Page 113 of The Lost Reliquary
With anyone else in the world I’d be calling bullshit. But not Nolan. For all his lies and manipulations, there’s one truth about him that has remained immutable—Nolan wants to serve. Whether as avatar in Lumeris or pariah in Cyprene, his dedication to Tempestra-Innara is pure, absolute. So absolute that jealousy rises in me suddenly. It steals the moisture from my mouth, puts a lump in my throat, simply from the ease of it.
Nolan hasn’t spent his life filled with hate, fueled and burned by it at the same time. He hasn’t felt the cold touch of hope followed by the discovery that success would be an entirely different—and unimaginable—creature than expected. Nolan aspired, yes, but the fall from that attempted climb has always been cushioned by the simple comfort that to serve Tempestra-Innara is enough for him.
“And maybe,” he continues, face turning away. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with some company.”
The lump grows. What if thiswasenough?
Cyprene isn’t freedom, but it’s freer than anything else I’ve ever known. Would suffering here, so far from the Goddess’s light, be any worse than suffering closer to it? Would I end up as desperate as Fedic, or could I make peace with the longing? Is there somewhere between accepting I can’t escape what the Goddess made me and destroying them and the whole of their world?
Low service is still service.Can an undesirable life still be a fulfilling one?
My gaze creeps back to Nolan.
And what circumstances could bridge those two things?
We don’t need to do this.Idon’t need to do this. Osiron’s battle with Tempestra-Innara may be inevitable, but it doesn’t have to be mine. I’ve been seeing my choice as two extremes: suffer beneath the Goddess or serve Osiron by helping usher in their new-world vision. But Cyprene is proof that there could be another option. That I could find a corner of existence where I might find less than I dreamed of, but more than I’ve ever had.
The idea is like picking at a wound, peeling away at skin and scab, unsure whether infection lies below. But I don’t get a chance to find out. Nolan starts suddenly, turning toward the figure that has appeared on the steps above us. Dark has fully fallen, and Avery, fully cloaked, has the appearance of a misplaced shadow. Before we join him, Nolan and I share a silent acknowledgment that whatever is going to happen, it happens now.
No more delays.
No more chances.
We turn back to Avery, Nolan raising a hand in greeting.
But before either of them can say anything, Avery bucks forward, as if punched from behind. He catches himself at the top step. Then, he looks down, cloak shifting aside just enough to reveal the point of the arrow sticking through his chest.
Forty-four
As the sea rose, so did the fear on the faces of the condemned. They began to beg, to plea for mercy as they strained against the stone pillars. Little good it did. Perhaps the followers of the Salt Goddess would have once been moved, but this was no exercise of justice. This was as much an offering as an execution. A hope that the Salt Goddess might know their devoted still believe, still wait for them to wake from the watery depths and rise to power once more.
—EXCERPT FROM THE OBSERVATIONAL NOTES OF THE HISTORIAN THEAN
FOR A LONG, LIQUIDmoment, Avery stares down at the dark shaft of the arrow. Then, he crumples, pitching forward, momentum tumbling him down the stairs until he lands with a meaty thump at our feet.
I cannot breathe. My lungs harden, solid as the stone around us, air refusing to move through them. Then I fall too, to his side, tearing at his hood. When I pull it back, dead eyes stare up at me.
But they are the eyes of a stranger.
Relief—crass and callous—floods through me. I do not know this young man, his hair darker than Avery’s, skin paler, a slight build the only feature they share. But I don’t get a chance to unravel the mystery of Avery’s absence. Footsteps sound—lots of them. I look up at figuresthat now surround us: the Caerula, dozens of them, encircling us like an audience anticipating a show. Which maybe they are. A handful carry lanterns, which cut through the dark and leave sharp shadows on the men’s faces. Some are armed with blades, some with long spears like the fishermen on the docks, and the rest, crossbows, all of which are trained on us.
I feel Ramiro’s mean-as-hell grin before I see it. He stands at the back of the pack, filling in the space the unknown heretic occupied only seconds before.
Nolan’s fists tighten. “What have you done?”
Ramiro shrugs, unbothered. “Taken care of a pest.”
“You’ve destroyed our chance at finding the heretics!”
“You’re a fool to believe that. The Arbiter too. Neither of you understands Cyprene. He and his fancy soldiers can tear apart the city, search the cliffs. They won’t find what they are after, unless it’s an untimely death.”
I get to my feet, hands aching to reach for my sickles, though I keep them carefully at my side. “So why didn’t you share that information with him?”
“Because whatever you want, it doesn’t matter a rotten fish head to me,” he spits. “And I don’t care whether you’re Tempestra-Innara’s prize puppies. You came tomycity, killedmymen, and crossedme.” His face darkens. “None of you understand where you are. These ‘heretics’ you’re after? They always come back. Same way you Chosen always run back to Mommy when you can’t stand it anymore. You have no place here, and the Goddess belongs exactly where they are—far away.”
Nolan tightens, his jaw clenching. “Cyprene is under the rule of Tempestra-Innara.”
Ramiro laughs. “Devoted or heretic, Cyprene belongs to Cyprene. And with Arbiter Caius gone, well… Alas, your meeting tragically went wrong, the heretics turning on you. Oh, after he’s done mourning”—he says it sarcastically—“he may try to flush out the heretics, but once he loses a few men to the tunnels, I suspect he’ll cut his losses.” He gestures. Chains appear. “You have my thanks for making this so easy, though. It’s fitting that your clandestine meeting would take place where the heretics could punish you in the old way.”
