He scoffs.
“How did you get chosen by the head of your aspect?” Sir Owalan asks, distracted as he is swept up in the story. “How did you ensure you were the ones sent?”
“We didn’t.” Sir Sorken grins unpleasantly. “What a waste of time. We found the man they’d sent, killed him on the road, and duplicated his medallion to give us two. It’s amazing what you can make when you’re an Engineer. Even on the road with little in the way of supplies.”
“But why?” Sir Owalan asks, looking confused. “I understand wanting to be a Saint, I do.” His tone turns reverent. “And I want the ancient relic — the new relic — the Cup of Tears. I want to bring it home to the Penitent Paladins. I do not blame you for what you did to ascend to this honor. In this place, I have come to realize that sacrifices must be made. Nothing comes for free. And if the God does not guide, then we must guide ourselves. But you aren’t me and you’ve never seemed to care much about Sainthood or the Cup of Tears. So why are you here?”
Sir Sorken pauses just long enough to look up from his work before continuing to scribble. I edge backward carefully. His demon is still testing its limits.
“Why am I here? Surely you’ve figured it out by now. I would guess the Beggar has. Go on, ragged warrior. Tell the boy why I’m here.”
“You knew this place manufactures demons.”
Sir Sorken makes a dismissive gesture and she colors, her expression growing grim.
“You came to put yours in your golem and to find a way to keep on doing it, so you can make as many of those things as you like, but this time there will be no debate as to whether they have souls because you’ll be filling them with souls you wrote yourself.”
That’s … I feel my eyes widen as I steal a look at her. She must have just fit those pieces together, because she did not mention this before now. While I have been distracted with the puzzle of the demons, she has put together the answer for the murders, the deaths, everything else.
“This is how you’re going to become a God, isn’t it?” she says quietly. “You’re going to make your own living, breathing, soul-filled beings.”
“The Aching Monastery is a trap for the unwary,” Sir Sorken says grimly. “But I did not come here unwary and neither did Coriand. We came with a purpose greater than you fools ever planned for.”
“And that makes the murders acceptable?” Victoriana presses.
“Is murder justified when it’s done for a higher cause?” Sir Sorken asks with a bite to his words. “You tell me, Beggar. You’re the one who killed my friend.”
“You’ll have an army of slaves, made by you, filled with demons,” she says, her voice hollow.
Sir Sorken looks up. “It’s a grand vision. I don’t expect an impoverished wanderer to understand it. But then I never had much use for you even when I thought you were on to the plan. You practically wear a sign around your neck that says ‘expendable’ and yet here you are, delaying, prolonging, and making a mess of everything. If you can’t find your own path here like Owalan has, then you might as well just die. You’re of no use to the world. You can’t even perform your main function and cast a demon out of a dog.”
“Then you can’t be persuaded to stop?” She throws it out like a challenge.
“Stop?” He laughs. “I will succeed. And when I do, you will see what glory is.”
It’s finally my turn to speak, and I choose my words with care.
“Brothers,” I say, addressing the three of them and letting my gaze meet each of theirs. “I beg you stop this madness. It is not too late to turn back from this course and escape. You were holy once; be holy again.”
“This is holiness now,” Sir Owalan whispers, his eyes haunted.
Sir Sorken merely snorts.
But the High Saint meets my eyes mutely, and in his eyes ripple one emotion after another. He is a fly in a trap. I see it.
Something brushes my arm and I rip my gaze away from Joran Rue to Victoriana. Her eyes meet mine and they roar with sadness, like a storm breaking across a mountainside.
Her words are barely audible, they’re so brittle. “We’ll do this your way, Poisoned Saint. And the God have mercy on us both.”
I nod shakily.
Well then. That’s it, I suppose. It is time to go and die honorably. I’ve always known I would. I just haven’t quite come to terms with it enough to keep my hands from shaking.
She starts to stride toward the doors.
“Stop the Beggar, boys,” Sir Sorken booms, and both golems shamble forward.
“You can’t leave!” Sir Owalan calls down desperately. “There are hours yet before the clock runs out! Who knows what will happen if you go!”
