“I didn’t think You explained yourself to Your swords,” Shane said. “They taught us not to expect that.”
Generally I cannot. There is a door in most mortal souls that stands between you and the divine. Some of Us can whisper through the keyhole, but as I said, I have never been a terribly subtle god. I could only blast the door open and cause such pain as would be no kindness. But the door in your soul has been broken already, between the demon and the Saint, and you have already borne the pain.
Though I must warn you, little brother, that I will not continue to speak to you like this. Only saints can bear the voice of a god for long, and I fear that you are not quite a saint.
Shane snorted. “Definitely not.” But if the Dreaming God’s servants were not an issue, what of Shane’s own comrades, of Wren and Istvhan and Stephen and all the rest? Surely it was not right that he accept something that was denied to them?
The flames bent sideways in a divine sigh. Truly, little brother? You would deny yourself healing because someone else may be in pain? Even if your suffering helps them not at all?
“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds stupid,” Shane muttered. “But it’s not…” He stopped himself before he said that it wasn’t fair. He knew that life wasn’t fair, but having a god confirm it
was a blow that he did not think he could survive.
But the Dreaming God, for all that He claimed not to be subtle, had a different strategy. Would your brothers and sisters want you to give this up for them?
A painful laugh tore itself out of Shane’s chest. “They’d kick my ass,” he admitted. He could almost hear Istvhan yelling at him, and Stephen would give him the not-in-anger-but-in-sorrow look and Galen would just punch him in the head a few times and then they’d probably tell the Bishop and the Bishop would drag him back to the Dreaming God’s temple and demand he try again and…well, it would be ugly.
They love you, little brother, said the god. They will not love you less for being whole.
It was Shane’s turn to sigh. It was a hard thing to admit that a noble sacrifice wouldn’t do any good, and that the people you were sacrificing for would think you were an idiot.
The silver flame seemed to retreat a little way, as if the god was stepping back. Shane wondered if the god was giving him time to think.
Did he need time to think?
To be a paladin of the Dreaming God had been his greatest desire for as long as he could remember, and once it seemed impossible, his greatest source of bitterness. Now it seemed, impossibly, that he was being offered that again.
But…
What about Marguerite?
Laying down his life for her had been an easy choice, but somehow it seemed that he was going to survive.
I will serve you however I can, for as long as you’ll have me, he’d told her.
All he had to offer her was his service. If even that was promised to another, what did he have left to offer? My humor, warmth, and charm? He snorted at himself.
Davith had tried to warn him once. All you’ll ever be to her is a weapon. And he’d blithely replied that at least he would be her weapon, not realizing that there would ever be another choice.
He thought about it. He thought about it for what seemed like a very long time, sitting there in a haze of divine light.
And what if she does not want you after all? What if even your service is not enough for her?
How could you ever be enough?
Perhaps he couldn’t be. But he was enough for a god.
Shane laughed softly, painfully to himself, and sank his head in his hands. Gods, it seemed, were easier to serve than mortals.
Either she wants me for what I am, or she does not. And since I have not managed to be other than what I am—despite years of trying!—that is her decision, not mine.
I can only choose for myself.
He got to his feet. “Lord,” he said aloud. “I know what I have to do.”
He did not have to say anything more. The god knew. Perhaps the god had always known what his choice would be.
The silver fire swept in, wrapped him up, and made him whole.
FIFTY-THREE
SHANE WOKE up in a whitewashed room that smelled of lavender. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, and when they finally did, it was on a short, dark-haired woman sitting in a chair, frowning furiously at a stack of papers.
“Marguerite?” he whispered.
She lowered the papers and glared at him. “Do you have any idea,” said Marguerite, in a voice that etched like engraving acid, “how tragically inept the Dreaming God’s people are at intelligence gathering?”
This was not exactly the greeting he had been expecting. “Are they?” he asked, because it was hard to know what else to say.
“Did I say inept? This borders on the apocalyptic.” She tossed the papers down on a side table, leaned over and kissed his forehead, then went to the door and shouted something into the hall. Shane didn’t quite catch what it was, because the kiss had left him breathless, despite being as chaste as a nun.
A man in the pale robes of an acolyte came inside and the next few minutes were spent getting Shane to sit up, drink a bitter concoction of herbs and then a much sweeter one, and help him to the chamber pot. Marguerite absented herself for this last operation, and Shane snatched the opportunity to ask, “What’s wrong with me?”
“You’ve been asleep for three days,” said the acolyte.
“Three days!”
“Yep. You’ll feel shaky for a day or two until your muscles get used to moving again. Food will help.”
“But what happened?”
The acolyte paused. “You don’t remember?”
“I…” Shane touched his forehead. “I thought the Dreaming God spoke…but…?”
“Oh, He did all right,” said Marguerite, coming back inside. “I had just finished threatening that oaf Matthias when you stood up and said something and every paladin in that courtyard suddenly looked like they’d been hit with a board.” She paused, rubbed the back of her neck, and added, “I’m
not saying I was much better. If that’s what a god passing by feels like, I wouldn’t want to experience that more than…oh…once a decade or so, at the most.”
The acolyte clapped him on the shoulder and helped him to the chair that Marguerite had been sitting in. “I’ll send in a senior,” he said. “Everyone is very concerned with your recovery.”
(Marguerite muttered something that Shane didn’t quite catch, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.) The idea of the god speaking through him was so large that he could hardly grasp it, but fortunately, there was a more pressing concern. “The others! Are they okay?”
“They’re fine. Wren’s here. Judith rode out before the dust was even settled, but Davith saw her go and said she was fine. He left yesterday.” Marguerite snorted. “Said to tell you that you and he are square now, and he’d prefer never to see any of us again.”