Eislyn is resting for a time, between her wanderings, at a friendly temple of a more martial god. She joins the novitiates in their daily drills, swinging the weight of a blunt practice sword, still familiar despite the absence of weapons at her side on her wanderings.
Not all, but some mornings, she needs to sit afterwards, breathing deliberately, a palm pressed to her sternum until air comes easy and her heart calms. Until she's certain of her body. She would never make it through their training in earnest, now.
They treat her with the pity-tinged kindness of people who can't imagine any way to live but fighting. Worship by fighting. Love by fighting. And so, they think, she can only be half-alive. And perhaps she hadn't thought so different, when she carried a sword and breathed easy; when she adventured, instead of simply wandering.
Nobody is expecting the battle-god's paladins to arrive; two of them, on magnificent horses, lamellar armour lacquered in jewelled reds at the neck, through deeper shades and a cascade of rich browns, all the way to black at the waist. One has a great two-handed sword strapped to her back; the other carries a long-bladed spear.
"Paladins," she says, bowing, standing politely off to the side once the head priest and his starry-eyed disciples have greeted them.
"Knight of Blue-Winged Sleep," the sword-wielder says. "My companion is Marcus; I am Kada. You're a rare guest, and we're rough company; I hope our temple's care of you is sufficient?"
"I am Eislyn. And your temple holds more than enough hospitality, Sword-Arms." She smiles at them.
"I wonder," Kada says thoughtfully. "I wonder if good fortune has brought our paths together. Please; sit and have tea with us?" and so Eislyn follows them, folds her hands around a steaming cup, and patiently waits while the other paladins clearly mull over what to say.
"There's been correspondence between the Throne-on-the-Water and one of the northerly provinces," Kada says eventually. "I expect you're enough of the world to appreciate the variety of edicts from the throne — ones of the kind The Throne commands, by its radiant authority— and ones of the kind The Throne requests that you, as provincial governor, on said authority, cause it to happen that— and also ones of the kind where a provincial governer writes to the Throne and asks On the radiant authority of the Throne, should it be caused to happen that— and the Throne writes back Yes or No."
"I try not to involve myself closely with the dealings of the Throne," Eislyn says easily.
"Well, this northern governor wrote to the Throne and asked whether, on its radiant authority, it should be caused to happen that the governor burns down a forest which is the seat of power of a certain fae," Kada says. "And the Throne writes back to say No, and also wishes to convey a particular unstated message of What the fuck is wrong with you that would normally be conveyed by having it delivered by troops. But if the governor has in the meantime provoked or neared some local war with the fae peoples, a detachment of the army arriving might bolster that man's confidence in an undesired way. Obviously the temple is not beholden to the Throne, to be its messengers, but—"
But all must bow to the Throne-on-the-Water, and so a certain obligingness is politic. And paladins of battle arriving to scrutinise the righteousness of your claims to conflict isn't exactly undermining the battle-god's purview.
"It's just that it's strange," Kada says. "Who provokes the fae? And why? And if there's more to it, why not say so in your missives to the Throne? If these matters turn out delicate, then — well, any number of our order might not be the perfect ones to intervene. Would your god be particularly opposed, if you were to turn your steps alongside ours, a while? See the north? Lend our manners a little grace, if it's called for?"
"My god is generally content to let my steps fall as they may," Eislyn says. "But let me sleep on it, before I give you my word."
"Ah! Of course."
In sleep, Eislyn sees herself standing in the north already. The governor's palace appears to her as a vast aviary, in which she wanders, unable to find her way. The people — half-person, half-bird, in a fashion that's unremarkable to her, as is the way of dreams — strut and sing and ignore her.
Finally she comes on a room where there is a playing-board, where a bird and tree sit opposite one another, deep in a game. Dozens of fallen pieces lay around the sides of the board already, in tiny pools of blood. She tries to look closer, but a frantic twittering alarm-call wrenches her attention away, to where another bird flutters brokenly, attempting to hop away.
She steps forward, reaching out to calm, and finds herself staring into a dark cavern in the bird-person's heaving breast, where their heart is missing.
"Any dreams about it?" Kada says, in the crisp morning air of the training yard.
"Nothing that means anything, I think," Eislyn says, and coughs a little at the air's chill. "So you'll have my company, unless that changes."
Marcus looks her over. "The roads, northward, aren't always safe," he says. "Can you hold your own, if we're waylaid?"
He says it neutrally; she is godsworn, and he knows better than the novices that that means far from nothing. She smiles, and gestures to the sparring circle.
"Shall I show you?" she says, and waits for him to pick up a practice sword, before drawing only her reed flute and taking up a stance.
"Paladin—" he says warily.
"Paladin," she returns sweetly, and coaxes forth the first high flutter of notes, like a call of alarm, an omen of danger. "Please," she adds, holding his eyes sincerely. "Strike at me."
He hesitates a moment, then makes a clean, clearly telegraphed lunge. She dodges nimbly away, skirt and music whirling, and then as he gains confidence he won't simply batter her down, fluidly slides away from strike after strike, shrill bursts from her instrument illustrating each of his lunges, painting the rhythm of their footwork.
And her music slows, turns more fluid, less frantic.
When she drops to her knees, Marcus stumbles and falls likewise, as if his limbs are heavy. Low, liquid notes describe his lumbering, knee after knee, to aim a last, slow slash at her; she simply leans back from its arc, and continues the rest of the way down, shoulders to the ground, last note a trembling breath only.
She takes the reed flute from her lips and presses a hand to her chest for a moment, taking slow, careful breaths.
In the dust, Marcus sleeps.
The silence is broken by Kada's applause. "That is mighty," she says appreciatively, and offers Eislyn a hand up. "I hope I never cross paths with one of your god's, in anger! One of you lads put that sword away and rouse paladin Marcus." Swinging Eislyn to her feet, she adds, soft and laughing, "The head priest told us you'd not been getting your due respect from the lads, paladin — we thought we'd just give you a showing at sparring, but they won't soon forget that!"
The other paladin snorts awake under the ginger shaking of a novice's hand on his shoulder, eyes immediately wide in surprise.
"But if your temple can spare me a sword, for the road..." Eislyn says wryly, dusting her skirt off; for somehow, she knows, a paladin of battle can stumble into fights everywhere.
