The Seventh Friend (Book 1)

by Tim Stead

  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

  4. Bas Erinor

  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 buil
t. 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.

  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 sm
iled 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.”