by Becca Abbott
Stop! I DON’T CARE!
It was the thrice-damned lethet! Stefn wanted to rip it off his throat. Instead, he gritted his teeth, straightening in the saddle, and reclaimed the reins.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind picked up. Overhead, the last few patches of blue disappeared. He drove his horse forward, hooves splashing in the puddles dotting the road. The rain started again.
It was coming down in sheets when he reached Embry, or what was left of the village. On its outskirts, a pitiful camp now stood, a jumble of makeshift tents of blankets and salvaged wood. Fires burned sullenly here and there, jealously protected from the downpour. The air stank of rain, smoke and mud. As he rode through the wretched settlement, pale faces looked out at him. Women, children; eyes stark with shock and despair, watched him silently as he passed.
The Shian River was Embry’s lifeline, bringing in trade from the south and providing most of the parish with fresh fish. Usually, it ran along tamely between high, rocky banks, but today the placid stream was a raging monster. It had left its banks, filling the lowest parts of Embry and washing away everything in its path. All manner of debris was carried with the current, barrels, beams, and uprooted trees. Where dozens of small huts and cottages had been was only swift water.
Was anyone in charge? Where were the priests? The Abbey was on the highest ground. Why weren’t these folk sheltering there? Stefn stopped, looking around.
Movement nearby announced a tall, grizzled man. He was followed by a woman and another man, older and wearing a bandage around his arm.
“Who are you?” asked the tall man, narrow-eyed. “What business do ye have here?”
Stefn met the cold speculation without flinching. “I’m lord of this village,” he said, hoping his voice was as steady as it needed to be. “The Earl of Shia. My business is to see this disaster for myself, so I can send enough assistance. Who are you?”
The tall man caught his breath. He bowed, but none of his tension was gone. From the folk gathering around came a ripple of gasps.
“I’m Robert Carter, m’lord, and we’ve no need of your help.”
“Why aren’t you all up at the Abbey?” Stefn did his best to ignore the stab of hurt and frustration. “Where are the priests?”
Carter said nothing, but spat elaborately into the mud. Muttering rose. The crowd was growing, more and more people emerging from the wreckage. Stefn was exquisitely aware of the bristling resentment.
But, “Aye!” shouted someone. “Where are the damned priests? Two days we been sufferin’ and they can’t make up their minds whether to let us in? I say they’ve made up their minds! We’re bein’ told to go to the devil!”
“He’s a sin-catcher!” shouted Carter. “It’s his fault! He’s a sign we’re bein’ punished by Loth!”
The muttering grew. Stefn kept a firm grip on his horse, wondering if he had the nerve to trample people to save his own life. Michael Arranz wouldn’t think twice.
“Suit yourselves,” he said, speaking loudly and clearly. The muttering faded. “The folk from the castle will be here soon with food and supplies. Accept their aid or not, as it suits you. As for the abbot, I will have a word with him. Gather what belongings you have and prepare to move to higher ground.”
The quiet was absolute. Slowly a head nodded here and there.
“They’ll turn ye back,” called Carter. There were calls of agreement and a few jeers.
Stefn shrugged. “We’ll speak again, Carter,” he said and saw unease flicker in the man’s eyes.
The villagers watched him go in silence, accompanied by the hissing rain and a rumble of thunder. Stefn was long past soaked. He made his way uphill, following the swollen river toward a cluster of buildings sprawled across several hilltops. There was plenty of open land around the abbey’s main complex, some of the best grazing land in the parish. It would do nicely as a campsite for the dispossessed villagers.
Several priests stood before the abbey gate, armed with pitchforks and axes. The sight took Stefn aback. He pushed wet hair from his face as they approached, brandishing their makeshift weapons.
“There’s been no word from the abbot!” they shouted. “Did we not say we’d tell you when the abbot makes his decision? Begone with ye!”
“If ye weren’t fools enough to build so close to the river, this wouldn’t be happening!” another chimed in. “It’s the judgment of Loth!”
“It’s the greed of the abbey!” retorted Stefn, furious. “I am Stefn Eldering, Earl of Shia! I have come to speak to the abbot!”
“You? The earl?” The nearest priest sneered disbelievingly.
“The earl’s a sin-catcher,” called the other. “He’s deformed! I see no problem with you, sir!”
“Aye! Where’s yer proof?”
He had none, of course, and no intention of taking off his boot to prove it. No doubt, bedraggled as he was, he hardly looked like a highblood. Even so, that they should be so rude to any of those they purported to serve only deepened Stefn’s anger. He turned his horse and started away. Then, several yards from the gate, he turned and galloped back. The priests, content to have driven away another interloper, spun around and their mouths dropped at the sight of horse and earl hurtling straight at them.
In panic, they scrambled to ready their weapons, but Stefn and his mount easily cleared the low wall beside the gate and left them shouting. He continued straight on to the Domicile. Dismounting, he pushed his reins into the hands of a startled priest and took the steps up to the door two at a time. The door opened after his third knock. A young man stood there, dressed in grey tunic and leggings. His hair was a very pale blond and his eyes were grey. In the middle of his forehead was a small scar in the shape of a perfect circle.
Stefn’s angry demand died on his lips. Shock twisted his gut. The young man bowed. “Good afternoon, sir.”
A Penitent!
“May I help you?”
“Tell the abbot Lord Eldering is here,” Stefn ordered, pushing past the youth and into the house.
“H- he’s at his prayers, my lord…” The h’nar broke off, looking past Stefn into the rain. His eyes got wide. A moment later, two priests thundered in.
“What is going on?”
A nasal, outraged voice brought silence to the room. The Penitent bowed very deeply. Abbot Drummond looked around his vestibule with displeasure. “Brother Richard? Brother Samuel? What is all this?” His irate glare settled on Stefn, narrowed, then widened. “M-my lord!”
Drummond had met Stefn before, but only a handful of times and only briefly. Clearly, he remembered, however, for he gave a stiff little bow. To the priests, he snapped, “What are you doing? Can’t you see who this is? Get back to your posts, both of you!”
They backed out, directing evil looks at Stefn. Stefn looked for the h’nar, but the pale young man had vanished.
He followed the abbot into a luxurious sitting room.
“What brings you out here on such a day?” asked the abbot, waving him to a comfortable sofa.
“There’s flooding in the village. Many people have lost their homes. Women and children, too, are living in the open.”
“Yes,” agreed the abbot somberly. “It is a great tragedy.”
“And yet, the Church is doing nothing.”
The abbot blinked. “We are praying to Loth to end the rain and ease their suffering…”
“Aren’t there a number of buildings on the property, barns and the like, that could easily shelter people until the waters recede? Why have you not opened them?”
“Bring the people here?” Drummond was astonished. “But our buildings are in use!”
“Most of your barns should be empty now, your flocks at pasture.”
The abbot began to look uneasy. “Yes,” he admitted, “but three of the buildings are to be put in use very soon for other things. We could give the villagers use of the two barns farthest to the east.”
“What about those nearer the abbey? The b
uildings you mention are several miles from the village. The villagers must be able to come and go easily. The faster they rebuild, the faster you have your barns back, is that not so?”
“We are a poor abbey,” objected the man, plucking at his satin waistcoat with a beringed hand. “The people will certainly expect us to provide food. Who knows what they might do if we could not accommodate them?”
“But you’ll be able to do so.” Stefn’s heart beat a little faster. He remembered seeing Drummond at the castle, sitting with his father, laughing and drinking with the rest of them. Maybe Drummond remembered this, too.
“I’m delighted to see you take such an interest in parish affairs, my lord.” The abbot smiled thinly. “But perhaps you should leave matters as they’ve always been. One such as you needs be careful lest he continue to bring misfortune onto others.” He paused delicately. “Who knows? Perhaps it is your continued presence in Shia that brings about these catastrophes.”
Shocked to immobility, Stefn could only stare at the smug cleric. His heart was racing. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Did he have the courage to pick it up?
“My lord,” he said finally, “I’ve lately had cause to review the parish covenant with the Church, including the particulars of the abbey’s land leases.”
Drummond’s narrow jaw tightened. “Is that so, my lord? I trust everything was in order?”
“Yes.” Stefn took a deep breath. “I noted, however, the lease expires in Rivkel, less than three months from now. It is at the discretion of the parish lord to renew it and on what terms.”
The abbot’s mouth sagged. “W-what? But surely that’s a mere formality!”
“In the past, yes, but the Hunters are gone and the Church is not going to replace them. I owe allegiance only to the royal house of Lothlain, in whose name I rule this parish. The Church, by law, exists here at my pleasure. Sin-catcher or not, Abbot Drummond, that is the way of it.”
“How dare you!” Drummond quivered with outrage. His face took on a mottled hue. “It seems the rumors I’ve heard of business in the castle is true!”
Stefn heard that with a lurch of his heart, but said only, “I know nothing of rumors. To what use do you plan to put the other three barns?”
Drummond, lips parted to deliver his next retort, stammered. “The other three? Oh, yes. Those.”
“Right now, I see no reason not to send all the villagers here to be housed in all five of the barns.”
The abbot went from choleric to nervous in a heartbeat. “Ah those. Yes, well… the Celestial Counsel has granted — It was our hope to begin the farming of wheat on the abbey lands, but the labor problem… ”
“Penitents? The Church is sending Penitents?”
Drummond harrumphed. “Yes,” he replied haughtily. “And why not?”
“Not in Shia.” Stefn was appalled. “I will not have Penitents in Shia! Send word to the Council immediately that you don’t need them after all!”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort!” Pushed past his endurance, the abbot’s voice rose. “Do you mean to forbid the presence of h’nara on Shian soil as your father did? I call you a hypocrite, my lord, for you entertain taints in your house!”
“You misunderstand,” retorted Stefn. “I have no objection to h’nara on Shian soil, only Penitents. Shia is a parish of free men. I will tolerate no slavery within its borders.”
“They are not slaves…”
“No!” Stefn’s own temper slipped. “I will not hear your lies. You may call them whatever you will; I know slavery when I see it. Not here, my lord abbot. And if you defy me, I will exercise my right as earl of this parish and take them from you, including the boy who answered your door!”
“You would not dare!”
“Would I not? His Highness left a company of Royal Guard to see to the security of the parish. Do not try me, Abbot Drummond. Sin-catcher though I be, I am still an Eldering. Think on that as you weigh your desire to continue as abbot in Shia!”
PART XX
At the time King Arami I founded the 12 High Orders, he also established the Royal Advisori, a Council of highblood Lords whose duty it was to advise him on matters of governance. Each member was given authority over a parish and was answerable only to the king himself.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume II,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1349
“Your Highness, pardon the interruption, but you’ve a visitor.”
Severyn, seated at his desk, looked up to see Timkins hovering in the doorway of his study. “This late?” He glanced across the room at the clock. It was near midnight.
“It’s Marin, sir. He says he must speak to you at once.”
Alarm shot through Severyn. Marin should be in Shia, keeping a watch on the young earl. He nodded and Timkins stepped aside to admit the tall h’nar.
Marin clearly had come straight from the road, hair and clothing damp. Timkins withdrew discreetly, closing the door after him.
“We’ve trouble in Shia, Your Highness,” he said without preamble.
“Is it Eldering?”
Marin, startled, shook his head and gave the prince his report. When he was finished, Severyn sat, alarmed. “Hunter spies? Damnation!”
Rising from his chair, Severyn paced to the window and stared out into the night. The distant twinkling of Lothmont’s lights were reflected in the lake. It had finally stopped raining.
“Have you spoken to Michael?”
“No, Your Highness. I came straight here.”
Severyn heard that with relief. “Good man. The last thing we need is for Michael to go haring off to Shia with the Church watching it. Damn! I should probably go there at once, just in case.”
Severyn’s words were cut off by a muffled boom. Underfoot, the castle seemed to move, as if the earth under it had been jerked by some giant hand. To the northeast, deep in Lothmont’s slums, a bright flash of light split the dark.
“H-Highness!”
The flash lasted only a moment. Severyn stared at the spot where it had been. As he did so, flames appeared, just a small glow at first, then more, leaping high against the night sky. He turned away from the window. As he did, the door to the study burst open to admit Corliss, the captain much agitated. “Your Highness! Take cover! We’re under attack!”
“Has the island been secured?”
“Of course, Your Highness!”
“And Arami?”
“The king and queen’s quarters are secure.”
“Good. Timkins! My coat!”
“Is it possible someone has moved cannons, completely unnoticed, across the open countryside and set up outside Lothmont?” Corliss wondered.
“I sincerely doubt it,” replied Severyn. He shrugged into the jacket Timkins held out for him. “Whatever it is, I’m going to have a look myself.”
In the corridor, several of Arami’s ministers and generals had gathered. Others were hurrying toward them.
“Roust the army!” one cried.
“Rebels! It must be rebels!” worried another.
“You honestly believe Lothmont was fired upon?” demanded Severyn, striding away toward the stair. They ran to keep up.
“I don’t know what else to think, Your Highness,” replied a frightened lord. “There are no foundries in that part of town, no armories or distilleries, nothing we know of that could cause such an explosion.”
“Perhaps they have been gathering weapons in stealth for months!” another minister speculated.
“Who?” Severyn found it all unbelievable.
“H-Highness?”
“Who would attack us, Mackleby? And why the east side? There’s nothing of any value there. It’s all slum.”
“Maybe ‘tis witchcraft.” A minister, one of his father’s holdovers, gave him a stern look. “The Church has been warning for years of the cursed naragi’s return. What if it’s finally happened?”
“Absurd,” snapped Severyn, but he felt an uncomfortable flutter in his st
omach. “Superstition! The nara are gone!”
“There are stories… ”
“Most likely someone set up an unlawful distillery.” Severyn cut the man off, ignoring his resentful scowl. “That is one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods. If the destruction is as widespread as it appears from here, the people there will require immediate assistance.”
“But what about the possibility that it is an attack… ”
“Send a few men to scour the countryside outside the city, but prepare most of your troops for fighting fires and rescuing the wounded.”
At the bottom of the stairs, more of the Royal Guard had gathered, most of them officers. Corliss went straight to them and began to issue orders.
“Shall I call for your carriage, Highness?” Timkins asked.
“No,” replied Severyn. “I’ll ride.”
“Highness! You will take guards?”
“Have them follow at once. In the meantime, find Mick and the others. They’ll do as escorts.”
Timkins had to be content with that. Men were sent off to the Fairhands Club to find the two lords. In the meantime, Severyn left the palace and rode straight to the mainland.
It was raining again, a thin, misty drizzle, when he was joined by Jeremy at the Thaelrick bridge.
“Where’s Mick and Auron?”
“Don’t know. I’m sure they’ll be along shortly.”
They galloped through near-deserted streets toward the city’s northeast end. As they approached, the stench of smoke and wet ash grew stronger. People appeared, standing about in confusion, looking this way and that. Severyn noted with displeasure a large number of Hunters among them.
“Looks like the Cathedral is awfully concerned about your distillery,” Jeremy said. “Tell me that ain’t a Dragon over there.”
Severyn glanced around. There was no mistaking the helmet or the crimson trim on the dark green Hunter uniform. Jaw tightening, Severyn cantered over to the man whose impatient glance quickly turned to consternation.