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“Lore.” There were so many ways he said her name. Teasing, imploring, longing. But this was imperious. Almost like the beginning of an order.
That made her bristle. But there was no real time or energy to fight for the sake of fighting. Who she’d been before would have done it, but she wasn’t that person now.
She didn’t really know who she was now.
So Lore nodded.
Bastian pulled the dress away from her, lip curling. “But you aren’t wearing this.” He stepped around her to the disaster she’d made of the closet. “I’ll choose your gown, since you’ve demonstrated time and again your taste runs toward questionable, and call up Juliette to do something about your hair.”
An hour and many muttered curses from Juliette later, they were on the road.
When August was the Sainted King, he was rarely seen outside the Citadel. Business that needed attending beyond the walls was delegated to other nobles or bloodcoats, with precious little oversight of either. On the rare occasions that August went out among the rabble, it was in a fully covered carriage guarded by a phalanx of guards. Most citizens of Dellaire didn’t know what their former King had looked like beyond the oil paintings in the South Sanctuary, which Lore thought were a bit more generous than they should be.
In this, as in all things, Bastian was different. He often rode out to view the many construction projects he’d begun to improve Dellaire, and never hid in a carriage to do so. His coronation tomorrow was open to everyone, commoner and noble alike, and held in the South Sanctuary rather than the North. The captain of the guard—Curly Mustache, her old nemesis who’d aided in her capture after raising Horse, and whose name she’d never bothered to learn—was nearly apoplectic at the perceived security risk. But Bastian was adamant that the citizens of Auverraine should know their King.
And no one could argue that it wasn’t a good idea, that Auverraine wouldn’t benefit from building more trust between King and subject. News had spread quickly that there was a new Arceneaux on the throne, and reports from the Burnt Isles said that there were more sightings of Kirythean warships on open waters than usual. Now was decidedly not the time for upheaval within their borders, as the signs of imminent war increased without.
Lore hadn’t even known there was a complete military outpost on the Isles until recently. Apparently, the burned-out archipelago was useful for more than just a prison.
The open carriage lurched over the cobblestones, and Lore grabbed the side with a soft curse. Mortem was a slow spiral of darkness in her middle, tempered with the gold of Spiritum. It was calming, to feel them there, but her nerves were still on a fast trigger.
“Carriages make me nauseous, too,” Alie murmured. She looked straight ahead with the concentration of someone sighting in a gunshot. “I have to keep my eyes on the road ahead or I feel like my whole stomach is going to come out my mouth.”
“You didn’t have to come,” Lore said as they hit a pothole. The streets were brittle from the amount of Mortem the Presque Mort had channeled into the rock, back when leaks were more common. Fixing them was one more item on Bastian’s list. “I promise, I’ll be fine. We can have them take you back—”
“We’re already almost out of the city.” Alie tossed Lore a quick smile, then hurriedly looked forward again. “And I didn’t have anything else to do. Bastian made me an adviser; I thought it was best to come along. He stays in need of advising.”
Another lurch made Lore clutch the side of the carriage harder. “True.”
The edge of the city drew nearer. Up ahead, on a black charger brushed to high sheen, Bastian halted, turned to look at Lore. The anxiety churning her stomach was reflected on his face.
Part of her wished he would come back here and ride with them, just in case things went sideways and the magic didn’t let her leave. He’d been confident it wouldn’t be a problem, and she’d tried to borrow some of that confidence, but now she felt it slipping through her fingers, and she couldn’t find a handhold.
Bastian turned on his horse, rode past the border of the city. Moments later, the wheels of the carriage rolled over the boundary line that marked Dellaire’s edge.
Nothing happened.
For the first time in her entire life, she was outside of Dellaire.
Bastian’s horse wheeled around. He grinned, big and bright, and Lore returned it. Mortem and Spiritum thrummed a minor harmony in her marrow, the thing that was supposed to kill her setting her free instead.
The King turned his charger, cantered back to the front of the procession. The Presque Mort fell in around him. Bastian had taken to keeping the monks as bodyguards rather than the bloodcoats. There were only a few of them left—those who’d been with Malcolm on the night of the ritual, who hadn’t been part of Anton’s scheme—and while no one’s loyalty was a guaranteed thing, they were easier to trust than anyone else at this point. Malcolm himself rode closest to the King.
Gabe wasn’t here.
I don’t know that what I did was wrong, he’d said last night, wreathed in fog and lantern glow. The fact that he even presented it with a dusting of doubt was an improvement, she guessed. Stupid of her to want more.
Alie reached over and patted her leg, oblivious to the monumental shift in Lore’s paradigm and mistaking her discomfort as something to do with the pockmarked road. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the bumps will only get worse from here. Nothing outside of Dellaire has gotten much maintenance lately. Not even the high roads.”
The high roads, paths that stretched between countries and connected the continent. Lore had known this was one of them—one that led directly into Kirythea, she thought, though it’d been a while since she spent time with a map—but now, with the newfound realization that Mortem no longer tied her to Dellaire, the knowledge was gilded. “He’ll fix it.”
“Maybe,” Alie said. “Though I’d think creating an easier inroad for Kirythea shouldn’t be a high priority.”
That dimmed Lore’s giddiness, just a bit. Her own life was such a mess, sometimes it was easy to forget about how the rest of the world was, too.
Alie’s chin firmed, dark-green eyes fixed straight ahead. “My father always complained bitterly about the roads. I hope that when the time is right, Bastian uses his money to repave them, specifically.”
Lore gnawed on her lip, unsure whether her friend wanted silence or something comforting. Lord Severin Bellegarde was on house arrest at one of his estates. Alie, who’d been completely in the dark about her father’s affairs, had elected to stay in court rather than accompany him. Good thing, too—Bastian had all but abolished his father’s former advisory board, and Alie had stepped in to fill Bellegarde’s shoes. Lots of shoes, in fact. As far as Lore knew, Bastian’s current council consisted of Alie, Malcolm, and herself, with Gabe representing the Church when necessary. Lore was mostly there by technicality, since gods knew no one should be taking advice from her.
