Neither of us spoke, yet the Unmantle hummed, charged with an energy that rivalled the fiery heart of Ovidius. I half expected the walls to melt, turn molten with the press of it. Despite the chill, sweat slicked my skin; salt coating my lips.
Eventually, I stood, because one of us had to, though Ashara stayed seated, hands folded in her lap.
My helm waited where I had left it, mail pooled at its base like iron-dark blood. It stared at me. I stared back.
Unclasping the door to let her pass, helm firmly secured, I felt her gaze before I saw it: eyes the colour of moss in torchlight, boring through the mesh as she clambered free of the box. How did she imagine me now, after mapping my face with her fingertips? Still a monster? I hadn’t the courage to ask.
I led her through the hidden passage and back into my office, fighting the overwhelming urge to tear the helm from my head.
“My buttons!” The silence fractured with her shriek. “My buttons—my dress—I meant to ask—” Her eyes were wide, rounded and imploring.
“I am late for council, and I said no more questions.” I needed to leave, or we would both regret it. My fingers twitched.
She bowed her head, defeated.
Under the mesh, I bit my lip. “Out with it, Seamstress.”
My father would question my absence. I had missed several meetings already. There was likely a sweating paxiam stationed outside my door at this very moment, too terrified to knock, weighing which consequence would prove less painful: interrupting me, or returning to the council Vetrius-less.
“My dress—the one I was wearing. What happened to it? To the buttons?” She plucked at the grey, templum-issued gown.
“Incinerated,” I said, ushering her towards the door. “Turned to ash in the fires of the silent sisters’ communal.”
A look shuttered her face and my stomach cinched tight, as if weighed down by an acolyte’s belt.
I returned her to her chamber and set off for the ministerial rooms, intent on being present for at least the last turn. How curious, then, that my boots carried me not towards them at all, but to the sisters’ communal instead.
Chapter thirty
Demetri
The Apple
Never shall there any more be a Plague of Bloods to destroy the earth. Not while the Dendralis make good on His dues.9:11–13 - The Book of Dendralis
I don’t know why I was surprised, after all the shit that I’d seen, why the Dendralis would be anything other than complete and utter cunts.
Ashara had disappeared after the baths. I hoped she was somewhere safe. Somewhere merciful. Pits, even somewhere just warm and dry with a proper latrine.
Us other laurels were afforded no such luxury.
After the indulgence of one proper bath, Falstaff had made it clear there would be no others—thou art under inquisition, not a guest of the templum. It’s my fault, really, for assuming mercy. I should have known better.
I did know better.
Eyeing the keyhole for what must have been the hundredth time, I fiddled with a blunt iron nail between my thumb and forefinger, as if I could roll it like dough into something longer and finer…something distinctly more key-like.
“If my soul is ever dragged from the pits to endure this earthly plain once more, Blood God make me a locksmith, nay a crusiax,” I implored to the vaulted stone above.
“Or a flea,” Maxius grunted from his perch with Roderiq in the corner—the one we didn’t use to piss in. “Locked doors would be easy work then, brother. Though perchance you’d bite Falstaff’s bony arse on your way to merry freedom?”
I gnashed my teeth at him, earning a laugh.
“Hush,” Roderiq whispered, blue eyes sweeping the cell as though an acolyte might crawl from some crack in the mortar.
Maxius’ face split into another grin, white teeth stark against the deep brown of his lips. “Let them hear, Rod,” he said. “Let them hear how Falstaff’s arse deserves a good biting and smite me for it. Blood God knows I can’t take another breath in this stinking hovel, we’ve been in here for days—”
Roderiq pressed a hand to Maxius’ mouth, then yelped when he pulled it away not a second later.
