by Becca Abbott
“Quick, yer lordship!”
Stefn hastily approached the wagon, but fitting the wheel onto the axle wasn’t as easy as it seemed. He pushed and twisted it back and forth, trying to work it onto the wooden pole, the effort causing him to add his own grunts and groans to the general chorus. Perhaps that was why he never heard the old man come up behind him.
There was a moment of shattering pain and bright light. After that, Stefn knew nothing.
Something was wrong. The feeling hit Michael in the middle of his conversation with Annie, a sharp twinge in his temples that made him gasp and push back from the lunch table.
“What is it?” she asked in alarm. “Are you ill?”
Stefn!
“I-I don’t know,” he said, getting unsteadily to his feet. Looking genuinely frightened, she jumped up, too. Chris gave him a dour look. “Don’t tell me you’re going to start taking after father,” he said.
“Mick is never sick!” declared Annie. She ran around the table to take his arm. He gently put her away. The feeling subsided, but that did little to ease his consternation.
“I’m all right,” he said. “Just a little tired.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “You slept like a damned log. I heard you snoring when I walked past your room last night.”
Michael ignored him. He went straight to his room and threw himself onto his bed. With one arm across his eyes, he focused on that feeling, but got nothing. Recklessly, he reached past the fiery bits of k’na thrown out from the Dark Stream and into the Stream itself.
There! Faintly, very faintly, he caught the misty outlines of Stefn’s life-force. It was steady, but muted, and moving! As he lay there, staring deep into the limitless beyond, he could see it inching along. There was no way to tell the direction; the beyond had no west or east, it simply was, yet there was unmistakably movement.
He sat up, blinking in the bright light falling through the windows. The uneasy flutter in his gut didn’t go away. Stefn was in trouble.
Severyn woke to pounding on his door. He thought at first Lothlain House was under attack again. Lurching from his bed, he stubbed his toe in his haste to find his sword. “Come in!” he shouted.
The door flew open. Corliss strode in, closely following by a gibbering Nedby.
“We’ve had word from Lothmont,” said the captain without preamble. “There’s been a terrible accident.”
“A what?” Severyn shook his head, trying to dislodge the last cobwebs of sleep. “We’re not under attack?”
“No, Your Highness.”
Wait! Lothmont?
“Aramis! Is he all right?”
Corliss didn’t answer right away. Instead, he struck a match, lighting a nearby lamp. Muttering his thanks, Severyn found his breeches and pulled them on under his night-shirt.
“Well? Out with it! Is my brother all right or not?” For one wild, unsavory moment, he caught himself hoping to hear that Arami had stumbled off his balcony or down the stairs and broken his neck.
“The queen,” said Corliss tightly, “is dead.”
Severyn stopped. “Oh. That’s too bad. Did you have to wake me up for that?”
“It seems…” Corliss stopped, then tried again, “It appears that his Majesty may have borne some of the responsibility.”
“What the hell is going on?” The duke arrived, magnificent in his dark blue silk dressing gown, silver hair in a long braid down his back. “Is it the Church?”
“Not this time,” said Severyn in a subdued voice. He looked toward the door where servants were gathering. Following his gaze, Lord Damon nodded and slammed it shut, leaving the three men alone.
“Now,” said Severyn. “Tell me everything.”
“I don’t know much. The messenger could only say that the queen was dead, stabbed many times, and that the king is holed up in his apartments and won’t let anyone in, won’t see anyone…”
“Holy Loth,” whispered Severyn, collapsing onto his sofa. “Are you saying my brother killed Eleanor?”
“I’m telling you what I was told, Your Highness,” said Corliss stolidly. “Will you be going to Lothmont?”
“Eh? Hell, yes! Prepare my fastest carriage at once with a full unit of outriders. Damn it!”
“I’ll come with you,” said the duke.
“I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”
The carriage and guards were assembled in record time. Severyn and the duke set out as fast as was safely possible in the middle of the night.
“It must have been the pelthe,” Severyn muttered, bracing himself against the swaying of the coach. “He didn’t like the bitch, who did? But to kill her? Dear God!”
“It looks like you may be king sooner than you thought.”
“If it’s true,” said Severyn darkly. “This could be some evil plot of Locke’s.”
“She’s his sister, isn’t she?”
“Yes, but if her death would help him achieve his ambitions…” Severyn shrugged. “I wouldn’t put much past Mazril.”
They drove fast and hard toward the capitol, putting in once for a change of horses before riding on again. It was late afternoon before their carriage rattled through the Demon Gate, sending the people in the streets scattering for their lives.
The Thaelrick Bridge was thick with Hunters.
“Sorry, Your Highness, but His Eminence says no one is to go beyond here, not even you.”
Severyn didn’t argue. Instead, he drew his sword and ran the man through.
For a moment, there was shocked silence, then a roar rose from the ranks of the Hunters and Severyn was immediately surrounded by angry soldiers. His own men were swift to enter the fray and, for awhile, Severyn had no time to think of anything except to kill or be killed. The hot afternoon rang with shouts, with the clash of steel and the screams of the dying. It was almost with surprise that he realized suddenly there were no more green and gold uniforms in front of him. A few feet away, drawing his long blade from the body of a Hunter, the Duke of Blackmarsh looked up and grinned wolfishly.
“Let’s go,” said Severyn.
There were more Hunters in the palace foyer, but only a handful. They were saved from the fate of their comrades at the bridge by the sudden appearance of none other than the Archbishop himself.
He took one look at Severyn and called off his men.
“Where is he?” gritted Severyn.
“The murderer!” Locke was pale, anger cold in his eyes. “King or no, he will pay for this!”
“Where is he?”
Lord Damon swept past, shoving aside Hunters and clerics, taking the stairs up two at a time.
“Where’s he going?” shouted Locke, whirling around. At the same time, from somewhere inside the castle, came a loud crash, then another.
Severyn was past any thought of protocol or even common sense. He seized Locke by the collar.
“Where is my brother?” he thundered.
“Let me go!” Locke pushed away, trembling, trying to straighten his coat with shaking hands. “In his rooms, barricaded like the mad dog he is!”
Severyn didn’t wait to hear the rest of his tirade. He ran up the stairs and down the corridor. There, he found Arranz busily engaged with two Hunters while two more were attempting to batter down the door to his brother’s apartments. Seeing him, the Hunters faltered, a bad decision for the man fighting the duke. The other threw down his sword and dropped to his knees. His companions quickly left off their assault on the door.
“Get out of here,” snarled Severyn.
The men didn’t argue and were gone, their rapid footsteps fading swiftly.
Severyn looked at the door. Then he knocked quietly. “Arami? Arami? It’s me! Sev! The Hunters are gone! Let me in!”
There was a long silence.
“It’s too bad you don’t have any witch powers,” Severyn muttered to Lord Damon. The duke gave him a slight, sympathetic smile. “Come on, Arami! I’m not here to drag you away to some howling mob! I want to talk
to you!”
But still there was no answer. In despair, Severyn fell back against the door, sliding down to sit on the floor. Arranz walked to the corridor window and looked out.
“Hunters?” asked Severyn.
“No. Royal Guard. Looks like Corliss has been busy.”
“Good man, Corliss.”
The door behind him moved. Severyn jumped up. The chain was drawn across it; the face peering out was that of a servant, pale and terrified. “Y-your Highness? Is… is it you?”
Severyn bit down on his impatient response. “Yes. David, it is, where’s my brother?”
There was a slight jerk of David’s head toward the interior of the apartment. “He says… he says you can come in, Your Highness, but only you.”
“I’ll keep guard,” said Arranz. “Go ahead.”
“All right. Arami? I’m coming in.”
“Just you! Swear it?”
“I swear.”
The door closed. Severyn heard the chain rattle, then the door opened just enough to let him through. A quaking David quickly shut and locked the door behind him while several other servants shoved furniture against it. All of them looked in various states of shock and their eyes on him were filled with terrible hope.
“What happened?” he asked David, the oldest and most trusted of Arami’s servants.
“He — His Majesty was ill,” said David. “He’d not had any… anything for almost a week. Then last night, His Eminence came up with Her Majesty. I-I couldn’t hear what it was about, Your Highness, but there was a dreadful row, everyone shouting. Then they left. Shortly after that, His Majesty… His Majesty went down to the Queen’s apartments.” The man blinked rapidly, tears flooding his eyes. “He came back a few minutes later. His Majesty was crying and laughing and covered with… with blood… ” Unable to go on, the servant broke down, weeping into his hands. “He told us to lock the doors and let no one in. He said… he said he would be dead soon and not to let anyone… ”
Severyn didn’t hear the rest. “ARAMI!”
He tore through the spacious apartments, through the rooms reeking of pelthe and scattered with the objects of his brother’s skittish amusement. At the doors to Arami’s bedchamber, he stopped. The smell of pelthe was nearly overwhelming. He tried the door, but it was locked. “ARAMI!”
“I said go away!” came a slurred, muffled voice. “Go away!”
Severyn stepped back and kicked the door open.
The luxurious chamber was in ruins, bed-curtains torn down and in shreds all over the floor, furniture tipped over, the contents of drawers scattered everywhere. Seated in the middle of the bed, propped against the tall, ornately carved headboard, was his brother.
Severyn scarcely recognized him. Arami was ghostly white, dark circles under his sunken eyes. Half-closed, they glittered at Severyn from the shadows of the bed. In one skeletal hand, he gripped his pelthe snifter. His fingertips were black with soot from the matches. His clothing was stiff and black with dried blood.
“Suppose… I suppose you’ve heard?” he greeted Severyn.
Rooted to the spot, Severyn could only nod his head.
“Stupid bitch… ” Arami’s lips twisted. He paused to take another long drag of the vapor gathered in his glass. “Tired of her…her and her damned brother….always holding my pelthe over my head… ”
“Did you have to kill her?” asked Severyn finally.
“Wouldn’t give it to me.” Arami shook his head, lank hair flying. “Said I had to… had to disinherit you… wouldn’t give it to me ‘til I ‘greed. Wanted that fucker, Maz… Mazril to be heir. Pah! A fucking priest as king? Stupid whore and her stupid whoreson brother!”
“She wouldn’t give it to you? Give what?” A chill ran up Severyn’s spine.
“My pelthe, ‘course! Whadja think? Her cunt? As if I wanted that smelly thing!”
“You got your pelthe from Eleanor?”
“Ooooh. Look at you! So amazed. Sweet lil Eleanor. Pious little Eleanor. Butter wouldn’t melt in her fucking mouth!” The mist was gone from the snifter. With a hand that shook terribly, Arami reached for a bottle beside his bed and poured more into it. “I did it for you, y’know.”
“Eleanor? Where did she get it?”
“I dunno. Mazril? Don’t matter. She’s dead, the bitch.” He rummaged among the bedclothes and brought out an unlit candle. Lighting it, he started to heat the pelthe. Severyn broke from his paralysis and grabbed it, blowing it out. But when he tried to snatch away the snifter, Arami suddenly lifted it to his lips and downed the contents!
Horrified, Severyn jumped to his feet. “You fool!” He seized his brother by the shoulders and was aghast at how frail and bony his shoulders felt beneath his robes. “ARAMI!”
Arami only laughed, wildly and long, his body convulsing with the force of his macabre mirth. Then he doubled over and vomited it all back up all that he had just swallowed.
Severyn knew enough about pelthe to know why it was merely inhaled and never ingested directly. “I’ll get a healer!” he said frantically, “David! DAVID!”
“No!” Arami’s hand shot out, gripping Severyn’s sleeve with surprising strength. “No! I forbid it! I…” His next words were lost in a fit of coughing. With a sickening plunge of his heart, Severyn saw blood and knew it wasn’t the murdered Eleanor’s.
“Oh, God, Arami, what have you done?”
David arrived, looking panic-stricken.
“Get a healer! Hurry!”
“No!”
David froze, gazing at them both with anguished eyes.
“If you love me, Davey, you’ll do as I say, not him.” Arami’s voice turned soft, gentle. His long-time servant could only shake his head, tears trickling down his face. The king coughed again. He wiped his mouth and his wrist came away smeared with red.
“I want this, Sevvy,” he said hoarsely, using the nickname Severyn hadn’t heard for nearly fifteen years. “I’m tired. So tired.” He fell back against his pillows, licking blood from his lips. They were grey. “It’s what you want, anyway, isn’t it? To be king?”
“Not like this,” whispered Severyn, sinking to his knees beside the bed. “Not like this. Ari, I swear.”
“Tanyrin wants it.” Arami’s hands fell to the bedside, twitching. “The nobles want it. Most of all, Locke fears it. All those fat, sanctimonious Celestial hypocrites fear it.” He laughed, a terrible, bubbling sound. “Hell, that makes it worthwhile all by itself.”
“I’m getting a healer,” said Severyn, pushing himself to his feet.
“No! Damn you! For once, just do as I say!”
“I’ve ALWAYS done what you said!” Severyn shouted.
Arami smiled then. It was a curiously serene smile and it transfixed Severyn. “I know. I know, little brother. I just wish…” He closed his eyes. “Wish it had been you born first. All I wanted was to paint. Just paint.” He broke off, drawing a deep, shaking breath.
“Arami?” Severyn’s voice broke. “Arami!”
His brother’s eyelids fluttered. He spoke, but Severyn could barely hear him. “Hold me, little brother.”
Tears flooded Severyn’s eyes; he barely noticed them, climbing up into the messy, stinking bed, thrusting aside the soiled covers. He gathered his brother’s bony frame in his arms. David ran from the room.
“Always wanted to paint,” whispered Arami, head falling back on Severyn’s shoulder. “Great scenes… Colors…. Would have been a good… ”
“You’re a superb artist, Ari.”
Grey lips stretched into a smile. “I was terrible.” His breathing had become labored. “You…you… be good king, Sevvy… Always thought so… Used to get so angry… People always loved you…”
“Arami, don’t.” Severyn pulled him closer, kissing the lank, brown hair. “Please, Arami… ”
“Always loved you… ” Arami whispered.
Then the body in his arms was still. Arami was gone.
“And I always loved you,” sa
id Severyn and, lowering his head, he let the tears come freely.
PART XXV
Although Aramis I was the greatest member of the Lothlains, the family’s history is long and distinguished, with the first Lothlain, Stuart Manard Egrel, appearing in recorded history around 899 YLD. The main line of the family continued unbroken until the assassination of Aramis IV in YLD1422. Childless at the time of his death, the crown went to the head of the family’s secondary line, descended from Aramis’ younger brother, Robert. Martin Denali Lothlain, upon his coronation, took the name Arami in honor of his illustrious ancestor. Henceforth, it has been the tradition of the Tanyrin kings to name their firstborn sons Arami.
from: A Modern History of Tanyrin,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1505
It was purest good luck that Michael met Marin on the road to Shia. His servant was one of a party of half a dozen men galloping along the southern road out of Fornsby. When Michael hailed them, Marin’s face lit up.
“Where is he?” Michael demanded as soon as they were within speaking distance. “Where’s Stefn?”
The guards with Marin looked amazed, but Marin replied at once. “They’ve taken him to Zelenov!” He jerked his head toward one of the riders. Startled, Michael saw a young h’naran man wearing the royal blue and gold, his pale hair half-hidden beneath his helm.
“His name is Clare. He was Abbot Drummond’s slave.”
Michael’s heart plunged. He looked mutely at the Penitent.
“This is Lord Arranz,” said Marin to the youth. “The duke’s grandson. Tell him what you told me.”
The h’nar bowed his head, looking awed. “My lord,” he said. “They brought the earl to the abbey, men from Zelenov. One was a Dragon; they called him Lieutenant Brant. Lord Eldering was drugged. I heard them talking. They were to take him to Zelenov, to the Archbishop.”
“How long ago?”
“Four days past, my lord.”
Four days. Michael remembered that moment of harrowing awareness. He nodded. “Did they say why?”
“They said he was compensation, to replace what was stolen from the Archbishop. That was all I heard. I’m sorry.”
