Cethe Page 4

  “We found the charnel heap,” said Severyn.

  Lord Stefn’s dark brown hair looked like he’d cut it himself, yet the tousled style suited him. Wisping over his collar, it was thick and soft, tumbling into green eyes which were themselves quite large and with an odd, but pleasing almond shape. Those eyes gazed back at Severyn without comprehension.

  It was grotesque that the monster who had ruled Shia, who had committed unspeakable atrocities, could have produced a son of such startling beauty.

  “What sort of savage disposes of human bodies like that?” Severyn asked. “Who are those poor wretches in your garbage pit, Eldering? How did they get there?”

  “B-bodies? In the pit? What are you…?” Eldering’s voice trailed away at Severyn’s expression. He swallowed hard, then went on. “Sometimes Father would capture witches. Of course, they must be executed, but I thought they had been buried or burned.”

  “Executed? Do you see the size of that skull?”

  The boy looked away, jaw clenched. “This — We are a Covenant Parish of the Church. We hold to the rulings of Holy Zelenov. It is lawful… ”

  Severyn sneered. “The Celestial Council is filled with corrupt and selfish men, but I have yet to hear any of them call openly for the slaughter of innocents. Tell me, Eldering. What’s it like to murder children?”

  The young earl stiffened, hands clenched into fists. Behind the outrage, however, Severyn saw a flash of fear. “You’re lying! Wasn’t it enough that you murdered my father in his own house or used foulest witchcraft to seize control of his daughter and estate? Now you must slander him, as well?”

  “Slander?” Severyn laughed harshly. “You’re a sin-catcher! Do you think Loth visits such curses on the blameless?”

  The earl whitened, eyes stark.

  “Come with me,” Severyn said. “We’ll see about slander!”

  Lord Stefn had little choice but to precede Severyn from the room, limping down the stairs, through the house, and out into the bright, windy afternoon. When he passed through the gate and saw the pit, his ashen countenance took on a greenish hue.

  “He’s to dig with the others,” Severyn ordered Corliss. “Make sure he works without stopping until sunset.”

  Corliss nodded, grinning.

  Severyn stood, arms crossed on his chest, watching with grim enjoyment as a pitchfork was thrust into the young man’s hands and he was sent stumbling into the debris.

  “And for Loth’s sake,” added Severyn, belatedly remembering his first encounter with the doe-eyed earl. “Don’t let him get away.”

  Michael tried to keep his mind on business for the remainder of the day. He stood with Severyn’s engineer on Shia’s overgrown parade ground and listened while the man pointed out where he envisioned various buildings.

  “ …mess hall. Most of the additional barracks will be tents at first, of course, but we expect to have a permanent structures to hold at least five hundred additional troops by next year. Eventually, men with families can settle in the nearby villages, or so we hope, but we’ll still need barracks for those without families… ”

  None of them actually used the word “revolution.” It was such an ugly word, implying violence, wholesale destruction, and death. Loth willing, theirs would be a bloodless coup and any opposition slight. Arami would abdicate quietly, willing to spend the rest of his days in a transformed Shia, well-guarded, surrounded by every luxury, and free of the responsibilities he ignored routinely anyway.

  Tanyrin needed a king, a strong one. Each year, it seemed, the weather went from bad to worse. Summers had become cool and wet while winter’s icy reach extended further south every year. Beaten down by winds and rain, grain rotted in the fields. Reports of crop failures grew. Hunger and fear spread like some deadly disease. In the east, famine was said to be widespread. Yet, in spite of the obvious hardships of their people, the Church and the Royal Court demanded more and more from them. Even the nobles were feeling the strain.

  All the while, King Arami kept to his rooms, lost in pelthe dreams, oblivious and uncaring. If the Wet was indeed returning, the people of Tanyrin would turn to whoever offered the promise of safety. The nara were no longer here to blame, but there were plenty of h’nara. If the House of Lothlain couldn’t protect the people, then it would be the Church. And if it were to be the Church, God help them all.

  Returning to the main house, Michael found the prince on the second floor of the west wing, looking down on the lane.

  “These are good rooms,” said Severyn by way of greeting. “Look at the view!”

  Obligingly, Michael joined him. The windows were filthy and a few had rags stuffed into empty panes, but Severyn was right. The view was spectacular.

  Shia was built on a large, artificial hill. The keep occupied its highest point and from it, one could look out across the outbuildings, over the top of the walls, and onto the rolling land beyond. From here, he could see the meadows, turning gold with the approach of autumn. To the east, the blue shadows of spruce forests marked the foothills. Banks of white, fluffy clouds hid the more distant peaks of the Lothwall range.

  “Storage,” Severyn said, shaking his head. “The rooms are either empty or stuffed full of rubbish. What do you think about turning them into bedroom suites? Gods, can you imagine a summer sunset through these windows?”

  “Do what you wish,” replied Michael. “It’s your brother who will be living here.”

  “Yes.” For a moment, sorrow touched Severyn’s face, then his jaw hardened. He shrugged. “But when he passes on, it will revert to your family, as it should.”

  “After all the evil done inside these walls, I’m not sure I want it back.”

  “Ah, don’t say that.” Severyn grinned and Michael felt his foul mood slip a bit. “Wait until you see what some plaster and paint can achieve, my friend!” The prince turned back to the view. “I’ll wager old Eldering and his spawn avoided these rooms because there’s too much sunlight. As everyone knows, vermin avoid bright places.”

  Michael laughed, imagining the old earl scuttling from the occasional ray of sunlight straying past his heavy drapes and shutters. “It’s true, he didn’t much care for the curtains to be open.”

  Severyn shuddered. “What was it like, pretending to be their priest? Surely you discovered what was truly going on?”

  “I was only here for three weeks,” Michael reminded him. “Perhaps, because I was new, they were on their best behavior.” He hesitated. “What about Eldering? Did you speak to him?”

  Severyn shrugged. “He tried to claim ignorance, then said they were probably executed for witchcraft. Even after I showed him the baby’s skull, his response was to remind me Shia was a Church parish and answerable only to the Celestials.”

  Anger rushed through Michael again, as old and familiar as a favorite shirt. He had seen the justice of the Church’s highest Council too many times, seen it in the wretched hovels at the edges of human towns, the growing numbers of h’nara who crept across the borders into Blackmarsh, looking for safety on Arranz land.

  Michael unclenched his jaw. “They have to be stopped.”

  “They will be! Without Arami on the throne, the Celestial Council will no longer have a drug-addicted puppet to approve their every whim.” Severyn gestured to their gloomy surroundings. “And as for this place, I’ll have it gutted and completely refurbished. There won’t be a trace of Eldering left when it’s finished.”

  He looked so earnest and determined, it was impossible for Michael not to smile. “You’re not going to be in charge of decorating, I hope?”

  Relief flooded the prince’s handsome face. He grinned. “Of course not. I’ve given Jeremy the job.”

  Michael’s jaw sagged, picturing walls crammed with sporting lithographs in monstrous, gilded frames, stuffed animal heads leering from every wall, over-sized armchairs, and stone fireplaces frantic with carved hunting scenes. “Dear God!” he managed.

  Severyn chortled. “Ha! Got yo
u! Actually, I’ve asked Auron. I trust you’ve no objection to him?”

  Michael didn’t get a chance to answer. Rapid footsteps approached, followed by the appearance of Corliss and several other guards. The captain was pale and grim.

  “Oh, hell!” Severyn muttered. “Now what?”

  “He’s bolted,” said Corliss with a brief bow of his head.

  “Bolted? Who’s bolted?” Michael looked from man to man and knew exactly who they meant. He listened in alarm to Severyn’s embarrassed explanation. The notion of Eldering being forced to exhume his family’s victims was gratifying, but Stefn Eldering knew too damn much to be running loose in the countryside.

  “We’ve looked everywhere around the fortress, sir.” Corliss looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. “He must know some rabbit hole we don’t.”

  “Damn it, man! I told you to watch the little rat!”

  “We’re preparing to launch an immediate search of the surrounding fields, Highness!”

  “I’ll go with you,” Severyn said. He turned back to Michael. “Will you come, too?”

  Michael shook his head. “I’m sure you’ll manage,” he said lightly.

  Severyn’s jaw tightened, understanding They both knew what this would cost Michael, but the subject was not one to discuss in front of the guards. “I’ll be back shortly. He won’t have gone far.”

  When they had gone, Michael returned to the windows and looked down onto the lane. Men gathered, some mounted, some leading their horses. From the looks of it, Severyn had mustered everyone in the castle. The prince appeared a moment later, riding to the head of the assembly, Corliss right behind him. At Severyn’s signal, they started down the lane, disappearing around the armory.

  Eldering couldn’t possibly believe he could escape. Except for the distant hills, the castle was surrounded by miles of open land. With his lame foot, he wouldn’t get more than a mile or two. Abruptly, Michael turned and left the room.

  Two guards met him in the corridor outside. They were in the process of searching the house from top to bottom in case Eldering should have slipped back inside for some reason.

  “Have you been in the north tower?” Michael asked.

  They had and found it empty. Michael watched them hurry on to the cellars, then walked slowly in the opposite direction.

  The north wing was indeed deserted. He went straight to the tower, climbing the narrow steps to the top. The small, round room looked just as it had the night of the attack. Michael went to the window and looked out. Soldiers spread across the fields, moving slowly outward in a wide net.

  Retreating to the book-laden table, he sat down. He thought about locking the door, but it seemed unlikely he’d be interrupted. Closing his eyes, Michael began to breathe deeply and rhythmically. His body relaxed. Little by little, his awareness of his surroundings began to fade.

  The shift from here to there happened quickly. Behind his eyelids, the ordinary dark abruptly changed, becoming deep and limitless. It was disturbed only by erratic flashes of light, threads of brilliance that writhed, twisted and whirled as they shot past him on their journey through the ether. Fragments of the Dark Stream, they were flung out from its turbulent current, like the spray of wild waves battering against a shore.

  Only the naragi had been able to drink directly from the Stream, but a witch could make good use of its random splash-overs. Michael reached for the threads, accepting the sharp, familiar jolts of contact as he caught first one, then another. Only when he’d taken his limit did he return to the world of the real.

  Michael had never used so much k’na over such a brief period of time as he had since coming to Shia. His head ached. There was a buzzing in his ears. He would probably sleep for a week after this. Slumping forward, he dropped his head into his arms on the table and whispered the Words of a seeking spell. Not so long ago, in this very room, he’d first seen Eldering’s life-pattern. It hung in his memory, bright and clear. Now, all he had to do was find it.

  Stefn had discovered the secret room by accident when he was younger. Its door was triggered by a narrow slip of stone on the floor in one of the west wing’s empty rooms. More than once, he’d escaped a beating by waiting out his father’s rage in the narrow, stuffy space.

  He lifted his candle to better see the marks carved into the walls, floor and ceiling. The Sword and the Oak Leaf was Loth’s sign, a potent charm against witches and their forbidden powers. According to Shian legend, the women and children of the castle had hidden here during the war. Protected by the power of Loth, they had been safe from naragi sorcery.

  The nearest Cathedral was in Fornsby, a day’s ride south, a proper Cathedral, not just an Abbey like Shia’s. It had no knightmages, either, but there were Hunters. Although he’d never actually been there, he’d seen maps and overheard talk about the town. Later, when things were quiet, he would creep from his hiding place, take a horse from the stable, slip out of the castle, and be away.

  Thinking of being outside Shia’s walls again recalled him to the refuse pit. His stomach clenched. He’d never seen real bones before, only illustrations in the library’s anatomy texts. Stefn hugged his knees tightly to his chest, realizing suddenly there had been no difference between those drawings and the bones he’d been forced to dig out of the filth and garbage. Was it possible those weren’t the remains of taints after all?

  His father’s vile temper had been legendary. As long as Stefn could remember, there had been rumors belowstairs and in the barracks of whether a recently discharged servant or soldier had truly left Shia of his own accord or had fallen victim to the unpleasant amusements of Lord Eldering and his friends. Stefn had never put much stock in such stories; he knew only of the taints brought into Shia, witches who paid for their blasphemies with their lives.

  So what? Father’s dead. Allen’s dead. Shia is mine. It will be different here now.

  All he had to do was get to Fornsby and reveal the entire plot to the bishop there. Not only would he save Shia, he would be a hero, the man who thwarted an act of treachery and worse!

  Without meaning to, Stefn lifted a hand, fingertips brushing his lips where Arranz had kissed him. In the library were books that spoke of such unnatural practices. He’d read them all, over and over again: stories of the naran aristocrats who took their pleasure from among their human slaves; diaries laying out in shivery detail the practices forced upon the poor unfortunates by their merciless, perverse overlords.

  The narani sorcerers were the most notorious, seeking pleasure exclusively from those of their own sex. Only one book had spoken much of that, a very old diary kept by a priest named Camber. Stefn had read it from cover to cover, horrified, yet fascinated at the same time.

  Lord Arranz was a witch. Was it so remarkable that he should be just as twisted as his wicked ancestors? Stefn couldn’t wait to see the bastard brought to his knees before the justice of Loth. Maybe the Church would allow him the pleasure of executing Lord Arranz himself!

  Stefn shifted uncomfortably. How long had he been in the cubby-hole? His candle was at the half-way mark, but the cheap tallow burned quickly. It had probably been only an hour or two. He tried to find a more comfortable spot against the wall and considered whether to blow out the candle and save it for later.

  An ominous scraping rendered the decision moot. Horrified, he sprang to his feet as the wall before him slid open, the sudden rush of air extinguishing the candle at once. A figure loomed in the opening, tall and lean, a lantern held aloft. Long hair, naran white, fell carelessly over broad shoulders.

  “Ah, here you are!” Lord Arranz looked around the tiny space, light hovering over the warding signs. His lip curled.

  “No!” Stefn whispered. He watched in disbelief as the taint came in to inspect the engraved symbol more closely. It couldn’t be possible!

  Lord Michael traced the rough cuts in the stone with his finger. Nothing happened: no cry of pain, no flash of lightning.

  “Did you think thes
e would protect you?” He sounded amused. “My God! Stupid and barbaric! This is the sixteenth century — or hasn’t that information reached this benighted spot?”

  Stefn launched himself at the doorway, desperate and knowing his chances of escape had fallen to nothing. He knocked the taint aside, stumbling into the corridor, wondering, panicked, which way to go. A bone-jarring blow against his back sent him flying forward, balance lost, to sprawl helplessly on the floor. The taint’s crushing weight held him there, struggling to breathe.

  His arms were dragged behind him and bound with sharp-edged leather. Only then did Arranz get up. Fist knotting in Stefn’s hair, he dragged Stefn, gasping and choking, to his knees. Looking down at him, sneering, Arranz said, “Honestly, my lord, did you really think your silly superstitions would hide you from me?”

  Stefn’s lip was cut. He spat blood, angry and terrified. “You can go to hell, tainted filth! Loth will protect me!”

  The taint’s nostrils flared, eyes narrowing. “Loth seems disinclined to do any such thing. Perhaps his anger at the sins of the Elderings is not yet assuaged.” Another savage jerk pulled Stefn all the way to his feet. Leaning close, mouth against Stefn’s ear, the h’nar added, “Shame of Shia.”

  It should not have hurt so much, that name, not from the lips of a taint. Stefn would have swung a punch had he use of his hands. As it was, he could only glare, putting every ounce of his bitter hatred and anger behind it as Arranz straightened and stepped away.

  Pounding footsteps approached from the far end of the hall. “My lord!” Soldiers appeared around the corner. Seeing them, the men started to run.

  Startled, Stefn saw Lord Arranz sway, reaching out a hand to the wall, as if to steady himself. “Good work, my lord!” cried one, coming up to them and looking curiously through the secret door.

  The other took hold of Stefn’s arm. “What do you want done with him, my lord?”