Page 29 of Holy Wrath

R enault stands at the mouth of the baths. His wrists are still tied behind his back, his ankles hobbled tightly, but he’s managed to get his blindfold down around his neck. Which means he sees me, unclothed in this bed of sin and steam.

“You’re awake,” Nyatrix replies flatly, like it’s barely of interest. She gives him no more attention than that, immediately returning to rinsing my wounds.

I refuse to meet Renault’s gaze, keeping my eyes trained on the mosaic floor. Its colors twist and I feel unmoored.

“What is the meaning of this?” Renault demands. I can hear the anger vibrating in his voice. “Release her from this madness at once.”

At that, Nyatrix whirls. She’s halfway to the foot of the stairs by the time I blink. Sinking back against the ledge, the words rise and then die in my mouth. I watch as Renault stumbles away a few steps, just barely keeping his balance.

“ This madness?” the Lupa Nox demands, her voice louder than I’ve ever heard it, the chambers giving the words a rich timbre. “I am cleansing the wounds you inflicted on someone you are meant to love and care for.”

Renault gapes like a fish at the nearly naked woman shouting at him. “You stole her,” he insists, though his gaze never strays to mine. Not like Nyatrix’s does, glancing at me over her shoulder with a furrowed brow, something I cannot identify simmering in her eyes.

I wish I had the courage to say I went with her. That I agreed to go with her. But the thunderous look of rage on Renault’s face steals the words from my mouth. Shame burns my cheeks as I stand there, speechless.

“She is not a jewel or an heirloom,” Nyatrix snaps, charging up the stairs.

Renault wrenches himself back, but between his tied hands and hobbled ankles, he loses his balance and tumbles to the stone floor.

Nyatrix is on him in seconds, a vengeful phantom dipped in black waters, the moisture on her skin turning her body to gold in the hearth-light. “She is not a thing to be stolen nor returned,” the knight snarls, looming over Renault like Death Herself. “And if you speak of her in that way again, I will cut you into so many pieces you will never be whole again.”

I wait for him to reply with his usual confidence—always the right words, always something that leaves no room for further argument. Instead, over the gentle lap of water in the knight’s wake, I hear only a whimper of agreement. In awe, I watch as Nyatrix straightens, making no offer to help Renault to his feet.

“Ophelia’s the only reason you’re not rotting in the antechamber with your knights,” she sneers at him, her profile half-lit by the fire at her back as she points toward the corridor. “Show some goddamn gratitude, you worm.”

With that, Nyatrix grabs Renault by the scruff of his tunic and drags him back to the corner where she’d propped him up when we first entered the chamber. My mouth is dry, my heart a runaway carriage on the avenue of my ribs, as she shoves him against the wall. From here, I can see every curve of her muscles, every powerful tendon and sharp slice of bone, lovingly gilded in the hearth-light like a painter crowning the First Son. Something flutters low in my belly.

She yanks his blindfold back into place. “Stay here and be quiet. If you do not, I fear I might lose my temper.” With those last words, Nyatrix turns on her heel and pads back over to the bath stairs. She pauses at the top, dusting sand off her bare feet, then plunges into the pool. “I do not like him,” she observes with an air of detachment as she wades back to me. “You could do better.”

At that, my spell of silence finally breaks and I let out a laugh. “I’m a crippled foundling with no House,” I sputter, looking up at her in astonishment. “He’s of the House Amadeus, foremost of the Twelve. His father is a storied commander, his mother a revered Host member of the highest standing.”

Nyatrix watches me carefully as I speak, her gaze slipping to my mouth, which makes me flush even harder. “In the place you come from, all of that is incredibly important,” she concedes after a long pause. “But the place you come from is not the entire world, Ophelia. And the world is much wilder than you think.”

I look up at her, haloed and hallowed by the firelight. I am on a precipice, I know, about to trip from its height into the darkness below. I am so close to giving myself over to everything I’ve been taught to fear, to rebuke.

“Maybe it is,” I offer, noncommittal, glancing away from her. The idea that Renault can hear us terrifies me. I do not know how to investigate this new world Nyatrix offers with him in earshot, with the knowledge that he braved the terrors of the Sundered Lands to find me.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath of the hot steam wafting from the waters. If he came for me at all. Perhaps the Host Knights were only pursuing the Sepulchyre warrior who escaped. Perhaps all they wanted was her. I can, I admit, understand that.

“All done,” Nyatrix murmurs at my back.

I nod and turn, crossing my arms over the sheer material clinging to my bust. My fingers brush the chain of my Saintess medallion, and all at once, my anni of devotion to the First Son come washing over me. Am I truly willing to forsake everything because of a woman who makes me blush? I remember when my feelings for Carina first bloomed, how enormous they felt, like the world began and ended with her nebula-brown eyes and chestnut locks and pale rose skin and soft lips.

It will pass, it will pass, it will pass.

“Thank you,” I manage, not daring to look at her. “I need to speak with my betrothed.”

Because he did come for me, despite everything that’s happened. He could’ve sent a regiment in his name. No son of the House Amadeus ever needs to don armor and go out into these Cursed lands personally. Am I truly so weak that I would mistake Nyatrix’s momentary kindness for anything greater?

“Of course,” she says, though the muscles in her jaw tighten. “I can dress and leave the chambers, if you’d like privacy.”

I draw myself up and nod in a way that I hope is regal, a little imposing. “Yes, that would be best,” I tell her. I watch her long, slim throat contract with a hard swallow, and something deep inside me rails against every step I take out of the bath.

Nyatrix does not offer to carry me up the stairs again, though she stays beside me, matching me stride-for-stride, her hand on my elbow. When we reach the top, she takes my cane from its resting place and hands it to me before pulling a large blanket from a stone bench, shoving her feet into her boots, and disappearing into the darkness waiting beyond the chamber.

My heart does a peculiar thing as she leaves. I resist the urge to clutch at my chest and instead step behind an old, moth-eaten silk screen embroidered with a rising sun and its glimmering rays to dry and clothe myself in the woolen dress I left Lumendei wearing. I try to settle myself, prepare my mind to speak to Renault. How angry he must be. How disappointed. Lines from the Catechisma about a wife’s obedience appear in my mind, but instead of belief or devotion or even a sense of calm, the only thing those words summon in me is a dark simmering, close to a boil. Anger, perhaps, if Nyatrix is correct.

My teeth clenched, I stand for a long moment behind the screen, dressed but unable to move. The version of Lumendei I saw from her arms during that desperate early morning flight haunts me the most, if I’m honest. That sword called to her, the Lupa Nox said. Could it not be that all I saw was some terrible Sepulchyre goetia, awoken for the first time in a thousand anni? What if this city all around us is just a wicked illusion, too?

By the time I step out from behind the screen, I do not believe myself—though part of me wants to, desperate for everything to return to what it once was. That’s the reason I still walk toward Renault, I think.

Nyatrix placed him on the long stone bench that lines the walls, which seems a kindness. But with his hands tied behind his back, it must certainly be designed to inflict discomfort.

“Renault, it’s me,” I whisper, coming to stand before him. I should take off his blindfold, I know, but I do not know if I can bear to face his gaze. I brace myself for what’s to come.

“Ophelia,” Renault murmurs, head turning blindly to seek me. “Ophelia, are you all right? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t get to you before she took you.”

Shock ricochets through me. “You . . . you do not blame me?” I ask hoarsely.

He shakes his head vigorously. “No, no. Of course not. How could I? Are you all right?” Renault speaks in a rushed tone—passionate, almost. “Would you . . . Will she let you remove my blindfold? I just want to make sure you’re unharmed. Saints, I’ve been so worried.”

I stand there, frozen, struggling to understand. Shame sweeps through me, near-crippling. Did I completely misunderstand Renault? Did I, so riddled with sin, so tempted by the enemy, falsely equate him with Sergio as a way to dismiss my own failings? I choke back a sob. My stomach twists and I reach out, lifting his blindfold onto his sweat-matted hair.

His eyes sweep my body, like he’s searching for injuries, before returning to my face. “Oh, thank Him,” Renault gasps. “You’re all right, then?”

“More or less,” I manage. I find that I still keep myself a few steps away from him, my body refusing to move closer. “You?”

“More or less,” he echoes with an arch laugh, a sound I know so well. Then his gaze sweeps the chamber, alert as a hunting dog. “Where is she?”

“Gone, for now,” I answer, steadying myself on my cane.

“Can you untie me?” Renault asks, fear creasing his expression. “Don’t—not if you’re risking making her angry with you, though.”

I hesitate, half-expecting him to snap at me for it, for that gleam to enter his eyes again and make me think of Sergio. But he just waits patiently. Then, finally, I nod and move forward, beginning to work on the knots at his wrists. He twists himself toward me, trying to make the task easier.

“I’ll get you out of here, Ophelia,” Renault promises, so sincere it makes my knees weak. “And don’t worry about anything. All of our problems are gone. Sergio is dead. I know I can convince at least a few of the Holy Guard to testify to his obsession with you now that he’s out of the way. And I can handle the High Ecclesia, too. You were bewitched by goetia, spelled beyond recognition.”

The hope of it all surges through me, hope for everything to truly go back to the way it was. For my return to paradise to be paved—back to the gardens and Carina and the candlelit splendor of the Spine. Oh, Carina.

“Ophelia,” Renault breathes, twisting to look at me over his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

Tears spill out of my eyes, dripping down onto the stone bench below. I finally manage to free Renault’s wrists, which he shakes out, and then he pulls me into a tight hug. He smells of dust and blood and sweat, none of the teak and fine soap I remember. I want to fall into his embrace, to find comfort in the arms of my friend, and yet my body goes stiff as a board. He releases me, pressing a kiss to my forehead, and then pulls his legs up onto the bench to untie his ankles.

“Will it truly . . . Will it really all be okay now?” I ask in trembling syllables.

“If we can slip out of here before she comes back,” Renault replies, looking up from the knots, gaze anxiously sweeping the corridor. “Then yes. And even if we can’t... we’ll find a way. Just like we always have.”

Relief rushes through my mind at the same time my intestines tie themselves into another knot. I do not understand the incongruence, but I suppose it’s hardly of import.

Renault finishes the last knot and pulls the rope free. Carefully, he gets to his feet, creeping toward where his armor is piled against a wall. I watch him, unmoving, as he pulls chainmail over his head and lashes the sword belt around his waist.

Then he turns, beckons to me, one hand outstretched. “Come, Ophelia,” he whispers. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

I want to go to him, I think—to take those few steps across the ancient tiled floor and put my hand in his. Of course I do. But my body refuses to move. My limbs are resolute, indomitable, in their protest.

“I-I . . .” comes the useless stammer from my mouth.

“I know you’re afraid,” Renault murmurs, checking over his shoulder, as if the Lupa Nox is about to materialize out of the darkness and cleave his head from his body. “Of course you’re afraid. But it’s going to be all right.”

He closes the distance between us, reaching for my hand. I yank my arm away, some marrow-deep instinct surging up within me.

Renault looks at me in surprise. “Are you still bewitched?” he asks.

“No,” I reply in a harsh whisper. I do not say that I’m unsure if I ever was—or at least not unwillingly. Besides, hasn’t the Lupa Nox claimed she has no Mysterium? In the battles we’ve since faced, I cannot for the life of me imagine her not using Mysterium, using goetia, if she could.

“Then we must go ,” Renault hisses. For a moment, in the dancing light, I think I see that gleam again.

My body steps back from him of its own accord. “I-I can’t,” I say haltingly. I can barely believe the words leave my lips, but they do. My betrothed promises me everything will return to what it was—to all the things I once loved and cherished—and yet I rebuke him. I would, evidently, seek an entirely unknown fate in the seat of the Sepulchyre.

Perhaps I have truly gone mad.

“What do you mean? Ophelia,” Renault presses, closing the distance I created. “Don’t be absurd.”

To my endless shame, a sob rips free from my chest. Angry at myself, I shove the tears away roughly with the back of my free hand.

“Stop crying,” Renault snaps, frustrated now.

That creature in the room inside my chest thrashes, its claws tearing at the walls. I swallow hard and hold his gaze through my tears. “I don’t expect this to make any sense to you,” I say, straightening my shoulders, “but I can’t return with you.”

He’s on me then, towering over me just like Sergio did in the Spine a hundred times. “Yes, you can,” Renault snarls, “and you will. The High Ecclesia wants you returned immediately.” He pauses, his upper lip curling as he grabs my wrist. His skin is feverish, his grip punishing as he leans low, speaking directly into my face. “We are departing this place now .”

White-hot fear skitters through me, and I try to pull away from him, but he only tightens his grasp. “Renault,” I plead, “you’re scaring me. Please. I know you’re angry at me, and you have every right to be. But I don’t want you to doubt that I care about you just as much as you care about me. I just . . . I just can’t go back.”

Something in the man I was to marry cracks then, snapping down the center, as though he’s been torn asunder, just like this broken and abandoned city. He tosses his head back and laughs, the pitch of it wrong, my skin crawling at the sound.

“You think I care about you?” Renault barks incredulously. “You, damaged as you are with your limp and your dirtied bloodline? You think your little Spared story means anything to someone like me? Please. Such nonsense is for the commoners. No, Ophelia. You have an important role to play. The High Ecclesia deemed it so. And I am the one, chosen many anni ago, to usher you into that role. All your pathetic loneliness let me walk right into your heart.”

I watch him as he speaks, unable to shake the feeling that an entirely different person is standing before me, wearing my friend’s skin. My stomach twists, and I swallow back a wave of sickness, fighting to pry my wrist from his iron grasp.

“Renault, please,” I beg, my voice rising, the chamber sending it echoing through the dark. A wave of nausea races up my throat, and I nearly choke.

Renault doesn’t answer, but he reaches for my shoulders and digs his fingers into my flesh, pressing me into the stone at my back. He boxes me in with his weight, the front of his body pushing into mine. “You are returning to Lumendei with me,” he says, spittle flying onto my face. “You’re a foundling whelp without even a bitch-mother to call your own. You will obey me, call me master, and yield to whatever I demand of you. There is great glory to be obtained, and I will have it at any cost.”

He studies me, eyes dark, and then takes a deep, shuddering breath, his body roiling against mine. Just like that night in my chambers, Renault slides his hands down my sides, palming my breasts painfully. That protrusion from his center presses roughly into my belly.

“Ophelia,” he breathes into my hair, “I want to hear you say it. Call me master.”