company was preferable to the inevitable headaches that ensued further thought.
‘Granted, I may not be in a position to question, given that I follow Galataur.’ The Serrant hesitated momentarily. ‘But . . . Talanas only requires you to serve mankind, does He not?’
‘Ideally, all Gods—’ Asper paused, correcting herself. ‘All human Gods at least gently encourage the improvement of mankind. I seem to do that rather well.’
‘Still,’ she could almost hear the cracking of Quillian’s teeth, ‘I wonder if you are perhaps too indulgent of other faiths. Is it not a sin to acknowledge the Gods of savages?’
‘Technically, Kataria and all shicts only have one God. Goddess, actually. Gariath, as far as I know, believes in something else altogether.’
‘Which is precisely my point: you are aware that some of your companions are—’
‘Not human?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I had noticed that.’
‘May I ask why—’
‘I suppose their parents hadn’t the foresight to have been human.’
‘Your sarcasm is noted.’ The lack of ire in the Serrant’s voice was oddly unnerving to the priestess. ‘It was my intent to ask why you cling to them.’
Likely because they’re at least occasionally willing to leave me alone.
She bit back that thought.
‘In theory,’ she began with a sigh, ‘staying in their company grants me many opportunities to do the Healer’s work.’ She cast an appeasing smile over her shoulder. ‘You might have noticed the abundance of wounds that materialise in my companions’ presence.’
Her nervous laughter was met with stony silence. Quillian offered no indication that she understood the jest, much less appreciated it. She lingered in the corner of Asper’s eyes for another moment before the priestess turned away.
Perhaps, she thought, if she stood perfectly still, Quillian would simply stand there and say nothing; it would be the same as being alone, just with a strange, silent, bronze-clad woman staring at her.
‘You don’t seem convinced.’
Asper opened her mouth to retort before she realised the unpleasant truth of Quillian’s words: namely, the fact that she was correct.
She closed her eyes at that moment, trying to summon up images of laughter shared, stories exchanged, a reason why she called them ‘companions’. All that flashed behind her lids, however, were the images: bodies cut down, blood shed. The frogman lying motionless in the corner, quivering like a blob of jelly . . .
Stop it!
Her mind disobeyed the command.
Where, she wondered, was the Healer’s work? Where were the mended bones and healed flesh? Where had she consoled the grieving? Where were the funerals? Had there been anything beyond swaddled corpses, deathscrolls and steel?
If I stay with them, is there anything beyond that at all?
‘Forgive my audacity.’ Quillian’s voice shifted low at the priestess’s silence. ‘I should not have second-guessed your motives.’
‘I’ve been with them for a year now.’
The Serrant’s armour shifted noisily as she straightened up. Without looking, Asper could feel Quillian’s eyes upon her: expectant, attentive. She realised she had never commanded such expressions amongst her companions.
‘I’ve done a lot of good in that time, you know,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t regret it. It seemed a grand idea, then, to embark on my pilgrimage in the company of adventurers. Where else would one find so much healing to be done?’
‘In my humble experience,’ there was an edge of venom to Quillian’s words, ‘there is rarely a good idea that involves shicts and heathens.’
‘They’re good people.’ The counter came neither as swiftly nor as sternly as she expected. ‘They’re just . . .’ Violent? Brutish? Half-mad? No word summed them up properly. ‘Misguided.’
‘Does it then fall to you to guide them?’
Once more, the Serrant’s words struck her silent. Her mouth did not so much as open as the question echoed in her mind. What hope did she have of mending their ways? It had been a year now, a bloody, fierce year. They had turned their steel and ferocity towards the good of the Church, that much was true, but they still did so un-charitably, demanding exorbitant amounts of wealth . . .
What good did she do by remaining with them?
When she turned around, Quillian was close to her, much closer than she had ever seen the woman. Her features became clearer: there was softness between her hard lines, a quiver in her eyes, as though they struggled desperately to remember how women were supposed to look.
The realisation came swiftly upon her. Before that moment, she had never seen the Serrant in such a position: no sword at her hip, no oaths or battle cries on her tongue,