Chapter 9 #2
I’ve always thought that the High Saints’ helms are creepy. They encase the entire head in a steel cylinder with a flat top and only a cross in the face by which one might see or speak. The High Saint’s prayers echo within it like a poorly tuned bell.
Hefertus, in turn, loses to the Hand of Justice. No surprise there. In fact, I’m not entirely sure Hefertus didn’t throw the match. He’s clever about politics and no one wants Kodelai Lei Shan Tora as an enemy or even a rival.
Sir Kodelai makes a show of removing his tabard, armor, outer coat, and jerkin, splashing icy water over his scar-laced chest and shoulders and preening under it before donning the jerkin only — unlaced and untucked.
He makes an elaborate bow to his next opponent.
It’s hard to shed the shell of who you once were, and this one was a king.
His next challenger is the Penitent Paladin, and Kodelai wins in three strokes. No surprise there, either. Owalan Cantor — the Penitent — has deep, knowing eyes, and he sees everything, but his block is weak and his guard shaky in comparison to the master swordsman he faces.
Sir Kodelai has a very fast strike and a quick eye.
I do not think I could best him. Though I will certainly try.
I could beat the others who have fought, except for Hefertus.
I wouldn’t want to go up against my friend in anything other than a friendly game.
That long reach and calculating mind are deadly.
The next match is on and even though I watch Sir Kodelai’s every move, I don’t even see the last strike that sends the Majester General to his knees in surrender, or the quick spin that brings a sigh of yielding from the Seer in the match after that.
“Give it a try if you can, Poison,” Sir Kodelai says to me good-naturedly. He’s barely even breathing hard.
I take to my feet, but the moment I do, he chops a hand through the air.
“My apologies, brother. I see you are bearing hurts not your own. Tomorrow. Give yourself a day to recover first.” He’s gracious in his dismissal, like a king granting a boon to a liege-sworn vassal. “There’s no joy in beating the injured, right, Sir Beggar?”
I can’t help it. My eyes shoot to the Vagabond Paladin at his words and I see her jaw clench in annoyance. Does the Hand of Justice use the pejorative intentionally? I don’t know, and it seems that neither does she.
She watches him warily. I hold my breath until I see hers let out. Good. She’s not going to take it as an insult. Yet.
With care for my leg, I settle back onto the stones and pull a strand of dried meat from my pack. Healing always makes me hungry.
“You are correct that I have been healed, Sir Kodelai,” the Vagabond Paladin says carefully, her eyes following the former king a little too long and a little too boldly.
I want to curse. Maybe she’s going to take issue with him after all. That would be terribly unwise. A man like Sir Kodelai will be prickly about his honor.
I clench my jaw and look from face to face. Hefertus shifts subtly in my direction. The Engineers pull together. Surprisingly, the Penitent draws near to the Seer. We’re picking our allies in case things get violent.
And then her gaze rakes up and down him in a way that makes me uncomfortable and makes the Hand of Justice — who was once a king with a dozen wives — blush.
If she is still playing mad, then she is acting her part well. If she is not, then she is a fearsome thing, using every tool she has to throw off her opponent. I’m not entirely sure that I don’t approve.
She braids her long hair as she watches him.
It must have come undone during the dog attack.
I hadn’t even noticed it then. Now, every strand bewitches me and I must look away.
I know it’s not her intention. This is a matter of practicality if she wishes to fight without hair in her eyes.
But the way her slender fingers flick through the strands brings back memories too sharp, too vivid, of another set of paler fingers weaving lighter hair.
“If you wish to spar, you can thank the Poisoned Saint for taking my infirmities,” she says lightly. “His sacrifice has left me free for such sport.”
“So he is of some use,” Sir Kodelai says, sending me a mirthful glance to take out the sting.
She is not willing to joke with him. Her brows knit together soberly.
“I am ready.”
Her declaration is punctuated by the whoosh of her sword slicing through the air. A salute.
The Hand of Justice nods sharply. I cannot read why he is suddenly so stiff — unless he suffers from the same problem that I do. Perhaps he, too, killed a woman who looked shockingly like this one. Perhaps he, too, carries the guilt of that forever within the guarding cage of his ribs.
Or perhaps that is only me.
I ought to rip my gaze away from this fight as I did from the braid, but I don’t. I am mesmerized by it. Caught. No more able to look away than the dancing snake can slip from the charmer.
Sir Kodelai is grace and elegance and a lifetime of experience. In contrast, his challenger is bold and sharp, her attack unrestrained, her defense undisciplined. But she is surprise and audacity and insouciant charm.
I hear my thoughts echoed in the stilted gasps and exhales of the others watching as their blades clash together and their feet dance across the rock.
“From the lips of babes, isn’t it?” one of the Engineers says quietly, the loud sip he takes of his tea the only sound other than the slip of steel against steel and the harshness of exerted breath.
“You mix your metaphors worse than your tea,” his fellow complains, but they are only background noise to me. “We should set Suture on her next time and see how she does. Shame to waste the chance to test out your theory.”
I am memorizing the footwork, my own body responding to the movements as if I am trying to parse what I would do in Sir Kodelai’s place.
I think I could beat her. Possibly. It would be a near thing, and that’s somewhat concerning if I let myself dwell on it.
Whatever there is between us is uncertain.
She may be friend or foe even now. If she is foe, she would be worse to fight than Hefertus.
He, at least, follows some kind of internal code. She is as untamed as the wind.
When she stumbles, I feel a twinge in my side.
She’s quick to recover, and the way she follows, not with a sharp defense or even a flailing attack, but rather with a sharp spin that puts her inside Kodelai’s reach, stuns us all.
It’s the shick of her knife drawing that makes us gasp, and then she has the tip of the knife pressed to his chin under his beard.
He laughs, utterly charmed.
“I think I like you, fledgling paladin,” the former king says.
He is not smiling. I am not sure Kodelai knows how to smile.
But he is arresting in his demeanor. Admiration paints every line of him.
I feel a pinch of something I hope is not jealousy.
“I think we’ll drink together now, unless someone else wants to take the girl’s measure. Her benefactor, perhaps?”
He points at me.
I wave a hand as if it is nothing to me. As if my sword hand isn’t twitching for a chance to take her measure toe to toe, body to body. Strength to strength. Every fiber of me wants to match against her — with her — however we fit together. And I will not allow that thought to go further.
I turn my back slowly, acting as though I find myself surprised to be in need of tea. I saunter over to the Engineers. As much as I loathe their grim creations, I crave their grounding presence now.
“Did you design your own armor?” I ask the nearest one.
It hardly matters what response he gives.
I know the God’s Engineers. This question will earn me at least an hour of explanation.
There is little that interests Engineers more than who made what, and few things that delight them more than speaking about their beloved armor.
I manage to keep them both talking, blessedly blocking out all else, until dusk when the High Saint calls for an evening song and we gather together around the fire and sing the Dirge of Ages. A fitting end to such a day.
From the moment I joined the Aspect of the Sorrowful God, this has been my favorite time.
When I am within the walls of the order, we join the priests for their sunset song, and when I am in the field, it is observed wherever two or more of us are gathered together.
It is the sound of home to me and a sacred sealing of the day — a gift to the God, though it is a poor one.
“Walk with me,” the High Saint sings in an unbelievably angelic tongue.
He’s a tenor. And a triumphant one. I find my eyebrows clawing up my forehead in my surprise. What in the God’s name is he doing here? He could lead the choir in the Great Dome Cathedral with a voice like that.
When the others join in three-part harmony, beautiful though it is, it is almost a shame to mar his perfect melody.
“Walk with me, gentle spirit; Walk this compassion trail; Walk through trouble and tumult; Walk by my troubled wail; Walk with me, gentle spirit, and all along life’s way; walk with me, noble master, and by my sorrows stay.”
I lose myself in five verses of pleading with the God to attend us in sorrow, and as we’re singing the last notes, the High Saint smiles and adds a piece I’ve never heard.
“Walk with me, gentle spirit; Walk this compassion trail; Walk with me in my great joy; Let my humble heart sail.”
My mouth falls open. I don’t mean to show my horror. But he’s ruined the song. It’s a dirge. It’s meant to sing our sorrows to the God. He’s brought joy into it? What is this travesty?
“I went ahead and added a small contribution,” the High Saint says, pressing his palm to his chest in mock humility. “I just thought the song was too sad.”
There are murmurs of happy agreement around the circle.
Agreement? They agree?