Cethe (36 page)

where the innkeeper greeted them like old friends. “Alas, my lords, your usual rooms are already taken, but if you insist, I could

move the current occupants… ”

“Not at al ,” Michael replied. “We’l take what you have.”

What he had was a room on the third floor and one on the second. “Let’s clean up,” Michael suggested, “and go down for

dinner.”

They ate in a private parlor while the inn’s big common room fil ed rapidly with patrons. Loud laughter and conversation

reached the two noblemen each time the parlor door opened.

“Busy night,” Michael observed at one point, when the landlord arrived to refil their glasses. “Is there a special occasion?”

“A battalion of Hunters are on their way to Brockhom Abbey,” replied the innkeeper, his mouth tightening and turning down at

the corners.

“Why?”

“Don’t rightly know, my lords. We already have Hunters up at the Cathedral. Besides, this here’s a peaceful parish and the

Hunters we do have don’t seem to be very busy, leastways, not that I’ve ever noticed.”

The man hurried away. Michael frowned at the door as it closed after him. “Did Locke get to Arami already?”

Stefn wondered, too. Brockhom was smal er than Fornsby, at least, as far as he knew. An entire battalion seemed excessive,

even to him.

“I’m tired,” he said, not wanting to think about it. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I think I’l retire.”

Michael sighed and nodded, getting to his feet when Stefn did. “I’l walk up with you. Dawn always comes so absurdly early.”

The din hit Stefn ful force as he fol owed Michael out of the parlor. Everywhere he looked in the smoky, cavernous room were

Hunter uniforms, green and gold. Inn servants fought their way through the crowd, carrying pitchers of ale and big bowls heaped

high with salty fried pork rinds. A noisy crash and the sound of shattering glass came from somewhere amid the jostling throng,

fol owing by boisterous laughter. Nearby, a soldier reeled drunkenly into another patron, who swore and pushed him back.

Stefn felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck, disliking the sense of drunken aggression al around him. He saw immediately

when the men noticed the h’nar in their midst, tal and pale and fearless. The silence spread outward until the only sounds were

their footsteps as they crossed the interminable distance to the stairs. Muttering began behind them.

Almost there.

“Hold on, taint!” The voice came from behind, angry and imperious.

Michael didn’t even pause, but neither did he hurry. Stefn, stomach in knots, could only try to emulate him and hope they

reached safety. The ugliness at his back was palpable, familiar. Hatred, loathing, and fear, al wrapped into one seething mass of il -

wil . Even if it wasn’t directed at him for a change, Stefn could feel it pushing at him, urging him to run and hide.

“I said hold!”

Something whooshed past Stefn’s cheek. Too fast to see clearly, Michael’s arm swung up and he seemed to snatch it out of

mid-air. An empty mug. There was a ripple of gasps and everywhere men made the sign against evil.

“Witch!”

Two Hunters broke from the bystanders. Officers they were, by their stars, and not so drunk as their fel ows.

“I knew it!” declared one, a captain. “A taint and a witch! You have some bloody nerve coming in here!”

Agreement rumbled throughout the onlookers.

“Witchcraft’s against the law, even here in the West,” the officer continued. He reached to his hip, but the inn’s rules prohibited

weapons in the common room.

His companion looked around and shouted, “Innkeeper! Ho, you fool! Where are you?!”

The landlord appeared, apprehensive. “Sir?”

“What sort of establishment is this, man? Serving taints? Have you not been heeding the counsel of the Church? It’s an

insult!” He turned toward a table at which only two men sat. They, too, were Hunters, but Stefn saw the differences in their uniforms

at once: red braid with the gold, and the green so dark as to be almost black. Their swords leaned against their chairs, within easy

reach, in spite of the tavern’s rules. One of the officers wore a large, ornate medal ion around his neck. Stefn felt a tiny, superstitious

chil run up his spine as he recognized the red braid: Dragons of Loth!

“B-but, it’s Lord Arranz, grandson of the Duke of Blackmarsh!” the innkeeper babbled. “Blessed by St. Aramis himself.”

The officer’s reply never came. One of the Dragons suddenly rose and utter silence fel over the room.

“Who cares?” the Dragon drawled. “A taint’s a taint — an affront to Loth unless in Penitent’s garb. And witchcraft is a sin, no

matter how blue the witch’s blood.” He reached down, taking up his sword. Of course, no one would dare order a Dragon to set his

blade aside! The rattle of steel was ominously loud as he drew it from its sheath.

Throughout the common room, the gathered Hunters started up an ugly muttering.

“My lords!” The innkeeper was near panic. “No fighting, please.”

Michael looked the Dragon up and down, then shrugged and turned his back, continuing toward the stairs. Stefn remained

rooted to the floor; a shocked hush al around. The Dragon’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tightening into a hard, angry line. He lifted

his blade, pointing it at Michael’s back.

“Michael!”

Even as Stefn cried out, the sword flew, straight as an arrow, across the empty space, its blade sparking with lothrian fire.

Michael seemed scarcely to move, yet somehow, the sword missed him, flashing past to bury itself in the rough, wooden post beside

the stairs.

Michael stared at it, as if surprised, then stepped forward and wrested it from the post. He turned, facing the knightmage. The

Dragon stared back at him, surprise and chagrin bringing a flush to his face. His lips moved. The other Dragon, stil seated, looked

at his companion, eyebrows drawing together. Stefn felt a shiver across his skin and knew Words had been spoken.

But Michael seemed oblivious. He examined the blade with apparent curiosity, hefting it and giving a few, experimental thrusts

and parries. Then, unhurried, he walked back across the room, the crowd backing hastily away, to stop at the Dragons’ table. At

once, the second Dragon was on his feet, his own sword in hand. Michael, however, only smiled. “Not a superior blade,” he

remarked in a clear, carrying voice. Then, without seeming to expend any effort, he drove the point into the floor. He said something

else, too softly for anyone but the two soldiers to hear. Once again, he turned his back and headed for the stairs. As he passed

Stefn, he said quietly, “We’re leaving.”

Stefn realized his hands were clenched. Deliberately, he opened them and fol owed Michael up the stairs. Once out of sight of

the common room, Michael started running, taking the stairs two at a time. Behind them, an angry roar was raised.

“Get your things and meet me at the back stairs,” Michael said when the reached the second-floor landing. “Hurry!”

Stefn needed no such advice. He rushed to his room, snatching up his bags. His heart pounded as he dashed back out into

the corridor. The shouting was louder, accompanied by the sound of boots on the stairs.

Michael was already at the servants’ stairs, his sword drawn. “Here!” He tossed something to Stefn, who nearly missed

catching it. “Do you know how to handle one of these?”

It was a short sword in a wooden sheath. Usual y, Michael kept it tied to his saddle. Stefn’s hand closed around the hilt,

drawing it halfway out. The blade gleamed in the poor light of the stairwel . He shoved it back in and nodded.

They reached the bottom of the stairs as the noise grew behind them. Racing across the courtyard toward the stables, Stefn

risked a glance over his shoulder. His heart jumped into his throat. Hunters swarmed around the corners of the inn and the night

rang with their shouts and curses.

Reaching the stables, Stefn felt the strange tingling of magic again. Michael swore, the stable doors refusing to open. He

whispered something as Stefn fel against the stable wal , pul ing out the shortsword and staring in horror at the approaching

soldiers. The door burst open and the shouts of their pursuers rose in outrage.

“I hope your equestrian skil s are up to riding bareback,” Michael shouted. “Grab the best horse you can find!”

Stefn wasted no time. He found a sturdy gelding and threw himself onto its back. The stable door was closed again, shaking

under the Hunters’ assault. Michael, lips moving ceaselessly, guided his animal down the narrow aisle to the back of the building.

He raised a hand. Sparks outlined his fingers. There was a hideous cracking, splintering sound, and the wooden wal before them

gave way. Leaping onto the animal’s back, Michael was through, bent low over the horse’s neck.

Stefn gal oped after him while, behind them, there was a loud whoosh and a roar. Clinging to the gelding’s mane, he looked

back and saw, to his horror, the stable was engulfed in flames!

“This way!” shouted Michael, leaving the road. Plunging through a ditch and up the other side, they rode into a sparsely

wooded stretch of empty land. Without warning, Stefn’s horse suddenly stopped, shuddering, then reared wildly. The world tilted

and Stefn lost his seat, flying off and landing hard on the ground.

Michael swore. Al around them, the tal weeds bent and twisted as if strong winds came from al directions. Stefn scrambled to

his feet, breathless, and tried to reach his horse, but it was dancing and tossing its head, eyes rol ing in paroxysms of terror.

Stefn’s stomach churned and he col apsed to his knees, ears ringing as k’na fought lothria. Then, as suddenly as it had

begun, it ended. Silence fel . His horse settled down a bit, stil skittish, but no longer behaving as if it had gone mad.

Michael, grim-faced, whispered Words ceaselessly, beckoning for Stefn to mount up again. Warily, Stefn approached his

horse. To his relief, it al owed him back on.

“Go ahead,” Michael said hoarsely. His hands gripped his horse’s mane. “I’l fol ow.”

Stefn nodded and rode past him, going deeper into the woods. He was soon lost, of course. He looked around and saw

Michael stil behind him, eyes half-closed, whispering.

“Michael?”

He had to repeat himself before Michael straightened, blinking at him in a bemused way. The h’nar looked around. “Where are

we?”

Stefn just shook his head, too tired and shaken to answer. They had been surrounded by trees for some time now. Nothing

looked familiar, not that it would have anyway.

“Are they stil after us?” he asked.

“No.”

Michael dismounted, slumping onto a fal en, moss-covered tree, and dropped his head into his hands. Moonlight fel through

branches left half-bare from autumn’s fal ing leaves. The night air was fil ed with the sound of night creatures going about their

business.

Stefn got down from his horse and made his way unsteadily to Michael’s side.

Michael lifted his head. His eyes, lost in deep shadow, were unreadable. Then he turned away. “I should have worn my hood.”

“Does that happen often?” Stefn asked.

“Not here in the west. At least, it hasn’t. In the east, of course, it’s a different story, what with Zelenov busy poisoning al their

neighbors.” Stefn heard the bitterness.

“Why didn’t you stay?” asked Michael final y. “They would have happily offered you protection.”

“I don’t know.”

Another silence fel , stretching out between them. It was not uncomfortable, however. Stefn yawned.

“How do you feel about sleeping under the stars tonight?” asked Michael, looking up through the branches into the cloudless

sky. It was cool; Stefn was glad for his coat, but the temperature was not unbearable.

“I don’t mind.”

They broke off some low-hanging branches from a nearby pine, making a rough bed by the fal en tree. When Michael lay

down, curling up on one side of it, Stefn didn’t hesitate to nestle up beside him. He felt Michael stiffen, then relax. The h’nar rol ed

over, gathering Stefn up in his arms.

It was absurd how safe Stefn felt, wrapped in that embrace, how deliciously warm and snug. Michael’s breath stirred his hair

and Stefn thought he felt lips brushing the top of his head. Probably, he thought tiredly, he just imagined it, but it was an

unexpectedly pleasant flight of fancy and he held it close to his heart as he fel soundly and dreamlessly to sleep.