“So why don’t you run away?” Lore asked. “If you think your father is one good excuse away from having you assassinated, if you don’t even want the damn crown, why stay in the Citadel?”
“Because the Citadel is mine.” His answer came with a vehemence she hadn’t expected. “Even if I don’t want it, me running away won’t solve anything. I don’t want to be the Sun Prince, but I am, and that comes with a measure of responsibility. If I want to see anything change, I will have to do it myself.” He glanced at her. “And if my father is able to choose his own heir from the remaining Arceneaux relatives, which he would be free to do with me gone, it will not be someone who is good for Auverraine. I can guarantee it. My relatives are few, and all of them are awful.”
Lore thought of what she and Gabe had talked about up in their room, about one pebble trying to dam a river. Bastian wasn’t a pebble, though. Bastian was a boulder.
“I’m surprised he’s concerned with an heir at all, to be honest.” She fell into step beside the Sun Prince, following him down familiar streets. “He’s dosing himself with poison regularly, and I assume the Sainted King has a deathdealer who knows the right amounts. Seems like he’s trying to make the matter of passing on the crown as moot as possible.”
Bastian said nothing, but his eyes cut quickly to her, then away. His mouth firmed thoughtfully.
They rounded a corner, and Bastian took her elbow, steering her toward the culvert cut into the Citadel Wall—she hadn’t seen it, hidden in shadow. “You and Remaut are going to have to become better actors,” he said, changing the subject. “Everyone in the Citadel has a nose for bullshit, and he doesn’t look at you like a cousin.”
“How does he look at me, then?” Lore jerked her elbow from Bastian’s hold.
“Like he’s not especially pleased about that vow of celibacy.”
Heat flooded her cheeks.
With a smile, Bastian gestured toward the culvert with his sun-scarred hand. “After you, my lady.”
Lore crawled down into the tunnel, re-soaking her hem. Bastian splashed down behind her and took the lead, holding out his lighter.
“Gabriel knows how to get back to the Citadel, right?” Lore asked.
“He’s an industrious fellow, he’ll find his way.” The flame from the lighter shivered over the slick walls. Something rat-shaped scurried into the shadows. “Your concern is touching.”
The way he said it belied the words. Lore scowled at his back, gathering her hem high to avoid the water. “He’s just as caught up in all this as I am.”
“Be that as it may, Gabriel’s loyalty is to one person alone. And diverting as you are, Lore, I don’t think you can compete with Apollius. If the opportunity arises for Remaut to use you in service to his god, he’ll take it.” He turned to face her, the flame gilding his dark hair in fiendish light, keeping his eyes in shadow. “In fact, it seems like I’m the only person in the Citadel who knows who you are and what you’re capable of, and isn’t trying to make you a tool.”
It wasn’t true, but neither was it comforting. Gabe didn’t know what she was, not really. Not like Bastian did.
Bleeding God and Buried Goddess, she hoped that wasn’t a mistake.
“Gabe isn’t trying to use me,” she said softly. “Gabe is trying to keep me safe.”
The prince turned around with a rueful noise, shaking his head. “Are you so accustomed to being used that you don’t realize when it’s happening, as long as it’s done kindly?”
She had no answer for that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nature bends toward wickedness—consider the eclipse. The sky grows dark when it should be light, the moon overtaking the sun. Such is a time when dark power rises. But fear not, for even this can be used.
—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 7451
The trip through the short tunnel didn’t take long, but Lore was soaked to the waist by the time they splashed up onto the ledge at the other end, and walking through all that water had been taxing enough to make her break a sweat. She desperately wanted to wipe her face, but was afraid of what might be on her hands. “How often do you do this?” she asked, turning to Bastian. “And how in all myriad hells do you hide that much laundry?”
“It used to be once a week or so, but I assume I’ll have to cut back now that at least two of the betting enforcers know who I am.” Bastian sloshed up next to her, barely winded. “And I usually just leave all my clothes in the culvert and walk back through the gardens naked. It’s refreshing, and whoever finds my cast-offs certainly needs them more than I do.”
“Please tell me you aren’t planning to shuck off your clothes right now.”
“I’ll protect your delicate sensibilities, though it is sure to result in agonizing chafing.” Bastian grasped her by the waist and boosted her up, out of the culvert and into the Citadel gardens.
Right into Gabriel.
The Presque Mort stumbled back, arms closing around Lore to hold her steady. “You’re safe?” he asked, his hands running from her shoulders to her wrists. “He didn’t hurt you?”
“Should I be offended?” Bastian climbed out of the culvert, a smile on his face and daggers in his eyes. “I think I’m offended.”
“He didn’t hurt me.” Lore didn’t mention the endless moments in the alley when it seemed like he might. She stepped out of Gabe’s arms, peered up at his face. A bruise mottled the side opposite his eye patch, and blood crusted beneath a split in his lip. “What happened to you?”
“Ran into some enforcers who thought I hadn’t paid up a bet.” Gabe rubbed away a fleck of dried blood. It didn’t improve the state of his face. “Once I got away, I couldn’t find either of you, so I came here to get help from Anton.”
Of course he had. Lore wondered if Gabe had planned on telling the Priest Exalted everything, including the possibly reanimated body in the vaults, or if he would’ve left that out.
She wasn’t immediately sure. It made her eyes dart away from him, made her arms cross in front of her as if they could be a barrier.
Gabe didn’t notice. He rounded on Bastian, his fists held tight by his sides, like it took monumental effort not to drive one into the Sun Prince’s face. “What in all the myriad hells was that, Bastian? You drag us out to the docks to play at being common, get thrashed—”
“On purpose, I feel like I should point out.”
“—then kidnap Lore and leave me there?” He’d been advancing the whole time he spoke, and now Gabe stood right in front of Bastian, two inches taller and using it all to loom. “What the fuck?”
“Language, Your Grace,” Bastian admonished, completely unperturbed by the large mass of angry monk in his face. “I do apologize that you ran into trouble, though it seems like you fought your way out of it just fine.”
Gabe ignored him, seething. “You might be the prince, but you can’t just—”
“He knows, Gabe.”
Lore’s voice cut him off midsentence. Gabriel froze, then turned to look at her, shoulders stiff. “All of it?”
She nodded wearily. “All of it.”