Chapter Thirty-Nine #2
Caius takes advantage of this. “To partake in the murder of the Goddess’s holy Chosen, even peripherally, and make trade of their blood and bone is a crime nearly unspeakable in its dreadfulness.
And it is one that will be swiftly punished.
Tomorrow, these transgressors will be judged”—he lifts the bottle of Judge’s Sight, chained around his neck, in a little flourish—“and, if found guilty, know the touch of the Flame. Of Tempestra-Innara, the true and only goddess of the Devoted Lands. On the day after that, only once justice has been served, the port will reopen.” He pauses, as if allowing a chance for dissent.
By then, the priests are up on the dais, Marzela front and center. She stares at Ramiro, gaze pleading, but despite the prior dealings they must have had, the Caerula leader ignores her completely.
“I have no desire to be a hindrance in Cyprene,” Caius continues, “nor remain longer than it takes to do my sworn duty.” Despite my distaste, something unknots in my chest. When Caius is gone, Avery will come back.
He has to. “But I also implore every good citizen to turn away from heresy and association with those that would harm any of the Goddess’s devoted, from their Chosen right down to the very least of their followers.
Cyprene is far from Lumeris, but it is not forgotten.
And I would bring them word that it is still worthy of the Flame’s warmth. ”
Right after I take my unwelcome ass out of your city. That’s the underlying message, the one we want the crowd to pick up and spread to every corner of Cyprene. The Arbiter has found who he’s after, and as soon as they are dealt with, everything goes back to normal.
From what I can see, it seems to have the desired effect.
Oh, there’s still plenty of angry scowls, whispers hidden behind hands, but no one is in open opposition.
No one makes a move to stand up for Marzela and the other priests.
Between the Caerula and an Arbiter, the crowd seems to have accepted what’s been dished out to them, for what they’ve gotten in trade.
It’s disappointing, somehow. In a city of heretics, I thought there might be more fight, more willingness to rebel against the tyranny of the so-called Butcher Goddess.
But maybe that’s why the city has survived as long as it has: a willingness to know when to fight rough waters, and when to ride them out until they smooth again.
“I’m not going.”
Nolan didn’t seem particularly surprised to hear I had no interest in attending the execution, which was set promptly for the following morning.
No, the surprise was mine, when he didn’t argue or try to order me otherwise, when he didn’t give some speech about piety or a duty to bear witness to the sins of Cyprene.
“I’ve seen heretics burn,” I pressed, into the space where his lecture should have been. “It’s the same every time.”
Only an understanding nod, whatever he might have wanted to say hidden away.
I held his gaze, challenging him to criticize my decision—wanting the fight—but he didn’t.
Was that his version of remorse, pale and minuscule as it was?
Sacrificing the Salt priests was his idea, and while there’s no doubt about how Nolan feels about the heretics, how much of it was based on fraying nerves and a need to bring Avery’s heretics back by any means possible?
How much of my own desperation was the reason I didn’t even try to stop it?
I am so tired, trying to unravel what our desires—and our weaknesses—have made of us.
Nolan leaves for the burning; I stay at the Petrel, solo occupant of the common room.
The windows are open, letting in a pleasant breeze.
If this were Belspire, I might have heard the crowd, their cheers carried by the wind, echoing off the stone cliffs.
Blessedly, it is not. Cyprene takes no pleasure in a burning.
But try as I might to avoid it, the scene plays in my mind: The Salt priests on their pyres, Caius with his Judge’s Sight, making his way down the line as he declares one after another in violation of Tempestra-Innara’s holy doctrines.
The crowd watching quietly, with nothing more than a low rumble of disapproval, like a distant storm that passes quickly.
Then: the flames, small at first, licking at feet and calves, blackening flesh as they work their way upward.
The wind shifts and I smell it, suddenly.
Not imagination—the acrid sting of smoke is faint but there, carried up the hill on the ocean breeze.
If I were to go out into the yard, I might see the haze of it in the sky above.
But I don’t, staring silently at the dark, twisting wood grain of the table until a shadow falls across it.
Hiram, I think, who’d also shown no interest in the ghastly proceedings.
Or—I hope—Rion, presumably still making himself scarce with an Arbiter in town. But when I look up, it’s Avery.
“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here,” he says.
I scoff. “Already seen this performance.”
“Was this your doing?”
“No. Well, yes,” I admit as he takes a seat. “It wasn’t my idea. But I didn’t do anything to stop it either.”
Avery nods thoughtfully. Not in an approving way, but there’s no judgement in it either. Somehow, that make me feel worse.
“And tomorrow, the port will reopen?”
“Yup, at dawn. And the Arbiter will be gone soon too. Back to business as usual.”
“Good.” His hand appears above the table, slides something over to me.
It’s a fold of paper. I open it; a rough map is sketched within. “What’s this?”
“They want to meet you,” he says simply.
“When?”
Avery smiles apologetically. “Tonight.” Then he glances over his shoulder, as if something is coming. He stands. “Come late, when the city is settled.”
That’s it. No other instruction or explanation. Within moments, he’s gone and I’m alone. The paper itches between my fingers, but for a long minute, all I can hear are Avery’s words.
They want to meet you.
The heretics. The true ones, not the ineffectual priests slowly roasting down by the bay.
The ones that hold the chance to free myself from Tempestra-Innara.
From things like this. I sit with that hopefulness so long that Nolan is through the door of the Petrel before I realize I’m still holding the map.
I stuff it into my pocket right before he spots me and takes the seat occupied by Avery only minutes before.
“Is it over?” I don’t let him speak first, share some detail I’d rather not hear.
“Yes.” He sounds… tired.
“And Caius, is he satisfied?”
Did he enjoy himself? Nolan’s eyes flicker up, understanding my real question. “For the moment. The other Salt Sects have probably made some connections, though. They should keep their distance. But wherever you’ve hidden the Renderers’ wares, best leave them a little longer.”
“Sure.”
A tense minute passes, during which faces file through my thoughts.
Magda. The woman who served out her sentence.
Tychus. Marzela and the Salt priests. Every one of them offered up, by us, in order to reach our singular goal.
I wonder if Nolan carries any guilt at all.
It’s a question I can’t ask, not knowing what answer I’d want to hear.
So, a different one: “Do you think it will be enough?” Whether I’m talking about for the heretics or for Caius, I’m not sure, and Nolan doesn’t ask for clarification.
“I don’t know… but it will have to be. Either the heretics make a move, or Caius does. Because I’ve made all the ones I can think of.”
The admission sounds more like a confession, one that crawls over me and climbs into the pocket of my jacket right next to the map, heavy as an iron ingot.
They want to meet you. Tonight.
Nolan may not know it, but the next move has already been made.