There was no point in arguing: one of us or five of us, we didn’t have a chance against the Saint of Swords. But if we could run and catch the Fey Horse, I might be able to get Valiana and Aline on it; they’d have a chance to flee the Duke of Jillard’s army, if the Duchess had spoken true and the Duke of Orison’s men weren’t behind us.
‘Get ready,’ I told the others. ‘We go for the trees and into the fields.’ I doubted she was stupid enough to believe me, but I didn’t feel like really telling her where we were going.
I turned back to Kest to say goodbye. He was my oldest friend and he was about to die to give me one last, hopeless chance.
‘Kest?’ I said.
He was staring at Saint Caveil, who stood smiling at us, his feet shoulder-width apart and his sword resting casually in one hand.
‘Can’t … see,’ Kest said, squinting his eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. Had Caveil done something to his eyes? Do Saints cheat?
‘Falcio, I can’t see … I can’t see him moving his sword …’ Kest’s eyes were blinking furiously and he was breathing strangely.
I looked back at the Saint. He hadn’t moved.
‘Kest, what are you talking about? He’s not moving.’
‘Listen,’ Kest said. ‘Just listen.’
I did, and at first I thought I was just hearing the wind from the east, but then I found a rhythm to the gentle whooshing; an almost-melody of subtle vibrations: the sound a fine sword makes when it cuts the air.
I looked back at bloody-faced Saint Caveil who didn’t appear to be moving at all but was cutting the air with his sword so quickly my eyes couldn’t see it.
‘I can almost … almost make it out,’ Kest mumbled. ‘A blur … yes, there it is, no, wait … almost …’
I didn’t know what I could do for Kest. ‘Go,’ I shouted to Brasti and the others.
Kest grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eyes. He looked crazed. ‘Falcio, I need you to do something for me.’
‘Anything,’ I said.
‘You beat me – that one time at the castle, you beat me. Tell me how you did it. Maybe I can … maybe there’s something I haven’t tried, something I haven’t seen, or some technique—’
My heart fell. I could have lain down on the ground and simply let the Saint kill me, or the Duke’s army run right over me, or any of a hundred other deaths that awaited me. For my whole life Kest had been like the mountains or the oceans or the sky: he feared nothing and was angered by nothing. Everything was simply interesting to him – and now he was going mad.
I put my hands on his shoulders and whispered into his ear, and I told him how I had beaten him that day at Castle Aramor. And when I was done, I kissed him on the forehead and said goodbye.
He gave me a little smile for a second and said, ‘Well now, I don’t think that’s going to work here, is it? But I suppose anything’s worth trying once.’
And with that he turned and gave a war cry, which I had never heard him do, and his sword flashed under the sun as he walked towards the Saint of Swords, and I turned and ran as fast as my legs would take me.
*
When the Ducal armies arrived at King Paelis’ castle they brought five hundred horse, a thousand foot, two hundred archers and a host of siege engines, enough men to fight a war that could rage for weeks. When they reached the front gates they met Pimar, the King’s valet.
Pimar was a good boy, eleven years old and eager to please, and when the vanguard reached the gate he opened it for them and asked if anyone wished some refreshment to clear their throats from the dusty ride. In his left hand he held out the King’s crest, and in his right he held a treaty signed by the King and the First Cantor of the Travelling Magisters.
According to Pimar, the generals spent some time reading the document and then turned to Pimar and asked that tea and biscuits be set out for them. And they asked to see me.
When your enemy is offering complete surrender and the only alternative is black bloody war that will surely take a fierce toll of your men, it’s easy to be generous.
‘Full pardons for every Magister? Nothing else?’
‘Nothing else,’ I said calmly.
‘No tricks now, boy,’ the general said to me. ‘You’ll find there are worse things than a quick death by the sword if you’re lying.’
‘On my honour, sir, I swear to you that the castle will be yours, the Magisters will be disbanded and the King will await your pleasure in the throne room.’
‘Good, good.’ The general pressed the treaty down on the table to sign it. One of his fellows snorted, and caught my attention. He was an older man with coarse grey hair and a thick moustache. His coat looked strange to me for a moment, but then I realised it was just the oily blue flower pattern on the right breast.
‘I have seen seven wars in my lifetime,’ he started. ‘Wars against barbarians from Avares, against the East and even wars against other Dukes. I have seen cowardice; yes, I have, many times. But there are cowards and then there are cowards, and boy, a man who lets his Lord rot for a pardon on a scrap of paper is a coward unlike any I have ever seen.’
‘Is there some service I can perform for the general?’ I asked.
He snorted again. ‘Yes, boy, you can tell me what Duchy grew such a coward as you, so that I might go there and correct their Duke.’
‘Why, General,’ I said, ‘I hail from Pertine, where cowards grow like wildflowers on the side of the hilltop.’
‘I should kill you for your impertinence, dog,’ he bellowed.
‘Yes, General,’ I replied, ‘it was impertinent. But I’m afraid that, under the circumstances, you’ll have to pardon me.’
‘Enough,’ the lead general said, passing the paper to his next-inline. ‘The decision is made. We accept the treaty. We’ll move our vanguard into the castle at once.’
I bowed and stood to one side as they passed. The general from Pertine shot me a look of pure venom, but there was nothing he could do but swallow the shit that had been served him. So we had that in common, anyway.
Hours later I was still outside the castle, waiting for word. A messenger summoned me and I was brought once again before the lead general.
‘The usurper’s asked a favour,’ he said.
‘The what?’
‘The King, boy, the King. He’s asked a favour and I’m inclined to grant it, given the circumstances.’
‘What is the favour, General?’
‘He’s asked to see you.’
For a moment my mind raced and I tried to devise some kind of plan – an escape, some kind of poison for his guards, anything.
The general chuckled. ‘Boy, sometimes life feeds you bitter fruit, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, General, it does.’
‘Well, don’t go getting any ideas. Two of my men are going to escort you up to the tower where Paelis is being held. You’ll see him, talk to him, sing to him for all I care, but when the guards come to get you, you’ll come back down quietly and exit the castle with your fellows.’
‘And then what?’ I asked.
‘And then we execute the King and move on.’
‘I’m sorry, General,’ I said, ‘but I vow to you that you will not.’
He looked me square in the eyes and chuckled. ‘I would almost wish you luck, boy, but I’m afraid there is no luck at all in this world for you.’