“Isn’t it lovely?” he asks.
“It’s meant to be bittersweet.” My voice is controlled.
“Well, it was only bitter, but I’ve put the sweet in it. Supper?”
My eyes snap open.
He’s offering me an open smile.
After insulting my Aspect of the God.
As if I won’t spill his guts right here.
Get a hold of yourself, Adalbrand.
With all my discipline, I clench my jaw and turn, walking straight to Hefertus’s tent and throwing myself into my bedroll. It’s early. Too early to sleep, but not too early to lose myself in all the pain I took, and pretend that I’m not so annoyed by a paladin from another order that I want to see how purple I can make his face before I let him breathe again.
Do you think that’s extreme?
Then you don’t understand devotion. You don’t understand what it’s like to give your whole life to a love too great for one heart — to hold your tiny piece of it safe within, to protect it at all costs, to feed that flame with whatever shreds of hope or friendship you have.
If you don’t understand it, then you don’t understand paladins. And you don’t understand me.
And you don’t understand that sometimes we’re angry at one thing because we’re frustrated with another.
I fall asleep wanting to chew rocks.
I wake to what sounds like a muffled sob.
My eyes flick open, alert in an instant, but I freeze.
Hefertus’s deep breathing from his bedroll on the other side of the tent is even. I see his large form faintly in the darkness. Light from the campfire still makes navigation almost possible despite the darkness. I slip from my blankets.
It’s cold outside the tent. It was cold inside the tent, but our combined body heat was enough to keep things just slightly warmer than the air outside. I shiver in the cold, muscles tensing uncomfortably around wounds both real and magical.
The light of the banked fire is stronger here — a dull crimson glow like the inside of the womb.
I scan the semi-circle by its gleam. Beside our tent is the Majester General’s thick canvas. It steams in the night air. He’s inside, then.
To the other side of us is the door to nothing. A heap rolled in blankets lies against the door. I only know it’s the Vagabond because her devil dog is sprawled half over her.
Past her is a filmy white tent that is half hammock, half shelter, like some monstrous cocoon. That can only be the Penitent Paladin. It moves as he turns in his sleep.
I glance up at the moon and reckon it to be midway through the night. It’s shifted again. Moved just a fraction to reveal more land north and east of here.
A heavy leather tent is next, guarded by both golems. Their banked-ember eyes pierce the darkness, watching me like twin demons. I shiver again. I must think on how to keep them above ground. I would not like to be in an enclosed space with one of these hulking creations. I don’t trust them.
The High Saint’s tent is as plain as him. I try not to glare at it.
I skip to the black brocaded tent of the Hand of Justice. It is wonderfully made but worn. From within, snores like cutting birch logs emerge. Hefertus should be glad his only friend wasn’t the renowned former king.
It’s from the last tent that the crying sounds again. I hurry to the many-layered tent of the Seer. If she is ill or in pain, it is my duty to ease her troubles. And I would also be pleased to help. It bothers me how many ills she carries with her already. I would not see more added to her collection.
“Lady Paladin?” I whisper as I reach her tent. I feel a slight warmth coming from the entrance. She’s in there. The door of the tent flutters like the edges of flayed flesh. “Are you unwell?”
A moan is the only reply.
I clench my jaw. She sounds like she’s in pain, but the first thing you learn as a squire is that pushing your way into another paladin’s tent is a great way to get a sword blade right to the throat.
