anyone would trust. You needed to project authority but also kindness. When a civilian staggered up to you, hollow-eyed and exhausted, and gasped out that there were demons in the fields, that was the voice that they needed to hear.
It was not until he was sliding his hands up Marguerite’s thigh that the reality of the situation had struck him suddenly, that she was lying there and he had his hands on her body in a position of incredible intimacy.
He fought it down at once. It was unworthy to even think such a thing, and certainly unworthy to notice the muscle of her legs, or to think of how those legs might feel wrapped around his waist, or—
The direction of his own thoughts shocked him. He would have sworn that he had left such thoughts behind. But even now, an hour later, riding close beside her, he could not keep his thoughts from drifting back.
No matter how strong he was, lust was always waiting in the wings, watching for a moment of weakness. It was why the paladins of the Dreaming God tended to be promiscuous. A demon could hardly tempt you with something that you were freely and frequently given.
But you are not a paladin of the Dreaming God, and never were. You are a failure and she was injured and all you can think of now is the feel of her flesh under your fingers. That is revolting and you should be ashamed.
No, even more ashamed than that.
Shane wondered if there was a term for feeling guilty about not feeling sufficiently guilty. It seemed like a useful word to have. If he was still at the Temple, he would have asked one of the scholars. Not that knowing the name would help much.
Perhaps there would be a temple in the town they stayed at tonight. Somewhere that he could pray alone, surrounded by holiness. Even a little roadside shrine would serve in a pinch. Do penance.
Clear my head.
Rub one out somewhere in private, feel guilty, and do even more penance.
God, Beartongue was right, he was predictable.
His horse was crowding Marguerite’s mare. She gave him an annoyed glance and drew her mount further out of the way. Shane reined his back a little, fighting back the urge to close the gap. He had been given a reprieve, however unearned. He had a second chance not to fail, if he could just keep her safe.
Assuming that she doesn’t decide to send you back as soon as we stop for the night, both for failing to protect her, and then for running your hands over her like that.
There is no chance that I will be that lucky.
His punishment was to continue on and to try desperately to avert the inevitable, while the voice in his head sang like the chorus of an ancient tragedy, predicting ruin.
Perhaps it was no more than he deserved.
EIGHT
SHANE INSISTED on going ahead of them into the bedroom that night, presumably to check for assassins hiding under the bed. Given that the fashion in this part of the world was for very low beds, they would have to be remarkably flat assassins, but he checked anyway. Marguerite and Wren exchanged looks behind his back. And I thought I was becoming paranoid.
“Clear,” he said, very seriously, stepping back.
Marguerite bit back a sarcastic remark. Flat assassins, who somehow knew which inn we’d be stopping at, and which room I would take… No. Be good. You already put your foot in it once today. If it makes the man feel better, there’s no harm in it.
“I will accompany you downstairs,” he informed them.
“I don’t think we’re going to be attacked on the stairs, brother,” Wren said.
Shane grunted. Marguerite’s growing glossary of Shane Grunts translated this one as “You may be correct, but I am not altering my behavior.” She stifled a sigh. I brought this on myself. If I had realized who was talking to me…
Yes, but how on earth was I supposed to know that he could sound like that?
She waited until the door had shut and then turned to Wren. “What on earth was that?”
“Shane takes his duty very seriously. I don’t think he ever got over being left at the altar by his first god. And then later, when the Saint died—”
“No, no.” Marguerite waved her arms. “I meant when he was picking me up. The way he sounded.”
“Oh, that.” Wren grinned, no longer so serious. “That was the voice. Shane’s really good at it.”
“Beartongue warned me, but I had no idea. Is that magic?”
Wren considered this. “Not exactly? I think it’s more like the black tide. The berserker fits, I mean.” She gestured to herself. “Anybody can learn to fight, and some people go berserk, but only some people go berserk for a god. But now that the Saint is dead, we all still go berserk, unfortunately.” One corner of her mouth crooked up. “Well, not me that often. Some of us are closer to the edge than others.”
Marguerite filed that away as interesting information for later, but at the moment she had other fish
to fry. “So a divine gift of sorts?”
“Right. Except you have to have a certain amount of potential to do the voice in the first place.”
Wren cocked her head and then said, in a kind, sympathetic voice, “I hope that it didn’t upset you. He would never have intended to cause you harm.”
It was the voice of a friend, the one who held you when you cried because you’d spotted your lover with another woman, the one who picked you up when everything was broken past all mending.
“Not really,” said Marguerite, “it was just a surprise, and then I felt bad because… hey!”
Wren burst out laughing. “That’s the best I can do. I’m not in Shane’s league, or even Istvhan’s. It works a lot better when you sound like an authority figure, and I’m no good at that.”
Marguerite suddenly remembered hearing Stephen talk to a young would-be assassin, a few years and several lifetimes ago. He’d sounded so calm and so trustworthy, but she’d assumed that it was because he was genuinely calm and trustworthy.
Sweet Lady of Grass, if I could sound like that, I’d be the greatest spy the world has ever known. People would fight to tell me their secrets. As it is, I just make sympathetic noises and top up the wineglass.
“I don’t suppose you can teach me…?”
“Nope.” Wren shook her head. “Most of us can do it, but not that well. Galen—have you met Galen? No?—he can’t do it at all. He just sounds like himself. But most of the Saint of Steel’s people didn’t need it anyway. You use it most when you’re dealing with civilians. If you find survivors, or if you’re trying to get people out of an area where things are about to get really ugly, it helps to have someone who can sound trustworthy explaining the situation instead of just screaming at people to get the hell out.”
“Huh.” Marguerite considered this. “I can see how it would be useful.” She thought back to her interactions with Stephen. He’d always seemed patient and trustworthy. On the other hand, he actually was patient and trustworthy, so that might have a lot to do with it. Most of the paladins are. It’s why they’re paladins and the rest of us aren’t.