by Becca Abbott
What a slut he was! What a whore! How could he have these feelings? He was a man and a human!
The lethet! Desperately, Stefn seized on the collar’s presence, sitting up and clawing at it in miserable fury. This was the reason! Nothing else!
The crackling of brush and the whinny of a horse brought him out of his bitter self-castigation. He did up his breeches hastily and rolled over onto his belly. Below the rock, a handful of horsemen appeared, riding slowly and carefully through the trees. They wore no uniforms, but they were armed and armored.
When they disappeared from sight, Stefn slid down the rock. Mounting his horse, he rode after them, careful to keep well back. A few hundred feet onward, a pile of massive boulders barred his path and a mass of tangled thicket. As he approached the obstruction, however, he heard them again, louder. At once he stopped and dismounted, seeking the concealment of several tall spruces, their drooping branches forming a hut-like shelter.
A bandit appeared on the largest boulder, climbing to its highest point. Stefn’s eyes narrowed, watching the man lift a spyglass to his eye, sweeping it across the plains. Closer now, Stefn noticed the man’s clothing. Unlike the rags and skins worn by most outlaws in this part of the country, this man was dressed uncommonly well. He was clean-shaven, too, with his brown hair pulled neatly back in a ponytail.
Another of the mysterious riders appeared on the rock. Stefn was further mystified to see he carried a notebook. The first man lowered his glass and said something to the newcomer, who produced a mark-stick and wrote something down.
These weren’t bandits! They were spies!
Taking his horse’s reins, Stefn led it out of the trees, careful to keep as much cover between him and the men on lookout as he could. Alas, as he rounded a dense tangle of blackberry bushes, he came face to face with another of the party busily answering the call of nature. They stared at each other in surprise, then the man shoved his cock back into his breeches, shouting a warning.
Stefn scrambled into the saddle and urged his horse to a gallop. They came after him at once, shouting to each other to cut him off. Bursting out of the trees after him, the riders fanned out across the field. Stefn bent lower over his horse’s head, urging it to greater speed. Shia seemed an impossible distance away.
They gained on him slowly. From the corner of his eye he saw the bandits to his left and right begin to draw ahead, preparing to close the net. They would have him before he got to Shia unless — abruptly, he swerved sharply to the left, directly toward the end rider. He heard them whooping as they swept forward, sensing victory.
He had no weapon! This was idiocy! Even as the small voice in his head screamed common sense at him, he raced onward. He saw the end rider rise in the saddle, lifting his sword, triumphant. Praying his old skills hadn’t faded too much, Stefn pulled back on the reins, jerking his startled horse to a sudden, clumsy halt. It reared wildly, front hooves lashing out. Stefn had a confused glimpse of the rider trying to avoid being struck and losing his balance in the process. Man and sword flew from the saddle while Stefn regained control of his own horse and spurred it on toward Shia.
Angry shouts followed him. He didn’t look over his shoulder, didn’t dare. Instead, he pressed himself close to his horse’s neck and urged the unsettled beast to greater speed.
Unexpectedly, more riders appeared ahead. His heart plunged, but an instant later, he saw the blue and gold of Severyn’s guard! And leading them was none other than Marin!
The bandits saw them, too, and the mocking calls behind Stefn turned into shouts of consternation. The thundering of hooves faltered and slowed. Ahead, the guard patrol saw Stefn and his pursuers.
“Spies!” Stefn shouted, half rising from the saddle and pointing behind him. A dozen soldiers flashed past him. Marin paused only long enough to shout, “Are you unhurt, my lord?”
“Go!” replied Stefn.
The big h’nar nodded and dashed after the soldiers.
The battle was joined in a clash of steel and the screams of horses and men. Stefn rode around the knot of combatants, intent on cutting off any rider attempting escape. A riderless horse ran past; Stefn saw the sword strapped to its saddle and went after it.
He’d just caught up to the animal when another of the spies broke away and rode hell-bent for the hills. Stefn managed to fumble the sword free. He caught up to the bandit, shifting his balance as the man snarled and jerked his horse around, reaching for the sword at his back.
The stranger was skilled, but not skilled enough. Stefn met the man’s blade with his own, keeping his balance in the saddle, and turning the force of the attack back on the attacker. The man fell from the horse, his sword spinning away, and hit the ground hard. He tried to get up and stumble away, but Stefn was there, guiding his horse this way and that to cut off all avenues of escape.
The guards outnumbered the spies and made quick work of them. Afterwards, Marin returned to Stefn and his sullen, breathless prisoner.
“Excellent, my lord. You’ve kept one alive.”
Stefn looked around. All that remained of the strangers were their horses. He wrenched his eyes from the blood-soaked field. “I found them in the hills,” he said, pointing.
“Good work,” replied Marin.
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” Stefn said. “Next time, I’ll listen to your advice.”
“It would make my job much easier,” confessed Marin. “I should hate to face Lord Michael if something were to happen to you.”
Stefn was tired. His body remembered how to fight, but all those months of being cooped up inside had left it woefully out of condition. The notion of a hot bath and a cup of t’cha appealed mightily. He nodded. With their prisoner stumbling along in front of them, he and the soldiers returned to the castle.
Stefn was not present during the lone survivor’s interrogation, but the next day, after dinner, Forry told him what they’d learned. “Hunters, all right,” he said. “We’ve not been as discreet as we’d thought.”
Stefn didn’t want to think about how Forry had extracted that information. Nor did he ask about the spy’s whereabouts. From Forry’s and Marin’s grim looks, he figured he knew well enough.
“What shall we do?” he asked. “If they don’t return, won’t the Church send others?”
“Assuredly.” Forry looked over at Marin who had dispensed with protocol for the evening and joined them in the parlor. “At least we’ll be ready for them this time.”
“Why were they here?”
“Their orders were to investigate the area. Locke may have told Severyn the Church was glad to be rid of Shia, but it would seem he wasn’t completely honest. Our good Archbishop is not as stupid as we might hope. He sees Severyn’s acquisition of Shia as a threat. We were lucky you decided to go riding yesterday, Eldering, else we’d still be ignorant of their interest.”
Marin said, “Someone must tell His Highness.”
“I know.” Forry poured himself another glass of port. “But I’m due to go to Withwillow as soon as Erich arrives. You’ll have to go, I’m afraid, Marin.”
“I could take the books to Withwillow,” Stefn offered.
Marin cleared his throat. Forry shook his head regretfully. “If it was up to me, Eldering, I’d say yes, but it isn’t. Besides, I’m also picking up supplies at the same time.”
Stefn swallowed his disappointment. He couldn’t help thinking, had Michael been there, they might both have gone to Withwillow instead. After a few minutes, he excused himself and retreated to his tower sanctuary. There, he tried to forget his lot in the pages of his latest selection from the restocked library, a travelogue of scenic places on the Eastern coast. He told himself he had his books, at least, but for some reason, that comfort seemed less so these days.
Marin left that very day for Tantagrel and, a few days after, Forry prepared to go to Withwillow, the unbound copies of the true Chronicles tucked among boxes of other books and marked as a donation to one of the city’s li
braries. Naturally, several days before he planned to set out, it began to rain, a steady, cold downpour showing no sign of letting up.
“Maybe there’s something to the damn cleric’s predictions of gloom and doom,” he griped at dinner the night before. “The exercise yard is ankle deep in mud! If this goes on, we shall have to train sailors, not soldiers!”
“This isn’t the first time Tanyrin has suffered from inclement seasons,” Stefn said. “Just before the naran war, there were twenty years of drought in the east while the north and west suffered from cold and too much rain.”
“Really? I’d not heard such a thing.”
“I read about it in the First Chronicle, the true First Chronicle. Even the naran estates suffered. The lords who led the war against humans were among those most affected by the unpredictable weather.”
Forry appeared much struck by the information. “If so, it doesn’t bode well for us these next few years. Did any part of Tanyrin escape?”
“The south,” replied Stefn. “Until the rains came, those lands had been drier than they are today and useless for anything but grazing.”
“Like Shia today.”
“Aye.”
Forry looked thoughtful and, for a while after that, said little, poking at his custard in silence.
PART XVIII
Be it known that the House of Lothlain and the People of Tanyrin have, from this day, a Covenant with the House of Arranz. In recognition of its loyalty to the freedom and well-being of all men, Arranz will forever be held as our most beloved Vassal and their lands Sovereign. No man may bring arms into Arranz land without due permission of the Duke nor may future governors gainsay what orders the duke may make upon it; likewise does the House of Arranz swear eternal fealty to the House of Lothlain and forswear raising arms against the rightful kings of Tanyrin.
By my seal do I set this Covenant for eternity, Aramis Lothlain (signature appended)
from: The First Covenant of Aramis Lothlain I,
9 Lothkel,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1317
The unmarked coach rattled along Lothmont’s cobbled streets. It passed the fine, lakeside mansions, their windows alight behind stone walls and high hedges. Now and then, when the street curved south and ran alongside Lake Wyr, the occupants of the coach were treated to a view of moon-silvered water and Castle Lothlain in the distance, twinkling like a fallen star.
“Jeremy and Auron should be here tomorrow,” said Severyn. “Forry will be in Shia by now and Erich shortly thereafter. Soon, my friend, soon we will make our move.”
Michael, tapping his invitation idly against his chin, nodded.
They had driven straight down from Tantagrel together, the carriage piled high with Severyn’s luggage. They had stopped briefly at Michael’s hotel to leave his baggage off, but Severyn planned to spend the next week at the palace to keep Arami under his watchful eye.
At the Thaelrick gate, they ran into a back-up of carriages. Hunters directed traffic onto the bridge and from there, onto the Royal Bridge. The latter was lined with torches and more coaches. Every highblood in Lothmont and beyond would be here tonight.
For the nobility of Tanyrin, the Greening Ball was the official mark of spring. Only in the northern highlands could one see snow anymore. Tradition decreed the ball be held at the palace, the spectacular finale to a week-long celebration of extravagant parties and fetes.
The last few months jockeying between Tantagrel and Lothmont had not been as unpleasant as Michael had anticipated. Severyn’s plan seemed to be working. At first stand-offish, people had warmed to him more quickly than he’d expected, especially in Tantagrel where the populace adored their prince. Now Michael routinely received invitations independent of Severyn’s and had even begun to think of bringing Chris and Annie to town.
“Your invitations, my lords?” a Hunter called, rapping on the door, then pulling it open. Severyn, annoyed, leaned into the light falling in from outside. The soldier, recognizing him, bowed at once and jumped down. The door slammed. After a moment, they felt the coach turn. They were being sent to the front of the line.
“Ah, the privileges of rank.”
“If I were a better man, I’d refuse it,” agreed Severyn. “But not tonight. I want to get this damned thing over with. I’ll probably have to open the ball for Arami. Lord knows if he’ll even make it down for the receiving line.”
Through the covered bridge they rode and out onto the long, open span to join the line of carriages moving slowly to the island.
“I wonder if Locke is in town for this,” Michael said.
“Why not? It’s his money Arami is spending.” Severyn seemed determined to be disgusted with his brother. “The fool.”
“Locke’s the fool,” Michael replied mildly. “I’ll wager a considerable percentage of the money goes to Arami’s pelthe habit.”
Severyn’s expression grew sour. “No doubt,” he grumped. “What I wouldn’t give to find out who’s getting him that poison! Try as I might, however, that bit of intelligence continues to elude me. I’ve got my spies everywhere around him with orders to report to me any such information, yet he continues to lay his hands on the stuff and my men are clueless.”
“Have you asked him outright?”
“Of course. He sneers at me and tells me it’s none of my damned business.”
The carriage stopped. Severyn cursed and leaned out the window, looking ahead. “What the devil is the matter now?”
“Is Miss Stefanie really coming tonight?”
Severyn collapsed back onto his seat. “She’ll be attending the dinner, but not the main festivities. Her aunt decided the sacrifice would satisfy the terms of her mourning. We go in together.”
“What a burden,” mocked Michael, who had, by now, seen the Incomparable for himself. “How will you endure?”
The prince snorted and made some clever rejoinder, but Michael was only half-listening. Speaking of Stefanie Eldering made him think of Stefn, something he did much too often lately. The snows of Shia had surely melted enough for travel. More and more, he considered a trip north. The others were bringing in the first of their troops, including his grandfather and the Arranz contingent. Each time he brought up the idea, however, Severyn found some reason to delay him.
Crossing the Royal Bridge to the island took nearly an hour. Once on land, their carriage wound slowly through the grounds and up to the palace’s columned front entrance. Inside, the Grand Foyer was ablaze with light. Polished wood, marble, and gold leaf made an elegant frame for the crowd gathered there, themselves radiant in their fine clothing and jewels. Even the announcement of Severyn’s name could barely be heard through the din created by dozens of conversations.
The two gentlemen were quickly spotted, however, and surrounded by acquaintances. Michael soon lost sight of his friend. Accosted by a pair of pretty young ladies, he was eventually swept through the foyer to the ballroom. There, he saw Severyn out on the floor, gallantly partnering a matronly countess in a country dance. Arami was nowhere to be seen. Come to think of it, he hadn’t been in the receiving line, either, only the Queen. It seemed Severyn knew his brother all too well.
Not until an hour and several dances later did Michael run into Severyn again. He was on his way to the buffet when he caught sight of the prince coming down a staircase. Severyn spotted him and beckoned. Excusing himself to his companions, Michael joined the prince at the foot of the stairs.
“The idiot’s passed out,” Severyn said in a low voice. He looked ready to hit something. “There’s no way he’ll be able to give his official dinner address!”
“Will you give it, then?”
“No.” Severyn’s lean, hard jaw got harder. “I’ve had enough of this!” With a quick look around, he added, “Follow me.”
Upstairs, they went straight to the end of the corridor. Guards stood before a set of tall, double doors. One hurried to open them.
Michael and Severyn stepped into Arami’s su
ite. It was rank with the smell of pelthe. Snifters with soot-blackened bottoms lay everywhere. Cushions were strewn about; an easel was set up with a gaudy splash of colors on it. Lumps and smears of paint covered the floor around it. Severyn strode through the mess and into his brother’s bedchamber.
The king, in full, formal dress, lay face down on the floor. A snifter lay near his hand, still holding a bit of the drug. The lamp he’d been using had also fallen and, fortunately, gone out.
“Damn it! Where the hell is he getting this stuff?” Severyn kicked one of the snifters out of the way. Dropping to a crouch, he turned his brother over. Arami had fallen hard. His face was covered with blood and his nose probably broken. He seemed barely to breathe. “Can you heal him?”
“Of course.” Michael settled down beside the king, alarmed at his gory appearance. “Loth! Is he like this often?”
“More often lately, or so my spies tell me. He hates these balls as much as I do, I think. What about his intoxication? Can you reverse that, too?”
“I doubt it,” Michael admitted. “I can take care of his nose, though.”
Severyn nodded, satisfied. “I’ll make sure you’re not interrupted.” He got up and disappeared into the next room.
Michael lay his hands on the unconscious king. He whispered the healing Words and felt his hands tingle. The k’na answered his summons, flooding his veins with its heat and power. Pouring it into Arami, Michael heard the labored breathing ease. The king’s ashen complexion took on a healthier hue. His swollen nose shrank to normal size. He twitched violently several times, then was still. Michael leaned back on his heels, slightly dizzy.
“Is that it?” Severyn hovered in the doorway behind him and was answered almost at once by a loud snore. Getting to his feet, Michael said, “He’s all yours,” and retreated to the king’s sitting room.