by Becca Abbott
Michael replied. “Tell me, Remy, if I were to torture you, would he feel it? Your master, Locke?”
Remy, frightened, turned his face from the glowing end of the stick.
“It is Locke, isn’t it?” Michael thrust the end of the stick at him.
“Leave off, Mick!”
Michael rocked back on his heels. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Auron looking up from his bedroll.
“No,” said Remy. The word was a breath. “Our bond is not so close.”
Rustling at his back told Michael Auron was up. A moment later, his friend was crouched beside him. “Don’t do it,” he said. “You aren’t one of those bastards.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” But Michael let him take the stick and throw it back into the fire. “They’re torturing Stefn.”
“You can tell?”
Michael nodded.
“Loth.” Auron ran a hand through his tousled hair.
“So you are Locke’s cethe!”
“I’m his aide and shield brother,” Remy retorted. “He is not a naragi!”
“The hell!” Auron exclaimed.
“Semantics,” Mick replied, not taking his eyes from Remy.
“Mazril is a knightmage, the same as St. Arami was! He wields the power of lothria, not black magic!”
“I see little difference,” retorted Michael.
“You lose your power if you sleep with a woman,” replied Remy. “The knightmages do not.”
“How do you know? Have you ever seen Locke bed his wife? Have you ever seen any of the knightmages do so?”
Remy’s mouth tightened. “No,” he said after a moment. “Women are not allowed in the Zelenov Domicile. He has another house in Zelenov where Lady Locke stays.”
“Holy Mother of Aramis,” Auron exclaimed. “Are you telling me that Locke’s never bedded that luscious armful he married?”
“That’s not what I said!”
Michael and Auron stared at each other, astounded. “It would explain Charity’s, er, many gentlemen friends,” said Auron finally.
Michael laughed hollowly. “Son of a bitch,” he said finally. “They’re hypocrites! How long, I wonder? How long have these so-called men of God been using the Dark Stream?”
“It’s not like that! Since the days of St. Aramis, the Dragons have always wielded only the power of the Light!”
“So they say.” Auron rose, looking down. “But we’ve seen how quick you and your masters are to embrace lies.”
“Indeed,” said Michael. “Shall we make another wager, Captain Remy? When it comes to the power of magic, who will God favor? The priest or the demon?”
Minutes crawled by; perhaps hours. Sick with dread and miserably uncomfortable, Stefn lay across the bed, eyes fixed on the shadowed canopy overhead, every fiber of his being tuned to the sound of the door opening again. When it finally happened, he had to bite his lip to keep back the small sound of dread.
The click of boot heels broke the quiet.
“Ahh. Very good,” came Locke’s voice, deep and smoky. “Beautiful, indeed. I can see why Arranz chose you.”
A hand came down on Stefn’s aching sex, caressing it. This time, he could not help the whimper that escaped.
“Turn over.”
Stiff from lying so long in the awkward position, Stefn did a poor job of it. He heard an impatient sound from Locke. Hands gripped his hips and pulled him up, forcing him to instinctively struggle to get his knees under him on the mattress. Locke’s fingers brushed his buttocks and, abruptly, whatever was inside him was pulled out. He cried out at the sharp, tearing pain, but the next instant, something just as big slammed into him.
“Do you feel me inside you?” Locke asked harshly. “Learn the feeling well, whore, and know that now you are serving Loth and not evil! Do penance for your crimes by giving me the power you gave to the demon!”
Stefn couldn’t answer. Each thrust drove the breath from him. He felt as if he were being torn apart, bit by bit, as Locke drove into him with a savage, hungry force.
“Give me the power!” hissed the archbishop in harsh, short gasps. “Feed me strength, O Loth, through this, the body of your enemy!”
His grunts grew louder and more urgent. He seized a handful of Stefn’s hair, pulling his head up, forcing the youth to arch backwards. Stefn’s abused nipples burned and stung as they rubbed hard against the sheets. He screamed helplessly and prayed for it to be over.
Yet it seemed Locke refused to spend himself. The savaging went on and on. Blood ran down Stefn’s thighs, hot and wet.
Abruptly, Locke pulled away, cursing. Stefn was turned onto his back and, for a moment, everything disappeared in a flood of crimson.
“Eldering!”
Blows across his face jerked him back to unwelcome consciousness. He looked up through tear-washed eyes at Locke. The man shouted at him, something to do with the collar. He shook his head helplessly.
There were hands on his neck. Someone screamed. Was it him? Stefn wasn’t sure, but suddenly the lethet flared, shooting bolts of fire through him. This time, he knew exactly whose scream it was.
The Cathedral at Zelenov stretched over the far end of the valley, a dark, ominous beast crouched above the red brick and tile-roofed city, its back against a massive overhang of sheer cliffs. Michael leaned forward in the saddle, looking down across the patchwork of irrigated fields. The ant-like figures of slaves could be seen moving slowly up and down the rows. Water-bearers, Remy said when questioned. While the west drowned, the east suffered under a long drought.
Roads zig-zagged over the surrounding hills, coming from other parts of the east, all going to Zelenov. The city was the largest on this side of the Midders, and for all practical purposes, the seat of real power.
“Don’t look like much, does it,” observed Auron. “I always thought it was bigger.”
Michael looked to his left. Remy sat silently, chained hands tight on his saddle, stubbled jaw set. He wouldn’t look at Michael.
Letting his eyes drift shut, Michael sought Stefn. His cethe’s pattern had faded; Michael saw it still, but as if through layers of gauze, indistinct. Longing welled up inside him.
I will find you and bring you back and never let you go again.
“Well?”
Michael looked westward, toward the sun settling onto the far, arid hills. “It will be dusk soon. We’ll go then.”
“And him?”
Michael shrugged. “If he causes trouble, I’ll use magic to subdue him.” He paused, smiling grimly at the other man’s tense profile. “Of course, that will mean I’ll have to replenish it later.”
A flinch. Message received.
They left their position as the sun drifted lower and the hills cast long shadows across the lowland. Joining the traffic returning to the city, they did as the other travelers, untying their neckclothes and using them as masks to filter the choking haze.
The guards at the main gate paid little attention to who entered; indeed, it was hard to see how they could, given the hodge-podge of carts and livestock, peasants and lines of chained Penitents making their way through the towering gate.
Zelenov’s narrow streets twisted and turned, going in every direction without any particular sense. The mud-brick buildings had little variation in appearance, making one street corner much like another. Eventually, however, the westerners found themselves in the district known as the Bottom, Zelenov’s fetid slums.
Auron found them rooms in a ramshackle inn near some stockyards. Once inside, they secured their prisoner and had a decidedly unremarkable meal.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t be the one to go out?” Auron asked afterwards.
“You don’t think I look human enough?”
Auron looked him up and down. “The black hair and eyebrows are a good try,” he said, “but your looks are just too damned perfect.”
Michael grinned and pulled up his neckcloth to cover his face. “How about that?”
“Actu
ally,” confessed Auron, “I was hoping not to have to sit in this oven, surrounded by that ungodly stench.”
“You don’t have cattle on your estates?”
“I don’t keep them next to my bed-chamber!”
“Maybe next time.”
“There had better not be a next time,” muttered his friend ungraciously. Stripping off his coat and shirt, both damp with sweat, Auron threw himself down on the sagging bed. “Don’t be long,” he warned. “I’m not sure how long I can stand it.”
It wasn’t much cooler in the twilit streets. Michael walked rapidly uphill, keeping an eye on the distant walls of the Cathedral. According to their maps, it lay directly above a Hunter garrison of considerable size. The only way into it was through the garrison or climbing down the cliffs rising hundreds of feet behind it.
Zelenov emptied rapidly as night descended. Michael was glad for his cloak and dyed black hair as he slipped from shadowed doorway to alley to side-street. Occasionally, he saw small Hunter patrols. They did not seem to be stopping the few people still abroad, but Michael took no chances, melting out of their sight until they had passed.
He reached the garrison at moon’s first light. The gates were shut fast and guarded, but in some places, buildings had been constructed right up against the fortress. Scrambling onto their roofs, he was able, without too much difficulty, to scale the remaining bit of wall.
From the looks of it, he reckoned the fort held several thousand men. That was a considerable number; certainly more troops than were needed to keep order in a single town, even with a Cathedral as important as Zelenov’s. He thought about Storm’s estimate of the Hunter numbers in the west. Added to this and the other Hunters they’d seen so far, the number of Locke’s Zelenovian troops took on more sinister proportions.
Michael ran along the top of the wall, keeping low. He cast a small witch-glamor around himself, hoping to trick any eye that might lift in his direction. The Cathedral wall loomed before him, eight or nine feet higher than the walls of the fortress. He got a running start and just managed to grab the top, hauling himself up and onto it. There, he lay, catching his breath.
The Cathedral boasted a collection of large, stone structures. Michael easily picked out the Domicile. Several stories high, it’s façade was elaborately carved, decorated with fine marble and embellished with balconies, dormers, widow’s-walks, and surrounded by elegantly manicured lawns. Yellow light shone out of diamond-paned windows. Michael saw no sign of soldiers.
However, as he considered where to descend, he felt a strange shiver run across his skin, lifting the hairs on his body. From somewhere among the trees and shrubbery below he heard a shout. A moment later, several figures appeared in the moonlight. His heart jumped. Most of them were Hunters, but there was a priest with them. Worse, the latter pointed straight at him.
Michael turned and ran, jumping back down onto the fortress wall. Below him, the alarm was raised. He threw a shield around himself as questing tendrils of power probed the night. Bells began to clang. Cursing, he kept going. Soldiers erupted from the buildings.
Without warning, Michael was struck by an invisible force, nearly knocking him off the wall. Only his shield protected him, deflecting the blow at the last possible moment. Desperately, he leapt from the wall to a roof below, hitting hard and rolling down. At the last minute, he grabbed hold of the eaves and managed to keep from falling to the street.
All around, shutters flew open. The clanging behind the wall grew louder as the alarms spread through the fort. Michael dropped to the ground. Sweeping his cloak tight around him, he ran.
PART XXVIII
Now comes before the Court Jeanette Williams, h’naran female, twenty-six years of age, accused of the foul crime of witchcraft. Wherein it is sworn that Jeanette Williams did curse her employer, Mrs. Leonie Scrapp, with boils, did cause the household milk to curdle, and incite the children toward disobedience and disrespect. Note is made of Mrs. Leonie’s generosity and kindness in extending this wayward soul the beneficence of good employment, for which she was so basely repaid. We humbly beseech the judge to find the Williams woman guilty and show the mercy for which this Court is so famous by giving her over to the Church so that she may swear a Vow of Penitence.
from: Case Records, Royal Court of Fornsby,
9 Rulkel,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1423
Stefn was only dimly aware when the healers came, laying hands on him and knitting his torn flesh. They could do little with his shattered spirit, however. He lay in his cramped, cold cell and did his best to shut away the misery, refusing to speak, ignoring the food and drink the slaves brought. Each time the cell door opened, his entire body tensed until he thought his bones would crack. Each time he was sure he would be dragged back to Locke’s bedroom and, when he wasn’t, it took forever for his shaking to stop.
That was not to say he was left alone. At first, men came and went, all of them intent on the lethet. They brought saws and cutters of all kinds, and their attempts to remove it were often worse than what he’d already endured. But finally, they seemed to give up and stopped coming.
Someone, at some time, gave him clothing, the same brief, grey tunic worn by the Penitents, but it did little to keep away the cold of his subterranean chamber. He hardly noticed, lost in a haze of despair, indifferent to what went on around him.
There was no way of knowing how much time had passed in this gloomy place. The only light lay outside his cell. The dark made it easier to lose himself in the past, those fleeting months when, as Michael’s cethe, he’d known unparalleled freedom and happiness. How bitterly he regretted not recognizing those days for what they had truly been, a brief respite in a life otherwise distinguished only by misery and pain.
The violence of the Binding had faded to a point where he could view it dispassionately. What came after had been far more important — Michael’s remorse, the friendship that had grown between them and, in his heart at least, a feeling that had transcended even that. Was this what it truly meant to be a sin-catcher? To have paradise dangled before him, then swept away? If so, then Loth be damned!
It was too much to hope that he would be left alone forever. The doors opened again and this time, it was neither priests nor slaves, but Dragons, grim-faced and disinclined to listen to his pleas. They forced him to accompany them from the cellars and up into the main portion of the Domicile. To his relief, however, he wasn’t taken to Locke’s bedchamber. Instead, he was escorted to a spacious chamber illuminated by tall, diamond-paned windows and furnished with a long, shining table. Seated at the table in high-backed chairs were a dozen men of varying ages.
At the head of it, Locke sat, regarding Stefn with brooding intensity. On his right hand was an elderly priest. The others wore Hunter uniforms with the red braid of the Dragon Order. Before them were piles of books, some lying open, others in precarious heaps.
Stefn’s guards took him to the end of the table opposite Locke and left him standing alone. He heard them withdraw and the door close. The men at the table stared fixedly at him, but Stefn realized after a moment, it was the lethet they were studying.
“I can think of no other explanation, Lord Locke,” the old priest said. “‘Tis that collar. Not only does it defy attempts to remove it, many of the gems are unknown to us.”
“I thought the lethets were just identification, a mark of status, like the tattoos of our shield brothers,” Locke said, scowling. “Are you saying it has actual power?”
“So it would seem,” replied the old man. “I see no other explanation. Do you?”
Locke laughed harshly, lifting a bandaged hand.
“Then how do we get it off?” He glared at the elderly priests.
“We must consult the book.”
Locke’s face twisted. “The book of lies?” he sneered.
“It is a naran book and that is a naran thing,” retorted the old priest.
“We contaminate ourselves each time we touch th
e naragi’s Chronicle!”
Muttering arose from the Dragons. The old priest, however, was unmoved. Reaching across the table, he pulled over a large, rune-covered box. Opening it, he removed a book. In spite of his fear, Stefn’s attention sharpened.
The old man opened the book and, with a bony finger, traced down the page. Silence settled over the room while he read, lips moving silently.
Finally, he lifted his head, a look of astonishment on his face. “The cethe has the power to remove it himself.”
The entire room erupted into exclamations of surprise and varying degrees of disbelief.
“Is it true? It’s that easy?”
“According to this, should the heart of the cethe turn away from his lord, he can easily remove the lethet and be free.”
Stefn shook his head. Hadn’t he tried to remove it many times? “That’s not true,” he said. “I-I’ve tried!”
“Really?” Locke smiled crookedly. “Try again.”
With every eye fixed on him, Stefn raised shaking hands and fumbled at the collar. Nothing happened. His searching fingers had no more luck finding the clasp than they ever had and, aware of the growing impatience in the room, he tugged at it. It remained fast around his neck.
“Lies,” muttered one of the Dragons. “That damned book was written by Derek, after all. Did you expect the truth from a naragi?”
“Perhaps Lord Eldering’s heart does not wish to be free?” Locke drawled, eyes glittering across the table.
“Of course I wish it!” Panic nibbled at Stefn. He tried again to loosen the collar, but again without any success. “Why should I not?”
They watched him struggle frantically, clawing at the thing, his dismay growing.
“The book is quite clear,” said the old priest flatly. “It would seem Lord Eldering is either lying or doesn’t know his own feelings.”
“Which is it, my lord?” asked Locke, leaning forward, narrowed eyes fixed on his frightened captive.