Cethe Page 11

  “Have you tested your new endurance?”

  “A little. It’s easier and less tiring to cast spells now. Would you care for a demonstration?”

  Loth! I even sound like a sullen schoolboy!

  “All in good time. What about allies? Has Severyn made in any progress there?”

  “Marinton and Caudeta have been making inquiries, but no commitments yet. You would think, between Arami’s taxes and Locke’s tithes, they’d be more than ready for change.”

  “Many who would see a new king fear the reaction of the Church,” Lord Damon said. “Arami may not have the love of the people, but he is supported by the Celestial Council. Deposing him will be difficult enough, but if the Church becomes involved, we will face our true test.”

  “At least here in the West, Locke’s power is not so deeply entrenched.”

  “So far,” his grandfather said. “I’ve heard from some of our émigrés that knightmages are being sent from Zelenov, supposedly for short visits, but arriving with so much baggage, it looks like they plan to take up residence in the Cathedrals where they’re being assigned. You had best hope your pretty sin-catcher is indeed up to snuff. If the High Orders turn against the Lothlains, even the power of a naragi may not be sufficient to stop them!”

  As soon as Lord Michael left the room, Marin helped Stefn up from the chair. Without a word, the earl stumbled to the bed and threw himself down upon it. He was vaguely aware of Marin tucking the blankets around him, but he was asleep before the man finished.

  When he woke, it was late in the afternoon. He was alone again. Wrapped in familiar solitude, he was almost content. His body felt heavy and his mind, still muzzy with sleep, drifted where it would. Alas, that was inevitably to the night before. The memory sent warmth rushing through him. Cursing weakly, he threw the covers back and got out of bed.

  Washing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dressing table’s mirror and could not help focusing on the gaudy gems wrapped around his neck. He pulled at the collar again, but listlessly, knowing he had no chance of getting it off. Somehow, its foul k’na magic was corrupting him, twisting him around until he no longer knew what he truly felt. His only chance was to fight it, but with each passing day, it got harder.

  Stefn dressed, some perverse whim prompting him to leave his shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his neckcloth off, exposing the monstrous thing to any who would see. The door was locked, of course, but when he knocked on it, Marin appeared at once. He meant to ask for food, but instead, heard himself inquiring about Lord Michael’s whereabouts.

  “His Grace sent him with Captain Arranz to Waylerton for supplies,” replied the servant. “He will be back late tomorrow.”

  “Where is Waylerton?”

  “East some fifteen miles. They used to get their supplies in Creighton, but there’s a Cathedral there now and, with the Church issuing edicts right and left these days about h’nara, smaller towns are not so welcoming. I’m sorry, my lord, but he insisted that you remain in your room. Shall I bring you a tray?”

  “Yes, please, Marin.”

  With Lord Michael safely away for awhile at least, Stefn realized he was hungry. Marin grinned and took himself off.

  With nothing else to do, Stefn drifted to the windows. His room looked down over the steep, rocky seashore. For a moment, he forgot his predicament in the wonder that was the sea. In daylight, it was a vivid blue. Its vastness pulled at him, filling him with wonder. He knew there were only two lands in all the world: one was Tanyrin, the other, the mysterious frigid waste far to the north of the Lothwalls. Looking out onto the ocean, however, Stefn was seized by different possibilities. What if the scholars were wrong? What if there were other lands between Tanyrin and edge of the world?

  Rattling at the door pulled him from his daydreams. He turned, stomach growling in anticipation, but it was not Marin with his lunch. The door flew open with such force, it bounced off the wall behind it. Men swarmed in, filling the room, tall and pale-haired. Stefn had no chance against them, their strength and numbers easily overpowering him. They covered his face with a wet rag and the heavy, sweet smell of flowers filled his nostrils.

  Weakness dragged at him, muscles going limp. Grunts and harsh breathing echoed in his head. They weren’t in uniform, he thought dimly.

  There were long stretches of darkness afterwards. Now and then, he swam up from the abyss into a moment of sunlight, the smell of rank water or the buzzing of insects. Then the sweet-smelling cloth came back and he lost consciousness again.

  Finally, the darkness receded completely. Stefn realized he was lying flat on wet boards that rocked gently beneath him. He tried to get up, only to be pushed down again.

  A voice above him made a comment he didn’t catch. From somewhere else nearby came a harsh bark of laughter.

  It was dark. Flickering yellow light made shadows dance. He saw boots and wooden planks curving up out of his sight. A boat?

  Warily, he tried to lift his head again. This time, one of the boots vanished from sight and planted itself firmly on his neck. He realized for the first time that his wrists were bound behind him. Fear came back, cold and enervating. How long had he been out? Where were they?

  Stefn had never been in a boat before, a circumstance that only added to his apprehension. “L-Lord Arranz?” he ventured, but the only response was more laughter.

  “Soon enough, dog,” someone said. “You’ll meet him soon enough!”

  The movement of the boat changed. Around him, the men shifted and the boat began to rock wildly. The boot on his neck disappeared. His captors reached down and pulled him to his feet, keeping their own in spite of the unstable surface.

  Stefn was manhandled up onto a dock, dizzy and confused. The h’nara half-carried him down the long, wooden walkway while he blinked furiously, trying to clear his blurry vision.

  They were on a small island in a lake. Surrounding the lake was a dark cloud of forest. The dock was lined with boats, most of them wide and flat-bottomed. Here and there, however, he noticed sailboats with their masts and spidery rigging rocking gently at their mooring.

  A handful of cottages formed a rough circle near the shore, lamplight showing in their windows. One was much larger than the others and it was to this house Stefn was taken.

  In a well-furnished room, they threw him to his knees before two h’nara. One looked almost exactly like Michael Arranz, so much so that Stefn had no doubt who it was. The Demon Duke!

  “This is the cethe,” said the duke to his companion, voice ringing with contempt.

  The other man was not dressed so finely, but he, too looked almost completely naran. Only a pair of blue eyes revealed his human blood.

  “Very pretty, Your Grace,” he said, smiling faintly down at Stefn. “I can understand why Michael was entranced. Are you sure you’re not just jealous of your grandson’s good fortune?”

  The Demon Duke’s lip curled. “Good fortune? Eldering is a sin-catcher and a Hunter’s spawn.”

  “Even so,” murmured the man, “He does not look very strong. This may kill him. At the very least, it seems a pity to subject such a lovely boy to torment.”

  The duke turned his pale eyes on the other h’nar. “You are very forgiving, Eran.”

  “Sometimes,” Eran replied, smiling, “one would think it was you who had been the Penitent, Your Grace.”

  Leaning forward, the duke ripped Stefn’s shirt open to his waist. Eran’s gaze went straight to the collar.

  “Did you know,” asked the duke, voice soft and deadly, “that my wife was probably taken by this ‘lovely boy’s’ grandfather? She remembered snow, you see. She confessed to me once, in sobs, her memories of being raped in it when the Hunters came for her family one winter’s day. She was no more than twelve years old. My beloved Mala.”

  The other man looked down and away. After a moment, Lord Arranz said, “Get him out of my sight.”

  The h’nara dragged Stefn from the house and across a courtyard to
a small stone barn. Inside were more men. In one corner, embers glowed red in a small fireplace. They tore his clothes off and fixed his shackles to a hook in the rafters, leaving him dangling helplessly, toes barely brushing the floor. He pleaded to know what they wanted, but they just cursed and knocked him about. Then they moved away and he faced a tall, roughly-dressed h’nar with a whip.

  His heart stumbled. For a moment, in the ruddy torchlight, he thought it was his father standing there. “No… ” he whispered, watching the man’s arm rise. “Please, no… ”

  But this was not his father, who had always been careful only to mark his back. This was a stranger whose arm was powered by hatred and vengeance, who cared nothing for where the fiery lash landed.

  Stefn didn’t even try to hold back his screams; he’d learned early that they often ended the beatings more quickly. But here it made no difference. The h’nar had no appearances to keep. The leather braid hit him again and again, throwing his helpless body this way and that, wrapping around hip and thigh, leaving streaks of fire across his chest.

  Help me!

  The world vanished in scarlet and tears. Stefn’s voice grew hoarse from screaming. He thought his tormenter might have moved behind him, but the pain was everywhere, inescapable, so he could not be sure.

  Please, Father, stop! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!

  But this time, his father was beyond pity or mercy. Stefn knew there was no atoning for his cursed existence. When the darkness finally came to rescue him, Stefn prayed only that, this time, he would not wake up.

  The guest room was empty. Marin stood in the middle of it, worried and ashamed. “I was just gone a few minutes, milord, fetching his lunch. He was locked up right and tight when I left… ”

  Anger and fear tightened Michael’s chest. Nothing looked different, but something lingered in the air: terror, hatred, violence. He looked toward the window. Just visible beneath a chair he found a book. It had clearly fallen hard, the pages creased where it lay, face down.

  “When did they take him?”

  “Yesterday morning… My lord?”

  Damn the bastard! No wonder Grandfather had insisted he go to Waylerton! A thrill of sheer fury and gut-sinking fear ran through Michael. He had to steady himself against the wall with one hand until it passed. Then he pushed himself away and ran for the door.

  “My lord! Where are you going? Wait! I’ll call Captain Chris!”

  But Michael didn’t wait, leaving Marin calling after him in distress.

  The duke wasn’t in his rooms. His servants professed not to know where he was and ran from Michael in alarm. Michael met Chris on his way out the back door. “What’s this about Eldering being missing? I knew nothing good would come… Mick!”

  His brother made the mistake of getting in his way. Michael shoved him aside.

  “What the devil is going on? Mick!”

  In the stables, he found Marin directing two horses to be saddled. “You’re not com… ” he began. Then it struck: a knife of pain doubled him over, but worse was the despair. It howled at him from the bottom of his soul, threatening to consume him. He fell back against the wall, sweating.

  “My lord!” Marin caught him before he could fall.

  The feeling passed, but didn’t entirely disappear. It remained like an open sore in his heart, a steady, uncomfortable pulse.

  Chris arrived, elbowing aside the small cluster of stableboys and grooms gathering to stare. “Mick! Damn it! Will you tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Grandfather took Stefn.” Michael headed for the stable door with his horse, forcing Chris to leap back, cursing. Marin, ignoring the order to stay behind, followed.

  “What? Why would he do that? Mick!”

  Michael rounded on his half-brother. “Stay here! You, too, Marin. You’ll only be in the way.”

  Marin stopped in his tracks, looking offended.

  “At least wait for me,” Chris said, grabbing at Michael’s reins. “Wherever you’re going, you can’t go alone! I’ll go with you!”

  “Neither of you will be of any help, believe me. Now, let go! You’re wasting time!”

  “Why would he do it?” Chris clung stubbornly to the reins. “Why would Grandfather abduct Eldering? It doesn’t make sense!”

  Michael clamped his jaws together, anger nearly tripping him into saying what he had no business saying, not in front of Chris, not in front of the guards who, hearing the noise, came out into the stable-yard. “Just stay out of my way, do you hear?”

  Before Chris could respond, Michael swung his fist, knocking his younger brother flat. Grabbing back his reins, he swung into the saddle and was off, shouts following him.

  A witch light flared to life at his shoulder. Fueled by his anger, it burned brighter than usual. He felt Stefn, a steady, aching pulse in his heart. The call drew Michael inexorably south, spurred by growing panic. He’d gone nearly a mile before reason returned. He drew back, slowing his horse. Below, the evening mist gathered on the marsh. Looking over his shoulder, he saw only open hillside. No one followed. Yet.

  He had a good idea where Grandfather had taken Stefn. The question was, why? After a moment, he started forward again, fighting the sense of urgency beating in his chest.

  Michael continued south, following the curve of the coast. The marsh was on his left, the coastal mountains on his right. Night fell and the moon rose, illuminating the path before him. There was still no sign of pursuit. He wondered uneasily if Chris was all right. He’d not pulled his punch.

  Something flashed across his path. Without thinking he sent his witchlight speeding after it. A few dozen feet downslope, the bright globe blinked out. The next instant, the hillside crumbled beneath him. His horse screamed, rearing and throwing Michael from the saddle. Man and beast tumbled down the bluff with the avalanche. Michael gasped out a shield spell and managed to stay alive all the way to the bottom. There he lay, trying to gather his breath, choking on the dust obscuring everything.

  Aching and bruised, he got to his feet. His horse had not been so fortunate. Michael found it half-buried in the rubble, its skull smashed in. He swore, voice echoing across the open hillside. Closing his eyes, he cast his senses far and wide. A glimmer of life-power bloomed in his mind, a small, intricate pattern of light. He focused sharply even as its owner sensed his presence. At once the pattern dimmed, but it didn’t vanish completely.

  So, there were witches abroad, and one with blood almost as pure as his. With that realization came revelation: he knew his grandfather’s game! This was the damned test the old bastard had hinted at!

  Michael was tempted to abandon the entire affair, to turn his back on his grandfather’s machinations and go home. He had no reason to care about the life of Stefn Eldering. The boy was more trouble than he was worth.

  Yet, even as Michael told himself he was indifferent, he kept seeing Stefn’s face, the delicacy of his features saved from outright femininity by that straight, stubborn jaw; the vivid green of his eyes turned up to Michael’s face, wide and filled with anguish.

  Damn it!

  With the fading of the witch’s life-pattern, other, less intricate patterns came to the fore. Small creatures of the marsh -- the merkat, budga, tuft-ear -- all moved through their nocturnal milieu, oblivious to the drama playing out in their midst. He also recognized the pattern of another horse and he smiled grimly.

  His attacker realized immediately what Michael intended and the animal’s pattern dimmed as if someone had drawn a cover over it. Michael, coughing in the dust, collapsed onto a large rock and, putting his head in his hands, focused.

  It was a long, silent battle. The chirping of night insects resumed; the dust of the landslide settled. Something crept out of the thicket, nosing toward the carcass of the horse. Michael saw and heard none of it. His gaze was focused inward, to the endless shower of k’na fragments and the place where his enemy struggled to repel him.

  The resistance faltered. His enemy was tiring. Michael
had yet to feel even a twinge of fatigue. Part of him exulted; the other part kept up the steady, unrelenting pressure on his foe. Abruptly, the resistance was gone, the distant life-pattern dimming to near invisibility. The pattern of the horse reappeared and he seized on it.

  Come to me!

  Michael climbed back up the hill, reaching the summit in time to hear the sound of hooves. A moment later, a marsh-pony cantered out of the brush and came straight to him, tossing its head, loose reins flapping.

  Only marshlanders used these sturdy, wide-hoofed beasts. He looked out onto the marsh, now completely enveloped in its night-time shroud.

  Stefn! Hold on!

  A few miles further, Michael found where his opponent had hidden: a spot in the brush overlooking the ridge. It was empty now. Hoof prints and crushed thicket suggested a small party of men. Was it Stefn and his captors or someone else?

  In spite of worries he might exhaust himself, Michael moved in and out of his inner vision frequently as he continued south. So it was he sensed the next ambush before it could be unleashed.

  This time, it was boulders from above; there was a brief flare of k’na and down they came! He was already running, barely reaching safety as they thundered past him, splashing into the swamp below. Then the small beacon inside him, the pulse that was Stefn’s Call, stopped. In that moment of distraction, his enemies struck. His limbs went numb. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.

  No! He’s mine!

  The suffocating grip on Michael’s mind bent and broke under the force of his panicked rage. Somewhere, back along the threads reaching through the ether, came a soundless scream. He was free! Better yet, he felt Stefn again! Warily, Michael kept going.

  PART VI

  First to encounter the nara were men in the northern parishes and along the western coast. A handful of the strangers came, claiming to be traders and bringing all manner of unusual items. References to them appear in the journals of parish lords from the late tenth century. For several years, the peddlers came no further south than the parishes of Iyre, Ovia, or Shia. The first naran settlers are not mentioned until the Iyre parish census of YLD 1008.