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“Did you learn anything?” August asked, sitting back in his throne. “Did he let anything slip?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Lore said smoothly. “He took us to the docks, to a boxing ring. He lost.”
“A disappointment in every way,” August muttered.
“People rise to the heights that are expected of them,” Anton said. “And you have never made a secret of how little you think of your son.”
The King stared at the Priest Exalted, nearly identical stern expressions on their faces, the same muscle feathering in two jaws. Neither of them moved, but violence hung close in the vast room, as if Lore and Gabe had entered in the middle of an argument only stopped by formality.
Lore shifted back and forth on her feet.
Anton turned to her, dismissing his brother. “And did Bastian do anything… strange?”
Lore managed to wrestle her surprised expression into something that might pass for confused, even as the memory of trying to channel Mortem and failing raced to the forefront of her mind. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
The Priest Exalted sighed. “In the boxing ring,” he said slowly, “did he do anything that seemed odd to you?”
“No,” Lore said, shaking her head. “He just got thrashed.”
A shadow passed over August’s face. He glanced at his brother, but the Priest Exalted didn’t match the look. He just nodded thoughtfully.
Silence fell.
“You’re doing well,” Anton said after a length of uncomfortable quiet. “You’ve managed to work your way into Bastian’s circle, which is exactly what we asked you to do.” He slid a glance toward the throne. “We are confident that we will see the necessary results in time.”
Next to her, Gabe was still and silent, his face pale, his mouth a flat line. The only sign that the praise discomfited him was a slight tremble in his hand, and he quelled it by pressing his candle-inked palm flat against his leg.
Their tableau was interrupted by the throne room doors slamming open. Malcolm rushed in, breathing ragged, dark eyes wide, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Leak,” he gasped, hands on his knees. “Mortem leak. Southeast Ward. A big one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mortem is invisible to all but those who can channel it—those who have come close enough to death to harness its power. No one else can see its threat until it is atop them, and that is why we cannot simply pray and hope it goes away.
—Phillipe Deschain, Auverrani scientist, presenting notes to the Church, 1 AGF (just before Apollius’s disappearance)
I’m coming.”
“You’re not.”
There’d been a moment of frozen silence after Malcolm ran into the throne room, but it’d been just that. A moment, a heartbeat, a split second of change when the atmosphere turned from familial dispute to clinical action. Anton had strode from the room, moving as fast as he could without running. Malcolm, still gulping lungfuls of air, followed behind. August stood from his throne and yelled for guards, giving instructions on closing down the Citadel, not letting anyone in or out of the walls, locking everything that could be locked. Lore thought about telling him that a locked door meant nothing to raw Mortem—it’d seep through the cracks in the stone, the wood and iron, death wasn’t something you could hide from—but before she could, she saw Gabe turning on his heel to follow Anton and Malcolm, and hurrying after him seemed more important than telling off August.
So now she scampered down the halls, his too-long stride forcing her to jog. “I can help.”
“Or you could die.” Gabe shook his head once, sharp. “Not odds I’m keen on playing.”
“This is the first true Mortem leak in… in… I don’t know, exactly, but a long damn time, and you need me, Gabe.”
His teeth ground in his jaw. He said nothing, just kept moving ahead at that punishing pace.
Anton and Malcolm were a few feet ahead of them, too focused on making their way to the Church to hear their hissed exchange. Just as well, since Lore couldn’t be sure they’d side with her—her plan was simply to follow along behind the Presque Mort like a shadow and hope they didn’t notice until it was too late.
“And the odds of dying aren’t only mine,” she whisper-yelled at Gabe’s back. Bloodcoats ran down the halls; distantly, she heard surprised cries as courtiers were startled by their flight. “The Presque Mort may not be able to channel it all.”
Real leaks—not just the little wisps of Mortem that sometimes escaped into the stone garden when the well was opened, but leaks, waves of power seeping out of the catacombs—were exceedingly rare. Not counting the first few years after the Godsfall, when magic had flowed from the Buried Goddess’s tomb like opened floodgates, there’d only been three Mortem leaks on record. All of them had claimed significant casualties. All of them had made it beyond the borders of Dellaire before they petered out, the Presque Mort unable to channel it all safely into stone flowers and trees.
Gabe ignored her. The door that led to the front gardens and the bulk of the Church and South Sanctuary loomed ahead, all gilt and garnet in afternoon light. Bloodcoats stood on either side, ready to close and lock it as soon as the Presque Mort had left the building.
