Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  As if that weren’t enough, Pertine was suddenly intent on rejoining the country, but required assurances: no reprisals, no punitive taxes. I tried suggesting this was for the King to deal with, but Duke Meillard had cannily worked out that we were in dire need of provisions and support to get our soldiers home.

  So by the time I finally returned to Aramor and presented myself in the new throne room (which looked suspiciously like my old courtroom, swiftly renovated for its new purpose), I did so with several decrees in hand, all of which entailed costly promises on behalf of a young and inexperienced King whose own coffers were nearly empty. Fortunately – well, depending on where you stood and how many weapons were pointed at you – Trin had a solution for all of this.

  ‘Worthless scraps of paper,’ she declared, and slapped the arm of the man holding the agreements I’d brought with me, scattering them on the floor. I’d have tried to pick them up, but there were a great many guards surrounding me at the time.

  ‘This is the only decree that matters,’ Trin said, and held out a rolled-up piece of parchment which I recognised as the one declaring me a traitor and all those who had fought with me insurrectionists. Apparently even winning a Gods-damned war doesn’t buy you out of trouble in this country.

  ‘I don’t suppose we could get the King’s opinion on the matter?’ I asked, noting the empty throne. ‘Where is our new monarch, by the way?’

  ‘Attending to matters far more important than this.’ Trin glanced down at the large shield with the Avarean armistice treaty inscribed upon it that was being held out for her by one of the clerks. After a minute or so her face lost all colour and her expression became even more terrifying than usual. I guessed she’d got to the part where I’d given up Orison and her own Duchy in exchange for the truce.

  ‘You will hang for this,’ she said. ‘You will all . . .’ She turned to one of the guards, only now noticing something that no doubt would have occurred earlier to her had she not been quite so irritated by my return on horseback rather than in a coffin. ‘Where are the others?’ she demanded. ‘Where are Kest and Brasti and the rest of your tatter—’

  ‘I imagine they’re waiting to break him out of prison again,’ Filian said, walking through one of the side doors. ‘That is why you came here alone, isn’t it, Falcio?’

  The King of Tristia wore what I assumed to be the latest fashion in royal couture. To my eyes it looked like a particularly elaborate bathrobe. His hair was elegantly groomed and a new – and properly fitted – gold circlet sat on his head. Beyond the rich clothes, though, he looked tired and his skin had a grey-green pallor to it. I wondered if perhaps Trin had already begun to poison him.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ I said, as he approached the throne. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘I’ve been a trifle ill.’

  The clerk holding the shield stared at me, aghast. ‘Who are you that you would dare speak to the King so?’

  Filian glanced down at the Avarean shield for a moment. ‘According to this he’s the Magdan of Tristia.’ He looked up at me. ‘A rather ostentatious title for a magistrate, don’t you think?’

  The question sounded flippant, but he was trying to decide what I intended to do with my newfound influence. No doubt having had to hide here in his castle while someone else led his army to war also stung. ‘It’s really more of a honorary sort of thing, your Majesty,’ I said.

  He nodded at that, as though we’d come to some sort of agreement, which I suppose we had. ‘I imagine you’re hoping that I’ll go ahead with that charter you proposed? You don’t really expect me to create some preposterous “Council of Citizens”, do you?’

  I locked eyes with him. It’s not as if I hadn’t considered the possibility that Filian would turn out to be faithless. I’d just hoped for better. ‘I suppose it all depends on what type of King you want to be, your Majesty.’

  Trin had evidently assessed the situation and now she looked upon me with something vaguely like sympathy. ‘A King’s power cannot be circumscribed by those he rules, Falcio.’ She motioned to two of the guards standing behind me. ‘Just as he cannot allow the continued existence of those who might threaten his authority.’

  ‘I never looked to garner power or influence,’ I said, oddly heartbroken by this utterly predictable duplicity. ‘I never wanted songs or stories written about me. All I wanted was to bring back the rule of law. I just wanted life to be a little more fair.’

  Trin nodded as if she understood – and maybe she did, in her own way, but it didn’t matter. She waved forward another clerk who carried with him an inch-thick sheaf of papers, along with a small golden tray containing a pen and inkwell. Trin took them and placed them on the wide arm of the throne. ‘This is the first of King Filian’s Laws,’ she said. ‘It revokes the rights and privileges of the Greatcoats immediately and for all time, names those who do not cease their activities as traitors to the country and orders their swift arrest and execution.’

  I looked at Filian, who had taken a seat on his throne. He sat there placidly, watching the last traces of his father’s dream being wiped from existence. This was what Filian’s life had all been about: raised to believe he was destined to become King of a country that was diseased and needed swift and decisive action to cut out the infection, taught the ways of power by the incomparably manipulative Duchess Patriana and worst of all, deeply in love with Trin.

  She handed him the pen and he dipped it in the inkwell. He looked up at her and I saw such adoration in his eyes. Was it magic of some kind? Spells or powders or potions administered over years to make him devoted to her? I wished I could pretend it was, but this was simply the very real love of a boy for a girl he found both beautiful and brilliant: a love that allowed him to believe she did terrible things only because this was a terrible world and a price must be paid to establish order.

  She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Trin’s eyes went wide in disbelief.

  Without prompting, Filian repeated the word. ‘No.’

  What I saw play out on her face took any joy from the moment. All the layers of deception and guile slid away, leaving only the terrible sadness and hurt that comes from complete betrayal.

  ‘I thought you loved me.’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘And I know you love me, but that isn’t enough, Tarindelle. You scheme and plot, you manipulate everyone around you, even me. When I first came to Castle Aramor, you sowed the seeds of discord and fear: you made it clear to everyone that either Aline or I had to die, and in so doing you weakened this country.’

  ‘She was weak: a foolish girl, a child—’

  ‘She was my sister,’ Filian said. ‘Those few days we had together . . . I came to see how much wisdom and courage was in her. She could have helped me rule this country. She could have helped save it – and yet when she died, you laughed.’

  ‘I . . . Filian, you don’t understand. You don’t know what these people – these damnable, heartless people – have taken from me.’

  ‘I do know,’ he said, then he placed the pen down on the tray and rose from the throne. He put his arms around her. ‘I love you now as I have always loved you – as I always will love you. But I was trained to govern as a King and you would have me rule as a Tyrant.’

  ‘I gave you a throne,’ she said numbly.

  ‘And in return, I give you your life.’ He let her go and turned to all of us. ‘The Lady Trin will be leaving now. Let no one try to interfere with her departure.’

  He turned back to her, his face weary and sorrowful. ‘If she ever attempts to return to Tristia, she is to be killed on sight.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  The Last Cantor

  There wasn’t nearly as much chaos as one might have expected. Trin left with remarkable grace, probably because she didn’t much care for the alternative. Filian si
gned documents declaring that the agreements I had negotiated were done so on his behalf and carried the full weight of his authority. He even gave me the decree naming me a traitor as a gift.

  He offered me rooms at the castle, but I’d already told the others to meet me back at the Busted Scales, the abandoned old Greatcoats tavern. Ethalia was waiting for me in one of the rooms upstairs with fresh bandages and salves to re-dress each other’s injuries. I wasn’t used to the idea of her being injured in battle, and I found the experience of treating her wounds, no matter how slight, to be profoundly unsettling. I quickly learned not to comment on it.

  For my part, it turned out I’d been hurt quite badly during the three-day war, though I hadn’t noticed it at the time. My lack of awareness struck me as odd considering how meticulous I usually was about such things after a duel. Feltock had said this was normal, that soldiers often go into a kind of shock after a battle: just one of the many ways in which war is different from duelling.

  Ethalia and I didn’t speak much while she was changing my dressings. Maybe I was still in shock. It’s rather hard to tell sometimes.

  When she was done, I heard myself ask, ‘Do you love me?’

  She took my hand and kissed it and then led me to the bed. ‘Rest,’ she said, and lay down beside me.

  Rest. Such a strange word. I had slept plenty on the way back from Pertine, but I couldn’t remember the last time I felt at rest.

  Suddenly it was much later, and I awoke with her head on my chest. I could tell from her breathing that she was already awake, so I took hold of her chin and turned her head up so I could see her eyes. ‘Ethalia, will you—?’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  ‘I was going to—’

  ‘Don’t ask me to marry you, Falcio.’

  I felt as if I’d just been struck with the flat of a blade. I let go of her chin and started to pull away but she caught me by the wrist and pulled me back.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘I told you before, there are complications between us. You need time to heal, to let the weight of the world slip from your shoulders. Maybe then you’ll know what it is you truly want.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  Ethalia gave me a weary smile. ‘Of course you don’t.’ She pushed herself up on one elbow. ‘You’re injured, beaten and heartsick. You’re full of grief and barely contained rage. I know you care for me, Falcio, but when you look at me . . . sometimes it’s as if you’ve forgotten I’m a woman; you think instead I’m the Goddess Love herself.’

  ‘Some people would take that as a compliment.’

  ‘I don’t.’ She looked through the window at the night sky for a moment. I thought the moonlight was reflecting on her face, then I realised it was the glow of her Sainthood. ‘It’s more difficult than you know to be . . . myself, sometimes.’

  ‘And me being in love with you makes that harder?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  It is fair to say that I have absolutely no understanding of women at all.

  Ethalia sensed my confusion and tried to explain. ‘You look at me as if I’m your salvation, Falcio, when I want to be – what I am – is a woman of Tristia. Nothing more, nothing less. Is that so hard to understand?’

  I couldn’t think of anything clever to say, and a banging on the door interrupted whatever else she might have said. ‘Falcio, you’ve got a visitor,’ Brasti shouted.

  ‘Tell them to bugger off.’

  ‘Sure thing. Bugger off, your Majesty,’ Brasti declared loudly.

  I rose and quickly put on my trousers and a shirt. At least I had the sense to wait until Ethalia dressed before opening the door.

  ‘Forgive my intrusion,’ Filian said.

  ‘Nice outfit, your Majesty,’ I said, noting the rich red and gold brocade robes he was wearing, despite us being in a rather shabby area of town. ‘Very discreet.’

  He looked at me for a moment with a confused expression. ‘Ah, you’re being funny. Did my father find it endearing?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he had the good grace to pretend, anyway.’

  Filian sighed. ‘Something else I’ll have to learn, I suppose. May I come in?’

  I turned to Ethalia. She nodded.

  ‘It’s your country,’ I said. ‘Who am I to—?’

  ‘Stop testing me, Falcio,’ the King said, entering the room. He handed me a document, which I guessed from the flowery writing was another decree. ‘I thought you might like to see this.’

  I looked down and glanced through the handful of paragraphs above a line where his signature should be. ‘You’re reinstating the Greatcoats permanently?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I can’t help but notice you haven’t signed the document.’

  ‘There’s something I want in return.’

  I shook my head. ‘If you’ve come to me with some list of promises and demands, your Majesty, then you’re wasting your time. The Greatcoats don’t work that way. Besides, you convicted me of treason, remember? I have a nice scroll that explains it in detail. I’m not the First Cantor any more.’

  ‘I have only one demand,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you return as First Cantor.’

  ‘I . . . find that surprising, your Majesty, given I—’

  ‘Nearly stabbed me with a sword?’

  ‘I was going to say, preached open sedition and treason against the Crown, but I do recall something about a sword in there.’

  ‘I suppose I should be flattered,’ the King said, leaning back against the small desk and folding his arms. ‘After all, didn’t you begin your relationship with my father by trying to kill him?’

  ‘There were . . . circumstances, your Majesty.’

  ‘No doubt. Well, I won’t be so presumptuous as to ask that you try to refrain from doing that in future since I suspect you can’t stop yourself from the occasional act of attempted regicide.’

  ‘I . . . are you making a joke, your Majesty?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it funny?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s not bad. Your father would have inserted something sexual in there.’

  Filian looked confused. ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was a gift he had.’

  ‘Well, I’ll keep practising. In the meantime, will you accede to my request?’

  ‘Will you really refuse to reinstate the Greatcoats if I don’t?’

  He sighed and reached into the folds of his robes to pull out a small case. He opened it and removed an elaborately carved wooden pen and a small bottle of ink, both of which he set on the desk. He pulled the stopper, dipped the pen and signed his name to the decree. ‘No more ultimatums. No more drama. I would as soon be known as the most boring King in the history of our country.’ He turned back to me. ‘Now, will you retake your position?’

  I looked at Ethalia, who said, ‘This is your decision, Falcio. Don’t ask me to make it for you.’

  The King stared at her with a mystified expression. ‘Who are you, exactly, my Lady, that the man who has shaken the foundations of this country, who once duelled a God and found a way to win an unwinnable war, should seek your permission?’

  ‘Just some woman,’ I said.

  I thought it sounded funny at the time.

  Filian’s eyes were still on Ethalia. ‘No, my Lady,’ he said. ‘Whatever Falcio says, I do not believe you are just “some woman”.’ He bowed then, which made me like him a little more, but didn’t change anything.

  ‘I’m sorry, your Majesty,’ I said. ‘I can’t be First Cantor of the Greatcoats any more.’

  He looked a little annoyed, a little sad and a little scared. ‘I . . . Falcio, I need—’

  ‘I’m broken,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Fillion’s confused expression bet
rayed his youthfulness; he hadn’t yet seen enough of the world to understand it.

  ‘I know you don’t, your Majesty. But unfortunately, I don’t know of any better way to say it. I’m broken. I’ve given everything I had to this country and now I need to stop, at least for a while.’

  He looked as though he were about to protest but then held back, which I thought showed remarkable wisdom. ‘What will you do?’ he asked finally.

  I looked at Ethalia again, wondering briefly whether if I asked her to marry me right then and there in front of the King she’d feel obliged to say yes, to spare me the humiliation of a refusal. Then I came to my senses and said instead, ‘I’m not sure, your Majesty. There’s a little island off the coast of Baern which I’m told is a nice place to recuperate for a while.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘When will you leave?’

  ‘Soon, but first I need to . . .’

  It started as a sigh that took too much breath from me. I simply couldn’t finish that sentence, couldn’t speak at all. Right there in front of the woman who’d just told me she didn’t want me to ask her to marry me, in front of my new King who was all of fifteen years old, I started crying.

  ‘Ah,’ Filian said gently, after a while. ‘Of course. You have one final duty to perform.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  The Cottage

  I found her where I’d first met her, in a little cottage on a road a mile or so outside of Aramor whose only distinction was that if you kept walking it long enough it just happened to lead all the way back to a small farm in Pertine where a foolish boy had once been born, had spent his childhood dreaming of Greatcoats, had met a girl and had, for a very short while, been happy.

  ‘I wondered when you’d come,’ Magrit Denezia said, though to me she would always be the Tailor. She led me inside and then sat heavily in the room’s only chair, content, apparently, for me to stand.