“You might marry.” Lady Gemel hinted at and none too subtly and the evening's conversation continued to flow as abundantly as the wine.

  Judd smiled, making sure not to look to his right at Willower. “I would never want the woman I married to be bonded to me because of the responsibility of fulfilling a boon.”

  “Such a commitment is better made in love, is it not?” Lady Jocasa pursed her lips, the corner curling into a smile.

  “I…I would hope so.” Judd swallowed, aware of the pressure in the room that was like the tide, pushing himself and Willower together.

  “Tell me, is it true that you killed a centaur?” Sevelon asked eagerly. “I overheard one of the guards speaking of it.”

  “I did with the invaluable assistance of my archer, Verne Sachon.” Judd nodded. “It was leading a herd of unicorns and rounding up the mounts of the nomads into a gully.”

  “You stared down a charging centaur?”

  “By Astaril, no,” Judd chuckled, “Verne led the centaur into a gully where I was able to leap upon its back. It galloped and bucked and twisted but could not throw me. I clung on knowing that to fall would mean being trampled by its hooves. When we reached the lip of a very sharp and dangerous decline, I called for my archer and threw myself to the side as Verne pierced it with three arrows and it fell to its death.”

  “So, really, the archer killed the centaur.” Cleric Rodel observed.

  “I maintain that to be the case,” Judd agreed, “and asked Cleric Undern to record it as such.”

  “I recorded both of your accounts of the centaur slaying.” Caste promised.

  “But without your bravery and boldness, the centaur would not have been so foolish as to stand on the edge of a cliff.” Sevelon insisted.

  “I just count myself fortunate that I could help bring some form of restoration to the nomads.” Judd held up his hands.

  “Was he big? The centaur?”

  “I would put him on par with my mount, Xenon and he is just about the largest horse I have ever seen.”

  “Forgive my son,” Lord Gemel interrupted Sevelon’s questions, “he has high hopes of becoming a knight one day.”

  “If only he did not suffer so from his allergies…” Lady Gemel lamented.

  “Mother…”

  “I tremble with fear at the thought of your being out in the wilds without enough handkerchiefs.”

  Sevelon looked mournful at his mother’s suffocating attention. He was quite the weedy young lad, probably not more than seventeen years of age with big dreams that seemed too large for his narrow shoulders. Judd empathised. He knew what that was like.

  “I can see how that might be a serious consideration,” Judd tried not to smile, “however, there are other dangers to keep your mind off your sniffling nose.”

  “Exactly,” Lady Gemel looked at her son sternly, “even the famous Judd LaMogre agrees with me.”

  “Wait…I didn’t…”

  “Would you stop coddling him?” Lord Gemel grunted.

  “How can I do otherwise when you seem to see fit to throw our only son out into the wilds.”

  “I insinuated nothing of the sort.”

  “Perhaps a compromise could be reached?” Lady Jocasa said quite loudly in order to be heard over her guest’s, what one assumed was a, frequent bone of contention. “After all, many knights start out as squires in order to learn from the best.” Judd saw Sir Donimede sit up to address the request, though whether he would have agreed or refused remained a mystery as Lady Jocasa turned to Judd. “What if Sevelon were to accompany you, Judd LaMogre?”

  “Me?” Judd blurted, all eyes turning to him.

  “You do have the experience and the reputation.” Willower gushed with bright eyes, her fingers resting gently on Judd’s. “Sevelon could learn so much from you.”

  “Well…I…” Judd blundered as Sevelon sat up, eyes bright with expectation.

  “But…he’s not a knight!” They all turned and looked at Cleric Rodel who swallowed, just as surprised as they were by his outburst. “I…I mean…well…”

  “What my rash apprentice means to say is,” Deacon Alast interjected, “only knights have squires and as yet, though his monster kill record account and experience more than warrant the title, because he is not noble born, the knighting ceremony must be performed by King Rocheveron or, in this unique case, Sir Rylan. It would be inappropriate for LaMogre to have a squire.”

  “That’s…what I meant.” Rodel slumped back on his chair, retreating into his personal space until he was barely a presence at the table.

  “However,” Judd leaned forward to eye each of the Gemel’s firmly, “I would want you to know that the suggestion and your confidence in me is nothing less than deeply flattering.”

  “At least I will be able to watch you in the Arena.” Sevelon’s tone was disappointed yet relieved.

  “Is that permitted?” Judd looked at his hosts.

  “It is more than permitted,” Lady Jocasa waved her hand elegantly, summoning servants who had warm fruit cakes drizzled with whipped cream for dessert, “my husband welcomes all nobility into the Arena. I confess, half of the guests I have invited are coming for the feast. The others come for the excitement of the Arena.”

  “I hope I live up to this reputation you are fostering for me.” Judd said quietly.

  Willower leaned towards him with tenderness in her eyes. “I am sure you will.”

  On the opposite corner from where Judd was sitting, Caste could see just how hard LaMogre was having to work to resist Willower’s mesmerising attention. For all his reluctance, he did seem rather taken with her as her rapt adoration was hard to ignore. There seemed to be a romance blossoming between them. However, Caste was also aware of something else. Someone was grinding their teeth but for the life of him he couldn’t tell if it was coming from Cleric Rodel or Sir Donimede.

  Caste sat up in bed reading. At least he was trying to. He was frustratingly distracted by the emptiness of the other bed in the room. Every time he looked at it he felt a knot of anger form in his chest which he tried to ignore by reading yet found his eyes returning to glare at the bed. Supper had dragged on for quite some time. Deacon Alast’s chin had been slumped onto his chest and he required gentle poking to get him to rouse himself enough to wander back to his chambers.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  Caste was also tired but he was more concerned than anything else. When the door to his shared room opened he pretended to be occupied by his reading. Despite the fact that he had been waiting for Rodel to return to the room, Caste now took great pains to ignore him.

  “I thought you would have been asleep by now,” Rodel said quietly, slipping his shoes off and hanging his cappa clausa from a hook, “especially after yawning half the evening away.”

  “I was waiting for you.” Caste said tersely without looking at him.

  “I’m not the visitor to this fort, you are.” Rodel clambered into bed. “I was perfectly capable of getting back to my own room.”

  “So if you didn’t get lost from the dining room to here…where were you?”

  Rodel’s ashen good looks spasmed for a moment and Caste could almost see his mind racing.

  “I…wanted to walk off supper. I hate going to bed so full.”

  Caste turned the page of his book. “It is hard to walk off supper when you’re standing in a dark alcove, spying on LaMogre and Donimede’s daughter.”

  “You were following me?!” Rodel sat up with indignation on his face, covering a deep well of panic. “What in Maul were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know,” Caste snorted, “maybe I was thinking…stop stalking the eldest daughter of the knight you are assigned to advise!” He slapped his book shut. “Are you out of your mind, Rodel?” Rodel folded his arms and turned away. “If Donimede ever found out about this…this…”

  “This what, Caste?” Rodel retorted, swinging his legs out of the bed to glare at Caste. “Go on…name it.”

  “Infatuation!” Caste waved his hand and Rodel shook his head. “You cannot deny it! You spent the entire evening making snide corrections and ungracious remarks about LaMogre, hoping to devalue him in the eyes of Donimede and his daughter!”

  “I am a cleric,” Rodel lifted his firm chin haughtily, “it is my responsibility to ensure that truth, not exaggerated lies and half truths, are perpetuated.”

  “And following LaMogre as he walked with Miss Donimede?”

  “That’s just good sense!” Rodel exclaimed, standing up. “Donimede doesn’t care about his daughter’s reputation! In fact, I think he’d be more than pleased if some scandal did arise that meant Willower was obligated to wed her violator.”

  Caste raised an eyebrow at Rodel. “You really see Judd LaMogre as a man who deflowers daughters of knights?”

  “I think he is a man and Willower is almost falling over herself because of excessive flagellation of accomplishments perpetuated by a military force in desperate need of new gossip material!” Rodel argued and Caste stared at him, stunned by the strength of his argument. “You said it yourself, I need to be aware of eligibility of matches and their repercussions.”

  Caste stood up. “You also said that Miss Donimede had been rejected by numerous eligible gentlemen and that it was a cruel game for Sir Donimede to play with his daughter.” Rodel groaned and walked away from him, sitting on a chest at the end of his bed. “A match with LaMogre, even one born out of scandal, to which Willower did not seem to be uninclined towards,” Caste kept talking quickly, seeing Rodel’s mouth open for him to voice a violent protestation, “would be advantageous for both parties…unless you want the eldest daughter of Sir Donimede to remain unwed and miserable?”

  The handsome cleric blundered and spluttered, unable to form any kind of coherent argument. He closed his eyes and shook his head with bowed shoulders. “I…I find myself torn between my heart and my duty,” Rodel whispered, “that she is unhappy grieves me beyond all understanding…but to lose her to another…”

  Caste remained steeled in his spirit, feeling a slight tug of empathy but refused to entertain it. “Rodel, this infatuation with Willower must end or at least be brought under regulation. It will destroy you!”

  “Oh Caste…” Rodel’s tone was hollow, grief rattling around in the cage of his words. “Have you ever been in love?”

  “I…” Caste fumbled, surprised and taken aback by the unexpected question. “That is not the point of this discussion!”

  “Just answer me.” Rodel begged.

  Caste felt a light tug of a memory but dismissed it. “No, never.”

  “Never?”

  “I know my duty and am guided by my responsibility.”

  Rodel huffed and shook his head. “Then you are a stronger man than I. In truth, the only reasons I was chosen for the role of cleric here was because I was young, fit and strong enough to suffer Roust’s daily humiliation guised as discipline.” He leaned forward, clutching his hands together. “As a cleric, I was always mediocre, never being good enough to warrant attention or poor enough to be ejected. At best, I would be relegated to the Order’s archives so to receive an appointment to a fort, to be the cleric of a southern knight…I thought I must have done something right at last…” Caste gazed at him as Rodel sighed, the light of the two candles lit and the low burning fire giving the cleric an almost bronzed glow. “When I arrived, wide eyed and lost, it was Willower who was assigned to teach me the layout of the fort. Alast’s hips couldn’t handle the traipsing up and down the stairs so we spent several days together…and there was that glorious moment when she was introduced to me…” Rodel smiled at the memory, his grey/blue eyes soft and wistful. “All the air deserted my lungs and my heart suddenly felt like it was beating outside of my chest...” Rodel looked at Caste. “I swear, not a single moment in all of my clerical history ever compared to that.”

  Caste put his fingers to his face. “Please do not try to tell me it was love at first sight.”

  “Perhaps not,” Rodel admitted, “but I was smitten and try as I might, nothing has caused it to lessen. In fact, after six months of being here, I am in a well of love so deep…I think I could drown.” It was quiet in their room. The only sound was the tumbling of cinders in the hearth, sending soft crackles and sparks into the air. Rodel stood and swept the ash back into its berth then stood staring at the diminishing light of the fire. “You…you are the first to work it out,” he said softly, “not even Willower pays me one jot of attention especially when there is a knight or knight to be in Mavour. She falls over herself to gain their affection when I would gladly worship at her feet for a taste of her lips.”

  Caste’s skin flared hot. “You are a cleric, for Terra’s sake!”

  “Cleric, not eunuch.” Rodel retreated to his seat. “I know you kept mostly to yourself but surely you could not have been unaware of page eighty five being passed around by the novitiates, torn from the tome of the ‘Mechanics of the flesh’?” Caste had been more than aware of it. One of the ways he had been mocked by the others in the novitiate program was for them to brag about their dalliances with women. When Caste refused to ask questions or become fascinated by their lewd tales, they had thrust that…explicit page in front of him for his ‘edification’. Caste had not given them the pleasure of cowing to their teasing though it seemed to matter little as they thought his stalwart refusal to engage them was more than deserving of their mockery. “Aren’t you even…just a little curious?”

  Caste could feel the heat of embarrassment flooding him. Though he hadn’t looked at the page directly, there was no way he couldn’t be aware of its presence or the illustrations on it.

  “I…of course there are demands of the flesh, lusts that we can either inflame or suppress,” Caste hurried on, “but it also requires wisdom to know what action to take. You are already disdainful of Sir Donimede and critical of his methods. What happens when Alast returns to Astaril to enjoy his retirement and you are exposed to Donimede, day in and out, offering up clerical wisdom with an objective mind? If you cannot serve your position here without prejudice…you need to resign it to someone who can.”

  “And what happens to me then?” Rodel asked sorrowfully. “Unlike you, Caste Undern, my assigned middle class knighthood questor failed and did so miserably. I returned to the Order, sure any good will I had scraped together had dissipated. Then I was assigned here out of necessity but should I resign…” Rodel shook his head. “I doubt the Order will allow me back…and then, what is there left for me? What else can I do? I’m no good for anything else!” He looked at Caste with sincerity scrawled across his expression. “At least if I stay in this role…I will be near her…”

  “Until a suitor rejects her, causing her to throw herself on the kind and understanding cleric who is a trusted confidant…” Caste accused.

  Rodel groaned and stood up, pacing the room. “So…so what if we do end up…”

  “Putting page eighty five into practice?” Caste’s tone was scathing.

  “Exactly,” Rodel retorted, “what does it matter?”

  “I cannot believe I am hearing this…” Caste groaned. “Women dull the senses and confuse the mind! No officer of the Grail who ever allowed himself to be ruled by the lustful demands of the flesh, married or no, ever became an archdeacon, let alone bishop. You would be risking throwing away your career, sacrificing your ambition for the sake of page eighty five!”

  Rodel sank onto his bed and looked at him sadly. “Whatever ambitions I had about ever rising in the ranks of the Order, were unmasked as vain and superficial delusions the moment Willower smiled at me.” Caste blustered and fumed, stunned by Rodel’s claim. “I was never going to be more than an archival cleric so to be here, assigned to Fort Mavour, apprenticed to Deacon Alast and in service to Sir Donimede…it is a generosity of the stars I do not deserve.”

  “So you ought to honour it…and not get mixed up with Sir Donimede’s daughter.”

  Rodel lay on his back, hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. “You see things so clearly, black and white with no grey smudges or ink splatters…right is right, wrong is wrong…there is no room for anyone to make a mistake…not even yourself. But that’s not always possible.”

  “I would make the effort not to get myself into problematic situations of the grey smudged and splattered kind.” Caste pointed out.

  “I didn’t ask for this post or for Willower’s eyes to arrest me so and even if I resigned it, I would be left without a job, a home or any practical skills that would make me valuable outside of the role I am in.” Rodel turned his head and looked at Caste with his faded blue eyes. “So tell me, Cleric Caste, in your far outreaching vault of experience, knowledge and wisdom, what should I do?”