"You may shelter with me."
Autoc looked down into the eyes of an elderly man and he smiled, extended his hand and said, the faintest quiver of a laugh in his voice, "We're grateful for your hospitality, Old One." The old man gave the flicker of a smile in response.
"Stable your horses in that old outhouse," he suggested, pointing to a small, indistinct building behind him. "My house is behind it. Come in when you're ready and eat with me."
Autoc looked down at Chlorien who shook with cold, damp and tiredness. He put a protective arm about her at the same time as he led the horses to shelter, Chlorien beyond being able to assist the scholar in caring for the horses. She leaned against a wall and stayed propped there, her cloak wound round her and her eyes closed. It was only when Autoc took her hand that she shivered deeply and moved with him out of the small building and towards another larger one, where lantern light shone in welcome.
The door stood open. It was a welcome relief from rain that was now a deluge, splashing up from the ground and coating their boots with mud. The scholar pushed Chlorien ahead of him and closed the door. Though the room they entered was crammed with furniture and odds and ends, it was homely, orderly and scrupulously clean. The old man was standing at a stove with his back to the door, but he turned and smiled calmly at his visitors.
"Strip off your wet things," he invited, "and settle by the fire."
Autoc placed two bundles on the floor near the fire before he pulled off his sodden cloak and removed Chlorien's. He noticed her lips were tinged blue. Her cheeks were white. Very gently he led her to the fire and pushed her down in front of it.
"All will be well, little one. We're quite safe," he sent. There was no response. The scholar began to strip off her sodden outer clothes, starting with her boots.
"There's a blanket warming near you that you can wrap the lad in," said the old man, busily stirring a pot.
Autoc stripped off the soaked shirt and quietly encased Chlorien in the blanket, instructing her to hold it round her. She nodded. Autoc tugged off his boots and took both pairs to the doorway, leaving them under the lee of the entrance to dry. Then he crossed to the stove.
"Can I help?" he asked courteously. The old man shook his head and pointed to a mug on the table.
"I must've known you were coming," he chuckled. "There's far too much saka for one. Also, I've a small amount of broth here that'll help warm the lad. Take him a mug of it - it should chase away the cold."
Autoc sniffed appreciatively at both the saka and the broth, before he crossed the room and held the mug down to Chlorien. She was still hunched and shaking, but gratefully took the mug and curled her fingers round it for heat.
"Drink it, lad, it'll help." Her eyes watered as she sipped.
"Nothing much of you, is there?" asked the old man, coming over to the fire and staring down at Chlorien. "No wonder you feel the cold." He glanced up at Autoc, the smile still touching his eyes. "My name's Jaim."
"And I'm Schol," responded Autoc, his blue eyes warm with amusement. "This is my boy, Chlorien." Chlorien lifted her head respectfully, then lowered it again. The old man moved next to her and stooped, his hand brushing across her head.
"Still damp, lad," he muttered. He disappeared from the room to return with a heavy cloth that he tossed at the scholar. "His head's wet, man. Dry him off."
Autoc set to work on Chlorien's hair, rubbing it so vigorously she felt giddy. When he stopped, she drained the mug, thinking as she did that it was the oddest broth she'd ever tasted. She suddenly felt very drowsy. The scholar crouched beside her so when she slipped sideways he could catch both her and the falling mug.
The old man watched from a rocking chair, his face inscrutable. Autoc eased back from the fireplace and leaned up against another chair, Chlorien pulled into his lap. The scholar glanced up at the old man who shimmered briefly and then coughed. In the chair sat a very short, extremely thickset man, with, at that moment, a solemn and mirthless expression; he sighed deeply and pulled at an extraordinarily long salt and pepper beard. Autoc gave a chuckle.
"I thought," he mused, "I'd been too long on Ambros and was unable to read clearly anymore."
"You sat your horse long enough considering the matter," came a sonorous growl. "Did the child have to get so wet, then?" Autoc chuckled again.
"He'll be all right once he's eaten and slept."
"So you think of her as he, do you?"
"It's necessary. You should as well."
"You may be correct. What's his name again?"
"Chlorien."
"Very Shadowlands, mage. Was that intended?" Autoc's voice sounded rueful.
"No, not entirely. It's very close to Myme Chlo and she's answered to Chlo most of her life. Did Bene ask you to come?"
"He hinted the Gnosti may care to know what's occurring on Ambros. He spoke with Disah. Let me look more closely at her."
Autoc shifted the girl so that she faced the stocky man. Jaim came over to where the scholar rested, carefully pulled back the blanket from about the young head and stared contemplatively at the delicate, elfin face with the pointed chin and the prominent cheekbones. His hand touched the dark curls.
"Was her hair long once?"
"Until she was ten cycles it had never been cut," the scholar said quietly.
"Her eyes aren't green, are they?" The scholar shook his head.
"No, but in every other way she's in her image. She could be pure nymph, couldn't she?"
"Bene's not seen her, has he?" Jaim asked softly, his eyes still on the girl's face.
"No. Not since the day she was born."
"She has his colour eyes?"
"Aye, she has, as large as her Mam's and as deep as her grand-dame's."
"It's like looking at Cynthas again," murmured Jaim. "It hurts, but not as much as I thought it would. Disah would be more deeply affected than I am." He saw Autoc nod. "Who seeks her?"
"One who calls himself Blach and claims to be a mere sorcerer. He lives in a Keep in southern Ambros." Jaim raised an eyebrow.
"And who exactly is he, mage?"
"He's a southern mage linked, I'm now sure, with the warlord who even now advances northwards." Jaim's voice went very hard.
"Is that the mage's true name?" The scholar looked thoughtfully at Chlorien. "Answer me, Autoc." The face staring down at Autoc and the girl was grim. Autoc's face was unusually bleak.
"No," he said with an effort, pulling the blanket up around Chlorien's head and settling her comfortably.
"I thought not," said Jaim coolly. "Bene wouldn't rouse old friends for a mere southern mage. It's our old friend again, isn't it?"
"Aye," was the monosyllabic response.
Jaim strode over to a cabinet. He lifted out a wineskin and two drinking cups that he filled to their brims. He held one down to Autoc who took it and sipped appreciatively.
"Ah, Jaim," he sighed, "this is excellent. Apart from once or twice, I've not tasted wine of this quality for a long time." Jaim sat back in his rocking chair.
"I'm to accompany you. It's thought you could use some support over the next cycle or so."
"Your company will be most welcome, Jaim. How do you travel?"
"As an old man, my friend."
"Wise," murmured the scholar. "It would be food for comment if a Gnosti was seen so very far east. It could alert those we wish least to arouse. Also the child's not yet ready to learn of you and yours. She's still very young."
"Of course," agreed Jaim, with a reluctant smile. "It'll enable you to concentrate on teaching her, won't it? And that, I gather, is of prime importance."
Autoc gave a weary grin, saying honestly, "I haven't dared risk too much while we've been alone. She's now at the stage where her development is critical. I've hesitated because it would've made her too vulnerable."
"Understandable."
"There are two of Blach's henchmen about for one thing."
"Are there?" growled Jaim. "Where exactly?" He touched a fear
some-looking battleaxe that rested next to his chair.
"I expect they're further west than us now, but there's no doubt we'll meet them again." Autoc's sense of humour got the better of him and he added, "What relation of ours are you going to be, Jaim?" A responsive gleam shone in tawny eyes looking down at the scholar.
"Like that, is it?" The scholar nodded, his eyes twinkling irrepressibly. "Not your father, mage. Tall as my image makes me, you're far too tall for that."
"Chlorien's eldest uncle then," Autoc suggested. "Mam's oldest brother," he added wickedly.
"Whose?" demanded Jaim. After the scholar, with much chuckling, explained, Jaim raised his hands. "You're as mad as Bene," he muttered, drinking deeply. "And the little one?"
"He'll accept you if I do." The scholar's smile went awry when he looked up at Jaim. "It's good to see you, my friend, even if the reason for it being so is bitter for Ambros."
Jaim put his hand on the scholar's shoulder and gripped it with considerable strength. He had no need to reply. Both men drank steadily through a long and profound silence.
"Where are you taking him, Autoc?" asked Jaim after a time.
"To Ice Isle." Jaim's mouth dropped open with shocked surprise.
"Will they accept him?"
"I think so," mumbled the scholar, running a hand through his hair. "He has to go for more than one reason. There's an essence in thrall that he needs and he'll have to be acknowledged by dragons, through a trial of self-knowledge and acceptance. That's a part of his destiny. He can only achieve that by being accepted by the dragons."
"That's damnably hard for one so young, mage."
"Yes," said the scholar, a sad little smile trembling at the corners of his mouth.
"It could break him."
"Yes, it could, especially if he is unprepared, but so could the alternatives, Jaim, and they're considerably more terrifying, aren't they?"
Jaim winced. "Aye, mage, they are."
Autoc deliberately changed the topic by asking, "How did you get here?"
"Dramas obliged." Jaim looked reflective. "I never get used to dragon travel."
"I enjoy it myself," countered the scholar with a grin, "but then, I fly more often. Let me tell you about Ortok and all I suspect's gone on since."
Jaim relaxed back, watching the mage's face as Autoc described life in Ortok before the invasion and then outlined events as he saw them after the sack. Jaim asked questions and pursed his lips.
He finally asked, "And the other children, mage? What happened to them?" He saw deep pain in very blue eyes before the scholar looked into the fire.
"That I can't answer, Jaim, though I've allowed myself to sense they're alive. Melas and Bruno aren't. In what condition the children are I shudder to think, and I can't let myself allow them to touch me. It's a source of profoundest grief." Jaim heard the sorrow in the deep voice and when the scholar briefly looked up, he saw tears in his eyes.
He said, "Ease your pain, mage. We all have limits imposed on us. You did all you could within yours."
"Perhaps," said the scholar, quietly but distinctly.
"Tell me," went on Jaim, "why is this, Blach as we'll continue to call him, so interested in Chlorien?"
Autoc had already learned the answer to that for himself but he knew instinctively that Bene wouldn't wish him to disclose any such knowledge, certainly not at this stage, so he gave a slight shrug. Jaim smiled slightly, acknowledged the rebuff without offence and turned the subject. They spoke on inconsequential matters until a sigh reached them. Jaim looked down at opening violet eyes and was instantly an old man who rocked calmly in his chair.
"Better now that you've slept, lad?" he asked placidly.
"Thank you," she whispered, snuggling into both the scholar and the blanket. "And for the broth," she added. "What was in it? I've never tasted anything like it."
"Nor will again belike," murmured Autoc. Chlorien came fully awake. "There are dry clothes ready on the chair above you."
After they'd eaten in a most leisurely fashion, the scholar decided the hour was so far advanced Chlorien should go to bed. She protested, vehemently, when she was taken firmly by the arm and ruthlessly pushed through into an adjoining room to a small bed set against the far wall. It was to that she was propelled. With a resigned sigh Chlorien slipped off her outer garments and climbed under blankets. She shivered. The scholar gestured that she snuggle further down. His eyes scanned her face intently. Chlorien curled up on her side, her head pillowed on one hand. The scholar stooped and his hand brushed her brow; instantly, she was asleep.
Autoc strolled back to join Jaim who was his Gnosti self again and comfortably ensconced with a pipe at his mouth. The scholar ambled over to a chair and threw himself into it, stretched his very long legs fully out and his hand fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. The drinking cups were full and it was very warm and cosy. The storm that raged unabated outside was a contrast with the tranquillity inside. The scholar didn't miss the irony. Jaim looked across at him.
"We've much to discuss, haven't we?"
"Aye," he agreed quietly. "We have."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A season after Lodestok's army started the move north, the weather became steadily chillier by the day. The slow walk of the horses did nothing to help the riders keep warm, especially Bethel who'd continued to grow very fast and was extremely thin. He didn't think he would ever be warm in northern climes he knew from history lessons in Ortok were far colder than Samar. Northern Ambros had long bitter winters, cool autumns and springs, and short summers that equated with a Samar springtime. It was a harsher and bleaker climate the further north a traveller went. He needed body fat and very warm clothing and though Bethel had warm clothing, it did nothing to alleviate his misery as the days drew in. He shivered woefully most of the time.
When the warlord commanded a halt, Bethel gave an inaudible sigh of relief as he slipped from the saddle of a destrier much too big for him. He wasn't allowed to ride by himself. His horse was led by the warlord who insisted on having the boy's company.
This evening, Bethel finished serving the warlord. Lodestok languidly pared his nails for himself, his eyes coming to rest on the tall, slight boy waiting to be granted permission to eat. The warlord didn't smile. He merely nodded disinterestedly and turned back to his nails. He looked comfortable, one leg swung over the arm of the chair in his usual posture, and there was a full goblet on the table beside him.
He paused in what he was doing to observe the boy. Bethel ate sparingly. He seldom, Lodestok noticed, ate much of an evening, a fact the boy could have explained had his master bothered to ask. As Bethel raised food to his mouth, the warlord frowningly turned back to his nails, meticulously filing them.
When he finished, he placed the file on the table and quietly raised his goblet, watching the boy empty his plate. He remained relaxed. His cold eyes stayed fixed on the boy. Bethel, unaware of the regard as he hunched on his mat trying to keep warm, lifted his goblet and drank very deeply, twice. Lodestok spoke very softly as he did when he wanted the boy close, his wants not able to be ignored.
"Come to me, boy."
Normally, Bethel would obey such a command instantly. Tonight, he didn't seem to hear. Lodestok's eyes became glacial and his deep voice was a snarl.
"Boy!" Bethel got slowly to his feet and took a few unsteady steps, his hands to his diaphragm.
"My lord," he stammered, "I -."
He lurched as he reached the warlord. Lodestok grasped one of Bethel's wrists and jerked the boy roughly onto his knees, just as Bethel's head fell against the warlord's chest. The boy's body curled up as cramps caught him. Lodestok's eyes widened. He lifted Bethel's limp head and instantly saw the eyes rolled back. Bethel gave small cries, whimpered moans and clutched his stomach. Spasms wracked him.
The warlord rose immediately, the boy draped in his arms. At the same time as he carried the writhing boy to the bed, Lodestok called to Sarssen, who knew always to be nearby o
f an evening, in a voice of urgency and rage. Sarssen quickly responded. He took one look at the warlord's face and another longer look at the boy, before he was gone from the pavilion at a fast run, calling loudly for a healer.
Lodestok sat on the bed. He eased Bethel gently onto it, but held the boy's upper body in his arms so he could cradle the dark head. Sweat beaded Bethel's face as his body repeatedly arched. He began to sob. The contortions hurt. His breathing was so rapid the warlord could feel the boy's lungs heave and heart race under his hand. He held Bethel as firmly as he could, but the boy kept trying to curl into a ball as wave after wave of pain convulsed him. He clenched his teeth as another spasm caught and shook him. Bethel screamed.
Whilst Lodestok held Bethel, he was suddenly aware that not once, since the boy was brought from the slave pen, had Bethel screamed or cried out as he now did. The warlord only ever heard gasps, whimpers or moans. He was never like this. Lodestok looked down very thoughtfully at the boy twisting in his arms and held him closer, his intense, icy gaze fixed to the white, distorted face.
Sarssen appeared at the pavilion entrance, a man close behind, in time to hear another agonised scream from Bethel. Lodestok glanced up, his face a mask of fury.
"Poison," he snarled. "Hurry, healer!"
The healer crossed quickly to the bed, lifted the boy's eyelids and sharply drew in his breath. He unstoppered a phial that he held to Bethel's mouth.
"Hold him, Sarssen!" snapped the warlord.
His arms pinned the boy's top half against his powerful chest, while Sarssen sat on the bed, gripped Bethel's hands, and held the writhing lower body immobile by leaning his full weight across it. He felt the young body struggle to arch beneath him. The healer put his thumb and forefinger deeply into Bethel's cheeks to force him to open his mouth and had to press very hard to make the teeth unclench. With a whimper of pain, Bethel obliged. He tried to spit out the liquid but the healer was too fast for him, and crying breathlessly, Bethel swallowed. The healer stood back, concern mirrored in his eyes.
Within minutes, the convulsions eased. Letting the boy's hands drop by his sides, Sarssen rose from the bed, but the warlord continued to hold Bethel, his eyes never leaving the boy's face as he heard the cries and sobs turn to occasional hiccups for air. Lodestok gently turned Bethel so the boy could lie more naturally, the dark head rested against the warlord's shoulder and supported by Lodestok's left arm. Lodestok's free hand carefully pulled the mass of curls away from the damp face, his fingers tracing the line of the Vaksh cut. He didn't look up.