Cethe (60 page)

The last of the Lothlain kings to wield the power of high lothria was Aramis IV, murdered by naran assassins in YLD1422.

With the passing of the throne to the family’s secondary line, no Lothlain since has possessed even slight magical ability.

from:
Craig
,
A Modern History of Tanyrin
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1506

Stefn drifted in and out of nightmarish darkness. There were times when he almost woke, and in those times, he was vaguely

aware of movement, of voices around him, and of pain. But the darkness always returned, waves of it crashing down, drowning him

in its thick, cold depths, until he thought he might be dead and in Hel .

Final y, he rose from oblivion to a different, more natural darkness. He opened his eyes and saw flickering firelight, his

awareness fil ing with the scent of forest and damp. There was hard ground beneath him. His head ached and he was desperately

thirsty. When he tried to move, a wash of dizziness made him groan and close his eyes again.

“It wakes,” came a voice from somewhere to his left. Dry leaves crunched; a stick snapped. Heavy footsteps came toward him.

Stefn tried to rol over and see who approached, but discovered himself stil bound. The next moment, someone seized the back of

his coat and hauled him to his feet, pul ing him around. He saw a fire, the silhouettes of men seated around it. Everything spun

wildly. If not for the merciless grip holding him upright, he would have col apsed.

Memories came back in a rush. He was in the hands of Zelenov. They had been riding across the northern parishes, making

for the Midders, but for some reason, there had been patrols of the Royal Guard everywhere. In the end, his captors had abandoned

the carriage, traveling on horseback and only at night. Then he had been drugged again, Brant had not wanted to take any

chances.

The Hunter dragged him toward the fire. He was unceremoniously thrust back to his knees. He looked around for Brant, but

there was only darkness and the Dragon’s men, grinning at him in the firelight.

“Pretty little whore, ain’t he?”

“I wouldn’t mind another go at him.”

Laughter, cruel and derisive, hit him from al sides. If only he could think straight! Stefn tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was

too dry.

“Water,” he croaked.

His reply was more laughter.

“You want a drink, sathra?” one of the soldiers asked, lurching to his feet. Stefn watched in horror as the soldier opened his

breeches. “Come and get it.”

Shaking his head, he tried to edge away, but they grabbed him and pul ed him closer to the fire.

“Leave me alone!” He struggled, but they had no trouble dumping him on his bel y beside the fire. He heard fabric ripping and

felt cool, damp air on suddenly bare skin.

There was silence. Stefn knew they were looking at the lethet. After his rape, he’d heard them talking about it, speculating on

its value.

One of the Hunters, a hatchet-faced man not much older than himself, reached toward the col ar. “There must be a fuckin’

fortune in jewels!”

“He’s not gonna need ‘im where he’s goin’,” said another Hunter with a sly look around. “I say we have a closer look.”

“Brant won’t like it,” warned an older Hunter, grizzled and with a long scar running down the side of his face.

“He ain’t here.”

Stefn was pul ed back to his knees, his coat hanging in tatters around his shackled wrists, his shirt gaping open. The hatchet-

faced man dragged him close and tried to slide his fingers under the col ar to pul it away. There was a spark and loud crack. Yelping

and sucking on his fingers, Hatchet-Face lurched to his feet, backing away.

“It’s sorcery!” he cried, making the sign against evil.

“What did you expect?” came a familiar voice, cool and dry. “He’s a naragi’s whore. Keep your hands off him if you don’t want

such unpleasant surprises.”

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 fol owin’ 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 fal ing into the ditch running alongside it.

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

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

Stefn’s heart sank. “What wil 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’l wager. He must be anointed by the Church and the Council wil 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 fil ed 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 wel 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 pul ed back his horse, al owing 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 wil pay in ful for al 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 hil s 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 val eys.

As they descended, the green pockets resolved into smal fields criss-crossed by irrigation ditches. Closer stil , 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 wel ,” 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 final y came within sight of Zelenov. The city rose from the hil side at the end of a long

val ey, a crowd of red-brick buildings surrounded by a high wal . 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, pul ing 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 al of his failing

strength.

Within the city wal s, Zelenov’s streets were narrow and crooked. The mud-brick buildings seemed jumbled together in

haphazard ways, sharing common wal s, some overhanging the streets, giving Zelenov a cramped, maze-like appearance.

The crowds in the dusty streets made way for Brant’s smal group, staring after them as they made their way uphil . 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 smal yards to separate them. Hunters were everywhere and so were Penitents, the latter rushing

about carrying baskets fil ed with al 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 wal . 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, al lit by torches. It was a military instal ation of

considerable size and sophistication. Stefn smel ed 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 fol owing, 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. Stefn shut his mouth and held out his hands, watching numbly as the shackles were removed.

“Please fol ow me, my lord.”

They walked together across the yard, around several buildings and final y, through another gate in an even higher wal .

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