Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  “Gracey? You can’t be serious! The man was mad! Besides, he married a commoner. Of course, he might be more receptive to such an idea.”

  “Perhaps if we all knew our less privileged brethren better, our own attitudes would change.”

  Alas, their traveling weather didn’t hold, and they set out next day in the rain. The storms persisted all the way to Withwillow and it was a soggy pair of travelers who at last checked into the Bayview Hotel.

  “Bath,” grunted Michael, who resembled nothing more than a drowned rat. “Shall we meet for dinner downstairs?”

  Stefn had his own bath and, afterwards, sat before the fire with a restorative glass of cider. He was getting used to this life; to the fine accommodations, the courtesy of servants, companionship. His freedom was an illusion, but even an illusion was more than he’d had before.

  Dinner was again a pleasant interlude. Michael looked impossibly handsome, turning every head in the big dining room. Some of the regard was unfriendly, but most of the glances were from women and were filled with admiration.

  “In which library shall we begin our search?” asked Stefn over dessert. He had his guidebook with him and now drew it out of his pocket. He had marked the page. “There are really only six that could reasonably be thought to have the plans for a printing press.”

  “So many?” Michael grimaced.

  “There are fourteen libraries in all of Withwillow. Those six are just the most likely. That’s only three apiece.”

  “I’ve sent a note to the Domicile,” said Michael. “It’s likely I’ll have to meet with Storm in the morning. There’s no reason you couldn’t start without me, is there?”

  “No. Of course not.” Stefn’s heart gave a little leap at the idea of immersing himself in all those books.

  Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Should I send Marin with you?” he asked lightly.

  “If you wish.” Stefn held Michael’s gaze, unflinching. “But there’s no need.”

  A silence held between them, a moment only, yet something echoed in it and set Stefn’s heart to beating faster. He looked away first, turning a page of the guidebook without seeing a word. “I think I’ll start with the College of Engineering and Alchemy’s Library. That seems the most obvious place.”

  “That’s not far from the Domicile,” agreed Michael. “I’ll meet you there afterwards.”

  The feeling passed, but it returned when they said good-night. Stefn watched Michael disappear into the room across the hall before retreating into his own chamber. He got into his nightshirt and dressing gown and went through his nightly ritual of washing and examining his foot. His mind was not on the growing sixth toe, however.

  Traitor! Naragi! He should never forget that! All Michael’s fine promises, his kindness, could vanish in an instant when Stefn was no longer needed. He was nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. A cethe. A slave.

  For one hideous moment, the wanting broke free of its tomb deep in his soul. His throat tightened and his eyes burned. But he was smarter than that. Ruthlessly, Stefn slammed down on it. He pulled back his covers and climbed into bed. It was simply a matter of making it from one day to the next, just like it had been when his father was alive. He would take the illusion they gave him, beguiling and exciting as it was, but never once would he be fool enough to mistake it for reality. He’d survived his father; he’d survive this, too.

  PART XV

  In the fourth year of the war, in the face of relentless naran advances, did the first high lothrian mages appear. Prior to that time, Loth had restricted the exercise of His holy power to healing, but, in His infinite wisdom, He judged St. Aramis worthy of His trust and so endowed him with lothria of greater power than that wielded with such devastating effect by the evil naragi. Almost at once, the tide of the battle turned.

  from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347

  Storm’s reply arrived promptly first thing in the morning, handed to Michael by the hotel clerk when he came down to breakfast. The bishop would be delighted to host him at his earliest convenience.

  Good. Get it out of the way.

  Stefn would be enthralled by the College libraries. Michael easily imagined the difficulty ahead in prying the young bookworm away from their endless, musty stacks. What a pity he wouldn’t be there to see it.

  “Arranz?”

  Michael looked around to see the earl making his way down the hotel’s grand staircase.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Stefn smiled, though he seemed heavy-eyed and tired.

  “Was your bed not comfortable?”

  “It was fine. I was just… ” Stefn drew a breath. “All the traveling. Still not used to it, I suppose.”

  “You don’t have to go out now. If you feel like catching up on your sleep, by all means, stay here.”

  There was a flash in those green eyes, an echo of the old anger and defiance. Michael was startled by it, but then Stefn seemed to take himself in hand. He shook his head, producing a wan smile. “No, it’s all right. I’m eager to get started, truly.”

  “I’ll meet you there, then,” said Michael. “Hire a cab if you don’t feel like riding. I’ve told the concierge you’re to have whatever you wish.”

  Again he received an odd, unsettling look, but before he could speak, Stefn turned and went ahead into the dining room. By the time a perplexed Michael joined him at their table, he seemed to have recovered his good humor, talking animatedly about the Academy, its history and distinguished alumni.

  Michael took Marin with him to the Cathedral, the pair of them making their way slowly down fog-shrouded streets. His thoughts persisted in hovering about Eldering. Perhaps it was a mistake to let him go off on his own. He’d seemed a bit out of sorts. Maybe his foot was bothering him; he’d been limping again. Michael resolved to have a look at Stefn’s foot as soon as possible.

  The bishop greeted him in a cheery breakfast parlor, wearing a nicely-tailored, but unassuming suit. It made him look more like a solicitor than a priest. He greeted Michael warmly, bidding him sit down for t’cha and breakfast pastries.

  Michael’s news about the Second Chronicle was heard with excitement. Storm took Stefn’s carefully copied volume, eagerly turning pages.

  “Praise be to Loth!” he said. “Could it be that all Chronicles survived?”

  “All?”

  “There was a third, you know. At least, there were rumors of one. It was said to be underway at the time of the fire, written by no less a personage than your ancestor, Lord Derek. There are no stories in your family of it?”

  Michael shook his head, intrigued.

  “Yes, it was St. Aramis’ wish that the nara’s true story be told. He died shortly before the fire, of course, but he’d made his desires known to his Scholar’s Guild.”

  “Perhaps it’s tucked away in some noble’s castle, forgotten, just as this one was.”

  “I pray it’s so. May I keep this copy?”

  “Yes, although I didn’t bring it just so you could add it to your collection of dangerous books.”

  The bishop looked up quizzically.

  “What if dozens of copies of this Chronicle were to suddenly appear here and there throughout Tanyrin?

  Storm straightened, eyes narrowing. “Dozens? That would require a printing press, my lord, unless you have an army of scribes prepared to work night and day.”

  “Naturally, we would need a press.”

  Storm closed the book, laying his hand on it, gaze thoughtful. “There are three presses here in Withwillow. Unfortunately, all three are in very public places and registered with the Council. Still, if we’re clever, we might be able to use at least one of them.”

  Michael shook his head. “The Council would investigate Withwillow first, don’t you think, Your Excellency?”

  The bishop shrugged and smiled ruefully.

  “If we were to see to the printing,” Michael went on, “could we rely upon you to hav
e them distributed in places where they might find the most readers?”

  Storm brightened “Assuredly! You may be surprised at how receptive an audience it will find. You should do the same with the manuscript in my possession. I’ve had it copied out, as well.” This was more than Michael had hoped for. “Excellent! We will certainly do so. Which of the two Chronicles would you suggest we print first?”

  “The First,” replied Storm at once. “In the meantime, I will query those clerics of my acquaintance who feel as I do about the direction of the Church. Several of them are quite highly placed. With their help, the true knowledge and wisdom of St. Aramis can be restored to the people of Tanyrin and the kingdom once more be set upon the path that Loth intended for us.”

  Of Withwillow's many libraries, four were located directly within the Academy’s campus, immediately adjacent to the Cathedral. The massive, rectangular moonstone buildings were single-storied and stood facing each other across a broad square known as Scholars Plaza. The spot was famous for its public debates and as Stefn approached, his heart quickened in anticipation.

  The hired carriage left him at the plaza’s edge. Fascinated, he wandered among the groups gathered there, listening to the debates until someone noticed him. Then he would move on to the next debate. There were more students than clerics present; the green and brown habits of the latter were easily spotted amid the more colorful and fashionable student attire.

  As he passed an especially large group, he noticed the tone of the debate seemed more acrimonious than the others. Intrigued, he went to investigate. Standing on a box, a book clutched under his arm, was a novice priest. Surrounding him were more novices and a few brown-robed priests. Most of the remaining audience were Academy students who seemed unimpressed by the young cleric’s speech, hooting and shouting him down frequently.

  “…cursed to relive the trials and atrocities of the old days!” the novice shouted, trying to be heard above the noise. “Their very presence corrupts! To tolerate them in our midst is to insult Loth!”

  “Where does it say so in Loth’s Covenant?” shouted a youth next to Stefn. He waved a slim pamphlet at the speaker. “Here is the Word of Loth! He makes no mention of them!”

  “If you want to talk about corruption,” another called out, “look to your masters, priestling!”

  “Aye!”

  “Absolutely right!”

  “In my parish, the abbot’s Domicile is more luxurious than the parish lord’s!”

  “I speak of spiritual corruption!” retorted the novice, raising his arm and brandishing his book. “Their foul witchcraft, their insidious attempts to mingle their cursed blood with ours — can you be so blind to not see they intend nothing less than our destruction?”

  “Every taint I know believes in Loth!”

  “You’re a madman!”

  “And you are fools and heretics!” This came from one of the priests standing at the speaker’s feet. “You can’t see the truth before your eyes! Only when the taints offer themselves to Loth as Penitents are they redeemed and made harmless!”

  “Bishop Storm doesn’t think so!” cried a student. “He says the h’nara and humans are both equal in Loth’s eyes!”

  “He’s a heretic, too!” shouted the speaker, red-faced. “He ignores edicts from the Celestial Council and allows taints to pollute the city with their crimes and blasphemy!”

  “Our bishop cares about everyone! He is true to the Covenant!”

  “I hear the Celestials take the most beautiful Penitents as their personal whores!”

  Stefn realized he was no longer on the edge of the crowd. More students had joined the audience, jostling forward. Priests and novices were among them, all trying to out-shout the others.

  Suddenly, something flew through the air, landing on the speaker’s shoulder. It splattered, covering the young man’s habit and face with dripping, pink juice. For an instant, the novice seemed frozen, his face twisted in ludicrous surprise. Then he toppled backwards and out of sight.

  Pandemonium broke loose. Tomatoes, eggs, and lute-apples rained down on the clerics, who responded by surging forward, swinging their fists and shouting imprecations. Belatedly, Stefn realized he was in the middle of a full-blown riot! Alarmed, he turned and pushed his way out of the mob, struggling against the tide, buffeted this way and that. He finally managed to break free, although not without having acquired random bits of vegetation in his hair and on his clothing.

  Across the plaza, the familiar green and gold of Hunters appeared. Stefn quickened his pace, wiping off the bits of leaf and slimy lute-apple seeds while the chaos grew behind him.

  Once away from the plaza, he stopped and caught his breath, taking stock of his situation. The arrival of the Hunters had dispersed the crowd, students running in all directions. The soldiers, on the other hand, made no effort to pursue anyone, content to clear the plaza of combatants.

  His apprehension fading, Stefn began to be amused by the entire experience. He suspected Michael would find it humorous, too. In the meantime, however, he had business to take care of. Returning to the now peaceful plaza, he looked around for the library he wanted.

  A passing student that he stopped pointed to the building directly behind him. Reaching it, Stefn saw the library’s name etched on a small, inconspicuous bronze plaque: Warden Library of Engineering and Alchemy. He pushed open the door, heart quickening in anticipation.

  Inside, the moonstone had been plastered over. A newer, wooden wall created a lobby with reading tables and a librarian’s desk near an archway leading to the stacks.

  The man behind the desk was dozing, however, and didn’t stir when Stefn approached. The catalog lay on the desktop in front of him. After a moment, Stefn stepped forward and, with one eye on the slumbering librarian, began looking through it.

  Privately, he did not expect to find anything. Surely, the priests would put such information under lock and key? Yet, within a minute or two, as Stefn glanced at the heading of each page he turned, his eyes suddenly lit on ‘producing mechanical text.’ His heart lept. He noted the number of the shelf and, when the librarian continued to doze, went through the archway.

  Once inside, he was struck dumb. Shia’s library was unusually large, possessing five hundred and twenty-seven books. Stefn stared at what was surely ten times that number. They crammed shelf after shelf, straight, orderly rows marching from one end of the barn-sized chamber to the other. His nostrils were filled with the scent of them. It was a moment or two before he was able to get on with it. Reciting the shelf number under his breath in an endless litany, he started down the nearest row.

  To think he’d considered Shia’s library impressive! What a naive fool he’d been!

  An edition of Chase’s Forts and Castles caught his attention. He’d seen it referenced frequently in books he’d read, but Shia had no copy. Unable to help himself, Stefn pulled it down from the shelf. It was satisfyingly thick and almost new, the leather smooth and tight, the print crisp upon the page. He noted the printer’s mark on the frontispiece: Withwillow Academy Press.

  Reluctantly, he set it back and continued his search. Title after title passed under his dazzled eyes. There were instructions for the manufacture of dozens of machines. Scattered among them were works of mechanical theory, of engineering history, alchemy, astronomy, even speculative texts on naran devices. Frequently, Stefn couldn’t help but stop to take out an especially intriguing volume, reading avidly until something recalled him to his mission.

  The section on printing presses and writing instruments was at the far end of a back row, on the bottom shelf. While the rest of the shelves had contained new works along with the old, here nothing had been added for years. Nor had it been disturbed, from the looks of it. Stefn took out two likely volumes and blew dust from their covers.

  Footsteps approaching made him start. He looked around. Michael? Already?

  “I just found what we need,” Stefn greeted him.

  “Just?
” Michael grinned. “I should have thought you’d not only found the books, but read half of them by now.”

  “I got distracted,” replied Stefn with a guilty look around.

  Michael laughed, quickly muffling it when Stefn shushed him.

  “These are the best I could find,” said Stefn with a warning frown. “Let’s take them to the reading room and have a closer look.”

  Michael took them, but to Stefn’s astonishment, tucked them into his coat. Smiling blandly, he strolled away. Stefn, not sure whether to be outraged or admiring, hurried after him.

  The librarian was still napping when they let themselves out of the stacks. All eyes swiveled to follow Michael across the marble floor. Stefn’s heart pounded, expecting to have someone call out at any moment, but they made it outside without incident.

  A carriage waited at the bottom of the steps to take them back to the hotel. No sooner were they inside it then Stefn pounced. “You stole the books!”

  Michael gave him a wide-eyed look. “Nonsense. I borrowed them.”

  “You mean to return them, then?” Stefn made no effort to restrain the sarcasm.

  “Maybe.” Michael pulled both of them out, tossing Stefn one. “You look through that one.”

  Stefn dropped it to the seat beside him instead. “What did His Excellency say? Did he agree it was a worthy idea to print the Chronicle? Will he distribute it?”

  “He does and he will.” Michael’s face lit up in a triumphant grin. “And we have a copy of the First Chronicle manuscript, too!”

  As the carriage made its way uphill toward the hotel, Michael recounted his conversation with the bishop. By the time they reached their destination, Stefn began to think the plan, audacious as it was, had a real chance of success.

  Later, in the dining room, their table shielded from general view by a very large potted fern, they consulted their purloined goods. Stefn’s was the newer book, but it contained no drawings. Its rambling discussion of theory was accompanied by an occasional sketch, but only of completed presses.