Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  “What’s out there?” asked Michael, pointing to the northern curve of the hills.

  “I don’t know,” Stefn admitted. “The Targa Road continues for about ten miles before reaching the river. The Shia’s very wide and fast there, with dangerous currents. Long ago, there was a bridge, but it’s in ruins now. From what I’ve read, it was destroyed during the war to keep naran reinforcements from coming south.”

  “Reinforcements that never came.”

  Stefn nodded. They sat in companionable silence for awhile, enjoying the view. Michael lay back finally, hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. It would be nice to stay here forever, thought Stefn, untouched by all the political intrigue and naran sorcery complicating his life. After awhile, he looked over at Michael. The h’nar appeared to be asleep, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling rhythmically. An unexpected warmth flooded through Stefn’s veins. Tentatively, he touched a long strand of Michael’s pale hair come loose from its tie. It was warm and smooth.

  Stefn’s gaze returned to Michael’s face, lingering on his mouth. Unconsciously, Stefn touched his own lips, remembering the kisses that had set him aflame in spite of his fiercest intentions. What if he were to lean over, to cover Michael’s mouth with his own, to….

  “Stefn?”

  Stefn, horrified, realized he was inches from Michael’s face. Those grey eyes were open, filled with bemusement. He tried to straighten, but Michael reached up and pulled him down, fulfilling Stefn’s half-formed impulse.

  It was a kiss unlike any he had received so far, gentle, even tender. The tip of Michael’s tongue traced the outlines of Stefn’s lips, then slid deep into his mouth. The warmth became a tingling and he felt himself getting hard.

  Michael’s knee pushed up between Stefn’s legs, pressing firmly against him, tearing a groan from deep in his throat. He unbuttoned Michael’s shirt and waistcoat with eager, trembling hands, revealing the smooth, muscular chest beneath. Even as Michael let out a long sigh, even as Stefn lowered his head to suck at a tiny, caramel-colored nipple, he wondered dimly at himself. What was he doing? This wasn’t like him!

  Stop it! You fool!

  But the tiny voice of reason had no chance. Michael’s nipple hardened under Stefn’s tongue. Stefn yielded helplessly to the rush of pleasure as Michael’s hands slid down his back to clutch his buttocks, pushing him down harder. Stefn nipped the tiny bud in his mouth and Michael cried out softly, back arching. Fingers tangling in Stefn’s hair, he pulled Stefn’s head back and reclaimed his mouth.

  “God, but you’re beautiful!” Michael whispered. “I can’t get enough of you!”

  His hands worked at Stefn’s waist, unbuttoning his breeches, pulling them down. Stefn gasped, freed of the constriction. He rubbed his cock along Michael’s hard thigh, gut tightening unbearably.

  Michael undid his own breeches and for a time, there was no sound but their harsh breathing. Flesh against flesh, bodies tangled, they rode the waves of pleasure until Stefn could stand it no longer, crying out, his cock jerking with the force of spending himself, his thoughts shattering like glass.

  The breeze on his sweaty back roused him at last from his daze. He rolled off Michael. Michael lay without moving, arms flung wide, eyes closed. Overhead, the clouds thickened and the wind was picking up.

  A sudden, fierce pain, like a sword, went through Stefn’s heart. He was abruptly, vividly, wretchedly, aware of the lethet.

  None of it was real. The tenderness, the sweet words, it was all naragi magic. Without it, Michael Arranz would never have looked twice at the puny sin-catcher of Shia.

  “Let’s go back,” he said, swallowing the ache in his throat. “It looks like there’s a storm blowing up.”

  PART XII

  Among the most repulsive and depraved of naran practices was that of taking lovers from among one’s own sex. Nowhere in naran society was this vice more celebrated then among the cursed naragi. The carnal appetites of the naran sorcerers is legendary, with many of them maintaining harems of beautiful boys, both human and naran, for their pleasure.

  from: Demons Among Us,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1390

  It was expected that the Crown Prince should come and go from Tantagrel with as much pomp as possible, but Severyn was not like the princes who had gone before him. His coach bore only a small imprint of his coat of arms on the door and his outriders were his friends. It was all the formality he could stand.

  Tantagrel was older and much smaller than Lothmont. According to history, it was the true seat of the Lothlain family. Unquestionably, it was a human city. Not a chunk of cloud-stone was to be found anywhere among its low timber and limestone buildings. Lothlain House, the royal residence, occupied the city center, surrounded by parks and wide, tree-lined streets.

  Timkins and a group of hand-picked servants had gone ahead to make everything ready for their prince’s arrival. He waited at the enormous front door to take Severyn’s hat and gloves. The marble hall was ablaze with candles and uniformed servants stood stiffly at their posts, imitating statues.

  “Report?”

  While servants came to take the outer garments of the others, Timkins brought him up to date, succinctly and in a low voice. “The list of Petitioners is two hundred names long. Fifty of them are highblood. From the wide variety in their complaints, it appears your brother is no longer holding formal audiences with anyone other than those in his immediate circle.”

  Two hundred? At this rate, if he didn’t overthrow Aramis soon, someone else would! Worse, it would be a month before he had a chance to return to Shia. “Give me some good news, will you, Tim?” he asked, sighing.

  “There’s peach cream for dessert, Your Highness.”

  The two men exchanged glances. Severyn grinned. “Good man.” The servant bowed low and hurried away to attend to other matters.

  Severyn said good-bye to his friends early the next morning and, steeling himself for the coming onslaught, left the house, crossing the park to the great Petitioner Hall. The Lord Hallmaster waited just inside, practically hopping up and down in his anxiety.

  “Your Highness! Assembly is in an hour!” he exclaimed, flapping a sheaf of papers at Severyn. “Do you have your address prepared? If not, I have taken the liberty of preparing…”

  “Cancel Assembly,” said Severyn.

  Nedby squeaked in horror. “C-cancel?”

  “Have you seen the length of the list, man?”

  “Y-yes, but… cancel the Assembly?”

  “Where’s the list of Petitioners?”

  Lord Nedby had been Tantagrel’s Hallmaster for fifty years. Reeling from the unprecedented break in protocol, the old man handed it over. As usual, he had ordered people by rank rather than the length of time their petition had been pending. Severyn handed the list back. “Damn it, Nedby. First come, first served. Re-order the list according to my wishes and I will see the first Petitioner in one-half hour.”

  It was a long day, made longer by the obvious discontent of his long-suffering Petitioners. Most of the cases should have been handled by Arami months ago, being matters of highblood inheritance or land disputes. Severyn would have been entirely within his rights to send them back to Lothmont, but he hadn’t the heart. Nevertheless, with determined focus and a missed lunch, by evening he’d made considerable headway down the list.

  At his late dinner, Timkins reported a much improved atmosphere over in the Petitioner Hall. “I swear to you, Highness, if you were to declare yourself king tomorrow, most of Tanyrin would be with you.”

  “Most, but not all. Lord Harding still gets his petitions heard at court, as does Anthony Raile. My brother is a fool, but not so much as to alienate his generals.”

  And now there was the Church to worry about, as well.

  The next day went smoothly. Severyn, much encouraged, began to hope he might make his way through the damned list by the end of the week. He had started to think fondly of dinner when a commotio
n at the other end of the hall made him look up from the latest dossier. Instead of his next case, a disgruntled miller versus the village tax collector, a group of Hunters strode in, ignoring old Nedby’s attempt to call them back. In the antechamber behind them, the miller and tax collector shouted their protests.

  With a start, Severyn recognized one of them. The darkly handsome captain Remy came straight up to the dais and bowed. His two comrades, lieutenants, bowed from their positions several steps behind him.

  “Is there an emergency?” Severyn asked.

  “I bring a Petition, Your Highness.”

  “Really? How remarkable! What a pity I’m scheduled to hear the petition of Master George Potts first. I can’t imagine what one of your Order could need from me.”

  He could, of course. Unless he was very mistaken, Severyn knew Arami had done as he’d promised.

  “I bring it in the name of the Church. Surely that supersedes the squabble of some commoner?”

  Severyn kept his composure with an effort. “In my court, I do things my way. Please see Lord Nedby for a Note of Order. I’ll hear your petition then.”

  “I will be brief, Your Highness.” Remy’s jaw tightened. He, too, was holding on to his temper. “It is a matter of utmost importance.”

  “They usually are. Nedby?” Severyn straightened, carefully moving aside his open dossier.

  “Would you please give Captain Remy a Note? How many more petitioners are in front of him?”

  Visibly quaking, the Chamberlain approached, holding out a slip of paper as if expecting to have his hand bitten off. Face reddening, the Hunter snatched it away. His angry bow was barely more than an incline of his head. Turning on his heel, he strode from the room. His lieutenants, throwing dark looks over their shoulders, hurried after him.

  Severyn sat back. With faint surprise, he realized he had the arms of his chair in a death-grip.

  Damn you, Locke.

  “Your Highness?” Nedby’s sharp tones brought Severyn back to the present. The earnest, grateful faces of his next petitioners were arrayed before the dais. He slid the dossier back in front of him and smiled at them as they bowed. “Good afternoon. I do apologize for the long delay in this hearing. I’ve been out of town on other business for some time. Now, which one of you is Master Potts?”

  Alas, there was only so long Severyn could put off the Celestials’ delegation. The morning came when Nedby brought the list of the day’s Petitions and Captain Remy’s name stared up at him, promising trouble.

  “Send them in,” he instructed Nedby, steeling himself for the coming interview. The hallmaster bowed and hurried from the audience chamber.

  Severyn scowled at the Petition. He’d read it over several times, still amazed at their audacity. The Celestial Council requested the king’s permission to move an undisclosed number of troops west for protection of Church property. Severyn had spent several late nights, forming a response that would not, Loth willing, send them into apoplexy. He doubted he’d succeed.

  Nedby was taking his time. Severyn looked down the length of the chamber to the doors. Where was the old man? Glancing over at the table where his clerks sat, he said, “Go find out what’s taking them so long.”

  One of the young men jumped up and ran out. He returned a short time later, the hallmaster in tow.

  “Where’s the Council’s delegation?”

  “They’re not here yet, Highness,” Nedby replied, apprehensive.

  “Call the next Petitioner, then.”

  “I’m sure they’re on their way, Your Highness! It’s some distance to the abbey and this time of day the streets are crowded.”

  “I have no time to waste,” replied Severyn. “By tomorrow, I plan to be on my way back to Shia. I’ve no intention of putting the trip off another day.”

  “But Your Highness! They are representatives of the Celestial Council!”

  “The Councilors are men like any other,” retorted the prince. “Bring in the next Petitioner!”

  Nedby retreated again, bowing, leaving Severyn to stare at the doors and wish all the Celestials to perdition.

  The hallmaster returned within a few minutes, accompanying a knight Petitioning for a change in his herald. It was a minor matter, and one easily approved after a quick check of the Highblood Register showed no duplication of another’s device. The knight took himself off, satisfied. No sooner had he passed out of the chamber then the doors flew open again and Captain Remy, accompanied by his companions, strode in.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Remy, coming straight up to Severyn’s table. His bow was scarcely more than a bob of his head. “We were first on the schedule, were we not?”

  “You’re late,” Severyn said. “My time is valuable and this is not Zelenov!”

  Remy looked as if he’d eaten something unpleasant — most likely the retort he was wise enough to stifle. Stiffly, he said, “And have you had a chance to consider our Petition, Your Highness?”

  “I have.”

  Remy and the others waited.

  “I find it curiously incomplete. There is no specification of troop numbers,” said Severyn, flapping the document at them, “nor mention of how these additional troops will be paid for.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Remy replied in a tense voice, “I was under the impression that His Majesty did not have similar concerns.”

  “Yet the king sent this Petition to me for handling and I find both those matters most concerning. Our people are already struggling under the burden of both taxes and tithes. Frankly, captain, I would not be at all surprised were the Advisori to raise all hell over it. At the very least, they should be consulted.”

  “The Church has a right to see to the protection of its property!”

  Severyn leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled before him. “I was unaware of any assaults on Church lands or buildings. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

  Remy, seeing his chance, pounced. “I’m surprised you could ask such a thing, Your Highness, when you yourself witnessed the assault on Shia!”

  “The assault was on Castle Shia,” replied Severyn calmly, “and not on the abbey. Even if it were, however, that’s one incident. The Church has vast holdings across the West. One attack by a gang of bandits on Tanyrin’s frontier hardly constitutes a crisis.”

  “Is that your decision, Your Highness?” Remy asked coldly. “Am I to return to Zelenov with the word that our Petition has been denied?”

  “Provisionally denied,” replied Severyn. “I would see more detail of this plan. I want troop numbers, the names of the parishes affected and, of course, plans for financing.”

  “His Eminence may simply decide to appeal your decision to the king!”

  “That is his right.” Severyn shrugged. “Is there anything else, gentlemen?”

  “No,” grated Remy.

  “Then I wish you a safe journey east,” said the prince.

  Severyn got an early start the next morning. Erich Dore accompanied him, the two of them sharing a roomy, well-sprung coach. Forry and Jeremy planned to join them at Shia, bringing with them the first of the troops planned for the castle’s and ultimately, Arami’s, defense.

  “Maybe you should persuade your brother to abdicate before next spring,” Erich suggested after hearing Severyn’s account of the Petition hearing. “I can’t see Arami withstanding pressure from the Council indefinitely.”

  “It makes no sense for him to go to Shia before the wedding,” replied Severyn.

  “You’re assuming he’ll consent to go at all.”

  Severyn smiled wryly. “I’ll lure him there with promises of money. My dear brother is all too predictable. Once shut up in that damned pile and surrounded by my men, he’ll have little choice but to give up the throne. If we make his surroundings luxurious enough, he may not even care.”

  And those who might wish to contest Severyn’s claim would find it difficult to reach Arami in his remote and well-guarded
exile. Increasingly, it appeared the only ones to object would be the Celestials. He had to make certain they kept their troops on the other side of the Midders until the deed was done or the bloodbath they hoped to avoid risked becoming inevitable.

  Such grim thoughts could not hold Severyn for long, however. As each mile passed under their wheels, the weight of his responsibilities grew lighter. Soon he would be surrounded by his dearest friends and, for a time, free to enjoy himself. It would be good to see Michael again.

  They ran into bad weather as they neared the Shian border, icy rain dogging them from Fornsby, up the low hills and into the highlands. It was still falling as their coach rolled through Shia’s newly reinforced gate to the main house.

  Inside, Timkins cousin, Jarred Hansen, met them with a flock of maids. Their wet things were promptly carried away.

  “It’s good to see you, Your Highness, Lord Dore,” the young butler said. “Will Tim be following?”

  “Not this time, Hanson. I’ve left him in Tantagrel to see to things. How do things go here?”

  “As well as can be expected, sir. I believe Lord Challory is in the games room.”

  “Where’s Lord Arranz?”

  “The library, I believe.”

  Erich was looking around with approval as Hanson finished his report. “It looks like most of the construction is complete,” he said. “What a difference! Shall we go see Auron?”

  “You go ahead,” replied Severyn. “I’ll join you in a bit.”

  The house might have been a different place. Severyn noted the improvements with satisfaction as he hurried to the north wing. He was taken aback at the sight of the moonstone walls. Auron had mentioned their discovery in one of his letters, but Severyn hadn’t given it much thought at the time. He shook his head, running a hand along the stone’s smooth surface. What an improvement from the grim, musty surroundings he’d left all those weeks ago!

  The stairs were carpeted now, cushioning his feet as he climbed them. More carpet lay along the corridors. Everything seemed brightly lit, yet there were only a few lamps burning, their light caught and magnified by the moonstone.