The Penitent Paladin began to pray aloud, using his beaded belt as a rosary. His prayers were fast and breathy, barely spoken so much as exhaled.
“He’s trapped,” the Majester General said, aghast. “What is the meaning of this? Prince Paladin? Did you do something wrong?”
The Prince Paladin simply raised a dark brow and shook his head.
It took me a full breath before I realized they all were thinking the same thing. They had not translated the words on the door. They had no idea what was required.
I spoke the words, clear and sharp so they would not be masked by the muffled cries of the High Saint or the prayers and oaths of the others.
“Confession Door. Speak your sins and gain entry.”
“Say that twice, little sister.” Sir Kodelai’s eyes were narrowed when they meet mine, as if he were challenging me. He rubbed a jaw more chiseled than the rock itself and just as crisscrossed with scars. Kingship had not been kind to him. Paladincy did not seem to have been much kinder.
“It’s a Confession Door,” I said, holding my chin high and trying to look confident. The demon had better not have lied to me. “You must speak your sin or be trapped.”
They call the devil the father of lies, you know. His children may not be fathers of lies but they are certainly sons. It would be good not to forget that, I think.
I agreed.
Even so, our demon captive seems to have this cat by the tail. If the paladin does not confess soon it may be too late.
“He needs to confess,” I said, worrying my lip between my teeth. “A sin of some kind.”
“How do you know that?” Sir Kodelai asked, stepping closer, hand on sword pommel, eyes locked on mine. Saints, he was touchy. Did he really think I had the power to trap a High Saint?
I swallow down the stab of fear that hooked under my breastplate — look, I’d fought him before, but he was powerful, and likely the others here would back his accusation, no matter how wild —as he took a second step forward. I made myself refuse to be intimidated, extending my gauntleted hand to point to the open door.
“It’s written right there on the door frame.” My voice hardly quavered.
That’s right! Don’t back down! They may be grand and rich, but in the end, we all die the same way.
“No one can read that,” the Majester General said. “It’s in an ancient script lost to us. What manner of devilry gives you mastery over it?”
He slipped a step toward me, too. And now fear truly danced down the fibers of my frame, for what answer could I give? My knowledge did come from devilry in its purest form.
Yes, my sweetmeat, yes, my precious little tidbit. It’s my gift to you. As is their suspicion. As is the way knowledge begins to corrupt your delicate soul.
I sent a quick glance around me. I shouldn’t. It showed fear, and you should never show fear when surrounded by enemies, but I needed to assess the danger.
I can assess for you. One paladin stuck in a trap for the unwary — I did tell you not to be first. Two paladins accusatory. One paladin sympathetic. One paladin ironic. Delightful, all.
Who was sympathetic? I saw not a single look of support in the faces surrounding me.
Who do you think? I could feel his wink in my mind.
Brindle edged to my side, a silent shadow slinking in like a thief carrying goods to be fenced. He slid his furry side along my greave and then gave a very impressive doggy yawn, as if none of this was of any concern to him.
It really isn’t. If the faithful kill you, little treat, I’ll gobble your soul up as you’re dying and then I’ll hop to the next meal. I’ll be sorry to have missed the show, though. And your incompetence. It’s hard to find a truly pathetic person, and they really make the best objects of comedy. I’ll be laughing over you for years to come.
I gritted my teeth but just in time, a throat cleared from behind me.
“Whatever are they teaching you boys in the monasteries these days?” It was the younger Engineer — Sir Coriand. “I suppose you can be forgiven, Kodelai. You came to the church late in life, so your tongue is rigidly stuck in the common language, but Roivolard, I thought better of you.”
The Holy Engineer clucked his tongue and the Majester General — Roivolard, I supposed — went beet red.
“Don’t be so harsh, Coriand,” the other Engineer said, hitching his sword belt in a way that only accentuated his barrel belly. “You can’t expect blustering generals to pick up the finer points of language.”
“Are you saying she’s telling … you can’t mean she’s telling the truth?” the Majester General asked warily, looking from the Engineers, to me, to the High Saint — Joran Rue — stuck in the doorway. Sir Joran seemed … faded … somehow. As if whatever was on the other side of the door had sipped out his coloring.
