Chapter Forty
Forty
The Salt tunnels are both temple and tomb.
—CYPRENE SAYING
EVENING FALLS WITH A syrupy slowness. I listen carefully until the sounds of the common room fade away, then wait another hour.
By then, a dark calm has fallen on Cyprene, and I can’t bear to wait any longer.
I spin lies as I make my escape from the Petrel, just in case Nolan decides to check in on me again—I needed a walk, to clear my head, get some air that doesn’t smell like grilled priest. I can’t help but pause and watch the dark window of his room, but with any luck, he’s fast asleep.
I don’t know what kinds of dreams Nolan has—better than mine hopefully—but I wish him a good one.
Something to cover the fact that his partner is going behind his back with the intention to destroy his real dreams.
Partner. When did that word start sounding real?
I hate it. Hate that for over a decade, I didn’t feel a lick of remorse for fantasizing about tearing the whole of Tempestra-Innara’s empire down to nothing.
About watching every one of my blood brethren cut from their divine mooring and set free to sink or swim as they could.
And now, after a few weeks working with a backstabbing, overly ambitious Dusk Potentiate whom I should have been pitted against and not teamed up with?
I still want the Goddess dead. But it feels less fun now.
Nolan offering up the Salt priests may have sat poorly, but I have no doubt: That’s the reason the heretics are willing to meet with me now. It’s an opportunity bought in blood, settled with ash. I’m not going to waste it.
Get to the heretics.
Get the reliquary.
Get back to Lumeris and kill a goddess.
That’s the plan.
I spot the first marker on the map—one of the massive statues of the Salt Goddess carved into a cliff, distinctive by the stone octopus clinging to her breast like a feeding child.
It takes me nearly an hour to reach its base, the buildings giving way to a strip of ancient ruins.
From this vantage, the Salt Goddess is a colossus looming over me, ghostly pale in the moonlight.
I examine the note again. The drawing of the statue is distinct, but I can see dozens of entrances into the cliffs around it—simple ones with no more decoration than a curved top to elaborately carved portals with heavy, steel-studded doors.
Like Tychus warned, the cliff dwellings don’t come with much by way of directions.
And going in the wrong one means I might never come out again.
If only the heretics didn’t need to be so fucking cryptic. I examine the drawing again, specifically the bottom of the statue, where there’s a heavier press of ink, a bit of scratching near the Salt Goddess’s feet. Or maybe it’s a fold of their robe. I can’t tell.
The breeze picks up suddenly, ripping the paper from my fingers.
“Shit.”
I give chase as it twists in the air and catch the paper near a chipped lump that used to be one of the statue’s toes.
There, I smell it—a dampness that’s not entirely ocean.
The minerally scent of cold stone. Crouching down, I find a fissure beneath the carved garment, barely there, but wide enough for a person to fit through.
That’s what the drawing was indicating. I say a little prayer before I enter.
Not to Tempestra-Innara, but rather to the Salt Goddess, for daring to do something so scandalous as go under their robes without first asking permission.
But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.
I slip in, somewhat less than gracefully, trying to keep my guard up.
On one hand, Avery and the other heretics could have made short work of me already, if their invitation had been anything other than sincere.
On the other, nothing has gone as hoped lately.
Inside the statue there’s a dense darkness, broken only by a large candle on a metal holder.
Someone has lit it for me. I am expected.
Map in one hand, candle in the other, I follow the first passage as it arcs gently through the rock, a curve reminiscent of my sickle’s blade.
The usual carvings are here, but worn more than others I’ve seen, a weighty feeling of age pressing down.
It’s cold too; the chill of the ocean is leaching its way through the rocks.
The air tastes of salt as I reach a juncture with three paths.
Following the instructions, I take the left tunnel, go down a series of roughly carved stairs, then take another left at the bottom.
Silence practically smothers me. I move quietly on purpose, but even the minuscule sounds of my existence seem muted, my heartbeat as distant as if I’d left it waiting on the rocks outside.
The shadows stuff my ears until they are full and dissipate my breath in an instant.
It is, I have to admit to myself, a little creepy.
The ghost of Tychus whispers warnings as other passages branch off, leading who knows where, but I stick to my instructions.
I take the next turn indicated, only to suddenly come face-to-face with a rock wall.
Which doesn’t make sense. I know how to read a map.
But I must have taken a wrong turn, or else I wouldn’t be staring at nothing.
I backtrack to the last place I turned, another juncture where there were two passages.
Except when I get there, I find three.
“Fuck.” My curse is a wan, deadened sound.
I search the note, desperate to figure out where I went wrong.
But there’s no getting around it: I’m lost. Which means I have two choices.
Stay where I am and hope for a friendly heretic to stumble across me—bad.
Or keep going, and hope I end up where I need to be or find a way out.
Also bad, but at least I’m doing something.
My attempts at backtracking do not improve.
Passages that seem familiar become unrecognizable within minutes, and I’m no longer sure if I’ve been any of the places I thought I had.
It’s not exactly panic that sets in, but rather a simmering irritation.
A contemplation of what will happen when Nolan wakes to find me gone, never finds me again, my stupid ass lost forever in the cliffs of Cyprene.
Another turn, find another dead end.
“Ughhh.” The simmer turns into a boil. I want to scream, but I don’t know who might overhear. Something is wrong here, the walls seeming to grow increasingly tight, the air thicker than before.
It’s not panic. I do not panic.
Moving faster, I take turn after turn, all sense of direction gone. Have I gone deeper into the stone cliffs, or is Cyprene just beyond the wall in front of me? Am I above the city or deep below it?
Suddenly, a glow appears at the end of a long, narrow passage. Sweat beads my brow as I move toward it, ears straining for any bit of sound. I reach a doorway and step through it into a bright, round chamber with a domed ceiling.
In the center, on a pedestal, is a reliquary.
I know it as soon as I see it, though it bears only a passing resemblance to what Tempestra-Innara showed us beneath the Cathedral. This one is more bulbous, with an emerald-studded base and a silver stopper. Blood fills it less than halfway, dark and viscous.
Oh, this has got to be a trap. I scan the chamber, but there’s nothing else, no one. No instruction as to what I should do now.
But maybe I don’t need it. Maybe this is the instruction. Is this the heretics’ way of telling me they trust me? Giving me the reliquary without giving away their identities? Even if I fail, or if I’m caught, the only thing I can betray is their location, and that barely.
Cautious, I approach the pedestal, expecting each step to bring an attack, a warning. But there’s nothing. No ambush, no traps, and suddenly the reliquary is only inches away.
I reach for it.
“Oh, Lys…”
The voice comes from all around, freezing the blood in my veins with surprise.
With recognition.
Across the chamber, the stone begins to ripple. A familiar figure appears, stepping forward with an expression of disappointment that slips between my ribs like a blade.
Tempestra-Innara, my blood mother.
Here in Cyprene.
Their mouth hangs down at the corners, eyes brimming with heartbreak. “Oh, daughter. I never thought it possible.”
The world shifts, its edges turning soft. Spots flicker at the boundary of my vision as panic drives the breath from my lungs.
Tempestra-Innara’s features turn angry. No, furious, teeth baring like a rabid dog as they take another step toward me. “I never thought that one of my own children could betray me like this.”
There’s no choice now, no lies that will get me out of this mess. Only commitment. I drop the candle and grab the reliquary, then tear the stopper free as I raise it to my lips to drink.
The blood does not sing.
It doesn’t even pour.
And in the moment when I try to sort out that mystery, I realize something pretty darn important: I felt nothing when Tempestra-Innara appeared. No limb-trembling rush of divinity. No warmth from the light I crave nearly as much right now as my freedom.
Nothing.
When I look again, the Goddess is gone. Instead, in their place, is Avery.
And Rion.
They both smile, as if pleased.
I look down. The reliquary is gone, replaced by an empty, utterly normal bottle that slips from my fingers and clunks against the stone floor before rolling away.
No…
A minute ago, I saw a reliquary. And a goddess, clear as anything before me right now.
“Godsdamned it, did you drug me?” I yank the note from my jacket and toss it away before wiping my fingers on my pants. I learned about things like that, potions that could be soaked into paper before—
“No one drugged you, Lys.”
Rion is calm. Too calm.
“Then what the hell did I just see?” I step back as they approach, drawing my sickles. “No. You stay over there.”
“Lys, please.” Avery stops, holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “I know that was upsetting, but…”
“We needed to be sure,” Rion finishes.
We. “You’re with the heretics.”
“Oh yes.” Rion laughs at some joke I’m clearly not party to. “Very much so.”
I’m beginning to have regrets about this meeting. Unfortunately, the stony labyrinth prevents any storming out.
“Please,” Rion implores. “Follow me and we’ll have a chat. Just like at my shop. We even have tea.”
Every extremely confused fiber of my being wants to refuse. But… “Given the chances of me finding my way out of here alone, I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Rion says nothing, though he glances meaningfully at my weapons. I sheathe them.
Appeased, Rion turns, presses the stone I saw ripple like muddy water only minutes ago.
A door depresses and slides to one side, a clever bit of engineering.
Avery goes first, then Rion, beckoning me.
Hesitantly, I follow. We enter another chamber, with a mosaic floor and carved walls, oil lamps in cerulean glass hanging from the ceiling.
More than just another piece of the Salt Goddess’s old stomping grounds, this chamber has the feel of being regularly utilized.
That sensation deepens thanks to the figures lining the walls.
I nearly mistake them for statues, until I see one of them shift.
They are robed in gray, faces veiled, offering absolutely nothing about their identities.
“Well, this is creepy as fuck.” My hands itch to draw my sickles again. “Are we having a party?”
“They all wanted to see you,” says Avery.
“To see proof that you are who we say you are. Please,” says Rion. “Show them.”
“Are you kidding me?” Proof. The heretics who still have faith in gods who have been dead for centuries aren’t willing to extend me the same belief. I scowl. Rion and Avery wait. So, I give in, calling the flame. “Will this do?” I brandish the pathetic flicker, turning so no one misses out.
A sense of wonder and relief—of hope—suddenly fills the chamber. One of the heretics lets out a joyous laugh, which deepens my annoyance. I close my hand, smothering what I’ve summoned.
“Thank you,” says Rion.
There’s a table in the center of the chamber, a more recent addition than the rest of the décor, with the promised tea and cups. Rion and Avery sit, gesturing for me to do the same.
I obey but wave away the drink. Maybe they haven’t drugged me yet, but no sense giving them any new chances.
“Okay, I followed. Proved who I was. Now, what the hell just happened?”
“You were given a test.” Rion, placid to a level that is increasingly maddening, traces the whorl of a knot in the wooden table with a finger. “One you passed.”
“We couldn’t take you on your word.” Avery is apologetic. “We needed to know that, given the chance, you would truly stand against Tempestra-Innara.”
Can’t exactly fault that, as much as I want to. “That doesn’t explain how or why I just saw them.”
“You are a unique opportunity, Lys.” Rion ignores my inquiry and stares—a searching, probing gaze that makes me want to squirm. “As far as I know—and I know quite a bit—the divinely Chosen have only ever turned against each other, never their masters.”
“Maybe they’re all smarter than I am.”
“Maybe,” Rion concedes. “Or perhaps everything occurs, even the seemingly impossible, given enough passage of time. At the bookshop, you told me you believed Tempestra-Innara was the only goddess.”
“That’s right. And no one better get the silly idea that I believe in your cause. I may be a traitor, but it’s for one reason: freedom. Specifically, mine. I know better than to believe the old gods are gonna come roaring back because you kept the faith and got rid of the competition.”
Avery’s eyes take on a fervent brightness, a grin spreading on his lips. “We don’t need to believe,” he says. “We know the dead gods are dead. But they’re still here.”
This is making less sense by the minute. “I don’t understand.”
“They’re still here.” Avery smiles even wider. “Another divinity. The Whisperer.”
The—?
Fuck. I have made a very bad decision. Not only have I surrounded myself with heretics, but I have willingly walked into a cave full of lunatics. I’m on my feet immediately.
“Okay, that’s it. I knew you all had to be mad to take on the Goddess, but at least I could relate. This? The Whisperer fell eons ago. They’re dead.”
“With all due respect,” says Rion in a new tone, one that sends a familiar shiver through me, “I’ll have to disagree. Because I feel very much alive.”