Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  ‘You might have been waiting a long time. I’d never imagined I’d live this long.’

  She gave me that sour grin of hers. ‘Ah, that’s the thing about people like you and me, Falcio: our curse is to keep living, when those we love best die.’

  ‘Well, that cheered me right up,’ I said. I glanced around the small cottage and was surprised to see all of her books and furnishings arrayed around the room in a remarkably familiar configuration. ‘You realise you’ve recreated your cell in Aramor, don’t you?’

  She waved a hand. ‘It suited me fine while I was there. Why go to the trouble of rethinking it all?’ She set down her sewing and rose from her chair. She walked, a little stiffly, I thought, to a set of coats hanging from a rack on the far side of her cell. ‘The black, I think,’ she said, taking one down. ‘It’s best for a journey such as this.’

  I was going to ask how she knew why I’d come, but then she would have said, ‘I’m a Tailor, Falcio. I know where every thread starts and where it ends.’ And frankly, I wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’ll need to walk back to the castle, but there will be a cart waiting for us there.’

  She followed me out of the cottage and leaned a hand against my arm. ‘It’s kind of you to let me come.’

  ‘Paelis would have wanted me to bring you.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ the Tailor said. ‘But thank you for pretending.’

  *

  Outside the gates of Aramor was a simple horse-cart with a seat at the front wide enough for two and a longer space in the back. The stable boys weren’t there and neither were the promised horses, but I wasn’t angry as the explanation for their absence stood in front of me, her wide muzzle nuzzling at the black silk that shrouded the body.

  ‘You decided to show up,’ I said.

  Monster opened her mouth, revealing sharp teeth and a belly-full of rage. She neighed in that way of hers that always sounds more like the growl of a mountain cat than it does anything that should come from a horse.

  ‘Don’t pick fights,’ the Tailor said. ‘We have a long journey and it’ll be easier if you have both hands.’

  It was a fair point, but more importantly, there was nothing I could say to Monster that didn’t apply equally well to myself. So I walked round to the long wooden bearing poles. ‘Come on then,’ I said to the Greathorse.

  It’s hard to imagine a creature simultaneously so noble and belligerent. Monster was nearly twice the size of a normal horse and I had no doubt she could pull us all the way to Phan without breaking a sweat. What surprised me was her willingness. Monster was not an animal meant for service. Nonetheless she walked slowly towards the front of the cart and let me attach the breeching straps around her front, then to the poles. I didn’t bother with the bridle or the reins. She didn’t need them and wouldn’t have tolerated them.

  ‘Falcio,’ the Tailor said quietly, and when I turned to see what she wanted, she was pointing to the western edge of the castle grounds. There, peeking out from the trees, were a pair of large horses, their coats black as night itself. It took me a moment to realise that they weren’t grown horses at all, but foals who had no business being anywhere near that size. The sight of them took my breath away.

  Greathorses.

  I patted Monster on the neck. ‘Nicely done, old girl.’

  She growled at me in response.

  ‘Give us a hand then,’ the Tailor said, lifting one foot onto the step of the cart.

  I went up the other side and reached down to give her my arm for support until she was seated on the bench. ‘I don’t recall you ever needing help before.’

  ‘Misery wears on the body as it does the soul,’ she replied as Monster began pulling the cart down the long road that led out of Aramor. ‘I shouldn’t need to remind you of that.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  The Companion

  Our journey took us north and east, up the winding trade route called the Bow. After almost a month on the road, I would have expected the body to be rotting, but whenever I removed the black cloth from Aline’s corpse she still lay there, perfectly white and perfectly still, like a porcelain doll.

  ‘That deathhouse keeper at Aramor did a good job with the preserving oils,’ the Tailor said.

  I grunted something, my reply probably not an actual word.

  At first we’d ridden in silence, neither of us being especially fond of the other these days and there being nothing to say. But sometimes grief demands sharing, and what started as the occasional snide remark about our mutual failure to protect the King’s daughter had, over the days and miles, become reminiscences and, eventually, stories. The early ones were those we both knew, mostly about King Paelis and his odd ways. After a while we each sought to find tales that the other hadn’t known – to elicit an unexpected laugh or tear.

  Sometimes we grew so weary that one of us would repeat a story for the second, third, or even fourth time. The other always knew, but by unspoken mutual agreement we each pretended not to have heard it before. I talked a lot about the King – about the early days, when he and I roved around the country on horseback looking for new Greatcoats to recruit. The Tailor would remind me that the King was a terrible rider and that I was lying atrociously about his skills.

  For her part, the Tailor would recount the events of Aline’s girlhood, tales of her fierce intellect and bold ways when confronting every petty injustice done to a servant or anyone less fortunate than herself. We would both pretend that this was the Aline we had brought to Aramor with us, rather than the broken, sometimes child-like creature we’d tried to put on the throne, the girl who had overcome those tragedies only to sacrifice herself for the kingdom.

  ‘Filian is your grandson,’ I said, one evening as we rode past the northern border of Domaris into the Duchy of Pulnam.

  ‘Thanks for clearing that up,’ the Tailor replied, biting on a piece of the mercilessly tough and ridiculously expensive dried beef we’d splurged on the day before.

  ‘I mean . . . don’t you want to . . . I don’t know. Support him? Get to know him?’

  She handed me the last of the beef. ‘And what will I find in him?’ She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her coat. ‘If he’s like Patriana I’ll want to kill him and if he’s like Paelis I’ll want to kill myself.’

  ‘Rage or sorrow,’ I said. ‘Is that all that’s left to us?’

  ‘It’ll be all right, Falcio. The sun will keep shining.’ She patted a patronising hand against my arm but then, curiously, left it there. Perhaps even more curiously, I was glad she did.

  I suppose there was no choice left but to admit that I loved the old woman.

  *

  I’m not sure what I expected to find at the end of the uneven little road that ended like a sigh in the middle of the Duchy of Pulnam. Whatever it was I hoped or feared to see, it wasn’t the Gods of Love, Death and Valour waiting for me.

  ‘Perfect,’ the Tailor muttered when she noticed them standing in the shadows of the small hill where we intended to lay Aline to rest.

  I hopped down from the seat atop the horse-cart. ‘I’ll deal with them.’

  ‘Keep a civil tongue and try not to challenge them to a duel.’

  I loosened my rapier in its scabbard. ‘No promises.’

  Monster growled, which I took as endorsement of any violence I might choose to instigate.

  Valour still looked like Tommer to me: a young boy with unruly black hair and eyes that were quick and bright. Death wore a simple cowl, his face hidden in its shadows. I felt rather certain I wouldn’t want to see it up close. And the Goddess of Love? It turned out that despite Ethalia’s protestations, the Goddess of Love looked exactly like her to my eyes. I would have felt smug were I not so irritated by the presence here of these divine figures.

  ‘Welcome, Falcio,’ Valour said.
He bowed a little, as did Love. Death just stood there looking awkward.

  ‘This is a private ceremony,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to fuck off.’

  The Tailor ambled over to stand beside me. ‘This is your idea of a civil tongue?’

  ‘It’s an uncivil world,’ I replied.

  If the three Gods were offended, they gave no sign. ‘We will respect your wishes in this matter, Falcio,’ Valour said. ‘However we – the three of us – have a gift we wish to give.’

  ‘Is it money?’ the Tailor asked. ‘Because we ran out a few days ago.’

  ‘No gifts,’ I said. ‘There is nothing the Gods have that I want.’

  ‘The gift is not for you,’ Valour said.

  That surprised me. ‘Then who—?’

  The sound of shuffling movement caught my ears above the mild desert breeze and I spun, my weapon already drawn.

  ‘Falcio?’

  My rapier fell soundlessly to the sandy ground. Aline was stepping down from the horse-cart. She rubbed her eyes, then took a few steps towards me.

  ‘Don’t,’ the Tailor said, the fingers of her hand hard as steel as they gripped my shoulder. ‘You mustn’t touch her.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Valour said. ‘You may not hold her, Falcio. My brother is moved to gentleness this night but Death kneels for no man.’

  ‘You’re playing with forces you shouldn’t,’ the Tailor said. ‘And in poor taste.’

  The boy – or God – looked completely unashamed. ‘The veil is weaker here, and my brother only recently returned. He has . . . a little leeway . . . in restoring the balance.’

  ‘Just like a God,’ she said, ‘to think you get to make such decisions.’

  They argued a little longer but I barely heard any of it; all I wanted to do was to tear away from the Tailor and reach out to hold Aline.

  Just once. Just one last time let me hold her and tell her I’m sorry.

  ‘I’ve been very tired, Falcio,’ Aline said. ‘Have we been on an especially long journey?’ She looked around. ‘Monster?’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, before she could run to the Greathorse. ‘Come over here, sweetling.’

  Aline frowned at me. ’How many times have I asked you not to call me that?’ She started walking towards me. ‘Are we back in Phan? What are we doing here?’

  ‘I . . .’ I turned back to the three Gods. ‘Stop this, damn you! What kind of gift is it, to let me see her when—?’

  ‘I said the gift wasn’t for you,’ Valour interrupted me gently.

  ‘Then for whom?’

  He nodded towards Aline. ‘It is for her.’

  Aline took a few steps closer. ‘Hello,’ she said, as though she had only just then noticed the three figures standing behind us. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. May I ask your names? Are you friends of Falcio’s? Because he doesn’t look very pleased to see you.’

  Valour stepped in front of me then bowed at the waist. ‘My name isn’t very important, my Lady, but I am something of a friend to your father.’

  She curtsied in response to his bow and then looked up at the stars and sighed. ‘It seems everyone knew my father except for me.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Valour said gently. ‘Would you like to meet him?’

  Aline smiled uncertainly, as if this might be some sort of joke. ‘Is . . . is that possible?’

  Valour turned and pointed up the little hill. There, standing near the top, waving, was a tall man, though a little rounded at the shoulders and with rather bad posture.

  ‘This can’t be . . .’ I said, although I’m not sure the words made it out of my mouth.

  ‘Come along, dear,’ the Goddess Love said to Aline. ‘I’ll take you to him.’

  Aline looked up at me. ‘Is it all right if I go see him, Falcio? Because if you’re going to get into a fight with these people then you might need me to hold onto your bracer for you.’

  ‘Why in the world would I need to fight? These are . . . friends.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you always assume I’m an idiot?’

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I’ll be waiting here when you’re done.’

  She grinned. ‘Try not to start the duel before I get back.’

  Love reached out a hand and placed it gently on Aline’s shoulders and walked with her up the path to the hilltop.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said at last to Valour and Death.

  Death didn’t speak, but I saw perhaps the slightest tilt of his head.

  The Tailor sat down unceremoniously on the ground and crossed her legs. ‘What a load of nonsense,’ she said, but even I heard the catch in her voice.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said to Valour. ‘Is she . . . is she going to be with her father? If so, why did you have to do all this?’

  He looked as if he were about to reply then stopped himself. Valour and Death shared a glance and finally Valour said, ‘It’s a little complicated, Falcio.’

  The Tailor snorted. ‘By which he means that the Gods themselves don’t know.’ She waved a hand at Death. ‘Even you, eh? A God of Death who knows next to nothing about his domain? What are you, some sort of celestial absentee landlord?’

  I felt as if my mind was slowly wrapping itself around something which might be important. ‘They had to meet in this world, didn’t they? That’s . . . necessary, somehow, isn’t it?’

  Valour nodded. ‘That’s as good a way of looking at it as any other.’

  A thousand questions came to mind but I guessed they would never be answered, so I just stood there rather uncomfortably with the Gods Valour and Death and a rather nasty old woman who passed the time by trying to come up with ever more elaborate insults for them. Now who’s forgotten a civil tongue?

  Love came back down the path towards us, and I was surprised to see Aline close behind her.

  ‘How . . . how was it?’ I asked the dead girl who’d just been to see her long-dead father.

  She smiled. ‘Strange. Wonderful. Confusing. He’s a bit like you.’ She turned to look down at the Tailor who was still seated on the ground. ‘A little like you, as well, though that only makes sense, I suppose. He’s rather silly for a King, isn’t he?’

  I chuckled, although if I’m honest, it was more of a sob. ‘Far too silly for a proper King.’

  Aline reached out a hand towards me then stopped herself. ‘Go to him, Falcio. He’s asking for you.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  The Dead

  I walked like a man asleep, keeping my eyes on King Paelis as I stumbled up the winding little path, fearful that he would disappear if I blinked.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Are you really going to keep your King waiting?’

  His voice was a bit less reedy than I remembered it. All the way up the hill I’d convinced myself this would be just some illusion of him, another hallucination conjured from memory and grief. It wasn’t. I knew, I knew this was the real Paelis. My King. My friend.

  He looked a little different than he had in my imaginings. His hair was scragglier, he wasn’t quite as tall, but he wasn’t quite so skinny, either. His smile was exactly the same. ‘Death seems to agree with you,’ I said.

  ‘Death agrees with no man, Falcio. Don’t let the clerics tell you otherwise.’

  ‘I’ve learned to take everything the clerics say with a grain of salt, your Majesty.’

  ‘Good fellow.’ He sat down on a large flat rock and pointed to a similar – though slightly less grand one – for me. ‘Don’t stand there with your mouth hanging open like a boy brought to his first brothel. Your King commands you to sit down.’

  I complied, though I wasn’t entirely sure he had the right to command anything.

  ‘You have questions,’ he said.

  ‘I . . . yes, it’s safe to say I hav
e a few, your Majesty.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well, but you may ask only one before I am called away.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘It actually works that way?’

  He grinned. ‘Nah. Well, actually I don’t know. Death doesn’t make you smarter, that much I’ll tell you for free. Just ask what you want.’

  It might be hard to imagine but I swear that at that precise moment I couldn’t think of a single question. Perhaps that’s because I wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him so badly. ‘You left us with nothing,’ I said at last. ‘No plan. No resources. No—’

  He leaned his head back and started laughing and went on for far too long before he paused enough to get out, ‘Only you, Falcio, would choose to use our brief time together to launch into a speech about the unfairness of the world.’

  ‘I don’t suppose death is any fairer?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. Worse in some ways.’ He looked at me and the smile went away. ‘Come on, Falcio, say what you really want to say.’

  It took a moment to get the words out. ‘I failed you,’ I said simply.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘In every way imaginable.’

  He ran a hand through his rather feeble attempt at a short beard. ‘Well then, I suppose you should dedicate yourself to a life of agonising penitence.’ He stood up and raised one hand in the air. ‘Despise yourself, Falcio van Mond! Blame yourself for every bad thing in this world! Shun every solace! Push away those who love you! Suffer in glorious, unmatched self-flagellation . . .’ He paused for a moment, then looked down at me. ‘Oh, wait. You’ve already been doing that, haven’t you?’

  ‘You know, you still have a shitty sense of humour, your Majesty.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s still a shitty world, Falcio. And if you’re waiting for the afterlife to be better, well’ – he waved a hand at the Gods at the bottom of the hill – ‘you’ve got a taste of the kinds of morons who govern that domain.’