“I’m rather surprised the Church doesn’t advocate for more equitable burial practices,” Lore said. “Entry to the Shining Realm should hinge on piety, not money.”
“Especially since most of the nobles won’t see the Realm’s lintel, whole-bodied or not.” Bastian smirked. “The Church and the bloodcoats might close their eyes against the amount of poison coming into the Citadel, but I doubt Apollius will.”
Lore gritted her teeth, thinking of Cecelia and her cup of belladonna, of the flask always by August’s side. “Ah, the justice system.”
Bastian’s snort became a full laugh. “It’s certainly a system. Unsure if justice has much to do with it.”
The forest opened on another garden, smaller and less regimented than the one on the other side of the Citadel. Similar to the forest, it was a careful pantomime of wildness, a contradictory illusion of free nature. Colorful birds nested in the bushes, and a few peacocks strutted through the foliage.
They strolled on past banks of brightly colored flowers and tiny gleaming pools full of shimmering fish. A few other courtiers were out taking morning constitutionals or playing lazy games of croquet, but beyond inclinations of heads, they didn’t interact. Lore assumed most of the court had fallen back into bed after sunrise prayers.
“Speaking of the villages,” Lore said, redirecting the conversation to something that might actually get her information instead of just make her angry, “I heard they were all dying overnight, with no sign of sickness or poison. But surely that can’t be the case?”
“It is as far as I know. But I have my own theories.” Bastian reached out and stroked a passing peacock’s violet head. The bird pecked at his hand, and he gave it a halfhearted swat. “I think the Mortem problem is to blame.”
Her toe stubbed on one of the cobblestones; Lore clenched Bastian’s arm and regained her footing, just barely managing not to curse. His forearm was rock-hard under her palm, a fact she was irritated with herself for noticing. “Oh?”
“No poison, no sickness, no trace of attack?” He shrugged, making the muscle beneath her hand ripple distractingly. “Sounds like Mortem to me. Why, would you not agree?”
“Not really, no.” Lore shook her head. “The bodies wouldn’t be whole, if it was unchanneled Mortem. They’d be in advanced stages of decay, or gone altogether.” Mortem leaks had been a problem during the first few years after the Godsfall, though they weren’t really a threat anymore. Not since the Presque Mort were founded and the Arceneaux line built the Citadel over Nyxara’s tomb.
Bastian gave her a considering look. “You know more about Mortem than the average courtier, Lore.”
So casual, so even. But she knew it wasn’t. Dammit. He’d handed her a shovel and she’d happily started digging. “I find it an interesting topic.”
“Morbid, too.”
“Interesting and morbid often coincide.” She shrugged. “Besides, anyone who pays attention to their history will come to the same conclusion. The accounts of the Godsfall and the years after are well documented. We know what a body looks like after coming in contact with raw, unchanneled Mortem from an outside source.”
“Fair.” Bastian plucked a lone peacock feather from where it’d gotten tangled in a bush, sticking it behind his ear at a jaunty angle. Another trend in the making, she was sure. “But couldn’t it be channeled into something that caused the deaths? Something that descended on a village, killed them, and left no trace?”
“I don’t think so. The Spiritum in a person wouldn’t allow it.” Lore had never heard of channeled Mortem being used to outright kill someone. Channeling death into a living body was difficult—the aura of Spiritum, of vitality, that surrounded every living thing made it next to impossible. Weaker auras could be overcome, like those of plants or very ill humans, but not healthy ones.
If someone was using Mortem to kill those villages, it was in a way that Lore had no context for. And she had a good amount of context, all things considered.
“Clearly, I’ve been remiss in not consulting another scholar.” The peacock feather apparently itched; Bastian pulled it from his ear and twirled it between his fingers instead. “No one else I’ve discussed this with has been as learned as you.”
Lore gave him a small, shy smile, conjuring country cousin, conjuring no threat and don’t take me too seriously. “There isn’t much to do at home. I find my amusements where I may.”
He cocked a brow and looked pointedly at the grass stains again. Lore pinched his arm, fighting a genuine laugh.
“Lore!”
Gabriel walked hurriedly down the path, like he’d been trying to catch up without running. Still, he was slightly out of breath when he reached them. His eye darted to Bastian, then to her, brow rising as if he was annoyed that she was following her orders so closely.
“Remaut, nice of you to join us.” Bastian took the peacock feather from behind his ear and swiveled it flirtatiously beneath Gabe’s chin. “I was just taking your cousin to the stables. Don’t worry, she already had the grass stains when I found her.”
Gabe’s eyebrow climbed farther. Lore gave him a smile that felt more like a grimace.
“Come along.” Bastian tightened the bend of his arm, trapping Lore’s hand. “I have a curious new acquisition. You two will be the first I’ve shown it to.” He gave Lore a brilliant smile. “Honestly, between this and inviting you to the masque last night, I’ve been quite the social director. Perhaps I should hire myself out to the mothers of spinsters.”
“I’m sure August would love that.” Gabe fell into step on Lore’s other side. It felt somewhat like being escorted by two abnormally tall cats, twitchy and standoffish.
“Probably as much as Anton loves you coming back to court. I’m sure he wasn’t pleased about losing his star channeler for a season.”
Gabe said nothing, arms politely behind his back, though those polite arms ended in fists. Lore thought of the conversation she and Bastian had as they danced, about how Bastian had attempted to orchestrate Gabe’s freedom for the summer, not knowing that Anton had planned it already.
But the awkward transition gave her an opening, a place to speak about the two ruling brothers of Auverraine with someone who would know more about their relationship than most. “August and Anton…” she began, feeling out how she wanted to word it. “They don’t seem to get along. Why is that?”
“Anton didn’t become the Priest Exalted until after his vision.” Gabe jumped in to answer, though he had to know she’d meant the question for Bastian. The man was apparently incapable of not immediately rising to Anton’s defense. “But August has been the heir since he was born, Apollius’s chosen. Naturally, it led to some tension.”
“Like children fighting over being Father’s favorite,” Bastian scoffed. “Anton’s vision was certainly convenient.”