Page 9 of Paladin's Faith

“Dreadful beasts, aren’t they?” asked Beartongue cheerfully. The Bishop had come down to see them off, although Marguerite suspected that the woman had already been up and working. “It’s the berserker problem. You have to get a horse so placid that they don’t care that the person on their back smells like violence.”

“Does violence have a smell?” asked Marguerite.

Beartongue shot her a wry glance. “You know it does.”

“Mmm,” she said noncommittally. Yes, it does. When you cut Samuel down from the beam, you could smell it on his skin. You’ve smelled it too many times of late. It lingers in some places. If it’s not a smell, it’s something close to it.

“So we end up on plowhorses,” she said, turning away from that line of thought. “Fair enough. I’m not such a magnificent horsewoman that I’ll complain.”

“Indeed.” Beartongue lifted a hand to wave to two people approaching. They both wore leather and chain and carried weapons. Wren had an axe and a cheerfully bloodthirsty expression, but Marguerite almost didn’t recognize the other paladin.

As they came closer, she frowned, trying to place him. He had a massive sword slung across his back, the hilt sticking up past his ear, and a shorter blade at his waist. They’d definitely met before, but surely she’d remember someone who looked like that. He had a square jaw and a full lower lip and truly elegant cheekbones. Marguerite had always been an admirer of good cheekbones.

It was the pale, pale blue eyes that finally tipped her off. This is Shane? Really? And he deliberately went around looking like…like whatever that was?

“Good god,” she said, eyeing him with frank admiration. “Are you sure you’re not one of the Dreaming God’s people?”

He flinched. She hadn’t expected that. But still, absent that regrettable beard, the man was downright beautiful. And if you see a beautiful paladin, odds are good it’s one of the Dreaming God’s. But clearly that touched a nerve.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with her most contrite smile. “I just put my foot in it, didn’t I?”

“I served in the Dreaming God’s Temple until my eighteenth year,” he said. “But the god did not see fit to take me into service.”

Ouch. From what Marguerite knew of paladins, which admittedly wasn’t a great deal, this was akin to being jilted at the altar, only by your god instead of your bride. She wondered how long ago that had been. Without the beard, she reassessed his age. Mid-thirties at most. There was the slightest suggestion of lines at the corners of his eyes, but that was all.

If the god didn’t take him, it certainly wasn’t because of his looks. But I don’t think I’ll say that out loud.

“That temple’s loss is clearly my gain,” she said, instead. “Glad to have you with us. Both of you.” She nodded to Wren, who now had a fashionable haircut and appeared to resent it.

They both saluted. Marguerite winced. “Oh yes,” said Beartongue, as the pair went to their horses, “they’re saluting types.”

“I really should have guessed.”

“You are their commander.”

“I don’t want to be their commander. I just want to be the one in charge.”

Beartongue laughed at that. “I have been saying that for years now. Let me know if it works out any better for you.”

Marguerite shook her head, eyes still following Shane. “Damn, he cleaned up nice.”

Beartongue leaned over and murmured, for her ears only, “It would be a gross violation of power to force an underling to modify their appearance for my amusement. So believe me when I say that I have wanted an ethical excuse to make him shave that miserable beard for years.”

“You don’t have a barber, you have a miracle-worker,” said Marguerite, at roughly the same volume.

“Your Holiness,” Shane called.

The Bishop looked up inquiringly. Marguerite watched the paladin stride toward them, then drop gracefully to one knee before her.

“I request your blessing, Your Holiness.”

“Rat’s tail,” said Beartongue. “You know you don’t need to get on your knees for that.”

An almost imperceptible smile crossed the man’s lips. Marguerite suspected that she was the only one at the correct angle to see it.

“Very well,” muttered the Bishop, holding out her hand. “May the Rat walk with you and clear the way before you, and may your problems contain the seeds of their own solutions. And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t die.” (Marguerite suspected that last bit was not actually part of the formal blessing, but then again, the Rat was very practical, so she couldn’t swear to it.)

Shane rose as gracefully as he had knelt. She filed that away in the back of her mind. She did not know a great deal about the Saint of Steel, but she knew that His paladins were not generally knighted. Nevertheless, something about the way Shane moved, the practiced ease of his deference, made her think of the knights that she knew.

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