“You could take one of the golems if you like. Suture, perhaps,” Sir Sorken says. “You might need to tear out of there very quickly and a golem is a help for that.”
“I can trust my own two feet,” Hefertus growls. If he hadn’t decided before, he has decided now.
“Then do it and do it quickly,” Sir Sorken is saying. “And as for the rest of us, brothers, I suggest we say our morning prayers, have a quick tidy, and be ready. Last time a door was opened there wasn’t much time to waste, hmm?”
I should wish Hefertus well. I should do exactly what Sir Sorken suggests and tidy up a bit. I do neither of those things. I keep my face pressed to the cold stone. I breathe the scent of freedom from the salt of the sea and the scent of courage from the lady paladin hovering beside me and I pray.
God have mercy on me. God have mercy.
“I will try to heal your dog before we go into the challenge,” I tell her when I feel I can speak again. “I should have about enough strength for that.”
“No.” Her refusal comes too quickly.
I’ve had no reason to doubt her in all of this.
I have reason now.
My eyes flick open and I see the look in her eyes and the way she shutters them to try to hide it. She is afraid to let me heal the dog. She is hiding something.
Queasiness settles in my belly and I feel my face twist.
“Why do you doubt me?” I ask her in an undertone. “Why will you not allow me this?”
In the background, the others have decided on communal prayer. Their chant is like bone broth on a cold morning. It comforts me even from afar. The familiar words wash over my mind; the familiar chanting lines echo in my heart.
“I do not doubt you,” she says, but her gaze is held by mine and it is dancing with lies.
“You do. Your dog needs healing but you will not let me touch him. Are you afraid I’ll kill him because he bit me? Have you not seen I do not lash out in vengeance?”
“I do not doubt your mercy.” Her voice is small. She breaks the hold of my gaze and cinches her breastplate straps a little tighter. She checks the fit and buckling of her boots.
“But you reject it,” I say quietly, and still she does not meet my eyes.
Her silence feels like a knife.
“Why have you taken against me?” I press.
I think I might know. She judges me for last night. She knows I have taken pleasure in touching her, denying my calling and staining us both with guilt.
I bite my lip.
She shakes her head in denial, but there is shame all over her face and I know I put it there. It was I who touched her, I who whispered endearments to her in the darkness. My belly feels like I’ve swallowed a rock. My head is swimming.
“I apologize,” I whisper. “Most humbly.”
She opens her mouth and her face twists with vulnerability, but just when I think she will confess something to me, she shakes her head again and thrusts a water skin at me.
I take it, angry enough at myself that I grip it too tightly. I do not know what to say. I am awash with disgrace.
She stalks away and begins to tidy her things, wrapping up the cloak, stretching her muscles, checking over her sword. I watch her every movement, my eyes catching on the wear of her straps and clothing. She’s ragged and poorly repaired. Impoverished.
I have faith in the God, but why does he require so much from his servants? Holiness, they say, is why he demands it. Sacrifice purifies the heart. For if you have given up riches or physical kindness or freedom from pain, then it is not hard to give up the temptations to evil thrown in your path. Why grasp for power when you’ve denied yourself riches all your life? You can see how hollow it is, just as you’ve seen how hollow are the riches that others have. Why steal wealth when you’ve given up kind touches and gentle closeness as I have? To turn your back on cold silver is easy in comparison, trivial even. That’s the theory of it, and in practice, it has worked. Set your feet on the path and start to walk down it and the other path grows more and more distant, more and more inconceivable.
I know all this. And yet I want all the world for her. Even if she is as tarnished with guilt and wanting as I am. Maybe she is right. Maybe there is more evil walking among us than just what is in this place. Maybe we’ve brought some here with us. The golems, for instance. Murder in the heart of one of our ranks. I suck on my bottom lip and try to think.
I’m surprised when a movement catches my eye. It’s the Majester, approaching me with a twisted expression. He’s guilt and shame and misery, and he should be. He should be. Plenum Hexilan — the Inquisitor — was a bright, vibrant man. He should not be dead.
I find I’m trembling when he reaches me. It’s not for me to judge. But I am judging. It’s not for me to say how the God directs vengeance. And yet, I want him to direct it here.
