by Katy Winter
~~~
It was on one of the coldest days so far endured that Bethel, curtly sent by Correc to oversee the constant and almost pointless clearing of the camp of snowdrifts, accidentally knocked a foot soldier who manfully shovelled heavy loads from the entrance to one set of latrines. Bethel slipped sideways, crashed into the soldier and sprawled full out in the snow.
Usually, warrior fury would result in the soldier feeling the quick end of a whip. Not with Bethel. The humour of the situation striking him he lay still in the snow, his mouth open to invite in the heavily falling flakes. He laughed, the sound mellow and brimful of amusement, his eyes brightened and he held up his hand to the soldier for assistance.
His sparkling and quite irresistible eyes met the soldier's whose were vivid green, lighter than the desert folk, but surprisingly like Sarssen's. They were as laughing as Bethel's. A large and strong hand gripped the long slender one and pulled. Bethel found himself next to a broad-shouldered, very tall man who grinned at him. Bethel dusted himself down.
"I thank you," he began, noticing the long appraising look he got. He tilted his head quizzically. "Do I know you?" he asked.
"You're very like someone I met cycles ago, lad, but he wasn't a happy boy as you seem to be. And who are you, young one?" The question wasn't necessary, but the soldier asked it all the same.
"I am an acedar, younger son of the warlord, known as Sorien."
"You have no southern looks, lad." When the soldier continued to consider him, Bethel gave a half-smile.
"No," he conceded. He added simply, "I prefer to be called Beth."
"Certainly," agreed the stranger. "That name suits you where the other doesn't. Funny how names either go with a person or they don't. I answer to Oric."
"I am sorry I knocked you," apologised Bethel, picking up a shovel from the ground that had become well-nigh buried under a mound of snow. "Perhaps I can help you, friend. One person will not make much impression on this snow, will he?" He got a measured look that was also surprised.
"Aye, lad, if you wish," Oric replied, beginning vigorously to dig.
"No one in their right mind," remarked Bethel conversationally, "would wish to do this, let alone be in this godforsaken place, now would they?" Tossing a shovelful of snow, Oric gave a chuckle.
"So why are you here then, Beth?" he enquired politely.
Bethel glanced across at the man, startled, then opened his mouth to poke out his tongue. He pointed to it and then to the very faint, indiscernible scar across his cheek.
"I am the warlord's slave," he responded quietly, beginning to shovel again.
"And a warrior and a son," Oric murmured, digging harder.
"Some of us have no choices," grunted Bethel, as he heaved a heavy load. "Gods this stuff is so heavy! It is an odd thing when it falls so lightly."
"Is that why you said your name was Sorien?"
"Yes," agreed Bethel. "As my lord's son I answer to Sorien, a Churchik and Vaksh son. As me, I am Beth."
As if he didn't know, the stranger asked casually, "And where do you hail from, young Vaksh son?"
"Ortok," answered Bethel, gritting his teeth against the penetrating cold. Oric stooped again and spoke so quietly, Bethel didn't hear.
"The resemblance is strong." He took two sideways steps, then buried his shovel under the snow. Bethel dug in unison with him. "That," remarked, Oric, "is one of the Samar states isn't it?" Bethel paused, his eyes alert and interested.
"Yes," he said eagerly. "Do you know them?" Oric shook his head.
"Not well, lad, no. It was only a passing journey that took me through there, though I remember I stopped off in Ortok for a fleeting time. That was long ago. You'd only have been a very tiny babe." Bethel rubbed the tip of his nose thoughtfully.
"My father was Alfar," he offered. "He was a scholar." Oric seemed to consider, then shook his head again.
"No memory of that, but then, I was after other quarry." He looked reflectively at Bethel. "And you were taken for a slave then, is that right?"
"Yes," sighed Bethel, bending again. He didn't see Oric smile very gently at him.
"As you are such a very pretty young man I suppose it was inevitable the warlord would find you. That's how it came about you're his slave?" When he answered, Bethel's smile was noticeably strained.
"I was taken from a slave pen directly to him. I have been with him ever since."
"How old were you, lad?"
"Not quite eleven cycles."
"Life has been cruel for you, child, hasn't it?" observed the soldier in his placid way. Bethel's smile was gone. He didn't reply. He and the man dug vigorously for a while, their energies devoted to moving snow, before they had to rest. "And now, lad, you supervise us, don't you?" Bethel leaned breathlessly on his shovel, his big eyes suddenly profoundly wistful.
"Yes," he murmured, in a detached way.
"And," asked Oric calmly, "if you could escape, would you?"
"I am guarded, though loosely," Bethel explained. "Any attempt by me to do that would result in a punishment I dare not contemplate." He gave a shiver.
"But if you could escape, lad, what then?" Oric's green eyes met considerably startled purple ones as Bethel grappled with the question. He stood still, the flakes turning his black curls white. Oric thought the young man's eyes looked huge and burning in the pale face.
"Where could I go?" mumbled Bethel. "I belong nowhere." There was so much haunting sadness in the young man's voice, Oric had to refrain from putting out a hand to give him a touch of comfort.
"You could seek your family, young one, couldn't you?" Bethel had started digging again.
"One is here, but I cannot see or touch him, anymore than I can communicate with others who were my family. I am the warlord's son." Bethel's voice sounded tired. "The northern army would execute me. My own people will despise me for what I have become to the warlord and reject me."
"As you said," argued the soldier gently, "you had no choices."
"Many wouldn't see it that way," murmured Bethel. "People would only see me as one who is willingly taken to the warlord's bed because I do not resist. Had I done so, I would be dead."
"Perhaps they'd not all be so rough on you, lad. You're very hard on yourself."
"I hope you are right, Oric, because Ortok and the Samar States are my birthplace where I wish to return. It is the place that moulded, shaped and made me what I am, though it no longer exists..." He paused. "I do not think I will ever be permitted my freedom. I have no illusions," came the mumbled reply.
"No, lad, those haven't been permitted you," came the kindly, deep voice. Digging went on for a longer spell until Bethel sighed, his arms aching with the cold. He stamped his feet. He listened courteously as the soldier spoke. "If your master, the warlord, was injured, would you help him?"
Bethel stopped in mid-heave, his mouth open with surprise. He held the shovel delicately balanced, then let it fall back to the ground. He barely considered his answer.
"He gave me life," he stammered. "He has honoured me and made me a bard. He saved my life, too." He hesitated, his colour heightened. "I owe him his life."
"You're an unusual boy," commented Oric, his glance at Bethel discerning and sympathetic. "Even though I can tell you've been terrorised and brutally abused, you wouldn't turn on your tormentor? That's not a common reaction for one who's been caused continued pain and anguish, young Vaksh-Samar."
Bethel didn't answer, his mind in such turmoil he felt pounding in his head. He'd never considered his emotions in relation to Lodestok, always merely accepting his inferior status as a slave, subjugated and submissive, so the thought that a day could come when he might conceivably be in a position to affect his master came as a deep shock. He was so involved with his own seething thoughts, he didn't see the respectful look cast him by the green-eyed man. When Bethel did speak again, he was rather withdrawn.
"I think I should see how others are coping," he said quietly with some constraint, hi
s shovel placed on the ground. He added, "If there is anything I can do, as the warlord's son, that will make your life easier, friend, you know where to find me. Just ask the men for Beth."
"Thank you, young one," responded Oric. An unexpected grin lit the strained young face as Bethel put out his hand.
"I will try not to crash into you next time we meet," he promised. A smile in his eyes, Oric briefly grasped the hand.
"I'll hold you to that, young Beth," he replied, his expression thoughtful as he watched the young man turn and tread slowly through the mush.
As winter progressed, Bethel saw Oric several times, the soldier suddenly where Bethel was, when before that there'd been no sign of the man. Bethel was happy to stop and talk. Though he said little of his cycles with the warlord Oric gleaned far more than Bethel would've thought possible, because he always glossed over the fear and physical pain as if the memory was simply too poignant and hurtful.
Though Jane knew and loved the young man and it was reciprocated, it was only to Sarssen that Bethel fully opened and he wasn't even aware of doing so. Sarssen knew, only too well, that as soon as Bethel's consciousness knew, Bethel would close irreparably in on himself. That was another cause of anxiety for Sarssen.
After his fourth meeting with Oric, Bethel saw the man at a distance the next day, Oric staring intently at the hunched figure of Luton who approached, the young apprentice preoccupied. He had to swerve from a collision with the large man. Curious, Bethel watched.
He saw the big man reach out to Luton who just stood quite still, head bent and hands hanging limply by his side. Then suddenly Bethel saw the head jerk up, his brother's lips move rapidly and his hands flutter in odd little gestures that faltered, before Luton became motionless again. Fascinated, Bethel just stood. He saw Oric place his hand on his brother's head before Luton stumbled forward, then turned and actually ran back into his unsel. Bethel took a step, then blinked because there was no sign of Oric. Wearily, Bethel rubbed his eyes and turned away. He didn't see Oric again.
~~~
As bleak day succeeded bitter day Lodestok spent an ever-increasing amount of time with his Council and all the haskars, his pavilion busy with warriors coming and going, his desks and tables, that were Bethel's responsibility for being kept immaculately ordered, overflowing with maps. Malekim tended to see less of the warlord, which relieved Bethel enormously.
Luton still made no effort to seek out his brother, Bethel's only sight of him showing a cold, gaunt face atop a body that shivered as ceaselessly and as miserably as he did. Kher worried endlessly about Luton, his instructions to his men curt and pointed. Extra cloaks were carried into Luton's unsel, the young man staring vaguely at them before turning back to his work. Kher found him there one day, the young body shaking so pitiably with the cold Luton couldn't stop his teeth from chattering.
"Luton," Kher began calmly. Luton swung round, his face so pinched and white, Kher drew in his breath. "You will die, boy, if you stay as cold as this." He glanced across at the mattress before giving an exasperated sigh. "Boy, those cloaks have been brought for you to wear."
"I am unaware of the cold," returned Luton.
"Perhaps," said Kher, crossing to the young man and putting his hand on Luton's shoulder. He was surprised to feel a trembling hand come to rest on his. "I would ask you to use these, boy."
"Very well," came the submissive reply. He watched as Kher crossed the ground, returning with the cloaks draped over an arm. Carefully the haskar wound them round the thin figure, before his hand came to rest on the dark curly head.
"There are others there for you at night, boy, though you will say you need no sleep and rest matters little to you. Your body needs rest, Luton, whether your master says it does or not. I ask that you lie upon that mattress tonight, kept warm under the additional furs."
"I will do as you ask," said Luton. Kher nodded down at him.
"Good, boy. That pleases me. Now it is time you came to my pavilion so you may eat. I wish you to recite for me again."
Without a word, Luton rose noiselessly, the cloaks clutched about him. As he'd done as a young slave boy he stood quite still, his head bent, waiting for Kher to give him the sign to move.
More perished, starving slaves, with pinched faces like Luton's, froze to death in the glacial winds that swept over them as they worked out in the appalling conditions. The wintry weather was reflected in Lodestok's eyes that stared at his men, his expression unamiable and his eyes the familiar chips of ice. When the warriors struggled to assemble in deep snow and slippery ice, they actually sweated in the frigid conditions when those merciless eyes swept over them, even, some said shivering, through them. Bethel sweated under the stare as much as anyone.
~~~
When the thaw finally came, months later, the snows had well gone but they left the melting ice to make the ground unbearably cold and muddy. The warlord was ready for the next all-out assault on the northern army. Ponderously, the army once again moved. It might be slow, but it was moving.
Lodestok's informants told him the northern army had halted near the base of the Chasa Mountains at the southernmost tip of the mountain spine, where they blocked the southerners from moving any further westward. At this news, the warlord merely gave a ferocious grin and commented that this time they'd have to break the back of the northern offensive. Bethel, sitting crouched beside Lodestok while the warlord was in discussion with Kher one morning, felt an anxious shiver crawl up and down his spine at these casually spoken words. Ordered to refill goblets, he did so with a shaking hand because he had the strangest premonition such as he experienced the day he saw Menk leave with his men and Esok with his troops.
He got a hard stare from Kher, but a dismissal from clicking fingers from the warlord. Thoroughly disturbed Bethel left the pavilion, his eyes going to the west where he knew the northerners were. He was unaccountably restless for the next few days before he felt more settled.
The army was settled in place by the first weeks of spring, a relaxing and attractive season. Green was everywhere. Streams became torrents with waterfalls, fish were plentiful, trees leafed, there was adequate game in the wooded areas and the meadows came alive with lush grass, herbs and flowers.
Bethel was, as usual, inexplicably drawn to the water, his expression becoming dreamy again while he sat on a rock, pipes to his mouth. Only once he saw Luton observe him from across the boulder-strewn water and he smiled at his brother. To his astonishment he saw a light come to dark sombre eyes that always looked depthless, before Luton quickly walked away. Bethel played on. These stolen moments were few and precious.
There was less gloom in the camp and spirits soared. Warriors could be heard jesting and brawling in fun, where for months tempers were short and fights anything but for amusement. Only Malekim seemed unaffected, his cold indifference making Bethel squirm uneasily whenever he was near the mage.
~~~
One morning, Lodestok glanced at Bethel from under his bushy eyebrows.
"You seem inordinately cheerful, son," he observed. Beth grinned, haphazardly hauling down a tunic and belting it.
"It is spring, my lord," he responded, tightening the buckle then adjusting the belt for comfort. "It is a season to be cheerful," he added.
"I see," said the warlord dryly.
He watched the young man begin to whistle as he hauled on boots and firmly laced them up to the knees. When Bethel stood, Lodestok looked hard at him, his expression unreadable. He saw a slender, muscled man, with developed and surprising width of shoulder, long thick ringlets falling in a disordered mass about him and the soft silky black beard framing a face that was still girlishly pretty. But the warlord, as had others before him, saw much more in the face than that. He saw rare beauty. He saw more, too.
He recognised Bethel's personality was unique, possibly quite unlike other Samars, and certainly totally opposite the Churchik warrior mould. Yet this young man, who still looked only a youth to the warlord, had surv
ived to become a warrior. He controlled men infinitely tougher than himself yet also managed, at the same time, to remain in so many ways completely untouched by his physical experiences, sometimes violent, and, in the past, remarkably brutal. The warlord was baffled by Bethel. He was intrigued as well. He strongly suspected there was something quite unusual about this young man. He also never forgot the way Bethel seemed to fade the time he was punished over Sasqua, or how the young man yielded, until he seemed insubstantial, before he responded to the warlord.
"You seem happy enough, boy, are you?"
Bethel, in the daily process of plaiting his mane, paused, then looked up, his expression enquiring and the eyes tranquil.
"I am content, my lord." The warlord continued to watch him.
"That then, my son, is good. May you stay so."
"Father," murmured Bethel, going back to his hair.
"You realise, flower, do you not, that battle is very close yet again?"
"Yes, my lord."
"What think you of the northern army, my attractive petal?"
Bethel finished braiding his hair and flung the queue back across his left shoulder. He glanced a little nervously at the warlord, unsure how he should answer. He saw a glint of malice touch the frosty eyes. He still didn't realise how the warlord read him so very easily.
"They are well trained and organised, my lord," he offered tentatively, seeing the warlord pat the bed. Bethel crossed to it.
"Indeed," agreed the warlord quietly, his arm about Bethel pulling the young man close so their heads touched. Bethel stared up into eyes that swallowed his. "What else?"
Bethel went to answer, until he felt the warlord's lips close to his. For some minutes Lodestok refused to let him speak, only lifting his head when he sensed the absolute relaxation of the young man now under him.
"My lord," Bethel whispered, watching the warlord for any cue to help him, aware Lodestok played a game with him.
"Do you fear them, little bud?" Bethel waited, conscious that if he opened his mouth to respond as he did before, the result would be the same. He licked his lips and shook his head. "Is that wise?" asked Lodestok in some amusement, the warlord well aware of Bethel's dilemma. "Now, now, my gentle slave," he admonished. "You must answer your master."
