by Becca Abbott
Stefn enjoyed being on horseback. As the day brightened around them, he saw the parish with new eyes. Suddenly, the bare, rolling land promised limitless possibilities instead of unattainable destinations. Distant ribbons of chimney-smoke made him think of the repairs being made on his people’s ramshackle dwellings.
Several times before crossing the parish line, they passed wagons heading north bearing shingles and bags of mortar.
“It’s not just repair of village homes, but new ones being built, as well,” Michael replied when Stefn commented.
“They’d best hurry. When true winter comes, they’ll need a stout roof and thick walls. How is the food supply in the village?”
“As good as can be expected, given what they had under your father. The prince means to support the parish through the winter, but next year at this time, things should be much different.”
Support the peasants? His father had never cared a whit about their survival, seeing them only as sources of labor and income.
The weather held all the way to Fornsby, cold but clear and sunny. As twilight fell, they stopped again at the Cathedral Inn where the innkeeper greeted them like old friends. “Alas, my lords, your usual rooms are already taken, but if you insist, I could move the current occupants… ”
“Not at all,” Michael replied. “We’ll take what you have.”
What he had was a room on the third floor and one on the second. “Let’s clean up,” Michael suggested, “and go down for dinner.”
They ate in a private parlor while the inn’s big common room filled rapidly with patrons. Loud laughter and conversation reached the two noblemen each time the parlor door opened.
“Busy night,” Michael observed at one point, when the landlord arrived to refill their glasses. “Is there a special occasion?”
“A battalion of Hunters are on their way to Brockhom Abbey,” replied the innkeeper, his mouth tightening and turning down at the corners.
“Why?”
“Don’t rightly know, my lords. We already have Hunters up at the Cathedral. Besides, this here’s a peaceful parish and the Hunters we do have don’t seem to be very busy, leastways, not that I’ve ever noticed.”
The man hurried away. Michael frowned at the door as it closed after him. “Did Locke get to Arami already?”
Stefn wondered, too. Brockhom was smaller than Fornsby, at least, as far as he knew. An entire battalion seemed excessive, even to him.
“I’m tired,” he said, not wanting to think about it. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I think I’ll retire.”
Michael sighed and nodded, getting to his feet when Stefn did. “I’ll walk up with you. Dawn always comes so absurdly early.”
The din hit Stefn full force as he followed Michael out of the parlor. Everywhere he looked in the smoky, cavernous room were Hunter uniforms, green and gold. Inn servants fought their way through the crowd, carrying pitchers of ale and big bowls heaped high with salty fried pork rinds. A noisy crash and the sound of shattering glass came from somewhere amid the jostling throng, following by boisterous laughter. Nearby, a soldier reeled drunkenly into another patron, who swore and pushed him back.
Stefn felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck, disliking the sense of drunken aggression all around him. He saw immediately when the men noticed the h’nar in their midst, tall and pale and fearless. The silence spread outward until the only sounds were their footsteps as they crossed the interminable distance to the stairs. Muttering began behind them.
Almost there.
“Hold on, taint!” The voice came from behind, angry and imperious.
Michael didn’t even pause, but neither did he hurry. Stefn, stomach in knots, could only try to emulate him and hope they reached safety. The ugliness at his back was palpable, familiar. Hatred, loathing, and fear, all wrapped into one seething mass of ill-will. Even if it wasn’t directed at him for a change, Stefn could feel it pushing at him, urging him to run and hide.
“I said hold!”
Something whooshed past Stefn’s cheek. Too fast to see clearly, Michael’s arm swung up and he seemed to snatch it out of mid-air. An empty mug. There was a ripple of gasps and everywhere men made the sign against evil.
“Witch!”
Two Hunters broke from the bystanders. Officers they were, by their stars, and not so drunk as their fellows.
“I knew it!” declared one, a captain. “A taint and a witch! You have some bloody nerve coming in here!”
Agreement rumbled throughout the onlookers.
“Witchcraft’s against the law, even here in the West,” the officer continued. He reached to his hip, but the inn’s rules prohibited weapons in the common room.
His companion looked around and shouted, “Innkeeper! Ho, you fool! Where are you?!”
The landlord appeared, apprehensive. “Sir?”
“What sort of establishment is this, man? Serving taints? Have you not been heeding the counsel of the Church? It’s an insult!” He turned toward a table at which only two men sat. They, too, were Hunters, but Stefn saw the differences in their uniforms at once: red braid with the gold, and the green so dark as to be almost black. Their swords leaned against their chairs, within easy reach, in spite of the tavern’s rules. One of the officers wore a large, ornate medallion around his neck. Stefn felt a tiny, superstitious chill run up his spine as he recognized the red braid: Dragons of Loth!
“B-but, it’s Lord Arranz, grandson of the Duke of Blackmarsh!” the innkeeper babbled. “Blessed by St. Aramis himself.”
The officer’s reply never came. One of the Dragons suddenly rose and utter silence fell over the room.
“Who cares?” the Dragon drawled. “A taint’s a taint — an affront to Loth unless in Penitent’s garb. And witchcraft is a sin, no matter how blue the witch’s blood.” He reached down, taking up his sword. Of course, no one would dare order a Dragon to set his blade aside! The rattle of steel was ominously loud as he drew it from its sheath.
Throughout the common room, the gathered Hunters started up an ugly muttering.
“My lords!” The innkeeper was near panic. “No fighting, please.”
Michael looked the Dragon up and down, then shrugged and turned his back, continuing toward the stairs. Stefn remained rooted to the floor; a shocked hush all around. The Dragon’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tightening into a hard, angry line. He lifted his blade, pointing it at Michael’s back.
“Michael!”
Even as Stefn cried out, the sword flew, straight as an arrow, across the empty space, its blade sparking with lothrian fire. Michael seemed scarcely to move, yet somehow, the sword missed him, flashing past to bury itself in the rough, wooden post beside the stairs.
Michael stared at it, as if surprised, then stepped forward and wrested it from the post. He turned, facing the knightmage. The Dragon stared back at him, surprise and chagrin bringing a flush to his face. His lips moved. The other Dragon, still seated, looked at his companion, eyebrows drawing together. Stefn felt a shiver across his skin and knew Words had been spoken.
But Michael seemed oblivious. He examined the blade with apparent curiosity, hefting it and giving a few, experimental thrusts and parries. Then, unhurried, he walked back across the room, the crowd backing hastily away, to stop at the Dragons’ table. At once, the second Dragon was on his feet, his own sword in hand. Michael, however, only smiled. “Not a superior blade,” he remarked in a clear, carrying voice. Then, without seeming to expend any effort, he drove the point into the floor. He said something else, too softly for anyone but the two soldiers to hear. Once again, he turned his back and headed for the stairs. As he passed Stefn, he said quietly, “We’re leaving.”
Stefn realized his hands were clenched. Deliberately, he opened them and followed Michael up the stairs. Once out of sight of the common room, Michael started running, taking the stairs two at a time. Behind them, an angry roar was raised.
“Get your things and meet me at the back stairs,” Mic
hael said when the reached the second-floor landing. “Hurry!”
Stefn needed no such advice. He rushed to his room, snatching up his bags. His heart pounded as he dashed back out into the corridor. The shouting was louder, accompanied by the sound of boots on the stairs.
Michael was already at the servants’ stairs, his sword drawn. “Here!” He tossed something to Stefn, who nearly missed catching it. “Do you know how to handle one of these?”
It was a short sword in a wooden sheath. Usually, Michael kept it tied to his saddle. Stefn’s hand closed around the hilt, drawing it halfway out. The blade gleamed in the poor light of the stairwell. He shoved it back in and nodded.
They reached the bottom of the stairs as the noise grew behind them. Racing across the courtyard toward the stables, Stefn risked a glance over his shoulder. His heart jumped into his throat. Hunters swarmed around the corners of the inn and the night rang with their shouts and curses.
Reaching the stables, Stefn felt the strange tingling of magic again. Michael swore, the stable doors refusing to open. He whispered something as Stefn fell against the stable wall, pulling out the shortsword and staring in horror at the approaching soldiers. The door burst open and the shouts of their pursuers rose in outrage.
“I hope your equestrian skills are up to riding bareback,” Michael shouted. “Grab the best horse you can find!”
Stefn wasted no time. He found a sturdy gelding and threw himself onto its back. The stable door was closed again, shaking under the Hunters’ assault. Michael, lips moving ceaselessly, guided his animal down the narrow aisle to the back of the building. He raised a hand. Sparks outlined his fingers. There was a hideous cracking, splintering sound, and the wooden wall before them gave way. Leaping onto the animal’s back, Michael was through, bent low over the horse’s neck.
Stefn galloped after him while, behind them, there was a loud whoosh and a roar. Clinging to the gelding’s mane, he looked back and saw, to his horror, the stable was engulfed in flames!
“This way!” shouted Michael, leaving the road. Plunging through a ditch and up the other side, they rode into a sparsely wooded stretch of empty land. Without warning, Stefn’s horse suddenly stopped, shuddering, then reared wildly. The world tilted and Stefn lost his seat, flying off and landing hard on the ground.
Michael swore. All around them, the tall weeds bent and twisted as if strong winds came from all directions. Stefn scrambled to his feet, breathless, and tried to reach his horse, but it was dancing and tossing its head, eyes rolling in paroxysms of terror.
Stefn’s stomach churned and he collapsed to his knees, ears ringing as k’na fought lothria. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Silence fell. His horse settled down a bit, still skittish, but no longer behaving as if it had gone mad.
Michael, grim-faced, whispered Words ceaselessly, beckoning for Stefn to mount up again. Warily, Stefn approached his horse. To his relief, it allowed him back on.
“Go ahead,” Michael said hoarsely. His hands gripped his horse’s mane. “I’ll follow.”
Stefn nodded and rode past him, going deeper into the woods. He was soon lost, of course. He looked around and saw Michael still behind him, eyes half-closed, whispering.
“Michael?”
He had to repeat himself before Michael straightened, blinking at him in a bemused way. The h’nar looked around. “Where are we?”
Stefn just shook his head, too tired and shaken to answer. They had been surrounded by trees for some time now. Nothing looked familiar, not that it would have anyway.
“Are they still after us?” he asked.
“No.”
Michael dismounted, slumping onto a fallen, moss-covered tree, and dropped his head into his hands. Moonlight fell through branches left half-bare from autumn’s falling leaves. The night air was filled with the sound of night creatures going about their business.
Stefn got down from his horse and made his way unsteadily to Michael’s side.
Michael lifted his head. His eyes, lost in deep shadow, were unreadable. Then he turned away. “I should have worn my hood.”
“Does that happen often?” Stefn asked.
“Not here in the west. At least, it hasn’t. In the east, of course, it’s a different story, what with Zelenov busy poisoning all their neighbors.” Stefn heard the bitterness.
“Why didn’t you stay?” asked Michael finally. “They would have happily offered you protection.”
“I don’t know.”
Another silence fell, stretching out between them. It was not uncomfortable, however. Stefn yawned.
“How do you feel about sleeping under the stars tonight?” asked Michael, looking up through the branches into the cloudless sky. It was cool; Stefn was glad for his coat, but the temperature was not unbearable.
“I don’t mind.”
They broke off some low-hanging branches from a nearby pine, making a rough bed by the fallen tree. When Michael lay down, curling up on one side of it, Stefn didn’t hesitate to nestle up beside him. He felt Michael stiffen, then relax. The h’nar rolled over, gathering Stefn up in his arms.
It was absurd how safe Stefn felt, wrapped in that embrace, how deliciously warm and snug. Michael’s breath stirred his hair and Stefn thought he felt lips brushing the top of his head. Probably, he thought tiredly, he just imagined it, but it was an unexpectedly pleasant flight of fancy and he held it close to his heart as he fell soundly and dreamlessly to sleep.
They continued their journey south using back roads. Michael kept his hood up and let Stefn deal with the innkeepers and tavern-masters along the way. They heard nothing about the matter back in Fornsby, although a great deal of talk was overheard concerning the influx of Hunters. Not much of what they heard was positive.
Their visit to Blackmarsh House was brief. The Demon Duke was not there. Stefn was relieved to hear it, but Michael seemed displeased. Before they’d even taken the time to clean off the dirt from the road, he vanished with his half-brother and wasn’t seen again for hours.
That allowed Stefn to become reacquainted with the lively Miss Anne, who greeted his offering of novels with an ecstatic cry.
“I should like to write a lady’s novel,” she confessed. “There just aren’t enough of them, don’t you think? I know it’s very shallow of me, but I find more respectable literature so dreadfully boring! The stories plod along so!”
Stefn was given his old room. Marin, who had gone on before them, was there to fill him in on the household gossip. “Seems the Duke hasn’t been around much, milord. And he won’t say where’s he’s been, neither. Just comes in, sleeps, eats, dashes off a couple of letters, and goes again. Poor Captain Arranz does what he can, Loth knows Lord Phillip is no help, but there’s a lot to do to manage such a large parish. Since Lord Michael left here last time, they’ve stopped several Hunter patrols from Creighton who ‘accidentally’ wandered onto parish land.”
Stefn’s bedroom door was no longer locked, but he was in no hurry to leave his room. The thought of accidentally meeting the duke turned his stomach to knots. He did expect to see Michael eventually, but although he sat up late with a book, Michael didn’t appear and Stefn finally fell asleep in his chair.
In the morning, Marin brought him an invitation from Miss Anne to join the family in the breakfast room. He was sitting at the table with her, discussing the trials of her favorite heroine, when Michael finally appeared.
Anne promptly bounced up to give him a hug. He returned it before making a straight line to the sideboard. “Don’t let me disturb you,” he said over his shoulder. “Continue with Lady Giselda’s tribulations, by all means.”
She tossed her head and sat back down, pouring herself another cup of t’cha. “Why should we when it’s quite obvious you think it’s silly and will poke fun.”
Stefn grinned. Michael rolled his eyes, coming to the table with a well-laden breakfast plate. He pulled out the chair beside Stefn and sat down, asking his sister, “Is that a
new gown, poppet?”
She sparkled at him across the table. “It is! I ordered it from Miss Chesney’s in Lothmont! There was more than enough in the allowance you gave me.” Her expression grew hopeful. “Did you bring more money?”
“Not as much, alas.” Michael smiled apologetically at her little moue of disappointment. “We’re on our way to Withwillow again. I only stopped by to speak to grandfather. Since he’s not here, we should leave right away.”
“Of course you must,” she huffed.
“Severyn’s orders.”
Michael was true to his word. By noon, they were on the road again. Disinclined to talk, Michael rode ahead, staring grimly forward as they crossed the causeway and trotted out onto the road to Withwillow. Stefn let him be, enjoying the mild afternoon and the scenery.
In the peat fields, farmers were still harvesting, driving their cutter-plows back and forth across the spongy black earth, removing hefty squares to be dried and, later, portioned into smaller blocks for sale in the markets.
In the weeks since Stefn had last been this way, autumn had come in earnest. The tall grasses had turned gold, crimson and brown. As the vegetation faded, more open water was visible in the marsh. From what Stefn had read, most of the north marsh would freeze in the winter, but further south where it joined the delta, the deep, powerful currents kept the ice at bay.
The sun shone brightly and a southerly breeze chased the puffy clouds northwards. Michael finally relaxed and recovered his good humor. At the inn that night, they got into a lively debate over the idea of a Peasant’s Council, an idea advanced by Michael before and one greeted with open disbelief by his friends.
“Every political thinker I’ve ever read has rejected the notion!” Stefn insisted over roast fowl and heaps of fried potatoes. “If power is put into the hands of the uneducated, disaster will result.”
“You need to widen your repertoire of political thinkers, then. How about Gracey?”
