It was looking awfully like Rhyleis was delighting in my hesitation. ‘You know, it’s rumoured that making love before a duel steadies the hand and steels the nerves, Falcio.’
I chuckled, embarrassingly. ‘I’ve read almost all of the books on fencing ever written, Rhyleis, and never once have I found that particular suggestion.’
‘We Bardatti are the keepers of mysteries,’ she said, and stood on her toes to kiss me. ‘We know any number of things that others do not.’
‘And apparently there are a few things you don’t know that everyone else does,’ Ethalia said from behind her.
Neither of us had heard her come up the stairs – or at least I hadn’t. ‘Ah, forgive me, Sancti,’ Rhyleis said without a trace of sincerity. ‘I’m so terribly embarrassed by my wanton behaviour. You must find me truly reprehensible.’
Ethalia came forward into the light of the candle. ‘Rhyleis, I’m not quite sure if you’re trying to mock me for being too prudish or mocking me because I was a prostitute.’
‘Can’t it be both?’ she asked archly. ‘Or perhaps it’s simply that I don’t understand a woman who thinks it proper to discard a delightful puppy by the side of the road and then resent someone else for wanting to pick him up.’
The two of them stared daggers at each other and I remembered how Brasti liked to regale Kest and me with tales about the times when two beautiful women had fought over him. We had always assumed he was making those stories up . . . because, in fact, he absolutely was making them up. Hells.
‘Drop the act, Rhyleis,’ I said, irritated.
Rhyleis looked up at me, eyes full of innocent confusion. ‘My darling?’ She kept it up for a good long time before she broke out laughing. ‘It’s not entirely deception, First Cantor. I promise I would, in fact, give serious consideration to spending the night with you . . . were circumstances otherwise.’
Ethalia’s eyes narrowed. ‘This was a performance. You made sure I saw you coming up to Falcio’s room.’
The Bardatti gave a small bow. ‘And now, my sacred work is done.’ She looked up and winked at me. ‘I leave you to your very important spiritual consultations.’ She skipped down the stairs, leaving us alone.
‘And people say my plans are stupid,’ I said.
‘Perhaps we should be flattered,’ Ethalia said. ‘Don’t the stories say that when the Bardatti interfere in matters of the heart it is because they foresee a romance for the ages?’
‘Really? Who is it who tells those stories, I wonder.’
She smiled. ‘That would be the Bardatti, I believe.’
It was, I supposed, a kindness on Rhyleis’ part, an attempt to bring some small joy into our lives before everything went to hell. ‘I’m sorry she disturbed your meditations,’ I said.
Ethalia stepped past me into the room. ‘If I am to be honest, I . . . wanted to come.’
‘Really?’ I asked.
What followed was an unimaginably awkward series of furtive glances and half-begun words back and forth, until eventually we managed to establish that Ethalia had not meant she was coming to sleep with me, and I had not intended to imply I wouldn’t want to see her otherwise.
‘We appear to be quite hopeless at this,’ she said at last with a laugh.
‘Being hopeless at things is one of the few skills I’ve mastered lately,’ I said.
Ethalia took one of my hands in hers and suddenly the laughter was gone. ‘Your plan, Falcio . . . it will all come down to you and me at the end.’
‘I know.’
She looked up at me. ‘The others . . . For all their courage, they don’t believe we can win. They fear the will of a God cannot be withstood by mere human beings.’
‘I know that, too.’
We stood there, staring at each other for a long time. Everything about Ethalia is in the eyes, and that’s why I suddenly found myself barely able to breathe. It wasn’t fear or doubt or even compassion I saw there. It was pure determination.
‘Then we will show them just how dangerous the two of us can be.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
The Falling Tower
Bottio begins his chapter on the deaths of expert fencers with this: On the morning of your last duel, your opponent, like a brilliant and battle-tested general, will first gain advantage of the terrain.
I remember reading that line for the first time, wondering if I’d mistakenly picked up a book of military strategy. Everyone knows a duelling court has no topography – there’s no ‘terrain’ to benefit one side or the other; it’s just a floor. But in the next paragraph, Bottio explains himself. Look not to the ground, poor fool, but to the air all around you. Are there ladies in the courtroom who just happen to be wearing the very scent your enemy has learned you are allergic to? Listen. Do the musicians play songs of sorrow that are making you weary and fearful? Has the enemy set sights before you in the court, like pieces on a game board, that will make you feel trapped, like a fox in a cage as the dogs circle around, waiting to pounce?
Say what you want about Bottio’s prose, but the man understood duelling.
As we approached the remains of Castle Aramor for the last time, it was clear the Blacksmith understood it too.
Thick clouds of grey dust still drifted listlessly across the ruins, covering the pilgrims as they knelt, coughing and choking out their hymns in praise of the same God whose demand for reverence was slowly killing them.
A massive wooden platform had been assembled over a bed of broken stone and mortar, unshaded from the sun except by the lone tower that stood precariously against the remains of the curtain wall, looking rather like a tired old man leaning on his cane. I did wonder if our enemy had left that tower standing just so he could later drop it on our heads.
Knights in white tabards and Inquisitors in grey coats stood at the back and in the centre, between dozens of prettily dressed noblemen, was the empty throne of Aramor.
‘Lucky for the God that the throne wasn’t crushed when the castle fell,’ Brasti noted. ‘Otherwise he’d’ve had to find a different prop.’
‘Why would a God give a damn?’ Darriana asked from behind me.
It was Valiana who answered. ‘Because this is theatre. The Blacksmith wants to use this moment to create the illusion of legitimacy.’
‘Everyone stop worrying about the damned chair,’ I said. My attention was focused on the assemblage of nobles, who looked perfectly normal except for the feral glee in their eyes and the weapons at their sides. Husbands and wives stood together, apparently united in the desire for petty power at the expense of their souls. Boys and girls barely tall enough to hold a sword stared out with mad grins at the crowds of pilgrims, hungry to mete out revenge for every petty slight they thought the world had dealt them. In Tommer I had seen the very best of youthful enthusiasm; here stood the worst.
How much of your souls did you trade away for a little power, you great lords and ladies? I wanted to shout. How long do you expect it to last?
‘At least the Dukes aren’t among them,’ Kest observed.
‘Because they’re hiding away in their little palaces,’ Brasti countered.
Jillard isn’t, I thought. If he hasn’t already joined up with the Blacksmith it’s probably only because he has worse things in mind for me.
Brasti nudged me. ‘It’s not too late to have Aline taken out of the country, Falcio.’
I glanced back at the others: fewer than a dozen Greatcoats and the fourteen-year-old heir to the throne, come to challenge a God to a duel. I was sure Brasti knew just how tempted I was to take his advice. And maybe I would run, if I thought there was somewhere we could hide from a God . . .
‘We’re not running,’ Aline said. ‘This ends here, today.’
What do you say to someone who, even while her hands are shaking with terror, stands there still, awaiting death bravely? Had her father been on that field, even just in my imagination, I was confident he’d have made a joke, so I tried to come up with one, but
I failed. Staring out at Castle Aramor’s broken remains, I thought, Some things just aren’t funny, your Majesty. Ever since my King had died I’d fought and bled trying to bring back a past that probably existed only in my imagination. But others had their own notion of what a golden age should look like: a nightmare worse than this country had ever seen.
‘They’re coming,’ Kest warned.
‘Last chance,’ Brasti said. ‘If we go now we can st—’
The Prelate Obladias emerged from the grey haze resplendent in robes in a hundred shimmering shades of white. The Blacksmith walked close behind, wearing his plain leather apron and the wide belt holding the simple tools of his trade. His plain appearance was a mask, though, hiding the most devious and dangerous mind the world had ever known. I needed no more evidence of that than the sight of the figure at his side: Tristia’s one true God.
‘It’s too late to run,’ I said.
Unlike the Prelate, the God wasn’t dressed in finery, and unlike the Blacksmith, he made no pretence of being a simple craftsman. He still wore Fost’s face. Over his chest he wore the same steel and gold breastplate; his powerful arms were bare save for thick golden rings around his biceps and forearms. Cuisse and greaves covered his legs. And every part of him glowed as if all the sun’s light were reflected from him.
The voices of the thousands of pilgrims rose at his presence in a haggard crescendo of awe – even I felt like praising him. How had I ever convinced myself I could fight him? I wasn’t a Tailor or a Blacksmith; I couldn’t twist events to my liking. I was a magistrate. I was supposed to enforce the Law, that was all.
So do that, I reminded myself. Stop making this about magic and Gods and the fate of the world. I glanced over at Ethalia. Her eyes were closed as she struggled to find the strength to live up to Saint Birgid’s legacy.
This began with a murder. Let it end with a trial. ‘You shouldn’t have killed Birgid-who-weeps-rivers, you son of a bitch,’ I muttered out loud. I looked at my army and saw the effect of the God’s presence on their faces. ‘He’s just like every other criminal we’ve had to arrest, only unimaginably powerful and especially venal,’ I said loudly. ‘Fuck him and his Awe.’
That got me a chuckle, and some of the Greatcoats even looked like they might believe I was as brave as I tried to sound.
‘It’s starting,’ Aline said as Prelate Obladias stepped to the front of the dais.
‘The time has come, false Queen,’ he boomed. He was really playing to the crowd, who were watching, enraptured. ‘It is time for you to make your confession.’
Aline led us to the dais, then bade the rest of us to stop once we reached its foot. She turned to me and took my hands. ‘You have your orders, First Cantor?’ she asked, very seriously.
‘Put the pointy end into the bad man?’ I replied.
‘Did my father ever point out to you that you have a distinct lack of reverence for the monarchy?’
‘Only twice a day, sweetheart.’
She let go of my hands. ‘I’m about to die for the cause you and he started. Don’t call me “sweetheart”.’
‘Anything you say, poppet.’
She shook her head at me and walked up the three steps to the dais. ‘I am here,’ she said, speaking not just to Obladias but also to the pilgrims, ‘to meet on this field. To settle the future of this nation. I am Aline of Tristia, and I stand before you without—’
‘Kneel,’ the God said.
Without even a moment’s resistance, as if a thousand chains had suddenly clamped around her limbs, Aline dropped to her knees.
‘Hells . . .’ I heard Mateo mumble behind me.
‘You’ve killed her,’ the Tailor growled in my ear. ‘You’ve sent her to her death and now there’s—’
‘Shut up,’ I said, holding back the overwhelming urge to run to her, to try to get her out of there. ‘Now is when we see.’
‘See what?’ the Tailor demanded. ‘She didn’t last even a second. His Awe is too strong.’
I looked at the fourteen year-old girl in whose hands I had just placed the fate of the world. ‘Now we see if Aline deserves to be our Queen.’
*
The first part of our plan was based on a hunch. Every other deity was made from a single, fundamental human drive: the need for Love, the greed for Coin, the impulse to wage War. The Prelate wanted us to believe that this was the One God, the True God above all others – but I had a different theory. The Blacksmith had made the only God he could with the materials he had to work with. He had used murder and terror to unleash panic upon the population because that was the easiest metal to shape. People were always afraid in Tristia, so the Blacksmith had brought forth a God of Fear.
‘Hold to your oaths,’ I said, looking around, making sure I caught everyone’s eye. ‘When the time comes, remember the words.’
‘We have a bigger problem than just dying,’ Brasti pointed out, and when Talia looked worried, he explained, ‘It looks like that damned monk is going to give a speech.’
Obladias stood tall and raised his arms wide so his flowing robes caught the wind. I bet he practised that. ‘People of Tristia,’ he said, as if the entire country was listening to him and not simply the crazed few massing outside a ruined castle. Mind you, maybe he is talking to the whole country, I thought; his voice was echoing with perfect clarity across the expanse of dirt and rubble.
‘That’s a clever touch,’ Kest noted.
‘Why does the Blacksmith look bored?’ Quentis asked.
‘His labours are complete,’ the Tailor said, her eyes on the big man. ‘He has put all the pieces in place and hammered them into the shape he willed. He cares nothing for this pomp and ceremony; for him, there is only the work.’
Inlaudati: that’s what he had called those like himself and the Tailor. Please let there be only the two of you.
‘People of Tristia,’ Obladias repeated, ‘the Church comes not to rule you but to free you.’
‘That’s nice. Can we go home then?’ Brasti asked.
‘Shhh . . .’ I was curious about where he was going with this.
Obladias stepped in front of Aline and loomed over her. ‘This nation has lived under the heel of tyrants for too long.’ He knelt down and lifted a handful of her hair.
My hands twitched, desperate to draw my rapiers, to drive a blade through the bastard’s throat. Wait, I told myself. Have faith for once in your damned life.
‘A child, with a child’s ambition and a child’s arrogance, comes to command you.’ The Prelate let Aline’s hair fall back down to cover her face. ‘And why? Because the Law says so – because words in a book dictate that we should allow a foolish girl to rule over men.’
‘Is it me, or do these people really dislike women?’ Brasti asked.
Obladias strode along the front of the dais towards us. ‘There!’ he shouted pointing, ‘you see there? You see what this heresy of “Law” has brought us? Saints and Trattari and Bardatti and Dashini and every other kind of hateful creature place themselves above you, above those who live righteously, according to nature.’
And there it is: ‘according to nature’.
‘See how these heretics look down on you? See how they consider you lesser beings for all that you live and toil and do as your natures command? These . . . magistrates . . . seek to tell you what laws you must obey. There is only one Law: live according to your nature!’
There’s that phrase again.
‘Those who live in humility live in happiness,’ he crowed. ‘Those who live in humility live in decency. They live under the one true Law.’ Obladias turned to gaze upon the Blacksmith’s God. ‘We have brought you that one Law made manifest. Today we free you from the bonds of the traitors’ false laws. Today we give you back the right to live according to your nature. We give you back the joy of humility. We give you back the most precious right of all.’
The God said, ‘Kneel.’
Every single person in the crowd fell to their knees
. So did we.
Well, shit.
Obladias, completely unaffected by the God’s voice, walked back to Aline and reached down to grab her by the jaw. ‘I will hear your confession now, little girl.’ When she didn’t speak he looked out to the crowd, an expression of mock bewilderment on his face. ‘What, no grand declarations? No proclamations of your laws and your rights?’ He motioned to the empty throne. ‘Why do you not rise and take your rightful seat, oh mighty Queen of all Tristia?’ Obladias made a show of scratching at his chin, then he stopped and tapped the side of his head. ‘Ah . . . I see. Is it perhaps because we need no Queens here? Is it perhaps because you are naught but a spoiled child badly overdue for proper punishment?’ He reached down a third time and grabbed her hair, this time pulling hard and forcing her chin all the way back. ‘Is it because you are afraid? Come now, girl, confess!’
‘I am afraid,’ Aline replied, the words so softly spoken I was surprised we could all hear her. ‘I am always afraid.’
‘He’s doing something to her,’ the Tailor growled. ‘He’s making her—’
‘Wait,’ I said.
As if suddenly overcome by compassion, the Prelate placed a hand gently against Aline’s cheek. ‘There, there. You are only a child, and it is right that a child should fear her betters.’ He leaned forward and spat on her head.
Okay, I’m killing you first, you bastard.
He started to rise, but Aline reached out with trembling fingers and grabbed his hand. ‘If only I had a child’s fears, Venerati. If only my fears were the kind which could be banished by a mother’s arms, or would fade with the day’s first light.’
‘Enough,’ the Prelate said, tearing his hand away. ‘Do not seek to beg for—’
But Aline wasn’t finished. ‘You were right to call me a child, Venerati. I begin each day as one. I sit in my bed each morning, my eyes full of a child’s tears, waiting in vain for someone – anyone – to take away those fears. No one does – no one can. Do you know what I’ve learned about being a Queen, Venerati?’ She looked so small, kneeling there, shaking beneath the gaze of a God.
Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 Page 48