Paladin

by Sally Slater

  “There isn’t much to know,” she said cautiously. The last thing she needed was for the High Commander to pry into her background.

  “You are Lord Hawkins’ second son, my secretary tells me,” he said, propping up his elbows on his desk. “I am unfamiliar with his name.”

  That’s because he doesn’t exist, she thought wryly to herself. “My father became a bit of a recluse after my mother died,” she lied smoothly. “A broken heart, you understand.”

  “Did your father train you?”

  “My father? He . . . well, he did, some,” she fumbled. “My father is the one who first taught me the sword.”

  “He must be very proud.”

  Sam bit the inside of her cheek. Her father didn’t know where she’d run off to, and if he did, he’d demand her return immediately and forbid her from ever holding a sword again. It wouldn’t be the first time, either. “My father wanted me to follow a different path.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  She raised her chin. “Here I am.”

  He folded his hands together, cradling his jaw in his hands. “Why?” he asked, as if he were genuinely interested. “Why defy your father?”

  “I thought we were here to talk about Braeden,” she said sharply.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is there something about Braeden you feel I ought to know?”

  “N-no,” she stumbled. Why was she here if not to discuss Braeden?

  “Then we need not discuss him.”

  “But what about Paladin Savage?” she burst out. Half the trainees were ready to condemn Braeden for his murder, and the High Commander wanted to discuss her relationship with her father?

  His face turned to stone. “A tragic loss.”

  “And Braeden?”

  “Saved the lives of hundreds of men.”

  She sagged against the back of her chair. “Aye, he did.” Relief warred with confusion. “Why did you bring me here, then, if not to talk about him?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Tristan warned me you were impertinent.”

  She gasped. “He said that about me to you?” She’d kill him when she saw him next.

  “He also said you were a fine swordsman and a quick study.”

  Her cheeks heated. “Tristan said that?” Sam had thought Tristan would bite off his own tongue before paying her a compliment.

  The High Commander chuckled at her reaction. “Aye, he did, lad. He does not give praise lightly, our Paladin Lyons.”

  Sam bowed her head. “Thank you, High Commander.”

  His voice softened to just above a hush, his words a gentle caress. “I spoke with Tristan at length about the events of last evening, and I met with the coroner. If the fault must lie with someone, it is with me. I thought we were invulnerable.”

  “The wards,” Sam said, “why did they fail? Why now, after all this time?”

  The High Commander’s eyes went wide, and then his face smoothed over. “Tristan mentioned the wards, did he?”

  She nodded. Were they supposed to be kept a secret?

  He sighed. “The last warders are long gone, and most of their knowledge is gone with them. But we do know that wards are mortal creations. And anything made by mortals erodes over time. Nothing human can last forever.”

  She mulled this over. “So you’re saying that the wards’ failure and the attack on the fortress was completely random?”

  The High Commander shook his head. “Nothing is ever random, Sam. Not the attack on the fortress nor you being here today. It’s just a question of putting the puzzle pieces together.”

  Now she was more confused than ever. “Why am I here?”

  “Because,” he said, his smile quizzical, “you’re a piece of the puzzle I have yet to figure out.”

  Sam left the High Commander’s office thoroughly shaken, feeling as though she’d been through an interrogation. The High Commander had asked her a number of deeply prying questions about Haywood and her family—most of which she’d had to lie about—and almost nothing of Braeden or the demons. It was all very strange.

  While the High Commander had assured her he believed in Braeden’s innocence, the vast majority of the trainees weren’t so sure. Thus when Sam went down to breakfast, she was shocked to find Braeden in the company of others. The fire-haired Will and a wiry, thin boy with dark skin and spectacles sat across the table from him.

  She slipped onto the bench beside Braeden. “Are these two bothering you?”

  Will glared at her. “Really, Sam?”

  Braeden didn’t respond; he just rolled his crimson eyes toward the ceiling.

  Sam shivered. “Don’t do that. It’s scary.”

  “You’re Sam of Haywood, right?” the bespectacled boy said. His voice was high and thin. “I’m Quinn of Kashmar.”

  “Why are you sitting here?” she asked Will and Quinn bluntly.

  Will scowled. “Not everyone thinks like Fenric does. He thinks he can say and do as he pleases just because his father is Andrel Vane.”

  “Besides,” added Quinn, speaking directly to Braeden, “the High Commander says you had nothing to do with it. I think I’ll listen to him over Fenric.”

  “Has he told everyone who his father is?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, that’s how he introduces himself,” Will said. And then, in a pitch-perfect imitation of Fenric’s aristocratic drawl, he said, “I’m Fenric of Icetower, son of Andrel Vane, greatest paladin who ever lived.”

  They all had a good chuckle at that, even Braeden.

  “That’s blasphemous, you know,” Sam said, when they stopped laughing. “I don’t think Andrel Vane could hold a candle to any of the first Twelve.”

  “True enough,” Quinn acknowledged. “And Tristan Lyons is better than Vane ever was, or so they say.”

  Her mouth went dry. “Tristan is?”

  Quinn nodded. “He’s supposed to be some sort of prodigy. He’s the youngest First in recorded history. Apparently the High Commander took him under his wing when he was little more than a boy. It’s amazing, considering Lyons’ past.” He flushed under his dark skin. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

  Will grinned. “Quinn’s father is a scholar. It’s rubbed off on him.”

  Quinn shot Will a sidelong glance. “Much to my father’s dismay, the only area of history I was ever interested in studying was Hartwin the Brave and the Paladins. I can recite the name of every First of the Sword since the Twelve. In order. It’s a fun party trick.”

  Sam stared at him. “How many have there been?”

  “172,” Quinn said.

  Will nudged him with his elbow. “Remind me to never bring you to any parties.”

  Quinn scoffed. “Like you get invited to any, farmboy.”

  Sam thought Will might take offense, but he smiled good-naturedly. “Farmers still throw parties, Quinn. We just dance in our barns alongside the cows.”

  She imagined twirling in one of her elegant court gowns, only to step in a pile of cow dung. “Really?”

  Will and Quinn looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “No, not really,” Will said, still laughing. He reached across the table and patted Sam on the shoulder with mock sympathy. “It’s not your fault you were born a lord’s son.”

  Ha! She wondered how they’d react if they knew she was a lord’s daughter, and the daughter of a duke to boot.

  Will’s freckled face fell. “Now I’ve gone and offended you. I don’t dislike all nobles.”

  “Just most of them,” Quinn said, and Will threw him an annoyed glance.

  She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not offended. I’d rather be a paladin than a lord, anyway.”

  “And I a paladin instead of a stuffy old academic,” Quinn said.

  “I’ve got a black thumb,” Will said ruefully. “Believe it or not, I’m a worse farmer than I am a swordsman.”

  They turned to Braeden expectantly. “Is it my turn to say something?” he asked.

  “It would be in the s
pirit of things,” Will said. He offered Braeden an encouraging smile.

  “All right,” Braeden said with a resigned shrug. “I want to repay my sins.”

  The smile slipped from Will’s face, and Quinn looked down at the ground. What sins? Sam wanted to ask.

  Braeden sighed. “I did it wrong, didn’t I?”

  “You’re fine,” Quinn assured him. Will recovered his smile and nodded in agreement.

  Sam felt a grin tug at her lips. “Quinn, Will,” she said, “you can sit with us anytime.”

  Braeden’s eyes flicked to hers. “Us, is it?”

  “Aye.” She met his gaze, daring him to challenge her. “Us.”

  The next few days passed mostly without incident. While the High Commander had publicly declared Braeden’s innocence, many of the trainees remained convinced otherwise, and Sam was considered guilty by association. Fenric and his cronies teased and tripped her at every opportunity. They played all sorts of practical jokes that were less than well-intentioned. Braeden, of course, had it far worse than she did.

  Will and Quinn continued to join them for meals, commiserating about Fenric’s repeated offenses and talking circles around Braeden, who didn’t seem to know what to make of them. Sam, for one, was grateful for the company. She hadn’t had people she could call friends in a long time, not since well before she’d left Haywood.

  One week after the demon attack on the fortress, Lord Astley announced there would be a tournament. The trainees buzzed with excitement: finally, a chance to distinguish the strong from the weak and earn a little personal glory. Unless something went terribly wrong, Sam was confident she’d do well.

  Will and Quinn were less certain.

  “You’ll do great,” she told them over dinner. “A week from now we’ll all be celebrating.”

  “Easy for you to say, Lord Invincible,” Will said darkly.

  Sam brightened. “Are they calling me that now?”

  Will and Quinn exchanged glances. “No,” they said in resounding unison.

  Braeden covered a cough that sounded suspiciously like a strangled laugh.

  Her glare encompassed all three of them. “I was trying to be supportive.”

  “Don’t be,” Quinn said.

  “Fine.” Sam made a show of turning up her nose while spooning soup into her mouth. A trickle leaked down her chin—not the desired effect. She wiped her mouth and took another slurp, grimacing. “Is it me or is the soup unusually salty tonight?”

  “Mine tasted normal,” Will said with a cheerful grin. “Your soup was probably Fenricked.”

  “We’re using his name as a verb now?” Quinn asked, an eyebrow arching over his spectacles. “I’m not sure he deserves the honor.”

  “It’s a curse word,” Will said. “Fenricked. Like f—”

  Will was interrupted by the loud clearing of a throat. “William,” Tristan said stiffly. Will’s face turned the same shade as his hair. Sam snickered into her soup.

  “Sam, Braeden, I need to speak with you,” Tristan said. “Privately.” Taking their cue, Will and Quinn pushed back the bench and left their seats to Tristan.

  He sat down across from Sam and Braeden, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. It was several long moments before he spoke. “I wanted to thank you,” he said. “Both of you. A lot more paladins would have been dead if it weren’t for your efforts.” He scratched the back of his head. “I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

  Sam’s mouth fell open. She wasn’t sure which shocked her more—that the great Tristan Lyons had thanked them or that he’d apologized.

  Tristan spoke again, this time with a quiet anger. “What you did, Braeden—those were the deeds of a paladin. You deserve to be acknowledged for it, not persecuted. I’m embarrassed for my brothers.” Braeden ducked his head, his cheeks tinged with pink.

  Tristan drew in a breath. “The High Commander feels that, given the unpleasantness of the situation with Paladin Savage, it would be in your best interest to leave Heartwine now.”

  “What?” cried Sam. “The High Commander is forcing Braeden out? How is that fair?”

  Tristan glowered at Sam. “No, Braeden is not getting forced out. The three of us will just be leaving Heartwine earlier than I originally planned.”

  “The three of us? Leaving? Where to?” Sam demanded in a rush. “What about the tournament?”

  Tristan rubbed his head in his hands. “You are exhausting, do you know that? We’re headed for the West.”

  “And the tournament?”

  “For you there will be no tournament. We leave at first dawn on the morrow.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Was it really necessary to leave so Gods damned early?” Sam groused, hugging her horse’s neck. The mare was a poor substitute for a pillow. “It’s not even light out yet.”

  “Yes, it was necessary,” Tristan said. “And we would have left earlier if I hadn’t had to physically drag you out of bed like a spoiled babe.”

  “Four hours of sleep is not humane.”

  “If you were looking to be coddled, boy, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “Children, children,” Braeden murmured with a hint of a smile.

  “It’s your fault we had to leave at this ungodly hour,” Sam complained. “If it weren’t for you—” she choked off her words as she realized what she’d said. “Gods, Braeden, I didn’t mean it!”

  Braeden wouldn’t look at her. “It’s fine.” With a sharp “Hyah!” he spurred his horse into a gallop.

  Tristan and Sam watched as Braeden slowed his horse to a trot, still in eyesight but far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to converse with them. “You’re an idiot,” Tristan told her.

  “I know,” she replied miserably.

  Dawn broke over the horizon, the orange of the sun painting stripes of pink and purple against the fading indigo of the night sky. The dirt road they traveled was deserted; the nearest village was still miles away and the high walls of the Paladins’ fortress were now a tiny speck in the distance. Sam had passed through this land before as she made her way from Haywood to Heartwine, but in the shadowed glow of dawn, it was unrecognizable.

  They traveled in silence for several more hours, interrupted only by the thud of hooves against packed ground and the rustling of leaves as the wind whistled through the trees. Braeden still plodded on ahead, and Tristan seemed too disgusted with her to make conversation. So with no one but her horse to keep her company, Sam was hit by a wave of loneliness. She missed Will’s and Quinn’s constant jabber. She hadn’t even gotten a chance to say goodbye.

  Sam almost cried for joy when she saw the top of a picket fence and thatched roofs in the distance. People, she thought happily. People who talked.

  Braeden drew his horse to a stop when the village was in clear sight, waiting for Sam and Tristan to catch up to him. He’d donned a conical straw hat, the brim pulled low over his eyes. With only the bottom of his lower lashes visible, he looked like a young foreign lord come to visit the countryside.

  “We’re just passing through, lads,” Tristan warned as they neared the village gate. “We’ve got miles to go before nightfall.”

  Though it was only a few hours past dawn, the small village of Gwent was already bustling with activity. The local merchants stood behind their stalls in the market square, hawking their wares to any and every passerby within earshot. The smell of fresh gingerbread wafted in the air from the bakery, and the steady pounding of mallet against cowhide resonated from the tannery. Women in their long woolen gowns and wimples clustered around the village well, trading gossip while they waited their turn to draw water, and the children played games at their mothers’ feet.

  “Paladin Lyons!” a voice cried in greeting. A round little man waddled over to their horses, a wide smile plastered on his sweaty face.

  “Master Collop,” Tristan acknowledged.

  “Dare I hope that you will spend the night? It’s good for business when I can claim a pal
adin among my patrons.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Not tonight. But I wouldn’t say no to a bite of breakfast before we continue on our way.”

  “Of course, of course,” the innkeeper said. “Will your companions want to breakfast as well?”

  Sam’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. Master Collop chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes. Right this way.”

  The Laughing Bear came rightfully by its name. Even at this early hour, the inn drew a crowd, and the sounds of laughter and merriment were infectious. A group of young men hooted and hollered at a kitchen maid, a pretty slip of a girl with the voice of an angel, who was singing atop a table. Sam tapped her good foot in time to the music—till she got a better listen at the bawdy lyrics.

  As they wound their way around the inn to the nearest empty table, they were stopped a dozen times. Everyone seemed to have something to say to Tristan, whether it was to tell him about the birth of a new foal or the latest village scandal. A few of the men were bent on introducing Tristan to their daughters, but he politely declined their entreaties. Braeden kept his eyes downcast and did not remove his hat.

  “I thought we would never eat,” Sam said as the innkeeper’s wife set down plates of kippered herring and mugs of watered wine in front of them. “Who knew you were so popular?”

  Tristan shrugged. “I’ve come through here before. Master Collop has been a good friend to the Paladins.”

  When they were about halfway through their breakfast, the innkeeper paid them another visit. “If you have a moment, Paladin Lyons, I need to speak with you in private. I have news that may be of interest to you.”

  Tristan pulled a gold coin from his belt pouch and slid it across the table. “Braeden and Sam are my trainees. They are to hear your news as well.”

  “Very well.” Master Collop swept up the gold coin and deposited it into his apron. “I hear rumors, Paladin.”

  “You know I don’t put much stock in rumors,” Tristan admonished.

  “Aye, that I do, Paladin. But I think these rumors are worthy of your attention.” The innkeeper’s eyes darted right and left. “I hear you’re headed west.”