Cethe (32 page)

his rooms. He pretended he didn’t care. They were comfortable enough and Marin brought him whatever books he asked for. There

was the business of copying the true Second Chronicle, as wel . He had no need of companionship.

Late one afternoon, a knock on his door made him look up in surprise. Marin, his only visitor these days, usual y didn’t bother.

“Come in,” he cal ed.

It was Michael! The h’nar strol ed in, crunching on an apple, tossing another to Stefn. Startled, Stefn just managed to catch it.

It was bigger than any he’d ever seen.

“Supplies came in,” said Michael thickly. “Iyrean Reds. Enjoy.”

Iyrean Reds were rare, grown only in neighboring, seaside Iyre, and so expensive, that only royalty or highblood could afford

them. Stefn had never had one; he took a bite. The fruit had a hint of spiciness, so sweet, his mouth watered.

Michael went right to the table and picked up Stefn’s latest notes.

Stefn took another bite. “Three entire chapters,” he mumbled through a mouthful of the fruit. “They took out three whole

chapters, and no wonder. They cover the five years just after the war. More nara fought with the humans than I imagined and,

without their help, the reconstruction wouldn’t have gone half so wel .”

Pul ing out the chair, Michael sat to read the notes. He hadn’t tied his hair back today, but let it hang long and loose and

shining. His features, so perfect, were solemn, bent over the papers and stil with concentration. Stefn remembered the nara he’d

just finished reading about, men who had been just as effortlessly strong and beautiful.

Michael pushed back his chair. “You’re very thorough,” he said. “It’s a pity you never had the chance to attend a Col ege.”

Stefn shrugged. The apple was eaten; nothing left but the core. He tossed it into the nearby fireplace. It hissed and popped in

the flames.

“You’re almost finished?”

“Two more chapters.,” replied Stefn. “Wil you send it to Withwil ow?”

“Probably. We’l discuss it tonight at dinner. Speaking of which, Severyn would like you to join us. He’d like to hear what

you’ve learned. You can bring your findings with you.”

Stefn’s heart gave a panicked jump. “M-me?”

“Why not? You must surely be ready for a change of scenery?”

“Y-yes, but… ”

“Good. I’l leave you to it. Until dinner?” With his rare, blinding smile, Michael was gone.

Stefn could barely concentrate on his reading after that. Somehow he made it through the final pages and hoped his notes

were reasonably coherent. Marin arrived as he was reviewing them. The servant insisted that Stefn’s appearance be impeccable.

“The claret evening coat?” he fretted at the wardrobe. “Or perhaps the moss green?”

Stefn couldn’t care less. He wasn’t in the least bit hungry, and nervousness made his hands clammy. It must have been

painful y obvious, too, for when Michael arrived to escort Stefn to dinner, he took one look and said, “The main course tonight is

roast beef, not pickled earl.”

“You’re sure?” Stefn cast an apprehensive look down the hal .

Michael laughed. His hand settled briefly on Stefn’s shoulder, an easy, companionable, gesture that Stefn found inexplicably

steadying. “You’l do fine,” he predicted.

“Why was I confined to my rooms?”

Michael’s lips tightened. “Severyn doesn’t trust you,” he said. “He told me to remind you to say nothing about what happened

at Blackmarsh.”

In the dining room, al the rebel lords were gathered. Lord Chal ory nodded to him with a pleasant smile, while the prince

settled into his chair at the head of the table. Severyn smiled at Michael, but the look he turned on Stefn was cool.

A servant pul ed out a chair for Stefn at the foot of the table. Michael left him to take a place on the prince’s right. Feeling

isolated and conspicuous, Stefn set down the book and his notes, barely heeding when the footman asked after his preferred

beverage.

“Good evening, Lord Eldering.”

Stefn looked up quickly. Prince Severyn met his gaze from the opposite end of the table.

“I’m delighted you could join us this evening. I believe you know everyone here except, perhaps, Lords Dohrn and Iarhlaith.”

He indicated the sandy-haired nobleman and the stolid gentleman on his left. “We’re looking forward to hearing your report on the

Chronicle your family had in its possession.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Stefn managed to keep his voice steady.

An army of servants arrived, one for each man, it seemed, and more. Stefn’s sense of the surreal held through the dinner’s

elaborate first course. The Eldering’s governess had imparted the rudiments of polite etiquette to her two charges, but in Shia, there

had been little actual use made of it. Meals had usual y arrived on the long, plank table al at once with only a handful of servants

present to refil mugs with wine or ale. Men thought nothing of stabbing their daggers into the table-top in emphasis of some point,

while dogs fought noisily for scraps beneath it.

These men were also warriors, but the difference could not have been more profound. At the prince’s elbow, Lord Michael set

down his soup spoon, leaning forward slightly to say something to him. Lothlain grinned and replied, paying no attention to the

immaculately uniformed footman who whisked away his bowl. Voices were low; candlelight fil ed the newly redecorated chamber

with a soft glow. The clink of heavy silver cutlery, the musical chime of crystal, al made Stefn feel as if he lived in a dream.

“Tel me, Lord Eldering. What do you think of Shia’s new look?” Prince Severyn asked. “Quite an improvement, eh?”

“Very much so,” replied Stefn. He forced himself to look at the prince. “I know my sister wil be deeply touched by your

generosity, Your Highness.”

His words brought a sudden silence.

Lothlain recovered quickly. “That is my fondest hope,” he said, “but what of you? Does it meet with your approval, my lord?”

“Does it matter?” Stefn kept his voice steady and level.

“Not in the least,” agreed Lothlain softly.

“When is the wedding, Your Highness? Am I invited?”

“Stefn… ” Michael frowned at him, but Lothlain set a hand on his arm.

“He can speak freely. After al , we wil soon be related.” To Stefn, he replied, “That depends on you, my lord. If I trust you not

to cause trouble, you’re welcome to attend. If not, an il ness wil be invented and you wil remain here. As for when, we have set the

date to a year and three months from now to al ow the proper period of mourning. Whatever you may think of me, my lord, I do not

intend to mistreat or dishonor Miss Eldering.”

After a moment, Iarhlaith spoke up, something about a grouse hunt planned for later in the week, and conversation resumed.

The second course was fol owed by a third, then a fourth. By the time a footman wheeled in the dessert cart, Stefn had a ful bel y

and most of his composure back.

“I think we’re ready to hear your report,” Lothlain announced, settling back in his chair. “What can you tel us about this copy

of the Chronicle?”

Stefn rose, arranging his notes nervously. He cleared his throat, glancing toward Michael. The h’nar smiled faintly, nodding.

“Volume two,” said Stefn, “contains over seventy pages of material not included in the authorized versions. Almost al of the

omitted text has to do with the positive influence of the nara after the war. Many of them had fought with us and, afterwards, devoted

much of their time and fortune to rebuilding Tanyrin.”

“So that’s why some nara were al owed to go free after the war,” said Iarhlaith final y. “I always wondered, if they were so

terrible, why St. Aramis al owed so many to live among us as equals.”

“It’s damning to the Church if it’s true,” Dore agreed. He rubbed his chin thoughtful y. “It seems there should be some way to

use it to our advantage.”

“I like the idea of printing copies of the true Chronicle and distributing them in secret around Tanyrin.” said the prince, looking

directly at Stefn. “Mick told us about your idea. It’s a good one, my lord. Sowing dissension in the Church would keep the Celestials’

eyes off us.”

“
If
we determine these are the true Chronicles.” Iarhlaith huffed.

“And if we could get our hands on a press,” added Forry. “Or has someone come up with a new idea of how to accomplish

that?”

Stefn sat down as the others began arguing over how best to implement such a plan. His head spun, caught between

gratification and apprehension. Were they serious? Did the prince mean what he said?

“We could ask Storm for the use of one of his presses.”

“That would never work,” retorted Forry. “The Church requires al of them to be registered. They’l know at once where the

copies come from. We’l need to build our own.”

And so it went. Stefn listened, interested in spite of himself. When dinner was over and the men rose to withdraw, he found

himself half-hoping he would be invited to join them, but Hanson appeared to escort him back to his room.

Away from the dining hal and its roaring fire, the deepening chil settled into the corridors of Shia. Stefn heard the muffled,

steady wail of the wind. It was wel into autumn and one of the northland’s storms was approaching. It promised to be a strong one.

His heart lifted slightly at the realization he would spend it in a cozy room, under mounds of thick, soft covers.

Not only was his fire burning, but a bed-warmer had been slipped between his sheets. The heavy drapes had been drawn

against any stray draft making it past the new windows. His cup of hot chocolate sat beside two biscuits fragrant with cinnamon.

Wasting no time, he put on his night-shirt and, taking up his book, got into bed. With the pil ows plumped up at his back, the lamp

burning low on the table beside him, he sipped his chocolate and watched the flames dance in the fireplace across the room.

Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, he thought. Prince Severyn was not entirely evil. Although Stefn had not been much in the

prince’s company, he could see the mood of those who served him, their affection and fierce loyalty. There had been none of that in

the Shia of old; only fear.

Stefn finished the last delicious swal ow of chocolate, setting aside the cup. Opening his book, he picked up where he’d left

off. It was a lady’s romance he’d found among the boxes of books, one of a half-dozen such volumes Michael claimed had been

purchased for Stefanie’s eventual enjoyment. The thoughtfulness of the gesture was another reason to think again about Prince

Severyn. Maybe, if Stefn kept his silence, Stefanie might even be happy.

He wished he knew more about King Arami. The king was rarely mentioned in the house. Had Stefn not been an avid reader,

he might not have even known a king outranked an archbishop. According to Michael, the last few kings of Tanyrin had been weak

men, little more than puppets of the Church. If that was so, maybe the kingdom would be better served by Severyn. Whatever else

he might be, Stefn couldn’t accuse the prince of weakness.

Murderer and traitor, more like!

But Stefn’s angry, inner admonishment didn’t seem to have the power it once had. He also had to admit, however reluctantly,

that Stefanie was very likely to be in ecstasies over her engagement to the prince. After al , women were expected to marry as far up

the social ladder as possible and the only further up one could get was to be queen.

Or the lady wife of the Archbishop. Stefn recal ed his brief, unsettling encounter with Lady Locke and cringed inwardly. She

must have thought him a perfect fool. Lord Arranz certainly had.

Lord Arranz.

Stefn’s thoughts took an unwelcome turn. He picked up his book, determined to banish them in the improbable adventures of

The Constant Knight. Alas, this novel featured a moody, violent hero who, as Stefn read, began to remind him more than a little of a

certain perplexing and unpredictable h’naran lord.

Howling woke Michael from restless dreams. He lay, shivering under his blankets, stil half-asleep and not sure what he heard.

Then, as he grew more aware of his own discomfort, he realized he was listening to the wind.

The wal s of the old house were granite, six feet thick in places, yet the wind was as noisy as if they were made of the

flimsiest wood and wattle. He could see his breath, hanging like a white cloud before him. Even under three heavy blankets, he was