Read Online Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 by Sebastien De Castell - Free Book Online
Authors: Sebastien De Castell
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said. ‘But only one thing he’s going to do.’
For some reason, that brought me back and I opened my eyes to see Brasti staring at me. I started to speak but he stopped me, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘No, please, allow me.’ He stuck a finger in the air and jutted his chin up and to the right, as though staring at some far-off horizon. ‘“Though I am grievous injured, I, Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats and most beloved of the King, must now, in defence of our most sacred ideals, demonstrate my unyielding duty – not to mention, ego – and investigate this most heinous act!”’
‘I don’t talk anything like that.’
Kest looked at me and raised his eyebrows a hair.
‘Oh, the hells for the both of you,’ I said, and surveyed the room to find my clothes, reasoning it probably wouldn’t help anyone for me to wander about naked except for my bandages. Near the bed where I’d awoken was an old wooden crate that was serving as a side table. I dressed slowly, careful not to fall over and embarrass myself in front of Kest and Brasti. After the manner in which I’d been woken, though, I felt justified in making them wait.
I finished by slipping my rapiers into their scabbards and took a slow, stiff walk around the dingy room, leaning periodically against the empty beds that emitted the musty smell of disuse. Under each one lay a plain, wooden coffin.
‘All right, let’s go,’ I said. Then another question occurred to me. ‘Where the hells am I?’
*
‘Welcome to the Martyrium of Saint Werta-who-walks-the-waves,’ Kest said as he led us out through the double doors and into the bright sunlight, ‘in all her dubious glory.’
Broken remnants of single-storey buildings gave sad greetings, their crumbling and dirty white sandstone walls overtaken by vines and tall weeds and now listing like weary sentries over the wreckage of roofs long ago caved in.
‘Not exactly a palace of the divine, is it?’ Brasti asked.
Having seldom taken much interest in the Gods, and even less in their chosen representatives on earth (or at least in Tristia), I’d never spent much time in our holy places, so I didn’t have much of a frame of reference to go on. ‘Where’s the sanctuary?’ I asked, assuming that’s where I’d find Birgid and Ethalia.
Kest pointed to an overgrown path behind me and a larger, six-walled building with a smooth dome about a dozen yards away. It stood on a slight angle, as if the ground on one side was growing tired of supporting its weight. It was ringed by the limbless and headless remains of what once must have been commanding statues of each of Tristia’s deities.
‘The Gods have seen better days,’ I said.
Brasti kicked a marble hand holding a hammer that had probably belonged to Craft, or Mestiri, as he’s sometimes known here in the south. ‘Inspiring, isn’t it?’ he asked, balancing on top of what was left of a carved head that had rolled along the ground and ended its journey against the stump of a dead tree. If the God of Making was troubled by Brasti’s blasphemy, he gave no sign.
I turned to Kest. ‘Why bring Birgid here? Surely she could have received better care at the Ducal Palace?’
‘Duchess Ossia’s clerics demanded it,’ he replied. ‘They said. “A Saint can only be healed under the protection of the Gods, not in the false comfort and vain opulence of a secular palace”.’
Not that clerics have ever objected to living in that same comfort and opulence . . . ‘And Valiana went along with that?’
‘She needs Duchess Ossia’s support, and the Duchess needs the clerics.’
‘No one much cared about what we thought,’ Brasti added. ‘They weren’t even going to let Ethalia travel with her unt—’
Kest gave him a sharp look and he went silent.
‘What?’ I asked.
Kest hesitated, then said, ‘One of the clerics was insisting Ethalia was . . . unclean . He grabbed her wrist rather forcefully.’ He carefully ignored
For some reason, that brought me back and I opened my eyes to see Brasti staring at me. I started to speak but he stopped me, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘No, please, allow me.’ He stuck a finger in the air and jutted his chin up and to the right, as though staring at some far-off horizon. ‘“Though I am grievous injured, I, Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats and most beloved of the King, must now, in defence of our most sacred ideals, demonstrate my unyielding duty – not to mention, ego – and investigate this most heinous act!”’
‘I don’t talk anything like that.’
Kest looked at me and raised his eyebrows a hair.
‘Oh, the hells for the both of you,’ I said, and surveyed the room to find my clothes, reasoning it probably wouldn’t help anyone for me to wander about naked except for my bandages. Near the bed where I’d awoken was an old wooden crate that was serving as a side table. I dressed slowly, careful not to fall over and embarrass myself in front of Kest and Brasti. After the manner in which I’d been woken, though, I felt justified in making them wait.
I finished by slipping my rapiers into their scabbards and took a slow, stiff walk around the dingy room, leaning periodically against the empty beds that emitted the musty smell of disuse. Under each one lay a plain, wooden coffin.
‘All right, let’s go,’ I said. Then another question occurred to me. ‘Where the hells am I?’
*
‘Welcome to the Martyrium of Saint Werta-who-walks-the-waves,’ Kest said as he led us out through the double doors and into the bright sunlight, ‘in all her dubious glory.’
Broken remnants of single-storey buildings gave sad greetings, their crumbling and dirty white sandstone walls overtaken by vines and tall weeds and now listing like weary sentries over the wreckage of roofs long ago caved in.
‘Not exactly a palace of the divine, is it?’ Brasti asked.
Having seldom taken much interest in the Gods, and even less in their chosen representatives on earth (or at least in Tristia), I’d never spent much time in our holy places, so I didn’t have much of a frame of reference to go on. ‘Where’s the sanctuary?’ I asked, assuming that’s where I’d find Birgid and Ethalia.
Kest pointed to an overgrown path behind me and a larger, six-walled building with a smooth dome about a dozen yards away. It stood on a slight angle, as if the ground on one side was growing tired of supporting its weight. It was ringed by the limbless and headless remains of what once must have been commanding statues of each of Tristia’s deities.
‘The Gods have seen better days,’ I said.
Brasti kicked a marble hand holding a hammer that had probably belonged to Craft, or Mestiri, as he’s sometimes known here in the south. ‘Inspiring, isn’t it?’ he asked, balancing on top of what was left of a carved head that had rolled along the ground and ended its journey against the stump of a dead tree. If the God of Making was troubled by Brasti’s blasphemy, he gave no sign.
I turned to Kest. ‘Why bring Birgid here? Surely she could have received better care at the Ducal Palace?’
‘Duchess Ossia’s clerics demanded it,’ he replied. ‘They said. “A Saint can only be healed under the protection of the Gods, not in the false comfort and vain opulence of a secular palace”.’
Not that clerics have ever objected to living in that same comfort and opulence . . . ‘And Valiana went along with that?’
‘She needs Duchess Ossia’s support, and the Duchess needs the clerics.’
‘No one much cared about what we thought,’ Brasti added. ‘They weren’t even going to let Ethalia travel with her unt—’
Kest gave him a sharp look and he went silent.
‘What?’ I asked.
Kest hesitated, then said, ‘One of the clerics was insisting Ethalia was . . . unclean . He grabbed her wrist rather forcefully.’ He carefully ignored
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