Cethe Page 6

  There was no guard at Eldering’s door tonight, thanks to Severyn’s orders. Michael pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked it.

  The new earl was not in his bed. Looking sharply around, Michael saw him sleeping in the room’s only chair, a ratty old wingback set before the small stove, an open book on his knee.

  Asleep, Stefn looked younger than his nineteen years, his dark hair framing his too-thin face. Eyelashes as dark and long as a girl’s lay against his cheeks.

  Michael’s grandfather had wanted Michael to take Allen, Eldering’s heir, for his cethe. The old earl’s brutish, self-centered son had certainly deserved his fate, but after three weeks in Allen Eldering’s company, Michael could not stomach the prospect. Sin-catcher or no, Stefn was at least pleasant to look upon.

  And Stefn was still an Eldering. For all his delicate prettiness, he was just one more in a long line of butchers and rapists. Given the chance, he’d carry on his family’s bloody work without turning a hair. Loth knew he’d been quick enough to drive a dagger into poor Auron!

  Grabbing the chair, Michael tipped the youth out of it.

  Welcome to hell, Hunter-spawn!

  Stefn woke at once, scrambling clumsily to his feet and nearly fell again backing hastily away from Michael. There was not far to go in the cramped, book-cluttered chamber. His back to the wall, he croaked, “Arranz!”

  “Good evening.” Michael looked him over. Eldering’s white lawn shirt was dirty and unbuttoned, revealing a slim, but nicely-muscled torso beneath.

  Seeing the direction of Michael’s gaze, the new earl pulled the edges together. “What do you want?”

  Appropriating the chair, Michael sat. He opened the valise and took out the jewel-box. Stefn’s green eyes darted to the contents and back.

  “You’re a good little lackey of the Church,” Michael said. “I’m certain you’ve heard of the cethera.”

  Stefn frowned, blank, then his eyes widened. Michael almost laughed at his expression.

  “S-Sathra?”

  “Close enough.” Michael took out the collar. It lay over his hand, sparking in the firelight.

  “I would rather die!”

  “How noble.” Michael’s lip curled.

  Crimson, Stefn retorted, “As if I would touch a taint like that, much less a male taint!”

  “You know,” said Michael, letting the lethet slide back and forth between his hands, “I hate that insult. One of the first things you must do as my cethe is to banish it from your vocabulary.”

  “You can go to hell, taint!”

  Michael surged from the chair, slamming Stefn hard into the wall and knocking the breath from him. The youth collapsed, gasping, unable to fight back as Michael pushed him, face-down, to the floor. Keeping one knee planted firmly on Stefn’s back, Michael dragged the valise over and took out the rope. While Stefn struggled and swore, Michael bound his wrists behind him, then flipped him over. Straddling him, Michael smiled coldly down into those wide, terrified eyes.

  “Go ahead,” he invited softly. “Say it again.”

  Eldering tried to turn his head, but Michael refused to allow it, seizing a handful of black silky hair and yanking it back. “You are mine now. And when you’re on your knees before me, think of all the h’naran women your father and grandfathers forced into the same position. When I’m using you like a whore, think of all the children raped and slaughtered by your murderous, bestial forebears, sin-catcher!”

  “Don’t you dare!” Stefn’s lips trembled. He began to struggle with renewed desperation. “I’ll kill you! I swear to Loth, I’ll kill you!”

  “No,” replied Michael. Fist tightening in Stefn’s hair, he leaned forward, mouth brushing the youth’s ear. “You’ll serve me. Your body will renew my power and make me as strong as a lothrian mage, perhaps even stronger. A delicious irony, don’t you think?”

  Stefn’s breath was ragged, the pulse at his throat beating wildly. “Y-you’re lying!”

  Beautiful. Like a captured angel.

  Michael swore, releasing him, appalled at himself and his wholly inappropriate flight of fancy. Devil, more like. He got up, dragging Stefn after him. Suddenly, all he wanted was to get it over with. He threw Eldering onto the bed. Frantically, the youth rolled over, struggling to sit up.

  There was cettek powder in the jewel-box, several small, folded paper envelopes tucked under the lining. Michael poured the contents of one into a half-empty cup of wine, the only sustenance Eldering had been allowed all day. When he turned back, the youth was seated on the bed, pressed against the wall, knees drawn up. His shirt had slipped off one shoulder, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on the goblet.

  “Will you drink it or must I force it down your throat?”

  “W-what is it?”

  “It will ease what comes next,” replied Michael.

  The youth only shook his head and tried to press further into the wall. Michael reached for him.

  He should have known. He should have remembered the incident in the Great Hall and been ready, but instead, Stefn’s heel caught Michael squarely on the chin. The force of the blow was just as surprising, turning everything crimson, scattering Michael’s thoughts like dust. He felt his knees go to water.

  Some spark of self-preservation brought the spell to his bloody lips, the words barely intelligible. His head cleared and the pain disappeared, but Eldering was already off the bed and stumbling for the door.

  “ARKAST!” Michael barely choked out the Word.

  Eldering froze.

  Gasping for breath, Michael lay on the bed, too dizzy to move. The wine was now a red stain on the sheet, its scent strong in his nostrils. His temper in rags, he shoved himself off and, in two long strides, reached Eldering. Taking hold of the boy’s shirt, Michael ripped it off, letting it tangle around the other man’s bound wrists.

  And swore.

  Scars! So many of them! An intricate lattice of pain covered every inch of Eldering’s slim back. Some were so deep, Michael wondered what could have left them. His rage vanished in the cold shock of it.

  His spell faded, but Stefn didn’t move. The young earl stood, rigid and shaking under Michael’s hands.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Michael had seen scars like these only on h’nara, those poor wretches who’d escaped the Church’s slave camps.

  “Just do what you will. Get it over with.” Eldering’s voice was low and thick. Michael heard the tears in it. His appetite for this, never strong to begin with, turned sour in his belly.

  “I have more of the herb,” he said. “It’s harmless. Take it.”

  “No.” Softer still.

  Michael’s hands curled into fists. He could walk away now. He could untie the boy, go downstairs and do his best to convince Severyn they must find another way to deal with the magi. Then, he would have to confront his grandfather.

  And tell him what? That you’re throwing away the h’nara’s one chance for survival out of pity? Fool!

  All the fight had gone out of Eldering. He didn’t resist when Michael took him back to the bed and made him lie on his belly across it. His hands clenched when Michael seized his left boot. He turned his face into the sheets, but otherwise made no sound.

  The boot was heavy, much too heavy for ordinary footwear. After Michael pulled it off, he saw why: it was lined with steel from heel to toe! Incredulous, he hefted the thing, feeling its weight, then let it fall. It made a loud thump when it hit the floorboards. Reluctantly, his gaze dragged to Stefn’s stockinged foot.

  And saw… nothing. It wasn’t until he’d pulled off the stocking that he saw the cramped, misshapen toes and the long ridge of angry scar running from his little toe to his heel. Eldering had a sixth toe. This was the Mark? This small infirmity?

  Stefn had become utterly still again, seeming barely to breathe. Michael closed his eyes briefly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must do this.”

  There was no answer. Nor was there a sound when Micha
el took the rest of the earl’s clothing, leaving him naked. The collar fit around Stefn’s neck as if it had been made for only him, the soft snick of the lock sounding eerily loud in the room. Against his pale skin, the jewels flashed rainbow fire.

  In the marshes, where mixed blood and lovers of the same sex were matters of little significance, a handsome boy found no shortage of eager instructors in the art of pleasure. Michael Arranz had been both handsome and noble. He took another packet of the herb and a jar of ointment from the valise and returned to the bed.

  “Lift your hips,” he instructed.

  Slowly, awkwardly, the youth pulled his knees under him and pushed his buttocks into the air. Black hair hid his face. His breath came and went, rapid and shallow.

  Mixing the ointment with the finely-powdered herb, Michael pushed a finger into Eldering’s tiny hole, using the combination of herb and ointment to ease the tight passage. He took his time at it, letting the cettek’s effect take hold. Gradually, as he gently pressed and prodded, the muscles around his finger loosened. He tried not to look at the scars, many more of them down here. For the first time, it occurred to him that Eldering might have been through this before.

  But, “No,” came the whisper when he asked, then a long, shuddering gasp as Michael found that place deep inside. His cethe was more than ready.

  In the flickering candlelight, Michael took off his own clothes. Leaning down, he gently pushed Stefn over.

  The younger man, lips parted, looked up at him. Under the spell of the herb, his eyes were all pupil, the green only a fine thread around the black, and fringed with eyelashes sparkling with tears. His sex, thick and hard, quivered against his belly, begging for Michael’s touch.

  Michael lowered himself to his hands and knees on the bed, mouth seeking Stefn’s. Those soft lips yielded at once, opening wide. A fierce rush of desire consumed Michael. His kiss grew harder, more demanding. He drank in Stefn’s moans, pressing his body down on the other man’s, rubbing their cocks together.

  Some dim recollection of purpose made him roll away and get to his knees, pulling Stefn after him. “Open your mouth,” he gasped. “Now!”

  “P-please… ”

  Ruthlessly, Michael pulled Stefn’s head down. “Open!”

  The sensation of Eldering’s mouth around him struck Michael with a force unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He felt his eyes roll back, heard himself cry out. He was barely conscious of finally pulling Stefn away, of looking into the tear-streaked face before flinging the youth onto his belly once more. Stefn was breathing hard, body slick with sweat. Unbidden, he raised his hips and slid his knees apart.

  Now!

  There was a moment of resistance; the opening was so small. Then Michael was past and deep inside Stefn. The pleasure that followed exceeded even that of Stefn’s mouth, and Michael had no choice but to give in to it. Again and again, he plundered the slight body beneath him, shaking it with the force of his thrusts, seeking release from the searing, exquisite need for more, just a little more…

  Then, from nowhere, came pain. Liquid fire poured through his veins, every muscle snapped into knots. The shock of it drove the breath from him; he couldn’t even scream. Inside, in a place he’d always sensed, but never really known, something tore wide open. A howling chasm of darkness stared back at him.

  There was only an instant to meet that vast, inhuman presence, to judge, and to be judged. Words not spoken for centuries roared through him, remaking him. The agony was beyond description; his sense of self reeled under the onslaught.

  He did not remember when everything collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing behind but darkness.

  “Your Highness!”

  Severyn looked up from his letter. Corliss stood in the doorway of his bedroom, his normally expressionless face showing clear signs of alarm.

  “If I might speak to you, sir?”

  The prince was in bed, propped up against his pillows, a stack of correspondence in his lap. Most were letters from Nedby, his steward at Tantagrel, reminding him politely of his royal obligations. He’d been ignoring them since the delivery of the post earlier in the week. Now he looked up warily at his captain, heart sinking, knowing it could not possibly be good news. Before he had time to reply, however, the room jolted, as if the entire house had been hit by something huge.

  “Loth’s balls!” Severyn sent the letters sliding in all directions as he lunged for his bedside lamp.

  Another blow, harder this time, nearly knocked him off the bed and onto the floor. A vase fell, shattering to pieces.

  “The fire!” he shouted to Corliss as coals, shaken loose from the grate, rolled across the hearth tiles and onto the rug. The captain, white and frightened, was clinging to the door, but at Severyn’s exclamation, hurried to kick the embers back.

  “What the devil is going on?”

  “The — in the north wing, your highness… ”

  North wing? Oh, damn, …Mick!

  Severyn jumped out of bed and dashed to the window. Through the dark and streaming rain, the prince saw a blaze of white light on the top floor of the north wing.

  “Lightning?” ventured Corliss when, after several tense moments, the room didn’t move again.

  “I’ll go,” Severyn said.

  “No! Highness!”

  But Severyn, not even bothering to put on a dressing gown over his nightshirt, was already out of the room.

  “I was keeping an eye on things at the bottom of the stairs, Your Highness,” Corliss explained, hurrying to keep up, “just as you ordered. When the screaming started, I wasn’t sure what to do. You did say not to interfere…”

  “Who was screaming?”

  “As to that, Highness, I can’t say, but — turn here, sir, it’s faster — shortly after the screaming started, there was this tremendous crash… ”

  Soldiers milled about at the entrance to the north wing. They came swiftly to attention. On the other side of the door, midway down the dark hallway where the stairs led up, white light blazed.

  “Your Highness!” Corliss cried. “Stay back!”

  “Stay here! Under no circumstances follow me!”

  While they watched in consternation, he pushed through the knot of frightened men and hurried toward the stairway. The light’s intensity made his eyes water.

  “Your Highness!” Corliss pulled at Severyn’s nightshirt, trying to get him back down the hall, his normally stolid features filled with fear. The look he gave his prince was one of pure panic. “It’s the wrath of Loth, Your Highness! The sin-catcher’s up there!”

  “It’s another damned thunderstorm, you superstitious fool! The house has been hit! We’ll be lucky if the whole place doesn’t burn down! Have the men assemble a bucket-line!”

  Severyn plunged into the light, groping for the handrail, squinting against the painful brilliance. Behind him, he heard Corliss swearing and ordering his men back.

  Another shudder vibrated through the castle. Plaster sifted down and a crack opened up in the wall of the stairwell. Severyn started to run, taking the steps, two at a time.

  At the top, he saw Eldering’s room at the far end of the corridor, the door wide open. His gut knotted. The light came from there, white fire that made him lift his hand to shield his eyes. Even as horror dragged at his muscles, he ran for it.

  Another shudder. The ancient walls groaned.

  “Mick! Damn it! MICHAEL!”

  Severyn reached the door of Eldering’s room and the light went out. Left with red spots floating before his eyes, it took a moment for Severyn’s vision to recover. Broken glass littered the floor. Wind and rain raced through the shattered window. Furniture was overturned. In the bed by the wall, naked and mute with terror, huddled the earl. On the floor…

  “Holy Loth, Defender of Man!” whispered Severyn.

  Nude, straight, and stiff as a corpse, Michael was stretched out beside the bed, but he wasn’t on the floor. Instead, he drifted several inches above it! A h
aze of light surrounded him, pulsing gently, as if it came from deep inside him somewhere. Pale hair drifted on the invisible currents. His eyes were closed and his lips moved ceaselessly.

  “Oh, God! Michael!” Aghast, Severyn froze in the doorway, unable to take another step. He had feared something like this! What was he to do?

  After a moment, he got himself in hand. Entering the room, wary, he approached his friend. Taking a deep breath, he reached down and set a hand on the h’nar’s bare chest. For an instant, it was lost in the soft, golden radiance. Warmth flooded through him. Then the light vanished and Michael settled to the floorboards. Silence fell; even the storm outside seemed to quiet.

  Michael’s breathing was deep and even, but when Severyn shook him, he didn’t wake. Getting to his feet, the prince strode to the bed, confronting Eldering. “What happened? Answer me!”

  But the youth was clearly beyond speech, only shaking his head. His hands were bound, Severyn realized; he couldn’t have done this himself. Severyn turned back to Michael.

  It was a struggle to get him back into his clothes, but Severyn managed it. Getting Michael off the floor was another matter.

  “Prince Severyn? Prince Severyn!”

  Corliss! Severyn swore. Even his loyal officers would find this scene beyond any reasonable explanation he could give. Lurching to his feet, he ordered Eldering off the bed. The sin-catcher nearly fell trying to obey. His thighs and buttocks were smeared with blood. His cursed foot was bare, a heavy scar running along the outside of it, dark and inflamed.

  Severyn dragged him to the next room and shoved him inside. “Take one step outside and I’ll kill you!”

  Just in time. Turning around, he saw Corliss at the end of the hall, the officer’s fear for his prince overriding his duty to obey Severyn’s orders.

  “Highness!” Corliss arrived at the bedroom door, looking around with wide eyes.

  “Lightning,” said Severyn in a tone allowing no contradiction.

  “Is he?… ”

  “Just unconscious.”