Of Deeds Most Valiant: A Poisoned Saints Novel

I wake for the first time ever to a pair of eyes looking right into mine. They are large and brown as good earth and deep as my forever guilt, and for the first time in years, I forget to say my prayers upon waking.

I look and look and it almost hurts that she doesn’t look away, that she doesn’t so much as blink, just stares into my eyes with the same intensity that she does everything — like someone has lit her on fire and she’s trying to live an entire life before she’s consumed.

I don’t want to go down beneath the earth again. I don’t want to seek the cup. I don’t even want to see the Seer buried — as much as it shames me to admit those thoughts.

That door ruined me yesterday and it will ruin me again. How can I protect the innocent, defend righteousness, and take the pain of the suffering, when my heart and mind are not right? I cannot. It steals my honor. It unmans me.

I do not want to go.

But I also do not want her to go without me. I can imagine her crouching in the darkness, looking up at that terrible statue that matches her. I can imagine it coming to life and picking her up and putting her into its gaping mouth, and something inside me rejects that like it rejects the yawning, grasping darkness of a life without faith. I cannot. I will not.

I blink and it’s gone and she’s biting her lip as she looks at me. She whispers and I shiver lightly at the intimacy of it.

“We’re bound to go down there, aren’t we? There’s no way out.”

I nod, but my mouth is dry and I don’t know how to reply to her. I hear her words, but I also hear the words of another girl.

“The baby’s dead, isn’t she? And I am dying with her,” Marigold had said to me all those years ago.

And my heart twists because I couldn’t save the other girl and I have a terrible feeling that I can’t save this one. I say those terrible, damning words that I’ve said once before.

“I’ll be here with you,” I say with my stupid thick tongue and poisoned lips. “You won’t have to do it alone.”

She huffs a laugh. “I’m always alone. I always have to do everything for myself. Alone.”

A smile plays on the edge of my lips. I feel something of a fool lying here in my bedroll next to a stranger and whispering with her rather than strapping on my armor and steeling myself for the day like a proper knight ought to.

“Is this why you’re so fierce? Because you must always be alone?”

“You think me fierce?” She seems taken with the idea. She has a freckle on the end of her nose. What a strange thing to note.

“It’s your best quality,” I admit.

She shakes herself and sits up in her roll of blankets. Her tangled hair is everywhere, dark as the waves of the angry sea. She tames it so deftly that it’s already transforming into a woven snake while I am still sitting up and finding my boots.

Hefertus is gone, his bedroll left in disarray as it always is. He’s scattered some kind of jewelry over the top of it as if it took him time to decide on what decorations to wear. I wonder what the Vagabond thinks of that — she who is forsworn against wealth. It’s nearly as wildly inappropriate to have that wealth of gold and gemstones in her tent as it is to have her wealth of femininity in mine.

I steal an unwarranted glance at the curve of her hip. A wealth of femininity indeed.

I am reminded of why my order calls no women. The most dove-plain among them hide a secret — that their words are life and their caresses more valuable than all of Hefertus’s gold. Just waking to the deep eyes of one of their kind has snared my heart and strung it up like that demon suspended in the ceiling. I may never slip free of this trap.

“I’ll give you your privacy,” I tell her with a half smile. It’s rueful, for I know I am a fool, but as kind as I can make it for all my failings are no fault of hers.

“Maybe I don’t want privacy,” she says, shrugging her surcoat over her jerkin in a way that makes my mouth a little drier. She’s dressed in more layers than a southern nun and yet the addition of just one more tantalizes me. “Maybe if I’m going on an adventure, I want a companion.”

“Didn’t you always have a companion? Weren’t you with Sir Branson?”

The lines in her face grow deeper. I’m taken by surprise and a little guilty. Fool. She only just buried her friend and you must rub salt in the wound?

“That was different. The pair of us were a unit,” she says, looking at her dog rather than at me.

I make a mistake then.

“We could be a unit,” I tell her, like I’m not damaged and ruined. Like I’m not so pickled in guilt I could be served alongside ham. Like I won’t ruin her with me.

She hums as if considering my offer. “Are you going to turn insane on me again inside the monastery?”

Now it is my turn to look away and swallow.

“I beg your forgiveness, Lady. I am deeply flawed. Something terrible lurks in the depths of my heart and sometimes I’m not sure if it’s me.”

I keep my eyes averted as I finish dressing in my own kit, yanking and pulling at straps with more force and vigor than necessary.

I expect her to scold me or chastise me. She does neither. When I look up, her eyes are full of a knowing she can’t possibly have at her age.

“I am riddled with flaws also, Sir Knight. As are we all. I would still like a companion on my adventure.”

“And who would you choose?” I keep my tone teasing, trying to stay away from heavy things. I note she offered me no forgiveness for my foolishness before. “Who would you choose to take with you on this grand adventure? A butler, perhaps, all the better to help you find a cup?”

I work at the remaining straps of my armor, this time with less vigor. I dress lightly. I do not need more than the basics. After all, we are going down into a terrible, broken monastery, not out onto a battlefield. More armor is just more work to lug up the stairs when we are through.

The lady paladin seems to agree. She sticks to a breastplate with no backplate, keeps her gauntlets and pauldrons, but tosses aside all else. She checks her sword belt twice.

“I’m missing a knife,” she says, her face lined as she frowns. “I could have sworn I had two on this belt when I went to sleep.”

“Maybe Hefertus borrowed it to shave.”

“How is he so light on his feet? I did not even hear him awaken and look at the mess he made! He could not have done that silently.”

Beside her, her dog pants, a doggy smile on its devil face. I’m not fooled. I know perfectly well it will bite me with no provocation.

I give it a long, dark look. Don’t cross me, dog. I have too much human blood on my hands to worry much about dog blood.

“Hefertus is a mystery,” I allow. “And he’s never one to shy from adventure.”

“Neither am I,” she says resolutely. “And I suppose today will be another adventure. I’ll skip the butler and take you with me, I think.”

I could get drunk on this kind of courage, this kind of carefree boldness that tells me she drags few ghosts behind her. She’s light and free as a bird of the sky. I adore it. I want to be it. Or be close to it. I will take either one.

“Tell me about this adventure,” I say, indulging her as I roll up my blankets and tie my things into my pack. It’s overly cautious to bring it down the stairs with me, but yesterday we left the Engineers up top. Today, we will have no one to come after us if something goes awry. I want to be ready.

“It’s the story of a brave paladin,” she says, shooting me a mischievous look. I think she doesn’t realize how much her eyes twinkle even when she’s trying to be serious, never mind when she is joking. That’s worth more than any relic.

“Does this paladin have a dog?”

Her smile is the dawn. “She does, in fact.”

“And a hapless companion who will make terrible mistakes and require rescuing?”

“Oh, you’ve heard this story? Well, don’t spoil the ending.”

We’re both on our feet now. Equipped. Packed.

And I do something even stupider than all else that has gone before. I know better. The mad thing that ran through me yesterday and opened all my locked doors is gone now. I have full possession of myself. My mind is my own. I, therefore, have no excuse this time. But I still step close enough that I can speak more intimately. I let myself soak up the warmth of her in the air. I let myself look once more into those brown eyes and I do not guard my heart as I look into hers.

“I do not know the ending yet, Lady Paladin. And I am not eager to bring this story to the end.”

And she must be as foolish as me, because she swallows, looks at my heart right back, and says, “Maybe we won’t have to.”

Surely she must realize that I would already walk across the flat circle of the earth’s face on just the chance that my story with her would not be over yet. The idea that we share something — even if it’s only a story — stirs up fancies in me that I’ve long suppressed. I can imagine myself on the road with her. I could kindle a fire while she huddled in a blanket and I would catch her first morning smile. I could check the hooves of her horse while she inspected the tack. I could throw sticks for that terrible dog.

I swallow roughly, grateful for reprieve when she rips her eyes away and leaves the tent.

I learned long ago to stop dreaming of things I can never have. I am too washed with guilt to be worthy of even the hope of them. But she makes me dream forbidden dreams.

I take a moment to compose myself and whisper Lauds. I follow them with a prayer of my own.

Sorrowful God, make me strong and accurate. Ready me for what comes next.

My usual prayer seems weak before the task ahead. It will have to be enough.

I leave the tent and join the others.

I am not the only one who has prepared himself. Around the circle of the ruins, the others carry their various bundles and packs. Hefertus has tied his hair back as though he expects trouble. The Majester is carrying a helm and the Inquisitor has tied a strip of cloth across his brow. Even the High Saint is freshly scrubbed and looking wary. He whispers frantically into the ear of Sir Kodelai, eyes darting in every direction, gestures emphatic.

“Brothers.” Sir Kodelai interrupts the High Saint to speak to us from where he stands by the gate. “Listen now to the will of the God.”

I always wonder about fellow clerics and paladins who claim to know the will of the God. Do they really speak for him? It feels like a risky thing to claim if they don’t. And the satisfaction in Sir Kodelai’s eye tells me he likes this. He is this. It’s harder to trust someone who is enjoying the power so much.

By all accounts, Sir Kodelai is the most upstanding, most honorable living paladin. He has served the Aspect of the Vengeful God in the most exemplary manner since renouncing his land and crown and giving himself to his Aspect. But this gleam in his eye — this is new to me. This is worrying. I seal my lips shut and try to watch everyone at once.

The early morning breeze ruffles hair and nips cheeks pink. Eyes are bright, feet restless. I sense nothing else — no malice or subterfuge. There’s anxiety rolling off the High Saint, but there’s always a little of that with him.

If there is a threat near, I do not see it.

Sir Kodelai’s voice booms through my observations. “We will go down together into the monastery again. We will gather up the Seer to be laid to rest. And I will speak to you of guilt and justice.”

He’s carrying his wood case. The one with his incense and other accoutrements of the Vengeful Aspect.

“Please set down your worldly goods. They will not aid us today.”

“Unless we’re locked in there,” Hefertus says. “Then we’ll be glad we have tools and food.”

“The door will not lock,” Sir Kodelai says. “See? I have removed it from the hinges.”

So he has. Interesting. It does not prove his argument.

“You all know that in matters of justice, you must yield to me. Please put down your packs.”

We are none of us excited to obey his orders, but we do. The consequences, should we ignore him, are too grave.

“We discuss life and death today. And a murder most grim,” he says, and his beautiful face has an expression of reverence. He’s dressed in finery, I realize. A nice black velvet coat is under his tabard. He’s dressed his hair and oiled his beard. This is sacred to him. And it must, then, be sacred to us. “Who here can never say they have committed murder, whether in the name of the God or otherwise?”

I meet the High Saint’s eye by accident. It’s burning with holy reverence as he nods. Nothing wakes a High Saint up like reminding them that we are all sinners in the hands of the Merciful God. It’s like wine to them and they’ll drink it to the dregs.

“So it is and always is,” he intones gravely.

Sir Kodelai shoots him a quelling look and it’s hard not to laugh at how the piety of the one has ruined the performance of the other’s piety.

“Which is why I bid you each to confess that sin as we enter the door today,” he says firmly, cutting off discussion.

I feel a chill of unease. That’s an odd request. It feels almost unreasonable, and yet I cannot think of an argument for why I should confess one sin and not another. Nor can I think of an argument for why we must all confess as he bids us. If he’s thought of a reason, he doesn’t share it with us.

“You want each of us to leave our possessions here and follow you into the monastery, confessing at the door that we are murderers and the lowest of worms?” The High Saint looks like he might start worshipping Sir Kodelai if he isn’t reined in.

It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes. When I accidentally catch a glimpse of the Beggar Paladin, she’s making a face like she bit into something sour. I catch Sir Owalan watching her and biting his lip with amusement. You grow inured to this nonsense over time … but it takes time, and the Vagabond hasn’t had that time yet. Her reaction — and how adeptly it mirrors my own, though I disguise it — is like a breath of fresh air after being in a sick house.

Sir Kodelai claps Sir Joran on the shoulder. “Actually, High Saint, I was hoping you would lead the way and I will bring up the rear, bearing in mind that all gathered here are under my authority.”

He gives us all a grim look to remind us that if we so much as flinch from his outrageous demands, we’ll be flayed alive in public — wonderful stuff — and then he turns back to the High Saint, who wastes no time in intoning his next words.

“Let us pray. Glorious God, from each of us our bounty, to each of us our need, may the Lord of Heaven render that on which our spirits feed.”

There is a ragged “amen” from the group, though this time I accidentally catch Hefertus’s eye roll. The prayer is a mealtime prayer. About as fitting for this occasion as breaking out an aged wine and popping the cork might be.

“Well, lead on then, Saint,” one of the Engineers says, taking a noisy slurp of tea. I wonder idly if he can smuggle in his kettle. It will be a difficult day for the Engineers without the steady stream of tea they ingest. “Go confess to murder like a good knight.”

The High Saint gives him a black look, but he spins sharply on his heel as if he expects to be inspected — by Sir Kodelai, no doubt — and plunges into the door with the heartrending cry of “I confess, I am a murderer!”

I taste iron as I bite into my lip, certain the door will suck the life out of him for that, but to my surprise, he strides through, looks around, and then keeps going as if nothing has happened.

The Majester follows, hot on his heels. He has kept his parchment and pens, though he leaves his pack and extra weapons behind. His face is lined and grim as he states, “Murder,” and strides through the door. Just like the High Saint, nothing seems to happen.

I catch the Vagabond’s eye. Does she see this?

She shrugs.

Hefertus goes next, a calculating look on his face, and I know what he’s planning before he tries it. He says nothing as he steps through, only bending when he’s caught, frozen mid-stride by the door. When he finally confesses “murder” it sounds like a curse.

“No dawdling behind this time, Beggar Knight,” the Hand of the God says pointedly, and the Vagabond’s cheeks are stained bright when she strides stiffly to the door.

Her dog growls at Sir Kodelai as she steps through. She has kept a thick bearskin cloak by means of wearing it, and who knows what she’s tucked beneath it. She was a flurry of arranging and sifting through her pack before her name was called. I suspect she’s stashed all kinds of things on her person. Survivors and beggars are like that. They keep what they can and will be as devious as necessary to keep it close. Those who don’t, die fast enough to convince the rest.

I step through quickly after her, and I hate that I feel nothing when I confess I am a murderer — or rather, nothing more than the normal pang of terrible shame that I always feel when I admit to myself or to others that my failures killed a girl still not in adulthood and the poor pale babe she bore. They’re both on my mind when I almost collide with the scowling Vagabond Paladin.

“Some of us,” she says pointedly, “have far too much power. And some of us enjoy it too much.”

I purposefully misunderstand her, hoping I can cool her temper before the Hand of the God arrives.

“If you mean me, Lady Paladin, then let me confess I am entirely powerless before your charms.”

She laughs, a low snicker-y laugh like she doesn’t believe me, but she relaxes, which was my aim in teasing her.

“Lead on, sir jokester, and I hope we deal with the poor Seer and find the cup quickly. I have the most terrible feeling of visiting my own grave when I come here, and I should like to note that it’s a far grander and far more terrifying grave than I ever expected.”

I could not say why I smile at that, or why I hurry down the stairs so quickly, but I’m not alone. We are all silent as we descend the endless stairs to the vault below. Just as before, the absolute scale of the place makes it feel sacred, intimidating, holy. We are like red ants trailing in a line through a cathedral too small to fully comprehend the glory around us.

Light bathes the white hall in ivory laced with the colors of the triptych, and for a moment I am transported to the Aspect of the Holy God’s church in Saint Rauche’s Citadel. I can almost hear the chanting echoing through the nave as I did when I visited there last.

By the time we reach the mosaic floor — in silence, I might add — those following us are nearly on our heels.

The last ones to have entered other than Sir Kodelai are the Engineers, and I note with a certain degree of approval — despite my general condemnation — that they have found a way to subvert Sir Kodelai’s orders by bringing their golems. The golems carry all their belongings — including, I would like to note, a kettle still steaming and bubbling.

There will be tea. It cannot be stopped any more than the sunrise.

“You can hardly expect us to agree to come down here for your ceremony and leave the golems up there unsupervised, and if they’re coming anyway, then they should carry for us,” Sir Sorken is saying. “We’ve both done as you wished — our hands are empty and we’ve confessed to murder.”

He says “murder” in an overly dramatic way of which I fully approve. After all, none of us should have been asked to do this. This entire act is a violation. The Aspect of the Vengeful God is making enemies here.

They leave the golems at the foot of the stairs and we walk the rest of the way in silence. Though this monastery is pristine and bathed with morning light in a way that makes the carved flowers blush and limns the hummingbirds carved alongside them, we are going to a scene of a terrible tragedy.

The others duck their heads under the importance of this act, or scuttle quickly, eyes forward. Not my Vagabond though. Her eyes are upward and narrowed, first taking in the demon — still caged, I might add; if he killed the Seer, then he did it from there — and then inspecting each of the faces of the mighty statues that tower above us. They are graceful and fluid in their frozen agony. They make something in my chest seize and choke.

I look away to where our shadows shoot out in front of us, since we stride with our backs to the arrow-slit windows. The shadows seem darker somehow, as if stretching out to reach for the black violence ahead. My imagination is so over-alert, it almost makes me think I see something twitch within mine.

I’m almost grateful when — eventually — we reach the poor Seer. Time has not lessened the horror of her corpse. Her face is grey, eyes like river stones dried along the banks, hair a matted tangle. The blood in her head has spread across the chest of her clothing, leaving it tarry and ruined.

Sir Kodelai’s voice is rough when he speaks.

“Arrange yourselves in a circle around the Seer.”

We do as he says, but I am uneasy. There’s an edge to the Hand’s voice that wasn’t there before.

“I will investigate the death of your servant, oh Lord,” he intones. “I will investigate in the presence of those here.”

He rounds the body within our circle and I frown. This doesn’t seem right somehow. This feels like some sort of horrible show, and not an investigation.

Sir Kodelai pauses dramatically. “What is this?”

He reaches down and from under the edge of the Seer’s spread garments, he brings out a belt knife, chipped and well-used, about the size of my hand.

“To whom does this belong?” he asks, holding it up between a finger and a thumb. He looks from the wounds on the Seer and then back to the knife and then back to us and there’s a look on his face that makes my stomach flip.

I have seen that look once before.

Oh no.

There was a man in a village I came across. His mother-in-law begged me to go into his house, for her daughter was there, dying of a fever. She and her child both. The village blacksmith had already died of the same fever, so deadly it was. I hurried to the cottage and I found the man of the house there, seated on the steps, taking his ease with a pipe in his hand.

“Your wife,” I’d gasped. “Your child. I’m here to heal them. I’m of the Aspect of the Sorrowful God.”

“I heard the blacksmith died,” he replied, coyly, flipping a knife in his hand as if to bar my path, eyes not meeting mine, mouth twisted in irony.

“Last night,” I told him grimly. “So let me past, that I might save thy family. I can heal all but death.”

“What are the odds?” the man had said, and he said it with that exact look on his face. “What are the odds that he and my wife and child are the only ones with this fever?”

That exact look.

I won’t detail what he’d already done with the knife in his hand. Nor will I tell you what I did to him once I’d seen how the inside of his cottage was more red than brown and fit for nothing but the flame. Suffice it to say that when I confessed to the door that I was a murderer, it was not only for Marigold’s sake.

“It belongs to me,” the Vagabond Knight enunciates quietly from beside me. “I noticed it was missing this morning.”

And my blood runs cold as something clicks in my mind and I realize why we are here in this circle. And why the paladin has asked us to carry nothing down with us. It is going to take all of us to carry two corpses up so many steps.

“Wait,” I say, throwing up a hand. I hardly know what I shall say, only that this must be stopped before it fully begins. “Wait. We are here in a place full of wonders and demons. Let us not forget there may be things happening beyond the ordinary.”

Sir Kodelai pauses in front of me. He is, possibly, attempting to appear compassionate, but he can’t quite seem to arrange his features the right way, stumbling into condescension instead of compassion.

“You are a healer, Poisoned One. You take our pain and sorrows, you stain your own heart with them. And don’t you think that twists your judgment? Don’t you think it inclines your ear to those who do not deserve either your mercy or the mercy of the God?”

“I do not,” I say firmly, though there is some truth to his claim. I certainly feel more for those I have healed. That tiny thread never completely snaps.

My mind is racing underneath it all. We are all bound here by tradition and law. We can’t just walk away. And yet this isn’t right. I was with the Vagabond almost the entire time we were beneath the earth, and I would have seen murder in her eyes if she’d killed while we were apart.

“There are no dog prints in the blood,” I say, finding a piece of objective evidence at last.

“Dogs can be tied,” Sir Kodelai says, and across the circle, the High Saint is nodding soberly and the Majester is frowning. Sir Kodelai is garnering their support. Successfully.

Sir Owalan shifts uncomfortably. He sends little glances behind him at the unopened door. Maybe he, too, wonders what might have come through the keyhole.

“You haven’t considered this long enough, brother,” I say, shooting a glance at the Vagabond Paladin. She’s said nothing. Why would she say nothing?

She is frowning, looking at the knife in his hand like one might look at a tool that has just broken while you’re using it. She’s too new. She must not realize what’s happening here. It’s that very innocence that pierces my heart.

“I have considered all night,” Sir Kodelai says slowly, with a kind of finality. “I have prayed all night.”

“And did the God speak to you?” I ask, desperately.

“Adalbrand.” Hefertus’s warning is low and urgent.

He’s friend enough to me not to want me to wreck my life upon the rocks. I glance to where he stands, shifting uncomfortably, scratching his beard with one hand and twisting his triple strings of pearls with the other. He’s added a string of black pearls to the mix. He’s not even looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the falcons carved and set in a shape of guarding over the locked door, as if they might come to life and attack him.

“I am the Hand of the God in this matter,” Sir Kodelai says in a low voice. “And all present are under my hammer.”

I look around the circle, but no one is looking at me. They will let this play out. My blood roars loud in my ears. A wise man would let this drop. Who am I to interfere with the judgment of the God? All evidence speaks against me. The girl herself has shown herself capable of murder.

And yet.

I have healed her. I have felt her soul.

This was not her.

There was a Poisoned Saint caught in treason when I was a squire, and a Hand of the God was sent for. The Hand prayed seven days in the halls of our aspect and then declared that he had word from the God. We were roused from our beds in the second hour, yawning and confused. My paladin superior had held my shoulder tightly and whispered in my ear.

“Do nothing, Adalbrand. Say nothing. Close thine eyes if thou must.”

And then the Hand had said, “This is the Vengeance of the God.”

He drank from a small ceremonial cup as his power went out from him. It tangled around the accused paladin’s throat and the man fell to the ground, writhing, and died there on the frosty cobbles before us all.

I look back and forth between Sir Kodelai and the wide-eyed Beggar Paladin. And in my mind’s eye, I see her writhing on the white marble ground, magic tangled around her throat, and I know that this is one thing I will not stand by and witness.

It is not compassion that guides me now. It is not kindness, though a kindly or compassionate man would feel the same. It’s not even this sprouting interest — delicate and new though it is — that is already bending my heart in her direction. It’s honor that bids me speak. Chivalry that refuses to allow injustice.

“Stand before my judgment, Vagabond Saint,” the Hand of the God says, and just like that, power arcs out from him like soft, wafting white smoke. It reaches out in tendrils and wraps around the Vagabond, sweeping her off her feet, drawing her forward, and then forcing her to her knees before him.

My hands clench but I don’t move yet. Think, Adalbrand, think!

Victoriana’s spine straightens. There is no fear in her eyes. But there wouldn’t be. Not from her. And yet her chin trembles vulnerably. Her eyes are wide even if they are bold.

Her dog leaps forward, snapping, and the same gossamer, smoke-like tendrils wrap him up, too, but they do not bring him to his knees. Instead, they stretch and pull, lifting him to hang over our heads, ineffective, held by a single back paw. His snarls rip through the air, punctuating the emotions swirling in the faces around me.

We’re all tense and there’s a taste in the air of blood, thicker and brighter than the taste that already lingers from the actual blood spatters around us. I have a creeping sensation up my spine, a feeling I can’t explain that tells me this beautiful temple adores the bloodlust in this circle. It feeds on it as ravens feed on the corpses of the fallen. And like instruments tuned to a single note, some of the paladins ring with that taste. Anticipation is foremost in their expressions. They want this. They feel it is right and good. One of the Engineers taps his chin with a single finger.

This is madness. I must speak even if my argument is not fully formed.

The words tear from my throat as quickly as I can disgorge them.

“I throw down a preemptive challenge, Aspect of the Vengeful God.”

Across the circle from me, Hefertus rolls his eyes.