Page 7 of The Lost Reliquary
I knock on the door to Prior Petronilla’s office. At first, there’s no response, but a thin line of light betrays the room’s occupancy. As does the smothering incense the Prior insists on burning day and night. Burnt orange and peppery clove. Wood resin. A scent that I will associate with being in trouble until the day I die.
Finally: “Enter.”
The Prior blinks at me as I do. “Lys.” Her voice is flat, betraying nothing. “I didn’t call for you yet.”
Yet?Shit.That means she already planned on summoning me, something that, historically, has never been to my benefit. Still, I smile. “Thought you might want some company.”
She sighs with irritation. “Sit.”
I plunk onto the hard wood bench set before her desk. The one that completes the sensation of impending punishment. Prior Petronilla’soffice is the most unwelcoming yet warmly appointed room I’ve ever been in. Thick, hand-knotted rugs, a wall of books, exquisite tapestries—it’s like camouflage for a snare. There is only one thing I like about it, one part I’ve even, on occasion, manufactured my own chastisement in order to see: the huge framed map on one wall, the most detailed I have ever seen of the Devoted Lands.
Lumeris sits southwest of center on the lumpy potato of a continent, the Ordained Cities forming a rough circle around the capital. Aerdis for the Bellators, Pirga for the Priors, Siscia, where the Clerics of the Blood commune, and—smallest of them all, more fortress than city—Osturan, where the Arbiters reign. I’d find myself in one of them soon enough, baptized into whatever Order Petronilla decides to burden with me, before being shuffled off to one of the countless smaller cities and towns scattered beyond. These thin out the farther the map reaches, leading to a jagged diagonal of islands along the southern coast, tangled river marshes to the north, the swells and clefts of countless valleys and hills, and, finally, to the very fringes of the Devoted Lands, including a cluster of sharp peaks where a Bellator once kidnapped a broken little girl.
But it’s not what I can see on the map that sparks my interest, but rather what I can’t—the world that lies beyond its edges, in those sparse, vaguely sketched spots slipping beneath the polished wooden frame. Places untouched—unfettered—by the Goddess’s light, beyond their reach.
And mine.
Unbalanced by my semi-expected arrival, I sit in silence and wait to be addressed, but the Prior only stares at me, expression one part contemplative, one part sourpuss. If she’d already planned to have me here, itmustbe about what happened in the Cathedral. And yet, I get the sense she’s disappointed. As ifI’vedisappointed her. Not sure how, though. I survived, didn’t I? That’s one up on Jeziah and the others.
I get tired of waiting. “I want to know what happened this morning.”
She leans back in her chair, exhaling bitterly. “Of course you do.”
No explanation follows. “Doyoueven know?”
That snaps the fire into her eyes, more the Prior Petronilla I’m used to seeing on the other side of that desk. “Tread lightly, Lys. Yourinsolence is the last thing I need right now.” But her anger recedes almost immediately. “A tragedy. That’s what happened this morning. The heretic, prior to his execution, managed to release a powerful poison into the Cathedral. Only those with our blessing survived it.”
It’s exactly the sort of horseshit explanation I was expecting regular folks to get, but not me.
“Oh, of course. One of those rare, dismembering poisons.Hatethose.”
Her annoyance flashes again. “This is no joking matter, Lys. What happened was…” She stops, unsettled. Which is unusual enough to unsettleme. “This is what is important right now: Andronica is dead.”
“Yeah, I saw the pieces.”
“Andronica is dead,” she repeats more forcefully, “which means the Dawn Cloister needs to put up a candidate for Executrix.”
“Already? You’d think they’d at least give her body a chance to cool—”
“Quiet.” She doesn’t sound mad now. More… tired. “There will be mourning, but the Goddess has requested candidatesimmediately.” Her eyes lock with mine. “Jeziah and the other senior Potentiates are dead. Morgan is injured, and the others are too young and untrained. That leaves you.”
I laugh, a little snort, totally unintentional. Partially out of surprise, more because that’s the last godsdamned thing I care about right now. Though it does explain Morgan’s tantrum. “So put up Morgan. She’ll be kicking down walls in a week, maybe—”
“This isn’t a request, Lystrata.” The words snap like a switch. “There is no time to wait for Morgan to heal. Tomorrow you will accompany me to the Cathedral. There, you will conduct yourself as nobly as a Potentiate of the Dawn Cloister should, and serve the Goddess as they order.”
Resignation sneaks into her tone by the end. I sympathize. The only person who wants me to be the Cloister’s candidate less than Prior Petronilla isme. And maybe Morgan.
“No,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“No. Not until you tell me what really happened.”
Silence simmers. I try to read her eyes, but I’m not sure I like what I see. It’s more than the usual frustration, for sure. But then again, I didjust refuse to serve the Goddess, which definitely borders on sacrilege. There are plenty of lines I’ve crossed since coming to the Cloister, but for the first time, I wonder if I’ve gone a smidge too far.
Then, the hardness in her gaze softens. “Why do you let Morgan beat you?”
“Excuse me?”
