Draka went to his knees on the floor of his bedchamber. He had returned to his bedchamber to find that Isabella and Jasmine had been escorted back to their room beneath the tower. He knew who he had told. He knew who he had trusted with the secrecy of their short escape from the intrigues and the responsibilities of the courts. He and Adrian wanted to be left alone for a few days—two at most—and Maud was right, the ambush was perfectly laid. Perfectly timed. Only one man knew him well enough for that.

  His mind was wandering over a thousand details as he tugged his cotton shirt from over his shoulders and dropped it to the floor beside him. When he and Adrian had attempted their escape, they were already surrounded. When they had reached the road, they were waiting and Vigora died because of a throw that wasn’t aimed for him, it was aimed for her. He kicked his trousers from his feet to the side where it rolled over his shirt.

  His knees fell to the floor. How could he be so foolish not to see? Not to notice the jealousy, the fleeting glances, the undermining, the laziness, the neglect…the patterns of betrayal? He bent over until he was prostrated across the floor, clasping his hands together, and closed his eyes.

  Almighty God, creator of all, who raised David to rule over Judea, I thank Thee for granting me the ability to heal Adrian. For granting Maud and any who aided her in healing Nina, Aurie, and ourselves, and thank you for not taking them from me in their fight to rescue us. Please be merciful in Thy judgment of those who had fallen in that battle and know that their trespasses have been forgiven by us who have returned to safety. Please be merciful to us in the coming days and grant us strength as we face our enemies in defense of our people. Grant us wisdom and courage to overcome their wrath, O Lord, for we need Thine power and glory with us.

  Draka drew in a breath, clenching his eyes tighter. Jehovah my God, I need Thy guidance. I need Thy wisdom so that I may follow Thy Will and not succumb to the wrath and want for vengeance in my heart. I have my suspicions, but I am unsure and wonder if taking actions against him will only draw me away from Your path again instead of leading along it. I will not risk that unless I am guided by Thee. I beg you to guide me. Reveal to me the truth which has been kept from me. I plead the Blood of the Lamb, Amen.

  He lifted himself up and sat back on his feet. Silence filled the room as it had before.

  He let out his breath, sinking his shoulders, before scooping up his shirt and trousers on his way to his feet. There was a water basin near the small, unlit brazier. He dropped the clothes in a heap beside it and began splashing his face with handfuls of water. One after another, cooling the rage, cooling his racing thoughts, his racing memories now tipping with hindsight, dripping with suspicions leading further and further back.

  There was a knock on the door.

  He looked up from rubbing his face with both palms. Water dripped through his fingers. He pursed his brows at the second set of knocks. A towel to his face and he searched for the closest robe he could find. There was one on a hook near the door. He grabbed it and pulled it on when the knocking came again, this time in a playful rhythm.

  He opened the door to find his two Oathed Clerics, Dimitriy and Olaf, standing in front of it with amused looks on their bearded faces. A sight of day and night. Olaf with his red beard and a stack of polished armor plates in his hands and a pack strapped over his shoulders, likely with the rest of the pieces. Dimitriy with his beard that was darker than Maud’s hair, holding Draka’s gilded handled sword with the ruby pommel still intact.

  Olaf looked him over with a crooked brow. “You missed a few places,” he said in Uralic Russian, then edged his way between Dimitriy and Draka through the doorway. “I brought your new armor. Thought you would want to appear as a Paladin King and not courtly jester this time. Even your daughter has been wearing armor when she leaves the Royal chambers.”

  Draka tucked his lips, holding the door as he waited for Dmitriy to follow his comrade.

  Dmitriy smiled. He had a fresh scar across his neck into his collar bone and a few bruises that were partially hidden by his long curly hair.

  “You forgot this,” Dimitriy said in Draka’s native tongue, pressing the sword into his chest as he passed.

  Draka closed the door behind them. Olaf was already searching the room for all the clothes and layers that Draka would wear under it. Dmitriy went to the plate of half-eaten food and pointed with a hopeful questioning glance. Draka nodded as he returned to the basin to continue washing himself.

  “They were smart this time,” Olaf continued in Uralic. “Kept to the woods. I’ve scouted in circles until I found their lines. They’re not wasting much time. They were ready before we even knew they found their way here. Old Wendeslaus is certain that there are many among the villagers, but there’s no way to tell without being, well…you know.”

  Draka nodded as he ran a cloth across his lower half.

  “Qasim says that we have lost every True Sight Paladin from the Order and others have reported the same elsewhere,” Olaf found some clothes and began setting them in a pile in the order Draka would need them.

  Draka stopped to look at him, holding a dripping cloth to the armpit of a raised arm, his mouth gaping at the thought. All of us? And they nearly took me, as well. How did they know which ones to look for? Where to find them? And who gave them that information? His mind was flooding with questions.

  Dimitriy brought him his undergarment and trousers. “Wenceslaus has been using ointment on the migrants his warriors can corner to make certain they haven’t turned and he sends small ones to sprinkle them on the feet of those who go to buy their wares,” he said in the same language. “I’ve been giving them as much as I can without raising suspicion from the priory. Father Hagen either hasn’t noticed or is aware and has been more than willing to help.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The latter is most likely, Draka sighed with relief as he pulled on his trousers and took the clean shirt Dimitriy held for him. The fact that Wenceslaus was the one here made him feel a little relieved. His own people, the Szczecin-polsci who had converted, were among the migrants, then. That's good.

  Olaf was already bringing him his silk shirt to go over it. The thin belts to keep it from getting bunched up on his arms as he put on the next layer were in rolls on top.

  “The ambush was for you, of that I am certain,” Dimitriy handed him the quilted coat while Olaf grabbed the padded one that would be the last layer before the chainmail. “Once you were retrieved, we only had to fight a handful before they retreated. We followed them as far as the little village southwest of the hunting camp.”

  Draka finished fastening the padded coat as he pressed his brows together at the dark-haired Cleric. It was Olaf who shook his head with a saddened expression, the chainmail shirt draped over his bent arms for Draka to take.

  “They slaughtered all but the working aged men,” Olaf said with a heaviness. “None of the women or children were spared. That’s the vanguard camp. Our scouts have found a dozen other such camps encircling us, just far enough from the main thorough ways to keep us from seeing them until the main force was massed last night at the monastery.”

  Draka sank. They didn’t have to tell him. He already knew. The brewery, the monastery where Adrian and he had spent mass and breakfast at, was massacred. It was the way of the Fallen Saint Olgas. The holy ground it stood on was likely desecrated and, like the Abbey, would have to be conquered if anything was left to salvage.

  He pulled the chainmail shirt over his head with a clenched jaw, his eyes staring at nothing in particular while his mind moved over all that his two Oathed Clerics had been telling him.

  “Nina gave us as much warning as we could have hoped for,” Olaf said with a solemn grin and a heaved breath as he and Dimitriy lifted the breast plate. Together, they carried it to Draka, who was already raising his arms for it to be pressed over his chest. “She figured it out from a single conversation and a few pieces of intelligence from Geneva. She’s a very good spymaster.”

  “And fighter,” Dimitriy noted as he tightened straps over Draka’s shoulders before going to help Olaf carry the back plate. “She was like a wolf and would be named so if she wasn’t already called the Red Spider. Your former Regent, Aurelie, is the Rose in Frost now, from how well she fought, too. She moved through them like they do in that mating dance they do with the pole, but with sword and bow instead of a ribbon and ring. She defended you with more viciousness than they expected. I saw.”

  Draka beamed with pride as Olaf adjusted the belts while Dimitriy held the side plates in their slots until they were snug. It took a few adjustments, back and forth between the two sides, but they eventually got his armor plates to where they should be: snug and evenly weighted between his shoulders and hips. The rest were quicker to be placed and adjusted by the two Clerics. Until the armor was in need of repair, this would be the last time he would need help putting it on, so long as it was taken off only partially disassembled each time.

  “If she agrees, Qasim will make her an honorary member of the Order,” Dimitriy jerked at Draka’s armor one last time to make sure it was fitted right.

  “Paladin Commander Enya will have something to say about that,” Olaf chuckled. “She’s in need of more Paladins in her cohorts here while she waits on their Grand Master to decide if he will sanction more to restation here.”

  “He won’t. He doesn’t like us much,” Dimitriy shrugged. “We always get credit when we join the fight. No one likes us.”

  Olaf was in front of Draka with a single brow raised at him, “Wonder who started that tradition?”

  Phillip, Draka shrugged at him as if he didn’t know. Olaf only shook his head with disbelief, eyeing him. As Dimitriy belted Draka’s sword around his waist, Olaf began fishing through the pack to lift a wrapped dome from within it as if it were a precious crystal within.

  In the tongue native to Talkro, Olaf said as he unwrapped the linen sheet to reveal the helmet within it, “Your helm, Paladin King.”

  It was different than his last, which he had carried with him since his first set of armor was bestowed to him on the battlements of Aviv. It was shaped like any other helm, but it had a ridge where a plume would normally be, though it was only slight. The face shield wasn’t split by a cross for him to see and speak through. Instead, it had a rotating visor that also latched on one side so that he could open it to reveal his face. The eyelets were thin and separated. A red cross with an intricate weaving design within it lined with gold adorned from the top to the chin on an otherwise smooth chrome and steel dome that left no room for a blade or arrow to penetrate. Even the eyelets were hidden by the etching within the cross to make them indecipherable from the design.

  Draka looked down at the breast plate for the first time to see if the Counsel of Cardinals had also changed his crest of the Seven-Pointed Star and cross. They had. It was now an Eight-Pointed Star, unable to be inverted, with the last point reaching nearly to the top of the red cross it lay upon, pointing to a haloed crown of thorns. The halo was thickly gilded. Draka rolled his eyes. Of course it was.

  Olaf snickered. Dimitriy pretended to wipe tears of awe at it.

  Draka waved his hand for them to get their laughs out of their systems before he stepped out of the room. He wondered if it would cause a fuss if he ‘accidentally’ made the gilding and that crown of thorns disappear during the battle. They nearly doubled over laughing and pointing at him.

  “It’s beautiful, really,” Olaf said between guffaws. “Won’t draw enemy eyes whatsoever.”

  “The gold gives it flavor,” Dimitriy was heaving for breath, stumbling to stay on his feet. “I like the extra point. Completion after completion. God just needs to remember He can do better.”

  Draka glared through rolling eyes. This was an abomination. Who’s idea was this? He definitely was going to rub against every rock and hard surface he could find during the fighting until the crest was scratched nearly to nothing.

  “Really, I like it,” Olaf said through a fist, jerking with loud snickers, still staring at it. “It’s fitting for the Grand Master of all the Paladinate. Makes sure you…only remain so for a little while longer.” And they both doubled over again because they couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  Draka bit his lip. I’d rather fight naked.

  "One thing, first," Olaf's laugh came to a sad end by a cough. "Qasim wants you to speak with him before your health is made known to the people."

  Draka turned to him with furrowed brows. Qasim was meeting with Isa, Draka remembered. He had mentioned that he wanted him fully armored for some reason when they passed each other in the hallway.

  "There are corrupted in Talkro," Olaf said with disheartening breath, "He's calling for a Holy Purge."