Paladin

by Sally Slater

  Sam swallowed a lump in her throat. She wasn’t particularly afraid of heights, but this was pushing it. “Are we crossing over that?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Tristan said. “You can see why the Uriel established their camp here. It’s damned near impossible to attack, at least by human means.”

  Sam eyed the rickety bridge warily. “If I lived in Luca, I’d never leave. I can’t imagine crossing that thing regularly.”

  “You get used to it,” Tristan said. “Besides, there are other ways in and out of Luca.”

  Sam glared at Tristan. “Then why in the name of the Gods are we going this way?”

  “It’s fastest,” Tristan said. “Stop dallying, and let’s cross already.”

  They made their way across the bridge slowly and carefully, Sam’s heart in her mouth every time her horse took a slight misstep. But they made it over without coming to harm.

  On the other side of the bridge stood a tall, manmade wall of brick and rose-red stone. Green vines hung against the wall in gnarled ropes, almost completely hiding the open archway into the city. “Welcome to Luca,” Tristan said.

  Though the sound was muffled outside the city walls, once they stepped through the archway, the city was as loud and bustling as Haywood during the Grand Fair. People brushed past them, a lightness in their step and laughter in their throats. Some were on horses, plodding along slowly but purposefully, while others huddled together in conversation. A few men on horseback patrolled the edges of the crowd, unhurried but watchful. Only they seemed to take note of Tristan, Sam, and Braeden. Sam assumed they were Uriel.

  Luca had been built to accommodate the sloping incline of the mountain beneath it, with square, turreted buildings stacked together unevenly like a giant staircase. At the center of the city stood a gleaming white octagonal structure capped with an onion-shaped dome and a tall spire. It was unlike any castle Sam had ever seen.

  “Tristan Lyons,” a rough, male voice said, startling Sam from her observations. He was a thin, nondescript man in a dark cloak and hat, the brim shadowing his face. He curled his index and middle fingers to his thumb, and showed his hand deliberately to Tristan.

  Tristan nodded curtly to the man, and turned to Sam and Braeden. “Stay here. I’ll be back shortly.” He leapt off his horse, handed the reins to Braeden, and followed the man into the crowd.

  “What was that about?” Sam asked.

  Braeden shrugged. “He’ll tell us if he wants us to know.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Not really.”

  So he was going to play it that way, was he? “Fine, I’ll ask him myself.”

  Tristan returned a moment later, wearing a ferocious scowl. He strode to his horse and swung into the saddle. He sat unmoving, gripping the reins till his knuckles turned white.

  “Tristan?” Sam ventured. “Who was that?”

  “Hush,” Tristan hissed. “We can’t talk about it here. We need to find an inn, somewhere private.”

  The first three inns they tried were so full they would have wound up sleeping in the stables with their horses. It was hard to believe that so many travelers visited Luca when it was so difficult to get there, but for whatever reason, people must have thought it worth the journey. The fourth inn, however, had a single spare room for them.

  The innkeeper of the Mountain’s Respite was a large, jovial man, with a thick mustache that wiggled madly whenever he smiled, which was often. He shook hands and accepted payment from several patrons before wiggling his mustache at Tristan, Sam, and Braeden. “Welcome to The Mountain’s Respite. The name’s Ewan Michaels. What can I do you gentlemen for?”

  “One room, three pallets,” Tristan said. “We’ll be needing it for the next seven nights.”

  “We’re staying in Luca for a week?” Sam asked, surprised. The longest they’d spent in any one place was three days, in Pirama, and that had been because of Braeden’s injury.

  Tristan narrowed his eyes at her in warning, and then faced the innkeeper. “We’ve got business in town, Master Michaels,” he said, his tone barely civil.

  “Not a problem, Master . . .” The innkeeper cleared his throat when Tristan didn’t offer his name. He scribbled into his ledger and handed Tristan a set of keys. “Second floor, fourth room on your left. Three silver coins a night, two coppers extra for each additional pallet. You can pay me after your stay or upfront.”

  Tristan removed his coin purse from underneath his tunic. “We’ll pay now,” he said, withdrawing the appropriate amount.

  Master Michaels swept the coins into his palm. “Enjoy, gentlemen. If there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Tristan muttered a brief thanks and marched straight upstairs to their room, while Braeden and Sam scurried to keep up. He slammed the door behind them. “Sit!” he barked, gesturing at the small table and chairs in the middle of the room.

  Sam and Braeden sat. “Are you going to sit, too?” Sam asked.

  “No,” Tristan said, pacing. “I need to pace.”

  “Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Braeden asked, quirking an eyebrow.

  Hah! So he had been curious after all. “That’s my line,” Sam told Braeden. “Who was that man you were talking to?”

  Tristan stopped his pacing. “What I say here cannot leave this room. Are we clear?” Sam and Braeden nodded. He continued, “That man was sent by the High Commander to meet us in Luca.”

  “A Paladin?” Sam asked.

  “That depends on who you ask. Stealth is his trade, not mastery of weapons.” He dropped his voice. “We call men like him Sub Rosa.”

  “He’s a spy,” Braeden said.

  “He is whatever the High Commander needs him to be,” Tristan said, drawing something from the folds of his cloak. “And today he brought me a letter. A missive from the High Commander.”

  “Does it say whether we are to join Sander Branimir for dinner?” Sam asked.

  Tristan opened his palm to reveal a folded-up document, stamped with the High Commander’s seal. “Read it.”

  Sam and Braeden reached for it at the same time, their fingers brushing. Sam felt Braeden’s touch move through her, and then his hand was gone, leaving her feeling oddly bereft. “Go ahead,” Braeden said calmly, as though he were completely unaffected. Damn him.

  “Thank you,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. She unfolded the letter and began to read.

  Tristan, I thank you for your thorough update. It pleases me to hear that your trainees are excelling

  “Excelling? You told the High Commander we’re excelling?”

  “Don’t let it get to your head,” Tristan growled. Sam smirked and resumed reading.

  As much as I would like to comment on your trainees’ progress in more detail, I must focus on more pressing matters. The Uriel are no idle threat, Tristan. The Sub Rosa now have concrete proof that they are conspiring to attempt a coup. They want the respect the Paladins command and the power that comes along with it, and they will take it from us by any means necessary.

  I should have warned you about them, told you what I had uncovered, but I had dismissed them as an idle threat. I can only hope that it is not too late to put a stop to them.

  Tristan, the time to act against the Uriel is now before they can undermine everything we have worked towards over the past hundred years. The future of the Paladins is at stake, and I am putting all my trust in you to save us.

  You wrote that the Uriel leader has invited you to dinner. I believe the Gods have gifted us this chance, and we must seize the opportunity. Do not let Sander Branimir fool you. Sander is a man of unspeakable evil, a bigger threat to our kingdom than a thousand demons. You are the Paladins’ greatest hope, Tristan, and so it is with a heavy heart that I leave this task to you.

  Capture Sander, at whatever cost, and bring him to me. That is an order.

  Together, you and I will bring the Uriel to their knees. Together, we will uphold our legac
y.

  I will await you at the Diamond Coast. Godspeed.

  Sam and Braeden stared at Tristan in confusion as they processed the letter. Tristan had trouble meeting their gaze. “I have never before been asked to mete out justice on a man,” he said quietly.

  “What will you do?” Braeden asked, like he thought there was a real choice.

  Tristan closed his eyes and breathed deep through his nose. “I will obey my High Commander, as I always have.”

  “You’re really going to take Sander as prisoner?” Sam asked. She hadn’t trusted the Uriel from the start, but something about the High Commander’s order made her uneasy.

  “Aye,” Tristan said. “And you’re going to help.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Tristan was a doer, not a plotter. He knew over a hundred different ways to behead a demon, but not the first thing about how to go about kidnapping a man from his own stronghold. Where did he even begin?

  As for his own reservations, he’d have to set those aside.

  For over a decade, Tristan had followed the High Commander’s every command without question. He’d never had any reason to doubt the man who had pulled him from the ashes. The High Commander had given him purpose when he’d thought life wasn’t worth living. Tristan owed him everything.

  It wasn’t far from Luca that the High Commander found him, nearly eleven years ago. Tristan had been walking aimlessly for days, maybe weeks. He was cold and alone and so hungry that he’d taken to gnawing on bare bones for the marrow.

  Tristan had hidden behind a boulder when he’d heard the pounding of hooves and the baying of hounds. He hadn’t seen another human being since he’d left Finchold—how was he to have known whether the sounds had belonged to man or demon? He’d closed his eyes and waited for teeth or claws or talons to tear his body to shreds. His soul already lay in tatters.

  And then that voice, that impossibly beautiful voice, had called out to him. “You can’t give up on life just yet, boy, not when the dead still need avenging.” The High Commander had extended a hand to him, and Tristan had never looked back.

  Tristan swore many oaths on the day he was anointed as a full Paladin, and among them he swore to obey the High Commander in all things. And so he would obey these orders, even if they unsettled him.

  He just needed to figure out how to actually execute them.

  “So what’s the plan?” Sam asked, resting his elbows on the table.

  “Accept Sander’s dinner invitation,” Tristan replied promptly. He could do this planning thing.

  “Okay,” Sam said. “And then what?”

  “We go to the dinner,” Tristan declared.

  Sam’s eyebrows pinched together. “And then?”

  “We capture Sander.”

  Sam was speechless for a full thirty seconds. “How?”

  Tristan drew his shoulders back and did his best to look assured. “I’m still working out those details.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “In other words, you haven’t the faintest idea.”

  Tristan glowered at him. So what if Sam was right? The boy should know better than to make light of his superior’s shortcomings. He’d come up with a proper plan, once he’d had some time to think it over. He hoped.

  “I have an idea,” Braeden said slowly. “It’s a little bit unconventional, but I think it could work.”

  “In light of the circumstances, I think unconventional is called for,” Tristan said.

  “I’m still thinking it through,” Braeden said, “but what we need to do is draw Sander out, isolate him from his men. There are only three of us, and the Gods know how many Uriel. And if they all fight like Adelard and Donnelly—”

  “Then we’ll wind up their captives,” finished Sam. “Or worse.”

  Tristan nodded impatiently. “Understood. Isolate Sander.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” Sam asked.

  Braeden scratched under the bandage on his shoulder. “Assuming dinner will be held at the Uriel base, we’ll need to find a reason to lure him away to somewhere we can make a quick exit. Here’s where the unconventional part comes in.” He looked directly at Sam. “One of us would need to dress as a girl.”

  Sam made a choking noise and started to cough. Tristan pounded him on the back. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Sam gasped, though his skin had gone alarmingly white.

  Braeden gave his fellow trainee a measuring look. “It’ll have to be Sam. My features are too distinct to pull off a disguise.”

  Sam’s hands curled into fists. “I won’t do it.”

  Tristan frowned at him. “We all have to do what’s necessary. You’ll do your part.”

  Braeden told them the rest of his plan, and Tristan agreed it was sound. Sam, however, was less than enthusiastic. “Do I really have to do this?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “I’m sorry,” Braeden said, looking down. “I don’t see any other way.”

  Tristan didn’t understand why Sam was so upset about donning a female disguise. Yes, it was embarrassing, but what were a few hours of mortification in the grand scheme of things? “Let’s do it,” he said with resolve. “I’ll arrange for dinner with Sander tomorrow night. That gives us a day and a half to prepare.” He dug out a few sovereigns and handed them over to Sam. “Buy yourself some feminine things.”

  “I’ll help,” Braeden said quickly. Sam pinned him with a glare that could cut through glass.

  Tristan looked back and forth between the two of them, sensing he was missing something critical. “I’ll leave you two to it.” He walked towards the door and turned the knob. “I’ve got a dinner to arrange. I’ll meet you back here at nightfall.”

  As soon as Tristan walked out of the room, Sam exploded out of her seat. “I could kill you! Your brilliant plan just ended any chance I had of ever becoming a Paladin. Do you hate me that much?” Tears sprang to her eyes, and she scrubbed furiously at her wet cheeks.

  “I don’t hate you, Sam.” A stricken expression flashed across Braeden’s face. “Gods, don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying,” she said, ignoring the tears that called her a liar. “And if I were crying, it certainly wouldn’t be because I thought you hated me.” Liar.

  “Fine,” Braeden said neutrally. “Your cheeks are irrigating.” The pads of his fingers hovered near her jawline, and then he dropped his hand to his side. He turned away from her. “We swore to serve the Paladins to the best of our abilities. Can you think of a better plan?”

  “Your plan isn’t going to work! I can’t disguise myself as a girl when I actually am one!”

  “That’s exactly why it will work. Do you think Sander Branimir would be fooled by a man in a pretty dress?”

  Sam shoved at Braeden’s chest. “What about Tristan? You think he’s going to see your idiotic plan through when the ghost of his betrothed reappears?”

  “Lady Samantha is not making an appearance, Sam. I’d never ask that of you.”

  Sam laughed, a bitter, mocking laugh. “Shall I get my face beat in again so he doesn’t recognize me?”

  Braeden expelled an exasperated huff. “People see what they expect to see. We’ll create a disguise that fools Tristan, too, without resorting to bruises and contusions. As long as the girl you pretend to be tomorrow isn’t Lady Samantha, he’ll never suspect otherwise.”

  “You’re willing to risk my future on that assumption?”

  “You’re willing to risk the future of the Paladins on the assumption that I’m wrong?” Braeden returned. “You and I read the same letter—you know what’s at stake. Think beyond yourself.”

  His last words stung, even as they rang with truth. She sighed heavily. “I have no choice in this, do I? I just hope you’re right.”

  “I will be,” Braeden said. “The day won’t be tomorrow, but someday I think you should tell Tristan the truth. He might be more understanding than you think.”

  “He’ll hate me.”

  “He might be an
gry with you for lying, like I was, but he won’t hate you. You’re a hard person to hate.”

  “It’s too risky.” Sam bit her lip. “You really don’t hate me?”

  “Never,” Braeden said solemnly.

  And just like that, some of the awkwardness between them dissipated. Sam let out a quivering breath and forced a smile. “Okay. Let’s go buy my disguise.”

  Wearing women’s clothes again felt like slipping into a stranger’s skin. The gown Sam bought with Tristan’s gold was modestly cut, made of a coarse green wool that itched terribly. Lady Samantha had never worn any cloth less fine than linen—most of her dresses had been silk—but the girl Sam was pretending to be was not the daughter of a duke.

  Her chest was blessedly unbound, and in fact she had added padding. The long-sleeved gown was tightly laced, accentuating her enhanced curves, but the high neckline didn’t hint at any cleavage. Cleavage couldn’t be faked, after all, if one were really a man.

  With white-gloved hands, she adjusted her wig in the mirror. The black horsehair was braided and confined in a crespine of knitted mesh, a style long out of fashion in Haywood but still fairly common in the West. She’d painted her face white with blaunchet, heavily rouged her cheeks, and rubbed lemon juice into her lips till they burned bright red.

  The girl staring back at her in the mirror didn’t look a thing like Lady Samantha.

  She exited the privy and entered the inn room, where Tristan and Braeden awaited her. Nervously arranging her skirts, she asked, “How do I look?”

  A stunned silence greeted her, and she feared the worst. Tristan spoke first, his voice husky, “You make a very pretty girl.”

  Sam blushed in spite of herself, not that it would show through all her war paint. “I can’t decide whether I should be flattered or offended.” It was the expected thing to say, if she were truly a man dressed as a woman.