“Clearly. Someone should put a bell on you.”
He’s clearly proud of having taken me off guard—which is fair enough—but is restrained enough not to rub it in. Instead, he considers my leather-bound piles. “Interesting choices.”
“Not nearly as much as I’d hoped.” I slam the folio shut.
“Were you searching for something in particular?”
A light, honeyed tone. Nothing like the one he used in the dungeon. I don’t like the shift. It makes me wonder how much he’s been pondering what Nolan and I are really up to. But putting his interest off is more likely to spark suspicion than stamp it out. “Anything about the followers of the dead gods, especially from before they fell. Trying to get into the heads of the heretics, understand why their devotion remains so strong, or where they might hide out.”
“Tch.” Caius frowns. “Misguided fools.”
“Sure,” I say, “but persistent ones. And we were always encouraged to know our enemies.”
Caius’s eyes pinch ever so slightly. “So we are. But I doubt you’ll find anything in these texts.”
Now there’s a hint of allurement to his words. “You got something better for me?”
With a knowing smile, he beckons.
And, with a grateful one, I play along and follow.
Thirteen
There are seven hundred and twenty-three steps in the Stone God’s ziggurat, a feat eclipsed only by the depths of the mines that circle it. It is as if their devoted are equally intent on reaching both the heavens and the hells in their honor.
—JOGUE’S DIARY OF A SUPPLICANT’S TRAVELS(RESTRICTED TEXT)
THERE’S AN IRON GATEin the very back of the library, swirling wrought ivy painted in shades of green, more shelves tempting from behind it.
“Decorative and functional.” I touch the gate as if appreciating the detailed work. Despite their delicateness, the vines feel as unyielding as, well, iron. “So, this is where you keep the good stuff.”
Caius produces a key. “Certain texts aren’t appropriate foralleyes.” He unlocks the gate, which swings outward with a reluctant groan. “After you.”
I step inside. The spines within are obviously older than the ones without, and less familiar. I scan a few titles, recognizing nothing.
“You are free to peruse these, so long as they remain within this room.” Caius turns to leave, then pauses. “I know the selection well. PerhapsIcould be of help. That is,ifyou could provide a few more specifics about the information you’re looking for… or how it might help you?”
There it is, nosiness throwing off the cloak of kindly assistance. At least it doesn’t seem like he’s holding a grudge after what happened in the dungeon. And it’s hard to blame him; I’d probably want to know what we’re up to too. But it’s not like I can ask directly about reliquaries. I think for a moment. “What’s the oldest book you’ve got about the gods? All of them.”
“Hmm.” Caius goes to a curved shelf in one corner. “Jogue’s Diary of a Supplicant’s Travels.”
He hands me a small book with six stars debossed into a stained leather binding. Handling it carefully, I flip it open to find handwritten text relieved by the occasional sketched drawing.
“A copy of a copy of a copy,” Caius says. “But Jogue was alive when six of the gods still lived. He traveled between their centers of worship, recording his observations. I’m not sure you’ll find anything to explain the contemporary heretical mentality, but there may be some information about the old ways of worship.”
“Thank you. It could be helpful.”
In regards to what?his expression reads, as if he expects me to say more. When I don’t, he moves to the door. “I’ll return to collect you for dinner.”
Then he locks me in. I guess they’re serious about keeping these books where they are.
Jogue’s diary begins in a neat, mundane fashion: brief descriptions of the gods’ main centers of worship—Lumeris, Novena, Cyprene, and the rest—then quickly unravels into a series of seemingly chaotic daily logs and observations: lists of festivals and practices, an account of a poorly maintained road, sketches of notable architecture, rituals that caught his eye. There’s page after page of it, the script and sketches wild in some places, clear and structured in others. And detailed in a way that makes the growing hunger in my stomach disappear, and my craving for knowledge grow.
It’s almost hard to believe that, once, seven gods ruled in the Devoted Lands, worshipped in tandem. Jogue describes Novena as a verdant paradise overflowing with lush gardens and groves. I mainly know it as the place where the number of divinities was reduced to one, following the biggest bloodbath in history. That’s something none of thetexts ever tried to sugarcoat: A conflict between gods is always catastrophic. Thousands consumed by Tempestra-Enoch’s flame, or smothered by Arcadius-Viktori’s earthy poisons. The battle began at dawn, and it’s written that by the time night fell, the ground was so thick with the dead that the surviving forces tread on a carpet of corpses. In the end, Tempestra-Enoch backed Arcadius-Viktori into their temple pyramid, a structure that, like its ruling divinity, didn’t survive the final confrontation. Tempestra-Enoch paid a high price for their victory, though. The damage done to Enoch was too extensive even for the Goddess’s healing powers. They took Innara as their new avatar soon after.
Now Novena is abandoned, nothing but a sepulchrae. A place so steeped in death that most believe it to be cursed forever.
But not all. If what Magda said was true, the heretics clearly had no qualms in setting up residence there.
