The thing about taking another’s sorrows is that it makes you them for a moment. For what is more personal than pain? What is closer to the spine of the soul than the aches and agonies that wrack the body?
We are so intertwined in our flesh and spirit, heart and sinew, that there is truly no way to disentangle one from the other without destroying both. Unless, perhaps, that way is death — the eventual unraveling, like a pair of lovers breaking apart after passion. Inevitable, and yet unexpectedly wrenching.
I place a hand gently on her jaw — a terrible intimacy, I know. Unforgivable? Perhaps. Certainly unnecessary. I could touch her anywhere to take her pain. We could be fingertip to fingertip or palm to palm. Usually, I set a palm on a shoulder. But touching her shoulder feels like a bad idea, somehow. So, I cup her jaw, annoyed with myself when my fingertips choose to memorize the way the delicate bone is cradled under soft flesh.
I exhale out all thoughts of myself and my own pains, my own wants. I offer them up to the God.
Take them. And take her pains and infirmities. I will bear them in my flesh. I will bear them and hold them close until you will me to release them. I take them up willingly.
I feel the familiar rush.
The power of the God whipping through my heart is like a hot wind rushing into dark caverns. One quickening touch, and then, from the other direction, the ooze of molten turmoil rolling into me. I feel the slick of the infection that I’m taking, the sharp jagged edges of trauma, and the queasy feeling of bodily uncertainty. They settle over my bones as if the structure of my body has been gilded by these new sensations. And when, finally, I manage to take in a fresh inhale of the crisp forest air, I am breathing in every last scrap of her misery, and with it. I breathe her physicality in, too. All her scents, all her feelings, all that makes her her for just a heartbeat, is me, too.
I know her like I know myself. Know the sensation of living in her body, of her quick mind and sharp emotions. Know how it feels to be Victoriana for just one fraction of one second.
I wonder sometimes, in the quiet of the night, if the God feels this all the time. Does he dwell deep in our sorrows and joys every moment? Do I feel but a hair of it when I heal in his name? And if he feels all this at every moment … what does that mean? Does he treasure each pearl of sensation, or are they just like the drops of a river falling over a great drop — momentary, sparkling, beautiful, and then erased in the blink of an eye when they crash back into the river, no more individual or precious than drops of water?
Don’t forget me, I beg in my mind. Don’t let me be washed away.
Is it faith that wrings the heart of a paladin and makes him certain he is worth keeping as an individual pearl, or is it the most sublime of arrogances?
When I exhale again, it is all gone, and what I feel is the twisting ache of new pain in my flesh, the wave of nausea from the infection I took, and the human warmth of skin under my fingertips. I snatch my hand back before it can curl around tantalizing flesh and tangle into silky hair.
I flex my fingers and step deliberately backward, in firm control of myself.
Lust is a choice. So is attraction. Well, not the first blush of it that sparkles like a diamond on the wave of the sea. But we need not look at a thing simply because it exists. We need not long for it. The heart can be directed, just like the thoughts and actions.
I do as I always do and carefully set aside every whisper of desire. They have no hold on me if I give them none. I allow warmth in my smile even as I withdraw all longing from my heart. The heart flows like a river and it goes where you channel it. I do not allow it to channel toward a woman who I know perfectly well I do not know at all. Any allure I feel is a combination of the false closeness of healing and the memories of another woman that I am painting onto this one. Forgery, all of it.
Only a fool would fall for a forgery.
“Thank you,” she gasps and I harden my heart to the beauty of her voice.
“It is a gift of the God, not of me,” I recite, grateful to lean on the formal words.
Her mouth quirks. “Then why do I see you favoring your left side in the same way that I favored mine?”
I straighten against the pain, unwilling to admit what has already been discovered.
She doesn’t push the point, busying herself with dressing layers over her newly healed flesh and gathering her things.
I gather myself in a similar manner, pretending to be unnecessarily concerned over the wellbeing of the horses. They’re all well and they snort at me in horsey annoyance at my fussing.
I cast a single glance at the pillar, still forcing distraction on myself. It confirms our suspicions. This monastery is a place for the creation of Saints. What shall I make of that? I don’t like it, that’s what I make of it. It doesn’t feel right for people to try to manufacture what ought to be only a gift from the God. It feels like hubris to me.
She wouldn’t have lied about what was said there … would she? I glance quickly at her dog. It trots along ahead of us as we leave the horses by silent agreement. The dog’s tongue lolls out cheerfully, as if it didn’t just brutalize my flesh. I don’t trust the creature. Not just because my leg burns with pain and makes me feel hot and flushed. Something dark lurks beneath that dog’s short fur. I can’t put my finger on what it is.
We return to the camp in silence. I know why I say nothing. Words right now would only make me slip. I don’t look at the lady paladin long enough to determine why she is quiet, though. By now, I am well-practiced in the art of snuffing out attraction. The key is not to dwell. Not to spend time beyond the practical with whoever kindles interest in you. If I must, I will kneel in vigil in the cold, but I do not think it will come to that. The pain of the dog bite and the festering wounds that I took from her during healing are enough to quickly quell any rising tide.
I focus instead on the puzzle of a ruined monastery on the edge of the world.
It’s cold here, but not as cold as I expected. The Rim must still be receding, bringing warmth as it rushes away. Already, the air is merely chilled rather than frigid, the sun a little brighter, the tide a little less grey.
What kind of place was this monastery? Usually, holy places have a sense of light to them, but I’ve never visited one abandoned for a thousand years. Can I expect the same from such a relic? Even so, something about it does not sit right within my heart. It goes beyond the cold. It goes beyond the strange group gathered here. It finds a place at the base of my spine and sits there, cold, hard, and ominous. What does this place want with my dust and my blood? Surely those are the God’s alone.
We join the others as the sun leans to kiss the earth.
Hefertus has set up his pavilion. He nods briefly to it and I throw my gear under the silken shelter. Others may bring oiled canvas or wax-seamed leather. Hefertus mocks them all with his waxed silk, painted with cranes and a soft setting sun in a way that bleeds through on each side. It looks more fit to shelter ladies at a picnic than knights on a quest, but I agree with him that two are better than one in a pit of vipers.
And make no mistake, these others are our brothers, but they’d slay us if they thought we’d stepped off the path. They might even have orders to take us by surprise, though the amulets our betters agreed to distribute suggest they planned for us to work together at least in part. Mine is simply a stamp of the Cup of Tears. So are the others. The edges are even, no hidden code or key there.
Honestly, I’m at a loss as to why I am here at all. It’s not a plague-ridden town or battlefield, and if this is an argument to be won by negotiation or by battle, I’m outclassed in both.
I don’t watch the Beggar Paladin set up her things. I fix my eyes instead on the festivities. The Seer battles the Holy Inquisitor in a mock fight, and though she is blind and half-deaf, she is holding her own, predicting his strikes before they land and miraculously always just a hair out of reach.
He seems to be enjoying himself all the same. Inquisitors are known to prize sparring above almost all else beyond using their gifts to discern souls. They spar amongst themselves three times a day when they are at home. I wonder if the Seer has sparred in this decade. She seems to hardly know where she is.
I lose myself to the flow of their movements, disciplining my mind to watch and catalog how each of my peers fights. It is a good exercise in focus and an excellent way to keep my thoughts governed.
The Engineers decline to spar with the rest, but all the others take a turn at a bout. That’s interesting, isn’t it? They won’t spar. They brought … constructs … to do their heavy lifting. It smacks of laziness. Even old knights should feel that twinge that wants to fight.
Hefertus does not surprise me. He’s all smiles and charm, letting his reach and grace win for him. He beats the High Saint — who takes it poorly and masks his embarrassment with his helm and a sudden need for prayer.
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?
I look up, finally, from where I’ve been staring at the ground, and I meet the only set of eyes that seems as aghast as I am. The Vagabond Paladin looks ill. The one person I absolutely can’t afford to be in harmony with is the only one who sees this as I do.
“It’s a dirge,” I say woodenly.
“Yes, it’s really too bad. It should have a happy part,” the High Saint says, and his saccharine smile matches his song.
I close my eyes so that I can try to stop imagining myself with my hands around his throat.
“Isn’t it lovely?” he asks.
“It’s meant to be bittersweet.” My voice is controlled.
“Well, it was only bitter, but I’ve put the sweet in it. Supper?”
My eyes snap open.
He’s offering me an open smile.
After insulting my Aspect of the God.
As if I won’t spill his guts right here.
Get a hold of yourself, Adalbrand.
With all my discipline, I clench my jaw and turn, walking straight to Hefertus’s tent and throwing myself into my bedroll. It’s early. Too early to sleep, but not too early to lose myself in all the pain I took, and pretend that I’m not so annoyed by a paladin from another order that I want to see how purple I can make his face before I let him breathe again.
Do you think that’s extreme?
Then you don’t understand devotion. You don’t understand what it’s like to give your whole life to a love too great for one heart — to hold your tiny piece of it safe within, to protect it at all costs, to feed that flame with whatever shreds of hope or friendship you have.
If you don’t understand it, then you don’t understand paladins. And you don’t understand me.
And you don’t understand that sometimes we’re angry at one thing because we’re frustrated with another.
I fall asleep wanting to chew rocks.
I wake to what sounds like a muffled sob.
My eyes flick open, alert in an instant, but I freeze.
Hefertus’s deep breathing from his bedroll on the other side of the tent is even. I see his large form faintly in the darkness. Light from the campfire still makes navigation almost possible despite the darkness. I slip from my blankets.
It’s cold outside the tent. It was cold inside the tent, but our combined body heat was enough to keep things just slightly warmer than the air outside. I shiver in the cold, muscles tensing uncomfortably around wounds both real and magical.
The light of the banked fire is stronger here — a dull crimson glow like the inside of the womb.
I scan the semi-circle by its gleam. Beside our tent is the Majester General’s thick canvas. It steams in the night air. He’s inside, then.
To the other side of us is the door to nothing. A heap rolled in blankets lies against the door. I only know it’s the Vagabond because her devil dog is sprawled half over her.
Past her is a filmy white tent that is half hammock, half shelter, like some monstrous cocoon. That can only be the Penitent Paladin. It moves as he turns in his sleep.
I glance up at the moon and reckon it to be midway through the night. It’s shifted again. Moved just a fraction to reveal more land north and east of here.
A heavy leather tent is next, guarded by both golems. Their banked-ember eyes pierce the darkness, watching me like twin demons. I shiver again. I must think on how to keep them above ground. I would not like to be in an enclosed space with one of these hulking creations. I don’t trust them.
The High Saint’s tent is as plain as him. I try not to glare at it.
I skip to the black brocaded tent of the Hand of Justice. It is wonderfully made but worn. From within, snores like cutting birch logs emerge. Hefertus should be glad his only friend wasn’t the renowned former king.
It’s from the last tent that the crying sounds again. I hurry to the many-layered tent of the Seer. If she is ill or in pain, it is my duty to ease her troubles. And I would also be pleased to help. It bothers me how many ills she carries with her already. I would not see more added to her collection.
“Lady Paladin?” I whisper as I reach her tent. I feel a slight warmth coming from the entrance. She’s in there. The door of the tent flutters like the edges of flayed flesh. “Are you unwell?”
A moan is the only reply.
I clench my jaw. She sounds like she’s in pain, but the first thing you learn as a squire is that pushing your way into another paladin’s tent is a great way to get a sword blade right to the throat.
“I’m coming into your tent to help,” I murmur. “Please, do not kill me.”
I think I hear a grunt, but I’m not sure. I take a deep breath and push my head into her tent.
My eyes are still adjusting to the darkness when a hand snakes out, seizes me by the throat, and I am launched backward through the door with a heap of paladin on top of me. She’s wrapped in layers of rags so that I don’t know where paladin ends and rags begin. I hit the ground hard, seeing stars, and then her face is right there, white eyes tinted coral in the firelight. She’s lighter than I expected.
“I’ve looked and looked again,” she says, her breath sawing out of her lungs. It stinks of fear. “At the end of every road is death.”
“And such is true for all of us, sister,” I whisper gently, trying to get a hold of her shoulders so I can ease her weight off my chest. My aching ribs feel like they might give. It’s only a perception. I’ve taken the pain in the ribs but mine are actually undamaged. But perceptions can feel real.
“Every vision is the same no matter the decision. There is no path out.” She bats her hands frantically at my chest. “How can I prevent it? How can I stop it?”
I try to soothe her. “All is in the hands of the God.”
“You don’t listen, boy.” She grabs the front of my jerkin and shakes me. “It all ends in evil. It all ends in death. I see no way forward except through blood.” Her eyes roll back in her head and her jaw clenches as she begins to shudder and shake, seizing right on top of me.
I manage to finally get a grip on her and spin her so that she’s on her back.
My hands find her face and I try to take her pain, her misery — but whatever this is, it is not a thing I can take from her. I drop my hands, stymied, reciting a prayer in a frantic whisper.
When she finally stops shuddering and is still, I lift her and carry her back to her bed. Her breathing slows and evens and I think she is asleep, but I am deeply troubled. What has she seen that has left her in this state?
I can’t go back to my bed. I wait outside the entrance of her tent, pull out the rosary my paladin superior gave me when I ascended, and say prayers as my fingers skim along the teeth that comprise the rosary beads.
“A Poisoned Saint must know two things, Adalbrand,” he’d told me. “Prayer and body. Know the body so you may heal it. Know the prayers that you may know the one who heals. That’s why I give you this string of teeth.”
Now, as I feel them and pray, I wonder what manner of beads might be on the rosary for a Seer. If they pray by the beads, I’ve never seen it. Maybe they string visions together. Maybe hers have been stolen away.
When dawn paints the distant sea, I am drowsy and swaying. But I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the Seer come out of her tent. She is arrayed head to toe in armor, two swords swinging on her hips, a tabard of filmy fabric like the raiments of ghosts flutters over solid steel.
“Are you feeling well now, Lady Paladin?” I ask her.
She says nothing, but her pearly gaze finds my face somehow and she presses a shred of parchment into my palm.
She’s already limping off when I read the ill-formed letters scrawled madly on the scrap.
I saw into the depths and he took my eyes, listened to the future and he took my ears, warned of the cataclysm and he took my tongue.
