“Well,” Sergeant Stonewill said. Her lips were pursed so tightly, Sam wondered if a drink of water would be able to pass them. Her beak-like nose was turned down to the text printed across the scroll outlining Sam’s examination. Sam knew the text was only a handful of lines, yet the Sergeant’s eyes scrolled left-to-right time and time again as she worked to find something to critique like she had so many times before.
Yet, his Duty had been simple. Resolve a dispute between two neighbors in the town just outside the Abbey’s campus about where a goat was feeding. Sam felt ridiculous wearing ceremonial paladin training armor while building a goat pen with an old man as his ferocious neighbor watched from her porch, but the job was done with a note of thanks written by both parties involved.
“I suppose your duty was successful,” Sergeant Stonewill remarked, silver eyes narrowing on Sam as she rolled the scroll back up, tucking it and the notes of thanks in her leather sack. “Congratulations, Samson. You’ve finally passed your examination.”
The proctor paused for effect, but Sam felt nothing. This was hardly what he wanted at all. The classes for the Confidants had awakened a greater appreciation for the art of remediation and Will-based healing and support, but a small buckler strapped to his arm and hammer at his hip seemed better fit for the goat pen construction than for any sort of righteous conflict. Not to mention that he had been able to test out of most of the Confidant program with knowledge he had obtained as a Vanguard in training. What was to be a two year advanced program was wrapped up in eight months.
Meanwhile, his Proctor stared on, her beady eyes jabbing in Sam’s direction, expecting some form of relief or glee. But Sergeant Stonewill was possibly the hardest person on The March to get along with, so any remark taken from her was devalued as soon as it left her mouth.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Sam said finally. “I’m honored.”
“Well, you should not be,” she snapped in response, her trap finally sprung. “Your appointment is not finalized until your Naming Ceremony.” Stonewill moved her sack over her shoulder and began walking down the road back to the Abbey. Sam grimaced and began to follow.
---
That night Sam was in his dormitory, a large brick-and-mortar room comfortably furnished with large velvet chairs and two large beds hidden behind paper screens for him and his roommate, who was currently on his own examination trip to a significantly further locale than the Abbey’s own back yard. Sam was heating a small square of hardened clay using gold magic, holding the block in his hand and using the stone to rub the wrinkles out of his dress-clothes for the Naming Ceremony. It had suddenly been scheduled for the next morning. Rumors creeped around the Abbey that an emergency order for a Confidant was waiting to be filled. Luck of the draw, Sam supposed. At the very least, the Abbot wanted Sam pushed through the graduation process as soon as possible, which the troubled trainee appreciated.
Sam held his pearl colored undershirt up to the mirror to check for any hidden wrinkles, but found himself distracted. The ragged orange scarred skin left from his last examination could barely be seen over the v-necked collar of the uniform nightshirts the Abbey provided. Sam pulled down on the collar with a finger and winced. Despite seeing the scar over his heart all the time it still caught him off guard in the mirror. It looked as though a jagged splotch on his skin had begun to melt before being suddenly reconstituted. To say it was anything less than horrific would be a lie. Sam shook his head, overcoming the distraction, and looked back to the shirt.
In just a handful of hours his dream of being a Paladin of the Will would be coming true. The white silk shirt was beautifully tailored, and Sam had taken immaculate care of it in hopes for this ceremony. The padded dark grey cloth pants were on the table beside him, and were just as clean.
The trainee had always received perfect marks for clothing and armor inspections, and once even earned a lunch on Sister Tabitha’s tab because she had been so impressed at his care for his uniforms. And now he actually had good reason to wear them. The frustrations or ennui toward his completed duty from earlier in the day were evaporating away, giving way to genuine excitement as the ceremony approached.
For the first time, Sam thought about how he had been at the Academy since he was twelve years old, barring a handful of holiday trips home or short visits. Since his mother, tears in her eyes, hugged him before her Paladin friend from childhood escorted him away.
Eight years ago his dad, a skinny and gaunt man, squatted down to look him in the eyes and tell his son how proud he was. Now Sam was looking like a stronger man than his father.
He smiled to himself in the mirror as he thought of his family and as he imagined that he was finally moving on from what was supposed to be a temporary home.
---
The next morning Sam stood alone atop the altar of the Confidant’s Chapel. He was dressed impressively in the ceremonial uniform and standing, arms behind his back, beside a large oaken trunk. A gaggle of new trainees and available instructors sat in the pews in front of him. The significant and decorative chapel was adorned with all of the ornamentation you would expect from the Church of the Will: stained glass windows, marble statues, extravagant woodwork, and candelabras and braziers of brightly polished brass. Orbs of magical glyph light gleamed from the arms of a massive, beautiful chandelier on the ceiling, casting a soft yellow light on the chapel.
Sam noted the various statues. One was a woman holding a thick book, said to be an interpreter of law. Another was of a man holding out a heel of bread as an agent of generosity. In fact, only one of the statues showed anything close to combat. In the back corner, a woman held her hammer down by her side and her shield up over her heart. Combat was the confidant’s final option, and even then, it was a tool of preservation and defense for those who may not defend themselves.
His gaze stayed on the statue, unable to shift away. This was not the chapel he had hoped to be named in. But maybe it was what he needed. Perhaps the Confidants were his calling. It was the Will of Gessel, the Dreamer, after all, and the Dreamer’s Will is well.
The double doors in the back of the chapel opened smoothly and quietly and one of the young intern priests stepped inside, a large key in his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Father Abbot is arrived.”
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The old man followed the priest intern into the room, and the intern slid the door shut behind him.
“The Will has done a great deal of good to bring us into this holy chamber today,” the Abbot said as he walked toward the altar. There were murmurs of affirmation from around the room as the Father Abbot took a position off the altar and in front of Sam.
“The Confidant. A discipline of calculation. It calls on one to stop, to see situations as they are, and most importantly, deescalate. The Confidant is the sign that we live in a world of peace and civility, for if it is only the Vanguard who can solve a problem, then the time for discussion, the time for peaceful resolution is passed.
“That is not to say that the Confidant is without martial skill. He is trained to wield the tools of the paladin with as much skill as needed to readily defend the needy, himself, and most importantly, the Will when necessary.”
The Abbot turned from the audience to look at Sam as the intern priest moved to unlock the chest. “Samson, you have a unique perspective. You have received training in both the ways of the Vanguard and the Confidant. As such, you know what the Vanguards must do to carry out the Will. And you know, too, what the Confidant can do to lessen the pain borne by us all. I am sure that you will take lessons you learned from not only these two schools, but from all across this Abbey with you as you go out into the world to face whatever darkness awaits. Are you ready to be named?”
“I am, Father Abbot,” Sam replied, his heart fluttering.
“Brother Franklin, the armor please.” The intern reached into the chest, removing boots, gauntlets, and bracers as another priest from the front row of the pews stepped up to help equip Samson.
“Now,” the Abbot said to the audience as Sam was armored. “Samson is a special student, and as such, I have decided to provide him a special prize at his Naming Ceremony.” The Abbot turned with a wide, genuine smile as Brother Franklin reached into the chest for the breast plate. When he emerged, every muscle in Sam’s body contracted to keep him from gasping.
Hot tears welled in the lower half of his eye as he watched the priest approach with the breastplate. He tried not to make eye contact with the Father Abbot, who eagerly sought Sam’s approval for the gift.
The audience pointed and whispered to one another as the armor was fitted on and the Abbot moved to the final portion of the ceremony.
“Brothers and Sisters, the Sleeper’s Will has been realized today, for our brother, Samson Bleedingheart has become recognized as a Confidant of the Will.”
The audience cheered, but Samson felt no pride. He was embarrassed. He stood, breathing heavily at the front of the chapel wearing the same breastplate he wore the day he had failed his first examination.
The acid-burned scar in the center of the metal had been expertly repaired with gleaming bronze, reinforced on the inside with an extra layer of steel. The handiwork was brilliant.
But it forced Sam to relive his failures. And the name? Bleedingheart? Was it a joke?
This was it? What was to be the happiest, proudest day of Samson’s life had been reduced to a painful coda of his worst.
He was too upset to focus on the rest of the ceremony, and before Sam knew it, the audience were approaching him one at a time to shake his hand and congratulate Mister Bleedingheart on his name. He forced a smile, nodded, accepted the thanks which came in such well meaning, yet offensive words such as “it must feel good to finally make it” or “I didn’t think you would make a good Vanguard anyway.”
Sam was sure none of the people in the chapel were doing this on purpose but it made little difference. Finally, the Father Abbot approached.
“Samson, I’m so glad to have named you today,” the priest said, patting the new paladin on his shoulder.
“I’m glad to finally be here,” Sam responded, finding it difficult to even force a smile. So he gave up, hoping his stern look could pass for an overwhelmed stoicism.
“Well, my boy,” the Father said quietly. “I’d like to talk to you in my office before the day closes. There is an assignment that needs immediate attention and the Confidants are stretched thin. My door is open.”
As the Abbot was escorted out of the Chapel by Brother Franklin, Sam felt a sudden, but flimsy positivity. Despite the hurtful name, he was going to get out of the Abbey.
---
Sam slowed his day down, assuming a political stance for his meeting with the Abbot. He ate a light lunch, rested in one of the common rooms, and leafed through some books in the library down the corridor from the Abbot’s chamber, all in his armor from the ceremony. When he finally felt enough time had passed to not seem desperate to descend the Abbey stairs for the final time, he stood and made his way back to the Abbot’s massive doors.
The gauntlet’s gave the knock an echoing heft that impressed Sam with how well it echoed up and down the corridor. After just a moment, the Abbot himself opened the door.
“Samson, it is about time you arrived,” he said grimly, holding the door open to allow the new paladin to sidle into the large office again.
“I apologize, Father,” Sam said, making his way toward the desk, making sure not to sit until offered a seat. His days under Sergeant Stonewill’s command had once again ignited his awareness of courtesy.
“Nothing to apologize for now,” the Abbot said, shuffling past Sam and sitting back at the desk. He had a large parchment folded tightly sitting in the center of the space. “You’re here and that is key. We need to discuss this opportunity. It is impressive, but the responsibility is heavy.”
“What is it?”
“A public figure is speaking against the Church of the Will in the Back City of The Throne. The Church has specifically requested someone with cultural familiarity with the city in order to help and you are the closest we can get.”
“The Back City?” Sam repeated. “But that was miles from my home.”
“The closest we can get,” the Abbot said again. “If you accept this chance to help protect your home, Sam, you will be meritoriously promoted to Corporal. You will operating under the immediate purview of the Back City Commandant, who reports immediately to the Council on the Throne.” As the Abbot spoke, he unfolded the document and pointed to the large blocks of pressed print outlining the benefits of the job.
Sam noted the Abbot’s loaded words, but his mind leapt at the chance to see his family again. “I don’t know what to say, Father.”
“You will say yes,” the Abbot responded sternly. His shift in demeanor was jarring. “This window is closing quickly, Sam. There is a reason we moved your ceremony so early. A reason we gave you a Duty within walking distance, and a reason we allowed the hastening of your training. The Council on the Throne is waiting for an answer, and has been for months, but we can only move the curriculum around so much.”
“Wait, these were favors for the Council?”
“No Sam, they were responses to orders from the Council. Your home is full of princes or paupers and nothing between so recruitment has been slow. The Council asked for you, and they will get you. Sign here.” The Father Abbot said, picking a quill pen from out of an inkwell on the desk and holding it out to Samson over a thick black line on the bottom of the document.
“Father, I still don’t understand. This is happening very quickly.”
“I envy your ignorance, Private Bleedingheart, but on my end this has been a slow and grueling process filled with a letter per day demanding when their new Paladin be en route. So please sign. Your promotion will be effective immediately.”
Sam swallowed his confusion and forced himself to think of seeing his parents, his sister, his old home once again. He gripped the quill pen and signed his name.
“Thank you, Sam,” the Father said, waving his hand to dry the ink before folding it up again. “I apologize for the harsh words, but the words I get are harsher, I assure you.” The old man explained his plight as he affixed a wax seal to the outside of the document.
“Apology accepted, Father. I appreciate the opportunity to once again see my family.”
“Glad to hear it, Corporal. Let Franklin or the other intern priests know if you need any help gathering your things. The Will be well to you.”