“You’ll have your answers, Beggar,” Sir Coriand says, to my surprise. “You are right that we are forsworn to lies. We must answer a direct question with the truth. And I will indulge your asking. But not now. Not here. The clock ticks. And ticks. Relentlessly. And she ticks out the seconds of our lives if we do not hurry. Let us not delay. We will enter this last trial. All of us. Your dog, too. The golems with him.” I glanced over my shoulder and see the golems are both there, sacks slung over their shoulders. Nothing looks grimmer than a golem. “And when we are all within the trial, then I will answer your questions while the others pursue the highest of callings.”
“Highest?” There’s a bitter twist to her tone.
“What would you call Sainthood?” he snaps back. But I notice he didn’t speak a lie. His question cloaks the falsehood. For I think we all know by now that no one is walking out from this place holy or justified. If we emerge again, it will be as victims or villains. There will be no heroes here.
And without another word, Sir Coriand takes a last sip of tea, hands his wooden bowl over to Suture, turns his back on us, and strides through the open door. Silently, we follow, though I might hear a murmured prayer being chanted under the Vagabond’s breath.
Around us, the shadows loom and Sir Coriand’s voice echoes back to me as he passes through the door. He moves very slowly, but he and his golems fill the passage so that we all must move slowly with him.
He’s chanting that foreboding rhyme that builds on itself with each passing. And his words are highlighted by the rhythm of the golem’s feet clomping on the ground as they pound out the beat. The voices of Sir Sorken and Sir Owalan chant out the words with him and they echo and reverberate and send chills through my marrow.
“Our hearts spoke out our hopes and our souls bore the cost,
The man and the spirit and all that was lost.
Bold together we race where no others have trod,
for we are more than men, we have become gods.
I flinch at that word. Idolatry. I can practically smell the brimstone.
“That’s what we gave at the door,” Sir Sorken calls back. “The sins confessed. They were the first thing we offered up.”
Saints and Angels. He knew. He let us do that when he knew. That’s a tick against him. How much else does he know?
They are still chanting.
“Choose now holy vessel, be careful, be clear,
For the bones of others will root out your fear,
Wash your cup with sorrow, bathe your vessel with blood,
But choose your gift wisely, be it fire or mud.”
“You took fire indeed when you took the Vagabond’s blood, hmmm, High Saint?” Sir Sorken calls back. “Whose blood did you take, Hefertus? I don’t remember seeing you do it.”
“The Seer’s,” Hefertus says, surprising me. “I spoke it into the cup as a blessing from the God. Why hurt the living when the dead will do?”
“How very clever. We gave to each other, of course,” Sir Sorken says. “We are, after all, each other’s only real rivals, isn’t that right, Coriand?”
But Sir Coriand is still chanting.
“No power is priceless, No honor unearned,
From store house bring wisely, add gift to the churn,
A sacrifice given, a sacrifice made,
What no longer serves you is the price you’ve paid.”
Sir Sorken is still explaining. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that what you gave on that altar is now in the mix, too, hmm? The blood and tears of a rival, the sin your heart holds close, the attribute you were willing to give up. I hope your creation has an excellent voice, Sir Joran. You gave yours to it forever, like it or no.”
I hadn’t realized it before, but now that he has pointed it out, the High Saint’s scowl is a silent one. His prayers have stilled and muted forever. I don’t like that. They were the only thing about Joran Rue that I ever liked — certainly his most holy attribute. He must think so, too, with the devastation that paints his face when he looks at me. Perhaps he hopes I will heal him. But I clasped hands with the Vagabond only minutes ago and I kissed her minutes before that. I can no more heal him than the golems can. I should feel guilty. Instead, I am weighing whether he is truly as innocent as he appears. A holy front is a good guise for murder and a black heart.
“What did you give up, Poisoned Saint?” Sir Sorken asks.
“My guilt,” I say plainly, and am surprised by his startled laugh.
