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The Sun Prince hesitated a moment. Then he gave a forced laugh, clearly attempting to break the strange tension. “Well done, Uncle,” he said, in a rich baritone voice that rang over the pews. “You’ve started a trend. I’m sure every Consecration from here on out will include room for improvisation.”
The gathered nobles laughed gaily, the sound somewhat strained, as if their prince had given them permission not to be discomfited by the unusual ceremony. By the lectern, Anton remained expressionless, the knife outstretched.
August did nothing, still staring at his son.
Bastian approached the Priest Exalted, held out his hand. Anton grabbed it and carved into his skin with the point of the knife. It happened quickly, too quickly for anyone to do anything but let loose a polite gasp. Bastian grimaced, a spasm going through his shoulders, but he didn’t pull away.
When it was over, Anton turned to the crowd, his back to Lore and Gabriel and the others unfortunate enough to sit behind the dais, holding up Bastian’s hand. Even from here, Lore could see the blood on the Sun Prince’s palm, though she couldn’t see what exactly Anton had carved into it.
For a moment, the sky brightened, as if the sun had decided to burn hotter for a heartbeat. Appreciative murmurs rose; maybe it was just a bit of stagecraft, something else to make the Sun Prince’s Consecration as dramatic as possible.
But across the dais, August looked stricken.
“Behold, Bastian Leander Arceneaux, the scion of House Arceneaux and future Sainted King of Auverraine, who has today been consecrated in the sight of our Bleeding God!” Anton sounded nearly jubilant. The golden knife still dripped with scarlet in his hand.
“Hail!” called the crowd, and the word dissolved into thunderous applause. Bastian laughed, giving another sweeping bow, then purposefully wiped his bleeding hand on his white doublet.
“Come on,” Gabriel grumbled next to her. “Let’s get out of here.”
The courtiers mobbed the dais, laughing and trying to get as close to Bastian as possible; he let them. Someone handed him a glass of wine, and he took a long, hearty gulp to the sound of more cheering.
August said that he suspected Bastian of betraying Auverrani secrets because he didn’t want the weight of rulership. But it looked to Lore like he was just fine with being the center of attention.
She stuck close behind Gabriel as he made his way back to the Citadel doors, trusting Bastian to hold the courtiers’ attention. The only other people moving away from the dais were Anton, the other clergymen, and August.
The Sainted King still held tight to his chalice as he walked, flanked by bloodcoats. He raised it to take another drink, a slight tremor in his hand. Dark wine spilled from the cup as Lore and Gabriel passed him, splashing onto the ground and barely missing Lore’s hem.
Lore glanced over her shoulder before following Gabriel inside. Bastian stood on the dais still, surrounded by beautiful people in colorful clothing, leaning in close to whisper in the ear of a young man who looked thrilled to be the object of his attention. But his eyes were on her. She wasn’t sure how she could tell, across so much space, but she knew with a pull in her gut and no hint of a doubt that the Sun Prince was staring right at her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Night Witch said she’d watch the tomb
But lost her mind instead
She tried to let the goddess out
But the goddess got in her head
—Auverrani children’s rhyme
Think they left any wine in here?”
Their apartments felt cavernous with only the two of them inside. Lore toed off her slippers by the door—they pinched something awful, which meant in all the years the Presque Mort had been watching her, they’d still managed to get her shoe size wrong—and sat heavily down on the couch. “I need some, after all that.”
“If they did, it will be in the sidebar.” Gabriel waved toward a small table next to the empty fireplace. He leaned against the wall by the door, one hand reaching up to readjust the leather patch on his eye. “Hopefully August tells someone to send us food.”
“He can’t expect me to spy on an empty stomach.” Lore rummaged through the sidebar until she found two dusty wineglasses and a small bottle of red. “That was strange, right? I mean, I haven’t attended many Consecrations—any, really—but that seemed strange.”
“It was,” Gabriel conceded. “Malcolm told me Anton was planning more Tract readings than a typical ceremony, but I wasn’t expecting…”
“A bloodletting?”
His mouth quirked, somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. “Precisely.” He rubbed at his jaw. Slight reddish stubble grew there, the sign of a long day. “But there was a purpose, I’m sure. Anton always has a purpose. And an Arceneaux Consecration is a special occasion; I shouldn’t expect it to be the same as others I’ve seen.”
It sounded like Gabriel had gotten very good at rationalizing whatever Anton did. The man could probably strip naked and waltz around the South Sanctuary, and Gabriel would think it had some higher spiritual purpose.
Lore pulled off the cork of the wine bottle with her teeth. It smelled vinegary, and her nose wrinkled when she poured it. “It’s shit,” she warned, handing a glass to Gabriel, “but so is this day.”
