Cethe (26 page)

“I wonder what this looked like when Elioth found it?” Stefn exclaimed, turning to Michael with shining eyes. “If you squint and

imagine al the buildings gone, you can almost see how it was.”

Obediently, Michael turned and pretended to do so, but only for a moment. It was too hard to look away from his cethe. Green

eyes alight, color touching those fine, pale features, Stefn was almost animated. Now he pointed out onto the bay. “Can we go to the

Isle of Dreams, too? Al en came to Withwil ow several times; he said there’s a ferry that goes out there and back.”

“If we have time.” Pushing away from the rail, Michael said, “If you’ve looked your fil , we should be going.”

Stefn nodded. He consulted their guidebook. “Can we go to the sea museum?”

Michael laughed. “Try as you might, my friend, it is impossible to see al Withwil ow has to offer in just one day. Besides, I’m

expecting a message. Let’s return to the hotel.”

It was a beautiful day, the sun shining and the breeze balmy. As their hired carriage made its way slowly back through the

crowded streets, Michael pointed out other places of interest, answering Stefn’s eager questions, if he could. Stefn proved to have

an astonishing breadth of knowledge about the architecture and history of the city, in spite of having never set foot in it before.

“Tutor?” he replied when Michael asked. “No. After our governess left to go to Lothmont with Stefanie, Brother Wil iam took

over Al en’s instruction. He was the heir, after al . There was a book in the library about the bridge.”

“I never met Brother Wil iam,” said Michael, “but I did meet your brother. Be assured, my lord, the time you spent in your

family’s library gave you the better education.”

Stefn pretended indifference, but color stained his cheeks and he quickly looked away.

At the Bayview, a smal envelope bearing the Thornwald crest awaited Michael. In spare handwriting, the baron invited

Michael and his guest to join him for a personal tour of the Cathedral and named a time a few hours hence. It was the sort of missive

any parish lord might send to visiting nobility, a social courtesy and of no outward significance.

Michael considered leaving Stefn behind under Marin’s watchful eye, but was oddly reluctant to do so. When he mentioned

their plans, Stefn was thril ed. “I wonder if we’l be able to see the Armor of Loth? And they say there is copy of Loth’s original

Covenant kept there, as wel !”

The Cathedral occupied most of Withwil ow’s Old Town, a portion of the city’s southern district. An ancient wal surrounded it,

evidence of Withwil ow’s original boundaries. Age and pilfering had reduced the wal to the height of a man’s waist. Now it served as

a garden, its massive base hol owed out and fil ed to overflowing with flowers, shrubs and smal trees. The gate had been

transformed into a giant trel is for masses of bril iant, climbing roses.

Within the Green Wal , the streets widened. Everywhere were buildings of moonstone. In the harsh sunlight of early afternoon,

the wal s glowed softly, like mist on the marsh, sparkling and somehow insubstantial.

Thornwald’s invitation got them past the Cathedral guards and through a smal gate leading around the Sanctuary to another

smal er, but no less opulent structure behind it.

“The Domicile!” exclaimed Stefn. Michael, too, was surprised. He had not expected to be shown to the bishop’s residence.

A priest opened the door as they mounted the broad, marble steps. “His Excel ency is expecting you, my lords. If you wil

fol ow me?”

Thornwald waited in a wel -appointed vestibule. He came to them at once, extending a lean hand. “Lord Arranz, Lord Eldering,

welcome to Withwil ow!” His grip was brief, but firm. “I have to admit I was surprised when I heard you were the prince’s agent.”

“I hope it causes no inconvenience?”

“Not at al . His Excel ency is eager to meet both of you.” Thornwald turned to Stefn. “Is this your first visit to Withwil ow, my

lord?”

“Yes.” The earl smiled shyly. “I can’t wait to see everything. Wil it be possible to view Loth’s Armor or the Avalon Wal ?”

Thornwald cast a startled glance at Michael, who said, “Lord Eldering is an enthusiastic student of history. We spent the

morning going from one monument to another.”

“I see.” The baron smiled. “If that’s the case, my lord, you have your work cut out for you. If we have nothing else in

Withwil ow, we have historical monuments. Six hundred and thirty-seven, if I remember my schooling correctly.”

Thornwald gestured to the hovering priest, who bowed and withdrew. When the man had gone, Thornwald’s genial smile

faded, becoming grave. “We must be careful. The Council’s spies are everywhere.”

They left the vestibule behind. Michael noticed at once how empty the vaulted corridors were, even of servants. They hurried

up a back stair, stopping at an il -lit landing on the fourth floor. Thornwald knocked, a rapid, rhythmic series of taps. The door

opened at once. A young man in an acolyte’s white robes let them in, glancing anxiously down the stairway after them as he closed

it.

“His Excel ency is in the conservatory, my lords. Please fol ow me.”

“Is the bishop a traitor, too?” Stefn asked, low-voiced.

“I prefer the term ‘patriot’.”

A great hal lined with the portraits of past bishops echoed with their footsteps. Another short set of stairs led to the roof of the

Domicile where an enormous, vaulted chamber of glass was built. It was fil ed with plants of every description, even smal trees. The

air was warm and humid, fil ed with the soft music of fal ing water and even the twittering of birds.

At the center of the miniature jungle was a smal tiled patio boasting a fountain and several benches. A single, brown-robed

priest rose from one of them. Only the heavy gold medal ion hanging around his neck gave away his rank.

“My lords, welcome to my home,” said the priest. “I’m Gabriel Storm.” He waved them toward the benches. “Please sit down. I

apologize for the discourteous way in which you were received, but we must be very discreet.”

“Indeed,” Michael drawled, watching as Stefn, awestricken, dropped to one knee before the bishop and kissed the narrow

hand extended to him. “It wil hardly increase your popularity with Zelenov to be seen meeting with a h’nar.”

“Lord Arranz!” Thornwald exclaimed, stepping forward, fists clenched. “You are speaking to a Bishop!”

“His Lordship has ample cause for bitterness,” replied Storm quietly. “The Church has lied about many things, but the most

egregious of their lies have been at the expense of his people.”

“Your Excel ency sounds dangerously heretical.” Michael’s eyes narrowed on the lean, intel igent face before him. “May I ask

what has brought on this epiphany?”

“Mind your tongue, Arranz!” Red-faced, Thornwald stepped forward, fists clenched. “I wil not stand by while you… ”

“Jason!”

“But Gabriel! He has no right to… ”

“He has every right!”

Thornwald drew a long, angry breath and, with obvious effort, unclenched his hands.

Michael ignored the baron. He was far more interested in the bishop’s unorthodox pronouncements. “It’s interesting to hear my

people being championed by a man of the cloth. My grandfather even speaks wel of you, Your Excel ency, which is noteworthy in

itself. Given the teachings of the Church, however, of which you’re a high-ranking member, you’l forgive me if I find it difficult to

understand.”

“I see you’re reluctant to take me at my word. Wel , I can hardly fault you for that, given our history. Jason, would you fetch the

book, please?”

The baron left the garden with an angry look at Michael.

“As to why I am at odds with my own cal ing, there can be only one answer. It’s Loth’s wil .” He met Michael’s politely

disbelieving look with serene confidence. “It is Loth who has always guided my heart, who has shown me the way through al

obstacles. And when I falter, He sets me back upon the path most gently.”

Thornwald returned, carrying a flat, rectangular box covered with ornately worked gold and jewels. He handed it to the bishop

who took it with great care. Using a key around his neck, Storm unlocked it and lifted the lid. Inside was something careful y

wrapped in an embroidered cloth. Reverently, he unwrapped it.

The object proved to be a large notebook, badly burned, but the bold, handwritten script on the cover was stil easily

discernable. Standing beside Michael, Stefn drew an audible breath.

“This,” said Storm, “is the original manuscript for the first Chronicle. I don’t know how it came to be saved from the fire, but

nonetheless, here it is. I can only believe Loth himself saved it, that in his infinite wisdom, he foresaw the corruption of those sworn

to be his servants.” Careful y, Storm lifted the cover. “Look,” he invited. “See for yourself.”

The pages inside were old and brown, the edges charred from the fire that had nearly consumed it so long ago. It was stil

possible, however, to see the handwritten text, along with strike-outs and notes crowded into the margins.

“Please handle it gently,” said Storm, handing it over to Michael.

Although the script was cramped and fine, nearly il egible in some places, enough of the text was readable. Michael

recognized the first paragraphs, familiar to any Tanyrin schoolchild. It was the first and most sacred Chronicle of Tanyrin.

“ …
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.…”

“It’s the same,” Stefn said after a moment. He had moved up next to Michael and was eagerly examining the notebook.

“Exactly the same as any copy I’ve ever read. We have several editions in the library.”

The bishop merely smiled and turned a few more pages to the list of Laws. Michael’s eyes widened. Stefn made a smal

sound of shock and disbelief.

“ …and in his wisdom, Loth did give Lord Rami five Laws by which to govern… ”

“Lord Rami?” exclaimed Stefn. “Who’s he? It was St. Gray who received the laws, and there are seven not five!”

“So it says in most approved editions,” agreed Storm. “The only problem is, they’re lies.”

“But they can’t be! The Chronicles were written by St. Aramis himself!”

Michael said slowly. “The two Laws missing here are those conferring secular power upon the Archbishop and the Church.”

“Interesting, is it not?” Storm shook his head. His smile was sad. “And there are more differences throughout, profound

differences. I cannot tel you how dismayed I grew as I read the manuscript and realized what the Church, my Church, has done to

the writings it swore to honor and protect.”

“How did you come to have such a thing, Your Excel ency?”

“As I said, Loth guided me to it. I was in the library, writing a lecture, and needed a particular reference. The book I wanted was

on high shelf, but when I reached for it, it slipped back behind the others. In groping about for it, I touched a hidden latch and,

suddenly, the entire section of shelf opened, revealing a secret stairway.

“The Cathedral of Withwil ow is very old and built upon the ruins of a naran city. There are numerous hidden cubbyholes and

passageways, the knowing of which is passed down to each new bishop. This stair, however, was not part of that knowledge.

Curious, I took a lamp and ventured down. From the dust and thick cobwebs, it was clear no one had been that way for decades. At

the bottom, I found a room containing a single cupboard and inside… this.”

Michael turned another page, reading quickly. Most of it read exactly as the book al students were required to study, but

everywhere were subtle differences which, for al they were individual y insignificant, changed the accounts profoundly.

“There is only one way to restore Loth’s truth and justice to Tanyrin,” said the bishop. “The truth must become known to al .

The forgery must be exposed for what it is and the Church must return to its roots as humble servants of Loth and the people.”

“Noble words,” replied Michael. “But I don’t expect Locke or the other Celestials would agree.”

“Of course not. They are blinded by a lust for power and wealth. Their attempts to strengthen their influence in the West is

simply more evidence of that. They must be stopped.”

“I agree,” Michael said. “Unfortunately, our king doesn’t see the urgency.”

Storm sighed, tracing his finger lightly down the side of the crumbling page. “No, he does not. I see only one hope for

Tanyrin.” He lifted his face. Michael looked hard into those brown eyes, searching for insincerity but seeing none. “Prince Severyn

must sit on the throne.”

Stefn gasped. Michael looked to Thornwald who nodded somberly.

“I’m sorry, Your Excel ency,” he said final y. “Did I just hear you suggest treason?”

“Treason?” Storm turned away from them, walking the short distance to the conservatory’s glass wal s.

Out on the roof were more gardens, white-robed acolytes tending the planters with their abundance of colorful blooms. After a

moment, he turned back.