Traitor's Blade (The Greatcoats)

by de Castell, Sebastien

  ‘I can hear you just fine, Falcio.’

  Good. Then let me go. And can I suggest you do something about your breath?

  She ignored the jibe – or maybe she had lied about being able to hear me. ‘Ready to make the sacrifice now, Falcio?’ she asked.

  I already did. I did everything he asked of me.

  I slipped under the water again – or was it out of the water? I felt my King’s hand on my shoulder, my wife’s fingertips touching my cheek. The air was scented, pine and baked bread. I want to wake up to this, now.

  ‘Get the girl over here.’ The harsh voice of the Tailor broke through the sounds of leaves rustling and running streams. ‘Kest, give me your sword.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Just you shut up and do as you’re told. Saint or not, I can still put a beating on you better’n you deserve.’

  The hand on my jaw shook me again. Foul breath filled my senses and dragged me back into the world. ‘Do you want to know how the neatha works, Falcio?’ the Tailor asked.

  No. Why would I care?

  She shook me again, and my vision returned for a second. The Tailor’s face was close to mine. In her hand she held Kest’s sword. Aline stood behind her.

  ‘It’s a powdered form of the soft candy, Falcio – just what you forced Paelis to have his apothecaries make. It works by tricking your body into letting go of itself. That’s why it doesn’t hurt. The poison’s not killing you – it’s just letting you die. It takes away will and need and the stubborn anger of relentless life. Ironic, isn’t it?’

  Not especially. Her mention of the King made me seek him out again, but she shook my jaw a third time. ‘No, no, Falcio. You haven’t answered my question. Are you ready to make the sacrifice?’

  Yes! Yes, you foul old bitch. I’ve sacrificed everything. I fought for his laws and I fought for his daughter. I’ve fought and fought and fought until all that’s left of me is a blade in my hand and anger in my heart. I’ve made the sacrifice. Now let me go!

  ‘Ah, you fool. Dying isn’t sacrifice. Haven’t you figured that out yet? All those years of trying to get yourself killed in battle? That ain’t sacrifice, boy. That’s self-loathing. It’s gleeful suicide. It’s vanity.’

  I felt her hand release my jaw and saw her stand up. She pushed Aline in front of me and took the sword in both her hands, pulling it back in line with the girl’s neck. ‘Now this? This is sacrifice!’

  Aline’s trusting eyes held mine as the blade began its arc towards her neck.

  No—! Kest! The old woman’s lost her mind – she’s mad with grief, and no one but me can see it … she’s going to—

  Pain exploded in every fibre of my body. Blurred vision sharpened into a narrow tunnel in front of me, though I could see nothing but red. The world was all blood and dust and agony was everywhere, radiating first and foremost from my left hand. My ears were filled with the sounds of my own uncontrollable coughing and tears came streaming from my eyes. I forced them shut. It was as if all my senses were trying to expel all traces of peace and gentleness from me.

  ‘Falcio?’ Was that Kest’s voice?

  I tried to will away the clarity that was coming back to me. No – let me go. Let me go back.

  ‘Falcio, you need to open your eyes now. You need to let go of the sword.’

  Unwillingly, unbearably, my eyes opened. I was on my knees, and Aline was still there in front of me. She hadn’t moved. A sword was held in mid-air, its blade an inch from her neck, held in place by my bleeding hand, its weight making it cut even deeper into my flesh. The Tailor had already let go of it and only my grip was keeping it from clattering to the cave floor.

  Kest took the sword in one hand and gently pulled my fingers apart with the other. His eyes were soft and sad for me. Someone wrapped my hand in cloth. If I’d had the strength, I would have ripped it off. I had tasted peace, and love. And reward. I had been at the edge of the warm lands, near those I longed most to see again, and instead, here I was, back in this foul world with all its corruption and putre-faction, its broken hopes and desperate need.

  The Tailor shoved Kest aside and grabbed me by the back of the head. Her fingers entangled themselves in my hair and pulled back hard, forcing my gaze up to the ceiling of the cave. She leaned in so that her face filled my vision. ‘This, Falcio: this is sacrifice. This is the price you pay for your valour.’ She kissed me on the lips. It was perhaps the most disgusting sensation of my entire life, but it did take my mind off the pain in my hand.

  Then she smiled her crooked smile at me. ‘Now get off your arse and let’s get to work.’

  *

  I stayed that way, on my knees, for a few minutes more. I knew I should move, get up, deal with whatever was coming next, but I couldn’t. I had tasted joy and release and an ending to all the pain and rage that had filled my life. Since the day I’d found my wife’s broken body in that tavern, I had taken refuge in madness. Now the madness was gone, taken from me, and only the pain remained. I cursed the Tailor for what she had done. I cursed the King for breaking his promise to reunite me with my wife. And I cursed her too, for having been so damnably brave on that day. You and I will grow old together and laugh at the day these silly birds came to rest in our fields. She had been wrong and stupid and she had left me alone in this place that was so full of festering rot that I could no longer even see the edges of the decay around me.

  Hands gripped me by the arms and lifted me up. I knew it was Kest and Brasti, for no one else would have dared. I lacked even the desire to resist, and so I let them carry me out of the cave, my arms slung around their shoulders like a drunk. My eyes were closed, but I felt the warmth of the early morning sun on my face and so I opened them, hoping the harsh light would blind me, at least for a little while.

  ‘Hells, Falcio,’ Brasti said, his voice soft. ‘There aren’t words to say how sorry I am.’

  Out of reflex I opened my mouth speak, but there was nothing to say.

  ‘Leave it,’ Kest said.

  ‘No,’ Brasti said. ‘No. This has to be said. We have to acknowledge what’s happened here.’ He let go of me and I found my feet. Kest tried to steady me, but I pushed him away.

  Brasti turned to me and put his hands on my shoulders and shook his head. ‘Gods and Saints, Falcio. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so very sorry. I can’t imagine what you’ve just experienced.’

  ‘Brasti, let him be,’ Kest said.

  ‘Falcio, I have to know. What was it like? How bad was it?’

  My eyes found his. I couldn’t believe anyone could ask me such a thing.

  Brasti gave my shoulders a small shake. ‘I need to know, Falcio,’ he said, the sympathy in his expression suddenly replaced by a manic grin. ‘What’s it like having to kiss that hideous old woman?’

  For a moment it felt as if everything around me stopped completely. Even the wind held its breath. Until that instant I had never truly understood despair, though I had lived with it my whole life. I thought despair was something you fought and died fighting – something you had to clothe yourself in madness and rage to protect against. But then, against all logic and decency, Brasti had decided, in that impossible moment, to turn all the pain in the world into a joke. You and I will grow old together and laugh at the day these silly birds came to rest in our fields, she had said to me. Hollow words, and yet their very emptiness left a hole that demanded to be filled. The sound that broke through my lips was harsh and awkward, like a man who’d forgotten how to speak, but it set Brasti off and he started laughing like a fool.

  ‘Gods, Falcio, she kissed you so hard your jaw doesn’t even work right any more.’

  Then I heard what was quite possibly the most ridiculous sound I’d ever heard: Kest was giggling. ‘It’s not funny,’ he said, trying to stop.

  ‘Of course it isn’t, you stupid Saint,’ Brasti said. ‘There’s nothing funny about those mottled lips, that foul breath reaching deep inside a man. Tell me, Falcio, could you actually feel
your balls shrivel up when you tasted her tongue?’

  ‘Stop it,’ Kest said, still chortling so hard he looked as if he could barely keep upright.

  ‘I really need to know,’ Brasti said, plaintively. ‘If you get to be the Saint of Swords, I should at least be able to be the Saint of Lovers. I imagine that, since you have to be able to defeat anyone in battle, I’ll have to be able to defeat them in bed – and what better preparation could there be than bedding the Tailor? Come on, Falcio, put in a word for me, help me become the Saint I’ve always been meant to be!’

  Kest stumbled back and fell down on the ground. ‘Enough,’ he said, ‘I can’t take it any more!’

  ‘Hah!’ Brasti said. ‘I’ve defeated the great Saint of Swords!’ He started hopping back and forth, his fists in the air in mock imitation of the unarmed combat lessons Kest used to teach. ‘Come on, Kest, how long did you last as a Saint? Half a day?’

  In the distance behind him I saw a small figure standing alone. I left Kest and Brasti and walked towards her. She had her arms crossed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me who my father was?’ she asked. Her voice was thick with anger and hurt.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I said. ‘I only realised it when I was … when the poison was in me.’

  ‘And Trin? The Tailor says she’s still out there somewhere.’

  ‘I—’

  Patriana’s laughter back in Rijou still haunted me: ‘My daughter is much more dangerous than I am.’

  ‘No, I guess I didn’t realise who she was, either.’

  ‘Well then, you’re a very stupid person, aren’t you.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘I am just starting to discover that, yes.’ Then I looked down at her, as if for the very first time. She was a pretty girl, I thought, though her sharp features would likely prevent her from ever becoming the legendary beauty of storybook princesses. My King’s long nose and wide mouth had seen to that. So many of his little quirks were written in her expression and, despite everything that had happened, I found myself smiling. How could I not have seen it before?

  ‘What?’ Aline said, kicking me.

  I laughed. ‘Your face.’

  ‘What about my face?’

  I knelt down and hugged her. ‘It delights me.’

  Her arms suddenly gripped tight around me and great sobs filled the air, but whether they were hers or mine, I could not tell.

  ‘I never even knew him,’ she said, ‘so why do I miss him?’

  I wanted to tell her that I had known King Paelis better than my own self. I wanted to tell her that he was a man of humour, of dirty jokes and wicked smiles – that he had known darkness and despair, and emerged determined to light candles for everyone else. He read every book he had ever chanced to find, and from them he drew a thousand ideas. He had spent his life putting them in motion, but he never forgot his friends or his compassion. I wanted to tell her how she had got the name Aline.

  But not now; not yet.

  ‘Well, first of all,’ I said, ‘he was a terrible swordsman and a lousy cook.’

  I felt her cheek rub against mine as she started giggling uncontrollably, and that’s how we stayed for a few minutes more, while mad hopefulness surrounded us and spread like rainwater over the hard surface of the world.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  In lieu of acknowledgements, here’s a seven-step plan to get published:

  First, marry a librarian. My wife, Christina, knows more about books and readers than I ever will. She inspires me with her brilliance, her beauty and her limited patience for my whining.

  Second, you need one of your best friends to be a better writer than you are. Eric Torin has read this story almost as many times as I have and every time has guided me in making it better.

  Third, you need alpha readers. John de Castell, Terry Lanthier, Jessica Leigh, Clark-Bojin and Dennis Boulter were all kind enough to read this book long before it was worth reading.

  Fourth, well, when you get to step four, you’ll know exactly what you have to do. It’s the hard part. It helps when you work with uniquely creative people like those at Vancouver Film School.

  Fifth, once the book is getting close, you need people who can read your work and tell you what’s missing. Kathryn Zeller, Kim Tough and Samarth Chandola all provided great insight into those last few miles of writing.

  Sixth, you need an agent who is savvy, supportive and smiles when you talk about your ridiculous ideas and expectations. Heather Adams of the HMA Literary Agency is my publishing guardian angel. I would never have met her if not for Christina (see step one: marry a librarian.)

  Finally, you need a publisher and editor willing to get to know your story better than you do. The remarkable Jo Fletcher and Adrienne Kerr work with authors I idolise and yet they spend just as much time on my writing. Jo also once helped foil a bomb plot. Seriously.

  Sebastien de Castell

  Vancouver, 2013