The Bloodstained God (Book 2) (12 page)

The flames lay squarely beneath the hole, and beyond it was a dais of wood on which sat four thrones. He thought of them as thrones, for it was clear that was the intent, though they were little more than decorated wood. One stood before the other three, and one of the three was vacant.

On the one throne sat an elderly man, his skin quite as dark as strong tea, his hair short and tightly curled to his head. He wore only a simple green robe, draped over one shoulder and wrapped around his body. His feet were clad in sandals of the kind that all these people wore. He looked calm, curious, wise. This, then, must be Sei Mun, King of the Green Isles.

Behind him sat two other men. The man to the left was as old as Sei Mun, perhaps older. He wore a yellow robe in the same style as his lord, the same sandals, and he had a big boned face, a large nose and squinting eyes and ears to sail a ship by, broad shoulders and a round belly.

The third man held Narak’s eye most of all. He was much younger, thickly muscled and handsome. He was naked to the waist after the fashion of every other warrior he had seen here, and he wore a sword tucked into a cloth belt. He stared at Narak.

Narak executed a modest bow. He wished to be polite, but not deferential.

“I thank you for consenting to see me,” he said.

“How could we not?” Sei Mun said. “You bring word of war, and we have seen the ships, so many of them. And you are who you are.”

“Who I am?”

“We are not so isolated here – Narak of the Forest, also called the Wolf – many of our people may not know the name, but we do. You are Wolf Narak? This is what you claim?”

“It is who I am.”

“You are the one that fought in the city of Afael four hundred years ago?”

“I am.”

The warrior, the one with the sword, snorted at this, and Sei Mun cast a slightly irritated look behind him.

“Are you a god?”

Well, there was the question. It was rarely asked in the five kingdoms. He was known and respected there, but here he was no more than a tale. For hundreds of years he had avoided answering this particular question, because in his heart there were two answers, neither of which would do. He could say no, he was a man, but a man with particular abilities, a man who stayed young through centuries, a man who could transform himself into a wolf. It was a poor answer. He was a man who was not a man. Yet the other answer he had was no better. To the wolves he was a god. He was their father, their protector, and when he was the wolf, when he ran among them he felt that he was a god.

The truth was that he did not really know.

“It is what men say,” he replied.

“But you will not?”

Narak shook his head, and Sei Mun seemed to accept this but Sei Feras Tiar, the king of blood and fire, stamped an impatient foot.

“This is absurd,” he said. “The man will not answer your questions. He is just a man, no more than thirty years old. This nonsense is an insult to us all.”

“I do not intend an insult, Sei,” Narak said. “I speak only the truth.”

“And what of the war?” Sei Koshan Burdenna said. It must be him, the third man, for he knew that Sei Mun was their king of plenty. These were good times for the Green Isles.

“I will tell you,” Narak said, and he did. He told them of the spies, the deceptions, the army in the east and the battle that wiped it out, Telan treachery, the subterfuge that took the gate on the Green Road, the battles that took it back and held it. Finally he told them of the stalemate of winter, and the expectations of spring.

When he finished there was a silence. They had all been transformed by his tale, and none more so than the warrior king. He had attended closely to the details, lived the battles in his own mind as Narak described them. His face had shown it all. The others had sunk back in their seats, overcome by the scale and horror of what he had described, the thousands of dead, the thousands that were to die. It was Sei Mun who spoke first.

“This is all true?”

“If it were not I would not be here.”

“And why should these invaders out of legend come here? They did not in the past. What reason do they have to attack the Green Isles?”

“They have but one reason for every thing that they do, Sei,” Narak said. “Their book tells them that all the world must conform, that their way is the only way. Any man, any village or nation that is otherwise must be converted or destroyed.”

“Their book? They do this because of a book?”

“They believe it is the words of their god, Sei.”

“No god should hate men so that he sends his servants out to slay them.”

“Wise words, Sei,” Narak agreed. “But I am here only to say what is, and what must be.”

“What must be?” The warrior king spoke again. “You are here to instruct us?”

“Sei Feras Tiar, it may be that we of the north can win this war without your help, but it may be that we fall, and if we fall you will face the armies and ships of Seth Yarra alone, and there will be none to help you. Even if we win you will dwell here forever in the knowledge that your peace has been bought with our blood, and that in natural justice you are no more than a vassal state, bound in blood as tightly as slaves are bound with ropes. It will be your shame.”

“The shame is that you come here and lie to us, you tell us grand stories to draw us into yet another of your petty wars, to have our men die in your cause. I will not take men to your war, and if you did not stand here in the sacred place I would strike you down for your lies and deceit.”

“I speak only the truth,” Narak said, but he could feel his anger again. This man had called him a liar.

“Then prove it,” the warrior sprang to his feet, and in truth he was half a head taller than Narak, and half as heavy again. Muscles ripples beneath the dark skin, and his eyes flashed with anger. “Fight me now and let the gods decide.”

Narak could feel the comfortable weight of the swords on his back. They had not insisted that he abandon them, and that had been a surprise, but he did not reach for them. He had made a promise to Narala, and it was a wise promise. He did not want to make enemies here.

“I will not raise my blades against you, Sei,” he said. “I come here for alliance, not to fight.”

“So you are a coward?”

His jaw tightened at the word. He could not prevent his pride from speaking.

“I am merciful,” he said. The man’s weapon was simple steel. There was no blood silver here or he would have smelled it. The swords of the Green Isles, their spears and knives might as well be bamboo sticks and reeds for all the harm they could do him. It would be cowardly indeed to draw his blades. Leaving them sheathed was more difficult, more noble. That is what he told himself.

“Send him away,” the warrior told Sei Mun. “Send him now before I profane this place with his blood.”

Narak looked at the old man, the supreme ruler of the Green Isles, and he saw that he was greatly troubled. He held the side of his head with one hand, and the other was bunched into a fist, and rested on the arm of his wooden throne.

“It may be that you speak the truth, Narak of the Great Forest,” he said. “But it does not matter. I am no warrior. If I believe you then I must cede power to the king of blood and fire, and he must accept it. We must agree, do you see? It is plain that at present we do not.”

“You have made your decision?” Narak was exasperated. Had he failed?

“No. It will be three more days. That is the custom. We will talk among ourselves. We will seek wisdom. In three days we will send your chosen herald with word. Now it is time for you to go.”

Narak bowed again, a polite bending of the head. “If there is anything more I can say or do…”

“Go.”

He stood for a moment. There should be something more than this. He should be able to do something, to show them something that would convince them. If he could bring the prisoners here and make them speak the truth, if he could let them see the certainty and dread in his own mind… but there was nothing more. He bowed again, walked backwards to the door as Narala has told him he must do, and stepped out again into the lesser world.

The old herald was waiting. He read Narak’s face.

“It did not go well?”

“There was some disagreement.”

“It was to be expected. There is always disagreement. Sei Feras Tiar?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“He is prideful. If you are who you say you are…” he stepped back at the look on Narak’s face, “I do not judge, one way or the other, but if you are who you say you are then that one will feel it as a challenge. He is a great warrior. He admits no equal.”

“He is a man.”

“And you are not?”

Narak stared at the old herald for a moment. “I am not,” he said. “Not when it comes to that.”

The old man studied him for a moment, then nodded. “We should go back,” he said. “Your friend will be waiting for you.”

Sara Bruff lay
on the floor next to young Saul’s basket and listened to him cry. She hoped that somebody would come before she died. She wanted to tell someone to look after Saul. She was quite certain that she would die. Elejine’s knife had pierced her body at the same moment she had buried the fruit knife in the steward’s neck. She had no skill with the blade. All she had been concerned with was preventing him from killing Saul, and that was done.

Elejine sat opposite her, back against the wall, head tilted over, his sightless eyes staring at her in eternal surprise. His coat and shirt glistened with blood, and it had pooled on the floor around him. It would be a tricky stain to get out, she thought.

She had tried to reach the bell rope, but the pain had been so great that she had passed out. She had been surprised to wake again. Every movement brought pain, great washes of it, and so she lay still and waited.

She felt thirsty. The jug of water mocked her from the table, a million miles away. She could feel the blood pumping out of the hole Elejine had made, and that was a surprise, too, that there should be so much blood in her, and that he’d died first. It was good, though, because now she knew that Saul was safe.

It seemed years before she heard voices in the corridor, footsteps approaching the door. She looked sideways so that she could see who it was.

Tilian Henn stepped into the room. He froze for a moment, his eyes on Elejine’s body, his hand finding the hilt of his sword, but the steward was obviously dead. She saw his eyes flick around the room and find her. He leaped across the room. It was a single jump, she would swear. He didn’t run or walk, just one movement and he was at her side. Their eyes met for a moment, and she wanted to speak to him, but her mouth was so dry that she could not make the sounds that she wanted.

Then he was gone again, and she heard the sounding of the bell. He had pulled the rope. He was back again, almost at once, and he was ripping at her clothes, tearing the cotton of the dress. It hurt, and she wanted to tell him to stop, to leave her and look after Saul, but he wasn’t looking at her eyes any more. She felt cold air on her flesh, he had torn away most of the left side of her dress and she felt naked, and he touched her wound, and pain jerked her sideways, dark shadows fringing her vision.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I have to clean the wound and bind it.”

A maid entered. Sara could see the uniform, but not the face. Perhaps it was Lira. The maid, whoever she was, must have broken down at the sight before her, because Tilian shouted.

“Stop that! Go and fetch me spirits, anything will do, and honey, and clean cloth, and hot water, and send runners for my lord. Go. Now!”

Steps clattered down the hallway, and Tilian was bending over her again.

“This is going to hurt,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He pressed something against her wound, and it did hurt, but not as bad as before. Her pain caused a spasm in her neck, jerking her head sideways. Tilian tied something there, then he stood and dipped a cloth in water. He knelt again and squeezed it, allowing a few drops to fall on her lips, on her tongue. She licked at them greedily.

“It’s the loss of blood,” he told her. “It makes you thirsty.”

A footman ran into the room. He was carrying a bottle of some kind, cloths and a kettle of boiling water. Sara wanted him to give her more water, but Tilian was gone again, clattering around. She heard his voice, but not the words, and he reappeared with another cloth, and untied the bandage.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He pressed the cloth against her, and it stung like a thousand wasps, like an ember on the skin. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Then the cloth was gone again, and he was binding something else against her wound, something that felt hot and sticky. “It’s honey,” he said. “It’s good for the wound, helps it to heal.”

He dripped more water into her mouth, and she was glad of that.

The lord arrived. He looked quite white, his expression a thunder cloud of worry and anger as he leaned over her.

“Will she live?” he asked.

“I think so,” Tilian replied. “There’s a lot of blood lost, but the knife didn’t hit anything vital, my lord. I’ve dressed the wound.”

The lord touched the bandages, and his touch was far gentler than Tilian’s had been.

“You’ve done well, Tilian,” he said. “Undo the bandage.”

“My lord?”

“Take it off.”

“But my lord, it needs binding. She will bleed more if I take it off and…” he ran out of words suddenly. He reached down and carefully untied the cloth and pulled it away. That hurt more. The lord leaned over her again until his face was most of her world. He looked her in the eyes.

“Sara Bruff, I brought you here to repay a debt that I owed your husband Saul, and now I find that debt still greater. You have killed the man that sought to kill me. I cannot repay two such debts.” He had a knife in his hand, and she watched through the haze of her pain as he drew the blade across his thumb, saw the sudden bubble of blood. He allowed a few drops to fall on her open wound. “I give you my blood, Sara Bruff,” he said. “I name you blood cousin to my house.” He turned to Tilian. “Bind it up again, and devote yourself to her care. She must not die.”

Tilian snapped his open mouth shut and sprang forwards again. She felt the bandage tighten, and the haze grew thicker. She licked her lips again.

“Look after…” she said. Breath failed her. She drew another, shallow as dust. “…after Saul.”

After that she remembered nothing.

*              *              *              *

When she opened her eyes again she thought for a moment that she was dead and had become one with the great light of Ashmaren. Everything was white and bright. But then she saw a tray of food, balanced on a table by the bed, and the figure of a man in a chair beside her. He looked asleep, head forwards, arm splayed out.

She looked at the window. There was a pale blue sky the other side of the glass, and the sun shone squarely through it, painting a bright square close to the floor on the opposite wall. She tried to move, and managed to raise her head. She was weak as Afaeli tea. Her head fell back. The small noise was enough to rouse the sleeper, who turned out to be Tilian Henn. He rubbed his face and smiled at her.

“You’re back then,” he said. “You must be thirsty?”

She nodded, and the boy fetched a glass, filled it with clear water that sparkled in the sun. He sat by her side and held it to her lips, the other hand supporting her head. She sipped at it, felt the cool thread trickle down her throat. He only allowed her tiny sips, but he did not take the water away, and soon she had taken half the glass.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I will bring you a broth,” he said. “You must eat it all so that your blood is restored, and you will regain your strength.”

“Saul?” she asked.

“He is in the room next door. Do you want to see him?”

She nodded, and Tilian left the room, only to return a moment later with a plump woman of middle years. She was carrying a white bundle. She held him so that she could see. It was Saul. The child fixed his eyes on her, and she thought that perhaps he smiled to see his mother.

Sara’s eyes felt heavy. She could have looked at Saul for ever, but Tilian touched the woman on her shoulder, and she was gone again.

“You should sleep, my lady,” he said.

She frowned at the title, tried to ask him. “No, sleep. Everything will be better when you wake. There’s no cause for you to fret. Just sleep.”

She nodded. She trusted Tilian. She relaxed and closed her eyes, and sleep came.

*              *              *              *

When she next awoke it was evening and a dull reddish light filled the room. Through the window there were clouds like lumps of pale dough against a pink tint. She felt stronger. Her weariness had passed, it seemed, and she was ravenous. She remembered everything as though it had been a dream. Most of it was clear enough in her head, but she did not trust it. The last certain thing was Elejine and that long, sharp knife. Had she really killed a man?

She moved carefully, and the reality of her injury became apparent. Her breath hissed between clenched teeth. She eased back the blankets and looked at her body. She was clothed in some sort of night dress, and she put her hand beneath it to feel the bandage. She stroked the rough cloth. So that much of what she remembered was true. Perhaps the rest was also true.

She looked around the room. It was a grand chamber, huge. Vaulted ceilings arched over her head. An acre of tapestry covered one wall: a scene of bucolic paradise with trees and deer, a cobalt blue lake and a house. She recognised the house. It was this one. The room by itself was bigger than the house she had shared with Saul back in Bas Erinor. The thought of her husband made her eyes prick for a moment, but she took a deep breath.

There was a table with a mirror, a soft chair that looked like it was made of gold and covered with satin. The bed was big enough for a family, and the sheets were crisp and clean. A small table stood by the bed, and on it stood a small bell. She reached out an arm, slowly and carefully, and picked it up. It made a high, clear sound when she shook it.

It was Tilian that responded. He must have been sitting just around the corner. He smiled.

“You look better, my lady” he said.

“I feel…” she felt like she’d been stabbed, but “Why do you call me that?”

“You don’t remember?”

She tried to. There was something. The lord leaning over her, cutting himself. Something about blood. She shook her head.

“I didn’t know about it,” Tilian said. “Apparently there’s an ancient ritual, blood binding, they call it. He gives you his blood and says the words. It means you’re family now – his family, my lady.”

“Family?” the word covered a multitude of possibilities.

“Blood cousin. You have all the rights of a true cousin, including inheritance. You have been raised up.”

“And Saul?”

“The same. He inherits from you.”

“Why?”

“You killed Elejine. Elejine tried to kill my lord. He would have tried again.”

“I protected Saul, just Saul.”

“The law judges the deed, my lady, not what you meant, which it cannot know. Now, enough talk. My lord has charged me with overseeing your recovery, and so you must eat, or I shall suffer for it.” He stepped to the door and pulled on a rope that hung there. Sara could hear no sound, but she assumed that they were further from the kitchens than she had been in the library when the sound of the bell had answered her pull.

“Am I in the apartment?” she asked.

“No, my lady. This chamber is yours. If you do not like it you may change it for any other that is unused, except the master room.”

A maid arrived. Sara heard a hesitant knock on the door in the next room, and Tilian stepped out of sight. She heard words exchanged, briefly, and a door close. The boy reappeared. She should really stop thinking of him as a boy.

“You saved my life?” It was half statement, half question. She remembered Tilian and bandages, leaning over her, tearing her good clothes.

He seemed to think about it for a moment. “I suppose so,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I did what I could do. Any other would have done the same.”

“Never the less, I shall remember it,” she replied.

Tilian inclined his head, smiling a small, ironic smile. “I am honoured that you think my service worthy, my lady,” he said.