Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twenty-nine
Within the waters, within the brine, their voice speaks, if one is quiet enough to listen, and hear.
—THE WORDS OF MARIS, PRIEST OF ASTRIS, THE SALT GODDESS
THE BATHS WOULD DRAW no more attention than any other building in Cyprene, if not for the marks carved above the doorway.
Salt runes, the boy had called them. There’s a set of wavy lines that makes me think of water, but beyond that, they manage to keep their provincial significance to themselves.
We spend almost an hour watching the entrance, tucked into a nearby alcove.
A large building, it’s as white as the surrounding cliffs, with an arched doorway that’s opened a handful of times, including for a visit from one of the Caerula, who pocketed a fat purse.
It’s still hard to believe, the unchecked heresy that’s as commonplace here as the worship of Tempestra-Innara is on the mainland.
I suspect Nolan is thinking the same, the way he fiddles with the reverie he bought off the boy.
“What’s the plan?” I whisper.
His hand tightens around the stone once more before he slips it into the pocket of his jacket. “To let me do all the talking.”
“That can’t always be the plan!”
He ignores this and heads for the door, leaving me to catch up. I do, but only because he doesn’t give me the chance to argue before he starts knocking. It opens and a woman looks out.
“Welcome.” She’s older, hair white and bronze face weathered, but her voice holds a youthful lightness. “Have you come to commune with the waters, friends?”
Friends. Hah. Beside me, Nolan’s features are loose—nervous—eyes wide with hopefulness.
“I…” He hesitates, as if fumbling with his words. “Yes. I mean, yes, I think so. May we come in?”
The woman opens the door further. “Please. Be welcome.” There’s a warm dampness to the air inside, tinged with the scent of salt. “I am Marzela.”
Our host is dressed in a long, shapeless white robe, thin enough to give hints of a gaunt figure beneath, with a spiny choker of orange coral around her neck. As sparse as her uniform is, she has the air of a cleric. One of the Salt priests, without a doubt. “This way.”
She leads us through the hall, then down a set of stairs that opens into a long chamber with a bedrock floor.
There, dozens of shallow pools are cut right into the stone, lining a walkway that runs down their center.
People float within the pools, eyes covered with strips of white fabric that briefly summon the memory of Jeziah and the other dead laid out in Lumeris.
Only wetter. Each wears the same loose garment as Marzela, the fabric swimming around their forms in a way that gives them an appearance of giant jellyfish.
The atmosphere is solemn, reserved. I catch the occasional snippet of a whisper in the humid air, each carrying the weighty tone of prayer.
Marzela halts us in a side chamber filled with privacy screens and more of the robes neatly folded on shelves.
“You may change here.” The Salt priest begins to depart, but Nolan grabs her arm.
“Wait. Are you the priest here?”
Marzela gently extracts herself, a hint of suspicion appearing. “One of them, yes.”
“My name is Nolan. I have to confess, I didn’t come here to commune with the waters. This is my first time in Cyprene. Can we—is there somewhere more private we can talk?”
The anxious but hopeful eagerness is perfectly executed. Still, the priest’s eyes narrow. “About what, if I might ask?”
“There are… practices in Cyprene that one can’t find on the mainland.” Nolan licks his lips and looks around nervously. “I have… questions.”
The priest turns to me. “And you do as well?”
I shake my head. “I’m just here to make sure he stays in one piece.”
Marzela considers before gesturing for us to follow once more. We pass through the salt pools, then down another stair into a smaller, more austere chamber, with a simple table surrounded by wood stools. Nolan and Marzela sit. I remain standing.
Before Marzela can say anything, Nolan blurts: “I come from the southern coast, near Aris. Devoted to Tempestra-Innara. Loyal.” The priest’s lips thin at the mention of the Goddess. “On the surface, I mean. But there have always been… whispers. Talk of the Flame being extinguished by waves.”
Marzela tips her head noncommittally. “Despite the efforts of the Butcher Goddess and her spawn, there are those small corners where other faiths persist. That knowledge is common enough.”
“But those corners aren’t small here, are they?
” Nolan is spreading it on thick, but even I have to admit he sounds legit.
Keen, even, just the right amount of fumbling to his words.
“My grandfather always spoke of the water and the waves, the call of it. He… he passed away a few months ago, leaving me his fortune… everything.” Nolan makes a display of pulling the reverie from his pocket, letting it hang by the leather cord.
“I found this among his possessions, hidden away.”
It’s a nice touch, mentioning the inheritance, and I start to understand where he’s going with this. Whether Salt or Flame, a deity’s blessing is never welcome more than in the form of hard currency.
It’s enough to keep Marzela intrigued, at least. She reaches out, fingertips lightly brushing the carved stone. “Your grandfather was a devotee of the Salt Goddess. Is that what you came here for? Confirmation of his secret ‘heresy’?”
Nolan pulls the pendant back. “No… I… It’s only that…” He stops, hand wrapping around the reverie. “My parents are devoted to Tempestra-Innara, and raised me to follow that path, but… I always felt a call… to the water. To the sea.”
I can’t imagine the effort Nolan must be making, to speak so blasphemously, but there’s not a hint of his true devotion to be seen. And I look.
The air around Marzela softens. “I understand. As do you, it seems. The Flame cannot quell the power of the ocean, not when it beckons, any more than a candle can stand against a wave.” She folds her hands before him.
“You’ve made the right decision, coming here.
The waters welcome all those that seek their embrace. ”
“Thank you.” A relieved smile appears on Nolan’s face. Then, it falters. “My grandfather was devoted to the Salt Goddess, I know that much. Our ancestors too, I think, from what little I’ve been able to glean.”
“And they never desired to return to Cyprene, where their faith has its home?”
I understand the trap Nolan has set right before he springs it. “They might have wanted to,” he says. “But I believe they had their reasons to remain near the Flame Goddess… work that they felt needed to be done.”
Marzela says nothing.
“That as long as Tempestra-Innara remained, returning to Cyprene would be turning away from the possibility of the Salt Goddess’s return.
” A beat passes. “I inherited everything my grandfather amassed over the years. It is not… insignificant. I came to Cyprene not only to learn more about our faith but,” Nolan finishes, “to try and continue his work with like-minded individuals.”
I bite the inside of my mouth. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t for Nolan to go this far, this quickly. It’s too much, and nothing like the slow, careful snare he built around me. Back off, I want to hiss, but at the same time, I catch an encouraging glint of desire in Marzela’s eyes.
Maybe Nolan does know what he’s doing.
But instead of further inquiry, the priest turns apologetic.
“We all have faith that, one day, the Salt Goddess’s holy slumber will come to an end.
That they will return to us in physical form and restore Cyprene as the heart of their worship.
But I’m afraid that you’ll find nothing more than simple reflection and prayer here. ”
Nolan’s brow pinches with confusion. “But my grandfather… I know he—”
“His goals were noble, I’m sure,” Marzela interrupts.
“But here, the waters are patient. We know that waves work slowly, but eventually, they wear away the stone, extinguish the flame, and reclaim what has been lost.” She stands, making it clear our audience has reached its end.
“You are welcome to enjoy what the baths have to offer. The waters and the salt will always be welcoming. But more than that, the type of communion you seem to be searching for… I’m afraid it won’t be found here. ”
“She’s lying,” Nolan spits as we leave the baths behind. “This was the Salt Goddess’s territory. Still is, apparently. There’s no way their followers don’t know something about the plots being hatched on this damned island.”
His tone is calm and measured, but manufactured. Something simmers below the surface.
“Maybe,” I offer. “But I didn’t get the sense she was hiding anything.”
“Your senses aren’t always the most attuned.”
“Or you pushed too hard.” I drop my voice an octave. “Oh, let me do all the talking, Lys. I won’t practically get on my knees and beg to become a violent heretic.”
His head whips around, a retort threatening, but he exhales with frustration instead.
“C’mon…” I’m not used to keeping the peace, and unsure what to say. “It was clear she was interested, but you’re a stranger. Let them get to know you. Build their trust.”
“We don’t have time for that.”
The vinegar in his voice makes my blood rise, even if I suspect it’s less for me than his own worries.
“We don’t have time to blow it on our first attempt either.
Are you even sure she knows anything useful?
Want to go back and try cutting it out of her?
I’m not sure that’s going to help maintain our cover or welcome on the island, but hey, all I’m good at is smashing through doors and murder, right? ”
He softens. “No.”