Chapter Twenty-Three #2
In an instant, our truce is struck. Like Nolan, I don’t like the situation. But also like him, I know what I want, and I’m willing to get it any way I can.
And that means the Dawn and Dusk team-up is back on.
Nolan gives me a pointed look. “Unchain me now?”
I let him stew a little longer. Then I pick up the dead cook’s cleaver.
A couple of good whacks takes care of the chains and Nolan is free.
He moves a cautious number of steps away from me, massaging his stiff arms and hands, moving less confidently than normal.
Whatever drugs they gave him on his trip to Sethane are probably still lingering, not that he’d ever admit it.
Able to finally observe his surroundings properly, he goes over to one of the jars lining the shelves, which is filled with alcohol or some other preservation fluid and several human fingers.
“This… this is…” The words stumble. “This was one of our brethren.”
“Yup.” I start picking through the various papers piled around. “Say hello to what I am assuming are the remains of Prior Fedic, the most recent Chosen stationed in Sethane.”
Nolan’s features go stony, an icy darkness filling his gaze. “It’s unconscionable. Horrific.”
“Sure is.”
“This doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it does.” Would Nolan care to know about the letters in Fedic’s office? The ones that made it clear the Prior was all but forgotten? I could tell him; instead I nudge the nearby body of the Cook with one toe. “I already did what I could about the situation.”
“Lumeris needs to be informed about this—”
“This is not our assignment. The reliquary is.”
“If you’d followed the heretic to Carsaire, you might have actually found it.”
“And you’d be dead.”
“But the Goddess would be safe!”
The sincere, almost desperate worry in his voice makes me pause in my rifling.
He seems surprised himself, at the slip of his usual control.
He takes a tight breath. “The heretics in Novena spoke of making a spectacle. Do you think they’ll bother with that again?
No. If they have agents embedded in the ranks of the clergy, we have no idea how close they can get to the Goddess without suspicion. We need to warn them.”
“And how long do you think it will take the heretics to figure out we’ve sent warning if they do have spies in Lumeris?
” I counter. “Best-case scenario, they go back into deep hiding and we lose the reliquary. Worst case, they’re forced to strike again in any way they can. Maybe this time they get it right.”
“Our blood brethren will protect the Goddess.”
I snicker. “Even surprised, the Renderers managed to take you down. We don’t know how many of them there are, how much help they might have, or whether they might start picking Chosen off any day now. The more of our blood brethren are gone, the clearer the path to the Goddess.”
He considers this. At first, I almost expect him to accept those potential costs, embrace the same level of ruthlessness as Tempestra-Innara.
But he seems to understand one important truth: that we have no real idea of what plans the heretics have in place.
And there’s another, more selfish consideration as well.
Nolan desperately wants to be Executrix.
Finding the reliquary is still the best way to ensure that.
“Maybe,” he concedes finally. “But we have to assume the simplest scenario, that they’ll retrieve more of the reliquary blood and try to strike again before the Goddess takes a new avatar.”
This time, he’s right. The window of opportunity is closing—for the heretics and for me.
“We need to get to Carsaire,” he continues, “try to pick up the heretic’s trail again.”
“We don’t know the reliquary is in Carsaire. It’s a port. That heretic could have hopped on a ship going anywhere.”
“That was the only lead we had. Unless you have a better suggestion,” he adds tartly.
“Did you think I was looking for cooking tips?” Abandoning the fruitless papers, I go to the dead woman and begin searching her instead. There’s something secreted in the lining of her coat: a folded letter. “Here we go.”
Nolan leans over my shoulder. “What does it say?”
There are only a few lines written in neat script. “ ‘Your wares will be more than welcome, your courier expected.’ ” Then a signature… maybe. A series of symbols, but nothing that I recognize. “A code?”
Nolan snatches the letter away and peers at it. “If it is, I don’t know it.” He scowls, pressing one hand onto the wooden top of the worktable, as if needing to steady himself. “This is useless. We keep to the heretic’s trail.”
“Fine.” I stand, the only useful source of information in the room growing cold at my feet. “Then there’s just one more thing.”
“And what’s that?”
I draw a sickle, arcing it down so that the point skewers the back of Nolan’s hand. He cries out, dropping the letter, then swallows the pained sound, features darkening again.
“I thought we had an agreement,” he says through gritted teeth.
“We do.” Which isn’t to say I’m not still mad.
I twist the blade, compounding the damage, hoping for another cry.
He’s tough, though. Barely grunts. I lean close, so that there’s only a handbreadth between our faces.
He smells of old sweat and blood, and this close, I can see flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.
The eyes that fooled me, that veiled his true intentions. But I see through that now.
And I want to make sure he knows it. “This is only fair, though, considering. Right?”
He winces again as I wrench the point free, but a smirk appears on his lips. There’s a new hint of respect in it. One that acknowledges who—and what—we both are.
Liars. Killers. Very, very reluctant allies.
“Sure,” he concedes, though his gaze has closed off, hidden whatever true thoughts he might have on the matter. “Only fair.”
I keep my distance as Nolan tersely bandages his injured hand.
But he doesn’t seem interested in retaliation—at least, not against me.
Not yet. His face betrays nothing, but the longer he takes in the Renderers’ workroom—the tools, the macabre concoctions, the fragmented remains of Prior Fedic—the more a grave air grows around him, simmering and sharp.
He pauses in front of the table he was chained to, running a finger over the deep butcher-block markings scarring its surface.
Maybe I should be more bothered as well, but the deep personal offense that Nolan appears to take at the Renderers’ existence…
I can’t summon it. A crawling disgust, yes, but more than that, I feel a growing anger at the concealment I continue to uncover.
These secretive, expansive, crucial pieces of the world both within and beyond Tempestra-Innara’s control.
And here I thought they only kept us ignorant of the world beyond theirs.
“If there are other Renderers or their allies in the area”—Nolan’s words pull me from my thoughts—“we can’t give them the chance to rebuild elsewhere.”
I watch as he starts rifling through the bottles and jars. “What are you thinking?”
He chooses a jar, something pale yellow and oily.
“These heretics deserved to be judged. To suffer as much as they made our brethren suffer.” Removing the stopper, he tips the jar and pours the contents over the bodies on the floor.
“And Fedic deserved a proper interment in Cineris. But this will have to do.”
Oh. That’s what he’s got in mind. As he repeats the process with another jar, a nagging sensation grows in my stomach.
While Nolan’s back is turned, I slip the Cook’s book into my jacket, next to Jogue’s diary and the letter.
After a brief hesitation, I add the lacquer box.
I’m not sure why, but the Renderers risked the worst fates in the Devoted Lands to trade in these spoils.
Maybe they can still be useful. Then, I pick up the Cook’s cleaver and sweep it across the table, obscuring my theft, as well as shattering the vial of reliquary powder.
That I definitely don’t want in any other hands.
Nolan startles at the sudden crash, but I only shrug in response, as if impatient with his more restrained level of destruction.
“That’s enough,” says Nolan. “Let’s go.” He calls the flame. It catches on the spilled substances, a line of blue fire racing across the worktable. Then, he turns and strides purposefully out of the room, leaving me to catch up as noxious smoke fills the air.
He doesn’t get far. I find him standing over the cleric’s body.
“Dead,” I say, trying to draw him away from the sight of an enemy costumed as an ally, but as if to contradict me, the cleric coughs suddenly, body shuddering. “Or not.”
The cleric’s eyes open a crack. Not gone yet, maybe, but gutted as he is, it won’t be long. Fear flashes in his face as Nolan kneels down beside him. I wait, unsure whether to intervene, not sure if there’s any mercy I can offer now.
Or if I want to.
The cleric’s mouth works desperately, forming soundless words. Begging, cursing… I can’t tell their intention.
“When they whisper, we wake…” Nolan begins. “At their command, we follow. In their light, we are seen… we are judged.”
At first, I think perhaps it is Nolan who is considering mercy as the smoke reaches us, the growing inferno not far behind. But instead, he stands, a chill entering his voice. “May their blessed flame find purity of faith, or else leave cinder and ash.”
With that, he turns away. The cleric’s gaze moves to me, pleading. If we were alone, the ache in my gut tells me I would be swayed. But we’re not, and right now I need Nolan’s trust more than a quiet conscience.
It’s not until we reach the fork in the corridors that I hesitate again. “The hounds…”
Nolan doesn’t slow. “Let them all burn.”
Ice-cold and unflinching. Not the Nolan who seemed to accompany me to Belspire, who dispatched Magda quickly and painlessly. Not even the Nolan who shoved me into the pit. Whoever he is, I don’t know him at all.
It’s enough to make me wonder exactly who I’ve struck a bargain with.
The cool night air feels like a blessing when we emerge from the ruins.
I take a deep breath, chasing away the lingering scents and acrid taste of smoke, then go to the structure housing the Renderers’ wagon and pull down the false wall covering the entrance.
Nolan shoves past me and reappears a few moments later with his sword and gear.
I go after something better.
“Mortimer!” I cradle the horse’s head in my hands, then rub the bridge of his nose. “Oh, are you okay? Did those mean Renderers feed you enough?” Mortimer whinnies softly. Beside him, Buttons nickers. “It’s okay, you two. You’re back with us now. No one is going to steal you away again.”
“Are you really coddling the horses?” Nolan straps his gear to Buttons’s saddle.
“Jealous? Awww, do you need to be fawned over after that trying ordeal?”
A tight frown tells me he’s not in the mood for teasing.
The real Nolan’s sense of humor seems to be about the same as the false one’s, which gives me some measure of him at least. He mounts up, but I go to the Renderers’ horses first and lead them out into the yard before I turn them free.
Smoke is beginning to leak from the old refinery, and the makeshift stable is close enough that the fire would be a threat.
Nolan watches with irritated patience. “Your concern is touching.”
Sarcasm. Good to know real Nolan wields that too.
“The horses didn’t try to kill me. And you’re awful cranky for someone who is still in one piece.” I arrange an expression of mock horror. “You do still have all your parts, right? They didn’t take anything before I arrived? Some toes perhaps, or maybe even your—”
“Everything is right where it should be. Thanks.” Now he sounds annoyed.
Good. We’re back where we started.
“Hurry up,” he orders, starting off in a direction that will circumvent the city and allow us to pick up the road toward Carsaire.
Behind us, the ruins of the refinery continue to be engulfed, flames licking out of the brick chimney.
It won’t be long before someone from the city comes running to investigate.
But by then it will be too late. Any evidence of the Renderers will be long gone, consumed by the justice that is the Goddess’s divine flame.