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“Hey, Caliban?” she said, when they broke apart. “Yes?” “If they figure it out and stab us while we’re on the body cart, or we get split up or whatever…” He was very still. Slate had no idea what she had been about to say, except that it seemed like she should say something. She settled on, “I wish we’d had more time.” His fingers curved against her face. She could feel their warmth even through the cloth. “We aren’t dead yet,” he said.
It was obviously not fair comparing Frederick to Caliban, although the paladin would probably be the first to admit that Frederick was less likely to say something stupid.
“There’s a demon in him,” said Caliban. “Tell me something I don’t know, paladin,” said Brenner. Caliban glanced at him sharply. “How did you know that?” The assassin waved his hand in Amadai’s direction. “Because this is not normal human shit!” “…yeah, okay, that’s fair,” said Slate.
The corpse smiled. Slate watched its lips rictus apart and thought, Well, if I live through this, my nightmares will be amazing.
Amadai smiled more broadly still, and the edges of the corpse’s lips split open, revealing pink, bloodless meat beneath. “I am…become…god…” “Shit,” muttered Brenner. “That’s it. Once they think they’re gods, there’s nothing for it but a knife.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” she said, with marvelous patience, “but stop touching me.”
Despair was a familiar taste on Caliban’s tongue. But underneath it, something stirred. Something that he thought the demon had driven out forever, something he had long since given up. For the first time since that long ago exorcism, Caliban felt the presence of his god. They taught you very early in the temple that the Dreaming God did not make bargains. A demon had a bargain for everything. The Dreaming God did what He deemed necessary.
What filled Caliban was not power. Power was perhaps the least useful of gifts. It was grace. It struck him like a hammer, like a death blow, like falling in love. It filled places that had rung hollow and empty and wrapped him up and made him whole.
The assassin’s smile was a shadow of its old self. “Darlin’,” he said. It was the last word he spoke that she could be sure was Brenner.
The dedicate flung his arms around her and Slate thought, in a night full of terrible surprises, that at least here was one positive one.
She thought, I am very tired, and the thought lay in isolation in her mind, words without context.
He wanted to go to her. He wanted to hold her and comfort her and say words that would fix things. And what words would those be? She watched me bind the demon and cut Brenner practically in half. Am I supposed to touch her with hands that were covered in her close friend’s blood? Am I supposed to say her name in a voice that can make demons kneel? He bent down slowly and picked up his gear. She’d made her wishes clear. All that was left for him to do was obey.
He would have knelt but he no longer thought his legs would hold him up. It didn’t matter. The god was there. The god remembered his name. Thank you, he prayed. Thank you. Thank you for coming back to me. Thank you for using me to stop the clocktaurs. Thank you for letting me be your sword. Thank you for letting me save Slate. And then, a terrible prayer he knew he could never make aloud, Thank you for letting it be Brenner, and not her.
Nineteen, thought Slate wearily. Nineteen and realizing that you don’t have all the answers and sometimes there aren’t any good answers at all. Nineteen, and given a choice to save lives or end them. She wondered how old Caliban had been, when the temple had taught him the only way they knew to save the damned.
She stared at Caliban’s back and remembered a kiss. It hadn’t been a passionate one. He probably had no memory of it at all. He’d been curled up around her, chest against her back, and he had bent his head just a little and kissed her shoulderblade. A very small kiss saying, I’m here. Not ownership, not passion, just…presence.
Slate said, “I need a mattress or somebody dies.”
“I am hopelessly in love with you and the only thing that is keeping me from following you around like a stray dog for the rest of my life is the fact that it would make you hate me even more.”
“It doesn’t matter, though. If you’re sick of the sight of me, how I feel is somewhat immaterial, isn’t it?” She got up, not sure if she was going to pounce on him or try to drown him in the bathtub. “Do they train you to be martyrs, or does it just come naturally?” “Most paladins do have some natural aptitude in that direction…”
She didn’t look down. She had standards. Somewhere.
“Love, huh?” she said. “Utterly. Profoundly. Would you like to send me off to kill a dragon or something to prove it, like in a ballad?” “What the hell would that prove?” “I suppose it would prove that I could kill a dragon. I’m not sure why that would be a good thing. They never cover that bit in ballads.” “What would I even do with a dead dragon?’ “I’m open to other suggestions.” “What would I do with a live paladin, for that matter?” He considered this at some length. She decided to lean her head against his chest while she waited. “Well,” he said, “You’ve had a paladin for awhile, and I
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“I warn you, I’m the jealous type.” “I can’t imagine you’ll ever have cause to be jealous.” “Are you kidding? You wander around in that armor looking noble and half the city would probably fall into your arms! Men and women!” “Sounds exhausting,” he said. “I will clearly be much safer with you to fend them off.”
“Well,” she said, heaving a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of her feet. “If only for the handkerchiefs.” “Naturally.” “And clearly I must be in love with you, to even be considering this. Despite my better judgment!” His arms tightened around her. “I’m extremely relieved to hear it…my liege.” She swore at him but he stopped the torrent of obscenities with a kiss.
