She laid a three-card line and got The Face of Stars, Ten Coins Sing, Pearl’s Promise. Ren wholeheartedly believed they were starting from a place of good fortune; this was the best chance since the death of Kaius Rex to destroy the medallions. And Pearl’s Promise suggested their labor might be rewarded. But how was generosity the path to their goals? The generosity of providing Ghiscolo with the real Tricat, perhaps.
Three days—and then word came. A group had left Acrenix Manor, heading for the Old Island. Ghiscolo was putting his plan into motion.
Temple of the Illius Praeteri, Old Island: Canilun 22
Thirteen people went in. Ghiscolo and Sibiliat and Fadrin; Sureggio Extaquium; Lud Kaineto and Mezzan with six others Ren recognized as stingers, two of whom were also Praeteri.
And Suilis.
Her brother had been freed, and Ren had assumed that meant Suilis was long gone. But she stumbled along between two stingers, clearly a prisoner. “Tell Vargo,” Ren whispered to Alsius, who rode in her pocket like an eight-legged spy. She couldn’t hear him, but he could convey messages. “They’re using Suilis for the Tricat position.” It made sense, she supposed; better that than flooding the Acrenix register with three unlinked medallions. And it explained why Ghiscolo hadn’t discovered the fake—because the person carrying it didn’t know what it was supposed to do.
Whether that would make things easier or harder for Ren’s own plan depended on Suilis.
She and her allies couldn’t bring many people into the temple, but that didn’t mean others couldn’t be useful outside. A little while after the Acrenix group vanished, Varuni and a quartet of Vargo’s fists emerged, and Varuni signaled to Ren. They melted away into the alleys to watch out for any more trouble. Ren, going inside, found the two guards left behind now neatly bound and gagged in the back room where the fists had been lying in wait.
Hurrying through the tunnel, she heard voices and saw a light up ahead. Ren kept her footfalls silent until she neared the archway to the temple; then she shifted modes, storming in a perfect Seterin rage.
“Thief!” she shouted, pointing at Suilis. “You lying, false-faced thief!”
The stingers went for their swords, but they weren’t prepared for her sudden arrival. Renata darted between them and grabbed Suilis, who was gaping at her in absolute confusion. “So this is where you’ve been hiding—with the Acrenix? Give me back my mother’s medallion!”
No one made it into the Oyster Crackers without having quick wits. Suilis’s expression hardened, and her hand twitched toward her neck, where a chain was just visible.
Renata seized that chain and yanked. As when she’d torn the knot charm from around Ondrakja’s neck, the chain snapped, and the medallion clanked to the floor. She grabbed the fake and palmed it just before a stinger grabbed her.
Sibiliat’s cold, clear laughter rang through the temple. “Oh, Renata. Your mother’s medallion? Letilia was a thief long before Suilis was.” She stepped up to where the stinger held Renata pinned—not very effectively, but Renata allowed his grip to remain. The whole point of this was not to escape with Tricat. “I told you, that’s an Acrenix family heirloom.”
“You’re a liar,” Renata spat. “This has belonged to the Traementis since the fall of the Tyrant.”
One perfectly sculpted brow arched in reply. “So you do know the truth of them. You seemed so astonishingly ignorant, I thought otherwise. But family legend says our ancestor Carduin was Kaius Sifigno’s bastard—so that makes it our heirloom, and your family the thieves.” Sibiliat smirked. “Our claim is just a bit more distant than I led you to believe.”
Ghiscolo appeared by his daughter’s side. “Whether that’s true or not hardly matters. These medallions belong to whoever is strong enough to take them. And of all those who have done so since Kaius Sifigno’s demise, only I have found a way to link them once more.”
He smiled at Renata—the same warm, personable smile that had made him the friend of so many in Nadežra. With Tricat in her possession, though, she could see past it, even though she tried not to. He wanted to finish what he saw as his lifelong purpose: the balancing of the medallions against one another, linked into harmony through a new chain.
Giving him the power Kaius Rex once had.
But that was Ren filling in the gaps: her medallion only showed her the Tricat aspects of his desires. She tried not to flinch as he leaned in, whispering in mock conspiracy. “But it’s fitting that you should be the one to aid me. After all, you’re the one who brought Tricat back to us.”
His warmth fell away like a discarded glove when he glanced at Suilis, now in the grip of another stinger. “Lock her in one of the back rooms. She’ll make a useful test subject afterward.”
Renata did her best imitation of fighting as the stinger pushed her forward. She needed them not to question why she was here, not to suspect that there might be more planned. Just a fool walking into their net.
In the center of the chamber stood the numinat she’d seen in her dream, the numinat Diomen had spent the last three days inscribing. It made the figure from Veiled Waters look simple by comparison, with its web of interconnecting lines connecting Ninat to Noctat, Sebat to Sessat, and so on through the entire path of the Lumen.
Diomen smiled at her, too. But his was the smile of a zealot: someone so passionately dedicated to his cause, he would walk through fire for it. Or straight to his own death. “Sister Renata. Yes, it is right that it should be you—not that useless outsider. The blessing is yours, not hers. And now we will all be joined in the Lumen.” He caught his own words and laughed. “Or should I say, beyond the Lumen?”
Chuckling, he went back to his work, but his phrasing twanged across her nerves as the stinger manhandled her into the Tricat position. In the Lumen. That was the kind of thing people said about the afterlife.
Beyond the Lumen was the domain of the Primordials.
Around the edges of the numinat, others were taking their places. Sureggio’s unfocused gaze suggested he was on aža, and maybe some other things besides; his bony limbs barely seemed coordinated enough for him to walk when Sibiliat nudged him into place. But once that was done, she didn’t move over to Quinat or Sessat, and Ghiscolo was settling into a comfortable chair.
Instead, Fadrin and Mezzan were taking up those positions. Alsius’s grumbling from a few days before took on new, chilling dimensions. Lumen forbid Ghiscolo should risk himself to get what he wants.
Mezzan spat at Renata, earning himself a glare from Diomen, who wiped up the spittle with the hem of his robe. “You may have destroyed my house, bitch—but I found a new one.”
Mezzan. Who was still cursed by A’ash, unless someone else had found a way to remove that curse. He would be consumed by his own Sessat-fueled desires… like the desire to belong to an institution greater than himself: House Acrenix.
Renata’s heart was already beating fast, but now her whole body shook with fear. When she tried to step out of her square, something stopped her. Diomen had closed the line of Uniat and was now pacing along it with his hands folded and his head bent, chanting softly in Enthaxn. She prayed Alsius wasn’t in her pocket anymore, that he’d leapt free during the scuffle with Suilis—and that he could get a message to Vargo.
They’d guessed wrong. The participants weren’t who they’d thought. And she could think of only one reason why Ghiscolo wouldn’t involve himself personally in his moment of triumph.
Suncross, Old Island: Canilun 22
Vargo had paid off the owner of the ostretta across the street from the temple entrance to close for the day; now he, Tanaquis, and the Rook watched from behind the curtained front window.
Alsius kept up a steady stream of narration through Renata’s arrival, the scuffle with Suilis, the remaining stingers they’d have to watch out for, and Mezzan and Fadrin besides. He couldn’t get close enough to take a good look at the numinat or listen in on Ghiscolo and Sibiliat’s whispered conversation—not without being seen—but he no
tified Vargo as each of the medallion holders arrived and took their place.
They’d been correct on most of their guesses. Sostira Novrus, Cibrial Destaelio, and Utrinzi Simendis had already trailed into the storefront like sleepwalkers, along with Rimbon Beldipassi. The substitution of Fadrin and Mezzan for Quinat and Sessat was a surprise, but not an insurmountable one; in fact, Vargo looked forward to kicking Ghiscolo’s teeth in before destroying the medallions. And while neither the Rook nor Tanaquis recognized the gentleman who followed—Alsius said the stranger took up the Ninat position, which answered the one truly open question—Vargo knew well the elderly woman who lurched up to the storefront like she was fighting the compulsion every step of the way.
There’s Faella Coscanum to round out the set. We’ll head in once she’s through the tunnel, he told Alsius. To Tanaquis and the Rook, he said, “Get ready.”
“But your man hasn’t arrived with Serrado,” Tanaquis said. Only Vargo’s grip on the edge of the curtain restrained her from pulling it open far enough to reveal their presence. “Shouldn’t we wait for them?”
If Sedge hadn’t returned, there had to be a good reason; he wouldn’t abandon Ren. Vargo had zlyzen scars striping his back to prove that. But whatever delayed them both, Vargo would have to worry about it later. “We can’t wait for them. We don’t know how much time we have to alter the numinat before the linking becomes irreversible.”
“Agreed,” the Rook said, the only word he’d spoken since his arrival. “We should go now.”
“Give it just another moment for Faella to—”
::Vargo, there’s a problem.::
Fuck. Of course there was. What’s happened?
::Alta Faella just came through, but now Sibiliat is striking names from the temple register. You have to hurry, or you won’t be able to get in at all.::
“Move,” Vargo snarled, and suited action to word.
He rattled out an explanation as the other two followed him across to the abandoned shop. As he reached for the door, Alsius’s voice came to him again—raw with sudden horror. ::Oh, Lumen, no.::
What now?
::Renata. She’s trying to say something, and Ghiscolo just—Vargo, it’s going to kill them! The numinat is going to drain—::
Then Alsius’s voice cut off in a shriek.
Temple of the Illius Praeteri, Old Island: Canilun 22
The transformation of the numinat from calling to binding sent a wave of energy rippling through Ren, freezing her in place like a fly trapped in amber.
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Tricat held her immobile, pinned in place like an exotic butterfly in Beldipassi’s cabinet of wonders. And time unfolded in front of her like the panels of a triptych—if the panels overlaid one another with perfect clarity.
It was like Ažerais’s Dream, seeing the world in layers, except all of these were real. In the present, she stood in a ring of people: Rimbon Beldipassi, Sostira Novrus, Cibrial Destaelio, Fadrin Acrenix, Mezzan Acrenicis, Utrinzi Simendis, Sureggio Extaquium, a gentleman she didn’t recognize, Faella Coscanum. And pacing an endless circuit around them, Diomen.
Overlapping that, she saw indistinct figures moving through the temple, spreading out along the walls. Hands rising and falling, chipping, hammering. Destroying the temple… or remaking it. Possible futures.
And underlying that…
Someone walked past Ren, close enough to touch if she could have lifted her arm. But this person wasn’t the shifting mist of the future; she was the etched stone of the past. And familiar to Ren, with her double-buttoned blouse, her cascading crown of braids.
The szorsa she’d seen in the dream. The one who’d lost her name.
The Point, Old Island: Canilun 22
The Rook raced down the tunnel to Kaius’s old temple, not caring if those trailing him could keep up. It would be his fault if the chain was remade, if Ren was sacrificed—his fault for not intervening sooner, for allowing them to gamble on this plan in the first place. And he couldn’t say which he dreaded more. For the Rook, it was the chain.
For Grey, always Ren.
Necessity forced him to slow as he approached the open threshold that marked the temple proper. Alone, he wouldn’t be able to cross it. Vargo was the first to catch up, and he grabbed the Rook’s arm to drag him over the line—but his outstretched hand slapped air as solid as steel.
Vargo cursed. “We’re too late.”
The Rook turned to Tanaquis, stumbling up behind them. The run had slightly winded Vargo, but she was red-faced, bent over with one hand pressed into her side. “You’re inscriptors,” he snapped at them both. “Fix this.”
“Right, I can just reinscribe a register from out here.” Vargo’s biting sarcasm almost invited a similarly sharp response from the Rook—except he could see it was a thin mask over the fear beneath. “Tanaquis, any thoughts on how to break this?”
Tanaquis always had thoughts, and no reluctance about voicing them. Which made the sharp shake of her head all the more devastating. “I made an extensive study of the ward and the register when I first joined the Praeteri. It was an elegant workaround for the existing defense, but not one I could replicate from out here—it requires the register to be within the ward. And the Pontifex never shared with me how they managed to enter the temple in the first place.”
The Rook slapped the invisible wall. “They did it somehow. Are you saying you’re less clever than they are?”
Before Tanaquis could answer, Vargo said, “Alsius is inside. And he and I are connected. Could we use that?”
“He’s not dead?” the Rook asked, ignoring Vargo’s flinch. He’d caught fragments of something about Alsius amid the message of they’re all going to die while he was running for the storefront.
“He’s… somewhere dark. A bag, I’m guessing.” Vargo swallowed, hand clenching in midair, pressed against the unseen barrier. “He can’t see or hear anything. But he’s still alive. And we’re still connected.”
“Connection or no, unless he’s able to wiggle free and hold a pen, there’s little he can do.” Tanaquis traced the markings carved into the threshold stones. “This isn’t like the numinatria we know, and it predates the Tyrant’s conquest by a long time. I’d say it has more in common with… perhaps pattern might help? It’s Vraszenian, after all. If only Renata were on this side…”
The Rook snarled. “It’s no use wishing for what we don’t have. There has to be a way. If the ward existed before the Illius Praeteri—”
Then it might be something he knew about. If he let himself reach for those memories.
He had no guarantee, and a lot to fear. Sinking himself into the Rook, in the hopes that some previous bearer had known how to get past this ward… if that got them into the temple, they might end the Rook’s mission forever. Grey would never have to put the hood on again.
Assuming there was still a Grey left afterward.
But if saving Ren meant losing himself, so be it.
“Hold on.” Dipping his head, he let his brow come to rest against the nothingness that blocked them. His hands curled inside their gloves, the leather creaking. A sound he’d used to intimidate people, more than once. Just like the shadows of his hood intimidated them, and the many shades of his voice: the mocking edge, the menacing purr, the whip crack of cold fury. He’d played the role so often, sometimes he forgot it was a role. Just like skilled crafters, lost in the intricate depths of their work, forgot the world around them. Forgot everything but the work.
And in so doing, they poured their spirits into it, imbuing what they made with power.
The timeworn stone of the passage floor blurred as his gaze lost focus on the present in favor of the past.
The Rook had traveled through the Depths and their linked upper passages many times. As Grey, trailing one cuff or another. As Oksana before that, when the Praeteri first rose, before the Rook decided—wrongly—that the cult had little to do with their mandate. He sifted back through time, thr
ough the various names that came and went, the faces hidden by his shadow. Memories of other lives, when he needed a place to hide and found his way here. Fleeing the hawks after he drove a supply wagon full of new weapons into the Dežera. Trysting with lovers who were drawn to the hood rather than the one wearing it. Crawling to a slow, bleeding death from a fatal gut wound, and later being picked up by his next bearer.
And before all that, the ghost of a memory so deep that it predated even the Rook. The woman who was the first, her voice rich even when lowered to a whisper, warm kisses traded under the weight of fear and in defiance of a tyrant. Hiding in the last place he would look, many grim faces joined in common cause. Tied together by purpose, by friendship, by oath.
Knots.
The Rook pulled up so sharply, he would have fallen if the other two hadn’t caught him.
“The resistance,” he murmured, rubbing at the memory of a charm knotted noose-tight around his wrist. Common in those days for everyone, not just for gangs; no one had given any notice to the ones worn by the dissidents who sheltered here.
Vargo and Tanaquis exchanged baffled looks, and the Rook said, “The ones who took down the Tyrant. This is where they hid. And they didn’t use a register to get people in; their key was different. We need to find a charm seller.”
“A charm—” Tanaquis bit off the end of her doubt. “I never even thought of that. Knots—they’re geometric, after a fashion. Fascinating. You can’t go out shopping, looking like that; tell us what to look for.”
The Rook stifled a grim laugh. Everything comes back to threes. “A triple clover knot. Blue, if you can find it.” He wasn’t sure if the color mattered, but better not to test it.
Tanaquis wasted no time heading back down the tunnel. Vargo spared only one second to cast a desperate look toward the inaccessible temple before he followed. Then the Rook was alone, clenching his gloved hands.
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