Flow unto me.

Darkness suddenly spread over the room. Larkin lifted his eyes to see that other priests had entered, placing concave silver pieces over the torches to put them out. They stood all around in a circle, their pale faces glowing in the blackness, floating like ghosts. The only light now came from the gap in the ceiling, high above their heads, where the moons sent a dim light down to them. The pillows were arranged around the middle pool of water, Sashin on one side and Larkin on the other. They sat, Sashin with the baby in front of him, the little thing screaming and wailing. The cut was minor and trickled very little blood, but it was enough for the time being – a priest brought Sashin a tiny silver dish which he slid over the cut, gathering enough blood to pool in the bottom of it.

“You must remove your robe, sire,” Sashin said. The underling priest came around the pool of black water to extend the dish of blood to him. Before taking it, Larkin removed the robes from his shoulders and slipped out the laces of his shirt, pushing it down with them. He held the dish in his hands and looked to Sashin, amusement on his face. Sashin tried to hide his displeasure that Larkin’s seriousness had gone. The baby hiccupped and he stared down at it. He was almost sick. This was the sort of play that entertained Larkin, his King. Gods save him if this spell did not satisfy the man.

He wondered what came of the whore he had pulled off the streets, the one Larkin had sought for after their last visit.

A smile lifted Larkin’s lips, “Do you want me to drink this, the blood of an infant?”

It was not meant to be an infant. Sashin pushed the hood from his head and met Larkin’s eyes. They shone with fire, yet he felt goose bumps lift the skin all over his body. “A sip.”

Larkin’s red tongue wet his lips and he lifted the tray to his mouth, tipping it slightly. The priesthood looked on, watching as he pulled his lips into his mouth, cleaning them of the blood. Baby’s blood. The priest standing next to him took the dish and dipped down his finger in the remainder of the substance. With it, he made seven red marks across Larkin’s shoulders and collarbone. Sashin had made his own markings, rubbing a large red circle into the center of his forehead. The baby howled when Sashin touched her. Its screams echoed off the walls.

“How long must I endure that sound?” Larkin asked, chin tucked against his neck to stare down at the blood on his chest. His wound was unwrapped and had not yet begun to bleed again.

“Not long,” Sashin whispered. He stood, motioned for Larkin to do the same. He picked the baby up out of its blanket, and held it naked, facing Larkin. It screamed and the blood flowed, small trickles oozing down its fine skin. The baby curled its hands into fists and kicked its legs. Every few seconds it paused wailing to suck in a breath of air. The priest with the tray sat it down on the edge of the pool and came to Sashin. He bent to pick up the dagger and lifted it, waiting for instruction. He stared at Sashin, the expression beneath his hood doing no good to hide his dislike of this ritual.

Sashin looked past the child to Larkin. He did not dare to question Larkin a third time. But he waited, let the moments go by in hopes that the man would change his mind. But Larkin did no such thing. He mouth remained closed, his eyes bore into Sashin.

The priests that had stood in the shadows moved forward. They began to link hands with one another. Sashin’s voice rose above the child’s cries, speaking in a language Larkin was familiar with. It was old, ancient, in use only by the Lune priests. Larkin smiled as he listened. Sashin was calling upon Stryphus to see their sacrifice, to hear them and to touch them with his power. To grant them their requests and spread their curse like a plague. It was a curse Larkin had wanted.

A curse on the boy.

Amongst other things. Sashin asked the God for Larkin to be triumphant against his enemies. He asked that all who Larkin commanded would bow to him or break beneath his feet.

Movement caught Larkin’s eye. He glanced down to the pool. The moon was moving to reflect itself in the black water. It moved as if time had sped and Larkin could not take his eyes from it. Sashin’s words blurred together and they became a chant, the other priests joining in. The same phrase, over and over again.

They were asking for Stryphus’ presence.

The moon covered the entirety of the pool, reflecting orange into the room. Sashin’s eyes glowed with it. Larkin looked up to see the open mouth of the baby, though its screams drowned out in the voices of the priests. He felt a burning suddenly and he lifted his fingers to the blood on his chest. They burned like fire on his skin.

A long red line of liquid fell to the surface of the pool. It spread over the orange moon as if the water had rejected it. It bled onto the moon, covering it in red. The baby had disappeared from Sashin’s hands and the priest beside him held the silver dagger at his side, dripping with blood. The burning on Larkin’s skin grew intense and the voices louder in his ears. He resisted the urge to wipe the blood from himself, to cover his ears so he would not hear the deafening chant.

Stryphus.

The bloodied water stirred. The surface bulged and shrank, finally erupting into the air. Sashin ran to Larkin, screaming at him over the voices, “You speak the curse, my King!”

Larkin did not step back from the water and blood as it stretched up to the ceiling, forming something. It writhed like it was alive, colored in dark, dark red. Sashin had the dagger now and was cutting the stitches in Larkin’s chest.

“I will be Master over this land and beyond it,” he said to the shape. Sashin cried at this. Demand nothing, he screamed, ask and you will receive. But Larkin did not heed this. He pushed Sashin aside and stepped forward. “If the sorceress lives, I will have her die at the hands of those she loves.

“I will have her dead.

“I will have a curse on all who oppose me and their blood kin.

“I will have the boy; he shall never find peace unless it is with me. You will bring me the boy. Instill upon him the deepest feeling of urgency. He will know. All whom he loves and love him shall perish.”

Sashin was on his knees, clutching at Larkin’s pants, telling him he would anger the God. The shape now formed a great winged creature. The bloody wings moved in slow rhythm. A snouted head on a long neck twisted up over them and stilled as if to watch and listen. Sashin was consumed with fear; his body trembled against Larkin’s leg.

Only he and the priest remained. The others had fled.

A great rumbling sound shook the stone walls. It threw Larkin from his feet. The pillows softened his landing. The wound in his chest bled onto the fabrics and he placed his hand over it to stop the flow. He turned his face to peer up at the colossal shape, and realized the rumbling was the voice of Stryphus. He felt something deep inside of him, a belief, a knowing, a certainty.

The rumbling went on and though Larkin tried to listen, to decipher the words, he couldn’t.

”Priest,” he shouted.

Sashin was still on his knees, clutching at his chest. His eyes were squeezed tight and his mouth moved but Larkin heard nothing. He moved close and placed his ear near Sashin’s mouth. The priest was speaking, “… no peace beyond the presence of my son…

“… unto my son the mastery of all in his eyes…

“… unto my son…”

And Sashin fainted into Larkin’s arms, only to be thrown to the ground. Larkin stood and turned to the dwindling shape, falling to the edge of the pool as it receded into the water. The ripples stilled and the color faded, leaving the water black and empty.