by Sally Slater
Tristan’s expression didn’t change. “Go on.”
Master Collop coughed into his hand. “I have an innkeeper friend at The Stag and Bull in Pirama. Business has been tough lately, and he asked to borrow a few sovereigns, just to stay afloat. ‘Business is that bad?’ I asked him. Now, John Byrd—that’s his name—is as loyal to the Paladins as they come. He understands what you do for Thule, same as me. But things are bad out west. Terrible, John tells me.”
“How do you mean?”
“The locals think there has been a new breach in the Afterlight into our world. Ridiculous, I know. But the demons are appearing in greater numbers than ever before, demons that haven’t been seen in thousands of years. People are saying and believing crazy things.”
“Isn’t Paladin Reynard stationed in Pirama?” Tristan asked. “I would think he’d have called for help if the situation were truly dire.”
The innkeeper wrinkled his brow. “I assumed he had. I thought that was why the High Commander was sending you west.”
Tristan shifted in his seat. “Is that all?”
Master Collop shook his head. “No, Paladin.” He leaned in closer. “Have you heard of the Uriel?”
Tristan’s eyes widened for the barest second. “The Uriel?” he repeated.
“The Uriel,” Master Collop whispered. “I don’t know much about them, but John says they’re causing a real stir out west. They say they can protect the West from demons better than the Paladins. And they’ve already amassed a decent sized following. John thinks a rebellion is coming; he’s heard rumbles about it. And folks are already refusing to stay at The Stag & Bull since John has the Paladins’ emblem carved on his door. That’s why he needed to borrow the money.”
Tristan rubbed the blond stubble at his chin. “It’s grim news you share, Master Collop. I’ll have to write of this to the High Commander.” He slid another two sovereigns across the table. “Can I trust you to deliver the letter? And to keep quiet about these rumors till I return?”
The two coins vanished into Master Collop’s apron. “You can put your faith in me, Paladin.”
Half an hour later, Master Collop walked them to the stables, a slight jingle to his step. “You be careful, now,” the innkeeper cautioned as he brought out their horses.
“I always am,” Tristan said.
“You too, Master Sam and Master Braeden. And you listen to Paladin Lyons. He’s a good man, he is.” The innkeeper bowed as low as his rounded body would allow. The sock cap he wore slipped off his head, revealing his shiny bald pate.
Once Master Collop was no longer in sight, a helpless giggle escaped Sam’s lips. Tristan brought his horse close enough to hers so that the back of her head was in range. “Idiot,” he scoffed, smacking her across the nape of her neck.
“Oy,” she protested, rubbing at the tender skin. “I couldn’t help it. That man is just so silly.”
“Aye, Master Collop is quite silly,” Tristan admitted. “But we’d do well to heed his words. He may be a bothersome old gossip, but his information is seldom wrong.”
“What did he mean about another breach in the Afterlight?” she asked.
“Now that’s blather, if you ask me,” Tristan said. “No one has breached the Afterlight, not since the Age of Shadows. It’s warded.”
“Didn’t you say that about the wards in the fortress?” Braeden asked dryly.
Tristan opened his mouth and then closed it. “Point taken.”
They continued on the road again, now with far more amiability than the frosty silence of the morning. Tristan took the lead, setting a pace that was as fast as they could reasonably push the horses. Sam’s right ankle still ached, but she pushed it out of her mind.
The road was not nearly as desolate as it had been between Heartwine and Gwent; the villages were not spread so far apart here, and merchants with their goods in tow traversed the dirt path between one village and the next. But Tristan wanted to reach the city of Cordoba before they closed the gates at nightfall, so he did not allow them stop again, and they ate their midday meal in the saddle. It was a good thing, too, for by the time they reached the city, it was already dusk.
“I hate Cordoba,” Braeden muttered darkly as they neared the city gates.
Sam turned to Braeden in surprise. “Why?” She hadn’t spent more than an hour in Cordoba, and had only passed through, so she knew little about the city or its people.
It was Tristan who answered. “Given its proximity to Heartwine, Cordoba is a Paladin bastion, and the city is very impassioned about our cause. You might say that their passion borders on fanaticism.” Tristan twisted in his saddle towards Braeden. “I take it your, ah, unique heritage may have raised a few eyebrows?”
Braeden grimaced, tugging his straw hat lower over his eyes. “Something like that.”
CHAPTER 10
Tristan was growing impatient. If The Laughing Bear had been full, The Twelve Peers inn was overflowing. Even the foyer was crowded with people, and he had to shove and elbow his way to the front desk. A woman in a too-tight dress and far too much makeup stood behind the counter, thumbing through the guest book.
“Excuse me, Mistress . . .” Tristan started.
“Rosamund,” she supplied, focused on her bookkeeping. “What can I do for you?”
“I need three rooms, please. For me and the lads,” Tristan said, nodding towards Sam and Braeden.
Mistress Rosamund guffawed. “Three rooms? ’Ave you seen the place? You’ll be lucky if you don’t ’ave to sleep in the stables.”
Tristan clutched her hand and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles. “My lady, isn’t there anything you can do?” He lowered his voice. “For a paladin and his trainees?”
Mistress Rosamund finally looked at him, a blush staining her cheeks. “Well now, let me see ’ere,” she murmured. “Per’aps the three of you would be willin’ to share a room?” She lowered her eyes, then peeked at Tristan through her spidery lashes. “Though I would be ’appy to share me own chambers wiv you, love.”
“Ah, madam, you are too kind, but I think the three of us will have to share a room. We’ve an early start to the morning, and I’ve a feeling if I stayed with you, we wouldn’t be doing much sleeping,” Tristan said with a wink. Behind him, Sam made a gagging noise.
Mistress Rosamund cackled delightedly. “Too bad. Meg!” she barked. A young maid scurried to the front desk and bobbed a curtsy. “Meg, I need you to show the misters ’ere to their room. Room 317, it’ll be.” She leaned against the counter, showing her ample cleavage to its best advantage. “An’ if you change your mind, love, you just let me know.”
The room Mistress Rosamund rented out to them was a tight squeeze, but it would do. Meg promised to have a footman bring up extra pallets, so they wouldn’t have to share a bed. Tristan knew well that they wouldn’t always be so lucky; he’d spent most of the past decade on the road, and he took his comforts where he could.
“I’m going to grab a drink or two downstairs,” he announced, feeling sociable. “Either of you care to join me?”
“I’ll pass,” Braeden said.
“Sam?” Tristan asked.
Sam shrugged. “Why not?”
Evenings at The Twelve Peers were a raucous affair, and Tristan couldn’t help but laugh at the shocked expression on Sam’s face. His eyes grew wider and wider as the inn’s patrons pushed the boundaries of propriety to their limits and beyond. Men and women whirled around the floor in a mockery of a waltz, their bodies pressed so close together that not even an inch separated them. Several fillies sat perched on the knees of their misters, tittering and whispering sweet nothings into their lovers’ ears. Tristan thought Sam might faint when a roguish fellow planted a kiss right on his lady’s lips.
“I didn’t know you were such an innocent,” Tristan teased.
“It’s improper,” Sam hissed. “Don’t these people have any decency?”
Tristan clapped his trainee on the shoulder. “Welcome to c
ity life, lad.” He steered the boy towards the sole empty table. “Let’s get you a drink.”
Tristan beckoned the nearest serving wench and watched appreciatively as she sashayed her way over to their table. “What can I get for you?” she asked.
“Your finest red wine will do. And there’s an extra gold coin in it for you if you care to join us,” Tristan said, waggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.
The serving wench grinned, displaying crooked white teeth that somehow made her all the more appealing. “I’ll be back with wine in a shake.”
Tristan watched her walk away, letting out a low whistle. “That’s a fine looking woman.”
“If you say so,” Sam said dubiously.
Ironically, when the serving wench—Alice, she told them—returned with three tankards and a pitcher of wine, the lass only had eyes for Sam. She slid her chair as close to him as was physically possible and touched his arm at frequent intervals. Sam seemed oblivious to her overtures and chatted with her as though they were bosom friends. Tristan was unused to getting passed over for another, but he supposed Sam was attractive in his own way, if a woman liked her man to be pretty.
Feeling like a voyeur, Tristan excused himself from their table. He figured he might as well rout out the local gossip to see if he could learn anything else of the Uriel.
After an hour of flirting and flattering, Tristan came away with a single name—Denya, a priestess of Cathair, the Night Lord. He’d been told that if anyone in Cordoba knew anything of the situation out west, it would be she. Tristan was quite pleased with himself; he’d even managed to ferret out the priestess’s location, and it only cost him a silver penny.
When he returned his attention to where he had left Sam, he had to fight back a groan. The fool boy was stewed to the gills, swaying back and forth on his stool. It seemed only Alice’s firm grip on his forearm kept him from tipping over. It was no wonder how he’d gotten himself in such a state; with her free hand, Alice discreetly poured the last of the wine into Sam’s tankard.
Tristan considered allowing the serving wench to have her way with his drunk imbecile of a trainee, as that was clearly her intention, but decided to take pity on the boy. “Come on, lad,” he said, gripping Sam by the elbow. “I’ll take you up to bed.” He dipped his head in apology to Alice, who pouted good-naturedly as Tristan dragged Sam away.
They had just made it to the stairs when Tristan felt Sam’s full weight slump against him. “Sam?”
The boy said nothing, continuing to lean against him.
“Sam?” he repeated, a good deal louder. Sam stayed silent. Tristan gripped him by the shoulders and shook. “Sam!” he shouted. No response.
Tristan would have been concerned if he didn’t see the rise and fall of Sam’s chest. Sam wasn’t dead; his idiot trainee had passed out from overindulgence. “Why me?” he asked the Gods, though of course they didn’t answer. Cursing under his breath, he scooped Sam into his arms and began trudging up the stairs. Sam, still asleep, sighed softly and wrapped his hands around Tristan’s neck.
“You need to eat more,” Tristan told his sleeping bundle. In response, Sam snored and nuzzled his nose against Tristan’s sternum. “You stop that!” he snapped.
The climb up the stairs seemed inordinately long. Though Sam was hardly a heavy burden, Tristan was hot and out of breath by the time they reached their room. Shifting Sam against him so he could hold him with one arm, he rummaged around in his belt pouch for the room key and pushed the door open with a foot.
Braeden looked up from the book he was reading. “All right then?”
Tristan dumped Sam unceremoniously on the empty bed pallet. The boy snorted, grabbed at a nearby pillow, and curled his body around it.
Tristan nodded at Sam. “He had too much to drink.” Sam punctuated the statement with an earth shattering snore.
Braeden’s lips threatened a smile. “I can see that.”
Tristan studied Sam’s corpselike form. “He’s going to hate himself in the morning.”
“Aye.”
“Unfortunate, really, that we have to wake up early.”
“Indeed.”
Tristan met Braeden’s eyes, which crinkled at the corners. He felt his lips twitch once, twice, before the two of them doubled over with laughter.
Sam continued to sleep, undisturbed.
CHAPTER 11
Sam woke up with the worst headache of her life. It felt like she’d been bludgeoned with a mace. When she tried to sit up, her vision crossed and her stomach roiled with nausea. “I’m going to be sick,” she managed before retching into a strategically placed chamber pot.
Tristan thumped her on the back. “Get it all out, lad. That’s it.”
“Why are you shouting?” she gasped in between heaves.
“I’m barely whispering,” Tristan said, smirking. “You’re sick from too much drink.”
“Impossible. I just had one drink . . . two drinks”—she counted on her fingers—“I—I don’t remember.”
“I’ll remind you. You had a few drinks too many,” Tristan said. “I had to carry you up to bed.”
Her face flamed to red. “You did not.”
“He did,” confirmed Braeden, leaning against the doorpost of their inn room.
Traitor, she mouthed, and then emptied the remainder of her stomach contents into the chamber pot.
“Clean yourself up and get ready to leave,” Tristan said once she’d finished gagging. “We haven’t a moment to waste.”
As soon as Sam was dressed and capable, Tristan shuffled them out of the Laughing Bear and on the road to some private temple. The temple was hidden away on a small parcel of land that the rest of the city seemed to have forgotten. A solitary dirt path led to a small chapel and outdoor shrine, and then it forked off to a little stone cottage with a thatched roof and a single round window. A strange green smoke rose from its chimney.
Tristan tried knocking on the front door, but no one answered. He twisted the brass knob and pushed, and the door gave easily. With a shrug, he stepped inside, ushering Sam and Braeden to follow him in.
They stepped into a rudimentary kitchen area. A tiny figure stooped over the stone hearth, stirring a pot with a bone-thin arm that had the knobbiest elbow Sam had ever seen. Stark white hair in a waist-length braid swayed as the old woman grabbed ingredients from various drawers and cabinets and added them to the simmering brew. Ominous green vapors rose from the pot. After a dash of something, they settled into a silver mist.
“I wondered when you would come.”
They all jumped, even Braeden. “How did you know we were here?” Sam asked.
Still bent over her pot, the old woman flicked the lobe of her left ear. “I do not need eyes to see you, child.”
“Who told you we were coming?” Tristan asked sharply.
She straightened and turned to face him, her craggy features splitting into a smile. “Why, you did, Paladin Lyons.” She snorted at his perplexed expression. “There are no secrets in Cordoba. And you, Paladin, are as discreet as the town crier.”
Tristan’s mouth flapped open and closed a few times. Sam had to restrain an errant giggle; Tristan was clearly unused to being spoken to with such candor. “You are Denya, Priestess of Cathair, are you not?” he finally got out.
The old woman nodded. “I am she.”
“I heard you might be able to help us,” Tristan said. “We’re in need of information of a somewhat delicate nature.”
Denya fluttered bare eyelids, a wicked, girlish smile on her colorless lips. “Of course I am able to help you.” Her grin widened. “The question is if I am willing.”
Tristan gritted his teeth. “I can pay for information. Name your price, and the High Commander will see that you are paid.”
The old woman drew herself back in umbrage. “I am a priestess of Cathair, not some common strumpet. If I choose to aid you, it is because the Night Father wills it so.”
“And how do you deter
mine that?” Tristan asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“Simple,” Denya said. “I will ask.”
Tristan rolled his eyes heavenward. “And what, will he answer?”
Sam drew in a sharp breath of air at his rudeness. He hadn’t blasphemed the Night Lord, but he walked a thin line. What had happened to Tristan to make him such a skeptic?
The old woman placed her hands on her hips, glaring up at him. “I see you have little respect for the Gods, and even less for their messengers.”
“I learned long ago to put my faith in myself, not the Gods,” Tristan said, returning her glare. “I respect them, but I don’t rely on them. Now will you help us or not?”
Denya sighed, and then waved her hand toward a small table and chairs. “Sit,” she said. “I will hear your questions. Perhaps I will answer them if you answer my questions in return.”
They settled themselves around the table in awkward silence. The spark of humor vanished from Denya’s rheumy eyes. Her gaze landed on Braeden, and she started, as if noticing him for the first time. Braeden ducked his head, staring fixedly at the surface of the table. With what appeared to be a great force of effort, the priestess returned her attention to Tristan. “Speak, Paladin. What secrets do you want to know?”
Tristan leaned forward in his seat. “What can you tell me of the Uriel?”
The old woman tilted her head to the side, reminding Sam of a crow. “I will not answer that question, Paladin, not yet. Tell me first why you wish to know.”
Tristan let out a huff of air. “But you have heard of the Uriel, yes?”
A cryptic smile played across the old woman’s mouth. “Aye, Paladin, I have. It won’t be long till all of Thule has heard their name.”
“You sound like you admire them,” Sam accused. Tristan scowled at her as though she’d spoken out of turn. She ignored him, awaiting Denya’s response.
Denya wrapped her fingers along her long white braid, tugging on its ends as she considered Sam’s question. “What was it Paladin Lyons said of the Gods? I respect them, as one should any powerful force.” She shook her head, pursing her thin lips. “You’ve managed to divert me. What do you want from the Uriel, Paladin Lyons?”