Chapter Eight #2
The elation fades. The Goddess can take another avatar.
But while they might be able to bond with anybody, they won’t.
Most burn out quickly, which would leave Tempestra vulnerable again; only a suitable avatar connects with divinity in the right, harmonious way.
How, why… not knowledge shared with the likes of us Potentiates.
But the search normally takes time. Time, Nolan is clearly thinking, Innara may not have.
And that I have to hope she does. Because there’s one thing I do know about the taking of a new avatar: The Goddess will go into seclusion right after, in order to fully cement the fresh bond.
I have no idea for how long; when Enoch was traded for Innara, it was a matter of weeks.
But Tempestra-Innara emerged into the world as the last of their divine siblings, triumphant, without a single known threat that might stand against them, even in a fragile new body.
If Innara were not the stronger, safer option still to weather a second attack, the Goddess would have immediately swapped avatars.
But as soon as they find a better replacement, that will change.
Which is bad for me. A new, fully minted avatar could easily surpass whatever power the reliquary blood imparts, closing what window of opportunity I had.
We need to find the reliquary fast.
“Innara is not our concern, though.” He turns away. “Lumeris can protect the Goddess for now. Our goal is to secure the reliquary, pull the heretics up by their roots, and salt the ground so they can never try something like this again.”
Not exactly a priority to me, but I nod. “Try not to sound so enthusiastic about our little team up.”
He sighs. “And here I was beginning to think you could manage to speak without being frivolous.”
A Cineri pounds on my door at dawn, much to my dismay.
Not that I’m not used to rising early; training began before sunrise at the Dawn Cloister.
But I am sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar place for the first time in a very, very long time, and for some reason, it agrees with me.
After a simple, silent dinner with Nolan and the attendants in a simple, silent dining hall, we retired, and I was asleep within minutes of lying down on my utilitarian yet surprisingly comfortable cot.
Maybe it was the sheer weight of Cineris’s dark silence that did it, the necropolis sharing a taste of what it had to offer, but I am so startled out of slumber by the attendant’s banging that it takes a solid minute to remember where I am.
When I finally gather myself, a pair of horses are waiting in the courtyard.
They are lovely creatures, broad-chested chestnut geldings with dark manes and tails.
Soldier’s horses, because that’s the fiction we’ll be playing—blades for hire, making our way between contracts.
I jump to claim the horse with a white star on its forehead, though I doubt Nolan would have cared either way.
He certainly doesn’t object, and as we managed to be cordial enough yesterday, he even adds a faint nod of acknowledgment as he mounts.
The Cineri have already readied the animals with our supplies, so there’s nothing for me to do but follow suit.
Then…
I stare at the gate. The last few days have been, to say the least, odd.
And yet, they played out in familiar spaces, padded by familiar ritual.
But not today. Today, my sickles are strapped to my back as usual, but I wear a stranger’s clothes.
Dark fitted pants, a matching collared coat tapered at the waist and trimmed with gray embroidery…
common garb, but so different from the Cloister uniform that it is as if I’ve been stuffed into the skin of some unfamiliar beast. Gone is my fancy gold reverie, replaced by a simple lump of flame-shaped lead.
Nolan is dressed similarly, transformed from Potentiate into a figure that could be found on any street in Lumeris.
He doesn’t look the least bit uncomfortable.
The Cineri take our lack of orders as a cue to open the gate.
They creak. Or maybe it’s something in me.
Before yesterday, I had never been inside Cineris.
But it was an anchor point, a part of the world I know.
Beyond it… still the Goddess’s world, but not in the way the Cloisters and Lumeris are.
And for a brief moment—no, more than that—I hesitate to leave that familiarity behind.
An opponent you don’t know is more dangerous than one you do.
Did Prior Petronilla say that? One of our other instructors?
As I search for that marble of memory, my horse shuffles beneath me. Chuffs. He’s impatient to get started.
And then, suddenly, so am I.
After Cineris, the plan gets a little less straightforward.
As far as anyone outside the surviving witnesses knows, what Emmaus did was a demonstration, targeting the devotees gathered to witness his execution.
Brutal, effective, but not the least bit suspect.
No one, not even our absent blood brethren, is to know that it was actually an assassination attempt against the Goddess, and especially not one that was almost successful.
Which means the official-yet-still-secret story is that Nolan and I are on the hunt for the heretics who were working with Emmaus, and definitely not any mysterious, previously unknown reliquary that could be used to try to commit divine murder again.
We have exactly one lead: Andronica captured Emmaus after tracking him to a house not far from Belspire, a city a six-day ride from the Cathedral.
The owner of the house was also arrested, but not deemed worthy of execution by the Goddess, so they got shunted off to be dealt with by the authority in Belspire, also known as the distinguished elder Arbiter Gottschalk.
Nolan and I carry a letter of introduction from the Senior Arbiter who’d been in tow when Tempestra-Innara showed us the reliquary.
It’s encoded to read like a normal note of recommendation; only Gottschalk will be able to read the true message, which will give us access to the prisoner.
I don’t relish that task. Not because of any squeamishness about interrogation—their lot is cast, and if they have information that will help me, I’ve got years of Cloister training that will help me get it.
But if the prisoner is still alive, there’s only one reason for it: They’re going to face the Arbiter’s special brand of judgement.
That I’d rather not think about. Even without my special little secret, the thought of someone rifling through my mind to determine how much I love the Goddess turns my blood cold.
The first night, we make camp in the woods.
There are towns with guesthouses along the way, attracting the fellow travelers we pass, but when Nolan suggests we avoid them, I don’t argue.
The shininess of my new, conditional freedom still carries a measure of apprehension.
Not to mention a dire seriousness that sets in the farther we get from Lumeris: After all my years in the Cloister, I’m going to have to be around regular people again.
Not shielded by armor and set up in the Cathedral for the devoted to gawk at, or on an occasional visit to Lumeris, where the inhabitants bow and scrape and keep a reverent distance.
The thought keeps me up late enough that the sun has fully risen when I wake to find Nolan gone.
I’m on my feet and halfway to my horse—gear already mentally discarded—when I simultaneously register that both mounts remain where we hobbled them, and that Nolan has appeared out of the line of trees nearby.
“Good morning,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”
My mouth drops open to respond, though the polite inquiry is unexpected enough that words don’t come. The idea that I’d fumbled, failed to see that we were, in fact, in contest with one another and that Nolan had gained an advantage by leaving me behind, still has me in its tense grip.
But he hasn’t.
“Where were you?” My cheeks flush as soon as I say it, given there are several perfectly normal things one might attend to privately first thing in the morning. But Nolan simply responds: “Praying.”
Something he seems to do a lot of. “Oh. Right. You should have woken me. I would’ve joined you.” A complete and utter lie, but I try to sound sincere.
“Really?”
He knows I’m full of it. “No. I mean, I attended prayers every day at the Cloisters but…” This is tricky ground.
I can’t sound as if I lack piety. “I do like to sleep in too. And… I don’t know, it always seemed a bit silly to me to pray to the air when we can do so in the Goddess’s presence. Where they can actually hear us.”
“They feel our devotion,” says Nolan. “And I enjoy it. It’s an act of devotion I can do anywhere, at any time. It’s calming, focusing.”
“I feel the same way about sparring.”
He squats down to stir the fire, pushing dirt over the handful of coals still smoldering. “Did you think I’d left you?”
I could lie. But I’m sure my true thoughts were written plainly enough on my face. “Can you blame me? This was supposed to be a competition.”
“Except now, it’s not. If anything, it’s a test.”
“Then why still pick only one of us from the Dawn and one from the Dusk?” I press, since we’re suddenly on speaking terms beyond a sentence or two at a time.
“You and I weren’t the only surviving candidates, and as far as tests go, well, this one’s pretty big.
Besides, we all want to be Executrix, don’t we? ”
Nolan gives me a questioning look. “Do we?”
Is this a test? “It’s our duty to do whatever the Goddess wishes of us.”
“Yes, it is.”
I can’t tell if he’s fishing for something, but my interest is piqued. “Putting that aside,” I continue, “if the choice were yours and yours alone, would you have wanted the chance to become Executrix?”
Turning the probing back around clearly throws him, and he chews over an answer. I wait, making it clear I expect one.
“The truth is,” he says finally, cautiously, “I never considered it a possibility. Andronica was young and strong.”
“Same.” It’s true, so I give him that tidbit of information, hoping for more in turn.
“What did you consider?” Again, he hesitates.
Our paths are chosen for us. And Potentiates aren’t supposed to talk of such things, even among ourselves.
But we do, and everyone knows it. Jeziah changed his mind about his preferred path on an almost monthly basis.
“I always thought I’d end up as a Prior,” I offer.
“Somewhere very, very boring where Prior Petronilla would never have to see me or hear from me again.”
“I can’t quite picture you crouched over letters and ledgers.”
“Me neither. But if it was the Goddess’s will…”
Nolan nods affirmingly. “I suppose”—the words come out slowly, at the pace of a confession—“I used to think I might become a Cleric of the Blood.” With all that praying?
Shocking. “But Prior Yiorgo always encouraged my skills in fighting and strategy, so I expected to be anointed a Bellator. However,” he adds, “if the Goddess chooses me to be her next Executrix, I will do so to the very best of my ability.”
“Well, it will be one of us, so your chances are strong. Unless we fail.”
“That’s not an option.” A grim tone enters his voice.
“Relax. I’m not saying that’s the plan.”
He stands. “We should get moving. I’ll saddle the horses.”
“I can handle mine.”
He glances at me, and I catch a hint of amusement. “I don’t mind. You take care of your bedroll, make sure the fire is fully out.”
Teamwork. Right, that’s what this is supposed to be. Gonna have to work on that. “Okay, but be careful with Mortimer.”
He pauses. “I’m sorry, did—did you name your horse Mortimer?”
“Sure did.” I cross my arms. “Prior Petronilla wouldn’t let us name the horses at the Cloister, but she’s not here and my new horse friend is. Got a problem with it?”
Another probing, quizzical look. But he shakes his head.
“Good, because your horse is named Buttons.” I start for my bedroll, but he remains where he is. “What?”
“Nothing… it’s only that you’re not quite what I expected my Dawn counterpart to be.”
I can’t say the same. Pious, focused, driven, devoted… Nolan is everything Prior Petronilla probably wishes she could have offered up.
“Does that make you more or less glad that we aren’t going head-to-head against one another?”
But apparently, we’ve reached the limit of sharing, because instead of replying, Nolan turns away and begins busying himself with the horses.