Paladin

by Sally Slater

  She giggled at his formality, her cheeks dimpling. But her merriment quickly faded at the steady beat of a drum. “They’s startin’,” she said, her eyes wide with dread.

  “I’ll fetch your brother, I swear it,” Tristan promised her. “In the meantime, I need you to stay here with Sam and Braeden. Will you hold Braeden’s hand for me while you’re waiting?”

  Braeden paled. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Tristan.”

  Tristan leaned in towards her ear. “I think he’s afraid of you,” he whispered. “Are you afraid of him?”

  She scowled. “I’s afraid of no one, ’cept maybe the Paladins and me mam.” She made a show of inspecting Braeden, staring at him openly. “You gots funny eyes and funny clothes, milord, but me mam would make you piss in your boots.”

  “Your mam?” Braeden asked, fiddling with his hat.

  “Aye, milord. Well, me gran. Lost her eye and half her face in a fire, but ’tis her remaining eye you need to be afraid of.” She pulled on Braeden’s sleeve. “I’s not scary though, if you want to hold me hand like milord says.”

  Braeden reluctantly unfurled his hand, and she laced her tiny fingers through his. Tristan almost laughed at the wild panic in his eyes. “Be safe,” he told them, and then began muscling his way through the crowd.

  As Tristan drew closer, he could see a long line of men in binds of rope around the perimeter of the platform. There were men in the prime of their lives and white-haired men old enough to be grandfathers. And—faith in blood, there he was—the boy from the street, Tristan’s failed pickpocket. Charlie. The poor boy looked terrified, and worse for the wear since Tristan had seen him last. What had they done to him?

  Two men stood in the middle of the platform, wearing the formal red regalia that marked them as Paladins. One of the men, a large blond man with a braided beard, held a long-tailed whip in his right hand. The man beside him, a thin, gray-haired man of middling years, had a familiar look, but Tristan was almost certain he’d never met him.

  The blond paladin untangled the tails of his whip and knotted each of the cords three times. “Gods,” Tristan swore aloud, shouldering past a cluster of onlookers.

  “People of Westergo!” the blond man boomed. “We have here before us criminals of the worst kind. Do they deserve to be punished?” Uneasily, the crowd gave its assent. He moved behind the first convict in the line, stroking the whip handle with his thumb. “This man stands accused of arson.” He gave the convict an experimental tap across his shoulders. The man flinched at the contact, but did not cry out.

  The Paladin moved onto the next convict, an ancient man so stooped over with age he could hardly stand. “And this man played truant on his taxes. A man of your advanced age surely knows better than to shirk his responsibilities.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth. Then, without warning, he lashed out with his whip, striking the old man along the backs of his ankles. With a startled cry, the old man crumpled, groaning in agony.

  Tristan clenched his fists, his temper rising. He needed to get to them before they got to Charlie. Gods help the boy if he arrived too late.

  Tristan was nearly at the foot of the platform when the blond Paladin came upon the little boy. His heart stuttered in his chest.

  The blond Paladin clutched his hand to his breast. “Ah, corrupted youth. There is nothing more tragic.” He exhaled in an exaggerated sigh. “But youth does not exempt you from justice. We can only hope that a sound beating can cure you of your evil. This boy”—he turned towards the crowd, raising his voice—“stole a full gold sovereign, and when confronted by the law, he tried to pass it off as his own. He lied. And so he must be doubly punished.” His piece said, he gave the boy a vicious kick in the back of the legs. Charlie squealed, sagging onto his knees.

  Tristan struggled to maintain his composure—who were these men to think they could take justice into their own hands? They were paladins, not kings! He wanted to punch them right in their smug, self-righteous faces. But that would not help save Charlie.

  The gray-haired man crossed to his companion. “Again,” he said. “Hit the boy again.”

  The whip struck Charlie across the chest. “It hurts,” the little boy sobbed. “It hurts!”

  The whip drew back, to strike again. Before the blow could land, Tristan vaulted onto the platform, catching the down-stroke in his hand. He ignored the burning sting, rubbing his palm against his breeches. “What in the name of the Gods is going on here?”

  The two paladins exchanged shocked glances, and then returned their attention to Tristan. The blond man pulled the ends of his whip from Tristan’s grasp, glaring at him. “I could ask the same of you. How dare you interrupt?”

  “You’ve made a mockery of justice. Where are these men’s defenders? Where is their trial?”

  The blond man scoffed. “These men have no defenders. Who would come forward for the likes of them?”

  Tristan took a step forward. “I would.” He pointed at Charlie. “I gave him a gold coin just this morning. The coin was rightfully his.”

  “You lie.”

  “I speak the truth, as does the boy. But even if he lied, a public flogging is hardly a fitting punishment for such a petty crime.”

  The blond man snapped his whip. “Perhaps we ought to whip you, my lord.”

  Tristan raised a brow. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “And why is that?”

  Tristan looked at him unflinchingly. “You couldn’t lay a finger on me if you tried.”

  The gray-haired man guffawed. “You must be from out of town. You’re speaking to the Paladins, boy.”

  Tristan’s lip curled in disgust. These men might be paladins in name, but they certainly weren’t in deed. “As are you, old man.”

  A muscle ticked in the older paladin’s jaw. “I am Paladin Parsall, and this is Paladin Boyle. We have been tasked with watching over this city by the High Commander himself.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “And a fine job you’re doing of it.” He retrieved his knife from his boot and placed a comforting hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “You’ll be all right, boy.” Kneeling beside him, he slashed through the ropes that bound the boy’s wrists. Charlie rose shakily to his feet and then darted around Tristan, cowering behind his legs.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Paladin Boyle demanded. “What right do you have to interfere?”

  Tristan rested his knuckles on the boy’s head. “I told you, I gave this boy a gold coin. You would have him unfairly punished for my generosity.”

  “You might be a paladin, and that is dubious,” Paladin Parsall said with a sneer, “but we have been defending the people of Westergo for nigh on six years now. You don’t know these people like we do. If we didn’t use a firm hand, the city would dissolve into chaos. What are you, a year out of your apprenticeship? You’re young, Paladin, but you will learn the ways of the world soon enough.”

  Tristan gnashed his teeth. “I may be young, but even among the Paladins, my name commands some respect.” He swept them a mocking bow. “Paladin Tristan Lyons, at your service. And I swore the same oaths as you: to serve and protect Thule. You’ve overstepped your bounds.”

  Paladin Boyle spat at his feet. “Paladin Lyons? Prove it.”

  Tristan sighed, and removed his coin pouch from underneath his shirt, pulling out a neatly folded piece of parchment paper from the leather sack. “Here,” he said, unfolding the document. “See the Seal of the High Commander for yourself.”

  Paladin Boyle ripped the paper from Tristan’s hands. “It’s addressed to a Paladin Tristan Lyons,” he admitted. “But it says nothing of our business.”

  “Your business, as you call it,” Tristan said, spreading his arms to encompass the stage, “is not the business of the Paladins. I suggest you take another look at your vows.” He gripped Charlie’s hand reassuringly. “I’m taking the boy with me when I leave this stage. The others, too.”

  Paladin Boyle’s jaw ti
ghtened. “Perhaps the boy is innocent, but the others are guilty.”

  “Consider it a day of amnesty,” Tristan said. He began freeing the convicts from their binds, one by one. “I am not so naïve as to believe that a few harsh words from me will put a stop to your puerile justice system. The High Commander will be hearing of this.”

  “The more fool you, then, if you think he’ll condemn our behavior.”

  Tristan felt his blood boiling in his veins. “How dare you cast aspersions on the High Commander’s character,” he said, his voice low with fury. “Your antics may not be his top priority, but he won’t turn a blind eye to this.” He leaned closer. “In the meantime, if I find out you’ve touched a hair on the boy’s head, I’ll deal with you myself. Do I make myself clear?”

  Paladin Parsall swallowed. “Aye, understood.”

  “Now return the boy’s gold to him.”

  Paladin Parsall’s neck was red with humiliation, but he did as he was bade, chucking the gold coin at the boy’s feet. Charlie hesitated, and then snatched up the coin, depositing it into his breeches.

  “We’ll be off, then,” Tristan said, reclaiming Charlie’s hand.

  Paladin Boyle’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll get your comeuppance one day, Paladin Lyons.”

  Tristan faced the Paladin with a smile that could freeze fire. “That well may be,” he said. “But it won’t come from the likes of you.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The reunion between brother and sister was a joyous one. The little boy and girl spoke too quickly in their broken tongue for Sam to follow the conversation, but she could pick out their fervently whispered I-love-yous. The girl kept calling the boy something that sounded like, “Ee-jut”, but she said it with such affection that Sam couldn’t be sure of its meaning.

  Tristan insisted on buying the children two of the fancy cakes that had led to Charlie’s arrest. Charlie ate his pastry in two large bites, his cheeks bulging as he chewed and swallowed. “It took you all of thirty seconds to eat that thing,” Tristan remarked. “What a waste of your gold coin that would’ve been.”

  The little boy licked his frosting coated fingers. “I’da bought it for me sister. Wouldna been a waste.”

  His sister, at least, knew how to savor a rare treat. She split her cake into two, and nibbled daintily on one half. Shyly, she offered the other half to Braeden.

  Tristan pressed his hand to his heart with mock indignation. “You wound me, my lady. I rescue your brother, yet you offer your cake to Braeden? What does a man have to do to earn himself a sliver?”

  “Buy one for yourself,” the girl said tartly, her cheeks turning rosy.

  Sam grabbed Tristan’s elbow, pulling him aside. “Stop it, you’re embarrassing her. Braeden is likely her first infatuation.”

  “What do you know of a little girl’s infatuation?”

  Sam had firsthand experience, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “Enough to know she fancies herself in love with Braeden. She’s been mooning over him ever since you made him hold her hand.”

  Tristan chuckled. “I would never have thought of Braeden as a heartbreaker.”

  Sam glared at him. “So women should only fall in love with a pretty face like yours, then.”

  Tristan grinned. “Don’t worry, you and Braeden can have my leftovers.”

  Sam punched him hard in the shoulder.

  “I was only jesting!” Tristan squawked.

  After the cakes were eaten, Tristan, Sam, and Braeden bid the children farewell.

  “Thankee, milord. We won’t forget you, not never,” Charlie promised, his back straight and proud.

  “Take care of your sister, Charlie,” Tristan said, mounting his horse. “And if the Paladins try to give either of you trouble again, remind them of my name.”

  “What is your name, milord?” the little girl asked.

  Tristan inclined his head. “Paladin Tristan Lyons, First of the sword.”

  They didn’t stay in Westergo much longer, though Sam knew that Tristan had originally planned for them to spend the night. “I don’t want to stay in this city any longer than I have to,” he said. Sam couldn’t agree more. They paused only to water and feed their horses before continuing on down the main throughway, past the opulent palace and the slums, then out of Westergo through its westernmost gates.

  “Where to next, Tristan?” Sam shouted over the sound of their horses’ hoofbeats.

  Tristan slowed down so that the necks of their horses were aligned. “Pirama will be our next stop. I’ll need to send a report back to the High Commander.”

  “Pirama? Didn’t the innkeeper in Gwent say something about Uriel sympathies?”

  “Aye, he did. The Paladins may no longer be welcome in Pirama. We’ll need to be on our guard.”

  “You think we may not be welcome?” Sam asked. The Paladins were always treated as honored guests, wherever they went. “The Uriel have that much power?”

  Tristan’s lips flattened into a grim line. “I don’t know,” he said. “The High Commander believes they pose a dire threat. I’m not yet convinced.”

  “And if they do?”

  “I don’t concern myself with hypotheticals. I’ll follow the directive of the High Commander, as I always do.” He urged his horse ahead once more, signaling that the conversation was over.

  They only managed a couple of hours of solid riding before a thunderstorm forced them to seek shelter off road. The sky was an inky purple, topped by billowing clouds so dark they were nearly black. Crisscrossed branches of lightning streaked down from the heavens with a sharp crack. It was all Sam could do to keep her frightened horse from bolting.

  By the time they set up camp and secured the horses, it was too wet to start a fire. Sam’s clothes were soaked through and she was chilled to the bone. “We sh-should have s-stayed in Westergo,” she managed to get out, her teeth chattering.

  Tristan rummaged through their bags in search of a dry shirt and swore when he found none. “You two didn’t want to be there any more than I did. That place made me sick.”

  He was right, Sam conceded. Till she had left Haywood, she had wanted for nothing, and even now, on the road, she never went hungry. The poverty-stricken people of Westergo, with their quiet desperation and hopeless stares, had opened her eyes. And worse—they were mistreated at the hands of the Paladins. The uneasy feeling at the pit of her stomach was guilt. “You’re r-right,” she acknowledged. “But I’m still f-f-freezing.”

  “We all are, but there’s nothing we can do about it till the storm breaks. I suspect we’ll have to hunker down here for the night.” Tristan pulled off his leather boots and turned them upside down, dumping out a small puddle of water. His tunic and breeches quickly followed suit, till he stood in nothing but his smallclothes.

  “What are you doing?” Sam squeaked.

  Tristan gave her a hard look. “My clothes are sopping wet. I suggest you do the same unless you want to catch your death of cold.”

  Braeden, too, removed his outer garments, his black robes sloshing to his feet. Sam stared. The two men stood under the fractured cover of the trees, rainwater sluicing down their well-honed chests. Where Tristan was big and brawny, Braeden was lean and powerful, handsome in the dark of the storm.

  “Well?” Tristan asked.

  Sam put her hands up defensively. “I’m f-fine. M-my c-clothes aren’t that wet.” She pointedly ignored the ghost of a smile that flitted across Braeden’s lips.

  “Suit yourself,” Tristan said and crawled into the tent.

  Braeden sauntered toward her and reached out to touch the sodden fabric of her tunic. “Stay warm, Lady Sam,” he said, and then entered into the tent after Tristan. Sam stuck her tongue out at his back before following him inside.

  It was one of the most uncomfortable nights of Sam’s life. As Tristan had predicted, the rain did not let up. It battered the leather roof of their shelter all through the night. They lay close together—for body heat, Tristan had said.
And because Sam was the smallest, she had to lie in the middle, wedged between Braeden and Tristan. Braeden looked slightly scandalized, but true to form, he said nothing and turned his back to her.

  Tristan soon drifted off to sleep, his chest moving up and down in even breaths. Sam closed her eyes, but she was unbearably cold. She shuddered as chills raked her from head to toe.

  “Can’t sleep?” Braeden asked softly.

  She shook her head, locking her jaw to keep it from rattling.

  Braeden touched her hand. “Gods, your skin is like ice.”

  Sam flipped onto her side, facing him. “I w-wasn’t aware,” she whispered acidly. Another shudder rocked her.

  Hesitantly, Braeden wrapped his arms around her torso, hugging her to him. “Just for a little while,” he said.

  Sam was too cold to think beyond snuggling into his warm chest. The heat of his body was like a furnace against hers, soothing away her shivers, and she soon fell asleep to the steady beat of his heart.

  Sam jolted awake to a cold nose nudging her shoulder. Faith in blood! Braeden’s arms were still wrapped around her waist, her body fitted snugly against his. She could feel him pressing against her. Tristan, meanwhile, must have shifted during the night. He’d buried his face in her hair, and his long, bare leg draped over her hip.

  She was effectively pinned between the two men.

  “Braeden,” she hissed. “Braeden!” He tightened his embrace and nuzzled her neck, letting out a light snore.

  Sam panicked silently. Maybe if she pretended to be asleep, she could avoid any awkwardness when Tristan and Braeden awoke. She was all too aware of Braeden’s hands, spanned high across her ribcage, and Tristan’s mouth, which now rested against her forehead.

  After what felt like hours, Braeden finally stirred. She could feel the instant he became fully cognizant of his surroundings—and the compromising position they’d slept in. He froze against her body, his breath short and hot on her neck. He dragged his arm out from under her and rolled to the opposite side of the tent. “Gods damn it,” he muttered.