Jorge bit his lip.
“It’s fine,” Shane rasped. He had been hollowed out and the most he could feel was a distant pity.
Perhaps once I’m dead, it’ll stop hurting so much. “Do what you need to do.”
And then he heard a familiar voice and Marguerite catapulted across the space between them, her hair flying around her face, shouting, “Don’t you dare!”
JORGE PUT his face in his hands. Marguerite dropped to her knees next to Shane. Shane looked over at her, which meant that he was mostly looking into her cleavage. He was aware that at some other point
in his life, he would have appreciated that very much. It was a shame he couldn’t feel much of anything right now.
Then Warhammer grabbed Marguerite’s shoulder and Shane found that he was, in fact, still capable of feeling something.
The tide was less of a tide and more of a thin trickle of darkness. If he sat up, he could grab Warhammer’s ankle and pull and then wrench and the man would fall back and then…then it wouldn’t matter because he probably couldn’t sit up.
Jorge reached out a quelling hand. “Matthias, let her go.”
“Are we sure the demon didn’t jump to her instead? She’s the only one here who isn’t one of us.”
“I swear by all that’s holy,” said Marguerite, in a clear, cold voice, “I will make you eat that hammer if you don’t stop acting like a jackass.”
Oh Dreaming God, no. If they thought Wisdom had jumped to Marguerite, then it would be her turn to choose the water or the sword. Dreaming God, please, I know that I failed You, but please, please, listen —
And then, quite suddenly, Shane was somewhere else.
THE AIR WAS MADE of silver fire. Shane stood within it, sheathed in flame, and knew that he should be burning, but was not. It encircled him like fog, bright and cool and blinding.
Little brother, said a voice that he heard inside his chest and through the soles of his feet as much as with his ears. It has been too long.
He knew that voice. It had never spoken to him, and yet he had heard it echoing behind the words of others for the first seventeen years of his life.
“Dreaming God?” he whispered.
Yes.
Shane went to his knees, or perhaps he had already been on his knees. It was hard to tell. There was no ground, only the cool silver fire in every direction.
“Lord,” Shane choked out, then stopped. What could he say? He had willingly consorted with a demon. Any holy order would find such a thing anathema, but for the Dreaming God, Whose paladins existed solely to root out demonkind wherever they were found… Shane stared at the silver light between his hands and closed his eyes against it.
Why do you not speak, little brother?
“Lord, I have done terrible things.”
Yes.
“I bargained with a demon to save my friends.”
I know.
“I fought Your chosen to buy time for the demon’s followers to escape.”
I know.
There was no censure in the god’s voice, only statement of fact. Shane felt the silver light blazing against his eyelids and opened them again. “Why aren’t You angry?” he cried, and realized that he wanted the god to be angry with him, because…because…
Because you are angry with Me, little brother.
Part of Shane knew that he had no right to be angry with a god. Part of him knew that people cursed the gods when they had no one else to blame.
Those parts were shoved aside as he cried, “Why did You abandon me?”
Little brother, I did not.
“I waited for You! For weeks! You called the others, why not me?”
Because I could not. Silver fire flowed past his fingertips and lost itself in light. From the hour of your birth, you were promised to the Saint. I had no claim on you.
“Oh,” Shane said, which seemed woefully inadequate, given the circumstances. He stared into the fire. A priest had suggested to him that this was the case, and he had hoped desperately that it was, but he had never quite made himself believe it.
He believed it now.
“I’m sorry.”
As am I. We did not mean to cause you pain.
It occurred to Shane, finally, to ask the question that he should have asked first. “Am I dead?”
You are not.
Shane rubbed his face. He was increasingly unsure if this was his real body, but it felt like his hand and his forehead and the gesture made him feel slightly better. “Then what… how… Forgive me, Lord. I did not think that You spoke to mortals.” The Saint had certainly never spoken to him in words, only in fire and glory.
Fire and glory, and, if Shane was being honest, being pointed in the proper direction and shoved.
There were never any explanations afterward, but then, he had never expected them.
It is rare that any of Us can speak to mortals. The channel that lets Us touch a mortal soul is a narrow one. To force it open is no kindness.
The raw wound in Shane’s soul twinged at that, as if someone had breathed across it.
The Saint’s passing scarred that channel closed for you, little brother, or else I would have claimed you then. The demon’s passing has ripped it open again, though those same scars protected you a little.
“A demon could get in, but a god could not?” asked Shane. The bitterness in his voice horrified him, but the Dreaming God did not seem to notice.
Can you set the bones of a chick still in the egg?
“No,” Shane admitted.
Nor can I, no matter how well-inclined I may be toward the chick. There are subtle gods, but I
am not among Them. The flames danced briefly, as if with rueful laughter. I am not used to owing a demon a favor. It is not a comfortable thought.
Shane almost said, “Tell me about it!” but that seemed like an unwise thing to say to a god. The flames began dancing again though, and he had a suspicion that the Dreaming God knew perfectly well what he was thinking.
Very well, said the Dreaming God. Because of what has happened, because of what you have done, it is given to you to choose.
“Choose? Choose what?”
Your soul will heal in time. If you wish, I will withdraw, and it will scar over again, as it was before.
“Or?”
Another breath across the raw places inside his heart. Or I will stay, and you will become one of My paladins, as you once wished to be.
Shane sat down hard, before he remembered that he was already on his knees. It didn’t seem to matter. The flame obligingly rearranged itself so that it felt like he was sitting.
“Your paladin? After what I did?”
Would you cast aside a fine sword merely because it had been used, however briefly, by your enemy?
“I doubt Your priesthood will feel the same.”
My priests are very dear to Me, said the Dreaming God musingly, but they do not dictate My choices. They will recognize Who you serve, even if they wonder at it.