Sam tapped her good foot anxiously as she waited. A summons from the High Commander was not something to be taken lightly.
Everyone knew that the king of Thule was just a king in name; the High Commander wielded the real power. He was more myth than man, his heroic deeds the stuff of legend. Even children knew the story of how he’d led the Paladins to victory in the Great War, the largest demon assault on record. They said he’d personally slain a thousand demons in a single day, though no one seemed to recall the details.
The funeral pyre for Paladin Shen was still alight when Lord Astley had announced that the High Commander would investigate the attack on The Center. Sam could read between the lines--what Lord Astley meant was that Braeden was under investigation. It’s not fair! she’d wanted to shout. He saved us all, you fools!
A pang of guilt coursed through her. Was she really any better than Braeden’s accusers? It hadn’t taken much last night to convince her that he’d betrayed them.
The sound of a cleared throat interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up into the bespectacled brown eyes of Lord Astley. “The High Commander is ready to see you,” he said.
She gulped and nodded, using her makeshift crutch to rise to her feet, and then limped after the secretary. Lord Astley stopped at an ornate double door, and rapped his knuckles against the wood.
“Enter,” called a muffled voice.
“After you,” said Lord Astley, opening the left hand door wide.
Sam’s mouth fell open at the gaudiest display of wealth she had ever seen. The room showed the signs of decades’ worth of collecting, stuffed with fine antiques and obscure artifacts and trinkets. There was no discernible rhyme or reason to their appropriation, and the result was the most spectacular of eyesores. A painted, paneled screen half hid a human skeleton festooned in royal garb. Mismatched tables sported various baubles and bibelots: a porcelain teapot sat next to the bronzed figurine of an ancient god from the Nanda dynasty, and a gilded snuffbox rested atop an exquisitely crafted game of chess. Weapons made of bone hung on the walls next to calligraphy scrolls. The effect was dizzying.
Sam was so caught up in all the profligacy she almost failed to notice the rather unimpressive man behind the commode top desk. She had expected the High Commander to be bigger, broader, brighter, the sort of larger than life presence you’d expect of such a legend. But with his salt-and-pepper hair and plain, ageless face, he had the kind of physical appearance that was utterly forgettable.
And then he opened his mouth and spoke, and became beautiful.
“Please, Sam, take a seat,” he said in a lilting tenor, his mouth curling around the words as though each one was more precious than the last. She obliged, pulling out a chair from underneath the desk.
“Sam of Haywood,” he mused in that odd, musical voice. He stared at her a long while, raking her over with intelligent, graphite gray eyes. She shifted under his gaze.
He brushed his thumb over his lips. “How do you like it here, Sam?”
“Excuse me?”
The High Commander tilted his head to the right, studying her. “The Center, your first week as a trainee,” he said. “Does it meet with your approval?”
“Yes, High Commander,” she replied nervously. “It’s been… stimulating.”
His lips pursed into a small smile. “Stimulating, is it? An interesting choice of words.”
“About last night--”
He held up a long, white hand. “We’ll get to it. I want to hear about your training.”
Sam narrowed her eyes. Had Tristan said something untoward? “My training is fine.”
His lips twitched again into that small smile, like he knew something she didn’t. “Paladin Lyons tells me you have potential.”
“He did?” she asked, her cheeks heating. She’d thought Tristan would bite off his own tongue before paying her a compliment.
He chuckled. “Aye, he did, lad. He said you were a natural with a blade. High praise, that.”
Sam bowed her head. “Thank you, High Commander.”
“Did your father train you?”
“My father? He didn’t...well, no,” she fumbled. “He isn’t a swordsman, my father.”
“He must be proud.”
Sam bit the inside of her cheek. Her father didn't know where she'd run off to, and if he did, the last thing he would be was proud. “I suppose. I think he would have preferred that I, er, took over the family business.”
The High Commander raised an eyebrow. “And what's that?”
“Um. Shoemaking?” With more confidence, she repeated, “Shoemaking.”
The High Commander looked disappointed. He waved his hand. “No matter.”
Sam was beginning to grow impatient. “Excuse me, but shouldn’t we talk about what happened last night?”
He sighed. “I have already made up my mind.”
“But Braeden didn’t kill Paladin Shen! He couldn’t have!” she cried.
“I know.”
Sam blinked. “You know?”
“I spoke with Paladin Lyons and the coroner. I’m satisfied that Braeden is innocent.”
“Then why did you want to meet with me?” she asked, flabbergasted.
The High Commander smiled his small smile. “Curiosity."
Sam left the High Commander’s office thoroughly confused. He’d asked her a dozen more questions about Haywood and her family--most of which she’d had to lie about--but skirted away from any questions that touched on the demon attack of the previous night.
While the High Commander had assured her he believed in Braeden’s innocence, the trainees were convinced otherwise, and they considered Sam guilty by association. At breakfast, Braeden and Sam had the entire table to themselves. She hadn't minded until one of the trainees “accidentally” dumped a bowl of hot porridge onto their laps. The entire room laughed uproariously when Sam yelped as the scalding gruel seeped through her clothes and onto her skin. Braeden just sat there in stony silence, not even bothering to brush the gluey meal from his robes.
Training wasn’t much better. Paladin Shen’s trainees were temporarily assigned to Tristan’s group. Despite their short time with the Paladin, Shen’s trainees took his death as a personal affront and were out for revenge. Braeden avoided their attempts to trip him up, but with Sam still favoring her left ankle, she had no such luck.
Braeden offered her a hand up. “Sorry about this.”
Sam dusted herself off and inspected a scrape on her elbow. “For what? It wasn’t you who pushed me.”
Braeden frowned. “True, but if it weren’t for me, they’d leave you alone.”
Sam shook her head. “Idiots, the lot of them.” She flinched as a stray foot connected with her shin.
“Enough!” Tristan boomed. His eyes glittered with unsuppressed anger. “Paladin Shen was a good man, and I can assure you, he’d die a hundred times more before attacking a brother in arms. You dishonor his memory."
“Don’t think Shen would’ve counted him as a brother,” someone muttered.
“Who said that?” Tristan asked sharply. No one dared speak. Satisfied, Tristan said, “We’re going to try something different today. Those of you who trained under Paladin Shen, you’re going to learn a bit of sword work from me. Swords, you’re to learn the basics of knives from Braeden.”
The trainees started talking all at once.
“Paladin Lyons, I don’t think that’s the best idea,” said Braeden, pitching his voice above the trainees’ grumbling.
“Nonsense,” Tristan said firmly. “You boys want to learn from the best, do you not? I’m afraid I’m only passable with a knife.”
It was a lie. Tristan was more than passable; Sam had seen his knife skills firsthand. Why was he doing this? Braeden was ostracized enough as it was.
Braeden bowed his head. “As you wish, Paladin.”
The trainees had no choice but to heed Tristan’s orders; the punishment for disobeying a full Paladin was severe. Sam joined the group that surrounded Braeden. “I’m going to show you a few different grips,” he was saying. Sam had to strain her ears to catch his words.
“Oi, demon boy,” called out one of the trainees, a black-haired boy with prominent ears. “Are you teaching us how to whisper our enemies to death?”
Braeden sought Sam out among the crowd, a look of panic in his strange eyes. “Go on,” she mouthed, and smiled encouragingly. He swallowed and nodded. “I’m going to show you how to hold a knife,” he tried again, louder this time. “You.” He pointed to the black-haired trainee. “I’d like you to demonstrate a proper grip.
The black-haired trainee thought it over for a moment, and then shrugged. “Alright,” he said, walking to meet Braeden in the center.
Braeden pulled a basic combat dagger from his robes. “Here,” he said, handing the dagger to the trainee handle-first. “Show me how you’d hold this.”
The trainee gripped the handle with his thumb and index finger and then curled the rest of his fingers loosely underneath.
“Fencer’s grip,” Braeden said sagely. “Not bad. But if your hand is hit like this--” he rammed his knuckles into the trainee’s hand and the knife dropped to the ground--“you can lose your grip. Now me, I prefer to use a hammer grip. A demon will have a hell of a time knocking the blade from your hand if you hold it like so.” Braeden paused to demonstrate, wrapping his fingers in a tight fist around the knife handle.
The lesson went on for another hour without incident. As he talked, Braeden grew more confident, even correcting grips and stances when they didn’t meet his exacting standards. Slowly, the trainees began to really listen to Braeden, accepting that, at least when it came to knives, he was worthy of their respect. Tristan, Sam realized, was a genius.
That night, just as Sam had crawled into bed, a loud knock came at the door between her room and Tristan’s. Grumbling, she rolled off the bed and opened the door.
Tristan brushed past her into the room. “Is Braeden here?” he asked, sprawling fully clothed on her bed.
“He’s in the privy. He’ll be out in a moment, I’m sure,” she answered. “And I’ll thank you to take your muddy boots off my bed.”
Tristan scowled. “What are you, a woman?”
Sam was saved a reply as Braeden strolled into the room, still damp from his bath. He was pulling a comb through his wet silver locks, his sleep smock clinging to his torso. He paused mid-tangle as his eyes fell upon Sam’s blushing countenance.
“What’s got you all bothered?” he asked Sam, before turning to Tristan. “Is something amiss?”
Tristan moved into a seated position. “It’s about today. And last night, too, I suppose.”
Sam and Braeden glanced at each other. “What about it?” Braeden asked.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said uncomfortably. “Both of you. A lot more of us would have been dead if it weren’t for your efforts. I’m sorry that more of us haven’t said thank you.”
“It’s not right,” said Sam. “We saved their sorry lives, and now they’re treating Braeden like a leper.”
“It’s fine,” Braeden said.
“No, it’s not," said Tristan. The quiet anger in his voice took Sam by surprise. “What you did last night--those were the deeds of a Paladin. You should be extolled, not shunned.” Braeden bowed his head in humble acknowledgment. Tristan drew in breath. “The High Commander feels that, given the unpleasantness of the situation with Paladin Shen, it would be in your best interest to leave The Center early.”
Sam gasped. “He’s kicking Braeden out? But he told me he believed Braeden was innocent!”
Tristan glared at Sam. “No, Braeden is not getting kicked out. The three of us will just be leaving a little earlier than planned.”
“The three of us? Leaving? Where to?” Sam demanded in a rush.
“Do you listen to nothing I say? We’re headed for the Diamond Coast. We were going to leave at the end of next week, but the High Commander suggested we hasten our departure.”
“The Diamond Coast? Isn’t it uninhabitable?” Braeden asked. Sam laughed out loud. His brow furrowed. “What’s so funny?”
She grinned. “I asked him exactly the same question.”
Tristan groaned. “This is going to be a long journey.”
Sam laughed again, more than ready for an adventure. “When do we leave?”