Cethe (47 page)

point another way?” he whispered.

Michael gasped at the fingers wrapping around his cock, sliding knowingly between his bal s. The caress was skil ful, but it

wasn’t skil that made Michael’s body leap in response or made him suddenly lean forward to capture the startled captain’s lips with

his own!

Adrian Remy had the Blood!

Michael thrust his tongue deep into the other man’s mouth, vibrantly aware of the power kept maddening just beyond his

reach. The captain, caught by surprise, took a moment to react. He broke away, laughing nervously and wiping his mouth with the

back of his hand. His eyes were stark with shock and disbelief. Beneath the tight breeches of his uniform his own response was

evident. Then, like a man hypnotized, he leaned forward again.

Suddenly, the force holding Michael silent was gone. From the corner of his eye, he saw the young knightmage, open-

mouthed, leaning forward in his chair, spel -casting forgotten. Remy, flushed and breathing hard, turned away to look at the girl.

“Now,” he cal ed hoarsely to her. “He’s ready.”

The Words came automatical y to Michael, binding the remnants of k’na lingering within him, focusing them into one brief,

desperate spel . His manacles shattered like glass. Michael threw himself forward, no longer driven by reason. The captain swore,

but not even his Hunter reflexes were fast enough for a naragi in heat. Michael was on him in a heartbeat, bringing him to the

ground. Remy fought like a tiger, but Michael didn’t notice. He slammed Remy’s face against the floor with brutal strength and, while

the captain lay dazed, tore his breeches down around his ankles.

The girl was screaming. Michael heard it as if from a vast distance, his focus on the man writhing beneath him. He drove deep

into the Hunter captain, Remy’s exquisite tightness nearly distracting him from the great, euphoric waves of k’na pouring from their

point of joining.

Hands tore at him, at his hair, at his arms, scratching and pul ing. Something heavy struck him from behind. Shouting and

curses echoed in his skul , deafening.

Hurts! Stop! Stop it!

He spoke more Words, different this time, less familiar. A dreadful sound, not unlike the roar of the stormwave, fil ed his head.

The bril iance of a thousand suns exploded behind his eyes, blinding him.

It was only afterwards, when his head cleared and his thoughts steadied, that he looked around and knew he had taken one

step closer to the abyss.

Erich Dore arrived at Shia a week after Forry’s departure for Withwil ow. He heard the news about the spies with a grim scowl,

but saw no reason to linger.

“Forry’s man, Lake, has everything under control. Anyway, Auron wil be along soon. He’s to stay and take up responsibility for

overseeing the garrison for awhile. Truth be told,” added Erich, “it’s the damned rain. At least Tantagrel gets sunlight now and then,

even these days.”

“What if more Hunters come?”

“That’s not your worry, my friend. Just play your part as Severyn’s future brother-in-law and everything wil be fine.”

He left soon after that, promising to urge Auron to hurry. Stefn watched him go from the south parlor, his coach vanishing

quickly into the misty rain.

After two days of relentless downpours, the clouds broke, showing tantalizing glimpses of blue sky. Sick of being confined to

the house, even the prospect of getting wet and muddy couldn’t depress Stefn’s eagerness to be away.

Marin was gone, so there was no one to nag him into taking an escort. He had a horse saddled and brought around.

“It’s going to rain again, m’lord,” the groom ventured, scowling at the clouds.

“I won’t melt,” replied Stefn cheerful y, and started down to the castle gate.

The air had a sweet, rainwashed scent and puddles lay everywhere. Water dripped from the eaves and branches he passed.

As he approached the gate, Stefn heard voices ahead. A moment later two guards came around the corner of the armory,

accompanied by a pair of vil agers, the latter wet and covered with mud.

“My lord!” One of the guards hurried forward

Alarmed, Stefn dismounted. “Arkingham?”

Corporal Arkingham bowed while the vil agers stared at him curiously.

“These folk are from Embry, my lord. The river has flooded its banks and half the vil age is under water!”

“Has anyone been hurt?”

“Aye!” cried one of the vil agers, stepping forward. “Two drowned and several unaccounted for, children and… We’ve lost

everything! The water’s getting’ higher and more rain’s comin’…”

The two men spoke over each other, their distress obvious.

Stefn nodded. “Corporal Arkingham, take this matter to Captain Lake. Tel him to gather as much food, bedding and clothing as

may be reasonably spared. I’l go ahead and have a look.”

Arkingham saluted and was off to the barracks.

“Go to the kitchens,” Stefn told the gaping vil agers. “The servants wil see you fed and dried out. You can ride back in the

supply wagon.”

He barely heeded their thanks, pointing them in the direction of the house before mounting up again. The patches of blue

overhead were getting fewer and further between. Clouds, driven by the chil , damp wind, thickened.

Outside Shia’s wal s, the broad expanse of grassland glittered with ponds of standing rainwater, as far as the eye could see.

Stefn had a sudden vision of Shia’s artificial hil rising above a sea stretching to the horizon.

Another image suddenly imposed itself, vivid and possessed of a sharp, visceral clarity: a tal man, lean and graceful, hair as

bright as frost. Strength and a sudden, wary smile — Michael!

Stefn fel forward in his saddle, reins slipping from his hands. He couldn’t breathe. His ears fil ed with a loud buzzing while his

heart hammered madly in his chest. Only luck kept him from slipping out of the saddle. He grabbed wildly for the reins, but his

fingers were clumsy and he could only grasp handfuls of his horse’s mane and hang on.

The madness eased. Stefn swore, trying to swal ow with a parched mouth and tight throat. Sweat ran into his eyes. Something

was wrong! Something to do with Michael!

Stop! I DON’T CARE!

It was the thrice-damned lethet! Stefn wanted to rip it off his throat. Instead, he gritted his teeth, straightening in the saddle,

and reclaimed the reins.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind picked up. Overhead, the last few patches of blue disappeared. He drove his

horse forward, hooves splashing in the puddles dotting the road. The rain started again.

It was coming down in sheets when he reached Embry, or what was left of the vil age. On its outskirts, a pitiful camp now

stood, a jumble of makeshift tents of blankets and salvaged wood. Fires burned sul enly here and there, jealously protected from the

downpour. The air stank of rain, smoke and mud. As he rode through the wretched settlement, pale faces looked out at him. Women,

children; eyes stark with shock and despair, watched him silently as he passed.

The Shian River was Embry’s lifeline, bringing in trade from the south and providing most of the parish with fresh fish. Usual y,

it ran along tamely between high, rocky banks, but today the placid stream was a raging monster. It had left its banks, fil ing the

lowest parts of Embry and washing away everything in its path. Al manner of debris was carried with the current, barrels, beams,

and uprooted trees. Where dozens of smal huts and cottages had been was only swift water.

Was anyone in charge? Where were the priests? The Abbey was on the highest ground. Why weren’t these folk sheltering

there? Stefn stopped, looking around.

Movement nearby announced a tal , grizzled man. He was fol owed by a woman and another man, older and wearing a

bandage around his arm.

“Who are you?” asked the tal man, narrow-eyed. “What business do ye have here?”

Stefn met the cold speculation without flinching. “I’m lord of this vil age,” he said, hoping his voice was as steady as it needed

to be. “The Earl of Shia. My business is to see this disaster for myself, so I can send enough assistance. Who are you?”

The tal man caught his breath. He bowed, but none of his tension was gone. From the folk gathering around came a ripple of

gasps.

“I’m Robert Carter, m’lord, and we’ve no need of your help.”

“Why aren’t you al up at the Abbey?” Stefn did his best to ignore the stab of hurt and frustration. “Where are the priests?”

Carter said nothing, but spat elaborately into the mud. Muttering rose. The crowd was growing, more and more people

emerging from the wreckage. Stefn was exquisitely aware of the bristling resentment.

But, “Aye!” shouted someone. “Where are the damned priests? Two days we been sufferin’ and they can’t make up their

minds whether to let us in? I say they’ve made up their minds! We’re bein’ told to go to the devil!”

“He’s a sin-catcher!” shouted Carter. “It’s his fault! He’s a sign we’re bein’ punished by Loth!”

The muttering grew. Stefn kept a firm grip on his horse, wondering if he had the nerve to trample people to save his own life.

Michael Arranz wouldn’t think twice.

“Suit yourselves,” he said, speaking loudly and clearly. The muttering faded. “The folk from the castle wil be here soon with

food and supplies. Accept their aid or not, as it suits you. As for the abbot, I wil have a word with him. Gather what belongings you

have and prepare to move to higher ground.”

The quiet was absolute. Slowly a head nodded here and there.

“They’l turn ye back,” cal ed Carter. There were cal s of agreement and a few jeers.

Stefn shrugged. “We’l speak again, Carter,” he said and saw unease flicker in the man’s eyes.

The vil agers watched him go in silence, accompanied by the hissing rain and a rumble of thunder. Stefn was long past

soaked. He made his way uphil , fol owing the swol en river toward a cluster of buildings sprawled across several hil tops. There was

plenty of open land around the abbey’s main complex, some of the best grazing land in the parish. It would do nicely as a campsite

for the dispossessed vil agers.

Several priests stood before the abbey gate, armed with pitchforks and axes. The sight took Stefn aback. He pushed wet hair

from his face as they approached, brandishing their makeshift weapons.

“There’s been no word from the abbot!” they shouted. “Did we not say we’d tel you when the abbot makes his decision?

Begone with ye!”

“If ye weren’t fools enough to build so close to the river, this wouldn’t be happening!” another chimed in. “It’s the judgment of

Loth!”

“It’s the greed of the abbey!” retorted Stefn, furious. “I am Stefn Eldering, Earl of Shia! I have come to speak to the abbot!”

“You? The earl?” The nearest priest sneered disbelievingly.

“The earl’s a sin-catcher,” cal ed the other. “He’s deformed! I see no problem with you, sir!”

“Aye! Where’s yer proof?”

He had none, of course, and no intention of taking off his boot to prove it. No doubt, bedraggled as he was, he hardly looked

like a highblood. Even so, that they should be so rude to any of those they purported to serve only deepened Stefn’s anger. He

turned his horse and started away. Then, several yards from the gate, he turned and gal oped back. The priests, content to have

driven away another interloper, spun around and their mouths dropped at the sight of horse and earl hurtling straight at them.

In panic, they scrambled to ready their weapons, but Stefn and his mount easily cleared the low wal beside the gate and left

them shouting. He continued straight on to the Domicile. Dismounting, he pushed his reins into the hands of a startled priest and

took the steps up to the door two at a time. The door opened after his third knock. A young man stood there, dressed in grey tunic

and leggings. His hair was a very pale blond and his eyes were grey. In the middle of his forehead was a smal scar in the shape of

a perfect circle.

Stefn’s angry demand died on his lips. Shock twisted his gut. The young man bowed. “Good afternoon, sir.”

A Penitent!

“May I help you?”

“Tel the abbot Lord Eldering is here,” Stefn ordered, pushing past the youth and into the house.

“H- he’s at his prayers, my lord…” The h’nar broke off, looking past Stefn into the rain. His eyes got wide. A moment later, two

priests thundered in.

“What is going on?”

A nasal, outraged voice brought silence to the room. The Penitent bowed very deeply. Abbot Drummond looked around his

vestibule with displeasure. “Brother Richard? Brother Samuel? What is al this?” His irate glare settled on Stefn, narrowed, then

widened. “M-my lord!”

Drummond had met Stefn before, but only a handful of times and only briefly. Clearly, he remembered, however, for he gave a

stiff little bow. To the priests, he snapped, “What are you doing? Can’t you see who this is? Get back to your posts, both of you!”

They backed out, directing evil looks at Stefn. Stefn looked for the h’nar, but the pale young man had vanished.

He fol owed the abbot into a luxurious sitting room.

“What brings you out here on such a day?” asked the abbot, waving him to a comfortable sofa.

“There’s flooding in the vil age. Many people have lost their homes. Women and children, too, are living in the open.”