Cethe (37 page)

They continued their journey south using back roads. Michael kept his hood up and let Stefn deal with the innkeepers and

tavern-masters along the way. They heard nothing about the matter back in Fornsby, although a great deal of talk was overheard

concerning the influx of Hunters. Not much of what they heard was positive.

Their visit to Blackmarsh House was brief. The Demon Duke was not there. Stefn was relieved to hear it, but Michael seemed

displeased. Before they’d even taken the time to clean off the dirt from the road, he vanished with his half-brother and wasn’t seen

again for hours.

That al owed Stefn to become reacquainted with the lively Miss Anne, who greeted his offering of novels with an ecstatic cry.

“I should like to write a lady’s novel,” she confessed. “There just aren’t enough of them, don’t you think? I know it’s very

shal ow of me, but I find more respectable literature so dreadful y boring! The stories plod along so!”

Stefn was given his old room. Marin, who had gone on before them, was there to fil him in on the household gossip. “Seems

the Duke hasn’t been around much, milord. And he won’t say where’s he’s been, neither. Just comes in, sleeps, eats, dashes off a

couple of letters, and goes again. Poor Captain Arranz does what he can, Loth knows Lord Phil ip is no help, but there’s a lot to do

to manage such a large parish. Since Lord Michael left here last time, they’ve stopped several Hunter patrols from Creighton who

‘accidental y’ wandered onto parish land.”

Stefn’s bedroom door was no longer locked, but he was in no hurry to leave his room. The thought of accidental y meeting the

duke turned his stomach to knots. He did expect to see Michael eventual y, but although he sat up late with a book, Michael didn’t

appear and Stefn final y fel asleep in his chair.

In the morning, Marin brought him an invitation from Miss Anne to join the family in the breakfast room. He was sitting at the

table with her, discussing the trials of her favorite heroine, when Michael final y appeared.

Anne promptly bounced up to give him a hug. He returned it before making a straight line to the sideboard. “Don’t let me

disturb you,” he said over his shoulder. “Continue with Lady Giselda’s tribulations, by al means.”

She tossed her head and sat back down, pouring herself another cup of t’cha. “Why should we when it’s quite obvious you

think it’s sil y and wil poke fun.”

Stefn grinned. Michael rol ed his eyes, coming to the table with a wel -laden breakfast plate. He pul ed out the chair beside

Stefn and sat down, asking his sister, “Is that a new gown, poppet?”

She sparkled at him across the table. “It is! I ordered it from Miss Chesney’s in Lothmont! There was more than enough in the

al owance you gave me.” Her expression grew hopeful. “Did you bring more money?”

“Not as much, alas.” Michael smiled apologetical y at her little moue of disappointment. “We’re on our way to Withwil ow

again. I only stopped by to speak to grandfather. Since he’s not here, we should leave right away.”

“Of course you must,” she huffed.

“Severyn’s orders.”

Michael was true to his word. By noon, they were on the road again. Disinclined to talk, Michael rode ahead, staring grimly

forward as they crossed the causeway and trotted out onto the road to Withwil ow. Stefn let him be, enjoying the mild afternoon and

the scenery.

In the peat fields, farmers were stil harvesting, driving their cutter-plows back and forth across the spongy black earth,

removing hefty squares to be dried and, later, portioned into smal er blocks for sale in the markets.

In the weeks since Stefn had last been this way, autumn had come in earnest. The tal grasses had turned gold, crimson and

brown. As the vegetation faded, more open water was visible in the marsh. From what Stefn had read, most of the north marsh

would freeze in the winter, but further south where it joined the delta, the deep, powerful currents kept the ice at bay.

The sun shone brightly and a southerly breeze chased the puffy clouds northwards. Michael final y relaxed and recovered his

good humor. At the inn that night, they got into a lively debate over the idea of a Peasant’s Council, an idea advanced by Michael

before and one greeted with open disbelief by his friends.

“Every political thinker I’ve ever read has rejected the notion!” Stefn insisted over roast fowl and heaps of fried potatoes. “If

power is put into the hands of the uneducated, disaster wil result.”

“You need to widen your repertoire of political thinkers, then. How about Gracey?”

“Gracey? You can’t be serious! The man was mad! Besides, he married a commoner. Of course, he might be more receptive

to such an idea.”

“Perhaps if we al knew our less privileged brethren better, our own attitudes would change.”

Alas, their traveling weather didn’t hold, and they set out next day in the rain. The storms persisted al the way to Withwil ow

and it was a soggy pair of travelers who at last checked into the Bayview Hotel.

“Bath,” grunted Michael, who resembled nothing more than a drowned rat. “Shal we meet for dinner downstairs?”

Stefn had his own bath and, afterwards, sat before the fire with a restorative glass of cider. He was getting used to this life; to

the fine accommodations, the courtesy of servants, companionship. His freedom was an il usion, but even an il usion was more than

he’d had before.

Dinner was again a pleasant interlude. Michael looked impossibly handsome, turning every head in the big dining room. Some

of the regard was unfriendly, but most of the glances were from women and were fil ed with admiration.

“In which library shal we begin our search?” asked Stefn over dessert. He had his guidebook with him and now drew it out of

his pocket. He had marked the page. “There are real y only six that could reasonably be thought to have the plans for a printing

press.”

“So many?” Michael grimaced.

“There are fourteen libraries in al of Withwil ow. Those six are just the most likely. That’s only three apiece.”

“I’ve sent a note to the Domicile,” said Michael. “It’s likely I’l have to meet with Storm in the morning. There’s no reason you

couldn’t start without me, is there?”

“No. Of course not.” Stefn’s heart gave a little leap at the idea of immersing himself in al those books.

Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Should I send Marin with you?” he asked lightly.

“If you wish.” Stefn held Michael’s gaze, unflinching. “But there’s no need.”

A silence held between them, a moment only, yet something echoed in it and set Stefn’s heart to beating faster. He looked

away first, turning a page of the guidebook without seeing a word. “I think I’l start with the Col ege of Engineering and Alchemy’s

Library. That seems the most obvious place.”

“That’s not far from the Domicile,” agreed Michael. “I’l meet you there afterwards.”

The feeling passed, but it returned when they said good-night. Stefn watched Michael disappear into the room across the hal

before retreating into his own chamber. He got into his nightshirt and dressing gown and went through his nightly ritual of washing

and examining his foot. His mind was not on the growing sixth toe, however.

Traitor! Naragi!
He should never forget that! Al Michael’s fine promises, his kindness, could vanish in an instant when Stefn

was no longer needed. He was nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. A cethe. A slave.

For one hideous moment, the wanting broke free of its tomb deep in his soul. His throat tightened and his eyes burned. But he

was smarter than that. Ruthlessly, Stefn slammed down on it. He pul ed back his covers and climbed into bed. It was simply a matter

of making it from one day to the next, just like it had been when his father was alive. He would take the il usion they gave him,

beguiling and exciting as it was, but never once would he be fool enough to mistake it for reality. He’d survived his father; he’d

survive this, too.

In the fourth year of the war, in the face of relentless naran advances, did the first high lothrian mages appear. Prior to that

time, Loth had restricted the exercise of His holy power to healing, but, in His infinite wisdom, He judged St. Aramis worthy of

His trust and so endowed him with lothria of greater power than that wielded with such devastating effect by the evil naragi.

Almost at once, the tide of the battle turned.

from:
The
Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347

Storm’s reply arrived promptly first thing in the morning, handed to Michael by the hotel clerk when he came down to

breakfast. The bishop would be delighted to host him at his earliest convenience.

Good. Get it out of the way.

Stefn would be enthral ed by the Col ege libraries. Michael easily imagined the difficulty ahead in prying the young bookworm

away from their endless, musty stacks. What a pity he wouldn’t be there to see it.

“Arranz?”

Michael looked around to see the earl making his way down the hotel’s grand staircase.

“Sorry I’m late,” Stefn smiled, though he seemed heavy-eyed and tired.

“Was your bed not comfortable?”

“It was fine. I was just… ” Stefn drew a breath. “Al the traveling. Stil not used to it, I suppose.”

“You don’t have to go out now. If you feel like catching up on your sleep, by al means, stay here.”

There was a flash in those green eyes, an echo of the old anger and defiance. Michael was startled by it, but then Stefn

seemed to take himself in hand. He shook his head, producing a wan smile. “No, it’s al right. I’m eager to get started, truly.”

“I’l meet you there, then,” said Michael. “Hire a cab if you don’t feel like riding. I’ve told the concierge you’re to have whatever

you wish.”

Again he received an odd, unsettling look, but before he could speak, Stefn turned and went ahead into the dining room. By

the time a perplexed Michael joined him at their table, he seemed to have recovered his good humor, talking animatedly about the

Academy, its history and distinguished alumni.

Michael took Marin with him to the Cathedral, the pair of them making their way slowly down fog-shrouded streets. His

thoughts persisted in hovering about Eldering. Perhaps it was a mistake to let him go off on his own. He’d seemed a bit out of sorts.

Maybe his foot was bothering him; he’d been limping again. Michael resolved to have a look at Stefn’s foot as soon as possible.

The bishop greeted him in a cheery breakfast parlor, wearing a nicely-tailored, but unassuming suit. It made him look more like

a solicitor than a priest. He greeted Michael warmly, bidding him sit down for t’cha and breakfast pastries.

Michael’s news about the Second Chronicle was heard with excitement. Storm took Stefn’s careful y copied volume, eagerly

turning pages.

“Praise be to Loth!” he said. “Could it be that al Chronicles survived?”

“Al ?”

“There was a third, you know. At least, there were rumors of one. It was said to be underway at the time of the fire, written by

no less a personage than your ancestor, Lord Derek. There are no stories in your family of it?”

Michael shook his head, intrigued.

“Yes, it was St. Aramis’ wish that the nara’s true story be told. He died shortly before the fire, of course, but he’d made his

desires known to his Scholar’s Guild.”

“Perhaps it’s tucked away in some noble’s castle, forgotten, just as this one was.”

“I pray it’s so. May I keep this copy?”

“Yes, although I didn’t bring it just so you could add it to your col ection of dangerous books.”

The bishop looked up quizzical y.

“What if dozens of copies of this Chronicle were to suddenly appear here and there throughout Tanyrin?

Storm straightened, eyes narrowing. “Dozens? That would require a printing press, my lord, unless you have an army of

scribes prepared to work night and day.”

“Natural y, we would need a press.”

Storm closed the book, laying his hand on it, gaze thoughtful. “There are three presses here in Withwil ow. Unfortunately, al

three are in very public places and registered with the Council. Stil , if we’re clever, we might be able to use at least one of them.”

Michael shook his head. “The Council would investigate Withwil ow first, don’t you think, Your Excel ency?”