CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Knellen and the Doms spoke with Cadran about his meeting with the Mythlin; all were concerned that the young man might be disturbed. They were gratified to find Cadran untroubled. He expressed himself in a way that showed he felt nothing for the Mythlin, not even contempt or dislike. Cadran accepted who he was and simply put the Mythlin from his mind. That was as pleasing as the news from Saneel that the Mythlin was now enjoying a novel experience with mimoses after a week with Maenades. Her description of the Varen’s condition brought smiles but thoughts of caution too.
“How long do you think he can last with the mimoses?” asked Dancer.
“After being with us, not overly long, Dom. The females are very active and ungentle and he was worn after his time with us. We gave him no respite.”
The Doms looked pensive. It was Dancer who spoke again.
“Knellen and Javen experienced mimoses, didn’t they?”
Jepaul nodded. He turned to Quon.
“Should I ask Knellen and Javen to come here?”
“Aye, young one.”
Quon turned to Saneel.
“How long will you leave him with the mimoses?”
“Just for an hour. He’ll be with us for the night, then he goes out for more tomorrow. That should bring desired results.”
“And then?”
“He stays with us as long as he’s here and goes out for mimose forays if he disobeys us or we sense resurging aggression. I don’t think he will, Quon.”
Quon’s smile was a little strained.
“I don’t envy him, Saneel.”
“Neither do I,” said Sapphire curtly.
“True,” observed Ebon, adding caustically, “Just remember all those little girls, over many syns, before you pity him too deeply. Are you still using gatril, Saneel?”
“Yes, but in lesser doses. He’s flooded with fal and jul from us and you can be sure the mimoses will give him more. We won’t have to give him any after that.”
“When, then,” asked Ebon, with a twinkle at Saneel, “do we advance on the Mythlin’s city?”
“Knellen may have a suggestion,” replied Quon.
The Doms and Saneel looked up to the entrance to see Jepaul accompanied by Knellen and Javen. Waved in they entered and sat back, took full tankards and were brought up to date about the Mythlin. Knellen and Javen were asked to be specific about their mimose experiences, something that still made both men flush darkly and explain with considerable embarrassment. Then there was a very long pause while their explanations were digested and those present clearly understood what the Mythlin would, at that moment, be experiencing.
“What do you suggest, Knellen?”
Knellen, recovering his complexion, looked at Dancer with surprise.
“There’s nothing I can do about it, Dancer. It’s up to the mimoses.”
“I meant about the city. Do you have any plan in mind? We’ve all agreed that having a city base is most desirable and one without a resident Red Council the best of all, but have you thought about any strategy?”
“Yes,” came the reply. Knellen spoke crisply. “I expect a troop from the city any day. They will come to request the return of their Mythlin because it is a week now since he came to us. They will see him as changed and not the Mythlin they hunted with. I have already monitored how sustained activity has affected the youthfulness and virility he gained in exchange for an essential part of himself. The excesses he is currently experiencing will continue to consume him because those gifts are hard to sustain if they are relentless and unremitting. You, Saneel, and your Maenades have begun the process. The end will be inevitable as he continues to be continually stimulated and consequently drained. It should continue until he becomes visibly an older man. Do you see this yet?’
Saneel considered, her forehead puckered.
“Not yet, Knellen. We see resentment has mostly gone. He’s more compliant. He obeys. But there’s still the arrogance of the stud male. The mimoses will deal with that.”
Both Javen and Knellen gave telling flinches.
“Then I think, Doms,” and here Knellen turned to directly face them, “we should begin to order the move for the day after tomorrow so the Mythlin’s troops find us easier to reach. Their scent ability should hurry them along. I want to enter the city with them, not take it. I will explain my proposal later, Doms.”
“Agreed,” acquiesced Ebon. “Doms?”
There were nods.
“And presumably you’ll keep the Mythlin, Saneel,” smiled Sapphire.
“Not me,” she smiled back impishly. “I have another preference, Dom,” she added with a saucy glance at him that produced laughs. “Vana has the Mythlin. She has boundless energy.”
Saneel left to seek out the mimoses. She found the Mythlin, very dishevelled, with a male mimose who held him very firmly. The Mythlin lay quiescent on his side, his mouth opening and closing to the hand that insistently pushed fal into his mouth while he was also very tightly curled around a female. The male mimose made him swallow the fal by a powerful body movement followed by the same from the female. Saneel backed discreetly away.
That evening, Saneel had the Mythlin returned to Vana. She carefully studied him, then nodded to Vana before she went to report on his condition to the Doms and the Companions. The next morning she inexorably returned the Mythlin to delighted mimoses.
The following day the camp was on the move. It was all orderly and quiet. It was now a very long train, flanked back and front by Varen from all city-states. Knellen saw the Mythlin with the Maenades who rode the mimoses when camp moved, the mimoses still fed judicious amounts of gatril so they could be ridden. They’d always retain their natural fierce aggression. Knellen saw the Mythlin slung across Vana’s mimose in front of her, the body limp and long legs dangling. Saneel, speaking to Sapphire, explained the Mythlin was uncomfortable riding, a comment that made the Dom smile rather sourly.
“How is he? Still the irrepressible stud?”
Saneel shook her head.
“No. When we finally stop for camp you’ll see for yourself.”
“Is he ready?”
“Not quite, but it won’t be long. He’s perceptibly aging and it’s happening quite suddenly, just as the Doms thought it might if he was kept abnormally active.”
After three days of almost non-stop travel the train came to a tired halt and a permanent camp was once more set up. Knellen anticipated a troop from the Mythlin’s city in a matter of hours. He therefore asked to see the Mythlin. Saneel nonchalantly brought him to the assembled Doms and Companions. Chief Grohols were also there. They all stared at the Mythlin who entered beside Saneel.
The once very large man shook as though he had an ague, he was slightly stooped and he walked extremely stiffly and with an effort. He limped slightly. He showed the effects of fal and jul, his eyes were deeply tired and his expression wasn’t that of a youthful stud. Nor was his body. Three more nights with Vana showed. The face was that of an older man. The warrior women and the mimoses had accelerated the gift to the extent it had significantly aged the Mythlin just as the Doms had hoped. They guessed any further time with mimoses and Maenades would almost complete the transformation, though Quon also suspected it would ultimately kill the Mythlin. His gift, forced beyond his control, would finally consume and kill him. He hoped for the Mythlin’s sake the end would come quickly.
“Honoured Mythlin,” bowed Knellen.
The Mythlin, trying uneasily to sit where Saneel placed him and wincing as he did, glanced up at the Varen, the man’s expression hard to read.
“You have made me suffer, Varen. You’ve defied your oath and betrayed your Mythlin.”
“I took an oath to a Mythlin who had integrity and was, when I did so, a very, very frail old man for whom I was taught to have utter respect. You are no longer that man, Master.”
“I was offered the gift of youth and virility. It was mine to
choose and accept.”
“In return for your soul, Master.”
“I repeat, it was my choice. Did it affect how I was the Master? No, it gave me strength to continue.”
“The gift, Master, has a curse attached to it. You knew that but ignored it. Your state, though not directly under a Red Council, is influenced by it. Your Varen young are unselected and untrained. And your hunt for young girls, forced to be sterilised candemaran, is an obscenity. Your treatment of them is savage.”
“Are you celibate then, Varen?”
“No. I, too, once enjoyed an occasional candemaran but you are both cruel and insatiable.”
The Mythlin made a dismissive hand gesture and winced again.
“So what now, Varen? You have humiliated me. I am tired. I do not have the energy I’ve become used to.”
“We want you to open your city to us and welcome us. You will hand your authority over to another. “
“I insist on being returned to my city. Obey your oath, Varen, because I utterly refuse to countenance any such suggestion.”
“As you wish.”
Knellen nodded infinitesimally at Saneel and Lisle before he walked calmly away. The Mythlin was once again jerked to his feet and marched back to the warrior women’s quarters already being set up. With a shrug, the Mythlin was pushed to Vana.
To Knellen’s surprise the troop he expected didn’t arrive until four days later. He didn’t see the Mythlin over that time, nor did the Doms. He stayed with the Maenades. It was a singularly large and threatening troop of experienced senior and elite Baron/Kelt Varen that made Knellen wary and cautious. Aware of their impending arrival, Knellen and Lisle had their men well in hand and in an aggressive formation. The city troop drew up. Varen confronted Varen. The troop leader showed his teeth suggestively. All watched Knellen respond likewise.
“You have the Mythlin with you. His visit among you comes to an end.”
“Certainly,” concurred Knellen.
The Varen stared at him.
“He comes with us?”
“By all means, whenever you choose. He will be sent for on your word.” Knellen indicated a rider-less horse. “As you can see, the Mythlin’s horse awaits him.”
The leader looked confounded, his pugnacity gone.
“What has the Mythlin been doing among you?”
“He has had every moment of his days and nights in gratification with women,” came the reply, as Knellen deliberately omitted all reference to mimoses.
“Those would be delights of his choosing,” agreed the leader, his upper lip curling. “Is he satisfied?”
Saracen barely restrained a gasp at the question but a vigorous poke in the side from Belika held him silent.
“Entirely, friend. What is your nomen?”
“I answer to Maine. And you, brother?”
“Knellen.”
Maine frowned slightly.
“Knellen,” he repeated. “Knellen. Are you the Castelan Varen there’s so much talk about?” Knellen nodded. “There’s a price on your head, brother.”
“Yes, I know.”
At that Knellen fully lifted his head and Maine looked directly into eyes that shocked him. He swallowed then croaked,
“Your eyes, brother, your eyes. Can you explain them?”
“Yes. The Cynas inserted a powerful, large writhling in my shoulder. It was removed. The procedure was done by one unknown to us and caused me considerable pain. The aftermath has left me as you see me.”
“Demons, brother!” whispered Maine. “And the writhling?”
“Dead.”
The Varen licked his lips. He seemed uncertain and simply sat and stared at Knellen, fascinated.
“Then why are you hunted, brother?” he asked at last.
“My Cynas is angered about the writhling. Do you and your men care to rest awhile before you return to your city with the Mythlin?”
“We thank you, brother. That is indeed welcome.”
While the troop dismounted and got themselves organised, Knellen escorted Maine to Lisle and introduced one to the other before he retreated to find Saneel. She was with Belika and beside her was the Mythlin.
“Saneel,” uttered Knellen, as he sighted the Mythlin.
He looked down to a resting man, his head back against a cushion, his mouth slightly open, the effects of jul and ful still evident but much less so and the eyes closed in sleep.
“Restful, isn’t he?” Saneel gurgled, then her voice became softer.
“He’s almost the Mythlin I remember,” muttered Knellen, down on one knee and his voice almost unbelieving. “How did you do it?”
“Another few nights with us,” she responded, a gentler hand down to the Mythlin. “He has little left, Knellen. The Doms say the gift, so forcibly enforced without any respite for such an extended length of time by us and the mimoses, simply brought the curse of its making sooner than otherwise. He would’ve suddenly aged. Now he has. He’s a very, very old man.”
“Can he walk?”
“Barely.”
“Riding?”
“Unlikely.”
“Can he still physically respond to you?”
“No.”
“Can he respond to any of us?”
“Maybe, Knellen.” Saneel looked up and added quietly, “Knellen, time passes for him as was expected, but much faster than you may think.”
“Can I bring Cadran?”
“Do it.”
Cadran was startled to be summoned by Knellen but responded promptly and with a smile. Then he saw the gravity of expression and stopped abruptly.
“Knellen?”
“Cadran, I want you to come with me to the Mythlin, now.”
Cadran turned his head away.
“I prefer not to,” he replied distantly.
“Cadran, the gift the Mythlin chose to accept has almost consumed him as he’s enjoyed liaisons with women here. I believe his time is limited. That being so, I wish him to know you are his son.”
“Why?”
“Others need to know,” was the deliberate answer. “And remember, young one, we can all make mistakes that can cost us dearly. That includes you and me.”
Cadran hesitated then he nodded and followed in Knellen’s wake. They arrived back to find the Mythlin rested in a chair. His eyes were still closed. Shocked and stunned city Varen clustered about him their expressions, for impassive Varen, easily readable. Maine turned his head up to Knellen, anger in his voice.
“What have you done to him?”
“Nothing other than allow him to gratify his every wish, Maine,” came the haughty reply.
“How could he become like this in such a short time?”
“If you sell part of yourself, Maine, the gift you receive in exchange can become a curse. I should know after the writhling removal.”
Maine’s face showed astonishment.
“What are you saying?”
“The Mythlin was a very frail old man when I took an oath, Maine.”
“Us likewise.”
“Then have you never asked yourself why he suddenly gained such renewed extraordinary youth and virility to the extent he did?”
“We wondered. We thought maybe he found an elixir unknown to others.”
“No, Maine, he sold himself for it. If you do accept a gift then in the end, with constant or accelerated use, that gift becomes a curse, devours you and you finally become what you were and die.”
“Are you saying the Mythlin, our most revered Varen, committed such an act?”
“Yes, Maine, he did.”
“And this is the result?”
“Yes.”
“After only days?”
“He,” Knellen sought words, “applied himself with verve while he was with us.”
“Is it possible he’s done so to the extent it has actually killed him?”
“We assume so.”
“He had an insatiable appetite, bro
ther, but we never saw him like this.”
“Perhaps he paused every so often,” suggested Knellen offhandedly.
“Did he not do so here?” Maine sounded astounded.
“No.”
“He…” Words failed Maine. He stared at Knellen then down at the Mythlin, opened his mouth, shut it again, then uttered, “Demons!” Maine got unsteadily to his feet and eyed Knellen with a degree of unusual anxiety. “His death will cause some ripples in the Varen world, brother.”
“Indeed.” Knellen drew Cadran forward. “There is no history of hereditary Mythlins, Maine, but let me introduce you to the Mythlin’s son. His nomen is Cadran.”
Maine stared speechlessly at Knellen then at the young man beside him.
“His son?” he managed finally. “There’s no such thing as a Varen son.”
Knellen turned to the Mythlin.
“Honoured Mythlin,” he said, gently but loudly enough to make the sleepy figure stir. The Mythlin opened his eyes. “Mythlin, do you remember the half-Varen you met not long ago.” The Mythlin slowly nodded comprehension. Those about him drew back in disbelief. “His name is Cadran. Do you recall that?” There was another nod. “Then Master, I have to tell you that he is your son.”
The Mythlin struggled to rise but Maine, now again beside him, restrained him gently.
“Let me see him.”
Knellen pushed Cadran forward. The young man stared down at a very old man whose breathing was suddenly laboured, then he went to his knees as a weak, frail hand stretched out to touch him. The Mythlin, almost spent now, looked deeply and searchingly into Cadran’s eyes. Cadran stayed motionless.
“Tell me again, child, who mothered you.”
“Marilion, from the city of Montegna. She was made candemaran for you because you wanted a virgin.”
“I remember her. She was with me longer than most.” The voice was noticeably weaker. “You have her hair and eyes, boy, and you have more of her build than ours, nor are your teeth especially pointed. You’re a remarkably fine looking young man. You are truly my son?”
“Yes.”
“How could she survive?”
“Others who are with me here rescued Marilion. They were with her throughout her pregnancy and through to my birth. They helped her and raised me.”
“Marilion? What happened to her after you were born?”
“She died when I was a child.”
“Your name is Cadran?”
“Yes.”
“Who named you?”
“My mother.”
“She named you after the most ancient Varen line, child, when we had full nomens long ago. You acknowledge you are my son?”
“Yes, you are my father.”
There was a sigh, then a smile crossed the Mythlin’s face as Cadran grasped his hand and stayed still, head bowed. The Mythlin made an infinitesimal sign up to Knellen, his eyes now a little hazy.
“Where are my elite Varen?”
“Here, Master,” answered Maine, going to a knee beside the Mythlin as he indicated to his men that they were to cluster about a figure they scarcely recognised.
“Maine,” came the weakening voice. Maine replied quietly, his expression sombre.
“I am here, Master. I won’t leave you.”
“Maine,” and now a free frail hand groped for the Varen’s and was comfortingly and reassuringly held. “Maine, this boy with me is unique. It becomes your utmost duty to ensure his safety, so, here now, as your Master, I charge you to transfer your oath of allegiance, duty, respect and obedience to him – all of you.”
Maine raised a startled and shocked head. The other Varen stared speechlessly down at the Mythlin, scarcely able to believe what they heard. Knellen met Maine’s eyes. Then Maine looked down at the Mythlin, unexpected emotion in his expression. The whispering voice came again.
“The boy is a rarity. I have to wonder if he is the start of a regeneration for the Varen – a new beginning, Maine. Is it possible?”
“I do not know, Master,” came the shaken reply.
“I sense a new time may come for the Varen, Maine, a better time without masters and our species free to evolve….” The voice trailed away as the Mythlin took a wavering breath. “Transfer your oath, Maine.”
“Will it ease your mind, Master?”
“Yes, Maine. It simply must be.”
Maine felt the hand in his shaking and saw what it cost the Mythlin to even speak. His eyes briefly lifted from contemplation of the Mythlin to meet, in turn, those of the Varen elite with him. In each man he read stunned but undeniable affirmation and acquiescence.
“We will ensure his safety, Master,” soothed Maine.
“Swear the oath, Maine.”
“I swear to it, Master.”
“Say it, with the others. Time is short.”
Maine glanced at his men who spoke the oath, quietly, as one. The hand in Maine’s twitched. There was the faintest of sighs as the Mythlin drew his last breath. Maine respectfully removed the Mythlin’s hand from his and laid it carefully in an old man’s lap, glanced at the young man beside him and tactfully rose. He walked to his men, all standing and at a loss what to do or say.
Cadran remained kneeling, his head bowed, the Mythlin’s hand still in his. Knellen indicated that all should leave other than the Doms, Companions and Gabrel. He and Gabrel went down on either side of Cadran, no words spoken.
Maine and Knellen walked together before they slowed to a halt and sat so they could converse alone. They’d already spoken at length but now Maine came back, almost uncomfortably, to Cadran.
“How is Cadran?”
“He is his usual self. His father’s death was unusual and it was difficult for a young man to adjust to the two fathers he appeared to have, one young and virile and the other one of age and infirmity. The Mythlin’s end was hard for the young one to accept but he has.”
“Knellen, like you I was conceived by Varen seed taken from a Varen man and used to fertilise a harvested and stored specified female seed, so in a sense we are unlike the younger Varens – we are individuals of a sort.”
“Yes.”
“Our young ones are seedlings randomly and erratically fertilised from a harvested store. There has been no control, nor proper selective harvesting. There is no man either.”
“So it’s been for syns, brother. You and I are among the last so conceived as you describe.”
“The Mythlin let this happen.”
“So it seems. Young Varen stock, such as you now have, lack either intelligence or substance. They should have been culled?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you not enforce training and the taking of the oath?”
“The Mythlin utterly forbid it. He was younger and manly so the young ones simply tried to emulate him and had contempt for us whom they flagrantly ignored. If we attempted anything, Knellen, they complained to the Mythlin and we were chastised.”
“How many are there?”
“The harvestings haven’t been regular for syns, so there are now about three hundred of them.”
“All untrained to obedience?’
“Yes.”
“The obedience is genetically encoded.”
“As you know, Knellen, it only becomes activated with the oath.”
“Then what will you do?”
Maine was quiet for several minutes.
“Knellen, we’ve just taken an oath to a young man whose age is less than most of even the younger Varen. They will not accept it.”
“They must be made to, Maine.”
Maine made a hopeless hand gesture.
“Brother, the Varen now find themselves in a situation unknown to them. I can answer for older Varen. They are the majority in the city and know obedience and duty, but the reaction of the others could seriously challenge and threaten Cadran.”
“Not so,” came Knellen’s quiet answer.
Maine looked an enquiry.
?
??Why not?”
“Because, Maine, Cadran is my sygnet.”
Maine stared open-mouthed at Knellen and remained so for some astounded seconds. Then he simply shook his head, unable to respond. He groped for words.
“Then he owes total allegiance to you, Knellen, and to no one else. Has this been confirmed by an oath?”
“Yes.”
“So, through our allegiance given to Cadran not long ago we owe allegiance and obedience to you?”
“I’m afraid so, yes,” responded Knellen, a faintly whimsical note to his voice.
“Demons!” Maine wiped a hand across his forehead. “How do I explain this to the men?”
“That is your decision, brother, not mine.”
“And the Varen who travel with you?”
“They were only permitted to do so when they renounced all oaths and instead swore an oath to me.”
“That supersedes the oath to the Mythlin as well?”
“Yes.”
“And to the Red Councils and through them, the Cynases?”
“Yes.”
“We were designed to be the instruments of the Red Councils, our obedience unquestioned.”
“Yes, but you must also understand I want no traitors about me, brother. The genetic coding through the oath they took to me is immutable.”
Maine tried to gather scattered thoughts. Knellen left him to wrestle with jostled ideas darting in and out of his mind. It was Maine who spoke.
“None of those who took the oath to the Mythlin will be able to harm Cadran once it is known he exists, brother, because we will enforce it. And as Cadran owes allegiance to you, so do those who owe allegiance to him. It is, in a sense, a two-way binding but it still leaves the younger Varen.”
“Not,” said Knellen gently, “if you hand them over to me and my Varen to enforce the oath.”
Maine stared at Knellen incredulously.
“They defy us, brother. They will refuse to obey.”
“Not,” smile Knellen, his teeth showing, “if we do as I suggest.”
“That is?”
“We accompany you back to the city, Maine; not all of us but enough, and with you and yours we should deal with the situation.”
Maine eyed Knellen for a long moment.
“Do you require the oath from us first, brother?”
Knellen’s smile broadened.
“But of course, brother.”