Of Deeds Most Valiant: A Poisoned Saints Novel

“Let him go!” I gasped, grabbing for Brindle’s scruff and trying to rip him off of his victim.

The Poisoned Saint grunted, his breath coming in sharp gasps as one hand found the dog’s head and the other fumbled at his belt. His eyes were wide and shocked.

God, if you have mercy, please keep my thoughts clouded from him. God, if you have mercy, please don’t let my dog kill him.

I clenched my jaw. I had just ordered them to let him go and they’d vowed to obey me.

Surely you jest! The paladin knows what is happening here. We need to end him. Now. Go for his eyes! Go for his eyes!

He does not know, I assured him in my mind, hoping he could hear my thoughts. He only knows that I’m too young and that I killed Sir Branson. I can explain that to him. Unclamp your jaws!

My heart sped, making my fingers clumsy as they slid across Brindle’s teeth and into his gums, trying to force his mouth open.

The paladin hissed, eyes clouding with pain. His hair fell in his face as he fought against Brindle, his brown eyes bright and wild. They caught mine for just a heartbeat and my breath caught, too. He was like an illumined page when he looked at me like that. All bright and glorious and noble. It stabbed at something deep in my chest that knew I was terribly unworthy of all of this.

Enough. There was no time right now for self-recriminations. I needed to get Brindle in hand. I gripped his neck skin harder, shaking it, hoping the doggy within the dog would listen.

“Brindle, please, please let go.”

If the other paladins heard the girlish pleading in my voice, I’d lose any shred of respect I’d rode in with right there.

Brindle wasn’t letting go.

“Saints and Angels!”

I cuffed him — hard in the skull. Wrong move. He didn’t break his grip at all but a desperate gasping cry tore from the other paladin’s lips. His face was paler. He gripped the pillar beside him with one hand, pressed his forehead into it, teeth clenched in a rictus of pain, his other hand prying at the dog’s mouth right beside mine.

I turned to prayer. My last resort.

Merciful God in heaven, help me save this man!

I felt a whuff of something leave me. Was it only my breath? Only my breath, or a granting of the favor of the God?

I could not tell, but Brindle unclamped his jaw and the Poisoned Saint sagged in relief. I caught him as he stumbled, his face twisted in pain. It was more lined than before, which didn’t detract from the thoughtful warmth of it. That warmth clashed badly with the purples and greens of his sickly coloring, but it was there, even as he huffed a laugh of disbelief.

“Brindle. Go stand by the horse,” I barked, not bothering to disguise my fury.

He stared at me, licking blood from his teeth and then stretching with a baleful glare in his eye. Was it my imagination, or was one eye glowing red?

I thought Sir Branson said he could manage the demon. I thought the oath would bind him.

Hasn’t anyone told you, little morsel? An oath is only as good as the one who swears it. Your knight tastes of plums and pain. You should take a taste of him yourself. Maybe you will, clinging to him as you do. I think I’ll watch. How would that make you feel?

My cheeks felt hot and my head was swimming. I’d made a terrible mistake thinking that together Sir Branson and I could manage this demon.

You’re right, you’re right, you’re right. Sir Branson sounded flustered. I’ll think of something.

He’d always thought of something. When the road was cold with nowhere to sleep. When we ran out of bread and no one would offer a crust. When I got that infection in my leg and we couldn’t find a healer … he always thought of something.

And if I killed Brindle, he’d never think of something again. I’d lose him forever. I was starting to worry that I’d have to do it anyway.

Trouble yourself no more. The God will show us a way.

Brindle slunk over to the horses and plopped down at Halberd’s feet with a stick in his bloody mouth. I let out a long, anxious exhale.

“Your dog bit me,” the Poisoned Saint said at last, disbelieving.

I was still holding him up, I realized suddenly. It felt far too intimate for a man whose name I still did not know.

I ran my eyes up and down him quickly. The bite had pierced through leather breeches and torn a hole big enough that I could see the bruised and bloody mess and the gouges in his flesh. I grimaced and found his gaze.

His eyes really were warm. Even as he looked at me with distraught … something … they radiated an aghast humor. I couldn’t read the “something” behind that. Sometimes it flashed like flickers of guilt in a tension around his eyes, but other times since I met him it was like the sting of cinnamon on the tongue. I had never encountered whatever that was before. I couldn’t name it.

“Sir … Sir, you have my humblest apologies,” I gasped out. I held his tabard bunched in my fists as he grimaced and tried to put weight on his leg.

His face was very near mine, tight with pain, his lashes thick around his dark eyes, and I thought he had likely been pretty when he was younger, before wear and hardship sharpened his features.

“Adalbrand,” he said tightly, his breath gusting out warm in the air between us as he huffed another laugh. “Sir Adalbrand.”

“Is this truly funny, Sir Adalbrand?” I asked as he pulled away from me, swaying, letting out little hisses of pain from between his lips. He was about as heavy as I’d expected, given that he was a knight in half armor, but he was far leaner than Sir Branson had been.

Excuse you.

And his close proximity to me felt … uncomfortable. But not entirely in a bad way.

I order you not to be attracted to this man. It will only embarrass us all.

You and the demon will be embarrassed? How terrible. I’m sure I’ll do everything in my power to spare you.

Little morsel, tasty morsel.

Oh great. The other one was going to weigh in.

We read the inscription the sorrow-drinker was trying to parse out, tasty morsel. His Indul is rusty, I think. We can use what it said to secure a place here. If you want to do that instead of tasting sugared plums.

“There’s something very wrong with your dog,” the Poisoned Saint — Sir Adalbrand — choked out.

“I won’t kill him,” I said immediately, frowning. “He belonged to Sir Branson.”

Sir Adalbrand held up his hands as if to ward off the thought. He was — I realized — treating me as if I were just as rabid as the dog might be. Just as likely to bite him. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from my face, as if it would warn him before I leapt.

“I’m not asking you to kill the dog.” He hesitated, like maybe he was asking that but wasn’t sure if that was going too far. “But if you won’t let me heal your injuries, then will you at least let me restitch your wounds and apply a poultice?”

My mouth fell open.

“I think maybe we should be worried about your injuries. The bite in particular.”

“Oh, don’t think for a moment that I can forget that.” The look on his face was wry as he prodded at the area around his wound. “Saints and Angels. It hurts like a bear.”

He gusted another laugh and I couldn’t help that I warmed to that, could I? Something about humor in the face of tragedy had that effect on me.

Mmm, you never told me you could be lulled by honeyed words and dimples. I can make my words drip with sugar. They can go down sweet and sprout like mushrooms until their spores consume you whole. I can have dimples, too, if it helps.

The Poisoned Saint did have dimples. They were showing now as he twisted back and forth looking at his leg.

“You might want to inspect your dog’s mouth. He seems to have dented some of the metal rings just here.” He pointed to a leather strap that went around his thigh. A very nice thigh, even if it did have a chunk missing now. “The dog’s mouth might be mangled.”

I waved a hand, keeping my tone dry as the desert. “Never trouble yourself about him.”

Excuse you.

I ignored whoever was offended.

Do you know what I read on that pillar, little luncheon?

I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. Was it not enough that he had bit a paladin?

Sir Adalbrand’s mouth quirked in an ironic smile. “Then may I suggest that we both stitch and salve these wounds together? You’ll owe me nothing. It will simply be the two of us being practical.”

I paused. Because here’s the thing about having nothing. You can never pay anyone back. The simple things they give away as if they are of little note, are treasures to you. What they take for granted, you are barred from. So, he might say that I wouldn’t incur a debt by agreeing to take his help, but did he really mean it, or did he simply think I had something I could offer him later? I tried to be in no one’s debt — for debts were not things I could pay. All they ever did was drive wedges between those who could have been friends.

“I’ll owe you for the salve,” I said carefully, trying to keep any eagerness out of my voice. A salve would be a wonderful thing. My wounds were not doing well. Even I knew that they were infected. “But I have a way to pay.”

“Do you?” His smile deepened even though he still wasn’t putting weight on his bitten leg as he limped over to the saddlebags and rummaged around inside, his gaze shooting often to Brindle, who was playing innocent as he tore apart a stick and then shook it back and forth in mock play.

Adalbrand had a calm manner. I saw it in how the horses relaxed as he passed, as if he were a warm breeze blowing across their backs and taking with it the buzzing flies.

“I can tell you what is written on that pillar,” I gambled.

The voice in my head cursed so loudly that it sent me rocking back on my heels.

And Sir Adalbrand’s eyes shot up, his eyes narrowing as they settled on my face. “Can you, indeed?”

Well, now you’ve gone and done it, my girl. It’s one thing to be a madwoman with a mad dog. It’s another thing to admit you can read a dead language. There are maybe twenty scholars who can read that language. Most of them would need a reference to help with it.

The language couldn’t be dead if he’d been studying it. It had looked like he’d been reading parts of it. He must have an idea of what it said. He’d just think I’d studied the same things.

Twenty. Scholars. Do you really think this paladin is one of them? Girl, I could barely tell the language was Indul. And I might not have mentioned it, but I was scholar-trained in my youth before I heard the Rejected God’s call.

Branson was scholar-trained? He had certainly not mentioned it. He had … not acted like it, either. I hadn’t thought he’d cared about that kind of thing.

Well … they’re just so stuffy. Couldn’t live like that. But here’s the thing. The Poisoned Saints are amongst the most learned of all the Aspects of the God. No, scratch that. They are some of the most learned people under the sovereignty of the God.

Oops.

Yes, oops indeed. And now he will be wondering how you are performing this cute little trick. And what if he asks you to repeat it when the demon is not there?

I felt my cheeks heating, but Sir Adalbrand’s eyes were still on me, clearly weighing me, even as he extracted a roll of bandage and a pot of salve from his bag.

Fine, Brindle said. There’s no getting out of it now. Might as well do this right. Tell him it’s in Ancient Indul.

I repeated his words.

“I worked that much out myself,” the paladin said, watching me warily. “But my Ancient Indul is not up to standard. Not like yours, learned scholar.”

His smile was teasing, but he sobered as he laid out the needles, thread, and salve across a cloth on a rock and began to shimmy out of his boots and trousers.

I looked away, face hot. I’d seen things in this service. The kinds of things I didn’t like to talk about. Beggars frozen into snowbanks, the only difference between them and me a single blanket and the favor of the God. Women used terribly by men and barely saved by a whisper to us as we passed through a town. Children … my brain stuttered over the children. It could not go there. Would not.

Through all that, what I hadn’t seen much of was attractive men.

Look, I spent most of my time riding around with Sir Branson, righting small wrongs as often as possible, saying solemn prayers when he remembered them, and once in a while, going toe to toe against true evil. Good-looking men around my age were in short supply.

I’d met one or two — always married. I’d counted that a blessing. Our order was not a celibate order, but we did not engage in unmarried relationships. Those were forbidden. And who would marry a beggar other than another beggar?

I’d met a few other Vagabond Paladins, of course. Old bachelors, the lot of them. They’d liked me very much. Especially when I made them tea, toasted cheese on bread, and offered liniment for their aching feet. I didn’t mind doing that. The God blesses generosity, and there’s something satisfying about caring for someone everyone else overlooks. But I wouldn’t have considered myself tempted in any way by the paladins of my order. Were there beautiful Vagabond Paladins drifting town to town in tattered cloaks with noble visages and flowing hair? Mayhap there were, and our paths had simply never crossed. Privately, I doubted it.

Or the old man knew better than to let you anywhere near them because when you’re an old knight, having a girl around who has a nice smile and a handy way with a cup of tea isn’t something to shrug at. I’ve seen it before. There are many kinds of selfishness, toothsome delight. Let me show you one that fits you. Let me introduce you to all the ways you can indulge before disaster catches up with you. I bet this knight would help tempt you to try a little selfishness.

I snapped my fingers at Brindle and he sat, whining slightly.

Oooh. Yes, you’ve shown me my place. He purred happily as if losing his agency was something he liked. Now, shall I tell you what the pillar said?

He’d better. Sir Adalbrand was cleaning his wounds and now was a good time to fix my eyes on the rock and pretend I was reading it.

“It says,” I began, waiting for the voice in my head to tell me.

There was a long pause, a snicker, and then finally an other-earthly voice spoke.

Tell your little toy soldier that the pillar says, “The Aching Monastery. Woe to you, supplicant. Five woes. For the attainment of Sainthood: Bring your dust, your blood, your inner pain. Draw them out each one and heights attain. Abandon now the bitter husk. Impale your weakness on its tusk.”

I spoke the words, staring at the pillar as if I were reading them, but the sound of Adalbrand’s silence drew my eyes back to his.

“Does it really say that?” he asked me. He was midway through stitching one of the gashes on his leg. The flesh around it was purple and pulpy from the force of Brindle’s bite.

“I think so,” I said carefully.

“It’s … the other paladins think this monastery might have been used for the creation of Saints.”

“How does one create Saints?” I asked carefully. That sounded like something for the God to determine, not for man to orchestrate.

Precisely.

He lifted a single brow in an ironic look. “How, indeed?”

I thought about what the demon had read. “Perhaps they say it in this way to keep the fainthearted away?”

In my head, the voice laughed and kept on laughing, echoing through my thoughts. Madness would have been bad enough. I had someone else going mad inside my mind, and that was so much worse.

“Perhaps.” Adalbrand was quiet for a long moment, his hands busy with the pull of thread through ruined flesh.

I was accustomed to horrors, but not accustomed to lingering so long over wounds. I felt my stomach flutter unhappily at the sight of what Brindle’s mouth had done. If I could keep a demon under control, you’d think I could keep my own bile down.

Who says I’m under control.

“Talk to me while I work, Vagabond Paladin. Tell me about how you ascended to your rank.”

I shivered at his commanding tone. I thought that if he ordered me to march with that voice, I would step straight into a blizzard and never look back. I glanced at his face. It was tight with pain, but his eyes were sharp when they focused on me. His dark hair was cropped short but sweat had formed around the brow of it, dampening his hair enough for a few small locks to fall over his forehead and across his temple. It made him seem younger, despite his situation.

“Did you hear the Call?” he pressed, eyes flicking up to mine from his work.

I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself, flinching at the burn in my own stitches. My work was not nearly as careful or proficient as his.

He stiffened slightly as he drew in a breath and let it out slowly. It made all his muscles flex. Even the ones in his neck.

“So. You didn’t hear the call. Or you are uncertain.”

My cheeks grew hot. I kept my eyes anywhere but his. “I knelt in vigil all night. Wounded. With the blood of my only friend in the world on my clothing. Is that not call enough?”

He grunted and then it morphed into a cynical gust of silent laughter.

“Perhaps.” He shook his head and the shake held all the weariness of a man who’d seen as much or more than I had. “You’re right. Is that not what faith is? A reaching into the darkness, conscious of the blood on your hands?”

“I don’t know,” I said, and for my trouble, I received another of those gusting laughs.

“And that solves the puzzle of why all your wounds are infected. They were not tended promptly. I watched a fellow paladin die that way, you know. It was a miserable death. At the end, he thought he saw his own mother gnawing on his bones.”

This time when he glanced at me, his eyes were an open window to vast sadness.

I shivered. “I see what you’re doing here, but if you love healing so much, why don’t you heal yourself?”

He shot me a sidelong glance with a glimmer of a shared jest in his eyes. How was he so playful when he held such sorrow?

“You know I cannot turn my gift on myself, so why do you suggest it? Are you testing me, Lady Paladin?”

Did I not mention that? my former mentor asked me.

It seemed there were a lot of things he’d forgotten to mention.

I did my best to mask my lack of knowledge, flicking my eyes to his exposed leg. “Are you testing me, Sir Knight?”

I shouldn’t have felt satisfied by his sudden flush, the bobbing of his throat, or the way his gaze couldn’t dart away fast enough, but I did. And shame mixed with it when I heard the laughter of the demon in my head.

Plum. Sugared. Plum.

“Whatever you do,” he said carefully, “do not tell the others what you have told me. Let it be our secret, me and you. A secret we take to the grave, hmm?”

“You must think me a fool.” If my words held the sharpness of iron, well, my thoughts were equally sharp and terrified.

He paused, and whatever chagrin he felt was clearly set aside. He held my gaze with calm assurance.

“I think you’re a woman pushed past exhaustion, threaded through with sorrow, and now responsible for a demon posing as a dog.”

I sucked in a breath, afraid to so much as flinch. Had he discovered us?

He jests, snackling. And yet, don’t you think it’s funny that he sees I could be a demon and yet he doesn’t slay me now? Were he a real man, he’d have lopped off Brindle’s head already. Maybe I’ll get to have two delectable treats. One that tastes of plum and cinnamon and another that tastes of … what do you think your screams will taste of? Tart apple?

That echoing laughter was getting annoying.

And Sir Adalbrand was watching me, watching how my face had formed a still mask.

“You know all my secrets now,” I said, breathlessly, hoping not to be caught in the lie.

“Truly? So few?” He teased, but his teasing had a note of sympathy under it.

“And you offer to heal me. I’d be in your debt and debt again. I don’t like that accounting.”

“Hmm.” He’d finished his stitching and was smearing salve liberally over the wound. “That’s fair, I suppose.”

We were both silent for a long time and then he looked up at me and bit his lip — a shockingly vulnerable gesture for a man hard and lean with rippling muscle and lined from pain around eyes and mouth.

“A secret for a secret? Would that settle our debt?”

I couldn’t have said why it was suddenly so hard to breathe. Maybe it was the infection affecting my mind.

Yes, we’ll call it that.

I nodded wordlessly.

“I was raised the son of King Abrent von Menticure by his third concubine, Amaranda. They had a knighthood in mind for me, but I ran to the Aspect of the Sorrowful God when I was but fifteen and the Aspect took my vows. Sanctuary and service. They gave me one and received the other.”

I nodded along. We both knew this was not the secret.

“I killed a girl. She was just fifteen.”

The laughter echoing in my mind was like flames flickering up from the center of the earth.

Plums and cinnamon and sweet, sweet shame.

“A secret for a secret,” I said, as if a debt had been paid between us.

He nodded, but there was a quaver in his nod, as if he were reliving a memory he wished to forget. When his words came, they were rough.

“Now, let me heal you of your wounds. Secrets fester in the soul. I can do nothing for them. But I can heal the wounds festering in your flesh.”

Accept his gift. Only the arrogant turn their backs on mercy.

With a long sigh, I opened my palm to him.