Page 24 of The Lost Reliquary
Magda begins to tremble again, her veneer of strength cracking. As amazingly resilient as the human body and mind can be in the face of death, everyone has their limits. And Magda is nearing hers.
“What do you…” Her voice breaks. “I don’t understand…”
“Mercy.” Nolan offers the word like a gift. “Whatever you may think or believe, Tempestra-Innara is merciful. And right now,wespeak for the Goddess. Accept their offer of leniency: Tell us what we want to know, and your final judgement can happen here, and now. No more waiting. No crowd cheering for your death. No pain.” There’s an ache in his voice. “I promise.”
I hold still as stone as both Magda and I realize what he’s offering, something I should have caught on to ages ago. Once Nolan mentioned the assassination attempt, there was no chance we’d be leaving her alive.
Her eyes flicker between us—confused, frantic. “I… I don’t believe you. You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” Nolan reaches for his reverie, as if swearing on it. “But do not deceive me. I’ll know it if you do. This offer only works if we both tell the truth.” His features are soft, glazed with a sort of tired truth. His offer is both terrible and kind, and a testament to the lengths he’s willing to go in order to serve the Goddess.
Magda considers for a long time, the faint beat of her heart pounding at the cage of her ribs. She is a heretic, one who believes the fallen gods still persist somewhere, kept at a distance by Tempestra-Innara’s existence, and though she’s still subject to the Goddess’s judgement in this world, does she believe she’ll face some others’ in the next? One way or another, she is going to die.
Finally, her head drops. She takes a deep, rattling breath, one that probably feels as bad as it sounds. “I don’t know much. I didn’t lie about being no one; all I did was like you said: hide someone, feed them… that’s all. But sometimes, they’d talk. Or sometimes, someone else would arrive, never for more than a few hours. I always left them alone when that happened, but the walls of my home were thin. Sometimes… sometimes they’d talk about a meeting place, where some of our network can always be found if they are needed.”
“Where?” prompts Nolan.
“They never called it by name,” Magda says. “Only by vague titles—‘where the Butcher Goddess fears to tread,’ ‘where the stones still weep.’ But once, one of them slipped, saying ‘the place where the trees weep’ instead of ‘stones.’ That was when I knew where it was.”
The place where the Goddess fears to tread. Where the trees weep…
“Novena.” I figure it out as she says the name, barely louder than a whisper. Suddenly, Magda’s attention is only for me. “You said you’ve seen the storm.”
Yes, I’ve seen the Endless Storm. I’ve seen a sepulchrae—the spot where a god died, where the remnants of their divine power still remain. Novena is another, where Tempestra-Enoch waged battle against their last living sibling—Arcadius-Viktori, the Green God. The city where that god once kept their temple and gardens.
“Novena,” Magda says again. “That’s all I know, I swear to the fallen gods.”
Nolan remains silent, then nods. “Thank you.”
He moves forward, taking her in his arms. She goes willingly, her body ceasing its shaking as his embrace tightens around her. For a moment, they seem like family, or even lovers, comforting each other. Then Nolan’s hands move up to cradle Magda’s head.
“May the lost gods forgive me,” she whispers, closing her eyes.
Nolan’s movement is quick, decisive. I hear a snap.
“There is no god but Tempestra-Innara,” he whispers, a calm expression on his face.
But Magda is already beyond those words, body slumping into him like a sleeping child.
Twelve
My life is finished. My faith is not.
—LAST WORDS OF THE HERETIC TOBIUS, EXECUTED IN THE ERA OF TEMPESTRA-ENOCH
IWAS TWELVE YEARS OLDthe first time I killed someone, which was the age the Cloisters decided we should get that little milestone over with.
It was a frigid morning and I hated it. Hated the sharp edge of the air, the wet puffs of our breath inside the carriage, the glassy cracking of the wheels rattling over frozen puddles. We hadn’t been told where we were going, but no one was shocked to arrive at the Cathedral. By then we were as familiar with it as our own beds. It was nearly as cold inside as out; if the teeth of the golden skulls had been chattering, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But a far less amusing sight awaited: prisoners, five of them on their knees before the apse, naked save for the chains around their wrists and ankles.
“This is today’s lesson.” Prior Petronilla stopped before the shivering line. “These criminals have been condemned to die. You will carry out the sentence.”
It was that simple. Five children stood before five grown adults, and it was the adults who shuddered. Their heads hung to their chests, defeat so clear that I mused over whether they’d been drugged. But thenone raised his head, glaring with a defiant anger. Blood crusted his mouth and chin, and I understood that there’d be no pleas for mercy; their tongues had been removed.
“There is no ceremony here, only your task.” Prior Petronilla went to a table that had been set up and pulled aside the velvet cloth covering it, revealing a selection of weapons. “Proceed.”
Or else.
She didn’t say it. Sheneversaid those words, but they were a blade held to our throats at all times. If we failed as Potentiates, we were weak—liabilities to the authority and prosperity of the Goddess. Such a thing was not allowed. Weak meant useless. Weak meant dead.
