Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 by Sebastien De Castell

Perhaps the Gods themselves, concerned for the state of the world, have returned their finest servant – that’s me, by the way – to save it from—’
    That next word was something I really wanted to hear, but Aline interrupted. ‘He’s a hallucination,’ she said, then looked archly at the King. ‘And not a particularly impressive one, I must say.’
    ‘Dear Lady, if, as you claim, I am nothing more than the product of Falcio’s fevered brain, then what does that make you?’
    Aline turned to me and reached down her hand to touch my cheek. I could almost make myself believe that I could feel the touch of her fingers against my skin. Almost.
    ‘I’m his reason, of course. I’m the part of him that realises he’s lost consciousness, along with far too much blood, and that he was dragged along the floor by Kest and Brasti, the only way they could get him to the infirmary.’
    She paused while four eagles gripped their talons around my wrists and ankles and flew me high up into the air before depositing me into their nest. It was a rather uncomfortable nest.
    Aline chuckled then. ‘You’re on a horse-cart, you silly man. It’s been several days since you fell. Such an inventive imagination, though. You should have joined the Bardatti instead of the Greatcoats.’ She turned to the King. ‘I’m the part of him that figures things out when others can’t.’
    I missed that about her – the unshakable confidence in those things she knew to be true.
    ‘You’re what makes me believe there’s still good in this wretched world,’ I said.
    ‘No, my darling, that’s his job.’ She pointed at Paelis.
    ‘Ah!’ said the King, as if he’d just scored the winning point. ‘I’m his idealism! His fearless determination to right the world! His keen intellect and—’
    ‘No, that’s Aline, too,’ I said, letting myself feel the warmth of her breath and smelling the haleweed that she used to rub on her face and neck to keep from burning on sunny days. I wanted to live inside that sweet scent for ever.
    ‘These are false memories you’re making for yourself,’ Aline warned. ‘Haleweed stinks of seven different hells, Falcio, remember? We were farmers .’ She held out the fingertips of one perfect hand. ‘What farmer ever had hands like these?’ Her fingers took hold of a lock of soft hair, a gleaming pale brown, almost blonde, and held it up for me to see. ‘In my entire life my hair never once looked this way.’
    ‘Enough!’ Paelis bellowed. ‘Is a man not allowed to love his wife? Is he not allowed to see the beauty that others’ – and here he began wagging his finger at her – ‘even she herself, fail to see?’
    That was a mistake. One thing that was absolutely true about Aline was that she never took well to being yelled at. ‘And what good will he be to the world like this? Clinging to a past painted bright colours by sorrow and need?’ She turned back to me. ‘The enemy’s way is deception, Falcio. Yours must be truth, no matter how ugly it might look.’
    She leaned in closer to me and I could count the freckles on her cheeks now, six on one side, nine on the other. That felt significant somehow.
    ‘Better,’ she said. ‘But there’s more. You can’t beat him unless you learn to see what isn’t there.’
    ‘How am I supposed to see what isn’t—?’
    Aline placed her hands in front of her face. Her hair changed colour to the pale white-blonde of Saint Birgid and her hands darkened and melted together, forming an iron mask with neither eyes nor mouth.
    ‘Stop,’ I said, reaching out to try and pull the mask away.
    ‘She can’t hear you any more,’ Paelis said. ‘She can’t speak. Truth is being buried under deception, faith drowned by fear.’ Gently, the King lifted Aline by the shoulders and began guiding her backwards, away from me.
    ‘Step by step, Falcio, it’s all being taken away from us.’
    A fog the colour of ivory began to envelop them, swallowing them