The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (4 page)

Beloff was right, of course. Wolves and bears lived in the forest, cut off from the world of men. The number of times that Narak had bothered to look at anything beyond the great forest in the last two hundred years he could count on the fingers of one hand. Sparrows were everywhere. They pecked beneath the tables of lords and ladies, perched on the windowsills of kings and priests. They heard everything. They saw everything. The problem wasn’t the sparrows.

Passerina, the lady of the sparrows, had been his lover. They had been together for over two hundred years. It was a long time. But it was not even their distant past that was a problem. It was Afael. It was Alaran.

Alaran Taelan was the king of Afael when the Seth Yarra first came to these lands. Like the king of Avilian who now reigned in Golt he was a man given over to the pursuit of pleasure and the joys of art, music and the dance. He was, by all accounts, a graceful man, full of charm, a scholar almost without equal, and Passerina had been his lover.

There was no jealousy on Narak’s part. She had left Narak, eventually, because he was dedicated to the forest, to the wolves, and she had hankered more for the life of ordinary men. His ways left her unfulfilled. A century or more passed before she took up with Alaran, and in that century his love had evaporated to a thin residue of affection. She seemed happy in Afael, in the court of Alaran, and Narak did not resent it, although he was puzzled what she saw in the man beyond his superficial virtues.

Bears notice nothing, but wolves do, eventually.

Whispers came to him. At first he did not believe them He thought that there was perhaps some malice towards her in the court at Afael, but the whispers persisted, became louder, and he felt compelled to seek out the truth for himself.

He discovered that Passerina had broken one of the few laws of the Benetheon. She had taken Alaran into her favour. In effect, she had made him immortal.

It was a forbidden thing. All of them, all of their kind bestowed their favour on their households, and from time to time they gifted some small remission to those that had served them in the world of men, but a king? It was forbidden by Pelion himself; one of the few prohibitions that he had laid upon them. In effect she had made herself queen of Afael, eternal queen, because Alaran depended on her for his long life.

There was an attempted uprising. Some of the Afaeli nobles, a volatile lot at the best of times, sought to end the reign of their monarch by intemperate means. It was a bloody affair, with hundreds dead and several of the noble houses of Afael wiped out.

Narak remonstrated with her, certain that she would see the folly of her choices and accept the blame, but she did not. The others gods had refused to have anything more to do with her, and she withdrew from the society of the Benetheon. She remained with Alaran.

But it did not end there.

When the Seth Yarra came they came first to Afael, and Alaran, fearful of his own vassals, welcomed them, made alliance with them, not knowing the serpent that he embraced. They came in numbers, ships and men, more ships, more men. In no time at all there were ten thousand Seth Yarra in Afael. They built a great camp just outside the city walls and filled it with still more men. They strutted around the city streets in their black and green uniforms, and they made Alaran a prisoner in his own land.

Avilian assembled its army close to the border, worried by this new threat, and the number of Seth Yarra continued to grow within their camps. Berash forgot the ancient enmity between itself and Avilian and made an alliance with its neighbour. Contingents joined them from Telas and Durandar, a thing unheard of. The army grew.

Passerina begged for help, but the Benetheon refused. She said that the Seth Yarra were different, that they were evil, but she was not believed. She was protecting her lover, some said. But Narak listened. He became uneasy. He used dogs to see what was happening in the city, looking through their eyes, listening with their ears. He went to the city himself, spent time there unannounced.

Everything that she said was true. The Seth Yarra were different from the men of the five kingdoms. They behaved according to a code that Narak could not comprehend. They treated everything in Afael as though it was worthless – the buildings, the people, the great library, even the precious stones and gold. They had not come to plunder, but to change the world, to rebuild it in the image of their own land. There was no place in their philosophy for the Benetheon, no place for Pelion, nor any of the ancient gods.

Narak told the kings what he had discovered. He told the Benetheon. Some still refused to believe. They suggested that he was helping Passerina out of affection, even pity, but he denied this, pointed out that she could leave Afael at any time, and yet she did not.

Of all the Benetheon only ten believed him, and they went to the kings and offered their services in the war that Narak now knew was inevitable.

In fifteen months they took back what remained of Afael, and Alaran was dead, along with most of Afael’s nobility. Four of the Benetheon were dead, and the rest were split into two factions – those who had helped, and those who had not.

Passerina blamed Narak for Alaran’s death. He was at a loss to understand her accusation. Had he not been the only one to look into the matter? Had he not put the case to the others? Had he not created the alliance? And had he not, in the days after the death of his greatest friend, led the army that drove the Seth Yarra from Afael?

Now Beloff wanted him to talk to her. They had not spoken a friendly word for four hundred years, and only a few of any kind. It would be awkward.

The Bear was right, though, for all that he did not wish it. If anyone could see what was afoot it was Pascha, if she chose to.

He reached again. For some reason that he had never understood it was easy to find other members of the Benetheon in the Sirash. He touched her. For a moment he sensed her presence, a surprised glance, and then it was gone again, shutting off, a doused candle.

“I need to speak with you.”

There was no response, other than a slight thickening of the barrier between them, a sense of rejection. He pressed harder against it.

“You are needed, Passerina.”

The barrier suddenly dissolved into an angry push and he was thrust away, back into the Sirash. He returned to her again.

“Go away, Narak.”

“I must speak with you.”

“I do not wish to hear you. Go away.”

“I speak for the good of all men, Passerina.”

“You are a liar, Wolf Narak. Since when did you care about anything that was not wolf or forest? Go away.”

“Those things are my duty. Should I not care?”

The barrier went up again, and he was shut out. How long should he try? She clearly still bore him ill will and had no desire to hear him. The matter was important, however slight his evidence, so he resolved to try once more.

“Passerina, it bears upon Seth Yarra.”

“History,” she replied.

“Perhaps not. I was sent a message. I think it came from the Bren.”

“It does not concern me. I am no longer part of the Benetheon. I no longer wish to be.”

“Please, Passerina, keep watch. You have eyes better than all of us. Your ears hear every word. Keep watch for what is wrong.”

The barrier went up again, more firmly that before. He had tried. She had heard what he wished to say to her. If she wanted to help she would do so, but he did not think it likely. He would have to do what he could without her. He had made his attempt, and it was all that could be done. Further effort would only serve to push her further from the desired course.

He allowed himself to slide back, to drift again. He withdrew slowly from the Sirash, his breathing quickening, his eyes opened. They stung with lack of sleep. It was always like that with the Sirash. It drained even him.

Sleep. Decide what to do in the morning. Sleep now.

From Bento Nesser

Learned Scholar

Royal
College at Golt

To Jergan Cornic

Learned Scholar

Berashi Royal Institute

My Dear Jergan,

I cannot image what possessed you to send me Faroo’s disgusting little book. Perhaps you thought I would be amused. Well, I confess that I was.

I have not seen such a concoction of half truths and invented slanders in any time period that you would care to name. The word ‘never’ comes to mind.

What amused me the most was the thought that this should fall into the hands of ‘The Bloodstained God’ himself. Faroo clearly believes that Narak is dead, or he would not dare put such insulting and libellous tales down on paper. You have read Corisan’s ‘Fall of Afael’. I certainly wouldn’t want to be in the disfavour of the Narak described in that volume.

Faroo has mined a dozen nuggets of truth for his lies. We know that Narak and Passerina were lovers – probably centuries before the war – but there is little evidence of ongoing affection or obsession. She certainly had other lovers after Narak and before Alaran, and none of these were subject to the Wolf God’s wrath. Remard was killed on the last night, but by an assassin’s blade and the assassin died that same night, but to describe it as convenient – well, contemporary accounts indicate that the Wolf and the Fox were inseparable. Narak would no more have killed Remard than cut off his own head.

There, you see. You have me reviewing a book that would normally not be permitted through the door of the Royal College. You are a rogue, Jergan.

I thank you for the spices that you sent, and the speculative treatise on Pelion’s youth, which I will review in good time. In response I am sending you a short monograph that I wrote on the foundation of Golt which I expect you will review with your usual sceptical eye.

Fare you well

Your old friend

Bento

Quin was disappointed to find the training room occupied. It was raining, great sheets of unseasonable rain making rivers and ponds of everything not roofed and walled from the weather. The courtyard where he usually found the solitude he preferred was awash and he had thought to find that same privacy here, in the quiet hour after the noon meal, but instead he found the worst sort of company.

“My Lord Quinnial, have you come to exercise?” It was Skal Hebberd, the lord Hebberd of Bel Arac, only son of the Marquis of Bel Arac. Skal was sitting on one of the benches buckling on a leather breast plate, his sword laid beside him. On another bench sat Ampet Tilras, knight, one of Skal’s pack.

Quin could hardly deny it. He carried his own bated sword and breastplate, awkwardly clamped under one arm. Quin had been crippled since childhood, his right arm crushed under a horse that had been too powerful for him to control. Now he could not hold a bow, could not hunt, rode only passably, and was unable to grip a shield or dagger with his right hand. He had taught himself to fight left handed, but he was the weakest blade of all the noble scions in Bas Erinor. Skal knew this.

“I am in no hurry, Skal,” he said. “I will watch. Perhaps I will learn something.”

“I’d be glad to give you a hand if you need a fencing partner,” Skal said. Ampet laughed. Constant references to his hand were Skal’s idea of humour. Each statement could be taken as an inoffensive comment by itself, but Quin knew the game.

“It is kind of you,” Quin said, checking his annoyance. “But I know Ampet badly needs the practice.”

The young knight was not so schooled in hiding his anger, and stood quickly, only to sit again at a gesture from Skal.

“It would be no trouble. Ampet has improved. He’s quite handy now. Perhaps you two should cross swords?”

Ampet forced out a laugh this time, determined, Quin thought, to laugh at another unkind jest. Ampet was not a great swordsman, but he had the advantage of two working hands. In spite of that Quin was inclined to take up the challenge. He had been working hard, building up strength in his left arm and practicing new moves. He had realised that many men adopted the same approach to his disability, tended to fight the same way.

“Very well,” he said. “Best of three?”

Ampet was clearly surprised, but if Skal was he didn’t show it.

“I will call it,” he said.

Quin buckled on his breastplate, declining a casual offer of assistance (lend a hand) from Skal, and took up his position opposite Ampet, swords raised and resting on Skal’s raised and level blade. Quin’s useless right arm was strapped behind him, and he angled his body so that his left shoulder pointed at Ampet, making the smallest possible target for his opponent’s blade. Ampet stood with a wider stance, expecting to make use of his dagger. It was the obvious tactic.

Skal lowered his blade. “Begin,” he said.

Ampet attacked at once, trying to close with Quin. If he could tie up both swords, then the dagger would be decisive. Quin responded by moving backwards, circling the room ahead of the onslaught, fighting defensively. The attack was exactly what he had expected, and he tightened the circle gradually until Ampet was fighting almost chest on. Picking his moment carefully, he turned a parry into a lunge, and nearly succeeded. Ampet was forced to twist his body out of the path of Quin’s blade, stumbling to one side. He had to touch the floor with his sword hand to save himself from falling.

Now Ampet backed off, red faced and cautious. Quin was annoyed. He had missed his best chance of an easy hit, and he’d counted on that. Now he would have to work. He was surprised to be proven wrong almost at once. Ampet’s caution made him a poorer swordsman, and in a few passes Quin was able to beat his blade down and score a hit with a swift lunge over the top.

“You’ve been practicing too,” Skal said as they separated. “That was an interesting move.”

“With Harad,” Quin replied. Harad was the Duke’s master at arms, and in his youth a winner of many tourneys. The old man was slower now, but the cunning was still there, and he was a formidable teacher. Harad had told him that his weakness could be his opponent’s weakness just as much as his own, that such an obvious vulnerability could be a trap. It had very nearly worked.

Ampet had withdrawn to the bench on the far wall and was ostentatiously rubbing his ankle.

“Are you injured?” Skal asked.

“Indeed,” Ampet said. “That slip, I think I have twisted my ankle, I cannot continue.” He would not meet Quin’s eyes.

So that was how it was now. He had beaten Ampet not simply on the fencing floor, but also in his mind, where it counted. Ampet was afraid to lose to him, afraid to step out on the floor again lest he be properly beaten. With mixed feelings Quin realised that he had stepped up a rung in the physical hierarchy of the castle scions. Skal would not be fooled by a little ankle rubbing. No matter how much Quin disliked him, Skal was clever, observant, and the finest swordsman among them. He was also a superb horseman and an excellent shot with the bow. In fact he was everything that Quin should be, but Quin was only the second son of the Duke. It was not required that he be such a paragon. Bas Erinor would never be his. He would not be called on to lead the army into war.

It was the Duke’s duty and the kingdom’s tradition. Bas Erinor was the city of the gods, and its duke the general of Avilian’s armies. He had, of course, studied alongside his brother, Aidon. Indeed, he had found the written tasks easier than his brother. He had more of a head for mathematics, geography, and even strategy, but he was always second best in his father’s eyes, always stood to one side while his brother demonstrated his prowess with every weapon he picked up. Aidon was like Skal in that respect, but where Skal was politely cruel and mocking his brother was kind.

“You should see the physic, Ampet,” he said. “It is a pity, though. I thought we were well matched today.” He had meant it as a kindness, but even as he spoke the words he knew that Ampet would take it poorly, to be acknowledged as the equal of a one armed man.

“I will stand the other two bouts if it suits, My Lord,” Skal offered with a smile, but Quin shook his head. He did not need to bolster Skal’s already impressive ego.

“I am not your equal, Skal,” he said. “There would be little in it for you, and besides, I have others matters that demand my attention.”

“As you wish.”

He left the practice room, glad to be free of Skal’s smiling, deceitful face. He stopped briefly at his chambers to drop off his practice sword. He buckled on a sharp blade and picked up a heavy hooded cloak. He had promised to meet Maryal at the temple, and though he knew that he would be earlier than he had agreed, he also knew that she would be there. He tucked an offertory bag under his arm and left.

It was still raining, and he paused in the arch of the castle gate looking out at the mass of temples that covered the remainder of the butte on which the castle was built. The fortress itself was not modest, but it occupied less than a third of the walled plateau, the rest being filled with greater and lesser temples to every known god. They presented a chaotic, confused image to the eye. Different stones, different styles, different colours all pushing and shoving like a tourney crowd to get the attention they craved.

“The weather could be better, my Lord.” The guard captain said to him, stepping forward to stand by his side. They looked at the rain together for a few moments.

“Aye,” he said, nodding. “But you’d get soaked getting to Melian’s temple to pray for a change.” The guards liked him. He believed it was because he liked them. They were generally simple men, interested in their profession, their families, and little else, and they all knew that he was sweet on Maryal, their Major’s daughter. He was almost one of them, and he treated them all with the respect they deserved.

“It’s a miserable day to be stepping out, my lord. Urgent business?”

Quin grinned. “None of yours, captain,” he said. “Keep the fire hot and I’ll stop by for a mulled wine on my way back.”

“Always a pleasure, my lord,” the captain said, and Quin pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and dashed out into the deluge.

There were seventy-three temples in the city of gods. This was a place where the gods were collected in the same way that rich men collect silver cups. Some of the temples were two and a half thousand years old, but it was to a more recent building that Quin made his way. The city had been slow to accept Pelion’s Benetheon, the twenty lords of nature, but after the war it had been unquestioned. Grand temples had been built, even for those who had sacrificed their mortal lives, even for those who had not been part of the victory.

Quin slowed to a trudge. There was no point in running all the way. His cloak kept out the worst of the rain and the pavements were slick and treacherous. He wove his way around the bigger puddles, trusting his boots to cope with the rest. There were very few people about. Lamps burned in many temples. Those temples dedicated to gods with priests were often the best kept, the grandest. Ashmaren and Pecanis were the most honoured, each of them housed in sprawling structures tended by dozens of priests. They had regular prayer hours, benefited from considerable offerings, and as far as Quin could tell they showed no signs of favour to anyone. He passed them by. A priest of Ashmaren swept industriously beneath the portico on the higher steps before the great brass and silkwood double doors. He paused to watch Quin pass, wondering perhaps who was pious enough to be visiting the gods on such a day.

His destination came into view. It was a modest building. A box. There was no great adorned porch, no gold and silver, no eternal light hanging before the door, just dark granite blocks that glistened in the rain and tall, slender windows so that the light within would resemble that of a forest. The windows were glassed, a considerable expense, and bore a geometric pattern of green and clear lights, so that the illusion of forest light would be all the better.

Legend had it that the builders had asked this particular god what he wanted in his temple, and that his reply had been simple. Something a wolf could live in with comfort.

Quin was startled to see a man standing in the road opposite the temple. He wore no cloak, hat, or any kind of protection from the rain, and he was soaked. Even so he stood there unmoving, as though transfixed by the sight of Wolf Narak’s place of worship.

“Are you well?” he called, approaching the man. “May I be of service?”

The man’s eyes snapped round to stare at him, startled. Quin saw that in the same movement he had drawn a knife. It was a short blade of peculiar design, having two points and a slight curve to it. Quin stopped short and pushed back his cloak, laying his hand on his own sword. The other man stared at him for a few moments, then turned and ran down one of the narrow alleys between temples, rounded a corner, and was gone.

Quin was left with an impression of insanity. The man had been dressed as a priest, but he had not been able to make out the style of the robes, wet as they were. Certainly the mind behind those staring eyes was deeply troubled.

He stood outside the temple for a minute or two; just to be certain that the man would not come again, and when he was sure that he would not he turned and pushed open the door of the House of Wolf Narak.

The interior was dimly lit. Three small lamps burned above the granite block that served as an altar. Quin was grateful to be out of the rain and stripped off the heavy cloak, placing it over a copper rail that was fixed to the wall by the door. He peered into the gloom, but could not see any sign of life.

“Maryal?” he called, and for some reason an image of the madman with the knife came to mind, and with it a pang of anxiety. “Maryal?” His second calling was a little more urgent.

“My lord!” She emerged from the darkness and threw her arms about him. “There was a man watching me,” she said. “I was afraid.”

Quin allowed her a moment of familiarity and held her against him, his mind filling up with the scent of her hair and the warmth of her flesh.

“He is gone,” he said to her. “I showed him my sword and he ran away.” He took hold of her shoulder and gently moved her to arm’s length so that he could see her face. She had a beautiful face; dark, intelligent eyes set atop a fine straight nose and a generous mouth, all framed by dark hair that coiled thickly down her back.