by Katy Winter
"You are Churchik, my lord, but I am not. I am a Samar, an Ortokian. My difference is one of the few things not taken from me. I cling to that because it reaffirms for me what I was and from where I come and I hold to Sar who raised me with Mam. When things are hard to bear, I hold to that for strength." Bethel's voice wavered and he swallowed a sob. "I accept I am a slave - I have never fought that though it hurts so much, but one thing I am not, my lord, is a southerner. I cannot explain what my origins mean -." Bethel broke off forlornly, such depths of sadness in his voice Sarssen was moved to stroke the young head with his free hand.
"You think you will lose your identity, boy, do you not?"
"I will, my lord."
"No, boy, you will not. How could that be?"
"You do not understand, do you, my lord?" When Bethel looked up at Sarssen, the warrior saw anguish and fear on the young face.
"Yes, Bethel, I think I do. To acknowledge the warlord as more than a master makes you afraid you accept what has been done to you from the day he found you," he answered very quietly. "You also feel that if you accept the warlord as your father, you betray everything you are and the family you are from, do you not?"
"Sar," whispered Bethel. He put a hand to his mouth. "Sar is my father, my lord. He always will be wherever I am. My master cannot take that away from me either."
"Yes, boy," replied Sarssen immediately. "As you say, he is indeed your father and always will be. Nothing will alter that, not time or separation. Sarehl is special in your life and you are special to him. But you are not betraying him, boy, are you?" Bethel nodded. "Must it be so, boy?" The warrior looked into the large eyes staring hopelessly into his.
"How can it be anything else, my lord? And the warlord took me as a slave. That is what I am and to him it is what I will always be, not a son."
"I think, boy, it depends on your willingness."
"I am not willing." Bethel's eyes dropped from contact with Sarssen's and his voice was a faint whisper. "Will you let me die before he hurts me too much, my lord?" Sarssen didn't speak for a moment - he just stared at the bowed head.
"Like Morsh do you mean, boy?" Bethel didn't answer. "Why, Bethel, should it come to that?"
"I have said that I will accept the warlord as my father, but I know, my lord, that this is one thing I cannot do. Not even you can force me to this. I will die."
"I would not force you, young one," said Sarssen very gently, his hand back on Bethel's head. Another deeper sob shook Bethel.
"They are so close," he managed. "My family are so close."
It seemed a cruel irony to Sarssen that the boy should suffer like this so near to what might be his deliverance. He pulled Bethel to his feet and guiding him to the bed, made the young man sit and take one of the goblets that stood, full, on the table there. He, too, took a goblet and sipped from it.
"I would not watch you suffer, Beth," he said quietly, his free hand touching Bethel's cheek. "Drink, boy." As he always did, Bethel obeyed by gripping the goblet and raising it to his lips. He drank. Then he watched the warrior move quietly to a chair. "And again, boy!" Bethel did, then raised his head.
"What is in this, my lord? Not -?" He broke off, appalled.
"No, boy," smiled Sarssen reassuringly. "It is merely some of Jane's angwort. You are feeling somewhat ill this morning, are you not?" Bethel nodded.
"You made me drunk last night, did you not, my lord?"
"I could not think of any other way to get you through the night, Beth," explained Sarssen drinking deeply. "It lacked my usual finesse, but never mind."
He watched as Bethel sipped at the wine. He noticed the tears had dried and Bethel looked less white than he did when he entered the pavilion. He spoke thoughtfully and quietly so as to reassure Bethel.
"Now that you are a little more composed, boy, let me speak to you about your situation." His eyebrows rose when he saw the slender hand raised in Bethel's gesture of denial and his voice went implacably hard. "Yes? May I go on, boy?"
"My lord," mumbled Bethel submissively, the hand dropping as he spoke.
"Bethel, it all comes back to how willing you are. Let me ask you this. Were you willing to be taken by the warlord as his boy?" Bethel's head jerked up in shock.
"No! No, my lord, I was not. You know I was not - you were there!"
"Why, then, did you let him take you, keep you servile and use you, boy?" There was a long silence while Bethel wrestled with the question. Looking nonplussed and a little bewildered, Bethel shook his head.
"I had no choice, my lord," he floundered.
"Why not?"
"I would have died had I not completely submitted to him. My lord, you know why!"
"Were you then willing to become a young Churchik adult, a part of our society, by ritual mating with one of our maids, Bethel?"
"No, my lord," whispered Bethel. "I was not allowed to choose."
"What about becoming a warrior, boy, and taking an oath that bound you inexorably to your master, even more than you are as a slave? Were you so willing then?" Bethel breathed so fast his chest heaved.
"No!" he screamed at Sarssen. "No! No! I had no choice. It was do these things or die!" Sarssen crossed to the bed, sat beside Bethel and took the younger man's chin in his hand.
"Do you so want to die, boy? Is that it? After all you have learned and done and so close, as you say, to your family and possible reconciliation with them - do you so easily want to die?" The purple eyes blazed into Sarssen's cool green ones, then the glare faded and the eyes became subdued. The warrior still held the young chin in a firm grip. Bethel was forced to look at him. "Well, boy," he said softly. "I am waiting for your answer." The answer when it came was reluctant and slow.
"No, my lord, I do not wish to die, but I see no other choice open to me." Sarssen released the bearded chin.
"Beth," he said quietly, "when you took the oath to the warlord, did you believe what you were saying? Or did you perhaps wonder if you were going mad saying such things?" This was so accurate a summation of what Bethel had thought that his head came up, astonishment on his face.
"Exactly, my lord," he murmured.
"So why did you say them?" Sarssen saw the resentment flare in the big eyes again and gave an inward smile of approval. Here was no boy who wished to die.
"I told you, my lord, that I had no choice."
"Did you mean to abide by your oath, Beth?"
"Yes, my lord," mumbled Bethel awkwardly. "I do not say or do things I do not mean. I was not brought up to behave that way."
"Very proper," agreed the tempkar gently. "For how long did you propose to honour the oath, boy?" Bethel answered without thought.
"For as long as I found myself a sl-." Bethel stopped.
"Quite so, boy. You have done everything under duress, have you not?" Bethel nodded. "So you will obey the warrior oath for as long as you have to, but no longer than that, will you?"
"It is meant to be for life, my lord," whispered Bethel, not answering the question.
"Do not evade me, Beth," chided the tempkar, deliberately backing Bethel into a corner. "You never intended the oath to be for life or to any other than to the ruling warlord, did you?" He waited while Bethel confronted himself and then heard the faintest sigh.
"I thought I was, at the time, my lord, but now, no, I did not. I want to go home."
"So to become a son, under duress, is not so very different, is it? Do it, boy, and live. It may mean, literally, life or death in cycles to come. I cannot tell you if that is so, but it may well be. Can you not see what I am saying, Beth?"
Bethel's shoulders slumped in defeat. When Sarssen saw sad comprehension in eyes turned towards him, he leaned across to the younger man, and, putting his arm around Bethel, drew him close in a comforting grasp. Of habit, Bethel leaned his head on the broad shoulder as he did with his master and it made the warrior glance down at the dark head with a wry smile. He caught the soft words.
"I cannot defeat you in ar
gument, my lord, any more than I can win verbal encounters with my master. At least you do not hurt me in defeat as he does."
"Ah, Beth," sighed Sarssen, the smile becoming more twisted. "I know how this will hurt you, but I want you to live, boy." He paused, then added, "This offer from the warlord is meant to deeply honour us, Beth, and is not made lightly from either a Vaksh or a Churchik. It is rarely made. That the warlord thinks us worthy of such stuns me as it does you."
"And the Vaksh ceremonies and rites? What are they, my lord?" The warrior felt tension in the figure resting against him.
"They are of blood," he answered honestly. When he felt tremors run through Bethel his grip tightened.
"I am afraid," whispered Bethel huskily. "Are you part Vaksh, my lord?"
"No, boy, I did not lie cycles ago when I told you I am part Churchik."
"Do Churchik have blood rites too?"
"Yes, they do."
"My lord, I cannot -." As he interrupted Bethel, Sarssen's voice was very gentle.
"Yes, boy, you can. Believe me, you will feel little and I will be there beside you." There was a long silence, then Sarssen added, "I have always wanted a brother, Beth. Will that be so hard for you to accept?"
Bethel shook his head, saying in a muffled voice, "That is what will make it bearable, my lord, knowing that you will be my brother."
"Good boy," said Sarssen softly. "You have a lot of courage, young one. I am deeply proud of you."
CHAPTER FOUR
In the middle of autumn, Istarial and his people vanished as silently as they came. Chlorien felt oddly bereft and Kasphros wailed inconsolably for several days. The travellers walked on alone for at least two weeks, until one day they came to an abrupt halt at the sight of a very tall Shadowlander who appeared from behind a tree, completely blocking their path. His bow string was taut and the arrow was ready to fly.
"Name yourselves," he said harshly. Chlorien was so taken-aback she couldn't speak. Nikos stood in front of her.
"I'm Nikos Rox, of the line of Sophos Rox of Lilium. This is my mate Chlorien and our son Kasphros, Rox cub from Lilium." The Shadowlander didn't move.
"The girl. She must explain her origins if she wishes to go further." Chlorien was sure she heard Autoc's voice in her mind, or was it Nikos?
"Father," she sent tentatively without being aware of it. "Father?"
Though she received no direct answer from Autoc, she met the faceted eyes that watched her so intently and knew what she had to say instinctively. She spoke softly and very quietly so the Shadowlander had to stoop to hear her.
"I'm Chlorien who was Myme Chlo. I ask you to let one of Chloronderiel's family past. I ask that in the name of my greatsire, Archmage Bene of Yarilo."
As she spoke the Shadowlander melted to nothing. Nikos placed his arms around trembling shoulders so Chlorien could lean into him. She nestled against him.
"Well done, little one," he whispered into her hair. Chlorien flung herself round so she could throw her arms about his neck.
Finally she asked, in a shaken voice, "How did I know, beloved?"
"How do any of us know, little one?" he responded. "Deep inside you knew and when the need was there to consciously know it surfaced."
"Did you know?" She missed the smile in her mate's eyes at that.
"Yes, child, I knew." He also knew Autoc had planted the words cycles ago.
"But you couldn't say it for me, could you?"
"No, little one."
Chlorien gave a deep sigh. She and her mate stayed as they were until Nikos felt small determined fingers twine through his hair and tug until it hurt.
"Our son wants down," he said on a laugh, shrugging the skin, that held the child, from his shoulders. As soon as it touched the ground, Kasphros wriggled free and began moving away as fast as he could.
"Come and see," the young voice urged his parents. "I know Istarial's here."
Then, in frustration at not being able to move fast enough, Kasphros translated. This lasted only briefly because a curt order in his mind had the small agile cub back as a little boy, stopped in his tracks. A cross small face, with stormy copper-flecked eyes, stared up at his father. Kasphros stayed still, waiting for his father to reach him and stoop to lift him into strong arms.
"Hush, son," Nikos sent gently. "You know translation's forbidden." Kasphros bent his head into his father's shoulder, the clasp about him tender and firm. Nikos turned to face where his son tried to run and stood quite still. "Chlorien," he called. "Chlorien, come quickly, child."
Chlorien was stooped over a plant, but she responded to the amused urgency of her mate's voice and moved next to him. Her mouth opened in surprise and disbelief.
They looked down upon a changing crystal city, of such delicacy and strength, Chlorien was vividly reminded of a spider's web on a dewy morning. This city was never still. It seemed to move gently backwards and forwards on the same arc. Nothing she could see or sense balanced it, nor was it held obviously suspended. It just was. And as it moved, the city caught differing planes of light that shone in brief flares of alternating colours.
Chlorien simply stared. She could see towers, spires and minarets in profusion and clearest were avenues that radiated out from the centre like the spokes of a wheel. What made these avenues so different was their apparent disappearance beyond where you would expect them to go.
While she stood there bemused, Chlorien reflected that everything about this city was odd because what you thought you saw as something finite, stretched endlessly, even the spires. She deliberately focused on one but, following it upwards, she lost it as it soared well beyond her immediate vision. Nothing about the city was static - it flattened and broadened and stretched until she closed her eyes feeling dizzy.
"What is it, little one?" asked Nikos beside her.
"Everything moves and goes beyond itself," Chlorien tried to explain, opening her eyes at her mate's soft laugh.
"That, little one, is called Tranquillity. The Shadowfolk call it Floronderiel, the eastern Shadowlanders sometimes refer to it as Elkinres. Ambrosian scholars, like those from where you come, Chlorien, know it only from ancient chronicles as Halcyon."
"My father spoke of this place to me when I was a little girl," whispered Chlorien. "He must've been here."
"Yes, he was, beloved," agreed Nikos calmly. "It was a long time ago, yet he's still known here as Ortoriol. You should know that as you may be asked about him."
"You know Father very well, Nikos, don't you?" came the quiet and unexpected question. Nikos turned from her to stare into the distant city. His voice was deep and serene.
"Ortoriol and I've known each other for many cycles, beloved."
"And you're close to one another?"
"That's so, child."
"And my greatsire? What's he known as here?"
The question hung in the air because Nikos was suddenly busy with Kasphros and didn't hear her. Profoundly reflective, Chlorien glanced at the city again.
They began a slow walk down a slope that appeared a few yards ahead of them, but the more they walked upon it the longer away it seemed to stretch. Nikos was unconcerned, merely treading with a light foot and with an amused twinkle in his eyes, his grip on the wriggling boy in his arms tightening. The messages going to and fro between father and son finally made Chlorien look across at the pair, before she sent a sharp reproof to Kasphros. The little boy cuddled into Nikos who merely raised an eyebrow at the now quiet boy.
"He wishes to go on ahead," he explained with a chuckle.
"So I gathered from the cross signals in my mind," responded Chlorien. She walked on a little ahead then finally came to a halt, Nikos drawing up beside her, a query in his eyes.
Experimentally Chlorien bent to touch the ground and, as she did, the slope resolved itself into a gentle and undulating path that brought them closer to the city. When she touched the ground again and looked up, she saw they now stood at the end of a long walkway that would lead them
to the gates of the city. It sloped, but barely. They passed through gates that were intricately carved and unguarded, to find themselves in the city that was refracted light wherever they looked. There was no movement and no Shadowfolk.
Chlorien began to walk purposefully in one direction before stopping and turning, aware that Nikos hadn't moved, merely waiting where he was and calmly cradling Kasphros. Chlorien tried several different directions but always ended up in the same place. She stood still to think. A thought touched her mind.
"They're all waiting for you, Mam."
Chlorien stared across at the little boy whose head was up, his wicked eyes blazing with excitement and pleasure. Nikos still stood patiently, his eyes rested on Chlorien as she pivoted uncertainly.
She thought of Autoc. She sat in Ortok, unwillingly learning about a remote place scholars called Halcyon, while the mage stood a little way from her, blue eyes brimful of laughter. He shook his head at her, saying in his gentle and teasing way:
"Myme Chlo! Little one, some day you'll understand. You'll come to realise that what is often is not; that what could be often is or will be; that what you see is what you're allowed to see or is what you only wish to see. You'll learn to be as one with all things, all people and all creatures. When you do, little one, and you open yourself to Ambros, you'll be on the way to totality and completeness."
Chlorien saw, again, with a deep ache, the way the scholar's mouth curled in his unforgettable smile. The warmth of his smile touched her now. And she understood what he said so long ago. She stood motionless so she could send out her thoughts and emotions, opening and receiving all that Halcyon was. In response, she felt an unreserved and onrushing tide of welcome that almost swamped her. Nikos stood back, his hands holding the writhing boy in a steady grip while the child uncharacteristically wriggled and struggled in a way that earned him stern words.
"No, son. Not yet. Be still!" He heard the reluctant whimper from Kasphros and automatically stroked the curls become more golden than copper, though they were still streaked with black.
Chlorien saw the Shadowfolk as they really were when gentle hands took hers. The city was no longer empty; it was very busy with milling throngs going about their business. People talked and laughed and there was shoving and gesticulating. She stared up at the man who stood over her, his hand holding hers in a firm clasp of welcome.
