“Sorken!” I barked. “That is my dog you’re trying to kill. I demand you stop at once.”
From the ledge, I heard Hefertus snort in disbelief, like I didn’t have the right to defend the dog when it also held a demon.
“Tried to kill,” Sorken said tightly, as if distracted by something. His head had disappeared but I heard the telltale sound of knife on flint. “I am no longer trying.”
The cursing continued as the platform rocked wildly. I tensed my jaw. I did not want Brindle to die — but even I had to admit that the demon within him could not go on living.
Excuse you, but I certainly can, snackling.
If we’re about to die, I should tell you what I learned from him, Sir Branson said grimly. This place is exactly as you suspected. Tell her how you mistranslated.
There was a long pause and a feeling like a slap inside my own head.
Tell her.
I mistranslated.
Tell her how.
If the demon spoke, it was too quiet for me to hear.
Then I shall tell. You’ll recall he read you a poem on a plaque at the bottom of the steps.
I did recall that, yes. And now, I was sweating and clenching my jaw as the platform the dog was on shivered again.
Our hearts spoke our hopes and our souls bore the cost, the man and the spirit and all that was lost. Bold together we race where no other has trod, for we are more than men, we have become gods.
I tilted my head to the side. That wasn’t how that read. He’d said, “we have become Saints.”
Yes, he did. It was a lie.
A lie that the Engineers had gone along with.
Perhaps they are not as fluent in Ancient Indul as they claim. Perhaps they were shaky on the translation.
Or perhaps they found the fiction useful. But what did it mean? To become gods?
Sir Branson seemed to grow more agitated as he explained. To blaspheme. To rise above the God himself. To play at being his equal.
The dog’s platform lurched forward suddenly and my breath caught in my throat, but it moved backward up along its former trajectory, reaching the cliff edge again in record time. Brindle sprang from the platform to the rock beyond, all signs that he had ever been held captive gone. Despite the weight of two extra souls, he was light on his feet and his tongue lolled from his mouth happily.
That’s what I learned, my girl. This place, as you suspected, was never meant to create Saints at all.
And thinking so is as foolish as when you can’t tell our voices apart, snackling. What kind of paladins are they making these days? Soft, gooey-centered ones. In my day, you were rage and wrath and the blade of the God coming down in power. Now you can’t tell the difference between the dead and the demonic, between an empty monastery and an empty arcanery.
A … a what?
I flinched at the growl that echoed through my mind, low and rumbling.
One moment.
“Sir Sorken,” Hefertus acknowledged from the platform, and my eyes drifted to see him grab Brindle by the scruff and hold him in place.
“Well, I was pushed to hurry a little, but I’m happy enough with my grimoire,” Sir Sorken said easily as he reached that space, clapping Hefertus on the shoulder. “What did you choose, Prince?”
Hefertus held up a large, blue-bound book with a hand missing a finger. Where once his pinky had been, there was now only a bloodless stump.
“Gave your finger, hmm? No longer serving you?”
