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Cethe
PROLOGUE
I am Loth, God of the Earth, the Seas and the Heavens. As I have created all things, so do all things move according to My Will. To Men, most beloved of my creations, do I hold a Covenant: Give to Me what is Mine and I shall defend and uplift you. Be righteous in My eyes, do no harm, defend the weak, exalt My Name, and I shall see that your children’s children continue, fruitful and strong, until the End of Days.
The Covenant of Loth
PART I
Just as there is night and day, dark and light, good and evil, so are the powers of magic found in the twain. Lothria is that which comes from the Bright Stream, named for God, and filled with His power of good. k’Na is the power of destruction, manifesting only in those who turn their faces from His Light. Cursed are the lost souls who seek the Dark Stream to raise themselves up and to destroy that which Loth has set in place. Cursed be the naragi, who would make themselves gods and bring catastrophe upon us all!
from: Catechisms,
Fourth Edition, Year of Loth’s Dominion 1488
A demon wind raced down from the north, driving rain and thunder before it. Stefn Eldering limped up the tower stairs, his bad foot aching. It was always a chore to navigate the steep, winding stair, but the solitude waiting for him at the top was worth the effort.
Shia’s north tower overlooked old Targa Road, now little more than a weed-choked track. Long ago, the nara had gone back and forth on it, traveling between Tanyrin and their lost cities north of the great Lothwall mountains. Stray cattle or herds of black-tailed deer were the only travelers on Targa these days. The watch tower had become a catchall for broken furniture, trunks of old clothing—and a sanctuary where a despised younger son might escape from the taunts and derision of his more robust kin.
Stefn labored up the last of the steps to the landing, pausing a moment to catch his breath. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he stopped, heart lurching at the sight of the man standing before a window, looking south. Brother Michael!
The priest turned quickly around. “Master Stefn!”
Dismayed, Stefn considered retreating.
“I’m sorry! Is this your special place?” The cleric indicated a chair and reading table set by the window. “If so, I apologize for trespassing.”
“It’s all right,” replied Stefn warily. “I just come here sometimes to read.”
“So I see.” Brother Michael bent and picked up the copy of Harrington’s lying open on the table. He lifted an eyebrow.
“Strong stuff.”
The book had been written before the Reformation. Much of what it discussed had been considered outright heresy by Brother William, Brother Michael’s predecessor. Instead of issuing a stern rebuke, however, Brother Michael only set the book down and bowed very low.
“I’m sorry, Master Stefn. I should have asked permission before I began wandering about.”
Disarmed, Stefn replied, “N-no … It’s all right.” He glanced over the cleric’s stooped shoulder. Through the window and out along the road, he saw movement.
“Are you certain?” Brother Michael came nearer. He was a plain man of indeterminate middle-age, already shuffling like an elder. His brown hair fell into his face, lank and dull.Spectacles with thick, smoked glass obscured a gaze usually turned down in pious humility. Stefn’s looked again to the window. This time, there was no mistake. Men! Men on horseback! A hunting party gone astray? Stefn stepped around the priest and threw open the casement, leaning out to see better. Surely there were too many riders for a mere hunting party!
“Bandits!” he cried in sudden realization. “By Loth, Brother! Those are bandits! We must tell!”
But suddenly, he could not move. A voice came from very far away, rhythmic and ominous. His own words stumbled and went silent. Horrified, he could do nothing but stare straight ahead, listening to the rustle of long robes as the cleric went to the window and closed it. Brother Michael stood a moment, staring through the dirty glass.
Then he turned. Without hurry, he walked back to Stefn. The air shimmered around him. He reached up and removed his spectacles. For the first time, Stefn saw his eyes clearly: they were a unique, silvery gray. Narani gray. A taint!
The false priest reached out and brushed back Stefn’s dark hair. Helpless, the young nobleman could only glare back at him.
“What a pity you had to come up here just now.” Even Brother Michael’s voice had changed. It was stronger, colder, without a trace of the priest’s former diffidence.
Why had Stefn thought him middle-aged? He wasn’t. He was only a few years older than Stefn himself and inhumanly handsome. Loth! T’was h’naran witchcraft!
The taint’s smile sent chills up Stefn’s spine. “Death is coming to the House of Eldering,” he said softly, “and we wouldn’t want you to raise the alarm, now would we?”
---
“There it is!”
The flaming arrow hung against the dark before winking out, a single star in the starless night. Prince Severyn Evendor Lothlain lifted his hand. On the road behind him, his men came to attention, accompanied by a rattling of weapons and armor.
“Finally!” Lord Auron Challory, heir to the parish of Drosdor, scowled toward the sky. “It’s about to rain!”
“Don’t think you’re going to dash away to a quiet room to keep dry somewhere,” Bradigan Forrest replied good-naturedly. Forrest was already master of his own estates. A marquis, he was distantly related to the royal family. He’d pledged men and money to Severyn’s quest, just as the others had. “We’ve work to do.”
Bloody work, thought Severyn, and for which he might yet face the wrath of Loth.
Erich Dore, the third member of Severyn’s rebel group, rose in his saddle to look over the open expanse of grasslands to the castle. “How many Hunters are garrisoned here?”
“Fewer than we feared. According to Michael, only one unit,” replied Severyn.
“Knightmages?”
“Just one. Eldering himself.”
“Maybe we should have brought more men.”
“You’re not serious, are you?” Auron asked, feigning disbelief. “These are Demon Hunters. They’re accustomed to running down helpless h’nara, not defending themselves against actual warriors! As for the earl’s lothrian powers…” The dark-haired nobleman’s mouth twisted. “From what I hear, he wears the title knightmage as a courtesy only.”
“Auron’s right. Besides, bringing too many men would raise suspicion,” Severyn reminded them. “This is, after all, officially a social visit.” He straightened. “Forward!”
They rode through the sparse line of trees, leaving the old road and crossing open fields. Michael had, indeed, seen to Shia’s massive front gate. It stood wide open as they approached, revealing a pitched battle in the outer courtyard. Soldiers in Church colors fought desperately against a horde of rough, ragged men. Both groups scattered as Severyn’s party thundered into their midst, swords swinging.
And if most of the soldiers who fell thereafter wore uniforms of green and gold—well, how could one tell who struck who in all that smoke and chaos?
Battling through the inner gate, they found more Shian dead and more of Iarhliath’s men clearly enjoying their bit of theater. Jerry himself was in the keep, colorfully attired in filthy leather and wool, dispatching a Hunter officer with enthusiasm.
“Allen Eldering?” Severyn asked hopefully, watching the officer collapse.
“Don’t think so,” replied Jerry, breathless. “I heard he’s holed up in the Great Hall with his father and a couple of vassals.”
“The servants?”
“Hiding in the attics.”
Severyn grinned. More of Mick’s canny work, no doubt. Leaving Iarhlaith and his men to continue their lethal play-acting, Severyn went in search of the Great Hall. He found a crowd of “outlaws” piled up before its massive double doors, several of the biggest men using a couch as a battering ram.
The four young noblemen added their strength to the assault on the door and a loud, ominous groan filled the crowded corridor. Wood splintered and cracked and the doors flew open.
Whooping and howling, the invaders poured into the great hall. Met by more Hunters, they fought across the gleaming flagstones toward a small knot of men gathered at the far end of the room.
“HOLD!” the prince shouted. To Forry, he murmured, “See that no one from the castle comes in here.”
Nodding, the marquis headed back to the broken doors, calling the soldiers after him. Severyn and Auron continued toward the earl and his companions.
“Prince Severyn?” The old man’s sword dipped slightly. “What is this? What are you doing here? The outlaws…” His eyes widened. “They’re under your command?”
Severyn stopped just beyond reach of their swords. The earl was a large man and, in spite of his age, powerfully built. His son stood beside him, a miniature version of his father. Severyn didn’t recognize the others; local gentry, most likely, vassals to Shia. He saw no sign of the youngest son, the sin-catcher, but that one was Michael’s business.
Eldering’s heir and the vassals would be no trouble. It was the old knightmage, the edge of his sword already glowing white, who was the immediate problem.
“What treachery is this, Lothlain?” The earl’s voice shook with anger and disbelief. “Have you run mad?”
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I have need of Shia. I doubt, somehow, you’ll give it peacefully, but I will allow you this one chance: join me or die.”
“Join you?” The man looked from Severyn to Auron and back. “In what, my lord?”
“Can’t you guess?” drawled Lord Challory. He bared his teeth in a smile with nothing of amusement in it. “It’s time for a new king.”
“You would kill your own brother and become a Pretender?”
“I hope it won’t come to that,” admitted Severyn, “but for the good of Tanyrin, Arami must step down. In these times of trial, my lord, the kingdom needs a sovereign who will rule with a strong, but merciful hand. I love my brother, but he does his people no service with his extravagance and neglect.”
“Blackguard! Traitor!”
“Don’t you see the ruin on the land?” Severyn didn’t know why he even tried, but he plowed doggedly on. “Taxes and tithes are bleeding even the highblood dry! The harvests have suffered these past few years and I hear there are food riots in the east. Outlaws, genuine outlaws prey upon the people with impunity. The Church, which should come to the aid of the people, instead makes ever more demands upon them. The foul Penitent laws they would have us enact would enslave our h’naran brothers while taking honest, paying work from the peasants… ”
“Brothers? You call the demon-spawn by such a name?” cried one of the vassals. “You are a heretic as well as a traitor! You may have the right of it when it comes to the king, but to speak against the Church? May Loth strike you dead for your blasphemy!”
Severyn knew he should have expected no other reaction. The House of Eldering was bound to the Church by chains of blood and cruelty stretching back to the early fourteenth century. For two hundred years they had given the loyalty that was due to the king, to the powerful Archbishops and the Church’s Celestial Council instead. Why should they desire a return to the days when it had been the House of Lothlain wielding the true power? What interest did they have in restoring justice and truth? Even so, it gave Severyn no pleasure to begin his new age with the murder of old men.
“Reason is not blasphemy,” he replied. “There was a time when Shia itself was a center of a cultural flowering unlike any ever seen before.”
“That was before the Reformation,” retorted the earl. “Now Shia is dedicated to the service of Loth and the protection of the kingdom. Your so-called ‘cultural flowering’ was nothing but an excuse for licentiousness and blasphemy If that is what you intend to put in place of Loth’s most holy government, than I have no choice but to stop you!”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Severyn said, bowing. “But Tanyrin will be free, whether you will or not. And Shia,” he added, “was never yours to begin with!”
He lifted his sword, bracing himself for what was to come, watching the Earl’s blade brighten as lothrian fire infused it. With an incoherent roar, the old earl charged, his companions running after him.
Age had slowed the earl’s charge, but the old man was still a knightmage. Eldritch’s lightning flashed as Severyn’s sword met Eldering’s lothrian blade, sending hot sparks in all directions and shaking the prince to the bone. He cursed, desperately parrying another swing.
Enough of holding back! The old man had made his choice! Severyn let the blood-fury come and this time, it was the earl who retreated.
The end was never really in question. His youthful strength and skill found little real opposition in the old man’s fading powers. The earl faltered before the flurry of Severyn’s assault, his blade dimming as his poor store of lothria was quickly spent. Seeing this, the earl’s companions quickly sprang in front of their lord, only to fall in their turn, mowed down like grass before a scythe. Eldering’s heir, Lord Allen, threw himself at Severyn, hacking away with considerably less skill than his sire. Severyn cut him down with a savage, lightning thrust.
Enraged by the death of his son, the earl fought with renewed fury, forcing the prince to redouble his defense. It was more luck than skill that gave Severyn the opening he needed. He lunged, running the earl straight through. Eldering fell, spewing blood and curses, and was dead upon the floor a moment later.
The prince and his companions stared at each other in the following silence, shaken in spite of themselves.
“Get used to it,” Severyn said finally, trying to catch his breath. “This was easy. If Shia was still as important as in the old days, there would be more men stationed here and more than a single old, drunken knightmage to defend it. We may face far worse before this is over.”
No one needed him to elaborate. Deposing his foolish, drug-addled brother was likely to be the easy part. If the Church decided to take offense at his actions, they had powerful weapons at their disposal. The shadow of the knightmages true mages with real and deadly power stretched long and dark over the land. Their number included no less than the Archbishop of Tanyrin himself and the magic they wielded was as great as that of the long-vanished naragi.
“What now?” asked Dore.
A chill swept over Severyn and he whirled around, staring up into the soaring, shadow-filled rafters. There! His gut tightened in alarm. High in the wall on the opposite end of the hall, unnoticed in the gloom, was a small balcony. A slight, dark-haired youth stood on it, looking back at him. Challory cursed softly.
The boy vanished.
“Find him,” said Severyn grimly, reckoning he knew who it was. “And whatever you do, don’t kill him. Bring him to me alive!”
--
Too late! Heart pounding, Stefn ran. He barely noticed the shooting pains from his foot as he stumbled along the corridor, his thoughts in chaos. Dead. Dead. Dead. The word beat like some foul chant in his head. Over and over he saw his father fall, slit open from chin to belly, Allen lying in a pool of his own blood.
He didn’t remember much after realizing Brother Michael was a witch, the flash of a fist, a burst of pain, then darkness. By the time he’d awakened, the castle gates were open and outlaws swarmed the halls.
Except they weren’t outlaws. Some were knights! Sworn to the service of God and king!
He stopped at the end of the corridor, opening the door onto the servant’s stair. Muffled voices drifted down, raised in panic. At his back came more shouting and the rattle of armor. Terror pushed him into the dark, cramped stairwell. Noise also came from below and there was no choice but to go up.
If they caught him, he was dead. Stefn knew this as surely as he knew anything. He had witnessed treason and murder and h’naran witchcraft: villainy of the worst order. They would not, could not, let him live. He had to escape!
At the next landing was the servant’s quarters; he pushed at the door and found it locked. Voices came to him from the other side, crying and praying, along with the bump and scrape of moving furniture. They had barricaded themselves in! There was no help there. Stefn grabbed hold of the bannister and continued up.
From the attic, he could get out onto the roof. If he was careful, he could make his way across the keep to the west wing and down the drain-pipe to the lane. From there, it shouldn’t be too difficult to get out of the castle. He knew all the private ways, the inconspicuous gates, the places where trees grew right up to the wall. All he needed was a horse. Maybe he could find one in Shiaton if the traitors hadn’t completely overrun it also.
What if they send the taint after me?
The thought was enough to turn his blood to ice water. Stefn remembered vividly that moment in the tower when he had confronted the false priest. A witch in Shia! And defiling the holy garb of a cleric, at that!
He’d seen taints before, mostly captives from his father’s raids, pitiful wretches doomed to entertain the soldiers during their drunken victory banquets afterwards. Sometimes, the screams had reached all the way to his room in the north wing. To see one walking freely through his family’s ancient home and bearing arms too, was a sickening shock.
Carefully, he made his way through the dark, cluttered attic. Outside, it was raining: he could hear the steady drumbeat on the roof. Water ran in sheets down the narrow windows. The roof slates would be slick and dangerous, but he had no choice.
He was briefly grateful for being undersized as he squeezed out of a window and, on hands and knees, crawled up the steep slant of roof to the top. Gusts of wind drove the rain into his face and soaked him to the skin. Lightning threw the roof into brilliant relief, marking his way. He hadn’t taken this route for a long time, but he remembered where to put his hand to find the drainpipe when he reached the end and how to slide down to the adjoining roof below.
Unlike the rest of the house, the west wing had a flat roof. Stefn splashed across pools of rainwater to the far edge. Slithering down another drain-pipe, he landed between two large bushes. Lights glowed from the stables across the lane. On his right, the laundry shacks huddled against the inner castle wall. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he ran in their direction.
A figure suddenly loomed from the dark to block his path. Stefn swerved, but the man was after him with frightening speed. A flash of lightning bathed the lane in white and Stefn’s heart nearly stopped: Brother Michael!
The taint had been wounded, black blood running down his face. Even so, it didn’t seem to slow him down. He reached for Stefn. Panic gave Stefn the strength to knock the hand away, but alas, his own body betrayed him! His bad foot buckled, sending him sprawling across the muddy cobbles.
“Damned fool!” he heard through the rain and thunder.
Stefn was hauled back to his feet. “Let me go!” he spat, trying to pry off the taint’s filthy hands. “Don’t touch me! Taint! Demon! Witch!”
That earned him an open-handed blow across his face and another trip to the cobbles. His head spun. Ignoring his cursing and useless struggles, the taint dragged Stefn back into the house.
Stefn looked desperately around, but saw no familiar faces. There were only men in royal dark blue and gold standing guard along the corridors, watching dispassionately as the taint hurried him past.
“Where are the servants?” Stefn demanded. “Did you slaughter them, too?”
“A few,” replied the taint. “But most were prudent enough to lock themselves in their quarters, as I advised them earlier.” He smiled. “As long as they never learn the truth, Prince Severyn has no quarrel with them.”
The threat was obvious enough. Stefn swallowed hard and said nothing more.
The Great Hall was deserted except for his father’s murderers, now making themselves at home in the earl’s favorite place by the fire. Stefn could not resist looking up to the balcony, only to see more of the traitor prince’s soldiers.
He ventured a quick glance at the taint and realized it wasn’t blood running down the villain’s pale face, but brown hair dye! The rain had washed enough away already to show glimpses of platinum beneath.
“Trust Arranz to run the rat down,” said one of the men as they approached the fireplace. He was a rangy fellow with short, dark hair and a lazy, sardonic smile.
The prince rose, face brightening. “Mick! I was just about to send some men in search of you!”
Arranz. Arranz? Shock made Stefn lose his precarious footing. Only the taint’s grip on his arm kept him upright. The Arranz?
Alone of all the taints befouling Taniryn, the Arranzes of Blackmarsh had the lawful right to hold their heads high and look humans in the eyes as equals. St. Aramis himself had decreed it nearly three hundred years ago. Moreover, legend claimed Shia itself had once belonged to them, long before they had mingled their blood with humans.
The prince threw an arm over the h’nar’s shoulders, drawing him closer to the fire. “Where the devil have you been, man? I was starting to think some Hunter had got you, after all! Loth, you look done in!”
“Too much witching,” replied the taint, matter-of-fact. “I need a very long nap.”
“Good God, Mick, what the hell is that?” Another of the noblemen pointed at the running dye and hooted, but it was a good-natured teasing. They were uncommonly familiar with the creature.
“My priestly disguise,” replied Arranz with a shrug and wry grin. “Too bad. For awhile I was almost respectable.”
“Sit his lordship down,” another of the traitors said, glancing at Stefn. “Else he’ll fall down, I think.”
Arranz gave Stefn a rough shove toward a chair beside the rangy nobleman. Stefn nearly missed it, scrabbling wildly before somehow getting seated. The man frowned, peering narrowly at him. “Loth! How old is he? Fifteen?”
“Nineteen,” replied Arranz. He took the last empty seat, propping his muddy boots on the low, beautifully-carved, mosaic-topped table. “Just.”
Prince Severyn, relieved, settled back. “Good. I hear she’s a only year younger than him. I’ll not wed a child.”
“Wh-what?” whispered Stefn, head buzzing. “Wed?”
They weren’t listening. The yellow-haired lord seated beside the prince said, “I wonder if she’s as pretty as her brother.”
“I hear the lovely Miss Eldering is one of the Lights of Lothmont. The last time I was in town, the other bachelors in my club were raving about her beauty, her grace, her bell-like laughter … ”
“You bastards! Leave Stefanie out of this!” Horrified, furious, Stefn lurched to his feet. The dark-haired nobleman snorted and got up to push him back.
“Auron!” exclaimed the taint, straightening, his boots hitting the floor. “Watch your … He’s not as… Damn!”
The warning came too late. Stefn snatched the nobleman’s own belt-knife from its sheath and plunged it into his ribs. The man’s eyes widened with astonished disbelief and he toppled sideways.
Stefn kept hold of the knife, slashing wildly as all the traitors drew their swords. A part of him was dimly horrified, knowing there could be only one outcome; the men suddenly surrounding him were grimly intent upon it.
“Don’t kill him!” Prince Severyn shouted and narrowly missed a savage slice across his arm for his mercy.
Again, it was the taint who stopped Stefn, who moved with such unnatural swiftness and grace Stefn barely registered the fact before the knife flew from his hand and he was sent crashing to the floor.
“Auron!” The blond nobleman ran to his wounded accomplice, dropping to the floor beside him. “Loth the Great! Challory!” The look he threw Stefn was black with rage. “Kill the puny bastard! The whole damned family are monsters!”
“Get him out of here,” snarled the prince.
“What are you talking about?” cried the blond man, “He’s killed Challory!”
The third of the traitor lords ran across the Great Hall for help while the blond desperately tried to staunch Lord Challory’s bleeding. Stefn tried to get up, but the taint knocked him back down with a careless slam of his heel into Stefn’s head. The world dimmed.
When his head cleared, he was face down on the carpet, wrists chained at his back. The room tilted wildly as he was dragged roughly back to his feet and redeposited in the chair.
“Move again,” the taint promised softly, “and I’ll knock you out.”
“Knock him out? Cut his damned throat!” The blond lord, on his knees beside his wounded companion, looked up at Arranz with black rage.
The taint ignored him, joining him on the floor. “Leave off, Forry.” His voice was calm, even. “I can at least stop the bleeding.”
The blond nobleman seemed to get hold of himself, offering up a weak smile. “Y-yes, of course. Damn. Sorry.”
“If we kill him,” Prince Severyn added, “the only way to get our hands on his whore of a sister is to petition the Church. It’s the law.”
“What?”
“The old bastard was a knightmage, remember? “
Arranz set his hands on the wounded lord. Blood welled up between his fingers. Long and fine, they seemed to take on an inner light. The dark-haired man shifted and murmured, but didn’t open his eyes.
The prince continued. “The Elderings were one of the original Hunter garrisons. They may have fallen on hard times in recent years, but they’re still Churchmen.”
Lord Challory groaned, then coughed. The yellow-haired noble leaned back, relieved.
“Thanks, Mick.”
Arranz, pale as milk, didn’t answer. Instead, he sagged forward over the injured rebel’s body. Yellow-hair swore and pulled him away.
Across the hall, the other rebel lord returned, followed by several soldiers.
“Get Challory upstairs and fetch a physician to see to his wound,” the prince ordered. “The bleeding is stopped, but he’s not out of danger. As for the sin-catcher… ” Lothlain turned a look of cold enmity on Stefn. “Get him out of here. He’s caused enough trouble.”
Leaving Stefn to the rough attentions of his guards, the prince dropped to his knees beside Arranz. The last sight Stefn saw as he was dragged from the hall was the prince holding the taint in his arms as gently as if Arranz was a brother and not, as everyone could plainly see, a monster from deepest hell.
--
Michael heard the voice in his dream, calling his name. It grew louder. He opened his eyes and the dream vanished. Severyn stood over him. Staring blankly up at the prince, he remembered where he was. “How’s Auron?”
Severyn swore, half-laughing, and fell back into the chair beside the bed. “It’s about damned time! You’ve been out for three days! And Auron’s fine, of course, although if not for you, your pretty boy would have robbed me of a dear friend. I’m not sure I’d have spared his life in that case.”
“Ah. And how is the earl?” Michael’s body was still sluggish. Unlike holy lothnia, k’na was no gift of a benevolent god. The Black Stream wore a man to a thread in no time, bringing an irresistible, inevitable Sleep to those who went past their limits. Only the naragi had used it with impunity and the naragi had been gone for three hundred years.
Reluctant to move, Michael pulled his blanket up to his chin. “Has Eldering signed the marriage documents?”
Severyn growled something under his breath. “No. For such a girly boy, he’s remarkably stubborn. If it weren’t for you, I’d let Corliss give him a real work-over, but… damn it, Mick! Are you sure it must be him? The more I think about this whole affair, the less I’m liking it.”
The bewildered look on those beloved, familiar features brought a flood of affection and the wistful urge to put his arms around the prince and hold him tight. Michael had long ago come to terms with his own nature. It was to be expected, after all, of one whose lineage included the nara’s deadly sorcerers. For the prince, alas, it was another matter altogether.
“He’s a means to an end,” Michael said. “Nothing more. What of the servants? Have they accepted our ruse?”
Severyn’s grin reappeared. “It went without a hitch. And you thought the plan was too complicated!”
“Sometimes I don’t know who is more of a madman: you or my grandfather,” growled Michael. “It won’t last. Sooner or later, the Celestials will ask questions.”
“Well, they sure as hell will if you don’t do something about your hair.” Severyn tilted his head toward Michael’s tangle of splotchy brunette and silver. “Isn’t it about time for the good Brother to return to his monastery and Lord Arranz to grace us with his elegant presence?”
Michael grimaced. “What about the medallion? Did you get it?”
“I did.” Severyn reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a heavy necklace. He tossed it onto the bed beside Michael’s pillow. “You should have seen the look on the face of the Earl’s valet when I took it off the old devil’s body. I’m not sure he believed me when I said I was taking it for safekeeping.”
Michael sat up.
“Now you’re awake.” chuckled Severyn. “What is it, anyway?”
“A key, I think. Want to come with me?”
Severyn shook his head. “Haven’t time. Key to what?”
“A hidden storeroom. Everyone in the castle was convinced the earl has been hoarding a fortune in gold. It’s probably just a rumor, but you never know. Do you need me for anything?”
The princely grin widened. “Well, I would appreciate if you could have a word with our new earl. The sooner Stefanie Eldering is my wife, the more secure our hold is on Shia.”
“As you wish.” Michael threw back the covers and got out of bed. Severyn’s gaze moved over his half-naked body, almost as if drawn against his will.
Color deepening, the prince quickly turned his eyes away.
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I’d stay and see what you find, but I’m due in Shiaton to meet with their village elders.”
“You’re not going alone, I hope.” Michael quickly took his habit from the bedpost and put it on. “There are plenty of real bandits out here.”
“Forry’s going, too, and a dozen men. We’ll be all right. If you can stay awake, meet us at supper.”
After the prince had gone, Michael sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the door, thinking how the room suddenly seemed a little less bright. When Severyn was around, nothing was impossible. Sometimes, in dark moments, Michael imagined what his life would have been like had it not been for the prince and knew himself to be fortunate beyond imagining.
They’d met by accident: the shy, reclusive grandson of the infamous Demon Duke of Blackmarsh and the young prince, cheerful, energetic and lonely. The royal estate of Messerling bounded Blackmarsh to the east, an easy distance between friends. Soon Severyn had been more often at Blackmarsh than in his own huge mansion. His favor had eased the Arranz family’s daily struggle with poverty and subtle harassment. His friendship had drawn an isolated, angry youth out of his shell and given him a reason to trust.
Michael looked down at the medallion, thumbing its etched surface. The thing was very old and tarnished. He didn’t know for certain it was the key, of course, or that it locked away a treasure like the servants whispered, but Lord Eldering had worn it always. According to gossip, he kept it on even when buck-naked and tumbling whatever servant girl caught his eye.
It would take only a few minutes to learn the truth. A fortune in treasure would go a long way toward funding a coup. Michael dropped the medallion over his neck, tucking it into his habit. As an afterthought, he pulled up his hood, in no mood to apply more hair-dye, and put on his spectacles. It was almost second nature to slump his shoulders and take on the humble mein of the cleric he’d been playing for the past three weeks.
Lamp in hand, he left his room. At the bottom of the main stairs, he was accosted by Shia’s elderly butler. The man greeted him joyfully, seizing his hand and squeezing it. “‘Tis good to see you, Brother Michael!” he cried. “We did exactly as you said and no one was hurt. But where were you, Brother? You weren’t among us. I was afraid the outlaws had slain you, too!”
“Loth was merciful,” replied Michael dutifully, ignoring his question. “You’re up late, Greyson.”
“I’m on my way to bed,” the butler reassured him. “Things are in quite a state! There is so much to do! Still, I cannot complain. Thanks to His Highness and you, of course, many lives were saved.”
“Loth be praised,” agreed Michael.
“But is it true? Will you be returning to Zelenov?”
“I must bear details of this terrible affair to the Archbishop. Besides, I’m sure the new earl will want to choose his own cleric.”
The old man’s kindly face darkened. “The sin-catcher?” he spat. “It’s his fault that we’ve suffered such calamity!”
Michael couldn’t help a twinge of pity for the luckless Stefn Eldering. On the other hand, the new earl was a convenient scapegoat. “Now, Greyson,” he said in most officious tones, “sin-catchers are Loth’s judgment. Who are we to question His will?”
Leaving the old man, Michael continued to the north wing. All of Shia was old, but the north wing was the oldest and naran-built. His own ancestors had been the architects of its precise angles and perfectly straight walls. The Church denied it; the Elderings denied it, too, claiming it was human-built. But deep down, it seemed, the earls had always known the truth for they had avoided the wing assiduously. Long deserted, it was damp and cold and the roof leaked in the ferocious winter storms Rooms were empty or stuffed with forgotten furniture and belongings. The north wing also held Castle Shia’s library, but then, it too had been mostly forgotten by its brutish owners.
Lamplight flowed over cracked and yellowed plaster. Doors were shut against its invasion; there was dark ahead and dark behind. Michael’s footfalls echoed in the emptiness.
On the third floor, the library door stood slightly ajar. Michael gave it a push and it swung open, hinges screeching. At once, he was enveloped in the smell of leather, paper and mold. Once, long ago, before the Elderings and the Church had conspired to steal it, Shia had been a center of scholarship and academia. Since the Reformation, however, it had fallen into shameful disuse and neglect.
His lamp made little headway in the cavernous chamber. Bookshelves loomed in orderly rows, silent and hiding deeper shadow between them. Long reading tables marked the beginning of the stacks. One of the few times he’d actually laid eyes on the Earl’s youngest son had been in here. The youth, wrapped in a blanket against the chill, had been at one of the tables, reading. At the time, Michael had mistaken him for a girl, so finely chiseled and delicate were his features.
Three rooms comprised the suite and, at the back of this, the largest of them, tucked into a corner and half-covered by a massive bookshelf, was a door. Low, narrow, it had no handle and the wood was only veneer. Where it peeled away, iron glinted dully beneath.
Michael took off the medallion, heart racing. His hand shook when he slid the key into a narrow slot in the door. There were several clicks, thunderous in the quiet suite, and the door opened inward.
“Holy Protector…”
The room beyond was small, but crowded. It contained a table and chair, a dusty, glass-faced cupboard and eight heavy wooden crates stacked against the far wall. One of the crates had not been nailed shut yet. Michael set his lamp on the table and took a look inside.
He found dozens of large, bulky leather bags. Opening one, his jaw dropped. The bright glitter of precious metals and gems sparkled back at him. Quickly he opened another, spilling its contents heedlessly into the crate. Gold coins, silver, and copper, jewels of shapes and sizes! He poked among the glittering pile and brought out a tiny gold and rose-stone circlet, a child’s bracelet.
h’Nara who fell afoul of the Church lost their property along with their freedom. It was far worse east of the central mountains, where the holy city of Zelenov wielded its greatest influence. There, a h’nar had two choices, Penitence or death. The Church made no secret of their desire to have the same zealousness in all of Tanyrin, and they used parishes like Shia to spread their message of hatred and fear.
Michael reached down and took a bulging handful of coins. The Elderings, like the good dogs they were, had been dutiful in spreading that message, but from the looks of it, they’d been enriching themselves in the process.
Turning his attention to the cupboard, he discovered that it was locked. The unusual key did not work and he had no intention of using k’na to open it so soon after having overextended himself. A sharp blow to the lock snapped the aged mechanism in a shower of rust. Inside were six shelves stuffed with bulkier objects. He found a valuable early edition of a Chronicle, one of the two most holy books of Tanyrin. Attesting to its age, it was hand-lettered and wrapped in a cloth heavily embroidered with gold and silver floss.
There were also fine statues, some of solid gold; and even a slightly tarnished silver box with holy runes engraved on the lid and containing a fragment of cloth sealed in wax.
Michael almost laughed aloud, returning to the crates, sifting the glittering coins and jewels through his fingers. How obliging of the earl. Eldering had amassed a clandestine fortune on the backs of the Church’s h’naran victims. Now, in an act of beautiful, ironic justice, it would help finance the overthrow of Arami IV, their chief puppet and source of their undeserved power.
--
Hearing the tread of heavy boots outside his room, Stefn lifted his head from his arms. Apprehension tightened his gut and set his heart pounding. The footsteps stopped at the door; the latch rattled and it opened. Light fell through the opening, too bright for his eyes. Even so, he knew the hulking silhouette: Corliss, the captain of the Royal Guard.
But the big man didn’t come in. Instead, he smacked his palm with his truncheon and gave Stefn a quick, dark grin before backing away to make room for someone behind him. Already sick with dread, Stefn’s heart nearly stopped. He stood up, knocking his chair over in his haste.
The elegant newcomer stooped beneath the low door and into the dark, cold room. He held out a gloved hand for the lantern, which was promptly given over. “Leave us. I will summon you when I’m ready.”
“Yes, my lord.” Corliss bowed again and the door closed. Stefn was left alone with the most loathsome of his captors.
Gone were all traces of the priestly disguise. This was a man more regal than the rebel prince he served. Arranz wore black, all black, and at his throat was a single silver amulet. The brown dye was gone. With his long, ice-pale hair, he seemed to be a beautiful, shining flame in the gloom. Michael Arranz, eldest grandson of the Demon Duke of Blackmarsh. As close to pureblood naran as existed in this day and time. Traitor. Spy. Taint.
Yellow light danced over the bare wooden floor, across Stefn’s narrow bed to stop at the table where he stood.
“What? No ‘hello, Brother Michael? Nice to see you?’” Arranz set the lantern down. Mockery edged the deep, quiet voice. “Ah, well, I suppose not.”
From the inside pocket of his coat, Arranz brought out a scroll, tossing it onto the table before Stefn. It was tied with a red ribbon. Blood red. Stefn recognized it well enough; he’d seen it before in the hands of Corliss and others who’d come to his cell and demanded he sign it.
Stefn tried to match the taint’s mocking tone. “It must have been quite a shock to the servants to find out our cleric was really a taint.
“Brother Michael was recalled to Zelenov several days ago. Such a shame. I never got to meet him.” Arranz waved his hand carelessly toward the scroll. “His Highness grows weary of your heroics, Eldering. Sign the damned agreement.”
“Go to hell, taint!”
The Elderings had been loyal to the King and Church since the human-naran war. Stefn would not defile his family’s memory by submitting to one of their half-breed, murdering descendants.
Arranz sighed. “If you sign the agreement, you can leave this room, have a hot meal, a bath… ”
“Forge my signature,” Stefn retorted, even as his heart lurched and thudded. “What’s one more vile act for a taint like you?”
Arranz’s mouth twisted. He seized Stefn’s chin, ignoring the attempt of the smaller man to jerk away. One long thumb pressed against the lump on Stefn’s jaw, making him hiss in pain.
“Do you so enjoy your jailer’s heavy hand?” Arranz asked.
Ice ran up Stefn’s spine, but he did not back down. He couldn’t. Deep in his heart of hearts, he knew very well who had brought the Elderings to this pass. Sin-catcher!
“Shia is loyal to the Church and king. I will not sacrifice my sister and home for a traitor’s cause! Especially one who would employ the likes of you!”
“So dramatic. Do you honestly expect me to believe you mourn your boorish parent and equally repellent brother?”
Stung, Stefn retorted, “They were men of honor, loyal servants of Loth!”
“They were murderers a hundred times over murderers, slavers, and thieves, just like the rest of your misbegotten clan.”
“You cannot diminish their honor!” spat Stefn, shaking with rage and contempt. “You, a murderer polluted with the blood of demons!”
“You may very well be right, but time is growing short and my prince has plans. You will do as he wishes… ”
Stefn’s heart stumbled as his limbs were seized by an invisible force.
“ …and turn over to him what he demands.”
There was no resisting the power that lifted Stefn’s hand, opening his fingers to receive the pen Arranz placed in it. Fury and despair filled his eyes with water and made the words of the declaration blur as he dipped the pen into the inkpot before him, then to the paper.
Stop! he screamed to himself, but his hand went through the familiar motion without heeding him. The pen was removed. His signature stared back at him.
Stefn regained control of his limbs as Arranz rolled up the scroll. Without thinking, he lunged for it, oversetting the inkpot, but with a Word, the taint flung him away to crash into the wall. Pain streaked up Stefn’s leg and it buckled, sending him into a humiliating sprawl at Arranz’s feet.
Arranz dragged Stefn upright again. He said something under his breath and shoved the trembling earl onto the stool.
“What happens now?” whispered Stefn. “No matter what, I will swear true loyalty only to the rightful king.”
“You may swear loyalty to whomever you wish,” replied Arranz. “As long as you obey me.”
Stefn, speechless, returned a look of outrage. Arranz’s lean features lit up with amusement. He bent and, seizing a handful of Stefn’s hair, held him still for a punishing kiss. “I’ll be back in a day or two,” he promised, and was gone soon after, leaving Stefn shaken, confused, and profoundly afraid.
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