“Yet you still want to become a god.”
The demon smiled, showing teeth. “How else shall I best take care of my people? And how else shall I avoid taking these lessons back to the abyss with me, and dwelling for eternity on my failures?” It stretched. “My reasons are not entirely selfish, but neither are they entirely pure. They are only entirely mine. And now I wish you, my champion, to go and make certain that these troublesome raiders no longer trouble me and mine.”
Shane grimaced. “Do they have innocents among them?”
“Very likely.” Wisdom smiled. “And that is where I come in. We’ll see if a demon can stand in for a god, shall we?”
IT TOOK them five long days to reach the town that had an outpost temple of the Dreaming God. There was an easier route, the locals said, one with inns and traveler’s rests, but it took twice as long.
Marguerite thought of Shane in the hands of a demon and simply started down the shortest road. Not even Davith argued.
Dreaming God, if You are listening, let him hold on until we can save him. You owe him that much.
“You can leave me behind,” said Ashes on the second day. “I know I’m not setting any speed records.”
“No,” said Wren, before Marguerite could speak. “We’re not leaving anyone else behind.”
Marguerite glanced at the paladin, who had been as silent as Shane used to be. The younger woman’s face had aged a decade in a few days. If we lost Ashes to the Sail, all this would be for nothing.
It already felt like that. Vengeance was a stupid hollow thing and the only salt that she cared about any longer was the kind in blood and tears.
“We’ll get him back,” she said out loud, trying to convince herself as much as Wren.
Wren looked at her and looked away. “Of course we will,” she said, but she didn’t say it in the voice and Marguerite knew that she didn’t actually believe it.
They were able to buy food at farms and Davith found a farmer willing to part with a dogcart and a pony and charmed both out of her at a decent price. Ashes rode in it and they made better time after that, but it was still a long and weary way. At night, they did not so much make camp as collapse where they stood.
Perhaps their luck turned. Perhaps the Dreaming God, absent from His duties where Shane was concerned, had belatedly turned an eye toward them. Regardless, they were still almost half a day out from the town, at Marguerite’s best guess, when they heard hoofbeats.
Looking up, Marguerite saw a trio of remarkably handsome people atop moderately handsome horses. They wore armor and white tabards with a closed eye.
Paladins, she thought. The word drifted through her head and she knew that she was supposed to do something, but she was so very tired.
It was Wren who stepped forward, waving her arms. “Jorge? Is that you?” She broke into the first smile that Marguerite had seen from her since they’d been captured by Wisdom’s people.
“Wren?” One of the paladins laughed aloud and swung himself off his horse. He was tall and muscular and something about the way he held himself reminded Marguerite very much of Shane.
Jorge’s skin and hair were much darker and a scar cut rakishly through his right eyebrow, but he moved the same way and the massive sword slung across his back was a twin to the one that Shane had broken. “Dreaming God save us, what are you doing this far from Archenhold?”
“It’s a long story.” Wren looked back at Marguerite, as if for orders. “A very, very long story.”
“It must have been.” Jorge eyed their party sympathetically. Marguerite glanced back herself, seeing the layers of caked-on dust, torn clothes either hastily mended or covered with cloaks, and the fading bruises on Ashes’ face. “Please, let us offer you the hospitality of the temple. You can tell me
all about it on the way.”
Davith spoke up. “Will there be baths?” he asked.
The paladin laughed. “I think we can manage that. But come, Wren, introduce me to these lovely ladies, will you?”
Wren rolled her eyes and made the introductions. Jorge bowed over Marguerite’s hand and kissed the back like a chevalier. “Charmed,” he told her.
“Tired,” she told him.
To his credit, he bowed just as deeply over the hand of Ashes Magnus and if anything, lingered longer on the kiss. Ashes snorted, but there was an appreciative glint in her eye. “You’re lucky I’m not twenty years younger, paladin.”
“And yet I find myself feeling deeply unlucky.”
Marguerite heard Davith mutter something under his breath about goddamn amateurs.
“Jorge, stop flirting and let us get these poor people to hot water and beds,” said one of the other paladins.
“Yes, of course. Forgive me.” He turned away from Ashes, （who definitely eyed his backside as he did） and picked up his horse’s reins, leading the animal on foot. “So, what brings you so far from Archenhold?”
Wren took a deep breath and looked at Marguerite for permission. Marguerite nodded to her. If we have to worry about the Dreaming God’s paladins working for the Red Sail, we are so utterly and comprehensively fucked that we might as well slit our wrists and be done with it.
“We came looking for Ashes. Some other people were, too. It got messy. But that’s not the important bit.” She waved a hand. “You’ve heard the rumors about a demon with followers in the hills?”
Jorge’s face went grave. “We have, yes.”
“We found them.”
The three paladins of the Dreaming God all reached for their swordhilts simultaneously, probably unconsciously. It would have been amusing if Marguerite had any amusement left in her.
“Shit,” said Jorge, letting his hand fall away. “It’s true, then? How many? Did you see the demon itself?”
“At least twenty people,” said Wren. “Maybe more. Not many fighters, I don’t think. Lots of kids and old people with bows, though. We saw the demon when they captured us.”
The paladin who hadn’t yet spoken until now slid off her horse, and grabbed Wren’s chin, staring into her eyes. Wren bore this patiently. Marguerite had only a moment’s warning before Jorge had her by the shoulders and was dipping his head to meet her eyes as well.
His eyes were deep, velvety brown, framed with fine laugh lines, and he was very handsome.
Lucky, too, if the scar through his eyebrow was any indication. It picked up again on his cheek, which meant that he’d come within a hair’s breadth of losing that eye. Marguerite noted all this
dispassionately. I must be tired. Normally I’d at least wonder if he was single. She found that she could not possibly care less. Behind her, she heard Davith squawk indignantly as the third paladin manhandled him.
Jorge nodded to her and stepped back, glancing at his fellows. “I don’t see any sign,” he said,
“but if the demon’s as old and smart as they say, it could probably hide.” His lips twisted ruefully.
“Forgive me, ladies, gentleman, this is extremely rude of me, but… KNEEL.”
His voice wrapped around her spine like a mailed fist. The paladin’s voice, no longer kind and patient but as implacable as winter. Marguerite’s knees tried to buckle under her, but she caught herself and glared at him.