At long last she opened them, and gave a small, shaky nod, the movement constrained by the crimson knot at her throat.
The best I could give her was simply to gape. Gape and remember to force air in my lungs.
“What have they done to you, sister?”
Chapter thirty-one
Demetri
The Throat
All flesh died that moved upon the earth, turned to cold, hard stone. -8:4-3 - Book of Dendralis
Esioul didn’t swing from her chains anymore. She didn’t laugh, didn’t speak. In fact, if it wasn’t for Maxius, with his natural patience and tenacity with a spoon, she wouldn’t eat, either.“Come on, lamb, one more.” He nudged the slop of soaked bread to her lips, tempting them open. Spilt milk dribbled down her chin before he wiped it away with a tattered sleeve, undaunted by the holes in her face. The sisters had done as good a job as they could, and the wounds remained free from infection and rot. Between them and Maxius, her dressings were changed regularly until each pit had scabbed. He lowered the spoon. “A nibble on my finger, then?” he coaxed. “I’ll even let you bite it.”
If not for the rise and fall of her chest, I would have thought her dead—her head limp against her shoulder, her palms upturned, fingers slack where they rested on the flagstone.“Let her starve, ye dolt. More for us.” Iagor spent most of his time curled in a ball, scratching crude etchings into the wall with a splinter of flint, facing away from the rest of us. That suited me fine, since no one wanted to look at his miserable face anyway—we were depressed enough. Although I’d be whiny too if my cock had been skewered like a prawn. Max ignored him. “One spoonful, just one, and I’ll recount the time I robbed an acolyte whilst he penanced a thief.” He lifted the spoon again, wafting its contents under her nose. Esioul stayed unmoving, her eyeless stare fixed on the stone wall to her front.
I twiddled with a piece of straw I’d plucked from the sunken mattress, its stalk a yellowing brown. The motion strained my wrist, though the holes were nearly healed. That one fucker though had been deep enough to meet bone. It was a small mercy they had not inquisitioned us for almost two weeks.
“I’ll tell ye anyhow.” Max’s deep voice was a balm in the darkness.
The tapers had long since burned to wick; the lone sconce, our last source of light, casting an orange glow over his dark skin.His eyes sparkled, mouth animated with the throes of nostalgia. He told her a story most days, though she never requested one, nor ever responded to them.
Roderiq shuffled closer, rubbing Max’s arm and listening to his tale far more intently than Esioul. I tossed the strand of straw to the ground, hugging my knees to my chest.
“Brother.” Max motioned his head to where I sat, my eyes meeting his over the caps of my knees. “Come, tell Esioul of the cursed caves in Ordana.”
“Not today, Max.” I was bored of that story. I was bored of waiting. I was bored ofHis loveand their questions and threats, and I was perilously, doltishly close to doing something very foolish. More foolish than Osric.Hold on a little longer, cherish each boon.
Max’s shoulders slackened, and he tossed the wooden spoon into the bowl with a plop. A deep sigh pushed from his nose, looking every inch defeated.
For love of the pits.“Esioul,” I called, knowing I’d get no reaction. “Why don’t you ask Iagor to tell you about that time his dick was—” A slash of pain lanced through my brow. “Fuck.” I swiped at it with the back of my hand, my knuckles streaked with fresh blood.
Iagor turned back to the wall, his hands freed of the shard he’d been etching with. Instead, it lay upturned in my lap, its jagged edge crimsoned with blood.
“What the fuck, you toothless worm?” I pressed the wound and glanced over at Max. His head was tipped forward, eyes warning from under his brow.Never mock a man’s groin, he seemed to say.
Esioul’s mouth quirked, a hint of a smile lifting its corners.
I nudged my head to the left, trying to alert Max without speaking, lest she close her mouth again. He cracked a wide smile, relishing the chance to start shovelling spoonfuls of foodonto her tongue, and she let him, though he barely waited for her to chew before ladling in another.
I twiddled the flint, another weapon to add to my splinter of wood. Sharp enough, perhaps, to slit a throat… I traced its edge, where it grazed the skin rather than split it. Perhaps a quill, then, if Adelaide ever returned with another roll of parchment.
The days turned, one after the other, and that seemed less and less likely.
It hurt—thinking of her, of them both—and I pressed the flint harder, trying to temper the ache. But it came anyway. Adelaide, her ruined, beautiful skin; Ashara, locked away somewhere unknown, despite my sister’s assurances she was unharmed, for now.
Had she read my letter?
I’d rehearsed my words turnly since Adelaide had equipped me with the small nub of coal and strip of parchment in the stillroom. Whether what I’d said was enough, or I’d penned the right message. If Ashara would be able to read within three sentences, my sentiments that were enough to fill a whole book, the small strip of parchment ill-suiting for the oaths upon oaths I’d wanted to lay before her. Whether I could keep them…that was another matter entirely.
I’d wanted to vow to slit the Butcher’s throat. To promise to burn the whole templum to ashes, just like the Blood Tree. To see each monk, acolyte and druid, beheaded and bleeding and punctured with holes. To snap every bone in Falstaff’s brittle body and lay them before her, an offering blasphemous enough to usher in another bout of His plagues. I wanted to tell her the truth: that for eight cycles, I’d thought of her nightly, and now, thought of her even more still. Turnly, every minute, every breath. I wanted to tell her I could still feel the ghost of her wrapped around the length of me, though we’d barely joined. That it would never be enough, but also, more than I’d everdared to hope for. I wanted to recount the suppleness of her skin under my touch, the heat of her breath in my mouth. The incomparable feeling of her warm, wanting cunt.
Instead, I had rationed a few words, just the most pressing of all.
I will find you. Hold on a little longer. We will take wing, or else plummet together.
I will find—
