Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  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.

  PART XIV

  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 adj
ustments 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 good-byes 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.”