But she was already gone.
Negotiations. Intrigue. The dark arts of politicians. The tactical deceptions and secret deal-making that were needed to make a country run. I don’t think I’d ever really appreciated the way the King used to deal so masterfully with such problems, all the while letting the rest of us run off on our righteous quests to bring justice to the people of Tristia. Did he ever resent the way we left him behind to deal with the mess? Did Valiana? She had to work every day to keep the Kingdom running, and every day she had to use a hundred different tactics to fight off a hundred different enemies and always come out the winner.
While my only job involved going around stabbing people with swords and giving long-winded speeches that no one wanted to hear any more.
The sound of hooves shook me out of my introspection. Kest, Brasti and Morn rode up to the gates with my own horse, Arsehole, alongside. ‘Why in all the hells can’t Trin launch her conspiracies in the spring?’ Brasti said. ‘It’s colder than the Tailor’s heart out here.’
Morn chuckled. ‘You think this is cold? This? You should see the frozen shithole we’re headed to.’
Brasti gave me a dirty look.
‘Leave him be,’ Kest said, attaching his shield to one of his -saddlebags.
‘You know you’ve got a lot slower since losing your hand, Kest. You’re not a Saint any more—’
‘I’m still fast enough to knock you off your horse three times before you draw your weapon.’ Kest leaned over on his horse to peer at Brasti’s waist. ‘No, you’re still hanging your sword belt too far to the back. Four times.’
Brasti threw up his hands. ‘Will I ever get any respect from you damned bastards with your stupid pointy sticks? Has everyone forgotten that I’m the one who killed an actual God? In fact, I’d like someone to explain why I haven’t become a Saint yet. Is there really no justice in—?’
I turned to see why he’d stopped talking and saw Ethalia walking towards us. She was wearing a blue woollen sweater over her usual simple cotton dress, and she looked . . . well, I’ve probably said enough about how she looks. If it helps, Brasti and Morn shared my reaction as they suddenly became very quiet. Kest is always quiet, so it’s hard to tell whether anyone’s presence makes a difference.
‘I won’t keep you,’ Ethalia said. ‘I know you have a long journey ahead, but a note came for you, Falcio.’
She handed me a folded slip of paper. It wasn’t sealed. I unfolded it to find a single line written in her own hand: Be wise, rather than brave, prudent, rather than bold, and don’t let the complications between us keep you away too long, the note read. I looked into her eyes and tried to make sense of the word ‘complications’. What precisely was that supposed to mean?
‘My darling Ethalia,’ Brasti said, ‘when will you finally rid yourself of this drab and inconsolable fellow and make your way to a warmer and more welcoming bed?’
Ethalia turned and looked at Kest, sitting astride his horse. ‘Kest?’ she asked innocently.
‘Yes?’
‘Might you, as a fellow – if former – Saint, consider knocking some sense into Brasti for me? It’s just that, as Saint of Mercy, I’m not supposed to do it myself.’
‘Give me a moment to consider it,’ he replied. Suddenly his arm flew back and sent Brasti tumbling off his horse. ‘Ah. It appears the answer is “yes”.’
Ethalia took advantage of the ensuing swearing and chaos to place both her hands on my cheeks. Her skin was warm against mine as she kissed me, and my troubles lifted away from my shoulders like ravens frightened off by her presence. Surprised as I was, I held that kiss for as long as I could, because I knew those ravens would return soon enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Road North
The road north felt strange to me . . . or no, not strange, wrong.
I tried to blame it on lack of sleep – in the mere two days we’d spent in Castle Aramor since our return I don’t think I’d slept a full night; that and the after-effects of a week of raging seasickness made riding a real chore. Of course, it didn’t help that Arsehole, my copper-coloured Tivanieze, insisted on prancing about unpredictably, as if every flower, bird or butterfly was calling him over to play.
‘You really should have taken up the stablemaster’s offer to trade him in,’ Kest said, noting my discomfort.
I’d tried, seriously. Tivaniezes are rare enough that I could have exchanged him for a more reliable and less exuberant horse – one who, for example, didn’t object to galloping in a straight line. But for all his faults, I just couldn’t bear to give him up. Arsehole is an unfathomably strange horse, but he and I had come to a more or less cordial understanding over the past few months: I would do my best to ignore his preposterous behaviour and he, in turn, would do his best not to throw me from the saddle more than once a day.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, which was something of a lie. Despite my efforts to pin my discomfort on exhaustion and ill-bred horses, the problem was not so much that we were riding towards an undesirable destination, but rather that we were riding away from the poor, battered castle that still felt like home. The sensation was especially troubling because I could remember with aching clarity why I used to love setting out on my judicial circuits.
For all the complaints about the danger, drudgery and distinct lack of proper beds that came with our tours of duty, there was a kind of magic in the roads we travelled. Tristia is a relatively small country, and yet every Duchy, March and Demesne – along with its people – is strange and unique, with its own customs and traditions. It’s as if Tristia is made up of dozens of tiny foreign nations all packed in together. You could visit every part of the country a hundred times over and never fail to be surprised at how different they all are from one another.
Everywhere we went in those days trials awaited us: complex legal disputes and thorny criminal cases that required our expertise and sometimes our blades. Men and women ensnared by the legal machinations of neighbours, relatives or even their Lords told me they’d felt frozen in time, trapped in ice, and it was only the King’s Travelling Magistrates who’d been able to shatter their bonds and let time tick forward once again, freeing them to get on with their lives.