Page 84 of The Lost Reliquary
“C’mon,” says Rion. “We’ll sneak you in through the back.”
I am thankful even as the bone-deep weariness crests over me again. It’s more than fatigue, more than grief—calling the flame left me drained. It used me like a fuel, which, in a way, I guess I am. I want to be back in my room. No, I want to kick Nolan out of his and take a long soak in his tub. Then I want to sleep.
“They tried to rob us. Killed one of our horses and injured Lys.” Nolan sounds perfectly indignant as we make our way around the guesthouse, with a brief stop at the stables. The empty stall hits like a second arrow, though I’m too wrung out for more tears. “How can theycall themselves the Goddess’s justice when they comport themselves like common brigands?”
“Common brigands find themselves in positions of power more often than we’d all like to admit.” Rion leads us into the kitchens.
Hiram is there. He nods at us.
Nolan pulls out his purse and hands over a frankly obscene amount of money. “To cover the bill we skipped out on. And whatever bill we run up from this point on.”
Hiram simply nods again. Easy to buy silence from a man who tends toward it, I guess.
As soon as the door to Nolan’s suite is closed and locked, I collapse into one of the overstuffed chairs. Nolan remains on his feet, though. He’s back on edge, pacing from one end of the room to the other.
“The Caerula may be convinced we’ve fled, but we need to avoid them going forward. And find another way to the heretics. If Tychus was able to get to Machias, there must be other ways to connect with them.”
“Sure, yeah.” I close my eyes. “Can we figure that out after I have a little time to recover from major blood loss?”
His footsteps cease. I sense his considering gaze, which is laced with impatience again, now that we’re somewhere safe. Or as safe as we’ll get for now. I expect to be chastised, for him to tell me we need a new plan right here and now. I wait for the Nolan that showed himself on the beach to reappear.
Instead: “Yes. Okay. You should get cleaned up, and that arrow wound still needs to be stitched and bandaged.”
I crack one eye. “Run me a bath in that fancy tub?”
Pushing my luck, for sure, but he heads into the bathroom. The sound of running water follows. First helping with Mortimer, now this. Two kindnesses—small ones, but more than I’m used to from a fellow Potentiate. A new sense of discomfort spreads, thick with suspicion and unease. Our truce has been a mutually beneficial thing. That I can manage.
What’s harder to get comfortable with is the idea of Nolan being genuinelyniceto me.
The next thing I know, it’s morning… again.
I jolt back to consciousness, blinded by the light streaming through the window, and reach instinctively for the sickles that aren’t there. Pain flares in my shoulder.
Where—?
Nolan’s suite resolves as I blink away sleep, the room pale and quiet. I’m still in the chair, still in the clothes I had on yesterday, save my stained jacket, which has been folded and placed on the table. I spent all day and night here, passed out. Caked blood cracks as I shift, the sensation entwining with a deep, piercing ache. And a new tightness. With my good arm, I reach for the arrow puncture. It’s been cleaned. Stitched.
A chill sensation pools in my stomach.
Hours, gone. And Nolan able to jab me repeatedly with a needle and thread without rousing me. The utter vulnerability of it sets off a sickening wave of distress. Not only because Nolan might have taken the chance for a fresh betrayal… but because he didn’t. He probably didn’t even consider it this time. Instead, he cleaned my wound, left me undisturbed.
Of course he did. He still needs you.
So why am I surprised?
Everythinghurts as I get to my feet, a taste in my mouth like I’ve been licking the inside of someone else’s boots. There’s a water pitcher beside my jacket. I drink directly from it, draining half before my thirst is slaked. Then, I listen. It’s early enough that I don’t hear any telltale thumps below that Hiram is up and about, starting chores for the day. And Nolan…?
The door to his bedroom is cracked a handspan. I approach lightly. From within, measured, even breaths sound, and I can just see the outline of his form curled in the bed. I wonder how long he watched me sleep before his own exhaustion overcame him. I consider waking him, then opt to return his kindness.
Which also means forgoing the noise of the bath I really,reallywant.
Making do with the basin of water in my room, I scrub off as muchblood as I can, along with sweat, grime, and more than a little horse ash. It’s a slow process, due to both my injury and a heaviness that refuses to dissipate.
Weakened and heartsick as I was yesterday, my dense, extended rest has left behind fresh clarity. And understanding. Nolan’s outburst wasn’t exactly unwarranted. Besides knowing the reliquary is—or was, recently—in Cyprene, we have, exactly, fuck all. Except the brand-new ire of Ramiro and the Caerula.
More complications. No leads. No allies.
Then again… Tychus may be dead, but he’s not the only connection we—I’vemade in Cyprene. I use the single chair in my room to reach into a gap in the eaves, where I’ve taken to hiding Jogue’s diary and the Renderers’ cookbook. I was nervous leaving them behind, but now I’m glad they didn’t end up as bloodied as I did. Flipping through the cookbook, I land on one of the pages with the Shadow sigils.
