I smiled under the metal, grateful my face was shielded from the monks and acolytes scrambling to get out of my way. The latter cupped their stained hands, eyes trained on the pouch atmy waist, licking their thin, red lips. I’d a craving to litter the floor with their heads, but I resisted—not after the trouble of last time.
They were seething, all of them—Falstaff and the other druids. Seething andscared, the knowledge of the latter lightened my chest, despite its casing of armour. My grin widened, lips peeling over my teeth, spurred by the thought of them losing their helms at the prospect of their own mortality—a very real possibility now their tool to eternity had been burnt as quickly as kindling. Eyes lifting to the rafters, I sent a silent prayer to our Maker, thankful that my fate was no longer bound to that cursed tree.
My smile fell as the corridor widened, dark stone giving way to white marble. It hit me then, nose wrinkling before my mind could catch up. The peaty dampness of brick shifted to something richer, somethingheavier. Even the clove oil, smoking in brass bowls above every torch, did nothing to disguise the sharp taint ofgrace. My mouth pooled, throat burning, as its invasive scent colonised every inch of me, quickening my heart. I grimaced at the rush of unspeakable desire it awakened, even knowing I was practiced enough to bring it to heel, to temper it, to smother it down and bury it. How easy it would be not to, though. How simple, to have an acolyte fetch my pouch and inhale the whole lot. How glorious it would feel, how rapturous it would be, to taste it one last time.
Two paxiams, far more ceremoniously garbed than the usual likes found in the templum, stood sentinel on either side of the stained-glass doors to the sanctum, their armour inlaid with gold, etched into the likeness of olive leaves within the red-dyed steel.
“Move, paxiam.” A breath too slow, and my pauldron clashed into his breastplate, sending him flailing against the marbled wall. The burn in my throat eased a fraction, if only for a heartbeat. I threw open the doors, their rose-tinted glass rattlingin the wake of my push. Once they’d slammed shut, I paused, hands braced on my knees to keep them from buckling entirely, allowing myself a small moment to adjust to the fresh wave of grace, each breath like fire. It would only worsen in the catacombs, and I needed to steel myself for what came next, to embody the calm, unwavering authority I had learned to wield.
“Robusteur flect homme.”The words did nothing to lessen the burn, but they steadied the trembling. It always began in the same place; a small shake at my knee that soon grew to swarm every joint, creeping up and up until I would have no hope of masking what lurked within, forced to slink away to some forgotten, dank alcove or chamber and wait it out.
I straightened, wanting to draw a deep, chest-stretching breath, but forced myself to keep it shallow. I walked on, each clack of my boots echoing in the vast stillness of the empty sanctum. By day, it glistened like a ruby, sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows and the skylights above. By night, it was a dying coal, the subdued white marble veined with threads of red.
I neared the dais where his velvet-clad throne rose atop carpeted steps and, once more, almost collapsed. The force of my craving struck with new violence, the euphoria it promised undeniable in its release, and inevitable in its hold. Just the sweet burn of one morsel. Half a thimble full. It would mean nothing.Nothing. They would never find out, could never discover such a small trace of grace.
Thoughshewould know. She knew everything.
Gathering what was left of my wits into shaking hands, I rounded the throne, passing under the twin pillars of jade that framed it. It was a sacred thing, my promise to never touch it again, and I’d sooner snap a femur than shatter a vow.
Descending the steps at its back, the ones that led to the catacombs, I bit down on my lip,hard, bracing for the long,curving plunge into the depths. I reached for the banister, my eyes straining to adjust, as they always did, to the encroaching dark. The sconces here were scarce, nothing like the lit sanctum above. Each inhale made my eyes water, the scent of grace thick as tar in the air, clogging my lungs.
God, but ataste…
I swallowed it down, gulping down breaths rather than breathing through my nose. The ground levelled.
The gentle decay of a harp grew louder, the notes fading to wisps of nothingness as they played a macabre, lilting tune. Underfoot, plush rugs replaced the marbled stairs, layered atop one another, disguising the dirt underneath. With one final prayer, wordlessly muttered and lost to my veil, I crossed the curtained threshold to the catacombs beyond.
In its centre, sprawled out on a chaise of damask, lay the High Druid of Dendra.
I had not seen his face in over a hundred cycles, but that mattered not for how often it haunted my dreams. Strong jaw, cruel mouth, a sculpted, chiselled nose, handsome in almost every sense of the word. But his eyes…
I squeezed mine shut at the memory.
Hiseyes, so like my own, brought forth the echo of my other vow—the oath to never again look upon my face.
His attention assaulted my flesh, the sensation akin to the prick of a spear the breath before it breaches flesh. Unlike other druids, he wore no helm; the chainmail left to drape over his skull like a pall. A hole had been cut, exposing the bottom of his nose and mouth, though his eyes remained hidden. Even from twenty or so paces away, the blotches of crimson skin practically glowed, spreading across his chin and the pronounced bow of his lips like a plague of their own.
The succumbing had gotten worse, then.
“Lycandor.” His voice, once charming and smooth, now scratched like grit, as if the succumbing had clawed its way down his throat, too. “Leave us.” The ripple of the harp ground to a halt, an acolyte rising from his perch to back out of the catacomb, hands cupped and head bowed. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose twitching like a mouse. He’d been fed well for his service.
“Your Eminence.” I knelt on one knee, helm dipped, insides flaming with each word.
“Rise, my son, and come hither.”
I rose, metal groaning, as he brought a snuff spoon to his exposed nose, inhaling its contents in one sharp sniff. Returning it to the metal dish atop his knee, he buried its curve within the mound of red, powdered grace. A groan of ecstasy rumbled from under his veil, and I tempered one of my own, suppressing the urge to run forth and lick the bowl clean. An unbidden memory of the grey laurel’s hand, the keen taste of her flesh, herblood, momentarily drove away my desire, only for it to return its assault not a beat later.
“Will you not share in His grace with me?” the High Druid asked, motioning to the plate. My feet twitched, eager to obey, but I ground them into the floor, imagining myself a tree and them my roots: immovable. “It has been an age since you and I have partaken together.” He had not asked me to share grace for many cycles, but it was nigh-on impossible to scent his intentions here, the reek of the relics, the powder, drowning out all else. Despite the catacomb’s biting chill, sweat pooled beneath all the metal.
“I have already had my share of grace today, Your Eminence.” The lie tasted sweet compared to the bitter curd of his title upon my tongue. “I think it unwise to further crater our supply and run the risk of more succumbing.” I bowed my helm, themovement eliciting a throb in my temple, as if my very blood protested the act of deference.
“Hmm.” His blotched lips thinned. “Perhaps that is wise, given our current… predicament. I may have to ration the grace whilst we seek a solution as it stands. It is finite, after all, and I refuse to squander the relics.” His voice rose slightly as he made the promise, the words gritted through white teeth and reddened gums. “How much grace does your spirit demand of late?”
The lie came easily. “An offer and a half, Your Eminence.”
“Father, Lycandor. You may call me father. We are alone.” Though his words spoke of familiarity, his smile was a warning. He rarely offered showings of joy, and when he did, it usually meant someone had faltered.
“Father, then.” I almost choked on it.
