Because wasn’t that the worst of it? Worse than the murder of my mentor, worse than the envy I felt when I saw the riches of others, worse than everything, so much worse was the worry that gnawed at me day and night that all of this was for nothing. That the God was merely invented by men to explain natural phenomena. That those claiming to be his servants were deluded. And that I was likely mad.
My worst sin. Confessed now.
I heard a curse in my mind.
I told you not to pick the worst one. What does it take to beat sense into this girl?
If I knew, it’s not something I’d let slip, fiend. I’m on her side. Always.
The price was too high.
The price was too high.
I felt terror sweep into my heart like a winged creature, knurled and inky, streaking from the shadows straight into my heart. It clawed up my throat and beat against my vocal cords, begging me to scream.
Doubt? It asked me. I shall take thy doubt and multiply it. I shall shatter thy mind with uncertainty and use the shards to pin thee to the floor, flay thy flesh from thy bones, and open thee wide until there is nothing left that thou’st know but pain.
The punishment was too great. It was too great. I couldn’t do it. I whirled, looking back to the door, every shred of me wanting to dart back to the ruins on the other side. The glowing eyes of Sir Sorken’s golem glittered as if it knew. They taunted me, called to me, mocked me.
Enough. Pull yourself together. My squire was bold as a lion and brash as a bear. My squire was insouciant as a squirrel stealing your last bread.
The breath sawed in my lungs and I forced myself to spin back and release Brindle from my grip.
So you doubt. Who doesn’t?
Well, paladins don’t.
We’ve both crossed the path of death. Doubt is letting go of what you know. Faith is seizing hold of what you will know. You’re halfway there. Hold on.
I appreciated Sir Branson’s confidence as much as I loathed the demon’s laughter, but his laughter rang once more in my mind as I finally saw clearly into the hall and the place we’d paid so steep a price to enter. This was no monastery. Or at least, it wasn’t like any I’d ever seen.
Chapter Eleven
Poisoned Saint
I take a long breath and force my vision to clear. Hefertus’s massive arm curls around my shoulder in an unlikely vulnerability. I can smell the rare spices he anoints himself with every morning. Frankincense and something else.
The spasms I took from Hefertus leave my hands trembling and my limbs weak, but the curse I took when I went through the door is worse. It burns in my veins and runs through my mind, opening all the locks, throwing all the bolts, swinging wide every door — not a physical mark, but a mark all the same.
Without meaning to, I have invited something inside that should have been kept out. An enemy has breached my walls and I lifted the portcullis with my own hands. It leaves me with an oily feeling of dread and a terrible inability to govern my own thoughts. All my tight control falls suddenly slack.
I don’t know what penalty the others took, beyond Hefertus. I’ve taken half his penalty, and I can feel it clearly enough. His was a simple punishment, though not an easy one. Death — even a quick one — is not easy.
Now, answer me this. What sort of door to a monastery demands so high a toll? Is it to purge the soul of sin? Or is it to hide something beyond this door?
I rather think it might be the latter. I do not trust this place.
I have read of attempts to make people holy by force. They never end well. Not for those being made or those doing the making. I have the creeping feeling that this may be one of those places. I have no desire to be made or unmade by it.
I force myself out of my own thoughts. The floor beneath me is polished rock— light but shot through with dark veins. I focus on the strength of it beneath my feet, remove Hefertus’s arm from my shoulder, and pull myself to my feet.
When the Majester General steps through the door, he has a tic in the corner of his eye and is masking something at his left side. He looks ten years older. I open my hands to offer healing but he waves them roughly away. He wants nothing I might offer him. Well and good. I’m not sure I have strength left to give.
“I propose we do this systematically. I shall lead the search,” he barks. I see in him an echo of my own determination not to bend to the toll of this place.
He doesn’t bother waiting for the Vagabond Paladin. It seems the others are willing to disrespect her without thought. I wonder what it’s like to live your whole life like that — as an afterthought. Is it freeing, or painful … or both?
The Majester has his parchment out and ready, charcoal poised over it, but he’s too late with his commands and his authority has been shaken off already, like a light dusting of snow on a crisp morning. I’m the only one waiting with him and it’s not for him that I wait.
