Page 91 of The Lost Reliquary

“It sure can be. You have the reliquary. I have the capability. What else do we need?” Besides a whole lot of good luck.

My enthusiasm doesn’t sway him. “Okay, say I believe you. It isn’t my decision alone. The others will want to be certain that you’re serious. What if I lead you to them and this is a trick? I was willing to risk my life, Lys, but not my friends’. I’d rather you killed me here.”

“It’s not a trick!”

“I need proof,” he says.

“Um, you work withRenderers. The fact that I’m willing to ignore that should say something.”

“All that says is that you’d gamble your life to get close to the only thing that can destroy the Goddess. I bet most of the other Chosen would happily do that too.”

My mouth drops open, but of course I’ve got nothing. Avery is right to be cautious, and there isn’t exactly anything I can do or say to make him trust me implicitly. “Fine. I can’t prove what I’m saying is true. But what exactly was your backup plan for if Emmaus failed? And is it anything better than what I’m offering?”

He’s quiet before conceding: “No.”

“So how do we make this work?”

His eyes narrow pensively as he chews something over, suspicion and fear intermixing with temptation. “After this, what you’ve said… I need to talk to the others.”

“You should know that my”—I fumble the word a bit—“partneris squarely on the Goddess’s side. The time you bought with him today won’t last. How long?”

“A few days. And any impatience on his part will be fruitless. He won’t find us if we don’t want to be found.” Avery turns grave, trotting out the placating cleric voice. “Lys, I want to believe you. I really do. Give me time to work. Go back to your partner and keep him in check as much as you can. What you are offering is… well, it’s a chance none of us would have ever imagined. But I don’t know if that means they’ll be willing to hand over the reliquary.”

My cheeks warm with frustration. His reasoning is sound. But the minute I let Avery out of my sight, I run the risk of losing him—and my chance at freedom—forever. This isn’t Nolan and me inching our way toward the reliquary. It’s righthere, dangling just beyond my reach, onthe other side of a deal with Avery. I don’t want to let him go. But if I don’t, the only thing I’ll ensure is failure.

“I take a chance on you,” I say, “so that you can take a chance on me.”

“Yes. Let this be a beginning. Or kill me now, if you can’t trust me. But even if you make it seem an accident, I guarantee the others will know what happened, go to ground even deeper than they are now.”

As is happening too frequently lately, I don’t have much of a choice. “Okay. We have a deal.”

Avery nods. “I’ll contact you when I can.”

He starts to leave.

I grab his arm. Fear reappears on his face. “This is the part where I threaten you. Swear to find you if you don’t come through, and make you pay.” I release him instead. “But the reality is that we want the same thing.”

“If that’s true,” he replies, diminutive smile reappearing, “then all you need to do is have a little faith.”

Thirty-seven

If only Cyprene were not so far. Heretical rot such as thrives there would not, could not, grow in the Goddess’s light.

—WRITINGS OF PRIOR ESDEN

FAITH.

I wake, still exhausted, from turbulent dreams, the word still ringing in my ears. Of all the weapons I know, faith is one of the sharpest. And the most brittle. Faith didn’t spare my birth family or our village, it didn’t save the devoted in the Cathedral, it didn’t carry Emmaus through the assassination or free Magda from her cell. Now Avery wants me to put what frail version of it I carry into believing he can convince the other heretics that our goal is the same. All based on the fact that they know who we are, why we’re here, and that they’ve left us untouched so far.

Then again, I’ve seen conviction balanced on less.

A few hours of restless sleep. It’s all I’ve managed, shoulder wound aching like a reminder as I make my way downstairs. No surprises left at my door, or Nolan’s. It’s too soon for a message from Avery, but part of me hopes Hiram might have one waiting. Or, at the very least, coffee. But when I reach the common room, it’s deserted, save for Rion, who is sitting at the bar. No drink, no book, only a small, rough-hewn wooden box sitting on the counter before him.

“Morning.”

He looks up at the greeting, worry etched on his face.

I don’t smell coffee. Or bread or bacon, or anything else that has greeted each morning at the Petrel so far. “Where’s Hiram?”