Page 6 of The Lost Reliquary

For years, I’d secretly denied my inescapable servility. Loathed it. And then finally, despite my plentiful murderous daydreams, I’d accepted it. Now Emmaus had gifted me with the one thing I’d never been able to imagine: hope.

Tempting, teasing, impossibly cruelhope.

And because of that, shrouded within the warm, wet womb of the bath, I begin to scream.

Four

There is no greater honor in this existence than to be chosen by the Goddess to become part of them, one of their own. We are their children. They are our mother. They care for us. We serve them. There is no greater honor.

—THE SAME SPEECH PRIOR PETRONILLA GIVES ALL THE NEW POTENTIATES.

IWAS A GIFT.

A fuckinggift.

Presents should be things like a knit sweater or a really good knife, not a dozen shivering children torn from their homes, kneeling on a cold stone floor before a golden ossuary. But that’s what we were, each plucked from obscurity by one of the Goddess’s Chosen—in my case, a Bellator whose name I never learned. My journey to the Cathedral? Barely remember it, a blur that only came into focus once I was added to the pack. I was heavy then, a creature of clay, hollowed out by the circumstances of my acquisition.

That at least meant I was quiet. Others were less stoic—there was a fair amount of sobbing and snot, though a few were ensorcelled by the sheer grandiosity of the Cathedral. As we waited, some part of me clarified, the idea of escape flickering, probably my first sharp thought in days. Which led my gaze to Alastair, the skull with the daggered eyes.I wondered if the blades came free, and how far I might get wielding them. Stupid thoughts given the Chosen still surrounding us, any one of whom could have cut me down in the blink of an eye.

Then, Alastair began to move, the wall of bones sliding aside like a curtain.

I’d heard the stories of Tempestra-Innara, of course. But a goddess a thousand leagues away is not the same as a goddess so close you could spit on them. And as soon as they appeared, I understood. For the first time in my short, sheltered, upended life, I understood: I was a heretic. A sinner. And that the Goddess was truly, exceptionally divine.

It was an understanding that pissed me off like nothing since. Even more than when Morgan used to sneak shards of glass into my boots.

There were no introductions. No pesky orations about the offerings being made or where we came from. Only us, lined up before the apse like dolls, and Tempestra-Innara’s penetrating presence. The Goddess examined each of us in turn, gliding down the row, silent as they gazed down at the terrified children at their feet. Most trembled. A couple fainted.

When they reached me, I expected death. That Tempestra-Innara would see the rage beneath my awe, the hate beneath the reverence.

But the Goddess only smiled. Reached down to brush the strands of filthy hair from my face. The brief contact nearly toppled me, their power a flooding, welcoming light out of the darkness, the warmth of the sun after a long, cold night. For the span of that brief caress, my fear, hunger, pain… gone. There was only the Goddess.

There was only their love.

The other children were taken away. I never saw any of them again.

And then, following my divine communion, I was ferried off to the Dawn Cloister.

The slamming of a door jolts me awake even as the dreamy sensation of godly fingers brushing my cheek lingers.

Night has fallen. I am in my cell, alone. The door is locked and bolted.

I hadn’t expected to fall asleep.

I probably shouldn’t have. I don’t need as much sleep as most, but years of structured training has conditioned me to take rest, sustenance, and advantage whenever I can.

I throw my blanket aside and pad across the worn carpet.

Someone is in the corridor, their steps as angry as they are uneven. I slide open the door’s narrow viewing port. The hall is dim, only a few oil lamps lit this late at night. A figure cuts across my view: Morgan. Wherever she’s come from, she’s pissed. So much so that she doesn’t catch me spying as she stops abruptly before her door and slams a fist against the wood. It creaks painfully. When her arm drops, there’s a fresh, fist-sized divot in it. Only then does Morgan wrench the handle open and enter, the next slam likely waking whoever the first one didn’t.

There’s only one place she could have come from at this hour, in that mood.

Prior Petronilla must be back.

Questions.

After the shock of the execution, after my thoughts stopped being wild things rampaging through my mind, that’s what I was left with: questions. None of which I had answers for.

But I knew who might.