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  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 all 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.

  PART II

  It was a time of darkness, of murder and chaos. Men fought men for small plots of land. Misery and disease was a cloak upon the land, and despair ran through the people like a graveyard wind. Into this hell came a Voice and a Presence. It spoke, first to one lord, then to another, seeking one who would heed its words, but those wielding worldly power refused to hear. Not until it spoke to a humble holy man in the parish of Tantegrel did it find a hearing. “I am Loth,” said the Voice and the holy man, Arthur Gray, the founder and saint of the Church of Loth, did thereafter bring to Mankind the Light.

  from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347

  After two weeks in Castle Shia, Severyn felt drained and jittery. As far as his plans were concerned, everything proceeded smoothly. Forry, Iarhlaith and Dore had departed, each armed with instructions and a heavy bag of the Eldering’s ill-gotten gold. The marriage agreement was signed and locked up in Severyn’s strongbox. They’d begun the plans for refurbishing the castle and expanding the former Hunter garrison. Yet, in spite of it, Severyn could not be easy.

  It was the castle itself that weighed on his nerves. Severyn jumped at shadows and found himself unwilling to be alone in its dank, gloomy rooms. They had only ventured a few feet into the cellar, but had immediately discovered rooms filled with instruments of torture, oubliettes and cells festooned with chains. It was a ghastly place. The earl may have had a fortune at his disposal, but he’d spent none of it on Shia. Severyn could not imagine housing his elder brother in this wretched pile.

  The earl had kept only a dozen servants, most of them a hard, unpleasant lot who, from the looks of things, had done precious little to earn their pittances. Severyn wasted no time in dismissing them, easing their resentment with generous severance packages. Perhaps when Timkins arrived with Severyn’s own staff, the place would feel better.

  For the moment, Severyn and Michael were left to the tender ministrations of the latter’s trusted manservant, Marin. A passable cook, Marin’s skills suffered only from a lack of originality. Still, there were an infinite variety of stews and only another three or four days until Timkins arrived from Messerling.

  “What the hell is this, Marin?” Michael demanded, poking at a large, whitish lump floating on the surface of his stew. “It’s not a potato. It’s not a turnip.”

  “My apologies, my lords,” replied Marin, good-humored as always. “But it is, indeed, a potato. The kitchen’s stores are…” He hesitated delicately. “ …somewhat sparse.”

  Mick rolled his eyes and pushed it to the side of the bowl. He looked tired. Lately, he looked tired all the time. Using his witch-powers so often left the mark of strain on him. He’d been asleep most of these past few days, exhausted after wringing the all-important signature from the new earl. Severyn had missed his company.

  “I was thinking of putting off leaving for another two weeks,” Severyn said. “The more I see of this parish, the more I realize how much needs to be done. I don’t suppose you would lend me Chris?”

  “Without my brother, Blackmarsh would fall apart. Worse, I’d be duty-bound to replace him. We would have to bring him in on the plans… ”

  “You don’t think he would approve?”

  “Oh, he’d approve, all right. Our biggest problem would be to keep the hothead from going off half-cocked at any given moment.”

  “Really? I’d always thought he was the responsible sort.”

  “As long as he’s under Grandfather’s stern eye.”

  They paused a moment to consider the Arranz family’s intimidating patriarch.

  “What a shame. I don’t suppose you would consider… ”

  Mick rolled his eyes at the very notion. “At least Chris has more human blood than not, and looks it,” he replied lightly. “I shudder to think what your new parish would do if faced with a dreaded h’nar ruling over them.”

  Eldering’s subjects had hated their earl with a dull, hopeless intensity, but they hated h’nara even more. Since Michael’s “arrival,” Severyn’s spies in the villages reported rumors flying of the demon in the castle. He would have to act fast to distract the people. In his experience, men with full bellies were more tolerant.

  “The villages are in shambles,” he sighed. “I can’t even guess when the last repairs were made on some of those cottages. No wonder the parish is all but deserted. It’s a damn shame, too. These are some spectacular grazing lands.”

  “I hear it gets hellish cold.” Michael shuddered.

  “Lately, it’s been cold everywhere,” Severyn replied glumly.

  “Not like these northern steppes. According to my erstwhile hosts, the fortress is snowed in and the roads impassible from Icekel to Brivkel. Six months is a long time to spend indoors.”

  Severyn thought of the extra fields planted at Messerling, the crops he’d hoped would feed the troops soon to be posted at the new base. How many villages were there in Shia Parish? Five that could be honestly termed as such and that didn’t take into account herders’ cottages, dozens of which were scattered about the open plains. Shia might be convenient for his plans, but it was turning out to be damned expensive.

  Looking around, he sighed. “The castle may be the worst expense of all! Loth! Everything will have to be replaced. The wood rots, the plaster is moldy, rubbish is piled up everywhere! Rats, spiders! I wouldn’t keep criminals here, let alone my brother!”

  “The more reconstruction you do in the main house and in the villages, the fewer people will question all the wagons and supplies we’ll need to expand the barracks.”

  That was true. Furthermore, the bones of the old keep were decent enough. Properly refurbished, it could be a showplace. “Maybe we’ll find more treasure,” said Severyn, determined to keep an optimistic attitude.

  Instead, the next morning, they found the worst horror yet.

  He and Mick were in the old earl’s study, going over plans for the reconstruction when Captain Corliss appeared, accompanied by two of his men. Seeing their ashen faces, Severyn’s impatient question died on his lips.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Your Highness,” Corliss’ voice shook. “But you had better see this.”

  Just outside the castle walls where the new portion of the garrison was planned was an enormous mountain of rotting, stinking refuse. Why anyone should choose to dump their garbage so close to their own habitation completely escaped Severyn. Not only was it a haven for vermin, it gave forth an unbelievably foul odor that frequently wafted over the walls and through the entire castle. Severyn had gotten into the habit of carrying a scented handkerchief in his breast pocket for just such occasions.

  The unlucky men assigned to moving the fetid mountain to a more reasonable distance stood in small groups by the back gate. They wore masks over their mouths and noses, and heavy gloves. Armed with pitchforks and shovels, they quickly came to attention as Severyn and Michael approached.

  Fortunately, it was not necessary to visit the heap itself. Nearby, the soldiers had started a small pile of their own. Human bones!

  “We’ve been finding them everywhere in that mess.” Corliss jerked a thumb toward the garbage pit, shuddering.

  Aghast, Severyn could only stare at the pitiful pile. “Make certain all skulls are recovered and set aside,” he said finally.

  “Y-Your Highness?” Corliss was not happy to hear this and nearby, his men reacted with equal dismay.

  “Whoever they were, they deserve a decent burial.”

  Sickened, Severyn could barely bring himself to look at Michael. Almost certainly these were h’naran bones. Dear God! There could be dozens of bodies here!

  “Let’s go,” he said, putting a hand on Mick’s shoulder. “They’ll take care of this.”

  Mick jerked away. Turning on his heel, he strode back through the gate. Corliss shook his head. He waved
to his men, grim-faced. Muttering and grumbling, they headed off to resume their grisly task. Severyn stood a moment, looking down at the bones, then followed his friend.

  Mick waited for him in the house. His mouth was set in a thin, white line. “I’m going to have a word with Eldering.”

  Severyn needed only one look to retort, “No, you’re not! I know that expression. You’ll kill him!”

  “How many died? How many?” Mick trembled, beyond anger. “And how did they die? Loth! Did you see how small some of those bones were?”

  “You don’t know they were h’naran. He may have thrown his dead servants here, too. What a pig!”

  “The pig’s son can tell us!”

  “Fine. I’ll talk to him but you stay away. We need him, remember?”

  “He’s not the only one with the Blood!”

  “Is that so? Who else?”

  There was, of course, no answer. Michael swore and swung a punch at the wall, leaving a hole in the crumbling plaster.

  Severyn was in no mood to confront the new earl. Since assuming control of the castle, each day brought to light shocking new information about its late owner. This gruesome discovery, however, exceeded everything they’d uncovered so far. Michael was right. The entire bloodline needed to be wiped from existence.

  And you’re marrying one of them.

  Eldering’s room was on the top floor of the north wing, not far from the library. A guard was on duty just outside the door, springing to unlock it and let Severyn in. This had been the sin-catcher’s room before his father’s death, as well, a sign, doubtless, of Stefn’s tenuous place in his family’s regard. The dingy plaster walls were cracked and full of holes. It was nothing more than an attic, sparsely furnished with cast-offs: a narrow bed, a table and an elderly, threadbare chair. A pariah’s room.

  Jumping to his feet, the young Earl of Shia dropped the book he held and faced Severyn with defiance. He saw the skull in the prince’s hand and blinked, looking confused and apprehensive. Severyn threw it at him and he caught it before thinking, then dropped it with an exclamation of distaste.