—the wife looks up at her husband, feeling the illness come upon her at last. She’s so grateful that she won’t have to watch her man suffer first—
‘You survived,’ I said. ‘The toxin—’
‘I prayed to the Gods to grant me my own death, and even that was refused. I thought I would go mad with grief. I suppose I did.’ He looked down on me. ‘We are all mad in this fallen country, Falcio. The only question is what shape that madness will take.’
‘You became like her . . . like the Tailor.’
‘That’s what it means to be Inlaudati,’ he said. ‘When my mind shattered, I didn’t find the peace of oblivion or even the purity of endless agony . . . instead, I began to see the deep patterns of the world around me – I saw how that world might be changed. We Unrecognised, like your Tailor, like me, we do not become Kings or Queens or Saints – instead, we shape events. We decide who will rule and who will die.’
‘Such power,’ Ethalia said. ‘You could honour your family’s loss with this skill; you could use it to help save this country – and instead you bring us ruin!’
‘Have you not listened to a word I have said?’ the Blacksmith scolded her. He looked upon the God he had made. ‘Not ruin but order, not tyranny but efficiency. This country has been tested over and over again, and it has been found wanting. It is tired, enfeebled: a country of women in a world that demands the strength of men.’
‘He takes an unnecessarily dim view of women,’ Brasti muttered.
‘And of the country,’ Kest added.
The Blacksmith wandered beneath one of the gibbets and reached up a hand to set the corpse of the dead God of War swinging. ‘War is coming, Falcio. Your King knew this; you know it. Avares will cross those mountains one day soon, and this time they’ll destroy us. And what good will all your petty little laws do us then?’
‘No laws save mine,’ the God declared, his words transforming into a wild dog made rabid by pure rage, tearing at our minds piece by piece. It appeared the time for talk really was over: now the God brought forth his nightmares and set them on us one after another—
—the boy can’t see, his eyes too swollen. He smells his own urine as it runs down his leg and pools on the floor. His hand slips in it as he tries to crawl away, sobbing, ‘Please, Father, please. I’ll do anything you want, I promise. Anything!’—
—the old woman coughs, and blood fills her mouth. The scent of bile fills her nostrils as the two girls holding her cheer for the third to kick harder. ‘Please,’ the old mother says, ‘please, I’ll give you anything you want. Anything’—
—the bird’s hollow bones crack under the crush of the mighty hand. It smells the morbid scent released into the air as its internal organs split apart under the pressure. It has no words, no song with which even to beg—
Erastian coughed, and the thin, wrinkled skin on his face started splitting from the strain of holding back the foul images. Blood began to trickle from his nose, then his mouth, then his eyes.
The Blacksmith sounded almost disappointed. ‘Your Saint has failed his test, Falcio.’
*
‘No!’ Ethalia cried, and she took Erastian’s hand. ‘Tell me how to help.’
Despite the intense pain he must have felt, the old Saint smiled at her. He winked, and the blood clung to his eyelashes. ‘It . . . gives me strength just to be near you, my dear, but if you could summon a little love in your heart, that would be of great help.’
She turned her gaze on me, and I realised she was searching to find that brief moment we had shared, when we’d truly been in love; it was like watching someone try to break apart stone with their fingernails. I have never felt more pathetic.
‘Erastian can’t hold on much longer,’ Kest said, growling; he was still pushing against the ground, trying to rise. ‘I do not have the strength to break free,’ he added.
‘Then what are you doing?’ Brasti asked. His own attempts were obviously just as weak and useless as mine.
‘I am . . . searching inside myself for the strength to do so.’
‘And if you do? What good is a sword going to be against a God?’
‘The man I see wears armour.’
Brasti managed to move his head barely an inch, but it was enough. ‘So what? Trin’s wearing armour too.’
Then I realised what Kest meant: though we saw different versions of the God, there was one similarity . . . Why would a God need armour unless he had some vulnerability to the physical world . . .
‘Kest,’ I said slowly, ‘as First Cantor of the Greatcoats, I am ordering you to get on your feet and kill that son of a bitch.’
The Blacksmith chuckled as if we were sharing a joke. ‘I would have expected such an experienced duellist to know the difference between strength and false hope.’
Erastian appeared to have redoubled his efforts, for the blood was now dripping constantly down his face. ‘We fight with dreams,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s a difference.’
Ethalia turned away from me, trying to fight back against the God with her own strength.
—a mother comforts her child, ‘It will be all right, my dearest, just—’
The vision faltered, like a kite without enough wind to let it fly. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead.
—a soldier saves the life of a defeated enemy. He wraps the wound—
‘I can’t do it!’ Ethalia cried.
‘You can, and you will,’ Erastian said, gritting his teeth. ‘Don’t just make things up: find something real. It’s out there somewhere.’
She closed her eyes, and then . . .
—a girl steps out from behind the table where she’s been hiding. Her father yells at her, tells her to get to her room, even as he reaches down to grab the boy by the neck. The girl starts to leave, but then stops, turns and steps in front of the father, keeping him from her brother—
‘That’s the stuff,’ Erastian said, ‘give me more of that.’
The Blacksmith’s God countered, bringing his own foul visions down like an axe upon them, and Erastian and Ethalia leaned against each other, struggling to withstand the onslaught. The sights, sounds and smells swirled around us: a war fought on a hundred different planes against the endless power of a God, while all I could do was to kneel on the rough ground, a spectator.
Then something odd happened: the visions slowly began to turn; the sounds of gloating started fading beneath music, sweet and daring, the stench of despair began to flee in front of clean ocean air.
‘Stop,’ the God commanded.
‘Fight, damn you,’ the Blacksmith shouted at his deity.
‘He’s weakening, I think,’ I said quietly, but Kest didn’t reply. I could see his arms shivering as he fought to push back the earth itself so that he could rise.
‘Stop!’ the God repeated: a wave crashing down on us, tearing our flesh and our souls.
Erastian, bloody as he was, showed no signed of relenting. ‘Your God isn’t as strong as you hoped. I guess your faith isn’t—’
The old man’s voice was cut off, replaced by a groan of pain, and I dragged my head around to see the Blacksmith, standing over the Saint of Romantic love with his blade deep inside the Saint’s belly. ‘Here is your faith,’ he spat, and Erastian fell to the ground.
The God regained his footing and I watched him smile at me, first as Fost, then Trin, then Caveil, and now his features were shifting back and forth between theirs and the faces of every other monster I’d met in my life.
‘No!’ Ethalia screamed, and in that battlefield that was a thousand places and none at all, I could see she was pushing back with a ferocity and strength I couldn’t have imagined.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
‘I’m sorry, my Lady,’ the Blacksmith said, pulling the dagger from Erastian’s body and turning to her. ‘You did nothing to deserve this.’
She set her Awe upon him and for just a moment, he stopped – but now the God was focusing his will entirely on her,
and in my mind I saw—
—a child, trapped in the narrow confines of a well, water covering his chin, still rising, over his mouth, and now his nose—
Now, I told myself, it’s time to get on your damned feet before he kills her. I had my own vision then, of a young and foolish husband who knelt on the ground of his own farm while his wife sacrificed herself for him. No, not again. Never again.
But I couldn’t stand, however badly I wanted too; my flesh was too weak. I lacked whatever spirit lets a man face his Gods. In desperation, I begged Kest, ‘Please! You have to save her.’
My oldest friend looked at me with eyes forced so wide from pain and inexhaustible effort that I didn’t think he could possibly have heard me until I saw the almost indistinguishable dip of his head, though the muscles in his neck were so taut they looked as though they might snap.
‘Now!’ the God exulted, and suddenly the Blacksmith was free from Ethalia’s Awe. He drew the dagger back and I saw the still-bloody tip of the blade that was about to bury itself into Ethalia’s heart.
A cry of anguish filled my ears, and for a brief instant I thought it another vision in the battle between God and Saint – but then I saw a miracle happen: Kest leaped into the air, and in that same fluid motion, drew his sword from its scabbard. The blade crashed down on the Blacksmith’s wrist and I heard the bones break. The heavy gauntlet held, though, and the Blacksmith switched the dagger to his uninjured hand and went to stab again, but Kest knocked the blade out of his hand even as he brought his own weapon back in a swing to strike at the God.
‘Cease,’ the God commanded, and Kest fell back.
The Blacksmith scrambled for his dagger and snatched it up from the ground. He lifted it back up, preparing to strike at Ethalia, but the old Saint of Romantic Love wasn’t done, not quite. He had one hand pressing down on the wound in his belly, but with the other he reached out and touched the Blacksmith’s leg.
The big man stumbled back as if he’d stepped in fire.
‘Your God isn’t looking too good,’ Erastian said, spitting blood and rising to his feet.
The Blacksmith saw his creation struggling to stay standing. Kest was finding his balance again. We might even be winning.
‘You should be proud,’ the Blacksmith said to Kest. ‘You renounced your own Sainthood and stood in defiance of a God’s will. It is a remarkable thing to do. Take comfort from that thought.’ He looked back at the God he had created; it was obvious that he was severely weakened, thanks to the strength of Erastian and Ethalia and Kest.
But the God spoke a single word: ‘Apostate.’ There were no visions this time, no sounds of terror, no slithering sensations or vile scents attacking us. Even Kest gave no sign that he’d heard, at first. He just stood there as if he were planning his next strike.
‘Kest?’ I asked.
He opened his mouth wide, as if not enough air was getting into his lungs. His sword slid from his hand and he reached up and clutched at his heart.
‘There is a price to be paid for challenging a God,’ the Blacksmith told him, not ungently. He glanced at me. ‘I feel sorrow for you, Falcio. You find good men and women to do what you think is right, but the world you once believed in is long gone – it might never have been what you were told.’ He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘I offer you this gift, Falcio val Mond: go back to Aramor. Take your people away – find a country worthy of your courage. Leave this one to those who might yet be able to redeem it.’ He turned and led his God down the path away from us.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, don’t do this. You don’t have to—’
Kest’s eyes caught mine as he began to slip to the ground and I could see that he understood what had been done to him. There had been no blow, no injury, no illness. At the command of a God, Kest’s life had simply ended.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The Broken Heart
Kest fell to the ground, landing so hard on his back that dust and dirt flew into the air. Even an unconscious man would have made a sound as the wind fled from his lungs, but Kest was completely silent, though the emptiness was filled by someone screaming his name. I think it was me.
‘What in hells just happened to him?’ Brasti asked.
Ethalia knelt by Kest’s side. ‘His heart has stopped.’ She placed both hands just below his chest and pressed down hard, then repeated the gesture several more times before stopping briefly to listen for his breath. When none came, she said to Erastian, ‘Help me . . . I can’t make it start again!’
The old Saint, still on the ground, was looking more than half-dead himself. He held a hand to his wound and I saw a faint glow around it, the pink of a rose just beginning to bloom. ‘Damned knife wounds,’ he muttered, then crawled one-handed towards Kest and looked down at the already pale features of the friend I’d forced into a fight he couldn’t win because I’d been too weak to do it myself. ‘A God’s curse weighs heavy on a mortal life,’ Erastian said, then added, ‘Sons of bitches.’
‘Do something,’ I begged.
The Saint took Kest’s hand in his. ‘Did Birgid teach you the calling?’ he asked Ethalia. She nodded as she repeated her motions and Erastian looked both confused and disappointed. ‘So she taught you how to heal but not to fight? What was the woman thinking?’
Ethalia’s eyes narrowed. ‘That I had committed enough violence for one lifetime.’
Violence? Ethalia was the most peaceful person I had ever met.
Erastian was neither shocked nor impressed by the heat of her gaze. ‘Don’t give me that look, woman. I’ve been stared down by Gods.’ He placed Kest’s palm against Ethalia’s heart and gestured for her to hold it there. ‘Come on then, perform the calling. Show me what a coin with only one side can buy.’
She held Kest’s hand to her heart and placed her other hand against his chest. Her eyes closed and the skin of her face tightened as if she were trying to push a boulder up a mountain. She started whispering, so softly that it took me a moment to hear that she was calling out Kest’s name, over and over.
‘The boy’s death isn’t natural,’ Erastian explained. ‘This isn’t a stab wound or an infection. His heart simply stopped beating. If she can call him back—’
‘Call him how?’ Brasti asked. ‘From where? Will someone please tell me how—?’
He shut up when Ethalia began to glow, the light first manifesting as a sheen as sweat started dripping down her face, then pushing outwards until her entire body looked as if it were cut from polished ivory.
She’s so pale, I thought, and Erastian’s jibe about her being a one-sided coin filled me with dread. Prove him wrong, sweetheart. Prove to us that there’s some purpose to magic and Saints beyond just ruining the world.
‘What can I do?’ I asked.
‘You can shut up,’ Erastian replied, his hand still covering his own wound. The old man didn’t look optimistic. Brasti and I stared at each other, utterly miserable in our helplessness: there was no enemy for us to fight, no daring action we could take to stop the blow that had already fallen.
‘The beat of my heart to yours,’ Ethalia whispered. ‘You hear me, Kest, son of Murrow. You must answer.’ The glow around her grew brighter as her words became more desperate. ‘The beat of my heart to yours,’ she repeated. ‘Kest, by the love you bear this world, you will answer me.’
‘Is she really supposed to be glowing like that?’ Brasti asked.
‘No,’ Erastian replied, his eyes still fixed on Ethalia. ‘She’s got to stop now.’ He raised his voice. ‘You’ve got to stop now, Ethalia. It’s over. Enough now, girl.’
Ethalia’s eyes opened briefly and there was such cold fire there that even Erastian-who-plucks-the-rose knew to stop talking. ‘The beat of my heart to yours,’ she repeated, her voice stronger now, though her whole body was shaking as if the earth beneath her was breaking apart. ‘The Saint of Mercy calls you, King’s Blade, and you will answer.’
For just an instant I thought Kest had moved, bu
t it was only Ethalia, twitching under the strain of whatever invisible forces she was struggling with. ‘Something’s wrong,’ Brasti said. ‘That glow of hers is dimming.’
‘Enough,’ Erastian said, reaching out to grab at her wrist. ‘You’ll kill yourself.’
Ethalia held firm, but she cried out ‘Birgid, help me! I can’t bring him back!’
The old Saint finally managed to tear her hand away from her chest. ‘It’s done, girl,’ he said softly. ‘Let it be done.’
Ethalia began to slump forward, but she stopped herself. Her eyes went to me. ‘I’m sorry – I’m so sorry—’
‘I can thump on his chest,’ I said, moving to his side and trying to replicate her movements from earlier. ‘He’s strong. He can come back.’ You don’t go out this way, Kest. With a blade, maybe – with ten thousand masters of the sword rushing down the hillside at us, maybe. Not like this. We don’t go out just because some fucking God says so.
‘Falcio, stop,’ Brasti said. ‘You’re going to break his ribs. It’s not doing any good. Let him—’
‘No.’ I resumed pushing his chest up and down, though I had no damned clue what I was doing. Ethalia had been doing it, so it must’ve had some purpose.
Erastian sounded sympathetic as he explained, ‘His heart won’t beat for hers.’
The words held such a small, simple truth, that all the strength drained from my body and I found myself repeating them. His heart won’t beat for hers. I looked over at the old man, at this useless sack of flesh who called himself a Saint and was doing me no good whatsoever. ‘Why?’
Ethalia’s eyes were full of pleading, as if she were begging me to forgive her. ‘He won’t follow my heartbeat – he won’t come to my call.’
I grabbed Kest’s hand and put it on my own chest. ‘Then show me what to do. Maybe he’ll come back—’
‘You don’t have the power, Falcio,’ she said. ‘It’s part of the Sainthood. I can’t . . . I don’t even know how to explain it to you.’
‘Just tell me how to save him, damn you!’ I reached out and grabbed her arm. ‘There must be something else you can try. Anything.’
Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 Page 40