Cethe (51 page)

Hanson up to his room, alone, with the promise to meet Stefn and Auron at dinner.

Dizzy, he sat on the edge of his bed. The setting sun fil ed the familiar room with a ruddy, golden glow. His body tingled.

Michael’s reaction to Remy had not been like this. It was so easy to imagine Stefn’s body against his, where each curve and

plane of it fitted. He could vividly see that beautiful head thrown back in a breathtaking arch of ecstasy.

Stefn could not fail to know why he was here. Why not just dispense with the foolishness of appearances? He should just

take the damned earl and be done with it, then get both of them away from Shia and deep into Blackmarsh.

Instead, he cal ed for a bath and dressed with special care for dinner. When he went to the smal parlor, Auron was already

there. He, too, bore the marks of the recently-bathed, dark hair stil damp and escaping from its clasp. His neckcloth was carelessly

tied and he looked Michael up and down with frank appreciation.

“The Lothmont ladies, and no few of its gentlemen, I suspect, are bereft tonight,” quipped the insufferable bastard. “Welcome

back, old boy. How do you find things?” This was fol owed by an elaborate wink.

For the first time, it occurred to Michael that Stefn might have been apprised of events in Lothmont. His eyes narrowed, but he

had no time to ask. Stefn arrived. Michael noted with surprise that he, too, dressed in black. His snowy neckcloth was held in place

by an oval of polished moonstone, as white as the folds of starched linen, yet showing ever-shifting veils of color when he moved.

They made smal talk, but again, Michael felt curiously detached from it al . His awareness was focused on Stefn. He went

with them into the dining room where Stefn took the seat at the head of the table. Michael sat across from Auron, and the

conversation flowed, his own responses automatic. Food arrived. Conversation went on and on.

“And afterwards, the h’nara wil eat al the human babies…”

Michael, in the middle of a nod, started, and looked in astonishment at Auron. Blue eyes open wide, Auron smiled back at him

serenely. “What do you think, Mick?”

Michael looked over at Stefn. Eldering sat, wooden-faced.

“I never thought to see such a thing with my own eyes,” Auron said, shaking his head. “It’s real y true. Al the stories about

naragi and their cethe. Your eyes haven’t left Eldering al night.”

Michael, shocked, fought for composure. “Honestly, Auron. Have you no discretion whatsoever? We’re at dinner.”

“I’m not the one drooling into my wine.”

The noise of a chair scraping across the floor interrupted them. Stefn was on his feet, crimson. “If you gentlemen wil excuse

me,” he said in a strangled voice. He was gone a moment later, nearly knocking over a startled servant.

“Oh, dear. You’ve had a spat?”

“He knows you know, about what happened, I take it?”

“Wel , er, yes. Sorry.” Auron’s expression sobered. “He’s not wil ing?”

Michael shook his head. “Go ahead, glare daggers at me, my friend. For what it’s worth, I regret everything, but what’s done is

done.”

“I rather thought you two liked each other. He talked about you frequently.”

Michael was surprised to hear it. He waited for the servant to leave, then: “As you’ve rightly surmised, he’s my cethe, but

nothing more. It’s how we taints and sin-catchers survive, by making the best of untenable situations.”

For once, there was no sardonic amusement in Auron’s expression. Evenly, he said, “Shouldn’t you go after him?”

“I don’t think he wants to see me.” Michael picked up his spoon. His stomach was queasy, but he was determined not to let the

damned Bond rule him. “I’l talk to him later.”

The feeling of detachment returned, stronger than ever. Michael struggled to pay attention to Auron, but later could remember

almost nothing about their subsequent conversation. Final y, his friend took himself reluctantly back to the armory for a meeting with

Lake. Michael wasted no more time. He went straight to Stefn’s room.

It was empty. For a moment, a flood of anger nearly overwhelmed him. Michael clung to the doorframe and fought it until it

died away.

The tower was empty, as wel . Michael threw open his senses at once and found Stefn’s bright, distinctive presence nearby.

He fol owed it halfway to its source before realizing he was headed for his own bedroom. Flinging open the door, his eyes went

straight to the line of tal windows framing the Shian sunset. Standing in front of them was Stefn. He was clad in a long, red velvet

robe tied at his narrow waist. His feet were bare beneath the robe’s hem. The dying light flashed and sparkled off the jewels around

his neck.

Michael closed the door. Stefn continued to look out the windows. “Does everyone know?” His voice was thin and strained.

Tired.

“Probably. I didn’t tel them, but they could hardly have come to a different conclusion.”

“It’s because of what you did in Lothmont. You cast another naragi spel .”

“Yes.”

“And they didn’t care? They didn’t care that you were naragi?”

“They care, but they understand why I did it.” Michael steeled himself. “You know why I’m here?”

Stefn nodded. He fumbled at the sash and the robe fel open. Michael’s whole body leapt.

“How very… accommodating,” he murmured, paralyzed by what was revealed. “Come to me.”

Slim hands clenched, then relaxed. Stefn came to Michael, head down. The robe bil owed open as he walked, exposing the

nude, slender body beneath, his handsome sex already stiffening. Michael pushed the soft, gleaming fabric off Stefn’s shoulders,

leaving him naked to the sunset.

“How beautiful,” whispered Michael, transfixed.

Stefn’s green gaze was quick and fil ed with pain. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t talk to me like I’m your lover. We know what I am.

Just do it and be done.!”

“I’l say what I feel!” Michael caught Stefn by the arms, his fingers digging deep.

Stefn’s breath hitched and he tried for defiance. “Then so shal I! Go ahead, see if — mmrg…”

Michael’s tenuous patience vanished. He kissed Stefn ferociously, possessively, demanding everything. Unexpectedly, Stefn’s

rigid body loosened. He pressed against Michael, his arms winding around Michael’s neck. His response was as hungry and fierce

as Michael’s.

Surprise made Michael draw back, his pulse thundering, to look down into Stefn’s thin, flushed face. Stefn whispered

something, reaching up to tangle his hands in Michael’s hair, pul ing his head back down. Their tongues met and danced.

Michael devoured the slight, dark-haired man, lips finding al the sensitive hol ows of Stefn’s throat, his ears, his naked

shoulder. The robe was a puddle of crimson in the middle of the darkening room. Stefn didn’t resist when Michael took him to the

bed and had him kneel on it. He watched with half-closed eyes while Michael undressed, and when Michael stepped forward, Stefn

opened his mouth, pliant and wil ing, to engulf Michael’s erection, to tongue and suck on it.

Lost in ecstasy, Michael’s knees buckled against the side of the bed. Trembling hands forced Stefn back. Without being told,

the earl went to his hands and knees, fingers gripping the matel asse coverlet, anticipating.

Michael had barely the wits to prepare his cethe; he was shaking when, at long last, he could do what he’d imagined a

thousand times these past months. Slipping deep into Stefn, his body sang with the joy of it. With superhuman effort, he was stil .

He eased Stefn gently up until he sat, impaled, his back to Michael, breathing hard.

Reaching around, Michael let his fingers stroke up and around Stefn’s cock. Rock-hard, purple, it quivered at his touch. Stefn

moaned, body arching, his head fal ing back against Michael’s shoulder.

Caressing, teasing, Michael tormented his cethe’s captive sex. Stefn writhed and gasped, incoherent pleas tumbling from his

lips. Each twist and squirm drove Michael closer to the edge. He abandoned subtlety, fist closing around Stefn’s cock and pumping

hard.

Stefn came with a long, shuddering sob, forcing Michael past his own control. The familiar rush of orgasm overwhelmed him

and with it, a flood of k’na.

Union with Remy had been nothing like this, only the palest of imitations. The strength and warmth flooding through Michael

left him breathless. He wrapped his arms around Stefn, needing the other body for support while the room spun and k’na fil ed every

crevice and niche in his soul.

They fel together, stil joined, across the bed. Michael drew away, but he was too relaxed, too comfortable, too sleepy, to

move otherwise. So was Stefn, apparently. Aside from awkwardly manipulating the blanket to cover them, he made no effort to leave

the bed. The last thing Michael remembered was shifting slightly when Stefn rol ed over and snuggled in close.

In the Year of Loth’s Dominion 1323, King Aramis I signed the order for the establishment of a great Library to be built in

Lothmont. The library covered nearly a quarter square ell of land and was three stories high. It boasted nearly ten thousand

books, including rare naran collections reputed to have come from the cities north of the Lothwalls. In YLD1350, disaster struck. A

fire broke out in one of the storerooms in the cellars of the library and in spite of the heroic efforts of the Guard and neighbors,

the library burned to the ground, destroying everything within it, including the original manuscripts of The Chronicles of Tanyrin.

from:
A Modern History of Tanyrin
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1505

Severyn remained in Lothmont, working hard behind the scenes to quel rumors over the affair in the slums. He was largely

successful, although the clergy continued to object and demand that Lord Arranz present himself to answer questions on his

whereabouts that fateful evening. The Arranz family replied as it always had to such demands, with a careful y worded and

measured refusal.

Fortunately, the Church had bigger problems. Timkins arrived one morning with a request for a meeting with several clerics he

recognized as being representatives of Mazril Locke. He contained his curiosity until late in the day when the clerics were brought to

his chambers.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” greeted the prince. He glanced at their message; the subject to which it referred mentioned only

“investigation of heresy.” “What can I do for you?”

The highest ranking of the three men, a prelate, dropped a heavy book on the low incidental table between them. It took

Severyn a moment: The Chronicle of Tanyrin, Volume 2.

“Er, yes?”

“It is a false copy!”

Severyn’s pulse leapt, but he schooled his features into an expression of benign mystification.

“False?”

Leaning over took it up and opened it, leafing through the pages. Eldering and their rebuilt press had done a bang-up job.

“Yes, Your Highness! It is a false copy of the Chronicle, fil ed with heretical passages.”

“Indeed,” added one of the prelate’s companions. “Blasphemous!”

“Why not simply throw it away?”

“That’s not the point, Your Highness! These are appearing everywhere: in Church libraries, Sanctuaries, col eges, bookshops!

”

“Goodness! Where are they coming from?”

“We don’t know for certain, Your Highness, but we have our suspicions. The Archbishop asks your permission to send a

battalion of Hunters to Withwil ow to investigate.”

“A battalion?”

“The Bishop there is known for his contrary views. He has consistently resisted the wil of the Council in many areas, refusing

additional troops, giving succor to taints, and so on. It seems likely that this outrage could have been perpetrated by him or those

emboldened by his rebel ious attitude!”

Severyn shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lords, but I must refuse. The Advisori would be up in arms over such an insult to their

authority! If you suspect this bishop, confront him yourselves. There’s no need to bring an army sweeping down on the citizens of

Withwil ow. Besides…” He turned to the frontispiece. “I don’t see a printer’s mark. This could have come from anywhere.”

“Obviously, it’s been excised.”

“A simple examination of this text beside the text produced by Withwil ow’s presses would easily solve that question,” Severyn

said. “Neither troops nor even a visit would be needed, no?”

“You seem remarkably unconcerned about this outrage, Prince Severyn,” accused the prelate.

“I have other outrages that concern me more,” agreed Severyn. “For instance, when I return to Tantagrel, I’m adjudicating a

case between several poor farmers and the abbey at Lund, which seeks to annex their lands.”

The three clerics scowled. One looked away.

“The Chronicles have been the Church’s province since the Great Fire,” continued Severyn. “You have made that more than

clear over the years. It is not a lay matter.”

“Is that your final word on the matter, Your Highness?”

“It is.”

The prelate, with a black scowl, bowed and reached for the book. Severyn, however, slid it out of his reach. “I think I’l read

this, if you don’t mind,” he said and, when the cleric opened his mouth to object, “Who knows? Perhaps I’l be sufficiently outraged

to reconsider your request.”

Back in Tantagrel, Severyn found himself considering the Chronicle with interest. He’d not read the true version, he’d not had