“I can tell you what is written on that pillar,” I gambled.
The voice in my head cursed so loudly that it sent me rocking back on my heels.
And Sir Adalbrand’s eyes shot up, his eyes narrowing as they settled on my face. “Can you, indeed?”
Well, now you’ve gone and done it, my girl. It’s one thing to be a madwoman with a mad dog. It’s another thing to admit you can read a dead language. There are maybe twenty scholars who can read that language. Most of them would need a reference to help with it.
The language couldn’t be dead if he’d been studying it. It had looked like he’d been reading parts of it. He must have an idea of what it said. He’d just think I’d studied the same things.
Twenty. Scholars. Do you really think this paladin is one of them? Girl, I could barely tell the language was Indul. And I might not have mentioned it, but I was scholar-trained in my youth before I heard the Rejected God’s call.
Branson was scholar-trained? He had certainly not mentioned it. He had … not acted like it, either. I hadn’t thought he’d cared about that kind of thing.
Well … they’re just so stuffy. Couldn’t live like that. But here’s the thing. The Poisoned Saints are amongst the most learned of all the Aspects of the God. No, scratch that. They are some of the most learned people under the sovereignty of the God.
Oops.
Yes, oops indeed. And now he will be wondering how you are performing this cute little trick. And what if he asks you to repeat it when the demon is not there?
I felt my cheeks heating, but Sir Adalbrand’s eyes were still on me, clearly weighing me, even as he extracted a roll of bandage and a pot of salve from his bag.
Fine, Brindle said. There’s no getting out of it now. Might as well do this right. Tell him it’s in Ancient Indul.
I repeated his words.
“I worked that much out myself,” the paladin said, watching me warily. “But my Ancient Indul is not up to standard. Not like yours, learned scholar.”
His smile was teasing, but he sobered as he laid out the needles, thread, and salve across a cloth on a rock and began to shimmy out of his boots and trousers.
I looked away, face hot. I’d seen things in this service. The kinds of things I didn’t like to talk about. Beggars frozen into snowbanks, the only difference between them and me a single blanket and the favor of the God. Women used terribly by men and barely saved by a whisper to us as we passed through a town. Children … my brain stuttered over the children. It could not go there. Would not.
Through all that, what I hadn’t seen much of was attractive men.
Look, I spent most of my time riding around with Sir Branson, righting small wrongs as often as possible, saying solemn prayers when he remembered them, and once in a while, going toe to toe against true evil. Good-looking men around my age were in short supply.
I’d met one or two — always married. I’d counted that a blessing. Our order was not a celibate order, but we did not engage in unmarried relationships. Those were forbidden. And who would marry a beggar other than another beggar?
I’d met a few other Vagabond Paladins, of course. Old bachelors, the lot of them. They’d liked me very much. Especially when I made them tea, toasted cheese on bread, and offered liniment for their aching feet. I didn’t mind doing that. The God blesses generosity, and there’s something satisfying about caring for someone everyone else overlooks. But I wouldn’t have considered myself tempted in any way by the paladins of my order. Were there beautiful Vagabond Paladins drifting town to town in tattered cloaks with noble visages and flowing hair? Mayhap there were, and our paths had simply never crossed. Privately, I doubted it.
Or the old man knew better than to let you anywhere near them because when you’re an old knight, having a girl around who has a nice smile and a handy way with a cup of tea isn’t something to shrug at. I’ve seen it before. There are many kinds of selfishness, toothsome delight. Let me show you one that fits you. Let me introduce you to all the ways you can indulge before disaster catches up with you. I bet this knight would help tempt you to try a little selfishness.
I snapped my fingers at Brindle and he sat, whining slightly.
Oooh. Yes, you’ve shown me my place. He purred happily as if losing his agency was something he liked. Now, shall I tell you what the pillar said?
He’d better. Sir Adalbrand was cleaning his wounds and now was a good time to fix my eyes on the rock and pretend I was reading it.
“It says,” I began, waiting for the voice in my head to tell me.
There was a long pause, a snicker, and then finally an other-earthly voice spoke.
Tell your little toy soldier that the pillar says, “The Aching Monastery. Woe to you, supplicant. Five woes. For the attainment of Sainthood: Bring your dust, your blood, your inner pain. Draw them out each one and heights attain. Abandon now the bitter husk. Impale your weakness on its tusk.”
I spoke the words, staring at the pillar as if I were reading them, but the sound of Adalbrand’s silence drew my eyes back to his.
“Does it really say that?” he asked me. He was midway through stitching one of the gashes on his leg. The flesh around it was purple and pulpy from the force of Brindle’s bite.
“I think so,” I said carefully.
