We found rooms in a small inn twenty miles from Carefal. The others passed the evening in the common room downstairs, but I didn’t feel much like company. So the first person I spoke to after leaving Carefal turned out to be my dead King.
The red brocade robe he was wearing this time had been a gift from the emissary of one of the small impoverished countries beyond the Eastern Desert. The robe was far too long for a man of the King’s modest height, and its decoration was far too elaborate for his plain looks, so Paelis only wore it—when he was alive—when he felt the need to annoy some noble who’d demanded a private audience.
“It throws them off their guard,” Paelis said, or rather, I hallucinated him saying.
“It doesn’t throw anyone off their guard,” I imagined myself saying back. “It just makes them think you’re half-witted.”
He grinned. “So what’s the difference?”
That stumped me for a moment. The King always did that: he turned insults aimed at him into backhanded proof of his own cleverness. In my own defense, the neatha was probably addling my mind in addition to paralyzing my body. “Maybe you should have worn it when the Dukes came to kill you,” I said at last.
“That wasn’t the plan. I—” The King started coughing, as he often did, being prone to colds and agues.
I took advantage of his momentary disability. “Oh? Getting killed was all part of the plan, was it? And what about after you died? Is this the plan? Sending me off to try to find your heir without ever even telling me you had one? What if I’d never found her?”
The King continued to cough. I waited for a moment but he didn’t stop, and for some reason that annoyed me.
“What if I’d never found her?” I repeated. “What if Patriana had managed to kill all of your so-called ‘charoites’? And who in all the hells calls their bastards ‘charoites’ anyway? Was it really that important to make sure I had no damned idea what you’d sent me to do? What about the other Greatcoats? Are they all wandering the country trying to make sense of the last command you gave each of them?”
The King was smiling, but still coughing. He drew a red handkerchief from inside his robes and wiped at his mouth. When he pulled it back I couldn’t tell if there was blood on it or whether it was simply spit darkening the fabric. And still the King continued to cough.
“And what am I supposed to do now?” I ranted on. “Look at me!” And since the King wasn’t paying attention to me, I began shouting, “Look at me! I’m paralyzed! A few minutes here, a few minutes there, what does it matter? Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I can’t tell that it’s getting worse every day? The neatha won’t leave my system—I’m going to die!”
King Paelis was coughing louder than ever now, filling my ears and my mind, drowning out the sound of my words. “What if I can’t get Aline on the throne before that happens, then what? What do you want me to do?”
My throat felt raw from screaming at him, which was odd, since I was only imagining it.
Finally the King stopped coughing. “I thought I told you,” he started, and a trickle of bright red blood slipped out from the left side of his mouth. He reached up to dab it with the handkerchief, but then he stopped and instead carefully folded the handkerchief into a neat square and tucked it away inside his robes. He straightened himself up and looked into my eyes. “You will betray her, Falcio.”
“Why do you keep saying this to me? Why would I betray her?” I tried to pound my fist on something, but I couldn’t. Reality was slowly imposing itself on my hallucination.
The image of Paelis began to fade as my eyes flickered between light and darkness. But even in a hallucination he lacked the propriety of a decent King. “You’re asking the wrong question again, Falcio.”
“Then what is the right question, damn you?”
He smiled and pointed at me. “The right question is, ‘Why is there a knife at my throat?’”
My eyes flickered open just in time to see the blade of a dagger withdraw from my neck.
“Ah, I wondered if that might do the trick,” Dariana said.
I didn’t take the bait, but only because my tongue was still numb and I didn’t want to embarrass myself further. The sight of Dariana standing over me was unnerving. How long had she been in my room? More importantly, why would Kest and Brasti allow someone we barely knew to be alone with me when I was paralyzed?
“You probably want to know why I’m here,” she said. She rose from the bed and walked over to the small window that was the only redeeming feature of the tiny room that Kest, Brasti, and I were sharing in the inn. “Shuran had a visitor.”
“Who?” I croaked.
“A Knight. Well, he was wearing armor, anyway. He arrived early this morning and demanded to see the Knight-Commander. The other Knights didn’t appear to know him. Shuran came out of his room and spoke to him in private. Then the man left and headed down the main road. Would you like to know which direction?”
“Just—”
“To Isault’s palace.”
I shook my head to try and clear away the fog. Why would Shuran be sending a man ahead of us when we were on our way back to the palace anyway? We’d fulfilled our part of the bargain . . . unless Isault had never believed we’d be successful in putting down the rebellion. Was Shuran even now preparing to betray us?
I looked around for something to help me haul myself out of bed and finding nothing, rolled myself onto the floor—at least the numbness dulled the pain a bit—and then crawled around in a little circle so that I could use the footboard to pull myself to my feet, cursing the Saints all the while, and not just because of my ungainly rising: I had been stupid enough to take off my clothes last night and now I had to stumble around trying to dress myself in front of Dari.
“The other Knight left an hour ago,” she said. “Kest and Brasti went to talk to Shuran to find out what’s going on because apparently you need to sleep all morning. You do seem rather helpless a good deal of the time—I can’t help but wonder why you’re the leader of the three, First Cantor.”
“Luck,” I said, trying out one word to see how close I was to being functional. I was pleased with the results—which showed how low my expectations were these days. I very carefully and awkwardly reached for my pants and shirt on the floor only to realize halfway down that if I kept going I was going to fall over again.
She turned and looked at me. It was the first time I’d noticed that her eyes were a beautiful rich brown. I didn’t like her smile, though. “Really?” she asked. “As I’ve heard it, you were abandoned by your father, your wife was murdered, your King was executed as a tyrant, your Greatcoats were scattered and now they’re either dead or turned to banditry. The country is a corrupt black pit and the only reason it isn’t overrun by devils is likely because they’d find it too unpleasant here. You’ve been beaten, tortured, and poisoned, and now you lie around half-dead. I could have killed you in your sleep and I doubt anyone would have minded. So what is it exactly that keeps you going?”
I tried once again to reach down for my pants, leaning my back against the wall to keep from toppling over. I had to admit I probably wasn’t an impressive sight, swaying wildly and periodically grabbing at the edge of the bed to keep from landing back on the floor. “You’re forgetting something,” I said, hoping she’d pay more attention to my speech, which had mostly returned now, than my lack of balance.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“The people who did those things—Yered, Duke of Pertine; Patriana, Duchess of Hervor; a dozen corrupt city constables, enough wife-beaters, child-slayers, rapists, and bully-boys to fill a castle, two Dashini assassins and more than fifty Ducal Knights—”
“I take it those are people you’ve killed?”
“Yes.”
“All right, so you’ve killed all those people. They’re dead. What is it that keeps you going now?”
“There are a few left I haven’t gotten around to. Yet.”
She smiled and walked over and kissed me on the cheek. “See? Now that’s something I can get behind.” She reached down and picked up my clothes and handed them to me. “You should get dressed. If we’re about to fight Shuran and his men you won’t want to do it half-naked.”
“Why would we have to fight Shuran?” I asked. “Has he—?”
“He hasn’t done anything, yet. I just don’t trust him.”
“Is there anyone you do trust?”
“Not really. But your real problem is that the Saint of Swords doesn’t trust him either. Looks like Shuran is preparing to leave ahead of us, and Kest thinks that means Isault is going to betray Aline. I suspect he’s going to do something reckless.”
I had a good laugh at that. Kest was the least reckless person I’d ever known. He was invariably reasoned, cautious, and patient. I supposed he might try to convince Shuran to wait until I was able to move, but he certainly wouldn’t start a war over it. “Kest will find a way to keep the peace,” I said. “Where is he now?”
“Last time I saw him, the Saint of Swords was headed down to the courtyard to confront the Knight-Commander of Aramor. Tell me, does his skin always glow red when he’s planning to keep the peace?”
“Why in all the hells did you wait so long to warn me that Kest and Shuran were preparing to fight?” I demanded of Dariana as I hobbled into the inn’s courtyard. Morning sunshine blinded me, compounding the blurry haze that still haunted my vision.
“Who says I want you to stop the fight?” she asked.
On one side of the courtyard stood Shuran’s Knights, their swords drawn. On the other stood Brasti, his short bow raised, an arrow nocked, and Valiana, her sword drawn but the point kept low so as to not set off an attack. It would have been a horribly mismatched battle—but neither the Knights nor the Greatcoats looked at all concerned with each other.
Between the two sides stood Shuran in full armor, his helm fastened and his massive sword held above him in a high guard, a position suited to making a fast and deadly first strike, the very picture of the chivalric ideal: strong, determined, unwavering—despite how difficult it is to remain still while standing in heavy armor. Opposite him, Kest waited impatiently in nothing more than his pants and shirt. His greatcoat lay discarded on the ground. This wasn’t the Kest I had known since childhood, the man as patient as still water under a lake of ice. The man I knew didn’t circle like a restless wolf waiting to attack: no, the man I’d stood side by side with in a hundred fights was silent as the night air when his sword was drawn. The man I knew didn’t shout incoherent threats and jeer loudly at his opponent. The man I knew didn’t have skin that burned red against the morning mist.
“Come on, you coward,” Kest shouted, his voice strained but mocking, like a madman trying to contain his own laughter. “You dare draw a sword in my presence? In front of the Saint of Swords?”
“I do not seek to challenge you, Kest.” Shuran’s voice was calm and reasonable, his words carefully measured. “You drew first. I acted only to protect myself. There is no cause for conflict here. Let us both withdraw and talk this through before blood is spilled.”
If I hadn’t already known something was very wrong indeed, Kest’s complete nonreaction to Shuran’s words would have told me so. Even if Kest had true cause to duel, he should have immediately agreed to parlay or at least offer terms of surrender. Instead, Shuran’s reticence just made him angrier. “‘Talk’? Why? So you can seize your chance to slit my throat in my sleep? Do you think you’ll take it from me that way?”
Shuran shook his head. “There is nothing I want to take from you.”
Kest started laughing. “Really? You think I can’t tell how much you want to be the Saint of Swords, Shuran? The hunger is written all over your face!”
“Even if I did want it, now is not the time. You and I both have greater matters to contend with than the question of which one of us is the better swordsman.”
“You fool,” Kest said, shaking his sword in the air, “this is the only thing that matters. This: blades slicing the wind, the sound of tempered steel cutting air and skin and bone, the flesh yielding like paper, the blood flooding the ground like rain. This is all there is!”
“What in all the hells is going on here?” I asked Brasti.
He turned at the sound of my voice. “Falcio! Thank whichever Gods aren’t arrayed against us yet! You’ve got to get Kest to stop—he’s lost his mind.”
“What happened?”
“Shuran said he’d gotten orders from Isault to return immediately and he started getting ready to leave ahead of the rest of us—then Kest found out and went completely berserk. He started snarling and taunting Shuran and challenged him to a duel—in fact, I’m not entirely sure he didn’t challenge me to one as well.”
“Hells! Why didn’t you calm him down?”
“I did try—oddly, he wasn’t persuaded by my charm.” Brasti pointed to what looked like a pair of broken short wooden staves on the ground joined by a string. It was one of his bows, sliced neatly in half.
“Kest!” I shouted, taking a couple of steps toward him. The air glinted in front of me and I felt something as soft as a child’s breath pass lightly under my chin. When I looked at Kest he had already returned to his position. His eyes were still fixed on Shuran. Shit, I thought, he nearly took my head off and he didn’t even bother to look at me. “Kest, withdraw. Now!”
“Shut up, Falcio. Your turn will come soon enough.”
“Have you lost your mind? I’m your friend!”
This time he favored me with a look—the briefest of looks—and all I saw was the red of his eyes and a sneer. “Don’t waste your words on me, Falcio. I know you think you’re better than I am. You’re wrong.”
“Kest, I don’t—”
Before I could even finish my sentence Kest leapt at Shuran, bridging the distance between them in less than an eye-blink and aiming a devastating thrust at the Knight’s chestplate. Shuran brought his sword down in a fast parry intended to knock Kest’s blade out of his hand, but it didn’t work. Kest’s own sword moved like water, slipping out of the way of the parry and returning to its target. The only thing that saved Shuran’s life was that the big Knight managed to stumble backward, just out of reach of Kest’s point.
Kest grinned. “I told you that you put too much weight on your back leg.”
Shuran regained his footing. “Again, I do not dispute your superiority with the blade at this time, Saint of Swords.”
Before Shuran could even get his weapon back into guard, Kest struck again, whirling his blade in and out of the line of attack like a snake. Filling the air with the mocking sound of steel against steel, the point of his sword struck once, twice, thrice: Shuran’s wrists, his knee-joints, his elbows.
Hells, how could anyone, even Kest, be that fast?
Shuran, despite his size, moved swiftly and with deadly force. As a swordsman, it’s almost impossible when watching a duel not to wonder if you yourself could take either of the opponents. Watching the way he moved, I doubted very much that I could beat Shuran in a fair fight—and yet I could see his heavy-footed stance was holding him back. Whatever injury had resulted in the burns on his body had also kept him from being anywhere near Kest’s equal and Kest knew it. He used Shuran’s weaknesses against him, laughing all the while, relentlessly forcing the big man to rely on heavier and heavier swings to parry Kest’s blade. It felt like hours were passing by with each pass, and yet they had been fighting for just a few moments. The fight would not last much longer.
“I told you when we met that I would take you in twelve moves, Knight-Commander,” Kest said. “You’ve got five left.”
“I believe we settled on fourteen,” Shuran replied, his breath coming in heavy bursts.
“Fourteen was for if I wasn’t planning to kill you.”
“Kest, stop!” I shouted. “That’s a fucking order!”
But Kest ignored me, instead focusing all his gleeful attention on Shuran. Watching the way he went after the Knight-Commander was sickening. He was using his greater speed and skill to bind Shuran’s movements, reminding me of a man using needle and thread to sew a shroud around a still-moving body. Kest was about to kill the Knight-Commander of Aramor right in front of his own men and destroy any hopes we had for an alliance with Aramor. Shuran stumbled back again and fell hard on one knee.
“Get up,” Kest said. “Get up one last time. Or yield, and I will mercifully separate your greedy head from its shoulders.”
Shuran kept his sword out in front of him even as he struggled to rise. “Think, man! Is this really what you want? To start a war between the Duke of Aramor and the girl you want to make Queen?”
Kest didn’t answer; he just grinned and motioned again for Shuran to rise. There was no way in all the hells we were all destined for that the Knight-Commander was going to survive this next attack. Saints forgive me, I thought, and drew a throwing knife from my coat.
“What in all the name of Saint Laina’s left tit are you doing?” Brasti hissed, his hand on my shoulder.
“Preventing a war,” I said, drawing back and throwing the small blade at Kest’s shoulder.
He barely turned toward me as his blade whipped up and dismissively knocked the knife out of the air. But I knew Kest better than anyone else in the world, and of course I knew what he was capable of doing with a blade—that’s why I’d drawn and thrown the second knife the instant the first one had left my hand. There was a small thunk! as my second knife pierced his thigh. If he’d been wearing his greatcoat it would have protected him. Had he left it off intentionally? Did some part of Kest want me to stop him?
“Clever,” he said to me, and grinned as he reached down to pull the knife out.
Oh shit . . .
I flipped up the collar, turned, and crouched down, just in time to feel the blade strike at the bone plates sewn inside my greatcoat. The impact was only mildly painful, and yet it hurt me deeply. Had Kest known for certain I’d be able to protect myself in time? Or was he so far gone that he was really willing to kill me?
I turned back to the two men to see Shuran trying to use Kest’s wounded leg to turn the tide of the fight. But it was too late—the big Knight had been struck so many times by Kest that I was surprised he could still hold his sword. Shuran gave a great roar and tried one last sweeping attack, only to have Kest catch the blow on the crossbar of his sword and twist hard in a sudden counter-clockwise motion that spun the blade out of Shuran’s hand.
Kest grinned. “Only one move left, Sir Knight.”
Shuran dropped to his knees, his hands at his sides. His Knights looked like they were ready to attack Kest, but the Knight-Commander held up a hand. “No! We are Ducal Knights. We are men of honor. When this is done, fly, all of you—take separate roads. Whoever reaches the Duke first, tell him that the Greatcoats have betrayed us.”
“Kest!” I shouted again, “stop! For the love of the King, you must stop!”
He turned to me and for an instant he looked like himself again, as if victory was quieting the madness inside him. The moment didn’t last. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Falcio,” he replied and turned back to Shuran.
Kest was more than a brother to me. I’d known him since we were children and I’d loved him every day since. But I couldn’t let him destroy the King’s dream. I slipped off my greatcoat and drew my rapiers. I turned to Brasti. “If this doesn’t work, you have to shoot him.”
“You want me fire an arrow at Kest?”
“Not just one, as many as it takes. You keep firing until he stops moving.”
“He can’t parry an arrow, Falcio.”
“Yes,” I said, “he can.” I walked toward Kest. “You just keep shooting until he stops moving.”
Kest kept his sword on Shuran as he let his gaze drift toward me. “Why did you take off your coat, Falcio?”
“If you kill him, I’m next. Give me your sword, Kest, or else fight me.”
Kest’s eyes narrowed. “You think you can beat me? Without even the protection of your coat? Falcio, I think you might be going a little insane.”
“Let’s find out.”
His expression changed, just a bit, as if he were suddenly confused about where he was. He was close to coming back to us; I just wasn’t sure if he was close enough. I took another step forward.
“Falcio, stop . . .” Then he said, “I don’t want to kill you.”
“Nevertheless, those are your options.” We were almost in range of each other now. Damn me, of all the deaths I’d ever envisioned for myself—and I have a very inventive mind—this wasn’t one of them.
Kest looked at me and then at Shuran, his lips moving as if he was talking to himself, and I could see them forming the word “no” over and over again. Suddenly he brought his sword up high in the air and tilted the point down, toward Shuran’s chest. The angle would allow him to use his tremendous strength to drive the blade straight through Shuran’s chestplate.
“No!” I screamed and, cursing myself, I leapt toward him in a long lunge.
Kest beat away my rapier effortlessly and tossed his own sword lightly in the air, flipping it over so that he could grab the blade and aim the pommel at Shuran. He brought it down on Shuran’s chest like a farmer trying to drive a stake into the ground. A sound like the clanging of a church bell filled the courtyard, and when I looked back at Shuran he was still on his knees, but reeling mightily from the blow. There was a small circular indentation the size of Kest’s pommel on the left side of Shuran’s chestplate. Kest had marked exactly where his point would have gone: straight into Shuran’s heart.
My best friend looked at me, his mouth quivering and his eyes uncertain, then he turned to the Knight-Commander of Aramor and said, “I yield!” before falling unconscious to the ground.
A considerable amount of chaos followed. The moment Kest fell, Shuran’s men took up positions in a circle around the two opponents, with five men guarding Shuran while the others stood over Kest’s body. I ran to him, but several of Shuran’s men made it quite clear that I wasn’t going to get through them. Brasti, Valiana, and Dariana joined me and together we faced off with the Knights.
“Stop,” Shuran said, breathing so hard he could barely get the word barely out. He removed his helm and I could see sweat dripping down his forehead, giving an unnatural sheen to the burnt side of his face. “It’s done. No one is dead and no one needs to be.”
“Step aside and let us see to our man,” I said.
The Knights moved closer together. “This mad dog of yours is our prisoner now,” one of them said. “He tried to murder the Knight-Commander of Aramor.”
“There’s something wrong with him,” I said. “He’d never—”
Shuran cut me off with a wave of his hand. “This was a duel, fairly fought,” he said to his men.
“But Knight-Commander,” one of the Knights said, “this man—”
“First positions behind me!” Shuran barked and the Knights, moving in perfect unison, shifted from a circle around Kest to a line of men standing four feet behind Shuran. The Knight-Commander took a step back to give me room and I knelt down next to Kest. When I felt for the beating of his heart I found it slow, slower than mine by far. But was that normal for Kest now? I had no idea, never having had a Saint for a friend before. He had an unworldly look to him now. The red glow of his skin hadn’t so much disappeared as turned inwards, as if he’d been standing out in the sun for several days. His skin was dry, almost burnt.
“What in hells is wrong with him?” I asked.
I hadn’t been expecting a reply, but to my surprise, Shuran spoke up. “It’s Saint’s Fever, I think.”
Brasti came forward to join me. “What is that, a joke? Saint’s Fever is just redberry sickness—it’s a child’s ailment!”
“Parents call it Saint’s Fever because the symptoms are similar, but there really is a Saint’s Fever, and it’s named that for a reason. There aren’t that many written sources dealing with the nature of the Saints, but I’ve read something that speaks of a kind of ailment that builds inside them. How long has it been since Kest last bound himself in a sanctuary?”
“I . . . I’m not sure I even know what you’re talking about,” I admitted. We’d not exactly had the leisure for researching Kest’s new condition since he’d taken on Saint Caveil’s mantle.
Shuran looked at me as if he doubted my words for a moment. “You’re telling me he hasn’t bound himself? Not since he murdered the previous Saint of Swords?”
“It was no murder but a duel, fairly fought,” I pointed out. “Caveil was trying to kill us.”
“Still, why has Kest not—?”
Brasti stepped forward. “What we’re telling you, metal man, is that we have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
The Knight-Commander looked back down at Kest, his eyes wide. “Gods! No wonder the madness was upon him. I can’t believe he managed to hold it back as long as he did—”
“What is this sanctuary you’re talking about?” I asked.
“A church—any church. He has to spend three nights inside until—”
“He can’t go into a church,” I said. I wasn’t likely to forget our last encounter with Trin any time soon. “He couldn’t pass the stone circle.”
“That’s how it works,” Shuran said. “You need to go to a church and ask the cleric to remove one of the stones, then Kest will be able to pass through. The cleric will replace the stone and reconsecrate the circle—”
“Won’t that trap him inside the church?” Brasti asked. A pertinent question, I thought.
“That’s the point: he’ll be bound inside the sanctuary. The force that burns inside him must be held in check. A Saint must be humbled by man’s church to be saved. If the stories are true, after three days the cleric can remove the stone once again and the Saint will be able to walk the world, once again able to control the divine madness.”
“You know an awful lot about Saints,” I said.
“Doesn’t every man who aspires to become something greater than himself?”
The almost dismissive answer didn’t sit well with me, but looking down at Kest’s face reminded me we had more pressing concerns. His skin was returning to a more normal pallor but there was something thin and worn about him. “What do I do now?” I murmured, almost to myself.
“Nothing,” Shuran said, stepping back from us and sheathing his sword. “I’m no expert, but from what I’ve read he should be fine for a while. When the fever strikes it is . . . well, pronounced, but its passing should leave him in control for some time. However, I would advise that once your business with Duke Isault is complete, you should find Kest a sanctuary.”
“Shit,” Brasti said. “Doesn’t sound like being a Saint is all it’s made out to be in the stories.”
Shuran smiled. “Few things are. And yet I imagine for those called it’s hard to resist.”
I thought back to what Kest had been shouting at the beginning of his fight with Shuran. You think the hunger isn’t written all over your face when you look at me? “And you, Sir Shuran? Do you feel the call to become the Saint of Swords?”
“Right now the only call I’m heeding is the one to return to my Duke,” Shuran said. “Sir Lorandes, if you wouldn’t mind?”
One of the Knights broke out of formation and walked over to the horses. Without a word he took the reins of Shuran’s steed and led him back to us.
“The rest of you will travel to the Ducal Palace together,” Shuran said. “I’ll see you when you arrive, tomorrow or the next day.” He turned and looked at his men. “On my honor, not one of my men will seek to do Kest—or any of you—harm.”
“But why is it so important that you leave right now?” I asked. “Why are you going ahead on your own?”
“Because I have been summoned by my lord and instructed to proceed with all speed. I can reach the palace a good deal faster if I’m traveling by myself. I follow the Duke’s commands, Falcio. That’s how it works.”
I was standing close to him and he towered above me. I kept my focus on his eyes. “And what if the Duke decides to betray us?”
To his credit, Shuran didn’t blink. “Duke Isault is the ruler of Aramor. If he decides to go back on his agreement with you then there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“So you’ll betray us if he asks.”
“You really don’t understand Knighthood, do you, Falcio? If the Duke commands it, it won’t be a betrayal.”
I had no small amount of admiration for Shuran, and in another life, who knows, perhaps we would have been friends. But at that moment the only thing running through my mind was, was, Saints, how I hate Knights. “So you expect us to just waltz into the palace and hope it’s not a trap? If Isault’s planning on selling us out to Trin, what’s to stop him from capturing us or killing us to seal the deal?”
“Duke Isault would never do that,” Shuran said firmly. “If he changes his mind and decides to back Duchess Trin instead of Princess Aline he’ll tell you to your face and send you on your way. He won’t order me to arrest you, not unless you attack him first.”
I looked around at Shuran’s men. There were five of us and ten of them, so decent odds. We could take them if we had to—assuming, of course, that Kest awakened from his current slumber.
“I’ll swear this much,” Shuran said. “If you come to the palace, I will personally guarantee your safety.”
“And what if Isault orders you to attack us? You’ll—what? Refuse?”
The question was pretty obvious to me, and yet Shuran was clearly troubled by it. Eventually he said, “Then I’ll renounce my Knighthood and do what I must to ensure my promise to you is upheld.”
“What about your precious honor then?” I asked.
He put his foot in the stirrup and mounted his horse. “If the Duke tells me to attack those he’s sworn to treat with fairly, then my honor won’t be worth a black penny anymore.”
He kicked his horse and left me standing in the inn’s small courtyard feeling somehow both betrayed and yet ignoble. That was quite a feat.