‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
Ethalia gave me a weary smile. ‘Of course you don’t.’ She pushed herself up on one elbow. ‘You’re injured, beaten and heartsick. You’re full of grief and barely contained rage. I know you care for me, Falcio, but when you look at me . . . sometimes it’s as if you’ve forgotten I’m a woman; you think instead I’m the Goddess Love herself.’
‘Some people would take that as a compliment.’
‘I don’t.’ She looked through the window at the night sky for a moment. I thought the moonlight was reflecting on her face, then I realised it was the glow of her Sainthood. ‘It’s more difficult than you know to be . . . myself, sometimes.’
‘And me being in love with you makes that harder?’
‘Sometimes.’
It is fair to say that I have absolutely no understanding of women at all.
Ethalia sensed my confusion and tried to explain. ‘You look at me as if I’m your salvation, Falcio, when I want to be – what I am – is a woman of Tristia. Nothing more, nothing less. Is that so hard to understand?’
I couldn’t think of anything clever to say, and a banging on the door interrupted whatever else she might have said. ‘Falcio, you’ve got a visitor,’ Brasti shouted.
‘Tell them to bugger off.’
‘Sure thing. Bugger off, your Majesty,’ Brasti declared loudly.
I rose and quickly put on my trousers and a shirt. At least I had the sense to wait until Ethalia dressed before opening the door.
‘Forgive my intrusion,’ Filian said.
‘Nice outfit, your Majesty,’ I said, noting the rich red and gold brocade robes he was wearing, despite us being in a rather shabby area of town. ‘Very discreet.’
He looked at me for a moment with a confused expression. ‘Ah, you’re being funny. Did my father find it endearing?’
‘I don’t know, but he had the good grace to pretend, anyway.’
Filian sighed. ‘Something else I’ll have to learn, I suppose. May I come in?’
I turned to Ethalia. She nodded.
‘It’s your country,’ I said. ‘Who am I to—?’
‘Stop testing me, Falcio,’ the King said, entering the room. He handed me a document, which I guessed from the flowery writing was another decree. ‘I thought you might like to see this.’
I looked down and glanced through the handful of paragraphs above a line where his signature should be. ‘You’re reinstating the Greatcoats permanently?’
‘I am.’
‘I can’t help but notice you haven’t signed the document.’
‘There’s something I want in return.’
I shook my head. ‘If you’ve come to me with some list of promises and demands, your Majesty, then you’re wasting your time. The Greatcoats don’t work that way. Besides, you convicted me of treason, remember? I have a nice scroll that explains it in detail. I’m not the First Cantor any more.’
‘I have only one demand,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That you return as First Cantor.’
‘I . . . find that surprising, your Majesty, given I—’
‘Nearly stabbed me with a sword?’
‘I was going to say, preached open sedition and treason against the Crown, but I do recall something about a sword in there.’
‘I suppose I should be flattered,’ the King said, leaning back against the small desk and folding his arms. ‘After all, didn’t you begin your relationship with my father by trying to kill him?’
‘There were . . . circumstances, your Majesty.’
‘No doubt. Well, I won’t be so presumptuous as to ask that you try to refrain from doing that in future since I suspect you can’t stop yourself from the occasional act of attempted regicide.’
‘I . . . are you making a joke, your Majesty?’
‘I don’t know. Is it funny?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s not bad. Your father would have inserted something sexual in there.’
Filian looked confused. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know. It was a gift he had.’
‘Well, I’ll keep practising. In the meantime, will you accede to my request?’
‘Will you really refuse to reinstate the Greatcoats if I don’t?’
He sighed and reached into the folds of his robes to pull out a small case. He opened it and removed an elaborately carved wooden pen and a small bottle of ink, both of which he set on the desk. He pulled the stopper, dipped the pen and signed his name to the decree. ‘No more ultimatums. No more drama. I would as soon be known as the most boring King in the history of our country.’ He turned back to me. ‘Now, will you retake your position?’
I looked at Ethalia, who said, ‘This is your decision, Falcio. Don’t ask me to make it for you.’
The King stared at her with a mystified expression. ‘Who are you, exactly, my Lady, that the man who has shaken the foundations of this country, who once duelled a God and found a way to win an unwinnable war, should seek your permission?’
‘Just some woman,’ I said.
I thought it sounded funny at the time.
Filian’s eyes were still on Ethalia. ‘No, my Lady,’ he said. ‘Whatever Falcio says, I do not believe you are just “some woman”.’ He bowed then, which made me like him a little more, but didn’t change anything.
‘I’m sorry, your Majesty,’ I said. ‘I can’t be First Cantor of the Greatcoats any more.’
He looked a little annoyed, a little sad and a little scared. ‘I . . . Falcio, I need—’
‘I’m broken,’ I said.
‘I don’t understand.’ Fillion’s confused expression betrayed his youthfulness; he hadn’t yet seen enough of the world to understand it.
‘I know you don’t, your Majesty. But unfortunately, I don’t know of any better way to say it. I’m broken. I’ve given everything I had to this country and now I need to stop, at least for a while.’
He looked as though he were about to protest but then held back, which I thought showed remarkable wisdom. ‘What will you do?’ he asked finally.
I looked at Ethalia again, wondering briefly whether if I asked her to marry me right then and there in front of the King she’d feel obliged to say yes, to spare me the humiliation of a refusal. Then I came to my senses and said instead, ‘I’m not sure, your Majesty. There’s a little island off the coast of Baern which I’m told is a nice place to recuperate for a while.’
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘When will you leave?’
‘Soon, but first I need to . . .’
It started as a sigh that took too much breath from me. I simply couldn’t finish that sentence, couldn’t speak at all. Right there in front of the woman who’d just told me she didn’t want me to ask her to marry me, in front of my new King who was all of fifteen years old, I started crying.
‘Ah,’ Filian said gently, after a while. ‘Of course. You have one final duty to perform.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
The Cottage