Cethe Page 8

  “Once Severyn weds your sister, the people of Shia will learn what it’s like to have a just and generous lord,” said Arranz. “One who cares whether their roofs leak or their children are hungry. I wager, in less than a year, they’ll bless the day the prince came to save them.”

  A few minutes later, they passed another house, this one a bit larger, but equally squalid. The taint was full of fine words, but to Stefn’s observation, Prince Severyn Lothlain seemed capable only of treachery and, Stefn stole a quick glance at Arranz, blasphemy.

  They soon left the depressing vista behind. It began to rain harder, the water running in rivulets down the thick glass. The coach slowed, jolting and bouncing as the road worsened. Overhead, the lantern swung wildly. Arranz swore. He unhooked it and blew it out. “Damned northern roads,” he muttered.

  With little to see but an endless procession of rain battered fields, Stefn glanced over at Arranz and found the h’nar looking back. For some reason, that regard sent a wave of heat through him. Horrified, Stefn turned away. He wedged himself into the corner as securely as he could and pretended to go to sleep.

  It was with genuine surprise that he awoke several hours later to find himself curled up on the seat, blankets tucked around him. The ride was smoother, the coach swaying gently. Across the aisle, sunlight streamed through the window. The demon lord appeared engrossed in his book. He raised his eyes as Stefan sat up.

  “Awake at last. How you could sleep with all that jolting defies reason.”

  “Where are we?”

  “We crossed Shia’s parish line a short time ago. I’ve arranged for us to spend the night at an inn in Fornsby.”

  The landscape had started to change, empty plains giving way to rolling, wooded hills and open fields. On the road, puddles from the rain reflected blue sky. Stefn forgot everything in his fascination with a world he’d never expected to see outside of paintings or in the illustrations of his books.

  The homes of the farmers were not as mean as those of Shia, but still seemed very small and run-down. They passed a wagon pulled over to the side of the road. A bearded, shabbily dressed man sat at the reins while, in the back, atop several bulging, burlap sacks, sat a boy, barefoot in spite of the chill, his breeches out at the knees. A moment later, the coach was past.

  “The Baron of Fornsby is a decent lord,” said Arranz. “The Order of the Sacred Vessel has their monastery in the Cathedral here, too, bringing work to the people of the parish.”

  “Are they traitors, too?” asked Stefn bitterly.

  “Not yet.”

  In spite of himself, excitement quickened Stefn’s pulse. If only he could get to the Cathedral! If only he could warn the priests! Afraid his face would give him away, he turned his gaze back to the window. The road curved slowly west, revealing more of the town. “Where is the Cathedral?” he asked. “Is it those buildings to the east?”

  “No. That’s Castle Fornsby,” replied Arranz. “You’ve never been here?”

  “I’ve never been anywhere,” replied Stefn before thinking.

  “We’ll pass the Cathedral on the way to the inn. You can’t miss it.”

  Stefn said nothing more. To his relief, Arranz was right, it wasn’t difficult to spot the Cathedral. It dwarfed buildings around it, high-walled and grim. As they rode past, Stefn saw two guards standing before its massive gates.

  The coach was quickly through Fornsby. At the edge of the town, it pulled into the large, busy yard of an inn.

  “Your name,” Arranz said, “is Stefn White, if anyone asks. And put up your hood. I prefer discretion.”

  He donned his own cloak, hiding his silvery mane, and stepped down from the coach. Marin was waiting. The big servant bowed and handed Stefn a cane. Stefn was tempted to throw it back at him, but his foot still ached, so he took it and was secretly grateful.

  The inn had a prosperous, welcoming look. Torches were lit against the deepening twilight. Yellow lamplight glowed from the square-paned windows. The smell of cooking made Stefn’s mouth water.

  Inside, the common room was as busy as the courtyard. No one paid any heed to the two cloaked and hooded figures winding through their midst.

  Marin secured two chambers on an upper floor. “I’ve ordered dinner to be sent up, my lords,” he announced when they reached the top of the stairs. To Stefn, he added, “I shall, of course, be outside your door, Lord Eldering, should you need anything.”

  Stefn heard this with a sinking heart, but pretended indifference. “You don’t trust me, my lord?” he asked Arranz, feigning concern.

  “No.”

  Marin took a step in Stefn’s direction and, in no mood to be manhandled yet again, Stefn hastily retreated into his assigned room. The door shut. He heard the key turn in the lock and he was finally alone. Heart thumping, he stood rooted to the spot.

  It was a dreadful risk he was taking. If he failed, who knew what the taint would do to him? Even so, he had no choice. The danger to the kingdom was more important than his personal circumstances. He had to try!

  To his delight, his room had a perfect view of the Cathedral. But how to get there? His door was locked and guarded.

  He pushed open the window and leaned out. It was a straight drop to the courtyard. Jumping was out of the question. On the other hand, the window was a dormer, with roof slanting steeply on either side. Having scrambled in and out of windows all his life, this would be easy.

  A short time later, Marin brought him his supper. “Where is Lord Arranz?” Stefn asked. “Will he join me?”

  “His lordship has gone out,” replied the man.

  Better and better. Stefn ate the excellent meal with real appetite. When Marin returned to take away the tray, Stefn announced his intention to seek his bed. He even blew out his lamp and crawled under the covers, fully dressed, just in case Arranz should check.

  Having slept all day in the coach, it wasn’t hard to stay awake. He listened to the sounds of the courtyard drifting up to his window, the tread of feet on creaking boards outside his door. All the while, his mind raced.

  Once the plot was exposed, the prince and his half-demon accomplice would stand trial and face execution. Maybe then, Loth would be satisfied that the Elderings had atoned for whatever sins Stefn carried. Maybe then, his curse would be lifted.

  Gradually, the inn quieted. When moonlight streamed through his window, Stefn got out of bed. Below, the courtyard was empty. At the last moment, considering the long walk ahead of him, he grabbed the cane and, with it gripped in his teeth, climbed up onto the window sill. Careful to put little weight on his bad foot, he worked himself around until he was safely on the roof.

  He found a drainpipe and, with the ease of long practice, slid to the ground, keeping to the shadows as he made his way across the courtyard. His intention to steal a horse died at the sight of several stableboys clustered before the stable, talking and smoking their pipes. It looked like he would be walking.

  With an eye to the distant Cathedral towers, his cane gripped firmly in hand, he started into Fornsby.

  Stefn had never been beyond the borders of Shia. He’d filled his empty hours with books, pouring over travelogues, histories, novels, biographies, scriptures — anything to paint images of the world beyond the meadows and high, rough hills of home. No amount of reading, however, had prepared him for the sheer distances involved in getting from one place to another. The confusing tangle of streets was much different from their orderly lines on a map. It had seemed to take no more than a blink of an eye to ride through Fornsby in the coach, yet after an hour’s trudging, he had not yet reached the Cathedral.

  Being late, most of Fornsby was deserted, shops closed, their shutters drawn against the perils of the dark. As he continued to wander about, the streets narrowed and became dirtier. He came upon taverns still open, their doors spilling out noise and drunken laughter. Men and women stumbled up and down the walkways, arm in arm, and once Stefn gave wide berth to a fight.

  He coul
d see the Cathedral’s towers silhouetted against the sky, but no matter how often he turned toward them, the streets he chose meandered off in other directions, forcing him to backtrack again and again. Finally, out of sheer frustration, his foot throbbing unbearably, he chose one of the quieter taverns and slipped inside. Uncertainly, he stood just inside the door, trying to make out details in the thick, boozy haze.

  “And what can I get for you, my pretty lad?”

  Starting, Stefn looked up. A barmaid appeared before him, smiling broadly. Her gaze, as it traveled up and down the length of him, made him blush.

  “I… if you please, ma’am… I’m trying to get to the Cathedral. Could you give me the direction?” He spoke as quietly as he could, but even so, the men seated at the tables nearby fell silent.

  “Cathedral? Why, sure, honey.” Seizing his arm, the woman swept out of the tavern, dragging him with her. He tried to keep his eyes averted from her breasts, plump and round and doing their best to spill out of her shabby, low-cut gown. “Take that street there all the way to the end, love, then turn right. Another quarter mile and you’ll be there. They lock up the gate, though, at midnight. Why not stay here until morning? Let Emilia show you a good time.”

  Somehow, Stefn managed to extricate himself. “Thank you,” he managed. “I… I must go.” He hurried away, aware she remained on the tavern stoop, hands on her hips, watching him. Not until the road curved out of sight did he breathe a deep sigh of relief and slow down.

  The Cathedral locked their gates at midnight? He hadn’t reckoned on that. Would they open them for him? And, if they did, what would they do when they realized who Stefn was? Would they even give a sin-catcher an audience?

  Away from the tavern district, the town was quiet and dark again. Moonlight laid a silver path down the middle of the street, but the edges stayed deep in shadow. Here and there, a second- or third-story window showed the gleam of lamplight, but most of Fornsby’s good citizens had long since sought their beds. His footsteps echoed, abnormally loud, against the walls.

  A new sound, coming from behind, stopped him in his tracks, spinning him around. It seemed the shadows moved, but he couldn’t be sure. After a moment, when nothing stirred, he told himself it was a trick of the moonlight and walked on. He reached the end of the street and, as the barmaid had instructed, turned right. Behind him came the rattle and clank of a bottle rolling across the paving stones. This time, when he turned around, he saw a handful of slouching figures step out into the open. Moonlight flashed on steel.

  Stefn’s heart leapt into his throat. He started walking again, going as fast as he could without running outright. Teeth clenched against the bolts of pain shooting up through his leg, he prayed the Cathedral was just ahead…just around this next corner.

  He heard his stalkers break formation and knew he had no more time. Wildly, he looked for defensive ground, but there was none, only alleys that could be dead-ends and doorways where a man could be pinned.

  “Hey-ho, my lord! Fine night, eh?” One of the men, a nicked short-sword in hand, approached. “We was wonderin’, m’lord, if you had a few golds or silvers to spare. Me and my friends here are feelin’ a bit peckish.”

  “I have no money.”

  This brought snickers from Short-Sword and his cohorts. “We ain’t stupid, yer lordship. Hand over yer gold and yer sparklies.”

  They were looking straight at his neck. Involuntarily, he reached up and found his neckcloth had slipped, revealing a glimpse of the jeweled collar beneath.

  There were five of the villains, moving forward, trying to surround him. Running was out of the question; his foot wouldn’t stand it.

  One of Short-Sword’s companions, a long-bladed dagger in each fist, prepared to strike. He lunged, but Stefn lifted the cane to meet the attack, whirling it from hand to hand in front of him. The ruffian shrieked as the heavy, knobbed wood shattered both his wrists, his daggers flying from suddenly nerveless fingers.

  “Get him!”

  Stefn braced to meet their rush. He deflected Short-Sword’s enraged jab, dropping to a crouch, intending to come up under the man’s guard. Alas! His foot buckled under him and he fell heavily, vision greying in the waves of agony. Some sixth sense made him roll desperately to one side, avoiding the vicious, downward cut of the sword. He got his other hand on the cane, lifting it to block another blow. Sweat ran into his eyes. The next blow would finish him.

  But the next blow didn’t come. Instead, he heard one of the robbers swear. “Holy mother of whores. It’s a fuckin’ demon!”

  Stefn’s heart lurched. Wiping his eyes with his arm, he saw the truth of it. Shadow and moonlight come alive as Michael Arranz approached. Unhurried, he strolled down the center of the deserted street, making no effort to hide the bright, damning banner of his hair. In one hand, he held a sword, in the other, a whip.

  “That ain’t no demon,” roared the ruffians’ leader. “What’s wrong with you fools? He’s just some bloody taint! Take ‘im down!”

  Arranz became a blur of motion, deadly, graceful and appallingly efficient. Superstitious awe and terror held Stefn motionless, staring as Short-Sword’s head was parted from his shoulders, flying across the street to roll up against the front of a shop. Without breaking stride, Arranz impaled the next robber and severed the spine of the third. The man whose wrists Stefn had broken tried to run, moaning and babbling prayers, but Arranz’s whip cracked through the street, wrapping around his neck and snapping it. Another crack and the fifth ruffian met an identical fate. Abruptly, the night was quiet.

  Along the street, lights appeared in the windows. Shutters were thrust open. Arranz put up his hood. As the calls and shouts started, he crossed the bloody pavement to Stefn. Belatedly, Stefn found his wits and swung the cane wildly at the half-breed’s shins. “Idiot puppy!” he heard, then the world was violently upended. Pain crashed down on Stefn like the hammer of Loth and he didn’t remember a thing after that.

  Eldering was still unconscious when Michael got him back to the inn. Marin carried the youth up to his room with surprising gentleness. With a glance at the window, still open, Michael ordered his aide to strip the earl naked and tie his hands behind him.

  “I’m in no mood to chase him down again,” he said flatly.

  “Bind him, my lord?” Marin looked down at the unconscious sin-catcher. “Is it really necessary?”

  “If Eldering had reached the priests with his tale, the consequences would have been disastrous.” Ignoring Marin’s reproachful looks, Michael returned to his own room and promptly collapsed.

  It had been easy to find Stefn. Michael had been shocked at how easy. Deep inside him, in a place that he’d not known existed before the Binding, a small flame now burned, flaring brighter when his thoughts touched on his cethe. Dispassionately, Michael considered the phenomenon. He’d simply followed its pull through the sleeping town until he’d found the runaway.

  And the runaway could fight! That was most unexpected. He was still pondering that when sleep finally took him.

  It seemed he’d hardly slept a wink before a knock on his door announced it was morning. With Marin hovering at his elbow, he crossed the hall and unlocked Eldering’s door.

  The earl was awake, as well. Marin had left him a blanket, but he’d clearly been struggling, for it had fallen to the floor and the earl himself was dangerously close to tumbling off the bed after it. Nothing in his flushed face suggested he was in any way chastened. Michael changed his mind about untying him.

  “Wrap him up in the blanket,” he told Marin. “If he makes any noise, gag him.”

  Turning his back on Eldering’s outrage, Michael left the inn, stepping out into the predawn gloom where their coach waited. It was nearly a quarter hour later before Marin arrived with his squirming cocoon of blankets and angry earl. Eldering was dumped unceremoniously on the seat opposite Michael. Marin departed, chuckling, and the coach door slammed.

  “Untie me!” demanded Stefn, rigid in
his confining blankets.

  “I don’t think so, my lord.”

  “Do you think I’m going anywhere with my foot like this?” Stefn demanded furiously. “At least give me my clothes!”

  “No. And if you aren’t quiet, I’ll take the blanket.”

  That threat was enough to make Stefn close his mouth with a snap. Defeated, he lay on his side and contented himself with directing evil looks at Michael. Michael ignored him, leaning back in his seat and pretending interest in the slowly brightening morning outside.

  “My lord?”

  He looked around. Stefn looked back at him, mouth tight. “When we get to Blackmarsh, what then?”

  “I have some business to attend while I’m there.”

  “What has that to do with me?”

  “My grandfather will want to have a look at you. Don’t worry. You’ll be kept well out of the way. I have no intention of insulting my family by forcing the company of an Eldering on them.”

  Green eyes flashed, then fell. Stefn looked like he might have said something, then thought better of it. He lapsed back into sullen silence.

  The day passed, miles rolling away under their carriage wheels. Sunset arrived, a blaze over the western hills. As soon as it was fully dark, they would stop. Michael looked forward to Eldering’s reaction when he was carried into the inn, wrapped up like a sausage in his blanket again.

  Fortunately, the inn had a back stairwell, because the earl was not amused. He struggled and swore, even managing to kick Marin in the jaw until Michael threatened to bewitch him into docility.

  In the small bedroom, Michael dismissed Marin, then regarded the wriggling bundle at his feet thoughtfully. Stooping, he grasped the edge of the blanket and unrolled it with a single, mighty yank. His captive ended up face down on the dusty floor, treating Michael to an excellent view of tight, round buttocks.