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She looked away from Bellegarde, made a show of studying the windows. Apollius, again, in various scenes both imagined and taken from the Tracts. Healing a mortal wound with a touch. Stepping through a door of cloud into what she could only assume was supposed to be the Shining Realm, leaving the world behind. Lore frowned and turned her attention to the crowd instead.
For all her resentment at being here, the North Sanctuary glittering with the gathered finery of the Court of the Citadel was certainly a sight to behold. They all knew exactly what to do, where to go, how to sit and wait and look holy, even with their eyes spiderwebbed in red from drink and poison the night before. As a non-noble, Lore had never been permitted in the North Sanctuary, and she’d only been in the South Sanctuary for common prayers a handful of times, mostly when she got caught in the shuffle while doing reconnaissance for a nearby drop.
The last of the courtiers filed in. The double doors leading to the green space and the Citadel beyond closed, booming in the silence.
At the front of the sanctuary, a small door on the raised platform behind the altar opened, emitting Anton, dressed in a robe so white it almost hurt Lore’s eyes, his Bleeding God’s Heart pendant swinging from his chest. Another of the Presque Mort emerged behind him, dressed in the usual black, holding a thurible spilling with thick incense smoke. She was missing a hand, the stump riven with lurid scars. It was rare to see women in the Presque Mort—before, anyone who wasn’t a man and could channel Mortem would’ve joined the Buried Watch, if they didn’t choose to simply try ignoring the call of their new death magic—but it did happen. Anyone of any gender could become a Mort.
And the Buried Watch wasn’t an option anymore. At least not officially.
Lore slid her eyes to Gabriel, still and stoic next to her. She probably would’ve tried to ignore her abilities, were her circumstances more conventional. The Presque Mort didn’t exactly make being a monk look fun.
Next to the Mort, a priest Lore didn’t recognize stepped up to the braziers lining the front of the dais and lit them with the flame of his beeswax taper. He was dressed in white, and unscarred. Just a general clergyman, then.
She watched Anton carefully as the braziers were lit. She’d think someone who’d been scarred by them so horribly would look at least a little nervous, but the Priest Exalted stepped right up to the smoking embers without so much as a momentary flinch.
Another door opened on the opposite side of the dais, larger than the first, inlaid with a sun’s golden corona around the lintel. August strode through, rayed crown on his head, a deep-orange cloak over his shoulders. The inside lining of the cloak was golden cloth, winking as he moved down the short stairs to the altar before the dais and sank to his knees, facing the gathered crowd.
The Sainted King’s movements looked slightly unsteady. A tremor in the knee, a tiny quake along his fingers. He scratched once at his neck, concealed by the high collar of his shirt, then clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer.
And behind him, moving at a pace just slow enough to interrupt the rhythm of the ceremony, was Bastian.
The Sun Prince looked like he’d been up all night—there was a slight reddening of his eyes, and tired lines beneath them—but somehow, he made it look good. His hair fell in gleaming waves to his shoulders, and the limning of scruff on his jaw looked rugged rather than sloppy. He was dressed similarly to his father, in a black doublet, black shirt, and black breeches, but his crown was a simple golden band across his brow, ruby-studded, and his cloak was crimson and bronze. He shot a lazy grin to the gathered court as he followed August down to the altar and slumped into a similar posture.
The King’s expression was hidden, his face lowered to his clasped hands, but Lore could see his shoulders stiffen.
Bastian shifted and pushed his hair from his face, artful in the way he made a calculated move look utterly nonchalant. Too handsome by half, and he knew it.
As if he could hear her thoughts, the Sun Prince glanced up, catching her eye. A grin curved his mouth.
Lore smiled back. Next to her, Gabe rolled his eyes.
Now that the royals were kneeling, the other courtiers did the same, smoothly going to their knees on the tufted pillows that stretched before the pews. Gabe sank with easy grace, head bowing forward.
It didn’t go so smoothly for Lore, who had to adjust the bend of her legs at least twice to keep her skirt from pulling down her neckline. She didn’t curse, though. Small improvements.
When everyone was kneeling appropriately, Anton raised his hands at the front of the sanctuary. The light through the window made the scars on his face look fresh. “Apollius, Lord of Light and Life, we greet You with the dawn, as we do at the first of every seven days.”
“We greet You and ask Your favor on the days ahead,” the gathered courtiers murmured. Lore’s tongue stumbled to keep up. She shot a sharp look at Gabriel—he could’ve told her there was audience participation here.
He gave a tiny shrug.
Up front, the one-handed Presque Mort swung the thurible to the rhythm of Anton’s voice. Gray smoke swirled around her feet, drifted over the floor to tangle around skirts and heeled boots, twining in the rays of August’s crown. The braziers added more smoke, making the sanctuary seem wreathed in heavy fog.
“We ask Your favor and beg Your protection from the dark,” Anton continued. “We ask that You shine the light from Your Shining Realm upon us, where You wait in glory.”
Lore’s lips twisted. The Shining Realm was the Church’s concession to death, the place where they thought Apollius was waiting, where He’d gone when He disappeared. If you were pious and followed the Tracts, you’d meet Him there after death. Lore could think of few things that sounded more boring.
“We beg Your protection and pledge our loyalty,” the nobles answered. “We seek the light of the place where Your undying body resides.”
The incense smoke reached them, heady and thick. Lore fought not to sneeze.
Anton lowered his hands, then his head, bowing with his chin toward the golden-rayed heart on his chest. A ripple as the gathered courtiers did the same. August and Bastian bowed, too, but the positions of the court before them and the Priest Exalted behind made it look almost like they were all bowing to the Arceneaux family.
She felt eyes on her. Anton, peering across the bowed heads to her own, with something unreadable in his expression.
Lore ducked her chin.
“We pledge our loyalty,” Anton said, “and tolerate no other sovereignty but Yours. We acknowledge none others as gods, and denounce those who’d claim it.”
