Page 80 of The Lost Reliquary
“Okay?” I laugh. No, I crow, ripping my hood back to release the sound. We’d walked into a trap—even if it wasn’t the one we’d anticipated—and walked right out again. I am almost giddy, though Tychus is dead. And Machias. Doesn’t matter, not right now.
We’realive.
I have a moment more to savor that feeling before Mortimer suddenly slows, stumbling once before he goes down, pitching me forward into the sand.
Thirty-three
The flame does not know devoted from heretical, just from unjust. That distinction belongs to the one who wields it.
—PRIOR YIORGO, DUSK CLOISTER
ILAND ON MY WOUNDEDshoulder. Pain flares, but it is distant, narrowed. So is the gritty sensation of sand pressing into my face. The airy near hysteria of triumph is gone, consumed like gas vapors by flame as I stare back at Mortimer, lying several lengths behind me.
An arrow sticks out at a sharp angle from his ribs.
“No.” Whenever the shot landed, I didn’t realize it, caught up in battle fury and the fervor of escape. And Mortimer… Mortimer must have felt it but carried on anyway, saving me. I crawl to him. Right away, I can see the arrow is deep. Thin rivulets of blood snake out, barely enough to reach the sand, but there’s nothing heartening about that. Nor about Mortimer’s breath—uneven, ragged.
No.My jaw tightens, unwilling to let another sound slip out as I gingerly touch the feathered shaft. Mortimer twists, trying—failing—to get back on his feet. I lurch back, dodging one flailing hoof, feeling every muscle tense with understanding.
“Shhhh…” I slide around his other side, away from his legs. “Shh, Mortimer, don’t move. Don’t move.”
I’m telling an injured horse to stay still. The foolishness of it rings inmy ears as Mortimer lets out another horrible, burbling screech, which pierces deeper than any arrow. A vinegar sting fills my eyes.
“Lys.”
Nolan. On one knee beside me, taking in the situation. “Lys, get up. There’s nothing you can do. The arrow is in his lungs. He’s drowning in his own blood.”
I shake him away. No.No.There’s nothing I can—
Yes.Blood.Yes, there is.
I reach into my coat and pull out a vial of the Renderers’ blood from where it’s hidden in my jacket, along with the jars of salve—everything but the sample I showed off to Machias. Nolan’s idea, just in case it was a trap. In case we needed leverage to ensure our dealings would go smoothly. So much for that.
I have it open before he grabs my wrist.
“What are you doing?” His fingers tighten as I try to pull back. “Are you crazy? It’s a horse. You have no idea what that will do. If it will do anything.”
“It could help him!”
“You don’t know that.”
“You don’t NOT know that!” My voice rises, sharp and unchecked. But muted too, the way everything but Mortimer seems to be. His breathing is getting worse, blood leaking from his mouth. One glassy eye rolls up at me, devoid of anything but pure, animalistic pain.
I have to do something. Ihaveto.
I struggle again. This time, Nolan lets go. He stands and moves away from me, frustrated. I lean over Mortimer, ignoring the panicked flaring of his nostrils, position myself, and pour…
A thick, dark stream disappears down Mortimer’s throat. I back away, waiting. Hoping. I know what a drop of the Renderers’ blood did to Tychus. What a torrent of pure, divine blood did tome. All I can do is pray for something in between.
But nothing happens. Nothing beyond the weakening wails of a dying creature.
My fist curls around the empty vial, trembling. I feel hot all over—my eyes, my cheeks, in the distant throbbing of my wound.
All except my free hand, which is cold as ice as I draw one sickle.
It’s over quickly. No more cries. No more suffering.
No more Mortimer.
