by Tim Stead
It was not far to the village, and he did not pause when he entered, and nor did the wolves, they flowed about him, a manifestation of unexecuted rage; a threat. People saw, and some cried out, ran to hide in their homes. Other stopped and stared, not quite able to believe what they saw. Still others turned and followed at a respectful distance.
It was a small village. A hundred people, or perhaps half as many again lived here. The houses were simple structures of lath daubed with mud. None was any greater or more finely built than the others, and the place stank of poverty. The huts were gathered around an open space, and on one side of this stood a small barn and a threshing floor. Narak stopped before the barn and waited. He did not have to wait long. They knew who he was, and the head man would come to him.
“Deus.” It was an old man, or at least a man who looked old; too much hard work, not enough food and too many days in the sun. Narak looked at the brown skin and white hair. The old man was afraid. His body crushed by terror, he stood in a sort of half crouch, a standing foetal position, half turned away from the source of expected pain.
“You are head man here?”
“Yes, Deus.”
“Someone who I value greatly has been murdered, not two miles from here.”
“Not us, Deus,” the old man whimpered.
“Do you mean the wolf lady?” A child’s voice. Narak’s head turned to the source and for a moment his heart seemed to stop. She was about eight years old, fair hair, blue eyes, the same blue eyes as Perlaine. It was almost as though he was looking at Perlaine the child, before he met her, and like Perlaine there was no fear in the girl. He could see that her mother was desperately trying to get her child out of danger without attracting his notice.
He crouched before her. Anger was suddenly a long way away.
“The wolf lady. Yes.”
“She stayed with us, with mother and I. She stayed in our house.”
“Last night?” he asked.
“Yes. She told me stories. I liked her. Is she dead?”
“Yes, child, she is dead.” How simple to be a child again, bold, ignorant, pure.
“My name isn’t child,” she said. “My name is Gotha.”
“I am pleased to know you, Gotha.” Perlaine would have liked this child. She would have been kind and generous. Perlaine had never lost the touch with such people. It was more than he could say of himself. “My name is Wolf Narak.”
“Are you her husband?” the child asked.
Narak managed a wry smile. “No Gotha, but she was a dear friend of mine. Where did she go when she left this morning?”
The child pointed in the direction of the grave. “She went towards the road.”
Narak looked at the headman. “What road is this?” he asked.
“We told her not to go,” the headman apologised. “Dangerous, we said. People die. We don’t hunt that way no more, stay to the east, safer there.”
“Why is it dangerous?” Narak asked.
“Don’t know. Just is. People die.”
“Where does the road go?”
“Bel Erinor, the mines.” The headman squeezed the answer out as though he expected to be punished for it, but his reply shocked Narak. Was he that far west? Even so, there was no road to Bel Erinor, not any more. It was closed, forbidden, vanished back to forest two hundred years past. He was suddenly filled with a particular dread.
Bel Erinor, and the mines there, were the only source of blood silver, and blood silver was the only thing that could kill the gods of the Benetheon. The mine had been closed by treaty with the king of Avilian after the Great War. It had been a gesture of thanks, an act of friendship.
He almost denied it. There is no road. The words formed on his tongue, but he did not utter them. These people had no reason to lie; not about this. He took a gold guinea out of his pocket and gave it to Gotha, who looked at it as though it were Pelion’s ring. Some of the villagers saw the coin, and he heard an intake of breath, a gasp. Many of them, perhaps all, had never seen a coin of this value.
“Gotha, there is a grave about half an hour’s walk towards the road. Will you keep it for me? You will know the place by the wolf that guards it, but you need not fear the wolf. He is there because she was a wolf lady. Will you do that?”
“Yes,” she said. “I will.”
Narak straightened and looked at the people around him. They were poor, but they were not starving. They had the look of honest people, and they were bolder now, having seen his kindness to the child. They stood straighter, looked more curious.
“I give you a name,” he said. “The woods between here and the Bel Erinor road will from this day be known as Perlaine’s Rest, and from this day forth they will be safe.”
The gathering gave a muted murmur, and hands were pressed together. It was an honour to be given a name by a god. Such a name would appear on all maps, and the grave might become a shrine for the god’s followers. It was a gift to the village, but if he was wrong and the village was to blame for Perlaine’s death, then he would come back and take away more than the name.
He left them, walked back towards the grave and the road that lay beyond it. His mind was turning one question over and over. Who? Who was mining blood silver? There was no answer that comforted him, and so he just walked, and the wolves followed him.
11. Bas Erinor
He felt the point of the sword strike him just below the breast bone, and he stepped back, sighing, and raised his sword to the vertical.
“A hit,” he said
Kaylis Faste, his opponent, smiled and raised his own blade in a salute.
“A good bout Quin,” he said, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. Kaylis Faste was known as Fast Kaylis among the fencing fraternity at Bas Erinor. He had quick hands and a lunge that was capable of taking even his instructors by surprise. Unfortunately he tended to use these gifts too frequently for them to be effective, and the rest of his style had suffered as a result.
In spite of that Quinnial had lost by three hits to two. He walked back to the bench where he had stacked his other gear and took a drink from his water flask. It did not bother him a great deal that he had lost. As Harad had told him, two hits are better than none, and none was what he would have scored six months ago. He was improving faster than any of his peers. But Quin had no illusions. He would never be fencing champion of Bas Erinor, but he would at least be a useful blade.
Since his elevation in the martial pecking order he had begun to join in these general training sessions attended by the other scions and the castle guard. He was starting to win bouts, and once word had got around that he had been summoned to the meeting with the wolf god his prestige was somewhat enhanced among his peers. People who had not spoken two words to him all year now sought him out and paid him compliments.
In three days he would no longer be a boy. It was a formality, of course, but it was a legal milestone as well as a rite of passage. In three days he could marry who he pleased, swear allegiance to who he liked, set up his own household, and was legally responsible for his own actions. It was an important day.
It was also the day on which he would be given his adult title, and the day on which he would acquire his first land holding. That much was tradition. There would be no surprises, however. Lord Quinnial of Bas Erinor would become the Earl Quinnial of Saylarish. He had expected less, but apparently an earldom was his father’s wish and the king had assented. Saylarish was one of his father’s estates, not the smallest, but by no means a great holding. There was a fine house and two thousand acres made up of seven farms and nine hundred acres of woodland which provided for a decent enough hunt if you didn’t push it.
Quinnial had visited Saylarish three times, and he was pleased that it should become his. It was not close to Bas Erinor, but it was a most pretty piece of land, and he could well imagine living there with Maryal. In the course of things he would expect other properties to come his way, but not many. The bulk of everything would go to Aidon
, and that was as it should be. Aidon would eventually become Duke of Bas Erinor and general of the king’s armies.
After the ceremony he would go to Maryal’s father and ask for her hand. The man would be pleased. It was a good match. He knew that the family had noble blood, but it came down through a series of second and third sons, and there was no property there. It would be a raising up of the line again.
He walked easily in the present, buoyed by the feeling that the world was a fine place, and for the first time since falling from his horse as a child he could contemplate the future and smile. For the first time in many years he thought himself more blessed than cursed.
As he sat on the bench watching the other bouts he was surprised when Skal sat next to him. He concentrated on his blade, and on trying to ease the soreness in his shoulder. He had been training too much, even though Harad didn’t think that was possible.
“You’re getting better,” Skal said.
“Perhaps,” he replied.
Skal said nothing for a while, but ran a cloth up and down his own blade until it shone. Quin knew that he was waiting to say something, picking his moment. He didn’t like Skal at all. The man was a braggart, he had decided, a bully. He couldn’t deny his skill with a blade, though. Nobody beat Skal, or at least nobody present. He’d noticed that Skal picked his fights carefully, and never took on the older blades. Quin was sure that Aidon would beat him. But perhaps that was only a brother’s certainty. There was no doubting Skal’s talent.
“We should fight again, soon,” Skal said.
Quin shrugged. “Any time,” he said. “You’re still the best.”
“Yes, but people are beginning to talk. They think you’re afraid of me.”
It was untrue, of course. Quin preferred to fight people who were closer to him in ability. Fighting Skal would be like fighting Aidon or Harad. He would only score a hit if Skal was generous, and he couldn’t see that happening.
“Terrified,” he said. Skal laughed easily. It always surprised Quin that somebody could be like Skal. He was superficially likeable, easy going, a man who laughed at your jokes, smiled a great deal. Underneath all that there was something less pleasant.
“I’m getting married,” he said.
Quin was surprised. It was out of character for Skal to confide in him. Indeed, it was out of character for the future Marquis of Bel Arac to confide in anyone.
“Congratulations.”
He was suddenly aware that Skal was watching him, and watching him in that way he had, predatory and unpleasant, smiling. It was some trick, some cruelty that the older man had devised, and Quin tried not to think what it might be, tried so hard, but for all that he tried he felt the muscles clench around his gut, and a ringing started in his ears. It could only be one thing. One thing. He closed his eyes, waited for the axe to fall.
“Maryal,” Skal said. “I asked her father, the major. He agreed. It’s a good match – for her at least.”
Quin did not react. He sat and allowed the ringing to subside, waited until he was in control, and his mind became cold. Then he turned to Skal and saw the look of smug triumph on his face. The smile faded when Skal realised that he was looking not at anger and resentment, but at pity. What must a man be, Quin thought, to so mortgage his own future happiness just to spite another? How little must there be of Skal in Skal’s mind for him to do such a thing.
“Until this moment, I had thought you a man of honour,” Quin said. “Or at least a man. What you have done, and the reason you have done it, is an offence against all who walk a straight path. You have called down the lightning upon your own head. Even the gods will turn aside and spit when they hear your name.”
He rose and gathered up his gear slowly. He could see anger in Skal’s face, but he ignored it, walked calmly away, filled up as he was with sadness. Maryal’s promise, once given by her father, was binding. It could not be broken. Never the less, he could see Skal’s path, his very crooked path, with absolute clarity, and he needed to speak to Maryal at once.
He dumped his gear in his chambers, put on a clean shirt, and made his way to the Major’s quarters. He knew she would be there. He knew that the major would also be there.
He knocked on the door, and it was opened by the major. Quin could tell at once that he had told Maryal, and that Maryal had told him, in turn, what their plans had been. The old man looked distraught, and he could not meet Quin’s gaze.
“My lord Quinnial,” he said. “There is no point to your visit. It cannot be changed.” There was regret in the man’s voice. It was no more than he had expected. But he had not come to berate the major. He was certain that Maryal’s father was troubled enough. He was a decent man, and knowing what he now knew he would be blaming himself for his daughter’s misery. It was not unusual for a man to promise his daughter in marriage without consulting her, and Skal was, on the surface of it, an exceptional match. She would be a Marchioness, one of the great ladies of the realm. He understood why the major had accepted with alacrity.
“I come as a friend, no more than that,” Quin said. “There are things that must be said, for your sake, and for Maryal’s.”
“It cannot be undone,” the major repeated, but he stood aside, and Quin entered. He made certain that the door was closed behind him and held up his hands to silence them both, and to hold Maryal in her place, for she seemed intent on coming to him. She half rose from the chair in which she sat, but lowered herself back into it at his gesture. She had been crying. There was a broken plate on the floor that neither of them had bothered to clear away.
“Please let me speak,” he said. “Say nothing, do nothing, until I have finished. This is important.”
They looked at him. He did not know what they expected, but he had come to talk about the law, and about Skal. He looked at her and felt again the tightness in his chest, the pain of Skal’s words. He forced a deep breath that came unevenly.
“Do not fear to ascribe too base a set of motives to the lord Skal,” he said. “He walks a crooked path. He seeks the pain of others, and I do not know why. I only know that it is so.
“In law Maryal and I are both still irresponsible. This means that our fathers can be held to account for our actions. Skal, as your betrothed, has rights under law, and in matters of honour those are the same rights as a husband. If you behave towards me in a manner that can be adjudged improper, then Skal can call out your father, fight him with sharp swords, and kill him if he can. Skal is very skilled with a blade, and this may be his intent.”
“Surely, my lord…”
He held up his hands again to silence the major’s protests.
“I am not vulnerable in this way for the next three days. He will not call out the duke, for he will then be forced to face the duke’s champion, who would doubtless kill him. After those three days I should be required to defend my own honour, and I know full well that Skal is the better fencer. I should have to answer his challenge with my life.”
He looked at them, and saw that there was the horrified beginning of belief.
“One more thing. I do not believe that Skal has any affection for Maryal. She is no more than an instrument of torture to him, and should he succeed in either strategy, should either I or the major fall to his blade he would then have no hesitation in casting her off on the grounds that she was unfaithful. She would be marked.”
They both knew what that meant. Maryal would be deemed unfit under law to be married to anyone of rank, and her future would be very bleak indeed. Ladies of the court so disgraced had ended up as pitiful creatures in the low city, it was said, even, in extremity, whoring themselves to stay alive. It was rare, and by tradition the offence would have to be gross, but the law did not require that.
It was the major who spoke first.
“Nobody could be so wicked, my lord.”
“And yet you know that I speak the truth, Major. If we behave with propriety, or better yet, if we avoid each other for a while it will be diff
icult for him to work his scheme, but I do not put any measure beyond him, even the fabrication of an incident that will allow him to accuse us.”
Maryal had listened to all this in silence, her hands clasped in her lap, but now she spoke.
“So I am doomed, no matter what occurs,” she said. “If I behave perfectly in the lord Skal’s eyes, and if no accusation sticks I will finish as the lady of Bel Arac, forced to dwell with Skal and submit to whatever unpleasantness he chooses to impose upon me. Otherwise I shall be orphaned, see my true love die, and be cast off to suffer the existence of a drab. I would not choose any of these things. Death is preferable.”
“I understand,” Quin said. “But there is always hope. I do not believe that Skal will want a quick marriage. He may wait as long as two years in the hope that he can catch us out, and indeed, he may seek to discount the betrothal himself when he finds it does not serve him.”