by Becca Abbott
“No. No, you’ve done well. Thank you.” He looked at Marin. “You were on your way to Blackmarsh?”
“Of course. I assume we go after the earl?”
Michael nodded, wheeling his horse about. The men fell in behind him. Marin came up to ride at his side. “Tell me more,” Michael ordered in a low voice.
“Men came from the village, asking for Lord Stefn’s help. Of course, he went with them, taking no escort!” Marin shook his head at the foolishness. “When his lordship didn’t return, Lake and I went in search of him. We eventually found a villain by the name of Carter. He was persuaded to reveal the involvement of the abbey.”
Marin’s smile was grim. “Drummond refused to say a word. Fortunately for him, his Penitent was not so close-mouthed.” Marin’s face twisted in disgust. “You wouldn’t believe what the old bastard was using him for!”
“Heh. Wouldn’t I?”
“Why take Stefn? I don’t understand that,” Marin said, shaking his head.
“I do,” replied Michael. “We go to Tantagrel.”
“Lord Michael?” Marin turned in the saddle, looking earnestly at him. “They’ve only a few days on us. Surely you can find him with your magic? If we move quickly, we might catch up to them before they reach the Midders.”
“The Dragon who has him is concealing his life pattern from me,” said Michael. “I can tell Stefn is alive and moving, but that is all. Besides, without my cethe, I’m no match for him.”
“But surely you’re not giving up?”
Michael shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “There’s another cethe in Tantagrel, my friend, and I mean to have him.”
Stefn wedged himself at the furthest end of the seat and wondered where they were. Since the beginning of this terrible journey, the shades had been drawn tightly over the windows.
He was exhausted. His shoulders ached and his wrists, shackled at his back, were chafed raw. What sleep he’d been able to snatch these past few days had been fitful, broken up by dreams and the incessant movement of their coach.
Across the cab sat Lieutenant Brant. The Dragon had long since dispensed with his elderly peasant disguise. He did not wear his uniform, choosing instead to attire himself in cream colored breeches with matching waistcoat, the latter elaborately embroidered in pinks, blues and yellows. His coat was of blue broadcloth, exquisitely tailored, and his neckcloth tied in an elaborate bow and pinned with a large blue sapphire.
At the moment, both waist-coat and jacket were folded neatly on the seat beside him, for it was dreadfully hot inside the coach, nearly suffocating. He seemed not to notice, however. Eyes half-closed, he rarely spoke, but Stefn noticed his lips moved frequently. Familiar now with the sensation of working magic, Stefn knew the warrior-mage wove spells, but what spells, the man refused to say.
“He’ll find me, you know,” said Stefn.
There was no answer, only the merest, mocking smile.
“I said, he’ll find me! He knows where I am all the time!”
“Be silent!” rasped the warrior-mage, eyes opening long enough to direct a fierce glare at Stefn. “Be silent or I’ll drug you again!”
They were on their way to Zelenov. The lieutenant had been more than happy to describe the fate Stefn could expect once he arrived there.
The coach slowed, rounding a corner. Stefn summoned his courage. He launched himself across the cab, driving his shoulder into the Dragon’s chest with all his strength. The man choked, breath driven from his body, and started to slip from the seat. Rolling onto his back, Stefn desperately kicked out, catching the mage a glancing blow on the jaw. Then, he scrambled to sit up, to reach the door of the coach and work the handle with his shackled hands.
Words stole the air from Stefn’s lungs, ringing through his head like a death knell. His knees gave out and he fell forward onto the floor, unable to move. After an eternity, the Dragon’s fists locked in his hair and dragged him back to the seat. Several rapid, open-handed blows across his face sent Stefn’s thoughts spinning away.
“Bastard! Sin-catcher!” he heard. His ears rang and he swallowed blood.
The carriage stopped. He blinked through tear-filled eyes. The Dragon, his pretty clothes dirty and blood-stained, stumbled out. It was dark. Stefn heard the singing of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl. They were in the countryside, but where?
The knightmage returned. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. Even in the dim light of the travel lamp, his expression was one of livid rage. He hauled Stefn up by his collar, dragging him to the door of the coach. Stefn had a confused glimpse of several Hunters standing outside, then the Dragon tossed him out.
“Show him,” spat Brant, “Show the little whore what he’s earned for his stupidity!”
The Hunters closed in around Stefn, jeering and showering him with insults and blows. They ripped his clothes from him, leaving him naked and screaming at them to stop. Then they dragged him through the weeds and dirt of the road-side, throwing him face-down over a large rock. He knew then what they intended and closed his eyes, whispering a prayer.
It was worse than he could have imagined. Michael’s assault during the Binding was nothing compared to this. Their brutal thrusts ripped him apart. Someone had pushed a piece of his torn shirt into his mouth, muffling his screams. He thought in a dim, hopeless way there must be dozens of them, taking their pleasure with deliberate, savage force, going on and on until he could no longer summon the strength to cry out. His body went limp, flopping helplessly as they rammed into him again and again. He began to lose track of himself, slipping toward welcoming darkness.
Suddenly it stopped. He lay, splayed over the rock, gut afire, unable to move. He couldn’t even summon the hope that it was over.
They lifted him from the ground and he promptly lost consciousness, waking moments later in the coach, face down on the floor. A hand descended on the small of his back, forcing a gasp of pain. Then warmth spread out, banishing the agony.
“If it were up to me, I’d leave you to enjoy it.” The voice of the knightmage floated somewhere above him. “But His Eminence expects you delivered in one piece. In the meantime, you can stay down there, in the dirt, where you belong.”
His Majesty, Severyn Lothlain, laid siege to Lothmont’s Cathedral for a week before Montaigne surrendered. The king himself rode through the gate and into the debris-strewn courtyard, past the Sanctuary, now cracked and broken from cannon fire, to the Domicile at the back. There, under the watchful eye of Jeremy and a large contingent of Iarhlaith guard, priests huddled in sullen apprehension. The Bishop was locked in his apartments, refusing at the last moment to open the doors. A battering ram smashed them to splinters and the corpulent Montaigne was hauled out, screaming curses down on their heads.
Outside the Cathedral, the citizens of Lothmont watched, cheering on the soldiers who emerged, escorting their dispirited prisoners. A rain of dirt and offal fell on the clerics, who shuffled and hunched their shoulders, doubtless glad for their mounted guards.
When Severyn appeared, the cheers became thunderous. He stopped and raised a hand. At once, a hush fell over the crowd.
“This is your house!” he shouted, waving toward the buildings behind him. “Take it back!”
He rode on then, not looking over his shoulder as the crowd swept through the gates and into an orgy of looting.
“Why not?” he said when Jeremy gave him a reproachful look. “Do you really think Loth cares about jeweled statues, fine furnishings and gold? All those treasures were collected on the backs of the people of Lothmont. Let them take what is theirs.”
“They’ll kill each other!”
“Maybe.”
Severyn was not yet officially king of Tanyrin. The coronation required an Archbishop and the current one was fleeing across the Midders to Zelenov as fast as his horse could take him. The Advisori, however, had met in emergency session and approved the transfer of power. He was king in all but name for the moment. But then, that
had been true for some time.
At least Arami was buried. The ceremony had been private, attended only by Severyn and his friends. Eleanor had been interred in the mausoleum near the royal tomb; Severyn had refused to dishonor his brother by burying her with him. Even so, there were times, late at night, when he woke in the dark, the image of her mutilated corpse before him, telling of more rage and hate than he had believed Arami capable.
The Royal Guard controlled Thaelrick bridge again. Hunters, most of the foot-soldiers, at least, had melted into the city by simply casting aside their uniforms. Severyn wasn’t interested in them; he wanted the officers. He suspected more than a few priests had abandoned the Cathedral, as well, but the resentment of the people would make rounding them up easy.
Out in the countryside, it was a different matter. In spite of making a show of Petitions and lawful procedures, the Church had been quietly augmenting its troops for several years. Some towns were firmly in the hands of renegade clerics and Hunters. It would take time, lives and money to root them out, but root them out he must. Until the West was firmly in his hands, the new king couldn’t even think about bringing the lands east of the Midders under control.
Reaching the gate, he was pleased to see Auron and Forry.
“Your Majesty!” called Auron, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re looking especially king-like today, if I do say so.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” retorted Sev. “How has your morning gone?”
“That pesky group of Hunters holed up in the Treasury?” Forrest made a chopping motion with his hand. “Several of them were officers whose families, I daresay, will be more than happy to pay for their release.”
“We’ll see. The royal treasury can surely use all the funds it can get, but not at the expense of loosing dangerous men back into the kingdom.”
The three rode on through the bridge and out onto the long span to the island. More Guards were there, their numbers bolstered by militias loaned by members of the Advisori who could spare them.
In the palace, Severyn was greeted by Lord Damon. The duke fell into step with him, headed toward the prince’s private apartments.
“Is Gabriel here yet?” asked the new king.
“He just arrived.” Arranz nodded to Forry and Auron, both of whom bowed, more intimidated by the duke than by their king. “My grandson has arrived, as well.”
“Already?”
Arranz smiled, but he didn’t look particularly pleased. “As a parting gesture, it seems that Locke has stolen his cethe.”
“Eldering? They’ve taken the earl?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Pity.” Severyn tried not to notice the way his heart lifted. “How fortunate we still have Remy in our possession.”
“Hmm.”
Severyn looked sharply at him, but Lord Damon stared straight ahead, tension in the set of his jaw. Nevertheless, the prince was delighted to hear Mick had arrived. He’d not expected his friend for several days yet.
Guards at the doors to his apartment sprang to attention, hurrying to open them. Severyn quickened his pace as Michael, seated on a sofa near the open window, rose quickly to greet him. “Mick! Damn, it’s good to see you!”
“And you, too.”
They embraced warmly. Severyn set him back, gaze devouring him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, my friend! There’s one hell of a lot to do, not the least of which is to return to Shia and bring back your troops.”
“Mine?”
“With Arami dead, Shia belongs to the Arranzes again. Uncle Damon says you’re to live there. How does an extra title sound to you? Say… Earl?”
“There’s already an earl,” said Michael, “and he’s in the hands of the enemy. Sev, I need some men to go after him.”
Severyn could not help darting a look at the duke whose mouth tightened. Michael saw the glance and shook his head. “I know he’s being taken to Zelenov. If we move fast, we can cut them off. I need him, Sev!”
“You don’t,” retorted Severyn, throat tight. “Loth, man! I’ve still got Remy locked up downstairs. You can have him any time you want him! I need you here, with me! We have a kingdom to set to rights!”
“You have grandfather and the others. You have Storm,” replied Michael doggedly. “Remy isn’t the same. He doesn’t give me enough power and we’re not bound. Besides, it’s not fair! We cannot simply abandon Eldering to them! He was our comrade! He worked at our side!”
“Because he was forced to,” interrupted the Duke. “Damn it, boy! Listen to your king! What is the life of an Eldering to the good of Tanyrin?”
“Mick…”
“Just a handful of men, two or three, that’s all I ask!”
“God, Mick…”
“Eldering deserves our help!”
“They’re likely holding him for use as a hostage. I’ve had reports of two other lords who are missing. We’ll hear from Zelenov soon enough.”
“But you can’t be sure!”
“You sound like you’re in love with the damned sin-catcher!”
Mick went still. His expression cut Severyn to the soul.
“Look. Give it some time,” Severyn urged, his own heart aching. “Let’s see what happens. I’m sending a messenger to Zelenov anyway. I’ll put in a demand for his return. It will start the negotiations. In the meantime, I need you.”
Michael swallowed visibly. He nodded. “As you wish, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing.
It was like getting slapped in the face. Severyn wanted to shout at him, to remind him who he was, who they were, and what they had always meant to each other. Instead, he said, “Thank you.”
“Michael,” said the duke in a forbidding voice. “A word?”
Severyn recognized that tone and shot a quick look at Lord Damon. That face, so similar to Michael’s, was stone cold. Michael lifted his head in response, meeting his grandfather’s icy stare without flinching. “There is no need for a scold, grandfather. I understand the situation perfectly well. If you please, my lords, sire, I will go at once to prepare for the journey back to Shia.”
PART XXV
The last of the Lothlain kings to wield the power of high lothria was Aramis IV, murdered by naran assassins in YLD1422. With the passing of the throne to the family’s secondary line, no Lothlain since has possessed even slight magical ability.
from: Craig, A Modern History of Tanyrin,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1506
Stefn drifted in and out of nightmarish darkness. There were times when he almost woke, and in those times, he was vaguely aware of movement, of voices around him, and of pain. But the darkness always returned, waves of it crashing down, drowning him in its thick, cold depths, until he thought he might be dead and in Hell.
Finally, he rose from oblivion to a different, more natural darkness. He opened his eyes and saw flickering firelight, his awareness filling with the scent of forest and damp. There was hard ground beneath him. His head ached and he was desperately thirsty. When he tried to move, a wash of dizziness made him groan and close his eyes again.
“It wakes,” came a voice from somewhere to his left. Dry leaves crunched; a stick snapped. Heavy footsteps came toward him. Stefn tried to roll over and see who approached, but discovered himself still bound. The next moment, someone seized the back of his coat and hauled him to his feet, pulling him around. He saw a fire, the silhouettes of men seated around it. Everything spun wildly. If not for the merciless grip holding him upright, he would have collapsed.
Memories came back in a rush. He was in the hands of Zelenov. They had been riding across the northern parishes, making for the Midders, but for some reason, there had been patrols of the Royal Guard everywhere. In the end, his captors had abandoned the carriage, traveling on horseback and only at night. Then he had been drugged again, Brant had not wanted to take any chances.
The Hunter dragged him toward the fire. He was unceremoniously thrust back to his knees. He looked around for Brant, but there was onl
y darkness and the Dragon’s men, grinning at him in the firelight.
“Pretty little whore, ain’t he?”
“I wouldn’t mind another go at him.”
Laughter, cruel and derisive, hit him from all sides. If only he could think straight! Stefn tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was too dry.
“Water,” he croaked.
His reply was more laughter.
“You want a drink, sathra?” one of the soldiers asked, lurching to his feet. Stefn watched in horror as the soldier opened his breeches. “Come and get it.”
Shaking his head, he tried to edge away, but they grabbed him and pulled him closer to the fire.
“Leave me alone!” He struggled, but they had no trouble dumping him on his belly beside the fire. He heard fabric ripping and felt cool, damp air on suddenly bare skin.
There was silence. Stefn knew they were looking at the lethet. After his rape, he’d heard them talking about it, speculating on its value.
One of the Hunters, a hatchet-faced man not much older than himself, reached toward the collar. “There must be a fuckin’ fortune in jewels!”
“He’s not gonna need ‘im where he’s goin’,” said another Hunter with a sly look around. “I say we have a closer look.”
“Brant won’t like it,” warned an older Hunter, grizzled and with a long scar running down the side of his face.
“He ain’t here.”
Stefn was pulled back to his knees, his coat hanging in tatters around his shackled wrists, his shirt gaping open. The hatchet-faced man dragged him close and tried to slide his fingers under the collar to pull it away. There was a spark and loud crack. Yelping and sucking on his fingers, Hatchet-Face lurched to his feet, backing away.
“It’s sorcery!” he cried, making the sign against evil.
“What did you expect?” came a familiar voice, cool and dry. “He’s a naragi’s whore. Keep your hands off him if you don’t want such unpleasant surprises.”