The paladin was looking forward to a soak in the pool of maidens and then dinner when a familiar voice spoke up from the doorway.

"That's not your regular armor." The grand master's voice was conversational, but nevertheless, the paladin knew to answer with care.

"This is armor formed by my hand, of metals pulled from the ground by my hands, Honored Grand Master," she replied in even tones. "I assure you that this is, indeed, my armor." She paused long enough to turn, allowing him to see the brands of her accomplishments, which, though faded, had expanded since she'd last seen him. "Just as these are, indeed, my brands," the paladin finished. Her gaze fell on his own brands and she wondered with relief that his own were as faded.

"I remember your armor as more ornate, Chivromsha," he replied in pointed tones.

Emboldened, the paladin raised a brow. "And I remember our brands as being midnight black rather than brown, but perhaps we are both remembering what was, as opposed to what is?"

His smile was forced. "Perhaps so," he agreed, and turned from her doorway.

The paladin watched him leave, feeling relieved. Though she should have felt honored that he'd chosen to make a point of coming to her in order to address her at all, the paladin felt only unsettled by his visit. In previous times, his gaze upon her and his voice had delighted the paladin, so she wondered that being in his presence now had sparked a warning in her gut, as if she'd been in danger of being attacked.

Everywhere she went after that, from the pool of maidens to the Great Hall, the sparring yard and even the commons, the mere presence of other paladins left her uneasy and on edge. Though she didn't fear the other members of her order exactly, their presence made her wary. It was if she feared attack by them without knowing why.

It didn't help that, wherever she went within the citadel, whispers arose and then faded. Conversations ceased abruptly, as if she were either not worthy of inclusion or else the topic of the conversation. More than once, these halted dialogs accompanied slight gestures toward her. Though she was not treated as an outcast, exactly, neither was she warmly welcomed by anyone outside her own, nuclear family.

To the paladin's great, private disappointment, returning to her home and familiar surroundings did not elicit a return of her lost memories. A dark gap lay firmly between marching in the honor guard and waking up in Teech's cabin. She found herself longing for the relative solitude, for the peace and tranquility of the mountains- for the steady, calm presence of Teech himself- and wondered about it.

Raised in the citadel, the paladin had known no other life until she'd woken up in Teech's bed. At her parents' home, the servants scurried silently around her, clearly afraid. The paladin's parents treated her as they always had, but her older brother regarded her with a hostility that bordered on outright hatred.

A noticeable percentage of the order seemed to have been replaced by novitiates, while familiar faces and some who'd been counted as friends were missing. The one time she'd enquired about them, the paladin was curtly told that the missing members were 'on assignment', before the conversation was firmly shut down.

She was examined by the citadel's best physicians and top clerics but the matter of her missing memory could not be resolved by any of them, nor even all of them together. The paladin could only wonder at the relief she'd seen in the old duke's eyes, that was reflected by the grand master, at the news. What dark secret could be locked away in the paladin's mind? Had she- or the order- fallen into some secret disgrace?

No, for her brands had not retreated; they had instead grown to full 'sleeves' that should have afforded her great honor and deference within the order of paladins. Instead, what was shown to her was more fear than deference. While she was allowed to eat among the others similarly branded and outwardly honored, she was not given duties commensurate with the measure of her brands.

The paladin's inner turmoil continued as the summer waned to autumn and she was slowly granted duties and honors to match her brands, as if the grand master were reluctant to admit that the paladin had earned her brands, or else begrudged them. It wasn't until the first snow was falling over the valley that the very last of her honors was bestowed and the paladin was invited to the high ceremony, wherein the high-ranking members of the order approached the most sacred, forbidden altar of their god in order to offer worship and sacrifice.

The paladin knew she should feel relieved and proud of the honor but as she dressed in her ceremonial robes, she wondered at the trepidation that overshadowed any joy she felt. Her vague misgivings even dampened her rush of pride at her place in the procession, where each year before, she'd been part of the throng assembled to witness the processional and recessional of the grand event.

At the rear of the processional, the paladin marched at a stately pace, focused on keeping the exact, appropriate space between herself and the paladin ahead of her. She was dressed in her ceremonial robe, a bright yellow, silken gown designed to expose the brands of rank on each member. The higher one's brands crept, the less of one the robe covered. The grand master, for example, wore only a loose-fitting pair of silken trousers that tucked in at waist and ankles, exposing his branded chest and back. The paladin's gown was a form-fitting, sleeveless affair with long, stately skirts and a kind of scarf that trailed down her back, drawing attention to her arms and shoulders.

Crossing the sparring yard, through the assembled novitiates, novices, apprentices, journeymen and laymen, the paladin had an almost overwhelming urge to look at her feet, as if she would find the muck of a swamp rather than the cobbled yard! She resisted the urge though, distracted by the grate of the high, heavy stone doors swinging inward and sliding on the stone floor. The doors, she knew, swung on a track and were driven by gears that turned only by the sweat of temple slaves tasked with pushing at a turnstile under the temple.

Every novitiate had friends among the slaves; disgraced members of each rank, even full paladins who could not bear the idea of killing another human being. Inside the temple, a cavernous hall spread inward from the massive doors, all sandstone lit by uncertain torchlight. The entire procession fit within this unadorned hall with enough room behind them for the doors to swing shut.

The deep, booming echo of the doors falling shut echoed through the outer court and deepened the anxiety in the pit of the paladin's stomach. She felt trapped.

At the far end of the cave-like room was a wall of scarlet curtains. Slowly, they slid sideways upon their tracks to reveal the inner sanctum of the temple. Again as large as the outer court, the sandstone walls were inlaid with darker stone in shapes that were the same designs which branded the paladin, herself. At the far end, the image of Chivrom spread his wings to loom over the assembled ranks of worshippers and the altar that spread out before him. The wall was unadorned entirely behind the god of the paladins, allowing the shadow of the enormous statue to play over the smooth walls that were the same shade of yellow as the torchlight that danced and flickered from torches on the walls and posts set into the floor for that purpose. The wavering light made the spreading idol to appear almost to move before the assembled gathering.

The grand master began chanting to the priests directly below him in rank. As his voice droned through the hall, images played at the paladin's mind. In her memory, the ground beneath her feet turned to bog.

Lightning began to flash. Chivrom's statue began to move, to speak. The cold sweat of fear warred with the heat of rage within her. At the rear of the hall and unseen by the others, the paladin once again made her stand as she recognized that her own god was also her greatest, mortal enemy. That knowledge was a bitter one and the weight of it sent the paladin to her knees.

She remembered the stolen armor, the gentle hands and soothing voice of Teech as he assured her that he meant her no harm, that she was safe. A rush of longing surprised her. How had a ridge runner- a mortal enemy- become beloved, while the god she served proved to be her mortal enemy?

The presence of that enemy filled the hall until the shadow behind the statue ceased to match the form that cast it as it took on a life of its own. The grand master's eyes rolled back in his head until only the whites of them showed. The voice he uttered was not his own, but one that cast utter terror in the paladin's heart.

"There is one here who has offended me greatly!" thundered the grand master in an impossibly inhuman voice. "Give me what is mine!"

An image flashed in the paladin's mind of herself bound upon the altar, alive and eviscerated as vultures fed upon her flesh. All eyes turned to her as the realization dawned on her that every member of the convocation had received the same, mental image. A veritable sea of hostile faces surrounded the paladin as those around her laid hands on her, impelling her forward toward the altar where the grand master waited with drawn blade, his eyes still a blank white.

Before she'd taken more than a few stumbled steps forward, the paladin spoke up. "God of the Mountains, are You also Lord of the Valley?" asked the paladin, addressing Him as she'd so often witnessed Teech doing.

I am. (6) The quiet reply was felt, rather than heard, and was accompanied by a calm assurance of that truth.

"You saved me from Your enemy before," the paladin reminded, mentally picturing the impossibly dry tussock that had prevented her from dying by lightning, and then Teech and his dog in rapid succession. "Was it for a reason?" The crowd pushed her forward through the cavernous hall, eerily silent.

Yes. Suddenly, the paladin saw her peers in a different light; they were deceived and bound, slaves to the malevolent god they served.

"What purpose do You have for me?" asked the paladin again, feeling rather insignificant as she passed the torches that were halfway through the hall.

Warm affection answered. I want you to serve Me only.

"In these last moments of my life, I choose to serve You alone, O God of the Mountains!" declared the paladin aloud. "Shall I fight for You, against these?"

No, she understood. Watch as I fight for you, for you are Mine and I am jealous for you. (4) Willing hands pulled the paladin onto the altar and held her down. Ropes were tied to her wrists, that passed under the altar but the paladin didn't resist, too preoccupied by the Presence she felt. I have chosen you for a special purpose and I will not abandon you, promised the God of the Mountains as the grand master raised the jagged, ceremonial knife.

"I trust You!" the paladin realized. "Though I die today, I will die as your servant. If I live, it will be to serve You." The knife descended but stopped halfway down and raised again as if bouncing from a shield.

"No!" screeched the grand master, still in the other-worldly voice. "No! She is mine, dedicated to me since birth. I will have what is mine!" His enraged cry degenerated into something of a petulant whine, despite the malice.

Laying on the altar, the paladin realized the obvious. Pressure built in her chest until she cried out, "the choice to serve you was never mine. I choose to serve the God of the Mountains!" The pressure drained, leaving her feeling empty and unusually weak.