Cethe (11 page)

direct gaze. “I wil not always al ow my head to rule my heart,” he promised, meaning it utterly. “I’m fighting this battle for many

reasons, the best of which is to free my country from tyrants. But when it’s over, Mick, I wil claim my true reward: the right to proudly

have my best friend always and openly at my side.”

Aramis I was born in YLD 1276 to the Marquis of Tantegrel, Lord Argan Lothlain, and his lady wife, Mary of Irye. The

youngest of three sons, Aramis, was destined for a place in the clergy as was the custom of that time. However, at an early age,

he showed such skill and inclination to the martial arts that Lord Argan decided instead to raise him among his guardsmen and

sent his second son, Alfred, to Withwillow to be educated and ordained as a priest.

from:
The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347

Morning came too quickly. Stefn, unable to sleep, was wide awake when Marin opened the door. The big servant no longer

wore a footman’s formal suit, but had changed into a soldier’s uniform of black with red trim. Arranz colors.

“Rise and shine, my lord!” he boomed. “His Lordship wishes to be gone within the hour!”

Then, looking around, he frowned. “Not packed? Wel , never fear. I’l attend to it while you get ready.” He started toward one

of the wardrobes.

“Those are — were my brother’s clothes.”

“Oh, yes. My apologies. He was much bigger than you, wasn’t he? I shal return shortly.”

After he’d gone, Stefn pul ed the blankets to his chin and stared through the gloom at the remains of the fire. So often, he’d

imagined al the places in Tanyrin he would go if he could only be free of the high wal s of his home. Blackmarsh, the last stronghold

of naran blood, had never been one of them.

The Church had less power here in the west than on the eastern side of the Midder Mountains, but in Blackmarsh, the Church

had no power at al . Taints lived with impunity, protected by the ancient Covenant between St. Aramis and his naragi al y and

comrade, Derek Arranz, first Duke of Blackmarsh.

Stefn’s father had often spoken longingly of the day when the cursed Covenant was final y dissolved. “It would wipe the land

clean, once and for al , of demon blood,” he’d been fond of saying. “What I would not give to be the one to ride into that unholy

place and to see the Demon Duke on his knees, bowing his neck for my sword!”

Yet Loth had not granted his father’s wish. Instead, He had visited devastation upon the earl and, in a final act of cruelty,

would deliver the last of the Eldering line to Blackmarsh, not as a conqueror but as a slave.

Why? What could any of his ancestors have done to deserve this?

Yet even as he asked himself the bitter question, he remembered the refuse heap and the bones. Taints, he told himself

angrily. They had been outlaws, witches, thieves, murderers!

Marin returned with a bulging leather satchel. “Up, lad! My master told me I was to dress you by force if necessary! Or is that

what you’re waiting for?”

It wasn’t, and Stefn scrambled from the bed with al haste.

Outside, the familiar lane teemed with mounted soldiers and two large carriages. Marin took Stefn straight to a smal knot of

men that included both the prince and the taint. With a jolt, he recognized the dark-haired lord he’d stabbed.

It was that one who saw him first, elbowing his companion. Silence fel . Lord Michael turned. “Good morning, Lord Eldering.”

Stefn lifted his head, although his stomach knotted, and pointedly did not answer.

The dark-haired man lifted an eyebrow. “He ain’t riding with you, is he, Your Highness? The damned coach wil end up in a

ditch or a wheel wil fal off.”

“Did you check him for knives?” joked the prince.

“My lords!” objected Marin, looking hurt.

“He’l be riding with me.” Arranz waved to one of the coaches. “Severyn wil be quite safe.”

Amid hoots and laughter, Marin set a large hand on Stefn’s shoulder and propel ed him toward the vehicle. “Be a good lad and

stay there,” he instructed.

Left alone in the coach, Stefn lifted his throbbing foot onto the leather upholstered seat. Uncomfortable as his corrective boot

had been, it had supported his weak limb. Pain shot up his leg and, gritting his teeth, he leaned back against the wal , waiting for it

to subside.

Without the boot’s iron brace to prevent it, how long before his sixth toe started growing back? And when it did, what then?

Stefn shivered and tried to think of something else. When Lord Michael got into the coach a short time later, the distraction was

almost welcome.

The coach door slammed, leaving them in darkness. The cracking of a whip made him jump, and amid much rocking and

swaying, they were off. There were smal rustles across the cab as Arranz lit the overhead travel lamp and settled down. The

swaying, yel ow light cast stark shadows across his face, hol owing his cheeks and making deep wel s of his eyes.

“If your foot pains you, you have only to say so,” the taint offered unexpectedly. “Easement spel s are simple enough.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” lied Stefn.

Arranz shrugged. He had brought a large book into the coach which he proceeded to open and peruse. Stefn didn’t recognize

it as coming from his family’s library and couldn’t help a stir of interest. He had no intention of showing it, however. Shifting

awkwardly around, he pushed aside the curtain covering the little window beside him.

Outside, the wet fields gathered substance in the advance of a rain-drenched dawn. They passed a cottage, its roof sagging,

the earth around it bare and muddy. A thin trickle of smoke came from the tilting chimney.

“Once Severyn weds your sister, the people of Shia wil learn what it’s like to have a just and generous lord,” said Arranz.

“One who cares whether their roofs leak or their children are hungry. I wager, in less than a year, they’l bless the day the prince

came to save them.”

A few minutes later, they passed another house, this one a bit larger, but equal y squalid. The taint was ful of fine words, but

to Stefn’s observation, Prince Severyn Lothlain seemed capable only of treachery and, Stefn stole a quick glance at Arranz,

blasphemy.

They soon left the depressing vista behind. It began to rain harder, the water running in rivulets down the thick glass. The

coach slowed, jolting and bouncing as the road worsened. Overhead, the lantern swung wildly. Arranz swore. He unhooked it and

blew it out. “Damned northern roads,” he muttered.

With little to see but an endless procession of rain battered fields, Stefn glanced over at Arranz and found the h’nar looking

back. For some reason, that regard sent a wave of heat through him. Horrified, Stefn turned away. He wedged himself into the

corner as securely as he could and pretended to go to sleep.

It was with genuine surprise that he awoke several hours later to find himself curled up on the seat, blankets tucked around

him. The ride was smoother, the coach swaying gently. Across the aisle, sunlight streamed through the window. The demon lord

appeared engrossed in his book. He raised his eyes as Stefan sat up.

“Awake at last. How you could sleep with al that jolting defies reason.”

“Where are we?”

“We crossed Shia’s parish line a short time ago. I’ve arranged for us to spend the night at an inn in Fornsby.”

The landscape had started to change, empty plains giving way to rol ing, wooded hil s and open fields. On the road, puddles

from the rain reflected blue sky. Stefn forgot everything in his fascination with a world he’d never expected to see outside of

paintings or in the il ustrations of his books.

The homes of the farmers were not as mean as those of Shia, but stil seemed very smal and run-down. They passed a

wagon pul ed over to the side of the road. A bearded, shabbily dressed man sat at the reins while, in the back, atop several bulging,

burlap sacks, sat a boy, barefoot in spite of the chil , his breeches out at the knees. A moment later, the coach was past.

“The Baron of Fornsby is a decent lord,” said Arranz. “The Order of the Sacred Vessel has their monastery in the Cathedral

here, too, bringing work to the people of the parish.”

“Are they traitors, too?” asked Stefn bitterly.

“Not yet.”

In spite of himself, excitement quickened Stefn’s pulse. If only he could get to the Cathedral! If only he could warn the priests!

Afraid his face would give him away, he turned his gaze back to the window. The road curved slowly west, revealing more of the

town. “Where is the Cathedral?” he asked. “Is it those buildings to the east?”

“No. That’s Castle Fornsby,” replied Arranz. “You’ve never been here?”

“I’ve never been anywhere,” replied Stefn before thinking.

“We’l pass the Cathedral on the way to the inn. You can’t miss it.”

Stefn said nothing more. To his relief, Arranz was right, it wasn’t difficult to spot the Cathedral. It dwarfed buildings around it,

high-wal ed and grim. As they rode past, Stefn saw two guards standing before its massive gates.

The coach was quickly through Fornsby. At the edge of the town, it pul ed into the large, busy yard of an inn.

“Your name,” Arranz said, “is Stefn White, if anyone asks. And put up your hood. I prefer discretion.”

He donned his own cloak, hiding his silvery mane, and stepped down from the coach. Marin was waiting. The big servant

bowed and handed Stefn a cane. Stefn was tempted to throw it back at him, but his foot stil ached, so he took it and was secretly

grateful.

The inn had a prosperous, welcoming look. Torches were lit against the deepening twilight. Yel ow lamplight glowed from the

square-paned windows. The smel of cooking made Stefn’s mouth water.

Inside, the common room was as busy as the courtyard. No one paid any heed to the two cloaked and hooded figures winding

through their midst.

Marin secured two chambers on an upper floor. “I’ve ordered dinner to be sent up, my lords,” he announced when they

reached the top of the stairs. To Stefn, he added, “I shal , of course, be outside your door, Lord Eldering, should you need anything.”

Stefn heard this with a sinking heart, but pretended indifference. “You don’t trust me, my lord?” he asked Arranz, feigning

concern.

“No.”

Marin took a step in Stefn’s direction and, in no mood to be manhandled yet again, Stefn hastily retreated into his assigned

room. The door shut. He heard the key turn in the lock and he was final y alone. Heart thumping, he stood rooted to the spot.

It was a dreadful risk he was taking. If he failed, who knew what the taint would do to him? Even so, he had no choice. The

danger to the kingdom was more important than his personal circumstances. He had to try!

To his delight, his room had a perfect view of the Cathedral. But how to get there? His door was locked and guarded.

He pushed open the window and leaned out. It was a straight drop to the courtyard. Jumping was out of the question. On the

other hand, the window was a dormer, with roof slanting steeply on either side. Having scrambled in and out of windows al his life,

this would be easy.

A short time later, Marin brought him his supper. “Where is Lord Arranz?” Stefn asked. “Wil he join me?”

“His lordship has gone out,” replied the man.

Better and better. Stefn ate the excel ent meal with real appetite. When Marin returned to take away the tray, Stefn announced

his intention to seek his bed. He even blew out his lamp and crawled under the covers, ful y dressed, just in case Arranz should

check.

Having slept al day in the coach, it wasn’t hard to stay awake. He listened to the sounds of the courtyard drifting up to his

window, the tread of feet on creaking boards outside his door. Al the while, his mind raced.

Once the plot was exposed, the prince and his half-demon accomplice would stand trial and face execution. Maybe then, Loth

would be satisfied that the Elderings had atoned for whatever sins Stefn carried. Maybe then, his curse would be lifted.

Gradual y, the inn quieted. When moonlight streamed through his window, Stefn got out of bed. Below, the courtyard was

empty. At the last moment, considering the long walk ahead of him, he grabbed the cane and, with it gripped in his teeth, climbed up

onto the window sil . Careful to put little weight on his bad foot, he worked himself around until he was safely on the roof.

He found a drainpipe and, with the ease of long practice, slid to the ground, keeping to the shadows as he made his way

across the courtyard. His intention to steal a horse died at the sight of several stableboys clustered before the stable, talking and

smoking their pipes. It looked like he would be walking.

With an eye to the distant Cathedral towers, his cane gripped firmly in hand, he started into Fornsby.