SWORDS (The Paladin's Thief Book 3)

by Benjamin Hewett

  “Quite so,” the smith and the remaining clerk say together, eyes lingering on Lucinda’s hair, face, shoulders, while sizing her up. The clerk seems to review her figure a little more than strictly necessary for selecting an appropriate weapon, and the smith smiles a bit more than he did with Magnus. Finding Lucinda a weapon is much easier. She’s tall enough to carry a normal sword, and the one they pick for her is narrow and quick, with a generic, stylized bird on the handle. Nobody argues that it’s the right blade for her, and only Timmy has the audacity to point out that it came from the special room, unlike mine.

  “Don’t worry about it, Timmy,” I say quietly. “I think Lucinda actually means to use hers.”

  “To the armory,” Magnus says.

  I look at Lucinda with an arched eyebrow as we pile out of the swordsmith’s shop.

  “I had an interview with the Altus Mitre and his staff.” She says. “They consider me a special case.”

  I try not to smile, and she notices.

  “It’s not like that, Teacup. Usually Magnus would only have one escort for the ceremony, his witness.”

  I shrug. “I don’t even want to be there. You can take my place.”

  She grabs my hand, holds me back for a second as the others enter the armory, sudden exclamations from the kids as they see the rows and rows of breastplates, shoulder guards, and greaves. “There’s something not right with Father Jeremiah,” she says.

  “He’s under a lot of stress,” I mutter. “The Abbey at Southreach was razed last week.”

  She stares at me, blinking as the news sinks in. “While we were on the prairie?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a second she’s back on her point. “Even so, there’s something odd with him. And the Mitre Loris.”

  “A power struggle.”

  “Yes,” she says. “And this time Magnus is one of the little people. They’re going to push him around like a giant little pawn.”

  “Pan’s Beard,” I mutter, because I know it’s true. I’ve already seen the posturing. But why? Aren’t these guys supposed to be holy?

  Fitting Magnus for armor is easy. He’s done it before; he’s built like a warrior, and he knows where everything goes. He practically guides the process, offering suggestions that the armorer readily accepts. It still takes time, and the armorer is sweating by the time the process is complete. The armorer promises to have the breastplate’s imprint done and delivered by morning.

  Lucinda is a different story. She can’t very well strip down as Magnus has done, at least not with any respect to the Abbey’s current comfort level with female nudity. Nor do the specialists like the idea of measuring her by hand, glancing nervously at each other as if to pass the buck. I can’t stop grinning. In Ector, there might have been a different sort of fight over the job. They keep staring at her in her new white-and-blue dress, hoping to get an accurate understanding of her dimensions without doing any of the necessary work. Then I offer to do it, and everybody stares at me like I’ve gone crazy. Even Lucinda gives me the fisheye.

  Whatever. It’s not like Carmen would care. She does that sort of thing all the time and doesn’t think twice.

  Finally they send her to the back with Val, a measuring cord, and very specific instructions. It takes three times before they’re completely sure that the measurements have been taken correctly. Then, piece after piece, they dismantle the entire armory, searching for something that will fit each section properly.

  Another clerk struggles through an exceptionally brief explanation of how she’ll have to wrap herself to minimize discomfort from the breastplate, while blushing up a storm and glancing sideways at Val occasionally.

  In desperation, they send a courier to the Altus Mitre. Lucinda is well built, and that means that none of this battle gear fits her as snugly (or loosely) as it should. What returns from the Altus Mitre is a full set, still stained with blood and bloody fingerprints. Several of the smears look disturbingly like Hawkwood’s nose.

  The armor fits well across her shoulders, but not perfectly. There are sharp studs in the shoulder guards, meant for close-quarters bludgeoning. Not elegant, and a liability for turning a blade the wrong way, but definitely functional. The armorer’s breath catches as he tightens the last strap around the calf-greaves. “You’ll need your own set of boots,” he says, “but this is a great honor.”

  “What is?” Lucinda’s attitude is coming out again, all this frustration, fuss, and inability to meet her needs.

  “The Mitre Clinicus was a great woman.”

  This gets her attention. “The Mitre Clinicus was a woman?”

  “Eleanor was the finest Mitre on staff when she died,” the armorer swears as he polishes away the remaining bloodstains. “Probably should have been the Altus Mitre herself.”

  By now it’s getting a bit late. Magnus glances at me and then back at the armorer.

  “Teacup needs armor, too.”

  “Pan’s mangy beard!” the armorer moans, collapsing onto one of the footstools used during Lucinda’s fitting. “Now they want ‘child-size’ armor? They’re going to work my fingers to the bone with all of these ceremonies.”

  “What does Father Valoris wear?” I ask pointedly. “I’m not that small.”

  “He doesn’t. I’ve never seen Father Valoris in armor.”

  “I rest my case,” I say. “I won’t be able to walk if you put me in that turtle shell. I’m sure this sword is plenty heavy to illustrate the weight of my duty,” I say.

  “I like you,” the armorer chuckles, conceding. He looks carefully at Fat-sword. “Can you even swing that little bit of ‘duty?’ ” he asks.

  By night, the air is freezing cold and the locals are muttering about the sour-orange buds freezing. Ebenezer and Gawain are nowhere to be seen, probably huddled around their fires. I can see both chimneys belching smoke and realize that the clerks can’t wait to get inside and get ours going. I open the door with the key—an odd experience for me—and admire the table laden with provisions: food and clothing to the appropriate measurements. The bedding has been taken care of and the woodbox is full. Magnus has warned us not to get too comfortable—that clerks, recruits, cadets, and brothers provide the labor for this sort of reception, and that we’ll be on the delivering end soon enough—but it’s a welcome sight nonetheless.

  While the kids sleep, I watch as the first snowflakes fall softly, begging me to relax. When I awake, the ground outside is covered with slush and the rooftops are six inches deep in snow.

  FIVE

  Ceremony.

  I hate ceremony. Never mind the struggle it is just to get the twins presentable. And I’ve done a passable job for once. They’d look fantastic if it weren’t for sullen grimaces they keep sending in my direction. Timmy’s appearance is made worse by his disheveled hair, which I’ve already combed twice. Val’s expression is downright mean. “Who in Pan’s name wakes their kids up at 6th bell and forces them to wear a dress that doesn’t fit?”

  “My clothes don’t fit either, Val,” I say. “They’re all too large.”

  Unlike Val, I’d rather wear something oversized than something I’ve been wearing on the road and washing in muddy streams.

  It’s a trick prodding those out the door and to the assembly without getting wet or muddy, and even trickier learning to sit with an oversized weapon strapped to my belt, but we manage.

  Even with the sour face, Val is pretty enough to attract the attentions of the clerks, most of whom are old enough to know what a pretty girl is. They all wear a long knife at their sides. It has a white eagle on its scabbard, which flashes as the boys follow the brothers about, running errands with great solemnity and purpose. Magnus says they’re all in training to become knights or Paladins, depending on the station of their families and their own spiritual aspirations. He says they generally come from the finest families in Solange, from as far as Madras or Avrigne, but there are exceptions.

  For all their grand breeding, to a man the
y notice Val as they stride past, standing up a little straighter and pretending not to see her. The benches are very hard, but it isn’t long before Val is grinning from ear to ear, staring straight ahead, hands folded in her lap, the picture of propriety. Radiant.

  Timmy begins to smile, too, when I point this out to him and he realizes what’s going on. He makes faces at every clerk who passes and this makes Val frown again.

  Can’t win them all, I guess.

  It isn’t long before the foot traffic in the meeting hall slows and the benches fill up, rows upon rows of white, lacquered armor, thousands of pounds of muscle and bone sliding into place with the quiet grace of men resigned to battling boredom. There’s enough steel in here to route Ector’s South barracks without a second thought. These men are bred to ride, fight, give alms to the poor, and fight some more, I think, but not to sit caged in the middle of a ceremony. Or maybe I’m just projecting my own views on them.

  That’s probably it. None of them look bored. Some eye Lucinda with interest, but many spend their stony expressions on Cobalt, who is sitting on the other side of the central aisle, alone in the front row.

  Something about that bothers me. Not that he’s alone. Not that the others peer down their noses at him. There really is something wrong with Cobalt—something discordant and chaotic that makes me feel uncomfortable. His manner is even more disturbing than the Nightshade ring around his neck the day we met.

  There’s the ringing of a bell and the singing of a prayer, with two hundred voices worth of melody and harmony. The notes aren’t perfect, but the voices are powerful. For a moment my heart catches again, but I shake the feeling off. I don’t need sentimentality. I do like the rumbling in my chest that carries us through the low chorus. The thunder is both beautiful and frightening.

  Cobalt doesn’t sing, or pray, or look around. He sits sullen, sprawled alone in his bench with contempt plain on his face.

  There’s a public address, delivered by the Mitre Tactus. He’s a tall and handsome man with dark hair and a chiseled jaw. Magnus whispers that, on account of his prodigious understanding of all things military, Father Edward is the youngest Mitre in all the abbeys.

  Discussions of assignments follow: who will relieve various way-stations and hermitages, who will ferry messages to the other abbeys, and who will transfer to the outer holdings to help the Mitre Animus in the work and administration of the farms and fisheries.

  Brother Hawkwood, the haughty brother from South Reach Abbey, is chosen to replace the late Mitre Clinicus, though this causes a number of side discussions about whether or not he should be raised over the locals. The grumbling is moot though. From the conversation, I gather that there aren’t any among the ranks that can match his skill, so none raise their voice to object.

  Then Father Jeremiah calls for the General Status of the Abbey from each of the Mitres. They present reports of varying brevity, and then it’s Magnus’s turn.

  “Magnus Palaidus, and Witnesses, come forward.”

  The booming voice comes from the giant man that picked Magnus up yesterday, Father Hugues, Mitre Animus. He has short, curly red hair, and he smiles. The Mitre is in charge of the Abbey’s external holdings, farms, orchards, and fisheries, and when he’s available, the Council always makes him conduct the Assembly in his powerful voice.

  Magnus stands before the Council of the Mitres, young and naïve, with Lucinda and me on his left. What follows from Father Hugues is a general description of Magnus’s deeds in Ector, with regard to Pale Tom specifically.

  The whole tone in the room changes, and men who were nodding off come to attention. They whisper among themselves about how such a naïve and troublesome cadet might have put to rest a mighty Dreadlord.

  I feel sad to hear Tom talked about this way. Yes, he was evil by at least one standard: he took pay for killing innocents (and some not-so-innocents). But the stories always paint the Dreadlord as a cannibalistic wielder of magic, preying on the bones of the innocent and spreading death and destruction in his wake. Under these definitions, Tom must have been a nice sort of Dreadlord, maybe even on the wimpy side.

  Then they talk about Magnus’s dedication to bringing light to the world. They ask for Lucinda and me to witness to the veracity of their story. We do. I don’t bother to correct any of the minor inexactitudes. Seems like a bad time for that.

  One thing catches my attention more than all the words. In spite of snow on the rooftops and icicles on clotheslines draped between buildings in the city below us, there are butterflies here in the assembly hall, in the adjoining atrium, and in the courtyard. They are the most beautiful butterflies I have ever seen. The largest of them wanders into the assembly hall to inspect the proceedings. It flutters past the Altus Mitre, who waves it away, and then circles Magnus’s head twice before coming to rest on the spike of his left pauldron, wings waving slowly. I’m the first to notice it, but there’s a brief silence as the Mitres stand to get a better view. And then, when Magnus steps forward as part of the proceedings, it launches itself up frantically, flutters about, and lands on Lucinda’s shoulder in the same manner, where it stays for the remainder of the ceremony. Lucinda turns to watch it, her face more serene and peaceful than I’ve ever seen.

  A chair is brought forward and Magnus is seated in it. The nine Mitres come down from their lofty perches and each place their left hand—the hand of the heart—on his head. Their right hands rest lightly on sword hilts at their sides. Words are spoken by each Mitre. It is impossible, even as close as Lucinda and I are, to hear what’s being said.

  Magnus doesn’t smile or frown or close his eyes. His face is quiet, attentive.

  All but Father Jeremiah return to their seats, and it’s only now that I realize Magnus hasn’t been wearing his sword, while I’ve had to constantly cope with mine knocking about. Father Jeremiah holds it fist down, palm up, and Magnus takes it in the same manner.

  “Do you, Magnus Palaidus, pledge your life to protecting the innocent and bringing light to the darkness?”

  “I do.”

  “Give me your Oaths.”

  The words roll from Magnus’s tongue, beautiful, but only because I know he believes them, lives by them:

  In the darkness, I bring light.

  In the morning, I bring hope.

  Mercy at judgment, justice in battle.

  Servant and warrior, Godspeed.

  The words echo in the hall, bouncing from stone to stone like a thousand voices. “Godspeed,” the voices say, until the Paladins, clerks, and cadets—the entire congregation—take up the thundering chant. “Light. Hope. Battle. Godspeed. Light. Hope. Battle . . .”

  My eyes are drawn to Father Jeremiah, who is watching Magnus sternly as the thunderous acceptance fades. “Magnus Palaidus, I pronounce you a Sword of the Light.”

  There is silence in the hall. Light streams in through the not-stained-glass floor-to-ceiling windows. The clear panes seem to flare to life while the sinuous lines of Tenebrous shrink.

  “Godspeed,” echoes in the stillness.

  A short recess is called, and Father Jeremiah asks us to walk with him in the courtyard. I gather the kids and ditch Fat-sword. (A clerk promises to return it to the armory for me, confused as to why anyone would discard such a “fine” blade.) I don’t bother to explain the difference between “fine” and “utility.”

  The Altus Mitre asks the kids how they are enjoying their stay in Fortrus, but only half listens to their answers before suggesting which apprenticeships might best suit them. Then he asks if there is anything better that he can do for them. They thank him politely, eyes wide at such a generous offer from such an illustrious person.

  It’s winter in the world around us—mild as that might be in Fortrus—but springtime in the courtyard. The flowers are blooming here and the butterflies, albeit sluggish, flutter about them. It’s still cold here, don’t get me wrong, but the cold is muted, not as sharp as out in the abbey grounds.

  At the end of th
e small courtyard there are three chairs beneath three beautiful trees: cherry, apple, and orange. The cherry tree is the largest and she’s blossoming. She’s tall, with her branches spread wide to shelter the other two trees, though she can’t quite reach. There are long patches of soft grass here, green ferns from the Northern Reach, and the darker green of southern pine growing tall along the walls. There are tiers of greenery, all fanning out until the courtyard feels at once spacious and cluttered. It seems that the flora of the world has come seeking refuge here, which is no doubt the image that the gardeners want to evoke.

  “Pan’s beard!” I swear. “I can smell citrus and pine all in one breath.”

  Magnus inhales sharply. “You probably shouldn’t say that here, Teacup.”

  “Okay, Magnus.” But I feel like the three trees are laughing with me, happy that I’ve come. I feel accepted, received, and belonging. I don’t feel like I’ve offended anyone, except in Magnus’s shocked expression and Father Jeremiah’s eternally-stern look.

  Unfortunately, that stern face is enough to chase away a little confidence. I suddenly worry that I’ve stepped in something smelly and check my boots out of habit. If this is holy ground, I don’t want to be the one tracking dog scat all over the sacred ferns.

  Ironically, the only one with feces on them is Father Jeremiah, fresh pigeon stool dripping from his shoulder.

  “Your most holiness Altus Mitre,” I whisper, mangling his title. “There is crap on your stole of office.”

  “I know,” he says in a dry, gravelly voice. “I’m going to have to exchange it before the recess ends.” His expression never changes, as if the solemnity of the moment is too great to acknowledge the humor of anything.

  Lucinda sees it, though. “It’s okay, Teacup,” she giggles behind me. “It’s holy crap.”