“In physical things. But I cannot grasp faith and I do not like uncertainty. How can I be brave when there is no path under my feet?”
He swallowed, and for a heartbeat, the aching look he gave me was so full of untold words, so full of bridled passion, that it shot something hot and wanting through me.
“If you have no faith then let me be your faith for now. Walk on me as your path. I promised myself to you until this quest is completed. Take my strength now as your own.”
This felt like more than what he’d promised before.
This is indeed more. He offers not just chivalry, not just alliance. I think, perhaps, my girl, that he offers you his heart.
I didn’t dare believe that.
“And what would that make me, if I fought with borrowed strength?” I asked wryly.
“A holy warrior,” Adalbrand said softly. “Like me. Like all of us, empty on our own, filled only by the light of the God.”
Adalbrand’s hand gripped my arm tighter and something in me melted.
“I’ll borrow your faith, Sir Paladin.”
He nodded and his smile grew until it was almost painful.
“So we choose cups and we place them,” I said grimly. “And we let whatever trap this is spring on us.”
“Trust I will stand with you in arms, whatever grief on us descends. Have I not stood for you so far?”
“I don’t need to be coddled,” I said. One last attempt at dignity.
“I’m not coddling you.” His voice was rough and pleading. “Is it impossible to believe that I want to defend you? That while I know I cannot have you, I want you all the same?”
I swallowed. That was … exactly how I felt and it was forbidden. He could not have it and I could not take it.
“Let me give you what I can in place of all that I cannot.”
I nodded hesitantly, but at his sad smile, I drew myself upward and stepped slightly to the side, sliding from his grip. He let me go, but I felt how his body turned to angle toward me as I moved past, how he inhaled sharply when I was close as if he wished to memorize the scent of me, how he trailed after me as I searched through the cups like a swan trails after its mate.
What had I done to this man?
What have you done, you minx?
What had I done to myself?
You’re broken. A paladin with no faith. A woman who will not take a man held out to her on a golden platter. A holy one who will not end the life of a dog to destroy a demon. Broken souls are my favorite kind.
Just for that, I chose a broken cup. And when I lifted it, Adalbrand lifted an eyebrow, but he said nothing to me, merely snapping up a black, narrow tumbler of his own. The piece he chose was carved all over with owls and ravens. Mine was unadorned except for a fat scar that ran the length of it. It would not hold water well with such a crack. I did not care.
A throat cleared and I looked up to see that the others were already in their places. Even Hefertus. The music had stopped sometime during our whispered conference and I had not noticed.
“If you’re about done defying both your aspects,” Sir Sorken said grimly, “I think you’ll find your places on the ends. And then we shall see which of us is right and which of us is dead, hmm?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Poisoned Saint
I’m still caught in the swirl of emotion that comes from being near her. I have never felt this. Not with Marigold, who I thought was the love of my life, not side by side with the women I have served with, not even in dreaming desires for the other women I’ve known in pieces and scraps. I cannot justify this — not even to myself. It is not that I healed her and wore her soul for a moment, though I have no doubt it was rooted first in that. It is not that her eyes have haunting similarities to a woman I once loved, though that has not helped. It is not her dauntless courage conjoined with stunting doubt — but it is partly that.
The strangeness of how she is a single-edged sword, sharp on one side and yielding on the other, is an intoxicating brew — an exact mixing of all I love best in another human. There’s also a sense that she sees beyond the surface, as if she can claw the world away as one draws back a drape and see what lies beyond it. I see it in her eyes when she squints at the statues of the Saints and then draws back. I see it in how she watches her dog with a tilted head and how her eyes narrow when they encounter the Penitent. I want to be near the woman who scowls at false holiness and sees the value in small things. I want to guard the tiny innocence she still burns like a stub of candle at her core while outside she is hard as flint and twice as sharp.
I puff out a long breath. She’s nervous about this offering of cups, though it seems a small thing. Even if we must try every one upon these pedestals, it will only be tedious, not dangerous. But I would be a fool to discount her wariness. What does she see that I do not?
