Cethe (25 page)

Michael’s own body warmed at the sight. Mouth suddenly dry, he quickly undressed, hands shaking. Stefn became perfectly

stil , watching him with feral intensity. Michael climbed back onto the bed, straddling him, drinking in the sight of such need.

“Convince me,” he said softly, looking down into Stefn’s tear-drenched eyes.

Moaning, Stefn lifted his head from the mattress, struggling to reach Michael’s lips. They were soft and yielding, parting at

once for Michael’s tongue.

“If you wanted me so badly, you should have said so.”

Stefn’s head fel back to the mattress. He licked his lips. “Don’t want you… Just need you.”

“That wil do.”

Lowering his head, Michael plundered the cethe’s wil ing mouth. He pressed Stefn’s body to the mattress with his own,

reveling in the exquisite sensations produced by the young earl’s frantic thrusts beneath him. Stefn’s smal nipples were hard and

swol en. When Michael touched his tongue to one, Stefn cried out, arching his back. Incoherent sounds of pleasure met Michael’s

sucking and nipping until both nubs were twice the size and fiery red.

“Ready?” he whispered final y, half out of his own mind with need.

“Yes! Oh, Loth, yes! Please!” Stefn needed no urging to turn over on his stomach, to lift his hips and spread his knees. His

slender hands wrapped around the rope holding him to the bed in a death-grip. A low, keening sound escaped him when Michael

quickly, fumbling, prepared him.

Buried deep in that tight sheath, Michael lost himself in waves of ecstasy. Stefn cried out, his hands flying open and head

flinging back. His muscles clenched unbearably around Michael, shattering the last of the h’nar’s control. Michael may have cried

out himself, but he had not the wits to know.

Reason returned at last. Michael lay on his cethe, mouth against Stefn’s ear, breath ruffling the dark, damp hair. Those long,

sooty eyelashes were soaked with tears. Stefn’s lips were bitten and bleeding. When Michael drew away, he whimpered.

A deep sense of tranquility weighed Michael’s limbs. He moved only enough to untie Stefn’s wrists and pul him close. Stefn

made no effort to get away but lay loose and heavy in his arms, hair tickling his nose. Somewhere deep in Michael’s haze of

contentment, he wondered at it, but not for long. Minutes later, he fel into the deepest, soundest sleep he’d had for a long time.

Most of Tanyrin’s towns and villages are to be found west of the Midder Mountains, a lesser range branching off from the

great Lothwall mountains and extending south to the Verdant Sea. Much of the east is arid, hilly land, suitable only for herding,

but here and there between the mountains and the eastern coast are large valleys where rivers make farming possible. The

largest two are included in the parish of Zelenov, to the south, and a scattering of smaller, pocket valleys can be found further

north, under the jurisdiction of the parish of Sontal.

from:
The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347

It took four days to reach Withwil ow from Blackmarsh. Michael and Stefn arrived at the seaside city late in the afternoon.

Thanks to Prince Severyn’s largesse, they were to stay at the Bayview Hotel, one of the best in the city.

“Believe me,” Michael told Stefn as they pul ed up to the impressive front door, “otherwise we’d be staying in a rooming house

down by the shore.”

Their rooms overlooked the north side, giving a wonderful view of low hil s descending to white sands and a gentle, turquoise

sea. Stefn leaned out the window of his room, looking down over the terraced streets, eyes drawn to the graceful towers and

magnificent domes scattered throughout it. Most were built of the white marble quarried in the surrounding hil s, but the older ones

were of moonstone, whiter than marble and twice as expensive. Those were narani-built, for only the nara had known where the

precious material was quarried or had the skil to work it. From this room, Stefn could not see the Cathedral, which was a shame;

built entirely of moonstone, it was said to glow at night like a fal en star.

This far south, the damp chil of Blackmarsh and Shia was a distant memory. Sunlight warmed his skin and the breeze

sweeping up from the ocean was deliciously balmy. Closing his eyes, Stefn let it fan his face and lift his hair.

A knock announced Lord Michael, looking rested and in good spirits. “I’m going for supper. Care to join me?” Noticing Stefn at

the window, he came in. “What are you looking at?”

“I was hoping to see the Cathedral, but I think we’re on the wrong side of the hotel.”

“You can see it from the hotel dining room. Coming?”

Stefn col ected his coat eagerly and ran out after the h’nar. He fel into step beside the tal er man, gawking at their luxurious

surroundings as they made their way toward the grand central staircase. Lord Arranz made no effort to hide his silver hair here and

every eye was on them as they strol ed across the lobby with its painted ceiling and marble floor. Few of the other guests seemed

disapproving, however.

Stefn’s father had occasional y spoken of Withwil ow, but never with approval. “Their bishop al ows the h’nara in that city far

too much liberty. They’re not even required to register with the Cathedral. Someday the demons wil rise up and murder the people

in their beds. That’l teach ‘em.”

Stefn had a sudden image of Miss Annie creeping through the streets at night, clutching a blood-covered dagger. Arranz gave

him a startled glance. “What’s so funny?”

“J-just imagining your death,” Stefn managed, struggling to keep a straight face.

Lord Michael’s expression was too much. Stefn had to turn his head away. Luckily, the waiter arrived to lead them to their

table.

Since that last night at Blackmarsh, there had been no recurrence of Stefn’s humiliating “condition,” nor had Arranz referred to

it again. Stefn could not help but notice, however, that the weariness clinging to Lord Michael since the marshes had disappeared

immediately after that encounter.

Tal windows lined one wal of the dining room. The waiter brought them to a table giving them a view of the terrace and,

beyond that, Wil ow Bay. Stefn saw what he thought must be the Cathedral, a large area of white and green at the southern end of

the city.

Across the bay, the sun was half-sunk behind the peninsula, sending its long, glancing beams off the surface of the water and

brightening the sails of the ships in the harbor. He could just make out the Tower of Loth on its distant promontory, silhouetted

against the sunset.

“Would you like to visit some of the famous sights while we’re here?”

“If we have the time,” replied Stefn. He was intensely curious about the nature of Arranz’s meeting with the Bishop of

Withwil ow, but his questions had been rebuffed. “When do you meet with Bishop Storm?”

“Whenever it pleases him.” There was an edge in Lord Michael’s voice. “There are any number of tours offered. The

concierge keeps a supply of up-to-date guidebooks, I believe. Is there anything in particular you’re wild to see?”

“The libraries, if you don’t mind.”

“I should have known.” Lord Michael grinned, shaking his head. “I suppose you wil want to visit Bookshop Lane?”

“Bookshop Lane?”

“Aye. A street in the market district devoted to bookshops. You’d probably enjoy it. Of course, perhaps you’d rather stay here

and imagine my death?”

“It is one of my favorite hobbies,” agreed Stefn, trying to match Lord Michael’s bland tones. “But since we are in Withwil ow, I

suppose I could put it aside for the time being.”

“I’m greatly relieved.” Michael might have continued, but another waiter arrived, recal ing them to their surroundings and the

necessity of perusing their menus.

It was an enjoyable dinner, much more so than Stefn expected. Their conversation moved easily from light banter to serious

discussion of intel ectual matters and back; so easily, in fact, that it wasn’t until Arranz suggested they step out onto the terrace to

view the Cathedral that Stefn remembered they were enemies.

By now, the sun had completely set. The lights of Withwil ow twinkled below them, tiny stars fal en around the bay. Here and

there in their midst glowed a different kind of light, smal moons in the earth-bound starscape. To the south, where Stefn had earlier

marked the Cathedral, the entire area glowed.

That was the beauty of moonstone. By day, the stone absorbed the sunlight and by night gave it back. A moonstone building

was warm in the winter and cool in the summer, but it was the soft radiance for which it was most prized. Legends were ful of tales

of lost narani cities that blazed in eternal splendor far to the north, no one left to see and marvel.

“I wonder if we’l ever know where moonstone comes from,” Stefn mused aloud.

Michael leaned on the balustrade, looking out over the panorama. A hotel footman passed them, moving along the terrace,

lighting lamps. A few others, mostly couples, were enjoying the view, as wel .

“Legend says it was quarried on the moon,” Michael said. “I would guess someplace north of the Lothwal mountains.”

“Why do you suppose no one has ever gone to see?”

“They fear encountering the nara.”

“But al the nara are dead. Everyone knows that. They left their cities, coming south to aid their fel ow nara, and were slain as

wel . If not, why has no one seen hide nor hair of them in the centuries since the war? Shia guards the northern border and nowhere

in my family’s history does it speak of seeing nara in the days since.”

“Perhaps they are reluctant to attract the notice of such savages again,” retorted Michael. “If the Church truly believed al the

nara perished, one would suspect they would be stampeding north for the treasure supposedly left behind.”

“Shhh!” Stefn looked nervously toward a couple nearby, but they seemed too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to

anything else around them.

Michael’s smile was bitter. “The Church can inconvenience me, ‘tis true, but they have little authority to do much else. It’s not

for lack of such ambition, however. If not for the Covenant, I’ve no doubt every h’nar in Tanyrin would be forced into Penitence, our

family included.”

“My father used to curse the Covenant,” Stefn said. “He claimed St. Aramis was bewitched into writing it.”

“What do you think?”

Stefn looked up at his companion, but Arranz gazed off toward the Tower of Loth, a shining spire above the mouth of the bay.

“None of the accepted historical texts mention such a thing. St. Aramis was too powerful a knightmage to be influenced by

black magic.”

“In our family,” said Arranz, “We have our own stories of St. Aramis and the Duke of Arranz.”

“What are they?” asked Stefn, immediately curious.

“Sorry, my lord.” Lord Michael’s smile was suddenly fil ed with mischief. “I don’t think you’re ready to hear them.”

For reasons completely beyond his understanding, Michael was up, dressed and knocking on Stefn’s door early the next

morning. He found Stefn already awake and it took very little persuasion to convince him to get dressed and come downstairs for

breakfast.

Three coppers bought them a smal guidebook from the hotel clerk, which Stefn poured over as they made leisurely progress

through their eggs and toast. A hired carriage was summoned afterwards and they embarked on a tour of Withwil ow’s outstanding

attractions.

Michael had been to Withwil ow several times, although not for several years. What he’d privately anticipated as a morning of

tedium proved to be nothing of the sort. Stefn’s enthusiasm and interest was infectious. To his surprise, Michael found himself

looking at the beautiful old city with new eyes and the morning flew by.

They final y ended up in the hil s high above the city, at a spot known as Elioth’s Overlook. It was so named for Withwil ow’s

legendary founder, a long-ago hunter who had stumbled upon this idyl ic bay by the grace of Loth.

Stefn hung over the rail beside Michael, unfazed by the sheer drop onto the rooftops below, soaking in the panorama. His

unselfconscious fascination was a delight. To see an unguarded smile on his face stirred something unfamiliar in Michael.