Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  “Think so?” Stefn picked up his cup and gulped the rest of the wine. When he put it down he missed the edge of the table. It bounced and rolled away on the marble tile. “Father beat me. Stripped off all m’clothes right there in the Hall and beat the hell out of me. Then ‘vited his guests to have a go…” A lone tear slipped down his flushed cheek. “Br’ther William stopped ‘em finally. Said it was a sin to kill a sin-catcher.”

  Michael poured himself some wine to cover his own reaction. “Loth,” he muttered and downed it faster than Stefn had.

  There was a hiccup. “God, I hate them. I’m glad they’re dead!” Angrily, Stefn dashed the tears away with the back of his hand. And with that, he fell forward onto the table, knocking the pot off the table to smash on the floor. Michael stared at him in complete astonishment.

  The waiter appeared by magic, regarding the broken crockery with dismay. Marin was right behind him. A gentle snore arose from Lord Eldering.

  “I think his lordship is finished for the night,” said Michael finally. “Put it on my bill.”

  “Y-yes, m’lord.” Owl-eyed, the waiter stepped back hurriedly as Michael lifted the unconscious earl and, beckoning to Marin, carried him up to his room.

  PART XI

  From whence came the nara? The question has long been a source of scholarly debate. Most historians place their homeland north of the Lothwalls, in a land of unforgiving cold. Although men journeyed north in the days before the war, seeking naran riches, those few who returned reported finding only great rivers of ice, endless fields of snow and relentless, frigid winds.

  from: The Naran Invasion,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1513

  Even in the few weeks he’d been gone, Stefn could see changes were well underway in Shia. As the coach rolled up the road toward the castle, many of the cottages they passed showed signs of recent repair. Others were in preparation for it, with neat piles of roof slates or bricks in their small yards.

  The castle itself displayed little outward evidence of change save for a large scaffolding standing against one side where a crack in the outer wall had been slowly widening for years. In the house, everywhere was awash in plaster dust, heaps of construction material, and the smell of fresh paint.

  Stefn stood in the foyer, looking around in amazement while more servants arrived to take their coats. None of them were familiar. A youngish man in a butler’s formal attire, a stranger, bowed and welcomed them. “Lord Challory is in the East Parlor. He’ll be delighted to hear you’ve arrived, my lord.”

  “Hullo, Hanson. It’s good to see you, too.” Arranz handed his gloves to the big-eyed maid holding the rest of his outerwear. “See Lord Eldering to his room, please. East Parlor, you say?”

  With Marin trotting along behind him, Stefn was escorted from the vestibule and into the Great Hall. His eyes widened. The old, rusting chandelier had been taken down, but not yet replaced. Instead, two rows of tall candlesticks marched down the length of the great room, illuminating it with dancing yellow light.

  Underfoot, the flagged stones shone like glass. Fine rugs were scattered in islands of jewel color across it. The wood paneling had been polished to a silken sheen. Some of the old shields and family heralds were still present, but most were gone. Windows sparkled and their dusty wooden shutters had been removed.

  His wonder grew as he continued into the south wing. Signs of construction were everywhere here, too, but what he noticed most was the abundance of lamps and candles. The gloomy old castle was lit up like daylight.

  “Here ye are,” Marin said cheerfully, hurrying past him to open the door to Allen’s suite. Stefn walked in and stopped, staring around in surprise.

  “Please stay here, my lord. As you can see, things are topsy-turvy and we wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  Stefn paid him no attention, stunned by the room’s transformation. The yellowed, damp-spotted plaster was now a fresh, pale blue. Heavy satin curtains draped the windows. Here, too, the shutters were gone. Allen’s furniture remained, but the dark, shabby bed clothes had been exchanged for richly hued, luxurious fabrics. New lamps and rugs added to the cheerful feel. Stunned, he went to the fireplace, generations of soot now scrubbed away to reveal the marble beneath. It was a room fit for an earl. Settling onto the edge of an overstuffed velvet armchair, Stefn tried to take it all in.

  Marin quickly unpacked Stefn’s few bags and left, promising to bring him some supper. Stefn heard the key turn in the lock. It wasn’t unexpected, but the reminder of his true status dimmed his excitement. Why did they bother? He couldn’t escape. Not from a naragi. The Demon Duke of Blackmarsh had proved it back in the delta.

  Stefn remembered his abduction clearly, could conjure the nightmare of blood and fire easily in his mind. Yet the memory of the torment seemed oddly sterile, like something he’d read rather than experienced. There weren’t even any scars left behind. The most vivid memory he had of that terrible time was looking up to see Michael, wild-eyed and full of rage, coming for him.

  What am I thinking? He’s as bad as they are? A rapist and a traitor!

  And yet…

  Michael had taken him to the Tower of Loth the morning they departed Withwillow. He’d climbed the cramped, inner stairway with Stefn, all the way to the top where the wind blew their hair around them and one could see forever. He’d waited patiently while Stefn stood, spellbound, unable to tear himself away from the limitless horizon.

  Marin returned, a maid in tow. The woman carried towels and a pitcher of warm water through the sitting room and into the bedroom beyond. Marin set down a well-laden dinner tray on the table beside Stefn.

  “Must I stay in here?” Stefn asked, low-voiced. “Can’t I look around and see what they’ve done?”

  The maid reappeared, empty-handed, flashing him a smile and bobbing a quick curtsey before hurrying out. He stared after her, startled at the courtesy.

  “His lordship wants you to stay put,” Marin replied, but not without sympathy. “Perhaps tomorrow he’ll let me take you around to have a look-see. In the meantime, why not rest from the journey. Shall I bring you a book or periodical? I hear there are dozens of new books in the library, including ladies’ novels for Miss Stefanie.”

  Stefn’s heart plunged. “I-is… Does His Highness still mean to wed my sister?”

  “From the talk below-stairs, they’re officially betrothed. ‘Tis why the prince is in such a hurry to have the castle repaired and updated. When he brings his new bride back to her home, he wants everything to be perfect.”

  Marin hurried away, leaving Stefn to stare bleakly into the fire. Severyn meant to take Stefanie and Shia, and he could do nothing. His only purpose was to fuel Lord Arranz’s unholy power.

  He couldn’t stay here, not with such thoughts as his only company. The windows were unlocked. He scrambled out, catching hold of the drainspout and slid down into the wet shrubbery below. Pushing his way out of the entangling bushes, he ran around the house to the kitchen door.

  The walls of the long, narrow foyer were stacked high with sacks of flour and sugar, boxes of fruits, produce, and other goodies. It was also very clean. Through the open doorway at the other end, Stefn saw the kitchen bustling with strangers, brightly lit and filling the foyer with mouth-watering smells.

  He didn’t stay to be discovered, but opened the door to the back stairs and went up. If Michael and Lord Challory were at dinner, it was only to his advantage. With the workers gone home and the invaders in one place and occupied, he could have an uncensored look at what they were doing to his home.

  Stefn let himself out onto the next floor. Everywhere was a dusty mess, walls partially re-plastered, stacks of new floorboards in piles along the corridor. Through open doors, rooms once filled with outdated, moldering furniture stood empty. It gave him a strange feeling, as if he watched the Elderings being steadily, purposefully erased.

  He went straight to the entrance to the north wing. No one stood guard at the door. Beyond, i
t was pitch black. His single candle revealed more construction as he made his way up to the top floor. There, he held the small flame aloft, walking carefully through the tools and materials to the library where he stopped, jaw sagging.

  The room had been completely dismantled. The books were gone, the old shelves removed. Much of the dark wood paneling had been stripped from the walls. On the eastern wall, four enormous, arched windows had been exposed. Stained glass had once filled them; some of it still remained. Heavy oiled cloth covered the open holes, keeping the worst of the rain and cold at bay.

  In a section of the newly-exposed wall, a large, iron door had been crudely set. The door had no obvious handle and did not yield at his attempts to push it open. Curious, he examined the wall around it. His heart jumped. In disbelief, he brought his candle close. The milky stone seemed to drink in its light and somehow make it brighter. He touched a trembling finger to the cool, glassy surface. There was no mistake. The room was built of cloud-stone!

  Michael found Auron waiting for him in the late earl’s study. Like everything else in Shia, this room, too, bore no resemblance to gloomy original chamber where, as Brother Michael, he’d first met Lord Eldering. Colorful cushions enlivened the dark upholstered couches and chairs; the bright new pictures had nary a hunting scene among them. Draperies of ivory silk replaced the dusty brown velvet of which the earl had seemed so fond.

  Auron heard the news about Bishop Storm with sharp interest. “The Council’s been changing the Chronicles to suit themselves, have they? I can’t say I’m surprised. Not that I’d know a true one from a false one,” he added with a rueful grin. “Never having had yours or Severyn’s interest in scholarly matters.”

  “More important is having a bishop on our side,” Michael said. “If the Church decides to contest Sev’s right to assume the throne, at least one of them will speak for him.”

  The work on the new barracks was almost complete. By winter, it would be finished and, by spring, if all went well, they would be ready to move in the troops who would serve as the deposed king’s guardians.

  At the end of dinner, in the middle of the dessert course, Marin appeared. Michael guessed what he had to stay.

  “Eldering’s bolted again?” Auron asked, eyebrows soaring. “Might I suggest a ball and chain?”

  But Michael, oddly, felt no alarm at the news. He shrugged, rising and excusing himself. Looking inside himself for Stefn’s life spark was second-nature now. Following that gentle pull, he headed straight for the north wing and up the stairs to the library.

  As he approached, he slowed, seeing candlelight shining under the door. He strode swiftly forward and opened it. “Am I going to have to put bars on your windows?”

  Stefn whirled around, the sudden movement extinguishing his own small light. The dark enveloped them. Michael murmured a charm and a witchlight appeared, bobbing overhead in the drafts of the vaulted chamber.

  “What is it? Are you all right?

  Stefn seemed not to hear him. “It’s moonstone,” he said in a thin voice, gesturing toward the exposed stone walls. “Is the whole wing built of it?”

  Michael, startled, went to investigate. It was true! Wonderingly, he stroked the cool, satiny stone. Then he turned to face Stefn. “Do you still deny Shia was naran?”

  “No.” There was defeat in the soft voice. “It was just another lie.” Jaw tight, he turned and started toward the door. “I’m going back to my room. Don’t worry. I won’t leave it again.”

  “Wait!”

  Stefn stopped, but didn’t look around.

  “Do you see that metal door? Do you know what lays behind it?”

  He had Stefn’s attention now. “I’ll show you.”

  The woebegone look vanished. “That was my father’s!” he exclaimed at the sight of the medallion-key.

  Michael slid it into the slot and the door sagged inward with a rusty screech.

  “I never knew this was here!” said Stefn, stunned. He followed Michael into the antechamber, looking around in amazement. The crates were gone, the room swept clean, but the objects in the cupboard remained.

  “I’m not certain your father knew either,” said Michael, remembering the thick layer of dust he’d disturbed when he’d discovered the place. “Nothing in here had been touched for decades.”

  Stefn walked to the cupboard and looked into it. He pulled out a small figurine of St. Aramis, the warrior-mage standing proudly, sword held aloft. He set it back. “What’s this?” he asked, pulling out the cloth-wrapped book.

  The hair on the back of Michael’s neck suddenly lifted. Stefn looked down at the Chronicle, then up at Michael. The expression on his face told Michael he’d had the same thought.

  “Shall we have a look?” asked Michael

  Eyes wide, Stefn hurried to the table.

  “Volume Two?” Stefn read the cover. He opened it and his eyes got wider. “It’s not printed! Look! Hand-lettered! It’s at least a first edition!” He quickly turned pages. “Let’s try the fourth chapter. If I remember, it was written especially badly. Several sections didn’t make sense at all.”

  The youth pulled the chair out from the table and sat down. Michael leaned back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. His heart was beating faster. He didn’t know if it was in anticipation of finding another original book or the sight of Stefn, dark head bent, slim body held in graceful, eager anticipation. The urge to touch the young man’s soft, silky hair was nearly irresistible.

  “Aha! It’s here! An entire section that isn’t in the standard volume!” Stefn straightened, turning to look up at Michael, stabbing at the page with his finger. “This must be an original, too! It must be!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It would be easy enough to confirm. Our library possesses several copies of more recent editions. Although where they are now…”

  “Bring it,” said Michael, nodding to the book. “I’ll find the copies for you.”

  “I can take this?” Stefn seemed surprised.

  “Of course. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Some of the light vanished from Stefn’s eyes.

  “True,” he agreed with a faint, bleak smile. Wrapping the book in its cover, he stood and, with it held tightly against him, preceded Michael from the chamber.

  Stefn saw little of Michael over the next few days. True to his word, he made no attempt to leave his room. Instead, he poured over the mysterious Chronicle, infected with growing excitement as he realized what he read was indeed much different from the book he’d read so many times before.

  The Second Chronicle covered several decades after the Naran War. As he progressed through the closely printed pages, he realized most of the excised sections in the standard editions had to do with the nara and their place in Tanyrin’s society of that time. To his surprise, they seemed to have been well integrated, and with St. Aramis’ blessing. References were even made to several naran lords’ as Aramis’ wartime allies.

  One evening, Michael came to his room to inquire after his progress. Lonely and bored, Stefn was actually happy to see him. They sat in his small sitting room and discussed the Chronicle.

  “I suppose it could be a forgery,” Michael said, feet propped comfortably on the ottoman before the small fire. “That is almost certainly what the Council will claim.”

  “It will be difficult for them to do so,” Stefn said. “Only the first editions were hand-lettered.”

  Michael frowned.

  “The first printing presses didn’t appear until just after St. Aramis’ death,” Stefn said.

  “I’d wager Bishop Storm would like a look at it.”

  “I could copy it out,” said Stefn. “Then you could send him that.”

  “That sounds dreadfully tedious.”

  “What else have I to do?”

  Michael regarded Stefn, head tilted. “We could go for a ride,” he suggested.

  “I might try to escape,” retorted Stefn, but he brighten
ed nonetheless.

  “You could try,” agreed Michael.

  Autumn had come to Shia. The fields were turning brown and the leaves of the speden and fich trees were showing gold edges.

  Stefn was delighted to be on horseback again. The saddle had always been one place where his foot hadn’t mattered. As they rode out through the castle gate, Stefn drew a deep breath and, illusion or not, felt light and free.

  “I’ll race you to the hills!” Michael said and, before Stefn could reply, shot off to the west.

  They galloped across the plain, raising billowing dust in their wake. Overhead, fleecy white clouds drifted across the sky. The conifer covered hills rose to meet them, Michael pulling slightly ahead as they passed from the open land into the woods.

  “I’m out of condition,” Stefn declared when Michael grinned triumphantly. “I haven’t ridden for almost a year. Next time, Arranz, you won’t be so lucky!”

  “Big talk,” teased Michael.

  “There’s a stream near here,” said Stefn, turning his horse in that direction, “and a place where you can climb and see for miles. I used to come here before Father ordered me confined to Shia.”

  He led Michael uphill through the trees. They heard the stream before seeing it. It tumbled down from somewhere higher in the hills, ice-cold and clear as glass. They drank alongside their horses, washing the dust from their hands and faces.

  Here and there, great boulders and outcroppings of rock thrust up through the forest floor. Stefn showed Michael a particularly large outcropping near the top of the hill. They clambered onto it, laughing and calling to each other like a couple of schoolboys. At the top, they threw themselves down, breathless, to stare up at the sky.

  Michael was the first to recover and sit up. “You’re right!” he exclaimed. “I can see all the way to Embry. It is Embry, isn’t it?”

  Stefn sat up, looking the direction Michael indicated. “Yes. There’s the abbey on that hill over there and the Shia river.”