Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 by Sebastien De Castell Page A
Authors: Sebastien De Castell
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whole. ‘Soon there will be only one step left.’
I knew that what I saw and heard was illusion, my mind jumbling memories together as my body struggled against my injuries – and yet I knew there had to be some fact, some essential truth to all of this. ‘What will they do?’ I asked. ‘What is the last step?’
The King was gone now, and I could barely see Aline in the fog. A pair of heavy gloved hands reached out, encircling her masked face. With a vicious jerk they twisted, and the sound of her neck snapping became my entire world.
I didn’t recognise the voice that I heard next, but the words were spoken with perfect clarity. ‘The last step is the same as the first,’ he said. ‘I will kill Mercy.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Martyrium
I awoke in darkness. This was neither surprising nor particularly unsettling to me until I realised that the air was heavy, almost stifling, the way it gets at the peak of an unseasonably hot summer.
So why am I so cold?
I reached down to grab at my blankets, but my forearm struck against something hard, just a few inches above me. I ran my finger across the surface. It was rough and flat. Something stung as it caught in the skin of my fingertip.
A sliver?
I tried rolling over, only to find my shoulder caught against the wooden boards above me. Panic set in when I reached out to either side and found them blocked as well.
A coffin . . . I’m in a coffin.
The stories told to frighten children and old men, of warriors injured in battle and believed dead by their comrades, only to wake up buried alive six feet beneath the ground, assailed me and I started to breathe too quickly, using too much air. Already I felt as if I were suffocating, trapped underground. Had they thought I’d lost too much blood? Was my heartbeat too soft or slow? Could Kest and Brasti truly have been foolish enough to think that—?
Brasti.
I bellowed, and the sound of my voice echoed over the surface of the wood around me, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you this time you heartless son of a bitch!’
A distant guffaw was followed by the sound of footsteps running towards me and Brasti calling, ‘Hang on, hang on, I’m coming . . .’
Blinding candlelight forced me to close my eyes as my prison lifted off of me, and when I opened them again I saw that I hadn’t actually been inside a coffin at all – Brasti had just removed the lid from one and flipped the rest over top of me.
‘It would have come off as soon as you gave it a push,’ Brasti scolded. ‘And don’t shout, either.’ He glanced around the room, most of which was cast in shadows. ‘You’ll wake up Kest and he has no sense of humour lately.’
The doors to the room burst open and Kest strode inside. ‘I told you not to pull this prank, Brasti. I warned you what would happen if you did—’
It should tell you something about Kest that I was, at that moment, afraid for Brasti.
‘Oh, no! I’ve angered Saint Kest-of-the-deep-brooding-stares!’ Brasti mocked. ‘Whatever shall I do?’
This was always Brasti’s idea of how best to deal with trauma: turn it into a joke. I had nearly died, so why not stick a coffin over me to remind me I was alive? Kest had lost his Sainthood along with his hand, so why not make fun of him to show it’s not the end of the world?
Kest didn’t look as if he was finding any of it particularly funny.
‘Fine,’ Brasti said, grinning as he leaped onto the bed next to mine, ‘just pass me my bow and then you can draw that great big stick of yours and we’ll find out once and for all who deserves to be the Saint of something-or-other!’
Without breaking stride, Kest picked up Brasti’s bow, carried it until he was within four feet of the bed and then tossed it high into the air.
Brasti grinned, his right hand already reaching back into his quiver for an arrow while the other went for the bow in midair – but before he could catch it, Kest’s left hand was darting out and wrapping around
I knew that what I saw and heard was illusion, my mind jumbling memories together as my body struggled against my injuries – and yet I knew there had to be some fact, some essential truth to all of this. ‘What will they do?’ I asked. ‘What is the last step?’
The King was gone now, and I could barely see Aline in the fog. A pair of heavy gloved hands reached out, encircling her masked face. With a vicious jerk they twisted, and the sound of her neck snapping became my entire world.
I didn’t recognise the voice that I heard next, but the words were spoken with perfect clarity. ‘The last step is the same as the first,’ he said. ‘I will kill Mercy.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Martyrium
I awoke in darkness. This was neither surprising nor particularly unsettling to me until I realised that the air was heavy, almost stifling, the way it gets at the peak of an unseasonably hot summer.
So why am I so cold?
I reached down to grab at my blankets, but my forearm struck against something hard, just a few inches above me. I ran my finger across the surface. It was rough and flat. Something stung as it caught in the skin of my fingertip.
A sliver?
I tried rolling over, only to find my shoulder caught against the wooden boards above me. Panic set in when I reached out to either side and found them blocked as well.
A coffin . . . I’m in a coffin.
The stories told to frighten children and old men, of warriors injured in battle and believed dead by their comrades, only to wake up buried alive six feet beneath the ground, assailed me and I started to breathe too quickly, using too much air. Already I felt as if I were suffocating, trapped underground. Had they thought I’d lost too much blood? Was my heartbeat too soft or slow? Could Kest and Brasti truly have been foolish enough to think that—?
Brasti.
I bellowed, and the sound of my voice echoed over the surface of the wood around me, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you this time you heartless son of a bitch!’
A distant guffaw was followed by the sound of footsteps running towards me and Brasti calling, ‘Hang on, hang on, I’m coming . . .’
Blinding candlelight forced me to close my eyes as my prison lifted off of me, and when I opened them again I saw that I hadn’t actually been inside a coffin at all – Brasti had just removed the lid from one and flipped the rest over top of me.
‘It would have come off as soon as you gave it a push,’ Brasti scolded. ‘And don’t shout, either.’ He glanced around the room, most of which was cast in shadows. ‘You’ll wake up Kest and he has no sense of humour lately.’
The doors to the room burst open and Kest strode inside. ‘I told you not to pull this prank, Brasti. I warned you what would happen if you did—’
It should tell you something about Kest that I was, at that moment, afraid for Brasti.
‘Oh, no! I’ve angered Saint Kest-of-the-deep-brooding-stares!’ Brasti mocked. ‘Whatever shall I do?’
This was always Brasti’s idea of how best to deal with trauma: turn it into a joke. I had nearly died, so why not stick a coffin over me to remind me I was alive? Kest had lost his Sainthood along with his hand, so why not make fun of him to show it’s not the end of the world?
Kest didn’t look as if he was finding any of it particularly funny.
‘Fine,’ Brasti said, grinning as he leaped onto the bed next to mine, ‘just pass me my bow and then you can draw that great big stick of yours and we’ll find out once and for all who deserves to be the Saint of something-or-other!’
Without breaking stride, Kest picked up Brasti’s bow, carried it until he was within four feet of the bed and then tossed it high into the air.
Brasti grinned, his right hand already reaching back into his quiver for an arrow while the other went for the bow in midair – but before he could catch it, Kest’s left hand was darting out and wrapping around
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