The Bloodstained God (Book 2) (3 page)

“And the rest,” Cain said. “I will do as you ask, Deus, I will try to find a solution because now I can do nothing else, now that you have told me.”

Narak put a hand on his shoulder. “I made the right decision at Bel Erinor,” he said. “Even now I know that to be true. You have done as much as any man to defend the kingdoms, and I am grateful for your deeds. You do not need to prove yourself again, Cain, but it would delight me if you did.” He stood. “I must get back to them. They may have begun to bicker without a referee to guide them. Go well, colonel. Think deep.”

He turned and was gone, striding away down the corridor that led back to the council chamber, and in a moment he was out of sight. Cain sat still, listening to the delicate sound of the fountain and the muttering thunder of the city below. The city made a sound like the sea, but he had never really heard it before. He summoned the image of the White Road to his memory, but he could not bring back the smell. The essence of the wolf had already escaped him.

Skal Hebberd rode ahead of the wagon, keeping clear of the dust. Tilian Henn road at his side on a small but robust bay mare that he had bought the boy. Mostly they did not talk. Henn knew his place, though the mare did not and often strained to ride ahead of Skal’s grey. Each time the bay surged forwards Henn was quick to rein it back, and each time he glanced across at Skal to see if he was annoyed. Skal, however, had ceased to notice. It had been faintly amusing on the first day, but now he had filtered it out and his thoughts tended towards memories of the estates at Latter Fetch, of the house and the people.

He did not have many memories. It had been one of his father’s minor estates, and they had visited only twice that he could recall, and he had been a child. He remembered a brooding house in a forest glade. He remembered a tall, dour man, an unsmiling presence who had seen to his father’s every need.

But Skal’s father was dead – a dead traitor. All his estates had been taken and this place, this one small place won back by Skal’s own efforts. No. Not quite his efforts. He could not put aside the trust that Quinnial had shown in giving him rank and a command. It was a gesture that had saved him from total disgrace and given him a chance to pull himself up again. The General had helped, too. Cain Arbak had given him credit for holding the wall during the desperate night battle against the Telans, and so he had regained Latter Fetch.

But it was his, and not Quinnial’s or Cain’s.

He could see that they were not far from the house – an hour perhaps, but no more than that. He knew that the road from the south swung close to the river, and that was the sign. He allowed his horse to drop back, pulling gently on the reins until the he walked next to the wagon.

She was sitting with her eyes closed, though he did not think she was asleep. The infant was, though; fast asleep with his head resting in her lap. He studied her for a moment. Her name was Sara Bruff, and she was the widow of Saul Bruff, a tanner who had volunteered for the regiment and died at Henfray. He had, however, saved Skal’s life before perishing, and Skal had felt an obligation to his family.

There was more to it than that, however. Sara Bruff was a beauty. She had fine, pale skin and a face of straight lines and soft curves. Her hair was black as ravens’ eyes and had a spirit all of its own, breaking free of constraint at the least opportunity. She was the same, he thought. She was strong willed, and certainly no fool.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Skal smiled.

“We are nearly there,” he said.

She nodded, but did not move to wake the child. She did not return his smile. He could see uncertainty in her face, as though she was having second thoughts about coming here with him.

“What will my duties be, my lord?” she asked. “I am keen to know.”

Duties, he thought. He hadn’t been sure when he’d made the offer. It had been an impulsive decision, and part of him regretted it.

“The library here is badly neglected. I’m not sure that anyone has any idea what might be sitting on the shelves. I want you to catalogue it. You will be my librarian.”

“I know nothing of books,” she said.

“But you
can
read? You said that you could read.”

“I can, my lord.”

“Then you will learn.”

She looked at him for a moment until her gaze was almost a rude stare, and then turned away. It was mildly odd, he confessed to himself, to hire a tanner’s widow to look after one’s books, but he freely admitted, if only to himself, that she was here because of her looks, and not his books. He should have sent her to her sister in Bel Arac. That would have satisfied his debt to her husband. But she clearly hated her sister, and it would have been a punishment as much as a mercy.

The road passed through a hamlet. It was a small place, perhaps ten houses built of modest materials, well kept, an orchard, a barn, a small temple of the kind that suited prayer to any god – in truth barely more than a roof and an altar stone. It was a place he knew. Many of the people who worked on Latter Fetch land lived here, the rest either in the house itself or in a similar hamlet on the northern side. Men and women came out of their houses to look at him. Some knew his face, while others guessed, and they bowed and knelt as seemed appropriate to each. Skal nodded and smiled, raised his hand in a lord’s gesture of blessing.

He saw that Sara Bruff was looking at the houses and the people. She turned to him again.

“Will we live here?” she asked.

“It is too far from the house,” he replied.

She looked away, and Skal rode forwards again, caught up with Tilian.

“Ride ahead,” he told the boy. “If you follow the road you’ll get to the house in a few minutes. Let them know I’ll be there shortly.”

“My Lord.” And he was gone, the bay picking up speed quickly, running with a slightly lopsided gait. It made Skal smile to see it. In less than a minute he was out of sight. He liked Tilian. The boy – he still thought of him as a boy even though he was seventeen years – was quick to pick things up. He had his own opinions, but he obeyed promptly. He was becoming a useful sword, a useful sounding board, an indispensable part of his life. If he wanted something done he asked Tilian, and somehow it just happened. The boy had a gift for persuasion that was somewhere between diplomacy, blackmail and the skills of a market trader. He was resourceful. He was clever. And Skal was lucky to have him.

They passed through the gates. They were set into a high black granite wall which he remembered from childhood. It went all the way round the house and grounds, shutting it off from the farms, walling in the tall trees, keeping out the light. Now the road pitched downwards between stands of pine. He hated pines. Perhaps now he could have them cut, now that he was master here. The whole place had an air of secrets, and it made him think of his father, the man who had sent him away, the man who had betrayed his country to Seth Yarra.

“You do not like this place, my lord.”

He was startled by her voice. He had almost forgotten that he was not alone. It was not her place to speak first, but he ignored that.

“It is not a happy house. My mother died here. I was born here. Both on the same day.”

That seemed to silence her, at least, and he rode alongside the wagon the rest of the way to the house.

It was a big building of dark stone. There was no doubt, when you looked at it, that Latter Fetch had begun its life as a fortress. The central tower was squat and thick walled. Slits in the walls had somehow never been replaced by windows, and it was crowned by battlements. Beyond that it had spread its skirts like so many noble houses. The tower was flanked by two storey additions which boasted large leaded windows, a dark slate roof and two brace of tall chimneys. The ground before it had been covered in immaculate white gravel, a stark contrast to the dark stone and the looming forests that seemed to threaten the building from every side.

The staff had assembled on the gravel apron, and it seemed that there were a lot of them. Skal guessed at least twenty. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and surged ahead of the wagon, swinging down from his saddle next to Tilian. A man rushed forwards and took the animal’s reins. A groom, Skal supposed.

“Who is steward here?” he demanded. In truth he already knew, or thought that he did. He had spotted a tall figure standing to the front at one side. The man was grey now, and his height somewhat reduced by a bent back, but he was almost certainly the same man who had been steward on those rare occasions his father had visited this place with Skal in tow.

He was not surprised when the tall figure shuffled forwards, executing a rather shallow bow.

“I am Parso Elejine, steward, my lord,” the man said. His voice was as frail as his back, but his eyes were not dimmed, nor were they humble. Trouble, perhaps. A man left too long without a master will sometimes assume the mantle himself, and he doubted that this dour stick of a steward had seen his lord more than five times in his tenure. He studied the other servants for a moment. They looked cowed, eyes downcast and heads tilted down. None wanted to meet his gaze, even the young ones, and that was unusual. He was their new lord, and he would have expected some curiosity.

“I wish to see the servant’s quarters,” he said. “Take me there.”

“But my lord, surely you would like to rest and take refreshment after so long a journey?”

Skal paused before speaking again. He cast a deliberate glance over his shoulder at Tilian; the sort of glance that said: do I have to repeat myself? Tilian dutifully raised an eyebrow, and he did not doubt that the steward and all the servants were aware of the exchange.

“You question me, Parso Elejine?” His voice was quiet, but the threat in it was loud. The steward did not hear it.

“I merely thought…”. He suddenly stopped speaking, as though a memory from long ago had whispered in his ear.

“My man Tilian did tell you that I am the lord of Latter Fetch, did he not?”

“Yes, My lord.”

“The servants’ quarters, then.”

“At once, my lord.”

Skal did not entirely trust his own judgement when it came to people. He had made so many mistakes in the last year, misread so many of those who had changed his life. He needed to talk to Tilian. The boy had a fine touch when it came to people. Skal himself had taken an almost instant dislike to Elejine, but he had no just cause for it. Yet.

The steward shuffled surprisingly quickly towards the house, and Skal gestured to Sara that she should bring the child and follow, and set out after him. Tilian followed, too, the whole party arriving at the servants’ quarters together.

There were clearly grades of habitation. The steward’s own rooms, which Skal insisted on seeing, were surprisingly bare. There was a sitting room with a small desk, but that was clean and showed no sign of the estate papers he would have expected. An unlit fire occupied the wall to the left of the door. The bedroom was also characterless, cold and naked of any signs of life. There was a good sized window in each room, both of which looked out over the woods at the back of the house.

The other rooms declined in size and amenity until at last they saw the rooms of the grooms and maids. These were windowless boxes, each no more that three yards by two, with a narrow bed, a small table and a chair. There was a lamp in each and the ceiling was blackened with soot. They must have been bitter places indeed in the heart of winter.

Skal could not imagine placing Sara Bruff in such a room. He imagined that they were shared with rats, roaches and other vermin. Indeed, he did not think he had ever seen servant’s rooms before, and the conditions shocked him. He stood in the door of one of these holes and glanced across at Sara, who had followed silently throughout the tour. She looked back at him. He could see it in her eyes. This was what she had expected, or something like this. She had lived in a hovel back in the low city, but it had been bigger than this.

A memory stirred. There was something else. He remembered that there was a modest apartment set aside for what his father had called professional visitors – physics, messengers of the better sort, teachers, men and women who lacked position, could not be treated as part of a noble household but never the less could not be treated as servants.

“Show us the guest apartment,” he said.

“Guest apartment?” The Steward seemed confused.

“In the eaves. You know the place.” The man still looked blank, so Skal turned from the door and set off down the corridor, the others hurrying after him. He was sure that he could find it himself. His tutor had stayed in it when they had been here. He remembered going to ask the man a question, knocking on the door. The question and the answer were long forgotten, but he remembered the door, and he remembered that it was at the top of a steep flight of stairs.

There were several flights in Latter Fetch. He was certain that it was not the grand stair. That was a broad, stone creation that allowed a gentle and time consuming ascent. His memory showed him something that twisted with a wooden rail.