Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  “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 con
servatory’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.