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At first, Lore thought of Lereal, of the god-power lurking in Alie’s head, in her fingers. But there was another facet to her identity, something Lore had forgotten. Something that might save her.
Alie was August’s daughter. An Arceneaux.
Surely, surely, Bastian wouldn’t let Apollius kill her.
The doors to the throne room were open. More courtiers lined the iron-barred floor, gathered near the walls, silent and staring and brewing in their hate. On the throne, the Sainted King, his knees thrown wide to take up all the space, his elbow on the arm, cheek propped against his fist. His sun-rayed crown rose over his head, the garnets sparking in the light through the solarium window.
The pose was all Bastian. But the eyes were all Apollius.
The bloodcoats deposited Lore and Alie in the center of the room, one of the iron bars crossing the floor snaking beneath their feet. Lore’s shackles clanked. Alie’s fingers worked back and forth, as if she might call the wind again, before thinking better of it.
Apollius shifted on the throne, steepling Bastian’s fingers together, looking down at them like one would look at children who needed correcting. His mouth twisted to the side, and Lore remembered that mouth, its heat, the things it would say. She squeezed her eyes shut.
When Apollius finally spoke, it wasn’t to her. “I’m glad to find you safe,” he murmured, the words directed to Alie. “Sister.”
A collective intake of breath in the throne room, so deep and so simultaneous that Lore was surprised there was air left afterward.
“I was so worried when you were kidnapped by the Priest Exalted and head librarian,” Apollius continued, his voice firm, spinning the story they would hold as truth. “They would have succeeded, had we not moved so quickly. An attempt was made by my betrothed to slow me down, but thank all the gods, it was unsuccessful.” His eyes, far more gold than brown, turned to Lore, a wicked smile curling the edge of His lip. “The next time she tries such a thing, she should be more… submissive.”
More whispers from the court, shocked. The way the Sainted King spoke sounded like He planned to keep his poison Queen alive, keep her around, surely that couldn’t be right? Not after she’d killed Amelia Demonde in a fit of jealousy? Not after she may have planted an explosive in that ship?
But Lore wasn’t thinking about that. She was thinking about that word, submissive, what it meant. He’d seen, He’d torn through Bastian’s memories and relived their last night together, something that was supposed to be only theirs. She’d known He would, that He would be strong enough to break through Bastian’s defenses eventually. Still, it made her furious. Made her want to weep.
She fought through that, focusing instead on what it meant that He was telling lies for Alie, telling the court she was an Arceneaux. That meant He wouldn’t kill her, right?
Or it meant that Apollius was so far ahead in this game that it was pointless to try keeping up.
Apollius gave her a slow, heated look, as if wanting Lore to break, wanting her to cry. When it became clear she wouldn’t, He turned back to Alie. “My father treated your mother horribly. For that, I am sorry. But I wish to raise you to your proper place, Alienor. To give you all that should’ve been yours as a member of the Arceneaux family, one of Apollius’s chosen.” A smirk flickered at His mouth. “To that end, I have brokered a betrothal for you. A much better one than you had previously, I think we will both agree.”
“I don’t want a betrothal,” Alie said. “I don’t want to be an Arceneaux.”
“An argument I’ve heard before,” Apollius murmured, eyes flashing. “You’ll get used to it.” He raised His hand and His voice, addressing the room rather than just the two of them. “Alienor Arceneaux, may I present your betrothed—Jax Aronicus, Emperor of Kirythea.”
Silence. The Court of the Citadel held its breath.
A figure stepped up onto the dais with Bastian. A figure it took Lore a minute to place, here in the sunny throne room, when the last time she’d seen him had been in the shadows of the holding cells.
Caius.
Caius was Jax.
Pieces snapped together like setting bone. Why the Kirytheans had been so content to languish in prison. Why Bastian—Apollius—had never introduced them to Gabe, for fear he might recognize the man who had killed his father. Why the Empire hadn’t taken the arrest of their diplomats as an act of war. All a plan, from the beginning.
Which meant Apollius had been taking over Bastian for longer than Lore knew. Longer than he knew to tell her, in those snatches of lucidity, when he was still himself. Bastian couldn’t keep things from Apollius, but the god kept plenty from him.
An entire conspiracy had spun out without Bastian knowing. A start to the world Apollius wanted.
A globe-spanning Holy Kingdom, starting here.
Alie stared at the Emperor, openmouthed. “No,” she whispered, hoarse. Then, louder. “No, I will not.”
Apollius sat back in his throne. “Jax and I have been discussing peace.” His voice reached every ear in the room, dangling that word above them like a carrot on a proverbial stick. “Our conclusion has been that it makes the most sense to unite. To become one ruling kingdom, bringing the entire continent beneath one crown. My crown.”
First the continent, then the world. How had He gotten the Kirytheans to turn over their Empire?
Or had this been the point of the Empire all along? Making a kingdom for a god they knew would return?
Jax was looking at Alie, his face unreadable. But at Apollius’s pronouncement, he turned, inclined his head deeply toward the throne. Far more deeply than one royal to another.
