Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  from: A Modern History of Tanyrin,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1505

  Severyn remained in Lothmont, working hard behind the scenes to quell rumors over the affair in the slums. He was largely successful, although the clergy continued to object and demand that Lord Arranz present himself to answer questions on his whereabouts that fateful evening. The Arranz family replied as it always had to such demands, with a carefully worded and measured refusal.

  Fortunately, the Church had bigger problems. Timkins arrived one morning with a request for a meeting with several clerics he recognized as being representatives of Mazril Locke. He contained his curiosity until late in the day when the clerics were brought to his chambers.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” greeted the prince. He glanced at their message; the subject to which it referred mentioned only “investigation of heresy.” “What can I do for you?”

  The highest ranking of the three men, a prelate, dropped a heavy book on the low incidental table between them. It took Severyn a moment: The Chronicle of Tanyrin, Volume 2.

  “Er, yes?”

  “It is a false copy!”

  Severyn’s pulse leapt, but he schooled his features into an expression of benign mystification.

  “False?”

  Leaning over took it up and opened it, leafing through the pages. Eldering and their rebuilt press had done a bang-up job.

  “Yes, Your Highness! It is a false copy of the Chronicle, filled with heretical passages.”

  “Indeed,” added one of the prelate’s companions. “Blasphemous!”

  “Why not simply throw it away?”

  “That’s not the point, Your Highness! These are appearing everywhere: in Church libraries, Sanctuaries, colleges, bookshops!”

  “Goodness! Where are they coming from?”

  “We don’t know for certain, Your Highness, but we have our suspicions. The Archbishop asks your permission to send a battalion of Hunters to Withwillow to investigate.”

  “A battalion?”

  “The Bishop there is known for his contrary views. He has consistently resisted the will of the Council in many areas, refusing additional troops, giving succor to taints, and so on. It seems likely that this outrage could have been perpetrated by him or those emboldened by his rebellious attitude!”

  Severyn shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lords, but I must refuse. The Advisori would be up in arms over such an insult to their authority! If you suspect this bishop, confront him yourselves. There’s no need to bring an army sweeping down on the citizens of Withwillow. Besides…” He turned to the frontispiece. “I don’t see a printer’s mark. This could have come from anywhere.”

  “Obviously, it’s been excised.”

  “A simple examination of this text beside the text produced by Withwillow’s presses would easily solve that question,” Severyn said. “Neither troops nor even a visit would be needed, no?”

  “You seem remarkably unconcerned about this outrage, Prince Severyn,” accused the prelate.

  “I have other outrages that concern me more,” agreed Severyn. “For instance, when I return to Tantagrel, I’m adjudicating a case between several poor farmers and the abbey at Lund, which seeks to annex their lands.”

  The three clerics scowled. One looked away.

  “The Chronicles have been the Church’s province since the Great Fire,” continued Severyn. “You have made that more than clear over the years. It is not a lay matter.”

  “Is that your final word on the matter, Your Highness?”

  “It is.”

  The prelate, with a black scowl, bowed and reached for the book. Severyn, however, slid it out of his reach. “I think I’ll read this, if you don’t mind,” he said and, when the cleric opened his mouth to object, “Who knows? Perhaps I’ll be sufficiently outraged to reconsider your request.”

  Back in Tantagrel, Severyn found himself considering the Chronicle with interest. He’d not read the true version, he’d not had time but now he found himself curious. Over a lonely dinner in his overlarge dining chamber, he started reading it.

  The Second Chronicle described the end of the naran war and the ascension to glory of Aramis Lothlain the First and his pureblooded naragi ally, Derek of Arranz. Until the birth of Aramis, there had been no knightmage with the power to draw directly from the Light Stream; just mages who, like h’naran witches, had been able to bring about only small magicks with their prayers. Aramis had changed it all and, by the end of the war, there had been a dozen knightmages. Each had founded one of the great High Orders. Over the generations, however, fewer knightmages had been born. Now only three of the Orders still boasted members with any power worth mentioning.

  Little was written about the High Orders in the Chronicles. Severyn reacquainted himself with this fact by rereading the second volume more carefully than ever before. Given the level of detail accorded to other matters of importance in Tanyrin society, the lack of information on these important groups was suddenly glaring. Intrigued, he skimmed through the pages, his dinner growing cold beside him, looking for more information. He found none, but he did come across several passages not in the Church-approved editions that hinted at a more thorough accounting of the Orders in some later volume. There were, however, no more volumes. Any manuscripts thereof had perished in the fire…

  The next evening, after dashing the Abbot of Lund’s hopes for a magnificent new Domicile, Severyn returned to Lothlain House. Tucking the second Chronicle under his arm, he went to his private study where he pressed one of the marble grapes adorning his fireplace. A panel beside it swung silently open, revealing a steep stair descended into darkness. Seizing a decanter of port, the book in one hand, decanter in the other, Severyn started down.

  At the bottom was a prison cell. Removed from the regular dungeons of Lolthlain House, it was reserved for special prisoners of the royal family. Severyn shifted his burdens and fished the key from his pocket, the only key other than Corliss’, and unlocked the door. The rattle of chains greeted him when he stepped inside.

  Captain Adrian Remy, fettered and chained to a ring in the floor, looked at him in surprise. No doubt he’d expected Corliss. Severyn waved him back to his chair. “Good evening, captain.”

  The cell was comfortably appointed, with rugs to cushion the cold stone at their feet, decent furnishings and the bed laid with a thick, goose-down mattress and many blankets. A tray with the remains of Remy’s dinner sat on a table laid with white linen. The prisoner himself had been reading. He sat down now, watching Severyn warily.

  “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” asked Remy.

  “Boredom,” replied the prince. He poured a liberal splash of port into the empty glass on Remy’s dinner tray. After a moment’s consideration, he poured himself one, using Remy’s water glass. Then he helped himself to the cell’s other chair. “I see you’re reading Belgash. You are truly a scholar if you can wade through such turgid prose without dozing off.”

  “Belgash is a great philosopher!”

  “Yes, yes.” Severyn dropped the Chronicle on top of it. “I prefer lighter stuff, I confess. Have some port.”

  Remy eyed his full wine glass with suspicion. Severyn sighed and took a long drink of his. After another long stare, the captain took his glass, returning to his seat. He sipped gingerly, then took a longer draught.

  “Good, ain’t it?” Severyn asked cheerfully. “It’s from Messerling’s vineyards.”

  “My family’s wine is excellent, too,” said Remy. “Although its bouquet has more of spice to it.”

  “Aye. So I hear. I’ve not seen any of it lately, though. No doubt it’s much prized in the east.”

  “The grape harvests have been poor,” replied Remy, taking another drink. “The drought has made all but the lower slopes inhospitable for the vine.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “How long do you intend to keep me here, Your Highness?”

  “As long as I
please.” Severyn favored his prisoner with his blandest smile. “After all, the Church seems convinced you are dead.”

  “Do you think so?” Remy returned the smile. Severyn’s senses sharpened.

  “I would assume so. They have been making a great deal of noise in Lothmont about their missing Hunters, of which you were one. Or is there something I don’t know?”

  “With all due respect, Prince Severyn, I daresay there are many things you don’t know.”

  “How intriguing. For instance?”

  But Remy only shook his head. “What book is that?”

  “The Second Chronicle.”

  “You’re reading it?”

  “I’ve read it. I brought it down for you, in case you get bored with Belgash.”

  “I, too, have read the Chronicles.”

  “Not, I wager, this particular version.”

  The Hunter captain directed a puzzled look first at the book, then at Severyn.

  “You are familiar with the story of the Great Fire, the one that took the Royal Library of Aramis, along with several other buildings?”

  “Of course.”

  “No doubt, you’ve heard the rumors about it, too? All manner of tales exist.”

  “Of course, I’ve heard them. Folklore, and heresy, at that. As if the Church would set fire to such a valuable and revered place! It was thanks to the Church and their copies that we still have the Chronicles.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of those particular rumors, although I admit myself more receptive to them than before.” Severyn raised a hand to forestall Remy’s protest. “I speak of the rumors that the original books did not perish in the flames, but escaped them somehow.”

  Remy went very still, hands tightening around his wineglass. His gaze darted to the Chronicle and back. “Ridiculous,” he said. “And if it were true, what of it?”

  “Let me offer this as one of many interesting possibilities.” Severyn propped his feet up on the table, knocking an apple off and onto the floor. “With the only copies of the Chronicles in the hands of the Church, suppose some ambitious and enterprising clerics decided to do some judicious editing? Suppose there were things in the original Chronicles the Church did not necessarily feel were necessary, or in their own interest, to have made widely available. After all, there were numerous well-known disagreements between Aramis and the clergy toward the end of his life.”

  “The differences were not with St. Aramis, but with his heathen court, including the taints he embraced in his senility!”

  “Senility?”

  “I mean no offence, Highness, but it was a matter of common knowledge, and not only through the Church, that St. Aramis’ great age was accompanied at the end with illness and a wandering mind.”

  “A matter of common knowledge And yet, the Church, through its control of printing presses in Tanyrin, controls much of our ‘common knowledge’, does it not?”

  “What is your point, Your Highness?”

  “My point,” said Severyn, “is simple. Some prelates came to my court yesterday, all the way from Zelenov. They were quite agitated about the existence of this Chronicle. So much so, they wished for permission to launch an armed assault on a major city on the merest suspicion that this book might have been printed there. Curious, is it not?”

  The captain didn’t answer. He sat tensely, turning the glass around and around in his hand.

  Severyn smiled. “I’ll leave you the bottle,” he said, patting the decanter of port. “And the book.”

  He felt Remy staring at him when he left the room.

  With his secret out, Stefn had expected derision and contempt. Neither materialized. Auron’s jokes grew predictably warmer, but he seemed just as happy to be in Stefn’s company as before. If the servants knew anything, they were too well-trained to let on. When Michael did not summon him again, Stefn gradually relaxed.

  His private book fair had netted a treasure trove of old books, some of them truly antique. Even more exciting: several of the booksellers had admitted privately to owning books labeled heretical and blasphemous by the Church. Stefn made arrangements with a few of the merchants to return so he might look at them and, hopefully, purchase a few for his own collection. Considering the business of his companions, collecting banned books seemed a minor infraction.

  He didn’t see much of Michael or Auron, both being involved in overseeing the training of Shia’s growing garrison. He tried to tell himself he was glad, but truthfully he missed their companionship.

  One particularly fine morning, restless, lonely and tired of reading, he rode to Embry, intent on having a look at things. Lake’s men reported to him regularly on the rebuilding of the village, but he’d not gone back since that first night. The reaction of the villagers still cut deep. He was in no mood to face that kind of hostility again, so he looked on from a distance and with the help of a spyglass.

  The river had receded, but not by much. It remained swift and swollen, and some wondered if it would ever subside within its banks again. Still, in the resilient manner of the Shians, Embry was sprouting up around its new shores. What buildings the flood had spared were already repaired and in use. A new market had popped up at the edge of the village, well beyond the stream’s reach. Further upstream, where the land rose again and the river had cut deep, new cottages speckled the hillside.

  The new cottages were very pretty. Brick, with sod-thatched roofs, each had a plot of garden and low walls surrounding it. A few were already finished. Children played in their gardens, stopping to stare at him. It seemed to Stefn they didn’t look so thin or ragged as before. Satisfied, he put away his spyglass and rode on.

  The slow, shallow rise of the hills brought him at last to the abbey’s land. He saw one of their winter barns in the distance, surrounded by tents. Smoke rose from the refugees’ cook fires. There were far fewer refugees these days. By next month, he’d been told, they, too, would return to new homes.

  Stefn approached the abbey itself. Priests standing behind the gate stared with sullen resentment. They gave no sign of recognizing him, watching suspiciously as he rode past.

  As gently and gradually as it had risen, the land descended again. The road snaked southeast across the open, empty plain. Far in the distance were tiny specks against the horizon. It was probably Lord Damon, bringing his complement of troops. Soon there would be a complete battalion here, poised and waiting for Prince Severyn to make his move.

  And once Lothlain had the throne, Castle Shia would go back to its original masters. What happened to him then depended upon Lothlain keeping his word. Stefn didn’t think losing Shia would matter much if he could truly go to college, maybe get a nice lectureship somewhere, with his own cozy little apartment, long nights spent immersed in ancient history.

  Down the road, the tiny figures got closer; Stefn made out the shapes of coaches and wagons. There were a lot of outriders, but they didn’t look like troops. Could it be a merchant caravan? Curious, he picked up his spyglass and had a closer look.

  His curiosity turned to alarm. The outriders wore dark green and gold. Stefn counted a dozen mounted soldiers, at least. A single enormous coach, gleaming with green lacquer and gold trim, was followed by an entourage of smaller coaches and a supply wagon. Foot soldiers and a handful of priests brought up the rear.

  Collapsing the spyglass, Stefn shoved it back in his saddle bag. Wheeling around, he rode back to Shia as fast as he could.

  Both lords came immediately at his summons.

  “Who could it be?” Auron wondered aloud. “The coach must belong to a very high official in the Church; maybe even a Celestial. But why come here?”

  “It’s unprecedented,” Stefn said. “The last Celestial to come all the way to Shia was a bishop just after the Reformation. Do you think they’re here because I’ve refused Penitents?”

  “Your father refused them, too,” Michael reminded him.

  Information was not long in coming, thanks to Lake’s spies. Abbot Drummond w
as hosting none other than the Archbishop of Tanyrin himself, Lord Mazril Locke!

  “The Archbishop?” Stefn was stunned. “What is he doing here?”

  “He’s got a full company of soldiers with him, too; Hunters mounted and on foot,” growled Auron. “Something’s up.”

  “Are they looking for Michael?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” Michael replied. “But we have a bigger problem. Grandfather is due with the Blackmarsh troops any day.”

  The conspirators exchanged dismayed looks.

  “I’ll leave at once,” Michael said. “It’s unthinkable that he should ride into Shia with the Archbishop lurking about.”

  “Good idea,” said Auron. “I’ll leave for Tantagrel, too.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” retorted Michael with a look at Stefn.

  “I won’t betray you!” Stefn said, fired up.

  “Locke will eat you alive! He’s a knightmage, remember? Think of him as a naragi in priest’s clothing.”

  “The press!” Auron exclaimed.

  They looked at each other in horror.

  “Dismantle it!” ordered Michael, “and strew the pieces through the cellar again. We can’t risk a search!”

  Two days later, a Hunter lieutenant presented himself at Shia’s gate with the word that the Archbishop was doing a northern tour of the parishes and hoped to call upon the new earl at Lord Eldering’s earliest convenience.

  Wishing he could turn Locke away, Stefn reluctantly sent back an invitation for His Eminence to call the next day. He got very little sleep that night.

  The next afternoon, his august visitor arrived, accompanied by two Dragon officers and a trio of ordinary mages. Stefn greeted them in the newly remodeled Great Hall. While servants brought refreshments, Stefn introduced himself and welcomed his guests, all the while trying not to stare at Locke.