AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER ONE
Everything is everything. All powers move together and come from the same source.
—A prophecy of Elan Adabbo, Kadmaran
monk. Deemed unnecessary for
cataloging when sent for consideration
to the Priest Exalted.
There were many things Lore didn’t feel like doing today. Getting up early. Choking down breakfast. Her head felt like it was inhabited by a thousand tiny men with hammers, courtesy of the wine she’d downed before bed to make sure she didn’t dream. The combination of ache and dry, sour mouth made even the most delicate pastries taste like something from a refuse pile. Getting dressed also wasn’t high up on her list of things she wanted to do, and she’d let Juliette, her lady’s maid, stuff her into a pale-peach gown that really did nothing for her coloring just because she didn’t have the energy to fight about it. That was typical for her, these days. Not having the energy to fight about things.
But out of all that, entering the catacombs was still number one on her list of things she absolutely, positively did not want to do.
“Are you ready?” Bastian stared into the newly opened well, his dark brows slashed low over his eyes. The gleam of the rising sun made them a lighter brown, rich and whiskey-colored. A slight golden phosphorescence swirled around his fingers, light gathered from the air, faint enough that it might be imagined.
Lore knew it wasn’t.
The Presque Mort ringing the well couldn’t see the Spiritum, since they couldn’t channel it. Still, they eyed the Sainted King with a layering of trepidation and awe that didn’t mix quite right.
For all that he was the herald of their god’s return, in power if not in flesh, the Presque Mort still didn’t seem to care much for Bastian Arceneaux.
“No,” Lore answered, even though she knew it wouldn’t make a difference. No, she wasn’t ready to go back down into the dark. No, she wasn’t ready to try to lay all those corpses to rest, the victims of the Mortem that Anton had pulled out of her and sent to kill entire villages overnight.
But they were her victims. Her responsibility.
And even as she told herself that the very last thing she wanted to do was channel Mortem, her fingers still itched for it.
Bastian glanced at her as if he’d heard the thought. Both of them. But when he turned away from the well and reached up to cup her cheek, he only addressed the first. “It wasn’t your fault, Lore,” he murmured, an endless repetition he’d kept up for the three weeks since his father had died. His coronation wasn’t until the day after tomorrow, but he held himself like a King already. “It was Anton, not you.”
But Anton wouldn’t have been able to do it without her. Lore’s ability to channel the magic leaking from the body of the Buried Goddess, interred beneath the Citadel, had made all his plans possible. Power he’d waited for, watching her grow up, watching her inch closer and closer to a destiny she couldn’t escape before bringing her here and snaring Bastian, too.
Her fault. All of it.
But Lore didn’t argue. This wasn’t something that could be left undone.
He gave her a worried look, lips drawn to a line. “You don’t have to do this. I can probably figure out a way—”
“No.” She shook her head. “No. I’m here. I’m doing it.”
Bastian searched her face, his hand still on her cheek. He touched her so casually, heedless of whoever might be watching. Lore was still getting used to that. She was so accustomed to being something secret.
Finally, he nodded.
As if waiting for the signal, the Presque Mort who’d volunteered to accompany them stepped forward. Only one of them had, though this trip underground would have official Priest Exalted dispensation. The remainders of the holy order still weren’t keen on entering the catacombs.
The Priest Exalted stood behind the open well, still dressed in black Presque Mort clothes instead of the white robe of his station. The Bleeding God’s Heart pendant hung around his neck, though, winking in the afternoon light.
He met Lore’s eyes for a heartbeat, one blue, the other hidden behind black leather. Then he looked away.
Bastian ignored the Priest Exalted entirely. But when Lore’s gaze tracked from Gabe back to him, he gave her a small, sorrow-tinged smile, as if the other man’s indifference hurt him, too.
“We’ll be fine,” Bastian murmured, low enough for only the two of them to hear. “We’ll be fine.”
The Presque Mort who would be accompanying them into the catacombs was named Jerault, and Lore was fairly certain the only reason he’d volunteered was because he and Bastian used to be lovers and the monk still held a candle for him. Apparently, Gabe was one of the only monks who took that particular vow so seriously. When Bastian laughingly told her of his and Jerault’s history last night over dinner, she’d felt the mortifying sting of tears, though she’d hidden it in her wine.
Jerault was handsome, maybe a year younger than Lore, with golden hair and gray eyes that narrowed slightly with the observance of how close the King and his deathwitch stood. When Bastian turned to the well, Jerault let out something close to a longing sigh.
