Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Vagabond Paladin
“I have to see to the Majester,” Adalbrand gasped out. “I … my desire for revenge is a slap in the face of the God.”
“You can’t possibly mean that,” I said stupidly.
Of course he meant it. Of course it was true.
It just didn’t feel true when I’d seen the Majester murder the Inquisitor with my own eyes.
The pale-haired warrior had done nothing to him.
Worse, he’d been trapped under the statue’s rubble, unable to defend himself.
A more ignominious deed could hardly be designed.
Pain was etched across Adalbrand’s face.
“We forgive. It’s who we are.” He swallowed roughly. “Or at least it’s who we should be.” He looked down, seeing something I didn’t. “It’s who we should be,” he repeated, as if convincing himself, and then he looked me over with a critical squint. “I’ll be back for your arm. You’re safe here, yes?”
He reached for me as if he would cup my face, winced, and then spun with a muttered curse and was gone, hurtling down the steps from this terrible platform and into the wreckage below.
I gathered in a long breath.
Well then. That was very Adalbrand of him. Very chivalrous knight. I gave his back a long, dry look. And what about me? Was my lack of chivalry an offense to the God? I hoped not. I would not offend the one who had given me a second chance.
I also wasn’t about to go haring off to the rescue of Sir Sword-in-the-Throat.
Pain still radiated hot and jagged from my broken arm. If Adalbrand couldn’t heal it, I’d need to set it. It felt wrong in every way. I’d had worse but I knew this kind of pain was more than a warning. If I didn’t tend the arm properly I’d lose it … or worse.
I was about to follow him, but a scraping sound arrested me, long and terrible like the wail of a dying soul. The fallen statues slowly stood.
Great. Just really excellent. I swallowed down a lump in my throat and jutted out my chin.
I could fight them again. I could. But I’d rather not. Already they’d scored their claws through the flesh of my soul. And this arm would be a problem.
I was still bracing myself for a second attack when they began to recede toward the walls with excruciating slowness. I let out a puff of breath.
No more fighting today, then. Good.
What had been a beautiful room of wonders was a smashed, bloody mess. That the urgency of the attack was over did not take away the bitter sting of the treacheries committed here. We’d turned on each other. We’d killed.
And for what.
I turned to the worst of it. Brindle.
Broken on the ground. He’d be defenseless against even slowly retreating statues.
I leapt from the platform, misjudging the height slightly, and stumbled awkwardly when I hit the ground.
Bursts of black clouded out my vision as the raw ends of my broken bone jarred against each other.
My sword was still drawn. There was no blood on it.
I’d destroyed only statues, thank you. Not like that God-forsaken Majester.
Saints and Angels, was Adalbrand really going to fuss over him?
I should have sheathed the sword before leaping, but I wasn’t thinking straight. I sheathed it now before I started to run.
I’d missed whatever had taken Brindle out in the fight.
Something had hit him hard — the flat of a stone blade, I’d thought — and sent him careening through the air to smash into the floor.
There had been blood and he’d wobbled, and then his pelvis had collapsed under him and those …
those … those demon-loving, unethical, rotten-hearted, selfish paladins had tried to kill him.
They’d wanted blood. They hadn’t cared whose it was. Even a dog’s. I wasn’t sure I could forgive them the way Adalbrand could.
Even if I had mixed feelings about the dog-knight-demon.
I didn’t think they should have Brindle’s blood and I didn’t think they should have my grace.
I’d been the one who had gone to all that trouble to save his life at the river, and I’d been the one who had to cart around an excess demon that I was not fond of and have it live in my head, have it give me an ongoing commentary about the ways it would like to kill me, feel its icky black soul brushing up against mine.
Gah. These other people hadn’t earned the right to draw Brindle’s blood.
That was my right if it was anyone’s — and I was choosing not to exercise it, so they should stay out of the matter.
Besides. He had those trusting doggy eyes.
I ran between the receding statues — they weren’t violent anymore, but they were still mindless, and they could easily scrape over the dead.
Parts of them that had been knocked off were floating up into the air, repairing themselves.
I shuddered. I did not feel the power of the God in this magic.
And if it was not his work, then whose was it?
There were gaps between the pieces and fissures across the faces. If the magic could bring them back together, would it also repair them after we left this place? How many times had it done this before? And did the scholars who wrote about this monastery know?
For it was obvious now that this place was not erected to serve the God. This was no house of holiness.
We’d all of us been deceived.
And I could feel that deception trickling through my blood and reaching its clawing hands up into my hot, rage-filled brain.
When all this was done, I was going to hunt down the head of our aspect and we were going to have a talk about paladins going where demons feared to tread.
Or something like that. And then he was going to …
well, actually it was hard to say what he’d do.
Apologize, maybe? Discipline me? Ask if I had a coin to spare?
I snorted at the ridiculousness of it.
I made it to Brindle just in time to tug him out from the path of a moving statue.
I was out of breath and turned around, unable to sort out my jumble of emotions, my hands trembling as they pulled a heavy dog by the loose skin at the back of his neck.
My nose was filled with him — wet fur, the tang of blood, something that smelled just a little of smoke.
Please don’t be dead, Brindle. Please don’t be dead.
I shouldn’t even care. I had almost killed him myself back at the river.
But I did care. The thought that he might be gone gripped me like a hand gripped a rope on a ledge.
He was breathing. I could smell his doggy breath, and when I yanked a gauntlet off, I could feel it very faintly against my fingers. Alive, then. My chest seized sharply.
Of the demon and of Sir Branson there was no sign. So. Where were they?
I looked upward, swallowing, fool that I was. As if I’d be able to see the demon if he fled his coop. He wasn’t the black blob caught in the ceiling; he would simply jump to another person.
The Majester, perhaps. That might explain a lot. I shot the other paladin a long look. Adalbrand knelt over him, head bowed in prayer.
I would have bet my own life that Adalbrand could have repaired the Inquisitor.
The man hadn’t been even close to death.
He was merely trapped, both his arms and pelvis stuck under the weight of a fallen statue.
And a man didn’t have to be dead for you to take his blood.
After all, the High Saint had easily taken mine.
Maybe I should work on finding the forgiveness Adalbrand gave away like a flower offers up pollen, but I wasn’t sure I had it in me to be like him.
My glance at the Majester’s fallen form turned to a glare. Was there a demon in there? Come out, come out, little demon. Show yourself and let’s end this.
“Here now,” Sir Sorken called down. He and the other Engineer were lowering their platform at a leisurely speed.
I understood them, I thought. They were practical men.
They wanted no part in battle or murder.
They’d help where it cost them nothing, but they’d stand back if there would be a price.
“Are you certain you want to spend yourself for the Majester General, Poisoned Saint?”
“The God forgives and the God condemns,” Adalbrand called up grimly. “I meant to stop him, not to kill him.”
“He did kill the Inquisitor though, yes? A terrible blemish on all of our names. He has made us complicit in a crime most foul,” Sir Sorken said, his voice booming down to Adalbrand, who was turning a gasping, choking Majester onto his back.
Blood ran from the Majester’s mouth, staining his beard.
“Perhaps best to leave things alone. This may be the judgment of the God after all.”
Adalbrand frowned. “I don’t want this blood on my conscience, too.”
Sir Sorken shrugged as he descended, looking like an overly practical angel.
“Heal him if you wish, but you might have to kill him again. In my experience, people don’t really make mistakes, they just show you their intentions.
He’ll be at the Vagabond’s throat a second time, given half a chance.
A strange choice for a target.” His eyes speared me for a moment before returning to the dying Majester.
“You’d think he’d realize she isn’t the weakest here, but the Majesters have always been more interested in groups than individuals.
Perhaps he struggles to separate the two. ”
“Whatever you do, stop quarreling, and let’s get down,” Sir Coriand complained. “I want a fresh cup of tea and a bit of a think. If we have a fallen paladin in our midst then we’ll report him to his aspect when we get back above, as is proper. No point fussing about it now.”
“Agreed.”
Adalbrand ignored them, crouching over the Majester and placing his fingers on the other man’s forehead. He closed his eyes, healing the man, no doubt.
If Sir Branson was here, he’d say it was chivalry. I swallowed a lump in my throat at the thought. Had I lost my old mentor? Lost him forever now? The thought left me strangely bereft.