Page 115 of The Lost Reliquary
The path curves, and a figure appears. Before I can react, it hurls something with a force that knocks me off my feet. I collide with the stone cliff and fall to the ground, tangled in netting; its thin, tight strands slice into my skin. I twist, getting a glimpse of the attacker asNolan leaps over me to confront them: Ramiro, not looking so scared now. No, there’s a bright sheen of desperation in his eyes, in the flush of his cheeks. One hand holds the other end of the net that has ensnared me.
The other, an empty vial.
The Renderer blood tincture we left behind in the caves. He’s downed the whole lot, pupils practically bursting with the flood of temporary divinity racing through his veins. In the instant it takes me to realize what he’s done, Ramiro drops the vial and draws a slick, curved sword. I anticipate a swing of that weapon. So, apparently, does Nolan. Instead, Ramiro jerks on his end of the net… the net that Nolan is half on top of. We both go flying, Ramiro’s strength augmented in a way that makes us like weak children in comparison. The breath slams from my lungs as I hit the ground again. Gasping, I manage to twist one wrist, feel my bindings loosen as my sickle cuts through the netting.
Nearby, metal screams against metal. Nolan is down on one knee, blocking Ramiro’s blade with his own, muscles of his neck taut as he struggles to regain his footing. When Ramiro takes a half step back to steady himself, Nolan manages to do so, but an instant later the Caerula is swinging again, over and over, driving Nolan back toward the shrine.
I saw at the net, seemingly endless strands tangled around my legs. Finally, it falls away. I scramble up, yanking my sickles free. Ramiro is behind me now, down the path, fixated entirely on Nolan. Good sense screams to get away, escape. Then, the Caerula leader strikes a beastly blow that sends Nolan’s sword flying over the cliff. Ramiro crows, a brutal, primitive sound—viciously human, but honed to an edge by the divine. He raises his blade again. Under that murderous arm, something comes over Nolan, neither fear nor anticipation, but from the space between them. His eyes lock with mine, mouth forming one word.
Run.
But I don’t. I can’t. I strike, arcing my sickle at Ramiro’s exposed back, feeling the connection of the cut, the split of flesh. It might as well be a scratch. Ramiro heaves himself to one side and kicks, boot catching me in the chest. A rib, maybe two, cracks and I’m on my back again. Coppery blood coats my tongue. But the dark flame inside me flaresagain. I’m not dying here, like this, felled by some cut-rate divinity-laced bully. And neither is Nolan.
I push into the pain, gather it to me, making it to my knees in time to see Nolan pull a dagger from who knows where and lunge at Ramiro. It sinks into the Caerula’s side but doesn’t slow him at all. With a force like an oak tree felled by a storm, his arm whips out.
Time slows—creaking, fracturing—as Nolan goes airborne.
Then, it breaks as he arcs through the night, and over the side of the cliff.
Forty-five
Thisis your responsibility.Thisis the Goddess’s will. There is no other.
—PRIOR PETRONILLA
THE CRY THAT CATCHESin my throat is nearly freed by Ramiro’s blade, which wastes no time in seeking me out. I push back out of reach, blood pounding, but ice-cold.
Nolan…
Another attack, a hairsbreadth from opening me shoulder to hip. I keep close to the path wall, but Ramiro is fast, too damn fast. Sloppy, though, no finesse to his strikes. Except who needs skill when they’ve got enough stolen divinity to make a raging bull seem as gentle as a kitten? It’s all I can do to dodge, or turn his blows aside. No trying to block or overpower him. Both are a death sentence. I can only keep moving. Survive. And I barely manage that, every strike putting me a little more off balance.
Then, my foot catches a rock. I drop straight onto my backside like a clumsy toddler.
The only thing that saves me is Ramiro himself, wasting a moment on a manic, crackling laugh before his sword falls again. I throw myself to one side, kick out, heel catching the side of his knee. Something snaps, tears. But Ramiro’s pain is a thousand leagues away right now.With a frustrated cry, he sinks his sword into the meat of my thigh. I scream, reflexively dropping a sickle and reaching for the wound, the reckless need to pull out the blade overcoming all reason. I needn’t have bothered. Ramiro yanks it free, triumph spreading on his face as quickly as the dark stain around Nolan’s dagger, which is still planted in his side. He straightens—looms—bloodlust glinting in his blown-out gaze as he raises his arm again.
It’s a bad angle. And I have to wait until the very last, riskiest second, when Ramiro drops that final strike, one that looks aimed to remove my head from the rest of me. I whip my sickle around and release, then jerk back as far as I can as a line of fire lights up across my chest, just below my collarbone. A well-aimed strike.
But not as good as mine. Ramiro stumbles, sickle sunk deep into his sternum, before his knees buckle. The sound he makes is doomed enough that I scramble to the edge of the cliff, bracing myself for the sight. Nolan’s body broken on the rocks below. Him sinking beneath waves, too injured to swim. Nothing at all, the waves having already claimed their meal.
What I see is Nolan, balanced precariously on a narrow, jagged ridge just below my vantage, clinging to the stone.
A breathy, thankful laugh escapes.
Nolan grimaces. “Be relieved later, please.”
I reach down and hold tight as he pulls himself back up over the ridge, then spots Ramiro, slumped over and gasping. Heaving, really. But a few inches of steel in your lungs will do that. I don’t feel in better shape. I get back on my feet, ribs feeling like they’re likely to take a stab atmylungs, leg red and wet and screaming.
“You want to finish him off?”
“No time.” Nolan grabs Ramiro’s sword.
Oh, but there is. Enraged fury radiates from Ramiro’s gaze as I sweep by, retrieving my sickle with a yank. He bucks once, mouth filling with blood. It spills from his lips, dribbles down his chin, oily black beneath the cloak of night.
“That”—I lean close—“was for Mortimer.”
The rage in his eyes flickers, turns to utter confusion. Then they go dark. Almost as dark as the satisfied smile that dances onto my lips.
“Lys?”
