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“So the guards were reassigned?”
“If you want to call sent to the Burnt Isles reassigned.”
So the Citadel was just as violent as the streets of Dellaire, even if the blades were polished and the blood was mopped up more quickly.
“Name?” the bloodcoat at the door asked as they approached. Clearly, it was a formality. His eyes were wide as he looked at Gabe, like someone might look at a ghost.
“Leif Gabriel Remaut, Duke of Balgia,” Gabriel announced, voice strong and sure as if he’d done this a thousand times. “And my cousin, Eldelore Remaut.”
Lore dug her nails into Gabriel’s arm. His lips twisted against a smirk.
The bloodcoat nodded, then opened the door.
And revealed the kind of sumptuous chaos that could’ve been the dead gods’ Shining Realm or any one of the myriad hells.
Opulently dressed courtiers whirled to mad music from a small orchestra. Hair was done up in spirals and towers, powdered impossible colors—deep greens and gem-bright blues and light blush-pinks. Some of the dancers appeared to be dressed like animals, with half masks covering their eyes and false ears on their heads, made of expensive fabric. A thin slip of a person wore shimmering butterfly wings on their back, the same bright yellow as their hair. Another had what looked like actual swan feathers attached to the back of her diaphanous gown, and her dance partner wore nothing but feathers around her waist and breasts.
If Lore’s eyebrows climbed any farther, they’d disappear into her hairline. “You weren’t exaggerating about my dress being tame.”
“Positively chaste.” Gabriel looked like he’d rather be walking into a jail cell than this party. His jaw was a tight line, and the muscles under Lore’s slack hand were tense as a fence post.
A familiar scent itched at Lore’s nose. Belladonna.
She whipped around, searching the crowd anxiously. There, in the corner—a group of courtiers took turns drinking from a tiny ceramic cup, not even trying to hide it. Their faces were flushed, their legs unsteady, their eyes glassy with a euphoric poison high. Flashes of gray showed at wrists and throats, stone working its silent way through veins as just enough Mortem was pulled forth to slow the ravage of time. Painful years added to pampered lives.
“They’ll kill themselves if they drink too much,” she muttered. “The key is moderation, and nothing about this party tells me these people know anything about that.”
“Citadel physicians are highly skilled at treating overdoses.” Gabriel’s blue eye flashed as he turned away from the knot of poisoned nobles. “It happens all the time. There are laws in place that force a nobleman to step down in favor of his heir if he lives too long.”
“I haven’t seen anyone that looks like a revenant.”
“Citadel physicians are skilled at treating that, too. Take a good look at some of the older nobles next time you get a chance. Cosmetics and padding go a long way to hide stone veins and emaciation.”
Lore’s jaw tightened as she watched the extravagantly dressed courtiers pass the poison, giggling. She didn’t realize she’d taken a step toward the group until Gabe’s hand landed on her shoulder.
He shook his head. “Just leave it, Lore.”
And what could she do, even if she did go over there? It wouldn’t make a difference.
So Lore sighed, and shook her hands out of their fists, and turned to observe the Court of the Citadel in all its debauchery.
Knots of revelers stood drinking between dances, gathered in bursts of bright clothes, as ornate as the golden frescoes they stood before. Those who weren’t kissing or drinking were gossiping—heads bowed as close together as elaborate hairstyles would allow, whispering and then breaking into whoops of laughter. Cosmetic-lined eyes scanned the room, as if making sure their mirth was marked, and hopefully envied.
A man wearing a sea-green mask with golden scales turned his eyes lazily to Gabe, then away. A moment, and his gaze snapped back, disinterest becoming openmouthed surprise. He leaned to the ear of the person next to him, their hair coiled into something resembling a beehive, whispering furiously.
“And thus our new faces are noticed,” Lore said. They still stood by the door, neither of them keen on venturing into the sparkling milieu.
“Mine isn’t new, which seems to be the problem.” Gabriel sighed. “I’d hoped that ten years and one less eye would make recognizing me more difficult.”
“You’re hard not to notice,” Lore murmured, then clamped her lips shut.
“And you say I need to work on my compliments.” Gabe shook out his shoulders. “Well. Into the breach.”
He tugged them into the party.
Dancers spun past them, their costumes wearable displays of wealth. Jewels encrusted bodices; clouds of gold-threaded tulle swept the ground. The dancers paid no mind to the iron bars crossing the floor, the reminders of holy responsibility covered in sweat and spilled champagne.
Lore’s heart thrummed, and not just from nerves. This reminded her of the wilder venues down by the docks, though it felt more dangerous than those ever had. Money and power gave it weight, made it heady.
