Of Deeds Most Valiant: A Poisoned Saints Novel

Yes! We’re back!

I felt the demon’s rejoicing twisting through me in the same moment that the breath whooshed from my lungs. Brindle barreled into me, round skull smacking into my belly so hard that if I hadn’t already lost my breath, I’d lose it now. His enthusiastic tongue washed my hands and arms as I reached to bury my hands in his fur, trying not to crumple.

Adalbrand knew now.

Saints and Angel’s blood, he knew.

I couldn’t catch my breath. It was stuck in my throat like a barbed hook.

And now we find out. Is Adalbrand the honor and chivalry he pretends? Is he the holy paladin he thinks himself? Is he your love-sworn man as he suspects? Now is his reckoning and we shall discover the answer with him.

Or he’ll go mad and murder you, and that should be entertaining at the very least. Do you think he’ll cleave you in two with the sword, or will it be the dagger slid subtly between your rattling ribs? I love watching lovers torn asunder. It’s almost always their own faults. You two are lovers now, aren’t you?

I had said Adalbrand was too forgiving. I had accused him of it. But he said he would not forgive this.

Forgive? Why not ask him for the moon and the stars and all that lies beyond the Rim. This is marvelous. You really think he could still care about you — a tarnished vessel, a ruined blossom. How adorably flawed of you. I like delusion for you. Do continue.

Forgiveness is a real thing.

Is it, paladin? Will your God forgive you when he hears you’ve been sharing a vessel with a vile one? Will he welcome you to his embrace?

One can hardly help who one must room with, whether it be bed bugs, fleas, or the damned.

I shuddered as I gently pushed Brindle aside to check Sir Adalbrand’s prone form. He had passed out but he was still breathing. Grimly, I moved him into a more comfortable position.

Brindle circled him with gently padding paws, sniffing all around him.

You really have a way with the menfolk, sweetling. Do you always make them sick, or is it just this green stick of a man?

I was reasonably sure it was realizing he’d aided a devil that had done him in.

You could try to pretend to be an innocent victim of my malevolence. That might be cute.

I was an innocent victim.

The demon’s laughter rang through my mind.

You are all complicit in deeds that mock you and ruin you, like puppets danced into a fire making flowery bows and curtseys all the way into the inferno.

Saints bless it. I’d lost him, then. Barely had him for a moment and then lost him. Somehow it felt worse than anything else so far. It twisted and wrenched inside me as if I had swallowed a brick and it was making its way through my insides, the corners of it catching as it went.

I stood abruptly just as Hefertus came running at full speed straight through the cluster of paladins praying. He took in Adalbrand’s prone form and my stricken face and then uttered a foul curse.

I nodded my agreement as our mouths twisted into matching frowns.

“What did he do?”

“He healed my dog. And learned something he didn’t like,” I said grimly. The one nice thing about Sir Hefertus was that he didn’t bother with niceties or feelings. I didn’t need to spare him.

He grunted. “Fool. That could have waited.”

I nodded but I hovered over Adalbrand, not sure how to help him.

“Marvelous work, Prince Paladin!” Sir Sorken boomed out, striding toward us.

Prayers had ended — probably thanks to Hefertus scattering the other paladins like a dog running through a flock of pigeons. There was a note of tension in the room.

“Do we look at the new puzzle to twist the room next, or do we go straight to the next challenge for the cup?” Sir Owalan asked, bouncing from foot to foot. Either he did not notice Adalbrand had passed out or he did not care. “Maybe we can just keep turning it and forget the challenge entirely. We’d get out that way, right? And we could try again later.”

“I rather think not,” Sir Coriand said, with a cheerful smile. “The challenges are there for a reason and they must be completed. Our cups are only partially filled. Do you want to find the Cup of Tears? Then we must fill them entirely. You’ve read the words written here. ‘Our hearts spoke out our hopes and our souls bore the cost, the man and the spirit and all that was lost. Bold together we race where no others have trod, for we are more than men, we have become Saints. Choose now holy vessel. Be careful, be clear, for the bones of others will root out your fear, wash your cup with sorrow, bathe your vessel with blood, but choose your gift wisely, be it fire or mud.’ Likely, we will find the next stanza of this verse at our next station, and if you want the Cup of Tears, then we must follow it, or fail.”

“No,” I said quietly, and very deliberately, I stood over Adalbrand’s body, facing the others. They drew together in the stained light, a flock of shrieking crows, a gaggle of squabbling gulls. I hated them in that moment for their self-serving heartlessness.

Oooh. Look who likes to defy authority.

Sir Coriand shed his cheerful, dreamy-eyed exterior like a snake sheds its skin. It made him seem to grow before me; certainly his shadow swelled.

“I’m afraid no is not an option, Beggar. We have come for the cup. We will receive it. And you have no choice but to go with us on this quest.”

“There’s always a choice,” I said quietly, and I drew my sword.

Oh, the sweet drama! Trouble in the ranks, holy against holy, it makes my shriveled heart sing! Fight, rip, tear, little snack!

Sir Coriand stepped forward quietly but his eyes were fixed on mine and I felt a thrill of fear settle down my spine. Who was this Engineer really? Behind him, his bone-and-rag golem shifted, reminding me that in any fight, it was not the elderly knight I’d battle but his massive creation.

He lifted two fingers in a mockery of blessing and said, “Those of you unwilling to give up the quest before we’ve even begun should go now.”

Did his fellow Engineer have nothing to say to that? I shot him a glance.

“Yes, yes,” Sir Sorken said, still wearing the skin of cheerful acquiescence. His eyes held a glimmer I did not like. “Right you are, come along, brothers. This way.”

He strode down the well-worn path toward the clock and the open room, not even glancing back, and without a word, the High Saint and the Penitent followed. The Majester sent one shivery glance backward and then he followed, too. They stalked off like four cats — not quite wanting to walk together but headed in the same direction all the same.

“Sir Hefertus?” Sir Coriand asked quietly as the others disappeared from view.

“The fountain is still working. That’s a good thing, right?” I heard Sir Owalan saying. Already his voice was distant.

“If the Vagabond has doubts, then I have them too,” Hefertus said, shooting a glance at me that practically screamed, “What are we doing?”

What are you doing, Victoriana? Simply throwing yourself into the gears to jam them is no plan.

This monastery was wrong from top to bottom and I was finished complying with any of it. I’d already lost a friend. I did not want to lose my soul in the bargain.

But must you lose your head, also? Think!

Hefertus cleared his throat, looking between us, one hand twisting through his topknot of golden hair. “The Poisoned Saint has worn himself out and we can hardly leave him here alone.”

“If the other trial was any indication, then we cannot leave him here at all,” Sir Coriand said reasonably. “It will take all of us or none of us in the next task and the clock is ticking.”

“And the dog?” Hefertus asked, eyeing Brindle warily.

As well he should.

I laughed — a grim, gallows laugh.

Both the male paladins glanced at me, Hefertus nervously, Coriand grimly, as if I were a mistake he must set right.

“The dog must come along,” the older paladin said. “It was there last time. I think you understand, Hefertus, that we must go through this trial. I think you see that.”

Hefertus looked back and forth between us.

“This place is evil.” I felt so tired. The kind of tired you only feel when it is you against all others.

“A wild assumption,” Sir Coriand said, with his big trust-me grin spread wide. “I see no evil here, except the poor lost thing stuck in a trap on the ceiling — and if these monks were evil, why would they have trapped one like a mouse?” His eyes narrowed, and while his easy smile never flickered, I felt the moment that he shifted his emotions. “And of course, Lady Paladin, the one you brought with you.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

One of the voices in my mind — maybe both — spat one curse after another, some foreign to me, others familiar. I tried to block them out.

“What?” Hefertus asked carefully.

I shifted my feet. But I knew myself. And I knew he was seeing the truth of it all over my face.

Be on guard!

Sir Coriand delivered the killing blow. “A dangerous game to play, Beggar. Are you even a paladin? No paladin I’ve ever known has been so cozy with a denizen of hell.”

Hefertus turned his body to me, blocking Coriand out. “Deny his charge.”

I swallowed. “I cannot.”

He paled. “Treachery,” Sir Hefertus breathed out. “Vile treachery.”

He made a stumbling lunge toward me and I pivoted out of the way. He was wrong about me. At least, in the way that mattered.

Watch out!

“Hefertu —” I began and then something grabbed my foot and yanked hard.

The room spun upside down. My braid swept back and forth over the mosaic while Hefertus turned abruptly upside down and looked down at me in disgust. I kicked against what was holding me with my free leg but it was solid as bone and after a second, it was manacled in place, too.

Hefertus’s boot drew back and kicked, and for a moment all I saw was black and all I felt was pain. I forced myself to stay aware through the pounding in my head. I must not lose my grip on my sword. I must not lose consciousness.

My mouth was full of warm iron. I spat blood. My face was on fire.

“Suture will bring her, and Cleft has the dog,” Sir Coriand said calmly, as if he routinely kidnapped other paladins with the help of his golems. “If you would be so good as to carry your friend. He deserves more honor than a golem can offer and we’ll be sure he’s safe enough in the trial to come.”

“Of course,” Hefertus said, and I could hardly blame him. Wouldn’t I do the same myself if I’d discovered a friend was hiding a demon from me?

The golem holding my ankles began to walk, swinging me side to side with his long strides. I wiggled in his grasp, trying to catch sight of what was happening.

Hefertus collected Adalbrand’s unconscious form and shot me a death glare as he slung the man over his shoulders. Behind him, Cleft carried Brindle by the foot. My dog yipped and growled, sounding desperate and panicked.

Well, isn’t this a treat. Paladin versus paladin and not a one who wants to be near you, demon consort.

He laughed long and haunting in my mind as I blinked back tears of frustration, carried to a fate I did not want and had not chosen.

The golem’s strides sent me heaving back and forth, an angry pendulum. I tried to twist to see what the locked door might reveal, but Suture carried me with my back to the door. Instead, I had a good look at the clock. Our cups were slotted in place in an odd pattern I didn’t have time to analyze. What worried me was that they still glowed slightly with an eye-twisting dark light, as if with a power untouched by the God.

We passed it in a moment and found the open door. Cleft went through before me and in my mind, the demon roared out the translation to the next verse of the poem. Or the prophecy. Or the spell. Whichever it may be.

No power is priceless,

No honor unearned,

From storehouse bring wisely,

Add gift to the churn,

A sacrifice given,

An offering made,

What no longer serves you,

Is the price you must pay.

Oh lovely. More sacrifices. I gripped my sword hilt doubly hard, wondering if I’d be able to fight upside down with my feet anchored. If there were sacrifices required, I had a bad feeling that they’d be happy to be rid of me. I would not go like a lamb to slaughter.

And what about Adalbrand? He was in no position to be dragged into a fight. I hadn’t expected those golems to surprise me — a terrible oversight, to be sure. I should have known better. It was always the quiet ones.

Well, not always. I knew a man once who sang while he burned cities. He wasn’t quiet at all.

And I hadn’t expected Hefertus to turn on me after he’d sworn to stand with me.

Yes, well, you didn’t exactly tell him that he was making an alliance with two knights, one paladin defuncti and one demon vivius.

Cute nickname, rotting corpse. I think I’ll call myself Vivius from now on.

There was a sigh in my brain that sounded as world-weary as I felt.

But there was no time to explore any of this. We rounded the curved hall and came out into the great room, and even from my view — upside down — it was spectacular.

When this room had been carved from the rock, someone had said, “I want a vaulted ceiling and a vaulted floor. Make me islands of bleached white skulls of every creature you can find and the spines of great fish. Then splash some purple light around. You know. For mourning and repentance. And don’t forget the books. There should be lots and lots of books. Shelves. Stacks. You know, every way you can think of to include books is what there should be.”

Just like in the previous room, someone had drilled holes in the ceiling, but half of these had been fit somehow with purple glass and the light shone down half purple and half white.

In our liturgy, purple was the color of mourning. And my heart was mourning with the purple. I was mourning that eleven paladins had entered this place and only one seemed to still have his honor intact, and that one was being borne into this place whether he willed it or not by a silent servant.

I love this place entirely. Do you know what it is?

If it was a library, it was a terrible one. The curving walls of the cylindrical vault were lined with books, books, and more books on shelves innumerable. But how anyone would access them, or how they could possibly read them all or even find what they were looking for, seemed like an impossible task. There were deep grooves between some of the shelves, but they were too far apart for steps, and wove too strange a track for a moving ladder. Some spiraled high into the shelves above, others dipped low below and still others wove through the center, crossing at times. The books were shelved between them, positioned to adjust to the widening and narrowing of the space. Since some were higher than my forearm and others as short and narrow as my pinkie finger, there were no shortage of volumes for every space. Even so, the uneven shelving only added to the general look of chaos.

At least the books had been preserved. By all rights, they ought to have crumbled away to nothing in the centuries since the monastery … demonary? … was lost to the world.

It’s a grimivior.

That was entirely unhelpful.

Like a holy repository but the opposite, I would think, my girl.

No, no, that makes it sound so dull. It’s a reservoir, like a place to hold a great deal of water, only this is a reservoir for grimoires — books of demonology and the teachings of the arcane. And the swell and rise of the mortal understanding of all things finds its climax here.

So it was a room of evil. And writings about evil.

Overly simplistic, as always, snackling, and that is why you are worth nothing but to be devoured whole. Who are you to discount Viscoth’s Soul Anatomy or Corthasasm’s Holy Dissipation or even Fragralot’s The Debauchery of the Nine Saints and the Siphoning of Secrets Closely Held?

Based only on the titles, it occurred to me that if I were to light a candle and set it against those shelves, that act alone might elevate me to Sainthood.

Ha! That’s adorable. Look down.

It was hard to look down when I was hanging upside down. Much easier to look up into the complicated silver-edged buttressing where the shelves ended in the distant shadows of a wealth of fish skeletons large enough to swallow a whole horse. Easier still to view the central pillar that rose up in the middle of the cylindrical room. It was white and thick with carved statues of men and women who were half human and half creature. They were layered one above the other and all of them reached upward with hands and mouths as if waiting for the heavens to feed them … or screaming in despair, perhaps. I understood the sentiment. Oddly, the pillar did not contain books.

I tried to crane my neck to look down and only caught a yawning chasm of ghastly books falling away as far as the eye could see.

Exactly. They drilled to the heart of the rock. And what did they find down there in the bones of the earth?

The world was built in the bones of the God. Maybe that’s what they found.

Or is it built on the sediment of hell?

Fear quickened within me — partly in horror at his proposition, but mostly because Suture had shambled to the edge of the drop and was holding me over it. Emptiness yawned beneath me. And possibly so did the sediment of hell or whatever we’d just been talking about.

Breathe, Victoriana.

Breathe, my girl. Easy, steady breaths. Fear is not your friend today.

Friend or no, he was bent on having me.

Not before I do. No fear for you, little sweet. You are mine to devour.

Well, at least I was popular among the things that wanted to kill, rend, and tear.

Sooo popular.

The cliff edge was ringed by little walkways that were a touch more narrow than I’d like, and each one ended at an island. I turned my head to the side and realized the walkways were more like arms and the arms fit into the slots between the shelves. The ones that looped and wrapped every which way. So they accessed the shelves in some way, then. That’s nice. Maybe I’d get to see them operate before I dropped to my death.

The islands were ringed with railings, contained their own stacks of books — of course — and at the center, each one bore a small altar woven of bone. On each altar were candles. Unlit. But candles all the same. The same magic that preserved this place must have preserved them, too, or vermin would have eaten them centuries ago. There were dozens on each altar.

“When you’re all on an island, I can throw the switch and it will begin,” Sir Sorken called out, pointing at a complicated mechanism attached to his island on the far end of the semicircle.

I tried to trace the way the mechanism reached to each platform but I found it too hard to follow from where I hung. Sir Sorken leaned casually beside the switch — if that was what it was — and beside that was a handle attached to a gear, carved to look like leaping fish within delicate sprays of water rather than a practical machine. Of course.

“I think it’s important to balance out the weight,” Sir Sorken announced. “Just a theory, but possibly an important one when we dangle over a drop, hmm? Set the Poisoned Saint on his own platform, Sir Hefertus. I left room down at the end for him and the Beggar, but you’re the heaviest and I need you in the middle.”

Hefertus looked torn, glancing from the island platform on which he was meant to place Adalbrand to the island he was meant to occupy. They were very far apart. If he agreed, Adalbrand would be completely vulnerable.

As things stood now, the islands were as follows from Sir Sorken on one end to an empty island on the other: one, Sir Sorken on the far right; two, the platform he was indicating was for Hefertus; three, a platform holding the Majester that Sir Coriand was hurrying to join; four, a platform shared by Sir Owalan and the High Saint; five, the one meant for Adalbrand; and six, the empty platform — for me, perhaps?

“What about the dog?” Hefertus protested, hesitating.

“The dog will stay with me,” Sir Sorken boomed out as if he were pardoning the canine of his sins.

Ha. He wishes he had that kind of power. And that’s the thing with you paladins. You are so convinced of your worthiness that your arrogance trips you up, and oh, but it’s a delight to watch. Pure drama! Pure pleasure. Please don’t die, snackling. I’d hate to miss all of this.

Because of course I was only living to entertain him.

Cleft brought the dog over to Sir Sorken as Hefertus gently laid Adalbrand on his platform. At least he was kind to his friend, even if he was an idiot for not siding with me on this.

For a moment, I felt hope as Cleft lowered Brindle.

That’s right! Let me at him! I could feast on stringy old paladin if required.

But Sir Sorken had been ready. As Cleft lowered my doggy friend, he put his great stone hand over Brindle’s muzzle, and lightning-quick, Sir Sorken tied Brindle’s mouth with rope and cinched the rope to his belt, which he fitted around the dog’s neck. Together, they laid Brindle on the altar and tied him in place.

I make a terrible sacrifice. You need to tell them! Tell them that killing dogs is a crime no one will forgive. Not even the prince of demons himself.

I thought the prince of demons didn’t forgive, Sir Branson said curiously.

Now was not the time to argue theological technicalities.

I cleared my throat. I couldn’t tell if that got anyone’s attention. It was Suture who determined which way I faced, not me.

“Brothers,” I spoke loudly, carrying. I’m no orator. In fact, addressing them all made me as nervous as dangling over this library hole. I persevered. “We are not finding a holy cup in this place. It is not making us Saints. Surely, you see that. A murderer walks among us and this place is made for an unholy purpose.”

There was a silence and then Sir Owalan said a little awkwardly, “You’re spinning something out of nothing, Beggar. The Seer died at the hands of nefarious forces — a demon that the High Saint tells me you refused to cast out. Sir Kodelai died trying to rectify that, and the Inquisitor was a nasty accident. You have to expect that any quest worth performing would be rife with trial and difficulty. We cannot all be Saints. Only the worthy.”

“And those of us not worthy?” I asked but there was no answer.

I felt like cursing.

Go ahead. Who’s stopping you?

I rather hope she’s holding back for my sake.

You won’t be here forever, wretched corpse. One day she’ll be free to be exactly as loose as she likes.

“Let us pray,” Sir Sorken intoned, and as Suture carried me roughly to my platform, they spoke together, “For what we are about to receive, we thank you, oh God.”

I felt like I was being readied for dinner. Dog and Beggar. What a treat.

If only you knew, snackling, how I’ve craved you, how sweet your soul would be upon my lips. It would go down like aged wine.

Because that wasn’t at all creepy.

The platform rocked as Suture’s feet hit it and I got a nice up-close look at my altar. I tried to read the words on it, but I didn’t have to — Sir Coriand was already calling them out as the platform trembled beneath me. If it broke, would the golem drop me? Would I be able to catch the edge in time?

“Your altars read, ‘A worthy price you’ll pay, and on this altar lay, or your soul to us you’ll lose, in punishment for your ruse.’”

Wait. Hold on now.

“You put my dog on your altar!” I called out, but inside I was more offended by all this terrible poetry than I was by that fact.

You think my imprisonment and possible slaughter is less offensive than bad rhymes?

I wasn’t the one who had rhymed “pay” with “lay.”

“Everyone ready, then?” Sir Sorken asked calmly, ignoring my accusation. “Ready yourself, Suture. You’ll drop the girl and retreat the moment I throw the switch. There’s a good construct.”

And then there was a squealing sound and I screwed up my face against it, as if that did anything beyond blurring the spines of the books in front of my nose.

The golem dropped me and I managed to angle my shoulder enough to roll with the drop rather than damaging my face a second time. I felt the platform sway wildly as he leapt from it, and then lurch to one side.

I clawed my way to stand, keeping my sword braced in both hands, and when I was able to find my feet, my island platform was already shuttling down its track around the curve of the cylindrical room. It bore me upward in a spiral. The central pillar was to one side of me and a whirl of books to the other.

All of the platforms were moving at once, some of them spiraling upward slowly, like Sir Sorken’s and mine, others dipping quickly downward or ranging in a roughly flat line.

Sir Adalbrand’s platform was one of those moving in roughly a straight path, which meant that even though he’d started behind me, my upward trajectory was negating my head start. If I timed things just right and had nerves of steel, I could drop down to his platform when our paths crossed.

Maybe.

I sheathed my sword and started tearing at the buckles of my breastplate and other armor. I needed to be light. Any extra weight and this might not work.

My tabard I discarded with its belt, my breastplate followed, pauldrons and gauntlets after that. I’d already been lightly armored, but now I was stripped of all but my leather pants, filmy undertunic, my boots, and my sword. I wasn’t giving up the sword.

Not even if it drags you into the depths?

Not even then.

I toast your courage, and if you fail, I’ll inhabit those you love best and eat their hearts raw.

Lovely. I’d better not fail.

I clambered up to the top of the delicate railing surrounding my platform and my belly lurched at the great distance below. Carefully, I turned so that I was crouched with my back facing outward, peering down at the space between my boots. I felt wildly off-balance.

Because you are, you fool! You won’t make the catch and you’ll fall to your death.

But now the platforms were crossing and I had no choice. There was no way I was leaving Adalbrand alone to face this challenge. What if he woke and found himself drifting with no clue as to what to do or where he was? He might judge me now. Might hate me. But he didn’t deserve that.

I lowered myself so that I was hanging by my hands, tensed the muscles of my lower back tightly to lever my legs backward, and then the moment I saw Adalbrand below, I thrust my legs forward as I let go of the platform and tensed hard to draw my arms forward, too, stabilizing me in the air.

Books whooshed by. My heart was in my throat. I had eyes only for the edge of his platform.

Here it was. I reached for it, caught it —

— and felt the fingers of my right hand slip while my left found purchase. I swung wildly from my left hand, the newly knit bone in that arm screaming with the effort of holding me in place. Frantic, I clawed up with leg and arm.

Your sword! Unbuckle your sword, it’s dragging you down!

It was dragging. I felt the weight of it.

But I didn’t dare let go. If any time was a time for prayer, it was now.

I skipped the niceties.

“Merciful God make me strong and sure. Help me up onto the platform. Your healer needs me.”

I wasn’t entirely sure about that part. But the God must have been. A renewed burst of energy filled me and this time when my right arm grappled for purchase, it held, and I pulled with all the might of my wide shoulders and levered myself up and over the fish-spine edge of the platform to fall in a lump on the other side.