Do you reach for the heavens?
Do you clutch at the air?
One deep drink of this pain brew,
And your heart will be there.
For what’s gone can’t be brought back,
What’s once lost can’t be found,
But one dash of this brew,
And you’ll find yourself crowned.
I spoke the words for Adalbrand and then asked, “What does the symbol under the poem mean?”
“It’s an old one.” He sounded wistful. “It’s a symbol for a Saint. The crown with the blade stabbed through it.”
“I haven’t seen it before. Do you want to be a Saint, Sir Adalbrand?”
“You heard the poem. What’s gone can’t be brought back. I can no more be a Saint than I can be a tiger.” I liked how his smile always had an edge of sorrow to it.
“Do you want to be a tiger?” I teased.
He looked up from the parchment and considered me for a long breath. He wasn’t playing anymore. He wasn’t twinkling.
“Do you want to be a Saint, Lady Paladin?”
Before I could reply, the door crashed open and the Majester General strode in, startling us both. He was carrying his pen and parchment, and over one shoulder he held a crimson sack that clanked with every step. I realized by the second step that the sack had been his tabard and by the third I was stifling a smile. Now I knew who had been collecting all the cups.
His comportment screamed “command” in a way that would make anyone with a hint of duty in their heart straighten and salute. Obviously, I slouched more at the mere sight of him.
Beside me, Adalbrand’s spine went stiff and his chin rose.
I barely kept in a snicker. Someone had a tendency toward people pleasing and conformity, it would seem. You’d never catch me doing that.
“Anything interesting to report here?” the Majester barked.
He glared at his parchment like he was annoyed not to have an aide to jot these things down for him, and the look he gave me suggested he was considering changing that. I set my hand on Brindle’s head. The Majester’s gaze followed the motion and I saw the moment he registered that any assistance from me would be accompanied by dog drool. He shook his head minutely.
“If you’re asking whether the residents had some odd items, then I’d say yes, and we did find a poem, a tapestry with a depiction that I’m pretty sure is the cup, and this pewter vessel,” Adalbrand said with a stiff formality that seemed wrong in his mouth after all the confessions he’d poured out from the very same lips, “but if you’re asking if we found the cup, then the answer is no. And yes, we’ve been thorough.”
“How many rooms have you searched and did you mark them?” The Majester gently extracted the pewter cup from Adalbrand’s hand, turning it this way and that with narrowed eyes before adding it to his sack. He took the parchment, skimming over the drawing and poem. He did not ask for a translation.
“Mark them?” Adalbrand sounded surprised.
“Can I borrow your back, Beggar?” the Majester asked me.
“Excuse me?”
Beside me, the dog snickered. Out loud. I would swear on it before a confessional priest.
He looks just like a rooster I possessed once, sweetmeat. It strutted around like it owned the place before I took it over, and you wouldn’t guess what it did after.
Did it claw someone’s eyes out and eat their soul?
Good guess. Have you played this game before, my sweet dumpling?
