by Becca Abbott
What if they send the taint after me?
The thought was enough to turn his blood to ice water. Stefn remembered vividly that moment in the tower when he had confronted the false priest. A witch in Shia! And defiling the holy garb of a cleric, at that!
He’d seen taints before, mostly captives from his father’s raids, pitiful wretches doomed to entertain the soldiers during their drunken victory banquets afterwards. Sometimes, the screams had reached all the way to his room in the north wing. To see one walking freely through his family’s ancient home and bearing arms too, was a sickening shock.
Carefully, he made his way through the dark, cluttered attic. Outside, it was raining: he could hear the steady drumbeat on the roof. Water ran in sheets down the narrow windows. The roof slates would be slick and dangerous, but he had no choice.
He was briefly grateful for being undersized as he squeezed out of a window and, on hands and knees, crawled up the steep slant of roof to the top. Gusts of wind drove the rain into his face and soaked him to the skin. Lightning threw the roof into brilliant relief, marking his way. He hadn’t taken this route for a long time, but he remembered where to put his hand to find the drainpipe when he reached the end and how to slide down to the adjoining roof below.
Unlike the rest of the house, the west wing had a flat roof. Stefn splashed across pools of rainwater to the far edge. Slithering down another drain-pipe, he landed between two large bushes. Lights glowed from the stables across the lane. On his right, the laundry shacks huddled against the inner castle wall. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he ran in their direction.
A figure suddenly loomed from the dark to block his path. Stefn swerved, but the man was after him with frightening speed. A flash of lightning bathed the lane in white and Stefn’s heart nearly stopped: Brother Michael!
The taint had been wounded, black blood running down his face. Even so, it didn’t seem to slow him down. He reached for Stefn. Panic gave Stefn the strength to knock the hand away, but alas, his own body betrayed him! His bad foot buckled, sending him sprawling across the muddy cobbles.
“Damned fool!” he heard through the rain and thunder.
Stefn was hauled back to his feet. “Let me go!” he spat, trying to pry off the taint’s filthy hands. “Don’t touch me! Taint! Demon! Witch!”
That earned him an open-handed blow across his face and another trip to the cobbles. His head spun. Ignoring his cursing and useless struggles, the taint dragged Stefn back into the house.
Stefn looked desperately around, but saw no familiar faces. There were only men in royal dark blue and gold standing guard along the corridors, watching dispassionately as the taint hurried him past.
“Where are the servants?” Stefn demanded. “Did you slaughter them, too?”
“A few,” replied the taint. “But most were prudent enough to lock themselves in their quarters, as I advised them earlier.” He smiled. “As long as they never learn the truth, Prince Severyn has no quarrel with them.”
The threat was obvious enough. Stefn swallowed hard and said nothing more.
The Great Hall was deserted except for his father’s murderers, now making themselves at home in the earl’s favorite place by the fire. Stefn could not resist looking up to the balcony, only to see more of the traitor prince’s soldiers.
He ventured a quick glance at the taint and realized it wasn’t blood running down the villain’s pale face, but brown hair dye! The rain had washed enough away already to show glimpses of platinum beneath.
“Trust Arranz to run the little rat down,” said one of the men as they approached the fireplace. He was a rangy fellow with short, dark hair and a lazy, sardonic smile.
The prince rose, face brightening. “Mick! I was just about to send some men in search of you!”
Arranz. Arranz? Shock made Stefn lose his precarious footing. Only the taint’s grip on his arm kept him upright. The Arranz?
Alone of all the taints befouling Taniryn, the Arranzes of Blackmarsh had the lawful right to hold their heads high and look humans in the eyes as equals. St. Aramis himself had decreed it nearly three hundred years ago. Moreover, legend claimed Shia itself had once belonged to them, long before they had mingled their blood with humans.
The prince threw an arm over the h’nar’s shoulders, drawing him closer to the fire. “Where the devil have you been, man? I was starting to think some Hunter had got you, after all! Loth, you look done in!”
“Too much witching,” replied the taint, matter-of-fact. “I need a very long nap.”
“Good God, Mick, what the hell is that?” Another of the noblemen pointed at the running dye and hooted, but it was a good-natured teasing. They were uncommonly familiar with the creature.
“My priestly disguise,” replied Arranz with a shrug and wry grin. “Too bad. For awhile I was almost respectable.”
“Sit his lordship down,” another of the traitors said, glancing at Stefn. “Else he’ll fall down, I think.”
Arranz gave Stefn a rough shove toward a chair beside the rangy nobleman. Stefn nearly missed it, scrabbling wildly before somehow getting seated. The man frowned, peering narrowly at him. “Loth! How old is he? Fifteen?”
“Nineteen,” replied Arranz. He took the last empty seat, propping his muddy boots on the low, beautifully-carved, mosaic-topped table. “Just.”
Prince Severyn, relieved, settled back. “Good. I hear she’s a only year younger than him. I’ll not wed a child.”
“Wh-what?” whispered Stefn, head buzzing. “Wed?”
They weren’t listening. The yellow-haired lord seated beside the prince said, “I wonder if she’s as pretty as her brother.”
“I hear the lovely Miss Eldering is one of the Lights of Lothmont. The last time I was in town, the other bachelors in my club were raving about her beauty, her grace, her bell-like laughter … ”
“You bastards! Leave Stefanie out of this!” Horrified, furious, Stefn lurched to his feet. The dark-haired nobleman snorted and got up to push him back.
“Auron!” exclaimed the taint, straightening, his boots hitting the floor. “Watch your … He’s not as… Damn!”
The warning came too late. Stefn snatched the nobleman’s own belt-knife from its sheath and plunged it into his ribs. The man’s eyes widened with astonished disbelief and he toppled sideways.
Stefn kept hold of the knife, slashing wildly as all the traitors drew their swords. A part of him was dimly horrified, knowing there could be only one outcome; the men suddenly surrounding him were grimly intent upon it.
“Don’t kill him!” Prince Severyn shouted and narrowly missed a savage slice across his arm for his mercy.
Again, it was the taint who stopped Stefn, who moved with such unnatural swiftness and grace Stefn barely registered the fact before the knife flew from his hand and he was sent crashing to the floor.
“Auron!” The blond nobleman ran to his wounded accomplice, dropping to the floor beside him. “Loth the Great! Challory!” The look he threw Stefn was black with rage. “Kill the puny bastard! The whole damned family are monsters!”
“Get him out of here,” snarled the prince.
“What are you talking about?” cried the blond man, “He’s killed Challory!”
The third of the traitor lords ran across the Great Hall for help while the blond desperately tried to staunch Lord Challory’s bleeding. Stefn tried to get up, but the taint knocked him back down with a careless slam of his heel into Stefn’s head. The world dimmed.
When his head cleared, he was face down on the carpet, wrists chained at his back. The room tilted wildly as he was dragged roughly back to his feet and redeposited in the chair.
“Move again,” the taint promised softly, “and I’ll knock you out.”
“Knock him out? Cut his damned throat!” The blond lord, on his knees beside his wounded companion, looked up at Arranz with black rage.
The taint ignored him, joining him on the floor. “Leave off, Forry.”
His voice was calm, even. “I can at least stop the bleeding.”
The blond nobleman seemed to get hold of himself, offering up a weak smile. “Y-yes, of course. Damn. Sorry.”
“If we kill him,” Prince Severyn added, “the only way to get our hands on his whore of a sister is to petition the Church. It’s the law.”
“What?”
“The old bastard was a knightmage, remember?”
Arranz set his hands on the wounded lord. Blood welled up between his fingers. Long and fine, they seemed to take on an inner light. The dark-haired man shifted and murmured, but didn’t open his eyes.
The prince continued. “The Elderings were one of the original Hunter garrisons. They may have fallen on hard times in recent years, but they’re still Churchmen.”
Lord Challory groaned, then coughed. The yellow-haired noble leaned back, relieved.
“Thanks, Mick.”
Arranz, pale as milk, didn’t answer. Instead, he sagged forward over the injured rebel’s body. Yellow-hair swore and pulled him away.
Across the hall, the other rebel lord returned, followed by several soldiers.
“Get Challory upstairs and fetch a physician to see to his wound,” the prince ordered. “The bleeding is stopped, but he’s not out of danger. As for the sin-catcher… ” Lothlain turned a look of cold enmity on Stefn. “Get him out of here. He’s caused enough trouble.”
Leaving Stefn to the rough attentions of his guards, the prince dropped to his knees beside Arranz. The last sight Stefn saw as he was dragged from the hall was the prince holding the taint in his arms as gently as if Arranz was a brother and not, as everyone could plainly see, a monster from deepest hell.
Michael heard the voice in his dream, calling his name. It grew louder. He opened his eyes and the dream vanished. Severyn stood over him. Staring blankly up at the prince, he remembered where he was. “How’s Auron?”
Severyn swore, half-laughing, and fell back into the chair beside the bed. “It’s about damned time! You’ve been out for three days! And Auron’s fine, of course, although if not for you, your pretty boy would have robbed me of a dear friend. I’m not sure I’d have spared his life in that case.”
“Ah. And how is the earl?” Michael’s body was still sluggish. Unlike holy lothnia, k’na was no gift of a benevolent god. The Black Stream wore a man to a thread in no time, bringing an irresistible, inevitable Sleep to those who went past their limits. Only the naragi had used it with impunity and the naragi had been gone for three hundred years.
Reluctant to move, Michael pulled his blanket up to his chin. “Has Eldering signed the marriage documents?”
Severyn growled something under his breath. “No. For such a girly boy, he’s remarkably stubborn. If it weren’t for you, I’d let Corliss give him a real work-over, but… damn it, Mick! Are you sure it must be him? The more I think about this whole affair, the less I’m liking it.”
The bewildered look on those beloved, familiar features brought a flood of affection and the wistful urge to put his arms around the prince and hold him tight. Michael had long ago come to terms with his own nature. It was to be expected, after all, of one whose lineage included the nara’s deadly sorcerers. For the prince, alas, it was another matter altogether.
“He’s a means to an end,” Michael said. “Nothing more. What of the servants? Have they accepted our ruse?”
Severyn’s grin reappeared. “It went without a hitch. And you thought the plan was too complicated!”
“Sometimes I don’t know who is more of a madman: you or my grandfather,” growled Michael. “It won’t last. Sooner or later, the Celestials will ask questions.”
“Well, they sure as hell will if you don’t do something about your hair.” Severyn tilted his head toward Michael’s tangle of splotchy brunette and silver. “Isn’t it about time for the good Brother to return to his monastery and Lord Arranz to grace us with his elegant presence?”
Michael grimaced. “What about the medallion? Did you get it?”
“I did.” Severyn reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a heavy necklace. He tossed it onto the bed beside Michael’s pillow. “You should have seen the look on the face of the Earl’s valet when I took it off the old devil’s body. I’m not sure he believed me when I said I was taking it for safekeeping.”
Michael sat up.
“Now you’re awake.” chuckled Severyn. “What is it, anyway?”
“A key, I think. Want to come with me?”
Severyn shook his head. “Haven’t time. Key to what?”
“A hidden storeroom. Everyone in the castle was convinced the earl has been hoarding a fortune in gold. It’s probably just a rumor, but you never know. Do you need me for anything?”
The princely grin widened. “Well, I would appreciate if you could have a word with our new earl. The sooner Stefanie Eldering is my wife, the more secure our hold is on Shia.”
“As you wish.” Michael threw back the covers and got out of bed. Severyn’s gaze moved over his half-naked body, almost as if drawn against his will.
Color deepening, the prince quickly turned his eyes away.
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I’d stay and see what you find, but I’m due in Shiaton to meet with their village elders.”
“You’re not going alone, I hope.” Michael quickly took his habit from the bedpost and put it on. “There are plenty of real bandits out here.”
“Forry’s going, too, and a dozen men. We’ll be all right. If you can stay awake, meet us at supper.”
After the prince had gone, Michael sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the door, thinking how the room suddenly seemed a little less bright. When Severyn was around, nothing was impossible. Sometimes, in dark moments, Michael imagined what his life would have been like had it not been for the prince and knew himself to be fortunate beyond imagining.
They’d met by accident: the shy, reclusive grandson of the infamous Demon Duke of Blackmarsh and the young prince, cheerful, energetic and lonely. The royal estate of Messerling bounded Blackmarsh to the east, an easy distance between friends. Soon Severyn had been more often at Blackmarsh than in his own huge mansion. His favor had eased the Arranz family’s daily struggle with poverty and subtle harassment. His friendship had drawn an isolated, angry youth out of his shell and given him a reason to trust.
Michael looked down at the medallion, thumbing its etched surface. The thing was very old and tarnished. He didn’t know for certain it was the key, of course, or that it locked away a treasure like the servants whispered, but Lord Eldering had worn it always. According to gossip, he kept it on even when buck-naked and tumbling whatever servant girl caught his eye.
It would take only a few minutes to learn the truth. A fortune in treasure would go a long way toward funding a coup. Michael dropped the medallion over his neck, tucking it into his habit. As an afterthought, he pulled up his hood, in no mood to apply more hair-dye, and put on his spectacles. It was almost second nature to slump his shoulders and take on the humble mien of the cleric he’d been playing for the past three weeks.
Lamp in hand, he left his room. At the bottom of the main stairs, he was accosted by Shia’s elderly butler. The man greeted him joyfully, seizing his hand and squeezing it. “‘Tis good to see you, Brother Michael!” he cried. “We did exactly as you said and no one was hurt. But where were you, Brother? You weren’t among us. I was afraid the outlaws had slain you, too!”
“Loth was merciful,” replied Michael dutifully, ignoring his question. “You’re up late, Greyson.”
“I’m on my way to bed,” the butler reassured him. “Things are in quite a state! There is so much to do! Still, I cannot complain. Thanks to His Highness and you, of course, many lives were saved.”
“Loth be praised,” agreed Michael.
“But is it true? Will you be returning to Zelenov?”
“I must bear details of this terrible affair to the Archbishop. Besides, I’m sure the new earl will
want to choose his own cleric.”
The old man’s kindly face darkened. “The sin-catcher?” he spat. “It’s his fault that we’ve suffered such calamity!”
Michael couldn’t help a twinge of pity for the luckless Stefn Eldering. On the other hand, the new earl was a convenient scapegoat. “Now, Greyson,” he said in most officious tones, “sin-catchers are Loth’s judgment. Who are we to question His will?”
Leaving the old man, Michael continued to the north wing. All of Shia was old, but the north wing was the oldest and naran-built. His own ancestors had been the architects of its precise angles and perfectly straight walls. The Church denied it; the Elderings denied it, too, claiming it was human-built. But deep down, it seemed, the earls had always known the truth for they had avoided the wing assiduously. Long deserted, it was damp and cold and the roof leaked in the ferocious winter storms Rooms were empty or stuffed with forgotten furniture and belongings. The north wing also held Castle Shia’s library, but then, it too had been mostly forgotten by its brutish owners.
Lamplight flowed over cracked and yellowed plaster. Doors were shut against its invasion; there was dark ahead and dark behind. Michael’s footfalls echoed in the emptiness.
On the third floor, the library door stood slightly ajar. Michael gave it a push and it swung open, hinges screeching. At once, he was enveloped in the smell of leather, paper and mold. Once, long ago, before the Elderings and the Church had conspired to steal it, Shia had been a center of scholarship and academia. Since the Reformation, however, it had fallen into shameful disuse and neglect.
His lamp made little headway in the cavernous chamber. Bookshelves loomed in orderly rows, silent and hiding deeper shadow between them. Long reading tables marked the beginning of the stacks. One of the few times he’d actually laid eyes on the Earl’s youngest son had been in here. The youth, wrapped in a blanket against the chill, had been at one of the tables, reading. At the time, Michael had mistaken him for a girl, so finely chiseled and delicate were his features.
