‘Which is too big a risk of losing,’ Kest said.
‘He needed to take most of our forces off the board, so he put on that little show for us in Avares,’ I said, feeling sick at just how easily I’d been played. ‘He made us think he had us so overpowered we could never hope to fight back. And we brought that message back to Tristia.’
‘The Dukes,’ Valiana said, understanding. ‘They believed we were outnumbered, so they accepted the Magdan’s offer of armistice in exchange for their seceding from Tristia.’
‘Not the Magdan,’ I said. That had been an illusion too, a feint. There was no Magdan. ‘His name is Morn.’
‘What about the cannon?’ Brasti asked. ‘We saw dozens of them – and racks of Shan steel weapons!’
‘What we saw,’ Kest said, and his tone told me he was kicking himself, ‘were a few genuine weapons, no doubt secured at ruinous cost. The rest were likely fakes.’ He turned to me. ‘That cannon we used to escape? The one that wasn’t covered up? That may well have been the only functioning one they had.’
A shadow passed across Valiana’s features. ‘All we had to do was stay united. Had we simply kept the country together . . . Tristia could have survived . . .’
That son of a bitch had outmanoeuvred us at every step. You would have made an excellent First Cantor, Morn, if only you hadn’t turned out to be such an arrogant prick.
I sat down in the snow and looked at the enemy forces. Somewhere out there, Morn was sitting in his tent, polishing his sword and laughing his head off. The others were staring at me, wondering if I’d lost my mind.
‘Will I have a chance to speak to Morn?’ I asked Feltock. ‘You said there would be an exchange of threats or whatever. Will he be there?’
‘The Generals always meet. You can come if you want – but what will you say to him?’
‘I’m going to challenge him to a duel.’
Brasti groaned. ‘Please tell me that’s not your big plan – didn’t he kick your arse last time?’
‘That was in the mountains. I wasn’t ready for him.’
Kest looked troubled. ‘Would he even accept such a duel?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘He’s too smart. Even though I think he believes he can take me, he’d never risk it. He’s got this all planned out far too well.’
‘Then what’s the point?’
I kept staring at the enemy. Ever since this had begun, I’d been letting others tell me that the world was shaped by politics, by economics, by military strategy – all things I didn’t understand. I’d believed them, and let myself be pulled into an arena in which I could never hope to compete. But I’d allowed myself to be deceived. This wasn’t a war between nations, nor a duel between rivals.
‘It’s a performance,’ I said, rising to my feet.
‘What?’ Brasti asked.
‘It’s a play. This whole mess? It’s a piece of theatre.’ I gestured around. ‘There’s the stage, and there are the players, even if they don’t know it.’ I raised my arm towards the cliff-top. ‘There’s the audience. That’s what this has been, right from the start.’
‘A performance,’ Brasti repeated. ‘Only instead of a round of applause and some coins, Morn wants the audience to give him two countries.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well then, we’re good and buggered,’ Feltock said. He looked at me. ‘What’s wrong with his face?’
‘Oh, that’s what Falcio looks like when he smiling,’ Brasti explained.
‘I’d dearly like to know what there is to smile about,’ Feltock said.
‘You asked why I was going to challenge him to a duel he’ll never accept? Because while I might be rubbish at politics, I might not understand economics or military strategy – hells, I don’t even know much about the theatre. But stories? I’ve spent my entire life trying to live up to the tales our people tell. I know how stories work and I’m going to use that to take Morn apart, one piece at a time.’
‘They still have four times as many soldiers,’ General Feltock pointed out. ‘How exactly do you plan to defeat this “Morn”?’
‘Simple. I’m going to tell a better story than he can.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
The Ritual
It was not yet dawn when I got up. I knew what I had to do now; I just had no idea how I was going to do it. Morn and his force were waiting for the next movement in this strange dance; they were sitting there patiently: row upon row of warriors in heavy chainmail and thick furs. These men knew how it all worked. They’d been bred for it.
I might not understand war but that hadn’t stopped me from starting one. Now I had to end it.
‘They make an impressive sight, don’t they?’ Nehra asked, taking up position beside me.
I had quizzed her on all the Avarean rituals of war, but right now a different question was bothering me. ‘What stops them from attacking us right now?’ I asked.
‘Nobody sends their troops to fight in the dark.’
I knew that was true; I’d read it somewhere. ‘But why is that?’ I asked. ‘I mean, how is it worse for one side than the other to attack at night?’
‘War isn’t a street-brawl, Falcio. Generals don’t like uncertainty. Each engagement is carefully planned: the timing of your attacks, how best to use the terrain, how to deploy your units, when to advance, when to retreat.’
I stared at the bearded warriors across the gap. ‘You make it all sound so civilised.’
‘It’s far more than that for the Avareans. War is a spiritual practice to them. It has commandments, rituals . . .’
I didn’t understand – religion has never made much sense to me – but I did need to start making sense of their faith. ‘Tell me again about the Scorn.’
‘It’s not complicated, Falcio. The Scorn is the ritual challenge that precedes the first engagement. So each side chooses a warrior who will ride up to the enemy line, and walk their horse along the ranks. The enemy forces will be shouting and screaming at them, seeking to unnerve them. If they so much as flinch, the enemy will fall upon them, cutting them to pieces.’
‘I imagine not flinching takes a good deal of training.’
‘Avarean children practise the Scorn even before they learn how to hold a sword.’ She put a hand on my arm. ‘Falcio, if you don’t think you can do it . . .’
‘It can’t be me,’ I said, which surprised her. ‘Nothing I do will impress the Avareans. Even though Morn defeated me in battle, he’ll have talked me up – he needs to convince them that I’m special somehow. So even if I do survive the Scorn, it won’t make them think any better of Tristians as a people.’
‘Kest has the most self-control,’ Nehra suggested. ‘He might even—’
‘Not Kest, either. He’s been the Saint of Swords. Morn will have spread that around, too.’