Cethe (4 page)

it, Shia had been a center of scholarship and academia. Since the Reformation, however, it had fal en into shameful disuse and

neglect.

His lamp made little headway in the cavernous chamber. Bookshelves loomed in orderly rows, silent and hiding deeper

shadow between them. Long reading tables marked the beginning of the stacks. One of the few times he’d actual y laid eyes on the

Earl’s youngest son had been in here. The youth, wrapped in a blanket against the chil , had been at one of the tables, reading. At

the time, Michael had mistaken him for a girl, so finely chiseled and delicate were his features.

Three rooms comprised the suite and, at the back of this, the largest of them, tucked into a corner and half-covered by a

massive bookshelf, was a door. Low, narrow, it had no handle and the wood was only veneer. Where it peeled away, iron glinted

dul y beneath.

Michael took off the medal ion, heart racing. His hand shook when he slid the key into a narrow slot in the door. There were

several clicks, thunderous in the quiet suite, and the door opened inward.

“Holy Protector…”

The room beyond was smal , but crowded. It contained a table and chair, a dusty, glass-faced cupboard and eight heavy

wooden crates stacked against the far wal . One of the crates had not been nailed shut yet. Michael set his lamp on the table and

took a look inside.

He found dozens of large, bulky leather bags. Opening one, his jaw dropped. The bright glitter of precious metals and gems

sparkled back at him. Quickly he opened another, spil ing its contents heedlessly into the crate. Gold coins, silver, and copper,

jewels of al shapes and sizes! He poked among the glittering pile and brought out a tiny gold and rose-stone circlet, a child’s

bracelet.

h’Nara who fel afoul of the Church lost their property along with their freedom. It was far worse east of the central mountains,

where the holy city of Zelenov wielded its greatest influence. There, a h’nar had two choices, Penitence or death. The Church made

no secret of their desire to have the same zealousness in al of Tanyrin, and they used parishes like Shia to spread their message of

hatred and fear.

Michael reached down and took a bulging handful of coins. The Elderings, like the good dogs they were, had been dutiful in

spreading that message, but from the looks of it, they’d been enriching themselves in the process.

Turning his attention to the cupboard, he discovered that it was locked. The unusual key did not work and he had no intention

of using k’na to open it so soon after having overextended himself. A sharp blow to the lock snapped the aged mechanism in a

shower of rust. Inside were six shelves stuffed with bulkier objects. He found a valuable early edition of a Chronicle, one of the two

most holy books of Tanyrin. Attesting to its age, it was hand-lettered and wrapped in a cloth heavily embroidered with gold and silver

floss.

There were also fine statues, some of solid gold; and even a slightly tarnished silver box with holy runes engraved on the lid

and containing a fragment of cloth sealed in wax.

Michael almost laughed aloud, returning to the crates, sifting the glittering coins and jewels through his fingers. How obliging

of the earl. Eldering had amassed a clandestine fortune on the backs of the Church’s h’naran victims. Now, in an act of beautiful,

ironic justice, it would help finance the overthrow of Arami IV, their chief puppet and source of their undeserved power.

Hearing the tread of heavy boots outside his room, Stefn lifted his head from his arms. Apprehension tightened his gut and set

his heart pounding. The footsteps stopped at the door; the latch rattled and it opened. Light fel through the opening, too bright for

his eyes. Even so, he knew the hulking silhouette: Corliss, the captain of the Royal Guard.

But the big man didn’t come in. Instead, he smacked his palm with his truncheon and gave Stefn a quick, dark grin before

backing away to make room for someone behind him. Already sick with dread, Stefn’s heart nearly stopped. He stood up, knocking

his chair over in his haste.

The elegant newcomer stooped beneath the low door and into the dark, cold room. He held out a gloved hand for the lantern,

which was promptly given over. “Leave us. I wil summon you when I’m ready.”

“Yes, my lord.” Corliss bowed again and the door closed. Stefn was left alone with the most loathsome of his captors.

Gone were al traces of the priestly disguise. This was a man more regal than the rebel prince he served. Arranz wore black,

al black, and at his throat was a single silver amulet. The brown dye was gone. With his long, ice-pale hair, he seemed to be a

beautiful, shining flame in the gloom. Michael Arranz, eldest grandson of the Demon Duke of Blackmarsh. As close to pureblood

naran as existed in this day and time. Traitor. Spy. Taint.

Yel ow light danced over the bare wooden floor, across Stefn’s narrow bed to stop at the table where he stood.

“What? No ‘hel o, Brother Michael? Nice to see you?’” Arranz set the lantern down. Mockery edged the deep, quiet voice. “Ah,

wel , I suppose not.”

From the inside pocket of his coat, Arranz brought out a scrol , tossing it onto the table before Stefn. It was tied with a red

ribbon. Blood red. Stefn recognized it wel enough; he’d seen it before in the hands of Corliss and others who’d come to his cel and

demanded he sign it.

Stefn tried to match the taint’s mocking tone. “It must have been quite a shock to the servants to find out our cleric was real y a

taint.

“Brother Michael was recal ed to Zelenov several days ago. Such a shame. I never got to meet him.” Arranz waved his hand

carelessly toward the scrol . “His Highness grows weary of your heroics, Eldering. Sign the damned agreement.”

“Go to hel , taint!”

The Elderings had been loyal to the King and Church since the human-naran war. Stefn would not defile his family’s memory

by submitting to one of their half-breed, murdering descendants.

Arranz sighed. “If you sign the agreement, you can leave this room, have a hot meal, a bath… ”

“Forge my signature,” Stefn retorted, even as his heart lurched and thudded. “What’s one more vile act for a taint like you?”

Arranz’s mouth twisted. He seized Stefn’s chin, ignoring the attempt of the smal er man to jerk away. One long thumb pressed

against the lump on Stefn’s jaw, making him hiss in pain.

“Do you so enjoy your jailer’s heavy hand?” Arranz asked.

Ice ran up Stefn’s spine, but he did not back down. He couldn’t. Deep in his heart of hearts, he knew very wel who had

brought the Elderings to this pass. Sin-catcher!

“Shia is loyal to the Church and king. I wil not sacrifice my sister and home for a traitor’s cause! Especial y one who would

employ the likes of you!”

“So dramatic. Do you honestly expect me to believe you mourn your boorish parent and equal y repel ent brother?”

Stung, Stefn retorted, “They were men of honor, loyal servants of Loth!”

“They were murderers, a hundred times over murderers, slavers, and thieves, just like the rest of your misbegotten clan.”

“You cannot diminish their honor!” spat Stefn, shaking with rage and contempt. “You, a murderer pol uted with the blood of

demons!”

“You may very wel be right, but time is growing short and my prince has plans. You wil do as he wishes… ”

Stefn’s heart stumbled as his limbs were seized by an invisible force.

“ …and turn over to him what he demands.”

There was no resisting the power that lifted Stefn’s hand, opening his fingers to receive the pen Arranz placed in it. Fury and

despair fil ed his eyes with water and made the words of the declaration blur as he dipped the pen into the inkpot before him, then to

the paper.

Stop! he screamed to himself, but his hand went through the familiar motion without heeding him. The pen was removed. His

signature stared back at him.

Stefn regained control of his limbs as Arranz rol ed up the scrol . Without thinking, he lunged for it, oversetting the inkpot, but

with a word, the taint flung him away to crash into the wal . Pain streaked up Stefn’s leg and it buckled, sending him into a

humiliating sprawl at Arranz’s feet.

Arranz dragged Stefn upright again. He said something under his breath and shoved the trembling earl onto the stool.

“What happens now?” whispered Stefn. “No matter what, I wil swear true loyalty only to the rightful king.”

“You may swear loyalty to whomever you wish,” replied Arranz. “As long as you obey me.”

Stefn, speechless, returned a look of outrage. Arranz’s lean features lit up with amusement. He bent and, seizing a handful of

Stefn’s hair, held him stil for a punishing kiss. “I’l be back in a day or two,” he promised, and was gone soon after, leaving Stefn

shaken, confused, and profoundly afraid.

It was a time of darkness, of murder and chaos. Men fought men for small plots of land. Misery and disease was a cloak

upon the land, and despair ran through the people like a graveyard wind. Into this hell came a Voice and a Presence. It spoke,

first to one lord, then to another, seeking one who would heed its words, but those wielding worldly power refused to hear. Not

until it spoke to a humble holy man in the parish of Tantegrel did it find a hearing. “I am Loth,” said the Voice and the holy man,

Arthur Gray, the founder and saint of the Church of Loth, did thereafter bring to Mankind the Light.

from:
The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347

After two weeks in Castle Shia, Severyn felt drained and jittery. As far as his plans were concerned, everything proceeded

smoothly. Forry, Iarhlaith and Dore had departed, each armed with instructions and a heavy bag of the Eldering’s il -gotten gold. The

marriage agreement was signed and locked up in Severyn’s strongbox. They’d begun the plans for refurbishing the castle and

expanding the former Hunter garrison. Yet, in spite of it, Severyn could not be easy.

It was the castle itself that weighed on his nerves. Severyn jumped at shadows and found himself unwil ing to be alone in its

dank, gloomy rooms. They had only ventured a few feet into the cel ar, but had immediately discovered rooms fil ed with instruments

of torture, oubliettes and cel s festooned with chains. It was a ghastly place. The earl may have had a fortune at his disposal, but

he’d spent none of it on Shia. Severyn could not imagine housing his elder brother in this wretched pile.

The earl had kept only a dozen servants, most of them a hard, unpleasant lot who, from the looks of things, had done

precious little to earn their pittances. Severyn wasted no time in dismissing them, easing their resentment with generous severance

packages. Perhaps when Timkins arrived with Severyn’s own staff, the place would feel better.

For the moment, Severyn and Michael were left to the tender ministrations of the latter’s trusted manservant, Marin. A

passable cook, Marin’s skil s suffered only from a lack of originality. Stil , there were an infinite variety of stews and only another

three or four days until Timkins arrived from Messerling.

“What the hel is this, Marin?” Michael demanded, poking at a large, whitish lump floating on the surface of his stew. “It’s not a

potato. It’s not a turnip.”

“My apologies, my lords,” replied Marin, good-humored as always. “But it is, indeed, a potato. The kitchen’s stores are…” He

hesitated delicately. “ …somewhat sparse.”

Mick rol ed his eyes and pushed it to the side of the bowl. He looked tired. Lately, he looked tired al the time. Using his witch-

powers so often left the mark of strain on him. He’d been asleep most of these past few days, exhausted after wringing the al -

important signature from the new earl. Severyn had missed his company.

“I was thinking of putting off leaving for another two weeks,” Severyn said. “The more I see of this parish, the more I realize

how much needs to be done. I don’t suppose you would lend me Chris?”

“Without my brother, Blackmarsh would fal apart. Worse, I’d be duty-bound to replace him. We would have to bring him in on

the plans… ”

“You don’t think he would approve?”

“Oh, he’d approve, al right. Our biggest problem would be to keep the hothead from going off half-cocked at any given