Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  Fury, fear, love and desperation, none of it was enough! A wall of force knocked Michael back, throwing them both from the horse. He staggered to his feet, trying to draw a breath, but his strength ebbed further.

  They moved toward him, a disciplined line of knightmages, lips moving in unison. Their Words sucked the air from Michael’s lungs. He felt his knees buckling.

  Suddenly, Stefn was there, right in front of him, arms around him, mouth pressed against his.

  So be it. Let me die with him in my arms.

  Michael opened his mouth, felt the soft caress of Stefn’s tongue. He closed his eyes against the vision of death moving toward them.

  But it wasn’t death; it was k’na, a dazzling, fiery stream of it pouring into him through Stefn’s eager mouth. It crackled along Michael’s nerves, filling him with its thunderous power. From the maelstrom came a long-forgotten, primal memory. Perhaps it was Loth, seeking to set things right. Perhaps it was some older, more ancient god. At that moment, it didn’t matter to Michael. He rose from his knees, and holding Stefn close, sang out Words not heard for centuries.

  The world vanished in a flash of blinding white light. The air hummed with unrestrained power. There was a smell of burning flesh and brimstone. Half-blinded by the unworldly brilliance, Michael somehow found their horse, and got back on it, hauling Stefn after him.

  Then they were past, their horse jumping over heaps of ash where men had been. Together, they raced through the blasted fortress gates, tearing down into the city while, all around them, Hell unleashed its full fury.

  PART XXIX

  Aramis Lothlain I, the first king of united Tanyrin, represented the best of governments, in the opinion of the author, by allowing his subjects unprecedented freedom, not only of expression, but of religion. It was that very freedom that allowed the so-called Golden Age of Tanyrin to flourish.

  from Burkenrude, L.,The Government of Men,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1502

  They picked up Hunters outside the city walls. Stefn looked over his shoulder and there they were, black dots silhouetted against the blazing city, a line of riders too disciplined to be anyone but. When he tried to warn Michael, the naragi’s only response was a low curse. Michael slumped forward in the saddle, arms going slack. Stefn just managed to grab the reins before they could slip away.

  “No!” he cried. “Michael! Stay with me!”

  “M-make for the mountains. Auron… Auron will find us…” Voice trailing away, Michael went limp, sliding sideways, forcing Stefn to stop and grab hold of him lest he fall. Stefn untied the belt cinching Michael’s grey tunic and managed to bind the two of them together. Then, awkwardly, he started forward again, veering away from the main road and across the fields, headed for the distant, dark bulk of the Midders.

  It was his vague hope to get far enough ahead of their pursuers to stop, to get Michael to the ground and perform his duty as a cethe. Riding with an unconscious man before him in a land he didn’t know, however, soon convinced him that was a futile hope. The riders at their back drew inexorably closer.

  Dawn broke over the hills, sunlight sifting down through conifers to dapple the path. Stefn barely noticed. He clung grimly to the reins, Michael a dead weight in his arms, and concentrated on staying in the saddle. At least there were no knightmages among the men who followed, or they would never have made it this far. Not that it mattered. Hunters were still trained warriors and he was a naked cethe with an unconscious naragi guiding their tired horse up the steep, wooded, and wholly unfamiliar mountain slopes.

  The memory of their escape from Zelenov was burned into his brain: the explosions, the screams, the flames roaring against a black, roiling sky. It was a blur of terror and awe. Little wonder Michael had collapsed. So much power!

  What if he hadn’t stopped to heal Stefn in the dungeon? He might have had sufficient strength to throw off their pursuers. Only his body could restore Michael’s strength, but there was no time. For one dangerous moment, he nearly gave up.

  And yet… Michael had come for him! Against all odds, common sense, and self-preservation, Michael Arranz had come straight at the heart of the enemy for him. Even with death on their trail, the realization had the power to warm Stefn and fill him with incongruous, unreasonable joy. His throat tightened, determination rising anew. He would not let the bastards capture them! They would get away! That much he could do to repay Michael!

  A bird flashed across the road before them,, a streak of blue and red startling the horse. It was quickly swallowed up in the trees. The road bent, emerging briefly from the trees, climbing up over a rocky bluff. Stefn’s pulled back on the reins and their horse stumbled to a halt. He looked down and his heart jumped. The Hunters were closer now, the line of green and gold visible in flashes beneath the trees.

  A shout back along the path sent his heart into his mouth. He looked over his shoulder and saw a Hunter rounding the corner. He drove his naked heel into the horse’s flank, shaking the reins. “Go!” he shouted hoarsely.

  The brave beast shambled forward, breaking into an unsteady trot. It was near the end of its endurance. Stefn felt Michael’s weight shift at the horse’s uneven gait. For one terrifying moment, he thought the animal would fall, but it caught itself and went on.

  Stefn could not imagine what they would do to him if they caught him again. Even worse would be Michael’s fate. “Run!” he whispered, pleading with his overtaxed mount. “Dear Loth! Run!”

  The sound of pursuit was thunderous. He could make out their words now as they shouted at him to stop. Suddenly, ahead on the path, more riders burst from the trees. Green and gold filled Stefn’s despairing vision. He saw swords raised, glinting in the filtered sunlight. He stopped, looking wildly around as they galloped toward him.

  One of the newcomers pulled ahead. “Stefn! Ride on! Hurry!”

  In shock, Stefb recognized the face beneath the Hunter’s helmet! It was Forry! Forry!

  Behind him were other familiar faces: Erich and Jeremy! They raced past him, dozens of horsemen behind them, and the forest rang with the clash of steel and shouts of soldiers.

  Stefn didn’t stop to figure it out. He struggled to bring his panicked horse back onto the path, leaving the battle behind. Up the slope they rode until they broke free of the woods. On a windy, open hilltop, a man on horseback waited.

  Auron!

  The nobleman waved, grinning. “It’s about time, damn it!” Then, “Where are your clothes?”

  Stefn started to laugh. He was still laughing when Auron, with an oath, dismounted and ran to them, catching them as they toppled from the saddle. He managed to get Michael untied, laying him out on the grass.

  “Here,” Auron took a cloak from his saddlebag and put it over Stefn’s shoulders. “Sit down. You look done in, too.”

  “We should keep going. They might overcome the others…”

  “Not a chance!” Auron grinned confidently. Gently and firmly, he pushed Stefn down and thrust a canteen into his hands. “It’s Severyn’s elite guard you’re talking about!”

  Stefn discovered he was desperately thirsty and drank until Auron snatched it away.

  “You’ll make yourself sick,” he said.

  Stefn sighed, stretching out the kinks in his shoulders. Beside him, Michael slept on, oblivious. Without thinking, Stefn reached over and brushed long, bright tendrils of hair from the h’nar’s pale face. “I don’t understand,” he said, looking up at Auron. “Why are Forry and the others here?”

  “Severyn sent them.”

  “The prince?”

  “The king.” Auron shook an admonitory finger at him, eyes twinkling. “You didn’t think he was about to leave his best friend twisting in the wind, did you?”

  “I - I suppose not. How did you know where to find us?”

  “Marshlanders. The duke sent some witches. Still, we were lucky. If Locke had been there, things might have ended differently.”

  “He wasn’t?” Stefn’s
heart gave a small lurch of dismay.

  Auron shook his head. “He left town with a small army just before Michael unleashed the fury of the naragi over the city.”

  Stefn looked away to the east.

  “The Archbishop will learn about Zelenov’s destruction soon enough,” Auron went on, “if he doesn’t know already. Still, I wager we’ve got some time before he can do anything about it. I just hope Mick wakes up soon, else we’ll have to carry his dead weight over the mountains.”

  “No,” said Stefn. “We won’t.”

  Auron opened his mouth, then closed it again. “That’s right, I forgot.” He reddened slightly. “Shall I give you some privacy?”

  “If you please.”

  Clearing his throat, Auron leapt to his feet, brushing off his breeches. “I suppose I could go help the others,” he said. Mounting his horse, he winked and, whistling, cantered away, disappearing into the trees.

  Michael slept on, oblivious, pale hair spread in disarray across the grass and weeds. He looked appealingly vulnerable in the Penitent’s tunic, long limbs relaxed. Stefn shed the cloak. Cool mountain air washed over his skin. The lethet tingled.

  A cethe could remove the lethet if his heart so chose. Stefn looked down at Michael and knew why his had not come off, why it probably never would.

  Leaning over, he covered Michael’s mouth with his own. Michael shifted slightly, but didn’t wake. He lay, unresisting, while Stefn kissed him deeply, his lips parting under the gentle pressure of Stefn’s tongue.

  How sweet he tasted. How beautiful he was. Stefn’s heart ached with tenderness, with the need to express the feelings he hadn’t dared admit before, not even to himself.

  When he’d taken his feel of Michael’s mouth, he tasted the soft skin of Michael’s throat, the swell of his chest and, brushing aside the flimsy grey fabric of his tunic, seized a nipple and began to suck on it. Michael moaned, body shifting again. Heat flashed through Stefn and he sucked harder, feeling the nub turn rock-hard under his tongue.

  “Stefn,” Michael’s voice was a whisper. His eyes remained closed, but one hand lifted to cradle Stefn’s head, to guide it to his other nipple and gasp when Stefn gently teased and nipped it to attention. “You don’t have to…”

  Stefn silenced him with another kiss, this one returned eagerly. Strong arms pulled Stefn over onto him, tongue thrusting deep. The slick head of Michael’s cock pushed hard against Stefn’s buttocks. His hands slid up and down Stefn’s back.

  Moving his body slightly, Stefn positioned himself for Michael’s pleasure, gasping as the h’naran lord found the opening and pushed up into him. It hurt, no preparation made to ease the way, but Stefn barely noticed. He sat up, knees splayed to either side of Michael’s long, lean body, his head thrown back as Michael impaled and possessed him.

  This was where he belonged. Stefn knew it as surely as he knew anything, moving to the rhythm of their pleasure, overwhelmed by the sheer ecstasy of it. Michael sat up, wrapping his arms around Stefn, pulling him close. Each plundering thrust, each jagged bolt of pleasure-pain shook Stefn to his soul.

  “I love you,” he heard Michael whisper over and over. “I will never let you go.”

  Michael’s arms tightened. Stefn cried out, hands gripping Michael’s broad shoulders, light brighter than the terrible naragi spell filling his heart. He came, spilling his seed across Michael’s belly and felt the rush of warmth of Michael’s own climax. Afterwards they clung together while the sun rose higher, the day warming around them. And, when Stefn finally had the strength to lean back and look into Michael’s face he saw, for the second time in his life, a naragi’s tears.

  EPILOGUE

  The history of the nara in Tanyrin is one much misunderstood and has suffered slander and calumny due to the unfortunate war which cast Tanyrinin against Tanyrinin. In truth, nara fought with human and human fought against human; the villains of the war are not so clearly set out as some might claim. It was therefore decided that the Scholars Guild would write this third volume of the Chronicles, one in which the nature and history of our naran brothers and sisters might be set out in full view so Men might understand how much alike we are and how small and insignificant our differences.

  from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume III,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1350

  The dispatch from the west arrived while His Majesty was enjoying a hurried lunch at his desk, going through piles of orders, plans, maps, and lists. He thanked the clerk, who bowed his way from the room, then opened the satchel, upending the contents on his already over-crowded desk. There were only two letters of note. One was from Lord Damon, the other he tucked into his waistcoat pocket.

  The siege at Creighton wore on. Uncle Damon’s impatience showed through the polite, if terse, note. If only Severyn would permit him to make use of his marshland witches, the duke was certain the entire situation could be brought to a head and finished within the week.

  Doubtless he was correct, but the people of Tanyrin were being asked to accept a dreaded naragi in their midst. Changes of heart took time; forcing the issue by unleashing a horde of h’naran witches would hurt more than it would help.

  “If you find your lunch so disagreeable, send for another,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. “You are the king, after all.”

  Severyn’s heart lifted at once. He looked up to see Mick. Strolling into the room, Mick took a chair opposite Severyn’s desk with the same easy familiarity as always. Severyn came up with his first real smile of the morning.

  “It’s not the beef, it’s your grandfather. He’d rather swoop down on Creighton with magic and fire than endure the tedium of a siege.”

  “Fewer people would die,” replied Michael, matter-of-fact.

  “At least they’ll die at human hands,” said Severyn.

  Michael shrugged, looking unconvinced, but he hadn’t been among the noblemen who made no secret of their unease at the resurrection of their ancient nightmare. Michael was right; more people would die in an ordinary siege, but those were deaths everyone understood and, in a perverse way, would find more acceptable.

  “Has there been any word from the east?” asked Michael. “Do we know what Locke is doing?”

  “A few travelers have come out of the Midders. They report Zelenov in ruins, but of Locke?” Severyn’s grin was wry. “Not a word. I’ve no doubt we’ll hear from him again, but it will be awhile before he challenges me openly.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he took out the other letter. “I did get this today.” He handed it across the table to Michael.

  His friend glanced at the seal and his face stilled. “It’s an acceptance, I assume?”

  “I imagine so.”

  The look in those grey eyes was suddenly unbearably bleak. Then, summoning an unconvincing smile, Michael rose. “I suppose there’s no point in putting it off.”

  “Where is he?”

  “By the lake with Annie and Stefanie.”

  “You could wait. Give it to him later.”

  “Why? It’s his dream. He’s more than earned it. And I certainly have no right to deny it to him.”

  “You’re his naragi.”

  “I’m his captor and his rapist,” replied Michael harshly. “He will never be free of me, whether he thinks he wishes it or not.”

  “He still wears your lethet. Didn’t he say he had the power to remove it?”

  “The Third Chronicle. He never actually laid hands on it, never read those words himself. It could have been one more trick of Locke’s to torment him.” Michael shook his head. “I would keep him by my side every minute if it were up to me, Sev, but I will never be such a monster again. He’ll have all the freedom I can give him, including freedom from me.”

  “Mick… ”

  But Michael only smiled sadly and, envelope in hand, left Severyn at his desk.

  For several long minutes, the young king sat, wondering what would happen if Stefn Eldering chose the path now laid before
him. The thought that Mick might stay here with him, instead, gave the king a glow of guilty warmth.

  Suddenly, he could not bear to wait for the answer. Getting up, he left his work and made his way through the palace to one of the large parlors overlooking the island’s western shore. He was in time to see Michael walking swiftly down the sloping lawn toward the white strip of beach.

  There, the dark-haired earl sat on one of the benches, facing the lake. On the sand, Annie Arranz and her new best friend, Stefanie Eldering, future queen of Tanyrin, splashed in the shallows, holding their brightly colored skirts above the gentle waves. Their laughter, light and musical, drifted up to Severyn on the breeze.

  Spotting her brother, Annie left Stefanie to run to him. He embraced her. When they parted, she called to Stefanie and the two girls, arm in arm, ran on down the beach, leaving Michael alone with his cethe.

  Severyn watched Michael sit down beside Stefn on the bench. He couldn’t see or hear what they did or said, for their backs were turned to him. But finally, Michael rose and left. Moving slowly, like an old man, he started back toward the palace.

  On the bench, Stefn Eldering sat, head bowed. He had taken the envelope, Severyn realized. He would accept his admission to the exclusive Withwillow College of History. He would leave Lothmont. Severyn’s heart beat faster.

  But suddenly, Stefn rose. He did something Severyn couldn’t see. The next moment, a handful of what looked like confetti was caught by the breeze and whirled away. Leaping over the bench, the earl started to run up the grassy hill toward the mournful figure in black.

  Just as Michael reached a concealing line of trees, Stefn caught up to him. Severyn’s heart sank. The smaller man hurled himself at Michael, arms going around his neck and Michael, his entire body advertising surprise and joy, swept him up and held him close.

  Severyn sighed. He watched until they parted and disappeared together beneath the trees. Lifting his eyes, he looked across the lake at Lothmont and beyond, where his subjects waited hopefully for a new and better day.