Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
There are seven hundred and twenty-three steps in the Stone God’s ziggurat, a feat eclipsed only by the depths of the mines that circle it. It is as if their devoted are equally intent on reaching both the heavens and the hells in their honor.
—JOGUE’S DIARY OF A SUPPLICANT’S TRAVELS (RESTRICTED TEXT)
THERE’S AN IRON GATE in the very back of the library, swirling wrought ivy painted in shades of green, more shelves tempting from behind it.
“Decorative and functional.” I touch the gate as if appreciating the detailed work. Despite their delicateness, the vines feel as unyielding as, well, iron. “So, this is where you keep the good stuff.”
Caius produces a key. “Certain texts aren’t appropriate for all eyes.” He unlocks the gate, which swings outward with a reluctant groan. “After you.”
I step inside. The spines within are obviously older than the ones without, and less familiar. I scan a few titles, recognizing nothing.
“You are free to peruse these, so long as they remain within this room.” Caius turns to leave, then pauses. “I know the selection well. Perhaps I could be of help. That is, if you could provide a few more specifics about the information you’re looking for… or how it might help you?”
There it is, nosiness throwing off the cloak of kindly assistance.
At least it doesn’t seem like he’s holding a grudge after what happened in the dungeon.
And it’s hard to blame him; I’d probably want to know what we’re up to too.
But it’s not like I can ask directly about reliquaries.
I think for a moment. “What’s the oldest book you’ve got about the gods? All of them.”
“Hmm.” Caius goes to a curved shelf in one corner. “Jogue’s Diary of a Supplicant’s Travels.”
He hands me a small book with six stars debossed into a stained leather binding. Handling it carefully, I flip it open to find handwritten text relieved by the occasional sketched drawing.
“A copy of a copy of a copy,” Caius says.
“But Jogue was alive when six of the gods still lived. He traveled between their centers of worship, recording his observations. I’m not sure you’ll find anything to explain the contemporary heretical mentality, but there may be some information about the old ways of worship. ”
“Thank you. It could be helpful.”
In regards to what? his expression reads, as if he expects me to say more. When I don’t, he moves to the door. “I’ll return to collect you for dinner.”
Then he locks me in. I guess they’re serious about keeping these books where they are.
Jogue’s diary begins in a neat, mundane fashion: brief descriptions of the gods’ main centers of worship—Lumeris, Novena, Cyprene, and the rest—then quickly unravels into a series of seemingly chaotic daily logs and observations: lists of festivals and practices, an account of a poorly maintained road, sketches of notable architecture, rituals that caught his eye.
There’s page after page of it, the script and sketches wild in some places, clear and structured in others.
And detailed in a way that makes the growing hunger in my stomach disappear, and my craving for knowledge grow.
It’s almost hard to believe that, once, seven gods ruled in the Devoted Lands, worshipped in tandem.
Jogue describes Novena as a verdant paradise overflowing with lush gardens and groves.
I mainly know it as the place where the number of divinities was reduced to one, following the biggest bloodbath in history.
That’s something none of the texts ever tried to sugarcoat: A conflict between gods is always catastrophic.
Thousands consumed by Tempestra-Enoch’s flame, or smothered by Arcadius-Viktori’s earthy poisons.
The battle began at dawn, and it’s written that by the time night fell, the ground was so thick with the dead that the surviving forces tread on a carpet of corpses.
In the end, Tempestra-Enoch backed Arcadius-Viktori into their temple pyramid, a structure that, like its ruling divinity, didn’t survive the final confrontation.
Tempestra-Enoch paid a high price for their victory, though.
The damage done to Enoch was too extensive even for the Goddess’s healing powers.
They took Innara as their new avatar soon after.
Now Novena is abandoned, nothing but a sepulchrae. A place so steeped in death that most believe it to be cursed forever.
But not all. If what Magda said was true, the heretics clearly had no qualms in setting up residence there.
I flip through the booklet, skimming for more about Novena, when a drawing catches my eye: crossed lightning bolts, an old symbol of the Storm Goddess Serapia.
But it’s the ring of crudely sketched figures surrounding the symbol that interests me.
It’s hard to tell, but each one seems to be clutching something in their hands.
Something that might be a box, or other small container.
Maybe even a bottle.
I scan the text around it. It doesn’t seem to have a narrative, more like notes meant to be strung together later.
… winds fierce enough to shear flesh from bone…
… a tribute of jewels and silks…
… keeps their vessels…
I stop. Vessels?
Most recently, it’s said, the Goddess has turned suspicious, keeping their vessels close at hand, never far from their divine source.
It’s only a single line, but it must be a reference to the reliquaries.
The drawing implies there were many of them, and the note seems to say that Serapia stopped sending them out into the Devoted Lands.
But who knows how many might have been lost or stolen before that happened?
Or maybe the Storm Goddess hid some away—maybe all the divinities did—reliquaries that were forgotten or lost when they fell.
It certainly explains how one could have found its way into the hands of heretics centuries later.
There wasn’t likely to have been an inventory, after all; even Tempestra-Innara might have missed some in a hunt for stragglers.
The diary at least corroborates what the Goddess told us, but the musings are so disorganized, so fractured, that I quickly realize it could take me days to properly read through it…
days I don’t have. So, when Caius comes to collect me, I make a show of returning the books I’ve pulled to their shelves, all save one, which is already secreted in my coat.
And I tell myself that if Caius knew what we were really up to, he’d hand it over freely.
The dining room is like some strange dream, not quite a nightmare, but not exactly inviting either.
Most of that is owing to the hundreds of preserved animal heads lining one wall of the long chamber.
Beasts great and small (I even spot a squirrel), all shabby with age, their glass eyes dull and clouded.
And yet, all looking disconcertingly more alive than the person seated at the head of the banquet table.
The first thing I do is confirm that the princess is still breathing.
Papery skin sags below rheumy eyes half hidden behind lifeless strands of long white hair.
She wears a dress of fashionable, tailored finery, which only makes the sight more uncomfortable, turning her into a dreadful sort of doll.
As Caius and I approach, her gaze hangs straight ahead, the only sign of life a tip of pink tongue that darts out briefly to lick dry, withered lips.
Arbiter Gottschalk is seated beside her.
By comparison, he’s the picture of vigor, though he doesn’t stand for my arrival.
Instead, he sips from a glass of wine, hand trembling slightly with the effort.
Also in attendance are half a dozen of the Thorn Guard, set at intervals around the room, so still I could almost take them for being stuffed too.
A party, for sure.
I have been drilled by instructors on how to behave in countless sorts of formal situations, but I am not prepared for… whatever this is. When Caius pulls out a chair for me, I remain standing.
“Apologies, your grace.” I don’t know if that’s the proper title for a powerless figurehead, but it’s probably close enough. “I haven’t had the chance to introduce myself.”
Arbiter Gottschalk makes a sound of impatient annoyance.
Caius outright scoffs. “She can’t hear you. No need for formalities here.” He speaks louder. “Princess Osmunda doesn’t mind skipping them, do you, my dear?”
“My name is Lys,” I say anyway. The two Arbiters are clearly dug into Belspire as deeply as ticks and can ignore the usual niceties, but that only makes me want to follow them closer. “Thank you for sharing your hospitality this evening.”
I don’t know if my words get through, but the tongue makes another brief appearance.
I shut up and sit.
The attendant boy from earlier appears, escorting Nolan to the seat beside me.
He’s definitely taken the opportunity to clean up too, the dust gone from his skin and clothes.
No fancy outfit for him either, but his dark hair is slicked neatly with oil.
I catch a whiff of it as he approaches the seat next to me—cedarwood, and a hint of mint. Classy.
“Your grace.” He bows before sitting. Princess Osmunda acknowledges him as much as she does me.
Immediately, everything is weird.
Servants rush to fill our wineglasses, a conversation substitute for a few blessed seconds. Then it’s the four of us staring silently at one another, and the Princess, staring silently at nothing.
“I trust your rooms were adequate,” Gottschalk grumbles, clearly filling the dead air.
“Along with everything else.” Caius must have informed him about the dungeon events by now.
I’m not sure he would have objected, given his instructions from the Cathedral, but he also doesn’t bring it up, content to let it hang around us awkwardly.
“Yes,” Nolan replies cordially, as if nothing is amiss. “Lovely rooms. Too nice for us, even.”