And I do something even stupider than all else that has gone before. I know better. The mad thing that ran through me yesterday and opened all my locked doors is gone now. I have full possession of myself. My mind is my own. I, therefore, have no excuse this time. But I still step close enough that I can speak more intimately. I let myself soak up the warmth of her in the air. I let myself look once more into those brown eyes and I do not guard my heart as I look into hers.
“I do not know the ending yet, Lady Paladin. And I am not eager to bring this story to the end.”
And she must be as foolish as me, because she swallows, looks at my heart right back, and says, “Maybe we won’t have to.”
Surely she must realize that I would already walk across the flat circle of the earth’s face on just the chance that my story with her would not be over yet. The idea that we share something — even if it’s only a story — stirs up fancies in me that I’ve long suppressed. I can imagine myself on the road with her. I could kindle a fire while she huddled in a blanket and I would catch her first morning smile. I could check the hooves of her horse while she inspected the tack. I could throw sticks for that terrible dog.
I swallow roughly, grateful for reprieve when she rips her eyes away and leaves the tent.
I learned long ago to stop dreaming of things I can never have. I am too washed with guilt to be worthy of even the hope of them. But she makes me dream forbidden dreams.
I take a moment to compose myself and whisper Lauds. I follow them with a prayer of my own.
Sorrowful God, make me strong and accurate. Ready me for what comes next.
My usual prayer seems weak before the task ahead. It will have to be enough.
I leave the tent and join the others.
I am not the only one who has prepared himself. Around the circle of the ruins, the others carry their various bundles and packs. Hefertus has tied his hair back as though he expects trouble. The Majester is carrying a helm and the Inquisitor has tied a strip of cloth across his brow. Even the High Saint is freshly scrubbed and looking wary. He whispers frantically into the ear of Sir Kodelai, eyes darting in every direction, gestures emphatic.
“Brothers.” Sir Kodelai interrupts the High Saint to speak to us from where he stands by the gate. “Listen now to the will of the God.”
I always wonder about fellow clerics and paladins who claim to know the will of the God. Do they really speak for him? It feels like a risky thing to claim if they don’t. And the satisfaction in Sir Kodelai’s eye tells me he likes this. He is this. It’s harder to trust someone who is enjoying the power so much.
By all accounts, Sir Kodelai is the most upstanding, most honorable living paladin. He has served the Aspect of the Vengeful God in the most exemplary manner since renouncing his land and crown and giving himself to his Aspect. But this gleam in his eye — this is new to me. This is worrying. I seal my lips shut and try to watch everyone at once.
The early morning breeze ruffles hair and nips cheeks pink. Eyes are bright, feet restless. I sense nothing else — no malice or subterfuge. There’s anxiety rolling off the High Saint, but there’s always a little of that with him.
If there is a threat near, I do not see it.
Sir Kodelai’s voice booms through my observations. “We will go down together into the monastery again. We will gather up the Seer to be laid to rest. And I will speak to you of guilt and justice.”
He’s carrying his wood case. The one with his incense and other accoutrements of the Vengeful Aspect.
“Please set down your worldly goods. They will not aid us today.”
“Unless we’re locked in there,” Hefertus says. “Then we’ll be glad we have tools and food.”
“The door will not lock,” Sir Kodelai says. “See? I have removed it from the hinges.”
So he has. Interesting. It does not prove his argument.
“You all know that in matters of justice, you must yield to me. Please put down your packs.”
We are none of us excited to obey his orders, but we do. The consequences, should we ignore him, are too grave.
“We discuss life and death today. And a murder most grim,” he says, and his beautiful face has an expression of reverence. He’s dressed in finery, I realize. A nice black velvet coat is under his tabard. He’s dressed his hair and oiled his beard. This is sacred to him. And it must, then, be sacred to us. “Who here can never say they have committed murder, whether in the name of the God or otherwise?”
I meet the High Saint’s eye by accident. It’s burning with holy reverence as he nods. Nothing wakes a High Saint up like reminding them that we are all sinners in the hands of the Merciful God. It’s like wine to them and they’ll drink it to the dregs.
“So it is and always is,” he intones gravely.
Sir Kodelai shoots him a quelling look and it’s hard not to laugh at how the piety of the one has ruined the performance of the other’s piety.
“Which is why I bid you each to confess that sin as we enter the door today,” he says firmly, cutting off discussion.
I feel a chill of unease. That’s an odd request. It feels almost unreasonable, and yet I cannot think of an argument for why I should confess one sin and not another. Nor can I think of an argument for why we must all confess as he bids us. If he’s thought of a reason, he doesn’t share it with us.
