Page 93 of Crown of Thorns
PART III
MERCY
“Brothers. We know the core values of the brotherhood. We know that these form the basis of membership, together with status.”
They stood together, huddled in a circle, a large iron torch in the middle. Students from Saint-Laurent—brothers-to-be—and senior members who had traveled to Monterrey Castle for tonight’s punishment. There had been a violation of the rules and regulations.
“What kind of place would this world be without respect? When our ancestors created the Alpha Fraternarii, when they had left their homes in Paris and fled south for survival, it was all they needed.”
“Respect,” they echoed.
“Loyalty. It’s what kept them meeting up in our forest, night after night after night. Because they wanted to stay together, to defend each other in a crumbling world. Loyalty is our backbone.”
“Loyalty.”
“And traditions. Where would we be without them? Traditions are the fundamentals to survival. The world has become addicted to mass consumption, to noise, to quick fixes. But we… we honour our ancestors.”
“Traditions.”
They were all cloaked in black, but three wore ceremonial trim of winter-white fur stitched to their garments—status symbols for all to see. They didn’t always wear them. But tonight, they did. Tonight, they were executioners.
“Treachery has been poisoning our brotherhood,” said one of the white furs. He sounded young. The cane he leaned on was black and gold, crowned with a crow’s beak. His black eyes glimmered behind a white Venetian mask. “If you believe the brotherhood is pure pleasure, you are not welcome here. Ifyou think we are nothing but pompous, rich men, you are not welcome here!”
He thudded the cane into the stone. “If you believe we don’t need each other to shape the future, you arenotwelcome here.”
Cheers erupted. Hands lifted. Masks tilted. Breath caught. The entertainment waited in the wings, but punishment came first.
“Bring forward he who has sinned.”
The door groaned open. Two red-cloaked brothers entered with a man between them. He struggled, still protesting, voice hoarse from pleading.
“You haven’t understood your predicament,” said one of the white furs, laughing.
“You snake!” the man spat. “You know this is wrong!”
“Shut him up.”
A gag was shoved in. Ropes bit into flesh. His mask slipped. Tears streaked down his cheeks, catching candlelight like silver.
“Strip him.”
Hands tore away the mask. Silence held. Some gasped. Some whispered. Some grew hard.
The man with the crow-cane sneered. “You are no longer one of us.”
The man writhed, but it was already over.
“You shall no longer speak. You have been condemned by your brothers. Your family name is cursed. Evil must be expelled. You broke the vow.”
The accused sagged in his bindings, breath ragged, trembling as the torch’s heat wavered over his skin. A red cloak spat at his feet. Another turned away, as if the shame might catch.
“You spoke of what should never be spoken,” the white fur added, voice clipped. “You named a brother’s hunger to those who would not understand. That alone is treason.”
Two red cloaks dropped to their knees in front of him. They touched him, stroked him, sucked him, and despite the gag in his mouth, his groans betrayed him. The crowd tensed, aroused, repulsed, thrilled.
“Punishment... punishment…” they chanted.
The man’s muffled cries melted into the moans around him. More candles were lit. Cloaks rustled. Flesh met flesh in waves of heat and rhythm.
