Cethe (2 page)

me or die.”

“Join you?” The man looked from Severyn to Auron and back. “In what, my lord?”

“Can’t you guess?” drawled Lord Chal ory. He bared his teeth in a smile with nothing of amusement in it. “It’s time for a new

king.”

“You would kil your own brother and become a Pretender?”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” admitted Severyn, “but for the good of Tanyrin, Arami must step down. In these times of trial, my

lord, the kingdom needs a sovereign who wil rule with a strong, but merciful hand. I love my brother, but he does his people no

service with his extravagance and neglect.”

“Blackguard! Traitor!”

“Don’t you see the ruin on the land?” Severyn didn’t know why he even tried, but he plowed doggedly on. “Taxes and tithes

are bleeding even the highblood dry! The harvests have suffered these past few years and I hear there are food riots in the east.

Outlaws,
genuine
outlaws prey upon the people with impunity. The Church, which should come to the aid of the people, instead

makes ever more demands upon them. The foul Penitent laws they would have us enact would enslave our h’naran brothers while

taking honest, paying work from the peasants… ”

“Brothers? You cal the demon-spawn by such a name?” cried one of the vassals. “You are a heretic as wel as a traitor! You

may have the right of it when it comes to the king, but to speak against the Church? May Loth strike you dead for your blasphemy!”

Severyn knew he should have expected no other reaction. The House of Eldering was bound to the Church by chains of

blood and cruelty stretching back to the early fourteenth century. For two hundred years they had given the loyalty that was due to

the king, to the powerful Archbishops and the Church’s Celestial Council instead. Why should they desire a return to the days when

it had been the House of Lothlain wielding the true power? What interest did they have in restoring justice and truth? Even so, it

gave Severyn no pleasure to begin his new age with the murder of old men.

“Reason is not blasphemy,” he replied. “There was a time when Shia itself was a center of a cultural flowering unlike any ever

seen before.”

“That was before the Reformation,” retorted the earl. “Now Shia is dedicated to the service of Loth and the protection of the

kingdom. Your so-cal ed ‘cultural flowering’ was nothing but an excuse for licentiousness and blasphemy If that is what you intend to

put in place of Loth’s most holy government, than I have no choice but to stop you!”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Severyn said, bowing. “But Tanyrin wil be free, whether you wil or not. And Shia,” he added, “was never

yours to begin with!”

He lifted his sword, bracing himself for what was to come, watching the Earl’s blade brighten as lothrian fire infused it. With an

incoherent roar, the old earl charged, his companions running after him.

Age had slowed the earl’s charge, but the old man was stil a knightmage. Eldritch’s lightning flashed as Severyn’s sword met

Eldering’s lothrian blade, sending hot sparks in al directions and shaking the prince to the bone. He cursed, desperately parrying

another swing.

Enough of holding back! The old man had made his choice! Severyn let the blood-fury come and this time, it was the earl who

retreated.

The end was never real y in question. His youthful strength and skil found little real opposition in the old man’s fading powers.

The earl faltered before the flurry of Severyn’s assault, his blade dimming as his poor store of lothria was quickly spent. Seeing this,

the earl’s companions quickly sprang in front of their lord, only to fal in their turn, mowed down like grass before a scythe. Eldering’s

heir, Lord Al en, threw himself at Severyn, hacking away with considerably less skil than his sire. Severyn cut him down with a

savage, lightning thrust.

Enraged by the death of his son, the earl fought with renewed fury, forcing the prince to redouble his defense. It was more

luck than skil that gave Severyn the opening he needed. He lunged, running the earl straight through. Eldering fel , spewing blood

and curses, and was dead upon the floor a moment later.

The prince and his companions stared at each other in the fol owing silence, shaken in spite of themselves.

“Get used to it,” Severyn said final y, trying to catch his breath. “This was easy. If Shia was stil as important as in the old days,

there would be more men stationed here and more than a single old, drunken knightmage to defend it. We may face far worse

before this is over.”

No one needed him to elaborate. Deposing his foolish, drug-addled brother was likely to be the easy part. If the Church

decided to take offense at his actions, they had powerful weapons at their disposal. The shadow of the knightmages true mages

with real and deadly power stretched long and dark over the land. Their number included no less than the Archbishop of Tanyrin

himself and the magic they wielded was as great as that of the long-vanished naragi.

“What now?” asked Dore.

A chil swept over Severyn and he whirled around, staring up into the soaring, shadow-fil ed rafters. There! His gut tightened

in alarm. High in the wal on the opposite end of the hal , unnoticed in the gloom, was a smal balcony. A slight, dark-haired youth

stood on it, looking back at him. Chal ory cursed softly.

The boy vanished.

“Find him,” said Severyn grimly, reckoning he knew who it was. “And whatever you do, don’t kil him. Bring him to me alive!”

Too late! Heart pounding, Stefn ran. He barely noticed the shooting pains from his foot as he stumbled along the corridor, his

thoughts in chaos. Dead. Dead. Dead. The word beat like some foul chant in his head. Over and over he saw his father fal , slit

open from chin to bel y, Al en lying in a pool of his own blood.

He didn’t remember much after realizing Brother Michael was a witch, the flash of a fist, a burst of pain, then darkness. By the

time he’d awakened, the castle gates were open and outlaws swarmed the hal s.

Except they weren’t outlaws. Some were knights! Sworn to the service of God and king!

He stopped at the end of the corridor, opening the door onto the servant’s stair. Muffled voices drifted down, raised in panic. At

his back came more shouting and the rattle of armor. Terror pushed him into the dark, cramped stairwel . Noise also came from

below and there was no choice but to go up.

If they caught him, he was dead. Stefn knew this as surely as he knew anything. He had witnessed treason and murder and

h’naran witchcraft: vil ainy of the worst order. They would not, could not, let him live. He had to escape!

At the next landing was the servant’s quarters; he pushed at the door and found it locked. Voices came to him from the other

side, crying and praying, along with the bump and scrape of moving furniture. They had barricaded themselves in! There was no

help there. Stefn grabbed hold of the bannister and continued up.

From the attic, he could get out onto the roof. If he was careful, he could make his way across the keep to the west wing and

down the drain-pipe to the lane. From there, it shouldn’t be too difficult to get out of the castle. He knew al the private ways, the

inconspicuous gates, the places where trees grew right up to the wal . Al he needed was a horse. Maybe he could find one in

Shiaton if the traitors hadn’t completely overrun it also.

What if they send the taint after me?

The thought was enough to turn his blood to ice water. Stefn remembered vividly that moment in the tower when he had

confronted the false priest. A witch in Shia! And defiling the holy garb of a cleric, at that!

He’d seen taints before, mostly captives from his father’s raids, pitiful wretches doomed to entertain the soldiers during their

drunken victory banquets afterwards. Sometimes, the screams had reached al the way to his room in the north wing. To see one

walking freely through his family’s ancient home and bearing arms too, was a sickening shock.

Careful y, he made his way through the dark, cluttered attic. Outside, it was raining: he could hear the steady drumbeat on the

roof. Water ran in sheets down the narrow windows. The roof slates would be slick and dangerous, but he had no choice.

He was briefly grateful for being undersized as he squeezed out of a window and, on hands and knees, crawled up the steep

slant of roof to the top. Gusts of wind drove the rain into his face and soaked him to the skin. Lightning threw the roof into bril iant

relief, marking his way. He hadn’t taken this route for a long time, but he remembered where to put his hand to find the drainpipe

when he reached the end and how to slide down to the adjoining roof below.

Unlike the rest of the house, the west wing had a flat roof. Stefn splashed across pools of rainwater to the far edge. Slithering

down another drain-pipe, he landed between two large bushes. Lights glowed from the stables across the lane. On his right, the

laundry shacks huddled against the inner castle wal . With a quick glance over his shoulder, he ran in their direction.

A figure suddenly loomed from the dark to block his path. Stefn swerved, but the man was after him with frightening speed. A

flash of lightning bathed the lane in white and Stefn’s heart nearly stopped: Brother Michael!

The taint had been wounded, black blood running down his face. Even so, it didn’t seem to slow him down. He reached for

Stefn. Panic gave Stefn the strength to knock the hand away, but alas, his own body betrayed him! His bad foot buckled, sending

him sprawling across the muddy cobbles.

“Damned fool!” he heard through the rain and thunder.

Stefn was hauled back to his feet. “Let me go!” he spat, trying to pry off the taint’s filthy hands. “Don’t touch me! Taint!

Demon! Witch!”

That earned him an open-handed blow across his face and another trip to the cobbles. His head spun. Ignoring his cursing

and useless struggles, the taint dragged Stefn back into the house.

Stefn looked desperately around, but saw no familiar faces. There were only men in royal dark blue and gold standing guard

along the corridors, watching dispassionately as the taint hurried him past.

“Where are the servants?” Stefn demanded. “Did you slaughter them, too?”

“A few,” replied the taint. “But most were prudent enough to lock themselves in their quarters, as I advised them earlier.” He

smiled. “As long as they never learn the truth, Prince Severyn has no quarrel with them.”

The threat was obvious enough. Stefn swal owed hard and said nothing more.

The Great Hal was deserted except for his father’s murderers, now making themselves at home in the earl’s favorite place by

the fire. Stefn could not resist looking up to the balcony, only to see more of the traitor prince’s soldiers.

He ventured a quick glance at the taint and realized it wasn’t blood running down the vil ain’s pale face, but brown hair dye!

The rain had washed enough away already to show glimpses of platinum beneath.

“Trust Arranz to run the little rat down,” said one of the men as they approached the fireplace. He was a rangy fel ow with

short, dark hair and a lazy, sardonic smile.

The prince rose, face brightening. “Mick! I was just about to send some men in search of you!”

Arranz. Arranz? Shock made Stefn lose his precarious footing. Only the taint’s grip on his arm kept him upright.
The
Arranz?

Alone of al the taints befouling Taniryn, the Arranzes of Blackmarsh had the lawful right to hold their heads high and look

humans in the eyes as equals. St. Aramis himself had decreed it nearly three hundred years ago. Moreover, legend claimed Shia

itself had once belonged to them, long before they had mingled their blood with humans.

The prince threw an arm over the h’nar’s shoulders, drawing him closer to the fire. “Where the devil have you been, man? I

was starting to think some Hunter had got you, after al ! Loth, you look done in!”

“Too much witching,” replied the taint, matter-of-fact. “I need a very long nap.”

“Good God, Mick, what the hel is that?” Another of the noblemen pointed at the running dye and hooted, but it was a good-

natured teasing. They were uncommonly familiar with the creature.

“My priestly disguise,” replied Arranz with a shrug and wry grin. “Too bad. For awhile I was almost respectable.”

“Sit his lordship down,” another of the traitors said, glancing at Stefn. “Else he’l fal down, I think.”