by Becca Abbott
“Your book must be lying,” whispered Stefn. “What is it, anyway?”
“It’s the Third Chronicle, of course,” said Locke with a grim smile. “Written by the ancestor of your precious naragi master.”
“It does exist?”
Locke inclined his head mockingly. “Naturally it leaves us with only one choice.” He leaned back and looked from one Dragon to the next. “We’ll simply have to convince Lord Eldering that he does, indeed, want desperately to be free.”
Michael paced the small, stifling room. He’d long since grown accustomed to the noisy, odiferous presence of the cattle outside the inn, but the heat was impossible to ignore. He was sweating gallons, it seemed, and Remy’s apparent indifference to the temperature was irritating him no end.
For days they’d been stuck here, waiting for Auron to gather the information he needed, going outside only after dark for a few breaths of fresh, evening air. At least the hubbub of his near-discovery had died down. On his return from his first trip out, Auron had reported a search underway for suspected rebels and not, as Michael had feared, for a western naragi.
“Apparently, all is not sweetness and light in the East,” Auron said in tones of satisfaction. “Locke has his enemies here, too. Word is buzzing in the streets that he and some of his Dragons will be leaving soon, riding south to root out a nest of rebels holed up in one of the coastal towns.”
“Rabble,” spat Remy from his cot in the corner of their room.
Michael, however, found the news cheering. “When?” he asked.
“Any day,” replied Auron, adding, “sooner rather than later, I hope.”
Infiltrating the well-guarded Cathedral would be much safer with fewer Dragon mages to contend with. Even so, for Stefn’s sake, Michael was reluctant to wait much longer.
His new plan was hardly ideal, but after a much discussion, neither he nor Auron could think of a better one. Auron, with unseemly enthusiasm, abandoned their oven of a room and headed out into the streets to collect the necessary props.
Remy jeered openly, but when Michael threatened to gag him, he shut his mouth and contented himself with sneering. “It’ll never work,” he promised. “You haven’t the bearing for it, my lord.”
“Damn it!” growled Michael. “Where is Challory? If he’s out having a cool drink in the shade of some tavern, I’ll kill him!” He stalked to the window for the hundredth time. Outside, restless cattle jostled about in their pens, filling the air with dust and stench. The narrow lane running between the stockyard and the inn was full of people bustling about, but there was no sign of the tall, dark-haired nobleman.
“Maybe he was caught,” Remy suggested. “And even now, guards are approaching.”
“You had better hope not,” Michael replied. “Or they will suffer the same fate as your companions in Lothmont.”
“If so, Mazril will know you are here and every Dragon in the city will be on your trail.” Remy bared his teeth in a vulpine grin. “I would die happily if I knew justice would finally be served.”
A rattle at the door saved Michael from a stinging reply. He whirled, reaching for his sword, but it was only Auron, a large paper bag in hand.
“Food,” he announced as Michael shut and locked the door after him. “And the very latest in Zelenovian fashion for you, my lord.”
He dumped the bag on the table. Several oranges tumbled out. There were paper-wrapped sandwiches of thick, crusty bread, cheese and sausage, as well. At the bottom of the bag was another paper-wrapped bundle, but this one did not contain food. Instead, a wad of grey fabric tumbled out. Michael picked it up and shook it out.
“You cannot be serious!”
“Ah, but I assure you, it’s what the Penitents serving in the Domicile wear. I have it on excellent authority.”
Michael flapped the brief tunic at Remy, whose lip curled.
“I brought you this, too.” Auron produced a tiny brush and a small pot of paint. “You’ll need a brand.”
“Where did you get this?” Michael asked. According to common knowledge in Zelenov, only the most beautiful of Penitents served in the Domicile. If this was all they wore, it was obvious what at least some of their duties were.
“Stole it,” replied Auron, unwrapping a sandwich. He threw one to Remy, who caught it awkwardly with bound hands. “There’s a tailor near the barracks who makes them for the Cathedral. The fellow had a few sly jokes to make about his noble clientele, too. I wonder if Locke imagines folk around here haven’t figured out what they’re doing there.” This was accompanied by a smirk at Remy, who turned his back on them.
Leaning closer, one eye on their prisoner, Auron said in a low voice, “I walked past the fort. There’s a lot of activity. It looks like they’re going to be riding out soon. I suspect tonight will be the time to make your move.”
Michael nodded.
Auron finished his sandwich and disappeared downstairs, returning with a bucket of water and a basin. Michael washed out the black hair-dye, a messy process that had his friend running up and down several times with more buckets until the water finally ran clear. Afterwards, Michael sat in front of the window while the sun blazed in, drying his long, white mane and combing it until it lay straight and shining over his shoulders.
The tunic fit, but the shortness of the skirt brought color to his face. Auron gave a low whistle and grinned appreciatively. Even Remy seemed taken aback. When Michael caught him staring, the Hunter sneered again. “You’d make a good slave,” he said.
Michael smiled grimly. “That’s the idea.” Hastily, he pulled breeches and a shirt over the garment. Tying back his hair, he sat down on the edge of the bed while Auron used the paint to trace the Penitent’s mark on his forehead. After that, there was nothing to do but wait for nightfall.
After an eternity, it seemed, the sun finally set.
“Good luck,” Auron said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Don’t waste any time waiting for me,” said Michael. “Get out of the city. Stefn and I will meet you at the rendevous point.”
He left them, slipping down the back stairs of the inn, wrapped in his cloak, hood pulled forward to hide the brand. His hair was bound up in a black scarf, for even with the hood, its brilliance threatened to give him away.
Michael chose a different set of houses to clamber onto, a different section of the fortress wall to scale. The place was alight and alive. Soldiers ran to and fro while a large number of men gathered in a front courtyard, fully armored and armed. It seemed Auron was right. Michael dropped to his belly, lying flat across the top of the wall. His eyes narrowed as a group of horsemen came into view from around a nearby building. Locke!
The Archbishop was dressed in his Dragon uniform and accompanied by two others of his Order. Hunters fell into formation behind him. A bell clanged and the gate opened. Michael watched as the entire group rode out, the road lit by men running ahead with torches. Without wasting another moment, he jumped up and ran along the wall, headed for the Cathedral.
His luck held. Michael found a clump of trees growing along the interior of the Cathedral’s wall and, in their shelter, clambered down onto the lawn. Keeping to the concealment of the shrubs and low, ornamental trees, he reached the Domicile. He wrapped himself tightly in the cloak, getting as close as he dared to what he hoped was the kitchen door. Two guards stood before it, talking to each other animatedly and paying scant attention to what went on around them. Picking up a stone, Michael heaved it as far away as he could. At the subsequent rattle, the guards broke off their conversation and hurried to investigate. Holding tight to his cloak, Michael slipped inside the now abandoned doorway.
From the smells and distant clatter of crockery, he was indeed near the kitchens. Fat bags of flour and grain were stacked against a nearby wall, along with big earthenware jugs of oil and casks of wine. Quickly, he shed his cloak, stuffing it behind the jugs. Pulling the tie from his hair, he shook it free.
He felt ridiculously vu
lnerable in the tunic. The slightest bend this way or that would expose his most private parts. He gritted his teeth, telling himself that if the Penitents could bear it, so could he.
The impulse to seek out Stefn’s life force was almost irresistible, but resist it he did. He’d availed himself of Remy before setting out, but that didn’t mean he had power to spare or that there weren’t knightmages on watch. Slipping over to the kitchen door, he peered inside the room behind. Long past the dinner hour, it was mostly deserted save for a few Penitents scrubbing pots, their backs to him. He crept in and, under the cover of clattering pans and dishes, seized a bottle of wine.
At the sink, one of the Penitents started to turn around. Michael ducked behind a table, listening to the pad of bare feet crossing the room then returning. When he looked again, the Penitent was back at the sink with his partner, a new heap of dirty dishes beside them.
Michael looked quickly around. Newly washed and dried dishes were laid out on long white cloth atop a nearby table, among them, several wine-glasses. He risked the smallest glamour to run across the kitchen, snatch one, and left the room. Leaning against the wall just outside, he gathered his wits for his next move.
Where would they have Stefn? Remembering the wave of terror and pain he’d felt in the mountains, Michael reckoned grimly the bastards had him locked up in the cellars. There would probably be a stairway somewhere nearby.
Leaving the kitchen behind, he ventured down a corridor and out into a large, open foyer dominated by a graceful double staircase leading up to a mezzanine.
“You! Slave!”
Michael froze. He turned slowly and found himself face to face with a Dragon. The knightmage, a sharp, suspicious look on his face, seemed taken aback.
“What are you doing?”
“I-I… ” Quickly Michael dropped to one knee, hoping it was an appropriate response. “I’m lost, m’lord.”
“Indeed.” Something in the Dragon’s voice made Michael risk a quick glance into his face. The man’s eyes were alight and a smile played around his lips. Michael’s skin crawled. “You must be new.”
“Y-yes, m’lord.”
“And quite a beauty, at that.”
Taken aback, Michael decided the best answer was modest silence.
“Stand up. Let me have a look at you. You look a little old for Service, but damned if you aren’t a fine one.”
Gulping, Michael did so. The Dragon advanced, walking slowly around him. When the man stopped and lifted the skirt of his tunic, it took everything Michael had not to slap his hand away.
“Magnificent!” The Dragon all but licked his lips. He looked furtively around. “We’re supposed to report to the parade ground, but I think I can spare a few minutes. Come! And bring the wine.”
Michael wasn’t sure whether to laugh or curse. From the bulge in the man’s breeches, it was obvious what the Dragon intended. Meekly, he trailed after him, up the stairs and, finally, to a spacious, well-appointed bedroom.
“Take off your tunic and bend over,” the Dragon said, pointing to a nearby table. “I don’t have much time.”
“What is it, my lord? Is it true the troops are riding south to crush the rebels?”
“What do you care?” snapped the impatient Dragon. “Bend over!”
Michael pulled off the tunic. The mage’s jaw dropped. The fool was almost drooling with lust. Adopting what he hoped was a seductive smile, Michael advanced on him, lifting a hand to stroke the mage’s face.
“Ah, like that, is it?” the mage growled, seizing his wrist. “I’ll be sure to… agh!”
Quick as lightning, Michael spun him around and the mage suddenly found himself with his arm twisted up behind his back, wrist held firmly and painfully between his shoulder blades. With his other hand, Michael divested the Dragon of the dirk resting in its sheath at his belt.
“Stefn Eldering,” he said softly into the man’s ear. “Where is he?”
The cell door opened. Stefn heard it and wept. He didn’t try to look around, to see who came this time to use him, to wring more pain from his body, to demand obedience he could not give.
Once again, his wrists were released from the chains holding them over his head. The room whirled sickeningly as he crumpled to the cold, wet floor. Hands in his hair dragged him up.
“Take if off,” he heard. The voice was familiar. All of them were familiar now. Each Dragon gave the same order, pretending he had a choice before the torment began again.
“Take it off!”
The lethet. They wanted him to take off the lethet, but his hands were too swollen and his fingers slipped uselessly against the unyielding crust of jewels and gold.
“Fool! Do you love this so much?” The voice echoed down from a great distance. The fist in his hair pulled his head back and, through his tears, he saw a hard, angular face twisted by impatience and lust. “Then taste this!”
Stefn opened his mouth automatically, having learned by now what was expected. The hard flesh thrust in, cutting off his breath, slamming against the back of his raw throat. He choked and gagged with each careless thrust, wishing this time the coming flood of hot liquid would choke him and end this horror.
But his tormenter had other plans, pulling away. The room spun again as Stefn was hauled up, his wrists locked once more in the manacles, and he was left dangling. Hands on his bruised and lacerated hips lifted him, accompanied by the grunts of his tormenter. Stefn cried out, impaled on the rock-hard member still slippery with his own spit and blood.
“I almost hope you don’t take it off,” the man grunted in his ear. “So none of us will be deprived of this exquisite pleasure.”
“Martin!” A new voice came, filled with urgency.
The brutal ramming paused. Stefn’s head fell forward onto his chest. Tears ran into his open mouth; his breath raked his torn throat.
“Locke has left the city,” came the new voice. “Kinshaw hasn’t reported for duty and his patrol sits idle on the parade ground.”
“Damn it! The bastard is probably off somewhere, porking one of the…”
Stefn whimpered as the dreadful pressure disappeared. Abruptly, he was left alone, hanging from his wrists. The voices receded; he could make little sense of the words and didn’t even try. Gratefully, he let himself slip into semiconsciousness, taking the respite it offered, however brief.
The creak of the hinges brought him out of it at once. No respite then. He choked back a sob, trembling as rapid footsteps approached. He tried to speak, to plead for mercy, to beg for the chance to try the lethet one more time, anything to put off the coming agony.
“Stefn. Dear God!”
He knew the voice! In the jumbled confusion of his thoughts, Stefn felt a sudden warm surge of hope. He blinked rapidly and tried to turn his head, but his torn shoulders sent bolts of fire through his body.
Someone was swearing, a low, nonstop litany of profanity. With a click, his shackles opened. He fell into waiting arms, arms that cradled his battered body with great tenderness.
Dreaming. He was dreaming.
“I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them all!”
He heard the rage and moaned, expecting the pain to begin, but, “Easy, Stefn. Easy.”
Stefn was laid down onto the cold, damp stones. His eyelids fluttered. Above him appeared an angel haloed in light. He found the strength to lift one hand, to try and reach the angel’s face. “You… you look… you look like Michael… ”
“I am Michael,” said the angel in a choked voice. “Hold on, Stefn.”
Michael? Of course it wasn’t Michael. Michael was far away in the west. Stefn closed his eyes. Any moment, the door would open and one of the Dragons would be back. It would all begin again. He felt tears on his face and marveled that he could still have them after so much weeping.
Yet the pain didn’t come again. It faded swiftly, like water going down a drain. His thoughts steadied. His world came back into focus. The angel, however, remained, hands moving over
his naked body, gentle hands, healing everywhere they touched.
And it was the angel who was crying! How very odd.
Michael abandoned all caution escaping the Domicile. He used his power freely, mowing down guards and Dragons alike. It was fortunate there were few of the latter to be found, for his indiscriminate use of k’na quickly sapped his strength. He never hesitated, however, wanting only to get Stefn away from this hellish place, to get him somewhere safe.
His precious burden said nothing at all. Stefn’s arms were wrapped tightly around his neck as he strode through the halls. Words howled around him. Men scattered, priest and Penitent alike. He heard walls break and ceilings crash behind him. Screams echoed in the holocaust he spun. Flames leapt greedily to his right and left. Nothing could stand in his path; his rage cut through stone like butter.
Suddenly, there was only sky overhead. Where was he?
“Michael?”
“Shhh.”
They were at the front of the Domicile. Soldiers were running toward them from the fortress gate.
“Michael! I can walk. Let me down!”
Stefn’s voice was strong and annoyed. Michael released him.
“They have the Third Chronicle, Michael! The book written by Derek…”
Michael almost laughed. Trust Stefn to fix on that!
“Let them keep it,” he retorted. “I’d rather have you than…”
He broke off, seeing what he wanted. Horses! Michael took Stefn’s hand and they ran.
The horses were terrified, but Michael seized the will of the nearest, jumping onto its back and pulling Stefn up before him. Weaving an arcane shield around them, he sent the terrified, ensorcelled beast leaping forward, lending buoyancy to its hooves. They thundered through the fortress gate, trampling the soldiers who tried to block their path, galloping toward the next gate and the way out.
Ahead, a line of horseman waited. Dragons! Their heads were bowed, their hands held together in prayer. The air shimmered and power beat against his shield. Stefn whimpered and the horse stumbled, slowing. NO!