Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3

by Sebastien de Castell

  Kest replied, ‘Only to a man who puts his hands on her.’

  I was grateful for his intervention – and, not for the first time, that my rapiers were strapped to the side of my horse and not within easy reach.

  The Knight took his hand off Ethalia and backed away, and as we rode by, I wondered at his attitude. Did the Church Knights see themselves as equal to the Inquisitors? That hadn’t felt like the case on the road. Perhaps here things were more . . . collegial?

  The question lost significance when we got closer to the blacksmith’s shop. There were no walls, only a roof held up by supports recently cut from trees, the bark still hanging off them. Within the space I counted six separate forges, each being worked by one or two men, all with the big, brawny frames required for such work.

  ‘Over here,’ the one closest to us called, even as he picked up something I couldn’t see with his heavy tongs and then dunked it in a barrel of water. Steam hissed up in the air between us. ‘Who’s that you got there?’ he asked.

  At first I just stared at him, but my expression didn’t appear to put him off; evidently he wasn’t particularly in awe of Inquisitors. ‘Does it matter to you?’ I asked at last.

  He shrugged. ‘Not especially, but you’ll want a mask aligned to her sympathies.’ I had no idea what he was talking about, but that didn’t appear to matter; the blacksmith put down his tongs and walked past me. He reached up and passed a hand across Ethalia’s still form, tied across the horse. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Love and Regret. Two of my favourite Gods.’ He stopped himself and gave a chortle. ‘Well, false Gods now, I suppose.’

  The blacksmith went back inside to a large wooden bin stacked with iron masks. He rummaged around for a few moments before retrieving one. ‘This should do just fine.’

  I had to shove the wave of disgust and rage back down my own throat, fearing it might trigger something in Ethalia. I badly needed to know more about how this worked. ‘Wait,’ I said, grabbing the blacksmith’s arm, and when he looked down at me questioningly I asked, ‘Are you sure you have the right one?’

  His eyes narrowed, but more from irritation than suspicion. ‘I’ve been at this longer than you, I reckon.’ He flipped over the mask, revealing the misshapen features and strange lines across its surface. ‘There, see? Love and Regret, both right there.’ He caught my expression but mistook it for doubt. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter that much, anyway. Any mask of infamy will hold back their Awe. Like the Blacksmith says, getting the alignment right’ – here he grinned and gave me a wink – ‘just makes the desecration sting a little deeper, eh?’

  My chest was tight and I couldn’t stop myself from breathing in deep, the way I do before a fight. I hoped the man wouldn’t notice, and fortunately, Brasti drew his attention away. ‘I thought you were the blacksmith.’

  The man in front of me looked over at his fellows inside the shop and laughed. ‘Hear that, boys? I’m the Blacksmith now!’

  The others laughed. Our man turned back to us. ‘I’m a blacksmith, all right, but I’m not the Blacksmith. He’s off doing something more important, I imagine.’

  I was trying to make sense of all this when Kest, recognising I wasn’t thinking clearly, took the mask from the man and examined it. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ he said, smoothly, ‘that all you need to do is put an iron mask on a Saint and they become as easy to kill as anyone else.’

  ‘Well, sure,’ said the blacksmith, ‘but it’s not as if any old iron will do, is it?’ He waved an arm down the path. ‘It’s only our mine here that’s got the right ore to make the masks – you haven’t been down there yet?’

  Kest shook his head. ‘We’ve been dealing with heretics in Baern for the most part.’ He motioned towards Ethalia’s still form. ‘We only came here because we caught this one half-dead outside one of the old churches.’

  ‘You sure she’s weak?’ the blacksmith asked. ‘They come out of the Fever unexpectedly sometimes.’

  ‘Not this one,’ Kest replied. ‘She’s been out of it for six days. When she does talk it’s just to moan and beg us to help her.’

  The blacksmith smiled knowingly. ‘Funny how Saints are just like little children that way. They’ll just keep screaming and screaming till they get to play in their little sanctuary.’ He glanced over at Ethalia again. ‘Well, the clerics have been bitching and moaning for a fresh one for the past two days so best we get this done and you take her down to the mine.’ He took the mask from Kest’s hand and walked back to Ethalia.

  I started for him but Kest caught my shoulder. We locked eyes and he gave the slightest shake of his head. We had talked about this, all of us. I’d known since we’d started this foolish plan what we might have to do and Ethalia hadn’t just agreed to it; she’d insisted.

  I’d had two weeks to prepare myself and I still wasn’t ready.

  The blacksmith grabbed the back of her head with one hand and put the front piece of the mask over it. Then he held it there and released the back of her head and swung the back plate over, snapping the locks in place with practised ease. The moan that escaped her destroyed some last piece of whatever love I had left for myself.

  The blacksmith raised his voice and spoke into the holes in the front of the mask. ‘You wanted a sanctuary, little girl? Well, you wait until you see what we’ve got down there for you.’

  *

  Even before I took the first step past the heavy wooden frame that opened onto the sloping path into the mine, I could sense something deeply wrong with this place. My fingers twitched, desperate for the comforting grips of my rapiers, which I’d had to leave with the horses in order to maintain my disguise; I still had no idea why they favoured maces. It hardly mattered, though, as my arms were fully occupied with carrying Ethalia. Looking down at her, I could no longer tell whether she was pretending to be unconscious or whether the Saint’s Fever had finally overcome her.

  Unless it’s the mask that’s doing this to her.

  ‘A plan would be nice right about now,’ Brasti said. It was going to take one hell of a trick to get us all out of here alive once this was done.

  Kest finished pouring the rest of our water into a heavy skin inside his pack. ‘I thought we’d agreed to a Snake in the Soup.’

  ‘You two agreed to it,’ Brasti lifted his own pack in the air. ‘I’d rather not rely on luck and this shit to keep us alive.’

  ‘We could try a Flock of Swallows,’ Kest offered.

  ‘Forget it,’ Brasti replied. ‘Maybe if I had my fast bow’ – he looked dismissively at the pistol in the holster at his side – ‘but this bloody thing takes too long to reload.’

  ‘Inquisitors don’t use bows,’ Kest said, then pointed to the mace hanging from his belt. ‘Besides, if I have to carry this thing . . .’

  Brasti made a show of examining the mace. ‘I don’t see what you’re complaining about. It’s not that different to a sword, is it? It’s still just a big stick you wave at people.’ He turned to me. ‘Come on, Falcio, can we at least consider a Cloak and Tickle?’

  ‘No,’ I said, barely paying attention. Ethalia was so light in my arms – when had she got so thin? She was barely heavier than the pack I carried on my back. Had she been eating at all since becoming a Saint? Focus! Find out what’s down there – find a way to prove Obladias is behind this and put a stop to his machinations. ‘We stick with the Snake in the Soup,’ I said quietly.

  Brasti swore and took the first step into the mine. ‘Fine, but I never want to hear you bitching and moaning about how much you “hate magic” again after this.’

  *

  ‘Well,’ Brasti said quietly, his voice lightly echoing inside the shaft as we walked along the rough stone floor, ‘I always knew you’d lead us into some hell eventually.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said.

  Ethalia’s body twitched just as the light of the lantern Kest held in front glinted on something embedded in the walls. ‘Iron ore,’ he said.

  ‘It’s an iron mine,’
Brasti said. ‘What did you expect?’

  Kest stopped for a moment and reached out a hand, his fingers almost but not quite touching the tiny fleck of ore in the wall. ‘It’s . . . different. It feels not unlike when I was in the sanctuary of Saint Forza, only stronger . . . deeper.’ He turned and looked down at the mask covering Ethalia’s face. ‘I think it’s something about the ore that holds back the Saint’s Awe.’

  Brasti pressed his own hand against the wall of the mine. ‘I’m not feeling anything. Must be a Saintly thing.’

  ‘We need to keep going,’ I said, and Kest nodded and continued down the passageway. The roof of the shaft was much higher than I’d expect in a mine, and all too soon we found ourselves in what appeared for all the worlds like a massive underground city. Rough-hewn corridors illuminated by lanterns hanging from hooks every twenty feet or so were peopled by men and women carrying tools and supplies, sometimes dragging a body along the ground.

  I tried to focus on the plan, on what might lie ahead, but every step I took increased my feelings of dread.

  Imagine what it’s doing to Ethalia.

  Every few minutes her limp body in my arms would twitch or shiver and it took all my will not to set her down and strike off the mask, to see if she was all right. But we were committed now, for good or ill, so I just kept going, counting the number of steps down each hallway, memorising every turn. I forced myself to close my eyes, to picture the space in front and behind me, to pay attention to the smells of sweat and fire, when I could feel a breeze and when it disappeared. I couldn’t count on my sight to help me if things went to hell.

  Things always go to hell.

  ‘Falcio?’ Kest said.

  I stopped walking and looked up as he motioned ahead to where some two dozen people waited in a line. They were very different, dressed not in work clothes but in white robes, clean despite the dust and dirt all around them, the fine cloth almost shimmering in the torchlight. When they noticed us coming, several of them ran over and began to crowd around us.

  ‘Let’s have a look at her,’ one man said, excitedly. The simplicity of his robes was at odds with the elegant cut of his hair, the manicured nails of his hand as he reached out to us. This wasn’t a poor man.

  ‘Let me, Papa,’ begged a boy by his side, also dressed in white. ‘I want a taste.’

  A taste?

  Others tried to get close, but the man shoved them away and placed himself firmly in front of me. The heat of his breath washed over my face as he leaned in. ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling out a small blade barely long enough to shave with, ‘let’s see what she’s got for us.’

  My hands were busy holding Ethalia so I gave the man my best Inquisitor’s look – the one I’d used to such great effect over the past few days, driving doubt into those who tried to get too close. The man looked afraid, to be sure, but his fear was vastly overshadowed by the hunger in his eyes. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘I’ve done everything – killed a dozen heretics, even the boy’s mother.’ He held the tiny little blade over the exposed flesh of Ethalia’s calf. ‘I’ve earned this.’

  ‘You have,’ I said, and his eyes came to mine, expecting to see approbation – until I smashed my forehead into his nose. He stumbled backwards into the others, his son trying unsuccessfully to keep him standing. Kest and Brasti immediately took up position in front of me before anyone else had a go at slicing into Ethalia.

  ‘What is this blasphemy?’ a voice shouted from down the corridor, and the crowd parted silently to make way for the cleric who’d spoken. He, too, wore white robes, but unlike the others, his were draped in layers that perfectly fitted his lean body. There was a subtle inlay on the front, symbols I didn’t recognise. Two Knights in white tabards followed behind, heavy warswords in hand.

  ‘Take this one,’ the cleric demanded, pointing to the man who’d accosted me as he rose to his feet and tried to back away. He didn’t get far before the Knight drove a gauntleted fist into the man’s face, filling the corridor with the cracking sound of the shattering jaw. The boy screamed and tried to stop the two Knights from dragging his father away, but the cleric stopped him. ‘Your family’s wealth has bought you passage to greatness, little Lordling. Will you forgo that, as your father has done, or will you await your turn?’

  The boy looked from his father to Ethalia in my arms. ‘I’ll wait,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Venerati, I’ll wait my turn.’

  As the two Knights dragged the father away, the boy’s eyes remained on Ethalia and he licked his lips. ‘I’m going to be the Saint of Righteous Vengeance,’ he said proudly to me. ‘I’ve made a list of the people I’m going to punish first – do you want to see it?’

  My throat tightened in reaction to the bile rising up from my stomach. Is the promise of power all it takes to turn men into beasts? I thought, trying to hide my shudder. Are we truly such cowardly beings that the promise of strength to quench that fear is all we need to do such horrible things?

  This wasn’t the time to sink into despair. ‘Don’t just stand there, Cogneri,’ the cleric ordered. ‘Bring her inside.’

  Once again the crowd parted, and for the first time I saw what lay at the end of the hallway: a pair of massive white columns either side of two wide doors, larger and grander than the entrance to the most powerful Duke’s own palace. It looked as if it had all been newly made.

  What in all the hells have they built here?

  ‘Fascinating,’ Kest said when we were about fifteen feet from the massive doors, and as I caught his look, I cursed myself for getting so caught up in my fear and anger that I had forgotten what we were here to do.

  ‘A moment, Venerati,’ I said. ‘I just need to rest my arms for a few seconds.’

  I knelt down, resting Ethalia’s body on my thighs as I slipped off my pack and tossed it against the cavern wall.

  ‘No point in carrying these in with us, I suppose,’ Brasti said, and tossed his on mine. It landed perfectly on top.

  Kest put his down as well, reaching inside to remove an overly large skin of water. He took a small sip and offered it to me. I shook my head and he placed it back inside the bag without bothering to close it. I reached into my coat pocket, pulling out a rag and wiping my hands with it, then tossed the rag onto Kest’s pack.

  ‘Time grows short,’ the cleric said, and I sighed and got back to my feet, carefully lifted Ethalia and followed him. At the massive doors he stopped and turned to face me. ‘Have any of you been inside before?’

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, I advise you keep your wits about you. Whatever trials you’ve endured as an Inquisitor, whatever . . . punishments you’ve enacted upon the heretics – this is different. This will feel different. Remember, what takes place inside is ritual, even though it might look otherwise.’ He looked down at Ethalia. ‘Do you know which one she is?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said.

  ‘Those inside will know, at any rate.’ The cleric reached into his robes. I expected him to pull out a key but instead, he held a tiny iron bell between his thumb and index finger. He shook it, and it gave only the barest tinkle – there was no way that sound could have penetrated the massive doors, but a moment later they opened, the bottoms scraping against the bare stone. The cleric motioned for us to enter. There was a hallway, perhaps ten feet long, then it widened out into a vast circular chamber, and there, we saw what Obladias had kept secret, what Birgid had found before us.

  A cathedral! They’ve built their own damned cathedral inside the depths of a mine.

  Then I saw what else awaited us within, and I was startled by a heartfelt moan. It took me a moment to realise it had come from my own mouth. Kest spoke to me, his voice low, words of warning to stay calm, or perhaps some adjustments to our plans, but I took no note of any of it. I was trying not to retch at the sight in front of me. Brasti’s words as we’d entered the mine suddenly took on the weight of prophecy: I always knew you’d lead us into some hell eventually.

&nbs
p; He was right. I had. Then a darker thought took me. I’ve brought Ethalia to the devils.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The Cathedral

  The chamber’s perfectly smooth walls rose high above us, making the massive chamber feel oddly small, somehow. There were no altars, no religious symbols of any kind, only weapons of all shapes and sizes hanging on the walls. The ground was divided by circles of rough-hewn stones, each containing two pillars rising all the way to the stony roof. Heavy iron bands with six-foot lengths of chain ending in iron cuffs hung from spikes bolted into the top and bottom of each pillar.

  Most of the circles were untenanted, the chains dangling loose to the floor, but inside one of the circles a man was held suspended a few inches from the floor by the chains. His naked chest was covered in blood moths, their bodies bloated and crimson from feeding on his wounds. The little of the man’s skin I could see beneath the insects looked pallid and withered. His mask of infamy was carved to represent a young man about to kiss his lover.

  Around this lone victim crouched seven men and five women, dressed in the same white robes as the crowd waiting outside. As we watched, three of them plucked blood moths between trembling fingers, opened their mouths wide and consumed the living insects whole. Behind each supplicant stood three more, impatiently awaiting their turns.

  Brasti, bless both his heart and soul for however much longer we would live, vomited on the floor.

  A cleric approached us carrying a long, curved knife in one hand and a whip in the other. ‘It’s not as uncommon a reaction as you’d think,’ he said affably.

  ‘Forgive us, Venerati,’ I said, my mind unfreezing and turning to all the ways I would tear this smiling, friendly cleric apart when the moment allowed.

  ‘Not Venerati,’ he corrected, holding up the knife. ‘Admorteo. Mine is not to preach to the mind, but to free the spirit.’

  ‘Of course.’ I bowed my head so he couldn’t see the anger I was struggling in vain to hide. ‘Admorteo.’