I rested my head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her familiar scent of bay leaves and boiled thread. I would listen to a thousand sermons, caked in my own waste, if it meant I could keep her for longer. But her offering drew closer with each passing turn. I’d lose her eventually, just like my father, who’d been offered before I was born. Some days, it was easier to forget, the truth quieted by the busyness of our hands, lost to needles and trimmings and thread. But on the Seventh Day—I glanced at the owl—on the Seventh Day, it roared in my mind louder than Capriche.
“Until the Dendralis, loyalists of the Blood God, sought to spare mankind from the terror of the blood plagues. Though humanity deserved the scourge of His wrath, our Lord can be merciful to those who pay homage.”
Lifting its tail feathers, the owl scooted to hang its behind over the ledge.
Surely not…
“As prophets of the Blood God, He chose in His divine wisdom not only to bestow the druids with blessings and power, but also to reveal a mercy—a pledge by which His plagues might be stayed.”
I nudged my mother’s ribs, alerting her to the owl. She remained fixed on the pulpit, intent on obedience. But I saw it: the quivering lift at the edge of her mouth that mirrored my own.
“The pledge was simple, a vow to return unto Him what was owed. The Blood God created you in His image, Enclave ofDendra. He hath given you the very blood that flows through your veins.”
Capriche cleared his throat, readying to recite the words that were branded into every soul within the wide reach of Thromarra.
“For what blessings He bestows, He has the right to reclaim. For Blood Demands Blood, and though He demanded hers first, we all must render our due.”
As he delivered the pledge, a splodge of watery-yellow fired down from above. It splattered the pages of the tome at his chest, the Book of Dendralis, the sacred text of the druids. Small morsels and lumps catapulted outwards, sticking to his chest-plate and veil.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
But my eyes, traitorous little things, drifted to that curled crop of hair on the opposite side of the aisle. Amber irises collided with the green of my own, and in them glistened pure, unadulterated joy. Oh, Demetri was burning with it…the desire to laugh. Without the threat of penance, he’d be hunched over, near-retching with the force of his cackle. But we knew better. By the First, we knew better, and so should everyone else.
My mouth tremored, fighting a grin, but I shook my head.Be sensible,I willed him. His reply was a wink.
Capriche’s helm tilted, and his eyes, though invisible to us, skimmed over the enclave. A sharp sniff, and his chainmail rattled with the huff of his breath. He examined each face, one by one, his veil of iron scanning each row. The cold splash of his attention landed upon me, and any lingering amusement was quickly doused to ash. My mother’s comforting touch turned warning, the pads of her fingers digging into my bones.
Someone sniggered near the front.
Our inhales robbed the chappellum of air, heads whipping towards its source. The offender recovered quickly, masking his laughter behind a splutter of coughs. Oh, but I’d heard it, which meant so had the acolytes, and so had Capriche.
“A shortbow for the owl…and a penance is due.” He slammed the book shut, sandwiching shit in its pages. Foolish, really, for once it dried, there’d be no saving the scripture.
The acolytes stationed at the foot of the pulpit circled the man. Descending upon him in flanks of crimson, they hauled him to his feet—a cypress, probably, his shorn sides fading from ashen blond to grey. I let my eyes fall to my lap, my stomach no match for what the Dendralis called justice.
“Have mercy, Your Holiness. I was caught unawares. I meant no harm,” he babbled. A quick glance, and Capriche had turned to enter the vestry behind the pulpit, ignoring his pleas. “Please.” The man fell to his knees, hands clasped in the air. “I am a cobbler, Your Holiness. I have need of my hands, or my family starves. Mercy, Your Holiness, mercy.”
They would not give it, and neither would our Lord, for the Dendralis and the Blood God confused mercy for change; they’d swap one pain for another and call it a kindness.
Capriche paused, angling his helm down to examine the soul at his feet, its twisted peak now pointing to us in the pews. Maybe he’d get off lightly: a punch to the gut or a slap to the face.
“Just the tongue, Pietr,” the druid announced before turning his cloaked back on the enclave.
The acolytes wrestled the man, writhing and thrashing, into some forced semblance of calm.
I fiddled with the sleeve of my gown, twisting and pulling until a button came loose.
From the red folds of his robes, an acolyte procured two sets of tools, holding them aloft to the crowd. Tongs and a blade.
Wood groaned as some made to stand, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the penance. Others hid in their hands; a few had even started to cry—his family, perhaps. I grimaced, stealing a look at Demetri, his warm eyes already on mine. He pointed to my lap, lips molding in the shape of two words:Don’t look.
Focusing on the pale greens of my skirts, I traced their weave with a trembling hand, heat pulsing in my veins with every beat of my heart. It leafed outwards, sending tender shoots through the hollows of my body. My skin blazed.
An anguished scream, then thetinkof metal on metal. A rip…gagging, gurgling, choking.
