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Gods, and she used to think she was a good spy. Good enough for poison running, maybe. The court was a completely different game.
Lore still wasn’t sure who’d set that particular trap, though. Not Anton, for all that he’d used the leak to his advantage—shaped the Mortem, made it increase her power so he could use it as a weapon. But he couldn’t have made the leak happen. She didn’t think her mother and the other Night Sisters could have, either. A Mortem leak was power pouring directly from Nyxara’s body, and even the most powerful channelers couldn’t pull magic from the goddess Herself.
Which meant the leak had to be a coincidence, didn’t it? Not a trap at all.
She couldn’t quite convince herself of that.
Alie’s eyes flicked from the ruined farmland to her. She didn’t say anything, and Lore was grateful.
Up ahead, Bastian finally pulled his reins, bringing the black charger to a halt and raising his hand. The Presque Mort around him stopped obediently, the few bloodcoats on the fringes following suit. Behind him, Malcolm nervously patted at his own horse’s neck, murmuring calming nothings in its flicking ears.
Down the road, coming in the opposite direction, a collection of small carriages made their way toward them. The farmers whose fields Lore had channeled all that Mortem into, the ones who’d lost livelihoods because of the leak.
Bastian dismounted. Then he started walking toward Lore and Alie, in the opposite direction of the approaching farmers. Even from this far away, determination blazed on his face, his jaw set and his hair curling from beneath his golden circlet.
The braided magic in Lore’s center pulled tight, like someone had grabbed one end and tugged. It made her gasp, her hands closing to instinctual fists.
The Law of Opposites, making her stronger when he was near. She hadn’t felt it this keenly since the night of the ritual, and part of her wondered if he was doing it on purpose, somehow. Calling to her, pulling her forward.
Bastian came level with the carriage. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. He just held out his hand.
And here was the real reason why he’d wanted her to come today. Lore knew it in a rush, so obvious now that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t caught on before.
The fields needed to be healed. And maybe Bastian could do it on his own, maybe their combined magic in him was enough. She could always refuse. But she knew innately that their power would be stronger if they did it together.
Magic sang down her bones, already coiling under her skin, Spiritum and Mortem both. And though she itched to use them, to let them go, Lore squeezed her fists tighter. Fear and eagerness tugged at her, equal in strength, enough to pull her apart.
“I don’t know if I can,” she murmured, quiet enough for only him to hear.
“I do,” he replied, his outstretched hand unwavering. “I know you can.”
That boundless confidence, affirming and oppressive at once. “No, you don’t. Bastian, I might have saved Jerault, but that is only one good thing. Mortem is death, I can’t use it for—”
“What’s life without death?” He gave her a smile, but it was a softer one than he normally used, one only a few people ever saw. “Try for me, Lore. Please.”
Life and death. Two halves of one whole. Like their scars had been, a sun and a moon, before Anton made them reflections.
Lore put her hand in Bastian’s.
He led her back up the dusty road, the heat of the day wavering visibly over the granite waste of the fields. Mortem and Spiritum twirled in Lore’s middle. From the corner of her eye, she saw the changes in her body, subtle: veins blackening, and a shimmer of gold outlining her skin, some sort of diseased sun. The same thing was happening to Bastian, their clasped hands a nexus of opposites, strengthening each other, life and death and night and day. She could feel the ridges of his scar, perfectly matching up to her own, the souvenirs of the botched eclipse ritual.
In the distance, the carriages holding the farmers’ contingent had finally caught up, the billow of rocky dust in their wake slowly dissipating, resettling on the barren road. There was a low murmur of voices, the coarse sound of horses whipping their tails to chase off flies. Nothing else.
In the distance, Lore thought she could see another dust cloud, as if a second contingent was approaching.
Malcolm’s hands were clasped behind his back, his black Presque Mort clothes dulled by a fine coat of grit. His dark eyes flickered between Bastian and Lore, apprehensive. “Do you know how to do this?”
“I guess we’ll find out.” Lore’s voice was hoarse. “What if I make it worse?”
He raised a brow. “Can’t be much worse.”
“Comforting.” Bastian seemed on edge, now, much more so than before they turned back to the high road. His jaw was a tense line as he watched that encroaching cloud of dust get closer.
“What is that?” Lore rose on her toes to see beyond the carriages.
“Nothing.” Bastian spun sharply, facing the farmers. “Wind.”
The murmurs of the gathered farmers quieted. They were sun-leathered, rough-hewn, and looked at Bastian like they weren’t quite sure he was real.
