‘You should really shut your mouth now, boy,’ Brasti said.
Filian ignored him. ‘You wanted to know what kind of a King I would be? I would be a King who put the welfare of his people above my own loves, my own ideals – and if that meant doing things that tied my stomach up in knots, then I would remember Duchess Patriana and Gazer and do what was necessary.’
The sound of yew creaking as it bent filled the air. ‘See? Now there’s something we agree on,’ Brasti said, a big smile on his face. ‘Which is an excellent reason to get rid of you now, before you become an even bigger pain in our backsides.’
‘That depends,’ Filian said. His voice was steady, but I could see he was terrified. ‘If you believe my sister would be a better monarch, then loose your arrow. But if you believe that the law is a necessary prerequisite to a country’s survival, then perhaps you should be magistrates and stop trying to set the course of the country’s future as though it were yours to choose.’
‘Says the boy whose favourite Auntie Patriana arranged to have the King executed – murder’s illegal, by the way, in case no one’s mentioned it to you before.’
The boy chewed on his lip. ‘Actually, that’s not entirely true. Some of my father’s actions technically overstepped the traditional rights of the monarch. Some interpretations of the Regia Maniferecto De’egro would suggest that—’
Brasti grimaced. ‘Saint Hugo-whose-words-bore-men-senseless, he sounds just like Kest now.’ He turned to me. ‘Falcio?’
‘Enough,’ I said. ‘Just start the damned fire before we all freeze to death and these questions become moot.’
Reluctantly, Brasti relaxed the tension on his bowstring and put the arrow back in its quiver. Then, with far greater enthusiasm, he set about instructing Filian – who then made up for all of his offences in Brasti’s eyes by being an attentive listener – just how easy it is to light a fire, and how only the truly thick could possibly have any difficulty doing it.
In the meantime I turned my attention to our route home. It would be a long, slow trip and some part of me was glad of it, for once we reached Aramor, I would need to make a decision once and for all. Would I be a magistrate, or a kingmaker?
Kest had been wrong. Apparently it was entirely possible for the world not to revolve around me while still settling its entire weight on my shoulders.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Reunion
The southern passes between the eastern border of Avares and my own home Duchy of Pertine felt longer and more treacherous than I’d expected, and yet it couldn’t have been more than fifty miles. I’d spent my childhood on one side of those mountains, listening to stories mangled through repetition about the barbarians on the other side, never really understanding just how close they were to us.
We stayed well away from any populated areas, heeding Gwyn’s warning that the Avareans had a system for alerting their settlements about invaders: smoke fires that could be lit to signal across the mountains in case of attempted enemy incursion. I didn’t think our little party really qualified, but I also didn’t want anyone sending word of our passing up or down the chain to where it might reach the Magdan.
When our food ran out, Brasti and Gwyn set about hunting, trapping just enough to keep us from starving. The Rangieri considered the quantity of game more than sufficient, but it wasn’t long before the rest of us took to discussing the foods we missed the most and what our first proper meal would be the moment we set foot back in a civilised country. But by the time we’d entered Pertine and bought extra horses to speed our trip back to Aramor, we were seeing the hunger and deprivation all around us. We stopped talking altogether after that.
It was almost a relief to find ourselves periodically set upon by brigands. As it happened, the roads were filthy with them, and Kest, Brasti and I quickly slipped into our more normal roles, scaring our enemies off when we could, killing them only when they gave us no other choice. Gwyn turned out to be an effective fighter. He could make all sorts of wooden weapons with that great big knife of his, and he used them to good effect in close combat. Now he was fit again, his sling proved to be a remarkably capable weapon for distance work.
At first I wondered why anyone would take the risk of attacking us. It was clear enough we weren’t carrying trade goods and certainly didn’t look wealthy enough to have much coin. The answer, it turned out, was that the brigands weren’t interested in us at all: it was the horses they wanted – and not for riding.
Tristians don’t eat horseflesh, not as a rule, but clearly times had changed. The conspiracies, endless battles and betrayals and finally, the loss of their deities had proved to be one too many blows for anyone to endure. I doubted the people in these parts cared anything for Greatcoats or laws or who should sit the Tristian throne, they just wanted food and an end to year after year of things getting worse. If they’d had a choice between Patriana or King Paelis, I don’t think they’d have hesitated for one second; it was beginning to look like Patriana would have been a hugely popular Queen.
What if people didn’t need outdated heroics and idealism? What if they didn’t need Greatcoats at all? What if the one thing my country needed most to survive was a tyrant? That question festered inside me all the way to Castle Aramor, where I found a different kind of mathematics at play.
‘Saint Felsan’s rotting balls,’ Brasti said, staring at the tents littering the castle grounds, ‘please tell me this isn’t another pilgrimage. I’m too bloody tired to kill a God today.’
The clusters of rake-thin men and women warming themselves around fires, rusted swords lying unscabbarded on the cold ground, were eating greedily from bowls being handed out by guardsmen from the castle. Gwyn looked around at them with a mixture of disgust and pity in his expression. ‘Who are these people?’
‘Soldiers,’ Kest explained. ‘They’re conscripts.’
I heard Filian’s sharp intake of breath.
‘Not quite the royal army you hoped for, your Majesty?’ Brasti asked.
‘I . . .’
‘Shut up,’ I said, ‘and try not to be noticed until we can get you safely inside.’
As we rode up, I guessed at the numbers around us. ‘Two thousand, do you think?’ I asked Kest, but he shook his head.
‘Less than twelve hundred,’ he replied.
Brasti pointed down one of the rows of tents. ‘Well, I hope you’re not counting him in that number.’