Surely you jest! The paladin knows what is happening here. We need to end him. Now. Go for his eyes! Go for his eyes!
He does not know, I assured him in my mind, hoping he could hear my thoughts. He only knows that I’m too young and that I killed Sir Branson. I can explain that to him. Unclamp your jaws!
My heart sped, making my fingers clumsy as they slid across Brindle’s teeth and into his gums, trying to force his mouth open.
The paladin hissed, eyes clouding with pain. His hair fell in his face as he fought against Brindle, his brown eyes bright and wild. They caught mine for just a heartbeat and my breath caught, too. He was like an illumined page when he looked at me like that. All bright and glorious and noble. It stabbed at something deep in my chest that knew I was terribly unworthy of all of this.
Enough. There was no time right now for self-recriminations. I needed to get Brindle in hand. I gripped his neck skin harder, shaking it, hoping the doggy within the dog would listen.
“Brindle, please, please let go.”
If the other paladins heard the girlish pleading in my voice, I’d lose any shred of respect I’d rode in with right there.
Brindle wasn’t letting go.
“Saints and Angels!”
I cuffed him — hard in the skull. Wrong move. He didn’t break his grip at all but a desperate gasping cry tore from the other paladin’s lips. His face was paler. He gripped the pillar beside him with one hand, pressed his forehead into it, teeth clenched in a rictus of pain, his other hand prying at the dog’s mouth right beside mine.
I turned to prayer. My last resort.
Merciful God in heaven, help me save this man!
I felt a whuff of something leave me. Was it only my breath? Only my breath, or a granting of the favor of the God?
I could not tell, but Brindle unclamped his jaw and the Poisoned Saint sagged in relief. I caught him as he stumbled, his face twisted in pain. It was more lined than before, which didn’t detract from the thoughtful warmth of it. That warmth clashed badly with the purples and greens of his sickly coloring, but it was there, even as he huffed a laugh of disbelief.
“Brindle. Go stand by the horse,” I barked, not bothering to disguise my fury.
He stared at me, licking blood from his teeth and then stretching with a baleful glare in his eye. Was it my imagination, or was one eye glowing red?
I thought Sir Branson said he could manage the demon. I thought the oath would bind him.
Hasn’t anyone told you, little morsel? An oath is only as good as the one who swears it. Your knight tastes of plums and pain. You should take a taste of him yourself. Maybe you will, clinging to him as you do. I think I’ll watch. How would that make you feel?
My cheeks felt hot and my head was swimming. I’d made a terrible mistake thinking that together Sir Branson and I could manage this demon.
You’re right, you’re right, you’re right. Sir Branson sounded flustered. I’ll think of something.
He’d always thought of something. When the road was cold with nowhere to sleep. When we ran out of bread and no one would offer a crust. When I got that infection in my leg and we couldn’t find a healer … he always thought of something.
And if I killed Brindle, he’d never think of something again. I’d lose him forever. I was starting to worry that I’d have to do it anyway.
Trouble yourself no more. The God will show us a way.
Brindle slunk over to the horses and plopped down at Halberd’s feet with a stick in his bloody mouth. I let out a long, anxious exhale.
“Your dog bit me,” the Poisoned Saint said at last, disbelieving.
I was still holding him up, I realized suddenly. It felt far too intimate for a man whose name I still did not know.
I ran my eyes up and down him quickly. The bite had pierced through leather breeches and torn a hole big enough that I could see the bruised and bloody mess and the gouges in his flesh. I grimaced and found his gaze.
His eyes really were warm. Even as he looked at me with distraught … something … they radiated an aghast humor. I couldn’t read the “something” behind that. Sometimes it flashed like flickers of guilt in a tension around his eyes, but other times since I met him it was like the sting of cinnamon on the tongue. I had never encountered whatever that was before. I couldn’t name it.
“Sir … Sir, you have my humblest apologies,” I gasped out. I held his tabard bunched in my fists as he grimaced and tried to put weight on his leg.
His face was very near mine, tight with pain, his lashes thick around his dark eyes, and I thought he had likely been pretty when he was younger, before wear and hardship sharpened his features.
