Cethe (17 page)

It was a long, silent battle. The chirping of night insects resumed; the dust of the landslide settled. Something crept out of the

thicket, nosing toward the carcass of the horse. Michael saw and heard none of it. His gaze was focused inward, to the endless

shower of k’na fragments and the place where his enemy struggled to repel him.

The resistance faltered. His enemy was tiring. Michael had yet to feel even a twinge of fatigue. Part of him exulted; the other

part kept up the steady, unrelenting pressure on his foe. Abruptly, the resistance was gone, the distant life-pattern dimming to near

invisibility. The pattern of the horse reappeared and he seized on it.

Come to me!

Michael climbed back up the hil , reaching the summit in time to hear the sound of hooves. A moment later, a marsh-pony

cantered out of the brush and came straight to him, tossing its head, loose reins flapping.

Only marshlanders used these sturdy, wide-hoofed beasts. He looked out onto the marsh, now completely enveloped in its

night-time shroud.

Stefn! Hold on!

A few miles further, Michael found where his opponent had hidden: a spot in the brush overlooking the ridge. It was empty

now. Hoof prints and crushed thicket suggested a smal party of men. Was it Stefn and his captors or someone else?

In spite of worries he might exhaust himself, Michael moved in and out of his inner vision frequently as he continued south. So

it was he sensed the next ambush before it could be unleashed.

This time, it was boulders from above; there was a brief flare of k’na and down they came! He was already running, barely

reaching safety as they thundered past him, splashing into the swamp below. Then the smal beacon inside him, the pulse that was

Stefn’s Cal , stopped. In that moment of distraction, his enemies struck. His limbs went numb. Darkness crept in at the edges of his

vision.

No! He’s mine!

The suffocating grip on Michael’s mind bent and broke under the force of his panicked rage. Somewhere, back along the

threads reaching through the ether, came a soundless scream. He was free! Better yet, he felt Stefn again! Warily, Michael kept

going.

First to encounter the nara were men in the northern parishes and along the western coast. A handful of the strangers

came, claiming to be traders and bringing all manner of unusual items. References to them appear in the journals of parish

lords from the late tenth century. For several years, the peddlers came no further south than the parishes of Iyre, Ovia, or Shia.

The first naran settlers are not mentioned until the Iyre parish census of YLD 1008.

from:
The Chronicles of Tanyrin: Volume I
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1347

The royal city of Lothmont was the largest and most prosperous in Tanyrin, East or West. The seat of the king and his royal

ministries, it crowded the southern shores of Wyr Lake, overlooking the great Wyrbane River’s flood plain, Tanyrin’s most fertile

farmland.

Once, long ago, a massive wal had circled the city. Parts of it could stil be seen here and there, precarious spires of stone

and crumbling mortar poking up through the crowded rooftops of the city. Standing above the main thoroughfare was the ancient

gate, now surrounded by buildings of every size and shape. Demonsgate, it was cal ed, because long ago, it had stood fast against

the naran armies.

Severyn had chosen to travel the last few miles from Shia incognito. Sending his coach and servants ahead to the palace, he

attracted no attention in his plain riding leathers, hood pul ed up, and dusty from the road.

The evening was warm and hazy, typical for summer’s waning in the lowlands. Merchants closed their shops as the citizens of

Lothmont returned home for supper or sought refreshment in the city’s many cafes and taverns.

As Severyn drew closer to the lake, the streets widened and the shops became more fashionable. Crowded rowhouses gave

way to magnificent mansions set back from the street and shielded from vulgar stares by brick wal s or thick shrubbery. Claremont

Shores was Lothmont’s most exclusive neighborhood. Somewhere among these discreet, elegant facades was his future bride.

Severyn didn’t want to think about it.

He came upon Royal Street and was, for a moment, tempted to turn and go the half mile to the Fairhands Club instead of on

to the palace. Forry, Erich and Jeremy were due to arrive any day; they might even be there already. He’d original y suggested they

stay with him at the castle, but, as Forry had put it:

“I’m always afraid someone wil put something in my food and I’l wake up to find myself in bed with four or five complete

strangers.”

Resolutely passing the club, Severyn rode on, taking the shore road around the curve of the lake. On his left, the wal s of

Lothmont’s Cathedral rose above the genteel neighborhood, marking its eastern boundary. Past the Cathedral, the streets narrowed

once again, the lake shore turning from manicured park to close-standing warehouses and tenements, docks thrusting out over the

water.

Trade of al sorts abounded along the wharfs; one could see it in the voluptuous figures leaning out of second-story windows,

smel it in the reek of cheap whiskey and pelthe. No one looked twice at the lone rider passing through their midst, and no one

bothered him. Not until dark did the cut-purses and assassins emerge. By then, he would be safely tucked up in the palace.

Lake Wyr was enormous, a bottomless expanse of icy, spring-fed water at the northernmost end of the city. Castle Lothlain

occupied the lone island in its center, connected to the mainland by a long, narrow bridge whose origins were lost in history. The

palace could be seen from miles away, a defiant fist of stone rising against the backdrop of the Midder Mountains, the range dividing

West Tanyrin from the East.

The lake was the source of the great Wyrbane River, whose long journey to the western sea began here, spil ing out of its

bottomless basin and into in a broad, deep channel on its southernmost end. It was crisscrossed by several bridges, only one of

which was public. The others required a tol , or, as in the case of the Thaelrick Bridge, a noble pedigree.

Thaelrick was not as crowded as its neighbors. Its usual throng of travelers would not arrive until wel into the night when, like

Lothmont’s dark underworld, Court revelries began. The bridge entrance was a pleasant spot, enhanced by a pocket garden with

benches offering views of the lake and careful y tended flower beds. It was empty at the moment; only a handful of guards lounged

about the check-point, bored. With some surprise, Severyn recognized their green and gold uniforms. Hunters? Since when did the

Church administer the bridge?

Seeing him approach, one of the soldiers detached himself from the group, striding over to block Severyn’s path. He laid a

hand on the hilt of his sword. “This is a private bridge!” he declared. “Highblood only. Take one of the others.”

“I beg your pardon?” Severyn pushed back his hood. The guard’s eyes narrowed, hearing his refined accent, but there was no

recognition in his sweeping appraisal. Nor did he appear to notice the royal signet ring displayed so prominently on Severyn’s

upraised hand.

“Are you deaf or simple? Highblood only! Unless you’ve got proof of your identity, dog, take yourself… ” The Hunter broke off,

interrupted by the clatter of hooves at Severyn’s back. At once, he stiffened, saluting smartly.

Severyn twisted around in his saddle, looking over his shoulder to see an open carriage approaching the bridge. Inside were

two gentlemen. He recognized them at once.

“Trouble, corporal?”

The carriage stopped beside Severyn. The portly, middle-aged gentleman speaking was Sidney Montaigne, Bishop of

Lothmont. The second man, wearing the uniform of a Hunter officer was unknown to him, but Severyn recognized the red stripe

outlining the gold trim of his uniform and felt a smal chil at the sight. A knightmage! And not just any knightmage, either, but a

member of the Order of the Dragons of Loth!

“Your Highness!” Montaigne exclaimed. “It is Prince Severyn, is it not?”

“H-Highness?” The guard, terrified, threw himself to his knees before Severyn. “A hundred apologies, Your Highness! I didn’t

know — I’ve never seen — The way you are dressed…”

“Be silent!” Bishop Montaigne, looking annoyed, sent his poor guard scuttling out of sight. “Your Highness! What a surprise!

I’d not heard you were in Lothmont.”

Montaigne was a fool. Severyn ignored him. He greeted the man seated next to the bishop. “What brings a Dragon to the

heathen West?”

“Ah! My apologies!” Montaigne turned to the handsome officer. The stranger wore no amulet around his neck, so he was not

actual y a mage. The absence of the talisman signified an aide, but hardly one of the Order’s regular soldiers.

“May I introduce Captain Adrian Remy?” he continued. “The captain is Shield Brother to none other than His Eminence, the

Archbishop himself!”

“I am honored to meet you, Your Highness.” the captain inclined his head in the barest of courtesies. “As for what brings us

west, the Celestial Council decided to hold our annual Conclave in Lothmont this year. I have come as escort to His Eminence.”

So, Locke was in town? Disquieting news.

Remy was darkly good-looking. His smile, however, did not reach his eyes. Severyn inclined his head briefly.

“What brings you to Lothmont, your Highness? I should think you would be at Lothlain House in Tantagrel?” The implied

criticism in Montaigne’s nasal tones set Severyn’s teeth on edge.

“Thaelrick is the property of the king,” he retorted, ignoring the bishop’s question. “When did the Church take over its security,

and why?”

Montaigne’s eyebrows lifted. “The Advisori has been increasingly reluctant to fund an adequate number of guards for such an

important spot. His Majesty made a direct appeal to me and, as a favor, I’ve agreed to assist. Why? Do you not approve?”

Severyn shrugged. “Only when I’m denied passage,” he replied. Inwardly, he seethed. “If my brother and the Court want to

save a bit of money, who am I to stand in their way?”

“Fortunately, the Cathedral is close and the inconvenience minor.” Montaigne’s expression was a hair shy of a smirk.

Next to the bishop, the Hunter officer sat quietly, listening. Abruptly, he leaned over, saying something to Montaigne in a low

voice.

The bishop nodded. He smiled apologetical y to Severyn. “As Captain Remy reminds me, Your Highness, we are late for our

meeting. You wil forgive us if we go ahead?”

Their driver didn’t wait for Severyn’s response, but flicked his whip over his horses’ heads and the carriage started forward.

Severyn watched them go, then fol owed. He fumed al the way to the palace.

There was no problem with recognition at the palace’s outer gate, the guards springing to open it for him. In his personal suite,

Tim greeted Severyn with restrained enthusiasm. “Word of your heroism has preceded you, Highness. Another feather in your cap.”

“Loth’s hand is just and true,” said Severyn. A flash of understanding passed between them. At the edges of the entrance hal ,

he saw the figures of footmen standing at attention. A maid hovered in the shadows of a far doorway.

Pitching his voice slightly louder, Severyn gave his butler the official excuse for his presence in Shia, then stood by while

Timkins congratulated him enthusiastical y on his impending marriage. The story would be al over the city by morning.

“Shal I have dinner prepared, Your Highness? asked Timkins after their bit of play-acting was done. “Or wil you be dining with

His Majesty?”

“Arami knows I’m here?”

“He’s been looking everywhere for you these past two weeks and sent word that you were to join him in the East Garden

should you arrive in time for dinner.”

“Looking for me? Why?”

“As to that, Your Highness, I can only surmise, it being the end of the financial quarter… ” Timkins let his voice trail away

apologetical y.

“I am warned,” agreed Severyn. Then, lowering his voice stil more, he asked, “Is it true? Is the wretched Council in Lothmont?

”

“Alas, yes, sir.” Timkins pasted a smile on his face. “I hear there’s been a steady flow of bishops, abbots and prelates paying

their respects to the king al week. One cannot take two steps into the rest of the palace without tripping over one. How long do we

plan to stay, Your Highness?”

“Not long,” replied Severyn, quickly altering his plans. “We’l leave for Tantagrel by the week’s end.”

The East Garden was a tranquil park of velvet, close-trimmed lawns, of flowers, ornamental shrubs and low, spreading trees.

Cobbled paths wound through the greenery, each turn revealing a pleasing view or comfortable bench. Fountains and artificial

streams added their music to the faint strains of a distant violin.

The long shadows of dusk lay over the park. Through the greenery, Severyn saw torchlight marking its center. As he

approached, the scent of autumn flowers mixed with the sweet, heavy odor of pelthe. He wrinkled his nose at it.