Page 52 of The Lost Reliquary
He seems surprised himself, at the slip of his usual control. He takes a tight breath. “The heretics in Novena spoke of making a spectacle. Do you think they’ll bother with that again?No.If they have agents embedded in the ranks of the clergy, we have no idea how close they can get to the Goddess without suspicion. We need to warn them.”
“And how long do you think it will take the heretics to figure outwe’ve sent warning if they do have spies in Lumeris?” I counter. “Best-case scenario, they go back into deep hiding and we lose the reliquary. Worst case, they’re forced to strike again in any way they can. Maybe this time they get it right.”
“Our blood brethren will protect the Goddess.”
I snicker. “Even surprised, the Renderers managed to take you down. We don’t know how many of them there are, how much help they might have, or whether they might start picking Chosen off any day now. The more of our blood brethren are gone, the clearer the path to the Goddess.”
He considers this. At first, I almost expect him to accept those potential costs, embrace the same level of ruthlessness as Tempestra-Innara. But he seems to understand one important truth: that we have no real idea of what plans the heretics have in place. And there’s another, more selfish consideration as well. Nolan desperately wants to be Executrix. Finding the reliquary is still the best way to ensure that.
“Maybe,” he concedes finally. “But we have to assume the simplest scenario, that they’ll retrieve more of the reliquary blood and try to strike again before the Goddess takes a new avatar.”
This time, he’s right. The window of opportunity is closing—for the hereticsandfor me.
“We need to get to Carsaire,” he continues, “try to pick up the heretic’s trail again.”
“We don’t know the reliquary is in Carsaire. It’s a port. That heretic could have hopped on a ship going anywhere.”
“That was the only lead we had. Unless you have a better suggestion,” he adds tartly.
“Did you think I was looking for cooking tips?” Abandoning the fruitless papers, I go to the dead woman and begin searching her instead. There’s something secreted in the lining of her coat: a folded letter. “Here we go.”
Nolan leans over my shoulder. “What does it say?”
There are only a few lines written in neat script. “?‘Your wares will be more than welcome, your courier expected.’?” Then a signature… maybe. A series of symbols, but nothing that I recognize. “A code?”
Nolan snatches the letter away and peers at it. “If it is, I don’t knowit.” He scowls, pressing one hand onto the wooden top of the worktable, as if needing to steady himself. “This is useless. We keep to the heretic’s trail.”
“Fine.” I stand, the only useful source of information in the room growing cold at my feet. “Then there’s just one more thing.”
“And what’s that?”
I draw a sickle, arcing it down so that the point skewers the back of Nolan’s hand. He cries out, dropping the letter, then swallows the pained sound, features darkening again.
“I thought we had an agreement,” he says through gritted teeth.
“We do.” Which isn’t to say I’m not still mad. I twist the blade, compounding the damage, hoping for another cry. He’s tough, though. Barely grunts. I lean close, so that there’s only a handbreadth between our faces. He smells of old sweat and blood, and this close, I can see flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. The eyes that fooled me, that veiled his true intentions. But I see through that now.
And I want to make sure he knows it. “This is only fair, though, considering. Right?”
He winces again as I wrench the point free, but a smirk appears on his lips. There’s a new hint of respect in it. One that acknowledges who—and what—we both are.
Liars. Killers. Very,veryreluctant allies.
“Sure,” he concedes, though his gaze has closed off, hidden whatever true thoughts he might have on the matter. “Only fair.”
I keep my distance as Nolan tersely bandages his injured hand. But he doesn’t seem interested in retaliation—at least, not against me. Not yet. His face betrays nothing, but the longer he takes in the Renderers’ workroom—the tools, the macabre concoctions, the fragmented remains of Prior Fedic—the more a grave air grows around him, simmering and sharp. He pauses in front of the table he was chained to, running a finger over the deep butcher-block markings scarring its surface.
Maybe I should be more bothered as well, but the deep personal offense that Nolan appears to take at the Renderers’ existence… I can’tsummon it. A crawling disgust, yes, but more than that, I feel a growing anger at the concealment I continue to uncover. These secretive, expansive, crucial pieces of the world both within and beyond Tempestra-Innara’s control. And here I thought they only kept us ignorant of the world beyond theirs.
“If there are other Renderers or their allies in the area”—Nolan’s words pull me from my thoughts—“we can’t give them the chance to rebuild elsewhere.”
I watch as he starts rifling through the bottles and jars. “What are you thinking?”
He chooses a jar, something pale yellow and oily. “These heretics deserved to be judged. To suffer as much as they made our brethren suffer.” Removing the stopper, he tips the jar and pours the contents over the bodies on the floor. “And Fedic deserved a proper interment in Cineris. But this will have to do.”
Oh.That’swhat he’s got in mind. As he repeats the process with another jar, a nagging sensation grows in my stomach.
While Nolan’s back is turned, I slip the Cook’s book into my jacket, next to Jogue’s diary and the letter. After a brief hesitation, I add the lacquer box. I’m not sure why, but the Renderers risked the worst fates in the Devoted Lands to trade in these spoils. Maybe they can still be useful. Then, I pick up the Cook’s cleaver and sweep it across the table, obscuring my theft, as well as shattering the vial of reliquary powder.ThatI definitely don’t want in any other hands. Nolan startles at the sudden crash, but I only shrug in response, as if impatient with his more restrained level of destruction.
