Cethe (55 page)

sprawl. Immediately, he twisted around and was on his feet again, but there was nowhere to go. His white linen shirt was damp,

clinging to his chest and shoulders. Blood from the cut just above his wrist dripped onto the stones.

“First blood,” gasped Michael. “Thank Loth!”

Hair fel into Stefn’s eyes, wet with sweat. He shook it back. His crooked grin held resignation and disappointment. “You’ve a

true demon’s speed, that much is true,” he said breathlessly. Then, swal owing hard. “What is my tribute?”

Michael turned away from the dread he saw in Stefn’s eyes. He shrugged. “I think I wil have you wait upon me at dinner every

night this week.”

He heard Stefn’s quick intake of breath.

“And in a footman’s uniform,” added Michael. “You should look very dashing.”

Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he turned back around. Stefn stared up at him, blank.

“Do you object?”

“T-that’s al ? Serve you dinner?”

“Perhaps you don’t think you can manage it?” Michael quirked an eyebrow.

“Don’t be an ass,” retorted Stefn.

Michael shook his head and went to retrieve his coat. The sun had cleared Shia’s outer wal s, light fil ing the courtyard.

Looking around, Michael saw Stefn had not moved, but stood, head down, arms folded over his chest. Leaving him to his thoughts,

Michael returned to the keep.

The surviving nara, facing their eventual demise at the hands of the righteous, made all haste to spread their seed among

the humans. So it was that, after the death of St. Aramis and the full extent of their perfidy came to light, the demons’ blood had

spread through the race of Man like a plague.

from:
Craig
,
A Modern History of Tanyrin
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1506

The Demon Duke of Blackmarsh was coming to Tantagrel. Severyn received Lord Damon’s brief note with pleasure. As in

Lothmont, the family-owned home in Tantagrel was rented out, so he looked forward to hosting the duke at Lothlain House.

Nedby was, of course, discreetly outraged, murmuring warnings about witchcraft and the displeasure of clerics. It was thanks

to him that word flashed through the city faster than the plague. Severyn was nonetheless pleased to discover Michael’s charm and

wit had cleared the way for his grandfather, softening the attitudes of the local highblood. While attending a musicale one evening,

the hostess drew him aside, handing him a large, cream-colored envelope.

“Do see His Grace gets this, would you, please, Your Highness? We look forward to making his acquaintance.”

“You’re very kind, Lady Veren. I shal certainly do so.”

That would take the old man by surprise, Severyn reckoned. He tapped his pocket where the envelope rested, wel satisfied.

His complacent good humor vanished at once, however, as he turned up the street leading to Lothlain House on his way home from

the soiree.

Lothlain House was in pandemonium! Servants gathered in groups on the street just outside the palace wal s, excited and

frightened. His guards were everywhere. They waved his carriage through the gate past yet more guards. From the looks of it,

every guard in the city had been summoned! At his front door, Severyn jumped from his carriage before it had stopped moving,

running into the house while soldiers cal ed frantical y after him. Fortunately, Corliss was there, barking orders and looking harried.

“We were attacked,” said the captain shortly. “A raiding party disguised as merchants. We think they had a knightmage among

them.”

Severyn’s stomach clenched. “And our guest?”

“They didn’t find him, although they did get down into the main cel ar.”

Severyn headed immediately to the main cel ar, Corliss right behind him. Signs of the attack were everywhere along the way,

doors wrenched from their hinges, corridor wal s singed and blackened. Tables had been upended and chairs overturned. A broken

vase scattered scorched flowers across the corridor floor. Severyn was abruptly reminded of the night Mick had devastated the

Lothmont slum. There were casualties here, too, although only a handful. He forced himself to look at what remained of the men

who had been standing guard at the heavy iron door leading down into cel ars.

“Did anyone see anything?” he asked.

“Two men were at the end of the corridor.” Corliss pointed to the left. “One of them lived because he ran for help. He claims he

heard someone chanting and the next minute, there was a thunderous roar and flash of blinding light and heat.”

Severyn looked around, cold fear and fury knotting in his chest. The Church dared attack him in his own house?

With Corliss fol owing closely, he descended into the cel ars. The path of the invaders was obvious here, winding through the

low corridors and cramped rooms toward the easternmost side. He stood several minutes, staring at the blackened wal , knowing

what lay on the other side. Without another word, he returned to the upper floor.

“Double the guard around the palace,” Severyn ordered. “Put spies on the abbey. I’m especial y interested in any visitors our

dear Abbot Carrington may have.”

“What about your quarters?”

“Too obvious.”

“Not at al ,” retorted his captain. “It would be perfectly within reason to supplement your personal guard after such an attack.”

“Do as you wish. I’m going to have a word with our prisoner.”

There was no sign of the invaders in his private rooms. The entrance to the secret stair was undisturbed.

Captain Remy rose quickly to his feet at Severyn’s furious entrance. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Sorry about al the fuss,” said Severyn. “It seems they’ve decided you’re not dead, after al .”

“What are you talking about? What happened?”

Severyn leaned back against the door, arms folded against his chest. “What’s so important about you, I wonder, that the

Church would dare raise arms against their prince?”

“Ah.” Remy smiled faintly, mockingly. “I am a Dragon,” he reminded Severyn. “Perhaps they wil no longer tolerate a brother

being held captive by a prince who cal s a naragi, friend.”

“Perhaps. Of course, Locke has been touring the hinterlands. I hear he only returned to Lothmont a week or two ago.”

A muscle leapt in Remy’s jaw. “What of it?”

“Your whereabouts were unknown while he was gone, yet suddenly the Church has at least your general direction.” Severyn

remembered the path of destruction in the cel ars and how it had led directly to the wal where, safely on this side of it, Remy was

kept.

“Perhaps your men are not as loyal as you think!”

Severyn moved quickly. He slammed his hand over Remy’s mouth, silencing him. The Hunter stiffened. “I don’t believe it,”

Severyn whispered, mouth to Remy’s ear. “I think Mazril Locke is a hypocrite.”

Rigid, there was no response from Remy. Severyn let his hand fal away, but only as far as Remy’s neckcloth. He gently

untied it, pul ing it off.

“What are you doing?” Remy’s voice rose.

Severyn ripped open his shirt, sending buttons popping off. Remy made a strangled noise, trying to pul away, but Severyn

kept a tight grip on the fabric.

There was nothing around the man’s neck, not even a religious talisman. His chest was smooth and nicely sculpted, bel y flat.

“Your Highness!” Distress rang in the captain’s voice as Severyn pul ed open his breeches, hauling them down around Remy’s

knees, his undergarments after them. Severyn caught his breath.

Adrian Remy was generously endowed, but it wasn’t the size or fine shape of his genitals that riveted Severyn’s astonished,

horrified gaze. Around the base of his penis, the thin, sensitive flesh was banded by intricate tattoos.

Stefn stood stiffly at Michael’s elbow with the decanter, waiting for the signal to pour. It was his seventh and final night as

“footman.” On the other side of the dining room, one of the real footman, Ben, winked at him conspiratorial y. Stefn pretended not to

see.

The servants al treated his new, dinner-time status with amused good humor. As Marin told him shortly after the fight, they

were used to court behavior, where sil y bets between young noblemen were commonplace. “Word below-stairs is you’d make a fine

footman,” he’d added, chuckling.

It had been a relief to realize they were being perceived as any two young men enjoying a visit in the country. Mostly,

however, Stefn stil struggled with the outcome of their match. Not the fact that he’d lost, he’d expected to toward the end, but he

didn’t understand Michael’s choice of tribute. Stefn had been so sure it was to be himself. The look in Michael’s eyes had seemed to

confirm it, yet here he was a week later, untouched, pretending the relationship between them was one of ordinary friendship.

And he didn’t like it. Standing with the decanter, Stefn realized suddenly he had actual y hoped to be ravished! In those

breathless moments at the end of their battle, Michael’s sword at his throat, he would have submitted wil ingly to anything demanded

of him. The revelation unnerved Stefn so much he nearly dropped the decanter.

Michael didn’t notice, but finished a bit of bread. Only his profile was visible from Stefn’s position. He wore black, as always,

and his pale hair seemed twice as bright, laying smoothly over his shoulders. Stefn was further bedeviled at the memory of how it

felt, brushing his skin. How cool. Silky.

The lethet tingled.

Michael settled back in his chair, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. He lay it aside and, without so much as a sideways

glance, held up his empty wine glass. Automatical y, Stefn leaned forward to refil it, but some devil made him miss, splashing wine

liberal y over Michael’s hand and wrist — to the considerable detriment of Michael’s pristine white shirt-cuff.

“Agh!” Michael jerked his hand back and glared up at Stefn. “Clumsy fool!”

“Oh, no!” Stefn stared in dismay. “I… I didn’t mean to.”

Ben ran from the room, and before Stefn finished stammering his apologies, the footman was back with a bowl of cloudy water

and a cloth. Michael waved him away. “Let Eldering do it,” he said. “He made the mess.”

Stefn dropped to one knee, face heating, and did what he could to remove the red stain from Michael’s shirt. It forced him to

hold Michael’s hand and, with those long, cal used fingers resting in his, Stefn was once again disconcerted by his unruly feelings.

“That wil do,” said Michael final y, a bit unsteadily.

Heart pounding, Stefn scrambled to his feet. He handed over the bowl and cloth to Ben who quickly carried them away.

Silence settled over the dining room. Stefn’s heart pounded. Michael sat with bent head, drumming his fingers on the table.

“W-would — shal I try again?” Stefn ventured, brandishing the decanter.

Michael started. He laughed softly. “I’l not tempt fate,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to

relieve you of your position, Eldering. I’ve changed my mind. You’re woeful y unsuited to a life in service.” He stood up. “I consider

tribute paid, my lord. Thank you again for a stimulating fight and… ” He paused and grinned. “ …for being a good sport.”

Stefn set down the decanter, unable to resist returning the smile. “I lost the last one, but any time you’re ready, I’l go again.

Once I’m back in shape, we’l see how much better you are, my lord!”

“Have a care, Eldering,” Michael said, smile fading, voice low and intense. “The next time, you may not get off so easily.”