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Thoughts of Val didn’t settle easily, either. Lore swallowed, hard, forcing down the constriction that wanted to close around her throat, the liquid heat gathering in the corners of her eyes. No time for all that. Letting go was a skill she’d had extensive practice developing. Val and Mari weren’t part of her life anymore. Her life now was silk dresses and matching slippers and a golden leash held by the Sainted King and Priest Exalted.
She tilted up her head, blinked until that prickly feeling in her eyes was gone. All she’d ever done was adapt; this was just one more thing to get used to. She’d survive. She always did.
Lore hastily braided her hair in a crown around her brow, the fanciest hairstyle she knew how to do, and pushed open her door with a sarcastic flourish. “Behold, a lady.”
“Close enough, at least,” Anton said drily.
Behind him, Malcolm tapped at the side of his head. “You have a braiding mishap, my lady.”
“Shit.” Lore turned to an age-spotted mirror hanging on the wall behind the couch. A strand of hair stuck out of her quick braid, making it look like she had half a set of horns. Scowling, she took her hair down and braided it again.
The other bedroom door opened, and Gabriel stepped out, looking decidedly un-monk-like. Dark-blue breeches were tucked into shining black boots, and a trim torso was covered in a close-fitting white linen shirt with a matching midnight vest. The clothes were almost nice enough to distract from the thunderous scowl on his face, highlighted by the rough leather of his eye patch.
Malcolm made a noise that might’ve been a laugh, but swallowed it down when Anton shot him a pointed look. “You clean up nicely, Gabe,” he said instead.
Gabriel shifted his weight, the new leather of his boots squeaking. “Father, are you sure that—”
“I am sure. More important, so is Apollius.” Anton narrowed his eyes. “Do not continue to question Him, Gabriel.”
The Presque Mort nodded. There was a faraway look on his face, like he was trying to pretend he was somewhere else.
That chord in Lore’s chest twinged, the one that seemed attuned to him. She pressed a hand against her collarbones, rubbed. The Mort’s hurting was hard to watch.
Malcolm didn’t care to witness it, either. “I’m headed back to the library.” He clapped Gabriel on the shoulder. “You’ll be all right,” he said softly, then slipped out the door, his tread fast on the hallway carpet beyond. Apparently, the other Presque Mort wasn’t overly fond of time spent in the Citadel. Lore wondered if all of them were that way, the delineation between court and Church drawn thick and obvious.
With a nod at the two of them, Anton turned to leave the spacious apartments. Lore followed, and Gabriel took up the end of the line. “I would rather walk over hot coals than attend this,” she heard him mutter under his breath, clearly not intending for anyone to hear.
“That makes two of us,” Lore muttered back.
The Mort didn’t respond, but his mouth softened, just a bit.
The Sun Prince’s Consecration took place in one of the rolling fields behind the Citadel. A golden dais stood on the green, canopied in billowing white gauze that flowed tide-like in the breeze. In the center of the dais, a lectern, studded in garnets. A golden-handled knife rested on its surface.
The knife made Lore’s eyes widen. As far as she knew, Consecrations didn’t require bloodletting, but maybe royals did things differently.
The dais was surrounded by polished wooden pews on all sides. Anton led them to one of the pews in the back, nodding for her and Gabriel to sit before gliding toward the dais. From this angle, Lore could see the hollow inside of the lectern, and the huge book on the shelf there. The Compendium, combining the Book of Holy Law, the Book of Mortal Law, and the Book of Prayer.
Lore craned her neck to see around the dais. Other courtiers filed in slowly, all elegantly dressed, some clutching feathered fans or half-eaten pastries. They seemed more like they were attending a picnic than a holy ceremony. A few of them cast curious glances at her and Gabriel, but for the most part, they were ignored.
So much for August’s bluster about new faces. But maybe the courtiers of the Citadel didn’t care about a person until it was proven they were important.
Their back pew wasn’t a popular one, thankfully. The rest of the Court of the Citadel slowly filled the pews at the front of the dais, the soft sounds of their voices rising and falling like birdsong. Lore vacillated between staring at them and staring at the ground. Her line of work didn’t allow her to be anxiety-ridden, but the sight of so many nobles in one place still made her stomach knot up. All the spying she’d done for Val had been on smaller scales; poison runner crews weren’t large, so she only had to lie to ten or so people at a time. But a whole damn court—
Warmth on her hands, stilling them, stopping her from twisting mindlessly at the fabric of her skirt. Gabriel’s palm was laid across her fingers, rough with calluses. His eye patch was on her side, so he wasn’t looking at her, but he still took his hand away when her head whirled his direction.
“You’ll tear it,” he said. “And that will attract far more attention than just sitting here will.”
With effort, Lore straightened out her fingers, placed her sweaty palms on her knees.
She stayed like that even as the later courtiers arrived, filling in the spaces in the pews around them because the better seats had been taken. Up on the dais, Anton had pulled the Compendium from its place beneath the lectern and was quickly turning the pages, putting scarlet ribbons into the spine to mark relevant passages. Another clergyman—wearing a white robe instead of the Presque Mort’s dark colors; must be a run-of-the-mill Church acolyte—lit wide braziers of incense at the corners of the dais. Herbal smoke twisted into the sky, staining it gray.
Next to her, Gabriel snorted softly. “If every Consecration was this involved, the priests wouldn’t have time to do anything else. All they did at mine was recite Tract Seven and sprinkle some ash in my hair.”
Lore suspected that the only reason the Mort was speaking to her was for a dearth of options, but she’d take the distraction. “So all this isn’t normal?” That explained the knife, maybe.
He shifted so he could look at her from his one eye, brow arched over it. “You haven’t had yours yet?”
She shook her head. “I turn twenty-four in the middle of the summer.”
