. "Sar, he's been taken from his bed. Pic was called away. He says he was told he was wanted in the stables for something to do with Uncle Lute at the other side of the palace. It took him a while to get there. When he did, he was told no one sent for him. Obaron's chamber's nearest the door. Mist was with the girls and Alfar because he'd expect Pic was still watching Obaron. When Pic returned the boy was gone and the guards were dozy by the door." "Get Sarssen!" snapped Ensore, all lethargy gone. Alarm stiffened him as he rose precipitately to cross to Pic and tried to offer words of comfort. Pic just collapsed on the floor, his head in his hands. Kaleb stood, quite white, stricken. Ensore next went to him, an arm down around stooped shoulders as he spoke quietly and reassuringly. He turned when Kalbeth spoke. "Da, I'm going to the nursery chambers. Perhaps we can get some clues there." Sarehl watched Kalbeth run from the sura then crossed to the huge mute, touched him gently on the shoulder, smiled at him with an effort and showed, by hand signals, that Pic was to accompany them as they hastily followed the boy. They entered Obaron's chamber, to stand silently surveying the roughly flung back furs. Pic stormed, grief-stricken, from one end of the chamber to the other. At the same time Kalbeth found Mist who crossed to the boy, held him firmly and listened to the broken words tumbling in agitation. Kalbeth began to cry. "What?" spat Mist, trying to collect his scattered wits as he got the gist of Kalbeth's words. He grasped Kalbeth's hand and moved quickly through the rooms until he found Sarehl, Ensore and Kaleb, Pic still raging backwards and forwards. He spoke without preamble. "My lords, we have something to worry about. Please come with me." They found Alfar wide-eyed and frightened, but the twins still safely asleep. Sarehl took Alfar in a strong hold. Ensore had his hand on a knife hilt. Kaleb looked ill and deeply shaken. He was suddenly an old man. Mist glanced cursorily round him then at the men. "Kal and I'll go for help. I ask you to remain here with Pic."

Mist strode from the room with Kalbeth in tow, his voice peremptorily calling for the palace guard. They came, at a run. Terse orders had them stare up at the Cartokian uncertainly, then shrug and mount guard outside the nursery. Kalbeth and Mist reached the great hall that lived up to its name. Kalbeth hovered indecisively at the entrance, aware his presence would fuel unwelcome comment and a probable severe cuff or two. He strained to see a familiar familial face. He couldn't see Sarssen, nor his father, Luton was out of sight as well and only Kher was visible. The boy quailed from attracting undue attention to the warlord. He stood in an agony of indecision. Mist didn't want to cause upset either. "Pater," Kalbeth finally sent helplessly, urgency in the sending, blue eyes still desperately searching to see beyond black cloaks and blond hair. He twined his fingers in his hair in exactly the same way Bethel did when he was anxious or worried. "Son," came the immediate response. "Where are you, Kal?" "At the entrance. Pater, Pater, please come." "You're seriously distressed." This time the deep voice was sharper. "Why, Kal?" "Obaron," sent Kalbeth. "Pater, Obaron's been taken. He's missing from his bed." There was a long silence, then a cold voice sent, "Well done, Kal. Go to his rooms. Ask Sar, Ens and Kaleb to meet me there. You stay with them, boy. Is that understood?" "Yes, Pater." "Watch yourself going there, Kal. There are shadows everywhere." "I will, Pater. I have my knives." "Send for Mist, son. That's an order." "He's here with me." "Good. Go now. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Kalbeth turned and ran, Mist, sword in hand, at his heels. ~~~ Anger swept over Bethel. He sat still, his mind at fever pitch whilst he considered all possibilities and the best action to take. He certainly had no intention of creating a disturbance or of giving any clues to warriors, who might be involved, that a carefully laid plan was discovered. He sent to Sarssen, but very judiciously and on a narrow band only the warrior could pick up. It would act as a warning. "Yes, little brother," sent back the warrior, instantly. "What is the matter?" "Obaron," sent Bethel. "He's been taken, Sarssen. How can I get away from this very public setting? The gods, but everyone can see me displayed as I am." "Make your way to Kher, Beth, as if you plan to sing for him. Take your estibe, then stand quietly to one side until I you again. Tune the instrument, anything, just delay as long as you can." Bethel sent confirmation, picked up his estibe, casually plucked a string so hard it snapped, then rose in a leisurely way to make his way to high table. There he paused and bowed, lifted the estibe, then made a disgusted exclamation at apparently discovering the broken string. He stood to one side of the table and fumbled in his pocket for a replacement string, his eyes lifting briefly to the warlord's then dropping. At first Kher missed the look. The second time he got it and blinked, then a third and a fourth time. He was alarmed. This was very un-Beth behaviour. For the young warrior to hold his look so deliberately could only mean he tried to convey a message. Kher went rigid, suddenly aware something must be very wrong indeed. When he saw Sarssen affably approach, genuflect genially to left and right and exchange light conversation and banter, he knew something was very seriously amiss. He tensed. When Sarssen got closer, Kher saw the eyes glittered with unusual brilliance and the face, despite the smile, was set as a rigid mask. His heart hammered uncomfortably. "Yes, Haskar?" he asked, between his teeth.

"A late arrival, my lord. It seems an ambassador has belatedly managed to make at least the celebrations, if not the ceremony. I thought you might wish to personally greet and welcome him, my lord. He has been escorted to the principal sura. He asks after both you and your greatson. I am sure it will not take much of your time." Sarssen swept a magnificent bow to those at the high table. "Perhaps Shasah may feel it would be courteous to welcome him also. Mahdian ambassadors can feel affronted unless they are met with all the correct pomp." "Quite so," said Kher grimly, iring Sarssen's easy grace and effortless tact. He rose and turned to those at high table. "It might be best to cause as little offence as possible," he said, managing to achieve a jocularity of tone he was far from feeling. He watched Sarssen efface himself and when he looked for him again, the haskar was gone as though he'd never been there. With light-hearted drollery, Kher took the bantering and comments on an ambassador behaving in such a shabby way, then glanced casually over at Bethel who still struggled with a recalcitrant string. Since the warlord had seen Bethel re-string the estibe numerous times and had always ired the precision and speed with which it was done, he could only be appreciative of the young man's attempt to dissemble. It looked very convincing. "Sorien, put that thing aside for a few moments, would you, and find my son and the Karina. Tell them to meet me outside the hall so we can meet the Ambassador together. My lords," he said, turning to the haskars at table. "Enjoy the food and entertainment, I beg of you. I shall return as quickly as possible. I would not want to miss such elaborate festivities for my greatson." From the corner of his eye, Kher saw Bethel move rapidly towards Luton, saw him stoop, watched his son rise with a set face and quietly escort Chey from the hall. Bethel seemed to dither, than disappeared with a dancer. Kher strode in a leisurely way, touched shoulders, greeted, laughed and jested, until he reached the entrance. He looked grey. Outside he saw Sarssen, Bethel, Kaleb, Luton and Chey. Fury and distress warred in Luton's eyes, shocked anguish in Kaleb's and near despair in Chey's. "What happens?" demanded Kher, his eyes slits of ice. The voice chilled. He

swung to Sarssen. The uneasy silence was broken. "Obaron, my lord. The child has been taken from his bed." Kher fell silent, hands clenched. He watched Chey curl her fingers round Luton's hand. "Be comforted, Chey," went on Sarssen, calmly. "The boy cannot be very far." He strode across to Kaleb. "That applies to you, too, my friend. You have had a severe shock." "I'll go with you." "No," said Sarssen, with a definite shake of the head. "You do not ride as we can do. You would hold us back." "Gods, is the child dead?" "Not yet, I think," answered Sarssen. "If death was all they intended, we would have found the boy executed in his bed. No, he should be alive." He didn't add that it was only a question before that, or a worse fate, awaited the boy. "Dear gods!" whispered Kaleb, through gritted teeth. "Bring that child back alive." "I intend to." Sarssen turned on the words and went back to Kher. "My lord, excuse me." Kher stood with his hand on Luton's shoulder, turned and simply nodded, his face drained and ashen. He noticed Bethel had disappeared on his appearance at the entrance. "My lord, I suggest Chey goes with Kaleb. He needs her now. May I speak with you alone?" Kher glanced at Luton and got a mute nod. "What is it?" "I will take Pic, my lord. Obaron trusts him where he will be deeply disoriented and afraid of everyone else." "Is he alive?" "I hope so, my lord. I have no reason to believe he is not." Sarssen paused. "One other thing, my lord." "Yes?"

"Sarehl and Ensore should be readied for immediate departure on our return. It seems as if what some have suspected begins, so I would doubt their safety under such circumstances." "That makes sense," agreed Kher, colour returning to his cheeks. "A northwards push, my lord," went on Sarssen, quietly, "should also include Lodrin, Chey and the twins, as well as Obaron." He saw shocked realisation in the pale eyes. "It might be wise for Mist to begin unobtrusively sorting for that eventuality, my lord. I merely suggest. They will be well cared for with the Samar/Dahkilan guard and Ensore's elite guard also accompanies them. It means we need divert none of our own troops who may be required." Kher just nodded bleakly. Luton approached them, his face white and drawn. "Is he alive, Sarssen?" Sarssen's nostrils quivered. "He is heavily drugged, Lute, but try and see if he will respond." He saw the answer in Luton's eyes before he saw the shake of the head. "Then go and get Oblique saddled, boy. There is no time to waste. And Iscus as well." "They're ready," said a voice beside the warrior. "I've also found a stallion for Pic if he comes with us." Sarssen turned to study a beautiful face set so sternly he barely recognised Bethel. Luton had seen that look the night Sarssen was attacked. There was no softness in the eyes. They were coldly black. "Come, Lute." Sarssen gave Luton a push. "I ride with you," said Bethel, coolly ignoring a stare from the warlord. He put an arm about his brother to guide him from the great hall and vestibule. Sarssen turned back to Kher. "My lord, I know this will be hard for you, but it is imperative none suspect anything is wrong." "Leave it to me," said Kher, a perfectly ghastly twist to his lips that made his smile a grotesque travesty. "Just bring them back alive. I want those men." ~~~

It was difficult to comprehend what had happened to Obaron. From the Churchik point of view, it was unthinkable for a child who'd undergone such an important ritual and ceremony to be snatched immediately afterwards. Such a breach of etiquette was appalling and profoundly disturbing. It had never happened before. That such a challenge should be made to a duly elected and ruling warlord made it a heinous crime. It could lead to bloodshed, the one thing Kher had tried for cycles to avoid. After Sarssen left him, Kher went to Obaron's chambers, there to confront Sarehl, Ensore and Kalbeth, the boy openly crying, his head against Sarehl's shoulder. Ensore went forward. "Kher, we're shocked. Can we help?" "No." Kher sat on the bed to fidget with the furs. "Sarssen makes a suggestion I consider you should follow since your safety becomes paramount. He asks that you prepare yourselves for immediate departure, so you can be gone as soon as Obaron returns. He also asks that you escort all the children to Dahkilah, Ensore, until we know what occurs in the south. That includes Saribeth and Kherin, as well as your sons, Sarehl, because we cannot guarantee Lodrin's safety either. Lodrin, you will stay with others until I see you out of Caciqua. Chey must also go to be with the children. Sarehl, where is Alfar?" "In the nursery with the girls. Pic's with them." "No, he is not. Pic has gone with the warriors. Lodrin, you will stay in the nursery with the little ones. Mist has work to do there, so with him you should be safe enough, though there will be a double guard placed about your quarters. Sarehl, I ask that you and Ensore remain with Kaleb in Lute and Chey's quarters, another area that will be guarded. The healer is in deep shock. For this to happen to the only remaining member of his family is highly distressing and unforgivable. You will oblige me over this. Believe me when I say I know what can happen among my own kind." He turned his head, then glanced back. "Do not worry about your belongings. All will be in readiness for your departure." He saw a slave appear at the door with a loaded tray. "Over there!" nodded Kher curtly, watching the woman settle the tray nervously. "Now summon Sarat Lodrin's guard and Haskar Emil, immediately." He rose on the words and began to stride restlessly about in a way that showed

considerable suppressed agitation and anger. Mist's appearance coincided with Emil's, the warrior standing back for the Cartokian. They were briefed and both stood frozen, personified wrath. "Come then, Kal," Mist said, authoritatively. "Leave the children to me, my lord. They'll be ready on the order. You'll go to bed, Kal, to get some sleep for a very long ride ahead." "I can't sleep," protested Kalbeth. "If I give you something you can't resist you will, my lad," returned Mist, striding forward and grasping the boy's wrist. He propelled him forward, then saw the tearstained face. An arm went round the thin shoulders. "Now then, lad, the boy's safe if the warrior's after him. Mark my words. I wouldn't want him after me." "Neither would I," said Ensore, soberly. He watched Mist quietly escort the boy from the sura. "Emil, guards doubled on the nursery and environs and also about Shasah's suites. You will escort the Strategos and the Chamah there now, where you should find the healer and the Karina. The children and the Saratquanta will be leaving for the north as soon as Obaron returns. Probably the healer, Seignore, as well. Is that clear?" "Distinctly, my lord." Emil ground his teeth. "And find out what in the hells is going on in my city. I want answers and I want them quickly, Emil." "Yes, my lord." "And no one," added Kher, so silkily Sarehl and Ensore jumped with the inherent threat, "leaves the city until I have those answers. Lock the gates." "My lord." Kher looked over the two men with something of a fierce smile. "I must return to my guests, you understand." Sarehl nodded, tiredly. "You will kindly go with Emil. Your needs will be attended to. I wish you good evening for the time being. Maybe you, too, should try to get some rest."

He was gone on the words.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Going to the eastern wing stables, Luton and Bethel arrived to find Pic already mounted on a huge black charger. They took their reins from slaves and wordlessly mounted. In Luton, shock had given way to a depth of fury he'd not felt before. He'd known shattering fear. Now bitter rage consumed him, the way he flung himself on Oblique eloquent testament to that. The stallion reacted and had to be abruptly quietened. Once outside the eastern gates, it was easy to see where horses had gathered there in a waiting knot, the ground soft so hoof-marks up to the city walls were clearly distinguishable. So were the prints they followed, though these petered out not far from the city. The easy canter gave way to hard galloping. Sarssen rode instinctively, the others following his lead. The warrior knew the riders went east where most disaffected warrior lords lived. Few elite haskars made the effort to come to Caciqua, most only sending a representative or two, and he judged the boy would be kept alive long enough to put pressure on Kher to accept certain uncompromising demands. The child would be tortured before that, if not already, and whether demands were met by the warlord or not, Obaron's chances of escaping worse were remote. The thought of what faced the boy at warrior hands made Sarssen's eyes narrow. Obaron would be terrified enough when he came to now. The land was difficult for the pursuers though Sarssen seemed to have no problem choosing a path that twisted and backed on itself every so often. It was still light but wouldn't be for many more hours at this time of the cycle. Time was precious. The land was a series of flat-topped hills interlaced with canyons of various width and depth, and boulder-strewn at unexpected times. They often broke into open rolling land. Here the ground was still baked hard and absolutely barren of anything but red rock and dusty sand. There was a strong, cold easterly wind that chilled the riders to the bone. That worried Sarssen. A drugged child would become chilled very quickly. For nearly two hours they rode fast, alternately galloping then trotting or walking the horses, before the pace was picked up again. There was no conversation. Topping a rise, Sarssen reined in and dismounted in one

movement. From here it could be seen the land had flattened out so much they could see, far distant, faint plumes of dust that most likely belonged to men fleeing east with a captive boy. Sarssen tried sending to Obaron again, but, as before, there was no response, so he could only assume the boy's captors had dealt roughly with him and the child was currently unconscious. After a short break, Sarssen remounted and made his horse plunge down the slope, the stallion slithering in loose rock that followed him as he reached the bottom. Sarssen waited for the others to follow, single file. "They are not riding as fast as we are," Sarssen called out to Luton. Bethel heard. "They obviously do not anticipate an early pursuit." "More fools them," came the very cold response. Sarssen took a quick look at an unyielding profile when Luton drew level with him, and judged the warriors who'd taken Obaron would find Luton unforgiving when he caught up with them. Again they rode in silence. The light began to fade quite quickly in a way that slowed them from their breakneck speed, caution required when light was poor. They knew they gained on their quarry. Within another two hours it was dark. It was so black nothing about them was distinguishable, the lantern dangling from the chest of each horse enough to give a vague outline of where each rider was in relation to the one in front, but it was hopeless as a guide since it wasn't steady. Even so, they crept inexorably forward. Each man was wrapped in his thoughts about what awaited them, anxiety for one small boy paramount. Suddenly, Sarssen slowed his horse to a very small step, then a halt. He slipped from the saddle, took a flask from a saddlebag and tipped water from it into a cupped hand that he held to his horse's mouth. He repeated the gesture several times. The others found flasks, too, and copied him. He stamped holding pegs into the ground. So did they. Other than Oblique, none of the horses would've moved, sweating as they were and trembling with fatigue. They felt cloths rubbed over them, even as their nostrils were clipped hard shut to prevent a whinny. Meditatively, Oblique lipped Luton's ear-ring. "Soon we'll have to wrap cloth about their hooves," said Sarssen, sharply. "They should be in saddle bags. Did you , Beth?" "Yes," came the quiet response.

They remounted and rode again, this time much more slowly and warily, but with every mile they knew they drew nearer to their quarry. Sarssen was calm. He kept any emotion under control in a way that enabled Luton to do the same. They rested the horses again, watered them, then, with a curt order, Sarssen watched all men draw cloth from saddlebags. Pic followed everything Luton did, down to the last detail, then straightened with a grin that showed white teeth in the darkness. It was difficult to swathe hooves in the pitch blackness, the men cursing and muttering imprecations as cloth came off or bindings unwound. "Give the horses another ten minutes," suggested Sarssen quietly, eyes straining to see into the distance. "I imagine our warrior friends are not so very far ahead. I judge they will have stopped to briefly make camp for about an hour or so. They neither sense nor anticipate a close pursuit. They will also want to check on the boy. Can you reach him yet, Lute? I cannot." He saw Luton shake his head. Dread at what the warriors might choose to do to Obaron for an hour's entertainment appalled Sarssen and spurred him to order a resumption of the pursuit. It wasn't long before they found those they sought. The land out here wasn't as harsh as near Caciqua, and, though the lie of it was uneven, it was grassy with scrubby bushes clustered together that dotted the landscape. In spring it was a picture. Now it was cold and bleak come the end of autumn. Sarssen picked eight warriors, something instantly confirmed by Bethel. Luton just thought of his son, his sending constant. The lack of response made him go hot and cold. His hands were clammy, the back of his blouse and doublet wet, and his cheeks, unseen in the blackness, blanched. Indeed a halt had been made, but obviously not for long because stakes holding the horses weren't driven in firmly and were guarded by one warrior. The other seven ate and drank, but those in pursuit sensed they weren't at ease. Sarssen called a halt and dismounted. Through Luton, he ordered Pic to accompany him. The brothers were told to remain. Neither thought of disobeying. Pic was so black, all you could see of him was his teeth if he smiled, or the whites of his eyes. Since he wasn't smiling and moved his huge frame surprisingly fluidly, he was an asset to Sarssen, falling to his stomach at the

warrior's hand signal and inching his way forward at a crawl. About ten yards from the makeshift camp, Sarssen stopped, his glance going from one warrior to another to sort out who they were. There didn't appear to be a child with them, nor with the warrior guarding the horse. Inwardly, Sarssen groaned and began to back cautiously. He edged further back, away from the resting warriors, to where the horses were. He paused and sent gently. "Obaron. Obaron." He got a faint, disoriented cry. "Obaron," he sent again. "Boy, it is Monseignore. It is Sarssen. Can you send to me, little one?" "Monseignore!" came another fainter cry. Then a flood of sheer, uncontrolled terror struck at Sarssen. "Gently, boy, gently. Listen to me, Obaron. Where are you? Are you near the warriors, or near the horses?" A panicked response met that. "No sight, no sight." Sarssen's stomach lurched at the possible implication of such sinister words. "What do you mean, child?" "Eyes closed. Monseignore! Monseignore!" The wave of unutterable terror came again. "He'll kill me! He'll kill me!" "Are you tied up, boy?" There was an affirmative to that. "Damn!" said Sarssen, softly. "Obaron." There was no response. "I am crawling to where I think you might be, child. When you sense I am close, send to me to guide me, Obaron. Do you understand?" There was still no response, so Sarssen began to edge forward, Pic close behind. The pair crawled very slowly and silently, but still making enough noise for the horses to scent them, whinny and begin to snort and stamp. The warrior looked round, crouched offensively, then, seeing no one, eased back. It was all he did. Sarssen was on him and slit his throat before the warrior had the chance to move. Sarssen cleaned and sheathed his knife in one swift movement, before he was on all fours again and crawling, this time between the dead warrior and a large clump of bushes. He prayed his guess the boy lay there was correct, because soon enough the alarm would go up.

"Obaron?" Pain caught Sarssen and made him wince, the boy clearly hurt. The fear was so deep it was physically hurtful, like a knife plunged into a vital organ. "Am I closer to you?" He got a faint answer and edged at a sharper angle to the bushes in response. "Monseignore! Monseignore!" The young mind was so distraught, Sarssen flinched, conscious he'd have to temporarily block the boy once he got to him. His broadcasts were very powerful. Sarssen finally reached the bushes. A hand groped round and touched nothing. It went through the bushes and met with no success. Sarssen crawled further, his hand sweeping an arc in front of him, just beyond the last bush. He touched Obaron with a sense of relief. Just as he did, he froze, because he heard someone returning to the horses, the voice a deep, merry one that laughed. "I will get the mute half-breed," came the cheerful promise. Sarssen sent sharply to Luton and Bethel. "Now! I have Obaron. Take the warriors. There is one here we shall deal with. Go!" The curt command was obeyed. Then the warrior gestured to Pic and showed, by hand movements, what he wanted the big man to do. Pic nodded comprehension, came to a crouch and waited. The warrior coming for Obaron never knew what uncoiled in front of him. The man only saw a flash of white about a face that met his, before huge hands choked the life out of him where he stood. Only the weakest squeak escaped him before his eyes bulged and he crumpled. When Sarssen heard the yelled oaths, he knew the brothers had come down on the resting warriors. With a grim little smile, he eased his bulk under the furthest clump of bushes, his hand still in with Obaron so he could gently pull the boy out through the shrubs, the long legs at all angles, and into the open. He carried the child close to one of the horses, so he could get some erratic light from the flickering lantern hanging about the animal's neck. He drew in his breath. The scarf tied across the eyes was torn away to reveal eyes black and wild with terror.

"It is Monseignore, Obaron. You are with me and safe. I have Pic here who will take you to safety." Again, there was no response. Sarssen saw no sense in the eyes at all. Quietly, he undid the ropes that bound the wrists, aware as he did this that the boy's face was badly cut, ear-rings literally torn from the young ears, necklaces gone, as were rings and bracelets. The implanted stone in the upper forehead was knifed out. The wound still bled profusely from rough gouging, the blood dripping down the child's ashen face. Such treatment was only recently received. The night-robe hung in wispy tatters because Sarssen could tell, without looking, the boy was thoroughly beaten. The robe tatters were bloodstained. The boy shivered with shock. His wrists bled, too. They'd been deliberately cut in the form known as urdey, that telling the warrior all he needed to know about what was proposed for Obaron. Gorge rose to Sarssen's throat. Quickly, he stripped off the remnants of the robe. Wrenching off his cloak, he wound it securely round the child and tied it with his outer belt. He then carefully drew up the hood that he kept in place about the small head by tucking the surplus hood under the belt as well. Obaron would be kept warm. Sarssen fumbled at his waist belt where he carried a hip flask, unstoppered it and held it to the boy's mouth. He deliberately tilted it so the boy, held in a very firm grip and confined by folds of cloak, couldn't fight and had to swallow. Sarssen watched the boy's struggles stop. "Obaron," he sent, softly. "Obaron. It is Monseignore. Look at me, little fellow." Black eyes snapped open and stared up, unrecognisingly. Without hesitation, the warrior locked eyes with the child and entered the chaotic mind. He closed it down. "Kaleb will deal with you, young one," he murmured, closing the flask and securing it with one hand. Obaron was held in the other. He turned to the waiting Pic and held Obaron out to him. Grasping Obaron very close, Pic watched the warrior's hand gestures, nodded, smiled and moved swiftly away into the darkness. Sarssen waited in a crouch for whoever else came for the boy because he assumed one would try to escape with the booty. He was right. He didn't have long to wait. When a form strode cursing towards him, he uncoiled and went into a fighting stance. "Who the gods are you?" snarled a deep, infuriated voice.

"Never mind who I am," came the deeper voice. Sarssen lunged. "I have taken the boy. That is all you need to know." There was an enraged growl before the warrior closed with Sarssen, his knife out and ready, other sounds of fighting and yelling not too far away. Neither man took any notice. Dark conditions like these made fighting extremely hazardous, especially between warriors brought up to kill. Sarssen finally only turned his head after quite a struggle that saw him straighten stiffly, retrieve his knife, clean then sheath it. He stared down at his fallen adversary. The warrior had given a very good of himself. He bent to the body at his feet, stared morosely at it, then, without fuss, removed the identifying ring from a limp right hand and the necklace that denoted warrior allegiance and status. The necklace, granted to every warrior by a warlord as his birthright, was left. Sarssen considered what he held in his hands, then pocketed the jewellery and crossed to the first man he killed and to the one strangled by Pic. He removed their jewellery, too. Then he walked slowly through the dark towards the sounds that echoed oddly across the wind. He also couldn't hear hoof-beats, so knew Pic was well away with the boy. He looked very relaxed. He found Luton occupied with two warriors who circled him and Bethel likewise busy. A body close to Sarssen was, he assumed, a corpse. With his graceful walk he went to assist Bethel who fought with considerable agility and ease, his smile across at the warrior an inviting one. Sarssen wasted no time. Kher might want the warriors alive, but he knew what faced them, and, treacherous though they may be, he didn't envy them their fate. Death now was preferable. Bethel looked up, read Sarssen's thoughts, backed from one warrior to engage the other and watched the warrior confront him again, determination in the pale eyes. Those from the east now knew who their attackers were. Sarssen took little time to overpower his opponent who was already injured, and offered the coup de grace with a flashing sword that went home. Bethel's adversary was wounded and fell to his knees. "Finish me," he gasped, staring up at Bethel. "That is the warlord's prerogative," muttered Bethel, about to move back when he saw Sarssen despatch his warrior. He blinked then stared down into eyes that asked him to be merciful. He knew this was only a young beduar, sent to do

older haskars' dirty work. With gritted teeth, he obliged. Sarssen sauntered over to Luton who fought in the white heat of anger, his sword thrust home in the nearest warrior, before he turned on the other who tried to back from him, slipped, and felt Sarssen's knife slide fluidly through his back. It wrenched up and then out. The warrior fell where he stood. "I wanted him," ground out Luton. "He fell back against me," explained Sarssen apologetically, a whimsical note to his voice that brought round Luton's head. "Such a shame for you." Bethel's muted laugh made the fury fade from Luton's eyes and he stood, uncertainly, a shaking and bloody hand to his forehead. "Sarssen." He let his hand drop, the sword rested on the ground. "Obaron?" "Stand still, Lute, and drink some of this. You, too, are understandably in shock." Again, Sarssen unclasped the flask at his waist and held it out. "Drink," he encouraged. He watched Luton obey, the hand taking the flask trembling so much the young man could hardly drink. The orlos laced with mead made him gasp, but at Sarssen's nod he bravely took another mouthful. The bewildered look in his eyes faded and he rubbed at his face. "Thank you. Obaron?" He looked about him. "Father wanted them alive," he whispered. "Are they all dead?" "It seems so," answered Sarssen, laconically. "You are a devil with a sword, Lute, you know. They will write sagas about this night, yes, Beth?" "Possibly," murmured Bethel, distastefully surveying the carnage. "Where's Pic?" "Sent on ahead with Obaron." Sarssen looked hard at Luton. "He is alive, Lute. The boy is hurt and needs to be got to the palace. Pic is very intelligent and follows what you tell him quite easily. He learned the route we took here and will follow it back exactly."

"How's he hurt?" asked Luton curtly, roughness masking deep concern. "Superficial I hope, Lute. Lacerations, jewellery gone, probable bruising, and he's been beaten as you'd expect." "Gods, the little fellow didn't deserve that." "No," agreed Sarssen, "he did not." He surveyed the mess about him. "I know it is dark, but these men cannot just be left out here to rot despite what they were sent to do. None, as far as I can see, are more than beduar, so they are mere pawns in a larger game, and, as such, deserve some sort of decent disposal. Let us deal with that first, then we have a number of horses to lead as well. I will remove the jewellery. Sheath your sword, Lute. You, too, Beth. There is work to do and swords will not do it for us." The cool authority had the brothers respond automatically. Bethel was horribly reminded of a day spent scouring a battlefield for the corpses of fallen warriors. Resolutely, he pushed the thought to one side and crossed to help Sarssen lift a fallen warrior. ~~~ Meanwhile, Pic rode hard, conscious he could be pursued and not willing to chance it. He knew exactly the way he was taken as though the route was a map inside his head. He didn't deviate from it by so much as a yard, a performance quite remarkable at any time but especially so in pitch darkness. Nor did he once falter. He only rested twice and that was for the horse that stood limply, taking water and grateful for a wipe down and a rest. Obaron slept, the richly laced orlos on top of the severity of shock knocking the child sideways. It was in the early hours of the morning that a call went up from the eastern gate sentries that a single rider approached and that he did so very cautiously. Nearing the city, Pic could make out its outline, but only dimly because a fine misty rain had begun to fall very steadily that obscured things. When he saw a small group of horsemen appear at a gallop from the gates, he reined in and waited, a very protective arm about the boy. His free hand went to his curved and wickedlooking knife. "Sarssen!" called a voice. "Beth? Lute?" There was a long silence, then the riders fell to a walk. "Pic?" Pic tilted his head.

"Pic?" came a gentle thought in his mind. "It's Seignore Kaleb with the warlord, Sarehl and the Chamah. You're with friends, Pic. Come to us. Have you the boy safe?" Pic took his hand from the knife. "We're coming close now, Pic. Don't be frightened for Obaron." Pic kneed the horse forward. His eyes scanned the faces that drew close then surrounded him, aware he was watched with eyes that shone with gratitude and respect when they saw how protectively the boy was belted to the big man's chest. ~~~ Kher and Kaleb attended to Obaron. Pic hovered solicitously beside the bed. Obaron woke, was disoriented and terrified, didn't recognise anyone and pushed against those near him, the hands imploring them to leave him alone. Kaleb tried to calm him but the drugs and shock were too much. He began to foam at the mouth. "Lift him!" instructed the healer, curtly. Kher did. He held the struggling boy firmly against him so Kaleb could ister a very strong sedative. Obaron fought them as if his life depended on it, panting so much he choked when he was made to swallow. Kaleb made him cough, then made him drink more. Again, he choked. Obaron wildly shook his head and the black eyes screamed up at the two men in a way that made the warlord wonder if this was what Luton was like, gripped with fever. The dose worked remarkably quickly. The black eyes clouded, misted, went completely unfocused and abruptly closed. Obaron slept. Kher stared down at the quiet figure as he watched the healer. The warlord saw how methodical Kaleb was, the man not speaking or straightening until he finished working on the child. "He must be kept quiet, Kher. The shock's profound. I Sar telling me how Lute said he nearly went mad as a mute unable to physically express pain. He went inward. I don't want Obaron going the same way." "I understand." "There's nothing more we can do for him until later, because I've made sure the

boy will sleep. That's the kindest thing for him." "The wound in his forehead. How bad is it?" Kaleb turned to look closely. "It's deep," he acknowledged. "The knife used to get the stone out made something of a mess. Why?" "While it is raw, would it hurt the child to have a replacement stone placed there, especially while he is unaware? I do not want him to have to undergo that part of the ceremony again." "I don't know," answered Kaleb, dubiously. "I could set it in, but it may be slightly deeper than before." "Would that matter? I want the child to heal as soon as can be." "I guess not." Kaleb considered the sleeping child. "If you bring me the stone now, Kher, you can help me place it. I can pack under and round it easily enough. That way Obaron won't be aware of anything other than a sore head." "I will return shortly." Kher was gone on the words. Pic came to the side of the bed where he fell to his knees, a huge hand caressing the dark curly head as if by that gesture he could wash away what was done to Obaron. "You can't be blamed, Pic," sent Kaleb, gently. The head lifted. "You were called for Lute, so obviously you owed your duty to him as well as to Obaron. You can't be in two places at once, my friend, nor could you possibly know Obaron would be abducted this way. It concerns me to see you so distressed. Obaron, in part, owes his life to you, so think about that." The big man's eyes brightened and he slowly nodded comprehension, hands still on the dark head. "He loves you, Pic. that as well." Pic nodded again. ~~~ Kher left Obaron's chamber, his mind seething with conflicting emotions. Though it was early morning, celebrations continued unabated, the merrymaking now at a boisterous stage. The warlord had no option but to again return to it and did so with an absent smile here and there. He'd already returned Chey

to the great hall some hours earlier. She sat stiffly. He saw how she jerked her head round and up to look at him with painful intensity. He nodded affably at those near her, stooped and held down his hand. "My dance, I think," he said. He lifted her from the chair in one graceful, effortless movement. It left those around them astonished. Kher hadn't danced since his wife died many cycles before. This was a revelation. "I am very, very rusty," he murmured down to Chey, who nervously giggled before she did an elegant pirouette and returned to him. "Obaron?" "Safe, daughter, and resting in bed with Kaleb and Pic watching him." "Is he badly hurt?" "In body, he is battered. In mind, he is terrified. He has been roughly handled." They were separated by the movements of the dance, then came together again. "I dance to tell you to relax and begin to be the life and soul of the occasion. Can you do this, my dear?" "Of course," she answered, smiling provocatively up at Kher before she circled him. "Minx," he whispered, appreciatively. "And can you start to scold like an archwife that your mate dallies too long with an ambassador when his wife now waits for his attentions?" "Yes. I scold quite well." Kher lifted her and set her a few steps beyond him, the grim expression in his eyes perceptibly easing. "Lute should be back soon, my dear. It will not be for long." "I understand," she answered, giving a feigned exclamation to emphasise the fact her robe was torn. Kher heard the rip and almost smiled. "Oh dear," exclaimed an annoyed voice. "My lord, could you assist me to sit down? Such a nuisance. I'm quite vexed!"

Kher obliged, pressure on her hand returned before the warlord turned away to go to high table, nothing in his face giving any indication to those present anything untoward had happened. Kher's eagle eyes rested on one warrior after another once he was seated, and he actually sensed those who gave off the slightest trace of discomfort or disquiet. He heard Chey's voice carry. "It's all very well for you to laugh, Ebreh, but you are not an abandoned wife over many hours! I want more wine," went on the voice, with a trace of petulance. "And I want warriors and dancers about me since I don't dance myself." Imperious hands clapped. Kher actually smiled. An hour or so later, Kher looked to his left to see Sarssen lounge contemplatively against a pillar, his lazy gaze taking in an indignant Chey upbraiding Luton. He looked haggard but took the ragging in good part, managed to look sheepish and offered to dance with his wife. He was then invited to inspect the damage done to the gown, before a small hand sat him down and insisted he drink. Kher wondered how Sarssen had engineered such an inconspicuous return, when he heard the sudden unexpected ripple of an estibe in a pause between dances. Startled, his head swung to the right. There he saw Bethel, the musician halfhidden behind a curtain, a goblet beside him and the head bent over the instrument. "There you are, Sorien!" he boomed out, in tones of genuine amusement. "We wondered where you were." "I fell asleep, my lord," responded Bethel, with an ingenuous laugh. "I think I drank too much wine." "Well then, play, Sorien, play, but first, someone push that curtain back. No wonder we could not sight you." It was well after dawn that tipsy guests found their beds and Kher could rise from high table with a stretch and a yawn. He waited for those about him to either take themselves off, or be escorted by slaves to quarters throughout the palace. Then he looked about him.

Bethel lay sprawled against the wall, pretending to be asleep. Luton sat silently by himself. Chey had retired hours before and Sarssen sat still at the end of high table, an empty tankard in his hands. None of the men spoke. It was Kher who left the great hall first, then Luton went straight after him as was natural for father and son, the two linking arms and talking inconsequentially. Not long after they left, Sarssen crossed to Bethel. "You may wake now, Beth," he said calmly, watching purple eyes open and look about warily. "The gods," Bethel grumbled, getting laboriously to his feet. "I need some sleep, Sarssen." "Come and get some, little brother," suggested Sarssen, equably. He put an arm about the younger man. "I will escort you to your chambers, Beth. There is nothing more you can do just now. I imagine Kher will have sent Lute off likewise." ~~~ After Sarssen saw Bethel safely to his rooms, the warrior walked quickly and unobtrusively along the corridors that led him to the warlord's private inner palace, only to be halted very sharply. "Who is it?" "Losaren." "Enter, my lord." The warrior drew back, sword immediately sheathed. "The Suldan awaits you, my lord." "I thank you." Sarssen found the warlord striding about the small private sura that was so comfortable and warm, the very large fireplace aglow with a fire and lanterns ablaze, so, with those and the wall light turned up high, the room was brightly lit. He swung about at Sarssen's entrance, his strained smile a welcoming one. "Come in, Losaren." He threw himself into a chair, gesturing Sarssen do likewise. "What have you to tell me?"

"There are several things, my lord. Obaron was being taken east, as I suspected, the marks of urdey self-explanatory." He saw Kher take a deep breath. "It was a cruel death they proposed for the child. Fortunately, apart from terror, the boy has suffered no permanent injury. We got to him just in time. The warriors who took him were beduars, my lord, sent to do the bidding of their seniors. I regret that in the fracas that ensued when we caught up with them, the warriors are dead." "I see." The glint in Kher's eyes showed Sarssen the warlord more than comprehended. He appreciated the nicety shown betraying warriors and the delicacy with which the matter was handled. "I wanted them to face their trial and death here, but I can see your method of disposal has considerable merit. This way there can be no talk and little idle speculation. Nor will senior warriors know what has occurred. Astute and far-thinking, Losaren, I thank you. And the bodies?" "Disposed of, my lord. You may have forgotten Lute can make fire." "No, I forget very little, Haskar. Those who sent warriors to abduct my greatson will live in expectation of successful news, no?" "Indeed they will," concurred Sarssen. "And we shall watch them, shall we not?" went on the warlord, with false affability. "I doubt they are resident under the palace roof, but we shall know by the urgency with which warriors and representatives are sent for." "It seems likely that will happen, my lord, yes." "What have you to give me?" Sarssen dug into his pocket to bring his hand out, necklaces dangling between his fingers. These he placed carefully on the table beside the warlord. Next he produced the rings. Kher picked them up, thoughtfully. His eyes scanned each one before he replaced them and took up the necklaces, an expression of shock ing in the pale blue eyes that lifted to lock with green ones. "You know who these warriors belong to?" he asked, in a flat harsh voice. "I can guess, my lord," replied Sarssen warily, his head bending. "Agge told me

certain things that left me suspicious." "Told you willingly, Haskar?" "No, my lord." "You have not spoken of this. Why?" "I had no reason to believe it was other than an idle fancy in the diseased mind of a woman who hoped to manipulate her husband, my lord. It made me uneasy, but since I knew most unrest had eased, or gone underground and was not immediately apparent, I felt to mention it was highly inappropriate and might bring unfair retribution." "I see. You say the woman's mind was diseased?" "Deranged would be a better word for it." "You read her, Haskar?" "I felt I had to because of Charilae, my lord. It was then I was made fully aware of the woman's evil." "Oh?" asked Kher briefly diverted, eyes still dwelling on the necklaces. "In what way?" "In relation to the girl, my lord." "And?" "It was not just in relation to Charasan, my lord, nor Charilae's treatment as a slave. Agge also poisoned the girl to ensure Charasan's royal Dahkilan line would end. It has." "Not so," argued Kher, with a shake of the head. He placed the necklaces back on the table. "The girl married Beth. The royal line goes on through Samar, as it does through Sarehl." "Charilae is sterile, my lord," explained Sarssen, quietly. "Agge used the poison over a period of time."

"The gods!" Kher wrinkled his nose. "Does Beth know?" Sarssen nodded. "Before marriage?" Sarssen nodded again. "He would, that boy," went on the warlord, in a tone of respect. "You must have much pride in your brother, Sarssen." "I have, my lord, yes," answered Sarssen swiftly, a smile lighting suddenly very tired eyes. "And Charilae?" "Yes, she knows. I think she may have guessed all was not well before that. It is why Lodrin is Merlondhan." "I see." Kher was silent, then said with an effort. "I need your assistance, Sarssen. You realise that?" "I understand, my lord," answered Sarssen, levelly. "I am entirely at your disposal." "And the northerners must leave." "I think you will find them ready for your word, my lord," said Sarssen, still with the even tone. "You are right when you say Obaron goes with them. How long before the boy can travel?" "That depends on Kaleb, my lord. He will give you an honest assessment. If Chey goes north with the little girls, and is ed and personally protected by Pic, I believe the boy will be safe and will adjust very quickly. Those about him here will still be with him, though he will naturally miss Kaleb, you and Lute, but that cannot be helped." "Kaleb?" asked Kher, quickly. "Will he not accompany the boy?" "No, my lord. Kaleb is an Adept. As such, Conclave affairs keep him in the south." "Where the trouble could be?"

"Maybe, my lord." "You realise how serious this matter is, Haskar?" "I understand only too clearly, my lord." "I will call those of the High Council present, plus any senior warriors. There are a few here. I ask that you watch the senior representatives. Anything you can tell me about what you suspect will be welcome. Later today we will talk again, so you can outline all you know. It is my wish that you be entirely frank with me." "As you wish, my lord," answered Sarssen, colourlessly. "In the meantime, I think you should try for some needed rest." ~~~ Obaron woke later in the day, black eyes settling on the healer who sat beside him in a chair. Then the gaze wandered to Pic who stood by the window, the mute staring out at figures scurrying backwards and forwards across the courtyard. Obaron turned his head slowly, so he could watch the twins rolling together like puppies, Alfar presiding over them and Kalbeth lying alongside, his eyes alight with laughter at the antics. Obaron stretched out a hand to the healer. Kaleb's reaction was immediate and delighted. "Ah, Obaron," he sent, with a smile. He saw his smile reflected in eyes that rapidly changed to clear. "How do you feel, lad?" "Sore," came the weary, little voice. "The warriors held me down and hit me, Padran, so hard. They hurt me, just as they hurt Obara. They stole my jewels, too." The voice wavered. The clear eyes turned black and filled and Kaleb knew, inside, a boy cried. He swept the thin figure into his arms and rocked him from side to side. Pic crossed to them and put a hand down to Obaron that the child grasped at and clung to tightly. The storm of weeping spent itself. Kaleb quietly wiped tears from the young face.

"It's over, little man, all over. And you still have the jewel in your forehead, you know. Did you think it'd gone?" A small hand crept to the stone before the face was upturned to Kaleb's in surprised enquiry. "They took it out," Obaron sent. "They must've thought they did, lad," lied Kaleb plausibly and without regret. "And look what the warlord brought you to wear when you feel better." Kaleb stretched to the table just beyond him, to lift up a hand that winked with necklaces, ring and ear-rings. Obaron's face crinkled in a smile that made Pic pat his head indulgently. "You can't wear the ear-rings yet, little fellow, because your lobes are badly torn, but you can wear the necklaces again and the ring, and there are bracelets here, too. Do you want to put these things on?" Obaron nodded excitedly and sat abruptly, drew in his breath and eased himself up against the cushions, his eyes ablaze with anticipation. Each piece placed on him he fingered, then his hand went to the knife Pic wore at his waist. He touched it, then pointed at himself, the fingers starting to work furiously. Pic responded, smiled broadly and then patted the boy again. "Pic says he didn't use the knife but instead used his hands. I'm glad the warrior's dead," sent Obaron, bravely. "If I'd been bigger..." Then the young voice trailed off. Kaleb was busy with a goblet, mixing a powder in with water, that he now held down to the boy. "One day you might be warrior, Obaron, and no one will hurt you. Nor will they do so again while you're young. Drink this for me, lad. When you wake up again, you'll feel much better." Obaron moved restlessly. "Where's Padre?" "He'll be here when you wake up. He's still sleeping after chasing you." "I want Chey, too," sent a fretful voice, Obaron reluctant to drink. Kaleb nodded at Pic. The big man sat beside the boy, held him in a firm hug that meant he couldn't move and Kaleb could tilt the young head. He tipped the contents of the goblet down the throat. Obaron spluttered and coughed in his silent way. In minutes he was limp.

~~~ Obaron didn't wake to his bed. Kher decided urgency was required where those going north were concerned. Kaleb unconditionally agreed that, though the ride would be tough for the boy, he was better well away from Caciqua. He instructed both Chey and Pic down to the minutest detail of treatment, quite content Obaron would be healed quickly and efficiently. He then went away to write a letter that could be read to Obaron when he woke and was well enough to listen to it. It was almost nightfall when the order came to move out. Obaron was asleep. Kalbeth was anxious but obeyed sharply flung orders silently and instantly, as did Alfar who looked pale and tired. The boy remained still at the command, quietly obedient without questioning. Chey had Saribeth strapped in front of her desert-fashion, and Luton, who accompanied them for part of the way, had DasaKherin similarly restrained. Both girls were deeply asleep thanks to sedatives istered by Kaleb. Alfar was swung up in front of his father and secured. Kalbeth was mounted with Mist. Though he had a stallion he was too young to be expected to ride at speed over a long period of time. He was familiar with riding this way. Pic was already astride the enormous horse Luton had found for him, ready to take Obaron who was to be strapped as the twins were. This was done expeditiously, Obaron still sound asleep. Ensore swung himself into the saddle. Both Samar and Dahkilan guards were alert and ready, unsmiling eyes on the Chamah who'd give the signal to move forward. Kher strode to Ensore, his hand up. "Chamah, I regret your leaving in this fashion." "I understand how uncertain times can unexpectedly become, Kher." The regard from grey eyes was steady. "You need have no fear of danger to those entrusted to me once we reach the Dahkilan border. They will be comfortably housed. We're kin now, through marriage, aren't we?" "I suppose we are, Ensore, yes. You have my gratitude." "I can have troops massed on our south-eastern border in very short order, Kher," added Ensore meaningfully, grey eyes searching the warlord's face. "They'll be

Samar/Dahkilan troops." "That is indeed appreciated," replied Kher with genuine warmth, a smile coming to a face that had looked appallingly grim for hours. "This is an internal matter and hopefully will be quickly resolved among ourselves." "Nevertheless," responded Ensore, very gently. "I'll still keep troops in readiness to be used at your discretion should the need arise. Please bear that in mind." Ensore released the warlord's hand on the words, saw the understanding in the pale eyes, nodded briskly and waited for Kher to cross to Sarehl, again the hand out and up. Sarehl clasped it. "I am sorry you leave this way, Sarehl, but I would not have any of you harmed or used as pawns in southern antics. I regret not being able to guarantee your safety. I know the children will be safe." Sarehl hesitated in a way unusual for him, as if he was unsure how to say something. Kher helped him. "What is it you want to say?" "I'll only take the children north to Samar if the situation demands an indefinite stay there. Otherwise I believe they'll do very well in Dahkilah. Does that suit you?" "Very well, young man, very well indeed. And you?" "I'll come and go, Kher. Kas will want to see me, since I've been gone quite a while, and I need to settle Alfar back into his Samar life. Disruption to a routine well established in the south will do nothing for him. And Kas will want to see her eldest lad. Kal will like to be with his Mam again so she may well come south to Elibera just to see him." Kher watched a gentle hand ruffle swept back chestnut curls. He nodded and glanced across at the boy firmly held as well as belted against his father. "And you, boy? Have you learned anything from being in the south?" "Yes, my lord," came the ready answer, a boyish grin coming to the attractive face. "What might that be?"

"I know to work hard and do what I'm told." Alfar stared rather gravely at the warlord, the smile banished. "I don't wish to be a warrior anymore, but I still like what Uncle Beth is." "So do I, child," answered Kher, his released hand caressing the boy's cheek. "We see the same things in Beth, and in Kalbeth as well. Will we see you again?" Alfar squirmed so he could strain to look up into his father's face. "Da says I can come again when I'm a little bit older, but that I have things to learn about being a Samar son before then." "Quite right," said Kher, amused by the confiding tone. "When you return, your lessons so hard learned will be ed, yes?" "Yes, my lord." "Then your time amongst us has not been wasted," was the warlord's final observation. He looked directly back at Sarehl. "In cycles to come, that boy will make you very proud. There is a little warrior within him, so foster what is good from that." "Don't doubt I will, Kher. His being south has also taught his father, more than you might think. The lessons won't be forgotten by either father or son. We thank you." "Until we meet again, Sarehl, may the gods bless you and keep you safe." "I hope what comes brings you lasting peace, Kher," offered Sarehl, his head inclined to the warlord who stood back. "You deserve that. Lute'll soon be home. We'll keep the horse so he can go home to you on Harth. Be sure I'll send him just as soon as I can convince him we're completely clear of either danger or immediate pursuit." He paused, then added, "May the spirit stay with you, Kher." He saw the sudden smile and his own was broad and friendly. On the instant, Strategos and warlord knew they parted, not just as friends, but as inextricably bound together family, the bonds very strong.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

At the time the northbound travellers rested comfortably, well on their way north, Luton mounted Harth. And Sarssen was seated in Kher's abeya, his inscrutable gaze going from one senior haskar to another, the High Council depleted but enough present to give him clear indication of what went on. The debate centred on what was to be done to avenge the terrible insult to the warlord. Such an unspeakable and despicable act had shocked some, but not as many as Sarssen would either have liked or expected. That boded ill. "How bad is the child?" demanded one haskar, puffing out his cheeks. "Bad enough," returned Sarssen, coolly. "For the child to have urdey markings on the wrists suggests his fate. So I am told." "A beating and removal of jewellery does not constitute a serious threat to a child," came the contemptuous comment from the far end of the table. "Many a boy suffers that as chastisement for disobedience." "It depends how it was done and the purpose for it," suggested Sarssen, his voice smooth, no undercurrent to be picked from it. "Foolish action to carry out," muttered another. "Why not just do it here in Caciqua then leave? Why take the boy?" "Hostage?" suggested Caleik, ruminatively stroking his whiskers, his glance going speculatively from warrior to warrior. "Oh nonsense," protested another haskar. "I suggest we make too much of something." The down-playing of a most deadly insult interested Sarssen. "So the boy was roughed up and about to be removed to the east. Is it of such moment we need a meeting about it? I suggest not." "What would your reaction be if the same thing was done to your greatson, Aldric?" asked Esk, sweetly. "I do not think you would simply react with outrage, would you? How would you react?"

"My greatson would be Churchik, so the likelihood of his being treated that way is remote," was the acid retort. "That is the nub of the matter, is it not?" asked Sarssen, reflectively. He was glared at. "Many of you are unprepared to act against those who perpetrated such an act because they did it to a child who is mute and Samar, a boy anathema to you." There was an ominous silence. "It would, I think, be politic for us to consider the matter from a more disionate point of view. What we have is a warlord's greatson, snatched from a palace where the child rests following a ceremony of acceptance of heritage. This ritual was witnessed and endorsed by yourselves. You came for that reason presumably and you did all acknowledge acceptance. It is that we should discuss. The insult is as much to you as to me. I was there. I witnessed the oath-taking and participated fully in the rituals. So, my lords, did you." "What are you saying?" challenged a haskar, rudely. "If you participated in the ritual, my lord, you have to ask yourself why you did. If, by doing so, you wished to show your warlord you honoured him and his line, then you can not now turn from the insult made to that line by the abduction of the object of the rituals." "You suggest my reluctance to act now smacks of dishonour?" "Did I say that?" asked Sarssen, with a bewildered air. "If that is how it sounded, my lord, I beg you to believe such a thought never entered my head. I merely look at things from the angle of the ruling warlord. I ask what he will think of a High Council that appears to take a radically different view of the abduction of Obaron, that is all." "And where do you stand?" sneered Aldric. Sarssen contemplated the older warrior for a long moment, then spoke so softly others had to strain to hear. "I stand where I always have, my lord. I owe honour, obedience and allegiance to my warlord, the oaths I have taken throughout my life never more meaningful than now." Aldric snorted disdainfully, his nostrils flaring. "Some among us are well aware of that," added another warrior, in derisive tones. "Lodestok stood behind you for a reason and enjoyed it often enough."

There was a sudden flare of laughter at the very coarse jest, then an uneasy calm as warriors encountered a look from very fine green eyes that surveyed them, one by one, the expression in them making them uneasy. Esok didn't laugh, nor did several other haskars. "That kind of humour does not amuse," he said, distastefully. "Nor does it usefully contribute to constructive debate. Losaren's comments are well taken and pertinent. I am unhappy with what was done to the child. To use a mute child so is to add to the dishonourable aspect of the boy's abduction and to tear out the stone of birthright, which I believe was done, is unheard of." Angry mutterings agreed with that. The debate began to twist and turn in the inevitable tortuous fashion of the Churchik, Sarssen rested back, goblet in hand. He was tired but also very alert, his senses attuned to every movement, eye flutter and gesture. Some among the High Council were uncomfortable. There was no doubt there was complicity at the highest level of warrior command, a rather disconcerting and unpalatable fact. Sarssen had suspicions, but they refused to harden. He let the conversation ebb and flow round him, struggling to find key phrases and nuances that would give him answers. Jewellery had told him much but not enough. He was startled by Esok's caustic comment. "Let us not make the innocent suffer for incorrectly perceived wrongs, misjudgements, or even for accidents of birth." "Then," suggested one Eqaron, with a glint in his eyes that was certainly unfriendly, "let us have the warriors, whose men were alleged to be responsible, brought forward to answer to us and to the warlord." "We do not know who the men were. We only know the boy was abducted and abused, nothing else." "Were there no indications of those culpable?" asked an eastern warrior lord, his voice so tense Sarssen's interest was piqued. Nesorym was too eager. The warrior studied him. All eyes turned to Sarssen who raised his hands. "My lords," he protested, mildly. "I know as little as anybody." "Maybe," growled Eqaron, his look across at Sarssen again an unfriendly one. "Too vague all of this. A boy taken and allegedly beaten, though I for one have not sighted him, no jewellery shown on display to confirm a possible conspiracy,

and no warriors brought forward to answer for actions alleged to be taken." His pale eyes gleamed maliciously. "We need to hear from their lords, if the warriors even exist, what their reasons were for abducting the child in the first place – if it even happened. I confess I sympathise, despite my ing the rituals, because I do not approve of mongrels inheriting. And the child is indisputably a mongrel." "I cannot condone abuse of a child so drugged it could not make any attempt to defend itself," retorted Maldec, coldly, "whether that child be mongrel or Churchik. Nor is such an insult to the warlord tolerable." "Perhaps," snapped Eqaron, "the warlord was unwise to leave himself open to our lack of sympathy." Sarssen's head came up at that. For a Churchik that was a blunt statement indeed. He briefly met Esok's eyes, saw the consternation there and let his drop, but not before he saw a glance exchanged between Eqaron and Nesorym. It was infinitesimal. To others it would have been the mere blink of an eye, but Sarssen saw it. Alarm stiffened him. It was at that inopportune moment that Kher walked into the abeya, the warrior lord's words disastrously carrying. Sarssen saw Kher's lip curl. There was something menacing and predatory about the way he strode, the suggestion of threat enough to make Eqaron's mocking expression change to a more cautious one. Heads were respectfully bowed. "Be at ease," said Kher in a harsh voice, his eyes as cold as Lodestok's at their iciest. He sat in the warlord's carved chair where once Lodestok sat on visits to Caciqua. He remained rigid, hands gripping the arms, his knuckles white. "May one enquire the whereabouts of your son, my lord? Shasah has not been seen around, nor your greatson." "The child rests as would be expected, a healer attending to his hurts. My son is about the palace." Just as Kher spoke, there was a knock at the door. "Enter!" barked Kher, uncompromisingly. He swung round in his chair, able to ire the elegance of Luton's approach. His son's entrance was quite a surprise as Kher didn't expect it for at least an

hour, possibly longer, but its coming now served the purpose his father wanted. "My lord," said Luton going to a knee, a velvet draped tray in his hand that he presented to the warlord. "It's thought you may find these of interest, as may the High Council. Please excuse the interruption, but these are just newly arrived. They may have significance. I was told to bring them." Kher took the small tray. His voice didn't quiver. "I thank you. Leave us, Beduar. Your place is not among us." Luton rose and backed from the abeya. All eyes were riveted to the tray. Kher ignored it, merely pushing it to one side. "I would hear what each of you has to say. Speak in turn." Each haskar did. Sarssen spoke last and was brief. His plea for understanding and comion was listened to but didn't touch the warlord at all. Kher was too angry to heed calls for restraint in the revenge that came to Churchik houses. The urging that he not include children and the innocent in what might come ed over him. Kher didn't speak for a very long time. He just looked at each member of his Council and the representatives in a measuring way, his gaze not wavering and singularly unnerving. A saturnine smile came to his mouth as his gaze travelled on to rest, briefly, on Eqaron, the smile anything but pleasant, before it dwelled long on Nesorym. He eyed the inscrutable face of the Mishtok, the look steady. The voice was like steel and implacable. It was as soft as Sarssen ed Lodestok's when he pronounced the fate of men and cities. He shivered. "I have listened and considered. You, Eqaron, should I am no fool. I have been a warrior lord longer than you, so the games the Churchik play are well known to me. I see very clearly in a way you would be most foolish to forget, just as I would not like to think you found you could no longer serve me on this Council." It was a direct threat and Eqaron knew it. He paled. "I have an advantage over you here," Kher went on affably, his eyes glinting in a most disconcerting manner. "Though my son is unaware of the fact, what he brings me is not unknown." Kher wrenched the covering velvet cloth from the tray to let light play on warrior jewellery. It made some there blench. "This jewellery was taken from the eight beduars who abducted my greatson, beduars of lords of the east. These warriors are now dead. I doubt they would have wanted their identities known and would have fought to the end to protect those to whom they owed allegiance, as is the honourable way of warriors. I respect that in them.

Nor do I accuse any here of direct complicity in this lamentable affair. What I do know, is that the lords who sent the beduars owe allegiance to some among you. That makes me think very hard." Kher rose majestically, leaning forward to rest hands on the table. "I declare war on the city-states these beduars come from." His eyes swept round the assembled haskars. There was genuine consternation but utter silence. "I would suggest it would be in the clear interests of those in my High Command and Council to confirm their immediate allegiance to me. That will be done in the morning. The representatives of what I consider to be traitor states will be rounded up and dealt with as I see fit. Your men, Haskars, are to be placed under my immediate authority. You would be well advised to send couriers to your states, because I demand, from each of you, a minimum of five hundred men who will be ordered, by you, to march towards Caciqua straight away. That pledge will likewise be made on oath in the morning. You understand that your loyalty will be judged by the promptness of your response." The cold eyes still surveyed the warriors and the implacable voice continued. "You will also make the generous gift of your eldest son or greatson, the latter to be Obaron's companions for the foreseeable future. Any haskar who does not make immediate arrangements for same will be deemed disloyal, a traitor, and open to the fullest wrath of the warlord." There was a stunned silence. Sarssen was as baffled and astonished as those about him. He tried to marshal his thoughts even as he blessed Ayesha for wanting to keep Shae north until next summer. He was also hugely relieved Kalbeth, Obaron and Alfar were now north near Dahkilah. They'd be safely in Elibera in a few days. The silence was prolonged and dangerously fraught. Kher stood, so powerful and uncompromising, Sarssen felt he was back cycles as a younger warrior under the gimlet eyes of Lodestok. It was Esok who rose and genuflected to Kher. "My lord, my men are at your immediate disposal, though those from the far east will take longer to reach here. My greatson, Augun, came with his father for the celebrations. May I send for him?" Kher nodded and Esok sat while he waited for the slave to be summoned, spoken

to and to leave the abeya. The silence was wracking. It was only broken by the return of the slave accompanied by a Churchik youth who looked apprehensive, his pale eyes worried and darting nervously to his greatsire. "Karin Augun," said Esok, with cool authority. "Make obeisance to your Suldan." Augun went to his knees, clasped hands up and out, his head very low. "My lord," he murmured, inaudibly. "You are welcome to Caciqua, Augun," said Kher, calmly. "It is to be your home for the foreseeable future, a future, boy, that belongs to me." Kher took the clasped hands, aware of the stiffening figure in front of him. "You may rise, boy. You will find your belongings will be removed to quarters assigned to you. You are free to move about certain areas of the palace and remain a welcome guest, but you would be a most foolish child to make any attempt to go beyond permissible limits. Your warrior training will be here." Kher saw the anguished look in the young face before the head bent again. "Your life, boy," went on Kher very, very gently, "rests in my hands and upon my good will. Do not forget." "No, my lord," whispered Augun, white to the lips. There were tears in eyes that imploringly met his greatsire's. He saw the imperceptible warning nod and again bowed his head, lower lip firmly clenched between his teeth. It was Emil, peremptorily summoned, who led the boy from the abeya. Sarssen actually felt a deep shiver shake him. Again, he saw Lodestok, as if the huge warrior stood here in the abeya with him. The interlude deeply shook haskars sitting as white-lipped as the boy. Few knew how to react because Esok's action made their situation impossible. They either had to follow suit willingly or risk betraying themselves. Sarssen's appreciation of Esok soared - there was a clever Churchik strategist and a warrior lord utterly loyal. A silent laugh suddenly shook Sarssen at the predicament warriors found themselves in. Those close to exposure sweated in a trap. Those who were loyal were amused and willing to play a game suddenly quite deadly for others less loyal. Indeed, reflected Sarssen, he must not under-rate Kher. He was every bit as formidable when threatened as Lodestok, but he moved with more subtlety and finesse, his ability to carve the ground from under others quite frightening.

Kher's last words came equally as silkily as Lodestok's. The menace was unmistakable. "I would suggest an attempt by any of my High Council to leave Caciqua would be unwise. There will be no return east or west. Orders will be sent through couriers. I would take it as an indication of gross disloyalty if there was a desire to leave my state where you are welcome guests and free to wander at will. None of you would wish me to feel threatened, would you?" Murmurs greeted this as haskars watched the warlord stride unhurriedly from the abeya, long indrawn breaths explosively expelled in the subsequent uproar. Sarssen saw some men genuinely alarmed and concentrated his energies on them. He thought Esok looked calm and relaxed when haskars reviled him for taking such precipitate action. The warrior responded, with enviable ease, that he felt a pledge of loyalty, then and there, would go some way to relieving tension and, he added, with a raised eyebrow, his greatson was merely a token, a gesture of solidarity and good will. His expression made it clear he'd done his duty and nothing more. His loyalty remained unquestioned. Sarssen saw the look of dislike a haskar cast his way and saw the curl of the lip in typical arrogant Churchik fashion. About to speak he subsided and simply sat further back so he could watch others quite unobtrusively. Talk rose and fell about him. There was a good deal of argument and disagreement, some of it vehement, some more judged, but Sarssen learned long ago to evaluate through what wasn't said. Expressions spoke volumes. So did secret hand gestures he studied and broke the meaning of cycles since. Haskars may have thought they were private. With Sarssen around they weren't. Now they were more revealing than ever because anxiety made some warriors just that less cautious. Eyes showed what some tried hard to hide. Sarssen still felt Eqaron's enmity but knew it was purely personal and not political, the eastern haskar having a well-known hatred of all things non-Churchik. He was also power-hungry but no fool. Sarssen was sure he'd no more connive at, or condone, the kidnapping of a warlord's greatson than Esok would. Treachery, however, was something altogether different and it worried the warrior. If some among the elite on the warlord's Council, who took oaths to an elected warlord, were now seriously disaffected then the loyalty of their men inside Caciqua was questionable, as could be the loyalty of the majority of

warriors to the east. The jewellery clearly linked the old eastern houses with the abduction. Not in so many words, maybe, but the connections were there incontrovertibly and not one haskar present had denied it. Sarssen decided, as he waited for the discussion to die and warriors to drift from the abeya, that his and Bethel's contingents would be larger than those demanded of others, in an effort to counter-balance any possible treason or defection. He found he was left face to face with Eqaron who eyed him. "You are close to the Suldan, are you not, Losaren?" "Through my younger brother's relationship to the warlord's son Shasah, that is so," Sarssen responded formally, aware the look he received was quite antagonistic. "You know that, despite cycles of coming to an understanding of what you are and respecting your survival and honour as a warrior, I despise all other halfbreeds such as yourself." "You have made that clear, Eqaron, on more than one occasion." "As Correc did, I believe in the purity of the Churchik blood, so much so I would dispose of a half-bred babe if I knew it existed about me. There are also northern tentacles spreading across Churchik lands. Samars are a defeated, lesser race of people we subjugated and enslaved. They have no rights in the south, Losaren." "You are honest with me, Eqaron. I respect you are entitled to your view." Frowning, the older man stared at Sarssen. "I do not believe other than pure Churchik should inherit land, so that puts me in opposition to you and your brother straight away, yes?" Sarssen shrugged. "Even so, I did not participate in the boy's abduction or subsequent ill-treatment, however much I may sympathise with the motive behind it. I know I took oaths. I was there at the ritual acceptance of the boy. Perhaps I should not have been there, but that is past and cannot be altered. Sympathy is as far as I go. I repeat, I do not think a mute half-breed a suitable heir to a large Churchik inheritance." "The boy is not the sole inheritor, my lord, if that is what you think. Lute has other children."

"All varying degrees of mongrel, Losaren. Only the eldest, a girl at that," here Eqaron sniffed disparagingly, "has half Churchik blood. That is not enough." "Yes," sighed Sarssen. "To you they are mongrels, Eqaron. Two are part desert children. I do not deny that to you they are unacceptable as half-breeds, as much as I am one as well." "At least," began Eqaron, testily, "you look Churchik. The others do not. Even the Karinas take after the father. The gods, man, whoever heard of dark-haired Churchik?" Sarssen said nothing. He just watched Eqaron stride to the door. "I am no child molester," threw back the haskar over his shoulder. The warrior pivoted at the quiet reply. "I know that very well, my lord." ~~~ Sarssen sought out Kaleb. The warrior found him tidying herbs and sheets of paper that had prescriptions for assorted poultices scrawled across them. Kaleb looked up with a smile. "Already I miss them," he said, wistfully. "It seems silly to others, but when we're together I feel it's a family that gives me so much joy. The child is so dear to me." "No, not silly," returned Sarssen, falling back into a chair. "The season we have been together has been a singularly happy one. Valshika and Caciqua will both be emptier." He stared at his nails, unconscious of the long scrutiny he got. "What troubles you, Monseignore?" Kaleb asked, finally. "Kher has declared war on the city-states aligned to major eastern houses who sent beduars to take Obaron, Kaleb." He heard the indrawn breath. "It was a scenario I hoped we could avoid, but I imagine it was a forlorn hope. I have just spoken with one haskar on the Council who would like to see me adorn a cross, despite his having accepted me as a haskar entitled to sit on the High Council. The Churchik are such an odd mix, Kaleb. They accept you yet condemn you, both at the same time." "Why a cross?" asked Kaleb, disturbed.

"Because, my friend, it is what many would like to do to Beth and me as usurpers and me as a half-breed. It was often the fate of mongrels, you know. Talented folk are disposed of by those means as well." "Beth's not a half-breed," said Kaleb, revolted. "No, but they would crucify him for his talent and his status as a warrior lord with wealth and undue influence. More so after his mating with Charilae. The perfect way to eliminate him, yes? If they thought Obaron had talent they would certainly crucify him rather than carry through urdey." "Gods!" shuddered Kaleb. "It's wicked. None of us can help our birth or our gifts." "Mind you," added Sarssen, a mite whimsically, "Obaron is half-breed, so he's doubly doomed as I am." He saw the healer's disgusted expression and a chuckle escaped him. "You make light of this," Sarssen was chided. "It seems to me it becomes critical any conflict between the Churchik has an outcome favourable to the warlord." "Yes," agreed the warrior, stretching out long legs and crossing them. "Can't the Conclave do anything to help?" Sarssen cocked an intelligent eyebrow at Kaleb, his eyes affectionately alight. "But indeed, Kaleb. That is why you are not with Obaron going north." "I thought so," said Kaleb, with a degree of satisfaction. "I need you here at the moment," went on Sarssen, "because tonight there are going to be some warriors ill with a gastric upset of some sort – trifling, but definitely enough to cause indisposition and the need of the services of a healer. You are unknown. That is excellent. Can you do what I require?" "Monseignore," reproved Kaleb, on a gust of laughter. "That's not entirely ethical." "True," assented Sarssen, with an answering deep laugh, "but it could be most informative and entertain you as well."

"Tell me who has to sicken." Kaleb started to laugh again. ~~~ The following morning saw Kaleb about at an ungodly hour before dawn. Though no general comment was made, the previous night had left some haskars with severe indigestion, some of their warrior retinue similarly smitten. Seignore busily rushed from one to the other, the healer both easing discomfort and lulling minds to a malleable and readable state. They were easy prey. It was barely dawn when Kaleb arrived in Sarssen's chamber, to find the Mishtok lying quietly atop his bed, half-dressed, but the eyes alert and enquiring. He saw the mischievous gleam in the clear eyes. "My friend, you look quite wicked," he said, rousing himself to lounge off the bed. He yawned. "Have you slept, Monseignore?" "Not much," confessed Sarssen tiredly, and with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "My mind gives me no rest at the moment." "Not good," reproved Kaleb, calmly. The rebuke saw the warrior give a grimace. "Tonight you'll take something, won't you?" "If you insist," capitulated Sarssen. He gestured at a chair. "Seat yourself," he invited. His glance at the healer was from under heavy drooping lids, but the expression on the face and in the eyes was far from lazy. "I shall get you well deserved badran. I hear you had a busy time tending the ailing." Kaleb's laugh brought a responsive grin as Sarssen sauntered to a table against the window embrasure where liquid refreshment stood in abundance. He strolled back to Kaleb, handed him a tankard, then indolently slouched back to the bed with another more prodigious yawn. He eased down onto the cushions, his tankard held lightly in long fingers that twined round it. He eyed the healer placidly as Kaleb began speaking. "You're right, Monseignore, I'm sorry to say. There's serious disaffection and considerable disloyalty. It's widespread but mostly among eastern warriors and their retinues. Most goes back to resentment at the making of peace, Lodestok's

redistribution of lands and title, no war against the Sinhalien, but it also touches, with a degree of loathing, on Samars and one family in particular. I even sensed threats against Sarehl as Strategos, too." Kaleb saw Sarssen's startled expression and nodded confirmation. "There are strong urges to replace the warlord, who is seen as weaker than Lodestok and open to manipulation, with someone more in the mould of the late unlamented Correc. I fear for the likes of folk like yourself. There's distrust of you and your motives, though you're highly regarded as a warrior and your loyalty isn't questioned. It's just the undying hatred of what you are, as you said last night." "I see," considered Sarssen deliberately, nothing betrayed by expression or movement. Kaleb thought the man remarkably schooled. "What are the plans?" "It's difficult to say. What I can tell you is there's a trap ahead for the warlord and with someone he trusts. That in itself is alarming. It suggests plots have developed quite a long way." "Did the names I gave you from Agge's mind correspond in any way?" "Oh yes," answered Kaleb, bitterly. "Tell me." Kaleb obliged, ending rather wistfully with, "Who can we trust?" "Few and far between by the sound of it," murmured Sarssen, with pursed lips and a furrowed forehead. "It sounds as if the west stands firm. Also most of the central Churchik city-states. The High Council is apparently quite torn. The gods! Father would have slaughtered them immediately." "Kher's shaped in another mould," said Kaleb, quietly. "Aye he is, but only so far, Kaleb, that. I saw a warlord with the High Council who was new to me and makes me very wary, though not for myself. Gods, some have misread the man very badly." Sarssen uncharacteristically shivered. "The demons, Kaleb, I would not cross him, especially where family is concerned." He stopped, then went on, "Barely half who elected the Suldan now come to his . It is outrageous." "But not unheard of," corrected the healer, absently drinking.

"No, not among the Churchik," conceded Sarssen, wearily. "Where will it all end?" "I don't know," itted Kaleb honestly, anxious eyes on the Mishtok. "Sarssen, you're too tired to think clearly. By the way, I came across a young warrior who stared at me with the bitterest hatred, a young one quite unfamiliar to me. He accompanied a Haskar Elerki and made it clear I was to do my duty and get out." "Oh?" asked Sarssen blankly, his mind elsewhere. "What was his name?" "I missed that," answered Kaleb, apologetically. "He just exuded sheer menace, that's all. He disturbed me." 'I will find out who he is," promised Sarssen, drinking deeply. "Tell me, was Inkim one you found disaffected?" "Downright traitorous," announced Kaleb bluntly, rising to refill his goblet. "He wants your head on a spike. And Beth's." "Luchen?" "A fool, but a gullible one who goes with the flow. He hates Lute. All Samars actually. Many do." "He always did run with others," remarked Sarssen, with a sigh. "Eqaron?" "Ah him," breathed Kaleb. "He's dangerous that one, Monseignore." He saw Sarssen's raised eyebrow. "He's offered power he can't resist." "Such as, my friend?" "A new warlord's second," replied Kaleb, curtly. He caught the warrior by surprise. Drinking, Sarssen swallowed unwisely and hurriedly, choked, coughed and took a few minutes to cope with streaming eyes and a cough. Kaleb then saw the look on Sarssen's face. It was so stern the warrior looked unrecognisable. "That is treachery of the worst kind from one who is among the elite closest to Kher," said the warrior slowly, choosing his words. "To have gone so far. I find

Eqaron's attitude completely out of character." "It's what I picked up but I may be wrong." "No," mused Sarssen. "I doubt that. What inducement did they offer for him to consider that. Has he said yes?" "Not yet. He deliberates." "A wise man," murmured Sarssen, in a faraway voice. "What tactic is the man following, if any?" he asked himself. "Aldric and Nesorym?" "It was they who promised Eqaron their for leadership contention should he choose to accept it. They also pledge to one who leads them." "And that is?" "That's the odd thing, Sarssen. The figure who plays kingmaker is shadowy, nor has he declared himself. Only tentative feelers are being put out through various warriors. I can't pin who it is." "Eqaron told me he was not party to Obaron's abduction," said Sarssen, bleakly. "He seems to have spoken the truth," observed Kaleb, chewing on his lower lip. "Elerki endorsed that. It was from his complicity that I learned about Aldric and Nesorym." "So they were all party to Obaron's abduction?" "Orchestrators of one sort or another." "Oh gods," groaned Sarssen. "At least half the Council are actively disloyal. You mention Elerki again." "Yes." "And a younger man with him?" Kaleb nodded. "Could it be Kone? I think not, because he was not part of the retinue that arrived here. Now that is very odd and gives me food for thought. Those warriors would crucify Beth and me, my friend, that."

"They have other delights in store, Monseignore. You should be well prepared and watch your backs," warned Kaleb. He watched Sarssen sink back on his elbows, eyes closed and lips firmly compressed. Then he sat, yawned once more and got to his feet. "We have those away to the north who are endangered, but not those in the west, should things turn nasty. I go to Kher. You rouse others. I want Lute on guard about Caciqua, an eye especially to his father. Tell him to guard both their backs. Beth is to return immediately to Valshika. I want Charilae taken to Enouri. Troops are to come here as well and Kel is to come with them. Jane needs warning and instructions, as well as Mishak and my Hospodar Rupon. I also have to reach Manas through Beth. There are others who will respond, too. Can you sustain another dragon ride or two, my friend, do you think?" Kaleb drained his tankard. "Aye," he mumbled. "I can do that."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Bethel rose and wandered about his allotted quarters, his mind restless and making him stride about in an unsettled way. He refused to take anything to make him rest the night before because the agitation he felt was close to premonition. Something about him wasn't quite right, even though he couldn't pin what it was. It frustrated him. So he didn't feel refreshed from a troubled night and broken sleep that had him sit bolt upright for no reason. He decided to seek Sarssen. He sent and got a response that suggested Sarssen was on his way for something to eat and they should meet now before he sought out the warlord. Bethel decided to him. He strolled out into an empty corridor, then felt the hairs on the nape of the neck rise. Instinct saved him. He leapt to one side to avoid a sword stroke that would have partially crippled him. No sooner was he back erect and taut, than he was conscious of an attack from the rear. He swung round to charge a warrior coming at him. When the warrior fell back Bethel rushed forward at the first swordwielding assailant, his knife out. He stabbed upwards in a superbly timed thrust that was vicious and well aimed. He jerked the knife again, then withdrew it on a sharp wrench that made the assailant stagger and fall to his knees, the sword wavering. Bethel stooped and grabbed it. He instinctively sent to Sarssen and Luton. When he heard footsteps behind him, Bethel turned again, to confront someone from boyhood. By the light of the sconces, Bethel saw the warrior who advanced on him. The warrior limped a little, his pale blue eyes fixed on Bethel as the young man swung hard at his second assailant. The sword cleaved through the air with considerable strength to catch the man hard. The man withdrew then readied for another attack. "Stand back, Antor, for a moment," said a cold voice. Instantly, the man confronting Bethel fell back and again Bethel swung round to the warrior. "Kone," he said, quietly. "It's been a long time." "Not long enough," came the menacing reply. "This will be the last time, I can assure you, Sorien. I have not forgotten you."

"Nor I you," responded Bethel, coolly. He eyed Kone, the man a huge warrior, no less in size than Lodestok and Gariok were, barrel-chested, and with massive shoulders and thighs. "I didn't know you were in Caciqua." Kone stepped forward, his eyes slits of sheer hatred. "Some of us just arrived," he sneered. "There are things to be done to correct the wrongs done the Churchik by northerners. The warlord is merely a northern puppet." "I think you make a bad mistake thinking that," cautioned Bethel. "The warlord is no man to take lightly." "We will settle him so the Churchik rule as they have always done. People like your own will be back in their rightful place, including the Strategos, as slaves to a vastly superior people. But first Samar boy, Lodestok's pretty little lover, you will tell me how he enjoyed your favours. How did he take you? Were his tastes as unusual as we were led to believe?" Bethel gritted his teeth. He felt himself back cycles being taunted and unable to defend himself. "That's enough," he growled. "But no," taunted Kone. "I only begin, pretty petal. I need to know, so I can watch one of my men act out a warlord's fantasy with you. You will oblige, of course, because my men will ensure you do. That will be a pleasure. Do not deny me the joy of watching you, Sorien, because it is something I have lived in anticipation of for cycles. Humour me, do. I ask again, how did he use you? Be explicit, flower." "Go to the demons," muttered Bethel, taking a step back. "Now, now," chided Kone, shaking a finger at him. "What would a master do to one so intransigent, I wonder?" "You tried to maim me, Kone. You did it so my master would dispose of me." "You should have died long before," spat Kone. "You are an obscenity. Never should you have been made warrior, let alone a warlord's son. Today you will answer for what you did to me that day."

"I acted to survive." "And did so, at my expense, to father a half-breed mongrel to follow you down the Val line. You, a slave, fathering a son? It makes me sick." "I didn't know I so badly hurt you." "No?" asked Kone, his voice now a menacing jest. "I am the eldest son of an ancient line, yet where you father an heir, I cannot. I owe you, Sorien. And to make things worse, your son shows no sign of his Churchik blood, none. He could be son to that other accursed Samar, now son to a warlord." Kone took a step forward. "And Losaren is another half-breed who takes Churchik land and wealth. You will die, Sorien, slowly, very slowly indeed, but only after my man, who has a taste for these things, has derived pleasure. Your son will also die once we find him about the palace. He will not escape. Losaren will hang on a cross beside you both. And the warlord will learn what happens to those who betray their Churchik heritage." On those words, Kone stepped closer. "Take him, men," he snarled, gutturally. "And you, Brieh, wait until he is down before you treat the bastard." Bethel was at a serious disadvantage. Someone behind him had him on the defensive. He felt the sword ripped from his hands as three other men converged on him. He went down after a desperate struggle. He was no easy quarry. He learned the art of survival the hard way, the young man frustratingly elusive as he wriggled from hands in a most exasperating way. Every time Kone thought his men had Bethel under their control, the younger warrior crawled on all fours towards him. "Fight like a man and not the eunuch you are, damn you!" snarled Bethel, grasping one of Kone's ankles. Going white at the deliberate insult, Kone kicked him so hard Bethel fell back clutching his stomach. Kone's men jumped him. They threw him backwards and pinioned him to the floor. Drawing his knife, Kone advanced on Bethel until he stood over him, gloating. "Now we shall see how much man you are, pretty boy." He stooped to tear at Bethel's belts that he wrenched at contemptuously and discarded to the side of the corridor. His knife slashed at Bethel's breeches. He jerked his head at the man standing in the shadows. "Brieh, I believe you eyed the warlord's boy with

interest for cycles. You may fully indulge yourself after so long." Kone turned to the men holding Bethel. "Keep him still!" Kone gave a deep laugh. "It may seem a coarse jest to you, Sorien, but I intend to enjoy myself." Bethel watched the man emerge from the shadows, belt discarded as he crossed the corridor and knelt astride him. He tried to move but felt the hands holding him prone tighten. A wave of loathing and nausea gripped him as Brieh moved huge hands in a way that made Bethel tense and try again to move. Kone, now standing over him with an amused expression, spat down on Bethel's face. "Such a pretty boy, petal," he mocked. "We'll see how pretty you look when Brieh finishes with you." "Not wise, Kone," said a frigid voice behind the warrior. Bethel jerked his head round to see if he could recognise who spoke and got a sharp kick in the side of the head from Kone who swore and turned. He stared straight into the warlord's face. "Tell your men to let the haskar free, Kone," came the direct order. "I owe that bastard," growled Kone, refusing to budge. Brieh moved his hand so suggestively Bethel flinched. He braced himself for where the huge hand was likely to move next, Churchik predictable in this particular way, and clenched his teeth as it did and stayed. "Perhaps," answered Kher. Both Brieh's hands moved this time. "It is not unknown there is bitter enmity between you. This, however, is not the way to settle it. Obey me, Haskar, now." Kone spat down on Bethel a second time, but signalled his men to release the prone figure before he stooped to yank Brieh backwards. He thrust him rudely to one side. Brieh slunk down the corridor. "Emil," went on Kher, very quietly, "take these men. No, no, Kone, you must allow your warlord to know best." Kone swivelled uncertainly, one hand at his knife belt and the other going to his head for a long moment. He saw a solitary figure hidden by shadow who stood

absolutely still. Emil stepped out from behind the warlord, and, with his men, harried Kone's men until they disappeared down the corridor in front of them. Kone shook his head, a hand again going up, this time to brush across his eyes. Bethel slowly got to his feet. He retrieved belts thrown a way from him as he also wiped spit from his face and pulled up ripped breeches. He tucked in his shirt and stood to one side, rather shaken, as he silently buckled on the belts, settled them and began to dust himself down. Kher looked from warrior to warrior. "Do you, Sorien, wish to avenge this insult?" Bethel looked into expressionless blue eyes, but read the warlord's intention immediately. "Yes, my lord. I do not forgo it." "And you, Kone - you want to fight to settle a grievance from the past. Is that so?" Kone audibly ground his teeth. "Yes, my lord." Kher raised a hand. "You both have knives. Kone, your sword." Angrily, Kone unbuckled a baldric he practically threw at the warlord's feet, not watching to see Kher retrieve it because he was intent on Bethel. Kher's face stayed inscrutable. "To an honourable fight," he said coolly. He began to walk away. The shadowy figure detached itself from the wall and followed, Bethel's curious gaze going to it and tracing its path. From it he got a strong warning. "He is treacherous, boy, and always has been. He will fight a dirty tussle. Correc." Bethel only faintly heard Kher say in a distant aside, "The fool played into our hands. It could not have been better planned had we arranged it ourselves." He wondered who Kher referred to and hoped it wasn't himself. ~~~

The light in the age wasn't ideal for fighting, but, such was Kone's fury, Bethel didn't have much to do other than parry viciously aimed thrusts intended to despatch him as soon as possible. He didn't forget Kone's prowess as a youth and it made him very, very careful. With Sarssen's timely warning at the back of his mind, he began to circle Kone. As Bethel fought warily and aware how dangerous the slightest distraction might be, Kher and Sarssen reached the sura where they found Luton agitatedly awaiting them. "Father, Beth sent to me. Where the hells is he?" "Calm yourself, son," advised the warlord, thrusting Luton into a chair and raising a hand intended to make him stay there. "You must let me go to him, Father. The gods, he's my brother!" "No, son," was the cool response, in even tones. A strong hand went to Luton's shoulder. "No, Lute," he repeated. "Let be and bear with me. Are you listening, Shasah?" "Yes," answered Luton, dully. "Kone is hot-headed, Beth is not. Believe me, there is no need for such anxious concern. Nor would I deliberately endanger Beth. You should know that, Lute." "Why do you let this happen?" Kher spoke, levelly. "Kone would have killed your brother, son, had I not been there, make no mistake. But he also had a few nasty surprises for Beth before he was to be despatched, including group rape. I think, do you not, that it is Beth's prerogative to deal with that?" "Perhaps," came the subdued reply. "Do not think Kone would hesitate, son. I have known Kone from birth. He is, in every sense, a warrior in the oldest tradition. I want him dealt with. Beth helps me." Kher turned to face Sarssen who stood behind him. "Did I give you enough time, Sarssen? I realise it made things a mite tense for Beth, but it was necessary."

"You gave me enough time, my lord. I was right about Kone's involvement." "And?" "His father is an unwitting tool, my lord. He is implicated in Obaron's abduction, if nothing else. Elerki is not actively disloyal. I get the impression he was pressured into , both by Kone and others, and merely yielded in the hope some sort of pressure on yourself would change a direction he fears for the Churchik. There is no malice in the man, my lord, unlike the son." "Anything else?" "Yes, my lord. What I read gives little cause for comfort." "Are the suspicions you spoke of confirmed?" "Yes, my lord. As much as it was possible. I need longer before I would encourage any action that may be ill-judged or precipitate. Kone was not easy to read because rage consumed him." "You have all the time you need, Haskar." "My lord." "Then I suggest we have wine while we await Beth," said Kher, watching how drawn and anguished his son's face was. "Courage, son," he added, encouragingly. "Have more faith in your brother." ~~~ When Bethel did appear, he staggered, his shirt in shreds. The fight was long and unremitting. Bethel reeled with exhaustion. Sarssen and Luton were instantly beside him, hands out in . He looked gruesome. He was still breathless, his chest heaving as he sank into a chair in silence, only rasping breath heard. Sarssen bent over him, a cloth he picked up from a table run carefully over the damp sweaty head, neck and face before the warrior wiped bloodied hands. Bethel's clothes were ripped and he was clearly kicked hard, more than once, because he heavily limped. "Has he taken hurt, Haskar?" asked Kher turning casually, a full tankard in hand.

Sarssen looked up. "Not badly, my lord. Just cuts and slashes as is expected." Kher understood and nodded. "Quite so, Haskar. Lute, give your brother this badran." Kher watched Bethel for a few moments then looked away, waiting until he saw the young man could breathe more easily. It took a while. Then Kher spoke. "Beth." Bethel had just taken a mouthful of ale but still made the effort to rise, his head lifting. "Be at ease, Haskar," Kher barked straight away. Bethel sank back. "Kone?" "Dying, my lord," replied Bethel, thickly. "Probably dead by now. Haskar Emil was with him and said he would remain. It was he who sent me away. Gods, but the man's as strong as a camitak!" Kher crossed to him, a hand going reassuringly to his shoulder. "Do not under-estimate your own strength and skills, Beth. I do not. You are one of our best warriors. that." At those words, big eyes showed surprise and gratification. "My lord," Bethel stammered. "And I thank you for an excellent service rendered, Beth." Bethel could only murmur, "My lord." He sensed Luton beside him, urging him to drink. Exhaustion swept over him again. It was with shaking hands that he tilted the tankard and drank. "It settles a score, Beth, does it not?" Kher still had his hand firmly on Bethel's shoulder. A smile quivered on Bethel's lips. "Yes, my lord, it does." "That, then, is excellent," commended the warlord, in the most unconcerned way imaginable.

Luton met his father's look and began to laugh at the comical gesture Kher made before he walked from the sura. Luton gave a helpless shrug at Bethel and Sarssen and followed. Sarssen crossed to Bethel and stared down. "Kone had that coming for long cycles, Beth." ~~~ Sarssen, Bethel and Kaleb left the city by the west gate, Luton quietly there to assist in the opening and closing of the gates. The three men walked steadily out to flat land that still looked inky though dawn had broken. Sarssen finally stopped, his cloak dragged round him for warmth. "Call me, Kaleb, when you are ready to return. The dragon will bring you back since he now knows you." Kaleb nodded, unwilling to speak because dragon-ride still left him weak-kneed and alarmingly anxious. He waited and watched when the dragon appeared and settled briefly before he swivelled eyes to rest on the healer. Kaleb reluctantly clambered into the pouch, ably assisted by Sarssen, then felt the dragon surge forward as the wings began to beat with powerful downward strokes. Sarssen turned to Bethel. "You know what you have to do, Beth?" Bethel nodded. "Make sure Jane goes with Charilae and takes your dog, too. I want Mishak to go as well. My letter to Jane gives clear instructions as to how things are to be done in our absence. The cities will be heavily defended. You may have to detour to Dainstok if Jane is there at the moment. Mishak will know where both Kel and Jane are. Get Kel and his men here as fast as you can after he's talked with Jane about defence. Make sure enough men are left to guard all the other states, but strip as much for the war effort as you justifiably can. You have my instructions for Rupon?" "Yes." "Do you need to know anything else then?" "No." "Then call Dramas, Beth, and be on your way." Bethel put his arms about the warrior.

"Take care, Sarssen," he said, huskily. "I sense enemies all ." "Indeed you do," answered Sarssen. "Enemies cease to be a threat when you know who they are. We are still wondering about the ultimate designer of the schemes afoot, though, are we not?" "Aye," answered Bethel, striding further out, his stand one of anticipation. "And please watch out for Lute." He saw Sarssen nod. ~~~ Sarssen was profoundly tired, but every part of him was alert as he approached the gates on his return, well aware Luton had ensured they were open enough for him before the young acedar retreated back to the palace. The warrior looked at shadows everywhere. Suspicious of the faintest sound, he stealthily walked along narrow streets, down steps, round blind corners, and then slipped from one courtyard to another, always in silence, his booted feet muffled against sound. Pressed against a wall, prior to making another quick dash, Sarssen heard a sound he didn't want to hear. It came closer. It was muffled hoof-beats. It wasn't a solitary rider, either, that came at a quiet, secretive walk. Aware his life wasn't worth a frigil, Sarssen quickly pulled back into a doorway, his sensory perceptions heightened and his mind reaching out across the space to the riders. It wasn't with any shock he recognised of the High Council making a slow exit from the city. He'd expected it, but was stunned by the sheer number of riders that paraded silently past. No men were being left for questioning. The organisation was superb. Determined not to draw attention to himself, Sarssen waited until the last of each troop filed past, then stood on the cobbled street watching the last of them disappear from view. A hand on his shoulder caught him unawares. He spun round with knife out and held in the offensive position as he went into the defensive warrior crouch, preparatory to attack. The blade caught the light and shone. A shaken voice gave him pause. "My lord, my lord. It is Emil." Jamming his knife into the belt sheath, Sarssen abruptly stood.

"Gods man," he whispered, angrily, "you could be dead." "My lord, I apologise, but I did not know how to approach you." "I want to know why you are out here watching those men go." "The Suldan said to let them go, my lord. He wanted any suspicions confirmed. They have been." "Any of their retinues left?" "Some, my lord. Already they will have been rounded up." "Do not unnecessarily execute, Emil, I beg you." "If that is your wish, my lord." "It is. If any will come willingly to my troop, set them aside. , not all men are disloyal just because they serve a disloyal lord." "No, my lord, I respect that." The two men began walking together in silence, both preoccupied, until Sarssen suddenly asked, "Who opened the gates for them? I closed and jammed them." Emil's answer came with the utmost reluctance. "A youngster called Gamot, my lord." Sarssen came to a dead stop, head jerked round so he could see Emil's face. "Does the boy know you are aware he is doing this?" "No, my lord, he is not." "Why?" demanded Sarssen, fiercely. "In the name of the gods, why?" Emil shook his head and spoke with difficulty. "We believe, my lord, from what we have been able to piece together, it was Gamot who called Pic away the night Obaron was abducted, and, of course, since Gamot was known to Pic, he would not expect to be lied to or betrayed by

the boy." He added tentatively, "I am sorry, my lord, but the Suldan thinks Pic has no reason to lie. Gamot has committed treasonable acts and must answer for them." Too shaken and disturbed to answer, Sarssen fell silent until they reached the palace. Then he said coldly. "Gamot is to be brought to me immediately. He is my personal slave." "He will be, my lord." ~~~ When Sarssen saw Gamot at the door of his quarters, the youth held between two burly Churchik guards, he knew the boy was guilty – it showed in the eyes. Sarssen nodded at the guards who released the youth and retreated to just outside the door to prevent Gamot's escape. Sarssen crossed to him, grasped an arm and yanked Gamot into the centre of the room. He flung the youth into a chair without ceremony. "Why, Gamot? Why have you repaid me in this fashion?" Gamot cowered back, no fight in him. He lay where flung, limp and listless. His words were scarcely above a whisper. "I owe none of you anything. You're all as bad as each other. If you fight one another there'll be fewer of you about to make my life a misery." "You mean by that, I suppose, I deserve this for having asked you to serve the warlord." "It made me slave again," whispered Gamot, an arm up to shield himself from expected blows. Sarssen towered over him. He knelt beside the chair, grasped the young chin in a grip that was frighteningly strong and jerked up the head so hard Gamot cried out. "I made an error of judgment over that obviously," murmured the warrior. He stared hard into a terrified face. "Did it also mean you had to betray a child as

vulnerable as Obaron? Did you think what an unbearably cruel death awaited the boy? Did you think of that, you young fool?" he demanded, wrenching the head a little higher. "They told me they'd bring him back unharmed. They promised they would." "Did you honestly believe that, Gamot?" The grip on his chin made Gamot's eyes water, but the look in the eyes upturned to the warrior's confirmed his belief the warriors spoke nothing but the truth. "Yes, my lord," he whispered again, barely able to speak. "What did they tell you would happen?" "They said they were taking Obaron for a short journey so the warlord would listen to them when they brought him back. They said I'd be thanked by those who matter. No harm was meant to come to Obaron. I like him, very much." "Oh the gods," murmured Sarssen. "And the gates, boy?" Gamot licked his lips and tears spilled down his face onto Sarssen's hands. "It all went wrong," managed Gamot, beginning to tremble. "Warriors came and -." Gamot broke off, shuddering. "The usual, yes, while the others held you down?" "My lord," choked Gamot, his face like parchment and eyes wide with fright. "After that they threatened they'd tell the warlord what I did about Obaron if I didn't open the gates and keep them open. They also threatened me with other things if I didn't obey." He shivered convulsively, hands twining in his lap. "I – I'm not brave, my lord. I promised to open the gates." "Poor Gamot," said Sarssen softly, real pity in his eyes. "And what did you think Obaron's abduction would do? Tell me." "Hopefully make them all fight and kill each other. They treat people like me as if we are less than dirt beneath their feet." Gamot stared tearfully at Sarssen. "Obaron's not related to you, my lord, so I never betrayed you. Nor could I. You saved me and treated me well."

"Oh gods," muttered the warrior again. He let go the youth and stood, eying Gamot disionately. "Boy, once Emil returns to the warlord and they come for you, as surely they will, I will not be able to save you, much as I wish to. I realise you acted out of stupidity and naivety and truly meant Obaron no harm, but I can assure you the warlord will not see your actions in that light. You will die, boy, and most likely on the cross." "No!" gasped Gamot, his eyes dark with unutterable terror. "No, my lord, no!" He buried his head in his hands and shook with sobs. Sarssen still stared down, his face a mask of concentration while his mind sped around possible solutions to the youth's dilemma, one idea after another discarded. Then the warrior's frown lifted and his expression was thoughtful. "There is possibly a way to save you, boy, but it will cause you considerable pain." He saw the head lift, the whiteness of the face touching him. He spoke with authority mixed with comion. "Gamot, I do not wish to do this, but you must choose between crucifixion or a flogging. A well flogged slave will be unlikely to receive as severe a punishment, whereas, if the warlord finds you standing here, untouched, you will feel the full force of his anger and revenge. The choice, boy, is yours." Distraught eyes met Sarssen's, wherein Gamot saw no escape. He quailed. Sarssen was known for his use of a whip. "You must hurry and decide, boy," advised the warrior, his anxiety transmitted to Gamot. "If I thought you acted from malice you would be half-dead now, believe me. It is only folly and innocent misjudgement that saves you. You justly deserve a thrashing and you know it, do you not?" 'Yes, my lord," came from white lips. Gamot still cringed back in the chair. "My lord," he begged, "is there no other way?" "None," answered Sarssen, walking across the room to where his whip lay coiled on a table that he pulled forward, the whip taken lightly in one hand. The table where he wanted it he flexed the whip idly, his eyes flickering to the youth now standing irresolute. ~~~ Sarssen's thoroughness saved Gamot's life. Kher and Emil arrived in Sarssen's quarters just as the guards let Gamot collapse to the carpet. No more sobs sounded. Blood dripped slowly from the lash marks that laced across him. Kher

crossed to him and kicked him sharply. Gamot didn't respond. "Is this the boy concerned?" he demanded. Sarssen coiled and discarded his whip. "Yes, my lord. He is my slave so I have dealt with him as I thought appropriate for the offence. He is very well flogged, as you can see." "He is a traitor, Sarssen, and goes the way of all such." Kher kicked Gamot again. "A foolish and unwitting one, my lord, without malice or forethought. His days as a slave have affected him in ways I was unaware of." Kher went to a knee by Gamot, wrenched the young head back and stared down with eyes as cold as the easterly winds that blew about Caciqua. "You, boy, are as close to a cross as you will ever be. Do you understand what happens to traitors in the south?" The boy's eyes spoke where Gamot found it difficult to breathe, so sharp was the pain that lacerated him from head to foot. It came in waves. "Answer me, damn you!" "My lord," Gamot whispered. His head was allowed to fall back to the carpet. "You, boy, may count your blessings. It is only because the haskar has made such a thorough job of you I do not have you crucified right now. You will be put in solitary as well, so that might teach you a lesson or two about duty and responsibility." Kher rose and turned to Sarssen. "I want to know exactly what goes on, Haskar, and I want to know now. Come with me. I would have sought you out anyway." Kher nodded at the guards and pointed down at Gamot. When he felt hands roughly reach down to take hold of him Gamot made a supreme effort to protect himself, arms about his head. He was dragged to his feet and his breeches were yanked up about him in a way that was painful. He felt them belted. Every step he was forced to take made him utter a stifled groan because steps jarred every part of him, nor were the guards disposed to let him go slowly. The chaffing from breeches and thrown on shirt was unbearable. He succumbed and wept like a child. Finally the walk came to an end, his head was bent and he was

propelled into a palace cell that was dark, frigid, cramped and smelly. He collapsed in a corner. He shivered miserably through the day and night. He thought about what he'd done and what Sarssen did to save him, thoughts jumbled. Above all, he thought most about a warrior with green eyes to whom he owed everything and whose trust he'd lost. He huddled into the shirt flung about him and waited for dawn. The image that persisted was of Kher's cold eyes so close to his, the memory making him physically ill with fear. It was mid-morning before he heard the key grind in the lock. The door opened slowly. He stayed in a terrified hunch, thinking Kher had changed his mind and those approaching were about to take him to a cross. Unable to bear it he opened his mouth to howl, until a quiet voice next to him made him gasp. "Gently, boy, gently," it said. "All warriors are busy so it is easy for me to be here. You'll be quite safe with me." Gamot recognised the healer and gave a broken sob. "The haskar asked me to come to you. Gently, child. Ah, but you're a mess." Gamot slumped. Relief overpowered him. Strong shudders rocked him. Kaleb acted quickly, his hands drawing a phial from his pocket. "Drink this, Gamot, quickly," he instructed. Gamot coughed as liquid flowed down. A gentle hand under his chin made him lick his lips. "That's better," he was encouraged. "Can you stand, lad?" Gamot nodded dumbly. "Then up you come. Now stand still while I pull this cloak about you." ~~~ Gamot met Sarssen that evening when he was summoned to appear. He arrived haltingly at the door, but was unable to look at the warrior for guilt and remorse. "Enter, Gamot," came the calm, deep voice. Gamot limped across the room, to fall stiffly to his knees beside the lounging warrior, where he leaned his head against the chair arm. A hand touched his head. "Why do you weep so, boy?"

"I'm so sorry, my lord, so very sorry." "Is it from regret or pain?" "Not pain, my lord," mumbled Gamot, into the chair arm. "Seignore has made it so I feel only a little." "Regret?" "Yes," whispered Gamot. "I beg forgiveness, my lord." "I ask again, boy, why did you act that way?" "You made me slave again, though you said it was for only a short time. I felt slave, my lord, fully a slave. The warlord treated me as one. He even beat me when I was late to serve him one evening, though I tried to explain why I was delayed. But still, I swear to you I never betrayed you. How could I?" "I do not know, Gamot. I am listening." A thin hand crept to the one resting beside Gamot's head. "I thought you no longer needed or wanted me. My life seemed bright then suddenly so dim I couldn't bear it. What was I to do? I thought the other warriors would give me a way to start anew. I no longer spent as much time with Kalbeth before he moved to live in Caciqua even though I was Alon, but nothing else once Kal was gone. You never asked me to help care for Alfar as I might have done. Nor was I ever near Shae when he was south to act as Alon for him. I thought you no longer trusted or wanted me, my lord, when all I wanted to do was serve you. I will until I die. You must know that. And I didn't know why I was in Caciqua with you when I had nothing to do with the children." The young voice became suspended by tears. "I badly misread you, Gamot, did I not? Nor should I have given you to the warlord. That was a bad mistake." "I know I'm not important, my lord, but once you trusted me and showed you did," came through sobs. "And so, boy?" A tear-stained face was lifted, so Gamot could rub a hand across wet cheeks. He tried hard to swallow and hiccupped.

"I thought maybe after all you were no different from others, though I knew deep inside you were. I don't understand why I did what I did, my lord. I'm so confused." "And hurting, my Gamot?" "My lord." Gamot sniffed. "I truly meant no harm to Obaron. I beg you to believe that. When he came back so hurt, I was terrified." "I believe that," answered Sarssen, with a smile the youth didn't see. "The warriors punished you enough, did they not?" "Yes," shivered Gamot. "The warrior hurt me, my lord, as he meant to. They take without pity." "I can imagine." The big hand was back on the young head. "It was a hard way for you to learn I do care for you, boy, was it not?" "Yes, my lord." "And do you believe I care for you, Gamot?" "I know you do, my lord. It's because of you I'm not..." The voice trailed away as Gamot couldn't say the word that always made him tremble. "Crucified," supplied Sarssen, succinctly. "What now?" "I don't know, my lord. I've come to you because you sent for me." "You will care for me again, boy, as you once did so irably. You will begin by serving at table, yes? Since you are no longer Alon to Lodrin, you will find you will be again, at some stage, to my son." Eyes shone with disbelief that warred with doubt. "My lord?" "There will be ample opportunity for you to demonstrate your loyalty, Gamot, believe me. Times to come may be rough. Nor do I have doubts about you." "My lord," mumbled Gamot, humbly.

"But you will have some way to go to fully reassure me. Now you may serve, child." Sarssen flicked the young cheek as he rose. As he sat and ate, his eyes on one not much beyond boyhood, Sarssen reflected on the war that would now come. A menacing threat hovered and not just over Caciqua. Ambros could be in danger because Churchik warriors sought revenge, certainly against one another, but also against northerners, especially Samars. Lodestok would be unsurprised but ruthless. He knew the Churchik had reached a defining point in their history. Kher had to ensure the change came or chaos would reign in the south and spill over, once again.

******

GLOSSARY

Aelkin – Indariol Agge – Correc's wife Ahliah – Prince of Kyaran Alfar – Sarehl's son also called AlfarBeth/aka Alfarik and Enikin in the south Alleghy – Elite Haskar Amril – Autoc's dragon Andish – Esok's city-state in the east Assian – member of Gnosti Myrtus Aengi Autoc – senior Yarilan mage Ayesha - Sarssen's mate Bene – Archmage of Yarilo Bensar – Elite Haskar Bethel – son of Alfar/ son of Lodestok/ Sorien Brue – son of Bruno and Melas Caciqua – Kher's city-state Caleik – Churchik Haskar Charasan – Charilae's mother/wife of Correc Charilae – royal cousin of Ensore

Chey – Lute's mate Chlorien – also known as Myme Chlo/mage Chloris – Sarehl's daughter/Chamah-Elect Choja – Sophysun Correc – Vaksh/Churchik warrior Dainstok – Bethel's city-state Dane-Meloki – Dase's daughter Dasa-Kherin – Lute's twin daughter Dase (Daxel) – son of Alfar/twin of Lute Del-Floret – Dase's city-state Dramas – Bethel's dragon Druan – ancient race on Ambros Easmonda – Charilae's Churchik name Elbaroth – Sarssen's dragon Eli – Ensore's brother Elibera – capital of Dahkilah Endorion – Ambrosian Keeper of Knowledge Enouri – Yazd centre of learning Ensore – Chamah-Elect/ Marshal Ermyn – Guildmaster of the Aesthetics Academy and Music Guild/Ortok/Samar Esok – Churchik Haskar

Etiokin – Soji's son Evereh – Charilae's foster-father Floronderiel – ancient northern city Gamot – slave boy/Alon to Kalbeth Gnosti – people of the west Goldlas – Ice Crystal dragon Harth - dragon Hasuran – Asok's title Jaim – Gnosti Kalbeth – Bethel's son Kaleb – Post-Level Four Reader/Seeker/healer Kalor – Cyrenic Kasan – Sarehl's mate Kasphros – Chlorien's son Katakin – Dase's mate Katif – land given a southern Sarat Kel – mercenary Kher – Elite Haskar Lian – son of Bruno/brother of Brue Lodestok - Warlord Lodrin - Kalbeth's Churchik name

Losaren – Sarssen's Churchik name Lute (Luton) – twin of Dase/son of Alfar and Melas Merlondhan – Kalbeth's Dahkilan title Mishak – Thalas to Bethel Mist – Kalbeth's guard Obara – Obaron's mother Obaron – Lute's son born at the Keep Ostika – capital of the Gnosti Pic – Keep slave guard Rox – Guardians of Ambros and Yarilo Rupon – Sarssen's Hospodar Sarehl – eldest son of Alfar/Strategos Saribeth – Lute's twin daughter Sarssen – Adept/Haskar Saturim – Daxel's Dahkilan title Setoni – Adept of the Conclave Shae – Sarssen's son Shasah – Lute's Churchik name Sorien – Bethel's given Churchik/Vaksh name Suldan – Warlord/Kher Tamas – Sarehl's son

Urelkin - branch of Elkin Velkin - branch of Elkin

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