Page 45 of The Lost Reliquary
Not even Nolan.
The Renderers are still at the farmhouse when I return. Back on the ridge, I count two new additions to their ranks, but if they located their “hound” or Avery, it’s not clear. Given the way Baldy stomps around with an air of annoyance, however, I’m inclined to think they didn’t. The caravan wagon I saw within the barn is now outside, hitched to a team of draft horses. And, to my relief, Mortimer and Buttons are lashed to the back as well. I’d pictured them lost and afraid, turned out into the woods after the Renderers captured Nolan, but clearly, they aren’t foolish enough to waste a couple of quality horses. Or maybe they’re just looking for more ways to pad their lost profits. As I watch, the wagon gets loaded, the final addition an ominously large wooden crate. Something in me tightens, make me wonder whether they changed their minds, decided a dead Chosen would be easier to transport than a living one, but the holes drilled into the side for air gives me hope.
Finally, they move off. I wait before following.
This is the compromise. I could try to take them here, but given the fact that they’ve already managed to subdue one well-trained scion of Tempestra-Innara, that seems like a less than wise idea. And if there are more Renderers, I need to know that… and, hopefully, figure out a way to remove them as a threat. Rescuing Nolan—if I can manage it—well, that will be a bonus. And while losing track of the heretic heading to Carsaire needles me, the woman with the Renderers seems to know where the reliquary is being kept too. I’ll just have to persuade her to tell me.
I keep a safe distance, but their trail isn’t hard to follow. The Renderers aren’t Chosen, though. They need more sleep, their horses need breaks. They make camp, they break camp, I follow. The forests along the roads turn vibrant and plush, a far cry from the twisted, withered lands surrounding Novena. Civilization reappears in trails of smoke rising above distant villages and the presence of other travelers on the roads. I follow closer, less conspicuous now, but still keep to myself, hood drawn most of the time.
Here, I’m not the only one.
The familiar friendliness that Nolan and I encountered on the roadto Belspire doesn’t extent to this part of the Devoted Lands, apparently. Eyes aren’t met, packs kept close, cargo tied tight. I ask a few travelers for news from Lumeris, worried that a new avatar might already have been found, but I learn nothing I don’t already know, and most folks prefer to keep to their own business. Only a few call out “May the Flame warm you,” more cursory than sincere. Still, with every one, the longing that has accompanied me since leaving Lumeris behind grows more pervasive. If I were forced to describe the growing distance from my blood mother, the feeling it’s imparting, I couldn’t say it’s a true ache, itch, thirst, or anything else. It’s more like some special discomfort reserved especially for their Chosen. And given we’re moving farther and farther away, it’s going to get worse. I almost envy Nolan, undoubtedly subdued in some manner to be so easily transported.
The forests taper off, giving way to rolling plains with mountains in the distance. They’re pale and snow tipped—almost inviting. Not the stormy, craggy spires I remember from my youth. An estimation informed by hours studying Petronilla’s map tells me this would have been, centuries ago, the beginning of the Stone God’s lands. Do their followers persist like the Storm Goddess’s? Are there villages like the ones where I came from, sequestered up among those distant ridges? The lack of knowledge grows like an untreated sore, especially in the wake of the Renderers’ grisly appearance. Nolan and I were entrusted by the Goddess to find the heretics, the stolen reliquary, but with only the barest understanding of the world we were being thrust into. What other crucial pieces of information are we lacking? What else is waiting to surprise us?
With every day that passes, those insecurities grow. Doubt isn’t far behind. Even as I mentally chart my progress to Sethane, I imagine where the heretic on his way to Carsaire is. I wonder if I should turn around. I wonder if he’s arrived by now, and whether he’s already on the next leg of his journey, taking the best lead we—I—had to finding the reliquary with him. Prior Petronilla whispers in my ear, disappointed but not surprised I didn’t stay on task.
I know the truth of it. Nolan would have been an acceptable loss, along with Jeziah, the other Potentiates who fell, the whole of the crowd in the Cathedral. Wars aren’t won without sacrifices; I’m no Bellator,but that’s basic strategy. It’s the Renderers that have complicated the situation, creating an unexpected challenge. Maybe there’s only a few of them, maybe a lot, maybe…
The maybes swirl during the long hours in pursuit of my prey. The questions. The fearful, visceral imaginings of what awaits in Sethane and the growing, bitter craving to be back in Lumeris. I picture the reliquary to drive the feeling away, imagine it in my hands as I confront Tempestra-Innara. Spin a mental tapestry of events that mirrors Emmaus’s assassination attempt, only successful. I imagine staring over their remains emptied of humanity and divinity alike.
It helps.
Twenty-one
The way is saved. And when the Stone God returns, their efforts will begin anew, reach higher and higher, until those starry heavens above are finally reached.
—FROM THE WRITINGS OF THE HERETIC PLUTIS (RESTRICTED TEXT)
SETHANE IS BARELY LARGEenough to call itself a city. There’s no grand wall surrounding it, no fine spires. It grows out of a morning fog like a cluster of mushrooms out of a rotting log, dark and unwelcoming. A haze of smoke rises from the cluster of large chimneys on its southern boundary; there’s a metallic tinge to the air. Why anyone would want to live in such a dingy city escapes me, but then again, what better place for a trade as unpleasant and heretical as a Renderer’s to call home? This is a fringed edge of the civilized part of the Devoted Lands. The Goddess is nearly as far away as they can be, a distance that must be as reassuring to the Renderers as it is unpleasant for me.
As the last of the fog burns away, something bright flickers in the distance, appearing on the mountain range. It’s followed by another, and another. I pull my horse to a stop, unsure of what I am seeing. Spikes of faceted crystal rise out of the mountains, massive enough to make Belspire’s towers look like toothpicks stood next to trees. There are dozens in view, more I suspect that aren’t, all stunning and impossibleornamentations. A wonder, which begins to answer my questions about why anyone would bother to maintain a city in a place like this.
Entering Sethane feels as anonymous as my travels to it. Few of its denizens take notice of me as I enter the squat gathering of buildings, all of which are gray and uninviting. I pass through a lackluster market, where unenthusiastic vendors hawk their unappealing goods, and rotting bits of vegetables slick the road. The people here are drawn, tired, and there’s a dark dusting of soot to everything from the chimneys. Smelting operations, I gather. But clearly not prosperous work. There are no fine smells to the air here, like in Belspire, no smiles, and the last thing I expect to come across is a festival. Still, as far from Lumeris as Sethane is, the Goddess is here. The flame insignia decorates stone facades or is painted on doors. Sure, the paint is chipped and the carvings worn down, but there seems to be no lack of outward piety.
I make my way through the streets, frustration growing as I fail to locate the Renderers’ wagon. That’s all I need: to have come this far in pursuit of them and Nolan, only to lose both at the very end. Nolan can’t have much time; every moment the Renderers keep him alive is a moment he has to escape. If I were them, I’d want to get him drained, chopped, and stewed as soon as possible.
I’m going to need help to find him in this unfamiliar city, and there’s only one place I can count on finding it.
A few minutes of searching is enough to bring me to a square with the Goddess’s visage at the center, upturned palms flickering with small, oil-fed fires. A church sits nearby, dim within and smelling faintly of incense, wooden benches taking up most of the space before a small altar. The pews are empty, save for one shriveled old man who appears deep in prayer. He stirs as he hears my approach, takes me in, and then, clutching his reverie, rises shakily and makes his way to the exit with a hobbling gait.
Pious city or not, there’s something about Sethane’s brand of worship that already feels very different from Belspire’s. Which is a relief—I’ve had my fill of enthusiastic executions.
“Hello?” Small as the space is, the word echoes. Seconds pass before a cleric appears in the doorway beside the altar. No traveling mudcleric like Avery, and yet, there’s a shabby appearance to him, as if the road he’s walked has been a long one.
“Hello,” he says, with a touch of wariness. He must not get many visitors or strangers, or both. “May the Flame warm you.”
“Oh”—I turn my palm upright, summoning the flicker that passes as my divine ability—“it does.”
The cleric’s eyes widen and he drops to his knees, averting his gaze. “Chosen of our Goddess… forgive me, I… I didn’t realize…”
“Of course not, why would you?” I interject, annoyed and embarrassed. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to reveal myself so quickly, but I need information fast. “Get up, please. Kneeling is… unnecessary.”
He obeys, gaze remaining downcast. “I’d begun to lose hope. Not faith of course,” he clarifies quickly, stumbling over the words. “But it had been so many months, and we hadn’t heard anything from Lumeris…”
“I’m sorry?” The way he’s speaking, it’s almost like he expected me. “I’m looking for your Prior. Or Cleric of the Blood. Whoever is in charge here.”
Finally, the cleric raises his head, blinking. “I… Oh. Apologies, Chosen One. I assumed you were Prior Fedic’s replacement.”
