by Katy Winter
"Stand, sons of the ruling warlord," commanded Bensar. They rose, Sarssen's hand reaching for Bethel's and gripping it tightly. They stood in silence, facing the assembled haskars and with Lodestok's hands on their heads. The deep voice rang authoratively.
"These are my sons, Losaren and Sorien, both Vaksh and Churchik sons of my line. They are warriors sworn to serve me. As my sons they will represent my authority as required in days to come. They are an extension of my will. Sorien will be recognised as a warrior son after his first successful blooding in battle. Should the time come, my vengeance will be through them."
Lodestok stood between his sons, the three still and thoughtful, before they began a slow walk between the now ranked warriors flanking the exit from the glade.
~~~
Bethel was mercifully allowed to sleep. He woke in the morning in his unsel, his eyes opening apprehensively to Jane bent over him.
"Jane," he murmured, his voice quavering. He drew in a shuddering, shallow breath because he was acutely aware of the stabbing pain in his chest. "Jane," he whispered again.
"Aye, young one, it's Jane," came the reassuring voice. "Lie still, lad, the wound in your chest's deep."
"It is real, is it not?" Bethel whispered huskily, his eyes still a little dilated.
"Aye, young one, there's no doubt you're Lodestok's son."
"What else can anyone ask of me?" wept Bethel helplessly.
"Nothing," comforted Jane. "Nothing at all, lad. Try not to weep, Beth. That changes nothing." Jane sat beside Bethel and massaged the limp hand that lay beside him. Bethel's free hand cautiously crept to the mark on his forehead.
"Is there a stone there?" he whispered, his voice breaking.
"Aye, lad. A large and very rich blue stone they call the Valshika affir Negrana stone. It's well embedded and dressed by the healer twice while you slept. It doesn't bleed anymore."
"Can you remember what it means? My mind is blank," whispered Bethel. He wiped the wet from his cheeks with a shaking hand. "I have such a vile headache, Jane."
"I'm not surprised," was the stolid response. "Cut about the way you were and then drugged, anyone would have a headache." Jane turned from Bethel briefly, then faced him again with a goblet in his hand that he held down. "Drink this for me," coaxed Jane gently, his hand tilting the goblet a little. Bethel obliged then coughed.
"Gods," he croaked. "What is it?"
"Something Mellillan, lad," replied Jane, with a smile at the expression on the pale face.
"What does it do?" Bethel gave a sudden and very deep yawn.
"It relaxes you for sleep, Beth. I want you to rest awhile."
"Have a new name," mumbled Bethel sleepily, his hand crossing his bare chin lazily.
"So I hear, lad. What is it?"
"Sorien."
"It doesn't suit you, lad. I guess that's what we'll have to call you though, in public."
"No," whispered Bethel, his eyes struggling to stay open. "Jane, I am Beth. My name is Beth and I am the son of Alfar and son to Sarehl of Ortok."
"Of course you are, lad," responded Jane soothingly, a hand brushing back the tumbled curls from the cut forehead. "Beth you are and Beth you remain. That's how it'll always be."
Bethel's eyes closed, but he mumbled rather incoherently, "His blood, Jane. I had to drink - as part of the rites." The young voice trailed away and the hand raised fell slack on the furs. Jane looked down at him thoughtfully.
"So much you have to bear, lad," he murmured. "Try not to think about things. If you won't sleep for yourself, do so for me."
But Bethel was already fast asleep.
~~~
Once Bethel was on his feet, he felt weak, tearful and quite unlike himself even though the pain from the chest wound was now minimal and required no further attention from the healer. The cuts on his forehead were long forgotten though Bethel would tentatively put up a hand to touch the stone that still felt strange to his fingers.
Once healed, Bethel hesitated to leave his pavilion other than for necessity. Jane tried to encourage him but met with a flat and snapped refusal. Jane sensibly waited. After a second morning passed, Jane sent Mishak for Sarssen whom Jane had seen about the day before, a little paler than usual certainly, but quite mobile.
Jane hastened out to greet Sarssen and to talk with him before the warrior went in to the unsel to speak with Bethel. Jane was deeply reassured by the big blond warrior appearing as his usual urbane self, the only difference being the faint beginnings of stubble on the strong Churchik chin where a long and silky beard had been. Involuntarily, Jane's eyes went to the jewel embedded in the warrior's forehead and Sarssen, seeing the glance, smiled down at the stocky man.
"What troubles you, Jane, that you ask Mishak to come to me?" he asked quietly. What he saw in Jane's expression made his smile fade. "Is it Bethel?"
"Aye, my lord, it is. He's lost his spirit and refuses to venture out. I may be wrong, my lord, but I think he's deeply, deeply afraid and has lost his bearings - if you know what I mean." Sarssen passed a hand over his chin, a rueful expression on his face. He spoke slowly.
"Jane, he had to do this, if only to keep him alive. I know how profoundly it has shaken him, but what else could be done? You do know why I made him accept the warlord as his father, do you not?" Jane caught the anxiety in the deep voice and responded by giving the warrior's arm a firm squeeze.
"Of course I understand, my lord. Neither you nor he seem to have options about how your lives will run, do you?"
"No," murmured Sarssen sadly. "I certainly have not, not since I was seven cycles. Bethel was not that much older either."
"He's crushed, my lord. Come and see for yourself."
When the men entered the unsel Bethel stared at them wearily from the mattress he lounged on, without any change of expression or pose. Sarssen crossed the ground so he could sit next to him, Bethel not moving but just hunching himself a little more.
"You are slow to be up and about, little brother. Why is this?" Sarssen saw the tell-tale flinch and when Bethel went to rise he was stayed by a very strong hand. "Not so fast, boy. I did not think being a brother to me would bother you so much." Bethel's head went down.
"It does not, my lord. I welcome that. You must believe me."
"That pleases me, Beth. What then ails you, boy?"
"It is what I had to do, say and promise." The voice shook. "Gods, my lord, I am unable to say or do things I do not mean. I never have. I had to do this when I cannot believe in what I did - yet, at the same time that I do not believe, it all has meaning, awful meaning for me. I must believe it if I am to survive." The voice faltered. "My lord," Bethel went on miserably, "I am not making sense, am I?"
"Yes, Beth, you are. Do not torment yourself so."
"How can you not believe in something, yet be forced to do so? It is irreconcilable. And," added Bethel viciously, "I hate Sorien for a name. Losaren has strength and sounds well, but Sorien sounds washy to me." His head came up, the youthful expression affronted when Bethel saw how amused Sarssen was. When the warrior began to laugh, Bethel's angry glare faded and he stared curiously at the tempkar. "What," he demanded, "is so amusing about that?"
"Sorien," said Sarssen. Bethel turned to glance at Jane who merely grinned sympathetically at the warrior.
"What of it?" he growled.
"You are right, boy. It does sound weaker than Losaren."
Sarssen collapsed onto the cushions and Bethel turned on him in fury, his hands going for the warrior's wrists. When Sarssen saw blind rage in the purple eyes as they glared down at him, he decided to let Bethel's anger have an outlet. Obligingly, he let Bethel tussle with him for quite some time before he flung the younger man onto his back, Bethel's wrists gripped tightly and the warrior firmly in control. His eyes glinted down at the panting, struggling Bethel.
"Sorien," he said teasingly, watching Bethel grind his teeth impotently. "Sorien," he repeated. "Get used to it, boy. That is how you will be known am
ong the Churchik who are senior to you and that is many warriors."
"And you?" spat Bethel, twisting in the hands that held him. When he tried to arch his back to throw the warrior off him, Sarssen casually leaned across him and kept him prone. Bethel made an infuriated sound like a weirkit.
"Well, boy," drawled Sarssen, "you can be any number of things to me - boy, warrior, beduar. Or Bethel." Sarssen saw rage fade to be replaced by consternation and distress as Bethel's eyes flickered to the whip Sarssen had tucked in his belt as of habit.
"My lord," Bethel mumbled, going completely limp, slave fashion, as he always was with Lodestok. "What am I doing, my lord? Forgive me."
"For what?" asked Sarssen, releasing Bethel and sitting straight, one hand pushing at hair that escaped the queue in the tussle. "Why should you ask forgiveness for acting naturally for once in your life? If you cannot be yourself with me, that is a worry."
Bethel turned his head away, biting his lip, but not before the warrior saw the quick second look at his whip.
"I acted like a child, my lord, and I must respect you as tempkar." Sarssen shook his head, his eyes full of amusement.
"I will not beat you, boy," he said mildly. "You did not hurt me you know, and I think losing your temper did you a great deal of good. You have repressed emotions for cycles, boy. You are not a slave to me – you are a junior warrior certainly, but also now a brother."
He watched as Bethel licked his lips in the nervous habit of old then turned his head to Jane who came towards them, sat on the bed next to Sarssen and handed each man a tankard.
"Time out," Jane said quietly. "That certainly looked like brothers," he observed. Sarssen leaned forward and pulled Bethel up on the cushions.
"Take the badran, Beth, and drink." The warrior watched Bethel tip the tankard and swallow twice. "I repeat, you have had to repress your emotions too much, boy, as I have - I am glad you still have some left," he commented placidly, after he'd taken a long draught from his tankard. When he glanced at Bethel he saw distress still haunted the younger man and touched the shaved chin gently. "Boy, it is as I said, you had no choice. One day not too distant you will have that choice, and I shall have to watch my little brother walk out of my life. I will not welcome that day, Beth." Bethel's lips quivered. He grasped at Sarssen's nearest hand.
"I will not want to lose you, my lord," he whispered huskily, a tremor in his voice. "You are as much a part of me as Sar."
The young voice broke and Bethel gulped at the badran. He missed the thoughtful frown that puckered the warrior's forehead and didn't see the quick look exchanged between Sarssen and Jane. Bethel coughed to clear his throat.
"I cannot call you Losaren," Bethel said throatily, after a long pause and another cough. "To me you are my lord or Sarssen."
"Then let it be so," replied Sarssen calmly. "I have not changed in any way, so why should you?" He saw he had Bethel's surprised attention. "You do not think the warlord is going to be any different, do you, boy? You are still his boy slave so your routine will not alter in any way. While you will be treated with more caution by those who wish to make use of your blood tie to the warlord, none of those who are close to you will care one way or the other. To them you will be the same Beth." Sarssen saw the arrested expression on Bethel's face and let his words sink home, merely adding pensively, "Our hair will look a bit odd for a while until it grows in again, and gods, do I feel the chill without my beard." When he smiled gently and reassuringly across at him, Bethel gave a weak grin.
"You look very young without a beard, my lord," he said shyly, his glance at the bare chin opposite a very quick one. "Do you not think so, Jane?" Appealed to, Jane chuckled and twinkled at the warrior.
"Aye, lad, he does, and you look a mere child."
Bethel's grin was infectious this time as he tilted his tankard and drank deeply, silent and thoughtful before he spoke again.
"You are saying, my lord, that nothing has changed?" Sarssen nodded. "But it has," argued Bethel. "The warlord spoke of us being an extension of his will." Sarssen heard the inflection of rising panic come back to the voice. "We will represent his authority in days to come."
"So, boy?" returned the warrior easily. "You have sworn to serve as a warrior and you are possessed as a slave, which means the warlord owns you in totality, does it not?" Bethel demurred, scratching idly at his chin, then twirling hair round a finger in a familiar gesture. "Think how you obeyed the master who owns you, Beth, in the way you sought Sarehl," suggested Sarssen, his watchful eyes seeing the flinch Bethel gave at that. "You are as owned and possessed in mind and body as I am and have been for cycles." Bethel's head dropped.
"Yes, my lord," he whispered. "I am a fool. I know that is so."
"Well then, it has all merely been formalised with a ring and an oath or two, has it not? And you are still the same slave boy who will submit to the demands of his master, Beth."
"That is putting it so crudely," objected Bethel, his head rearing and cheeks deeply flushed. Sarssen tilted his head, the green eyes mocking and amused.
"Yes, boy, it is. Nothing has changed, Beth, not really. Our status is altered but I do not expect anything beneficial from it."
"No, my lord," murmured Bethel, his heightened colour fading. His discomfiture passed.
"You say we may be asked to represent the warlord's authority," went on Sarssen calmly, aware the embarrassed flush on the youthful face and the stricken look in the eyes was gone. "It is possible our father has it in mind to send us out as envoys in the future. You should know from your histories, both with the Churchik and in Ortok, that leaders use their sons in that way." Bethel looked reflective.
"Yes, my lord, I know." There was a sudden impish grin that lit his eyes. "Not," he suggested wickedly, "to the northern army?" Sarssen shrugged.
"Life, boy, is one irony after another." Winking at Jane, he drained his tankard. "How is your chest, Beth?"
"I hardly feel it now," confessed Bethel sheepishly, watching the warrior get to his feet. He stretched out his hand. "What do the symbols we bear mean, my lord?"
Sarssen turned to glance down at him, smiled, took the hand, though one eyebrow was raised in surprise. "Have you forgotten so soon, Beth?" Bethel looked baffled.
"My lord, I remember everything mostly, but that seems to elude me. I know you told me weeks ago, but the thoughts about them are muddled."
"On our hairlines are the Churchik symbols for chosen through blood as sons of a ruling warrior lord. Over our hearts are two Vaksh symbols, one is for son and the other represents brother."
Bethel kept hold of the warrior's hand in a way that reminded Sarssen vividly of the child he tried to help in those first days of Bethel's slavery. He kept still.
"I thank you, my lord," Bethel said, as simply now as he'd said the identical words all that time ago. Sarssen stooped and gently ruffled the disordered curls.
"Time, boy, you were seeing to your men. It is not very responsible to sit brooding over imagined woes when others need you, is it?"
"No, my lord," sighed Bethel, conscious of the pressure on his hand before the warrior let it drop.
"And Beth?"
"Yes, my lord?"
Sarssen was striding towards the unsel entrance where he paused, turned back with a slightly malicious smile, and said coolly, "The four-horse chariot races are in an hour, Beth, so you should not be late for those. Your friends would not be amused by your absence. Nor should you be late to serve your master as is your custom." He gave a chuckle as he left.
~~~
Sarssen was proved right. When Bethel was seen about camp he was mercilessly ragged about his boyish, beardless appearance, even Bensar unable to forbear a grin at how very young Bethel looked despite the dark stubble. He was Beth to those who knew him well, beduar to junior warriors and Sorien to all the others.
The warlord treated him no differently either. He merely glanced up upon Bethel's arrival in his pavilion at the usual time and spoke casuall
y.
"So you are come back to me, boy. Why so long?" Bethel hadn't known what to expect so this usual cool appraisal and arctic stare calmed him. It was all predictable.
"I did not feel especially well, my lord," he admitted.
"Then you had best make up for it this evening, flower. I await your service as you see."
"Yes, my lord." Bethel hastened forward to obey, his head bent submissively.
Bethel waited on Lodestok, played his estibe as instructed, bathed the warlord, then waited for the summons to retire. Scrambling under the furs held up for him and feeling the warlord pull him close, Bethel realised nothing had changed. Sarssen was proved quite correct. Bethel repressed a sigh as Lodestok's head touched his.
~~~
Two weeks later, Lodestok gave the order to break camp which meant Bethel had no time to think of anything other than his duties, his men, his own training, and his obedience to the warlord.
The morning after the warlord's command to break camp was given, Bensar stalked unannounced into Bethel's unsel to find the young beduar standing, dressed and quietly plaiting his hair into a queue. For a haskar to stride in so unceremoniously startled Bethel into letting go his hair, feeling as he did how the thick mop quickly unravelled. When he was coldly eyed he stiffened into the stance of deference, his hands falling to his sides.
"Pleased to see you up and about, Sorien," came the harsh voice.
"My lord?"
Jane noticed Bethel didn't react to the name. Bensar's glance took in the wide-eyed, crouching Mishak, the standing, imperturbable Jane, and lastly, the flattened dog growling quietly in its throat.
"What is the dog's name, Sorien?"
"Lute, my lord." Bethel watched with some alarm as Bensar snapped his fingers at Lute.
"Lute!" he said quietly. Lute rose with his ears back, but he came gingerly forward to Bensar's outstretched hand.
"He is a healthy-looking fellow, Beduar," said Bensar, stooping slightly so he could scratch behind Lute's ears. Lute stood still but didn't growl. Bensar straightened. "You are to have more men, Beduar - twenty to be exact. They are a detachment from Tempkar Malik, need shaping, too, so I expect that to be done even as we march. I know you are expected to accompany your father as he rides, Sorien, but I still want those men fit to fight within twenty days. Do you understand?"
