He saw Bethel as one with special abilities, unique, and of the like that wouldn't come again to Ambros. That Bethel could teleth surprised and touched Sarehl, but that those talents hadn't yet matured he accepted. This gave Sarehl satisfaction and comfort.
He saw Luton as powerful. His special aptitude and spirituality for all living life forms, but especially water and trees, wasn't yet clearly defined because his life was tenuous. Sarehl was left with an odd inkling that Luton inspired love and respect from an even remoter reality than the Rox, but that concept left Sarehl quickly because it was too inexplicable and he struggled as the thought passed and left him. He let it go, just hoping that Luton, deeply hurt, strange and unfamiliar as he was, would have a future.
And he wasn't surprised when he saw Daxel as inexorably entwined with Luton as he'd been when they were inseparable boys together. The one couldn't fully survive without the other. That gave Sarehl hope because he believed that Daxel had a defined future, so he had to trust to the gods that Lute would too. And he sensed Daxel had a unique, as yet unrecognised, undefined talent.
Sarehl was increasingly aware Daxel had an unusual trait. He felt it was a spiritual power that manifested itself more and more as his brother matured. Daxel was charismatic, unconsciously impressing and influencing those about him. Ensore had commented on this often, saying thoughtfully that Daxel was a future highly inspirational leader. Sarehl thought of Daxel in Krynn and the charm the young man exerted on old and young alike. It made him smile.
He saw the youngest child of Melas as an original and odd in a way, the boy's strange maturity sometimes so at variance with the boyish mischief that surfaced less and less frequently. Brue was curiously sensitive and responsive to others and to atmosphere, had a very lively and sharp mind, and a memory that was prodigious. He forgot little, including facial expressions and gestures. When he was small he was an acute and quite cruel mimic.
At the moment Sarehl understood Brue was only a boy caught up in war, but he was allowed to sense the highly-strung, emotional youth that could grow to manhood. Beneath the mettlesome boy, Sarehl sensed a profoundly compassionate being, unusually empathic.
That was as far as Nikos allowed him to go, but it satisfied Sarehl and gave him renewed hope. He knew Chlorien could see beyond the present, but that her vision, too, was limited for some reason. He was convinced, though nothing was said, that both Nikos and Bene saw well beyond into the future and that it was a future both frightening and unpredictable. Roughly, he pushed that uncomfortable premonition to the very back of his mind. He knew their survival, all of them, was a very fragile thing.
What he understood was why they were marked for destruction. They all had talent of some sort that could help rebalance a world tilted by a destructive mage. In a sense their survival thus far maybe wasn't miraculous because it was written and unalterable, yet, at the same time, mutable and able to be manipulated. The dichotomy fascinated Sarehl. If that was so, he argued with Nikos, why hadn't Malekim known his attempts were futile? He got a broad smile and chuckle in response, and a pithy comment:
"What do mages know, Sarehl? How far can they see, and, if their vision is far but is blinkered by ambition, desire or hatred, what then do they see? Isn't it so that some creatures see what they wish to see? Isn't that so about what is reality and what is not?"
Sarehl was left with questions gnawing at his mind, but none answerable. The sensation that they were all merely players in a huge cosmic game forcibly struck him again. He wondered, rather sadly, if any of them had will and was surprised by Nikos empathising with him, emphatically stressing they all had will, and ultimately, the freedom of action and choice.
"So, though our survival thus far is immutable, our choices and actions can alter the reality of tomorrow?"
"Certain facets of that seemingly immutable reality can be fluid, Sarehl, yes. The fabric of actuality is an oddity, isn't it?" Sarehl had to confusedly agree. "Chlorien and Lute can act or react in any way in the coming days, Sarehl. That can alter the perceived reality rather than the chosen reality, can't it?" Nikos added very gently, "Action and reaction, brother. Remember that. It can make or break the balance. Nothing's truly finite. Though the strands of your existence are held in readiness and await your weaving, as are mine and your greatsire's, some strands are already woven. What we do now determines what we can do tomorrow, because one action must be counter-balanced by another. That's an immutable law, Sarehl. It's one of the contradictions of existence, if it helps to think that way."
"Perhaps," mumbled Sarehl cautiously.
His times with Nikos and Chlorien gave Sarehl an inner strength and calm that showed in a clear forehead and luminously soft eyes reminiscent of Bene's. Ensore and Kaleb noticed the change and Kalor, who saw him less often, commented on how the intensity that seemed to drive Sarehl, lessened. It did with Sarehl's mating to Kasan and with the birth of their daughter, but there was another ameliorating of the restlessness that had seemed to hold Sarehl, almost consuming him at times.
He planned as keenly and avidly and still worked at a pace that left others breathless, there was even urgency in what he did, but there was also a serenity that wrapped about him at times, especially when he just sat quietly, his gaze far away. That Sarehl had undergone a profoundly spiritual experience was quite obvious.
Ensore studied Sarehl one evening, his glance flickering from his friend to Nikos. On this occasion, Nikos held the glance and his return look suggested patience where Sarehl was concerned. Since Ensore was such a man he was content to wait for Sarehl to come to him. Ensore went on his way, his mind mulling over questions about Sarehl's very unusual sister and her even stranger, though most likable, mate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Winter closed for another long, cold, dark season in northern Ambros. The southern army, however, was camped in a sprawled loop around a series of bellwoods and srakis that gave them considerably more shelter than they had the winter before.
Though the worst wounded were left behind in southern Kyaran, still the death toll mounted by the day as icy blasts caught the injured, any crossbred young and the weak. With many slaves already deserted to the northern army, regular troops were pressed into menial tasks they bitterly resented. Muttering and cursing was only silenced by whips wielded by grim-faced warriors in no mood to listen to complaint.
The slaves who remained had a hellish time. Whipped mercilessly and abused by all and sundry they struggled to cope in conditions that were atrocious, their stalk-like necks supporting emaciated heads bowed against wind gusts that threatened to blow them away. Many simply yielded to the inevitable and willed themselves to die. Others fell whilst carrying loads. They didn't get up.
If an injured warrior died a slave was sacrificed with him. Since several dozen died of vicious wounds that refused to heal, the number of slaves executed was once cruelly high, especially since warriors of higher status always took more than one slave with him. This had ceased. There weren't enough slaves anymore.
Bethel had long ago stopped fighting revulsion at the Churchik habit of sacrificing slaves to accompany a warrior on his death walk. He turned from the executions without emotion and refused to even think about it. His expression was a distant one. That the practice now passed relieved him.
Malekim had ceased terrorising Bethel and Sarssen mainly because he felt utter contempt for them and because he knew it irritated Lodestok. Though he'd dispense with the warlord and his sons in time, at the moment the mage had need of Lodestok and his army. So he ignored the sons. It made Bethel breathe more easily but in no way gave him comfort where Luton was concerned.
Bethel sensed his brother avoided him, so, with typical Bethel impulsiveness he followed Luton one day, refusing to notice the gesture that suggested he go away. Instead, he touched Luton on the sleeve. Luton swung round, his expressionless eyes showing surprising emotion.
"Beth," he said tonelessly. "You must leave me, Beth."
"Why?" dem
anded Bethel, anxiously. "Why have you been avoiding me, Lute? You are my elder brother. Surely we may speak to one another."
"A slave obeys his master, Beth, or he suffers for his disobedience."
"Is that what the mage has threatened you with?"
"Yes." Luton's eyes were strangely compelling.
"He hurts you so, does he not?" whispered Bethel, his distress for Luton flaring again.
"I dread his punishments, Beth. I don't ask for them, nor do I court them."
"If that is the only reason you will not speak with me, Lute, then I will not come near you. Gods forbid that anything I do should cause you pain."
"Beth," began Luton with difficulty. He started again. "Beth, the times spent with you before my master came, meant much to me. I think, if this is correct, that I miss your nearness and your talking."
"You are not supposed to know comfort, Lute," said Bethel softly, "but I do believe, whether you should have done or no, you did feel comfort being with someone who cares for you. Lute!"
Bethel gripped his brother by the shoulders, unaware Luton should've shrunk back but didn't, then he gave the man a gentle shake before he turned away. Luton's gaze followed the retreating figure, his shoulders suddenly slumped.
~~~
Evenings now were often difficult for Bethel because he admitted to Sarssen his skin crawled when the warlord had Malekim for company. The mage's presence made the warlord morose, Lodestok rising on a snarl and gesturing that Bethel play the pipes or the estibe. He wasn't averse to cuffing the dark head as he passed either. Bethel found Malekim's presence intolerable and a decided threat. He found it even affected the quality of his music in a way that nothing else did and that troubled Bethel, because it was as if the mage deliberately tried to reduce the depth of Bethel's musical skill. Bethel determined to thwart whatever the mage was doing to him by playing simple, memorable pieces that came automatically. When he played, he was conscious of the sneer. Alone again, the warlord would visibly relax and lounge back, his black scowl fading, his eyes closing and his voice more cool than icy.
"Play the pipe now, boy," Bethel would be instructed, Lodestok's lazy glance coming to rest on the fingers on the stops.
The warlord's shaking slightly increased as winter limped on. Though the bouts were brief they were more noticeable, tremors shaking the huge frame for several seconds at a time. Bethel noticed his master was increasingly tired, nor did he have the staggering stamina that left Bethel shaking and gasping. The attacks didn't alter his resolution or determination, nor did it affect his reasoning or decision-making. The man's energy still would have left someone half his cycles struggling to keep up with him. He was as unyielding, inflexible and frighteningly powerful as he'd always been.
It was just, Bethel thought, when he woke very early one morning and stared down at Lodestok, that the robustness was no longer there and the brute force, that terrorised and broke him to submission for so long, was now muted. Bethel took in the white and grey hairs in the reddish beard and at the silver flecks increasing at the warlord's temples, and he knew that Lodestok, indomitable as he was, showed signs of age. He was over seventy cycles.
Apart from flares of temper when Malekim was about him, Lodestok was very gentle with Bethel, too. With more sleep Bethel's health improved and his nervous stomach settled, so much so he no longer found his master's demands either brutal or overly onerous. If he was asked Bethel would've said he'd prefer not be taken by the warlord, but it was so much part of his existence he just acquiesced as he'd always done. Nor was Bethel foolish enough to think that the man who lay resting beside him, wouldn't hurt him in unspeakable ways still if he transgressed or displeased the warlord. Bethel respected both the man's inordinate physical strength and his legendary unpredictability.
It wasn't missed either, by all who saw him, as well as by the warriors, how a smile actually touched coldly bleak, blue eyes whenever one of the warlord's sons approached their father. Kher commented on this to Sarssen and saw how the warrior's face became thoughtful, though at the same time Sarssen shrugged to indicate he didn't know why Lodestok would act in such an uncharacteristic way. Pride in sons was an accepted part of Churchik social custom. It was just totally unexpected in one such as the warlord. Kher raised an enquiring eyebrow but said no more, his gaze dwelling long on the warrior walking beside him.
In the mornings Bethel went directly to his men, Lute bounding happily beside him, every so often deviating if he came across a particularly interesting odour that caused a detour. Bethel waited patiently until Lute was ready to move on, the young man's voice to his dog soft and gentle. It was known throughout the camp that the youngest acedar among the Churchik was a conscientious warrior, that he was never brutal, and that not once since men were assigned to him had he whipped or executed a man.
"If that lad asked the men to fight for him personally, they would," Kel told Jane one morning, both men stamping snow from their boots before retiring into an unsel where they could take refreshment.
"What makes you say that?" asked Jane, sipping at a very hot brew of spiced wine, then sneezing at its pungency. His nose began to drip, so he sniffed.
"You can tell," returned Kel, taking his tankard from Seth, one of the senior men under Kel that Bethel trusted implicitly. "Isn't that so, Seth?"
"Aye, 'tis and all," agreed Seth, crouching down beside the two men. "I think, meself, that if anyone was foolish enough to hurt the lad, he'd have a lot of angered men after him who'd wish him no good at all."
"I know Beth brings out loyalty," observed Jane austerely, "but I didn't think feelings for him ran that deep."
"Gods help anyone I see harming the lad," growled Seth, upending his tankard before lounging back on a mattress, his eyes closed.
"It's true, Jane," said Kel, with a sudden smile. "That lad could have his own loyal troop if he ever wanted it."
"Any other warrior like so?"
"No," said Kel bluntly. "The typical Churchik hierarchy doesn't encourage that. All are bonded by oaths of loyalty and fealty, both to the ruling warlord as well as to their warrior lord."
"Beth's taken oaths," reminded Jane. Kel's smile broadened.
"Oh aye, man, under protest, but that lad's no more Churchik than you or I, Jane. He doesn't act like a warrior."
"Well now!" bridled Jane defensively.
"No, Jane, you misunderstand me," chuckled Kel, kicking Seth ungently because the man dozed and began to snore. Seth came awake and muttered. "Beth doesn't berate his men. He's quiet and quite unviolent. He's as unlike the Churchik as can be! I don't mean the lad lacks courage - quite the reverse. The men wouldn't follow him if he lacked leadership, let me tell you. The lad's different, one of a kind, and he has the men eating out of his hand. The men are as tough as you'll find anywhere, yet there's something about that Beth of yours that touches them."
"I did tell you, cycles ago," murmured Jane, with a wink at Kel.
"Oh aye," grinned Kel. "I have learned as you said I would. The lad has me quite under his spell, as he has you!"
Both Kel and Bethel suffered with the cold, the ice creeping into wounds that were healed but vulnerable to the chill. Bethel admitted to Jane that he ached unbearably sometimes, his fingers numbing faster than they used to on his right hand. The tips of the fingers went white so fast Bethel was astonished. Jane found him a reeli fleece-lined over-tunic that he insisted on pulling over the dark head without Bethel's assistance. Once it was belted Jane had the satisfaction of seeing Bethel's face break into a grin of appreciation.
"Oh Jane," he sighed. "You are a treasure. I wore reeli garb as a boy. Where did you find this?"
"Never you mind," answered Jane with an answering smile. "Just tell me that it helps, lad, that's all I ask."
"I am so warm," mumbled Bethel gratefully. "Reeli wool was thought to be the warmest you could find. I remember we had merchants always trekking to Ortok for the finest fleeces." Bethel fell silent, his expression suddenly sombre.
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"Don't brood, Beth," said Jane gently. "It wasn't meant to remind you of home."
"I know," Bethel whispered. Roughly he brushed at his eyes. "Sometimes things come in a flood and swamp me," he confessed chokily. "Not as often anymore, Jane, because I know I am to be a warrior all my life and that I am a southern warlord's son.
But when the waves come they are so hurtful. This reeli made me feel as if I were home with Sar and the twins, and I see Chlo playing with baby Brue, while Mam spins and Bruno studies the silks he has just bought. It will pass." Not moving, Bethel bent his head in his hands.
Jane hadn't heard Bethel being so specific about his family for a long time. It worried him. He eased himself across the mattress until he was close to Bethel, his arms going about the young man and Bethel leaned into him, a hand going out to the large furry head that burrowed insistently under it.
When the weather wasn't completely intolerable, Bethel took Mishak outside into the snow where he taught the boy defensive skills that meant the child would be less bullied and harassed come spring. Bethel was conscious Mishak rapidly passed from boyhood to youth, was very intelligent and needed to be taught more than being a groom and a slave.
Not that Bethel thought of Mishak as a slave. He never treated any slave as an inferior being. The oddity was, that, in himself, he accepted, deep in his subconscious, that he was inferior to the Churchik. Lodestok had inculcated that in his boy slave from Bethel's first agonising hours and it was so deeply embedded in the young man's psyche, it was doubtful Bethel would ever feel able to stand on truly equal terms with a race that mastered his own. Sarssen recognised this fundamental dilemma in Bethel but knew coping with it was beyond him. He let be.
Looking at the young man one day, Sarssen found it difficult to believe that this gentle Beth, calm and assured, his head held high, was grown from the timid, desolate boy with the huge, anguished eyes from so long ago. It gave Sarssen a degree of satisfaction and hope. His most serious and pressing concern, was the frail entity that embodied a great deal of what was most likely to be the ruthless ambition of his master - Luton. Sarssen's evaluation of the current situation didn't give him comfort.