Paladin's Strength

by T. Kingfisher

  “You might look good in white.”

  “Like a knight in shining armor?” He snorted. “I was never knighted. Not landed, not rich. And the pal…people I know who wear white usually have access to a laundry staff.” Paladins of the Dreaming God wore white tabards. You could really start to resent them, if they didn’t go around radiating goodness and decency like some kind of furnace.

  Tolly was silent for a moment. He could hear her moving closer, hear the sounds of small stones turning under her feet.

  “Grandda likes you,” she said, quite close now.

  “I like him, too,” said Istvhan, who had a pretty good idea where this was going and was hoping that he was wrong. If that wasn’t a stand-in for ‘I like you,’ I’ll eat this tunic. “Mind you, I was a little uncertain at first, since the world’s full of charlatans and snake oil peddlers, but I’m glad I was wrong.”

  Tolly nodded. In the moonlight, she looked young and graceful, beautiful and…young. Saint’s teeth, everyone gets younger every year, I think. Except me.

  “It must be lonely, being a bodyguard,” she said, turning toward him.

  Istvhan, who was capable of recognizing a hint when it bashed him in the head, bent over his tunic on the rock and scrubbed harder. “Not really,” he said, careful not to look at her. “You’re never alone. You’re always around someone else. By definition, really.”

  “Not being alone isn’t the same as not being lonely,” Tolly said.

  He risked a glance up. She’d taken a step closer. She was slim and dark-eyed and reminded him of a gazelle. Just as long as she doesn’t suddenly turn into one. I don’t think my heart can take any more were-women this week. Not without some warning.

  She smiled at him and drew her fingertip down the line of her throat.

  Saint’s blood, I suppose this is about to be awkward. He had absolutely no desire to offend Tolly. He liked her. He just wasn’t the least bit interested. She wasn’t quite young enough to be his daughter, but he definitely had nieces her age, and while there were plenty of men who wanted young women in their beds, he wasn’t one of them. It goes along fine for a bit and then, just when you’re feeling like a particularly virile stallion of a man, they say something about what year they were born or mention some ancient history that you actually lived through and suddenly you feel your bones turn to dust and your hip spontaneously breaks in three places.

  Istvhan had had a fling with a much younger woman once. A week later he’d found a stark white hair on his groin and had never been able to shake the feeling that the Saint had been punishing him.

  Tolly unbound her hair and let it fall over her shoulders. Had Istvhan not just been thinking about stray white hairs, the thought of all that blonde hair draped across his chest—which had been decidedly salt-and-pepper since he turned forty last year—would not have been quite so unsettling.

  “Tolly…” he began. There is never any easy way out of this situation. You reject her before she’s committed to seducing you, and you look like an arrogant ass. She comes out and propositions you, and she feels rejected. Damn, damn, damn.

  Well, he was a paladin, which meant erring on the side of being an arrogant ass in most circumstances. And at least this way she feels like you’re a fool, not that she’s not worthy. “You are a lovely young woman,” he said, “and if I were not bound to someone else’s service, I suspect that I would be thinking very ignoble thoughts right now.”

  “How ignoble?”

  “Oh, fairly ignoble. But alas, it can’t be. I’m sorry. There’s an oath.”

  She frowned. “You took an oath?”

  “Yes. The men of my order don’t…ah…act on ignoble thoughts.”

  “What order?”

  “The Order of St. Galen.” He apologized to his friend in his head. Galen had acted on any number of ignoble thoughts, as Istvhan knew from years of living down the hall from him.

  She took a step closer, chewing on her lower lip. Istvhan lowered his head and beat the hell out of his tunic on the rock. “What, never?”

  “No.” He thought about trying to make up some complicated theological reasons, but the simple lies were best. Of course, there goes any chance of trying to seduce Clara before we get to Morstone. Great. Well done, sir.

  It was probably for the best. You certainly couldn’t do your best work in the bedchamber when the bedchamber consisted of the space under a wagon, with occasional mule sounds. It was just that when they slept so close and he could feel the heat of her skin and thought about sliding a little closer and warming his hands against that heat…

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Tolly.

  Istvhan heaved a sigh. “Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”

  Clara had just about convinced herself that the reason she was still awake was because the ground was hard when she heard footsteps. A moment later, Istvhan dropped down beside her and began pulling his blankets into position.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, startled. There hadn’t been enough time for Istvhan and Tolly to do anything—well, not anything worth doing, anyway. She had thought better of Istvhan.

  “I’m going to sleep,” he said. He sounded puzzled. “Do you want me to take the other side?”

  “Why aren’t you with Tolly?”

  She could only see the bottom half of his face. The wagon wheels cast spokes of shadow across the rest. “I managed to convince her that the Sacred Bodyguards of St. Galen are sworn to celibacy. Don’t laugh.”

  “You what?”

  “Look, it was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment. It was that or ‘Look behind you! A rabid unicorn!’ and running away.”

  Relief warred with…was it anger? It certainly felt like anger. Why would she be angry?

  I’m angry because I wanted him to go off with Tolly so that I could prove that I was okay and it didn’t mean anything to me. That I wasn’t jealous. That I was happy that Istvhan had found a nice human woman to dally with. And instead the damnable noble bastard went and was damnably noble.

  “Why didn’t you…just…just…” For some reason, the only word that she could think of was canoodling and it didn’t seem at all like the right word. “She’s very nice!”

  “She could be my daughter,” said Istvhan, stretching out next to her.

  “She could not.”

  “I’d have had to be fairly precocious, but it’s theoretically possible.”

  “Yes, but…” This was not the conversation she’d meant to have. “She’s a lovely girl!”

  “Oh, very.”

  “You don’t have to not…err…” Hell with it. “You don’t have to not canoodle because of me.”

  “Canoodle?” He sat up so fast he nearly cracked his skull on an axle and ducked down, swearing. “Canoodle!? I have never canoodled in my life.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that.”

  “You had better. When I do it, it is not canoodling.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Madam,” said Istvhan, his voice dropping nearly an octave, “I have made love. I have had sex. I have bedded, rutted, fucked, and on one occasion, with enthusiastic consent and a great deal of oil, I have sodomized, but I have never, not once, canoodled.”

  Clara’s mouth hung open but she did not seem to have anything useful to say.

  “Now,” said Istvhan, still in a deep, savage whisper, “if you are done trying to whore me out to our host’s granddaughter, I am going to sleep. Virtuously alone.”

  Clara was not sure it counted as alone when she was less than two feet away, but this did not seem like the time to bring it up. “Well. Good night, then,” she said, mostly so that he wouldn’t realize he’d struck her speechless.

  “And to you, Domina,” he said, all smooth politeness.

  She rolled over. So did he. They both stared into the dark, but neither one of them were sleeping.

  Twenty-Five

  Istvhan spent the morning feeling alternately surly and guil
ty. Surly because Clara had been throwing him at Tolly, and what did she think he was, anyway? He had standards. Tolly was a sweet girl, but Istvhan was old enough to be her father, allowing for the precociousness and so forth. And it’s not like I just jump on any woman that comes down the road, dammit.

  Then Guilt kicked in. Of course she’d think that. You went from being pleasant to a nun to bending her over the wagon and putting your tongue halfway down her throat, out of nowhere.

  Surliness jumped in immediately—did she think that didn’t mean anything? Was it that lousy? She kissed back, dammit…

  And then Guilt was back—sure, and then you stabbed her, so why are you surprised she’s trying to throw you at any other woman in the vicinity to keep you at arm’s length?

  A third thought tried to intrude. She also turned into a bear and bit a man’s head in half? Surly and Guilty turned on the newcomer and pummeled it into nonexistence.

  This did not make for a pleasant morning. He grunted a lot.

  “Sore head?” asked Doc Mason. “I’ve got a tonic that helps with that.”

  Istvhan snorted, which was as close as he could get to a laugh at the moment. “Does it cure that, as well?”

  “Oh yes. Amazing the number of things it cures. Hangovers, scurvy, broken hearts…”

  Istvhan side-eyed him over that last one. Doc Mason side-eyed him right back. Since Tolly was sitting on the wagon seat, driving the mules, he couldn’t very well ask the doctor what he meant by that.

  “Another two days to Morstone,” said Doc Mason, waving his arm at the road ahead. “Unless I’ve mixed the road up again.” Istvhan grunted again.

  “No, you’re right,” said Tolly. She sounded subdued this morning, which put Guilt back into ascendency.

  They paused at an inn to water the mules and pick up a midday meal. Istvhan went to find Clara and handed her one of the heavily spiced sausages that constituted a local delicacy.

  “Thank you,” she said, in the carefully neutral tone of someone who doesn’t know who, if anyone, is angry, and whether or not they deserve to be.

  “Another show tomorrow evening,” Doc Mason said, gesticulating with his sausage. “A town called—oh blast…”

  “Boriss.”

  “Right, right. We came through three or four years ago. Lovely place. Then we’ll go down the road a bit more and stop for the night, and we’ll be at Morstone by noon the next day.” He tapped his nose. “I’d love to have you on stage again, young man, if you’re willing. The story about your sickly youth sells tonic hand over fist.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Istvhan, determined not to grunt any more. Act civilized. They’ve been very kind to you and it’d make the trip a lot easier.

  Then Clara tapped him on the shoulder and he heard himself grunt again. Dammit.

  She drew him back toward the stables, well out of earshot. “Captain Istvhan,” she said, all cool formality, “I wish to apologize.”

  Captain. They were back to captain again. Fine. “Domina Clara,” he said, matching her coolness, “no apology is necessary.”

  She inclined her head a fraction, acknowledging either his words or his tone, he wasn’t sure which. “I feel that it is,” she said. “Your private life is none of my affair, and it was wrong of me to act as if it was.” She was meeting his eyes and he could not read a damn thing in hers, as unreadable as amber. “I apologize for having acted as if you owed me an explanation in any way.”

  The words sank into Istvhan’s gut and he looked away. Your private life is none of my affair. No, of course it wasn’t, because she wasn’t involved, was she? And she’d made damn clear that she didn’t want to be involved, either. What did you expect? You stab her, you force her to drag you along with her, you grab for her like an untried boy with his first woman and then recoil like that boy at his first battle when she kills a man, and now you have the gall to feel rejected? Saint’s balls. She’s been friendly because she’s a decent woman, that’s all, and maybe you could have been friends, if you didn’t keep making a hash of things.

  Surliness pointed out that she’d also made a bit of a hash of things. Guilt countered that she’d apologized for it like an adult. Istvhan tried to seize control of the mental situation. “Domina.”

  Clara raised her eyebrows.

  “I should apologize to you as well,” he said. “I have not handled any of…anything…as well as I should have.”

  “Well,” she said, thawing a bit, “it’s been a pretty long week for both of us.”

  “Not as long as the month you had before that.”

  “And that wasn’t as long as…well, however long ago your god died. We really don’t need to play ‘who’s more miserable?’ do we?”

  “No, no.” He rubbed his forehead. “Domin…Clara...I’m pretty sure we were well on our way to being friends. Weren’t we? Was I wrong?”

  The edge of a smile touched her face. “I thought we were, yeah.”

  “Do you think we can still manage that? If I avoid stabbing you again?”

  The smile grew. “I honestly don’t care about the stabbing.”

  “I care! You can’t just go around stabbing people and expecting them to get over it!”

  “But I did get over it.”

  “But you shouldn’t have! I mean, I’m glad you did, but you shouldn’t just forgive people for stabbing you just like that.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do you want me to stab you? Would that make you feel less guilty?”

  “It might, yes!”

  Clara sighed. “No stabbing,” she said. “I’ve a philosophical objection.”

  “Nuns are sadists,” he muttered. “I always knew it.”

  “And paladins are martyrs. What would you do if you accidentally stabbed one of your brothers?”

  “Oh, it’s less of a problem. I choked one into unconsciousness once when the tide rose and he didn’t snap out of it. He broke Galen’s arm, Galen smashed up his ribs, we’re all good friends and would die for each other.”

  Clara stared at him for a long moment, then gazed up at heaven as if seeking strength. “Do you see what I’m up against, St. Ursa?” she asked the sky. “Are you hearing this?”

  “It’s different,” muttered Istvhan.

  “Because you’re men?”

  “No, of course not. I’d choke Wren or Judith, too. We’re comrades-in-arms. It doesn’t count.”

  She folded her arms and looked down her nose at him. “Because I’m a nun?”

  Istvhan felt suddenly pinned to the roadway. “Mmmrhrf,” he said, staring at his feet.

  “Sorry, I don’t believe I caught that.”

  “I said, maybe a little.” He held up his hands defensively. “But not really! Mostly because—well—we spar all the time! We’re always hitting each other with sticks! You don’t keep track!”

  Clara rubbed her hands over her face and turned away. “Wait here,” she said over her shoulder.

  Istvhan waited, unsure what was happening next but quite sure that he had put his foot in it, yet again. I used to be good with women. I really did. I remember it distinctly.

  A young stableboy came out of the stables and cocked an eye at Istvhan. “You waitin’ on a horse, sir?”

  “No, a nun,” said Istvhan.

  The boy looked at him as if he’d lost his mind and retreated into the stables. Istvhan contemplated the life choices that had brought him to this moment and whether he could have turned aside at any point.

  He had just concluded that everything had started to go wrong about the time when he learned to walk when Clara reappeared. She was carrying two long staves, the sort that usually had a hoe or a pitchfork attached to the end. She tossed him one. “We’re getting ready to leave,” she said. “Carry this.”

  Istvhan swung it experimentally. “Is there some reason you’re giving me a large stick?”

  “Yes. I’m going to hit you with the one I’m carrying, and you’re going to try to stop me.”

  “…
I see.”

  He followed Clara to the wagon. Doc Mason climbed up on the seat and waved grandly to the few people in the street. “Doc Mason’s Herbal Medicine!” he called. “Tell your friends!”

  Once they were well away, Clara fell back behind the wagon. The mules were not putting on any particular turn of speed this afternoon, which meant they could keep up easily. “All right. You want to spar? Let’s do it.”

  “Um,” said Istvhan. There did not seem to be a polite way to say that, whatever his flaws, Istvhan was a trained warrior who had spent much of his life dedicated to combat, and Clara, whatever her virtues, was not. “I…ah…don’t want to hurt you?”

  She whacked him in the shins. He yelped.

  “I didn’t mean—” She went for his shins again, and this time he danced backward out of the way. Clara followed, jabbing her stave at his feet, and he had to either retreat into the ditch or block. He blocked.

  Clara’s style was all strength and no finesse. I suppose when you’re a bear, you don’t really need to learn finesse. She was ungodly strong, though. He had to set his feet to keep from being shoved backward by her blows. And when was the last time that happened? Probably scrapping with one of the Dreaming God’s people, they’re all overmuscled like that.

  The stave was too short to use as a proper quarterstaff and too long to serve as a practice sword. His old sword-master would have groaned to see how he was gripping it, but she would also have been the first to admit that you worked with what you had. He made a tentative jab in Clara’s direction and she smacked it aside with enough force to make his palms sting.

  It is possible the lady has some aggressions to work out. The black tide whispered to him that all he had to do was wait for her to lunge, step aside, and crack her across the back of the skull and it would all be over. He ignored it.

  Clara spent about five minutes chasing him back and forth across the road and blocking his occasional swings. “You’re toying with me,” she said, panting. “Don’t think I don’t realize that.”

  “Not as much as I thought I would be,” he said. He was also panting. He could have ended it at any time, but blocking those hammer-like blows was taking a toll. He could see how she’d cut such a swath through the bandits. “If you ever felt like dedicating your life to the blade, I could make a terrifying warrior of you.”