A seed be greater than the grandest of templums, for when it is grown, it becometh a tree.
Birds roost in its arms. Worms sup at its feet. All manner of beasts feast from its hands. For it is creation most pure, and hath no need of wickedness, nor ambition, nor greed.
But the hearts of men were hardened, and they regarded not the tree, but only the fruit which it bore.
They broke its arms. Dug up its feet. Pillaged its hands.
And the Other beheld it, and sorrow filled Their heart; and such was Their sorrow that the seas were watered with Their tears, and the tides were made salt by the torrent thereof.
Yet the Other is merciful, and slow to wrath.
And the Other spake, saying: I shall make a covenant with thee, that what was stolen shall be restored, and that which was taken shall be returned—
Sat atop fresh bedding—my thanks to the sisters—I devoured theWord of the Other.
TheBook of Dendralislay beyond most Thromarrians’ reach, written in Dendrae—a script reserved for the study of holy men only. We heard it in sermons, heralded from the pulpit, but always through the invisible mouth of a druid, always intoned in Capriche’s deep drawl.
But these words, prostrated before me, were allmineto behold. It was the story of creation, but not the story I knew.
I handled the pages with the utmost care, readying to learn the covenant of the Other—whether it was as carnivorous as the one demanded by the Blood God. I’d always regarded the Other as the more merciful of the two, though less powerful. There to do the bidding of the Blood God; a ward of our bodiless soulsonce He’d drained us dry. His objective simply to usher us to the beyond or send us to broil in the pits. I turned the page.
Wrath begets wrath, and all shall…
The telltale scrape of a key froze my hands. I stashed the tome under my pillow, certain it was Vetrius, but just to be safe.
“Bereft for lack of my company—”
A sinking, dragging feeling, like a plug pulled from a basin, twisted in my stomach.
A dual-pointed helm glinted in the afternoon sun, pouring in from the window high above our heads as he crossed over the threshold. Behind him floated one, two, three acolytes, their belts scratching the stone as they trailed on the floor.
The last to enter closed the door at his back, sealing it shut with a neat, quiet click. With another key, he locked it from the inside. I remained on the bed, legs criss-crossed, barely breathing, readying for a fight. Ormercy.
Mercy, mercy, mercy.
If my blessing failed, he would come in its stead. He would smell my fear. Even I could smell it—acrid, metallic, and sharp.
He would come.
Falstaff lurked closer, his movements slow but assured. The acolytes flanked him, as they’d done in the Room of Rites, ready to serve as fleshy shields should any lumps of stone fall from above. Their fingers drummed together in steeples, the hemp string of their belts threaded between them like twine. I could almost feel them trailing upward, higher and higher.
Shooting from the bed, I pressed my back to the dresser, the farthest I could be from the claws of their reach. Fumbling, I grasped at the handle behind me, the one attached to the left-sided drawer, hidden behind the breadth of my hips. They stopped their ascent, eyes flickering to each other before settling on Falstaff.
“Your acolytes seem a little on edge, Druid.” I tugged on the handle, testing to see if it made any sound.
He huffed through his nose, air squeaking as if one nostril was blocked. “Ah, the ever-elusive grey laurel. What a wonder it is to behold thee once more. For I feared I should never again be granted an audience with thee, what with Vetrius guarding you like some mutt in heat.”
I swallowed, aware of a distinct, blessing-less normalcy coursing through my veins. No heat, no stirring, and none of that rapturous elation that bloomed from my chest.
Vetrius would come.
“I cannot say the sentiment is returned, Your Holiness,” I replied, encouraged by the silent hinges to pull more on the drawer.
He hooked his gloved fingers on the chained belt at his waist, resting like talons. “So that infamous tongue hath yet to be tamed. I dare say Druid Vetrius grant thee too long a leash. Does he not penance thee for such disobedience?”
The rehearsed lies pooled on my tongue, ready to flow with the smoothness of truth. The drawer edged open just enough for a finger. “Druid Vetrius has been most thorough in my penancings, Your Holiness. When I am sluggish, he canes me. When I am idle, I am made to stand on hot coals. When I show disrespect, he whips me with a rope no thicker than my thumb, as the Book of Dendralis decrees.”
Two points veered to the right as Falstaff tilted his neck, the movement weighted and stiff.
