Page 135 of Paladin's Faith

FORTY-SIX

It was evening on the second day before they reached the town. Either the way was longer than the demon remembered, or—more likely—they were simply bone weary. Every step felt like a blow. Marguerite almost stepped into a ground-wight and was only saved because Wren was still far more alert than the rest of them.

She wasn’t paying attention properly, that much was clear. Both because she was tired and because one thought kept running endlessly through her head.

You left him there.

I had no choice! she argued, and the thought didn’t argue back. It just repeated, over and over. You left him there. You left him there.

Because there was really no argument to be made, was there? She had abandoned Shane as thoroughly as the Dreaming God once had. She had watched the demon unveil itself for an instant, and she had turned tail and run away, leaving Shane to bear the brunt.

The only thing that kept her moving at all was the belief that she would go back.

I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care if I have to drag the Dreaming God’s people out by the ear. I will go back and I will get him unpossessed if it kills me.

That she was relying on a god who had already discarded Shane once was an irony that was not at all lost on her.

When they reached the town, the three of them stood, swaying, just outside it. It felt bizarre that there were still towns, and other people going on about their lives, untroubled by demons or hired killers or lost loves.

“Right,” croaked Marguerite finally. “There’s an inn. If I get a hot bath, I may be able to feel emotions again.”

“Do you want to?” asked Davith.

She scrubbed at her face with her hands. “Not particularly, but I still want the bath.”

The inn was called The Fig & Murder and showed a crow holding what could, with some imagination, be a fig. Marguerite wondered where they were getting figs in the highlands, briefly considered whether she could undercut them on shipping, then decided that she just didn’t care anymore.

Shane’s gone. Shane gave up his soul to save us. To save me. What is even the point? I can’t buy him back from a demon.

Her uncaring lasted until she actually pushed the tavern door open, whereupon the first thing she heard was a familiar voice saying, “I know you people use all the dung. I’m not asking about the dung. I’m asking about horse piss. I need about a hundred gallons of it, and I’m willing to pay cash.”

“Lady,” said the bartender, who had backed away from Ashes Magnus until his spine hit the far wall, “I do not know anyone anywhere who has a hundred gallons of horse piss lying around! That is not a normal thing that people keep on hand!”

“Ugggh,” said Ashes. “What about a tanner? Tanners keep all sorts of horrible things.”

“Ashes?” whispered Marguerite. And then, louder, “Ashes!”

“What?” The artificer turned. “Marguerite?”

“You’re alive!”

“I could say the same about you!” The artificer swung around and caught Wren and Marguerite up in a bear hug.

“But what happened?” asked Marguerite, when they had finished hugging and a few tears had been shed and wiped away. “How did you get here?”

Ashes grinned up and down at them. “The usual way. I walked. At least until I found someone with a farm cart, and I bribed him to take me to the next town.” She waved an arm at the innkeeper. “And I’ve been sitting here, recovering from my bruises and trying to figure out what to do next.” She peered over their heads. “I see the snarky one, but where’s the pretty one?”

Davith, for once, didn’t issue a sardonic rejoinder. He dug his hands in his pockets and looked away.

Marguerite took a deep breath. “He’s still up there,” she said. “And there’s a demon with him.”

Ashes was quiet for a long moment. “Shit,” she said finally. “I can’t fix that.”

“I’m not sure anyone can.” Marguerite rubbed her forehead. “How did you get away?”

“Oh, that.” Ashes looked vaguely embarrassed. “Pure cowardice, really. As soon as the Red Sail fellows got shot, I knew that somebody else had joined the fray, and I was pretty sure they weren’t going to be friendly. Figured that maybe we’d crossed into the territory of someone who didn’t like visitors. Lots of the clans up here don’t, you know. And since I was already up against the wagon, looking for my gear—had some notion that I might have something explosive enough to make them think twice—I just dropped flat and wedged myself into the wreckage and pretended to be a corpse.” She gestured toward her head. “The blood helped. Head wounds always look spectacular.”

“And they thought you were dead,” breathed Wren.