Cethe

by Becca Abbott

Remy didn’t reply. He gathered himself up and, wary, returned to his knees. His fingers wrapped around the heavy links of his chain. “Do what you’ve come to do,” he spat, refusing to look up. “I’m in your power, am I not?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Michael softly. He moved closer, holding the lantern aloft. “You most assuredly are. Open your legs. Let me see your cock.”

  Grudgingly, but without any further protest, Remy did as he was told. Under Michael’s gaze, the member lengthened and thickened. Catching his breath, Michael saw the tattoos. “That must have hurt like the devil,” he muttered before thinking.

  A muscle in Remy’s jaw leapt, but he remained mute, staring off into space.

  “That’s a lethet, isn’t it? Or something like?”

  “Don’t confuse me with your naragi whore,” gritted Remy. “Do what you will then leave me alone!”

  “As you wish.” The sight of Remy’s sex, girdled as it was by the brightly-colored, intricately-patterned band, heated Michael’s blood. “Bend over.”

  Remy silently leaned forward, gripping the iron ring tightly. He lifted his buttocks into the air, knees sliding apart with an ease that suggested familiarity with the position. Michael reached into his pocket, taking out the small pot of ointment.

  The Hunter captain made no sound when Michael prepared him. He grunted when Michael mounted him, lowering his head to his wrists. Each thrust drove a huff of breath from him, but nothing more.

  For Michael, there was pleasure, both in the Hunter’s tight passage and in the flow of k’na it brought. He climaxed swiftly. Yet, when he withdrew from the other man’s body, he keenly felt the sense of something deep inside him that remained unfulfilled.

  It was Stefn he wanted; Stefn he needed. Locke’s aide gave him only a taste of wine. Stefn alone could give him the full glass.

  Michael did up his breeches. Then, crouched beside Remy’s huddled form, he lifted the Hunter’s head by the hair. “Open your mouth.”

  Remy obeyed, wary. At once, Michael shoved a wadded rag into it. When Remy tried to jerk away, surprised, Michael’s fist tightened painfully in the man’s hair. “Do what you’re told,” he ordered in the same quiet voice.

  Swiftly, Michael tied another strip of rag around the Dragon’s head, holding the gag in place. Then he unlocked the shackles from the chain. At once he rose and drew his sword, holding it up and ready. Pulling a wad of clothing from the valise, he threw it to the floor beside Remy. “Get dressed.”

  Behind the strip of rag, Remy’s mouth worked, but he got up and quickly pulled on the clothing. It was a servant’s garb, rough woolen breeches and a long shirt of muslin.

  “Turn around.”

  Bewildered, Remy obeyed. Michael shackled his hands again.

  They left the cell, Michael locking it carefully behind him. His heart was pounding. At the top of the stairs, he slipped out first. No one. Even so, he closed his eyes, opening his vision to the beyond. Patterns of varying brightness and intricacy came to life around him. Here, no sorcery obscured them. In his mind, he mapped out his route from the castle.

  “This way,” he said in a low voice. Remy, eyes speculative above his gag, went without hesitation.

  Michael had no intention of smuggling the prisoner across the bridge to the mainland. It was too heavily guarded. Instead, he hustled Remy out into the gardens, down the gently sloping lawns to the edge of the island. Through the bushes they went, all the while Michael keeping a wary eye out for patrols. Ahead, a small cove came into view, flat stone ledges making a natural stair into the water. Floating gently on the water was a small rowboat.

  The possibilities that he might be destroying his friendship with Severyn hung around Michael’s heart like a dark cloud. The chance of his grandfather disinheriting him was even greater. The duke had told him in no uncertain terms where his loyalty should lie. Even as he walked, his prisoner in hand, a part of Michael cried out against what he was doing. Yet that small, sensible voice was powerless against his need for Stefn and his determination to save his cethe from the vengeance of the Church.

  A snap of a twig sent Michael’s heart into his mouth. He pulled Remy back, arm around the other man’s throat. “Not a sound,” he whispered.

  A figure pushed out of the bushes and came down the stone steps. With a start, Michael recognized him. Auron Challory went straight to the boat, then looked around “Mick?” he called in a low voice. “I know you’re here! Show yourself!”

  Michael didn’t move. He felt Remy’s rapid pulse against his wrist. The thought of turning his power against his friend made him sick at heart, but he would not be stopped!

  “Damn it, Mick?” hissed Auron, peering this way and that through the moonlight. “I’m on your side, man! I came to help!”

  Michael drew a deep breath. Was it true? He knew Auron had developed a fondness for Stefn, but to defy Severyn, too? Abruptly, he made up his mind. He propelled Remy forward.

  Auron jumped up, grinning broadly. “Ha!” he chortled softly. “I knew it!”

  “You idiot!” was Michael’s reply. “What are you doing?”

  “Same thing you are, going to get Eldering.”

  “But Sev…”

  “Has plenty of help, just like you said.” Auron ran back up the steps to rummage in the bushes. He hauled out a large leather and canvas pack and took it back to the water’s edge, dropping it into the rowboat. “Let’s go before anyone realizes we’re missing.”

  “How did you know? Does anyone else suspect?”

  “Nah. I figured you’d go after him, no matter what Sev or your icicle of a grandfather says. You’re in love with him, right?”

  Michael opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I… ”

  “Of course, you are! And Eldering’s in love with you, too, although I can’t for the life of me understand that one! Still, never let it be said that Auron Challory is not a champion of true love!” He paused, striking a dramatic pose, adding, “Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the East.”

  “You’re a raving lunatic,” marveled Michael, but a great weight lifted from his heart. “Do you think you can shut up long enough to help me get Remy into the boat?”

  Guards took Stefn into the bowels of the Domicile to a bare, cold stone room where, under their watchful eyes and mocking jibes, he was stripped naked and ordered to clean himself. One of them noticed his foot and the jokes became even crueler.

  It was a disorienting return to the past, to stand shivering and scrubbing himself with rags, cold water and harsh soaps. They would not let him dress afterwards, but herded him down another bleak corridor, opening a door and thrusting him into the room beyond.

  He crept to the corner of the tiny cell, curling up facing the door, and waiting for whatever might come next. No one came, however, and after awhile, his weariness overcame his fear and he slept.

  Some time later, a boot in his ribs woke him. He was dragged roughly to his feet and thrust out into the corridor. He stumbled and fell while their harsh laughter echoed around him. Another door opened. This room was well lit, with a large mirror and vanity set up and several grey-clad Penitents standing alongside one wall, hands clasped behind them and their heads bowed.

  “His Eminence wants him prepared for Service,” announced one of Stefn’s guards. “We’ll be back within the hour.”

  They left and silence fell. Stefn began to shake in reaction, trying to take in his new surroundings. When the h’nara came toward him, he shrank away. One of their number took hold of his arm firmly. “Please don’t give us trouble,” he said. “We don’t wish to harm you.”

  Stefn swallowed hard, staring from one Penitent to the other. All of them were young and all were male. Furthermore, like the Penitent serving the archbishop upstairs, each was exceptionally handsome.

  “Leave me alone,” he whispered, pulling away.

  “If you resist, we will call the guards!” one told him, scowling.

  “Please!” another pleaded, looking anxiou
sly toward the door. “If we do not prepare you in time, we too, will be punished!”

  Stefn bit back his retort. They looked frightened and upset. He clamped his lips together and sat on the stool they pushed forward, his back rigid, facing the mirror. They moved in around him.

  He sat in silent, angry misery as they set about brushing his hair and rubbing scented oils into his skin. His foot caused much consternation among them. His sixth toe had grown out completely in the past year, twisted and misshapen, covered by a spiderweb of scars from the many amputations he’d endured. Finally, after much whispered consultation, they brought a wide silk ribbon, pink, like his skin, and wound it around the offending limb.

  One of them brought a tray upon which a variety of small pots were arranged and set about applying the cosmetics to Stefn’s face, darkening his eyelids and blackening his eyelashes. They even put rouge on his cheeks and daubed red on his lips. But when he was told to slide forward on the stool and open his legs, he balked. Eyeing the handful of fine gold chains in the hands of one of the boys, he shook his head violently.

  In the end, they had to call for the guards, for he refused to let him put their thing on him. He kicked and thrashed wildly, cursing them all, while they tried to wrap the awful contraption around his genitals. Finally, one of the guards swore and struck him a glancing blow, knocking him to the floor where he lay stunned. At once, the slaves threw themselves on him, pinning him there. Helpless, he could do nothing while they fondled his sex, pulling and squeezing until, in spite of the pain, it hardened. They wrapped the foul thing around it. The chains cut deep into his sensitive skin and when they wound more of them around his testicles, he wept with the humiliation and pain of it.

  They dragged him to his feet, at last, and he prayed it was over. Alas, Loth had never been much interested in answering his prayers. He was bent over the stool and, a moment later, a slick, cool finger was thrust into his anus. Stefn clung to the rungs of the stool, teeth clenched on angry sobs as he was roughly fingered. He couldn’t help the cry of shock and pain when the finger was removed and something very large was thrust up into him.

  Trembling violently, he was pulled upright again. He swayed, breathing in short, shallow gasps.

  No more! Please, no more!

  But they were still not finished. While the guards held his arms, the Penitents came with small jeweled rings. The rings pulled open and he watched in horror as they were placed on his nipples and allowed to snap closed. The pain made him fling his head back, eyes going wide and flooding with tears.

  Finally, they locked jewel-encrushed bands of steel around his wrists and fastened them together behind his back.

  “Very nice,” one of the guards said, grinning and looking him up and down. He reached over and squeezed one of Stefn’s pinched, swelling nipples. Stefn whimpered, trying to shrink back.

  “Leave him alone,” said the other guard. “We’re late as it is.”

  They took him, lost in a daze of dread and horror, back to the upper regions of the Domicile. He barely noticed when, at last, he found himself in a large, luxurious bedroom. The guards departed and the door closed, leaving him in silence.

  “My lord?” came a soft voice from the shadows of the room. Charles, the Archbishop’s Penitent, appeared from an adjoining room. He was not unsympathetic, but neither did he hesitate to take Stefn’s arm and lead him to the large bed dominating the chamber. He sat Stefn down on the edge of it. “Open your legs, my lord,” he said quietly, “so his Excellency may see exactly what is available for his pleasure.”

  Stefn gave him an anguished look, but Charles only shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you must obey.”

  Stefn’s abused nipples twinged painfully. The softness of the mattress was not enough to ease the pain of whatever they’d forced into him. He did not resist when Charles pressed his knees wide apart.

  “Lie back,” ordered the Penitent.

  Stefn obeyed, staring up into the canopy, wretchedly aware of being utterly exposed. Tears leaked from the corner of his eyes.

  “Do not move,” said Charles. “You must be in that position when His Eminence chooses to visit you.”

  He listened to the h’nar’s footsteps crossing the room. The door opened and closed, followed by silence. Despair settled into Stefn’s heart like a poisonous fog.

  Michael.

  Closing his eyes, Stefn conjured the h’naran lord’s image in his mind, the shining hair, the quick, boyish grin. He remembered the gentleness of Michael’s touch, the softness of his lips.

  Help me!

  But there would be no rescue from this nightmare, no raging h’naran lord to storm the fortress of Loth’s knightmages.

  He was truly lost.

  Remy was gone. A panicked Corliss brought Severyn the news at breakfast.

  “Are you sure?” Severyn asked, even though he knew damn well Corliss would hardly be mistaken about such a thing.

  “The cell door was locked, Majesty, but the prisoner is no longer within. Nor was there any sign that his irons had been broken. Whoever took him had a key, I’m afraid.”

  “Impossible!” Severyn muttered. Only one other man beside himself and Corliss had one.

  Reaching across the toast-holder, he picked up the small, golden bell and rang it. A servant appeared at once.

  “Find Lord Michael,” said the prince, a hollow feeling settling over him.

  The servant took some time in returning; the delay told Severyn what had happened even before the servant returned to say Lord Arranz was nowhere to be found.

  Even then, Severyn couldn’t accept it. He sent a messenger to the Watersedge Hotel, where Lord Damon and his marshland h’naran vassals were staying. The messenger returned, Lord Damon hot on his heels.

  By then, Severyn had completed a search of Michael’s rooms. He handed the note he’d found there to the duke. Uncle Damon read it quickly, handsome face paling. When he handed it back, he appeared speechless, tiny white lines etched deep at the corners of his mouth and between his eyebrows.

  “Auron is missing, as well,” said Severyn.

  “The fools!” Striding across the room, Lord Damon glared out the window. “They cannot have gotten far. You’ve sent men after them?”

  “No.”

  The duke spun around, eyes wide with disbelief.

  “He’s in love with Eldering.” Saying it aloud brought a lump to Severyn’s throat. The ache in his chest intensified. “I’ve known it’s true for a long time, I just refused to see it.”

  “Absurd!” Lord Damon’s lip curled. “It’s the Bond, nothing more.”

  “What if it is? What difference does that make? His feelings are just as strong! We threw them together, my lord! This is the result!”

  Tension showed in every line of the duke’s tall, youthful form. The winter-grey eyes, so like Michael’s, burned with cold fire. “I thought he was wise enough to know the difference…”

  “Maybe he is. Maybe it’s we who weren’t. He confessed to me once we know very little about the naragi. Even you, I daresay, have only what legend and tradition have left to you.”

  “It sounds as if you’re making excuses for my graceless grandson.”

  “Not just anyone can be a naragi’s cethe. Maybe the Bond is only a manifestation of something deeper.” Severyn floundered, trying to put order to his thoughts.

  Uncle Damon made a sound of disgust. “Regardless,” he said, “Michael risks catastrophe by going into the stronghold of the Church! We need him, Severyn. You have the throne, but the path to uncontested power will not be easy. My marsh witches cannot stand against knightmages.”

  “Michael is not a tool!” Severyn’s voice rose. “He is a friend and a brother. It was unforgiveable to sacrifice him to my future, to a fate with consequences neither of us understood!”

  “Don’t lose your focus,” the duke said. “He had every chance to refuse that sacrifice, but chose to go ahead. He understood the prize we sought. Now
he threatens to throw it away for the sake of a sin-catcher whose blood is poisoned with evil. Are you really ready to risk everything to let him do it? Are his desires really more important than Tanyrin’s deliverance?”

  Severyn stared at his surrogate father. “No,” he said slowly. “No, they’re not.”

  Lord Damon nodded, relieved. “Then you’ll send someone after him.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” said Severyn quietly, emphatically. “Yes, I will.”

  PART XXVII

  With the foul murder of Aramis IV, in the Year of Loth’s Dominion 1422, the direct line of kings descended from St. Aramis was ended. The throne passed to his first cousin, the Duke of Messerling. His Grace William Lothlain was the only surviving male relative bearing royal blood. His Grace, at his coronation, took the name Arami Lothlain in honor of his ancestor, Aramis I, founder of the royal line and Hero of Tanyrin. A pious and sober man, Arami I ruled Tanyrin for twenty years and is today known by all as Arami the Just.

  from: A Modern History of Tanyrin,

  Year of Loth’s Dominion 1505

  Michael woke, heart in his mouth, pulse thundering in his ears. He lay, his breath coming rapidly, looking up through the branches of the evergreens at the night sky.

  Stefn!

  Rolling over, he pushed aside his blanket. Remy, bound to a nearby tree, slept with his chin on his chest. Auron slept, too, wrapped up in his bedroll on the other side of the fire, snoring. Michael sat up, hugging his knees to his chest, trying to quell his sense of panic.

  Stefn was in trouble. He remembered acutely the same terrible feelings when his grandfather’s men had tortured Stefn in the delta. It took real effort to subdue the sense of panic and urgency.

  “They’re hurting him, aren’t they?”

  Michael looked up. Remy was awake, staring at him, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. Rising to his feet, Michael approached the tree, stopping only long enough to pluck a burning stick from the fire. The captain shrank back when Michael dropped to a crouch in front of him.