Paladin

by Sally Slater

  Tristan sighed. “I suppose we could stop by.”

  Beside Sam, Braeden flinched.

  “Excellent,” Sagar said. “I’ll tell the others you’re coming. They’ll be thrilled to have a legend in their midst.” He clapped Tristan on the shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have errands to run before the night gets going. Crompton will take good care of you in the meantime.” He pointed at Tristan. “I’ll see you later, and your trainees, too. What are your lads’ names again?”

  “We didn’t say,” Sam said. “It’s Sam of Haywood, Paladin.”

  Sagar chuckled. “A trainee just like his paladin. Got a bit of a mouth on you, don’t you, boy?”

  Sam had no idea how to respond to that, politely or otherwise.

  “And you, boy?”

  Braeden kept his gaze trained on the ground, his crimson eyes barely visible. “Braeden of Rhea.”

  Sagar tipped his head. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sam, Braeden. I’ll see the lot of you in an hour’s time.”

  After Paladin Sagar took his leave, Crompton led them to their rooms as he’d promised, apologizing a hundred times for his hostile welcome. Naturally, Tristan had a room to himself while Braeden and Sam were given the adjacent room. With a final apology, the innkeeper made an obsequious bow and scurried away.

  “Are we really going to this party?” Sam asked.

  “Aye, once we no longer smell like horse manure,” Tristan replied. “From what Sagar said, it sounds like half the city will be there tonight. You never know what you might overhear.”

  “All of us?” Braeden asked, fingering the brim of his hat.

  “You’ll be with me, so you’ll be fine,” Tristan said. He looked Braeden up and down. “Though I think you ought to wear something more conventional. You and I are of a height if you want to borrow clothes.”

  Braeden took a moment to consider it. “All right,” he agreed, much to Sam’s surprise. She’d never seen him in anything but his black Rhean robes.

  Sam and Braeden’s room had a private bath, so the two of them took turns bathing. A servant had filled the tub with hot water, but by the time Sam stepped into the water, it was barely lukewarm. But, as she reminded herself, a lukewarm bath was better than no bath at all.

  When she emerged from the bath, clean and fully dressed, Braeden was buttoning the top of a brocade doublet that accented his broad shoulders and tapered waist. Tight, tan breeches clung to the well-shaped muscles of his thighs and calves. Sam reminded herself that such clothes were the height of fashion and concentrated on forcing her eyes above his waist.

  Braeden grimaced. “I look ridiculous, I know.”

  “No! You look . . . nice. Truly,” Sam said, watching Braeden struggle with the final button. “Here, let me.” Standing on her toes, she slipped the silver button through its thread loop, her fingers grazing Braeden’s neck. A strange frisson of energy shot up her arm, and they both jumped at the contact. “Sorry,” she said, coloring furiously.

  A knock came at the door that separated their room from Tristan’s, ending the weird interlude. “Let’s go,” Tristan said through the door.

  The party was already in full swing by the time they arrived in the large, private tavern at the back of the inn. The common room was lined with people, pushing and shoving as they waited to be admitted. Crompton stood by the tavern door, granting and denying entry like a king passing judgment on his subjects.

  Inside the tavern was a cacophony of sound. Men shouted over the gambling tables as cards traded hands and dice tumbled. Leathered feet stomped in tune to a minstrel’s bagpipe, and men and women whirled with wild abandon around what little open space remained.

  It was hard to ignore the women in the room. Every female in attendance, from guest to server, wore a black partial mask that covered the forehead and nose but left the lower half of the face exposed.

  “Why are the women wearing masks?” Sam asked Paladin Sagar after he’d greeted them.

  Sagar pinched the bottom of a nearby barmaid, who hopped and let out a little squeal. He watched appreciatively as she flounced away. “Some fine women in here tonight,” he said, more to himself than anyone in particular. “What was it you were saying, boy? Oh yes, the masks. They afford the women a bit of privacy for our little gatherings.”

  “Privacy? Why do they need privacy?”

  “Why, privacy from their brothers and husbands, of course. This isn’t the sort of party a lady should be seen attending.”

  “Then why do the women come?” Sam asked.

  Paladin Sagar elbowed Sam in the ribs, hard enough to make her grunt. “Because this isn’t the sort of party a lady should be seen attending.”

  “I see,” Sam said, not seeing at all. She watched as a woman in a hooded black dress flirted with two men at once, stroking one’s cheek while caressing the forearm of the other. Now she’d really seen everything.

  Paladin Sagar slapped his knee. “By the Gods, lad, if you could see yourself. Your face is as red as my hair.” He shook his fist at Tristan. “Lyons, you need to do your duty by your trainees, man. The boy’s as innocent as my own sister.”

  Sam and Braeden traded uneasy glances. Tristan had never asked her about what happened in the brothel, and she hoped he didn’t start now, in front of Sagar. “Not so,” she said, thinking quickly. “How about a drink and a game of Hazard?”

  “There’s a lad,” Paladin Sagar said, thumping her on the back.

  As the night wore on and the general level of inebriation grew, so did the impropriety of the revelers. The men playing dice had their wagers piled high in front of them, shouting and cursing as they argued over their bets. A fair number of the partygoers had paired off and were in varying stages of intimacy throughout the tavern. The black masks only hid so much.

  Three drinks and four rounds of dice later, Sam somehow found herself at a table alone with Sagar. His face had grown markedly redder over the course of the past few drinks, and his words were beginning to slur together. Still, he was a Paladin, and that meant affording him the proper respect he deserved.

  “You’re lucky, boy, you know that?” Sagar was saying. “Not a one of us is better than Lyons. Not a better man in the kingdom.” He smiled faintly. “I remember when he was just a boy himself. Almost a man, but not quite. Wouldn’t talk to anyone when he first came to Heartwine except the High Commander. But I got him to talk to me eventually.”

  “Why?” Sam asked. “Why didn’t he talk?”

  Sagar stared at her with feverish eyes, and then shrugged off her question. “He’s the best, Tristan Lyons. I’m his oldest friend, did he tell you that?”

  Her tongue caught in her mouth. She didn’t know whether to lie or tell the truth—or whether he’d remember either way.

  Sagar smiled with all his teeth. “ ’Course he didn’t. That’s Lyons for you. Never has much time for anything but killing demons.”

  “What else should he be doing?” Sam asked, genuinely curious.

  “Ah, to be young again.” Sagar raised his half-empty glass. “Life is for living. For drinking. For tupping.” He snorted. “Boy, your face has gone purple. You are far too innocent to be in my presence.”

  Sam, grateful for the excuse to leave his company, left Sagar to finish his drink alone. She searched the room for Braeden and found him skulking in the corner nearest the exit.

  At some point during the night, she’d also lost track of Tristan. He had disappeared into a crowd of paladins when they’d first arrived, all of whom had wanted to be regaled with the stories of his latest triumphs and updates from the fortress.

  “Let’s stroll around the room,” she said to Braeden. He agreed to join her, abandoning his solitary corner.

  It didn’t take Sam long to spot Tristan. He leaned against the tavern wall, a hooded woman in a black dress pressed against him. She threw back her head with a husky laugh, allowing strawberry blonde locks to escape the confines of her hood.

  “Who is that
woman with Tristan?” Sam asked.

  “Why, jealous?” Braeden asked.

  “What? No! No, I think I recognize her.” She squinted, studying the woman’s pert mouth and the classic lines of her face. “I do recognize her!”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s the Duchess of Catania!” Sam hissed. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Forgive me if this is an ignorant question, but so what? Will she recognize you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. She hasn’t seen me since I was a child, and I was too far beneath her notice, anyway.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Braeden, she’s married. To the duke!”

  Braeden sighed. “Tristan’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions. And besides, she’s hardly the only married woman here tonight.”

  “It’s not about Tristan, Braeden, truly. I don’t care what Paladin Sagar said about the masks—if I can recognize her, so can everybody else!” Sam shook her head, appalled. “Since my mother died, my father has taken his pleasures outside the marriage bed, but he would never flout it in public like this. And consorting with the Paladins no less! It reflects badly on both her and us.”

  Braeden halted in his tracks, pausing to look at her. “You know, Lady Sam, you can be a little condescending sometimes.”

  “Don’t call me that!” she snapped. “And what do you mean?”

  “Your father loves his women in secret, beyond the scrutiny of the public eye. Why? Because he’s ashamed of them? Or because they can say no to him in public?” Braeden shrugged. “And yet you feel his behavior is less shameful than fraternizing with the high and mighty Paladins. Seems a bit arrogant to me.”

  Sam flushed. “You’ll be a Paladin one day, Braeden, so you better not let them hear you speak that way. And say what you will about my father, but I think there’s something to be said for discretion.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Oh, give it a rest, Braeden! Look, it’s not just about Tristan and the duchess. This whole party—” Sam said, spreading her arms. “It’s dishonorable!”

  At her last word, dishonorable, Tristan dislodged his hand from the duchess’s right hip and gently pushed her away. Though Sam stood across the tavern, and there was no way he could hear her over the din, his gaze somehow found hers.

  “You know, Sam, he thinks you’re dead.”

  “I know,” she said quietly, turning away. She didn’t want to watch him anymore. “Braeden?”

  “Yes, Sam?”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Tristan had never had any trouble finding women. And they’d never had any trouble finding him. It wasn’t because he was particularly suave or clever, but because he had a fair face and a hard body that turned heads. He’d always used his looks to his advantage—more often for pleasure than for not—and tonight would be no different.

  The woman in the hooded black dress had made clear her intentions, sliding her foot up and down his shin. She was a beautiful woman, with a lovely hourglass of a shape, but Tristan had little interest in a romantic liaison.

  “My lady—” he began, unsure of how best to put her off without obstructing his designs.

  She trailed her fingers along his forearm. “Call me Lilah.”

  “Your Grace, we both know that’s not your real name.”

  The Duchess of Catania pouted prettily. “It is for tonight.”

  Tristan groaned inwardly, but kept his smile on his face. He had to play this just right. “My lady, there is no denying you are a beautiful woman—”

  “Thank you, Paladin,” she purred, attempting to entwine herself around him.

  “—but I am certain His Grace would not approve of our entanglement.” He put his arms on her shoulders to hold her at bay.

  The duchess snorted indelicately. “His Grace and I have an understanding. He does what he wants, and I do the same.”

  His smile strained at the edges. Infidelity was more common than not among the higher ranks, but he’d seldom heard it put so bluntly. “Though you are lovelier than the stars, I did not approach you for an assignation, but for the pleasure of your company.”

  She turned a fetching shade of pink. He would have to be blind not to notice she was attractive, but she did little to heat his blood. Besides, he was here for a different game.

  Tristan steered her towards a private corner. “My lady, you are the toast of Catania. You must talk to everyone and hear everything. Tell me, have you heard the name Sander Branimir?”

  “The name sounds familiar,” she said slowly, tapping a finger against her lips. “Why do you ask?”

  He went for a combination of truth and flattery. “The High Commander was asking after him. I thought since you were so well-connected his name might have passed your ear.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything,” she said, “but I did see something.”

  Tristan couldn’t believe his luck. “You saw something?”

  She nodded. “A letter, on my husband’s desk. It was signed Sander Branimir.”

  “Did you read the correspondence?”

  She shook her head. “I only caught a few words, and the name. I don’t interfere in my husband’s business, and he doesn’t interfere in mine.”

  A loveless marriage, then. “You have no idea what it said?”

  Again, she shook her head. “Only that it was addressed to my husband and signed by your Branimir.”

  What could the leader of the Uriel want from the Duke of Catania? Did he hope to ingratiate himself with the duke? Tristan was left with more questions than answers.

  After another few minutes of halfhearted flirting, Tristan determined his conversation with the Duchess of Catania had no more fruit to bear. He skimmed the room, searching for Sam and Braeden, and found Sagar instead. With a quick bow to the duchess, he made his escape. “Excuse me, but I think I see an old friend.”

  Sagar was well in his cups, and when Tristan could endure no more of his incoherent babbling, he decided it was time to leave. “Have you seen my trainees?” he asked. He thought he’d caught a glimpse of Sam while he’d been talking to the duchess, but he hadn’t seen him since.

  “Who? Oh, the lad with the funny eyes and the short one with the mouth?” Sagar scratched his beard, an intense look of concentration on his face. “Think I saw ’em leave together.”

  “Nice of them to tell me,” Tristan grumbled.

  “Can’t blame ’em. You didn’t look like you wanted interrupting.”

  He sighed. “I better go after them and make sure they don’t get into any trouble.”

  “There was a time you were the one causing trouble, not the one cleaning it up. You remember those days, Lyons?”

  Tristan gave the other paladin a steady look. “Aye, Sagar. You were the one leading me into it. And then I grew up.”

  Sagar took a long swallow of his drink. “It’s a sad day for the Paladins to have lost the great Tristan Lyons to respectability. Think I might need another drink to toast his passing.”

  Tristan bit his tongue to avoid saying something he’d regret. “Have a good night, Sagar.”

  It was well past midnight by the time Tristan finally escaped the party, which despite the late hour showed no signs of abating. He made his way upstairs and to his room without disruption, hesitating behind the door that separated his room from Sam and Braeden’s. It was late but, damn it, they should have told him they were leaving. Squaring his shoulders, he knocked.

  Sam answered the door, rubbing his eyes and blinking.

  A long silence passed between them. A flicker of something passed behind Sam’s eyes—hurt or disappointment, Tristan wasn’t sure which. He resisted the urge to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt. He’d done nothing to be ashamed of—if anything, he’d been unusually well-behaved. He’d turned down a damn duchess, for the Gods’ sakes, not that he had to explain himself to his own trainee.

  “Well?” Sam asked, breaking the silence. “It’s not m
orning, is it?”

  “No, not yet. We have a few hours till dawn.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Tristan cleared his throat. “I was . . . concerned.”

  Sam’s brows rose into his hairline. “For me?”

  “Yes, for you. And Braeden, too. I couldn’t find either of you at the party.”

  “Well, we’re here, sleeping,” Sam said, giving him a flat stare. “If there’s nothing else?”

  Tristan was a little taken aback at the boy’s coldness. Normally Sam was all fire and spirit. “No, that was it.”

  “Then goodnight, Paladin.” Sam shut the door between them. Tristan had been summarily dismissed.

  He stood staring at the closed door for a while longer, wondering what he’d done to deserve his trainee’s censure and why it bothered him so much.

  Dawn came just seconds after he had drifted off to sleep, or so it seemed to Tristan. It was a strange thing, fostering trainees—when he’d traveled on his own, he would have allowed himself to doze for another hour. He’d been beholden to no one. But now that he had his trainees—or his lads, as he now thought of them—he did what he said he would and he did it with a smile. Or at least without a frown. Most of the time.

  Once he’d dressed, he burst into Braeden and Sam’s room without pausing to knock. “Wake up, you lazy slugabeds!”

  Sam and Braeden were already wide awake, clothed and packed, sitting on the edge of their respective pallets as though they’d been waiting for him forever. “Well,” Tristan said, a little dismayed that he wouldn’t get to lecture them, “I’ll finish packing then.”

  They departed from the inn’s stables shortly thereafter, the sun still partially hidden by the horizon. Tristan kept the horses to a brisk pace, but not so brisk that they couldn’t manage conversation. But apart from answering his occasional questions with monosyllabic responses, Braeden and Sam were silent—not just with him but with each other, too.