by Katy Winter
"Oh yes, Maren, Brue doesn't lack charm," he agreed.
"He'd not satisfactorily done work assigned to him, he was offhand about it and the officer concerned thought the boy needed a timely reminder. I gave him one, Sarehl."
Sarehl gave a shout of laughter that made his younger brothers turn to stare at him, their eyes curious. Sarehl turned to face Brue, asking in an amused voice,
"Has Maren a strong hand, little fellow?"
Brue's colour deepened. He glanced across, slightly embarrassed, at the Captain, admiration, fondness and respect in the look he gave the older man who winked at him.
"That was long ago," he replied defensively. His gaze, plainly adoring, rested on Sarehl. He rubbed his hand across his chin. "And no, I don't want another - reminder, was it, sir, that you called it?"
Maren looked across at the engagingly rueful grin, his smile broadening. Sarehl noticed the man's eyes crinkled up at the corners when he smiled.
"Aye, lad, it was." He turned again to Sarehl, saying on a more sober note. "He'd been getting into more and more minor and silly scrapes, Sarehl, that were more nuisance value than anything else and earned the boy a few cuffs from my officers. The lad never went beyond the line but he pushed it. He was also influencing the other boys in the squad in a way that concerned me. Twice I dressed him down, but the lad's so full of spirit he'd be in fine fettle the next day and behaved as if yesterday hadn't been. I felt it was time he learned a painful lesson." He met Sarehl's amused look.
"It sounds as if you waited a long time to give him one," Sarehl murmured almost provocatively, his dark eyes warm and understanding. "We had our work cut out for us with that lad." Maren's blue eyes began to twinkle responsively though his tone was serious.
"I did whip him, Sarehl, hard," he admitted. "I only had to thrash my own boys so once and they never tried me again."
Sarehl began to laugh again, saying softly, "Poor Brue." The Captain fiddled with the reins.
"I meant to hurt the lad and I did. It's the only time, other than when you left the lad in our care, that I've seen Brue cry. It almost made me stop then and there but it seemed half-measures wouldn't be effective. I was extremely thorough."
"I told him you weren't a man to trifle with," said Sarehl quietly. Maren looked startled.
"Did you?" he asked in surprise. "When was that?"
"The first time he met you, Maren. I said I wouldn't run counter to you and I wouldn't." Maren actually grinned.
"I thought the same about you, Strategos." Sarehl blinked, then he chuckled. "Brue was a sorry lad when I sent him to bed that evening. When Ceda went up to see why he'd not come down to supper she took me to task over him I can tell you. And Ceda isn't a woman one wants to anger. I thought I'd be sent to bed supper-less too."
"And did all this have the desired effect?" enquired Sarehl, his glance back at his brother swift.
"Oh yes," said Maren carelessly, his eyes also resting on Brue. "The boy hasn't stepped out of line once." He added very gently, "He won't either. That boy's bright and his lesson's been well learned."
"Then," said Sarehl appreciatively, "you've done what none of us could bring ourselves to do. I'm deeply grateful to you, Captain. You're an excellent father model."
Maren just laughed again, disclaimed, and changed the subject to what he hoped to achieve with Brue over the next season or two. Sarehl just listened, making comments where appropriate.
He knew Kalor was right to insist Brue was placed with someone who could both train and control him. Maren was a kindly individual. No one could've done more for Brue than this man, who had a highly developed sense of humour, was tolerant of the young and cared very much for the copper-headed boy who lived with him. That Maren was finally forced to drastically chastise Brue suggested to Sarehl that the Captain's tolerance had indeed been stretched a very long way. Sarehl had been so preoccupied for weeks he'd had little time to think of or discuss his youngest brother, so now, walking quietly in the sun, he relished the opportunity to do so. Other cares faded from his mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
After a long pause, the Marshal moved the army on until they were deep in Elban land. It was lush country that spread out to the west from them, Gnosti land far distant beyond it. Beyond the Elban princedoms lay the Shadowlands. To the southwest were the shallow plains that led directly to the desert.
Sarehl and Ensore knew the southern army would pursue them at their leisure, both hoping that the northern army wasn't ultimately pushed too far south towards land occupied by the Wildwind tribes. North of where they were camped ran a narrow neck of land between Elba and Kyaran that was the entrance to the Shadowlands. Sarehl had no wish to enter that either.
His memories of learning in Ortok, plus his discussions with Bene who'd spoken only a little of the people to the north and west, had imbued in him a profound respect for such folk. Their sovereignty was inviolate. He'd soon realise that to wilfully rouse either peoples was unwise.
What he hoped the northern army could do was split the southern army down the middle so the northerners could break through, en masse, to head back east. He knew Lodestok would counter any such attempt and spent nights thinking of alternatives to thwart moves he was sure the warlord would make.
Sarehl saw no future for the army in the north. The only way forward, other than back where they came from, was into the desert of the Wildwind tribes that would take them south into unknown, and, ultimately, unfamiliar southern lands. That wasn't a pleasant prospect. Few knew of the desert people, the only known reports being of hostile jewelled men who attacked strangers on sight. These thoughts fermented in Sarehl's brain as the army moved to the next battleground that he knew would resolve the battles, one way or the other. He instinctively knew that the Elban battle would be decisive. He couldn't know of Choja's long talk with Autoc, nor that the Wildwinds were now fully massed on the northernmost reaches of the desert not that far from where Gnosti would finally muster.
Sarehl just prayed the force Lodestok sent west some time before didn't return with a hostile army, in support, from the western people. Such would camp to the south and west of the northerners and would tax Sarehl's ingenuity to the utmost. It was a gamble he had to take.
~~~
With the approach of mid-autumn so, too, came two strangers, one very dark young man with long, black curly hair, tall and slender, though not as tall as many Samars or Lentens of like colouring. He'd still look Eli in the eye. He had very large serious, violet eyes fringed by thick curling eyelashes and was quite effeminate in his own way. The Churchik would've described him as a very pretty and appealing young man, not unlike Bethel in appearance though lacking his extreme height. The face was innocent of a beard. He wouldn't have been more than twenty cycles, if that.
Accompanying him was a taller man, considerably maturer, well built on the lines of an athlete, broad-shouldered and with musculature that suggested strength. While his hair was dusky, it was streaked with coppery gold, a colour that matched his most unusual eyes. The reddish gold beard was generously flecked with silver, the eyebrows black, the lips as curving and sensual as Bethel's, and the man rode easily. An air of authority clung naturally to him.
They rode into the camp unchallenged and unobtrusively, quietly asking for direction to the Strategos' pavilion. At the cluster of pavilions set back in a bellwood grove, they drew up their horses, dismounted, and stood still together conversing. They didn't bother to tether the horses, merely turning from them and walking directly to the nearest pavilion.
Sarehl was stooped over a table, his elbows rested on the edge as he gazed abstractedly at an assortment of maps and plans he'd spread about him. His back to the entrance, he seemed engrossed. He didn't see the strangers waiting, one impassively, the other trembling, the violet eyes deeply wistful.
Suddenly conscious of not being alone Sarehl straightened, looked over his shoulder and spun round surprised, his gaze going to the slender figure who stared at him. The light wasn't espe
cially good so Sarehl had to strain to see.
He made no effort to move but said in his courteous deep voice,
"Are you looking for me?" The older man stepped forward, his voice rich and mellow.
"Are you Sarehl, eldest born of Alfar?" Sarehl's eyes narrowed in some alarm.
"Yes I am, but you have the advantage of me."
A smile came to the stranger's eyes as he replied, "I guess, young man, I do. My name's Nikos, which I hope will suffice." He drew Chlorien forward. "This is my mate, Chlorien, mother of my children. I believe she's your sister, who once answered to the name of Myme Chlo."
Disbelieving that what he heard could be true, Sarehl let a hand creep to his mouth as it did when he was a child and a bewildered look came to the dark eyes. He stared at the slight figure, seeing that indeed this boy was as dark-haired as himself but he couldn't see the eyes that would confirm for him who this pretty boy really was. He drew closer, suffering an awful wrench when he did. This youth could've been Bethel.
Chlorien moved closer to her mate as if for reassurance. Nikos, Sarehl belatedly noticed, was calm and had a distinct, but unusually compelling, aura of power. Sarehl let that pass, his hands out and welcome shining in eyes that were doubtful only moments before. He was anxious to dispel any withdrawal Chlorien may sense. As he neared the wistful standing figure, Sarehl looked down into eyes of the little girl he loved from so many cycles before. The apprehension in her expression hurt him.
"Myme Chlo," he managed to whisper into her hair as he gathered her in, pulled her close and clasped her fiercely. "Our little Myme Chlo."
Then his voice broke and he couldn't speak. Chlorien clung to him. After some moments, as tears poured down her cheeks, she struggled in her brother's arms until he loosened his grip and she could throw her arms about his neck. He half-lifted her from the ground, his lips meeting hers.
When Sarehl raised his head, he glanced across at Nikos who remained placidly standing a little in from the entrance, his eyes going from brother to sister. It was then Sarehl smiled, his eyelashes blinking away sudden rushes of tears. He coughed to clear his throat. Gently he pushed Chlorien to the ground, standing her back from him so he had a better view of her.
"You're Mam reborn," he murmured, his eyes taking in the thick mass of jet curls and the shape of the face. "Were she alive, Myme Chlo, the one could be the other."
"Am I so changed?" whispered Chlorien, brushing ineffectually at tears.
"Not so much," responded Sarehl, his arm going about her again. "Just a maturer girl from the sister-child I remember. And you're dressed as a boy."
"You haven't changed, Sar."
"Older, little sister, wiser, sadder, and you ignore the scar and the limp."
"I'd know you anywhere," whispered Chlorien. She felt the shrug and rose on tiptoe to trace the scar with her finger. "Somehow the scar's a part of you, Sar-da, and suits you as you are now." Her voice was as shaken as Sarehl knew his was, and her eyes were as large and dark as Bethel's. The childish name for him made him shake his head and his voice became suspended by resurging tears. "Am I so like Bethel?"
"Dressed like that, yes." Sarehl managed with difficulty to control overwhelming emotions. Again he coughed.
"I don't care about a limp, Sar-da. It's just being with you again. Sar! Sar!"
Chlorien buried her head against his chest and wept, her hands gripping his jerkin as though she was terrified to let him go. Absently, Sarehl repeated the gesture that calmed a child long ago, his free hand running across the young head in comfort.
"Chlo," he said comfortingly. "Chlo, child, you're welcome here with your mate."
When Chlorien refused to release him he guided her to a chair, sat himself, and pulled her onto his lap so she could put her arms about his neck again. He felt her tremble. He nodded at a chair beside them for Nikos who walked forward in a leisurely way and made himself comfortable. No one spoke in a pavilion laden with emotion.
It was Chlorien who made the first move. She slithered from Sarehl's lap and sank to the ground at his feet, her head rested against his knees and her head tilted back so she could study the young man who'd been a father to her throughout her childhood, as was the scholar. Sarehl just continued to stroke the curls that bounced under his hand as he remembered they always had. All the little ones had unruly crops, he thought with a sad little smile of recollection, especially Lute who hated having his hair brushed.
"You're welcome, Myme Chlo. You can never know how much you've been missed or how anxious we've been about you for cycles." Chlorien's head went down and her voice shook.
"Even though I'm who I am, Sar-da?" Sarehl's touch was light, oddly familiar after so long and deeply reassuring.
"Even more so, Myme Chlo." Chlorien dared to look up into the face of the man who'd nurtured her.
"You know about me, don't you?" she whispered, distress flaring in the lovely eyes. "Does Dase?" Sarehl nodded.
"Aye, child, I know, though finding out was a tortuous experience. It's only now that so much has become clear to me. And no, Dase doesn't know, Myme Chlo, because we feel he has enough to handle with Lute. Dase suffers in ways inexplicable to most people." Chlorien continued to stare up.
"What don't you know, Sar?"
"Much," answered Sarehl, on a rueful grin that made Chlorien push harder against him. "Bene says you can speak for yourself, though I've asked him about you often enough."
"So he's here?" asked Chlorien.
"He's here," confirmed Sarehl. "And you, child, you're a mother, are you?"
"Yes," came the soft reply, Chlorien's eyes lighting luminously. "A boy and a girl, Sar, but they aren't here with us." She hesitated. "One day, perhaps, you'll meet them. They're very like their father in most ways, but I'm happy it's so."
"Then all's well, little sister," murmured Sarehl.
His eyes went fleetingly to the still man ensconced beside him who made no effort to speak. He sensed Chlorien wished just to be with him, so he sat back and relaxed, the girl at his feet the child from Ortok. It seemed like a strange and unreal dream.
It was Nikos who made the next move. Chlorien was motionless when her mate quietly extended his hand across to Sarehl who grasped it willingly, his eyes meeting Nikos' full. In those odd coppery eyes he read a love for Chlorien, so profound it made him dizzy. Sarehl was suddenly and acutely aware this man was part of him but in the most unthreatening way imaginable, the man sensing and responding fully, intuitively and imaginatively, to every emotion that touched Sarehl.
Sarehl hadn't believed true empathy between beings was possible. Sitting and staring fascinated at Nikos he knew that simply wasn't true. He felt suspended in time until their eyes broke contact. Sarehl blinked rapidly, wondering if what he'd felt had happened. The gentle smile he encountered as he let go Nikos' hand confirmed for him that it had. He gave a shaky smile, calmly reciprocated, before Nikos leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, a smile curling the sensual mouth.
~~~
It was a highly charged few moments when Chlorien finally met the man who talked to her from the time of her conception. He followed Daxel, whose welcome warmed, but overwhelmed, Chlorien.
Daxel stood staring at the younger sister dressed as a boy, his reaction delightfully predictable as he strode forward and swept her off her feet. He held her close without uttering a word then set her on the ground so he could push her back from him, his eyes moist and lips quivering. He looked away from her for a few moments while he collected himself, then turned to face her, his eyes clear and bright.
"Such a pretty boy you make," he teased her cheerfully. "You were always the wickedest romp, Chlo, though your looks can't rival Bethel's, can they? Whose could?"
Since Daxel teased her unmercifully as a child, this approach broke the ice and she went back to her very tall, broad-shouldered brother with a cry of pleasure and relief. His long arms wrapped round her protectively again.
"No, he's unbelievably pretty," sh
e whispered shaken and nearly in tears. "Dase, you're so big and you look so like Sar." Daxel shrugged.
"So everyone says, Chlo. Where've you been? You were always such a minx. And we've worried about you for so long, it's almost unbelievable to see you again. Chlo!" Daxel swept Chlorien up against him again, kissed her roughly, then, profoundly shaken himself, had to wipe away another flood of tears from his sister's face.
"Dase, Dase. It seems like a dream to see you, too."
"Come with me," suggested Daxel gently.
He took her by the hand and they left the pavilion. When they returned, Chlorien was smiling through tears up at her brother, but Daxel was very quiet, his expression sombre and the black eyes very sad. Sarehl knew much was touched on and they'd spoken of Luton. He knew the signs on his brother and recognised renewed grief. He had to turn hastily away.
Bene didn't embrace Chlorien at first. He just stood at some distance, his penetrating eyes flickering over her from her head to her toes before he slowly approached. He placed a hand under the pointed chin and tilted her head. Wise violet eyes met her apprehensive ones. Seeing them thus, Sarehl saw the eye colour was identical. He gave a faint smile.
At the moment their eyes met Chlorien's diffidence dissolved. She was swept into a meld that expressed Bene's feelings for her far more profoundly than words could, the sense of enveloping warmth touching every part of her. Then she was released.
"Sire," she murmured, her knees almost buckling at the mage's welcome.
"Aye, boy," Bene said affectionately. "Autoc's done very well by you, child, hasn't he?"
"Father means much to me," she responded in a muted voice.
"Aye, child, your father. It's good that's so. It'll assist you in cycles to come, though you can't comprehend that yet, nor should you." Bene took his hand from her chin and rested it on her head. "And are you ready, little Chlorien?" Chlorien's nod was definite.
"Yes, Sire," she answered, without hesitation.
"The faith of the young," sighed Bene to himself.
He held out his arms and Chlorien went to him, to be held in a powerful embrace at odds with the physical frailty of such an old man. Over her head the mage glanced across at Nikos, understanding in his saddened expression.
