“Ashara.” My name on his tongue clicked like a lock. “When the acolytes come for you, make sure you’re first in line.”
Chapter thirteen
Ashara
The Druid of Bones
The Blood God be merciful and gracious and longsuffering in His patience with thee. -34:6–7 - The Book of Dendralis
Two sharp knocks clanged on the iron door to our backs.
“He lives,” the Butcher whispered, retreating to the door. “But you’d wish him dead if you knew what awaits.” Unlatching the bolts, the metal clinked alongside the thump of my heart.
Two paxiams entered, resting their spears on the frame to cup their hands. Heads dipped, they took to their knees. I did neither, pressing a palm to my mouth, lest I say another blasphemous word and suffer a spear to the belly. The same belly now doused in a wash of frigid relief, its budding heat trampled by the Butcher’s admission.
“It is time, Your Holiness,” one revealed from the flagstone, head bent.
“Very well.” Swiping the parchment from his desk, the Butcher rolled it into a cylinder, letting the blackened wax of a taper drip along its edge. Pressing a thumb to the hot splodge, he sealed it, handing it to one of the paxiams. “Once you have escorted the laurel back to the chamber, take this to His Eminence.” The shorter one took the scroll, stowing it in his breastplate.
The Butcher gestured towards Osric’s slumped body. “Druid Duncan’s murderer, penanced, executed, and confe—ah,fuck.”
He snatched the parchment back from the paxiam and cracked the fresh seal. Taking Osric’s limp hand, he dragged a blood-slick finger across the bottom in a single rough loop.
“Confession secured,” the druid finished, releasing Osric’s hand and resealing the scroll before tucking it into the paxiam’s armour. “Have some monks collect the body and hang it over the reach, and have the acolytes spread word of a national fast. Nothing but porridge and well-water until the last Seventh Day, as a collective due for this heinous act.” He thumped the guard’s breastplate, sending him staggering. “And be sure to remind His Eminence of the edict.”
“Edict, Your Holiness?”
“It’s detailed in there.” His voice lowered. “The edict to have all paxiams on duty this night flogged until lash strikes bone. A mercy, considering their negligence cost a druid his life.”
The paxiam gulped, plume wagging as he nodded.
“Escort this one back to the chamber.” The Butcher jerked his helm to where I was propped at the desk, already reaching for his armour beneath it.
I struggled to move, pinned down by some invisible weight as if I were dressed in iron, not he.
“Yes, Your Holiness,” the taller one confirmed. “Druid Falstaff and his acolytes are preparing the site. His Holiness requested the sanctifying tool.” Head bowed and eyes to the floor, his syllables shook, just like the hand pressed to his chest.
“Do I look like an errand boy?” Breastplate fastened, the Butcher padded towards him.
“No, Your Holiness. Acolyte Pi—” A hand shot to the paxiam’s neck, slamming his metal-clad body against the door with such force I thought the hinges might buckle. Spluttering, the guard’s face twisted as the Butcher’s grip tightened. I leaned slightly to the left, watching his colour shift from oat milk to a ripened tomato.
“Tell Falstaff to send an acolyte to get his godsforsakentool.Command me something again, as if I were a pup to heel, and that crimson armour you wear will be as good as paper once I decide to tear out your bowels and feed them to you. Tell me, paxiam, have you ever tasted your own shit?”
“N-no, Your Holiness,” he croaked, watery eyes shifting to the mess of Osric’s body over the druid’s shoulder.
Releasing him, the Butcher marched to his cloak, pinning it to his gorget. “Out.”
Somehow, my legs obeyed, carrying me towards the paxiams. Their eyes flashed with that familiar need to strike at somethingafter being struck, like I was the leg of a table where they’d each stubbed a toe.
“Remember, laurel…first in line.” I turned in time to see him pull on a fresh pair of gloves. “Butchers and mercy are old friends,” he said, voice hushed, as he tipped his helm towards Osric. “I tell you as a kindness.”
I crossed the threshold silent, having given him enough words already. Through the slitted windows lining the turnpike, a streak of crimson scored the horizon, the blackness of night bleeding to red.
The paxiam was right. It was time.
***
Guided with haste back to the chamber, sunrise nipped at our heels. The templum morphed to a smear, faces blurring, colours congealing, as if I were trapped in a fever dream like the ones I’d had as a child. I’d blasphemed to the Butcher and lived to tell the tale. Demetri was alive. Osric was dead.
