Cethe (56 page)

Stefn caught his breath, but Michael left the room, passing Ben just outside the door as the footman returned.

“That’s it, eh, my lord?” Ben said, coming around the table where Stefn stood, staring at the door. “Out of a job, are ye?”

“Afraid so.” Stefn forced himself to return the servant’s grin. “It’s been very educational, Ben. You can be sure I’l be much

more appreciative of my staff’s efforts from now on.”

“Next time, you win the sparrin’, my lord,” replied Ben, winking.

Later, in his room, Stefn removed the borrowed uniform, putting on his dressing gown. It was the same one he’d worn to

Michael’s room, the heavy satin cool on his skin.

“
The next time, you may not get off so easily.
”

The room was too warm. Stefn pushed open the window, leaning against the frame as the cool spring breeze washed past. He

fingered the lethet. It was quiet now, but in the dining room, he’d been vividly aware of it.

He imagined the armory courtyard with its high wal s, and the two of them, panting and covered with sweat. The lethet

vibrated, sending smal shocks through him. Damn you, he thought distantly, hopelessly. Look what I’ve become!

If he had gone to Michael, what would Michael have done? Laughed at him? Taken him on the spot? Rejected him?

For some reason, the notion bothered Stefn. He told himself not to be stupid; Arranz’s amorous attentions were unwelcome!

Athough the last of the sunset had yet to fade, he dug his night-shirt out of the wardrobe and, heart in turmoil, sought his bed.

Morning found Stefn in a contrary mood. Everything Michael said or did in his presence seemed to set him off, triggering snide

comments, rol s of his eyes or sniffs of disdain. Michael, who had been congratulating himself on his restraint and congeniality,

managed to keep his temper through the morning, but by afternoon he’d had enough.

“What is the matter with you?” he snapped. “I asked if you wanted to go for a ride, not whether you wanted to fuck!”

For just an instant, there was an odd expression on Stefn’s face, then he sneered. “How like you to bring the conversation

down to the gutter.”

“Perhaps you’d like to have another go at me in the armory courtyard?”

“So you can cheat again?”

“Cheat? How did I cheat?” Nonplussed, Michael looked down at his il -humored cethe.

“I don’t know, but you’re a naragi, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ve figured out some way to do it.”

Michael swore. Turning on his heel, he left Stefn staring crossly after him. Going to his room, he shoved a few things into a

valise.

It was past time he was on his way to Blackmarsh! He’d wasted far too much time in this backwater!

He’d do as his grandfather had suggested. He’d find some wil ing male with the Blood, and make do. There was surely at least

one other in the marshes. Stefn could have his life back, such as it was.

Marin heard his plans with a frown of concern. “Won’t you say good bye to Lord Stefn?”

“No. Let my absence be a welcome surprise,” retorted Michael. “Pack your things. We’re going home.”

The big man’s face contorted in the oddest way.

“What is it?”

“I think I should stay with him, m’lord. Without you or any of the others here, he’s vulnerable.”

“To what? Being lord of the manor? Don’t be ridiculous, Greg.”

But Marin’s expression was so doleful that Michael sighed in exasperation. “Al right. Stay with him, but only until one of the

others returns, damn it. You stil work for me! Or do you want to switch masters, too?”

“Of course not!” Marin looked deeply offended.

Michael banged out of the room in the blackest of humors. He rode as fast as he could out of the castle and down the

southern road. As he rounded a curve to the east, he caught sight of a figure on horseback, riding hel -for-leather toward the hil s.

Drawing back, he frowned after it, wondering if it was Stefn. On a hunch, he reached into his saddle bag and took out his spyglass.

Sure enough, it was the earl, bent low over his horse’s neck, dark hair flying in the wind. Almost, almost, Michael went after him.

What do I care?

Snapping the reins, he rode on.

I n the Year of Loth’s Dominion 1426, St. Aramis’ wish that the two High Houses, Lothlain and Arranz may exist for all time

was codified into law by the 426th Annual Celestial Council and ratified by King Aramis I and his Royal Advisori. The Church of

Loth was given the sacred responsibility of ensuring this longevity and was tasked with selecting appropriate mates for both the

King and the Duke, subject to the king’s approval.

from:
Advisori Minutes
,

15 Lothkel
,

Year of Loth’s Dominion 1427

The arrival of Lord Damon set Tantagrel’s highblood aflutter. Other than the indignant local priests, the handsome h’naran

nobleman captivated everyone with his stunning good looks and courtly manners.

Lord Damon was amused at the fuss. “People must be bored beyond al imagining,” he noted. “What of the Archbishop? I’ve

heard he’s in Lothmont. Does he intend to stop here on his way back to Zelenov?”

“I’ve heard nothing about it. I’m curious, however.” Severyn had been mul ing the notion of presenting his hypothesis about

Remy to the duke. He valued the older man’s wisdom and advice, but this seemed far-fetched, even to him. “I think the Archbishop

has already visited, after a fashion.”

“The attack upon the palace?”

“Yes.”

“But he was nowhere near here.”

“He may not need to be.” Taking a deep breath, Severyn laid out his suspicions. The duke heard him out without a word.

Steeling himself for objections, the prince waited.

“You may have something,” said the duke, surprising Severyn utterly. “If you’re right, the Church is guilty of a far more serious

deception than merely changing a few paragraphs in some books.”

“If I’m right, the deception goes back a lot further than the Reformation.”

The duke, eyes narrowing, nodded slowly. “Yes. I see what you mean, but if it’s true, you put yourself at great risk to keep the

Dragon close.”

“I could kil him, but…” Severyn shook his head. “He’s been reading the true Chronicle; I left it for him one night. If I could turn

Remy against his masters, he could provide us with valuable information.”

“And if he’s truly a cethe, or some manner thereof, his loyalty may be proof against reason.”

Severyn thought about Michael’s contrary cethe. “Maybe.”

“I’d like to have a word with our dear Captain Remy.”

“Heh. I doubt if the desire is reciprocated, but why not?”

Remy’s reaction upon seeing the duke was predictable. “Lord Arranz!” he lurched to his feet, dropping his book onto the bed

where he’d been sitting.

“You are familiar with His Grace, I see. Please sit down. We’ve come for a little visit.”

The duke pul ed out a chair and took his seat. Remy’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“Let’s see it,” said the duke.

Remy’s gaze flew to Severyn who smiled apologetical y. “Sorry, old man, but I’m going to have to ask you to drop your

drawers.”

“What?” Remy’s voice rose. “I’l do nothing of the sort!”

“We’d be happy to assist you,” Severyn said. “Myself and the duke.”

“Don’t you touch me!” spat the captain, regarding Lord Damon with horror. “Wasn’t the first time enough for you?”

“For me, yes, but not for His Grace, whose advice I greatly value. Drop ‘em!”

Face twisting in fury and dread, the captain unfastened his breeches with unsteady fingers and jerked his garments down

around his hips. Gritting his teeth, he looked off into the corner, flinching a little at the sound of the duke’s chair scraping on the floor

as he rose. But when Lord Damon reached for his flaccid member, he swore and knocked the duke’s hand away, trying immediately

to drag up his breeches once more.

Lord Damon responded with a hard right to Remy’s jaw, knocking him back across his bed. “Hold him down,” he ordered

Severyn.

Severyn scrambled to obey, pressing the prisoner’s shoulders into the mattress while Remy struggled desperately to break

free. With his breeches and drawers around his thighs, he couldn’t use his legs to his advantage, so the duke was able to easily

take hold of the Hunter’s cock.

Severyn waited while the duke studied the marks. As he did, the prince became acutely aware of their situation: the captain’s

flat bel y and hips exposed, the duke fingering Remy’s sex as it stiffened visibly under the handling. He felt himself becoming warm

and his own gut uncomfortably tight.

“Stop it!” cried Remy hoarsely. “God! You perverted taint!”

The duke’s pale eyes gleamed. He let his thumb slide over the cock’s crimson head, then trace along the edge. Remy’s hips

twisted frantical y, but the duke didn’t let go. Instead, he stroked the tattooed design that stretched and elongated with Remy’s skin.

“How very unique, captain. How did you come by this particular ornamentation?”

“F-family custom!” The response was breathless.

“Al the males?”

Silence, then, “N-no! O-only the heirs! Ah! Stop!” Remy’s head tossed from side to side. His hair had come loose from its tie,

fal ing across the light blue coverlet, showing glints of burnished copper. “Damn you to hel !” he screamed. “You’l not get away with

this! You bastard! Taint-lover!”

Lord Damon abruptly released the captain’s rigid, dripping cock. “I do believe you’re right, Severyn. My advice is definitely to

kil this man. As long as he’s alive, Locke wil know where to find him.” The duke hesitated. His sudden grin brought a flood of heat

to Severyn’s face. “Although, from the looks of it, maybe you should avail yourself of his services before you do so.”

Stefn did not miss Michael Arranz. He didn’t miss him at dinner. He didn’t miss him riding across the plains. He didn’t miss him

in the tower reading his books.

“My lord? You look pale this morning.” Marin appeared at the breakfast table with the household books. “Did you sleep badly

again? Shal I come back?”

“No… No, I’l have a look at them. Leave them here.” Head propped in his hand, Stefn gave the ledgers a glance of profound

disinterest. “It’s the weather,” he added.

Marin nodded and withdrew, leaving Stefn to poke at his porridge and stare moodily across the room.

Summer, true summer, had final y arrived on the highland plains. The rains were gone, replaced by scorching heat and

humidity. He’d taken to riding early in the morning, before it became too unbearable, and retreating to the north wing for the

remainder of the day. Only there, surrounded by moonstone, did it remain cool and pleasantly dry. He wished the entire house was

made of the stuff.

Abandoning the idea of breakfast, Stefn went up to the library where a package bound in brown paper and tied up with twine

awaited him. It was the latest purchase from his booksel er in Ardenford. Nestled against the western flanks of the Midders and

overlooking the southern sea, Ardenford was an old town with plenty of moonstone buildings. Like Shia, it, too had once enjoyed a

reputation as a center of culture and the arts. Then, like Shia, the Reformation had ended al that.

Cutting the string, he unwrapped the books. There were three. To his surprise, one was a journal written by the same priest

whose book, Tales of the Demonic, he had purchased from a sel er at his private book fair. The date put it several years forward

from the book stil in the tower room.

Idly curious, he careful y turned some pages at random. A turn of a phrase caught his eye and he stopped, heart giving a little

jump.

June 14, YLD1219. I spent a most interesting day at the manor of Lord Vashtar n’Mar. The count is generally a pious man,

who tithes to the Church regularly. His lady is much revered for her good works. I was, therefore, quite astounded to find he had

visitors and that they should be none other than a sorcerer and his catamite!

Quickly, Stefn turned the page.

It has always been said that the sathra are the most wretched of men, yet I must confess, I saw nothing of that in the youth

who accompanied Lord Vashtar n’Mar. He was quite delightful, proving in our conversation to be well-read and accomplished in

the art of poetry and music. Most fascinating was the obvious bond of affection between the two. When I queried His Lordship