‘Well, it is possible she actually sent someone else and specifically ordered me to stay away from Falcio, but she knows me well enough by now to realise that’s not going to happen.’
She led us outside and down the eastern slope of the hill. The moon was hanging low on the horizon, its dim light casting pale shadows in the snow of the nearly two hundred men and women waiting there. ‘Hello, Ethalia, First Cantor,’ Nehra said. ‘Falcio, it’s time you met the Dal Verteri.’
My eyes went first to my fellow Greatcoats: Kest, Brasti, Valiana, Mateo and most of the others from Castle Aramor were standing alongside those that Chalmers’ Scorn ride had brought back to us: twenty-one in all, as I’d ordered Antrim and Allister to keep half a dozen of ours in Aramor to protect King Filian. I’d read enough in between fencing and swordsmanship manuals to know that war was an excellent time for assassination attempts against monarchs.
Nehra’s Bardatti, next to them, held cloth-covered instruments of one kind or another: war drums, pipes and battle horns, even guitars like the one Nehra herself carried. I didn’t bother making any scathing remarks about the effectiveness of singing someone to death – it was clear from the way they were all glaring at Brasti he’d already got to it.
To the left of the Bardatti were thirty Knights on horseback. They wore no livery, but their steel breastplates were inscribed with symbols; after a moment I realised they were the old pictograms used to represent Tristia’s different towns and villages. I recognised Sir Elizar, even with his helm down.
‘Honori,’ I said, greeting him formally, ‘are you the leader of this somewhat small cavalry unit?’
He shook his head. ‘We have only just begun to reform the Order of Honori. We must wait for a leader who can show us the path we must take, so in the meantime, we will fight alongside you and take our orders from General Feltock.’
Thirty Knights: barely enough to qualify as a squad. We had other mounted soldiers, of course, but they lacked the steel armour and war swords, let alone the training needed to cut a swathe through the Avareans.
I was surprised to see Quentis, still in his grey coat, surrounded by a dozen other Cogneri, none of whom I recognised, thankfully. ‘Planning on interrogating the enemy to death?’ I asked.
The other Cogneri didn’t look especially pleased with my joke, but Quentis smiled. ‘Couldn’t let the secular Orders have all the fun, could we? Besides, by our reckoning, these Avareans are all heathens. We thought we’d better do our part; it’s clear they might need a fair bit of smiting.’
Then Gwyn came forward – and to my enormous surprise, he was accompanied by two others, also in long coats, though none looked alike. ‘Silviene,’ the woman introduced herself. Her coat was lighter than the other two, the colour of sand, and she wore a thin silk scarf masking her mouth and chin. ‘I walk the desert paths and keep a watch on those who might seek to invade from the East.’
I didn’t know what the appropriate response was, so I offered, ‘I’m Falcio val Mond. I deal with annoying conspiracies and put the pointy end of things into arseholes.’
To my eternal embarrassment, she nodded solemnly, as if she now understood this was how Greatcoats introduced themselves. The man next to her was wearing a coat more like ours, although the cuffs reminded me of a ship captain’s uniform. ‘Patrus Neville,’ he said, grinning broadly as he held out a hand. ‘I sail the southern coasts and keep an eye on potential enemy ships.’ Then he added, ‘Sometimes I steal them, just to be safe.’
‘A pirate?’ Brasti yelled incredulously. ‘Damn it, Falcio! I told you we should’ve—’
‘Ignore him,’ I said to Patrus Neville, because by then my eyes had caught sight of a dozen hooded figures standing a little to one side. ‘Who are they?’ I wondered aloud.
Ethalia went to them and said, ‘It is time, brothers and sisters.’
They removed their hoods and even in the near-dark they shimmered in a dozen different hues.
‘Sancti,’ one of the Cogneri said, his voice filled with awe, and sank to his knees.
‘Rise,’ a young man glowing a delicate pale blue, with rather lustrous blond hair and fine-boned features, told him. ‘Your gestures of submission are unnecessary. Also, unwanted.’
‘Forgive us, Sancti,’ Quentis said, grabbing his colleague by the collar and hauling him to his feet. ‘Old habits die hard.’
The young Saint walked over to me and extended a hand. ‘Arcanciel-who-watches-all-pass. You will know me as the new Saint of Memory.’
I was about to shake his hand but Brasti got there first. ‘Brasti-who-never-misses,’ he said, ‘soon to be Saint of Archery.’
Arcanciel stared back at him. ‘You do realise Merhan-who-rides-the-arrow is still alive, don’t you? The Blacksmith’s men never got to him.’
‘Damn it!’ Brasti swore. ‘There really is no fucking justice in the world.’
‘Actually,’ Arcanciel said, gesturing at a woman in her middle years with close-cropped grey hair, ‘Kersa-whose-scales-balance-all is the new Saint of Justice.’
She gave a slight incline of her head to me. ‘Greetings, First Cantor.’ Then she brought me down to earth. ‘It would be unjust of us to allow you to be deceived by our presence. We cannot fight alongside you.’
‘Why in all the hells not?’ Brasti asked indignantly.
Saint Arcanciel answered, ‘Our purpose is to inspire those whose spirits align with our natures, and to protect our people from the overreach of Gods, not to be used as weapons against foreign armies.’
‘There will be precious few left to inspire if Avares conquers Tristia,’ Kest said.
The other Saints looked at him oddly, as if his presence was inexplicable to them. I suppose they’d never met someone who’d given back Sainthood before. ‘You may be right,’ Arcanciel conceded, ‘but if we use our Awe against the Avareans, we risk awakening their Gods, and the waves of destruction such an act would unleash upon Tristia would be endless.’ He turned to Ethalia. ‘But you are still determined to fight, Ethalia-who-shares-all-sorrows?’
‘I am.’
‘Then you must do so as a woman and not a Saint. Whatever happens, you must not use your Awe against the enemy soldiers.’
She surprised me by giving him a wicked grin. ‘Boy, I’ve been holding men in awe of me since long before I became a Saint.’
Arcanciel returned a stilted smile, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her words. It must be difficult for Saints to hold onto their humanity – and I thought again how remarkable Ethalia was for fighting so hard to retain hers.
‘Forgive me,’ I asked the assembled Saints, ‘but if you haven’t come to fight, then why are you here?’