Page 117 of The Lost Reliquary

I don’t know what he is.

Only that there is too little space between us now. Cyprene turns into a diaphanous thing, a mirage shimmering at a distance a Nolan stands, a ghost threading through the fractured, faded world. And maybe that’s what we are—ghosts of two doomed children resurrected by a merciless baptism. He offers a hand, sticky with the blood that is our shared lot, and I accept it, letting him help me to my feet. For a few heartbeats, we stand like that, silent, dressed by the night, by death, by the divine chain that links us to one another.

I drop my hand first. “The Petrel.”

We move like shadows through the city, and by the time we sneak in through the back of the guesthouse, we hardly need to. The windows of the common room are dark; the stairs, dark; the interior of Nolan’s room, dark. Within, he lights a lamp and goes to work immediately, sitting mein a chair, cutting away my ruined clothing to get at my wounds. He cleans them as best he can, binds my ribs with lengths of torn sheets, stitches the puncture in my thigh. With every touch of cloth, every snug stitch, the ruthless years of our Cloister training shine, infused now with something more—an unfamiliar conviction. A lacy, unsure devotion. Bitterness grows in my mouth as Nolan draws a bath and leaves me alone to cleanse the rest of the night’s grim leavings. It spreads through me like the blood staining the lukewarm water, but refuses to drain away. Minutes pass thickly, congealing around me until, finally, I towel off and re-dress enough for basic modesty.

I return to the sitting room. Nolan is there, face filled with questions, though he waits for me to speak. Todecidewhat comes next.

My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with the bindings. “Giving up isn’t an option.” His words, my conclusion. “We need Caius, to get him and his Thorn Guard back and… tell him everything.”

He nods, once. “About the reliquary.”

The words are heavy with resignation. But this search of ours has gone on too long, become too frayed. Borne too many unintentional consequences.

“Yes. The reliquary.” I lean on the table, borrow its sturdiness.

Nolan takes a concerned step forward, misreading the gesture. “You need to rest.”

I do. I need… “We’ll find a ride to theGolden Gloryin the morning.” I can’t help the smirk that tugs the corner of my lip. “Just need a little beauty rest first.”

“Tomorrow,” Nolan says.

“Tomorrow.” And then, before either of us can say anything else, I retreat to my room.

Inside, I lock the door. Discard my bloodied garments and go to the basin of water, splash it on my face. It’s blessedly cold as hell, tempering the persisting heat in my cheeks. Head hanging, letting the water drip, I watch the ripples grow, fold over each other, and disappear as they meet the relentless confines of the basin. There, half naked in the square of light streaming through the room’s single window, I let myself understand. The indecision gripping me, the hesitation… it isn’t about what I wanted. I’ve known what that is since the moment a goddess’sblood trickled over my lips, binding me, emptying my life of everything butthem.

Except now, there’s something else that matters. Someone else.

I make my decision… a decision I’ve already made countless times since Nolan spoke those four little words.

It should be you.

This cannot go on.

Icannot go on, like this.

I open the window and place a candle in it. Light it. Then, I put on fresh clothes and clean my sickles. All while marking the time in my head, the count keeping my heartbeat steady, my thoughts manageable. After half an hour has passed, when I’m sure Nolan has succumbed to the fatigue left by our battle and my message has had a chance to be spotted, I make my way down the side of the building and drop gracelessly to the street.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, bodies will be found. Caius will be told the truth. Cyprene will be torn apart.

But I will be gone, on my way to Tempestra-Innara, and the death of one of us.

Forty-six

Oh, my darling. Affection is neither a poison nor a cure, though to those touched by it, it can often feel like either. Or both.

—IDALINE,THE MERCHANT OF LUMERIS

IT’S OVER.

But it’s not. Not for me, not yet.

The darkness seems heavier in the deserted desolation that is the shrine of Tempestra-Innara, stone walls surrounding it like the ragged edge of a grave. The night bleeds into my skin, chills running over it, save where my wounds throb with aching heat. But even that fades behind a deeper pain, and the tight grip of fear.

That Osiron is gone. That the attack on the shrine has driven them away, along with the reliquary. By now, they must know their follower is dead. Or did they expect this, and that’s why they didn’t send Avery? I don’t know. I cannot fathom the expectations or motivations of a deity that’s been planning—manipulating—for centuries. I only know that they offered me a chance, and now, despite my prior hesitations, all I want is to take it. To leave Cyprene behind and stand before my Goddess one final time.