I ought to rip my gaze away from this fight as I did from the braid, but I don’t. I am mesmerized by it. Caught. No more able to look away than the dancing snake can slip from the charmer.
Sir Kodelai is grace and elegance and a lifetime of experience. In contrast, his challenger is bold and sharp, her attack unrestrained, her defense undisciplined. But she is surprise and audacity and insouciant charm.
I hear my thoughts echoed in the stilted gasps and exhales of the others watching as their blades clash together and their feet dance across the rock.
“From the lips of babes, isn’t it?” one of the Engineers says quietly, the loud sip he takes of his tea the only sound other than the slip of steel against steel and the harshness of exerted breath.
“You mix your metaphors worse than your tea,” his fellow complains, but they are only background noise to me. “We should set Suture on her next time and see how she does. Shame to waste the chance to test out your theory.”
I am memorizing the footwork, my own body responding to the movements as if I am trying to parse what I would do in Sir Kodelai’s place. I think I could beat her. Possibly. It would be a near thing, and that’s somewhat concerning if I let myself dwell on it. Whatever there is between us is uncertain. She may be friend or foe even now. If she is foe, she would be worse to fight than Hefertus. He, at least, follows some kind of internal code. She is as untamed as the wind.
When she stumbles, I feel a twinge in my side.
She’s quick to recover, and the way she follows, not with a sharp defense or even a flailing attack, but rather with a sharp spin that puts her inside Kodelai’s reach, stuns us all. It’s the shick of her knife drawing that makes us gasp, and then she has the tip of the knife pressed to his chin under his beard.
He laughs, utterly charmed.
“I think I like you, fledgling paladin,” the former king says. He is not smiling. I am not sure Kodelai knows how to smile. But he is arresting in his demeanor. Admiration paints every line of him. I feel a pinch of something I hope is not jealousy. “I think we’ll drink together now, unless someone else wants to take the girl’s measure. Her benefactor, perhaps?”
He points at me.
I wave a hand as if it is nothing to me. As if my sword hand isn’t twitching for a chance to take her measure toe to toe, body to body. Strength to strength. Every fiber of me wants to match against her — with her — however we fit together. And I will not allow that thought to go further.
I turn my back slowly, acting as though I find myself surprised to be in need of tea. I saunter over to the Engineers. As much as I loathe their grim creations, I crave their grounding presence now.
“Did you design your own armor?” I ask the nearest one. It hardly matters what response he gives. I know the God’s Engineers. This question will earn me at least an hour of explanation. There is little that interests Engineers more than who made what, and few things that delight them more than speaking about their beloved armor.
I manage to keep them both talking, blessedly blocking out all else, until dusk when the High Saint calls for an evening song and we gather together around the fire and sing the Dirge of Ages. A fitting end to such a day.
From the moment I joined the Aspect of the Sorrowful God, this has been my favorite time. When I am within the walls of the order, we join the priests for their sunset song, and when I am in the field, it is observed wherever two or more of us are gathered together. It is the sound of home to me and a sacred sealing of the day — a gift to the God, though it is a poor one.
“Walk with me,” the High Saint sings in an unbelievably angelic tongue.
He’s a tenor. And a triumphant one. I find my eyebrows clawing up my forehead in my surprise. What in the God’s name is he doing here? He could lead the choir in the Great Dome Cathedral with a voice like that.
When the others join in three-part harmony, beautiful though it is, it is almost a shame to mar his perfect melody.
“Walk with me, gentle spirit; Walk this compassion trail; Walk through trouble and tumult; Walk by my troubled wail; Walk with me, gentle spirit, and all along life’s way; walk with me, noble master, and by my sorrows stay.”
I lose myself in five verses of pleading with the God to attend us in sorrow, and as we’re singing the last notes, the High Saint smiles and adds a piece I’ve never heard.
“Walk with me, gentle spirit; Walk this compassion trail; Walk with me in my great joy; Let my humble heart sail.”
My mouth falls open. I don’t mean to show my horror. But he’s ruined the song. It’s a dirge. It’s meant to sing our sorrows to the God. He’s brought joy into it? What is this travesty?
“I went ahead and added a small contribution,” the High Saint says, pressing his palm to his chest in mock humility. “I just thought the song was too sad.”
There are murmurs of happy agreement around the circle.
Agreement? They agree?
I look up, finally, from where I’ve been staring at the ground, and I meet the only set of eyes that seems as aghast as I am. The Vagabond Paladin looks ill. The one person I absolutely can’t afford to be in harmony with is the only one who sees this as I do.
“It’s a dirge,” I say woodenly.
“Yes, it’s really too bad. It should have a happy part,” the High Saint says, and his saccharine smile matches his song.
I close my eyes so that I can try to stop imagining myself with my hands around his throat.
