Both the lighting and the temperature inside the tent was warm. Waning sunlight flooded through the linen, and in the middle of the room there was a shabby wooden table with documents strewn about. There were two candles placed on each end of the table, and there were two tall men standing beside each of the candles. One man was studying the documents with a look of irritation on his face. The other man looked up and smiled as Roel entered the room.

“Sir Roel, what a pleasure it is to see you again,” said the smiling man. The man’s skin was darkly tanned, and a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his bald head. A strong jaw, but soft brown eyes. Roel had met him once at the siege, but he now knew him for other reasons.

“Ah, I’m Joseph. Joseph Chastain,” the man said with a chuckle. “In case you’ve forgotten. Being who you are, I’m sure you know enough nobles.”

This was the prince’s chief advisor but also most likely the traitor that would sell him out. When Roel first started doing these kinds of covert missions, he used to find it entertaining to brainstorm the traitor’s motives. Was it for land? Power? Wounded pride? But after so many missions even his curiosity was exhausted.

Once, Olivier, no doubt adjusting his pair of scales, had said the world was made of sums, and Roel, trying to impress him, added that it was made of both sums and some’s: some-one was always plotting some-thing for some reason. Olivier had laughed, which was rare.

“No, no, I remember you well,” Roel said with a low bow. Paladins were in an awkward spot when it came to etiquette. Technically, they ranked right below high nobility, but the distinction between high and low nobility was vague and contentious. And of course, there was the other man in the room. “And Prince Ghislain, it is always an honor to be of service to you.”

“Is that so? Then, why do I feel like you’re about to cause me a disservice?” Prince Ghislain set his document aside and scrutinized him. If King Matthieu, with his well-built body and intimidating regality, was a palace, then Ghislain was a spire. He was so tall that his head almost brushed against the roof of the tent, and his haggard face with its sunken cheeks and thin lips gave him a menacing aura. “So? What does my brother want from me?”

Roel handed him the scroll. Ghislain rolled his eyes at the royal wax seal and ripped it open. As his eyes moved down the paper, the look of displeasure on his face intensified. When he reached the end, he tore the paper in half.

“This is ridiculous,” he snarled. “We are a few days away from the Palace of Yvailles. And you want me to turn around and head to Brackith?”

Roel kept silent, but Joseph spoke for him. “He’s just the messenger, Your Highness. I’m sure the king has a reason.”

“A reason? First, he instigates a battle with Rove, ropes me into the whole mess, and then he sends his lapdog paladin to clean up the whole thing. Now he wants me to turn around and keep his pup on a leash for him?” Ghislain laughed coldly. “A reason? Of course, he has one. All my brother ever has are reasons and justifications and secrets.”

His attention turned back to Roel. His eyes were still cold, but his words were quiet, almost somber. “You are being used, paladin. Your kind chases honor and fame as if those things are different from what most of us want.”

“Now, Your Highness, that’s –” Joseph tried to intervene, but to his own surprise he found himself speaking up.

“I have never deluded myself, Prince Ghislain, into thinking I was anything more than who I am,” he said fiercely. “Please don’t condescend to me.”

It wasn’t the prince’s tone that had frustrated Roel. No, he had dealt with many rude and furious nobles in the past. He had hidden his irritation, diluted his anger until all he had was a blank but polite expression on his face. So, he should’ve known better.

What angered him, then, was the prince’s insinuation that he was ignorant, that he didn’t know that he was being used. The prince was privy to the Royal Council meetings; he knew exactly what role the paladins inhabited in the kingdom. So, the prince spoke down to him as if to reveal a hidden truth that Roel had never considered. And he had taken the bait.

It was too late for regret. The prince already disliked him before; surely, he would now actively disdain him.

But Prince Ghislain had gone quiet. Even with the candlelight, it was impossible to tell what kind of expression he was making.

“We’ll arrange you a tent,” Joseph said quietly. “Come.” As Roel made to follow him, the prince spoke again.

“Is there a god, Sir Roel?”

“A god?” Roel saw Joseph frown, but he ignored him and turned back to the prince. “Of course, there is the Lord. It is He who guided His brothers and sisters in the creation of the world, and it is also He who blessed me with His favor.” These were words he had parroted ever since he was ordained.

“And what do you think?” the prince said. Roel stared at him for a moment, but the prince showed no signs that he was being sarcastic. He could sense Joseph watching him. Was this another piece of bait? A test?

“I think…He tried His best, Your Majesty.”

“Elaborate.”

“Wherever you turn, you’ll find chaos and corruption and bloodshed. And yet the Lord did His best to provide this world as a haven for His creations. This is the best possible world.”

Prince Ghislain snorted. “That’s too optimistic. He had His brothers and sisters for help, but He couldn’t do more?”

To some, the prince’s words might be considered disrespectful, but for some reason, Roel found his words refreshing. No one would dare speak ill of the Lord. But again, he knew Joseph was watching, so he kept silent.

“Well, I suppose it was a waste of time to discuss religious matters with a paladin,” the prince said. “We will leave for Brackith early in the morning. But instead of going through the main road, we will expedite the journey by taking the path through the woodlands. Since we have you with us, I’m sure that’ll be no trouble?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Good.” Prince Ghislain turned back to his documents without another word. Joseph beckoned him to follow, so he gave the prince one final bow and exited the tent.

“Please don’t think ill of him,” Joseph told him the moment they were far enough from the tent. “They like to say that he inherited his mood swings from his father, but it really isn’t like that at all. I’ve been with him for eight years now, and I can tell that the siege has just taken its toll on him.”

“I understand.”

“Thanks,” Joseph smiled gratefully, “now let’s go find you a tent.”

Roel watched the man carefully. Just a little bit, his curiosity was piqued again. The noble’s words seemed sincere enough. What did he stand to gain by backstabbing the prince that he had attended to for so long? Or was he involved with the church and saw the prince’s beliefs as dangerous?

What did it take to give up on something?