Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Ashara
The Unmantle
Windowless, the secret room the Butcher led us into was lit only by a single sconce, my eyes rendered useless by the sudden plunge into darkness.
Vision clearing, the space materialised, its corners cluttered with piles of forgotten things: long swords, rusted armour, scattered parchment, mismatched furniture.
Cobwebs canopied the high wooden beams above, the stagnant air chill for lack of hearthfire or sun.
In its centre sat a large metal box, big enough for four people.
The lonesome sconce-light danced across its surface, its grey shell licked by oranges and reds.
The metal was textured, its sides inlaid with filigree cutouts, the steel welded like lace.
Tiny perforations covered it everywhere: circles, teardrops, arches.
A rectangular outline disrupted their symmetry, two hinges alluding to a door of some kind. A cage?
Whilst the Butcher used the singular alight sconce to ignite some more, my feet moved of their own accord, despite the seed of apprehension taking root in my gut. I might soon be locked inside it. Fingers skimming its edges, the metal was cool despite its reflection of the flames.
“What is it?” I asked, my fingertips tracing its indents, rising and falling over each little hollow.
“It’s called an Unmantle,” the Butcher’s voice rumbled from behind.
His arm extended over my shoulder, his hand joining mine as he traced the patterns, our movements falling into an unsettling synchrony. I pulled mine away.
“This is what we druids use when we grow weary of the helms but still have diplomatic business to attend to. We can speak freely within it, unburdened by the heaviness of iron, yet our faces remain hidden. There are others placed throughout the templum, but this one is mine, and mine alone.”
“It’s beautiful,” I began, then amended, “in a brutal, austere kind of way.”
Clearing my throat, I stepped aside, removing myself from beneath the shadow of him.
“Hmm.”
Silence dragged between us, heavy as a sack of grain.
“How does it work?”
Another beat passed before he moved. The hinges squealed as he tugged a small chain secured to its side, and a door creaked open.
“You go in this side,” he said, “and I the other.”
Nodding, I crossed its threshold, the metal underfoot clanging with my weight.
Inside was a star-lit sky, the sconce fire casting constellations of light through each tiny hole.
They bathed me in hundreds of scattered marks, like glowing freckles, and I turned my arms this way and that to admire them dappling my skin.
Perching upon the cushioned bench, I faced a wall of the same metal lattice, the box divided in two by another sheet of filigreed steel.
The space was cramped, my legs flush with the screen before me.
The Unmantle shuddered as the Butcher entered, my kneecaps rattling against the metal as he took his seat on the other side.
Steel scraped against steel just before a panel at thigh level shifted aside, revealing a narrow gap between us.
Through it, I caught sight of his navel, framed by the lattice’s intricate pattern.
Though the space was dim, I could still discern the faint outline of parchment tucked into his waistband, tubular against his skin.
“Cosy, isn’t it?” His voice was clearer, somehow, vibrating through the box in a deep, resonant hum. He’d removed his helm. He’d removed his veil.
Instinctively, I ducked, trying to steal a glimpse of the face behind the mask. A strong jaw, dusted with a short dark beard, framed full, thick lips that, even in the faux starlight, appeared stained cherry red.
“Stop.”
His hand shot through the opening, seizing my shoulder and forcing me back, my head snapping with the motion.
“Though there must be honesty between us, this is one thing I cannot grant you. You cannot look upon my face.” He spoke softly, almost gently, and I flushed; a child caught ransacking the pantry.
He released me, withdrawing his hand back through the latch.
“Why?” I asked, the burning curiosity surrounding his hidden countenance almost too much to endure.
A sigh. “It’s complicated.”
I shuffled on the bench, smoothing the skirts of my dress, though wool rarely creased. “As is the reason why I am here, no doubt. Why have you felt the need to pen us like hens?”
“It’s quite simple, actually. I need to ask you some questions.”
Questions. I swallowed.
“Questions? That’s it? What need was there to remove your veil for questions?”
An amused huff breached the lattice, accompanied by the groan of metal as he shifted on the bench. “Well, I will need to taste you whilst you answer them, and the chainmail is rather bothersome when I have need of my tongue.”
Dots danced in my vision alongside the filigree stars. “So you do intend to lick me!” I accused, voice unpleasantly shrill. I rose, readying to leave.
“Sit. Down.”
Godsdamn me, I stilled.
“I will not be licking you this time, Seamstress.”
My stomach flipped, obviously relieved.
“Though I need to do…something else.” At his confession, I dropped back down, suppressing a wince at the rebounding clank.
“Give me your thumb, the one you cut earlier.” His hand protruded through the latch, fingers a breath from the curve of my breast. Pressing my back into the Unmantle’s wall, I edged away from his touch, wondering if he realised.
“You said there is to be honesty between us, Druid. Perhaps you can begin by explaining why you must taste me. I am no expert in inquisition, but even a dolt would question such methods.”
I sat on my hands, heedless of the stitching, tucking them firmly beneath me.
With difficulty, I tried to discern whether the low sound that followed was his teeth grinding or the groan of shifting metal.
“I’ve told you before, in yet another showing of my continuous honesty, that I can scent your lies.” Through the hatch, the bulk of him leaned forward, his hand beckoning in invitation. “But I can taste them even better. Your thumb, if you will.”
“Taste? As in, my blood reveals if I’m telling the truth?”
Seeming to abandon his fruitless search, he let his hand drop, retreating it back through the gap and resting his forearms across the expanse of his thighs. I relaxed, unsticking myself from the Unmantle’s wall.
“Something in your blood, something it carries,” he said, somehow indulging me. “Some call it your soul, others your life force—your essence, your everything, your you. Blood is merely the vessel. But yes, its taste shifts with dishonesty…with any change in emotion, really.”
My ears pricked despite myself. “How did you come to know this?” I asked. “Can all druids scent lies? Can I?”
“No one else that I know of, druid or no, only me. In fact, no other druids are aware, and this is another of my truths you must keep, though you have yet to give me any of yours.”
“It is just lies?” I asked, ignoring his accusation.
“No,” he whispered after the count of five breaths. “I can derive much through taste and smell; things that others might try to hide: deception, yes, but motivations, too…ambitions, desires, emotions, fears.”
“It is your blessing?” Every Thromarrian knew of the Blood God’s blessings—gifts granted to the faithful, reserved exclusively for the druids. Capriche had always claimed the blessing of prophecy, able to glimpse the future and unravel its secrets. One Demetri had doubted.
“Yes,” he affirmed.
“When did you first realise—”
“I am meant to be inquisitioning you, not the other way around.” His tone bit, edged with unmistakable impatience.
“Though I will be as honest with you as I am able, you are not privy to the subtleties of my blessing unless you give me ample reason to suggest otherwise. I am a very busy druid, and the sun creeps ever higher. Therefore, I will be asking the questions, because—believe it or not—as much as I enjoy getting all snuggly with you in an Unmantle, there are other matters demanding my attention today.” A pause. “Now give me your godsdamned thumb.”
“What are you going to do with it?” I withdrew my hands from beneath me, both numb, an unpleasant prickling crawling from their base to the tips of my fingers as the blood rushed back in.
“I will use the cut to suck out some of your blood.” Perhaps the spike of my fear was indeed tangible for him, for he was quick to comfort me. “Only a little. A drop or two per question will do.”
My eyes darted to the Unmantle’s door. “You will not suckle my thumb,” I protested, already mortified at the thought of it, let alone the act.
“Would you rather I draw blood from someplace else?” The smile in his voice warned of mischief unspoken. “Perhaps the inside of your wrist? The hollow of your throat? The crease of your thigh?”
Flushing hot, I ran as red as a plague. From embarrassment, no doubt.
“Thumb it is.”
I thrust it out to him, accidentally striking the hard bone of his sternum as it slipped through the latch and out of my sight. His body shook with a silent chuckle as his fingers closed around my wrist. He guided it upwards, edging my thumb closer towards his waiting mouth.
The unmistakable curve of a lip cushioned its pad. I swallowed thickly, schooling a shudder as his mouth moved under my touch.
“I need you to tell me two truths and a lie,” he instructed, my thumb bouncing in time with each syllable. “I will taste both and tell you which statement is false.”
I hesitated, scrambling for a coherent response that didn’t involve parchment and blood.
“May we begin?” he asked.
“Yes.” No.
His mouth was hot. And wet.