I raised my head, finding Demetri already swivelled towards me. After a small nod, his face paler than before, I let myself look. A bloodied heap quivered in the straw, the ground growing red where he lay. The acolyte skewered his tongue like meat on a spit, the flesh limp on the blade, its base jagged and torn. I clamped a hand to my mouth, not wanting to shower vomit on the couple in front, my palm a furnace. Plucking a nail from the knot of his belt, the acolyte waltzed down the aisle, holding it aloft. A trail of blood followed him behind.
We waited.
Capriche had long since vanished. In his absence, the owl cooed softly, its gentle hoots harmonising with the cobbler’s wet cries. Then came that uneasy feeling:inevitability. Before sunset, its body would hang upon the Doors of Judgement, too. The heat inside me cooled, leaving nothing but a clammy sheen in its wake.
“The sermon has concluded, Enclave of Dendra. Blood Demands Blood,” another acolyte announced before descending the dais. His gaze honed on the doors, pupils like twin eclipses, blown wide and dark. I could never tell them apart, what with their shaven heads, red robes, and waxy, pale skin. That, and thedull, glassy sheen to their eyes. I’d seen it before, in the lines of dead mackerel strung from the fishmonger’s stall.
“Blood Demands Blood,” we parroted, more quietly than before. Blood did demand blood, and as we exited through the arched doors, it was clear the Dendralis’ pledge rang true, for nailed to the wood, speared with iron, was the proof.
Chapter two
Ashara
The Small Sin
There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but in the end thereof are only the ways of death and the fire of pits. Trust notin thy own heart, but in ink and druid. -16:25-17 - Book of the Dendralis
Like always, I refused to look when we crossed the chappellum’s threshold, but I could do little for my nose—thatsmell. Gods, the stench of festering flesh was so strong I could taste it, even from the iron gate ten or so paces from the wooden doors.
I swallowed a retch.
The Dendralis do revel in displaying their spoils.
I longed to run and lose the rot in Dendra’s cobbled streets, but our enclave moved at a shuffle, delayed by the pieties of those in front. Some had fallen to the limestone, on their knees before the colossal statue to our right, lurking outside the chappellum’s walls in the centre of its cloister yard. I just wanted to bathe, andeat,and relieve my godsdamned bladder. I thought of the lad and his stained, wet breeches. Of Adelaide.
The shuffle slowed to a standstill, as more of the enclave dropped like fliestorender their dues.Fanning myself with a limp hand, I debated clambering over them. It was tempting. Would it be cause for a penance? Would it lose me a leg? I turned to the source of their devotions, resisting the urge to tap my foot, or worse yet, leap over their hunched backs.
Theprideof our enclave—a carved replica of the First, chiselled from marble, not the infamous bloodstone. Capriche assured us it was an exact match, saying her likeness so similar to the one in the templum that, “even the High Druid of Dendra, the Dendralis’ great leader, would be at a loss to tell them apart.”I paused my fanning, squinting. Surely, the artist had taken some liberties, for what babe would smile whilst dying? Her little face was angled back, as if trying to catch a glimpse behind, to seeHim,the one who clasped her shoulder. Chubby fingers reached upwards, like Adelaide used to, in a plea to becarried or held. The First was such a little thing, no older than two or three winters.
The Blood God, a veiled, robed figure, loomed high above her, almost as tall as the chappellum’s spire. His red, marbled robes pooled at His feet, as if submerging them in His bloods, both knee-deep in a plague. I shuddered, despite the sweat sheening my skin. Some claimed to feel His presence here, in the shadows of the chappellum. I couldn’t think of anything I desired less; He could stay well over there, and I’d stay well over here, and it would be better that way.
A pinch on my behind, its sharpness muted by my skirts, snapped my head left.
A dimpled smile lowered, its owner descending to his knees.
“Excuse me, m’lady, but the width of your hips is blocking my view of the Blood God, for Blood Demands Blood.” A familiar voice, one that had deepened of late, drifted up from the ground.
My mother, twenty or so paces ahead, was trapped by her own circle of praying Thromarrians, her back turned to me, face angled away from the sun.
“M’lady. I wish to be a good boy and pay my creator His dues. Now, be so kind and move yourgluteus maximus, or better yet, get on your knees, too.” Disguised by the masses, Demetri tugged at my skirts.
He deserved a smack for that. My hand itched to move, to clip him over the ear, just as a smile wormed its way to my lips.
“Come on, darling girl, on your knees,” he whispered, low enough for only me to hear.
I huffed, giving the blush time to drain as I smoothed out my skirts. Descending onto the stone, I winced as my gown met the path, its surface smeared with muddy footprints and rotten leaves.
“Does this please you, sir?” I whispered back, unable to see his face past my wimple’s wing.
The flagstones under us practically shook with his silent chuckle.
“It would be more pleasing if I were standing, preferably there.” He motioned to the spot of space before me, the backs of two more of our enclave bent over in prayer a little farther in front. “So I could look into those beautiful green eyes whilst you put my—”
I pinched the back of his thigh, hard, earning me a grunt. It was a dangerous thing to speak this way with so many ears not yet nailed to the doors. Such talk would see our tongues meet the same fate as the cobbler’s: limp, torn, bleeding, and noticeably absent from our mouths. It was a marvel that no matter the penance, Thromarrians were always defying the rules. How else would the Doors of Judgement grow so heavy withfruit?
“Be careful…I bite,” I warned, flashing my teeth.
“Don’t I know it, darling girl.”
