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“Hmm.” He looked forward again, hiding his eye, and that was the extent of the conversation. The man was not much of a talker.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. Stare straight ahead. Try not to notice if anyone is looking at you.
But Lore’s careful composure was shattered by the overwhelming feeling that she should turn around, right now.
It was enough to make her press her hand against her collarbones. The feeling wasn’t physical itself, but the reaction it inspired was—the hairs on her arms rising, her head going strangely light.
So she turned around.
Behind the pews, yards away, stood a young man with shoulder-length black hair held back from his face with a golden circlet. His clothes were all eye-searing white, down to the leather of his boots. He was too far away to see clearly, but his shape seemed familiar. Similar to the way she’d felt when she saw Gabriel, like this was a person she should know, though surely it wasn’t someone she’d ever met before.
A string quartet had gathered off to the side of the pews, all dressed in bright colors, instruments gleaming as if they’d been polished for the occasion. The maestro stood and raised his baton; a slow, stately processional began. Behind them, the distant figure in white started strolling toward the dais as if he had all the time in the world.
Oh. That was the Sun Prince.
Gabriel stood up next to her, and Lore hurriedly followed suit. Her heartbeat felt faster, her veins almost too full.
The Sun Prince grew closer. Gabriel grew stiffer.
When he came level with their pew, shining like a god himself, Bastian Arceneaux glanced their way. White skin gilded in sunlight, sharp jaw, dark eyes. When he winked, a memory snapped into place.
The man she’d seen in the gardens. The one who’d watched her enter the Citadel flanked by Gabriel, Anton, and Malcolm, in an ill-fitting dress one of his paramours had probably donated.
Shit.
Bastian mounted the dais, walking elegantly through the billowing curtains and sinuous trails of incense smoke. Applause and whoops greeted his entrance, and he took an exaggerated bow. By the lectern, Anton stood stiffly, the Compendium opened to the first of the scarlet ribbons. August had been seated directly in front of the dais, in a golden throne only slightly less ostentatious than the one inside the Citadel. His ruby-ringed hand clutched another chalice, and he sipped from it quietly as he watched his son, stoic and nearly unmoving.
“Seems like bad form to be drinking at your heir’s Consecration,” Lore muttered.
“August drinks all the time,” Gabriel replied.
The crowd settled, and Anton began to speak, reciting Tract 7 first—a list of the gods who’d ascended from their mortal forms to their holy ones on their twenty-fourth birthdays: Caeliar, Braxtos, Hestraon, Apollius, Nyxara, Lereal. After that, an entry from the Book of Prayer, about stepping into your power when it is time and knowing when to cede it. Bastian shifted back and forth on his feet through the entire recitation, clearly bored. At one point, he smirked at someone to the left of the dais, and Lore wondered if it was the woman he’d been kissing in the garden.
The ceremony seemed to reach a natural conclusion, the gathered courtiers growing restless in their seats as they anticipated dismissal. But Anton turned to another scarlet ribbon in the Compendium, one near the back. The Book of Holy Law, then.
Anton picked up the knife, golden blade glinting in the sun. Lore was too far away to see Bastian’s expression, but the Sun Prince took a tiny step back.
She shot a look at Gabriel. A frown drew at the Presque Mort’s mouth.
“The Book of Holy Law, Tract Fourteen,” Anton intoned. “Powers that oppose each other sharpen each other in turn. The presence of darkness increases light, and light drowns the darkness. But my children, have caution, for neither can be wholly tamed except by your god. Life cannot exist without death, and to hold the whole of them is holiness.”
Lore’s lips twisted. The Book of Holy Law was a conundrum: Parts of it had been written pre-Godsfall, but a majority hadn’t been recorded until the year of the Godsfall itself, the year between Nyxara’s death and Apollius’s disappearance. Those Tracts contradicted earlier ones, stating that Apollius was the only true god. Right before He disappeared, Apollius dictated the Book of Holy Law to a man named Gerard Arceneaux, whom He then appointed the Sainted King.
The Arceneaux family had ruled ever since, handpicked by Apollius Himself.
The crowd was silent. Courtiers glanced at each other, some trying to hide bemused grins, others just confused.
“Is that not normally part of it?” Lore whispered to Gabriel.
He shook his head, still frowning.
“Bastian Leander Arceneaux,” Anton said, raising the golden knife. “You are the scion of a holy house. You are the vessel of holy power. And today, you step into your Consecration with a heart that will be made ready to carry us forward into a new age.”
The bemused smiles faded, every courtier wearing an expression of confusion, Bastian included. He didn’t speak—he hadn’t through the whole Consecration—but he didn’t step closer to his uncle, either.
Anton gestured. “Come, nephew.” His voice was the gentlest Lore had ever heard it. “Today you become who you are meant to be.”
In his golden chair, August leaned forward, clutching the chalice in his hand like a lifeline.
