The Bloodstained God (Book 2) (21 page)

There was whispering in the halls of
Bas Erinor Castle.  Quinnial should have left for his estates two days ago, and yet he could not bring himself to leave. He sensed danger, but he could not have said why, or what it was that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He could have said it was the way that people glanced at him out of the corners of their eyes, or the way some people stopped talking, or suddenly spoke more loudly of trivial things as he walked past, but he had always seen and heard such things. He was the duke’s brother, had been the duke’s son most of his life and a cripple to boot. There were many matters that the noble men of Avilian did not want to find their way to the duke’s ears.

The rising sense of wrongness built up within him until the dam of his reticence sundered. He confided his feelings to Maryal.

“You should tell Aidon,” she said.

“Tell him what?”

“What you just told me.”

“That I have a bad feeing? He would laugh and tell me not to drink so much wine. Aidon is not one for feelings. I need evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“I have no idea.” He sat down on a comfortable seat, picked a grape from a basket on the table beside it. He bit the grape in half and pressed the seeds out of it with a thumb nail, then popped it into his mouth and crushed it.

They should have gone. By now they would be close to Saylarish, miles away from the city, months away from the war. They planned to marry when they came back. Tradition dictated that a year should pass between betrothal and marriage, but with the war Quinnial was prepared to set tradition aside. He wanted to be wed before spring. There would be a lot of weddings before the spring, and a lot of widows by summer.

Yet Maryal would not be one of them. He could not go, could not fight for his house, his king, his brother. His arm was one reason. It was crushed and useless since childhood, unable to hold a shield or dagger. He had trained himself to proficiency with a blade in his left hand, but there would always be that weakness on his right, his lack of defence, and that was enough for Aidon to forbid him to ride out with the army. Besides, his brother had argued, someone had to stay in Bas Erinor and run the city, and he had already shown his ability in that sphere.

Winter was to have been his time away, his private time with his betrothed. There would be a chaperone, of course, but he was happy enough with that. As much as he loved Maryal he had no desire to trespass on her honour.

“Have you spoken to the steward about our wedding?” he asked.

Maryal’s face lit up. There was no subject she would rather have discussed. She was to wed the duke’s brother, Quinnial Earl of Saylarish, and a lavish performance was expected. Quin himself would have been happy to say the words and drink the marriage cup with just his brother and Maryal’s father and a priest in attendance, but it would have been frowned upon. The blood liked a good party, and not withstanding the war, they expected one from such an occasion. There would be hundreds of guests, mountains of food, clothes to blind a peahen, and in the middle of it all there would be Maryal, outshining them all. He did not begrudge her that moment.

“I have,” she said. “He suggested that we use the Borilan Hall, where your father was wed. It can hold a thousand. Flowers will be a problem so early in the year, but ships can be sent down to the isles to fetch them.” She saw the doubtful look on Quin’s face. “Not a special trip,” she added hastily. “The trade is established, and the ships will go for what trade they already ply, but if we ask, they will bring flowers.”

Quin nodded. He would not countenance any diversion of resources from the war, but if it was part of the normal run of things he was willing to acquiesce. Maryal knew this, and she respected it.

She talked on, and Quin listened with half an ear, picking up on odd details, asking pertinent questions. His thoughts wandered elsewhere. He thought of Cain Arbak. The innkeeper general was a man who shared part of his own affliction. Arbak had lost his right hand, and rumour had it that the Wolf had taken it, but that made little sense, because the man served the Wolf as much as he served Avilian. Yet the one handed Arbak was to command a regiment while Quin stayed in the castle, shuffling paper.

It was an unfair comparison. The last time he had been down to the training grounds he had watched the man practicing with shield and sword, the shield strapped to his truncated right arm, and he had been impressed. Arbak worked tirelessly at his trade, and in spite of being twice Quin’s age he looked hard and fit. He looked like a proper soldier and sweated at his work. The general was not a fencer. He lacked the subtlety and precision of Skal or Aidon, but he was exactly the sort of man that either of those two would want to fill their ranks. He was cautious, sensible, efficient.

But Arbak was something more than a soldier. He inspired loyalty. Officers and men alike went out of their way to show respect. Even Skal. Even
Skal
. He could not reconcile the man who had come back from the wall with the spoilt, hostile, resentful boy he had sent out in desperation to Henfray. Skal had changed.

Everyone had changed, he realised. Everyone but himself. They had looked at death and walked away again. They had fought the enemy and come away with scars and bloody swords. He thought of all the boys he had grown up with in the castle. Ampet, Faste, Candoran, Bayris, Skal, all the others. Every one of them had been to war and come back as men, if they had come back at all, while he had sat in his father’s rooms and shuffled papers. Oh, he had changed too, he supposed. People had commented on it. He seemed older and wiser, they said, and he supposed that the weight of duty had bent him out of some of his youthful ways, but he had not had a defining moment, like Skal at the wall, or Aidon standing beside the Wolf facing a Seth Yarra charge. They all had tales to tell. He had none.

“Have you made up a guest list?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “But you’ll have to review it to see if I’ve left out anyone who would be mortally offended.”

“The steward can do that,” Quin said. “He knows the protocols better than I, but I’d still like to see it.”

“It’s a book, you know,” she laughed. “I don’t know half the names on it.”

“Protocols,” he said, smiling a wry smile. “It’s a minor state occasion.”

“Do you want me to fetch it?”

“No. I have to go. There are a few things I want to arrange before we leave for Saylarish.”

“We’re going then?”

“Tomorrow, I think. We’ll go tomorrow. Will you be ready?”

“I’m already packed.” She was happy at the news, and why not? They would be alone, free from duty and family for at least a month. They would ride together, do a little hunting perhaps – it was the nearest to war that he was permitted to venture – and take stock of their estate.

“Of course you are,” he smiled more properly. “And I only need a few things.”

“You’re going to talk to Aidon?”

“Perhaps. I need to think.”

He wrapped himself in a thick winter cloak and left her, walking along the corridors almost at random until he came at last to the small garden court that overlooked the low city. It was here that he had talked with the wolf; here that he had learned the reality of their situation. He sat alone in the cold. It was a blue, still day, full of bright, low sunlight, and it caught the smoke rising from a thousand chimneys below and made it look like a forest of yellow columns, rising and spreading, fading until the sky was just a paler blue high above the streets.

Something was wrong. It was like an unpleasant smell in the air. People behaved the same way they had always behaved around him, but somehow they did it differently, and it was not everyone. Although he had spoken to nobody but Maryal he was fairly sure than he was alone in feeling what he felt. It made him think that he might be wrong. The whole business could simply be a fabrication of his own imagination, brought about by the tensions of war and the natural rivalries between houses and factions. Such things did not go away just because a war loomed. Sometimes they were magnified.

He became aware of another presence in the garden court, and looked around. There was a man standing beside one of the entrances, leaning comfortably against a wall. Quin did not recognise him, but he was certainly not a servant. The man was dressed mostly in black, his trousers and cottons were simple and night coloured, but his tunic and cloak were finely worked with white thread, embroidered with a pattern of small, white flowers, the ones called Mountain Dew in Avilian. He wore a sword. It was an old fashioned weapon, long and slender if the sheath was to be believed, and the hilt was beautifully detailed. He was watching Quin with a calm, confident expression on his face, a face that was well proportioned, olive skinned, and topped by dark and unfashionably short hair through which ran a circlet of silver, an adornment Quin could not recall having seen before. He allowed Quin to study him for a moment.

“My lord Quinnial,” he said.

“You have the advantage,” Quin said.

The man bowed. It wasn’t a nod of the head, but a proper, polite and courtly bow. “I apologise, my lord. I am Hesham, Earl of Lorrimal.”

“Lorrimal? I know the name. You have estates in the north, on the borders of the great plain. We don’t see you or your kin very often here in Bas Erinor, Lord Hesham. What brings you here now?”

“The war, my lord, and I congratulate you on your mastery of protocol. Not many know our family exists, never mind where we come from.”

“And I must criticize your knowledge, lord Hesham. As you are an Earl we are technically of equal rank, and therefore you should address me as
Lord Quinnial
, and not
my lord
.”

Hesham smiled. “As you wish, Lord Quinnial.”

Quin stood. “Well, I’m pleased to have met you,” he said. “But there are things I must do. I am leaving in the morning.”

“To Saylarish? The rumour is common, Lord Quinnial,” he said noting Quin’s surprise.

“I expect it is,” Quin said.

“But may I keep you a moment? I would like to speak to you.”

“On what matter?”

“The war, Lord Quinnial.”

“The war. Yes. Everyone is talking about the war. Why not?” Quin sat down again with a sigh, and Hesham approached, but did not sit. He could not help but note that the man walked with extraordinary grace, like a dancer, like a master fencer. He allowed his eyes to drift to the hilt of the sword again; a craftsman’s tool, no doubt of it.

“It would seem that we are not winning,” Hesham said.

“To the untutored eye, yes.”

“And to the tutored eye?”

“There are plans, Lord Hesham. The Wolf is our commander, and I trust in his wisdom. He will not fail us.”

“He has not confided his plans? You trust him as much as that?” Hesham sounded disbelieving. The implication was that anyone would be foolish to trust so much. Quin looked at him sharply.

“I sit on the council of Avilian. There are plans, Lord Hesham. I am both aware of them and in agreement with them.”

“But they are not to be shared with your peers, Lord Quinnial? Ignorance breeds dissatisfaction, and there is much that an inquisitive man can discover. There are no real secrets. Apart from the obvious.”

“The obvious?”

“Forgive me for saying so, but your brother the Duke is young. You are young. Wiser heads should advise your dealings with the Benetheon. Their interests and ours do not always coincide. It is common knowledge that the Wolf favours the low born.”

“You know as well as I do that the Benetheon is forbidden from favouring the mighty.”

“And yet we all know the tale of Alaran. But it is not of such specific favour that I speak. To whom does he trust his armies? Is it to some great lord? No. He trusts an innkeeper.”