Chapter Thirty-One #2
He turns the tome my way. An illustration fills the spread, showing robed figures gathered within a sea cave, near the water’s edge. A larger figure rendered in pure white stands in the water; their garments and hair swirl around them as if they are submerged.
“Those devoted to the Salt Goddess used to meditate to the sound of the waves on stone as they basked in their deity’s presence. It’s said that some fell so deeply under its spell that they were swallowed by the rising tide, pulled down into the depths.”
“Astris didn’t bother to save them? You’d think their Goddess would hold them in higher regard.” But I know better. I remember that carpet of bodies strewn across the Cathedral floor. Followers were probably as disposable then as now.
“There may be no truth to the stories, but it does sound dramatic, doesn’t it? In any case, communing with the waves is a mostly forgotten or discarded practice.”
Forgotten or discarded. Or suppressed, turned into a crime, something to be done in hiding.
I think, again, of the people floating in their salt pools, robes billowing.
Imagine long ago secret gatherings in the cliffs of Cyprene, late-night prayers covered by the crash of waves.
Shades of worship and devotion, wilted over centuries of subjugation, but still persisting.
Still alive. “It’s hard to understand sometimes, how folks can go on worshipping like that, with their gods long dead and gone. ”
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? Not everyone believes they are really gone.”
Of course. The heretics are all betting on the old gods rising again the moment Tempestra-Innara is overthrown.
“But yes,” he continues, “faith is an adaptable thing. A garment that can be tailored to fit any wearer.”
“Or forced to.” I can’t keep the bitter note out of my voice.
Rion smiles knowingly. “Some people believe what they can see, hear, experience. Others need less corporeal evidence—they follow their heart, their gut, whatever you want to call it. And yes, still others have their following forced upon them.” He pauses, his next words quieter.
“I’m starting to wager you fall in that last group. ”
My jaw tightens. There I go again… as easily read as any book here.
Rion mistakes my silence for fear. “It’s okay, there’s no need to answer.
I understand. You spend your whole life on your knees, it can feel strange to have the opportunity to stand up.
Some folks come to Cyprene and take to it right away.
Others, more slowly. And then there’s a few that can’t handle it in the end.
They return to the mainland ashamed and appalled they ever step foot in such a horrible, heretical city in the first place. ”
“Interesting. But I’m one of those folks who believes what I’ve seen and felt. So, as far as I’m concerned, there is only one goddess—Tempestra-Innara.” Loyal words. Loyal lies. “Anyone devoted to a dead god who’s done nothing more verifiable than stay dead for centuries is a fool.”
Rion closes the book. “Devotion is just another word for love. And love is a hard thing for anyone to give up, whether the object of that affection is living or dead.”
Love. That’s what Tempestra-Innara promises in trade for devotion, the drug peddled to keep us all in line.
Love and favor mostly in the shape of power and wealth, doled out by their agents to whomever they think deserves it.
The ache of absence rises, throbbing like a broken tooth as I think of the blissful warmth that radiates off them when they gaze down with affection in their eyes.
I turn away, pretending to peruse a shelf to cover my discomfort.
“So, what do you believe? In the Goddess? Or that the dead gods are in some kind of hibernation, just waiting for the chance for a triumphant return?”
He chuckles again. “Me? Oh, I believe the dead gods are dead. Bits and pieces of their divinity might linger here and there, but only because that kind of power doesn’t exit this world without leaving a mark.”
Bits and pieces of divinity. Exactly what I’m after.
Exactly what I am. “Do the people of Cyprene worry about Tempestra-Innara turning their eye here again? Sending their Chosen, accompanied by a well-armed fleet or two?”
“Of course. Every few decades they try to cement control anew, smother the faith of those who don’t reserve it wholly for them. It won’t stick, though. Never does.”
“That what your history books say?”
He smiles warmly. “History books. Poetry books too. Even…” He picks up a familiar tome. “The smut. Faith, in whatever form it comes in, persists. Folks may believe the gods to be immortal, but the belief in them will outlive every single divine being that has ever walked this land.”
“Unfortunate.” I quickly add: “For their devoted. To have their faith be so empty and them unable to understand that.”
Rion shrugs. “Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe someday the dead gods will be nothing more than amusing stories to tell children.”
His words bring forward a thought. I hesitate, then ask: “Do you have a bit of paper and a pencil?”
Intrigued, he hands the items over, and I sketch a few of the symbols from the margins of the Renderers’ book, doing my best to re-create them from memory. “I know about the Salt runes used throughout the island. But have you ever seen any markings like this before?”
Rion takes the paper, the lines in his forehead deepening as he examines my scribblings. “Now where would you have seen these before, I dare wonder?”
“You recognize them?”
He nods slowly. “I couldn’t tell you what they mean, though.
I’m not sure anyone could. Those are old characters, even older than the Salt runes, from a language or cypher used by devoted followers of the Shadow God.
” He hands the paper back. “Lys, wherever did you come across the writings of the Shadow Cult?”
Too late I realize I should have prepared a nice, tidy lie.
“The Shadow Cult?” I make a show of surprise to buy some time to think.
“Oh… I… Where I grew up, there were… uh, some old ruins. Like, really old. We weren’t supposed to go there.
But I did… just once. Saw some of those symbols carved into the walls. ”
The fiction I spin seems adequate.
“Ah,” says Rion. “There’s so little left behind of the Shadow God, they fell so long ago. But as I said, the remnants of a deity have a way of persisting long after that deity is gone.”
The words send a chill through me. It’s an ill portent, a reminder that, even if I succeed in killing Tempestra-Innara, if I survive whatever that triggers, parts of them will remain. And who knows how those parts might be lifted, revered, twisted…
But that won’t be my problem.
I shove the thought away as I return to the Petrel, instead pondering what the Shadow God’s followers—long dead—might have to do with the Renderers.
It’s an intriguing revelation, if not one that seems as if it would be useful.
I’m weighing the risks and benefits of showing Rion more, seeing if he can shed any further light, when I enter the common room.
To my surprise, Nolan has deigned to leave his room and is waiting there. He flags me over.
“Where have you been?”
I hold up one of Rion’s saucy novels, purchased from the shop. “I got bored.”
He lets out an exasperated breath but doesn’t scold me again. Instead, he pushes over an envelope and waits patiently as I remove the paper within. There’s a brief scatter of words on it, written in neat script:
Tomorrow. Be outside on horseback, at dusk.
No signature, but also within the envelope, slipped in like a promise, is a braided metal ring.