Cethe (54 page)

himself a stiff whiskey. “Want one?”

It was pointless to answer; Stefn found himself with a ful tumbler. He watched Auron toss his off.

“I felt like a mouse under the nose of a hungry cat!”

“I was terrified, too,” admitted Stefn. “I didn’t know what to say to him. When he asked for the relic, I thought my heart would

stop.”

“Actual y,” Auron said, “I suspect the relic business was a ruse, an excuse to stay here for a few days and live off your

excel ent hospitality. Stil , it would be prudent to assume the Celestials are suspicious of something out here. That group of spies

you flushed out awhile ago was proof enough of that! We’l have to be doubly careful from now on.”

Michael found the duke and his men thirty miles from the Shian parish border, camped in the hil s. Lord Damon received his

news without too much concern. “I’m surprised Locke or another of his ilk didn’t go to investigate sooner,” he said. “Thank Loth

Severyn wasn’t there and that you had the presence of mind to leave, especial y after that il -considered disaster in Lothmont.”

“Heard about that, did you?”

The duke gave his grandson a sour look. “I could hardly have missed it. There were damned clerics piled up at the end of the

causeway for weeks, looking for you! I was actual y tempted to let some of them in to look around!”

“You didn’t?”

“Of course not. Stil , there wil be some consequence of that. What happened, anyway? I didn’t give you those spel s to simply

fling them about at whim.”

Michael gritted his teeth on his first response. Instead, in measured tones, he recounted the entire situation. When he was

finished, the duke rose from his camp-chair and paced his tent’s smal interior.

“Union with a woman destroys naragi powers?” He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Both you and father had witch-powers once. You don’t now.”

“It’s not uncommon to grow out of them after adolescence…”

“Who says so?”

“I know dozens of men wel past their youth who stil have their powers and who are long and faithful y married.”

“Yet there are those who lost theirs, like you. Alan Forge? Wil iam Morris? And like you, they were men whose powers were

considered exceptional.”

The duke col apsed back into his camp-chair, hands gripping the carved wooden arms. He frowned into space. “That’s true,”

he admitted final y. “Perhaps it’s best that you continue to avoid women. Return to Blackmarsh. You’l be safe there.”

“Not without Stefn.”

His grandfather looked up sharply. “Nonsense. There are others of the Blood, even some among the marshlanders, I wager.”

“You forget: Stefn and I are Bonded. Even I didn’t realize what that meant until I availed myself of Remy. I need Stefn Eldering.”

The duke wasn’t pleased to hear it, but neither did he argue. Instead, he turned the subject to matters of troops and plans.

Michael, knowing his grandfather, was not reassured. When Lord Damon made up his mind about something, there was very little

that could sway his opinion.

After four days of waiting, one of the duke’s men, a marshlander, returned with the information that the Archbishop and his

party had withdrawn from the castle and were now on their way south. The duke broke up his troops, sending them north in smal

patrols at night. Michael went with one group, arriving at the castle near dawn. He left his men with Lake and immediately sought his

bed, not waking until wel past noon.

Stefn greeted his return with a flurry of complaints, most having to do with being placed in such an untenable position. “You

were able to hide and avoid it al !” he accused. “Auron and I lived on tenterhooks for three days!”

“And yet here you are, stil whole and healthy.” Michael winked at Auron, which natural y irritated Stefn al the more.

“I think Locke was quite taken with our earl,” Auron said wickedly. “They share an interest in the old and moldy.”

“Is that so?” It was Michael’s turn to be irritated.

The next day, Michael woke to the wind rattling his windows. Expecting to see storm clouds, he pul ed back the drapes to

reveal a pristine, blue sky. Over the battlements, however, the flags whipped and snapped.

Stefn was up, having t’cha and toast in the breakfast room.

“Is that a demon wind blowing?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” Stefn said without looking up.

A servant appeared, pouring Michael some t’cha, and withdrew. Michael took a sip, his appreciative gaze resting on Stefn’s

fine features, the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck.

“Then we should expect more rain?”

Marking his place, Stefn lifted his eyes to Michael. “In the spring and summer, demon winds usual y just raise a lot of dust and

knock things down. Lately, of course, that hasn’t been the case, but today looks like it might be more in the usual style.”

“Where’s Auron?”

“Out overseeing maneuvers. More of your grandfather’s troops arrived last night.”

“And grandfather?”

Stefn shook his head, careful y expressionless. “The men brought word he wil not be coming, after al , but is going east to

Tantagrel. He fears having two Arranzes here might attract too much attention.

“Ah,” Michael said, just as straight-faced. “What a shame.”

He struggled not to laugh when Stefn sheepishly grinned.

With everything in a state of heightened alert, Michael confined himself to the house to avoid attracting attention. Each day, he

joined Stefn in the north tower. While Stefn read, Michael concentrated on refining his powers of k’na. Seated at the window, he

rested his arms on the sil , and with the sun warm on his face, practiced turning his vision inward, seeking human and h’naran life

patterns in the limitless beyond. With fatigue no longer a concern, he discovered it was possible to extend the range and duration of

his gaze. Distant life patterns, once indistinct blurs, now came sharply into focus.

“What are you doing?” asked Stefn one afternoon. “For the past few days, you’ve done nothing but stare out the window.”

“Just thinking,” replied Michael. A fear of seeing dread spring up in Stefn’s eyes kept Michael from tel ing Stefn the truth. “I’m

bored,” he added. “Almost bored enough to read one of your ladies’ novels.”

“They aren’t my ladies novels. The only reason I read them is because I’d read everything else! Now, fortunately, I have

these.” Stefn waved toward a smal pile of grubby books, the largesse from his private book fair. “Although I admit, Lady Bethany’s

adventures are much more exciting.”

Michael grinned. He came to the table, pul ing over a bench and took one at random. “Tales of the Demonic,” he read aloud.

“This isn’t a Lady Bethany adventure?”

“No, it’s not.” Stefn laughed. “I admit the title is a bit lurid, but it claims to be the personal account of priest who met and

conversed at length with a naragi around the time of the war.”

“Hmm. If it’s that old, there might be an occasional kernel of truth within.” Diverted, Michael opened it. Musty book smel

wafted up from the yel owed pages. There was a signature just inside the cover, the ink too faded to make it out. The printer’s mark

had the tiny curlicue representing Lothmont, but otherwise it was unfamiliar.

Michael turned to the first page. It was crowded with smal , archaic script. Hand-lettered almost certainly, he decided, noting a

page here and there where the lines of text were slightly skewed.

“Here you are!” Auron appeared at top of the stairs. “What the devil are you doing? I’ve been up and around for over an hour

and not a sight of either of you,” he complained. “Did you forget I’m leaving today? Must I depart without so much as a wave?”

Michael laughed. “Have you noticed how sensitive Auron is?” he asked Stefn, then to Auron, solicitously. “Would you like a

hug?”

Auron’s pained expression turned to hopeful delight. “I’d rather have one from Eldering,” he said.

“You’re both disgusting.” But Stefn’s scowl was not convincing and when he turned to put away his books, his lips twitched

suspiciously.

Auron was indeed ready to go. His carriage and escort waited at the front of the house. “I’l be back as soon as I can,” he

promised. “Try to behave yourselves while I’m away. I’d hate to think of you two having fun without me.”

“Are you sure you won’t take Lord Arranz with you?”

Michael, startled, looked over at Stefn and was struck by the teasing note he heard.

“It’s tempting,” Auron laughed, “but he’s too notorious for me these days. I’l leave you to keep him in line.” He climbed into the

coach, waving to the driver.

“He made you sound like my wife,” muttered Michael, watching as the coach and riders headed down the lane toward the

gate.

“Wel , I do wear your ring,” retorted Stefn, fingering his neckcloth.

An uncomfortable mixture of guilt and desire sent Michael’s temper flaring. Turning around, he went back into the house.

Stefn fol owed. “Touchy, aren’t we?”

“I’m beginning to understand why your father beat you,” gritted Michael.

“Do you plan to beat me, too, then?”

Michael spun around. Stefn stopped, chin at a pugnacious angle, slim hands clenched. Behind the defiance, however, lurked

a darkness Michael suddenly recognized. The recognition fed his own turmoil.

“Why should I exhaust myself in such a fruitless exercise?” he asked. “It clearly had no effect.”

To his surprise, Stefn laughed. “Very wise,” he said. “For I promise you, my lord, I have been practicing down in the armory

yard every morning. You won’t find it so easy to have your way these days.”

Michael’s competitive spirit rose inevitably to the bait. “Bold words, my lord. What if I were to accept your chal enge?”

Suddenly, they might have been alone in the corridor, alone in the entire world. The very air seemed charged with a restless,

hungry power. Did Stefn feel it?

“You’ve been lying about for a week, my lord. Are you sure you wouldn’t want some time to practice?”

“Insults, too?” Michael pretended deep disdain. “When and where, sir?”

Stefn inclined his head. There was trepidation in his expression, and a kind of feverish excitement. The way he held his body

sent shivers through Michael. “The courtyard in an hour?” he asked.

“Do I need a second?”

“It’s tempting,” admitted Stefn. The wicked glint in his eyes was unmistakable, “but I’l settle for first blood.”

“Too kind. In an hour?”

Did he have any idea how desirable he was? These past months of travel, exercise and, Michael suspected, a decent diet,

had transformed Stefn. He would never be large, but his once-frail body had become smoothly muscled, his movements more

confident and sure. Michael had no doubt Stefn would acquit himself respectably. His pulse quickened at the prospect.

The armory courtyard was high-wal ed and deserted. At precisely one hour, Michael arrived to find Stefn waiting on a bench

against the wal , his coat neatly folded beside him. A pair of foils lay nearby, stil in their case. He got up when Michael approached.

“Choose your weapon,” he offered, gesturing to the swords.

Michael tested them both and made his selection. “What are the stakes of this battle, my lord? Do I have my way with you

afterwards?”

“You may not be victorious.”

“Unlikely, but I suppose, strictly speaking, it’s possible.” Michael grinned. “I shal have to be especial y wary of being

distracted by your beauty, my dear cethe. You are most irresistible when you’re at your fiercest.”

Stefn’s color deepened. He picked up the remaining weapon, holding it with easy familiarity. “Don’t be so patronizing. I’ve not

named my tribute.”

“And what would that be?”

“You wil submit to me!”

For a moment, Michael wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, my lord.” Green eyes flashed with promise. “If I win, you wil be my slave!”

“Almost, you convince me to lose,” murmured Michael, diverted by the very idea.

“Do you think so?” Stefn’s lip curled. “A slave obeys his master, no matter what the command. Don’t assume you know what

my commands wil be.”

Tossing his head, he turned his back on Michael, striding into the center of the yard. Michael, bemused, removed his coat,

throwing it over the bench beside Stefn’s, then fol owed.

They saluted each other in the silence of the empty courtyard. Michael, smiling slightly, fixed his gaze on Stefn’s face,

watchful. Even so, he almost missed the slight shift of those green eyes and, when Stefn leapt forward, Michael only barely avoided

the swift, sure thrust.

Damn! He
had
been practicing! Michael parried Stefn’s next swing, ready for it this time. The clash of their swords and their

harsh breathing echoed off the yard’s high wal s.

The boy had trained against Hunters; of course his skil s would be good. Michael nearly misread a feint and cursed himself for

underestimating his opponent. He’d reckoned on dispatching Stefn quickly, but it was proving harder than he’d imagined. Stefn was

very fast and, being smal er, presented less of a target.

Michael’s focus narrowed, his training responding to the chal enge. The flash of steel in the sunlight, the music of metal on

metal, the thin, sharp razor of fear, al lent speed and strength to his muscles. Suddenly, it was Stefn in retreat, Stefn struggling to

parry the blur of blows coming at him.

Then it was over, Stefn’s sword flying from his hand. His heel caught on something and he went down in an undignified