Even if I had mixed feelings about the dog-knight-demon.
I didn’t think they should have Brindle’s blood and I didn’t think they should have my grace.
I’d been the one who had gone to all that trouble to save his life at the river, and I’d been the one who had to cart around an excess demon that I was not fond of and have it live in my head, have it give me an ongoing commentary about the ways it would like to kill me, feel its icky black soul brushing up against mine. Gah. These other people hadn’t earned the right to draw Brindle’s blood. That was my right if it was anyone’s — and I was choosing not to exercise it, so they should stay out of the matter.
Besides. He had those trusting doggy eyes.
I ran between the receding statues — they weren’t violent anymore, but they were still mindless, and they could easily scrape over the dead. Parts of them that had been knocked off were floating up into the air, repairing themselves. I shuddered. I did not feel the power of the God in this magic. And if it was not his work, then whose was it?
There were gaps between the pieces and fissures across the faces. If the magic could bring them back together, would it also repair them after we left this place? How many times had it done this before? And did the scholars who wrote about this monastery know?
For it was obvious now that this place was not erected to serve the God. This was no house of holiness.
We’d all of us been deceived.
And I could feel that deception trickling through my blood and reaching its clawing hands up into my hot, rage-filled brain.
When all this was done, I was going to hunt down the head of our aspect and we were going to have a talk about paladins going where demons feared to tread. Or something like that. And then he was going to … well, actually it was hard to say what he’d do. Apologize, maybe? Discipline me? Ask if I had a coin to spare?
I snorted at the ridiculousness of it.
I made it to Brindle just in time to tug him out from the path of a moving statue. I was out of breath and turned around, unable to sort out my jumble of emotions, my hands trembling as they pulled a heavy dog by the loose skin at the back of his neck. My nose was filled with him — wet fur, the tang of blood, something that smelled just a little of smoke.
Please don’t be dead, Brindle. Please don’t be dead.
I shouldn’t even care. I had almost killed him myself back at the river.
But I did care. The thought that he might be gone gripped me like a hand gripped a rope on a ledge.
He was breathing. I could smell his doggy breath, and when I yanked a gauntlet off, I could feel it very faintly against my fingers. Alive, then. My chest seized sharply.
Of the demon and of Sir Branson there was no sign. So. Where were they?
I looked upward, swallowing, fool that I was. As if I’d be able to see the demon if he fled his coop. He wasn’t the black blob caught in the ceiling; he would simply jump to another person.
The Majester, perhaps. That might explain a lot. I shot the other paladin a long look. Adalbrand knelt over him, head bowed in prayer.
I would have bet my own life that Adalbrand could have repaired the Inquisitor. The man hadn’t been even close to death. He was merely trapped, both his arms and pelvis stuck under the weight of a fallen statue. And a man didn’t have to be dead for you to take his blood. After all, the High Saint had easily taken mine.
Maybe I should work on finding the forgiveness Adalbrand gave away like a flower offers up pollen, but I wasn’t sure I had it in me to be like him.
My glance at the Majester’s fallen form turned to a glare. Was there a demon in there? Come out, come out, little demon. Show yourself and let’s end this.
“Here now,” Sir Sorken called down. He and the other Engineer were lowering their platform at a leisurely speed. I understood them, I thought. They were practical men. They wanted no part in battle or murder. They’d help where it cost them nothing, but they’d stand back if there would be a price. “Are you certain you want to spend yourself for the Majester General, Poisoned Saint?”
“The God forgives and the God condemns,” Adalbrand called up grimly. “I meant to stop him, not to kill him.”
“He did kill the Inquisitor though, yes? A terrible blemish on all of our names. He has made us complicit in a crime most foul,” Sir Sorken said, his voice booming down to Adalbrand, who was turning a gasping, choking Majester onto his back. Blood ran from the Majester’s mouth, staining his beard. “Perhaps best to leave things alone. This may be the judgment of the God after all.”
Adalbrand frowned. “I don’t want this blood on my conscience, too.”
Sir Sorken shrugged as he descended, looking like an overly practical angel. “Heal him if you wish, but you might have to kill him again. In my experience, people don’t really make mistakes, they just show you their intentions. He’ll be at the Vagabond’s throat a second time, given half a chance. A strange choice for a target.” His eyes speared me for a moment before returning to the dying Majester. “You’d think he’d realize she isn’t the weakest here, but the Majesters have always been more interested in groups than individuals. Perhaps he struggles to separate the two.”
“Whatever you do, stop quarreling, and let’s get down,” Sir Coriand complained. “I want a fresh cup of tea and a bit of a think. If we have a fallen paladin in our midst then we’ll report him to his aspect when we get back above, as is proper. No point fussing about it now.”
“Agreed.”
Adalbrand ignored them, crouching over the Majester and placing his fingers on the other man’s forehead. He closed his eyes, healing the man, no doubt.
