“What have you done?” she asks, and she sounds as if her heart is rent in two.
And then the floor lurches and the walls around us turn.
Her dog leaps to his feet and barks, one sharp yap.
Down the hall somewhere there is shouting, but I hardly care.
She is no Vagabond Paladin. Just as I feared. She is no paladin at all, for no holy knight would permit a demon to live. No servant of God would dwell with it — let it sleep at the foot of her bedroll, feed it from her hand, hold its broken body on her lap and shed tears.
I turn to the side, go down on all fours and heave, and then the room stops turning. The darkness of the bas-relief carved picture is gone, facing the dormitories now, the former arrow-slit windows face the corridor to our first trial, and in both their places are long stone slit windows that run from floor to ceiling and are filled with stained glass in yellow and red and blue and green. The thick base of the stairs blocks some of the space that should have been window, but the ones left make up for it. They flood the room with beams of colored light. I crane to look and see the edge of the fountain around the bulk of the stairs, now twinkling with rainbow colors. And when I look back, a golden beam washes over the Vagabond as she beholds me with terrible hurt in her eyes.
“I’ve seen what’s at the heart of you now,” I growl. Whatever affection flamed in me before is morphing into horror. Early flickers that I thought were love are now abhorrence. I can’t stand the sight of her.
She juts her chin out. “And you’ve found one more thing that you can’t forgive?”
Her tone tests me as if she thinks can challenge me into forgiveness. As if she thinks she can make me bend by declaring the opposite of the truth.
She is wrong.
Beside her, that terrible demon disguised as a dog sinks low, tongue out and lolling, butting her thigh with his head as though demanding affection.
“I will not forgive this,” I snarl back, and the hurt in her eyes is no less than the agony in my heart. The way she pales is no less than the way I do.
And then the result of what I have just done washes over me and I collapse onto the floor. My last thought is that I hope I do not land in my own sick.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Vagabond Paladin
Yes! We’re back!
I felt the demon’s rejoicing twisting through me in the same moment that the breath whooshed from my lungs. Brindle barreled into me, round skull smacking into my belly so hard that if I hadn’t already lost my breath, I’d lose it now. His enthusiastic tongue washed my hands and arms as I reached to bury my hands in his fur, trying not to crumple.
Adalbrand knew now.
Saints and Angel’s blood, he knew.
I couldn’t catch my breath. It was stuck in my throat like a barbed hook.
And now we find out. Is Adalbrand the honor and chivalry he pretends? Is he the holy paladin he thinks himself? Is he your love-sworn man as he suspects? Now is his reckoning and we shall discover the answer with him.
Or he’ll go mad and murder you, and that should be entertaining at the very least. Do you think he’ll cleave you in two with the sword, or will it be the dagger slid subtly between your rattling ribs? I love watching lovers torn asunder. It’s almost always their own faults. You two are lovers now, aren’t you?
I had said Adalbrand was too forgiving. I had accused him of it. But he said he would not forgive this.
Forgive? Why not ask him for the moon and the stars and all that lies beyond the Rim. This is marvelous. You really think he could still care about you — a tarnished vessel, a ruined blossom. How adorably flawed of you. I like delusion for you. Do continue.
Forgiveness is a real thing.
Is it, paladin? Will your God forgive you when he hears you’ve been sharing a vessel with a vile one? Will he welcome you to his embrace?
One can hardly help who one must room with, whether it be bed bugs, fleas, or the damned.
I shuddered as I gently pushed Brindle aside to check Sir Adalbrand’s prone form. He had passed out but he was still breathing. Grimly, I moved him into a more comfortable position.
Brindle circled him with gently padding paws, sniffing all around him.
You really have a way with the menfolk, sweetling. Do you always make them sick, or is it just this green stick of a man?
