I jumped at the knock, fumbling to conceal the flint in a loose seam of my breeches. It was not the sharp rap of an acolyte that echoed through the dim, but something far worse: the gentle tapping of a sister, a sound that seemed to mourn the day before it was done. I knew with terrible certainty before it had even opened that it would not be Adelaide on the other side, come to steal me away. Our rest was over, and another inquisition was due.
Iagor groaned, his curved shoulders rattling with a wet sob.
“Come, Iagor, or they’ll fetch the acolytes,” Roderiq urged, helping Maxius lift Esioul to her feet. She let them angle her as they wished, like Ashara’s doll she’d sewn from hay and spare fabric—Matilda,she’d called her, before giving her to Adelaide.
I smiled, remembering the little thing’s face that we’d stained with charred wood, trying to mimic Adelaide’s own beautiful marks—the crinkled brown patches she’d worn on her face since birth. No longer, though; not now that a druid had seen fit to purge them with his “absolving” hand.
I spat on the floor and rolled my shoulders, knowing whatever pain awaited me, I deserved. Deserved it for all the things I imagined doing to Falstaff when my thoughts strayed from Ashara. Terrible things. Unspeakable things. Things that would see me broiling eternal in the pits.
With a phlegmy sniff, Iagor hoisted himself upright, eyes red and swollen, and turned to face the door as it creaked open, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of us.
In the threshold stood a gaggle of sisters, Adelaide’s small frame nowhere among them. What they did have, though, were enough bells between them to raise the alarm should one of us try to flee. I’d thought about it. A lot. Too much.
The tall, burly one seemed to scent it as we made our way to the inquisition cell, closing in behind me. The small mercy she’d granted Adelaide—ten minutes alone with me—seemed all but forgotten, her shoes near-scraping my ankles.
But with a wash of that foolish liquor of hope, we passed the cell by, heading instead for the stillrooms. Roderiq cast a puzzled glance over his shoulder; I shrugged, already mapping the different torments one might endure through the guise of healing. Perhaps we were not headed there at all. I began to sweat at the possibility we were on a march to our deaths, the sisters leading us down an alternative route to the Room of Rites. That, or some unknown ditch; the templum’s cesspit.
My hand fingered the flint and splinter in my pocket. It sickened me, a little, knowing I may have to kill a sister. A difficult feat with so many swarming our fronts and our backs. But I’d do it, or at least try to. To find her. To fly.
Just wait a little while longer.
My hand loosened its grip, my heart fractionally calming, as we stopped outside the stillrooms, pausing our descent into the templum’s bowels. I let out a grateful breath and eyed the sister to my right, a pale, wispy thing, the veins in her wrist a marble of blue. I gulped, forcing myself not to imagine what it would feel like to slit them; the thought made it hard to breathe. Still, the feeling was nothing compared to the one that hollowed my chest whenever I grappled with the notion of never seeing Ashara again.
Roderiq disappeared into his room ahead, his shaggy hair rustling with the turn of his head as he no doubt searched for Maxius behind. But Maxius was gone. Esioul was gone. Already locked in their stillrooms, facing whatever awaited on the other side.
I was ushered in, two sisters nipping at my heels, the rest waiting outside, who promptly locked the door. Ropes draped over one of the two chairs, the one meant for me. Leather straps hung from its arms and legs, unbuckled, ready to wrap around my wrists and ankles. Something settled in the pit of my stomach, churning ever since the inquisitions had ended. On the small table to my right—usually stocked with linen strips, cleansing solution, and scorchers—rested a jar. Its contents writhed.
“Leeches?” I found myself asking, though knowing no one would reply. The tall one surpassed me and nodded, her stern eyes softening.
“Fuck me.” I settled myself into the chair, readying to be bound, my head falling back against its highest plank. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
But before any of them could get on with it, the door creaked open again, and so did one of my eyes.
An acolyte, hands cupped, joined the sisters in front of me.
“Blood Demands Blood,” he intoned, glassy eyes alight with delight.
“Yes. Blood DemandsfuckingBlood. Have we not learned that lesson by now?”
The acolyte smiled at my insolence, gums bleeding at the edges. “And yet, the student has yet to master its content.”
He struck my face with an angular hand, sending my neck careening to the left. I smiled, spitting blood onto the floor, my gums now probably as red as his.
“The High Druid, His Holiest Eminence, requires samples of your blood, laurel. Something you will give freely, as is demanded.”
“Of course,” I acquiesced, tasting iron on my tongue. “Whatever the render, please do take and take and take. What need have I of it, anyhow?”“What need indeed,” repeated the Acolyte, his brow assessing, his face somehow familiar. Though all Acolytes looked the same. A cunt is a cunt is a cunt.“Bind him, sister. Ensure he cannot move to disturb the blood’s flow. Attach the leeches here,” a stained finger jabbed at my navel, slightly to the right. “Here,” he lifted it to my chest, slightly to the left, over my heart, which had long since given up being either hopeful or scared, resigning itself to a monotonous thud.
“And here.” He pointed to the inside of my thigh, far, far too close to my groin, and my balls shrivelled.
“And lastly, here.” He lowered his hand to the soles of my feet. “Fill as many as you can and deposit them in the correct bowls. For Blood Demands Blood.”The sisters cupped their hands and bowed.
“If he should protest the demands, keep a tally of his dues, and mark them on his wrist with this.” He produced an iron spike from his belt, handing it to the shorter of the two. “We shall see him penanced for the trouble.”
With that, he left as swiftly as he came, the brush of his robes against my shin eliciting a shudder. The sisters hesitated, fiddling with their hands and shooting each other panicked glares long after the door was sealed, as if they didn’t quite know where to start. “I won’t bite,” I assured them. “Do what you must.” A leech or two was still better than the Hand of the Blood God, and I could use the time to think, and scheme andplot.I eyed the tall one, toying with the idea of asking her about Adelaide, if the other sister deigned to leave us.
“Though I’m a marvel with my hands, sisters, even I cannot tighten my own binds. I’m afraid you’re going to have to—”
The door swung open again.
