Draka avoided the bustle of the servants on his way through the courtyard to the gate. Vigora had spent most of the night dreaming about running or something because she kicked him at least a hundred times.

  He was tired. It had already taken him well into twilight before he could finally sleep because of what had happened to Alicia. How long did he have before the Baron put her on the executioner’s block? He barely understood why she was going in the first place and it irritated him almost as much as it worried him.

  Thankfully, nobody tried to stop him before he reached the gate. The footmen at the gate snapped to pole-armed statues as he passed them. If nothing else, Christophe kept a disciplined army. That, he liked. He wasn’t going to waste any time thinking about what other things he might find pleasing about the man. He was mostly detestable. Draka had to do something about him and he had to do it fast. He needed to pray.

  That was why he decided to go to the cathedral as soon as he was done feeding and brushing Vigora. Poor thing was going stir crazy in the stable. He’ll have to ride her before the day is done or she might become yet another problem. He had to prioritize. First, prayer. Then, Headmistress Alicia. Then, the hunger growing rampant in the streets. Starving children? Of all the things to find in Philip’s realm, that was the least expected and most vexing.

  He never saw Philip leave the Holy Lands all those years—he was king there, after all—but did he ever bother to govern here apart from orders of conquest?

  He had reached the town square separating the Palais from the cathedral when the thunder began. He took a deep breath and looked up to the sky with flapping arms as the rain suddenly pounded around him to flashes of lightning that lit the sky above him. He shook his head glumly. Figures, he leaned his head forward so the water pouring over him didn’t suffocate him.

  The rain pattered on the stained glass windows as water dripped from him with every step. He should have stayed in the stable. Vigora is definitely in an uproar in that cramped stable. His only hope was that she didn’t kick her way out before he returned.

  A few monks were ushering other walkers-by into the cathedral from the storm. Many were meandering here and there, waiting while the Priest finished with someone in the confessional. A woman and her two children were waiting to be next. She clicked her teeth at her eldest son for picking his nose and flicking whatever he picked. Her smallest, another boy, only sank behind the folds of her dress. Another family whose three sons were teenagers, the eldest with a wiry patch of beard on his chin, were lighting candles solemnly for a loved one they had lost. The father turned a glance at him but gave him no other notice. The air was dense with silence over the roll of thunder and steady patter on the windows and roof.

  Draka went up the stone steps that bowed in the middle from a thousand years of feet walking up and down to the apse. He knelt in front of the marble altar with a tip of his sword and began to pray. He needed guidance. All the low whispers and echoing thoughts faded away as he thought through his prayer. For guidance. For hope. For Maud to keep up with her lessons. For Aurie to come out of her room and, maybe, just maybe, help him understand the village and its needs. For Maud to have one of her delicious stews ready for him when he returns. For Alicia. Mostly, for Alicia.

  He had barely finished when he heard them whispering. He kept his head bowed to his praying hands and his eyes closed as he listened.

  “No, you ask him. Why do I always have to ask?” “It was your idea.” “So was the masseuse and you saw how that worked out.” “Good point. Should have known a Monastic would suggest that kind of masseuse, if you ask me.” “Exactly my point.” After a short pause, “Nope, you do it.” “Well, I’m too unclean. Haven’t washed my hands in nearly twenty minutes.” “Also, a good point. I haven’t washed mine in nearly an hour. Or my face. Can’t do it.” “Shake for it.” “Shake for it.” A muffled gasp of disappointment. “Every—time!” “You always pick rock.” “You always eat with your pinkies out like a Priest.” “Hey. I never say things like that to you. Never once complained about how you suck your teeth all day or that stupid thing you do with your eyes when you’re trying to think real hard.” Draka was sure that one was doing an imitation of the other when he heard them shove each other.

  “Umm, Paladin Grande Prince?”

  Draka stifled his laugh and looked up to see the two Paladins, Tilly and Portis. It was Portis who was standing closest to him with a nervous hand gripping the pommel of his sheathed sword. Tilly was behind him, a smug grin and haphazard glances at the others in the crossing.

  “I—we were wondering if you would train with us today. If you don’t have too much on your hands, that is.” Draka blinked at him, waiting for him to finish as he stammered on, “Won’t take too long unless you want to. If you want to. We were tossing cheese to the mice and we thought, what if Paladin Dietrich came and trained with us today? And I was like, that’s a great idea. So, we came up here and decided—wanted to—hoped? Maybe you would. If it’s not too much of a bother. I know you have a lot on your hands, what with being a prince and all. And probably just want to rest. You probably just want to rest. I’ll see us out. Thanks, though.”

  Draka pushed himself to his feet and slapped his shoulder with a nod.

  “You will?” Portis said just loud enough for a dozen different shush’s from the monks. Even louder, to the monks, “Sorry. Sorry.” At a whisper aimed toward the cross, “Sorry.” He cleared his throat, “Thank you, you won’t regret it.”

  Draka waved for him to lead on.

  Tilly whispered an exclaiming, “Yes!”

  Draka followed them through the door in the chapel to the inner courtyard. He almost regretted agreeing when he saw that the courtyard garden was a sheet of rain and deep puddles. But then, Portis and Tilly followed the covered walkway that encircled the yard and into one of the thick wooden doors at the far end.

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  Inside, there were long hallways and doors and windows. There were no red cloaks or stiff pointed hats of the Diocese. There were a few monks in their plain wool robes and hanging rosaries, but mostly there were armored men in tabards with crosses in fields of blue or green, some adorned with gold needlework. There were a few with chainmail shirts and sheathed maces, men with scarred smiles that filled anyone looking with warmth while still gleaming with eyes that had seen far too many battles. In between, scattered down the hall in small clusters, were the unmistakable leisurely Monastic Knights.

  Some were being instructed while they sat on the ground with their backs slouched against the wall by their leaders. Some were lounging in gaggles, engorged in conversation that coupled with laughs and playful banter. Others, who Draka estimated were Clerics, sat or stood with a lean here and there, their faces plastered to whatever book they were reading. He could tell from short glances that not all of them were reading bibles. One laughed at what he was reading and leaned closer to the book excitedly. Another leaned against a fa?ade pillar with his ankles crossed and a thin tome held in one hand.

  Draka breathed in a sigh of relief at the sight. This was more home to him than anywhere in this miserable city. The familiar smell of the pungent mix of sweat, steel, and anointing oil, filled him. As he followed the two paladins down the hall, eyes followed, conversations broke for a breath, and nods were met. At least until Portis began introducing him to each of them in passing.

  “This is Paladin Dietrich of the Seven Points,” Portis said boastfully. “Paladin Dietrich…yeah, I know! Can’t believe it either…Dillon, this is—yup, you guessed it…Never going to believe this, but this is him. Paladin Dietrich…Paladin Dietrich…He’s going to train with us. Better spruce up, I’ll be teaching you what’s what when he’s done with me…Bet you won’t believe me, but this is Paladin Dietrich.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Tilly chuckled with a glance at Draka over his shoulder. “Not very often we get a chance to be in the same room as a Blooded and Ascended Paladin. Also, you’re kind of a legend here.”

  How? Draka’s look was well read.

  “You don’t know?” Tilly furrowed his brows and stopped.

  Portis turned back to them with anxious anticipation. He was bouncing to get them to wherever they were going. Behind them, the low buzz of conversations were no longer being drowned out by the rain. The hall fell nearly completely silent.

  Tilly laughed beneath wide eyes of disbelief. “Not possible. You. You? No, you must have heard.”

  “Everyone has heard of you,” the only one who didn’t seem to be gathering in awe of him was the cleric with his head in the thin tome, leaning against the wall a few paces back. He licked his fingers and turned the page. Like Draka, he wore only his shirt and trousers with a belted mace glistening with titanium rivets. Even without seeing the claw marks that went across his face from one ear to the other cheek, disfiguring his nose and paling an eye, Draka knew he had been on crusade. The man gave him a curious look.

  Draka shrugged for them to explain.

  “What do you think we know?” the man asked.

  “He’s got a vow of silence,” Tilly leaned from behind him.

  “Oh, so that part’s true, too?” the man shut the tome and straightened. “Marion, Cleric of the Holy Sepulcher.”

  Draka grinned knowingly. That’s where he got the scar. He was at the Fall of Heblem and of his own Order. But was he there for…?

  “I didn’t think Cleric King Lord Philip would go through with it,” Marion leaned to say under his breath so only Draka could hear. “I never liked him.”

  Draka nodded. That’s fair. Not many did. He, for one, loved the man as a brother, even with his mischief and faults. And, somehow, even with his neglectful governing.

  Louder, Marion said, “You have a reputation we all know. The most notable is how you and King Lord Philip held the bridge at the Battle of Giza to protect the refugee children, or when you slew the devil in Heblem, or that time you carried a cripple for six days just so he could be at his brother’s wedding. You’re an example for us all. It is an honor.” Marion shook Draka’s hand and slapped his shoulder. “Glad to finally meet you in person and not just see you in the distance while demons and undead are tearing at my throat.”

  “So, it’s all true?” someone said from within the crowd.

  “Well,” Marion winked at him. “I’ve always wondered about one in particular.”

  Draka crossed his arms at him, waiting.

  All around him, voices filled the air. “Do you actually carry favors from a hundred broken hearted maidens?”

  Draka blinked. What?

  “Also, is Philip’s firstborn actually yours because the Diocese wouldn’t recognize your marriage to Queen Isabella?”

  Really?

  “How about that one about you tricking a fallen in a game of chess to free the daughter of a sultan?”

  He was pretty sure that one was made up. He was terrible at chess.

  “Or the one where you used a bible against a horde of fire imps because you forgot your sword?”

  They weren’t imps. Just bandits attacking one of the many caravans he protected and it wasn’t because he forgot his sword. They attacked while he was praying and the bible was the closest thing he could grab. Also, not a horde. More like eight or nine.

  “Oh, my favorite is when he willingly took the place of a thief in his execution.”

  “He’s still alive, you twit!”

  A roar of laughter erupted to that one. Whoever said it quieted with, “I thought that one was true. Less far fetched than the thing with the Queen. He’d have been revoked for that.”

  “As I said,” Marion winked at him again before returning to his spot at the fa?ade. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Draka motioned for Portis to lead on to a burst of disappointed groans.