The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (5 page)

Maryal was not one to fear for no reason, and he had seen nothing in the man that would have caused so great a reaction.

“What did he do?” he asked.

‘Nothing,” she said. “But he stared and stared so, and he spoke words without meaning – no language of Avilian at any rate. I would swear he had lost his wits.”

“I thought the same,” he said. “But it is no matter. He is gone. I will mention him to the guards.” It was not the custom in Avilian for women to bear arms, but he would have to talk to the major about changing that. He did not like to think of Maryal being vulnerable to any passing madman.

Quin cast his eye around the temple. It was larger than it seemed from without. The grey light of day was mellowed by the green glass and augmented by the yellow lamp light. His eyes grew accustomed to it and he could see the ornamentation – walls covered by carved leaves, oak and beech, and by stone pine cones. The altar itself was carved with a wolf’s head, not fierce, but contemplative, stone eyes gazing towards the door as though it were no barrier at all to the god’s sight. The area before the altar was built like a hearth, for containing coals, but in this case it was filled with dry leaves and twigs. A place that a wolf might lie.

There was space behind the altar; rooms where a man could live, but they had never been occupied.

“Have the others come?” he asked. He had not wanted to see them. Most company was a trial for him, especially the young.

“They have been and gone, but I waited for you. I waited so we could make our offerings together.”

Quin smiled. “You are kind to me, Maryal,” he said. “More than I deserve.”

“Is that not for me to say?”

Quin did not answer. He opened his offertory bag and took out three pyramids of incense, which he placed on the altar. He also placed dried meat and dried bread there, took a taper from a long cup fixed to the wall and brought fire to the incense from the lamps. He passed it to Maryal and she lit three of her own, the smoke bustling up towards the ceiling, leaving behind it the exotic scents of the Green Isles.

“Do you think he knows?” Maryal was looking at the wolf’s face on the altar, her eyes bright.

“Who can tell? What matters is that we honour him, that we seek his spirit, his courage. If war comes we will all need it, even those of us who cannot fight.” The last was uttered in a desolate tone, and he felt Maryal’s hand take his own, press it.

There would be no better time.

“You know that I will be eighteen years in a matter of weeks?” he asked.

“Of course. I am invited to the ceremony.” She smiled at him again, and he drew courage from that, and perhaps from the incense, and the calm wolf’s face on the altar.

“Well,” he said. “My father has not made a match for me, and I do not believe that he intends to do so. It means that I shall be free to wed whom I please, all else being acceptable.”

“Yes,” she said, and she was looking at him now, meeting his eyes.

“I am bold, I know,” he said. “I have very little to offer, and I am only half a man, but would it be an offence to you if I asked your father for your hand?”

“It would not,” she said.

“My prospects are not great,” he continued. “I will carry the title of Viscount, some small estate, perhaps, a few thousand acres, a modest house. I will not be here except at my father’s command.”

“It is not important.”

Quin looked at her. He had been so focussed on his rehearsed speech that he had not heard the words that she spoke, not until now.

“You would accept me?” he asked.

“Nothing would please me more than to be your wife,” she said. “If you ask I will encourage my father to assent to the match.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoed. “Why? Why do you want to ask for my hand?”

“You are perfect,” he said. “You are beautiful, courageous, clever, kind. I have loved you since I was a child.”

She laughed. “Well, at least there is still part of you that is a child,” she said, but her tone was kind. She took his hand again, held it between both of hers. “There was not much to distinguish any of you when you were young. Just boys, and we were children, too. As you grew you all flattered me and the other ladies of the Duke’s court, competed for our favour. All the sword fighting, the titles, the ranks, it all meant little to me, but your accident marked you out. It changed you. I pitied you then, and for the years that you withdrew from the rest of us. I pitied you. But then you came back to us, took up a blade again, bore the jokes, fought against your fate. I have not seen such courage. Even battle is easier than what you did. With all your friends to draw you on it is easy to wave a sword above your head and charge the enemy, but you fought your battle alone. You smiled when they mocked you.

“My father says that such a blow as you were dealt can do two things to a man. It can make you bitter, or it can make you wise. There is no bitterness in you, Quinnial. These last years you have been a man among boys. Your first thought is for others. You see what is important. The others are vain, selfish, ambitious, even cruel. I would not wish to live in the greatest estate ruled by such passions. You are the best of them all. You are the one that I love.”

Quin was speechless. He had never seen himself in that way, as a hero, battling against odds. To him it had been simple. He was crippled. His choice was to waste his life in misery or to make the best of what he had. Even that small decision had taken years.

“So it is a yes?” he said.

She laughed again and slapped his hand. “Yes, Quin, yes. It is a yes. Ask my father.”

This was the best day of his life; the best since his father had placed him upon his great war-horse, aged only nine years, placed him there ahead of his brother. He felt the same warm flush of happiness, but this time there would be no fall, no disaster. She loved him, and his joy was complete.

Narak could not chase the doubts from his mind. Each time that he tried to relax the same questions returned to trouble him, and in his dreams he saw the green and black banners of Seth Yarra rising still above the burning ships at Afael. He was once again the bloodstained god, standing in the sanguine streets above the gutted harbour.

He feared Seth Yarra. In that last battle they had feared him, but still they had run at his flashing blades again and again, only to be ripped apart. They had run at him when his aspect was upon him, when he strode the city as a god. It was a kind of madness produced by the warring of twin terrors within the head. The truth of it was that they had feared Seth Yarra more than they feared him.

He had suffered a sleepless night after speaking with Passerina. What few moments he had surrendered to dreams had been poor reward for the hours spent seeking them, and the dreams were more disturbing than his waking thoughts. He rose early and called for his breakfast, which was brought to him in the lair. He ate unenthusiastically, and when the dishes were cleared away he sat and brooded for most of the morning.

“Poor!” It was nearly midday when he summoned his steward.

“Deus, what is your wish?”

“Who is here, Poor? Who is in Wolfguard?”

The steward reeled off a list of names. They were all trusted, all his own. Most had served him before the war and shared centuries with him. He knew their characters, their abilities as well as he knew the balance of his twin blades.

“Good,” he said. “Send Narala and Perlaine. I will see them in an hour. Tell them they are to go on a journey on my behalf, and have them pack for the kingdoms. They will be going south.”

He sat and thought through his plan again. Narala he would send south through Telas, down to the Green Isles. She had many friends there, and properties. It would not be at all unusual for her to travel that way. Perlaine would go south along the Dragon’s Back, cross through the pass they called the green road, and follow the Erinor River south, staying at villages along the way. She was Berashi, but spoke the Avilian languages fluently, and would pass well enough as one of them. She was fair and pale skinned. They would not think twice to question her presence. The two of them would take their time, stop in many places, listen to gossip, sound out the unusual and the curious.

He would also travel. It was simpler for him. Already there were wolves moving down from the forest at his bidding, making their way to the green road. He did not doubt that they would be given free and respectful passage by the Berashi guardsmen who held the gate. From there they would approach Bas Erinor by a direct route somewhat ahead of Perlaine. He would meet her there, or at least send wolves to meet her and join her when she was found.

It was the Duke that he wished to see. Four hundred years ago Narak had been close to the keeper of the city of gods, but time and death had made him something of a dilettante friend to mortal men. He had not left the forest in all that time. He had not wished to leave the forest. Now, however, he had convinced himself, in spite of the scarcity of evidence, that it had become necessary.

The ladies arrived together; Narala and Perlaine. If there were two more beautiful women in the five kingdoms he had never seen them.

Narala was dark, dark skinned, black haired, brown eyed. She was from the Green Isles. He was always delighted by the perfect whiteness of her eyes against her sun blessed face, the sudden brightness of her smile. She was shorter than Perlaine, her thick hair trimmed short in the fashion of the Green Isles, and she wore a white robe that left her arms bare, but brushed the ground at her feet.

Perlaine was opposite. She was tall, slender as a pine, blue eyed. Her white blond hair was rare in Berash, not so rare in Avilian. It fell in long, silky curtains about her face, her right hand always on duty to sweep it back from her eyes. She wore a simple white tunic, brown breeches, and riding boots. Perlaine struggled against her beauty as much as Narala embraced hers. Both had been his lovers. Both he trusted beyond question.

They knelt before him, eyes lowered, and he touched each on the head in turn.

“Rise,” he said. “Be comfortable. I need your advice, and I have a journey for each of you. You know that I value your thoughts, so speak freely.”

They sat either side of him. He produced wine and three glasses and they sipped as they spoke. The instructions were simple enough. Travel slowly, speak with people, look for rumours that might suggest unusual events or unusual people; be a physic to the land and diagnose its ills. He did not mention Seth Yarra, or the note, though he had no doubt that news of the previous night’s events would have come to their ears by now. A closed community such as Wolfguard was a hostile environment for secrets, and they did not survive for long.

“If you will forgive me for saying so, Deus,” Narala said. “Your commands to us are like mist, and I fear they may fade from our grasp as we travel.” A small frown attested to her earnest desire to understand, her lack of assurance. Perlaine too displayed concern. Her right hand swept more often at her hair. Her shoulder hunched forwards a little.

“I cannot be more definite,” Narak said. “If I command you to seek a certain thing, then you may find it even if it is not there. It is the nature of people. Just be aware of what is around you, taste the world, test its scent. I will come to you from time to time as you travel, and you may tell me what seems well or ill, or just changed. Look for the oddities and puzzles, the things that make ordinary folk shake their heads and shrug, mysteries and things new.”

“There could be much that may be so described, Deus,” Perlaine said. “How shall I know what is important?”

“You may not. I may not know when you tell me, but we will all do what we may and hope that it is enough.”

“Enough for what, Deus?”

He shook his head. They were better than this, he knew. Given a clear command they would carry it out with skill and creativity. It was their desire to please that tightened them up so. He wondered if he should just say to them what they wished – go look for signs of Seth Yarra. He had no doubt that they would be most diligent, but it was all more subtle than that. Nobody but he had even thought it. It had not said Seth Yarra in the note. The men hunting the dogs that he had seen in Bas Erinor were just men, just ragged street-hired men. It was quite possible that something else was awry, and he could not afford to focus Narala and Perlaine on just one cause.

“I have been too long in the forest,” he said. “I cannot make the judgements that must be made. When I come to you tell me everything, and we will solve the riddle together.”

They nodded, still uneasy, but apparently satisfied that the difficulty of the task was recognised.

“Now to lighter matters.” He smiled. “You will forgive me, Perlaine, but I think this is a task more suited to Narala. I require guidance on fashion, on style, on clothes.”

“Quite so,” Perlaine smiled. She disliked fashion and considered practicality paramount in such matters. “I will finish my preparations and leave at first light. My journey is longer.”

“I will send four feet with each of you, for protection, and that I may reach you at once should the need arise.”

Perlaine bowed. “Thank you, Deus.” She strode from the room, he heard her voice once in the corridor, calling for Poor, and then she was gone.

“Fashion, Deus?” Narala smiled.

“I must travel to Avilian, to Bas Erinor,” he said. “If I dress as I once did, they will think me an antique, and I know that you will say that I am, but I wish to travel unnoticed, unrecognised.”

Narala rubbed her ear lobe, her head cocked on one side.

“A merchant, Deus,” she said after a moment’s thought. “We will dress you as a prosperous merchant.”

“We have such clothes?”

“We can alter what we have. It is but the work of one day to do so.”

“Then it is your task to see it done before you depart, Narala.”

“How much of a disguise do you wish it to be, Deus?” she asked. He sensed humour in her voice. If he allowed her to work unguided he might end up concealed in the guise of a fop, a buffoon.

“You know my taste,” he said. “Do not exceed it overmuch.”

She nodded and left him with a swift bow, a simple nod of the head.