by Katy Winter
After a moment she said, so softly Nikos almost didn't hear, "I fear for us all." She added, even more quietly, "I fear for you, Nikos, so very much."
"With good cause, Ayesha," he murmured, staring deeply into her eyes. She blinked but his look held hers. "Chlorien will come back," he said quietly. "Be there for her, because she'll have great need of you."
She sensed his intense pain, but then blinked again because Nikos no longer looked at her but instead cradled Kasphros against his chest in a deeply protective way. The Rox stooped, kissed Ayesha lightly on the hair and took a few steps back.
"You've given me joy, all of you. Blessings on each one here."
Nikos turned sharply and walked back to the courtyard where Chlorien stood waiting. Ayesha watched him go, a chill running over her. Suddenly, she put her head in her hands and wept. Istarial found her sitting very still under the laken in the pose most often adopted by the Shadowfolk, then, when he knelt in front of her and noticed the tearstained face, he was concerned.
"Little sister," he said, pushing a strand of long hair from her damp cheek. "What troubles you?"
"Nikos."
"What've you seen, child?" Ayesha shook her head.
"I haven't seen, brother. I know and so does he. It's written and it'll come." Istarial saw how dark her eyes had become.
"Little sister?"
"Have you seen your mortality, Istarial?" Istarial drew in his breath, his eyes, too, darkening with distress.
"No, Ayesha, I haven't."
"Nikos has," was the sad response. "He told me Chlorien would need us. Istarial, are we, too, in danger?" Istarial took her hands firmly in his.
"Yes, little sister, all of Ambros is endangered. It's time we left Floronderiel, though Fariol and Agutian say they'll remain."
"Will we ever come back?" The anxiety Ayesha sensed in Istarial didn't abate.
"Time will tell, Ayesha. We must wait for Indariol - he knows so much more than I do." Istarial put his arms round Ayesha in a gesture of comfort.
"My heart misgives me, brother," whispered Ayesha. Istarial stared down at the auburn head. "So afraid."
"We need Burelkin, little sister." Ayesha sighed and sat upright, her hands clasped in Istarial's.
"Have they gone?"
"Yes," answered Istarial. "They've gone to Lilium." His seer sister profoundly troubled him.
CHAPTER FIVE
At the latter end of winter, Sarssen and Bethel became the warlord's sons. For weeks Sarssen repeatedly took Bethel over the ceremonies until the young man knew what he had to do and say as though this was a part of him. He was automatic and seemed resigned, though the tempkar saw the shadow that sometimes crossed the young face and the haunted look in the dark velvety eyes.
When the day came, Bethel felt restless apprehension grip him and his stomach griped. He carried out his daily duties like an automaton, scarcely responding to his friends who knew what the afternoon would bring for this young Samar.
The rites were to be undergone in the open, in a glade transformed to the semblance of a temple, the altar a marbled slab draped with rich blue cloth that bore the symbols of the Vaksh/Churchik veneration of the cult of the warrior class and the ruling warlord. Had Bethel seen the glade his bowels would've betrayed him.
Though snow had passed the air had the raw chill that made anyone catch their breath because deep breathing such iciness was painful. The camp was unusually quiet. Most had an inkling about what was to happen and, in one unsel, Mishak crouched on a pallet anxiously, his hands clasped about a furry neck, while Jane paced up and down, his face wearing a ferocious frown. When Mishak had the courage to glance up at the uncompromising expression, he looked as quickly away.
The haskars were assembled in the glade not far from the warlord's pavilion. Three large tables, likewise draped with richly ornamented cloth, were placed in the middle of an oval circle of warriors, ornately carved, curved knives placed at an angle at the end of each table. Lanterns ringed the head of each table, and yet more of them were held behind and above the heads of the warriors by slaves, in a scene of silence and solemnity that was chilling and powerful. Elite warriors were clad in ceremonial robes rarely seen.
Inside a haskar's pavilion slaves and two warriors of tempkar status stood in front of two young men. Sarssen and Bethel were stripped, bathed and oiled and now pushed to their knees so long damp hair could be hard brushed. They remained still until directed to lift their heads for the warriors to cut a swathe of hair from across each forehead, before the sons of Lodestok were shaved.
Bethel felt a part of his manhood lay on the ground beside him as his beard fell beside him, but he tried hard not to shiver or move his head, aware how close to his throat the knife blade was. He didn't consider swallowing. When told curtly to rise he obeyed, a hand running tentatively across his bare face. When it felt strange, Bethel took his hand away. He accepted the shaving symbolically reduced them to the status of children. Now he did shiver.
While they stood passively, the young men were assisted into robes that were pulled round them before being securely tied with sashes. Their hands were held so that each ring could be removed and their warrior necklaces were also taken. Bracelets that had ringed arms were gone. They wore no jewellery. They would walk as sons, not warriors. Bethel and Sarssen stood bare-foot. It was perishingly cold and Bethel shook with both that, fright and tension.
The warriors brought them goblets and bade them drink. Bethel only sipped at his wine until he saw Sarssen upend the goblet and down the contents in one long gulp. He copied him. His world tilted and reeled.
Then, as he stood there, blinking, he had the oddest sensation that he was outside himself looking on incuriously at events and knew he was drugged as Sarssen had told him he'd be. He seemed to drift somewhere in space but had no idea where. He was barely aware two other tempkars entered the unsel and scarcely felt the hands that led him outside, walked him steadily some distance, and then lifted him carefully onto one of the tables in the glade. He was laid flat, legs straight out and his arms beside him, though his head was slightly tilted back on a cushion placed under his neck. His sash was untied. When his robe was pulled back, leaving him naked, Bethel was untouched by the cold, his eyes fixed to the hand that lifted the ceremonial knife and placed it on his chest, pointed at his heart.
Then he was alone, vulnerable. As he lay there, he knew paralysis crept through him and realised he couldn't move to save himself, not even his eyes could move and he was mute. His eyes stared upwards, hugely wide open with the pupils enlarged and black. Time had no meaning for him. He knew, from Sarssen, that the warlord would undergo his part of the physical ceremony before them.
He became aware of movement beside him, sensed the knife was lifted and saw weak sunlight glint from the wickedly sharp blade as it was lifted over him. With eyes trying to focus, Bethel hazily saw a figure stand above him and knew it was Lodestok who held the ceremonial knife hovering just over his bared heart.
Bethel was unable to swallow. His eyes spoke for him. They met the warlord's for a very long moment, before Bethel saw Lodestok nod to someone beside him, then bend forward with the knife poised to cut. Bethel tried to move but lay inert. He sensed the first bite of the knife as it was expertly but deeply plunged into his chest and he heard the accompanying keening as from a long distance. It was a sound that would have terrified him had he not been so heavily drugged. The marks over the heart were very deep. What Bethel didn't know was how Bensar, hooded and crooning softly beside the warlord as he waited with a ceremonial cup to catch the blood, saw tears trickle across the pale, thin cheeks into the dark hair. The pain seemed to cut Bethel inside.
He knew the Vaksh sigils were completed, because the warlord straightened before raising the knife to cut on Bethel's forehead in the Churchik way, the blade descending swiftly and accurately in several sweeping cuts that were not as deeply engraved as those on his chest. The jewel that was pressed into his forehead caused him n
o discomfort - he was scarcely aware the Churchik act was taken. He saw the bloodied knife held aloft above him and heard the keening of the warriors rise to a crescendo, before the knife was placed on his stomach.
He lay waiting, conscious of nothing, knowing from his sessions with Sarssen that the warrior had undergone the rites before him because Sarssen was the elder brother. He seemed to lie on the table for a long time and it was even longer before he sensed any physical sensation such as being able to blink again. He did so, but didn't dare move. There was now silence, until he thought all the hooded warriors repeated a series of gestures and murmured words, but he couldn't be sure. His vision kept blurring and he couldn't turn his head.
Then he became acutely aware of dull but agonising pain in his chest, his instinct to block it strong. The drug he'd ingested was too powerful and made his efforts abortive - though he struggled for control it was difficult, so Bethel succumbed to the pain and the drug. He closed his eyes and waited.
When he felt hands raise his head and shoulders and heard the rising and falling chants, Bethel knew the next part of the ceremony was under way. His essence shrank within with dread but there was no outward sign. A cup was raised to his lips. Knowing what it was, he drank submissively first from that cup and then from the second one held to his mouth. He licked his lips as he was gently lowered back onto the table, struggled to see who held him but because his sight was impaired again he gave up and once more closed his eyes. When he opened them he was conscious of a new sound from the assembled haskars that rose and hung in the icy air, before it stopped abruptly. It terrified him because it sounded so alien. Bethel knew his blood was mingled with that of a new father and a brother and he shivered without being aware of it, the tremors going from his head to his feet. He was lifted so he could drink again before he was allowed to lie quietly. The glade was silent and brooding.
A dressing was placed across his chest, the robe was drawn back across him and Bethel felt the sash tied and pinned at his waist. Lifted from the table, he was held kneeling by two haskars at the altar where the warlord stood still. His head was raised so he looked directly up at Lodestok, the man so tall and powerful Bethel felt every inch a mere helpless slave boy. When the warlord stooped and put his hand under Bethel's chin, Bethel felt the hand was larger than life and considerably stronger, Lodestok's voice as cold as Bethel remembered it. It took him back to his first hours with the warlord. If he'd been able to he'd have shaken like an autumn leaf at the recalled menace he confronted then.
"You will take the oath, boy."
Bethel's eyes met pale icy ones that had ruled his life for so many cycles obedience was automatic. He knew what he had to say. Sarssen had drilled him enough. Bethel opened his lips and heard himself speak.
"I accept you as my father, ruling Warlord, with all the command and authority vested in you. I submit to you, Father, and promise, as your second son, obedience, loyalty and duty and I acknowledge your guidance through acceptance. I offer myself as your faithful Vaksh/Churchik son." With his free hand, Lodestok anointed the implanted stone on Bethel's forehead, then spoke so only Bethel could hear.
"I accept you as my second son, with the responsibilities that fatherhood implies. You will want for nothing. You will be guided and deeply cherished by me as befits a faithful and dutiful son."
The warlord stared down intently at the young face for long moments, as if he tried to read something there, before he released Bethel and stood back, his face a graven, cold mask.
Bethel was assisted to his feet and led, with wavering and faltering steps, from the glade to a pavilion where he was allowed to lie, his head swimming and his stomach churning uncomfortably. He struggled to stay awake but instantly fell deeply asleep.
When he woke Bethel lay still, confused and momentarily disoriented. When he moved his head an arm lifted him and he felt a goblet at his lips. Told to drink he did, aware at the same time of a stabbing pain in his chest, so sharp he drew in his breath on a sudden gasp. He clenched his teeth and obeyed the order to drink again. Then he was let lie, knowing he was drugged again. He sensed that if he breathed shallowly the lacerations wouldn't hurt so much so he found he could control the pain a little. The latest drug was unlike the first in that he felt no paralysis, the acute discomfort faded and soon Bethel felt nothing. He seemed disembodied again, merely pleasantly drowsy and detached, his eyes drifting incuriously from one object to another in a random way.
Helped to his feet he swayed until he got his balance, standing obediently while robes were pulled over his head and settled carefully on the ground. They were heavy robes that he noticed were richly jewelled and swept out trailing behind him. He felt their weight but was distracted from them by the cowl hood being pulled over his freshly combed curls. Then he glanced down to see a very wide, ornately jewelled belt being clasped about his waist, vaguely aware the gems matched the stones embedded in the robes, but unaware they also matched the stone implanted in his forehead. His hair had fallen forward when he bent his head so now he felt hands brush it carefully back under the hood. When seconds later a pungent scent was sprinkled over him, Bethel sneezed.
A quick look to his right showed him Sarssen similarly clad in the same blue as himself, Bethel realising belatedly that the blue stone of Negrana had been taken by the warlord as his symbol and that of his katifs in the south. Both he and Sarssen were now southern Sarats, as the sons of a warrior lord. Bethel flinched slightly at the recollection.
Hands guided him outside. Bethel blinked at the darkness because he'd no way of knowing how long the first ceremony was or how long he'd slept. He was encouraged to seek relief in the bushes and obliged, his steps back to the warriors very unsteady. It was a struggle to remain upright, but the hands supported him and led him back to the glade where they were awaited in sombre silence. This time Bethel was acutely aware of the authority, majesty and power that ringed him. His knees felt weak.
The haskars were now formally attired in warrior garb, their huge figures casting shadows that were awe-inspiring and overpowering. Bethel's pulse began to race and he felt faintly sick with fear as he stared at the warlord some distance from him, coldly remote and expressionless. Hands held him quiet until he was joined by Sarssen. When the latter saw the tense figure and strained white face, he sent a gentle encouraging thought.
Once the hands left him Bethel put all his thoughts into remaining erect as was demanded by the ceremony, even managing to courageously lift his head when he and Sarssen began the long walk to the warlord. In front of him, the two young men fell to their knees, their heads touching the ground in homage. The warlord's still authority was frightening. Bethel realised his head hurt and remembered he was cut on the forehead. He heard Bensar's harsh voice behind them.
"Why have you come?"
Bethel fell into the ritual that Sarssen had taught him. The warriors spoke as one.
"We are accepted, through the Vaksh rites we have undergone, and through right of the Churchik marking and jewelled symbolism we carry, as the sons of Lodestok, the Warlord, Saratquan of Valshika."
"What do you offer him?"
"Honour and respect as his sons, first and second born."
"What do you accept, without reservation, in return for his fatherhood?"
"Our father's authority." At those words, Bethel quivered as though he was struck by the warlord's whip. His first days as a slave hit him again.
"Remain kneeling, but lift your heads, sons of Lodestok." As he spoke, Bensar pulled back the two hoods. "You are first-born, Tempkar Sarssen, henceforth named Losaren, son of Lodestok. Do you accept your rebirth, Losaren?"
Bethel began to shake as the significance of the ceremony he was undergoing truly dawned on him. He struggled not to fight and reject all of it. A gentle thought came to his mind again, advising calm and patience, even as Bethel heard Sarssen respond quietly.
"I accept my naming as a gift from my father." Bensar spoke again, his voice unvaryingly harsh.
"You are second-born, Beduar Bethel, henceforth named Sorien, son of Lodestok. Do you accept your rebirth, Sorien?" Bethel drew a quavering breath and his voice trembled when he responded.
"I accept the naming as a gift from my father."
He felt tears threaten and had to swallow very hard as he heard the warlord speak above them, his voice like ice and powerfully carrying.
"I accept you as my sons, Losaren and Sorien. That is how they will be known from this moment. Repeat your oaths to me."
Obediently, Sarssen and Bethel acquiesced. At the end of the long oaths that were chanted, the warriors spoke in unison in an endorsement of the sacred oaths being witnessed among them.
When the warlord spoke again there was no ringing quality to the deep voice. It was as soft and silky as Bethel remembered it and it made him shiver anew with apprehension. He wondered if he would ever walk free from fear of this man who would now call him son. He thought of Sarehl's fatherly love and gave a faint gasp.
"Raise your heads and hold them up with pride, sons of mine," said Lodestok softly, his eyes on each lifted head, one very blond and the other so dark.
Their foreheads were anointed once more, then Bethel watched Sarssen give the warlord his right hand, to have it raised to Lodestok's lips. The warlord held the hand at his mouth for a long spell then lowered it to push a ring onto the third finger.
"To my first-born, Losaren," he said softly, letting the hand drop. The gesture was repeated with Bethel. "To my second-born, Sorien."
Bethel bent his head in acknowledgment, unwilling to meet those chilling orbs that seemed to look through him. He felt Bensar's fingers touch his hand, looked down, saw the ring and instinctively followed Sarssen's example when his turn came. He heard the warrior speak at the same moment as he placed the ring Bensar had given him onto the third finger of the warlord's right hand.
"I give you this token, Father, with my heart and my mind."
Bethel felt the words were torn from him when his turn came to repeat the words and place the ring on the warlord's left hand. He knew a wish to weep but felt he had little left of grief. He felt empty.
