Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347

  The royal city of Lothmont was the largest and most prosperous in Tanyrin, East or West. The seat of the king and his royal ministries, it crowded the southern shores of Wyr Lake, overlooking the great Wyrbane River’s flood plain, Tanyrin’s most fertile farmland.

  Once, long ago, a massive wall had circled the city. Parts of it could still be seen here and there, precarious spires of stone and crumbling mortar poking up through the crowded rooftops of the city. Standing above the main thoroughfare was the ancient gate, now surrounded by buildings of every size and shape. Demonsgate, it was called, because long ago, it had stood fast against the naran armies.

  Severyn had chosen to travel the last few miles from Shia incognito. Sending his coach and servants ahead to the palace, he attracted no attention in his plain riding leathers, hood pulled up, and dusty from the road.

  The evening was warm and hazy, typical for summer’s waning in the lowlands. Merchants closed their shops as the citizens of Lothmont returned home for supper or sought refreshment in the city’s many cafes and taverns.

  As Severyn drew closer to the lake, the streets widened and the shops became more fashionable. Crowded rowhouses gave way to magnificent mansions set back from the street and shielded from vulgar stares by brick walls or thick shrubbery. Claremont Shores was Lothmont’s most exclusive neighborhood. Somewhere among these discreet, elegant facades was his future bride. Severyn didn’t want to think about it.

  He came upon Royal Street and was, for a moment, tempted to turn and go the half mile to the Fairhands Club instead of on to the palace. Forry, Erich and Jeremy were due to arrive any day; they might even be there already. He’d originally suggested they stay with him at the castle, but, as Forry had put it:

  “I’m always afraid someone will put something in my food and I’ll wake up to find myself in bed with four or five complete strangers.”

  Resolutely passing the club, Severyn rode on, taking the shore road around the curve of the lake. On his left, the walls of Lothmont’s Cathedral rose above the genteel neighborhood, marking its eastern boundary. Past the Cathedral, the streets narrowed once again, the lake shore turning from manicured park to close-standing warehouses and tenements, docks thrusting out over the water.

  Trade of all sorts abounded along the wharfs; one could see it in the voluptuous figures leaning out of second-story windows, smell it in the reek of cheap whiskey and pelthe. No one looked twice at the lone rider passing through their midst, and no one bothered him. Not until dark did the cut-purses and assassins emerge. By then, he would be safely tucked up in the palace.

  Lake Wyr was enormous, a bottomless expanse of icy, spring-fed water at the northernmost end of the city. Castle Lothlain occupied the lone island in its center, connected to the mainland by a long, narrow bridge whose origins were lost in history. The palace could be seen from miles away, a defiant fist of stone rising against the backdrop of the Midder Mountains, the range dividing West Tanyrin from the East.

  The lake was the source of the great Wyrbane River, whose long journey to the western sea began here, spilling out of its bottomless basin and into in a broad, deep channel on its southernmost end. It was crisscrossed by several bridges, only one of which was public. The others required a toll, or, as in the case of the Thaelrick Bridge, a noble pedigree.

  Thaelrick was not as crowded as its neighbors. Its usual throng of travelers would not arrive until well into the night when, like Lothmont’s dark underworld, Court revelries began. The bridge entrance was a pleasant spot, enhanced by a pocket garden with benches offering views of the lake and carefully tended flower beds. It was empty at the moment; only a handful of guards lounged about the check-point, bored. With some surprise, Severyn recognized their green and gold uniforms. Hunters? Since when did the Church administer the bridge?

  Seeing him approach, one of the soldiers detached himself from the group, striding over to block Severyn’s path. He laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. “This is a private bridge!” he declared. “Highblood only. Take one of the others.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Severyn pushed back his hood. The guard’s eyes narrowed, hearing his refined accent, but there was no recognition in his sweeping appraisal. Nor did he appear to notice the royal signet ring displayed so prominently on Severyn’s upraised hand.

  “Are you deaf or simple? Highblood only! Unless you’ve got proof of your identity, dog, take yourself… ” The Hunter broke off, interrupted by the clatter of hooves at Severyn’s back. At once, he stiffened, saluting smartly.

  Severyn twisted around in his saddle, looking over his shoulder to see an open carriage approaching the bridge. Inside were two gentlemen. He recognized them at once.

  “Trouble, corporal?”

  The carriage stopped beside Severyn. The portly, middle-aged gentleman speaking was Sidney Montaigne, Bishop of Lothmont. The second man, wearing the uniform of a Hunter officer was unknown to him, but Severyn recognized the red stripe outlining the gold trim of his uniform and felt a small chill at the sight. A knightmage! And not just any knightmage, either, but a member of the Order of the Dragons of Loth!

  “Your Highness!” Montaigne exclaimed. “It is Prince Severyn, is it not?”

  “H-Highness?” The guard, terrified, threw himself to his knees before Severyn. “A hundred apologies, Your Highness! I didn’t know — I’ve never seen — The way you are dressed…”

  “Be silent!” Bishop Montaigne, looking annoyed, sent his poor guard scuttling out of sight. “Your Highness! What a surprise! I’d not heard you were in Lothmont.”

  Montaigne was a fool. Severyn ignored him. He greeted the man seated next to the bishop. “What brings a Dragon to the heathen West?”

  “Ah! My apologies!” Montaigne turned to the handsome officer. The stranger wore no amulet around his neck, so he was not actually a mage. The absence of the talisman signified an aide, but hardly one of the Order’s regular soldiers.

  “May I introduce Captain Adrian Remy?” he continued. “The captain is Shield Brother to none other than His Eminence, the Archbishop himself!”

  “I am honored to meet you, Your Highness.” the captain inclined his head in the barest of courtesies. “As for what brings us west, the Celestial Council decided to hold our annual Conclave in Lothmont this year. I have come as escort to His Eminence.”

  So, Locke was in town? Disquieting news.

  Remy was darkly good-looking. His smile, however, did not reach his eyes. Severyn inclined his head briefly.

  “What brings you to Lothmont, your Highness? I should think you would be at Lothlain House in Tantagrel?” The implied criticism in Montaigne’s nasal tones set Severyn’s teeth on edge.

  “Thaelrick is the property of the king,” he retorted, ignoring the bishop’s question. “When did the Church take over its security, and why?”

  Montaigne’s eyebrows lifted. “The Advisori has been increasingly reluctant to fund an adequate number of guards for such an important spot. His Majesty made a direct appeal to me and, as a favor, I’ve agreed to assist. Why? Do you not approve?”

  Severyn shrugged. “Only when I’m denied passage,” he replied. Inwardly, he seethed. “If my brother and the Court want to save a bit of money, who am I to stand in their way?”

  “Fortunately, the Cathedral is close and the inconvenience minor.” Montaigne’s expression was a hair shy of a smirk.

  Next to the bishop, the Hunter officer sat quietly, listening. Abruptly, he leaned over, saying something to Montaigne in a low voice.

  The bishop nodded. He smiled apologetically to Severyn. “As Captain Remy reminds me, Your Highness, we are late for our meeting. You will forgive us if we go ahead?”

  Their driver didn’t wait for Severyn’s response, but flicked his whip over his horses’ heads and the carriage started forward. Severyn watched them go, then followed. He fumed all the way to the palace.<
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  There was no problem with recognition at the palace’s outer gate, the guards springing to open it for him. In his personal suite, Tim greeted Severyn with restrained enthusiasm. “Word of your heroism has preceded you, Highness. Another feather in your cap.”

  “Loth’s hand is just and true,” said Severyn. A flash of understanding passed between them. At the edges of the entrance hall, he saw the figures of footmen standing at attention. A maid hovered in the shadows of a far doorway.

  Pitching his voice slightly louder, Severyn gave his butler the official excuse for his presence in Shia, then stood by while Timkins congratulated him enthusiastically on his impending marriage. The story would be all over the city by morning.

  “Shall I have dinner prepared, Your Highness? asked Timkins after their bit of play-acting was done. “Or will you be dining with His Majesty?”

  “Arami knows I’m here?”

  “He’s been looking everywhere for you these past two weeks and sent word that you were to join him in the East Garden should you arrive in time for dinner.”

  “Looking for me? Why?”

  “As to that, Your Highness, I can only surmise, it being the end of the financial quarter… ” Timkins let his voice trail away apologetically.

  “I am warned,” agreed Severyn. Then, lowering his voice still more, he asked, “Is it true? Is the wretched Council in Lothmont?”

  “Alas, yes, sir.” Timkins pasted a smile on his face. “I hear there’s been a steady flow of bishops, abbots and prelates paying their respects to the king all week. One cannot take two steps into the rest of the palace without tripping over one. How long do we plan to stay, Your Highness?”

  “Not long,” replied Severyn, quickly altering his plans. “We’ll leave for Tantagrel by the week’s end.”

  The East Garden was a tranquil park of velvet, close-trimmed lawns, of flowers, ornamental shrubs and low, spreading trees. Cobbled paths wound through the greenery, each turn revealing a pleasing view or comfortable bench. Fountains and artificial streams added their music to the faint strains of a distant violin.

  The long shadows of dusk lay over the park. Through the greenery, Severyn saw torchlight marking its center. As he approached, the scent of autumn flowers mixed with the sweet, heavy odor of pelthe. He wrinkled his nose at it.

  The music grew louder. Severyn heard laughter and, as he came out onto a square of lawn, the clink of fine crystal and china. A long table was set up on a patio in the center, open to the deepening indigo sky. Men and women in glittering finery sat around it, indulging themselves in roast fowl, in beef and pork, and fish of all kinds. Breads of every description and shape were heaped high in ribboned baskets. Wine flowed freely. Pelthe snifters were everywhere.

  The diners spotted Severyn approach and, one by one, got quickly to their feet, bowing as he made his way up the length of the table to his brother. Arami lifted his glass shakily in greeting. “Look who’s here?” he shouted. “It’s Sev!”

  Sometimes, Severyn could not believe this sot was the same brother he’d adored in his boyhood; the dreamy, artistic, and sweet-natured youth he’d followed about like a puppy. He often wondered, if Arami had lived at Messerling with him, would he have ended up like this?

  There were drunken huzzahs. Somewhere, a dish crashed to the patio stones and one of the maids shrieked. Hysterical laughter followed, along with the sound of chairs falling over. The crowd was distracted.

  “It’s about time you showed up,” Arami complained. “Brett! Move! I want to talk to my brother!”

  A well-dressed man sitting at the king’s right returned an uncomprehending look. “M-majeshy?”

  Arami lifted a hand. At once, two footmen standing at attention behind his chair came forward. With great care and courtesy, the men escorted the inebriated courtier away. Severyn watched him settled into another chair, still clutching his snifter. Was Brett his brother’s pelthe supplier? Or was it the giggling woman nearby?

  “I’ve sent dozens of messages to Messerling,” continued Arami. “Where have you been?”

  “Shia. Why, is something wrong?” As if he didn’t know, thought Severyn, resigned.

  “I need some money, brother. I’m a bit short this quarter. Can you spare a thousand or two?”

  “No.” Leaning forward, Severyn examined the food in front of him. “Why don’t you ask your good friend, Montaigne?”

  The question brought a sour expression to the king’s sallow features. He gestured again, and this time, a footman arrived with a bowl of finest crystal. Inside was a scant amount of pale yellow liquid.

  “Sidney charges too much in interest,” retorted Arami. “Why so stingy, Sev? I know Messerling and Tantagrel have done well this year. You could spare it.”

  “Not really. I’m getting married.”

  The king nearly dropped his snifter. “What?”

  “Congratulate me, brother! I’m about to be the happiest of men.”

  “You’ve proposed to Lady Sheldrake?” Arami’s bloodshot eyes brightened, darting down the length of the table to a ripe beauty flashing coquettish glances in their direction.

  “Stephanie Eldering.”

  Frowning, the king pulled over one of the table lamps and, with the ease of long practice, used the flame to warm the yellow liquid inside the snifter. When a filmy haze rose on its surface, he put his nose into the glass and inhaled deeply.

  “Why not Amanda?” he coughed with another look toward the hopeful widow. “Haven’t I specifically asked you to consider Lady Sheldrake?”

  “Stefanie Eldering is a chaste, high-blood maiden,” replied Severyn. “Amanda Sheldrake is… not.”

  “She’s very wealthy, though.” Arami cradled his snifter, a sly look coming over his sunken features. “Very wealthy.”

  “The Elderings, too, have a considerable fortune,” retorted Severyn, remembering the hidden room.

  “Eleanor won’t like it,” Arami warned darkly. “She particularly hoped you would choose Amanda.”

  “Your wife… ” began Severyn between clenched teeth. He stopped and took a deep breath. “Fortunately, the Church has no power to select my bride, nor does Eleanor.”

  The reminder that he’d not had the same freedom brought a look of sullen resentment to Arami’s face. “Eleanor’s not that bad,” he muttered.

  That’s why you avoid her at every opportunity?

  But again, Severyn was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. His brother’s marriage was a mystery to him. Arami seemed at times to positively hate his wife, yet at the same time, he seemed almost feverishly anxious to avoid her displeasure. Little wonder he sought relief in wanton hedonism.

  Arami’s manner changed; his voice became wheedling. “How about five hundred?”

  Five hundred was getting away cheaply. Severyn allowed himself to be grudgingly persuaded. Leaving his brother saturated in pelthe, he made his escape.

  Severyn had the unenviable task of both proposing to Miss Stefanie Eldering and informing her officially of her father’s and brother’s deaths. He was not looking forward to it. Back at his estate in Messerling, with his friends around him and the drinks flowing, the plan had seemed simple enough. Marry the girl as a cover for their activities at Shia. Her blood was sufficiently noble to mingle with his own; she would make a satisfactory queen if they all survived this. He would be solving two problems at once. Cheers! But as the moment approached, Severyn found himself wondering what the hell he was doing.

  Timkins had sent a note ahead the night before so Severyn was expected. He found the ladies waiting for him in a large, very pink and white drawing room. While the aunt, Lady Scott-Eldering greeted him effusively, Severyn covertly studied his future bride.

  Miss Eldering was small and exquisitely pretty. A doll, thought Severyn, stunned: the flawless creation of some genius sculptor. She looked very much like her elder brother, but was unmistakably female, small, full breasts pushing against her fashionably tight, low-cut bodice, her waist
so tiny he was sure he could span it with his hands.

  “Ladies, please, do not stand on my account,” he said as soon as he could get a word in edgewise. “I apologize for thrusting myself upon you on such short notice, but I bear very grave news.”

  “Please, sit down, my lord,” invited Lady Scott-Eldering. She waved him to a sofa only slightly more substantial than the dainty, satin-covered chairs scattered about. “What news is this?”

  I murdered your brother-in-law, my lady, and now I have come for your niece.

  Taking a deep breath, he said aloud, “I would ask that both you and Miss Eldering sit down.”

  Lady Scott-Eldering, alarm appearing on her pleasant face, did so, tugging Miss Eldering down beside her. “My lord? What is it? Has something happened?”

  As gently as possibly, Severyn gave them the official story. Both women paled as he recounted it. Miss Eldering’s eyes, the same emerald green as her brother’s, went round and dark with shock.

  “Fortunately,” he finished, “your brother, Stefn, survived, although he was gravely ill at the time.”

  The girl seemed paralyzed with shock, but her aunt looked distinctly annoyed. “What? That Boy escaped?”

  “I… I, yes, my lady,” replied Severyn, taken aback.

  The aunt made an attempt to get a hold of herself. “I’m sorry. This is a terrible shock, Your Highness!”

  “How… ” whispered Miss Eldering. “How could they have broken through the gate? Shia is invulnerable.” Her eyes suddenly welled with tears. She looked up at Severyn, parted her lips to go on, then slumped, insensible, in her chair.

  In the confusion that followed, servants were called, the young lady was revived with smelling salts and gently borne away. Feeling like a cad, he apologized again to Lady Scott-Eldering.

  “Not at all, Your Highness. We cannot but thank Loth that you came when you did! I just wish… ” She hesitated, then. “If only That Boy had died instead of Allen! What dreadful luck!”