Page 122 of The Lost Reliquary
To the end of me.
Which would be more bothersome if I didn’t feel like week-old shit soup. My tongue is tacky, lips sour, as if I threw up at some point. I hope it was on Caius, but that’s probably wishful thinking. I’m cold too, flesh stiff. My coat is gone; I’ve been stripped down to a shirt and pants, both heavily stained with blood and filth.
What a huge fucking mess this has turned into.
I drop my head to my hands, a terrible move. Hot pain stabs at my temples, taking some immeasurable amount of time to recede again. When Caius hit me, he was aiming for real damage. If only he’d managed to kill me outright, because I am well and truly fucked now. I pick through muddy memories, find a better thought: Avery got away. And if Avery got away, so did Osiron and the rest of the heretics, probably cursing themselves up and down for putting their trust—their faith—in a fool like me. They handed over their best and only weapon against the power of the Goddess, and I didn’t even make it to theSplendid Rumor.
So much for being the only one who could stand against Tempestra-Innara. I couldn’t even stand against Caius and his goons.
Hours pass. The dirty light of the porthole fades to dark, then brightens again. No one brings me water, or food, or a bucket to piss in, which leads to some very unpleasant contorting. Occasionally, I hear voices beyond the door, or footsteps, but more than a day passes before I hear a faint clunk of metal.
A key turning.
I sit up, attempting to look at least a little less cowed than I feel, but when the door opens, my muscles loosen and slump.
Nolan.
His expression is that familiar unreadable page. A tome written inan inscrutable hand. Though as he lingers in the doorway, the veil over his eyes seems to waver slightly. There are hints of emotion, though not enough to betray any thoughts. Maybe he’s simply nauseated; he’s pale, a thin line of sweat along his brow betraying his old friend, seasickness.
He steps inside and closes the door. Still says nothing.
The silence rates about as enjoyable as the pounding in my skull.
“Miss sharing a tiny cabin with me?” I barely recognize my own voice, a sound that stumbles and scrapes over the dry tissues of my throat.
Nothing. Not a hint of reaction. Only a probing, searching look.
“I don’t understand.” When he finally does speak, the tone is as inscrutable as the rest of him.
“Hearing that a lot lately.”
“This isn’t a joke.” Now there’s irritation. “You were going to help the heretics. Try to kill Tempestra-Innara.”
“That was the plan.” I drop my gaze, head pounding even harder as my heartbeat thuds against my damaged ribs. This line of questioning isn’t one I’m fond of, but Nolan is undeterred.
“Caius says you love them. That your devotion runs deep as any Chosen’s should and yet…” He tightens, seems to curl into himself before softening. “Iwantto understand, Lys. What you did… why you did it.”
“Does it matter now?”
He ignores this. “Caius thinks maybe it’s because of our gift. Confusing his Arbiter senses, making it unclear whether your devotion is real or not.”
“Yes! Exactly!” I bark, heedless of the resulting pain. “Don’t you get it? That’s what the godsdamned problem is—I don’t even know my own mind! I hate them, what they’ve done to me, to so many others, and yet, I…” I swallow, bile rising in my throat. Explanation isn’t something I owe Nolan, or anyone. But I can’t stop it. “The tiniest glimpse of them makes me ache with devotion. When they appear, I want to fall to my knees. When they smile at me, I want nothing more than to please them again and again, to be close to them, always… forever… I…”
I shut up.
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” My eyes flicker up again, pinning us both in place. “Are we only what Tempestra-Innara made us? Or what we’ve been made to do, in their name?”
Silence.
“Or am I a traitor and nothing else? No one else? Not the person you schemed with, fought with,killedbeside?” Moonlight. Blood. Victory. “It should be you.How long ago did you say those words?” His jaw tightens. The whole chamber seems to contract at the mention of that resigned moment. “Doanyfragments of that conclusion remain? Can none of the respect I’ve earned be applied to who I am—who I could have been—beyond the Goddess? What are you thinking right now, Nolan? About me and what I am?”
He doesn’t answer.
Or maybe, in a way, he does.
I force a smirk I don’t feel. “I hate Tempestra-Innara. But it would be a lie to say I don’t love them too. So deeply that I loathe it.” I turn away from him. “It’s a wound I’ve learned to live with.”
