Don’t speak. Don’t speak. Don’t speak.
It would be worse if he spoke. So, so much worse.
“Do not speak.” Acolytes, notoriously emotionless, rarely snapped. This one, though… There was an edge to his words that prickled the hairs on my nape as spite laced each syllable. “You should be lost to the piety of penance, not adding tallies to your due.”
I rotated to face the bars, imploring Demetri through wilful silence to mind his tongue. He’d be struggling now to leash his temper, trying his hardest toindulge in a bit of light choking, lest he wanted his larynx ripped from his neck.
Other,let his restraint win out,I silently begged, though my prayer would most likely go unanswered.If not, he’ll lose more than his tongue.
Demetri stayed silent.
After what felt like an age, though probably no more than a turn, the wooden door swung inward, bathing our narrow cells in light. The shadow of a twisted spike slithered towards me, its peak trailing up the base of my skirts.
“By the pits, what is it now, Pietr?” Capriche’s drawl rang loud against the echoing silence of the dungeons. I traced his outline in the glow of the wall sconces burning in the stairwell, hunting for his hands—hands that would soon be on me, inside me. Bile bubbled in my chest, threatening to erupt.
An acolyte stood, bowing his head as he motioned to our cells. “Two unrelated laurels, Your Holiness. Found unchaperoned in the disused blacksmith’s yard. Holding hands.”
“Holding ha—” Capriche didn’t finish the sentence but rubbed the metal ridge of his helm, sniffing sharply. “Deepest pit, Acolyte, you dare disturb my supper, forwhat? Some hand holding? Rod their knuckles and be done with it.Of all the…” he trailed off, making to leave.
I edged closer to the light, hands curling around the iron bars. Something dangerous stirred within my chest, something reserved only for fools.Hope.
A rod to the knuckles? It was the lightest of penances, other than a slap to one’s cheek. Let them rod us til’ sunrise.
“Yes, Your Holiness, most wise. Except…” Another bow. “As the Book of Dendralis dictates, I propose an inquisition before penance is awarded.”
I scrambled away to the corner, still sodden with another Thromarrian’s waste.
No, no, no.
The druid hung his helm, point scraping the wall. A long, suffering sigh pushed from his lips, still masked by a veil, as he twiddled with a pouch of something tied to his belt, twisting and twisting the small bag as if wringing water from a towel. Capriche’s rigid formality at sermons seemed so at odds with theman who stood before us, treating our penance as if it were an elbow on the table.
“Very well, Pietr, but I have little time to check the cunts of wayward laurels—the venison grows cold. Do it yourself. Disturb me again, and I will have that bald head of yours scalped of more than just hair, and see to it that your rations are decreased.”
My heart plummeted, as hearts often do when raised to foolish heights.
The acolyte remained a painting of deference, his eyes glassy and glazed, though his red, pointy tongue flicked over his lips, as if already famished at the mere mention of rations. “Of course, Your Holiness. And the penance, should she be found to have been tampered with? Shall I proceed with the custom?”
I winced.
Capriche’s boot paused halfway up the first stair, the other hovering at the threshold. His outline, stripped of ceremonial garb, stood lean, tall, and broad. If not for the helm, I might have mistaken him for a man, not a beast. Yet I had long since learned that men were capable of cruelties far greater than any monster conjured in tales at the hearth. Still, he twisted the bag.
“Yes, Acolyte, proceed with thecustom.”
“If not, we take a hand for their dues?”
My own gripped the bars tighter.
Capriche spun, tossing his head back, helm with it, the chainmail layering his face like a pall. “If nothing untoward has occurred,” he huffed, sniffing again, “then a lashing will do. I have a long line of whippings come the ‘morrow, sodiligentlyprescribed to me by your faithful houndings, Pietr. What be two more?”
He slammed the door.
I relinquished my grip.Better than a hand. Better than a hand.
The acolyte hovered, face slack, his long fingers flexing until they rounded into two fists.Scoutsor no, it was an acolyte’s hands I was to be at the mercy of, then Capriche’s come the morn…and all for the perceived sin of Demetri’s in my lap.
Hands.
Hands.
