Chapter Twelve #2
The library is massive. It makes the one at the Cloister, which Prior Petronilla always made out to be enviable, look as pathetic as the stacks of smutty pamphlets the attendants used to smuggle Jeziah sometimes.
There’s row after row of shelves, the chamber opening up to reveal two more levels above us, books lining the walls from floor to ceiling.
It’s obviously not the excitement center of Belspire—I see no one but an older woman who appears to be the librarian dozing over a tome, a line of drool hanging perilously close to its pages—but it’s clearly been cared for.
There’s not a trace of dust, and while the library carries a sense of age, it doesn’t have the threadbare feeling of the rest of the castle.
“How do I find anything in here?” I ask.
He shows me a codex in one corner, after which I send him away. The system is easy enough, and within minutes I have pulled a stack of texts and found myself a private little niche in which to peruse them.
Research topic of the day: gods.
Magda and Emmaus both clung to their faith until the very end, believing that felling Tempestra-Innara would bring back the other gods, something they have exactly zero proof of.
My reason for wanting Tempestra-Innara dead is at least tangible: I want to be free.
But the heretics? Their vehemence in serving gods gone for centuries seems more mad than not, sepulchrae notwithstanding.
I have seen the Endless Storm. And it sounds like I’ll see Novena soon enough too.
But so have countless others who’ve watched and waited and prayed and sacrificed and probably done a funny dance or two, all in hope of a dead god’s return. And yet… nothing.
Still, Magda truly believed there was a way to bring the dead gods back.
As did Emmaus. Would my blood brethren spin similar beliefs if Tempestra-Innara croaked?
Maybe. Probably. If nothing else it would be the smart way to hang on to power and their posh lifestyles.
Of course, if it happens by my hand, I don’t plan to stick around to find out.
Things always gets bad after the death of a god.
Real bad. The carving up of a dead deity’s former lands, both literally and figuratively…
cleanup in the form of countless conversions and excessive penance…
messy. Divinity is as much a poison as a blessing.
The world will be better off without it… once it’s done losing its mind.
But right now, my concern isn’t what Tempestra-Innara’s followers will do later; it’s what the dead gods’ followers are doing now, and how.
I—we—need more information about the reliquaries.
If what the Goddess said is true—and I’m not entirely sold on that idea—reliquaries used to be common knowledge.
Which means that someone, somewhere, wrote something down about them at some point, and maybe I can find some mention in one of the countless old texts I’m currently keeping company with.
It’s an idea I’m quickly disabused of.
There’s no shortage of books about the gods in Belspire’s library.
But they are, for the most part, the same sorts I’d find moldering on the Dawn Cloister shelves, missing only the occasional dirty doodle left behind by a bored Potentiate.
My best find is a large map within one folio, so detailed that I’m able to find the approximate location of my former village.
It’s not marked, of course, but the storm is, a seething cloud of charcoal shot through with inky lightning.
There is also a sketchy patch of withered plant life—Novena.
Choppy waves and the rendering of a splintered prow where the Salt Goddess fell.
One sketch for each of the dead gods, except the Whisperer, weakest of the divinities and first to fall when they tried to remedy that flaw by stealing their siblings’ power.
Shadow, Stone, Salt, Storm, and finally the Green God.
All dead from one divine disagreement or another. Only the Flame left standing.
“Find something good to read?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Caius. He stands calmly at the end of the table where I’ve built my nest of texts. “For fuck’s—do you have any idea how long it’s been since someone snuck that close to me without me knowing?”
He sniffs with faint amusement. “I know Arbiters are often viewed as less capable in the physical arts, but I still remember my Cloister training. We all have our little talents.”
“Clearly. Someone should put a bell on you.”
He’s clearly proud of having taken me off guard—which is fair enough—but is restrained enough not to rub it in. Instead, he considers my leather-bound piles. “Interesting choices.”
“Not nearly as much as I’d hoped.” I slam the folio shut.
“Were you searching for something in particular?”
A light, honeyed tone. Nothing like the one he used in the dungeon.
I don’t like the shift. It makes me wonder how much he’s been pondering what Nolan and I are really up to.
But putting his interest off is more likely to spark suspicion than stamp it out.
“Anything about the followers of the dead gods, especially from before they fell. Trying to get into the heads of the heretics, understand why their devotion remains so strong, or where they might hide out.”
“Tch.” Caius frowns. “Misguided fools.”
“Sure,” I say, “but persistent ones. And we were always encouraged to know our enemies.”
Caius’s eyes pinch ever so slightly. “So we are. But I doubt you’ll find anything in these texts.”
Now there’s a hint of allurement to his words. “You got something better for me?”
With a knowing smile, he beckons.
And, with a grateful one, I play along and follow.