Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

In their twenty-fourth year of mortal life, the gods ascended: Apollius to the rulership of life and the day, Nyxara to rulership of death and the night, Hestraon to rulership of fire, Lereal to rulership of the air, Braxtos to rulership of the earth, and Caeliar to rulership of the sea.

—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 7

Lore wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to wear to a Consecration, having never been invited to one. They occurred on your twenty-fourth birthday, but only the nobility made a fuss over them—everyone else would just go get blessed at the South Sanctuary by whatever priest had the time, if they bothered with observing it at all.

The mass of clothes she’d been provided would be overwhelming even if she wasn’t trying to dress for a holy holiday. None of the dresses were as ridiculous as the things she’d seen in the donation closets, thankfully, but they were far finer than anything she’d worn before. In the end, she chose the one that looked easiest to get into by herself. If she asked any of the Presque Mort for help, they’d probably keel over.

The sage-green dress fit too nicely to be a coincidence. Lore studied herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall by the closet door. A high neck, short, gathered sleeves, and a floor-length skirt that just brushed the top of the matching slippers she’d found lined up beneath the canopied bed. Either the seamstress who’d made it had a dress form exactly her size—unlikely, as she was a good deal curvier than most mannequins she’d seen—or it’d been tailored to her measurements.

Gooseflesh raised the small hairs on the back of her neck. The Presque Mort had known about her since she raised Cedric years ago—Val had told her as much. Still, the knowledge that she’d been watched didn’t settle easily.

Thoughts of Val didn’t settle easily, either. Lore swallowed, hard, forcing down the constriction that wanted to close around her throat, the liquid heat gathering in the corners of her eyes. No time for all that. Letting go was a skill she’d had extensive practice developing. Val and Mari weren’t part of her life anymore. Her life now was silk dresses and matching slippers and a golden leash held by the Sainted King and Priest Exalted.

She tilted up her head, blinked until that prickly feeling in her eyes was gone. All she’d ever done was adapt; this was just one more thing to get used to. She’d survive. She always did.

Lore hastily braided her hair in a crown around her brow, the fanciest hairstyle she knew how to do, and pushed open her door with a sarcastic flourish. “Behold, a lady.”

“Close enough, at least,” Anton said drily.

Behind him, Malcolm tapped at the side of his head. “You have a braiding mishap, my lady.”

“Shit.” Lore turned to an age-spotted mirror hanging on the wall behind the couch. A strand of hair stuck out of her quick braid, making it look like she had half a set of horns. Scowling, she took her hair down and braided it again.

The other bedroom door opened, and Gabriel stepped out, looking decidedly un-monk-like. Dark-blue breeches were tucked into shining black boots, and a trim torso was covered in a close-fitting white linen shirt with a matching midnight vest. The clothes were almost nice enough to distract from the thunderous scowl on his face, highlighted by the rough leather of his eye patch.

Malcolm made a noise that might’ve been a laugh, but swallowed it down when Anton shot him a pointed look. “You clean up nicely, Gabe,” he said instead.

Gabriel shifted his weight, the new leather of his boots squeaking. “Father, are you sure that—”

“I am sure. More important, so is Apollius.” Anton narrowed his eyes. “Do not continue to question Him, Gabriel.”

The Presque Mort nodded. There was a faraway look on his face, like he was trying to pretend he was somewhere else.

That chord in Lore’s chest twinged, the one that seemed attuned to him. She pressed a hand against her collarbones, rubbed. The Mort’s hurting was hard to watch.

Malcolm didn’t care to witness it, either. “I’m headed back to the library.” He clapped Gabriel on the shoulder. “You’ll be all right,” he said softly, then slipped out the door, his tread fast on the hallway carpet beyond. Apparently, the other Presque Mort wasn’t overly fond of time spent in the Citadel. Lore wondered if all of them were that way, the delineation between court and Church drawn thick and obvious.

With a nod at the two of them, Anton turned to leave the spacious apartments. Lore followed, and Gabriel took up the end of the line. “I would rather walk over hot coals than attend this,” she heard him mutter under his breath, clearly not intending for anyone to hear.

“That makes two of us,” Lore muttered back.

The Mort didn’t respond, but his mouth softened, just a bit.

The Sun Prince’s Consecration took place in one of the rolling fields behind the Citadel. A golden dais stood on the green, canopied in billowing white gauze that flowed tide-like in the breeze. In the center of the dais, a lectern, studded in garnets. A golden-handled knife rested on its surface.

The knife made Lore’s eyes widen. As far as she knew, Consecrations didn’t require bloodletting, but maybe royals did things differently.

The dais was surrounded by polished wooden pews on all sides. Anton led them to one of the pews in the back, nodding for her and Gabriel to sit before gliding toward the dais. From this angle, Lore could see the hollow inside of the lectern, and the huge book on the shelf there. The Compendium, combining the Book of Holy Law, the Book of Mortal Law, and the Book of Prayer.

Lore craned her neck to see around the dais. Other courtiers filed in slowly, all elegantly dressed, some clutching feathered fans or half-eaten pastries. They seemed more like they were attending a picnic than a holy ceremony. A few of them cast curious glances at her and Gabriel, but for the most part, they were ignored.

So much for August’s bluster about new faces. But maybe the courtiers of the Citadel didn’t care about a person until it was proven they were important.

Their back pew wasn’t a popular one, thankfully. The rest of the Court of the Citadel slowly filled the pews at the front of the dais, the soft sounds of their voices rising and falling like birdsong. Lore vacillated between staring at them and staring at the ground. Her line of work didn’t allow her to be anxiety-ridden, but the sight of so many nobles in one place still made her stomach knot up. All the spying she’d done for Val had been on smaller scales; poison runner crews weren’t large, so she only had to lie to ten or so people at a time. But a whole damn court—

Warmth on her hands, stilling them, stopping her from twisting mindlessly at the fabric of her skirt. Gabriel’s palm was laid across her fingers, rough with calluses. His eye patch was on her side, so he wasn’t looking at her, but he still took his hand away when her head whirled his direction.

“You’ll tear it,” he said. “And that will attract far more attention than just sitting here will.”

With effort, Lore straightened out her fingers, placed her sweaty palms on her knees.

She stayed like that even as the later courtiers arrived, filling in the spaces in the pews around them because the better seats had been taken. Up on the dais, Anton had pulled the Compendium from its place beneath the lectern and was quickly turning the pages, putting scarlet ribbons into the spine to mark relevant passages. Another clergyman—wearing a white robe instead of the Presque Mort’s dark colors; must be a run-of-the-mill Church acolyte—lit wide braziers of incense at the corners of the dais. Herbal smoke twisted into the sky, staining it gray.

Next to her, Gabriel snorted softly. “If every Consecration was this involved, the priests wouldn’t have time to do anything else. All they did at mine was recite Tract Seven and sprinkle some ash in my hair.”

Lore suspected that the only reason the Mort was speaking to her was for a dearth of options, but she’d take the distraction. “So all this isn’t normal?” That explained the knife, maybe.

He shifted so he could look at her from his one eye, brow arched over it. “You haven’t had yours yet?”

She shook her head. “I turn twenty-four in the middle of the summer.”

“Hmm.” He looked forward again, hiding his eye, and that was the extent of the conversation. The man was not much of a talker.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Stare straight ahead. Try not to notice if anyone is looking at you.

But Lore’s careful composure was shattered by the overwhelming feeling that she should turn around, right now.

It was enough to make her press her hand against her collarbones. The feeling wasn’t physical itself, but the reaction it inspired was—the hairs on her arms rising, her head going strangely light.

So she turned around.

Behind the pews, yards away, stood a young man with shoulder-length black hair held back from his face with a golden circlet. His clothes were all eye-searing white, down to the leather of his boots. He was too far away to see clearly, but his shape seemed familiar. Similar to the way she’d felt when she saw Gabriel, like this was a person she should know, though surely it wasn’t someone she’d ever met before.

A string quartet had gathered off to the side of the pews, all dressed in bright colors, instruments gleaming as if they’d been polished for the occasion. The maestro stood and raised his baton; a slow, stately processional began. Behind them, the distant figure in white started strolling toward the dais as if he had all the time in the world.

Oh. That was the Sun Prince.

Gabriel stood up next to her, and Lore hurriedly followed suit. Her heartbeat felt faster, her veins almost too full.

The Sun Prince grew closer. Gabriel grew stiffer.

When he came level with their pew, shining like a god himself, Bastian Arceneaux glanced their way. White skin gilded in sunlight, sharp jaw, dark eyes. When he winked, a memory snapped into place.

The man she’d seen in the gardens. The one who’d watched her enter the Citadel flanked by Gabriel, Anton, and Malcolm, in an ill-fitting dress one of his paramours had probably donated.

Shit.

Bastian mounted the dais, walking elegantly through the billowing curtains and sinuous trails of incense smoke. Applause and whoops greeted his entrance, and he took an exaggerated bow. By the lectern, Anton stood stiffly, the Compendium opened to the first of the scarlet ribbons. August had been seated directly in front of the dais, in a golden throne only slightly less ostentatious than the one inside the Citadel. His ruby-ringed hand clutched another chalice, and he sipped from it quietly as he watched his son, stoic and nearly unmoving.

“Seems like bad form to be drinking at your heir’s Consecration,” Lore muttered.

“August drinks all the time,” Gabriel replied.

The crowd settled, and Anton began to speak, reciting Tract 7 first—a list of the gods who’d ascended from their mortal forms to their holy ones on their twenty-fourth birthdays: Caeliar, Braxtos, Hestraon, Apollius, Nyxara, Lereal. After that, an entry from the Book of Prayer, about stepping into your power when it is time and knowing when to cede it. Bastian shifted back and forth on his feet through the entire recitation, clearly bored. At one point, he smirked at someone to the left of the dais, and Lore wondered if it was the woman he’d been kissing in the garden.

The ceremony seemed to reach a natural conclusion, the gathered courtiers growing restless in their seats as they anticipated dismissal. But Anton turned to another scarlet ribbon in the Compendium, one near the back. The Book of Holy Law, then.

Anton picked up the knife, golden blade glinting in the sun. Lore was too far away to see Bastian’s expression, but the Sun Prince took a tiny step back.

She shot a look at Gabriel. A frown drew at the Presque Mort’s mouth.

“The Book of Holy Law, Tract Fourteen,” Anton intoned. “Powers that oppose each other sharpen each other in turn. The presence of darkness increases light, and light drowns the darkness. But my children, have caution, for neither can be wholly tamed except by your god. Life cannot exist without death, and to hold the whole of them is holiness.”

Lore’s lips twisted. The Book of Holy Law was a conundrum: Parts of it had been written pre-Godsfall, but a majority hadn’t been recorded until the year of the Godsfall itself, the year between Nyxara’s death and Apollius’s disappearance. Those Tracts contradicted earlier ones, stating that Apollius was the only true god. Right before He disappeared, Apollius dictated the Book of Holy Law to a man named Gerard Arceneaux, whom He then appointed the Sainted King.

The Arceneaux family had ruled ever since, handpicked by Apollius Himself.

The crowd was silent. Courtiers glanced at each other, some trying to hide bemused grins, others just confused.

“Is that not normally part of it?” Lore whispered to Gabriel.

He shook his head, still frowning.

“Bastian Leander Arceneaux,” Anton said, raising the golden knife. “You are the scion of a holy house. You are the vessel of holy power. And today, you step into your Consecration with a heart that will be made ready to carry us forward into a new age.”

The bemused smiles faded, every courtier wearing an expression of confusion, Bastian included. He didn’t speak—he hadn’t through the whole Consecration—but he didn’t step closer to his uncle, either.

Anton gestured. “Come, nephew.” His voice was the gentlest Lore had ever heard it. “Today you become who you are meant to be.”

In his golden chair, August leaned forward, clutching the chalice in his hand like a lifeline.

The Sun Prince hesitated a moment. Then he gave a forced laugh, clearly attempting to break the strange tension. “Well done, Uncle,” he said, in a rich baritone voice that rang over the pews. “You’ve started a trend. I’m sure every Consecration from here on out will include room for improvisation.”

The gathered nobles laughed gaily, the sound somewhat strained, as if their prince had given them permission not to be discomfited by the unusual ceremony. By the lectern, Anton remained expressionless, the knife outstretched.

August did nothing, still staring at his son.

Bastian approached the Priest Exalted, held out his hand. Anton grabbed it and carved into his skin with the point of the knife. It happened quickly, too quickly for anyone to do anything but let loose a polite gasp. Bastian grimaced, a spasm going through his shoulders, but he didn’t pull away.

When it was over, Anton turned to the crowd, his back to Lore and Gabriel and the others unfortunate enough to sit behind the dais, holding up Bastian’s hand. Even from here, Lore could see the blood on the Sun Prince’s palm, though she couldn’t see what exactly Anton had carved into it.

For a moment, the sky brightened, as if the sun had decided to burn hotter for a heartbeat. Appreciative murmurs rose; maybe it was just a bit of stagecraft, something else to make the Sun Prince’s Consecration as dramatic as possible.

But across the dais, August looked stricken.

“Behold, Bastian Leander Arceneaux, the scion of House Arceneaux and future Sainted King of Auverraine, who has today been consecrated in the sight of our Bleeding God!” Anton sounded nearly jubilant. The golden knife still dripped with scarlet in his hand.

“Hail!” called the crowd, and the word dissolved into thunderous applause. Bastian laughed, giving another sweeping bow, then purposefully wiped his bleeding hand on his white doublet.

“Come on,” Gabriel grumbled next to her. “Let’s get out of here.”

The courtiers mobbed the dais, laughing and trying to get as close to Bastian as possible; he let them. Someone handed him a glass of wine, and he took a long, hearty gulp to the sound of more cheering.

August said that he suspected Bastian of betraying Auverrani secrets because he didn’t want the weight of rulership. But it looked to Lore like he was just fine with being the center of attention.

She stuck close behind Gabriel as he made his way back to the Citadel doors, trusting Bastian to hold the courtiers’ attention. The only other people moving away from the dais were Anton, the other clergymen, and August.

The Sainted King still held tight to his chalice as he walked, flanked by bloodcoats. He raised it to take another drink, a slight tremor in his hand. Dark wine spilled from the cup as Lore and Gabriel passed him, splashing onto the ground and barely missing Lore’s hem.

Lore glanced over her shoulder before following Gabriel inside. Bastian stood on the dais still, surrounded by beautiful people in colorful clothing, leaning in close to whisper in the ear of a young man who looked thrilled to be the object of his attention. But his eyes were on her. She wasn’t sure how she could tell, across so much space, but she knew with a pull in her gut and no hint of a doubt that the Sun Prince was staring right at her.