Page 21 of The Lost Reliquary
The city shifts as we travel, growing increasingly more affluentas we approach the castle, until the shops disappear and the homes become more like compounds. Finally, we reach a sprawling plaza. Tempestra-Innara stands in its center, hands outstretched, a stone visage towering over the surrounding buildings. Flames dance in their stone palms. A shrine like this is found in nearly every city and town, though the size of Belspire’s hints strongly at the overcompensating origin of the city’s devotion.
Beyond the shrine sits the front gate of the castle, where a few bored guards in garish, clearly ceremonial armor are stationed. But ceremonial swords can still cut a throat, so we approach cautiously, dismounting at a respectful distance.
“Your business?” a guard barks, with the sort of grumpiness I don’t begrudge someone stuck outside on a damp day.
Nolan presents the letter of introduction. “We’re to deliver this to Arbiter Gottschalk.”
Another guard snorts. “A little friendly correspondence?”
But the one who spoke first eyes the seal with interest. “Give it over. And wait here.”
Nolan hesitates—probably because that’s what the guards would expect someone in his position to do—but obeys, returning to where I stand as the head guard takes the letter and disappears into the castle. Minutes tick by.
“So,” I ask the remaining guards, bored by the silence. “They letting you fine folks off for the festival? It’s shaping up to be quite the affair.” Chitchat. That’s what normal people do.
“Nah.” A guard with a sad excuse for a mustache scowls. “It’s first shift for us. But can’t complain. Got a great view of the opening festivities from here.” He nods back at the center of the plaza, beneath the looming statue, where a platform is being erected.
Execution confirmed.
“Lucky you.” I force my tone to stay bright, then content myself with scratching Mortimer on the bridge of his nose, which I’ve discovered he likes.
Finally, the guards perk up as a youngish man—maybe six or seven years older than Nolan and me—approaches, clad in an Arbiter cassock. I’m too surprised to be nervous. I was expecting someone older.He has bronze skin and short light-blond hair, absurdly neat. And slate-green eyes that haven’t lost their color yet. Not much anyway.
The Arbiter stops a few steps away from us, folding his hands into his sleeves.
“Arbiter Gottschalk.” Nolan bows promptly, leaving me to follow suit more awkwardly.
“No.” The young man’s smile is polite but cool. “Arbiter Caius, of the First Stratum Assistant to Arbiter Gottschalk. He has decided to grant you an audience.”
An apprentice, or not far past it. I don’t recognize him, but it’s common for Potentiates that show aptitude for becoming an Arbiter to be pulled from the Cloisters early, so they can focus on their judgement training, the specifics of which are little shared outside their Order.
“Welcome to Belspire,” Caius continues. There’s a sharp glint in his eyes, one I’m accustomed to seeing in my fellow Potentiates, that makes me wonder if he’s already been let in on our little secret. “Please, follow me.”
Eleven
There are certain things that you need to learn. Things that aren’t entirely pleasant.
—PRIOR PETRONILLA
IHONESTLY EXPECTED MORE FROMa palace, even one whose finest days have past. It’s fancy, for sure, but there’s a worn feel to everything, a cobwebby cling of decline. Still, I eye every cracked sconce and chipped sculpture, delightfully garish compared to the severity of the Dawn Cloister. And oddly charming compared to Lumeris’s stark luxury. Nolan doesn’t seem to share my interest, keeping his gaze straight ahead, on Caius, who stops us at the kind of door that clearly has something important behind it, judging by the pair of guards that stand outside. They are a far cry from the ones we chatted up outside. There is a stern, rigid discipline in their stance, and their heavy green-gray armor appears as if it would turn a direct sword thrust into a tickle. Every instinct tells me these aren’t the sort to fuck with. But one gesture from Caius, and they step aside.
Our escort doesn’t bother to knock.
Inside the chamber, an old man in a cassock sits at a massive desk, drooping over an open ledger. When he looks up, a murky stare locks me in place, magnified by the thick glasses that assist in his readings.There’s no mistaking Arbiter Gottschalk this time. Pale wisps of gray hair cling to a spotted scalp above a thin line of a mouth that looks like its primary activity is sucking on sour candy. He emanates a sense of fading power, complementing the castle nicely. Still, I know better than to think him weak. There are blades in those Arbiter eyes, still sharp enough to cut.
Caius closes the door. “May I introduce Gottschalk, Arbiter of the Third Stratum, divine Chosen of—”
“Yes, yes,” Gottschalk interjects. He brandishes the letter in one gnarled hand. “This is an interesting bit of paper. Am I to understand that our blood mother sent you, a pair of mere Potentiates, to interrogate a heretic who has already been interrogated?”
Matter of fact and to the point. Okay, I can do that too.
“That’s the gist of it.” I point to myself. “Lys, Dawn Cloister. Nolan, Dusk.”
“Here to do the Goddess’s will,” Nolan adds, exasperated by my trite introduction.
“As I said,” Arbiter Gottschalk says, sounding a bit imposed upon himself. “The heretic has been interrogated. Quite thoroughly. Arbiter Caius oversaw to that personally.”
Nolan dips his head respectfully. “Of course. But following the tragic events at the Cathedral, which Lys and I witnessed, the Goddess feels there might be something more to be gleaned about the location of the heretic cell that—”
