Saints and Angels take it, but I am in trouble. I can feel it breathing down my neck and laughing at me. Things are drawing to a head. There are hours, perhaps, left in this life. Hours in which I must acquit myself well. It is easy enough to waste an hour when you have an unlimited number slipping through your fingers, but when your sum is but a handful? What about then? Each becomes precious and short, and the need to make them gleaming and flawless suddenly feels weighty.
I will die well if I must die. And I will keep Victoriana alive if I can. There are no guarantees.
Either way, I am grateful.
I have been soaked in guilt and shame since my boyhood. Who would think that it would take descending into the depths of hell to finally purge me of it? Who would think that tasting the edges of this poisoned place would be what finally offered me redemption, life … forgiveness?
I am all tangled through with relief and determination and a kind of raw treasuring of this holy warrior the God brought flaming and all too bright into my life to finally seal my wound with her burning brand. Had I thought he would dip down from above to wash clean one foul paladin, I would have expected a delicate lady swathed in silks with soft white limbs and innocent eyes to be his avatar — one like these statues carved into the ruins everywhere. I would not have expected a doubt-seamed warrior with a hard edge running through her tender heart. I find I prefer the gift offered to the one imagined.
My stream of thought is broken when the floor finishes its rotation, light spills bright and white across the floor, and the dog — Brindle — comes speeding across the ground, claws clicking on the tiles, a sharp aggressive bark slicing the air as he races toward us. I can’t help the flinch of the way my body moves to shield hers. I know we have a plan for this dog, but I see him only as a threat. My leg still aches where he tore the flesh.
Victoriana does not feel the same. She crouches down to receive him as he barrels into her, and my eyes widen as his round skull butts into her belly and she leans down to put her cheek to the top of his head and rub behind his ears. I clench my jaw hard as she coos to him.
“There’s a good doggy then. Who’s a good doggy? You’re all wet. You must have been playing in the fountain.”
She’s scrubbing his fur with her knuckles — as one does with a demon-infested dog, I’m sure.
I very carefully do not say anything. When I look up, it is into the eyes of the golem Cleft and he looks back with those burning hellfire eyes he’s been given and says nothing. If he wrote our story, what would it say? The oil in his palm has diminished and his light flickers as the wick grows smaller — though we won’t need it here anymore. If Cleft is alive and aware in a real sense, then how does he stomach the insult of being used as a candle? It’s inhuman. And if he is not alive, then how does he look at me with such knowing eyes?
I look away sharply and turn my attention to the lattice window. I ache with the scent of the sea and for the first time, a window is close enough and thin enough that if I press my face to the lattice, I can see downward. There are no rough rocks. The sea laps against smooth stone. The window, however, is no wider than my head. None of us could fit through it, even were we to hammer the lattice out. I think even Brindle would be too thick around the ribcage to squeeze his way through. Perhaps the bone golem — Suture — could be disassembled and tossed piece by piece out the window and perhaps there is a way he could reform himself, but I think that unlikely. There will be no escape through this window. And there is no clue as to how to turn the room again, though I realize with unwarranted hope that if we succeed in doing just that, then we could walk right through the challenge door and leap into the sea and swim away from the madness.
My heart pangs painfully with a hunger for that which out-desires any desire I’ve ever had. Longing, sharp and painful, winds around my bones.
I force my attention back from it with grim determination. If we succeed, then we will breathe free air again. And if we do not, then longing for it will not grant it. I am reminded that wanting a thing is a kind of honoring. I honor free air. I honor it with all my heart.
I am also reminded that I am not a leaf blown by the wind, I am the God’s holy knight. I am here with a purpose and that purpose right now is to destroy evil as it reveals itself to me, whether that be in the hearts of fellow paladins, the presence of demons or the constructed golem standing beside me.
What is stopping me, then, from charging my fellow paladins and ripping them limb from limb? I shall tell you what. I do not know which of them is guilty and which is deceived. And until I do, I cannot act in either justice or salvation.
I shake myself back to the immediate moment. I will know soon enough, and then I will act.
The Vagabond Paladin is back on her feet, braiding her hair hastily. Like me, her face is set and firm as she prepares for whatever is to come. Like me, she knows our fight is still ahead of us.
“I think you can probably snuff out that candle, Cleft,” I murmur to the golem, feeling a little ashamed that I don’t know whether to treat him like a man or a lamp. Soon enough, I will know that, too.
He snuffs out his wick as the clock bongs, a loud, reverberating bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong. And then the ticking seems to speed up. I don’t know if I noticed it before, but I notice it now the way you notice a cloud of biting gnats buzzing around your head. The sound of it slips immediately under my skin, stinging my flesh, biting into my spirit.
I look past the clock to see a frantic Sir Owalan racing toward us, nearly tripping on his own feet. The rest are gathered around the clock face, heads bent together.
“You have to come quickly.” He addresses me breathlessly when he arrives, not even glancing at Victoriana. “The clock has sped up and there are only ten hours left. Ten!”
He says the last word in a strangled hush, like the clock’s hands have wrapped around his throat and are choking it out of him.
“Hmm.” Is he part of this? He seems too caught up in the drama of it to also be plotting murders.
“That may not be enough time,” he gasps. “And what if it speeds up again?”
“Has anyone learned yet what that clock even does?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow at Owalan.
He’s very excitable for a Penitent. I’d always thought them to be a somber, steady bunch. Owalan is young, but at least five years older than Victoriana. One would think he would have calmed after so long in the service. Perhaps that is a reason to suspect there is more here than meets the eye.
“Look up,” Victoriana says grimly, and I follow her gaze upward.
It’s hard to see more than the gleam of the gilt so high up there. It is dark above and the light from the small window barely penetrates the shadow, but I just manage to see the glint of light off of gilding and … is it moving?
I shoot her a worried look and she nods. “It’s ticking incrementally with the clock. Twisting. It twisted with each spin of the room, and now it ticks with the clock. Is the window ticking, too?”
Is it? I turn back to the window, trying to choose a spot on a cloud to measure by and …
“I think so,” I say eventually, throat hoarse. The words do not want to leave me. “I think the whole room is ticking with that clock.”
“Then it is a safe guess that in ten hours the wall will move, that massive demon in the ceiling will drop out of his trap, and the door will face the sea,” she says.
“There will be a pause,” I say, grimacing at the wall. “Even if the entire side of the inner room is open, and the door slowly traverses it tick by tick, we will need to exit through the door to the trial well before it hits the corner and moves to face the sea.”
“Yes.” Her eyes track where my finger is pointing.
“And we do not know when in that time frame the demon will drop from the ceiling.”
“We don’t,” she confirms as we both look upward and let the horror of that thought sink in. “But we always meant to cast it out. And we cannot do that until it is out of the cage.”
“Either way, we must play this out until it happens. We can’t avoid it.”
“Sir Coriand!” Owalan shouts suddenly, spinning away from us and darting back down the echoing marble hall. I suppose he needs to pass on that information immediately. His anxiety radiates off him like heat from a cherry-red stove. This would frazzle anyone’s nerves. And he was highly strung from the start. Does that mean he is innocent?
I am surprised when a warm palm finds mine. Startled enough that I shoot Victoriana a bemused glance. Her expression is firm and sincere but perhaps she has realized along with me that we are likely in our last hours. Perhaps she wants only to touch another human, to make the most of these last hours.
“Does this count as affection?” she asks lightly.
I squeeze her palm, certain she will pull away when I reply but wanting whatever few moments she will grant.
“Is it meant as such?”
“Yes.”
“Then it counts.”
She slides her palm away as I predicted, frowns spitefully at the demon in the roof, and strides forward, hands meeting on the hilt of her naked blade. At least her disappointment propels her to action. Mine merely sits like lead within my belly.
We join the others outside the door to the last trial. I am a strange combination of reluctance and determination. The last time I felt this was when I was lined up for the Battle of the Radiant Hills. There’d been little fighting for my aspect. Our healing arts had been more useful on the whole, but before men were wounded and dying and calling for us, we’d made a solid charge, wheeled, and made a second. And it was before that first charge that I felt exactly as I do now. I can almost hear the scream of the horses again and smell how the mud scent changed from fecund to copper laced.
This is surely the last trial, for there are no more hidden walls, no more doors waiting to be unlocked, or rooms waiting to be delved into. Across from us, the clock ticks ominously and the cups there seem to glow brighter, but here where the remaining paladins have assembled, shadows have piled high and unnatural, ballooning up from those who once claimed to be holy — a ragged claim now, too thin to hold up under even the most cursory of scrutiny. The Vagabond’s clothing looks to be in better repair than the righteousness of my brothers.
I study them with a new sharpness. Time is running out and therefore the time to act is running out with it. How then shall I judge?
Sir Coriand stands across the entrance with an amiable look on his face. He is sipping tea, using both hands, as if to highlight his harmlessness. This, from a man who likely pushed a brother to his death. My throat twists at the thought, but again, I have no evidence.
“Friends,” he says with a gentle, twinkling smile. “Brothers … and sister.”
There’s an ironic twist to that last word. I suppose he has decided he will be the required speech-giver.
My eyes find Hefertus’s across the group and he squints a question at me. Likely, he’s heard rumors from Owalan about the Vagabond. I meet his eyes steadily. I wouldn’t expect him to jeopardize himself for my sake. That’s why I bear him no ill will for leaving me unconscious and on my own in the last trial. Hefertus is innocent of murder. He’s not the one I must seek and destroy.
“Our last trial is upon us,” Sir Coriand says. “When it is complete, all riddles will be answered, all doors unlocked, all truths laid bare.”
He is far too eager, as if he is savoring this moment. We are silent. What is there to say? None of us has a choice in what comes next.
I am not surprised at all when Victoriana breaks the silence. Her eyes lock onto Sir Coriand. She looks for all the world like her violent dog.
“As a paladin of the Creator God, you are forsworn against lies. I bid you speak now the truth.” Her words are soft, but they are soft like a blade sliding through the ribs. Interesting. She will try to draw out a confession. I do not think it will work.
Sir Coriand turns his predatory eyes to her. He no longer looks as if he is simply enjoying a tea. He looks like my schoolmaster once did just before he beat me with his rule stick until I could not see out of my left eye. I was not particularly gifted with numbers.
My hand drifts to the hilt of my sword.
“You’ll have your answers, Beggar,” Sir Coriand says, to my surprise. “You are right that we are forsworn to lies. We must answer a direct question with the truth. And I will indulge your asking. But not now. Not here. The clock ticks. And ticks. Relentlessly. And she ticks out the seconds of our lives if we do not hurry. Let us not delay. We will enter this last trial. All of us. Your dog, too. The golems with him.” I glanced over my shoulder and see the golems are both there, sacks slung over their shoulders. Nothing looks grimmer than a golem. “And when we are all within the trial, then I will answer your questions while the others pursue the highest of callings.”
“Highest?” There’s a bitter twist to her tone.
“What would you call Sainthood?” he snaps back. But I notice he didn’t speak a lie. His question cloaks the falsehood. For I think we all know by now that no one is walking out from this place holy or justified. If we emerge again, it will be as victims or villains. There will be no heroes here.
And without another word, Sir Coriand takes a last sip of tea, hands his wooden bowl over to Suture, turns his back on us, and strides through the open door. Silently, we follow, though I might hear a murmured prayer being chanted under the Vagabond’s breath.
Around us, the shadows loom and Sir Coriand’s voice echoes back to me as he passes through the door. He moves very slowly, but he and his golems fill the passage so that we all must move slowly with him.
He’s chanting that foreboding rhyme that builds on itself with each passing. And his words are highlighted by the rhythm of the golem’s feet clomping on the ground as they pound out the beat. The voices of Sir Sorken and Sir Owalan chant out the words with him and they echo and reverberate and send chills through my marrow.
“Our hearts spoke out our hopes and our souls bore the cost,
The man and the spirit and all that was lost.
Bold together we race where no others have trod,
for we are more than men, we have become gods.
I flinch at that word. Idolatry. I can practically smell the brimstone.
“That’s what we gave at the door,” Sir Sorken calls back. “The sins confessed. They were the first thing we offered up.”
Saints and Angels. He knew. He let us do that when he knew. That’s a tick against him. How much else does he know?
They are still chanting.
“Choose now holy vessel, be careful, be clear,
For the bones of others will root out your fear,
Wash your cup with sorrow, bathe your vessel with blood,
But choose your gift wisely, be it fire or mud.”
“You took fire indeed when you took the Vagabond’s blood, hmmm, High Saint?” Sir Sorken calls back. “Whose blood did you take, Hefertus? I don’t remember seeing you do it.”
“The Seer’s,” Hefertus says, surprising me. “I spoke it into the cup as a blessing from the God. Why hurt the living when the dead will do?”
“How very clever. We gave to each other, of course,” Sir Sorken says. “We are, after all, each other’s only real rivals, isn’t that right, Coriand?”
But Sir Coriand is still chanting.
“No power is priceless, No honor unearned,
From store house bring wisely, add gift to the churn,
A sacrifice given, a sacrifice made,
What no longer serves you is the price you’ve paid.”
Sir Sorken is still explaining. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that what you gave on that altar is now in the mix, too, hmm? The blood and tears of a rival, the sin your heart holds close, the attribute you were willing to give up. I hope your creation has an excellent voice, Sir Joran. You gave yours to it forever, like it or no.”
I hadn’t realized it before, but now that he has pointed it out, the High Saint’s scowl is a silent one. His prayers have stilled and muted forever. I don’t like that. They were the only thing about Joran Rue that I ever liked — certainly his most holy attribute. He must think so, too, with the devastation that paints his face when he looks at me. Perhaps he hopes I will heal him. But I clasped hands with the Vagabond only minutes ago and I kissed her minutes before that. I can no more heal him than the golems can. I should feel guilty. Instead, I am weighing whether he is truly as innocent as he appears. A holy front is a good guise for murder and a black heart.
“What did you give up, Poisoned Saint?” Sir Sorken asks.
“My guilt,” I say plainly, and am surprised by his startled laugh.
“I never thought of that. Would have been easier than the dog. Did you think of that, Coriand?”
Unsurprisingly, Sir Coriand is too focused to answer.
“I hope you read the books you chose — or at least skimmed them,” Sir Sorken says with a nasty smile flung over his shoulder. His iron-grey curls bob as he moves as if we are on an outing and not marching into evil. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that whichever one you chose will be the guiding principle for what you are creating.”
“Creating?” Sir Owalan pauses in the chant long enough to share his confusion. “I thought we were being made Saints.”
“You’re being made gods,” Sir Sorken says, and his voice sounds satisfied. “If you live through the process. Let’s listen to the end of the instructions, shall we?”
Sir Coriand chants them out, and he does not pause, moving from what had been memorized to what is now inscribed upon the ground we pass.
“Now write out your orders. Be patient. Be clear.
For this calling borders the depths that you fear.
Join shadow to vessel, build sinew and bone,
Without conscience wrestle, to carve out a home.”
Sir Coriand turns and faces us in the open entrance to the next trial, and his face is twisted in the light of the golem’s palm candle. He’s backlit by a bright light. The combination makes him look like he is made of wax and melting.
“Alone be triumphant, in solitude shout,” he quotes. “You’ve made what the heavens themselves cannot doubt.”
And as the word “solitude” is still ringing forebodingly in my head, he spins around and enters the challenge before us. If he is not guilty of murder, then he is certainly guilty of blasphemy.
Sir Sorken looks back long enough to waggle his eyebrows at us, and then he disappears with his friend.
I brush my hand against Victoriana’s and hook my smallest finger with hers — a goodbye, perhaps.
From here in, those who will suffer will suffer. And those who will die will die. And we will likely be both. But if I can find for certain who is responsible for the deaths of the others, I will see they die first.
The dog’s tongue licks our joined fingers and I grimace. Great. We have someone’s blessing. And I don’t know if it’s a dog, or a demon, or a moldering old knight.
