The Seventh Friend (Book 1) by Tim Stead Read Free Book Online Page A

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 smiled 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.”
     
    “It is not important.”
     
    Quin looked at her. He had been so focussed on his rehearsed speech that he had not heard the words that she spoke, not until now.
     
    “You would accept me?” he asked.
     
    “Nothing would please me more than to be your wife,” she said. “If you ask I will encourage my father to assent to the match.”
     
    “Why?”
     
    “Why?” she echoed. “Why? Why do you want to ask for my hand?”
     
    “You are perfect,” he said. “You are beautiful, courageous, clever, kind. I have loved you since I was a child.”
     
    She laughed. “Well, at least there is still part of you that is a child,” she said, but her tone was kind. She took his hand again, held it between both of hers. “There was not much to distinguish any of you when you were young. Just boys, and we were children, too. As you grew you all flattered me and the other ladies of the Duke’s court, competed for our favour. All the sword fighting, the titles, the ranks, it all meant little to me, but your accident marked you out. It changed you. I pitied you then, and for the years that you withdrew from the rest of us. I pitied you. But then you came back to us, took up a blade again, bore the jokes, fought against your fate. I have not seen such courage. Even battle is easier than what you did. With all your friends to draw you on it is easy to wave a sword above your head and charge the enemy, but you fought your battle alone. You smiled when they mocked you.
     
    “My father says that such a blow as you were dealt can do two things to a man. It can make you bitter, or it can make you wise. There is no bitterness in you, Quinnial. These last years you have been a man among boys. Your first thought is for others. You see what is important. The others are