Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
But despite Nolan’s worries, we don’t particularly stand out.
And excepting its beauty, distinctive stonework, and blatant heresy on full display, neither does Cyprene.
It’s full of normal-looking people, going about their normal-looking business.
Nolan takes my advice; his easy charm reappears as we make our way through the city, taking in its layout.
He exchanges friendly words with vendors as he inspects their wares in markets or peers in shop windows with a smile, all while I play protective shadow.
There are fabrics on display, a street of glass merchants and a plaza of jewelers, a smelly little shop full of cosmetics and perfumes.
We keep a sharp eye out for anyone who pays us more than passing attention, but none seem to.
It comes as an unexpected thrill. If I were to wander Lumeris in the same manner, I’d be marked, revered, and catered to.
In Cyprene, I am wonderfully, blissfully, no one.
The market streets turn to residential areas.
Then into a fish market, rank with the smell of old guts, followed by a district of brightly adorned buildings where equally vibrant (and scantily clad) figures call out provocative offers to Nolan that I swear make him blush.
And, finally, tranquil paths set along bluffs that drop directly into the sea before leading back down to the docks.
As I drink it all in, thirsty for more, only one view remains constant—the white stone cliffs with their massive, faceless visages of the Salt Goddess.
I can’t help but imagine a time when they still reigned.
Was Cyprene like Lumeris, constantly awash with pilgrims and penitents?
Did their Chosen control the city, shaping it according to their divinity’s will?
But, for all their absence, this is Tempestra-Innara’s city now, and we find their shrine as the shadows begin their afternoon stretch.
Its presence doesn’t come as a surprise—my blood brethren have managed control of Cyprene from time to time—but the state of it is.
There is a sense of obligation to it, of afterthought, the round plaza bordered on all sides by abandoned stone storehouses.
The statue of the Goddess within is meager and worn, weathered harshly by the salt air.
Clearly, the flames haven’t burned in ages and what scant offerings there are lie at its foot, shriveled or rotted away.
The worst of it is the graffiti: Curses and obscenities abound, along with a set of genitalia scrawled on the exterior of the Goddess’s form, in the right places, but with exaggerated size and shape.
Nolan says nothing as we enter, treading casually, as if just having a look.
But the set of his shoulders tells a different story—he’s tense, angry.
For a long minute, he stares at the statue, hands curling into fists at his side.
“Watched,” I remind, when it goes on too long.
Still, another few heartbeats pass before he turns, displeasure expertly buried. “It’s getting late. We should return to the Petrel.”
He says nothing as we make our way back, but I imagine the thoughts stamping through his mind. The neglect and disrespect shown toward our blood mother’s visage. The heresy.
At least he keeps it to himself so I don’t have to pretend to agree.
I’m so focused on ignoring the dark cloud gathered about him that we almost collide when he stops abruptly.
“What is it?”
He waves me forward but doesn’t reply. We’ve come to a junction of residential streets, one of the city’s countless fountains bubbling away tranquilly in the center.
A young boy is playing in it. As I watch, he carefully places a fleet of small wooden boats on the smooth water, as if acting out some ancient sea battle.
At first, I don’t understand what’s caught Nolan’s attention.
Then the boy leans over, a white stone pendant swinging from a cord around his neck.
A reverie. With the symbols from the letter carved in it.
Nolan saunters over, attention turned to the boats, as if invested in the outcome of their conflict. The boy glances up but doesn’t pause in his efforts.
“Quite a battle,” says Nolan, in a kindly way. “Is that entire fleet yours?”
The boy nods. “My older sister carves them for me. She works on real ships too, fixing them.”
Nolan leans closer, as if examining the detail on the toys. “She’s very talented. Did she make that reverie for you as well?”
“No. My father gave me that.”
“Did he make it?”
The boy frowns, as if Nolan has just said something very stupid. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” says Nolan. “It’s only that I am new to your city, and I keep seeing marks like that around.
But I’m not familiar with them.” He dips a finger in the fountain and writes out the signature from the Renderers’ letter.
The symbols dry quickly in the sea air, disappearing. “Do you know what that means?”
For the first time, the boy’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but I can’t tell if it’s because Nolan admitted to not being from the city or because of what the marks spell out. But he shakes his head.
I catch a whiff of frustrated disappointment from Nolan. Then, the boy adds: “I can’t read the Salt runes.”
“Salt runes?”
“Used by the priests. Astris’s.”
Nolan stands straight again, glancing briefly my way.
Astris. The Salt Goddess.
“Are the priests nearby?”
“Yeah.” An adult might have been fully suspicious of Nolan’s inquiry by now—should have been suspicious—but the boy is losing interest, and returns to his boats. “In the salt baths.”
“Thank you.” Nolan starts to turn away, then pauses. He pulls out a few coins. “It’s a fine pendant. Would you consider selling it?”
I’m not sure where he’s going with this. Neither is the boy, but he’s not so young as to not realize he’s being offered a price well above the worth of the item. He eyes the money eagerly, then pulls the cord over his head. In an instant, the deal is struck, and Nolan and I are on our way again.
“Wow,” I say. “One day in Cyprene and you’re ready to join up with the Salt heretics?” The tightening of his jaw warns me this was the wrong joke to make so soon after the Goddess’s desecrated shrine. “I thought it was foolish to go around showing off our ignorance?”
“We need to take a few risks if we are going to learn anything.” Satisfied at throwing my own words back at me, he holds up the necklace.
It’s the same white stone of the cliffs.
“Marks of the Salt Goddess, made by their priests. Now we have a good idea who was buying the Renderers’ wares.
And how far, on an island this size, do you think they are removed from the heretics who plotted against the Tempestra-Innara? ”
“Not very,” I admit.
“The salt baths.” He palms the reverie and runs a thumb over the carved symbol. “This morning we had a clue. Now, we have a place to look.”