Through heaving breaths, I almost brought my lips to his, the urge almost unbearable.
“Wrath?” I asked, still gulping down air, and his breaths with it.
“Wrath,” he confirmed, the tip of his nose skimming the bridge of mine. “A wrath that awakens in the face of injustice. Injustice of the highest sort.”
Injustice.
“Lycandor…let me look—”
The iron door shuddered.
Chapter thirty-nine
Ashara
The Vow
The earth also was corrupt before the Blood God…And He said unto the First, ‘The end of all flesh is come before Me, and thoushalt return to My side as stone.’ -6:11–13 - The Book of Dendralis
“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 promptedthaton his bed—whateverthatwas. 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?
