The Bloodstained God (Book 2) (10 page)

The last five mages, cruel as they were, godlike as they might have been, saw what had come to pass and knew the horror of their mistakes. Their war was bringing to an end the age of man in the world, and soon there would be nothing left, no cities, no forests, no life at all, for the dragons in their terrible mage born rage had the power even to enter the ocean and kill what dwelled there.

The five mages came together to cast a new spell. Corasilus called for a new fire that could burn even the air, to take away the breath of the dragons. Setricus demanded that they create a sword that could cut through all things, even the ties that bound the dragons to being, and a shield that could not be breached. Porastus spoke for a net that could catch even thoughts and dreams that the dragons might be snared and held until a way to undo them could be found. Iarranus wished them to build a lamp that, once lit would give forth a light unbearable by dragonkind. But the last mage, Pelianus, struck the floor with his staff and demanded their silence. All the power of the seven had failed to hold back the dragons he told them, and the seven had created them, and knew them. How then should the lesser five prevail with swords and nets and fire and light?

The other mages knew this for wisdom in their hearts and asked the fifth mage what then should be done.

Pelianus told them that the dragons could not be defeated, but that hope was not lost, because they could be remade. ‘I will do this thing, because I see the way that it may be done,’ he said. ‘I will open their eyes.’

And he went away from them for twenty days, and when he returned he held a spell in his hand that looked like a great jewel, and the other mages wondered at it, but one of them, Porastus, mocked the spell, and said that such a thing was only a temptation for the mighty beasts, and lacked the power to subdue them.

Pelianus heeded him not, but went forth to where the dragons ravaged the land and held up the jewel before their eyes, and those great creatures that beheld it flinched from their work of destruction and fled from the light to hide in deep caverns beneath the earth, but Pelianus pursued them and held the jewel again before them, and so troubled were the dragons by the sight that four of the nine were turned to stone, and the five that remained cast themselves down before Pelianus and begged him to take the jewel away, for as he had promised the jewel had opened their eyes, and they knew what they had wrought in the world, and the burden of death and pain and suffering crushed them down.

So it was that Pelianus became lord of the dragons, and they were bound to him and did his bidding.

She looked up from the book. It was quite dark outside now and Saul was still sleeping contentedly. It was so quiet she could hear him breathing. She did not know how much time had passed, but it must be late.

She was surprised to have reached the end of the tale. What followed in the book was an index, a list of places, people and events and the pages of the book on which they were mentioned. Beyond that there were more notes that seemed of little interest and right at the end there was a history of the book, or at least of previous versions of it.

The first line said:
Translated from the magic to the common by…

Magic? Translated meant that it was changed from one language to another, she knew that, but was magic a language? They it occurred to her that it might be the language of the mages, and that rather than magic with the
a
from bag, it was magic with the
a
from page – mage-ic. She was pleased with herself for working that out. It seemed so obvious now that she’d thought of it.

But what was common?

The next line said:
Translated from the Keffish Common tongue to High Avilian…

Avilian she knew well enough. She spoke it. But High Avilian…? She did not think that lords spoke a different tongue from her. She had never heard her lord – she thought of the lord of Latter Fetch that way now – speak anything she could not understand. Keffish Common was clearly the same thing as common, but once there had been no need to call it Keffish.

The third line solved the question for her:
Rendered in the Universal Avilian way of speech…

Universal meant everybody, she thought. The writer had used the word a couple of times in the text, and his extravagant rephrasing had been enough to make it almost an old friend by now.

She closed the book, and it shut with a slap, a puff of air scented with age and ink. Sara was well pleased with her evening. She had learned new words, she had read a book, and she had eaten a very fine meal. Perhaps there would be a future for her here after all.

A noise turned her head. She turned and looked behind her, towards the door, and saw that there was a man standing there. She recognised him at once, although she had seen him for only a few minutes earlier in the day. She recognised the tall, thin frame, the sparse grey hair and the stoop of his thin shoulders. She also saw the knife in his hand, a long bladed, wicked, grey steel thing, and the smile on his face.

“Sara, Sara,” he whispered. “A northern name, an old name.”

“It is,” she said, and was surprised that her voice seemed strong and loud.

“And you came here with the lordling, but you’re not his flesh. No, you’re less than that. His, though, are you?”

“What do you mean?” She was watching his knife now. The long blade was quite still. There was no tremor in his old hands.

“Is the boy his?”

“No,” she said, thinking that this at least would make Saul safer. “Mine and his father’s, but he’s dead in the war.”

“Yes,” the steward nodded, “Yes, but something’s there. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. You’re his prize, his toy, his whore.”

“I am not,” and her voice found a note of genuine anger.

“No? Not yet? But soon, yes.”

“No.”

“You think you can stop him? I’ve seen it before. He’s promised you things. I know he has. His father was the same. Promises, promises and all just air. He’ll come for you in the night and you’ll say yes. You’ll say yes for the boy, but he’ll get bored. They do, the lords, they get bored and throw you young girls away. I’ve seen it. But I can offer you better.”

“Better?” It was all the question that she could manage. She’d seen the way the lord looked at her, too, and she knew nothing of lords and their ways.

“Yes, better. I can offer you Latter Fetch, the whole thing.”

“It’s not yours to offer,” she said. He was a servant, no more. And yet…

“I’m old,” the steward said. “Contrary to my wish I will not live for ever, nor longer than a few year, I guess. If I win this little tussle there needs to be one that comes after me, and that might be you, steward, ruler of this little kingdom.”

“I am no ruler.”

“Yes, but you might be. Just bring the boy and come with me to where I hide. You’ll be the bait that draws the lordling out, for he will not resist the threat to your pretty flesh.”

“And if I say no?” She did not trust him. He had eyes that would not rise to meet hers, and his hand gripped that evil blade and never let it waver, though he was four paces from her. He meant to kill Saul, her and Saul both, and she would not permit that.

“You’ll die,” he smiled. “You’ll die here and now.”

Her hand had been searching behind her back, and it had found the small knife that Lira had brought her. It was a sharp little thing, but long enough to do the job, she thought. Now she showed it to him.

“You think I am a soft woman, old man,” she said. “But I was brought up in a broken house, and saw enough of the street to know you for what you are. There is no promise you could make that would bind you. There is no thing you could swear that would make me trust you. Kill me if you think you can, but it will cost you, and you will not touch the boy.”

“You think so?” His voice was mocking, but his eyes flicked to the knife and his old brows crumpled a little more at seeing it. There was doubt, and a little doubt was all that Sara needed.

“You could run,” she said. “Run away.”

The steward’s smile turned into a sneer, a rictus of hate and fear with hardly any change in his face at all. Perhaps it had been there all along; modified by the hope of an easy kill, and now it was stripped and naked.

He took one step forwards, and stopped. “Will you scream when I stick you?” he asked. “Not for the pain. I know you’ll bear that. But knowing that I’ll stick the little pig in his gut and what that will do.”

Sara said nothing. Answering him would be weakness. It was what he wanted. Instead she looked at where she might stick her knife. Heart, head, neck, there were many places that would kill him. It was up to him, depended on what he did.

She put herself between him and Saul. She should have pulled the bell rope, she thought; as soon as she saw him. People would have come. But then how many mistakes do we make in a life? How many times does a wrong decision end in tragedy? Once is enough. Once is enough for anyone.

She held the knife firmly in her hand, chose her spot, the place where it would rest, and waited for him to come. Three paces. That was the distance, and behind her Saul began to cry.

If nothing else, Tilian Henn would see that Saul was cared for.

“Deus, it is agreed. They will see you.”

Narak looked up from his contemplation of the sea, the very blue sea of these southern isles, and stared at Narala.

“They? I thought that I had asked to see Sei Mun, the one king of the isles.”

“All will be there,” she said, “They have all caught the interest of your plea, especially Sei Feras Tiar. You ask for war, and that is his domain.”

Narak considered what she said, and it made perfect sense. Sei Feras Tiar, the king of blood and fire, was perhaps the main beneficiary of his message. If he understood the way in which the isles were governed the war king would gain supremacy if his plea was successful. He would become Sei Mun. That was the way the Isles worked; the right monarch for the right time, and the rest nothing but advisors.

“When?”

“In three days. A boat will come and take you across at dawn in three days.”

“You will not come with me?”

Narala looked down. He could see that she was worried. It was almost as though she did not trust him, like a wilful child. “They do not permit women in the Hall of Decision,” she said.

“Narala, do you fear me?”

She was quick to respond, and she smiled. It was a smile that he trusted. “No, Deus, never. Never that.”

“Then tell me what it is that you fear. Why do you fret around me like a mother hen? What do you think I will do?”

“Deus, you are a god. It is not for me to say what you might or might not do.” She avoided replying to the question, but it was a poor evasion. Narak said nothing more, but instead he waited for her to speak again. He knew that if he waited she would have to; the silence would beg it of her. It did not take long. “I do not know, Deus,” she said eventually. “You are angry, and you have just cause, but your anger seems wild, as though it may touch on those who go against your will, even if it may be their right to do so.”

“You fear I will raise my swords against the Sei?”

“I do, Deus,” she looked down on speaking the words, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Then be at ease, for I swear that I will not, unless swords are raised against me first. These are men of wisdom, chosen by their countrymen to defend the interests of their realm. If I cannot win them with fair words then I will not draw my blades and wave them under their royal noses. I will not threaten them with anything but the truth.”

Narala nodded. She looked satisfied. “Your word has always been inviolate, Deus. Thank you for your kindness in casting out my unwarranted fears.”

It was very strange, his relationship with Narala. It was the same as it had been between him and Perlaine. He loved them – in a way like his own children which he could not sire – in a way as the beautiful women they were. Yet there was a barrier of respect. He insisted that it was respect, and not fear. Narala was right in that. He could no more harm them than he could have slain his own father. They had done so much for him, been so loyal. Oh, he would scowl at them from time to time, but they were his family, like Caster and Poor and all the others. Sometimes he played the stern patriarch, but it was no more than that, just playing, and he was certain that they knew it. He loved them, and did not doubt it. Nor did he doubt them.

Yet there were facts that he could not deny. Their long lives were in his gift. It was Narak who held the power, real, absolute power. They knew what he had done at Afael. They had all seen him practice with Caster. He was no toothless old wolf to be humoured. He walked the line between tyrant and friend, and lately he had been on the rough side of the line.

“I am sorry, Narala,” he said. “You know that the war does not go entirely as I might have wished. I have lost Perlaine; a burden that we share. There are traitors and spies where I expected none. I have been sharp of late, and with those who do not deserve it. I am sorry for that.”

It was an unprecedented apology, and Narala knew it. She stepped forwards and took his hands in hers, for a moment the beautiful sister that he fondly imagined her to be. Her eyes were full of surprise and concern.

“Deus, we all know the burden that you bear. There is no cause, no thing for which you need to apologise to we who serve.”

He smiled. He kissed her on the forehead.

“Quite so,” he said. But he knew that she was right, or right in part. He felt the weight of despair, even failure, creeping upon him. Tomorrow he must go back to Avilian, and there he would find out if Cain Arbak had solved the problem that he could not. He was actually not certain which outcome he desired.

Cain was the man who had released Perlaine from the agony of her death, but that meant he had killed her. He had done what Narak knew he could not have done. But perhaps he could. He did not know. He had once released an old wolf, eased it’s passing, but to do the same for Perlaine… He did not know if he could have done it. He was infuriated by the doubt. Cain had done the right thing. The part of him that was wolf told him that. But the man, Narak Brash the hunter, was not so sure; not so strong.

Every time he thought of Cain, and what had happened to him since their bloody encounter at Bel Erinor, he felt something like envy, flavoured with disbelief. Cain seemed to stumble from one triumph to the next, riddled with doubt, careful and tentative, and yet excelling at every turn. He did things that were not possible. He was helped at every turn by those from whom he had no right to expect succour.

Yet it was he, Wolf Narak, who had seen it first. He had looked at the man whose life he had held in his hand and told himself that here was a clever man, a brave man, a man who had done nothing so shockingly wrong, and he had
liked
him. That was Cain’s secret. People liked him. Narak knew that there was something deeper. Beneath the cut price soldier that Cain had become there was another man, a leader, a charismatic, modest, even humble man. A gifted man.

He had started it. Like throwing a pebble over a cliff he had given Cain money, started him on his way. Yet he was shocked when the pebble became an avalanche, a torrent that swept away everything that stood before it. He had created an innkeeper, and so a councillor, a colonel, a general, a hero, a lord.

If only he had been Cain. If only Pelion had chosen Cain. What then?