by Becca Abbott
As he approached the library, he heard voices. Slowing, he peered around the half open door. This room had been extensively refitted. He glimpsed the magnificent stained-glass windows and rows of bookshelves, most of them still empty. Boxes of various sizes were scattered around the polished wood floor and, before one of the shelves, Michael was busy replacing books while Stefn Eldering pulled them, one after another, from the boxes.
Something about the tableau froze Severyn in place. Michael was laughing as he took the books from Eldering. He said something Severyn couldn’t hear, then took a mock swipe at the dark-haired youth with the book he held. Eldering laughed, flinging his hands in front of his head in pretend alarm. It was a charming scene and Severyn felt a sharp, unpleasant pang.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door completely open and came in. Eldering’s smile vanished, but Michael’s expression lit up like the sun.
“Sev!” he cried, jumping up, stepping over the boxes and piles of books to greet the prince. His arms came around Severyn in a tight embrace and Severyn’s inexplicable pang evaporated. “It’s wonderful to see you! Did you just get in? Who’s with you?”
“It’s good to see you, too!” Severyn returned the hug fiercely. “Damn, but I’ve missed you! Erich is with me. The others will be here in the next week or two.”
“We were starting to think you weren’t coming! What kept you?”
“Business,” replied Severyn, rolling his eyes. “Arami is no longer hearing Petitions, or so it seems. I’m here now, though, and I’m looking forward to hearing about everything. How’s Chris and Annie? And Uncle Damon? Terrifying as always?”
Michael laughed, eyes dancing. “I have a lot to tell you. Some you’ll be glad to hear. Some…” he shrugged and an uneasy look darkened his eyes. “Not so much.”
Involuntarily, Severyn’s gaze went to the earl, who was quietly putting books onto the shelves by himself, his back turned to them.
“Well, then, come on downstairs!” ordered Severyn. “Let’s find Erich and Auron, have a stiff drink. How did you find Bishop Storm?”
The two young men left the library. Just outside it, Michael stopped. “I need to talk to you first, Sev. Alone.”
Again, there was that strange, uneasy feeling in the pit of Severyn’s stomach. He kept his smile, however. “Of course. I need to freshen up a bit. Come with me to my room. We can be private there.”
The prince’s suite would someday be Arami’s, three spacious rooms that had originally been six cramped ones. Severyn shed his damp jacket, tossing it carelessly on the big bed. Michael went to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.
“The moonstone is a surprise,” said Severyn.
Michael started. “Oh. Yes.” He smiled crookedly. “At least Stefn has stopped claiming this place is his ancestral home.”
Stefn, was it?
“You and he seem very friendly,” Severyn said. He went to the wardrobe, opening it before realizing his baggage had not made it upstairs yet.
“He’s not a bad sort,” Michael replied. “To be honest, I wonder sometimes if the old Earl was a cuckold, Stefn is so different.”
“I suppose it’s helpful having a cordial relationship with your cethe.”
“What? Oh, yes. I suppose so.” Michael pushed away from the fireplace.
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
Michael directed a startled look at the prince, hearing the edge in his voice. “No,” he said. “Of course not.” He made a small, helpless movement with his hands. “Grandfather gave me some naragi high spells.”
Severyn’s jaw sagged. Michael ran a distracted hand through his hair. It was loose on his shoulders tonight and, even through his shock at Michael’s confession, Severyn was reminded how beautiful it was.
“I thought those spells had vanished with the naragi.”
“Apparently not.”
“You’re sure?”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “Oh, yes,” he said softly.
The two old friends stared at each other.
“Damnation,” said Severyn finally. “Witchery is one thing, but high k’na?”
“Just because I have them doesn’t mean I’ll use them, of course.”
Severyn sat down on the edge of his bed, shaking his head. “Don’t be so hasty,” he said finally. “Locke’s ambitions exceed what even I suspected. Disturbing rumors having been coming out of the east. We may yet face the Council in battle and if that happens, there’s no reason to doubt the High Orders will hold back against us. Before this is all over, my friend, much as I may hope otherwise, I may yet have need of a naragi’s full power.”
PART XIII
His Grace, Derek Arranz, was the youngest son of a powerful naran duke, Alastair Arranz, at the time war broke out between men and the nara. Derek was summoned home to the Arranz estate. His father died shortly thereafter and his elder brother, Carrington, ascended to the title.
Carrington, unlike his father, was sympathetic to the naran cause and embarked upon a murderous campaign to rid his parish and the surrounding parishes of their humans. Derek, however, refused to go along with his brother’s violent rule. Imprisoned by Carrington for three years, he finally escaped, traveling to Lothmont under direst threat of death, to join Aramis in defense of humanity.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347
Stefn saw little of Michael over the next two weeks. An apologetic Marin informed him that the prince wanted him confined to his rooms. He pretended he didn’t care. They were comfortable enough and Marin brought him whatever books he asked for. There was the business of copying the true Second Chronicle, as well. He had no need of companionship.
Late one afternoon, a knock on his door made him look up in surprise. Marin, his only visitor these days, usually didn’t bother. “Come in,” he called.
It was Michael! The h’nar strolled in, crunching on an apple, tossing another to Stefn. Startled, Stefn just managed to catch it. It was bigger than any he’d ever seen.
“Supplies came in,” said Michael thickly. “Iyrean Reds. Enjoy.”
Iyrean Reds were rare, grown only in neighboring, seaside Iyre, and so expensive, that only royalty or highblood could afford them. Stefn had never had one; he took a bite. The fruit had a hint of spiciness, so sweet, his mouth watered.
Michael went right to the table and picked up Stefn’s latest notes.
Stefn took another bite. “Three entire chapters,” he mumbled through a mouthful of the fruit. “They took out three whole chapters, and no wonder. They cover the five years just after the war. More nara fought with the humans than I imagined and, without their help, the reconstruction wouldn’t have gone half so well.”
Pulling out the chair, Michael sat to read the notes. He hadn’t tied his hair back today, but let it hang long and loose and shining. His features, so perfect, were solemn, bent over the papers and still with concentration. Stefn remembered the nara he’d just finished reading about, men who had been just as effortlessly strong and beautiful.
Michael pushed back his chair. “You’re very thorough,” he said. “It’s a pity you never had the chance to attend a College.”
Stefn shrugged. The apple was eaten; nothing left but the core. He tossed it into the nearby fireplace. It hissed and popped in the flames.
“You’re almost finished?”
“Two more chapters.,” replied Stefn. “Will you send it to Withwillow?”
“Probably. We’ll discuss it tonight at dinner. Speaking of which, Severyn would like you to join us. He’d like to hear what you’ve learned. You can bring your findings with you.”
Stefn’s heart gave a panicked jump. “M-me?”
“Why not? You must surely be ready for a change of scenery?”
“Y-yes, but… ”
“Good. I’ll leave you to it. Until dinner?” With his rare, blinding smile, Michael was gone.
Stefn could barely
concentrate on his reading after that. Somehow he made it through the final pages and hoped his notes were reasonably coherent. Marin arrived as he was reviewing them. The servant insisted that Stefn’s appearance be impeccable.
“The claret evening coat?” he fretted at the wardrobe. “Or perhaps the moss green?”
Stefn couldn’t care less. He wasn’t in the least bit hungry, and nervousness made his hands clammy. It must have been painfully obvious, too, for when Michael arrived to escort Stefn to dinner, he took one look and said, “The main course tonight is roast beef, not pickled earl.”
“You’re sure?” Stefn cast an apprehensive look down the hall.
Michael laughed. His hand settled briefly on Stefn’s shoulder, an easy, companionable, gesture that Stefn found inexplicably steadying. “You’ll do fine,” he predicted.
“Why was I confined to my rooms?”
Michael’s lips tightened. “Severyn doesn’t trust you,” he said. “He told me to remind you to say nothing about what happened at Blackmarsh.”
In the dining room, all the rebel lords were gathered. Lord Challory nodded to him with a pleasant smile, while the prince settled into his chair at the head of the table. Severyn smiled at Michael, but the look he turned on Stefn was cool.
A servant pulled out a chair for Stefn at the foot of the table. Michael left him to take a place on the prince’s right. Feeling isolated and conspicuous, Stefn set down the book and his notes, barely heeding when the footman asked after his preferred beverage.
“Good evening, Lord Eldering.”
Stefn looked up quickly. Prince Severyn met his gaze from the opposite end of the table.
“I’m delighted you could join us this evening. I believe you know everyone here except, perhaps, Lords Dohrn and Iarhlaith.” He indicated the sandy-haired nobleman and the stolid gentleman on his left. “We’re looking forward to hearing your report on the Chronicle your family had in its possession.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Stefn managed to keep his voice steady.
An army of servants arrived, one for each man, it seemed, and more. Stefn’s sense of the surreal held through the dinner’s elaborate first course. The Eldering’s governess had imparted the rudiments of polite etiquette to her two charges, but in Shia, there had been little actual use made of it. Meals had usually arrived on the long, plank table all at once with only a handful of servants present to refill mugs with wine or ale. Men thought nothing of stabbing their daggers into the table-top in emphasis of some point, while dogs fought noisily for scraps beneath it.
These men were also warriors, but the difference could not have been more profound. At the prince’s elbow, Lord Michael set down his soup spoon, leaning forward slightly to say something to him. Lothlain grinned and replied, paying no attention to the immaculately uniformed footman who whisked away his bowl. Voices were low; candlelight filled the newly redecorated chamber with a soft glow. The clink of heavy silver cutlery, the musical chime of crystal, all made Stefn feel as if he lived in a dream.
“Tell me, Lord Eldering. What do you think of Shia’s new look?” Prince Severyn asked. “Quite an improvement, eh?”
“Very much so,” replied Stefn. He forced himself to look at the prince. “I know my sister will be deeply touched by your generosity, Your Highness.”
His words brought a sudden silence.
Lothlain recovered quickly. “That is my fondest hope,” he said, “but what of you? Does it meet with your approval, my lord?”
“Does it matter?” Stefn kept his voice steady and level.
“Not in the least,” agreed Lothlain softly.
“When is the wedding, Your Highness? Am I invited?”
“Stefn… ” Michael frowned at him, but Lothlain set a hand on his arm.
“He can speak freely. After all, we will soon be related.” To Stefn, he replied, “That depends on you, my lord. If I trust you not to cause trouble, you’re welcome to attend. If not, an illness will be invented and you will remain here. As for when, we have set the date to a year and three months from now to allow the proper period of mourning. Whatever you may think of me, my lord, I do not intend to mistreat or dishonor Miss Eldering.”
After a moment, Iarhlaith spoke up, something about a grouse hunt planned for later in the week, and conversation resumed. The second course was followed by a third, then a fourth. By the time a footman wheeled in the dessert cart, Stefn had a full belly and most of his composure back.
“I think we’re ready to hear your report,” Lothlain announced, settling back in his chair. “What can you tell us about this copy of the Chronicle?”
Stefn rose, arranging his notes nervously. He cleared his throat, glancing toward Michael. The h’nar smiled faintly, nodding.
“Volume two,” said Stefn, “contains over seventy pages of material not included in the authorized versions. Almost all of the omitted text has to do with the positive influence of the nara after the war. Many of them had fought with us and, afterwards, devoted much of their time and fortune to rebuilding Tanyrin.”
“So that’s why some nara were allowed to go free after the war,” said Iarhlaith finally. “I always wondered, if they were so terrible, why St. Aramis allowed so many to live among us as equals.”
“It’s damning to the Church if it’s true,” Dore agreed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It seems there should be some way to use it to our advantage.”
“I like the idea of printing copies of the true Chronicle and distributing them in secret around Tanyrin.” said the prince, looking directly at Stefn. “Mick told us about your idea. It’s a good one, my lord. Sowing dissension in the Church would keep the Celestials’ eyes off us.”
“If we determine these are the true Chronicles.” Iarhlaith huffed.
“And if we could get our hands on a press,” added Forry. “Or has someone come up with a new idea of how to accomplish that?”
Stefn sat down as the others began arguing over how best to implement such a plan. His head spun, caught between gratification and apprehension. Were they serious? Did the prince mean what he said?
“We could ask Storm for the use of one of his presses.”
“That would never work,” retorted Forry. “The Church requires all of them to be registered. They’ll know at once where the copies come from. We’ll need to build our own.”
And so it went. Stefn listened, interested in spite of himself. When dinner was over and the men rose to withdraw, he found himself half-hoping he would be invited to join them, but Hanson appeared to escort him back to his room.
Away from the dining hall and its roaring fire, the deepening chill settled into the corridors of Shia. Stefn heard the muffled, steady wail of the wind. It was well into autumn and one of the northland’s storms was approaching. It promised to be a strong one. His heart lifted slightly at the realization he would spend it in a cozy room, under mounds of thick, soft covers.
Not only was his fire burning, but a bed-warmer had been slipped between his sheets. The heavy drapes had been drawn against any stray draft making it past the new windows. His cup of hot chocolate sat beside two biscuits fragrant with cinnamon. Wasting no time, he put on his night-shirt and, taking up his book, got into bed. With the pillows plumped up at his back, the lamp burning low on the table beside him, he sipped his chocolate and watched the flames dance in the fireplace across the room.
Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, he thought. Prince Severyn was not entirely evil. Although Stefn had not been much in the prince’s company, he could see the mood of those who served him, their affection and fierce loyalty. There had been none of that in the Shia of old; only fear.
Stefn finished the last delicious swallow of chocolate, setting aside the cup. Opening his book, he picked up where he’d left off. It was a lady’s romance he’d found among the boxes of books, one of a half-dozen such volumes Michael claimed had been purchased for Stefanie’s eventual enjoyment. The thoughtfulness of the gesture was another r
eason to think again about Prince Severyn. Maybe, if Stefn kept his silence, Stefanie might even be happy.
He wished he knew more about King Arami. The king was rarely mentioned in the house. Had Stefn not been an avid reader, he might not have even known a king outranked an archbishop. According to Michael, the last few kings of Tanyrin had been weak men, little more than puppets of the Church. If that was so, maybe the kingdom would be better served by Severyn. Whatever else he might be, Stefn couldn’t accuse the prince of weakness.
Murderer and traitor, more like!
But Stefn’s angry, inner admonishment didn’t seem to have the power it once had. He also had to admit, however reluctantly, that Stefanie was very likely to be in ecstasies over her engagement to the prince. After all, women were expected to marry as far up the social ladder as possible and the only further up one could get was to be queen.
Or the lady wife of the Archbishop. Stefn recalled his brief, unsettling encounter with Lady Locke and cringed inwardly. She must have thought him a perfect fool. Lord Arranz certainly had.
Lord Arranz.
Stefn’s thoughts took an unwelcome turn. He picked up his book, determined to banish them in the improbable adventures of The Constant Knight. Alas, this novel featured a moody, violent hero who, as Stefn read, began to remind him more than a little of a certain perplexing and unpredictable h’naran lord.
Howling woke Michael from restless dreams. He lay, shivering under his blankets, still half-asleep and not sure what he heard. Then, as he grew more aware of his own discomfort, he realized he was listening to the wind.
The walls of the old house were granite, six feet thick in places, yet the wind was as noisy as if they were made of the flimsiest wood and wattle. He could see his breath, hanging like a white cloud before him. Even under three heavy blankets, he was cold.
