Page 101 of The Lost Reliquary
That’s it. No other instruction or explanation. Within moments, he’s gone and I’m alone. The paper itches between my fingers, but for a long minute, all I can hear are Avery’s words.
They want to meet you.
The heretics. The true ones, not the ineffectual priests slowly roasting down by the bay. The ones that hold the chance to free myself from Tempestra-Innara. From things likethis. I sit with that hopefulness so long that Nolan is through the door of the Petrel before I realize I’m still holding the map. I stuff it into my pocket right before he spots me and takes the seat occupied by Avery only minutes before.
“Is it over?” I don’t let him speak first, share some detail I’d rather not hear.
“Yes.” He sounds… tired.
“And Caius, is he satisfied?”
Did he enjoy himself?Nolan’s eyes flicker up, understanding my real question. “For the moment. The other Salt Sects have probably made some connections, though. They should keep their distance. But wherever you’ve hidden the Renderers’ wares, best leave them a little longer.”
“Sure.”
A tense minute passes, during which faces file through my thoughts. Magda. The woman who served out her sentence. Tychus. Marzela and the Salt priests. Every one of them offered up, by us, in order to reach our singular goal. I wonder if Nolan carries any guilt at all. It’s a question I can’t ask, not knowing what answer I’d want to hear.
So, a different one: “Do you think it will be enough?” Whether I’m talking about for the heretics or for Caius, I’m not sure, and Nolan doesn’t ask for clarification.
“I don’t know… but it will have to be. Either the heretics make a move, or Caius does. Because I’ve made all the ones I can think of.”
The admission sounds more like a confession, one that crawls over me and climbs into the pocket of my jacket right next to the map, heavy as an iron ingot.
They want to meet you. Tonight.
Nolan may not know it, but the next move has already been made.
Forty
The Salt tunnels are both temple and tomb.
—CYPRENE SAYING
EVENING FALLS WITH Asyrupy slowness. I listen carefully until the sounds of the common room fade away, then wait another hour. By then, a dark calm has fallen on Cyprene, and I can’t bear to wait any longer. I spin lies as I make my escape from the Petrel, just in case Nolan decides to check in on me again—I needed a walk, to clear my head, get some air that doesn’t smell like grilled priest. I can’t help but pause and watch the dark window of his room, but with any luck, he’s fast asleep. I don’t know what kinds of dreams Nolan has—better than mine hopefully—but I wish him a good one. Something to cover the fact that his partner is going behind his back with the intention to destroy hisrealdreams.
Partner.When did that word start sounding real? I hate it. Hate that for over a decade, I didn’t feel a lick of remorse for fantasizing about tearing the whole of Tempestra-Innara’s empire down to nothing. About watching every one of my blood brethren cut from their divine mooring and set free to sink or swim as they could. And now, after a few weeks working with a backstabbing, overly ambitious Dusk Potentiate whom I should have been pitted against and not teamed up with?
I still want the Goddess dead. But it feels less fun now.
Nolan offering up the Salt priests may have sat poorly, but I have no doubt: That’s the reason the heretics are willing to meet with me now. It’s an opportunity bought in blood, settled with ash. I’m not going to waste it.
Get to the heretics.
Get the reliquary.
Get back to Lumeris and kill a goddess.
That’s the plan.
I spot the first marker on the map—one of the massive statues of the Salt Goddess carved into a cliff, distinctive by the stone octopus clinging to her breast like a feeding child. It takes me nearly an hour to reach its base, the buildings giving way to a strip of ancient ruins. From this vantage, the Salt Goddess is a colossus looming over me, ghostly pale in the moonlight. I examine the note again. The drawing of the statue is distinct, but I can see dozens of entrances into the cliffs around it—simple ones with no more decoration than a curved top to elaborately carved portals with heavy, steel-studded doors. Like Tychus warned, the cliff dwellings don’t come with much by way of directions. And going in the wrong one means I might never come out again.
If only the heretics didn’t need to be so fucking cryptic. I examine the drawing again, specifically the bottom of the statue, where there’s a heavier press of ink, a bit of scratching near the Salt Goddess’s feet. Or maybe it’s a fold of their robe. I can’t tell.
The breeze picks up suddenly, ripping the paper from my fingers.
“Shit.”
I give chase as it twists in the air and catch the paper near a chipped lump that used to be one of the statue’s toes. There, I smell it—a dampness that’s not entirely ocean. The minerally scent of cold stone. Crouching down, I find a fissure beneath the carved garment, barely there, but wide enough for a person to fit through.That’swhat the drawing was indicating. I say a little prayer before I enter. Not to Tempestra-Innara, but rather to the Salt Goddess, for daring to do something so scandalous as go under their robes without first asking permission.
