Cethe (65 page)

Instead, a wad of grey fabric tumbled out. Michael picked it up and shook it out.

“You cannot be serious!”

“Ah, but I assure you, it’s what the Penitents serving in the Domicile wear. I have it on excel ent authority.”

Michael flapped the brief tunic at Remy, whose lip curled.

“I brought you this, too.” Auron produced a tiny brush and a smal pot of paint. “You’l need a brand.”

“Where did you get this?” Michael asked. According to common knowledge in Zelenov, only the most beautiful of Penitents

served in the Domicile. If this was al they wore, it was obvious what at least some of their duties were.

“Stole it,” replied Auron, unwrapping a sandwich. He threw one to Remy, who caught it awkwardly with bound hands. “There’s

a tailor near the barracks who makes them for the Cathedral. The fel ow had a few sly jokes to make about his noble clientele, too. I

wonder if Locke imagines folk around here haven’t figured out what they’re doing there.” This was accompanied by a smirk at Remy,

who turned his back on them.

Leaning closer, one eye on their prisoner, Auron said in a low voice, “I walked past the fort. There’s a lot of activity. It looks like

they’re going to be riding out soon. I suspect tonight wil be the time to make your move.”

Michael nodded.

Auron finished his sandwich and disappeared downstairs, returning with a bucket of water and a basin. Michael washed out

the black hair-dye, a messy process that had his friend running up and down several times with more buckets until the water final y

ran clear. Afterwards, Michael sat in front of the window while the sun blazed in, drying his long, white mane and combing it until it

lay straight and shining over his shoulders.

The tunic fit, but the shortness of the skirt brought color to his face. Auron gave a low whistle and grinned appreciatively. Even

Remy seemed taken aback. When Michael caught him staring, the Hunter sneered again. “You’d make a good slave,” he said.

Michael smiled grimly. “That’s the idea.” Hastily, he pul ed breeches and a shirt over the garment. Tying back his hair, he sat

down on the edge of the bed while Auron used the paint to trace the Penitent’s mark on his forehead. After that, there was nothing to

do but wait for nightfal .

After an eternity, it seemed, the sun final y set.

“Good luck,” Auron said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Don’t waste any time waiting for me,” said Michael. “Get out of the city. Stefn and I wil meet you at the rendevous point.”

He left them, slipping down the back stairs of the inn, wrapped in his cloak, hood pul ed forward to hide the brand. His hair

was bound up in a black scarf, for even with the hood, its bril iance threatened to give him away.

Michael chose a different set of houses to clamber onto, a different section of the fortress wal to scale. The place was alight

and alive. Soldiers ran to and fro while a large number of men gathered in a front courtyard, ful y armored and armed. It seemed

Auron was right. Michael dropped to his bel y, lying flat across the top of the wal . His eyes narrowed as a group of horsemen came

into view from around a nearby building. Locke!

The Archbishop was dressed in his Dragon uniform and accompanied by two others of his Order. Hunters fel into formation

behind him. A bel clanged and the gate opened. Michael watched as the entire group rode out, the road lit by men running ahead

with torches. Without wasting another moment, he jumped up and ran along the wal , headed for the Cathedral.

His luck held. Michael found a clump of trees growing along the interior of the Cathedral’s wal and, in their shelter, clambered

down onto the lawn. Keeping to the concealment of the shrubs and low, ornamental trees, he reached the Domicile. He wrapped

himself tightly in the cloak, getting as close as he dared to what he hoped was the kitchen door. Two guards stood before it, talking

to each other animatedly and paying scant attention to what went on around them. Picking up a stone, Michael heaved it as far

away as he could. At the subsequent rattle, the guards broke off their conversation and hurried to investigate. Holding tight to his

cloak, Michael slipped inside the now abandoned doorway.

From the smel s and distant clatter of crockery, he was indeed near the kitchens. Fat bags of flour and grain were stacked

against a nearby wal , along with big earthenware jugs of oil and casks of wine. Quickly, he shed his cloak, stuffing it behind the

jugs. Pul ing the tie from his hair, he shook it free.

He felt ridiculously vulnerable in the tunic. The slightest bend this way or that would expose his most private parts. He gritted

his teeth, tel ing himself that if the Penitents could bear it, so could he.

The impulse to seek out Stefn’s life force was almost irresistible, but resist it he did. He’d availed himself of Remy before

setting out, but that didn’t mean he had power to spare or that there weren’t knightmages on watch. Slipping over to the kitchen

door, he peered inside the room behind. Long past the dinner hour, it was mostly deserted save for a few Penitents scrubbing pots,

their backs to him. He crept in and, under the cover of clattering pans and dishes, seized a bottle of wine.

At the sink, one of the Penitents started to turn around. Michael ducked behind a table, listening to the pad of bare feet

crossing the room then returning. When he looked again, the Penitent was back at the sink with his partner, a new heap of dirty

dishes beside them.

Michael looked quickly around. Newly washed and dried dishes were laid out on long white cloth atop a nearby table, among

them, several wine-glasses. He risked the smal est glamour to run across the kitchen, snatch one, and left the room. Leaning against

the wal just outside, he gathered his wits for his next move.

Where would they have Stefn? Remembering the wave of terror and pain he’d felt in the mountains, Michael reckoned grimly

the bastards had him locked up in the cel ars. There would probably be a stairway somewhere nearby.

Leaving the kitchen behind, he ventured down a corridor and out into a large, open foyer dominated by a graceful double

staircase leading up to a mezzanine.

“You! Slave!”

Michael froze. He turned slowly and found himself face to face with a Dragon. The knightmage, a sharp, suspicious look on

his face, seemed taken aback.

“What are you doing?”

“I-I… ” Quickly Michael dropped to one knee, hoping it was an appropriate response. “I’m lost, m’lord.”

“Indeed.” Something in the Dragon’s voice made Michael risk a quick glance into his face. The man’s eyes were alight and a

smile played around his lips. Michael’s skin crawled. “You must be new.”

“Y-yes, m’lord.”

“And quite a beauty, at that.”

Taken aback, Michael decided the best answer was modest silence.

“Stand up. Let me have a look at you. You look a little old for Service, but damned if you aren’t a fine one.”

Gulping, Michael did so. The Dragon advanced, walking slowly around him. When the man stopped and lifted the skirt of his

tunic, it took everything Michael had not to slap his hand away.

“Magnificent!” The Dragon al but licked his lips. He looked furtively around. “We’re supposed to report to the parade ground,

but I think I can spare a few minutes. Come! And bring the wine.”

Michael wasn’t sure whether to laugh or curse. From the bulge in the man’s breeches, it was obvious what the Dragon

intended. Meekly, he trailed after him, up the stairs and, final y, to a spacious, wel -appointed bedroom.

“Take off your tunic and bend over,” the Dragon said, pointing to a nearby table. “I don’t have much time.”

“What is it, my lord? Is it true the troops are riding south to crush the rebels?”

“What do you care?” snapped the impatient Dragon. “Bend over!”

Michael pul ed off the tunic. The mage’s jaw dropped. The fool was almost drooling with lust. Adopting what he hoped was a

seductive smile, Michael advanced on him, lifting a hand to stroke the mage’s face.

“Ah, like that, is it?” the mage growled, seizing his wrist. “I’l be sure to… agh!”

Quick as lightning, Michael spun him around and the mage suddenly found himself with his arm twisted up behind his back,

wrist held firmly and painful y between his shoulder blades. With his other hand, Michael divested the Dragon of the dirk resting in

its sheath at his belt.

“Stefn Eldering,” he said softly into the man’s ear. “Where is he?”

The cel door opened. Stefn heard it and wept. He didn’t try to look around, to see who came this time to use him, to wring

more pain from his body, to demand obedience he could not give.

Once again, his wrists were released from the chains holding them over his head. The room whirled sickeningly as he

crumpled to the cold, wet floor. Hands in his hair dragged him up.

“Take if off,” he heard. The voice was familiar. Al of them were familiar now. Each Dragon gave the same order, pretending he

had a choice before the torment began again.

“Take it off!”

The lethet. They wanted him to take off the lethet, but his hands were too swol en and his fingers slipped uselessly against

the unyielding crust of jewels and gold.

“Fool! Do you love this so much?” The voice echoed down from a great distance. The fist in his hair pul ed his head back and,

through his tears, he saw a hard, angular face twisted by impatience and lust. “Then taste this!”

Stefn opened his mouth automatical y, having learned by now what was expected. The hard flesh thrust in, cutting off his

breath, slamming against the back of his raw throat. He choked and gagged with each careless thrust, wishing this time the coming

flood of hot liquid would choke him and end this horror.

But his tormenter had other plans, pul ing away. The room spun again as Stefn was hauled up, his wrists locked once more in

the manacles, and he was left dangling. Hands on his bruised and lacerated hips lifted him, accompanied by the grunts of his

tormenter. Stefn cried out, impaled on the rock-hard member stil slippery with his own spit and blood.

“I almost hope you don’t take it off,” the man grunted in his ear. “So none of us wil be deprived of this exquisite pleasure.”

“Martin!” A new voice came, fil ed with urgency.

The brutal ramming paused. Stefn’s head fel forward onto his chest. Tears ran into his open mouth; his breath raked his torn

throat.

“Locke has left the city,” came the new voice. “Kinshaw hasn’t reported for duty and his patrol sits idle on the parade ground.”

“Damn it! The bastard is probably off somewhere, porking one of the…”

Stefn whimpered as the dreadful pressure disappeared. Abruptly, he was left alone, hanging from his wrists. The voices

receded; he could make little sense of the words and didn’t even try. Grateful y, he let himself slip into semiconsciousness, taking

the respite it offered, however brief.

The creak of the hinges brought him out of it at once. No respite then. He choked back a sob, trembling as rapid footsteps

approached. He tried to speak, to plead for mercy, to beg for the chance to try the lethet one more time, anything to put off the

coming agony.

“Stefn. Dear God!”

He knew the voice! In the jumbled confusion of his thoughts, Stefn felt a sudden warm surge of hope. He blinked rapidly and

tried to turn his head, but his torn shoulders sent bolts of fire through his body.

Someone was swearing, a low, nonstop litany of profanity. With a click, his shackles opened. He fel into waiting arms, arms