Chapter 26 #3
“Oh. Well, if we’re done, then.” I made to leave, scraping my chair over the rug underfoot as I stood.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked from his own, helm tilted only slightly upward—I was still shorter than its spikes, even standing. “This may be enough to satiate the other druids for a few days,” he gestured to the parchment, “but I have my own inquisition to conduct.”
Hands twiddling with my sleeves, noticeably button-less, I tried not to balk at the word. “For the High Druid?”
“Not for him,” he spat. “For me. Or rather, for us both.” He motioned his hand between us.
“I told no lies when I promised we’d get to the root of what you’re keeping from me.
In fact, something you should know about me, Seamstress, is that unlike you, I never lie.
It would be most wise to take what I say very, very seriously. ”
My skin pebbled, unnerved by the sincerity in his promise.
“I keep nothing from you, for there is simply nothing to keep.” I hunched back into my chair, feeling a little silly pushed so far out from the desk.
All of me was on show to him, from the tip of my toes to the hairs on my head, and though I was certain the truth he thought I kept guarded from him was not the unsent letter, I was nervous all the same.
Two knocks thudded on the door beside us, and our necks swivelled in unison.
“Stay seated,” the Butcher clipped, rising. “Observe the silence of the sisters, lest you damn us both.”
I nodded, threading my hands together. I willed my breath calm, hoping whoever it was carried no other awful truth about the laurels. About Demetri. We fly together.
“Enter,” the Butcher commanded, the bolts sliding free.
A smear of crimson hovered at the threshold, his slight frame swallowed by the druid before him.
“Blood Demands Blood,” the acolyte chirped, dropping to a kneel, his face hidden behind Vetrius’s back. The words, or perhaps just his cadence, had my hairs standing on end.
“And what of you? What is it you have come to demand of me this day?” the Butcher asked, dismissing the maxim.
“I would never dare to demand a druid, Your Holiness. I am simply the bearer of an edict, sent by His Eminence.” He extended a scroll to the Butcher, who snatched it for seemingly no other reason than to make the acolyte squirm. I rolled my lips.
“Regarding?” The blunt snap of the Butcher breaking its seal overlaid the acolyte’s thick swallow.
“I am unsure, Your Holiness.”
“As you are of most things, acolyte. See to it no one else disturbs us, for an inquisition is underway of the most sensitive sort. You may go.”
“Of course, Your Holiness.” The acolyte bent at the waist, the dark marble of his eye briefly visible beneath the Butcher’s left arm. I wondered if the Butcher shared the same urge I did: to kick him in the chest and see how fast he’d tumble down the turnpike.
But the acolyte turned and walked—not fell—down the stairs, and the Butcher sealed the door shut, relocking its latch.
He strode over to where I sat, pulled from the table, hands awkward in my lap with nothing to twiddle.
With one hand, he grasped the underside of my chair and dragged it closer to the desk, tipping me back in the process.
I tensed, stifling a yelp as he released it, allowing my chair’s front legs to return to the rug.
“What does it say?” I asked, banishing the heat in my cheeks to focus on the scroll in his hand.
He remained standing, half-perched on the desk, helm fixed on the edict.
“A script for the Seventh Day sermon,” he eventually replied, tossing it aside. “Regarding the delay in the offerings, now that the Blood Tree is gone.”
“But you have no enclave,” I said, my statement hopefully prompting the real question buried beneath it.
“I do.”
“Which one?”
“The crusiax.”
“Ah.” Of course. It was strange to know he had preached to Demetri for eight cycles, that he had been to Demetri as Capriche had been to me: an unknowable presence on a pulpit and a trumpeter of our Lord’s word. He seemed not the type for it.
I eyed the edict, my curiosity undisguised, eager to discover the Dendralis’ stance.
A sigh.
“Here.”
He extended it towards me, the edge curling.
I took it wordlessly, eyes darting over the flamboyant loops of black ink, sprawled in an extravagant hand.
“The Blood God is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. Though His wrath endures, a respite hath been granted to honour the Dendralis’ devotion unto Him.
For as high as the beyond is above the earth, so great is His steadfast love towards those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west.
A Father, at times, shows compassion to His children; so the LORD shows compassion to you.
For now, His offerings shall be spared—a momentary display of clemency for our devotions. But be not idle in this gift, for, like all things, it is temporal. Remember that thou art dust and blood will always demand blood.”
“Yestermorn was a gift?”
The Butcher scoffed, snatching it back and tossing it on the hearth, the gentle flames making quick work of it.
“Come, we must leave here, for I’ll need to remove my helm.”
Piqued, I straightened, the edict forgotten.
A breath of amusement huffed through his mesh.
“Don’t get too excited, Seamstress. I’m not affording you the privilege of gazing upon my face just yet.
” He rose from the desk, the bulge of the rolled piece of parchment protruding from under his clothes.
“My eyes are up here, laurel.” He lifted two fingers to his upper face, signposting their location.
An indiscernible noise escaped my lips, and I rose from my chair, almost knocking it to the floor. I turned in time to stabilise it before it tumbled to the ground. Though hidden from me, it mattered not, for I could practically feel the doltish, smug grin on his face.
He reached for a cubby on the farthest wall, disturbing the scrolls within, and pressed a latch, for a moment later, something clicked. The wall before him swung forward, revealing another, much larger room beyond.
“Worry not about the Dendralis’ lies, for it is time to discover your own.”