Cethe

by Becca Abbott

  Brant strode into the circle of dancing light. His men gave way before him. Leaning over, he seized Stefn by the arm and hauled him back to his feet.

  “We’re leaving,” he said shortly to the others. “Pack up and let’s get out of here.”

  “Aw, lieutenant, can’t we rest awhile longer?” asked Hatchet-Face. “There ain’t no one followin’ us. We’ve been ridin’ for days and ain’t seen hide nor hair o’ no one.”

  “That’s an order, Green. And if I get anymore trouble out of you, I’m putting you on report.”

  Stefn didn’t see Green’s reaction. Brant marched him away from the fire, through the trees and out onto a narrow, badly rutted road. There, Stefn gathered the shreds of his strength and jerked away, nearly falling into the ditch running alongside it.

  “Leave me alone!” he demanded hoarsely. “I can walk. W-where are we?”

  “Can’t you tell? We’ve come through the Midders.”

  Stefn’s heart sank. “What will happen to me?”

  “That’s for His Eminence to decide,” replied Brant.

  “Isn’t the Archbishop on his tour?”

  “It was cut short,” said Brant. “To Tanyrin’s everlasting misfortune, Arami is dead. ‘Tis Severyn Lothlain who sits upon the throne now, although not for long, I’ll wager. He must be anointed by the Church and the Council will not do so as long as Michael Arranz stands at his side!”

  Stunned to speechlessness, Stefn could only shake his head. The king was dead?

  “Turn around,” ordered Brant.

  Stefn did so. The captain unlocked his shackles. Then, taking hold of Stefn’s arm again, Brant led him to the horses. He untied a canteen from the saddle of one and handed it to Stefn who uncorked it and drank in eager, sloppy gulps.

  The captain took the canteen away and refastened his manacles, this time before him. As the other soldiers came out onto the road, Brant hoisted Stefn up onto the horse. He mounted his and took Stefn’s reins.

  Stefn’s head continued to clear as the group started down the road. It was cool, but not unbearably so. The sky was cloudless and filled with stars. Each breath Stefn took was rich with the scent of pine.

  “Captain?”

  Brant looked around.

  “How long have we been gone?”

  “Two weeks,” replied the captain.

  Two weeks! And what of Michael? Did he know what had become of Stefn? Did he care?

  “Why don’t you drug me again?”

  “Not even Lothlain and his sorcerer would dare enter the Church’s holy territory to find you.”

  “So, you’re traitors as well as kidnappers.”

  “Who is the greater traitor? Those sworn to Loth’s service or those who would break with Loth’s Church and its teachings?”

  “Its false teachings!” Stefn retorted, “forgeries your precious Archbishop claims to be the word of St. Aramis!”

  “Be silent,” snapped Brant. “I may have to tolerate your presence, whore, but I don’t have to listen to your lies!”

  “They aren’t lies! I’ve seen them, seen the handwriting of St. Aramis himself!”

  Muttering started up among the men behind them. Brant pulled back his horse, allowing Stefn to catch up. “I said, be silent,” he repeated in a low, deadly voice. “You would be better served by praying to Loth for your deliverance for I can promise you, my lord, that once we get to Zelenov, you will pay in full for all your sins.”

  They reached the eastern slopes of the Midders four days later. At once, the countryside changed. Where the western side of the mountains had been lush with hardwoods and conifers, the trees on the eastern slopes were sparse. The hills looked as if Loth had overlaid them with brown velvet. Here and there, marking the deepest folds, scrawny oaks clung to life, eking out what rainwater flowed down to the lowlands.

  This was the place his father had always praised as being more righteous, more holy than the sinful west. It was hot and arid. Closer, what had looked like velvet from afar proved to be dry, bristly grass instead. The only green he saw was further below, patches of it scattered throughout the distant valleys.

  As they descended, the green pockets resolved into small fields criss-crossed by irrigation ditches. Closer still, Stefn saw armies of half-naked Penitents, some tending the crops, others trudging back and forth, bent under the weight of water buckets. Their overseers lounged in the few trees, enjoying the shade.

  To Stefn’s eye, it seemed a large number of the slaves had dark hair and he wondered at it. How did the Church determine who was h’naran if not by their appearance?

  “If it’s proved that a man has taints in his family, then of course he is a taint, as well,” replied Brant when asked.

  “And how do you prove that?”

  “Testimony from neighbors or from those who have known the family of the accused.”

  “What if they’re lying?”

  “The Council conducts a thorough investigation, of course.”

  “And the Church then confiscates the property. How convenient.”

  Brant just scowled and nudged his horse, leaving Stefn to ride between two of his uncommunicative underlings.

  It was late in the afternoon when they finally came within sight of Zelenov. The city rose from the hillside at the end of a long valley, a crowd of red-brick buildings surrounded by a high wall. The road leading to it was thick with pedestrians, wagons and, here and there, a carriage. Dust hung in a choking around them, but the Hunters seemed used to it, pulling up their neckclothes to cover their mouths and noses. Stefn’s neckcloth lay back in the mountain forest somewhere, so he sneezed and coughed, wiping streaming eyes with his shackled hands.

  Thanks to the traffic they didn’t reach the gate until sunset. Stefn’s mouth and throat were parched. Each step of his horse jarred him to the bone. Exhaustion made him indifferent to his surroundings, the business of staying astride taking all of his failing strength.

  Within the city walls, Zelenov’s streets were narrow and crooked. The mud-brick buildings seemed jumbled together in haphazard ways, sharing common walls, some overhanging the streets, giving Zelenov a cramped, maze-like appearance.

  The crowds in the dusty streets made way for Brant’s small group, staring after them as they made their way uphill. As they got higher above the main part of the city, the buildings changed. More of them were made of stone than the ubiquitous brick and stood apart from each other with small yards to separate them. Hunters were everywhere and so were Penitents, the latter rushing about carrying baskets filled with all manner of things.

  The riders continued climbing and, as the last of the fiery sunset faded behind the Midders, they reached the top of the city. Before them rose a high stone wall. Stefn, roused by the sudden cessation of movement, emerged from his stupor. By craning his neck, he could just make out the tops of roofs and towers behind it.

  The main gates opened and the Hunters rode through. Just inside, they halted. Two officers stood nearby. Brant dismounted, walking over to the pair. While they talked, the rest of the men waited, casting longing glances around them.

  They were inside a massive fortress. Barracks, offices, parade grounds, all lit by torches. It was a military installation of considerable size and sophistication. Stefn smelled food and his stomach cramped.

  Brant left the two officers, returning to Stefn. “Get down,” he ordered.

  Obediently, Stefn dismounted, only to have his knees buckle as he hit the ground. Brant, impatient to be done with him, dragged him up and hustled him over to the waiting Hunters. The two men nodded and, without further ado, took possession of the prisoner. Brant, without a backward glance, mounted his horse and, with his troops following, was soon out of sight.

  Stefn’s new captors were also Dragons. He expected almost anything from them, holding himself tense and ready. To his surprise, they bowed. One of them said, “Welcome to the Cathedral of the Dragon, my lord. If you please?” He indicated Stefn’s chained wrists. Stef
n shut his mouth and held out his hands, watching numbly as the shackles were removed.

  “Please follow me, my lord.”

  They walked together across the yard, around several buildings and finally, through another gate in an even higher wall.

  They had come at last to the Cathedral proper. Stefn was escorted past the Sanctuary and down a lane to another massive stone building. He realized at once it was a Domicile more luxurious than any he’d ever seen. Soaring columns marked its formal front portico. Stonework of astonishing craftsmanship adorned windows and cornices. The Royal Palace at Lothmont had not been so fine.

  Inside, the residence was awash in luxury. Stefn took in paintings in their gilded frames, the walls lined with moiré silk and lush carpets. From time to time, they passed doors standing open, revealing rooms filled with furnishing that rivaled the elegant, expensive pieces now residing in Shia.

  The occupants he saw were all men, most dressed in lay clothing, a few wearing priestly garb. They watched him pass curiously, but made no move to accost him or his escort.

  The officers took him upstairs, delivering him before a set of double doors. Standing in front of them was a slender youth with pale yellow hair. He was dressed in grey, his sleeveless tunic almost too brief for modesty. In the middle of his forehead was the brand of the Penitent. He bowed very low and opened the doors, ushering them into a spacious, well-appointed sitting room.

  “Lord Eldering!”

  Stefn stumbled to a halt. Setting aside a book and rising from his chair, was none other than His Eminence, Lord Locke! Another Penitent stood beside the archbishop, cooling him with a large, elaborate fan of silk and peacock feathers.

  “My lord! You look done in! Charles, bring refreshments at once and see if his lordship’s room is ready.”

  The Penitents vanished, the Dragon officers with them. Stefn, speechless with surprise at his welcome, went to the chair the Archbishop indicated.

  “I do apologize for the rather precipitous way in which you were brought to Zelenov,” Locke said, “but now that you are here, rest assured you will be much more comfortable.”

  Stefn sank into the chair. “M-my lord,” he managed. Then, “Why am I here?”

  Lord Locke’s eyebrows rose. “To the point, I see.” He resumed his seat on the sofa, crossing one long leg over the other. “Let me be equally blunt, if I may? You are sathra to the heretic, Michael Arranz. Am I correct?”

  Stefn could only shake his head, heart beating fast with apprehension.

  “I know you have the Blood,” continued Locke amiably. “I realized that upon my visit to Shia.”

  Stefn barely heard him, distracted by the reappearance of the yellow-haired Penitent bearing a large tray. The youth set it on the low table between them and, at the Archbishop’s careless wave, quickly withdrew. Seeing the generous array of sandwiches and cakes, Stefn’s mouth filled with water.

  “By all means, help yourself.”

  Hands trembling, Stefn tore into the repast, gobbling down the food and emptying the water cup in short order. Locke watched with a benign smile.

  “The Pretender has abducted my aide. Adrian too, has the Blood and has served me for a long time. I miss him greatly and need him more. His misfortune, however, is your chance at redemption.”

  The food suddenly stuck in Stefn’s throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, my lord.”

  “Is that so?” The smile hardened. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain the presence of the thing around your neck?”

  Stefn’s stomach knotted. “This is a family heirloom,” he lied.

  “Come, my lord! This game-playing is absurd! Do you think I don’t know a true lethet when I see one?”

  Stefn was tired, deadly-tired. He could think of nothing to say.

  “I would like to think, my lord, that you had no choice in receiving it.”

  “No,” whispered Stefn. “I didn’t.”

  “As I suspected.” The Archbishop’s smile turned kindly again. “Fortunately, you can have your revenge by serving me in Adrian’s stead. With your help, we can end the heretical rule of the traitor king and set Tanyrin on the path to righteousness.”

  Stefn stared at him. In his exhaustion, he was not, perhaps, thinking as well as he might. After being manhandled and brutalized by Brant’s men, he was in no mood for this delicate dance.

  “Traitor?” he exclaimed hoarsely. “It was the Church who deliberately altered the words of St. Aramis!”

  The archbishop’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’ve been deceived by the false versions of the Chronicles being passed around as true?”

  “They are true! I’ve seen the original manuscript of the First Chronicle!”

  No sooner had the words escaped then Stefn knew he’d made a mistake.

  “So,” Locke said softly. “The book was in Shia, after all.”

  Stefn’s heart began a painful pounding.

  “And the first Chronicle? Did your people have it, too?”

  “No.”

  “Let me guess.” Locke’s smile was brittle. “That bastard, Storme?”

  Stefn swallowed hard and said nothing.

  “Don’t you understand?” Locke asked. “The Church had to correct the Chronicles! St. Aramis was betrayed by his precious naragi! It was Derek Arranz who conspired to lift the nara back to their positions of power and used St. Aramis to do it! Those Chronicles were corrupt before they were written! It was the nara responsible for the Wet! The nara who brought catastrophe to Tanyrin, who sought to lead people away from Loth! It is their filthy descendants who now seek to do the same!”

  Stefn shivered at the cold rage he heard, not daring to move.

  “Renounce the naragi and the false king! Swear to the Church and I will forgive your heresies. You will be given a place among the Dragons of Loth and wealth beyond your imagining. Join us in the purification of Tanyrin. Help us drive out the demon-spawn and return righteousness to the world!”

  “No,” whispered Stefn, horrified. He thought of Annie, of Marin. He thought of the small bones in Shia’s refuse-pit. “You’re wrong, my lord! There is evil, yes, but it doesn’t lie in the h’nara!” His throat tightened, fear a leaden weight in his chest. Nevertheless, he met the archbishop’s eyes squarely. “The evil is in those who would twist the words of St. Aramis, who would use fear and hatred to take worldly power for themselves!”

  Locke gazed at Stefn through narrowed eyes.

  “I see the corruption of the Betrayer and his ilk has worked deep into your soul. So be it. If you would ally yourself with the demon spawn, then learn what rewards such wretches may expect.” He rose from his chair in a single, angry movement. “Charles!”

  The blond Penitent appeared at once, looking alarmed.

  “Fetch the guards. Take Lord Eldering to the Penitent quarters and prepare him for Service.” He looked back at Stefn. “Know this, Stefn. I will have the power you hold within you! Whether you submit willingly or not is no concern of mine!” He looked up as the guards ran into the room. “Take him away! Let him learn the folly of placing his alliance with the enemies of man!”

  PART XXVI

  My Dear Lord Brandon — most disquieting event has transpired lately, originating from the Cathedral in our parish. Soldiers of the Church have been seen at the homes of the h’nara, bearing away the occupants, men, women and children. Most recently, Hunters visited the cottage of Luke and Brenda Carr, removing them without explanation. As you know, despite the misfortune of their birth, the Carrs have been exemplary tenants, maintaining cleanly premises and being prompt in their payments of rent, tithes and taxes. Queries into the reason for their arrests from have met with silence. I hope that you, as Lord of the Parish, might be more successful in discovering the Cathedral’s reasons for taking actions which appear, at least from my Humble Perspective, to be in defiance of your authority. Yr. Servant, Jeremy Long, Squire, Ellsdon Cottage (signature appended)

  from: a letter
to Philip Brandon,

  Lord Baron of Scorvan,

  written on the 18th day of the month of Wyrkel,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1450

  Michael held the lantern aloft in one hand, making his way down the dank, narrow stairs. In the other, he carried a valise. A heavy, oppressive silence filled this place. According to Severyn, it was a private dungeon, similar to the one in Tantagrel.

  “We have them in almost every one of our residences,” he’d explained, looking faintly embarrassed. “I’m afraid I must count among my ancestors some right bastards.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, Michael stopped before the heavy, iron-braced door. Using the key Severyn had given him, he turned it in the newly oiled lock. He tried not to think of what Severyn would do when he learned how Michael had made use of his trust.

  Inside, crouched on the bare stone floor, naked and chained, was the proud Hunter captain, Adrian Remy. He turned his head from the light.

  “Good evening, captain.”

  There was no answer, just a hardening of the man’s jaw.

  A heavy iron bolt in the floor held the short length of chain attached to Remy’s shackles, severely limiting his movement. He could not stand, only kneel or lie down, both uncomfortable propositions on the cold, damp stone floor. His hair fell in a tangle over his broad shoulders. He was a handsome creature, thought Michael in a detached fashion.

  “What do you want, taint?”

  Michael remembered another cethe who had used the same angry, insulting language. The quiet core of pain inside him flared. He put his boot against Remy’s bare shoulder and pushed him lower to the floor. Before Remy could get back to his knees, Michael planted his foot firmly on the captain’s neck.

  “That should be obvious,” he replied. “You have the Blood. Therefore, Severyn has given you to me.”

  Remy stiffened in shock and dismay. Michael removed his foot, stepping back. “What?” he asked lightly, mockingly. “No denials?”