Giamo’s eyes widened before he quickly recovered. “Capriche, my brother, you should know I’m wiser than that.” His fingers toyed with the pouch, twisting its fabric, as if he was fondling his own balls. “I only talk behind his back, lest my own be unseamed. We all know what a nasty temper he has.”
I considered the Butcher’s many penancings the less heinous of his crimes had he harmed but a single hair upon Ashara’s head.
Before Capriche’s reply, the druid ripped open the pouch again, forgoing the spoon to simply dip his finger inside. Another indulgent sniff followed by a shudder of ecstasy. There were other pouches now on the table, too—different druids all doing the same thing as Giamo.
“How much grace have you had today?” questioned Capriche over his cup, nodding at the pouch.
Grace?
Giamo wiggled his nose, avoiding his stare. “The usual.”
“You know it’s under ration.”
Giamo smiled, his teeth stark white against the red of his gums. “Have you not heard the news, brother? A fresh batch arrived this morn—victims of a blood plague three centuries past, found by the scouts… Some settlement to the west, high up in the mountains. Rejoice, for the Blood God hath replenished us!”
My mind reeled, trying to determine what in the fuckety of all fucks was he talking about. The blood plagues? The scouts?
“It’s finite, Giamo. Pace yourself. Need I remind you we still have no tree.” Capriche’s brow turned scolding.
“I have faith that His Eminence and His Holiness will provide.” Giamo’s red eyes shifted from left to right, like flames stuttering in the wind. “The acolytes whisper that they’ve located a replacement.”
Capriche stifled a choke on his wine. “Where—”
“Hear thee, my brothers!” Falstaff rose, the movement strained, his thin arms spreading wide, palms upturned. Silence shrouded the hall, every shoulder turning towards his voice. Something deep inside me twisted; he was nothing more than a body left too long on the pyre, flesh hardened and refusing to crease where it should. He moved as if pain threaded every joint, each gesture slow as it was unyielding.
“I cometh here, to your nightly revels, with the most joyous of tidings.” His cheeks twitched, as if he were trying to smile. “His Eminence, under the guiding hand of our most ingenious Lord, hath found a solution to what ails you.”
The hall bristled, an excitable swell infecting the whispers of druids.
“Well, what ails most of you. As for mineself, I wear our colour proudly. A gift bestowed, a token of fortitude and might from the Blood God.”
I chewed on the conclusion that the scabbing was indeed a disease, milling it over until my jaw ached.
Falstaff curled his fingers into a fist, manoeuvring them over where his heart should have been.
“Yet I ken it beareth certain…difficulties which the rest of ye struggle to endure.” His sympathy felt mocking somehow. As if he could not fathom why they would not want to be consumedby it, like him, a blood clot made flesh. “The rubification, or the succumbing, as some among ye name it, may yet be undone.”
“How?” a druid yelled from the far end of the table.
“When?” another demanded, their voices clambering atop one another.
“Another gift of His divine rule.” Falstaff raised his voice to a shout, competing with the roar of questions hurtled to him by the druids. The sisters glanced at one another, flashes of panic quickly tamed into blank faces.
Falstaff waited for silence, content to let them beg. “The grey laurel,” he finally revealed.
I dropped the carafe at the same time as Capriche coughed, masking the sound as it thudded on the bear fur rug. He peered up at me, brow furrowed, eyes motioning to the fallen glass. I bent to collect it, masking my expression into that of a sister’s indifference.
“We hath discovered the most delectable secret. Her blood…it is a blessing from the Blood God, as we first suspected.”
The chatter roared alongside the ringing in my ears. Ashara’s blood? I’d learnt that lies and truths were one and the same in the templum, and it was becoming harder and harder to distinguish them both. I tried anyway, listening for any hints of deception in Falstaff’s oily voice.
“Where is she?” a voice yelled from near the hearth, this druid’s skin heavily mottled.
“Cooped within her fair cage, where none may lay hand upon her. Thou knowest how Druid Vetrius is with that which he claimeth as his own. Parry, I fancy not for long, not now that we hath discovered the truth. He must learn to share.” Falstaff’s mouth stretched as much as it could into a grimace more than a smile.
A ripple of nervous laughter.
“He is busied with the gathering and corking a supply. By the morrow, a few samples shall be prepared. His Eminence hath called for any willing to sample its fruits.”
