Page 136 of The Lost Reliquary
Lys.
My name comes beneath the whispers, from everywhere and nowhere, leaving me questioning whether I heard it at all.
Lys.
Barely, I manage to turn toward the ephemeral call. Lying nearby is what is left of Tempestra-Innara.
They do not glow anymore. They appear, in a word, dead, Innara’s flesh nearly colorless, except where it’s burned crisp. Only one eye remains, no longer bright, but most definitely fixed on me.
Lys, please hear me. Their bloodless lips don’t move. They don’t need to. The Goddess reaches across whatever thin, sinuous bond they managed before Avery stabbed me.While Osiron is engrossed.
I listen, but only because I don’t have much choice.
Daughter.Tempestra speaks again—and it isonlyTempestra, I understand, Innara’s dead flesh still housing the last of their power like a wine barrel with a leak.It is not too late. Open yourself to me. Save us both.
If I could still laugh, I would. Even now, when they no longer have the strength to force their way in, the Goddess is trying to get me to be their avatar.
Not a chance.
You can still save him.
I go stiff. Swear to myself. Or maybe the Goddess hears it, because there’s the slightest flutter of hope from them.
The binding is not immediately final. Not for him. And…There’s a pause.Not for you.
“Fuck.” This time I manage it aloud. It would be an easy lie to fall for, if Osiron hadn’t already told me the very same thing. And… it feels right. Like truth. Like neither of us can keep secrets anymore.
Let me in.
The world ripples gray once more. Turns cold… so cold. I don’t think even divine healing is going to make much of a difference now.
Probably not.There’s that truth again.But either take this chance now, or we both die. We don’t have a choice.
They’re wrong. We do.Ido. And I know exactly what I’d choose, except for one thing.
Osiron’s power has coalesced fully around Nolan now, and there’s… something new in the air. A feeling. A presence.
Ahunger.
Lys…Tempestra’s call grows weaker.Please…
I choose.
In my mind, it isn’t easy. For my flesh, even less so. Hand tightening around the dagger, I use the absolute dregs of my strength to slink closer to them. Innara’s arm is outstretched, fingers broken and stained red. I raise the blade with one hand and draw it across the other, then let that limb fall. Barely—barely—my failing flesh reaches theirs and—
Desperately mingling, our blood does not sing.
Itscreams.
Fifty-three
When they whisper, I hear.
When they whisper, I come.
When they whisper, Iwake.
—PRAYER (ORIGINAL)
