“Well, I differ slightly on the translation. I’d read it as, ‘The door of the confessor by which sins are spoken and entry made.’ What do you think, old boy?” Sir Sorken said, sidling up to the door and peering into where the High Saint was stuck. “Care to confess a sin and see if it loosens up? I’d think any sin would do, but you’d better pick the biggest and best or it might think you’re trying to cheat.”
There was a muffled sound from the door.
“What’s that?” Sir Sorken was almost boisterously loud. “Bellow it out, my lad. Let the whole place hear you.”
“Pride.” The High Saint’s beautiful tenor was leeched of beauty now. It rasped like a stringed instrument in the hands of a novice.
And as if by magic — for, of course, that was what it was — he was released.
He stumbled forward and then spun to look at us, eyes wide in his plain face and hands trembling.
“You should have warned me,” he said between heavy breaths, his head swiveling to me. “You should have told me what was coming. I should have … I should have…”
He sat heavily down on the floor, head in his hands, and this time it was I who took a wobbling step forward. Was he ill? He didn’t look right.
Well, he confessed pride. I’d say it’s safe to bet that the toll taken was his confidence.
Toll?
But was it taken temporarily or forever? That’s the question. And oh, I cannot wait to hear the answer. Little confection, I hope you’re thinking about what you’ll say. Whatever it is, I shall use it to consume you. As will the door. As will any who hears it cross your rosy lips.
I licked those rosy lips, uncertain what to say or what to do.
I didn’t have to decide immediately. The Seer pushed past me and through the door, whispering something that sounded like crackling leaves. Whatever she said was born away by the wind, and whatever price she paid was invisible.
The Penitent Paladin went next. He carried no bag, but he drew his sword, ready despite seeing what had happened to his two peers on the other side of the door.
“Does it make you pay both ways?” he muttered, but no one could answer.
His confession took me by surprise.
“I am a great swordsman,” he said as he entered. “And I take comfort in the thought.”
I don’t know what I expected, but when his sword clattered to the ground, I yelped like everyone else. Beside me, Brindle barked once, sharply.
The Penitent Paladin’s right hand was gone. Vanished. Where once it had been, there was now only a grotesque stump.
He paled, staring at the hand that was no longer there.
“I swear I can feel it yet. As if it is not gone at all.”
His voice was a ghost. Or perhaps it was the blood rushing through my head making me feel as though I could hear nothing else.
Why would he lose a hand when the High Saint had only had to sit down?
To each man the penalty equal to the crime.
Then what would happen to Brindle when he went through with me?
What indeed?
Mayhap he should stay outside.
The double snort in my mind told me that neither spirit was willing to be left out.
The Seer picked up Sir Owalan’s sword and offered it to him. They tottered side by side, watching us, their backs to the adventure ahead, like two souls marooned together on a vast land.
“Will you go next then, Engineer?” The Majester General asked Sir Coriand. He seemed to be trying to get control back over what was rapidly deteriorating.
