by Becca Abbott
It had been Nedby’s single, grudging compromise, to allow his weary prince scheduled breaks in the long day of petitioners. Severyn rose. “No. I’m going into my antechamber for a nap. Knock when my time is up.”
The clerk looked like he wanted to object, following Severyn across the dais to the small door directly behind the prince’s table and high-backed chair. Severyn closed the door in his face, imagining the clerk’s expression as he locked it and shot home the bolt. After a moment, he heard rapidly retreating footsteps, then silence.
Grinning, Severyn went directly to the built-in bookshelf and pulled out the copy of Barhm’s excruciating poetry. Tripping the hidden latch, he stepped aside to let the section of shelf swing outward.
A narrow passage ran between the walls. As had generations of Lothlain princes, Severyn followed it to various spyholes placed around the Petitioners’ Hall. His goal this time was the luxurious chamber where noble petitioners waited for their audience.
The spyhole was hidden in the elaborate carving of a mirror’s frame. A special glass lens had been fitted into it, giving a fish-eye’s view of the entire room. Today, only a handful of men awaited his pleasure: Lord Brant of Kellweather and Sir Anthony Grade with their land dispute, Sir Martin Corlent and his solicitors, an inheritance question, and a newcomer. Seated by himself near the windows was a very young, very handsome youth who… Loth’s breeches! It was Stefn Eldering! He was here alone? There was no part of the room out of view of the spy-lens; if Michael was here, or any of the others, they were hiding behind something.
The prince startled his clerk, bursting out of the antechamber and demanding Nedby’s instant presence. The clerk, with one look at his master’s face, took off running. The old Hallmaster appeared at once, huffing and puffing in alarm.
“When did Lord Eldering arrive?”
Nedby’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “L-Lord who?”
“Eldering! He’s in the highbood waiting room.”
“Your Highness! Wait! You mustn’t go out there yourself!”
Severyn stopped, making an effort at calm. Of course he mustn’t. He said, “Nedby?”
“Eldering… Eldering. Let me see. About an hour ago, I don’t know why he’s in there, however. Surely he doesn’t think he can see you on such short… ”
“Nedby!” Severyn’s thunderous roar silenced the old man. Then, with dangerous calm, “Were you not informed of my impending marriage?”
The old man’s face fell. “M-marriage. Of course, I… Eldering. Oh, dear!”
Severyn cut short the resulting flurry of bows and apologies. “Quit babbling, man! Go get him!”
“But your other appointments?”
The old fool needed to be retired, badly. Perhaps Nedby saw that in Severyn’s face, for he gulped, bobbed once more and scampered off. The clerk, looking like he wanted to sink into the floor, stared woodenly ahead.
“Who’s next?” Severyn asked him.
“M-Masters Smith and Graviston, trade dispute.”
“Inform them I will be delayed.”
“Yes, Highness! Right away!”
It did not take long for Eldering to arrive. Severyn dismissed his servants and took Stefn straight into the antechamber. “Who’s with you?” he demanded at once. “Is Mick here?”
“No. I’m alone. It’s about Michael I’ve come.”
“What about him?” Severyn’s heart lurched.
“The Church has issued its marriage Edict. Lord Arranz and the duke went to Lothmont.”
It was as if someone had punched Sev in the gut. “Why? Why now?”
“It’s tradition, isn’t it? The Arranz line is sacred. Like your own, it must be continued.”
“Well, yes, but… ” Damn Locke! “It comes at a bad time. Besides, both his father and grandfather are still alive. Legally, there’s no need.”
“What reason would he have to fight it?” Eldering’s question was reasonable. Severyn forced himself to calm down. “Would it not bring more attention to us if he resists?”
“Us?” Severyn recalled the circumstances of Eldering’s presence. “Where’s your keeper? Did Auron come with you? One of the others?”
“Lord Challory remained behind. I was accompanied by two of his guards. He sent this for you, as well.”
The earl produced an envelope from his vest pocket. It was crumpled, but the seal was unbroken. Severyn tore it open and quickly scanned the contents. When he was done, he looked over at Eldering, who was perusing the bookshelf.
“Auron apparently trusts you.” Severyn folded the letter and tucked it away. “A remarkable change of heart.”
Eldering’s green eyes met Severyn’s, clear and direct. “Do not misunderstand, Lothlain. I have no fondness for the role you have all forced upon me and if that were all I knew you by, I should even now be resisting you with all my might. But I have seen how you treat those beneath you, the way you’ve come to the aid of Shia’s villages. I have listened to you and the others argue passionately to improve the lot of all Tanyrians, rich or poor. I, too, think the Church has lost its way. Restoring justice and prosperity to Tanyrin is a cause for which I will endure whatever humiliation I must.”
Humiliation? Severyn had the sudden, almost irresistible urge to seize the younger man by his slim shoulders and shake him until his teeth fell out. Had it been Severyn with the Blood, he would have gladly suffered such “humiliation.”
But he did not. He could never touch Michael as anything other than a friend. He tried to keep the bitterness from his smile as he waved Lord Eldering to one of the chairs and proceeded to get a full report.
It had been a long time since Michael had last been in Lothmont. He and the duke did not stay in the family’s city house, one of several mansions along the lakeshore with a view of the royal palace. Lake House had, for as long as he remembered, been leased out to provide the family badly needed revenue so Lord Damon hired rooms in a small hotel near the Gate, unprepossessing, but comfortable, and far away from Lothmont Cathedral. It was a genteel, but slightly shabby place, favored by gentlemen of good birth but modest means.
Their rooms looked down on a small, cobbled square, dreary and deserted under a light, icy mist. Now and again, a dark shape hurried across, hastening toward shelter.
“Half of Zelenov will be here,” Lord Damon had warned. “The streets around the Cathedral will be crawling with the Celestial vermin and I’ve no desire to encounter any of them if I’ve the choice.”
The Council’s summons had bade them present themselves before Bishop Montaigne immediately, but once they’d sent word of their arrival, His Excellency was slow in responding. When, at last, the reply came, it was to inform them that His Eminence, the Archbishop Locke, had not yet arrived, nor, for that matter, had the bride. Would His Grace and Lord Michael be so kind as to wait?
“How typical,” grumbled Lord Damon. “We must rush here with all speed, only to cool our heels at their pleasure. I can’t wait for Severyn to replace that addle-witted brother of his.”
“What if I refuse her?” Michael asked.
“The king or his Advisori can override your decision at any time,” replied the duke. “And, since Arami sits securely in Locke’s pocket, I suggest getting it over with.”
Michael’s gut tightened, a not-unfamiliar feeling of late. He stared blindly into the gray afternoon. Stefn was alone at Shia. It wasn’t that Michael feared betrayal. Rather, he worried about Stefn’s safety. Would Auron look after him properly? Would the idiot look after himself?
“Ever since the Reformation, we’ve had to deal with this absurdity,” the duke continued. “But at least it has prevented such disasters as your stepmother from attaining an official place in the Arranz genealogy.”
“I should send a message to Severyn. He’ll be furious when he learns he wasn’t told.”
“Why waste his time? If you’re not overly discriminating, the ceremony should last no more than an hour. You’ll spend the night with your bride, then sen
d her home.”
Not until the end of the week did they hear from the Cathedral again. A liveried messenger arrived in the middle of their dinner bearing a sealed envelope from the bishop. Inside, in flowery language, they were commanded to present themselves at the Cathedral tomorrow for the wedding ceremony.
Michael stared at his grandfather. “Tomorrow?”
“May I suggest an evening spent patronizing all the low taverns of Lothmont?” his grandfather said. “You will be sufficiently dazed to make the entire affair nothing more than a hazy memory. I highly recommend it.”
“But you and grandmother loved each other.”
“I was fortunate. My own father’s marriage was like Phillip’s, the girl half-crazed and unreachable. Father, too, took a mistress, the younger daughter of a lesser lord in Baskerville. It was a great scandal, of course, but they were happy.”
“You’ve never spoken of this before,” Michael said, the letter settling, forgotten, on the table beside his plate. “Do I have relatives somewhere I don’t know about?”
“The mistress, Beth, never had children, whether by nature or design, I don’t know. I do know my father loved her deeply and was inconsolable at her death. There is no reason you cannot take a mistress, as well. To our wives we owe kindness and compassion, but our hearts remain ours alone to give. It has been that way as long as this absurd law has been in place. Most of our kings have done the same. Arami, I understand, hasn’t honored the Queen’s bed for years.”
Michael declined to drink himself to insensibility that night, but thought regretfully of the lost opportunity the next afternoon as the hotel footmen finished dressing him for the occasion. Formal garb was required and the duke had spared no expense. Heavy black silk and the finest white lace had been transformed by Lothmonth’s most exclusive tailor into a suit of superb cut and highest style. The ruby nestled in the snowy folds of Michael’s cravat matched the one sparkling in his ear. There was a ring, too. He had seen the box earlier among his grandfather’s things. It would be on his finger by the end of the evening. In spite of knowing it was all for show, Michael dreaded what was to come.
“I’m not required to actually consummate the union, am I?” he asked as the two gentlemen went down to meet their carriage.
“Of course.” The duke was matter-of-fact. “Do you think the Arranz heir springs from a cabbage?” He gave his grandson a mocking smile. “You’ve only to do your duty, lad, nothing more.”
Michael wanted to remind Lord Damon that Chris was an Arranz, too, and perfectly well qualified to carry on the family name, but he knew better. His father’s second marriage had taken place over Lord Damon’s furious objections. Neither Chris nor Amy, with their obvious human heritage, would ever be true Arranzes in his eyes.
As they rolled uptown toward the Cathedral, Michael listened while Lord Damon discussed the coming ceremony.
“The king will be there as a Witness. Arami’s father attended my Betrothal as a very young man and, later, Phillip’s, as well. Technically, of course, either of them have the authority to contest the Church’s selection, but I’ve not heard of a single instance where they’ve done so.”
“I don’t understand why the Church still honors the damned law. They can’t possibly care if our family dies out.” Michael looked out at the passing buildings. Shadows deepened as twilight faded and lamp-lighters moved from pole to pole through the emptying streets. “They’ve done so much changing of the Chronicles, why not just change that, too?”
“Perhaps they will,” his grandfather said, “but would that be good or bad? At least the law keeps the Family Arranz alive. The circumstances may not be as we would wish it, but the law has seen to the survival of our bloodline.”
They arrived at the Cathedral soon after. Hunters stood guard at the massive front gate. More stood at attention up the steps to the Sanctuary’s magnificent, pillared entrance. Torchlight danced and sparkled off the gold in their uniform braid and medals. They were in formal dress, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back.
Descending from their carriage, Michael saw at once the entire area was otherwise deserted. Except for the Hunters, no other human was in sight. Their footsteps echoed across the courtyard, following them up the steps of the Sanctuary and through the soaring columns of the portico. A priest held open the door and dozens more waited inside, some in white robes, others in green. They lined the corridor ahead, a gauntlet of stares and mute hostility.
The hair on the back of Michael’s neck stood straight up. He lifted his chin slightly and, imagining himself, sword in hand, cutting them down like wheat as he passed, he went into the Sanctuary to meet his wife.
Severyn knew Michael and Lord Damon were already in Lothmont. He thought of sending word he was in town, but suspected Lord Damon might not approve of his efforts to spare Michael this absurd marriage. The Duke was of the firm opinion that they must attract as little Church attention as possible. What Severyn intended would hardly meet that particular goal.
Arami had been easier to persuade than Severyn had expected. In spite of his indebtedness to the Church, he resented their power over him and was only too happy to do what he could to cause them inconvenience. Nor had he been in a hurry to attend what he termed a “damned dull ceremony.” Alas, inconvenience was as far as he’d go, however. When Severyn suggested rescinding the law altogether, he shook his head.
“Play your games,” he said, indifferent. He was in his rooms, pelthe glass beside him, a paintbrush in hand. In front of him stood an easel with a decent rendering of a nearby bouquet of flowers.
“I don’t know why you bother,” he continued, dipping his brush into the yellow paint. “Mick will have to wed sooner or later. Besides, it’s not as if you showed this much concern when they foisted that bitch, Eleanor, on me.”
Severyn had completely forgotten about Eldering. Between emergency meetings with his solicitors and the unpleasant discussion with Arami, all thoughts of Michael’s cethe had slipped his mind. Time was of the essence and every moment must be spent in shoring up his legal defenses. At the last minute, however, he recalled the young man and, although he preferred not to think about it, the likelihood that Michael might need to avail himself of Eldering’s particular gifts.
The youth was exactly where Severyn had left him, seated quietly in one of the palace guest rooms, reading. He came when Severyn ordered, speaking only when spoken to. Inside the prince’s carriage, he listened without comment as Severyn gave him instructions.
“There is no telling what Locke will do when I present them with the Objection,” Severyn said. “They could give in gracefully or they may choose to cause trouble. Be ready.”
Stefn nodded. He seemed oddly unperturbed at the prospect, especially for someone who claimed to be monstrously offended by the role he was forced to play.
They arrived at the Cathedral, only to find the gates closed and guarded by Dragons. The guards had the audacity to refuse him entrance, insisting the Archbishop alone could give permission for latecomers to enter. Severyn, temper already flayed by lack of sleep and too many meetings, exploded, threatening the men with arrest. He went so far as to draw his sword before the alarmed Hunters quickly decided this was a fight they could not win and opened the gate. Not before one of their number was sent running toward the Sanctuary, however.
Never mind, thought Severyn grimly. In his current mood, he welcomed the chance to face down Locke. “Drive on!” he ordered the nervous coachman.
More Hunters waited on the steps of the Sanctuary. These made no attempt to stop him. Perhaps they thought he was a stand-in for the king. He swept past them without stopping.
The gloomy old edifice was brightly lit by a multitude of candles and torches, forming an obvious path toward the ceremony. He followed it deep into the building, past several magnificent chapels until, near the back, he came upon a large number of priests and acolytes, all who scampered aside in alarm as he stalked swiftly through their ranks.
; They were holding the wedding in one of the smaller, lesser-used chapels. As Severyn approached, he caught sight of Locke, surrounded by clerics and officers of the Order of the Dragon. The archbishop was in full, formal regalia, conferring with his companions while, standing off to one side, attended by green and red-robed priests was a small figure, gowned and veiled in shimmering white silk. The blushing bride, no doubt.
Locke saw him approach and, for just an instant, frowned. Immediately, however, he smiled politely and, saying something to his startled companions, started toward Severyn.
“Your Highness! What a pleasant surprise! Do you mean to attend the wedding? We expected your brother, but any member of the Lothlain family is welcome!”
“I’m not here to witness the wedding,” replied Severyn. “I’ve come to stop this charade.”
“Your Highness?” Locke’s smile became strained. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss as to your meaning. The law is clear…”
“You’re right, Your Eminence, the law is very clear.” Severyn withdrew the thick envelope from inside his jacket, the result of all those damned meetings. He shoved it at Locke who, startled, took it. “Should there be objection by any member of the Advisori, the ceremony must be postponed until the objection is satisfactorily addressed. That…” Severyn nodded toward the envelope, “spells out all the legalities.”
“Who objects?” A furrow appeared between the archbishop’s eyebrows.
“I do.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that, at this time, there is no reason to fear the Arranz line is in danger of extinction. There are currently two heirs living. It is reasonable and lawful to delay any wedding until a clear need.”
“But Your Highness,” objected Locke, looking more irritated by the moment. “His lordship is already overdue for a wife. Surely, Lord Michael and the Duke are eager to get on with it.”
“It doesn’t matter. The objection has been filed,” said Severyn doggedly. “And I very much doubt if Michael will protest.”