While Simon could spar with other knights and prove he’d recovered physically, those bouts would never afford him the opportunity to experiment with the tools he’d built into his wooden hand over the last half year. So, after a time, he went to master Harrin to petition to return to full duty.

“I’m entirely recovered,” Simon insisted. While he would never recover entirely from losing an arm, he was ready to fight and formidable in his own way. The only real problem would be basic things, like getting undressed or donning his armor each morning. He could fight, but not even his fancy appendage would replace five nimble fingers when it came to buttons or ties. This was all to the good, though, because if he could convince them to let him fight, then he would definitely need to get his squire back to help him with such things.

Unfortunately, Master Harrin was less than sympathetic about his attempts and shot him down repeatedly. Every few weeks, Simon would meet with him, explain how ready he was, and get shot down.

First, it was, “You still look a bit thin to strain yourself so,” followed by insinuations that his time might be better spent in the library. Eventually, that became, “There’s no need to rush these things,” along with reports about how he still wasn’t in top form according to some of the other knights.

Finally, Simon offered to fight the man himself, coming within a hair's breadth of insubordination, but the man declined. “I have no doubt you could beat an old man like me, Enis,” he answered with a sigh. “But it’s not old men like me you’d be facing, is it? Sir Derinholt died to orcs, and you lost your arm to demons. Both of those are much more formidable than I am.”

“I lost my arm to my squire,” Simon countered. “And I’m sure you understand it was the best option.”

The master’s lip twitched into the ghost of a sneer at the reminder before his impassivity returned. Neither he nor any of the masters liked that he’d taken action without their approval; only Varten’s testimony that the hand had taken on a life of its own seemed to mollify them.

Still, despite the consequences, he did not regret that haste, because it had been effective. In all the time since then, he hadn’t seen a single sign that he was contaminated by the forces of hell. As long as that was accomplished, the rest of this life didn’t matter; he only lingered so that Varten wouldn’t be emotionally scarred by it.

“You are free to renounce your knighthood if you doubt my judgement,” Master Harrin answered, as he so often did, but Simon declined. Even if he accepted it, he was uncertain they would let him just walk away.

When Simon grew tired of these regular squabbles, he finally demanded an appointment with the Grand Master. That action earned him no friends either, but the man’s secretary diligently gave Simon an hour of the man’s time a month into the future.

That annoyed him, but he didn’t waste the time pacing or griping. Instead, he worked on other interesting projects, writing down ideas for spells in his mirror, or studying the Murani dreaming orb after everyone else went to sleep. There were still runes there he didn’t understand, but it was the density and linkages that really captivated him. He could appreciate the craftsmanship, if nothing else.

One day I will return to that city disguised as a Magi and learn the secrets of their artifice, he told himself. That wouldn’t be soon, though. The only thing that he’d be able to do soon would be to make his demands.

Unfortunately, his time with the Grandmaster proved to be almost as big a waste of time as his meetings with Master Harrin. Before Simon had said a word, the man told him, “We have no way of knowing that the evil that infested your soul really is gone, you know. No matter how deeply we look, it still might find some place to hide.”

Simon didn’t let those words deflate him, though he’d suspected that was the real reason he was being held here all along. He was being kept under observation; he supposed that he could entirely blame them for that, but still, he chafed and pleaded his case.

The Grandmaster listened more patiently than Master Harrin had. He was kinder, too. He acknowledged Simon’s achievements with the jinn and the warlock. “Ultimately, though, I still had to send someone else to dispatch that merchant, because you were distracted by a different evil.”

That stunned Simon. He hadn’t expected that. “But… but that man wasn’t evil, he was clever and more than a little greedy.”

“Greed is a lesser evil,” the Grandmaster said with a nod. “And it drove that cleverness to evil ends. Fortunately Sir. Starin was able to rectify the issue while you recuperated."

“So, just like that?” Simon asked in a cold tone that revealed none of his rising anger. “A lord said he had to die, so he had to die?”

“The lords of the land are the just and divine rulers,” the Grandmaster answered, unruffled. “While the auras can show us evil, sometimes villains hide such details. You are a good man, Sir Enis, but you should trust your eyes less and your orders more.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

So he was always going to die, Simon reflected morosely. Still, he didn’t challenge the statement, insane as it was. He’d always known that there was some sort of quid pro quo between an order that didn’t officially exist and the powers that be, which gave it carte blanche. The Unspoken could do whatever they wanted, but only if they did precisely what they were told, it seemed.

He didn’t try to argue that. There was no point. In the minds of many of the Whitecloaks, good and obedient were identical virtues. Unlike the nation of Ionar or the city-state of Abresse, the same was true throughout Brin to a much lesser extent.

Instead, he tried to twist the point to his favor, offering, “Well, perhaps I can’t fight as I once did, but surely someone with my sight is wasted here. Surely there are problems I can help those Lords with, aren’t there?”

“And how could we trust that you are telling the truth?” he asked. “For all we know, you’ve been possessed by a devil and are simply seeking to escape and cause harm.”

This conversation certainly makes me feel like causing some harm, Simon sighed mentally. No devil needed.

Rather than admit that, though, Simon just said, “If you harbored real concerns about that, I would already be dead, and I wouldn’t even put up a fight. Why not put me in front of your caged seer and let her say what the truth is?”

The man stroked his beard, contemplating. “I can’t remember the last time anyone asked to see her a second time… Besides, she was wrong about you. She said you were chosen to do great things and… Well, here we are.”

Simon bristled at those words, but defending himself would have been pointless. Those weren’t the kind of truths he could tell anyone, let alone this man. “Here we are,” Simon agreed stiffly.

The conversation ended shortly after that. The Grandmaster promised he’d consider Simon’s request, but he didn’t expect the man to follow through. He spent the following week trying to decide whether he should flee, resign, or hang himself. It was not the healthiest thing to obsess about, and he tried to return to his other projects, but the continued confinement, combined with the news that the order offed people just because the powers that be assured them they were bad, weighed on him.

The Unspoken might not be the bad guys, but they certainly aren’t the good guys, he told himself. It put him in an awkward position and made him worry how his squire would turn out without him. Then, one night while he lay in bed trying to decide on the best plan, a messenger visited him. He’d been summoned.

Simon didn’t wear his false hand this time, for obvious reasons. If he really was going to meet that maddened seer again, then the last thing he wanted her to see was that appendage. Who knew what she might be able to perceive beneath its layers of wood and lacquer.

Cassandra looked a little different than she had during their last visit. Master Harrin was there, just outside of her cell, with other men he didn’t know. Simon was escorted into the cell, and as the door was locked behind him, she looked him up and down.

When she spotted his missing arm and the sleeve that hung limply past it, she flashed Simon a manic smile and asked, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sir Enis come to greet me after his short time as the chosen one. Tell me, did you enjoy being heaven-sent?”

“I never claimed to be the chosen one,” he sighed, not sure where to start.

She could see right through him; she’d shown him that last time, but she had an agenda too. She hadn’t told the Whitecloaks he’d lied on several occasions, because what she really seemed to want was for someone to take care of the whisperers. Perhaps there was a way he could use that.

“The scriptures did, The scriptures did, and they are always right,” she answered in a sing-song voice. “Tell me, what deed was worth trading your arm for?”

“My squire,” Simon answered flatly. “Varten was going to be used as a human sacrifice by a warlock, and I prevented it.”

“I see, I see,” she whispered. “And did you use any of my sisters in your unarmed victory?”

She laughed at her own joke, and Simon waited until she was done before he answered. “None. I fight my own battles. The only one of my quests that involved a Whisperer was bringing back her bones after the previous knight failed to kill the Jinn, or whatever that thing was.”

Simon watched her fists tighten as she stared at him blankly. It wasn’t his words that were upsetting her, he realized quickly. She was watching that story play across his aura like a movie screen. He had no idea what level of detail she could see that at, but she was clearly upset by that.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then his master said, “Ask him about—”

“I’m asking him about my sisters!” Cassandra screamed, drowning him out. Simon thought she might sob then. Instead, she stepped forward and took his hand and said, “It would have been better if she’d lived, but at least you got revenge. At least you did that much. No one else would have brought her back.”

Simon was taken aback. All he could do was nod, and eventually she continued. “They don’t usually bring men down to see me, and almost certainly not twice. Are you in trouble for the way you treated my sister? Would they prefer you handle things another way?”

“The Grandmaster fears a devil has a hold on my soul,” Simon confessed. “I have healed from my injuries but am not allowed to leave the Broken Tower.”

“A devil? He should know.” she smiled, her sadness all but evaporated. “But this time he’s wrong. There are no demons in this one’s soul,” she said to the people standing well behind him. “He is still a plaything of the divine, but hell has no hold on him.”

“What does that mean?” Master Harrin asked, beating Simon to the punch.

“It means that if you do not let this bird free of his cage, then the gods will conspire to break that cage open,” she answered, turning serious. “Fate cannot be held back forever.”