The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (18 page)

“Or you will not tell.”

“I would not tell you willingly if I knew, but I know that my resolve could be broken. My commanders were wise enough to know this. I do not know. Jod does not know. None of us know.”

It made sense. These men must have been considered expendable. They were no more than a distraction, a thorn in the side of Berash, a throw of the dice, a gamble that so small a force could cause war or bad blood between two of the most able kingdoms. They might have weakened the alliance before it had been made. The plan had failed, but not by much. A hand less steady than Raffin’s might have taken Berash to war with Avilian.

“I believe you,” he said. He called for a seat and sat in it opposite to Marik. It was a gesture. Gestures were important. They were often as effective as threats, more effective than words, and a great deal simpler. By sitting opposite Marik he was showing respect, accepting him in some sense as an equal.

“I confess that I am curious. Surely the priesthood is a great honour. It is certainly considered so here in Terras, at least by the priests. Why did you not complete your studies?”

“Answering such a question will serve neither of us,” Marik suggested.

Reluctance to answer was also revealing in a man who had seemed at ease a moment before. There was some shame to the matter, Narak thought, but would he or any other man of the kingdoms count it shameful?

“You were expelled,” he said.

Marik would not meet his gaze and did not attempt to deny his statement.

“You could not overcome a flaw in your character,” Narak went on. He was guessing, but even the slender glimpse of Marik’s character that the young man had allowed told him that he was right. “You ask too many questions. You do not accept what they tell you simply because they tell you it is so. You ask for proof.”

Marik looked increasingly alarmed as Narak spoke. “Is this some magic that you have?” he demanded. “How can you know?”

”No magic. There is no need of it. I have met such men before, and may once have been so afflicted myself, in my youth.”

“You are a demon.”

“I am not.”

Marik stared at him for the better part of a minute, and neither of them spoke. The young man was obviously troubled, but as time passed his expression grew calmer, and he managed to look the wolf god in the eye.

“I believe you,” he said.

“You believe me?” Narak was pleased by the irony.

“Yes. I believe that you are not a demon.”

“Isn’t that heresy? Your almost brother priests believe it absolutely.” He raised an eyebrow, and saw Marik smile again.

“I do not know what you are,” he said. “But I have seen how these others regard you, how the men here behave. I see respect, not fear.”

“Are you changing sides, Marik?”

“No. I have never been on a side. I am subject to the god’s rule. There is no choice. I do as I am told because to do otherwise is unwise. There are consequences.”

“I think we shall talk more of this.” Narak stood and approached Raffin. He switched back to Berashi. “Lord King, have the others taken to a common cell where they can entertain each other. Treat them better than they deserve, and do not let this one or the other that was taken away mix with them. Keep this one away from the others, and treat him well. He may be most important to our cause.”

The prisoners were conducted to their accommodations, with some reassurance to Marik that they would speak again, and soon.

“So what have you learned?” Raffin asked when they were safely away..

“Not a great deal. The first one, the one that attacked me, is a junior officer, and the second is equivalent to a sergeant, but an overeducated, dissatisfied, questioning sergeant. He will talk, but will be better persuaded by honesty and fairness, I think. Neither of them knows anything of strategic value, but Marik, the sergeant, will tell me much of Seth Yarra, how they are organised, what tactics they train, and much else of peripheral value. Treat him as a friend, but be cautious. He is intelligent, and not yet our man.”

Raffin nodded. There was reluctance in his face, and Narak understood. He was a king, an absolute monarch, and he was being told what to do by another. It was a trespass on his authority, and it was taking place under the eyes of castle guards who would doubtless convey the scene to anyone they could. It was a mistake, taken in the wider view, for Narak to act this way, but he was in a hurry, and he was quite certain that Raffin would not mutiny at such a time. Uttering the words
Seth Yarra
was surety enough.

Now he must be gone. Quinnial and Bas Erinor awaited. There was a spy to catch.

Maryal knelt before the altar of the wolf god in the half darkness of his temple. She had come every day since her disastrous betrothal to Skal, and every day she had wept and prayed that it should be undone. The wolf had watched her. It sat now, slumped against the wall to her left, eyes half closed, tongue lolling. When she was silent she could hear its breath. The place was filled by its wolf smell.

These last few days had been like summer, a hot week jammed uncomfortably among the cool days of autumn, and the temple was hotter still. The wolf suffered. She brought it water and spoke to it, but she dare not touch. It was a wild creature, a hunter, and would not welcome familiarity. Quinnial had said as much.

One of the candles guttered, close to failing, and she took another from a basket by the altar and went to replace it. She lit the wick of the new from the flame of the old and extinguished the latter by slowly lowering the base of the new onto the dying fire. She nestled it into the molten wax, making sure that it was upright.

“You are Maryal.”

She turned, surprised. He hand went to her mouth, which in turn opened without managing a sound, let alone a reply.

The wolf was gone. For a moment she imagined it running free again in some cooler place, relieved, but it was the man that had taken its place that held her gaze. He was average. Average height, average looks, average hair, but she knew who he was. His clothes were casual, almost peasant like. There were no silks and satins, no brash colours, just cotton, and dull, un-dyed cotton at that. He wore two swords across his back, hilts protruding above his shoulders like horns. He looked at her and smiled.

He was Wolf Narak.

She fell to her knees again, but this did not please him. She heard a sigh, a couple of steps, and a hand took hold of her shoulder, raising her up.

“You are Maryal, yes?”

“I am, Deus.” She did not dare to meet his eyes.

“Come with me.”

He led her out of the temple into the sunlight, and they walked briskly through the city of gods in the direction of the Duke’s castle. She trailed behind him, and after a while he stopped and gestured her to his side.

“Walk beside me,” he said. “You are not a slave.” His tone was not happy. He wasn’t angry, but perhaps frustrated, perhaps irritated. She did as she was told, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. She sensed people looking at them. One or two recognised him, she thought. She heard exclamations. Fingers pointed. A few people began to follow them but Narak seemed not to notice.

They came to the castle gates. The guards knew at once who he was, and of course they knew her. He told them that he was here to speak with the Duke, which they expected, and that he wished to speak particularly with the lords Quinnial and Skal, which they did not. A runner was sent.

“If you will follow me, Deus?” The guard officer hesitated and looked pointedly at Maryal. She was the daughter of an officer, but not generally welcome in the councils of the great.

“She will come with me,” Narak said.

The guard nodded and led the way. Maryal was unsure if she should continue to walk beside him, but he seemed to want it so, and she did her best to oblige. She could not help but hope, even though she hardly dared. For Narak to interfere in the betrothal of someone of middle rank would be both unheard of and improper. It would be a terrible breach of the Duke’s prerogative, not to mention the King’s. It would cause trouble and bad feeling. Yet she had prayed for it. It was what she wanted above all things, and so she hoped.

They came to the Duke’s chambers and were admitted. The duke frowned to see her at Narak’s side, but the wolf god told him that she was there at his wish, and for a good reason, and so she was permitted, and permitted herself a continuation of hope.

Lord Skal arrived next, was announced, and entered the chamber. He had clearly expected Narak, was forewarned, and had donned his most humble aspect. He was quite unsettled, though, to see Maryal there, and for a moment was quite transparently annoyed. He regained himself quickly, but Narak was a god. He would have seen the lapse, and that pleased Maryal more than it perhaps should.

Skal took a seat and kept silent, since neither of his betters chose to address a word in his direction.

Quinnial arrived last of all. He looked surprised, worried, and then surprised again when he caught sight of Maryal, and then worried again.

Narak stirred from his chair, stood before them all.

“I come with grave news,” he said. “I can confirm Lord Quinnial’s fears. Seth Yarra are among us.” He was watching them all, she saw, but especially Skal. Her unwanted fiancé looked shocked, even more, she thought, than Quin or the Duke. “I have come fresh from Tor Silas, and bring news that Prince Havil has engaged a force of Seth Yarra and defeated them by dint of cunning and prowess of arms. Most are dead. A handful of prisoners are taken.”

“This is good news and bad,” the Duke cried. “Seth Yarra are among us?”

“They are. I found still more within the borders of Avilian,” Narak said. He turned and looked directly at Skal. “I found them at Bel Arac,” he said.

There was a moment of silent disbelief. The Duke and Quin both turned to look at Skal, and Maryal could not help herself. She, too, turned to stare. Skal had gone pale as a boiled chicken. To his credit he met the gaze of both the Duke and the wolf god, and gritted his teeth to speak.

“You think that I and my father had some part in this? I assure you…”

“Your father had fled,” Narak interrupted. “His guilt is certain.”

“No!” Skal struck the table before him with his fist.

“Yes. He had twelve Seth Yarra knights to protect him. He thought himself safe because he had broken the blood silver pact, sent miners to gather the metal and armed our enemies. He thought twelve blood silver blades were enough to keep him safe, but they were not.”

“I know my father,” Skal said. “He is loyal to Avilian, loyal to the crown.”

“It did not seem so to me. He sat in his high chair and shouted mocking words over the heads of the Seth Yarra assassins. When he saw that they would fail he took to a horse and fled.”

Skal looked angry. His customary calm was storm torn to rags, his face red, his eyes staring. His fists clenched. For a moment Maryal thought that he would reach for the blade that hung at his side. He had used it, or the threat of it, to settle so many arguments in his favour. From somewhere he found enough control to stay his hand. Some whisper in his brain said to him that this was not a man he could bully.

“I do not believe it,” he said. Skal knew well what the consequences of his father’s treachery would be.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Narak asked. His voice was quiet and cold. “If so you had better be prepared to defend your words with your blade.”

Maryal looked away to avoid smiling. Skal had done this so many times to others that it was balm to her soul to see it done back to him. There was no justice in unequal blades, but somehow she believed that Narak would not kill the young lord even if he drew, because she believed he was innocent of treachery. He was devastated by it. There was a lost look in Skal’s eyes that suggested he did not understand or believe what was happening to him. A dark shadow was falling over everything he was, or owned, or desired.

“No, Deus,” Skal said, his voice quiet and beaten.

Narak turned to the Duke. “Judgement,” he said.

The Duke and Quin wore similar expressions. The conversation had moved too fast for their emotions to keep up. They heard and understood the words, but the rain of revelations and the possible consequences had left them numb.

“Judgement,” Duke Elyas repeated, as if trying to understand the word. He straightened in his chair, turned his eyes on Skal. “There is only one thing that I can do. The gift of Bel Arac is the King’s. I must send to the king and tell him what has come to pass. We must await his judgement. However, I cannot see any outcome other than the dissolution of the house of Bel Arac. A new Marquis will be selected, a new family raised up. Lord Skal, you retain your junior title until we have word from the king, but you will be held under house arrest within this castle. You will not be permitted to speak to any without my express permission. Your family is shamed and all obligations to it are voided.”

Maryal could hardly believe the words. Her prayers had been answered, and Narak had known it. That was why she was here. The betrothal was broken by Bel Arac’s shame.

As if reading her mind Narak turned to her.

“You should go to your father now,” he said. “Tell him what you have seen and heard.”

She stood, bowed briefly to the Duke, to Narak and left the room with a glance at Quin and a glow filling her heart.

*              *              *              *

When Maryal had left them the Duke summoned guards and a sullen and silent Skal was led from the room. His protestations were all used up. Narak could see equal parts of anger and disbelief on his face. There would be a time for Skal to be forgiven, but it was not now, and it would not be Narak who forgave him.

That small business taken care of, Narak turned back to the Duke.

“We have another fish to fry,” he said. “The spy.”

Elyas glanced at Quinnial, and the glance held more warmth than the wolf god had seen between the two at their previous meeting. He wondered at that.

“A priest, Deus. I saw him in the rain but could not make out the robes he wore. They were darkened with the water,” Quinnial said.

“Ashmaren,” Narak said.

“It’s possible.”

“It is certain. Think about it. Think about the dogs. There never was an illness in Telas Alt.” Narak sat back and watched their faces. The Duke was slow getting there – a couple of seconds. Quinnial understood as soon as he stopped speaking.

“Bring me the high priest of Ashmaren,” the Duke said. The two guards inside the door left. Two others took their place. The duke turned to Narak. “We had no way of knowing, Deus. No priest of Ashmaren would worship Seth Yarra.”

“What is a priest of Ashmaren, my lord?” Quinnial asked. “A man who wears robes and speaks certain words.”

The duke looked at his son and then smiled. “You are right, of course,” he said. “Perhaps we have grown dull witted after so many years without war.”

“It was the lie about Telas Alt that gave him away. He could expect you not to know what has occurred the other side of the Dragon’s Back, and he gambled that I would not know, keeping myself to Wolfguard as I do.”

The guards came back and announced the High Priest of Ashmaren. Baltho Hermandis was clearly discomfited by the summons. It was unexpected, and the unexpected was always trouble. He entered the room carefully, and his face showed even less joy at the presence of Wolf Narak. He stood in what Narak guessed was a pose of wisdom and condescension, his hand clasped together in front of him, his head bowed slightly and slightly turned to one side. His eyes focussed on the duke, denying the presence of Narak.

Narak knew that the Ashmareni had no time for him. He had been called a half god, a made creature, a chimera. They resented his real and physical presence when they had nothing but promises, rituals and stone. Now he watched the high priest trying to come to terms with what sat before him. They had not met before, but Narak quickly decided he was not fond of the man.

“My lord,” he said to the duke. “You have summoned me, and I have come. How may I serve?”

“You have betrayed us, Hermandis.”

Even Narak thought that a little harsh. The Duke, it seemed, had a desire to poke the pompous old man. Hermandis responded true to type.

“My lord, I have not!” The priest was vehement. His eyes flashed with conviction.