Chapter 85: Neville – Pierre
Neville would rather take command of everything like he did in Fabec, but Tuen and Chambert had bowed to Pierre and, with Fulbert at their door, Neville couldn’t risk an internal fight for power. He found Pierre on the top of the outer wall, watching the sun go down over Tuen, enveloping the city in platonic fire.
‘Captain Neville of Baynard,’ said Pierre.
‘Of Fabec,’ corrected Neville.
‘Of Chambert if you will.’
Neville had never met a person who would rather give their life before they gave away power. Part of him wanted to believe in Satironese heroes, but Sátiron didn’t exist and Neville had too much darkness in his blood to trust a stranger.
‘What were you thinking about?’ he asked Pierre.
‘There is no use running away from the War,’ said Pierre, ‘it’s already here. It is up to us to end it. We need you.’
Neville took his time to reply.
‘I swore loyalty to Henrique of Baynard.’ What else could he say?
Honor is the only solid thing in this world.
Honor is the only solid thing.
The only thing.
The right thing to do was break his oath and Neville opened his mouth to say it, even though something inside of him began to crumble and turn as grey as the man he had dragged away from darkness. It was bushido that kept Neville sane in Fabec. Bushido and the black bow.
‘Say it,’ said Pierre. ‘Say your oath. The one you made when you became a soldier.’
Neville couldn’t remember the words. All he could recall was the powerful white hand on his black shoulder. Your oath makes mine the blood that runs in your veins. Your honor bonds your destiny to mine.
‘Have you met my father?’ asked Pierre. ‘Gregoire told me you went to Carlaje. He knows a lot of things, my father. He once translated a book from a Satironese scholar who roamed the world gathering traditions, taking notes of different cultures, the way they swore loyalty to one another or to their countries. From today on I belong to this nation. I swear to protect it with all my power, my blood if necessary. My life is no longer mine, it is the land’s. Its king is my king; its fate, my fate.’
Neville felt his ribcage closing in on his lungs as he heard his own oath dropping from Pierre’s mouth.
‘What is your nation, Neville?’
‘Franária.’
‘Don’t break your oath. Keep it.’
The sun had set, the horizon was night.
All those years in Henrique’s shadow, in the Mouth of War; all those years protecting an oath that need not be broken. Neville’s ribs were like blades. Robert.
‘It’s too late,’ said Pierre.
For a moment Neville thought he was hearing Olivier in the dusk, the poisonous words leaking onto Chambert’s wall.
‘That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’ asked Pierre. ‘That it’s too late. All those years struggling with your honor and your duty to your king; your honor and your duty to what matters. To realize now that you always had a choice is heartbreaking, isn’t it? So much has been lost. It is too late. Is that how you feel?’
‘It may be too late,’ Pierre went on. ‘For us. Not for Franária. We can still save the eagle.’
‘Who is he?’ Neville asked Líran later that night.
‘He is the story,’ she said.