by Becca Abbott
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 lam
e 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.” W
ithout 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.
PART V
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.”