Chapter 41 #2
Slowly, Demetri retracted from me, giving way to a hollow feeling, like I’d never be whole again.
Scooping me into his arms like a babe, he carried me to the washroom, unperturbed by my attempts to escape his fussing.
With a damp cloth, he cleaned me, tenderly, whilst I nibbled on his neck, trying to banish the salt of the druid with the sugar of him.
Instead, the two swirled together, annoyingly complimentary.
I resisted the urge to spit into the basin.
By some miracle, we managed to get dressed amidst his pinches and playful gropes.
I donned the sister’s gown whilst Demetri ravaged the dresser, throwing every item to the floor in discarded piles.
After what seemed an age of huffing and puffing, he shucked on a pair of breeches—most in need of a belt.
“What are they feeding the druids? Bulking oats for the warhorses?” he despaired, the breeches falling down to his ankles for the seventh time.
I laughed, though unsure why. “It’s winter,” he said, slipping into a pair of boots he’d pillaged from under a chair, having found a belt. “You’ll need socks and shoes if you don’t fancy losing a toe.” I looked down to my bare feet, my sodden slippers left abandoned by the basin.
“I’m sure Lyc—” I cleared my throat. “I’m sure Vetrius will have a sister bring me a pair.”
He paused, gazing up at me through his thick eyelashes. I tried not to let my eyes wander, though in the light, all I could see were the holes—in his arms, his chest, his hands; phases and phases spent at the mercy of the Dendralis’ hands had left his body a pell.
Would Lycandor lick them for him? I shook my head, hoping to clear it. Probably not.
“You put too much faith in him, Ashara.” I blanched at his tone. “Showing you mercy amidst the horrors of the templum is the only, and I mean only, reason why, when we leave this place, I won’t slit his throat whilst he sleeps.”
“Deme—” Before I could protest, he’d closed the gap between us, a finger placed over my lips.
“Not another word about him.” It was strange to see him like this, almost angry, his eyes closed, lids strained.
“Not after what just happened. Not after us.” He exhaled shakily, pushing air through rounded lips.
“He may be an ally today, but make no mistake, he will be our enemy tomorrow. That druid has secrets, Ashara; his secrets have secrets. Once we’re out, we make our own way.
” He nodded, seemingly agreeing with himself, since I had yet to respond.
Before I could, he spun me, cinching the lacings of the sister’s dress at my back.
My mind reeled, doubt lacing the memories I had of Lycandor as each cord pulled taut. A druid or friend? Or both? I held on to the bedpost, feeling lost, as if thrown out to sea. Demetri patted my hip, letting me know he was done, something tightening in my stomach alongside the bodice.
Inevitability.
We weren’t afforded the courtesy of a knock.
The door blasted from its hinges, skidding to a halt at the foot of the bed.
Debris billowed in its wake, plunging us into a thick cloud of grey.
We scrambled, half blind, coughing and spluttering against the far end of the wall.
Demetri reached for me, threading his arm over my shoulders as I inhaled into his chest, the air swirling with small grains of rock.
Eyes weeping, full of what felt like a fistful of sand, I scrubbed at them with the hem of his shirt. Even through the blur of tears, there was no mistaking the armour, the helms, and the smear of red cloaks. From the spiralling grit stepped a druid, then another, then more.
“As predicted, Father. The escaped laurel that pocketed my key just to get to his whore.”
Father?
I had no need to behold the mouth of the voice to know who it belonged to, despite the change upon it; cool instead of warm earth, less like the rumble of rock and more like the metal that dressed him.
I winced into Demetri. As the motes settled, the three points of his helm grew sharper, the lines of his armour glinting in the flickering light, looking every inch the Butcher I’d once seen on the scaffold.
But Lycandor was not my concern. Behind him, another figure emerged, draped in chainmail that flowed like a river of iron down to his chest, free of a helm, and all the more sinister for it.
“Ah, Lycandor,” it tutted, the sound sharp as a paxiam’s spear, deeper than the darkest pit of the Other.
“Now then, show the grey laurel some respect. She’s a gift, after all.
” Through the hole in his maw, an unnaturally red mouth split into a grin, gums brazen in the taperlight.
If not for Demetri and the wall at my back, I would’ve run.
“Well met, Ashara. An honour to finally meet you in the flesh.”
To his other side, two points breached the smog.
“Her flesh, and the blood writ within it, is the sole honourable thing about her, Your Eminence.” His voice filled my ear like a scuttling ant, burrowing into my brain, forcing a shudder.
“It is she who ought to show us such. On your knees, O wayward laurels, for His Eminence, the Magnamous, His Excellency, the High Druid of Dendra.” Falstaff stepped forward, aligning himself next to Lycandor and the phantom of metal. The phantom Lycandor had called father.
If not for the steadiness of Demetri’s hands, I would have collapsed to the floor, just as they wished, splayed out at their feet. Lycandor…the High Druid’s son? I sifted through the chaos of my memories, hunting for a clue or a moment when he might have tried to tell me something.
I examined him anew, hunting his mesh for any clue of what to do next, some small morsel to help tame my panic. But I was met with not a glint, no half nod, no shake of his knee, no twitch of his fingers, just cold, hard metal.
“You lying son of a cunt—” Demetri yanked me behind him, amber eyes fossilised with anger.
He lurched, and I grasped at his hem, urging him back, but the acolytes were faster, materialising from behind the wall of druids before he had yet to take another step.
Demetri slammed into me as the ball of their belts kissed his stomach.
He bent double, coughing globs of blood onto the floor.
I clutched at him, the ranks of Dendralis closing in around us.
“Bring her to me.”
The High Druid’s command spurred the acolytes to fresh action, their red-tinged fingers extending like claws. Demetri turned to me, face contorted as he tried to leash the agony of the spikes. His hands left his stomach to cup my cheeks, palms wet with his blood. “Don’t look. Don’t look when they—”
But he was torn from me, as was inevitable—ripped apart by acolyte hands.
“To the sanctum,” Lycandor’s father announced, giving us his broad back, draped in more of that chain. “Gather the rest; the whole templum. The Blood God has demanded a penance, and it’s high time they render their dues.”