Quenching the Flames

CHAPTER ONE

Union of dark,

Union of light,

Quenches the flames,

And dispels gathering night.

~~~

Who is Malekim?

What is Malekim?

Where is Malekim?

The voices of the Unseen Ones echoed eerily in the mage's head, his attempts to block the mocking tones ineffectual.

Where's my father? he demanded, irritably. Dire will find me. I'll be his son once more, as I once was. There was cold finality to the voice that answered.

Dire's with us, was implacably stated. He knows no sons.

You unmade one of your own? asked Malekim, incredulously.

Spare us your limitations, Malekim.

Then where is he?

He's with us. You won't know him, nor he you. He's no longer as you knew him. Think on that, Malekim.

So you broke my father as you try to break me?

Such a puerile mind, scoffed a jeering voice. Dire is us. You're not worth wasting time on, Malekim. You never could see beyond yourself! Malekim fell silent and brooded, until another voice spoke.

So you challenge us, yet again, mage?

Why is that? came another voice.

Foolish Malekim, said another.

Such arrogance! sneered another.

Pitiful fool, growled yet another voice.

Can't you answer us, Malekim?

The mage swung his head from side to side. He clenched his hands, then put them to his head to push back the echoing voices that laughed, distant and mocking.

Probe his mind again! instructed a voice that chilled to the marrow. We'll find it. Be certain of that, mage.

Malekim knew the probe came. He tensed and tried to put up a barrier. He felt it brushed aside. He opened his mouth to a howl that filtered away into nothingness, his mind entered and remorselessly peeled, layer by layer, as he did to others for long cycles. Another dissection began. His mind and emotions were stripped and bared for analysis once more, slowly, with infinite patience and without pity, the first probe joined by a host of others. It was only the beginning.

~~~

The land the Sinhalien occupied swept down from the mountain ranges, into land once occupied by conquering Churchik who all but annihilated the original inhabitants, the Kerulen and Nuurans. They were peoples equally fierce, quarrelsome and bloodthirsty as the Churchik. Those conquered lands were parcelled out between warrior lords who bickered bitterly and went to war over little bits of land. These same lords built mostly small, but some significant and well fortified cities, among them Idon, Oresh, Eparat, Ingh, Neymor, Arandl, and chiefly, the premier city-state of Andish. Cordior was an ancient eastern city that pre-dated any of these. Andish was equivalent in status to Valshika, so was populous, prosperous, wealthy and influential. It was part of Esok's inheritance. The city now found itself on the border of the lands taken by the Sinhalien, though the rest of Esok's estates rested in Sinhalien hands and he chafed at their loss. Not once did he advocate war.

It was to Andish Kher went once again. It was in Esok's abeya that he now stood, moodily staring out the window. He awaited Sarssen who'd been gone a day and a half. With him were his son and the Saturim. While Kher felt very on edge, his High Council stalked to and fro, the warriors aware of Kher's tension and wondering how he might react, especially where his son was concerned. All knew Luton had a daughter who lived out in the plains.

It was Esok who spied the riders in the distance. He called sharply to Bethel, who sat nervously and still at the other end of the room.

Sorien! Come here! came the uncompromising order. Bethel obeyed instantly, his head bent in the presence of so much authority. Contact your brother, Tempkar, as we know you can do. Anxiety was in Bethel's sending.

Sarssen!

There is no need for alarm, sent back Sarssen. What ails you, Beth?

I'm in the abeya with the High Council. They're anxious over your long absence and the warlord's deeply troubled.

Are you troubled, too?

A little. There's tension here, Sarssen.

We are close now. Tell them the Sinhalien are not folk to rush.

Bethel sighed with relief, only to find, when he turned, that he looked into several pairs of cold, interrogative eyes.

Sorien? demanded Esok.

All's well, my lord. My brother says to tell you the Sinhalien will not be hurried.

Bethel was glad when he got a curt nod of dismissal from Sendak. He sensed the awful silence that gripped everyone lift as he left the room and the constraint was broken by murmurs and laughter. He was delighted to escape.

He didn't see Sarssen or his brothers for some time because they were closeted with the High Council for long hours. Not knowing what else to do, Bethel decided to go for a long brisk walk to clear his head, a walk that took him beyond the city gates but westwards, well beyond the boundary area in dispute. It was pleasant land though the air was cold and the winds that swept down from the mountains chilled to the bone at certain times of the cycle. Bethel pulled his cloak about him as he always did in the winter, wherever on Ambros he was.

He found himself thinking back to Ortok and then to the new city of Samar, his thoughts oddly jumbled and incoherent, something strange in one about to be pledged an Adept. He couldn't explain his sudden, unexpected concern about his son and his whole southern life. Then he reflected that it was probably because of his experience in Samar, then Correc's insurrection which led to his pronouncement that saw people die, only to then find himself swept east where he was being held in reserve as a go-between. Times had been turbulent. And so on he walked, unaware how far from the city he walked. With his height and length of leg, he covered the miles quickly.

He finally came to, stopped startled and turned, trying to re-orient himself. He saw nothing recognisable, but sensed an alien presence that made him whirl about in an attempt to pin who or what it could be. He found nothing. Alarm crept through him, the warrior conscious how foolish he was to come out so far alone. There was another warrior lesson he'd let himself forget and he thought, with a rueful smile, of the verbal scold that would've earned him from Lodestok.

We don't hurt our mages, came a thought in Bethel's mind.

He swung round again, wondering if it was Ot playing games with him. Then he realised it couldn't be. The voice wasn't catlin. He telethed on a very wide band. Heads on Yarilo and Lilium lifted at the call of distress and dragons trumpeted quietly on Ice Isle. Goldlas jerked herself awake, her head tilted to the cry from one she knew was her offspring. Expressions were wary.

Sarssen and Luton, seated in the abeya, were caught as unawares as Autoc, who lounged back comfortably in his quarters in Valshika, a book in his lap that he snapped shut with an arrested expression. Bethel received instant reassurance from all three men, but above them came the voice again.

You called, Bethel. Don't you know me? I answer you, child. I answer you.

No! shouted Bethel, out loud, whirling around. He heard Autoc's calm voice above the other.

Beth, lad, calm yourself. This is Scholar. Amril came to me this way and I reacted as you do now. You're in no danger, Beth, believe me.

Who's Amril?

Beth, laughed the mage. Stop staring around you in a distracted way. Amril's my dragon. Can't you answer yours, lad? It's not right to call then not respond.

I didn't call.

You must have, sent Autoc, encouragingly. Or maybe you registered a high level of imbalance that made your dragon come. They're highly protective, lad.

Bethel stood still, too surprised to speak, then he turned up his head. He stared at the sky to see a huge form approach at phenomenal speed.

Scholar! I think a dragon comes. What do I do?

Bethel crouched on the earth, only conscious of Autoc's placidity and strength. They buoyed him. Sarssen and Luton were no longer in a link with him. He shivered when the huge form towered over him, wings moving rhythmically and the enormous talons spread ready for landing. As the creature settled, it tilted its head as though it listened. Its eyes spun rapidly, then, when Bethel felt astonishment then sheer exultant delight come to him from Autoc, he still didn't dare look up. He felt the blast of air that came to him every so often when the dragon breathed.

I'm Dramas, came a very soft and gentle voice in Bethel's mind. Bethel felt Autoc's presence recede. I didn't mean to frighten you, child. Won't you even look at your dragon who's waited for you, oh, so long now?

Timidly, Bethel lifted his head. The young warrior found he stared up to a head that rested on the ground not far from him. He trembled with shocked disbelief.

Ah! crooned the dragon, his eyes whirling faster. Benhloriel lives in you, child. I knew it was so. Ah, little mage.

You're truly a dragon! Bethel tentatively took a step forward.

Come closer, young one cast in Benhloriel's image. We don't hurt mages.

I'm not yet mage, answered Bethel uncertainly, drawn and fascinated by the spinning orbs of green. When he came to a halt to one side of the massive snout, eyes stopped whirling to peer down at him with intense curiosity.

Ah, sighed the dragon again. Indeed Bene lives in you. Your worries and uncertainties brought me, child. It may be too early, but I think it's time I was wide awake. Let me look at you. You have your greatsire's height, his build, even his face and oh, the eyes, too. But you're Cynthas as well.

The brothers all look alike, offered Bethel, brave enough now to touch the head he stood next to. Eyes swivelled at the touch and he heard a chuckle sound very deep in his mind.

Are you all so beautiful then? Benhloriel certainly was, commented Dramas. The dragon sensed the surprise. But you are, young one. Never has a dragon had such loveliness as his, not since I first touched and melded with your greatsire. And here is another.

Am I so like him?

So very like. Bethel sensed a surge of grief in the dragon that passed very quickly. I'm sorry if I frightened you, Bethel. I'm so used to Bene. We knew each other intimately and I forgot you wouldn't expect me. It'll take time for us to adjust one to the other, child, but adjust we will. You give me life, Bethel. There was a rumble of what Bethel assumed was utter pleasure when he stroked the head again, this time more strongly. The eye ridge likes to be touched, offered the dragon. Bethel stretched high on tiptoe to oblige.

You were my greatsire's dragon then? I never knew him, but Sar did. There was regret in the deep voice.

Then you may meet him now, child. Look into my eyes, Bethel. Don't be afraid, but be prepared for much.

Bethel stared directly into the green eyes. He was drawn to the extent he no longer felt conscious of anything, other than the dragon's being, as, in the meld, he was swept backwards and forwards through Dramas' experiences. He saw his greatsire. He felt the profound love and rapport between mage and dragon, then sensed the shattering grief and despair experienced by the dragon when Bene finally faded. He mourned, with Dramas, for the dragon's mage who gently and quietly passed, his life as Archmage dissipating.

He lived the joy of the dragon being allowed to refuse a passing over and being offered the choice of another meld. He was taken to when Dramas chose a child of Melas. Bethel became Dramas. He looked down at a boy curled up in a pavilion on a huge bed, an enormous warrior sprawled half across him and knew he stared down at himself. In that instant, he knew Dramas chose him. And he learned how the dragon waited, in a half-quiescent state, for the boy to hopefully grow, survive, and maybe one day call him. As Bethel lived within the dragon, he knew, without any doubt, that Dramas was as bonded to him as strongly as he was bonded, and still was in a residual sense, with an Archmage of Yarilo.

I knew you'd come if you could, Bethel, Bethel heard in his mind, as the meld dissolved. It was a most gentle meld, because the dragon knew the young mind, though maturing every day, wasn't ready for a full dragon meld.

I'm with you, Dramas.

Always, child, always. When you call, young one, I'll come. Find your balance again, your concerns of no moment. Let them go. Your son has his own strength, as you have yours, both alike but utterly unlike.

Dramas?

Child?

Will it be long before I go with you?

I think it won't be long, Bethel.

Bethel stood back, his eyes briefly meeting with Dramas'. When the young warrior smiled, he couldn't know how Dramas saw, once more, the blinding smile of a youthful Benhloriel. It once drenched his dragon with a sense of warmth and wellbeing. Dramas felt that again, the pleasure from it washing over him.

Bethel watched the dragon rise. His wings beat with enormous sweeps of power, he ascended strongly, turned, banked, and was gone. But Bethel wasn't alone. He looked to his feet to see the catlin owlishly eying him, his long fur ruffled in the wind. Bethel stooped and scooped him up in his arms, the creature held close to his chest. He bent his head.

Do I grow as you hoped, Ot?

Dramas thinks you do, sent the catlin, his paws curled neatly on Bethel's arm.

And you?

We think you've come a long way. I've decided that maybe, after all, I'm glad I chose you.

Bethel began to laugh and with the catlin held firmly, he began the long trek back to the city. Once inside the gates he walked steadily to his rooms, carefully ignoring the glances cast at the catlin he cradled, entered a chamber and sank into a chair. Ot rested on his chest, flexed a paw, lapped at it, and then, because Bethel's eyes closed, the catlin slept also.

Sarssen quietly entered the room. He noiselessly took a chair close to Bethel near the window and relaxed back comfortably. He sat staring out into the open moorland that led to the mountains, his mind abstracted. Kher was as ruthless as Lodestok in analysing every detail, word and nuance of the meeting with the Sinhalien. He was verbally probed until his head felt like Samar reeli wool. He was exhausted and would've given anything to emulate Bethel who lay sprawled out, his head lolled to one side, mouth slightly open, and his breathing easy and deep. The catlin had gone but Sarssen knew Ot had been there.

Sarssen turned to study the young face. Bethel gave he and Luton a fright, the latter especially because Luton hadn't ever been directly telethed and thought, for a moment, that Bethel actually yelled beside him. Luton's fright, mixed with Bethel's, poured into Sarssen. It took all the warrior's concentration to respond to both Luton and Bethel, so he was greatly relieved when he felt Autoc's strong presence and was advised to withdraw.

Sarssen then had to cope with an agitated Kher who came threateningly to his feet, until he saw Luton relax back with a sudden laugh. He promptly sat again, relieved. There was also startled hostility in other eyes, too, noticeably Sendak's, so much so it took all Sarssen's tact and ingenuity to explain there'd been unexpected confusion with Bethel. When he saw cynical disbelief curl Sendak's lips at his plausible and glib explanation, he felt, wearily, it was the best he could do. Sendak snorted.

Sarssen was thinking about that when purple eyes opened and Bethel sat abruptly, his head in his hands.

Sarssen? he said muzzily, blinking.

Deeply sleeping, were you not, Beth? Have you met your dragon? Long fingers delved and writhed through the already disordered mane.

Yes, came the muffled reply, as though Bethel were drunk. Sarssen grinned understandingly.

I know how you feel. I was left very drowsy the first time Elbaroth came to me. Bethel muttered something incoherent. Wake up, Beth. Bethel coughed, rubbed his eyes, then coughed again and stretched.

Sorry, he mumbled. I didn't think I was so weary.

Meeting dragons can leave one enervated, Beth. Do you like your dragon?

When the purple eyes became dreamy and luminously soft, Sarssen saw, apart from the beard, the boy again. Bethel looked like the child a warrior had just set eyes on.

Yes, I do. He's my greatsire's dragon.

Is he indeed? murmured Sarssen, his eyes with as faraway an expression as Bethel's. Then he answers to Dramas, Beth, and has awaited you a long time. Tell me about him.

Sarssen listened to the voice that was so musical and soothing, and he saw yet another step forward for this young man. He didn't interrupt or ask questions. When Bethel stopped speaking, neither man said anything. The two just sat, as they often did, in companionable silence and it was only with dusk coming that Bethel stirred himself and pulled the estibe into his lap.

~~~

Two days later, Sarssen rode out to the Sinhalien alone, this time hopeful of meeting the leader of the plains people, something both Lute and Dase assured him would happen. Those back in Andish watched the warrior be instantly surrounded by Sinhalien horsemen and disappear. The warrior didn't feel threatened or uncomfortable among these people who reminded him, in odd little ways, of both Shadowlanders and desert folk. That thought intrigued him. But neither did he take their good-natured smiles for granted. He knew a smile could shield sleight of hand, and the daggers these men wore weren't purely decorative. Often the smiles didn't touch the eyes, something that made him wary.

He rode with the group of riders for close on an hour he judged, few words exchanged, before they came to an unexpected halt and signalled to him to dismount. He wasn't where he and the twins were taken before where they spoke with only one man. The plainsfolk had moved.

The Sinhalien who talked with him days previously came from an obtusa. These obtusa were skin-like beehives, something akin to what both the Wildwind tribes and the Gnosti used, only the Gnosti didn't use hide. The Sinhalien greeted Sarssen affably enough, but as he led the warrior past numerous obtusas and neatly arranged fires, there was no smile in the grey eyes. As they walked, Sarssen was repeatedly asked questions he'd been asked before, but this time he was left alone at a fireside where he was told to sit and wait. Within minutes, he became conscious of an older woman who squatted beside him and held out a cup. She nodded at him.

Drink, brasangan of our daughter, she said, quietly.

Sarssen stared at her. He tried to read the grey eyes but met nothing but cool gravity. He bent his head and drank.

Is it drugged? he asked, as he drained the cup and returned it. He didn't see the faint flicker of a smile.

No, young man, it's not drugged. You've already experienced that, haven't you? It could've killed you. You've also been truth-read. Sarssen looked up at the now standing woman.

A retrogressive and progressive seer, he uttered softly, in astonishment. You are rare, plainswoman. The smile touched the grey eyes.

You've talent, young one. I feel it about you. You're an Adept and god-touched, too, aren't you? Sarssen nodded. She stooped again and stared at him before she flinched back. You're more than Adept, aren't you? she exclaimed. The drug that nearly killed you is only administered in exceptional circumstances. It's potent but opens the... Her voice trailed away, but she stared down at Sarssen, fascinated.

Yes. Though I mean no harm to anyone. I never have. He felt a hand on his arm but didn't look up.

It took me by surprise, young one. You don't alarm me. On the contrary, you've a gentleness about you that's uncommon in one of your kind. I find you unusual. You're called Sarssen, aren't you? Sarssen nodded. And has the drink warmed you?

Yes. I thank you.

Now, if you will, you'll come with me. I answer to Sagi.

Soji spoke of you, replied the warrior, rising and turning to look down at the woman. She has much affection for you.

She's our daughter, said Sagi, smoothing out the material of her skirt. As a seer she has unusual abilities that continue to grow. She teaches those among us with ability so we develop new skills. She's a blessing. Where does the talent come from, Sarssen?

I am unable to explain that. Latent talent was there, as you know, but I cannot help but wonder if Soji's experiences not only shaped her, but also moulded her ability in a quite unique way. I do not believe another Soji will be born. Sagi considered Sarssen for long moments.

Like yourself, Sarssen, a gift to Ambros from a most unlikely paternal source? She saw the shaken head, gave a laugh and patted his arm in a motherly way. You're too modest, Sarssen. I can't explain what it is about you, young man, but there can't be any doubt you're siblings. Again Sarssen shook his head.

Maybe it is the blondness?

No. Sagi shook her head decisively. It's in the expression when you both look thoughtful. Come, Sarssen. You're awaited.

Sarssen followed the tall woman to an obtusa set apart from the others. Sagi stooped to enter but Sarssen was well-nigh bent double. When he straightened, his head touched the roof in a way that made him automatically hunch.

You're very tall, like the Samars, observed a deep, cool voice. Sarssen looked down into appraising, tranquil grey eyes that held his calmly. Asok sat on a mat, cross-legged and completely at his ease. Will you not sit? Sarssen noticed Sagi was gone. He sat, his knees drawn almost up to his chin and hands clasped about them. He was much too big to comfortably sit cross-legged though he did so as a youth. I'm Asok, came the composed voice. Sarssen was aware of a long scrutiny. Impassively, he sat waiting. Not a man to be hurried, murmured Asok, in amused tones. And you are?

Sarssen.

Is your status as a warrior not important to you then?

Not especially, plainsman.

Tell me about yourself.

The tale is a boring one, demurred Sarssen.

Let me be the judge of that, suggested Asok, gently but firmly. With a sigh, Sarssen began.

I am the result of the rape of a Yazd mother by a Churchik warrior father. My father was Alleghy, warrior lord of Lodestok's. My mother and I were enslaved on a caravan. She died and I was given to the warlord as a gift. I remained the warlord's slave almost until he died. I have talent.

That's very brief, Haskar, isn't it? Sarssen noted Asok knew precisely who sat in front of him. His use of the title showed that.

Yes, he acknowledged. I told you it was boring.

So you did. The warrior saw amusement in depthless eyes that continued to study him. He remained quiet. "And I'm no fool, Sarssen. Let me tell you about yourself, young man. Yes, you're the product of rape, but I also believe your mother was a reader-seeker of some skill and was renowned as a healer in Hissue where her skills were valued. You inherited talent from her. You were unknown to Alleghy. We believe you were protected from him from birth so you could be taught as much as it was dared to a small child. It was Alleghy who gave you to the warlord and saw you enter slavery. You were barely eight cycles old, a mere small child.

You lived a hellish existence, my young friend, as the warlord's slave, and suffered appalling abuses we'll gloss over. You were made a warrior and survived all those long cycles by sublimating your talents and by making yourself indispensable to your master's comfort and peace of mind. The warlord came, we gather, to care very deeply for you. You were taught by an Adept, named Morsh, who travelled with the warlord. It will come as no surprise to me to learn you have, at the least, Adept status within the Conclave, but you can confirm or deny that. A small chuckle escaped Sarssen at that. It brought a gleam to the grey eyes. You then undertook the protection of a Samar boy in ways that nearly repeatedly cost you your life and you taught him, too, because, like you, he had extraordinary talent and had to survive as you did. You came to care for that boy. When he was made a son of the warlord's, beside you, that child became your brother in every way. That boy is Bethel, brother of Lute and the young Saturim.

You've survived wars, Sarssen. But most of all, you've walked a knife edge for most of your life as you had to constantly adapt or die, so I would suggest to you that your inheritance has come at a very high price indeed. Perhaps, had you been asked, you'd never have wished to pay it. So, having said all that, and I haven't mentioned your courage in allowing your talent to be openly recognised within Churchik society, would you be honest with me, young man?"

Sarssen stared into shadowy grey eyes that changed colour constantly, from light dun to dark slate, most like an ocean.

I shall try, he compromised, on a smile. It is not in my nature or experience to freely offer trust, but I have always tried to be honest. My father once said I would be honest though it led to my swinging on a gibbet. I believe he spoke true.

Spoken like a cautious and intelligent man, commented Asok. I'm no threat to you, Sarssen, none at all. Perhaps that may help.

Nor am I a threat to you or your people, plainsman.

No, concurred Asok, contemplatively. That's despite apparent power that hangs about you like a mantle, young one. It's not threatening - your people, however, are.

I regret that.

So do we, answered Asok. We deplored what became of your people. They weren't always so. Tell me, are you mage?

In the way of Lute?

Yes.

No, I think not, though I believe I may be mage one day.

And you're more than Adept, aren't you, young one? Asok watched a dull redness colour Sarssen's pale cheeks, but the warrior stayed impassive and controlled.

It is not in my power to answer that, Sarssen responded, with charming frankness. His candidly, wide opened eyes meeting Asok's made the plainsman give a fruity chuckle. All you need know is I am Adept.

Then tell me, Adept, how well did you know Lute before he was freed from Malekim's malign influence?

From the time the boy came to the northern camp, plainsman, I learned to know him just a little. He was kept apart, isolated, and stayed very close to his master once Malekim arrived in the camp. Lute was not even encouraged to be with Beth. In fact the mage actively discouraged contact, so I saw him from a distance rather than came to know him. It was Beth who refused to be put off.

The younger son, the musician?

The boy enslaved with me, yes.

Was Lute as Soji described? Sarssen raised an eyebrow. Frail, tormented, and without apparent life?

Oh yes, murmured Sarssen, immediately. He was scarcely alive that boy, a shell if you like, the essence slowly wrung out of him by an exacting and singularly vicious master. He was a tragic figure, if that is what you ask.

How much talent has he?

Hard to judge, replied Sarssen, promptly. Malekim taught what he wished the young one to know, so Lute's power could link in with, and enhance, his own. Nothing was shown the boy for Lute's sake alone. That is not the mage's way. So it is difficult to assess what Lute's power is based on, how at source it is, or whether Malekim created something that will go with him. Sarssen paused and frowned. Not the latter, I think, because Lute's power hasn't noticeably diminished. We must just accept that Lute has considerable power not yet tapped, like Beth.

Is it a force for good or for evil? Sarssen didn't hesitate.

For good, he said, directly. Malekim didn't specifically try to shape Lute in his image, thank the gods, because Lute's primary function was to augment his master's skills. He had no intention of letting Lute survive beyond the final, crucial meld, plainsman, so there would have been no point in the mage wasting precious time and energy in moulding someone other than to shape them to that specific purpose. Lute was as expendable as a limp wineskin. Asok stared thoughtfully at the ground.

A very cruel use of a boy, warrior, wasn't it? Sarssen nodded. And the twin we have met? The Saturim - has he equivalent talent? His forehead now quite furrowed, Sarssen thought long before answering slowly,

He is not mage, if that is what you ask, but he has another form of talent that touches me. The whole family seems to be affected in one way or another.

Can you explain?

Not easily. Sarehl, the eldest, has perception that goes beyond the normal and he is, I think, a colossus among men, even if he would vigorously deny that. He is a modest and unassuming man, plainsman, but unique. Like him, Dase has the same ability to understand instantly, to comprehend quite effortlessly what others might be trying -. Sarssen broke off with a sudden whistle of recognition. Of course, he berated himself. He saw Asok regard him with tolerant amusement and curiosity.

What have you just gained insight into, warrior?

Plainsman, Lute is mage and so will Beth be, but where they are mage, Dase and Sarehl have another equally devastating talent that neither is even aware of. I swear I am right.

And what is that?

Empathy, stated Sarssen, bluntly. An abnormal degree of empathy. Their gifts are such I suspect they could not just become another's personality and imagine their experiences with them, they could quite easily manipulate and go forward within the individual as well. Gods, why did I only come to this?

A form of telepathy?

Such as reader-seekers have, plainsman? I am sure you are aware the Conclave has the greatest skill in that area, as do the Shadowlanders, nor, plainsman, would it startle me to find it a skilfully honed practice among your kind. But no, it is a different skill from that. It is an enormous power indeed. Kalor has talked about the youngest brother who is so sensitive he picks up things from people in the oddest and most unexpected ways, quite unconsciously. He did it with his discovery of Malekim's henchman who dogged Chlorien and the mage. Could it be that Brue has a brush stroke from the same canvas? The gods!

And the daughter?

Chlorien is mage, plainsman, indisputably a potentially very powerful mage. Three of the Archmage's greatchildren are mage, plainsman, but the other three have equally unnerving talents that make them formidable indeed.

And they're unaware of these talents?

As empaths? Asok nodded. Totally and utterly.

Then, Sarssen, you would agree this is a conversation that goes no further.

Sarssen lifted his head. His green eyes danced with the strangest light, before the sensation Asok experienced while looking into them left him, and he saw the warrior nodded at him. Asok blinked and became deeply thoughtful. The silence was prolonged because at that moment a young man stooped at the entrance and entered with a tray balanced casually on one hand. He knelt to serve Asok.

Pasangan, he said quietly, his head bent in a way that reminded Sarssen of the southern young. Here, it wasn't an act of submission, but one of respect. The young man was as lithe and graceful as the steppe grasses he grew up among. He turned to serve Sarssen.

Brasangan, he whispered in a muted, patient voice. Sarssen took the cup and wafer that accompanied it.

From Soji's description, I believe you must answer to Asokin, young man. The young head was raised so the warrior could see sombre yet tranquil grey eyes.

That's so, was the reply, before Asokin rose and backed unobtrusively from the obtusa.

Sarssen felt more at ease and stretched out his cramped limbs into a more comfortable position. Nonchalant eyes scanned his very large figure.

You're all built on large lines, aren't you? asked the plainsman, conversationally. The calm observation brought a smile to Sarssen's face. That comes from an ancient heritage.

Indeed, we appear clumsy beside folk like yourselves. Sarssen would think of Asok's comment at a later time when the words would come back to tease him.

You're not as big-boned as most we've seen.

That is the Yazd in me, commented Sarssen, reflectively rubbing the tip of his nose.

Probably, agreed Asok, placidly. The young Saturim now - is he typical of his race? Soji told us repeatedly that Lute was exceptionally tall.

Not entirely true of all Samars, though they tend to be generically tall. The twins are exceptionally so, but then so is Sarehl. They are supposed to take after their sire who was dark and tall, and from all accounts their greatsire was the same build. The boy I befriended tops them all. He has an inch or so on me.

Are Samar's dark like the Saturim? Sarssen shook his head on a definite negative.

Quite the reverse, plainsman. Most I have seen are not blond, but not dark either, more in-between with brown hair and eyes. Dase has the black eyes like ebon that Sarehl has, that colouring coming directly from the father. I believe it was considered most unusual in Ortok.

Everything about them appears to be abnormal, remarked Asok, dispassionately observing the matting. Sarssen's sudden laugh made him look up. Warrior?

Nothing, apologised the warrior, with a likeable grin. It is just that some of us have spent cycles trying to come to grips with this family and what they mean for Ambros, so your description has an inescapable irony I find amusing. Indeed, abnormal seems an understatement.

Then I join the jest, young man, smiled Asok, with a friendly nod. Drink, warrior. We have much to discuss. He waited while Sarssen obliged, then went on seriously, I ask that you tell me everything you can recall from the time the warlord attacked us and was repulsed at Lake Kanibadam. Were you there?

Sarssen gave a convulsive shiver that put the humour in his eyes to instant flight. He may not have been present at the fights with the Sinhalien, but he was the boy who accompanied Lodestok on that last trek to look at burned plains that spread for miles in all directions. He'd never forget the treatment he experienced at his master's hands that night and for nights afterwards, the memory etched at the heart of what Sarssen was. Asok saw the fleeting pain that touched the warrior's face, and would've commented on it had there not been something in Sarssen's expression that warned him of anguish too terrible to be recalled in words.

No, answered Sarssen, through dry lips. I went with my master later to look at the burned lands.

I see, said Asok and he thought he did. I ask you because you're clear-sighted, look to the future, and have a maturity that goes far beyond your cycles. Speak to me, Sarssen.

Sarssen leaned back on his elbows. He began to talk slowly, as if recall was elusive at times, his voice quiet, his words direct and when they flowed more easily they came fluently. Asok sat motionless. His expressive eyes stayed fixed to a face that was, in its own way, more than handsome; it was aesthetic and evenly modelled with the high brow decorated by a large, rich blue stone. Asok recognised it as the same as adorned Lodestok's forehead. It was the stone of Valshika.

The warrior's eyes were wide spaced and well opened, the flawless green of them suggesting depths of untapped talent and making them as unreadable as any eyes Asok had seen. The nose was classical and straight, without the aquiline trend that characterised the Churchik, but was also lacking in the warlord who was a most fine-looking warrior. The cheekbones were more prominent and higher than one would expect in a Churchik and the mouth, finely moulded, curved upwards at the corners in a way entirely un-southern.

The very faint, jagged scar from eye to ear was partially hidden under a long, blond beard with reddish-gold tints and the moustache was clipped short above the upper lip. Here was no lush, drooping moustache affected by the warlord. This man's lineaments lacked the bulk of the usual warrior - though he had the height and more, plus the breadth of shoulder, he lacked the massive barrel chest and heavily muscled thighs common to his race. The man gave the appearance of being physically strong, athletic and probably possessed the admirable prowess associated with his kind.

Asok took in the branded tongue that he fleetingly saw, only once, and that was enough to painfully confirm for him that he spoke with an emancipated slave who was a survivor indeed. The hair wasn't the yellow blond of the Churchik either. Asok reflected idly that the ashen colour was more akin to steppe colouring than the Churchik, and he noted it was properly swept back in the warrior queue.

And though Asok knew warriors walked about festooned with assorted jewellery, still, Sarssen's made him blink. The warrior wasn't just ornamented with the multiples of everything, from ear-rings to necklaces and bracelets, he had a ring adorning every finger, and the heavily jewel encrusted collar that he wore was very fine and worth a fortune. Asok considered the warrior must be very sure of his skills to flaunt such wealth abroad.

And so Asok listened. Refreshments were brought and consumed. Asok didn't rush the warrior, nor, when Sarssen paused or became singularly reflective, did the plainsman speak or interrupt. He left Sarssen to pick up where he left off. When the warrior finally fell silent, Asok stretched.

I'm honoured by your confidences, young one, he said. May I now ask a few questions? When Sarssen lifted a hand and rubbed it across his eyes in a gesture of tiredness before he nodded, Asok went on, You've not been permitted much rest since your return from Samar, have you?

No, admitted Sarssen, altering his position.

The attack orchestrated by your enemy Correc has been completely dealt with?

Yes, answered Sarssen, amused and interested that the plainsman should know so much. Clearly he had well informed sources.

And your wound is healed?

I do not notice it, replied Sarssen, opening his eyes very wide and staring contemplatively at the plainsman. Asok just smiled calmly at him.

Now, my young friend, I would like answers to questions that have puzzled me, things maybe you can explain.

Sarssen found the questions searching and perceptive and they made him answer as honestly as he could. From the inscrutable face opposite he had no idea how his answers were received. Again a long silence fell in the obtusa while grey eyes continued to dwell on the warrior. Then Asok spoke decisively.

"I offer this, warrior. Consider carefully before you reject my proposal. As a pledge of the new warlord's good intentions, he sends his son to us to remain with us until a peace is signed. Our daughter's inheritance is to be transferred in its entirety to us, this being especially so because some of the land we've taken in Kerulen and Nuur belonged to Alleghy and won't be given back. That land, plus whatever else Alleghy left Soji, will be put in trust for Soji's children. This would be seen as a gesture of goodwill from the Churchik.

We will withdraw to within a five mile distance of the base of the mountains, that being the new boundary. We always claimed the mountains as ours, but now it will be formalised in a treaty of peace. We'll accept a Churchik ambassador who may carry arms but none of his escort may do so - if they come, they do so in trust. Lastly, Soji's death sentence must be commuted so there's no stain on either her or her children and she must be free, should she choose, to travel throughout Churchik lands.

We demand nothing else, and we want nothing else. When we withdraw, it will be completely. An ambassador is welcome, but, for a time, we shall not reciprocate. It's our way and has to be understood. Asok looked placidly across at the warrior in expectation of a response. It was slow in coming. You hesitate, Sarssen. Why is that? We cannot trust the Churchik until we see evidence of their good faith."

It is not that. That is understood. Sarssen again rubbed his eyes. They felt grainy.

Tell me, invited Asok.

It is your demand concerning Lute.

What of it? Sarssen wet his lips.

The young man is precious to the warlord.

That also is understood.

The boy has suffered much over the cycles, in indescribable ways you may not comprehend. I could not agree to compound his griefs.

He wouldn't be hurt, warrior.

Haskar Kher would kill without thought for the consequences should he think Lute is threatened.

Yes, young one, I believe he would and justifiably so. His love for the young man deserves respect. The Saturim respects the Suldan for the very same reason. So I can only ask, what else can Kher offer us as a pledge, other than this son who means so much to him?

Believe me, said Sarssen, shrugging helplessly, I will do my best. I can do no more than that.

Assure the warlord his son will face no danger. On the contrary, I think he needs time with his daughter. She certainly needs time with him.

One thing you may not know, warned Sarssen. Lute has mated with the Sophysun's daughter. Lute must return within a given time span to be accepted as the father, as a fully fledged mate, and as a member of the Wildwinds.

Then, returned Asok, gently but inflexibly, the warlord will wish to accelerate the signing of a treaty. I'm agreeable.

CHAPTER TWO

By the time Sarssen returned to Andish it was dark and the waiting haskars and High Council had long dined and drifted off to entertainments arranged for their benefit by their host. Riding back slowly, Sarssen hoped his mount had the sense to head for home. He closed his eyes and only opened them when he saw the lights on the gates yawning above him and heard the scraping of extremely heavy bolts that allowed him access. He felt drained and didn't look forward to confronting the very real anger he'd experience when he spoke to Kher.

He made his unescorted way to his chamber, a flaming torch in one hand and the other brushing away at slaves who rushed to assist his tired progress. He paused on the threshold and blinked at it being so warm in the room and so comfortingly lighted. Placing his torch in a wall sconce, he saw a fire burned steadily and advanced gratefully towards it, chilled hands out to it. Still enveloped in cloak, he crouched.

I have sent for a bath, said a voice behind him. Hands gently went to the cloak. Here's mulled wine for you. Give me your cloak.

Sarssen rose and turned to see Bethel hold out a goblet to him. Smiling appreciatively he took it, relinquished the cloak and crossed to the chair drawn up close to the blaze.

What a caring, thoughtful man you are, Beth, he murmured. I thank you for this. He watched Bethel kneel in front of him so he could haul off one soaked boot after another and place them to one side of the fire.

You're cold, Sarssen, and probably famished as well. I've arranged for food to follow your bath.

Will you join me to eat, little brother, or have you done so? Bethel shook his head then rested against Sarssen's knees, a habit that would never leave him.

I did not eat. I waited for you.

Foolish fellow, said Sarssen affectionately, his hand running through the dark curls springing free. You must be starving.

Yes, I am, grinned Bethel. He turned to stare into the fire, only reacting when there was a knock on the door that opened to admit slaves carrying hot water. The bath full and well-nigh overlapping the sides, Bethel tested it. Very warm, he advised the warrior. Sarssen quickly stripped and sank into the water with a sigh of pleasure.

Did you by any chance bring your estibe?

Of course, responded Bethel, promptly.

Then play for me, Beth. I would appreciate it. It is so soothing.

Sarssen lounged in the water, lazily watching Bethel settle himself. First the young man threw more wood on the fire and got it blazing again, then sat cross-legged, as he invariably did from the time he was enslaved at ten cycles of age. As the long, sensitive fingers plucked strings coaxingly and music began to spill about the room, Sarssen saw Bethel as a boy, with the same curtain of hair and intensity in the purple eyes when he glanced up every so often. The musician was away in another world. Being honest with himself, Sarssen had to admit how utterly bereft he'd be without this young man in his life. Thinking that, he sank lower, let the water flow about him and felt the peace of mind Bethel's music always engendered in him.

Later, amused by how ravenous Bethel was, Sarssen ate well.

When did you eat last, Beth? You seem starved, he observed, watching Bethel wrestle a cob to submission and strip it cleanly. Bethel glanced up from the food, shrugged eloquently and confessed he'd forgotten.

Before midsun, I think, he added, pensively. The remains of the cob was devoured and Bethel took food from another platter.

Gods, Beth, no wonder you eat so.

Sarssen sliced more meat that he passed to Bethel just as the young man crammed a generous portion of vegetable loaf into his mouth. He had to chew vigorously before he could converse further or ask any more questions, so Sarssen just good-humouredly filled the younger man's goblet and let him eat. After that, he quietly outlined what had occurred with the Sinhalien. The sparkling gaiety that characterised their meal disappeared and the mirth in the big eyes died abruptly at the mention of the demands concerning Luton. There was a quick shake of the dark head.

Lute has suffered enough, Sarssen. I don't think that's reasonable, Bethel said in a flat voice.

I would not argue with you, Beth, responded Sarssen, absently spearing a piece of meat that he lifted to his mouth. Asok apparently thinks it is the one sign of good will he can rely upon. I can see his point of view.

The warlord will not hear of it, will he? Bethel fidgeted with his goblet. Does this man Asok know what Lute means to the warlord?

Oh yes, said Sarssen. He is very well aware, Beth, have no doubts about that. That is why he offers this option. In a way it cannot be refused. Asok is an intelligent and far-sighted man, Beth, and not one to fool with. He has much wisdom and makes a formidable adversary. I begin to think he never wanted the lands he took.

No? questioned Bethel, intrigued.

No. He took them so he could use them to bargain with at a later date that suited him. That time is now and ensures, he hopes, a lasting peace for his people. A shrewd man, Beth.

And this with Lute? He does this to force the issue of peace?

Exactly, Beth. That is so.

It is shrewd, acknowledged Bethel, slicing his meat, but it will gravely anger the warlord.

That, Beth, is what I am afraid of, returned the warrior. Bethel stared moodily into the fire.

Lute has to go back to the desert and he has to go in a short space of time. He turned questioningly back to the warrior and saw how thoughtful Sarssen was.

Asok is counting on that, the warrior answered coolly.

He watched Bethel take in a deep breath then fall silent. Both men mulled over the conversation, neither offering any comment when a slave entered to remove empty platters and to place fruit, jellies, creams and filled pastries in front of them. Another jug of wine joined the first one now almost empty and finger bowls were set to the side of each diner. A very large dish of assorted sweetmeats was placed in the centre of the table before the slave withdrew, a shy smile coming to his strained face at the warriors turning as one to smile and thank him for his trouble. He bowed and scuttled from the room.

Bethel helped himself to a pastry and munched thoughtfully. His free hand was at his temple where the long fingers twined in the unplaited curls, pulling them full out then letting the curls bounce back. It was a very Bethel characteristic. He'd done this for as long as Sarssen had known him, a boyhood trait that would never leave the young man. It was as much part of his individuality as Luton's shrug, nod or shake of the head.

While Bethel's attention was elsewhere, the warrior studied him. He considered the line from the eye to the ear was barely discernible, the scar so very faint you had to look for the slave mark, so individually Lodestok's. The beard was long and silky, more like the twins' than Sarehl's that was coarser where it grew over his facial scar, and the purple eyes still shone with that rare and enticing luminosity that so fascinated a warlord master. All Bethel's gestures suggested natural grace and he was indisputably as elegant as his elder brothers.

The effeminate delicacy was still there in the features, but was an odd contrast to the undeniable strength in the framework of one who would be a powerful man like Daxel. The musician walked with a sense of purpose. The innocence was tempered by experience, some of it cruel, and by a sense of self-worth. Bethel matured every day.

Sarssen thought none would be wise to read the young warrior as simply an ingénue because of his wide eyes, his gentleness of manners and his still girlishly beautiful looks. A taste of the mature Bethel was seen in his dealings with Agge, and, though the young man had reacted unconsciously, Sarssen and Kher both saw the adult who was probably not so unlike his greatsire, reflected Sarssen to himself. Bethel was certainly akin to his eldest brother. Sarssen thought of his melds with Chlorien. Asok had spoken of Sarssen's mantle of power. Sarssen saw it coming to Bethel with each passing season.

Sarssen knew the young man was rarely intimidated by authority or cowed. Bethel gained in assurance the more he was with his brothers. He walked tall and straight, his head only bent when he was among haskars. But what Sarssen sensed most, was that in a few cycles from now, Bethel would stand equal in any society on Ambros and the potent but untapped power that began to hang about him, would endow him with unmatched confidence and authority. Like Sarehl, Bethel would, in time, stand above other men. His gifts made that inevitable.

The warrior knew he'd always see and know the boy, but he suspected, as cycles passed, there would be few who did. Bethel wouldn't ever bully, threaten or intimidate, nor would he outwardly change that much, but his developing talent would set him apart, as Luton's would. It would make others wary and respectful. Sarssen suspected all Bethel's siblings would find the same thing in time. Only when the musician was wrapped in his music would men feel he was truly one of them. As Sarssen contemplated these things he knew he saw himself and not just Bethel, and his lips twisted in a wry smile of self recognition.

He saw Bethel consume several pastries and now peel a usi, discarding the skin and holding the fruit to his mouth to catch the very sweet juice.

You look a boy! exclaimed the warrior, with an amused grin. Why not just eat it whole and that way you will catch all the juice? This way it will roll down your sleeve!

Anything to oblige, twinkled Bethel, suiting the action to the word.

It kept him fully occupied for several moments while Sarssen quietly ate through three pastries. He declined the fruit pushed to him and settled instead on the sweetmeats. They didn't move from the table until Sarssen pushed back his chair, dabbled his fingers in the water bowl and dried them on the napkin.

Then he rose in a leisurely way, stretched, and calmly replaced the jewellery he removed prior to bathing. Pushing Lodestok's gift to him onto his finger he stared gravely down at the huge stone, his expression sombre as it went from that to the ring that symbolised he was made a warlord's son. Then he lifted his head to look across at the lounging Bethel.

Keep the fire going for me, will you, Beth?

Of course, Sarssen. I'll be waiting.

~~~

The senior warriors gathered in one of Esok's suras, eating and drinking, some from the High Council, had gathered privately and deliberately. Their expressions were grim and uncompromising, their discussion long and sometimes acrimonious, as was the way of the warrior, but reluctant consensus appeared to have been reached. It was unwillingly by some who wished to act now.

So we agree on essentials, do we not? asked one haskar, pursing his lips.

It appears so, came the uncompromising answer.

But there is no action necessary at this time?

Not at the moment, though there is still much I find disconcerting and threatening.

As do we all, growled another.

So we wait to see what the outcome is?

We do, though that does not alter the concern we all have concerning the future for the Churchik. That remains unresolved.

For the moment. The tone was one of menace. Samars must be stopped.

And what about those not with us?

They will face us at the appropriate time.

Not all know we meet – in fact only the few of us here. I believe the time is not now, we should act with caution and this discussion does not go beyond this chamber.

All present rose as one, huge men of overbearing threat who genuflected to the most senior among them who stayed, silent, as the others left the sura. There was a brooding quality about the figure who sat contemplatively, shrouded in shadow, before he, too, rose, and with an unpleasant smile stalked uncompromisingly from the room. The door closed behind him. He rejoined all those enjoying Esok's hospitality, but he entered the room alone.

~~~

Sarssen found Kher in the warlord's suite, the older man rested in a chair, a book in his lap and Luton lounged on the floor at his feet. The young man lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, a very large book open in front of him. The fire blazed and this intimate room was extremely warm with heavy curtains to block out the seeping cold and both carpet and rugs densely piled. Kher politely put his book to one side when he saw Sarssen stand quietly and unobtrusively at the door. Luton glanced up with an amiable grin then went back to his book.

Come in, Sarssen, invited Kher. I have been waiting for you.

I bathed and ate, my lord.

Sensible, commented Kher, his eyes scanning the tall figure that approached and sat. Lute, summon a slave, would you?

Luton rolled over, snapped shut his book, rose gracefully and crossed to the rope that hung by the entrance. The door opened immediately. Luton spoke briefly and quietly to the slave then sauntered back to fling himself into a chair next to Kher's. Nothing else was said until the slave served refreshments and was dismissed, then Kher glanced speculatively at Sarssen.

Speak of what passed today with the Sinhalien.

Once again Sarssen repeated himself, briefly, but to the point. Occasionally, the warlord nodded or made a comment of approval. He made no attempt to argue much of what the Sinhalien demanded and was quite content to let Soji's full inheritance pass to her adopted people. In fact, Sarssen thought he saw relief touch the pale blue eyes at the suggestion. It removed a difficult problem in the easiest possible way. Kher raised an eyebrow at being told the Sinhalien would pull back but only to within five miles of the base of the mountain.

Is this negotiable?

No, my lord, answered Sarssen, shaking his head.

How many city-states does that mean we will have to completely surrender?

None of any significance, my lord. Only two small towns will be affected and they are mostly empty as a result of the conflict. The Sinhalien may utilise them as guard posts perhaps.

I see. Please continue.

My lord, the Sinhalien are sixty or more miles into Churchik lands. I believe their offer to withdraw to five miles is a strong indication they have honourable intentions and it is a gesture of good will. They could demand at least half those lands. Kher nodded.

I do not argue with you. He gave a sudden shrug. It returns almost all Kerulen and Nuur land, so we can be grateful for that.

He was content for an ambassador to go to the Sinhalien though somewhat disappointed there'd be no immediate reciprocity, and was more than amenable to lift the order demanding Soji's execution. He told Sarssen Soji was welcome to travel her homelands unmolested and merely added benevolently that the sentence should have been revoked earlier had he thought about it. Other aspects of Asok's demands were discussed and essentially agreed upon. At that point Sarssen became quiet in a way that made the warlord stare owlishly at him.

And the final demand, Haskar? There is something else because methinks it troubles you. So far everything you have outlined and discussed with me is reasonable and the other minor terms and agreements you mentioned can be sorted easily enough. So what is it?

There is one other condition, my lord.

Yes? The voice had gone cold. Sarssen glanced across at Luton, shrugged helplessly and spoke bluntly.

My lord, Asok demands that your son goes to him and remains with his people, until the peace is signed, as a pledge of your good intentions.

Kher's reaction was predictable. There was no explosion of fury such as Lodestok would have indulged in. There was a sudden and frightening silence. Instinctively, Sarssen lowered his head