No, that’s not it…
Quickly, before my embarrassment was complete, I ripped my gaze from them to scan over the rest.
Ringing the courtyard were tents, and in front of the tents, forming a circle about as whole as the arch I’d just ridden through, were such a collection of paladins as I had never seen before. There were no two alike, from apparel to looks to demeanor. But they all shared one thing in common. They were staring at me aghast.
They’ve been here, what? Three days at the most? And we know two of them arrived just before you. Which means they’re waiting for something. Try to see if it’s you, little delicacy.
One of the paladins cleared his throat and I turned to him, tilting my head to one side as if in question.
He was dressed entirely in black, a cup traced on his tabard in careful stitching. His eyes were narrow and dark as shadows, not helped by the deep circles under them that made him look twice his real age, which couldn’t be more than ten years my senior. His hair was precisely cut and his face nearly clean-shaven, as if he attended daily to it. He was extremely clean for someone so far from civilization and his pale skin had a greenish cast to it. There were fine lines around his eyes that I was willing to bet most people missed.
I couldn’t have said why, but there was something behind his eyes that arrested my attention. Something like meeting an old friend again. I found in his gaze the precise feeling in my heart that I might feel if Sir Branson were standing in that armor looking back at me.
Well that’s certainly not me. I was never that trim. Even in my thin days. Even in my youth. And I don’t like the way he straightened when he saw you. He should either stand straight all the time or have the confidence to keep slouching.
Sir Branson sounded testy.
Wary. Not testy. I don’t like the way he looks at you like he thinks he could possibly own you, given the chance.
I knew without an introduction that this man was a paladin of the Aspect of the Sorrowful God, forsworn to affection, a drinker of pain. They called these ones Poisoned Saints — and this particular Saint looked as though he’d been poisoning himself all morning precisely so he wouldn’t have to credential himself now.
Maybe he has been drinking poison. I knew a bishop who did that once. Said a tiny bit safeguarded him from succumbing to larger doses.
Did it work?
He should have tried drinking souls instead if he was trying to inure himself to the coming grief. He had fifteen demons in his mortal coil when I found him. I extracted three readily, but by the fourth he was clawing his own tongue out and by the sixth, I could not continue to torture the man. I gave him the gift of a clean death. That was long ago, of course.
You could have just left him with the demons. I’m sure he was happy with them.
Their crosstalk was making me feel nauseated.
“Are you ill, Lady Paladin?” the Poisoned Saint asked quietly. His voice was surprisingly musical for a man who looked like he was in the grip of fever, and his eyes — too bright, too dreamy — met mine with something that seemed to be concern.
A thrill of something that bit like fear but held an almost pleasant burning aftertaste shot right through me from sternum to toe.
It’s called attraction, girl. Have you felt it so rarely that it surprises you? I could suggest a few things to you in the depths of the night. There’s more than one way to feast.
I’d really rather the demon did not.
“I am well,” I answered curtly. Remember? Insane, not pitiful. Fearsome, not — definitely not — attracted. “Am I the last to arrive?”
“Do you have the amulet?” the loud paladin at the fire asked me.
I fished it out from inside the cowl of my tunic and when it caught the light, a collective sigh swept over those assembled.
The loud paladin smiled.
“And so we begin.”
Chapter Six
Poisoned Saint
As a Poisoned Saint, I’m used to being noticed. But it is not really me that people see when they look at me. Rather, I am like the moth whose true eyes are hidden while the false eyes on his wings draw attention. People see the cup on my tabard and their faces grow grim. They see my trembling hands and pale face and their expressions cloud with sympathy or calloused hardness. I am not the pain I drink for others, but I can never convince them of that. To them, the man is the role.
Oddly, Hefertus has never been affected by that. He ignores my pain like he ignores the cold, the wet ground, and the snow. He does not acknowledge it and thus, somehow, it has no power over him.
We arrive at the Aching Monastery in his usual flurry of good humor and delight for adventure and I must admit that I feel the same even though the lingering effects of the plague I took still ravage me. Through bouts of crippling cramps and bloody spew, I feel the roar of the unknown in my ears, lifting me up and brightening my eyes. This landscape, harsh and unforgiving, is enchanting. In a world where all feels known, this slice of it is brand new. And achingly ancient. And seductive as a warm fire on a cold night.
