‘Not you—’ She was shaking her head. ‘I mean, yes, Morn despises you – but mostly because you always stood up for the King.’ She let go of my hand. ‘It’s Paelis Morn resents – for lying to us, for tricking us into believing we could somehow protect the country after his death, when in reality the King had no idea how to save Tristia.’
‘So now Morn wants to destroy the country just to prove a point?’ Brasti asked, sounding as incredulous as I felt.
‘No, it’s the opposite,’ Quillata interrupted. ‘He wants to prove he can do what Paelis couldn’t: that he can build a better nation than the King could have even imagined.’ Every line in her face echoed the regret in her voice. ‘It’s become an obsession for him, Falcio. It’s made him cold and mean, but it’s also made him . . . He’s brilliant, Falcio, he really is – far more so than any of us ever realised.’
The noon sun was starting to rise, lending a shimmer to the snow and ice on the cliff-top where the horde waited for the next act of Morn’s tantalising performance. Why was it that in Tristia, madness so often went in hand with genius? What was it about my people, that their worst desires were inextricably linked with the means to bring those desires to life?
‘I’ve dealt with clever men before,’ I said, and turned to make my way down the hill and onto the field where Morn and I would meet for the final parlay before the battle.
’Not like him,’ Quillata called out. ‘Morn manipulated the populations of two countries into this war and tore Tristia apart without even firing a shot. He tricked every one of us – even you – into playing a part in his plans.’
I paused for a moment. ‘What’s your point?’
‘I’m sorry, Falcio, I truly am, but he’s better at this than you are.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
The War Speech
‘Hello, First Cantor.’ Morn’s tone was surprisingly amiable considering we were standing nine feet apart at the centre of a field between two armies. Apparently the distance was one of the precise requirements for this next little piece of theatre called The Peace Parlay, in which our two nations would have one final opportunity to avert war. This particular tradition must have come from some long-ago era when Avareans had been more civilised, for the seven thousand barbarians on the other side of the field jeering and grunting at me clearly couldn’t wait to get started on the ‘bloodshed’ bit of the tradition.
‘Did you want to surrender, Morn?’ I asked pleasantly.
He shook his head, but he kept his eyes fixed on me, which told me he wasn’t entirely sure I’d hold to the oath not to attack during the parley. ‘It has to be war, Falcio. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. Tristian blood is going to drench the snow beneath our feet, and every man and woman you dragged here is going to die.’
‘You sound broken-up over it, Morn. There is one option that would save everyone a lot of trouble, if you’re up for it.’
‘A duel? I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? You beat me once.’
‘Because war doesn’t work that way.’ He gestured at my hand, which kept drifting towards the hilt of my rapier. ‘By the way, the Avareans have very strict rules when it comes to rokhan. If you kill me right now, I promise you our countrymen would pay the price for a thousand years and a thousand more.’
Nehra had already reminded me of the consequences of losing my temper before I’d come onto the field. Twice. So had Feltock, Kest, and Valiana. Even Brasti added his own two bits’ worth. So I ignored him and asked instead, ‘Remind me, how long exactly do we have to stand out here staring at each other like moon-crossed lovers?’
‘Not long. Another minute or so should satisfy both sides that we made the attempt.’
‘What shall we do to pass the time then? Know any good songs?’
He sighed. ‘Another joke. You know what disappoints me most about you, Falcio? It’s that you could have been a great man. You can outfight most soldiers and out-think most Generals. And yet all you do is throw yourself at the waves of history, hoping to beat back the ocean. And every time you nearly drown and Kest has to pull you out of the water, you point to your soggy clothes and shout, “See here? This is the blood of my enemy! If I just keep going back, eventually he’ll run out!”’
‘I asked for a song, not a poem.’
Morn chuckled. ‘Always so clever. I wonder . . .’ He paused for a moment before asking, ‘Are you prepared to put that eloquent wit of yours to the test?’
‘You won’t duel me but you want to have a talking contest?’
He spread his hands. ‘It’s only words. What have you got to lose?’
A great deal, in fact: Nehra had already warned me that the -Avareans had another little ritual up their sleeves called ‘the Oration for the Dead’. The leader of each side is afforded the opportunity to speak directly to the opposing soldiers in an attempt to break their spirit. Basically, you’re expected to describe in detail what will happen if they dare to fight in hopes that some significant number will turn tail and run. Nehra had made it clear that there was nothing I could say to the Avareans that would scare them, whereas there were any number of dark images Morn could describe to our soldiers that might convince them to abandon the battle. Of course, the Avareans didn’t really expect us to agree to this particular tradition, which was good, because only an idiot would do so.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Let’s all hear what you’ve got to say.’
*
‘You know me,’ Morn began as he walked along the snowy ground at the front of our lines. His voice was calm, almost reassuring, and it carried surprisingly well. He would have made a passable opera singer. ‘I was born in the city of Chevor, in Baern. I bet some of you were as well.’
A few heads nodded in response.
He took out a small knife from his coat, causing several of our soldiers to grab their spears tighter. Thank the Saints dead and living, no one did more than that. Feltock had spent the better part of an hour explaining exactly what would happen if we attacked an emissary during the Oration. Since the whole point of us coming here was to convince the Avareans to think well enough of our courage and discipline that they’d choose not to massacre every townsperson and villager in the country, we were going to have to stand here for a bit, listening patiently to Morn’s garbage. I wondered if any army had ever had to suffer so much just to win the favour of its enemy.
‘I’m one of you,’ Morn said, running the knife blade across his palm. ‘My blood is as Tristian as any of yours.’ He put the knife back in the pocket of his coat. ‘So why must it be only your blood that will be spilled on this field?’ He renewed his slow walk along our line. ‘I have family in Tristia, just like you do. So why must it only be your families who will weep over your death?’