by Becca Abbott
Michael had more luck. “Mine has plans,” he said, handing it across their soup course to Stefn. “I don’t know what good they will do us. There are some oddly shaped parts.”
Stefn helped himself to another dinner roll and studied the sketches. The objects they depicted were familiar. Munching absently, he turned a page. As he did, he recalled where he had seen such things.
“The cellars!” he mumbled through a mouthful of roll. “I’ve seen this in Shia’s cellars!” He stabbed a finger at the etching of a long, cylindrical object. “It was really old and rusty. I haven’t been down there for years, but unless Lothlain has been clearing things out down there, too… ”
“I don’t think he’s touched the cellars. Are you sure? You’ve seen this exact thing?”
Stefn nodded. “I’ve seen that piece, too. And this one!” He turned the page, excitement rising. “It has to be very old, pre-Reformation, according to this book, but if I’m right, there’s at least part of a printing press at Shia!”
Stefn and Michael left Withwillow the next day. This time the weather held, making the ride considerably more pleasurable than the trip south. Michael seemed in no particular hurry. He was quite willing to delay here and there to visit some place of historical interest or admire scenery. They broke their journey early each evening, their leisurely suppers made twice as enjoyable by lively conversation. If Stefn found his bed lonely afterwards, he refused to admit it.
As they approached the northern highlands, it grew noticeably colder. Since Fornsby was too risky, Michael hired a carriage in nearby Granville. “I’ll not arrive at Shia with frostbite,” he declared.
Stefn sniffed. “This isn’t cold,” he sneered. “You won’t last a month in Shia once proper winter is here.”
Privately, however, he was more than happy to abandon the cold, windy saddle for the comfortable, leather-upholstered cab. Furs and thick quilts were piled high on the seats and the innkeeper had hot bricks brought out to keep their feet warm. Michael joined him a few minutes later, complaining about the cold and blowing on his hands.
“Gloves,” suggested Stefn.
Marin slammed the door, leaving them in darkness. Almost at once, the carriage lurched forward, pitching him onto his seat.
“I can think of a good way to warm up.” In the cab’s gloom, Michael’s voice was deep and teasing.
“Do all h’nara have such beast-like natures, or is it a special quality of the naragi?” But Stefn’s heart sped up and he was glad of the dark.
“I don’t know. Very little knowledge has survived, even among us. The naragi were said to have many secret rituals and spells, but all that’s survived is legend and the handful of high spells my grandfather gave me.”
“Liar.”
“Do you think I would have gone through the Bonding if I’d known beforehand what would happen?” Witchlight appeared, the small glowing orb dancing indignantly above Michael’s shoulder. “It was hardly a pleasure for me, either!”
They glared at each other. Then Michael sighed, collapsing back above the seat. The witchlight winked out, but morning light filtered in, lightening the gloom. The h’nar turned his head, looking out the window. Stefn wanted to show equal indifference, but he could not help being acutely aware of the other man. He finally stole another glance, but Michael didn’t look around. Instead, he seemed to have dropped off into a doze, head fallen to one side. Wrapped in a padded, dark blue quilt, he breathed deeply and evenly. Abandoning all pretense, Stefn studied him.
What if it was true? What if Michael had meant what he said about their being friends? He seemed to enjoy Stefn’s company, but would it be true if they had not been thrown together in such a way? Michael Arranz enjoyed the affection and loyalty of men whose birth and character Stefn had learned to admire. Even the Crown Prince of Tanyrin held Michael in esteem! Who was Stefn, compared to them? The younger son of barbaric hedge-lord and a sin-catcher, that’s who!
Stefn remembered the look on Prince Severyn’s face the morning he and Michael had ridden out of Shia. He squirmed at the memory. That had been jealousy! More than friendship had looked out of the prince’s handsome face, maybe even more than the love of a brother.
Michael stirred, murmuring something. Stefn looked away, not wanting to be caught staring, but Michael was quickly still again. His eyelashes were long and darker than one would expect from one with such pale coloring. They fluttered now and then as, beneath the lids, his eyes chased dreams. Occasionally, his lips moved, but no sound reached Stefn.
It’s possible to love such a man.
The fur slipped from Michael’s shoulder. Stefn got up and tucked it back, only to have Michael wake and, with frightening speed, seize his wrist in a painful grip.
“Y-your blanket,” stammered Stefn. “I was just… ”
The coachman chose that moment to drive over an especially large rut and Stefn lost his balance, tumbling into Michael’s arms. They closed around him tightly. “Careful,” Michael whispered against his cheek. “This vehicle isn’t particularly well-sprung.”
“So I see.” Stefn tried feebly to extricate himself, but Michael’s embrace only tightened. His lips brushed along the line of Stefn’s jaw. “Be still,” he breathed.
It was too late to resist. Stefn knew it with a sudden, overwhelming rush of heat. Even as he tried to form the words of protest, he arched his neck, offering more of it to Michael’s caress. Of its own accord, it seemed, his body shifted until he was astride Michael on the seat. All thoughts of resistance vanished. The coach jolted again, pushing them closer together.
Michael groaned, pulling Stefn hard against him. “Do you really expect me to push you away?” he whispered, mouth against Stefn’s ear.
Stefn was beyond speech. He met Michael’s kisses eagerly, shifting about until he felt Michael’s strong, warm hand pressed against his erection. Then nothing else mattered. There were only the two of them, oblivious to the world, mouths seeking each other’s in a frantic coupling, their hands moving in swift, fevered rhythm.
Afterwards, when Stefn could think again, he tried to summon indignation. “I told you not to do that.”
Michael’s response was a low chuckle. He finished buttoning up his overcoat, which has been opened during their fumbling romp. In the dim light of the coach, his hair seemed to glow like moonlight. Reaching over, he took hold of Stefn’s lapels and pulled him over. Without a by-your-leave, he kissed Stefn’s swollen lips, gently, taking his time. When he released Stefn at last, the earl was dizzy.
“Bastard,” whispered Stefn, tingling from his lips to his toes. He looked flushed and excited, wanton and needy.
So Michael kissed him again.
Michael and Stefn reached Shia ahead of another demon wind.
“Winter,” Stefn announced with unholy satisfaction as they ran from the carriage into the keep. “I hope you know what you’re in for. The early storm we had last month was just a taste. These winds will come more frequently now.”
Michael returned a sour look, peeling off his outer garments and handing them over to a maid. He was chilled to the bone. Since leaving Fornsby, the temperature had plunged, turning wet roads icy, the strong northern winds slowing their progress. Even the abundance of blankets and furs in their carriage hadn’t done much to keep him warm.
Blowing on his numb hands, he went straight for the parlor where, as he’d suspected, a good fire was laid and Auron was stretched out on the sofa, napping.
“Hard at work, I see,” Michael said, dropping a nearby cushion onto his friend’s face. Auron sat up straight, sputtering. He blinked at Michael, then at Stefn.
“Nng,” he replied. “It’s about time you got back! I’ve been about out of my mind with boredom.”
Michael caught sight of the decanter beside the couch. “You and Father Barley, I see. Well, holiday is over.”
“You found some plans?” Auron’s drowsy look vanished.
“We have,” Stefn declared triumphantly.
“And possibly a press,” added Michael.
It was decided they would waste no time in hunting down the press parts. After a quick supper, the three young men scattered to their respective rooms where, at Stefn’s advice, they put on their oldest clothes and donned thick gloves.
Holding lamps with flames turned high, the three gentlemen faced a narrow, creaking staircase descending into darkness. A strong draft surged up from the depths, icy cold and smelling of damp and old stone.
“I’ll direct the search from here,” Auron announced, eyeing the pit with consternation. “Mold makes me sneeze.”
“Baby,” sneered Michael, starting down the steps. “It’s a damned cellar.”
Stefn, grinning, followed him down. At the bottom, corridors ran off in all directions, low-ceilinged and narrow. An assortment of rubbish lay about. It was so cold, Michael could see his breath.
Auron was finally persuaded to join them, looking around the dreary place with a pained expression. “Dear God,” he muttered, then sneezed elaborately. “Is it safe down here?”
“There are rats,” acknowledged Stefn, eyes twinkling. “Very large ones.”
Auron gave him a sharp look. “How large?”
Michael, having already moved toward one of the corridors, stopped suddenly. “Loth save us!” he exclaimed, voice reverberating with horrified disgust. Auron responded with an undignified yelp and was up the stairs again in a flash.
Michael hooted derisively. He winked at Stefn and, moving his lamp about, asked, “Where did you see these pieces?”
With Auron calling down curses, Stefn led Michael through a dank corridor to one of many stout wooden doors. Opening it revealed a storeroom full of rotted wooden crates, some split open, their contents strewn on the already debris-covered floor.
It had the look of a garbage-heap, with every manner of unwanted thing carelessly thrown here and forgotten. Heaps of old clothing lay about. There were moldy, leather-covered trunks, dressmakers’ dummies and broken toys.
“I think it was here,” he said. His grin was gone and he seemed pale, although it might have been an effect of the lamplight. “But, it was a long time ago and I don’t remember that clearly.”
“Why ever would you come down here?” Michael asked, appalled. They would be lucky if rats were the worst of what skulked about.
Stefn opened his mouth, but hesitated. “Just fooling around,” he said finally. “It was over there.”
Locked up, were you? Michael had the sudden urge to put his arm over Stefn’s tense shoulders. Instead, he approached a pile of rusting metal.
Auron finally arrived, stolen library book in one hand, lantern in the other. He appeared physically unable to cross the threshold, but stood in the doorway while Michael and Stefn poked at the rubbish with their boots, trying to make out individual pieces in the jumble.
“There!” Stefn bent and picked up several small objects scattered at his feet. They proved to be type setting pieces. He gave them to Michael and returned to the pile. This time, he came up with the press handle, a long, curved piece covered by cracked ceramic. They picked their way carefully back to Auron and consulted the book. Michael’s spirits rose.
“There’s a press here, all right!”
Auron’s eyes lit up.
“Or part of one.” Michael was excited. He, Auron and Stefn returned to the pile and, within the space of an hour, emerged from the cellar, filthy but victorious, and lugging several great burlap sacks full of clanking metal parts. The press-stand remained in the cellar, too large and heavy for any single one of them to haul upstairs.
“We’ll need to buy ink,” Stefn said later when they were gathered in the laundry, washing off their treasures.
“And lots of paper,” added Auron.
“But not all in one place. We have to be clever about this.” Critically, Michael examined the type-piece he was cleaning, a large letter ‘A’. In a low voice, he added, “Once the Church realizes they’re dealing with an unregistered press, they’ll start hunting for other clues.”
As it turned out, several parts were missing, wooden pieces that had probably rotted away long ago. Thankfully, they were few in number and their shapes could be easily reproduced by unsuspecting local woodworkers.
Within two weeks, they had a functioning press. Late one night, after the servants were abed, the three of them dragged the heavy press frame to the north wing and set it up in an empty chamber not far from the library. There, on a table before the small fireplace, they attempted to set the type, with hilarious results. However, thanks to the instructions in their book and their own imaginations, they quickly got the hang of it and were soon printing pages of adequate neatness and uniformity.
“Now I know what I’ll do should the Challorys ever go bankrupt,” announced Auron one evening. “I’ll start a printing business and print light reading for gentlemen. The sort of thing one can peruse late at night, should one be unfortunate enough to be alone in his bed.”
Stefn choked, oversetting his type-case and sending the pieces everywhere.
Michael admitted to himself he should go back to his own room. As much as he had come to enjoy Stefn’s company, and warmth, in bed, he owed his long-suffering cethe the chance for some privacy.
Stefn greeted his announcement with unexpected ambivalence. “Really? You’re moving back? Are you sure?”
Michael’s heart lifted slightly. “Are you asking me to stay?”
That was a bit too direct. Stefn looked away. “Do whatever you want,” he replied. “You will anyway.”
Michael took his things and retreated to his room. It was perfectly all right, he told himself, looking around at the fine furnishings, the heavy velvet draperies and not one, but two stoves, each occupying one end of the large chamber. Neither was lit, but he didn’t bother calling a servant. Lighting the one nearest his bed, he crawled beneath his covers and fell asleep within sight of its comforting red glow.
A nightmare woke him in the middle of the night, sweating and terrified. He was out of bed and tying on his dressing gown before he realized what he was doing. Heart pounding, mouth dry, he struggled to remember the dream, but the details slipped away. It had been about Stefn; that much he remembered. After a moment of internal argument, he lit a lamp and went downstairs. Knocking softly at Stefn’s door, he waited, but there was no sound from within. Carefully, he lifted the latch and peeked inside.
A lamp still burned on Stefn’s reading table, giving enough light for Michael to see the bed in the next room with its lump of blankets. When the lump remained motionless, Michael let himself all the way in, padding silently to the bedside. Stefn slept, oblivious, curled up on the side he’d occupied when they’d shared it.
Perhaps he sensed Michael’s presence. He murmured and shifted in his sleep, opening his eyes. Michael held his breath, going perfectly still.
“Nnnng. What’s t’matter? Get back into bed. ‘S cold.” Then Stefn flopped around onto his side and was still again, breathing regular and deep.
Michael almost did it, almost accepted an invitation he knew Stefn would never remember giving in the morning. “Pleasant dreams,” he whispered instead and went back to his room.
He slept late, waking only when a pounding on his door became too annoying to ignore. “Come in!” he shouted hoarsely, sitting up.
“Are you dead?” Auron asked, poking Michael’s head. “You’d better get up. Your grandfather’s just arrived and he’s pacing the study. Something’s got him in a foul mood.”
That woke Michael completely. He vaulted out of bed and stumbled to his dresser. He didn’t bother to call Marin, but dressed hastily and went straight to the study.
The duke was no longer pacing, but even seated on the sofa across from a nervous Auron, his posture conveyed impatience. They both looked around when Michael came in. Lord Damon rose. “It’s about damned time!”
“What’s wrong? Is everyone all right at home?”
“T
hey’re fine. It’s you we need to worry about, damn the timing.” Lord Damon reached into his jacket and brought out a crumpled envelope. Michael took it and was jolted by the sight of the Church insignia at the corner.
A sinking feeling made him loathe to open it, but he did so anyway. The letter inside was brief.
“What is it?” Auron demanded. “Mick? Your Grace?”
“It’s a summons,” replied Michael, numb with shock. He stared at his grandfather, whose grave expression was not without sympathy. “I’m to go to Lothmont at once and be wed.”
PART XVI
With the defeat of the naran armies and the signing of the armistice, King Aramis I set about forming his new government. He divided power between the Royal House of Lothlain and the Church of Loth, taking the care and protection of his subjects’ bodily needs under his authority and giving over to the Church all matters pertaining to the Immortal Soul.
from: The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume II,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1349
Severyn had four more days of Petition hearings scheduled. He’d specifically instructed his staff to approve half that number, but it seemed as if they, as well as the rest of the world, conspired to keep him nailed to the spot. As Nedby acerbically pointed out, who was to know when he might “condescend” to return to Tantagrel again?
The criticism was allowed to go unrebuked, mainly because Severyn knew the old man had the right of it. His duty was here, doing his brother’s work. These audiences were tedious, if necessary, but his heart was in Shia with his friends and their cause. Seven weeks was far too long to be away from them — from Mick.
“Who is next?” he asked a clerk when the door closed on the most recent of his Petitioners.
“You have nothing scheduled for next forty-five minutes,” replied the clerk, a hint of disapproval in his voice. “Would you care to see someone instead?”
