Cethe (6 page)

“Ah, don’t say that.” Severyn grinned and Michael felt his foul mood slip a bit. “Wait until you see what some plaster and paint

can achieve, my friend!” The prince turned back to the view. “I’l wager old Eldering and his spawn avoided these rooms because

there’s too much sunlight. As everyone knows, vermin avoid bright places.”

Michael laughed, imagining the old earl scuttling from the occasional ray of sunlight straying past his heavy drapes and

shutters. “It’s true, he didn’t much care for the curtains to be open.”

Severyn shuddered. “What was it like, pretending to be their priest? Surely you discovered what was truly going on?”

“I was only here for three weeks,” Michael reminded him. “Perhaps, because I was new, they were on their best behavior.” He

hesitated. “What about Eldering? Did you speak to him?”

Severyn shrugged. “He tried to claim ignorance, then said they were probably executed for witchcraft. Even after I showed him

the baby’s skul , his response was to remind me Shia was a Church parish and answerable only to the Celestials.”

Anger rushed through Michael again, as old and familiar as a favorite shirt. He had seen the justice of the Church’s highest

Council too many times, seen it in the wretched hovels at the edges of human towns, the growing numbers of h’nara who crept

across the borders into Blackmarsh, looking for safety on Arranz land.

Michael unclenched his jaw. “They have to be stopped.”

“They wil be! Without Arami on the throne, the Celestial Council wil no longer have a drug-addicted puppet to approve their

every whim.” Severyn gestured to their gloomy surroundings. “And as for this place, I’l have it gutted and completely refurbished.

There won’t be a trace of Eldering left when it’s finished.”

He looked so earnest and determined, it was impossible for Michael not to smile. “You’re not going to be in charge of

decorating, I hope?”

Relief flooded the prince’s handsome face. He grinned. “Of course not. I’ve given Jeremy the job.”

Michael’s jaw sagged, picturing wal s crammed with sporting lithographs in monstrous, gilded frames, stuffed animal heads

leering from every wal , over-sized armchairs, and stone fireplaces frantic with carved hunting scenes. “Dear God!” he managed.

Severyn chortled. “Ha! Got you! Actual y, I’ve asked Auron. I trust you’ve no objection to him?”

Michael didn’t get a chance to answer. Rapid footsteps approached, fol owed by the appearance of Corliss and several other

guards. The captain was pale and grim.

“Oh, hel !” Severyn muttered. “Now what?”

“He’s bolted,” said Corliss with a brief bow of his head.

“Bolted? Who’s bolted?” Michael looked from man to man and knew exactly who they meant. He listened in alarm to Severyn’s

embarrassed explanation. The notion of Eldering being forced to exhume his family’s victims was gratifying, but Stefn Eldering knew

too damn much to be running loose in the countryside.

“We’ve looked everywhere around the fortress, sir.” Corliss looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. “He must know some

rabbit hole we don’t.”

“Damn it, man! I told you to watch the little rat!”

“We’re preparing to launch an immediate search of the surrounding fields, Highness!”

“I’l go with you,” Severyn said. He turned back to Michael. “Wil you come, too?”

Michael shook his head. “I’m sure you’l manage,” he said lightly.

Severyn’s jaw tightened, understanding They both knew what this would cost Michael, but the subject was not one to discuss

in front of the guards. “I’l be back shortly. He won’t have gone far.”

When they had gone, Michael returned to the windows and looked down onto the lane. Men gathered, some mounted, some

leading their horses. From the looks of it, Severyn had mustered everyone in the castle. The prince appeared a moment later, riding

to the head of the assembly, Corliss right behind him. At Severyn’s signal, they started down the lane, disappearing around the

armory.

Eldering couldn’t possibly believe he could escape. Except for the distant hil s, the castle was surrounded by miles of open

land. With his lame foot, he wouldn’t get more than a mile or two. Abruptly, Michael turned and left the room.

Two guards met him in the corridor outside. They were in the process of searching the house from top to bottom in case

Eldering should have slipped back inside for some reason.

“Have you been in the north tower?” Michael asked.

They had and found it empty. Michael watched them hurry on to the cel ars, then walked slowly in the opposite direction.

The north wing was indeed deserted. He went straight to the tower, climbing the narrow steps to the top. The smal , round

room looked just as it had the night of the attack. Michael went to the window and looked out. Soldiers spread across the fields,

moving slowly outward in a wide net.

Retreating to the book-laden table, he sat down. He thought about locking the door, but it seemed unlikely he’d be interrupted.

Closing his eyes, Michael began to breathe deeply and rhythmical y. His body relaxed. Little by little, his awareness of his

surroundings began to fade.

The shift from here to there happened quickly. Behind his eyelids, the ordinary dark abruptly changed, becoming deep and

limitless. It was disturbed only by erratic flashes of light, threads of bril iance that writhed, twisted and whirled as they shot past him

on their journey through the ether. Fragments of the Dark Stream, they were flung out from its turbulent current, like the spray of

wild waves battering against a shore.

Only the naragi had been able to drink directly from the Stream, but a witch could make good use of its random splash-overs.

Michael reached for the threads, accepting the sharp, familiar jolts of contact as he caught first one, then another. Only when he’d

taken his limit did he return to the world of the real.

Michael had never used so much k’na over such a brief period of time as he had since coming to Shia. His head ached. There

was a buzzing in his ears. He would probably sleep for a week after this. Slumping forward, he dropped his head into his arms on

the table and whispered the Words of a seeking spel . Not so long ago, in this very room, he’d first seen Eldering’s life-pattern. It

hung in his memory, bright and clear. Now, al he had to do was find it.

Stefn had discovered the secret room by accident when he was younger. Its door was triggered by a narrow slip of stone on

the floor in one of the west wing’s empty rooms. More than once, he’d escaped a beating by waiting out his father’s rage in the

narrow, stuffy space.

He lifted his candle to better see the marks carved into the wal s, floor and ceiling. The Sword and the Oak Leaf was Loth’s

sign, a potent charm against witches and their forbidden powers. According to Shian legend, the women and children of the castle

had hidden here during the war. Protected by the power of Loth, they had been safe from naragi sorcery.

The nearest Cathedral was in Fornsby, a day’s ride south, a proper Cathedral, not just an Abbey like Shia’s. It had no

knightmages, either, but there were Hunters. Although he’d never actual y been there, he’d seen maps and overheard talk about the

town. Later, when things were quiet, he would creep from his hiding place, take a horse from the stable, slip out of the castle, and be

away.

Thinking of being outside Shia’s wal s again recal ed him to the refuse pit. His stomach clenched. He’d never seen real bones

before, only il ustrations in the library’s anatomy texts. Stefn hugged his knees tightly to his chest, realizing suddenly there had been

no difference between those drawings and the bones he’d been forced to dig out of the filth and garbage. Was it possible those

weren’t the remains of taints after al ?

His father’s vile temper had been legendary. As long as Stefn could remember, there had been rumors belowstairs and in the

barracks of whether a recently discharged servant or soldier had truly left Shia of his own accord or had fal en victim to the

unpleasant amusements of Lord Eldering and his friends. Stefn had never put much stock in such stories; he knew only of the taints

brought into Shia, witches who paid for their blasphemies with their lives.

So what? Father’s dead. Al en’s dead. Shia is mine. It wil be different here now.

Al he had to do was get to Fornsby and reveal the entire plot to the bishop there. Not only would he save Shia, he would be a

hero, the man who thwarted an act of treachery and worse!

Without meaning to, Stefn lifted a hand, fingertips brushing his lips where Arranz had kissed him. In the library were books that

spoke of such unnatural practices. He’d read them al , over and over again: stories of the naran aristocrats who took their pleasure

from among their human slaves; diaries laying out in shivery detail the practices forced upon the poor unfortunates by their

merciless, perverse overlords.

The narani sorcerers were the most notorious, seeking pleasure exclusively from those of their own sex. Only one book had

spoken much of that, a very old diary kept by a priest named Camber. Stefn had read it from cover to cover, horrified, yet fascinated

at the same time.

Lord Arranz was a witch. Was it so remarkable that he should be just as twisted as his wicked ancestors? Stefn couldn’t wait to

see the bastard brought to his knees before the justice of Loth. Maybe the Church would al ow him the pleasure of executing Lord

Arranz himself!

Stefn shifted uncomfortably. How long had he been in the cubby-hole? His candle was at the half-way mark, but the cheap

tal ow burned quickly. It had probably been only an hour or two. He tried to find a more comfortable spot against the wal and

considered whether to blow out the candle and save it for later.

An ominous scraping rendered the decision moot. Horrified, he sprang to his feet as the wal before him slid open, the sudden

rush of air extinguishing the candle at once. A figure loomed in the opening, tal and lean, a lantern held aloft. Long hair, naran white,

fel carelessly over broad shoulders.

“Ah, here you are!” Lord Arranz looked around the tiny space, light hovering over the warding signs. His lip curled.

“No!” Stefn whispered. He watched in disbelief as the taint came in to inspect the engraved symbol more closely. It couldn’t be

possible!

Lord Michael traced the rough cuts in the stone with his finger. Nothing happened: no cry of pain, no flash of lightning.

“Did you think these would protect you?” He sounded amused. “My God! Stupid and barbaric! This is the sixteenth century —

or hasn’t that information reached this benighted spot?”

Stefn launched himself at the doorway, desperate and knowing his chances of escape had fal en to nothing. He knocked the

taint aside, stumbling into the corridor, wondering, panicked, which way to go. A bone-jarring blow against his back sent him flying

forward, balance lost, to sprawl helplessly on the floor. The taint’s crushing weight held him there, struggling to breathe.

His arms were dragged behind him and bound with sharp-edged leather. Only then did Arranz get up. Fist knotting in Stefn’s

hair, he dragged Stefn, gasping and choking, to his knees. Looking down at him, sneering, Arranz said, “Honestly, my lord, did you

real y think your sil y superstitions would hide you from me?”

Stefn’s lip was cut. He spat blood, angry and terrified. “You can go to hel , tainted filth! Loth wil protect me!”