Cethe (29 page)

Stefn stood, spel bound, unable to tear himself away from the limitless horizon.

Marin returned, a maid in tow. The woman carried towels and a pitcher of warm water through the sitting room and into the

bedroom beyond. Marin set down a wel -laden dinner tray on the table beside Stefn.

“Must I stay in here?” Stefn asked, low-voiced. “Can’t I look around and see what they’ve done?”

The maid reappeared, empty-handed, flashing him a smile and bobbing a quick curtsey before hurrying out. He stared after

her, startled at the courtesy.

“His lordship wants you to stay put,” Marin replied, but not without sympathy. “Perhaps tomorrow he’l let me take you around

to have a look-see. In the meantime, why not rest from the journey. Shal I bring you a book or periodical? I hear there are dozens of

new books in the library, including ladies’ novels for Miss Stefanie.”

Stefn’s heart plunged. “I-is… Does His Highness stil mean to wed my sister?”

“From the talk below-stairs, they’re official y betrothed. ‘Tis why the prince is in such a hurry to have the castle repaired and

updated. When he brings his new bride back to her home, he wants everything to be perfect.”

Marin hurried away, leaving Stefn to stare bleakly into the fire. Severyn meant to take Stefanie and Shia, and he could do

nothing. His only purpose was to fuel Lord Arranz’s unholy power.

He couldn’t stay here, not with such thoughts as his only company. The windows were unlocked. He scrambled out, catching

hold of the drainspout and slid down into the wet shrubbery below. Pushing his way out of the entangling bushes, he ran around the

house to the kitchen door.

The wal s of the long, narrow foyer were stacked high with sacks of flour and sugar, boxes of fruits, produce, and other

goodies. It was also very clean. Through the open doorway at the other end, Stefn saw the kitchen bustling with strangers, brightly

lit and fil ing the foyer with mouth-watering smel s.

He didn’t stay to be discovered, but opened the door to the back stairs and went up. If Michael and Lord Chal ory were at

dinner, it was only to his advantage. With the workers gone home and the invaders in one place and occupied, he could have an

uncensored look at what they were doing to his home.

Stefn let himself out onto the next floor. Everywhere was a dusty mess, wal s partial y re-plastered, stacks of new floorboards

in piles along the corridor. Through open doors, rooms once fil ed with outdated, moldering furniture stood empty. It gave him a

strange feeling, as if he watched the Elderings being steadily, purposeful y erased.

He went straight to the entrance to the north wing. No one stood guard at the door. Beyond, it was pitch black. His single

candle revealed more construction as he made his way up to the top floor. There, he held the smal flame aloft, walking careful y

through the tools and materials to the library where he stopped, jaw sagging.

The room had been completely dismantled. The books were gone, the old shelves removed. Much of the dark wood paneling

had been stripped from the wal s. On the eastern wal , four enormous, arched windows had been exposed. Stained glass had once

fil ed them; some of it stil remained. Heavy oiled cloth covered the open holes, keeping the worst of the rain and cold at bay.

In a section of the newly-exposed wal , a large, iron door had been crudely set. The door had no obvious handle and did not

yield at his attempts to push it open. Curious, he examined the wal around it. His heart jumped. In disbelief, he brought his candle

close. The milky stone seemed to drink in its light and somehow make it brighter. He touched a trembling finger to the cool, glassy

surface. There was no mistake. The room was built of cloud-stone!

Michael found Auron waiting for him in the late earl’s study. Like everything else in Shia, this room, too, bore no resemblance

to gloomy original chamber where, as Brother Michael, he’d first met Lord Eldering. Colorful cushions enlivened the dark

upholstered couches and chairs; the bright new pictures had nary a hunting scene among them. Draperies of ivory silk replaced the

dusty brown velvet of which the earl had seemed so fond.

Auron heard the news about Bishop Storm with sharp interest. “The Council’s been changing the Chronicles to suit

themselves, have they? I can’t say I’m surprised. Not that I’d know a true one from a false one,” he added with a rueful grin. “Never

having had yours or Severyn’s interest in scholarly matters.”

“More important is having a bishop on our side,” Michael said. “If the Church decides to contest Sev’s right to assume the

throne, at least one of them wil speak for him.”

The work on the new barracks was almost complete. By winter, it would be finished and, by spring, if al went wel , they would

be ready to move in the troops who would serve as the deposed king’s guardians.

At the end of dinner, in the middle of the dessert course, Marin appeared. Michael guessed what he had to stay.

“Eldering’s bolted again?” Auron asked, eyebrows soaring. “Might I suggest a bal and chain?”

But Michael, oddly, felt no alarm at the news. He shrugged, rising and excusing himself. Looking inside himself for Stefn’s life

spark was second-nature now. Fol owing that gentle pul , he headed straight for the north wing and up the stairs to the library.

As he approached, he slowed, seeing candlelight shining under the door. He strode swiftly forward and opened it. “Am I going

to have to put bars on your windows?”

Stefn whirled around, the sudden movement extinguishing his own smal light. The dark enveloped them. Michael murmured a

charm and a witchlight appeared, bobbing overhead in the drafts of the vaulted chamber.

“What is it? Are you al right?

Stefn seemed not to hear him. “It’s moonstone,” he said in a thin voice, gesturing toward the exposed stone wal s. “Is the

whole wing built of it?”

Michael, startled, went to investigate. It was true! Wonderingly, he stroked the cool, satiny stone. Then he turned to face

Stefn. “Do you stil deny Shia was naran?”

“No.” There was defeat in the soft voice. “It was just another lie.” Jaw tight, he turned and started toward the door. “I’m going

back to my room. Don’t worry. I won’t leave it again.”

“Wait!”

Stefn stopped, but didn’t look around.

“Do you see that metal door? Do you know what lays behind it?”

He had Stefn’s attention now. “I’l show you.”

The woebegone look vanished. “That was my father’s!” he exclaimed at the sight of the medal ion-key.

Michael slid it into the slot and the door sagged inward with a rusty screech.

“I never knew this was here!” said Stefn, stunned. He fol owed Michael into the antechamber, looking around in amazement.

The crates were gone, the room swept clean, but the objects in the cupboard remained.

“I’m not certain your father knew either,” said Michael, remembering the thick layer of dust he’d disturbed when he’d

discovered the place. “Nothing in here had been touched for decades.”

Stefn walked to the cupboard and looked into it. He pul ed out a smal figurine of St. Aramis, the warrior-mage standing

proudly, sword held aloft. He set it back. “What’s this?” he asked, pul ing out the cloth-wrapped book.

The hair on the back of Michael’s neck suddenly lifted. Stefn looked down at the Chronicle, then up at Michael. The

expression on his face told Michael he’d had the same thought.

“Shal we have a look?” asked Michael

Eyes wide, Stefn hurried to the table.

“Volume Two?” Stefn read the cover. He opened it and his eyes got wider. “It’s not printed! Look! Hand-lettered! It’s at least a

first edition!” He quickly turned pages. “Let’s try the fourth chapter. If I remember, it was written especial y badly. Several sections

didn’t make sense at al .”

The youth pul ed the chair out from the table and sat down. Michael leaned back against the wal , folding his arms over his

chest. His heart was beating faster. He didn’t know if it was in anticipation of finding another original book or the sight of Stefn, dark

head bent, slim body held in graceful, eager anticipation. The urge to touch the young man’s soft, silky hair was nearly irresistible.

“Aha! It’s here! An entire section that isn’t in the standard volume!” Stefn straightened, turning to look up at Michael, stabbing

at the page with his finger. “This must be an original, too! It must be!”

“Are you sure?”

“It would be easy enough to confirm. Our library possesses several copies of more recent editions. Although where they are

now…”

“Bring it,” said Michael, nodding to the book. “I’l find the copies for you.”

“I can take this?” Stefn seemed surprised.

“Of course. You’re not going anywhere.”

Some of the light vanished from Stefn’s eyes.

“True,” he agreed with a faint, bleak smile. Wrapping the book in its cover, he stood and, with it held tightly against him,

preceded Michael from the chamber.

Stefn saw little of Michael over the next few days. True to his word, he made no attempt to leave his room. Instead, he poured

over the mysterious Chronicle, infected with growing excitement as he realized what he read was indeed much different from the

book he’d read so many times before.

The Second Chronicle covered several decades after the Naran War. As he progressed through the closely printed pages, he

realized most of the excised sections in the standard editions had to do with the nara and their place in Tanyrin’s society of that time.

To his surprise, they seemed to have been wel integrated, and with St. Aramis’ blessing. References were even made to several

naran lords’ as Aramis’ wartime al ies.

One evening, Michael came to his room to inquire after his progress. Lonely and bored, Stefn was actual y happy to see him.

They sat in his smal sitting room and discussed the Chronicle.

“I suppose it could be a forgery,” Michael said, feet propped comfortably on the ottoman before the smal fire. “That is almost

certainly what the Council wil claim.”

“It wil be difficult for them to do so,” Stefn said. “Only the first editions were hand-lettered.”

Michael frowned.

“The first printing presses didn’t appear until just after St. Aramis’ death,” Stefn said.

“I’d wager Bishop Storm would like a look at it.”

“I could copy it out,” said Stefn. “Then you could send him that.”

“That sounds dreadful y tedious.”

“What else have I to do?”

Michael regarded Stefn, head tilted. “We could go for a ride,” he suggested.

“I might try to escape,” retorted Stefn, but he brightened nonetheless.

“You could try,” agreed Michael.

Autumn had come to Shia. The fields were turning brown and the leaves of the speden and fich trees were showing gold

edges.

Stefn was delighted to be on horseback again. The saddle had always been one place where his foot hadn’t mattered. As they

rode out through the castle gate, Stefn drew a deep breath and, il usion or not, felt light and free.

“I’l race you to the hil s!” Michael said and, before Stefn could reply, shot off to the west.

They gal oped across the plain, raising bil owing dust in their wake. Overhead, fleecy white clouds drifted across the sky. The

conifer covered hil s rose to meet them, Michael pul ing slightly ahead as they passed from the open land into the woods.

“I’m out of condition,” Stefn declared when Michael grinned triumphantly. “I haven’t ridden for almost a year. Next time, Arranz,