Of Deeds Most Valiant: A Poisoned Saints Novel

Today, we’ll enter the monastery.

I slept poorly last night wrapped in my musky bearskin cloak, huddled against the door that was not a door as the demon and paladin fought within my mind. I did not pitch a tent. I wanted a wall at my back and I didn’t trust any of the others out of my sight. Except maybe the healer. Maybe.

She’s tempted by the dark horse. Did you feel her pulse quicken near him? I shall watch the sweet morsel fall from grace yet. It will be like the crackling on the edge of the pan. I savor the drama. It shall be my cup and sup.

As you will be mine.

Do they allow you to speak so, paladin? I’m appalled. I thought you had to at least pretend to goodness. Don’t you all bathe in hyssop and launderer’s soaps until your skin flakes from your muscles and the fun flakes from your bones?

At least we bathe, hound of hell. Your sulfur stench has filled my nostrils since the moment you arrived and I cannot discern if it comes from the brimstone of the hells, or if it is simply that your spectral intestines are ruled by wind.

If you are trying to insult me, your words need more teeth. But maybe you’re too distraught as you watch your successor fall into a trap.

I huddled in my blankets, scowling, and clung to Brindle — the dog, not the spirits within him. He was my one true friend, though I wished I could rid him of parasites. He put a paw up on my arm and whuffed quietly. I scratched him behind his ears and frowned into the darkness.

I might have been young and I might have been “driven by passions as the water is driven by the course of the river,” as the demon so aptly put it, but even I was not foolish enough to fall for a man sworn to celibacy. Even if he had eyes like sad pools of darkness.

Even if I could still feel his touch on my face.

You’d think the sparring afterward would have cleansed my palate. After all, there had been other fit, fine men fighting. My blood had been up and coursing through my veins with the joy of competing. My eyes had sparkled with the joy of it. That ought to have put him from my mind. It did not seem to have been enough.

Eventually, I blocked out my thoughts and the spirits’ bickering well enough to fall asleep.

I woke to Brindle whining in my ear. He’d kept me warm through the night, the good doggy, and now he rolled over and presented his belly to be scratched. I obliged, but I gave him a long look. I still refused to kill him, but I recognized how terribly impractical this relationship was. A cunning woman would have killed the dog in the first moment. A smart one in the first hour. A practical one before the next day had passed.

I suppose I’d lost claim to being any of those by keeping him alive.

With a rueful smile, I leaned in close enough to smell his doggy breath and whispered, “So who’s an almost good boy, then?”

I scratched him behind the ears and nearly leapt when a voice broke into my mind.

You’re awake. Quick, little snack. Look at the door frame. Look! I swear a dog’s eyes are not what they ought to be.

I tried not to sigh. These two were already wearing on me without ordering me like a slave.

Don’t waste time sighing. You sigh like the bellows of a blacksmith’s shop and look just as beguiling. Use your eyes.

I looked up. After the past week I’d had, it felt good to be able to lift my head without searing pain in my ribs. A stab of guilt shot through me. What I’d felt before was now taken by the Poisoned Saint.

He deserves none of your pity. Your pain feeds his power. Just as his beauty feeds your desire. That’s selfishness, whatever pretty facade you try to paint over it.

No.

Trust me. As a denizen of hell, selfishness is my specialty. I am a master of it. An artist. An unparalleled practitioner.

The door was lit with soft pink light from the rising sun. Something had been carved into the frame. Letters — and if I had to guess, the same kinds of letters we’d seen at the other pillar. Ancient Indul.

Call it what you like. We always called it the Tongue.

As in the only tongue? Did they not have multiple languages when this monastery was in the world?

We had many languages, but this one was the common language. The one everyone knew on top of whatever language they were born to. The crass language. The Devil’s speech.

He started to laugh as my finger traced them again. They were so worn that they were hard to feel, even standing out starkly in the dawn light and thick black shadows.

It says, “Confession Door. Speak your sins and gain entry.” Oh, now this will be a lovely treat. What sins are housed in you, little delicacy? I can guess a few, I think. But it will be tastier to catch them as they slip between your lips.

Why would it want that? Sir Branson sounded worried. That’s not a very … godly thing to want. Victoriana, I mislike this place. Perhaps you should ride off. Leave this to someone else.

And risk censure by the aspect? When I’d only just become a paladin? They’d not just strip me of my title; they might strip me of my hands and send me begging in earnest without even the means to labor at something else.

Is confession not godly? It bares the soul. And it keeps the confessor under your power. What could be more religious than that, paladin? After all, isn’t that how you have been whittling me down? By finding each vein and rooting it out?

To me, it sounded like a trick. Who would willingly speak aloud their sins in front of their rivals? And would saying them change them? Some things died in sunlight … but others thrived when the sun shone full on them. Would whatever was in my heart and hands perish, or surge with renewed energy? And would I be able to tell which before I opened the door?

No, and that’s the magic of it. It can take you where you want to go — into the Aching Monastery — but it has a price. Just like all of us do. And you must pay it.

I didn’t have a price.

The laughter in my head told me that my watchers didn’t believe me.

I ignored them and made ready, going to the creek to tend my horse, wash, and refill my water skins. If we were going into unfamiliar territory, I meant to be prepared. I didn’t care if it was a monastery rather than a battlefield, nor did I care that I would be among fellow paladins who worshiped the God the same as I did. I had learned the cold lesson of the road — don’t have it with you and it’s lost forever.

Which is why you must be sure to keep me with you.

And who was that?

Does it matter? Just be sure the dog goes in along with you. And don’t be first through the door.

Don’t be first? Why not?

You’ll want to brace yourself, sweetmeat. It’s easier to do once you’ve seen one of these doors in action.

Wise council. Even if it came from the mouth of hell.

When I returned to the camp, I found the others assembled outside the door as the sun crept high enough to bathe the land in marigold rather than rose.

“You are late,” the Majester General pronounced, each syllable distinct.

“No time was given.” I frowned. No one else had their packs with them. The Poisoned Saint had a water skin slung across a shoulder and all the paladins I saw were armored and armed, but no one else was carrying a pack as I was. Were they so certain the way would be safe?

“We said first light,” the older paladin said, judgment in his eyes. “And yet here you are at second light.”

There’s a second light?

Yes, the others can be quite fussy about it. Have I not mentioned it?

I wonder what they call the last light you see before your eyes shut forever. Is there a name for that, my foolish treats? I’ve given people that light before. It’s my most common gift. Wait. There’s also madness. I correct myself. It is my second most common gift.

Maybe they call it last light, Sir Branson suggested.

A bit too obvious, I would think. I’d prefer a name with more panache.

I ignored their byplay and made the sign of the God.

“My apologies, Majester General.”

He grunted and turned to the others, his voice ringing like he was making an official announcement in the name of the church.

“We know this is the only door into the monastery. The High Saint confirms that he has explored every inch of the ground above, as does the Penitent Paladin. I, myself, confirmed their claims.”

He drew a parchment from his tunic and unfurled it with a flourish.

“I’ve mapped the ground above. There are crumbled arches, ruins, and pillars, but no doors except this door that seemingly leads nowhere, and yet it is our only path forward. All we who gather now bear the amulets of our aspects agreed upon. These declare that we are granted the right to travel within these premises. None other may follow or live under the aspects’ curse. We claim the right of passage now, each in equal part, each a child of the God. Please confirm this, brothers and sisters.”

Everyone made a show of drawing their amulet out and I held mine up, too. What fussy mummery. As if there were anyone else here to challenge our right to enter.

The Majester General inspected the amulets one at a time, and though I saw tics of annoyance in some faces, no one made to stop him. He was keeping notes, I saw. Making tiny ticks with a charcoal next to each name as if to confirm we each wore the symbol he’d already seen us wearing. Ridiculous. We all knew who we were and that we were the designates of our aspects. Did it really need to be confirmed?

When he was finished, he continued with his pageantry.

“I call upon you now, in the spirit of honesty and before the God, to swear that you are here in the name of your aspect and with appointed authority.”

He paused, waiting for us all to chant, “We so confirm.”

The Majester General smiled with the smug happiness of a man who has completed a slight and unnecessary task and now thinks he should be complimented for it.

“Shall we toss for the marching order to pass through the door?” He arranged himself beside the door, parchment and charcoal in hand. Clearly he’d be marking this, too.

Perhaps, when all this was done, he’d turn in his notes to his superiors like a squire learning to figure. I had a sudden mental image of him looking exactly the same, but half as tall, scurrying from master to master trying to show his work. It was hard not to snort.

You’re such an irreverent thing. Had you any doubt as to why you ended up dead by your own hands after having been possessed by a demon — that’s how I’ll kill you, if you’re confused — you could look back on thoughts like this, little snack.

Really? The demon thought humor was damnable? How very interesting.

I was about to respond when I felt a tug on my sleeve. The Seer was standing far too close, her pearly gaze just an inch from mine. I tried to flinch away but she seized my arm and drew her mouth close to my ear. The sound that came from it was like crackling leaves in the autumn. It was certainly not speech.

I shuddered. She could have been telling me my future step by step and I’d never know it when it was spoken in a tongue like that.

The Tongue, the voice in my head said smugly. I told you it was on the door, sweetmeat. She’s reading it to you. If she weren’t so haggard, mayhap I’d try to occupy her mortal vessel.

I didn’t like having ancient warnings read in their original languages by people who were standing far too close. I tried to shuffle a step to the side to regain my composure, but the Seer followed me. Annoyed, I swallowed the words that tried to bubble up and kept my eyes focused forward.

The High Saint made a chopping gesture with his hand. “I claim the right to lead the way. I arrived here first, and so it is mine for the taking. Draw as you like for those who come after, but we will not draw for first.”

The Prince Paladin opened his mouth, but then he looked to the Poisoned Saint, and when Adalbrand shook his head minutely, the Prince’s mouth shut with a click.

Good, the voice in my head said. Keep the dog close. Watch.

Whoever had just given that advice was right. I may have been brave and determined to serve my order, but I had no need to present my back to these others. All of them watched one another with steely gazes and stone faces, and if a knife were to come at me, it would be planted directly into my back. Who knew what grudges these might bear to me — not personally, perhaps, but for the aspect I represented?

I had none of the information I needed about things at Saint Rauche’s Citadel. For all I knew, the Vagabond Paladins had — at last — banded together and were now one, riding across every territory and stirring the people up to push higher than kings. Or perhaps they waged wars and allowed the wicked to flourish. How would I know? If any of it were true, I’d deserve the knife in the back these others might plant there. I had not thought before about how our aspect’s wanderings left us vulnerable to a lack of information.

“Are there any objections to the High Saint leading the way?” the Majester General asked. And when no one spoke, he nodded to the man. “Then I grant him leave to enter the door first, and after him the Seer, and after her the Engineers, and after …”

He rattled on, but my mind wandered as I traced the edges of the door. It was set in the empty courtyard. A door from nothing to nothing. How the others thought it would lead somewhere was beyond my understanding.

Faith. They have faith that something is here. I think that perhaps I wasn’t very good at teaching you these large, demonstrative ways of having faith.

He’d taught me faith in important things, though. Faith when it really mattered. When you didn’t know what else to do. When the food was gone or the child was gasping for breath.

That’s the kind that counts. This kind … well, it’s not usually for us.

And was there something here behind the door?

So much more than you imagine, snackling. You’re going to love this next part — or at least, I will.

The High Saint stepped forward, made the sigil of the God across his body, and then reached for the door handle.

The door did not open.

He tugged harder. Either it was wedged or locked.

Hefertus cleared his throat. “If I may.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when they opened, they glowed with a faint light. He pressed his hand against the stone face of the door and even his large, tanned hand seemed fragile and temporary against that ancient rock.

“Blessings be upon this door.”

The door swung inward and our breath caught in our throats, for it did not show the courtyard on the other side of the door, but rather steps that led down to a wide landing with a railing. From the center of the landing was an opening that must lead to more stairs, but from here it was hard to see much in the way of detail.

“And what would we have done if he wasn’t here?” the Penitent Paladin whispered nervously to whoever was next to him.

What, indeed.

“Thank you, Prince Paladin,” the High Saint said acerbically, and before anything more could be said, he stepped promptly forward and froze in the doorway.

He struggled for a moment like a fly in a spider’s web, mouth opening and closing though no sound came forth.

I heard the Seer curse softly beside me, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the sight of the High Saint affixed in place, his movements growing fainter as his energy faded.

So. That was why the demon kept telling me not to be first.

Confess! He must confess! The demon in my mind crowed. Or he will be trapped forever and time herself will slowly dissolve him in her wide mouth. I would not mind so much, except I think you’ll leave before I get to watch his despair ferment to a proper vintage.

I swallowed down a lump of bile, casting looks to either side to see if anyone else had noticed what was needed.

The Penitent Paladin began to pray aloud, using his beaded belt as a rosary. His prayers were fast and breathy, barely spoken so much as exhaled.

“He’s trapped,” the Majester General said, aghast. “What is the meaning of this? Prince Paladin? Did you do something wrong?”

The Prince Paladin simply raised a dark brow and shook his head.

It took me a full breath before I realized they all were thinking the same thing. They had not translated the words on the door. They had no idea what was required.

I spoke the words, clear and sharp so they would not be masked by the muffled cries of the High Saint or the prayers and oaths of the others.

“Confession Door. Speak your sins and gain entry.”

“Say that twice, little sister.” Sir Kodelai’s eyes were narrowed when they meet mine, as if he were challenging me. He rubbed a jaw more chiseled than the rock itself and just as crisscrossed with scars. Kingship had not been kind to him. Paladincy did not seem to have been much kinder.

“It’s a Confession Door,” I said, holding my chin high and trying to look confident. The demon had better not have lied to me. “You must speak your sin or be trapped.”

They call the devil the father of lies, you know. His children may not be fathers of lies but they are certainly sons. It would be good not to forget that, I think.

I agreed.

Even so, our demon captive seems to have this cat by the tail. If the paladin does not confess soon it may be too late.

“He needs to confess,” I said, worrying my lip between my teeth. “A sin of some kind.”

“How do you know that?” Sir Kodelai asked, stepping closer, hand on sword pommel, eyes locked on mine. Saints, he was touchy. Did he really think I had the power to trap a High Saint?

I swallow down the stab of fear that hooked under my breastplate — look, I’d fought him before, but he was powerful, and likely the others here would back his accusation, no matter how wild —as he took a second step forward. I made myself refuse to be intimidated, extending my gauntleted hand to point to the open door.

“It’s written right there on the door frame.” My voice hardly quavered.

That’s right! Don’t back down! They may be grand and rich, but in the end, we all die the same way.

“No one can read that,” the Majester General said. “It’s in an ancient script lost to us. What manner of devilry gives you mastery over it?”

He slipped a step toward me, too. And now fear truly danced down the fibers of my frame, for what answer could I give? My knowledge did come from devilry in its purest form.

Yes, my sweetmeat, yes, my precious little tidbit. It’s my gift to you. As is their suspicion. As is the way knowledge begins to corrupt your delicate soul.

I sent a quick glance around me. I shouldn’t. It showed fear, and you should never show fear when surrounded by enemies, but I needed to assess the danger.

I can assess for you. One paladin stuck in a trap for the unwary — I did tell you not to be first. Two paladins accusatory. One paladin sympathetic. One paladin ironic. Delightful, all.

Who was sympathetic? I saw not a single look of support in the faces surrounding me.

Who do you think? I could feel his wink in my mind.

Brindle edged to my side, a silent shadow slinking in like a thief carrying goods to be fenced. He slid his furry side along my greave and then gave a very impressive doggy yawn, as if none of this was of any concern to him.

It really isn’t. If the faithful kill you, little treat, I’ll gobble your soul up as you’re dying and then I’ll hop to the next meal. I’ll be sorry to have missed the show, though. And your incompetence. It’s hard to find a truly pathetic person, and they really make the best objects of comedy. I’ll be laughing over you for years to come.

I gritted my teeth but just in time, a throat cleared from behind me.

“Whatever are they teaching you boys in the monasteries these days?” It was the younger Engineer — Sir Coriand. “I suppose you can be forgiven, Kodelai. You came to the church late in life, so your tongue is rigidly stuck in the common language, but Roivolard, I thought better of you.”

The Holy Engineer clucked his tongue and the Majester General — Roivolard, I supposed — went beet red.

“Don’t be so harsh, Coriand,” the other Engineer said, hitching his sword belt in a way that only accentuated his barrel belly. “You can’t expect blustering generals to pick up the finer points of language.”

“Are you saying she’s telling … you can’t mean she’s telling the truth?” the Majester General asked warily, looking from the Engineers, to me, to the High Saint — Joran Rue — stuck in the doorway. Sir Joran seemed … faded … somehow. As if whatever was on the other side of the door had sipped out his coloring.

“Well, I differ slightly on the translation. I’d read it as, ‘The door of the confessor by which sins are spoken and entry made.’ What do you think, old boy?” Sir Sorken said, sidling up to the door and peering into where the High Saint was stuck. “Care to confess a sin and see if it loosens up? I’d think any sin would do, but you’d better pick the biggest and best or it might think you’re trying to cheat.”

There was a muffled sound from the door.

“What’s that?” Sir Sorken was almost boisterously loud. “Bellow it out, my lad. Let the whole place hear you.”

“Pride.” The High Saint’s beautiful tenor was leeched of beauty now. It rasped like a stringed instrument in the hands of a novice.

And as if by magic — for, of course, that was what it was — he was released.

He stumbled forward and then spun to look at us, eyes wide in his plain face and hands trembling.

“You should have warned me,” he said between heavy breaths, his head swiveling to me. “You should have told me what was coming. I should have … I should have…”

He sat heavily down on the floor, head in his hands, and this time it was I who took a wobbling step forward. Was he ill? He didn’t look right.

Well, he confessed pride. I’d say it’s safe to bet that the toll taken was his confidence.

Toll?

But was it taken temporarily or forever? That’s the question. And oh, I cannot wait to hear the answer. Little confection, I hope you’re thinking about what you’ll say. Whatever it is, I shall use it to consume you. As will the door. As will any who hears it cross your rosy lips.

I licked those rosy lips, uncertain what to say or what to do.

I didn’t have to decide immediately. The Seer pushed past me and through the door, whispering something that sounded like crackling leaves. Whatever she said was born away by the wind, and whatever price she paid was invisible.

The Penitent Paladin went next. He carried no bag, but he drew his sword, ready despite seeing what had happened to his two peers on the other side of the door.

“Does it make you pay both ways?” he muttered, but no one could answer.

His confession took me by surprise.

“I am a great swordsman,” he said as he entered. “And I take comfort in the thought.”

I don’t know what I expected, but when his sword clattered to the ground, I yelped like everyone else. Beside me, Brindle barked once, sharply.

The Penitent Paladin’s right hand was gone. Vanished. Where once it had been, there was now only a grotesque stump.

He paled, staring at the hand that was no longer there.

“I swear I can feel it yet. As if it is not gone at all.”

His voice was a ghost. Or perhaps it was the blood rushing through my head making me feel as though I could hear nothing else.

Why would he lose a hand when the High Saint had only had to sit down?

To each man the penalty equal to the crime.

Then what would happen to Brindle when he went through with me?

What indeed?

Mayhap he should stay outside.

The double snort in my mind told me that neither spirit was willing to be left out.

The Seer picked up Sir Owalan’s sword and offered it to him. They tottered side by side, watching us, their backs to the adventure ahead, like two souls marooned together on a vast land.

“Will you go next then, Engineer?” The Majester General asked Sir Coriand. He seemed to be trying to get control back over what was rapidly deteriorating.

The Engineers laughed together as if they could read each other’s thoughts.

“Oh, I don’t think so, my lad,” Sir Coriand said, a good-natured smile on his lips. “I think we’ll let you all tromp around in there first. We’ll keep the tea on out here and you can tell us all about it.”

“You don’t think you should represent your order within the monastery?”

“We’re representing them perfectly out here,” Sir Sorken said with an ironic quirk to his mouth. “There’s not an Engineer alive who would pay that price lightly.”

“Our hands are important,” Sir Coriand agreed, and — Saints help me — I do not know how he managed to find another cup of tea, but he was sipping it, using his sword to poke around in the dirt at the base of the door as he drank. “What do you think they constructed this door out of, Sorken? Seems a waste of blessing-imbued copper.”

“And yet there it is looking terribly copper-like,” his fellow paladin said, taking the tea from his fellow so that he could sip it himself.

I watched them, fascinated, as ghost ribbons of steam swirled up around them and the marigold light flashed hard and unforgiving off the blades of the swords they were so sorely abusing.

“We could lend you one of the golems, if you like,” Sir Coriand said, looking up suddenly. “Yes, I think that might be best.”

“Apologies, brother.”

It was the first time I’d heard the Poisoned Saint speak all morning. He was poised beside the Prince Paladin. They were friends, I thought. They’d certainly shared a tent, which the demon had found funny and told ribald jokes about no matter how much I tried to shut him up.

Still jealous? he purred to me. So am I. He’s a pretty one, your sickly paladin. As pretty as that golden giant, in his own dark way.

“Apologies, but I will not be going down into the depths with your construct.”

“Stay up here with us then,” Sir Sorken said, uncaring. His baritone seemed deeper than normal and when he sipped, his thick, gnarled lips looked like moving tree roots. “We’ve plenty of tea to go around.”

There was iron in the Poisoned Saint’s tone. “With respect, I think the golems stay with you.”

Sir Sorken paused, blade dug half into the earth, his brows lifting like he’d just found something almost as curious as what he was studying. He peered at Sir Adalbrand for a long moment.

“Interesting. You certainly nurse a healthy bias, don’t you? Will you be going down then, Sir Adalbrand?”

The Poisoned Paladin coughed, and I almost thought — for only a sliver of a second — that he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye before he swaggered forward and through the door. Whatever he muttered was lost as he passed through to the other side and clasped the High Saint on the shoulder. And if his eyes glittered a bit more when he looked at me through the frame, who was I to judge? I did not know what had been taken from him.

“Blessed Saints,” his friend cursed before laughing, and then abruptly diving through the door as if he were diving into the sea. He landed on his shoulder, tucked, rolled, and popped up to his feet. When he straightened he laughed again, the picture of health and boyish pleasure.

But only for a moment.

The Seer screamed, and then the Prince Paladin was on the floor, writhing and shuddering, and the demon in my head laughed and laughed until he was hushed by Sir Branson.

“Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy,” the Majester General gasped his prayer, clinging to the parchment as his hands trembled. He was twisted around, blocking most of the view of the other side as he watched those who had already crossed the barrier.

Over everything else, we all heard Adalbrand praying, his words panicked as battle shouts, his eyes on his patient, then on us, then back again. He had laid hands on Hefertus, and though I thought he was healing him, he was also jerking and spasming with his patient as the healing took. Beside him, the Seer’s breath sawed so loud and uneven that I feared she might fall, too.

Sir Kodelai sucked in air through his teeth beside me as the Majester General’s prayers all ran together.

I heard a pop and glanced over to where a white-faced Sir Coriand had broken the handle off his cup. His hands shook a little until the golem beside him leaned down and took the pottery, like a mother might take shards of glass from a toddler.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, patting the golem on the arm.

For its part, the golem ducked his head in acknowledgment, and by the time my eyes were back on the tableau, both Sir Hefertus and Sir Adalbrand were sitting on the stony floor, arms wrapped around one another for support.

Think carefully of what you will confess. It must be great enough that you can accept a punishment for it, but small enough that it doesn’t kill us.

Us?

I’m coming with you. I doubt the door can tell the difference between dog and demon. Or paladin. It will likely see me as an extension of you.

How charming. Also, did that mean that the Prince Paladin had confessed to too small a thing?

Likely. What else would make the door so angry?

It’s a door. It doesn’t get angry.

That’s what you think.

I was so lost in thought that I did not see the Inquisitor or the Hand of Justice cross through the door.

When I looked up again, it was just the Majester General and me left to go through. On the other side, the Inquisitor had already begun to descend the stairs and only the crown of his white head was still visible.

“Well?” the Majester General barked as though he thought I was one of his recruits.

“Well, yourself,” I said, rearranging my stance from ready to casual. I didn’t take orders well. It was basically a precept for Vagabonds.

They don’t understand that we’re blown by the wind and the will of the God. We aren’t subject to their schedules or rules.

The Majester scowled. “It’s just the two of us out here. You can cease with your displaying. It makes you look like a barnyard rooster, so pleased with the arrangement of his feathers that he does not see the chop.”

I looked insolently at him and then flicked my gaze to the Engineers.

“Just the two of us?” I pressed. “Do Engineers suddenly cease to count?”

Stop antagonizing him, sweetmeat.

The snickering of the Holy Engineers was echoed by the snickering of the demon in my mind.

“The Majester only sees people who listen to his orders,” Sir Sorken whisper-yelled to me.

“Then I suppose there’s no one left for him to see here at all.” I combed fingers through my hair, feigning ease.

The Majester huffed, spun, and with parchment still in hand, strode straight into the door with the word, “Gluttony” spoken so loudly that it seemed to echo off every rock and wall.

Ugh.

He twisted as he stepped through — shifting before my eyes from a strong, straight-backed man to a crooked-spined shadow of himself.

I took a hesitant step forward.

“You don’t have to go through the door,” Sir Sorken said, leaning back on his golem — was this one Cleft or Suture? I couldn’t quite remember.

You do. You must.

Whoever was speaking in my mind now sounded panicked.

For duty.

For honor.

For Sainthood.

Wow. That was a lot of ambition pouring out of one dog. I gave him a long look. I should leave him here. But what if the demon leapt from the dog to Sir Sorken or Sir Coriand? I’d killed one paladin when I couldn’t oust the infestation. Did I have the heart to murder a second time?

You must. If the hellion leaps again, you must be quick. You must be sure. I wish I could banish him myself.

I sighed.

“Come on, Brindle,” I said unhappily. Unlike the others, I shouldered the bag containing my worldly possessions, grabbed the dog by his scruff, and strode to the door, stopped right before it, shook myself, and then entered.

“Doubt,” I whispered as I stepped through.

Because wasn’t that the worst of it? Worse than the murder of my mentor, worse than the envy I felt when I saw the riches of others, worse than everything, so much worse was the worry that gnawed at me day and night that all of this was for nothing. That the God was merely invented by men to explain natural phenomena. That those claiming to be his servants were deluded. And that I was likely mad.

My worst sin. Confessed now.

I heard a curse in my mind.

I told you not to pick the worst one. What does it take to beat sense into this girl?

If I knew, it’s not something I’d let slip, fiend. I’m on her side. Always.

The price was too high.

The price was too high.

I felt terror sweep into my heart like a winged creature, knurled and inky, streaking from the shadows straight into my heart. It clawed up my throat and beat against my vocal cords, begging me to scream.

Doubt? It asked me. I shall take thy doubt and multiply it. I shall shatter thy mind with uncertainty and use the shards to pin thee to the floor, flay thy flesh from thy bones, and open thee wide until there is nothing left that thou’st know but pain.

The punishment was too great. It was too great. I couldn’t do it. I whirled, looking back to the door, every shred of me wanting to dart back to the ruins on the other side. The glowing eyes of Sir Sorken’s golem glittered as if it knew. They taunted me, called to me, mocked me.

Enough. Pull yourself together. My squire was bold as a lion and brash as a bear. My squire was insouciant as a squirrel stealing your last bread.

The breath sawed in my lungs and I forced myself to spin back and release Brindle from my grip.

So you doubt. Who doesn’t?

Well, paladins don’t.

We’ve both crossed the path of death. Doubt is letting go of what you know. Faith is seizing hold of what you will know. You’re halfway there. Hold on.

I appreciated Sir Branson’s confidence as much as I loathed the demon’s laughter, but his laughter rang once more in my mind as I finally saw clearly into the hall and the place we’d paid so steep a price to enter. This was no monastery. Or at least, it wasn’t like any I’d ever seen.