Probably they were all going to die. Still, it was better than life in a cell six paces across.
Caliban wrapped himself up in his blankets and stared at the fire. Unsure whether he was comforted or horrified, he drifted off to sleep, with the demon mumbling curses like a lullaby.
CHAPTER 5
CALIBAN TOOK THE SWORDout to the yard behind the inn the next morning, to see how much he had lost. The yard was for storing carriages when their owners were staying the night, but there weren’t any in residence at the moment. Barrels of lamp oil and the less perishable supplies lined the walls, but there was a broad, empty space in the center. Grass grew up through the bricks.
He set his teeth and stepped out from the comforting closeness of the inn, directly into the emptiness.
Nothing happened. He did not fall into the sky. His stomach stayed quiet.
He exhaled.
Very well, then.
He knelt in the center of the yard, the sword in front of him, and tried to pray.
Dreaming God, who holds us all within His dreams, I thank you for this day you have set before me, for the sword I am given to serve you. I thank you—
And there he stopped, because the next line wasI thank you for my life,and that seemed an odd mockery. He was a dead man, after all.
He hadn’t even meant to pray. He had done it because you started the sword practice with prayer, every time. It was automatic. You drew the sword, you went to your knees, you bowed your head. It was part of the sword practice.
It was useless. The temple had thrown him out. The god had obviously turned away, or the demon would never have gained entrance. He could still feel the hollowness in his soul where the god’s presence had once been.
Ngha, maha, kalikalikali…
No. I cannot believe that. I must believe that the gods do not send us trials that we cannot endure.
It would have been easier to believe that if he hadn’t seen so many people broken by the trials they had endured.
He’d broken a few in his time. Exorcisms were not gentle things.
He had prayed in the cell for hours. Days. He had kept vigil on his knees, praying. Not for forgiveness, not for mercy—he deserved neither—but simply for a death.
The god had not answered. The hollow place in his soul stayed empty. Weeks had stretched to months, and he had stopped believing that there would ever be an answer. His faith had turned to bitterness and bile.
And then a little brown sparrow of a woman had come to the cell door and begun to sneeze.
The temple had abandoned him. Did the Dreaming God still have a use for him after all? Or had the god, too, washed His hands of His former paladin?
If He was still there, wouldn’t I feel Him? Or does what’s left of the demon keep even gods away?
Caliban sighed, got up, and drew his sword.
It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. He’d lost a fair bit of tone, but no worse than the time he’d been laid up with a broken leg. The memories were all still there, ground into slow, stupid muscle until it was second nature.
He ran through the sword forms, separately at first, then together in sequence. It was a crisp morning, but even so, within a very few minutes, sweat was dripping off him and his breath was coming fast.
He sheathed the sword and went to dunk his head in the horse trough.
When he came up for air, Brenner was sitting on one of the barrels, watching him. There was a cigarette between his lips.
Caliban saluted him, somewhat ironically, with the sword. “I did not get a chance to thank you. It’s an excellent blade.”
Brenner nodded. “Are you going to ask where I got it?”
“Should I?”
