“Going back to the point, the Cup would help nail that situation down. Subtle reminder not to mess with the decisions of the church. And especially the Benevolent Aspect.”
He levels his gaze at me then, and I’m suddenly reminded that he’s a head taller than me, his reach is at least ten inches longer, and he’s double my bulk in muscle. I’d need to be fast as an eagle choking a snake to get the better of him if he drew on me. I could possibly manage to kill him, but I would certainly lose my horse in the process. I like this horse.
There’s steel in his voice when he says, “We don’t expect difficulties from the Poisoned Saints.”
I huff a laugh, watching him, picking my words carefully.
“I think we should stay friends, Hefertus. Why break up a good thing? Especially when we don’t know the others.”
He claps me on the shoulder and grins. “Exactly my thoughts. And that’s what I told my arch-general when he sent me out. ‘Tell those dark mourners to send Adalbrand with me,’ I said. ‘He’ll know how the tide shifts,’ I said.”
“Mmm.” I don’t commit either way. He’s not wrong that we of the Sorrowful Aspect rarely involve ourselves in politics. But he’s been a fool to show his hand this clearly.
I pause.
Or maybe not.
Maybe he’s clever enough to know that I’m more likely to back a play I understand than to put my trust in good faith. Maybe he’s betting on me to not only walk away from glory myself but also to take it from others so he might possess it.
In our calling as Poisoned Saints, the motives of man are important. They shade everything. And on this particular quest, the motivations of man could mean life or death. I would prefer that we all walk away alive. There’s no need to shed blood here.
I say that part out loud and he laughs.
“Indeed. Glad to have you at my back, Poisoned Saint.”
“Mmm.” If I must ride into danger with Hefertus, then I’d rather be at his back, too. Far better than being in front of his blade.
We turn a last corner and there they are — the rest of the valor of the nine kingdoms, banners flapping, tents set, fire smoking damply. The wood must still be wet.
I count them. Eight others. I have not met any of them before.
There are no servants, squires, pages, clerks, or retainers. Only the paladins themselves. That alone is shocking in a world where most paladins have retinues of dozens.
I look the others over. I don’t have a sixth sense — though some attribute that to us. What I do have is a lifetime of dealing with people’s hurts. I catalog everyone through that prism.
I see the Seer first and I immediately shutter my expression. Her senses are nearly entirely gone. She cannot see any longer — her eyes are a dreadful grub-white. She holds her head in a way that tells me she is struggling to hear. Her fingers fumble senselessly over her wooden cup. Hers are infirmities I cannot take. A gift to the God that her aspect requires. I neither understand it nor like it, but it isn’t my place to speak on what obeisances another aspect performs, or how the God calls them.
I don’t look at her for long. I do not enjoy watching the misery of others. Usually, I have the right to draw it out from them. It feels like spittle on my cheek that I cannot take hers.
She’s the only female paladin sent so far. The others are men. And we are missing one. Ten aspects. Ten paladins required. There are ten here, but two are Holy Engineers. I can see the aches in their elderly joints by how they hold their bodies brittlely.
Don’t misunderstand. They can still fight. Even against a trained soldier in his youth, they’ll likely win, just as the Seer would, even though she can hardly hold her sword. We are paladins. We may age. We may molder. We never fail.
The others are more what one would expect as representatives of their aspects.
The High Saint of the Aspect of the Sovereign God hurries to greet us with a blessing. He’s healthy and bright-eyed, his hair perfectly trimmed, face perfectly shaven. He’s so homely he could be a priest, but I know plenty of simple-looking men who are masters of blade and war. His perfectly oiled and polished kit doesn’t impress me, but it does speak to a mind ordered and disciplined. He bears no signs of pain or illness. A blank slate ready to be drawn upon.
“The Aspect of the Sorrowful God and the Aspect of the Benevolent God,” he says, pleased. The High Saints rarely use our slang names for one another. They find it beneath them. Crass.
Personally, I don’t like High Saints. I find their rigidity frustrating and their careful observance a bit convicting. After all, were I a better paladin, my observance would be more like theirs, wouldn’t it? But it is not, nor will it be. And I am guilty of so much more than a few missed prayers or broken creeds.
“We welcome you here,” he says, spine straight, looking down his long nose at us. He has no chin, but the collar over his chestpiece digs into the flesh in a way that constructs one for him. It must be terribly uncomfortable.
“There doesn’t seem to be much of this Aching Monastery left,” Hefertus says, looking around while I make the holy sign of greeting to the High Saint and then peer past him at the others.
There’s a Holy Inquisitor who has resumed training exercises. His long hair is stark white and the front is tied back in a silver clasp. He works his sword forms with speed and accuracy, careful to keep his blade facing the west, as is fitting. He’s narrow as a whip and his muscles are long and lean. This exercise is designed to make him fast and accurate — but not bulky, never bulky, for physical strength is forbidden to the Aspect of the All-Seeing God. I watch him for a moment. He has an injury somewhere in his ribs — a strain, I think. Old and recurring. I could help him with it if he wants that. He may not. Not everyone wants help.
I know Kodelai Lei Shan Tora by reputation. He’s the Hand of Justice here. I recognize him at once by the red horsetail in his helm. Not many Hands of Justice wear ornamentation, and everyone has heard of Kodelai. He’s a legend. Called out of a kingship, called from majesty to service, strong as an ox and twice as charming as he ought to be, there are stories of him in every town and city. Hands of Justice are not called before they are at least forty and he’s closer to the end of his fifties, I would think. I heard he was challenged on a judgment just last year — challenged and won, obviously, since he’s still alive. If I get the chance to ask him about it, I will. He has something wrong in his guts. Age, perhaps. It plays nasty tricks on everyone from peasant to king to … ahem … paladin.
