Page 118 of The Salt King

There were interested murmurs. Not usual sermon material. Priests didn’t generally go around admitting there was more than just the one god.

“This fen is haunted, and sometimes you will see demons here, and nightmares. But you are men of faith. God protects and keeps you, even when the sun does not rise. Once there was a young knight at Arthur’s court, just like all of you: born to a great house, and hopeful of honour. But when the King said, Tell me a story, sir, he could not: he hadn’t done anything yet, he had faced no hardship, nor contest . . . nor devils on the fen.”

Some smiles.

“So when a monstrous knight rode into the court on his horse and challenged the King to a duel, Gawain said, ‘Let me.’ The strange knight told him to land a blow, and that in return, he’d have to take the same. Gawain killed him; he cut his head off. But then the knight picked up the head, and the head said, ‘You gave your word: find me at the Green Chapel on New Year’s morning a year hence.’ I think you all know that story.”

There were nods. Avelyn was telling the Hreod version, but he knew it was probably one of a dozen similar stories floating around half of Europe. There was always a mad challenge and a knight who couldn’t die, and there was always a young man who, at least on first inspection, seemed like a total idiot.

Jericho met his eyes and nodded slightly. Keep going.

“This is a strange story, because everyone asks, why in God’s name would Gawain go off just to be killed? But you all know. You all know that giving your word is sacred. You all know what honour is, and what it means. You all know why he went. And you all know that creatures like that monstrous knight, and places like this, are not written into the world for your downfall. They are only God’s way of allowing you to test your honour and your valour. Lesser knights would stumble and turn away. Great knights know that no curse will touch them while they carry their faith and their virtue strong. So do not fear this fog, nor this castle. There is nothing here to harm you. Only stories for you to tell, when you return to the court.”

More smiles now. When he said the Lord’s Prayer, they all joined in, and after Amen, he thought maybe they had changed a tiny fraction. They looked . . . brighter. Less tattered, less dead behind the eyes. A couple of them had a tiny rough-and-tumble fight when one mimed cutting the other’s head off with an axe.

Jericho was talking to a few of the closer knights, showing them something between his hands—a little salt owl, the tame ones that would come right up to you. Incredibly, the knights weren’t murdering it, just stroking its sooty black chest with gauntletted fingertips, laughing when it hooted at them. It had an authoritative hoot.

Guillaume looked pleased. He smacked Avelyn’s shoulder too hard. “That’s good. You speak marvellous well.”

“Thank you,” said Avelyn, a little flat, holding his shoulder. He had never understood why so many Outside men liked to hurt each other and call it friendliness. Perhaps the idea was that if you were hurt every day then it wasn’t shocking when a real fight came.

“I like those stories about the old king,” Guillaume reflected. He was studying his knights. “You’re right. They make the men braver. You’ll come with us,” he added abruptly. “We need holy men.”

Avelyn shook his head. “We can’t, we need to get to our abbey.”

“We need to get off this cursed fen,” Guillaume said. “Then you can go to your abbey.”

“No,” Avelyn said slowly, “thank you.”

“How’s this. If you try to leave us,” Guillaume said, sounding quite pleasant, “I’ll break your pretty friend’s face and pass him round my men, who haven’t seen such a fine thing as he is for a long time, and then you won’t like him so much, will you?”

Around them and above, the salt light was flaring its aurora brightnesses again. Avelyn brushed a strand of it and watched the particles dance over his knuckles. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid at all. All he could think was that some people really walked into these things.

“As you wish,” he said, with a courteous tilt of his head. Guillaume lifted his chin, proud, Avelyn thought, of how much taller he was. Idiot. “But—my lord, how long have you been on this fen?”

“I told you, we don’t know, the sun never rises.”

“But what month is it?”

Guillaume frowned. “Are you drunk? Michaelmas was last week.”

“No. It’s almost Christmas.” Avelyn let his eyes drag on the salt tarnishing on Guillaume’s armour. “Your armour looks like you’ve been here for months.”

Guillaume looked too. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, but there was uncertainty written across his face.

“North is not north. You must have noticed.”

“The—compasses spin, but what has that to do with anything—”

“North is different,” Avelyn said over him, still quiet and low, “and so are other things. You said that you have come back to this castle three times. How sure are you that it’s only been three?”

“It . . .” Confusion clouded him. He did what big, blunt, unpleasant people always did when they felt confused, and doubled down, but at the same time he shot a look towards his men that was full of the fear that only came from affection. He loved them. He didn’t want anything so horrifying to have happened to them. “Of course it’s only three times,” he snapped.

“When did you last eat?” Avelyn pushed, taking care to emanate priestly concern. Easy: he was half Guillaume’s size. He could see himself in the knight’s breastplate. He was all wide eyes and soft curls and sharp bones.

“Eat?” Guillaume looked puzzled by the idea. “Well, we . . .” Something in his expression cracked. “I don’t know. For God’s sake, that’s nothing to do with getting away from here.”

“I’m concerned that it is. What year is it?” Avelyn asked.