The demon retreated into sulky silence after that and I could only hope it meant he was fenced in adequately.
We traveled long through the darkness, and if Brindle seemed lively and untroubled, I was the opposite — haunted by memories and too troubled to pitch camp and sleep.
By morning, I was wrung out and past exhaustion. I built a pitiful fire on the side of the road, curled up in my small tent with Brindle, and fell asleep to the irony that my last friend in the world was a danger to anyone but me and would have to stay by my side for the rest of his natural life whether he liked it or not.
Brindle, for his part, seemed largely unconcerned. He merely yawned, tucked his nose under his tail, and went to sleep as he had every night of his life.
You did the right thing. God-touched or not. Don’t let that red-eyed demon tell you otherwise. You should never trust anyone who treats you like a banquet dish rather than a human.
Good advice. The ladies I’d seen riding through great cities could use the same advice.
I went to sleep that morning not sure if I were clinging to words from my old master or from a demon. Not even caring, I was so exhausted.
When I woke, it was with relief.
The dog remained with me. The vow must have taken. And if I was stuck now for the rest of Brindle’s natural life with the most concerning of companions, well, at least I had not been forced to kill a dog. We must count our blessings.
And now can we get on with this quest? I am itching to learn more and you haven’t even looked at the maps, bite-sized confection. Are you as allergic to knowledge as you are to coin?
The maps, it had turned out, had envisioned us riding almost straight north — not a problem, since I’d known that already — though we’d veer slightly easterly to avoid rough country and a large lake. From what records we had, and though those records were ancient we believed them true, we knew that the old monastery was located along the side of the sea on a rocky peninsula called, portentously enough, the Saint’s Finger.
The Saint’s Finger. The voice in my head practically purred. It’s been a long time since I heard that name. What do you think Saints use their fingers for, snackling? Nothing fun, I’d wager.
I shivered when he said that. I had no desire to know what demons would use a finger for. And I shivered again when I heard the purr every time I opened the map again on the way north.
He purred again when we reached the last huddled hamlet to the north, a sorry place where the thatch was thin, the chimney smoke thinner, and there wasn’t a single village dog to be had. I felt so bad for them that I didn’t even beg, just rode through town where the villagers were celebrating Break Fast Day with loud singing and rather more alcohol than was likely wise for people whose village was now on the frontier of newly revealed territory.
I was wearing the thick fur cloak over my armor and sometimes I put the patched quilt underneath it when the wind howled on the lonely parts of the road.
“This road peters out just north of the last farm,” the old man in the street had told me over the hubbub when I leaned down to see why he was gripping my stirrup. “The others are a day or two ahead of you. One group went through around noon today.”
“Others?”
“The other paladins,” he said, nodding knowingly.
He was missing an eye and two fingers, though the fingers looked like they were lost to frost and not to accident. I was surprised he wasn’t celebrating with the rest. With the Rim moving, the sun would change courses as it always had, and this village would grow warmer. No more lost fingers for this old man. Probably.
“It does the heart good to know the God’s holy warriors are defending us from the north.”
I wondered if I should set him straight. I was no holy warrior. Nor were we about any business that would benefit him.
Do not reveal the truth to this man. Why cause him distress for no reason? Let him enjoy a little hope. A little taste of joy on a sour tongue.
Good advice, Sir Branson.
The hollow laughter within me made me grit my teeth in annoyance.
Saints take it!
Don’t fuss yourself, my girl. The hellion is good at pretense. Imitation is all the devils have. They cannot create or reproduce on their own. They require men for that. And so they will always be pale shadows and wavering echoes.
“Can I help you, Father?” I asked the old man with what kindness I could manage. It was hard to focus on what was before me when there was a constant tussle inside my own mind.
In the background, Sir Branson began to recite the creeds. Sort of. He tended to get creative with them, adapting them to the situation or his own preferences. I was reasonably sure there was no actual belief that tea was from the table of the God and should be treated as such.
At least it was less distracting than direct conversation.
“No, it’s how I can help you,” the man said, pulling on my stirrup so hard that my poor mare danced to the side.
