Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

To each person is given knowledge according to their station; it is not holy to try to rise above the lot the gods have given you.

—The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 90

The afternoon whiled away in a sunlit haze. After eating, Lore made Gabriel give her a tour of the Citadel—somewhat difficult, as he hadn’t spent significant time there in years, but their shared unfamiliarity almost made it better. Two interlopers in a thick fog of luxury they didn’t belong to. When thoughts of Bastian and what he might or might not know loomed in her mind, Lore thrust them out, behind that wall of trees Gabriel had helped her grow. She needed time to make a plan, to frame her possible compromise to August in a way that wouldn’t land her in a cell.

She also needed distraction, and Gabriel obliged. Their wanderings took them through gilded halls with soaring painted ceilings, celestial scenes scabbed with glittering chandeliers. One room was full of nothing but statuary, gleaming marble bodies caught in sword fights and kisses and dances. Another room, circular and made almost entirely of glass, held a reflecting pool with a fountain in the center and rose petals floating on its surface. They didn’t spend long there—a handful of courtiers lazed around the pool’s edges, and more than one was swimming in it, naked as the day they were born. Gabe’s cheeks turned scarlet beneath his eye patch as he turned on his heel and marched back into the hallway. Lore managed to swallow her laughter until they were far enough away from the door that none of the courtiers would hear it.

After that, entirely by accident, they ended up in a library.

The Citadel was a study in opulence, dripping excess in every corner, but this was the room that really made Lore’s jaw drop. The library had three levels, all of them visible from the bottom floor—balconies ringed the walls, accessible by small, polished-wood staircases set into the shelves. All three levels were filled to bursting with books, glowing in the gentle light through the solarium window above. Small chairs upholstered in brocade were grouped in various places on all levels, ready-made reading nooks that held no readers.

“There’s got to be buckets of gold in here,” Lore breathed. “Do you know how expensive books are?”

“I do.” A scowl darkened Gabe’s face. “All that money, and hardly anyone here reads.”

“No one, really? What a waste.”

Gabe shifted uncomfortably. “Bastian used to. When we were children. He read voraciously.”

“That’s surprising.” Lore trailed her hand over the top of the nearest chair. The fabric was down-soft and silky, far too fine for furniture.

“He’s not stupid,” Gabe said. Then cocked his head, amended. “Well. He is, but not in a books way. Just a general-common-sense way.”

Lore chewed the corner of her lip as she wandered over to one of the shelves nearest the door. In true Citadel fashion, it appeared to be full of erotic poetry. “You two seem to know each other well.”

“Better than I’d like.”

“Were you close, when you… when you spent time here?”

Gabe paused before answering. When he did, it was quiet. “We were. Bastian and Alie and I were thick as thieves.”

Were.The past tense had a heft to it. She and the grumpy monk were probably the closest thing to a friend the other had, now. Wasn’t that a kick in the ass to think about.

Lore idly pulled a book from the shelf, flipped through the lurid illustrations. “Were your parents close, too?” Her context for childhood friendships might be skewed, but from what she’d seen of other, more normal childhoods, it seemed like most of them were initially predicated on parents being friends.

Another pause, longer this time. She probably shouldn’t have asked, not when the subject of parents was such a fraught one for Gabe, but she found herself almost insatiably curious about him. Gabriel Remaut was a mess of contradictions, opposites all knotted up into one man, and she wanted to pick the knots apart.

“Our fathers were too busy for friendship, it seemed,” Gabe said. “But our mothers were. Friends, I mean.” He rubbed absently at his eye patch. “Bastian’s mother, Ivanna, grew rather sickly after Bastian was born, and couldn’t often leave her apartments. My mother and Alie’s—her name was Lise—would take us over there to spend time with her, let us run wild with Bastian while they talked and drank wine.”

“That sounds nice,” Lore murmured.

He shrugged. “The three of them were—well, not outcasts, but they didn’t really fit into the court. Alie’s mother was as Auverrani as anyone else, but she had the look of her Malfouran father, and that made some ignorant courtiers treat her differently. My mother wasn’t rich enough to be part of the upper crust—Balgia was such a small duchy, never very profitable, nearly insignificant but for the fact it was a holdout between Auverraine and the Kirythean Empire. And Ivanna was so quiet. People tried to get close to her, since she was the queen, but she didn’t seem interested.” His mouth flattened. “August was not kind to her.”

Gabe turned away abruptly, making a show of perusing the books on a different shelf. Since that one was also erotic poetry, Lore assumed it was more to end the conversation than out of any real interest.

“What was your mother’s name?” she asked after a long stretch of quiet.

“Claire,” Gabe murmured. “Her name was Claire. She died when I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” A pause. Then, softer: “But I’m glad she went before everything happened with my father. I’m glad she didn’t have to see it.”

Lore glanced back at him. Gabe’s shoulders were tight beneath his dark doublet, his hands clasped behind his back. One hand faced palm-out, showing the candle inked across life and heart lines. The wick reached the base of his fingers, the meat before the knuckles covered in a semicircle of lines to imitate light. The candle’s base started right at his wrist, detailed with lumps of melted wax. She wondered how much getting that needled into him had hurt.

Probably not as much as losing his eye.

His hand lifted, rubbed across the one-eyed face she couldn’t see. “By every god buried or bleeding, I’m tired.”

He said it so quietly, she wouldn’t have heard if she wasn’t studying him. Gabe kept his exhaustion and his anger and everything else he felt packed tight and stowed away.

Lore turned, the book she’d idly picked up still clutched in her hands. “I found one to read. Let’s go back to the suite. We could both use a nap, I think.”

It wasn’t a lie. Between Bastian’s party and waking up at the first snap of dawn, she was tired, too.

Gabe turned, brow arched. His one blue eye dipped to the book she held, then widened. “That’s the one you’re taking?”

The gilt cover glinted up as she turned the book around to study it for the first time. More erotic poetry. The painting on the front depicted a randy satyr chasing a nymph wearing nothing but lots of long blond hair.

Her smile grew wicked edges. “What’s the matter with it, Mort?”

“Nothing at all.” He strode toward the door, stiff-legged.

“Maybe you could read it, too. Learn something. Since you’ve been celibate your whole life—”

“You’re so sure I’ve never broken my vows, then?”

She tilted her head curiously. “Have you?”

Gabe gave her a cool glance over his shoulder, chin lifted. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The door opened as Gabe was reaching for it, letting in a rather harried-looking Malcolm dressed head-to-toe in Presque Mort black. He straightened, clearly ready to bring down the force of a holy stare onto flighty nobles, then started when he recognized them, his flinty expression dissolving into a smile. “Good afternoon, Lore. And Your Grace.”

“Spare me,” Gabe muttered, but he clapped the other man companionably on the back.

“Didn’t expect to see you two here without your royal charge.” Malcolm held a pile of books in his hands; he passed them to enter the library and headed to one of the small staircases that led to the upper floors. “Anton made it sound like he wants Lore sewed to the Sun Prince’s ass.”

“I’m actually on my way to find him now,” Lore said quickly. Gabe and Malcolm were obviously friends, and she liked the man from the little time she’d spent with him, but she assumed he was just as conditioned to report everything to Anton as Gabe was. “Gabe thought Bastian might be here, but it appears he’s spending his leisure hours elsewhere.” Like in the stables, trying to feed apples to a dead horse.

Malcolm looked down from the second story, leaning over the gilded railing just long enough to see the cover of Lore’s book. His dark eyes widened as he snorted a laugh. “Taking get close to Bastian very seriously, I see.”

“I always follow orders,” Lore replied.

Gabe grimaced, but was too preoccupied with what Malcolm was doing to make a snide comment. “Is Anton moving more books out of the Church library?”

“Not quite.” Malcolm set his book pile down on the floor, then hefted one of them into an empty space in the shelf. The thing was thick, and Malcolm’s muscles strained as he pushed it into place. Truly, it was a waste how good-looking all the Presque Mort were. “He asked for these to be brought to him for study. Newer editions of the Compendium, some translated from other languages and then back into Auverrani.” Another over-thick book was pushed into its space. “No idea why, since there are literally hundreds of Compendiums in the Church library, including the original. Especially since from what I’ve seen, he’s only looking at the Book of Holy Law. But what do I know! I’m just the librarian.” He shoved the last book into the shelf and turned to face them, bracing his hands on the railing. “Compendiums are easy to find, at least. A couple of months ago, he made me look for a book on dreamwalking. I had to write to a university all the way in Farramark, and it took ages to get here, even by sea. Of course he just had to have it when the Ourish Pass was frozen over.”

“He must be looking for something specific in the translations,” Gabe murmured. “Any Tract in particular?”

“When he left them all open yesterday,” Malcolm said, making his way down the stairs, “it was to the Law of Opposites.” He shrugged. “Who knows. I certainly couldn’t tell a difference.”

“Are differences common?” Lore asked.

“Not really.” Malcolm pushed the door open for them, this time, waving them gracefully into the hall. “The Compendiums are the least interesting thing in the Church’s catalog, to be honest. The firsthand accounts of the Godsfall and the notes on experiments with elemental magic are much more entertaining.”

“I’d bet,” Lore said softly.

He caught the gleam of interest in her eye, smiled to see it. “You’re welcome to come look at them sometime. Just let me know beforehand, so I can make sure Anton isn’t going to be around. He’s picky about the Church library.”

A scowl flickered at the corner of Gabe’s mouth, but he didn’t say anything.

“I’ll take you up on that.” Lore turned in the direction she thought would take them toward the southeast turret. “Assuming I can find the time to un-sew myself from Bastian’s ass.”

Malcolm snorted. “Let me know if you need a seam ripper.”

The sun was low in the sky by the time they made their circuitous way back through the shining halls of the Citadel to their suite. Gabe was quiet the whole time, his face drawn into pensive lines. Any attempt Lore made at a joke was rebuffed with silence.

The silence did not alleviate when they got to their apartments. Gabe sighed when he entered the sitting room, hands hung on his hips, before turning right and entering the smaller study off the dining area. She heard a chair creak as he lowered himself into it.

Lore went to the sidebar, found a bottle of wine, poured herself a glass. Still vinegary, but passable. She couldn’t find another wineglass, so she poured Gabe’s helping into a small mug clearly not meant for the purpose.

A large oak desk dominated the study, empty except for a cut-glass paperweight housing a blood-red rose in its center. Bookshelves lined the walls, but they were mostly empty, too, holding only a dusty copy of the Compendium and a potted fern in desperate need of a good watering.

The study was small enough that Lore didn’t have to enter all the way to hand him the cup. For a moment, he just looked at it, but then he took it from her.

She leaned her shoulder against the jamb. “Your mood has taken a drastic turn for the dour.”

He huffed, sipped the wine. “Being reminded of the excess in this place will do that.”

Understandable. It had itched at her, too, wandering through the museum-like halls, seeing all the accumulated wealth while knowing firsthand the lack felt outside the Citadel. Lore had never worried about starving—Mari and Val made sure of that—but hunger was a sleeping wolf crouched at the door, a continuous threat that you learned to live with and did your best not to wake.

Lore stared into the depths of her glass. “Our guilt isn’t helping anyone, Gabe.”

He stiffened.

Her foot tapped against the floor, a nervous rhythm to order her thoughts around. “I mean, part of me feels guilty for enjoying it, too. For wanting all this for myself, when I know how little most people have. But we don’t have time for the luxury of guilt. Not if there’s an actual war coming, and not while we’re stuck here either way.”

Gabe still didn’t look at her. He slumped back in his chair, an inelegant pile of monk. “I didn’t think I missed it. But here, in a place where I was… was happy, once…” He trailed off. Sighed. “I remember when it was like a home, before I knew it was rotten. The Citadel was easy to love, then. And hating it was just as easy, once I learned how corrupt it was. But hating it is only easy from far away.”

He wanted that ease back. Wanted simple answers, clear delineations. And if it weren’t for Lore, he’d have them.

“It’s shameful,” he murmured. “It’s shameful, how much they have, how much they steal.”

“It is,” Lore said. “I want to do something about it. To fix it, somehow. But I…” She trailed off, shrugged. This was something she’d thought about so often, and never quite been able to translate. “I don’t know how, I guess? I’m one person. One fairly insignificant person, and against so many years of so much power, I feel completely useless. Like… like trying to dam up a river with a pebble.”

“It would take a lot of pebbles,” Gabe agreed. He picked up the glass paperweight and twisted it in his hands, making the rose inside stretch and refract into odd shapes.

Lore crossed to him. Took the paperweight and placed it gently back on the desk. “Give yourself some of that grace you were prattling on about, Mort,” she said softly.

And with that, Lore went into her room, still carrying her book of erotic poetry, and left the one-eyed monk staring into the dark.

She tried reading for maybe an hour or so, lighting the candle by her bedside when the sun completely slipped past the horizon. But the poetry was too flowery to really be titillating, and instead Lore found herself staring into the embroidered canopy over her head and thinking of the vaults.

The memory of the small body on the slab still made her chest tighten. The open mouth, the whispers, the black eyes—it was both like and unlike Cedric, and she couldn’t quite wrap her head around that. Maybe her magic had changed, become darker, become somehow worse.

And they wanted her to do it again.

Bastian said he thought that the tragedies in the villages were caused by Mortem. She’d told him it was impossible, but after seeing Horse—Claude, she reminded herself, nose wrinkling—Lore wondered if maybe she didn’t know that much about Mortem after all. Maybe she didn’t really know anything.

As much as she hated the idea of attempting to raise someone from the dead again, the idea of just walking away and letting her failure stand wasn’t an option. Wouldn’t be even if the other option wasn’t the Burnt Isles. Whole villages, whole families, were dead. She’d known that, in the abstract. But to know it and to see it were two different things, and to know that she was apparently the only one who could figure it out was still another.

Her failure felt as damning as blood on her fingers.

And it wasn’t until then—thinking of her failure, of Claude/Horse, of how they collided—that she realized how the two things fit together.

Lore sat bolt-upright in bed. “Shit.”