Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thirty-seven
If only Cyprene were not so far. Heretical rot such as thrives there would not, could not, grow in the Goddess’s light.
—WRITINGS OF PRIOR ESDEN
FAITH.
I wake, still exhausted, from turbulent dreams, the word still ringing in my ears.
Of all the weapons I know, faith is one of the sharpest. And the most brittle.
Faith didn’t spare my birth family or our village, it didn’t save the devoted in the Cathedral, it didn’t carry Emmaus through the assassination or free Magda from her cell.
Now Avery wants me to put what frail version of it I carry into believing he can convince the other heretics that our goal is the same.
All based on the fact that they know who we are, why we’re here, and that they’ve left us untouched so far.
Then again, I’ve seen conviction balanced on less.
A few hours of restless sleep. It’s all I’ve managed, shoulder wound aching like a reminder as I make my way downstairs.
No surprises left at my door, or Nolan’s.
It’s too soon for a message from Avery, but part of me hopes Hiram might have one waiting.
Or, at the very least, coffee. But when I reach the common room, it’s deserted, save for Rion, who is sitting at the bar.
No drink, no book, only a small, rough-hewn wooden box sitting on the counter before him.
“Morning.”
He looks up at the greeting, worry etched on his face.
I don’t smell coffee. Or bread or bacon, or anything else that has greeted each morning at the Petrel so far. “Where’s Hiram?”
Rion turns back to the box. “He wasn’t here when I arrived. This was, though.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
There’s less uncertainty than the words convey. He might not know what’s in the box, but from his tone and demeanor, he knows it’s nothing good. I make a cursory search of the kitchen and the yard out back, but the proprietor is nowhere to be found. I return to the common room, draw one sickle.
“Why don’t you stand back?”
Rion follows my instruction as I use the point to gingerly lift the lid. A bed of gray crystals lies within.
“Salt?” I take a pinch, feeling the grit of it between my fingers.
“It appears so,” says Rion.
No, not only salt. There’s a spot of pink. I brush some of the crystals to the side and the pink turns to red. Then, something else appears, grayish brown and blotched purple.
“Is that—?”
“Yup, a finger.” A man’s little finger from the size of it, severed roughly, jagged ends of flesh left behind. “And whatever was used to chop it off could use a sharpening.”
Rion’s mouth thins into a grim cut. “They would have used the edge of a shell.”
“A shell?” Cold understanding forms. After all, it’s not exactly subtle. “The Salt priests did this?”
“Appears so. Your employer’s business in Cyprene seems to be making him more than a few enemies.”
“He’s still working on how to negotiate effectively.” My gut twists. Apparently, Marzela doesn’t appreciate being ignored. “Why Hiram?”
“To send a message, I expect,” says Rion. “To you. To anyone helping you.”
My hand tightens around my sickle. “Is he still alive?”
“I think if he wasn’t, the box would be bigger. No, this looks like an… invitation.” Rion closes the box, a storminess in his eyes. But by the time he turns to me again, they’ve softened with concern. “What should we do?”
“You should go make coffee.” Angry heat gathers in my chest, along with the unwise desire to let it loose on the Salt priests.
And if not for Avery… No. I cannot—will not—lose control now.
Gotta do this smart. “And wake up Nolan. I need to run a quick errand. But after that… we’re going to go get Hiram. ”
Rion insists on coming as far as the baths with us. “The Salt Sects aren’t usually violent,” he explains as we make our way there. “But sometimes they can be rather… determined.”
“Clearly.” Nolan stops us a few streets away. “Please, let me deal with this from here. It’s my fault Hiram has been harmed. I need to find a way to resolve it.”
Rion starts to protest, but I take his arm, turning him toward me. “If he can’t resolve it with words, I have my little ways too.”
The bookseller smirks with dark amusement. “If I could be of assistance…”
“This isn’t your fight. Is there somewhere you can go that’s safe for a while? In case they decide you’ve been too friendly to us as well?”
“I…” He nods. “Yes.”
“Then go. We’ll stop by the shop and leave something to let you know when it’s safe.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Not a finger, I hope?”
I wink. “Not unless the Salt priests make me deal with this the hard way.”
When Rion is gone, we continue to Marzela’s salt baths, where Nolan knocks on the door. The old woman herself is revealed when it opens. “Please, enter.”
Nolan obeys, leaving me to follow. Within, Marzela closes the door behind us, hands disappearing beneath the arms of her diaphanous robe.
She smiles as blandly as at our first visit, but the welcoming air is gone.
Now, there’s the sense of a facade, of what’s on the surface not matching what lies beneath.
Maybe we should have expected it. As innocuous as the Salt Sects had seemed initially, nothing in Cyprene would persist without some measure of cunning.
“Where’s Hiram?” I snap.
“Below.” Marzela is calm, unperturbed.
“Alive?” Nolan speaks tranquilly as well, but there’s an edge to his voice.
“Alive,” Marzela confirms. “And there’s no reason for that to change. He’s settled his part in this for now. You, on the other hand…”
“Tell me what you want,” Nolan says, “and be done with it.”
But Marzela only moves deeper into the baths, leaving Nolan and me no choice but to follow.
The pools are empty—no communing bathers, though more Salt priests line the walls, watching us as we make our way down the center path.
I find no malice in their faces, but there isn’t on Marzela’s either, and she worked in a dismemberment before breakfast.
“Cyprene is strong.” Marzela stops in the midst of the pools, turning back to us.
“As strong as the stone that surrounds it. But, like anything, it has its vulnerable spots. Its systems and rules that must be followed in order for its… conflicting forces to remain harmonious.” She pauses.
“Such were our agreements with the Caerula.”
Nolan’s chin tips up, a little haughty. “If you have a point, I’d ask you to skip directly to it.”
There’s a brief flash of amusement on Marzela’s features. “Even if you’d been upfront about what you had to offer, going behind Ramiro’s back on such significant trade would have upset our particular balance. But now, he and his Caerula think you have fled the island.”
“A notion that you haven’t enlightened them about.”
“No. And which now frees us up to deal more openly. Ramiro doesn’t understand, of course. He does not know what it is to taste the divine, to reach out to Astris and truly feel their touch.”
Nolan scoffs. “But you do. And you want to keep that going, even though Machias, your usual supplier, is now dead. Frankly, sounds as if you need me more than I need you. There are buyers on the mainland, though, and I’m beginning to wonder how wise it is to bother with Cyprene any further.”
Marzela looks around at the Salt priests watching us.
Surrounding us. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to imply this was optional.
It is not. But I did hope we might be able to put aside the past; after all, Cyprene is Cyprene.
We will happily buy what you’ve brought here, now and in the future.
But if you refuse, well… then we will simply take what you have and count it as a generous gift from the Salt Goddess. ”
“Take what we have, you mean,” Nolan echoes, “and dispose of us.”
Marzela tips her head graciously. “The waves welcome all.”
A few heartbeats pass, during which I very much wish to turn those clear pools red, but I wait for some direction from Nolan.
“I dislike being pressured into a deal,” he says with a sigh, “but I understand your position. Cyprene is Cyprene, as you said. I suppose I have to respect its customs.”
Marzela grins.
“But after that unfortunate encounter in the cliffs, and the circumstances of this invitation, I didn’t think it prudent to bring my wares along.”
The Salt priest’s gaze jumps to me.
I raise my hands. “Go on, search. Nothing, I promise. And you won’t find it at the Petrel either.”
“Everything has been hidden away to allow me to deal more freely,” Nolan continues. “You could be rid of us, but that would leave you to have to search every inch of Cyprene. An inconvenience, to say the least.” He waits a beat. “And might even draw unwanted attention from the Caerula.”
Finally, Marzela’s calm demeanor ripples, giving way to displeasure.
“But I think we’d both be happier getting what we’re after,” Nolan continues. “Violence may have quick results, but rarely benefits long-term. Do you agree?”
Marzela clearly isn’t pleased, but she nods. “It does seem that the most beneficial thing for both of us would be to come to an agreement.”
“I will certainly take it under consideration,” Nolan counters, “but you aren’t the only interested party, you understand. There are other sects, other buyers.”
The Salt priest’s features cloud further. “You place a deal before me, then pull it away?”
“Not in the least. I will trade with whoever makes me the best offer. Whether that is you or one of your counterparts.” He smiles pleasantly.
“Or all of you, if you choose to combine efforts. As you said, we are now able to deal more freely. But until I’ve had the time to reach back out to the other sects, all paths to the divine will remain safely hidden away.
Oh, and I would ask that Hiram be released now. As you said, he’s settled with you.”
At first, I think Nolan’s tongue has failed to sway Marzela.
He’s called her bluff, dared her to make threats again and risk losing her desired prize entirely.
And maybe she’s tempted to do so. Certainly, the old woman looks as if she’s taken a sip of seawater when she expected fresh.
Then, her jaw loosens and I see the desperate desire beneath the intimidation and posturing—the hungry need for the Renderers’ wares, to get closer to the deity she believes is waiting, just out of reach.
One hand snaps up. More Salt priests appear, Hiram walking between them.
His hand is bandaged, spots of dark red soaking through the fabric.
“Safe and sound,” Marzela says, “as promised.”
“Not sound.” I meet Hiram halfway, flanking him as he joins Nolan and me. He has a touch of pallor but otherwise appears as usual. Even somewhat bored, as if the events of the morning are commonplace, bordering on tedious. “Are you okay?”
He nods. “S’only the little finger. Won’t slow me down too much.”
His blunt, serene acceptance of it sets off my anger again.
I turn around, scanning every face of every priest, meeting every set of eyes.
“I’d just like to make one thing clear.” I speak slowly, making sure I am heard.
“If this were my decision—if I had even a sliver of a choice in the matter—I’d leave every single one of you in the exact same condition as Hiram. ” Or worse. I let that remain unspoken.
“Lucky for all of you,” says Nolan, “it is not her decision. Now. I’ll be taking my leave.”
Marzela’s stare could melt ice. “Do not leave us waiting long… again.”
Nolan only grins placidly at the veiled hostility. “Once I’ve reached out to the other Salt Sects, I’ll entertain all offers, including yours. Which I’ll expect to be delivered in a more conventional manner than your last correspondence.”
I don’t relax fully until we are out of the baths and well away from their zealous, salty miasma.
“I am very sorry,” Nolan says to Hiram. It’s his place to say it, true, but I’m surprised to hear genuine emotion in his voice. “They harmed you for helping us, when you had no real reason to. If there was some way to undo the damage done, I would make it happen.”
Hiram’s head hangs a bit as we travel. “Never did like the Salt priests any more than the Caerula,” he mutters.
“We should return to the Petrel,” I say. “I can clean and bandage that wound.” And see if Avery has left any messages. It’s only been a few hours, but now that Hiram is safe, I’m anxious to hear from my heretic friend again.
Suddenly, Hiram stops. We’ve reached an avenue that curves along a cliff, one that overlooks the harbor.
Noise filters up from below, a buzz of voices, far more than the typical level of daily activity.
It’s indistinct, but the wind carries a clear note of apprehension.
As much as I want to get back, I don’t object when we shift our path to investigate.
We reach the outskirts of the docks, where a crowd has gathered around a large frigate that appears freshly arrived.
There’s a pile of crates beside us; I climb onto one for a better vantage.
The name of the ship—the Golden Glory—doesn’t answer any questions.
Neither does the appearance of Ramiro on its deck.
“What is it?” Nolan strains to see over the crowd.
“I’m not sure.” The last thing that should come as a surprise is a ship arriving. Even a particularly large, affluent-looking ship. But when another figure appears beside the Caerula leader, a sensation like a punch catches me below the ribs. “Fuck.”
It’s Caius.
Standing tall and straight, stark as snow in his Arbiter’s cassock, he gazes out serenely over the gathered citizens of Cyprene.
“Huh,” Hiram grunts from below. “Figures this day would only get worse.”