Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  “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 night-shirt 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.”

  PART IV

  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.