"Chlorien's rarely talented, warrior. I sensed it very early and my father said it was written in her eyes. She could achieve what it takes others almost cycles to learn and she could apply it as well."
"Then that is why she was taken," suggested Sarssen, then he shook his head. "But Beth has talent, tribesman, so that cannot be the only reason."
"So, perhaps," said Choja very gently, "has the brother you speak of who is with Blach. Blach's not a sorcerer, my friend, but you know that, don't you?"
"Yes," came the honest reply.
"Son, get us drinks," instructed Choja quietly. Jochoh was gone on the words. Choja turned fully to face Sarssen. "Who is he?"
"He is a mage."
"What's his name, warrior?"
"Choja, I -."
"His name, Sarssen, isn't Blach. Of that, we're convinced though only the Sophy and I suspect it's so. So do you."
"Yes."
"Cycles after Schol left us we heard more about the apprentice and the more we heard the more puzzled we became. I've only just put things together concerning him but I'd appreciate confirmation from you, warrior, that the thin, unusually tall young apprentice with the black curly hair and dark eyes is a brother of Chlorien and this boy here."
"When did you piece this together, tribesman?"
"Last night, warrior." Sarssen had stopped eating, but now resumed in a resigned way.
"Choja, as nearly as I can I will tell you about the boys but I know little." Sarssen wasn't a fool and recognised he'd have to tread very warily with a man of Choja's insight and intelligence. "The eldest son who raised the others is called Sarehl - you heard Beth mention Sar when he was feverish. That is Sarehl. Like the boy you describe I believe he is extremely tall, dark haired and dark eyed. He raised twin brothers who answer to Dase and Lute, the latter you have so aptly drawn.
Dase escaped Ortok taking with him the infant of the family, a boy child, I think called Brue. Myme Chlo was taken by this man called Scholar. Sarehl escaped death. How is beyond me when he was so badly hurt. It is he who helps to lead the army massing in the north. Dase is with him."
"So our intelligence is correct. Would that oldest brother answer to the title of Strategos, warrior?"
"He does, yes. Lute was captured and placed in a slave caravan. His experiences, so we gather, made him mute. You know who traded wealth for mutes, Choja, do you not?" An ashen-faced Choja nodded. "The mage took Luton to his Keep. The rest you know."
"And this boy?"
"His beauty meant he had no chance," responded Sarssen.
"No." Choja's voice was implacably hard and he was silent for long moments. "Tell me about yourself, warrior. I would know."
Sarssen put his bowl to one side then accepted the cup Jochoh held down to him. He murmured his thanks.
"I am the son of a Churchik warrior lord and a Yazd mother." He heard the inward hissing breath of both father and son.
"This explains much. Does the warlord know you are of a race he tried to exterminate, warrior?"
"No. You have already guessed at my talent, Choja, have you not?" Choja nodded, his watchful eyes on the still slightly scarred face. Healing scabs were ready to lift. "My mother and I were taken on a slave caravan. We were not chained like others which I didn't understand then but now I do. My mother was allowed to walk about because the warrior who is my father wished to use her throughout the trek at his convenience. Some would say he took her as his concubine. I do not honour it with that dignity. When my mother died on the trek I was not then eight cycles and I was left without kin. A senior warrior in one of the camps found me and took me as a gift for the warlord."
"Were you, too, a pretty boy, warrior?" Sarssen looked hard at the tribesman.
"I was not in the Bethel mould, Choja. Attractive was how the warlord described me. It will suffice. I appealed to him and he kept me, teaching me everything I know. He gave me life." Sarssen paused.
"Was it life, warrior?" Sarssen heard pity under the coolness of tone.
"I knew nothing else," he said smoothly. "When you have nothing to compare it with you accept life as you find it, tribesman."
"I understand," said Choja, the respect in his eyes deepening. Sarssen missed it.
"I was a beduar when we left the south on the northward conquest and as an acedar I was at Ortok when the city was taken. Until we reached there, apart from myself, the warlord took boys on a regular basis until he came across Bethel. He has had the boy ever since. Bethel was not quite eleven cycles but has survived."
When Choja just happened to glance at Sarssen he was shaken by the depth of pain he saw in the warrior's eyes before the warrior blinked and turned his head away. In those brief seconds Choja read of years of anguish and suffering. Unable to respond suitably he drank. He waited for Jochoh to replenish both his and Sarssen's cups before he spoke again.
"I would say, warrior, the boy survived because of your help and talent."
"He has much courage," answered Sarssen calmly, "and he is a very gentle boy." Those words echoed Schol's and it reminded Choja of something he needed to ask.
"Is the boy a musician?" Sarssen turned back to face the tribesman.
"Why do you ask?"
"Something the mage said to me when he left, warrior. Is the boy a musician?"
"Oh, yes," replied Sarssen, bending over Bethel and caressing a cheek. "He is a deeply gifted musician, Choja." He had a thought, then added, "Are any of you musicians?" Choja looked quickly at Jochoh.
"My son plays desert reed pipes, warrior."
"Could he play them to the boy? It may be all Bethel needs. His music has saved him on a number of occasions."
Jochoh looked questioningly at his father who nodded, the latter's eyebrows raised in doubt. Jochoh lounged down by Bethel's feet. He fumbled in his tunic pocket for his pipes, settled himself more comfortably as he raised the pipes to his lips then closing his eyes in much the same way Bethel often did he began very softly to play. It reminded Sarssen of the pipers back at the warlord's camp and it made him sigh with appreciation. Choja sat and watched Bethel.
Bethel heard the music from a distance. He struggled to orient himself so he could come closer to it. His eyelashes flickered. His eyelids moved. Healing lips tried to form coherent words. Bethel wanted to be there so his eyes opened wide and luminous, he smiled for the first time and though the smile was weak it illuminated the pale face. Choja saw animation.
"Warrior," he whispered. Sarssen, who'd rested back on an elbow, turned to look across at Bethel.
"Tell your son to keep playing, Choja," he said, in as hushed tones as the tribesman. Fortunately Jochoh was absorbed in the music, heard nothing and continued playing.
Bethel licked his lips and whispered huskily, "Who plays?"
Choja moved quietly down beside him, a little behind the young man so he could raise Bethel to rest on his shoulder. He held a cup in the other hand.
"It's my son, boy. Can you drink for me?" Bethel drank and swallowed as often as Choja rested the cup on his lips. Choja put the cup on the sand, picked up a comb and very gently began to tease out the knots that seemed to form so easily in the thick curly mane. "You wear your hair very, very long, boy. Why is that?" Bethel strained to focus on the musician then fell back with a sigh.
"It is my lord's wish," he answered. "He is my master."
"I see," murmured Choja, running the comb carefully through a hank he'd freed.
The combing soothed Bethel to such an extent he closed his eyes on another sigh, his breathing more regular. Choja kept combing until he knew Bethel was asleep then very quietly signalled to Jochoh, now staring at Bethel, that he stop playing. Gently he and Sarssen eased Bethel back under covers before Choja and Jochoh silently left.
Later that day Bethel woke to a face bent over him. He flinched back. The head was withdrawn immediately.
"I'm Jochoh. I play the pipes but I've just brought food for the tempkar." Bethel relaxed, an eager light touching his eyes.
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"Pipes?" Jochoh grinned and pulled them from his talma pocket, to place them in Bethel's hands.
"I wish to play," he murmured.
"In a day or so you will, boy," said a voice Bethel recognised. Fully aware for the first time he looked up into the warrior's face, his big eyes swamped with tears.
"My lord. Oh, my lord!"
"Softly, boy, softly," said Sarssen, rapidly sinking down so he could hold the young man.
"I thought you were dead." There was a sob in Bethel's voice. "I called for you and sent to you. You were gone!"
"No, boy, I was not. I was just badly hurt as you are so I was unable to respond. It saddens me you put yourself through this."
"I thought you died," repeated Bethel. Sarssen ran his hand over the dark curls and his mind melded briefly with Bethel's.
"All is well, boy. You recover. Since I am stronger than you I heal faster but that is a small thing. You tried to die, Beth. That was rather drastic."
"I could not go on, again, without you, Sarssen."
"No, Beth, I understand, probably more than you realise." As Sarssen was speaking, Jochoh retrieved the pipes and tactfully retired. "Do you feel easier now, boy?"
"Yes," whispered Bethel. "Where are we?"
"Somewhere in the desert, Beth, but the gods know where. I would not wish to be alone in such an environment. I have little sense of direction other than at night when I can at least sort out which way is north." He saw a smile touch the young face. "You will see for yourself," he promised. Bethel tried to reach for his hand but couldn't so Sarssen took the groping hand firmly in his.
"Are we safe, my lord?"
"Very," assured Sarssen, turning to see Choja enter with more food. The tribesman knelt beside the pallet and gave Sarssen one of the bowls.
"You've had to use your fingers, warrior, but today I have brought you sticks. Can you use them?" Sarssen grinned amiably.
"It is not a skill I possess, Choja, but it is time I learned the desert way." Choja's return smile at Sarssen was warm before he glanced down at Bethel.
"And are you feeling better?" Bethel looked shyly at him, reminding the tribesman vividly of his first meeting with Chlorien.
"Yes, I thank you, my lord." Choja's smile broadened.
"I'm not a lord, sapling," he said, unconsciously speaking to Bethel as he had to Chlorien. "I wish you to eat for me so open your mouth." He lifted Bethel higher on the cushions then deftly caught food with the sticks. Bethel stared at the sticks fascinated and only remembered to open his mouth when the food was above him.
"What do I call you?" he asked.
"Choja," was the simple reply, Choja holding up sticks again. Obligingly, Bethel opened his mouth.
When he'd swallowed, he said hesitantly, "I am Beth, though the warlord has another name for his younger son."
"And what is that?"
"My lord calls me Sorien."
"But you answer to Beth."
"I am Beth."
"Then, sapling, we'll call you by your given Samar name of Beth." Choja was rewarded with a smile. He nodded at Jochoh who placed another cup beside his father. "My son answers to Jochoh, sapling." Bethel's smile was tentative, Jochoh's was friendly.
~~~
Bethel recovered quickly because though he was badly knocked about he was young and healthy. He found himself pushed into company with Jochoh who was encouraged both by Sarssen and Choja to talk to Bethel about Myme Chlo - he did, so much that soon Bethel referred to her as Chlorien too and began to chatter about her as he remembered her, his relief at her being alive and not dead in some awful way quite touching.
Sarssen found him one morning hunched in the sand, his head in his hands and his long hair blowing wildly about him.
"Beth," said Sarssen, going down beside the younger man. "Beth, what troubles you, boy?"
"Myme Chlo," mumbled Bethel, snuffling and wiping a hand across his cheeks.
"What about her?"
"She is alive, my lord. She is alive."
"Does this not comfort you, Beth?"
"Yes," whispered Bethel. "It is just that for so long, my lord, I believed she died horribly in that destroyed city. I saw the sights of destruction, crucifixion, hanging and the rape of girls her age before girls were disposed of -." Bethel's voice broke.
"Your relief is understandable, Beth. You were very close to your sister, were you not?"
"Yes," murmured Bethel, leaning against the comforting broad shoulder. He felt an arm go about him. "I told you once she taught me mind-blocking skills."
"She saved your life, boy."
"And she was part of my music. I played for her."
"Then it will be a deep part of her, Beth. Now you know she survived and went with the scholar."
"Why did Choja say the warlord wanted her so she could be taken south, my lord? Was it intended that she would be taken to the southern mage?" Sarssen saw dawning horror in the purple eyes.
"So it seems, Beth," he answered calmly enough. "We know so little still."
"Then he would have had Lute and Myme Chlo. Why, my lord, why?"
"That Beth I cannot answer. We can just be thankful that the scholar you so respected managed to avoid that particular consequence by taking her to safety."
"But he could not save us, my lord, the brothers."
"Perhaps, boy," suggested Sarssen gently, "he could only save one."
"And for some reason that had to be Myme Chlo and not Lute, Dase or Sar."
"Or you, Beth." Sarssen watched the fingers twine through the long hair in a very Bethel gesture. "Come, boy, and let me help you plait your hair into a queue. It will tie itself in knots if you leave it loose in this wind." Bethel disentangled his hair and took the hand held down from the now standing Sarssen.
"Then I shall play the pipes," he said softly. "Chlo would have liked them."
~~~
As the days passed, looking at Bethel Choja saw many similarities with Chlorien but even more he noticed the subtle differences more clearly. Bethel's bruises disappeared, the scabs lifted showing no scarring of the skin underneath and the limp that still plagued him from a very nasty whiplash was less noticeable. His spirit revived faster than his body.
As soon as it was felt Bethel could sustain it they were mounted on desert horses for the trek back into the desert to an oasis Choja used as his headquarters in the fight against Kosko and his allies. Sarssen had never felt more relieved to see greenery in abundance than he did the afternoon they rode into Cency. Since autumn drew in quickly all men were pleased to have solid and warm shelter during the bitter nights. On the ride southwards Sarssen explained at length what the warlord sent his sons to do and say even though the seal was torn from Bethel's neck. The letters were gone. Choja listened in silence, his eyes unreadable but his mouth drawn tight in an uncompromising line.
He began to understand, just a little, the lives these two warriors were forced to live for their survival, not, he reflected as he listened to Sarssen one morning, that it came from what the blond warrior said. It was more what was left unspoken. Glancing casually at Sarssen, Choja decided the two warriors coming south to an uncertain fate told him much, acknowledging with a grim little smile that these two men had no choices at all.
Sometimes, when Sarssen was unaware of his expression, Choja saw powerful emotions flicker in the unusual and singularly fine emerald eyes to be almost immediately replaced by an abnormal calm. The tribesman suspected the blond warrior knew no self-pity. He admired Sarssen's placid acceptance of a life unrelentingly harsh and frequently harrowing that was lived on a knife edge of uncertainty, with courage and extraordinary adaptability. There was an indomitability about the blond warrior that was striking. Studying the warrior's profile Choja was struck by an odd whimsical thought. There was much, he thought idly, of the tall mage in this younger man. That brought Choja up sharply. It made him think.
Over those nights at Cency Choja encouraged Bethel to speak freely about himself. The
y sprawled around a fire, the pipes stilled as all stared pensively into leaping, jetting flames. Then, gently urged, Bethel would talk. To begin with he spoke haltingly. It was as if he'd suppressed his memory because it was too painful to recall compared with the life he was now forced to live, but as the days passed the words came more easily. Though no one else noticed it Sarssen heard the tone and knew Bethel was still divorced from much because he refused to let precious memories too near the surface. Sarssen knew and let be. Bethel could only respond so far. The warrior had never heard Bethel speak of his origins as he did now though he'd been in the young mind often enough. Bethel spoke of Scholar quite freely but he stumbled over his family, especially Sarehl and his mother.
He could talk easily about Brue, the youngest brother with the red hair named after his father, about Lian and the city of Ortok, even about the guilds and the scholars who used to come to Samar from all across Ambros. He described life in general ways, of the trading using the extensive canal network and the areas set aside in the city for the merchants and itinerant travellers. Sarssen was intrigued by a society that had no slaves and was organised in the way Bethel outlined.
When Bethel tried to speak of his studies at the Aesthetics Academy and what he could be now his voice broke completely and he fell silent, a hand up to wet cheeks and his head bent. Then Sarssen handed him the pipes and Bethel played, sometimes the music so hauntingly sad Choja had to leave.
Much was learned of the society from which Bethel came. It helped to clarify for Sarssen how traumatic Bethel's transition to the Churchik way of life was for such an aesthetic, gentle and sensitive boy, Bethel growing in a climate that fostered an appreciation of beauty and where he was surrounded by affection and respect. Again, Sarssen could only admire the courage of this tall, slender young man. Bethel had confronted and accepted appalling brutality, cruelty and pain in order to survive. Churchik life was the antithesis of everything the boy had experienced.
Choja and Sarssen talked at length on many things, the warrior puzzling over the mage's assurance that Chlorien was his child and the fact that Chlorien certainly acknowledged the mage as her father. His brooding brought him no answers. When he was told who pursued her Sarssen wrinkled his nose thoughtfully.