Page 20 of The Lost Reliquary
I keep my gaze on those spires, which grow larger and larger as the land around us turns cultivated. Soon we are surrounded by a sea of grains and vegetation, tended at intervals by hunched, gray workers.
No, penitents.
I slow Mortimer as I spot the overseers on horseback: sworn clerics, all of them, but of the militant variety. Somewhere there’s a Bellator they answer to, perhaps even the one whose legion we encountered on the road. This is where the survivors of my village might have endedup, toiling away to prove their fealty and atone for their sins… if. How many years punishment for a heretic late to turn their faith toward Tempestra-Innara? Five years? Ten? The offenses of the people scattered through the fields are likely more common sorts—petty thieves, drunks found one too many times passed out in the street, the occasional weirdo devotee who simplylikesthis particular brand of reverence.
I slow without realizing it, watching backs bending, turning earth, on their knees picking rocks out of the dirt. Nolan notices, but I urge Mortimer forward again before he can say anything. The work of penitents helps keep the Devoted Lands happy and fed—that was the gist of our education on this particular topic.
Our company on the road grows steadily as we draw closer to the city, turning irritatingly crowded by the time we arrive at Belspire’s main gate. Mortimer gives a nervous shimmy as a wagon laden with barrels passes rudely close; I pet his neck to calm him. Inside the walls isn’t much better. In Lumeris, the roads are wide and clean. The buildings shine, sometimes literally with gold. But here, streets tangle like a briar, shadows clinging to its tight alleys and doorways, and the eaves beneath hard, sloping roofs. There are piles of horse shit stamped into the cobbles. It smells—not like fresh air and incense, but the way a room does in the morning, after a night with too many bodies sleeping in it.
Still, I drink in every inch, picking out hints of prior prosperity remaining in the ornaments and stonework: flowers and fruits, vines that twist and curl. Innocuous enough symbols, too common and impotent to pose a threat to the Goddess’s insignia. And while its finest days have past, the city’s citizens teem with a vibrancy that seems misplaced in the shitty weather. It doesn’t take long to figure out why—broadsides are pasted all around, advertising a festival to celebrate the day the city pledged its devotion to Tempestra-Innara.
Not every conversion is bloody. But Belspire’s certainly was. The city was ancient enough to have been a kingdom of its own once, with the castle to prove it. And when Arcadius-Viktori fell, the royal family wasted no time in enthusiastically proving their new devotion, lining the road with a thousand heretic corpses to adorn the Goddess’s triumphant approach, including every one of the Green God’s priests notsmart enough to flee as soon as their master fell. Excessive, to say the least, but it successfully bought the royals their continued existence.
“Seems we arrived just in time,” Nolan says, eyeing one of the posters.
I catch his drift. The festival is tomorrow. And it’s not a real party if there isn’t some grand spectacle. Like, say, a public execution.
We’ll have to make our interrogation quick.
We weave our way slowly through the crowds, making for the castle in the center of the city, passing by markets and shops, and clerics offering blessings on the street corners in exchange for prayers… and coins, obviously. At a juncture of streets, traffic stops suddenly. A wedding party passes through, their laughter and joy wet around the edges thanks to the wine bottles they brandish. They wear the warm reds and orange of the Flame, but there are vines woven around the wrists of the young couple. Gold vines, yes, but in Lumeris, it would be linen or silk cord or even cloth of gold, if the wedding purse was deep enough.
We make it only a little farther before a sweet wind smacks me square in the face. I pull Mortimer to a stop.
“What is that smell?” It’s exquisite, my mouth aching from watering.
The source is a nearby tented booth wedged between a pair of shops. A young woman tends it, rolling out thin rounds of dough that she slaps on a hot griddle. As I watch, she smears a thick jelly on a finished pastry, folds it up, and then wraps it in a bit of paper before handing it to a customer.
“I know that.” Nolan appears almost surprised by the knowledge. “I mean… I remember it. It’s spiced sweet dough filled with muddleberry jam.”
“Muddleberry? That’s not real. You made it up.”
“That’s just what it’s called. It’s preserves made from a mix of whatever berries are in season.” His face brightens in a way I’ve never seen. “Wait here.”
He dismounts and goes over to the vendor, then pays for two of the pastries, one of which he delivers triumphantly—and unexpectedly—to me.
I can’t resist. The warmth of the treat leaches through its paper wrapping. “Ooooh, are we being sinful? Deviating from our mission?”
He scowls, but only a little before a downright eager look appears.“Keeping ourselves fed isn’t a deviation. Or a sin. Though if it is, I promise not to tell if you don’t. Go on,” he says, and I realize he’s waiting for me to take a bite.
The thin, pancake-like pastry almost melts as soon as it touches my tongue, leaving behind vanilla and spice and—I make a frankly embarrassing noise as the rich jam seeps out. It’s sweet and crisp and a little sour as well, a flavor unlike anything I’ve ever had before. It’s not that we were never allowed dessert at the Cloister, but there’s something different about this. The cooks always fed us in the elevated manner that our station deserved. This is more rustic, more communal, summoning long-buried memories of fall harvests—roasted nuts and dried stone fruits and syrups gleaned from the sap of trees.
And burning flesh. Spilt blood. The pain of frozen toes. Screams, and an ensuing silence that is far worse.
I swallow hard.
“It’s good, right?” Nolan says expectantly.
I won’t let bad memories ruin this. The past is gone; the pastry is now. And so is Nolan, kind enough to get it for me. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had something so good.”
He’s suddenly unsure, conflicted. “Me either.”
Our gazes catch for a moment, his hazel eyes locking with mine. I knowhandsome—I understand the concept—but I’m uncomfortable with that meaning I don’t mind looking a little longer than necessary at Nolan. Even though he can be uptight and stodgy. Even though we’ve been traveling for days, and lacking regular chances to bathe, his hair is greasy, there’s dirt under his fingernails, and, just like me, he probably smells like horse and unwashed feet.
I drop my gaze. “We should keep moving.” Enough distractions. I’ve been taught better. “Can’t interrogate a corpse.”
Nolan mounts his horse again. “No, we cannot.”
We continue, quiet as we eat our pastries, save for the crinkle of paper as I lick every last spot of jam from it. Not exactly sophisticated, but I’m commoner Lys here, not Potentiate Lys. I make sure to wipe my mouth clean, though. Meeting an Arbiter with jam stains on my face would be a little too committed to the fiction.
