by Katy Winter
Ensore rose, collected his book and sat beside Daxel, his tankard in one hand and the opened book in the other. Since Daxel seemed to be peacefully asleep Ensore lounged back and began reading again. He had to try to keep his mind on what he read because the thought of Luton kept unpleasantly intruding.
~~~
Luton gently kneed the stallion forward to a steady walk, his tall body erect in the saddle the warlord observed with approval, his riding style easy and controlled. Malekim and Lodestok watched him until he rode across the crest of the hill then disappeared below the brow of it, the sunlight glinting from his spurs.
Luton rode across a shallow valley, the stallion's hooves trampling a path across the yellow asphos nodding en masse. There was something sinisterly symbolic about the way the broken flowers lay crushed. Luton crossed another small hillock then drew the horse to a halt so he could stare down into undulating downs rambling into flower-covered meadows and woodlands. The beauty of the scene meant nothing to him. There he saw the far vanguard of the northern camp comfortably nestled, wood-smoke spiralling idly in the still, warm air. Nothing stirred. It could've been a painting.
Luton's eyes were implacable. Though he was twenty-three cycles, he hadn't filled out the breadth of shoulder that was part of all the brothers. Nor was it likely he would. His twin was now a very big, powerful young man. Luton was pathetically frail, his face skeletally gaunt and expressionless, his red robe emphasising his fragility by hanging about him as it would around a wraith. His long curls snaked loosely down his back and across his shoulders and when they caught the sun they shone.
He was conscious those from the northern camp were aware of his presence. Unhurriedly, he rode forward slowly. Then he drew to a halt, the reins held taut. A rider approached him at a smart walk. He watched the lone rider coolly, waiting until the person came close before he raised a hand, threw back his hood and spoke distinctly and disinterestedly.
"I'm Luton. I'm sent by my master to seek Myme Chlo. She expects me. I await her." Luton sat still.
The rider came closer, mounted on a dappled horse that was small and elegant. Luton realised he looked at a mare. Then he looked across at the rider. Chlorien was dressed in boy's raiment and her expression was solemn as she drew up her mount directly in front of Luton's stallion. The latter snorted and backed. Again, a quiet hand stilled it.
"Lute," she greeted her brother, her stare taking in his appalling frailty compared with his twin. Luton inclined his head, his eyes emotionless.
"Myme Chlo," he responded coldly. Chlorien stared deeply into the obsidian black depths that she remembered so differently, then she broke the contact on a sigh. She held out her hand.
"Lute," she said softly. "Can't you relate to me?" There was no answer. "Who am I?" she asked quietly, sadness touching her eyes as they again stared into her brother's. Luton replied immediately, his gaze not wavering.
"You're my sister Myme Chlo."
"What's my name now, Lute?" Her hand dropped.
"You're Myme Chlo." Chlorien shook her head.
"I answer to another name, Lute. Didn't your master tell you this?"
"No. How could he? He hasn't seen you."
"No," agreed Chlorien. "I don't acknowledge him as my father other than in deed. Another holds my heart as my father." Incurious black eyes stared at Chlorien.
"Your father? Who's your father?"
"The man you call master, Lute."
"No!" said Luton flatly. "No, I don't believe you!"
"Can you even begin to understand?" asked Chlorien desolately. "Look what he's done to you. Once you sparkled with vitality, your eyes were bright and you loved life. You know nothing other than what the mage has made of you. Oh Lute, how can this be?"
"I don't understand," came the detached response.
"What did you and Dase do to me on my eighth cycle day, big brother?" she asked, desperately hoping for some response that would show a spark of the brother she cared for so much. "Tell me, Lute, if you can, so I know you're still alive." Luton remained impassive, his voice and expression bleak.
"Myme Chlo, I'm a slave," he said automatically.
When Chlorien leaned forward and her hand shot out to touch his, Luton actually flinched, surprised her touch could affect him so.
"Though you serve Malekim, Lute, you're still there in the recesses of your being. I can feel you, Lute. I can feel you!" Lute continued to look at his sister dispassionately.
"Malekim's an ancient mage, sister. I've told you who owns me. You're to come with me. My master told me he's waited for you for so long he won't wait any longer. You must come with me."
Without thinking, Luton grasped Chlorien by the wrist, pulling her so sharply from her horse she half-fell against the black stallion that reared. Luton hauled Chlorien in front of him. Held firmly against him, she didn't struggle when Luton turned his horse and spurred it. All she sensed was the incredible frailty of the young man who held her. She felt his bones poke into her. Luton crossed meadows and had just crested the small hillock when he became aware of the peculiar sensation in his mind. Oddly confused, he slowed the stallion to a walk, then to a halt. Unmoving, Chlorien still sat in front of him. Luton's voice sounded uncertain and strange.
"My master demands that you come to him, Myme Chlo." The voice answering him sounded far away and distorted. Luton blinked.
"Tell him, Lute, she doesn't choose to come at his bidding, and tell him, too, that she'll have her brother back. Make sure he understands, big brother."
Brother and sister were in the shallow valley where long shadows stretched across the ground and there was silence. Nothing moved. The clouds in the sky were motionless. The air was breathlessly still. Ambros lay crouched in expectation.
Luton dismounted. He pulled Chlorien to the ground with him until they stood facing each other, violet eyes meeting and holding black. One pair of orbs had life. The others were soulless.
"Do you think to challenge me, Lute?" asked Chlorien with a half-smile. "That's unwise," she warned. Luton raised a warning hand.
"I have power, too, little sister. Do you wish me to use it?" Chlorien shook her head, her smile twisting.
"No, Lute, I don't. You'll hurt no one but yourself. Must he make you do this, Lute? Can't he just believe that I'm who he suspects I am? Must it come to this, that he uses my brother so? If it's to compel my obedience, it won't." She saw the black eyes widen. "He's using you, Lute, as he's always done."
"I answer only to him. I can do nothing else," snapped Luton, raising two fingers that curled almost backward. Chlorien copied him.
"Show me your strength then, if you must," she invited cordially, though had anyone been close to her they'd have seen tears in her eyes. "You'll be so hurt, Lute, so very hurt. I don't want to do this."
While they stood there ready to match wills and talent, a triangle of light touched the ground about them. It apexed to a single luminosity directly overhead and held steady. Chlorien clearly saw the two Adepts and the Mishtok at each point of the triangle, but she couldn't work out the signature of the fourth light that shone at the apex with such incredible strength. Luton was quite unaware of anything other than his sister until she pointed to the lights. Luton stared at the triangle with interlocking beams but ignored it, instead concentrating on summoning and commanding his power.
Involuntarily he raised his hands so the energy could translate from his fingertips to be hurled at Chlorien. She made no visible effort to respond. Each time Luton directed his energy, she deflected it. She initiated nothing, merely absorbing much that she sometimes sent back at her brother.
He tried every skill his master taught him and his master was a skilled practitioner. Luton even wrenched a brooch Chlorien wore from her shirt, then, unused to sensation, he gave a cry of shock and let go the brooch, his fingers curling back. He placed his boot on the jewellery in an effort to define its magic just through contact alone but sensing nothing he wiped his forehead. He kicked the brooc
h to one side, his lips drawn back.
He summoned the power he had that controlled the will, but even here he met resistance. It wasn't the sort of resistance Luton was used to and it baffled him because it wasn't violent or cruel. It was simply immovable. He withdrew from that encounter defeated.
He created an imagination both very vivid and real that he thought would appeal to Chlorien. It did, but she merely dismembered it as soon as it was completed. Luton then offered Chlorien a talisman that he assured her was a gift of life. She appraised then rejected it, because she could show Luton how it was a trap for the unwary: though the talisman gave life that could be everlasting, it did so at an inordinately high price that Malekim had deliberately set. Chlorien was calm and dispassionate.
Aware how his master would react if he made no impression on Chlorien, Luton conjured spirits that were instantly made to hammer against the light beams, because Chlorien simply made them bounce from one side of the triangle to the other. Then she dismissed them. He tried to conjure up the forces of nature.
The triangle became a seething mass of stormy energy that made discharged power flash off the light beams in a frightening display of force and strength. It looked like some kind of demonic dance. Unexpected spectral apparitions flickered then winked out as they were caught in thunderous claps that were deafening. Luton struggled to create and to dominate. His body jerked with an effort that was almost beyond him.
It died as suddenly as it began. An eerie quiescence was only broken by the abrupt withdrawal of the triangle. Luton found himself breathing heavily. His body ached, his robe was soaked, his throat was dry and his hair was wild and tangled. He looked like some ghastly apparition. He was drained to such weakness he trembled where he stood, his knees buckling. His mind reeled.
He looked wearily to where he thought Chlorien would be but all he saw was a shadow moving quickly across the valley and topping the rise. The boyish figure neared her horse. Chlorien turned to look back at her brother. As he fell to his knees, Luton heard the voice in his mind.
"Lute!" It was a sob. "You would've betrayed me, Lute, but I know that sentient you'd never do so. Gods help you, dearest brother, because I know I can't." The voice broke and was gone.
Luton was about to stagger to his feet when he paused, his fingers touched his sister's brooch and, with a shaking hand, he tucked it in a pocket. He got to his feet and stood, swaying. Having not experienced emotion for so long, he was hit cruelly by the blaze of frustration and fury that struck him back to the ground. His master's displeasure made him put his hands to his head at the excruciating pain and a howl of pure agony was wrenched from a parched throat. Chlorien heard it. She saw Luton go down and even at that distance she could see her brother writhe. When she heard the awful despairing howl a second time, she raised her hand.
The howls abruptly stopped. Luton sobbed for breath. He struggled to cling to vestiges of his essential self. He heard the conversation at the very fringe of his mind. He couldn't absorb the words. All he knew, as he lay curled on one side, was that his chastisement only began and that most likely this time he'd die. Through pain he still, tenaciously, clung to life.
"You won't hurt him again, Malekim."
"It brings you closer to me, daughter. Do you utter this as a request or an ultimatum, child?"
"You'll need him again, Malekim, and when you do, I'll be waiting for you to answer for what you've done to him. I can guess what you'll make him do. Not only that, Malekim, it's my brother you so slowly and cruelly destroy. He can't do what you want – he'll die."
"We shall see," came the mocking voice.
"You abuse those weaker than yourself at your peril, mage."
"You have a choice, Myme Chlo. You may come to me, freely, and I may, then, consider releasing your brother."
"You'd not release him, Malekim. I don't believe one such as you knows the meaning of concepts like truth, honour or pity."
"I'll enjoy possessing you, Myme Chlo. Absorbing your essence and utilising your talent is a pleasure I so anticipate. You'll beg to come to me in the finish, my little daughter, because the alternative will destroy you. Are you so ready to sacrifice all you hold dear? I can wait." The taunting sneer gave way to a chilling laugh.
"Leave my brother alone. You've harmed him enough. He can serve you no further purpose. Send him to me."
"Child that you are! Think on this! You spurned my offer, so your brother's fate rests as surely in your hands as in mine. I'll deal with my apprentice as I see fit."
Luton tried to speak through pain, his sending weak.
"Master, I tried to obey."
"Contemptible," came curtly to Luton's mind, but the pain eased. "Get on the horse, slave. You have explaining to do."
~~~
Malekim turned slowly to Lodestok, the mage's eyes hollow yet gloatingly glittering. Though the eyes were terrifying, the warlord held his ground. The mage looked haunted and demonic and his laugh was from the depths of some hell. Lodestok's skin actually crawled.
"You made me wait for her, Warlord," the mage whispered. "But, ah, she's worth it, believe me. You may fight your puny war." Malekim stared over the rise where Luton had gone.
"I shall do so," replied the warlord curtly, aware of a desire to place some distance between this man and himself.
Never had he felt so repelled or sensed the mage could be so obsessively rabid. Uncomfortably, Lodestok wondered whether the mage was possessed, his rapid glimpse of the drawn back lips, the clenched teeth and the alienated madness in the eyes making him extremely tense. The warlord wasn't prone to nervousness. However, at this moment he felt, unbelievably, that he was no more immune to this man's lunacy than either Chlorien or Luton. He wasn't prepared to trust himself to utter appropriate comments so stood in surly silence, his brows drawn together, his aspect thunderous. Malekim stared morosely into the distance.
"The Conclave I destroyed, Warlord, is reinstated, alert and functioning. How can this be?" Lodestok was lost for words. He turned to look at the mage, his obvious surprise writ large on his face. The scowl lifted. "I'm angered, deeply angered. Not only has Lokar been lost to me, but now I suspect I know how." The mage ground his teeth audibly. "I can take on but one group at a time but at least they offer me a challenge, something I've not been offered in cycles." The deliberate insult passed by the warlord. He ignored it.
"The Conclave was destroyed, mage. My warriors confirmed even the physical destruction. Many of the Yazd are dead, many enslaved. Few escaped."
"I know that!" snarled the mage.
"The Conclave was completely inoperative."
"Apparently not."
"That was so long ago," reflected the warlord, with a touch of bewilderment. "Gods, mage, they have had all this time to reorganise without our knowing. I wonder if they have fully functioning networks across Ambros again?"
"Not yet. You can be sure I'll see they don't!" came the growled response. "One of them, Warlord, is exceptionally talented and it's not the Mishtok either, though he has power. Nor could I judge who they are through their shields, though the one at the apex of the triangle I dearly wish to trace."
"Was your apprentice successful?" The mage's laugh was hollow, feral and cruel.
"He learned his limits, Warlord, against the sister you mislaid so long ago." Though the mage's voice had dropped to a soft tone, the menace in it was real enough and Lodestok felt the threat. He stiffened.
"You are implying?" he asked.
"Nothing, Warlord," was the unconvincing and offhand reply. "She, my friend, is unique. She has such gifts that little one she's to be prized above all else. Her I will have." A hand on Lodestok's shoulder made him internally wince. He stood rigid and silent. "I'm annoyed with my apprentice. He'll be punished for failure. He'll take time to recover and the girl, well, she can wait and so can I. Fight your war, Warlord. Fight it and win!"
Malekim turned on the words and left Lodestok waiting alone. He didn't have long to wait before the
black stallion slowly appeared over the rise, a crouched figure bent low over its back. When the warhorse drew near him, the warlord looked up at the young apprentice so like his slave brother yet so utterly unlike. Lodestok's breath caught in his throat as he studied the hunched man.
Luton's robe was damp, his face was expressionless and the long hair, that had looked glossy, was dishevelled and bounced about him, matted and sweaty. The black eyes were as soulless as the pits of damnation. Lodestok had the feeling he looked at a walking corpse and a shiver shook him as he tried to break contact with those dark, tortured eyes.
Swaying in the saddle as he spoke, Luton's voice came out in a grating whisper, "Warlord."
"Luton," responded Lodestok, his mesmerised gaze held.
"I can't know him as my brother, but Beth's my brother, my lord. I ask you to have a care to him. I beg this of you. He'll need this more than either of you realise."
Lodestok wasn't a man who felt the softer emotions and had shown no sign of them until recently with his relationship with his sons. But he knew that, unaccountably, he felt something profound stir in him when he continued to stare up at the figure looking down at him. He couldn't pin the feeling he had.
"I will care for my younger son as you would wish, Luton," he promised.
Kneeing the horse forward, Luton gave a rasping cough. Lodestok took a step back, his eyes fixed to the stooped man trying to keep the tatters of his dignity as he maintained balance. He thought he'd seen little as pitiful as Luton.
Luton stumbled into Malekim's pavilion where he sank to the ground, his head clasped in his hands. The mage considered him.
"You failed your master, Luton. That's inexcusable. No one does so without raising my disgust and anger. Go to the other side of the pavilion and lie upon the pallet."
"Master," whispered Luton.
Helplessly he staggered to his feet, crossed the ground and obediently lay on his back, still and waiting. He knew his senses were being allowed to attune to a new threshold of pain, but, even so, the waves of agony that repeatedly struck him flung him back and stunned him with their ferocity. He curled on one side then flung himself to the other, his hands first at his head, then his chest before grasping at his stomach. Howls were torn from him in quick succession.
