“Your kindness has always been a weakness, Lycandor. I thought we had cleansed you of it. Truly.” He shook his head, chains jangling, lifting the last orange slice to his mouth.
“It was no kindness, Your Eminence. I only wished to prevent her from conversing with another surviving male laurel. I have suspicions they are in allegiance.” A truth to mask a lie, a necessary sacrifice.
“Oh.Oh.” He sat straighter, his juice-covered fingers drumming atop his knee. “An ally? Then uncover it. Discover all mysteries. This is just another you must unravel. Do not force my hand, but if I think you are failing me, I will not hesitate to enlist Falstaff to the cause, sycophant as he is. It would be a mistake to squander the mercies I grant you.” He bit into another orange, ripping off a chunk of its peel like an apple, parts of it dangling from his mouth.
I dipped my head, itching to reach for my veil, my helm, their damnable weight still better than feeling this exposed, this naked, before him. “By your leave then, Your Eminence.”
He lingered in silence, the citrusy sweetness of amusement complimenting the orange.
“Of course. You will have busy days, and busier nights. Best you rest.”
I moved to retrieve my helm.
“And Lycandor… Return my relic to her shelf. I wish to admire her face.”
I hesitated, hand hovering above one of my helm’s iron spikes to eye the relic at its side.
She lay downturned, the back of her bloodstone-encased head etched into a braid, hewn at the neck. I turned her over, and the walls of the catacombs pressed down with excruciating demand as her eyes met mine. “Look at us,” they screamed. “Look upon us.” The woman was a laurel, no more than thirty winters. Her small mouth was stretched into a smile, pupils blown wide, her eyes glazed with unshed tears.
I lifted my gaze to the rest of them. Lined to the ceiling on all four walls, rows upon rows of severed bloodstone relics peered down at us, their expressions frozen in their last moments of agony. Women, men,children… Fuck. I let my lids flutter close, if only for a breath. So many children. He coveted the babes most, rare as they were. Most were crying, though a few stared blankly, their little faces dissociated from the incomparable burn of a plague.
“Lycandor?”
I returned her to her slot in the wall, then left, the eyes burning into the back of my neck with only slightly less intensity than the grace that stalked me, far beyond the reach of the catacombs.
I had failed them all. Every last one.
The seamstress and I had work to do.
Chapter twenty-six
Ashara
The Letter
The beasts, too, must repent and render their due. Necks of skin, feathers, scales—turn away from transgression; soiniquity shall not be your ruin. -18:30-33 - The Book of Dendralis
I awoke to sunlight. A singular beam of it sliced through the chamber until it cut my face like an axe, the small sliver of gold blinding my sleep-addled eyes. My rest had been dreamless, so unlike the vivid nightmare from the morrow before, with the voice and fog and thenothingness. I shivered, the air chill, wrapping the linens tighter until I was swaddled like a babe, scrunching my eyes shut against the light. The silent sister had deposited me in my own chamber, Esioul led some place else. No sooner than she’d turned the key in the lock, I’d collapsed into the cot, managing at least to remove my dress and shoes before sleep claimed me.
Every boon now borrowed, I forced myself awake, groaning into the pillow. It was plumper than those in the circular chamber, softer than I would have expected from the Dendralis. But idleness was a luxury reserved for those with cycles left to live. I peeled my eyes open, knowing each turn from now on could very well be my last.
Pressing my back to the cot frame, I squinted, tracking the beam to the small window above the dresser set against the far wall. The sky outside was butter-yellow, wispy clouds absorbing the sun’s rays like cotton. Something shuffled beyond the pane, the silhouette of a bird preening its feathers. I sat a little straighter, but it flapped, taking wing, its hazy outline soon lost to the clouds. I could see little else, the cutout of glass so high I would need to mount the chair to look upon what lay below and discover where I was in the templum. I yawned, my head thumping, vision cloudy. I would do just that in a moment.
Below sat a handsome dresser of dark wood. A pewter plate piled high with grapes, cheese, and now-stale bread lay abandoned on its surface. Too tired to eat last night, my stomachnow churned with the thought of what was to happen today. When the Butcher would come; when he would test my blood.
To its side, thrust against another wall, stood an old, if not handsome, armoire, its panelled front carved with sunflowers. Far finer than anything I’d owned in my villa, where my mother and I had been content to share a coffer. Resting on a stool to its left was a porcelain basin, with a square cut of flannel draped over its rim. I would rise and wash my face, another yawn, soon. Very soon.
Aware of the boons I was wasting, I instead admired the tapestry, the one I vaguely recalled noticing in the darkness last night, though it had been mostly lost to shadow. It ran the length of the wall, depicting a meadow of faded flowers: pale yellows, parched greens, and watery blues, sun-bleached, their colours muted by time. Somehow, it was prettier for it. A rarity in Thromarra, to wither gracefully with age. Something I, nor Demetri, had yet been gifted despite the blessing of the Blood Tree. Blessing? Perhaps, though it was just as likely to be a penance.
I hadn’t the time to ponder it. Padding over to the dresser, I abandoned the cot, leaving the linens crumpled in one twisted knot. I snatched the carafe of water beside the food and examined its contents, knowing I would drink it anyway, poison or not. What other choice was there? It was clear, most likely fresh from the Promethean Alps, not like the dank, muddied water of Dendra’s communal wells. I glugged down the whole thing, gasping a breath between every fifth swallow or so, the water splashing onto my slip and dampening the ends of my hair.
Setting it down, uncaring of the tide marks, I fondled the drawers, their handles of ringed iron clanking as I traced their loops. I gave the first one a tug, hoping to find something as mundane as a hairbrush or, as fortune would have it, akey.
Expectedly, the first drawer was empty, a thick band of dust and a few faded, curled hairs huddled in each corner. I creaked it shut, wondering if whoever they’d once belonged to was now but stone, powder, and dust. The motion shuddered my arm, its hinges stiff and unused. I tried the other, and it gave way easily, almost clattering to the floor as I put more strength into my tug than was necessary.
A breath left me, my mouth hanging agape. No brush or comb. Or key. But perhaps something better…
I snatched the small square of parchment, holding it up to the light. Clear, a crisp light beige, slightly curled at the edges. Without a breath to consider how or when I would send it, I scrambled for something to quill it with, pilfering the drawers, throwing open the armoire, bare knees hitting the threadbare rug as I searched for a wedge of coal, a slither of chalk,anything.
