Jepaul

by Katy Winter

CHAPTER THREE

  Castelus was one of the large city-states of Shalah. Their societies were ruled by Cynases who were once elected by the people. Originally the Cynases had respected, educated, articulate Councillors trained in proper governance of cities with whom they could, and did, consult. They were sage advisers. But as time passed the Cynases became increasingly aligned with, and dependent on, those who purported to be not only a religious order with fanatical leaders, but ones who claimed they knew better ways of governance of the city-states. The Cynases listened to them and allowed themselves to be corrupted by them. They became, in time, increasingly cruel and rapacious.

  Eventually these religious leaders became known as the Red Councils and it was they, through control of the Cynases, who proposed and encouraged the imposition of the caste system. Long, long ago, rulers were trained by an Order known as the Order of Salaphon. Its most senior and gifted adherents were taken to be trained on what was called the Island where they became learned in all aspects of wise and compassionate rule. The needs of their people were considered to be paramount. Slowly but inexorably all that had changed. Now Shalah was mostly under the governance of Cynases who were more than cruel and oppressive; in turn, they were under the influence of the Red Councils to whom they increasingly ceded control and law.

  Quon, the Wanderer, saw the abuse of power, but he was only one Maquat Dom of the Five. He was ancient and he was deeply tired. He told those bonded to him but they, too, were ancient and weary and they remained on the Island, Quon’s concerns and reports noted but never acted upon. The Doms believed Shalah would right itself given time. It was only with Quon’s odd sense of urgency to curb his wandering and go to Castelus, that an awakening occurred and alarm bells began to ring. It was sensed that something untoward occurred on Shalah, something ominous and profoundly threatening that could menace the very existence of this world.

  Quon, as Maquat Dom Earth, sensed it most. And he also suspected the small boy he befriended was more than just a child. He couldn’t quite place why he thought that, then decided he was being fanciful and imagining ghosts that didn’t even exist. With asperity he kept giving himself mental shakes. That was until he sensed an outer aethyr disturbance and saw an image that shook him. It had coincided with Jepaul’s cry of pain that saw him summoned by the Red Council.

  Today, on Shalah, society was highly structured. It was led by the Cynases, most often in thrall to their Red Councils. They were followed by the religious guards known as the Varen, then merchants, traders, travellers, artisans, crafters and tradesmen. Scholars, if any were left from purges, were now lowly in status and considered social outcasts. At the very bottom of society were orders of menials. Jepaul was of the very lowest caste. As a genetic throwback he was unwanted and owed no respect. Any form of mental gift was only tolerated amongst the highest orders of society such as Cynases or members of the Red Councils.

  Those below that status suspected of any mental gift were immediately executed (a reprieve never considered) or forcibly cleansed. The latter process left a citizen mildly brain damaged but acceptable to society and reduced straight away to emtori rank. Exile was never an option, so for Jepaul to be exiled was a rarity. The caste system began with the highest ranked merchants and ended with the lowest and most untouchable, contemptible emtori.

 

  Jepaul was in high spirits. They'd been three days out of the city. He thrived away from the smoke that seemed an ever-present part of city living, where factories and foundries for the forging of metals for weapons abounded. In those places emtori toiled ceaselessly, often through the night and into the morning.

  Only the last remaining protective law for the lowest caste saved Jepaul from a similar fate, but not for too much longer. He wasn't yet nine syns old. In another syn he'd be bound to a factory, day in day out for the rest of his short, unhappy life. He'd be merely one of thousands who straggled there in the very early hours of the morning, in the dark, to be belted into their harnesses and refused all access to light and air until they were unbuckled again come nightfall. Only then were they allowed to leave for rest. Food was poor and in short supply. Sometimes emtori got none. Water was rationed.

  Those who ran the factories treated emtori like slaves. There was no mercy shown them. They had no rights. They were considered untouchable and unworthy of pity or compassion. Nor were those they served averse to applying leather thongs that stung savagely and left nasty cuts on bent sweating backs. Mesmauve, Jepaul's father, had often proudly shown his scars to whoever he thought might admire them and frequently referred to them in front of his son, with the intent of frightening the child even more than he already was. Jepaul's dread of such a life was very real.

  Once Jepaul got a thrashing. An older boy, of considerably higher caste, found fault with the way the younger boy carried his work to school. The luckless emtori child was bent over a stump after school and thoroughly whipped. Jepaul still bore the scars. Quon had pondered Jepaul’s future with both misgiving and a horror compounded by despair at what he had witnessed daily since he came to Castelus. The rest of Shalah was now gripped by the same indifferent cruelty but Castelus made Quon shiver with premonition, apprehension, guilt and revulsion.

 

  Now he watched Jepaul walk without the ever-present cough that used to shake him until he was breathless. His sallow skin colour improved, he recovered fully from the drug and to Quon's delight he began to eat as a boy of his age should. He didn't pick listlessly at his food. He laughed and ran, skipped, whistled, and grinned when Quon or Knellen surveyed him. Jepaul was actually happy for the first time in his life. Curls, usually lank as a symptom of poor health, now shone, and the eyes stayed brightly inquisitive. A child blossomed.

  Over the ensuing weeks he snared small creatures that he contentedly cooked. He learned how to skin a creature in only moments, could have a fire set and blazing faster than anyone and was willing to do anything. Quon seemed content to let the days pass, his comments to his companions few. The Varen, not talkative or demonstrative by nature, stayed taciturn as well, the pair so quiet it left Jepaul to his own devices. What made Quon eye the Varen was a conviction that the man was subtly changed from their first meeting. The old man hadn't questioned Knellen about his wish to accompany them, but he had a shrewd suspicion what prompted Jamir to send a Varen. He was one of an elite, selectively bred group trained to ignore the kindlier emotions and who owed absolute allegiance to their Red Council and, through them, to their Cynas. This Varen, however, appeared to the older man to be under stress of a unique and troubling kind. This showed in the eyes and haunted expression that sometimes flickered across the face, to be replaced by the stolid impassiveness of the Varen. It was this that led Quon to reprimand Jepaul for teasing.

  “No, Jepaul. Leave the man alone. Have you nothing better to do than try to make fools of those older and deserving of respect?”

  Chastened, Jepaul slunk away, his glance at the Varen apologetic. He simply got a stare but no other reaction.

  This evening, when the threesome sat about the fire, Quon turned his head to study the young profile beside him. He stared thoughtfully at the elegant neck that carried the torc. The caste torc hung very loose still, because the boy wasn't yet grown into it, the narrow band a permanent reminder of Jepaul's social status.

  The caste mark on his throat was invisible until the boy turned his head to Quon's scrutiny, then the colour caught the firelight and briefly flared. Any mark did in the light, especially sunlight. Jepaul was indelibly marked and condemned because of it. It made Quon shiver. It was cruel. Never could this child rise above the station in life allotted him, however gifted he might be, in whatever capacity. Such a social philosophy was anathema to Quon.

  He knew that the torc was the second placed about this young neck and this second one would be with the boy for the rest of his life. It was known, he knew, for some torcs to eventually become part of the skin and grown over, like a diseased swelling. It was tha
t thought that made him determined to remove the torc as soon as possible.

  “Jepaul, how is a torc removed?” he asked conversationally.

  Jepaul shrugged, his eyes back on the fire.

  “Torcs stay for life, Quon. The Unc who closed it about me told me so.”

  “It's made of vos, isn't it?”

  Again Jepaul shrugged.

  “No one tells emtoris anything, Quon.” He paused and got a nod. “They take you to the factory where the torcs are made. You lie on the ground.” He saw a raised eyebrow quirked at him and gave a wide grin. “You must lie on the stomach so they can put your arms and legs in straps to hold you still. They remove the old torc and put a new one on.”

  “Did removing the old one hurt?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Jepaul, with a nod and a hand up to his throat. “It was very tight, so taking it off made my throat bleed. They had to cut skin. That's why I was held down.”

  “How did they remove it?”

  “I didn't see.”

  “Did they cut it?” Jepaul shook his head. “Heat it?” The curly head shook again. “You've no idea then?”

  “No, Quon.”

  “Damn,” said Quon under his breath. He glanced speculatively at the Varen. “Any ideas, Knellen?”

  “No,” said the Varen, without a blink. “The boy's emtori so the torc stays for life as he says. It's his place in society; he must stay in it.”

  “Yes, true, while he was part of that society,” agreed Quon calmly, “but you forget, Knellen, that the boy's been evicted from that society. It makes him stateless but also without caste or status.”

  The Varen took the point and considered it.

  “That's unarguable,” he finally conceded. “Still, the way of the Unc isn't known to the Varen. We don't wear torcs so have no knowledge of their makeup, design or use, other than as symbols of caste and status.”

  “At what caste level do they no longer impose torcs?”

  “At ovan, Quon,” came the considered answer.

  “How many ranks above emtori?”

  “Six.”

  “Then the boy had no chance, had he?”

  “No,” concurred Knellen coldly. “None at all. He's at the bottom and considered by all in society as completely expendable. His survival is remarkable.”

  “Then, Jepaul,” said Quon softly to the auburn head now bent at the Varen's words, “I declare you no longer an emtori, nor tainted, but a free boy able to grow unstunted by a society that rejected and humiliated you.”

  Jepaul lifted his head, uncertain he understood his mentor.

  “Quon?”

  “One day, my child, that torc will be gone and you will walk with your head held high.” Jepaul grasped at the old man's hand. “But until then, little fellow, it's time you rested. Sleep peacefully, Jepaul.”

  Quon felt the boy relinquish his hand and smile wistfully at him then at the Varen. He watched the frail, slight figure go a little way beyond the fire, pull off boots, unlace a very heavy embossed jerkin then crawl down on the straw pallet. The boy pulled across and round a heavy cover that was very warm. Jepaul snuggled into it.

  Quon's attention came back to the Varen.

  “Knellen,” he began thoughtfully, “you come with us at Jamir's command. I assume it's to spy on us and report back, but can you tell me why, and can you explain to me why you were chosen?”

  Knellen turned his head, his face strained.

  “I don’t know why I was chosen, Quon, other than that I was the one who sought you for the child. That was an unusual act for a Varen and made my allegiance suspect, I suppose. The Cynas and Red Council may have felt that Jepaul would maybe confide in me, especially if he had talent he knows is forbidden. I could then feed back such information and receive further appropriate orders. Yes, I am to report back, and not just about the child, but about you likewise. The Cynas reacted most negatively to you though the Red Council consider his response unnecessary and over-anxious.” Knellen paused to gather his thoughts. “Quon, I'm constrained to obey my Red Council and Cynas. I've taken oaths that totally bind me to their service. Such oaths activate our guard function and reinforce training that reaffirms our inability to express or comprehend emotions. We should have none.” He hesitated. “I think, perhaps, I still do, but should not. That's seen as a weakness, so I believe I'm on trial.

  From the time I was a small child, Quon, I was raised to believe in the Red Councils and the Cynases and all they represent. The Varen are schooled in obedience and self-discipline from the time they're removed from their nursery at two syns and taken to special halls of training. They remain there until issued into the Red Councils’ special service.” Knellen paused tentatively then murmured, “Since some of my generation were brought into service, Varen are again bred by other means.” He saw Quon's expression. “Seed is removed, Quon, and used as the Council and Cynas direct. From long ago Varen had no parents as you understand them, but, very briefly, a very few Varen males were allowed to choose a female seed and have it fertilised with their own. That was considered an aberration and was quickly stopped. I am from such a seeding, Quon. Maybe, having had a father is why I still have inappropriate feelings at times, such as I experience for the boy.” He paused again, then went on. “When we fight we do so to the death, however agonising the end. We owe obedience. We are instruments for unquestioning service. The Red Councils bred and master us. They control our destinies.”

  “I don't deny your courage, friend,” answered Quon, compassion in his voice. “I just ask simple questions of you, that's all.”

  Knellen chewed his lower lip in an uncharacteristic gesture.

  “I was chosen because, as I said, I was told the boy trusted me.”

  “I see.” Quon nodded. “That makes sense, I suppose.” He thought for a moment. “But that presupposes the boy will be induced to confide something to you, a confidence that doubtless you'll betray because of your conditioning or training.” Quon saw the flinch and the roll of the eyes. “I don't insult you, Knellen. Jamir must suspect the child will know something or will learn something that can only benefit him in some way. That in itself I find intriguing because the boy's as you see him. He's a simple child.” Quon considered the Varen. “Talk of betrayal troubles you. Why?”

  “My generation wasn't brought to adulthood in that fashion, Quon, unlike those bred differently who are now at maturity. Honour to us is all. You must believe me.” Knellen hesitated, then surprisingly added, “Despite being mastered by the Red Council.”

  “I do believe you,” responded Quon, eying the Varen consideringly. “So why did you flinch at my speaking of honour or the lack of it? For one for whom betrayal is the unthinkable, your reaction tells me you may do exactly that.”

  “Not if I can help it,” managed Knellen, his jaw clenching hard. His hands balled into fists. “Obedience will not willingly lead me to betrayal. That to me is tantamount to dishonour.”

  “What do you fight so hard, my friend?” asked Quon, in a gently persuasive voice. “You weren't like this when I met you. Are you sent to watch us and report back soon?”

  “Of course!” gasped the Varen, rising abruptly and taking a few hasty strides from the fireside.

  Quon saw the huge man put a hand to his left shoulder, grasp at it, as if it caused him either pain or acute distress and then go to his knees. Quon was beside him as fast as old legs let him. The Varen tried to push him away.

  “No, Quon, no!”

  “Knellen.” The voice was now extremely gentle. “Jepaul and I owe you a debt we can't ever hope to repay. To see you like this and fighting something that clearly torments you, isn't a situation we can allow to endure. How will I harm you if I help?”

  “No one can help me now,” choked Knellen. “You can fight for so long, but the Red Council know what they're doing. I've seen it before and dreaded it. Had I known I'd be subjected to the same I'd have tried to escape, but I was caught unawares by a member of the Red Council
. I was held down. It knew me and came for me. It was marked for me - even I could see that. They identify with you in some terrifying way, as if they've analysed you and know your weakest, most vulnerable point.”

  “What did?” asked Quon alarmed. He thought Knellen looked ghastly, the effort he made to control himself making the man glisten with sweat.

  Knellen wrenched his shirt open. Quon's eyes became riveted to the bared shoulder in sheer fascinated revulsion and horror. His eyes dilated and he had to swallow hard.

  “A writhling?” Quon swallowed again. “For all living creatures, a metalan? Do they indeed use such loathsome things once thought gone from Shalah?”

  Knellen nodded dispiritedly.

  “I can fight it for so long, Quon, then it'll become so much a part of me it'll control my thoughts and emotions. It is the ultimate instrument of obedience and recall. Not to respond to it, once it begins to eat, means unspeakable pain. I wonder whether madness wouldn't be preferable.”

  “When did they place that thing in you?”

  “The day before we left the city.”

  “You've been fighting that wretched thing for nearly thirty days?”

  “Two weeks yes,” nodded the Varen.

  “Who did it? Jamir, or the Red Council?”

  “A member of the Red Council gave it to the Cynas. The Cynas placed it on me.”

  “The Red's name?”

  “I don't know. They're always hooded. None of us have seen their faces, nor have any shown the inclination to reveal themselves.”

  Knellen gripped his shoulder and his slightly pointed teeth showed in the pale light.

  “You've been given the qual shard?” Knellen nodded, shivering. “From the Red Council?”

  “No, from the Cynas himself.”

  “Give it to me!”

  “My life isn't worth it,” whispered Knellen. “At least let me die with dignity, Quon. Grant me that!”

  “Give me the shard!” whispered Quon fiercely. The Varen was so startled at the naked ferocity to the voice he blinked, then fished about in his pocket for the shard that he handed to the old man. Quon touched him very gently. “I think, my friend, we're going to be sorely in need of you as time goes by. No one wilfully destroys another when I'm around. Try to rest, Knellen, and leave me to do what I can.”

  Quon walked beyond the tiny camp until he sat by himself. He stared down at the shard in his right palm, stroked it invitingly with his fingers and spoke words so softly none other than the grasses under and beside him could hear what he said. Slowly and reluctantly the shard began to glow, changed to a dullish red, became cloudy, then shone with a startling translucence.

  Quon sent a strong image of the Varen lying beside the fire, then showed a child asleep, before it outlined a shadowy figure that was meant to represent Quon himself. In return he saw Jamir's face coalesce through the glass.

  “The old man's figure is insubstantial. Why?” demanded the Cynas irritably.

  “I can't answer that, Honoured One,” sent back Quon, in a fair imitation of Knellen's voice.

  “His little games, poor old deluded idiot,” sneered Jamir. “You need not stay for the Red Council.”

  At that instant, the Cynas felt a slight neuralgia cross his temple. It flared painfully across the head before it faded and his image was grumblingly gone, but Quon sat numbly, hands shaking as if he had palsy. If what he thought he cursorily sensed in Jamir was correct, then things on Shalah were become desperate indeed. Quon hoped he was wrong. More than anything he wanted to be.

 

  The Nedru had been asleep for so long no one on Shalah thought about them, but someone, someone must have sold their soul and opened the first gate. Only a key, turned with blood, could once again let the Nedru loose on Shalah. And if they were free, then too, the Riders of Aeyr might be close to striding across the skies with Sh’Bane, Seeker of the Staff and Gate-key. He was Master of the Anti-Spirit Lords. He would stop at nothing to find the Staff and key, and if and when he did - Quon shivered. If Sh’Bane was anywhere near Shalah - he didn't want to contemplate any further. His mind was in turmoil.

  Who, he wondered, distractedly, would barter their soul for eternal damnation, just so they could have unbridled power, youth, wealth, or whatever might tempt? Nedru offered that, but at awful cost to their willing allies. Worse still awaited those they trampled on. The power they offered was terrible, cruel, rapacious, and, worst of all, uncontrolled. And those who thought they could use what the Nedru had to offer were devoured in their turn as well. The Nedru left nothing behind them, nothing. They were utterly nihilistic. The Nedru caused devastation wherever they went across the universe. They had only managed to come once to Shalah, but now, shivered Quon aghast, he dreaded they were back, from Chaos, and close to the Gates.

  What he'd sensed in Jamir's mind was an image that terrified him. He wondered just who the Red Council was, though he realised he probably truly knew. Even the use of writhlings was historically associated with the Nedru. Sad, a little crushed and apprehensive, Quon placed the shard in his pocket then walked on a bit further before he sat again. This time he became a nimbus of light, palest fawn.

  And into the nimbus came three figures, equally as luminous but undefined, and within the nimbus they stayed.

  “You called,” said the outline of a tall bluish figure with azure hair that glowed in the eerie light.

  “Sapphire,” responded Quon, bending his head in a gesture of courtesy. He tilted his head to the left to acknowledge another ghostly figure, the man surrounded by flickering spurts of redness, tongues of fire that burned steadily. “Ebon - I thank you.” Quon turned his head to the right to survey the third individual who stood quietly, of little substance and quite gaunt. “Wind Dancer. Can you sense what I wish to tell you?”

  “I can,” came a very light voice, almost a sigh.

  “Then let us join so you may understand why I take such an unprecedented step,” suggested Quon tersely.

  Heads nodded. It was only a matter of moments before the light faded and Quon sat alone, but he felt a sense of comfort that the burden he carried was no longer solely his to bear. He plucked a piece of arras grass and began to absently chew on it, conscious that he had to help Knellen as soon as possible, and the boy's life, reasonably safe up to this point, was no longer so.

  Quon returned to camp, his mind whirling. He had to sort out just who this strange child was, with his flair for drawing people to him. Too much was fragmentary and hearsay. He'd befriended little Jepaul when he did because the boy had strangely attracted him, but attraction wasn't enough, not now, especially if, for some reason Jamir, or worse, the Red Council, had an interest in him.

  And was it just the boy's rather pathetic magnetism that drew a Maquat Dom to him, a Maquat who'd traversed thousands of miles just to be near this child at a critical time? Jepaul, just rejected by his father, was apparently rescued and taken to a new home. Quon was no believer in mere coincidence. He'd not seriously considered this in relation to Jepaul, but he now thought at feverish pace and with a degree of alarm.

  Quon hoped Jamir was just curious since the child was still alive when he had been condemned to die, reprieve unheard of in Shalah these days. That made Jepaul a curiosity in itself. Saving the boy had actually drawn attention to him in a way Quon had tried to avoid for syns, a situation that fretted and annoyed him intensely.

  He knew he'd no option but to save the boy. However, the rescue had created its own risks and problems that would become more difficult to deal with as time passed and Jepaul matured. To begin with, Quon hadn't thought the boy anything startling, apart from his undoubted minimal and unusual telepathy. To find that in an emtori caste child was odd enough. What had caught Quon completely by surprise, though, as young as the boy was, was his unbelievable physical resemblance to his damned ancestor.

  That was disturbing enough. Even that ancestry caught Quon off balance, simply because, over syns innumerable now, he'd allowe
d himself to conveniently forget that Merilyn's line, now so ancient, went back to disturbed days on Shalah. He began to increasingly wonder about this child. By the time Jepaul was six syns, Quon began to closely study and monitor him, though the scrutiny wasn't apparent to a casual observer and the boy was unconscious of any change in his mentor and benefactor. Quon saw nothing in the child that made the boy remotely connected with his ancestor, nothing at all.

  After two syns Quon had begun, reluctantly, to suspect that the boy may, possibly, be a limited telepath, but probably not an especially strong one, a child who sensed more strongly than others in times of stress, pain or need. Even that in itself wasn't staggeringly unusual on Shalah, though the old man had shielded that aspect of the boy's nature from prying authority. It wasn't the ability of a gifted boy that troubled Quon, but the knowledge that any child of inferior caste who showed such gifts, particularly an emtori, would be slaughtered immediately.

  Now, after his fleeting touch with Jamir, and Knellen's anguish, Quon sensed he had to keep Jepaul alive for a more significant reason than that, though what the reason might be eluded him. There was definitely something unusual and different about this child. Maybe, mused Quon reflectively one day, some may think Jepaul strange in that he seemed to inhabit another world as well as Shalah, a look to the odd eyes and his expression that of a boy who looked beyond his immediate environment. It wasn't anything Jepaul did or even said. Until he was with Quon, the child spoke little as befitted emtori caste. He was one who made himself as small, unobtrusive and scarce as he could to avoid being thrashed by a violent father or those of higher caste.

  But his difference led to his being singled out and badly bullied, his thin little body sometimes a walking bruise because Jepaul never fought back. Even in one so young, Quon sensed an abhorrence of violence and bloodshed though the boy suffered from it. Jepaul was astonishingly resilient and a gentle soul who simply yielded to anyone and everyone because that was how he was. He wasn't born to physically fight. He had the soul of an artist or a poet. Finally comprehending this Quon began to realise, quite soon, that Jepaul did withdraw. The boy didn't seem wholly from Shalah. He also inhabited a vividly imaginative world he'd created to retreat to where he was safe because Shalah, for Jepaul, was a grim world of fear, abuse, uncertainty and pain. It was unrelieved until he met Quon. But the young mind was richly creative. Jepaul’s own world nourished the cravings of his little battered soul and it remained constant as well as untouchable by others. There, Jepaul could dream. And he did.

  Jepaul's world was one that was anthropomorphic, peopled by trees, water, the sky and the stars and moons that circled Shalah who became entities. All living creatures fascinated Jepaul and he saw, in many of them, magical beings and creatures. He named everything in his faery land, his eyes starry as, before he had to leave Castelus, he wandered the city woods and wild gardens close to Quon's house, all unattended for long syns now. There he could lose himself for brief moments. Quon let the boy go but followed him and watched but he was never seen by Jepaul who was, as emtori caste, friendless.

  Jepaul touched all things, his long fingers caressing flowers, plants, trees. He whispered to the winds and breezes that he named and he spent long moments by shimmering waters, wherever they were, something that appeared to feed the cravings of his little soul. He loved the dawn and twilight. He sat outside at night staring at dancing city lights reflected in the harbour and rippling against the shore before his head turned to the stars clustered in a plush velvet sky, like so many gems carelessly sprinkled. He was mesmerised. He sat, dappled in moonlight, eyes wide as he drank in the sounds and sensations of night as Shalah prepared for sleep, then slept. He saw everything in bright colour. All round him were images of living things portrayed in hues that were ever-changing.

  For one so very young he was strangely mature and acutely conscious of, and attuned to, his surroundings. They spoke to Jepaul and he absorbed effortlessly from them. Big eyes, alive and full of wonder, were often turned to Quon. Looking into them Quon sensed something ethereal, timeless, beyond today and searching, wide and innocent, that stared into an unknown future. Jepaul saw beauty where others didn't. His emtori world, harsh and cruel, was the antithesis of his mental world; it was gentle, beckoning and full of little moments of pure childish joy. Quon saw and felt it.

  And Jepaul continued to flourish. He had another growth spurt that saw him become indescribably leggy, spindly and frailer-looking than ever. He looked as if he might shatter if he fell, something he did quite often because with such rapid growth he was inordinately clumsy. Sometimes the boy was a walking bruise. The auburn curls grew thicker and longer until they were a mass that got into exasperating tangles, and the boy began to outgrow his clothes. At times he looked a scarecrow. The pants were too short and the tunics or shirts too short in the sleeve. The tabards of a season or so before, that'd hung long on him, now rested at his waist and he limped a little in boots that were patently too small.

  Jepaul was going to be extraordinarily tall. That was most unusual. Shalahs were a short and stocky race overall. Jepaul could have come from another world entirely. He bore no resemblance to his father and was called a changeling by Mesmauve because of it. He didn't resemble his mother either. He was a genetic throwback. Mesmauve, conceiving a profound dislike for his young son, declared he'd never father another child after Jepaul, an insult that Jepaul, young as he was, clearly understood. Quon knew the rejection went very, very deep. So the old man tried hard to compensate for that hurt and loss, and over the syns he'd managed very well. Jepaul looked to him as his father, trusted him, respected him, and deeply loved him. Quon's word was law.

  Quon eyed this strange child who ran back to them from up ahead, odd eyes alert and questioning and the curls flying behind him in unruly ringlets.

  “You called me, Quon?”

  “Yes, boy, I did. I don't like your wandering off so far ahead that I can't have you in my sight.” Quon saw how enquiring the eyes were. “I don't forget your life is forfeit, Jepaul, should someone decide to come after us or send on ahead to await us. You'd be no match for adults determined to catch and confine you.” Quon's eyes ran up and down the frail figure. “No match, Jepaul, at all, would you?”

  Jepaul giggled, wriggled, then shook his head.

  “I'll get bigger,” he offered.

  “That's what I'm afraid of,” returned Quon. “If you keep growing at this rate, child, you'll have no clothes to wear.” He saw the insouciant shrug and smiled. “But keep close, Jepaul, yes?”

  Jepaul sighed and nodded, then he turned his head to study the Varen who eyed him thoughtfully.

  “Quon, we approach Thay. I could enter the city and get more clothes for the boy, though they'll probably hang on him if I get the right length. The child has no substance.”

  “No,” agreed Quon quietly, his gaze back on Jepaul who still stared up at the Varen with a fascinated expression. His awe of Knellen didn't abate. “Is it possible for you to do this, Knellen, with what you suffer? I'd hate to precipitate you into something that could make that damned thing flare. How's it been?”

  “Better,” acknowledged Knellen stiffly. “What you give me for it seems to quench the burning and I feel I can act as myself much of the time.”

  “And in the city? Won't you succumb?”

  “Not if I take your powders before I leave. I won't be detained, I can assure you of that.”

  “And questions about boy's clothing?”

  “None will be asked of me,” responded the Varen coldly. “It'll be known I act under orders, so any remarks will be confined to those away from my presence. Thay's a satellite city of Castelus.”

  “I fear for you, friend,” said Quon carefully. “On your return, where would you have us meet you?”

  “You won't, Quon,” answered the Varen immediately. “Varen always find their quarry. I'll find you. I suggest you and the boy angle northeast and keep moving at a steady pace. I'll also get yo
u horses.”

  “Neither Jepaul nor I ride,” came the exasperated response.

  “Then I respectfully suggest, Old One, that you learn to,” said Knellen, the ghost of a smile in his eyes and in his voice. He glanced down at Jepaul who stood, a silent wide-eyed spectator. “What do you think, child?”

  “Emtori don't ride,” mumbled Jepaul awkwardly in response. “No low caste may do so.”

  “But as Quon keeps pointing out, boy, you're no longer anything in particular other than an exiled boy. Can't an exiled child learn to ride a horse?”

  “I'd love to,” replied Jepaul simply. “It's been a dream. Emtori touch, though, taints the horse.”

  “I think not,” answered Knellen, in a way that astonished the man himself and certainly made Jepaul gaze at him disbelievingly. “Sometimes, boy, we have to make changes. Now is one of those times for you, and maybe it's time for me too.” Knellen nodded curtly at Quon and swung himself into the saddle. In a minute he was gone.

  “To ride,” breathed Jepaul jubilantly. “Quon!”

  “All very well for a youngster like you,” grumbled Quon. “I've managed on two legs for a very long time.” He saw Jepaul's crestfallen face. “Oh enough of that, boy. If Knellen's prepared to teach us to ride and it speeds our progress to nowhere, what else matters?”

  He got a smile and a shake of the auburn head before Jepaul walked away, his mind preoccupied by the unexpected treat in store for him upon the Varen's return. Quon contemplatively decided that speed might be a good idea after all, because being so close to a satellite city of Castelus made him feel distinctly uneasy. Moodily he began to walk after Jepaul, quickly overtaking the dawdling figure to put an arm about him.

  He'd just pulled the boy close, when he heard a yelp of fright from Jepaul and swung round, to find himself confronted by bristling points wielded by the most unusual-looking of creatures. Like Jepaul, he froze.