Cethe (57 page)

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! Hul o, 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 careful y marking his place. “I’l be right there. See that they’re given something

cold to drink,” he added.

Two men were waiting in the hal . To Stefn’s surprise, the vil ager, 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 respectful y bobbing his head. “This ‘ere is Wil 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 al . Everyone’s been sayin’ it. ‘Tis why we came today.”

“What is it?”

“Tis the abbey, m’lord. The priests have been tel in’ everyone who’s built their cottages on the hil that they’re there unlawful y.

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 wel !”

“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 wil be the same thing al over again. I’l 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 al !”

The two men departed, much cheered, promising to bring the encouraging news to their fel ows in the vil age. 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 pul ed low over his eyes, white hair and beard escaping from its shadows.

“Bad luck,” cal ed 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?”

“Wel , if ye don’t mind, we’l 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.

“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 il ?”

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 tel 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 al right,” he said. “Just a little tired.”

Chris rol ed 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 tel 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 fal ing 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 fol owing 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 al right?”

Corliss didn’t answer right away. Instead, he struck a match, lighting a nearby lamp. Muttering his thanks, Severyn found his

breeches and pul ed them on under his night-shirt.

“Wel ? Out with it! Is my brother al 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 hel 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. Fol owing his

gaze, Lord Damon nodded and slammed it shut, leaving the three men alone.

“Now,” said Severyn. “Tel 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, col apsing onto his sofa. “Are you saying my brother kil ed Eleanor?”

“I’m tel ing you what I was told, Your Highness,” said Corliss stolidly. “Wil you be going to Lothmont?”

“Eh? Hel , yes! Prepare my fastest carriage at once with a ful unit of outriders. Damn it!”

“I’l 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 kil 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 kil or be kil ed. 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 cal ed off his men.

“Where is he?” gritted Severyn.

“The murderer!” Locke was pale, anger cold in his eyes. “King or no, he wil 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 col ar.

“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