Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  “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 t
o 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.

  PART VII

  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 t
o do so, collapsing on the sun-warmed 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.