by Katy Winter
"Drink, boy, but only a little." Bethel swallowed, then felt hands lie him back.
"Morjah," he repeated, a little more strongly. A damp cloth sponged his face and neck. "I am so sorry, Morjah, so sorry."
"No, boy. I'm Leon. Your brother spared a northman who, in return for his life, brought your boy taster to me. Is your pain easier now, lad?" Bethel gave a faint sigh.
"Yes," he whispered. "Sarssen?"
"He's alive. Your wound's very deep, lad, but you must do something for me. Will you try?" Bethel's eyes were again unfocused but showed willingness. "Try," said the very quiet voice, "to move the fingers of your right hand." Bethel made the effort but there was no response. The soothing voice went on. "I know you're very weak, lad, and have lost a considerable amount of blood but can you try again? It's important, Bethel."
Bethel sensed the urgency in the request and it made something inside him respond. He tried unsuccessfully a second time. Urged on, he struggled, tears dripping from his chin. They were carefully wiped away. He drifted, then tried again.
"Good lad," said the voice from very far away. "We've saved your arm."
Bethel was lifted again and drank steadily from the goblet before he felt himself drift once more. He opened eyes to hands touching his wound, flinched and gritted his teeth as whoever worked on him did so quickly and skilfully. He didn't utter a sound. He felt bandages tied in place and then was lifted up on cushions that were very comfortable. The nightmare of battle noise that accompanied his uneasy slumber was gone and he realised it was dark, wherever he was, lit only by lanterns turned low. He blinked when the form bending over him straightened and turned up the nearest lantern. Bethel blinked again.
"Is that better, lad?" Bethel recognised the man he'd thought was Morjah.
"I thank you," he whispered. "What time is it?"
"It's almost dawn, lad."
"You are a healer, are you not?"
"Yes, boy, I am."
"You said my brother, Sarssen, sent for you. Where were you?"
"I'm with the northern army, Bethel. You have no healer such as I'm considered to be so he sent for me to save your arm." Leon smiled when he saw the big, purple eyes widen incredulously.
"You are in danger," Bethel mumbled. "Please do not stay." Cool hands clasped his left hand.
"Calm yourself, lad. I'll be gone before dawn." Bethel's eyes closed. "You'll obey your brother and the warlord when they care for you, won't you, lad?"
"Yes."
"Even though it will pain you?"
"Yes."
"Your blood brothers await news of their beloved younger brother, Bethel." The dark velvety eyes opened to show the Adept desperate hope and longing mixed with apprehension and despair. "Yes, lad, Sarehl's the Strategos. He's healed and yearns for your return every day you're away, as he has for long cycles. His love for you is profound. Dase hankers for his younger brother and his twin. You've not been out of his thoughts since Ortok, did you know that?" Leon saw confusion and welling tears. He also saw anguish and distress.
"He has made me his son," Bethel whispered, in a breaking voice. Leon immediately placed his hands on the hot forehead.
"Then you're twice blessed to have so many who love you, lad, aren't you?"
Bethel mumbled something incoherent as he was sent back to sleep. Leon looked thoughtfully at the white face, his hand brushing the young man's shoulder before lifting the limp right hand firmly in his.
"You'll play the estibe again, lad," he said softly, "and the lute will be played too." He looked up at the large warrior standing in the entrance to the pavilion. He rose promptly. "I've done what I can, Sarssen. He's stitched and has finger movement. You know what else he must do to keep the flow through the wound to the fingers, don't you?"
"Yes," responded the warrior calmly. "Beth will be carefully tended." He signalled to the entrance. "It is time you were gone, Leon. It is too dangerous for you to stay."
With a deep sigh and a last lingering look at Bethel, Leon left the pavilion in Sarssen's wake. Bethel slept. Outside, Leon hesitated.
"Sarssen, the loss of your powers causes you distress. You've been left with only very basic sending skills that even a Level One could comprehend but perhaps we should be grateful for that since it enabled you to know Bethel was endangered. He is responding at the same level. Much longer alone and he wouldn't be here today."
"The warlord responded in haste. He says he only recognised the boy, half under the fallen, by his belt." Sarssen paused. "I feel odd emptiness, Leon. I cannot explain what it feels like except to say there is numbness as though part of me is removed. I pray to the gods this is not lasting."
"As do we all, Adept," said Leon gently. "At least we now understand why you haven't responded. Keep your belief alive, Sarssen, brother. It's imperative you do." Sarssen glanced down at the little healer, his eyes warmly affectionate.
"It has helped meeting one of you for the first time, Leon, and knowing you are in support. It will make life easier."
"It may seem an oddity that one who has Churchik blood should be one among us, Sarssen, but I for one am delighted you're an Adept. It bodes well for the future of Ambros, brother." Sarssen gave a low laugh.
"Be on your way, Leon," he advised, his hand going to the older man's shoulder in a gesture of respect. "Your words bring me peace and hope too."
"Sarssen," said Leon softly, before he slipped from view like a shadow, leaving the warrior standing and staring at nothing in particular.
~~~
The warlord sat very quietly, his expression deeply thoughtful and a goblet held casually in one hand. Every so often his eyes went to the still figure on his bed, his brows raised if he heard a faint sigh or a moan. When the figure moved restlessly, Lodestok placed his goblet on the table by the bed and picked up a cup into which he poured a measure of liquid.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and, taking Bethel's left hand in his, said in his cool, authoritative tone, "You are not alone, boy. I will not leave you."
Slightly feverish eyes looked up into the warlord's, reminding him vividly of the time one very young and frightened slave boy was poisoned so many cycles before. A grim little smile touched the hardness of the warlord's mouth. He ran his free hand across the very hot forehead and cheeks. At that, the purple eyes cleared a little. Lodestok saw recognition touch them.
"My lord," muttered Bethel, the hand held in Lodestok's gripping convulsively. Carefully, the warlord lifted Bethel against him, the cup held to white lips.
"Drink, boy," he commanded. The pale blue eyes held the purple ones as Bethel obediently opened his mouth, shuddering when he tasted the dose. "And again, son." Bethel swallowed, twice.
His eyes not wavering from the warlord's he asked hesitantly,
"Who saved me, my lord?" He saw an odd expression cross his master's face, one he'd never seen before. He blinked.
"I did, boy," came the slow answer, after a very long pause.
Bethel blinked again as he tried to study the impassive face so close to his own. His mind refused to take in what it heard. He tried to re-focus because he thought he saw a smile in blue eyes watching him. He heard the softly spoken words.
"I accepted you as my son, Sorien. Never forget that." The hand holding Bethel's was firm and reassuring.
"I thank you, Father," murmured Bethel, his mind drifting as the drugged wine began to take effect. The voice answering him came from a distance.
"You lost some of your hair, boy, but that is a minor thing. You will now rest for me, will you not?"
The cool voice was deeply calming and familiar. Hearing it, Bethel's grip on Lodestok's hand relaxed. His eyes closed.
"Father," he mumbled sleepily. "Father."
Lodestok stayed beside Bethel for some time, his expression as he stared down inscrutable, before he quietly rose and went back to his chair, raising his goblet and drinking deeply. The sounds of an army licking its wounds reached him but he didn't respond to it.
> ~~~
It was a very tense quartet that either sat or stood in the Marshal's pavilion in the very early hours of the morning. Though the battle was over there was no silence in the northern camp, the sounds of the wounded, the dying and the bereft filling the cool spring air. There was constant movement, too, at odds with the stillness of those in the pavilion.
His head buried in his hands, Ongwin sat hunched. Ensore, thoughtful as always, his grey eyes fixed on Ongwin, stood beside the older man with his hand firmly on the bowed shoulders. Sarehl sat quietly, a hand unconsciously stroking his scar, then his beard, and his dark eyes occasionally flickered towards Ensore and Ongwin with unspoken anxiety in their depths. Coming to a standstill from striding restlessly about was Daxel, a gamut of emotions crossing his face reflecting his inability to be still.
All heads jerked as one towards the light step they heard outside the pavilion, painful intensity in each pair of eyes that met Leon's as he stepped tiredly across the threshold. He pulled up short, smiled wearily and held up a hand to forestall any questions.
"He'll recover," he said quietly, his eyes going to Ongwin. The older man slumped backwards with an inarticulate cry of relief. Ensore's hand tightened on his mentor's shoulder.
"This is good news, healer," he said gravely. "We thank you."
Leon went forward to a chair, sank into it and rubbed his beard while he eased himself to be more comfortable. With a smile of thanks, he took a full goblet from Daxel and drank unhurriedly.
"Where's Kaleb?" he asked. Ensore's eyebrows went up.
"He's with the wounded, healer. Do you wish to see him?" Aware of eyes watching him, Leon shook his head.
"I should've realised he'd not be here. I'll join him shortly. The boy will live, Strategos. His upper arm was almost sliced through but has been saved. You'll be relieved to know he could move his fingers by the time I left." Leon glanced at Sarehl. "Your younger brother will play the lute again one day." Sarehl stared hard at the healer, uncertainty in his expression.
"You're sure of this?" Leon drank deeply several times.
"Quite sure," he assured Sarehl. "The wound is clean. You can be sure his brother will keep the boy quiet and still until the wound seals properly. The man's no stranger to the healing arts." He noticed the flinches Daxel and Sarehl gave simultaneously and added kindly, "The boy speaks of the warrior as a brother, Strategos. I believe the warrior's treated Bethel very well."
Ensore thought Sarehl's eyes looked sad and haunted. Daxel had turned his back, his shoulders rigid and he stared out to darkness.
"Sarehl," said the Marshal gently, crossing to his friend. "The boy's been gone ten cycles. It was inevitable he'd have to develop a relationship or two if he was to survive." He handed Sarehl a goblet then looked across at Daxel. "Lad, he won't have forgotten any of you. He's too like his brothers to do that."
"He's a brave boy that one," said Leon contemplatively. "He was even concerned for my safety in the midst of his pain." He was quiet a moment, then looked directly at Sarehl. "Even badly injured he's a very lovely-looking boy, isn't he?" Sarehl's smile went slightly awry.
"He was a quite beautiful child, healer."
"Yes," agreed Leon, absently drinking. "He must've been."
"And this Sarssen we've heard of," said Ensore. "Is he uninjured?"
"As you'd expect, Marshal. He has many cuts and scratches but was relatively unscathed. He may be Churchik but he's most unlike."
"Does he look Churchik?"
"It was night," said Leon evasively. "He's a very big man, blond and heavily bejewelled as warriors are wont to be."
"And Bethel?" asked Daxel, as if the question was wrung from him.
"The boy's heavily and richly ornamented," answered Leon, quite happy to give this information. "He wears ear-rings, rings in profusion and he wore a necklet that was most ornate and a rich collared necklace. He also wears a blue stone in his forehead, as does Sarssen."
"Why would he wear a stone in his forehead?" queried Sarehl, obviously baffled. Leon looked uncomfortable under Ensore's penetrating stare.
"The warlord calls Sarssen Losaren and -." Leon paused, aware of intense dark eyes watching him. Sarehl nodded sharply and Daxel swung round, his black eyes alert and keen. Leon shrugged. "He calls the boy, your brother, Sorien. I believe from what I've been briefly told by Sarssen it was part of a Churchik ritual undergone by both Sarssen and Bethel when they were formally adopted as Lodestok's sons. They carry the blue Valshika stone that symbolises the warlord's heirs. They are now what Churchik call Sarats."
Leon saw Sarehl's eyes close over anguish, and saw outrage, bitter anger and denial in Daxel's. Ensore spoke quietly into the stunned silence.
"Then that says much for both Sarssen and Bethel, doesn't it?"
"No!" burst out Daxel. "Gods, no! How could Bethel accept that from one such as Lodestok? He's no longer our brother!" He got such a look from Ensore that he nearly shrivelled where he stood. Ensore's tone was blighting.
"When you're able to think clearly and constructively, lad, you may speak again but not before." Daxel flushed vividly in the half-light, then, hunching an offended shoulder turned defensively away.
Without opening his eyes, Sarehl asked quietly, a distinct quiver to his voice,
"Does Bethel acknowledge the warlord as his father, healer?" Leon thought back to his time with Bethel and spoke hesitantly.
"Strategos, when I told the boy you were healed, I saw such hope yet despair in that lad's eyes. His being seemed to awaken when I said your name and spoke of you both, a lightness to the expression if you will. I told him Dase cared for him and had thought about his younger brother for cycles and I told him what you both feel for him. He understood that." He heard a choked sound from Daxel behind him. "But when I asked him if he wanted to tell you anything all I got from him was confusion and deep distress. His only words were few." Sarehl's eyes opened fully and met the healer's.
"And, healer?"
"He has made me his son."
Ensore was sitting next to Ongwin who'd been listening, a silent spectator who now raised his head and spoke sombrely.
"The lad expects you to reject him, Sarehl, doesn't he? Dase's reaction would be what he'd assume would be yours. Note the words Bethel used – he has made me his son, not I am his son."
"Gods," muttered Daxel, turning back to look across at Ensore shamefacedly. Sarehl was looking at Ongwin, startled.
"How could he think that?" he asked, in a voice sharp with pain. Ongwin spoke again in a voice of frustration.
"Do you believe that lad had any choice, Sarehl? Has he ever had a choice - for the love of the gods, man, of being mated, made a warrior, made a son, made to fight? The boy's moulded quite differently. He's a musician." There was a strong note of exasperation in the well-modulated voice. "To survive, Bethel's had to become what he knows you'll despise and that includes being made a son and still, presumably, being taken as the warlord's lover every night. I wonder the lad had the courage to say anything at all. Frankly, I honour him and I hope one day to be able to meet that boy and tell him so." There was another very long silence broken by Ensore's deep chuckle.
"Ongwin," he said admiringly. "You're a treasure. Where would we be if we didn't have you to put our thoughts into proper perspective?" He smiled across at Ongwin. "He's exactly right, Sarehl. No wonder the lad was confused and distressed."
"I'm sorry," mumbled Daxel, his flush deepening again. Ensore held out his hand and Daxel crossed the pavilion to take it.
"Be easy, lad," said Ensore gently. "It's been a terrible day and all this has come on top of much pain and grief. I'd like you to seek Ahliah, lad, because he'll have need of you. He's been there for you in your sadness and despondency, now you must be there for his. He was close to Methan and now has no older brother. Speak to Sarehl before you go." The Marshal watched the long figure cross to Sarehl and speak for several minutes, before turning and leaving the pavilion.
"It's
hit that lad hard," observed Ongwin.
"Aye," said Ensore a little sadly. He yawned deeply. "He has news that Bethel's alive but none about one who haunts his every waking moment." He saw how silent and pensive Sarehl had become. "Is there anything else that you can tell us, healer? You must be tired and there is much still to be done before sunrise."
"Yes," said Leon, aware of dark eyes watching him again. "The lad answers to acedar and Sarssen's a haskar. They were addressed as such by an elite warrior who came into the pavilion early in the evening." Ongwin whistled.
"Well!' he grinned. Sarehl's eyes were questioning.
"Ens, you know what that means, don't you?"
"Yes," murmured Ensore, sitting up very straight with eyebrows hitched. He frowned. "Now which is which? Does beduar come before or after acedar?"
"I think," offered Ongwin, "that acedar is senior to beduar, but less than tempkar."
"Where does that leave Bethel?" asked Sarehl, deep in thought.
"Bluntly, my friend," came the Marshal's reply, "Bethel's two ranks from the top. Now I wonder how he came by that? Not even Lodestok's chosen sons would achieve that kind of rank and status in Churchik military hierarchy without achieving something. Sarssen's ascendancy I can comprehend, but Bethel's, as a stranger and a Samar in such a society? And like Sarssen, still a slave? It's almost unbelievable."
"Our little brother's quite unusual, Ens, isn't he? said Sarehl, with something of a rueful smile touching his eyes.
"Very," said Ensore, mulling over this new piece of information. Leon again glanced fleetingly at Sarehl.
"The warlord cares profoundly for the lad. I thought, Strategos, you'd wish to know the boy is loved and not just by the warlord either. Sarssen's emotions for his little brother run deep. Bethel also has a manservant called Jane who'd kill for him and there's a slave named Mishak who reveres his young master. I suspect the warlord's profound feelings for his younger son are recently acknowledged but there's no doubt what Bethel means to him. The man's love is deep and runs close to the surface. You should also know that it's he who saved Bethel at considerable risk to himself after Sarssen told him the lad was hurt." Sarehl stared reflectively at the healer, his voice when he spoke barely shaking.
"I'm glad the boy's loved, healer. He deserves to be and that he is means much to me. I've thought of him alone and friendless in an alien society for so long. Thank you for all you've done for him."
