Of Deeds Most Valiant: A Poisoned Saints Novel

By the time I reached the edge of civilization — a place where farms and tiny hamlets dotted the landscape like freckles — most of the clay had dried and fallen away, leaving only stains where once I was coated in muck. If you think it’s ridiculous that I had done as bidden and not stopped to rest at an inn, then you aren’t the only one, but here was my dilemma: I had with me a dog possessed by a demon. I dared not leave him anywhere, so that left inns out — the inns of Northwark were not inclined to let their rooms to people who bring beasts within their doors.

Though I followed instructions on taking no rest, I broke the precept on disdaining supplies. Look, I could only go so far on the few things that the village men and messenger offered. They lasted me a whole seven-day and then I’d paused at a small hamlet and spent all of my paladin superior’s gold coins on hardy supplies — mostly dried meat and oats, a few slabs of trail bread, and a thick fur robe. I’d never been so far north before, but I was aware that cold could kill.

A thoughtful person watching all of this might wonder how a sensible and generally cynical person like me had become a follower of the Rejected God in the first place — much less a dedicant intent on the role of paladin. After all, a life renouncing all wealth and living out of saddlebags and on the road is hardly the choice most people would make.

Those people have misunderstood me. They do not know what commitment and dedication are. They do not realize that I am subject to them every day. I know my place in the world and that place is serving the God in this way — the way of the Vagabond. Without it, there is no point to me at all.

I had left Sir Branson’s mount in the first town we came to — the God gives and he takes away and we give back with open palms. The friar there promised me he had the means to keep a horse well.

I wouldn’t have it any other way, but I already miss sweet Dandelion.

Cough. So do I, demon. As she was my horse. Keep on trying to imitate my voice all you like, but you won’t fool Victoriana long. She’s a skeptical girl with a skeptic’s caution.

When night had fallen once more, I had looked at the moon and my mouth had gone dry with the certainty of what I saw.

The scholars call our moon “The Great Mirror,” and she does, indeed, reflect. Some would say she reflects the sun. But others say she reflects the surface of the land, and from my earliest infancy, the adults around me would point to the sky when the moon was full, and trace out Tiberia to the south and the great Madriiveran Plains to the west, all right there reflected on the moon’s surface.

“There,” they would say, “is the Opal Sea, and just there is the Sea of Storms to the north. See how the Spine of the Forest ends abruptly at the edge of the moon? That is the Rim of the World, made entirely of ice. Impenetrable by even hammer and chisel, blade, axe, or fire. It awaits the turning of the age.”

And I would say what every child was taught to say: “And that will be the beginning of the next age, when the wisdom and follies of our forebears will be unhidden and the secrets of another age laid bare.”

And everyone would “hmmm” their agreement. It’s easy enough to agree with a story when it is only a story with no relevance at all to you. After all, who would believe that in their lifetimes the ice of the Rim might recede and open new places, while it advanced in others to cover whole cities in ice too thick to break through? It is hard to accept that you are about to see the results of the turning age with your own eyes. I had not yet quite made peace with it.

Some paladin aspects put their squire supplicants into many years of training in which they stoop low over scrolls and books. My aspect believed in action, so scholarly knowledge was passed through oral traditions from paladin to supplicant. I found I wished I’d had more book training for this quest. It felt awkward indeed that those others who set out on this journey would know the lay of the land much better than I, and all from their books.

Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there to tell you whatever you need to know, one of the spirits possessing Brindle told me that first night as I rode deep into the darkness, mulling on what I had read in the letter. Book learning isn’t very attractive in a beggar anyway. People don’t give freely to those who seem superior to them. It feels wrong. Makes their palms itch. They want that warm feeling of having blessed a lesser person. The demon — I hoped it was the demon — paused for a round of mad laughter before he continued. Do you know anything about the Aching Monastery?

It had been mentioned to me once, grimly, in a long list of those places lost with the turning of the second age, long ago.

And?

And I’d been told little else that I recalled.

The Aching Monastery was a place renowned for its ability to impress upon men the holiness of the God and their own insufficiency.

Well, thank you for that, Paladin Superior.

The hollow laugh that sounded told me I’d guessed wrong again.

One day I entered that place — I recall little except I made a monk speak in tongues until he was thrown from the top of the highest tower. He was tasty, but not as tasty as you, snackling. I’ll be feeding off your drama for years.

A wave of sickness washed over me. That did not sound like a thing monks would do to one of their own. Even if speaking in tongues could be … hard to interpret.

I think it was how I demanded he take the tongues of anyone who didn’t speak in tongues that sealed his eventual fate, the demon said casually. But I remember that — ahem — monastery being an opulent warren of puzzles and holy smells. We’re going to have some fun, little snackling. The kind of fun you tell about for years to come. Well — the kind of fun I tell about. You’ll likely be dead well before that. Your kind is delightfully fragile.

Well. That settled it.

I leapt from my horse, caught Brindle by the scruff of his neck, and brought his doggy face up to mine under the light of the moon. His eyes were glowing again. They didn’t do it all the time, only when the spirits were in full ascendency, but it lit the darkness in an eerie way that called to mind stories of fairy rings and magic trickery.

“We need to talk,” I said firmly as the dog tried to lick my face. “I cannot bring you as you are to a place where other humans dwell. Not for supplies, and most certainly not on the task given us by the Aspect of the Rejected God.”

Brindle whined, his huge doggy eyes rolling up into mine trustingly and sending a pinch of nerves through my heart. He put a paw on the arm holding him by the scruff and I sighed.

“I have told you already that I am no dog murderer. But what shall I do? I dare not risk this demon jumping to a poor, innocent soul.”

I believe I have the other soul under control. I just need to tweak a few things …

“Then you are the demon speaking.”

The laughing response confirmed it.

“So I put it to you. I will hear vows from you twice. Once from each soul within this doggy body. I have no need of a vow from Brindle, who is a good doggy, yes you are.” Here, I chucked the dog under the chin, for this was hardly his fault. “And I know that Sir Branson will pledge without hesitation and will not allow himself to pledge a second time to free you, demon, from having to answer. So, I will hear the pledge twice. Once from each of you. You will vow to me that you will not leave this dog unless you are crossing on to realms beyond this bodily plane. You will further vow to accept my dominance over you in all things until that time has come to pass.”

What good will a vow do you?

“I know as well as you do the power of words to bind. While you have no honor, your word will bind you.”

Not as well as you think.

“I’ll have it all the same. It is you and not I who will dance to the tune of the other, or our paths end here.”

I thought you loved the dog.

“My soul I dedicate to none but the God,” I quoted. “And he, only, will I serve.” I cleared my throat. “As I said, I don’t want to end poor Brindle.”

I allowed Brindle to lick my face, feeling like there was a brick in my belly. Despite the cold of the evening, I felt feverish but I forced myself to keep going.

“One dog for the sake of many innocents? I will wear the stain of his death on my hands, if I must, to achieve that end.”

I swear I will not leave this dog until I am crossing to realms beyond this earthly one. I will accept your hand as master over me in all things until then.

That was certainly Sir Branson. I swallowed miserably. I’d been working very hard to try not to think of him, but it was hard. I missed him brewing tea in the morning. I missed his rambling chatter about people he’d known and things he’d done. I missed how he fussed over how I pitched our tents and tended our horses and the absent-minded way he always forgot to tell me about details or deadlines until it was almost too late.

I was mourning my best friend and the man who had been father to me since I was eleven years old. It wasn’t just the road-weariness, exhaustion, and the worry of having a major undertaking shoved into my hands while I was still coated in the earth of his burial place that was making my throat thick and eyes wet. It was also a wound deep and bleeding from losing someone who mattered.

I had the strangest sensation of being a boat set adrift without a port to which I might return.

I didn’t want to kill the dog his ghost had taken refuge in. Not just because Brindle was an innocent, trusting dog, but because he was the last link to the man I knew.

And yet. If I must render this one black deed to stop a thousand others, I would.

It’s adorable that you’re waiting for me to surrender. If only I had a painter here to record it and a few weeks to watch him depict your caught-fish gape. That would please me enormously.

I clenched my jaw until it ached, but I couldn’t see another way forward. With a sigh, I drew my belt knife as Brindle rolled onto his back and put his doggy head in my lap, begging for affection. I rubbed his belly as I seated the blade in my palm. My heart was in my throat, choking me, making my breathing painful. I wasn’t ready to do this. But I dared not flinch from it. Hesitate, and I’d make the poor boy suffer more than he needed to. I must be quick and certain.

Sometimes I still had nightmares about a child we found early in my time with Sir Branson. He’d been only a few years younger than I had been. He’d killed his parents in the most grisly of ways. I do not like to speak of what the demon did with him and to him after that, or of how it ended.

“I didn’t mean for you to be seeing that,” Sir Branson had said at the time with a heavy sigh. His gaze had trailed me for a week after that as he clutched at his hair and beard distractedly. I could never tell if he was more distraught by what we’d both seen or by the fact I’d seen it with him. Now that I was grown, I thought maybe it was the latter.

There are nights even now when I relive pieces of that day and wake retching.

So, would I kill our beloved dog to prevent that from taking place again? A dog whose only goal had been to love me? Yes, I would. Even if it meant crying over it for the rest of my life.

My vision was blurry as I set the tip of the blade against Brindle’s neck and prayed for strength. I drew in a long, sawing breath.

The vow tumbled into my mind, words said with the steaming snap of the demon’s original mental voice.

I swear I will not leave this dog until I am crossing to realms beyond this earthly one. I will accept your hand as master over me in all things until then.

Well then. My breath whuffed out, unshed tears spilling with a suddenness I hadn’t expected. I swiped them away violently, put my knife away, gave Brindle his belly rub, and then got back on my horse.

Don’t think it will hold me for long, snackling. Words are just words. I have no honor to hold me.

But I knew that was not entirely true, for the God heard them, and his listening made them powerful.

Best to stop whining about it. She’s bested you and you can’t even make coy jokes about underbritches to hide your pain.

The demon retreated into sulky silence after that and I could only hope it meant he was fenced in adequately.

We traveled long through the darkness, and if Brindle seemed lively and untroubled, I was the opposite — haunted by memories and too troubled to pitch camp and sleep.

By morning, I was wrung out and past exhaustion. I built a pitiful fire on the side of the road, curled up in my small tent with Brindle, and fell asleep to the irony that my last friend in the world was a danger to anyone but me and would have to stay by my side for the rest of his natural life whether he liked it or not.

Brindle, for his part, seemed largely unconcerned. He merely yawned, tucked his nose under his tail, and went to sleep as he had every night of his life.

You did the right thing. God-touched or not. Don’t let that red-eyed demon tell you otherwise. You should never trust anyone who treats you like a banquet dish rather than a human.

Good advice. The ladies I’d seen riding through great cities could use the same advice.

I went to sleep that morning not sure if I were clinging to words from my old master or from a demon. Not even caring, I was so exhausted.

When I woke, it was with relief.

The dog remained with me. The vow must have taken. And if I was stuck now for the rest of Brindle’s natural life with the most concerning of companions, well, at least I had not been forced to kill a dog. We must count our blessings.

And now can we get on with this quest? I am itching to learn more and you haven’t even looked at the maps, bite-sized confection. Are you as allergic to knowledge as you are to coin?

The maps, it had turned out, had envisioned us riding almost straight north — not a problem, since I’d known that already — though we’d veer slightly easterly to avoid rough country and a large lake. From what records we had, and though those records were ancient we believed them true, we knew that the old monastery was located along the side of the sea on a rocky peninsula called, portentously enough, the Saint’s Finger.

The Saint’s Finger. The voice in my head practically purred. It’s been a long time since I heard that name. What do you think Saints use their fingers for, snackling? Nothing fun, I’d wager.

I shivered when he said that. I had no desire to know what demons would use a finger for. And I shivered again when I heard the purr every time I opened the map again on the way north.

He purred again when we reached the last huddled hamlet to the north, a sorry place where the thatch was thin, the chimney smoke thinner, and there wasn’t a single village dog to be had. I felt so bad for them that I didn’t even beg, just rode through town where the villagers were celebrating Break Fast Day with loud singing and rather more alcohol than was likely wise for people whose village was now on the frontier of newly revealed territory.

I was wearing the thick fur cloak over my armor and sometimes I put the patched quilt underneath it when the wind howled on the lonely parts of the road.

“This road peters out just north of the last farm,” the old man in the street had told me over the hubbub when I leaned down to see why he was gripping my stirrup. “The others are a day or two ahead of you. One group went through around noon today.”

“Others?”

“The other paladins,” he said, nodding knowingly.

He was missing an eye and two fingers, though the fingers looked like they were lost to frost and not to accident. I was surprised he wasn’t celebrating with the rest. With the Rim moving, the sun would change courses as it always had, and this village would grow warmer. No more lost fingers for this old man. Probably.

“It does the heart good to know the God’s holy warriors are defending us from the north.”

I wondered if I should set him straight. I was no holy warrior. Nor were we about any business that would benefit him.

Do not reveal the truth to this man. Why cause him distress for no reason? Let him enjoy a little hope. A little taste of joy on a sour tongue.

Good advice, Sir Branson.

The hollow laughter within me made me grit my teeth in annoyance.

Saints take it!

Don’t fuss yourself, my girl. The hellion is good at pretense. Imitation is all the devils have. They cannot create or reproduce on their own. They require men for that. And so they will always be pale shadows and wavering echoes.

“Can I help you, Father?” I asked the old man with what kindness I could manage. It was hard to focus on what was before me when there was a constant tussle inside my own mind.

In the background, Sir Branson began to recite the creeds. Sort of. He tended to get creative with them, adapting them to the situation or his own preferences. I was reasonably sure there was no actual belief that tea was from the table of the God and should be treated as such.

At least it was less distracting than direct conversation.

“No, it’s how I can help you,” the man said, pulling on my stirrup so hard that my poor mare danced to the side.

“And how is that?” I put a little steel in my voice. It was as much my duty to keep a fear of paladins in the hearts of the people as it was to aid them in need. Failure meant the next paladin might see her armor stripped away and her horse stolen.

“I had a vision,” he said, his milky eye on me. “A vision of hands reaching out — hands that looked like tree roots — and they held within them a bitter cup. Do not drink the cup.”

“I’ll be glad to avoid it,” I agreed. “Blessings be on you for your prophecy.”

He laughed then and shot a look at Brindle, who I’d laid across the front of my saddle for our walk through town. I still didn’t trust him near people, even with the vow in place. He did that thing dogs do that is half whine and half yawn, ending it with a snap of his jaws. If I squinted, I could still remember what those jaws had done to Sir Branson’s face. Fortunately, his eyes weren’t glowing demonically. Even a half-blind man might be startled by that.

“You think you can avoid it, but some of us carry our own evil around with us, don’t we, Lady Paladin?” His gaze looked like it was trying to light Brindle on fire. “And yours might yet tear your throat out.”

I gritted my teeth harder as the old man rolled his good eye. My belly rolled along with it. How did he know?

Well, he is a seer. Look carefully, pretty Seer. Enjoy your stolen glance before I rip out your throat.

Pretty? Who would have thought the demon had such odd taste.

He cackled in my mind and I gritted my teeth. If an old man had known, what would prevent the other paladins from knowing?

If they do, then they’ll know also that you have chosen to bear a burden for the sake of mankind. There’s no shame in that.

I had considerably less faith in my common man. You heard stories, after all. Stories of people being burnt at the stake.

You’re too damp to light up easily. A true wet blanket among women. You should have more fun, enjoy a little fire. Taste the world a little — as I shall taste your flesh.

Or you heard of them being hung up in crow cages. Was that worse or better? I wasn’t sure.

Your imagination is too small, snackling. Think of what I’ll do to you when I take over your body, the demon purred in my mind. I will make you dance unspeakable paths. I will baptize you in cruelty and wash you in heartlessness and make your name a byword of terror whispered in the darkness. You shall be the sweetest dainty I ever feasted upon. Your dearest dreams I shall twist until they choke you.

I shivered.

“There were two paladins in that last group that went through here,” the old man said, suddenly clear-eyed and sober-speaking. “If you aim to follow them, mind the tracks. Beelder, the hunter’s boy, says they’re clear and easy to follow from the end of the main road, though what fool would follow a dozen paladins is the real question. The church wouldn’t have sent so many on a mission of peace, yes? No sane man would go to new lands without the paladin’s blessing first. No sane man would follow holy knights into the blind night, either.” He opened his mouth as if he’d say more but then shut it with a snap and said curtly, “Go with the God.”

“And you as well,” I told him, and then I rode out from the thin village as quickly as my horse would take me, taking care to light a lantern and hang it from my lantern pole before I was far beyond the feast lights.

I did not want to stop anywhere near that hamlet. Or any hamlet. People made me nervous. And now, I felt as though my sin was writ large upon my forehead for anyone to read.

Maybe I’ll make your eyes glow to betray you, too.

I didn’t think he could do that. Probably.

My eyes drifted several times to the sorry clumps of white snow along the path, hoping that any glow might be reflected there. I saw nothing.

By the time I left the hamlet behind, I found myself at the end of the road. My map showed all the details of the rest of the route with question marks added to the ends of names and the features sketched vaguely by an uncertain hand. Unhelpful.

The other map was a suggested layout of the monastery, though it seemed to me that any map of a place that existed ten thousand years ago would likely bear little resemblance to reality. It was the typical collection of cloisters, cruciform main floor, bell tower, and sanctuary. I’d seen the same pattern a hundred times before.

“It was a great civilization that lived there,” someone had scrawled on the bottom of the scroll. “We know little of it beyond this single monastery and a few scraps of recorded history that depict this place as devout and possibly more advanced than we in both technology and faith. One historian claims it was the source of ‘miracles and powers beyond anything seen in this world before or since.’”

We would see about that.

Look, and not to be morose here or anything, but I don’t like the sound of that, Victoriana. If they’re so powerful, why are they not around today? Why did they not bring such wisdom elsewhere with them? I have no recollection of these people even mentioned.

When the Rim moves, no man may stay the change of the shape of the world, the other voice in my head argued.

But the God may stay it.

Certainly. But why would he? There’s no fun in that.

The God does not exist for fun.

Are you completely certain of that? If so, I’ve certainly slipped a lot in under his nose.

I blocked them out as I set up my tent at the end of the road with no light except the faint luminance of my lantern. An inn could have been three steps from the road and unless the windows were lit, I would not have seen it, so deep were the clouds.

I offered Brindle a second night sleeping in the tent with me. He used to sleep in the tent of Sir Branson, from the time he was so small that he rode in a saddle bag. It had always puzzled me why an impoverished knight who could barely keep himself fed, never mind curb the appetite of an enormous dog, would keep one with him, but I was starting to understand his thinking now. Even possessed, the dog eased the loneliness of the road. I had expected him to be nervous and anxious with the idea of sleeping with me instead of the old knight, but he had adapted without complaint.

He turned a circle, spreading the scent of doggy wetness everywhere, and then plopped down, panting and huffing.

Tomorrow the true fun begins, the voices in my head reminded me. Don’t forget your prayers.

And thus, I spent my last night in a land touched by men and aspects in prayer. And if it helped with what came next, then I dread to imagine what it might have been like had I not prayed at all.