Page 105 of Paladin's Faith

“The Dreaming God, you mean? Was that really your choice?”

He snorted. “I chose to devote my whole life to training as one of His paladins, didn’t I? And then…”

Marguerite was glad that he wasn’t looking at her. She didn’t want to see the expression in those pale blue eyes.

“Days, I waited,” said Shane. His voice was as bleak as winter. “Weeks. Everyone else was chosen. And finally it was obvious. My god didn’t want me.”

Nearly two decades old, and the wound had only scabbed over, Marguerite thought, never healed. “What did you do?”

He sighed, looking faintly embarrassed. “I was young. I thought if I couldn’t fight demons, maybe I could still do something worthwhile. Justify all the effort they’d put into me. Word came down that a gargath was in the woods—do you know those? No? They’re more common around the Dowager’s city, I think. Rather like a wolverine, but once it’s killed something, it hollows it out and wears the remains around and…I don’t know, fuses with it, somehow. Every kill means it gets bigger and bigger, just layering the bodies.”

“That sounds disgusting.”

“Oh, very. The smell alone will knock you down. Gargath don’t breed often, that’s the only good thing. They’re definitely magic but not demonic, but the Dreaming God’s people will still try to take them down if they find them, because the smaller they are, the easier they are to kill.” He rubbed his nose, probably at the memory. “I thought if I could kill the gargath, I’d be doing some good, and if it killed me, well…no great loss. So I went off after it by myself.”

Marguerite put her head in her hands. “That is such a…a you thing to do.”

“It was a bone-headed thing to do, if that’s what you mean. Swords are not the optimal weapon for fighting a gargath. They can see out of the eyes of the fresher bodies, you see, and move their limbs, so you’re fighting a ball of flailing rotten meat. I would have died and been added onto the pile if the Saint hadn’t claimed me at that moment.”

“I’m glad he did!”

“I’m not entirely sure I am.” He sighed and scrubbed at his face, sitting up. “No, I’m being an ingrate. The Saint gave me purpose. I did a great deal of good in His service.” He snorted. “Mostly because the battle tide didn’t let me choose much of anything.”

Marguerite leaned back against the bench. Part of her wanted to say, Nope, no matter how pretty the man is, this is too much for me to deal with. She’d never been particularly attracted to damaged men.

The other part of her was aware that she was sitting out in the open where an assassin could spot her, knowing that said assassins were in active pursuit—and she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t checking every exit every few seconds. Her nerves weren’t screaming at her. All because of the man sitting next to her.

(The smallest part of her was working out how to never be in the vicinity of a gargath, but it could probably be safely ignored for the moment.)

“You’re doing a great deal of good now,” she said.

“I am an excellent weapon.” Another typically Shane delivery, no bravado, simply a statement of fact.

“You’re more than that.” Marguerite reached for something reassuring and uplifting to say, and instead heard herself blurt out, “I’m less broken when I’m around you.”

Oh holy hell, I didn’t mean to say that.

Shane went very still. Marguerite waited, wondering if she had just ruined everything past all mending. What was I thinking? Granted it was true, but her entire life’s work hinged on weighing the truth out, grain by grain, not simply dumping it in someone’s lap like a dead fish.

She wouldn’t have blamed him if he ran away screaming, or at least the polite paladin equivalent of running away screaming, whatever that looked like.

Instead, he said, “I don’t want to hurt you.” Which, in most other men, she would have taken as a brush-off, but in Shane was probably nothing more or less than the truth.

“Physically or emotionally?”

“Errr…” He had to think about that. “I was mostly worried about physically. You, um…don’t seem very vulnerable emotionally.”

Marguerite’s lips twitched despite herself. “You’d be surprised. But why are you worried?”

“Berserker. You know.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Shane gazed into the night sky. “At least one religious order wanted us all killed after the Saint died, because they felt untethered berserkers were a public menace.”

“I bet Beartongue loved that.” She remembered Stephen’s rampage through the city after Grace’s arrest. It had been impressive, particularly in terms of property damage. “Should I be worried?”

“Nothing is ever certain,” he said morosely.