“But far worse, we fear that our quest will be found out immediately and you will need to deal with that to which the Rejected dedicate their time and service — the eradication of demons. For they will be drawn to such a place. Trust no one. Anyone you meet may be in their thrall.”
Or anyone you bring with you might be in their thrall, I supposed, in the case of Brindle. I gave him a long look out the side of my eyes. He whined dramatically.
“Go with the God, my child.”
How trite, coming from a man in the safety of a southern city.
“What does it say, Lady Paladin?” the messenger asked breathlessly, as I ripped the seal from the other paper and unfolded the vellum map and the amulet within.
I donned the amulet and then looked up, calling my horse with a whistle. She trotted up smartly and I mounted her, still covered in mud and my own blood. By the looks on the faces before me, I was a hideous sight indeed.
Beauty is as beauty does, Brindle told me tritely, before cackling and adding, And beauty often does terribly cruel things.
“The letter bids me beg you for any supplies you may be carrying and be willing to part with,” I say grimly.
I expected them to shake their heads and show me empty hands, but to my surprise, they hurried to give me all that they had, which was three water skins, a few small loaves of bread, some dried meat jerky — I was careful not to ask what kind of meat — and a carrot. The messenger, with a sigh, offered me a multi-colored patched blanket. It was surprisingly soft.
I made the sign of the blessing for each offering.
“Did Sir Branson find the demon?” the chief man asked, and when my eyebrows rose, he felt the need to clarify. “The one we begged him to dispatch at the bridge?”
Well, then. Sir Branson had some explaining to do. He had not told me that he knew of the demon before we rode up upon it.
Cough. Yes. Well, I thought maybe this would be your first solo exorcism.
In the end, I supposed it had been. Though I wouldn’t be asking myself back if I’d been the one with the request.
“It won’t trouble you again,” I assured those who had come for me — truly it was the kindest blessing I could offer them.
I turned my horse, whistled to Brindle, and rode like hell itself was at my heels — because apparently, it was.
Chapter Three
Poisoned Saint
He finds me curled in a ball and shaking so hard that my teeth chatter together. I have ways to deal with this. Prayers, mostly. I run the beads through my fingers, murmuring prayers in three distinct languages as I try to distract myself from the feeling of my bones breaking again and again, twisting in my body one after another, the seizing of my guts, turning hard and sharp within me, the terrible blurring of my thoughts as time leaks out from every crevice.
I do as I always do. I call to mind the faces. A whole village taken by bone-break fever. Tiny children with pixie faces. Anxious mothers, slick with the sweat of their own fevers while they labor to help their babies breathe, to comfort them through the agony. Fathers collapsed on floors or woodpiles, trying to haul wood and water for their families while the world spins around them.
I was guided here by the God just in time. Most of the village was taken with it, but none had perished yet. I went from house to house, healing the sickest first, but going back afterward to heal all the rest. Not one slipped by me. Not one grave is being dug today. Not one.
I cling to this like a man clings to a faltering sapling as he clutches the edge of a cliff.
I remember it in the cold of night when nothing can warm me, as my stomach twists within me like one of the great boas of the southern jungles I saw when I was a squire supplicant learning at the feet of Sir Augussamana. He’d been a kind knight. Tender in every way. Washed over the side of the ship in a storm, I could not save him. I miss him yet. Miss his wise council. Miss his gift of joking with the young ones. He had a way of slipping sugar treats into tiny palms that made a whole room light up.
Were he here now, he would brew me something for the pain. Something to warm me. Or just say prayers with me, begging for courage, begging for endurance.
I’ve taken all their pain, Lord of Sorrows. I have taken it into myself. I have taken their ills. Bless me with endurance. Put your hand on me. Bless me with faith. I want to die. Give me the strength to live.
I’m not sure how long my visitor is there before I hear him, but he’s not one for compassion. We were called about the same time, we two. Both from high houses. But he was called by the Aspect of the Benevolent God while I was called by the Aspect of the Sorrowful God.
Even so, he knows my name and he says it, and the name itself is a salve.
“Adalbrand. It is you. When the villagers told me some fool Saint had taken all their illnesses at once, I knew of only one so great in pride that the God must humble him.”
“Hefertus.” His name falls from my lips like a groan.
I feel his hand on my head. His fingers dig into my hair like questing worms.
