Cethe

  Cethe

  By Becca Abbott

  SL Publishing Group

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cethe

  Copyright © 2009 by Rebecca McLaughlin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Published 2009 by SL Publishing Group

  IBSN: 1-440-444420

  www.slpublishinggroup.com

  First SL Publishing Group paperback printing: November 2009

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Text © 2009 by Rebecca McLaughlin

  Cover art © 2009 by Feimo

  Cethe is dedicated to My People, Kate and Diana, for all their encouragement and support.

  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 appro
ached, 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” gathered before its massive double doors, several of the biggest men using a heavy wooden bench 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,” s
aid 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.