by Katy Winter
CHAPTER TWO
Jepaul was lifted high on rough cushions. He felt sick and dizzy. His eyes now appeared normal. His tumultuous pulse was slowed. He breathed a little fast still and he hurt all over, but he was very much alive. His natural spirit reasserted itself. He might be shaken and battered, but he responded fervently to anything Quon told him to do.
“Jepaul, we have an audience with the Cynas. You must try to shake off the effects of the malver.”
“What's that?” asked Jepaul, wide-eyed and coughing.
The latter hurt. Quon eyed him askance.
“The drug given you, child. It was a massive dose - enough to kill a kidri. At least they were going to let you go barely conscious.” Quon scowled and added morosely, “Thoughtful of the Red Council, I suppose.”
“Would they still execute me?”
“Be sure of it,” came the curt reply. “You're under reprieve, Jepaul, nothing more.”
“They poured liquid into me, even my ears,” whispered Jepaul. “It burned. It was like being eaten from the inside.”
“Ritual bodily cleansing and purification,” snarled Quon. He put a gentle hand down to the mop of curls that were extremely dishevelled and clung to the young face. Quon brushed them back. “That'll take you a few days to recover from, my boy, I can tell you. I thought you were dead when I saw you lying so quiet and still.”
“I felt like it,” whispered Jepaul numbly, an imploring hand out to the old man. “Will they do it again?”
“If your reprieve isn't granted, Jepaul, yes. You see, I don't try to treat you like a small child. You're young, but not so young you can't face the truth.” Quon considered the young face. “You said the Red Council was in your mind, child, then spoke of your crying out when you were beaten days ago. What do you remember?”
Jepaul wearily shook his head, aware his hand was comfortingly held.
“Not much, Quon,” he mumbled. “They say I'm a telepath but I'm not. If you are, they find you very young and take you to train in the service of the Council or the Cynas, but no one took me or looked at me.” He thought, then added mournfully, “I'm emtori, so that explains that.”
“Maybe,” said Quon briskly. “I doubt you're telepath either, but since it seems you did show some strange aberration we can hope the Cynas will look more benevolently on you than the Red Council. You should thank the Varen, too, Jepaul. He sought me out and brought me to you, a kindly and unexpected act. Most Varen don't indulge in kindlier emotions. The Varen who helped you answers to Knellen. Remember the name, Jepaul.”
“I will.”
“Now, child, try to get to your feet. I want you standing when you are brought into the presence of the Cynas.”
Jepaul slipped uncertainly from the somewhat rude bed that supported him, sagged weakly at the knees and grasped at air. Quon was beside him with a supporting arm.
“Quon,” managed Jepaul, hands up to a swimming head.
“Come, boy, try taking a few steps, then we'll rest so you can get your balance.”
It was a tricky few moments that saw Jepaul stagger and totter, but after a short while he got his balance and was able to walk slowly but more confidently. His insides still felt squeamish and the lingering effects of the purging would take longer to recover from.
Quon chattered inconsequentially. He also laughed at the boy so much, Jepaul began to recover and grinned back. Quite quickly he began to move more easily. The only drawback was the effect of cleansing that had him seek relief in bales of straw set behind the bed for the purpose.
“I'm emptied out,” he groaned, reappearing and drawing up hide pants that he belted.
“Best you are,” responded Quon unsympathetically, regarding him. The pained expression on the young face set Quon off again. “Think, boy,” he admonished, on a chuckle. “Get rid of it all now, so when you appear before the Cynas you'll not be embarrassed.”
Jepaul got a helpless fit of the giggles.
His appearance before the Cynas was intimidating for Jepaul. Not only was it because he knew his life was in this individual's hands. It was also because the audience chamber where the Cynas reposed was so sumptuous the boy couldn't credit his eyes and it over-powered him. Only a fraction of the opulence and riches about him would stop many from suffering hunger in the city. Tremors shook Jepaul.
The Cynas himself sat ensconced on a dais hung with hand-painted silk. Screens protected the august personage from draughts, though the design and embellishment of the screens was unlike anything Jepaul had ever seen. Low caste women, clad in the skimpiest and flimsiest of garments, circled the dais or slowly waved fans over the Cynas.
Jepaul was confronted by an old man of spare body but untold strength in arms and hands. The Cynas had been a renowned athlete in his day, one of the finest on Shalah. It showed in musculature still the envy of younger men, even if the frame these days was spare. The ovoid-shaped head was mounted by sparse white hair. The beard was long and flowing, the mouth down-turned and the lips drawn into a tight, uncompromising line. The eyes were like shafts of flint, cold, assessing, piercing and utterly unnerving.
Jepaul was on his own. The Varen had led him to the dais and it was at the foot of it that the boy fell, head pressed to the first step in caste obeisance and humility. The Varen, Knellen again, stood to attention behind the boy.
“Why was this boy condemned by the Red Council that someone seeks such a reprieve?” demanded the Cynas, his voice emotionless.
Knellen bowed, then spoke.
“Honoured One, the child was condemned because it was said he had telepathic abilities. That is anathema in emtori. He's also tainted. He's the last of the Merilyn line.”
“Is he?” mused the icy voice. Despite his prostrate state, still Jepaul knew he was thoroughly scrutinised in a way he'd seen students dissect small creatures at school. A shiver gripped him. “You have the taint of your contemptible line, have you?” went on the voice.
Jepaul's voice sounded pathetically small.
“Yes, Honoured One.”
“Show me.”
Jepaul obediently uncurled and stood, head still bent. The Cynas bent forward expressionlessly to survey the ten toes, long and slender, on incongruously large feet. Jepaul would be a very tall man if allowed to grow to manhood.
“And you're emtori?” Jepaul nodded. “It's presumptuous, to a marked degree, that you imitate your betters by pretending you're telepathic, young one.”
“I've not done anything deliberately, Honoured One,” explained Jepaul desperately.
“No,” agreed the Cynas, with the faintest flicker of interest. “Yet the Red Council think you may, possibly, have a slight ability. Interesting.” The Cynas mused again. “The penalty for such gross impudence is death. You know that.” Jepaul nodded dumbly again. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, in your defence, before I call to have you taken back for execution?”
Before Jepaul could speak, and he shook so much and was so choked with tears he'd have struggled to utter a sound, he heard what he thought was Quon's voice. Only this voice was vibrant with a depth of anger to it new to Jepaul. He turned his head, blinded by tears.
“Is it now the way of the noble Cynas that he amuses himself by tormenting and condemning innocent children?” came the scathing question.
The Cynas swung round incredulously in his chair, rage flaring in his eyes.
“Who dares speak so to me?” he demanded wrathfully. “Bring that one forward.”
Knellen gently propelled Quon forward. The old man stood erect, eyes blazing with contempt, his voice one of bitterest scorn.
“Once you stood for justice, Jamir, and you were a man of intellect who cared for those about him. Look at you now. What have the syns done to you? I see what you are. Your nobility is a facade, your vaunted philosophy of equality for all nothing but an empty sham. You come from a very long line of philosopher rulers raised to benefit those they ruled. Now look at you and those about you. How ashamed
you should be.”
“What is your name, you impudent old dog?” gasped the Cynas in disbelief. “Those like you, who spoke so out of turn, were supposed to have passed on or were eliminated!”
“More likely it’s what you hoped for,” came the curt response.
“Where have you been, old man?”
“Travelling Shalah. I'm not one of your poor, crushed citizens. Do you get out of your golden throne at all or are you glued to it?”
“Insolence!” stormed Jamir, gobbling with anger. He eyed Quon measuringly, his temper died and he sank back. “How long have you been in my city?”
“The last four syns or so. I found and befriended an orphaned child. Does that come as a surprise to you? Would you have done the same?” Quon shook his head. “No, not now.”
“Why do you befriend the boy?”
“Shalah benevolence,” sneered Quon. “You're supposed, oh noble ruler, to be the epitome of it.”
“I can still have him executed out of hand,” warned the Cynas irritably.
“No,” replied Quon, shaking his head. “Had I reached the Palace earlier you'd not have laid a finger on that child, be sure of that.”
He threw words at Jamir with scorn in a way that made Jamir sit erect and alert. He tried to decide who this fiery old man was, because he sensed something familiar, from a very long time ago, something elusive but dangerous that he should recall to mind. Had Jepaul looked at Quon he'd have seen a different face from the one he was used to.
“Would I not, old man? I am master here, not you. You come as a supplicant, remember?”
“Have you forgotten the oaths you took, those long, long syns ago, Jamir?” asked Quon, his voice deceptively gentle. “You did make them. They were witnessed. Most you've ignored or broken, but not this one, Jamir, not this one.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Jamir, his temper again on the rise.
He frowned down, strangely disturbed, into the lined face that showed this old man knew well who the Cynas was, and knew him from long, long ago. That, in itself, was unsettling and made Jamir move with unaccustomed caution. He hoped to sort the identity of this figure who flayed him with ridicule and contempt but the facial features were quite unfamiliar. He gritted his teeth. Clearly a show of temper was highly unwise. He quashed it with an effort.
“There was once an ancient Order. I believe it no longer exists, Jamir. It laid down the rules to be observed in the governance of peoples, that rigid interpretation flouted by you and those like you who took sacred oaths but now ignore them. How unwise.”
“I don't forget,” growled Jamir. “I well remember the oaths I took and need no lessons from a befuddled old fool such as yourself. If you have anything to say as regards this annoying bit of childhood, do so now. Speak!”
“I demand the right of any child condemned,” stated Quon clearly. He eyed Jamir. “Or have you forgotten?”
“Refresh my memory then,” invited the Cynas, on a snarl.
“Any child aged under twelve syns may not be executed out of hand for any crime of which he or she is accused. A child must be given the three options. I invoke that ancient right for Jepaul.”
“That goes back a long way,” argued the Cynas flatly.
“You're bound by it,” came the smug response. “It was law long before your caste system evolved. Such a charmingly designed social structure for you to live by, Jamir. You all stand condemned for your betrayal of the Order.”
“That's enough!” bellowed Jamir, half-rising then again sinking back. “I concede the right.” He turned his head to stare down at the boy. “Look at me, Jepaul, son of Mesmauve.” Jepaul stared up at him, fascinated and repelled at one and the same time. “You may choose cleansing, exile, or face execution.”
Jepaul went to speak but was forestalled.
“I invoke the right. I speak for him.” The quelling frown Jepaul got from his mentor made the boy quail and stand silent. “Cleansing leaves the boy damaged. He'll be useless for anything, even the most menial tasks he does now as emtori. That option is rejected since he must be able to care for himself as an adult.
Execution is unacceptable. The boy had an aberration. Severely beaten he called out in anguish. That he was heard by others than those who thrashed him remains a wonder to me. We all surpass ourselves at moments of great need, pain or crisis. It means little. You should know that. Exile is the option he chooses.”
“Then let his exile begin.”
“The boy suffers from the massive dose of malver given him,” reminded Quon gently. “Since it was administered in error, the child must be given the time to recover. That was so very cruel, Jamir. He's but a child, only eight syns old.”
“Then,” said Jamir through clenched teeth, his voice brittle with frustration and anger, “the boy is released and none may touch him before he and you, old man who seems to know so much about the ancient ways, will be exiled from this state - not just this city, but from my whole state. You feel contempt for me and what I've created. Let's see if you can live apart from it.” Jamir's lip curled. “No one can survive being totally outcast as you'll both be. If you're found in Castelus again, the purification the boy underwent will be nothing to what he'll endure, nothing.”
“Your threats, Jamir, leave me unmoved,” responded Quon calmly. He saw how Jepaul shivered and gestured the boy close. “The boy's life is forfeit if he returns to Castelus, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then hear this, Jamir. I condemn you, unequivocally, as corrupt and cruel. I call upon those ancient powers, that you scorn, to witness my words.”
“What? You have the sheer insolence to threaten me? A vagrant old fool and a boy? What effrontery!” Jamir was out of his seat, his expression ugly and his stance one of absolute threat. A stillness to the air, then a rippling of energy, silenced him until he recovered his complexion and uttered menacingly, “You're exiled with the boy, remember, both of you pariahs who'll be shunned wherever you go on Shalah. Remember, you brought this on yourself.”
“I've been an exile now for longer than I can remember, Jamir. Your threat is meaningless.”
“You've three days to leave this city. You've ten weeks to be gone from Castelus from the day you ride through the city gates. You return here and I'll be waiting for you.”
Jamir watched the old man and boy escorted from the huge hall by Knellen, then he ordered the Red Council to appear before him. Jamir rose and strode towards the hooded figures as they entered the throne room, his lips drawn back from his teeth. The Red Council, scarlet cloaks swirling round them, walked two abreast except the leader, then gathered about the Cynas, their sibilant hisses loud and their breaths rasping as if they took in air with an effort.
“You asked to speak with us,” wheezed one, lifting his hooded head. The folds of the cowl lifted from his neck as he spoke.
“The old man, whoever he is, knows me,” said Jamir angrily. “He insulted me, then threatened me.”
“Threatened you?”
“He invoked an ancient curse.”
“You have no fear of that surely?” mocked a Councillor. “The power of the Ancients is long gone from Shalah. We saw to that. There is no threat to any of us.”
“This old man spoke of the days of the Island and Salaphon,” growled Jamir, restlessly prowling away from the assembled group then back again.
“In so many words?” demanded another red-robed figure incredulously.
“No,” replied Jamir, stung by the note of ridicule. “But the curse he called upon me is from those times and none other than one who has resided there, and studied to become a Master, could make it. Believe me, I know. I served on the Island once.”
“We know,” purred a hissing voice right next to the Cynas. He stepped back instinctively. “We set your steps along a better path - or have you forgotten what you owe to us?”
“No,” whispered Jamir. “I do not forget.”
“See that you don't,” advised a t
hird figure. He glided to Jamir, rested a hand on the Cynas's shoulder to see if the man recoiled, then, satisfied, he spoke again. “What we offer you contents you?” Jamir nodded. “Then this incident is nothing. It is no more than an unsettling one from an old man who may know of certain past things and traditions but has no understanding of them. The curse he called down on you has no substance in reality.” There was a low laugh from the assembled Council. “If the Island still existed, Cynas, we would know. If the Masters still lived, be assured we would have touched them by now and they would serve us, as do others like yourself. Believe us when we tell you that no Master would have stayed quietly over the syns as those like you began to rule so differently from the ways of Salaphon.” Another laugh swept the group. “No, my friend, you have nothing to fear from the past.”
Jamir gave a reluctant smile.
“You're right,” he said finally. “That a child and an old man should so irritate me is ridiculous.” He paused, then said in an arctic voice, “The child showed telepathic ability?”
“Undoubtedly,” responded yet another Councillor, switching his cloak about him as he stepped forward.
“It doesn't trouble you?”
“Why should it?” was the disinterested response. “We believe it was an aberration. We all do. The reason we sentenced that pathetic scrap to death was to ensure no precedent was set. The child had shown no such gift before and certainly did not do so again. The time he did he was being stoned, was in pain and in fear for his life. It's not unknown that such circumstances make an individual able to behave outside himself.”
“So we let him go?'
“But certainly.” The hooded head bowed to Jamir.
“And the old man?”
“Why not?” The hooded head bowed respectfully again, then lifted so that the Cynas had to look deeply into the depths hidden from all others. “If you wish to track them, then do so. You have an excellent choice to escort them and ultimately deliver them back to you at an appointed time, if that is your desire - haven't you?”
“The Varen,” stated Jamir delightedly. “Of course. I thank you, Red Council.”
He turned away but was recalled by a gentle hiss and a tug on his sleeve. He turned back immediately. He found that one of the Council, silent until now, held out his hand, palm upward. Jamir looked down into the palm. What he saw there made his mouth twist into a cruel smile of triumph as he carefully took the minute basket and cradled it.
“Shall I do it, or will you?”
“The pleasure should be all yours,” bowed the Councillor. “We breed them for your use, Cynas.”
Knellen was recalled. He bowed to the Cynas, his expression schooled to blandness.
“The boy seems to trust you, Varen. He didn't flinch at your touch,” said Jamir coldly, his eyes glowing as he gloatingly fingered the casket.
“No, Honoured One, that's so.”
“You'll make some reason to ride with them. You'll report back to the Red Council on everything they do.” Jamir beckoned the Varen forward and placed a small oblong glass in his hand. “You know what that is?”
“Yes, Honoured One, it's familiar.”
“You'll use it, regularly. You know to oblige.”
“Yes, Honoured One.”
“Betrayal by a Varen is a serious offence. You understand that?” The threat in the voice made even Knellen's stoicism waver. “The purification for a recalcitrant Varen is a delight, I can assure you. The boy may have felt his insides burn. Yours would erode, slowly and enjoyably, but only after other pleasures.”
“I understand, Honoured One.” Knellen felt as if a red hot skewer had entered him already. He stayed impassive.
“I'm sure you do,” nodded Jamir, his face now an implacably cruel mask. “You'll be recalled at an appropriate time and rewarded in whatever way you deserve. Until that day you will serve, and the only one you will serve, Varen, is me.”
Knellen bowed. He was about to leave, when he felt himself caught and thrust to the floor. He was held prone, his tabard was torn apart, then his shirt was ripped open, to leave his left shoulder laid bare. He heard the quiet sibilant hiss of one of the Red Council who held him. He recognised the casket held above him and shuddered, ripples of revulsion coursing up and down his spine as the Councilmen kept him still.
With wide eyes he stared up at the Cynas who carefully opened the casket, tilted it gently, then shook a minute thing onto the Varen’s skin. It was like a shaft of ice. With a touch of dread and foreboding, Knellen helplessly had to grit his teeth as a writhing, hideous thing marked him, then plunged under the skin and began to burrow. He gasped at the profound pain of it. He couldn't see how the thing left its sigil and tiny winking light before part of it withdrew with a flourish.
He waited, now in a detached way, as a tiny part of the skeleton of the creature was crushed and its body liquid spread across the point of entry on the shoulder. Suddenly, Knellen knew an urge to vomit but repressed it. He knew his personal fight to survive now began and wondered if he could possibly win. With this creature inside him, he doubted it.
From his kingly seat, the Cynas smiled benignly. This Varen would act as directed in whatever capacity was demanded of him. It was a pleasing prospect. Jamir decided a celebration was in order.
