by Becca Abbott
He’d seen the Archbishop only once before and from a distance, in Lothmont the night of Michael’s aborted marriage ceremony. Up close, Mazril Locke was younger than Stefn had thought, gauntly handsome and well-built. Stefn recalled he was a Dragon as well as the highest ranking priest in Tanyrin. At the moment, however, he was dressed as the priest in a long, dark-green robe with a gold over-robe and elaborate jeweled neck-piece. His smile was unexpectedly charming.
“Lord Stefn. We meet at last!” Locke came forward, holding out his hand. Stefn had little choice but to take it and kiss the great emerald ring there. The Archbishop’s hand tightened slightly, then quickly withdrew. He turned to Auron, who repeated the salute. “And it’s good to see you again, Lord Challory.”
Locke took a seat, his attending mages doing likewise. Auron settled onto the sofa next to Stefn. The Hunters remained standing, sharp-eyed and alert.
Hair lifting on the back of his neck, Stefn struggled to keep his composure. “It is an honor for Shia to host the Archbishop of Tanyrin,” he said. “What brings you and your attendants to my poor parish?”
“A visit to Shia was long overdue.” Locke settled back in the chair, looking around approvingly. “Indeed, your people have always governed the parish so well, I’m afraid we on the Celestial Council took Shia for granted. When my aides consulted the records, we realized it has been nearly seventy years since we’ve included Shia in our Northern Tour. I do hope my visit has not inconvenienced you, my lord?”
Stefn was seized by the realization that the Archbishop sat where his father had died. “O-of course not, Your Eminence.”
The archbishop looked around the Hall, the sparkling chandeliers, the polished flagstones. “I understand you have Prince Severyn to thank for much of Shia’s recent good fortune,” he said.
“His Highness has been very generous.”
“The villages look to be in excellent condition, given the circumstances. I can see where all Severyn’s funds have been going lately. Also, Abbot Drummond was full of praise for your invaluable assistance during the flood.”
Stefn could imagine. He smiled weakly. “Caring for the people of Shia is the Eldering’s duty.”
“For their bodies, indeed so.” Locke bent his disconcerting smile on Stefn. “Just as the Church must care for their souls.”
The refreshments arrived, saving Stefn from having to respond. Over t’cha and sandwiches, the conversation turned to more innocuous subjects: the weather, books, and Society. Stefn had little to contribute to the last, having never been to any court, High or Low. He listened, trying to follow all the different names and titles.
“You must come to Lothmont and present yourself formally to His Majesty,” said the Archbishop. “Now that we’ve met, I can see the stories I’ve heard of you are greatly exaggerated.”
“S-stories, Your Eminence?”
“To be frank, my lord, I had expected to find you sickly and with a limp. Oddly enough, your birth was recorded in Zelenov as being Marked as a sin-catcher, yet, if you’ll forgive my presumption, you’re a man of considerable beauty.”
“I was ill frequently as a child,” said Stefn, disconcerted to hear himself so described. “And I was born with an extra toe. If that makes me a sin-catcher, then yes, I am.”
The Archbishop’s smile turned sympathetic. “Is that so? How unfortunate. Still, it seems a very small thing. Given the string of terrible events here, perhaps Loth’s rage has been assuaged.”
“I pray it’s so, Your Eminence, for the sake of Shia’s people.” Stefn searched desperately for a way to gracefully change the subject. Auron came to his rescue, commenting on the improvements made to the castle with Lothlain’s benevolence.
Stefn was on easier ground as the proud host. He led his guests on a tour of the house, displaying its numerous updates and receiving the polite exclamations of surprise and admiration along the way. When he opened the door to the north wing, the astonishment of his unnerving guests became real.
“Moonstone!” The Archbishop stood just inside the door, running his hand over the smooth, lustrous stone. “How unexpected! I’d not realized the house was so old.” But he sounded vaguely displeased and said nothing more until they reached the library.
“Spectacular,” he said hollowly, looking around at the rows of restored mahogany bookshelves, the soaring stained glass windows and, sharply, at the once-secret room, its iron door now standing open. “What’s this?”
They had come up with a story, he and Auron. Stefn let it spill glibly off his tongue. “We found it when we stripped off the old paneling. My father had an old medallion he wore constantly. The medallion turned out to be the key, of all things.”
“How very interesting,” said the Archbishop. He walked forward and peered in. Stefn knew what he’d find: a reading table and chairs, comfortable rug and a bookshelf filled with books they’d grabbed at random from the stacks outside. “Is this how you found it?”
“Oh, no. It was dirty and dusty and there were a few things, some old paintings, some vases, a bit of jewelry stored inside.” Stefn shrugged. “A lot of excitement for nothing, I’m afraid.”
“I see. What a shame. I don’t suppose you found anything of religious value?”
Stefn felt the apprehensive prickling up his spine. “No, Your Eminence.”
“I ask because there is some record in Zelenov of the Elderings being given custody of a rare, pre-Reformation relic.”
Stefn shook his head, the prickling turning sharp and cold. “I’m afraid not, Your Eminence.”
“Your father never mentioned such a thing to you?”
“My father did not expect that I would inherit,” Stefn replied.
Locke acknowledged the truth of that with a disappointed grimace. “Perhaps you know of some other place: a safe, perhaps? A hidey-hole in the walls or floorboards?”
Stefn dutifully reported the presence of the priests’ hole where he had hidden so unsuccessfully from Michael — it seemed like an eternity ago. At Locke’s request, he escorted them to it, demonstrating the door mechanism and showing them the shadowy, rune-etched interior; runes he knew were useless.
“What is this relic?” Stefn asked while the mages prowled around the cramped interior.
“The records are not clear,” replied the Archbishop. “Only that it is from before the Reformation and of great spiritual value to all of Tanyrin. A statue, perhaps? A book? A piece of St. Aramis’ personal belongings? I’m sure we would know should we find it.”
“You are welcome to look throughout the castle,” said Stefn honestly. “I will be happy to lend you whatever assistance I may.”
The Archbishop smiled and set his hand on Stefn’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lord Eldering. I expected nothing less from the son of Lord William, our brother and loyal servant. I admit, reports I’d received from the abbot gave me cause for some concern, but now that we’ve met and talked, I see Drummond worries unnecessarily.”
“Report?” Stefn did his best imitation of Lord Arranz, lifting an eyebrow and adopting an expression of mild amusement. Auron, standing immediately behind the archbishop, rolled his eyes. Stefn looked away, afraid he’d burst into nervous laughter.
“You’d forbidden the housing of Penitents on Shian soil.”
Stefn struggled to keep his mind on the dangerous matter before him. “Shia has never permitted it.”
The two mages had finished their examination of the hidey-hole. They came out into the corridor, shaking their heads.
“Drummond is under the apprehension that you will permit h’nara to settle freely in the parish.”
Auron snorted derisively. “As if he would do such a thing, eh, Eldering?”
“The grandson of the Duke of Blackmarsh was a guest here recently, was he not?”
“Lord Michael is a close friend of His Highness,” replied Stefn stiffly. “I would never presume to criticize the Crown Prince’s associations.”
“Ah, so that’s how it is. I
suspected as much.”
The archbishop’s manner continued to warm. When Auron, damn him, blithely suggested Lord Locke remove from the abbey to the undoubtedly more comfortable surroundings of Castle Shia, the archbishop was delighted to accept.
“Are you mad?” hissed Stefn as soon as he got the idiot alone.
“What are you afraid of?” Auron whispered back. “There’s nothing here for him to find. Relax and play the gracious host.”
“But all the troops, what about them?”
“Are easily explained away. After all, Shia originally accommodated a thousand men.”
“During the war!”
“True, but think on this. The Celestials likely know to a man the number of troops in western Tanyrin. The Office of the Exchequer is overseen by clerics, after all. If they imagine so many of those troops are here, they’re likely to underestimate how many are still in the south.”
“What of the servants?”
“Are handpicked by Severyn. Honestly, you worry too much!”
Lord Locke proved to be a pleasant guest and didn’t disdain to have lively, intellectual debates with his hosts. Stefn could not relax, however. He was acutely aware that while he and Auron entertained the archbishop, the mages made their way systematically through the castle, looking for what he suspected was the true second Chronicle. Still, many of the questions they asked had little to do with missing relics.
“They wanted to know about Lord Michael, m’lord, and how many guardsmen are stationed here,” reported Hanson, adding confidently, “Don’t you worry, sir. We know how to handle the likes of them!”
Sure enough, within a few days, Lord Locke pronounced himself disappointed, but satisfied that the artifact he sought was not in the castle.
“Perhaps it was stolen long ago,” Auron suggested, “and no one dared to report it.”
“More likely one of my illustrious ancestors found and sold it,” Stefn replied lightly. “It’s expensive to maintain a garrison of fighters on such unproductive land. I look forward to the day when keeping a dedicated security force will no longer be necessary.”
“Yet, if you would only permit Penitents in Shia, you would be able to do precisely that, my lord.” Locke tipped his wine glass toward Stefn to make his point. “The Penitents would naturally be accompanied by Hunter troops. Being the host parish, you would benefit from these troops’ presence at well, and none of it at your expense.”
“I will discuss your proposal with His Highness,” said Stefn, having no intention of allowing any such arrangement, “and be guided by his advice.”
It was not the answer Locke wanted, but he put a good face on it, turning the conversation to the subject of antiquities. History was a subject where he and Stefn had a mutual interest, so the remainder of the evening was spent harmlessly enough.
In the morning, he and his companions said their goodbyes. “We’ll return to the abbey long enough to speak with Drummond. Then it is back to Zelenov. I hope you may find the time to visit us some day, Lord Eldering. I think you would be as impressed with Zelenov’s libraries as with Withwillow’s.”
Stefn was interested, in spite of himself. He hoped the Archbishop wouldn’t be too upset with Severyn as a king.
No sooner had they departed than Auron turned and headed back into the house. “I need a drink,” he announced.
“It’s not yet eight o’clock!”
“These have been the most nerve-shattering three days of my life.” Auron made straight for the parlor where he poured himself a stiff whiskey. “Want one?”
It was pointless to answer; Stefn found himself with a full tumbler. He watched Auron toss his off.
“I felt like a mouse under the nose of a hungry cat!”
“I was terrified, too,” admitted Stefn. “I didn’t know what to say to him. When he asked for the relic, I thought my heart would stop.”
“Actually,” Auron said, “I suspect the relic business was a ruse, an excuse to stay here for a few days and live off your excellent hospitality. Still, it would be prudent to assume the Celestials are suspicious of something out here. That group of spies you flushed out awhile ago was proof enough of that! We’ll have to be doubly careful from now on.”
Michael found the duke and his men thirty miles from the Shian parish border, camped in the hills. Lord Damon received his news without too much concern. “I’m surprised Locke or another of his ilk didn’t go to investigate sooner,” he said. “Thank Loth Severyn wasn’t there and that you had the presence of mind to leave, especially after that ill-considered disaster in Lothmont.”
“Heard about that, did you?”
The duke gave his grandson a sour look. “I could hardly have missed it. There were damned clerics piled up at the end of the causeway for weeks, looking for you! I was actually tempted to let some of them in to look around!”
“You didn’t?”
“Of course not. Still, there will be some consequence of that. What happened, anyway? I didn’t give you those spells to simply fling them about at whim.”
Michael gritted his teeth on his first response. Instead, in measured tones, he recounted the entire situation. When he was finished, the duke rose from his camp-chair and paced his tent’s small interior.
“Union with a woman destroys naragi powers?” He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Both you and father had witch-powers once. You don’t now.”
“It’s not uncommon to grow out of them after adolescence…”
“Who says so?”
“I know dozens of men well past their youth who still have their powers and who are long and faithfully married.”
“Yet there are those who lost theirs, like you. Alan Forge? William Morris? And like you, they were men whose powers were considered exceptional.”
The duke collapsed back into his camp-chair, hands gripping the carved wooden arms. He frowned into space. “That’s true,” he admitted finally. “Perhaps it’s best that you continue to avoid women. Return to Blackmarsh. You’ll be safe there.”
“Not without Stefn.”
His grandfather looked up sharply. “Nonsense. There are others of the Blood, even some among the marshlanders, I wager.”
“You forget: Stefn and I are Bonded. Even I didn’t realize what that meant until I availed myself of Remy. I need Stefn Eldering.”
The duke wasn’t pleased to hear it, but neither did he argue. Instead, he turned the subject to matters of troops and plans. Michael, knowing his grandfather, was not reassured. When Lord Damon made up his mind about something, there was very little that could sway his opinion.
After four days of waiting, one of the duke’s men, a marshlander, returned with the information that the Archbishop and his party had withdrawn from the castle and were now on their way south. The duke broke up his troops, sending them north in small patrols at night. Michael went with one group, arriving at the castle near dawn. He left his men with Lake and immediately sought his bed, not waking until well past noon.
Stefn greeted his return with a flurry of complaints, most having to do with being placed in such an untenable position. “You were able to hide and avoid it all!” he accused. “Auron and I lived on tenterhooks for three days!”
“And yet here you are, still whole and healthy.” Michael winked at Auron, which naturally irritated Stefn all the more.
“I think Locke was quite taken with our earl,” Auron said wickedly. “They share an interest in the old and moldy.”
“Is that so?” It was Michael’s turn to be irritated.
The next day, Michael woke to the wind rattling his windows. Expecting to see storm clouds, he pulled back the drapes to reveal a pristine, blue sky. Over the battlements, however, the flags whipped and snapped.
Stefn was up, having t’cha and toast in the breakfast room.
“Is that a demon wind blowing?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Stefn said without looking up.
A
servant appeared, pouring Michael some t’cha, and withdrew. Michael took a sip, his appreciative gaze resting on Stefn’s fine features, the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck.
“Then we should expect more rain?”
Marking his place, Stefn lifted his eyes to Michael. “In the spring and summer, demon winds usually just raise a lot of dust and knock things down. Lately, of course, that hasn’t been the case, but today looks like it might be more in the usual style.”
“Where’s Auron?”
“Out overseeing maneuvers. More of your grandfather’s troops arrived last night.”
“And grandfather?”
Stefn shook his head, carefully expressionless. “The men brought word he will not be coming, after all, but is going east to Tantagrel. He fears having two Arranzes here might attract too much attention.
“Ah,” Michael said, just as straight-faced. “What a shame.”
He struggled not to laugh when Stefn sheepishly grinned.
With everything in a state of heightened alert, Michael confined himself to the house to avoid attracting attention. Each day, he joined Stefn in the north tower. While Stefn read, Michael concentrated on refining his powers of k’na. Seated at the window, he rested his arms on the sill, and with the sun warm on his face, practiced turning his vision inward, seeking human and h’naran life patterns in the limitless beyond. With fatigue no longer a concern, he discovered it was possible to extend the range and duration of his gaze. Distant life patterns, once indistinct blurs, now came sharply into focus.
“What are you doing?” asked Stefn one afternoon. “For the past few days, you’ve done nothing but stare out the window.”
“Just thinking,” replied Michael. A fear of seeing dread spring up in Stefn’s eyes kept Michael from telling Stefn the truth. “I’m bored,” he added. “Almost bored enough to read one of your ladies’ novels.”
“They aren’t my ladies novels. The only reason I read them is because I’d read everything else! Now, fortunately, I have these.” Stefn waved toward a small pile of grubby books, the largesse from his private book fair. “Although I admit, Lady Bethany’s adventures are much more exciting.”
