Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Ashara
The Face of Insubordination
A seed be greater than the grandest of templums, for when it is grown, it becometh a tree.
Birds roost in its arms. Worms sup at its feet. All manner of beasts feast from its hands. For it is creation most pure, and hath no need of wickedness, nor ambition, nor greed.
But the hearts of men were hardened, and they regarded not the tree, but only the fruit which it bore.
They broke its arms. Dug up its feet. Pillaged its hands.
And the Other beheld it, and sorrow filled Their heart; and such was Their sorrow that the seas were watered with Their tears, and the tides were made salt by the torrent thereof.
Yet the Other is merciful, and slow to wrath.
And the Other spake, saying: I shall make a covenant with thee, that what was stolen shall be restored, and that which was taken shall be returned—
Sat atop fresh bedding—my thanks to the sisters—I devoured the Word of the Other.
The Book of Dendralis lay beyond most Thromarrians’ reach, written in Dendrae—a script reserved for the study of holy men only. We heard it in sermons, heralded from the pulpit, but always through the invisible mouth of a druid, always intoned in Capriche’s deep drawl.
But these words, prostrated before me, were all mine to behold. It was the story of creation, but not the story I knew.
I handled the pages with the utmost care, readying to learn the covenant of the Other—whether it was as carnivorous as the one demanded by the Blood God.
I’d always regarded the Other as the more merciful of the two, though less powerful.
There to do the bidding of the Blood God; a ward of our bodiless souls once He’d drained us dry.
His objective simply to usher us to the beyond or send us to broil in the pits. I turned the page.
Wrath begets wrath, and all shall…
The telltale scrape of a key froze my hands. I stashed the tome under my pillow, certain it was Vetrius, but just to be safe.
“Bereft for lack of my company—”
A sinking, dragging feeling, like a plug pulled from a basin, twisted in my stomach.
A dual-pointed helm glinted in the afternoon sun, pouring in from the window high above our heads as he crossed over the threshold. Behind him floated one, two, three acolytes, their belts scratching the stone as they trailed on the floor.
The last to enter closed the door at his back, sealing it shut with a neat, quiet click. With another key, he locked it from the inside. I remained on the bed, legs criss-crossed, barely breathing, readying for a fight. Or mercy.
Mercy, mercy, mercy.
If my blessing failed, he would come in its stead. He would smell my fear. Even I could smell it—acrid, metallic, and sharp.
He would come.
Falstaff lurked closer, his movements slow but assured.
The acolytes flanked him, as they’d done in the Room of Rites, ready to serve as fleshy shields should any lumps of stone fall from above.
Their fingers drummed together in steeples, the hemp string of their belts threaded between them like twine.
I could almost feel them trailing upward, higher and higher.
Shooting from the bed, I pressed my back to the dresser, the farthest I could be from the claws of their reach.
Fumbling, I grasped at the handle behind me, the one attached to the left-sided drawer, hidden behind the breadth of my hips.
They stopped their ascent, eyes flickering to each other before settling on Falstaff.
“Your acolytes seem a little on edge, Druid.” I tugged on the handle, testing to see if it made any sound.
He huffed through his nose, air squeaking as if one nostril was blocked. “Ah, the ever-elusive grey laurel. What a wonder it is to behold thee once more. For I feared I should never again be granted an audience with thee, what with Vetrius guarding you like some mutt in heat.”
I swallowed, aware of a distinct, blessing-less normalcy coursing through my veins. No heat, no stirring, and none of that rapturous elation that bloomed from my chest.
Vetrius would come.
“I cannot say the sentiment is returned, Your Holiness,” I replied, encouraged by the silent hinges to pull more on the drawer.
He hooked his gloved fingers on the chained belt at his waist, resting like talons. “So that infamous tongue hath yet to be tamed. I dare say Druid Vetrius grant thee too long a leash. Does he not penance thee for such disobedience?”
The rehearsed lies pooled on my tongue, ready to flow with the smoothness of truth.
The drawer edged open just enough for a finger.
“Druid Vetrius has been most thorough in my penancings, Your Holiness. When I am sluggish, he canes me. When I am idle, I am made to stand on hot coals. When I show disrespect, he whips me with a rope no thicker than my thumb, as the Book of Dendralis decrees.”
Two points veered to the right as Falstaff tilted his neck, the movement weighted and stiff.
“But he spends much of his time examining and experimenting with my blood,” I continued, hoping he’d press for the grisly details.
I scrunched my face, crinkling my nose into a wince.
“It has been…rather intense. Most days, I have no capacity for disrespect, so exhausted am I by his searching for the truth.”
I fought the urge to glance at the door, my ears tuned to the slightest clink of metal in the corridor beyond.
A scoff. “Ah, laurel, I doubt not that we shall find our answers…Yet I fear, verily, that His Holiness is more enraptured with that which lieth between thy thighs than with that which runneth in thy veins. Druids be holy men, but men still.”
A set of smiles twisted the acolytes’ mouths, their gaunt cheeks stretched and tight.
“He hasn’t touched me,” I protested, still pulling at the drawer. Falstaff chuckled.
“Ah, child, thy attempt to dissuade me is commendable, yet thou shalt not avail.” With a leaden wave of his hand, the acolytes resumed their advance.
“He was ever too sentimental, our Lycandor, even in youth.” His tone softened, wistful, as if recalling a cherished memory.
I seized the moment, slipping my hand into the drawer I had managed to open, my fingers seeking the shard of the carafe.
“His father and I did spend what seemed an age moulding him into a scythe, nay a butcher, as the men do herald. He is far too clever for the block.” He sighed, the sound a mockery.
“But alas, sometimes defections may not be vanquished, even by the most thorough of tutors.”
There. The bite of glass dug into my flesh as my fingers curled over its edges, squeezing until it vanished into my palm.
I leaned into the dresser, using my weight to close the drawer, just as two sets of acolyte hands clamped round my arms. Their grip tightened, forcing a yelp from my throat.
The third simply watched, his face slack with indifference, even when I started to thrash. Falstaff crawled closer.
“I wager he hath yet to scratch the surface of the secrets you hide,” he cooed, lifting his hand with a trembling arm as if he had granite for bones. Three of his outstretched fingers inched towards my cheek.
I recoiled, reeling back as far as I was able, when the third acolyte moved. With practiced precision, he struck the side of my temple with the back of his hand. Head snapping left, I gasped with the shock of it, face burning from the sting of his knuckles.
“As thus,” Falstaff continued, his hand lowered, “I wonder if he hath drawn upon the ancient study of humours… He knoweth it well enough.”
My vision blurred.
The acolyte struck again. I clenched the shard of glass tighter, its sharp bite a temper to the throb of pain in my cheek.
“It is courteous to hearken when a druid seeth fit to share knowledge with thee, my child. Ignorant though thou mayst be, it remaineth a privilege that asketh thy full attention. Stand thou straight.”
Bones groaning against his demand, I forced them to shift.
“Nay straight enough.” Another strike to my stomach. Robbed of air, the acolyte’s hands denied me the relief to scrunch at the waist. Coughing and sputtering, I stood as straight as I was able.
He would come.
“Better. Hands at thy front,” Falstaff commanded.
I obliged, inwardly counting the creative ways one might kill a druid with but a shard of glass.
“Atonement and liberation are as one, child. In submission is freedom found. To thy knees, laurel.”
A breath of hesitation was enough.
The third acolyte dipped behind me, wedging himself between me and the dresser. A kick to the backs of my knees sent me crashing to the floor, bones quaking with the impact of stone.
“Ah, so much the better,” praised Falstaff, his long, thin fingers lifting my chin. “There is a rightness in this; thou knelt upon the stone. The Blood God is well pleased with thee, laurel.”
“Is this your version of justice, Your Holiness? For what I said upon the dais? A tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye?” Whatever pain awaited, Falstaff’s penchant for penance was a gift.
Vetrius would scent me. He’d come. I thought of his heart, of its steady rhythm under my hand, and willed my own to join it.
A chuckle.
“On the matter of eyes...” Releasing my chin, he fondled his robes.
“Hold out thy hand, laurel.” The acolyte to my right yanked at my arm, prying open my fingers and presenting them to his master. Small mercies it was the one that was empty.
Two milky orbs, rubbery and nearly translucent, dropped into my palm.
“I had them pickled. A reminder that they who are blind to truth have little need of sight. For blood alone is not only that which He demands.”
I unfocused my eyes, as I did with the Doors of Judgement, a thousand voices seeming to scream from within to shut them entirely.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
I looked all the same.
Two irises peered up at me, and I loosened at the sight of them. Not amber, nor hickory, but black. Dulled, but unmistakably black.