Then it was her, and Gabe, and Bastian, all alone on the quiet green. Silence settled between them like mortar between bricks, more impossible to break the longer they left it.
They didn’t have to. A servant walked timidly up to them, holding an envelope between thin white fingers. His eyes flicked nervously to Bastian, then away, as if deliberating whether he could complete his given task with the Sun Prince around. He decided he could, and handed the envelope to Lore, apparently the least intimidating of the three of them, and hurriedly walked away.
Remaut, the envelope said. In thick calligraphy, this time, not Alie’s swirling lettering.
She looked up at Gabe, shook the envelope between two fingers. “Three guesses.”
“I only need one,” Bastian said brightly.
Gabe ignored him as he took the envelope, tore it open. His one eye scanned the paper quickly before darting to Lore. “August. In the throne room, at our earliest convenience.”
“Any chance our earliest convenience can be after a nap?”
“In my experience with my father, earliest convenience means ‘get your ass here as soon as possible.’” Bastian flipped the mallet over his shoulder and ambled away. “Have a good time, can’t wait to hear all about it!”
The bloodcoats at the throne room’s golden double doors pushed them inward—more were present than there had been previously, to make sure no one walked in on this conversation. Lore and Gabriel strode in to stand before the Sainted King and hoped he didn’t ask too many hard questions.
August looked as ill rested as they did. His customary dark clothes, while still fine, were rumpled, as if he’d worn them all night. His dark eyes were glassy, his face haggard, and he didn’t wear his crown. He sat forward on the iron throne, the bars on the floor crashing up against its base like waves to a ship’s hull, elbows on his knees and hands clasped before his mouth. He didn’t look up when they came in.
Next to the throne, Anton stood, white robes similarly rumpled. The Priest Exalted inclined his head as Gabe and Lore approached the throne. Tired lines etched around his unscarred eye.
Neither Arceneaux brother looked like they’d slept much. It made unease drift ghostly fingers over the back of Lore’s neck.
“You accompanied my son out of the walls the other night.” August looked up, sighed. “I’m impressed. You managed to weasel your way into Bastian’s good graces with ruthless efficiency.”
The side of Anton’s mouth twitched up, a quick, pleased smile that he immediately dropped.
Beside her, Gabe stood rock-still, tension coiling him into a monk-shaped knot. She stood on the side of his missing eye, so she couldn’t see where he was looking, but his chin kept slightly angling in Anton’s direction.
Lore swallowed.
Bastian had it wrong. Gabe’s loyalty wasn’t really to the Church, or to Apollius. It was to Anton, the man who’d stepped in when his father died, the man who’d given him a purpose and a means to earn back his honor. Who’d taken the worst moment of Gabe’s life and made it seem like a blessing.
And Lore was asking him to lie.
She thought of that connection she felt to him, the instant familiarity that made it seem as if they’d known each other far longer than they had. He’d given no indication that he felt the same thing, but gods dead and dying, she hoped he did, and hoped it was enough for him to follow her lead.
“Did you learn anything?” August asked, sitting back in his throne. “Did he let anything slip?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Lore said smoothly. “He took us to the docks, to a boxing ring. He lost.”
“A disappointment in every way,” August muttered.
“People rise to the heights that are expected of them,” Anton said. “And you have never made a secret of how little you think of your son.”
The King stared at the Priest Exalted, nearly identical stern expressions on their faces, the same muscle feathering in two jaws. Neither of them moved, but violence hung close in the vast room, as if Lore and Gabe had entered in the middle of an argument only stopped by formality.
Lore shifted back and forth on her feet.
Anton turned to her, dismissing his brother. “And did Bastian do anything… strange?”
Lore managed to wrestle her surprised expression into something that might pass for confused, even as the memory of trying to channel Mortem and failing raced to the forefront of her mind. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
The Priest Exalted sighed. “In the boxing ring,” he said slowly, “did he do anything that seemed odd to you?”
“No,” Lore said, shaking her head. “He just got thrashed.”
A shadow passed over August’s face. He glanced at his brother, but the Priest Exalted didn’t match the look. He just nodded thoughtfully.
Silence fell.
“You’re doing well,” Anton said after a length of uncomfortable quiet. “You’ve managed to work your way into Bastian’s circle, which is exactly what we asked you to do.” He slid a glance toward the throne. “We are confident that we will see the necessary results in time.”
Next to her, Gabe was still and silent, his face pale, his mouth a flat line. The only sign that the praise discomfited him was a slight tremble in his hand, and he quelled it by pressing his candle-inked palm flat against his leg.
Their tableau was interrupted by the throne room doors slamming open. Malcolm rushed in, breathing ragged, dark eyes wide, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Leak,” he gasped, hands on his knees. “Mortem leak. Southeast Ward. A big one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mortem is invisible to all but those who can channel it—those who have come close enough to death to harness its power. No one else can see its threat until it is atop them, and that is why we cannot simply pray and hope it goes away.
—Phillipe Deschain, Auverrani scientist, presenting notes to the Church, 1 AGF (just before Apollius’s disappearance)
I’m coming.”
“You’re not.”
There’d been a moment of frozen silence after Malcolm ran into the throne room, but it’d been just that. A moment, a heartbeat, a split second of change when the atmosphere turned from familial dispute to clinical action. Anton had strode from the room, moving as fast as he could without running. Malcolm, still gulping lungfuls of air, followed behind. August stood from his throne and yelled for guards, giving instructions on closing down the Citadel, not letting anyone in or out of the walls, locking everything that could be locked. Lore thought about telling him that a locked door meant nothing to raw Mortem—it’d seep through the cracks in the stone, the wood and iron, death wasn’t something you could hide from—but before she could, she saw Gabe turning on his heel to follow Anton and Malcolm, and hurrying after him seemed more important than telling off August.
So now she scampered down the halls, his too-long stride forcing her to jog. “I can help.”
“Or you could die.” Gabe shook his head once, sharp. “Not odds I’m keen on playing.”