Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  “W-would — shall I try again?” Stefn ventured, brandishing the decanter.

  Michael started. He laughed softly. “I’ll not tempt fate,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to relieve you of your position, Eldering. I’ve changed my mind. You’re woefully unsuited to a life in service.” He stood up. “I consider tribute paid, my lord. Thank you again for a stimulating fight and… ” He paused and grinned. “ …for being a good sport.”

  Stefn set down the decanter, unable to resist returning the smile. “I lost the last one, but any time you’re ready, I’ll go again. Once I’m back in shape, we’ll see how much better you are, my lord!”

  “Have a care, Eldering,” Michael said, smile fading, voice low and intense. “The next time, you may not get off so easily.”

  Stefn caught his breath, but Michael left the room, passing Ben just outside the door as the footman returned.

  “That’s it, eh, my lord?” Ben said, coming around the table where Stefn stood, staring at the door. “Out of a job, are ye?”

  “Afraid so.” Stefn forced himself to return the servant’s grin. “It’s been very educational, Ben. You can be sure I’ll be much more appreciative of my staff’s efforts from now on.”

  “Next time, you win the sparrin’, my lord,” replied Ben, winking.

  Later, in his room, Stefn removed the borrowed uniform, putting on his dressing gown. It was the same one he’d worn to Michael’s room, the heavy satin cool on his skin.

  “The next time, you may not get off so easily.”

  The room was too warm. Stefn pushed open the window, leaning against the frame as the cool spring breeze washed past. He fingered the lethet. It was quiet now, but in the dining room, he’d been vividly aware of it.

  He imagined the armory courtyard with its high walls, and the two of them, panting and covered with sweat. The lethet vibrated, sending small shocks through him. Damn you, he thought distantly, hopelessly. Look what I’ve become!

  If he had gone to Michael, what would Michael have done? Laughed at him? Taken him on the spot? Rejected him?

  For some reason, the notion bothered Stefn. He told himself not to be stupid; Arranz’s amorous attentions were unwelcome! Athough the last of the sunset had yet to fade, he dug his night-shirt out of the wardrobe and, heart in turmoil, sought his bed.

  Morning found Stefn in a contrary mood. Everything Michael said or did in his presence seemed to set him off, triggering snide comments, rolls of his eyes or sniffs of disdain. Michael, who had been congratulating himself on his restraint and congeniality, managed to keep his temper through the morning, but by afternoon he’d had enough.

  “What is the matter with you?” he snapped. “I asked if you wanted to go for a ride, not whether you wanted to fuck!”

  For just an instant, there was an odd expression on Stefn’s face, then he sneered. “How like you to bring the conversation down to the gutter.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to have another go at me in the armory courtyard?”

  “So you can cheat again?”

  “Cheat? How did I cheat?” Nonplussed, Michael looked down at his ill-humored cethe.

  “I don’t know, but you’re a naragi, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ve figured out some way to do it.”

  Michael swore. Turning on his heel, he left Stefn staring crossly after him. Going to his room, he shoved a few things into a valise.

  It was past time he was on his way to Blackmarsh! He’d wasted far too much time in this backwater!

  He’d do as his grandfather had suggested. He’d find some willing male with the Blood, and make do. There was surely at least one other in the marshes. Stefn could have his life back, such as it was.

  Marin heard his plans with a frown of concern. “Won’t you say good bye to Lord Stefn?”

  “No. Let my absence be a welcome surprise,” retorted Michael. “Pack your things. We’re going home.”

  The big man’s face contorted in the oddest way.

  “What is it?”

  “I think I should stay with him, m’lord. Without you or any of the others here, he’s vulnerable.”

  “To what? Being lord of the manor? Don’t be ridiculous, Greg.”

  But Marin’s expression was so doleful that Michael sighed in exasperation. “All right. Stay with him, but only until one of the others returns, damn it. You still work for me! Or do you want to switch masters, too?”

  “Of course not!” Marin looked deeply offended.

  Michael banged out of the room in the blackest of humors. He rode as fast as he could out of the castle and down the southern road. As he rounded a curve to the east, he caught sight of a figure on horseback, riding hell-for-leather toward the hills. Drawing back, he frowned after it, wondering if it was Stefn. On a hunch, he reached into his saddle bag and took out his spyglass. Sure enough, it was the earl, bent low over his horse’s neck, dark hair flying in the wind. Almost, almost, Michael went after him.

  What do I care?

  Snapping the reins, he rode on.

  PART XXIV

  In the Year of Loth’s Dominion 1426, St. Aramis’ wish that the two High Houses, Lothlain and Arranz may exist for all time was codified into law by the 426th Annual Celestial Council and ratified by King Aramis I and his Royal Advisori. The Church of Loth was given the sacred responsibility of ensuring this longevity and was tasked with selecting appropriate mates for both the King and the Duke, subject to the king’s approval.

  from: Advisori Minutes,

  15 Lothkel,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1427

  The arrival of Lord Damon set Tantagrel’s highblood aflutter. Other than the indignant local priests, the handsome h’naran nobleman captivated everyone with his stunning good looks and courtly manners.

  Lord Damon was amused at the fuss. “People must be bored beyond all imagining,” he noted. “What of the Archbishop? I’ve heard he’s in Lothmont. Does he intend to stop here on his way back to Zelenov?”

  “I’ve heard nothing about it. I’m curious, however.” Severyn had been mulling the notion of presenting his hypothesis about Remy to the duke. He valued the older man’s wisdom and advice, but this seemed far-fetched, even to him. “I think the Archbishop has already visited, after a fashion.”

  “The attack upon the palace?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he was nowhere near here.”

  “He may not need to be.” Taking a deep breath, Severyn laid out his suspicions. The duke heard him out without a word. Steeling himself for objections, the prince waited.

  “You may have something,” said the duke, surprising Severyn utterly. “If you’re right, the Church is guilty of a far more serious deception than merely changing a few paragraphs in some books.”

  “If I’m right, the deception goes back a lot further than the Reformation.”

  The duke, eyes narrowing, nodded slowly. “Yes. I see what you mean, but if it’s true, you put yourself at great risk to keep the Dragon close.”

  “I could kill him, but…” Severyn shook his head. “He’s been reading the true Chronicle; I left it for him one night. If I could turn Remy against his masters, he could provide us with valuable information.”

  “And if he’s truly a cethe, or some manner thereof, his loyalty may be proof against reason.”

  Severyn thought about Michael’s contrary cethe. “Maybe.”

  “I’d like to have a word with our dear Captain Remy.”

  “Heh. I doubt if the desire is reciprocated, but why not?”

  Remy’s reaction upon seeing the duke was predictable. “Lord Arranz!” he lurched to his feet, dropping his book onto the bed where he’d been sitting.

  “You are familiar with His Grace, I see. Please sit down. We’ve come for a little visit.”

  The duke pulled out a chair and took his seat. Remy’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “Let’s see it,” said the duke.

  Remy�
��s gaze flew to Severyn who smiled apologetically. “Sorry, old man, but I’m going to have to ask you to drop your drawers.”

  “What?” Remy’s voice rose. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!”

  “We’d be happy to assist you,” Severyn said. “Myself and the duke.”

  “Don’t you touch me!” spat the captain, regarding Lord Damon with horror. “Wasn’t the first time enough for you?”

  “For me, yes, but not for His Grace, whose advice I greatly value. Drop ‘em!”

  Face twisting in fury and dread, the captain unfastened his breeches with unsteady fingers and jerked his garments down around his hips. Gritting his teeth, he looked off into the corner, flinching a little at the sound of the duke’s chair scraping on the floor as he rose. But when Lord Damon reached for his flaccid member, he swore and knocked the duke’s hand away, trying immediately to drag up his breeches once more.

  Lord Damon responded with a hard right to Remy’s jaw, knocking him back across his bed. “Hold him down,” he ordered Severyn.

  Severyn scrambled to obey, pressing the prisoner’s shoulders into the mattress while Remy struggled desperately to break free. With his breeches and drawers around his thighs, he couldn’t use his legs to his advantage, so the duke was able to easily take hold of the Hunter’s cock.

  Severyn waited while the duke studied the marks. As he did, the prince became acutely aware of their situation: the captain’s flat belly and hips exposed, the duke fingering Remy’s sex as it stiffened visibly under the handling. He felt himself becoming warm and his own gut uncomfortably tight.

  “Stop it!” cried Remy hoarsely. “God! You perverted taint!”

  The duke’s pale eyes gleamed. He let his thumb slide over the cock’s crimson head, then trace along the edge. Remy’s hips twisted frantically, but the duke didn’t let go. Instead, he stroked the tattooed design that stretched and elongated with Remy’s skin.

  “How very unique, captain. How did you come by this particular ornamentation?”

  “F-family custom!” The response was breathless.

  “All the males?”

  Silence, then, “N-no! O-only the heirs! Ah! Stop!” Remy’s head tossed from side to side. His hair had come loose from its tie, falling across the light blue coverlet, showing glints of burnished copper. “Damn you to hell!” he screamed. “You’ll not get away with this! You bastard! Taint-lover!”

  Lord Damon abruptly released the captain’s rigid, dripping cock. “I do believe you’re right, Severyn. My advice is definitely to kill this man. As long as he’s alive, Locke will know where to find him.” The duke hesitated. His sudden grin brought a flood of heat to Severyn’s face. “Although, from the looks of it, maybe you should avail yourself of his services before you do so.”

  Stefn did not miss Michael Arranz. He didn’t miss him at dinner. He didn’t miss him riding across the plains. He didn’t miss him in the tower reading his books.

  “My lord? You look pale this morning.” Marin appeared at the breakfast table with the household books. “Did you sleep badly again? Shall I come back?”

  “No… No, I’ll have a look at them. Leave them here.” Head propped in his hand, Stefn gave the ledgers a glance of profound disinterest. “It’s the weather,” he added.

  Marin nodded and withdrew, leaving Stefn to poke at his porridge and stare moodily across the room.

  Summer, true summer, had finally arrived on the highland plains. The rains were gone, replaced by scorching heat and humidity. He’d taken to riding early in the morning, before it became too unbearable, and retreating to the north wing for the remainder of the day. Only there, surrounded by moonstone, did it remain cool and pleasantly dry. He wished the entire house was made of the stuff.

  Abandoning the idea of breakfast, Stefn went up to the library where a package bound in brown paper and tied up with twine awaited him. It was the latest purchase from his bookseller in Ardenford. Nestled against the western flanks of the Midders and overlooking the southern sea, Ardenford was an old town with plenty of moonstone buildings. Like Shia, it, too had once enjoyed a reputation as a center of culture and the arts. Then, like Shia, the Reformation had ended all that.

  Cutting the string, he unwrapped the books. There were three. To his surprise, one was a journal written by the same priest whose book, Tales of the Demonic, he had purchased from a seller at his private book fair. The date put it several years forward from the book still in the tower room.

  Idly curious, he carefully turned some pages at random. A turn of a phrase caught his eye and he stopped, heart giving a little jump.

  June 14, YLD1219. I spent a most interesting day at the manor of Lord Vashtar n’Mar. The count is generally a pious man, who tithes to the Church regularly. His lady is much revered for her good works. I was, therefore, quite astounded to find he had visitors and that they should be none other than a sorcerer and his catamite!

  Quickly, Stefn turned the page.

  It has always been said that the sathra are the most wretched of men, yet I must confess, I saw nothing of that in the youth who accompanied Lord Vashtar n’Mar. He was quite delightful, proving in our conversation to be well-read and accomplished in the art of poetry and music. Most fascinating was the obvious bond of affection between the two. When I queried His Lordship about it, he laughed, saying we of the Church had not bothered to make a study of men like them, but based our entire opinions upon the actions of a few unprincipled lords.

  “Unprincipled is right!” muttered Stefn, but read on.

  Lord Vashtar n’Mar went on to say that in the naran lands, the binding of sorcerer to sathra was not unlike a marriage, that the consent of the sathra was essential and that taking a man by force was looked down upon most severely. Whereupon the youth, with a bright smile, laughed and agreed, throwing his arms about his lord and embracing him with every evidence of joy.

  Love? “Liar!” Stefn exclaimed angrily. “You were fooled, priest!”

  “M-my lord?”

  “Oh! Hullo, Hanson.” Stefn smiled sheepishly. “What is it?”

  “Some men from Embry, my lord,” replied the butler. “They wish to speak with you.”

  “With me?” Stefn closed his book after first carefully marking his place. “I’ll be right there. See that they’re given something cold to drink,” he added.

  Two men were waiting in the hall. To Stefn’s surprise, the villager, Carter, was one of them. He didn’t recognize the other. Both rose quickly from their chairs when he came in, clutching their cups of cool cider.

  “Thank’ee for seeing us, m’lord,” said Carter respectfully bobbing his head. “This ‘ere is Will Brant. We’ve come to ask fer yer help.”

  “Are you sure you want my help?” Stefn asked, unable to keep the doubt from his voice. He remembered distinctly their first meeting.

  Carter ducked his head, shuffling his feet in embarrassment. “As to that, m’lord, I’m sorry fer my disrespect durin’ the first flood. You’ve been a good master, after all. Everyone’s been sayin’ it. ‘Tis why we came today.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tis the abbey, m’lord. The priests have been tellin’ everyone who’s built their cottages on the hill that they’re there unlawfully. Some o’the priests are threatenin’ to burn us out! Didn’t you say the land was ours to build upon, m’lord?”

  “Yes!” Stefn was furious. “The land is not under lease by the abbey and never has been. I cannot believe the abbot doesn’t know this very well!”

  “He may need remindin’, if it please yer lordship,” said the other man, Brant. “Folks are scared and talking about goin’ back to the riverside.”

  “That would be madness,” Stefn replied. “Another winter like last and it will be the same thing all over again. I’ll speak to him at once!”

  “Thank ye, m’lord! I knew you’d come to our aid! I was never so wrong as I was about you. You ain’t no sin-catcher, but Loth’s blessing on us all!”

  The two
men departed, much cheered, promising to bring the encouraging news to their fellows in the village. Stefn went upstairs to change his clothes. He considered taking a carriage, but the thought of being confined in the hot, close cab for any length of time did not appeal. Dusty as it was, at least on horseback there would be a breeze.

  Outside, it was not as bad as he’d feared. Puffy white clouds drifted languidly across the blue sky, casting shifting islands of shade on the plains. Fed by the heavy rains of spring, the grass was thick and high with blotches of purple where field lavender bloomed.

  After awhile, he caught sight of an object in the road ahead. He couldn’t quite make out what it was, thanks to the heat shimmer rising from the ground. As he came closer, the blur resolved itself into a wagon. Several men struggled with a wheel that had come off, leaving one corner of the wagon in the dust and its load of barrels tipped precariously.

  “Hie!” shouted one of the men, seeing him approach. “Can you give us a hand?”

  Stefn quickly dismounted. The men were covered with dust and sweat. Over on the side of the road sat on elderly man, broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, white hair and beard escaping from its shadows.

  “Bad luck,” called Stefn. “What are you hauling?”

  “Ale for the tavern at Embry.” One of the men, a burly specimen with a grizzled jaw, peered closely at him. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but them’s pretty fancy clothes. Mebbe we’d better wait for someone else to come along.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” retorted Stefn. “What can I do?”

  “Well, if ye don’t mind, we’ll hold ‘er up and if you can just push the wheel back on the axle?”

  It sounded easy enough. Stefn picked the wheel off the ground while the men scrambled to lift the heavy wagon. After much grunting and swearing, they got it off the ground.