The sequel to the thrilling magical heist fantasy, The Book of Gold, from the Feral Gods Trilogy.
đ«'History and enchantment woven in a seamless, intricate tapestry' Sarah Rees Brennan đ« đ« 'Intricately plotted and vividly imagined' M.A. Kuzniar đ«
Lyta is trying her best. She is determined to stay out of trouble, avoid Sylvian and the queen, and, above all, not embarrass Kit. So when Kit asks Lyta to help the temple recover their stolen relics, Lyta has no choice but agree. Who better to track down thieves than the one blessed by Ennin himself? But when her search lands Lyta in trouble with the blacksmiths, and Sylvian steps up to protect her, keeping away from the palace and its politics is harder than Lyta imagined.
Kit misses Ben - the scholar has been busy working at the blacksmith's guild on a secret project, and their time together has been reduced to a few stolen moments. Then, to save his workshop, Kit is forced to help Lord Alderton search for his missing sister. But when his quest leads him to the very same blacksmith's guild, it is clear that there is more at stake than just one missing girl.
For when Lyta travelled across the veil, she ripped a path out of it - and something is clawing its way to Amberes. Something vast and deadly, something so terrible that it makes the gods quake in fear . . .
READERS LOVE THE FERAL GODS TRILOGY 'SIX OF CROWS meets THE LIES OF LOCKE LAMORA, with just a hint of A DARKER SHADE OF MAGIC, with a charm and edge that is all Long's own' âââââ 'I'm fully on board for more adventures with Lyta and crew . . . For fans of Solo, The Princess Bride, Ocean's Eight and Eleven, and anyone looking for a wonderful book worthy of heists' âââââ 'This was EXCELLENT' âââââ 'I especially loved the characters. They multi-faceted, complex people and I enjoyed reading from all three POVs' âââââ 'Such a fun, 16th century inspired heist and state-vs-religion fantasy' âââââ 'I read this as the BFS book club read for January, and I was absolutely bowled over by it. Long takes her love of the history of old books, particularly the Plantin Polyglot Bible, and 16th Century Antwerp and delivers a sumptuous fantasy story' âââââ
AUTHORS LOVE THE FERAL GODS TRILOGY 'Sweeps you away with magic books, gods, and a gorgeous second-chance romance. This book is golden!' M.A. KUZNIAR 'History and enchantment woven in a seamless, intricate tapestry' Sarah Rees Brennan 'Intricately plotted and vividly imagined, The Book of Gold snatched me away to a dangerous, decadent city populated by thieves and kings; scholars and gods' Lyra Selene
Release date:
November 20, 2025
Publisher:
Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages:
320
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Mattias Haldevar â spice trader, fence, former burglar, deceased
Jem Nyati â bookbinder, Kitâs business partner
Molly Nyati â their accountant and Jemâs wife
Rhea Cornellis â Lyta and Kitâs mother, deceased
Prester Alaric â Vicar of the Seven Churches, High Priest at the Temple of Lost Gods
Florrie Stone â custodian of the Temple of Lost Gods, resident of the Rookery
Etienne du Lac â landlord of The Rack of Lamb Tavern in the Rookery, relic thief
Thomas Charnock â alchemist from Albion
Chapter One
Lyta
Amberes was never truly quiet, not the port city at the crossroads of the world, but this early of a winter morning, with the chimes of Cissoniaâs first bells still echoing through the towers and rooftops, haunting the alleyways and near-empty wharfs like the wail of old ghosts, there was little activity. Snow smothered the usual sounds, muffling the world in white, or at least in that beige-grey sludge which approximated snow here. Lyta found it fundamentally unsettling. Her city, trade capital and port, beloved of Cissonia, Goddess of Commerce, was never still or silent at any hour. But who wanted to be out at the crack of dawn in the frozen heart of the Winter Solstice if they didnât have to be?
She certainly didnât.
The Vicar of the Seven Churches sat on the bottom-most step, sheltered by the arched roof of the narthex, his head bowed in desolation. His feet sank deep in snow, not that it seemed to bother him. He was younger than Lyta expected. The great title had been handed down only recently, and the last vicar had held it for twenty years. Said title was not quite as esteemed as once it had been.
Once, there had been more gods in Amberes than there had been stars in the skyâor so the old stories went. They each had temples and shrines and various other places for their followers to assemble. The Church Imperial had tried to wipe them out, but Amberes being Amberes clung to them stubbornly and, once the Church had been driven back, the remnants of those old religions crept back in. Some of them brought their gods with them. Some no longer had gods to pray to. And some found their gods wherever they could.
This high priest looked like little more than a scrawny boy dressed in plain, serviceable clothes which were still too big for him. Only the ornate bronze disc hanging from the cord around his neck gave him away. It dangled between his splayed knees, glinting dully in the midwinter light.
Breath misted the air in front of him so she knew he was still alive.
Lyta had slept late in her room above Kitâs new printshop, face-down and dead to the world. At least there had been no nightmares. Not last night, anyway.
Kit had banged on the door of her room, a wretched expression on his freckled face which said he had not been so lucky. The curly riot of his red hair, more golden than hers, looked tangled and dishevelled, even as he tried to drag his fingers through it. She decided not to comment. He didnât appear to be in the mood for teasing.
âYouâre needed.â Even his voice sounded rough.
âWhy me?â
âThere isnât anyone else.â
So she was here, freezing, grumpy, and still only half awake, meeting the man who was apparently the last holy guide in the city for those whose gods were long gone. And she had no idea why.
As she stopped at the foot of the steps, the vicar looked up, his eyes hollow and dark-ringed, devoid of hope.
âYou came,â he said.
âWell, . . . you asked nicely,â she replied, not sure what else she could say. Kit had done the asking, but sheâd seen the note the vicar had sent. The words desperate and no one else had indeed been used and her brother had watched her read it in silence until she didnât have any bloody choice. She didnât want to be here. Temples were not her thing.
The Vicar of the Seven Churches tried to pull himself together, this man ten years younger than her and far from ready for the responsibility weighing him down. He dragged his cloak up around his thin shoulders and stood. Then he took a deep breath to steel himself and bowed to her.
âMistress Cornellis, happy Solstice. May the last light of the lost gods shine on you and mayââ
Lyta shushed him. âThatâs really not necessary. Not for me.â She had met some of the lost gods and remained distinctly unimpressed. Their blessings were not worth their weight in shit. Eninn was the only one with half a brain left anyway. And even he . . .
The stirring in the back of her mind told her that her little god was daring her to finish that thought. She muttered a curse back at him.
The vicar carried on, stumbling over the end of the blessing anyway, though the words fell to an incomprehensible mumble, as if he couldnât believe sheâd refused him and didnât quite know what to do about it.
âWant to show me what happened?â Lyta asked when he finally stopped.
The burden of it crashed down on him again, his face taking on that bleakness sheâd seen when she arrived. Shoulders hunching, he nodded miserably.
Kit had asked her to come, Lyta reminded herself. That was why she was here. More or less the only reason. She didnât have time for temples and their dramas. But she was still trying to build on the new trust between herself and her brother and wouldnât do anything to jeopardise that. She was also meant to be stepping back and interfering less in his life, which did not come naturally to her. That seemed to lead to him interfering in hers instead, which didnât seem right. But as she had nowhere else to live since the house on Larch Lane burned down and he had taken her in . . .
Well, not quite true. Sylvian had offered. She could be living with him, in a palace, no less. Well, in the barracks, or whatever, as trusted servants, or as much as a queen could ever trust a thief, Lyta supposed. Ostensibly she was meant to be working for Annika, although there was precious little to do in that regard. Just keeping an eye on things in the city, on the nobles and the guildsmen and any other people Annika was interested in. She didnât need to report in. Mostly she talked to Sylvian or one of the other bodyguards. But if she moved into the palace, under the queenâs thumb, at her beck and call probably, like he was, day and night . . . Lyta didnât want to think about that.
If there was one thing Lyta was sure of, it was her ability to fuck everything up when it came to Sylvian Chant.
Same with Kit if she wasnât careful.
So . . .
Here she was, with a smile. Almost. Ready to help, within reason. She knew the city, knew its underworld. She presumed at first someone had knocked over the poor box which, while being in bad taste, was common enough. She could probably find out who and have a quiet, stern word until it was returned. And while she was doing that, she was not thinking about Sylvian.
Though Lyta had lived most of her life in the shadow of this particular temple, she had never willingly stepped inside the place. Her mother, gods rest her, had been far too busy for temples, and besides, she had worshipped gods that didnât even have a place here. Not anymore. Or so she had said in Lytaâs hazy memories. When she and Kit were orphaned, theyâd been offered that same charityâfood, old clothes, attempts made to find them shelter and a tradeâthat was basically what the temple did then and now. One of the largest in the city, the temple was lodged here in middle of the Rookery, the poorest quarter of Amberes, like a bone stuck in the cityâs throat. It had no riches, no significant patrons and struggled to get by, but still, men like the vicar tried to help those with even less.
It left her torn as to whether the temple was actually any use to the city. She and Kit hadnât needed it. She had a trade, however illegal, and they had made their own shelter, the two of them. For good and ill. Even from the beginning she could steal far better food and clothes than the temple offered.
There were always do-gooders haunting the shittier end of the city, looking for souls to save . . . or so they said. More often than not they were after the vulnerable to fleece, or victims to exploit. What they gave away for free was often barely worth having. And what they asked in return? Well . . .
Eninn took a grim view of all of it and her little god had always steered her away from threats, albeit sometimes by a roundabout route, sometimes just as hazardous.
The Temple of Lost Gods was different. Kit said so and Kit wasnât actually as gullible as he appeared most of the time. He believed the best in people, not always wisely, but sometimes he was right.
Inside, the temple was almost as cold as the city outside it, lit with an array of cheap candles which smoked too much. The solstice decorations of mistletoe, holly and ivy garlands hung everywhere. There were frescos painted on the walls, which must have been bright and colourful when they were first done. They had faded with time, discoloured by the greasy smoke of those same candles, cracking in places so the faces of the gods they represented were hardly recognisable anymore. The temple had belonged to one god many years ago. He was little more than a shadow himself now, lost behind those who had come later. Now there were too many images of gods to count. Various artists had tried to add the newcomers up to a point, with varying amounts of success and skill. Perhaps they had lost the will to go on.
As the Church Imperial had made it its mission to slaughter all the gods right across the continent, it must have been difficult to keep up. A human being could only paint so fast. But the Temple of Lost Gods had felt the need to at least try. If only for their memory to go on.
Countless dead gods gazed down on her now. Their eyes seemed to follow her in the candlelight, and she wondered if they recognised what she carried inside her mind. Or sensed in her still some traces of the place she had been, where no mortal was meant to tread, and from which no god was meant to escape. The place to which they had all been exiled.
You didnât actually kill a god. That was impossible. But they could be stripped of all divine power and exiled to a place beyond reality, to the Nether, where they ended up lost in the wandering ways.
No other god had ever made it back, except Eninn.
And only because of you, he reminded her fondly, his voice no more than a whisper in her mind.
She glanced up at the vaulted ceiling high above them, painted dark blue with small golden stars dotted on it. Great soaring pillars like slender trees reached up to support the roof, carved with patterns of leaves and vines, hiding stone birds and other creaturesâso lifelike that she thought they might move at any second. It was beautiful. A fading beauty, true, like an old woman trying to cling to her youth. There was something tragic about it, that air of regret.
âIt happened late last night.â The vicar made his way down the aisle, fingers brushing against each of the columns like a loverâs caress. âI thought I saw a light, so I came back to check. A candle left unattended could burn down the whole place and take half the Rookery with it.â Lyta knew that only too well. Her own house not far from here had been destroyed in a fire. That hadnât been a stray candle though. That had been entirely deliberate. Halfway up the length of the temple, the vicar paused. âBut I hadnât got much further than this when I . . . I donât know. I heard something, footsteps and laughter maybe, and I thought it was just children. They get in here sometimes, up to mischief. And then . . . It all went dark.â He brought his hand up to his head and winced. âI think someone knocked me out. I only woke up when one of the custodians found me. There was blood. So much blood. And thatâs when we found it.â
Turning left, he led her through a small oak door and down a bare stone staircase. It curled around on itself, down and down into the depths of the temple crypts. It was even colder down here, bitterly so, the kind of cold that ate into the bones. Their footsteps echoed strangely, and Lyta could have sworn that there was someone following them.
It sent a shiver up her spine, but she kept going, trying to shake off the feeling that those gods were still watching her. They couldnât be. It wasnât possible.
âWe found it like this,â said the Vicar of the Seven Churches in a voice of misery.
It could have been an ordinary storeroom, if a whirlwind had been through it. The candles burning there were flickering stubs now and must have been lit when the alarm was first raised, but they still showed the place clearly enough. Like how the inner door had been forced open, boxes and cases strewn everywhere and the various reliÂquaries smashed. There were bits of gold, gems and pearls scattered across the flagstones, abandoned in favour of what the reliquaries had held. Some of them anyway. There were relics here too, she realisedâbits of bone, hair and . . . was that a tooth? The place had been destroyed.
âHow many relics were down here?â Lyta asked, unable to keep the shock from her voice. The gods honoured here might be lost, but that didnât mean their relics didnât deserve at least a little respect. None whatsoever had been shown.
âTwenty, that I know of by name,â the vicar said, and his voice trembled again. âBut more, a lot more. There was no inventory. Iâve been trying to familiarise myself with them, with what remains of them, but . . . The ladies who maintain the temple will know.â
Ah yes, Lyta thought. There were always ladies who ran places like these, changed candles, sorted flowers, cleaned up, decorated it for festivals like the Winter Solstice, polished everything to within an inch of its life. Including him perhaps.
âThey arenât even very powerful relics, justâjust all we had left of those lost deities. Things they touched or blessed, their treasures, bones of their Aspects or Champions, things whichââ His voice broke and he turned away from her.
Lyta gave him the moment he needed. She continued to examine the scene before her. The relic thieves she knew tended to be religious themselves, in search of the divine. Respectful. Careful. None of them would treat their intended targets in such a way. Most thieves would take the reliquaries too. The amount of precious metal and gems could not be ignored.
Whoever had done this, however, hadnât cared. It seemed more like vandalism than theft and that might be what had shaken the vicar so much.
âVicar?â she began and then felt awkward. âWhat is your name? I canât call you vicar.â
He blinked his mournful eyes in confusion. âMost people do. Or Prester, which is the actual title. Iâm Alaric. Alaric Hayden.â
âAre you from Amberes, Alaric?â she asked. She didnât know the name Hayden, but that didnât mean much. There were new people in and out of the city all the time, from all over the world.
âMy family live near Anchor Gate.â
Ah, she thought, the nicer end of the city. Not quite Falconbrook but not far from it. New money. Probably a third son of a merchant family then, with no talent for the family business, farmed out to one of the temples to keep him out of trouble. She knew heâd sounded too well spoken and seemed far too shaken by simple burglary and vandalism to be from around here.
âRight then, Alaric,â she said. âLooks like some kind of relic thieves have been in, thatâs for sure. Not our local ones.â Du Lac and his lot would never treat relics like this. Say what you liked about them, they knew what they were handling and treated them with respect. Besides, they usually stole to order. But if this lot had been searching for something, it looked like theyâd lost their temper and trashed the place instead. She bent down to pick up a gnarled tooth. It could have come from a boar.
That belonged to Moccus, said Eninn. Or, rather, one of his people. He was a pig god. Some of his Chosen would grow boarâs teeth like that and they had the most awful little eyes.
Lyta shut down the voice in her mind firmly. She didnât want to think about what the followers of Moccus, the Pig God, would look like right now. She had no idea who that even was, but she trusted Eninn to be right. So she was definitely holding a distorted human tooth. Great. She held it out to Alaric who cupped his reverential hands around it, muttering a prayer, or an apology. She couldnât tell. Perhaps he didnât know either. It could have been both.
There was nothing left in it, her god told her solemnly. No power, as such. Probably why they left it behind. If there was a single item here with any significant power, the thieves took it with them.
Alaric slipped the tooth into an unbroken box heâd found somewhere among the debris and then looked around vaguely, as if searching for somewhere to put it. Finally, he settled on the surface of the one shelf which hadnât been torn down off the wall. He fussed over it, making sure it was straight. The only thing in the room that was.
âDo you know what they actually took?â she asked as gently as she could of this almost broken man.
But Alaric wasnât listening. He dropped to his knees and began to pick up some of the other pieces while repeating prayer after prayer, as if saving one relic had finally spurred him into action. Tears fell among the destruction and Lytaâs heart lurched for him.
He believed. He really believed. Even in a place where there were no gods left.
âPrester Alaric?â a voice called from behind them, echoing down the steps. A womanâs voice, older and only a bit shaky. Less shaky than Alaricâs anyway.
The vicar didnât answer and Lyta sighed. She didnât want any part in this. What had Kit got her into? Why was Kit even involved?
âWeâre down here,â she called out and saw Alaric flinch as her voice rebounded off the walls. He didnât stop in his prayers though or his frantic searching.
An older woman bustled down into the crypt, carrying a lantern which gave a great deal more light than the miserable candles.
âThere now,â she said. âIâve called on the charity committee and the motherâs guild andâ Oh, youâre young Kitâs sister, arenât you? Lyta?â
Something punched all the air out of Lytaâs body. She knew this woman. She hadnât thought about her in years. In all honesty, sheâd assumed she was dead.
âAuntie Florrie?â
The woman laughed, lines wrinkling the edges of her eyes. âAye, my love. Thatâs what you all called me back in the day, wasnât it? The little ones still do. Itâs good to see you, Lyta. Happy Solstice.â
Florrie Stone had been one of the few who had ever been any help to the two of them after their mother died. Sheâd even helped nurse Rhea towards the end. Lyta remembered those arms holding her close while she wept. But that was Florrie Stone. She cared for all the lost children of Amberesâthe Saint of the Rookery.
âHappy Solstice,â Lyta echoed because she didnât know what else to say.
âKit said youâd help, that you have experience of things like this. And that you have connections to the palace no less.â Florrie wore the kind of expression that in Lytaâs experience people usually wore when they thought about her brother.
Kit had a talent with people, with making them adore him. ÂEspecially matronly old women who thought he needed to find a nice partner and settle down. Or who needed some heavy lifting done and perhaps something fetched off a high shelf. âWe didnât know where else to turn. The watch arenât interested. âWhereâs the crime?â they said. Can you imagine? Knocking out our vicar and doing the gods know what in here? As if thatâs not a crime?â
Oh yes, Lyta very much could imagine the reaction of the city watch had been exactly that. Temples tended to deal with things themselves, and the watch dealt with mundane civic matters. They avoided anything too complicated. This was Amberes. The different strata of the city tried not to get tangled up in othersâ business. The criminals dealt with the criminals, the aldermen with the aldermen, nobility with nobility and the temples . . . well . . .
She could also picture Kit saying she had experience of things like this, the little bastard. The grin he would have worn. Of course she had experience of theftâmainly with committing it. She was going to make him suffer for this.
Eninn had a good laugh at her expense as well. He was almost as fond of Kit as she was. And as fond of getting her into situations like this.
If it was anyone else, sheâd have said Kit was out to con them, but that wasnât his style at all. Straight as an arrow, that was Kit.
Florrie gently squeezed the vicarâs shoulder and he paused in his prayers, raising his red-rimmed eyes.
âI saw Druonâs hand, Florrie,â he whispered. âA shrivelled hand, reaching for me. It held a candle with a golden wick. The stench of its smoke . . .â He shuddered and then opened his eyes wide. âWas it a vision, do you think? His days have just begun, the darkest nights before the new dawn. What does he want of me? Druon, of all gods.â
The old woman glanced up at Lyta and shook her head in despair at such fancy. Druon was a lost god of Amberes, the oldest one, and the Winter Solstice had once been his festival, although Lyta knew little more about him than that. No one did. He had a lot of names but none of them had helped when the Church Imperial marched in and chopped him to pieces. Theyâd thrown him in the river and now he was little more than scary stories to keep children in line. Behave or Druon will come for you. A tale for the darkest nights.
Florrie tutted solemnly but not unkindly. âCome on now, my pet, you need to rest. Weâll gather what we can and have it all ready for you to bless again come Vespers. My girls are here to help. Theyâve all come. And Lyta will make sense of this for us. Wonât you?â
Lyta froze, not wanting to make any promises.
That didnât seem to matter to Florrie, who clearly had already made up her mind. She shooed Prester Alaric up out of the crypt, turning him over to another pair of middle-aged women who bustled around him efficiently. Girls indeed, thought Lyta. There was a host of them who clustered proprietorially around the temple in a desire to do some good and most of them were now gathered beneath all those fading frescos waiting for her to finish up.
âFlorrie?â Lyta asked, lingering beside the steps to the crypt and watching the women fuss over the vicar. âWhat happened to him?â
âA nasty blow to the head. Iâm not sure if he was knocked out or if he just fell over himself and hit it on the way down. Blood everywhere, there was, but thatâs head wounds for you. We found him out cold in the nave.â She rested her hands on her hips and surveyed the damage. âKit said youâd help.â
She fixed Lyta with another of those determined looks and Lyta knew she was not going to get much choice in this. She had faced down an evil duchess, a sadistic magister of the Church Imperial and a jealous king, yet she had never felt quite so nailed to the spot. No one crossed Florrie Stone, especially not here in the heart of the Rookery.
âYou donât think itâs the usual relic thieves either?â
âNothing much of value here to thieve, love.â Florrie shook her head. All the same, she looked fit to slap someone about in a very definitive manner. âAnd our local lads know better. Theyâre relics of dead gods, all lost to the Nether and the wandering ways. Someone new has been stealing relics, true, but only the ones with power in them. Thereâs always a risk in all the temples, thatâs why we lock up. No one thought this would happen to us. Temple of the Lost Gods, remember? Moccus, Vessuna, Tamfana, and the like. We donât even have names for some of the really old ones. And if they were regular thieves, theyâve left far more valuable things here in monetary value alone.â Lyta thought of the jewelled reliquaries scattered about down there. She chewed on her lower lip as she made her decision.
âIâll need a list of whatâs missing,â she said. âSomeone will know something. Someone always does. Iâll take my leave.â
As she started down the aisle, Alaric pulled away from his attendants, his expression flustered as he hastened towards her again.
âDonât you want to see the body?â
Lyta froze in her escape.
Body? No one had mentioned a body.
The Vicar of the Seven Churches had been in shock, but sheâd put it down to the relics being raided or the blow to his head. Florrie didnât have that excuse.
âWhat body?â she asked, as calmly as she could.
Florrie rolled her eyes up to the ceiling above. âThat boy,â she muttered to herself, clearly in reference to Alaric. It was also obviously not the first time sheâd said something of that kind. âGo and rest now, Prester. Lucielle will take care of you.â She gave a rather pointed glare at an ashen-faced woman a few years older than Lyta who carefully hustled him away.
âWell, he did get knocked out,â Lyta reminded her. There was no need to be uncharitable here. Not in a temple. Gods were still listening. Maybe only one, but that one was hers.
âMore than once. Landed on his head as a babe a few times, I suspect. No wonder his family wants shot of him . . . well, no matter. Heâs ours now and weâre keeping him. Luce will get him patched up, but he wouldnât hear of it until you came. Yes, yes . . . The body, yes . . . We found a body, up there behind the altar no less. Put it in the vestry, out of the way.â
âYou moved it?â
âWell, I wasnât going to leave it in the middle of my temple,â Florrie replied with no small amount of indignation. âBlood gets in between the tiles, you know, and no amount of scrubbingââ
âFlorrie, why didnât you tell the watch about that?â Lyta snapped, getting back to the matter at hand. Moving the body was the surest way to get rid of any sort of clue as to what might have actually happened, even Lyta knew that, but it was too late now.
Maybe Alaric wasnât the only one in shock. Or maybe Florrie and those who ran the temple were hoping to make the body disappear so as not to invite any more trouble. But then, why ask Lyta here?
Of course, Florrie hadnât asked her here. Alaric had. Interesting.
Florrie snorted. âLike I said earlier, whatâs the watch going to do? Tramp blood and dirt all over the place, get in our way and come out with sweet bugger all? They didnât want to know. Not about this, not about him. Weâre just the Rookery, Lyta. You know that as well as I do.â
Eninn growled something about her not being far off in her assessment which, frankly, was no help at all. He might have no power left to him after their jaunt to the Nether and back, but he was still an annoying little sod when he had a mind to be.
And as he was residing in her mind, that was acutely irritating indeed.
Lyta clawed for some remnants of patience. âWhy donât we start again? Kit said you needed help because someone had broken into the temple. No one mentioned a body. Who is
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