My heart hammered in my chest, breath coming in sharp gasps. It couldn’t … there couldn’t be someone living here, could there be? After all this time? Of course not, it was unbelievable, but I couldn’t shake the feeling.
The wall smelled of mildew and dust and rotting books. But it was nothing compared to the panic I felt at having my chest pressed hard to the wood by a force between my shoulder blades. My right cheek was flattened against the wall and I could not turn.
A door slammed. My dog barked. My heart choked me with fear.
My attacker had been smart enough to pin my sword hand. I fought against the vise-grip on my gauntlet, unable to shake him loose or even see who it was who had pinned me. Behind the door, Brindle’s growls were deep and demanding.
What’s he doing to you? Are you dead?
He! Which he?
My breath sawed in my lungs. All I could see in my mind was the looming shape of the black demon unfurling from the ceiling and sliding down the wall to rip out my windpipe. A scream rose in my throat.
“I wouldn’t scream.” The voice was right in my ear, quiet, growling, but laced with something dangerous. I thought I felt the warmth of lips against the shell of my ear.
Adalbrand, of course.
I let my exhale out slowly.
“What are you doing?”
Look, I’ve wanted to be pinned to a wall by an attractive man in armor for about as long as I’ve fantasized about men, but I thought that — ideally — we’d be married and he’d be interested in having fun, not growling threats in my ear.
I couldn’t fault the actual person who pinned me. He lived up to the standard of my dreams just fine. The Poisoned Saint was attractive enough to be distracting, but it was pretty clear from how he slammed my hand against the wall when I tried a twist escape that he wasn’t doing this for fun. Well, not that kind of fun. He might be one of those who enjoyed cruelty to others, and if he was, he could march right off.
“I heard you when you went through the door, even if no one else did,” he whispered. “I heard you confess to doubt. That isn’t the confession of a paladin.”
“Isn’t it?” I asked through gritted teeth while trying to aim a kick backward. “What is the confession of a paladin? Murder? In a moment, Brindle will come through the door and then you’ll have two of us to face at once.”
“Just like Sir Branson did before you stole his cloak and sword?” His whisper became a growl and the brush of his lip stung as the bristle of unshaven face scraped against my ear. “I don’t know what you are, but you are no Vagabond Paladin.”
I held on to my dignity. I wouldn’t plead or demand.
“Who are you to judge? The book says, ‘For each judgment wrought, to each a dole given.’ If you’re judging me, then you’ll be judged the same way.”
“I welcome it.” His breath was hot. I tried again to shake his grip and flinched when he slammed me back against the wall with twice the force he had used before. Pain made my breath spasm and my vision darken. “May the God judge me indeed, for you are no Vagabond Paladin. The Vagabond forswears wealth so that the generous God might provide. The Vagabond asks for a blessing in faith and receives it in a way that no other paladin is given — straight from the heart of the God, in acknowledgment of her physical deprivations. The Vagabond lives a life soaked through with faith, and by your account, so did your lay parents, and so did your mentor.”
“If you have a point to make, make it.”
I kicked out at “make it” and tried to land a blow to his vulnerable knee, but he must have dodged. It was only meant as a distraction as my off-hand went for the dagger in my belt. He was faster than me and just as cunning. He pinned my off-hand with a knee, not once lessening the pressure on my back and other hand. I had to clench my jaw to keep from crying out as his steel greave dug into the small bones of my hand.
“When you confessed to doubt, you confirmed my fears.” He was no longer whispering but his voice was breathy. “That you are no paladin, but a pretender. That you should not be here at all.”
Again, that stab of fear sliced through me from gullet to brain. He knew the edge of my secret. That I was unworthy. That I should not be here.
You should. You must.
“Tell me you deserve to be here,” he breathed into my ear and I shivered.
“I do not,” I confessed.
Saints and Angels, girl. You deserve it if any of them do. Who cares who is “worthy”? In the end, it’s always the one willing to get dirty and do the job.
“Tell me you are the best your Aspect had to offer,” he pressed.
“I cannot.”
How do you know? You met so few of us!
