Chapter 2 #2
It’s not a slur if you say it yourself. Or something.
I’ve always thought it had a nice ring to it.
Anyway. When the God didn’t call him, he left his full kit behind, walked to the nearest town, and submitted himself to the magistrate to be assigned where he could be useful.
The magistrate had him fed and shod and sent to the nearest keep, where he was kitted up and made a knight to serve the local lord.
That’s the way for those the God passes on.
They’re far too valuable to just be left drifting in the wind.
But they can’t keep anything from the old life.
Nothing at all? Not even their underbritches? Quite the audacity there, ghost knight, to claim your underthings are holy.
That’s not what I said!
I had not wanted that future, and having him lay it out for me only made me more determined.
I wanted this future.
The road forever open before me, the past forever at my back, the goodness of the God in my actions, and the certainty of his favor in my thoughts. Loyalty, duty, and service. The want of it felt like a hunger. It howled long and intent within my chest.
Well, the wanting alone might be enough, you never know.
Bold words for a knight who has just been arguing about underbritches.
Desperately, I had opened myself up, clearing my heart and mind of all else, ready to accept whatever came to me.
And at that moment, the demon struck, leaping from the dog and attempting to leap into me, and had I been anywhere but on my knees already, I think it would have knocked me off my feet entirely.
I shuddered again at the memory. I could still feel his fingers, like thick oil, trying to seep into my heart.
“You’re a paladin, then?” the first man asked, shaking me out of my memories the way Brindle would often shake a caught mouse.
To my surprise, the light in his eyes was pure relief. The other two sagged with him at my nod.
“Thank the God in all his aspects,” the broad-shouldered man muttered.
“I have a message for Sir Branson,” the third man said. “Or the nearest God-touched representative of the Rejected Aspect.”
“That would be me.” My voice rang in a way it never had before. Which was comforting, since I still wasn’t entirely sure I was telling the truth.
Look, when the demon leapt, clawing into me, something had stopped him. To me, it had appeared as if the heavens opened and a glory shone forth, struck the demon, and washed me of all guilt. In that moment, a bell rang in my head, bright and resonant.
But I would have been remiss if I did not point out that the demon’s leap had startled me, flinging me to the side, where I struck my head on a rock.
It was entirely within the realm of reason that I could have seen a bright light and heard a ringing bell because my head was injured and now — when I declared myself to be what I was not — the God himself would strike me down.
So far, he had not done it.
I waited.
But perhaps he had merely stayed his hand.
Rejected God, throned in the glory men do not see, have mercy.
That prayer is a bit redundant if you’re a paladin, and if you are not, you deserve the fires of hell for your blasphemy.
Demon or mentor? Mentor or —
I’m really getting annoyed by how you harass her. Is it not enough that she’s stuck guarding the dog because of you? You have to also taunt her constantly?
One must pass the time how one can. I could practically hear the demon shrug.
I’ve made a bet with myself that she will cut her own hand off before the full moon.
And when she does, I will leap, and then I will feast on the inside of a pretty, tormented faithful one instead of a dog.
I can hardly contain my excitement. She’s going to taste sooo good.
I think I’ll make her last a very long time, consume her a single lick at a time, like nougat.
Have you had nougat, knight? Do they give it to beggars? Or is it just one more way I best you?
“I’ll take your message,” I told the trembling youth, pushing my thoughts free of the two bickering in my head. The messenger was about my age, if I was any judge, his beard wispy and eyes furtive, but he nudged his horse forward and drew a missive from within his coat.
I stepped forward, hand out for the letter, but all three backed their horses up as if unconsciously wanting to be away from me.
“I don’t bite,” I said acidly. “Though you’re making me reconsider that stance.”
Trembling, the youth offered the letter a second time, and this time I snatched it from his pale fingers while I could.
It was elaborately sealed and ribboned. The feel of the fine parchment through my clay-smeared, torn gloves was so elegant that it made my skin crawl. Whatever this was, it was not good news.
You’re doomed, girl! And we get to watch! Brindle crowed in my mind and then dissolved into spine-tingling laughter.
I was pretty sure he was the one who was doomed. I wasn’t trapped in a dog.
I froze.
Trapped. In a dog. I looked from Brindle to the men and back again. The demon had not jumped to one of them.
Yet.
God forfend. God grant to me that this demon remains trapped, unable to savage another soul, I prayed.
It was in the hands of the God now. Though, in my experience, he never acted as I expected.
“I’m chief man of Loxburn,” the first man said, misunderstanding my silent prayer as hesitance.
I smeared my hands on the only bare patch of cloak I could find to clean them.
“When the messenger came from Saint Rauche’s Citadel”—he nodded at the trembling messenger—“and announced his purpose, we set out at once.”
“Sir Branson stayed in my inn night before last,” the second man said, frowning. “I don’t recall another paladin with him.”
I cracked the seal, barely listening. The letter was addressed to “Rejected Paladin,” which could be any of us, and I was far too worried about what contents were so urgent as to send a messenger riding off to find any random paladin to feel the thrill I should have that I now qualified.
“I was attending to the horses,” I said simply.
The letter was written with great care and sealed with the holy seal of the Paladins Rejected. A smaller letter — also sealed — fell out of the first into my hand. It was not addressed. My breath caught in my throat as I read the words on the opened letter.
“With my own hand, I write this, I Verdictian the Third of the name, Paladin Rejected, from our seat in Saint Rauche’s Citadel.
I send out five letters on all the roads that go north and pray to the God that the first to find hands belonging to us will have found the right destination.
May those hands take up this burden. And may all the other missives be as dust.”
Perhaps I should pause here and tell you that each aspect of the God granted his paladins certain dispensations that were for them and them alone.
As much as he demanded, so he also gave.
For our aspect, we were forsworn to wealth and required to live in poverty.
But the God was merciful. If we asked a boon of him with a pure heart, he would grant it to us — though sometimes he chose to hear that request in his own way.
That’s why it was not all that odd that the leader of our aspect had simply jammed five of these letters into the hands of messengers and then prayed they were delivered to the right person for the job.
He had — in the way of our aspect — given the whole matter into the hands of the God. And the God had — apparently — decided to delegate it further into the very muddy hands of the paladin who had just trapped both a Saint and a demon within a dog.
I am no Saint, though the sentiment is appreciated. You’ll recall that you often washed my socks. They were not Saintly socks.
Truly, the God worked in mysterious ways.
Back to the letter.
“I cannot impress upon you enough the urgency of this moment.” As if to press the point home, he wrote the next sentence on its own line of the map. “The rim has moved. It is confirmed by moon map. Have you any doubt, you have only to look up into the night sky to verify my words.”
I had been slightly preoccupied last night, to tell the truth, and had barely noticed the moon.
“The movement has exposed a key remnant of the past — the Aching Monastery. A place of legend and much speculation. It is to this monastery that you must journey immediately. I charge you, do not pause to eat or drink or wash. Do not pause to sleep.”
For the love of …
I could hear the demon cackling in my mind. Or maybe that was Sir Branson. Could this Verdictian really make these demands of me?
Well … sort of.
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Well, he can’t take the God’s blessing from you, or your role as a paladin, but he did send you a divine assignment. We know it’s divine because it reached you and he blessed the letters to only reach the right person.
Solid reasoning.
Don't think I don’t hear that sarcasm, my girl. But no, he can’t take the blessing. But he can put you in stocks for a year and a day, which … well, I’ve yet to hear of someone who survived that, and I don’t want it for you.
That was a severe understatement. I read on.
“Take from those who delivered this missive whatever supplies they will give, and ride as if this is a quest from the God himself. I have included a map, though a prayer will serve you better. There is also an amulet. Wear it. If the monastery contains — as we believe — the most holy cup that once held the tears of our God, then it is essential that our aspect claim this artifact, for who knows tears as the Rejected do?”
This was highly suspicious. If there was one thing we were not prone to as an aspect, it was the hoarding of treasure. Our God would never allow it.
“But far worse, we fear that our quest will be found out immediately and you will need to deal with that to which the Rejected dedicate their time and service — the eradication of demons. For they will be drawn to such a place. Trust no one. Anyone you meet may be in their thrall.”
Or anyone you bring with you might be in their thrall, I supposed, in the case of Brindle. I gave him a long look out the side of my eyes. He whined dramatically.
“Go with the God, my child.”
How trite, coming from a man in the safety of a southern city.
“What does it say, Lady Paladin?” the messenger asked breathlessly, as I ripped the seal from the other paper and unfolded the vellum map and the amulet within.
I donned the amulet and then looked up, calling my horse with a whistle. She trotted up smartly and I mounted her, still covered in mud and my own blood. By the looks on the faces before me, I was a hideous sight indeed.
Beauty is as beauty does, Brindle told me tritely, before cackling and adding, And beauty often does terribly cruel things.
“The letter bids me beg you for any supplies you may be carrying and be willing to part with,” I say grimly.
I expected them to shake their heads and show me empty hands, but to my surprise, they hurried to give me all that they had, which was three water skins, a few small loaves of bread, some dried meat jerky — I was careful not to ask what kind of meat — and a carrot.
The messenger, with a sigh, offered me a multi-colored patched blanket. It was surprisingly soft.
I made the sign of the blessing for each offering.
“Did Sir Branson find the demon?” the chief man asked, and when my eyebrows rose, he felt the need to clarify. “The one we begged him to dispatch at the bridge?”
Well, then. Sir Branson had some explaining to do. He had not told me that he knew of the demon before we rode up upon it.
Cough. Yes. Well, I thought maybe this would be your first solo exorcism.
In the end, I supposed it had been. Though I wouldn’t be asking myself back if I’d been the one with the request.
“It won’t trouble you again,” I assured those who had come for me — truly it was the kindest blessing I could offer them.
I turned my horse, whistled to Brindle, and rode like hell itself was at my heels — because apparently, it was.