“You and I have never seen eye to eye on what counts asessentialwork, Capriche.”
Capriche presented me with his drained cup, red eyes locked on Timothee. I tried not to stare.
“Bedding sisters whilst you preach chastity to the suburbs of Dendra is your divine purpose, is it?”
The other druid sputtered, wine dribbling down his chin, which was striped with more scarring. I stepped to the left, though still in ear’s reach, realising it may be infectious.
“Surely, it’s not because that’s the only part of the scripture your grace and wine-addled mind can remember, brother?” Capriche continued whilst Timothee coughed. “That wouldbe rather poor form… His Eminence may have to consider refreshing your memory.”
Timothee excused himself, clearing his throat, leaving Capriche alone.
I made to retreat to the wall.
“Stay, sister, I may have need of more wine.” The druid’s hand shot to my wrist, and I looked. I shouldn’t have looked, but I looked. Crimson irises bored into mine, pupils narrowing to pinpricks. He took a gulp from his goblet, unblinking, staring at me over its rim. I always imagined him an older, austere-looking man, with crooked teeth and pallid skin, not youthful and,fuck…handsome. I cast my gaze to the table, begging whichever godsforsaken deity was listening that he had not borne witness to the confusion within them. Druid Capriche was a long-serving druid, appointed as our enclave’s ward before I was born.
The heat from his grip tunnelled into my wrist, and my stomach turned to water, balls clenching.
Shit, shit, shit.He knew.
He knew I was no sister.
Before I could bolt, or try to knock the fucker out at least, the druids turned to the doors, another joining the fray.
A two-pointed helm inched down to where the rest of them sat, their robes longer than the others, trailing behind them like wraiths. Capriche released me, but I remained frozen, intent on the new druid just like all the rest.
Falstaff.
Veering towards the head of the table, every eye in the room tracked his thin frame as a sister pulled out a chair. He descended upon it slowly, bracing both hands on its arms, as if his arse were bone china and would chip upon the wood. Knobbly fingers reached for his helm, lifting it with the same rigidity in which he sat. He placed it, like a crown, on a tasselled cushion to his left.
My hand twitched, where I longed to bring it to my mouth to temper the retch rising in my throat.
Neck like a stick, cheeks hollow, eyes sunken, he looked older than all the druids here combined. A few thin strands of hair clung limply to his skull, but mostly he was bald as an acolyte. No eyebrows or eyelashes, his mouth nothing but a darkened hole. He bore the same scabbing, the same bumpy red rashes sported by Capriche and Timothee, but Falstaff… every inch of skin was smothered in it: his ears, his nose, his neck,fuck, even his eyelids. Under them, his eyes were so bloodshot, it was difficult to discern where his iris began, simply bleeding into one orb of red. He was more wound than man.
Gloved in silk, his hand stretched for a glass. Slowly, chatter started to build as the druids returned to their conversations. My heart hammered so loud, I was sure Capriche could hear it. How many could I cut down with a piece of flint? Two? Three? I eyed Capriche, but he ignored me entirely, his red gaze fixed upon Falstaff.
Any moment now, he’d reveal my secret.
But he didn’t; instead, he slouched back, shoulders relaxing, and offered his chalice.
“Wine, sister,” he ordered, his face angled towards Falstaff, who was fiddling with something round between his long thumbs.
I poured, slackening my face. Perhaps he had not noticed.Was I that pretty? Like flower.A different druid seated himself next to Capriche, this one covered in spots—leoparded in crimson over his clavicle and arms. After the briefest of stares, I stepped to the side, the picture of duty, just like the others.
I examined the rest under the flap of my headdress, careful not to linger on any one of them for too long. Some were worse than others, but each bore at least a patch of the strange red crust. A scar? Scab? Infection? A druid with long, deep-brownhair had only a strawberry-sized lump on his forearm, while others were mapped with it in sprawling clusters, though none were consumed by it like Falstaff. The Other only knew what hid beneath their robes.
“Speaking of eyes,” the druid next to Capriche continued, his voice nasal and pinched. I’d missed the beginning of their conversation. “Have you seen Falstaff’s new playthings? He’s been parading them around after a mead or two.”
Capiche’s mouth downturned before righting into an appeasing smile. “So I’ve heard. His tastes have grown a little…” He seemed to search for the word. “Perverse of late.”
The other barked a laugh. “If he starts carrying around a cock in his pocket, then I might deign to agree with you.” I wondered what enclave this druid belonged to. How many penancings he’d enacted under the guise of moral protection, now sat here, chugging wine and discussing with a fellow holy servant the peculiarities of severed dicks in pockets.
“What I meant is that he’s a short-sighted old fool,” returned Capriche, chuckling as if it were a joke.
It didn’t sound like one.
Nonetheless, the druid laughed alongside him, producing a pouch from his robes and dropping it onto the table. “On the subject of cocks,” he murmured, untying its strings. The front was embroidered in gold lettering, a large ‘G’ stitched in cursive. “I heard through a little-acolyte birdie that Vetrius is looking a little worse for wear.” My ears all but pricked. From his pocket, he retrieved a small spoon, dipping it into the sagging bag before lifting it to his nose. I angled back slightly, curious to see what substance it held, but with a sharp sniff, he’d inhaled the lot. Wetting his finger with a lick, he scooped up whatever still clung to its surface and rubbed it over his blood-red gums. A shiver wracked him, and he closed his eyes, allowing the tremors to move through him freely. “They say the succumbing hasspread…down there.” He opened his eyes, somehow a fiercer red than before, and pointed to his crotch. “Poor bastard. I thought him too high and mighty to take a sister to bed, but it explains why he never partakes or joins us in the Great Hall of late.”
Capriche’s face was neutrality given flesh, only the smallest flicker of something igniting his eyes. “Do you often discuss your superior’s cocks in this much detail? You should ask him to show you, Giamo. Or are you still fond of your head?”
