Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 (51 page)

‘He’s weakening, I think,’ I said quietly, but Kest didn’t reply. I could see his arms shivering as he fought to push back the earth itself so that he could rise.

‘
Stop!
’ the God repeated: a wave crashing down on us, tearing our flesh and our souls.

Erastian, bloody as he was, showed no signed of relenting. ‘Your God isn’t as strong as you hoped. I guess your faith isn’t—’

The old man’s voice was cut off, replaced by a groan of pain, and I dragged my head around to see the Blacksmith, standing over the Saint of Romantic love with his blade deep inside the Saint’s belly. ‘Here is your
faith
,’ he spat, and Erastian fell to the ground.

The God regained his footing and I watched him smile at me, first as Fost, then Trin, then Caveil, and now his features were shifting back and forth between theirs and the faces of every other monster I’d met in my life.

‘No!’ Ethalia screamed, and in that battlefield that was a thousand places and none at all, I could see she was pushing back with a ferocity and strength I couldn’t have imagined.

It wasn’t nearly enough.

‘I’m sorry, my Lady,’ the Blacksmith said, pulling the dagger from Erastian’s body and turning to her. ‘You did nothing to deserve this.’

She set her Awe upon him and for just a moment, he stopped – but now the God was focusing his will entirely on her, and in my mind I saw—

—
a child, trapped in the narrow confines of a well, water covering his chin, still rising, over his mouth, and now his nose
—

Now
, I told myself,
it’s time to get on your damned feet before he kills her.
I had my own vision then, of a young and foolish husband who knelt on the ground of his own farm while his wife sacrificed herself for him.
No, not again.
Never
again.

But I couldn’t stand, however badly I wanted too; my flesh was too weak. I lacked whatever spirit lets a man face his Gods. In desperation, I begged Kest, ‘Please! You have to save her.’

My oldest friend looked at me with eyes forced so wide from pain and inexhaustible effort that I didn’t think he could possibly have heard me until I saw the almost indistinguishable dip of his head, though the muscles in his neck were so taut they looked as though they might snap.

‘
Now!
’ the God exulted, and suddenly the Blacksmith was free from Ethalia’s Awe. He drew the dagger back and I saw the still-bloody tip of the blade that was about to bury itself into Ethalia’s heart.

A cry of anguish filled my ears, and for a brief instant I thought it another vision in the battle between God and Saint – but then I saw a miracle happen: Kest leaped into the air, and in that same fluid motion, drew his sword from its scabbard. The blade crashed down on the Blacksmith’s wrist and I heard the bones break. The heavy gauntlet held, though, and the Blacksmith switched the dagger to his uninjured hand and went to stab again, but Kest knocked the blade out of his hand even as he brought his own weapon back in a swing to strike at the God.

‘
Cease
,’ the God commanded, and Kest fell back.

The Blacksmith scrambled for his dagger and snatched it up from the ground. He lifted it back up, preparing to strike at Ethalia, but the old Saint of Romantic Love wasn’t done, not quite. He had one hand pressing down on the wound in his belly, but with the other he reached out and touched the Blacksmith’s leg.

The big man stumbled back as if he’d stepped in fire.

‘Your God isn’t looking too good,’ Erastian said, spitting blood and rising to his feet.

The Blacksmith saw his creation struggling to stay standing. Kest was finding his balance again. We might even be winning.

‘You should be proud,’ the Blacksmith said to Kest. ‘You renounced your own Sainthood and stood in defiance of a God’s will. It is a remarkable thing to do. Take comfort from that thought.’ He looked back at the God he had created; it was obvious that he was severely weakened, thanks to the strength of Erastian and Ethalia and Kest.

But the God spoke a single word: ‘
Apostate.
’ There were no visions this time, no sounds of terror, no slithering sensations or vile scents attacking us. Even Kest gave no sign that he’d heard, at first. He just stood there as if he were planning his next strike.

‘Kest?’ I asked.

He opened his mouth wide, as if not enough air was getting into his lungs. His sword slid from his hand and he reached up and clutched at his heart.

‘There is a price to be paid for challenging a God,’ the Blacksmith told him, not ungently. He glanced at me. ‘I feel sorrow for you, Falcio. You find good men and women to do what you think is right, but the world you once believed in is long gone – it might never have been what you were told.’ He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘I offer you this gift, Falcio val Mond: go back to Aramor. Take your people away – find a country worthy of your courage. Leave this one to those who might yet be able to redeem it.’ He turned and led his God down the path away from us.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, don’t do this. You don’t have to—’

Kest’s eyes caught mine as he began to slip to the ground and I could see that he understood what had been done to him. There had been no blow, no injury, no illness. At the command of a God, Kest’s life had simply ended.

Kest fell to the ground, landing so hard on his back that dust and dirt flew into the air. Even an unconscious man would have made a sound as the wind fled from his lungs, but Kest was completely silent, though the emptiness was filled by someone screaming his name. I think it was me.

‘What in hells just happened to him?’ Brasti asked.

Ethalia knelt by Kest’s side. ‘His heart has stopped.’ She placed both hands just below his chest and pressed down hard, then repeated the gesture several more times before stopping briefly to listen for his breath. When none came, she said to Erastian, ‘Help me . . . I can’t make it start again!’

The old Saint, still on the ground, was looking more than half-dead himself. He held a hand to his wound and I saw a faint glow around it, the pink of a rose just beginning to bloom. ‘Damned knife wounds,’ he muttered, then crawled one-handed towards Kest and looked down at the already pale features of the friend I’d forced into a fight he couldn’t win because I’d been too weak to do it myself. ‘A God’s curse weighs heavy on a mortal life,’ Erastian said, then added, ‘Sons of bitches.’

‘Do something,’ I begged.

The Saint took Kest’s hand in his. ‘Did Birgid teach you the calling?’ he asked Ethalia. She nodded as she repeated her motions and Erastian looked both confused and disappointed. ‘So she taught you how to heal but not to fight? What was the woman thinking?’

Ethalia’s eyes narrowed. ‘That I had committed enough violence for one lifetime.’

Violence?
Ethalia was the most peaceful person I had ever met.

Erastian was neither shocked nor impressed by the heat of her gaze. ‘Don’t give me that look, woman. I’ve been stared down by Gods.’ He placed Kest’s palm against Ethalia’s heart and gestured for her to hold it there. ‘Come on then, perform the calling. Show me what a coin with only one side can buy.’

She held Kest’s hand to her heart and placed her other hand against his chest. Her eyes closed and the skin of her face tightened as if she were trying to push a boulder up a mountain. She started whispering, so softly that it took me a moment to hear that she was calling out Kest’s name, over and over.

‘The boy’s death isn’t natural,’ Erastian explained. ‘This isn’t a stab wound or an infection. His heart simply stopped beating. If she can call him back—’

‘Call him how?’ Brasti asked. ‘From where? Will someone please tell me how—?’

He shut up when Ethalia began to glow, the light first manifesting as a sheen as sweat started dripping down her face, then pushing outwards until her entire body looked as if it were cut from polished ivory.

She’s so pale
, I thought, and Erastian’s jibe about her being a one-sided coin filled me with dread.
Prove him
wrong
, sweetheart. Prove to us that there’s some purpose to magic and Saints beyond just ruining the world.

‘What can I do?’ I asked.

‘You can shut up,’ Erastian replied, his hand still covering his own wound. The old man didn’t look optimistic. Brasti and I stared at each other, utterly miserable in our helplessness: there was no enemy for us to fight, no daring action we could take to stop the blow that had already fallen.

‘The beat of my heart to yours,’ Ethalia whispered. ‘You hear me, Kest, son of Murrow. You must answer.’ The glow around her grew brighter as her words became more desperate. ‘The beat of my heart to yours,’ she repeated. ‘Kest, by the love you bear this world, you will answer me.’

‘Is she really supposed to be glowing like that?’ Brasti asked.

‘No,’ Erastian replied, his eyes still fixed on Ethalia. ‘She’s got to stop now.’ He raised his voice. ‘You’ve got to stop now, Ethalia. It’s over. Enough now, girl.’

Ethalia’s eyes opened briefly and there was such cold fire there that even Erastian-who-plucks-the-rose knew to stop talking. ‘The beat of my heart to yours,’ she repeated, her voice stronger now, though her whole body was shaking as if the earth beneath her was breaking apart. ‘The Saint of Mercy calls you, King’s Blade, and you will answer.’

For just an instant I thought Kest had moved, but it was only Ethalia, twitching under the strain of whatever invisible forces she was struggling with. ‘Something’s wrong,’ Brasti said. ‘That glow of hers is dimming.’

‘Enough,’ Erastian said, reaching out to grab at her wrist. ‘You’ll kill yourself.’

Ethalia held firm, but she cried out ‘Birgid, help me! I can’t bring him back!’

The old Saint finally managed to tear her hand away from her chest. ‘It’s done, girl,’ he said softly. ‘Let it be done.’

Ethalia began to slump forward, but she stopped herself. Her eyes went to me. ‘I’m sorry – I’m so sorry—’

‘I can thump on his chest,’ I said, moving to his side and trying to replicate her movements from earlier. ‘He’s strong. He can come back.’
You don’t go out this way, Kest. With a blade, maybe – with ten thousand masters of the sword rushing down the hillside at us, maybe. Not like this. We don’t go out just because some fucking God says so.

‘Falcio, stop,’ Brasti said. ‘You’re going to break his ribs. It’s not doing any good. Let him—’

‘No.’ I resumed pushing his chest up and down, though I had no damned clue what I was doing. Ethalia had been doing it, so it must’ve had some purpose.

Erastian sounded sympathetic as he explained, ‘His heart won’t beat for hers.’

The words held such a small, simple truth, that all the strength drained from my body and I found myself repeating them.
His heart won’t beat for hers.
I looked over at the old man, at this useless sack of flesh who called himself a Saint and was doing me no good whatsoever. ‘Why?’

Ethalia’s eyes were full of pleading, as if she were begging me to forgive her. ‘He won’t follow my heartbeat – he won’t come to my call.’

I grabbed Kest’s hand and put it on my own chest. ‘Then show me what to do. Maybe he’ll come back—’

‘You don’t have the power, Falcio,’ she said. ‘It’s part of the Sainthood. I can’t . . . I don’t even know how to explain it to you.’

‘Just tell me how to save him, damn you!’ I reached out and grabbed her arm. ‘There must be something else you can try.
Anything
.’

‘You can’t!’ she cried, ‘not without . . . You just
can’t
, Falcio.’

She turned away from me, too quickly for it to just be guilt. I’ve been a magistrate for a long time and when I look for it, I can tell when someone’s lying to me. ‘Tell me,’ I demanded.

‘He has a right to try,’ Erastian said, his voice wheezing as his own wounds threatened to overtake him. He turned to me. ‘How far are you willing to go to save your friend?’

It took me a while to understand what he was asking. ‘Oh,’ I said finally. ‘I suppose that makes sense.’

Ethalia grabbed me by the shoulders and I could see her eyes were filled with tears now. ‘No, you don’t understand – there’s no assurance I can bring you back.’

‘Just tell me how.’

Misery and uncertainty clouded her face, but she knew me well. Even with all that had already been lost between us, she knew I wouldn’t back down from this fight. Finally she said, ‘Lay down next to Kest and place his hand over your heart. Then we must . . . Falcio, I can’t be the one to do it.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘Would someone
please
tell me what in all the hells is going on?’ Brasti asked plaintively.

Saint Erastian sat back heavily on his haunches. ‘You aren’t going to like it, that’s for sure,’ he muttered.

I rose for a moment and held Brasti by the shoulders. Before he could speak I shook him. ‘Brasti Goodbow, listen to me. I’m not your friend right now. I’m not a fellow Greatcoat. I’m the First Cantor. Do you understand? Do you still remember what that means?’

‘What in the name of Saint Zaghev is
wrong
with you, Falcio? Of course I—’

‘No questions, no debate. I’m giving you an order now, so you either follow it, or you walk away. For good.’

He finally understood what was coming next. He looked down at Kest then back at me. ‘Please, Falcio, don’t ask me to do this.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said gently.

I let him go and laid down next to Kest, placing his hand on my heart, then I looked up at Brasti and said, ‘Kill me.’

*

Brasti knelt over me, squeezing his hands into fists, trying to build up his courage.
Or whatever it is you need when one of your best friends tells you to murder him.

Ethalia’s voice was gentle. ‘We’re running out of time. He can’t go without—’

‘Brasti,’ I said, locking eyes with him, ‘it’s going to be all right. I swear to you, I’m not going out like this.
Not like this
.’

He nodded then, placed a hand over my mouth and with the other squeezed my nostrils shut as I told myself,
It’s fine
.
You can do this. You’ve nearly gone to your death dozens of times. Just go a little further this time.