Of Deeds Most Valiant: A Poisoned Saints Novel

They found me while I was filling in the grave. Which was lucky for them because time had not improved Sir Branson’s corpse.

I’m endlessly embarrassed about that.

Their silence was the loudest thing along the river. Louder than the murky trickling water or the fierce blast of the growing storm peppered with ice pellets. Louder, even, than the harsh scrape of Sir Branson’s shield across the half-frozen lumps of clay and hardpan I was dragging into the hole to fill it.

I heard them in that silence, and when I stood they flinched as one man, though there were three. Their eyes were wide. Their shared gasp clouded the air around them like triplet hearths in the late-spring air.

No wonder they fear you, you terrifying thing, the demon paladin dog reminded me. You stand as a warning to anyone fool enough to tangle with the power of the demonic. It’s a wonder they don’t run screaming from you to their wives and sweethearts. I set a woman on fire once and made her dance and she looked better than you do before the end.

I set my hand in its wet, tattered glove upon Brindle’s head in warning, and he whined loudly, sitting back on his haunches.

The lead man watched this, swathed in a deep grey cloak, his beard torn by the edges of the wind, and his eyes trailing up my arm from the dog’s head to my unbound hair, likely thick now with clay, or blood, or snow, or the God Himself knew what. A ripple of terror ran over his lined face, but he clenched his jaw hard and it subsided enough for him to snap sharply.

“Revenant. We seek the Vagabond Paladin, Sir Branson the Rejected.”

“Good for you,” I said between huffing breaths. I was winded. I’d lost feeling in my hands and feet sometime during my vigil in the night. I had not slept and my belly ached with hunger.

As the newly minted Lady Victoriana the Rejected, can you not show more dignity? You look like you crawled out of the river and forgot that algae hasn’t been in fashion for a few thousand years.

I pushed aside the voice.

I believed in the God, that he revealed to us his Rejected Aspect, and that he called paladins to his service. Even so, from the outside, I couldn’t imagine a formula better designed to induce hallucinations and the belief that one had “heard” a call than to make one kneel in metal armor on hard ground with a storm whirling around them, blood still leaking out to mix hot with the cold, indifferent clay. Adding to that the horror that I had “stood” vigil beside the cold body of my only friend in the world only made my recollections more suspect. And yet, I’d seen no hallucinations during my vigil. Or at least, I didn’t think I had.

It’s fine that you haven’t had a blessing. You’re with me. And I am blessed. Always have been, really. Did you notice I didn’t lose my hair? Old as pond scum but I kept it all.

“Have you seen the good paladin, Ghost of Our Fathers?” the man behind the first asked me with a quaver in his voice. He was, perhaps, ten years my senior and thick across the shoulders. Stout, and while not exactly beautiful, the strength of youth made him seem so. How delightful that he thought me a dead woman walking.

“I’m no ghost,” I said shortly, jamming the shield in the ground. It would suffice as marker for Sir Branson. Bent and sullied as it was from serving as shovel, it was still the only piece of his armor above ground. I’d buried the rest with him — including his sword — and I was already sorry I’d done that. I could use a second sword, and his had been a good one, but it was disrespectful to bury a knight without his weapon. The dog had views on the matter.

Might as well bury him without his feet. Or his hands, it had said when I hesitated over the matter. Or his hair.

Or at least I thought it had. I was not at full mental capacity at the moment. To say that the night had been long was a wicked understatement. It had been nigh on a decade.

“But you know where Sir Branson might be?” the second man pressed.

“I do,” I agreed, pointing to the shield. “And now you do, too. And may this marker remain in his memory for many years to come.”

It’s a terribly sweet gesture. Honestly, I really can’t thank you more. It’s rare for one of us to get any kind of a marker when we die.

The looks exchanged between the three men showed a marked concern. Perhaps they knew, as I did, that the shield would last about as long as a marker as the road remained empty. Sir Branson was no decadent, but he hadn’t skimped on steel when the shield was made and it would fetch a price for whichever thief found it first. The God forfend.

I certainly hope he does forfend!

I ought to say a prayer by rote, but after an entire night of them, my mind came up empty of suggestions.

When, sometime in the middle of the night, the snow started to swirl around me, I had redoubled my prayers, certain that they were my only hope of remaining still as the cold leached into every bone of my body.

“Cast upon the lake of sorrows all your hopes and gathered dreams, Let the ancient waters cover ‘til hope is not as it seems,” my thick lips had chanted in the darkness.

An owl had hooted in response and the small things that fled from it in terror made the grasses rustle. My horse huffed an annoyed breath from where he slept standing. Perhaps, as the horse of a soon-to-be-paladin he was doing vigil, too, but on his hooves rather than on his knees. They were likely better suited to it.

The wind had picked up, making the trees creak and groan their annoyance and whispering so intently that I heard a thousand possible voices with a thousand possible messages, but since all were echoes of my internal monologue, I didn’t credit them. If the God called to me, I doubted he’d use my own voice.

“This is madness,” they had whispered through the trees.

Perhaps you are not called at all. Your prayers are feeble, the demon in Brindle had suggested. If I were a god, I’d reject you, too.

Not everyone is called, dear girl, the paladin in the dog had said later. And when they are, sometimes it’s hard to hear. Or it’s not in the way they might think.

Which was a solid point, because how was I supposed to hear anything at all when I would not stop speaking? In conversation, one didn’t natter on and on and expect that the other would speak over them. If the God had remained silent, mayhap he was merely tired of waiting for his opportunity.

“Lady? Lady?” The third man’s voice burst into my memories. I was swaying on my feet, my mind wandering sinfully.

“I am no lady,” I told him. I wasn’t nobility, that was certain. And I may not be a paladin either.

“Would you grant us your name, then?” he asked. He was the youngest of the three. He looked almost like a royal messenger. Or a church messenger. But they didn’t come so far into the wilds.

“I am Victoriana Greenmantle, Squire Supplicant —”

Cough, Brindle said.

I cleared my own throat. “Paladin of the Aspect of the Rejected God.”

It was my first time saying it aloud. It felt like a lie, and that twisted something deep in my gut like a festering wound.

We demons know more about religion than you’ll learn in your short mortal lifetime, delicious morsel, the demon had told me last night, when it seemed I could no more hear the God than I could ignore the terrible pain in my knees. And I can tell you with certainty that you are not called to anything other than a swift death and perhaps my amusement.

Demons knew nothing about faith. Which meant this one knew nothing about the God’s call.

Perhaps the calling was within, a firm certainty of spirit that this was the right course. Perhaps the light from heaven and the voice were just … symbols … of what was occurring, like how a lover might offer his beloved his heart. He did not mean to cut it beating from his breast. It was merely a metaphor.

That’s an adorable loophole you’ve found. Now, find one for me. Excuse the God’s silence to me the same way, the demon had snickered. Tell me all is forgiven and I am free to follow my heart.

I had hoped it was the demon snickering and not Sir Branson. If my mentor was so bereft of belief, it would throw an uncomfortable light upon our shared history.

My prayers stuttered again and went out like a guttering candle.

“I offer up this well body and this quick mind, honed by faith and service, and presented for your use,” I had said aloud.

And is this a bargain, then? You give the God something and he gives you something? You’re closer to demon than Saint. We’re the ones who do everything by transaction.

“It’s not a transaction,” I’d said aloud, considering. “Perhaps I must open myself up to receive the blessing.”

Just listen. It will come if it will come. You can’t make demands of the God like you’re negotiating with a stingy fishwife.

And what if he didn’t call me?

I explained that part, didn’t I? I’m pretty sure that I did. Do you remember Sir Lysander? We stayed in his father’s loft once just outside Saint Hermake’s Rim?

I did remember him. A rough man, hard and cold, but he softened when Sir Branson started talking horses and breeding lines, and the pair of them had been up all night debating which sire had got a foal who had grown up to win a race in some city I’d never heard of.

Yes, that’s the one. He didn’t hear the call. Pity, really, he was such a nice fellow. But I suppose it makes sense that the God didn’t require him. He didn’t have much compassion, and it’s hard to be a good Beggar Paladin without compassion.

I wished he wouldn’t call us that. It was a slur.

It’s not a slur if you say it yourself. Or something. I’ve always thought it had a nice ring to it. Anyway. When the God didn’t call him, he left his full kit behind, walked to the nearest town, and submitted himself to the magistrate to be assigned where he could be useful. The magistrate had him fed and shod and sent to the nearest keep, where he was kitted up and made a knight to serve the local lord. That’s the way for those the God passes on. They’re far too valuable to just be left drifting in the wind. But they can’t keep anything from the old life.

Nothing at all? Not even their underbritches? Quite the audacity there, ghost knight, to claim your underthings are holy.

That’s not what I said!

I had not wanted that future, and having him lay it out for me only made me more determined.

I wanted this future.

The road forever open before me, the past forever at my back, the goodness of the God in my actions, and the certainty of his favor in my thoughts. Loyalty, duty, and service. The want of it felt like a hunger. It howled long and intent within my chest.

Well, the wanting alone might be enough, you never know.

Bold words for a knight who has just been arguing about underbritches.

Desperately, I had opened myself up, clearing my heart and mind of all else, ready to accept whatever came to me.

And at that moment, the demon struck, leaping from the dog and attempting to leap into me, and had I been anywhere but on my knees already, I think it would have knocked me off my feet entirely.

I shuddered again at the memory. I could still feel his fingers, like thick oil, trying to seep into my heart.

“You’re a paladin, then?” the first man asked, shaking me out of my memories the way Brindle would often shake a caught mouse.

To my surprise, the light in his eyes was pure relief. The other two sagged with him at my nod.

“Thank the God in all his aspects,” the broad-shouldered man muttered.

“I have a message for Sir Branson,” the third man said. “Or the nearest God-touched representative of the Rejected Aspect.”

“That would be me.” My voice rang in a way it never had before. Which was comforting, since I still wasn’t entirely sure I was telling the truth.

Look, when the demon leapt, clawing into me, something had stopped him. To me, it had appeared as if the heavens opened and a glory shone forth, struck the demon, and washed me of all guilt. In that moment, a bell rang in my head, bright and resonant.

But I would have been remiss if I did not point out that the demon’s leap had startled me, flinging me to the side, where I struck my head on a rock. It was entirely within the realm of reason that I could have seen a bright light and heard a ringing bell because my head was injured and now — when I declared myself to be what I was not — the God himself would strike me down.

So far, he had not done it.

I waited.

But perhaps he had merely stayed his hand.

Rejected God, throned in the glory men do not see, have mercy.

That prayer is a bit redundant if you’re a paladin, and if you are not, you deserve the fires of hell for your blasphemy.

Demon or mentor? Mentor or —

I’m really getting annoyed by how you harass her. Is it not enough that she’s stuck guarding the dog because of you? You have to also taunt her constantly?

One must pass the time how one can. I could practically hear the demon shrug. I’ve made a bet with myself that she will cut her own hand off before the full moon. And when she does, I will leap, and then I will feast on the inside of a pretty, tormented faithful one instead of a dog. I can hardly contain my excitement. She’s going to taste sooo good. I think I’ll make her last a very long time, consume her a single lick at a time, like nougat. Have you had nougat, knight? Do they give it to beggars? Or is it just one more way I best you?

“I’ll take your message,” I told the trembling youth, pushing my thoughts free of the two bickering in my head. The messenger was about my age, if I was any judge, his beard wispy and eyes furtive, but he nudged his horse forward and drew a missive from within his coat.

I stepped forward, hand out for the letter, but all three backed their horses up as if unconsciously wanting to be away from me.

“I don’t bite,” I said acidly. “Though you’re making me reconsider that stance.”

Trembling, the youth offered the letter a second time, and this time I snatched it from his pale fingers while I could.

It was elaborately sealed and ribboned. The feel of the fine parchment through my clay-smeared, torn gloves was so elegant that it made my skin crawl. Whatever this was, it was not good news.

You’re doomed, girl! And we get to watch! Brindle crowed in my mind and then dissolved into spine-tingling laughter.

I was pretty sure he was the one who was doomed. I wasn’t trapped in a dog.

I froze.

Trapped. In a dog. I looked from Brindle to the men and back again. The demon had not jumped to one of them.

Yet.

God forfend. God grant to me that this demon remains trapped, unable to savage another soul, I prayed.

It was in the hands of the God now. Though, in my experience, he never acted as I expected.

“I’m chief man of Loxburn,” the first man said, misunderstanding my silent prayer as hesitance. I smeared my hands on the only bare patch of cloak I could find to clean them. “When the messenger came from Saint Rauche’s Citadel”—he nodded at the trembling messenger—“and announced his purpose, we set out at once.”

“Sir Branson stayed in my inn night before last,” the second man said, frowning. “I don’t recall another paladin with him.”

I cracked the seal, barely listening. The letter was addressed to “Rejected Paladin,” which could be any of us, and I was far too worried about what contents were so urgent as to send a messenger riding off to find any random paladin to feel the thrill I should have that I now qualified.

“I was attending to the horses,” I said simply.

The letter was written with great care and sealed with the holy seal of the Paladins Rejected. A smaller letter — also sealed — fell out of the first into my hand. It was not addressed. My breath caught in my throat as I read the words on the opened letter.

“With my own hand, I write this, I Verdictian the Third of the name, Paladin Rejected, from our seat in Saint Rauche’s Citadel. I send out five letters on all the roads that go north and pray to the God that the first to find hands belonging to us will have found the right destination. May those hands take up this burden. And may all the other missives be as dust.”

Perhaps I should pause here and tell you that each aspect of the God granted his paladins certain dispensations that were for them and them alone. As much as he demanded, so he also gave. For our aspect, we were forsworn to wealth and required to live in poverty. But the God was merciful. If we asked a boon of him with a pure heart, he would grant it to us — though sometimes he chose to hear that request in his own way. That’s why it was not all that odd that the leader of our aspect had simply jammed five of these letters into the hands of messengers and then prayed they were delivered to the right person for the job.

He had — in the way of our aspect — given the whole matter into the hands of the God. And the God had — apparently — decided to delegate it further into the very muddy hands of the paladin who had just trapped both a Saint and a demon within a dog.

I am no Saint, though the sentiment is appreciated. You’ll recall that you often washed my socks. They were not Saintly socks.

Truly, the God worked in mysterious ways.

Back to the letter.

“I cannot impress upon you enough the urgency of this moment.” As if to press the point home, he wrote the next sentence on its own line of the map. “The rim has moved. It is confirmed by moon map. Have you any doubt, you have only to look up into the night sky to verify my words.”

I had been slightly preoccupied last night, to tell the truth, and had barely noticed the moon.

“The movement has exposed a key remnant of the past — the Aching Monastery. A place of legend and much speculation. It is to this monastery that you must journey immediately. I charge you, do not pause to eat or drink or wash. Do not pause to sleep.”

For the love of …

I could hear the demon cackling in my mind. Or maybe that was Sir Branson. Could this Verdictian really make these demands of me?

Well … sort of.

I didn’t like the sound of that.

Well, he can’t take the God’s blessing from you, or your role as a paladin, but he did send you a divine assignment. We know it’s divine because it reached you and he blessed the letters to only reach the right person.

Solid reasoning.

Don’t think I don’t hear that sarcasm, my girl. But no, he can’t take the blessing. But he can put you in stocks for a year and a day, which … well, I’ve yet to hear of someone who survived that, and I don’t want it for you.

That was a severe understatement. I read on.

“Take from those who delivered this missive whatever supplies they will give, and ride as if this is a quest from the God himself. I have included a map, though a prayer will serve you better. There is also an amulet. Wear it. If the monastery contains — as we believe — the most holy cup that once held the tears of our God, then it is essential that our aspect claim this artifact, for who knows tears as the Rejected do?”

This was highly suspicious. If there was one thing we were not prone to as an aspect, it was the hoarding of treasure. Our God would never allow it.

“But far worse, we fear that our quest will be found out immediately and you will need to deal with that to which the Rejected dedicate their time and service — the eradication of demons. For they will be drawn to such a place. Trust no one. Anyone you meet may be in their thrall.”

Or anyone you bring with you might be in their thrall, I supposed, in the case of Brindle. I gave him a long look out the side of my eyes. He whined dramatically.

“Go with the God, my child.”

How trite, coming from a man in the safety of a southern city.

“What does it say, Lady Paladin?” the messenger asked breathlessly, as I ripped the seal from the other paper and unfolded the vellum map and the amulet within.

I donned the amulet and then looked up, calling my horse with a whistle. She trotted up smartly and I mounted her, still covered in mud and my own blood. By the looks on the faces before me, I was a hideous sight indeed.

Beauty is as beauty does, Brindle told me tritely, before cackling and adding, And beauty often does terribly cruel things.

“The letter bids me beg you for any supplies you may be carrying and be willing to part with,” I say grimly.

I expected them to shake their heads and show me empty hands, but to my surprise, they hurried to give me all that they had, which was three water skins, a few small loaves of bread, some dried meat jerky — I was careful not to ask what kind of meat — and a carrot. The messenger, with a sigh, offered me a multi-colored patched blanket. It was surprisingly soft.

I made the sign of the blessing for each offering.

“Did Sir Branson find the demon?” the chief man asked, and when my eyebrows rose, he felt the need to clarify. “The one we begged him to dispatch at the bridge?”

Well, then. Sir Branson had some explaining to do. He had not told me that he knew of the demon before we rode up upon it.

Cough. Yes. Well, I thought maybe this would be your first solo exorcism.

In the end, I supposed it had been. Though I wouldn’t be asking myself back if I’d been the one with the request.

“It won’t trouble you again,” I assured those who had come for me — truly it was the kindest blessing I could offer them.

I turned my horse, whistled to Brindle, and rode like hell itself was at my heels — because apparently, it was.