Cethe (61 page)

so fine.

Inside, the residence was awash in luxury. Stefn took in paintings in their gilded frames, the wal s lined with moiré silk and lush

carpets. From time to time, they passed doors standing open, revealing rooms fil ed with furnishing that rivaled the elegant,

expensive pieces now residing in Shia.

The occupants he saw were al men, most dressed in lay clothing, a few wearing priestly garb. They watched him pass

curiously, but made no move to accost him or his escort.

The officers took him upstairs, delivering him before a set of double doors. Standing in front of them was a slender youth with

pale yel ow hair. He was dressed in grey, his sleeveless tunic almost too brief for modesty. In the middle of his forehead was the

brand of the Penitent. He bowed very low and opened the doors, ushering them into a spacious, wel -appointed sitting room.

“Lord Eldering!”

Stefn stumbled to a halt. Setting aside a book and rising from his chair, was none other than His Eminence, Lord Locke!

Another Penitent stood beside the archbishop, cooling him with a large, elaborate fan of silk and peacock feathers.

“My lord! You look done in! Charles, bring refreshments at once and see if his lordship’s room is ready.”

The Penitents vanished, the Dragon officers with them. Stefn, speechless with surprise at his welcome, went to the chair the

Archbishop indicated.

“I do apologize for the rather precipitous way in which you were brought to Zelenov,” Locke said, “but now that you are here,

rest assured you wil be much more comfortable.”

Stefn sank into the chair. “M-my lord,” he managed. Then, “Why am I here?”

Lord Locke’s eyebrows rose. “To the point, I see.” He resumed his seat on the sofa, crossing one long leg over the other. “Let

me be equal y blunt, if I may? You are sathra to the heretic, Michael Arranz. Am I correct?”

Stefn could only shake his head, heart beating fast with apprehension.

“I know you have the Blood,” continued Locke amiably. “I realized that upon my visit to Shia.”

Stefn barely heard him, distracted by the reappearance of the yel ow-haired Penitent bearing a large tray. The youth set it on

the low table between them and, at the Archbishop’s careless wave, quickly withdrew. Seeing the generous array of sandwiches

and cakes, Stefn’s mouth fil ed with water.

“By al means, help yourself.”

Hands trembling, Stefn tore into the repast, gobbling down the food and emptying the water cup in short order. Locke watched

with a benign smile.

“The Pretender has abducted my aide. Adrian too, has the Blood and has served me for a long time. I miss him greatly and

need him more. His misfortune, however, is your chance at redemption.”

The food suddenly stuck in Stefn’s throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, my lord.”

“Is that so?” The smile hardened. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain the presence of the thing around your neck?”

Stefn’s stomach knotted. “This is a family heirloom,” he lied.

“Come, my lord! This game-playing is absurd! Do you think I don’t know a true lethet when I see one?”

Stefn was tired, deadly-tired. He could think of nothing to say.

“I would like to think, my lord, that you had no choice in receiving it.”

“No,” whispered Stefn. “I didn’t.”

“As I suspected.” The Archbishop’s smile turned kindly again. “Fortunately, you can have your revenge by serving me in

Adrian’s stead. With your help, we can end the heretical rule of the traitor king and set Tanyrin on the path to righteousness.”

Stefn stared at him. In his exhaustion, he was not, perhaps, thinking as wel as he might. After being manhandled and

brutalized by Brant’s men, he was in no mood for this delicate dance.

“Traitor?” he exclaimed hoarsely. “It was the Church who deliberately altered the words of St. Aramis!”

The archbishop’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tel me you’ve been deceived by the false versions of the Chronicles being passed

around as true?”

“They are true! I’ve seen the original manuscript of the First Chronicle!”

No sooner had the words escaped then Stefn knew he’d made a mistake.

“So,” Locke said softly. “The book was in Shia, after al .”

Stefn’s heart began a painful pounding.

“And the first Chronicle? Did your people have it, too?”

“No.”

“Let me guess.” Locke’s smile was brittle. “That bastard, Storme?”

Stefn swal owed hard and said nothing.

“Don’t you understand?” Locke asked. “The Church had to correct the Chronicles! St. Aramis was betrayed by his precious

naragi! It was Derek Arranz who conspired to lift the nara back to their positions of power and used St. Aramis to do it! Those

Chronicles were corrupt before they were written! It was the nara responsible for the Wet! The nara who brought catastrophe to

Tanyrin, who sought to lead people away from Loth! It is their filthy descendants who now seek to do the same!”

Stefn shivered at the cold rage he heard, not daring to move.

“Renounce the naragi and the false king! Swear to the Church and I wil forgive your heresies. You wil be given a place

among the Dragons of Loth and wealth beyond your imagining. Join us in the purification of Tanyrin. Help us drive out the demon-

spawn and return righteousness to the world!”

“No,” whispered Stefn, horrified. He thought of Annie, of Marin. He thought of the smal bones in Shia’s refuse-pit. “You’re

wrong, my lord! There is evil, yes, but it doesn’t lie in the h’nara!” His throat tightened, fear a leaden weight in his chest.

Nevertheless, he met the archbishop’s eyes squarely. “The evil is in those who would twist the words of St. Aramis, who would use

fear and hatred to take worldly power for themselves!”

Locke gazed at Stefn through narrowed eyes.

“I see the corruption of the Betrayer and his ilk has worked deep into your soul. So be it. If you would al y yourself with the

demon spawn, then learn what rewards such wretches may expect.” He rose from his chair in a single, angry movement. “Charles!”

The blond Penitent appeared at once, looking alarmed.

“Fetch the guards. Take Lord Eldering to the Penitent quarters and prepare him for Service.” He looked back at Stefn. “Know

this, Stefn. I wil have the power you hold within you! Whether you submit wil ingly or not is no concern of mine!” He looked up as

the guards ran into the room. “Take him away! Let him learn the fol y of placing his al iance with the enemies of man!”

My Dear Lord Brandon — most disquieting event has transpired lately, originating from the Cathedral in our parish.

Soldiers of the Church have been seen at the homes of the h’nara, bearing away the occupants, men, women and children. Most

recently, Hunters visited the cottage of Luke and Brenda Carr, removing them without explanation. As you know, despite the

misfortune of their birth, the Carrs have been exemplary tenants, maintaining cleanly premises and being prompt in their

payments of rent, tithes and taxes. Queries into the reason for their arrests from have met with silence. I hope that you, as Lord

of the Parish, might be more successful in discovering the Cathedral’s reasons for taking actions which appear, at least from my

Humble Perspective, to be in defiance of your authority. Yr. Servant, Jeremy Long, Squire, Ellsdon Cottage (signature appended)

from: a letter to Philip Brandon,

Lord Baron of Scorvan,

written on the 18th day of the month of Wyrkel,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1450

Michael held the lantern aloft in one hand, making his way down the dank, narrow stairs. In the other, he carried a valise. A

heavy, oppressive silence fil ed this place. According to Severyn, it was a private dungeon, similar to the one in Tantagrel.

“We have them in almost every one of our residences,” he’d explained, looking faintly embarrassed. “I’m afraid I must count

among my ancestors some right bastards.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Michael stopped before the heavy, iron-braced door. Using the key Severyn had given him, he

turned it in the newly oiled lock. He tried not to think of what Severyn would do when he learned how Michael had made use of his

trust.

Inside, crouched on the bare stone floor, naked and chained, was the proud Hunter captain, Adrian Remy. He turned his head

from the light.

“Good evening, captain.”

There was no answer, just a hardening of the man’s jaw.

A heavy iron bolt in the floor held the short length of chain attached to Remy’s shackles, severely limiting his movement. He

could not stand, only kneel or lie down, both uncomfortable propositions on the cold, damp stone floor. His hair fel in a tangle over

his broad shoulders. He was a handsome creature, thought Michael in a detached fashion.

“What do you want, taint?”

Michael remembered another cethe who had used the same angry, insulting language. The quiet core of pain inside him

flared. He put his boot against Remy’s bare shoulder and pushed him lower to the floor. Before Remy could get back to his knees,

Michael planted his foot firmly on the captain’s neck.

“That should be obvious,” he replied. “You have the Blood. Therefore, Severyn has given you to me.”

Remy stiffened in shock and dismay. Michael removed his foot, stepping back. “What?” he asked lightly, mockingly. “No

denials?”

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 wil 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 smal 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 unfulfil ed.

It was Stefn he wanted; Stefn he needed. Locke’s aide gave him only a taste of wine. Stefn alone could give him the ful 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 painful y 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. Pul ing 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 pul ed 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 cel , Michael locking it careful y 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, al the

while Michael keeping a wary eye out for patrols. Ahead, a smal cove came into view, flat stone ledges making a natural stair into

the water. Floating gently on the water was a smal 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 smal , sensible voice