Though Tristan’s family home had burned to the ground, the stable and horses were unharmed, thank the gods for small favors. Sam suggested they wait a day before departing Finchold so Tristan could recover, but he insisted he was well enough to ride—the wound in his side was minor and he’d expelled the toxic smoke fumes from his lungs. He conceded to an hour of rest—two hours at the most—and then they would leave.
The matter of Sander, however, still needed to be settled. Sam had half expected him to bolt as soon as the last demon was slain, but he stayed true to his word. Secretly, part of her wished Sander had broken his promise; his presence unnerved her. She couldn’t understand him—why he’d let them abduct him without protest, why he’d helped them, why he’d gone so far as to save Tristan’s life. There was no other explanation for it other than that he was, well, good. And yet the High Commander condemned Sander as a dangerous man, and she was forced to entrust him with her most dangerous secret. It made her uneasy.
Sander crossed the field from the stables with his stallion and passed the reins to Braeden. He squatted in front of Tristan, who was resting against a tree. The Uriel held his wrists out to him, palms up. “What are you doing?” Tristan asked.
“Keeping my promise,” said Sander. “You can tie me back up. Although, I’d appreciate it if you would undo my binds during the next demon attack. Doing nothing is damned annoying.”
Tristan stared at the brown wrists for a long time. The skin was red and irritated where rope had rubbed against it. “No,” said Tristan.
Sander sighed. “You won’t consider it?”
Tristan said, “You misunderstood me. I want you to leave.”
Sander cocked his head. “Leave?”
“Yes, leave. Go. Go back to your Uriel.”
“You’re letting me go,” Sander said slowly. “Why?”
Tristan wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You saved my life. Twice. It’s not something I take lightly.”
Sam looked between the two men in disbelief. True, Tristan was indebted to the man, but still...“What about the High Commander’s order?”
Tristan took a deep breath. “I think he made a mistake.” Sam gaped at him, and even Braeden seemed startled by his declaration. “The High Commander is human, too,” Tristan said. The words seemed to mock themselves.
Sander rose to his feet and extended his hand. “You’re a good man, Paladin.”
Tristan hesitated, and then grasped the offered palm. “You too, Uriel. Now go, before I change my mind.”
Sander dipped his head, and then vaulted onto his horse. “I’ll take the reins now.” Braeden surrendered them to him wordlessly. “It’s a courageous decision to ask questions of authority,” Sander said, “and one that’s seldom rewarded. If you should find yourselves in trouble—any of you—come to Luca. The Uriel always have room for courageous men.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “Or women.”
Knowing his last remark was directed at her, Sam studiously avoided Sander’s gaze. She didn’t appreciate the Uriel treating her future like a game. She hoped Tristan didn’t read into the careless comment.
Oblivious, Tristan pushed himself off the ground. “Thank you,” he said. “The gesture is appreciated but unnecessary. My trust in you does not extend to your organization. I fear the Paladins and Uriel will never ally.”
“No?” Sander asked pleasantly. “And what will you tell your High Commander?”
“That I owe you my life, and should he want you recaptured, he’ll need to assign another Paladin to the job. That’s all I can promise you.”
A gust of wind lifted Sander’s hair from his forehead “That’s enough, for now.” He gave them a nod, and then winked. “Until next time.”
“There will be no next time,” said Tristan. “Not for me.”
Sander chuckled. “I’ll miss you, Paladin. You too, Sam, Braeden.” He winked again, and then with a short “ya!” he was gone, his stallion streaking down the dusty road.
They stood watching him go until not even the flank of his horse was in sight. Tristan swore softly and covered his face with his hands. He waved off Sam and Braeden’s inquisitive looks and dropped his hands from his face. “It’s nothing. Let’s saddle up the horses and go.”
“Will it be alright?” Sam asked, once they were seated on their mounts.
“The High Commander is harsh, but fair,” said Tristan. “He will listen to what I have to say.”
“And if he disagrees?” asked Braeden. Smoke and flame reflected in his clear eyes. “What will you have us do?”
“Us?” Tristan shook his head. “There is no ‘us’, not in this. It was my life that was saved, and I who am obligated to spare him. You have no such compunction.”
“But we do,” Sam said earnestly. “We would have been lost without you.” Braeden glanced at her and then cast his eyes downward at his horse’s neck.
Tristan shifted in his saddle, clearly made uncomfortable by her comment. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I have known the High Commander a good many years, as well as any man can know him, and he knows me. He knows where my loyalties lie, and he trusts me. I trust him in turn.”
“How long will it take him to discover Sander’s gone?” asked Sam.
“Not long,” said Tristan, “Not long at all.”
Not long came six days later in the ghost town of Linmoor. Linmoor, an expanse of uncultivated drab lands with stretches of swamps and quicksand, bereft of the people who once populated it, was dreary and foreboding. A lone man in a dark cloak waited for them by a thicket of alders. At first, Sam thought he was the same man who had met them in Woodmaple Forest, but his complexion was swarthier, his nose more aquiline. He displayed his hand against his hip, curling his pointer and middle fingers to his thumb. As he drew closer, boots sloshing through mud, Sam could see his face wore a sneer.
“Lyons.” The man said Tristan’s name like a curse.
“Guenther,” Tristan said in a matching tone. “Dare I ask the purpose of your visit?”
“Oh, I think you know why I’m here,” said Guenther. “Sander Branimir has returned to Luca.”
“Has he now?”
“Don’t play dumb, Lyons. The whole of Luca knows you released him. You can thank your friend Sander for that.”
“He’s not my friend,” Tristan said between clenched teeth. “The High Commander—does he know?”
Guenther pulled a letter from a pocket in his cloak. “He knows. This is for you.” He shoved the note at Tristan.
Tristan traced his finger over the embossed fleur-de-lis sealing the letter shut. “From the High Commander?” Guenther nodded.
Tristan broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. He read the letter, shook his head, and then read it again. “No,” he said, white-faced. “No, this isn’t from him.”
“It is,” said Guenther. “You know that inimitable seal as well as I. You have one week.” He didn’t give them the courtesy of bowing before trudging away.
“What does it say?” Sam asked.
Tristan crumpled the letter in his fist. “We have one week to recapture Sander,” he said, “or my life is forfeit.”
“What?” Sam whispered, aghast.
“The High Commander offers you and Braeden amnesty,” Tristan continued, his voice shaking—with anger, Sam thought, and something else. “You cannot be blamed for my treachery, and if I should fail to obey his edict, he will welcome you back with open arms. But if you should stay by my side--” Tristan closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose. “If you should stay by my side, he will name you traitors, too.”
“If we should succeed in taking Sander back,” asked Braeden, “all three of us, what will happen?”
“Nothing, for you,” Tristan said. “My life will be spared, but recapturing Sander would be my last act as Paladin. The High Commander has stripped me of my title.”
Stunned, Sam’s mouth dropped open. The only coherent sound she could make was, “Huh?”
“You heard me.” He laughed incredulously. “I’m no longer a Paladin.”
Her incoherence faded and a deluge of words rushed out. “But what you said before, about the High Commander listening to you, about your mutual trust, the years you’ve known each other…”
“I know what I said!” Tristan snapped. “He’s already made this pronouncement publicly. Every Paladin knows or will soon know that I’m persona non grata. He won’t go back on it, not now. That would be tantamount to openly admitting he erred in his judgment, and he won’t do that, not even for me.”
Sam refused to believe that the High Commander could not be swayed. “Maybe if you just get Sander back--”
“No,” Tristan said with finality. “Sander is not the only man who keeps his promises. Whatever else I might think of him or the Uriel, I am in his debt. I cannot in good conscience bring Sander before the High Commander in chains when I can’t predict the outcome. I will not be responsible for his death.”
“What then?” Braeden asked. “You said our lives would be forfeit, but what does that mean?”
“My life, not yours,” said Tristan. “Your lives are only forfeit if you choose not to leave. I imagine it means he’ll put a price on my head.”
“So what will you do? Hide?” asked Braeden.
“There’s no hiding from the High Commander,” Tristan said bitterly. “I never thought I’d have to.”
“So don’t,” Sam said. “Confront him! Make him understand.”
Tristan slumped in his saddle, despair written across his face. Sam had never seen him look so utterly hopeless. “What makes you think he’ll believe me? I would have though the ten years I spent in his company would have afforded me the benefit of the doubt.”
Sam drew herself up. “We’ll support you,” she said. “Braeden and I, we’ll confront the High Commander with you.”
Tristan turned his horse so he could stare her full in the face. His gaze was furious. “Don’t be a fool, Sam. That’s signing your death warrant.” He gestured at Braeden. “Talk some sense into him. The gods know he’s never listened to me before.” He smirked without humor. “And now neither of you have to. Perhaps they’ll assign Sagar as your new mentor. He showed a keen interest in overseeing Sam’s corruption.”
Suddenly, Sam was mad. Irate, even. She looked at Tristan with a glare that was every bit as furious as his. “How dare you,” she seethed. “How dare you presume so little of us. I don’t want Sagar as my mentor. I want you. I don’t care if you are Paladin Lyons or just plain Tristan. You’re the only man in the whole gods damned kingdom who can beat me with a sword.”
“Speaking of presumptuous,” Tristan murmured.
She narrowed her eyes to slits. “Shut up, you. You’re the reason I became a Paladin. Sander might have saved your life, but you saved mine.”
Tristan blinked. “When did I save your life?”
Shite. Of course he wouldn’t remember his gallant rescue of her as a young girl. She backpedaled quickly. “Never you mind. The point is we aren’t going to desert you. Right, Braeden?”
“I go where you go,” he said simply.
It wasn’t the answer she expected—and in another time, in another place, she would have analyzed what Braeden meant by it—but it would do for now. Sam crossed her arms over her chest. “So there you have it. We aren’t leaving.”
Tristan threw up his arms in exasperation. “Suicidal fools, the both of you.” After a moment, he said quietly, “Thank you.”
Sam had reached her limit on sentimentality. “Think nothing of it,” she said. “What now, Tristan?”
Tristan straightened his shoulders and said with renewed steel, “We continue on to the Diamond Coast. I have a few words to say to the High Commander.”
Sam shook her head. “Not you, we,” she said. “We have a few words to say to the High Commander.”
A/N: How CUTE is that picture of Sam by UnmaskedHarlequin? I love it!