Cethe (63 page)

stand against knightmages.”

“Michael is not a tool!” Severyn’s voice rose. “He is a friend and a brother. It was unforgiveable to sacrifice him to my future, to

a fate with consequences neither of us understood!”

“Don’t lose your focus,” the duke said. “He had every chance to refuse that sacrifice, but chose to go ahead. He understood

the prize we sought. Now he threatens to throw it away for the sake of a sin-catcher whose blood is poisoned with evil. Are you

real y ready to risk everything to let him do it? Are his desires real y more important than Tanyrin’s deliverance?”

Severyn stared at his surrogate father. “No,” he said slowly. “No, they’re not.”

Lord Damon nodded, relieved. “Then you’l send someone after him.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” said Severyn quietly, emphatical y. “Yes, I wil .”

With the foul murder of Aramis IV, in the Year of Loth’s Dominion 1422, the direct line of kings descended from St. Aramis

was ended. The throne passed to his first cousin, the Duke of Messerling. His Grace William Lothlain was the only surviving

male relative bearing royal blood. His Grace, at his coronation, took the name Arami Lothlain in honor of his ancestor, Aramis I,

founder of the royal line and Hero of Tanyrin. A pious and sober man, Arami I ruled Tanyrin for twenty years and is today known

by all as Arami the Just.

from:
A Modern History of Tanyrin
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1505

Michael woke, heart in his mouth, pulse thundering in his ears. He lay, his breath coming rapidly, looking up through the

branches of the evergreens at the night sky.

Stefn!

Rol ing over, he pushed aside his blanket. Remy, bound to a nearby tree, slept with his chin on his chest. Auron slept, too,

wrapped up in his bedrol on the other side of the fire, snoring. Michael sat up, hugging his knees to his chest, trying to quel his

sense of panic.

Stefn was in trouble. He remembered acutely the same terrible feelings when his grandfather’s men had tortured Stefn in the

delta. It took real effort to subdue the sense of panic and urgency.

“They’re hurting him, aren’t they?”

Michael looked up. Remy was awake, staring at him, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. Rising to his feet, Michael approached

the tree, stopping only long enough to pluck a burning stick from the fire. The captain shrank back when Michael dropped to a

crouch in front of him.

Michael replied. “Tel me, Remy, if I were to torture you, would he feel it? Your master, Locke?”

Remy, frightened, turned his face from the glowing end of the stick.

“It is Locke, isn’t it?” Michael thrust the end of the stick at him.

“Leave off, Mick!”

Michael rocked back on his heels. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Auron looking up from his bedrol .

“No,” said Remy. The word was a breath. “Our bond is not so close.”

Rustling at his back told Michael Auron was up. A moment later, his friend was crouched beside him. “Don’t do it,” he said.

“You aren’t one of those bastards.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” But Michael let him take the stick and throw it back into the fire. “They’re torturing Stefn.”

“You can tel ?”

Michael nodded.

“Loth.” Auron ran a hand through his tousled hair.

“So you are Locke’s cethe!”

“I’m his aide and shield brother,” Remy retorted. “He is not a naragi!”

“The hel !” Auron exclaimed.

“Semantics,” Mick replied, not taking his eyes from Remy.

“Mazril is a knightmage, the same as St. Arami was! He wields the power of lothria, not black magic!”

“I see little difference,” retorted Michael.

“You lose your power if you sleep with a woman,” replied Remy. “The knightmages do not.”

“How do you know? Have you ever seen Locke bed his wife? Have you ever seen any of the knightmages do so?”

Remy’s mouth tightened. “No,” he said after a moment. “Women are not al owed in the Zelenov Domicile. He has another

house in Zelenov where Lady Locke stays.”

“Holy Mother of Aramis,” Auron exclaimed. “Are you tel ing me that Locke’s never bedded that luscious armful he married?”

“That’s not what I said!”

Michael and Auron stared at each other, astounded. “It would explain Charity’s, er, many gentlemen friends,” said Auron final y.

Michael laughed hol owly. “Son of a bitch,” he said final y. “They’re hypocrites! How long, I wonder? How long have these so-

cal ed men of God been using the Dark Stream?”

“It’s not like that! Since the days of St. Aramis, the Dragons have always wielded only the power of the Light!”

“So they say.” Auron rose, looking down. “But we’ve seen how quick you and your masters are to embrace lies.”

“Indeed,” said Michael. “Shal we make another wager, Captain Remy? When it comes to the power of magic, who wil God

favor? The priest or the demon?”

Minutes crawled by; perhaps hours. Sick with dread and miserably uncomfortable, Stefn lay across the bed, eyes fixed on the

shadowed canopy overhead, every fiber of his being tuned to the sound of the door opening again. When it final y happened, he

had to bite his lip to keep back the smal sound of dread.

The click of boot heels broke the quiet.

“Ahh. Very good,” came Locke’s voice, deep and smoky. “Beautiful, indeed. I can see why Arranz chose you.”

A hand came down on Stefn’s aching sex, caressing it. This time, he could not help the whimper that escaped.

“Turn over.”

Stiff from lying so long in the awkward position, Stefn did a poor job of it. He heard an impatient sound from Locke. Hands

gripped his hips and pul ed him up, forcing him to instinctively struggle to get his knees under him on the mattress. Locke’s fingers

brushed his buttocks and, abruptly, whatever was inside him was pul ed out. He cried out at the sharp, tearing pain, but the next

instant, something just as big slammed into him.

“Do you feel me inside you?” Locke asked harshly. “Learn the feeling wel , whore, and know that now you are serving Loth

and not evil! Do penance for your crimes by giving me the power you gave to the demon!”

Stefn couldn’t answer. Each thrust drove the breath from him. He felt as if he were being torn apart, bit by bit, as Locke drove

into him with a savage, hungry force.

“Give me the power!” hissed the archbishop in harsh, short gasps. “Feed me strength, O Loth, through this, the body of your

enemy!”

His grunts grew louder and more urgent. He seized a handful of Stefn’s hair, pul ing his head up, forcing the youth to arch

backwards. Stefn’s abused nipples burned and stung as they rubbed hard against the sheets. He screamed helplessly and prayed

for it to be over.

Yet it seemed Locke refused to spend himself. The savaging went on and on. Blood ran down Stefn’s thighs, hot and wet.

Abruptly, Locke pul ed away, cursing. Stefn was turned onto his back and, for a moment, everything disappeared in a flood of

crimson.

“Eldering!”

Blows across his face jerked him back to unwelcome consciousness. He looked up through tear-washed eyes at Locke. The

man shouted at him, something to do with the col ar. He shook his head helplessly.

There were hands on his neck. Someone screamed. Was it him? Stefn wasn’t sure, but suddenly the lethet flared, shooting

bolts of fire through him. This time, he knew exactly whose scream it was.

The Cathedral at Zelenov stretched over the far end of the val ey, a dark, ominous beast crouched above the red brick and

tile-roofed city, its back against a massive overhang of sheer cliffs. Michael leaned forward in the saddle, looking down across the

patchwork of irrigated fields. The ant-like figures of slaves could be seen moving slowly up and down the rows. Water-bearers,

Remy said when questioned. While the west drowned, the east suffered under a long drought.

Roads zig-zagged over the surrounding hil s, coming from other parts of the east, al going to Zelenov. The city was the largest

on this side of the Midders, and for al practical purposes, the seat of real power.

“Don’t look like much, does it,” observed Auron. “I always thought it was bigger.”

Michael looked to his left. Remy sat silently, chained hands tight on his saddle, stubbled jaw set. He wouldn’t look at Michael.

Letting his eyes drift shut, Michael sought Stefn. His cethe’s pattern had faded; Michael saw it stil , but as if through layers of

gauze, indistinct. Longing wel ed up inside him.

I will find you and bring you back and never let you go again.

“Wel ?”

Michael looked westward, toward the sun settling onto the far, arid hil s. “It wil be dusk soon. We’l go then.”

“And him?”

Michael shrugged. “If he causes trouble, I’l use magic to subdue him.” He paused, smiling grimly at the other man’s tense

profile. “Of course, that wil mean I’l have to replenish it later.”

A flinch. Message received.

They left their position as the sun drifted lower and the hil s cast long shadows across the lowland. Joining the traffic returning

to the city, they did as the other travelers, untying their neckclothes and using them as masks to filter the choking haze.

The guards at the main gate paid little attention to who entered; indeed, it was hard to see how they could, given the hodge-

podge of carts and livestock, peasants and lines of chained Penitents making their way through the towering gate.

Zelenov’s narrow streets twisted and turned, going in every direction without any particular sense. The mud-brick buildings

had little variation in appearance, making one street corner much like another. Eventual y, however, the westerners found

themselves in the district known as the Bottom, Zelenov’s fetid slums.

Auron found them rooms in a ramshackle inn near some stockyards. Once inside, they secured their prisoner and had a

decidedly unremarkable meal.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t be the one to go out?” Auron asked afterwards.

“You don’t think I look human enough?”

Auron looked him up and down. “The black hair and eyebrows are a good try,” he said, “but your looks are just too damned

perfect.”

Michael grinned and pul ed up his neckcloth to cover his face. “How about that?”

“Actual y,” confessed Auron, “I was hoping not to have to sit in this oven, surrounded by that ungodly stench.”

“You don’t have cattle on your estates?”

“I don’t keep them next to my bed-chamber!”

“Maybe next time.”

“There had better not be a next time,” muttered his friend ungraciously. Stripping off his coat and shirt, both damp with sweat,

Auron threw himself down on the sagging bed. “Don’t be long,” he warned. “I’m not sure how long I can stand it.”

It wasn’t much cooler in the twilit streets. Michael walked rapidly uphil , keeping an eye on the distant wal s of the Cathedral.

According to their maps, it lay directly above a Hunter garrison of considerable size. The only way into it was through the garrison or

climbing down the cliffs rising hundreds of feet behind it.

Zelenov emptied rapidly as night descended. Michael was glad for his cloak and dyed black hair as he slipped from shadowed

doorway to al ey to side-street. Occasional y, he saw smal Hunter patrols. They did not seem to be stopping the few people stil

abroad, but Michael took no chances, melting out of their sight until they had passed.

He reached the garrison at moon’s first light. The gates were shut fast and guarded, but in some places, buildings had been

constructed right up against the fortress. Scrambling onto their roofs, he was able, without too much difficulty, to scale the remaining