Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 (54 page)

My stick kept hitting more and more rocks beneath the soil. ‘That’s probably as deep as we can go,’ I said, turning to Ethalia for her consent to place Erastian’s body in the grave.

‘Kest is right,’ she said, lost in her own thoughts. ‘Romantic love isn’t merely attraction and pretty words.’ She stepped up out of the pit and knelt next to Erastian’s body. ‘I never understood until . . .’ She stopped and looked up at me. ‘He was the Saint of Romantic Love not simply because he embodied its virtues, but because he above all others understood its strength, and because he was willing to fight for it.’

Brasti looked dubious. ‘I still don’t see—’ He stopped talking when he caught Kest’s look, clearly telling him to let her be.

Ethalia spoke as if she’d forgotten the rest of us were there. ‘Birgid was always so kind . . . so full of serenity. I thought that’s what it meant to be the Saint of Mercy.’

It made sense, but on the three occasions I’d met Birgid-who-weeps-rivers she’d never evoked much of that ‘perfect serenity’ for me.
Perhaps now’s not the best time to mention that.

‘I was such a fool,’ Ethalia said, rising to her feet so that Brasti and I could pick up the body and place it in the grave.

‘There is nothing foolish about seeking to bring peace,’ Kest said gently.

She began picking up handfuls of dirt and tossing them onto the body. ‘Peace has no currency in this world. Even Mercy must be paid for with violence.’

We passed the next few minutes in silence, heaping dirt down upon the still form of the dead Saint, giving whatever last thoughts we could to the strange man we’d known for such a short while. Brasti was right: Erastian looked nothing like how one would picture the Saint of Romantic Love – in fact, nothing at all like the statues made in his honour that adorned the gardens of wealthy and sentimental nobles.
You were rude and disagreeable and shockingly unhandsome for a Saint of Romantic Love. But if I knew how to pray, I’d pray to you, old man.

*

We rode south to Castle Aramor and whatever hell awaited us there. We three were back to wearing our proper greatcoats again, as we’d seen no more no hordes of shuffling pilgrims – only the signs of their passing mocked us: the long tracks left by their wagons, the abandoned remains of their fires by the side of the road, the hastily dug toilets they didn’t bother to cover up.
This is what you do when you stop giving a shit about the world because you’re so convinced a God is going to solve all your problems for you.

At night we rested the horses, and ourselves, talking through plans, debating strategies. Kest theorised about whatever force it was that acted upon our will, preventing us from rising up against the Blacksmith’s God. Brasti suggested traps, like digging a pit deep enough that the God might fall in and we could just bury him there. I tried to envision ways we could force one of the masks of infamy onto him, in the vain hope that that might make a difference. It’s not that we thought these suggestions would do any good – none of us had a clue how to defeat a God – but you can wallow in defeat for only so long.

Ethalia sat alone through all our nonsense, meditating and trying to summon the strength to do what Erastian had done: to face down a God.

The last night out from Aramor, Brasti said, ‘There’s something I don’t understand. How can a Saint of
Mercy
be expected to fight? Isn’t it a paradigm?’

‘He means “paradox”,’ Kest corrected.

Brasti grimaced at him. ‘You know, sometimes I actually do use the word I mean to use.’

‘Are you sure this one of those times?’

‘Shut up,’ I told them, because ‘paradox’ was tickling at the edges of my thoughts. I stood up and walked over to the deserted road.

As I stared out at the dark horizon in the distance I wondered aloud, ‘Why did the Blacksmith wait so long?’ Our timing couldn’t have been so perfect that we’d just
happened
to arrive at the Cathedral at the precise moment when his God had become material – he couldn’t have
meant
us to find him there when we did, could he? And Erastian and Ethalia had come close to defeating the God; they’d certainly weakened him enough that the Blacksmith had been forced to flee with him, rather than risk the Saints getting a second wind. If, as we surmised, the God’s strength really did come from the worship of his followers, why not get him to them sooner?
Why wait to take power?

‘Saint-Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears,’ Brasti groaned. ‘He’s doing that thing again – you know, where he stares off into the distance and mumbles to himself for hours.’

‘Shut up, Brasti.’ Oddly, it was Ethalia who spoke that time. She rose and joined me on the road. ‘What do you see?’ she asked me.

I see a hundred victories
, I thought.
I see a Prelate in control of Luth already making a move on other Duchies. I see almost all the Saints murdered, and a new God who can stop a man’s heart with a word. And yet the Blacksmith isn’t ready . . .

‘He’s afraid,’ I said.

‘Yeah, he’s terrified,’ Brasti said, kicking dirt on the remains of our fire. ‘He’s only got God’s Needles and Church Knights out there killing anyone he wants. The heir to the throne is probably hiding in a barn somewhere with the Realm’s Protector who, in case you forgot, is still trapped behind an iron mask herself. That leaves the Dukes to write whatever decrees the Church tells them to, which really don’t matter all that much now anyway, because now the damned Inquisitors are in charge of administering the King’s Laws – oh now, they’re not the
King’s
Laws any more, are they? They’re the
Church’s
Laws!’ He turned to Kest. ‘See, now,
that’s
a fucking paradox.’

I chuckled at his comment and then stopped myself.
And there it is
. The answer was so simple that it could only have been the result of a thousand individual equations.
So it really is a paradox of sorts.
‘I know what weakens a God,’ I announced.

‘What?’ Kest asked.

‘The Law.’

During the long silence I looked at their faces: Kest was trying to see if I’d actually lost my mind this time. Brasti was reaching for a joke. Only Ethalia started to look as if she understood. I explained, ‘During the fight, Erastian said, “
When Tristia crafted Laws to live by, the Gods became enraged.
”’

‘So the Gods are petty,’ Brasti said. ‘That’s hardly a revelation.’

But Ethalia was shaking her head. ‘Rage is simply a mask to hide fear and weakness. If the Gods were created by the Faith of their followers, then it stands to reason that when men and women began to live by their
own
Laws, the Gods were weakened. Faith is a finite force – so if the Blacksmith wants his God to be all-powerful, he needs to destroy all Faith in the Law first.’

‘You realise how insane this sounds?’ Brasti asked. ‘You’re talking as if the Law is some kind of living thing he’s trying to kill.’

‘Maybe to a God, the Law
is
a living thing,’ Kest suggested. ‘I can see there is a certain perverse mathematical element to it.’ His gaze became distant, the way it does when he’s calculating our odds of surviving a fight. ‘The Blacksmith begins murdering Saints and unleashes his God’s Needles to make people fear that their deities have turned against them. Then pilgrims begin threatening the palaces and the Dukes withdraw their support for the Realm’s Protector. The Churches move to take power, and suddenly the Greatcoats are replaced by the Inquisitors.’ He looked up at me suddenly. ‘You were wrong about the Blacksmith, Falcio. He
isn’t
an avertiere. He hasn’t been using feints and false attacks to draw us out. He’s a
delusor.
’

‘What’s a delusor?’ Ethalia asked.

‘Oh, God, come back and kill me now,’ Brasti moaned. ‘Another pointless term you’ve found in some old swordplay manual that no one’s used in a hundred years—’

‘In fact,’ Kest corrected, ‘the word “delusor” doesn’t appear in any of the old fencing texts – it’s not so much a style of fighting as a strategy – the simplest one of all, if you think about it:
defeat the enemy before the fight begins
.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Ethalia said. ‘I thought a duel couldn’t start until both parties entered the court circle. So how can you—?’

‘It’s actually quite simple,’ I replied. ‘You want to beat an opponent before the fight starts? Send thugs to rough him up in a dark alleyway the night before – not too badly, mind you – just enough that in the morning he’ll be a little slow, a little too injured. Or maybe you bribe the tavern master to put a little something in his drink the night before – not to make him sick, just enough to make him a bit nauseous and blur his vision a bit the next morning.’

‘Fine,’ Brasti said, ‘so the Blacksmith is a delusor and this whole thing has been one long duel against the Law.’ He pointed at me. ‘You’re the First Cantor of the Greatcoats. Why not just kill you when he had the chance?’

‘Because the Greatcoats
champion
the Law,’ I said, already running to saddle Arsehole. ‘We don’t
embody
it, not the way the Blacksmith needs.
I’m
not the one he has to kill.’

‘The Realm’s Protector,’ Kest said as he and Ethalia brought the rest of our packs. ‘To make his God all-powerful, the Blacksmith is going to execute Valiana.’

We rode through that night and well into the morning, stopping for just long enough to keep Arsehole and the other horses from breaking legs or expiring from exhaustion. The curses I was muttering to myself had became a rolling, endless chorus: why had I let Aline send me north? We’d found the place where Saints were being killed, only to discover it no longer mattered; the Blacksmith already had what he’d wanted from them. We’d rescued one old man, only to have him die saving us. Mind you, at least
we’d
been saved. Ethalia had come into the power of her Sainthood, only to find out she needed to be a warrior to wield it – so was she supposed to sacrifice herself, the very
essence
of what she believed, on the altar of our need?
Why am I taking orders from a fourteen-year-old girl anyway? I should have stayed behind to protect them: it’s my damned job.

‘Stop,’ Kest called out, and I yanked hard on Arsehole’s reins, then looked back to see I’d left them all in the dust behind me.

I was about to press on, leaving them to catch up when they could – and only then noticed the bend in the road ahead. We were much closer to the castle than I’d realised.
And of course the smart thing now is to race ahead into the middle of whatever army is waiting for us.

I forced myself to slow my breathing as I walked Arsehole back to the others. Kest had already dismounted. ‘I’ll circle around the other side and see what’s our best point of entry.’

‘I’ll go,’ Brasti said. ‘I’m quicker, and I can fire the pistol if I run into trouble.’

Ethalia looked out past us. ‘There’s so much dust, it’s hard to see.’

‘Blame him,’ Brasti said, jerking a thumb at me. ‘He’s the one who practically ran his horse—’

‘It’s not dust from the road,’ she said, eyes narrowed. ‘It’s grey, not brown.’

We walked a few steps along the road, trying to make out the haze. ‘It’s not nightmist,’ I said. ‘It is definitely dust of some kind . . . what does it mean?’

‘It means you’re too late,’ Darriana said, emerging from the trees. She was unsteady on her feet, but I saw no wounds save for a bruise on her forehead. Her greatcoat was almost completely covered by the same greyish dust, and tiny flakes of rock. ‘It means it’s over.’

Brasti ran to her and threw his arms around her. ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded.

She started to push him away but he clung to her and she relented. ‘Where did this come from, Brasti Goodbow?’

He leaned back but kept his arms around her. ‘Nothing. This is how I greet all of the Greatcoats.’

She smiled through the dirt on her face and it would have been a nice moment, if we’d had time for such things.

We didn’t. ‘Tell me what’s happened,’ I said.

She pushed Brasti aside more firmly, and this time he let her. ‘It’s better I show you,’ she replied, and started walking towards that last bend before the castle.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘The pilgrims—’

‘Oh, there are plenty of pilgrims. Inquisitors, too,’ she said, walking away from us. ‘They won’t bother with us. No one really gives a shit about us any more.’

Darriana’s assurances weren’t filling me with confidence. I drew my rapiers as she led us to the path up to Castle Aramor. I hadn’t had my own weapons in hand since we’d left for the cathedral in the mine; it gave me some small comfort to know that if I had to fight, at least I wouldn’t be swinging a damned mace any more.

‘I suppose I should tell you to prepare yourself,’ Darriana said.

‘For what?’ I asked, trying to wipe the blinding dust away from my eyes. It was getting thicker the closer we approached. ‘You still haven’t told us what’s waiting for us.’

Ethalia walked next to me, watching Darri. ‘She’s in pain, but she isn’t afraid,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s sorrow . . . loss.’

‘Keep out of my head, whore,’ Darriana said, quickening her pace, as if to hide the tears I now glimpsed in her eyes.

The clouds of dust kept getting thicker until it became hard to breathe and I could barely see ten feet in front of me. But once we got to the top of the road it no longer mattered: you don’t need to be able to see clearly to see what isn’t there.

*

Years ago, when the King was still alive and willing to pay whatever exorbitant price was asked to acquire books for the royal library, Kest and I tried to figure out exactly how many different fencing manuals existed in the world. We got to somewhere in the neighbourhood of two hundred and twenty-six: an impressive number, given that you’d be hard-pressed to find two hundred and twenty-six books on any other subject.

The odd thing, we realised one day, was that while there were any number of texts describing how to fence, we only ever found
one
book on the specific subject of
duelling
. Oh, there were no end of treatises on trial by combat, but they all focused on the rules, the weapons, the
politessi dan guerita
: the ‘what to say’ and ‘how’ and ‘when’. Only one book, the somewhat depressingly titled
You Are Sure to Die
, by an obscure author named Sen Errera Bottio, described how to actually fight and win a duel.