‘What happened?’
His lips pursed slightly – it wasn’t an expression I’d seen on him before. Then I understood he’d tried to shrug, but his shoulders hadn’t responded. ‘The Duchess planned her attack to perfection. There was a disturbance outside the castle, half the guards left to investigate and by the time we recognised the remaining men were all hers, it was too late.’ He sighed. ‘Ossia would have made a fine General, I think.’
‘I don’t remember you being hit, your Grace. You’d think I’d have noticed a Duke’s arm falling to the floor.’
He didn’t laugh, but one corner of his mouth rose a little. ‘My own fault, I’m afraid. I assumed Ossia was planning to move against Aline, so I thought I could win myself favour with our new King by killing her myself – after all, why be a bystander to history when you can get your name in the books?’ He gave a little chuckle this time. ‘Never made such a bad bet in my entire life.’
‘You’re lying.’ The truth, for once, was written plainly in his eyes. ‘You tried to save Aline.’
‘He reached for the blade as it was coming for her,’ Valiana said softly. ‘The doctor hoped that by removing the limb, the poison could be stopped in time.’
The sallow skin and pallor made it clear the doctor had been wrong.
Jillard opened his mouth to speak again and I waited for one of his usual acerbic remarks to emerge. I think he expected one too, but instead, tears formed in his eyes and he whispered, ‘I thought Tommer was there.’
‘In the throne room?’
His head twitched left, then right. ‘No.’ He paused, maybe trying to conserve some last vestiges of strength within himself before he continued, ‘Aline understood before the rest of us did that Filian was the target, not her. She ran to save him – she was trying to get past one of Ossia’s guards – a huge man, so much stronger than her. He looked more like a tree she was trying to climb than an opponent she could ever hope to defeat. She was screaming for someone to help – and when she turned and looked at me—’ He stopped abruptly, and I was shocked to hear a sob escape his lips.
‘It makes no sense,’ he whispered. His eyes caught mine. ‘It was as if she was looking at someone else inside me. Someone . . . different.’
‘Tommer.’
The slight quiver of his head was acknowledgment enough. ‘I thought . . . if I do what Tommer would do . . . if I run to her, if I save her life, I’ll feel him with me again. If I can be reckless and brave, just as he would be, then when the blade strikes me instead of her, I’ll close my eyes and Tommer will be there, watching me – not smiling; he’ll be too shocked for that – but his eyes will widen and I will see reflected there the pride of a son for his father.’
The music changed again, the notes becoming heavier, each one filled with regret.
Jillard’s bitter laugh came out as a cough. ‘I failed, of course. The blade sliced the palm of my hand before it made its way to Aline. All I accomplished was to give the country a death it needn’t grieve to balance out the one that will bring sorrow for a hundred years.’ He looked up at me. ‘I should have known I wasn’t meant for heroics.’
There was a longing in his eyes, so I said, ‘Oh, I don’t know, your Grace. Maybe you just need more practise.’
He laughed then; though brittle, it was genuine. The effort drained the last of the colour from his face. ‘I have a joke to tell you,’ he said.
‘You have at best a dozen good breaths left to you in this life. Do you really want to waste them on telling me a joke?’
‘The joke isn’t for you,’ he said, and his eyes went to Valiana.
‘Your Grace?’ she asked.
‘Come here.’
She hesitated, and although I had no reason to believe he meant her harm, I felt an urge to stand between them. After all, it’s not as if he’d ever needed a reason before.
Nonetheless, Valiana went to his bedside and she even took his remaining hand in hers, for all that she loathed him.
‘When Patriana first brought you to me, I fancied that you looked more like me than her. Of course, then I learned that Trin was my blood and you were, well, no one.’
Valiana let the insult go by. ‘I’ve come to believe that blood is a poor indicator of virtue, your Grace.’
‘I . . . came to a similar conclusion,’ he conceded, ‘the day I watched you fight in my dungeon to save Tommer’s life. I could owe no greater debt than that.’
‘He was my brother,’ she said, the determination in her voice brooking no dissent. ‘And he saved me in return.’
Jillard appeared not to have heard, and I wondered if he was even aware that we were still there. ‘I hate debts,’ he went on, ‘so I thought I could repay this one. I spent a little time and a great deal of money to find your parents. I thought . . . I thought you might like to know who they were.’
Valiana’s eyes widened. ‘You found my parents?’
‘Your mother.’
‘Who was she—? Is she still alive—?’
‘She is not; she died shortly after you were born. As to her name: she referred to herself as the Viscountess Puchelia, although it was well-known amongst the court that her title was somewhat exaggerated. Her presence was tolerated because of her extreme beauty and her . . . charms.’
‘Her “charms”?’ Valiana’s tone grew harsh. ‘Is this the joke you summoned me here to inflict on me, your Grace? Did you expect me to be ashamed to discover my mother was a prostitute?’
‘Not a prostitute,’ Jillard corrected her, ‘a courtesan. But I can see from your face that you’re not getting the joke.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Jillard looked up at me. ‘For Saints’ sake, Falcio, don’t tell me you don’t get it either?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid your serpentine wit eludes me as always, your Grace.’
By way of answer, Jillard very slowly took his hand, which was trembling badly, from hers, reached up and stroked her cheek. ‘She looks a bit like Trin, does she not? Though somewhat prettier, I think.’
It took me a moment more to work out what he was trying to tell us.
Oh . . . hells.
‘And there it is,’ Jillard said, clearly cheered by my sudden discomfort. ‘Patriana’s plan had always been to hide Trin in plain sight while she secured the support of the Dukes to put her daughter on the throne. So she needed someone who wouldn’t display any of Trin’s darker qualities, but it also had to be someone who looked as much like her as possible.’
Valiana’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t understand. What does all this have to do with—?’
‘I believe the reason his Grace knows of your mother’s apparent charms was because he was one of her . . . admirers.’
Jillard nodded feebly. ‘Evidently Patriana made a habit of stealing useful babies.’
Valiana looked at me. ‘But . . . but that would mean . . .’
‘Tommer was indeed your brother,’ Jillard said. ‘Well, your half-brother, I suppose.’ He let out a breath and sagged deeper into the bed as he took her hand again and held it to his lips. He kissed it. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to drop the “val Mond” surname. You will be known from now on as Valiana, Duchess of Rijou.’
He tried to laugh at his own joke, but by then there was no breath left in him. Leaving chaos in his wake, Jillard, Duke of Rijou, my enemy, my friend, died.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The Coronation
A guard escorted me back to my cell with Jillard’s little joke still ringing in my ears. Part of me hoped Valiana would follow, that she would grab hold of me and whisper in my ear that, despite this news, I was still her father in some way that mattered. It was a petty, selfish thought. Valiana’s birth – her whole life – had been a toy played with by others. She’d spent her first eighteen years as the daughter of a Duke and a
Duchess, the heir to the throne, a convenient fiction to serve Patriana’s purposes, until the day she was no longer needed, and discovered she was nothing more than the daughter of some unknown peasant.
Being Valiana, of course she’d come to see her common birth as a badge of pride: evidence the country badly needed to show that the value of a life was in its living, that nobility was found in courage and dignity, rather than lineage.
Now that too had become a jest. I was certain Jillard hadn’t intended his revelation to be cruel, but it was perhaps the cruellest joke of all. Valiana wasn’t just the first new Greatcoat since the King’s death, but the finest there had ever been. Now the new Duchess of Rijou would instead spend her life dealing with intrigues and conspiracies, struggling to bring some semblance of peace and decency to a violent, hopelessly corrupt Duchy. It was the work of a lifetime – if she was even given enough of a lifetime in which to accomplish it.
That thought alone was enough to make me depsise this country all over again.
*
I had never been to a coronation before. I’d been a babe in my mother’s arms the day King Gregor had ascended to the throne, and I’d missed the next one while I was stumbling through the country in a haze of madness seeking revenge on every nobleman and axeman I could find – I hadn’t even known that Gregor had died and his unwanted son Paelis had ascended the throne until the night I’d dragged myself up a long sewer tunnel with a sword in hand, determined to sever a King’s head from his neck.
It’s funny how these things can come back to haunt you.
From the way people talk about them, I’d always imagined coronations to be grand affairs, weeks-long festivals of pomp and circumstance, grandiose demonstrations of power, conspicuous consumption and compassion, with foreign dignitaries arriving by the boatload, all hoping to curry favour even as they’re assessing the new monarch’s strengths and weaknesses and working out how best to exploit them.
In one of the guest wings of the castle there was a great tapestry nearly fifteen feet high and more than twice as wide depicting some King from long ago walking barefoot through the city (a peculiar image when paired with the gleaming cloak of purple and gold and a crown that must have felt like an anvil on his head). The streets of Aramor, woven in brown thread, were crowded with craftsmen and merchants, labourers and noblemen, all with hands clasped together in almost religious fervour at the sight of their new monarch. King Paelis had made me stare at that damned rug for more than an hour once, until I’d found the one little boy in the tapestry who was sticking his tongue out at his new ruler. I’d wondered aloud that the embroiderer would dare take such a risk at offending the monarch who’d commissioned the tapestry, but of course, Paelis had said, no one ever saw the little boy. All they saw was a great King, crowned in gold and revered by the masses. We crave that which is glorious, Paelis told me, and in its presence we will forget everything else.
The coronation of Filian I, King of Tristia, would no doubt be remembered as many things, but glorious will not be one of them.
The whole affair took place in a single afternoon. Aramor didn’t have the money for days-long feasts and parades, and as we were rather short of Gods, even the most basic religious rituals were truncated. Foreign dignitaries were in short supply too: instead of their presence, they sent modest gifts and sumptuous apologies, blaming short notice and urgent matters at home. Most likely their absence had more to do with the knowledge that the Kingdom of Tristia might not even exist by the time they arrived.
Filian the First was crowned King of Tristia in the dusty, damaged throne room of Castle Aramor on a chill autumn afternoon.
By early evening, Tristia was no more.
I had a good spot from which to watch the ceremony. Two guards had lugged in a large piece of carved oak which I mistook at first for some kind of uncomfortable-looking chairt; it was only when they pushed me down until my chest was pressed against it and chained my hands to iron rings on either side did I recognise it as a headman’s block, and its purpose to position me for the touching climax of the ceremony. A prodigious number of guards were assembled nearby, apparently to ensure nothing ruined the grand finale.
It didn’t take me long to spot Brasti, dressed in Kest’s preposterous monk’s outfit. It might have hid his quiver, but it made him look like a hunchback. No doubt he’d convinced some of the others to prepare for some preposterous last-minute attempt at saving my life. I really hoped none of them would die in the attempt.
A priest in golden robes stood behind Filian, hands shaking as he held the crown over the boy’s head – I doubt he’d expected to have to perform this ritual with nine guardsmen extending longswords over his own head to form a very sharp steel canopy. He’d started Filian’s various new titles, increasingly pompous synonyms of King such as ‘Defender of the Nation, Overseer of its Affairs, Heart of its People . . .’
That went on for a while.
Kest stood on the other side of the dais next to Nehra, who was representing the Bardatti. Dezerick had told me Trin had forced Quentis into his old Inquisitor’s coat, to stand for the Cogneri. Gwyn’s plans to ride north had been cancelled – although clearly not of his own volition – because he was standing there, a colourful display of bruises across his forehead and hands tied behind his back, representing what was left of the Rangieri. They’d even managed to get Darriana to stand for the Dashini, which meant some deal must have been struck to allow Valiana to live.
None of them looked very happy.
They’d managed to get a representative from every one of the secular and religious Orders of Tristia too: a Knight for the Honori, the Viscount of Brugess, of all people, for the Nobli, people representing all of the religious Orders, from the lowest Quaesti to a Venerati Magni – and there was even an Admorteo, one of the Gods-forsaken torturers.
And they’d thoughtfully included a confused-looking craftswoman wearing an apron and carpenter’s tools to represent the labouring classes. Nice.
The whole thing was a pretty little piece of pomp designed to give the impression that the country was united behind Filian.
The pronouncements reached their end, the priest fell silent, and so did the assembled guests. His gaze passed over the crowd as if he was looking for someone to give him some last-minute reprieve – not everyone was happy about Filian’s coronation, and Tristia’s always had quite a tradition of assassinating those crowning an unloved monarch. It might be nothing more than a petty act of revenge, but even so . . .
The priest’s eyes landed on me.
Sorry, Venerati, I thought, shaking my hands in their chains to remind him of my situation. Looks like you and I are both on the same fish-hook dangling in the river now.
The priest sighed and set the crown gently upon Filian’s head, announcing, ‘Filian Primé, Dei Beadicté.’ You could hardly hear the tremble in his voice.
And thus was a child stolen from his mother and raised by her greatest enemy handed the throne of my homeland.
Trin wasted no time. She signalled two black-garbed men who brought forward a lovely shining silver case, just the right size to hold an executioner’s sword. Filian’s eyes flickered to me and his lips twitched, just the way his father’s had whenever he was wrestling with a decision. I was just close enough to hear Trin whisper, ‘Look at the nobles, my love. See how their eyes search for the first sign of weakness. It will be his head or ours if you do not act boldly while you have the chance.’
Filian rose from the throne. ‘My people,’ he began, ‘dangerous times are upon us, and so I call upon my Dukes to witness my first act as your King . . .’ His words trailed off.
I didn’t understand what had happened until I strained my neck to look around the room and realised that Hadiermo, Erris, Meillard and Pastien were all missing. Valiana’s claim to Rijou had not yet been validated – no doubt because Trin was in no hurry to let Filian do
so – and that meant that there was not a single Duke or Duchess in the room.
‘Where are the Dukes of Domaris, Pulnam and Pertine?’ Trin demanded. ‘Where is the Ducal Protector of Luth?’
A woman’s voice called out from the crowd, ‘I think they might be busy right now.’
Trin had asked the question, but it’s actually considered highly impolite – if not downright suicidal – to speak at a coronation without the express leave of his newly anointed Majesty. The eyes of everyone present turned to a single woman standing previously unnoticed amidst the crowd near the front of the dais. She was wearing a brown leather greatcoat with a ship inlaid on the left breast.
‘Quil?’ I said incredulously.
She nodded to me. ‘Falcio.’
‘How did this Trattari get in here?’ Trin shouted at the guards.
‘I’m a Greatcoat, bitch. Getting in and out of places without being caught is our specialty.’ She looked back at me, kneeling, chained to the block of highly polished oak. ‘Well, most of us, anyway.’
There were a number of calls for her immediate arrest and execution, but Quil didn’t even flinch. ‘You don’t want to do that,’ she warned before anyone had even made a move towards her. ‘The Avareans take a dim view of those who harm their messengers.’ She took two steps forward and extended a rolled-up piece of parchment towards the dais.
She waited for someone to come and take it, and after a hesitation, Filian gestured at one of the pages, who ran down to take it from her and bring it to the throne.
Trin reached for the parchment, but Filian gently pushed her hand aside and took it himself. I was rather surprised that she didn’t slit his throat on the spot. There’s love for you.
When Filian was done reading the document, he handed it to a clerk and said, ‘Read it aloud.’
‘From the Magdan,’ he started, ‘Warlord of Avares and First Magistrate of . . . Boreadis?’
Boreadis. Land of the Northern Winds. This must be the country Morn plans to carve out of Orison and Hervor. Nice name.
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