Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

And Nyxara, hungry for power, did attempt to take Apollius’s rightful place—thus, He cast Her down, over the sea and the Golden Mount where They dwelt, and over the Fount that had made them gods. Where She landed, the earth blackened into coal, and where He bled, the ground grew jewels like fruit. And They were known from this point as the Buried Goddess and the Bleeding God.

—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 3

Apparently, Lore’s oversize man’s shirt and muddy breeches weren’t suitable for an audience with His Royal Majesty, August Arceneaux, the Sainted King and Apollius’s Blessed. Outside of the interrogation room, Anton had waved her down a small hallway. “Donations,” he said simply, gesturing to Gabriel that he should follow. “Find something that fits. Preferably on the conservative side.”

Now Lore stood in a giant closet, stuffed to the brim with sumptuous clothing that no one outside of the Citadel could possibly use. On the conservative side must mean something completely different to Anton than it did to her.

A froth of pale-lavender tulle seemed promising, the rest of the dress hidden in the cascade of ridiculous wealth. But when Lore pulled it out, the bodice looked fashioned after a peacock plume, complete with feathers.

Lore gave the dress an incredulous look, then turned to the doorway, brandishing the skirt like a dagger. “These are donated?”

Gabriel nodded. He stood with his back to her, right outside the closet’s open door. His broad shoulders nearly spanned the frame, the top of his reddish-gold hair disappearing beyond the lintel. “The Court of the Citadel knows that things are… less than ideal, outside the walls. They try to help.”

Less than idealwas a kind way to put it. Taxes on common Auverrani citizens climbed every year, paying for security against the Kirythean Empire and who knew what else, while those in the Citadel paid next to nothing.

Lore pulled out another dress, this one tight to the hips before flaring out in panels shaped like iridescent fish scales. “Unless one of these is made of something edible, they won’t do shit for us. Have any of them considered donating coin rather than evidence of their sartorial crimes?”

Gabriel snorted. “The peerage likes to do just enough to think they’re helping without inconveniencing themselves. What’s in fashion moves fast, and it’s easier to donate clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead in after a season than it is to keep them in storage.”

Her brow arched. There was a low poison in Gabriel’s voice, made more potent by the way he tried to hide it. “You seem to know the court well.”

A long pause. Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, his impressive shoulders inching toward his ears. “Better than I’d like,” he said finally.

Lore pulled the least offensive dress she could find from the rack, a dark-green affair in velvet that looked to have enough room in the breast and hips for her to wear. Her shirt made a small sound as it hit the floor, and Gabriel stiffened.

She smirked.

The dress was still too tight, but Lore was fairly certain it was the best she could do. Once clothed, she tapped Gabriel on the shoulder to sidle out of the room.

“Such a gentleman,” she remarked, starting down the hall to where Anton and Malcolm waited, unfamiliar velvet swishing around her legs. “Celibacy has got to be a drag, but you didn’t even try to peek.”

The Mort made a choked noise.

The Citadel was bright enough to hurt her eyes.

She’d seen the tops of its four corner turrets before—they were just barely visible over the wall of the Church, built in a circle around the Citadel itself—but seeing them up close was another thing entirely. They gleamed in the sun, arrows pointing toward the sky, flocked with silver that traced the tower’s sides like frosting on a cake. In the walls that connected the turrets, windows glinted jewel-like at equidistant points, some stained glass and some diamond-clear. A domed glass roof arched up in the center of the square the turrets made, throwing off rainbow prisms. The building was a behemoth of marble and precious metal, polished wood and gemstone, large enough to house the entire court in the summer months. Lore thought she could wander around in there for a year without finding the way out.

The ground around the Citadel was a garden, at least here, between the southern wall of the Church and the Citadel’s main entrance. On the other side of the Citadel, there were fields, stables, an entire world the size of at least two city Wards. And all around it, the Church, built more like a fortress. As much a structure to keep out the rabble as it was for worship.

Anton led them from the Church’s arched doorway out into the garden. Lore glanced back, shading her eyes—they’d come from the South Sanctuary, the one meant for common worshippers. Miles away, on the opposite side of the Citadel, was the North Sanctuary, meant for the court. The large stone walls that split the grounds in two were filled with storage and cloisters, topped with battlements prepared for the possibility of siege.

A white marble statue rose from a tangle of pink roses beside the path. The Bleeding God, again, wearing a crown like sun rays—a holdover from when the pantheon had been whole and He’d been merely the god of light, life, and the day, instead of everything. Plinths circled the statue, now empty, but Lore counted five. One for each elemental god of the former pantheon, dying one by one, Their bodies found in strange places all over the world. And one beside Apollius, slightly taller than the others, for Nyxara.

Anton and Malcolm walked before her, Gabriel behind, though none of them necessarily seemed to be on guard. It wasn’t like she’d run, and there was nowhere to go but back inside the Church, anyway.

“Keep your head down if you see anyone.” Gabriel’s voice came low enough to tickle her shoulder blades. “Unless you want to be the subject of rumors for years to come. New faces in the court are rare.”

Lore kept her voice low, too. “Maybe they’ll come up with something interesting.”

“More interesting than the truth?”

“Fair.” She glanced over her shoulder. “If your boss wants me to befriend the Sun Prince, though, I think rumors are probably inevitable.”

Gabriel didn’t respond, but his eye narrowed.

Trees were planted throughout the garden with just enough randomness to seem unplanned, and thickly flowering arbors covered the benches beneath them almost entirely from view. Movement under one of the arbors caught her eye. Lore squinted between a froth of yellow roses, curiosity immediately overriding Gabriel’s directions.

A dark-haired man had his head bent low, whispering to a lady whose back was turned. Lore could make out little of his face through the flowers, but what she could see was almost ridiculously handsome—strong jaw, sun-bronzed white skin, dark eyes. The lady she could see even less of, only enough to surmise that her hair was light brown and her clothes were elegant. The man seemed to be trying to talk her out of them, if the insolent hand on her thigh and the brush of his lips against her shoulder were any indication.

As if he could feel her watching, the man raised his eyes, staring at Lore through the lattice of roses. His lips continued their gentle path along his companion’s shoulder blade as, slowly and deliberately, he winked.

Lore whipped her head around to face the front.

The guards asked no questions as the Presque Mort approached the entrance to the Citadel proper, great double doors inlaid with large golden hearts like the one Anton wore as a pendant. The guards inclined their heads to Anton as the doors opened, sun reflecting off the tiny garnets in the wood, nearly the same color as their coats.

Up until now, Lore had kept her nerves well in hand. Necessity made her shrewd, and she needed to keep her head. But as the Citadel doors closed behind her, Lore’s heart leapt in the direction of her throat, thrumming so quickly she could nearly taste it.

The inside of the Citadel was even more luxurious than the outside. Knaves set into the walls held small icons of Apollius, sun rays over their arched tops breaking gold on the rich mahogany. The ceilings were painted with lush garden scenes, nude figures reclining among green trees and beside rushing blue streams, interrupted occasionally by the gold chains of heavy chandeliers, light catching the hanging gems and splashing rainbows across the walls.

The iron crossbars bisecting the floor seemed brutally out of place.

The bars were flush to the marble, but Lore still didn’t want to step on them. She lengthened her stride as much as the too-tight dress would allow. “Interesting décor decision.” Something about all this opulence made her want to keep her voice quiet.

“They’re symbolic,” Gabriel murmured back. “Supposed to remind everyone that the Citadel is here to keep Mortem contained, and that the Arceneaux line rules through divine right.”

“Gaudy.”

“Quite.”

A huge tapestry hung on the wall to her left, nearly wide enough to span the length of the hallway. In the top corner, the pale, chestnut-haired figure of Apollius hovered, wings of light spread behind His back, one hand thrust forward into the chest of a dark shape careening toward the ground. Just like the tapestry in the Church, the figure was vague, more smoke and shadow than concrete lines, but the crescent crown on Her brow was clear. Below, azure thread was interrupted by circles of brown and green, seven stylized islands in a stormy sea. The one at the end of the archipelago, farthest from the viewer, was the biggest by far. The Golden Mount. Where Apollius and Nyxara had lived before this moment.

This was the Godsfall, how the Burnt Isles had gotten their name. Apollius cast down Nyxara when She tried to kill Him and take His place, creating a deep crater in the second island and rupturing the others. According to the Book of Holy Law, that was why so many gemstones and precious metals could be mined from them. Gods bled riches, apparently. Convenient.

Lore stopped for a moment, studying the tapestry. It was strange to see all seven islands depicted. The smoke from the Godsfall obscured all but the first two from view, now, and the Golden Mount was functionally a myth, with countless voyagers lost as they searched for it in the smog. Five hundred years, and the ash still hadn’t cleared.

A soft touch on her elbow. Gabriel nodded forward, where Malcolm and Anton were about to turn a corner. Lore lurched forward to follow, tearing herself away from Apollius and Nyxara.

Around the corner, a huge set of double doors appeared, even more gilt-and-jewel-encrusted than the Citadel’s main entrance. Bloodcoat guards lined the hall, all of them inclining their heads in a bow when Anton appeared. The Priest Exalted paid them no mind, facing forward as the bloodcoats at the end of the line pushed the double doors open.

The throne room beyond was even more impressive than the rest of the Citadel, large enough to hold a ball. The walls were covered in sculpted golden friezes, curving up into graceful arches beneath a domed window. Those iron bars still covered the floor, but seemed more polished here, shining almost silver. They coalesced around the bottom of the throne in a sharp, cresting wave, their pointed ends mirroring the rays of the gilded heart set at the top of the throne, right over the head of the man sitting at its edge, deep in thought.

“Anton,” King August said, glancing up from his steepled hands. “You took longer than anticipated.”

“I had to inform the lady of our expectations. She took a bit of convincing.” For all his brother’s brusqueness, Anton seemed unruffled, though he toyed with his pendant again, one fingernail digging into the garnet. “Unless you’d rather I left that to you? You do excel at negotiation.”

His tone made it clear this was not a compliment.

“No need.” August stood up, stepping deftly over the iron bars bristling the base of the throne with the ease of practice. He and Anton were twins, but August wasn’t quite as good-looking—at least, he wouldn’t be if Anton weren’t so horribly scarred. Their hair was the same iron gray, their eyes the same deep brown. August kept a short, well-trimmed beard framing his sharp jaw, where Anton stayed clean-shaven.

For all the extravagance of his palace, the King was dressed rather simply. Dark pants, dark doublet over a creamy white shirt, supple leather boots, all of it clearly the best Auverraine had to offer. The understated clothing made August’s crown that much more ostentatious, the same design Lore had seen sold in the stalls on the dock roads yesterday—a band that rested on his brow, studded with winking rubies, and another band over the top of his head that supported thick golden sun rays, making him look like Apollius himself.

Lore supposed that was the point.

Maybe she should’ve felt some sort of awe at being in the presence of the Sainted King. But the day already felt so surreal, so difficult to hammer into the borders of the life she knew, that all she felt was annoyance and the distant thrum of dread.

“So,” the Sainted King said. “This is our deathwitch.”

Lore fidgeted a moment, wondering if she should curtsy, quickly deciding that it would only lead to falling on her ass. Instead she lifted her chin and clenched her hands in her skirt. “In the flesh.”

The corner of the King’s mouth flickered up and down again, a smile only in shape. “They tell me you’ve fallen in with poison runners. How did that happen to a woman of your prodigious talent?”

“Too mean to charge for my company, too clumsy for barkeeping, and I’m a terrible cook. That rules out most gainful employment.” She said it pleasantly enough, an answer that gave away nothing important. “My prodigious talent isn’t good for much, honestly.”

The King sniffed. “Your former employer tells us you’re an accomplished spy, in addition to your… less common qualities. Surely that’s a skill that can earn quite a lot of coin.”

The mention of Val made something twist in her chest. “Being a good spy mostly comes down to knowing when to lie and when to stay quiet,” she responded. “And there’s not much coin to go around out there, regardless of how good you are at what you do.”

“An unfortunate predicament,” August conceded with a nod. “Made worse by the threat of the Kirythean Empire at our doorstep. There are shortages all over the kingdom.”

It seemed no shortages of any kind were felt within the Citadel walls. Lore bit her tongue against that particular observation. She was a commodity that couldn’t be replaced, as far as she was aware, but she knew better than to press her luck.

“Since Anton has given you the broader picture of what we need from you,” August said, “I will give you the specifics.” He turned back to his throne and sat more gracefully than the iron spikes around it should allow. “We believe that Kirythea is attacking villages along our border, using some kind of lesser magic to kill our citizens in the night. Something left over from one of the minor gods.”

Her brow furrowed. “There’s still lesser magic to go around?” When the minor elemental gods died, Their bodies had leaked power, just like Nyxara’s still leaked Mortem. But all that power had dissipated long ago. At least, that’s what everyone assumed.

August’s lips flattened. “Jax is canny.”

Which wasn’t really an answer.

“Currently, it’s only been two small villages, and the timing is random—the second was eliminated two nights ago.” August crossed one leg over the other, nonchalant as he spoke of so much death. A chalice balanced on the arm of his throne; he took a long sip. “We need to neutralize the threat before Kirythea moves on to more profitable targets.”

More profitable targets.As though the lives lost in the outer villages were worth less than cattle. Lore’s eyes narrowed. “So you want to find out what’s happening before it kills someone that matters.”

The poison in her voice was apparently lost on the King. “Precisely.”

Gabriel stood behind her, but close enough that she could see his face from the corner of her eye. He looked like he was fighting a frown, as if the comment angered him as much as it angered her. She wondered how much dissent the Presque Mort were allowed to voice. The Church and the Crown were two legs of one government, but from the little Lore knew of court politics, it seemed they didn’t always walk in the same direction.

“If Kirythea is responsible,” August continued, “we need to identify the threat immediately, and take appropriate action.”

That could only mean war. Lore sneaked a glance at the waiting Presque Mort. Gabriel’s eye narrowed; Malcolm’s mouth pressed into a tense line. But if Anton was disturbed by the implication that war loomed close, he didn’t show it, his scarred face serene.

The Sainted King clasped his hands, eyes flashing beneath his heavy crown. “You will stay in the Citadel,” he said to Lore. “And in addition to using your… skills… to assist us in finding out what is happening to the outer villages, you will be my eyes and ears.”

“I’ll watch your son, you mean.”

August grinned, giving his face a predatory cast, and took another long drink of whatever was in his cup. “It seems my brother did give you some relevant details. Yes, you will stay here with the express purpose of getting close to Bastian. We have reason to believe he might be informing Emperor Jax of our weaknesses, acting as a spy from the inside.”

“Why?” Lore crossed her arms, holding them like a shield. “Why would the heir to the crown want to turn his country over to the Kirythean Empire?”

“Because the crown sits heavy,” August said quietly. “And my son has never demonstrated himself to be strong enough for that weight.”

Anton’s hand spasmed around his pendant, but when Lore looked at him, his scarred face was still blank.

“While Bastian is our main concern,” August continued, “we also wish for you to insinuate yourself into the court. My courtiers will be eager to gossip about you, but also with you.”

“All of that sounds great, but how exactly am I supposed to enter the court without making everyone suspicious?” Lore gestured to her ill-fitting gown. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s extremely obvious that I’m not a noble.”

“On the contrary.” August’s grin widened. “We’ll tell them you’re the cousin of the Duke of Balgia.”

Behind her, Gabriel’s face went nearly white. Next to him, Anton sighed, as if he’d come to his least favorite part of a task.

“Balgia?” Lore’s brow arched. The tiny duchy to the southeast had fallen to the Kirythean Empire fourteen years ago, conquered by Jax while his father was still the Emperor.

August nodded. “Balgia.” He gestured to Gabriel. “It seems it’s time for you to take up your title again, Gabriel Remaut.”