I am a paladin, the God’s own warrior. And whether he uses me as such or merely tolerates my riding across the hills and plains healing in his name, I am — at the heart of things — his possession.
And so is this place — this arcanery — whether it wills it or not, for all that exists belongs to the God. All that is made is crafted of his flesh and bones.
We are taught from the start that evil is not generated by the God — that it is a rot in the goodness of life. If the Vagabond is right, then it is generated by us — by our grasping and by our guile.
Therefore, if I wish to bring this place down — and I do — if I wish to wash it from the mind of the earth and with it the demons it makes now and the demons it made before, then a simple refusal to make them myself is not enough. I must think of this place as a whole, I must think of how the God looks down upon it, and I must ponder if there is a key — not a key for opening locks, but a key for closing them.
When I think about it, this Aching Monastery is like a lock, isn’t it? And our actions are the key, turning the gargantuan stone tumblers one by one. If I do not want the lock opened, then I must seize the key.
I recite my rote prayers — a morning plea that the eye of the God be on me, an evening plea that the hand of the God restore, a noonday plea that the God strengthen my bones for the work ahead. They are out of order and jumbled, just like my exhausted thoughts. But I cannot sleep and they calm me. Even as I hear the Vagabond’s sleeping breaths and feel her warmth radiate against my back, I cannot drift with her.
I am also, at the heart, a healer. And if any place needs healing, it is this place. It may not look it, lovely as it is. Looks deceive the eye. I remember being called once — too late — to the house of a lord of the Saracarna. His grown daughter was ill and she was the apple of his eye. I ran my horse to exhaustion after the messenger found me, but still, I was too late. The girl was dead an hour before I arrived. Dead, and lovely beyond any woman I’d ever seen. Perfectly whole on the outside. Infected within.
That is this Aching Monastery. The infection within it is disguised, hidden but strong. Who better to heal it than one possessed by the God for the purpose of drawing out the poison so life might flourish?
That one can only be me.
When I tore up my words and rejected the evil in my shadow, the God blessed me — not just with whatever miracle kept me whole as I leapt from above, but also by filling me again with a reserve of his power. I remained silent about it as I bound Victoriana’s arm. Perhaps I should have indicated to her that I had the power to heal it, but chose not to. Her injury is not grave, and I sense somehow that this power will be needed.
Someone must draw the poison from this place. Someone must take it into himself so that it might be dispelled. And that someone is me.
The Vagabond shifts in her sleep, her drowsy head leaning into my shoulder. I tilt into the weight of it, in the same way that my horse adjusts to take my weight when I ride. It feels correct.
The others considered her a strange choice for the God to call as paladin. I heard their whispers on the matter and I doubted her myself.
But I have learned something down in this grave of a monastery.
I have learned that the God chooses as he chooses and for good reason. Who else would have stood and confronted Sir Coriand as she had? Who stands now, refusing to bend an inch in the face of what has to end in our deaths between the tumblers of this lock?
I had thought her corrupted because she suffered a demon to live, because her heart housed doubt, because her paladincy was not certain. I see her entirely differently now. I see her as a living miracle — a grafting of glory into dust.
It is the rest of us who are not fit by comparison. Who would have thought, in a group that contained the most famous of those who bring justice and a man so devout that he could ask for the blood of another and she would give it to him — in those high circles — that it would be neither of those who passed the test but rather the wild card, the crow, the one swept in with the wind of poverty and subversiveness?
Perhaps the God chose to delight himself with her wildness and bold heart when he made her. Perhaps even now he rejoices in her stalwart spirit and determination. Whether he does or not, I do.
We are such broken vessels — all of us. And what does the God think of that? I am more broken than all the rest. I let my eyes drift over the immobile golems, as close to dead as such things can be. Over the ruined man strewn across the floor — a truly disrespectful sight. Over the three fools who were once holy, now suspended in the air, working hard to undo all the good they’ve done in their lifetimes.
The broken and those who break. All are accounted for here. I am king among them. King of the Ruined.
And yet the God blessed me.
He could still bless them, too.
I hardly know what to make of such blessing. Surely the Vagabond cannot be right that it is a sign of divine forgiveness. And yet, I cannot help the hope that springs in my heart and tells me it is, that I am tasting the God’s own favor on my tongue even now.
If it is, then what I do now means more than it ever has. I have always been willing to die for the God. I am willing now to do it joyfully.
Victoriana shifts again in her sleep. A lock of her hair falls against my neck. I close my eyes that I may better breathe in the scent of her, take this last gift for what it is — the mercy of the God, a taste of what it is like to be washed clean of the past.
If these are my last hours, then I am spending them, moment by moment, forgiven. Forgiveness is honey on my tongue. Moves me nearly to tears. I had not grasped so high, had not dared hope.
Bless me, Merciful God, I pray. I reach for your mercy. This one time, let me find it.
I do not ask him to let me succeed in my quest to spare the world of this evil. I do not ask for wisdom. I ask only for the one thing I feared I would never have, and it feels like it will crush me under the strength of its embrace.
And it is in this soaring state that the first trickles of a plan start to make paths through my mind. All achievement requires sacrifice. I have now tasted what is good, and I will be the one who will sacrifice. But I will need her help.
Beside me, the dog drops his bone and pads over to me. For a moment we are staring into each other’s eyes. Dog to man. Or is it demon to man? Or is it Saint to man? I do not know. One eye burns red suddenly. And the other blue.
