Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-one
A lightning gasp cracked from their lips. “Tempestra…”
“Shhh… shhh…” they ordered as they ran their fingertips, warm as embers, over the smooth swell of skin, tracing promises and temptations as they moved down, down, to where a different sort of clouds gathered, ready to let loose a different sort of deluge…
—EXCERPT FROM THE ASHES OF DESIRE (AUTHOR UNKNOWN)
NOLAN’S STEP IS LIGHTER on our return to the Petrel, and though I sense a hint of impatience at having to wait for Tychus to contact us, he is presently soothed by progress.
After that, all there is to do is wait. I pass the following morning with the Renderers’ book, pouring over the pages and their strange markings, until visions of Prior Fedic’s final hours begin to build themselves in gruesome detail within my mind.
The rubbery slickness of fat being cut away.
The papery sensation of skin peeling loose from muscle.
The crack and pop that comes as a blade digs deep to split a joint.
There are no Chosen in Cyprene. No reason for the Renderers to have their hounds here. That is what I tell myself. And then, as a comfort, remind myself of the hundred other ways I could more easily die in this city.
But fantasizing about death only passes the time for so long.
And Nolan isn’t the only one being stretched thin by the Goddess’s distance.
I may not be as cranky, but my body has begun to ache in a way I’ve only felt once before: when the effects of my divine baptism first set in.
It leaves me restless, wishing for a task, a distraction, anything.
I consider pushing Nolan to comb the city again, but I already know what he’ll say: We need to wait for Tychus.
Well, it doesn’t take two of us to do that. And while I may not be truly free of the Goddess in Cyprene, it’s the closest I’ve ever been. Might as well take advantage.
Outside, I find Hiram sweeping the cobblestones. He dips his head in silent greeting.
“Hiram, can you point me toward Rion’s bookshop?”
It’s not far, but I let myself wander slowly, really taking in the details that make up the city: the people, its grand buildings, the peek of grander cliffs between them.
I eavesdrop on gossip, listening for tidbits from the mainland.
I buy a bag of sweets from a boy who scurries away at the sight of a Caerula, no doubt to avoid handing over free wares or paying a bribe.
The candies are cloying and too chewy, with a flavor like licorice glazed, inexplicably, with salt.
Disgusting. But I eat every one, simply because I have never had them before, while perched on a curve of cliff that overlooks the port below.
I watch the ships as they sail in, sail out, as they raise and lower their many-colored sails.
A breeze comes up and I take a deep breath, holding it, knowing this exact scent may never come again.
Eventually, I continue on to the bookshop, which is tucked into the curving crook of a narrow side street.
A large paned window makes up the front, the tall shelves within filled to bursting, with more books piled on every surface.
The afternoon light glazes some of their leather spines; others look so dull with age and worn down that I’d be afraid they’d fall to pieces in my hands.
A bell sings as I enter, summoning Rion from a curtained-off room at the back of the space. There’s a hint of mint in the air. “Lys! A pleasant surprise.”
“I had some time to kill. And how could I resist a visit, when you offer such tempting tomes?”
He chuckles. “I just brewed tea. Please, come join me.”
Rion slides the curtain aside to reveal another room filled with even more books. There’s a table in the center and I take a seat as he retrieves a porcelain pot and two cups.
“I hope your employer’s business is going well,” he says, pouring the steaming liquid.
“Better, now. With any luck, it may even be done with soon.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“What?”
He sits. “It’s only that you sounded a touch disappointed.”
Had I? Did a sliver of emotion slip out unintended? Maybe Nolan isn’t the only one who’s not quite as in control as usual. “I suppose it would be a shame to leave behind Cyprene’s charms so quickly.”
“She is stunning. But your work must take you many interesting places.”
“Actually…” I gaze into the amber drink, at a fragment of leaf drifting on its surface. “I haven’t gotten to see as much of the world as I’d like… yet.” Rion gives me a questioning look. “Bit of a strict upbringing.”
“Ah.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t inquire further about that. “Have you always lived on the island?”
“Oh, no. I was born on the mainland. Been years since I was last there, though.”
“What brought you to Cyprene?”
Rion’s smile lessens a little. “Well, the freedom to broaden my wares, for one. I was… hmm, I suppose you might have called me a historian. More than texts, though, I collected information. Or tried to. Much of what I considered valuable, the Goddess’s devoted deemed… inappropriate.”
“I understand completely.”
“That made me a few enemies over the years,” he continues, “and I don’t mind the healthy distance between me and them.” Rion brightens. “But that’s ancient history. I’m one who prefers to focus on the future.”
Me too. I think of Cleophas, and the Squid. Wonder where they are now, whether they’ve returned to where we started or are making their way to one of the ports I saw on the captain’s charts. “Have you ever traveled farther than Cyprene? Beyond the Devoted Lands?”
“Alas, only in books. Is that where you’ve got a mind to seek your fortune? Or does a financial motivation only appeal to your employer?”
I give a little shrug. “We’re definitely not after the same thing.”
“Hmm,” he says carefully. “If you don’t mind me prying, what are you seeking?”
“I… don’t know.” The honesty slips out before I can stop it.
Freedom, yes, but as to what shape that takes exactly?
A harder question to answer. Cleophas’s maps were full of places I could go yet can’t imagine myself in.
Not because I can’t picture them—chains of islands as lush as the green ink they are painted with, a land full of vast, sweeping plains, markings that tease cities unlike any in the Devoted Lands…
No, it’s the possibility I’ll feed those dreams, fatten my desires, only to arrive at a moment where they become truly, entirely unreachable.
The disappointment that would bear… I shy away from the thought.
For all the progress made on our hunt, the reality of being no longer bound to the Goddess remains a shimmering, distant thing.
Rion’s observations have been on the mark, though.
Even as my tether to the Goddess continues to tighten, if we found the reliquary tomorrow, I’d hate the sight of Cyprene growing smaller in the distance.
“At least, I’m not sure,” I explain. “Not yet. But there’s certainly a lot to offer in Cyprene. With less restrictions too.”
“Enjoying the reprieve from the holy law of the land?”
Fear jolts me, as if my secrets have been spilled into the open. But new arrivals marveling at the looser, freer way of life here must be a common occurrence. “I can’t deny it.”
“Yet another reason I stick around.”
“Who else is going to peddle the divine smut?”
Rion laughs, then quiets briefly. “People come to Cyprene for many reasons. Some they stay for, others they don’t. But I have noticed that it offers a… a sort of clarity not found elsewhere in the Devoted Lands. Perhaps your stay here can help you to find what path you wish to follow.”
“Maybe.” I wish it were as easy as saying so.
“Tch.” Rion sits straighter. “I’m keeping you from what you came for. You’re welcome to browse the shelves. Or I can dive into the mess if there’s a particular story or topic you have in mind.”
I almost turn him down, enjoying the relaxed, almost cozy comradery (this, I think, this would be a welcome regularity), but he’s right.
I came here for a reason. A historian, he’d called himself.
A collector of information. “Do you have anything old? Like really old, from when all the gods were still alive?”
His brow furrows. “A strange request.”
“Nothing heretical.” I don’t know why I say it. Why would he care? “More like… books or stories about what life was like then. It’s all curiosity,” I add. “I’ve always wondered, but it’s not something one should ask about back on the mainland, y’know?”
Rion gives me another examining look, then shakes his head.
“I’m afraid all I have from that far back is a few volumes of poetry.
Copies, nothing original. And, frankly, they’re pretty terrible.
I’m afraid most else has been destroyed over the years, by time or intention.
Even before Tempestra-Innara stood alone, there was a tendency for the followers of the living gods to erase that which belonged to the defeated ones.
Plus, paper burns or rots, ink fades…” He sighs.
“What might have been copied and recopied over the years simply… wasn’t.
An inestimable amount of knowledge and art lost.” He sounds genuinely forlorn at the thought.
“But not all of it, right?” I remember the blood offerings my birth mother released to the storm, the prayers spoken in the village.
I don’t know how old or original they might have been, but they certainly didn’t become ritual overnight.
“The followers of the dead gods still have their practices. Like the salt baths.”
“True, though that particular activity has mainly endured thanks to Cyprene’s relative isolation.” He reaches for a shelf and removes a book, then flips through it until he finds a page. “And many others have faded despite the endurance of the Salt Sects.”