Cethe (13 page)

“How many times have they amputated?” he asked.

Stefn’s green eyes closed tightly. Michael could see the tension in the slim, rigid body. “Why me?” Stefn whispered. “Do you

truly believe Shia is real y yours? Is this some misplaced need for vengeance?”

“Castle Shia was built by my ancestors while yours were stil far to the south, busily kil ing each other.” replied Michael. “Not

only did the Elderings and their Church masters steal it from us, but they murdered every narani inside. Men, women and children,

your monstrous ancestor cut their throats over each threshold to ‘purify’ the fortress with their blood. This…” His hand suddenly

tightened on Stefn’s ankle with crushing strength. “…does not begin to pay that debt!”

“Lies!” Stefn gasped. His hands clenched into fists.

Stupid puppy. His naivety was almost pitiful. “You’ve never been past Shia’s borders,” Michael reminded the earl softly. “You

are as ignorant and arrogant as the rest of your damned house of murderers.”

“Take your hands off me!” Stefn kicked angrily, but to no avail.

“I remind you again, my lord. You belong to me. If I wish to lay hands on you, I wil . The next time you’re disobedient, you’l be

treated like the slave you are.”

Out of patience, Michael made no attempt at gentleness when he tied Stefn’s ankle to the iron foot-board. Alarm growing,

Eldering tried to evade his grasp, but Michael got his other foot and tied it, too, leaving the dark-haired youth spread-eagled across

the mattress.

“Unbind me!” Stefn’s voice cracked in panic. “What are you doing?”

“Reminding you of your place.” Arranz settled onto the edge of the bed beside him. Calmly, he set his open hand on Stefn’s

naked hip. The young earl tried to jerk away, but there was nowhere to go.

“D-don’t!”

Michael ignored him. “Legends of the cethera claim that once Bound, a cethe’s body is no longer his own to control.”

Stefn seemed barely to hear him. Al his attention was on Michael’s hand. He made a tiny, involuntary sound when it began to

move, sliding down to caress the inside of his thigh. Even so, it seemed a part of what Michael said registered.

“Th — that’s not — true!”

Michael did not respond. Instead, he let his fingertips brush Stefn’s nipples. The roughness of his cal used skin against the

sensitive flesh sent shivers through his captive. Again, Stefn tried to squirm away, but Arranz only caught one of the nubs between a

thumb and forefinger, squeezing it. When he began to gently knead the captive bit of flesh, Stefn’s reaction was swift and

unexpected.

“Damn you!” he choked. “Stop it! Please!”

But Michael just laughed. He wrapped his hand around Stefn’s burgeoning erection. “Mine,” he said softly, putting his mouth

against the youth’s ear. “I can do whatever I wish to you and I wish to do a great many things.”

Wet eyelashes fluttered. Stefn cursed him again, but his voice trembled. His hands in their bindings clenched and unclenched.

Beneath his unexpectedly soft skin, Michael could feel muscles strung tight as the earl desperately resisted his own body.

Michael had meant only to bring the earl to a swift, humiliating climax, but instead, without quite knowing why, he leaned down

and, distantly shocked at himself, covered those parted lips with his own. There was no resistance to his assault. He plundered

Stefn’s mouth with impunity. Below the youth’s bel y, Michael’s hand moved faster, coaxing soft, rhythmic sobs with each stroke.

Desire rushed through Michael, unexpected and unwelcome. He felt himself harden. His ministrations roughened and it was

only moments later that Stefn cried out, body arching with the force of his orgasm. Michael drew back, wiping his hand clean on the

sheets, making no attempt to hide his triumphant grin.

Shattered, covered with sweat, the evidence of his capitulation splashed across his naked bel y, Stefn lay with his eyes

closed, tears leaking from beneath the thick, dark eyelashes. He didn’t move when Michael untied his feet. After several long

moments, he drew his body up into a tight bal , burying his face in his arms.

“Get used to it,” Michael advised him softly. Leaning over the bed, he ran his hand along the youth’s lean, naked flank. “Soon,

you won’t be able to help yourself and you’l beg me for it.”

And, for once, there was no insolent reply.

Morning found Stefn with a heavy head and heavier heart. He’d barely slept. His arms ached and his bladder was painful y

ful . When he heard the rattle of the key in the lock, his heart gave a modest, upward lurch, but he refused to look in its direction.

“And how was your night?”

Stefn didn’t reply, only stared at the wal , praying he would be untied. Sure enough, the ropes fel off. He groaned at the

twinges of stiff muscles.

“Take care of your personal needs,” said Arranz, unruffled and unwrinkled. “I want to make Blackmarsh before sunset.” He

threw something onto the bed. Clothing!

Being left alone was an unexpected courtesy. Stefn was dressed and seated on the bed when Marin arrived. Leaning heavily

on the cane, he limped down the inn stairs, through an unfamiliar commons room and out into a foggy morning.

In the coach, Arranz pushed a paper-wrapped handful of stuffed bread at him. “Here. Eat, then get some more sleep, if you

can. You look like hel .”

At first, there was little to see outside, the fog was so thick. Stefn sat at the end of the seat, leaning his aching head against

the cool window. Arranz took his usual place on the other side and, for al appearances, drifted off to sleep. The harsh lines around

his mouth and eyes eased. Disconcertingly, he looked different, youthful, sweet-tempered… handsome. Even with the white hair,

thought Stefn, Michael Arranz was a breathtaking man. Stefn recal ed the night before, how that fal of moonlight had trailed silkily

across his chest when Arranz bent to capture his lips…

No! Don’t think of last night. Think of something else. Anything else!

Alas. Al Stefn could find to divert himself was the uncertainty of his own fate. It was inconceivable, natural y, that he would

meekly submit to Arranz’s plans for him. The histories written right after the war had been fil ed with tales about the sathrae. Slaves

not only to the perverted desires of the naragi, their bodies were transformed into unholy conduits of black magic at each unnatural

coupling. Stefn stil could not quite fathom it was al happening to him.

“
Soon you will beg me for it.”

No! thought Stefn fiercely. It would never happen to him! The nara were gone!

By mid-morning, the fog had lifted, becoming puffy clouds in a clear blue sky. It was warmer and outside, the land continued its

gentle, downward slope. The highlands were behind them now. From time to time, the road curved and Stefn saw them, a line of

misty purple and grey stretching across the horizon.

“You showed some skil with a staff in Fornsby.”

Stefn, half-asleep, opened his eyes.

“I didn’t expect my cethe would have warrior skil s.”

“I’m an Eldering,” retorted Stefn. “Do you think my father would al ow a little thing like a lame foot to stop me from learning

basic martial arts?”

“I never once saw you spar with your brother and others in the courtyard.”

“My training was finished two years ago. There was no point.”

Who would have sparred with him anyway if they didn’t have to? No one wanted to cal down il -luck on themselves.

The land continued to descend as the day wore on. Smal rivers and streams wound through the low places, becoming more

frequent as the hil s gradual y diminished.

At first, their coach rol ed through rich farmlands, acres of golden wheat rippling as the wind passed over them, fields ready for

harvest. The cottages Stefn saw were smal , but there were a lot of them. Traffic on the road picked up, as wel : wagons and dog-

carts, mostly, but sometimes a nobler vehicle. Then Arranz would order him to close the curtain and sit wel back until they passed.

“Why bother?” Stefn demanded after the second such command. “No one wil know who I am.”

“Shia is remote,” agreed Arranz, “but your father entertained visitors from time to time.”

Stefn laughed shortly. “And did you think he proudly introduced me to them?”

Arranz gave him a long, unreadable stare, before saying, “You wil do as I tel you,” and returning to his book.

After awhile, the carriage came upon an expanse of fields over which stretched a line of men and women cutting and bundling

grain. They were al dressed in grey and, riding back and forth behind them, were men on horseback.

“Slaves,” said Arranz, the bitterness harsh in voice. “So-cal ed Penitents. If the Archbishop has his way, al h’nara would be

under the lash.”

“They’re not slaves,” retorted Stefn. “A Penitent comes wil ingly to the Church.”

Arranz sneered. “You real y are naïve, aren’t you?”

They passed the farm. Arranz didn’t look up again. Soon, bored, Stefn looked over at him, his eye catching the title of the

h’nar’s book.

“Burkenrude?”

Michael glanced up. “Yes. You know him?”

“Shia has an early edition. Most of his reasoning was good, but he doesn’t account for man’s natural self-interest. There are

several philosophers who point out how wil ing men are to sacrifice others for their own selfish desires. The notion of a State

founded completely on governance by men unrestrained by the guidance of the Church is sheer foolishness.”

“You’re talking about Haworth and Kracken?” Arranz made a scornful noise. “They may have some truth to their theories, but

Sherran does a good job of demolishing most of their points in The Pure Heart Unmasked.”

Stefn had never heard of that book. In spite of himself, he was interested, but recal ed abruptly where he was and with whom.

He set his jaw and returned his attention to the scenery. After a few minutes, he heard pages turning once more and, when he

looked around, Arranz had gone back to reading.

Toward dusk, the landscape changed again. Lush fields dwindled, giving way to great stretches of overgrown and deserted

meadow. Stefn began to see clumps of smal trees scattered about and, near them, a handful of cottages. The air smel ed different,

too.

“Peat,” said Arranz unexpectedly. “Most of Tanyrin’s supply comes from Blackmarsh.”

“We’re on your land?”

Lord Michael careful y marked his place and set down the book. “Yes. Soon we’l reach the sea.”

Stefn straightened. The sea? Of course! Blackmarsh was near the ocean! In al the confusion and upset of the recent past,

he’d not given it a thought, but now wary excitement returned.

The idea of the ocean had always appealed to Stefn. There were il ustrations and descriptions aplenty among the books in

Shia’s library and he’d studied them al , again and again. An endless expanse of water, tides and great waves crashing against cliffs:

the images drew him, made al the more al uring for his certainty of never seeing the reality. Now, everything was different.

“What are you thinking?”

Startled, Stefn looked over at his tormenter. Handsome, elegant, it was difficult to make out Arranz’s expression in the

deepening gloom of the cab. His voice, however, had changed subtly.

“What do you care?” retorted Stefn, recovering quickly.

“You came alive for a moment. I’m curious why.”

“I was imagining your death.”

Arranz snorted.

The road became a causeway, winding westward, built above a landscape of growing desolation. Stefn caught the gleam of

water in the thick swamp-grass on either side, reflecting the red sunset. Now and again, rock formations were visible, islands of

stone scattered across the waste. Ahead, low, rocky hil s loomed, bathed in the blood of the dying sun. A shiver ran up Stefn’s spine.

Mist gathered on the marsh around them. Wherever the shadows grew, so did the mist, getting thicker, crawling up the

embankment to writhe across the road. Soon they were enveloped in it. Only by the angle of the coach and the way it slowed, could

Stefn tel when they’d reached the hil s.

Suddenly, the coach halted. Outside came the sound of horses and men shouting. Arranz said something under his breath and

went to the door, throwing it open.

Horsemen surrounded them, a dozen or more, shifting in and out of the fog. They had swords and lances drawn, but at the

appearance of Lord Arranz, consternation appeared in their ranks and the weapons were quickly lowered.

Several drew aside to make way for a rider. Wel -built, handsome and perhaps the same age as Stefn, the newcomer was

clearly in command.

“Mick?” he asked, looking none too pleased.

“Good evening, Captain.” Lord Arranz looked around. “Such a large welcome party,” he drawled. “How thoughtful.”

“Don’t be an ass,” replied the captain sourly. “We’ve been having trouble these past few weeks with thieves and vandals.

Which you would know if you bothered to spend more than a few days at a time here.”

“Brigands, eh?” replied Lord Arranz drily. “The problem is everywhere, it seems. How are the Old Men?”

The captain looked as if he might say something sharp, but, jaw tight, said, “You can see for yourself, brother. I have bandits

to hunt.” He gave a shout, wheeling his horse around.

In short order, the soldiers were gone, swal owed up by the mist.