Saint's Blood

by Sebastien de Castell

  ‘You’ve never been able to let go of people, though, have you?’ The familiar voice, a little stern, a little teasing, drew my gaze towards the tall curtained windows that opened onto the palace courtyard. There I found my wife, in front of the long curtains, gowned in their purple velvet folds, her hair fashionably tied back with their silver tasselled cords.

  ‘If only you’d composed such poetry for me when I was alive,’ Aline said, looking down at her garments. ‘Honestly, husband, can you remember a single time when I wore clothes of such frippery?’ She stroked her blonde ringlets. ‘And what sensible woman would style her hair in such an impractical fashion?’

  ‘Falcio has always been a poet, silly woman,’ King Paelis countered, and I turned my head to find him leaning against the council table, armoured in glistening oak that flowed up from the polished surface. ‘His blade carves epics of valour across the canvas of this troubled nation.’

  Aline’s eyes narrowed. ‘Really, Falcio? And how exactly is conjuring up that skinny wreck of a man in such glorious fashion going to help unmask the enemy? How will you be able to break the iron shackles binding the future if you insist on making such a fool’s paradise of the past?’

  It struck me as odd, and more than a little unfair, that my hallucinations were so much more well-spoken than I was. ‘A dream doesn’t have to be real to be worth fighting for, does it?’ Not bad, I thought, Not exactly Bardatti standard, but not bad, either.

  Aline threw up her hands, sending ripples along the curtains. ‘So be it. Keep your illusions.’ She walked towards me, the thick fabric of the curtains following behind. ‘But you must see past the distractions your opponent places in front of you. While you fence with shadows, he shapes the world to his own perverse design.’

  ‘A name, woman!’ King Paelis bellowed, giving voice to the question foremost in my mind, though he was sounding a bit like a petulant youth. ‘Tell us the enemy’s name! Is it Quentis? Jillard? One of the other Dukes?’

  ‘Perhaps he needs no mask of his own,’ Aline replied. She sat next to me on the arm of the sofa, the bottom of her dress matching its purples and silvers. She was looking at Valiana. ‘He fits his masks to others, and in so doing hides his own face. This is his genius, Falcio. You can’t beat him at this game.’

  ‘Ah, she has us there, First Cantor,’ King Paelis said. He lay back against the tabletop, his hands resting across his chest. The browns of his armour melted into the oak of the table, and slowly he sank inside it, as if the hard surface were merely a reflection in a pool of shallow water. ‘To strike the enemy you must first pierce his deceptions.’

  I knew he and Aline were only delusions, apparitions born from exhaustion and injury – and yet still I pleaded with them as I held Valiana ever tighter. ‘Tell me how! How am I to find my opponent when I can’t even protect the people closest to me?’

  ‘Silly man,’ Aline said. She rose and placed two fingers to her lips then gently pressed them against the crude mouth carved into Valiana’s mask. ‘That is exactly why he attacks them.’ A breeze from the window rustled the curtains, blinding me with silver light, and when the curtains had settled again, Aline was gone.

  *

  ‘Why is who attacking what, now?’

  I raised my head groggily to see Brasti smirking down at me. The faint wetness just below my lower lip told me I’d drooled in my sleep again and I tried to wipe it away surreptitiously, only to find my hand tightly clasped in Valiana’s. She’s conscious, I realised, and only then noticed the way her other hand was travelling across the rough iron surface of the mask. Her fingers were trembling as they sought out some means of escape, doing so carefully, methodically.

  ‘She appears to be lucid again,’ Kest said gently.

  The relief I felt at the easing of her madness was overshadowed by the appalling irony of its cure. Thought the mask of infamy had restored Valiana’s sanity, it held her captive, locked away from us and from the world.

  Ethalia knelt down and carefully took Valiana’s hand away from the mask and pressed it between her palms. There was no shimmering light or flickering fire – not that I knew what Saint’s magic was supposed to look like, but it was a fair guess – but after a moment, the tension in Valiana’s shoulders eased. Lines of pain and weariness appeared on Ethalia’s forehead.

  ‘You can’t help her if you keep exhausting yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Then what use is the pitiful strength I do have?’ she replied, with more anger and frustration than I’d ever heard in her voice before.

  This is destroying her, I thought. I was aching to reach out and comfort her, and acutely aware my touch would only make it worse. She had never asked to be made Saint of Mercy, but now she was driving herself mercilessly to fulfil the role given to her. I wondered if it was some unstoppable spiritual imperative, or misplaced guilt over Birgid’s death.

  She rose to her feet. Catching me staring at her, she gave me a small shake of her head, plainly telling me to focus my concern elsewhere. ‘Talk to her, Falcio. It will help her to hear your voice.’

  The mask had no openings for Valiana’s ears or eyes; the grey landscape of its surface was broken only by three thin slits, each about an inch long; they had been cut into a wretched grin. ‘Keep squeezing my hand,’ I said. I kept my mouth close to those slits, hoping my voice would reach her, and almost immediately her fingers crushed mine. I ignored the pain and held on.

  ‘Could we not cut more holes into the mask?’ Tommer asked.

  Kest shook his head. ‘Not without risking injury – and if we damage the mask, it might not curb the madness. We don’t yet know how it works . . .’

  Ethalia reached out a hand towards the mask and her fingers began to twitch. ‘Kest is right. There is more than iron at work in this mask.’

  Hells, but I hate magic.

  ‘Fine,’ Brasti said, ‘then let’s go and find whichever blacksmith made the damned thing and hang him from his toenails until he tells us who paid him to do it!’

  ‘There are likely more than a thousand blacksmiths spread across Tristia,’ Kest pointed out. ‘We could spend a decade looking, and even then, it’s entirely possible none of them made these masks – they could be artefacts from an older age.’

  Aline rose from her chair and came to sit on Valiana’s other side. ‘How long can she stay like this?’

  Kest, Brasti and I looked at each other, united by the foul memories of our early days in the Greatcoats, when the King sent us to cities and towns that had seen no real justice in decades. In the deepest cells of the Ducal prisons we had found men and women encased in devices not so very different to these masks. Their jailers trickled water and thin soup into their mouths each day, keeping them alive for years. And every time one of us had born witness to such depravity, we’d forced promises from each other for a clean death rather than a life entombed that way.

  How long can she stay like this? Far too long.

  Valiana’s hand felt very hot against the sudden cold of my own as I wondered how many days – or even hours – it would be before she was begging me to make that same promise to her. Could she survive a week like this before she was pleading with me to end her suffering?

  The silence enveloping the room was broken by a distant grunt, followed by a heavy thump just outside the curtained windows. I let go of Valiana’s hand and got to my feet. Kest drew his warsword, grimacing in pain as he did. Brasti, his arm still bandaged from the wound he’d taken from the God’s Needle on the road, lifted his bow and awkwardly nocked an arrow.

  Of course I’d been too distracted and too stupid to search for my rapiers, so I went to the table and grabbed the closest thing to a weapon that I could find, which turned out to be a small brass statuette of Roset, the deceased Duke of Luth. His arm was outstretched as if he were in the midst of delivering a magnificent speech.

  Let’s hope you’re more eloquent in death than you were in life, your Grace.

  One of the windows creaked ope
n, but the heavy curtains muffled the voice that called out, ‘If Brasti’s in there, tell him not to shoot.’

  ‘Mateo?’ Brasti asked, easing his pull on the bowstring.

  The purple and silver velvet parted to reveal Mateo Tiller, still dressed in his road-worn, dusty greatcoat, the scabbard of his curved falchion strapped to his back. He dropped down from the windowsill to the floor. ‘Well, well,’ he said, rising to his feet and wiping sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, ‘if it isn’t the Blade, the Arrow and the—’ He stopped and peered at me. ‘Should I call you the King’s Ugly Little Statue now, Falcio? Because I have to say, I think the old name worked better.’

  I set the brass statuette back down on the table. ‘I have to ask, Mateo: what in hells are you doing climbing up the side of the Ducal Palace of Luth in broad daylight?’

  ‘And how did you manage it with an injured shoulder?’ Kest added.

  ‘Rather painfully, thanks to the arrow wound courtesy of the world’s most annoying archer.’ Slowly Mateo removed his coat, grunting in the process. ‘And to answer your question, First Cantor, I was climbing down from the roof, not up.’

  ‘You look like hell,’ Brasti said.

  ‘Yeah? You should see yourselves.’ Mateo grinned. ‘I’ve seen rotted corpses with more—’ He froze when his eyes landed on Valiana. ‘Saint Unas-who-makes-tears-burn,’ he swore, and then turned to me. ‘Where is the son of a bitch who did this to her and why haven’t you killed him yet?’

  Kest tried to intervene. ‘She was driven mad by poison. It was the only—’

  I cut him off. ‘It was me. I put the mask on her.’

  I’m not sure what Mateo saw in my expression, but after a few seconds he let out a long breath. ‘I’m sorry. I just assumed—’

  Ethalia strode to the table and picked up a jug of water. ‘This man’s shoulder is bleeding through his bandages.’ She pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit.

  ‘I’m just glad that the famed Brasti Goodbow missed my heart by half a mile.’

  ‘Those weren’t my usual arrows,’ Brasti insisted. ‘I’d had to grab the first ones I could find. I was just testing the range.’

  ‘That’s fine, you missed,’ Mateo said. ‘It happens, especially when you’re getting a little long in years.’

  Ethalia began removing his shirt, revealing his lean, muscular frame, and the bloodstained bandages that covered one shoulder. ‘The stitches held, for the most part,’ she said after a moment, ‘but your acrobatics have stretched them and part of the wound has reopened.’

  Brasti whispered to Kest and me, ‘We should consider the possibility that Mateo reopened his wounds on purpose.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Kest asked.

  He gestured at the Greatcoat, who was smiling up at Ethalia. ‘So that he could show off his chest.’

  ‘Beautiful and commanding,’ Mateo said. ‘You are undoubtedly my favourite Saint, my Lady.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ she replied. ‘I’m the Saint of Mercy, not Gullibility.’ Despite the jibe, she smiled as she went about treating his wound, and I found myself absurdly jealous that touching him didn’t appear to produce the same pain that she experienced with me.

  Maybe he’s just less bloodthirsty than you are.

  ‘I’ve cleaned the wound and tightened the stitches,’ she informed us after a few minutes, ‘but it needs a fresh bandage to keep out infection.’

  ‘Alas, I ran out of mine ages ago,’ he said.

  Neither Kest nor I had ours, but finally Brasti unbuttoned his coat and reached inside. ‘Fine, use mine – but just so you know, Mateo, I was saving these for someone vastly more important.’

  As Ethalia went about bandaging the wound, Aline said something into the slits in Valiana’s mask, and then came over to greet Mateo properly. ‘I never had the chance to thank you yesterday for helping to save my life.’

  He gently pushed Ethalia’s hands aside and stood, managing as much dignity as a man can when he’s shirtless and dripping with his own blood. Looking at Aline this close set him to stammering, ‘I . . . I only just realised how much you look like the King.’

  She smiled back at him, entranced.

  ‘We tried to find a less silly-looking monarch,’ I said, ‘but she was the best we could do on short notice.’

  At first Mateo was aghast at my comment, then he caught Aline’s grin, and shared a look with the rest of us, filled with that same mixture of hope and grief that Aline brought to every Greatcoat: the joy of seeing our King in her, tempered by a bitter reminder of the man we’d lost.

  Mateo tried to tilt his body forward in a bow, wincing as a grunt of pain escaped his lips.

  ‘Sir,’ Aline said, ‘that isn’t necessary! You needn’t—’

  ‘A Greatcoat doesn’t bow,’ Tommer interjected, his voice almost scolding, ‘not even to a King or Queen.’

  ‘This would be Tommer, son of the Duke of Rijou,’ Brasti said.

  At the mention of Jillard, Mateo’s eyes grew suspicious, but he saw the look of raw admiration on Tommer’s face and grinned. ‘You are correct, of course. A Greatcoat needn’t kneel, even to a monarch.’ With substantial effort, Mateo bent at the waist before Aline. ‘But a gentleman always bows before great beauty.’

  Brasti jostled Kest. ‘That’s a good line. Remind me to use that one when we go to the tavern later.’

  Aline gave a curtsy that almost but not quite hid the blushing of her cheeks; it only faded as she moved back to sit with Valiana.

  Tommer’s lips were moving silently and I realised suddenly that he too was intent on memorising Mateo’s slick turn of phrase. He saw us watching him and flushed red from embarrassment.

  Mateo saved him, extending a hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Tommer of Rijou. I’m Mateo Tiller.’

  Tommer shook hands with him excitedly, the grim sentry giving way to a teenage boy no longer able to contain himself. ‘I’ve seen your name in the Greatcoats’ Register – you’re the King’s Tongue!’

  Mateo gave a rueful smile. ‘Not a name I chose for myself, I assure you.’ He looked at the boy and I saw him hesitate for a moment. ‘I . . . wonder if you might do me a small favour, Tommer.’

  The boy stood arrow-straight. ‘I’d be honoured, sir.’

  ‘There is an important message I need delivered, something I can’t trust to just—’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Tommer may be Jillard’s son but he’s risked his life for Aline in the past and he considers Valiana his sister. Don’t use tricks to get him out of the room.’

  Mateo glanced from me to the boy, then sighed. ‘Forgive me, Tommer, that was unworthy of me.’ He rose and put his bloodied shirt back on before addressing the rest of us. ‘I’m snuck down because I was wandering around the palace a little while ago when I spotted three members of the Ducal Council secreting themselves into the small library on the top floor.’

  ‘Why there?’ Kest asked. ‘There are surely more secure locations to meet in the palace.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Mateo said, ‘so, having nothing better to do, I decided a little judicious spying was in order. I found a staircase that led onto the roof and climbed down to an overhang outside the library window. I’ve spent the last two hours listening to them.’ He turned to me. ‘Falcio, they were in the library because that’s where the books of law are kept. The Dukes were writing up a decree to replace the Greatcoats.’

  ‘Replace us?’ Brasti asked. ‘With what?’

  ‘With whom,’ Kest corrected absently, his eyes fixed on Mateo, but the moment Brasti had asked the question, I knew the answer. Saints were being murdered, churches desecrated, pilgrims massed outside palace doors and we had failed to do anything about it.

  ‘The Cogneri,’ I said. ‘The Dukes are going to replace us with the Order of Inquisitors.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Message

  There was a lot of shouting in the discussion that followed, most of it directed at th
e Dukes for betraying us, and a fair bit more at the Inquisitors, who we knew were indifferent to enforcing any laws save those that let them hunt down and punish heretics. A few times we even railed at the Gods themselves, for ever having created such a cesspool of a country. By unspoken consent, one particular group was left out of our recriminations: ourselves.

  None of us wanted to admit the simple truth: in the past six months we had utterly failed to bring back anything resembling the rule of law to Tristia. What gains the country had made were due entirely to Valiana’s careful administration and her uncanny skill at navigating the politics of the nobility.

  And what has the First Cantor of the Greatcoats accomplished? I run around the countryside chasing my shadow, always two steps behind, while the enemy destroys sanctuaries and kills the Saints.

  ‘I have a suggestion that I believe will solve all our problems,’ Brasti said. He slung his quiver over his shoulder and picked up his bow. ‘How about I go and put an arrow through Quentis Maren’s heart?’

  ‘Do you have any actual evidence against this man?’ Mateo asked.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Brasti held out a hand and started tapping each finger in turn. ‘First, he’s a damned Inquisitor, so that should be enough of a reason. Second, he keeps trying to get control of Ethalia, supposedly for her own safety, but I think we can toss out that notion. Third, he and his men are too well armed for religious zealots. Fourth, he’s cleverer than Falcio, so he has the mind for it, and fifth . . .’ He paused, apparently having run out of reasons.

  ‘You do realise that Quentis has handled himself honourably until this point,’ Kest said.

  Brasti jumped on that, tapping on his little finger. ‘Ah, exactly! I knew I’d forgotten one.’

  Tommer stared up at him. ‘So behaving innocently is evidence of guilt?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ he replied. When no one spoke, he looked around at the rest of us as if we were idiots. ‘Am I really the only person who remembers Shuran? Strong? Smart? Capable?’ Brasti looked at Kest and me. ‘And so righteous the two of you were ready to duel over who got to marry him first.’