Chapter 39
Chapter thirty-nine
Ashara
The Vow
“You can look now. Here, put this on.”
I opened my eyes and accepted Lycandor’s offering, a bundle of white scrunched in his hand.
A spike of envy surged at the indignation of it; that he could disguise whatever lay in his gaze, his helm and veil now securely back on, while the mortification in mine was his for the taking.
“None of my breeches will fit you,” he continued, helm angling away from me. “But I’ll send a sister to collect a dress in due time. This’ll have to do for now.”
I couldn’t quite manage a thank you; my voice lost somewhere in the churning depths of my stomach, alongside the shreds of my self-control.
“You can change in the washroom.” He pointed to the arched door by the bed.
The knocking persisted.
“There’s a basin if you wish to…”—the hammering of a fist upon iron did little to disguise the clearing of his throat—“clean yourself. Just leave your gown on the floor.”
The response he appeared to be waiting for evaded me.
The door quaked.
He extended his hand.
“The buttons, Seamstress.” His palm unfurled like a bud. “The shirt has no pockets, so I’ll keep them safe for now.”
I blinked, then dipped into the seam at my hip.
My fingers closed around their grooved edges, and I rubbed them—once, twice, thrice—before handing them to him.
A part of me twisted at the sight: something that was Demetri’s and mine, and ours alone, clutched in his palm.
I trusted him with them all the same, the uncomfortable truth of it enough to have me tapping my foot.
More raps, louder than before.
“Go, change. I’ll see to it.”
Scurrying to the washroom, I peeled the soil fabric from my body, most of it sodden in blood, and only some of it mine.
It slapped against the floor, and with it, hopefully, whatever madness had prompted that on his bed—whatever that was.
A splash of tepid water did little to chase the heat from my cheeks, and a part of me did not wish to banish it anyhow.
A chill began to settle deep in my bones, my toes and the tips of my fingers the first to feel its creeping bite.
I scrubbed at my body with a bar of soap, scented with jasmine, of course.
Shivering and damp, I shook out the bundle of fabric he’d given me, holding the shirt to my front: long-sleeved, soft cotton, and enough of it to fashion a tent. I kicked my shoes, splattered in blood, hoping to also banish the need that throbbed through my centre.
The door creaked as I returned to stand by the bed. A metal-plated back, Lycandor now garbed in most of his armour, turned towards me, masking the body in the threshold. I stroked the cut on my hand, already close to scarring, steadying myself for the horrors to come.
Perhaps it was a monk, an acolyte, or even Falstaff who loomed there. If demands for my blood were to be made, it would be only Lycandor standing between me and those who called for their dues. One druid amongst hundreds. Would he stop them? Could he stop them?
Even if he was right, my blessing was a temperamental, fickle thing, and the beyond only knows if it would surface again. And even if it did, would it be enough?
I shuffled, inwardly cursing him and myself for not discussing the intricacies of what came next: how we were to find Demetri and the others; how I would survive one last night in the templum after three acolytes lay mutilated and dead in my rooms.
But it was not the pasty head of an acolyte framed in the doorway, but the boxy one of a sister.
She shifted on her feet, her face hidden as she tapped Lycandor for attention, his mesh still fixed upon me.
My eyes widened as she reached up and tugged it, forcing him to turn back to her.
He peered down, her small hands twisting through a series of quick, fluid motions that I could not discern.
He nodded, seemingly able to understand what I could not. “If it’s to be done this night, then bring the lackwit to my office and lock the door.”
She motioned again.
“For the love of the pits.” He gestured behind him, waving to where I lurked. “She is fine. You think I’d harm her?”
Something scraped against the stone, and I glanced down to see her leathered boot nudging a pewter plate piled high with cheeses, bread, and fruit across the floor.
Huffing, Lycandor bent to pick it up, his armour clanking. She pointed to me before pinching her thumb against her forefinger and repeatedly bringing it to where I assumed her mouth was, masked in the shadow of her headdress.
“Yes, yes.” He faced me. “I’m under strict orders to make sure you eat.”
With one last sign, the door swung shut before I could offer her my thanks.
“You know that sister?” I asked, accepting the plate with both hands.
His laugh was bittersweet. “Yes, I know that sister. And she’s very strict, so eat. You’ll need your strength for what comes next.”
“What comes next?” I selected a thick wedge of bread and bit into its spongy flesh, depositing the rest on the table.
“I will most likely have to vie for the execution of Falstaff. He went against orders, after all, and sought to enact the inquisition himself. Insubordination is a far greater vice than a little smidge of murder to the High Druid.” He laughed, no mirth in the sound.
“And anyhow, I may be able to claim their deaths for my own. Either way, His Eminence will demand penance, regardless.”
The bread turned to ash in my mouth.
“A penance is good, Ashara. A penance means time. And we need time—as much of it as we can get.”
“I care not for the penance, just why would you do this?” Take it off, I wanted to beg. Take off your mask of chain.
He raised a hand to the hem of it, skimming the metal, as if his blessing could scent my demand.
“An answer for another time, Seamstress. Ask it again when we are out of these walls, but know I hold no power over what happens beyond them. Without a decree, nothing is guaranteed.”
“I will take my chances,” I said, nibbling on the crust. “For what other hope is there?”
“The one here.” His hand reached out and pressed against my chest, slightly left, over my heart. “Perhaps it might unfurl just in time to save us all.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed, willing it to open, but my veins were as empty as my stomach, devoid of all warmth, save for the palm at my breast. “But what have I done to deserve it? I am no pious druid…could it be a penance rather than a gift?”
“Time will tell, another reason why it’s important to garner as much as we’re able. I must go.” His body leaned towards me, as if it longed to do the very opposite. “And find Falstaff.”
His hand drifted from my heart to cup my chin. I swallowed the mouthful of bread, long since chewed to mulch.
“The door behind me is solid iron,” he assured, fingers holding firm. “No one but I can enter. Not without this key.”
His other hand unhooked the loop at his belt. Holding it up to the candlelight, he revealed a large iron key, dark and heavy, its ridged teeth glittering in the flame like the spikes of his helm. “You do not answer that door. If anything happens to me—”
“Will something happen to you?” Something was wrong with my voice, my syllables coated in sawdust.
“Nothing will happen to me.” He scoffed. “But if something did, the sisters know what to do. Just wait here and endure.”
“I am getting rather tired of waiting and sitting. I should like to see what happens when I hasten and move.” Better, but still cracked at the edges.
“We can do much hastening and moving when I am back.”
“You mean, when we are back.” It would be we, all of us. “Remember your promise, Druid.”
“Which one?” He released my chin, reaching for the last of his vambraces and strapping it to his arm.
“All of them.”
Vambrace secured, he rotated his neck and rolled his shoulders.
“I will tell you some truths later,” he promised to the beams. “You will put your hand on my heart and ask of me whatever you wish.” The mesh lowered.
Behind it, there was no sign of the pinpricks of light I thought I had glimpsed before. “I really must go.”
“What…” My question crumbled like mortar, for in the span of a blink, he’d closed the distance between us.
Stumbling back into the wall, his body wedged itself between mine and the bed.
I could have told him to go, to back away.
I should have pushed my palms to his chest and urged him to move, but they fell to my sides, fisting the cotton that brushed past my knees.
He leaned closer, closer, until chainmail coated my shoulder like liquid.
“Just so you know…” His breath filtered through the mesh to fan over my cheek.
“What happened—what was going to happen—before the sister…when you mewled beneath me…” I bit down on my lip, tempering another.
“That was my fault as well; all of it. It seems I cannot help but rile up the darkest parts of you, Seamstress. But I shall strive to walk the light from now on.”
My fingers edged to the chainmail, testing the weight of its hem. I lifted the edges, slowly, carefully, like peeling an orange. Then, he was gone.
As the iron door swung shut, latches clicking and whirring, so did my wits.
***
Time dripped like wax, and alongside the fire, I drifted to sleep. It wasn’t until the groan of metal hinges that I finally pulled myself from the dark, a welcome sense of relief rising in my chest.
He is back. Perhaps Falstaff is dead. Soon, we’ll leave.
“Lycandor?” I yawned into the gloom, too tired to try to smother the hope in its lilt. In the low light of a dwindling sconce, his tall shadow loomed by the hearth. I raised up to my elbows.