‘You mean the kinds of morons who give people enigmatic quests that make no sense?’ A thought occurred to me then, and I finally understood which question I most wanted to ask. ‘Was Aline really the Charoite, or was it Filian all along?’
‘I’m sorry?’
I rose to my feet to stand before him. ‘The Charoite, damn you! Your final command to me, the thing you told me I had to seek out: the reason I found Aline in the first place and fought every damned assassin, tyrant and God who tried to take over your damned country in the meantime! Once and for all, your Majesty, who was the true Charoite?’
Paelis looked at me then, and said nothing. After a few seconds his head tilted a little, and just as he faded away into nothingness, he asked, ‘What’s a “charoite”?’
*
I wound my way back down the little hill expecting to see only the Tailor there, but nothing had changed. Love, Death, and Valour stood next to Aline. The Tailor still sat on the ground.
‘Well?’ the Tailor asked. ‘How was he?’
I thought about my answer for a moment. ‘If he weren’t already dead, I’m fairly sure I’d kill him myself.’
She chuckled. ‘That’s my boy.’
‘Falcio?’
I looked down to see Aline staring up at me. ‘I . . . I think I have to go now, Falcio.’ She looked back at the Gods standing behind her. ‘I want to say goodbye properly but they say I can’t touch you.’
The infinite grey sadness that had been filling me drop by drop turned all at once to a deep, burning red. I was so sick of the arbitrariness of death, the unfairness of life. I knelt down and opened my arms. ‘Come here, sweetheart.’
She looked uncertain for a moment then rushed to me.
The Tailor shouted, ‘Aline, no!’
It was too late. Aline wrapped her arms around me and I did the same to her. Her skin wasn’t cold as I’d expected it, but warm and alive. Her hair tickled at my nose and her cheek pressed into mine. I held onto her like that, waiting for the end to come.
When it didn’t, I opened my eyes and looked past her shoulder. There, down on one knee, was Death, his arms spread as if in supplication.
When Valour spoke, his voice was full of awe. ‘Death kneels for you . . .’
‘You’re damned right he does,’ I said.
Aline let go of me and stood back, looking at me. I suppose I must have been looking at her, too, because she asked, ‘What are you staring at?’
‘A dishevelled young woman with messy hair and a nose entirely too pointy to be a proper Queen. What are you staring at?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘A smelly man who hasn’t bathed in a month with a scratchy beard who is entirely too insolent for such grand company.’
‘We make a fine pair then, don’t we?’
‘The finest.’ She yawned then, and brought a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m very tired now, Falcio. Is it all right if I go back to sleep on the cart?’
‘Of course, sweetheart,’ I said, managing to keep the heartache out of my voice. ‘I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.’
She smiled. ‘Okay, then.’ She turned and went back to the cart. When I turned to follow, she was under the black shroud, every fold in the fabric exactly as it had been before.
‘Thank you,’ I said to Valour.
The young God shrugged. ‘For what? I told you the gift wasn’t for you.’
‘Thank you anyway.’
‘Don’t waste your thanks on them,’ the Tailor said. ‘The Gods never do anything out of generosity.’
I was inclined to agree when Death, who had not spoken until then, finally said, ‘You really are a truly foul old creature, aren’t you?’
For the first time since I’d known her, the Tailor was speechless.
Maybe the Gods aren’t really so bad after all.
‘We have to go,’ Valour said. He and the others turned towards the east. ‘Your friends come, and the one with the bow is prone to . . . unwise threats.’
For just an instant, I thought of calling on him to wait, to ask whether Death would let me see my wife Aline one last time, but I stopped myself. She above all deserved peace now, from the cares of this world, and from a foolish and reckless man who once and for all needed to find a way to stop living in the past.
I turned and saw horses coming in the distance. ‘I’ve made a decision,’ I said suddenly.
They paused in their steps. ‘What decision is that?’ Valour asked.
‘I’ve decided your name is Tommer.’
‘You would impose your will upon the Gods?’ he asked, with the half-smile of a boy who’s just been caught at mischief.
‘Someone has to,’ I replied.
Valour turned, and for a brief moment I saw something behind those clear, bright eyes. Something familiar. ‘Tommer, God of Valour?’ He grinned. ‘It’s as good a name as any, I suppose.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
The Departure
You would think that the Gods would leave the earth in a flash of light or a puff of smoke, but these didn’t; they just began walking east, towards the empty desert. I wondered what they would do if we simply decided to follow them.
‘Gods,’ the Tailor spat. ‘Of all man’s useless inventions, they are surely the most pointless.’
Five horses arrived. Kest, Brasti, Valiana, Ethalia and Chalmers dismounted. When first Ethalia came towards me I thought it might be some trick – that the God Love had once again taken her form – because she was glowing a little, though not in the way her Sainthood usually caused her to. On the other hand, it had been a month since I’d last seen her, so I might have just been imagining it.
Brasti, who’s always had the best vision of all of us, ran to where the Tailor and I stood and looked out towards the desert. ‘Are those the fucking Gods again?’
‘Three of them, anyway,’ I replied.
Ethalia came into my arms and I squeezed her. ‘Not so hard,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long ride.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, a little hurt.
Brasti took a couple of steps towards the desert. ‘Don’t even think of coming back,’ he shouted, ‘or you’ll have Brasti God-Slayer, Vanquisher of the Avarean Horde, to answer to!’
‘Vanquisher of the what?’
‘He’s been saying that all the way here,’ Valiana said, rolling her eyes. ‘Every tavern and inn we stopped at he’d rush in looking to see if he could find a Bardatti or even a travelling minstrel to hear the tale of how he came up with the brilliant plan to defeat the Avareans simply by whistling their own song. When the troubadours showed no interest, he just started rattling it off to every drunk he could find.’
Brasti turned back to us. ‘Look, I understand how those among you who haven’t defeated an undefeatable army or killed a God might feel a trifle’ – here he looked at Kest – ‘reduced by your lack of accomplishment. But please don’t hold it against those of us posessed of more . . . substantial virtues.’
Kest and I shared a brief glance and the two of us had to struggle to keep from breaking out into a fit of laughter. Oh how this unprepared world would suffer on the day that Brasti Goodbow finally learned that one of his dirty jokes helped defeat the Saint of Swords. ‘Why were the Gods here?’ Kest asked, once the risk of inexplicable giggling on his part had passed.
I was going to say something clever about how visits from the Gods had become such a frequent occurrence that I really don’t pay attention any more, but then I realised that the others might take some solace in what had happened with Aline.
‘That’s . . . surprisingly decent of them,’ Kest said, once the tale had been told.
‘It’ll come back to haunt us,’ the Tailor countered, ‘just wait and see. Nothing good comes from consorting with Gods or the dead.’
‘So,’ Brasti said. ‘After all of th
at, what did the King have to say?’
‘He said the whole world could have been saved if only you’d learned how to use a sword properly.’
Brasti pointed to himself. ‘Hello? Man who repeatedly saves the world here? Can I get a modicum of respect?’
‘You’re very impressive, dear,’ I said.
‘Finally. Thank you.’ He leaned towards me and whispered in a voice that could likely have been heard miles away, ‘I’ll have you know I didn’t let Ethalia anywhere near my bed, no matter how much she pleaded with me.’
‘“Pleaded with you”?’
‘Well, not so much openly. I mean, she didn’t actually beg out loud. It was more in the eyes.’
Ethalia looked down at the ground. ‘It’s . . . not entirely untrue. I did have . . . thoughts . . . of coming to your room at night.’
‘Really?’ Brasti asked.
She grinned wickedly. ‘Yes, but only to ask if you could stop snoring. The walls of the inn were shaking.’
He threw up his hands. ‘Lies. I’m surrounded by liars.’
‘Did the King reveal anything to you?’ Valiana asked.
‘Only that he was a bigger arsehole than I remembered.’
‘Well, some of us knew that already,’ Kest said, surprising me with his grin.
‘Oh, for Saints’ sake,’ the Tailor growled. ‘Will one of you help me bury my granddaughter next to my son so I can get back to my cottage and die of old age in peace?’
*
We buried Aline in a little plot at the top of the hill next to where the Tailor had laid her son years before. It would have been a silent ceremony, but for Brasti’s periodic attempts at humour, Kest’s glances, which shut him up, Valiana’s tears and Ethalia’s song. I hadn’t even known that she could sing. The woman insisted on continually surprising me. Sister of Mystery indeed.
The Tailor said nothing nor made any sound, but when she and I looked at each other I knew the depths of her sorrow. It was mirrored in my own heart.
It was too late to begin the journey back, so we made camp near the horse-cart. The Tailor stayed by Aline’s grave.
I unbuckled the breaching straps and expected Monster to race back towards Aramor and her new herd, out of our lives for ever, but instead, she walked a few yards away and looked up at the hilltop.
Brasti organised a meal, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. My taste for food had largely vanished, along with my taste for most other things in life.
‘Our new monarch is turning out to be a bit of a mess, in case you’re wondering,’ Brasti said, finally, as we sat around the fire.
‘King Filian’s not as bad as all that,’ Valiana countered.
‘Well,’ Brasti smiled evilly, ‘the Greatcoats have gone straight for the hells since he picked his new First Cantor.’
I’d hoped the King would choose Valiana, though her new status as Duchess of Rijou made that politically complicated. Quilatta was the next most likely given she’d been a Cantor before. ’Who did he choose?’ I asked.
He turned and nodded to Chalmers, who was studiously looking down at her plate.
I was about to say something stupid when Ethalia squeezed my hand so hard I felt my knuckles crack together.
Chalmers stared at me with an uncharacteristically pleading look in her eyes. ‘You have to take the job back, Falcio. The other Greatcoats hate me! Most of them won’t talk to me and the ones who do only tell me how unqualified I am – which is true, by the way. And it’s not just them, either: I’ve had three Dukes already make veiled threats to me and the King just tells me it’s up to me to deal with them.’
I couldn’t help but smile at that.
‘It’s not funny!’ she said.
‘Chalmers, having everyone hate you and threaten your life at every turn is precisely how you can tell you’re the right person to be the First Cantor of the Greatcoats.’
She set her plate down on the ground. ‘Great. Any advice? Or should I just slit my own throat now and save my enemies the trouble?’
Without meaning to, my gaze went to Kest and Brasti. ‘Find two friends,’ I told her. ‘Make sure they’re belligerent and annoying and that they get you into trouble at every turn.’
‘And get you out of it,’ Kest said.
‘That, too. Most of all, though, pick two people for whom you’d gladly die.’
Brasti looked back at me, for once without a trace of smugness or irony. ‘And who’d just as gladly die for you.’
Chalmers rolled her eyes at us, but then asked, ‘Are you really leaving the Greatcoats?’
‘For now,’ I said.
‘It isn’t fair. All of you are abandoning me.’
‘All of us?’ I looked at the others. ‘What are you—?’
‘I’m the Duchess of Rijou now,’ Valiana said, ‘although I suspect that foetid worm Shiballe already has a hundred spies and assassins waiting for me.’
I reached out a hand to take hers for a moment. ‘Try not to kill them all. You’ll need someone to rule over.’ I turned to Brasti. ‘And you? Is Darriana really crazy enough to marry you?’
‘She is – but not for a while yet. Darri’s got it into her head to reform the Dashini. She thinks there might be records in the old Dashini monastery that describe how their Order functioned in the past when they were spies for the country rather than just assassins.’
‘Please tell me you’re not going to become a Dashini, Brasti.’
I’d only been joking, but he looked oddly uncomfortable. ‘Actually, I’m . . . well, I’m joining the Rangieri.’ He held up a hand. ‘For a while, at least.’ He looked west to the far mountains. ‘There are only three of them left, at least that we know of, and with everything happening out there, someone needs to start keeping an eye on the long view.’
The notion of Brasti being the one who thinks to the future terrified me no end. ‘And you?’ I said to Kest.
He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance, because Brasti had got to his feet, chortling gleefully.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he announced, ‘but Kest Murrowson here is – wait for it! – becoming a fucking Knight!’
Valiana and Ethalia both sighed and I got the sense this had been discussed at length on their journey here. Still . . .
‘A Knight?’ I asked.
‘It’s not as simple as Brasti makes it sound. Sir Elizar approached me after the battle.’ He paused as though trying to remember a prepared speech. ‘How many times have we found the country weakened from within because the Knights were manipulated or tricked into following the wrong path? How many lives could we have saved if they were – well, protectors rather than thugs?’
‘It’s a nice thought, Kest, but—’
‘Hear me out. These are all fighting men, usually second or third sons with weapons and armour and skill but no sense of what that should mean. They do the things they do because—’
‘Because they’re arseholes,’ Brasti said.
‘No, because they’re seeking something they don’t know how to find.’ Kest looked at me. ‘Falcio, I know something of what it’s like to always be seeking purpose by following someone else.’
‘Well . . .’ I really couldn’t wrap my head around it. ‘Which Duchy do you plan to join?’
‘None of them,’ he replied. ‘I’m going on a journey, with Sir Elizar and the others, to reform the Honori. We’re going to start a new Order of Knights, Falcio, who will serve the smaller towns and villages across the country.’
‘Hamlet Knights,’ Brasti said, as if it were the funniest thing in the world.
‘It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.’ I stood up to stretch my legs. Ethalia joined me. ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘How does the Saint of Mercy plan to spend the next few years? Healing the sick? Ending all wars?’
/> She smiled. ‘I have no illusions of saving the world. My ambitions are slightly narrower. There’s a particular swordsman who is in dire need of saving.’
‘If by “saving”, you mean . . .’ The words faded before they even left my mouth. Standing there, under that sky, not a hundred yards from where Aline lay buried next to her father, the weight of it all suddenly came down upon me. I wasn’t angry or even sad. I was simply exhausted. The very act of taking air into my lungs felt so full of effort and so lacking in any significance that I wondered if I could just stop breathing. But Ethalia was looking at me so I summoned the energy to say, ‘I don’t suppose you have a way to start my heart beating again, the way you once did for Kest, do you?’
She reached out and took my hand between both of hers and placed it against her chest. I could feel the strong, steady beat of her heart. It served only to make my own feel feeble. ‘I don’t think it’s—’
She pulled my hand down lower, to her belly.
‘What are you—?’
And then, suddenly, without warning . . . there.
A small, sudden pressure against my fingertips.
I looked at Ethalia and she was smiling. My eyes went down to her belly and only then did I notice the slight roundness which had been hidden by her coat.
‘I believe I warned you some time ago that there were . . . complications we needed to discuss.’
What I had felt hadn’t been a beat, but a kick.
And again.
Thunder.
Life.
‘A daughter, I think,’ Ethalia said.
Brasti, Kest and Valiana stood and joined us. Brasti removed his bow from over his shoulder and placed it in on the ground next to us. ‘My bow is hers,’ he said, without a trace of sarcasm for once, and knelt down.
‘Greatcoats don’t kneel,’ I reminded him but he just smiled back at me. His gesture was a gift: not an act of weakness or shame, but of love.
‘My blade is hers,’ Valiana said, and she too knelt.
Kest laid his shield down next. ‘My life is hers.’
‘I—’
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