Page 42 of The Lost Reliquary
“I can handle a few bandits,” I say, even though I know this isn’t the work of common thieves. The young man’s jacket is thrown open. I root through it but find nothing, save for a pair of glasses with darkened lenses.
Suddenly, the corpse gasps, body spasming and eyelids flying open, revealing a gaze that is very, very wrong. Eyes lock on me, their whites shot through with hemorrhages, the skin around them bruised and raw, as if sleep was something never bothered with, but daily sand rubs were. His hands wrap around my wrists, fingers digging into them like claws as the young man lets out a breathless, feral sound.
“Chosen.” Barely a word, it comes out like something vital being dislodged. “Abomination.”
Caught by surprise, I twist my arms, snapping the young man’s forearms like dry sticks, not realizing the foolishness of it until it’s done. The shock of it is too much. He inhales sharply, then goes limp, his bloodshot stare fluttering briefly before it goes blank.
I scramble back, rattled. Trying not to show it as I get to my feet.
Avery is already backing away. “You… you’re…”
I might have denied it if I hadn’t overreacted. Trained bodyguard or not, a normal person doesn’t have the strength to do what I just did. So I don’t try to deny, or explain. I touch the point of one sickle to my lips.Shhhh. I don’t want to hear him say it, and there’s no point in spinning a lie. He knows, I know, and because of that, the smart thing to do right now is kill him.
Yet, I hesitate. There’s war in his features as he tries to decide whether to keep up his act, and how. I could give him that chance, since he has no ideaIknow who he really is. Play along for a while longer, see what this turn of events shakes loose from him. But I’ve already spent enough time in the company of someone intent on betraying me, and I’m not in the mood to jump back into that so quickly.
His throat is right there. One flick of my wrist and he’d bleed out within a minute—a simple, quiet ending, better than a heretic deserves.
As he starts to speak again, I raise my sickle, and strike.
Nineteen
The Goddess, in their wisdom, may show mercy. I do not question it. But it is a weakness in lesser beings such as us.
—FROMTHE FLAME’S PATH, BY SENIOR PRIOR OLIA IN THE ERA OF TEMPESTRA-DRUSILLE
SORRY.”IT’SAT LEASTthe third time I’ve said it.
I load the last of Avery’s gear onto his horse as he stares with pure confusion, mouth gagged, because I can’t deal with questions right now. I know what he’s thinking: that as one of Tempestra-Innara’s Chosen, I should have simply commanded his help when we met on the road. And if that little fact was meant to stay secret, I should have made sure he couldn’t tell anyone. But sinceIknow that he’s not really on the Goddess’s side, and sincehedoesn’t know that I want the Goddess dead too…
This keeps it simple. Ridiculous, but simple. Let him wonder why I knocked him unconscious and tied him to a tree instead of dispatching him. I’ll be long gone by the time he comes to any conclusion.
Ishouldkill him. He’s a heretic, and that’s what a well-trained scion of Tempestra-Innara would do. What Nolan would do. But when it comes down to it, I simply don’t want to.
So, tied to a tree it is.
There’s a knife among his gear, a dull, sad little thing barely worthy of the name. He blanches as I approach with it. But all I do is stab the blade into the earth near his bound hands. Not so close that he can easily grab it, but close enough so that he’ll reach it eventually, if he puts the work in. Getting through the rope with a dull knife will take a bit more effort, but that’s on him, not me. At least I dragged the corpse into the brush. Seemed rude to leave it watching with that scratched-up stare.
“A lesson for you, cleric: Don’t talk to strangers on the road. And a bit of advice: Forget we ever met.” I mount the horse. “But thanks again for your help.”
Bewilderment digs even deeper furrows in his brow. But I turn both the horse and my thoughts toward my new focus: the trail through the wood and field left by the dead man. It’s easy enough to follow, even in the dark. Flattened brush and broken sticks, prints in the dirt, and blood, blood, blood. The farther I follow, the more impressive it is how long the poor guy made it before finally exsanguinating. But there was something strange about him, something besides the leash. A savage quality to those last few moments of life. And his eyes… even dead, the sensation of them remains. Somehow, he was able to take one look at me and know who—what—I am.
That’s a mystery I can’t exactly leave unsolved.
The dead man’s path is a winding one. Erratic. Almost frantic. It’s clear he was running away, but from what? His captors? Or another threat? Finally, I come to a path in a thick stand of forest, and the unmistakable signs of a conflict, something furious and bloody, but brief. The sequence of it is impossible to glean, but the result is clear: a group that moved off in one direction, a dying man who went another.
Puzzle pieces. But not enough of them for me to make out the picture. I need more.
The second trail is nearly as easy as the first to follow, by virtue of it being several individuals who don’t seem concerned about hiding their tracks. Still, it’s hours—nearly dawn—before I crest a hill that overlooks a shallow valley with an old orchard. There’s a farmhouse beyond it, a barn, and several pens for animals. But the pens are empty, and everything has an overgrown, untended appearance, as if no onehas lived here for years. Which leaves only one explanation for the faint seep of light escaping the barn.
I hobble the horse out of sight and watch for at least an hour, belly pressed to the damp grass. Finally, the barn door opens and a man appears. He is most definitely not dressed like any farmer I’ve ever seen, with two massive knives affixed to his belt and a quality coat suitable for travel but not for scratching around in the dirt. He scans the ridge where I hide, searching, then goes back inside when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.
The sky is already beginning to lighten, so I take advantage of the night’s dregs to circle around to the rear of the barn and find a gap in the slats. The first thing that hits me is the earthy funk of horses, mingled with—keeping with the evening’s theme—blood. Then: voices, and the sound of agitated footsteps. Through my peephole I can see three figures, all men. Besides a suspiciously excessive number of weapons, they all seem innocuous enough—well dressed enough to command respect, not so well as to be particularly memorable.
Suddenly, one of the figures moves aside to reveal a fourth. My breath catches in my chest. Or maybe it’s a laugh. Because seated in the center of the barn—bound with chains, gagged, and looking exceedingly put out about it—is Nolan. The mirth passes quickly. A sinking feeling hits, because outnumbered or not, Nolan should have made easy work of whoever these jokers are. Instead, he’s their prisoner. And he’s in chains, not ropes.
Which means they know who he is.
Another puzzle piece falls into place, and I don’t like what I’m beginning to see.
