
By Becca Abbott
SL Publishing Group
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
CetheCopyright © 2009 by Rebecca McLaughlinAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.Published 2009 by SL Publishing GroupIBSN: 1-440-444420www.slpublishinggroup.comFirst SL Publishing Group paperback printing: November 2009Printed in the U.S.A.Text © 2009 by Rebecca McLaughlinCover art © 2009 by Feimo
Cethe is dedicated to My People, Kate and Diana, for all their encouragement and support.
I am Loth, God of the Earth, the Seas and the Heavens. As I have created all things, so do all things move according to My Will. To Men, most beloved of my creations, do I hold a Covenant: Give to Me what is Mine and I shall defend and uplift you. Be righteous in My eyes, do no harm, defend the weak, exalt My Name, and I shall see that your children's children continue, fruitful and strong, until the End of Days.
The Covenant of Loth
Just as there is night and day, dark and light, good and evil, so are the powers of magic found in the twain. Lothria is that which comes from the Bright Stream, named for God, and filled with His power of good. k'Na is the power of destruction, manifesting only in those who turn their faces from His Light. Cursed are the lost souls who seek the Dark Stream to raise themselves up and to destroy that which Loth has set in place. Cursed be the naragi, who would make themselves gods and bring catastrophe upon us all!
from: Catechisms,
Fourth Edition, Year of Loth's Dominion 1488
A demon wind raced down from the north, driving rain and thunder before it. Stefn Eldering limped up the tower stairs, his bad foot aching. It was always a chore to navigate the steep, winding stair, but the solitude waiting for him at the top was worth the effort.
Shia's north tower overlooked old Targa Road, now little more than a weed-choked track. Long ago, the nara had gone back and forth on it, traveling between Tanyrin and their lost cities north of the great Lothwall mountains. Stray cattle or herds of black-tailed deer were the only travelers on Targa these days. The watch tower had become a catchall for broken furniture, trunks of old clothing---and a sanctuary where a despised younger son might escape from the taunts and derision of his more robust kin.
Stefn labored up the last of the steps to the landing, pausing a moment to catch his breath. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he stopped, heart lurching at the sight of the man standing before a window, looking south. Brother Michael!
The priest turned quickly around. "Master Stefn!"
Dismayed, Stefn considered retreating.
"I'm sorry! Is this your special place?" The cleric indicated a chair and reading table set by the window. "If so, I apologize for trespassing."
"It's all right," replied Stefn warily. "I just come here sometimes to read."
"So I see." Brother Michael bent and picked up the copy of Harrington's lying open on the table. He lifted an eyebrow.
"Strong stuff."
The book had been written before the Reformation. Much of what it discussed had been considered outright heresy by Brother William, Brother Michael's predecessor.
Instead of issuing a stern rebuke, however, Brother Michael only set the book down and bowed very low.
"I'm sorry, Master Stefn. I should have asked permission before I began wandering about."
Disarmed, Stefn replied, "N-no ... It's all right." He glanced over the cleric's stooped shoulder. Through the window and out along the road, he saw movement.
"Are you certain?" Brother Michael came nearer. He was a plain man of indeterminate middle-age, already shuffling like an elder. His brown hair fell into his face, lank and dull. Spectacles with thick, smoked glass obscured a gaze usually turned down in pious humility.
Stefn's looked again to the window. This time, there was no mistake. Men! Men on horseback! A hunting party gone astray? Stefn stepped around the priest and threw open the casement, leaning out to see better. Surely there were too many riders for a mere hunting party!
"Bandits!" he cried in sudden realization. "By Loth, Brother! Those are bandits! We must tell!"
But suddenly, he could not move. A voice came from very far away, rhythmic and ominous. His own words stumbled and went silent. Horrified, he could do nothing but stare straight ahead, listening to the rustle of long robes as the cleric went to the window and closed it. Brother Michael stood a moment, staring through the dirty glass.
Then he turned. Without hurry, he walked back to Stefn. The air shimmered around him. He reached up and removed his spectacles. For the first time, Stefn saw his eyes clearly: they were a unique, silvery gray. Narani gray. A taint!
The false priest reached out and brushed back Stefn's dark hair. Helpless, the young nobleman could only glare back at him.
"What a pity you had to come up here just now." Even Brother Michael's voice had changed. It was stronger, colder, without a trace of the priest's former diffidence.
Why had Stefn thought him middle-aged? He wasn't. He was only a few years older than Stefn himself and inhumanly handsome. Loth! T'was h'naran witchcraft!
The taint's smile sent chills up Stefn's spine. "Death is coming to the House of Eldering," he said softly, "and we wouldn't want you to raise the alarm, now would we?"
"There it is!"
The flaming arrow hung against the dark before winking out, a single star in the starless night. Prince Severyn Evendor Lothlain lifted his hand. On the road behind him, his men came to attention, accompanied by a rattling of weapons and armor.
"Finally!" Lord Auron Challory, heir to the parish of Drosdor, scowled toward the sky. "It's about to rain!"
"Don't think you're going to dash away to a quiet room to keep dry somewhere," Bradigan Forrest replied good-naturedly. Forrest was already master of his own estates. A marquis, he was distantly related to the royal family. He'd pledged men and money to Severyn's quest, just as the others had. "We've work to do."
Bloody work, thought Severyn, and for which he might yet face the wrath of Loth.
Erich Dore, the third member of Severyn's rebel group, rose in his saddle to look over the open expanse of grasslands to the castle. "How many Hunters are garrisoned here?"
"Fewer than we feared. According to Michael, only one unit," replied Severyn.
"Knightmages?"
"Just one. Eldering himself."
"Maybe we should have brought more men."
"You're not serious, are you?" Auron asked, feigning disbelief. "These are Demon Hunters. They're accustomed to running down helpless h'nara, not defending themselves against actual warriors! As for the earl's lothrian powers..." The dark-haired nobleman's mouth twisted. "From what I hear, he wears the title knightmage as a courtesy only."
"Auron's right. Besides, bringing too many men would raise suspicion," Severyn reminded them. "This is, after all, officially a social visit." He straightened. "Forward!"
They rode through the sparse line of trees, leaving the old road and crossing open fields. Michael had, indeed, seen to Shia's massive front gate. It stood wide open as they approached, revealing a pitched battle in the outer courtyard. Soldiers in Church colors fought desperately against a horde of rough, ragged men. Both groups scattered as Severyn's party thundered into their midst, swords swinging.
And if most of the soldiers who fell thereafter wore uniforms of green and gold---well, how could one tell who struck who in all that smoke and chaos?
Battling through the inner gate, they found more Shian dead and more of Iarhliath's men clearly enjoying their bit of theater. Jerry himself was in the keep, colorfully attired in filthy leather and wool, dispatching a Hunter officer with enthusiasm.
"Allen Eldering?" Severyn asked hopefully, watching the officer collapse.
"Don't think so," replied Jerry, breathless. "I heard he's holed up in the Great Hall with his father and a couple of vassals."
"The servants?"
"Hiding in the attics."
Severyn grinned. More of Mick's canny work, no doubt. Leaving Iarhlaith and his men to continue their lethal play-acting, Severyn went in search of the Great Hall. He found a crowd of "outlaws" gathered before its massive double doors, several of the biggest men using a heavy wooden bench as a battering ram.
The four young noblemen added their strength to the assault on the door and a loud, ominous groan filled the crowded corridor. Wood splintered and cracked and the doors flew open.
Whooping and howling, the invaders poured into the great hall. Met by more Hunters, they fought across the gleaming flagstones toward a small knot of men gathered at the far end of the room.
"HOLD!" the prince shouted. To Forry, he murmured, "See that no one from the castle comes in here."
Nodding, the marquis headed back to the broken doors, calling the soldiers after him. Severyn and Auron continued toward the earl and his companions.
"Prince Severyn?" The old man's sword dipped slightly. "What is this? What are you doing here? The outlaws..." His eyes widened. "They're under your command?"
Severyn stopped just beyond reach of their swords. The earl was a large man and, in spite of his age, powerfully built. His son stood beside him, a miniature version of his father. Severyn didn't recognize the others; local gentry, most likely, vassals to Shia. He saw no sign of the youngest son, the sin-catcher, but that one was Michael's business.
Eldering's heir and the vassals would be no trouble. It was the old knightmage, the edge of his sword already glowing white, who was the immediate problem.
"What treachery is this, Lothlain?" The earl's voice shook with anger and disbelief. "Have you run mad?"
"I'm sorry, my lord, but I have need of Shia. I doubt, somehow, you'll give it peacefully, but I will allow you this one chance: join me or die."
"Join you?" The man looked from Severyn to Auron and back. "In what, my lord?"
"Can't you guess?" drawled Lord Challory. He bared his teeth in a smile with nothing of amusement in it. "It's time for a new king."
"You would kill your own brother and become a Pretender?"
"I hope it won't come to that," admitted Severyn, "but for the good of Tanyrin, Arami must step down. In these times of trial, my lord, the kingdom needs a sovereign who will rule with a strong, but merciful hand. I love my brother, but he does his people no service with his extravagance and neglect."
"Blackguard! Traitor!"
"Don't you see the ruin on the land?" Severyn didn't know why he even tried, but he plowed doggedly on. "Taxes and tithes are bleeding even the highblood dry! The harvests have suffered these past few years and I hear there are food riots in the east. Outlaws, genuine outlaws prey upon the people with impunity. The Church, which should come to the aid of the people, instead makes ever more demands upon them. The foul Penitent laws they would have us enact would enslave our h'naran brothers while taking honest, paying work from the peasants... "
"Brothers? You call the demon-spawn by such a name?" cried one of the vassals. "You are a heretic as well as a traitor! You may have the right of it when it comes to the king, but to speak against the Church? May Loth strike you dead for your blasphemy!"
Severyn knew he should have expected no other reaction. The House of Eldering was bound to the Church by chains of blood and cruelty stretching back to the early fourteenth century. For two hundred years they had given the loyalty that was due to the king, to the powerful Archbishops and the Church's Celestial Council instead. Why should they desire a return to the days when it had been the House of Lothlain wielding the true power? What interest did they have in restoring justice and truth? Even so, it gave Severyn no pleasure to begin his new age with the murder of old men.
"Reason is not blasphemy," he replied. "There was a time when Shia itself was a center of a cultural flowering unlike any ever seen before."
"That was before the Reformation," retorted the earl. "Now Shia is dedicated to the service of Loth and the protection of the kingdom. Your so-called 'cultural flowering' was nothing but an excuse for licentiousness and blasphemy If that is what you intend to put in place of Loth's most holy government, than I have no choice but to stop you!"
"I'm sorry, my lord," Severyn said, bowing. "But Tanyrin will be free, whether you will or not. And Shia," he added, "was never yours to begin with!"
He lifted his sword, bracing himself for what was to come, watching the Earl's blade brighten as lothrian fire infused it. With an incoherent roar, the old earl charged, his companions running after him.
Age had slowed the earl's charge, but the old man was still a knightmage. Eldritch's lightning flashed as Severyn's sword met Eldering's lothrian blade, sending hot sparks in all directions and shaking the prince to the bone. He cursed, desperately parrying another swing.
Enough of holding back! The old man had made his choice! Severyn let the blood-fury come and this time, it was the earl who retreated.
The end was never really in question. His youthful strength and skill found little real opposition in the old man's fading powers. The earl faltered before the flurry of Severyn's assault, his blade dimming as his poor store of lothria was quickly spent. Seeing this, the earl's companions quickly sprang in front of their lord, only to fall in their turn, mowed down like grass before a scythe. Eldering's heir, Lord Allen, threw himself at Severyn, hacking away with considerably less skill than his sire. Severyn cut him down with a savage, lightning thrust.
Enraged by the death of his son, the earl fought with renewed fury, forcing the prince to redouble his defense. It was more luck than skill that gave Severyn the opening he needed. He lunged, running the earl straight through. Eldering fell, spewing blood and curses, and was dead upon the floor a moment later.
The prince and his companions stared at each other in the following silence, shaken in spite of themselves.
"Get used to it," Severyn said finally, trying to catch his breath. "This was easy. If Shia was still as important as in the old days, there would be more men stationed here and more than a single old, drunken knightmage to defend it. We may face far worse before this is over."
No one needed him to elaborate. Deposing his foolish, drug-addled brother was likely to be the easy part. If the Church decided to take offense at his actions, they had powerful weapons at their disposal. The shadow of the knightmages true mages with real and deadly power stretched long and dark over the land. Their number included no less than the Archbishop of Tanyrin himself and the magic they wielded was as great as that of the long-vanished naragi.
"What now?" asked Dore.
A chill swept over Severyn and he whirled around, staring up into the soaring, shadow-filled rafters. There! His gut tightened in alarm. High in the wall on the opposite end of the hall, unnoticed in the gloom, was a small balcony. A slight, dark-haired youth stood on it, looking back at him. Challory cursed softly.
The boy vanished.
"Find him," said Severyn grimly, reckoning he knew who it was. "And whatever you do, don't kill him. Bring him to me alive!"
Too late! Heart pounding, Stefn ran. He barely noticed the shooting pains from his foot as he stumbled along the corridor, his thoughts in chaos. Dead. Dead. Dead. The word beat like some foul chant in his head. Over and over he saw his father fall, slit open from chin to belly, Allen lying in a pool of his own blood.
He didn't remember much after realizing Brother Michael was a witch, the flash of a fist, a burst of pain, then darkness. By the time he'd awakened, the castle gates were open and outlaws swarmed the halls.
Except they weren't outlaws. Some were knights! Sworn to the service of God and king!
He stopped at the end of the corridor, opening the door onto the servant's stair. Muffled voices drifted down, raised in panic. At his back came more shouting and the rattle of armor. Terror pushed him into the dark, cramped stairwell. Noise also came from below and there was no choice but to go up.
If they caught him, he was dead. Stefn knew this as surely as he knew anything. He had witnessed treason and murder and h'naran witchcraft: villainy of the worst order. They would not, could not, let him live. He had to escape!
At the next landing was the servant's quarters; he pushed at the door and found it locked. Voices came to him from the other side, crying and praying, along with the bump and scrape of moving furniture. They had barricaded themselves in! There was no help there. Stefn grabbed hold of the bannister and continued up.
From the attic, he could get out onto the roof. If he was careful, he could make his way across the keep to the west wing and down the drainpipe to the lane. From there, it shouldn't be too difficult to get out of the castle. He knew all the private ways, the inconspicuous gates, the places where trees grew right up to the wall. All he needed was a horse. Maybe he could find one in Shiaton if the traitors hadn't completely overrun it also.
What if they send the taint after me?
The thought was enough to turn his blood to ice water. Stefn remembered vividly that moment in the tower when he had confronted the false priest. A witch in Shia! And defiling the holy garb of a cleric, at that!
He'd seen taints before, mostly captives from his father's raids, pitiful wretches doomed to entertain the soldiers during their drunken victory banquets afterwards. Sometimes, the screams had reached all the way to his room in the north wing. To see one walking freely through his family's ancient home and bearing arms too, was a sickening shock.
Carefully, he made his way through the dark, cluttered attic. Outside, it was raining: he could hear the steady drumbeat on the roof. Water ran in sheets down the narrow windows. The roof slates would be slick and dangerous, but he had no choice.
He was briefly grateful for being undersized as he squeezed out of a window and, on hands and knees, crawled up the steep slant of roof to the top. Gusts of wind drove the rain into his face and soaked him to the skin. Lightning threw the roof into brilliant relief, marking his way. He hadn't taken this route for a long time, but he remembered where to put his hand to find the drainpipe when he reached the end and how to slide down to the adjoining roof below.
Unlike the rest of the house, the west wing had a flat roof. Stefn splashed across pools of rainwater to the far edge. Slithering down another drainpipe, he landed between two large bushes. Lights glowed from the stables across the lane. On his right, the laundry shacks huddled against the inner castle wall. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he ran in their direction.
A figure suddenly loomed from the dark to block his path. Stefn swerved, but the man was after him with frightening speed. A flash of lightning bathed the lane in white and Stefn's heart nearly stopped: Brother Michael!
The taint had been wounded, black blood running down his face. Even so, it didn't seem to slow him down. He reached for Stefn. Panic gave Stefn the strength to knock the hand away, but alas, his own body betrayed him! His bad foot buckled, sending him sprawling across the muddy cobbles.
"Damned fool!" he heard through the rain and thunder.
Stefn was hauled back to his feet. "Let me go!" he spat, trying to pry off the taint's filthy hands. "Don't touch me! Taint! Demon! Witch!"
That earned him an open-handed blow across his face and another trip to the cobbles. His head spun. Ignoring his cursing and useless struggles, the taint dragged Stefn back into the house.
Stefn looked desperately around, but saw no familiar faces. There were only men in royal dark blue and gold standing guard along the corridors, watching dispassionately as the taint hurried him past.
"Where are the servants?" Stefn demanded. "Did you slaughter them, too?"
"A few," replied the taint. "But most were prudent enough to lock themselves in their quarters, as I advised them earlier." He smiled. "As long as they never learn the truth, Prince Severyn has no quarrel with them."
The threat was obvious enough. Stefn swallowed hard and said nothing more.
The Great Hall was deserted except for his father's murderers, now making themselves at home in the earl's favorite place by the fire. Stefn could not resist looking up to the balcony, only to see more of the traitor prince's soldiers.
He ventured a quick glance at the taint and realized it wasn't blood running down the villain's pale face, but brown hair dye! The rain had washed enough away already to show glimpses of platinum beneath.
"Trust Arranz to run the little rat down," said one of the men as they approached the fireplace. He was a rangy fellow with short, dark hair and a lazy, sardonic smile.
The prince rose, face brightening. "Mick! I was just about to send some men in search of you!"
Arranz. Arranz? Shock made Stefn lose his precarious footing. Only the taint's grip on his arm kept him upright. The Arranz?
Alone of all the taints befouling Taniryn, the Arranzes of Blackmarsh had the lawful right to hold their heads high and look humans in the eyes as equals. St. Aramis himself had decreed it nearly three hundred years ago. Moreover, legend claimed Shia itself had once belonged to them, long before they had mingled their blood with humans.
The prince threw an arm over the h'nar's shoulders, drawing him closer to the fire. "Where the devil have you been, man? I was starting to think some Hunter had got you, after all! Loth, you look done in!"
"Too much witching," replied the taint, matter-of-fact. "I need a very long nap."
"Good God, Mick, what the hell is that?" Another of the noblemen pointed at the running dye and hooted, but it was a good-natured teasing. They were uncommonly familiar with the creature.
"My priestly disguise," replied Arranz with a shrug and wry grin. "Too bad. For awhile I was almost respectable."
"Sit his lordship down," another of the traitors said, glancing at Stefn. "Else he'll fall down, I think."
Arranz gave Stefn a rough shove toward a chair beside the rangy nobleman. Stefn nearly missed it, scrabbling wildly before somehow getting seated. The man frowned, peering narrowly at him. "Loth! How old is he? Fifteen?"
"Nineteen," replied Arranz. He took the last empty seat, propping his muddy boots on the low, beautifully-carved, mosaic-topped table. "Just."
Prince Severyn, relieved, settled back. "Good. I hear she's a only year younger than him. I'll not wed a child."
"Wh-what?" whispered Stefn, head buzzing. "Wed?"
They weren't listening. The yellow-haired lord seated beside the prince said, "I wonder if she's as pretty as her brother."
"I hear the lovely Miss Eldering is one of the Lights of Lothmont. The last time I was in town, the other bachelors in my club were raving about her beauty, her grace, her bell-like laughter ... "
"You bastards! Leave Stefanie out of this!" Horrified, furious, Stefn lurched to his feet. The dark-haired nobleman snorted and got up to push him back.
"Auron!" exclaimed the taint, straightening, his boots hitting the floor. "Watch your ... He's not as... Damn!"
The warning came too late. Stefn snatched the nobleman's own belt-knife from its sheath and plunged it into his ribs. The man's eyes widened with astonished disbelief and he toppled sideways.
Stefn kept hold of the knife, slashing wildly as all the traitors drew their swords. A part of him was dimly horrified, knowing there could be only one outcome; the men suddenly surrounding him were grimly intent upon it.
"Don't kill him!" Prince Severyn shouted and narrowly missed a savage slice across his arm for his mercy.
Again, it was the taint who stopped Stefn, who moved with such unnatural swiftness and grace Stefn barely registered the fact before the knife flew from his hand and he was sent crashing to the floor.
"Auron!" The blond nobleman ran to his wounded accomplice, dropping to the floor beside him. "Loth the Great! Challory!" The look he threw Stefn was black with rage. "Kill the puny bastard! The whole damned family are monsters!"
"Get him out of here," snarled the prince.
"What are you talking about?" cried the blond man, "He's killed Challory!"
The third of the traitor lords ran across the Great Hall for help while the blond desperately tried to staunch Lord Challory's bleeding. Stefn tried to get up, but the taint knocked him back down with a careless slam of his heel into Stefn's head. The world dimmed.
When his head cleared, he was face down on the carpet, wrists chained at his back. The room tilted wildly as he was dragged roughly back to his feet and redeposited in the chair.
"Move again," the taint promised softly, "and I'll knock you out."
"Knock him out? Cut his damned throat!" The blond lord, on his knees beside his wounded companion, looked up at Arranz with black rage.
The taint ignored him, joining him on the floor. "Leave off, Forry." His voice was calm, even. "I can at least stop the bleeding."
The blond nobleman seemed to get hold of himself, offering up a weak smile. "Y-yes, of course. Damn. Sorry."
"If we kill him," Prince Severyn added, "the only way to get our hands on his whore of a sister is to petition the Church. It's the law."
"What?"
"The old bastard was a knightmage, remember?"
Arranz set his hands on the wounded lord. Blood welled up between his fingers. Long and fine, they seemed to take on an inner light. The dark-haired man shifted and murmured, but didn't open his eyes.
The prince continued. "The Elderings were one of the original Hunter garrisons. They may have fallen on hard times in recent years, but they're still Churchmen."
Lord Challory groaned, then coughed. The yellow-haired noble leaned back, relieved.
"Thanks, Mick."
Arranz, pale as milk, didn't answer. Instead, he sagged forward over the injured rebel's body. Yellow-hair swore and pulled him away.
Across the hall, the other rebel lord returned, followed by several soldiers.
"Get Challory upstairs and fetch a physician to see to his wound," the prince ordered. "The bleeding is stopped, but he's not out of danger. As for the sin-catcher... " Lothlain turned a look of cold enmity on Stefn. "Get him out of here. He's caused enough trouble."
Leaving Stefn to the rough attentions of his guards, the prince dropped to his knees beside Arranz. The last sight Stefn saw as he was dragged from the hall was the prince holding the taint in his arms as gently as if Arranz was a brother and not, as everyone could plainly see, a monster from deepest hell.
Michael heard the voice in his dream, calling his name. It grew louder. He opened his eyes and the dream vanished. Severyn stood over him. Staring blankly up at the prince, he remembered where he was. "How's Auron?"
Severyn swore, half-laughing, and fell back into the chair beside the bed. "It's about damned time! You've been out for three days! And Auron's fine, of course, although if not for you, your pretty boy would have robbed me of a dear friend. I'm not sure I'd have spared his life in that case."
"Ah. And how is the earl?" Michael's body was still sluggish. Unlike holy lothnia, k'na was no gift of a benevolent god. The Black Stream wore a man to a thread in no time, bringing an irresistible, inevitable Sleep to those who went past their limits. Only the naragi had used it with impunity and the naragi had been gone for three hundred years.
Reluctant to move, Michael pulled his blanket up to his chin. "Has Eldering signed the marriage documents?"
Severyn growled something under his breath. "No. For such a girly boy, he's remarkably stubborn. If it weren't for you, I'd let Corliss give him a real work-over, but... damn it, Mick! Are you sure it must be him? The more I think about this whole affair, the less I'm liking it."
The bewildered look on those beloved, familiar features brought a flood of affection and the wistful urge to put his arms around the prince and hold him tight. Michael had long ago come to terms with his own nature. It was to be expected, after all, of one whose lineage included the nara's deadly sorcerers. For the prince, alas, it was another matter altogether.
"He's a means to an end," Michael said. "Nothing more. What of the servants? Have they accepted our ruse?"
Severyn's grin reappeared. "It went without a hitch. And you thought the plan was too complicated!"
"Sometimes I don't know who is more of a madman: you or my grandfather," growled Michael. "It won't last. Sooner or later, the Celestials will ask questions."
"Well, they sure as hell will if you don't do something about your hair." Severyn tilted his head toward Michael's tangle of splotchy brunette and silver. "Isn't it about time for the good Brother to return to his monastery and Lord Arranz to grace us with his elegant presence?"
Michael grimaced. "What about the medallion? Did you get it?"
"I did." Severyn reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a heavy necklace. He tossed it onto the bed beside Michael's pillow. "You should have seen the look on the face of the Earl's valet when I took it off the old devil's body. I'm not sure he believed me when I said I was taking it for safekeeping."
Michael sat up.
"Now you're awake." chuckled Severyn. "What is it, anyway?"
"A key, I think. Want to come with me?"
Severyn shook his head. "Haven't time. Key to what?"
"A hidden storeroom. Everyone in the castle was convinced the earl has been hoarding a fortune in gold. It's probably just a rumor, but you never know. Do you need me for anything?"
The princely grin widened. "Well, I would appreciate if you could have a word with our new earl. The sooner Stefanie Eldering is my wife, the more secure our hold is on Shia."
"As you wish." Michael threw back the covers and got out of bed. Severyn's gaze moved over his half-naked body, almost as if drawn against his will.
Color deepening, the prince quickly turned his eyes away.
"Thanks. I appreciate it. I'd stay and see what you find, but I'm due in Shiaton to meet with their village elders."
"You're not going alone, I hope." Michael quickly took his habit from the bedpost and put it on. "There are plenty of real bandits out here."
"Forry's going, too, and a dozen men. We'll be all right. If you can stay awake, meet us at supper."
After the prince had gone, Michael sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the door, thinking how the room suddenly seemed a little less bright. When Severyn was around, nothing was impossible. Sometimes, in dark moments, Michael imagined what his life would have been like had it not been for the prince and knew himself to be fortunate beyond imagining.
They'd met by accident: the shy, reclusive grandson of the infamous Demon Duke of Blackmarsh and the young prince, cheerful, energetic and lonely. The royal estate of Messerling bounded Blackmarsh to the east, an easy distance between friends. Soon Severyn had been more often at Blackmarsh than in his own huge mansion. His favor had eased the Arranz family's daily struggle with poverty and subtle harassment. His friendship had drawn an isolated, angry youth out of his shell and given him a reason to trust.
Michael looked down at the medallion, thumbing its etched surface. The thing was very old and tarnished. He didn't know for certain it was the key, of course, or that it locked away a treasure like the servants whispered, but Lord Eldering had worn it always. According to gossip, he kept it on even when buck-naked and tumbling whatever servant girl caught his eye.
It would take only a few minutes to learn the truth. A fortune in treasure would go a long way toward funding a coup. Michael dropped the medallion over his neck, tucking it into his habit. As an afterthought, he pulled up his hood, in no mood to apply more hair-dye, and put on his spectacles. It was almost second nature to slump his shoulders and take on the humble mien of the cleric he'd been playing for the past three weeks.
Lamp in hand, he left his room. At the bottom of the main stairs, he was accosted by Shia's elderly butler. The man greeted him joyfully, seizing his hand and squeezing it. "'Tis good to see you, Brother Michael!" he cried. "We did exactly as you said and no one was hurt. But where were you, Brother? You weren't among us. I was afraid the outlaws had slain you, too!"
"Loth was merciful," replied Michael dutifully, ignoring his question. "You're up late, Greyson."
"I'm on my way to bed," the butler reassured him. "Things are in quite a state! There is so much to do! Still, I cannot complain. Thanks to His Highness and you, of course, many lives were saved."
"Loth be praised," agreed Michael.
"But is it true? Will you be returning to Zelenov?"
"I must bear details of this terrible affair to the Archbishop. Besides, I'm sure the new earl will want to choose his own cleric."
The old man's kindly face darkened. "The sin-catcher?" he spat. "It's his fault that we've suffered such calamity!"
Michael couldn't help a twinge of pity for the luckless Stefn Eldering. On the other hand, the new earl was a convenient scapegoat. "Now, Greyson," he said in most officious tones, "sin-catchers are Loth's judgment. Who are we to question His will?"
Leaving the old man, Michael continued to the north wing. All of Shia was old, but the north wing was the oldest and naran-built. His own ancestors had been the architects of its precise angles and perfectly straight walls. The Church denied it; the Elderings denied it, too, claiming it was human-built. But deep down, it seemed, the earls had always known the truth for they had avoided the wing assiduously. Long deserted, it was damp and cold and the roof leaked in the ferocious winter storms Rooms were empty or stuffed with forgotten furniture and belongings. The north wing also held Castle Shia's library, but then, it too had been mostly forgotten by its brutish owners.
Lamplight flowed over cracked and yellowed plaster. Doors were shut against its invasion; there was dark ahead and dark behind. Michael's footfalls echoed in the emptiness.
On the third floor, the library door stood slightly ajar. Michael gave it a push and it swung open, hinges screeching. At once, he was enveloped in the smell of leather, paper and mold. Once, long ago, before the Elderings and the Church had conspired to steal it, Shia had been a center of scholarship and academia. Since the Reformation, however, it had fallen into shameful disuse and neglect.
His lamp made little headway in the cavernous chamber. Bookshelves loomed in orderly rows, silent and hiding deeper shadow between them. Long reading tables marked the beginning of the stacks. One of the few times he'd actually laid eyes on the Earl's youngest son had been in here. The youth, wrapped in a blanket against the chill, had been at one of the tables, reading. At the time, Michael had mistaken him for a girl, so finely chiseled and delicate were his features.
Three rooms comprised the suite and, at the back of this, the largest of them, tucked into a corner and half-covered by a massive bookshelf, was a door. Low, narrow, it had no handle and the wood was only veneer. Where it peeled away, iron glinted dully beneath.
Michael took off the medallion, heart racing. His hand shook when he slid the key into a narrow slot in the door. There were several clicks, thunderous in the quiet suite, and the door opened inward.
"Holy Protector..."
The room beyond was small, but crowded. It contained a table and chair, a dusty, glass-faced cupboard and eight heavy wooden crates stacked against the far wall. One of the crates had not been nailed shut yet. Michael set his lamp on the table and took a look inside.
He found dozens of large, bulky leather bags. Opening one, his jaw dropped. The bright glitter of precious metals and gems sparkled back at him. Quickly he opened another, spilling its contents heedlessly into the crate. Gold coins, silver, and copper, jewels of all shapes and sizes! He poked among the glittering pile and brought out a tiny gold and rose-stone circlet, a child's bracelet.
h'Nara who fell afoul of the Church lost their property along with their freedom. It was far worse east of the central mountains, where the holy city of Zelenov wielded its greatest influence. There, a h'nar had two choices, Penitence or death. The Church made no secret of their desire to have the same zealousness in all of Tanyrin, and they used parishes like Shia to spread their message of hatred and fear.
Michael reached down and took a bulging handful of coins. The Elderings, like the good dogs they were, had been dutiful in spreading that message, but from the looks of it, they'd been enriching themselves in the process.
Turning his attention to the cupboard, he discovered that it was locked. The unusual key did not work and he had no intention of using k'na to open it so soon after having overextended himself. A sharp blow to the lock snapped the aged mechanism in a shower of rust. Inside were six shelves stuffed with bulkier objects. He found a valuable early edition of a Chronicle, one of the two most holy books of Tanyrin. Attesting to its age, it was hand-lettered and wrapped in a cloth heavily embroidered with gold and silver floss.
There were also fine statues, some of solid gold; and even a slightly tarnished silver box with holy runes engraved on the lid and containing a fragment of cloth sealed in wax.
Michael almost laughed aloud, returning to the crates, sifting the glittering coins and jewels through his fingers. How obliging of the earl. Eldering had amassed a clandestine fortune on the backs of the Church's h'naran victims. Now, in an act of beautiful, ironic justice, it would help finance the overthrow of Arami IV, their chief puppet and source of their undeserved power.
Hearing the tread of heavy boots outside his room, Stefn lifted his head from his arms. Apprehension tightened his gut and set his heart pounding. The footsteps stopped at the door; the latch rattled and it opened. Light fell through the opening, too bright for his eyes. Even so, he knew the hulking silhouette: Corliss, the captain of the Royal Guard.
But the big man didn't come in. Instead, he smacked his palm with his truncheon and gave Stefn a quick, dark grin before backing away to make room for someone behind him. Already sick with dread, Stefn's heart nearly stopped. He stood up, knocking his chair over in his haste.
The elegant newcomer stooped beneath the low door and into the dark, cold room. He held out a gloved hand for the lantern, which was promptly given over. "Leave us. I will summon you when I'm ready."
"Yes, my lord." Corliss bowed again and the door closed. Stefn was left alone with the most loathsome of his captors.
Gone were all traces of the priestly disguise. This was a man more regal than the rebel prince he served. Arranz wore black, all black, and at his throat was a single silver amulet. The brown dye was gone. With his long, ice-pale hair, he seemed to be a beautiful, shining flame in the gloom. Michael Arranz, eldest grandson of the Demon Duke of Blackmarsh. As close to pureblood naran as existed in this day and time. Traitor. Spy. Taint.
Yellow light danced over the bare wooden floor, across Stefn's narrow bed to stop at the table where he stood.
"What? No 'hello, Brother Michael? Nice to see you?'" Arranz set the lantern down. Mockery edged the deep, quiet voice. "Ah, well, I suppose not."
From the inside pocket of his coat, Arranz brought out a scroll, tossing it onto the table before Stefn. It was tied with a red ribbon. Blood red. Stefn recognized it well enough; he'd seen it before in the hands of Corliss and others who'd come to his cell and demanded he sign it.
Stefn tried to match the taint's mocking tone. "It must have been quite a shock to the servants to find out our cleric was really a taint.
"Brother Michael was recalled to Zelenov several days ago. Such a shame. I never got to meet him." Arranz waved his hand carelessly toward the scroll. "His Highness grows weary of your heroics, Eldering. Sign the damned agreement."
"Go to hell, taint!"
The Elderings had been loyal to the King and Church since the human-naran war. Stefn would not defile his family's memory by submitting to one of their half-breed, murdering descendants.
Arranz sighed. "If you sign the agreement, you can leave this room, have a hot meal, a bath... "
"Forge my signature," Stefn retorted, even as his heart lurched and thudded. "What's one more vile act for a taint like you?"
Arranz's mouth twisted. He seized Stefn's chin, ignoring the attempt of the smaller man to jerk away. One long thumb pressed against the lump on Stefn's jaw, making him hiss in pain.
"Do you so enjoy your jailer's heavy hand?" Arranz asked.
Ice ran up Stefn's spine, but he did not back down. He couldn't. Deep in his heart of hearts, he knew very well who had brought the Elderings to this pass. Sin-catcher!
"Shia is loyal to the Church and king. I will not sacrifice my sister and home for a traitor's cause! Especially one who would employ the likes of you!"
"So dramatic. Do you honestly expect me to believe you mourn your boorish parent and equally repellent brother?"
Stung, Stefn retorted, "They were men of honor, loyal servants of Loth!"
"They were murderers, a hundred times over murderers, slavers, and thieves, just like the rest of your misbegotten clan."
"You cannot diminish their honor!" spat Stefn, shaking with rage and contempt. "You, a murderer polluted with the blood of demons!"
"You may very well be right, but time is growing short and my prince has plans. You will do as he wishes... "
Stefn's heart stumbled as his limbs were seized by an invisible force.
" ...and turn over to him what he demands."
There was no resisting the power that lifted Stefn's hand, opening his fingers to receive the pen Arranz placed in it. Fury and despair filled his eyes with water and made the words of the declaration blur as he dipped the pen into the inkpot before him, then to the paper.
Stop! he screamed to himself, but his hand went through the familiar motion without heeding him. The pen was removed. His signature stared back at him.
Stefn regained control of his limbs as Arranz rolled up the scroll. Without thinking, he lunged for it, oversetting the inkpot, but with a word, the taint flung him away to crash into the wall. Pain streaked up Stefn's leg and it buckled, sending him into a humiliating sprawl at Arranz's feet.
Arranz dragged Stefn upright again. He said something under his breath and shoved the trembling earl onto the stool.
"What happens now?" whispered Stefn. "No matter what, I will swear true loyalty only to the rightful king."
"You may swear loyalty to whomever you wish," replied Arranz. "As long as you obey me."
Stefn, speechless, returned a look of outrage. Arranz's lean features lit up with amusement. He bent and, seizing a handful of Stefn's hair, held him still for a punishing kiss. "I'll be back in a day or two," he promised, and was gone soon after, leaving Stefn shaken, confused, and profoundly afraid.
It was a time of darkness, of murder and chaos. Men fought men for small plots of land. Misery and disease was a cloak upon the land, and despair ran through the people like a graveyard wind. Into this hell came a Voice and a Presence. It spoke, first to one lord, then to another, seeking one who would heed its words, but those wielding worldly power refused to hear. Not until it spoke to a humble holy man in the parish of Tantegrel did it find a hearing. "I am Loth," said the Voice and the holy man, Arthur Gray, the founder and saint of the Church of Loth, did thereafter bring to Mankind the Light.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1347
After two weeks in Castle Shia, Severyn felt drained and jittery. As far as his plans were concerned, everything proceeded smoothly. Forry, Iarhlaith and Dore had departed, each armed with instructions and a heavy bag of the Eldering's ill-gotten gold. The marriage agreement was signed and locked up in Severyn's strongbox. They'd begun the plans for refurbishing the castle and expanding the former Hunter garrison. Yet, in spite of it, Severyn could not be easy.
It was the castle itself that weighed on his nerves. Severyn jumped at shadows and found himself unwilling to be alone in its dank, gloomy rooms. They had only ventured a few feet into the cellar, but had immediately discovered rooms filled with instruments of torture, oubliettes and cells festooned with chains. It was a ghastly place. The earl may have had a fortune at his disposal, but he'd spent none of it on Shia. Severyn could not imagine housing his elder brother in this wretched pile.
The earl had kept only a dozen servants, most of them a hard, unpleasant lot who, from the looks of things, had done precious little to earn their pittances. Severyn wasted no time in dismissing them, easing their resentment with generous severance packages. Perhaps when Timkins arrived with Severyn's own staff, the place would feel better.
For the moment, Severyn and Michael were left to the tender ministrations of the latter's trusted manservant, Marin. A passable cook, Marin's skills suffered only from a lack of originality. Still, there were an infinite variety of stews and only another three or four days until Timkins arrived from Messerling.
"What the hell is this, Marin?" Michael demanded, poking at a large, whitish lump floating on the surface of his stew. "It's not a potato. It's not a turnip."
"My apologies, my lords," replied Marin, good-humored as always. "But it is, indeed, a potato. The kitchen's stores are..." He hesitated delicately. " ...somewhat sparse."
Mick rolled his eyes and pushed it to the side of the bowl. He looked tired. Lately, he looked tired all the time. Using his witchpowers so often left the mark of strain on him. He'd been asleep most of these past few days, exhausted after wringing the all-important signature from the new earl. Severyn had missed his company.
"I was thinking of putting off leaving for another two weeks," Severyn said. "The more I see of this parish, the more I realize how much needs to be done. I don't suppose you would lend me Chris?"
"Without my brother, Blackmarsh would fall apart. Worse, I'd be duty-bound to replace him. We would have to bring him in on the plans... "
"You don't think he would approve?"
"Oh, he'd approve, all right. Our biggest problem would be to keep the hothead from going off half-cocked at any given moment."
"Really? I'd always thought he was the responsible sort."
"As long as he's under Grandfather's stern eye."
They paused a moment to consider the Arranz family's intimidating patriarch.
"What a shame. I don't suppose you would consider... "
Mick rolled his eyes at the very notion. "At least Chris has more human blood than not, and looks it," he replied lightly. "I shudder to think what your new parish would do if faced with a dreaded h'nar ruling over them."
Eldering's subjects had hated their earl with a dull, hopeless intensity, but they hated h'nara even more. Since Michael's "arrival," Severyn's spies in the villages reported rumors flying of the demon in the castle. He would have to act fast to distract the people. In his experience, men with full bellies were more tolerant.
"The villages are in shambles," he sighed. "I can't even guess when the last repairs were made on some of those cottages. No wonder the parish is all but deserted. It's a damn shame, too. These are some spectacular grazing lands."
"I hear it gets hellish cold." Michael shuddered.
"Lately, it's been cold everywhere," Severyn replied glumly.
"Not like these northern steppes. According to my erstwhile hosts, the fortress is snowed in and the roads impassible from Icekel to Brivkel. Six months is a long time to spend indoors."
Severyn thought of the extra fields planted at Messerling, the crops he'd hoped would feed the troops soon to be posted at the new base. How many villages were there in Shia Parish? Five that could be honestly termed as such and that didn't take into account herders' cottages, dozens of which were scattered about the open plains. Shia might be convenient for his plans, but it was turning out to be damned expensive.
Looking around, he sighed. "The castle may be the worst expense of all! Loth! Everything will have to be replaced. The wood rots, the plaster is moldy, rubbish is piled up everywhere! Rats, spiders! I wouldn't keep criminals here, let alone my brother!"
"The more reconstruction you do in the main house and in the villages, the fewer people will question all the wagons and supplies we'll need to expand the barracks."
That was true. Furthermore, the bones of the old keep were decent enough. Properly refurbished, it could be a showplace. "Maybe we'll find more treasure," said Severyn, determined to keep an optimistic attitude.
Instead, the next morning, they found the worst horror yet.
He and Mick were in the old earl's study, going over plans for the reconstruction when Captain Corliss appeared, accompanied by two of his men. Seeing their ashen faces, Severyn's impatient question died on his lips.
"Sorry to interrupt, Your Highness," Corliss' voice shook. "But you had better see this."
Just outside the castle walls where the new portion of the garrison was planned was an enormous mountain of rotting, stinking refuse. Why anyone should choose to dump their garbage so close to their own habitation completely escaped Severyn. Not only was it a haven for vermin, it gave forth an unbelievably foul odor that frequently wafted over the walls and through the entire castle. Severyn had gotten into the habit of carrying a scented handkerchief in his breast pocket for just such occasions.
The unlucky men assigned to moving the fetid mountain to a more reasonable distance stood in small groups by the back gate. They wore masks over their mouths and noses, and heavy gloves. Armed with pitchforks and shovels, they quickly came to attention as Severyn and Michael approached.
Fortunately, it was not necessary to visit the heap itself. Nearby, the soldiers had started a small pile of their own. Human bones!
"We've been finding them everywhere in that mess." Corliss jerked a thumb toward the garbage pit, shuddering.
Aghast, Severyn could only stare at the pitiful pile. "Make certain all skulls are recovered and set aside," he said finally.
"Y-Your Highness?" Corliss was not happy to hear this and nearby, his men reacted with equal dismay.
"Whoever they were, they deserve a decent burial."
Sickened, Severyn could barely bring himself to look at Michael. Almost certainly these were h'naran bones. Dear God! There could be dozens of bodies here!
"Let's go," he said, putting a hand on Mick's shoulder. "They'll take care of this."
Mick jerked away. Turning on his heel, he strode back through the gate. Corliss shook his head. He waved to his men, grim-faced. Muttering and grumbling, they headed off to resume their grisly task. Severyn stood a moment, looking down at the bones, then followed his friend.
Mick waited for him in the house. His mouth was set in a thin, white line. "I'm going to have a word with Eldering."
Severyn needed only one look to retort, "No, you're not! I know that expression. You'll kill him!"
"How many died? How many?" Mick trembled, beyond anger. "And how did they die? Loth! Did you see how small some of those bones were?"
"You don't know they were h'naran. He may have thrown his dead servants here, too. What a pig!"
"The pig's son can tell us!"
"Fine. I'll talk to him but you stay away. We need him, remember?"
"He's not the only one with the Blood!"
"Is that so? Who else?"
There was, of course, no answer. Michael swore and swung a punch at the wall, leaving a hole in the crumbling plaster.
Severyn was in no mood to confront the new earl. Since assuming control of the castle, each day brought to light shocking new information about its late owner. This gruesome discovery, however, exceeded everything they'd uncovered so far. Michael was right. The entire bloodline needed to be wiped from existence.
And you're marrying one of them.
Eldering's room was on the top floor of the north wing, not far from the library. A guard was on duty just outside the door, springing to unlock it and let Severyn in. This had been the sin-catcher's room before his father's death, as well, a sign, doubtless, of Stefn's tenuous place in his family's regard. The dingy plaster walls were cracked and full of holes. It was nothing more than an attic, sparsely furnished with cast-offs: a narrow bed, a table and an elderly, threadbare chair. A pariah's room.
Jumping to his feet, the young Earl of Shia dropped the book he held and faced Severyn with defiance. He saw the skull in the prince's hand and blinked, looking confused and apprehensive. Severyn threw it at him and he caught it before thinking, then dropped it with an exclamation of distaste.
"We found the charnel heap," said Severyn.
Lord Stefn's dark brown hair looked like he'd cut it himself, yet the tousled style suited him. Wisping over his collar, it was thick and soft, tumbling into green eyes which were themselves quite large and with an odd, but pleasing almond shape. Those eyes gazed back at Severyn without comprehension.
It was grotesque that the monster who had ruled Shia, who had committed unspeakable atrocities, could have produced a son of such startling beauty.
"What sort of savage disposes of human bodies like that?" Severyn asked. "Who are those poor wretches in your garbage pit, Eldering? How did they get there?"
"B-bodies? In the pit? What are you...?" Eldering's voice trailed away at Severyn's expression. He swallowed hard, then went on. "Sometimes Father would capture witches. Of course, they must be executed, but I thought they had been buried or burned."
"Executed? Do you see the size of that skull?"
The boy looked away, jaw clenched. "This --- We are a Covenant Parish of the Church. We hold to the rulings of Holy Zelenov. It is lawful... "
Severyn sneered. "The Celestial Council is filled with corrupt and selfish men, but I have yet to hear any of them call openly for the slaughter of innocents. Tell me, Eldering. What's it like to murder children?"
The young earl stiffened, hands clenched into fists. Behind the outrage, however, Severyn saw a flash of fear. "You're lying! Wasn't it enough that you murdered my father in his own house or used foulest witchcraft to seize control of his daughter and estate? Now you must slander him, as well?"
"Slander?" Severyn laughed harshly. "You're a sin-catcher! Do you think Loth visits such curses on the blameless?"
The earl whitened, eyes stark.
"Come with me," Severyn said. "We'll see about slander!"
Lord Stefn had little choice but to precede Severyn from the room, limping down the stairs, through the house, and out into the bright, windy afternoon. When he passed through the gate and saw the pit, his ashen countenance took on a greenish hue.
"He's to dig with the others," Severyn ordered Corliss. "Make sure he works without stopping until sunset."
Corliss nodded, grinning.
Severyn stood, arms crossed on his chest, watching with grim enjoyment as a pitchfork was thrust into the young man's hands and he was sent stumbling into the debris.
"And for Loth's sake," added Severyn, belatedly remembering his first encounter with the doe-eyed earl. "Don't let him get away."
Michael tried to keep his mind on business for the remainder of the day. He stood with Severyn's engineer on Shia's overgrown parade ground and listened while the man pointed out where he envisioned various buildings.
" ...mess hall. Most of the additional barracks will be tents at first, of course, but we expect to have a permanent structures to hold at least five hundred additional troops by next year. Eventually, men with families can settle in the nearby villages, or so we hope, but we'll still need barracks for those without families... "
None of them actually used the word "revolution." It was such an ugly word, implying violence, wholesale destruction, and death. Loth willing, theirs would be a bloodless coup and any opposition slight. Arami would abdicate quietly, willing to spend the rest of his days in a transformed Shia, well-guarded, surrounded by every luxury, and free of the responsibilities he ignored routinely anyway.
Tanyrin needed a king, a strong one. Each year, it seemed, the weather went from bad to worse. Summers had become cool and wet while winter's icy reach extended further south every year. Beaten down by winds and rain, grain rotted in the fields. Reports of crop failures grew. Hunger and fear spread like some deadly disease. In the east, famine was said to be widespread. Yet, in spite of the obvious hardships of their people, the Church and the Royal Court demanded more and more from them. Even the nobles were feeling the strain.
All the while, King Arami kept to his rooms, lost in pelthe dreams, oblivious and uncaring. If the Wet was indeed returning, the people of Tanyrin would turn to whoever offered the promise of safety. The nara were no longer here to blame, but there were plenty of h'nara. If the House of Lothlain couldn't protect the people, then it would be the Church. And if it were to be the Church, God help them all.
Returning to the main house, Michael found the prince on the second floor of the west wing, looking down on the lane.
"These are good rooms," said Severyn by way of greeting. "Look at the view!"
Obligingly, Michael joined him. The windows were filthy and a few had rags stuffed into empty panes, but Severyn was right. The view was spectacular.
Shia was built on a large, artificial hill. The keep occupied its highest point and from it, one could look out across the outbuildings, over the top of the walls, and onto the rolling land beyond. From here, he could see the meadows, turning gold with the approach of autumn. To the east, the blue shadows of spruce forests marked the foothills. Banks of white, fluffy clouds hid the more distant peaks of the Lothwall range.
"Storage," Severyn said, shaking his head. "The rooms are either empty or stuffed full of rubbish. What do you think about turning them into bedroom suites? Gods, can you imagine a summer sunset through these windows?"
"Do what you wish," replied Michael. "It's your brother who will be living here."
"Yes." For a moment, sorrow touched Severyn's face, then his jaw hardened. He shrugged. "But when he passes on, it will revert to your family, as it should."
"After all the evil done inside these walls, I'm not sure I want it back."
"Ah, don't say that." Severyn grinned and Michael felt his foul mood slip a bit. "Wait until you see what some plaster and paint can achieve, my friend!" The prince turned back to the view. "I'll wager old Eldering and his spawn avoided these rooms because there's too much sunlight. As everyone knows, vermin avoid bright places."
Michael laughed, imagining the old earl scuttling from the occasional ray of sunlight straying past his heavy drapes and shutters. "It's true, he didn't much care for the curtains to be open."
Severyn shuddered. "What was it like, pretending to be their priest? Surely you discovered what was truly going on?"
"I was only here for three weeks," Michael reminded him. "Perhaps, because I was new, they were on their best behavior." He hesitated. "What about Eldering? Did you speak to him?"
Severyn shrugged. "He tried to claim ignorance, then said they were probably executed for witchcraft. Even after I showed him the baby's skull, his response was to remind me Shia was a Church parish and answerable only to the Celestials."
Anger rushed through Michael again, as old and familiar as a favorite shirt. He had seen the justice of the Church's highest Council too many times, seen it in the wretched hovels at the edges of human towns, the growing numbers of h'nara who crept across the borders into Blackmarsh, looking for safety on Arranz land.
Michael unclenched his jaw. "They have to be stopped."
"They will be! Without Arami on the throne, the Celestial Council will no longer have a drug-addicted puppet to approve their every whim." Severyn gestured to their gloomy surroundings. "And as for this place, I'll have it gutted and completely refurbished. There won't be a trace of Eldering left when it's finished."
He looked so earnest and determined, it was impossible for Michael not to smile. "You're not going to be in charge of decorating, I hope?"
Relief flooded the prince's handsome face. He grinned. "Of course not. I've given Jeremy the job."
Michael's jaw sagged, picturing walls crammed with sporting lithographs in monstrous, gilded frames, stuffed animal heads leering from every wall, over-sized armchairs, and stone fireplaces frantic with carved hunting scenes. "Dear God!" he managed.
Severyn chortled. "Ha! Got you! Actually, I've asked Auron. I trust you've no objection to him?"
Michael didn't get a chance to answer. Rapid footsteps approached, followed by the appearance of Corliss and several other guards. The captain was pale and grim.
"Oh, hell!" Severyn muttered. "Now what?"
"He's bolted," said Corliss with a brief bow of his head.
"Bolted? Who's bolted?" Michael looked from man to man and knew exactly who they meant. He listened in alarm to Severyn's embarrassed explanation. The notion of Eldering being forced to exhume his family's victims was gratifying, but Stefn Eldering knew too damn much to be running loose in the countryside.
"We've looked everywhere around the fortress, sir." Corliss looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. "He must know some rabbit hole we don't."
"Damn it, man! I told you to watch the little rat!"
"We're preparing to launch an immediate search of the surrounding fields, Highness!"
"I'll go with you," Severyn said. He turned back to Michael. "Will you come, too?"
Michael shook his head. "I'm sure you'll manage," he said lightly.
Severyn's jaw tightened, understanding They both knew what this would cost Michael, but the subject was not one to discuss in front of the guards. "I'll be back shortly. He won't have gone far."
When they had gone, Michael returned to the windows and looked down onto the lane. Men gathered, some mounted, some leading their horses. From the looks of it, Severyn had mustered everyone in the castle. The prince appeared a moment later, riding to the head of the assembly, Corliss right behind him. At Severyn's signal, they started down the lane, disappearing around the armory.
Eldering couldn't possibly believe he could escape. Except for the distant hills, the castle was surrounded by miles of open land. With his lame foot, he wouldn't get more than a mile or two. Abruptly, Michael turned and left the room.
Two guards met him in the corridor outside. They were in the process of searching the house from top to bottom in case Eldering should have slipped back inside for some reason.
"Have you been in the north tower?" Michael asked.
They had and found it empty. Michael watched them hurry on to the cellars, then walked slowly in the opposite direction.
The north wing was indeed deserted. He went straight to the tower, climbing the narrow steps to the top. The small, round room looked just as it had the night of the attack. Michael went to the window and looked out. Soldiers spread across the fields, moving slowly outward in a wide net.
Retreating to the book-laden table, he sat down. He thought about locking the door, but it seemed unlikely he'd be interrupted. Closing his eyes, Michael began to breathe deeply and rhythmically. His body relaxed. Little by little, his awareness of his surroundings began to fade.
The shift from here to there happened quickly. Behind his eyelids, the ordinary dark abruptly changed, becoming deep and limitless. It was disturbed only by erratic flashes of light, threads of brilliance that writhed, twisted and whirled as they shot past him on their journey through the ether. Fragments of the Dark Stream, they were flung out from its turbulent current, like the spray of wild waves battering against a shore.
Only the naragi had been able to drink directly from the Stream, but a witch could make good use of its random splash-overs. Michael reached for the threads, accepting the sharp, familiar jolts of contact as he caught first one, then another. Only when he'd taken his limit did he return to the world of the real.
Michael had never used so much k'na over such a brief period of time as he had since coming to Shia. His head ached. There was a buzzing in his ears. He would probably sleep for a week after this. Slumping forward, he dropped his head into his arms on the table and whispered the Words of a seeking spell. Not so long ago, in this very room, he'd first seen Eldering's life-pattern. It hung in his memory, bright and clear. Now, all he had to do was find it.
Stefn had discovered the secret room by accident when he was younger. Its door was triggered by a narrow slip of stone on the floor in one of the west wing's empty rooms. More than once, he'd escaped a beating by waiting out his father's rage in the narrow, stuffy space.
He lifted his candle to better see the marks carved into the walls, floor and ceiling. The Sword and the Oak Leaf was Loth's sign, a potent charm against witches and their forbidden powers. According to Shian legend, the women and children of the castle had hidden here during the war. Protected by the power of Loth, they had been safe from naragi sorcery.
The nearest Cathedral was in Fornsby, a day's ride south, a proper Cathedral, not just an Abbey like Shia's. It had no knightmages, either, but there were Hunters. Although he'd never actually been there, he'd seen maps and overheard talk about the town. Later, when things were quiet, he would creep from his hiding place, take a horse from the stable, slip out of the castle, and be away.
Thinking of being outside Shia's walls again recalled him to the refuse pit. His stomach clenched. He'd never seen real bones before, only illustrations in the library's anatomy texts. Stefn hugged his knees tightly to his chest, realizing suddenly there had been no difference between those drawings and the bones he'd been forced to dig out of the filth and garbage. Was it possible those weren't the remains of taints after all?
His father's vile temper had been legendary. As long as Stefn could remember, there had been rumors belowstairs and in the barracks of whether a recently discharged servant or soldier had truly left Shia of his own accord or had fallen victim to the unpleasant amusements of Lord Eldering and his friends. Stefn had never put much stock in such stories; he knew only of the taints brought into Shia, witches who paid for their blasphemies with their lives.
So what? Father's dead. Allen's dead. Shia is mine. It will be different here now.
All he had to do was get to Fornsby and reveal the entire plot to the bishop there. Not only would he save Shia, he would be a hero, the man who thwarted an act of treachery and worse!
Without meaning to, Stefn lifted a hand, fingertips brushing his lips where Arranz had kissed him. In the library were books that spoke of such unnatural practices. He'd read them all, over and over again: stories of the naran aristocrats who took their pleasure from among their human slaves; diaries laying out in shivery detail the practices forced upon the poor unfortunates by their merciless, perverse overlords.
The narani sorcerers were the most notorious, seeking pleasure exclusively from those of their own sex. Only one book had spoken much of that, a very old diary kept by a priest named Camber. Stefn had read it from cover to cover, horrified, yet fascinated at the same time.
Lord Arranz was a witch. Was it so remarkable that he should be just as twisted as his wicked ancestors? Stefn couldn't wait to see the bastard brought to his knees before the justice of Loth. Maybe the Church would allow him the pleasure of executing Lord Arranz himself!
Stefn shifted uncomfortably. How long had he been in the cubbyhole? His candle was at the halfway mark, but the cheap tallow burned quickly. It had probably been only an hour or two. He tried to find a more comfortable spot against the wall and considered whether to blow out the candle and save it for later.
An ominous scraping rendered the decision moot. Horrified, he sprang to his feet as the wall before him slid open, the sudden rush of air extinguishing the candle at once. A figure loomed in the opening, tall and lean, a lantern held aloft. Long hair, naran white, fell carelessly over broad shoulders.
"Ah, here you are!" Lord Arranz looked around the tiny space, light hovering over the warding signs. His lip curled.
"No!" Stefn whispered. He watched in disbelief as the taint came in to inspect the engraved symbol more closely. It couldn't be possible!
Lord Michael traced the rough cuts in the stone with his finger. Nothing happened: no cry of pain, no flash of lightning.
"Did you think these would protect you?" He sounded amused. "My God! Stupid and barbaric! This is the sixteenth century --- or hasn't that information reached this benighted spot?"
Stefn launched himself at the doorway, desperate and knowing his chances of escape had fallen to nothing. He knocked the taint aside, stumbling into the corridor, wondering, panicked, which way to go. A bone-jarring blow against his back sent him flying forward, balance lost, to sprawl helplessly on the floor. The taint's crushing weight held him there, struggling to breathe.
His arms were dragged behind him and bound with sharp-edged leather. Only then did Arranz get up. Fist knotting in Stefn's hair, he dragged Stefn, gasping and choking, to his knees. Looking down at him, sneering, Arranz said, "Honestly, my lord, did you really think your silly superstitions would hide you from me?"
Stefn's lip was cut. He spat blood, angry and terrified. "You can go to hell, tainted filth! Loth will protect me!"
The taint's nostrils flared, eyes narrowing. "Loth seems disinclined to do any such thing. Perhaps his anger at the sins of the Elderings is not yet assuaged." Another savage jerk pulled Stefn all the way to his feet. Leaning close, mouth against Stefn's ear, the h'nar added, "Shame of Shia."
It should not have hurt so much, that name, not from the lips of a taint. Stefn would have swung a punch had he use of his hands. As it was, he could only glare, putting every ounce of his bitter hatred and anger behind it as Arranz straightened and stepped away.
Pounding footsteps approached from the far end of the hall. "My lord!" Soldiers appeared around the corner. Seeing them, the men started to run.
Startled, Stefn saw Lord Arranz sway, reaching out a hand to the wall, as if to steady himself. "Good work, my lord!" cried one, coming up to them and looking curiously through the secret door.
The other took hold of Stefn's arm. "What do you want done with him, my lord?"
Lord Arranz shook his head. "Take him back to his room and make certain he doesn't leave it without at least two men by his side at all times."
"Are you all right, my lord?" one of the men asked, peering closely at the pale h'nar.
"Well enough. Just tired." He paused. "To be safe, put a new lock on his door. I'm in no mood to track him down again!"
Mick slept for a week after Eldering's failed escape. The earl was not allowed out of his room, but thankfully he seemed to have lost much of his overt rebelliousness.
"He reads, Y'r Highness," reported Corliss when questioned. "At least, that's what he's doin' each time someone opens his door."
The truce gave Severyn some time to deal with matters concerning the castle and surrounding countryside. Shia's villages were in truly wretched straits. Leaky roofs, crumbling walls, failing crops: it was the same litany he heard from many northern parishes these days. He made a point to visit each of the villages in person, to listen to the wary villagers and carefully take down the problems they pointed out to him.
Embry was the southernmost of Shia's villages and the largest. It boasted not only a tavern, but a small hostel and the Abbey. The Shia River ran through it, tumbling down out of the southern hills before meandering west toward Ilyea. The river brought trade to the parish, but most of Embry's folk, like the rest of Shia, were herders. Being late summer, the men were still out in the hills with their flocks, but word of Severyn's tour spread like wildfire, so by the time Severyn reached Embry, he was greeted by a small crowd of cheering villagers.
He set up a temporary court in the tavern, which quickly became jammed with villagers, and ordered a round of drinks from the delighted landlord, a practice that never failed to start matters off on a positive note. With his men politely managing the petitioners, he commenced his interviews. Each man or woman was allotted ten minutes each, during which time, the prince listened and his aide carefully jotted down the particulars of the villager's grievance in a big, leather-bound journal. Severyn finished up the interviews with another round of drinks and left the taverns with their cheers ringing in his ears.
There was one more stop to make before returning to the castle. On high ground overlooking the village, surrounded by prime pastureland, was Shia's abbey. He owed a courtesy visit to the abbot; it was, in fact, long overdue.
Abbeys were not ordinarily found in such remote and impoverished parishes like Shia. Such backwaters were far more likely to have a Chapel, if that. Had there not been a Hunter garrison and a knightmage here, Severyn doubted whether Shia would have been so blessed. Indeed, the Abbey at Embry looked more like a large Chapel, bearing evidence of its provincial circumstances.
Both the Sanctuary and the Domicile were mud-brick and stone, like the local structures, although efforts had been made to give the Domicile a more genteel, southern-cottage appearance. A semblance of a garden struggled valiantly to survive the harsh conditions of the high, northern plains. There were a few outbuildings: a stable, a laundry, a shed. As assignments went, Severyn thought with some sympathy, this had to be the armpit of the world.
Abbot Drummond greeted him in the Domicile's small, over-furnished parlor. He was a small, round, fussy man who was alternately awed to be hosting royalty and offended at his treatment to date at royalty's hands.
"I had almost despaired of speaking with you, Your Highness," he said, voice holding a hint of reproach. "When the dreadful news reached us, I naturally tried to go at once to the castle, but was turned away repeatedly. Did you not get my messages?"
Of course he had. Severyn's smile was apologetic. "I've been very busy," he replied. "Shia was in terrible circumstances. We've had our hands full hunting the remnants of the murderers who attacked the castle."
The abbot nodded. "I must say, I have found all this most irregular. Lord Eldering was a knightmage, with highly trained Hunter troops at his command. He was certainly no more tolerant of outlaws than he was of taints. It was my impression he kept the parish well clear of thieves and brigands. How could he be overrun by such rabble? Where did they come from?"
Severyn had the story ready; they'd all coached each other until they could recite it in their sleep. "The brigands had an inside man. Their spy disguised himself as the family priest, or so I believe. The cleric had only been in residence a few weeks and disappeared quickly soon after we retook the castle. As for where such marauders come from?" He shrugged. "Times are hard, my lord. When their families face starvation, even the most law-abiding men become desperate."
The abbot was suitably shocked. "What nerve! I wouldn't be surprised if the knave was a taint, some Penitent who broke his vows and now, driven mad by guilt, seeks revenge upon the righteous. What of the outlaws? Did you finally get them all?"
"Not yet," Severyn said, assuming an expression of frustration and regret. "My men search for them daily. We'll find them and bring them to justice."
"I am most grateful, Your Highness, but I cannot help wondering. How was it that you were here at all? We are very far removed from either Tantagrel or Lothmont."
Severyn, prepared for this, smiled modestly. "But not so far from Messerling," he reminded the cleric gently. As the abbot smiled weakly in acknowledgment, Severyn delivered the first blow. "As it happens, Lord Abbot, I had come to make a formal plea for the hand of Miss Eldering in marriage."
The man's eyes nearly popped from his head. "I am delighted to hear it, Your Highness. Indeed, I shall waste no time in sending word to the Council so they may replace the Hunters lost and begin..."
Severyn sailed on. "Of course, given the circumstances, I would prefer to keep my own men here. No offense, but as you yourself pointed out, it's troubling indeed when Hunters can be so easily bested. It's my intention to restore this grand old castle to its former glory; a gift to my new bride and her family, if you will. I'll have tradesmen and artisans coming and going for several months and have no desire to lose time, materials or men to rag-tag cutthroats."
"As to that, Your Highness, I don't wish to be contrary, but Lord Eldering and his heir were in covenant with the Church." The abbot looked uncomfortable. "Being Sworn to the Celestial Council, both the castle and Miss Eldering are their wards. Of course, I'm sure there will be no difficulty in making marriage arrangements, although I cannot speak for His Eminence, of course."
"I'm sorry." Severyn tried hard to keep the glee from his voice. "Did I say all Eldering's heirs were killed? How bad of me. His second son, Lord Stefn, survived. I was under the impression that he was neither a knightmage, nor sworn."
"The s-sin-catcher?" The abbot was appalled. "You, you cannot be serious!"
Severyn lifted an eyebrow.
"No, that's not... I didn't mean it that..." The man pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and mopped his brow. "How did he --- when the others... "
"Lord Stefn was ill and confined to his bed. The ruffians did not get far enough into the castle to find him, thanks be to Loth."
The abbot looked dazed. Knowing this conversation would eventually make its way back to Zelenov and the Celestial Council, Severyn nodded sagely. "He's naturally devastated by what's happened. He blames himself."
"As well he should," muttered the priest. "Sin-catcher! What a quandary, Your Highness! A sin-catcher as head of a fine old family such as the Elderings! Loth's justice is harshest against those he loves the most."
Severyn thought of the pile of bones and kept determined hold of his smile. "Perhaps now Loth is content."
"I will pray it's so." The abbot gave himself a little shake. "After all, it would seem Miss Eldering is to be a princess, perhaps even, some day, a queen! I assume, the new earl has agreed to your petition?"
"I am flattered that he would trust me with his precious sister."
The conversation turned to other, more local matters, leaving the dangerous territory behind. It wasn't going to satisfy Zelenov, his little story, not by a longshot; but with luck, it would keep them at bay long enough for Mick to get the unpredictable young earl under his control and for Severyn to win the parish firmly to his side.
"There is just one thing, Your Highness."
Severyn, ready to take his leave, smiled politely.
"I've been hearing distressing rumors about a taint in the castle."
Irritation flared. He'd reckoned on this coming up. "Are you speaking of Lord Arranz?"
The abbot's round race reddened.
"Lord Arranz is a valued friend, his bloodline blessed by St. Aramis himself. Or does the Church set itself over him, too?"
It did, of course, but the abbot was not so great a fool as to say so to Severyn's face. He apologized quickly, claiming he meant no offence and, of course, one couldn't compare the House of Arranz to ordinary h'naran riffraff.
When Severyn finally returned to Shia, it was near sunset. To his delight, he was greeted by Peter Timkins, Messerling's young, imperturbable butler. Accompanying Tim were several members of his estimable staff. Civilization at last! And there was more good news.
"Lord Michael is up and around. I gather he's been taking one of his 'naps?'" Timkins paused delicately, almost, but not quite grinning. "At any rate, Your Highness, Marin says his lordship will be down for dinner."
"Excellent!"
Timkins' family had served the Lothlain crown princes for generations. His father and grandfathers had been Messerling's butlers before him. Peter had grown up with the prince and the duke's grandson. In the course of his duties, he was all that was proper and formal, but out of public view, there was little formality between them.
They had been keeping country hours, so Severyn had only time to change clothes before dinner was announced. He walked into the informal dining room, drawn by the mouth-watering scent of roast fowl.
"No stew tonight!" Mick was already there. He had lost weight and was even paler than usual, but his smile was as quick and appealing as always. "No offense, Marin."
"None taken, m'lord," replied the big servant cheerfully. "Can't say as I'm unhappy to turn over the kitchen to Mrs. Fog. Chicken pie belowstairs."
"Foggie's here?" Mick's smile got brighter. "I may not leave after all!"
Severyn found himself wishing that were possible. Now that Tim had arrived, it was almost like being at Messerling again, just the two of them knocking about with Timmy to keep them fed and comfortable. Unfortunately, the time was fast approaching for them to go their separate ways, he back to Tantagrel and Mick to Blackmarsh.
After dinner, the two friends withdrew to the study to sample some of the port Timkins had brought from home. Severyn recounted the past few days' activities while Mick had been sleeping.
"What if the Council isn't content with the abbot's report?" asked Mick. "What if they decide to send someone from Zelenov? If that happens, there will almost certainly be mages involved. They will wish to interview Lord Stefn."
Severyn didn't like this part of their plan. He'd deliberately avoided thinking about it. "By then he'll be Bound and under your control."
"We think."
Severyn sighed. They'd been over this ground before.
"Everything we know about the naragi says they are absolute masters of their cethera."
"But there are no more naragi to confirm the truth," persisted Mick, "nor have there been any for centuries."
"Then don't do it," Severyn said impulsively. He found himself hoping Mick would agree, would back out of the plan. He had never much liked it, even while he acknowledged the necessity.
Mick was silent long enough for Severn's hope to rise further. Then, the h'nar shrugged. "On the other hand, Stefn Eldering is very pretty."
Severyn, unaccountably irritated, sneered. "I suppose you could pretend he's a girl, but I thought you didn't like girls?"
"Shhh." Mick's eyes held a wicked gleam. "We mustn't speak of such things, Your Highness. Of course I like girls! After all, I will have a wife myself someday."
Severyn rolled his eyes.
"As a matter of fact," continued Mick, sobering. "The sooner Eldering is Bound, the better. I may do it tonight."
"T-tonight?" Severyn's stomach dropped and his face heated. "H-here?" he stammered.
"He obviously knows the castle inside and out. He's as sneaky and unpredictable as his murderous kin. The longer we wait, the greater the chance he'll try to run again. Next time, he may succeed."
"But I thought... Weren't you going to take him to Blackmarsh? For Loth's sake, wait! We need your grandfather! What if something happens?"
"What could happen?" Michael's grin appeared. "Admit it! You're just upset by the thought of what I'll be doing to him."
Severyn felt his face redden. "No!" he protested weakly, adding, "Although, it is rather disconcerting to think that you... and he... " He trailed off, hideously embarrassed.
Mick, the bastard, was laughing helplessly. "What have you been thinking, Sev? Tell me! Leave nothing out! I confess, I'm dying to know!"
Severyn's response was to grab a nearby cushion and send it bouncing off Michael's head.
St. Gray is credited with converting the Marquis of Tantegrel, Lord Rami Egrel, to the truth of Loth. Indeed, the Marquis became so devout he changed his name to Lothlain to honor the God of All Things.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1347
Michael wrung reluctant agreement from his prince for the immediate Binding of Stefn Eldering. He made a fine show of nonchalance, as if breaking every law of heaven and earth was of no more consequence than a casual encounter with some marshland whore, but he knew it was no such thing.
To Bind a man, to make him cethe, was to irrevocably change them both. He didn't know the details: most had indeed been lost with the naragi. Anything written about them before the War had long since been destroyed, wiped out in the Church's relentless persecution of all things naran. There was mention of them in the Chronicles, but only a few sentences and then only to hold the sorcerers out as an example of all that was evil and depraved.
After Michael and Severyn parted for the evening, Michael returned to his room and stood for a long time, staring blindly out his windows. Another of the countryside's fierce summer storms approached: he could see flickers of lighting in the distance.
Once, long before the war, there had been balance between the Streams, Dark and Light, kna and lothria. At least, that was how his people told it, but in whispers and with care not to be heard. Naragi and magi had worked together, their powers complementing each other: brothers. But the war had changed that, pitting dark against light. The naragi had overstepped their bounds, claiming power for themselves for which they had no authority. They sought to make the Dark Stream dominant and had very nearly succeeded. Loth had intervened, giving the magi powers they'd not had before, powers as destructive as the naragi.
Yet Loth's intervention had not brought about justice. In the eyes of the h'nara, it had only created a new imbalance, with Light overwhelming Dark, and a new tyranny had risen. Now the warrior-mages of the High Orders wielded terrible powers, standing unopposed.
Until now.
Michael took out the velvet case he'd brought from Blackmarsh. The fabric was rubbed bare along the corners, its silver trim badly tarnished. Inside, nestled in brittle, faded satin, was a wide band of woven gold, supple and quite heavy, studded with gems that flashed with fire undiminished by the centuries.
Lethet. Beautiful it was, and priceless, yet in the end, it was nothing more than a slave collar, a sign of ownership and, in its own way, a symbol of Michael's enslavement, as well.
Soon he would be bound to another man as irrevocably as if he'd been wed. Picking up the lethet, he imagined Severyn wearing it, all that golden hair loose across broad, naked shoulders.
Why wasn't it you? Why couldn't you have had the Blood?
But that was nonsense. Why would he wish such a fate on the friend to whom he and his family owed so much? Much better that the Elderings pay in shame and servitude. At least a shadow of justice would be served by it.
Michael closed the box and put it into a larger valise. On an afterthought, he robbed a curtain of its silk tie-back and dropped the rope into the bag, as well. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his lamp and left the room.
It was past midnight and Shia's upper halls were deserted. Here and there, a candle guttered in its sconce, but most were unlit. Once, he heard voices down a connecting hallway, but they quickly faded.
The isolation of Eldering's room in the deserted north wing suited Michael's purposes very well. What he was about to do needed no witnesses. Other than the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the dusty windows, the entire floor was dark. Twice, drafts blew out his lamp. Michael whispered a minor illumination spell.
"Why not?" he thought as his surroundings came back into view. If the stories were right, very soon he would have power to spare. He would be naragi, humanity's worst nightmare.
But he would not be like they had been. He was part human, too. This power would be Severyn's, the sword and shield of Tanyrin's only hope.
If it worked. If the legends were true. And --- most importantly --- if his human blood didn't thwart all their plans.
It was the contaminating human blood, the inevitable dilution of his naran heritage, that was as much responsible for the disappearance of the naragi as the Church's persecution. Even the Arranz dukes, whose blood was purest of all the h'nara, had seen their once great powers fade over the generations. He was the first in recent memory to retain his witchpowers into manhood.
There was no guard at Eldering's door tonight, thanks to Severyn's orders. Michael pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked it.
The new earl was not in his bed. Looking sharply around, Michael saw him sleeping in the room's only chair, a ratty old wingback set before the small stove, an open book on his knee.
Asleep, Stefn looked younger than his nineteen years, his dark hair framing his too-thin face. Eyelashes as dark and long as a girl's lay against his cheeks.
Michael's grandfather had wanted Michael to take Allen, Eldering's heir, for his cethe. The old earl's brutish, self-centered son had certainly deserved his fate, but after three weeks in Allen Eldering's company, Michael could not stomach the prospect. Sin-catcher or no, Stefn was at least pleasant to look upon.
And Stefn was still an Eldering. For all his delicate prettiness, he was just one more in a long line of butchers and rapists. Given the chance, he'd carry on his family's bloody work without turning a hair. Loth knew he'd been quick enough to drive a dagger into poor Auron!
Grabbing the chair, Michael tipped the youth out of it.
Welcome to hell, Hunter-spawn!
Stefn woke at once, scrambling clumsily to his feet and nearly fell again backing hastily away from Michael. There was not far to go in the cramped, book-cluttered chamber. His back to the wall, he croaked, "Arranz!"
"Good evening." Michael looked him over. Eldering's white lawn shirt was dirty and unbuttoned, revealing a slim, but nicely-muscled torso beneath.
Seeing the direction of Michael's gaze, the new earl pulled the edges together. "What do you want?"
Appropriating the chair, Michael sat. He opened the valise and took out the jewel-box. Stefn's green eyes darted to the contents and back.
"You're a good little lackey of the Church," Michael said. "I'm certain you've heard of the cethera."
Stefn frowned, blank, then his eyes widened. Michael almost laughed at his expression.
"S-Sathra?"
"Close enough." Michael took out the collar. It lay over his hand, sparking in the firelight.
"I would rather die!"
"How noble." Michael's lip curled.
Crimson, Stefn retorted, "As if I would touch a taint like that, much less a male taint!"
"You know," said Michael, letting the lethet slide back and forth between his hands, "I hate that insult. One of the first things you must do as my cethe is to banish it from your vocabulary."
"You can go to hell, taint!"
Michael surged from the chair, slamming Stefn hard into the wall and knocking the breath from him. The youth collapsed, gasping, unable to fight back as Michael pushed him, face-down, to the floor. Keeping one knee planted firmly on Stefn's back, Michael dragged the valise over and took out the rope. While Stefn struggled and swore, Michael bound his wrists behind him, then flipped him over. Straddling him, Michael smiled coldly down into those wide, terrified eyes.
"Go ahead," he invited softly. "Say it again."
Eldering tried to turn his head, but Michael refused to allow it, seizing a handful of black silky hair and yanking it back. "You are mine now. And when you're on your knees before me, think of all the h'naran women your father and grandfathers forced into the same position. When I'm using you like a whore, think of all the children raped and slaughtered by your murderous, bestial forebears, sin-catcher!"
"Don't you dare!" Stefn's lips trembled. He began to struggle with renewed desperation. "I'll kill you! I swear to Loth, I'll kill you!"
"No," replied Michael. Fist tightening in Stefn's hair, he leaned forward, mouth brushing the youth's ear. "You'll serve me. Your body will renew my power and make me as strong as a lothrian mage, perhaps even stronger. A delicious irony, don't you think?"
Stefn's breath was ragged, the pulse at his throat beating wildly. "Y-you're lying!"
Beautiful. Like a captured angel.
Michael swore, releasing him, appalled at himself and his wholly inappropriate flight of fancy. Devil, more like. He got up, dragging Stefn after him. Suddenly, all he wanted was to get it over with. He threw Eldering onto the bed. Frantically, the youth rolled over, struggling to sit up.
There was cettek powder in the jewel-box, several small, folded paper envelopes tucked under the lining. Michael poured the contents of one into a half-empty cup of wine, the only sustenance Eldering had been allowed all day. When he turned back, the youth was seated on the bed, pressed against the wall, knees drawn up. His shirt had slipped off one shoulder, but he didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the goblet.
"Will you drink it or must I force it down your throat?"
"W-what is it?"
"It will ease what comes next," replied Michael.
The youth only shook his head and tried to press further into the wall. Michael reached for him.
He should have known. He should have remembered the incident in the Great Hall and been ready, but instead, Stefn's heel caught Michael squarely on the chin. The force of the blow was just as surprising, turning everything crimson, scattering Michael's thoughts like dust. He felt his knees go to water.
Some spark of self-preservation brought the spell to his bloody lips, the words barely intelligible. His head cleared and the pain disappeared, but Eldering was already off the bed and stumbling for the door.
"ARKAST!" Michael barely choked out the Word.
Eldering froze.
Gasping for breath, Michael lay on the bed, too dizzy to move. The wine was now a red stain on the sheet, its scent strong in his nostrils. His temper in rags, he shoved himself off and, in two long strides, reached Eldering. Taking hold of the boy's shirt, Michael ripped it off, letting it tangle around the other man's bound wrists.
And swore.
Scars! So many of them! An intricate lattice of pain covered every inch of Eldering's slim back. Some were so deep, Michael wondered what could have left them. His rage vanished in the cold shock of it.
His spell faded, but Stefn didn't move. The young earl stood, rigid and shaking under Michael's hands.
"What the hell happened to you?" Michael had seen scars like these only on h'nara, those poor wretches who'd escaped the Church's slave camps.
"Just do what you will. Get it over with." Eldering's voice was low and thick. Michael heard the tears in it. His appetite for this, never strong to begin with, turned sour in his belly.
"I have more of the herb," he said. "It's harmless. Take it."
"No." Softer still.
Michael's hands curled into fists. He could walk away now. He could untie the boy, go downstairs and do his best to convince Severyn they must find another way to deal with the magi. Then, he would have to confront his grandfather.
And tell him what? That you're throwing away the h'nara's one chance for survival out of pity? Fool!
All the fight had gone out of Eldering. He didn't resist when Michael took him back to the bed and made him lie on his belly across it. His hands clenched when Michael seized his left boot. He turned his face into the sheets, but otherwise made no sound.
The boot was heavy, much too heavy for ordinary footwear. After Michael pulled it off, he saw why: it was lined with steel from heel to toe! Incredulous, he hefted the thing, feeling its weight, then let it fall. It made a loud thump when it hit the floorboards. Reluctantly, his gaze dragged to Stefn's stockinged foot.
And saw... nothing. It wasn't until he'd pulled off the stocking that he saw the cramped, misshapen toes and the long ridge of angry scar running from his little toe to his heel. Eldering had a sixth toe. This was the Mark? This small infirmity?
Stefn had become utterly still again, seeming barely to breathe. Michael closed his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I must do this."
There was no answer. Nor was there a sound when Michael took the rest of the earl's clothing, leaving him naked. The collar fit around Stefn's neck as if it had been made for only him, the soft snick of the lock sounding eerily loud in the room. Against his pale skin, the jewels flashed rainbow fire.
In the marshes, where mixed blood and lovers of the same sex were matters of little significance, a handsome boy found no shortage of eager instructors in the art of pleasure. Michael Arranz had been both handsome and noble. He took another packet of the herb and a jar of ointment from the valise and returned to the bed.
"Lift your hips," he instructed.
Slowly, awkwardly, the youth pulled his knees under him and pushed his buttocks into the air. Black hair hid his face. His breath came and went, rapid and shallow.
Mixing the ointment with the finely-powdered herb, Michael pushed a finger into Eldering's tiny hole, using the combination of herb and ointment to ease the tight passage. He took his time at it, letting the cettek's effect take hold. Gradually, as he gently pressed and prodded, the muscles around his finger loosened. He tried not to look at the scars, many more of them down here. For the first time, it occurred to him that Eldering might have been through this before.
But, "No," came the whisper when he asked, then a long, shuddering gasp as Michael found that place deep inside. His cethe was more than ready.
In the flickering candlelight, Michael took off his own clothes. Leaning down, he gently pushed Stefn over.
The younger man, lips parted, looked up at him. Under the spell of the herb, his eyes were all pupil, the green only a fine thread around the black, and fringed with eyelashes sparkling with tears. His sex, thick and hard, quivered against his belly, begging for Michael's touch.
Michael lowered himself to his hands and knees on the bed, mouth seeking Stefn's. Those soft lips yielded at once, opening wide. A fierce rush of desire consumed Michael. His kiss grew harder, more demanding. He drank in Stefn's moans, pressing his body down on the other man's, rubbing their cocks together.
Some dim recollection of purpose made him roll away and get to his knees, pulling Stefn after him. "Open your mouth," he gasped. "Now!"
"P-please... "
Ruthlessly, Michael pulled Stefn's head down. "Open!"
The sensation of Eldering's mouth around him struck Michael with a force unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He felt his eyes roll back, heard himself cry out. He was barely conscious of finally pulling Stefn away, of looking into the tear-streaked face before flinging the youth onto his belly once more. Stefn was breathing hard, body slick with sweat. Unbidden, he raised his hips and slid his knees apart.
Now!
There was a moment of resistance; the opening was so small. Then Michael was past and deep inside Stefn. The pleasure that followed exceeded even that of Stefn's mouth, and Michael had no choice but to give in to it. Again and again, he plundered the slight body beneath him, shaking it with the force of his thrusts, seeking release from the searing, exquisite need for more, just a little more...
Then, from nowhere, came pain. Liquid fire poured through his veins, every muscle snapped into knots. The shock of it drove the breath from him; he couldn't even scream. Inside, in a place he'd always sensed, but never really known, something tore wide open. A howling chasm of darkness stared back at him.
There was only an instant to meet that vast, inhuman presence, to judge, and to be judged. Words not spoken for centuries roared through him, remaking him. The agony was beyond description; his sense of self reeled under the onslaught.
He did not remember when everything collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing behind but darkness.
"Your Highness!"
Severyn looked up from his letter. Corliss stood in the doorway of his bedroom, his normally expressionless face showing clear signs of alarm.
"If I might speak to you, sir?"
The prince was in bed, propped up against his pillows, a stack of correspondence in his lap. Most were letters from Nedby, his steward at Tantagrel, reminding him politely of his royal obligations. He'd been ignoring them since the delivery of the post earlier in the week. Now he looked up warily at his captain, heart sinking, knowing it could not possibly be good news. Before he had time to reply, however, the room jolted, as if the entire house had been hit by something huge.
"Loth's balls!" Severyn sent the letters sliding in all directions as he lunged for his bedside lamp.
Another blow, harder this time, nearly knocked him off the bed and onto the floor. A vase fell, shattering to pieces.
"The fire!" he shouted to Corliss as coals, shaken loose from the grate, rolled across the hearth tiles and onto the rug. The captain, white and frightened, was clinging to the door, but at Severyn's exclamation, hurried to kick the embers back.
"What the devil is going on?"
"The --- in the north wing, your highness... "
North wing? Oh, damn, ...Mick!
Severyn jumped out of bed and dashed to the window. Through the dark and streaming rain, the prince saw a blaze of white light on the top floor of the north wing.
"Lightning?" ventured Corliss when, after several tense moments, the room didn't move again.
"I'll go," Severyn said.
"No! Highness!"
But Severyn, not even bothering to put on a dressing gown over his nightshirt, was already out of the room.
"I was keeping an eye on things at the bottom of the stairs, Your Highness," Corliss explained, hurrying to keep up, "just as you ordered. When the screaming started, I wasn't sure what to do. You did say not to interfere..."
"Who was screaming?"
"As to that, Highness, I can't say, but --- turn here, sir, it's faster --- shortly after the screaming started, there was this tremendous crash... "
Soldiers milled about at the entrance to the north wing. They came swiftly to attention. On the other side of the door, midway down the dark hallway where the stairs led up, white light blazed.
"Your Highness!" Corliss cried. "Stay back!"
"Stay here! Under no circumstances follow me!"
While they watched in consternation, he pushed through the knot of frightened men and hurried toward the stairway. The light's intensity made his eyes water.
"Your Highness!" Corliss pulled at Severyn's nightshirt, trying to get him back down the hall, his normally stolid features filled with fear. The look he gave his prince was one of pure panic. "It's the wrath of Loth, Your Highness! The sin-catcher's up there!"
"It's another damned thunderstorm, you superstitious fool! The house has been hit! We'll be lucky if the whole place doesn't burn down! Have the men assemble a bucket-line!"
Severyn plunged into the light, groping for the handrail, squinting against the painful brilliance. Behind him, he heard Corliss swearing and ordering his men back.
Another shudder vibrated through the castle. Plaster sifted down and a crack opened up in the wall of the stairwell. Severyn started to run, taking the steps, two at a time.
At the top, he saw Eldering's room at the far end of the corridor, the door wide open. His gut knotted. The light came from there, white fire that made him lift his hand to shield his eyes. Even as horror dragged at his muscles, he ran for it.
Another shudder. The ancient walls groaned.
"Mick! Damn it! MICHAEL!"
Severyn reached the door of Eldering's room and the light went out. Left with red spots floating before his eyes, it took a moment for Severyn's vision to recover. Broken glass littered the floor. Wind and rain raced through the shattered window. Furniture was overturned. In the bed by the wall, naked and mute with terror, huddled the earl. On the floor...
"Holy Loth, Defender of Man!" whispered Severyn.
Nude, straight, and stiff as a corpse, Michael was stretched out beside the bed, but he wasn't on the floor. Instead, he drifted several inches above it! A haze of light surrounded him, pulsing gently, as if it came from deep inside him somewhere. Pale hair drifted on the invisible currents. His eyes were closed and his lips moved ceaselessly.
"Oh, God! Michael!" Aghast, Severyn froze in the doorway, unable to take another step. He had feared something like this! What was he to do?
After a moment, he got himself in hand. Entering the room, wary, he approached his friend. Taking a deep breath, he reached down and set a hand on the h'nar's bare chest. For an instant, it was lost in the soft, golden radiance. Warmth flooded through him. Then the light vanished and Michael settled to the floorboards. Silence fell; even the storm outside seemed to quiet.
Michael's breathing was deep and even, but when Severyn shook him, he didn't wake. Getting to his feet, the prince strode to the bed, confronting Eldering. "What happened? Answer me!"
But the youth was clearly beyond speech, only shaking his head. His hands were bound, Severyn realized; he couldn't have done this himself. Severyn turned back to Michael.
It was a struggle to get him back into his clothes, but Severyn managed it. Getting Michael off the floor was another matter.
"Prince Severyn? Prince Severyn!"
Corliss! Severyn swore. Even his loyal officers would find this scene beyond any reasonable explanation he could give. Lurching to his feet, he ordered Eldering off the bed. The sin-catcher nearly fell trying to obey. His thighs and buttocks were smeared with blood. His cursed foot was bare, a heavy scar running along the outside of it, dark and inflamed.
Severyn dragged him to the next room and shoved him inside. "Take one step outside and I'll kill you!"
Just in time. Turning around, he saw Corliss at the end of the hall, the officer's fear for his prince overriding his duty to obey Severyn's orders.
"Highness!" Corliss arrived at the bedroom door, looking around with wide eyes.
"Lightning," said Severyn in a tone allowing no contradiction.
"Is he?... "
"Just unconscious."
"The earl?"
"Next door. Post a man there."
Corliss hesitated, not at all sure he should leave.
"Now!" roared his overtaxed prince. Corliss bowed and took himself off at once.
A violent shudder passed through Michael. Severyn dropped to his knees beside him.
Mick's eyes flew open. "Son of a whore!" He saw Severyn and added, "Damnation!"
"Thank Loth!" replied Severyn with feeling. "What happened? Are you all right?"
Michael got up and, with Severyn's help made it to the fallen chair. Righting it, he sat down heavily. Corliss chose that moment to return. His eyes went at once to Mick who, ashen and shaky, had dropped his head into his hand.
"Shall I summon a physician, Your Highness?"
Michael lifted his head. "I'm all right."
"You're not all right," Severyn retorted, with an eye to his captain. "You were very nearly struck by lightning!"
"I do feel a bit odd. Dizzy."
"Come!" Imperiously, Severyn held out his hand. "That's an order, my lord."
Mick gave him a dour look. "Where's Eldering. Is he... Was he hit?"
"He's fine. A little shaken up, but unhurt. He's in the next room."
With that, Michael had to be content. Corliss hurried away to call off the water-brigade as Severyn and his oldest friend left the room.
Not until they reached Michael's bedroom in the south wing did Severyn speak of what had truly happened. "You were floating! No legend I've ever heard mentioned such a thing!"
Michael just stared blankly, then shook his head. "I don't remember."
"Truly? The entire house shook! I thought it would come crashing down around us!"
"I had no idea. I remember nothing about it. What happened to Eldering? Is he truly all right? Did Corliss see him?"
"He's fine. Scared, but fine. I got him out of sight before Corliss got there. Fortunately, being a sin-catcher, no one will think much of his room getting struck by lightning."
"No. I suppose not." Michael leaned against the door frame. "Loth! The whole damned place is spinning."
Severyn swallowed his questions, alarm returning. "Are you sure you don't want a physician?"
"Don't be an idiot."
"Very well. But lie down," ordered the prince. "Try to get some real sleep. I'll have Marin stay right outside. Don't be a fool and keep silent if you start feeling worse."
Michael nodded, but when Severyn reached the end of the stairway and looked back, he was still standing in the open doorway.
Stefn cut the rope binding his hands against the sharp edge of an old metal shield he'd found in a trunk stuffed with clothes. Moving slowly and painfully, he managed to cover himself enough for modesty. Enveloped in the garments' musty smell, he waited for someone to return and tried not to think of what he had seen and done.
Of its own accord, his hand crept to the collar. He thought of those last few seconds before hell itself had broken loose: how he had writhed and moaned in pleasure beyond imagining: how each thrust of the h'nar's cock had only made him want more and more.
Sin-catcher. Shame of Shia.
He swore, voice thick with misery, and tried to find the collar's clasp. His scrabbling fingers met only the crusting of jewels, seemingly unbroken in a circle around his neck. No lock, no clasp: nothing met his increasingly frantic attempts to get it off. Finally, he simply tore at it, hoping to break the hidden lock. His struggles got him nothing but a sore neck and finally, he gave up.
The rain stopped and wan sunlight struggled through the dusty window. Morning already. Stefn found a place on a pile of boxes and watched the world beyond the walls gather substance in the dawn. Mist drifted over the highland meadows. On the northern horizon, the hills were soft purple bumps, almost as insubstantial as the mist. Beyond them, still invisible, rose the Lothwall Mountains.
The brightening countryside vanished. In his mind's eye, Stefn saw Lord Michael once more, standing by the side of the bed, naked, arms outstretched, head flung back, his mouth open in a shattering scream. His eyes...
"Eldering?"
Startled, Stefn looked around. The door was open. Prince Severyn!
"Come with me."
Summoning what dignity he could, Stefn limped from the room. The prince was right behind him. They descended through an eerily silent house, coming at last to the south wing. Stefn saw a few servants, but they weren't Shian retainers. They were strangers wearing Lothlain colors.
At the door to Allen's apartment, the prince stopped. Opening it, he said, "You'll stay here until Lord Arranz decides what's to become of you."
Without a word, Stefn went in, aware of the hard-eyed stare burning into his back. The prince followed him, shutting the door.
"What happened last night?" he asked.
"Ask your taint friend."
Stefn was too tired, his wits too slow; he never saw the blow coming. The prince's fist crashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling. Curling into a ball, he braced himself for more. It didn't come. Instead, he heard a flurry of profanity.
"Get up," said Lothlain, "and answer my question."
Wiping blood from his lips, Stefn obeyed. The room tilted drunkenly. Reckless, he let the bitter fury out. "He raped me, Your Highness. He used me like a woman, like the filthiest, most debased of whores! But you knew this, so why do you even ask what happened? Do you want to know the details? Do you wish me tell you how it felt to have his cock rammed down my throat while my hands were bound? What it was like when he..."
"Enough!" This time, the blow scattered all thoughts to the wind. Stefn was dimly aware of being dragged to his knees. "Sin-catcher!" he heard, the words coming to him in echoes. "Do you protest your fate? I thought you Elderings accepted the will of Loth!"
Was it true? Was this really Loth's will? Stefn's ears rang. He was dizzy and his mouth was sore.
"Haven't you even wondered why Loth would visit a sin-catcher upon such a supposedly righteous family?" Contempt chilled the prince's voice.
"Leave me alone." The words were barely intelligible through swollen lips. The dizziness was getting worse. Stefn thought he heard laughter and looked around, but no one else was there.
"After he had his way with you, what happened then?" The prince was merciless. He sat Stefn bodily on the edge of the bed. Allen's bed. Allen, who was dead.
"Eldering?" Seizing his chin, the prince forced Stefn to meet his gaze.
"He screamed," whispered Stefn, remembering. "He... fell away from me and when I looked, the hell-light was there. It was pouring out of his eyes and his mouth! He was talking, shouting, but I couldn't understand... "
And there had been other voices, too, howling and chanting in the whirlwind of light and fury the room had become.
"What have you done, Your Highness?" he asked finally. "Do you really desire power so much you would bring back the naragi?"
The prince released him and turned away. At the door he paused, resting his hand lightly on its carved vines and flowers. Then, he looked over his shoulder at Stefn. "We'll see, I suppose," he said and closed it quietly after him.
Tired and heartsick, Stefn limped to his brother's bed and fell straight off to sleep. When he woke again, an entire day and night had passed. Someone had dressed him in a clean linen nightshirt and pulled the covers over him, but he remembered nothing of it. A fire burned in the big, marble fireplace. His brother's things were everywhere, a child's shield leaning against the wall, tournament trophies lined up along the mantel.
It was like being in a stranger's room. Allen had never invited him inside it. Twice the size of his own cramped chamber in the north wing, this was spacious and airy. There were rugs on the polished wooden floor and furniture of carved cedar, a rare and fragrant wood found only along the southwestern coast. The furniture had been a present from their father on Allen's sixteenth birthday, one of an abundance of other gifts given him at a lavish party attended by family and friends from as far away as Lothmont. Stefn's own Majority Day had come and gone, unnoticed.
A large pot of water warmed by the fireside. He washed gratefully. Whoever had put him to bed had left some of his own clothing, neatly folded, in a pile on a chair. At least the neckcloth hid the jeweled band around his neck. Not that it really mattered. He gave the doorknob a perfunctory turn and, to his surprise, it opened.
Outside, a stranger in footman's dress dozed in a chair. At the sound of the latch falling, he jumped up and bowed. "Your Lordship!"
Nonplused, Stefn opened his mouth, then shut it again.
"Ye should have just called me, m'lord," continued the behemoth, straightening his jacket.
"Who are you?"
The man's hair was dark brown and his eyes were of the same color. He bowed very low. "The name's Gregory Marin, m'lord. I'm to be yer personal valet, orders of Lord Arranz."
"I don't need a valet."
But Marin ignored him. Nothing would do but Stefn return to his room where he was gently, if determinedly, disrobed. A bath was ordered and, while Stefn huddled in a chair, wrapped in one of Allen's old dressing gowns, an army of servants invaded the room. None were familiar.
Marin left him to bathe alone. Customarily, Stefn took his baths in the servants' bathhouse, with its harsh soaps, cold water, and the big, none-too-clean wooden barrel. This was luxury: this deep, smooth, pristine ceramic tub, its gold trim aglow in the firelight, its warm water and scented bars of fine soap easing the last bit of tension from his muscles.
He had almost fallen back to sleep when, across the room, the door opened. Thinking it was Marin, Stefn sat up, splashing water all around. It was Arranz. The h'nar stopped just inside the door, eyebrows lifting.
Of course, it would be too much to expect courtesy from a taint. Instead of leaving at once, Arranz continued into the room. Picking up one of the towels left in a folded pile by the tub, he shook it out and held it up. "Time to get out. I want to talk to you."
Stefn considered refusing, but thought better of it. Face heating, he clambered from the tub and snatched the towel, wrapping it around his hips. He limped to the chair and his clothing. His hands shook as he dressed. When he was decent, he dared a glance at Arranz, but the taint had his back turned, looking out the windows.
"I will be leaving Shia tomorrow," announced Arranz without turning around. "You will accompany me."
Leaving? A flicker of hope came to life. "Where are we going?" Stefn asked. If it were Lothmont or some other city, there was a chance he might yet extricate himself from this nightmare.
"Blackmarsh," replied Arranz, smile glinting. He turned around and came to Stefn who stared back at him in shock. Leaning down, Arranz brushed a strand of wet hair from Stefn's eyes. "Home."
"Come in!"
Severyn pushed open the door. Michael stood beside his bed, a large, leather case open upon it. He looked up, surprised, when Severyn dropped the bag of gold into it.
"Think of it as two hundred years of back rent," said the prince, grinning at Michael's stunned expression. "Courtesy of the late earl. You know you could use it. Tell Annie to get herself a new dress."
"Are you sending armed guards with us?" Michael regarded the money with feigned apprehension.
"Would you like some?"
Michael shrugged, tucking the bag of gold under his shirts. "I suppose, should we be attacked on the road, I'll find whether or not I am now what legend claims. Are you coming back here after Lothmont or going on to Tantagrel?"
"Tantagrel. Nedby's letters grow increasingly shrill. With luck, I can take care of everything within a few weeks and be back here. It would greatly reassure me if you would return here and help Auron oversee the building."
"I've no desire to linger at Blackmarsh. As soon as I've reported to Grandfather, I'll be back, I assure you."
"Damn it. I wish you were coming with me."
Michael's smile appeared. "You know what a popular fellow I am in town these days. You would be best served, as Grandfather says, by keeping me close but out of sight."
An inexplicable feeling overcame Severyn. He set his hands on Michael's shoulders and fixed the startled h'naran lord with his direct gaze. "I will not always allow my head to rule my heart," he promised, meaning it utterly. "I'm fighting this battle for many reasons, the best of which is to free my country from tyrants. But when it's over, Mick, I will claim my true reward: the right to proudly have my best friend always and openly at my side."
Aramis I was born in YLD 1276 to the Marquis of Tantegrel, Lord Argan Lothlain, and his lady wife, Mary of Irye. The youngest of three sons, Aramis, was destined for a place in the clergy as was the custom of that time. However, at an early age, he showed such skill and inclination to the martial arts that Lord Argan decided instead to raise him among his guardsmen and sent his second son, Alfred, to Withwillow to be educated and ordained as a priest.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1347
Morning came too quickly. Stefn, unable to sleep, was wide awake when Marin opened the door. The big servant no longer wore a footman's formal suit, but had changed into a soldier's uniform of black with red trim. Arranz colors.
"Rise and shine, my lord!" he boomed. "His Lordship wishes to be gone within the hour!"
Then, looking around, he frowned. "Not packed? Well, never fear. I'll attend to it while you get ready." He started toward one of the wardrobes.
"Those are --- were my brother's clothes."
"Oh, yes. My apologies. He was much bigger than you, wasn't he? I shall return shortly."
After he'd gone, Stefn pulled the blankets to his chin and stared through the gloom at the remains of the fire. So often, he'd imagined all the places in Tanyrin he would go if he could only be free of the high walls of his home. Blackmarsh, the last stronghold of naran blood, had never been one of them.
The Church had less power here in the west than on the eastern side of the Midder Mountains, but in Blackmarsh, the Church had no power at all. Taints lived with impunity, protected by the ancient Covenant between St. Aramis and his naragi ally and comrade, Derek Arranz, first Duke of Blackmarsh.
Stefn's father had often spoken longingly of the day when the cursed Covenant was finally dissolved. "It would wipe the land clean, once and for all, of demon blood," he'd been fond of saying. "What I would not give to be the one to ride into that unholy place and to see the Demon Duke on his knees, bowing his neck for my sword!"
Yet Loth had not granted his father's wish. Instead, He had visited devastation upon the earl and, in a final act of cruelty, would deliver the last of the Eldering line to Blackmarsh, not as a conqueror but as a slave.
Why? What could any of his ancestors have done to deserve this?
Yet even as he asked himself the bitter question, he remembered the refuse heap and the bones. Taints, he told himself angrily. They had been outlaws, witches, thieves, murderers!
Marin returned with a bulging leather satchel. "Up, lad! My master told me I was to dress you by force if necessary! Or is that what you're waiting for?"
It wasn't, and Stefn scrambled from the bed with all haste.
Outside, the familiar lane teemed with mounted soldiers and two large carriages. Marin took Stefn straight to a small knot of men that included both the prince and the taint. With a jolt, he recognized the dark-haired lord he'd stabbed.
It was that one who saw him first, elbowing his companion. Silence fell. Lord Michael turned. "Good morning, Lord Eldering."
Stefn lifted his head, although his stomach knotted, and pointedly did not answer.
The dark-haired man lifted an eyebrow. "He ain't riding with you, is he, Your Highness? The damned coach will end up in a ditch or a wheel will fall off."
"Did you check him for knives?" joked the prince.
"My lords!" objected Marin, looking hurt.
"He'll be riding with me." Arranz waved to one of the coaches. "Severyn will be quite safe."
Amid hoots and laughter, Marin set a large hand on Stefn's shoulder and propelled him toward the vehicle. "Be a good lad and stay there," he instructed.
Left alone in the coach, Stefn lifted his throbbing foot onto the leather upholstered seat. Uncomfortable as his corrective boot had been, it had supported his weak limb. Pain shot up his leg and, gritting his teeth, he leaned back against the wall, waiting for it to subside.
Without the boot's iron brace to prevent it, how long before his sixth toe started growing back? And when it did, what then? Stefn shivered and tried to think of something else. When Lord Michael got into the coach a short time later, the distraction was almost welcome.
The coach door slammed, leaving them in darkness. The cracking of a whip made him jump, and amid much rocking and swaying, they were off. There were small rustles across the cab as Arranz lit the overhead travel lamp and settled down. The swaying, yellow light cast stark shadows across his face, hollowing his cheeks and making deep wells of his eyes.
"If your foot pains you, you have only to say so," the taint offered unexpectedly. "Easement spells are simple enough."
"It doesn't hurt," lied Stefn.
Arranz shrugged. He had brought a large book into the coach which he proceeded to open and peruse. Stefn didn't recognize it as coming from his family's library and couldn't help a stir of interest. He had no intention of showing it, however. Shifting awkwardly around, he pushed aside the curtain covering the little window beside him.
Outside, the wet fields gathered substance in the advance of a rain-drenched dawn. They passed a cottage, its roof sagging, the earth around it bare and muddy. A thin trickle of smoke came from the tilting chimney.
"Once Severyn weds your sister, the people of Shia will learn what it's like to have a just and generous lord," said Arranz. "One who cares whether their roofs leak or their children are hungry. I wager, in less than a year, they'll bless the day the prince came to save them."
A few minutes later, they passed another house, this one a bit larger, but equally squalid. The taint was full of fine words, but to Stefn's observation, Prince Severyn Lothlain seemed capable only of treachery and, Stefn stole a quick glance at Arranz, blasphemy.
They soon left the depressing vista behind. It began to rain harder, the water running in rivulets down the thick glass. The coach slowed, jolting and bouncing as the road worsened. Overhead, the lantern swung wildly. Arranz swore. He unhooked it and blew it out. "Damned northern roads," he muttered.
With little to see but an endless procession of rain battered fields, Stefn glanced over at Arranz and found the h'nar looking back. For some reason, that regard sent a wave of heat through him. Horrified, Stefn turned away. He wedged himself into the corner as securely as he could and pretended to go to sleep.
It was with genuine surprise that he awoke several hours later to find himself curled up on the seat, blankets tucked around him. The ride was smoother, the coach swaying gently. Across the aisle, sunlight streamed through the window. The demon lord appeared engrossed in his book. He raised his eyes as Stefan sat up.
"Awake at last. How you could sleep with all that jolting defies reason."
"Where are we?"
"We crossed Shia's parish line a short time ago. I've arranged for us to spend the night at an inn in Fornsby."
The landscape had started to change, empty plains giving way to rolling, wooded hills and open fields. On the road, puddles from the rain reflected blue sky. Stefn forgot everything in his fascination with a world he'd never expected to see outside of paintings or in the illustrations of his books.
The homes of the farmers were not as mean as those of Shia, but still seemed very small and run-down. They passed a wagon pulled over to the side of the road. A bearded, shabbily dressed man sat at the reins while, in the back, atop several bulging, burlap sacks, sat a boy, barefoot in spite of the chill, his breeches out at the knees. A moment later, the coach was past.
"The Baron of Fornsby is a decent lord," said Arranz. "The Order of the Sacred Vessel has their monastery in the Cathedral here, too, bringing work to the people of the parish."
"Are they traitors, too?" asked Stefn bitterly.
"Not yet."
In spite of himself, excitement quickened Stefn's pulse. If only he could get to the Cathedral! If only he could warn the priests! Afraid his face would give him away, he turned his gaze back to the window. The road curved slowly west, revealing more of the town. "Where is the Cathedral?" he asked. "Is it those buildings to the east?"
"No. That's Castle Fornsby," replied Arranz. "You've never been here?"
"I've never been anywhere," replied Stefn before thinking.
"We'll pass the Cathedral on the way to the inn. You can't miss it."
Stefn said nothing more. To his relief, Arranz was right, it wasn't difficult to spot the Cathedral. It dwarfed buildings around it, high-walled and grim. As they rode past, Stefn saw two guards standing before its massive gates.
The coach was quickly through Fornsby. At the edge of the town, it pulled into the large, busy yard of an inn.
"Your name," Arranz said, "is Stefn White, if anyone asks. And put up your hood. I prefer discretion."
He donned his own cloak, hiding his silvery mane, and stepped down from the coach. Marin was waiting. The big servant bowed and handed Stefn a cane. Stefn was tempted to throw it back at him, but his foot still ached, so he took it and was secretly grateful.
The inn had a prosperous, welcoming look. Torches were lit against the deepening twilight. Yellow lamplight glowed from the square-paned windows. The smell of cooking made Stefn's mouth water.
Inside, the common room was as busy as the courtyard. No one paid any heed to the two cloaked and hooded figures winding through their midst.
Marin secured two chambers on an upper floor. "I've ordered dinner to be sent up, my lords," he announced when they reached the top of the stairs. To Stefn, he added, "I shall, of course, be outside your door, Lord Eldering, should you need anything."
Stefn heard this with a sinking heart, but pretended indifference. "You don't trust me, my lord?" he asked Arranz, feigning concern.
"No."
Marin took a step in Stefn's direction and, in no mood to be manhandled yet again, Stefn hastily retreated into his assigned room. The door shut. He heard the key turn in the lock and he was finally alone. Heart thumping, he stood rooted to the spot.
It was a dreadful risk he was taking. If he failed, who knew what the taint would do to him? Even so, he had no choice. The danger to the kingdom was more important than his personal circumstances. He had to try!
To his delight, his room had a perfect view of the Cathedral. But how to get there? His door was locked and guarded.
He pushed open the window and leaned out. It was a straight drop to the courtyard. Jumping was out of the question. On the other hand, the window was a dormer, with roof slanting steeply on either side. Having scrambled in and out of windows all his life, this would be easy.
A short time later, Marin brought him his supper. "Where is Lord Arranz?" Stefn asked. "Will he join me?"
"His lordship has gone out," replied the man.
Better and better. Stefn ate the excellent meal with real appetite. When Marin returned to take away the tray, Stefn announced his intention to seek his bed. He even blew out his lamp and crawled under the covers, fully dressed, just in case Arranz should check.
Having slept all day in the coach, it wasn't hard to stay awake. He listened to the sounds of the courtyard drifting up to his window, the tread of feet on creaking boards outside his door. All the while, his mind raced.
Once the plot was exposed, the prince and his half-demon accomplice would stand trial and face execution. Maybe then, Loth would be satisfied that the Elderings had atoned for whatever sins Stefn carried. Maybe then, his curse would be lifted.
Gradually, the inn quieted. When moonlight streamed through his window, Stefn got out of bed. Below, the courtyard was empty. At the last moment, considering the long walk ahead of him, he grabbed the cane and, with it gripped in his teeth, climbed up onto the window sill. Careful to put little weight on his bad foot, he worked himself around until he was safely on the roof.
He found a drainpipe and, with the ease of long practice, slid to the ground, keeping to the shadows as he made his way across the courtyard. His intention to steal a horse died at the sight of several stableboys clustered before the stable, talking and smoking their pipes. It looked like he would be walking.
With an eye to the distant Cathedral towers, his cane gripped firmly in hand, he started into Fornsby.
Stefn had never been beyond the borders of Shia. He'd filled his empty hours with books, pouring over travelogues, histories, novels, biographies, scriptures --- anything to paint images of the world beyond the meadows and high, rough hills of home. No amount of reading, however, had prepared him for the sheer distances involved in getting from one place to another. The confusing tangle of streets was much different from their orderly lines on a map. It had seemed to take no more than a blink of an eye to ride through Fornsby in the coach, yet after an hour's trudging, he had not yet reached the Cathedral.
Being late, most of Fornsby was deserted, shops closed, their shutters drawn against the perils of the dark. As he continued to wander about, the streets narrowed and became dirtier. He came upon taverns still open, their doors spilling out noise and drunken laughter. Men and women stumbled up and down the walkways, arm in arm, and once Stefn gave wide berth to a fight.
He could see the Cathedral's towers silhouetted against the sky, but no matter how often he turned toward them, the streets he chose meandered off in other directions, forcing him to backtrack again and again. Finally, out of sheer frustration, his foot throbbing unbearably, he chose one of the quieter taverns and slipped inside. Uncertainly, he stood just inside the door, trying to make out details in the thick, boozy haze.
"And what can I get for you, my pretty lad?"
Starting, Stefn looked up. A barmaid appeared before him, smiling broadly. Her gaze, as it traveled up and down the length of him, made him blush.
"I... if you please, ma'am... I'm trying to get to the Cathedral. Could you give me the direction?" He spoke as quietly as he could, but even so, the men seated at the tables nearby fell silent.
"Cathedral? Why, sure, honey." Seizing his arm, the woman swept out of the tavern, dragging him with her. He tried to keep his eyes averted from her breasts, plump and round and doing their best to spill out of her shabby, low-cut gown. "Take that street there all the way to the end, love, then turn right. Another quarter mile and you'll be there. They lock up the gate, though, at midnight. Why not stay here until morning? Let Emilia show you a good time."
Somehow, Stefn managed to extricate himself. "Thank you," he managed. "I... I must go." He hurried away, aware she remained on the tavern stoop, hands on her hips, watching him. Not until the road curved out of sight did he breathe a deep sigh of relief and slow down.
The Cathedral locked their gates at midnight? He hadn't reckoned on that. Would they open them for him? And, if they did, what would they do when they realized who Stefn was? Would they even give a sin-catcher an audience?
Away from the tavern district, the town was quiet and dark again. Moonlight laid a silver path down the middle of the street, but the edges stayed deep in shadow. Here and there, a second-or third-story window showed the gleam of lamplight, but most of Fornsby's good citizens had long since sought their beds. His footsteps echoed, abnormally loud, against the walls.
A new sound, coming from behind, stopped him in his tracks, spinning him around. It seemed the shadows moved, but he couldn't be sure. After a moment, when nothing stirred, he told himself it was a trick of the moonlight and walked on. He reached the end of the street and, as the barmaid had instructed, turned right. Behind him came the rattle and clank of a bottle rolling across the paving stones. This time, when he turned around, he saw a handful of slouching figures step out into the open. Moonlight flashed on steel.
Stefn's heart leapt into his throat. He started walking again, going as fast as he could without running outright. Teeth clenched against the bolts of pain shooting up through his leg, he prayed the Cathedral was just ahead...just around this next corner.
He heard his stalkers break formation and knew he had no more time. Wildly, he looked for defensive ground, but there was none, only alleys that could be dead-ends and doorways where a man could be pinned.
"Hey-ho, my lord! Fine night, eh?" One of the men, a nicked shortsword in hand, approached. "We was wonderin', m'lord, if you had a few golds or silvers to spare. Me and my friends here are feelin' a bit peckish."
"I have no money."
This brought snickers from ShortSword and his cohorts. "We ain't stupid, yer lordship. Hand over yer gold and yer sparklies."
They were looking straight at his neck. Involuntarily, he reached up and found his neckcloth had slipped, revealing a glimpse of the jeweled collar beneath.
There were five of the villains, moving forward, trying to surround him. Running was out of the question; his foot wouldn't stand it.
One of ShortSword's companions, a long-bladed dagger in each fist, prepared to strike. He lunged, but Stefn lifted the cane to meet the attack, whirling it from hand to hand in front of him. The ruffian shrieked as the heavy, knobbed wood shattered both his wrists, his daggers flying from suddenly nerveless fingers.
"Get him!"
Stefn braced to meet their rush. He deflected ShortSword's enraged jab, dropping to a crouch, intending to come up under the man's guard. Alas! His foot buckled under him and he fell heavily, vision greying in the waves of agony. Some sixth sense made him roll desperately to one side, avoiding the vicious, downward cut of the sword. He got his other hand on the cane, lifting it to block another blow. Sweat ran into his eyes. The next blow would finish him.
But the next blow didn't come. Instead, he heard one of the robbers swear. "Holy mother of whores. It's a fuckin' demon!"
Stefn's heart lurched. Wiping his eyes with his arm, he saw the truth of it. Shadow and moonlight come alive as Michael Arranz approached. Unhurried, he strolled down the center of the deserted street, making no effort to hide the bright, damning banner of his hair. In one hand, he held a sword, in the other, a whip.
"That ain't no demon," roared the ruffians' leader. "What's wrong with you fools? He's just some bloody taint! Take 'im down!"
Arranz became a blur of motion, deadly, graceful and appallingly efficient. Superstitious awe and terror held Stefn motionless, staring as ShortSword's head was parted from his shoulders, flying across the street to roll up against the front of a shop. Without breaking stride, Arranz impaled the next robber and severed the spine of the third. The man whose wrists Stefn had broken tried to run, moaning and babbling prayers, but Arranz's whip cracked through the street, wrapping around his neck and snapping it. Another crack and the fifth ruffian met an identical fate. Abruptly, the night was quiet.
Along the street, lights appeared in the windows. Shutters were thrust open. Arranz put up his hood. As the calls and shouts started, he crossed the bloody pavement to Stefn. Belatedly, Stefn found his wits and swung the cane wildly at the half-breed's shins. "Idiot puppy!" he heard, then the world was violently upended. Pain crashed down on Stefn like the hammer of Loth and he didn't remember a thing after that.
Eldering was still unconscious when Michael got him back to the inn. Marin carried the youth up to his room with surprising gentleness. With a glance at the window, still open, Michael ordered his aide to strip the earl naked and tie his hands behind him.
"I'm in no mood to chase him down again," he said flatly.
"Bind him, my lord?" Marin looked down at the unconscious sin-catcher. "Is it really necessary?"
"If Eldering had reached the priests with his tale, the consequences would have been disastrous." Ignoring Marin's reproachful looks, Michael returned to his own room and promptly collapsed.
It had been easy to find Stefn. Michael had been shocked at how easy. Deep inside him, in a place that he'd not known existed before the Binding, a small flame now burned, flaring brighter when his thoughts touched on his cethe. Dispassionately, Michael considered the phenomenon. He'd simply followed its pull through the sleeping town until he'd found the runaway.
And the runaway could fight! That was most unexpected. He was still pondering that when sleep finally took him.
It seemed he'd hardly slept a wink before a knock on his door announced it was morning. With Marin hovering at his elbow, he crossed the hall and unlocked Eldering's door.
The earl was awake, as well. Marin had left him a blanket, but he'd clearly been struggling, for it had fallen to the floor and the earl himself was dangerously close to tumbling off the bed after it. Nothing in his flushed face suggested he was in any way chastened. Michael changed his mind about untying him.
"Wrap him up in the blanket," he told Marin. "If he makes any noise, gag him."
Turning his back on Eldering's outrage, Michael left the inn, stepping out into the predawn gloom where their coach waited. It was nearly a quarter hour later before Marin arrived with his squirming cocoon of blankets and angry earl. Eldering was dumped unceremoniously on the seat opposite Michael. Marin departed, chuckling, and the coach door slammed.
"Untie me!" demanded Stefn, rigid in his confining blankets.
"I don't think so, my lord."
"Do you think I'm going anywhere with my foot like this?" Stefn demanded furiously. "At least give me my clothes!"
"No. And if you aren't quiet, I'll take the blanket."
That threat was enough to make Stefn close his mouth with a snap. Defeated, he lay on his side and contented himself with directing evil looks at Michael. Michael ignored him, leaning back in his seat and pretending interest in the slowly brightening morning outside.
"My lord?"
He looked around. Stefn looked back at him, mouth tight. "When we get to Blackmarsh, what then?"
"I have some business to attend while I'm there."
"What has that to do with me?"
"My grandfather will want to have a look at you. Don't worry. You'll be kept well out of the way. I have no intention of insulting my family by forcing the company of an Eldering on them."
Green eyes flashed, then fell. Stefn looked like he might have said something, then thought better of it. He lapsed back into sullen silence.
The day passed, miles rolling away under their carriage wheels. Sunset arrived, a blaze over the western hills. As soon as it was fully dark, they would stop. Michael looked forward to Eldering's reaction when he was carried into the inn, wrapped up like a sausage in his blanket again.
Fortunately, the inn had a back stairwell, because the earl was not amused. He struggled and swore, even managing to kick Marin in the jaw until Michael threatened to bewitch him into docility.
In the small bedroom, Michael dismissed Marin, then regarded the wriggling bundle at his feet thoughtfully. Stooping, he grasped the edge of the blanket and unrolled it with a single, mighty yank. His captive ended up face down on the dusty floor, treating Michael to an excellent view of tight, round buttocks.
And the scars. So many of them. Michael felt an involuntary tug of pity.
Taint.
Finding himself reaching down to help the other man to his feet, he stopped, closing his open hand into a fist. This pup was raised on generations of hatred for the h'nara, the spawn of a family who had terrorized all those unfortunate enough to be born with mixed blood.
Michael untied the rope and ordered Eldering to his feet. The youth tried to grab the blanket, but Michael kicked it away. Furious, mortified, Eldering jumped up and promptly lost what little color he had, swaying perilously. Michael pushed him back onto the bed.
It wasn't difficult to tie him again, this time fastening his wrists to the iron bars of the headboard. At once, Stefn tried to curl into a ball, but Michael grabbed a leg and pulled it straight. Deliberately, he twisted Stefn's foot to show the heavy ridge of scar running along the outside.
"How many times have they amputated?" he asked.
Stefn's green eyes closed tightly. Michael could see the tension in the slim, rigid body. "Why me?" Stefn whispered. "Do you truly believe Shia is really yours? Is this some misplaced need for vengeance?"
"Castle Shia was built by my ancestors while yours were still far to the south, busily killing each other." replied Michael. "Not only did the Elderings and their Church masters steal it from us, but they murdered every narani inside. Men, women and children, your monstrous ancestor cut their throats over each threshold to 'purify' the fortress with their blood. This..." His hand suddenly tightened on Stefn's ankle with crushing strength. "...does not begin to pay that debt!"
"Lies!" Stefn gasped. His hands clenched into fists.
Stupid puppy. His naivety was almost pitiful. "You've never been past Shia's borders," Michael reminded the earl softly. "You are as ignorant and arrogant as the rest of your damned house of murderers."
"Take your hands off me!" Stefn kicked angrily, but to no avail.
"I remind you again, my lord. You belong to me. If I wish to lay hands on you, I will. The next time you're disobedient, you'll be treated like the slave you are."
Out of patience, Michael made no attempt at gentleness when he tied Stefn's ankle to the iron foot-board. Alarm growing, Eldering tried to evade his grasp, but Michael got his other foot and tied it, too, leaving the dark-haired youth spread-eagled across the mattress.
"Unbind me!" Stefn's voice cracked in panic. "What are you doing?"
"Reminding you of your place." Arranz settled onto the edge of the bed beside him. Calmly, he set his open hand on Stefn's naked hip. The young earl tried to jerk away, but there was nowhere to go.
"D-don't!"
Michael ignored him. "Legends of the cethera claim that once Bound, a cethe's body is no longer his own to control."
Stefn seemed barely to hear him. All his attention was on Michael's hand. He made a tiny, involuntary sound when it began to move, sliding down to caress the inside of his thigh. Even so, it seemed a part of what Michael said registered.
"Th --- that's not --- true!"
Michael did not respond. Instead, he let his fingertips brush Stefn's nipples. The roughness of his callused skin against the sensitive flesh sent shivers through his captive. Again, Stefn tried to squirm away, but Arranz only caught one of the nubs between a thumb and forefinger, squeezing it. When he began to gently knead the captive bit of flesh, Stefn's reaction was swift and unexpected.
"Damn you!" he choked. "Stop it! Please!"
But Michael just laughed. He wrapped his hand around Stefn's burgeoning erection. "Mine," he said softly, putting his mouth against the youth's ear. "I can do whatever I wish to you and I wish to do a great many things."
Wet eyelashes fluttered. Stefn cursed him again, but his voice trembled. His hands in their bindings clenched and unclenched. Beneath his unexpectedly soft skin, Michael could feel muscles strung tight as the earl desperately resisted his own body.
Michael had meant only to bring the earl to a swift, humiliating climax, but instead, without quite knowing why, he leaned down and, distantly shocked at himself, covered those parted lips with his own. There was no resistance to his assault. He plundered Stefn's mouth with impunity. Below the youth's belly, Michael's hand moved faster, coaxing soft, rhythmic sobs with each stroke.
Desire rushed through Michael, unexpected and unwelcome. He felt himself harden. His ministrations roughened and it was only moments later that Stefn cried out, body arching with the force of his orgasm. Michael drew back, wiping his hand clean on the sheets, making no attempt to hide his triumphant grin.
Shattered, covered with sweat, the evidence of his capitulation splashed across his naked belly, Stefn lay with his eyes closed, tears leaking from beneath the thick, dark eyelashes. He didn't move when Michael untied his feet. After several long moments, he drew his body up into a tight ball, burying his face in his arms.
"Get used to it," Michael advised him softly. Leaning over the bed, he ran his hand along the youth's lean, naked flank. "Soon, you won't be able to help yourself and you'll beg me for it."
And, for once, there was no insolent reply.
Morning found Stefn with a heavy head and heavier heart. He'd barely slept. His arms ached and his bladder was painfully full. When he heard the rattle of the key in the lock, his heart gave a modest, upward lurch, but he refused to look in its direction.
"And how was your night?"
Stefn didn't reply, only stared at the wall, praying he would be untied. Sure enough, the ropes fell off. He groaned at the twinges of stiff muscles.
"Take care of your personal needs," said Arranz, unruffled and unwrinkled. "I want to make Blackmarsh before sunset." He threw something onto the bed. Clothing!
Being left alone was an unexpected courtesy. Stefn was dressed and seated on the bed when Marin arrived. Leaning heavily on the cane, he limped down the inn stairs, through an unfamiliar commons room and out into a foggy morning.
In the coach, Arranz pushed a paper-wrapped handful of stuffed bread at him. "Here. Eat, then get some more sleep, if you can. You look like hell."
At first, there was little to see outside, the fog was so thick. Stefn sat at the end of the seat, leaning his aching head against the cool window. Arranz took his usual place on the other side and, for all appearances, drifted off to sleep. The harsh lines around his mouth and eyes eased. Disconcertingly, he looked different, youthful, sweet-tempered... handsome. Even with the white hair, thought Stefn, Michael Arranz was a breathtaking man. Stefn recalled the night before, how that fall of moonlight had trailed silkily across his chest when Arranz bent to capture his lips...
No! Don't think of last night. Think of something else. Anything else!
Alas. All Stefn could find to divert himself was the uncertainty of his own fate. It was inconceivable, naturally, that he would meekly submit to Arranz's plans for him. The histories written right after the war had been filled with tales about the sathrae. Slaves not only to the perverted desires of the naragi, their bodies were transformed into unholy conduits of black magic at each unnatural coupling. Stefn still could not quite fathom it was all happening to him.
"Soon you will beg me for it."
No! thought Stefn fiercely. It would never happen to him! The nara were gone!
By mid-morning, the fog had lifted, becoming puffy clouds in a clear blue sky. It was warmer and outside, the land continued its gentle, downward slope. The highlands were behind them now. From time to time, the road curved and Stefn saw them, a line of misty purple and grey stretching across the horizon.
"You showed some skill with a staff in Fornsby."
Stefn, half-asleep, opened his eyes.
"I didn't expect my cethe would have warrior skills."
"I'm an Eldering," retorted Stefn. "Do you think my father would allow a little thing like a lame foot to stop me from learning basic martial arts?"
"I never once saw you spar with your brother and others in the courtyard."
"My training was finished two years ago. There was no point."
Who would have sparred with him anyway if they didn't have to? No one wanted to call down ill-luck on themselves.
The land continued to descend as the day wore on. Small rivers and streams wound through the low places, becoming more frequent as the hills gradually diminished.
At first, their coach rolled through rich farmlands, acres of golden wheat rippling as the wind passed over them, fields ready for harvest. The cottages Stefn saw were small, but there were a lot of them. Traffic on the road picked up, as well: wagons and dog-carts, mostly, but sometimes a nobler vehicle. Then Arranz would order him to close the curtain and sit well back until they passed.
"Why bother?" Stefn demanded after the second such command. "No one will know who I am."
"Shia is remote," agreed Arranz, "but your father entertained visitors from time to time."
Stefn laughed shortly. "And did you think he proudly introduced me to them?"
Arranz gave him a long, unreadable stare, before saying, "You will do as I tell you," and returning to his book.
After awhile, the carriage came upon an expanse of fields over which stretched a line of men and women cutting and bundling grain. They were all dressed in grey and, riding back and forth behind them, were men on horseback.
"Slaves," said Arranz, the bitterness harsh in voice. "So-called Penitents. If the Archbishop has his way, all h'nara would be under the lash."
"They're not slaves," retorted Stefn. "A Penitent comes willingly to the Church."
Arranz sneered. "You really are naïve, aren't you?"
They passed the farm. Arranz didn't look up again. Soon, bored, Stefn looked over at him, his eye catching the title of the h'nar's book.
"Burkenrude?"
Michael glanced up. "Yes. You know him?"
"Shia has an early edition. Most of his reasoning was good, but he doesn't account for man's natural self-interest. There are several philosophers who point out how willing men are to sacrifice others for their own selfish desires. The notion of a State founded completely on governance by men unrestrained by the guidance of the Church is sheer foolishness."
"You're talking about Haworth and Kracken?" Arranz made a scornful noise. "They may have some truth to their theories, but Sherran does a good job of demolishing most of their points in The Pure Heart Unmasked."
Stefn had never heard of that book. In spite of himself, he was interested, but recalled abruptly where he was and with whom. He set his jaw and returned his attention to the scenery. After a few minutes, he heard pages turning once more and, when he looked around, Arranz had gone back to reading.
Toward dusk, the landscape changed again. Lush fields dwindled, giving way to great stretches of overgrown and deserted meadow. Stefn began to see clumps of small trees scattered about and, near them, a handful of cottages. The air smelled different, too.
"Peat," said Arranz unexpectedly. "Most of Tanyrin's supply comes from Blackmarsh."
"We're on your land?"
Lord Michael carefully marked his place and set down the book. "Yes. Soon we'll reach the sea."
Stefn straightened. The sea? Of course! Blackmarsh was near the ocean! In all the confusion and upset of the recent past, he'd not given it a thought, but now wary excitement returned.
The idea of the ocean had always appealed to Stefn. There were illustrations and descriptions aplenty among the books in Shia's library and he'd studied them all, again and again. An endless expanse of water, tides and great waves crashing against cliffs: the images drew him, made all the more alluring for his certainty of never seeing the reality. Now, everything was different.
"What are you thinking?"
Startled, Stefn looked over at his tormenter. Handsome, elegant, it was difficult to make out Arranz's expression in the deepening gloom of the cab. His voice, however, had changed subtly.
"What do you care?" retorted Stefn, recovering quickly.
"You came alive for a moment. I'm curious why."
"I was imagining your death."
Arranz snorted.
The road became a causeway, winding westward, built above a landscape of growing desolation. Stefn caught the gleam of water in the thick swamp-grass on either side, reflecting the red sunset. Now and again, rock formations were visible, islands of stone scattered across the waste. Ahead, low, rocky hills loomed, bathed in the blood of the dying sun. A shiver ran up Stefn's spine.
Mist gathered on the marsh around them. Wherever the shadows grew, so did the mist, getting thicker, crawling up the embankment to writhe across the road. Soon they were enveloped in it. Only by the angle of the coach and the way it slowed, could Stefn tell when they'd reached the hills.
Suddenly, the coach halted. Outside came the sound of horses and men shouting. Arranz said something under his breath and went to the door, throwing it open.
Horsemen surrounded them, a dozen or more, shifting in and out of the fog. They had swords and lances drawn, but at the appearance of Lord Arranz, consternation appeared in their ranks and the weapons were quickly lowered.
Several drew aside to make way for a rider. Well-built, handsome and perhaps the same age as Stefn, the newcomer was clearly in command.
"Mick?" he asked, looking none too pleased.
"Good evening, Captain." Lord Arranz looked around. "Such a large welcome party," he drawled. "How thoughtful."
"Don't be an ass," replied the captain sourly. "We've been having trouble these past few weeks with thieves and vandals. Which you would know if you bothered to spend more than a few days at a time here."
"Brigands, eh?" replied Lord Arranz drily. "The problem is everywhere, it seems. How are the Old Men?"
The captain looked as if he might say something sharp, but, jaw tight, said, "You can see for yourself, brother. I have bandits to hunt." He gave a shout, wheeling his horse around.
In short order, the soldiers were gone, swallowed up by the mist.
Arranz called to the coachman, then shut the door and resumed his seat. The coach swayed and started up again. After several more minutes, it finally reached the top of the hill and Stefn forgot about everything but the vista spread out before him.
They had risen at last above the mist. The road was clear again and a bit of the day's light lingered. Stefn's window looked west, and for the first time in his life, he saw the sea. Its vastness took his breath away.
The sun hung at the horizon, a vanishing spot of brilliance hidden behind clouds of crimson and gold. The coach made its way along the hilltops, following the curve of the shore. Occasionally, the land would fall away from the road in a heart-stopping plunge to the crashing, white-foamed turbulence far below. The pictures Stefn had seen of sea meeting land, no matter how skillfully rendered, could not compare to the dangerous majesty of the real thing.
"You've never seen the ocean either? Shia itself is not that far from the sea."
"No," said Stefn and returned to his enraptured gazing.
The coach took another turn and Stefn found himself looking out on another sort of sea. The vast, mist-shrouded marsh spread east and south. It hugged the coastal hills until, somewhere far beyond his sight to the south, it eventually merged with the Dragonwyr delta.
Ahead, built on the summit of the highest hill, stood a house. Its many roofs, dormers and turrets were stark against the fading dusk. Here and there, a window glowed yellow, but most were dark. The coach passed through a low stone wall surrounding a park, itself little more than overgrown lawn and a few gnarled pines.
Pulling up before the house, Arranz leaned forward and said, "Behave yourself or I'll have you chained." Without waiting for Marin, he left the coach. The front door of the house flew open and a servant hurried out, bowing and apologizing.
Arranz beckoned impatiently to Stefn as Marin lowered the carriage steps. With the cane in a death-grip, Stefn descended to the driveway. The servant stared as he followed Lord Arranz into the manor.
The Parish of Shia lies far to the north at the feet of the Lothwall Mountains. A land of high plains, it is good grazing for the grey-wooled highland sheep and nimble-footed north-hill goats. The parish is governed by the Earls of Shia, whose duty it is to maintain vigilance against a return of the nara from beyond the Lothwalls.
Shia is home to five villages, a great castle and an Abbey. As a special Ward of the Church, a small garrison of Hunters is under the Earl's command, maintaining order in the parish.
from: The Royal Atlas of Tanyrin,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1505
Michael hated coming home. The flagged stones in the entranceway were dull and cracked. Wallpaper peeled, exposing moisture-stained plaster beneath. The smell of wood-rot was strong and pervasive. Growing up, he'd barely noticed these things, but now his visits home were rare. Each return was to see the ruin with fresh eyes.
Eldering followed without a word, a slight, wan ghost in the house of his enemies. The mouth Michael had so enjoyed last night was tight with pain. His limp, which had nearly disappeared, was noticeable again. Green eyes were dark with exhaustion.
Ahead, a door opened, light spilling into the gloomy hallway. A girl stepped out, holding a lamp aloft. Her eyes got wide and round at the sight of Arranz. "Michael? Brother, is that you?"
"Annie!" Forgetting Eldering, Michael quickened his steps to meet his sister, pulling her close. She hugged him back tightly.
"Oh, Michael! It's so good to see you! Why didn't you tell us you were coming home?"
Michael reluctantly released her, setting her back and examining her closely. "You look tired, sweetling."
A voice interrupted them, calling querulously from inside the room. Michael's smile vanished. "You're taking care of Father, again? Why? Where's his nurse?"
She looked anxiously into the room and back. "Mistress Terry left two weeks ago. She went to Creighton to get more medicine for Father and while she was there, some of the villagers said terrible things to her. When she came back, she was in tears and promptly gave her notice. It's awful, Mick! Chris had to go all the way to Fieldton to get supplies!"
Michael's heart sank. "Where's Grandfather? What does he say about all this?"
"He left the day before yesterday, but said he'd be back by tomorrow... "
From the room, the voice came, louder, more petulant. She gave Michael a helpless look. He grimaced. "I suppose I might as well say hello to the bastard."
"Michael!" she objected. "Please!" For the first time, she noticed Stefn. Her mouth formed an O of surprise.
"Oh, yes. Lord Eldering, may I present my sister, Miss Anne Elizabeth Arranz? Annie, this is Stefn Eldering."
Her eyes got even bigger. "Michael! You might have warned us! There's no room prepared!"
"Lord Eldering isn't fussy, are you, Stefn?"
"No, my lady," Stefn replied. He managed a smile. "Please don't put yourself out."
"We aren't staying long," Michael added.
"Oh, Mick... " He heard her disappointment with a twinge and shrugged apologetically, giving her his most contrite look. She shook her head. "Say hello to Father," she said with a sigh, "and try not to upset him. I'll go see to your rooms."
"Don't worry. I shall be on my best behavior. And Marin will take care of our needs, as always." He gave her a gentle push. After another wide-eyed look at Stefn, she hurried away.
Michael took a deep breath. "Stay here," he ordered Stefn in a low voice. "Not a word about why you're here or what His Highness and I are doing. And if you aren't in the same place when I come back, you'll spend the rest of your damned life naked and in chains."
Stefn took a seat on a chair nearby, leaning his back against the wall and closing his eyes. "Where would I go?"
Michael didn't trust him; absolutely, he did not. "Good," he said warily and, with another narrow look, went into his father's study.
"I thought I recognized that voice. Dare I ask what brings you back this time?"
To Michael's critical eye, Phillip Arranz seemed smaller and frailer than the last time he'd been at home. His father sat hunched in his high-backed, wheeled chair, close to the fire. He was draped in shawls against any vagrant breeze.
"I was concerned for your health, naturally. You look well, sir."
"Liar on both counts," retorted Lord Phillip. "You've come only to see Father." He broke into a spasm of coughing. Michael immediately reached for the glass of water that was kept close, handing it to him.
Once, long ago, when he was a boy and had still cared about his father's good will, Michael had tried curing his father of the debilitating illness besetting him, but witchery had little effect on anything but broken bones or torn flesh. Only high lothrian magic could cure the most deadly diseases, and no knightmage would dirty his hands on treating a h'nar.
Lord Philip drank and handed back the glass with an unsteady hand. "You disappear for months at a time with your friends," he continued, still breathless. "When you condescend to return, you stay a day or two and are gone again. If it were not for your brother and sister to see to the running of Blackmarsh, we would be in dire circumstances, indeed!"
It was too much to hope for an invitation to sit, but for once, the pointed lack of courtesy didn't bother Michael. He'd been sitting too long anyway. "How fortunate, then, that they're here. I trust the funds I've brought will help ease your pain at my absence."
"In other words, you couldn't care less," his father said bitterly. "Well, enjoy yourself while you may, boy. The day is fast approaching when you'll have no choice but to do your duty and come home for good."
"My work for Severyn keeps Blackmarsh afloat," retorted Michael. "Or do you think we can live off our peat farms?"
Another spate of coughing was the only response --- Phillip's inevitable response to unpleasant truths. After regaining his breath, the elder Arranz continued hoarsely, "The farms do well enough. Your brother is a good manager, as well as defender. He may not carry enough of the precious naran blood Father so desires..." The white lips twisted. "But he does the work you should be doing instead of pursuing his own dreams, dear boy. If there was any justice, it would be Christopher who was heir, not you."
Here we go.
"But why am I surprised?" Phillip pawed at his shawls, bringing them closer around his emaciated form. "Your mother was just such a selfish bitch, always doing what she pleased, everyone else be damned! I hope the Church chooses you just such a whore for a wife! Now Marie, on the other hand... Ah, how I miss her." The sunken eyes softened, becoming distant and mournful.
Michael's memories of his pureblood human stepmother were less inspirational. He said only, "Chris is more than welcome to my destiny, Father. Loth knows I don't want it. But I apologize. As usual, I'm tiring you. By your leave?" He bowed and, without waiting for a response, started for the door.
"Michael!"
Michael schooled his features to impassivity and turned around.
"How much?" demanded Phillip. "How much money did you bring home?"
Michael closed the study door behind him with exaggerated care, ignoring his father's angry demands for an answer. Even when the coughing started, he didn't turn back, but started blindly, unthinking, toward the central stairs before remembering Stefn.
The earl was asleep in the chair where Michael had left him, head fallen forward, dark hair a silken screen hiding his face. The memory of him bound and naked on the bed rushed back; the way his body had leapt under Michael's touch. Dismayed at his own reaction, Michael shook Stefn awake.
"Come with me," he ordered.
Stefn lifted his head, but not far enough to meet Michael's gaze. He said not a word, but preceded Michael through the house to the rarely-used guest wing. A door stood open, lamplight showing from within. As they approached, Marin emerged from the room, arms filled with sheets. "It's all set, m'lord," he said to Michael with a wink. Grinning at Stefn, he strode off. Michael gave his cethe a shove forward.
Marin had turned down the bed and built a fire in the fireplace. The curtains had been drawn tightly against the drafts coming through the rattling old windows. On the bed lay shackles. Stefn saw them at once, stumbling to a halt.
"Strip," Michael ordered, closing and locking the door.
Stefn looked like he might protest, then he lowered his head again and, without a word, took off his clothes.
"It's too bad I don't trust you," continued Michael. "Sit there."
Lips tight, pale, his cethe reluctantly did as he ordered. He took a seat on a large, heavy wooden chair at the foot of the bed. Michael had him sit facing the chair's railed back, legs spread wide to either side of it. He chained Stefn's wrists through the rails. Then, pulling the chair around, Michael looked down at his hunched shoulders and bowed head.
"Look at me."
Stefn slowly lifted his face. Michael bent closer, caught by the younger man's beauty. He meant to tell Eldering precisely what fate awaited him should he try another escape, but, "Kiss me," is what came out instead.
To his surprise, Stefn's head fell back and his lips parted. When Michael's mouth covered his, tongue thrusting insolently and deep, the cethe made only a small, helpless sound. Hunger swept through Michael. Seizing that abundant mass of black hair, he helped himself ruthlessly to the sweet warmth and wetness. Only when he was dizzy and breathless did he back away.
The youth, sobbing for breath, lowered his forehead to the back of the chair. He was trembling and, through the rails of the chair-back, Michael saw his generous sex, hard and dark crimson.
Desire swept through Michael in a hot flood, but with it came memories of their first coupling. He wasn't sure he wanted to do it again, yet just looking at Stefn filled him with a need so intense he was powerless against it.
On the nightstand by the bed was a suspicious looking jar.
Marin, you son of a bitch!
Seizing it, he found it did indeed contain ointment. At his command, Stefn raised himself off the chair and submitted silently to being prepared. When that tight passage was slick and ready, Michael slid onto the chair beneath him. Taking hold of Stefn's narrow hips, he slowly pulled the smaller man down onto him.
The earl cried out, body arching as, stretched to his utmost, he was impaled on Michael's swollen cock. Michael nearly fainted at the exquisite tightness gripping him. Reaching around, he found Stefn's erection and grasped it tightly, using it to force Stefn up and down at his pleasure.
Climax roared over Michael. He heard the guttural sound that was his own voice before the ecstasy overwhelmed him. When he regained his senses, he was leaning heavily against Stefn's back. His hand, lying limply around the cethe's softening cock, was wet. He turned his head slightly, lips brushing Stefn's ear. A shudder ran through the slender youth. Face hidden, Stefn panted for breath, trembling.
He whimpered when Michael finally left his body. Doing up his breeches, Michael's head spun. This time, using Stefn had been pleasure unlike any Michael had experienced. It was almost like a drug! A dim, rational part of him was alarmed. Walking around the chair, he lifted the younger man's lowered head. Eyes washed with tears met his gaze. Lips, puffy and bitten, quivered.
Again, Michael couldn't help himself. Once more, he kissed his cethe, swallowing Stefn's moan. Then, because he wasn't sure it wouldn't happen all over again, he resolutely turned his back and somehow got out of there.
The next morning, Michael found Annie in the breakfast room, poking at a bowl of porridge. She brightened at the sight of him. "There you are! Father has been asking for you!"
He groaned.
"Oh, Mick." She gazed at him sorrowfully.
"I don't have time to argue with him, Annie."
"Do you have time to argue with me?"
Michael looked around. Chris came in, uniform jacket folded neatly over his arm. He hung it on the back of his chair and went to the sideboard.
"Not really," Michael said. "I've brought money. Isn't that all you care about?"
"Mick! Chris!"
They were distressing Annie. His brother scowled, slamming a piece of toast on his tower of eggs.
"I know about the new tax," Michael continued. "And I brought enough to cover it. We don't have to sell any more land. Not yet, anyway."
Chris looked a bit happier, carrying his plate to the table before returning to the sideboard for t'cha. "What about the farmers?"
"I have money for them, too. My investments have done well." It was true, after a fashion.
"Why aren't they taxed?" Chris wasn't stupid.
"Because, officially, the money is Severyn's. Our agreement is private."
"You trust him that much? What if he decides just to keep the money?"
"Sev?" Michael shook his head, incredulous. "The same man who used to run tame in this house, who teased you and carried you around on his shoulders?"
"So what? He's a human. In the end, they're our enemies! When it comes right down to it, Mick, and he has to... "
"What about Lord Eldering?" asked Annie hurriedly. "Should I have something sent up to him?"
"No!" Michael covered his reaction with another sip of tea. That would be the last thing he needed: his seventeen year old sister coming upon the bound and naked Eldering! "Marin will see to his needs. You stay well away from his room."
"That's another thing!" Chris said. "What the devil is he doing here?"
"That, little brother, is none of your business."
"You bring a Hunter into this house and it's none of my business?" Chris' voice rose, face reddening.
From the corner of his eye, Michael saw Annie's eyes get round with shock. Pushing back his chair, he stood up. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a small bag and set it in front of her. "Take what you need for household expenses and use the rest to buy whatever you like --- one or two of those silly novels you like so much, for instance."
Anne's eyes lit up, all else forgotten. She opened the pouch at once, spilling the coins onto the tablecloth.
"Chris, a word?"
The brothers left their sister eagerly planning to spend her largesse. Outside the breakfast room, Chris stopped and turned to face Michael. "Damn it, Mick! What's going on? You come waltzing home, unannounced, in the company of an Eldering, no less! You hand out gold like candy! If I were to ask Grandfather, all he'd say is to mind my own business, but what trouble are you bringing us?"
"None, I hope. Where is Grandfather, anyway?"
"How should I know? I'm not as pureblooded as you, remember? I have no witchpower." Chris shrugged angrily. "I hear through the servants that he intends to go back to Tantagrel with you! Good riddance, I say!"
"Not to his face, I'll wager!"
"And when was the last time you defied him?"
"About a week ago," murmured Michael, thinking of Eldering and the reckoning to come. "And I'm not going back to Tantagrel."
The sound of a clearing throat brought the brothers up short. At the end of the hall stood Dex, their grandfather's valet. Seeing he had their attention, the servant approached and bowed. "Lord Michael, welcome home," he said. "His Grace wishes to see you."
Chris swore under his breath. He pushed past Michael and strode back to his breakfast.
"Tell Grandfather I'll be with him in a moment," said Michael.
Marin was seated in front of Stefn's room, keeping guard. He sprang to attention when Michael arrived. "Been getting noisy in there," said the big man with a grin.
Michael unlocked the door and went in. Eldering's slim, nude figure straightened in the chair. Shadowed eyes met his. Michael watched Stefn press his trembling lips together. The collar sparkled in the light streaming through the dusty windows. "Hello, my beauty," Michael said. He unlocked the shackles. "How was your night?"
He expected no answer and there was none, not even an angry glare. Michael left Stefn rubbing his chafed and swollen wrists. Pausing long enough to give brief instructions to Marin, Michael steeled himself for the coming interview and went to face his grandfather.
The duke's apartment was sacrosanct; one visited by invitation only. His handful of personal servants, fiercely loyal and discreet, were treated like royalty themselves below stairs.
Situated in the front of the house, the apartment overlooked the marsh stretching away below. Tall windows admitted copious amounts of light, but down on the marsh the morning mist was still thick.
Michael found his grandfather in his sitting room, finishing his breakfast. Still attired in his dressing-gown, Lord Damon waved Michael toward a chair at the table.
"Good morning, lad. You look well."
"Thank you, sir."
"I received Severyn's note two days ago. Well done, both of you."
Michael took the offered seat and smiled at Geena, Lord Damon's elderly maid, as she set a cup of expensive, imported spiced t'cha before him.
"Did you have much trouble?"
"No. Shia is secure for now." Michael paused to sip at the fragrant tea. "Everything went according to plan for the most part. There were a few surprises, but not all of them bad."
The duke received the information about the hidden room and its treasures with a bitter smile. "So, not only did they kill and rob innocents, they cheated their own masters, as well. What a charming clan." He shook his head. "At least now the treasure can save h'naran lives instead of enrich their persecutors. What about the Eldering boy? Christopher reported you've brought him. We must make preparations for the Binding at once."
Michael shook his head. Setting down his cup, he said, "It's already done. I saw no reason to wait."
"No reason?" The duke's expression darkened. "Did we not decide you would bring him here for the ceremony?"
"We did," replied Michael evenly. "But it was you who told me that naragi always Bound their cethe where their clan had roots. Our roots were in Shia long before they were in Blackmarsh."
Lord Damon frowned. "Even so... "
"I'm sorry, Grandfather, but I needed to Bind Eldering sooner rather than later. He is not a particularly docile man."
"The heir of a Hunter commander?" Lord Damon laughed harshly. "I can imagine."
Michael hesitated, then, "As to that, my cethe is Stefn, the youngest son. Allen is dead."
"I see," The duke said after a long, disappointed pause. "What other alterations have been made in our plans?"
"None, sir." Michael met the cool gaze squarely. "I'm sorry if you're disappointed, but Allen Eldering, heir though he was, had all the appeal of a slab of beef. The prospect of intimacy with the oaf was more than I could stand."
"Oh, please! A cethe is a slave, nothing more. Take lovers as you wish to satisfy your lust. Besides, he's a sin-catcher, is he not? They're notoriously frail. Will he have enough power to serve you if war breaks out? Will his body withstand the demands placed upon it?"
Michael remembered Fornsby. "He's stronger than he looks."
"I hope so," replied the duke grimly. "The measure of a naragi's strength is directly connected to that of his cethe. I hope we don't all live to regret your fastidiousness."
Would there ever come a time when Lord Damon failed to make him feel like a disobedient child?
"Have you tested your new endurance?"
"A little. It's easier and less tiring to cast spells now. Would you care for a demonstration?"
Loth! I even sound like a sullen schoolboy!
"All in good time. What about allies? Has Severyn made in any progress there?"
"Marinton and Caudeta have been making inquiries, but no commitments yet. You would think, between Arami's taxes and Locke's tithes, they'd be more than ready for change."
"Many who would see a new king fear the reaction of the Church," Lord Damon said. "Arami may not have the love of the people, but he is supported by the Celestial Council. Deposing him will be difficult enough, but if the Church becomes involved, we will face our true test."
"At least here in the West, Locke's power is not so deeply entrenched."
"So far," his grandfather said. "I've heard from some of our émigrés that knightmages are being sent from Zelenov, supposedly for short visits, but arriving with so much baggage, it looks like they plan to take up residence in the Cathedrals where they're being assigned. You had best hope your pretty sin-catcher is indeed up to snuff. If the High Orders turn against the Lothlains, even the power of a naragi may not be sufficient to stop them!"
As soon as Lord Michael left the room, Marin helped Stefn up from the chair. Without a word, the earl stumbled to the bed and threw himself down upon it. He was vaguely aware of Marin tucking the blankets around him, but he was asleep before the man finished.
When he woke, it was late in the afternoon. He was alone again. Wrapped in familiar solitude, he was almost content. His body felt heavy and his mind, still muzzy with sleep, drifted where it would. Alas, that was inevitably to the night before. The memory sent warmth rushing through him. Cursing weakly, he threw the covers back and got out of bed.
Washing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dressing table's mirror and could not help focusing on the gaudy gems wrapped around his neck. He pulled at the collar again, but listlessly, knowing he had no chance of getting it off. Somehow, its foul k'na magic was corrupting him, twisting him around until he no longer knew what he truly felt. His only chance was to fight it, but with each passing day, it got harder.
Stefn dressed, some perverse whim prompting him to leave his shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his neckcloth off, exposing the monstrous thing to any who would see. The door was locked, of course, but when he knocked on it, Marin appeared at once. He meant to ask for food, but instead, heard himself inquiring about Lord Michael's whereabouts.
"His Grace sent him with Captain Arranz to Waylerton for supplies," replied the servant. "He will be back late tomorrow."
"Where is Waylerton?"
"East some fifteen miles. They used to get their supplies in Creighton, but there's a Cathedral there now and, with the Church issuing edicts right and left these days about h'nara, smaller towns are not so welcoming. I'm sorry, my lord, but he insisted that you remain in your room. Shall I bring you a tray?"
"Yes, please, Marin."
With Lord Michael safely away for awhile at least, Stefn realized he was hungry. Marin grinned and took himself off.
With nothing else to do, Stefn drifted to the windows. His room looked down over the steep, rocky seashore. For a moment, he forgot his predicament in the wonder that was the sea. In daylight, it was a vivid blue. Its vastness pulled at him, filling him with wonder. He knew there were only two lands in all the world: one was Tanyrin, the other, the mysterious frigid waste far to the north of the Lothwalls. Looking out onto the ocean, however, Stefn was seized by different possibilities. What if the scholars were wrong? What if there were other lands between Tanyrin and edge of the world?
Rattling at the door pulled him from his daydreams. He turned, stomach growling in anticipation, but it was not Marin with his lunch. The door flew open with such force, it bounced off the wall behind it. Men swarmed in, filling the room, tall and pale-haired. Stefn had no chance against them, their strength and numbers easily overpowering him. They covered his face with a wet rag and the heavy, sweet smell of flowers filled his nostrils.
Weakness dragged at him, muscles going limp. Grunts and harsh breathing echoed in his head. They weren't in uniform, he thought dimly.
There were long stretches of darkness afterwards. Now and then, he swam up from the abyss into a moment of sunlight, the smell of rank water or the buzzing of insects. Then the sweet-smelling cloth came back and he lost consciousness again.
Finally, the darkness receded completely. Stefn realized he was lying flat on wet boards that rocked gently beneath him. He tried to get up, only to be pushed down again.
A voice above him made a comment he didn't catch. From somewhere else nearby came a harsh bark of laughter.
It was dark. Flickering yellow light made shadows dance. He saw boots and wooden planks curving up out of his sight. A boat?
Warily, he tried to lift his head again. This time, one of the boots vanished from sight and planted itself firmly on his neck. He realized for the first time that his wrists were bound behind him. Fear came back, cold and enervating. How long had he been out? Where were they?
Stefn had never been in a boat before, a circumstance that only added to his apprehension. "L-Lord Arranz?" he ventured, but the only response was more laughter.
"Soon enough, dog," someone said. "You'll meet him soon enough!"
The movement of the boat changed. Around him, the men shifted and the boat began to rock wildly. The boot on his neck disappeared. His captors reached down and pulled him to his feet, keeping their own in spite of the unstable surface.
Stefn was manhandled up onto a dock, dizzy and confused. The h'nara half-carried him down the long, wooden walkway while he blinked furiously, trying to clear his blurry vision.
They were on a small island in a lake. Surrounding the lake was a dark cloud of forest. The dock was lined with boats, most of them wide and flat-bottomed. Here and there, however, he noticed sailboats with their masts and spidery rigging rocking gently at their mooring.
A handful of cottages formed a rough circle near the shore, lamplight showing in their windows. One was much larger than the others and it was to this house Stefn was taken.
In a well-furnished room, they threw him to his knees before two h'nara. One looked almost exactly like Michael Arranz, so much so that Stefn had no doubt who it was. The Demon Duke!
"This is the cethe," said the duke to his companion, voice ringing with contempt.
The other man was not dressed so finely, but he, too looked almost completely naran. Only a pair of blue eyes revealed his human blood.
"Very pretty, Your Grace," he said, smiling faintly down at Stefn. "I can understand why Michael was entranced. Are you sure you're not just jealous of your grandson's good fortune?"
The Demon Duke's lip curled. "Good fortune? Eldering is a sin-catcher and a Hunter's spawn."
"Even so," murmured the man, "He does not look very strong. This may kill him. At the very least, it seems a pity to subject such a lovely boy to torment."
The duke turned his pale eyes on the other h'nar. "You are very forgiving, Eran."
"Sometimes," Eran replied, smiling, "one would think it was you who had been the Penitent, Your Grace."
Leaning forward, the duke ripped Stefn's shirt open to his waist. Eran's gaze went straight to the collar.
"Did you know," asked the duke, voice soft and deadly, "that my wife was probably taken by this 'lovely boy's' grandfather? She remembered snow, you see. She confessed to me once, in sobs, her memories of being raped in it when the Hunters came for her family one winter's day. She was no more than twelve years old. My beloved Mala."
The other man looked down and away. After a moment, Lord Arranz said, "Get him out of my sight."
The h'nara dragged Stefn from the house and across a courtyard to a small stone barn. Inside were more men. In one corner, embers glowed red in a small fireplace. They tore his clothes off and fixed his shackles to a hook in the rafters, leaving him dangling helplessly, toes barely brushing the floor. He pleaded to know what they wanted, but they just cursed and knocked him about. Then they moved away and he faced a tall, roughly-dressed h'nar with a whip.
His heart stumbled. For a moment, in the ruddy torchlight, he thought it was his father standing there. "No... " he whispered, watching the man's arm rise. "Please, no... "
But this was not his father, who had always been careful only to mark his back. This was a stranger whose arm was powered by hatred and vengeance, who cared nothing for where the fiery lash landed.
Stefn didn't even try to hold back his screams; he'd learned early that they often ended the beatings more quickly. But here it made no difference. The h'nar had no appearances to keep. The leather braid hit him again and again, throwing his helpless body this way and that, wrapping around hip and thigh, leaving streaks of fire across his chest.
Help me!
The world vanished in scarlet and tears. Stefn's voice grew hoarse from screaming. He thought his tormenter might have moved behind him, but the pain was everywhere, inescapable, so he could not be sure.
Please, Father, stop! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!
But this time, his father was beyond pity or mercy. Stefn knew there was no atoning for his cursed existence. When the darkness finally came to rescue him, Stefn prayed only that, this time, he would not wake up.
The guest room was empty. Marin stood in the middle of it, worried and ashamed. "I was just gone a few minutes, milord, fetching his lunch. He was locked up right and tight when I left... "
Anger and fear tightened Michael's chest. Nothing looked different, but something lingered in the air: terror, hatred, violence. He looked toward the window. Just visible beneath a chair he found a book. It had clearly fallen hard, the pages creased where it lay, face down.
"When did they take him?"
"Yesterday morning... My lord?"
Damn the bastard! No wonder Grandfather had insisted he go to Waylerton! A thrill of sheer fury and gut-sinking fear ran through Michael. He had to steady himself against the wall with one hand until it passed. Then he pushed himself away and ran for the door.
"My lord! Where are you going? Wait! I'll call Captain Chris!"
But Michael didn't wait, leaving Marin calling after him in distress.
The duke wasn't in his rooms. His servants professed not to know where he was and ran from Michael in alarm. Michael met Chris on his way out the back door. "What's this about Eldering being missing? I knew nothing good would come... Mick!"
His brother made the mistake of getting in his way. Michael shoved him aside.
"What the devil is going on? Mick!"
In the stables, he found Marin directing two horses to be saddled. "You're not com... " he began. Then it struck: a knife of pain doubled him over, but worse was the despair. It howled at him from the bottom of his soul, threatening to consume him. He fell back against the wall, sweating.
"My lord!" Marin caught him before he could fall.
The feeling passed, but didn't entirely disappear. It remained like an open sore in his heart, a steady, uncomfortable pulse.
Chris arrived, elbowing aside the small cluster of stableboys and grooms gathering to stare. "Mick! Damn it! Will you tell me what the hell is going on?"
"Grandfather took Stefn." Michael headed for the stable door with his horse, forcing Chris to leap back, cursing. Marin, ignoring the order to stay behind, followed.
"What? Why would he do that? Mick!"
Michael rounded on his half-brother. "Stay here! You, too, Marin. You'll only be in the way."
Marin stopped in his tracks, looking offended.
"At least wait for me," Chris said, grabbing at Michael's reins. "Wherever you're going, you can't go alone! I'll go with you!"
"Neither of you will be of any help, believe me. Now, let go! You're wasting time!"
"Why would he do it?" Chris clung stubbornly to the reins. "Why would Grandfather abduct Eldering? It doesn't make sense!"
Michael clamped his jaws together, anger nearly tripping him into saying what he had no business saying, not in front of Chris, not in front of the guards who, hearing the noise, came out into the stableyard. "Just stay out of my way, do you hear?"
Before Chris could respond, Michael swung his fist, knocking his younger brother flat. Grabbing back his reins, he swung into the saddle and was off, shouts following him.
A witch light flared to life at his shoulder. Fueled by his anger, it burned brighter than usual. He felt Stefn, a steady, aching pulse in his heart. The call drew Michael inexorably south, spurred by growing panic. He'd gone nearly a mile before reason returned. He drew back, slowing his horse. Below, the evening mist gathered on the marsh. Looking over his shoulder, he saw only open hillside. No one followed. Yet.
He had a good idea where Grandfather had taken Stefn. The question was, why? After a moment, he started forward again, fighting the sense of urgency beating in his chest.
Michael continued south, following the curve of the coast. The marsh was on his left, the coastal mountains on his right. Night fell and the moon rose, illuminating the path before him. There was still no sign of pursuit. He wondered uneasily if Chris was all right. He'd not pulled his punch.
Something flashed across his path. Without thinking he sent his witchlight speeding after it. A few dozen feet downslope, the bright globe blinked out. The next instant, the hillside crumbled beneath him. His horse screamed, rearing and throwing Michael from the saddle. Man and beast tumbled down the bluff with the avalanche. Michael gasped out a shield spell and managed to stay alive all the way to the bottom. There he lay, trying to gather his breath, choking on the dust obscuring everything.
Aching and bruised, he got to his feet. His horse had not been so fortunate. Michael found it half-buried in the rubble, its skull smashed in. He swore, voice echoing across the open hillside. Closing his eyes, he cast his senses far and wide. A glimmer of life-power bloomed in his mind, a small, intricate pattern of light. He focused sharply even as its owner sensed his presence. At once the pattern dimmed, but it didn't vanish completely.
So, there were witches abroad, and one with blood almost as pure as his. With that realization came revelation: he knew his grandfather's game! This was the damned test the old bastard had hinted at!
Michael was tempted to abandon the entire affair, to turn his back on his grandfather's machinations and go home. He had no reason to care about the life of Stefn Eldering. The boy was more trouble than he was worth.
Yet, even as Michael told himself he was indifferent, he kept seeing Stefn's face, the delicacy of his features saved from outright femininity by that straight, stubborn jaw; the vivid green of his eyes turned up to Michael's face, wide and filled with anguish.
Damn it!
With the fading of the witch's life-pattern, other, less intricate patterns came to the fore. Small creatures of the marsh -- the merkat, budga, tuft-ear -- all moved through their nocturnal milieu, oblivious to the drama playing out in their midst. He also recognized the pattern of another horse and he smiled grimly.
His attacker realized immediately what Michael intended and the animal's pattern dimmed as if someone had drawn a cover over it. Michael, coughing in the dust, collapsed onto a large rock and, putting his head in his hands, focused.
It was a long, silent battle. The chirping of night insects resumed; the dust of the landslide settled. Something crept out of the thicket, nosing toward the carcass of the horse. Michael saw and heard none of it. His gaze was focused inward, to the endless shower of k'na fragments and the place where his enemy struggled to repel him.
The resistance faltered. His enemy was tiring. Michael had yet to feel even a twinge of fatigue. Part of him exulted; the other part kept up the steady, unrelenting pressure on his foe. Abruptly, the resistance was gone, the distant life-pattern dimming to near invisibility. The pattern of the horse reappeared and he seized on it.
Come to me!
Michael climbed back up the hill, reaching the summit in time to hear the sound of hooves. A moment later, a marsh-pony cantered out of the brush and came straight to him, tossing its head, loose reins flapping.
Only marshlanders used these sturdy, wide-hoofed beasts. He looked out onto the marsh, now completely enveloped in its night-time shroud.
Stefn! Hold on!
A few miles further, Michael found where his opponent had hidden: a spot in the brush overlooking the ridge. It was empty now. Hoof prints and crushed thicket suggested a small party of men. Was it Stefn and his captors or someone else?
In spite of worries he might exhaust himself, Michael moved in and out of his inner vision frequently as he continued south. So it was he sensed the next ambush before it could be unleashed.
This time, it was boulders from above; there was a brief flare of k'na and down they came! He was already running, barely reaching safety as they thundered past him, splashing into the swamp below. Then the small beacon inside him, the pulse that was Stefn's Call, stopped. In that moment of distraction, his enemies struck. His limbs went numb. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.
No! He's mine!
The suffocating grip on Michael's mind bent and broke under the force of his panicked rage. Somewhere, back along the threads reaching through the ether, came a soundless scream. He was free! Better yet, he felt Stefn again! Warily, Michael kept going.
First to encounter the nara were men in the northern parishes and along the western coast. A handful of the strangers came, claiming to be traders and bringing all manner of unusual items. References to them appear in the journals of parish lords from the late tenth century. For several years, the peddlers came no further south than the parishes of Iyre, Ovia, or Shia. The first naran settlers are not mentioned until the Iyre parish census of YLD 1008.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1347
The royal city of Lothmont was the largest and most prosperous in Tanyrin, East or West. The seat of the king and his royal ministries, it crowded the southern shores of Wyr Lake, overlooking the great Wyrbane River's flood plain, Tanyrin's most fertile farmland.
Once, long ago, a massive wall had circled the city. Parts of it could still be seen here and there, precarious spires of stone and crumbling mortar poking up through the crowded rooftops of the city. Standing above the main thoroughfare was the ancient gate, now surrounded by buildings of every size and shape. Demonsgate, it was called, because long ago, it had stood fast against the naran armies.
Severyn had chosen to travel the last few miles from Shia incognito. Sending his coach and servants ahead to the palace, he attracted no attention in his plain riding leathers, hood pulled up, and dusty from the road.
The evening was warm and hazy, typical for summer's waning in the lowlands. Merchants closed their shops as the citizens of Lothmont returned home for supper or sought refreshment in the city's many cafes and taverns.
As Severyn drew closer to the lake, the streets widened and the shops became more fashionable. Crowded rowhouses gave way to magnificent mansions set back from the street and shielded from vulgar stares by brick walls or thick shrubbery. Claremont Shores was Lothmont's most exclusive neighborhood. Somewhere among these discreet, elegant facades was his future bride. Severyn didn't want to think about it.
He came upon Royal Street and was, for a moment, tempted to turn and go the half mile to the Fairhands Club instead of on to the palace. Forry, Erich and Jeremy were due to arrive any day; they might even be there already. He'd originally suggested they stay with him at the castle, but, as Forry had put it:
"I'm always afraid someone will put something in my food and I'll wake up to find myself in bed with four or five complete strangers."
Resolutely passing the club, Severyn rode on, taking the shore road around the curve of the lake. On his left, the walls of Lothmont's Cathedral rose above the genteel neighborhood, marking its eastern boundary. Past the Cathedral, the streets narrowed once again, the lake shore turning from manicured park to close-standing warehouses and tenements, docks thrusting out over the water.
Trade of all sorts abounded along the wharfs; one could see it in the voluptuous figures leaning out of second-story windows, smell it in the reek of cheap whiskey and pelthe. No one looked twice at the lone rider passing through their midst, and no one bothered him. Not until dark did the cut-purses and assassins emerge. By then, he would be safely tucked up in the palace.
Lake Wyr was enormous, a bottomless expanse of icy, spring-fed water at the northernmost end of the city. Castle Lothlain occupied the lone island in its center, connected to the mainland by a long, narrow bridge whose origins were lost in history. The palace could be seen from miles away, a defiant fist of stone rising against the backdrop of the Midder Mountains, the range dividing West Tanyrin from the East.
The lake was the source of the great Wyrbane River, whose long journey to the western sea began here, spilling out of its bottomless basin and into in a broad, deep channel on its southernmost end. It was crisscrossed by several bridges, only one of which was public. The others required a toll, or, as in the case of the Thaelrick Bridge, a noble pedigree.
Thaelrick was not as crowded as its neighbors. Its usual throng of travelers would not arrive until well into the night when, like Lothmont's dark underworld, Court revelries began. The bridge entrance was a pleasant spot, enhanced by a pocket garden with benches offering views of the lake and carefully tended flower beds. It was empty at the moment; only a handful of guards lounged about the check-point, bored. With some surprise, Severyn recognized their green and gold uniforms. Hunters? Since when did the Church administer the bridge?
Seeing him approach, one of the soldiers detached himself from the group, striding over to block Severyn's path. He laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. "This is a private bridge!" he declared. "Highblood only. Take one of the others."
"I beg your pardon?" Severyn pushed back his hood. The guard's eyes narrowed, hearing his refined accent, but there was no recognition in his sweeping appraisal. Nor did he appear to notice the royal signet ring displayed so prominently on Severyn's upraised hand.
"Are you deaf or simple? Highblood only! Unless you've got proof of your identity, dog, take yourself... " The Hunter broke off, interrupted by the clatter of hooves at Severyn's back. At once, he stiffened, saluting smartly.
Severyn twisted around in his saddle, looking over his shoulder to see an open carriage approaching the bridge. Inside were two gentlemen. He recognized them at once.
"Trouble, corporal?"
The carriage stopped beside Severyn. The portly, middle-aged gentleman speaking was Sidney Montaigne, Bishop of Lothmont. The second man, wearing the uniform of a Hunter officer was unknown to him, but Severyn recognized the red stripe outlining the gold trim of his uniform and felt a small chill at the sight. A knightmage! And not just any knightmage, either, but a member of the Order of the Dragons of Loth!
"Your Highness!" Montaigne exclaimed. "It is Prince Severyn, is it not?"
"H-Highness?" The guard, terrified, threw himself to his knees before Severyn. "A hundred apologies, Your Highness! I didn't know --- I've never seen --- The way you are dressed..."
"Be silent!" Bishop Montaigne, looking annoyed, sent his poor guard scuttling out of sight. "Your Highness! What a surprise! I'd not heard you were in Lothmont."
Montaigne was a fool. Severyn ignored him. He greeted the man seated next to the bishop. "What brings a Dragon to the heathen West?"
"Ah! My apologies!" Montaigne turned to the handsome officer. The stranger wore no amulet around his neck, so he was not actually a mage. The absence of the talisman signified an aide, but hardly one of the Order's regular soldiers.
"May I introduce Captain Adrian Remy?" he continued. "The captain is Shield Brother to none other than His Eminence, the Archbishop himself!"
"I am honored to meet you, Your Highness." the captain inclined his head in the barest of courtesies. "As for what brings us west, the Celestial Council decided to hold our annual Conclave in Lothmont this year. I have come as escort to His Eminence."
So, Locke was in town? Disquieting news.
Remy was darkly good-looking. His smile, however, did not reach his eyes. Severyn inclined his head briefly.
"What brings you to Lothmont, your Highness? I should think you would be at Lothlain House in Tantagrel?" The implied criticism in Montaigne's nasal tones set Severyn's teeth on edge.
"Thaelrick is the property of the king," he retorted, ignoring the bishop's question. "When did the Church take over its security, and why?"
Montaigne's eyebrows lifted. "The Advisori has been increasingly reluctant to fund an adequate number of guards for such an important spot. His Majesty made a direct appeal to me and, as a favor, I've agreed to assist. Why? Do you not approve?"
Severyn shrugged. "Only when I'm denied passage," he replied. Inwardly, he seethed. "If my brother and the Court want to save a bit of money, who am I to stand in their way?"
"Fortunately, the Cathedral is close and the inconvenience minor." Montaigne's expression was a hair shy of a smirk.
Next to the bishop, the Hunter officer sat quietly, listening. Abruptly, he leaned over, saying something to Montaigne in a low voice.
The bishop nodded. He smiled apologetically to Severyn. "As Captain Remy reminds me, Your Highness, we are late for our meeting. You will forgive us if we go ahead?"
Their driver didn't wait for Severyn's response, but flicked his whip over his horses' heads and the carriage started forward. Severyn watched them go, then followed. He fumed all the way to the palace.
There was no problem with recognition at the palace's outer gate, the guards springing to open it for him. In his personal suite, Tim greeted Severyn with restrained enthusiasm. "Word of your heroism has preceded you, Highness. Another feather in your cap."
"Loth's hand is just and true," said Severyn. A flash of understanding passed between them. At the edges of the entrance hall, he saw the figures of footmen standing at attention. A maid hovered in the shadows of a far doorway.
Pitching his voice slightly louder, Severyn gave his butler the official excuse for his presence in Shia, then stood by while Timkins congratulated him enthusiastically on his impending marriage. The story would be all over the city by morning.
"Shall I have dinner prepared, Your Highness? asked Timkins after their bit of play-acting was done. "Or will you be dining with His Majesty?"
"Arami knows I'm here?"
"He's been looking everywhere for you these past two weeks and sent word that you were to join him in the East Garden should you arrive in time for dinner."
"Looking for me? Why?"
"As to that, Your Highness, I can only surmise, it being the end of the financial quarter... " Timkins let his voice trail away apologetically.
"I am warned," agreed Severyn. Then, lowering his voice still more, he asked, "Is it true? Is the wretched Council in Lothmont?"
"Alas, yes, sir." Timkins pasted a smile on his face. "I hear there's been a steady flow of bishops, abbots and prelates paying their respects to the king all week. One cannot take two steps into the rest of the palace without tripping over one. How long do we plan to stay, Your Highness?"
"Not long," replied Severyn, quickly altering his plans. "We'll leave for Tantagrel by the week's end."
The East Garden was a tranquil park of velvet, close-trimmed lawns, of flowers, ornamental shrubs and low, spreading trees. Cobbled paths wound through the greenery, each turn revealing a pleasing view or comfortable bench. Fountains and artificial streams added their music to the faint strains of a distant violin.
The long shadows of dusk lay over the park. Through the greenery, Severyn saw torchlight marking its center. As he approached, the scent of autumn flowers mixed with the sweet, heavy odor of pelthe. He wrinkled his nose at it.
The music grew louder. Severyn heard laughter and, as he came out onto a square of lawn, the clink of fine crystal and china. A long table was set up on a patio in the center, open to the deepening indigo sky. Men and women in glittering finery sat around it, indulging themselves in roast fowl, in beef and pork, and fish of all kinds. Breads of every description and shape were heaped high in ribboned baskets. Wine flowed freely. Pelthe snifters were everywhere.
The diners spotted Severyn approach and, one by one, got quickly to their feet, bowing as he made his way up the length of the table to his brother. Arami lifted his glass shakily in greeting. "Look who's here?" he shouted. "It's Sev!"
Sometimes, Severyn could not believe this sot was the same brother he'd adored in his boyhood; the dreamy, artistic, and sweet-natured youth he'd followed about like a puppy. He often wondered, if Arami had lived at Messerling with him, would he have ended up like this?
There were drunken huzzahs. Somewhere, a dish crashed to the patio stones and one of the maids shrieked. Hysterical laughter followed, along with the sound of chairs falling over. The crowd was distracted.
"It's about time you showed up," Arami complained. "Brett! Move! I want to talk to my brother!"
A well-dressed man sitting at the king's right returned an uncomprehending look. "M-majeshy?"
Arami lifted a hand. At once, two footmen standing at attention behind his chair came forward. With great care and courtesy, the men escorted the inebriated courtier away. Severyn watched him settled into another chair, still clutching his snifter. Was Brett his brother's pelthe supplier? Or was it the giggling woman nearby?
"I've sent dozens of messages to Messerling," continued Arami. "Where have you been?"
"Shia. Why, is something wrong?" As if he didn't know, thought Severyn, resigned.
"I need some money, brother. I'm a bit short this quarter. Can you spare a thousand or two?"
"No." Leaning forward, Severyn examined the food in front of him. "Why don't you ask your good friend, Montaigne?"
The question brought a sour expression to the king's sallow features. He gestured again, and this time, a footman arrived with a bowl of finest crystal. Inside was a scant amount of pale yellow liquid.
"Sidney charges too much in interest," retorted Arami. "Why so stingy, Sev? I know Messerling and Tantagrel have done well this year. You could spare it."
"Not really. I'm getting married."
The king nearly dropped his snifter. "What?"
"Congratulate me, brother! I'm about to be the happiest of men."
"You've proposed to Lady Sheldrake?" Arami's bloodshot eyes brightened, darting down the length of the table to a ripe beauty flashing coquettish glances in their direction.
"Stephanie Eldering."
Frowning, the king pulled over one of the table lamps and, with the ease of long practice, used the flame to warm the yellow liquid inside the snifter. When a filmy haze rose on its surface, he put his nose into the glass and inhaled deeply.
"Why not Amanda?" he coughed with another look toward the hopeful widow. "Haven't I specifically asked you to consider Lady Sheldrake?"
"Stefanie Eldering is a chaste, highblood maiden," replied Severyn. "Amanda Sheldrake is... not."
"She's very wealthy, though." Arami cradled his snifter, a sly look coming over his sunken features. "Very wealthy."
"The Elderings, too, have a considerable fortune," retorted Severyn, remembering the hidden room.
"Eleanor won't like it," Arami warned darkly. "She particularly hoped you would choose Amanda."
"Your wife... " began Severyn between clenched teeth. He stopped and took a deep breath. "Fortunately, the Church has no power to select my bride, nor does Eleanor."
The reminder that he'd not had the same freedom brought a look of sullen resentment to Arami's face. "Eleanor's not that bad," he muttered.
That's why you avoid her at every opportunity?
But again, Severyn was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. His brother's marriage was a mystery to him. Arami seemed at times to positively hate his wife, yet at the same time, he seemed almost feverishly anxious to avoid her displeasure. Little wonder he sought relief in wanton hedonism.
Arami's manner changed; his voice became wheedling. "How about five hundred?"
Five hundred was getting away cheaply. Severyn allowed himself to be grudgingly persuaded. Leaving his brother saturated in pelthe, he made his escape.
Severyn had the unenviable task of both proposing to Miss Stefanie Eldering and informing her officially of her father's and brother's deaths. He was not looking forward to it. Back at his estate in Messerling, with his friends around him and the drinks flowing, the plan had seemed simple enough. Marry the girl as a cover for their activities at Shia. Her blood was sufficiently noble to mingle with his own; she would make a satisfactory queen if they all survived this. He would be solving two problems at once. Cheers! But as the moment approached, Severyn found himself wondering what the hell he was doing.
Timkins had sent a note ahead the night before so Severyn was expected. He found the ladies waiting for him in a large, very pink and white drawing room. While the aunt, Lady Scott-Eldering greeted him effusively, Severyn covertly studied his future bride.
Miss Eldering was small and exquisitely pretty. A doll, thought Severyn, stunned: the flawless creation of some genius sculptor. She looked very much like her elder brother, but was unmistakably female, small, full breasts pushing against her fashionably tight, low-cut bodice, her waist so tiny he was sure he could span it with his hands.
"Ladies, please, do not stand on my account," he said as soon as he could get a word in edgewise. "I apologize for thrusting myself upon you on such short notice, but I bear very grave news."
"Please, sit down, my lord," invited Lady Scott-Eldering. She waved him to a sofa only slightly more substantial than the dainty, satin-covered chairs scattered about. "What news is this?"
I murdered your brother-in-law, my lady, and now I have come for your niece.
Taking a deep breath, he said aloud, "I would ask that both you and Miss Eldering sit down."
Lady Scott-Eldering, alarm appearing on her pleasant face, did so, tugging Miss Eldering down beside her. "My lord? What is it? Has something happened?"
As gently as possibly, Severyn gave them the official story. Both women paled as he recounted it. Miss Eldering's eyes, the same emerald green as her brother's, went round and dark with shock.
"Fortunately," he finished, "your brother, Stefn, survived, although he was gravely ill at the time."
The girl seemed paralyzed with shock, but her aunt looked distinctly annoyed. "What? That Boy escaped?"
"I... I, yes, my lady," replied Severyn, taken aback.
The aunt made an attempt to get a hold of herself. "I'm sorry. This is a terrible shock, Your Highness!"
"How... " whispered Miss Eldering. "How could they have broken through the gate? Shia is invulnerable." Her eyes suddenly welled with tears. She looked up at Severyn, parted her lips to go on, then slumped, insensible, in her chair.
In the confusion that followed, servants were called, the young lady was revived with smelling salts and gently borne away. Feeling like a cad, he apologized again to Lady Scott-Eldering.
"Not at all, Your Highness. We cannot but thank Loth that you came when you did! I just wish... " She hesitated, then. "If only That Boy had died instead of Allen! What dreadful luck!"
"My lady?"
She seemed to recall to whom she was speaking, breaking off, two spots of color brightening the rouge on her cheeks. "Oh, dear! You probably think I'm a horrible woman to say such a thing about my own nephew, but he is a sin-catcher. All these misfortunes must be laid at his door! As long as That Boy lives, poor Stefanie will be plagued by evil luck."
"Then it's a good thing, is it not, that she will shortly be a Lothlain and not an Eldering?"
Her mouth sagged. "Your Highness?"
Briefly, he told her the other reason for his visit and watched the woman transform from shock and dismay to excited delight.
"Marry her? Oh, my goodness! Oh, dear! Little Stefanie? A princess?"
"Of course, in light of the recent tragedy, we would have to wait... "
"Only for a year, Your Highness. Do you mean to propose soon?"
"I should like to do so within the week," he said. "Then I intend to return to Shia to assist the new earl in rebuilding the castle defenses."
"Do you want Stefanie to return, as well?"
"Not yet, my lady. I'm afraid we were not entirely successful in capturing or killing all the outlaws and, until I can guarantee that my future wife will be safe, I would prefer she remain here."
"How very thoughtful." The woman appeared relieved and delighted by the news, and why not? Severyn thought cynically. Although officially in mourning, there would be plenty of opportunity for the ladies to enjoy Miss Stefanie's social coup.
Severyn escaped soon thereafter. Not until he was several blocks away did he slow down, wiping his brow. Thank Loth, that was behind him! Miss Eldering was easy to look at, but she seemed rather delicate and easily upset. On the other hand, her brother had that same fragile look and it was wholly deceptive.
What he needed right now was a drink. He thought of the Fairhand Club and wondered if Forry and the others were there.
They were. The club's steward took Severyn straight to the breakfast room, a spacious, sunny chamber at the back of the house. There, he found his three friends reading the paper over their baked eggs and t'cha.
"Oh, it's you," Forry greeted him. "I didn't look to see you here this early." The marquis gave one of the empty chairs at the table a push with his foot. "Sit down. Care for some breakfast?"
"Oh, it's me?" Severyn took the seat. "You were expecting someone else?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Forry rang the small, brass bell at his elbow. "Jason Thornwald. Old friend of mine. Ran into him last night at Sharkers in Lower Lothmont. Seemed agitated and insisted upon talking with us 'first thing.'"
A waiter appeared, took Severyn's order for t'cha and toast, then departed.
"Slimming?" asked Erich with raised eyebrow.
"I've just come from breaking the news to Miss Eldering. My appetite hasn't recovered."
"A bad conscience brings indigestion, isn't that what they say?"
"I should have left you to do it," retorted Severyn. "The poor girl fainted dead away."
"At which, the news of her father's death or your proposal?"
The return of the waiter with the t'cha-pot saved Erich from Severyn's immediate vengeance. No sooner had the man gone, however, then the steward reappeared, this time bearing a small silver tray. He bowed over it before Forry. Forry whisked the card from it. "Ah! Thornwald!"
Jason Thornwald was the lord of Withwillow, a lush, prosperous parish on the southern coast. It was home to the city of the same name, long a center of culture and education. Although a mere baron, Jason Thornwald was wealthy and powerful, a man of moderate views who regularly attended the Advisori meetings.
"Send him in, Jones."
The baron was of average height and early middle-age. He had the sunburnt countenance of one who spent much time out of doors and the open, easily-read face of an honest man.
"Come in, come in!" Forry exclaimed, jumping up and pulling out a chair. "We're just finishing breakfast, my lord. Have you eaten?"
"Yes, thank you. No, well, a cup of t'cha, if you insist." Thornwald took the offered seat, again glancing at Severyn. "Thank you for seeing me," he went on. "I - I must confess, Your Highness, your being here is a stroke of good luck. I'd stopped by hoping to get your direction from Forrest and here you are!"
"Is there some way I can assist you, my lord?" asked Severyn, more curious by the moment.
Thornwald did not answer immediately, but waited as his t'cha was delivered. On a hunch, Severyn said to the waiter, "Please let the staff know we do not wish to be disturbed."
Nodding, the waiter hurried away. Thornwald, after a keen look at him, said, "Thank you, Your Highness. I would prefer that what I have to say not become common gossip."
Forry abruptly stood up and went to the door. The click of the lock fell into the sudden quiet. "Now," he said, "we may be private."
Thornwald flashed him a quick, grateful grin. The two had been friends since childhood. Like himself and Michael, their estates lay side by side.
"Have you heard of our bishop?" he asked Severyn
"I believe so. Gabriel Storm, is it not? One of the more unusual men in the Church, I hear. He's not a knightmage, nor a member of any High Order."
Thornwald nodded. "Gabe was named Withwillow's highest cleric five years ago, after Bishop Kelsey died. He is the youngest man ever to be ordained to such a rank and is not of noble birth. He is also a man of great compassion and will. Under his guidance, the Cathedral at Withwillow has greatly improved the lot of the poor. Indeed, Gabe is immensely popular with both commoners and the local highblood; I'm honored to count him among my particular friends."
"I've heard much the same," said Severyn. "The parish of Withwillow is fortunate."
"Yes, and no." Thornwald's brief smile was wry. "Gabriel has many excellent qualities, but one of his strongest is his sense of honor. He has never been comfortable with the greed and corruption that runs rampant through the Church today, nor the naked ambition of some who sit on the Celestial Council. Rather than sit quietly by or look the other way at injustice, he speaks out against it."
"Admirable," agreed Severyn. "But what has this to do with me?"
Again, Thornwald hesitated, looking searchingly into each face. Finally, he took a deep breath and went on. "Did you know the Celestial Council is in session here in Lothmont?"
"I'd heard something of it," replied Severyn.
"Are you aware of what was discussed?"
"Of course not. They're damned secretive."
"The Council proposes to establish Hunter garrisons not only in the western Cathedrals, but at their Abbeys and Chapels, as well. Their goal is to increase the number of existing troops stationed here by two-fold."
"Whatever for?" Severyn asked. Was the Celestial Council aware of his plans for Arami? How could they be?
"Their claim is insufficient protection by the regular army against outlaw and h'naran attacks."
Severyn and his friends exchanged looks of dismay.
"I'm sure I needn't tell you how such a situation will sit with the other nobles. They will almost certainly be expected to pay for this increase in troop numbers."
Thornwald directed a look of appeal at Severyn. "I and others of the Advisori Council would hope, Your Highness, that you might speak to the King, convince him not to give his approval to this outrageous plan! Our tithes are already as high as the king's taxes. Withwillow is a prosperous parish, but it would also face much hardship if forced to absorb another entire company of Hunters."
Severyn rose, walking to the window and looked out onto the street below. A wagon rolled by, carrying a load of wine casks. He watched it disappear around the corner.
"It hasn't escaped our notice that His Majesty tends to side with the Church in controversial matters," Thornwald continued. "If they bring this before him as a Petition and he signs it into law, I cannot answer for the reaction of many of our lords. For the sake of Tanyrin, Your Highness, I beg you to convince your brother not to agree to this!"
"I will certainly try," Severyn replied. "This is ill news, indeed."
When the baron had gone, Severyn returned to the table and met the troubled gazes of his friends.
"Tripped up by our own cleverness, it would seem," said Forry finally. "They will almost certainly use our little charade at Shia as support for the proposal."
"Locke grows uncommonly bold." agreed Severyn. "I would give much to learn what else was discussed at their Conclave."
"What about Jason's request? Will you speak to Arami?"
"Of course." Severyn shrugged. "Although he is right. The Church has a great deal of influence over him, thanks to their willingness to lend him vast sums of money."
"What if we supplanted them as his lenders?"
Severyn thought of his own dwindling coffers, strained to their limits already by the demands of impoverished Shia.
"It would be better if my brother were to quit that damned pelthe. It muddles his brain, disturbs his reason and makes him easily swayed. If only I knew where he was getting it!"
"I thought you knew."
Severyn shook his head. "I have my spies, of course. They have identified the pelthe merchants who sell to Arami's friends in the Court, but so far, neither the merchants nor the courtiers involved have been observed passing the drug to him or his servants."
"If they were commoners, we could drag them in for questioning," said Forry, "and have the truth quickly."
"Perhaps," replied Severyn, "but they are not commoners. As long as my brother continues to indulge in the damned poison, the court will lurch along like a drunken sailor and the king will ignore his responsibilities at every opportunity."
"Then perhaps we should accelerate our plans," Dore said grimly.
The others nodded, their eyes fixed on Severyn. He pushed back from the table and rose. "I'll speak to Arami. I'll do what I can to convince him not to give in when the bishops come calling. With luck, he'll simply direct their Petition to me, the way he does with almost all the Petitions brought before him."
"That will only delay the inevitable," said Forry quietly. "Sooner or later, Sev, you're going to have to do it."
"You needn't remind me," he said harshly. "In the meantime, this Gabriel Storm sounds like an interesting man. I think it might be to our advantage to find out a bit more about him."
And his friends, being his friends, did not press the issue.
Chief among the heresies of the nara was their denial of Loth. Those who first came to Tanyrin refused His existence, claiming knowledge only of the Dark Stream, which they named "k'na" and insisted was not merely one part of the whole, but the whole itself! It is a testimony to the power of Loth that, once brought to His Light, many nara abandoned their heretical ways and embraced Loth as the Truth.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1347
Voices echoed through the barn. Stefn lay on a cot, not daring to move. The slightest twitch set off waves of agony. His eyes leaked tears with each careful, shallow breath, but he could not take them from the small knot of men approaching. One came right up to the cot, looming over him, a silhouette against the ruddy glow of the fireplace.
"My lord," came a voice. "If you will permit?"
A hand settled gently on his torn back. He made a small, inarticulate noise, all he could summon at the shock of pain that resulted. Almost immediately, however, the agony faded and was gone.
"It is the best I can do, my lord," continued the soft, deep voice, a bit breathlessly. "Can you sit?"
The pain might have been gone, but Stefn had no strength. He broke into a cold sweat and shivered when they eased him carefully up.
"Please be careful, my lord," the man said. "You may not feel it at the moment, but you are still badly injured. My powers are not as strong as Lord Michael's."
They took him, naked and half-fainting, from the barn. His thoughts went this way and that, as muddled as if he still writhed in agony. The journey ended in a strange room, bright with sunlight, occupied by a single man. The Demon Duke stood with his back to them, staring out a window, his hands clasped behind him. His long white hair, tied back in a neat tail, hung down to the middle of his back, just like his grandson's. The other men did not stay, but silently withdrew, closing the door behind them.
Stefn's strength gave out at once. He went to his knees, everything around him going grey.
"He'll be here soon to claim you," said the duke without turning around.
Stefn heard his voice, barely comprehending his words. Twinges of pain flared up again. What strength remained bled away and he thought dimly he was going to faint again.
"I admit," continued Arranz, "you surprise me, boy. I didn't think you'd survive it. Michael is right; you're stronger than you look."
There was noise, a violent crashing and splintering. Shouts bounced back and forth in Stefn's head. Terror overwhelmed him and the pain returned in an excruciating flood. He closed his eyes tightly. Oblivion threatened.
"Stefn!"
Warmth banished the pain in a single rush. Strong arms lifted him from the floor and held him with care. He drew a deep, long breath, his head falling back onto a broad shoulder. Muscles clenched too tightly for too long finally eased.
Soft, rhythmic Words fell around him like bits of light. His head cleared and his strength returned. Michael set him down again. Taking off his long coat, he helped Stefn into it. The garment was dusty and torn and smelled of sweat.
Clutching it, Stefn watched Lord Michael get to his feet. His pale hair hung loose and disheveled over his shoulders, face and hands dirty and his boots caked with dry mud.
"We had to know," said the duke, looking at his grandson dispassionately. "You are only part narani, after all."
"If you lay hands on him again," Lord Michael said in a deadly voice, "it won't matter who you are, old man."
The Duke was displeased. "That's the Bond speaking! Show some control! Do you think I was merely amusing myself? It was imperative that I learn whether or not you, and that pup, have the strength for this!"
A muscle leapt in Lord Michael's jaw. "We're leaving," he said, reaching a hand down. Stefn took it and was pulled to his feet. Michael's grip was painfully tight, but Stefn didn't try to pull away. He stumbled after the h'nar, praying only that they were leaving this place for good.
"Wait!"
Michael stopped, visibly gritting his teeth. After a moment, he turned back. Stefn hung, shivering, in his grasp.
"As I said," continued Lord Damon, "I did not do this to amuse myself." He paused and, looking past Michael and Stefn, called, "Elan?"
The marshlander appeared. He held something in his arms and, with an apologetic look, slipped past Stefn and Michael to give his burden to the duke. It was a large box, old and battered. Bound with steel bands, it was otherwise unadorned.
Lord Michael seemed transfixed, eyes narrowing. Lord Damon loosened his neckcloth, unbuttoning his collar and withdrew a gold chain. On the end of it was a small silver disk. Lord Michael's fingers tightened around Stefn's hand, then fell away. He took a step forward.
"Thank you, Elan." There was satisfaction in the duke's voice. "You may go, and take the cethe with you. Wait for us outside."
Stefn submitted to Elan guiding him over the broken door, down the corridor and out into the early afternoon sunlight. There the h'nar released him. "Sit down," he said, pointing to the step.
Stefn was only too glad to do so, collapsing on the sunwarmed stone and pulling his knees to his chest. Would this nightmare never end? He dropped his head onto his knees and wished he could simply vanish.
"I'm sorry, my lord," came Elan's voice beside him, low and earnest. "The Duke ordered your ill-treatment. We had no other choice."
There was no answer Stefn could make. He only shivered and prayed the Arranzes would be finished with their business soon.
Like all his prayers, however, it fell upon deaf ears. The minutes dragged on. He heard the voices of the villagers, the laughter of children and Elan's restless movements beside him. When time passed without incident, some of his fear receded. A niggle of curiosity got Stefn to thinking about the box Elan had brought the Duke. From Lord Michael's reaction, it was apparently no ordinary container, never mind its unprepossessing appearance.
What could it hold? Some rare narani artifact? Or, more ominously, was it somehow related to Michael Arranz's new black powers?
God, he was tired. The sun on Stefn's shoulders and neck, wonderfully warm, eased the tightness of his muscles. Maybe they had forgotten about him. Maybe, for a little while, he was safe.
A hand on his shoulder banished the creeping tranquility, sending Stefn to his feet in clumsy panic. He faced Michael Arranz. The h'naran lord looked sharply at Stefn. "It's all right," he said in a low voice. "No one is going to hurt you now."
It was a lie, of course, but in the time it took to say it, Stefn managed to regain his composure. He nodded, licking dry lips.
"Follow me," said Michael. He nodded shortly to Elan and strode into the village.
Stefn hurried after him. Villagers turned, bowing, awe in their faces as the tall, pale-haired half-breed passed. A crowd gathered silently behind them, following them through the village to the shore.
Boats were pulled up along a low dock. Seeming to pick one at random, Lord Michael stepped down into it and beckoned to Stefn. Gingerly, Stefn got in. Of its own accord, the mooring rope unknotted and fell into the water. The boat slid away from dock, moving as smoothly as if it sailed on glass.
They were away. Stefn felt a trembling inside. It grew until his entire body shook. Tears flooded his eyes, spilling down his face. He wanted to speak, to scream and rage and beg for mercy. Instead, he bowed his head and wept.
The movement of the boat stopped. It rocked gently, side to side, rhythmic. He thought, in a dim, small place, that he should be ashamed of his weakness, that tears were for women. He thought Arranz would sneer at him and tell him to be silent, but nothing happened and, after a long while, his anguish spent itself and silence returned.
"I'm sorry." Arranz spoke quietly, soberly. "I'm sorry you were forced to go through that."
Stefn felt hollow. He lifted his head, but he couldn't look at the h'nar. Instead, he looked to the side, avoiding Arranz's gaze.
They drifted alone in the midst of a green and watery labyrinth. Surrounding their boat were other islands, deserted as far as Stefn could see, everything overgrown by a tangle of thick brush and tall, wide-branched trees.
"If I'd known what he planned, I would never have brought you to Blackmarsh."
"It was nothing my father hadn't done to me many times," Stefn said finally. "At least you healed me. T'was more than he ever cared to do."
"Your father gave you those scars?"
"We both know what I am, my lord." Stefn stared out over the water. "It was a source of great shame to him. Sometimes, usually when he was drunk, he would find it past enduring."
Stefn remembered the sound of staggering footsteps in the middle of the night, the crashing of his father's body against the wall and curses as the earl negotiated the dark corridor to his youngest son's room. A cracking sound nearby made him flinch wildly. Heart pounding, Stefn saw a broken, low-hanging branch had caught itself on the mooring line. Relief washed through him in a cold, sickly tide.
The boat started to move once more. The sun rose higher as they made their way deeper into the maze. Lulled by the tranquil, green silence, even Stefn's trembling finally died away. After awhile, he risked sliding to the side of the boat and, when nothing dreadful happened, put his hand in the water. It was warm and silky-smooth. "Where are we?" he asked. "Is this still Blackmarsh?"
"No. We're in the Wyrbane delta. The marsh empties into it north of here."
"The delta? We're near Loth's Gate?"
"We are."
"Legends say it's haunted."
"By marshlanders," agreed Arranz. "Are you sure you're all right, Eldering? Are you still in any pain?"
Startled, Stefn shook his head. "N-no." Something in the h'nar's expression sent warmth through him. In confusion, he looked away.
An island sliding past showed bits of masonry poking through the green. A handful of stone pylons stuck out of the water near its shore.
"The marshlanders say our naran ancestors built them," Lord Michael said, following Stefn's gaze.
"Nonsense." Stefn squinted, trying to make the ruins out. "From here, they look too old to be naran."
Lord Michael grinned. The expression made him look unexpectedly boyish. "Someday we'll return and investigate them together, shall we? We'll see who's right."
Stefn stared at him, then shrugged and looked away. His heart was pounding. It was a dangerous, appealing notion.
Fool! What do I care? Anyway, he doesn't mean it.
But he did want to explore the intriguing place, and it would be pleasant to have a companion to join him, someone to share the discoveries and argue hypotheses. He'd never once imagined he'd be outside the boundaries of Shia, yet here he was. He'd never imagined having a friend, either, yet...
Stefn caught himself, aghast at the direction of his thoughts. "My lord," he began.
"Michael," said the taint with that same engaging grin. "Call me Michael."
In early ages of Tanyrin, the Westsea Mountains had formed an unbroken, impenetrable wall along the coast. Rivers flowing westward had nowhere to empty, filling the Great Marshes instead, which according to legend, had covered vast stretches of land from the northern tip of Blackmarsh to as far south as Canterwell.
Loth saw this great waste of land and caused the mountains to break, opening a narrow way to the sea. In a single day, the legends claimed, water trapped in the marshes drained through the passage, creating great stretches of rich farmland. The break in the mountains was called Loth's Gate and it marked the delta's northernmost boundary. North of the gate Blackmarsh began.
Horses waited for Michael and Stefn at the bottom of the Gate cliffs. There were signs of marshlander presence, but no marshlanders themselves. Michael roused a sleeping Stefn and got him out of the boat and onto a horse. They rode until dusk, finally stopping at a spot that looked as good as any for camping. As the sun sank behind the low mountains, Michael lured several packles to the edge of a nearby pool with a bit of witchery and they had fire-roasted fish for supper.
Stefn said little. Heavy-eyed, he seemed exhausted in spite of his nap in the boat. He lay down at once, pulling Michael's coat a little closer, resting his head in his arms. His eyes drifted shut.
Michael pulled out the sheaf of parchments from his waistcoat and unrolled them on his knee. There were nine sheets, written on the front and back.
"What are those?" Stefn's eyes were open, fixed listlessly on them.
"Nothing," said Michael. "Go to sleep."
Stefn didn't argue. Without another word, he rolled over, his back to the fire and Michael.
Nine pieces of parchment; upon them, seven of the high spells of the thrice-damned naragi. His grandfather's box had contained not only these copies, but the originals. Set down in quaint, archaic script, the latter had been yellowed with age, the edges brown and brittle. How they had come into his grandfather's possession, or when, the old bastard refused to say.
"When the time comes, I will tell you. Until then, you walk too close to danger. The risks of your capture and interrogation are too great. If Severyn and you are triumphant, then there will be no more secrets."
"Damn you, old man," whispered Michael. "What game are you playing?"
Many of the carefully transcribed words that he recognized as naran were, alas, all but forgotten. Still, as an Arranz, he knew more of the language than most. Studying the spell before him, he found two familiar lines. The spelling was different, but the pronunciation was probably the same.
Among h'naran witches there was a common charm that used these Words. Snatch-Breeze, it was called, a spell requiring very little skill or power to wield. As a boy, Michael had used it to sail his homemade boats on the streams and pools below his home. Yet here it was, embedded in a much longer incantation. Those extra Words would make all the difference, turning snatch-breeze into a real wind.
If his grandfather were right.
Folding the other papers and putting them into his coat pocket, he rose. Stefn was sound asleep. He didn't stir when Michael stepped over him and headed up the steep slope. On a ledge high above the marsh, Michael stopped, collapsing breathlessly on a large rock and, in the last of the day's light, read aloud the Words.
From deep within him, a barrier fell. For an instant, he hung above the Dark Stream, seeing it in all its limitless, terrifying power, wild with great waves and currents. Then it rose to meet him, filling him, lifting him, and then shattering him into a starfield of droplets. One by one, the Words repeated, like the clamor of bells, and when the last syllable echoed into silence, he found himself returned abruptly to the world, flat on his back, breathless, every muscle aching. It was a struggle to sit up and look around.
For several moments, nothing happened. The wind, instead of strengthening, fell away to dead calm. A prickling ran over his skin. Out on the marsh, the music of sunset, the cicadas and buzzers and chippie-frogs, went abruptly, ominously silent.
It came, soft at first: a sighing that ruffled his hair and shirt and sent the swamp grasses bowing. After that, hell itself burst forth. Wind slammed into him like a fist, knocking him sideways. He kept his balance only by grabbing the branch of a nearby scrub pine. In moments, he was surrounded by a shrieking gale, hurling bits of gravel and shredded leaf at him as it howled past.
Then, behind the wind, he heard another sound, one he'd heard only once before in his life. It was a roar, like the stampede of a thousand horses, and his blood ran cold.
Flood wave!
The giant waves were a rare, but deadly event along the marshes. Usually they were a winter phenomenon. Gale winds, meeting little resistance from brittle marsh grasses, scooped up water before them, creating a wave that rolled across the wasteland, gathering strength and speed until it finally crashed up into dry land, destroying everything in its path.
Michael saw it now: a swell of water racing up from the south, driven by the wind howling along the cliffs. It snapped small trees and uprooted bushes as it came. Even in the fading twilight, he could see the logs and other debris churning within it.
Shoving the parchment into his pocket, he ran, slipping and skidding down the hillside, reaching the campsite in time to see an uprooted needle-bush tumbling past. Stefn was on his feet, trying to untie the terrified horses.
"Help me!" His shout was barely audible above the wind.
Michael ran to free the animals. They galloped away, going north, vanishing in the brush. "Come on!" Michael shouted. "We have to get to higher ground!"
Stefn, for once, didn't question him. He followed Michael up the steep embankment, clinging to rock and boulder to keep from being blown away. Branches, twigs, even tiny bits of gravel hit them in an unending stream of shrapnel. Michael conjured a witch light, careless of expending more k'na, intent only on finding their way safely up into the cliffs. A cry from behind stopped him. Stefn had lost his balance and fought to keep from being blown down the hill.
Michael caught his hand. Slim, cold fingers tightened convulsively around his. Half-dragging him, Michael kept going, reaching the top of the bluffs at last. The cliffs soared higher still, sheer, ragged sheets of rock. Amidst the fissures and fallen rock, he spotted an opening. They fell into it, collapsing in a tangle of limbs on mossy ground.
The wind was a living thing, a monster filling the air with dust and a deafening roar. Inside the shallow cave, however, it was still. Michael, dizzy and breathless, rolled over and sat up. Wiping his hair out of his eyes, he looked out, but there was only howling darkness.
"Is it the end of the world?" Stefn asked. In the witchlight, his eyes were huge. There was a long, bloody scratch across his right cheek.
"It's a gale," replied Michael.
"But, it was perfectly clear outside!"
"I know." Michael spat dust. Remembering the other spells, he had a moment of panic, but they were still with him. After determining they were undamaged, he returned them to his pocket.
Stefn's eyes narrowed. "You did this?"
This was true naragi magic. Michael should have been triumphant. Instead, he remembered the stories of the naran war, of entire battalions swept away in the naragi storms, towns leveled, the bodies of men, women and children drifting in lakes and rivers that had been, for a brief, lethal time, turned into monsters by the unholy wind.
The gale raged on forever, it seemed to Michael. The smell of rank swamp water mingled with the smell of crushed vegetation and dust. Michael thought about the flood wave and wondered how high it would reach. Surely not as far as the cave?
Finally, the winds died away. Silence returned to the night. Moonlight straggled into their shelter. For the first time, he realized he was tired, the kind of numbing exhaustion that said he'd used more power than his body could afford.
"Is it over?" asked Stefn in a small voice.
Michael got up and stepped out into the open. His stomach dropped. Devastation met his horrified gaze. The hillside had been stripped clean of vegetation. The marsh was now a lake, clumps of debris floating on its turbulent surface. Already the currents had started to reverse, to rush back to the delta from whence all the water had come.
"What have you done?" whispered Stefn, emerging into the moonlight behind him.
"I don't know," he replied, voice cracking. Stefn said something else, but Michael didn't hear. Instead, he turned inward, and sent out tendrils of k'na, seeking their horses. Nothing.
"Come on," he said harshly, wincing at the twinge in his temples.
Without waiting to see if Stefn obeyed, he started along the bluff, noting how close the water had actually come to their cave and how high it was still. The wave had been larger than he'd thought! His heart thumped painfully; a cold, sickening knot of regret tightened in his gut.
He hurried along the steep slope, using wet rocks as handholds, never minding when he slipped and fell. Had the wave been powerful enough to reach Blackmarsh itself? He started to run.
A cry behind him brought him up short. Looking around, he saw Stefn tumbling, head over heels, down the embankment, straight toward the rushing, debris-choked water! Michael slid after him, terrified he'd fall in and be washed away.
Inches from the surging tide, Stefn stopped and laid still, clinging desperately to a large root exposed by the flood. Michael reached him a moment later, wrapping his hand around one thin, bruised wrist, dragging him up and out of danger.
"Let me go," gasped Stefn. "I can walk," and promptly went down again. Remembering his bad foot, Michael cursed and got his cethe back to his feet. Muddy, soaking wet and limping badly, Stefn would never make it back to Blackmarsh tonight. Nor, if he were honest, would he.
Stefn's teeth chattered audibly. In the dim glow of Michael's witchlight, he was white as bone. Dark hair clung wetly to his head, falling into his eyes. His breath came and went, ragged. "We'll go back to the cave," Michael heard himself saying. "It should be easier in the morning."
Back in their shelter, Stefn collapsed to the sandy floor, hugging himself. Michael, almost as wet, felt the chill now, too. He sat next to Stefn and, after a moment, put his arm around him. Stefn responded by huddling closer. His body was rigid with cold.
"Loth!" Michael said quietly. "You're freezing." He shifted around, settling the smaller man before him, and wrapped both arms around him. This time, there was a brief spate of resistance, but it ended quickly.
"W-wish we could have a fire... "
"Everything's soaked."
"Y-y-you're a naragi. M-make fire out... out of n-nothing."
"All I know is Spark. It will light fires, but it only lasts... " Michael broke off.
He needed to stop thinking like a witch. Ordinarily, Spark only lasted an instant, but he was no longer ordinary. Surely he had enough strength left for this? Michael looked at the damp rocks at the mouth of the cave and focused on the largest. It began to glow.
Warmth filled their small space and in his arms, Stefn gradually relaxed, becoming a limp, heavy weight against him. Michael let his head fall back against the cave wall and closed his eyes. The enervating, irresistible drag of overextension made him long for sleep. Yet, as he sat there, Stefn's body warm against his, he could not help wondering, if he were to take Stefn here, now, would he be replenished?
Inexplicably, the very question made him squirm, as much with angry self-loathing as with the rush of heat the notion produced. He looked down at the dark head resting against his shoulder, hair soft and fine as silk. It did no good to remind himself that Stefn was much stronger and more resilient than he looked, or that he was an Eldering and a sacrifice to justice.
Maybe it was the power of the Bond between them, but so what? Loth! How much easier it had been in the beginning, when he'd thought of Stefn as just another Hunter, deserving of his cruel fate. Michael stroked a wayward lock of hair back from Stefn's forehead. Stefn murmured and nestled closer.
Michael touched his lips to that warm, dark hair and then laid his own cheek against it. That was all he dared allow himself. There was no reason to disturb his cethe, no reason he had to recover quickly. He wasn't so tired that Sleep would not do the trick. The time would come when neither of them had a choice, but that time wasn't tonight.
"Lord Arranz! Wake up! Michael!"
Michael started awake, staring blankly back at Stefn.
"Someone's out there."
Focus returned, but slowly. It felt as if he hadn't slept a wink. Michael got up and went to the mouth of the cave. The quiet morning echoed with the clop of hooves and rattle of loose stone rolling down the bank toward the marsh. After a moment, he relaxed and stepped out into the morning sunlight, waving toward the riders approaching from the north. "Chris! Over here!"
Chris spurred his horse forward, cantering along the foot of the cliffs to the cave.
"Thank Loth!" he said, dismounting. A handful of guards accompanied him, coming along the narrow, treacherous path with more caution.
"We feared the worst when the wave struck!" Chris clapped him on the shoulder, relief plain in his blue eyes.
"Was Blackmarsh House affected? What of the villages?"
"It never made it that far. By the time the wave got to the north marsh it was little more than a large swell. There were no deaths or injuries, but I've heard Fenery and Willowton were flooded and acres of peatland are likely saturated. If they don't drain before the ground freezes, there will be a much smaller harvest this year than we'd planned."
No one was dead. Michael's relief made him weak kneed. Chris frowned and inquired if he was all right. "You got caught in it, too, from the looks of you both."
"It was interesting," agreed Michael with a warning look at Eldering. "I admit. I'm looking forward to a bath and a very long nap."
Chris ordered two of his men to give up their horses. "As to such a hope," he said, getting back into the saddle, "we have a problem. We've got bloody Hunters demanding permission to search the estate for escaped Penitents. Father's too ill to speak to them, and they won't leave at my say-so, damn them!"
"It's harassment and nothing less. They know Grandfather doesn't permit h'nara hunting."
"This isn't the usual set of bastards. They're fresh from Zelenov and I'd swear their commander is just waiting for the excuse to do as he wishes, Covenant be damned! If Grandfather were back, he'd send them off quickly enough, but we've not heard a word of him since before you went charging off, accusing him of abducting... " Chris broke off, looking over Michael's shoulder to Stefn before fixing an accusing glare on Michael. "Which brings us to --- what the bloody hell has been going on? Where is the Old Man? Did you find him? And don't think I've forgotten --- you hit me!"
"In the delta, yes and I'm sorry." Michael nudged his horse forward. "You left the house unguarded with Hunters in the area?"
"Of course not! Marin is in charge. Still, I'll feel much better when we're home again."
"You say these Hunters are from Zelenov?"
"They've just been stationed at Creighton Abbey."
Michael frowned, stopping his horse to stare at Chris. "Creighton? Since when?"
"Since two weeks ago, according to my information. Rumor says the Celestials didn't care for Abbot Bell's "soft" attitude toward h'nara so he was sent to Zelenov for prayer and reflection." Chris smiled bitterly. "They've declared the Abbey a Cathedral and replaced him with a bishop. I hear his sermons are filled with lies about us."
Michael didn't like the sound of it. Creighton had been a mid-sized abbey serving a collection of far-flung rural villages. Why go to the trouble and expense of upgrading it? "Who's the new bishop?"
"Merith Rayfir."
Michael did not recognize the name, but he intended to make inquiries as soon as he returned to Shia. The notion of a new Hunter presence in the long-neglected western hinterlands made him uneasy.
He fended off Chris' questions during the ride back, frustrating his brother to the point of sputtering silence. He needed more sleep, damn it! Where the hell was the old man? Had Michael been lucky enough to catch him with the wave?
Stefn, whose sleep had been natural and refreshing, was noticeably alert. He said nothing, riding slightly behind the brothers. More than once, the feeling of eyes on his back made Michael look over his shoulder, usually to catch Stefn looking quickly away.
Shortly before sunset, they climbed up onto the causeway, tired and hungry, only to find Hunters milling about at the bottom of the hill. Chris swore and rode to confront them. At once, the soldiers formed a line, forcing Chris to draw up short.
"By the Covenant, you have no jurisdiction on this land," he shouted at them. "Where's your commander?"
"He ain't here," one of the Hunters shouted back. "He went up to see His Grace. You can all just wait 'til he's done."
Michael was tired and angry at their presumption. How dare they set foot, uninvited, on Arranz land? He turned his head and murmured a spell. It was a small witch-charm, nothing more, but it was enough to spook the Hunters' horses to stamping and rearing. In the ensuing commotion, he nodded to Chris, who grinned. They rode through the confusion and on up the hill.
Four Hunters waited on the drive before the mansion's front door. An officer wearing the stars of a lieutenant saw them and reached for his sword, striding forward to meet them. "Hold!" His gaze glanced off Michael's hair. "Your Grace, I presume?"
Michael didn't dismount, but looked down at the lieutenant coldly. "You're in violation of the First Covenant, Hunter," he said. "Take your men and leave our land at once!"
"Your Grace, we believe there are Penitents hiding in the marsh and... "
"Irrelevant. The First Covenant makes no exceptions. This land is sovereign by order and decree of St. Aramis himself. Chasing down escaped slaves is hardly an excuse for breaking the law."
"Slaves, Your Grace?" The lieutenant was offended. "They're nothing of the kind! They are Penitents, sinners who made a solemn vow of service to the Church in exchange for salvation! Simply because, in a moment of weakness and sin, a few seek to break that vow... "
"A vow they were tortured into making!" burst out Chris.
The Hunter's jaw tightened. "For some h'nara, sir, the evil desires caused by their naran blood is the torture! In the end, such fugitives always thank us for saving them from themselves."
"I doubt that," said Michael. "Regardless, I insist you leave at once."
"I'm sorry, my lord," the lieutenant replied, "but I must insist... "
"That was not a request, Lieutenant!" Michael turned to Chris. "Summon the guard."
"Finally," muttered Chris. With a short nod, he wheeled his horse around and rode off, disappearing around the side of the house. The lieutenant frowned, watching him go. "Your Grace... "
"You are in violation of the First Covenant," Michael repeated. "You will leave now, or under armed escort. The choice is yours."
The officer thought about it and reached the correct conclusion. He didn't much like it, judging from his sour expression, but he bowed stiffly. "As you wish, Your Grace. Rest assured, however, I will bring this matter to the attention of the Council. We will not tolerate your defiance forever!" Shouting to his men, they mounted up and trotted off.
Chris returned in time to see them disappear through the gates and down the hill. He looked disappointed at their easy capitulation. "They're getting bolder. Next time, though, they may not mistake you for Grandfather."
"Next time, the old man had better be here, where he belongs."
Chris gave him a puzzled look, but Michael wasn't in the mood to explain. He yawned.
The front door flew open and Marin came out. He carried a large pike and scowled after the Hunters. A wide-eyed Annie peeked out from behind him. "Are they gone?"
"Aye."
She flew out and down the steps to the drive. "Thank Loth, you're safe! When we heard about the wave, I was so frightened!"
Michael, dismounting, reeled under her exuberant hug. "Of course, we're all right! See? Not only are we unharmed, we're starving and filthy and in desperate need of your domestic talents."
"Ooh!" Her eyes lit up. Michael watched her gaze slide to Stefn who, in spite of his dishevelment, was still damnably pretty. "I'll have Betty fix something straightaway and have water heated for baths. What in the world happened to you? Did you get caught in it? Was it terrifying? It's so strange, a wave this time of year. Betty said it was an evil omen, then those horrid soldiers came. What did they... "
Michael let her words wash over them and hustle them up the steps, into the house. She ran off to see to the servants, still calling questions after him, while he continued up the stairs to Stefn's room.
"In," he ordered.
Stefn walked through the door without looking back. Michael shut it after him. He reached automatically for the key, then realized he didn't have it. The hell with it. He continued down the corridor to his own room and was asleep when the footmen brought the bathtub.
...It has rained for two weeks straight, my dear sister, and we are near to our wits' end here. The entire crop is ruined, the wheat flattened, and grain rotting from the wet. Never have I seen such foul weather! Our tenants will hardly have the means to feed themselves through the winter, never mind pay their rents and taxes! If they cannot pay, rest assured, we will be hard-pressed to come up with our taxes and tithes.
The Church says the endless storms are Loth's judgment for tolerating the heathen nara in our midst. I am beginning to think they are right. We did not have such vile luck before they arrived in our midst! There are five such tenants and several of that ilk in service on the estate. I am seriously considering evicting them all in hopes of reversing this ill-fortune!
Excerpt from a letter from Lord Langston of Belmont
to his sister, Lady Colford of Withwillow,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1228
Severyn wasted no time in seeking an audience with his brother. The answer to his polite request came back at once: refusal. Arami was "too busy" this week. Would he kindly come back later?
No, he would not. Severyn immediately strode through the palace to the royal wing where his brother and sister-in-law had their lavish, private apartments. The guards made only a half-hearted attempt to stop him. Such was the low esteem in which they held his wretched brother. Severyn knew he should be encouraged by the fact that they were more than willing to take his orders, but for some reason, it only made him sad.
On his way up the stairs, however, he met the Queen coming down. With a shock, he recognized the man accompanying her.
"Good afternoon, Eleanor," he said, stepping aside on the landing.
"Severyn!" she exclaimed, looking none too pleased to see him. "I didn't expect to see you here! Weren't you going to Tantagrel?"
"Soon." Severyn bowed and looked to her companion. "Good afternoon, Your Eminence. It's been quite a while since you've graced Lothlain Palace with a visit."
Mazril Locke, Archbishop of Tanyrin, and Severyn's brother-in-law, smiled, extending a lean, white hand. Severyn kissed the air above the large signet ring.
"Since the Conclave was in Lothmont, how could I miss the opportunity to visit my dear sister and brother?" the cleric asked.
Locke and his sister did not bear much resemblance. While she was small and thin, with wispy brown hair, he was tall and well-built, his hair black as midnight and eyes just as dark. They both shared strong, regular features, but where it gave her a sharp, unpleasant appearance, it imparted upon the archbishop a look of strength and erudition.
"And how do you find Arami?" asked Severyn, hair rising on the back of his neck.
Mazril Locke was a Dragon of Loth, a knightmage reputed to have enormous lothrian power. There were those who said he commanded the forces of fire, air and water with the same strength as the vanished naragi, but Severyn had personally never seen a demonstration of such magic.
Brother and sister exchanged glances. Eleanor's lips thinned. "As you would expect," she said tartly. "I don't know why you're going up there, Severyn. He'll likely be in no condition to speak to you!"
"I find my brother's vice as unfortunate as you do," replied Severyn honestly. "It might be in the best interest not only of Arami, but of us all, should he be deprived of the foul stuff."
Eleanor looked surprised. She opened her mouth, but it was her brother who spoke. "An admirable suggestion, Your Highness. How would you propose to accomplish it?"
"Finding his source would be a good start," replied Severyn. "The stuff is illegal, after all."
"An interesting suggestion," said Locke. "Have you any ideas? Do you know where he's getting it?"
"No," admitted Severyn. "What of you, Eleanor? Has he ever confided that to you?"
"Of course not!" she sniffed. "He knows very well what I think of his dreadful habit!"
"By the way," Locke said, "I understand congratulations are in order!"
"You've heard then? Miss Eldering has graciously consented to be my wife."
"Whatever possessed you to choose her?" Eleanor demanded. "Amanda Sheldrake is imminently eligible and wealthy besides."
"And a woman of great generosity to the Church, as well," added the Archbishop. "Her brother is Bishop of Aganlough, a cousin and a man well-positioned on the Celestial Council."
"Have you seen Miss Eldering?" asked Severyn.
Eleanor sniffed, but Locke grinned ruefully. "I have, indeed. The Earl was Sworn to the Church, so naturally, I presided over Miss Stefanie's Confirmation when she turned eighteen. A charming girl, absolutely delightful."
"I agree. I have nothing against Mrs. Sheldrake, of course, but being merely Crown Prince, the matter of my wife is, fortunately, left to me."
"Really?" Eleanor replied tartly.
"That is not to disparage the choice of the Church in their selection of Arami's wife," Severyn hastened to add, bowing. "How could I find fault with such a paragon of beauty and wifely loyalty as you, Your Majesty?"
Her eyes snapped, but Severyn kept his expression as sincere as he could manage.
"Bah," she said finally. "Come along, Mazril! I have several appointments yet this morning. Severyn, my dear, if you will excuse us?"
"Until we meet again, Your Highness?" Locke bowed, smiling apologetically.
Severyn watched him follow his irate sister down the remainder of the stairs to vanish through the door into her quarters. Then he headed on up to his brother's apartment.
Arami wasn't any happier to see him than the Queen had been. Severyn found him still abed, clutching a snifter in his shaking hand.
"Dammit! I said no visitors!" he snarled when Severyn came in.
"I need to talk to you before I return to Tantagrel," replied Severyn, ignoring him. "Loth, Arami! Can't you put that damned thing down long enough to talk to me?"
"The hell with you!" was his brother's loving reply. "I haven't had any for three days! Say your piece and get the hell out!"
Arami looked terrible. Pasty-white, sweating, he nonetheless had wrapped himself in several heavy quilts and blankets. He fumbled with his matches, finally succeeding in lighting one.
"What did Locke want?"
"Eh? Ask him."
"He won't tell me."
Severyn waited impatiently for Arami to heat the pelthe. The king took a deep drag of the vapors, then fell back against his pillows, eyes half-closed. He sighed gustily.
"He wants to deploy Hunter units at all the abbeys."
"Did you agree?"
"Of course. Why should I fund more troops to protect his damned Churches?"
"There's no need for more troops, Arami! You know the Council will only levy more tithes against the people!"
Arami gave him a sullen scowl.
"You know the situation in the East. He can't afford to maintain his armies there and he's trying to foist them off on us! You haven't already signed their Petition, have you?"
"No, it ain't been written up yet."
"Don't."
"I said I would."
"I'll lend you two thousand gold."
Arami's eyes flew open. A crafty look appeared on his sallow features. "Three," he said.
"Fine. Three. But no more, damn it!"
"Eleanor will bitch at me."
"So?"
Arami frowned and reached for another match.
"Direct the Petition to me at Tantagrel," urged Severyn. "I'm commander of the Royal Guard, after all. Suggest they negotiate directly with me for more troops."
"Oh, that will go over well," Arami said sarcastically.
"So? What do you care?"
Arami thought about it. A tiny, unpleasant smile appeared on his face. "Three thousand? They couldn't very well hold funds over me."
"Exactly."
"Three thousand won't last very long, though."
"It would if you stopped using that stuff."
"Mind your own business," sneered Arami. "If you don't want me to sign their Petition, then give me the money and leave me alone."
"Where do you get it, anyway?"
A crafty look appeared on his brother's face. "As if I'd tell you," he jeered. "Don't forget, little brother. I'm the king! Now --- since you're here, you might as well write me out the cheque."
Severyn, three thousand gold poorer, had hoped to leave straightaway for Tantagrel and his long-postponed duties. Alas, infected by pelthe and buoyant goodwill, the next day, Arami announced a ball to be given in his honor. At first, the king insisted it be in celebration of his betrothal. Reminded of Miss Eldering's recent loss, however, he quickly declared it a birthday ball, never mind Severyn's birthday was still two months away.
While there was no question but that Severyn would attend, his friends cravenly begged off, claiming the need to visit their respective parishes.
"My brother has been in charge, unsupervised, for the past three months," Eric pointed out. "Loth alone knows how much damage he's done in that time. We'll meet you back in Tantagrel in a week or two. Oh, yes, happy birthday."
"Cowards," he fired back, but he could not begrudge them the time when he asked so much of them already.
The ball was as lavish and excessive as he'd feared. Arami had probably spent at least a thousand of Severyn's money on the decorations and food. As he and his brother stood in the receiving line, it appeared as if every nobleman and court official in the West had come.
"You are prodigiously popular, brother," muttered Arami after an hour.
"You invited them, did you not?" Severyn smiled and nodded to a small, plump woman introduced as the Lady Leonie Mortimer and her husband, Sir Charles of Van.
"I didn't expect them all to come, and at such short notice, too. There are more people here than at my last birthday fete!" Peeved, the king greeted a couple more guests, then abruptly disappeared.
Severyn smiled apologetically at the dismayed old gentleman left bowing to an empty spot. "His Majesty is indisposed. So good to see you again, Lord Climer."
Most of these people knew exactly what was wrong with Arami. Most had ended up in Severyn's Little Court at one time or another, their Petitions shoved aside by the king.
When the receiving line disbanded, Severyn made no effort to hunt down his brother. He intended to make good use of this unasked-for ball to test the waters of discontent. Although not as adept at court-speak as some, he was soon listening to the frankest conversation yet from Tanyrin's aristocracy: the disgust with Arami's vices, the worry over high taxes, and a growing unease at the ambitions of the Church.
"Hunters," said a lord of a southeastern parish. "Two units, nearly a hundred men! They're building the barracks right outside the church. When I asked the abbot, he said it was for the protection of the parish. I ask you! What is my militia? A dance troupe? Why should I pay a copper to support soldiers over whom I have no authority?"
Locke was damned confident, thought Severyn, displeased. He hadn't even waited for royal permission!
"Protection against what?" he asked.
"Against h'nara!" The nobleman was disgusted. "Four hundred years they have been living among us and suddenly they are a threat? There are h'nara who've served my house for generations! I doubt they've more than a drop of the damned blood in them anymore, but still they must be registered in the parish census? And the Church wants to raise my tithes so they may put men onto my land to guard against them? I'll be damned if I pay a penny!"
"The Church's fear of h'nara does seem greatly overwrought," Severyn allowed.
The man laughed shortly. "Loth knows, the taints can make a body uneasy with their unnatural coloring and witch spells, but what of it? Hell, my wife's maid saved my son's life when he was an infant with one of her healing charms. Yet the Church would have me turn her in as dangerous and... " He suddenly reddened, breaking off. With a mumbled apology, the lord hastily withdrew.
Severyn turned and immediately saw why. His own heart sank. Had it been possible, he would have disappeared, as well, but it was too late. His Eminence, the Archbishop advanced on Severyn and the glittering assembly parted hastily to let him pass.
"Your Highness! We meet again."
"Mazril." Severyn acknowledged the man's brief bow. "Are you enjoying the party?"
"Most diverting." The bishop's smile was easy, charming. "My regards on this happy day." He hesitated and looked around. "Wherever did Arami get the money? The last time we spoke, he was complaining about being quite out at the pocket."
"Messerling looks to enjoy a good harvest this year," replied Severyn and hoped his own smile was as believable as Locke's. "I have no objection to helping Arami out now and then. How much longer do you plan to stay in Lothmont? Does the Conclave continue?"
"It ended yesterday. If it were up to me, I'd return to Zelenov immediately, but Charity is determined to make the most of our little holiday. I'm afraid Zelenov doesn't compare in her eyes."
"Your wife accompanied you?" Severyn looked hopefully around, but the exquisite Lady Locke was nowhere to be seen.
"She's about somewhere. Your glass is empty, brother. Shall we have some more punch?" Slipping an arm familiarly through his, the head of the Tanyrin church started toward the buffet. Severyn held determinedly to his composure. In truth, the man's touch made his skin creep.
"Very soon you, too, will have a lovely helpmate. You'll learn the true joy of marriage. I should hope you would feel free to call upon me to conduct the service."
"Thank you, Your Excellency. I will mention it to Miss Eldering when we begin the planning. She is in mourning, so of course, we cannot contemplate having the ceremony until the year is past."
"Ah, my dear, naive Prince." Locke chuckled indulgently. "You will soon discover, planning for a wedding will consume all that time and more. Your fiancé is secretly glad for the delay, I would suspect, so she might have more time to spend her family's money. Speaking of which... " The Archbishop broke off, responding to a greeting from a passing nobleman. "It's a shame how the Elderings had sunk so far into ruin. I should be very surprised if the new earl can spare two coppers to rub together for her expenses, and that in spite of the fortune we poured into his coffers to support his Hunter unit."
Having seen the state of the Shian barracks, Severyn struggled to keep his polite smile.
"Still, one must mourn the ignoble end of a family so old and honorable as the Elderings. Their connection with the Church goes back to the dark time of naran rule. In fact, I recall reading in an accounting record somewhere that some valuable Church property is kept in trust there."
"Church property?"
"Yes, although I can't remember what, exactly. So many of the Church's relics and artifacts were scattered during the Reformation to keep them out of the hands of the rebellious h'nara." He might have said more, but suddenly an impatient look flashed across his face. It was gone almost at once, however.
"Darling! There you are!" Adorned in silk and jewels, a spectacularly lovely, raven-haired woman sailed up to them. She stopped at the sight of Severyn, raising her dainty hand to her mouth to hide the charming moue of surprise. "Oh! Good evening, Your Highness! I beg your pardon!"
Severyn, relieved at the interruption, could not help smiling his appreciation. "Lady Locke. How delightful to see you." He took her hand. "You are a lovely as always. His Eminence is a fortunate man."
"Is there something you wanted of me, my love?" asked the Archbishop. There was a slight edge to his voice.
"Lord and Lady Norwich are having a house party next week and invited us. I know how much you loathe such events, but do say I may go!"
"Of course, my dear."
Lady Locke clapped her slender hands in delight, rising on tiptoe to deposit a chaste kiss upon her husband's cheek. "You are the most wonderful of men, my sweet! Severyn, it is marvelous to see you again. I've heard a tantalizing rumor. You are soon to be wed?"
"Miss Eldering has agreed to make me the happiest of men," replied Severyn, trying not to stare at her luscious breasts. They threatened to escape the low-cut bodice with each breath. "Unfortunately, due to the death of her father and brother, we may not hold the ceremony until next year."
"How sad! Still, Stefanie is such a lovely child. Well worth waiting for, I'm sure. Oh! There is dear Lady Pomfrette. Please do excuse me, but I must catch her before she leaves!"
The two men watched her glide away, trailing lace and perfume in her wake. Severyn took a deep breath. "A charming woman, Locke."
"The light of my life." The sour note in the Archbishop's voice was unmistakable, but he made a quick recovery. "How fortunate you will soon be delighting in your own married bliss, too. There is nothing like it."
"So I hear," replied Severyn.
"Ah! That reminds me. Michael Arranz is yet unwed, is he not?"
The chill was back, prickling Severyn's skin.
"His father, Lord Philip, and the present duke were married and hopeful fathers at his age. I'm afraid the Council has been sadly remiss in not providing him with a bride, as well. I can only blame a surfeit of pressing business on the oversight."
"Surely there's no hurry," replied Severyn. "After all, the duke is in no danger of dying without heirs."
"Still, there are traditions to uphold. It is our solemn responsibility to see to the longevity both of your line and of Lord Michael's."
"I'm touched at your concern for my friends' marital bliss." Severyn gave his most noncommittal smile. "Although I should be more concerned for Arami and Eleanor's continued childlessness."
"I have faith that Loth will bless them in time with children. That doesn't absolve us of our responsibilities, however. I shall make a point of bringing of Michael Arranz's marriage to the Council at the earliest opportunity."
All in all, Severyn decided, the party would not rank among his favorites.
White of hair, grey of eye
Touch a taint and you will die
Hair of white, eye of grey
Oak and sword the taint will slay
Child's rhyme, author unknown
Marin shook Michael awake from deep, dreamless Sleep. Squinting at the bright sunlight pouring through his windows, Michael groaned and tried to pull the covers over his head.
"I'm sorry, m'lord," Martin said, yanking them back. "But His Grace has returned and insists on speaking to you."
Michael swore. "To the devil with him," he growled. "I'm tired. Leave me alone!"
"Now, now, Lord Michael," Marin admonished him. "You don't mean that, I'm sure. Come along. I've called for some hot water..." He looked toward the bathtub still sitting in front of the fireplace. "I can't believe you went to bed in those filthy clothes, my lord!"
Michael had vague recollections of meaning to have a bath. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Only since last night, m'lord. Once you've spoken with your grandfather, you can come back to bed, if you still wish it."
Michael glowered at his servant as Marin cheerfully rummaged through the wardrobe in search of clean clothing. Grandfather was back, was he? Perhaps it was just as well. There were a few things he wanted to say to the old bastard; the brutalization of Eldering was only the beginning of it!
Stefn!
Fear shot through Michael. He launched himself off his bed.
"Lord Michael!" Marin called after him in alarm.
Michael didn't stop. He ran down the hall to Stefn's room, reaching the door only to find it locked. Locked! Whirling around, he saw Marin running after him.
"Here, m'lord!" puffed the servant, handing over the key. "I looked in on him not five minutes ago... "
Michael unlocked the door and threw it open. Looking wildly around, he saw Stefn. The youth was on his feet in front of a chair, a book held in front of him like a shield, eyes wide and frightened. "M-my lord?"
Sanity returned to Michael in a rush. He drew a deep breath.
"He hasn't been here, my lord," said Marin, hurrying into the room after him.
"What is it?" asked Stefn anxiously.
"Nothing," said Michael, who wondered distantly at the speed of his racing heart. The impulse to seize Stefn, to wrap his arms around him and hold him safe and close was nearly overwhelming. "We're leaving for Shia in the morning."
Still apprehensive, Stefn nodded.
"Be ready," added Michael. Then, feeling a little foolish, he left the room, Stefn staring after him, mystified.
"My lord?" Marin inquired after Michael had locked the door again.
"Stay here."
"But your grandfather..."
"I'll talk to him. You make sure no one but me enters this room, do you understand?"
Marin nodded. Michael turned on his heel and went back to his room.
He would have to talk to Grandfather, if only to inform him he meant to leave Blackmarsh at once. Lord Damon was a law unto himself. As long as Stefn was in Blackmarsh, he was in danger. Loth only knew what other plans the old man had up his sleeve.
A quarter hour later, cleaned up but still deathly tired, Michael presented himself at his grandfather's quarters. The duke took one look at him and said, "So, it was you who caused the wave. Young fool!"
Michael shrugged.
"It was irresponsible. I didn't give you the spells as playthings!"
"You wanted to know if I was a true naragi. I wanted to know if the spells were truly what you claimed they were."
"You're still angry about your cethe?"
Michael gritted his teeth and didn't reply. His grandfather snorted. Rising from his chair, he strode over to Michael. "Is the boy still injured?"
"Of course not! And if you attempt to harm him again..."
"Oh, for God's sake!" The duke turned away in disgust. "He's your slave, not your lover! It's obvious you haven't even used him to regain your strength! What will you do if you face one of Locke's mageknights? Do you think you'll have the luxury of such delicate feelings?"
"I'm returning to Shia in the morning," said Michael, fighting his temper.
"You're going to Tantagrel," corrected his grandfather. "Inform Severyn of the Hunter garrison newly established on our doorstep. If there is anything he can do to remove them, it would be very much appreciated."
"I'm sorry, Grandfather, but Severyn asked that I go back to Shia." Michael rose so swiftly, it forced his grandfather back several steps. The duke's eyebrows snapped together.
"Has Severyn left it unattended?"
"Of course not. Auron is..."
"Challory is a capable man. You can return to Shia after you've delivered my message to Tantagrel."
"With all due respect, sir, I take orders from the prince!"
Color flared on the duke's high cheekbones. "Your loyalty is first and foremost to your family!" he retorted. "I'll hear no more of this foolishness! It's your fatigue causing you to talk this way. Enough of your absurd, maidenly reticence! Mount your damned pretty-boy and recover your strength and clarity of mind!"
Michael wondered distantly what would happen if he planted the old man a facer. His fists clenched at his sides, but before he could do anything irreparably stupid, there came a low, but urgent knock on the door.
"What?" roared his grandfather.
The door opened a crack. Dex looked in warily. "My apologies, Your Grace, but Lord Michael has a visitor. Lord Forrest is here and desirous of speaking with him at once!"
"Forry?"
"Send the marquis up," said the duke before Michael could move. "And bring refreshments."
Michael had no choice but to sit down again.
"Do you know what Bradigan wants?"
Shaking his head, Michael rubbed his aching temples. Damn, but he needed to sleep. "I hope it's not bad news," he said. "Forry was in Lothmont, last I knew."
In short order, Forry appeared. He, too, looked tired and dusty from the road. He bowed to the duke and gratefully took a chair. The refreshments arrived soon after he did, t'cha and honey-cakes, both of which he accepted with enthusiastic thanks.
"Severyn's fine," he replied in answer to the duke's question. "He's off to Tantagrel by now, I suppose. I've got a new assignment for Mick. He wants you to go to Withwillow at once."
"Withwillow?" echoed Michael and his grandfather in unison.
"Aye. It seems we have a possible ally in the Bishop there. Severyn wants you to feel him out."
"Gabriel Storm?" The duke looked thoughtful. "I've heard he's a fair man and the h'nara of the parish speak well of him and their lord. Why does Severyn think he might be an ally?"
Forry, between mouthfuls of cake, recounted the particulars of a meeting between Severyn and Jason Thornwald. When he'd finished, the duke was grim.
"That would explain the garrison at Creighton," he said. "This is disquieting news, indeed."
"Why send me?" Michael asked. "I should think one of you might be more acceptable."
"Severyn seems to think if Storm objects to speaking with you, it will tell him all he needs to know about the bishop." Forry shrugged. "He won't trust anyone who looks down on you for being h'nara, I suppose. He also said you had unique abilities to see the truth behind the lies. I assume he refers to your, er, witchly talents."
Michael nodded. "I'll go, of course," he said, carefully not looking at his grandfather. "What of you?"
"I'm overdue at Forrest Glen. The process of winnowing my guard for men trustworthy enough to send to Shia is going to take some little time, I'm afraid."
"You'll stay the night?" asked the duke.
"I wouldn't say no," admitted Forry. "I've not had much sleep these past five days. Sev wanted to get you the information as quickly as possible."
"I'll talk to Annie," said Michael, rising. "She'll see you comfortably tucked up. Grandfather? If you'll excuse us?"
The duke nodded, but his gaze was far away. Together, Forry and Michael left Lord Damon's rooms.
"Are you all right?" Forry asked as they made their way through the house to the main wing. "You look worse than I do."
"Too much witchery," replied Michael and wondered what Forry would do if he knew the truth. "A good night's sleep and a nap in the coach tomorrow will see me right as rain."
"Good. If Storm is genuine, it could be of enormous help to have a man on the Council."
"What about Arami? Do you think he'll approve the Council's request to move more troops into the West?"
"Eventually. Sev has managed to delay the inevitable by buying his brother off. Arami agreed to send their Petition to Tantagrel instead of acting upon it himself. It will require that we step up our plans, however. Even the prince can't afford to keep bribing His Majesty indefinitely."
Stefn listened with a wooden expression while Marin outlined the change of plans. He would not be going home, after all. Instead, as soon as Lord Michael was up and about, they were off to the city of Withwillow. It was profoundly irritating that he should secretly find the news terribly exciting. Of all cities in Tanyrin, Withwillow was the one he had always most wanted to visit.
Withwillow was home to the most prestigious of Tanyrian colleges, the St. Aramis Academy, with its dozens of libraries and lecture halls, great museums and shrines. It might not be the seat of ecclesiastical power in Tanyrin anymore, but it was the kingdom's intellectual soul. So many of the books in Shia's musty library had been written by men educated there, so many of their magnificent illustrations and colored plates had been produced by Withwillow's Academy-trained artists.
Sharp rapping on the bedroom door sent Marin grumbling to open it. "I told the footman a half-hour, damn it, not a few... " He broke off. It was no footman outside, but a young, very pretty girl who peered curiously into the room. She looked familiar and Stefn, startled, racked his brains for the reason why.
"Mick? Are you in here? I know I'm not supposed to be..." A pair of large blue eyes lit on Stefn and grew round as saucers. "Ohhh!"
Marin said something incoherent and tried to hustle her out. The girl resisted, digging in her heels and slapping at Marin's hand when he would forcibly remove her.
"Whatever you or Michael say, I am the lady of the house," she declared. "I have my duty as hostess." Her frosty glare pinned poor Marin to the spot. Then she turned to Stefn, her smile warming, becoming shy. "My apologies again, Lord Eldering, but I must inquire about your comfort. Have you sufficient firewood? Would you like me to have some refreshments brought up?"
Lord Michael's sister! Stefn nodded, tongue-tied.
She blushed prettily, her gaze going to the book he held. "We have some periodicals downstairs, if you'd like," she said. "They're almost recent. Chris brought them back from Waylerton."
"Miss!" Marin had been pushed beyond endurance. "I will be forced to fetch Lord Michael!"
"This will do, Miss, but I thank you for your consideration," Stefn managed.
"Well, if you're sure." She regarded him with narrowed eyes. Then, "Oh, stop it, Marin. I'm going!"
The big servant managed to get her out the door and this time, took care to lock it after her.
"That was Lord Michael's sister, wasn't it?"
Marin sighed. "Yes, my lord. She's a bit of a handful at times."
"Isn't she old enough to be at Court?"
"Yes, and she has the right, of course," replied Marin, "but it's been awhile since the Arranzes have been welcomed in Lothmont. These days, it seems even the Covenant of St. Aramis cannot overcome the stigma of their naran blood."
"She doesn't look h'naran."
"Her mother was a pureblooded human, but it doesn't matter. Everyone would know the truth. I don't look h'naran, either, but my village drove me out when my father died. The nara have been gone for hundreds of years, but even so, the fear and hatred runs deep."
"The nara stole our land and enslaved us," retorted Stefn. "Why wouldn't we humans fear their descendants?"
"Because we lived peacefully among humans since the end of the war, my lord. There was even a time when the Arranz family was received at Court."
"And what of the Corlium Rebellion?"
Marin's face darkened. "We h'nara call it the Corlium Massacre, my lord. The Church used that lie to begin its assault on us. The Hunters attacked Corlium, not the other way around!"
"'Tis not what history claims!"
Sighing, Marin shook his head and left the room soon after. Stefn heard the lock fall into place and stalked angrily to the windows. The sea stretched away below him, sunlight sparkling on the waves.
Everyone knew the truth about Corlium! There were vivid accounts of it in Shia's library. One of Tanyrin's most respected historians, Frederick Craig, devoted a whole chapter to the atrocity in his Modern History of Tanyrin. It was absurd that Marin should claim it was the h'nara who had been wronged!
And now they had resurrected the naragi! How could anyone reach any other conclusion but that the h'nara sought revenge and to once more grind humanity under their heel! Was he not living proof of it? Had he not been ruthlessly enslaved, cruelly used?
Except, when the duke had abducted him, why had Lord Michael fought his way to Stefn's side? Stefn remembered the sight of him, hair tousled, eyes baleful as ghost-fire. He remembered how cold Lord Michael's hands had been when he snatched Stefn to safety.
He was afraid for me!
Stefn's thoughts stumbled to a halt. "Ridiculous!" he whispered into the room's silence. "Absolutely absurd!!"
But, perversely, Stefn remembered the flood of healing warmth; how Michael's arms had come around him with desperate care.
He was nothing more than an object, a means to an evil end, Stefn told himself furiously. Michael Arranz didn't care about him, he cared only that he had a cethe to rape whenever he needed to refresh his vile power.
And yet, although Arranz had obviously exhausted himself using the naran high sorcery, he'd not laid a hand on Stefn since.
Everything Stefn had read about the unfortunate sathra painted a grim picture of pain and humiliation, of the most abject and shameful servitude. The wretches had often been bound with spells to keep them docile, robbing them of will and a rightful desire for freedom and justice.
And yet....
Stefn swore, turning away from the window. Was it sorcery that made his body tingle at thoughts of Michael's touch? Was it foul naran magic heating his dreams since he had returned to Blackmarsh, filling them with wild, erotic images? Unbound by his waking sensibilities, they ran riot. In them, he became a wild, wanton creature, begging for the caresses of faceless men who turned into Michael just before he awoke, gasping and painfully aroused.
It's not real! It's not me that wants him! It's this fiendish thing around my neck!
Determined to banish the unruly images, Stefn returned to his chair and his book, but once summoned, those thoughts proved unexpectedly hard to resist. Time and again, the words on the pages before him blurred. He thought of the night at the inn when, bound hand and foot, Michael had coaxed pleasure from his body he'd never imagined possible. Remembering the slide of Michael's hand along his thigh, the touch of his lips, made Stefn squirm. And the night they had arrived at Blackmarsh, his body impaled on Michael's erection, how quickly he'd abandoned any thought of resisting.
"Damn you!" he shouted, jumping to his feet and hurling the book across the room. Against his will, his hand crept down below his belly where his sex burgeoned, pushing against his breeches. "Damn you!" he whispered, frantically opening them and seizing his cock. "Damn you! Damn you to hell, Michael Arranz!"
An insistent banging on his door woke Michael from heavy sleep. It took a moment to gather his wits. His head ached dully and, for as deep as his sleep had been, weariness weighted his limbs. The banging continued, relentless.
"What?" he barked hoarsely.
"My lord!" Marin appeared in the doorway. There were others in the dimly lit hallway behind him. What the hell time was it? Michael lit his beside candle. The clock told him it was well past midnight.
"It's Lord Eldering," Marin said in a low, anxious voice. "Please come at once!"
Michael's protest died, unspoken, at the worry in Marin's voice. Muttering dire threats if this was not deadly serious, Michael stumbled to his feet. Fumbling on his robe, he went directly to Stefn's room. Several wide-eyed servants lingered nearby, scattering at Michael's appearance. Marin wordlessly handed over the key. Unlocking it, Michael went in.
The earl sat hunched over on the edge of his bed, wrapped in his blanket, but otherwise stark naked, as far as Michael could tell. His cheeks were flushed. His dark eyes were filled with pain and fury. Under the blanket, his legs were spread wide apart.
"What the hell do you want?" Michael snapped.
"Close the door!"
Michael slammed it shut. "Now," he repeated. "What the hell do you want?"
Stefn whisked off the blanket, revealing a purple, dripping erection "This is your fault," he snarled.
Taken completely by surprise, Michael started to laugh. Stefn, enraged, reached down and, picking up his boot, hurled it at him. His voice shook. "You think it's funny, you damned taint! You did this to me! It's this hellish collar, isn't it? Get it off me! Get it off!"
Michael dodged the next missile and, out of things to throw, Stefn threw himself, fists flying. Surprise let him get in a good right hook before Michael recovered, seizing his hand and spinning him around, yanking his wrist up between his shoulder blades. The abrupt, wrenching pain returned Stefn to some sanity. He gasped and was still.
"Be quiet!" Michael snapped, shoving him toward the bed. "You've awakened the entire damn house!"
"Your fault. Ah... God... " Flung down onto the mattress, Stefn dragged his cock along the sheets like some creature in rut.
Abruptly, Michael's irritation evaporated "You're really in trouble, aren't you?"
Tears flooded Stefn's eyes as Michael pushed him onto his back. His hips writhed, thrusting upward. "Please!" he begged hoarsely. "I can't do it myself this time! I don't know why!"
Abruptly, Michael released him. Stefn moaned, curling up at once, clutching his sex with white-knuckled hands. It took some effort to pry them away. In the end, Michael had to tie his wrists to the bed frame.
His cethe sobbed. The big vein running up his cock was dark and distended, his rapid pulse visible in its throbbing. Every muscle in that slim body seemed taut as wire. He was covered with sweat, dark hair in a tangle on the sheets.
Michael's own body warmed at the sight. Mouth suddenly dry, he quickly undressed, hands shaking. Stefn became perfectly still, watching him with feral intensity. Michael climbed back onto the bed, straddling him, drinking in the sight of such need.
"Convince me," he said softly, looking down into Stefn's tear-drenched eyes.
Moaning, Stefn lifted his head from the mattress, struggling to reach Michael's lips. They were soft and yielding, parting at once for Michael's tongue.
"If you wanted me so badly, you should have said so."
Stefn's head fell back to the mattress. He licked his lips. "Don't want you... Just need you."
"That will do."
Lowering his head, Michael plundered the cethe's willing mouth. He pressed Stefn's body to the mattress with his own, reveling in the exquisite sensations produced by the young earl's frantic thrusts beneath him. Stefn's small nipples were hard and swollen. When Michael touched his tongue to one, Stefn cried out, arching his back. Incoherent sounds of pleasure met Michael's sucking and nipping until both nubs were twice the size and fiery red.
"Ready?" he whispered finally, half out of his own mind with need.
"Yes! Oh, Loth, yes! Please!" Stefn needed no urging to turn over on his stomach, to lift his hips and spread his knees. His slender hands wrapped around the rope holding him to the bed in a death-grip. A low, keening sound escaped him when Michael quickly, fumbling, prepared him.
Buried deep in that tight sheath, Michael lost himself in waves of ecstasy. Stefn cried out, his hands flying open and head flinging back. His muscles clenched unbearably around Michael, shattering the last of the h'nar's control. Michael may have cried out himself, but he had not the wits to know.
Reason returned at last. Michael lay on his cethe, mouth against Stefn's ear, breath ruffling the dark, damp hair. Those long, sooty eyelashes were soaked with tears. Stefn's lips were bitten and bleeding. When Michael drew away, he whimpered.
A deep sense of tranquility weighed Michael's limbs. He moved only enough to untie Stefn's wrists and pull him close. Stefn made no effort to get away but lay loose and heavy in his arms, hair tickling his nose. Somewhere deep in Michael's haze of contentment, he wondered at it, but not for long. Minutes later, he fell into the deepest, soundest sleep he'd had for a long time.
Most of Tanyrin's towns and villages are to be found west of the Midder Mountains, a lesser range branching off from the great Lothwall mountains and extending south to the Verdant Sea. Much of the east is arid, hilly land, suitable only for herding, but here and there between the mountains and the eastern coast are large valleys where rivers make farming possible. The largest two are included in the parish of Zelenov, to the south, and a scattering of smaller, pocket valleys can be found further north, under the jurisdiction of the parish of Sontal.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1347
It took four days to reach Withwillow from Blackmarsh. Michael and Stefn arrived at the seaside city late in the afternoon. Thanks to Prince Severyn's largesse, they were to stay at the Bayview Hotel, one of the best in the city.
"Believe me," Michael told Stefn as they pulled up to the impressive front door, "otherwise we'd be staying in a rooming house down by the shore."
Their rooms overlooked the north side, giving a wonderful view of low hills descending to white sands and a gentle, turquoise sea. Stefn leaned out the window of his room, looking down over the terraced streets, eyes drawn to the graceful towers and magnificent domes scattered throughout it. Most were built of the white marble quarried in the surrounding hills, but the older ones were of moonstone, whiter than marble and twice as expensive. Those were narani-built, for only the nara had known where the precious material was quarried or had the skill to work it. From this room, Stefn could not see the Cathedral, which was a shame; built entirely of moonstone, it was said to glow at night like a fallen star.
This far south, the damp chill of Blackmarsh and Shia was a distant memory. Sunlight warmed his skin and the breeze sweeping up from the ocean was deliciously balmy. Closing his eyes, Stefn let it fan his face and lift his hair.
A knock announced Lord Michael, looking rested and in good spirits. "I'm going for supper. Care to join me?" Noticing Stefn at the window, he came in. "What are you looking at?"
"I was hoping to see the Cathedral, but I think we're on the wrong side of the hotel."
"You can see it from the hotel dining room. Coming?"
Stefn collected his coat eagerly and ran out after the h'nar. He fell into step beside the taller man, gawking at their luxurious surroundings as they made their way toward the grand central staircase. Lord Arranz made no effort to hide his silver hair here and every eye was on them as they strolled across the lobby with its painted ceiling and marble floor. Few of the other guests seemed disapproving, however.
Stefn's father had occasionally spoken of Withwillow, but never with approval. "Their bishop allows the h'nara in that city far too much liberty. They're not even required to register with the Cathedral. Someday the demons will rise up and murder the people in their beds. That'll teach 'em."
Stefn had a sudden image of Miss Annie creeping through the streets at night, clutching a blood-covered dagger. Arranz gave him a startled glance. "What's so funny?"
"J-just imagining your death," Stefn managed, struggling to keep a straight face.
Lord Michael's expression was too much. Stefn had to turn his head away. Luckily, the waiter arrived to lead them to their table.
Since that last night at Blackmarsh, there had been no recurrence of Stefn's humiliating "condition," nor had Arranz referred to it again. Stefn could not help but notice, however, that the weariness clinging to Lord Michael since the marshes had disappeared immediately after that encounter.
Tall windows lined one wall of the dining room. The waiter brought them to a table giving them a view of the terrace and, beyond that, Willow Bay. Stefn saw what he thought must be the Cathedral, a large area of white and green at the southern end of the city.
Across the bay, the sun was half-sunk behind the peninsula, sending its long, glancing beams off the surface of the water and brightening the sails of the ships in the harbor. He could just make out the Tower of Loth on its distant promontory, silhouetted against the sunset.
"Would you like to visit some of the famous sights while we're here?"
"If we have the time," replied Stefn. He was intensely curious about the nature of Arranz's meeting with the Bishop of Withwillow, but his questions had been rebuffed. "When do you meet with Bishop Storm?"
"Whenever it pleases him." There was an edge in Lord Michael's voice. "There are any number of tours offered. The concierge keeps a supply of up-to-date guidebooks, I believe. Is there anything in particular you're wild to see?"
"The libraries, if you don't mind."
"I should have known." Lord Michael grinned, shaking his head. "I suppose you will want to visit Bookshop Lane?"
"Bookshop Lane?"
"Aye. A street in the market district devoted to bookshops. You'd probably enjoy it. Of course, perhaps you'd rather stay here and imagine my death?"
"It is one of my favorite hobbies," agreed Stefn, trying to match Lord Michael's bland tones. "But since we are in Withwillow, I suppose I could put it aside for the time being."
"I'm greatly relieved." Michael might have continued, but another waiter arrived, recalling them to their surroundings and the necessity of perusing their menus.
It was an enjoyable dinner, much more so than Stefn expected. Their conversation moved easily from light banter to serious discussion of intellectual matters and back; so easily, in fact, that it wasn't until Arranz suggested they step out onto the terrace to view the Cathedral that Stefn remembered they were enemies.
By now, the sun had completely set. The lights of Withwillow twinkled below them, tiny stars fallen around the bay. Here and there in their midst glowed a different kind of light, small moons in the earth-bound starscape. To the south, where Stefn had earlier marked the Cathedral, the entire area glowed.
That was the beauty of moonstone. By day, the stone absorbed the sunlight and by night gave it back. A moonstone building was warm in the winter and cool in the summer, but it was the soft radiance for which it was most prized. Legends were full of tales of lost narani cities that blazed in eternal splendor far to the north, no one left to see and marvel.
"I wonder if we'll ever know where moonstone comes from," Stefn mused aloud.
Michael leaned on the balustrade, looking out over the panorama. A hotel footman passed them, moving along the terrace, lighting lamps. A few others, mostly couples, were enjoying the view, as well.
"Legend says it was quarried on the moon," Michael said. "I would guess someplace north of the Lothwall mountains."
"Why do you suppose no one has ever gone to see?"
"They fear encountering the nara."
"But all the nara are dead. Everyone knows that. They left their cities, coming south to aid their fellow nara, and were slain as well. If not, why has no one seen hide nor hair of them in the centuries since the war? Shia guards the northern border and nowhere in my family's history does it speak of seeing nara in the days since."
"Perhaps they are reluctant to attract the notice of such savages again," retorted Michael. "If the Church truly believed all the nara perished, one would suspect they would be stampeding north for the treasure supposedly left behind."
"Shhh!" Stefn looked nervously toward a couple nearby, but they seemed too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to anything else around them.
Michael's smile was bitter. "The Church can inconvenience me, 'tis true, but they have little authority to do much else. It's not for lack of such ambition, however. If not for the Covenant, I've no doubt every h'nar in Tanyrin would be forced into Penitence, our family included."
"My father used to curse the Covenant," Stefn said. "He claimed St. Aramis was bewitched into writing it."
"What do you think?"
Stefn looked up at his companion, but Arranz gazed off toward the Tower of Loth, a shining spire above the mouth of the bay.
"None of the accepted historical texts mention such a thing. St. Aramis was too powerful a knightmage to be influenced by black magic."
"In our family," said Arranz, "We have our own stories of St. Aramis and the Duke of Arranz."
"What are they?" asked Stefn, immediately curious.
"Sorry, my lord." Lord Michael's smile was suddenly filled with mischief. "I don't think you're ready to hear them."
For reasons completely beyond his understanding, Michael was up, dressed and knocking on Stefn's door early the next morning. He found Stefn already awake and it took very little persuasion to convince him to get dressed and come downstairs for breakfast.
Three coppers bought them a small guidebook from the hotel clerk, which Stefn poured over as they made leisurely progress through their eggs and toast. A hired carriage was summoned afterwards and they embarked on a tour of Withwillow's outstanding attractions.
Michael had been to Withwillow several times, although not for several years. What he'd privately anticipated as a morning of tedium proved to be nothing of the sort. Stefn's enthusiasm and interest was infectious. To his surprise, Michael found himself looking at the beautiful old city with new eyes and the morning flew by.
They finally ended up in the hills high above the city, at a spot known as Elioth's Overlook. It was so named for Withwillow's legendary founder, a long-ago hunter who had stumbled upon this idyllic bay by the grace of Loth.
Stefn hung over the rail beside Michael, unfazed by the sheer drop onto the rooftops below, soaking in the panorama. His unselfconscious fascination was a delight. To see an unguarded smile on his face stirred something unfamiliar in Michael.
"I wonder what this looked like when Elioth found it?" Stefn exclaimed, turning to Michael with shining eyes. "If you squint and imagine all the buildings gone, you can almost see how it was."
Obediently, Michael turned and pretended to do so, but only for a moment. It was too hard to look away from his cethe. Green eyes alight, color touching those fine, pale features, Stefn was almost animated. Now he pointed out onto the bay. "Can we go to the Isle of Dreams, too? Allen came to Withwillow several times; he said there's a ferry that goes out there and back."
"If we have time." Pushing away from the rail, Michael said, "If you've looked your fill, we should be going."
Stefn nodded. He consulted their guidebook. "Can we go to the sea museum?"
Michael laughed. "Try as you might, my friend, it is impossible to see all Withwillow has to offer in just one day. Besides, I'm expecting a message. Let's return to the hotel."
It was a beautiful day, the sun shining and the breeze balmy. As their hired carriage made its way slowly back through the crowded streets, Michael pointed out other places of interest, answering Stefn's eager questions, if he could. Stefn proved to have an astonishing breadth of knowledge about the architecture and history of the city, in spite of having never set foot in it before.
"Tutor?" he replied when Michael asked. "No. After our governess left to go to Lothmont with Stefanie, Brother William took over Allen's instruction. He was the heir, after all. There was a book in the library about the bridge."
"I never met Brother William," said Michael, "but I did meet your brother. Be assured, my lord, the time you spent in your family's library gave you the better education."
Stefn pretended indifference, but color stained his cheeks and he quickly looked away.
At the Bayview, a small envelope bearing the Thornwald crest awaited Michael. In spare handwriting, the baron invited Michael and his guest to join him for a personal tour of the Cathedral and named a time a few hours hence. It was the sort of missive any parish lord might send to visiting nobility, a social courtesy and of no outward significance.
Michael considered leaving Stefn behind under Marin's watchful eye, but was oddly reluctant to do so. When he mentioned their plans, Stefn was thrilled. "I wonder if we'll be able to see the Armor of Loth? And they say there is copy of Loth's original Covenant kept there, as well!"
The Cathedral occupied most of Withwillow's Old Town, a portion of the city's southern district. An ancient wall surrounded it, evidence of Withwillow's original boundaries. Age and pilfering had reduced the wall to the height of a man's waist. Now it served as a garden, its massive base hollowed out and filled to overflowing with flowers, shrubs and small trees. The gate had been transformed into a giant trellis for masses of brilliant, climbing roses.
Within the Green Wall, the streets widened. Everywhere were buildings of moonstone. In the harsh sunlight of early afternoon, the walls glowed softly, like mist on the marsh, sparkling and somehow insubstantial.
Thornwald's invitation got them past the Cathedral guards and through a small gate leading around the Sanctuary to another smaller, but no less opulent structure behind it.
"The Domicile!" exclaimed Stefn. Michael, too, was surprised. He had not expected to be shown to the bishop's residence.
A priest opened the door as they mounted the broad, marble steps. "His Excellency is expecting you, my lords. If you will follow me?"
Thornwald waited in a well-appointed vestibule. He came to them at once, extending a lean hand. "Lord Arranz, Lord Eldering, welcome to Withwillow!" His grip was brief, but firm. "I have to admit I was surprised when I heard you were the prince's agent."
"I hope it causes no inconvenience?"
"Not at all. His Excellency is eager to meet both of you." Thornwald turned to Stefn. "Is this your first visit to Withwillow, my lord?"
"Yes." The earl smiled shyly. "I can't wait to see everything. Will it be possible to view Loth's Armor or the Avalon Wall?"
Thornwald cast a startled glance at Michael, who said, "Lord Eldering is an enthusiastic student of history. We spent the morning going from one monument to another."
"I see." The baron smiled. "If that's the case, my lord, you have your work cut out for you. If we have nothing else in Withwillow, we have historical monuments. Six hundred and thirty-seven, if I remember my schooling correctly."
Thornwald gestured to the hovering priest, who bowed and withdrew. When the man had gone, Thornwald's genial smile faded, becoming grave. "We must be careful. The Council's spies are everywhere."
They left the vestibule behind. Michael noticed at once how empty the vaulted corridors were, even of servants. They hurried up a back stair, stopping at an ill-lit landing on the fourth floor. Thornwald knocked, a rapid, rhythmic series of taps. The door opened at once. A young man in an acolyte's white robes let them in, glancing anxiously down the stairway after them as he closed it.
"His Excellency is in the conservatory, my lords. Please follow me."
"Is the bishop a traitor, too?" Stefn asked, low-voiced.
"I prefer the term 'patriot'."
A great hall lined with the portraits of past bishops echoed with their footsteps. Another short set of stairs led to the roof of the Domicile where an enormous, vaulted chamber of glass was built. It was filled with plants of every description, even small trees. The air was warm and humid, filled with the soft music of falling water and even the twittering of birds.
At the center of the miniature jungle was a small tiled patio boasting a fountain and several benches. A single, brown-robed priest rose from one of them. Only the heavy gold medallion hanging around his neck gave away his rank.
"My lords, welcome to my home," said the priest. "I'm Gabriel Storm." He waved them toward the benches. "Please sit down. I apologize for the discourteous way in which you were received, but we must be very discreet."
"Indeed," Michael drawled, watching as Stefn, awestricken, dropped to one knee before the bishop and kissed the narrow hand extended to him. "It will hardly increase your popularity with Zelenov to be seen meeting with a h'nar."
"Lord Arranz!" Thornwald exclaimed, stepping forward, fists clenched. "You are speaking to a Bishop!"
"His Lordship has ample cause for bitterness," replied Storm quietly. "The Church has lied about many things, but the most egregious of their lies have been at the expense of his people."
"Your Excellency sounds dangerously heretical." Michael's eyes narrowed on the lean, intelligent face before him. "May I ask what has brought on this epiphany?"
"Mind your tongue, Arranz!" Red-faced, Thornwald stepped forward, fists clenched. "I will not stand by while you... "
"Jason!"
"But Gabriel! He has no right to... "
"He has every right!"
Thornwald drew a long, angry breath and, with obvious effort, unclenched his hands.
Michael ignored the baron. He was far more interested in the bishop's unorthodox pronouncements. "It's interesting to hear my people being championed by a man of the cloth. My grandfather even speaks well of you, Your Excellency, which is noteworthy in itself. Given the teachings of the Church, however, of which you're a high-ranking member, you'll forgive me if I find it difficult to understand."
"I see you're reluctant to take me at my word. Well, I can hardly fault you for that, given our history. Jason, would you fetch the book, please?"
The baron left the garden with an angry look at Michael.
"As to why I am at odds with my own calling, there can be only one answer. It's Loth's will." He met Michael's politely disbelieving look with serene confidence. "It is Loth who has always guided my heart, who has shown me the way through all obstacles. And when I falter, He sets me back upon the path most gently."
Thornwald returned, carrying a flat, rectangular box covered with ornately worked gold and jewels. He handed it to the bishop who took it with great care. Using a key around his neck, Storm unlocked it and lifted the lid. Inside was something carefully wrapped in an embroidered cloth. Reverently, he unwrapped it.
The object proved to be a large notebook, badly burned, but the bold, handwritten script on the cover was still easily discernable. Standing beside Michael, Stefn drew an audible breath.
"This," said Storm, "is the original manuscript for the first Chronicle. I don't know how it came to be saved from the fire, but nonetheless, here it is. I can only believe Loth himself saved it, that in his infinite wisdom, he foresaw the corruption of those sworn to be his servants." Carefully, Storm lifted the cover. "Look," he invited. "See for yourself."
The pages inside were old and brown, the edges charred from the fire that had nearly consumed it so long ago. It was still possible, however, to see the handwritten text, along with strike-outs and notes crowded into the margins.
"Please handle it gently," said Storm, handing it over to Michael.
Although the script was cramped and fine, nearly illegible in some places, enough of the text was readable. Michael recognized the first paragraphs, familiar to any Tanyrin schoolchild. It was the first and most sacred Chronicle of Tanyrin.
" ...It was a time of darkness, of murder and chaos. Men fought men for small plots of land. Misery and disease was a cloak upon the land, and despair ran through the people like a graveyard wind...."
"It's the same," Stefn said after a moment. He had moved up next to Michael and was eagerly examining the notebook. "Exactly the same as any copy I've ever read. We have several editions in the library."
The bishop merely smiled and turned a few more pages to the list of Laws. Michael's eyes widened. Stefn made a small sound of shock and disbelief.
" ...and in his wisdom, Loth did give Lord Rami five Laws by which to govern... "
"Lord Rami?" exclaimed Stefn. "Who's he? It was St. Gray who received the laws, and there are seven not five!"
"So it says in most approved editions," agreed Storm. "The only problem is, they're lies."
"But they can't be! The Chronicles were written by St. Aramis himself!"
Michael said slowly. "The two Laws missing here are those conferring secular power upon the Archbishop and the Church."
"Interesting, is it not?" Storm shook his head. His smile was sad. "And there are more differences throughout, profound differences. I cannot tell you how dismayed I grew as I read the manuscript and realized what the Church, my Church, has done to the writings it swore to honor and protect."
"How did you come to have such a thing, Your Excellency?"
"As I said, Loth guided me to it. I was in the library, writing a lecture, and needed a particular reference. The book I wanted was on high shelf, but when I reached for it, it slipped back behind the others. In groping about for it, I touched a hidden latch and, suddenly, the entire section of shelf opened, revealing a secret stairway.
"The Cathedral of Withwillow is very old and built upon the ruins of a naran city. There are numerous hidden cubbyholes and passageways, the knowing of which is passed down to each new bishop. This stair, however, was not part of that knowledge. Curious, I took a lamp and ventured down. From the dust and thick cobwebs, it was clear no one had been that way for decades. At the bottom, I found a room containing a single cupboard and inside... this."
Michael turned another page, reading quickly. Most of it read exactly as the book all students were required to study, but everywhere were subtle differences which, for all they were individually insignificant, changed the accounts profoundly.
"There is only one way to restore Loth's truth and justice to Tanyrin," said the bishop. "The truth must become known to all. The forgery must be exposed for what it is and the Church must return to its roots as humble servants of Loth and the people."
"Noble words," replied Michael. "But I don't expect Locke or the other Celestials would agree."
"Of course not. They are blinded by a lust for power and wealth. Their attempts to strengthen their influence in the West is simply more evidence of that. They must be stopped."
"I agree," Michael said. "Unfortunately, our king doesn't see the urgency."
Storm sighed, tracing his finger lightly down the side of the crumbling page. "No, he does not. I see only one hope for Tanyrin." He lifted his face. Michael looked hard into those brown eyes, searching for insincerity but seeing none. "Prince Severyn must sit on the throne."
Stefn gasped. Michael looked to Thornwald who nodded somberly.
"I'm sorry, Your Excellency," he said finally. "Did I just hear you suggest treason?"
"Treason?" Storm turned away from them, walking the short distance to the conservatory's glass walls.
Out on the roof were more gardens, white-robed acolytes tending the planters with their abundance of colorful blooms. After a moment, he turned back.
"I suppose it depends upon to whom one owes one's greatest loyalty. Mine is to Loth and to his champion and prophet, St. Aramis Lothlain. When I see their words being twisted into something unrecognizable where does my duty lie?"
Michael's pulse quickened. It was a dangerous moment and he wasn't sure what he should do, what Severyn would want him to do.
"Have you any idea how many Hunter units are currently stationed in the West?"
Michael's eyes narrowed. Stefn spoke up hesitantly. "A dozen or so, is it not, Your Excellency?"
"Three hundred full units with another twenty planned by next year --- whether they have Arami's approval or not."
Michael was stunned. Three hundred? "At fifty men per unit that's... "
"A great many," agreed Storm. " You are no doubt aware of a unit of Hunters recently deployed near Blackmarsh?"
Michael's jaw tightened. He nodded.
"Did you think they were deployed there because of your family? If so, kindly recall who else has an estate in that vicinity."
Michael's mind raced. "What exactly do you offer us, Your Excellency, and more importantly, what is it you expect in return?"
"Should Severyn decide Tanyrin has suffered enough under his brother's weak governance, Withwillow will stand with him. Jason and I swear it." He looked to the baron, who nodded grimly. "In the meantime, I will be your eyes and ears on the Council. As for my reward... " Storm looked down at the charred notebook. "The truth must be known. St. Aramis' words must be freed from the chains of lies and injustice that have corrupted them. Tanyrin must be set back upon the path Loth and St. Aramis set for us."
"You don't hope for the post of Archbishop?"
"Especially not that."
Michael heard nothing but sincerity in the bishop's quiet voice, but he knew the true reason Severyn had chosen him to interview Storm. When the man looked back out into the gardens, Michael opened his naragi senses wide, his incantation little more than a breath.
What do you really think, my lord?
A faint glimmer appeared around the bishop, as clear as the sunlight streaming through the glass around him. If he lied, he did it with the guileless confidence of a child --- or a madman.
Curiosity made Michael turn that inner vision onto Stefn, who poured raptly over the notebook, paying no attention to either of them. He was enveloped in an ever-shifting borealis of blues and greens pierced by streaks of gold, like bits of sunlight dancing on the surface of a restless sea.
"I'm sure His Highness would appreciate a chance to examine the book for himself," Michael said, wrenching his eyes away. "May I take it?"
"No. I'm sorry, my lord, but it's too valuable to allow beyond the safety of this place. His Highness is welcome to come and examine it here at his leisure. I hope you understand." Gently, he removed the manuscript from Stefn's hands. The earl looked after it, clearly disappointed.
"You have given me much to think about," Michael said. "If Severyn decides, as I have, that you would be a welcome ally, we will talk again."
Storm smiled, inclining his head. "It is all I ask," he said.
Stefn's head spun from Bishop Storm's explosive revelations. Was it true? Was the manuscript really an original? He'd read both Chronicles many times, of course. They were the foundation of Tanyrin's early history, be it secular or seminarian, and because they were the life's work of St. Aramis himself, nearly as sacred as Loth's Covenant. Two volumes had been written and third rumored to be in progress when the great fire had destroyed the Royal Library. All of the original manuscripts had been lost. At least, that was the accepted story.
He cast a covert glance at Michael. The h'nar stared out the carriage window, gaze distant, his thoughts unreadable. If the Church had done what Storm claimed, then everything he knew about the h'nara could be lies. It was a disquieting notion.
At the Bayview, Stefn followed Michael up the broad steps and across the lobby to the stairs. As he prepared to go into his room, however, Arranz said, "Not yet. I want to talk to you." He opened his own door and waited impatiently for Stefn to go in, then closed and locked it after him.
Unsure of why he was here, Stefn went to the chair indicated and sat nervously on the edge. Michael paced to the window and, as he had in the carriage, stared out for a long time in silence. "What do you think?" he asked finally.
"I don't know. It looked authentic. We have some documents in Shia of great age that look very similar, but... The content is so different from the accepted books that... "
"If it could be proved?"
"If it's genuine, then of course the truth should be made known. Laws should be changed and restitutions made to those who were wronged."
"The Church would never permit this to become common knowledge. Not only do they have the will to prevent it, they have the means, if Storm is right about the number of Hunter units."
"Don't ask their permission. Print the manuscript yourself and disperse it secretly throughout Tanyrin. If one of their own is dismayed by the behavior of the Council, imagine how many others among the rank and file clergy may agree."
Michael's eyes narrowed. After a moment, he shook his head. "There are only a handful of printing presses in Tanyrin, and all of them registered with Lothmont and the Church. Besides, most ordinary folk can't read, a state the clerics have been eager to preserve. Don't forget, Eldering, you've been locked up in a provincial fortress all your life, learning only the lies of your murderous family and whatever is kept in Shia's decaying library. What do you know of the world?"
Stefn had no answer to that; it was the truth, bitter though it may be to admit. He rose from his chair, stomach churning. "Is it worth all the death and destruction you know will be unleashed when you overthrow the king? I may have only read "decaying" books in our library, but many of those were devoted to accounts of the war and its aftermath, accounts written by men who had lived it! It doesn't matter what justification you use or whether Severyn will be a good king or bad; the results of a coup will be the same!"
Turning his back on the h'nar, he strode blindly from the room. He thought he heard his name called, but ignored it, brushing past an open-mouthed Marin, down the corridor to the stairs. In the lobby he stood a moment, stomach churning, then continued across the sea of marble to high glass doors opening onto a terrace. Walking to the balustrade, he stood gripping the carved stone rail and taking deep, shaking breaths.
Someone approached from behind. Stefn turned, expecting to see Marin, come to take him back to his room. Instead, a woman smiled at him. She was richly dressed and beautiful; older than he, but not much, perhaps the same age as Lord Arranz. Her shining hair was piled high atop her head, the same rich, dark hue as the satin gown clinging to her curvaceous figure. The waterstones that flashed and sparkled against her throat and earlobes were surely worth a fortune! Stefn openly stared, only belatedly remembering his few, long-ago lessons in etiquette. He bowed.
"G-good evening."
"Good evening to you." She looked him up and down with a boldness that brought heat to his face. "I'm sorry to be so forward, but you look terribly familiar. Have we met?"
"I... I don't think so, my lady." He floundered. "My name is Stefn Eldering. Perhaps you've met my brother or father."
"Eldering?" She seemed taken aback. "The Shia Elderings?"
"Yes, my lady."
She laughed a little, lifting her jewelled fan. "Alas, my lord, I do believe you are correct. Sadly, we've never been introduced. My apologies."
"No. N-not at all." He bowed again.
Her laughter was soft and pleasing. "But listen to me, compounding my rudeness! I am Lady Wenscott... "
"Chari!"
At one of the tables at the other end of the terrace, a group of lords and ladies were being seated by attentive waiters. One of their numbers, a dashing gentleman, waved impatiently.
She waved back. "Would you care to join us? I'm sure my companions would love to meet you."
Stefn shook his head. "N-no thank you, my lady. I have plans already, alas."
"What a pity." She leaned close and he was unable to keep his eyes from falling to the low-cut bodice of her gown and all it revealed. Her voice was breathy, stirring his hair. "Perhaps another time."
She swept away, a dark sylph floating gracefully between the white linen-covered tables. Stefn gaped after her, wondering if he'd just dreamed the encounter. Confusion turned him around and sent him back into the hotel. He was immediately confronted by Marin. The servant grinned broadly. "Enjoying yourself, my lord?"
"S-she accosted me!"
"I'll wager she did. Milady looked like a knowing one." Marin's grin widened. "Lord Arranz had better pay attention if he's going to be parading you around like this."
Stefn's face grew hot. He opened and closed his mouth, speechless. Marin started to laugh. Swearing under his breath, Stefn headed for the staircase. To his further misfortune, who should he meet coming down but Lord Arranz. He watched the man's gaze move down to the laughing servant. Face positively burning, Stefn ran past him, up the wide stairway, and back to the dubious shelter of his room.
Michael heard Marin's tale with amusement. "A lady of quality? Poor Stefn. I'm sure he was hopelessly out of his depth."
"Didn't you see his face? Redder than a beet, m'lord!" Marin shook his head. "I'll wager that boy has never exchanged two words with someone like her before."
"You'll have to show me this paragon," Michael said, looking around the lobby. It was crowded with hopeful diners, coming to enjoy the Bayview's legendary cuisine.
"She's out there," Marin chuckled. He drew Michael to the long row of glass doors. "There in the corner. The lady done up in black."
Michael looked. Spotting her, he turned cold. "Are you sure?"
Marin's smile died. "Yes, my lord. Why? Do you know her?"
Michael's response was a harsh laugh. Leaving Marin staring after him, he turned and went back upstairs, taking them two at a time. Reaching Stefn's door, he tried the handle. Locked. The hell with that! A small spell unlocked it. He threw it open.
"Eldering?"
Stefn sat on the edge of his bed, his deformed foot in hand, eyes raised to Michael in alarm. Michael slammed the door behind him and locked it again. Scrambling to his feet, Stefn demanded, "What is it? What do you want?"
"Your lady friend. I want to know everything that passed between you!" He strode across the room. Stefn stumbled backwards, coming up against the wall.
"N-nothing!"
Seizing the slim shoulders, Michael spun him away from the wall and threw him to the floor. "Tell me!"
Stefn rolled out of the way, looked up at Michael as if he'd gone mad. "NOTHING! She mistook me for someone she knew, that's all! She was mistaken! She introduced herself and invited me to dinner, but I said no! It's what you would have wanted, right? Right?"
Pure panic shook Stefn's voice. Michael took a deep breath and he stepped back from the brink. "She introduced herself?"
"L-Lady Westcott. Her friends called her C-Chari."
Michael sat heavily onto the edge of the bed. After a moment, wary, Stefn got up. Even so, he stayed out of Michael's reach.
"Why? Jealous?" he added with the inevitable, and rather endearing, spark of defiance.
"Westcott, eh?" It was too funny and Michael fell back on the mattress, laughing aloud. "Jealous? Oh, my God!"
"Y-you know her?"
Michael sat up, hearing the curiosity in Stefn's voice. "Indeed, I do. Every man with a title and money knows her eventually."
"Is she... " Stefn hesitated, " ...a woman of loose morals?"
That set Michael off again. "I suppose you could say so," he gasped finally. "Westcott was her maiden name. She must have had you in her sights not to reveal who she truly was. Poor boy. You've had a narrow escape."
"She's married?" Shocked, Stefn looked back at him. "She didn't act like it." His eyes grew round. "Do you think her husband was there?"
"No. I'd know if he were here. The entire town would be buzzing with it."
"Who is he?"
"His Eminence, Mazril Locke, the Archbishop of Tanyrin." Michael watched it sink in. "Her name is Charity Westcott-Locke and her escapades are legendary."
Bereft of speech, Stefn only shook his head. "I didn't know... "
"No, I suppose not." Michael smiled, but the amusement was gone. "That's why I will know everything she said to you. And, more importantly, everything you said to her."
"I told you everything, I swear. In fact, she... she seemed surprised when I told her who I was."
"Did she now?"
Stefn nodded and Michael relaxed slightly. It was very likely true, now that he thought about it calmly. The woman's appetites were notorious and Stefn Eldering was a stunning creature. Still, it was disquieting. Her presence in Withwillow could be entirely coincidental; then again, it might not. He rose. "I think I shall order room service for us tonight. They say her ladyship and His Eminence have an "understanding," but I'd prefer not to risk so much on gossip."
He glanced down, gaze brushing over Stefn's bare feet. At once, Stefn tucked his left foot behind his right. "Don't bother," said Michael. "I don't care about it."
"And when the cursed toe gets too long?"
"We'll have to get you a bigger shoe."
"Y-you're not going to have it cut it off?"
Michael was momentarily bereft of speech. "Of course not."
The relief on Stefn's face made his own gut tighten in sudden fury. "I'm not that much of a brute," he retorted, striding to the door. "I'll send Marin in. Tell him what you want for dinner and he'll have it brought to you. And don't leave the room."
"Wait! Please!"
Michael stopped.
"When Lady Locke is gone, could I go out on the terrace again? It can be later and you can send Marin with me."
"What for?"
"I want to see the Cathedral again."
"I'll think about it," replied Michael.
An hour later, Marin came to Michael's room. "The wench and her friends are gone," he said. "None of them are staying here. According to kitchen gossip, milady is traveling with her current paramour. They dine here frequently."
"What else?"
Marin shrugged. "She's been in Withwillow for a week, attending every social affair and conducting her own openly. I had never figured His Eminence as a willing cuckold."
"It would be hard to say who is more adulterous, the lovely lady or her ambitious husband," retorted Michael. "The last I heard, His Excellency was enjoying the company of a certain courtesan whose other clients include our noble king."
Marin shook his head at such folly. "Nobility!" he humphed, adding, "Present company excepted, of course, m'lord."
"Of course. And speaking of that. I think I'll take a little walk." Smiling serenely into Marin's smirk, he left his room, crossing the corridor to knock on Stefn's door. Hearing the invitation to enter, he opened it. Stefn frowned, seeing it was him. Ignoring the flare of anxiety in those bright eyes, Michael said cheerfully, "Shall we go downstairs for a night-cap?"
The lateness of the hour and chill of the night air had driven most of the hotel's guests inside, but Stefn seemed not to notice. While Michael had a seat and ordered two cups of mulled wine, he went straight to the balustrade and looked down over the city. Michael leaned back in his chair and followed his gaze.
"That's the Tower of Loth, isn't it?" Stefn pointed to the slim, shining spire reared across the bay. "Could we go see it tomorrow?"
"We're leaving in the morning."
"Already?" Stefn left the edge of the terrace and sat down with Michael.
"I'm afraid so." Michael broke off. The waiter returned with their wine. When the man had gone, he said, "We have to return to Shia."
"We could go see it first thing. Surely it wouldn't delay us that much?"
"Another time."
Stefn scowled into his cup, then downed the warm, spiced wine in a single gulp. "Being subject to your damned plots, I doubt if there will be another time."
"Such a lack of confidence. I'm naturally devastated." Michael beckoned to the waiter hovering just inside the hotel. The man disappeared. "It may come as a shock to you, my lord, but we are in no hurry to start the fighting. With luck, we can accomplish most of what we need to without all hell breaking loose. Indeed, it's in our interest to do so."
"Ha!"
The waiter returned with more wine. Stefn made short work of this, as well.
"Perhaps you would like a jug of the stuff?"
"You don't want me to get drunk?" Stefn leaned across the table. "Wouldn't that make it easier for you to have your way with me?"
"As I remember it," Michael said, laughing, "having my way with you wasn't all the difficult."
"You can go to hell!" Even in the uncertain light of their table lamp, Stefn's blush was visible and charming.
"You would have been an easy mark for the Archbishop's wife. I see I shall have to keep a much closer eye on you."
"She would have shunned me as soon as she was reminded of what I am." Mournfully, Stefn tried for the last drops in his cup.
"A handsome, well-born youth as naive as a schoolboy? I'd say you were her preferred prey."
Stefn laughed hollowly. "And a sin-catcher."
"Oh, for Loth's sake! Besides, now that you have decent shoes, you don't even limp. Who's to know?"
Another silence fell between them as the waiter arrived with more wine. "Shall I bring a pot of it, my lord?"
"No," said Michael while, "Yes," Stefn said at the same time.
The waiter trotted off, returning with a tall, porcelain mull-pot. Michael watched Stefn toss off his third cup and warned, "In all sincerity, Eldering, this is potent stuff. You're not used to it and I don't wish to spend the entire trip to Shia with you retching and moaning."
"I've had mulled wine many times," retorted Stefn. He poured himself another cup with a shaky hand.
Michael abandoned the effort. If anyone deserved to go on a good drunk, it was his cethe. Besides, if worse came to worst, the brat could sit up with the coachman and entertain that poor fellow with his moans and regret. He watched the fourth cup go the way of the others. A fifth cup was poured, but this time, Stefn made no attempt to drink, only stared into it blearily. "You really don't think my foot is hideous?"
Startled, Michael shook his head. "Really."
"I hate it." Stefn scowled. "I might as well be a taint!"
It was the wine talking. Michael squashed the automatic flare of irritation.
"Allen told Father once that they should just throw me in with the latest pack of taints they'd rounded up and see if the Church would take me." Stefn picked up the cup. Wine sloshed over the rim. "My father laughed and tol' him it was a brilliant idea. Everyone in the room thought it real damned funny, too."
Michael's amusement shriveled. Luminous in the candlelight, Stefn's eyes were filled with tears. He blinked them back. "Then A-Allen threw ashes on my head... it turned my hair white. Jus' like yours. Ev'ryone... thought that was funny, too."
"You should have broken his jaw," said Michael.
"Did." Stefn lifted his right fist and regarded it with something like amazement. "Just let 'im have it. Sonofabitch."
"Good for you."
"Think so?" Stefn picked up his cup and gulped the rest of the wine. When he put it down he missed the edge of the table. It bounced and rolled away on the marble tile. "Father beat me. Stripped off all m'clothes right there in the Hall and beat the hell out of me. Then 'vited his guests to have a go..." A lone tear slipped down his flushed cheek. "Br'ther William stopped 'em finally. Said it was a sin to kill a sin-catcher."
Michael poured himself some wine to cover his own reaction. "Loth," he muttered and downed it faster than Stefn had.
There was a hiccup. "God, I hate them. I'm glad they're dead!" Angrily, Stefn dashed the tears away with the back of his hand. And with that, he fell forward onto the table, knocking the pot off the table to smash on the floor. Michael stared at him in complete astonishment.
The waiter appeared by magic, regarding the broken crockery with dismay. Marin was right behind him. A gentle snore arose from Lord Eldering.
"I think his lordship is finished for the night," said Michael finally. "Put it on my bill."
"Y-yes, m'lord." Owl-eyed, the waiter stepped back hurriedly as Michael lifted the unconscious earl and, beckoning to Marin, carried him up to his room.
From whence came the nara? The question has long been a source of scholarly debate. Most historians place their homeland north of the Lothwalls, in a land of unforgiving cold. Although men journeyed north in the days before the war, seeking naran riches, those few who returned reported finding only great rivers of ice, endless fields of snow and relentless, frigid winds.
from: The Naran Invasion,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1513
Even in the few weeks he'd been gone, Stefn could see changes were well underway in Shia. As the coach rolled up the road toward the castle, many of the cottages they passed showed signs of recent repair. Others were in preparation for it, with neat piles of roof slates or bricks in their small yards.
The castle itself displayed little outward evidence of change save for a large scaffolding standing against one side where a crack in the outer wall had been slowly widening for years. In the house, everywhere was awash in plaster dust, heaps of construction material, and the smell of fresh paint.
Stefn stood in the foyer, looking around in amazement while more servants arrived to take their coats. None of them were familiar. A youngish man in a butler's formal attire, a stranger, bowed and welcomed them. "Lord Challory is in the East Parlor. He'll be delighted to hear you've arrived, my lord."
"Hullo, Hanson. It's good to see you, too." Arranz handed his gloves to the big-eyed maid holding the rest of his outerwear. "See Lord Eldering to his room, please. East Parlor, you say?"
With Marin trotting along behind him, Stefn was escorted from the vestibule and into the Great Hall. His eyes widened. The old, rusting chandelier had been taken down, but not yet replaced. Instead, two rows of tall candlesticks marched down the length of the great room, illuminating it with dancing yellow light.
Underfoot, the flagged stones shone like glass. Fine rugs were scattered in islands of jewel color across it. The wood paneling had been polished to a silken sheen. Some of the old shields and family heralds were still present, but most were gone. Windows sparkled and their dusty wooden shutters had been removed.
His wonder grew as he continued into the south wing. Signs of construction were everywhere here, too, but what he noticed most was the abundance of lamps and candles. The gloomy old castle was lit up like daylight.
"Here ye are," Marin said cheerfully, hurrying past him to open the door to Allen's suite. Stefn walked in and stopped, staring around in surprise.
"Please stay here, my lord. As you can see, things are topsy-turvy and we wouldn't want you to get hurt."
Stefn paid him no attention, stunned by the room's transformation. The yellowed, damp-spotted plaster was now a fresh, pale blue. Heavy satin curtains draped the windows. Here, too, the shutters were gone. Allen's furniture remained, but the dark, shabby bed clothes had been exchanged for richly hued, luxurious fabrics. New lamps and rugs added to the cheerful feel. Stunned, he went to the fireplace, generations of soot now scrubbed away to reveal the marble beneath. It was a room fit for an earl. Settling onto the edge of an overstuffed velvet armchair, Stefn tried to take it all in.
Marin quickly unpacked Stefn's few bags and left, promising to bring him some supper. Stefn heard the key turn in the lock. It wasn't unexpected, but the reminder of his true status dimmed his excitement. Why did they bother? He couldn't escape. Not from a naragi. The Demon Duke of Blackmarsh had proved it back in the delta.
Stefn remembered his abduction clearly, could conjure the nightmare of blood and fire easily in his mind. Yet the memory of the torment seemed oddly sterile, like something he'd read rather than experienced. There weren't even any scars left behind. The most vivid memory he had of that terrible time was looking up to see Michael, wild-eyed and full of rage, coming for him.
What am I thinking? He's as bad as they are? A rapist and a traitor!
And yet...
Michael had taken him to the Tower of Loth the morning they departed Withwillow. He'd climbed the cramped, inner stairway with Stefn, all the way to the top where the wind blew their hair around them and one could see forever. He'd waited patiently while Stefn stood, spellbound, unable to tear himself away from the limitless horizon.
Marin returned, a maid in tow. The woman carried towels and a pitcher of warm water through the sitting room and into the bedroom beyond. Marin set down a well-laden dinner tray on the table beside Stefn.
"Must I stay in here?" Stefn asked, low-voiced. "Can't I look around and see what they've done?"
The maid reappeared, empty-handed, flashing him a smile and bobbing a quick curtsey before hurrying out. He stared after her, startled at the courtesy.
"His lordship wants you to stay put," Marin replied, but not without sympathy. "Perhaps tomorrow he'll let me take you around to have a look-see. In the meantime, why not rest from the journey. Shall I bring you a book or periodical? I hear there are dozens of new books in the library, including ladies' novels for Miss Stefanie."
Stefn's heart plunged. "I-is... Does His Highness still mean to wed my sister?"
"From the talk belowstairs, they're officially betrothed. 'Tis why the prince is in such a hurry to have the castle repaired and updated. When he brings his new bride back to her home, he wants everything to be perfect."
Marin hurried away, leaving Stefn to stare bleakly into the fire. Severyn meant to take Stefanie and Shia, and he could do nothing. His only purpose was to fuel Lord Arranz's unholy power.
He couldn't stay here, not with such thoughts as his only company. The windows were unlocked. He scrambled out, catching hold of the drainspout and slid down into the wet shrubbery below. Pushing his way out of the entangling bushes, he ran around the house to the kitchen door.
The walls of the long, narrow foyer were stacked high with sacks of flour and sugar, boxes of fruits, produce, and other goodies. It was also very clean. Through the open doorway at the other end, Stefn saw the kitchen bustling with strangers, brightly lit and filling the foyer with mouth-watering smells.
He didn't stay to be discovered, but opened the door to the back stairs and went up. If Michael and Lord Challory were at dinner, it was only to his advantage. With the workers gone home and the invaders in one place and occupied, he could have an uncensored look at what they were doing to his home.
Stefn let himself out onto the next floor. Everywhere was a dusty mess, walls partially re-plastered, stacks of new floorboards in piles along the corridor. Through open doors, rooms once filled with outdated, moldering furniture stood empty. It gave him a strange feeling, as if he watched the Elderings being steadily, purposefully erased.
He went straight to the entrance to the north wing. No one stood guard at the door. Beyond, it was pitch black. His single candle revealed more construction as he made his way up to the top floor. There, he held the small flame aloft, walking carefully through the tools and materials to the library where he stopped, jaw sagging.
The room had been completely dismantled. The books were gone, the old shelves removed. Much of the dark wood paneling had been stripped from the walls. On the eastern wall, four enormous, arched windows had been exposed. Stained glass had once filled them; some of it still remained. Heavy oiled cloth covered the open holes, keeping the worst of the rain and cold at bay.
In a section of the newly-exposed wall, a large, iron door had been crudely set. The door had no obvious handle and did not yield at his attempts to push it open. Curious, he examined the wall around it. His heart jumped. In disbelief, he brought his candle close. The milky stone seemed to drink in its light and somehow make it brighter. He touched a trembling finger to the cool, glassy surface. There was no mistake. The room was built of cloud-stone!
Michael found Auron waiting for him in the late earl's study. Like everything else in Shia, this room, too, bore no resemblance to gloomy original chamber where, as Brother Michael, he'd first met Lord Eldering. Colorful cushions enlivened the dark upholstered couches and chairs; the bright new pictures had nary a hunting scene among them. Draperies of ivory silk replaced the dusty brown velvet of which the earl had seemed so fond.
Auron heard the news about Bishop Storm with sharp interest. "The Council's been changing the Chronicles to suit themselves, have they? I can't say I'm surprised. Not that I'd know a true one from a false one," he added with a rueful grin. "Never having had yours or Severyn's interest in scholarly matters."
"More important is having a bishop on our side," Michael said. "If the Church decides to contest Sev's right to assume the throne, at least one of them will speak for him."
The work on the new barracks was almost complete. By winter, it would be finished and, by spring, if all went well, they would be ready to move in the troops who would serve as the deposed king's guardians.
At the end of dinner, in the middle of the dessert course, Marin appeared. Michael guessed what he had to stay.
"Eldering's bolted again?" Auron asked, eyebrows soaring. "Might I suggest a ball and chain?"
But Michael, oddly, felt no alarm at the news. He shrugged, rising and excusing himself. Looking inside himself for Stefn's life spark was second-nature now. Following that gentle pull, he headed straight for the north wing and up the stairs to the library.
As he approached, he slowed, seeing candlelight shining under the door. He strode swiftly forward and opened it. "Am I going to have to put bars on your windows?"
Stefn whirled around, the sudden movement extinguishing his own small light. The dark enveloped them. Michael murmured a charm and a witchlight appeared, bobbing overhead in the drafts of the vaulted chamber.
"What is it? Are you all right?
Stefn seemed not to hear him. "It's moonstone," he said in a thin voice, gesturing toward the exposed stone walls. "Is the whole wing built of it?"
Michael, startled, went to investigate. It was true! Wonderingly, he stroked the cool, satiny stone. Then he turned to face Stefn. "Do you still deny Shia was naran?"
"No." There was defeat in the soft voice. "It was just another lie." Jaw tight, he turned and started toward the door. "I'm going back to my room. Don't worry. I won't leave it again."
"Wait!"
Stefn stopped, but didn't look around.
"Do you see that metal door? Do you know what lays behind it?"
He had Stefn's attention now. "I'll show you."
The woebegone look vanished. "That was my father's!" he exclaimed at the sight of the medallion-key.
Michael slid it into the slot and the door sagged inward with a rusty screech.
"I never knew this was here!" said Stefn, stunned. He followed Michael into the antechamber, looking around in amazement. The crates were gone, the room swept clean, but the objects in the cupboard remained.
"I'm not certain your father knew either," said Michael, remembering the thick layer of dust he'd disturbed when he'd discovered the place. "Nothing in here had been touched for decades."
Stefn walked to the cupboard and looked into it. He pulled out a small figurine of St. Aramis, the warrior-mage standing proudly, sword held aloft. He set it back. "What's this?" he asked, pulling out the cloth-wrapped book.
The hair on the back of Michael's neck suddenly lifted. Stefn looked down at the Chronicle, then up at Michael. The expression on his face told Michael he'd had the same thought.
"Shall we have a look?" asked Michael
Eyes wide, Stefn hurried to the table.
"Volume Two?" Stefn read the cover. He opened it and his eyes got wider. "It's not printed! Look! Hand-lettered! It's at least a first edition!" He quickly turned pages. "Let's try the fourth chapter. If I remember, it was written especially badly. Several sections didn't make sense at all."
The youth pulled the chair out from the table and sat down. Michael leaned back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. His heart was beating faster. He didn't know if it was in anticipation of finding another original book or the sight of Stefn, dark head bent, slim body held in graceful, eager anticipation. The urge to touch the young man's soft, silky hair was nearly irresistible.
"Aha! It's here! An entire section that isn't in the standard volume!" Stefn straightened, turning to look up at Michael, stabbing at the page with his finger. "This must be an original, too! It must be!"
"Are you sure?"
"It would be easy enough to confirm. Our library possesses several copies of more recent editions. Although where they are now..."
"Bring it," said Michael, nodding to the book. "I'll find the copies for you."
"I can take this?" Stefn seemed surprised.
"Of course. You're not going anywhere."
Some of the light vanished from Stefn's eyes.
"True," he agreed with a faint, bleak smile. Wrapping the book in its cover, he stood and, with it held tightly against him, preceded Michael from the chamber.
Stefn saw little of Michael over the next few days. True to his word, he made no attempt to leave his room. Instead, he poured over the mysterious Chronicle, infected with growing excitement as he realized what he read was indeed much different from the book he'd read so many times before.
The Second Chronicle covered several decades after the Naran War. As he progressed through the closely printed pages, he realized most of the excised sections in the standard editions had to do with the nara and their place in Tanyrin's society of that time. To his surprise, they seemed to have been well integrated, and with St. Aramis' blessing. References were even made to several naran lords' as Aramis' wartime allies.
One evening, Michael came to his room to inquire after his progress. Lonely and bored, Stefn was actually happy to see him. They sat in his small sitting room and discussed the Chronicle.
"I suppose it could be a forgery," Michael said, feet propped comfortably on the ottoman before the small fire. "That is almost certainly what the Council will claim."
"It will be difficult for them to do so," Stefn said. "Only the first editions were hand-lettered."
Michael frowned.
"The first printing presses didn't appear until just after St. Aramis' death," Stefn said.
"I'd wager Bishop Storm would like a look at it."
"I could copy it out," said Stefn. "Then you could send him that."
"That sounds dreadfully tedious."
"What else have I to do?"
Michael regarded Stefn, head tilted. "We could go for a ride," he suggested.
"I might try to escape," retorted Stefn, but he brightened nonetheless.
"You could try," agreed Michael.
Autumn had come to Shia. The fields were turning brown and the leaves of the speden and fich trees were showing gold edges.
Stefn was delighted to be on horseback again. The saddle had always been one place where his foot hadn't mattered. As they rode out through the castle gate, Stefn drew a deep breath and, illusion or not, felt light and free.
"I'll race you to the hills!" Michael said and, before Stefn could reply, shot off to the west.
They galloped across the plain, raising billowing dust in their wake. Overhead, fleecy white clouds drifted across the sky. The conifer covered hills rose to meet them, Michael pulling slightly ahead as they passed from the open land into the woods.
"I'm out of condition," Stefn declared when Michael grinned triumphantly. "I haven't ridden for almost a year. Next time, Arranz, you won't be so lucky!"
"Big talk," teased Michael.
"There's a stream near here," said Stefn, turning his horse in that direction, "and a place where you can climb and see for miles. I used to come here before Father ordered me confined to Shia."
He led Michael uphill through the trees. They heard the stream before seeing it. It tumbled down from somewhere higher in the hills, ice-cold and clear as glass. They drank alongside their horses, washing the dust from their hands and faces.
Here and there, great boulders and outcroppings of rock thrust up through the forest floor. Stefn showed Michael a particularly large outcropping near the top of the hill. They clambered onto it, laughing and calling to each other like a couple of schoolboys. At the top, they threw themselves down, breathless, to stare up at the sky.
Michael was the first to recover and sit up. "You're right!" he exclaimed. "I can see all the way to Embry. It is Embry, isn't it?"
Stefn sat up, looking the direction Michael indicated. "Yes. There's the abbey on that hill over there and the Shia river."
"What's out there?" asked Michael, pointing to the northern curve of the hills.
"I don't know," Stefn admitted. "The Targa Road continues for about ten miles before reaching the river. The Shia's very wide and fast there, with dangerous currents. Long ago, there was a bridge, but it's in ruins now. From what I've read, it was destroyed during the war to keep naran reinforcements from coming south."
"Reinforcements that never came."
Stefn nodded. They sat in companionable silence for awhile, enjoying the view. Michael lay back finally, hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. It would be nice to stay here forever, thought Stefn, untouched by all the political intrigue and naran sorcery complicating his life. After awhile, he looked over at Michael. The h'nar appeared to be asleep, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling rhythmically. An unexpected warmth flooded through Stefn's veins. Tentatively, he touched a long strand of Michael's pale hair come loose from its tie. It was warm and smooth.
Stefn's gaze returned to Michael's face, lingering on his mouth. Unconsciously, Stefn touched his own lips, remembering the kisses that had set him aflame in spite of his fiercest intentions. What if he were to lean over, to cover Michael's mouth with his own, to....
"Stefn?"
Stefn, horrified, realized he was inches from Michael's face. Those grey eyes were open, filled with bemusement. He tried to straighten, but Michael reached up and pulled him down, fulfilling Stefn's half-formed impulse.
It was a kiss unlike any he had received so far, gentle, even tender. The tip of Michael's tongue traced the outlines of Stefn's lips, then slid deep into his mouth. The warmth became a tingling and he felt himself getting hard.
Michael's knee pushed up between Stefn's legs, pressing firmly against him, tearing a groan from deep in his throat. He unbuttoned Michael's shirt and waistcoat with eager, trembling hands, revealing the smooth, muscular chest beneath. Even as Michael let out a long sigh, even as Stefn lowered his head to suck at a tiny, caramel-colored nipple, he wondered dimly at himself. What was he doing? This wasn't like him!
Stop it! You fool!
But the tiny voice of reason had no chance. Michael's nipple hardened under Stefn's tongue. Stefn yielded helplessly to the rush of pleasure as Michael's hands slid down his back to clutch his buttocks, pushing him down harder. Stefn nipped the tiny bud in his mouth and Michael cried out softly, back arching. Fingers tangling in Stefn's hair, he pulled Stefn's head back and reclaimed his mouth.
"God, but you're beautiful!" Michael whispered. "I can't get enough of you!"
His hands worked at Stefn's waist, unbuttoning his breeches, pulling them down. Stefn gasped, freed of the constriction. He rubbed his cock along Michael's hard thigh, gut tightening unbearably.
Michael undid his own breeches and for a time, there was no sound but their harsh breathing. Flesh against flesh, bodies tangled, they rode the waves of pleasure until Stefn could stand it no longer, crying out, his cock jerking with the force of spending himself, his thoughts shattering like glass.
The breeze on his sweaty back roused him at last from his daze. He rolled off Michael. Michael lay without moving, arms flung wide, eyes closed. Overhead, the clouds thickened and the wind was picking up.
A sudden, fierce pain, like a sword, went through Stefn's heart. He was abruptly, vividly, wretchedly, aware of the lethet.
None of it was real. The tenderness, the sweet words, it was all naragi magic. Without it, Michael Arranz would never have looked twice at the puny sin-catcher of Shia.
"Let's go back," he said, swallowing the ache in his throat. "It looks like there's a storm blowing up."
Among the most repulsive and depraved of naran practices was that of taking lovers from among one's own sex. Nowhere in naran society was this vice more celebrated then among the cursed naragi. The carnal appetites of the naran sorcerers is legendary, with many of them maintaining harems of beautiful boys, both human and naran, for their pleasure.
from: Demons Among Us,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1390
It was expected that the Crown Prince should come and go from Tantagrel with as much pomp as possible, but Severyn was not like the princes who had gone before him. His coach bore only a small imprint of his coat of arms on the door and his outriders were his friends. It was all the formality he could stand.
Tantagrel was older and much smaller than Lothmont. According to history, it was the true seat of the Lothlain family. Unquestionably, it was a human city. Not a chunk of cloud-stone was to be found anywhere among its low timber and limestone buildings. Lothlain House, the royal residence, occupied the city center, surrounded by parks and wide, tree-lined streets.
Timkins and a group of handpicked servants had gone ahead to make everything ready for their prince's arrival. He waited at the enormous front door to take Severyn's hat and gloves. The marble hall was ablaze with candles and uniformed servants stood stiffly at their posts, imitating statues.
"Report?"
While servants came to take the outer garments of the others, Timkins brought him up to date, succinctly and in a low voice. "The list of Petitioners is two hundred names long. Fifty of them are highblood. From the wide variety in their complaints, it appears your brother is no longer holding formal audiences with anyone other than those in his immediate circle."
Two hundred? At this rate, if he didn't overthrow Aramis soon, someone else would! Worse, it would be a month before he had a chance to return to Shia. "Give me some good news, will you, Tim?" he asked, sighing.
"There's peach cream for dessert, Your Highness."
The two men exchanged glances. Severyn grinned. "Good man." The servant bowed low and hurried away to attend to other matters.
Severyn said goodbye to his friends early the next morning and, steeling himself for the coming onslaught, left the house, crossing the park to the great Petitioner Hall. The Lord Hallmaster waited just inside, practically hopping up and down in his anxiety.
"Your Highness! Assembly is in an hour!" he exclaimed, flapping a sheaf of papers at Severyn. "Do you have your address prepared? If not, I have taken the liberty of preparing..."
"Cancel Assembly," said Severyn.
Nedby squeaked in horror. "C-cancel?"
"Have you seen the length of the list, man?"
"Y-yes, but... cancel the Assembly?"
"Where's the list of Petitioners?"
Lord Nedby had been Tantagrel's Hallmaster for fifty years. Reeling from the unprecedented break in protocol, the old man handed it over. As usual, he had ordered people by rank rather than the length of time their petition had been pending. Severyn handed the list back. "Damn it, Nedby. First come, first served. Re-order the list according to my wishes and I will see the first Petitioner in one-half hour."
It was a long day, made longer by the obvious discontent of his long-suffering Petitioners. Most of the cases should have been handled by Arami months ago, being matters of highblood inheritance or land disputes. Severyn would have been entirely within his rights to send them back to Lothmont, but he hadn't the heart. Nevertheless, with determined focus and a missed lunch, by evening he'd made considerable headway down the list.
At his late dinner, Timkins reported a much improved atmosphere over in the Petitioner Hall. "I swear to you, Highness, if you were to declare yourself king tomorrow, most of Tanyrin would be with you."
"Most, but not all. Lord Harding still gets his petitions heard at court, as does Anthony Raile. My brother is a fool, but not so much as to alienate his generals."
And now there was the Church to worry about, as well.
The next day went smoothly. Severyn, much encouraged, began to hope he might make his way through the damned list by the end of the week. He had started to think fondly of dinner when a commotion at the other end of the hall made him look up from the latest dossier. Instead of his next case, a disgruntled miller versus the village tax collector, a group of Hunters strode in, ignoring old Nedby's attempt to call them back. In the antechamber behind them, the miller and tax collector shouted their protests.
With a start, Severyn recognized one of them. The darkly handsome captain Remy came straight up to the dais and bowed. His two comrades, lieutenants, bowed from their positions several steps behind him.
"Is there an emergency?" Severyn asked.
"I bring a Petition, Your Highness."
"Really? How remarkable! What a pity I'm scheduled to hear the petition of Master George Potts first. I can't imagine what one of your Order could need from me."
He could, of course. Unless he was very mistaken, Severyn knew Arami had done as he'd promised.
"I bring it in the name of the Church. Surely that supersedes the squabble of some commoner?"
Severyn kept his composure with an effort. "In my court, I do things my way. Please see Lord Nedby for a Note of Order. I'll hear your petition then."
"I will be brief, Your Highness." Remy's jaw tightened. He, too, was holding on to his temper. "It is a matter of utmost importance."
"They usually are. Nedby?" Severyn straightened, carefully moving aside his open dossier.
"Would you please give Captain Remy a Note? How many more petitioners are in front of him?"
Visibly quaking, the Chamberlain approached, holding out a slip of paper as if expecting to have his hand bitten off. Face reddening, the Hunter snatched it away. His angry bow was barely more than an incline of his head. Turning on his heel, he strode from the room. His lieutenants, throwing dark looks over their shoulders, hurried after him.
Severyn sat back. With faint surprise, he realized he had the arms of his chair in a death-grip.
Damn you, Locke.
"Your Highness?" Nedby's sharp tones brought Severyn back to the present. The earnest, grateful faces of his next petitioners were arrayed before the dais. He slid the dossier back in front of him and smiled at them as they bowed. "Good afternoon. I do apologize for the long delay in this hearing. I've been out of town on other business for some time. Now, which one of you is Master Potts?"
Alas, there was only so long Severyn could put off the Celestials' delegation. The morning came when Nedby brought the list of the day's Petitions and Captain Remy's name stared up at him, promising trouble.
"Send them in," he instructed Nedby, steeling himself for the coming interview. The hallmaster bowed and hurried from the audience chamber.
Severyn scowled at the Petition. He'd read it over several times, still amazed at their audacity. The Celestial Council requested the king's permission to move an undisclosed number of troops west for protection of Church property. Severyn had spent several late nights, forming a response that would not, Loth willing, send them into apoplexy. He doubted he'd succeed.
Nedby was taking his time. Severyn looked down the length of the chamber to the doors. Where was the old man? Glancing over at the table where his clerks sat, he said, "Go find out what's taking them so long."
One of the young men jumped up and ran out. He returned a short time later, the hallmaster in tow.
"Where's the Council's delegation?"
"They're not here yet, Highness," Nedby replied, apprehensive.
"Call the next Petitioner, then."
"I'm sure they're on their way, Your Highness! It's some distance to the abbey and this time of day the streets are crowded."
"I have no time to waste," replied Severyn. "By tomorrow, I plan to be on my way back to Shia. I've no intention of putting the trip off another day."
"But Your Highness! They are representatives of the Celestial Council!"
"The Councilors are men like any other," retorted the prince. "Bring in the next Petitioner!"
Nedby retreated again, bowing, leaving Severyn to stare at the doors and wish all the Celestials to perdition.
The hallmaster returned within a few minutes, accompanying a knight Petitioning for a change in his herald. It was a minor matter, and one easily approved after a quick check of the Highblood Register showed no duplication of another's device. The knight took himself off, satisfied. No sooner had he passed out of the chamber then the doors flew open again and Captain Remy, accompanied by his companions, strode in.
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Remy, coming straight up to Severyn's table. His bow was scarcely more than a bob of his head. "We were first on the schedule, were we not?"
"You're late," Severyn said. "My time is valuable and this is not Zelenov!"
Remy looked as if he'd eaten something unpleasant --- most likely the retort he was wise enough to stifle. Stiffly, he said, "And have you had a chance to consider our Petition, Your Highness?"
"I have."
Remy and the others waited.
"I find it curiously incomplete. There is no specification of troop numbers," said Severyn, flapping the document at them, "nor mention of how these additional troops will be paid for."
There was a moment's silence, then Remy replied in a tense voice, "I was under the impression that His Majesty did not have similar concerns."
"Yet the king sent this Petition to me for handling and I find both those matters most concerning. Our people are already struggling under the burden of both taxes and tithes. Frankly, captain, I would not be at all surprised were the Advisori to raise all hell over it. At the very least, they should be consulted."
"The Church has a right to see to the protection of its property!"
Severyn leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled before him. "I was unaware of any assaults on Church lands or buildings. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"
Remy, seeing his chance, pounced. "I'm surprised you could ask such a thing, Your Highness, when you yourself witnessed the assault on Shia!"
"The assault was on Castle Shia," replied Severyn calmly, "and not on the abbey. Even if it were, however, that's one incident. The Church has vast holdings across the West. One attack by a gang of bandits on Tanyrin's frontier hardly constitutes a crisis."
"Is that your decision, Your Highness?" Remy asked coldly. "Am I to return to Zelenov with the word that our Petition has been denied?"
"Provisionally denied," replied Severyn. "I would see more detail of this plan. I want troop numbers, the names of the parishes affected and, of course, plans for financing."
"His Eminence may simply decide to appeal your decision to the king!"
"That is his right." Severyn shrugged. "Is there anything else, gentlemen?"
"No," grated Remy.
"Then I wish you a safe journey east," said the prince.
Severyn got an early start the next morning. Erich Dore accompanied him, the two of them sharing a roomy, well-sprung coach. Forry and Jeremy planned to join them at Shia, bringing with them the first of the troops planned for the castle's and ultimately, Arami's, defense.
"Maybe you should persuade your brother to abdicate before next spring," Erich suggested after hearing Severyn's account of the Petition hearing. "I can't see Arami withstanding pressure from the Council indefinitely."
"It makes no sense for him to go to Shia before the wedding," replied Severyn.
"You're assuming he'll consent to go at all."
Severyn smiled wryly. "I'll lure him there with promises of money. My dear brother is all too predictable. Once shut up in that damned pile and surrounded by my men, he'll have little choice but to give up the throne. If we make his surroundings luxurious enough, he may not even care."
And those who might wish to contest Severyn's claim would find it difficult to reach Arami in his remote and well-guarded exile. Increasingly, it appeared the only ones to object would be the Celestials. He had to make certain they kept their troops on the other side of the Midders until the deed was done or the bloodbath they hoped to avoid risked becoming inevitable.
Such grim thoughts could not hold Severyn for long, however. As each mile passed under their wheels, the weight of his responsibilities grew lighter. Soon he would be surrounded by his dearest friends and, for a time, free to enjoy himself. It would be good to see Michael again.
They ran into bad weather as they neared the Shian border, icy rain dogging them from Fornsby, up the low hills and into the highlands. It was still falling as their coach rolled through Shia's newly reinforced gate to the main house.
Inside, Timkins cousin, Jarred Hansen, met them with a flock of maids. Their wet things were promptly carried away.
"It's good to see you, Your Highness, Lord Dore," the young butler said. "Will Tim be following?"
"Not this time, Hanson. I've left him in Tantagrel to see to things. How do things go here?"
"As well as can be expected, sir. I believe Lord Challory is in the games room."
"Where's Lord Arranz?"
"The library, I believe."
Erich was looking around with approval as Hanson finished his report. "It looks like most of the construction is complete," he said. "What a difference! Shall we go see Auron?"
"You go ahead," replied Severyn. "I'll join you in a bit."
The house might have been a different place. Severyn noted the improvements with satisfaction as he hurried to the north wing. He was taken aback at the sight of the moonstone walls. Auron had mentioned their discovery in one of his letters, but Severyn hadn't given it much thought at the time. He shook his head, running a hand along the stone's smooth surface. What an improvement from the grim, musty surroundings he'd left all those weeks ago!
The stairs were carpeted now, cushioning his feet as he climbed them. More carpet lay along the corridors. Everything seemed brightly lit, yet there were only a few lamps burning, their light caught and magnified by the moonstone.
As he approached the library, he heard voices. Slowing, he peered around the half open door. This room had been extensively refitted. He glimpsed the magnificent stained-glass windows and rows of bookshelves, most of them still empty. Boxes of various sizes were scattered around the polished wood floor and, before one of the shelves, Michael was busy replacing books while Stefn Eldering pulled them, one after another, from the boxes.
Something about the tableau froze Severyn in place. Michael was laughing as he took the books from Eldering. He said something Severyn couldn't hear, then took a mock swipe at the dark-haired youth with the book he held. Eldering laughed, flinging his hands in front of his head in pretend alarm. It was a charming scene and Severyn felt a sharp, unpleasant pang.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door completely open and came in. Eldering's smile vanished, but Michael's expression lit up like the sun.
"Sev!" he cried, jumping up, stepping over the boxes and piles of books to greet the prince. His arms came around Severyn in a tight embrace and Severyn's inexplicable pang evaporated. "It's wonderful to see you! Did you just get in? Who's with you?"
"It's good to see you, too!" Severyn returned the hug fiercely. "Damn, but I've missed you! Erich is with me. The others will be here in the next week or two."
"We were starting to think you weren't coming! What kept you?"
"Business," replied Severyn, rolling his eyes. "Arami is no longer hearing Petitions, or so it seems. I'm here now, though, and I'm looking forward to hearing about everything. How's Chris and Annie? And Uncle Damon? Terrifying as always?"
Michael laughed, eyes dancing. "I have a lot to tell you. Some you'll be glad to hear. Some..." he shrugged and an uneasy look darkened his eyes. "Not so much."
Involuntarily, Severyn's gaze went to the earl, who was quietly putting books onto the shelves by himself, his back turned to them.
"Well, then, come on downstairs!" ordered Severyn. "Let's find Erich and Auron, have a stiff drink. How did you find Bishop Storm?"
The two young men left the library. Just outside it, Michael stopped. "I need to talk to you first, Sev. Alone."
Again, there was that strange, uneasy feeling in the pit of Severyn's stomach. He kept his smile, however. "Of course. I need to freshen up a bit. Come with me to my room. We can be private there."
The prince's suite would someday be Arami's, three spacious rooms that had originally been six cramped ones. Severyn shed his damp jacket, tossing it carelessly on the big bed. Michael went to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.
"The moonstone is a surprise," said Severyn.
Michael started. "Oh. Yes." He smiled crookedly. "At least Stefn has stopped claiming this place is his ancestral home."
Stefn, was it?
"You and he seem very friendly," Severyn said. He went to the wardrobe, opening it before realizing his baggage had not made it upstairs yet.
"He's not a bad sort," Michael replied. "To be honest, I wonder sometimes if the old Earl was a cuckold, Stefn is so different."
"I suppose it's helpful having a cordial relationship with your cethe."
"What? Oh, yes. I suppose so." Michael pushed away from the fireplace.
"Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"
Michael directed a startled look at the prince, hearing the edge in his voice. "No," he said. "Of course not." He made a small, helpless movement with his hands. "Grandfather gave me some naragi high spells."
Severyn's jaw sagged. Michael ran a distracted hand through his hair. It was loose on his shoulders tonight and, even through his shock at Michael's confession, Severyn was reminded how beautiful it was.
"I thought those spells had vanished with the naragi."
"Apparently not."
"You're sure?"
Michael's jaw tightened. "Oh, yes," he said softly.
The two old friends stared at each other.
"Damnation," said Severyn finally. "Witchery is one thing, but high k'na?"
"Just because I have them doesn't mean I'll use them, of course."
Severyn sat down on the edge of his bed, shaking his head. "Don't be so hasty," he said finally. "Locke's ambitions exceed what even I suspected. Disturbing rumors having been coming out of the east. We may yet face the Council in battle and if that happens, there's no reason to doubt the High Orders will hold back against us. Before this is all over, my friend, much as I may hope otherwise, I may yet have need of a naragi's full power."
His Grace, Derek Arranz, was the youngest son of a powerful naran duke, Alastair Arranz, at the time war broke out between men and the nara. Derek was summoned home to the Arranz estate. His father died shortly thereafter and his elder brother, Carrington, ascended to the title.
Carrington, unlike his father, was sympathetic to the naran cause and embarked upon a murderous campaign to rid his parish and the surrounding parishes of their humans. Derek, however, refused to go along with his brother's violent rule. Imprisoned by Carrington for three years, he finally escaped, traveling to Lothmont under direst threat of death, to join Aramis in defense of humanity.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1347
Stefn saw little of Michael over the next two weeks. An apologetic Marin informed him that the prince wanted him confined to his rooms. He pretended he didn't care. They were comfortable enough and Marin brought him whatever books he asked for. There was the business of copying the true Second Chronicle, as well. He had no need of companionship.
Late one afternoon, a knock on his door made him look up in surprise. Marin, his only visitor these days, usually didn't bother. "Come in," he called.
It was Michael! The h'nar strolled in, crunching on an apple, tossing another to Stefn. Startled, Stefn just managed to catch it. It was bigger than any he'd ever seen.
"Supplies came in," said Michael thickly. "Iyrean Reds. Enjoy."
Iyrean Reds were rare, grown only in neighboring, seaside Iyre, and so expensive, that only royalty or highblood could afford them. Stefn had never had one; he took a bite. The fruit had a hint of spiciness, so sweet, his mouth watered.
Michael went right to the table and picked up Stefn's latest notes.
Stefn took another bite. "Three entire chapters," he mumbled through a mouthful of the fruit. "They took out three whole chapters, and no wonder. They cover the five years just after the war. More nara fought with the humans than I imagined and, without their help, the reconstruction wouldn't have gone half so well."
Pulling out the chair, Michael sat to read the notes. He hadn't tied his hair back today, but let it hang long and loose and shining. His features, so perfect, were solemn, bent over the papers and still with concentration. Stefn remembered the nara he'd just finished reading about, men who had been just as effortlessly strong and beautiful.
Michael pushed back his chair. "You're very thorough," he said. "It's a pity you never had the chance to attend a College."
Stefn shrugged. The apple was eaten; nothing left but the core. He tossed it into the nearby fireplace. It hissed and popped in the flames.
"You're almost finished?"
"Two more chapters.," replied Stefn. "Will you send it to Withwillow?"
"Probably. We'll discuss it tonight at dinner. Speaking of which, Severyn would like you to join us. He'd like to hear what you've learned. You can bring your findings with you."
Stefn's heart gave a panicked jump. "M-me?"
"Why not? You must surely be ready for a change of scenery?"
"Y-yes, but... "
"Good. I'll leave you to it. Until dinner?" With his rare, blinding smile, Michael was gone.
Stefn could barely concentrate on his reading after that. Somehow he made it through the final pages and hoped his notes were reasonably coherent. Marin arrived as he was reviewing them. The servant insisted that Stefn's appearance be impeccable.
"The claret evening coat?" he fretted at the wardrobe. "Or perhaps the moss green?"
Stefn couldn't care less. He wasn't in the least bit hungry, and nervousness made his hands clammy. It must have been painfully obvious, too, for when Michael arrived to escort Stefn to dinner, he took one look and said, "The main course tonight is roast beef, not pickled earl."
"You're sure?" Stefn cast an apprehensive look down the hall.
Michael laughed. His hand settled briefly on Stefn's shoulder, an easy, companionable, gesture that Stefn found inexplicably steadying. "You'll do fine," he predicted.
"Why was I confined to my rooms?"
Michael's lips tightened. "Severyn doesn't trust you," he said. "He told me to remind you to say nothing about what happened at Blackmarsh."
In the dining room, all the rebel lords were gathered. Lord Challory nodded to him with a pleasant smile, while the prince settled into his chair at the head of the table. Severyn smiled at Michael, but the look he turned on Stefn was cool.
A servant pulled out a chair for Stefn at the foot of the table. Michael left him to take a place on the prince's right. Feeling isolated and conspicuous, Stefn set down the book and his notes, barely heeding when the footman asked after his preferred beverage.
"Good evening, Lord Eldering."
Stefn looked up quickly. Prince Severyn met his gaze from the opposite end of the table.
"I'm delighted you could join us this evening. I believe you know everyone here except, perhaps, Lords Dohrn and Iarhlaith." He indicated the sandy-haired nobleman and the stolid gentleman on his left. "We're looking forward to hearing your report on the Chronicle your family had in its possession."
"Thank you, Your Highness." Stefn managed to keep his voice steady.
An army of servants arrived, one for each man, it seemed, and more. Stefn's sense of the surreal held through the dinner's elaborate first course. The Eldering's governess had imparted the rudiments of polite etiquette to her two charges, but in Shia, there had been little actual use made of it. Meals had usually arrived on the long, plank table all at once with only a handful of servants present to refill mugs with wine or ale. Men thought nothing of stabbing their daggers into the table-top in emphasis of some point, while dogs fought noisily for scraps beneath it.
These men were also warriors, but the difference could not have been more profound. At the prince's elbow, Lord Michael set down his soup spoon, leaning forward slightly to say something to him. Lothlain grinned and replied, paying no attention to the immaculately uniformed footman who whisked away his bowl. Voices were low; candlelight filled the newly redecorated chamber with a soft glow. The clink of heavy silver cutlery, the musical chime of crystal, all made Stefn feel as if he lived in a dream.
"Tell me, Lord Eldering. What do you think of Shia's new look?" Prince Severyn asked. "Quite an improvement, eh?"
"Very much so," replied Stefn. He forced himself to look at the prince. "I know my sister will be deeply touched by your generosity, Your Highness."
His words brought a sudden silence.
Lothlain recovered quickly. "That is my fondest hope," he said, "but what of you? Does it meet with your approval, my lord?"
"Does it matter?" Stefn kept his voice steady and level.
"Not in the least," agreed Lothlain softly.
"When is the wedding, Your Highness? Am I invited?"
"Stefn... " Michael frowned at him, but Lothlain set a hand on his arm.
"He can speak freely. After all, we will soon be related." To Stefn, he replied, "That depends on you, my lord. If I trust you not to cause trouble, you're welcome to attend. If not, an illness will be invented and you will remain here. As for when, we have set the date to a year and three months from now to allow the proper period of mourning. Whatever you may think of me, my lord, I do not intend to mistreat or dishonor Miss Eldering."
After a moment, Iarhlaith spoke up, something about a grouse hunt planned for later in the week, and conversation resumed. The second course was followed by a third, then a fourth. By the time a footman wheeled in the dessert cart, Stefn had a full belly and most of his composure back.
"I think we're ready to hear your report," Lothlain announced, settling back in his chair. "What can you tell us about this copy of the Chronicle?"
Stefn rose, arranging his notes nervously. He cleared his throat, glancing toward Michael. The h'nar smiled faintly, nodding.
"Volume two," said Stefn, "contains over seventy pages of material not included in the authorized versions. Almost all of the omitted text has to do with the positive influence of the nara after the war. Many of them had fought with us and, afterwards, devoted much of their time and fortune to rebuilding Tanyrin."
"So that's why some nara were allowed to go free after the war," said Iarhlaith finally. "I always wondered, if they were so terrible, why St. Aramis allowed so many to live among us as equals."
"It's damning to the Church if it's true," Dore agreed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It seems there should be some way to use it to our advantage."
"I like the idea of printing copies of the true Chronicle and distributing them in secret around Tanyrin." said the prince, looking directly at Stefn. "Mick told us about your idea. It's a good one, my lord. Sowing dissension in the Church would keep the Celestials' eyes off us."
"If we determine these are the true Chronicles." Iarhlaith huffed.
"And if we could get our hands on a press," added Forry. "Or has someone come up with a new idea of how to accomplish that?"
Stefn sat down as the others began arguing over how best to implement such a plan. His head spun, caught between gratification and apprehension. Were they serious? Did the prince mean what he said?
"We could ask Storm for the use of one of his presses."
"That would never work," retorted Forry. "The Church requires all of them to be registered. They'll know at once where the copies come from. We'll need to build our own."
And so it went. Stefn listened, interested in spite of himself. When dinner was over and the men rose to withdraw, he found himself half-hoping he would be invited to join them, but Hanson appeared to escort him back to his room.
Away from the dining hall and its roaring fire, the deepening chill settled into the corridors of Shia. Stefn heard the muffled, steady wail of the wind. It was well into autumn and one of the northland's storms was approaching. It promised to be a strong one. His heart lifted slightly at the realization he would spend it in a cozy room, under mounds of thick, soft covers.
Not only was his fire burning, but a bed-warmer had been slipped between his sheets. The heavy drapes had been drawn against any stray draft making it past the new windows. His cup of hot chocolate sat beside two biscuits fragrant with cinnamon. Wasting no time, he put on his nightshirt and, taking up his book, got into bed. With the pillows plumped up at his back, the lamp burning low on the table beside him, he sipped his chocolate and watched the flames dance in the fireplace across the room.
Maybe it wouldn't be too bad, he thought. Prince Severyn was not entirely evil. Although Stefn had not been much in the prince's company, he could see the mood of those who served him, their affection and fierce loyalty. There had been none of that in the Shia of old; only fear.
Stefn finished the last delicious swallow of chocolate, setting aside the cup. Opening his book, he picked up where he'd left off. It was a lady's romance he'd found among the boxes of books, one of a half-dozen such volumes Michael claimed had been purchased for Stefanie's eventual enjoyment. The thoughtfulness of the gesture was another reason to think again about Prince Severyn. Maybe, if Stefn kept his silence, Stefanie might even be happy.
He wished he knew more about King Arami. The king was rarely mentioned in the house. Had Stefn not been an avid reader, he might not have even known a king outranked an archbishop. According to Michael, the last few kings of Tanyrin had been weak men, little more than puppets of the Church. If that was so, maybe the kingdom would be better served by Severyn. Whatever else he might be, Stefn couldn't accuse the prince of weakness.
Murderer and traitor, more like!
But Stefn's angry, inner admonishment didn't seem to have the power it once had. He also had to admit, however reluctantly, that Stefanie was very likely to be in ecstasies over her engagement to the prince. After all, women were expected to marry as far up the social ladder as possible and the only further up one could get was to be queen.
Or the lady wife of the Archbishop. Stefn recalled his brief, unsettling encounter with Lady Locke and cringed inwardly. She must have thought him a perfect fool. Lord Arranz certainly had.
Lord Arranz.
Stefn's thoughts took an unwelcome turn. He picked up his book, determined to banish them in the improbable adventures of The Constant Knight. Alas, this novel featured a moody, violent hero who, as Stefn read, began to remind him more than a little of a certain perplexing and unpredictable h'naran lord.
Howling woke Michael from restless dreams. He lay, shivering under his blankets, still half-asleep and not sure what he heard. Then, as he grew more aware of his own discomfort, he realized he was listening to the wind.
The walls of the old house were granite, six feet thick in places, yet the wind was as noisy as if they were made of the flimsiest wood and wattle. He could see his breath, hanging like a white cloud before him. Even under three heavy blankets, he was cold.
Dragging the heaviest blanket with him, he got up and, teeth chattering, went to the stove. To his surprise, it still emitted plenty of heat. But not until he was a foot or two away from it, however, did he feel its warmth. Cursing, he lit a lamp and chucked several more pieces of wood into the belly of the stove.
The curtains, heavy velvet, eddied and billowed in the drafts making it past the windows, the brand new windows! Michael pulled a panel aside and was immediately hit in the face by an icy blast. The glass panes rattled in their frames under the wind's assault; they were thick with frost.
Blanket wrapped tightly around him, Michael fled his room. The corridor was warmer, but not much. He opened the bedroom door opposite his own. This room was warmer still, but unfortunately, it was also occupied. A mound of blankets on the top of the bed issued a steady cadence of snores sounding suspiciously like Jeremy. Michael backed out quietly. Jeremy, too, had been using one of the newly remodeled front bedrooms. He looked at the only other empty room on that side of the house and found it, too, had been appropriated by one of his friends.
Michael thought sourly of spending the night downstairs, curled up on a sofa or chair. He could wake a servant and have several more blankets brought up to his icebox of a room, or... Making up his mind, he went downstairs, walking along the corridor until he came to Stefn's rooms. He unlocked the door and opened it.
The rooms were almost balmy. A pile of glowing embers in the sitting room fireplace radiated heat throughout the suite. In the bedroom it was cooler, but still much better than his own chamber.
"Who's there?" Stefn's voice, sleepy and alarmed, rose from the bed.
"Just me," Michael replied. He came right to the bed and pulled back the covers. "I'm sleeping in here tonight."
Thereupon, he shed his blanket and climbed in. Stefn was off the other side in one mad scramble. "What are you doing here?" His voice rose.
"Getting warm. My room is frigid." Michael heard the sound of a match. Light bloomed; a small table lamp beside the bed. Stefn, dark hair tousled from sleep, glowered down at him.
"Loth's loins!" growled Michael. "Who the hell would choose to live in this benighted place?"
"Both our families, apparently. You have one of the western rooms upstairs, don't you?"
"Aye."
"Southerners! The demon-winds always come from the northwest. 'Tis why those rooms were usually empty." Shaking his head at such foolishness, Stefn continued to scowl down at him. "Ask the servants for more blankets. I want my own bed."
Michael shook his head. "Too bad. Tonight, we share. Tomorrow I'll get my room moved to somewhere saner."
"Then I'll sleep in the sitting room," Stefn retorted through clenched teeth.
"Do as you please. All I want is a good night's sleep. Your virtue is safe." Whereupon Michael pulled the blankets over his head.
It was blissfully warm in Stefn's bed. Michael's clenched muscles eased. He expected to hear Stefn leave the room, but instead, the bed rocked and, to his surprise, the younger man got back in.
"Very well," said Stefn, "but don't touch me, damn it!"
"Fine. Fine."
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the wind's distant, eerie music.
"Demon winds this early in autumn are rare," said Stefn when, after several moments, Michael made no move to grab him. "Usually they don't start until Icekel."
"It seems the cold and rain come earlier each year all over Tanyrin. I suppose we will be buried in snow by the morning."
"No. At least it's not usual. Here in the highlands we have a month or two of bitter, but dry cold. The snows won't come until after Wintermas."
Michael burrowed deeper into the covers. With Stefn a few inches away, it was even warmer. "Why Shia?" Stefn asked finally. "There must be many more convenient places to plot treason."
"Not really." Michael yawned. "It's remote and easily defended. And its lord was very unpopular. We wagered his overthrow would cause few to mourn, including his Church overlords. Too bad we never put any actual money on it; we were correct, it appears."
"If your plot succeeds, will your family reclaim the castle?"
"That is my grandfather's wish." Michael thought about it a moment, then chuckled. "Of course, after a winter here, he may change his mind."
"I don't know much about the king," said Stefn. "Is he an evil man?"
Michael sighed. "Not especially, just a weak one."
"Does the prince mean to kill him? Does he mean to murder his own brother?"
"Of course not. Not unless Arami gives him no choice." Michael yawned again. "You have a lot of questions tonight, my lord."
"Being left to sit alone day after day leaves a great deal of time to think," retorted Stefn. "And I will remind you, Arranz, that this is my bed."
"Tsk. Is that impudence, cethe?"
"I suppose you'll hear whatever you please, my lord." Stefn sniffed, turning over and presenting his back to Michael.
"That's correct," Michael agreed. "And I'll do whatever I please, too. But you know that, don't you?"
"You needn't sound so smug."
Michael heard the scowl. "Ah, but how can I help it?" Some of his sleepiness retreated. "When I learned it was your family carrying the blood of the cethera, I resigned myself to a lifetime bound to an oaf. Instead, I get a handsome, spirited, moderately well-educated gentleman."
"M-moderately?" Stefn shifted back around indignantly.
"You may have read all of Shia's books, but they themselves only reflect a single viewpoint. At some point in your illustrious ancestors' history, someone went through the stacks and culled anything that might conflict with the Church's curricula. A story has many sides, as you now know." Michael emerged from his cocoon to peer at Stefn. "When Severyn takes the throne, you should go to college."
"You... you would let me?" In the lamplight, the young man's eyes seemed even larger than usual. He had the blankets pulled up to his chin.
"When Severyn is king, there will no longer be any need for a naragi," said Michael finally. "I can go back to being who I was and you'll be free. Provided you swear to keep our secret, you can do whatever you like." He lay back down. "Now go to sleep."
"But, what are you saying? I won't be Bound to you forever?"
"Oh, we're Bound forever. Don't get your hopes up on that account. But I don't intend to be naragi forever. There should be no reason we would ever meet again if we didn't desire it."
"Do you mean it?" whispered the earl.
"Yes. Severyn has promised to compensate you for Shia's loss with a small parish somewhere." Michael grinned faintly. "And unlike the recent succession of Eldering earls, I suspect you will make something of it."
"Do you think that will be adequate payment for how you've treated me? For the murder of my family?"
"What do you think? Knowing what you do now of your sainted father and grandfathers, is it adequate payment?"
Quick as that, the bed was suddenly a hostile, dangerous place. Stefn pushed off the tangling blankets and stumbled out of the room. Michael saw him drop to a crouch before the sitting-room fire, his back to the bed.
All Michael's sleepiness vanished. He got out of bed, following Stefn. "Those things your father did to you happen to Penitents all the time, and worse," he said. "The Church claims to be compassionate, but my mother and grandmother were plucked from the ranks of their slaves, chosen by the Celestials to be duchesses. It must have seemed like a miracle, at first." Michael's voice hardened. "Yet for all our love, the scars they bore from their servitude ran so deep they would never heal. Both, in their own way, were tormented by them for the rest of their lives."
"No h'nar suffered by my hand." Stefn's voice was low. He didn't look around.
"And how many were raised up by it?"
There was, of course, no answer. Michael looked at the hunched shoulders and bent head and sighed. The question was, to be honest, horribly unfair. He sighed and dropped his blanket over Stefn, then sat down on the warm hearthstones beside him.
"I don't remember my mother much," he said. "She killed herself when I was three, but I do remember my grandmother. Nana could eat as much as she wanted, whenever she wanted, yet the servants were always coming upon some morsel carefully wrapped up in a handkerchief and tucked away in some niche or behind furniture. Sometimes, what she hid didn't take kindly to sitting out, so we would find it sooner rather than later."
"I'm surprised you can bear to look at me."
The sadness in the quiet voice took Michael by surprise.
"I don't know anything anymore," Stefn went on, his words barely audible. "You've shown me everything I believed was a lie. Maybe it's naragi sorcery, but I'm beginning to believe you're right to fight against the king and the Church. And maybe... " His voice thickened. "M-maybe being your slave is Loth's justice, too, payment for generations of Eldering crimes and my own rank cowardice."
Michael's laugh was a breath, incredulous. "Coward? I don't think so, my lord. Stubborn? Naive? Annoying? Perhaps, but cowardly?"
"I could have done something to stop them," Stefn seemed barely to hear. He hugged his knees to his chest . "All those h'naran prisoners they brought here. I don't know what, but if I'd tried, I could have thought of something... "
"And what? Been killed by your brutish sire? From the looks of it, only Loth's grace kept you alive!"
Startled, Stefn lifted his head. Michael smiled briefly before turning his eyes to the fire. "I, too, have been forced to reconsider some things I believed to be true. You, for instance."
"Me?"
"You are... not what I'd expected." Michael groped for words, wondering distantly at himself. "I think, had circumstances been different, I would have liked you for a friend."
He couldn't look at Stefn. It was a such a stupid, cruel thing to say when they could not be friends, when they could only be master and slave until Severyn was safely on the throne. After that, if they survived, Stefn would have few desires beyond seeing the back of him forever.
Abruptly, Michael rose. "I'm going to bed," he said. "Stay here, if you like, but I've no intention of forcing myself on you."
In spite of telling himself to go to sleep, Michael lay still, wide awake, as the minutes ticked by. It was not until much later, when the covers shifted and Stefn settled quietly, carefully, into his side of the bed, that Michael fell asleep.
The winds brought bone-cracking cold that lingered as the days passed. Each morning dawned with ornate frost-flowers thick on the windows. Fires roared in all the fireplaces and the servants, most of whom had come up from the south, shivered and remarked in dismay at the icy winds even Shia's massive walls could not keep at bay.
From his room, Stefn saw flocks of sheep, like dark clouds, swarming across the high meadows as their herders drove them down from the hills. It was going to be a hard winter. Yet Stefn found himself looking forward to it with less than his usual dread. Something painful inside him was gone. He woke each morning to find himself happy to meet the day. The feeling was so new, so novel, he was sometimes transfixed by it.
All the new western bedrooms were being refitted with larger stoves, thick carpets, and padded storm shutters. Exiled from his own chamber, Michael moved into Stefn's. He even asked permission. Stefn gave it, of course. Beneath all the new courtesy and gentler manners, nothing had really changed.
But Michael kept his word, never once forcing himself on Stefn. Stefn was relieved and grateful, but as the first week ran into the next, he was less sure. Several nights in a row he woke from erotic dreams, breathing hard and fully aroused; while the subject of them slept, unaware, within easy reach.
It was the lethet, he told himself fiercely, but deep inside, he wondered.
Fortunately, Stefn's waking hours offered plenty of distractions. His status among the rebels had undergone a profound change. He took his meals with them now and often joined them for port afterwards where, eventually, he was drawn into their impassioned debates. That he could hold his own with them was a matter of secret satisfaction, but he acknowledged their arguments had more of truth in them than he liked to admit.
The idea of disseminating the Chronicles remained a favorite discussion topic. By now, the others had read most of the volume from the secret room and, as Stefn had been, were shocked and furious at the extent of the Church's alterations. Even Iarhlaith, whose religious faith ran deeper than his friends, was won over. "They're worse than the demons they decry," he declared. "To deliberately defile St. Aramis' writings! They should be confronted openly and made to explain themselves!"
Luckily, cooler heads prevailed. "It's called a diversion, my dear lump," Auron drawled. "If Locke is busily hunting around for the source of the books, he won't be watching us."
There would be no copies to distribute, however, unless they could get their hands on a printing press.
"What about Withwillow?" Michael asked finally. "Not their existing presses, of course. I was thinking more in the lines of finding some account of how to build one. Withwillow has the largest collection of libraries in Tanyrin and some of them are very old indeed."
His suggestion was greeted with enthusiasm.
"Good idea." Severyn bent a warm look on his friend. "Go back to Withwillow. See what you can find."
"What about the bishop? Should we bring him in on this?"
"Why not?" Severyn replied. "If he's sincere about wanting the truth known, he could be useful in distributing the legitimate volumes."
The remodeling of Castle Shia was nearly complete, but work continued in the villages. Stefn became accustomed to seeing the steady traffic of wagons roll past the castle, heavily laden with lumber, bricks or roofing tiles. Along with making much needed repairs on the homes of the parish tenants, the prince had released several hundred acres of good grazing land once kept exclusively for the late earl's personal pleasure.
"They're singin' His Highness' praises in the villages, that's for sure," Marin told Stefn one night as he folded clean laundry into a dresser drawer. "Used to be, the children had to move away to find a living'. Now, I hear, they're all moving back."
"I'd like to see the improvements."
Marin's eyes dropped for the briefest of moments before he said with a smile, "I'm sure one o' the lords would accompany you if you asked."
Stefn hadn't seriously intended to do any such thing. He knew damn well what the villagers would think should he come riding among their homes and children. After the death of his father and brother, their fear of him would be ten times worse.
"Perhaps later," he said. "You haven't seen my notebook, have you? I thought I left it around here somewhere."
It didn't matter, Stefn told himself. Soon, Michael would be going back to Withwillow and had promised Stefn could come with him. If all went according to plan, this time he would have a chance to visit some of the College's famous libraries. The pure excitement of that eclipsed nearly everything else. Not even hearing they would be stopping by Blackmarsh on the way could deflate Stefn's high spirits.
The night before he and Michael were to leave for Withwillow, however, he found himself politely but firmly excluded from the after-dinner gathering. With nothing else to do, he wandered through Shia's bright new corridors, coming eventually to the north tower.
He stood awhile at the foot of the stairs, looking up. Months had passed since he'd first confronted the true face of Michael Arranz. Not once since then had he set foot in his former sanctuary.
The latch slipped open easily: oiled. Had Lothlain's builders been up here, too? The stairwell was dark, the familiar smell of stone and damp still present. He took a candle from the sconce beside the door and lit it. At once the moonstone drank up the feeble light and gave it back. Candle in hand, he climbed the stairs. Reaching the landing at the top, he took a deep breath and opened the door. His jaw dropped.
The top floor had been emptied of rubbish. As elsewhere in the north wing, crumbling plaster had been scraped away to reveal the moonstone beneath. Underfoot, rugs added warmth and quiet. Several shabby, but well-stuffed armchairs were gathered before a new, pot-bellied stove. The rickety old table by the window had been replaced with a desk. His books, left behind that terrible night, were neatly stacked on it.
All three windows boasted new storm shutters. Opening one, he could see nothing outside but dark and the rain running down the glass, steady and soothing. How long had it been like this, waiting for him to find it?
Stefn started a fire. He opened the shutters. To the east, he saw a scattering of lights: Shiaton village. All else was dark.
One of the armchairs proved especially comfortable. He took a book, his place was still marked, and settled in. No one but Michael could have done this. Why even bother? Did he think to make up for everything that had happened with such gestures?
Except...
"Had circumstances been different, I would have liked you for a friend."
There was no reason for Arranz to see to Stefn's comfort. No reason at all. No reason to speak on his behalf or seek out his company. No reason to go out of his way to drag an awestricken youth up a crumbling old tower in a far-away city or ride around Withwillow to stare at monuments he'd probably seen a hundred times.
Stefn's own kin had shown him far worse treatment and never a single kindness to even it. Yet, thanks to Arranz, here he sat, warm, comfortable and well-fed. His life had irrevocably changed and his horizons thrown open so wide it made him dizzy. Was the price Arranz demanded really that high?
He dozed finally, to dream of the h'naran lord, of his deep, smooth chest and broad shoulders, and his sudden, unexpectedly boyish grin.
Severyn was not looking forward to returning to Tantagrel. In spite of the cold, these last few weeks in Shia had been relaxing and enjoyable. The castle was in good shape, ready to accept a royal, if unwilling guest. The new barracks were adequate for the number of troops that would be needed and spending all that money on repairs to the homes of villagers had paid off handsomely in terms of local goodwill.
Most of the others also had business elsewhere. Forry was off to his own estate while Erich was headed to a house party hosted by friends with deep pockets and growing resentment of Arami's excesses. Jeremy headed home to be with his gravely ill father. Only Auron was to remain in Shia to oversee the final bits of reconstruction.
"Why me?" he whined, looking to the window where, outside, light snow drifted.
"You're the only one without responsibilities," replied Jeremy.
"Not fair! I will likely perish of boredom. Might I at least prey on the maids?"
Severyn rolled his eyes. "Good luck. They can run faster than you."
"That kills it then," Mick agreed. "Running is exercise. When was the last time anyone here saw our noble friend here exert himself to such a degree?"
"I would call you out for that insult," drawled Auron amid the chorus of hoots and laughter, "but for the fact that dueling requires so much energy."
He would miss this, thought Severyn. These weeks in Shia had been almost idyllic, as if they were all back in College again, blissfully unaware of the dark road ahead.
"Do we meet in Tantagrel?" asked Forry. "Or come back here?"
"It depends upon what Mick finds in Withwillow." Severyn looked over at his friend.
Mick sprawled the length of a sofa, his glass of port balanced precariously on his chest. "If I'm successful, I'll come back here," he said. "Otherwise, I'll send word that I'm returning to Blackmarsh to wait for your instructions."
"What about your blushing fiancé?" Auron asked Severyn. "When do you mean to bring her here?"
Severyn didn't want to think about that. "Not until after the wedding, and that, thank Loth, is a year away."
"What of Zelenov?" asked Forry. "They will almost certainly have used this time to approach the king with their appeal of your verdict. The barracks are nearly finished. Why not start moving troops in now?"
"I'd rather not support them through one of Shia's winters," replied Severyn. "I'll have my hands full keeping the local folk alive. Their goodwill is almost as valuable as a well-trained force of soldiers. No, we hold to the original plan."
Later, when it was just Severyn and Mick in front of the fire, Mick brought the subject up again. "If Storm was telling the truth and the Celestials can muster a force comparable to the king's army, we could be in for a genuine fight. It might be worth the extra trouble to have our men in place and in fighting shape sooner rather than later."
"Shia is a backwater," retorted Severyn. "The Hunters we faced were the dregs, sent from other posts because they couldn't measure up. We can't be sure all the Hunters are like that. Besides, there are the knightmages. Is there any doubt which way they'd go in a clash between the monarchy and the Church?"
Michael shook his head.
"No," said Severyn. "We keep to the schedule and pray you and Storm work something out for the Chronicles. I'm counting on this distraction. I think it was a brilliant idea, actually."
"Then tell Stefn," Mick said. "I'm sure he'd be pleased to hear you say so."
"Ah, our dear Lord Eldering." Severyn's lip curled. "He certainly has come around. I wonder if he's sincere?"
"He's not stupid," said Mick. "We saw the truth, why shouldn't he?"
"I confess," Severyn said, "that he's not at all like the other Elderings I've met. Do you suppose he's a bastard?"
"I doubt it. Stefn's mother was Earl William's fourth wife and almost thirty years his junior. The old bastard had five wives in all."
"Five?" Auron stared. "Good God! What happened? Did the old stallion wear them out?"
Mick shook his head. "While I was here as a spy, I was regaled by dozens of stories. All of the women died of natural causes, but most of the old Earl's staff was convinced he had arranged each of their deaths somehow. Obviously, Lord Eldering was displeased to be presented with a sin-catcher for a second son. When his wife died the next day, it's easy to see how such rumors might get started."
"I wonder that they didn't kill the child at birth."
"And bring down the wrath of Loth?" Mick's laugh was harsh.
"Superstitious yokels," muttered Severyn. "I'm for bed. How about you?"
They walked together toward the back of the west wing where both apartments lay.
"Why not leave Eldering here?" Severyn suggested. "It's asking a lot from Auron to remain here, month after month. He seems to like the earl."
"Stefn enjoyed Withwillow the last time we went. Besides, we have a dozen or more libraries to comb. If he goes, we can split up the task and be done sooner."
Severyn could think of no reasonable objection to make, but the prospect of Eldering enjoying Mick's company where he could not, rankled.
"Are the refits finished yet?" he asked. "It must be inconvenient bunking with Eldering."
"I rather like having a roommate," replied Mick. He stopped by Eldering's door. "In fact, this entire business of having a cethe is working out much better than I'd expected. Once you get past his wall of reserve, Eldering can be an amusing companion."
"Really?" Severyn fought another flare of irritation. "How nice."
Mick's hand hesitated on the latch. "Sev?"
Severyn recovered enough to produce an almost natural smile. "Nothing. I'm just jealous it's you who's going to Withwillow, while I must sit and listen to the complaints of Petitioners from dawn to dusk."
"Send them back to your brother; make him work, for a change."
"You tempt me. And if I thought Arami wouldn't fall asleep or take intermissions every ten minutes to suck pelthe, I might take you up on it."
Even so, as Severyn continued on to his own rooms at the end of the hall, he toyed with the idea. Riding through Withwillow's beautiful streets with Mick, the pair of them visiting the best inns and restaurants, taking in a play or two. There would be no need to bring Eldering along. The scrawny, baby-faced...
Severyn gave himself a mental shake, ashamed at the direction his thoughts were taking. Eldering was all right; it wasn't his fault he'd been brought up by a herd of wild pigs. According to Mick, his life had been another kind of hell.
Severyn reached his rooms and let himself in. He looked at the big, empty bed. Soon, Eldering's sister would be in it, waiting for him. An image of her appeared in his mind's eye, the porcelain complexion, enormous green eyes; all that hair, black as ink, framing a face of ethereal loveliness. According to gossip, she was referred to as the Moon Goddess among her throngs of admirers.
Her mother had been the earl's fifth wife and the sister of his fourth. Stefn and Stefanie might be half-siblings in name, but the blood they shared was much closer than that. Would she have the same spirit? The same sharp intellect? He remembered their few interviews, how still and shy she had been, answering in near-whispers, never once venturing a comment or question of her own.
Suddenly, a year's mourning period seemed all too brief.
Stefn wasn't in his room. Michael went straight to the library, but found it deserted. Stepping back out into the corridor, he happened to glance to the left. The tower door was ajar. Sure enough, when Michael reached the top of the stairs, light was shining under the door. He opened it. In one of the armchairs facing the stove, a book fallen to his lap, Stefn slept.
The youth had taken off his jacket; it laid over the back of the other chair; and he'd untied his neckcloth. Now he sat, head bowed, his black hair tumbling over his eyes and wisping against the nape of his neck where the lethet sparkled and winked.
Michael made no sound crossing the room on the thick, new rugs. Stefn didn't move. He was breathing hard and his face was flushed. Gently, Michael lifted the book from Stefn's lap and saw, pushing against the fine, pressed wool of the boy's breeches was, an unmistakable bulge.
It was impossible not to react to such a sight. Stefn's lips were slightly parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Who was he dreaming of? As Michael watched, transfixed, Stefn whimpered and stirred slightly, his head falling back against the chair.
Michael could not help it. Even as he reminded himself of his promise, he bent down and covered Stefn's mouth with his own. A moan answered him, Stefn's lips parting wider. Green eyes opened slowly, dark lashes fluttering. Michael straightened, cursing himself.
But Stefn didn't say anything, only touched his lips and looked bewildered.
"We leave for Withwillow early," Michael said. "Come to bed."
Belatedly, full awareness returned. Stefn rocketed to his feet, turning bright red. Michael grinned. "Nice dream?"
Stefn's color deepened. He scowled fiercely and pushed past Michael. The sound of his retreating footsteps floated back up to Michael, who followed more slowly.
"Isn't your damned room ready yet?" Stefn greeted him when he reached their rooms. "I didn't see workmen there today."
"You're throwing me out?"
"Obviously, you'll do what you please, but yes. I would like to have my room back."
"And leave you like that?" Michael gestured to Stefn's obvious erection.
"It's your fault." Sullen.
"You were dreaming of me?"
"No!" But Stefn's color only deepened. "Arrogant bastard. You promised!"
"As you wish," sighed Michael, inwardly cursing his foolishness. He wanted nothing more than to seize Stefn, tear his clothes off and take him right there, across the bench before the fireplace. "Just don't come waking me up in a few hours, begging me to fuck you."
He made it all the way to the door before a strangled voice called, "Wait! Damn you!"
Michael turned. Stefn, trembling, tore off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor. The lethet winked and flashed in the firelight. Fumbling in his haste and anger, Stefn stripped off the rest of his clothing. "There!" he snapped. "Go ahead. Do whatever you want!"
Folding his arms over his chest, Michael leaned back against the door. "That's hardly an invitation I can resist," he replied. "If you want me, say so."
Stefn's face was a study. A dizzying array of emotions flashed across it. "I want you," he spat.
Michael laughed. "Very persuasive."
"Damn you! I didn't ask for this!"
"I know and I'm sorry."
Stefn stared at him a moment, then groaned, lowering his head, one hand wrapping around his sex. Iron control held Michael in place, but he doubted he could resist much longer. "At the moment, I don't need your services as a cethe," he said. "Why not pleasure yourself?"
"You know why! You made me like this!"
"Are you sure?" Michael let his gaze linger deliberately on Stefn's hand. "Go ahead. See if you really need me this time."
"You son of a bitch."
"Go on," Michael said. "If it's the lethet tormenting you, I'll do my duty, but if not... "
Mouth twisting, Stefn closed his eyes. His hand began to move. A moment later, he collapsed onto the bench, legs spread wide, breath hissing between his teeth as he pumped. "Oh, God!" he groaned. "Oh, God... Damn it... "
Michael pushed away from the door and strode to the bench. Stefn lurched to his feet, throwing himself at him. Hungrily, Michael kissed him again and again while, between the kisses, they both ripped at his clothes. Naked, he groaned, pushing Stefn to his knees before him. Without resistance or protest, Stefn swallowed Michael's cock and began to suck eagerly.
Michael looked down at the dark head with half-closed eyes, his groin afire. His senses overwhelmed him, his own breathing coming hard and fast. Climax came all too quickly, forcing a guttural cry from him and blanking every thought in the rush of ecstasy. His knees gave way and he dropped to the floor beside Stefn.
The other man suddenly cried, as well, his busily-moving hands clenching around his spurting sex. Then he folded forward, head bowed, sobbing for breath.
Michael recovered first, rising and cleaning himself off. He helped Stefn up, tending to him, also.
"Not the lethet, then?"
Stefn, breathing hard, refused to answer. Without another word, they went to bed. Sleep came quickly.
In the latter part of the Thirteenth Century, the Wet Years receded and populations grew. It became commonplace for fiefdoms to attempt expansion by invading their neighbors. This state of near-constant war not only kept mankind fragmented and in confusion, it allowed the nara to advance socially until many of the larger and more prosperous fiefdoms came to be under their control.
This fragmentation proved disastrous at the beginning of the naran war when Men failed repeatedly to ally themselves in the face of naran attacks.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1347
Morning came and Stefn woke to find himself alone. He lay in bed, content, until one of the footmen arrived with his breakfast tray.
"Begging your pardon, my lord, but Lord Arranz wants you to meet the other gentlemen in the stableyard at sunrise."
Stefn groaned, but he accepted the dressing gown the man handed him. "Where's Marin?" he asked.
"He left yesterday evening for his master's home."
Grumbling, Stefn went about washing up and getting dressed while the servant set out a generous breakfast of coddled eggs, fresh-baked bread with creamery butter, sausages and baked apple compote.
"Best wear your warmest outer garments," warned the footman as he busily packed Stefn's bags. "His Lordship plans to ride to Withwillow to make better time."
Stefn, wolfing his breakfast at the table by the windows, glanced curiously outside. The moon hung just above the roof of the east wing, a lingering white disk in the brightening sky. He didn't mind. One could see more from horseback and, besides, he was used to the cold.
The servant finished packing and bore his bags away. Stefn finished the last of the compote, chasing every last drop of the spiced syrup around the bowl with his spoon. His mood this morning was almost buoyant. Even the prospect of returning to Blackmarsh wasn't enough to crush it.
"Borstile?"
"My lord?"
"Would you do me a favor? In the library are three books set out on the reading table. Could you bring them to me, please?"
The footman hurried out, returning with the three thin volumes. All were ladies novels. Stefn intended to loan them to Miss Annie, whose kindness during his last visit he wanted to repay.
Forty-five minutes later, with a leather satchel holding Lord Bentley's newest adventures in hand, Stefn arrived at the stables. Everyone was there, even Auron, who had not bothered to dress, but merely thrown a heavy coat over his dressing gown.
Spotting a groom tying his bags to the saddle of a nicely turned-out mare, Stefn went straight over, handing him the books. Across the cobbled yard Michael and the prince talked, heads bent together. At first, Stefn thought they were arguing, then the prince burst into laughter, setting his hand on Michael's shoulder. Something in the familiarity of the gesture froze Stefn in place, twisting his stomach in the oddest way.
He turned back to his horse, making small adjustments to his mount's tack and answering the servant's small talk automatically. It was perfectly understandable, the intimate friendship between prince and the duke's grandson. Michael and Severyn had grown up together, were practically brothers. The prince even referred to the Demon Duke as "Uncle Damon." And why did he care, anyway? With a last tug at the girth, Stefn got into the saddle.
Prince Severyn embraced Arranz and went to speak to the others. From the corner of his eye, Stefn watched Michael mount with his usual grace, shaking back his silver banner of hair, utterly careless of his unnatural beauty. Something made Stefn glance to the prince and saw that he, too, stared at the h'naran lord. Once again, Stefn felt the twinge of angst. When Lothlain's gaze suddenly swiveled to him, Stefn quickly looked away, heart pounding.
"Ready for the ride?" Michael's tone was cheerful, his smile easy. Stefn's spirits rose. He grinned back. With a chorus of goodbyes ringing behind them, they started down the drive.
Stefn imagined he could feel Lothlain's gaze boring into his back. Just before they rounded the corner at the battery, Michael turned and waved, but Stefn kept his eyes firmly ahead.
Around the battery and past the old gate house they rode; through Shia's outer walls and out onto the rutted roadway. On his first trip out of the parish, Stefn had been frightened, with no idea what had lain ahead. Now his heart beat faster in excitement.
"Still imagining my death?"
Starting, he glanced over at Michael whose smile had turned wry.
"Not this morning," replied Stefn. "Maybe later."
Michael laughed. "Let me know when you do," he said. "I'll try my best to distract you."
There was a wealth of meaning in his gaze, that was reflected in his eyes. How strange it was that their cool color could seem so warm.
"Do we go to Blackmarsh first?" asked Stefn, feeling his own face heat. "Or on the way back?"
"First, I'm afraid. It's been nearly a month since word from home. Most likely it's nothing, but with this new Hunter outpost in Creighton, I don't like to make such assumptions."
Stefn enjoyed being on horseback. As the day brightened around them, he saw the parish with new eyes. Suddenly, the bare, rolling land promised limitless possibilities instead of unattainable destinations. Distant ribbons of chimney-smoke made him think of the repairs being made on his people's ramshackle dwellings.
Several times before crossing the parish line, they passed wagons heading north bearing shingles and bags of mortar.
"It's not just repair of village homes, but new ones being built, as well," Michael replied when Stefn commented.
"They'd best hurry. When true winter comes, they'll need a stout roof and thick walls. How is the food supply in the village?"
"As good as can be expected, given what they had under your father. The prince means to support the parish through the winter, but next year at this time, things should be much different."
Support the peasants? His father had never cared a whit about their survival, seeing them only as sources of labor and income.
The weather held all the way to Fornsby, cold but clear and sunny. As twilight fell, they stopped again at the Cathedral Inn where the innkeeper greeted them like old friends. "Alas, my lords, your usual rooms are already taken, but if you insist, I could move the current occupants... "
"Not at all," Michael replied. "We'll take what you have."
What he had was a room on the third floor and one on the second. "Let's clean up," Michael suggested, "and go down for dinner."
They ate in a private parlor while the inn's big common room filled rapidly with patrons. Loud laughter and conversation reached the two noblemen each time the parlor door opened.
"Busy night," Michael observed at one point, when the landlord arrived to refill their glasses. "Is there a special occasion?"
"A battalion of Hunters are on their way to Brockhom Abbey," replied the innkeeper, his mouth tightening and turning down at the corners.
"Why?"
"Don't rightly know, my lords. We already have Hunters up at the Cathedral. Besides, this here's a peaceful parish and the Hunters we do have don't seem to be very busy, leastways, not that I've ever noticed."
The man hurried away. Michael frowned at the door as it closed after him. "Did Locke get to Arami already?"
Stefn wondered, too. Brockhom was smaller than Fornsby, at least, as far as he knew. An entire battalion seemed excessive, even to him.
"I'm tired," he said, not wanting to think about it. "If you don't mind, my lord, I think I'll retire."
Michael sighed and nodded, getting to his feet when Stefn did. "I'll walk up with you. Dawn always comes so absurdly early."
The din hit Stefn full force as he followed Michael out of the parlor. Everywhere he looked in the smoky, cavernous room were Hunter uniforms, green and gold. Inn servants fought their way through the crowd, carrying pitchers of ale and big bowls heaped high with salty fried pork rinds. A noisy crash and the sound of shattering glass came from somewhere amid the jostling throng, following by boisterous laughter. Nearby, a soldier reeled drunkenly into another patron, who swore and pushed him back.
Stefn felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck, disliking the sense of drunken aggression all around him. He saw immediately when the men noticed the h'nar in their midst, tall and pale and fearless. The silence spread outward until the only sounds were their footsteps as they crossed the interminable distance to the stairs. Muttering began behind them.
Almost there.
"Hold on, taint!" The voice came from behind, angry and imperious.
Michael didn't even pause, but neither did he hurry. Stefn, stomach in knots, could only try to emulate him and hope they reached safety. The ugliness at his back was palpable, familiar. Hatred, loathing, and fear, all wrapped into one seething mass of ill-will. Even if it wasn't directed at him for a change, Stefn could feel it pushing at him, urging him to run and hide.
"I said hold!"
Something whooshed past Stefn's cheek. Too fast to see clearly, Michael's arm swung up and he seemed to snatch it out of mid-air. An empty mug. There was a ripple of gasps and everywhere men made the sign against evil.
"Witch!"
Two Hunters broke from the bystanders. Officers they were, by their stars, and not so drunk as their fellows.
"I knew it!" declared one, a captain. "A taint and a witch! You have some bloody nerve coming in here!"
Agreement rumbled throughout the onlookers.
"Witchcraft's against the law, even here in the West," the officer continued. He reached to his hip, but the inn's rules prohibited weapons in the common room.
His companion looked around and shouted, "Innkeeper! Ho, you fool! Where are you?!"
The landlord appeared, apprehensive. "Sir?"
"What sort of establishment is this, man? Serving taints? Have you not been heeding the counsel of the Church? It's an insult!" He turned toward a table at which only two men sat. They, too, were Hunters, but Stefn saw the differences in their uniforms at once: red braid with the gold, and the green so dark as to be almost black. Their swords leaned against their chairs, within easy reach, in spite of the tavern's rules. One of the officers wore a large, ornate medallion around his neck. Stefn felt a tiny, superstitious chill run up his spine as he recognized the red braid: Dragons of Loth!
"B-but, it's Lord Arranz, grandson of the Duke of Blackmarsh!" the innkeeper babbled. "Blessed by St. Aramis himself."
The officer's reply never came. One of the Dragons suddenly rose and utter silence fell over the room.
"Who cares?" the Dragon drawled. "A taint's a taint --- an affront to Loth unless in Penitent's garb. And witchcraft is a sin, no matter how blue the witch's blood." He reached down, taking up his sword. Of course, no one would dare order a Dragon to set his blade aside! The rattle of steel was ominously loud as he drew it from its sheath.
Throughout the common room, the gathered Hunters started up an ugly muttering.
"My lords!" The innkeeper was near panic. "No fighting, please."
Michael looked the Dragon up and down, then shrugged and turned his back, continuing toward the stairs. Stefn remained rooted to the floor; a shocked hush all around. The Dragon's eyes narrowed, his mouth tightening into a hard, angry line. He lifted his blade, pointing it at Michael's back.
"Michael!"
Even as Stefn cried out, the sword flew, straight as an arrow, across the empty space, its blade sparking with lothrian fire. Michael seemed scarcely to move, yet somehow, the sword missed him, flashing past to bury itself in the rough, wooden post beside the stairs.
Michael stared at it, as if surprised, then stepped forward and wrested it from the post. He turned, facing the knightmage. The Dragon stared back at him, surprise and chagrin bringing a flush to his face. His lips moved. The other Dragon, still seated, looked at his companion, eyebrows drawing together. Stefn felt a shiver across his skin and knew Words had been spoken.
But Michael seemed oblivious. He examined the blade with apparent curiosity, hefting it and giving a few, experimental thrusts and parries. Then, unhurried, he walked back across the room, the crowd backing hastily away, to stop at the Dragons' table. At once, the second Dragon was on his feet, his own sword in hand. Michael, however, only smiled. "Not a superior blade," he remarked in a clear, carrying voice. Then, without seeming to expend any effort, he drove the point into the floor. He said something else, too softly for anyone but the two soldiers to hear. Once again, he turned his back and headed for the stairs. As he passed Stefn, he said quietly, "We're leaving."
Stefn realized his hands were clenched. Deliberately, he opened them and followed Michael up the stairs. Once out of sight of the common room, Michael started running, taking the stairs two at a time. Behind them, an angry roar was raised.
"Get your things and meet me at the back stairs," Michael said when the reached the second-floor landing. "Hurry!"
Stefn needed no such advice. He rushed to his room, snatching up his bags. His heart pounded as he dashed back out into the corridor. The shouting was louder, accompanied by the sound of boots on the stairs.
Michael was already at the servants' stairs, his sword drawn. "Here!" He tossed something to Stefn, who nearly missed catching it. "Do you know how to handle one of these?"
It was a short sword in a wooden sheath. Usually, Michael kept it tied to his saddle. Stefn's hand closed around the hilt, drawing it halfway out. The blade gleamed in the poor light of the stairwell. He shoved it back in and nodded.
They reached the bottom of the stairs as the noise grew behind them. Racing across the courtyard toward the stables, Stefn risked a glance over his shoulder. His heart jumped into his throat. Hunters swarmed around the corners of the inn and the night rang with their shouts and curses.
Reaching the stables, Stefn felt the strange tingling of magic again. Michael swore, the stable doors refusing to open. He whispered something as Stefn fell against the stable wall, pulling out the shortsword and staring in horror at the approaching soldiers. The door burst open and the shouts of their pursuers rose in outrage.
"I hope your equestrian skills are up to riding bareback," Michael shouted. "Grab the best horse you can find!"
Stefn wasted no time. He found a sturdy gelding and threw himself onto its back. The stable door was closed again, shaking under the Hunters' assault. Michael, lips moving ceaselessly, guided his animal down the narrow aisle to the back of the building. He raised a hand. Sparks outlined his fingers. There was a hideous cracking, splintering sound, and the wooden wall before them gave way. Leaping onto the animal's back, Michael was through, bent low over the horse's neck.
Stefn galloped after him while, behind them, there was a loud whoosh and a roar. Clinging to the gelding's mane, he looked back and saw, to his horror, the stable was engulfed in flames!
"This way!" shouted Michael, leaving the road. Plunging through a ditch and up the other side, they rode into a sparsely wooded stretch of empty land. Without warning, Stefn's horse suddenly stopped, shuddering, then reared wildly. The world tilted and Stefn lost his seat, flying off and landing hard on the ground.
Michael swore. All around them, the tall weeds bent and twisted as if strong winds came from all directions. Stefn scrambled to his feet, breathless, and tried to reach his horse, but it was dancing and tossing its head, eyes rolling in paroxysms of terror.
Stefn's stomach churned and he collapsed to his knees, ears ringing as k'na fought lothria. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Silence fell. His horse settled down a bit, still skittish, but no longer behaving as if it had gone mad.
Michael, grim-faced, whispered Words ceaselessly, beckoning for Stefn to mount up again. Warily, Stefn approached his horse. To his relief, it allowed him back on.
"Go ahead," Michael said hoarsely. His hands gripped his horse's mane. "I'll follow."
Stefn nodded and rode past him, going deeper into the woods. He was soon lost, of course. He looked around and saw Michael still behind him, eyes half-closed, whispering.
"Michael?"
He had to repeat himself before Michael straightened, blinking at him in a bemused way. The h'nar looked around. "Where are we?"
Stefn just shook his head, too tired and shaken to answer. They had been surrounded by trees for some time now. Nothing looked familiar, not that it would have anyway.
"Are they still after us?" he asked.
"No."
Michael dismounted, slumping onto a fallen, moss-covered tree, and dropped his head into his hands. Moonlight fell through branches left half-bare from autumn's falling leaves. The night air was filled with the sound of night creatures going about their business.
Stefn got down from his horse and made his way unsteadily to Michael's side.
Michael lifted his head. His eyes, lost in deep shadow, were unreadable. Then he turned away. "I should have worn my hood."
"Does that happen often?" Stefn asked.
"Not here in the west. At least, it hasn't. In the east, of course, it's a different story, what with Zelenov busy poisoning all their neighbors." Stefn heard the bitterness.
"Why didn't you stay?" asked Michael finally. "They would have happily offered you protection."
"I don't know."
Another silence fell, stretching out between them. It was not uncomfortable, however. Stefn yawned.
"How do you feel about sleeping under the stars tonight?" asked Michael, looking up through the branches into the cloudless sky. It was cool; Stefn was glad for his coat, but the temperature was not unbearable.
"I don't mind."
They broke off some low-hanging branches from a nearby pine, making a rough bed by the fallen tree. When Michael lay down, curling up on one side of it, Stefn didn't hesitate to nestle up beside him. He felt Michael stiffen, then relax. The h'nar rolled over, gathering Stefn up in his arms.
It was absurd how safe Stefn felt, wrapped in that embrace, how deliciously warm and snug. Michael's breath stirred his hair and Stefn thought he felt lips brushing the top of his head. Probably, he thought tiredly, he just imagined it, but it was an unexpectedly pleasant flight of fancy and he held it close to his heart as he fell soundly and dreamlessly to sleep.
They continued their journey south using back roads. Michael kept his hood up and let Stefn deal with the innkeepers and tavern-masters along the way. They heard nothing about the matter back in Fornsby, although a great deal of talk was overheard concerning the influx of Hunters. Not much of what they heard was positive.
Their visit to Blackmarsh House was brief. The Demon Duke was not there. Stefn was relieved to hear it, but Michael seemed displeased. Before they'd even taken the time to clean off the dirt from the road, he vanished with his half-brother and wasn't seen again for hours.
That allowed Stefn to become reacquainted with the lively Miss Anne, who greeted his offering of novels with an ecstatic cry.
"I should like to write a lady's novel," she confessed. "There just aren't enough of them, don't you think? I know it's very shallow of me, but I find more respectable literature so dreadfully boring! The stories plod along so!"
Stefn was given his old room. Marin, who had gone on before them, was there to fill him in on the household gossip. "Seems the Duke hasn't been around much, milord. And he won't say where's he's been, neither. Just comes in, sleeps, eats, dashes off a couple of letters, and goes again. Poor Captain Arranz does what he can, Loth knows Lord Phillip is no help, but there's a lot to do to manage such a large parish. Since Lord Michael left here last time, they've stopped several Hunter patrols from Creighton who 'accidentally' wandered onto parish land."
Stefn's bedroom door was no longer locked, but he was in no hurry to leave his room. The thought of accidentally meeting the duke turned his stomach to knots. He did expect to see Michael eventually, but although he sat up late with a book, Michael didn't appear and Stefn finally fell asleep in his chair.
In the morning, Marin brought him an invitation from Miss Anne to join the family in the breakfast room. He was sitting at the table with her, discussing the trials of her favorite heroine, when Michael finally appeared.
Anne promptly bounced up to give him a hug. He returned it before making a straight line to the sideboard. "Don't let me disturb you," he said over his shoulder. "Continue with Lady Giselda's tribulations, by all means."
She tossed her head and sat back down, pouring herself another cup of t'cha. "Why should we when it's quite obvious you think it's silly and will poke fun."
Stefn grinned. Michael rolled his eyes, coming to the table with a well-laden breakfast plate. He pulled out the chair beside Stefn and sat down, asking his sister, "Is that a new gown, poppet?"
She sparkled at him across the table. "It is! I ordered it from Miss Chesney's in Lothmont! There was more than enough in the allowance you gave me." Her expression grew hopeful. "Did you bring more money?"
"Not as much, alas." Michael smiled apologetically at her little moue of disappointment. "We're on our way to Withwillow again. I only stopped by to speak to grandfather. Since he's not here, we should leave right away."
"Of course you must," she huffed.
"Severyn's orders."
Michael was true to his word. By noon, they were on the road again. Disinclined to talk, Michael rode ahead, staring grimly forward as they crossed the causeway and trotted out onto the road to Withwillow. Stefn let him be, enjoying the mild afternoon and the scenery.
In the peat fields, farmers were still harvesting, driving their cutter-plows back and forth across the spongy black earth, removing hefty squares to be dried and, later, portioned into smaller blocks for sale in the markets.
In the weeks since Stefn had last been this way, autumn had come in earnest. The tall grasses had turned gold, crimson and brown. As the vegetation faded, more open water was visible in the marsh. From what Stefn had read, most of the north marsh would freeze in the winter, but further south where it joined the delta, the deep, powerful currents kept the ice at bay.
The sun shone brightly and a southerly breeze chased the puffy clouds northwards. Michael finally relaxed and recovered his good humor. At the inn that night, they got into a lively debate over the idea of a Peasant's Council, an idea advanced by Michael before and one greeted with open disbelief by his friends.
"Every political thinker I've ever read has rejected the notion!" Stefn insisted over roast fowl and heaps of fried potatoes. "If power is put into the hands of the uneducated, disaster will result."
"You need to widen your repertoire of political thinkers, then. How about Gracey?"
"Gracey? You can't be serious! The man was mad! Besides, he married a commoner. Of course, he might be more receptive to such an idea."
"Perhaps if we all knew our less privileged brethren better, our own attitudes would change."
Alas, their traveling weather didn't hold, and they set out next day in the rain. The storms persisted all the way to Withwillow and it was a soggy pair of travelers who at last checked into the Bayview Hotel.
"Bath," grunted Michael, who resembled nothing more than a drowned rat. "Shall we meet for dinner downstairs?"
Stefn had his own bath and, afterwards, sat before the fire with a restorative glass of cider. He was getting used to this life; to the fine accommodations, the courtesy of servants, companionship. His freedom was an illusion, but even an illusion was more than he'd had before.
Dinner was again a pleasant interlude. Michael looked impossibly handsome, turning every head in the big dining room. Some of the regard was unfriendly, but most of the glances were from women and were filled with admiration.
"In which library shall we begin our search?" asked Stefn over dessert. He had his guidebook with him and now drew it out of his pocket. He had marked the page. "There are really only six that could reasonably be thought to have the plans for a printing press."
"So many?" Michael grimaced.
"There are fourteen libraries in all of Withwillow. Those six are just the most likely. That's only three apiece."
"I've sent a note to the Domicile," said Michael. "It's likely I'll have to meet with Storm in the morning. There's no reason you couldn't start without me, is there?"
"No. Of course not." Stefn's heart gave a little leap at the idea of immersing himself in all those books.
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly. "Should I send Marin with you?" he asked lightly.
"If you wish." Stefn held Michael's gaze, unflinching. "But there's no need."
A silence held between them, a moment only, yet something echoed in it and set Stefn's heart to beating faster. He looked away first, turning a page of the guidebook without seeing a word. "I think I'll start with the College of Engineering and Alchemy's Library. That seems the most obvious place."
"That's not far from the Domicile," agreed Michael. "I'll meet you there afterwards."
The feeling passed, but it returned when they said good-night. Stefn watched Michael disappear into the room across the hall before retreating into his own chamber. He got into his nightshirt and dressing gown and went through his nightly ritual of washing and examining his foot. His mind was not on the growing sixth toe, however.
Traitor! Naragi! He should never forget that! All Michael's fine promises, his kindness, could vanish in an instant when Stefn was no longer needed. He was nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. A cethe. A slave.
For one hideous moment, the wanting broke free of its tomb deep in his soul. His throat tightened and his eyes burned. But he was smarter than that. Ruthlessly, Stefn slammed down on it. He pulled back his covers and climbed into bed. It was simply a matter of making it from one day to the next, just like it had been when his father was alive. He would take the illusion they gave him, beguiling and exciting as it was, but never once would he be fool enough to mistake it for reality. He'd survived his father; he'd survive this, too.
In the fourth year of the war, in the face of relentless naran advances, did the first high lothrian mages appear. Prior to that time, Loth had restricted the exercise of His holy power to healing, but, in His infinite wisdom, He judged St. Aramis worthy of His trust and so endowed him with lothria of greater power than that wielded with such devastating effect by the evil naragi. Almost at once, the tide of the battle turned.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1347
Storm's reply arrived promptly first thing in the morning, handed to Michael by the hotel clerk when he came down to breakfast. The bishop would be delighted to host him at his earliest convenience.
Good. Get it out of the way.
Stefn would be enthralled by the College libraries. Michael easily imagined the difficulty ahead in prying the young bookworm away from their endless, musty stacks. What a pity he wouldn't be there to see it.
"Arranz?"
Michael looked around to see the earl making his way down the hotel's grand staircase.
"Sorry I'm late," Stefn smiled, though he seemed heavy-eyed and tired.
"Was your bed not comfortable?"
"It was fine. I was just... " Stefn drew a breath. "All the traveling. Still not used to it, I suppose."
"You don't have to go out now. If you feel like catching up on your sleep, by all means, stay here."
There was a flash in those green eyes, an echo of the old anger and defiance. Michael was startled by it, but then Stefn seemed to take himself in hand. He shook his head, producing a wan smile. "No, it's all right. I'm eager to get started, truly."
"I'll meet you there, then," said Michael. "Hire a cab if you don't feel like riding. I've told the concierge you're to have whatever you wish."
Again he received an odd, unsettling look, but before he could speak, Stefn turned and went ahead into the dining room. By the time a perplexed Michael joined him at their table, he seemed to have recovered his good humor, talking animatedly about the Academy, its history and distinguished alumni.
Michael took Marin with him to the Cathedral, the pair of them making their way slowly down fog-shrouded streets. His thoughts persisted in hovering about Eldering. Perhaps it was a mistake to let him go off on his own. He'd seemed a bit out of sorts. Maybe his foot was bothering him; he'd been limping again. Michael resolved to have a look at Stefn's foot as soon as possible.
The bishop greeted him in a cheery breakfast parlor, wearing a nicely-tailored, but unassuming suit. It made him look more like a solicitor than a priest. He greeted Michael warmly, bidding him sit down for t'cha and breakfast pastries.
Michael's news about the Second Chronicle was heard with excitement. Storm took Stefn's carefully copied volume, eagerly turning pages.
"Praise be to Loth!" he said. "Could it be that all Chronicles survived?"
"All?"
"There was a third, you know. At least, there were rumors of one. It was said to be underway at the time of the fire, written by no less a personage than your ancestor, Lord Derek. There are no stories in your family of it?"
Michael shook his head, intrigued.
"Yes, it was St. Aramis' wish that the nara's true story be told. He died shortly before the fire, of course, but he'd made his desires known to his Scholar's Guild."
"Perhaps it's tucked away in some noble's castle, forgotten, just as this one was."
"I pray it's so. May I keep this copy?"
"Yes, although I didn't bring it just so you could add it to your collection of dangerous books."
The bishop looked up quizzically.
"What if dozens of copies of this Chronicle were to suddenly appear here and there throughout Tanyrin?
Storm straightened, eyes narrowing. "Dozens? That would require a printing press, my lord, unless you have an army of scribes prepared to work night and day."
"Naturally, we would need a press."
Storm closed the book, laying his hand on it, gaze thoughtful. "There are three presses here in Withwillow. Unfortunately, all three are in very public places and registered with the Council. Still, if we're clever, we might be able to use at least one of them."
Michael shook his head. "The Council would investigate Withwillow first, don't you think, Your Excellency?"
The bishop shrugged and smiled ruefully.
"If we were to see to the printing," Michael went on, "could we rely upon you to have them distributed in places where they might find the most readers?"
Storm brightened "Assuredly! You may be surprised at how receptive an audience it will find. You should do the same with the manuscript in my possession. I've had it copied out, as well." This was more than Michael had hoped for. "Excellent! We will certainly do so. Which of the two Chronicles would you suggest we print first?"
"The First," replied Storm at once. "In the meantime, I will query those clerics of my acquaintance who feel as I do about the direction of the Church. Several of them are quite highly placed. With their help, the true knowledge and wisdom of St. Aramis can be restored to the people of Tanyrin and the kingdom once more be set upon the path that Loth intended for us."
Of Withwillow's many libraries, four were located directly within the Academy's campus, immediately adjacent to the Cathedral. The massive, rectangular moonstone buildings were single-storied and stood facing each other across a broad square known as Scholars Plaza. The spot was famous for its public debates and as Stefn approached, his heart quickened in anticipation.
The hired carriage left him at the plaza's edge. Fascinated, he wandered among the groups gathered there, listening to the debates until someone noticed him. Then he would move on to the next debate. There were more students than clerics present; the green and brown habits of the latter were easily spotted amid the more colorful and fashionable student attire.
As he passed an especially large group, he noticed the tone of the debate seemed more acrimonious than the others. Intrigued, he went to investigate. Standing on a box, a book clutched under his arm, was a novice priest. Surrounding him were more novices and a few brown-robed priests. Most of the remaining audience were Academy students who seemed unimpressed by the young cleric's speech, hooting and shouting him down frequently.
"...cursed to relive the trials and atrocities of the old days!" the novice shouted, trying to be heard above the noise. "Their very presence corrupts! To tolerate them in our midst is to insult Loth!"
"Where does it say so in Loth's Covenant?" shouted a youth next to Stefn. He waved a slim pamphlet at the speaker. "Here is the Word of Loth! He makes no mention of them!"
"If you want to talk about corruption," another called out, "look to your masters, priestling!"
"Aye!"
"Absolutely right!"
"In my parish, the abbot's Domicile is more luxurious than the parish lord's!"
"I speak of spiritual corruption!" retorted the novice, raising his arm and brandishing his book. "Their foul witchcraft, their insidious attempts to mingle their cursed blood with ours --- can you be so blind to not see they intend nothing less than our destruction?"
"Every taint I know believes in Loth!"
"You're a madman!"
"And you are fools and heretics!" This came from one of the priests standing at the speaker's feet. "You can't see the truth before your eyes! Only when the taints offer themselves to Loth as Penitents are they redeemed and made harmless!"
"Bishop Storm doesn't think so!" cried a student. "He says the h'nara and humans are both equal in Loth's eyes!"
"He's a heretic, too!" shouted the speaker, red-faced. "He ignores edicts from the Celestial Council and allows taints to pollute the city with their crimes and blasphemy!"
"Our bishop cares about everyone! He is true to the Covenant!"
"I hear the Celestials take the most beautiful Penitents as their personal whores!"
Stefn realized he was no longer on the edge of the crowd. More students had joined the audience, jostling forward. Priests and novices were among them, all trying to out-shout the others.
Suddenly, something flew through the air, landing on the speaker's shoulder. It splattered, covering the young man's habit and face with dripping, pink juice. For an instant, the novice seemed frozen, his face twisted in ludicrous surprise. Then he toppled backwards and out of sight.
Pandemonium broke loose. Tomatoes, eggs, and lute-apples rained down on the clerics, who responded by surging forward, swinging their fists and shouting imprecations. Belatedly, Stefn realized he was in the middle of a full-blown riot! Alarmed, he turned and pushed his way out of the mob, struggling against the tide, buffeted this way and that. He finally managed to break free, although not without having acquired random bits of vegetation in his hair and on his clothing.
Across the plaza, the familiar green and gold of Hunters appeared. Stefn quickened his pace, wiping off the bits of leaf and slimy lute-apple seeds while the chaos grew behind him.
Once away from the plaza, he stopped and caught his breath, taking stock of his situation. The arrival of the Hunters had dispersed the crowd, students running in all directions. The soldiers, on the other hand, made no effort to pursue anyone, content to clear the plaza of combatants.
His apprehension fading, Stefn began to be amused by the entire experience. He suspected Michael would find it humorous, too. In the meantime, however, he had business to take care of. Returning to the now peaceful plaza, he looked around for the library he wanted.
A passing student that he stopped pointed to the building directly behind him. Reaching it, Stefn saw the library's name etched on a small, inconspicuous bronze plaque: Warden Library of Engineering and Alchemy. He pushed open the door, heart quickening in anticipation.
Inside, the moonstone had been plastered over. A newer, wooden wall created a lobby with reading tables and a librarian's desk near an archway leading to the stacks.
The man behind the desk was dozing, however, and didn't stir when Stefn approached. The catalog lay on the desktop in front of him. After a moment, Stefn stepped forward and, with one eye on the slumbering librarian, began looking through it.
Privately, he did not expect to find anything. Surely, the priests would put such information under lock and key? Yet, within a minute or two, as Stefn glanced at the heading of each page he turned, his eyes suddenly lit on 'producing mechanical text.' His heart lept. He noted the number of the shelf and, when the librarian continued to doze, went through the archway.
Once inside, he was struck dumb. Shia's library was unusually large, possessing five hundred and twenty-seven books. Stefn stared at what was surely ten times that number. They crammed shelf after shelf, straight, orderly rows marching from one end of the barn-sized chamber to the other. His nostrils were filled with the scent of them. It was a moment or two before he was able to get on with it. Reciting the shelf number under his breath in an endless litany, he started down the nearest row.
To think he'd considered Shia's library impressive! What a naive fool he'd been!
An edition of Chase's Forts and Castles caught his attention. He'd seen it referenced frequently in books he'd read, but Shia had no copy. Unable to help himself, Stefn pulled it down from the shelf. It was satisfyingly thick and almost new, the leather smooth and tight, the print crisp upon the page. He noted the printer's mark on the frontispiece: Withwillow Academy Press.
Reluctantly, he set it back and continued his search. Title after title passed under his dazzled eyes. There were instructions for the manufacture of dozens of machines. Scattered among them were works of mechanical theory, of engineering history, alchemy, astronomy, even speculative texts on naran devices. Frequently, Stefn couldn't help but stop to take out an especially intriguing volume, reading avidly until something recalled him to his mission.
The section on printing presses and writing instruments was at the far end of a back row, on the bottom shelf. While the rest of the shelves had contained new works along with the old, here nothing had been added for years. Nor had it been disturbed, from the looks of it. Stefn took out two likely volumes and blew dust from their covers.
Footsteps approaching made him start. He looked around. Michael? Already?
"I just found what we need," Stefn greeted him.
"Just?" Michael grinned. "I should have thought you'd not only found the books, but read half of them by now."
"I got distracted," replied Stefn with a guilty look around.
Michael laughed, quickly muffling it when Stefn shushed him.
"These are the best I could find," said Stefn with a warning frown. "Let's take them to the reading room and have a closer look."
Michael took them, but to Stefn's astonishment, tucked them into his coat. Smiling blandly, he strolled away. Stefn, not sure whether to be outraged or admiring, hurried after him.
The librarian was still napping when they let themselves out of the stacks. All eyes swiveled to follow Michael across the marble floor. Stefn's heart pounded, expecting to have someone call out at any moment, but they made it outside without incident.
A carriage waited at the bottom of the steps to take them back to the hotel. No sooner were they inside it then Stefn pounced. "You stole the books!"
Michael gave him a wide-eyed look. "Nonsense. I borrowed them."
"You mean to return them, then?" Stefn made no effort to restrain the sarcasm.
"Maybe." Michael pulled both of them out, tossing Stefn one. "You look through that one."
Stefn dropped it to the seat beside him instead. "What did His Excellency say? Did he agree it was a worthy idea to print the Chronicle? Will he distribute it?"
"He does and he will." Michael's face lit up in a triumphant grin. "And we have a copy of the First Chronicle manuscript, too!"
As the carriage made its way uphill toward the hotel, Michael recounted his conversation with the bishop. By the time they reached their destination, Stefn began to think the plan, audacious as it was, had a real chance of success.
Later, in the dining room, their table shielded from general view by a very large potted fern, they consulted their purloined goods. Stefn's was the newer book, but it contained no drawings. Its rambling discussion of theory was accompanied by an occasional sketch, but only of completed presses.
Michael had more luck. "Mine has plans," he said, handing it across their soup course to Stefn. "I don't know what good they will do us. There are some oddly shaped parts."
Stefn helped himself to another dinner roll and studied the sketches. The objects they depicted were familiar. Munching absently, he turned a page. As he did, he recalled where he had seen such things.
"The cellars!" he mumbled through a mouthful of roll. "I've seen this in Shia's cellars!" He stabbed a finger at the etching of a long, cylindrical object. "It was really old and rusty. I haven't been down there for years, but unless Lothlain has been clearing things out down there, too... "
"I don't think he's touched the cellars. Are you sure? You've seen this exact thing?"
Stefn nodded. "I've seen that piece, too. And this one!" He turned the page, excitement rising. "It has to be very old, pre-Reformation, according to this book, but if I'm right, there's at least part of a printing press at Shia!"
Stefn and Michael left Withwillow the next day. This time the weather held, making the ride considerably more pleasurable than the trip south. Michael seemed in no particular hurry. He was quite willing to delay here and there to visit some place of historical interest or admire scenery. They broke their journey early each evening, their leisurely suppers made twice as enjoyable by lively conversation. If Stefn found his bed lonely afterwards, he refused to admit it.
As they approached the northern highlands, it grew noticeably colder. Since Fornsby was too risky, Michael hired a carriage in nearby Granville. "I'll not arrive at Shia with frostbite," he declared.
Stefn sniffed. "This isn't cold," he sneered. "You won't last a month in Shia once proper winter is here."
Privately, however, he was more than happy to abandon the cold, windy saddle for the comfortable, leather-upholstered cab. Furs and thick quilts were piled high on the seats and the innkeeper had hot bricks brought out to keep their feet warm. Michael joined him a few minutes later, complaining about the cold and blowing on his hands.
"Gloves," suggested Stefn.
Marin slammed the door, leaving them in darkness. Almost at once, the carriage lurched forward, pitching him onto his seat.
"I can think of a good way to warm up." In the cab's gloom, Michael's voice was deep and teasing.
"Do all h'nara have such beast-like natures, or is it a special quality of the naragi?" But Stefn's heart sped up and he was glad of the dark.
"I don't know. Very little knowledge has survived, even among us. The naragi were said to have many secret rituals and spells, but all that's survived is legend and the handful of high spells my grandfather gave me."
"Liar."
"Do you think I would have gone through the Bonding if I'd known beforehand what would happen?" Witchlight appeared, the small glowing orb dancing indignantly above Michael's shoulder. "It was hardly a pleasure for me, either!"
They glared at each other. Then Michael sighed, collapsing back above the seat. The witchlight winked out, but morning light filtered in, lightening the gloom. The h'nar turned his head, looking out the window. Stefn wanted to show equal indifference, but he could not help being acutely aware of the other man. He finally stole another glance, but Michael didn't look around. Instead, he seemed to have dropped off into a doze, head fallen to one side. Wrapped in a padded, dark blue quilt, he breathed deeply and evenly. Abandoning all pretense, Stefn studied him.
What if it was true? What if Michael had meant what he said about their being friends? He seemed to enjoy Stefn's company, but would it be true if they had not been thrown together in such a way? Michael Arranz enjoyed the affection and loyalty of men whose birth and character Stefn had learned to admire. Even the Crown Prince of Tanyrin held Michael in esteem! Who was Stefn, compared to them? The younger son of barbaric hedge-lord and a sin-catcher, that's who!
Stefn remembered the look on Prince Severyn's face the morning he and Michael had ridden out of Shia. He squirmed at the memory. That had been jealousy! More than friendship had looked out of the prince's handsome face, maybe even more than the love of a brother.
Michael stirred, murmuring something. Stefn looked away, not wanting to be caught staring, but Michael was quickly still again. His eyelashes were long and darker than one would expect from one with such pale coloring. They fluttered now and then as, beneath the lids, his eyes chased dreams. Occasionally, his lips moved, but no sound reached Stefn.
It's possible to love such a man.
The fur slipped from Michael's shoulder. Stefn got up and tucked it back, only to have Michael wake and, with frightening speed, seize his wrist in a painful grip.
"Y-your blanket," stammered Stefn. "I was just... "
The coachman chose that moment to drive over an especially large rut and Stefn lost his balance, tumbling into Michael's arms. They closed around him tightly. "Careful," Michael whispered against his cheek. "This vehicle isn't particularly well-sprung."
"So I see." Stefn tried feebly to extricate himself, but Michael's embrace only tightened. His lips brushed along the line of Stefn's jaw. "Be still," he breathed.
It was too late to resist. Stefn knew it with a sudden, overwhelming rush of heat. Even as he tried to form the words of protest, he arched his neck, offering more of it to Michael's caress. Of its own accord, it seemed, his body shifted until he was astride Michael on the seat. All thoughts of resistance vanished. The coach jolted again, pushing them closer together.
Michael groaned, pulling Stefn hard against him. "Do you really expect me to push you away?" he whispered, mouth against Stefn's ear.
Stefn was beyond speech. He met Michael's kisses eagerly, shifting about until he felt Michael's strong, warm hand pressed against his erection. Then nothing else mattered. There were only the two of them, oblivious to the world, mouths seeking each other's in a frantic coupling, their hands moving in swift, fevered rhythm.
Afterwards, when Stefn could think again, he tried to summon indignation. "I told you not to do that."
Michael's response was a low chuckle. He finished buttoning up his overcoat, which has been opened during their fumbling romp. In the dim light of the coach, his hair seemed to glow like moonlight. Reaching over, he took hold of Stefn's lapels and pulled him over. Without a by-your-leave, he kissed Stefn's swollen lips, gently, taking his time. When he released Stefn at last, the earl was dizzy.
"Bastard," whispered Stefn, tingling from his lips to his toes. He looked flushed and excited, wanton and needy.
So Michael kissed him again.
Michael and Stefn reached Shia ahead of another demon wind.
"Winter," Stefn announced with unholy satisfaction as they ran from the carriage into the keep. "I hope you know what you're in for. The early storm we had last month was just a taste. These winds will come more frequently now."
Michael returned a sour look, peeling off his outer garments and handing them over to a maid. He was chilled to the bone. Since leaving Fornsby, the temperature had plunged, turning wet roads icy, the strong northern winds slowing their progress. Even the abundance of blankets and furs in their carriage hadn't done much to keep him warm.
Blowing on his numb hands, he went straight for the parlor where, as he'd suspected, a good fire was laid and Auron was stretched out on the sofa, napping.
"Hard at work, I see," Michael said, dropping a nearby cushion onto his friend's face. Auron sat up straight, sputtering. He blinked at Michael, then at Stefn.
"Nng," he replied. "It's about time you got back! I've been about out of my mind with boredom."
Michael caught sight of the decanter beside the couch. "You and Father Barley, I see. Well, holiday is over."
"You found some plans?" Auron's drowsy look vanished.
"We have," Stefn declared triumphantly.
"And possibly a press," added Michael.
It was decided they would waste no time in hunting down the press parts. After a quick supper, the three young men scattered to their respective rooms where, at Stefn's advice, they put on their oldest clothes and donned thick gloves.
Holding lamps with flames turned high, the three gentlemen faced a narrow, creaking staircase descending into darkness. A strong draft surged up from the depths, icy cold and smelling of damp and old stone.
"I'll direct the search from here," Auron announced, eyeing the pit with consternation. "Mold makes me sneeze."
"Baby," sneered Michael, starting down the steps. "It's a damned cellar."
Stefn, grinning, followed him down. At the bottom, corridors ran off in all directions, low-ceilinged and narrow. An assortment of rubbish lay about. It was so cold, Michael could see his breath.
Auron was finally persuaded to join them, looking around the dreary place with a pained expression. "Dear God," he muttered, then sneezed elaborately. "Is it safe down here?"
"There are rats," acknowledged Stefn, eyes twinkling. "Very large ones."
Auron gave him a sharp look. "How large?"
Michael, having already moved toward one of the corridors, stopped suddenly. "Loth save us!" he exclaimed, voice reverberating with horrified disgust. Auron responded with an undignified yelp and was up the stairs again in a flash.
Michael hooted derisively. He winked at Stefn and, moving his lamp about, asked, "Where did you see these pieces?"
With Auron calling down curses, Stefn led Michael through a dank corridor to one of many stout wooden doors. Opening it revealed a storeroom full of rotted wooden crates, some split open, their contents strewn on the already debris-covered floor.
It had the look of a garbage-heap, with every manner of unwanted thing carelessly thrown here and forgotten. Heaps of old clothing lay about. There were moldy, leather-covered trunks, dressmakers' dummies and broken toys.
"I think it was here," he said. His grin was gone and he seemed pale, although it might have been an effect of the lamplight. "But, it was a long time ago and I don't remember that clearly."
"Why ever would you come down here?" Michael asked, appalled. They would be lucky if rats were the worst of what skulked about.
Stefn opened his mouth, but hesitated. "Just fooling around," he said finally. "It was over there."
Locked up, were you? Michael had the sudden urge to put his arm over Stefn's tense shoulders. Instead, he approached a pile of rusting metal.
Auron finally arrived, stolen library book in one hand, lantern in the other. He appeared physically unable to cross the threshold, but stood in the doorway while Michael and Stefn poked at the rubbish with their boots, trying to make out individual pieces in the jumble.
"There!" Stefn bent and picked up several small objects scattered at his feet. They proved to be type setting pieces. He gave them to Michael and returned to the pile. This time, he came up with the press handle, a long, curved piece covered by cracked ceramic. They picked their way carefully back to Auron and consulted the book. Michael's spirits rose.
"There's a press here, all right!"
Auron's eyes lit up.
"Or part of one." Michael was excited. He, Auron and Stefn returned to the pile and, within the space of an hour, emerged from the cellar, filthy but victorious, and lugging several great burlap sacks full of clanking metal parts. The press-stand remained in the cellar, too large and heavy for any single one of them to haul upstairs.
"We'll need to buy ink," Stefn said later when they were gathered in the laundry, washing off their treasures.
"And lots of paper," added Auron.
"But not all in one place. We have to be clever about this." Critically, Michael examined the type-piece he was cleaning, a large letter 'A'. In a low voice, he added, "Once the Church realizes they're dealing with an unregistered press, they'll start hunting for other clues."
As it turned out, several parts were missing, wooden pieces that had probably rotted away long ago. Thankfully, they were few in number and their shapes could be easily reproduced by unsuspecting local woodworkers.
Within two weeks, they had a functioning press. Late one night, after the servants were abed, the three of them dragged the heavy press frame to the north wing and set it up in an empty chamber not far from the library. There, on a table before the small fireplace, they attempted to set the type, with hilarious results. However, thanks to the instructions in their book and their own imaginations, they quickly got the hang of it and were soon printing pages of adequate neatness and uniformity.
"Now I know what I'll do should the Challorys ever go bankrupt," announced Auron one evening. "I'll start a printing business and print light reading for gentlemen. The sort of thing one can peruse late at night, should one be unfortunate enough to be alone in his bed."
Stefn choked, oversetting his type-case and sending the pieces everywhere.
Michael admitted to himself he should go back to his own room. As much as he had come to enjoy Stefn's company, and warmth, in bed, he owed his long-suffering cethe the chance for some privacy.
Stefn greeted his announcement with unexpected ambivalence. "Really? You're moving back? Are you sure?"
Michael's heart lifted slightly. "Are you asking me to stay?"
That was a bit too direct. Stefn looked away. "Do whatever you want," he replied. "You will anyway."
Michael took his things and retreated to his room. It was perfectly all right, he told himself, looking around at the fine furnishings, the heavy velvet draperies and not one, but two stoves, each occupying one end of the large chamber. Neither was lit, but he didn't bother calling a servant. Lighting the one nearest his bed, he crawled beneath his covers and fell asleep within sight of its comforting red glow.
A nightmare woke him in the middle of the night, sweating and terrified. He was out of bed and tying on his dressing gown before he realized what he was doing. Heart pounding, mouth dry, he struggled to remember the dream, but the details slipped away. It had been about Stefn; that much he remembered. After a moment of internal argument, he lit a lamp and went downstairs. Knocking softly at Stefn's door, he waited, but there was no sound from within. Carefully, he lifted the latch and peeked inside.
A lamp still burned on Stefn's reading table, giving enough light for Michael to see the bed in the next room with its lump of blankets. When the lump remained motionless, Michael let himself all the way in, padding silently to the bedside. Stefn slept, oblivious, curled up on the side he'd occupied when they'd shared it.
Perhaps he sensed Michael's presence. He murmured and shifted in his sleep, opening his eyes. Michael held his breath, going perfectly still.
"Nnnng. What's t'matter? Get back into bed. 'S cold." Then Stefn flopped around onto his side and was still again, breathing regular and deep.
Michael almost did it, almost accepted an invitation he knew Stefn would never remember giving in the morning. "Pleasant dreams," he whispered instead and went back to his room.
He slept late, waking only when a pounding on his door became too annoying to ignore. "Come in!" he shouted hoarsely, sitting up.
"Are you dead?" Auron asked, poking Michael's head. "You'd better get up. Your grandfather's just arrived and he's pacing the study. Something's got him in a foul mood."
That woke Michael completely. He vaulted out of bed and stumbled to his dresser. He didn't bother to call Marin, but dressed hastily and went straight to the study.
The duke was no longer pacing, but even seated on the sofa across from a nervous Auron, his posture conveyed impatience. They both looked around when Michael came in. Lord Damon rose. "It's about damned time!"
"What's wrong? Is everyone all right at home?"
"They're fine. It's you we need to worry about, damn the timing." Lord Damon reached into his jacket and brought out a crumpled envelope. Michael took it and was jolted by the sight of the Church insignia at the corner.
A sinking feeling made him loathe to open it, but he did so anyway. The letter inside was brief.
"What is it?" Auron demanded. "Mick? Your Grace?"
"It's a summons," replied Michael, numb with shock. He stared at his grandfather, whose grave expression was not without sympathy. "I'm to go to Lothmont at once and be wed."
With the defeat of the naran armies and the signing of the armistice, King Aramis I set about forming his new government. He divided power between the Royal House of Lothlain and the Church of Loth, taking the care and protection of his subjects' bodily needs under his authority and giving over to the Church all matters pertaining to the Immortal Soul.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume II,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1349
Severyn had four more days of Petition hearings scheduled. He'd specifically instructed his staff to approve half that number, but it seemed as if they, as well as the rest of the world, conspired to keep him nailed to the spot. As Nedby acerbically pointed out, who was to know when he might "condescend" to return to Tantagrel again?
The criticism was allowed to go unrebuked, mainly because Severyn knew the old man had the right of it. His duty was here, doing his brother's work. These audiences were tedious, if necessary, but his heart was in Shia with his friends and their cause. Seven weeks was far too long to be away from them --- from Mick.
"Who is next?" he asked a clerk when the door closed on the most recent of his Petitioners.
"You have nothing scheduled for next forty-five minutes," replied the clerk, a hint of disapproval in his voice. "Would you care to see someone instead?"
It had been Nedby's single, grudging compromise, to allow his weary prince scheduled breaks in the long day of petitioners. Severyn rose. "No. I'm going into my antechamber for a nap. Knock when my time is up."
The clerk looked like he wanted to object, following Severyn across the dais to the small door directly behind the prince's table and high-backed chair. Severyn closed the door in his face, imagining the clerk's expression as he locked it and shot home the bolt. After a moment, he heard rapidly retreating footsteps, then silence.
Grinning, Severyn went directly to the built-in bookshelf and pulled out the copy of Barhm's excruciating poetry. Tripping the hidden latch, he stepped aside to let the section of shelf swing outward.
A narrow passage ran between the walls. As had generations of Lothlain princes, Severyn followed it to various spyholes placed around the Petitioners' Hall. His goal this time was the luxurious chamber where noble petitioners waited for their audience.
The spyhole was hidden in the elaborate carving of a mirror's frame. A special glass lens had been fitted into it, giving a fish-eye's view of the entire room. Today, only a handful of men awaited his pleasure: Lord Brant of Kellweather and Sir Anthony Grade with their land dispute, Sir Martin Corlent and his solicitors, an inheritance question, and a newcomer. Seated by himself near the windows was a very young, very handsome youth who... Loth's breeches! It was Stefn Eldering! He was here alone? There was no part of the room out of view of the spy-lens; if Michael was here, or any of the others, they were hiding behind something.
The prince startled his clerk, bursting out of the antechamber and demanding Nedby's instant presence. The clerk, with one look at his master's face, took off running. The old Hallmaster appeared at once, huffing and puffing in alarm.
"When did Lord Eldering arrive?"
Nedby's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "L-Lord who?"
"Eldering! He's in the highbood waiting room."
"Your Highness! Wait! You mustn't go out there yourself!"
Severyn stopped, making an effort at calm. Of course he mustn't. He said, "Nedby?"
"Eldering... Eldering. Let me see. About an hour ago, I don't know why he's in there, however. Surely he doesn't think he can see you on such short... "
"Nedby!" Severyn's thunderous roar silenced the old man. Then, with dangerous calm, "Were you not informed of my impending marriage?"
The old man's face fell. "M-marriage. Of course, I... Eldering. Oh, dear!"
Severyn cut short the resulting flurry of bows and apologies. "Quit babbling, man! Go get him!"
"But your other appointments?"
The old fool needed to be retired, badly. Perhaps Nedby saw that in Severyn's face, for he gulped, bobbed once more and scampered off. The clerk, looking like he wanted to sink into the floor, stared woodenly ahead.
"Who's next?" Severyn asked him.
"M-Masters Smith and Graviston, trade dispute."
"Inform them I will be delayed."
"Yes, Highness! Right away!"
It did not take long for Eldering to arrive. Severyn dismissed his servants and took Stefn straight into the antechamber. "Who's with you?" he demanded at once. "Is Mick here?"
"No. I'm alone. It's about Michael I've come."
"What about him?" Severyn's heart lurched.
"The Church has issued its marriage Edict. Lord Arranz and the duke went to Lothmont."
It was as if someone had punched Sev in the gut. "Why? Why now?"
"It's tradition, isn't it? The Arranz line is sacred. Like your own, it must be continued."
"Well, yes, but... " Damn Locke! "It comes at a bad time. Besides, both his father and grandfather are still alive. Legally, there's no need."
"What reason would he have to fight it?" Eldering's question was reasonable. Severyn forced himself to calm down. "Would it not bring more attention to us if he resists?"
"Us?" Severyn recalled the circumstances of Eldering's presence. "Where's your keeper? Did Auron come with you? One of the others?"
"Lord Challory remained behind. I was accompanied by two of his guards. He sent this for you, as well."
The earl produced an envelope from his vest pocket. It was crumpled, but the seal was unbroken. Severyn tore it open and quickly scanned the contents. When he was done, he looked over at Eldering, who was perusing the bookshelf.
"Auron apparently trusts you." Severyn folded the letter and tucked it away. "A remarkable change of heart."
Eldering's green eyes met Severyn's, clear and direct. "Do not misunderstand, Lothlain. I have no fondness for the role you have all forced upon me and if that were all I knew you by, I should even now be resisting you with all my might. But I have seen how you treat those beneath you, the way you've come to the aid of Shia's villages. I have listened to you and the others argue passionately to improve the lot of all Tanyrians, rich or poor. I, too, think the Church has lost its way. Restoring justice and prosperity to Tanyrin is a cause for which I will endure whatever humiliation I must."
Humiliation? Severyn had the sudden, almost irresistible urge to seize the younger man by his slim shoulders and shake him until his teeth fell out. Had it been Severyn with the Blood, he would have gladly suffered such "humiliation."
But he did not. He could never touch Michael as anything other than a friend. He tried to keep the bitterness from his smile as he waved Lord Eldering to one of the chairs and proceeded to get a full report.
It had been a long time since Michael had last been in Lothmont. He and the duke did not stay in the family's city house, one of several mansions along the lakeshore with a view of the royal palace. Lake House had, for as long as he remembered, been leased out to provide the family badly needed revenue so Lord Damon hired rooms in a small hotel near the Gate, unprepossessing, but comfortable, and far away from Lothmont Cathedral. It was a genteel, but slightly shabby place, favored by gentlemen of good birth but modest means.
Their rooms looked down on a small, cobbled square, dreary and deserted under a light, icy mist. Now and again, a dark shape hurried across, hastening toward shelter.
"Half of Zelenov will be here," Lord Damon had warned. "The streets around the Cathedral will be crawling with the Celestial vermin and I've no desire to encounter any of them if I've the choice."
The Council's summons had bade them present themselves before Bishop Montaigne immediately, but once they'd sent word of their arrival, His Excellency was slow in responding. When, at last, the reply came, it was to inform them that His Eminence, the Archbishop Locke, had not yet arrived, nor, for that matter, had the bride. Would His Grace and Lord Michael be so kind as to wait?
"How typical," grumbled Lord Damon. "We must rush here with all speed, only to cool our heels at their pleasure. I can't wait for Severyn to replace that addle-witted brother of his."
"What if I refuse her?" Michael asked.
"The king or his Advisori can override your decision at any time," replied the duke. "And, since Arami sits securely in Locke's pocket, I suggest getting it over with."
Michael's gut tightened, a not-unfamiliar feeling of late. He stared blindly into the gray afternoon. Stefn was alone at Shia. It wasn't that Michael feared betrayal. Rather, he worried about Stefn's safety. Would Auron look after him properly? Would the idiot look after himself?
"Ever since the Reformation, we've had to deal with this absurdity," the duke continued. "But at least it has prevented such disasters as your stepmother from attaining an official place in the Arranz genealogy."
"I should send a message to Severyn. He'll be furious when he learns he wasn't told."
"Why waste his time? If you're not overly discriminating, the ceremony should last no more than an hour. You'll spend the night with your bride, then send her home."
Not until the end of the week did they hear from the Cathedral again. A liveried messenger arrived in the middle of their dinner bearing a sealed envelope from the bishop. Inside, in flowery language, they were commanded to present themselves at the Cathedral tomorrow for the wedding ceremony.
Michael stared at his grandfather. "Tomorrow?"
"May I suggest an evening spent patronizing all the low taverns of Lothmont?" his grandfather said. "You will be sufficiently dazed to make the entire affair nothing more than a hazy memory. I highly recommend it."
"But you and grandmother loved each other."
"I was fortunate. My own father's marriage was like Phillip's, the girl half-crazed and unreachable. Father, too, took a mistress, the younger daughter of a lesser lord in Baskerville. It was a great scandal, of course, but they were happy."
"You've never spoken of this before," Michael said, the letter settling, forgotten, on the table beside his plate. "Do I have relatives somewhere I don't know about?"
"The mistress, Beth, never had children, whether by nature or design, I don't know. I do know my father loved her deeply and was inconsolable at her death. There is no reason you cannot take a mistress, as well. To our wives we owe kindness and compassion, but our hearts remain ours alone to give. It has been that way as long as this absurd law has been in place. Most of our kings have done the same. Arami, I understand, hasn't honored the Queen's bed for years."
Michael declined to drink himself to insensibility that night, but thought regretfully of the lost opportunity the next afternoon as the hotel footmen finished dressing him for the occasion. Formal garb was required and the duke had spared no expense. Heavy black silk and the finest white lace had been transformed by Lothmonth's most exclusive tailor into a suit of superb cut and highest style. The ruby nestled in the snowy folds of Michael's cravat matched the one sparkling in his ear. There was a ring, too. He had seen the box earlier among his grandfather's things. It would be on his finger by the end of the evening. In spite of knowing it was all for show, Michael dreaded what was to come.
"I'm not required to actually consummate the union, am I?" he asked as the two gentlemen went down to meet their carriage.
"Of course." The duke was matter-of-fact. "Do you think the Arranz heir springs from a cabbage?" He gave his grandson a mocking smile. "You've only to do your duty, lad, nothing more."
Michael wanted to remind Lord Damon that Chris was an Arranz, too, and perfectly well qualified to carry on the family name, but he knew better. His father's second marriage had taken place over Lord Damon's furious objections. Neither Chris nor Amy, with their obvious human heritage, would ever be true Arranzes in his eyes.
As they rolled uptown toward the Cathedral, Michael listened while Lord Damon discussed the coming ceremony.
"The king will be there as a Witness. Arami's father attended my Betrothal as a very young man and, later, Phillip's, as well. Technically, of course, either of them have the authority to contest the Church's selection, but I've not heard of a single instance where they've done so."
"I don't understand why the Church still honors the damned law. They can't possibly care if our family dies out." Michael looked out at the passing buildings. Shadows deepened as twilight faded and lamp-lighters moved from pole to pole through the emptying streets. "They've done so much changing of the Chronicles, why not just change that, too?"
"Perhaps they will," his grandfather said, "but would that be good or bad? At least the law keeps the Family Arranz alive. The circumstances may not be as we would wish it, but the law has seen to the survival of our bloodline."
They arrived at the Cathedral soon after. Hunters stood guard at the massive front gate. More stood at attention up the steps to the Sanctuary's magnificent, pillared entrance. Torchlight danced and sparkled off the gold in their uniform braid and medals. They were in formal dress, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back.
Descending from their carriage, Michael saw at once the entire area was otherwise deserted. Except for the Hunters, no other human was in sight. Their footsteps echoed across the courtyard, following them up the steps of the Sanctuary and through the soaring columns of the portico. A priest held open the door and dozens more waited inside, some in white robes, others in green. They lined the corridor ahead, a gauntlet of stares and mute hostility.
The hair on the back of Michael's neck stood straight up. He lifted his chin slightly and, imagining himself, sword in hand, cutting them down like wheat as he passed, he went into the Sanctuary to meet his wife.
Severyn knew Michael and Lord Damon were already in Lothmont. He thought of sending word he was in town, but suspected Lord Damon might not approve of his efforts to spare Michael this absurd marriage. The Duke was of the firm opinion that they must attract as little Church attention as possible. What Severyn intended would hardly meet that particular goal.
Arami had been easier to persuade than Severyn had expected. In spite of his indebtedness to the Church, he resented their power over him and was only too happy to do what he could to cause them inconvenience. Nor had he been in a hurry to attend what he termed a "damned dull ceremony." Alas, inconvenience was as far as he'd go, however. When Severyn suggested rescinding the law altogether, he shook his head.
"Play your games," he said, indifferent. He was in his rooms, pelthe glass beside him, a paintbrush in hand. In front of him stood an easel with a decent rendering of a nearby bouquet of flowers.
"I don't know why you bother," he continued, dipping his brush into the yellow paint. "Mick will have to wed sooner or later. Besides, it's not as if you showed this much concern when they foisted that bitch, Eleanor, on me."
Severyn had completely forgotten about Eldering. Between emergency meetings with his solicitors and the unpleasant discussion with Arami, all thoughts of Michael's cethe had slipped his mind. Time was of the essence and every moment must be spent in shoring up his legal defenses. At the last minute, however, he recalled the young man and, although he preferred not to think about it, the likelihood that Michael might need to avail himself of Eldering's particular gifts.
The youth was exactly where Severyn had left him, seated quietly in one of the palace guest rooms, reading. He came when Severyn ordered, speaking only when spoken to. Inside the prince's carriage, he listened without comment as Severyn gave him instructions.
"There is no telling what Locke will do when I present them with the Objection," Severyn said. "They could give in gracefully or they may choose to cause trouble. Be ready."
Stefn nodded. He seemed oddly unperturbed at the prospect, especially for someone who claimed to be monstrously offended by the role he was forced to play.
They arrived at the Cathedral, only to find the gates closed and guarded by Dragons. The guards had the audacity to refuse him entrance, insisting the Archbishop alone could give permission for latecomers to enter. Severyn, temper already flayed by lack of sleep and too many meetings, exploded, threatening the men with arrest. He went so far as to draw his sword before the alarmed Hunters quickly decided this was a fight they could not win and opened the gate. Not before one of their number was sent running toward the Sanctuary, however.
Never mind, thought Severyn grimly. In his current mood, he welcomed the chance to face down Locke. "Drive on!" he ordered the nervous coachman.
More Hunters waited on the steps of the Sanctuary. These made no attempt to stop him. Perhaps they thought he was a standin for the king. He swept past them without stopping.
The gloomy old edifice was brightly lit by a multitude of candles and torches, forming an obvious path toward the ceremony. He followed it deep into the building, past several magnificent chapels until, near the back, he came upon a large number of priests and acolytes, all who scampered aside in alarm as he stalked swiftly through their ranks.
They were holding the wedding in one of the smaller, lesser-used chapels. As Severyn approached, he caught sight of Locke, surrounded by clerics and officers of the Order of the Dragon. The archbishop was in full, formal regalia, conferring with his companions while, standing off to one side, attended by green and red-robed priests was a small figure, gowned and veiled in shimmering white silk. The blushing bride, no doubt.
Locke saw him approach and, for just an instant, frowned. Immediately, however, he smiled politely and, saying something to his startled companions, started toward Severyn.
"Your Highness! What a pleasant surprise! Do you mean to attend the wedding? We expected your brother, but any member of the Lothlain family is welcome!"
"I'm not here to witness the wedding," replied Severyn. "I've come to stop this charade."
"Your Highness?" Locke's smile became strained. "I'm afraid I'm at a loss as to your meaning. The law is clear..."
"You're right, Your Eminence, the law is very clear." Severyn withdrew the thick envelope from inside his jacket, the result of all those damned meetings. He shoved it at Locke who, startled, took it. "Should there be objection by any member of the Advisori, the ceremony must be postponed until the objection is satisfactorily addressed. That..." Severyn nodded toward the envelope, "spells out all the legalities."
"Who objects?" A furrow appeared between the archbishop's eyebrows.
"I do."
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that, at this time, there is no reason to fear the Arranz line is in danger of extinction. There are currently two heirs living. It is reasonable and lawful to delay any wedding until a clear need."
"But Your Highness," objected Locke, looking more irritated by the moment. "His lordship is already overdue for a wife. Surely, Lord Michael and the Duke are eager to get on with it."
"It doesn't matter. The objection has been filed," said Severyn doggedly. "And I very much doubt if Michael will protest."
"Would it not be better to conduct the ceremony first and argue later? Perhaps an arrangement could be made to have the marriage annulled should this objection be found to be in order."
"I'm curious, Your Eminence. Why do you care so much? If he weds today or next year, what is it to you?"
A muscle leapt in the Archbishop's jaw. He was holding his own temper with an effort. "It is to further the Arranz line, of course. I'm naturally concerned that St. Aramis' wishes be followed. After all, is that not what we all want?"
"I wonder," grated Severyn. He glanced back toward the chapel. "Is that the wench? What are her antecedents? Why was she selected?"
Locke didn't answer. His jaw was tight; his mouth set in a thin, angry line.
"Where are they?" Severyn asked, turning toward the chapel door. "Where are Mick and His Grace?"
He thought for one dangerous moment that Locke would attempt to prevent him from entering. The man's anger looked to be nearly as hot as his own. But Locke was no fool. A confrontation between them could not end well for the Church. Rage simmered within his gaze, but he forced a smile and bowed. "They are waiting inside, of course. Perhaps, if I may speak to them first?"
But Severyn did not wait to hear Locke's next attempt at distraction. He stepped around the Archbishop and strode to the chapel door. Ignoring the scandalized clerics and the mute figure in white, he flung it open and went in.
Standing before the altar, Michael and Lord Damon turned quickly around in surprise.
"Sev?" Michael looked past him to the door and the clerics bunched up outside it. "What are you doing here?"
"I've come to stop this travesty," replied Severyn. "I've lodged an Objection. You've no obligation to continue with this farce. Let's go have dinner."
Michael stared, then started to grin. Lord Damon was not so amused.
"What are you doing, boy?" he asked in a low voice. "What is the point of antagonizing the Council in this way?"
"Perhaps I'm tired of their meddling," replied Severyn.
The duke looked back to the door. Locke stood in the doorway, watching them. Something in his expression sent a chill up Severyn's spine.
"I hope you don't live to regret this, Your Highness," muttered the duke.
Severn smiled and hoped he was right.
Stefn waited in the carriage, fidgeting as the minutes crept by. He kept close watch on the Sanctuary, but there was no change in the activity or demeanor of the guards posted there. Had Severyn succeeded in stopping the wedding?
Finally, he started to doze. The rocking of the carriage woke him. He had barely the time to move over on the seat before the prince jumped in, followed by Michael and the duke. Michael and Severyn were laughing. The duke seemed less amused, but he, too, seemed infected by the air of triumph and relief. With a jolt, the carriage started forward, heading out of the Cathedral and back toward the palace.
"Stefn!" Michael clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I hear it was you who warned Severyn. Thank you!"
Stefn smiled shyly.
"Why did you not take the opportunity to flee?" asked the Duke.
"He claims he's with us now," the prince said. "But maybe he just likes being Mick's whore."
Stung, Stefn turned his head. "Maybe I care about the people of Tanyrin," he replied tightly.
"Leave off, Sev. I'm glad he did what he did, whatever his reasons." Michael's smile warmed Stefn to his toes.
"This reprieve is only temporary." The duke ignored Stefn's response, addressing the other two. "I hope you don't regret this, both of you. Open defiance is hardly the way to keep the Council's attention off us."
Stefn privately agreed, but didn't dare say anything. Instead, he stared blindly out the window at the lake.
"Respectfully, Uncle Damon, I can't agree," replied the prince. "As long as the h'nara stay low and try to keep out of sight, the Church can say what they will about you. I think it's time Tanyrin saw the h'nara as they truly are and what better way than to see one frequently in the company of royalty?"
"You have a high opinion of your credibility, young prince," observed the duke drily.
"Perhaps," replied Severyn cheerfully. "We shall see."
"And if the Church decides to use that friendship as an excuse to move against you?"
"Let them try," retorted Severyn.
The duke sighed.
They reached the palace soon thereafter. As the four of them stepped down from the carriage, Michael paused, waiting for Stefn to catch up to him. "You had no difficulty on the journey from Shia?"
"No, my lord. I came with some of Auron's men. They saw to my needs and protection." He could not help adding, "And would doubtless have prevented me from fleeing, should I have chosen to do so."
"I believe you," Michael said, smiling. "Will you stay in Lothmont awhile, too?"
Stefn, his heart lifting, started to reply, but Severyn interrupted, "He returns to Shia at once."
"Surely he can spend a few days seeing the sights? Lothmont may not have the number of libraries Withwillow does, but those it possesses enjoy a lofty reputation."
"They do, my lord. Especially the Royal Library. I should very much like to see it."
"We haven't the time to be playing nursemaid," retorted Severyn. "If you are truly committed to our cause, my lord, your time will be better spent in Shia preparing the two Chronicles for distribution. Surely that is a sufficiently scholarly pursuit?"
"Agreed," said the duke, frowning at his grandson. "Bad enough that Severyn has decided to elevate you to a place of prominence, Michael. Pushing the people's tolerance by flaunting a sin-catcher is testing providence, methinks."
Stefn's heart sank. "I would stay out sight, my lords. I . . . I have no wish to go about socially."
The prince's scowl deepened. "I want you to return to Shia," he said flatly. "And I will hear no more about it."
"Your Highness." Stefn bowed, struggling to hide his disappointment.
"Besides," continued the prince, "if you tarry too long here, you may not be able to return. I've heard the snows in the north can close off the roads for weeks at a time."
"The snows don't get bad until the middle of Tamkel, my lord."
"These days, who is to say?" replied the prince.
"Then I'll accompany him back to Shia," Michael announced. A glint appeared in his eye and he met Severyn's annoyed stare squarely. "I'd like a chance to see how the printing progresses. Once I've seen him safely settled, I'll return."
Severyn shook his head. "Auron's men will see Eldering safely back as they saw him safely here. You worry too much, Mick."
Throwing an arm around Michael's shoulders, the prince drew his friend with him, up the stairs and through the doors held wide open for them. The duke had gone ahead and now stood a short distance away, waiting for them. Stefn stared at their backs, then followed more slowly, realization stealing through him in a cold trickle. It had not been his imagination after all. It wasn't just brotherly affection between the prince and duke's grandson. Severyn Lothlain, Crown Prince of Tanyrin, was in love with Michael Arranz.
The Twelve High Orders are as follows: The Order of the Dragon, The Shield of Loth, The Sword of Loth, The Brotherhood of Men, the Warriors of God, the Eagle and the Sword, Loth's Servants, Fire of Faith, Hand of Justice, Soldiers of Loth, The Storm Riders, The Lance of Righteousness. It is the mandate of the High Orders to preserve the integrity of high lothria, to guard the spells and to pass them down to each succeeding generation of Loth's Blessed.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume II,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1349
Stefn, Marin and the guards returned to Shia under grey skies and bitter, icy winds. They were just in time. As elsewhere in Tanyrin, winter did indeed come early. Auron, anxious to return to his family's estates in the south, barely escaped before blizzards swept down from the Lothwalls. Snow piled into towering drifts, changing the landscape into a featureless expanse of ever-shifting white. Soon, only a single, narrow track snaked, canyon-like, through the snow-fields to the villages, Shia Castle's lifeline to the rest of the world.
In days past, peasants had cleared the road under the baleful eyes and whips of his father's soldiers. Now a cheerful yeoman and his five sons did it, and were paid a respectable sum to do so by Marin, who acted as Shia's steward as well as Stefn's personal valet.
For the first time in Stefn's memory, the entire parish looked to survive the harsh winter in relative comfort. Thanks to Lothlain's largesse, village walls and roofs stood fast against the raw winds. There were adequate food stores and cattle feed, even a handsome, new-fangled, iron plow brought up from Tantagrel to handle the snowy roads.
Inside the castle, a small army of servants kept the lanes and courtyards clear. Fires burned in every room Stefn was known to fancy. Each evening after dinner, Marin apprised Stefn of the day's household business and received any instructions Stefn might have for him. It was a practice upon which he insisted, even though Stefn knew the deference was only a courtesy.
From Michael, he had only a note. It was brief and to-the-point: the Prince's Objection had been taken up by the Advisori and was in legal purgatory. There was no mention of when, if ever, either of them intended to return to Shia. However, thanks to the periodicals ordered earlier by Auron and the prince, Stefn was able to follow some of Michael's adventures in Tantagrel.
Lord Arranz, it seemed, was making Tantagrel and the Capitol his favorite hunting grounds. The Royal Gazette's gossip columns buzzed with stories of his friendship with the prince, of his superb fashion-sense, his courtly manners and, of course, his "devilish" good looks. He favored no single particular lady, but seemed to like them all, always seen with a different Light of Society on his arm. Stefn sniffed after reading this and asked the fireplace what self-respecting lady would give serious consideration to the intentions of any h'nar, no matter how noble.
The regular news was less amusing. There was a debate in the Advisori over whether to support the Celestial Council's latest attempt to make the registration of h'nara a matter of universal law. The author of the article seemed unenthusiastic, giving ample space to the expense involved with keeping such records, the time spent in hunting down all the h'nara, and so on. A member of the Advisori indignantly accused the Church, anonymously of course, of attempting to usurp more of the king's authority in the West.
"H'nara are the king's subjects, not the Council's! If their registration is truly warranted, let His Majesty or our Council be the ones to manage it!"
Winter rolled on and post deliveries became more erratic as the snow deepened. Sheltered in Shia's new warmth and luxury, however, loneliness was the worst of the hardships Stefn was forced to endure. He kept it at bay by working religiously on printing the Chronicles and reading the many new books in the library. He tried not to think about Michael Arranz.
It was a good thing, he told himself repeatedly, a good thing they were apart and the peculiar madness of the Bond would have no chance to enslave him further. Yet often he found himself hesitating at his bedroom door, remembering when the two of them had shared his bed. He missed the strangely exciting, almost-friendship that had sprung up between them.
Winter finally broke its hold on the north in traditional style. One day, the north winds abruptly reversed. Winds swept up from the lowlands and the blizzards were soon interspersed with waves of icy rain. After six weeks without a visit, the post arrived with a letter from Timkins on several domestic matters, a dozen or more outdated newspapers, and daunting heap of bills. There was nothing from Michael or the prince. More disappointed than he cared to admit, Stefn returned to the Chronicles, now completely printed, and continued packing them into large, heavy trunks. Soon they would go south to Withwillow. He wished he was going with them.
One morning, after an especially noisy thunderstorm, he came downstairs, heavy-eyed and yawning from his restless night, to find Lord Forrest making himself at home in the breakfast room. Covered with mud from the road, hair still damp, and dark circles under his eyes, Forry lifted a cup of t'cha. "Good morning, my lord. My apologies for arriving unannounced and at such an inconvenient hour."
"Not at all." Stefn was secretly delighted to see a familiar face. "But you look done in. Surely you haven't ridden all night?"
"I've brought a hundred of my men, the first of the additional troops Severyn wants deployed here. Given the state of affairs between the Council and the Advisori these days, it was decided discretion was preferable to convenience."
Stefn poured himself some t'cha and took a piece of toast. His heart beat a little faster with excitement and apprehension. "How soon before the others follow?"
"Erich is next, I think; he should be here within a month. What about the Chronicles? I hear you were left in charge of that particular project."
"They're ready," replied Stefn, taking a seat across from the weary marquis. "There's been little else to do these past weeks. You'll be taking them to Withwillow then?"
"I will. Once I'm satisfied my men are settling into their new barracks, I'll be on my way. We've valuable supplies waiting at the port, too, so the sooner I leave, the better."
"I'd like to come." The wistful comment escaped before Stefn could think better of it.
Forry smiled ruefully. "I wouldn't mind the company," he replied, "but Sev was pretty clear."
Stefn swallowed his disappointment. "He doesn't trust me. I understand. Still, it's ironic, my lord. My father is dead, yet I'm still imprisoned in this place." He shrugged. "At least the food is better now."
"I'm sorry about it," Forry said soberly. "I think you're trustworthy, Eldering, and so do the others, but the prince doesn't seem to agree. Personally, I think it's Lord Damon's suspicions that keep him from trusting you. His Grace was always more like a father to the prince; Severyn trusts his advice implicitly."
The Duke of Blackmarsh hated the Elderings, hated them with a cold, unshakeable intensity for the death of his wife. Even so, Prince Severyn had his own reasons to dislike Stefn. Stefn managed a smile. "My apologies, my lord. I shouldn't complain. It's not as if there's been anywhere to go with snow six feet deep all around. Ah, here's Hansen!"
Stefn remained at the breakfast table after Forry had been borne away to his room. The first rays of morning light fell through the tall windows, glinting off china and silverware. It was going to be a beautiful day, the perfect day for riding like the wind across the bare, but muddy fields.
Clattering down the stairs, he met Marin at the bottom. The steward smiled and bowed. "Ah, there you are, my lord. If you will excuse me, I wondered if you had forgotten our morning meeting."
Keeping an eye on me, were you?
"I'm not up to it this morning, Marin." Stefn made no effort to hide his ill-humor. "I can't imagine there's anything that really requires my approval. Go ahead and do what you will. I'm going for a ride."
"At least take some guards," Marin called after him anxiously. "There have been reports of outlaws seen on the plains!"
"Real ones or false?" Stefn asked irritably. "I'll be back by lunch."
In the stables, a groom brought him a horse. Stefn mounted it and headed down the hill toward the main gate and out onto the windy plain.
Where to go? Stefn reckoned he should steer clear of the village where his curse was well known. Instead, he turned toward the northeast and gave his horse its head.
Stefn forgot about everything at once, caught up in the exhilaration of the wind on his face and the sun on his skin. He galloped, full out, until he reached the hills. Then he left the road, slowing his horse to a walk across the muddy fields. Reaching the trees, he found the path leading up through the woods.
Here, beneath the dense firs, snow still lay thick where shadows were deepest. He soon reached the rocky spar. Leaving his horse, he climbed onto it.
The vista was still dreary with winter's browns and greys. Here and there, pools of water from the snowmelt reflected the blue sky, but theirs was the only color to be seen anywhere. It was warm in the sun, however, with nothing more than a fitful, skittering breeze. He lay back, arms pillowing his head, and looked up into the arch of pale blue.
He remembered his last visit here, how he and Michael had sat and laughed and, later, made love on the sunwarmed rock. If Michael was here now, would the same thing happen? Stefn's body tingled, imagining it --- Michael rising up on his elbow to look down at Stefn; Michael kissing him softly and deeply. He would open Stefn's shirt, or...
Eyes closed, Stefn slid his own hand under his shirt, licking his lips as he teased and pinched his own nipples. In his mind's eye, it was Michael who rolled them between his long, graceful fingers, who licked and sucked at them until Stefn's breath came in rapid gasps.
Then, as Stefn hung on the cusp of pain and pleasure, Michael would reach down to the hard column of flesh pushing against Stefn's breeches; he would seize it and begin a slow, exquisite stroking. He would tease the head with his thumb, forcing whimpers from his eager, panting cethe.
Stefn groaned, his hand moving frantically, unaware when he unfastened his breeches, only wanting to reach climax. The image hanging in his mind smiled lazily, lasciviously, and bent toward his rigid, aching cock. Stefn imagined Michael taking it into his mouth and, in that moment, lost control. He came with a hoarse cry, then lay still on the rock, arms and legs splayed wide, cool breeze fanning his heated face, while the images faded.
He wanted Michael. He wanted Michael to come back to Shia, to share his bed, to ride with him across the plains, to make passionate love to him!
What a slut he was! What a whore! How could he have these feelings? He was a man and a human!
The lethet! Desperately, Stefn seized on the collar's presence, sitting up and clawing at it in miserable fury. This was the reason! Nothing else!
The crackling of brush and the whinny of a horse brought him out of his bitter self-castigation. He did up his breeches hastily and rolled over onto his belly. Below the rock, a handful of horsemen appeared, riding slowly and carefully through the trees. They wore no uniforms, but they were armed and armored.
When they disappeared from sight, Stefn slid down the rock. Mounting his horse, he rode after them, careful to keep well back. A few hundred feet onward, a pile of massive boulders barred his path and a mass of tangled thicket. As he approached the obstruction, however, he heard them again, louder. At once he stopped and dismounted, seeking the concealment of several tall spruces, their drooping branches forming a hut-like shelter.
A bandit appeared on the largest boulder, climbing to its highest point. Stefn's eyes narrowed, watching the man lift a spyglass to his eye, sweeping it across the plains. Closer now, Stefn noticed the man's clothing. Unlike the rags and skins worn by most outlaws in this part of the country, this man was dressed uncommonly well. He was clean-shaven, too, with his brown hair pulled neatly back in a ponytail.
Another of the mysterious riders appeared on the rock. Stefn was further mystified to see he carried a notebook. The first man lowered his glass and said something to the newcomer, who produced a mark-stick and wrote something down.
These weren't bandits! They were spies!
Taking his horse's reins, Stefn led it out of the trees, careful to keep as much cover between him and the men on lookout as he could. Alas, as he rounded a dense tangle of blackberry bushes, he came face to face with another of the party busily answering the call of nature. They stared at each other in surprise, then the man shoved his cock back into his breeches, shouting a warning.
Stefn scrambled into the saddle and urged his horse to a gallop. They came after him at once, shouting to each other to cut him off. Bursting out of the trees after him, the riders fanned out across the field. Stefn bent lower over his horse's head, urging it to greater speed. Shia seemed an impossible distance away.
They gained on him slowly. From the corner of his eye he saw the bandits to his left and right begin to draw ahead, preparing to close the net. They would have him before he got to Shia unless --- abruptly, he swerved sharply to the left, directly toward the end rider. He heard them whooping as they swept forward, sensing victory.
He had no weapon! This was idiocy! Even as the small voice in his head screamed common sense at him, he raced onward. He saw the end rider rise in the saddle, lifting his sword, triumphant. Praying his old skills hadn't faded too much, Stefn pulled back on the reins, jerking his startled horse to a sudden, clumsy halt. It reared wildly, front hooves lashing out. Stefn had a confused glimpse of the rider trying to avoid being struck and losing his balance in the process. Man and sword flew from the saddle while Stefn regained control of his own horse and spurred it on toward Shia.
Angry shouts followed him. He didn't look over his shoulder, didn't dare. Instead, he pressed himself close to his horse's neck and urged the unsettled beast to greater speed.
Unexpectedly, more riders appeared ahead. His heart plunged, but an instant later, he saw the blue and gold of Severyn's guard! And leading them was none other than Marin!
The bandits saw them, too, and the mocking calls behind Stefn turned into shouts of consternation. The thundering of hooves faltered and slowed. Ahead, the guard patrol saw Stefn and his pursuers.
"Spies!" Stefn shouted, half rising from the saddle and pointing behind him. A dozen soldiers flashed past him. Marin paused only long enough to shout, "Are you unhurt, my lord?"
"Go!" replied Stefn.
The big h'nar nodded and dashed after the soldiers.
The battle was joined in a clash of steel and the screams of horses and men. Stefn rode around the knot of combatants, intent on cutting off any rider attempting escape. A riderless horse ran past; Stefn saw the sword strapped to its saddle and went after it.
He'd just caught up to the animal when another of the spies broke away and rode hell-bent for the hills. Stefn managed to fumble the sword free. He caught up to the bandit, shifting his balance as the man snarled and jerked his horse around, reaching for the sword at his back.
The stranger was skilled, but not skilled enough. Stefn met the man's blade with his own, keeping his balance in the saddle, and turning the force of the attack back on the attacker. The man fell from the horse, his sword spinning away, and hit the ground hard. He tried to get up and stumble away, but Stefn was there, guiding his horse this way and that to cut off all avenues of escape.
The guards outnumbered the spies and made quick work of them. Afterwards, Marin returned to Stefn and his sullen, breathless prisoner.
"Excellent, my lord. You've kept one alive."
Stefn looked around. All that remained of the strangers were their horses. He wrenched his eyes from the blood-soaked field. "I found them in the hills," he said, pointing.
"Good work," replied Marin.
"Thanks for coming to my rescue," Stefn said. "Next time, I'll listen to your advice."
"It would make my job much easier," confessed Marin. "I should hate to face Lord Michael if something were to happen to you."
Stefn was tired. His body remembered how to fight, but all those months of being cooped up inside had left it woefully out of condition. The notion of a hot bath and a cup of t'cha appealed mightily. He nodded. With their prisoner stumbling along in front of them, he and the soldiers returned to the castle.
Stefn was not present during the lone survivor's interrogation, but the next day, after dinner, Forry told him what they'd learned. "Hunters, all right," he said. "We've not been as discreet as we'd thought."
Stefn didn't want to think about how Forry had extracted that information. Nor did he ask about the spy's whereabouts. From Forry's and Marin's grim looks, he figured he knew well enough.
"What shall we do?" he asked. "If they don't return, won't the Church send others?"
"Assuredly." Forry looked over at Marin who had dispensed with protocol for the evening and joined them in the parlor. "At least we'll be ready for them this time."
"Why were they here?"
"Their orders were to investigate the area. Locke may have told Severyn the Church was glad to be rid of Shia, but it would seem he wasn't completely honest. Our good Archbishop is not as stupid as we might hope. He sees Severyn's acquisition of Shia as a threat. We were lucky you decided to go riding yesterday, Eldering, else we'd still be ignorant of their interest."
Marin said, "Someone must tell His Highness."
"I know." Forry poured himself another glass of port. "But I'm due to go to Withwillow as soon as Erich arrives. You'll have to go, I'm afraid, Marin."
"I could take the books to Withwillow," Stefn offered.
Marin cleared his throat. Forry shook his head regretfully. "If it was up to me, Eldering, I'd say yes, but it isn't. Besides, I'm also picking up supplies at the same time."
Stefn swallowed his disappointment. He couldn't help thinking, had Michael been there, they might both have gone to Withwillow instead. After a few minutes, he excused himself and retreated to his tower sanctuary. There, he tried to forget his lot in the pages of his latest selection from the restocked library, a travelogue of scenic places on the Eastern coast. He told himself he had his books, at least, but for some reason, that comfort seemed less so these days.
Marin left that very day for Tantagrel and, a few days after, Forry prepared to go to Withwillow, the unbound copies of the true Chronicles tucked among boxes of other books and marked as a donation to one of the city's libraries. Naturally, several days before he planned to set out, it began to rain, a steady, cold downpour showing no sign of letting up.
"Maybe there's something to the damn cleric's predictions of gloom and doom," he griped at dinner the night before. "The exercise yard is ankle deep in mud! If this goes on, we shall have to train sailors, not soldiers!"
"This isn't the first time Tanyrin has suffered from inclement seasons," Stefn said. "Just before the naran war, there were twenty years of drought in the east while the north and west suffered from cold and too much rain."
"Really? I'd not heard such a thing."
"I read about it in the First Chronicle, the true First Chronicle. Even the naran estates suffered. The lords who led the war against humans were among those most affected by the unpredictable weather."
Forry appeared much struck by the information. "If so, it doesn't bode well for us these next few years. Did any part of Tanyrin escape?"
"The south," replied Stefn. "Until the rains came, those lands had been drier than they are today and useless for anything but grazing."
"Like Shia today."
"Aye."
Forry looked thoughtful and, for a while after that, said little, poking at his custard in silence.
Be it known that the House of Lothlain and the People of Tanyrin have, from this day, a Covenant with the House of Arranz. In recognition of its loyalty to the freedom and well-being of all men, Arranz will forever be held as our most beloved Vassal and their lands Sovereign. No man may bring arms into Arranz land without due permission of the Duke nor may future governors gainsay what orders the duke may make upon it; likewise does the House of Arranz swear eternal fealty to the House of Lothlain and forswear raising arms against the rightful kings of Tanyrin.
By my seal do I set this Covenant for eternity, Aramis Lothlain (signature appended)
from: The First Covenant of Aramis Lothlain I,
9 Lothkel,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1317
The unmarked coach rattled along Lothmont's cobbled streets. It passed the fine, lakeside mansions, their windows alight behind stone walls and high hedges. Now and then, when the street curved south and ran alongside Lake Wyr, the occupants of the coach were treated to a view of moon-silvered water and Castle Lothlain in the distance, twinkling like a fallen star.
"Jeremy and Auron should be here tomorrow," said Severyn. "Forry will be in Shia by now and Erich shortly thereafter. Soon, my friend, soon we will make our move."
Michael, tapping his invitation idly against his chin, nodded.
They had driven straight down from Tantagrel together, the carriage piled high with Severyn's luggage. They had stopped briefly at Michael's hotel to leave his baggage off, but Severyn planned to spend the next week at the palace to keep Arami under his watchful eye.
At the Thaelrick gate, they ran into a back-up of carriages. Hunters directed traffic onto the bridge and from there, onto the Royal Bridge. The latter was lined with torches and more coaches. Every highblood in Lothmont and beyond would be here tonight.
For the nobility of Tanyrin, the Greening Ball was the official mark of spring. Only in the northern highlands could one see snow anymore. Tradition decreed the ball be held at the palace, the spectacular finale to a week-long celebration of extravagant parties and fetes.
The last few months jockeying between Tantagrel and Lothmont had not been as unpleasant as Michael had anticipated. Severyn's plan seemed to be working. At first stand-offish, people had warmed to him more quickly than he'd expected, especially in Tantagrel where the populace adored their prince. Now Michael routinely received invitations independent of Severyn's and had even begun to think of bringing Chris and Annie to town.
"Your invitations, my lords?" a Hunter called, rapping on the door, then pulling it open. Severyn, annoyed, leaned into the light falling in from outside. The soldier, recognizing him, bowed at once and jumped down. The door slammed. After a moment, they felt the coach turn. They were being sent to the front of the line.
"Ah, the privileges of rank."
"If I were a better man, I'd refuse it," agreed Severyn. "But not tonight. I want to get this damned thing over with. I'll probably have to open the ball for Arami. Lord knows if he'll even make it down for the receiving line."
Through the covered bridge they rode and out onto the long, open span to join the line of carriages moving slowly to the island.
"I wonder if Locke is in town for this," Michael said.
"Why not? It's his money Arami is spending." Severyn seemed determined to be disgusted with his brother. "The fool."
"Locke's the fool," Michael replied mildly. "I'll wager a considerable percentage of the money goes to Arami's pelthe habit."
Severyn's expression grew sour. "No doubt," he grumped. "What I wouldn't give to find out who's getting him that poison! Try as I might, however, that bit of intelligence continues to elude me. I've got my spies everywhere around him with orders to report to me any such information, yet he continues to lay his hands on the stuff and my men are clueless."
"Have you asked him outright?"
"Of course. He sneers at me and tells me it's none of my damned business."
The carriage stopped. Severyn cursed and leaned out the window, looking ahead. "What the devil is the matter now?"
"Is Miss Stefanie really coming tonight?"
Severyn collapsed back onto his seat. "She'll be attending the dinner, but not the main festivities. Her aunt decided the sacrifice would satisfy the terms of her mourning. We go in together."
"What a burden," mocked Michael, who had, by now, seen the Incomparable for himself. "How will you endure?"
The prince snorted and made some clever rejoinder, but Michael was only half-listening. Speaking of Stefanie Eldering made him think of Stefn, something he did much too often lately. The snows of Shia had surely melted enough for travel. More and more, he considered a trip north. The others were bringing in the first of their troops, including his grandfather and the Arranz contingent. Each time he brought up the idea, however, Severyn found some reason to delay him.
Crossing the Royal Bridge to the island took nearly an hour. Once on land, their carriage wound slowly through the grounds and up to the palace's columned front entrance. Inside, the Grand Foyer was ablaze with light. Polished wood, marble, and gold leaf made an elegant frame for the crowd gathered there, themselves radiant in their fine clothing and jewels. Even the announcement of Severyn's name could barely be heard through the din created by dozens of conversations.
The two gentlemen were quickly spotted, however, and surrounded by acquaintances. Michael soon lost sight of his friend. Accosted by a pair of pretty young ladies, he was eventually swept through the foyer to the ballroom. There, he saw Severyn out on the floor, gallantly partnering a matronly countess in a country dance. Arami was nowhere to be seen. Come to think of it, he hadn't been in the receiving line, either, only the Queen. It seemed Severyn knew his brother all too well.
Not until an hour and several dances later did Michael run into Severyn again. He was on his way to the buffet when he caught sight of the prince coming down a staircase. Severyn spotted him and beckoned. Excusing himself to his companions, Michael joined the prince at the foot of the stairs.
"The idiot's passed out," Severyn said in a low voice. He looked ready to hit something. "There's no way he'll be able to give his official dinner address!"
"Will you give it, then?"
"No." Severyn's lean, hard jaw got harder. "I've had enough of this!" With a quick look around, he added, "Follow me."
Upstairs, they went straight to the end of the corridor. Guards stood before a set of tall, double doors. One hurried to open them.
Michael and Severyn stepped into Arami's suite. It was rank with the smell of pelthe. Snifters with soot-blackened bottoms lay everywhere. Cushions were strewn about; an easel was set up with a gaudy splash of colors on it. Lumps and smears of paint covered the floor around it. Severyn strode through the mess and into his brother's bedchamber.
The king, in full, formal dress, lay face down on the floor. A snifter lay near his hand, still holding a bit of the drug. The lamp he'd been using had also fallen and, fortunately, gone out.
"Damn it! Where the hell is he getting this stuff?" Severyn kicked one of the snifters out of the way. Dropping to a crouch, he turned his brother over. Arami had fallen hard. His face was covered with blood and his nose probably broken. He seemed barely to breathe. "Can you heal him?"
"Of course." Michael settled down beside the king, alarmed at his gory appearance. "Loth! Is he like this often?"
"More often lately, or so my spies tell me. He hates these balls as much as I do, I think. What about his intoxication? Can you reverse that, too?"
"I doubt it," Michael admitted. "I can take care of his nose, though."
Severyn nodded, satisfied. "I'll make sure you're not interrupted." He got up and disappeared into the next room.
Michael lay his hands on the unconscious king. He whispered the healing Words and felt his hands tingle. The k'na answered his summons, flooding his veins with its heat and power. Pouring it into Arami, Michael heard the labored breathing ease. The king's ashen complexion took on a healthier hue. His swollen nose shrank to normal size. He twitched violently several times, then was still. Michael leaned back on his heels, slightly dizzy.
"Is that it?" Severyn hovered in the doorway behind him and was answered almost at once by a loud snore. Getting to his feet, Michael said, "He's all yours," and retreated to the king's sitting room.
There, he collapsed into a silk-upholstered chair, surprised at how tired he was. In the other room, he heard voices. Arami was awake and not very happy. After several minutes, Severyn emerged wearing an expression of smug triumph. The door slammed behind him.
"Let's go back to the party," he said to Michael. To the guards standing outside the suite, he said, "If His Majesty isn't on his way to the dining room in one hour, come find me."
"He's better, I take it." said Michael once they were away.
"Coherent, at least. Thank you. I'm in your debt."
"Yes, but what's to stop him from drugging himself into a stupor again?"
Severyn reached into his pocket and briefly showed Michael several small cut crystal perfume bottles. They were filled with pelthe. Patting his pocket, Severyn said, "I think I found them all. He'll have to come out, if only to find these."
"Will you give them back?"
The prince's response was a derisive snort.
Dinner was at midnight, still a couple hours away. Severyn was convinced to join a card game in one of the parlors. Michael declined, being shorter in the pocket than his friend, and took himself off to the terrace for a breath of fresh air.
By now, the crowd had grown, spilling out of the ballroom and public rooms, onto the terrace, even into the still-bare gardens beyond. Michael decided to go down by the shore where a path meandered, giving a spectacular view of Lothmont across the lake. It was a view Stefn would appreciate.
Michael caught himself, swearing under his breath. Resolutely he thought of other things, but when he reached the path, he found it populated by romantic couples. Abandoning that idea, he started back to the palace.
"Lord Arranz?"
Stopping at the sound of his name, Michael turned politely, and found himself facing a tall, handsome Hunter. In the dim light it was hard to make out the details of his uniform, but then the officer turned slightly, catching the illumination of a nearby torch. A Dragon!
"You have the advantage, sir," replied Michael, abruptly wary. "Have we met?"
"My apologies. No, we've not, but I've heard a great deal about you. I'm Captain Adrian Remy of the Order of Dragons, recently down from Zelenov. Does your grandfather also attend the fete, my lord? It's not often these days we see one of your family in Lothmont."
"His Grace is at Blackmarsh. I'm our family's sole representative here tonight," Michael replied. "But rest assured, more of us will attend in the future. King Arami exceeds himself each year, it seems."
"Magnificent, indeed," replied the captain. His eyes held Michael's, an odd light in them. "I understand you were disappointed at your wedding. Was the lady offered of such poor quality?"
"Alas, I never even saw her." Michael pretended regret. "An Objection was lodged. I understand it's stalled in the courts somewhere."
"I'm sure whatever concerns were expressed will be rectified quickly. Still, I imagine your mistress must be delighted with the turn of events." Remy's smile invited Michael to share the confidences of romantic escapades. "Or do you plan to keep her on after you're married?"
"Oh, keep her on, absolutely," replied Michael, thinking of Stefn. "What about yourself, Captain? Are you wed?"
"Not yet, alas. A Hunter's life is not well-suited for the demands of domesticity. Perhaps later."
The bells in the palace's Royal Chapel pealed out over the island. It was midnight. In the distance, bells in the city could be heard answering as Lothmont greeted the first official day of spring.
"Who is your mistress, my lord? I don't believe I've ever heard."
Remy's voice was light, but the question was so outre, Michael was momentarily speechless. Then he forced a smile. "As if I'd tell you, captain, and have her stolen right out from under my nose."
The captain laughed. "My apologies, Lord Arranz. It was bad of me, but I'm extremely curious. Is she human?"
"I believe they're serving dinner at midnight. Won't your companion be looking for you?"
Captain Remy's dark eyes flashed; his smile was as quick and insincere as Michael's. "Like you, I came with friends."
Witch-sense narrowed Michael's focus to the handsome, dangerous man. A strange recklessness seized him. He had a sudden image of the proud bastard kneeling naked before him. "Ah," he said lightly, "since we're both free men this evening, how about a wager?"
"A wager?" Wariness appeared in the captain's gaze.
"I wager that when I walk into the royal dining room, the woman on my arm will be more beautiful than the woman on yours. What do you say?" He grinned at the expression on Remy's face. "Shall we find out the truth, Captain Remy? Who do women find more alluring: the knight or the demon?"
Michael was late. Severyn sat at the head table, the sulking king on his left and Miss Eldering on his right. Away from the intimidating presence of her aunt, Miss Stefanie did not seem so shy or reserved as in their previous meetings. She greeted him with pretty charm and clearly enjoyed being led up the side of the long room on his arm. Nor did she lack for conversation. If Severyn hadn't so much on his mind, he might have even enjoyed himself.
Captain Remy made his appearance, escorting the Honorable Miss Elizabeth Castleton, one of Lothmont's acknowledged beauties. Under the interested stares of the assembly, he lingered before leaving her in her chair and going to his own.
Miss Eldering leaned toward Severyn conspiratorially. "Lizzie shall be in ecstasy for a week over this, Your Highness." Her laughter was light and infectious. "Imagine! Escorted to dinner by the dashing Captain Remy! Surely it is the coup of the night! All our friends will be terribly jealous!"
"Ah, but you are here with a prince," he pointed out.
"Very true." She gave him a sunny smile. He was suddenly reminded of Annie. "Still, the Goddess has yet to make her appearance."
"The Goddess?" He could not help smiling at her. She wasn't the least bit like Stefn, he decided.
"Lady Locke." Her voice was hushed, reverent, her green eyes wide and filled with admiration. "The Archbishop did not come this year, but of course, she would not miss the ball. Oooh! There she is!"
Lady Charity Westcott-Locke made her appearance, dressed all in red, her dark hair piled high. Long, gracefully curling tresses escaped to caress her bare shoulders. No less decorative was her escort. His usual black and white made a dramatic foil for the deep color of her gown, its dark crimson hue matched by his ruby earring, flashing and winking with each turn of his head.
Michael!
Severyn glanced at his fiancé and found her enraptured.
"So that is Lord Arranz!" breathed Miss Eldering. "Oh, my goodness! He looks so dangerous!"
On Severyn's other side, Arami roused from his sulk long enough to sneer to his scowling wife, "I'd love to be a fly on the wall when it gets back to your brother who his wife was fancying."
"I don't recall issuing him an invitation," was Eleanor's tight-lipped response. Her gaze scorched Severyn, who smiled weakly. Arami smirked, delighted to have annoyed her.
While the entire room stared, Michael brought Lady Locke to her chair beside a dazzled Miss Eldering. As if no one else in the room existed, he saw her seated, bowed over her hand, and murmured something that made her smile. Then, in the ringing silence, he strolled off to his own place at the most distant table.
Severyn, like everyone else, watched him go, and, like everyone else, could not help but see his brother's retainers seat a duke's son among wealthy commoners and mid-level clerics. He turned to Arami, meaning to complain, but the king was busily gulping down his wine and calling for more. Deprived of pelthe, Arami would simply drink himself into a similar stupor. When he was in one of his moods there was no stopping him. And lately, it seemed, he more often in one of his moods than not. Eleanor, however, saw Severyn's expression and interpreted it correctly. Her mouth tilted into a tiny smile and, satisfied she'd had the last laugh, she turned to the nobleman on her other side and engaged him in conversation.
When Severyn was king, there would be no more official slights or insults. The secretary who put Michael Arranz anywhere but at his right hand would be out of a job within a heartbeat.
Another glass of wine vanished down the king's royal throat. Conversation had started up again, but there were frequent, covert glances toward their table.
"Arami... "
"I'm here, aren't I?" retorted his brother, beckoning to a hesitant servant impatiently.
"You'll be too drunk to give your address."
"Why don't you give it? You'd make a better king, anyway! Everyone says so."
The conversation in their immediate vicinity abruptly died away. Acutely conscious that Arami's voice was rising, Severyn laughed. "Don't be an ass, brother. It's too much responsibility for me, thank you!" He nodded to the hovering servant who sprang forward to replenish the king's glass.
Arami's lip twisted. "Damn right," he snarled and tossed off the glass in a single gulp.
The last guest was seated. Severyn held his breath as Arami lurched to his feet. The entire hall fell silent. The guests looked expectantly toward their king, who inelegantly wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He looked blearily around. "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the annual Greening fete. I hope you're enjoying yourselves. Thank you for coming."
He sat down. Severyn fought the impulse to rise and quickly take over. Instead, he lifted his hands and politely applauded. After a moment, others took it up. Arami simply stared gloomily out over the assembly and had another glass of wine.
After dinner, Severyn shook off the attentions of several lords and went in search of Michael. He found his friend outside the ballroom, accepting a small, leather pouch from Captain Remy. The Archbishop's personal aide bowed when Severyn joined them, but quickly made his excuses and hurried away.
"I, for one, have always appreciated the brief dinner address," Michael greeted the prince, his lips twitching.
"Arami excelled himself tonight," Severyn muttered. "And what the hell? Why was Remy giving you money?"
Michael's grin was positively wicked. After learning about the wager, Severyn laughed aloud. "Fifty gold? Good God, Mick! Do you mean to beggar the poor man?"
"What could he do? Claim his lord's wife inferior to some ordinary maiden?"
Severyn chortled. Seizing Michael by the arm, he drew him through the crowd and out onto the terrace. There, beyond the hearing of nearby guests, he said in a low voice, "Seriously, Mick. Arami is getting bad. I've heard no end of complaints tonight. More worrying still is the way the Church is stepping in to fill the gaps. We may have to move sooner than I'd planned."
"We may not have to do anything. After tonight's display, the Advisori may even ask for a Declaration of Incompetence."
"Who would have the courage to propose it? By law, I cannot, and even if someone takes the risk, nothing less than a unanimous vote will do. The Church has enough lapdogs among them to keep them impotent."
Michael sat down on a bench beside the balustrade, gazing down the gentle, manicured slope to the lake. In the east, the sky was brightening.
"What happened to Miss Eldering?"
"Whisked away by her aunt. Lady Scott-Eldering did inform me, however, that Miss Eldering will enter half-mourning next month and, hence, be available for sedate social amusements."
"You looked like you were enjoying yourself tonight," was his unsympathetic friend's response. "She is very... " he broke off, yawning. " ...pretty. Ugh. Surely it's permitted to go home and to bed? I swear that is dawn I see coming."
Severyn couldn't help yawning himself. He looked back into the ballroom. There was no sign of the festivities letting up. Arami had gone back to ground, of course. Severyn knew he should stay and cover the host responsibilities, but: "Let's go. It's Arami's party, damn it. I'm tired of playing clean-up."
Michael didn't argue. He followed Severyn down the terrace steps and onto the lawn, circling around the palace to the stables. Before they got there, however, Michael slowed and stopped.
"Something's not right," he said slowly. "It's been bothering me since dinner."
"What?"
"Remy. He was uncommonly interested in my romantic affairs." Michael frowned thoughtfully at the path. "And there was something else, something about him. Something familiar."
"Perhaps you've met before and just don't remember."
"Forget meeting him? Not likely!"
"Aha. Does our unlucky earl have competition?" Severyn grinned at Michael's expression. "He is a handsome devil."
Michael laughed. "I'd sooner take a snake to bed," he replied with feeling. "And speaking of snakes, I wonder what kept His Eminence from attending tonight? Charity didn't know much. Only that he had planned to attend, but was called away at the last moment on Council business."
"I can't say I missed him."
They walked on, reaching the stables. Severyn's unannounced appearance sent the grooms and stableboys into a tizzy, but in short order, his carriage was brought around.
"I'll give you a ride to your hotel," he said, when Michael started to climb into it. "Maybe I'll stop at the club on the way back and have a bit of breakfast."
The bridge was mostly empty when the carriage pulled out onto it. Their running lights reflected in the dark water on either side.
"I think I'll go to Shia," Michael said.
Severyn had fended off several of these intentions since the aborted wedding. "Why not go home for a week or two, instead? I should pay a visit to Messerling, now that I think of it. We could travel together."
Severyn waited, hoping to hear Michael agree, but, instead, his friend was silent.
"Healing Arami was the first time I've used my power since the business in Fornsby. It tired me out more than I expected."
"How could that be? Witch power alone is sufficient for healing, isn't it?"
"Yes, but it's been almost three months since I was last with Stefn." Michael frowned thoughtfully. "I wonder if there's more to the Bond than we know." He sighed, leaning back against the cushions. "Sometimes, Sev, I feel like I'm making my way blind through the darkness with this thing, not knowing what to expect, relying only on folk-stories and family legend. The last time I was in Withwillow, Locke hinted there might be a third Chronicle, one concerning the nara exclusively. I wonder?" The quiet voice trailed off into silence.
Severyn wanted to look away, but couldn't. The line of Michael's throat, the clean, hard curve of his jaw... Before he knew what he was doing, Severyn was on his feet. Leaning across the space between them, he kissed Michael squarely on the mouth.
"Mmg!" Michael sat up straight, eyes flying wide open.
Reason reclaimed the prince who felt a sudden rush of heat and embarrassment. He sat down hastily. His heart was pounding as if he'd run a mile at top speed.
"S-Sev?"
"N-never mind," muttered Severyn, aghast at his own action. "I-I... It's the party. Too much to drink."
They rode in uncomfortable silence the remainder of the way back to the hotel.
Once the war ended, St. Aramis magnanimously extended to the surviving nara his mercy and forgiveness. Although the bishops advised against it, he gave many their lands back and restored their titles. If he could be faulted for anything in his shortsightedness, it is for his great generosity of spirit and extending the Light of Loth's forgiveness where it was undeserved.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume II,Year of Loth's Dominion 1349
A week passed, but there was no word from Severyn. Michael finally sent a note to the palace, something noncommittal, with no mention of the kiss in the carriage. He received no answer.
He could still remember the shock on Severyn's face afterwards. What had he been thinking? Why had he done such a thing? They were both half-drunk. Did he think Michael was angry or, more likely, was Severyn ashamed of himself?
"I'm going to Shia," Michael announced suddenly.
Jeremy sighed, propping his boots up on the ottoman and swallowing the last of his whiskey. Outside, rain beat against the windows and thunder rolled across Lothmont. Spring had arrived in the central valley with a vengeance; endless rain and flooding downriver. Inside the Fairhands Club, however, Michael, Jeremy and Auron were cozy and well-fed, having just finished an excellent supper.
"Are you going to tell Severyn? What the devil is going on with you two, anyway? Did you have a falling out?"
"Not really." Michael didn't want to talk about it.
"We can ride up together," suggested Auron.
"I'll have to stop at Blackmarsh first. Annie writes that Father's health is even worse than usual. As she reminds me, an eldest son must occasionally do his duty."
"For Miss Annabel, I would consider duty a pleasure!"
Michael bared his teeth. "Come within arm's reach of her, Auron, and I'll end your chances of fatherhood forever."
Auron grabbed a nearby periodical to shield his lap. "Now, now, Mick. You know I hold your saintly sister in the highest regard."
Michael shrugged. "She fancies Forry anyway."
"Forry? That stick?" Auron was stricken. "You cannot be serious!"
"And why not?" demanded Jeremy. "Forry's a nice, respectable sort of fellow, with a good title and a prosperous parish. Women like that sort of thing."
"Alas. It's true. Money is all. Men such as myself may be well-endowed with looks, intellect and charm, but without a corresponding plumpness of pocket, we're simply moments of amusement."
"I'm going to be ill," Michael said.
It was late when the small party broke up. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the air was heavy with damp.
"Can I give you a ride?" asked Auron as his carriage pulled up to the steps.
Michael shook his head, pulling on his gloves. "Thanks, but my hotel isn't far from here. I could use a good walk to clear the cobwebs."
With a wave, his friend was off. Michael watched him go, then turned and started home.
He should at least send another note to the castle, informing Severyn of his intentions. It was only courteous. Most likely, the prince would be relieved to have him on the other side of Tanyrin.
Loth! It was scalding, the memory of that kiss, and it had torn up his peace badly. He'd dreamed of just such a moment since his early adolescence, but he'd never once expected it, never imagined it to come true.
Maybe Severyn just needed time to come to terms with what happened. Time and distance would do them both good.
"Lord Arranz?"
Startled, Michael looked around. A trio of horsemen emerged from the fog, Hunters and among them, none other than Captain Remy. The captain pulled away from his companions, trotting over to the sidewalk. Michael stopped, waiting curiously for him to dismount.
"I thought it was you," Remy greeted him.
Michael inclined his head slightly. "On patrol, captain?"
"Returning from a musical," the captain replied. "And yourself?"
"Cards."
"I hope it was a successful evening. Do you have rooms nearby? It's dangerous to be walking about the city at this hour, alone." The captain looked up and down the empty street. "But then, I suppose one would have to be foolhardy indeed to attack you."
"I would hope to give a good account of myself, should anyone be so foolhardy. Fortunately, this is a peaceful neighborhood and I've had no trouble."
"Then you are fortunate, sir. Not a week ago a man was robbed on this very corner! Allow us to accompany you to your door, my lord."
Michael could think of no good reason to refuse. It was less than a quarter mile on anyway. He asked, "What news do you have of His Eminence?"
"The Archbishop is traveling, visiting his Cathedrals and Abbeys as he does every spring. What of yourself, Lord Arranz? Do you plan to spend much longer in Lothmont or will you retire to your estate once the warm weather arrives?"
Michael gave him a noncommittal answer and they made idle conversation until they reached the hotel. Bidding him a pleasant evening, Remy and his companions rode off. A sleepy doorman opened the doors at Michael's pull of the bell, then locked them carefully after him. Michael remained there, watching through the lace curtains until the Hunters were swallowed up by the misty night. Then, inexplicably unsettled by the encounter, he went upstairs.
He had no more time than to open the door to his suite before bodies hit him from three directions. He went down hard, banging his head against the floor. For precious moments, he was insensible. When his wits returned, he was on his belly, hands bound behind him. His first impulse was to use a spell to free himself, but something stayed his words. There was a buzzing in the back of his head. The next moment, he was hauled roughly to his feet and he saw why.
Someone uncovered a lantern. Men in rough, nondescript clothing pressed all around him, but in the far corner of the room, one of their number stared at Michael with a fixed, blank gaze, his lips moving ceaselessly, as if praying. Around his neck was held the distinctive amulet of a knightmage.
One of the strangers suddenly lifted a hand and everyone went still. Outside his door, Michael heard voices, then someone knocked. "Lord Arranz? Lord Arranz? What's going on in there? Are you all right, my lord?"
Michael threw himself back, trying to pull free of the hands gripping him.
"Get him out of here," snarled one of the men, looking toward the glass doors leading to the suite's small balcony.
These were no ordinary robbers; not with a mage! Michael struggled wildly, digging in his heels and throwing himself this way and that, fighting to keep from being pulled from the room. Without the ability to articulate Words, what little k'na he still possessed remained out of reach.
On the balcony, rain hit Michael in the face. There were horsemen waiting on the street beneath. One of his captors dragged his head back and forced open his jaws, shoving in a wad of cloth. The gag was tied fast with a strip of cloth. They lifted Michael off his feet and tossed him out into the dark.
Invisible hands caught him before he could hit the ground. A short distance away, the shadowy bulk of a carriage waited. Still resisting, Michael was hustled to it. The door opened. They threw him in, uncaring that he was sent sprawling the length of the wet, dirty floor. The door slammed and, a moment later, the carriage lurched and started forward at a good clip. A hand reached down, helping him as he struggled to sit up. Furious and more than a little frightened, Michael shook hair from his eyes as they adjusted to the cabin's gloom. When the voice came, he recognized the voice at once.
"My apologies for the rough handling, my lord." Adrian Remy leaned across the aisle and tugged at Michael's gag, testing it. Michael jerked his head back, furious. "One hears rumors about the Dukes of Arranz and their witcheries. I, personally, don't think you would be so depraved, but my superiors insisted I take precautions, so I --- Now, now, my lord!"
Remy's sword appeared, the tip resting lightly on Michael's chest, stopping him from lunging at the Hunter. "Please! The Church of Loth has no intention of doing you harm. Just do as we ask and this will all be over before you know it."
Bound and gagged, Michael could do nothing except take Remy's advice. He sat, rigid, working at his gag whenever the Hunter wasn't looking.
When the carriage finally stopped, Michael was dragged back out into the rain. Hunters were all around him. They didn't give him long to get his bearings, but shoved him across littered, broken pavement and into a place smelling of mold, urine, and wood-rot.
The tenement had been long abandoned: plaster crumbled, ceilings collapsed, floors creaked ominously underfoot. Only squatters came here now, leaving behind heaps of filth and rubbish. At the back of the building, well away from the street, more Hunters waited. Michael was forced through their jeers and shoving, down a stinking corridor and into another of the filthy, crumbling rooms. The door slammed behind him, muffling raucous laughter.
There were others in this room, too, but Michael did not notice them at first. His attention was drawn immediately to the enormous bed. It was a magnificent piece of furniture with elaborately carved posters taller than a man. The deep mattress was heaped high with furs, pillows and coverlets of rich, shimmering fabrics. Heavy silver candlesticks held wax tapers on small night stands to either side of it. Such an incongruous sight in this wretched place left Michael momentarily stunned.
It was several moments before he noticed a slip of a girl, scarcely older than sixteen, who waited beside the bed. She was dressed in a frothy nightgown of gauze and lace, the sheer fabrics giving hints of the slim, gently curved figure beneath. Hair almost as pale as his tumbled over her shoulders, held back from her thin, pretty face by a delicate circlet of gold.
The room had two other pieces of quality furniture, a pair of satin-upholstered, wingbacked chairs. In one sat a young Dragon cadet, floridly handsome, who regarded Michael with disdain. He wore a conspicuous mage's amulet on a chain around his neck which he fingered constantly as he stared. Michael turned on Remy, glaring his incredulity.
Remy laughed. He reached into his coat and pulled out a long envelope. It contained a piece of heavy, folded paper. Flattening it out, the captain obligingly held it up so Michael could see it. Ornate lettering spelled out what he had already suspected. It was a marriage license.
"Behold your bride," said Remy, jerking a thumb toward the silent child in the negligee. "I think her name is Piety."
Michael, stunned, looked from her still face to Remy's mocking smile.
"Once you've consummated your union," the Hunter continued, "you and your lovely lady may depart."
Perversely, laughter bubbled up behind the gag, choking Michael. He shook his head in disbelief. Remy's own smile didn't waver, but his gaze hardened. Raising his voice slightly, he said, "I'm going to remove the gag, Merriweather. Are you ready?"
The youth in the chair shifted to alertness. "Yes, sir!"
"He is one of our best acolytes," Remy said to Michael. "This is something of an end-of-term examination for him." He strolled around to untie the gag. With a shake of his head, Michael spat out the cloth. Even as he did so, he felt his throat go numb. His mouth was dry as dust.
"Girl!" Remy beckoned and she came at once. Her gaze darted to Michael and away, but not before he saw loathing and misery. Tears trembled on her long, thick eyelashes.
The muscles in Michael's throat strained, but nothing came out. Something held them frozen and his gaze flew to the youth with the amulet. Merriweather's lips moved rapidly and he clutched his amulet in both hands.
"I'd leave you two alone," Remy said with false regret, "but His Eminence wishes witnesses to the consummation."
At a motion from him, the girl approached Michael and took his arm. To her, Remy said, "Don't untie him."
"My lord," she whispered obediently.
Remy paused and took her chin in her hand. "It's all right, Piety. Your sacrifice has been noticed by the Archbishop himself. Do your duty and be blessed in the eyes of both Loth and His Eminence."
There was nothing pious in the look she turned on Michael. "Come, my lord," she said to him. "Let us to bed."
Michael pulled free. This was ludicrous! Did they really expect him to lie with this child while they watched? When she tried again to take his arm, he refused, his look so fierce, she shrank in real apprehension.
Finally, Remy threatened to have the guards brought in to forcibly strip him. "Do not make this harder than it needs to be, my lord," he snarled. "I am no more enamored of this foul place than you! Surely you've bedded whores often enough. Just think of her as another such."
Michael had no other choice then but to let her guide him to the bed and sit down upon it. He tugged at the chains binding him, but they were good steel and impossible to break. Quickly, she set to undressing him. His brief stir of amusement earlier was long gone. Furious and humiliated, he tried not to look at the two men watching in the far corner of the room. Instead, he fought to find some flicker of desire for the pretty, but unsettling girl who quickly shed her own frothy garments and climbed on top of him.
Alas, all her caresses, her writhing and moaning had no effect on him. Even when she bent and took his cock in her mouth, his desire refused to stir. In desperation, Michael tried to imagine she was Stefn, but nothing helped. Her attentions grew rougher as she began to realize she could not arouse him. Finally, he swore, twisting and rolling away from her.
Bursting into tears, the girl crawled across the mattress after him. He shook her off again, lurching from the bed, determined to end this idiocy.
"Enough!" Remy's voice made her flinch back. The captain rose from his chair and strode across the room to them. Grabbing her slender arm, he pulled her away. "This is getting us nowhere. Go back to your place and stay there. No! Don't say a word, bitch, or I'll kill you."
Sobbing into her hands, the girl withdrew to the other side of the mattress. Remy pulled a dagger from his belt and walked around the bed. Michael had never felt so vulnerable, bound and dressed only in his unbuttoned shirt.
The Hunter captain stood inches from him. Lifting his blade, he held it to Michael's throat. "Is it possible women have no attraction for you, my lord? Do you truly have the blood of the naragi in your cursed veins? If so, we are just in time."
The tip of the blade scratched Michael's neck. Remy's mouth was inches from his. "Shall we see if we can bring you to the point another way?" he whispered.
Michael gasped at the fingers wrapping around his cock, sliding knowingly between his balls. The caress was skillful, but it wasn't skill that made Michael's body leap in response or made him suddenly lean forward to capture the startled captain's lips with his own!
Adrian Remy had the Blood!
Michael thrust his tongue deep into the other man's mouth, vibrantly aware of the power kept maddening just beyond his reach. The captain, caught by surprise, took a moment to react. He broke away, laughing nervously and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were stark with shock and disbelief. Beneath the tight breeches of his uniform his own response was evident. Then, like a man hypnotized, he leaned forward again.
Suddenly, the force holding Michael silent was gone. From the corner of his eye, he saw the young knightmage, open-mouthed, leaning forward in his chair, spell-casting forgotten. Remy, flushed and breathing hard, turned away to look at the girl. "Now," he called hoarsely to her. "He's ready."
The Words came automatically to Michael, binding the remnants of k'na lingering within him, focusing them into one brief, desperate spell. His manacles shattered like glass. Michael threw himself forward, no longer driven by reason. The captain swore, but not even his Hunter reflexes were fast enough for a naragi in heat. Michael was on him in a heartbeat, bringing him to the ground. Remy fought like a tiger, but Michael didn't notice. He slammed Remy's face against the floor with brutal strength and, while the captain lay dazed, tore his breeches down around his ankles.
The girl was screaming. Michael heard it as if from a vast distance, his focus on the man writhing beneath him. He drove deep into the Hunter captain, Remy's exquisite tightness nearly distracting him from the great, euphoric waves of k'na pouring from their point of joining.
Hands tore at him, at his hair, at his arms, scratching and pulling. Something heavy struck him from behind. Shouting and curses echoed in his skull, deafening.
Hurts! Stop! Stop it!
He spoke more Words, different this time, less familiar. A dreadful sound, not unlike the roar of the stormwave, filled his head. The brilliance of a thousand suns exploded behind his eyes, blinding him.
It was only afterwards, when his head cleared and his thoughts steadied, that he looked around and knew he had taken one step closer to the abyss.
Erich Dore arrived at Shia a week after Forry's departure for Withwillow. He heard the news about the spies with a grim scowl, but saw no reason to linger.
"Forry's man, Lake, has everything under control. Anyway, Auron will be along soon. He's to stay and take up responsibility for overseeing the garrison for awhile. Truth be told," added Erich, "it's the damned rain. At least Tantagrel gets sunlight now and then, even these days."
"What if more Hunters come?"
"That's not your worry, my friend. Just play your part as Severyn's future brother-in-law and everything will be fine."
He left soon after that, promising to urge Auron to hurry. Stefn watched him go from the south parlor, his coach vanishing quickly into the misty rain.
After two days of relentless downpours, the clouds broke, showing tantalizing glimpses of blue sky. Sick of being confined to the house, even the prospect of getting wet and muddy couldn't depress Stefn's eagerness to be away.
Marin was gone, so there was no one to nag him into taking an escort. He had a horse saddled and brought around.
"It's going to rain again, m'lord," the groom ventured, scowling at the clouds.
"I won't melt," replied Stefn cheerfully, and started down to the castle gate.
The air had a sweet, rainwashed scent and puddles lay everywhere. Water dripped from the eaves and branches he passed. As he approached the gate, Stefn heard voices ahead. A moment later two guards came around the corner of the armory, accompanied by a pair of villagers, the latter wet and covered with mud.
"My lord!" One of the guards hurried forward
Alarmed, Stefn dismounted. "Arkingham?"
Corporal Arkingham bowed while the villagers stared at him curiously.
"These folk are from Embry, my lord. The river has flooded its banks and half the village is under water!"
"Has anyone been hurt?"
"Aye!" cried one of the villagers, stepping forward. "Two drowned and several unaccounted for, children and... We've lost everything! The water's getting' higher and more rain's comin'..."
The two men spoke over each other, their distress obvious.
Stefn nodded. "Corporal Arkingham, take this matter to Captain Lake. Tell him to gather as much food, bedding and clothing as may be reasonably spared. I'll go ahead and have a look."
Arkingham saluted and was off to the barracks.
"Go to the kitchens," Stefn told the gaping villagers. "The servants will see you fed and dried out. You can ride back in the supply wagon."
He barely heeded their thanks, pointing them in the direction of the house before mounting up again. The patches of blue overhead were getting fewer and further between. Clouds, driven by the chill, damp wind, thickened.
Outside Shia's walls, the broad expanse of grassland glittered with ponds of standing rainwater, as far as the eye could see. Stefn had a sudden vision of Shia's artificial hill rising above a sea stretching to the horizon.
Another image suddenly imposed itself, vivid and possessed of a sharp, visceral clarity: a tall man, lean and graceful, hair as bright as frost. Strength and a sudden, wary smile --- Michael!
Stefn fell forward in his saddle, reins slipping from his hands. He couldn't breathe. His ears filled with a loud buzzing while his heart hammered madly in his chest. Only luck kept him from slipping out of the saddle. He grabbed wildly for the reins, but his fingers were clumsy and he could only grasp handfuls of his horse's mane and hang on.
The madness eased. Stefn swore, trying to swallow with a parched mouth and tight throat. Sweat ran into his eyes. Something was wrong! Something to do with Michael!
Stop! I DON'T CARE!
It was the thrice-damned lethet! Stefn wanted to rip it off his throat. Instead, he gritted his teeth, straightening in the saddle, and reclaimed the reins.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind picked up. Overhead, the last few patches of blue disappeared. He drove his horse forward, hooves splashing in the puddles dotting the road. The rain started again.
It was coming down in sheets when he reached Embry, or what was left of the village. On its outskirts, a pitiful camp now stood, a jumble of makeshift tents of blankets and salvaged wood. Fires burned sullenly here and there, jealously protected from the downpour. The air stank of rain, smoke and mud. As he rode through the wretched settlement, pale faces looked out at him. Women, children; eyes stark with shock and despair, watched him silently as he passed.
The Shian River was Embry's lifeline, bringing in trade from the south and providing most of the parish with fresh fish. Usually, it ran along tamely between high, rocky banks, but today the placid stream was a raging monster. It had left its banks, filling the lowest parts of Embry and washing away everything in its path. All manner of debris was carried with the current, barrels, beams, and uprooted trees. Where dozens of small huts and cottages had been was only swift water.
Was anyone in charge? Where were the priests? The Abbey was on the highest ground. Why weren't these folk sheltering there? Stefn stopped, looking around.
Movement nearby announced a tall, grizzled man. He was followed by a woman and another man, older and wearing a bandage around his arm.
"Who are you?" asked the tall man, narrow-eyed. "What business do ye have here?"
Stefn met the cold speculation without flinching. "I'm lord of this village," he said, hoping his voice was as steady as it needed to be. "The Earl of Shia. My business is to see this disaster for myself, so I can send enough assistance. Who are you?"
The tall man caught his breath. He bowed, but none of his tension was gone. From the folk gathering around came a ripple of gasps.
"I'm Robert Carter, m'lord, and we've no need of your help."
"Why aren't you all up at the Abbey?" Stefn did his best to ignore the stab of hurt and frustration. "Where are the priests?"
Carter said nothing, but spat elaborately into the mud. Muttering rose. The crowd was growing, more and more people emerging from the wreckage. Stefn was exquisitely aware of the bristling resentment.
But, "Aye!" shouted someone. "Where are the damned priests? Two days we been sufferin' and they can't make up their minds whether to let us in? I say they've made up their minds! We're bein' told to go to the devil!"
"He's a sin-catcher!" shouted Carter. "It's his fault! He's a sign we're bein' punished by Loth!"
The muttering grew. Stefn kept a firm grip on his horse, wondering if he had the nerve to trample people to save his own life. Michael Arranz wouldn't think twice.
"Suit yourselves," he said, speaking loudly and clearly. The muttering faded. "The folk from the castle will be here soon with food and supplies. Accept their aid or not, as it suits you. As for the abbot, I will have a word with him. Gather what belongings you have and prepare to move to higher ground."
The quiet was absolute. Slowly a head nodded here and there.
"They'll turn ye back," called Carter. There were calls of agreement and a few jeers.
Stefn shrugged. "We'll speak again, Carter," he said and saw unease flicker in the man's eyes.
The villagers watched him go in silence, accompanied by the hissing rain and a rumble of thunder. Stefn was long past soaked. He made his way uphill, following the swollen river toward a cluster of buildings sprawled across several hilltops. There was plenty of open land around the abbey's main complex, some of the best grazing land in the parish. It would do nicely as a campsite for the dispossessed villagers.
Several priests stood before the abbey gate, armed with pitchforks and axes. The sight took Stefn aback. He pushed wet hair from his face as they approached, brandishing their makeshift weapons.
"There's been no word from the abbot!" they shouted. "Did we not say we'd tell you when the abbot makes his decision? Begone with ye!"
"If ye weren't fools enough to build so close to the river, this wouldn't be happening!" another chimed in. "It's the judgment of Loth!"
"It's the greed of the abbey!" retorted Stefn, furious. "I am Stefn Eldering, Earl of Shia! I have come to speak to the abbot!"
"You? The earl?" The nearest priest sneered disbelievingly.
"The earl's a sin-catcher," called the other. "He's deformed! I see no problem with you, sir!"
"Aye! Where's yer proof?"
He had none, of course, and no intention of taking off his boot to prove it. No doubt, bedraggled as he was, he hardly looked like a highblood. Even so, that they should be so rude to any of those they purported to serve only deepened Stefn's anger. He turned his horse and started away. Then, several yards from the gate, he turned and galloped back. The priests, content to have driven away another interloper, spun around and their mouths dropped at the sight of horse and earl hurtling straight at them.
In panic, they scrambled to ready their weapons, but Stefn and his mount easily cleared the low wall beside the gate and left them shouting. He continued straight on to the Domicile. Dismounting, he pushed his reins into the hands of a startled priest and took the steps up to the door two at a time. The door opened after his third knock. A young man stood there, dressed in grey tunic and leggings. His hair was a very pale blond and his eyes were grey. In the middle of his forehead was a small scar in the shape of a perfect circle.
Stefn's angry demand died on his lips. Shock twisted his gut. The young man bowed. "Good afternoon, sir."
A Penitent!
"May I help you?"
"Tell the abbot Lord Eldering is here," Stefn ordered, pushing past the youth and into the house.
"H-he's at his prayers, my lord..." The h'nar broke off, looking past Stefn into the rain. His eyes got wide. A moment later, two priests thundered in.
"What is going on?"
A nasal, outraged voice brought silence to the room. The Penitent bowed very deeply. Abbot Drummond looked around his vestibule with displeasure. "Brother Richard? Brother Samuel? What is all this?" His irate glare settled on Stefn, narrowed, then widened. "M-my lord!"
Drummond had met Stefn before, but only a handful of times and only briefly. Clearly, he remembered, however, for he gave a stiff little bow. To the priests, he snapped, "What are you doing? Can't you see who this is? Get back to your posts, both of you!"
They backed out, directing evil looks at Stefn. Stefn looked for the h'nar, but the pale young man had vanished.
He followed the abbot into a luxurious sitting room.
"What brings you out here on such a day?" asked the abbot, waving him to a comfortable sofa.
"There's flooding in the village. Many people have lost their homes. Women and children, too, are living in the open."
"Yes," agreed the abbot somberly. "It is a great tragedy."
"And yet, the Church is doing nothing."
The abbot blinked. "We are praying to Loth to end the rain and ease their suffering..."
"Aren't there a number of buildings on the property, barns and the like, that could easily shelter people until the waters recede? Why have you not opened them?"
"Bring the people here?" Drummond was astonished. "But our buildings are in use!"
"Most of your barns should be empty now, your flocks at pasture."
The abbot began to look uneasy. "Yes," he admitted, "but three of the buildings are to be put in use very soon for other things. We could give the villagers use of the two barns farthest to the east."
"What about those nearer the abbey? The buildings you mention are several miles from the village. The villagers must be able to come and go easily. The faster they rebuild, the faster you have your barns back, is that not so?"
"We are a poor abbey," objected the man, plucking at his satin waistcoat with a beringed hand. "The people will certainly expect us to provide food. Who knows what they might do if we could not accommodate them?"
"But you'll be able to do so." Stefn's heart beat a little faster. He remembered seeing Drummond at the castle, sitting with his father, laughing and drinking with the rest of them. Maybe Drummond remembered this, too.
"I'm delighted to see you take such an interest in parish affairs, my lord." The abbot smiled thinly. "But perhaps you should leave matters as they've always been. One such as you needs be careful lest he continue to bring misfortune onto others." He paused delicately. "Who knows? Perhaps it is your continued presence in Shia that brings about these catastrophes."
Shocked to immobility, Stefn could only stare at the smug cleric. His heart was racing. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Did he have the courage to pick it up?
"My lord," he said finally, "I've lately had cause to review the parish covenant with the Church, including the particulars of the abbey's land leases."
Drummond's narrow jaw tightened. "Is that so, my lord? I trust everything was in order?"
"Yes." Stefn took a deep breath. "I noted, however, the lease expires in Rivkel, less than three months from now. It is at the discretion of the parish lord to renew it and on what terms."
The abbot's mouth sagged. "W-what? But surely that's a mere formality!"
"In the past, yes, but the Hunters are gone and the Church is not going to replace them. I owe allegiance only to the royal house of Lothlain, in whose name I rule this parish. The Church, by law, exists here at my pleasure. Sin-catcher or not, Abbot Drummond, that is the way of it."
"How dare you!" Drummond quivered with outrage. His face took on a mottled hue. "It seems the rumors I've heard of business in the castle is true!"
Stefn heard that with a lurch of his heart, but said only, "I know nothing of rumors. To what use do you plan to put the other three barns?"
Drummond, lips parted to deliver his next retort, stammered. "The other three? Oh, yes. Those."
"Right now, I see no reason not to send all the villagers here to be housed in all five of the barns."
The abbot went from choleric to nervous in a heartbeat. "Ah those. Yes, well... the Celestial Counsel has granted --- It was our hope to begin the farming of wheat on the abbey lands, but the labor problem... "
"Penitents? The Church is sending Penitents?"
Drummond harrumphed. "Yes," he replied haughtily. "And why not?"
"Not in Shia." Stefn was appalled. "I will not have Penitents in Shia! Send word to the Council immediately that you don't need them after all!"
"I'll do nothing of the sort!" Pushed past his endurance, the abbot's voice rose. "Do you mean to forbid the presence of h'nara on Shian soil as your father did? I call you a hypocrite, my lord, for you entertain taints in your house!"
"You misunderstand," retorted Stefn. "I have no objection to h'nara on Shian soil, only Penitents. Shia is a parish of free men. I will tolerate no slavery within its borders."
"They are not slaves..."
"No!" Stefn's own temper slipped. "I will not hear your lies. You may call them whatever you will; I know slavery when I see it. Not here, my lord abbot. And if you defy me, I will exercise my right as earl of this parish and take them from you, including the boy who answered your door!"
"You would not dare!"
"Would I not? His Highness left a company of Royal Guard to see to the security of the parish. Do not try me, Abbot Drummond. Sin-catcher though I be, I am still an Eldering. Think on that as you weigh your desire to continue as abbot in Shia!"
At the time King Arami I founded the 12 High Orders, he also established the Royal Advisori, a Council of highblood Lords whose duty it was to advise him on matters of governance. Each member was given authority over a parish and was answerable only to the king himself.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume II,Year of Loth's Dominion 1349
"Your Highness, pardon the interruption, but you've a visitor."
Severyn, seated at his desk, looked up to see Timkins hovering in the doorway of his study. "This late?" He glanced across the room at the clock. It was near midnight.
"It's Marin, sir. He says he must speak to you at once."
Alarm shot through Severyn. Marin should be in Shia, keeping a watch on the young earl. He nodded and Timkins stepped aside to admit the tall h'nar.
Marin clearly had come straight from the road, hair and clothing damp. Timkins withdrew discreetly, closing the door after him.
"We've trouble in Shia, Your Highness," he said without preamble.
"Is it Eldering?"
Marin, startled, shook his head and gave the prince his report. When he was finished, Severyn sat, alarmed. "Hunter spies? Damnation!"
Rising from his chair, Severyn paced to the window and stared out into the night. The distant twinkling of Lothmont's lights were reflected in the lake. It had finally stopped raining.
"Have you spoken to Michael?"
"No, Your Highness. I came straight here."
Severyn heard that with relief. "Good man. The last thing we need is for Michael to go haring off to Shia with the Church watching it. Damn! I should probably go there at once, just in case."
Severyn's words were cut off by a muffled boom. Underfoot, the castle seemed to move, as if the earth under it had been jerked by some giant hand. To the northeast, deep in Lothmont's slums, a bright flash of light split the dark.
"H-Highness!"
The flash lasted only a moment. Severyn stared at the spot where it had been. As he did so, flames appeared, just a small glow at first, then more, leaping high against the night sky. He turned away from the window. As he did, the door to the study burst open to admit Corliss, the captain much agitated. "Your Highness! Take cover! We're under attack!"
"Has the island been secured?"
"Of course, Your Highness!"
"And Arami?"
"The king and queen's quarters are secure."
"Good. Timkins! My coat!"
"Is it possible someone has moved cannons, completely unnoticed, across the open countryside and set up outside Lothmont?" Corliss wondered.
"I sincerely doubt it," replied Severyn. He shrugged into the jacket Timkins held out for him. "Whatever it is, I'm going to have a look myself."
In the corridor, several of Arami's ministers and generals had gathered. Others were hurrying toward them.
"Roust the army!" one cried.
"Rebels! It must be rebels!" worried another.
"You honestly believe Lothmont was fired upon?" demanded Severyn, striding away toward the stair. They ran to keep up.
"I don't know what else to think, Your Highness," replied a frightened lord. "There are no foundries in that part of town, no armories or distilleries, nothing we know of that could cause such an explosion."
"Perhaps they have been gathering weapons in stealth for months!" another minister speculated.
"Who?" Severyn found it all unbelievable.
"H-Highness?"
"Who would attack us, Mackleby? And why the east side? There's nothing of any value there. It's all slum."
"Maybe 'tis witchcraft." A minister, one of his father's holdovers, gave him a stern look. "The Church has been warning for years of the cursed naragi's return. What if it's finally happened?"
"Absurd," snapped Severyn, but he felt an uncomfortable flutter in his stomach. "Superstition! The nara are gone!"
"There are stories... "
"Most likely someone set up an unlawful distillery." Severyn cut the man off, ignoring his resentful scowl. "That is one of the city's poorest neighborhoods. If the destruction is as widespread as it appears from here, the people there will require immediate assistance."
"But what about the possibility that it is an attack... "
"Send a few men to scour the countryside outside the city, but prepare most of your troops for fighting fires and rescuing the wounded."
At the bottom of the stairs, more of the Royal Guard had gathered, most of them officers. Corliss went straight to them and began to issue orders.
"Shall I call for your carriage, Highness?" Timkins asked.
"No," replied Severyn. "I'll ride."
"Highness! You will take guards?"
"Have them follow at once. In the meantime, find Mick and the others. They'll do as escorts."
Timkins had to be content with that. Men were sent off to the Fairhands Club to find the two lords. In the meantime, Severyn left the palace and rode straight to the mainland.
It was raining again, a thin, misty drizzle, when he was joined by Jeremy at the Thaelrick bridge.
"Where's Mick and Auron?"
"Don't know. I'm sure they'll be along shortly."
They galloped through near-deserted streets toward the city's northeast end. As they approached, the stench of smoke and wet ash grew stronger. People appeared, standing about in confusion, looking this way and that. Severyn noted with displeasure a large number of Hunters among them.
"Looks like the Cathedral is awfully concerned about your distillery," Jeremy said. "Tell me that ain't a Dragon over there."
Severyn glanced around. There was no mistaking the helmet or the crimson trim on the dark green Hunter uniform. Jaw tightening, Severyn cantered over to the man whose impatient glance quickly turned to consternation.
"Your Highness!"
"Why are you here?" Severyn demanded. "This is a civil matter. The Cathedral oversteps its authority!"
"H-Highness?"
"The people will see all these troops and panic! Who was the fool who sent you out here?"
The officer was surprised at his question and offended. "Your Highness! It was His Excellency, Bishop Montaigne! He fears foul witchcraft, sir!"
"His Majesty's Guard is responsible for keeping the peace in Lothmont," returned Severyn, getting hold of his temper. "I appreciate Montaigne's desire to be of assistance, but supplies of food and medicines for those affected would be more valuable than his personal army."
"But, Highness! The bolt of fire that struck the city! What else but witchcraft could cause such a thing?"
A crowd gathered. Muttering, both in agreement and incredulity, rose around them.
"You personally saw this bolt?"
"Well, no, your Highness, but..."
"A poorly constructed whisky still, more like," Severyn retorted loudly, "and a distiller who enjoyed too much of his own product, I'll wager."
That brought laughter and nods all about.
"Stand aside. I will have a look. Go back to the Cathedral immediately and tell Montaigne to prepare to render assistance for the wounded."
Without giving the Hunter a chance to respond, the prince wheeled his horse around and, to sporadic cheers from the citizenry, waved Hunters out of his way and rode on.
It was as bad as he'd feared. Windows broken, scorched and blackened bricks: they made their way carefully along the debris-covered street. Ahead, cries and screams echoed eerily in the choking fog of smoke and misty rain.
The devastation worsened as they advanced. Cracked and blackened buildings gave way to complete ruin, walls burned to charred skeletons, pavement fissured from the intensity of the heat. Bits of glass carpeted the ground. Severyn dismounted and picked one up. It was irregularly shaped and cloudy with tiny bubbles, but its surface was otherwise smooth as a river-polished pebble.
A clatter of hooves behind announced the arrival of the Royal Guard. Severyn and Jeremy dismounted as the commander came forward.
"Keep people away," Severyn instructed him. Then he and Jeremy strode toward an open space completely hemmed in by the destruction.
The space was perfectly round and within it, not one thing remained standing. The only evidence of what had been there before were foundation stones. There wasn't even ash; the entire circle was clean, the earth blasted smooth and shining as if overlaid with black glass.
Severyn swore under his breath. He met Iarhlaith's grim look of inquiry with a brief nod. "Stay here," he said. With Jeremy staring at his back, he left the circle, crossing the street to the Hunters gathering just beyond the wall of Royal Guard. He beckoned impatiently to their commander who dismounted and hurried forward.
"Lieutenant? I thought I made a request of you."
"If you would permit, Your Highness, we would also like to search the area. If it is demon work, you have no right to deny us the opportunity to conduct our own investigation!"
"I say it's nothing of the sort. Unless you've got the Archbishop himself nearby to say otherwise, the House of Lothlain prevails. Frankly, Lieutenant, it annoys me that I'm forced to remind you of this."
Incredibly, the lieutenant persisted. "I was informed of the possibility that other Hunters may have perished in the explosion. That fact alone gives us leave to pursue every avenue."
"Whatever would they be doing here?" asked Severyn. "It's not the usual neighborhood for soldiers of the Church, is it?"
"I'm not at liberty... "
"Is there, perhaps, some chance Hunters might have contributed to this disaster?"
Alarm appeared in the officer's countenance. "O-Of course not, H-Highness!"
"Then you can wait until my investigation is complete. The Guard will secure the area and allow no one inside except my agents. When they are finished, you may enter. Of course, should a reason occur to you in the meantime, feel free to bring it to me. I can assure you of complete discretion."
"As you wish, Highness," said the lieutenant, but Severyn knew the matter was not finished. The man would likely take the matter straight to Montaigne, who would turn around and bring it to Arami. Arami would not dare shuffle it aside. They had, at most, twenty-four hours to investigate the area, unimpeded.
"I hate to say it," muttered Iarhlaith, "but this doesn't look like any earthly catastrophe. Even a cannon strike would not do this." Gingerly, he poked at the glassy paving with the toe of his boot.
Severyn didn't reply. Instead, he said, "Go find Corliss for me. I want his best trackers on this. If there's any clues to be found, he'll find them."
Where the devil was Auron? And Michael? Where was Michael? The little melted glass pebbles were like accusing eyes, blinking up at him from the edge of the circle.
Corliss appeared, saluting. "Stay here," Severyn said. "Make sure our good Hunter lieutenant doesn't come back. I don't want any of the Church dogs sniffing around yet."
"Understood."
"Where are we going?" asked Jeremy, following Severyn back to their horses.
"To find Michael and Auron."
Jeremy gave him a sharp look, but nodded.
At Michael's hotel, the doorman, dozing just inside, woke up at Severyn's loud knock, quickly admitting them. Ignoring the man's bewildered look, Severyn ran up the stairs to Michael's suite. He knocked, quietly at first, then louder. No answer. Severyn shook the doorknob. Jeremy appeared behind him.
"Where the hell is he?" fretted Severyn.
"He said something earlier last night about returning to Shia," Jeremy said. "And Auron was thinking of going with him."
"That would be damned inconvenient," retorted Severyn. Even so, the idea that Michael had left town last night brought a certain sense of relief. Just to make certain, however, he went downstairs to the lobby.
"Has Lord Arranz checked out?"
The clerk quickly produced the guestbook at Severyn's command. In bold handwriting, 'Michael Arranz' was scrawled across the ledger, signifying he had, indeed left. Except, bold as it was, the signature wasn't Michael's!
"Where is the clerk who checked him out?"
"Why, gone home, Your Highness." The clerk looked uneasy. "Is there something wrong?"
"I'd like to speak to him at once. Can you send... " He broke off, hearing a shout from across the lobby.
"There's Auron!" Jeremy exclaimed.
Auron beckoned to them madly. Giving the wide-eyed clerk a terse order to wait, Severyn crossed the lobby to join his friend.
"If you're looking for Mick, he's at my house," said Auron, voice low, looking about for eavesdroppers. "You need to come right away. We're in one hell of a fix!"
Michael ached everywhere. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs and clouded his thinking, but he didn't dare sleep. Seated awkwardly and uncomfortably on the floor before him, Adrian Remy glared stonily at a spot on the carpet between them.
He should have killed the bastard. What rank injustice: of all those who had died in that flash of hellfire, Adrian Remy should be the one to survive with him.
And now, even singed and stinking of smoke, all Michael wanted was to throw Remy back to the floor and have him again. The need had every nerve in his body vibrating.
Where the hell was Auron? What was taking him so long? Would Severyn come with him?
Oh, Loth, I killed them all. How many? How many dead?
The smoldering ruins of the tenement were stark in his memory. Several buildings had been consumed in that momentary, devastating fireball. His fireball. His spell.
Straightening, Michael poured himself another cup of t'cha. It was lukewarm by now, but he gulped it down, willing it to give him enough energy to stay alert. His prisoner sat, every muscle taut, ready to leap from the floor.
I should bind his ankles.
Voices! Shakily, Michael got to his feet. Auron burst in, closely followed by Jeremy and... Sev! The prince came right to him, clasping his hand without hesitation and pulling him into a quick, fierce embrace.
"Mick!" was all he said. Then, stepping back, he looked down at Remy. "What's he doing here?"
"The Council's interest in my marital state was much more intense than I realized," said Michael and briefly described his abduction and bizarre events leading up to the disaster.
"But why?" demanded Severyn, turning his angry gaze to Remy. The captain stared back at him sullenly. "The case has been making its way through the courts with the Council winning each hearing. Of course Mick will wed eventually."
"Why?" spat Remy. His glare encompassed both Michael and the prince. "To prevent what he's become! Did you not see the devastation he created? Don't you recognize the work of a naragi?"
There was a sudden, shocked silence. Then Auron laughed. "Damn if he doesn't have a sense of humor. Didn't you pay attention at your history lectures, old man? The naragi have gone the way of the pureblood nara! They've been extinct for hundreds of years!"
Severyn went straight as a board and Michael, stunned by Remy's revelation, could only stare. Did they truly believe they could destroy his power by wedding him to a female?
"Fools! Go back to Alester Street --- look at what's left of the building. Then tell me that's not naragi magic!"
"Sev? Mick?" Jeremy's voice wavered. He stared at Mick as if the h'nar had suddenly sprouted leaves. "What's he saying? It ain't true, is it? I mean, I know you dabble a bit in witchery, but..."
"He's as close to pureblood as exists in Tanyrin," Remy snarled from the floor. "Go! Look at the ruin he's made! And the dead? Ten Hunters, a mage and his h'naran bride!"
He paused, letting his words sink in to the minds of the men who were standing around before saying, "Had he married as the Church demanded, had he bedded a woman, damn it, none of this would have happened! He would have been as his father and his grandfather! Harmless old men!"
"Is it true?" Erich demanded fiercely. "Are you a naragi, Arranz? How long? How long have you been deceiving us?"
"Don't!" Severyn all but shouted. "At least hear us out!"
"Oh, my God," whispered Iarhlaith, white and sick looking. "Oh, my dear God. It's true."
The atmosphere crawled with fear and suspicion. Michael, heartsick, turned and strode from the room, cravenly leaving Severyn to deal with the others. Blindly, he made his way through Auron's empty townhouse to the small back garden. There, in the cool damp of the fading night, he slumped onto a stone bench, his thoughts in turmoil.
He could go back to Blackmarsh. His grandfather would be furious and, with the word out, it was unlikely even the Covenant would protect them. He could disappear into the delta. Soldiers would still come to Blackmarsh, but he wouldn't be found there. Maybe that fact would soften the blow that was to come on his family.
And Stefn?
Michael's body had changed; he knew this with utter certainty. The Bond would not simply go away because he wanted to abandon his naragi powers. The future could bring any situation, including a time when, for whatever reason, he might be forced once again to breach the Dark Stream. Then what would he do? Sleep forever?
A light rain began to fall, but Michael barely noticed. He sat, head down, weary brain going in circles, presenting him with the same dreary future, not only for him, but for Annie and Chris and all the other h'nara who found sanctuary within Blackmarsh's borders.
But worse, what happened now to Severyn's chances for the throne? Would the others find this whole affair too much to countenance? Had he, in one ill-considered moment, destroyed Severyn's hopes and Tanyrin's future?
Severyn knew at a glance this would not be an easy conversation. He confronted the grim, worried faces of his friends as they stood, lined up against him before the fireplace. Remy stared from his position on the floor, shoulders hunched over.
"Well?" said Auron. "We're listening."
"Sit down."
"Naragi?" Jerry, outraged, didn't move. "You cannot be serious!"
"This is Michael!"
"That's the only reason I'm not tossing you out on your ear this very moment," retorted Auron. "Who's idea was this? Not his, I'll reckon!"
"No," admitted Severyn.
Auron snorted. "I sense the fine hand of the Demon Duke in this."
"His Grace didn't object."
"Ha!"
"It was my idea from the very beginning!" Severyn walked over to a chair and threw himself into it. "And we never intended that it become common knowledge among the people."
"Were you going to tell us?" Jerry's expression had gone from indignation to disappointment.
"Yes," insisted Severyn. "Eventually."
Auron said something under his breath.
"We weren't sure it was possible. The naragi were pureblooded nara; Mick isn't." Severyn had another brief, unwelcome memory of Eldering's room and the ruin therein.
"Well, it apparently worked very well, indeed!" Jeremy shook his head.
"You couldn't have told us earlier?" Auron asked. "Do you trust us so little, Your Highness?"
"I trust you with my life and Tanyrin's future," replied Severyn honestly. "But when we set out on this quest, you promised to trust me, as well. Were those empty words, my friends?"
"Of course not!" Jerry burst out. "But... The naragi! Were it not for them, the nara would never have been able to rule Tanyrin! Were it not for them, the war for freedom would have been over much sooner!"
"He speaks wisely!" interjected Remy. Severyn ignored him.
"Yet it was a naragi who turned the tide against the nara in the end!"
"Derek of Arranz," agreed Auron.
"Aye," Severyn said, voice careful, even. "The Demon of St. Aramis."
Silence descended between them. Severyn watched anxiously as each man struggled with the idea. Fear of the naragi ran deep, even after five centuries. The long-dead sorcerers were the terrors of children's dreams, the standard against which powerful evil was measured. Even so, were they all not modern men, dedicated to the pursuit of reason? It was a sign of superstition's hold, thought Severyn, that even they would hesitate.
"Don't listen to him! He's a blasphemer! A heretic!" shouted Remy, struggling with his bonds.
"The Orders closest to the Church grow more powerful with each passing decade," Severyn said with a cool look at the Hunter captain. "Loth's Dragons, the Sword of the Holy Warrior, they jealously guard secret Holy spells as dangerous as those the naragi once commanded. Those are the enemies we must ultimately face, the despots with the most to lose if Tanyrin's kings grow strong again.
"I believe there was a reason St. Aramis made the Covenant! I believe that in his wisdom, he foresaw the day when the Church would seek to assume the king's power for itself. He knew what it would take to stop them! Tell me, Jeremy, how would you deal with the knightmages of Zelenov?"
Jeremy had no answer to that, of course.
"And do you honestly believe Mick... MICK! Would ever turn against me?"
Jeremy's frown changed subtly.
"The Church knows damn well what it will mean to have a Lothlain king and a loyal naragi working together once more. Apparently, it has always known." Severyn scowled down at Remy. "Isn't that true?"
Remy's lips thinned into a stubborn white line and he didn't answer.
"Naragi only bed other men," said Auron slowly. "Is it possible they cannot bed women without losing their power?"
Severyn shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. There are male and female witches among the h'nara. We had a witch at Messerling, a man with a wife and six children!"
"Witches," snarled Remy, "are not naragi!"
"We'll not be able to hide it forever," Auron warned. "If you're right, Michael's rather dramatic escape will tell Locke his forced wedding failed. He's going to know Mick's a naragi. Then what?"
Severyn's spirits lifted. "I hadn't thought that far," he confessed. "But I know between us, we'll think of something."
Auron's jaw dropped. Jerry said something profane, a look of awe on his square face. Auron burst out laughing. "Damn it," he chortled. "Why not? We've come this far! What's a little heresy between friends?"
"Jeremy?" Severyn fixed his gaze on the big knight.
"I don't like it," Jeremy admitted, "but I trust you and I trust Mick. I wish there was another way, though. What if other h'nara decide to follow suit?"
"Unlikely," replied Severyn. "It would have happened before now, don't you think?"
Jeremy had to admit, however reluctantly, that Severyn had a point. He scowled at Remy whose face advertised his bitter disappointment. "What about him?"
"I'm curious," said Severyn. "What else does the church know about the naragi that we don't?"
"I'll tell you nothing!" spat Remy, nearly beside himself. "Release me at once!"
"Jeremy?"
Auron elbowed their big friend. His face was screwed up, a sure sign he was deep in thought.
"What is it?" Severyn asked. "If you still have reservations, Iarhlaith, say so. I value your opinion."
Jerry lifted his head, brow furrowed. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I was just wondering," he mused, "what it's like to bed another man."
In YLD 1318, Aramis Lothlain took as his queen the Lady Elizabeth Moravia, second daughter of Wilder Darling, Baron of Fenely. Queen Elizabeth gave him four sons and a daughter, all of whom distinguished themselves in service to the people of Tanyrin.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume II,Year of Loth's Dominion 1349
The rain continued through the week, relentless, and the flooding grew worse. With the help of Captain Lake and the guardsmen, the people of Embry abandoned their village, streaming uphill to the abbey with what belongings and livestock they could salvage. They took over the big, empty barns and set up camp all around them, trampling the lush grasses into muck.
According to the reports Stefn received, priests were scarcely seen.
"Sulking inside the abbey compound," said the informants.
Stefn doubted, however, that Abbot Drummond had meekly accepted the sudden change in his station. For too long, the Church had wielded great influence in Shia. Even provincial despots clung tightly to power. It was comforting to know Captain Lake shared his wariness and had set watchers around the abbey, making note of who came and went.
After eight days, the rain finally ended and, right behind the sunshine came Marin, Auron Challory and a company of Auron's guard. Stefn's relief made him giddy. He sat with Auron late at the dinner table, recounting the past weeks and disasters.
"Thank god Shia is built on high ground," he said. "It's muddy, but nothing is under water. The troops have been invaluable in assisting the refugees. So has the Church."
"The Church?" Auron shook his head. "You astonish me!"
"They had little choice, fortunately." Stefn grinned, remembering the abbot's choleric reaction to the appearance of soldiers on his doorstep.
"You've grown uncommonly bold," Marin noted. "Lake gave me a full report earlier. Don't cause any trouble. The Church could make things damned uncomfortable, if they chose."
"It's Mick's influence," retorted Auron. His eyes gleamed with mischief. "He would never keep his head down, either."
"Do Prince Severyn and Lord Arranz plan to come to Shia soon?" Stefn asked, trying to make his voice light and unconcerned.
His question brought a quick exchange of glances from Auron and Marin. Stefn felt a quiver of unease.
"I can't speak for Sev, but Mick should be here soon," said Auron finally. "There was a bit of a dust-up in Lothmont. Why? Do you miss him?"
Marin said something under his breath. Stefn's face burned. "No," he said too quickly. "Of course not." Hastily, he changed the subject, telling them what he'd learned of the abbot's plans.
"A few dozen Penitents working the abbey's fields would be the perfect excuse to return Hunters to the parish," Auron said thoughtfully. "How many slaves did Drummond expect to receive?"
"He didn't say, but he'd set aside three good-sized barns to house them."
"It doesn't matter," Auron said lightly. "After all, you forbade him to bring any Penitents into Shia. They wouldn't dare go against your orders, would they?"
The question hung in the room, making Stefn squirm inwardly. "They might. It was why I hoped the prince would be coming. Drummond wouldn't dare go against his wishes!"
"I'm sure Sev will support you in any confrontation with the Church," Auron said. "It's just that things are a little, er, busy right now in Lothmont."
Another exchange of looks. Stefn felt a flare of irritation. "Something's happened, hasn't it?" He remembered suddenly the moment of vertigo and panic on the rainy road to Embry. "A week ago or so?"
Marin looked amazed. "How the hell did you know that, m'lord?"
"By God!" Auron leaned forward across the table, eyes going wide with realization. "He's Mick's sathra, of course!"
Auron knew?
"Er, well..." Marin gave Stefn a helpless look. Stefn wanted simultaneously to hit Auron in the nose and sink into the earth.
"I've wondered at such a close friendship!" Auron hooted triumphantly. "I remember our catechisms! What did all naragi have in common, well, aside from being able to work the Dark Stream?"
Auron knew Michael was a naragi?
Furious, Stefn pushed back his chair and got up. Auron, laughing, reached out and caught his sleeve. "No! Don't go! Sorry, old man! Truly. We'll tell you everything."
Reluctantly, Stefn sat back down and listened in growing astonishment to their tale. Michael had been abducted? Expected to perform in his marriage bed in front of witnesses? The poetic irony of it all made Stefn choke with bitter laughter.
"Yes, I was amused, too," Auron said. "Our haughty Lord Arranz, his virtue threatened by a wisp of a girl and another sathra. I thought you might appreciate it."
"A-another cethe?"
"Ah, yes. I forgot to mention that, didn't I? Locke's right-hand man has the Blood, or so Michael claims. He was Mick's way out of the situation, as it happened." Auron clearly enjoyed telling the tale. Marin, alternately blushing and snorting, listened in silence, avoiding Stefn's eyes.
Stefn should have found the tale gratifying. If anyone deserved a taste of his own treatment, it was Michael Arranz. But instead, the story disturbed him. He found himself wanting badly to see Michael. That night, his dreams were even sharper and more erotic than usual.
Auron spent the next few days with Captain Lake, seeing to the training and preparation of the troops already in place. Although his absence saved Stefn from the embarrassment of facing Auron's wicked sense of humor every day, it left him with little to do. He'd read all the new books Prince Severyn had added to the library. The rain made riding more chore than pleasure. He would have liked to oversee the management of the refugees, but his reputation as a sin-catcher made him obviously unwelcome among them.
"Do you think I could order more books?" he asked Marin one night after dinner. "If I can't travel, I'd at least like to read."
"I don't see why not? Can you use some of your household money?"
Household money?
Marin smiled indulgently. "See Hanson about it."
Hanson was surprised to be queried, but readily revealed there was plenty in the household accounts to add to the library. Did His Lordship wish for the staff to send for reputable booksellers? Stefn had never even considered the idea, but as the earl, naturally they would come to him! Feeling cheerier than he had for months, Stefn hurried off to compose a list of preferred titles.
The afternoon was fair and mild, a light breeze stirring the lush green grass. Michael's coach pulled up the winding drive and through Shia's open gates. Hooves echoing against the castle's inner walls, he approached the main house. Several small carriages and covered wagons were drawn up before it. He eyed them curiously as he descended from his own vehicle.
Hanson greeted him with a bow and the murmured news that His Lordship was in the formal parlor with the tradesmen.
"Tradesmen?"
"Booksellers, my lord."
Michael nodded, grinning. "I'll announce myself," he said.
The main parlor was a large, long room. Usually it featured a dignified arrangement of formal seating circles, with objects d'art displayed tastefully here and there. No longer. The couches and armchairs had been pushed to one wall, while every table, regardless of shape, height or size, had been pressed into duty supporting piles of books.
Michael walked into the fray. The merchants hovered in the midst of their stock, eagerly observing the progress of a slight, familiar figure at one end of the room. Several noticed Michael and gaped. He walked on to Stefn, ignoring the silence spreading in his wake.
The earl turned and froze at the sight of him. Michael's heart sank. Then Stefn recovered. Color ran swiftly to his cheeks. "Lord Arranz!"
"Good afternoon. Keeping busy, I see."
"Marin said it was all right."
Michael heard the defensive edge. He shrugged. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"
"History." Stefn held a large book, quite old from the looks of it. "Preferably books written before the war."
"How interesting." Michael paused to pick up one of the volumes lying nearby. The yellowed frontispiece declared its print date to be shortly after that time. "Any luck?"
"Some." Stefn's gaze lingered on him. Michael lifted an eyebrow and Stefn's already deep color deepened. He looked away, opening a book and fidgeting with its pages. Michael devoured the clean, chiseled outline of Stefn's profile, the way the soft, dark hair looked against his skin.
"How long are you planning to stay in Shia, my lord?" asked Stefn finally.
"I don't know," replied Michael honestly. "How do things go on here?"
It was surreal talking like this, surrounded by books and booksellers, when all Michael wanted to do was to strip Stefn naked and have him. He heard himself make light, witty conversation and, without quite realizing how or why, soon found himself following Hanson up to his room, alone, with the promise to meet Stefn and Auron at dinner.
Dizzy, he sat on the edge of his bed. The setting sun filled the familiar room with a ruddy, golden glow. His body tingled.
Michael's reaction to Remy had not been like this. It was so easy to imagine Stefn's body against his, where each curve and plane of it fitted. He could vividly see that beautiful head thrown back in a breathtaking arch of ecstasy.
Stefn could not fail to know why he was here. Why not just dispense with the foolishness of appearances? He should just take the damned earl and be done with it, then get both of them away from Shia and deep into Blackmarsh.
Instead, he called for a bath and dressed with special care for dinner. When he went to the small parlor, Auron was already there. He, too, bore the marks of the recently-bathed, dark hair still damp and escaping from its clasp. His neckcloth was carelessly tied and he looked Michael up and down with frank appreciation.
"The Lothmont ladies, and no few of its gentlemen, I suspect, are bereft tonight," quipped the insufferable bastard. "Welcome back, old boy. How do you find things?" This was followed by an elaborate wink.
For the first time, it occurred to Michael that Stefn might have been apprised of events in Lothmont. His eyes narrowed, but he had no time to ask. Stefn arrived. Michael noted with surprise that he, too, dressed in black. His snowy neckcloth was held in place by an oval of polished moonstone, as white as the folds of starched linen, yet showing ever-shifting veils of color when he moved.
They made small talk, but again, Michael felt curiously detached from it all. His awareness was focused on Stefn. He went with them into the dining room where Stefn took the seat at the head of the table. Michael sat across from Auron, and the conversation flowed, his own responses automatic. Food arrived. Conversation went on and on.
"And afterwards, the h'nara will eat all the human babies..."
Michael, in the middle of a nod, started, and looked in astonishment at Auron. Blue eyes open wide, Auron smiled back at him serenely. "What do you think, Mick?"
Michael looked over at Stefn. Eldering sat, wooden-faced.
"I never thought to see such a thing with my own eyes," Auron said, shaking his head. "It's really true. All the stories about naragi and their cethe. Your eyes haven't left Eldering all night."
Michael, shocked, fought for composure. "Honestly, Auron. Have you no discretion whatsoever? We're at dinner."
"I'm not the one drooling into my wine."
The noise of a chair scraping across the floor interrupted them. Stefn was on his feet, crimson. "If you gentlemen will excuse me," he said in a strangled voice. He was gone a moment later, nearly knocking over a startled servant.
"Oh, dear. You've had a spat?"
"He knows you know, about what happened, I take it?"
"Well, er, yes. Sorry." Auron's expression sobered. "He's not willing?"
Michael shook his head. "Go ahead, glare daggers at me, my friend. For what it's worth, I regret everything, but what's done is done."
"I rather thought you two liked each other. He talked about you frequently."
Michael was surprised to hear it. He waited for the servant to leave, then: "As you've rightly surmised, he's my cethe, but nothing more. It's how we taints and sin-catchers survive, by making the best of untenable situations."
For once, there was no sardonic amusement in Auron's expression. Evenly, he said, "Shouldn't you go after him?"
"I don't think he wants to see me." Michael picked up his spoon. His stomach was queasy, but he was determined not to let the damned Bond rule him. "I'll talk to him later."
The feeling of detachment returned, stronger than ever. Michael struggled to pay attention to Auron, but later could remember almost nothing about their subsequent conversation. Finally, his friend took himself reluctantly back to the armory for a meeting with Lake. Michael wasted no more time. He went straight to Stefn's room.
It was empty. For a moment, a flood of anger nearly overwhelmed him. Michael clung to the doorframe and fought it until it died away.
The tower was empty, as well. Michael threw open his senses at once and found Stefn's bright, distinctive presence nearby. He followed it halfway to its source before realizing he was headed for his own bedroom. Flinging open the door, his eyes went straight to the line of tall windows framing the Shian sunset. Standing in front of them was Stefn. He was clad in a long, red velvet robe tied at his narrow waist. His feet were bare beneath the robe's hem. The dying light flashed and sparkled off the jewels around his neck.
Michael closed the door. Stefn continued to look out the windows. "Does everyone know?" His voice was thin and strained. Tired.
"Probably. I didn't tell them, but they could hardly have come to a different conclusion."
"It's because of what you did in Lothmont. You cast another naragi spell."
"Yes."
"And they didn't care? They didn't care that you were naragi?"
"They care, but they understand why I did it." Michael steeled himself. "You know why I'm here?"
Stefn nodded. He fumbled at the sash and the robe fell open. Michael's whole body leapt.
"How very... accommodating," he murmured, paralyzed by what was revealed. "Come to me."
Slim hands clenched, then relaxed. Stefn came to Michael, head down. The robe billowed open as he walked, exposing the nude, slender body beneath, his handsome sex already stiffening. Michael pushed the soft, gleaming fabric off Stefn's shoulders, leaving him naked to the sunset.
"How beautiful," whispered Michael, transfixed.
Stefn's green gaze was quick and filled with pain. "Don't," he said. "Don't talk to me like I'm your lover. We know what I am. Just do it and be done.!"
"I'll say what I feel!" Michael caught Stefn by the arms, his fingers digging deep.
Stefn's breath hitched and he tried for defiance. "Then so shall I! Go ahead, see if --- mmrg..."
Michael's tenuous patience vanished. He kissed Stefn ferociously, possessively, demanding everything. Unexpectedly, Stefn's rigid body loosened. He pressed against Michael, his arms winding around Michael's neck. His response was as hungry and fierce as Michael's.
Surprise made Michael draw back, his pulse thundering, to look down into Stefn's thin, flushed face. Stefn whispered something, reaching up to tangle his hands in Michael's hair, pulling his head back down. Their tongues met and danced.
Michael devoured the slight, dark-haired man, lips finding all the sensitive hollows of Stefn's throat, his ears, his naked shoulder. The robe was a puddle of crimson in the middle of the darkening room. Stefn didn't resist when Michael took him to the bed and had him kneel on it. He watched with half-closed eyes while Michael undressed, and when Michael stepped forward, Stefn opened his mouth, pliant and willing, to engulf Michael's erection, to tongue and suck on it.
Lost in ecstasy, Michael's knees buckled against the side of the bed. Trembling hands forced Stefn back. Without being told, the earl went to his hands and knees, fingers gripping the matellasse coverlet, anticipating.
Michael had barely the wits to prepare his cethe; he was shaking when, at long last, he could do what he'd imagined a thousand times these past months. Slipping deep into Stefn, his body sang with the joy of it. With superhuman effort, he was still. He eased Stefn gently up until he sat, impaled, his back to Michael, breathing hard.
Reaching around, Michael let his fingers stroke up and around Stefn's cock. Rock-hard, purple, it quivered at his touch. Stefn moaned, body arching, his head falling back against Michael's shoulder.
Caressing, teasing, Michael tormented his cethe's captive sex. Stefn writhed and gasped, incoherent pleas tumbling from his lips. Each twist and squirm drove Michael closer to the edge. He abandoned subtlety, fist closing around Stefn's cock and pumping hard.
Stefn came with a long, shuddering sob, forcing Michael past his own control. The familiar rush of orgasm overwhelmed him and with it, a flood of k'na.
Union with Remy had been nothing like this, only the palest of imitations. The strength and warmth flooding through Michael left him breathless. He wrapped his arms around Stefn, needing the other body for support while the room spun and k'na filled every crevice and niche in his soul.
They fell together, still joined, across the bed. Michael drew away, but he was too relaxed, too comfortable, too sleepy, to move otherwise. So was Stefn, apparently. Aside from awkwardly manipulating the blanket to cover them, he made no effort to leave the bed. The last thing Michael remembered was shifting slightly when Stefn rolled over and snuggled in close.
In the Year of Loth's Dominion 1323, King Aramis I signed the order for the establishment of a great Library to be built in Lothmont. The library covered nearly a quarter square ell of land and was three stories high. It boasted nearly ten thousand books, including rare naran collections reputed to have come from the cities north of the Lothwalls. In YLD1350, disaster struck. A fire broke out in one of the storerooms in the cellars of the library and in spite of the heroic efforts of the Guard and neighbors, the library burned to the ground, destroying everything within it, including the original manuscripts of The Chronicles of Tanyrin.
from: A Modern History of Tanyrin,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1505
Severyn remained in Lothmont, working hard behind the scenes to quell rumors over the affair in the slums. He was largely successful, although the clergy continued to object and demand that Lord Arranz present himself to answer questions on his whereabouts that fateful evening. The Arranz family replied as it always had to such demands, with a carefully worded and measured refusal.
Fortunately, the Church had bigger problems. Timkins arrived one morning with a request for a meeting with several clerics he recognized as being representatives of Mazril Locke. He contained his curiosity until late in the day when the clerics were brought to his chambers.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," greeted the prince. He glanced at their message; the subject to which it referred mentioned only "investigation of heresy." "What can I do for you?"
The highest ranking of the three men, a prelate, dropped a heavy book on the low incidental table between them. It took Severyn a moment: The Chronicle of Tanyrin, Volume 2.
"Er, yes?"
"It is a false copy!"
Severyn's pulse leapt, but he schooled his features into an expression of benign mystification.
"False?"
Leaning over took it up and opened it, leafing through the pages. Eldering and their rebuilt press had done a bang-up job.
"Yes, Your Highness! It is a false copy of the Chronicle, filled with heretical passages."
"Indeed," added one of the prelate's companions. "Blasphemous!"
"Why not simply throw it away?"
"That's not the point, Your Highness! These are appearing everywhere: in Church libraries, Sanctuaries, colleges, bookshops!"
"Goodness! Where are they coming from?"
"We don't know for certain, Your Highness, but we have our suspicions. The Archbishop asks your permission to send a battalion of Hunters to Withwillow to investigate."
"A battalion?"
"The Bishop there is known for his contrary views. He has consistently resisted the will of the Council in many areas, refusing additional troops, giving succor to taints, and so on. It seems likely that this outrage could have been perpetrated by him or those emboldened by his rebellious attitude!"
Severyn shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lords, but I must refuse. The Advisori would be up in arms over such an insult to their authority! If you suspect this bishop, confront him yourselves. There's no need to bring an army sweeping down on the citizens of Withwillow. Besides..." He turned to the frontispiece. "I don't see a printer's mark. This could have come from anywhere."
"Obviously, it's been excised."
"A simple examination of this text beside the text produced by Withwillow's presses would easily solve that question," Severyn said. "Neither troops nor even a visit would be needed, no?"
"You seem remarkably unconcerned about this outrage, Prince Severyn," accused the prelate.
"I have other outrages that concern me more," agreed Severyn. "For instance, when I return to Tantagrel, I'm adjudicating a case between several poor farmers and the abbey at Lund, which seeks to annex their lands."
The three clerics scowled. One looked away.
"The Chronicles have been the Church's province since the Great Fire," continued Severyn. "You have made that more than clear over the years. It is not a lay matter."
"Is that your final word on the matter, Your Highness?"
"It is."
The prelate, with a black scowl, bowed and reached for the book. Severyn, however, slid it out of his reach. "I think I'll read this, if you don't mind," he said and, when the cleric opened his mouth to object, "Who knows? Perhaps I'll be sufficiently outraged to reconsider your request."
Back in Tantagrel, Severyn found himself considering the Chronicle with interest. He'd not read the true version, he'd not had time but now he found himself curious. Over a lonely dinner in his overlarge dining chamber, he started reading it.
The Second Chronicle described the end of the naran war and the ascension to glory of Aramis Lothlain the First and his pureblooded naragi ally, Derek of Arranz. Until the birth of Aramis, there had been no knightmage with the power to draw directly from the Light Stream; just mages who, like h'naran witches, had been able to bring about only small magicks with their prayers. Aramis had changed it all and, by the end of the war, there had been a dozen knightmages. Each had founded one of the great High Orders. Over the generations, however, fewer knightmages had been born. Now only three of the Orders still boasted members with any power worth mentioning.
Little was written about the High Orders in the Chronicles. Severyn reacquainted himself with this fact by rereading the second volume more carefully than ever before. Given the level of detail accorded to other matters of importance in Tanyrin society, the lack of information on these important groups was suddenly glaring. Intrigued, he skimmed through the pages, his dinner growing cold beside him, looking for more information. He found none, but he did come across several passages not in the Church-approved editions that hinted at a more thorough accounting of the Orders in some later volume. There were, however, no more volumes. Any manuscripts thereof had perished in the fire...
The next evening, after dashing the Abbot of Lund's hopes for a magnificent new Domicile, Severyn returned to Lothlain House. Tucking the second Chronicle under his arm, he went to his private study where he pressed one of the marble grapes adorning his fireplace. A panel beside it swung silently open, revealing a steep stair descended into darkness. Seizing a decanter of port, the book in one hand, decanter in the other, Severyn started down.
At the bottom was a prison cell. Removed from the regular dungeons of Lolthlain House, it was reserved for special prisoners of the royal family. Severyn shifted his burdens and fished the key from his pocket, the only key other than Corliss', and unlocked the door. The rattle of chains greeted him when he stepped inside.
Captain Adrian Remy, fettered and chained to a ring in the floor, looked at him in surprise. No doubt he'd expected Corliss. Severyn waved him back to his chair. "Good evening, captain."
The cell was comfortably appointed, with rugs to cushion the cold stone at their feet, decent furnishings and the bed laid with a thick, goose-down mattress and many blankets. A tray with the remains of Remy's dinner sat on a table laid with white linen. The prisoner himself had been reading. He sat down now, watching Severyn warily.
"To what do I owe the honor of your visit?" asked Remy.
"Boredom," replied the prince. He poured a liberal splash of port into the empty glass on Remy's dinner tray. After a moment's consideration, he poured himself one, using Remy's water glass. Then he helped himself to the cell's other chair. "I see you're reading Belgash. You are truly a scholar if you can wade through such turgid prose without dozing off."
"Belgash is a great philosopher!"
"Yes, yes." Severyn dropped the Chronicle on top of it. "I prefer lighter stuff, I confess. Have some port."
Remy eyed his full wine glass with suspicion. Severyn sighed and took a long drink of his. After another long stare, the captain took his glass, returning to his seat. He sipped gingerly, then took a longer draught.
"Good, ain't it?" Severyn asked cheerfully. "It's from Messerling's vineyards."
"My family's wine is excellent, too," said Remy. "Although its bouquet has more of spice to it."
"Aye. So I hear. I've not seen any of it lately, though. No doubt it's much prized in the east."
"The grape harvests have been poor," replied Remy, taking another drink. "The drought has made all but the lower slopes inhospitable for the vine."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"How long do you intend to keep me here, Your Highness?"
"As long as I please." Severyn favored his prisoner with his blandest smile. "After all, the Church seems convinced you are dead."
"Do you think so?" Remy returned the smile. Severyn's senses sharpened.
"I would assume so. They have been making a great deal of noise in Lothmont about their missing Hunters, of which you were one. Or is there something I don't know?"
"With all due respect, Prince Severyn, I daresay there are many things you don't know."
"How intriguing. For instance?"
But Remy only shook his head. "What book is that?"
"The Second Chronicle."
"You're reading it?"
"I've read it. I brought it down for you, in case you get bored with Belgash."
"I, too, have read the Chronicles."
"Not, I wager, this particular version."
The Hunter captain directed a puzzled look first at the book, then at Severyn.
"You are familiar with the story of the Great Fire, the one that took the Royal Library of Aramis, along with several other buildings?"
"Of course."
"No doubt, you've heard the rumors about it, too? All manner of tales exist."
"Of course, I've heard them. Folklore, and heresy, at that. As if the Church would set fire to such a valuable and revered place! It was thanks to the Church and their copies that we still have the Chronicles."
"I wasn't speaking of those particular rumors, although I admit myself more receptive to them than before." Severyn raised a hand to forestall Remy's protest. "I speak of the rumors that the original books did not perish in the flames, but escaped them somehow."
Remy went very still, hands tightening around his wineglass. His gaze darted to the Chronicle and back. "Ridiculous," he said. "And if it were true, what of it?"
"Let me offer this as one of many interesting possibilities." Severyn propped his feet up on the table, knocking an apple off and onto the floor. "With the only copies of the Chronicles in the hands of the Church, suppose some ambitious and enterprising clerics decided to do some judicious editing? Suppose there were things in the original Chronicles the Church did not necessarily feel were necessary, or in their own interest, to have made widely available. After all, there were numerous well-known disagreements between Aramis and the clergy toward the end of his life."
"The differences were not with St. Aramis, but with his heathen court, including the taints he embraced in his senility!"
"Senility?"
"I mean no offence, Highness, but it was a matter of common knowledge, and not only through the Church, that St. Aramis' great age was accompanied at the end with illness and a wandering mind."
"A matter of common knowledge And yet, the Church, through its control of printing presses in Tanyrin, controls much of our 'common knowledge', does it not?"
"What is your point, Your Highness?"
"My point," said Severyn, "is simple. Some prelates came to my court yesterday, all the way from Zelenov. They were quite agitated about the existence of this Chronicle. So much so, they wished for permission to launch an armed assault on a major city on the merest suspicion that this book might have been printed there. Curious, is it not?"
The captain didn't answer. He sat tensely, turning the glass around and around in his hand.
Severyn smiled. "I'll leave you the bottle," he said, patting the decanter of port. "And the book."
He felt Remy staring at him when he left the room.
With his secret out, Stefn had expected derision and contempt. Neither materialized. Auron's jokes grew predictably warmer, but he seemed just as happy to be in Stefn's company as before. If the servants knew anything, they were too well-trained to let on. When Michael did not summon him again, Stefn gradually relaxed.
His private book fair had netted a treasure trove of old books, some of them truly antique. Even more exciting: several of the booksellers had admitted privately to owning books labeled heretical and blasphemous by the Church. Stefn made arrangements with a few of the merchants to return so he might look at them and, hopefully, purchase a few for his own collection. Considering the business of his companions, collecting banned books seemed a minor infraction.
He didn't see much of Michael or Auron, both being involved in overseeing the training of Shia's growing garrison. He tried to tell himself he was glad, but truthfully he missed their companionship.
One particularly fine morning, restless, lonely and tired of reading, he rode to Embry, intent on having a look at things. Lake's men reported to him regularly on the rebuilding of the village, but he'd not gone back since that first night. The reaction of the villagers still cut deep. He was in no mood to face that kind of hostility again, so he looked on from a distance and with the help of a spyglass.
The river had receded, but not by much. It remained swift and swollen, and some wondered if it would ever subside within its banks again. Still, in the resilient manner of the Shians, Embry was sprouting up around its new shores. What buildings the flood had spared were already repaired and in use. A new market had popped up at the edge of the village, well beyond the stream's reach. Further upstream, where the land rose again and the river had cut deep, new cottages speckled the hillside.
The new cottages were very pretty. Brick, with sod-thatched roofs, each had a plot of garden and low walls surrounding it. A few were already finished. Children played in their gardens, stopping to stare at him. It seemed to Stefn they didn't look so thin or ragged as before. Satisfied, he put away his spyglass and rode on.
The slow, shallow rise of the hills brought him at last to the abbey's land. He saw one of their winter barns in the distance, surrounded by tents. Smoke rose from the refugees' cook fires. There were far fewer refugees these days. By next month, he'd been told, they, too, would return to new homes.
Stefn approached the abbey itself. Priests standing behind the gate stared with sullen resentment. They gave no sign of recognizing him, watching suspiciously as he rode past.
As gently and gradually as it had risen, the land descended again. The road snaked southeast across the open, empty plain. Far in the distance were tiny specks against the horizon. It was probably Lord Damon, bringing his complement of troops. Soon there would be a complete battalion here, poised and waiting for Prince Severyn to make his move.
And once Lothlain had the throne, Castle Shia would go back to its original masters. What happened to him then depended upon Lothlain keeping his word. Stefn didn't think losing Shia would matter much if he could truly go to college, maybe get a nice lectureship somewhere, with his own cozy little apartment, long nights spent immersed in ancient history.
Down the road, the tiny figures got closer; Stefn made out the shapes of coaches and wagons. There were a lot of outriders, but they didn't look like troops. Could it be a merchant caravan? Curious, he picked up his spyglass and had a closer look.
His curiosity turned to alarm. The outriders wore dark green and gold. Stefn counted a dozen mounted soldiers, at least. A single enormous coach, gleaming with green lacquer and gold trim, was followed by an entourage of smaller coaches and a supply wagon. Foot soldiers and a handful of priests brought up the rear.
Collapsing the spyglass, Stefn shoved it back in his saddle bag. Wheeling around, he rode back to Shia as fast as he could.
Both lords came immediately at his summons.
"Who could it be?" Auron wondered aloud. "The coach must belong to a very high official in the Church; maybe even a Celestial. But why come here?"
"It's unprecedented," Stefn said. "The last Celestial to come all the way to Shia was a bishop just after the Reformation. Do you think they're here because I've refused Penitents?"
"Your father refused them, too," Michael reminded him.
Information was not long in coming, thanks to Lake's spies. Abbot Drummond was hosting none other than the Archbishop of Tanyrin himself, Lord Mazril Locke!
"The Archbishop?" Stefn was stunned. "What is he doing here?"
"He's got a full company of soldiers with him, too; Hunters mounted and on foot," growled Auron. "Something's up."
"Are they looking for Michael?"
"It's possible, I suppose," Michael replied. "But we have a bigger problem. Grandfather is due with the Blackmarsh troops any day."
The conspirators exchanged dismayed looks.
"I'll leave at once," Michael said. "It's unthinkable that he should ride into Shia with the Archbishop lurking about."
"Good idea," said Auron. "I'll leave for Tantagrel, too."
"Don't be an idiot," retorted Michael with a look at Stefn.
"I won't betray you!" Stefn said, fired up.
"Locke will eat you alive! He's a knightmage, remember? Think of him as a naragi in priest's clothing."
"The press!" Auron exclaimed.
They looked at each other in horror.
"Dismantle it!" ordered Michael, "and strew the pieces through the cellar again. We can't risk a search!"
Two days later, a Hunter lieutenant presented himself at Shia's gate with the word that the Archbishop was doing a northern tour of the parishes and hoped to call upon the new earl at Lord Eldering's earliest convenience.
Wishing he could turn Locke away, Stefn reluctantly sent back an invitation for His Eminence to call the next day. He got very little sleep that night.
The next afternoon, his august visitor arrived, accompanied by two Dragon officers and a trio of ordinary mages. Stefn greeted them in the newly remodeled Great Hall. While servants brought refreshments, Stefn introduced himself and welcomed his guests, all the while trying not to stare at Locke.
He'd seen the Archbishop only once before and from a distance, in Lothmont the night of Michael's aborted marriage ceremony. Up close, Mazril Locke was younger than Stefn had thought, gauntly handsome and well-built. Stefn recalled he was a Dragon as well as the highest ranking priest in Tanyrin. At the moment, however, he was dressed as the priest in a long, dark-green robe with a gold over-robe and elaborate jeweled neck-piece. His smile was unexpectedly charming.
"Lord Stefn. We meet at last!" Locke came forward, holding out his hand. Stefn had little choice but to take it and kiss the great emerald ring there. The Archbishop's hand tightened slightly, then quickly withdrew. He turned to Auron, who repeated the salute. "And it's good to see you again, Lord Challory."
Locke took a seat, his attending mages doing likewise. Auron settled onto the sofa next to Stefn. The Hunters remained standing, sharp-eyed and alert.
Hair lifting on the back of his neck, Stefn struggled to keep his composure. "It is an honor for Shia to host the Archbishop of Tanyrin," he said. "What brings you and your attendants to my poor parish?"
"A visit to Shia was long overdue." Locke settled back in the chair, looking around approvingly. "Indeed, your people have always governed the parish so well, I'm afraid we on the Celestial Council took Shia for granted. When my aides consulted the records, we realized it has been nearly seventy years since we've included Shia in our Northern Tour. I do hope my visit has not inconvenienced you, my lord?"
Stefn was seized by the realization that the Archbishop sat where his father had died. "O-of course not, Your Eminence."
The archbishop looked around the Hall, the sparkling chandeliers, the polished flagstones. "I understand you have Prince Severyn to thank for much of Shia's recent good fortune," he said.
"His Highness has been very generous."
"The villages look to be in excellent condition, given the circumstances. I can see where all Severyn's funds have been going lately. Also, Abbot Drummond was full of praise for your invaluable assistance during the flood."
Stefn could imagine. He smiled weakly. "Caring for the people of Shia is the Eldering's duty."
"For their bodies, indeed so." Locke bent his disconcerting smile on Stefn. "Just as the Church must care for their souls."
The refreshments arrived, saving Stefn from having to respond. Over t'cha and sandwiches, the conversation turned to more innocuous subjects: the weather, books, and Society. Stefn had little to contribute to the last, having never been to any court, High or Low. He listened, trying to follow all the different names and titles.
"You must come to Lothmont and present yourself formally to His Majesty," said the Archbishop. "Now that we've met, I can see the stories I've heard of you are greatly exaggerated."
"S-stories, Your Eminence?"
"To be frank, my lord, I had expected to find you sickly and with a limp. Oddly enough, your birth was recorded in Zelenov as being Marked as a sin-catcher, yet, if you'll forgive my presumption, you're a man of considerable beauty."
"I was ill frequently as a child," said Stefn, disconcerted to hear himself so described. "And I was born with an extra toe. If that makes me a sin-catcher, then yes, I am."
The Archbishop's smile turned sympathetic. "Is that so? How unfortunate. Still, it seems a very small thing. Given the string of terrible events here, perhaps Loth's rage has been assuaged."
"I pray it's so, Your Eminence, for the sake of Shia's people." Stefn searched desperately for a way to gracefully change the subject. Auron came to his rescue, commenting on the improvements made to the castle with Lothlain's benevolence.
Stefn was on easier ground as the proud host. He led his guests on a tour of the house, displaying its numerous updates and receiving the polite exclamations of surprise and admiration along the way. When he opened the door to the north wing, the astonishment of his unnerving guests became real.
"Moonstone!" The Archbishop stood just inside the door, running his hand over the smooth, lustrous stone. "How unexpected! I'd not realized the house was so old." But he sounded vaguely displeased and said nothing more until they reached the library.
"Spectacular," he said hollowly, looking around at the rows of restored mahogany bookshelves, the soaring stained glass windows and, sharply, at the once-secret room, its iron door now standing open. "What's this?"
They had come up with a story, he and Auron. Stefn let it spill glibly off his tongue. "We found it when we stripped off the old paneling. My father had an old medallion he wore constantly. The medallion turned out to be the key, of all things."
"How very interesting," said the Archbishop. He walked forward and peered in. Stefn knew what he'd find: a reading table and chairs, comfortable rug and a bookshelf filled with books they'd grabbed at random from the stacks outside. "Is this how you found it?"
"Oh, no. It was dirty and dusty and there were a few things, some old paintings, some vases, a bit of jewelry stored inside." Stefn shrugged. "A lot of excitement for nothing, I'm afraid."
"I see. What a shame. I don't suppose you found anything of religious value?"
Stefn felt the apprehensive prickling up his spine. "No, Your Eminence."
"I ask because there is some record in Zelenov of the Elderings being given custody of a rare, pre-Reformation relic."
Stefn shook his head, the prickling turning sharp and cold. "I'm afraid not, Your Eminence."
"Your father never mentioned such a thing to you?"
"My father did not expect that I would inherit," Stefn replied.
Locke acknowledged the truth of that with a disappointed grimace. "Perhaps you know of some other place: a safe, perhaps? A hidey-hole in the walls or floorboards?"
Stefn dutifully reported the presence of the priests' hole where he had hidden so unsuccessfully from Michael --- it seemed like an eternity ago. At Locke's request, he escorted them to it, demonstrating the door mechanism and showing them the shadowy, rune-etched interior; runes he knew were useless.
"What is this relic?" Stefn asked while the mages prowled around the cramped interior.
"The records are not clear," replied the Archbishop. "Only that it is from before the Reformation and of great spiritual value to all of Tanyrin. A statue, perhaps? A book? A piece of St. Aramis' personal belongings? I'm sure we would know should we find it."
"You are welcome to look throughout the castle," said Stefn honestly. "I will be happy to lend you whatever assistance I may."
The Archbishop smiled and set his hand on Stefn's shoulder. "Thank you, Lord Eldering. I expected nothing less from the son of Lord William, our brother and loyal servant. I admit, reports I'd received from the abbot gave me cause for some concern, but now that we've met and talked, I see Drummond worries unnecessarily."
"Report?" Stefn did his best imitation of Lord Arranz, lifting an eyebrow and adopting an expression of mild amusement. Auron, standing immediately behind the archbishop, rolled his eyes. Stefn looked away, afraid he'd burst into nervous laughter.
"You'd forbidden the housing of Penitents on Shian soil."
Stefn struggled to keep his mind on the dangerous matter before him. "Shia has never permitted it."
The two mages had finished their examination of the hidey-hole. They came out into the corridor, shaking their heads.
"Drummond is under the apprehension that you will permit h'nara to settle freely in the parish."
Auron snorted derisively. "As if he would do such a thing, eh, Eldering?"
"The grandson of the Duke of Blackmarsh was a guest here recently, was he not?"
"Lord Michael is a close friend of His Highness," replied Stefn stiffly. "I would never presume to criticize the Crown Prince's associations."
"Ah, so that's how it is. I suspected as much."
The archbishop's manner continued to warm. When Auron, damn him, blithely suggested Lord Locke remove from the abbey to the undoubtedly more comfortable surroundings of Castle Shia, the archbishop was delighted to accept.
"Are you mad?" hissed Stefn as soon as he got the idiot alone.
"What are you afraid of?" Auron whispered back. "There's nothing here for him to find. Relax and play the gracious host."
"But all the troops, what about them?"
"Are easily explained away. After all, Shia originally accommodated a thousand men."
"During the war!"
"True, but think on this. The Celestials likely know to a man the number of troops in western Tanyrin. The Office of the Exchequer is overseen by clerics, after all. If they imagine so many of those troops are here, they're likely to underestimate how many are still in the south."
"What of the servants?"
"Are handpicked by Severyn. Honestly, you worry too much!"
Lord Locke proved to be a pleasant guest and didn't disdain to have lively, intellectual debates with his hosts. Stefn could not relax, however. He was acutely aware that while he and Auron entertained the archbishop, the mages made their way systematically through the castle, looking for what he suspected was the true second Chronicle. Still, many of the questions they asked had little to do with missing relics.
"They wanted to know about Lord Michael, m'lord, and how many guardsmen are stationed here," reported Hanson, adding confidently, "Don't you worry, sir. We know how to handle the likes of them!"
Sure enough, within a few days, Lord Locke pronounced himself disappointed, but satisfied that the artifact he sought was not in the castle.
"Perhaps it was stolen long ago," Auron suggested, "and no one dared to report it."
"More likely one of my illustrious ancestors found and sold it," Stefn replied lightly. "It's expensive to maintain a garrison of fighters on such unproductive land. I look forward to the day when keeping a dedicated security force will no longer be necessary."
"Yet, if you would only permit Penitents in Shia, you would be able to do precisely that, my lord." Locke tipped his wine glass toward Stefn to make his point. "The Penitents would naturally be accompanied by Hunter troops. Being the host parish, you would benefit from these troops' presence at well, and none of it at your expense."
"I will discuss your proposal with His Highness," said Stefn, having no intention of allowing any such arrangement, "and be guided by his advice."
It was not the answer Locke wanted, but he put a good face on it, turning the conversation to the subject of antiquities. History was a subject where he and Stefn had a mutual interest, so the remainder of the evening was spent harmlessly enough.
In the morning, he and his companions said their goodbyes. "We'll return to the abbey long enough to speak with Drummond. Then it is back to Zelenov. I hope you may find the time to visit us some day, Lord Eldering. I think you would be as impressed with Zelenov's libraries as with Withwillow's."
Stefn was interested, in spite of himself. He hoped the Archbishop wouldn't be too upset with Severyn as a king.
No sooner had they departed than Auron turned and headed back into the house. "I need a drink," he announced.
"It's not yet eight o'clock!"
"These have been the most nerve-shattering three days of my life." Auron made straight for the parlor where he poured himself a stiff whiskey. "Want one?"
It was pointless to answer; Stefn found himself with a full tumbler. He watched Auron toss his off.
"I felt like a mouse under the nose of a hungry cat!"
"I was terrified, too," admitted Stefn. "I didn't know what to say to him. When he asked for the relic, I thought my heart would stop."
"Actually," Auron said, "I suspect the relic business was a ruse, an excuse to stay here for a few days and live off your excellent hospitality. Still, it would be prudent to assume the Celestials are suspicious of something out here. That group of spies you flushed out awhile ago was proof enough of that! We'll have to be doubly careful from now on."
Michael found the duke and his men thirty miles from the Shian parish border, camped in the hills. Lord Damon received his news without too much concern. "I'm surprised Locke or another of his ilk didn't go to investigate sooner," he said. "Thank Loth Severyn wasn't there and that you had the presence of mind to leave, especially after that ill-considered disaster in Lothmont."
"Heard about that, did you?"
The duke gave his grandson a sour look. "I could hardly have missed it. There were damned clerics piled up at the end of the causeway for weeks, looking for you! I was actually tempted to let some of them in to look around!"
"You didn't?"
"Of course not. Still, there will be some consequence of that. What happened, anyway? I didn't give you those spells to simply fling them about at whim."
Michael gritted his teeth on his first response. Instead, in measured tones, he recounted the entire situation. When he was finished, the duke rose from his camp-chair and paced his tent's small interior.
"Union with a woman destroys naragi powers?" He shook his head. "I've never heard of such a thing."
"Both you and father had witchpowers once. You don't now."
"It's not uncommon to grow out of them after adolescence..."
"Who says so?"
"I know dozens of men well past their youth who still have their powers and who are long and faithfully married."
"Yet there are those who lost theirs, like you. Alan Forge? William Morris? And like you, they were men whose powers were considered exceptional."
The duke collapsed back into his camp-chair, hands gripping the carved wooden arms. He frowned into space. "That's true," he admitted finally. "Perhaps it's best that you continue to avoid women. Return to Blackmarsh. You'll be safe there."
"Not without Stefn."
His grandfather looked up sharply. "Nonsense. There are others of the Blood, even some among the marshlanders, I wager."
"You forget: Stefn and I are Bonded. Even I didn't realize what that meant until I availed myself of Remy. I need Stefn Eldering."
The duke wasn't pleased to hear it, but neither did he argue. Instead, he turned the subject to matters of troops and plans. Michael, knowing his grandfather, was not reassured. When Lord Damon made up his mind about something, there was very little that could sway his opinion.
After four days of waiting, one of the duke's men, a marshlander, returned with the information that the Archbishop and his party had withdrawn from the castle and were now on their way south. The duke broke up his troops, sending them north in small patrols at night. Michael went with one group, arriving at the castle near dawn. He left his men with Lake and immediately sought his bed, not waking until well past noon.
Stefn greeted his return with a flurry of complaints, most having to do with being placed in such an untenable position. "You were able to hide and avoid it all!" he accused. "Auron and I lived on tenterhooks for three days!"
"And yet here you are, still whole and healthy." Michael winked at Auron, which naturally irritated Stefn all the more.
"I think Locke was quite taken with our earl," Auron said wickedly. "They share an interest in the old and moldy."
"Is that so?" It was Michael's turn to be irritated.
The next day, Michael woke to the wind rattling his windows. Expecting to see storm clouds, he pulled back the drapes to reveal a pristine, blue sky. Over the battlements, however, the flags whipped and snapped.
Stefn was up, having t'cha and toast in the breakfast room.
"Is that a demon wind blowing?" Michael asked.
"Yes," Stefn said without looking up.
A servant appeared, pouring Michael some t'cha, and withdrew. Michael took a sip, his appreciative gaze resting on Stefn's fine features, the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck.
"Then we should expect more rain?"
Marking his place, Stefn lifted his eyes to Michael. "In the spring and summer, demon winds usually just raise a lot of dust and knock things down. Lately, of course, that hasn't been the case, but today looks like it might be more in the usual style."
"Where's Auron?"
"Out overseeing maneuvers. More of your grandfather's troops arrived last night."
"And grandfather?"
Stefn shook his head, carefully expressionless. "The men brought word he will not be coming, after all, but is going east to Tantagrel. He fears having two Arranzes here might attract too much attention.
"Ah," Michael said, just as straight-faced. "What a shame."
He struggled not to laugh when Stefn sheepishly grinned.
With everything in a state of heightened alert, Michael confined himself to the house to avoid attracting attention. Each day, he joined Stefn in the north tower. While Stefn read, Michael concentrated on refining his powers of k'na. Seated at the window, he rested his arms on the sill, and with the sun warm on his face, practiced turning his vision inward, seeking human and h'naran life patterns in the limitless beyond. With fatigue no longer a concern, he discovered it was possible to extend the range and duration of his gaze. Distant life patterns, once indistinct blurs, now came sharply into focus.
"What are you doing?" asked Stefn one afternoon. "For the past few days, you've done nothing but stare out the window."
"Just thinking," replied Michael. A fear of seeing dread spring up in Stefn's eyes kept Michael from telling Stefn the truth. "I'm bored," he added. "Almost bored enough to read one of your ladies' novels."
"They aren't my ladies novels. The only reason I read them is because I'd read everything else! Now, fortunately, I have these." Stefn waved toward a small pile of grubby books, the largesse from his private book fair. "Although I admit, Lady Bethany's adventures are much more exciting."
Michael grinned. He came to the table, pulling over a bench and took one at random. "Tales of the Demonic," he read aloud. "This isn't a Lady Bethany adventure?"
"No, it's not." Stefn laughed. "I admit the title is a bit lurid, but it claims to be the personal account of priest who met and conversed at length with a naragi around the time of the war."
"Hmm. If it's that old, there might be an occasional kernel of truth within." Diverted, Michael opened it. Musty book smell wafted up from the yellowed pages. There was a signature just inside the cover, the ink too faded to make it out. The printer's mark had the tiny curlicue representing Lothmont, but otherwise it was unfamiliar.
Michael turned to the first page. It was crowded with small, archaic script. Hand-lettered almost certainly, he decided, noting a page here and there where the lines of text were slightly skewed.
"Here you are!" Auron appeared at top of the stairs. "What the devil are you doing? I've been up and around for over an hour and not a sight of either of you," he complained. "Did you forget I'm leaving today? Must I depart without so much as a wave?"
Michael laughed. "Have you noticed how sensitive Auron is?" he asked Stefn, then to Auron, solicitously. "Would you like a hug?"
Auron's pained expression turned to hopeful delight. "I'd rather have one from Eldering," he said.
"You're both disgusting." But Stefn's scowl was not convincing and when he turned to put away his books, his lips twitched suspiciously.
Auron was indeed ready to go. His carriage and escort waited at the front of the house. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised. "Try to behave yourselves while I'm away. I'd hate to think of you two having fun without me."
"Are you sure you won't take Lord Arranz with you?"
Michael, startled, looked over at Stefn and was struck by the teasing note he heard.
"It's tempting," Auron laughed, "but he's too notorious for me these days. I'll leave you to keep him in line." He climbed into the coach, waving to the driver.
"He made you sound like my wife," muttered Michael, watching as the coach and riders headed down the lane toward the gate.
"Well, I do wear your ring," retorted Stefn, fingering his neckcloth.
An uncomfortable mixture of guilt and desire sent Michael's temper flaring. Turning around, he went back into the house.
Stefn followed. "Touchy, aren't we?"
"I'm beginning to understand why your father beat you," gritted Michael.
"Do you plan to beat me, too, then?"
Michael spun around. Stefn stopped, chin at a pugnacious angle, slim hands clenched. Behind the defiance, however, lurked a darkness Michael suddenly recognized. The recognition fed his own turmoil.
"Why should I exhaust myself in such a fruitless exercise?" he asked. "It clearly had no effect."
To his surprise, Stefn laughed. "Very wise," he said. "For I promise you, my lord, I have been practicing down in the armory yard every morning. You won't find it so easy to have your way these days."
Michael's competitive spirit rose inevitably to the bait. "Bold words, my lord. What if I were to accept your challenge?"
Suddenly, they might have been alone in the corridor, alone in the entire world. The very air seemed charged with a restless, hungry power. Did Stefn feel it?
"You've been lying about for a week, my lord. Are you sure you wouldn't want some time to practice?"
"Insults, too?" Michael pretended deep disdain. "When and where, sir?"
Stefn inclined his head. There was trepidation in his expression, and a kind of feverish excitement. The way he held his body sent shivers through Michael. "The courtyard in an hour?" he asked.
"Do I need a second?"
"It's tempting," admitted Stefn. The wicked glint in his eyes was unmistakable, "but I'll settle for first blood."
"Too kind. In an hour?"
Did he have any idea how desirable he was? These past months of travel, exercise and, Michael suspected, a decent diet, had transformed Stefn. He would never be large, but his once-frail body had become smoothly muscled, his movements more confident and sure. Michael had no doubt Stefn would acquit himself respectably. His pulse quickened at the prospect.
The armory courtyard was high-walled and deserted. At precisely one hour, Michael arrived to find Stefn waiting on a bench against the wall, his coat neatly folded beside him. A pair of foils lay nearby, still in their case. He got up when Michael approached.
"Choose your weapon," he offered, gesturing to the swords.
Michael tested them both and made his selection. "What are the stakes of this battle, my lord? Do I have my way with you afterwards?"
"You may not be victorious."
"Unlikely, but I suppose, strictly speaking, it's possible." Michael grinned. "I shall have to be especially wary of being distracted by your beauty, my dear cethe. You are most irresistible when you're at your fiercest."
Stefn's color deepened. He picked up the remaining weapon, holding it with easy familiarity. "Don't be so patronizing. I've not named my tribute."
"And what would that be?"
"You will submit to me!"
For a moment, Michael wasn't certain he'd heard correctly. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me, my lord." Green eyes flashed with promise. "If I win, you will be my slave!"
"Almost, you convince me to lose," murmured Michael, diverted by the very idea.
"Do you think so?" Stefn's lip curled. "A slave obeys his master, no matter what the command. Don't assume you know what my commands will be."
Tossing his head, he turned his back on Michael, striding into the center of the yard. Michael, bemused, removed his coat, throwing it over the bench beside Stefn's, then followed.
They saluted each other in the silence of the empty courtyard. Michael, smiling slightly, fixed his gaze on Stefn's face, watchful. Even so, he almost missed the slight shift of those green eyes and, when Stefn leapt forward, Michael only barely avoided the swift, sure thrust.
Damn! He had been practicing! Michael parried Stefn's next swing, ready for it this time. The clash of their swords and their harsh breathing echoed off the yard's high walls.
The boy had trained against Hunters; of course his skills would be good. Michael nearly misread a feint and cursed himself for underestimating his opponent. He'd reckoned on dispatching Stefn quickly, but it was proving harder than he'd imagined. Stefn was very fast and, being smaller, presented less of a target.
Michael's focus narrowed, his training responding to the challenge. The flash of steel in the sunlight, the music of metal on metal, the thin, sharp razor of fear, all lent speed and strength to his muscles. Suddenly, it was Stefn in retreat, Stefn struggling to parry the blur of blows coming at him.
Then it was over, Stefn's sword flying from his hand. His heel caught on something and he went down in an undignified sprawl. Immediately, he twisted around and was on his feet again, but there was nowhere to go. His white linen shirt was damp, clinging to his chest and shoulders. Blood from the cut just above his wrist dripped onto the stones.
"First blood," gasped Michael. "Thank Loth!"
Hair fell into Stefn's eyes, wet with sweat. He shook it back. His crooked grin held resignation and disappointment. "You've a true demon's speed, that much is true," he said breathlessly. Then, swallowing hard. "What is my tribute?"
Michael turned away from the dread he saw in Stefn's eyes. He shrugged. "I think I will have you wait upon me at dinner every night this week."
He heard Stefn's quick intake of breath.
"And in a footman's uniform," added Michael. "You should look very dashing."
Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he turned back around. Stefn stared up at him, blank.
"Do you object?"
"T-that's all? Serve you dinner?"
"Perhaps you don't think you can manage it?" Michael quirked an eyebrow.
"Don't be an ass," retorted Stefn.
Michael shook his head and went to retrieve his coat. The sun had cleared Shia's outer walls, light filling the courtyard. Looking around, Michael saw Stefn had not moved, but stood, head down, arms folded over his chest. Leaving him to his thoughts, Michael returned to the keep.
The surviving nara, facing their eventual demise at the hands of the righteous, made all haste to spread their seed among the humans. So it was that, after the death of St. Aramis and the full extent of their perfidy came to light, the demons' blood had spread through the race of Man like a plague.
from: Craig, A Modern History of Tanyrin,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1506
The Demon Duke of Blackmarsh was coming to Tantagrel. Severyn received Lord Damon's brief note with pleasure. As in Lothmont, the family-owned home in Tantagrel was rented out, so he looked forward to hosting the duke at Lothlain House.
Nedby was, of course, discreetly outraged, murmuring warnings about witchcraft and the displeasure of clerics. It was thanks to him that word flashed through the city faster than the plague. Severyn was nonetheless pleased to discover Michael's charm and wit had cleared the way for his grandfather, softening the attitudes of the local highblood. While attending a musicale one evening, the hostess drew him aside, handing him a large, cream-colored envelope.
"Do see His Grace gets this, would you, please, Your Highness? We look forward to making his acquaintance."
"You're very kind, Lady Veren. I shall certainly do so."
That would take the old man by surprise, Severyn reckoned. He tapped his pocket where the envelope rested, well satisfied. His complacent good humor vanished at once, however, as he turned up the street leading to Lothlain House on his way home from the soiree.
Lothlain House was in pandemonium! Servants gathered in groups on the street just outside the palace walls, excited and frightened. His guards were everywhere. They waved his carriage through the gate past yet more guards. From the looks of it, every guard in the city had been summoned! At his front door, Severyn jumped from his carriage before it had stopped moving, running into the house while soldiers called frantically after him. Fortunately, Corliss was there, barking orders and looking harried.
"We were attacked," said the captain shortly. "A raiding party disguised as merchants. We think they had a knightmage among them."
Severyn's stomach clenched. "And our guest?"
"They didn't find him, although they did get down into the main cellar."
Severyn headed immediately to the main cellar, Corliss right behind him. Signs of the attack were everywhere along the way, doors wrenched from their hinges, corridor walls singed and blackened. Tables had been upended and chairs overturned. A broken vase scattered scorched flowers across the corridor floor. Severyn was abruptly reminded of the night Mick had devastated the Lothmont slum. There were casualties here, too, although only a handful. He forced himself to look at what remained of the men who had been standing guard at the heavy iron door leading down into cellars.
"Did anyone see anything?" he asked.
"Two men were at the end of the corridor." Corliss pointed to the left. "One of them lived because he ran for help. He claims he heard someone chanting and the next minute, there was a thunderous roar and flash of blinding light and heat."
Severyn looked around, cold fear and fury knotting in his chest. The Church dared attack him in his own house?
With Corliss following closely, he descended into the cellars. The path of the invaders was obvious here, winding through the low corridors and cramped rooms toward the easternmost side. He stood several minutes, staring at the blackened wall, knowing what lay on the other side. Without another word, he returned to the upper floor.
"Double the guard around the palace," Severyn ordered. "Put spies on the abbey. I'm especially interested in any visitors our dear Abbot Carrington may have."
"What about your quarters?"
"Too obvious."
"Not at all," retorted his captain. "It would be perfectly within reason to supplement your personal guard after such an attack."
"Do as you wish. I'm going to have a word with our prisoner."
There was no sign of the invaders in his private rooms. The entrance to the secret stair was undisturbed.
Captain Remy rose quickly to his feet at Severyn's furious entrance. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Sorry about all the fuss," said Severyn. "It seems they've decided you're not dead, after all."
"What are you talking about? What happened?"
Severyn leaned back against the door, arms folded against his chest. "What's so important about you, I wonder, that the Church would dare raise arms against their prince?"
"Ah." Remy smiled faintly, mockingly. "I am a Dragon," he reminded Severyn. "Perhaps they will no longer tolerate a brother being held captive by a prince who calls a naragi, friend."
"Perhaps. Of course, Locke has been touring the hinterlands. I hear he only returned to Lothmont a week or two ago."
A muscle leapt in Remy's jaw. "What of it?"
"Your whereabouts were unknown while he was gone, yet suddenly the Church has at least your general direction." Severyn remembered the path of destruction in the cellars and how it had led directly to the wall where, safely on this side of it, Remy was kept.
"Perhaps your men are not as loyal as you think!"
Severyn moved quickly. He slammed his hand over Remy's mouth, silencing him. The Hunter stiffened. "I don't believe it," Severyn whispered, mouth to Remy's ear. "I think Mazril Locke is a hypocrite."
Rigid, there was no response from Remy. Severyn let his hand fall away, but only as far as Remy's neckcloth. He gently untied it, pulling it off.
"What are you doing?" Remy's voice rose.
Severyn ripped open his shirt, sending buttons popping off. Remy made a strangled noise, trying to pull away, but Severyn kept a tight grip on the fabric.
There was nothing around the man's neck, not even a religious talisman. His chest was smooth and nicely sculpted, belly flat.
"Your Highness!" Distress rang in the captain's voice as Severyn pulled open his breeches, hauling them down around Remy's knees, his undergarments after them. Severyn caught his breath.
Adrian Remy was generously endowed, but it wasn't the size or fine shape of his genitals that riveted Severyn's astonished, horrified gaze. Around the base of his penis, the thin, sensitive flesh was banded by intricate tattoos.
Stefn stood stiffly at Michael's elbow with the decanter, waiting for the signal to pour. It was his seventh and final night as "footman." On the other side of the dining room, one of the real footman, Ben, winked at him conspiratorially. Stefn pretended not to see.
The servants all treated his new, dinner-time status with amused good humor. As Marin told him shortly after the fight, they were used to court behavior, where silly bets between young noblemen were commonplace. "Word belowstairs is you'd make a fine footman," he'd added, chuckling.
It had been a relief to realize they were being perceived as any two young men enjoying a visit in the country. Mostly, however, Stefn still struggled with the outcome of their match. Not the fact that he'd lost, he'd expected to toward the end, but he didn't understand Michael's choice of tribute. Stefn had been so sure it was to be himself. The look in Michael's eyes had seemed to confirm it, yet here he was a week later, untouched, pretending the relationship between them was one of ordinary friendship.
And he didn't like it. Standing with the decanter, Stefn realized suddenly he had actually hoped to be ravished! In those breathless moments at the end of their battle, Michael's sword at his throat, he would have submitted willingly to anything demanded of him. The revelation unnerved Stefn so much he nearly dropped the decanter.
Michael didn't notice, but finished a bit of bread. Only his profile was visible from Stefn's position. He wore black, as always, and his pale hair seemed twice as bright, laying smoothly over his shoulders. Stefn was further bedeviled at the memory of how it felt, brushing his skin. How cool. Silky.
The lethet tingled.
Michael settled back in his chair, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. He lay it aside and, without so much as a sideways glance, held up his empty wine glass. Automatically, Stefn leaned forward to refill it, but some devil made him miss, splashing wine liberally over Michael's hand and wrist --- to the considerable detriment of Michael's pristine white shirt-cuff.
"Agh!" Michael jerked his hand back and glared up at Stefn. "Clumsy fool!"
"Oh, no!" Stefn stared in dismay. "I... I didn't mean to."
Ben ran from the room, and before Stefn finished stammering his apologies, the footman was back with a bowl of cloudy water and a cloth. Michael waved him away. "Let Eldering do it," he said. "He made the mess."
Stefn dropped to one knee, face heating, and did what he could to remove the red stain from Michael's shirt. It forced him to hold Michael's hand and, with those long, callused fingers resting in his, Stefn was once again disconcerted by his unruly feelings.
"That will do," said Michael finally, a bit unsteadily.
Heart pounding, Stefn scrambled to his feet. He handed over the bowl and cloth to Ben who quickly carried them away.
Silence settled over the dining room. Stefn's heart pounded. Michael sat with bent head, drumming his fingers on the table.
"W-would --- shall I try again?" Stefn ventured, brandishing the decanter.
Michael started. He laughed softly. "I'll not tempt fate," he said, pushing back from the table. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to relieve you of your position, Eldering. I've changed my mind. You're woefully unsuited to a life in service." He stood up. "I consider tribute paid, my lord. Thank you again for a stimulating fight and... " He paused and grinned. " ...for being a good sport."
Stefn set down the decanter, unable to resist returning the smile. "I lost the last one, but any time you're ready, I'll go again. Once I'm back in shape, we'll see how much better you are, my lord!"
"Have a care, Eldering," Michael said, smile fading, voice low and intense. "The next time, you may not get off so easily."
Stefn caught his breath, but Michael left the room, passing Ben just outside the door as the footman returned.
"That's it, eh, my lord?" Ben said, coming around the table where Stefn stood, staring at the door. "Out of a job, are ye?"
"Afraid so." Stefn forced himself to return the servant's grin. "It's been very educational, Ben. You can be sure I'll be much more appreciative of my staff's efforts from now on."
"Next time, you win the sparrin', my lord," replied Ben, winking.
Later, in his room, Stefn removed the borrowed uniform, putting on his dressing gown. It was the same one he'd worn to Michael's room, the heavy satin cool on his skin.
"The next time, you may not get off so easily."
The room was too warm. Stefn pushed open the window, leaning against the frame as the cool spring breeze washed past. He fingered the lethet. It was quiet now, but in the dining room, he'd been vividly aware of it.
He imagined the armory courtyard with its high walls, and the two of them, panting and covered with sweat. The lethet vibrated, sending small shocks through him. Damn you, he thought distantly, hopelessly. Look what I've become!
If he had gone to Michael, what would Michael have done? Laughed at him? Taken him on the spot? Rejected him?
For some reason, the notion bothered Stefn. He told himself not to be stupid; Arranz's amorous attentions were unwelcome! Athough the last of the sunset had yet to fade, he dug his nightshirt out of the wardrobe and, heart in turmoil, sought his bed.
Morning found Stefn in a contrary mood. Everything Michael said or did in his presence seemed to set him off, triggering snide comments, rolls of his eyes or sniffs of disdain. Michael, who had been congratulating himself on his restraint and congeniality, managed to keep his temper through the morning, but by afternoon he'd had enough.
"What is the matter with you?" he snapped. "I asked if you wanted to go for a ride, not whether you wanted to fuck!"
For just an instant, there was an odd expression on Stefn's face, then he sneered. "How like you to bring the conversation down to the gutter."
"Perhaps you'd like to have another go at me in the armory courtyard?"
"So you can cheat again?"
"Cheat? How did I cheat?" Nonplussed, Michael looked down at his ill-humored cethe.
"I don't know, but you're a naragi, aren't you? I'm sure you've figured out some way to do it."
Michael swore. Turning on his heel, he left Stefn staring crossly after him. Going to his room, he shoved a few things into a valise.
It was past time he was on his way to Blackmarsh! He'd wasted far too much time in this backwater!
He'd do as his grandfather had suggested. He'd find some willing male with the Blood, and make do. There was surely at least one other in the marshes. Stefn could have his life back, such as it was.
Marin heard his plans with a frown of concern. "Won't you say good bye to Lord Stefn?"
"No. Let my absence be a welcome surprise," retorted Michael. "Pack your things. We're going home."
The big man's face contorted in the oddest way.
"What is it?"
"I think I should stay with him, m'lord. Without you or any of the others here, he's vulnerable."
"To what? Being lord of the manor? Don't be ridiculous, Greg."
But Marin's expression was so doleful that Michael sighed in exasperation. "All right. Stay with him, but only until one of the others returns, damn it. You still work for me! Or do you want to switch masters, too?"
"Of course not!" Marin looked deeply offended.
Michael banged out of the room in the blackest of humors. He rode as fast as he could out of the castle and down the southern road. As he rounded a curve to the east, he caught sight of a figure on horseback, riding hell-for-leather toward the hills. Drawing back, he frowned after it, wondering if it was Stefn. On a hunch, he reached into his saddle bag and took out his spyglass. Sure enough, it was the earl, bent low over his horse's neck, dark hair flying in the wind. Almost, almost, Michael went after him.
What do I care?
Snapping the reins, he rode on.
In the Year of Loth's Dominion 1426, St. Aramis' wish that the two High Houses, Lothlain and Arranz may exist for all time was codified into law by the 426th Annual Celestial Council and ratified by King Aramis I and his Royal Advisori. The Church of Loth was given the sacred responsibility of ensuring this longevity and was tasked with selecting appropriate mates for both the King and the Duke, subject to the king's approval.
from: Advisori Minutes,
15 Lothkel,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1427
The arrival of Lord Damon set Tantagrel's highblood aflutter. Other than the indignant local priests, the handsome h'naran nobleman captivated everyone with his stunning good looks and courtly manners.
Lord Damon was amused at the fuss. "People must be bored beyond all imagining," he noted. "What of the Archbishop? I've heard he's in Lothmont. Does he intend to stop here on his way back to Zelenov?"
"I've heard nothing about it. I'm curious, however." Severyn had been mulling the notion of presenting his hypothesis about Remy to the duke. He valued the older man's wisdom and advice, but this seemed far-fetched, even to him. "I think the Archbishop has already visited, after a fashion."
"The attack upon the palace?"
"Yes."
"But he was nowhere near here."
"He may not need to be." Taking a deep breath, Severyn laid out his suspicions. The duke heard him out without a word. Steeling himself for objections, the prince waited.
"You may have something," said the duke, surprising Severyn utterly. "If you're right, the Church is guilty of a far more serious deception than merely changing a few paragraphs in some books."
"If I'm right, the deception goes back a lot further than the Reformation."
The duke, eyes narrowing, nodded slowly. "Yes. I see what you mean, but if it's true, you put yourself at great risk to keep the Dragon close."
"I could kill him, but..." Severyn shook his head. "He's been reading the true Chronicle; I left it for him one night. If I could turn Remy against his masters, he could provide us with valuable information."
"And if he's truly a cethe, or some manner thereof, his loyalty may be proof against reason."
Severyn thought about Michael's contrary cethe. "Maybe."
"I'd like to have a word with our dear Captain Remy."
"Heh. I doubt if the desire is reciprocated, but why not?"
Remy's reaction upon seeing the duke was predictable. "Lord Arranz!" he lurched to his feet, dropping his book onto the bed where he'd been sitting.
"You are familiar with His Grace, I see. Please sit down. We've come for a little visit."
The duke pulled out a chair and took his seat. Remy's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"
"Let's see it," said the duke.
Remy's gaze flew to Severyn who smiled apologetically. "Sorry, old man, but I'm going to have to ask you to drop your drawers."
"What?" Remy's voice rose. "I'll do nothing of the sort!"
"We'd be happy to assist you," Severyn said. "Myself and the duke."
"Don't you touch me!" spat the captain, regarding Lord Damon with horror. "Wasn't the first time enough for you?"
"For me, yes, but not for His Grace, whose advice I greatly value. Drop 'em!"
Face twisting in fury and dread, the captain unfastened his breeches with unsteady fingers and jerked his garments down around his hips. Gritting his teeth, he looked off into the corner, flinching a little at the sound of the duke's chair scraping on the floor as he rose. But when Lord Damon reached for his flaccid member, he swore and knocked the duke's hand away, trying immediately to drag up his breeches once more.
Lord Damon responded with a hard right to Remy's jaw, knocking him back across his bed. "Hold him down," he ordered Severyn.
Severyn scrambled to obey, pressing the prisoner's shoulders into the mattress while Remy struggled desperately to break free. With his breeches and drawers around his thighs, he couldn't use his legs to his advantage, so the duke was able to easily take hold of the Hunter's cock.
Severyn waited while the duke studied the marks. As he did, the prince became acutely aware of their situation: the captain's flat belly and hips exposed, the duke fingering Remy's sex as it stiffened visibly under the handling. He felt himself becoming warm and his own gut uncomfortably tight.
"Stop it!" cried Remy hoarsely. "God! You perverted taint!"
The duke's pale eyes gleamed. He let his thumb slide over the cock's crimson head, then trace along the edge. Remy's hips twisted frantically, but the duke didn't let go. Instead, he stroked the tattooed design that stretched and elongated with Remy's skin.
"How very unique, captain. How did you come by this particular ornamentation?"
"F-family custom!" The response was breathless.
"All the males?"
Silence, then, "N-no! O-only the heirs! Ah! Stop!" Remy's head tossed from side to side. His hair had come loose from its tie, falling across the light blue coverlet, showing glints of burnished copper. "Damn you to hell!" he screamed. "You'll not get away with this! You bastard! Taint-lover!"
Lord Damon abruptly released the captain's rigid, dripping cock. "I do believe you're right, Severyn. My advice is definitely to kill this man. As long as he's alive, Locke will know where to find him." The duke hesitated. His sudden grin brought a flood of heat to Severyn's face. "Although, from the looks of it, maybe you should avail yourself of his services before you do so."
Stefn did not miss Michael Arranz. He didn't miss him at dinner. He didn't miss him riding across the plains. He didn't miss him in the tower reading his books.
"My lord? You look pale this morning." Marin appeared at the breakfast table with the household books. "Did you sleep badly again? Shall I come back?"
"No... No, I'll have a look at them. Leave them here." Head propped in his hand, Stefn gave the ledgers a glance of profound disinterest. "It's the weather," he added.
Marin nodded and withdrew, leaving Stefn to poke at his porridge and stare moodily across the room.
Summer, true summer, had finally arrived on the highland plains. The rains were gone, replaced by scorching heat and humidity. He'd taken to riding early in the morning, before it became too unbearable, and retreating to the north wing for the remainder of the day. Only there, surrounded by moonstone, did it remain cool and pleasantly dry. He wished the entire house was made of the stuff.
Abandoning the idea of breakfast, Stefn went up to the library where a package bound in brown paper and tied up with twine awaited him. It was the latest purchase from his bookseller in Ardenford. Nestled against the western flanks of the Midders and overlooking the southern sea, Ardenford was an old town with plenty of moonstone buildings. Like Shia, it, too had once enjoyed a reputation as a center of culture and the arts. Then, like Shia, the Reformation had ended all that.
Cutting the string, he unwrapped the books. There were three. To his surprise, one was a journal written by the same priest whose book, Tales of the Demonic, he had purchased from a seller at his private book fair. The date put it several years forward from the book still in the tower room.
Idly curious, he carefully turned some pages at random. A turn of a phrase caught his eye and he stopped, heart giving a little jump.
June 14, YLD1219. I spent a most interesting day at the manor of Lord Vashtar n'Mar. The count is generally a pious man, who tithes to the Church regularly. His lady is much revered for her good works. I was, therefore, quite astounded to find he had visitors and that they should be none other than a sorcerer and his catamite!
Quickly, Stefn turned the page.
It has always been said that the sathra are the most wretched of men, yet I must confess, I saw nothing of that in the youth who accompanied Lord Vashtar n'Mar. He was quite delightful, proving in our conversation to be well-read and accomplished in the art of poetry and music. Most fascinating was the obvious bond of affection between the two. When I queried His Lordship about it, he laughed, saying we of the Church had not bothered to make a study of men like them, but based our entire opinions upon the actions of a few unprincipled lords.
"Unprincipled is right!" muttered Stefn, but read on.
Lord Vashtar n'Mar went on to say that in the naran lands, the binding of sorcerer to sathra was not unlike a marriage, that the consent of the sathra was essential and that taking a man by force was looked down upon most severely. Whereupon the youth, with a bright smile, laughed and agreed, throwing his arms about his lord and embracing him with every evidence of joy.
Love? "Liar!" Stefn exclaimed angrily. "You were fooled, priest!"
"M-my lord?"
"Oh! Hullo, Hanson." Stefn smiled sheepishly. "What is it?"
"Some men from Embry, my lord," replied the butler. "They wish to speak with you."
"With me?" Stefn closed his book after first carefully marking his place. "I'll be right there. See that they're given something cold to drink," he added.
Two men were waiting in the hall. To Stefn's surprise, the villager, Carter, was one of them. He didn't recognize the other. Both rose quickly from their chairs when he came in, clutching their cups of cool cider.
"Thank'ee for seeing us, m'lord," said Carter respectfully bobbing his head. "This 'ere is Will Brant. We've come to ask fer yer help."
"Are you sure you want my help?" Stefn asked, unable to keep the doubt from his voice. He remembered distinctly their first meeting.
Carter ducked his head, shuffling his feet in embarrassment. "As to that, m'lord, I'm sorry fer my disrespect durin' the first flood. You've been a good master, after all. Everyone's been sayin' it. 'Tis why we came today."
"What is it?"
"Tis the abbey, m'lord. The priests have been tellin' everyone who's built their cottages on the hill that they're there unlawfully. Some o'the priests are threatenin' to burn us out! Didn't you say the land was ours to build upon, m'lord?"
"Yes!" Stefn was furious. "The land is not under lease by the abbey and never has been. I cannot believe the abbot doesn't know this very well!"
"He may need remindin', if it please yer lordship," said the other man, Brant. "Folks are scared and talking about goin' back to the riverside."
"That would be madness," Stefn replied. "Another winter like last and it will be the same thing all over again. I'll speak to him at once!"
"Thank ye, m'lord! I knew you'd come to our aid! I was never so wrong as I was about you. You ain't no sin-catcher, but Loth's blessing on us all!"
The two men departed, much cheered, promising to bring the encouraging news to their fellows in the village. Stefn went upstairs to change his clothes. He considered taking a carriage, but the thought of being confined in the hot, close cab for any length of time did not appeal. Dusty as it was, at least on horseback there would be a breeze.
Outside, it was not as bad as he'd feared. Puffy white clouds drifted languidly across the blue sky, casting shifting islands of shade on the plains. Fed by the heavy rains of spring, the grass was thick and high with blotches of purple where field lavender bloomed.
After awhile, he caught sight of an object in the road ahead. He couldn't quite make out what it was, thanks to the heat shimmer rising from the ground. As he came closer, the blur resolved itself into a wagon. Several men struggled with a wheel that had come off, leaving one corner of the wagon in the dust and its load of barrels tipped precariously.
"Hie!" shouted one of the men, seeing him approach. "Can you give us a hand?"
Stefn quickly dismounted. The men were covered with dust and sweat. Over on the side of the road sat on elderly man, broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, white hair and beard escaping from its shadows.
"Bad luck," called Stefn. "What are you hauling?"
"Ale for the tavern at Embry." One of the men, a burly specimen with a grizzled jaw, peered closely at him. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but them's pretty fancy clothes. Mebbe we'd better wait for someone else to come along."
"Don't be absurd," retorted Stefn. "What can I do?"
"Well, if ye don't mind, we'll hold 'er up and if you can just push the wheel back on the axle?"
It sounded easy enough. Stefn picked the wheel off the ground while the men scrambled to lift the heavy wagon. After much grunting and swearing, they got it off the ground.
"Quick, yer lordship!"
Stefn hastily approached the wagon, but fitting the wheel onto the axle wasn't as easy as it seemed. He pushed and twisted it back and forth, trying to work it onto the wooden pole, the effort causing him to add his own grunts and groans to the general chorus. Perhaps that was why he never heard the old man come up behind him.
There was a moment of shattering pain and bright light. After that, Stefn knew nothing.
Something was wrong. The feeling hit Michael in the middle of his conversation with Annie, a sharp twinge in his temples that made him gasp and push back from the lunch table.
"What is it?" she asked in alarm. "Are you ill?"
Stefn!
"I-I don't know," he said, getting unsteadily to his feet. Looking genuinely frightened, she jumped up, too. Chris gave him a dour look. "Don't tell me you're going to start taking after father," he said.
"Mick is never sick!" declared Annie. She ran around the table to take his arm. He gently put her away. The feeling subsided, but that did little to ease his consternation.
"I'm all right," he said. "Just a little tired."
Chris rolled his eyes. "You slept like a damned log. I heard you snoring when I walked past your room last night."
Michael ignored him. He went straight to his room and threw himself onto his bed. With one arm across his eyes, he focused on that feeling, but got nothing. Recklessly, he reached past the fiery bits of k'na thrown out from the Dark Stream and into the Stream itself.
There! Faintly, very faintly, he caught the misty outlines of Stefn's life-force. It was steady, but muted, and moving! As he lay there, staring deep into the limitless beyond, he could see it inching along. There was no way to tell the direction; the beyond had no west or east, it simply was, yet there was unmistakably movement.
He sat up, blinking in the bright light falling through the windows. The uneasy flutter in his gut didn't go away. Stefn was in trouble.
Severyn woke to pounding on his door. He thought at first Lothlain House was under attack again. Lurching from his bed, he stubbed his toe in his haste to find his sword. "Come in!" he shouted.
The door flew open. Corliss strode in, closely following by a gibbering Nedby.
"We've had word from Lothmont," said the captain without preamble. "There's been a terrible accident."
"A what?" Severyn shook his head, trying to dislodge the last cobwebs of sleep. "We're not under attack?"
"No, Your Highness."
Wait! Lothmont?
"Aramis! Is he all right?"
Corliss didn't answer right away. Instead, he struck a match, lighting a nearby lamp. Muttering his thanks, Severyn found his breeches and pulled them on under his nightshirt.
"Well? Out with it! Is my brother all right or not?" For one wild, unsavory moment, he caught himself hoping to hear that Arami had stumbled off his balcony or down the stairs and broken his neck.
"The queen," said Corliss tightly, "is dead."
Severyn stopped. "Oh. That's too bad. Did you have to wake me up for that?"
"It seems..." Corliss stopped, then tried again, "It appears that his Majesty may have borne some of the responsibility."
"What the hell is going on?" The duke arrived, magnificent in his dark blue silk dressing gown, silver hair in a long braid down his back. "Is it the Church?"
"Not this time," said Severyn in a subdued voice. He looked toward the door where servants were gathering. Following his gaze, Lord Damon nodded and slammed it shut, leaving the three men alone.
"Now," said Severyn. "Tell me everything."
"I don't know much. The messenger could only say that the queen was dead, stabbed many times, and that the king is holed up in his apartments and won't let anyone in, won't see anyone..."
"Holy Loth," whispered Severyn, collapsing onto his sofa. "Are you saying my brother killed Eleanor?"
"I'm telling you what I was told, Your Highness," said Corliss stolidly. "Will you be going to Lothmont?"
"Eh? Hell, yes! Prepare my fastest carriage at once with a full unit of outriders. Damn it!"
"I'll come with you," said the duke.
"I'd appreciate it. Thanks."
The carriage and guards were assembled in record time. Severyn and the duke set out as fast as was safely possible in the middle of the night.
"It must have been the pelthe," Severyn muttered, bracing himself against the swaying of the coach. "He didn't like the bitch, who did? But to kill her? Dear God!"
"It looks like you may be king sooner than you thought."
"If it's true," said Severyn darkly. "This could be some evil plot of Locke's."
"She's his sister, isn't she?"
"Yes, but if her death would help him achieve his ambitions..." Severyn shrugged. "I wouldn't put much past Mazril."
They drove fast and hard toward the capitol, putting in once for a change of horses before riding on again. It was late afternoon before their carriage rattled through the Demon Gate, sending the people in the streets scattering for their lives.
The Thaelrick Bridge was thick with Hunters.
"Sorry, Your Highness, but His Eminence says no one is to go beyond here, not even you."
Severyn didn't argue. Instead, he drew his sword and ran the man through.
For a moment, there was shocked silence, then a roar rose from the ranks of the Hunters and Severyn was immediately surrounded by angry soldiers. His own men were swift to enter the fray and, for awhile, Severyn had no time to think of anything except to kill or be killed. The hot afternoon rang with shouts, with the clash of steel and the screams of the dying. It was almost with surprise that he realized suddenly there were no more green and gold uniforms in front of him. A few feet away, drawing his long blade from the body of a Hunter, the Duke of Blackmarsh looked up and grinned wolfishly.
"Let's go," said Severyn.
There were more Hunters in the palace foyer, but only a handful. They were saved from the fate of their comrades at the bridge by the sudden appearance of none other than the Archbishop himself.
He took one look at Severyn and called off his men.
"Where is he?" gritted Severyn.
"The murderer!" Locke was pale, anger cold in his eyes. "King or no, he will pay for this!"
"Where is he?"
Lord Damon swept past, shoving aside Hunters and clerics, taking the stairs up two at a time.
"Where's he going?" shouted Locke, whirling around. At the same time, from somewhere inside the castle, came a loud crash, then another.
Severyn was past any thought of protocol or even common sense. He seized Locke by the collar.
"Where is my brother?" he thundered.
"Let me go!" Locke pushed away, trembling, trying to straighten his coat with shaking hands. "In his rooms, barricaded like the mad dog he is!"
Severyn didn't wait to hear the rest of his tirade. He ran up the stairs and down the corridor. There, he found Arranz busily engaged with two Hunters while two more were attempting to batter down the door to his brother's apartments. Seeing him, the Hunters faltered, a bad decision for the man fighting the duke. The other threw down his sword and dropped to his knees. His companions quickly left off their assault on the door.
"Get out of here," snarled Severyn.
The men didn't argue and were gone, their rapid footsteps fading swiftly.
Severyn looked at the door. Then he knocked quietly. "Arami? Arami? It's me! Sev! The Hunters are gone! Let me in!"
There was a long silence.
"It's too bad you don't have any witch powers," Severyn muttered to Lord Damon. The duke gave him a slight, sympathetic smile. "Come on, Arami! I'm not here to drag you away to some howling mob! I want to talk to you!"
But still there was no answer. In despair, Severyn fell back against the door, sliding down to sit on the floor. Arranz walked to the corridor window and looked out.
"Hunters?" asked Severyn.
"No. Royal Guard. Looks like Corliss has been busy."
"Good man, Corliss."
The door behind him moved. Severyn jumped up. The chain was drawn across it; the face peering out was that of a servant, pale and terrified. "Y-your Highness? Is... is it you?"
Severyn bit down on his impatient response. "Yes. David, it is, where's my brother?"
There was a slight jerk of David's head toward the interior of the apartment. "He says... he says you can come in, Your Highness, but only you."
"I'll keep guard," said Arranz. "Go ahead."
"All right. Arami? I'm coming in."
"Just you! Swear it?"
"I swear."
The door closed. Severyn heard the chain rattle, then the door opened just enough to let him through. A quaking David quickly shut and locked the door behind him while several other servants shoved furniture against it. All of them looked in various states of shock and their eyes on him were filled with terrible hope.
"What happened?" he asked David, the oldest and most trusted of Arami's servants.
"He --- His Majesty was ill," said David. "He'd not had any... anything for almost a week. Then last night, His Eminence came up with Her Majesty. I-I couldn't hear what it was about, Your Highness, but there was a dreadful row, everyone shouting. Then they left. Shortly after that, His Majesty... His Majesty went down to the Queen's apartments." The man blinked rapidly, tears flooding his eyes. "He came back a few minutes later. His Majesty was crying and laughing and covered with... with blood... " Unable to go on, the servant broke down, weeping into his hands. "He told us to lock the doors and let no one in. He said... he said he would be dead soon and not to let anyone... "
Severyn didn't hear the rest. "ARAMI!"
He tore through the spacious apartments, through the rooms reeking of pelthe and scattered with the objects of his brother's skittish amusement. At the doors to Arami's bedchamber, he stopped. The smell of pelthe was nearly overwhelming. He tried the door, but it was locked. "ARAMI!"
"I said go away!" came a slurred, muffled voice. "Go away!"
Severyn stepped back and kicked the door open.
The luxurious chamber was in ruins, bed-curtains torn down and in shreds all over the floor, furniture tipped over, the contents of drawers scattered everywhere. Seated in the middle of the bed, propped against the tall, ornately carved headboard, was his brother.
Severyn scarcely recognized him. Arami was ghostly white, dark circles under his sunken eyes. Half-closed, they glittered at Severyn from the shadows of the bed. In one skeletal hand, he gripped his pelthe snifter. His fingertips were black with soot from the matches. His clothing was stiff and black with dried blood.
"Suppose... I suppose you've heard?" he greeted Severyn.
Rooted to the spot, Severyn could only nod his head.
"Stupid bitch... " Arami's lips twisted. He paused to take another long drag of the vapor gathered in his glass. "Tired of her...her and her damned brother....always holding my pelthe over my head... "
"Did you have to kill her?" asked Severyn finally.
"Wouldn't give it to me." Arami shook his head, lank hair flying. "Said I had to... had to disinherit you... wouldn't give it to me 'til I 'greed. Wanted that fucker, Maz... Mazril to be heir. Pah! A fucking priest as king? Stupid whore and her stupid whoreson brother!"
"She wouldn't give it to you? Give what?" A chill ran up Severyn's spine.
"My pelthe, 'course! Whadja think? Her cunt? As if I wanted that smelly thing!"
"You got your pelthe from Eleanor?"
"Ooooh. Look at you! So amazed. Sweet lil Eleanor. Pious little Eleanor. Butter wouldn't melt in her fucking mouth!" The mist was gone from the snifter. With a hand that shook terribly, Arami reached for a bottle beside his bed and poured more into it. "I did it for you, y'know."
"Eleanor? Where did she get it?"
"I dunno. Mazril? Don't matter. She's dead, the bitch." He rummaged among the bedclothes and brought out an unlit candle. Lighting it, he started to heat the pelthe. Severyn broke from his paralysis and grabbed it, blowing it out. But when he tried to snatch away the snifter, Arami suddenly lifted it to his lips and downed the contents!
Horrified, Severyn jumped to his feet. "You fool!" He seized his brother by the shoulders and was aghast at how frail and bony his shoulders felt beneath his robes. "ARAMI!"
Arami only laughed, wildly and long, his body convulsing with the force of his macabre mirth. Then he doubled over and vomited it all back up all that he had just swallowed.
Severyn knew enough about pelthe to know why it was merely inhaled and never ingested directly. "I'll get a healer!" he said frantically, "David! DAVID!"
"No!" Arami's hand shot out, gripping Severyn's sleeve with surprising strength. "No! I forbid it! I..." His next words were lost in a fit of coughing. With a sickening plunge of his heart, Severyn saw blood and knew it wasn't the murdered Eleanor's.
"Oh, God, Arami, what have you done?"
David arrived, looking panic-stricken.
"Get a healer! Hurry!"
"No!"
David froze, gazing at them both with anguished eyes.
"If you love me, Davey, you'll do as I say, not him." Arami's voice turned soft, gentle. His long-time servant could only shake his head, tears trickling down his face. The king coughed again. He wiped his mouth and his wrist came away smeared with red.
"I want this, Sevvy," he said hoarsely, using the nickname Severyn hadn't heard for nearly fifteen years. "I'm tired. So tired." He fell back against his pillows, licking blood from his lips. They were grey. "It's what you want, anyway, isn't it? To be king?"
"Not like this," whispered Severyn, sinking to his knees beside the bed. "Not like this. Ari, I swear."
"Tanyrin wants it." Arami's hands fell to the bedside, twitching. "The nobles want it. Most of all, Locke fears it. All those fat, sanctimonious Celestial hypocrites fear it." He laughed, a terrible, bubbling sound. "Hell, that makes it worthwhile all by itself."
"I'm getting a healer," said Severyn, pushing himself to his feet.
"No! Damn you! For once, just do as I say!"
"I've ALWAYS done what you said!" Severyn shouted.
Arami smiled then. It was a curiously serene smile and it transfixed Severyn. "I know. I know, little brother. I just wish..." He closed his eyes. "Wish it had been you born first. All I wanted was to paint. Just paint." He broke off, drawing a deep, shaking breath.
"Arami?" Severyn's voice broke. "Arami!"
His brother's eyelids fluttered. He spoke, but Severyn could barely hear him. "Hold me, little brother."
Tears flooded Severyn's eyes; he barely noticed them, climbing up into the messy, stinking bed, thrusting aside the soiled covers. He gathered his brother's bony frame in his arms. David ran from the room.
"Always wanted to paint," whispered Arami, head falling back on Severyn's shoulder. "Great scenes... Colors.... Would have been a good... "
"You're a superb artist, Ari."
Grey lips stretched into a smile. "I was terrible." His breathing had become labored. "You...you... be good king, Sevvy... Always thought so... Used to get so angry... People always loved you..."
"Arami, don't." Severyn pulled him closer, kissing the lank, brown hair. "Please, Arami... "
"Always loved you... " Arami whispered.
Then the body in his arms was still. Arami was gone.
"And I always loved you," said Severyn and, lowering his head, he let the tears come freely.
Although Aramis I was the greatest member of the Lothlains, the family's history is long and distinguished, with the first Lothlain, Stuart Manard Egrel, appearing in recorded history around 899 YLD. The main line of the family continued unbroken until the assassination of Aramis IV in YLD1422. Childless at the time of his death, the crown went to the head of the family's secondary line, descended from Aramis' younger brother, Robert. Martin Denali Lothlain, upon his coronation, took the name Arami in honor of his illustrious ancestor. Henceforth, it has been the tradition of the Tanyrin kings to name their firstborn sons Arami.
from: A Modern History of Tanyrin,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1505
It was purest good luck that Michael met Marin on the road to Shia. His servant was one of a party of half a dozen men galloping along the southern road out of Fornsby. When Michael hailed them, Marin's face lit up.
"Where is he?" Michael demanded as soon as they were within speaking distance. "Where's Stefn?"
The guards with Marin looked amazed, but Marin replied at once. "They've taken him to Zelenov!" He jerked his head toward one of the riders. Startled, Michael saw a young h'naran man wearing the royal blue and gold, his pale hair half-hidden beneath his helm.
"His name is Clare. He was Abbot Drummond's slave."
Michael's heart plunged. He looked mutely at the Penitent.
"This is Lord Arranz," said Marin to the youth. "The duke's grandson. Tell him what you told me."
The h'nar bowed his head, looking awed. "My lord," he said. "They brought the earl to the abbey, men from Zelenov. One was a Dragon; they called him Lieutenant Brant. Lord Eldering was drugged. I heard them talking. They were to take him to Zelenov, to the Archbishop."
"How long ago?"
"Four days past, my lord."
Four days. Michael remembered that moment of harrowing awareness. He nodded. "Did they say why?"
"They said he was compensation, to replace what was stolen from the Archbishop. That was all I heard. I'm sorry."
"No. No, you've done well. Thank you." He looked at Marin. "You were on your way to Blackmarsh?"
"Of course. I assume we go after the earl?"
Michael nodded, wheeling his horse about. The men fell in behind him. Marin came up to ride at his side. "Tell me more," Michael ordered in a low voice.
"Men came from the village, asking for Lord Stefn's help. Of course, he went with them, taking no escort!" Marin shook his head at the foolishness. "When his lordship didn't return, Lake and I went in search of him. We eventually found a villain by the name of Carter. He was persuaded to reveal the involvement of the abbey."
Marin's smile was grim. "Drummond refused to say a word. Fortunately for him, his Penitent was not so close-mouthed." Marin's face twisted in disgust. "You wouldn't believe what the old bastard was using him for!"
"Heh. Wouldn't I?"
"Why take Stefn? I don't understand that," Marin said, shaking his head.
"I do," replied Michael. "We go to Tantagrel."
"Lord Michael?" Marin turned in the saddle, looking earnestly at him. "They've only a few days on us. Surely you can find him with your magic? If we move quickly, we might catch up to them before they reach the Midders."
"The Dragon who has him is concealing his life pattern from me," said Michael. "I can tell Stefn is alive and moving, but that is all. Besides, without my cethe, I'm no match for him."
"But surely you're not giving up?"
Michael shook his head. "Oh, no," he said. "There's another cethe in Tantagrel, my friend, and I mean to have him."
Stefn wedged himself at the furthest end of the seat and wondered where they were. Since the beginning of this terrible journey, the shades had been drawn tightly over the windows.
He was exhausted. His shoulders ached and his wrists, shackled at his back, were chafed raw. What sleep he'd been able to snatch these past few days had been fitful, broken up by dreams and the incessant movement of their coach.
Across the cab sat Lieutenant Brant. The Dragon had long since dispensed with his elderly peasant disguise. He did not wear his uniform, choosing instead to attire himself in cream colored breeches with matching waistcoat, the latter elaborately embroidered in pinks, blues and yellows. His coat was of blue broadcloth, exquisitely tailored, and his neckcloth tied in an elaborate bow and pinned with a large blue sapphire.
At the moment, both waistcoat and jacket were folded neatly on the seat beside him, for it was dreadfully hot inside the coach, nearly suffocating. He seemed not to notice, however. Eyes half-closed, he rarely spoke, but Stefn noticed his lips moved frequently. Familiar now with the sensation of working magic, Stefn knew the warrior-mage wove spells, but what spells, the man refused to say.
"He'll find me, you know," said Stefn.
There was no answer, only the merest, mocking smile.
"I said, he'll find me! He knows where I am all the time!"
"Be silent!" rasped the warrior-mage, eyes opening long enough to direct a fierce glare at Stefn. "Be silent or I'll drug you again!"
They were on their way to Zelenov. The lieutenant had been more than happy to describe the fate Stefn could expect once he arrived there.
The coach slowed, rounding a corner. Stefn summoned his courage. He launched himself across the cab, driving his shoulder into the Dragon's chest with all his strength. The man choked, breath driven from his body, and started to slip from the seat. Rolling onto his back, Stefn desperately kicked out, catching the mage a glancing blow on the jaw. Then, he scrambled to sit up, to reach the door of the coach and work the handle with his shackled hands.
Words stole the air from Stefn's lungs, ringing through his head like a death knell. His knees gave out and he fell forward onto the floor, unable to move. After an eternity, the Dragon's fists locked in his hair and dragged him back to the seat. Several rapid, open-handed blows across his face sent Stefn's thoughts spinning away.
"Bastard! Sin-catcher!" he heard. His ears rang and he swallowed blood.
The carriage stopped. He blinked through tear-filled eyes. The Dragon, his pretty clothes dirty and blood-stained, stumbled out. It was dark. Stefn heard the singing of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl. They were in the countryside, but where?
The knightmage returned. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. Even in the dim light of the travel lamp, his expression was one of livid rage. He hauled Stefn up by his collar, dragging him to the door of the coach. Stefn had a confused glimpse of several Hunters standing outside, then the Dragon tossed him out.
"Show him," spat Brant, "Show the little whore what he's earned for his stupidity!"
The Hunters closed in around Stefn, jeering and showering him with insults and blows. They ripped his clothes from him, leaving him naked and screaming at them to stop. Then they dragged him through the weeds and dirt of the road-side, throwing him face-down over a large rock. He knew then what they intended and closed his eyes, whispering a prayer.
It was worse than he could have imagined. Michael's assault during the Binding was nothing compared to this. Their brutal thrusts ripped him apart. Someone had pushed a piece of his torn shirt into his mouth, muffling his screams. He thought in a dim, hopeless way there must be dozens of them, taking their pleasure with deliberate, savage force, going on and on until he could no longer summon the strength to cry out. His body went limp, flopping helplessly as they rammed into him again and again. He began to lose track of himself, slipping toward welcoming darkness.
Suddenly it stopped. He lay, splayed over the rock, gut afire, unable to move. He couldn't even summon the hope that it was over.
They lifted him from the ground and he promptly lost consciousness, waking moments later in the coach, face down on the floor. A hand descended on the small of his back, forcing a gasp of pain. Then warmth spread out, banishing the agony.
"If it were up to me, I'd leave you to enjoy it." The voice of the knightmage floated somewhere above him. "But His Eminence expects you delivered in one piece. In the meantime, you can stay down there, in the dirt, where you belong."
His Majesty, Severyn Lothlain, laid siege to Lothmont's Cathedral for a week before Montaigne surrendered. The king himself rode through the gate and into the debris-strewn courtyard, past the Sanctuary, now cracked and broken from cannon fire, to the Domicile at the back. There, under the watchful eye of Jeremy and a large contingent of Iarhlaith guard, priests huddled in sullen apprehension. The Bishop was locked in his apartments, refusing at the last moment to open the doors. A battering ram smashed them to splinters and the corpulent Montaigne was hauled out, screaming curses down on their heads.
Outside the Cathedral, the citizens of Lothmont watched, cheering on the soldiers who emerged, escorting their dispirited prisoners. A rain of dirt and offal fell on the clerics, who shuffled and hunched their shoulders, doubtless glad for their mounted guards.
When Severyn appeared, the cheers became thunderous. He stopped and raised a hand. At once, a hush fell over the crowd.
"This is your house!" he shouted, waving toward the buildings behind him. "Take it back!"
He rode on then, not looking over his shoulder as the crowd swept through the gates and into an orgy of looting.
"Why not?" he said when Jeremy gave him a reproachful look. "Do you really think Loth cares about jeweled statues, fine furnishings and gold? All those treasures were collected on the backs of the people of Lothmont. Let them take what is theirs."
"They'll kill each other!"
"Maybe."
Severyn was not yet officially king of Tanyrin. The coronation required an Archbishop and the current one was fleeing across the Midders to Zelenov as fast as his horse could take him. The Advisori, however, had met in emergency session and approved the transfer of power. He was king in all but name for the moment. But then, that had been true for some time.
At least Arami was buried. The ceremony had been private, attended only by Severyn and his friends. Eleanor had been interred in the mausoleum near the royal tomb; Severyn had refused to dishonor his brother by burying her with him. Even so, there were times, late at night, when he woke in the dark, the image of her mutilated corpse before him, telling of more rage and hate than he had believed Arami capable.
The Royal Guard controlled Thaelrick bridge again. Hunters, most of the foot-soldiers, at least, had melted into the city by simply casting aside their uniforms. Severyn wasn't interested in them; he wanted the officers. He suspected more than a few priests had abandoned the Cathedral, as well, but the resentment of the people would make rounding them up easy.
Out in the countryside, it was a different matter. In spite of making a show of Petitions and lawful procedures, the Church had been quietly augmenting its troops for several years. Some towns were firmly in the hands of renegade clerics and Hunters. It would take time, lives and money to root them out, but root them out he must. Until the West was firmly in his hands, the new king couldn't even think about bringing the lands east of the Midders under control.
Reaching the gate, he was pleased to see Auron and Forry.
"Your Majesty!" called Auron, grinning from ear to ear. "You're looking especially king-like today, if I do say so."
"I'm relieved to hear it," retorted Sev. "How has your morning gone?"
"That pesky group of Hunters holed up in the Treasury?" Forrest made a chopping motion with his hand. "Several of them were officers whose families, I daresay, will be more than happy to pay for their release."
"We'll see. The royal treasury can surely use all the funds it can get, but not at the expense of loosing dangerous men back into the kingdom."
The three rode on through the bridge and out onto the long span to the island. More Guards were there, their numbers bolstered by militias loaned by members of the Advisori who could spare them.
In the palace, Severyn was greeted by Lord Damon. The duke fell into step with him, headed toward the prince's private apartments.
"Is Gabriel here yet?" asked the new king.
"He just arrived." Arranz nodded to Forry and Auron, both of whom bowed, more intimidated by the duke than by their king. "My grandson has arrived, as well."
"Already?"
Arranz smiled, but he didn't look particularly pleased. "As a parting gesture, it seems that Locke has stolen his cethe."
"Eldering? They've taken the earl?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Pity." Severyn tried not to notice the way his heart lifted. "How fortunate we still have Remy in our possession."
"Hmm."
Severyn looked sharply at him, but Lord Damon stared straight ahead, tension in the set of his jaw. Nevertheless, the prince was delighted to hear Mick had arrived. He'd not expected his friend for several days yet.
Guards at the doors to his apartment sprang to attention, hurrying to open them. Severyn quickened his pace as Michael, seated on a sofa near the open window, rose quickly to greet him. "Mick! Damn, it's good to see you!"
"And you, too."
They embraced warmly. Severyn set him back, gaze devouring him. "You're a sight for sore eyes, my friend! There's one hell of a lot to do, not the least of which is to return to Shia and bring back your troops."
"Mine?"
"With Arami dead, Shia belongs to the Arranzes again. Uncle Damon says you're to live there. How does an extra title sound to you? Say... Earl?"
"There's already an earl," said Michael, "and he's in the hands of the enemy. Sev, I need some men to go after him."
Severyn could not help darting a look at the duke whose mouth tightened. Michael saw the glance and shook his head. "I know he's being taken to Zelenov. If we move fast, we can cut them off. I need him, Sev!"
"You don't," retorted Severyn, throat tight. "Loth, man! I've still got Remy locked up downstairs. You can have him any time you want him! I need you here, with me! We have a kingdom to set to rights!"
"You have grandfather and the others. You have Storm," replied Michael doggedly. "Remy isn't the same. He doesn't give me enough power and we're not bound. Besides, it's not fair! We cannot simply abandon Eldering to them! He was our comrade! He worked at our side!"
"Because he was forced to," interrupted the Duke. "Damn it, boy! Listen to your king! What is the life of an Eldering to the good of Tanyrin?"
"Mick..."
"Just a handful of men, two or three, that's all I ask!"
"God, Mick..."
"Eldering deserves our help!"
"They're likely holding him for use as a hostage. I've had reports of two other lords who are missing. We'll hear from Zelenov soon enough."
"But you can't be sure!"
"You sound like you're in love with the damned sin-catcher!"
Mick went still. His expression cut Severyn to the soul.
"Look. Give it some time," Severyn urged, his own heart aching. "Let's see what happens. I'm sending a messenger to Zelenov anyway. I'll put in a demand for his return. It will start the negotiations. In the meantime, I need you."
Michael swallowed visibly. He nodded. "As you wish, Your Majesty," he said, bowing.
It was like getting slapped in the face. Severyn wanted to shout at him, to remind him who he was, who they were, and what they had always meant to each other. Instead, he said, "Thank you."
"Michael," said the duke in a forbidding voice. "A word?"
Severyn recognized that tone and shot a quick look at Lord Damon. That face, so similar to Michael's, was stone cold. Michael lifted his head in response, meeting his grandfather's icy stare without flinching. "There is no need for a scold, grandfather. I understand the situation perfectly well. If you please, my lords, sire, I will go at once to prepare for the journey back to Shia."
The last of the Lothlain kings to wield the power of high lothria was Aramis IV, murdered by naran assassins in YLD1422. With the passing of the throne to the family's secondary line, no Lothlain since has possessed even slight magical ability.
from: Craig, A Modern History of Tanyrin,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1506
Stefn drifted in and out of nightmarish darkness. There were times when he almost woke, and in those times, he was vaguely aware of movement, of voices around him, and of pain. But the darkness always returned, waves of it crashing down, drowning him in its thick, cold depths, until he thought he might be dead and in Hell.
Finally, he rose from oblivion to a different, more natural darkness. He opened his eyes and saw flickering firelight, his awareness filling with the scent of forest and damp. There was hard ground beneath him. His head ached and he was desperately thirsty. When he tried to move, a wash of dizziness made him groan and close his eyes again.
"It wakes," came a voice from somewhere to his left. Dry leaves crunched; a stick snapped. Heavy footsteps came toward him. Stefn tried to roll over and see who approached, but discovered himself still bound. The next moment, someone seized the back of his coat and hauled him to his feet, pulling him around. He saw a fire, the silhouettes of men seated around it. Everything spun wildly. If not for the merciless grip holding him upright, he would have collapsed.
Memories came back in a rush. He was in the hands of Zelenov. They had been riding across the northern parishes, making for the Midders, but for some reason, there had been patrols of the Royal Guard everywhere. In the end, his captors had abandoned the carriage, traveling on horseback and only at night. Then he had been drugged again, Brant had not wanted to take any chances.
The Hunter dragged him toward the fire. He was unceremoniously thrust back to his knees. He looked around for Brant, but there was only darkness and the Dragon's men, grinning at him in the firelight.
"Pretty little whore, ain't he?"
"I wouldn't mind another go at him."
Laughter, cruel and derisive, hit him from all sides. If only he could think straight! Stefn tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was too dry.
"Water," he croaked.
His reply was more laughter.
"You want a drink, sathra?" one of the soldiers asked, lurching to his feet. Stefn watched in horror as the soldier opened his breeches. "Come and get it."
Shaking his head, he tried to edge away, but they grabbed him and pulled him closer to the fire.
"Leave me alone!" He struggled, but they had no trouble dumping him on his belly beside the fire. He heard fabric ripping and felt cool, damp air on suddenly bare skin.
There was silence. Stefn knew they were looking at the lethet. After his rape, he'd heard them talking about it, speculating on its value.
One of the Hunters, a hatchet-faced man not much older than himself, reached toward the collar. "There must be a fuckin' fortune in jewels!"
"He's not gonna need 'im where he's goin'," said another Hunter with a sly look around. "I say we have a closer look."
"Brant won't like it," warned an older Hunter, grizzled and with a long scar running down the side of his face.
"He ain't here."
Stefn was pulled back to his knees, his coat hanging in tatters around his shackled wrists, his shirt gaping open. The hatchet-faced man dragged him close and tried to slide his fingers under the collar to pull it away. There was a spark and loud crack. Yelping and sucking on his fingers, Hatchet-Face lurched to his feet, backing away.
"It's sorcery!" he cried, making the sign against evil.
"What did you expect?" came a familiar voice, cool and dry. "He's a naragi's whore. Keep your hands off him if you don't want such unpleasant surprises."
Brant strode into the circle of dancing light. His men gave way before him. Leaning over, he seized Stefn by the arm and hauled him back to his feet.
"We're leaving," he said shortly to the others. "Pack up and let's get out of here."
"Aw, lieutenant, can't we rest awhile longer?" asked Hatchet-Face. "There ain't no one followin' us. We've been ridin' for days and ain't seen hide nor hair o' no one."
"That's an order, Green. And if I get anymore trouble out of you, I'm putting you on report."
Stefn didn't see Green's reaction. Brant marched him away from the fire, through the trees and out onto a narrow, badly rutted road. There, Stefn gathered the shreds of his strength and jerked away, nearly falling into the ditch running alongside it.
"Leave me alone!" he demanded hoarsely. "I can walk. W-where are we?"
"Can't you tell? We've come through the Midders."
Stefn's heart sank. "What will happen to me?"
"That's for His Eminence to decide," replied Brant.
"Isn't the Archbishop on his tour?"
"It was cut short," said Brant. "To Tanyrin's everlasting misfortune, Arami is dead. 'Tis Severyn Lothlain who sits upon the throne now, although not for long, I'll wager. He must be anointed by the Church and the Council will not do so as long as Michael Arranz stands at his side!"
Stunned to speechlessness, Stefn could only shake his head. The king was dead?
"Turn around," ordered Brant.
Stefn did so. The captain unlocked his shackles. Then, taking hold of Stefn's arm again, Brant led him to the horses. He untied a canteen from the saddle of one and handed it to Stefn who uncorked it and drank in eager, sloppy gulps.
The captain took the canteen away and refastened his manacles, this time before him. As the other soldiers came out onto the road, Brant hoisted Stefn up onto the horse. He mounted his and took Stefn's reins.
Stefn's head continued to clear as the group started down the road. It was cool, but not unbearably so. The sky was cloudless and filled with stars. Each breath Stefn took was rich with the scent of pine.
"Captain?"
Brant looked around.
"How long have we been gone?"
"Two weeks," replied the captain.
Two weeks! And what of Michael? Did he know what had become of Stefn? Did he care?
"Why don't you drug me again?"
"Not even Lothlain and his sorcerer would dare enter the Church's holy territory to find you."
"So, you're traitors as well as kidnappers."
"Who is the greater traitor? Those sworn to Loth's service or those who would break with Loth's Church and its teachings?"
"Its false teachings!" Stefn retorted, "forgeries your precious Archbishop claims to be the word of St. Aramis!"
"Be silent," snapped Brant. "I may have to tolerate your presence, whore, but I don't have to listen to your lies!"
"They aren't lies! I've seen them, seen the handwriting of St. Aramis himself!"
Muttering started up among the men behind them. Brant pulled back his horse, allowing Stefn to catch up. "I said, be silent," he repeated in a low, deadly voice. "You would be better served by praying to Loth for your deliverance for I can promise you, my lord, that once we get to Zelenov, you will pay in full for all your sins."
They reached the eastern slopes of the Midders four days later. At once, the countryside changed. Where the western side of the mountains had been lush with hardwoods and conifers, the trees on the eastern slopes were sparse. The hills looked as if Loth had overlaid them with brown velvet. Here and there, marking the deepest folds, scrawny oaks clung to life, eking out what rainwater flowed down to the lowlands.
This was the place his father had always praised as being more righteous, more holy than the sinful west. It was hot and arid. Closer, what had looked like velvet from afar proved to be dry, bristly grass instead. The only green he saw was further below, patches of it scattered throughout the distant valleys.
As they descended, the green pockets resolved into small fields crisscrossed by irrigation ditches. Closer still, Stefn saw armies of half-naked Penitents, some tending the crops, others trudging back and forth, bent under the weight of water buckets. Their overseers lounged in the few trees, enjoying the shade.
To Stefn's eye, it seemed a large number of the slaves had dark hair and he wondered at it. How did the Church determine who was h'naran if not by their appearance?
"If it's proved that a man has taints in his family, then of course he is a taint, as well," replied Brant when asked.
"And how do you prove that?"
"Testimony from neighbors or from those who have known the family of the accused."
"What if they're lying?"
"The Council conducts a thorough investigation, of course."
"And the Church then confiscates the property. How convenient."
Brant just scowled and nudged his horse, leaving Stefn to ride between two of his uncommunicative underlings.
It was late in the afternoon when they finally came within sight of Zelenov. The city rose from the hillside at the end of a long valley, a crowd of red-brick buildings surrounded by a high wall. The road leading to it was thick with pedestrians, wagons and, here and there, a carriage. Dust hung in a choking around them, but the Hunters seemed used to it, pulling up their neckclothes to cover their mouths and noses. Stefn's neckcloth lay back in the mountain forest somewhere, so he sneezed and coughed, wiping streaming eyes with his shackled hands.
Thanks to the traffic they didn't reach the gate until sunset. Stefn's mouth and throat were parched. Each step of his horse jarred him to the bone. Exhaustion made him indifferent to his surroundings, the business of staying astride taking all of his failing strength.
Within the city walls, Zelenov's streets were narrow and crooked. The mud-brick buildings seemed jumbled together in haphazard ways, sharing common walls, some overhanging the streets, giving Zelenov a cramped, maze-like appearance.
The crowds in the dusty streets made way for Brant's small group, staring after them as they made their way uphill. As they got higher above the main part of the city, the buildings changed. More of them were made of stone than the ubiquitous brick and stood apart from each other with small yards to separate them. Hunters were everywhere and so were Penitents, the latter rushing about carrying baskets filled with all manner of things.
The riders continued climbing and, as the last of the fiery sunset faded behind the Midders, they reached the top of the city. Before them rose a high stone wall. Stefn, roused by the sudden cessation of movement, emerged from his stupor. By craning his neck, he could just make out the tops of roofs and towers behind it.
The main gates opened and the Hunters rode through. Just inside, they halted. Two officers stood nearby. Brant dismounted, walking over to the pair. While they talked, the rest of the men waited, casting longing glances around them.
They were inside a massive fortress. Barracks, offices, parade grounds, all lit by torches. It was a military installation of considerable size and sophistication. Stefn smelled food and his stomach cramped.
Brant left the two officers, returning to Stefn. "Get down," he ordered.
Obediently, Stefn dismounted, only to have his knees buckle as he hit the ground. Brant, impatient to be done with him, dragged him up and hustled him over to the waiting Hunters. The two men nodded and, without further ado, took possession of the prisoner. Brant, without a backward glance, mounted his horse and, with his troops following, was soon out of sight.
Stefn's new captors were also Dragons. He expected almost anything from them, holding himself tense and ready. To his surprise, they bowed. One of them said, "Welcome to the Cathedral of the Dragon, my lord. If you please?" He indicated Stefn's chained wrists. Stefn shut his mouth and held out his hands, watching numbly as the shackles were removed.
"Please follow me, my lord."
They walked together across the yard, around several buildings and finally, through another gate in an even higher wall.
They had come at last to the Cathedral proper. Stefn was escorted past the Sanctuary and down a lane to another massive stone building. He realized at once it was a Domicile more luxurious than any he'd ever seen. Soaring columns marked its formal front portico. Stonework of astonishing craftsmanship adorned windows and cornices. The Royal Palace at Lothmont had not been so fine.
Inside, the residence was awash in luxury. Stefn took in paintings in their gilded frames, the walls lined with moiré silk and lush carpets. From time to time, they passed doors standing open, revealing rooms filled with furnishing that rivaled the elegant, expensive pieces now residing in Shia.
The occupants he saw were all men, most dressed in lay clothing, a few wearing priestly garb. They watched him pass curiously, but made no move to accost him or his escort.
The officers took him upstairs, delivering him before a set of double doors. Standing in front of them was a slender youth with pale yellow hair. He was dressed in grey, his sleeveless tunic almost too brief for modesty. In the middle of his forehead was the brand of the Penitent. He bowed very low and opened the doors, ushering them into a spacious, well-appointed sitting room.
"Lord Eldering!"
Stefn stumbled to a halt. Setting aside a book and rising from his chair, was none other than His Eminence, Lord Locke! Another Penitent stood beside the archbishop, cooling him with a large, elaborate fan of silk and peacock feathers.
"My lord! You look done in! Charles, bring refreshments at once and see if his lordship's room is ready."
The Penitents vanished, the Dragon officers with them. Stefn, speechless with surprise at his welcome, went to the chair the Archbishop indicated.
"I do apologize for the rather precipitous way in which you were brought to Zelenov," Locke said, "but now that you are here, rest assured you will be much more comfortable."
Stefn sank into the chair. "M-my lord," he managed. Then, "Why am I here?"
Lord Locke's eyebrows rose. "To the point, I see." He resumed his seat on the sofa, crossing one long leg over the other. "Let me be equally blunt, if I may? You are sathra to the heretic, Michael Arranz. Am I correct?"
Stefn could only shake his head, heart beating fast with apprehension.
"I know you have the Blood," continued Locke amiably. "I realized that upon my visit to Shia."
Stefn barely heard him, distracted by the reappearance of the yellow-haired Penitent bearing a large tray. The youth set it on the low table between them and, at the Archbishop's careless wave, quickly withdrew. Seeing the generous array of sandwiches and cakes, Stefn's mouth filled with water.
"By all means, help yourself."
Hands trembling, Stefn tore into the repast, gobbling down the food and emptying the water cup in short order. Locke watched with a benign smile.
"The Pretender has abducted my aide. Adrian too, has the Blood and has served me for a long time. I miss him greatly and need him more. His misfortune, however, is your chance at redemption."
The food suddenly stuck in Stefn's throat. "I have no idea what you're talking about, my lord."
"Is that so?" The smile hardened. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain the presence of the thing around your neck?"
Stefn's stomach knotted. "This is a family heirloom," he lied.
"Come, my lord! This game-playing is absurd! Do you think I don't know a true lethet when I see one?"
Stefn was tired, deadly-tired. He could think of nothing to say.
"I would like to think, my lord, that you had no choice in receiving it."
"No," whispered Stefn. "I didn't."
"As I suspected." The Archbishop's smile turned kindly again. "Fortunately, you can have your revenge by serving me in Adrian's stead. With your help, we can end the heretical rule of the traitor king and set Tanyrin on the path to righteousness."
Stefn stared at him. In his exhaustion, he was not, perhaps, thinking as well as he might. After being manhandled and brutalized by Brant's men, he was in no mood for this delicate dance.
"Traitor?" he exclaimed hoarsely. "It was the Church who deliberately altered the words of St. Aramis!"
The archbishop's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me you've been deceived by the false versions of the Chronicles being passed around as true?"
"They are true! I've seen the original manuscript of the First Chronicle!"
No sooner had the words escaped then Stefn knew he'd made a mistake.
"So," Locke said softly. "The book was in Shia, after all."
Stefn's heart began a painful pounding.
"And the first Chronicle? Did your people have it, too?"
"No."
"Let me guess." Locke's smile was brittle. "That bastard, Storme?"
Stefn swallowed hard and said nothing.
"Don't you understand?" Locke asked. "The Church had to correct the Chronicles! St. Aramis was betrayed by his precious naragi! It was Derek Arranz who conspired to lift the nara back to their positions of power and used St. Aramis to do it! Those Chronicles were corrupt before they were written! It was the nara responsible for the Wet! The nara who brought catastrophe to Tanyrin, who sought to lead people away from Loth! It is their filthy descendants who now seek to do the same!"
Stefn shivered at the cold rage he heard, not daring to move.
"Renounce the naragi and the false king! Swear to the Church and I will forgive your heresies. You will be given a place among the Dragons of Loth and wealth beyond your imagining. Join us in the purification of Tanyrin. Help us drive out the demon-spawn and return righteousness to the world!"
"No," whispered Stefn, horrified. He thought of Annie, of Marin. He thought of the small bones in Shia's refuse-pit. "You're wrong, my lord! There is evil, yes, but it doesn't lie in the h'nara!" His throat tightened, fear a leaden weight in his chest. Nevertheless, he met the archbishop's eyes squarely. "The evil is in those who would twist the words of St. Aramis, who would use fear and hatred to take worldly power for themselves!"
Locke gazed at Stefn through narrowed eyes.
"I see the corruption of the Betrayer and his ilk has worked deep into your soul. So be it. If you would ally yourself with the demon spawn, then learn what rewards such wretches may expect." He rose from his chair in a single, angry movement. "Charles!"
The blond Penitent appeared at once, looking alarmed.
"Fetch the guards. Take Lord Eldering to the Penitent quarters and prepare him for Service." He looked back at Stefn. "Know this, Stefn. I will have the power you hold within you! Whether you submit willingly or not is no concern of mine!" He looked up as the guards ran into the room. "Take him away! Let him learn the folly of placing his alliance with the enemies of man!"
My Dear Lord Brandon --- most disquieting event has transpired lately, originating from the Cathedral in our parish. Soldiers of the Church have been seen at the homes of the h'nara, bearing away the occupants, men, women and children. Most recently, Hunters visited the cottage of Luke and Brenda Carr, removing them without explanation. As you know, despite the misfortune of their birth, the Carrs have been exemplary tenants, maintaining cleanly premises and being prompt in their payments of rent, tithes and taxes. Queries into the reason for their arrests from have met with silence. I hope that you, as Lord of the Parish, might be more successful in discovering the Cathedral's reasons for taking actions which appear, at least from my Humble Perspective, to be in defiance of your authority. Yr. Servant, Jeremy Long, Squire, Ellsdon Cottage (signature appended)
from: a letter to Philip Brandon,
Lord Baron of Scorvan,
written on the 18th day of the month of Wyrkel,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1450
Michael held the lantern aloft in one hand, making his way down the dank, narrow stairs. In the other, he carried a valise. A heavy, oppressive silence filled this place. According to Severyn, it was a private dungeon, similar to the one in Tantagrel.
"We have them in almost every one of our residences," he'd explained, looking faintly embarrassed. "I'm afraid I must count among my ancestors some right bastards."
At the bottom of the stairs, Michael stopped before the heavy, iron-braced door. Using the key Severyn had given him, he turned it in the newly oiled lock. He tried not to think of what Severyn would do when he learned how Michael had made use of his trust.
Inside, crouched on the bare stone floor, naked and chained, was the proud Hunter captain, Adrian Remy. He turned his head from the light.
"Good evening, captain."
There was no answer, just a hardening of the man's jaw.
A heavy iron bolt in the floor held the short length of chain attached to Remy's shackles, severely limiting his movement. He could not stand, only kneel or lie down, both uncomfortable propositions on the cold, damp stone floor. His hair fell in a tangle over his broad shoulders. He was a handsome creature, thought Michael in a detached fashion.
"What do you want, taint?"
Michael remembered another cethe who had used the same angry, insulting language. The quiet core of pain inside him flared. He put his boot against Remy's bare shoulder and pushed him lower to the floor. Before Remy could get back to his knees, Michael planted his foot firmly on the captain's neck.
"That should be obvious," he replied. "You have the Blood. Therefore, Severyn has given you to me."
Remy stiffened in shock and dismay. Michael removed his foot, stepping back. "What?" he asked lightly, mockingly. "No denials?"
Remy didn't reply. He gathered himself up and, wary, returned to his knees. His fingers wrapped around the heavy links of his chain. "Do what you've come to do," he spat, refusing to look up. "I'm in your power, am I not?"
"Oh, yes," said Michael softly. He moved closer, holding the lantern aloft. "You most assuredly are. Open your legs. Let me see your cock."
Grudgingly, but without any further protest, Remy did as he was told. Under Michael's gaze, the member lengthened and thickened. Catching his breath, Michael saw the tattoos. "That must have hurt like the devil," he muttered before thinking.
A muscle in Remy's jaw leapt, but he remained mute, staring off into space.
"That's a lethet, isn't it? Or something like?"
"Don't confuse me with your naragi whore," gritted Remy. "Do what you will then leave me alone!"
"As you wish." The sight of Remy's sex, girdled as it was by the brightly-colored, intricately-patterned band, heated Michael's blood. "Bend over."
Remy silently leaned forward, gripping the iron ring tightly. He lifted his buttocks into the air, knees sliding apart with an ease that suggested familiarity with the position. Michael reached into his pocket, taking out the small pot of ointment.
The Hunter captain made no sound when Michael prepared him. He grunted when Michael mounted him, lowering his head to his wrists. Each thrust drove a huff of breath from him, but nothing more.
For Michael, there was pleasure, both in the Hunter's tight passage and in the flow of k'na it brought. He climaxed swiftly. Yet, when he withdrew from the other man's body, he keenly felt the sense of something deep inside him that remained unfulfilled.
It was Stefn he wanted; Stefn he needed. Locke's aide gave him only a taste of wine. Stefn alone could give him the full glass.
Michael did up his breeches. Then, crouched beside Remy's huddled form, he lifted the Hunter's head by the hair. "Open your mouth."
Remy obeyed, wary. At once, Michael shoved a wadded rag into it. When Remy tried to jerk away, surprised, Michael's fist tightened painfully in the man's hair. "Do what you're told," he ordered in the same quiet voice.
Swiftly, Michael tied another strip of rag around the Dragon's head, holding the gag in place. Then he unlocked the shackles from the chain. At once he rose and drew his sword, holding it up and ready. Pulling a wad of clothing from the valise, he threw it to the floor beside Remy. "Get dressed."
Behind the strip of rag, Remy's mouth worked, but he got up and quickly pulled on the clothing. It was a servant's garb, rough woolen breeches and a long shirt of muslin.
"Turn around."
Bewildered, Remy obeyed. Michael shackled his hands again.
They left the cell, Michael locking it carefully behind him. His heart was pounding. At the top of the stairs, he slipped out first. No one. Even so, he closed his eyes, opening his vision to the beyond. Patterns of varying brightness and intricacy came to life around him. Here, no sorcery obscured them. In his mind, he mapped out his route from the castle.
"This way," he said in a low voice. Remy, eyes speculative above his gag, went without hesitation.
Michael had no intention of smuggling the prisoner across the bridge to the mainland. It was too heavily guarded. Instead, he hustled Remy out into the gardens, down the gently sloping lawns to the edge of the island. Through the bushes they went, all the while Michael keeping a wary eye out for patrols. Ahead, a small cove came into view, flat stone ledges making a natural stair into the water. Floating gently on the water was a small rowboat.
The possibilities that he might be destroying his friendship with Severyn hung around Michael's heart like a dark cloud. The chance of his grandfather disinheriting him was even greater. The duke had told him in no uncertain terms where his loyalty should lie. Even as he walked, his prisoner in hand, a part of Michael cried out against what he was doing. Yet that small, sensible voice was powerless against his need for Stefn and his determination to save his cethe from the vengeance of the Church.
A snap of a twig sent Michael's heart into his mouth. He pulled Remy back, arm around the other man's throat. "Not a sound," he whispered.
A figure pushed out of the bushes and came down the stone steps. With a start, Michael recognized him. Auron Challory went straight to the boat, then looked around "Mick?" he called in a low voice. "I know you're here! Show yourself!"
Michael didn't move. He felt Remy's rapid pulse against his wrist. The thought of turning his power against his friend made him sick at heart, but he would not be stopped!
"Damn it, Mick?" hissed Auron, peering this way and that through the moonlight. "I'm on your side, man! I came to help!"
Michael drew a deep breath. Was it true? He knew Auron had developed a fondness for Stefn, but to defy Severyn, too? Abruptly, he made up his mind. He propelled Remy forward.
Auron jumped up, grinning broadly. "Ha!" he chortled softly. "I knew it!"
"You idiot!" was Michael's reply. "What are you doing?"
"Same thing you are, going to get Eldering."
"But Sev..."
"Has plenty of help, just like you said." Auron ran back up the steps to rummage in the bushes. He hauled out a large leather and canvas pack and took it back to the water's edge, dropping it into the rowboat. "Let's go before anyone realizes we're missing."
"How did you know? Does anyone else suspect?"
"Nah. I figured you'd go after him, no matter what Sev or your icicle of a grandfather says. You're in love with him, right?"
Michael opened his mouth, then shut it again. "I... "
"Of course, you are! And Eldering's in love with you, too, although I can't for the life of me understand that one! Still, never let it be said that Auron Challory is not a champion of true love!" He paused, striking a dramatic pose, adding, "Besides, I've always wanted to see the East."
"You're a raving lunatic," marveled Michael, but a great weight lifted from his heart. "Do you think you can shut up long enough to help me get Remy into the boat?"
Guards took Stefn into the bowels of the Domicile to a bare, cold stone room where, under their watchful eyes and mocking jibes, he was stripped naked and ordered to clean himself. One of them noticed his foot and the jokes became even crueler.
It was a disorienting return to the past, to stand shivering and scrubbing himself with rags, cold water and harsh soaps. They would not let him dress afterwards, but herded him down another bleak corridor, opening a door and thrusting him into the room beyond.
He crept to the corner of the tiny cell, curling up facing the door, and waiting for whatever might come next. No one came, however, and after awhile, his weariness overcame his fear and he slept.
Some time later, a boot in his ribs woke him. He was dragged roughly to his feet and thrust out into the corridor. He stumbled and fell while their harsh laughter echoed around him. Another door opened. This room was well lit, with a large mirror and vanity set up and several grey-clad Penitents standing alongside one wall, hands clasped behind them and their heads bowed.
"His Eminence wants him prepared for Service," announced one of Stefn's guards. "We'll be back within the hour."
They left and silence fell. Stefn began to shake in reaction, trying to take in his new surroundings. When the h'nara came toward him, he shrank away. One of their number took hold of his arm firmly. "Please don't give us trouble," he said. "We don't wish to harm you."
Stefn swallowed hard, staring from one Penitent to the other. All of them were young and all were male. Furthermore, like the Penitent serving the archbishop upstairs, each was exceptionally handsome.
"Leave me alone," he whispered, pulling away.
"If you resist, we will call the guards!" one told him, scowling.
"Please!" another pleaded, looking anxiously toward the door. "If we do not prepare you in time, we too, will be punished!"
Stefn bit back his retort. They looked frightened and upset. He clamped his lips together and sat on the stool they pushed forward, his back rigid, facing the mirror. They moved in around him.
He sat in silent, angry misery as they set about brushing his hair and rubbing scented oils into his skin. His foot caused much consternation among them. His sixth toe had grown out completely in the past year, twisted and misshapen, covered by a spiderweb of scars from the many amputations he'd endured. Finally, after much whispered consultation, they brought a wide silk ribbon, pink, like his skin, and wound it around the offending limb.
One of them brought a tray upon which a variety of small pots were arranged and set about applying the cosmetics to Stefn's face, darkening his eyelids and blackening his eyelashes. They even put rouge on his cheeks and daubed red on his lips. But when he was told to slide forward on the stool and open his legs, he balked. Eyeing the handful of fine gold chains in the hands of one of the boys, he shook his head violently.
In the end, they had to call for the guards, for he refused to let him put their thing on him. He kicked and thrashed wildly, cursing them all, while they tried to wrap the awful contraption around his genitals. Finally, one of the guards swore and struck him a glancing blow, knocking him to the floor where he lay stunned. At once, the slaves threw themselves on him, pinning him there. Helpless, he could do nothing while they fondled his sex, pulling and squeezing until, in spite of the pain, it hardened. They wrapped the foul thing around it. The chains cut deep into his sensitive skin and when they wound more of them around his testicles, he wept with the humiliation and pain of it.
They dragged him to his feet, at last, and he prayed it was over. Alas, Loth had never been much interested in answering his prayers. He was bent over the stool and, a moment later, a slick, cool finger was thrust into his anus. Stefn clung to the rungs of the stool, teeth clenched on angry sobs as he was roughly fingered. He couldn't help the cry of shock and pain when the finger was removed and something very large was thrust up into him.
Trembling violently, he was pulled upright again. He swayed, breathing in short, shallow gasps.
No more! Please, no more!
But they were still not finished. While the guards held his arms, the Penitents came with small jeweled rings. The rings pulled open and he watched in horror as they were placed on his nipples and allowed to snap closed. The pain made him fling his head back, eyes going wide and flooding with tears.
Finally, they locked jewel-encrushed bands of steel around his wrists and fastened them together behind his back.
"Very nice," one of the guards said, grinning and looking him up and down. He reached over and squeezed one of Stefn's pinched, swelling nipples. Stefn whimpered, trying to shrink back.
"Leave him alone," said the other guard. "We're late as it is."
They took him, lost in a daze of dread and horror, back to the upper regions of the Domicile. He barely noticed when, at last, he found himself in a large, luxurious bedroom. The guards departed and the door closed, leaving him in silence.
"My lord?" came a soft voice from the shadows of the room. Charles, the Archbishop's Penitent, appeared from an adjoining room. He was not unsympathetic, but neither did he hesitate to take Stefn's arm and lead him to the large bed dominating the chamber. He sat Stefn down on the edge of it. "Open your legs, my lord," he said quietly, "so his Excellency may see exactly what is available for his pleasure."
Stefn gave him an anguished look, but Charles only shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "But you must obey."
Stefn's abused nipples twinged painfully. The softness of the mattress was not enough to ease the pain of whatever they'd forced into him. He did not resist when Charles pressed his knees wide apart.
"Lie back," ordered the Penitent.
Stefn obeyed, staring up into the canopy, wretchedly aware of being utterly exposed. Tears leaked from the corner of his eyes.
"Do not move," said Charles. "You must be in that position when His Eminence chooses to visit you."
He listened to the h'nar's footsteps crossing the room. The door opened and closed, followed by silence. Despair settled into Stefn's heart like a poisonous fog.
Michael.
Closing his eyes, Stefn conjured the h'naran lord's image in his mind, the shining hair, the quick, boyish grin. He remembered the gentleness of Michael's touch, the softness of his lips.
Help me!
But there would be no rescue from this nightmare, no raging h'naran lord to storm the fortress of Loth's knightmages.
He was truly lost.
Remy was gone. A panicked Corliss brought Severyn the news at breakfast.
"Are you sure?" Severyn asked, even though he knew damn well Corliss would hardly be mistaken about such a thing.
"The cell door was locked, Majesty, but the prisoner is no longer within. Nor was there any sign that his irons had been broken. Whoever took him had a key, I'm afraid."
"Impossible!" Severyn muttered. Only one other man beside himself and Corliss had one.
Reaching across the toast-holder, he picked up the small, golden bell and rang it. A servant appeared at once.
"Find Lord Michael," said the prince, a hollow feeling settling over him.
The servant took some time in returning; the delay told Severyn what had happened even before the servant returned to say Lord Arranz was nowhere to be found.
Even then, Severyn couldn't accept it. He sent a messenger to the Watersedge Hotel, where Lord Damon and his marshland h'naran vassals were staying. The messenger returned, Lord Damon hot on his heels.
By then, Severyn had completed a search of Michael's rooms. He handed the note he'd found there to the duke. Uncle Damon read it quickly, handsome face paling. When he handed it back, he appeared speechless, tiny white lines etched deep at the corners of his mouth and between his eyebrows.
"Auron is missing, as well," said Severyn.
"The fools!" Striding across the room, Lord Damon glared out the window. "They cannot have gotten far. You've sent men after them?"
"No."
The duke spun around, eyes wide with disbelief.
"He's in love with Eldering." Saying it aloud brought a lump to Severyn's throat. The ache in his chest intensified. "I've known it's true for a long time, I just refused to see it."
"Absurd!" Lord Damon's lip curled. "It's the Bond, nothing more."
"What if it is? What difference does that make? His feelings are just as strong! We threw them together, my lord! This is the result!"
Tension showed in every line of the duke's tall, youthful form. The winter-grey eyes, so like Michael's, burned with cold fire. "I thought he was wise enough to know the difference..."
"Maybe he is. Maybe it's we who weren't. He confessed to me once we know very little about the naragi. Even you, I daresay, have only what legend and tradition have left to you."
"It sounds as if you're making excuses for my graceless grandson."
"Not just anyone can be a naragi's cethe. Maybe the Bond is only a manifestation of something deeper." Severyn floundered, trying to put order to his thoughts.
Uncle Damon made a sound of disgust. "Regardless," he said, "Michael risks catastrophe by going into the stronghold of the Church! We need him, Severyn. You have the throne, but the path to uncontested power will not be easy. My marsh witches cannot stand against knightmages."
"Michael is not a tool!" Severyn's voice rose. "He is a friend and a brother. It was unforgiveable to sacrifice him to my future, to a fate with consequences neither of us understood!"
"Don't lose your focus," the duke said. "He had every chance to refuse that sacrifice, but chose to go ahead. He understood the prize we sought. Now he threatens to throw it away for the sake of a sin-catcher whose blood is poisoned with evil. Are you really ready to risk everything to let him do it? Are his desires really more important than Tanyrin's deliverance?"
Severyn stared at his surrogate father. "No," he said slowly. "No, they're not."
Lord Damon nodded, relieved. "Then you'll send someone after him."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," said Severyn quietly, emphatically. "Yes, I will."
With the foul murder of Aramis IV, in the Year of Loth's Dominion 1422, the direct line of kings descended from St. Aramis was ended. The throne passed to his first cousin, the Duke of Messerling. His Grace William Lothlain was the only surviving male relative bearing royal blood. His Grace, at his coronation, took the name Arami Lothlain in honor of his ancestor, Aramis I, founder of the royal line and Hero of Tanyrin. A pious and sober man, Arami I ruled Tanyrin for twenty years and is today known by all as Arami the Just.
from: A Modern History of Tanyrin,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1505
Michael woke, heart in his mouth, pulse thundering in his ears. He lay, his breath coming rapidly, looking up through the branches of the evergreens at the night sky.
Stefn!
Rolling over, he pushed aside his blanket. Remy, bound to a nearby tree, slept with his chin on his chest. Auron slept, too, wrapped up in his bedroll on the other side of the fire, snoring. Michael sat up, hugging his knees to his chest, trying to quell his sense of panic.
Stefn was in trouble. He remembered acutely the same terrible feelings when his grandfather's men had tortured Stefn in the delta. It took real effort to subdue the sense of panic and urgency.
"They're hurting him, aren't they?"
Michael looked up. Remy was awake, staring at him, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. Rising to his feet, Michael approached the tree, stopping only long enough to pluck a burning stick from the fire. The captain shrank back when Michael dropped to a crouch in front of him.
Michael replied. "Tell me, Remy, if I were to torture you, would he feel it? Your master, Locke?"
Remy, frightened, turned his face from the glowing end of the stick.
"It is Locke, isn't it?" Michael thrust the end of the stick at him.
"Leave off, Mick!"
Michael rocked back on his heels. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Auron looking up from his bedroll.
"No," said Remy. The word was a breath. "Our bond is not so close."
Rustling at his back told Michael Auron was up. A moment later, his friend was crouched beside him. "Don't do it," he said. "You aren't one of those bastards."
"I wouldn't be so sure." But Michael let him take the stick and throw it back into the fire. "They're torturing Stefn."
"You can tell?"
Michael nodded.
"Loth." Auron ran a hand through his tousled hair.
"So you are Locke's cethe!"
"I'm his aide and shield brother," Remy retorted. "He is not a naragi!"
"The hell!" Auron exclaimed.
"Semantics," Mick replied, not taking his eyes from Remy.
"Mazril is a knightmage, the same as St. Arami was! He wields the power of lothria, not black magic!"
"I see little difference," retorted Michael.
"You lose your power if you sleep with a woman," replied Remy. "The knightmages do not."
"How do you know? Have you ever seen Locke bed his wife? Have you ever seen any of the knightmages do so?"
Remy's mouth tightened. "No," he said after a moment. "Women are not allowed in the Zelenov Domicile. He has another house in Zelenov where Lady Locke stays."
"Holy Mother of Aramis," Auron exclaimed. "Are you telling me that Locke's never bedded that luscious armful he married?"
"That's not what I said!"
Michael and Auron stared at each other, astounded. "It would explain Charity's, er, many gentlemen friends," said Auron finally.
Michael laughed hollowly. "Son of a bitch," he said finally. "They're hypocrites! How long, I wonder? How long have these so-called men of God been using the Dark Stream?"
"It's not like that! Since the days of St. Aramis, the Dragons have always wielded only the power of the Light!"
"So they say." Auron rose, looking down. "But we've seen how quick you and your masters are to embrace lies."
"Indeed," said Michael. "Shall we make another wager, Captain Remy? When it comes to the power of magic, who will God favor? The priest or the demon?"
Minutes crawled by; perhaps hours. Sick with dread and miserably uncomfortable, Stefn lay across the bed, eyes fixed on the shadowed canopy overhead, every fiber of his being tuned to the sound of the door opening again. When it finally happened, he had to bite his lip to keep back the small sound of dread.
The click of boot heels broke the quiet.
"Ahh. Very good," came Locke's voice, deep and smoky. "Beautiful, indeed. I can see why Arranz chose you."
A hand came down on Stefn's aching sex, caressing it. This time, he could not help the whimper that escaped.
"Turn over."
Stiff from lying so long in the awkward position, Stefn did a poor job of it. He heard an impatient sound from Locke. Hands gripped his hips and pulled him up, forcing him to instinctively struggle to get his knees under him on the mattress. Locke's fingers brushed his buttocks and, abruptly, whatever was inside him was pulled out. He cried out at the sharp, tearing pain, but the next instant, something just as big slammed into him.
"Do you feel me inside you?" Locke asked harshly. "Learn the feeling well, whore, and know that now you are serving Loth and not evil! Do penance for your crimes by giving me the power you gave to the demon!"
Stefn couldn't answer. Each thrust drove the breath from him. He felt as if he were being torn apart, bit by bit, as Locke drove into him with a savage, hungry force.
"Give me the power!" hissed the archbishop in harsh, short gasps. "Feed me strength, O Loth, through this, the body of your enemy!"
His grunts grew louder and more urgent. He seized a handful of Stefn's hair, pulling his head up, forcing the youth to arch backwards. Stefn's abused nipples burned and stung as they rubbed hard against the sheets. He screamed helplessly and prayed for it to be over.
Yet it seemed Locke refused to spend himself. The savaging went on and on. Blood ran down Stefn's thighs, hot and wet.
Abruptly, Locke pulled away, cursing. Stefn was turned onto his back and, for a moment, everything disappeared in a flood of crimson.
"Eldering!"
Blows across his face jerked him back to unwelcome consciousness. He looked up through tear-washed eyes at Locke. The man shouted at him, something to do with the collar. He shook his head helplessly.
There were hands on his neck. Someone screamed. Was it him? Stefn wasn't sure, but suddenly the lethet flared, shooting bolts of fire through him. This time, he knew exactly whose scream it was.
The Cathedral at Zelenov stretched over the far end of the valley, a dark, ominous beast crouched above the red brick and tile-roofed city, its back against a massive overhang of sheer cliffs. Michael leaned forward in the saddle, looking down across the patchwork of irrigated fields. The ant-like figures of slaves could be seen moving slowly up and down the rows. Water-bearers, Remy said when questioned. While the west drowned, the east suffered under a long drought.
Roads zig-zagged over the surrounding hills, coming from other parts of the east, all going to Zelenov. The city was the largest on this side of the Midders, and for all practical purposes, the seat of real power.
"Don't look like much, does it," observed Auron. "I always thought it was bigger."
Michael looked to his left. Remy sat silently, chained hands tight on his saddle, stubbled jaw set. He wouldn't look at Michael.
Letting his eyes drift shut, Michael sought Stefn. His cethe's pattern had faded; Michael saw it still, but as if through layers of gauze, indistinct. Longing welled up inside him.
I will find you and bring you back and never let you go again.
"Well?"
Michael looked westward, toward the sun settling onto the far, arid hills. "It will be dusk soon. We'll go then."
"And him?"
Michael shrugged. "If he causes trouble, I'll use magic to subdue him." He paused, smiling grimly at the other man's tense profile. "Of course, that will mean I'll have to replenish it later."
A flinch. Message received.
They left their position as the sun drifted lower and the hills cast long shadows across the lowland. Joining the traffic returning to the city, they did as the other travelers, untying their neckclothes and using them as masks to filter the choking haze.
The guards at the main gate paid little attention to who entered; indeed, it was hard to see how they could, given the hodge-podge of carts and livestock, peasants and lines of chained Penitents making their way through the towering gate.
Zelenov's narrow streets twisted and turned, going in every direction without any particular sense. The mud-brick buildings had little variation in appearance, making one street corner much like another. Eventually, however, the westerners found themselves in the district known as the Bottom, Zelenov's fetid slums.
Auron found them rooms in a ramshackle inn near some stockyards. Once inside, they secured their prisoner and had a decidedly unremarkable meal.
"Are you sure I shouldn't be the one to go out?" Auron asked afterwards.
"You don't think I look human enough?"
Auron looked him up and down. "The black hair and eyebrows are a good try," he said, "but your looks are just too damned perfect."
Michael grinned and pulled up his neckcloth to cover his face. "How about that?"
"Actually," confessed Auron, "I was hoping not to have to sit in this oven, surrounded by that ungodly stench."
"You don't have cattle on your estates?"
"I don't keep them next to my bedchamber!"
"Maybe next time."
"There had better not be a next time," muttered his friend ungraciously. Stripping off his coat and shirt, both damp with sweat, Auron threw himself down on the sagging bed. "Don't be long," he warned. "I'm not sure how long I can stand it."
It wasn't much cooler in the twilit streets. Michael walked rapidly uphill, keeping an eye on the distant walls of the Cathedral. According to their maps, it lay directly above a Hunter garrison of considerable size. The only way into it was through the garrison or climbing down the cliffs rising hundreds of feet behind it.
Zelenov emptied rapidly as night descended. Michael was glad for his cloak and dyed black hair as he slipped from shadowed doorway to alley to side-street. Occasionally, he saw small Hunter patrols. They did not seem to be stopping the few people still abroad, but Michael took no chances, melting out of their sight until they had passed.
He reached the garrison at moon's first light. The gates were shut fast and guarded, but in some places, buildings had been constructed right up against the fortress. Scrambling onto their roofs, he was able, without too much difficulty, to scale the remaining bit of wall.
From the looks of it, he reckoned the fort held several thousand men. That was a considerable number; certainly more troops than were needed to keep order in a single town, even with a Cathedral as important as Zelenov's. He thought about Storm's estimate of the Hunter numbers in the west. Added to this and the other Hunters they'd seen so far, the number of Locke's Zelenovian troops took on more sinister proportions.
Michael ran along the top of the wall, keeping low. He cast a small witch-glamor around himself, hoping to trick any eye that might lift in his direction. The Cathedral wall loomed before him, eight or nine feet higher than the walls of the fortress. He got a running start and just managed to grab the top, hauling himself up and onto it. There, he lay, catching his breath.
The Cathedral boasted a collection of large, stone structures. Michael easily picked out the Domicile. Several stories high, it's façade was elaborately carved, decorated with fine marble and embellished with balconies, dormers, widow's-walks, and surrounded by elegantly manicured lawns. Yellow light shone out of diamond-paned windows. Michael saw no sign of soldiers.
However, as he considered where to descend, he felt a strange shiver run across his skin, lifting the hairs on his body. From somewhere among the trees and shrubbery below he heard a shout. A moment later, several figures appeared in the moonlight. His heart jumped. Most of them were Hunters, but there was a priest with them. Worse, the latter pointed straight at him.
Michael turned and ran, jumping back down onto the fortress wall. Below him, the alarm was raised. He threw a shield around himself as questing tendrils of power probed the night. Bells began to clang. Cursing, he kept going. Soldiers erupted from the buildings.
Without warning, Michael was struck by an invisible force, nearly knocking him off the wall. Only his shield protected him, deflecting the blow at the last possible moment. Desperately, he leapt from the wall to a roof below, hitting hard and rolling down. At the last minute, he grabbed hold of the eaves and managed to keep from falling to the street.
All around, shutters flew open. The clanging behind the wall grew louder as the alarms spread through the fort. Michael dropped to the ground. Sweeping his cloak tight around him, he ran.
Now comes before the Court Jeanette Williams, h'naran female, twenty-six years of age, accused of the foul crime of witchcraft. Wherein it is sworn that Jeanette Williams did curse her employer, Mrs. Leonie Scrapp, with boils, did cause the household milk to curdle, and incite the children toward disobedience and disrespect. Note is made of Mrs. Leonie's generosity and kindness in extending this wayward soul the beneficence of good employment, for which she was so basely repaid. We humbly beseech the judge to find the Williams woman guilty and show the mercy for which this Court is so famous by giving her over to the Church so that she may swear a Vow of Penitence.
from: Case Records, Royal Court of Fornsby,
9 Rulkel,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1423
Stefn was only dimly aware when the healers came, laying hands on him and knitting his torn flesh. They could do little with his shattered spirit, however. He lay in his cramped, cold cell and did his best to shut away the misery, refusing to speak, ignoring the food and drink the slaves brought. Each time the cell door opened, his entire body tensed until he thought his bones would crack. Each time he was sure he would be dragged back to Locke's bedroom and, when he wasn't, it took forever for his shaking to stop.
That was not to say he was left alone. At first, men came and went, all of them intent on the lethet. They brought saws and cutters of all kinds, and their attempts to remove it were often worse than what he'd already endured. But finally, they seemed to give up and stopped coming.
Someone, at some time, gave him clothing, the same brief, grey tunic worn by the Penitents, but it did little to keep away the cold of his subterranean chamber. He hardly noticed, lost in a haze of despair, indifferent to what went on around him.
There was no way of knowing how much time had passed in this gloomy place. The only light lay outside his cell. The dark made it easier to lose himself in the past, those fleeting months when, as Michael's cethe, he'd known unparalleled freedom and happiness. How bitterly he regretted not recognizing those days for what they had truly been, a brief respite in a life otherwise distinguished only by misery and pain.
The violence of the Binding had faded to a point where he could view it dispassionately. What came after had been far more important --- Michael's remorse, the friendship that had grown between them and, in his heart at least, a feeling that had transcended even that. Was this what it truly meant to be a sin-catcher? To have paradise dangled before him, then swept away? If so, then Loth be damned!
It was too much to hope that he would be left alone forever. The doors opened again and this time, it was neither priests nor slaves, but Dragons, grim-faced and disinclined to listen to his pleas. They forced him to accompany them from the cellars and up into the main portion of the Domicile. To his relief, however, he wasn't taken to Locke's bedchamber. Instead, he was escorted to a spacious chamber illuminated by tall, diamond-paned windows and furnished with a long, shining table. Seated at the table in high-backed chairs were a dozen men of varying ages.
At the head of it, Locke sat, regarding Stefn with brooding intensity. On his right hand was an elderly priest. The others wore Hunter uniforms with the red braid of the Dragon Order. Before them were piles of books, some lying open, others in precarious heaps.
Stefn's guards took him to the end of the table opposite Locke and left him standing alone. He heard them withdraw and the door close. The men at the table stared fixedly at him, but Stefn realized after a moment, it was the lethet they were studying.
"I can think of no other explanation, Lord Locke," the old priest said. "'Tis that collar. Not only does it defy attempts to remove it, many of the gems are unknown to us."
"I thought the lethets were just identification, a mark of status, like the tattoos of our shield brothers," Locke said, scowling. "Are you saying it has actual power?"
"So it would seem," replied the old man. "I see no other explanation. Do you?"
Locke laughed harshly, lifting a bandaged hand.
"Then how do we get it off?" He glared at the elderly priests.
"We must consult the book."
Locke's face twisted. "The book of lies?" he sneered.
"It is a naran book and that is a naran thing," retorted the old priest.
"We contaminate ourselves each time we touch the naragi's Chronicle!"
Muttering arose from the Dragons. The old priest, however, was unmoved. Reaching across the table, he pulled over a large, rune-covered box. Opening it, he removed a book. In spite of his fear, Stefn's attention sharpened.
The old man opened the book and, with a bony finger, traced down the page. Silence settled over the room while he read, lips moving silently.
Finally, he lifted his head, a look of astonishment on his face. "The cethe has the power to remove it himself."
The entire room erupted into exclamations of surprise and varying degrees of disbelief.
"Is it true? It's that easy?"
"According to this, should the heart of the cethe turn away from his lord, he can easily remove the lethet and be free."
Stefn shook his head. Hadn't he tried to remove it many times? "That's not true," he said. "I-I've tried!"
"Really?" Locke smiled crookedly. "Try again."
With every eye fixed on him, Stefn raised shaking hands and fumbled at the collar. Nothing happened. His searching fingers had no more luck finding the clasp than they ever had and, aware of the growing impatience in the room, he tugged at it. It remained fast around his neck.
"Lies," muttered one of the Dragons. "That damned book was written by Derek, after all. Did you expect the truth from a naragi?"
"Perhaps Lord Eldering's heart does not wish to be free?" Locke drawled, eyes glittering across the table.
"Of course I wish it!" Panic nibbled at Stefn. He tried again to loosen the collar, but again without any success. "Why should I not?"
They watched him struggle frantically, clawing at the thing, his dismay growing.
"The book is quite clear," said the old priest flatly. "It would seem Lord Eldering is either lying or doesn't know his own feelings."
"Which is it, my lord?" asked Locke, leaning forward, narrowed eyes fixed on his frightened captive.
"Your book must be lying," whispered Stefn. "What is it, anyway?"
"It's the Third Chronicle, of course," said Locke with a grim smile. "Written by the ancestor of your precious naragi master."
"It does exist?"
Locke inclined his head mockingly. "Naturally it leaves us with only one choice." He leaned back and looked from one Dragon to the next. "We'll simply have to convince Lord Eldering that he does, indeed, want desperately to be free."
Michael paced the small, stifling room. He'd long since grown accustomed to the noisy, odiferous presence of the cattle outside the inn, but the heat was impossible to ignore. He was sweating gallons, it seemed, and Remy's apparent indifference to the temperature was irritating him no end.
For days they'd been stuck here, waiting for Auron to gather the information he needed, going outside only after dark for a few breaths of fresh, evening air. At least the hubbub of his near-discovery had died down. On his return from his first trip out, Auron had reported a search underway for suspected rebels and not, as Michael had feared, for a western naragi.
"Apparently, all is not sweetness and light in the East," Auron said in tones of satisfaction. "Locke has his enemies here, too. Word is buzzing in the streets that he and some of his Dragons will be leaving soon, riding south to root out a nest of rebels holed up in one of the coastal towns."
"Rabble," spat Remy from his cot in the corner of their room.
Michael, however, found the news cheering. "When?" he asked.
"Any day," replied Auron, adding, "sooner rather than later, I hope."
Infiltrating the well-guarded Cathedral would be much safer with fewer Dragon mages to contend with. Even so, for Stefn's sake, Michael was reluctant to wait much longer.
His new plan was hardly ideal, but after a much discussion, neither he nor Auron could think of a better one. Auron, with unseemly enthusiasm, abandoned their oven of a room and headed out into the streets to collect the necessary props.
Remy jeered openly, but when Michael threatened to gag him, he shut his mouth and contented himself with sneering. "It'll never work," he promised. "You haven't the bearing for it, my lord."
"Damn it!" growled Michael. "Where is Challory? If he's out having a cool drink in the shade of some tavern, I'll kill him!" He stalked to the window for the hundredth time. Outside, restless cattle jostled about in their pens, filling the air with dust and stench. The narrow lane running between the stockyard and the inn was full of people bustling about, but there was no sign of the tall, dark-haired nobleman.
"Maybe he was caught," Remy suggested. "And even now, guards are approaching."
"You had better hope not," Michael replied. "Or they will suffer the same fate as your companions in Lothmont."
"If so, Mazril will know you are here and every Dragon in the city will be on your trail." Remy bared his teeth in a vulpine grin. "I would die happily if I knew justice would finally be served."
A rattle at the door saved Michael from a stinging reply. He whirled, reaching for his sword, but it was only Auron, a large paper bag in hand.
"Food," he announced as Michael shut and locked the door after him. "And the very latest in Zelenovian fashion for you, my lord."
He dumped the bag on the table. Several oranges tumbled out. There were paper-wrapped sandwiches of thick, crusty bread, cheese and sausage, as well. At the bottom of the bag was another paper-wrapped bundle, but this one did not contain food. Instead, a wad of grey fabric tumbled out. Michael picked it up and shook it out.
"You cannot be serious!"
"Ah, but I assure you, it's what the Penitents serving in the Domicile wear. I have it on excellent authority."
Michael flapped the brief tunic at Remy, whose lip curled.
"I brought you this, too." Auron produced a tiny brush and a small pot of paint. "You'll need a brand."
"Where did you get this?" Michael asked. According to common knowledge in Zelenov, only the most beautiful of Penitents served in the Domicile. If this was all they wore, it was obvious what at least some of their duties were.
"Stole it," replied Auron, unwrapping a sandwich. He threw one to Remy, who caught it awkwardly with bound hands. "There's a tailor near the barracks who makes them for the Cathedral. The fellow had a few sly jokes to make about his noble clientele, too. I wonder if Locke imagines folk around here haven't figured out what they're doing there." This was accompanied by a smirk at Remy, who turned his back on them.
Leaning closer, one eye on their prisoner, Auron said in a low voice, "I walked past the fort. There's a lot of activity. It looks like they're going to be riding out soon. I suspect tonight will be the time to make your move."
Michael nodded.
Auron finished his sandwich and disappeared downstairs, returning with a bucket of water and a basin. Michael washed out the black hair-dye, a messy process that had his friend running up and down several times with more buckets until the water finally ran clear. Afterwards, Michael sat in front of the window while the sun blazed in, drying his long, white mane and combing it until it lay straight and shining over his shoulders.
The tunic fit, but the shortness of the skirt brought color to his face. Auron gave a low whistle and grinned appreciatively. Even Remy seemed taken aback. When Michael caught him staring, the Hunter sneered again. "You'd make a good slave," he said.
Michael smiled grimly. "That's the idea." Hastily, he pulled breeches and a shirt over the garment. Tying back his hair, he sat down on the edge of the bed while Auron used the paint to trace the Penitent's mark on his forehead. After that, there was nothing to do but wait for nightfall.
After an eternity, it seemed, the sun finally set.
"Good luck," Auron said, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Don't waste any time waiting for me," said Michael. "Get out of the city. Stefn and I will meet you at the rendevous point."
He left them, slipping down the back stairs of the inn, wrapped in his cloak, hood pulled forward to hide the brand. His hair was bound up in a black scarf, for even with the hood, its brilliance threatened to give him away.
Michael chose a different set of houses to clamber onto, a different section of the fortress wall to scale. The place was alight and alive. Soldiers ran to and fro while a large number of men gathered in a front courtyard, fully armored and armed. It seemed Auron was right. Michael dropped to his belly, lying flat across the top of the wall. His eyes narrowed as a group of horsemen came into view from around a nearby building. Locke!
The Archbishop was dressed in his Dragon uniform and accompanied by two others of his Order. Hunters fell into formation behind him. A bell clanged and the gate opened. Michael watched as the entire group rode out, the road lit by men running ahead with torches. Without wasting another moment, he jumped up and ran along the wall, headed for the Cathedral.
His luck held. Michael found a clump of trees growing along the interior of the Cathedral's wall and, in their shelter, clambered down onto the lawn. Keeping to the concealment of the shrubs and low, ornamental trees, he reached the Domicile. He wrapped himself tightly in the cloak, getting as close as he dared to what he hoped was the kitchen door. Two guards stood before it, talking to each other animatedly and paying scant attention to what went on around them. Picking up a stone, Michael heaved it as far away as he could. At the subsequent rattle, the guards broke off their conversation and hurried to investigate. Holding tight to his cloak, Michael slipped inside the now abandoned doorway.
From the smells and distant clatter of crockery, he was indeed near the kitchens. Fat bags of flour and grain were stacked against a nearby wall, along with big earthenware jugs of oil and casks of wine. Quickly, he shed his cloak, stuffing it behind the jugs. Pulling the tie from his hair, he shook it free.
He felt ridiculously vulnerable in the tunic. The slightest bend this way or that would expose his most private parts. He gritted his teeth, telling himself that if the Penitents could bear it, so could he.
The impulse to seek out Stefn's life force was almost irresistible, but resist it he did. He'd availed himself of Remy before setting out, but that didn't mean he had power to spare or that there weren't knightmages on watch. Slipping over to the kitchen door, he peered inside the room behind. Long past the dinner hour, it was mostly deserted save for a few Penitents scrubbing pots, their backs to him. He crept in and, under the cover of clattering pans and dishes, seized a bottle of wine.
At the sink, one of the Penitents started to turn around. Michael ducked behind a table, listening to the pad of bare feet crossing the room then returning. When he looked again, the Penitent was back at the sink with his partner, a new heap of dirty dishes beside them.
Michael looked quickly around. Newly washed and dried dishes were laid out on long white cloth atop a nearby table, among them, several wineglasses. He risked the smallest glamour to run across the kitchen, snatch one, and left the room. Leaning against the wall just outside, he gathered his wits for his next move.
Where would they have Stefn? Remembering the wave of terror and pain he'd felt in the mountains, Michael reckoned grimly the bastards had him locked up in the cellars. There would probably be a stairway somewhere nearby.
Leaving the kitchen behind, he ventured down a corridor and out into a large, open foyer dominated by a graceful double staircase leading up to a mezzanine.
"You! Slave!"
Michael froze. He turned slowly and found himself face to face with a Dragon. The knightmage, a sharp, suspicious look on his face, seemed taken aback.
"What are you doing?"
"I-I... " Quickly Michael dropped to one knee, hoping it was an appropriate response. "I'm lost, m'lord."
"Indeed." Something in the Dragon's voice made Michael risk a quick glance into his face. The man's eyes were alight and a smile played around his lips. Michael's skin crawled. "You must be new."
"Y-yes, m'lord."
"And quite a beauty, at that."
Taken aback, Michael decided the best answer was modest silence.
"Stand up. Let me have a look at you. You look a little old for Service, but damned if you aren't a fine one."
Gulping, Michael did so. The Dragon advanced, walking slowly around him. When the man stopped and lifted the skirt of his tunic, it took everything Michael had not to slap his hand away.
"Magnificent!" The Dragon all but licked his lips. He looked furtively around. "We're supposed to report to the parade ground, but I think I can spare a few minutes. Come! And bring the wine."
Michael wasn't sure whether to laugh or curse. From the bulge in the man's breeches, it was obvious what the Dragon intended. Meekly, he trailed after him, up the stairs and, finally, to a spacious, well-appointed bedroom.
"Take off your tunic and bend over," the Dragon said, pointing to a nearby table. "I don't have much time."
"What is it, my lord? Is it true the troops are riding south to crush the rebels?"
"What do you care?" snapped the impatient Dragon. "Bend over!"
Michael pulled off the tunic. The mage's jaw dropped. The fool was almost drooling with lust. Adopting what he hoped was a seductive smile, Michael advanced on him, lifting a hand to stroke the mage's face.
"Ah, like that, is it?" the mage growled, seizing his wrist. "I'll be sure to... agh!"
Quick as lightning, Michael spun him around and the mage suddenly found himself with his arm twisted up behind his back, wrist held firmly and painfully between his shoulder blades. With his other hand, Michael divested the Dragon of the dirk resting in its sheath at his belt.
"Stefn Eldering," he said softly into the man's ear. "Where is he?"
The cell door opened. Stefn heard it and wept. He didn't try to look around, to see who came this time to use him, to wring more pain from his body, to demand obedience he could not give.
Once again, his wrists were released from the chains holding them over his head. The room whirled sickeningly as he crumpled to the cold, wet floor. Hands in his hair dragged him up.
"Take if off," he heard. The voice was familiar. All of them were familiar now. Each Dragon gave the same order, pretending he had a choice before the torment began again.
"Take it off!"
The lethet. They wanted him to take off the lethet, but his hands were too swollen and his fingers slipped uselessly against the unyielding crust of jewels and gold.
"Fool! Do you love this so much?" The voice echoed down from a great distance. The fist in his hair pulled his head back and, through his tears, he saw a hard, angular face twisted by impatience and lust. "Then taste this!"
Stefn opened his mouth automatically, having learned by now what was expected. The hard flesh thrust in, cutting off his breath, slamming against the back of his raw throat. He choked and gagged with each careless thrust, wishing this time the coming flood of hot liquid would choke him and end this horror.
But his tormenter had other plans, pulling away. The room spun again as Stefn was hauled up, his wrists locked once more in the manacles, and he was left dangling. Hands on his bruised and lacerated hips lifted him, accompanied by the grunts of his tormenter. Stefn cried out, impaled on the rock-hard member still slippery with his own spit and blood.
"I almost hope you don't take it off," the man grunted in his ear. "So none of us will be deprived of this exquisite pleasure."
"Martin!" A new voice came, filled with urgency.
The brutal ramming paused. Stefn's head fell forward onto his chest. Tears ran into his open mouth; his breath raked his torn throat.
"Locke has left the city," came the new voice. "Kinshaw hasn't reported for duty and his patrol sits idle on the parade ground."
"Damn it! The bastard is probably off somewhere, porking one of the..."
Stefn whimpered as the dreadful pressure disappeared. Abruptly, he was left alone, hanging from his wrists. The voices receded; he could make little sense of the words and didn't even try. Gratefully, he let himself slip into semiconsciousness, taking the respite it offered, however brief.
The creak of the hinges brought him out of it at once. No respite then. He choked back a sob, trembling as rapid footsteps approached. He tried to speak, to plead for mercy, to beg for the chance to try the lethet one more time, anything to put off the coming agony.
"Stefn. Dear God!"
He knew the voice! In the jumbled confusion of his thoughts, Stefn felt a sudden warm surge of hope. He blinked rapidly and tried to turn his head, but his torn shoulders sent bolts of fire through his body.
Someone was swearing, a low, nonstop litany of profanity. With a click, his shackles opened. He fell into waiting arms, arms that cradled his battered body with great tenderness.
Dreaming. He was dreaming.
"I'll kill them! I'll kill them all!"
He heard the rage and moaned, expecting the pain to begin, but, "Easy, Stefn. Easy."
Stefn was laid down onto the cold, damp stones. His eyelids fluttered. Above him appeared an angel haloed in light. He found the strength to lift one hand, to try and reach the angel's face. "You... you look... you look like Michael... "
"I am Michael," said the angel in a choked voice. "Hold on, Stefn."
Michael? Of course it wasn't Michael. Michael was far away in the west. Stefn closed his eyes. Any moment, the door would open and one of the Dragons would be back. It would all begin again. He felt tears on his face and marveled that he could still have them after so much weeping.
Yet the pain didn't come again. It faded swiftly, like water going down a drain. His thoughts steadied. His world came back into focus. The angel, however, remained, hands moving over his naked body, gentle hands, healing everywhere they touched.
And it was the angel who was crying! How very odd.
Michael abandoned all caution escaping the Domicile. He used his power freely, mowing down guards and Dragons alike. It was fortunate there were few of the latter to be found, for his indiscriminate use of k'na quickly sapped his strength. He never hesitated, however, wanting only to get Stefn away from this hellish place, to get him somewhere safe.
His precious burden said nothing at all. Stefn's arms were wrapped tightly around his neck as he strode through the halls. Words howled around him. Men scattered, priest and Penitent alike. He heard walls break and ceilings crash behind him. Screams echoed in the holocaust he spun. Flames leapt greedily to his right and left. Nothing could stand in his path; his rage cut through stone like butter.
Suddenly, there was only sky overhead. Where was he?
"Michael?"
"Shhh."
They were at the front of the Domicile. Soldiers were running toward them from the fortress gate.
"Michael! I can walk. Let me down!"
Stefn's voice was strong and annoyed. Michael released him.
"They have the Third Chronicle, Michael! The book written by Derek..."
Michael almost laughed. Trust Stefn to fix on that!
"Let them keep it," he retorted. "I'd rather have you than..."
He broke off, seeing what he wanted. Horses! Michael took Stefn's hand and they ran.
The horses were terrified, but Michael seized the will of the nearest, jumping onto its back and pulling Stefn up before him. Weaving an arcane shield around them, he sent the terrified, ensorcelled beast leaping forward, lending buoyancy to its hooves. They thundered through the fortress gate, trampling the soldiers who tried to block their path, galloping toward the next gate and the way out.
Ahead, a line of horseman waited. Dragons! Their heads were bowed, their hands held together in prayer. The air shimmered and power beat against his shield. Stefn whimpered and the horse stumbled, slowing. NO!
Fury, fear, love and desperation, none of it was enough! A wall of force knocked Michael back, throwing them both from the horse. He staggered to his feet, trying to draw a breath, but his strength ebbed further.
They moved toward him, a disciplined line of knightmages, lips moving in unison. Their Words sucked the air from Michael's lungs. He felt his knees buckling.
Suddenly, Stefn was there, right in front of him, arms around him, mouth pressed against his.
So be it. Let me die with him in my arms.
Michael opened his mouth, felt the soft caress of Stefn's tongue. He closed his eyes against the vision of death moving toward them.
But it wasn't death; it was k'na, a dazzling, fiery stream of it pouring into him through Stefn's eager mouth. It crackled along Michael's nerves, filling him with its thunderous power. From the maelstrom came a long-forgotten, primal memory. Perhaps it was Loth, seeking to set things right. Perhaps it was some older, more ancient god. At that moment, it didn't matter to Michael. He rose from his knees, and holding Stefn close, sang out Words not heard for centuries.
The world vanished in a flash of blinding white light. The air hummed with unrestrained power. There was a smell of burning flesh and brimstone. Half-blinded by the unworldly brilliance, Michael somehow found their horse, and got back on it, hauling Stefn after him.
Then they were past, their horse jumping over heaps of ash where men had been. Together, they raced through the blasted fortress gates, tearing down into the city while, all around them, Hell unleashed its full fury.
Aramis Lothlain I, the first king of united Tanyrin, represented the best of governments, in the opinion of the author, by allowing his subjects unprecedented freedom, not only of expression, but of religion. It was that very freedom that allowed the so-called Golden Age of Tanyrin to flourish.
from Burkenrude, L.,The Government of Men,
Year of Loth's Dominion 1502
They picked up Hunters outside the city walls. Stefn looked over his shoulder and there they were, black dots silhouetted against the blazing city, a line of riders too disciplined to be anyone but. When he tried to warn Michael, the naragi's only response was a low curse. Michael slumped forward in the saddle, arms going slack. Stefn just managed to grab the reins before they could slip away.
"No!" he cried. "Michael! Stay with me!"
"M-make for the mountains. Auron... Auron will find us..." Voice trailing away, Michael went limp, sliding sideways, forcing Stefn to stop and grab hold of him lest he fall. Stefn untied the belt cinching Michael's grey tunic and managed to bind the two of them together. Then, awkwardly, he started forward again, veering away from the main road and across the fields, headed for the distant, dark bulk of the Midders.
It was his vague hope to get far enough ahead of their pursuers to stop, to get Michael to the ground and perform his duty as a cethe. Riding with an unconscious man before him in a land he didn't know, however, soon convinced him that was a futile hope. The riders at their back drew inexorably closer.
Dawn broke over the hills, sunlight sifting down through conifers to dapple the path. Stefn barely noticed. He clung grimly to the reins, Michael a dead weight in his arms, and concentrated on staying in the saddle. At least there were no knightmages among the men who followed, or they would never have made it this far. Not that it mattered. Hunters were still trained warriors and he was a naked cethe with an unconscious naragi guiding their tired horse up the steep, wooded, and wholly unfamiliar mountain slopes.
The memory of their escape from Zelenov was burned into his brain: the explosions, the screams, the flames roaring against a black, roiling sky. It was a blur of terror and awe. Little wonder Michael had collapsed. So much power!
What if he hadn't stopped to heal Stefn in the dungeon? He might have had sufficient strength to throw off their pursuers. Only his body could restore Michael's strength, but there was no time. For one dangerous moment, he nearly gave up.
And yet... Michael had come for him! Against all odds, common sense, and self-preservation, Michael Arranz had come straight at the heart of the enemy for him. Even with death on their trail, the realization had the power to warm Stefn and fill him with incongruous, unreasonable joy. His throat tightened, determination rising anew. He would not let the bastards capture them! They would get away! That much he could do to repay Michael!
A bird flashed across the road before them,, a streak of blue and red startling the horse. It was quickly swallowed up in the trees. The road bent, emerging briefly from the trees, climbing up over a rocky bluff. Stefn's pulled back on the reins and their horse stumbled to a halt. He looked down and his heart jumped. The Hunters were closer now, the line of green and gold visible in flashes beneath the trees.
A shout back along the path sent his heart into his mouth. He looked over his shoulder and saw a Hunter rounding the corner. He drove his naked heel into the horse's flank, shaking the reins. "Go!" he shouted hoarsely.
The brave beast shambled forward, breaking into an unsteady trot. It was near the end of its endurance. Stefn felt Michael's weight shift at the horse's uneven gait. For one terrifying moment, he thought the animal would fall, but it caught itself and went on.
Stefn could not imagine what they would do to him if they caught him again. Even worse would be Michael's fate. "Run!" he whispered, pleading with his overtaxed mount. "Dear Loth! Run!"
The sound of pursuit was thunderous. He could make out their words now as they shouted at him to stop. Suddenly, ahead on the path, more riders burst from the trees. Green and gold filled Stefn's despairing vision. He saw swords raised, glinting in the filtered sunlight. He stopped, looking wildly around as they galloped toward him.
One of the newcomers pulled ahead. "Stefn! Ride on! Hurry!"
In shock, Stefb recognized the face beneath the Hunter's helmet! It was Forry! Forry!
Behind him were other familiar faces: Erich and Jeremy! They raced past him, dozens of horsemen behind them, and the forest rang with the clash of steel and shouts of soldiers.
Stefn didn't stop to figure it out. He struggled to bring his panicked horse back onto the path, leaving the battle behind. Up the slope they rode until they broke free of the woods. On a windy, open hilltop, a man on horseback waited.
Auron!
The nobleman waved, grinning. "It's about time, damn it!" Then, "Where are your clothes?"
Stefn started to laugh. He was still laughing when Auron, with an oath, dismounted and ran to them, catching them as they toppled from the saddle. He managed to get Michael untied, laying him out on the grass.
"Here," Auron took a cloak from his saddlebag and put it over Stefn's shoulders. "Sit down. You look done in, too."
"We should keep going. They might overcome the others..."
"Not a chance!" Auron grinned confidently. Gently and firmly, he pushed Stefn down and thrust a canteen into his hands. "It's Severyn's elite guard you're talking about!"
Stefn discovered he was desperately thirsty and drank until Auron snatched it away.
"You'll make yourself sick," he said.
Stefn sighed, stretching out the kinks in his shoulders. Beside him, Michael slept on, oblivious. Without thinking, Stefn reached over and brushed long, bright tendrils of hair from the h'nar's pale face. "I don't understand," he said, looking up at Auron. "Why are Forry and the others here?"
"Severyn sent them."
"The prince?"
"The king." Auron shook an admonitory finger at him, eyes twinkling. "You didn't think he was about to leave his best friend twisting in the wind, did you?"
"I - I suppose not. How did you know where to find us?"
"Marshlanders. The duke sent some witches. Still, we were lucky. If Locke had been there, things might have ended differently."
"He wasn't?" Stefn's heart gave a small lurch of dismay.
Auron shook his head. "He left town with a small army just before Michael unleashed the fury of the naragi over the city."
Stefn looked away to the east.
"The Archbishop will learn about Zelenov's destruction soon enough," Auron went on, "if he doesn't know already. Still, I wager we've got some time before he can do anything about it. I just hope Mick wakes up soon, else we'll have to carry his dead weight over the mountains."
"No," said Stefn. "We won't."
Auron opened his mouth, then closed it again. "That's right, I forgot." He reddened slightly. "Shall I give you some privacy?"
"If you please."
Clearing his throat, Auron leapt to his feet, brushing off his breeches. "I suppose I could go help the others," he said. Mounting his horse, he winked and, whistling, cantered away, disappearing into the trees.
Michael slept on, oblivious, pale hair spread in disarray across the grass and weeds. He looked appealingly vulnerable in the Penitent's tunic, long limbs relaxed. Stefn shed the cloak. Cool mountain air washed over his skin. The lethet tingled.
A cethe could remove the lethet if his heart so chose. Stefn looked down at Michael and knew why his had not come off, why it probably never would.
Leaning over, he covered Michael's mouth with his own. Michael shifted slightly, but didn't wake. He lay, unresisting, while Stefn kissed him deeply, his lips parting under the gentle pressure of Stefn's tongue.
How sweet he tasted. How beautiful he was. Stefn's heart ached with tenderness, with the need to express the feelings he hadn't dared admit before, not even to himself.
When he'd taken his feel of Michael's mouth, he tasted the soft skin of Michael's throat, the swell of his chest and, brushing aside the flimsy grey fabric of his tunic, seized a nipple and began to suck on it. Michael moaned, body shifting again. Heat flashed through Stefn and he sucked harder, feeling the nub turn rock-hard under his tongue.
"Stefn," Michael's voice was a whisper. His eyes remained closed, but one hand lifted to cradle Stefn's head, to guide it to his other nipple and gasp when Stefn gently teased and nipped it to attention. "You don't have to..."
Stefn silenced him with another kiss, this one returned eagerly. Strong arms pulled Stefn over onto him, tongue thrusting deep. The slick head of Michael's cock pushed hard against Stefn's buttocks. His hands slid up and down Stefn's back.
Moving his body slightly, Stefn positioned himself for Michael's pleasure, gasping as the h'naran lord found the opening and pushed up into him. It hurt, no preparation made to ease the way, but Stefn barely noticed. He sat up, knees splayed to either side of Michael's long, lean body, his head thrown back as Michael impaled and possessed him.
This was where he belonged. Stefn knew it as surely as he knew anything, moving to the rhythm of their pleasure, overwhelmed by the sheer ecstasy of it. Michael sat up, wrapping his arms around Stefn, pulling him close. Each plundering thrust, each jagged bolt of pleasure-pain shook Stefn to his soul.
"I love you," he heard Michael whisper over and over. "I will never let you go."
Michael's arms tightened. Stefn cried out, hands gripping Michael's broad shoulders, light brighter than the terrible naragi spell filling his heart. He came, spilling his seed across Michael's belly and felt the rush of warmth of Michael's own climax. Afterwards they clung together while the sun rose higher, the day warming around them. And, when Stefn finally had the strength to lean back and look into Michael's face he saw, for the second time in his life, a naragi's tears.
The history of the nara in Tanyrin is one much misunderstood and has suffered slander and calumny due to the unfortunate war which cast Tanyrinin against Tanyrinin. In truth, nara fought with human and human fought against human; the villains of the war are not so clearly set out as some might claim. It was therefore decided that the Scholars Guild would write this third volume of the Chronicles, one in which the nature and history of our naran brothers and sisters might be set out in full view so Men might understand how much alike we are and how small and insignificant our differences.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume III,Year of Loth's Dominion 1350
The dispatch from the west arrived while His Majesty was enjoying a hurried lunch at his desk, going through piles of orders, plans, maps, and lists. He thanked the clerk, who bowed his way from the room, then opened the satchel, upending the contents on his already over-crowded desk. There were only two letters of note. One was from Lord Damon, the other he tucked into his waistcoat pocket.
The siege at Creighton wore on. Uncle Damon's impatience showed through the polite, if terse, note. If only Severyn would permit him to make use of his marshland witches, the duke was certain the entire situation could be brought to a head and finished within the week.
Doubtless he was correct, but the people of Tanyrin were being asked to accept a dreaded naragi in their midst. Changes of heart took time; forcing the issue by unleashing a horde of h'naran witches would hurt more than it would help.
"If you find your lunch so disagreeable, send for another," came a familiar voice from the doorway. "You are the king, after all."
Severyn's heart lifted at once. He looked up to see Mick. Strolling into the room, Mick took a chair opposite Severyn's desk with the same easy familiarity as always. Severyn came up with his first real smile of the morning.
"It's not the beef, it's your grandfather. He'd rather swoop down on Creighton with magic and fire than endure the tedium of a siege."
"Fewer people would die," replied Michael, matter-of-fact.
"At least they'll die at human hands," said Severyn.
Michael shrugged, looking unconvinced, but he hadn't been among the noblemen who made no secret of their unease at the resurrection of their ancient nightmare. Michael was right; more people would die in an ordinary siege, but those were deaths everyone understood and, in a perverse way, would find more acceptable.
"Has there been any word from the east?" asked Michael. "Do we know what Locke is doing?"
"A few travelers have come out of the Midders. They report Zelenov in ruins, but of Locke?" Severyn's grin was wry. "Not a word. I've no doubt we'll hear from him again, but it will be awhile before he challenges me openly."
Reaching into his pocket, he took out the other letter. "I did get this today." He handed it across the table to Michael.
His friend glanced at the seal and his face stilled. "It's an acceptance, I assume?"
"I imagine so."
The look in those grey eyes was suddenly unbearably bleak. Then, summoning an unconvincing smile, Michael rose. "I suppose there's no point in putting it off."
"Where is he?"
"By the lake with Annie and Stefanie."
"You could wait. Give it to him later."
"Why? It's his dream. He's more than earned it. And I certainly have no right to deny it to him."
"You're his naragi."
"I'm his captor and his rapist," replied Michael harshly. "He will never be free of me, whether he thinks he wishes it or not."
"He still wears your lethet. Didn't he say he had the power to remove it?"
"The Third Chronicle. He never actually laid hands on it, never read those words himself. It could have been one more trick of Locke's to torment him." Michael shook his head. "I would keep him by my side every minute if it were up to me, Sev, but I will never be such a monster again. He'll have all the freedom I can give him, including freedom from me."
"Mick... "
But Michael only smiled sadly and, envelope in hand, left Severyn at his desk.
For several long minutes, the young king sat, wondering what would happen if Stefn Eldering chose the path now laid before him. The thought that Mick might stay here with him, instead, gave the king a glow of guilty warmth.
Suddenly, he could not bear to wait for the answer. Getting up, he left his work and made his way through the palace to one of the large parlors overlooking the island's western shore. He was in time to see Michael walking swiftly down the sloping lawn toward the white strip of beach.
There, the dark-haired earl sat on one of the benches, facing the lake. On the sand, Annie Arranz and her new best friend, Stefanie Eldering, future queen of Tanyrin, splashed in the shallows, holding their brightly colored skirts above the gentle waves. Their laughter, light and musical, drifted up to Severyn on the breeze.
Spotting her brother, Annie left Stefanie to run to him. He embraced her. When they parted, she called to Stefanie and the two girls, arm in arm, ran on down the beach, leaving Michael alone with his cethe.
Severyn watched Michael sit down beside Stefn on the bench. He couldn't see or hear what they did or said, for their backs were turned to him. But finally, Michael rose and left. Moving slowly, like an old man, he started back toward the palace.
On the bench, Stefn Eldering sat, head bowed. He had taken the envelope, Severyn realized. He would accept his admission to the exclusive Withwillow College of History. He would leave Lothmont. Severyn's heart beat faster.
But suddenly, Stefn rose. He did something Severyn couldn't see. The next moment, a handful of what looked like confetti was caught by the breeze and whirled away. Leaping over the bench, the earl started to run up the grassy hill toward the mournful figure in black.
Just as Michael reached a concealing line of trees, Stefn caught up to him. Severyn's heart sank. The smaller man hurled himself at Michael, arms going around his neck and Michael, his entire body advertising surprise and joy, swept him up and held him close.
Severyn sighed. He watched until they parted and disappeared together beneath the trees. Lifting his eyes, he looked across the lake at Lothmont and beyond, where his subjects waited hopefully for a new and better day.
He was King of Tanyrin. It would have to be enough.
We hoped you enjoyed Cethe and we also wanted to let you know that you can order SL's newest publication, Cake, on its website on April 14th. Cake is about man who's life is without merit and boring. He is a chubby, irritable computer programmer, who decides to try his hand at industrial espionage. He is not very good at it and is caught. His life was supposed to have been taken by the Vampire Assassin, Marcus. But, he is instead held by the Vampire for one year where he is turned into a toy. He was broken and rebuilt so that he may eventually claim his destiny. As the Emperor of the Blood Nation.
Want to read more from this and other SL authors?Sign up for a subscription to SL Subscriptions!Becca AbbottAmanuensisOctavia AtlasHeather JanKiixAyden Sadari
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Becca has been writing since the mid-1990s when she started writing fanfiction for various television shows. Her talent has only grown and she has recently started writing original works of fiction. Cethe is her first published novel but expect great things from her as more of her works are published in the coming years.

