Chapter 13

Sam tapped her good foot anxiously as she waited. A summons from the High Commander was not something to be taken lightly. Everyone knew that the king of Thule was just a king in name; the High Commander wielded the real power. He was more myth than man, his heroic deeds the stuff of legend. Even children knew the story of how he’d led the Paladins to victory in the Great War, the largest demon assault on record. They said he’d personally slain a thousand demons in a single day, though no one seemed to recall the details. The funeral pyre for Paladin Shen was still alight when Lord Astley had announced that the High Commander would investigate the attack on The Center. Sam could read between the lines--what Lord Astley meant was that Braeden was under investigation. It’s not fair! she’d wanted to shout. He saved us all, you fools! A pang of guilt coursed through her. Was she really any better than Braeden’s accusers? It hadn’t taken much last night to convince her that he’d betrayed them. The sound of a cleared throat interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up into the bespectacled brown eyes of Lord Astley. “The High Commander is ready to see you,” he said. She gulped and nodded, using her makeshift crutch to rise to her feet, and then limped after the secretary. Lord Astley stopped at an ornate double door, and rapped his knuckles against the wood. “Enter,” called a muffled voice. “After you,” said Lord Astley, opening the left hand door wide. Sam’s mouth fell open at the gaudiest display of wealth she had ever seen.  The room showed the signs of decades’ worth of collecting, stuffed with fine antiques and obscure artifacts and trinkets. There was no discernible rhyme or reason to their appropriation, and the result was the most spectacular of eyesores. A painted, paneled screen half hid a human skeleton festooned in royal garb. Mismatched tables sported various baubles and bibelots: a porcelain teapot sat next to the bronzed figurine of an ancient god from the Nanda dynasty, and a gilded snuffbox rested atop an exquisitely crafted game of chess. Weapons made of bone hung on the walls next to calligraphy scrolls. The effect was dizzying. Sam was so caught up in all the profligacy she almost failed to notice the rather unimpressive man behind the commode top desk. She had expected the High Commander to be bigger, broader, brighter, the sort of larger than life presence you’d expect of such a legend. But with his salt-and-pepper hair and plain, ageless face, he had the kind of physical appearance that was utterly forgettable. And then he opened his mouth and spoke, and became beautiful. “Please, Sam, take a seat,” he said in a lilting tenor, his mouth curling around the words as though each one was more precious than the last. She obliged, pulling out a chair from underneath the desk. “Sam of Haywood,” he mused in that odd, musical voice. He stared at her a long while, raking her over with intelligent, graphite gray eyes. She shifted under his gaze. He brushed his thumb over his lips. “How do you like it here, Sam?” “Excuse me?” The High Commander tilted his head to the right, studying her. “The Center, your first week as a trainee,” he said. “Does it meet with your approval?” “Yes, High Commander,” she replied nervously. “It’s been… stimulating.” His lips pursed into a small smile. “Stimulating, is it? An interesting choice of words.” “About last night--” He held up a long, white hand. “We’ll get to it. I want to hear about your training.” Sam narrowed her eyes. Had Tristan said something untoward? “My training is fine.” His lips twitched again into that small smile, like he knew something she didn’t. “Paladin Lyons tells me you have potential.” “He did?” she asked, her cheeks heating. She’d thought Tristan would bite off his own tongue before paying her a compliment. He chuckled. “Aye, he did, lad. He said you were a natural with a blade. High praise, that.” Sam bowed her head. “Thank you, High Commander.” “Did your father train you?” “My father? He didn’t...well, no,” she fumbled. “He isn’t a swordsman, my father.” “He must be proud.” Sam bit the inside of her cheek. Her father didn't know where she'd run off to, and if he did, the last thing he would be was proud. “I suppose. I think he would have preferred that I, er, took over the family business.” The High Commander raised an eyebrow. “And what's that?” “Um. Shoemaking?” With more confidence, she repeated, “Shoemaking.” The High Commander looked disappointed. He waved his hand. “No matter.” Sam was beginning to grow impatient. “Excuse me, but shouldn’t we talk about what happened last night?” He sighed. “I have already made up my mind.” “But Braeden didn’t kill Paladin Shen! He couldn’t have!” she cried. “I know.” Sam blinked. “You know?” “I spoke with Paladin Lyons and the coroner. I’m satisfied that Braeden is innocent.” “Then why did you want to meet with me?” she asked, flabbergasted. The High Commander smiled his small smile. “Curiosity." Sam left the High Commander’s office thoroughly confused. He’d asked her a dozen more questions about Haywood and her family--most of which she’d had to lie about--but skirted away from any questions that touched on the demon attack of the previous night.