by Becca Abbott
“Would it not be better to conduct the ceremony first and argue later? Perhaps an arrangement could be made to have the marriage annulled should this objection be found to be in order.”
“I’m curious, Your Eminence. Why do you care so much? If he weds today or next year, what is it to you?”
A muscle leapt in the Archbishop’s jaw. He was holding his own temper with an effort. “It is to further the Arranz line, of course. I’m naturally concerned that St. Aramis’ wishes be followed. After all, is that not what we all want?”
“I wonder,” grated Severyn. He glanced back toward the chapel. “Is that the wench? What are her antecedents? Why was she selected?”
Locke didn’t answer. His jaw was tight; his mouth set in a thin, angry line.
“Where are they?” Severyn asked, turning toward the chapel door. “Where are Mick and His Grace?”
He thought for one dangerous moment that Locke would attempt to prevent him from entering. The man’s anger looked to be nearly as hot as his own. But Locke was no fool. A confrontation between them could not end well for the Church. Rage simmered within his gaze, but he forced a smile and bowed. “They are waiting inside, of course. Perhaps, if I may speak to them first?”
But Severyn did not wait to hear Locke’s next attempt at distraction. He stepped around the Archbishop and strode to the chapel door. Ignoring the scandalized clerics and the mute figure in white, he flung it open and went in.
Standing before the altar, Michael and Lord Damon turned quickly around in surprise.
“Sev?” Michael looked past him to the door and the clerics bunched up outside it. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to stop this travesty,” replied Severyn. “I’ve lodged an Objection. You’ve no obligation to continue with this farce. Let’s go have dinner.”
Michael stared, then started to grin. Lord Damon was not so amused.
“What are you doing, boy?” he asked in a low voice. “What is the point of antagonizing the Council in this way?”
“Perhaps I’m tired of their meddling,” replied Severyn.
The duke looked back to the door. Locke stood in the doorway, watching them. Something in his expression sent a chill up Severyn’s spine.
“I hope you don’t live to regret this, Your Highness,” muttered the duke.
Severn smiled and hoped he was right.
Stefn waited in the carriage, fidgeting as the minutes crept by. He kept close watch on the Sanctuary, but there was no change in the activity or demeanor of the guards posted there. Had Severyn succeeded in stopping the wedding?
Finally, he started to doze. The rocking of the carriage woke him. He had barely the time to move over on the seat before the prince jumped in, followed by Michael and the duke. Michael and Severyn were laughing. The duke seemed less amused, but he, too, seemed infected by the air of triumph and relief. With a jolt, the carriage started forward, heading out of the Cathedral and back toward the palace.
“Stefn!” Michael clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I hear it was you who warned Severyn. Thank you!”
Stefn smiled shyly.
“Why did you not take the opportunity to flee?” asked the Duke.
“He claims he’s with us now,” the prince said. “But maybe he just likes being Mick’s whore.”
Stung, Stefn turned his head. “Maybe I care about the people of Tanyrin,” he replied tightly.
“Leave off, Sev. I’m glad he did what he did, whatever his reasons.” Michael’s smile warmed Stefn to his toes.
“This reprieve is only temporary.” The duke ignored Stefn’s response, addressing the other two. “I hope you don’t regret this, both of you. Open defiance is hardly the way to keep the Council’s attention off us.”
Stefn privately agreed, but didn’t dare say anything. Instead, he stared blindly out the window at the lake.
“Respectfully, Uncle Damon, I can’t agree,” replied the prince. “As long as the h’nara stay low and try to keep out of sight, the Church can say what they will about you. I think it’s time Tanyrin saw the h’nara as they truly are and what better way than to see one frequently in the company of royalty?”
“You have a high opinion of your credibility, young prince,” observed the duke drily.
“Perhaps,” replied Severyn cheerfully. “We shall see.”
“And if the Church decides to use that friendship as an excuse to move against you?”
“Let them try,” retorted Severyn.
The duke sighed.
They reached the palace soon thereafter. As the four of them stepped down from the carriage, Michael paused, waiting for Stefn to catch up to him. “You had no difficulty on the journey from Shia?”
“No, my lord. I came with some of Auron’s men. They saw to my needs and protection.” He could not help adding, “And would doubtless have prevented me from fleeing, should I have chosen to do so.”
“I believe you,” Michael said, smiling. “Will you stay in Lothmont awhile, too?”
Stefn, his heart lifting, started to reply, but Severyn interrupted, “He returns to Shia at once.”
“Surely he can spend a few days seeing the sights? Lothmont may not have the number of libraries Withwillow does, but those it possesses enjoy a lofty reputation.”
“They do, my lord. Especially the Royal Library. I should very much like to see it.”
“We haven’t the time to be playing nursemaid,” retorted Severyn. “If you are truly committed to our cause, my lord, your time will be better spent in Shia preparing the two Chronicles for distribution. Surely that is a sufficiently scholarly pursuit?”
“Agreed,” said the duke, frowning at his grandson. “Bad enough that Severyn has decided to elevate you to a place of prominence, Michael. Pushing the people’s tolerance by flaunting a sin-catcher is testing providence, methinks.”
Stefn’s heart sank. “I would stay out sight, my lords. I . . . I have no wish to go about socially.”
The prince’s scowl deepened. “I want you to return to Shia,” he said flatly. “And I will hear no more about it.”
“Your Highness.” Stefn bowed, struggling to hide his disappointment.
“Besides,” continued the prince, “if you tarry too long here, you may not be able to return. I’ve heard the snows in the north can close off the roads for weeks at a time.”
“The snows don’t get bad until the middle of Tamkel, my lord.”
“These days, who is to say?” replied the prince.
“Then I’ll accompany him back to Shia,” Michael announced. A glint appeared in his eye and he met Severyn’s annoyed stare squarely. “I’d like a chance to see how the printing progresses. Once I’ve seen him safely settled, I’ll return.”
Severyn shook his head. “Auron’s men will see Eldering safely back as they saw him safely here. You worry too much, Mick.”
Throwing an arm around Michael’s shoulders, the prince drew his friend with him, up the stairs and through the doors held wide open for them. The duke had gone ahead and now stood a short distance away, waiting for them. Stefn stared at their backs, then followed more slowly, realization stealing through him in a cold trickle. It had not been his imagination after all. It wasn’t just brotherly affection between the prince and duke’s grandson. Severyn Lothlain, Crown Prince of Tanyrin, was in love with Michael Arranz.
PART XVII
The Twelve High Orders are as follows: The Order of the Dragon, The Shield of Loth, The Sword of Loth, The Brotherhood of Men, the Warriors of God, the Eagle and the Sword, Loth’s Servants, Fire of Faith, Hand of Justice, Soldiers of Loth, The Storm Riders, The Lance of Righteousness. It is the mandate of the High Orders to preserve the integrity of high lothria, to guard the spells and to pass them down to each succeeding generation of Loth’s Blessed.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume II,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1349
Stefn, Marin and the guards returned to Shia under grey skies a
nd bitter, icy winds. They were just in time. As elsewhere in Tanyrin, winter did indeed come early. Auron, anxious to return to his family’s estates in the south, barely escaped before blizzards swept down from the Lothwalls. Snow piled into towering drifts, changing the landscape into a featureless expanse of ever-shifting white. Soon, only a single, narrow track snaked, canyon-like, through the snow-fields to the villages, Shia Castle’s lifeline to the rest of the world.
In days past, peasants had cleared the road under the baleful eyes and whips of his father’s soldiers. Now a cheerful yeoman and his five sons did it, and were paid a respectable sum to do so by Marin, who acted as Shia’s steward as well as Stefn’s personal valet.
For the first time in Stefn’s memory, the entire parish looked to survive the harsh winter in relative comfort. Thanks to Lothlain’s largesse, village walls and roofs stood fast against the raw winds. There were adequate food stores and cattle feed, even a handsome, new-fangled, iron plow brought up from Tantagrel to handle the snowy roads.
Inside the castle, a small army of servants kept the lanes and courtyards clear. Fires burned in every room Stefn was known to fancy. Each evening after dinner, Marin apprised Stefn of the day’s household business and received any instructions Stefn might have for him. It was a practice upon which he insisted, even though Stefn knew the deference was only a courtesy.
From Michael, he had only a note. It was brief and to-the-point: the Prince’s Objection had been taken up by the Advisori and was in legal purgatory. There was no mention of when, if ever, either of them intended to return to Shia. However, thanks to the periodicals ordered earlier by Auron and the prince, Stefn was able to follow some of Michael’s adventures in Tantagrel.
Lord Arranz, it seemed, was making Tantagrel and the Capitol his favorite hunting grounds. The Royal Gazette’s gossip columns buzzed with stories of his friendship with the prince, of his superb fashion-sense, his courtly manners and, of course, his “devilish” good looks. He favored no single particular lady, but seemed to like them all, always seen with a different Light of Society on his arm. Stefn sniffed after reading this and asked the fireplace what self-respecting lady would give serious consideration to the intentions of any h’nar, no matter how noble.
The regular news was less amusing. There was a debate in the Advisori over whether to support the Celestial Council’s latest attempt to make the registration of h’nara a matter of universal law. The author of the article seemed unenthusiastic, giving ample space to the expense involved with keeping such records, the time spent in hunting down all the h’nara, and so on. A member of the Advisori indignantly accused the Church, anonymously of course, of attempting to usurp more of the king’s authority in the West.
“H’nara are the king’s subjects, not the Council’s! If their registration is truly warranted, let His Majesty or our Council be the ones to manage it!”
Winter rolled on and post deliveries became more erratic as the snow deepened. Sheltered in Shia’s new warmth and luxury, however, loneliness was the worst of the hardships Stefn was forced to endure. He kept it at bay by working religiously on printing the Chronicles and reading the many new books in the library. He tried not to think about Michael Arranz.
It was a good thing, he told himself repeatedly, a good thing they were apart and the peculiar madness of the Bond would have no chance to enslave him further. Yet often he found himself hesitating at his bedroom door, remembering when the two of them had shared his bed. He missed the strangely exciting, almost-friendship that had sprung up between them.
Winter finally broke its hold on the north in traditional style. One day, the north winds abruptly reversed. Winds swept up from the lowlands and the blizzards were soon interspersed with waves of icy rain. After six weeks without a visit, the post arrived with a letter from Timkins on several domestic matters, a dozen or more outdated newspapers, and daunting heap of bills. There was nothing from Michael or the prince. More disappointed than he cared to admit, Stefn returned to the Chronicles, now completely printed, and continued packing them into large, heavy trunks. Soon they would go south to Withwillow. He wished he was going with them.
One morning, after an especially noisy thunderstorm, he came downstairs, heavy-eyed and yawning from his restless night, to find Lord Forrest making himself at home in the breakfast room. Covered with mud from the road, hair still damp, and dark circles under his eyes, Forry lifted a cup of t’cha. “Good morning, my lord. My apologies for arriving unannounced and at such an inconvenient hour.”
“Not at all.” Stefn was secretly delighted to see a familiar face. “But you look done in. Surely you haven’t ridden all night?”
“I’ve brought a hundred of my men, the first of the additional troops Severyn wants deployed here. Given the state of affairs between the Council and the Advisori these days, it was decided discretion was preferable to convenience.”
Stefn poured himself some t’cha and took a piece of toast. His heart beat a little faster with excitement and apprehension. “How soon before the others follow?”
“Erich is next, I think; he should be here within a month. What about the Chronicles? I hear you were left in charge of that particular project.”
“They’re ready,” replied Stefn, taking a seat across from the weary marquis. “There’s been little else to do these past weeks. You’ll be taking them to Withwillow then?”
“I will. Once I’m satisfied my men are settling into their new barracks, I’ll be on my way. We’ve valuable supplies waiting at the port, too, so the sooner I leave, the better.”
“I’d like to come.” The wistful comment escaped before Stefn could think better of it.
Forry smiled ruefully. “I wouldn’t mind the company,” he replied, “but Sev was pretty clear.”
Stefn swallowed his disappointment. “He doesn’t trust me. I understand. Still, it’s ironic, my lord. My father is dead, yet I’m still imprisoned in this place.” He shrugged. “At least the food is better now.”
“I’m sorry about it,” Forry said soberly. “I think you’re trustworthy, Eldering, and so do the others, but the prince doesn’t seem to agree. Personally, I think it’s Lord Damon’s suspicions that keep him from trusting you. His Grace was always more like a father to the prince; Severyn trusts his advice implicitly.”
The Duke of Blackmarsh hated the Elderings, hated them with a cold, unshakeable intensity for the death of his wife. Even so, Prince Severyn had his own reasons to dislike Stefn. Stefn managed a smile. “My apologies, my lord. I shouldn’t complain. It’s not as if there’s been anywhere to go with snow six feet deep all around. Ah, here’s Hansen!”
Stefn remained at the breakfast table after Forry had been borne away to his room. The first rays of morning light fell through the tall windows, glinting off china and silverware. It was going to be a beautiful day, the perfect day for riding like the wind across the bare, but muddy fields.
Clattering down the stairs, he met Marin at the bottom. The steward smiled and bowed. “Ah, there you are, my lord. If you will excuse me, I wondered if you had forgotten our morning meeting.”
Keeping an eye on me, were you?
“I’m not up to it this morning, Marin.” Stefn made no effort to hide his ill-humor. “I can’t imagine there’s anything that really requires my approval. Go ahead and do what you will. I’m going for a ride.”
“At least take some guards,” Marin called after him anxiously. “There have been reports of outlaws seen on the plains!”
“Real ones or false?” Stefn asked irritably. “I’ll be back by lunch.”
In the stables, a groom brought him a horse. Stefn mounted it and headed down the hill toward the main gate and out onto the windy plain.
Where to go? Stefn reckoned he should steer clear of the village where his curse was well known. Instead, he turned toward the northeast and gave his horse its head.
Stefn forgot about everything at once, caught up in the exhilaration of the wind on his f
ace and the sun on his skin. He galloped, full out, until he reached the hills. Then he left the road, slowing his horse to a walk across the muddy fields. Reaching the trees, he found the path leading up through the woods.
Here, beneath the dense firs, snow still lay thick where shadows were deepest. He soon reached the rocky spar. Leaving his horse, he climbed onto it.
The vista was still dreary with winter’s browns and greys. Here and there, pools of water from the snowmelt reflected the blue sky, but theirs was the only color to be seen anywhere. It was warm in the sun, however, with nothing more than a fitful, skittering breeze. He lay back, arms pillowing his head, and looked up into the arch of pale blue.
He remembered his last visit here, how he and Michael had sat and laughed and, later, made love on the sunwarmed rock. If Michael was here now, would the same thing happen? Stefn’s body tingled, imagining it — Michael rising up on his elbow to look down at Stefn; Michael kissing him softly and deeply. He would open Stefn’s shirt, or…
Eyes closed, Stefn slid his own hand under his shirt, licking his lips as he teased and pinched his own nipples. In his mind’s eye, it was Michael who rolled them between his long, graceful fingers, who licked and sucked at them until Stefn’s breath came in rapid gasps.
Then, as Stefn hung on the cusp of pain and pleasure, Michael would reach down to the hard column of flesh pushing against Stefn’s breeches; he would seize it and begin a slow, exquisite stroking. He would tease the head with his thumb, forcing whimpers from his eager, panting cethe.
Stefn groaned, his hand moving frantically, unaware when he unfastened his breeches, only wanting to reach climax. The image hanging in his mind smiled lazily, lasciviously, and bent toward his rigid, aching cock. Stefn imagined Michael taking it into his mouth and, in that moment, lost control. He came with a hoarse cry, then lay still on the rock, arms and legs splayed wide, cool breeze fanning his heated face, while the images faded.
He wanted Michael. He wanted Michael to come back to Shia, to share his bed, to ride with him across the plains, to make passionate love to him!