“If?” Half a laugh bubbled in her throat, but when it came out, it was indistinguishable from the beginning of a sob. “Abandoning me would absolutely save your hide.”
“And yet.” The dance ended; they stood motionless, still locked together. “You’re stuck with me. Whatever comes next.”
Whatever comes next.
She looked up. The sun was low in the sky.
Movement at the front of the atrium, behind August’s throne. Severin Bellegarde slipped through a small door, dressed just as dourly as usual. He stepped to the side, not attracting attention, and waited next to the potted poison flowers with his hands clasped behind his back.
August stood from his throne, as if Bellegarde’s entrance had been a sign. He raised his hands, the picture of a benevolent ruler. “Thank you for joining us,” he said, in tones clearly meant as a dismissal. “Tomorrow will mark the beginning of a triumphant new era for Auverraine. I can feel it.” He smiled. “Even the darkness can be wielded to strengthen the light.”
Polite applause from the gathered crowd. Then the courtiers gave their goodbyes, filtering out of the atrium in a bright parade. A few cast curious looks over their shoulders, eyeing those who remained, but none of them seemed to think it was anything strange. Lore resisted the urge to scream at them, to see if someone would turn and help, if they would notice something bad was happening and be inspired to stop it. But none of them would. The Sainted King had spoken, and his word was better than law.
Once they’d gone, only about twenty people were left. Lore recognized Bellegarde, Alie, and a few of the Presque Mort, who must’ve shown up at some point while she was arguing with Bastian. Not all of them. Some had been sent with Malcolm to inspect the village that had been wiped out yesterday. She couldn’t help wondering what metrics Anton had used to decide who would stay and who would go.
Dani and Amelia stood near the wine fountain with a handful of people Lore took to be their family. Any trace of friendship that had been on Dani’s face at that tea with Alie was gone; only the calculation was in place. She’d played her part admirably, sending Lore along to the next station in Anton’s bizarre plan.
Where was Anton?
August stood in front of his silver-and-gold throne, hands still upheld, rubies winking on his fingers. Silence blanketed the room. Lore wanted to curl into herself—none of the gathered courtiers were staring at her, all these coconspirators of either the Sainted King or the Priest Exalted, but they were aware of her. It made her head hurt, her stomach unsteady, eerily similar to the comedown after channeling too much Mortem.
A presence at her back. Gabe. He didn’t touch her, but his hand hovered over his dagger, and Bastian’s arm still looped over her hips. The three of them standing close, drawn together again.
August’s eyes narrowed at them, but only momentarily. Then his chin tilted up, addressing the sky through the window rather than his gathered faithful. “If you’re here,” he said, “you know the cusp on which we stand. Violence, yes, but for a purpose, and with an end—a war we are sure to win. For the glory of Auverraine. For the glory of Apollius, the Bleeding God. To pave the way for His return and make the world new, a rebirth from the ashes of the old.”
“May He return,” rose voices from around the room, among the scattered poison flowers. “May He return in blood and fire and His wounds be healed.”
It echoed the call and response of First Day prayers, shaded sinister.
Next to her father, Alie’s brow creased, confusion marring her slightly amused expression. At least she hadn’t been in on it. At least Lore had one friend.
Bastian’s arm lay heavy across her waist. Two friends.
And though Gabe had given them up to Anton, he still stood at her back. Maybe Lore had more people than she thought.
Cold comfort, while staring down a King who wanted her dead. While the man who was supposed to stop him was still nowhere to be seen.
August continued. “An eclipse is a time of great power, when the light and the dark join together. When the world becomes a portal of change, and things can be set on new paths.” His dark eyes shone as he leveled them at his son. “The world is off balance, since Apollius disappeared. Things do not always turn out as they are meant to be. And when that happens, it is up to us to change it.”
“Where the fuck is Anton?” Bastian hissed from the side of his mouth, the question directed at Gabe behind him. “This isn’t the time to start running late.”
“He’s coming.” But Gabe sounded just as scared as Bastian did. Lore’s palms slicked with cold sweat.
Across the atrium, Alie’s deep-green eyes flickered between August and her rapt father and Lore, trying to fit together the pieces of an unlikely puzzle. Worry carved lines in her brow; then determination smoothed them.
She made a tiny motion forward, as if to join Lore and Bastian and Gabe in the center of the room; Bellegarde’s hand shot out, closed tightly around her wrist, fish-belly-white against copper-brown. Alie was too far away to hear, but Lore saw the tiny sound of pain steal from her mouth.
Gabe did, too. He stiffened, the lines of his body straining toward Alie, caught in between.
August ignored them all. An unsound smile lit his pale face, head still tipped toward the heavens. “In a god’s hands, a curse can become a gift. In a god’s hands—one god, the true god—darkness and light can come together. Every power can come together, housed in one holy body. One god, one crown. One empire that spans the world, heals all its ills and puts it back to rights.”
As he spoke, more Presque Mort filed into the room, their dark clothes and scarred bodies scattering through poisonous blooms. They said nothing, just lined the edges of the atrium, blank-faced as soldiers sent to a battle’s front. The Priest Exalted was still nowhere to be seen.
Finally, August lowered his head, facing the small crowd instead of the sky. His expression was one of deep peace, deep fulfillment, someone seeing a plan come to fruition after years of careful coordination. Subtly, he nodded.
The Presque Mort moved, quick and silent. Bastian realized it first, turning with his teeth bared, a knife he’d hidden in his boot suddenly in his hand and catching a wicked gleam. Gabe took a moment longer, confusion writ large across his features—but when one of the Presque Mort put a rough hand on his shoulder, he spun, gripping his own dagger, though he didn’t draw it yet.
Lore had no weapon, but when the Presque Mort grabbed her, she struggled anyway, lashing out with her feet, clawing with her nails. It was useless, but she tried.
Anton had deserted them. He wasn’t here to stop the ritual.
Maybe he’d never planned on it in the first place. Maybe he’d only pretended, as a way to keep them docile, keep them from running. A gentle touch on the rabbit’s neck before you broke it.