by Katy Winter
Queeb rode westward for some weeks, until he came to the outskirts of Gnosti settlements, where he drew up and sat his horse contemplatively. His gaze scanned round, his lips pursed with thought. Then he turned his horse and began a slow ride back through the rich, cultivated countryside, stopping often and exchanging coinage for gems that remoter settlements of the Gnosti happily sold by the hundreds. Queeb stared at the piles of gems that spilled in profusion, his eyes narrowed in fascination, before he moved on.
The land remained fertile and cultivated to within about ten days ride of the coast, where Queeb decided to again follow the coastline. He could keep to that until it was possible to swing southeast, before he would then have to veer north again towards the Shadowlands. He wanted to meet up with the warlord's army and pass on his information to Lodestok in person. He assumed he'd be richly rewarded. He suspected, too, his master would've left the Keep by now and would likewise reward his faithful servant.
When Queeb finally came in sight of the warlord's huge military machine, it was to find it was only a season or two behind the northmen who now neared the Chasa Mountains. He was met by a huge Churchik sentry who would've challenged him had Queeb not touched the man's mind and then ridden past him.
He had quite a ride before he came to what he correctly assumed was the warlord's pavilion and it was there he drew up his horse, gesturing at a slave boy that he take the reins. Queeb stood and dusted himself down, prior to moving to the pavilion entrance. He looked in to see, not the warlord, but a youth so like Chlorien he almost gasped out loud. Queeb drew back momentarily disconcerted, his eyes riveted to the youth in the pavilion.
The youth was very tall, considerably taller than Chlorien, but equally slender. This one's extraordinarily long hair was disordered but framed a singularly lovely face. Bethel gave a deep sigh. He stooped to pick up yet another discarded article of clothing that he tossed onto a pile on a chair, then he sat on the edge of the bed to attack the knots in his hair with a comb before plaiting the thick mass into a very long queue. When he stood he stayed ruminatively, before he pulled on an over shirt that he belted in as he strode to the pavilion entrance. He stopped when he saw Queeb.
"Yes?" he asked interrogatively. Queeb looked up into soulful and bewitchingly large purple eyes that stared down at him.
"I seek the warlord, boy." Bethel gave a sigh.
"He is with Haskar Bensar - in the next pavilion."
He pointed, waiting for Queeb to move in that direction. Queeb gave the youth a final and very hard look before he walked to the next pavilion. Bethel's eyes thoughtfully followed him. Bethel intended to seek out Sarssen, because he sensed Queeb's power from the moment their eyes locked and his guards were set firmly in place. Bethel sensed danger.
Queeb entered the second pavilion, to be met by two pairs of hostile eyes, one pair steely, the other as cold as the wintry snows. Queeb stood still, his eyes meeting and holding with the warlord's.
"My lord," he said politely.
He saw recognition dawn on the warlord's face and a slight, but thoroughly unpleasant, smile curl Lodestok's lips.
"Where is your companion?"
"He died in the desert, my lord."
"Unfortunate for you," remarked Lodestok coolly. He looked back to Bensar. "We shall discuss this later," he added dismissively.
Bensar studied Queeb again before he bowed courteously, rolled up some sheets and withdrew until his pavilion should be empty of warlord and guest. Lodestok turned, his gaze once more on Queeb.
"Follow," he ordered sharply.
Inside the warlord's pavilion, Lodestok lounged comfortably, while Queeb stood, a little awkwardly. The warlord waved at a chair, his blue predatory eyes watching the mage's servant as a hunter does its prey. Nor did he offer Queeb a drink, though he got himself one. This omission made the man feel a surge of resentment as he sat, aware of the watchful gaze.
"Well now, Queeb, what have you to tell me?" asked the warlord, his voice an unnervingly quiet but distinct menace.
While Queeb fully outlined all that happened to him and Ohb since Ortok, the warlord's eyes never left the other man's face. When Queeb got to the inn, he paused and looked speculatively at Lodestok, who merely raised an enquiring eyebrow. Queeb heaved a sigh.
"My lord, I followed the boy and the man on instinct and because I knew the boy had the unusual colouring my master showed us in a seeing. Chlorien had dark hair and dark eyes. Lian failed both you and the master by not bringing the little girl to you before Ortok was attacked. I suspected she escaped in some way." He paused again, seeing boredom in the eyes holding his. "I thought, my lord, if I could secure a brother for the master he'd be pleased."
"I believe you are too late," responded the warlord, drinking steeply. "I am told he already has an apprentice." Queeb looked briefly deflated, then said more cheerfully,
"A brother, my lord?"
"A young man who is, as expected, a mute, so I hear. Whether he is a brother, I should doubt." Lodestok drank again, rising to refurnish his goblet. "Or whether he will now be interested in a brother is arguable."
"But you see, my lord, it turns out not to be a brother," said Queeb softly. He smiled when the warlord turned his head, his eyes interested and arrested.
"No?" Lodestok said, as softly. Queeb shook his head.
"No, my lord, not a brother. At the inn I met the innkeeper's daughter. We became," here the smile broadened to show blackened teeth, "friends, my lord." He saw the appreciative light in Lodestok's eyes. "Just so, my lord. I went into Kesli's mind to re-live an attempted seduction of the boy named Lorien."
"And?"
"In her passion, my lord, Kesli was quite unaware the body she touched wasn't that of a boy."
"Are you telling me that this boy, Chlorien, or Lorien as you say he was also called, is the girl we sought for the mage for so long?" His eyes closing briefly, Queeb gave a sigh.
"Yes, my lord. The boy Chlorien, or Lorien, is Myme Chlo." The warlord threw himself down in his chair, the wine spilling a little.
"And her companion, whom you call Schol?"
"I've no idea who he is, my lord, but he has very real power. He was able to enhance the girl as a boy successfully and that shows he's skilled."
"Where are they now?"
"They've gone deep into the west, my lord, into land that's rich and inhabited by little people."
"How old do you judge the girl now is?"
"Seventeen cycles, my lord, at the least." There was a prolonged silence, before the warlord spoke again.
"Well, Queeb, now we know what happened to the girl, do we not? Let me surmise for you. The man named Schol, who is clearly talented, took the girl from Ortok prior to our assault. Lban told me Lian disappeared and lost Myme Chlo in the forest. We can assume this mind-user, Schol, was part of this. I suspected someone of power was connected with that child, but I could not be sure. She was taken far west, well away from me or from your master, for a reason. Where would you speculate they will go next?"
"Where I'd go in their place, my lord."
"And where's that?"
"I'd seek refuge in the Shadowlands, my lord. They're vast and uncharted, so there she'd be relatively safe, at least until my master comes north seeking her."
"So," murmured the warlord, upending his goblet. "We learn more about yet another member of this family, most of whom, other than the girl for some reason, were marked for death. How interesting." Lodestok paused. "This girl's eldest brother is the Strategos with the northern army. He is a bother. Maybe you can help us over the problem he has become. What we need, Queeb, is someone to insinuate themselves into an arm of their army so you can be my ears for a while. Ingratiate yourself, rise through the ranks and bring yourself finally to the Strategos' attention." Queeb leered at the warlord.
"Then, my lord?"
"Then, my friend, you bring him to me. He is critical to their success. He should have died cycles ago and is long overdue to meet the gods.
I still wonder how he survived. He will tell me how when we meet." Queeb nodded amused, his eyes glinting.
"That'll be no problem, my lord."
"I thought not," murmured the warlord.
"I see a young man here, my lord, who's the image of his sister, only his eyes are darker than her violet. It's a brother, isn't it?"
"Where did you see him?" came the sharp question.
"I sought you here, in this pavilion. The boy was here. Who is he?"
"He is my personal slave, Queeb. He is untouchable." There was a hardness to the voice Queeb picked up immediately.
"Certainly, my lord," he acquiesced quickly. "He's a lovely boy. I can see why he's your slave." He ignored the darkling look he got. "And he and Chlorien could be twins."
"He is a brother," came the cold voice. "He was found after the sack of Ortok."
"I just noticed the family resemblance."
"They are apparently all very alike," came the curt reply.
Queeb sensibly let the subject drop, though he was intrigued because he'd seen the warrior branding on Bethel's wrists. It made him open his eyes when he thought a slave could also be the warlord's warrior. There was a long silence before Lodestok spoke again.
"Speak to me more about these western lands," abruptly ordered the warlord.
Queeb obliged. Lodestok listened intently, his focus on his empty goblet. He let Queeb talk himself out, before he rose and filled his goblet, plus a second one for Queeb who grasped it thankfully.
"Would this land sustain an army the size of mine?" Queeb nodded. "And the little people you speak of, my man - would they pose any threat?"
"My lord, they're peasants. They cultivate the land and sell gems by the hundred. They'd pose no problem should you wish to take their land and wealth."
"Well and good," chuckled the warlord, raising his goblet in an absent toast.
~~~
Queeb was quite content to join the northern army as an agent of the warlord's. He was accepted, after not especially rigorous interrogation and there established himself as a regular informant, sending back to Lodestok as much information as he could glean. It wasn't much, but it was early days.
He was unscrupulous in his methods of securing tit-bits he could relay back. In his rise to higher authority, inexplicable deaths occurred that enabled this new man to achieve increased status, though he was avoided by many repelled by his obsequiousness and appearance. After a season, his position seemed secure. He was disgruntled when he realised the Strategos wasn't yet with the army, but he was happy to wait.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Chlorien and the Rox travelled only a short distance, but far enough to see them securely within the Shadowlands. She became aware of her surroundings when her furred feet touched the forest earth and she looked out of dark eyes to the form settling just beyond her. The Rox stood still so as not to unnecessarily alarm her, his eyes, Chlorien thought, placid but somehow agelessly wise and uncannily familiar.
"Who are you?" she sent, folding in her membranous wings without conscious thought.
"As you are, so am I. I'm a Rox," came the return thought. "What do you wish to be called - Chlorien or Myme Chlo?" Chlorien barely thought about her answer.
"I've become used to Chlorien."
"So be it. I'm Nikos."
Chlorien stared contemplatively at him. His colouring was very lovely, in shades of silvered-black, cream deepening to fawn and then deeper golds again. His large paws were a dull gold that was the same colour as his face mask, other than the black nose. When the Rox stood, he was seven feet tall, his top coat thick, black and silky, ruffling gently in the breeze that swept through the forest. His undercoat was even denser and reddish-gold. He stood upright, so Chlorien could clearly see the soft cream of his underbelly. When the sun glinted off him, Chlorien blinked. She was entranced.
Nikos slowly raised his delicate furred wings, flexed them once or twice, then let them settle on his flanks where Chlorien realised they were no longer visible. Nikos' tail swept the ground, black on the upper side but deep gold and cream on the underneath. The tail was luxuriant, the fur on it very long. The face, quietly observing Chlorien, was benevolent, the dark eyes searching and pointed ears twitched forward.
"Do I look like you?" Chlorien sent wistfully. She sensed delighted amusement in response.
"Indeed," Nikos acknowledged. "Our form's the same, but you've more black and gray and much more silver." Chlorien's tail swished as she too stood erect.
"Do you walk upright all the time?"
"If we wish to, we do, yes. It depends how we feel. We run very fast on four feet, but fly even faster."
"Do we travel this way?"
"No, Chlorien. We're on Ambros. It would be unwise."
"Are you from Lilium? How will we go then?" Nikos ignored the first question.
"In the form of your birth would be the most sensible." Nikos shimmered. His form dissolved into that of a standing man in place of the Rox. He spoke gently. "Translate, Chlorien."
She did, as obedient to his wishes as she was to the mage. Nikos took a step to bring him close to her. He quietly put a strong hand under her chin, so he could turn her head to light dappling the glade they were in, and stared deeply into the violet eyes that shyly met his. He gently let Chlorien go.
"You're welcome to the Rox, child," he said softly, taking several steps back from her.
Before her, Chlorien saw a mature, tall man, almost as tall as Autoc, his build athletic. His hair was dusky, streaked with reddish-gold, with copper tints throughout the long curls. His eyes were wells of deep brown flecked with gold, his eyebrows were black, and though his beard was long and reddish-gold like the flecks in his hair, there was also a sprinkling of silver there. The lips were full and curved, the eyes kind. There was an indefinable aura of power about the man. Chlorien immediately felt drawn to him, as if she knew him. He sensed it and an odd light flickered in his eyes for a few seconds.
"Where do we go, Nikos?"
"We go east, child," he said quietly, "but first we should set a camp, shouldn't we? It'll be dark before too long." Chlorien looked at him and then at herself, before she stared round them.
"I didn't bring anything with me," she said ruefully.
Nikos just chuckled, turned from her and snapped his fingers. Chlorien stared down at the ground at his feet, her eyes going round when she saw the pile. Everything necessary for a camp was there. She began to laugh.
"How could you know?" she asked. "You're not from Ambros."
"No," smiled Nikos, turning back to her. "But I've had time to study your world while I waited for you." Chlorien met his eyes again, but very shyly.
"Have you waited long? My father," her voice faltered, then she went on with only a small catch in her voice, "said you'd waited."
"Yes, child, a long time. But you're with me now, aren't you?"
Chlorien nodded and stepped forward to the pile of equipment on the ground. The Rox's voice made her pause and she looked up enquiringly.
"Chlorien." She nodded again. "I know how much you care for Autoc. I can see it in every part of you, child. There's nothing of you untouched. I don't seek to replace him but hope you may, in time, care for me and trust me in the same way." Chlorien held out her hand, a faint pink tinge in her cheeks.
"I already trust you," she murmured. "You're so very like Father. I sense that too." She didn't see the wry smile touch the Rox's mouth at that. He took the outstretched hand and clasped it.
"Then that's a start, isn't it?" he responded. He squeezed her hand, then added teasingly, "You make a most appealing female Rox, you know."
He got a grin before Chlorien turned back to the necessity of making a camp.
~~~
Together they were soon quite comfortable, Chlorien aware Nikos was in no hurry and they'd stay where they were for nights. She offered to do the cooking. Usually Autoc did it when they were together, though as cycles passed she did more and more of it. S
he felt it was one thing she could do with little effort. Nikos seemed amenable.
So Chlorien let the Rox set and build fires, while she rifled through bags until she found all she wanted to prepare several days of food. While she cooked, their third evening together, Nikos settled himself against a tree, his lower body enveloped in lush undergrowth, where, comfortable, he drew out a double-reed pipe. Hauntingly reminded of Bethel, Chlorien looked up from what she was doing, her eyes luminous but deeply sad. The music stopped.
"What grieves you so, child?" came the deep voice. Chlorien glanced over at Nikos.
"My brother was a gifted musician, Nikos. Not only that, he was the most beautiful boy too."
"What happened to him?"
"I don't know. I think Father knew, but he never said and I never asked."
"What was the child's name?"
"Bethel," answered Chlorien, bending back over the fire. "It's his belt I always wear in memory of him. He meant so much to me."
"Ah," sighed Nikos, his look at the bent head very thoughtful. "You shouldn't despair, child, especially when you don't know what happened to him."
"I can guess," came the sad reply. "He was so pretty, you see. I know now what the warlord does to boys like Bethel. If he saw my brother, Bethel wouldn't have stood a chance - if he was spared the warlord, then they'd have killed him on a caravan. I guess that's what happened to all my brothers, Nikos, if they weren't killed in the first attack. Father saved me. I wish he could've saved them too."
"And is Bethel's music like mine?" Chlorien missed the present tense Nikos used, because she was busy.
"He played music that's haunting in a way I've not heard since," she said solemnly. "It was as if music came from somewhere within he was in touch with. His voice was -." She shrugged helplessly. "He was gifted from the gods," she went on, after a pause. "That's what his teachers at the Academy said. They told Mam his talent was unique. I can't describe his music to you; it touched every fibre of anyone who listened to him."
Nikos put his pipe back to his mouth as Chlorien went back to the cooking. She missed the softly murmured words the Rox muttered before he began to play again.
