The Tongue of the Liar

The Steward, a man named Gorm, lived in the only warm room in the keep. While the peasants in the Great Hall froze, Gorm had three braziers burning peat and lavender.

He lay in his bed, sweating. The plague had touched him—the black buboes were swelling in his armpits—but he was not dead yet. He was drunk on stolen wine.

Elian stood at the foot of the bed. He held a curved surgical knife, the steel sterilized in the fire.

Malphas leaned against the doorframe, examining a tapestry. "He told the Baron the granaries were empty," the demon commented idly. "Meanwhile, he sold the wheat to the merchants in the south. Fifty children died of starvation this month because of his ledger entries."

Elian looked at the fat, wheezing man. Gorm’s mouth hung open, snoring.

"He is sick," Elian said. "It is not honorable."

"Honor is a story men tell themselves to justify dying," Malphas said. He pushed off the wall and glided to Elian’s side. He stood behind him, close enough that Elian could feel the cold radiating from the demon’s body.

Malphas reached around and placed his hand over Elian’s hand—the one holding the knife.

"Think of it as a mercy," Malphas whispered against Elian’s ear. "He spreads poison with his words. We are simply removing the stinger."

Elian looked at Gorm. He thought of the hollow-eyed children in the village. He thought of the lies he had told himself to justify burning his sister. *She is a witch. She has to be.*

"Do it," Malphas coaxed. "Cut the lie out."

Elian moved.

He didn't wake Gorm. He grabbed the man’s jaw, forcing it wide. He used a heavy iron clamp to hold the tongue extended.

Gorm woke up then. His eyes bulged. He tried to scream, but the clamp choked him.

"Shh," Malphas said, leaning over the bed. He smiled at the terrified man. "It’s just a little tithe."

Elian’s hand was steady. Inquisitor training. He knew anatomy.

He sliced.

The blade severed the frenulum. Gorm thrashed, blood spraying across the fine linen sheets. Elian worked with grim, mechanical efficiency. He cut through the muscle at the root.

With a wet, sucking sound, the tongue came free.

Gorm passed out from the shock.

Elian stood back, breathing hard. He held the piece of flesh in a jar of vinegar Malphas had provided. His hands were covered in hot, sticky red.

He waited for the guilt. He waited for the crushing weight of sin.

But it didn't come.

Malphas took the jar. He held it up to the firelight, admiring the specimen.

"Beautiful," Malphas murmured. He looked at Elian. His gaze dropped to Elian’s bloody hands.

The demon smiled, a look of genuine pride. "You have such steady hands, my saint. It’s art."

Elian looked at the blood. It felt warm. It felt... right.