“The crusiax.”
“Ah.” Of course. It was strange to know he had preached to Demetri for eight cycles, that he had been to Demetri as Capriche had been to me: an unknowable presence on a pulpit and a trumpeter of our Lord’s word. He seemed not the type for it.
I eyed the edict, my curiosity undisguised, eager to discover the Dendralis’ stance.
A sigh.
“Here.”
He extended it towards me, the edge curling.
I took it wordlessly, eyes darting over the flamboyant loops of black ink, sprawled in an extravagant hand.
“The Blood God is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. Though His wrath endures, a respite hath been granted to honour the Dendralis’ devotion unto Him. For as high as the beyond is above the earth, so great is His steadfast love towards those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west.
A Father, at times, shows compassion to His children; so the LORD shows compassion to you.
For now, His offerings shall be spared—a momentary display of clemency for our devotions. But be not idle in this gift, for, like all things, it is temporal. Remember that thou art dust and blood will always demand blood.”
“Yestermorn was agift?”
The Butcher scoffed, snatching it back and tossing it on the hearth, the gentle flames making quick work of it.
“Come, we must leave here, for I’ll need to remove my helm.”
Piqued, I straightened, the edict forgotten.
A breath of amusement huffed through his mesh. “Don’t get too excited, Seamstress. I’m not affording you the privilege of gazing upon my face just yet.” He rose from the desk, the bulge of the rolled piece of parchment protruding from under his clothes. “My eyes are up here, laurel.” He lifted two fingers to his upper face, signposting their location.
An indiscernible noise escaped my lips, and I rose from my chair, almost knocking it to the floor. I turned in time to stabilise it before it tumbled to the ground. Though hidden from me, it mattered not, for I could practicallyfeelthe doltish, smug grin on his face.
He reached for a cubby on the farthest wall, disturbing the scrolls within, and pressed a latch, for a momentlater, something clicked. The wall before him swung forward, revealing another, much larger room beyond.
“Worry not about the Dendralis’ lies, for it is time to discover your own.”
Chapter twenty-seven
Ashara
The Unmantle
“…Never look unto me,” demanded our Lord, “Or else never be ye saved, until the ends of the earth…” -45:22–23 - Book of Dendralis
Windowless, the secret room the Butcher led us into was lit only by a single sconce, my eyes rendered useless by the sudden plunge into darkness. Vision clearing, the space materialised, its corners cluttered with piles of forgotten things: long swords, rusted armour, scattered parchment, mismatched furniture. Cobwebs canopied the high wooden beams above, the stagnant air chill for lack of hearthfire or sun.
In its centre sat a large metal box, big enough for four people. The lonesome sconce-light danced across its surface, its grey shell licked by oranges and reds. The metal was textured, its sides inlaid with filigree cutouts, the steel welded like lace. Tiny perforations covered it everywhere: circles, teardrops, arches. A rectangular outline disrupted their symmetry, two hinges alluding to a door of some kind. A cage?
Whilst the Butcher used the singular alight sconce to ignite some more, my feet moved of their own accord, despite the seed of apprehension taking root in my gut. I might soon be locked inside it. Fingers skimming its edges, the metal was cool despite its reflection of the flames.
“What is it?” I asked, my fingertips tracing its indents, rising and falling over each little hollow.
“It’s called an Unmantle,” the Butcher’s voice rumbled from behind.
His arm extended over my shoulder, his hand joining mine as he traced the patterns, our movements falling into an unsettling synchrony. I pulled mine away.
“This is what we druids use when we grow weary of the helms but still have diplomatic business to attend to. We can speak freely within it, unburdened by the heaviness of iron, yet our faces remain hidden. There are others placed throughout the templum, but this one is mine, and mine alone.”
“It’s beautiful,” I began, then amended, “in a brutal, austere kind of way.”
