Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Demetri
The Touch
His hand was on her chin. His fucking giant godsforsaken hand was on her chin, cradling her face like a lover.
I wanted, needed, to look into her eyes, but I could not pull mine away from where his fingers still dug into the softness of her cheeks—cheeks flushed pink with the vigour of life, with the blood that still pumped through her veins.
She was alive.
She was alive, and she was in the hands of the Butcher, poised a footfall apart, as if he were about to embrace her, about to kiss her.
No, he would sooner hack her head from her shoulders, the bloodlust in him too potent ever to yield to the other kind.
By the pits. I tracked each knuckle, my own fingers flexing, aching with the need to tear his hands apart, to wrench each finger from its joint, pluck them from the bone for daring to touch her.
Then, helm and all, I would rip his head from his neck with my own godsdamned teeth if I had to, and chew on what was left of him.
His helm angled left, an amused lilt in its points preceding the glide of his grip from her face to her neck.
It lingered there, a collar of flesh, the muscles cording his forearm rippling as he tightened his hold, drawing a strained sound from her throat.
I stepped forward, though not entirely of my own volition.
“Fuck,” I cursed, pain racking my skull, a bludgeon to the base forcing me to my knees.
Eyes watering, I caught the satisfied squeeze of his palm before he lowered his hand, letting it fall to his side.
I braced myself on the wet tile, the room spinning like a cart’s wheel.
A scrawny paxiam stood beside me, the blunted end of his spear levelled at my eyes, poised to strike again.
Everyone else had already sunk to the floor.
“Kneel, for His Holiness, Druid Lycandor Vetrius. Second only to His Eminence, the High Druid of Dendra. For Blood Demands Blood,” another feather-plumed dolt announced from behind.
“Blood Demands Blood.” I almost spat the words, the taste of curdled milk coating my tongue. Vision refocusing, it adjusted on the outline of Vetrius.
“Rise.” The arrogance in his drawl was staggering.
Without faltering, I rose, ignoring the mountain of metal to gaze upon her, taking in every inch.
Her soiled dress, her matted hair, wild and dusted with ash, the purple rings under her eyes, the rise and fall of her chest. She was alive.
Alive, with her green eyes locked on mine as if I were a prayer granted.
She was the answer to all of mine.
Her hand, palm no longer a ruin but somehow healed and stitched, extended towards me, fingers wriggling as if to reach for me as she had in the Room of Rites. His colossal helm dipped at the motion, Vetrius’ fingers finding the cuff of her sleeve and tugging it back down.
“Druid Falstaff,” he rumbled, hand still knotted in Ashara’s clothes.
I stared at where they were joined, blind to anything but.
“It is a blessing indeed to see you walking and well after the events of this morn.” He spoke with all the warmth of Garnet’s peak, words jagged and clipped. I glanced between them.
Falstaff edged forward, surpassing us laurels and paxiams to stand adjacent to the Butcher and Ashara, his robes swamping his frame like swathes of snake skin. Behind him, plumes of steam from the archways billowed, cloaking him in mist.
“A blessing, verily.” His crooked, gloved hands cupped at his chest, palms surprisingly steady, considering their trembling before.
“His wrath was a wonder to behold, though it unseateth us all. A privilege to witness the remembrance of His almighty strength.” His shoulders, jutting from his robe, lifted and fell, the grind of clicking joints crinkling my nose.
“’Tis a truth,” he chuckled, the sound worse than the clack of his bones, “that it hath invigorated me. I am made lighter for it.”
Ashara straightened, her slippers shuffling upon the tiles.
“Wrath, and not mercy?” Vetrius gestured to us, the flick of his wrist as dismissive as it was patronising. “He has chosen to spare them, and her.”
Falstaff’s helm snapped to Ashara, leering over her as a farmer eyes a fox, a pest to be culled. Meddlesome, yes, but dangerous, too. Something that, once in a coop of hens, snaps every last neck, even after its belly is full.
Vetrius’ fists clenched, mirroring my own.
“Ah, yes. The laurel supposedly marked by the Blood God as deserving of His clemency.” Losing all trace of its prior amusement, forced or not, Falstaff’s voice became heavy, words pulled along like boulders.
“We hath long known He is magnanimous and inscrutable in His providence.” Spindly fingers reached for Ashara’s hand, the one he’d scored with a needle, as if to examine it.
She flinched away, pressing it to the small of her back.
“Pray, do not touch me.” Her voice was quiet but steady. Stepping back from Falstaff’s claws, she stood, shoulder to waist, with Vetrius, leaning into his bulk as if seeking protection.
As if he would grant it.
“You fear my touch, child? I did but my duty.” He shook his helm, the movement stiff.
“Yet even fear is no excuse to recoil from the graze of Absolution. I see thy tongue is as unruly and loose as when last we spoke. Perchance the almighty Blood God hath spared thee to challenge us, laurel. Perchance He wills to test our commitment and dedication to His vision and temper thy…contumacy.” Falstaff leaned closer, coils of steam curling through the chain of his veil as he drew in a deep, rattling breath.
Ashara’s mouth opened, as if to respond, but Vetrius’ tongue was quicker, no doubt exercised from licking so much of his Blood God’s almighty arse.
“We will discover the truth.” Banding a monstrous hand around Ashara’s arm, he attempted to steer her away.
It was a surprise my teeth had not yet splintered, the force of my jaw enough to crack every one.
“Indeed, Druid Vetrius,” Falstaff interjected before they could depart.
“I wonder what divine truths thou shalt uncover of His grand and miraculous designs. Oh, what intoxicating secrets must run through her veins. I know how eager thou wert, Your Holiness, to lead this inquisition thyself.” Falstaff’s hands rose to a steeple at mid-chest, the tips of his fingers patting each other in slow, deliberate waves.
“I have no doubt thou shalt please His Eminence, our most beloved High Druid, and find the answers thou seek. Patiently, do we wait, and expectant are we, to know why our tree is but ash.”
The mask of his threat grew thin, almost transparent. His helm jerked towards where the rest of us waited, and my skin prickled beneath his unwelcome gaze.
“Paxiam, let them bathe for half a turn, then escort them to the Northern Reach. The monks have prepared the chambers. Now.”
The paxiams hesitated for a breath, their eyes flickering to Vetrius, as if awaiting his approval, or a different instruction.
When he remained silent, they rounded our small number, shepherding us to the second arch.
Ashara unstuck herself from the Butcher’s breastplate and made to join us.
Her eyes landed on mine, glittering with something foolish.
So very, very foolish. No doubt we matched, two dolts staring at each other as if we were wayward sailors who had found land once more.
I wiggled my mouth, breaking her gaze, not wanting to draw attention to the tether between us, though that was likely another ship already sailed.
“The men and women will bathe separately.” The paxiams halted their advance as our necks swivelled to Vetrius.
A nasty, viscous sensation churned within me, a familiar heat I wished to keep well from Ashara, lest it taint her. We paused. Falstaff, who had turned to leave by the door we had entered, was no exception.
“Why ever so, Your Holiness?” he asked, refusing to turn, his slow words aimed at the door before him.
“They have likely unseamed themselves during the Last Rite anyhow. Let the Other damn their souls if they choose to commit any indiscretion… I doubt it will matter for long.” With that, he bowed to the emptiness and crept forward.
“They bathe separately,” reaffirmed Vetrius. “The women can use the druids’; the men, the templum’s communal.”
Falstaff turned then, the movement almost pained, his boots squeaking upon the tiles.
“Surely thou canst not mean to take them to our sacred thermae? That one there is a heathen.” He spat the word as though it were rotting peat upon his tongue, pointing a gnarled finger at the whispering woman behind me—the one who had torn Iagor’s ear clean from his head.
“The filth from its body shall cling to the tiles for weeks. No monk shall deign to cleanse it, for fear it harbours disease. Thou knowest the Book of Dendralis testifieth them to be lower than beasts. Wouldst thou share thy bath water with a goat, a hog, a rat?”
“They bathe separately.”
With that, Vetrius rounded on Ashara, beckoning the heathen woman with a single finger. She passed me, head high, crusted blood streaking her chin. Her wide, dark eyes fixed on the depths of Falstaff’s chain veil. The thermae seemed almost to throb with the intensity of it.
Falstaff’s fingers, still pressed together, trembled again.
“Come, laurel.” Vetrius’ timbre had my lips curling, head angling to where he grasped her elbow.
Ashara stood, five paces or so from where I remained rooted, unresponsive to Vetrius’ order or touch. Her eyes flickered over the expanse of my face, as if searching for an answer to a question I did not know she had asked. Whatever words she longed for, I would give her.
“Ashara?” I mouthed.
Her lids closed, chest rising with a deep breath, a slow exhale parting her lips before she finally obeyed his command. Guided by the Butcher, she turned to leave me once more, her body swallowed in the steam.