04

When Tristan Lyons was announced as her mentor, Sam had thought she was done for. Of all the Paladins, why did she have to be assigned to him? Tristan--that was how he’d introduced himself to her back then--was renowned throughout Thule for his prowess with a sword. She ought to have been flattered by the appointment; instead, she hovered on the verge of panic.

Maybe he didn’t remember her. Sam had been a girl of twelve, small and scrawny and not much to look at; he had been on the cusp of manhood and had already attained a fair amount of celebrity. He probably had saved thousands of lives--why should he remember hers?

She remembered Tristan well enough; he was the defining moment of her childhood. The demon attack in her bedroom was the last time Sam allowed herself to be helpless--she’d picked up her first sword the next day.

Tristan didn’t recognize her; that quickly became obvious. He didn’t like her either. But even his thinly veiled insults did not detract from her elation. She, Lady Samantha, daughter of the seventeenth duke of Haywood, was in The Center armory of the Paladins and they were going to give her a sword. As soon as she was in the training yard, she'd wipe the smirk off Tristan's face.

"Paladin Lyons!" called a high, nasal voice. A thin, bespectacled man in gray robes stood panting under the entrance to the third story. She recognized the frazzled man as Lord Astley, Secretary to the High Commander, who, among other things, was tasked with overseeing orientation for the new trainees.

"What is it, Astley?" asked Tristan.

"It's about your trainee, Paladin." Oh no, thought Sam, and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for him to say the dreaded words. How had they found her out?

"You've got another one," said Lord Astley. Sam let out her breath in a whoosh.

"D'you mean to say there's been a mistake?" Tristan asked, a touch too eagerly. Sam shot him a mutinous glare.

"You misinterpret me, Paladin Lyons. You have another trainee, as in, in addition to young Sam here."

Both Sam and Tristan gaped at the secretary. "But that's just not done," said Tristan. "It's always been one Paladin and one trainee."

"Well, congratulations, Paladin, you're starting a new tradition," said Lord Astley.

Tristan wore a forlorn pout, which made him seem closer to his real age, only eight or so years older than Sam. Apparently he did not adapt well to change; gods help her if he ever discovered one of his trainees was, in fact, a girl. She asked, "Are there more trainees than Paladins then?” Only Paladins in their sixth year of service took on trainees, so it was possible.

Lord Astley did not meet Sam's stare. "Not exactly.” He dabbed at his forehead with his sleeve. "One of the Paladins refused to accept his trainee.”

"We can do that?" Tristan asked. Sam suspected he would toss her over if given half the chance.

"No, you cannot," said Lord Astley, displeasure coloring his voice, "as was explained to Paladin Moreau in detail. His title has since been revoked."

"Gods," Tristan swore. "Moreau chose to step down rather than take on the boy? What a churl."

"Glad you see it that way.” Lord Astley called out towards the entryway, "Braeden, come here, lad.”

A tall, lithe figure stepped out of the shadows. The youth wore the all-black garb of the monks of Yemara, the bell-shaped sleeves and ballooning trousers billowing out around him. His head bowed down in a show of deference, shocks of straight silver hair escaping the confines of his topknot.

"Raise your head, boy," said Tristan. The boy hesitated for a moment before haltingly obeying.

Sam and Tristan drew in sharp breaths of air synchronously. Braeden's face was ordinary enough--handsome even, Sam admitted privately, the healthy ochre of his skin stretching over high cheekbones and a square jaw. But his eyes...Slit-shaped pupils halved clear, colorless irises, framed by coal-rimmed lenses that tilted up at the corners. In the infinitesimal seconds that he blinked, the boy could pass for human. When his eyes were open, however, his gaze would draw a thousand unanswered questions.

Tristan started with the simplest one: “What are you?”

The trainee met Tristan's stare. "My mother was a human, Paladin." The right side of his mouth quirked upwards. "Clearly my father was not."

Lord Astley coughed into his hand. The trainee rolled his eyes in response, and Sam shivered at the sight. Braeden looked defiantly at Tristan and Sam. "Daddy dearest was a demon, Paladin Lyons."

Sam’s mouth fell open. Since when did demons procreate? The very idea of it stood years of conjecture on its head.

Tristan, too, seemed startled by this revelation. He shook himself, hemming and hawing before putting words to his thoughts. "How could that even happen?"

The half-demon raised a single silver brow. "The usual way, I'd imagine." Sam snorted at the indelicate reply, and then her cheeks went red. In Haywood, no one would have dreamed of speaking so crudely in front of Lady Samantha.

Tristan glared at the both of them. "You know what I mean, boy.”

Braeden shrugged. "My mother's dead, or I'd have asked her myself."

Tristan seemed to struggle with himself; when he spoke again, his voice was strangled. "Are you sure you've got demon blood?"

The trainee laughed darkly. "I'm sure," he said, his good humor gone. He turned to Lord Astley, "My lord, if this is going to be a problem--"

"No! No problems here," Tristan cut him off. "I can take him from here, Astley." The secretary bowed in acknowledgment and scurried away.

Tristan and Braeden gave each other a once over, like two tomcats in an alley. "Braeden, is it?" The demon boy nodded.

"Weapon?" Tristan asked.

Twin daggers appeared in Braeden's hands as if by magic, and he twirled them with a flourish. "Knives, Paladin."

“Nice trick," said Tristan, underwhelmed. He slipped two stilettos from his sleeves and rotated the long blades around his fingers.

Braeden smirked. “Not bad, Paladin.” He tossed three daggers into the air in an easy juggle. Sam wondered if it would be inappropriate to applaud.

Not to be outdone, Tristan drew two knives from his boots and threw them in a series of complicated aerials. For a man who was famous for his talent with a sword, his knife skills were impressive. Sam knew which end to stab with, but that was as far as it went.

Tristan caught the blades neatly in his hands, his face a mite too serious. A smile pulled at Sam's lips, and before she could help it, she was snickering into her hand. The two of them were like male peacocks flaunting their feathers.

“Find something funny, trainee?” Tristan snapped.

Sam forced her laughter into submission; Tristan disliked her enough already. “Don’t mind me.”

Tristan returned his attention to the half-demon. “Are we done here?’

Braeden released a long suffering sigh. He slid two of his knives back into his robes, gripping only a single thrusting dagger by the handle, its point facing inwards. Tensing his muscles, Braeden plunged the blade deep into his stomach. Sam watched in horror, and Tristan let out a shout.

Braeden ignored them, pushing the blade deeper into his belly, all the way to the hilt. A crimson sheen rolled over his eyes, and his slit pupils twisted to horizontal. With a gasp, he withdrew the dagger slowly, inch by inch. Drops of dark red dripped onto the stone floor and a wet stain blossomed in the middle of his robes. He held the bloodied knife in his right hand and ran his fingers along the sticky spine of the blade with his left. The blood solidified into sharp, curved daggers.

Tristan increased the distance between the half-demon and himself. “You win,” he said between gritted teeth.

Braeden rubbed at his stomach, and his eyes returned to their normal state (if it could be called that), the now-vertical pupils dancing with amusement. “Any more questions about my parentage?”

Tristan growled in response. “You’ve made your point.”

Sam whistled through her teeth. “That was quite possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.” Scary, but amazing. It had erased any doubt in her mind that demon’s blood coursed through Braeden’s veins. Still, she had to wonder--what was he doing with the Paladins? Their sole mission was, put simply, to kill demons. Nobody here would trust him.

“Now let’s get a few things straight,” said Tristan. “As long as the two of you are my trainees, you will treat me with the utmost respect. You are to obey my orders as if they came straight from the High Commander himself. Do we understand each other?”

Sam traded glances with the half-demon and then they nodded in unison.

"Good."