Page 4 of The Lost Reliquary
But they don’t see the other appendage replacing it, coming from behind.
“Demon, look out!”
By some miracle, they hear me and react, throwing themselves to one side. The tentacle scores only a glancing blow, connecting with theirhelm and sending it flying, revealing a dark-haired, pale-complexioned young man beneath. His face is calm, determined—way more than it should be given the nightmarish scene. Singularly focused, he cuts the second appendage away and twists back toward Tempestra-Innara.
I don’t get a chance to do the same. Another tentacle appears, forcing me to vault over the gutted devotee, putting me closer to the Emmaus-monster. I don’t bother with the flailing limbs. They seem mindless, and endless. Their source is the real enemy. Except how can I kill something when I don’t have the slightest clue what it is?Where was the lesson for this?I want to throw at Prior Petronilla. Over a decade of learning and training, and right now, all of it seems as helpful as the wet entrails caking my boots.
Through the melee, I catch a glimpse of Morgan. She is on her feet but barely, putting no weight on her left leg as she stabs desperately at the dark entity with her spear. To me, her survival rates about as highly as the Goddess’s, but two can do more damage than one, so I work my way in her direction.
Then, I am struck. I fly through the air, something at least semi-vital crunching as I collide with a pillar and fall to the floor.
The world blacks for an instant. Or maybe longer, I have no damn idea. When the fuzziness subsides, I am staring into Jeziah’s face.
But he’s not staring back. His eyes are blank with death, blood pooling beneath his dislodged fox helm.
Dammit.
I need to get up. Need to fight. But understanding floods me. Whatever horror Emmaus has unleased, we are powerless against it.Weak. We cannot save the Goddess, and we can’t save ourselves.
Which leaves two options: Keep up a futile defense and die. Or don’t, and also die.
Shit choices. I pull myself up, mainly because it will piss me off for eternity if Jeziah’s corpse is the last thing I see in this life. Back on my feet, I raise my blades again and take a steadying breath.
Then I let go. The pandemonium fades into a muted buzz as I allow my body to do what it’s been molded to do. My eyes find the one thing in this world that matters: Tempestra-Innara.
My Goddess.
My blood mother.
My godsdamned curse.
A third choice emerges, one for me alone: the desire to see them fall before I do.
But the Goddess doesn’t succumb. Despite the darkness piercing them, attempting to rip their body to pieces, Tempestra-Innara no longer looks wan—they lookpissed. Their hands have ceased their frantic tearing, righteous anger blossoming on their delicate features. As I watch, the light of them grows from an intangible aura to a true one, and I sense what is coming just in time to abandon my current plan and attempt to get as far away as possible.
Emmaus’s corpse wasn’t slated for decorative purposes. Had the execution gone as planned, Tempestra-Innara’s divine flame would have engulfed him, consumed him until there was nothing left but ash. The Goddess turns that power on the monster Emmaus has become, starting with the appendages assaulting them. The flame ripples down those dark tentacles like fire over an oil spill, spreading with a desperate fury unlike any I have witnessed before. I stumble back, nearly blinded by the brightness, pain exploding as my skin begins to singe. A new scream sounds. It is not human. I don’t know what it is, except that it comes from the roiling darkness, and that it comes as a relief.
Human or not, I know a death cry when I hear it.
When the flames subside—only after the scream does—I am on the ground again, dizzy with the energy still crackling in the air. Where Emmaus used to be there is nothing but a smoking pile of pallid gray ash. And standing above that heretic-turned-horror-turned-dust-pile is Tempestra-Innara. They appear calm, save for their breath, which is slightly faster than normal. Their formerly white garment is shredded and looks as if it’s been used to mop the floor of a slaughterhouse. For a long minute, they stare at the ash. Then down at their wounds, which are still bleeding freely.
By the normal conventions of flesh, such injuries wouldn’t be survivable. But divinity has its own rules. As I watch, the Goddess takes a deep breath and closes their eyes. A moment later, the wounds begin to close. Soon, they are gone completely.
During the healing, the crowd has ceased its panic, cautiouslyloosening again. The faces among it are a mélange of confusion, fear, relief, and pure, completely unhindered devotion. I see similar expressions on my blood brethren. The ones who are still alive, at least. I can’t help but glance back at Jeziah, and spot Morgan, only steps away. She’s on the ground as well, face covered in blood, with what appears suspiciously like a bit of bone poking through her left shin. Catching me looking, Morgan sneers.
She’s fine.
Getting to my feet again, I seek out the Demon. He’s alive, on his feet, and ridiculously unruffled despite being as painted with gore as I am, with eyes only for our blood mother.
A relieved silence settles throughout the Cathedral.
Tempestra-Innara’s divine light still burns.
Yay.
I shove the disappointment as deep as it will go, sure the Goddess will look my way and spot the betrayal in my face. But they only gaze over the crowd of survivors, most of whom have fallen to their knees, whispered prayers forming on their trembling lips. The people wait; for what, I’m not sure. An explanation, a blessing, a dinner recommendation for one of Lumeris’s many fine establishments… it doesn’t matter, so long as it comes from the Goddess.
Instead, framed by the golden wall of bones, the Goddess sighs sadly and raises one hand. “I am so very, very sorry.”
