I sneak another look at her face and hope that no one notices me doing it. I don’t want anyone getting ideas about why my interest tarries here. I’m tangled up with myriad thoughts and feelings slithering like a clump of snakes in the jar of my mind.
Part of me is upset about her obvious injuries. No mortal should contend with such pain. When she dismounts, she is favoring one side and one of her arms hangs lower than the other. The clay she has smeared over herself might distract the casual watcher, but my eyes see to the pain. Perhaps she has a broken or twisted rib. There’s definitely infection in those gashes. Whoever bound them was either hurried or incompetent.
That would be enough to bother me, but the dog makes it worse. There’s something wrong with the creature. When I look at it, it is well, and happy, and currently demanding affection from the blind Seer. She is trying to hide her shy smile at the attention, and that is all well and good, but the dog is a demon in canine form if I’ve ever seen one. It gives me a baleful glare and I return the sentiment. What manner of paladin rides with such a dog?
My heart is racing as it always does when I sense something that does not fit. There is something wrong about this Vagabond. Something on which I cannot place my gauntleted finger. Her beauty makes it worse. It stands in a rude contrast to her ragged filth.
My feelings of deep sorrow and tangled guilt at memories of Marigold muddy the waters further. Can I even trust my own observations when such a veil lies over them?
And under it all is something far more dangerous. Something I have not felt in a long time. Were I Hefertus, it would hardly signify. But I am a paladin of the Sorrowful God, called to heal others … and called to celibacy. I should not feel the stirrings that I do.
“We’ll go through the door tomorrow,” the Majester General is saying, and I gather that he’s been talking for a few minutes. “It’s too late in the day to enter now. We’ll camp for the night, have a friendly bout of swordplay to stretch the limbs and take one another’s measure, and then tomorrow we go in together. No need to all spread out and get into trouble on our own.”
“I am not here for games,” the Beggar Knight says, and I think she’d say more but the High Saint interrupts her.
“You’ve ridden in while we were saying Terce. I’d like to finish.”
She nods and bows as if to join him in prayer, but he’s shaking his head. “We can’t say prayers with your horse as part of the assembly.”
“I’ll guide her to the pickets.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize I’m the one speaking. This is close enough to sin that I shuffle my feet and a bead of sweat forms along my hairline, but I am the only Poisoned Saint here, and the others do not notice.
“Very good. We will say the prayer without you, and you will join us in your hearts,” the High Saint orders. Clearly, he is loath to wait even one more second.
It takes a solid effort not to smirk. I’ve always found pomp hilarious and the nerves I’m feeling at my slip are clawing down my tight control. I mask the rising smirk by making the holy sign, bent knuckle to forehead, heart, and sword arm.
“If you’ll come with me, Lady,” I murmur.
“Victoriana,” she corrects me.
“Lady Paladin,” I acknowledge, still refusing her name.
Hefertus’s snort is very quiet, but not quiet enough to be spared by the High Saint, who shoots him a venomous look as he begins the chant of the second prayer. Hefertus joins him loudly in his clear baritone, a look of cherubic innocence on his face.
I lead Victoriana to the pickets. Her name is quite a mouthful and it doesn’t suit the mud-streaked specter following me.
The dog comes with her. I could have done without his company. He springs forward to lope ahead of us. I keep one eye on him because I swear he looks as if he’d tear my throat out if he could. Quite the pair. Beauty and the Beast; Rose and Thorn.
“I think this is the only fresh water source,” I tell her as we reach the pickets, grasping desperately for a safe source of conversation. “If you’ve a flask or skin to fill, now is the time.”
She pauses, staring at me as if she wants to say something. I wait patiently for her words, but my eyes are busy. She looks very vulnerable under that thick clay. I can feel it almost as easily as I can feel the heat of the infection beginning in her wounds.
“Clay is not a good choice for infected wounds.”
I shouldn’t have spoken first, but the words rip out of me unbidden. Something inside me wants to protect her — and kill her dog — in equal measure. I shudder at that random thought.
Kill her dog? What a terrible impulse. What could have made me think that?
I force myself to look away and to turn to an old pillar, where the other paladins affixed the picket line. I run my hands over the worn carvings to where it is abruptly broken off. The head of the pillar lies a few feet away, coated in thick orange lichen.
She’s replying to me. “I had little choice. My superiors bid me ride without pause or succor.”
That brings my eyes up. She arrived here last. And has ridden without pause. I suppose I should not be surprised that an order known as “Beggar Knights” is stretched so thin, but still, I am.
“You’re pausing now. Let me look at those wounds.”
I shouldn’t press her, but it’s a matter of professional integrity. How can I let another human walk around ailing when I have the ability to heal them?
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. In truth, I am as drawn to this woman as I am drawn to these ruins — illogically, instinctually, in a way I cannot properly describe.
