Cethe (28 page)

“Westcott, eh?” It was too funny and Michael fel back on the mattress, laughing aloud. “Jealous? Oh, my God!”

“Y-you know her?”

Michael sat up, hearing the curiosity in Stefn’s voice. “Indeed, I do. Every man with a title and money knows her eventual y.”

“Is she… ” Stefn hesitated, “ …a woman of loose morals?”

That set Michael off again. “I suppose you could say so,” he gasped final y. “Westcott was her maiden name. She must have

had you in her sights not to reveal who she truly was. Poor boy. You’ve had a narrow escape.”

“She’s married?” Shocked, Stefn looked back at him. “She didn’t act like it.” His eyes grew round. “Do you think her husband

was there?”

“No. I’d know if he were here. The entire town would be buzzing with it.”

“Who is he?”

“His Eminence, Mazril Locke, the Archbishop of Tanyrin.” Michael watched it sink in. “Her name is Charity Westcott-Locke and

her escapades are legendary.”

Bereft of speech, Stefn only shook his head. “I didn’t know… ”

“No, I suppose not.” Michael smiled, but the amusement was gone. “That’s why I wil know everything she said to you. And,

more importantly, everything you said to her.”

“I told you everything, I swear. In fact, she… she seemed surprised when I told her who I was.”

“Did she now?”

Stefn nodded and Michael relaxed slightly. It was very likely true, now that he thought about it calmly. The woman’s appetites

were notorious and Stefn Eldering was a stunning creature. Stil , it was disquieting. Her presence in Withwil ow could be entirely

coincidental; then again, it might not. He rose. “I think I shal order room service for us tonight. They say her ladyship and His

Eminence have an “understanding,” but I’d prefer not to risk so much on gossip.”

He glanced down, gaze brushing over Stefn’s bare feet. At once, Stefn tucked his left foot behind his right. “Don’t bother,” said

Michael. “I don’t care about it.”

“And when the cursed toe gets too long?”

“We’l have to get you a bigger shoe.”

“Y-you’re not going to have it cut it off?”

Michael was momentarily bereft of speech. “Of course not.”

The relief on Stefn’s face made his own gut tighten in sudden fury. “I’m not that much of a brute,” he retorted, striding to the

door. “I’l send Marin in. Tel him what you want for dinner and he’l have it brought to you. And don’t leave the room.”

“Wait! Please!”

Michael stopped.

“When Lady Locke is gone, could I go out on the terrace again? It can be later and you can send Marin with me.”

“What for?”

“I want to see the Cathedral again.”

“I’l think about it,” replied Michael.

An hour later, Marin came to Michael’s room. “The wench and her friends are gone,” he said. “None of them are staying here.

According to kitchen gossip, milady is traveling with her current paramour. They dine here frequently.”

“What else?”

Marin shrugged. “She’s been in Withwil ow for a week, attending every social affair and conducting her own openly. I had

never figured His Eminence as a wil ing cuckold.”

“It would be hard to say who is more adulterous, the lovely lady or her ambitious husband,” retorted Michael. “The last I heard,

His Excel ency was enjoying the company of a certain courtesan whose other clients include our noble king.”

Marin shook his head at such fol y. “Nobility!” he humphed, adding, “Present company excepted, of course, m’lord.”

“Of course. And speaking of that. I think I’l take a little walk.” Smiling serenely into Marin’s smirk, he left his room, crossing the

corridor to knock on Stefn’s door. Hearing the invitation to enter, he opened it. Stefn frowned, seeing it was him. Ignoring the flare of

anxiety in those bright eyes, Michael said cheerful y, “Shal we go downstairs for a night-cap?”

The lateness of the hour and chil of the night air had driven most of the hotel’s guests inside, but Stefn seemed not to notice.

While Michael had a seat and ordered two cups of mul ed wine, he went straight to the balustrade and looked down over the city.

Michael leaned back in his chair and fol owed his gaze.

“That’s the Tower of Loth, isn’t it?” Stefn pointed to the slim, shining spire reared across the bay. “Could we go see it

tomorrow?”

“We’re leaving in the morning.”

“Already?” Stefn left the edge of the terrace and sat down with Michael.

“I’m afraid so.” Michael broke off. The waiter returned with their wine. When the man had gone, he said, “We have to return to

Shia.”

“We could go see it first thing. Surely it wouldn’t delay us that much?”

“Another time.”

Stefn scowled into his cup, then downed the warm, spiced wine in a single gulp. “Being subject to your damned plots, I doubt

if there wil be another time.”

“Such a lack of confidence. I’m natural y devastated.” Michael beckoned to the waiter hovering just inside the hotel. The man

disappeared. “It may come as a shock to you, my lord, but we are in no hurry to start the fighting. With luck, we can accomplish most

of what we need to without al hel breaking loose. Indeed, it’s in our interest to do so.”

“Ha!”

The waiter returned with more wine. Stefn made short work of this, as wel .

“Perhaps you would like a jug of the stuff?”

“You don’t want me to get drunk?” Stefn leaned across the table. “Wouldn’t that make it easier for you to have your way with

me?”

“As I remember it,” Michael said, laughing, “having my way with you wasn’t al the difficult.”

“You can go to hel !” Even in the uncertain light of their table lamp, Stefn’s blush was visible and charming.

“You would have been an easy mark for the Archbishop’s wife. I see I shal have to keep a much closer eye on you.”

“She would have shunned me as soon as she was reminded of what I am.” Mournful y, Stefn tried for the last drops in his cup.

“A handsome, wel -born youth as naive as a schoolboy? I’d say you were her preferred prey.”

Stefn laughed hol owly. “And a sin-catcher.”

“Oh, for Loth’s sake! Besides, now that you have decent shoes, you don’t even limp. Who’s to know?”

Another silence fel between them as the waiter arrived with more wine. “Shal I bring a pot of it, my lord?”

“No,” said Michael while, “Yes,” Stefn said at the same time.

The waiter trotted off, returning with a tal , porcelain mul -pot. Michael watched Stefn toss off his third cup and warned, “In al

sincerity, Eldering, this is potent stuff. You’re not used to it and I don’t wish to spend the entire trip to Shia with you retching and

moaning.”

“I’ve had mul ed wine many times,” retorted Stefn. He poured himself another cup with a shaky hand.

Michael abandoned the effort. If anyone deserved to go on a good drunk, it was his cethe. Besides, if worse came to worst,

the brat could sit up with the coachman and entertain that poor fel ow with his moans and regret. He watched the fourth cup go the

way of the others. A fifth cup was poured, but this time, Stefn made no attempt to drink, only stared into it blearily. “You real y don’t

think my foot is hideous?”

Startled, Michael shook his head. “Real y.”

“I hate it.” Stefn scowled. “I might as wel be a taint!”

It was the wine talking. Michael squashed the automatic flare of irritation.

“Al en told Father once that they should just throw me in with the latest pack of taints they’d rounded up and see if the Church

would take me.” Stefn picked up the cup. Wine sloshed over the rim. “My father laughed and tol’ him it was a bril iant idea. Everyone

in the room thought it real damned funny, too.”

Michael’s amusement shriveled. Luminous in the candlelight, Stefn’s eyes were fil ed with tears. He blinked them back. “Then

A-Al en threw ashes on my head… it turned my hair white. Jus’ like yours. Ev’ryone… thought that was funny, too.”

“You should have broken his jaw,” said Michael.

“Did.” Stefn lifted his right fist and regarded it with something like amazement. “Just let ‘im have it. Sonofabitch.”

“Good for you.”

“Think so?” Stefn picked up his cup and gulped the rest of the wine. When he put it down he missed the edge of the table. It

bounced and rol ed away on the marble tile. “Father beat me. Stripped off al m’clothes right there in the Hal and beat the hel out of

me. Then ‘vited his guests to have a go…” A lone tear slipped down his flushed cheek. “Br’ther Wil iam stopped ‘em final y. Said it

was a sin to kil a sin-catcher.”

Michael poured himself some wine to cover his own reaction. “Loth,” he muttered and downed it faster than Stefn had.

There was a hiccup. “God, I hate them. I’m glad they’re dead!” Angrily, Stefn dashed the tears away with the back of his hand.

And with that, he fel forward onto the table, knocking the pot off the table to smash on the floor. Michael stared at him in complete

astonishment.

The waiter appeared by magic, regarding the broken crockery with dismay. Marin was right behind him. A gentle snore arose

from Lord Eldering.

“I think his lordship is finished for the night,” said Michael final y. “Put it on my bil .”

“Y-yes, m’lord.” Owl-eyed, the waiter stepped back hurriedly as Michael lifted the unconscious earl and, beckoning to Marin,

carried him up to his room.

From whence came the nara? The question has long been a source of scholarly debate. Most historians place their

homeland north of the Lothwalls, in a land of unforgiving cold. Although men journeyed north in the days before the war, seeking

naran riches, those few who returned reported finding only great rivers of ice, endless fields of snow and relentless, frigid winds.

from:
The Naran Invasion
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1513

Even in the few weeks he’d been gone, Stefn could see changes were wel underway in Shia. As the coach rol ed up the road

toward the castle, many of the cottages they passed showed signs of recent repair. Others were in preparation for it, with neat piles

of roof slates or bricks in their smal yards.

The castle itself displayed little outward evidence of change save for a large scaffolding standing against one side where a

crack in the outer wal had been slowly widening for years. In the house, everywhere was awash in plaster dust, heaps of

construction material, and the smel of fresh paint.

Stefn stood in the foyer, looking around in amazement while more servants arrived to take their coats. None of them were

familiar. A youngish man in a butler’s formal attire, a stranger, bowed and welcomed them. “Lord Chal ory is in the East Parlor. He’l

be delighted to hear you’ve arrived, my lord.”

“Hul o, Hanson. It’s good to see you, too.” Arranz handed his gloves to the big-eyed maid holding the rest of his outerwear.

“See Lord Eldering to his room, please. East Parlor, you say?”

With Marin trotting along behind him, Stefn was escorted from the vestibule and into the Great Hal . His eyes widened. The

old, rusting chandelier had been taken down, but not yet replaced. Instead, two rows of tal candlesticks marched down the length of

the great room, il uminating it with dancing yel ow light.

Underfoot, the flagged stones shone like glass. Fine rugs were scattered in islands of jewel color across it. The wood paneling

had been polished to a silken sheen. Some of the old shields and family heralds were stil present, but most were gone. Windows

sparkled and their dusty wooden shutters had been removed.

His wonder grew as he continued into the south wing. Signs of construction were everywhere here, too, but what he noticed

most was the abundance of lamps and candles. The gloomy old castle was lit up like daylight.

“Here ye are,” Marin said cheerful y, hurrying past him to open the door to Al en’s suite. Stefn walked in and stopped, staring

around in surprise.

“Please stay here, my lord. As you can see, things are topsy-turvy and we wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Stefn paid him no attention, stunned by the room’s transformation. The yel owed, damp-spotted plaster was now a fresh, pale

blue. Heavy satin curtains draped the windows. Here, too, the shutters were gone. Al en’s furniture remained, but the dark, shabby

bed clothes had been exchanged for richly hued, luxurious fabrics. New lamps and rugs added to the cheerful feel. Stunned, he

went to the fireplace, generations of soot now scrubbed away to reveal the marble beneath. It was a room fit for an earl. Settling

onto the edge of an overstuffed velvet armchair, Stefn tried to take it al in.

Marin quickly unpacked Stefn’s few bags and left, promising to bring him some supper. Stefn heard the key turn in the lock. It

wasn’t unexpected, but the reminder of his true status dimmed his excitement. Why did they bother? He couldn’t escape. Not from a

naragi. The Demon Duke of Blackmarsh had proved it back in the delta.

Stefn remembered his abduction clearly, could conjure the nightmare of blood and fire easily in his mind. Yet the memory of

the torment seemed oddly sterile, like something he’d read rather than experienced. There weren’t even any scars left behind. The

most vivid memory he had of that terrible time was looking up to see Michael, wild-eyed and ful of rage, coming for him.

What am I thinking? He’s as bad as they are? A rapist and a traitor!

And yet…

Michael had taken him to the Tower of Loth the morning they departed Withwil ow. He’d climbed the cramped, inner stairway

with Stefn, al the way to the top where the wind blew their hair around them and one could see forever. He’d waited patiently while