‘Brasti, let him be,’ Kest said.
‘Falcio, I have to know. What was it like? How bad was it?’
My eyes found his. I couldn’t believe anyone could ask me such a thing.
Brasti gave my shoulders a small shake. ‘I need to know, Falcio,’ he said, the sympathy in his expression suddenly replaced by a manic grin. ‘What’s it like having to kiss that hideous old woman?’
For a moment it felt as if everything around me stopped completely. Even the wind held its breath. Until that instant I had never truly understood despair, though I had lived with it my whole life. I thought despair was something you fought and died fighting – something you had to clothe yourself in madness and rage to protect against. But then, against all logic and decency, Brasti had decided, in that impossible moment, to turn all the pain in the world into a joke. You and I will grow old together and laugh at the day these silly birds came to rest in our fields, she had said to me. Hollow words, and yet their very emptiness left a hole that demanded to be filled. The sound that broke through my lips was harsh and awkward, like a man who’d forgotten how to speak, but it set Brasti off and he started laughing like a fool.
‘Gods, Falcio, she kissed you so hard your jaw doesn’t even work right any more.’
Then I heard what was quite possibly the most ridiculous sound I’d ever heard: Kest was giggling. ‘It’s not funny,’ he said, trying to stop.
‘Of course it isn’t, you stupid Saint,’ Brasti said. ‘There’s nothing funny about those mottled lips, that foul breath reaching deep inside a man. Tell me, Falcio, could you actually feel your balls shrivel up when you tasted her tongue?’
‘Stop it,’ Kest said, still chortling so hard he looked as if he could barely keep upright.
‘I really need to know,’ Brasti said, plaintively. ‘If you get to be the Saint of Swords, I should at least be able to be the Saint of Lovers. I imagine that, since you have to be able to defeat anyone in battle, I’ll have to be able to defeat them in bed – and what better preparation could there be than bedding the Tailor? Come on, Falcio, put in a word for me, help me become the Saint I’ve always been meant to be!’
Kest stumbled back and fell down on the ground. ‘Enough,’ he said, ‘I can’t take it any more!’
‘Hah!’ Brasti said. ‘I’ve defeated the great Saint of Swords!’ He started hopping back and forth, his fists in the air in mock imitation of the unarmed combat lessons Kest used to teach. ‘Come on, Kest, how long did you last as a Saint? Half a day?’
In the distance behind him I saw a small figure standing alone. I left Kest and Brasti and walked towards her. She had her arms crossed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me who my father was?’ she asked. Her voice was thick with anger and hurt.
‘I didn’t know,’ I said. ‘I only realised it when I was … when the poison was in me.’
‘And Trin? The Tailor says she’s still out there somewhere.’
‘I—’
Patriana’s laughter back in Rijou still haunted me: ‘My daughter is much more dangerous than I am.’
‘No, I guess I didn’t realise who she was, either.’
‘Well then, you’re a very stupid person, aren’t you.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I am just starting to discover that, yes.’ Then I looked down at her, as if for the very first time. She was a pretty girl, I thought, though her sharp features would likely prevent her from ever becoming the legendary beauty of storybook princesses. My King’s long nose and wide mouth had seen to that. So many of his little quirks were written in her expression and, despite everything that had happened, I found myself smiling. How could I not have seen it before?
‘What?’ Aline said, kicking me.
I laughed. ‘Your face.’
‘What about my face?’
I knelt down and hugged her. ‘It delights me.’
Her arms suddenly gripped tight around me and great sobs filled the air, but whether they were hers or mine, I could not tell.
‘I never even knew him,’ she said, ‘so why do I miss him?’
I wanted to tell her that I had known King Paelis better than my own self. I wanted to tell her that he was a man of humour, of dirty jokes and wicked smiles – that he had known darkness and despair, and emerged determined to light candles for everyone else. He read every book he had ever chanced to find, and from them he drew a thousand ideas. He had spent his life putting them in motion, but he never forgot his friends or his compassion. I wanted to tell her how she had got the name Aline.
But not now; not yet.
‘Well, first of all,’ I said, ‘he was a terrible swordsman and a lousy cook.’
I felt her cheek rub against mine as she started giggling uncontrollably, and that’s how we stayed for a few minutes more, while mad hopefulness surrounded us and spread like rainwater over the hard surface of the world.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In lieu of acknowledgements, here’s a seven-step plan to get published:
First, marry a librarian. My wife, Christina, knows more about books and readers than I ever will. She inspires me with her brilliance, her beauty and her limited patience for my whining.
Second, you need one of your best friends to be a better writer than you are. Eric Torin has read this story almost as many times as I have and every time has guided me in making it better.
Third, you need alpha readers. John de Castell, Terry Lanthier, Jessica Leigh, Clark-Bojin and Dennis Boulter were all kind enough to read this book long before it was worth reading.
Fourth, well, when you get to step four, you’ll know exactly what you have to do. It’s the hard part. It helps when you work with uniquely creative people like those at Vancouver Film School.
Fifth, once the book is getting close, you need people who can read your work and tell you what’s missing. Kathryn Zeller, Kim Tough and Samarth Chandola all provided great insight into those last few miles of writing.
Sixth, you need an agent who is savvy, supportive and smiles when you talk about your ridiculous ideas and expectations. Heather Adams of the HMA Literary Agency is my publishing guardian angel. I would never have met her if not for Christina (see step one: marry a librarian.)
Finally, you need a publisher and editor willing to get to know your story better than you do. The remarkable Jo Fletcher and Adrienne Kerr work with authors I idolise and yet they spend just as much time on my writing. Jo also once helped foil a bomb plot. Seriously.
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Jo Fletcher Books
An imprint of Quercus Editions Ltd.
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Copyright © 2014 Sebastien De Castell
The moral right of Sebastien De Castell to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 78206 674 3 (TPB)
ISBN 978 1 78206 676 7 (eBOOK)
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.