by Becca Abbott
Lord Arranz shook his head. “Take him back to his room and make certain he doesn’t leave it without at least two men by his side at all times.”
“Are you all right, my lord?” one of the men asked, peering closely at the pale h’nar.
“Well enough. Just tired.” He paused. “To be safe, put a new lock on his door. I’m in no mood to track him down again!”
Mick slept for a week after Eldering’s failed escape. The earl was not allowed out of his room, but thankfully he seemed to have lost much of his overt rebelliousness.
“He reads, Y’r Highness,” reported Corliss when questioned. “At least, that’s what he’s doin’ each time someone opens his door.”
The truce gave Severyn some time to deal with matters concerning the castle and surrounding countryside. Shia’s villages were in truly wretched straits. Leaky roofs, crumbling walls, failing crops: it was the same litany he heard from many northern parishes these days. He made a point to visit each of the villages in person, to listen to the wary villagers and carefully take down the problems they pointed out to him.
Embry was the southernmost of Shia’s villages and the largest. It boasted not only a tavern, but a small hostel and the Abbey. The Shia River ran through it, tumbling down out of the southern hills before meandering west toward Ilyea. The river brought trade to the parish, but most of Embry’s folk, like the rest of Shia, were herders. Being late summer, the men were still out in the hills with their flocks, but word of Severyn’s tour spread like wildfire, so by the time Severyn reached Embry, he was greeted by a small crowd of cheering villagers.
He set up a temporary court in the tavern, which quickly became jammed with villagers, and ordered a round of drinks from the delighted landlord, a practice that never failed to start matters off on a positive note. With his men politely managing the petitioners, he commenced his interviews. Each man or woman was allotted ten minutes each, during which time, the prince listened and his aide carefully jotted down the particulars of the villager’s grievance in a big, leather-bound journal. Severyn finished up the interviews with another round of drinks and left the taverns with their cheers ringing in his ears.
There was one more stop to make before returning to the castle. On high ground overlooking the village, surrounded by prime pastureland, was Shia’s abbey. He owed a courtesy visit to the abbot; it was, in fact, long overdue.
Abbeys were not ordinarily found in such remote and impoverished parishes like Shia. Such backwaters were far more likely to have a Chapel, if that. Had there not been a Hunter garrison and a knightmage here, Severyn doubted whether Shia would have been so blessed. Indeed, the Abbey at Embry looked more like a large Chapel, bearing evidence of its provincial circumstances.
Both the Sanctuary and the Domicile were mud-brick and stone, like the local structures, although efforts had been made to give the Domicile a more genteel, southern-cottage appearance. A semblance of a garden struggled valiantly to survive the harsh conditions of the high, northern plains. There were a few outbuildings: a stable, a laundry, a shed. As assignments went, Severyn thought with some sympathy, this had to be the armpit of the world.
Abbot Drummond greeted him in the Domicile’s small, over-furnished parlor. He was a small, round, fussy man who was alternately awed to be hosting royalty and offended at his treatment to date at royalty’s hands.
“I had almost despaired of speaking with you, Your Highness,” he said, voice holding a hint of reproach. “When the dreadful news reached us, I naturally tried to go at once to the castle, but was turned away repeatedly. Did you not get my messages?”
Of course he had. Severyn’s smile was apologetic. “I’ve been very busy,” he replied. “Shia was in terrible circumstances. We’ve had our hands full hunting the remnants of the murderers who attacked the castle.”
The abbot nodded. “I must say, I have found all this most irregular. Lord Eldering was a knightmage, with highly trained Hunter troops at his command. He was certainly no more tolerant of outlaws than he was of taints. It was my impression he kept the parish well clear of thieves and brigands. How could he be overrun by such rabble? Where did they come from?”
Severyn had the story ready; they’d all coached each other until they could recite it in their sleep. “The brigands had an inside man. Their spy disguised himself as the family priest, or so I believe. The cleric had only been in residence a few weeks and disappeared quickly soon after we retook the castle. As for where such marauders come from?” He shrugged. “Times are hard, my lord. When their families face starvation, even the most law-abiding men become desperate.”
The abbot was suitably shocked. “What nerve! I wouldn’t be surprised if the knave was a taint, some Penitent who broke his vows and now, driven mad by guilt, seeks revenge upon the righteous. What of the outlaws? Did you finally get them all?”
“Not yet,” Severyn said, assuming an expression of frustration and regret. “My men search for them daily. We’ll find them and bring them to justice.”
“I am most grateful, Your Highness, but I cannot help wondering. How was it that you were here at all? We are very far removed from either Tantagrel or Lothmont.”
Severyn, prepared for this, smiled modestly. “But not so far from Messerling,” he reminded the cleric gently. As the abbot smiled weakly in acknowledgment, Severyn delivered the first blow. “As it happens, Lord Abbot, I had come to make a formal plea for the hand of Miss Eldering in marriage.”
The man’s eyes nearly popped from his head. “I am delighted to hear it, Your Highness. Indeed, I shall waste no time in sending word to the Council so they may replace the Hunters lost and begin…”
Severyn sailed on. “Of course, given the circumstances, I would prefer to keep my own men here. No offense, but as you yourself pointed out, it’s troubling indeed when Hunters can be so easily bested. It’s my intention to restore this grand old castle to its former glory; a gift to my new bride and her family, if you will. I’ll have tradesmen and artisans coming and going for several months and have no desire to lose time, materials or men to rag-tag cutthroats.”
“As to that, Your Highness, I don’t wish to be contrary, but Lord Eldering and his heir were in covenant with the Church.” The abbot looked uncomfortable. “Being Sworn to the Celestial Council, both the castle and Miss Eldering are their wards. Of course, I’m sure there will be no difficulty in making marriage arrangements, although I cannot speak for His Eminence, of course.”
“I’m sorry.” Severyn tried hard to keep the glee from his voice. “Did I say all Eldering’s heirs were killed? How bad of me. His second son, Lord Stefn, survived. I was under the impression that he was neither a knightmage, nor sworn.”
“The s-sin-catcher?” The abbot was appalled. “You, you cannot be serious!”
Severyn lifted an eyebrow.
“No, that’s not… I didn’t mean it that…” The man pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and mopped his brow. “How did he — when the others… ”
“Lord Stefn was ill and confined to his bed. The ruffians did not get far enough into the castle to find him, thanks be to Loth.”
The abbot looked dazed. Knowing this conversation would eventually make its way back to Zelenov and the Celestial Council, Severyn nodded sagely. “He’s naturally devastated by what’s happened. He blames himself.”
“As well he should,” muttered the priest. “Sin-catcher! What a quandary, Your Highness! A sin-catcher as head of a fine old family such as the Elderings! Loth’s justice is harshest against those he loves the most.”
Severyn thought of the pile of bones and kept determined hold of his smile. “Perhaps now Loth is content.”
“I will pray it’s so.” The abbot gave himself a little shake. “After all, it would seem Miss Eldering is to be a princess, perhaps even, some day, a queen! I assume, the new earl has agreed to your petition?”
“I am flattered that he would trust me with his precious sister.”
; The conversation turned to other, more local matters, leaving the dangerous territory behind. It wasn’t going to satisfy Zelenov, his little story, not by a longshot; but with luck, it would keep them at bay long enough for Mick to get the unpredictable young earl under his control and for Severyn to win the parish firmly to his side.
“There is just one thing, Your Highness.”
Severyn, ready to take his leave, smiled politely.
“I’ve been hearing distressing rumors about a taint in the castle.”
Irritation flared. He’d reckoned on this coming up. “Are you speaking of Lord Arranz?”
The abbot’s round race reddened.
“Lord Arranz is a valued friend, his bloodline blessed by St. Aramis himself. Or does the Church set itself over him, too?”
It did, of course, but the abbot was not so great a fool as to say so to Severyn’s face. He apologized quickly, claiming he meant no offence and, of course, one couldn’t compare the House of Arranz to ordinary h’naran riffraff.
When Severyn finally returned to Shia, it was near sunset. To his delight, he was greeted by Peter Timkins, Messerling’s young, imperturbable butler. Accompanying Tim were several members of his estimable staff. Civilization at last! And there was more good news.
“Lord Michael is up and around. I gather he’s been taking one of his ‘naps?’” Timkins paused delicately, almost, but not quite grinning. “At any rate, Your Highness, Marin says his lordship will be down for dinner.”
“Excellent!”
Timkins’ family had served the Lothlain crown princes for generations. His father and grandfathers had been Messerling’s butlers before him. Peter had grown up with the prince and the duke’s grandson. In the course of his duties, he was all that was proper and formal, but out of public view, there was little formality between them.
They had been keeping country hours, so Severyn had only time to change clothes before dinner was announced. He walked into the informal dining room, drawn by the mouth-watering scent of roast fowl.
“No stew tonight!” Mick was already there. He had lost weight and was even paler than usual, but his smile was as quick and appealing as always. “No offense, Marin.”
“None taken, m’lord,” replied the big servant cheerfully. “Can’t say as I’m unhappy to turn over the kitchen to Mrs. Fog. Chicken pie belowstairs.”
“Foggie’s here?” Mick’s smile got brighter. “I may not leave after all!”
Severyn found himself wishing that were possible. Now that Tim had arrived, it was almost like being at Messerling again, just the two of them knocking about with Timmy to keep them fed and comfortable. Unfortunately, the time was fast approaching for them to go their separate ways, he back to Tantagrel and Mick to Blackmarsh.
After dinner, the two friends withdrew to the study to sample some of the port Timkins had brought from home. Severyn recounted the past few days’ activities while Mick had been sleeping.
“What if the Council isn’t content with the abbot’s report?” asked Mick. “What if they decide to send someone from Zelenov? If that happens, there will almost certainly be mages involved. They will wish to interview Lord Stefn.”
Severyn didn’t like this part of their plan. He’d deliberately avoided thinking about it. “By then he’ll be Bound and under your control.”
“We think.”
Severyn sighed. They’d been over this ground before.
“Everything we know about the naragi says they are absolute masters of their cethera.”
“But there are no more naragi to confirm the truth,” persisted Mick, “nor have there been any for centuries.”
“Then don’t do it,” Severyn said impulsively. He found himself hoping Mick would agree, would back out of the plan. He had never much liked it, even while he acknowledged the necessity.
Mick was silent long enough for Severn’s hope to rise further. Then, the h’nar shrugged. “On the other hand, Stefn Eldering is very pretty.”
Severyn, unaccountably irritated, sneered. “I suppose you could pretend he’s a girl, but I thought you didn’t like girls?”
“Shhh.” Mick’s eyes held a wicked gleam. “We mustn’t speak of such things, Your Highness. Of course I like girls! After all, I will have a wife myself someday.”
Severyn rolled his eyes.
“As a matter of fact,” continued Mick, sobering. “The sooner Eldering is Bound, the better. I may do it tonight.”
“T-tonight?” Severyn’s stomach dropped and his face heated. “H-here?” he stammered.
“He obviously knows the castle inside and out. He’s as sneaky and unpredictable as his murderous kin. The longer we wait, the greater the chance he’ll try to run again. Next time, he may succeed.”
“But I thought… Weren’t you going to take him to Blackmarsh? For Loth’s sake, wait! We need your grandfather! What if something happens?”
“What could happen?” Michael’s grin appeared. “Admit it! You’re just upset by the thought of what I’ll be doing to him.”
Severyn felt his face redden. “No!” he protested weakly, adding, “Although, it is rather disconcerting to think that you… and he… ” He trailed off, hideously embarrassed.
Mick, the bastard, was laughing helplessly. “What have you been thinking, Sev? Tell me! Leave nothing out! I confess, I’m dying to know!”
Severyn’s response was to grab a nearby cushion and send it bouncing off Michael’s head.
PART III
St. Gray is credited with converting the Marquis of Tantegrel, Lord Rami Egrel, to the truth of Loth. Indeed, the Marquis became so devout he changed his name to Lothlain to honor the God of All Things.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347
Michael wrung reluctant agreement from his prince for the immediate Binding of Stefn Eldering. He made a fine show of nonchalance, as if breaking every law of heaven and earth was of no more consequence than a casual encounter with some marshland whore, but he knew it was no such thing.
To Bind a man, to make him cethe, was to irrevocably change them both. He didn’t know the details: most had indeed been lost with the naragi. Anything written about them before the War had long since been destroyed, wiped out in the Church’s relentless persecution of all things naran. There was mention of them in the Chronicles, but only a few sentences and then only to hold the sorcerers out as an example of all that was evil and depraved.
After Michael and Severyn parted for the evening, Michael returned to his room and stood for a long time, staring blindly out his windows. Another of the countryside’s fierce summer storms approached: he could see flickers of lighting in the distance.
Once, long before the war, there had been balance between the Streams, Dark and Light, kna and lothria. At least, that was how his people told it, but in whispers and with care not to be heard. Naragi and magi had worked together, their powers complementing each other: brothers. But the war had changed that, pitting dark against light. The naragi had overstepped their bounds, claiming power for themselves for which they had no authority. They sought to make the Dark Stream dominant and had very nearly succeeded. Loth had intervened, giving the magi powers they’d not had before, powers as destructive as the naragi.
Yet Loth’s intervention had not brought about justice. In the eyes of the h’nara, it had only created a new imbalance, with Light overwhelming Dark, and a new tyranny had risen. Now the warrior-mages of the High Orders wielded terrible powers, standing unopposed.
Until now.
Michael took out the velvet case he’d brought from Blackmarsh. The fabric was rubbed bare along the corners, its silver trim badly tarnished. Inside, nestled in brittle, faded satin, was a wide band of woven gold, supple and quite heavy, studded with gems that flashed with fire undiminished by the centuries.
Lethet. Beautiful it was, and priceless, yet in the end, it was nothing more than a slave collar, a sign of ownership and, in its own way,
a symbol of Michael’s enslavement, as well.
Soon he would be bound to another man as irrevocably as if he’d been wed. Picking up the lethet, he imagined Severyn wearing it, all that golden hair loose across broad, naked shoulders.
Why wasn’t it you? Why couldn’t you have had the Blood?
But that was nonsense. Why would he wish such a fate on the friend to whom he and his family owed so much? Much better that the Elderings pay in shame and servitude. At least a shadow of justice would be served by it.
Michael closed the box and put it into a larger valise. On an afterthought, he robbed a curtain of its silk tie-back and dropped the rope into the bag, as well. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his lamp and left the room.
It was past midnight and Shia’s upper halls were deserted. Here and there, a candle guttered in its sconce, but most were unlit. Once, he heard voices down a connecting hallway, but they quickly faded.
The isolation of Eldering’s room in the deserted north wing suited Michael’s purposes very well. What he was about to do needed no witnesses. Other than the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the dusty windows, the entire floor was dark. Twice, drafts blew out his lamp. Michael whispered a minor illumination spell.
“Why not?” he thought as his surroundings came back into view. If the stories were right, very soon he would have power to spare. He would be naragi, humanity’s worst nightmare.
But he would not be like they had been. He was part human, too. This power would be Severyn’s, the sword and shield of Tanyrin’s only hope.
If it worked. If the legends were true. And — most importantly — if his human blood didn’t thwart all their plans.
It was the contaminating human blood, the inevitable dilution of his naran heritage, that was as much responsible for the disappearance of the naragi as the Church’s persecution. Even the Arranz dukes, whose blood was purest of all the h’nara, had seen their once great powers fade over the generations. He was the first in recent memory to retain his witchpowers into manhood.
