lighting in the distance.
Once, long before the war, there had been balance between the Streams, Dark and Light, kna and lothria. At least, that was
how his people told it, but in whispers and with care not to be heard. Naragi and magi had worked together, their powers
complementing each other: brothers. But the war had changed that, pitting dark against light. The naragi had overstepped their
bounds, claiming power for themselves for which they had no authority. They sought to make the Dark Stream dominant and had
very nearly succeeded. Loth had intervened, giving the magi powers they’d not had before, powers as destructive as the naragi.
Yet Loth’s intervention had not brought about justice. In the eyes of the h’nara, it had only created a new imbalance, with Light
overwhelming Dark, and a new tyranny had risen. Now the warrior-mages of the High Orders wielded terrible powers, standing
unopposed.
Until now.
Michael took out the velvet case he’d brought from Blackmarsh. The fabric was rubbed bare along the corners, its silver trim
badly tarnished. Inside, nestled in brittle, faded satin, was a wide band of woven gold, supple and quite heavy, studded with gems
that flashed with fire undiminished by the centuries.
Lethet. Beautiful it was, and priceless, yet in the end, it was nothing more than a slave col ar, a sign of ownership and, in its
own way, a symbol of Michael’s enslavement, as wel .
Soon he would be bound to another man as irrevocably as if he’d been wed. Picking up the lethet, he imagined Severyn
wearing it, al that golden hair loose across broad, naked shoulders.
Why wasn’t it you? Why couldn’t you have had the Blood?
But that was nonsense. Why would he wish such a fate on the friend to whom he and his family owed so much? Much better
that the Elderings pay in shame and servitude. At least a shadow of justice would be served by it.
Michael closed the box and put it into a larger valise. On an afterthought, he robbed a curtain of its silk tie-back and dropped
the rope into the bag, as wel . Taking a deep breath, he picked up his lamp and left the room.
It was past midnight and Shia’s upper hal s were deserted. Here and there, a candle guttered in its sconce, but most were
unlit. Once, he heard voices down a connecting hal way, but they quickly faded.
The isolation of Eldering’s room in the deserted north wing suited Michael’s purposes very wel . What he was about to do
needed no witnesses. Other than the occasional flash of lightning il uminating the dusty windows, the entire floor was dark. Twice,
drafts blew out his lamp. Michael whispered a minor il umination spel .
“Why not?” he thought as his surroundings came back into view. If the stories were right, very soon he would have power to
spare. He would be naragi, humanity’s worst nightmare.
But he would not be like they had been. He was part human, too. This power would be Severyn’s, the sword and shield of
Tanyrin’s only hope.
If it worked. If the legends were true. And — most importantly — if his human blood didn’t thwart al their plans.
It was the contaminating human blood, the inevitable dilution of his naran heritage, that was as much responsible for the
disappearance of the naragi as the Church’s persecution. Even the Arranz dukes, whose blood was purest of al the h’nara, had
seen their once great powers fade over the generations. He was the first in recent memory to retain his witchpowers into manhood.
There was no guard at Eldering’s door tonight, thanks to Severyn’s orders. Michael pul ed the key from his pocket and
unlocked it.
The new earl was not in his bed. Looking sharply around, Michael saw him sleeping in the room’s only chair, a ratty old
wingback set before the smal stove, an open book on his knee.
Asleep, Stefn looked younger than his nineteen years, his dark hair framing his too-thin face. Eyelashes as dark and long as a
girl’s lay against his
Once, long before the war, there had been balance between the Streams, Dark and Light, kna and lothria. At least, that was
how his people told it, but in whispers and with care not to be heard. Naragi and magi had worked together, their powers
complementing each other: brothers. But the war had changed that, pitting dark against light. The naragi had overstepped their
bounds, claiming power for themselves for which they had no authority. They sought to make the Dark Stream dominant and had
very nearly succeeded. Loth had intervened, giving the magi powers they’d not had before, powers as destructive as the naragi.
Yet Loth’s intervention had not brought about justice. In the eyes of the h’nara, it had only created a new imbalance, with Light
overwhelming Dark, and a new tyranny had risen. Now the warrior-mages of the High Orders wielded terrible powers, standing
unopposed.
Until now.
Michael took out the velvet case he’d brought from Blackmarsh. The fabric was rubbed bare along the corners, its silver trim
badly tarnished. Inside, nestled in brittle, faded satin, was a wide band of woven gold, supple and quite heavy, studded with gems
that flashed with fire undiminished by the centuries.
Lethet. Beautiful it was, and priceless, yet in the end, it was nothing more than a slave col ar, a sign of ownership and, in its
own way, a symbol of Michael’s enslavement, as wel .
Soon he would be bound to another man as irrevocably as if he’d been wed. Picking up the lethet, he imagined Severyn
wearing it, al that golden hair loose across broad, naked shoulders.
Why wasn’t it you? Why couldn’t you have had the Blood?
But that was nonsense. Why would he wish such a fate on the friend to whom he and his family owed so much? Much better
that the Elderings pay in shame and servitude. At least a shadow of justice would be served by it.
Michael closed the box and put it into a larger valise. On an afterthought, he robbed a curtain of its silk tie-back and dropped
the rope into the bag, as wel . Taking a deep breath, he picked up his lamp and left the room.
It was past midnight and Shia’s upper hal s were deserted. Here and there, a candle guttered in its sconce, but most were
unlit. Once, he heard voices down a connecting hal way, but they quickly faded.
The isolation of Eldering’s room in the deserted north wing suited Michael’s purposes very wel . What he was about to do
needed no witnesses. Other than the occasional flash of lightning il uminating the dusty windows, the entire floor was dark. Twice,
drafts blew out his lamp. Michael whispered a minor il umination spel .
“Why not?” he thought as his surroundings came back into view. If the stories were right, very soon he would have power to
spare. He would be naragi, humanity’s worst nightmare.
But he would not be like they had been. He was part human, too. This power would be Severyn’s, the sword and shield of
Tanyrin’s only hope.
If it worked. If the legends were true. And — most importantly — if his human blood didn’t thwart al their plans.
It was the contaminating human blood, the inevitable dilution of his naran heritage, that was as much responsible for the
disappearance of the naragi as the Church’s persecution. Even the Arranz dukes, whose blood was purest of al the h’nara, had
seen their once great powers fade over the generations. He was the first in recent memory to retain his witchpowers into manhood.
There was no guard at Eldering’s door tonight, thanks to Severyn’s orders. Michael pul ed the key from his pocket and
unlocked it.
The new earl was not in his bed. Looking sharply around, Michael saw him sleeping in the room’s only chair, a ratty old
wingback set before the smal stove, an open book on his knee.
Asleep, Stefn looked younger than his nineteen years, his dark hair framing his too-thin face. Eyelashes as dark and long as a
girl’s lay against his
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