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Lore was honestly impressed that the woman managed to turn the whole bloody mess of the eclipse ritual into a delicate court barb, as common an accessory as a ribbon in your hair. She probably would have been a better Queen.
“It’s not saying much, from Maxon,” Caius said. “Consecrations in Kirythea are somber affairs. The honor is for the Bleeding God, not the one reaching the age of ascension.” He lifted his cup in salute to Bastian. “For an Arceneaux, though, I’m sure Lord Apollius appreciates a bit more revelry.”
Sidestepping the subject of Lore’s disastrous Consecration entirely, though surely he knew the story. Amelia looked put out.
“We do love any excuse for a party,” Bastian replied. “I hope the two of you have been made welcome by the court. I like to think they’ve kept an open mind.”
“We’ve been received cordially enough,” Maxon answered. “Though welcomed might be pushing it.”
“They’ll come ’round,” Lord Demonde assured him, clapping the other man on the back. He’d clearly been indulging in the offered wine; his cheeks were flushed, his eyes glassy. “Better to make new friends than keep old enemies, I always say.”
“Indeed.” Bastian’s eyes were flinty, though the smile beneath them stayed warm. From her place by her husband, Amelia watched him avid as a bird on a worm. Her golden hair was piled atop her head and held in place with what looked like hundreds of tiny glittering pins, and even with the humidity, she managed to look dewy rather than sweaty.
Despite herself, Lore felt a tug of possessiveness run through her. No, possessive wasn’t quite right—protective, then, like Bastian needed a shield.
Foolish of her. No amount of shielding would protect a rabbit that insisted on wandering into the wolf’s den.
“We’ve had a splendid time, actually,” Amelia said with a smile. “It’s been illuminating to discuss our cultures, especially since August forbade talk of the Empire for so long. For instance, did you know that in Kirythea, Lereal’s power could be used up until nearly two hundred years after the Godsfall? Some researchers believe there are still traces of air magic left near Laerdas, since that’s where Their body was found.” She laughed, high and musical. “I daresay Kirythea got the better deal, in that regard.”
“I’d certainly rather have a surplus of air magic than Mortem,” Demonde agreed. “Far more useful.”
“Perhaps,” Bastian replied. A passing servant came by, carrying a tray of small pastries iced in the same purple as the flag of Auverraine; he snagged one off the plate. “From a certain point of view.”
Maxon said nothing, only quirked an eyebrow.
“Amelia and Hugh have been most enlightening about how Mortem issues have affected Dellaire, and Auverraine as a whole.” Caius cocked his head, the queue of his golden hair falling over one shoulder. “It seems there was a fairly large leak a few weeks ago, after many years without?”
Can’t run from what you are, daughter of the dark.
“There was, yes.” Bastian tightened his hold on Lore’s arm. “Thankfully, my fiancée was there to help channel it all before it could cause any harm.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Amelia kept her voice light, but there was venom beneath. “She channeled it all into the farmlands.”
“Fortunately,” Lore said, matching the other woman’s tone, “I also healed them just last week. Or did you not hear about that part?”
“Oh, no, I did.” Amelia sipped her wine. “I only hope it wasn’t too late to impact the harvest.”
“It wasn’t.” Bastian’s tone was icy, and for once, his face reflected it, dropping the mask of charming civility. “Lore did admirably. Both in her initial management of the leak and in the cleanup afterward. It was one of the things that convinced me she would make a good Queen, in actuality instead of just court nickname.”
That, finally, made Amelia be quiet. She almost seemed to shrink into herself, like the statement had been pointed beyond just a rebuttal. Lore’s heart softened toward her, slightly. Amelia had been dealt a rough hand, and Lore knew that had she been given the same, she probably wouldn’t be pleasant company, either.
Apparently, Hugh Demonde didn’t notice his wife’s shrinking. He smiled, wine-widened, and clapped Bastian on the shoulder in a show of familiarity he probably would have reconsidered if sober. Shoulder-clapping seemed to be the man’s go-to gesture. “Delightful to see you in love, Your Majesty. Just delightful. It’s been a while since the King and Queen of Auverraine actually liked each other.”
The mention of his parents, however oblique, made Bastian stiffen. But it was momentary, small enough to miss if you blinked, and he nodded at Demonde’s words as if he weren’t the child of just such a union. “Hopefully it bodes well for the country as a whole.”
“I’m sure it does,” Caius said, with another smile delivered over another sip of wine.
Bastian swept his hand toward the end of the dock, as if to change the subject. “Have you all availed yourself of the décor? It’s very impressive, if I do say so myself.”
Lore didn’t know much about boats beyond that they floated, despite living in close proximity to the harbor for a majority of her life, but the ship bobbing in the tide at the end of the dock looked impressive indeed. Heavy cannons bristled from the port and starboard sides like ribs from a spine. Another cannon was secured to the prow, its open mouth poised right above the figurehead. Caeliar of the sea, Her hair flying behind Her to caress the ship’s sides, Her arms outflung to embrace the coming tide. Her eyes were narrowed, Her mouth open in a battle cry. Caeliar was always depicted as the most warlike of the original pantheon. Images of the elemental gods were technically outlawed but for special circumstances—the windows in the Church, and figureheads. She looked fierce in them all.
“Extremely so,” Maxon conceded, turning bright-green eyes from Bastian to the ship. His gaze lingered on the depiction of Caeliar, a small, smug smile hanging on the corner of his mouth. “I haven’t had a chance yet to go inside, but I’m anxious to see what it’s like. Kirythea is known for its battleships.”
“Yes, Malfour is renowned for their shipbuilding.” Bastian gave Maxon a sly smile. All of the Empire’s ships were constructed in conquered Malfour, a smaller coastal country known for sea voyages before the Empire took over. “Allow me to be your tour guide.”
“We’ve already been,” Demonde said, taking Amelia’s arm. He jostled her; only by a graceful sway of the hip did Amelia manage to keep from spilling wine down her pale gown. “And we should make our rounds before the naming. Come, dear, I saw Lord Gauthien and his new wife, we should invite them to our fete next week—”
Amelia seemed less than pleased to be prized away from Bastian and the Kirytheans, but she dutifully followed her husband. As they moved away, she shot a sharp glance at Lore over her shoulder. The venom had drained out of it. Instead, the other woman looked almost hurt.
