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“She just started.” Alie sighed. “And she has her reasons.”
“The high being first among them, I assume,” Bastian said drily.
“It’s not that. Or not just that, anyway.” Alie shook her head. “She’s sick. It’s not hugely aggressive, the physicians say, but enough that her life expectancy is… lessened. Cecelia started taking the belladonna in the hope it would add some years.” She rubbed at her forehead. “Now, she certainly shouldn’t be taking as much as she did the night of your masquerade, Bastian, but she’s scared.”
Angry heat raised color in Lore’s cheeks; she glanced away so none of them would see. Regardless of Cecelia’s reasons, it was still true that her noble privilege kept her from facing the same consequences as someone outside the Citadel. Lore had known more than one person who’d taken poison because of illness, needing it to extend their lives so they could take care of loved ones. There were some deathdealers who only served such clients—Val and Mari did their running for free, charging the other deathdealers more to make up for it.
But when those clients were caught, no one cared about their reasons. It was the Burnt Isles for them all.
And apparently, the poison they paid so dearly for went into noble cups instead.
The hard shine in Gabe’s eye said he followed Lore’s thoughts. He dropped his mallet and crossed his arms. “There’s many people outside the Citadel who are scared for the same reason,” he said. “But they certainly can’t walk around with a flask of belladonna tea.”
“I’m not saying it’s right,” Alie said softly. “How she gets it certainly isn’t right. But I understand why she takes it. I understand being afraid of death, wanting to do whatever you can to make sure it doesn’t find you before you’re ready.”
Bastian said nothing, leaning on his mallet, a thoughtful crease to his brow.
“I should go, too,” Alie said after a moment. She pointed at Lore as she walked backward, toward the Citadel. “You promised to practice, don’t forget! I’ll see you at tea, if not before!”
“See you then.” Lore waved and managed a smile.
Then it was her, and Gabe, and Bastian, all alone on the quiet green. Silence settled between them like mortar between bricks, more impossible to break the longer they left it.
They didn’t have to. A servant walked timidly up to them, holding an envelope between thin white fingers. His eyes flicked nervously to Bastian, then away, as if deliberating whether he could complete his given task with the Sun Prince around. He decided he could, and handed the envelope to Lore, apparently the least intimidating of the three of them, and hurriedly walked away.
Remaut, the envelope said. In thick calligraphy, this time, not Alie’s swirling lettering.
She looked up at Gabe, shook the envelope between two fingers. “Three guesses.”
“I only need one,” Bastian said brightly.
Gabe ignored him as he took the envelope, tore it open. His one eye scanned the paper quickly before darting to Lore. “August. In the throne room, at our earliest convenience.”
“Any chance our earliest convenience can be after a nap?”
“In my experience with my father, earliest convenience means ‘get your ass here as soon as possible.’” Bastian flipped the mallet over his shoulder and ambled away. “Have a good time, can’t wait to hear all about it!”
The bloodcoats at the throne room’s golden double doors pushed them inward—more were present than there had been previously, to make sure no one walked in on this conversation. Lore and Gabriel strode in to stand before the Sainted King and hoped he didn’t ask too many hard questions.
August looked as ill rested as they did. His customary dark clothes, while still fine, were rumpled, as if he’d worn them all night. His dark eyes were glassy, his face haggard, and he didn’t wear his crown. He sat forward on the iron throne, the bars on the floor crashing up against its base like waves to a ship’s hull, elbows on his knees and hands clasped before his mouth. He didn’t look up when they came in.
Next to the throne, Anton stood, white robes similarly rumpled. The Priest Exalted inclined his head as Gabe and Lore approached the throne. Tired lines etched around his unscarred eye.
Neither Arceneaux brother looked like they’d slept much. It made unease drift ghostly fingers over the back of Lore’s neck.
“You accompanied my son out of the walls the other night.” August looked up, sighed. “I’m impressed. You managed to weasel your way into Bastian’s good graces with ruthless efficiency.”
The side of Anton’s mouth twitched up, a quick, pleased smile that he immediately dropped.
Beside her, Gabe stood rock-still, tension coiling him into a monk-shaped knot. She stood on the side of his missing eye, so she couldn’t see where he was looking, but his chin kept slightly angling in Anton’s direction.
Lore swallowed.
Bastian had it wrong. Gabe’s loyalty wasn’t really to the Church, or to Apollius. It was to Anton, the man who’d stepped in when his father died, the man who’d given him a purpose and a means to earn back his honor. Who’d taken the worst moment of Gabe’s life and made it seem like a blessing.
And Lore was asking him to lie.
She thought of that connection she felt to him, the instant familiarity that made it seem as if they’d known each other far longer than they had. He’d given no indication that he felt the same thing, but gods dead and dying, she hoped he did, and hoped it was enough for him to follow her lead.
