Cethe (64 page)

bit of wal .

From the looks of it, he reckoned the fort held several thousand men. That was a considerable number; certainly more troops

than were needed to keep order in a single town, even with a Cathedral as important as Zelenov’s. He thought about Storm’s

estimate of the Hunter numbers in the west. Added to this and the other Hunters they’d seen so far, the number of Locke’s

Zelenovian troops took on more sinister proportions.

Michael ran along the top of the wal , keeping low. He cast a smal witch-glamor around himself, hoping to trick any eye that

might lift in his direction. The Cathedral wal loomed before him, eight or nine feet higher than the wal s of the fortress. He got a

running start and just managed to grab the top, hauling himself up and onto it. There, he lay, catching his breath.

The Cathedral boasted a col ection of large, stone structures. Michael easily picked out the Domicile. Several stories high, it’s

façade was elaborately carved, decorated with fine marble and embel ished with balconies, dormers, widow’s-walks, and

surrounded by elegantly manicured lawns. Yel ow light shone out of diamond-paned windows. Michael saw no sign of soldiers.

However, as he considered where to descend, he felt a strange shiver run across his skin, lifting the hairs on his body. From

somewhere among the trees and shrubbery below he heard a shout. A moment later, several figures appeared in the moonlight. His

heart jumped. Most of them were Hunters, but there was a priest with them. Worse, the latter pointed straight at him.

Michael turned and ran, jumping back down onto the fortress wal . Below him, the alarm was raised. He threw a shield around

himself as questing tendrils of power probed the night. Bel s began to clang. Cursing, he kept going. Soldiers erupted from the

buildings.

Without warning, Michael was struck by an invisible force, nearly knocking him off the wal . Only his shield protected him,

deflecting the blow at the last possible moment. Desperately, he leapt from the wal to a roof below, hitting hard and rol ing down. At

the last minute, he grabbed hold of the eaves and managed to keep from fal ing to the street.

Al around, shutters flew open. The clanging behind the wal grew louder as the alarms spread through the fort. Michael

dropped to the ground. Sweeping his cloak tight around him, he ran.

Now comes before the Court Jeanette Williams, h’naran female, twenty-six years of age, accused of the foul crime of

witchcraft. Wherein it is sworn that Jeanette Williams did curse her employer, Mrs. Leonie Scrapp, with boils, did cause the

household milk to curdle, and incite the children toward disobedience and disrespect. Note is made of Mrs. Leonie’s generosity

and kindness in extending this wayward soul the beneficence of good employment, for which she was so basely repaid. We

humbly beseech the judge to find the Williams woman guilty and show the mercy for which this Court is so famous by giving her

over to the Church so that she may swear a Vow of Penitence.

from:
Case Records
,
Royal Court of Fornsby
,

9 Rulkel
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 14 23

Stefn was only dimly aware when the healers came, laying hands on him and knitting his torn flesh. They could do little with

his shattered spirit, however. He lay in his cramped, cold cel and did his best to shut away the misery, refusing to speak, ignoring

the food and drink the slaves brought. Each time the cel door opened, his entire body tensed until he thought his bones would

crack. Each time he was sure he would be dragged back to Locke’s bedroom and, when he wasn’t, it took forever for his shaking to

stop.

That was not to say he was left alone. At first, men came and went, al of them intent on the lethet. They brought saws and

cutters of al kinds, and their attempts to remove it were often worse than what he’d already endured. But final y, they seemed to

give up and stopped coming.

Someone, at some time, gave him clothing, the same brief, grey tunic worn by the Penitents, but it did little to keep away the

cold of his subterranean chamber. He hardly noticed, lost in a haze of despair, indifferent to what went on around him.

There was no way of knowing how much time had passed in this gloomy place. The only light lay outside his cel . The dark

made it easier to lose himself in the past, those fleeting months when, as Michael’s cethe, he’d known unparal eled freedom and

happiness. How bitterly he regretted not recognizing those days for what they had truly been, a brief respite in a life otherwise

distinguished only by misery and pain.

The violence of the Binding had faded to a point where he could view it dispassionately. What came after had been far more

important — Michael’s remorse, the friendship that had grown between them and, in his heart at least, a feeling that had

transcended even that. Was this what it truly meant to be a sin-catcher? To have paradise dangled before him, then swept away? If

so, then Loth be damned!

It was too much to hope that he would be left alone forever. The doors opened again and this time, it was neither priests nor

slaves, but Dragons, grim-faced and disinclined to listen to his pleas. They forced him to accompany them from the cel ars and up

into the main portion of the Domicile. To his relief, however, he wasn’t taken to Locke’s bedchamber. Instead, he was escorted to a

spacious chamber il uminated by tal , diamond-paned windows and furnished with a long, shining table. Seated at the table in high-

backed chairs were a dozen men of varying ages.

At the head of it, Locke sat, regarding Stefn with brooding intensity. On his right hand was an elderly priest. The others wore

Hunter uniforms with the red braid of the Dragon Order. Before them were piles of books, some lying open, others in precarious

heaps.

Stefn’s guards took him to the end of the table opposite Locke and left him standing alone. He heard them withdraw and the

door close. The men at the table stared fixedly at him, but Stefn realized after a moment, it was the lethet they were studying.

“I can think of no other explanation, Lord Locke,” the old priest said. “‘Tis that col ar. Not only does it defy attempts to remove

it, many of the gems are unknown to us.”

“I thought the lethets were just identification, a mark of status, like the tattoos of our shield brothers,” Locke said, scowling.

“Are you saying it has actual power?”

“So it would seem,” replied the old man. “I see no other explanation. Do you?”

Locke laughed harshly, lifting a bandaged hand.

“Then how do we get it off?” He glared at the elderly priests.

“We must consult the book.”

Locke’s face twisted. “The book of lies?” he sneered.

“It is a naran book and that is a naran thing,” retorted the old priest.

“We contaminate ourselves each time we touch the naragi’s Chronicle!”

Muttering arose from the Dragons. The old priest, however, was unmoved. Reaching across the table, he pul ed over a large,

rune-covered box. Opening it, he removed a book. In spite of his fear, Stefn’s attention sharpened.

The old man opened the book and, with a bony finger, traced down the page. Silence settled over the room while he read, lips

moving silently.

Final y, he lifted his head, a look of astonishment on his face. “The cethe has the power to remove it himself.”

The entire room erupted into exclamations of surprise and varying degrees of disbelief.

“Is it true? It’s that easy?”

“According to this, should the heart of the cethe turn away from his lord, he can easily remove the lethet and be free.”

Stefn shook his head.
Hadn’t he tried to remove it many times?
“That’s not true,” he said. “I-I’ve tried!”

“Real y?” Locke smiled crookedly. “Try again.”

With every eye fixed on him, Stefn raised shaking hands and fumbled at the col ar. Nothing happened. His searching fingers

had no more luck finding the clasp than they ever had and, aware of the growing impatience in the room, he tugged at it. It remained

fast around his neck.

“Lies,” muttered one of the Dragons. “That damned book was written by Derek, after al . Did you expect the truth from a

naragi?”

“Perhaps Lord Eldering’s heart does not wish to be free?” Locke drawled, eyes glittering across the table.

“Of course I wish it!” Panic nibbled at Stefn. He tried again to loosen the col ar, but again without any success. “Why should I

not?”

They watched him struggle frantical y, clawing at the thing, his dismay growing.

“The book is quite clear,” said the old priest flatly. “It would seem Lord Eldering is either lying or doesn’t know his own feelings.

”

“Which is it, my lord?” asked Locke, leaning forward, narrowed eyes fixed on his frightened captive.

“Your book must be lying,” whispered Stefn. “What is it, anyway?”

“It’s the Third Chronicle, of course,” said Locke with a grim smile. “Written by the ancestor of your precious naragi master.”

“It does exist?”

Locke inclined his head mockingly. “Natural y it leaves us with only one choice.” He leaned back and looked from one Dragon

to the next. “We’l simply have to convince Lord Eldering that he does, indeed, want desperately to be free.”

Michael paced the smal , stifling room. He’d long since grown accustomed to the noisy, odiferous presence of the cattle

outside the inn, but the heat was impossible to ignore. He was sweating gal ons, it seemed, and Remy’s apparent indifference to the

temperature was irritating him no end.

For days they’d been stuck here, waiting for Auron to gather the information he needed, going outside only after dark for a few

breaths of fresh, evening air. At least the hubbub of his near-discovery had died down. On his return from his first trip out, Auron had

reported a search underway for suspected rebels and not, as Michael had feared, for a western naragi.

“Apparently, al is not sweetness and light in the East,” Auron said in tones of satisfaction. “Locke has his enemies here, too.

Word is buzzing in the streets that he and some of his Dragons wil be leaving soon, riding south to root out a nest of rebels holed

up in one of the coastal towns.”

“Rabble,” spat Remy from his cot in the corner of their room.

Michael, however, found the news cheering. “When?” he asked.

“Any day,” replied Auron, adding, “sooner rather than later, I hope.”

Infiltrating the wel -guarded Cathedral would be much safer with fewer Dragon mages to contend with. Even so, for Stefn’s

sake, Michael was reluctant to wait much longer.

His new plan was hardly ideal, but after a much discussion, neither he nor Auron could think of a better one. Auron, with

unseemly enthusiasm, abandoned their oven of a room and headed out into the streets to col ect the necessary props.

Remy jeered openly, but when Michael threatened to gag him, he shut his mouth and contented himself with sneering. “It’l

never work,” he promised. “You haven’t the bearing for it, my lord.”

“Damn it!” growled Michael. “Where is Chal ory? If he’s out having a cool drink in the shade of some tavern, I’l kil him!” He

stalked to the window for the hundredth time. Outside, restless cattle jostled about in their pens, fil ing the air with dust and stench.

The narrow lane running between the stockyard and the inn was ful of people bustling about, but there was no sign of the tal , dark-

haired nobleman.

“Maybe he was caught,” Remy suggested. “And even now, guards are approaching.”

“You had better hope not,” Michael replied. “Or they wil suffer the same fate as your companions in Lothmont.”

“If so, Mazril wil know you are here and every Dragon in the city wil be on your trail.” Remy bared his teeth in a vulpine grin.

“I would die happily if I knew justice would final y be served.”

A rattle at the door saved Michael from a stinging reply. He whirled, reaching for his sword, but it was only Auron, a large

paper bag in hand.

“Food,” he announced as Michael shut and locked the door after him. “And the very latest in Zelenovian fashion for you, my

lord.”

He dumped the bag on the table. Several oranges tumbled out. There were paper-wrapped sandwiches of thick, crusty bread,

cheese and sausage, as wel . At the bottom of the bag was another paper-wrapped bundle, but this one did not contain food.