by Becca Abbott
“Mick? Are you in here? I know I’m not supposed to be…” A pair of large blue eyes lit on Stefn and grew round as saucers. “Ohhh!”
Marin said something incoherent and tried to hustle her out. The girl resisted, digging in her heels and slapping at Marin’s hand when he would forcibly remove her.
“Whatever you or Michael say, I am the lady of the house,” she declared. “I have my duty as hostess.” Her frosty glare pinned poor Marin to the spot. Then she turned to Stefn, her smile warming, becoming shy. “My apologies again, Lord Eldering, but I must inquire about your comfort. Have you sufficient firewood? Would you like me to have some refreshments brought up?”
Lord Michael’s sister! Stefn nodded, tongue-tied.
She blushed prettily, her gaze going to the book he held. “We have some periodicals downstairs, if you’d like,” she said. “They’re almost recent. Chris brought them back from Waylerton.”
“Miss!” Marin had been pushed beyond endurance. “I will be forced to fetch Lord Michael!”
“This will do, Miss, but I thank you for your consideration,” Stefn managed.
“Well, if you’re sure.” She regarded him with narrowed eyes. Then, “Oh, stop it, Marin. I’m going!”
The big servant managed to get her out the door and this time, took care to lock it after her.
“That was Lord Michael’s sister, wasn’t it?”
Marin sighed. “Yes, my lord. She’s a bit of a handful at times.”
“Isn’t she old enough to be at Court?”
“Yes, and she has the right, of course,” replied Marin, “but it’s been awhile since the Arranzes have been welcomed in Lothmont. These days, it seems even the Covenant of St. Aramis cannot overcome the stigma of their naran blood.”
“She doesn’t look h’naran.”
“Her mother was a pureblooded human, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone would know the truth. I don’t look h’naran, either, but my village drove me out when my father died. The nara have been gone for hundreds of years, but even so, the fear and hatred runs deep.”
“The nara stole our land and enslaved us,” retorted Stefn. “Why wouldn’t we humans fear their descendants?”
“Because we lived peacefully among humans since the end of the war, my lord. There was even a time when the Arranz family was received at Court.”
“And what of the Corlium Rebellion?”
Marin’s face darkened. “We h’nara call it the Corlium Massacre, my lord. The Church used that lie to begin its assault on us. The Hunters attacked Corlium, not the other way around!”
“‘Tis not what history claims!”
Sighing, Marin shook his head and left the room soon after. Stefn heard the lock fall into place and stalked angrily to the windows. The sea stretched away below him, sunlight sparkling on the waves.
Everyone knew the truth about Corlium! There were vivid accounts of it in Shia’s library. One of Tanyrin’s most respected historians, Frederick Craig, devoted a whole chapter to the atrocity in his Modern History of Tanyrin. It was absurd that Marin should claim it was the h’nara who had been wronged!
And now they had resurrected the naragi! How could anyone reach any other conclusion but that the h’nara sought revenge and to once more grind humanity under their heel! Was he not living proof of it? Had he not been ruthlessly enslaved, cruelly used?
Except, when the duke had abducted him, why had Lord Michael fought his way to Stefn’s side? Stefn remembered the sight of him, hair tousled, eyes baleful as ghost-fire. He remembered how cold Lord Michael’s hands had been when he snatched Stefn to safety.
He was afraid for me!
Stefn’s thoughts stumbled to a halt. “Ridiculous!” he whispered into the room’s silence. “Absolutely absurd!!”
But, perversely, Stefn remembered the flood of healing warmth; how Michael’s arms had come around him with desperate care.
He was nothing more than an object, a means to an evil end, Stefn told himself furiously. Michael Arranz didn’t care about him, he cared only that he had a cethe to rape whenever he needed to refresh his vile power.
And yet, although Arranz had obviously exhausted himself using the naran high sorcery, he’d not laid a hand on Stefn since.
Everything Stefn had read about the unfortunate sathra painted a grim picture of pain and humiliation, of the most abject and shameful servitude. The wretches had often been bound with spells to keep them docile, robbing them of will and a rightful desire for freedom and justice.
And yet….
Stefn swore, turning away from the window. Was it sorcery that made his body tingle at thoughts of Michael’s touch? Was it foul naran magic heating his dreams since he had returned to Blackmarsh, filling them with wild, erotic images? Unbound by his waking sensibilities, they ran riot. In them, he became a wild, wanton creature, begging for the caresses of faceless men who turned into Michael just before he awoke, gasping and painfully aroused.
It’s not real! It’s not me that wants him! It’s this fiendish thing around my neck!
Determined to banish the unruly images, Stefn returned to his chair and his book, but once summoned, those thoughts proved unexpectedly hard to resist. Time and again, the words on the pages before him blurred. He thought of the night at the inn when, bound hand and foot, Michael had coaxed pleasure from his body he’d never imagined possible. Remembering the slide of Michael’s hand along his thigh, the touch of his lips, made Stefn squirm. And the night they had arrived at Blackmarsh, his body impaled on Michael’s erection, how quickly he’d abandoned any thought of resisting.
“Damn you!” he shouted, jumping to his feet and hurling the book across the room. Against his will, his hand crept down below his belly where his sex burgeoned, pushing against his breeches. “Damn you!” he whispered, frantically opening them and seizing his cock. “Damn you! Damn you to hell, Michael Arranz!”
An insistent banging on his door woke Michael from heavy sleep. It took a moment to gather his wits. His head ached dully and, for as deep as his sleep had been, weariness weighted his limbs. The banging continued, relentless.
“What?” he barked hoarsely.
“My lord!” Marin appeared in the doorway. There were others in the dimly lit hallway behind him. What the hell time was it? Michael lit his beside candle. The clock told him it was well past midnight.
“It’s Lord Eldering,” Marin said in a low, anxious voice. “Please come at once!”
Michael’s protest died, unspoken, at the worry in Marin’s voice. Muttering dire threats if this was not deadly serious, Michael stumbled to his feet. Fumbling on his robe, he went directly to Stefn’s room. Several wide-eyed servants lingered nearby, scattering at Michael’s appearance. Marin wordlessly handed over the key. Unlocking it, Michael went in.
The earl sat hunched over on the edge of his bed, wrapped in his blanket, but otherwise stark naked, as far as Michael could tell. His cheeks were flushed. His dark eyes were filled with pain and fury. Under the blanket, his legs were spread wide apart.
“What the hell do you want?” Michael snapped.
“Close the door!”
Michael slammed it shut. “Now,” he repeated. “What the hell do you want?”
Stefn whisked off the blanket, revealing a purple, dripping erection “This is your fault,” he snarled.
Taken completely by surprise, Michael started to laugh. Stefn, enraged, reached down and, picking up his boot, hurled it at him. His voice shook. “You think it’s funny, you damned taint! You did this to me! It’s this hellish collar, isn’t it? Get it off me! Get it off!”
Michael dodged the next missile and, out of things to throw, Stefn threw himself, fists flying. Surprise let him get in a good right hook before Michael recovered, seizing his hand and spinning him around, yanking his wrist up between his shoulder blades. The abrupt, wrenching pain returned Stefn to some sanity. He gasped and was still.
“Be quiet!” Michael snapped, shoving him toward the bed. �
�You’ve awakened the entire damn house!”
“Your fault. Ah… God… ” Flung down onto the mattress, Stefn dragged his cock along the sheets like some creature in rut.
Abruptly, Michael’s irritation evaporated “You’re really in trouble, aren’t you?”
Tears flooded Stefn’s eyes as Michael pushed him onto his back. His hips writhed, thrusting upward. “Please!” he begged hoarsely. “I can’t do it myself this time! I don’t know why!”
Abruptly, Michael released him. Stefn moaned, curling up at once, clutching his sex with white-knuckled hands. It took some effort to pry them away. In the end, Michael had to tie his wrists to the bed frame.
His cethe sobbed. The big vein running up his cock was dark and distended, his rapid pulse visible in its throbbing. Every muscle in that slim body seemed taut as wire. He was covered with sweat, dark hair in a tangle on the sheets.
Michael’s own body warmed at the sight. Mouth suddenly dry, he quickly undressed, hands shaking. Stefn became perfectly still, watching him with feral intensity. Michael climbed back onto the bed, straddling him, drinking in the sight of such need.
“Convince me,” he said softly, looking down into Stefn’s tear-drenched eyes.
Moaning, Stefn lifted his head from the mattress, struggling to reach Michael’s lips. They were soft and yielding, parting at once for Michael’s tongue.
“If you wanted me so badly, you should have said so.”
Stefn’s head fell back to the mattress. He licked his lips. “Don’t want you… Just need you.”
“That will do.”
Lowering his head, Michael plundered the cethe’s willing mouth. He pressed Stefn’s body to the mattress with his own, reveling in the exquisite sensations produced by the young earl’s frantic thrusts beneath him. Stefn’s small nipples were hard and swollen. When Michael touched his tongue to one, Stefn cried out, arching his back. Incoherent sounds of pleasure met Michael’s sucking and nipping until both nubs were twice the size and fiery red.
“Ready?” he whispered finally, half out of his own mind with need.
“Yes! Oh, Loth, yes! Please!” Stefn needed no urging to turn over on his stomach, to lift his hips and spread his knees. His slender hands wrapped around the rope holding him to the bed in a death-grip. A low, keening sound escaped him when Michael quickly, fumbling, prepared him.
Buried deep in that tight sheath, Michael lost himself in waves of ecstasy. Stefn cried out, his hands flying open and head flinging back. His muscles clenched unbearably around Michael, shattering the last of the h’nar’s control. Michael may have cried out himself, but he had not the wits to know.
Reason returned at last. Michael lay on his cethe, mouth against Stefn’s ear, breath ruffling the dark, damp hair. Those long, sooty eyelashes were soaked with tears. Stefn’s lips were bitten and bleeding. When Michael drew away, he whimpered.
A deep sense of tranquility weighed Michael’s limbs. He moved only enough to untie Stefn’s wrists and pull him close. Stefn made no effort to get away but lay loose and heavy in his arms, hair tickling his nose. Somewhere deep in Michael’s haze of contentment, he wondered at it, but not for long. Minutes later, he fell into the deepest, soundest sleep he’d had for a long time.
PART X
Most of Tanyrin’s towns and villages are to be found west of the Midder Mountains, a lesser range branching off from the great Lothwall mountains and extending south to the Verdant Sea. Much of the east is arid, hilly land, suitable only for herding, but here and there between the mountains and the eastern coast are large valleys where rivers make farming possible. The largest two are included in the parish of Zelenov, to the south, and a scattering of smaller, pocket valleys can be found further north, under the jurisdiction of the parish of Sontal.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347
It took four days to reach Withwillow from Blackmarsh. Michael and Stefn arrived at the seaside city late in the afternoon. Thanks to Prince Severyn’s largesse, they were to stay at the Bayview Hotel, one of the best in the city.
“Believe me,” Michael told Stefn as they pulled up to the impressive front door, “otherwise we’d be staying in a rooming house down by the shore.”
Their rooms overlooked the north side, giving a wonderful view of low hills descending to white sands and a gentle, turquoise sea. Stefn leaned out the window of his room, looking down over the terraced streets, eyes drawn to the graceful towers and magnificent domes scattered throughout it. Most were built of the white marble quarried in the surrounding hills, but the older ones were of moonstone, whiter than marble and twice as expensive. Those were narani-built, for only the nara had known where the precious material was quarried or had the skill to work it. From this room, Stefn could not see the Cathedral, which was a shame; built entirely of moonstone, it was said to glow at night like a fallen star.
This far south, the damp chill of Blackmarsh and Shia was a distant memory. Sunlight warmed his skin and the breeze sweeping up from the ocean was deliciously balmy. Closing his eyes, Stefn let it fan his face and lift his hair.
A knock announced Lord Michael, looking rested and in good spirits. “I’m going for supper. Care to join me?” Noticing Stefn at the window, he came in. “What are you looking at?”
“I was hoping to see the Cathedral, but I think we’re on the wrong side of the hotel.”
“You can see it from the hotel dining room. Coming?”
Stefn collected his coat eagerly and ran out after the h’nar. He fell into step beside the taller man, gawking at their luxurious surroundings as they made their way toward the grand central staircase. Lord Arranz made no effort to hide his silver hair here and every eye was on them as they strolled across the lobby with its painted ceiling and marble floor. Few of the other guests seemed disapproving, however.
Stefn’s father had occasionally spoken of Withwillow, but never with approval. “Their bishop allows the h’nara in that city far too much liberty. They’re not even required to register with the Cathedral. Someday the demons will rise up and murder the people in their beds. That’ll teach ‘em.”
Stefn had a sudden image of Miss Annie creeping through the streets at night, clutching a blood-covered dagger. Arranz gave him a startled glance. “What’s so funny?”
“J-just imagining your death,” Stefn managed, struggling to keep a straight face.
Lord Michael’s expression was too much. Stefn had to turn his head away. Luckily, the waiter arrived to lead them to their table.
Since that last night at Blackmarsh, there had been no recurrence of Stefn’s humiliating “condition,” nor had Arranz referred to it again. Stefn could not help but notice, however, that the weariness clinging to Lord Michael since the marshes had disappeared immediately after that encounter.
Tall windows lined one wall of the dining room. The waiter brought them to a table giving them a view of the terrace and, beyond that, Willow Bay. Stefn saw what he thought must be the Cathedral, a large area of white and green at the southern end of the city.
Across the bay, the sun was half-sunk behind the peninsula, sending its long, glancing beams off the surface of the water and brightening the sails of the ships in the harbor. He could just make out the Tower of Loth on its distant promontory, silhouetted against the sunset.
“Would you like to visit some of the famous sights while we’re here?”
“If we have the time,” replied Stefn. He was intensely curious about the nature of Arranz’s meeting with the Bishop of Withwillow, but his questions had been rebuffed. “When do you meet with Bishop Storm?”
“Whenever it pleases him.” There was an edge in Lord Michael’s voice. “There are any number of tours offered. The concierge keeps a supply of up-to-date guidebooks, I believe. Is there anything in particular you’re wild to see?”
“The libraries, if you don’t mind.”
“I should have known.” Lord Michael grinned, shak
ing his head. “I suppose you will want to visit Bookshop Lane?”
“Bookshop Lane?”
“Aye. A street in the market district devoted to bookshops. You’d probably enjoy it. Of course, perhaps you’d rather stay here and imagine my death?”
“It is one of my favorite hobbies,” agreed Stefn, trying to match Lord Michael’s bland tones. “But since we are in Withwillow, I suppose I could put it aside for the time being.”
“I’m greatly relieved.” Michael might have continued, but another waiter arrived, recalling them to their surroundings and the necessity of perusing their menus.
It was an enjoyable dinner, much more so than Stefn expected. Their conversation moved easily from light banter to serious discussion of intellectual matters and back; so easily, in fact, that it wasn’t until Arranz suggested they step out onto the terrace to view the Cathedral that Stefn remembered they were enemies.
By now, the sun had completely set. The lights of Withwillow twinkled below them, tiny stars fallen around the bay. Here and there in their midst glowed a different kind of light, small moons in the earth-bound starscape. To the south, where Stefn had earlier marked the Cathedral, the entire area glowed.
That was the beauty of moonstone. By day, the stone absorbed the sunlight and by night gave it back. A moonstone building was warm in the winter and cool in the summer, but it was the soft radiance for which it was most prized. Legends were full of tales of lost narani cities that blazed in eternal splendor far to the north, no one left to see and marvel.
“I wonder if we’ll ever know where moonstone comes from,” Stefn mused aloud.
Michael leaned on the balustrade, looking out over the panorama. A hotel footman passed them, moving along the terrace, lighting lamps. A few others, mostly couples, were enjoying the view, as well.
“Legend says it was quarried on the moon,” Michael said. “I would guess someplace north of the Lothwall mountains.”
“Why do you suppose no one has ever gone to see?”
