And none of it mattered. None of it mattered at all.
Laurellian women parted, allowing me to drift back to my rumpled nest of cushions. The heathens were asleep, or appearing to sleep, curled up like cats, Esioul’s small frame still missing from their ranks.
Facing the window, everything melted away but the rising sun along the eastern horizon. It was beautiful, viciously so. Pupils fixed on its centre, I watched as it slowly consumed the night, reds, pinks, and oranges burning away the inky blues one cloud at a time. So mesmerised by it, despite scenting the iron-laced tang in the air, I failed to notice the acolytes.
Shaven heads and crimson robes funnelled into the chamber.
“Make sure you’re first in line.”
I pressed a cushion to my stomach as they circled us, wishing it were Demetri’s hand instead. Rising to my feet, knees mercifully steady, I held my ground while the laurels moved deeper into the centre, careful to avoid the acolytes’ paths. They stilled once they manned every wall, the barbed knot of their belts swinging between their legs. Hands cupped at their middles, they stared straight through us, eyes fixed on the windows at our backs, as if we were already ghosts.
“Kneel for His Holiness, Druid Falstaff of the Rites,” trumpeted a paxiam by the door.
Creaking open, a druid entered, his dark form masked in smoke.Perfumedsmoke.
Incense dissipating, two thin, angular spikes pierced through the mist, needles compared to the twisted horn of Capriche’s, or the knives of the Butcher. Other than the helm, this druid wore no armour, dark robes hanging from his arms like wound dressings, the shape of his bones jutting from under the cloth. Suspended from a chain at his waist, a thurible smoked with the heavy scent of incense, its coils curling upwards in flat, cloying strings. It swung to and fro, following the swing of his hips as a charred, medicinal tang warred with the taint of sweat and soured wine.
His nodular hand, joints protruding from under the black-silk glove, gestured to us. “Laurels, beyond these doors, your pilgrimage to the beyond awaits.” A rarity in Thromarra, for someone’s voice to be brittle and cracked with the markers of age. “Is it not a beautiful morning?”
My palms itched to cover my ears.
“Is this not the most joyous of days?”
Something thrummed through my centre. Somethingscalding.
“The Blood God looks upon ye with a grateful smile, laurels, despite the atrocity committed in the night.” Cupping two handsto his chest, he mirrored the acolytes. “Your offering be the cost of protection, the price of Thromarra’s freedom from His plagues. Though He can be a merciful Lord, He is unyielding in His demands. For Blood Demands Blood.”
Mouth hidden by the same chain veil worn by all druids, I could hear his smile nonetheless…and taste the poison within it.
“For Blood Demands Blood.” My lips moved wordlessly. The effort from the rest was hollow, syllables crushed by the heavy burden of knowing what came next.
“Laurels.” The druid’s voice twisted from adoring to clipped. Tutting, he wagged a skinny finger to where our bodies were thickest. “Thou art capable of more.”
The red heat that pricked at my ribs turned colder, growing thorns. I clutched at my heart, fingers clawing the linen, having had the sudden urge to rip it from my chest and throw it into the hearth.
“Louder and with cheer!FOR BLOOD DEMANDS BLOOD!” Falstaff roared, as the acolytes toyed with their belts.
“Blood Demands Blood!” we yelled, the threat of an iron-spiked knot persuasion enough, even for ghosts.
“Henceforth, thou art bidden to follow the revered customs and traditions of the Final Rite. I shalt shepherd thee on this path, wherein we honour these sacred turns by vowing our silence, as is His demand.” He paused, rotating his horned helm to survey the chamber. “Do not dawdle; do not rush. Keep to the rhythm of the acolytes and paxiams by your side, facing only forwards, never back. For there is only onward to the beyond.” Releasing his hands, they fanned outwards, as if to embrace us. “Do not fear what is to come, my children. Such a blessing it is! Such a bounty we have this day!” He clapped, threading his fingers. “The Blood God hath blessed me with absolution, cherished laurels. One touch from my hand, and your sins shalt melt away like a spring morning’s frost. Come.” He beckoneda woman closest to the doors, a slight thing, hair the colour of dormouse fur.
My stomach dropped on her behalf. Nudged by another, she inched towards where he lurked, neck bent and face masked by her hair. Once kneeling, he placed a gloved palm to her crown, the tips of his fingers disappearing into her strands. “Oh, laurel…” A shuddering breath rattled from beneath the chain veil. “Such sin, such iniquity.” Her head quaked, trembling under his grasp. “I absolve thee from it!” She launched backwards, head hitting the parquet with a thud. I winced, a hiss escaping through my front teeth.
Another laurel made to help her before two paxiam spears blocked her path. The dormouse laurel yelped, clutching her nape where a thin trickle of blood wept onto her shoulders and gown.
“Thou art most welcome,” Falstaff crooned, the two points of his helm angled to where she struggled to rise. “Once your due is rendered to the Blood God, the Other will spare ye the pits.” His voice raised, its edges errated. “Respect the Rite, laurels, and I shalt absolve thee, too.”
“I thank you, Your Holiness,” she managed, retreating on shaky legs to her space on the floor.
“A line!”
The paxiams and acolytes closed ranks, thinning our numbers until we stood one behind the other, entrenched between them.
“The first. The first. The first. Make sure you’re the first.”
The Butcher’s command rang in my ears over the shuffling of skirts and tapping of soles, laurels scrambling to find a gap in the queue. I backed up to the window, determined to do the opposite. Eyes tracing Falstaff, flickering between his horns of metal andabsolvinghand, I made pits’ well sure I was the last. I wouldlook. I would watch for all the times I hadn’t. One final penance before the very end.
Chapter fourteen
