The Bloodstained God (Book 2) (7 page)

What in Pelion’s name was that? It was as though she had become everything, crossed from her sparrows into the entire forest, but that wasn’t possible, or at least not without Pelion’s gifting ring, which was lost. Did it have something to do with the assassin, or was it just her? She didn’t know, And she was afraid to try again. Now she must get back to Wolfguard.

She brought the flock together, and feathers became flesh. She was once again a human woman.

She dressed quickly, sent her small troupe of sparrows, her devotees, out among the trees with a compulsion to watch, to warn. Once dressed she set out for Wolfguard at a steady run, covering the ground at many times the speed of her outward journey.

As she ran she thought. The running was mechanical, leaving her mind free. She thought of all that had happened. She thought of the crow that had attacked her flock, and she thought of Fashmanion. The crow god had been an accomplished archer, and he had not been very fond of the rest of the Benetheon. He had thought differently. But Fashmanion was dead. Sithmaree had seen the body. On the other hand, she had seen nothing of the face. But no, he was dead. The one thing that the members of the Benetheon could not do was hide from each other in the Sirash, and Fashmanion was gone from the Sirash, like all the others.

Like Narak and the other Benetheon gods Pascha did not tire, and within ten minutes she was within sight of the gates and safety.

She had survived again.

She closed the heavy door behind her, taking the trouble to bolt it. Finally safe, it occurred to her how foolish she really had been. She had risked her life to avoid embarrassment. It was proof, if proof were needed, that she was still a woman, Narak still a man, and all the rest of it just power and pretence.

Now was the time to be a god. She would tell Narak everything; do what she could to help him. If she did not, then they would never prevail.

The Governance of the Green Isles

It is often said with ill informed certainty that the Green Isles are not a Kingdom because they do not have a King. It is, however, equally valid to suggest the opposite, because, in fact, they have three.

It is a model of governance that has a certain appeal to common sense, though of course it lacks the effectiveness of our own system in which all the powers of state are brought together in a single noble individual, whose wisdom and generosity ensures the happiness and prosperity of his people.

The Islers think thus:

If a man is a great warrior, if he is noble of spirit and a natural leader of men in battle, then he should have the land in time of war. He should rule and have all the kingdom do his will if the land is threatened. The same man, in time of peace, is not so ideal a choice for governance, and so there is another man, skilled in negotiation, in farming, fishing and manufacture, who is lord of all in happier times. Yet there are
other times when the land is neither at war, nor yet in times of plenty. There are droughts, storms, years when the fish are not plentiful in the sea. In these times a third man may be needed, one who will do what is required to nurse the land and its people back to health.

Thus there are three kings of the Green Isles. The currently ruling king is known by the title Sei Mun, but all three have their own titles.

Sei Feras Tiar, the king of fire and blood, is their warrior lord.

Sei Pelala Asin, the king of food and drink, is their lord of plenty.

Sei Koshan Burdenna, the king of storms and woes.

The kings reside on a group of islands collectively termed the Golden Islands, a close group at the heart of the Green Isles. Here each has an island, and a palisaded compound upon that island. There is an isle in the middle of it all that has a small hill, most of the isles being flat, and upon that hill is built the Hall of Decision in which the three meet and make their law.

Extract from: A Geography of the Six Kingdoms

By the Learned Scholar Simras Hecshal

Sage Advisor to the Royal Court of Berash.

He had not forgotten Narala. Many months ago he had sent her to the Green Isles with instructions to explore, to seek out what was wrong and remarkable. It was a mission that had become obsolete. Now he knew what was wrong.
But she was safe there, far away from the war

She had spoken to him many times through the wolf that travelled with her, and he knew the situation. It gave him hope. Seth Yarra had so far ignored the Green Isles, correctly assessing that they would seek no part in the conflict. They were traditionally separate, and took no part in the intrigues of the five kingdoms, made no alliances. Now he wanted to change that. He had sent her to the Golden Islands – a group within the Green Isles where power was concentrated, where the three monarchs of the islands held court.

Now it was time for him to go there in the flesh.

Narak was not a complete stranger to the Green Isles. He had travelled there three times, but in the vast span of his life that was not much. He had not gone about openly, but made his way through the islands as a merchant visitor, stopping in towns, buying sample quantities of spices and fruits that he had not seen before, making his way from island to island with the myriad of boats and boatmen that plied between them. He had delighted in the peaceable fecundity of the realm. It had been an adventure.

Now he needed to go by a more direct route, and he translocated, swapping with the wolf that had been Narala’s constant companion these long months.

He was hit at once by the heat, almost as though he had stepped closer to the fire in Wolfguard, thrown open an oven door. It was dusk. He was in a small room, and Narala was sitting next to him. She dropped to her knees at once.

“Deus.”

He reached out and took her by the shoulders, raising her to her feet and gathering her to him, holding her for a moment in a firm embrace. She responded at once, and for that brief moment they were no longer god and servant, but two people who shared a loss. Narala and Perlaine had been close. She had been more than distressed by the news of Perlaine’s death. Narak had delivered that sad news in person a few days after Perlaine had died in Bel Erinor. It had been the only time they had spoken face to face since she had left Wolfguard.

“You are well?” he asked, holding her out at arm’s length.

“I am well, Deus.”

“Where are we?”

“We are on Isan Panyerasna, the island of supplicants. It is where those who wish to speak with the Sei must wait.”

“And this house?”

“A temporary lodging, Deus. It is ours alone unless you wish other servants.”

Narak had brought gold; the equivalent of two hundred guineas, but it was not for luxuries. His experience of the world had told him that a man who held money would often pass through doors that might be barred to others.

“Then it is ours alone,” he said. “Has the Sei Mun agreed to see us?”

“Not yet, Deus. I think he is curious, though, and will permit it if
you
ask. He does not know of the Benetheon, and only rumours of the Great War have reached here. By now they are loud whispers, though everyone talks of the dark ships of Seth Yarra. They have been seen by many, yet have not landed on the Isles.”

The humidity and heat were already making him uncomfortable and he threw off his cloak and sat on a bed. He examined the room. It was small, but tidy. There were two beds pressed against opposing walls. There were no furs or blankets. They would be nothing but a burden here. The walls were thin, both the inner and outer walls, made of no more than several layers of woven matting tied to posts. They were adequate to block prying eyes, but allowed the evening breeze to filter through. The roof was a thatch of thick leaves, quite unlike the straw and reed thatch he saw so much in Berash and the west of Avilian along the marsh country. The floor was no more than packed earth with another woven mat laid over it.

“This is a peasant lodging,” he said.

“They are all the same, Deus. Even the great lords of the Green Isles stay in such places on this island, and indeed there is little love of great houses here. Shelter from the rain is deemed enough for even a great man.”

Narak nodded. Simple people. Simple needs. But it would not do to underestimate them. The independence of the Green Isles was legendary, and it would take great subtlety to drag them from their traditional isolation. The truth should be lever enough, but belief sometimes came slowly. He needed it to happen quickly. He wondered if he was up to the task.

“So how do I ask?” he asked.

“In the morning a group of heralds will alight on the island. There are many of them, enough that there is one for each supplicant, usually with many left unemployed. You must select a herald and give him the words that you wish to be spoken on your behalf. The herald will be heard, and if your words stir the Sei, he will ask you to audience.”

“I see.”

“They do not know you, Deus. I have tried to explain, but there are no wolves here. They do not know the Benetheon.” Narala was apologetic, keen to please, and it made Narak feel guilty. In spite of the mild disbelief, the sense of outrage, almost, that he felt at being asked to wait, to plead, none of it was Narala’s fault.

“It is our own fault, Narala,” he said. “We have never pressed our claims here. We were given dominion over the plains and the forest, and this place touches on neither. It has always been an irrelevance, and that is an error for which I must now pay. I will submit to the process.”

*              *              *              *

The morning was bright. The sun rose quickly, leaping into the sky and bathing everything again in heat and light. In the north he was used to the slow ascent of the winter sun, picking a shallow slope, a tired old man diminished in his powers. Here, it seemed, the sun was still young.

He did not hurry, but dressed in just his cottons, strapped the swords to his back and went barefoot to the place where the heralds gathered. He was immediately aware that he was an object of curiosity. Almost as soon as he had left the tent with Narala by his side he saw people pointing, heads turning his way. He stood out among the people of the Green Isles like a chalk mark on a slate. His pale skin and brown hair were as remarkable here as Narala’s dark skin and jet black locks had been at Wolfguard.

He ignored it. Some people seemed afraid, and others curious. It was the curious that made Narala nervous, he noted.

“Don’t worry,” he said to her in Avilian as they walked towards the shore. “I will not take offence.” His words did little to calm her, and she shepherded him down to the water where a commerce of conversation was taking place.

The heralds were not difficult to pick out. They stood close to the small, brightly coloured boats that had brought them. The boats were high prowed, painted mostly in reds and yellows with four oarsmen in each, waiting to take their masters back across the water. The heralds were dressed in white cotton, a simple shift that fell about to the knee, and each wore a blue sash across his chest. They were all men. Most stood proudly before their boats, and already there were a dozen people speaking to them.

This was a strange ritual. Narala had explained it to him the night before. Each herald carried one message. As a supplicant you chose one who had not been chosen, and spoke your message to the man. No other words. The man was to be your voice before the Sei, and would repeat exactly what was said to them.

Narak glanced at the heralds, and then at the boatmen. Most of the latter were relaxing, eating food, talking among themselves and even playing games in the bottoms of their boats. Their chatter wafted in from the sea on the breeze. One boat, however, was quite different. Its crew sat quietly, hands on oars, faces calm and respectful. They did not eat or amuse themselves in any way, but waited patiently for their master to get back into the small vessel.

The herald before this quiet boat was seated on the sand. His cotton shift could have been cleaner, and his sash was twisted. He was an older man, tightly curled hair flecked with grey. His body, though relaxed, gave an impression of strength and confidence.

Narak stood before him.

The grizzled herald did not acknowledge his presence for about a minute. It was as though he was not eager for the business, and hoped that Narak would go away, pick another to carry his words, but eventually he squinted up, shielding his eyes from the morning sun, and studied his client. He held out a hand.

Heralds, of course, needed to be paid. Narak put his hand into his purse and his fingers closed about a gold guinea, but he released it again, and instead fished out a small, copper coin. It was a Berashi penny, and almost certainly worthless in the Green Isles. He put it on the man’s hand.

The herald examined the coin, tasted it, bit at it with his teeth as though it was gold. He shook his head and pocketed the coin, but when he stood he was smiling, as though Narak had shared some great jest with him, and perhaps he had. He put a hand to his ear and laid the other on Narak’s chest. He was ready to hear the message.

Narak was not especially fluent in the tongue of the Isles, though it bore many similarities to Telan. He had rehearsed his message with Narala the night before, and knew it word for word. He spoke slowly and clearly.

“I am Narak,” he said. “I have travelled from the great forest which lies north of Telas. In that land I am called the Wolf, and men serve me and do me honour. I have come to the Isles to speak with you, Sei Mun, and the words that I speak carry two messages. The first is a warning. The dark ships that have swept by your coast in months just past are the ships of a people who worship a god called Seth Yarra. This god tells them that all men must worship as they do, build as they do, farm as they do, dress as they do. Indeed the say that all men should do all things in their manner. They have come to make war on those who do otherwise. Now they fight the men of the north, but when they are done, if they should win, they will next come to the Isles, and with sword and fire they will remake them in their own way.

“The second message is a plea for help. There have been wars before between the men of the north, the Telans, and the warriors of the Isles. The Telans now stand with Seth Yarra, and in their foolishness fight against their northern kin. I ask that Sei Mun consider this and in his wisdom side against Seth Yarra, and join the other men of these lands in resisting the tyranny of thought that Seth Yarra brings. It is our common interest that we be free to live in the way we see fit, and so I do honour to your ways, and in doing so honour my own, and defy the tyranny of Seth Yarra.

“I seek audience with Sei Mun. I seek alliance.”

He finished speaking, and as Narala had schooled him he took the herald’s hand from his chest, putting it on the man’s own chest. He bowed, an inclination of the head, and walked away. So it was that messages to the kings of the Green Isles must be sent.

He walked to Narala who was waiting for him, anxiety written on her face like a mother who takes her child to school on the first day.

“It is done.” He said. “Now we wait?”

“Yes, Deus. Now we wait. There should be a reply in three days, if at all. It is gracious of you to be so patient.”

“I want these people as friends, Narala, not vassals. I shall be guided by you.”

They walked back towards the small house. It was one in a sea of similar dwellings, and he could not help feeling that a good breeze would blow them all away. Without Narala he would have had to rely on his sense of smell to find it. So many waited here, either to deliver their messages or waiting for an answer, that the island seemed a small town. There was even a market where provisions could be bought, and stalls that sold food ready cooked. The food had unfamiliar smells, and Narak was enticed again by memories of his previous visits. There must yet be spices and flavours to be discovered here.

“Narala, have you lost your dog?”

A fat man, resplendent in a blue silk robe, barred their path. His face was quite as dark as hers, and glistened with sweat. He seemed out of breath. There was a modest retinue of retainers at his back, including two muscular men who carried swords. Narak studied them with casual interest. The blades were more curved that those common in the north, even more curved than his own, and they were carried naked, tucked into a cloth belt without a sheath.