Page 66 of The Lost Reliquary
He grimaces at me.
I roll my eyes, wondering how slow Nolan thinks I am. If there’s one thing Cyprene would be wary about, it’s newcomers. Maybe we aren’t so interesting as to draw attention. Or maybe there are Renderers all about and they’ve already spotted us. There’s no way of knowing. “If we don’t take a few risks, we’re not going to learn anything. The reliquary isn’t going to drop in our laps while we’re sitting in your fancy suite, is it?”
He’s got no response to that.
But despite Nolan’s worries, we don’t particularly stand out. And excepting its beauty, distinctive stonework, and blatant heresy on full display, neither does Cyprene. It’s full of normal-looking people, going about their normal-looking business. Nolan takes my advice; his easy charm reappears as we make our way through the city, taking in its layout. He exchanges friendly words with vendors as he inspects their wares in markets or peers in shop windows with a smile, all while I play protective shadow. There are fabrics on display, a street of glass merchants and a plaza of jewelers, a smelly little shop full of cosmetics and perfumes. We keep a sharp eye out for anyone who pays us more thanpassing attention, but none seem to. It comes as an unexpected thrill. If I were to wander Lumeris in the same manner, I’d be marked, revered, and catered to. In Cyprene, I am wonderfully, blissfully, no one.
The market streets turn to residential areas. Then into a fish market, rank with the smell of old guts, followed by a district of brightly adorned buildings where equally vibrant (and scantily clad) figures call out provocative offers to Nolan that I swear make him blush. And, finally, tranquil paths set along bluffs that drop directly into the sea before leading back down to the docks. As I drink it all in, thirsty for more, only one view remains constant—the white stone cliffs with their massive, faceless visages of the Salt Goddess. I can’t help but imagine a time when they still reigned. Was Cyprene like Lumeris, constantly awash with pilgrims and penitents? Did their Chosen control the city, shaping it according to their divinity’s will?
But, for all their absence, this is Tempestra-Innara’s city now, and we find their shrine as the shadows begin their afternoon stretch. Its presence doesn’t come as a surprise—my blood brethrenhavemanaged control of Cyprene from time to time—but the state of it is. There is a sense of obligation to it, of afterthought, the round plaza bordered on all sides by abandoned stone storehouses. The statue of the Goddess within is meager and worn, weathered harshly by the salt air. Clearly, the flames haven’t burned in ages and what scant offerings there are lie at its foot, shriveled or rotted away. The worst of it is the graffiti: Curses and obscenities abound, along with a set of genitalia scrawled on the exterior of the Goddess’s form, in the right places, but with exaggerated size and shape. Nolan says nothing as we enter, treading casually, as if just having a look. But the set of his shoulders tells a different story—he’s tense, angry.
For a long minute, he stares at the statue, hands curling into fists at his side.
“Watched,” I remind, when it goes on too long.
Still, another few heartbeats pass before he turns, displeasure expertly buried. “It’s getting late. We should return to the Petrel.”
He says nothing as we make our way back, but I imagine the thoughts stamping through his mind. The neglect and disrespect shown toward our blood mother’s visage. Theheresy.
At least he keeps it to himself so I don’t have to pretend to agree.
I’m so focused on ignoring the dark cloud gathered about him that we almost collide when he stops abruptly.
“What is it?”
He waves me forward but doesn’t reply. We’ve come to a junction of residential streets, one of the city’s countless fountains bubbling away tranquilly in the center. A young boy is playing in it. As I watch, he carefully places a fleet of small wooden boats on the smooth water, as if acting out some ancient sea battle. At first, I don’t understand what’s caught Nolan’s attention. Then the boy leans over, a white stone pendant swinging from a cord around his neck. A reverie. With the symbols from the letter carved in it.
Nolan saunters over, attention turned to the boats, as if invested in the outcome of their conflict. The boy glances up but doesn’t pause in his efforts.
“Quite a battle,” says Nolan, in a kindly way. “Is that entire fleet yours?”
The boy nods. “My older sister carves them for me. She works on real ships too, fixing them.”
Nolan leans closer, as if examining the detail on the toys. “She’s very talented. Did she make that reverie for you as well?”
“No. My father gave me that.”
“Did he make it?”
The boy frowns, as if Nolan has just said something very stupid. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” says Nolan. “It’s only that I am new to your city, and I keep seeing marks like that around. But I’m not familiar with them.” He dips a finger in the fountain and writes out the signature from the Renderers’ letter. The symbols dry quickly in the sea air, disappearing. “Do you know what that means?”
For the first time, the boy’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but I can’t tell if it’s because Nolan admitted to not being from the city or because of what the marks spell out. But he shakes his head.
I catch a whiff of frustrated disappointment from Nolan. Then, the boy adds: “I can’t read the Salt runes.”
“Salt runes?”
“Used by the priests. Astris’s.”
Nolan stands straight again, glancing briefly my way.
Astris. The Salt Goddess.
“Are the priests nearby?”
“Yeah.” An adult might have been fully suspicious of Nolan’s inquiry by now—shouldhave been suspicious—but the boy is losing interest, and returns to his boats. “In the salt baths.”
