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Two weeks. The timeline softened a tension in Lore she hadn’t realized was there. Two weeks meant after August’s death, meant she hadn’t been fooled once again, Bastian colluding with Kirythea under her nose. At least she hadn’t walked right into yet another trap.
“Almost two weeks exactly.” Bastian sat in a chair by one of the ferns, running a hand down his face. He’d been so calm as he greeted the Kirytheans, so collected as he made his show of power to the gathered farmers—the people handpicked to see this happen, and even now Lore saw the brilliance in making commoners the first to know. A way to build quiet solidarity, show them that he was a King focused on everyone in Auverraine, not just his court.
But now Bastian looked exhausted. Exhausted and a bit shocked, as if he couldn’t really believe what he’d done. “Kirythea was already lurking around the border,” he continued, looking at his muddled reflection in the marble floor. “With armies. The news reached me the day after August died.”
“And you didn’t think that was information you should share?” Gabe’s voice was quiet, but his one blue eye blazed like the heart of a flame. He stood against the wall near the door, as far away from Bastian as he could get, but the space between them crackled like a thunderstorm sky.
“Not when I knew it was futile.” Bastian met Gabe’s stare, finally. “There wasn’t time to fight with you, Gabriel. Not when we both know your answer would be bloodshed.”
Gabe said nothing, but his sneer was a gleam of teeth.
“I couldn’t just ignore them and wait for whatever plans they were making to be sprung on us,” Bastian said. “It was either meet them in combat, or invite them here. We aren’t ready for all-out war.”
Alie sneered, the harsh expression sitting oddly on her features. “But we’re ready to play host to our greatest enemies?”
“No. We’re ready to show them how powerful we are.” Bastian leaned back, jaw set. “The Sainted King is the leader of the Auverrani military. I know what I’m doing. This is our best shot at trying to broker some kind of peace.”
“Maybe we don’t want peace,” Gabe growled.
“We certainly don’t want war,” Bastian countered. “At least not right now. They’d flatten us, Gabe. You know it.”
Alie’s eyes flickered toward Gabe, standing by the door. Her mouth opened, then closed again on silence. She rubbed at her temples like a headache was knocking at her skull.
“It’s all well and good to ask for trust.” Deferred anger bubbled in Lore’s chest, though she wasn’t exactly sure what it was for. Bastian’s foolhardiness, yes, but also for how he’d all but ordered her to go to the farmlands today, and how quickly she’d capitulated. It had been the right decision, in the end, but she still resented how it’d been made. Something in her resisted saying no to him. That unsettled her.
“If you want a council, you have to treat us like one,” she continued. “You can’t make all the decisions on your own, Bastian. We all know that doesn’t work.”
She didn’t really mean for it to be a barb, a reminder of his father. But the wounded look that flashed across his face said it was, anyway.
Bastian leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees. His throat ticked as he swallowed, hard, shifting his eyes between her and Gabe. For a moment, he looked like someone on the edge of confession, as if the space between his deathwitch and his Priest Exalted was the only safe place to let down his guard.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But give me this one.”
And what could they do now? Kick the Kirytheans out, after they’d been welcomed into the Citadel, albeit in secrecy? It was fine to talk about what Bastian should have done, but he hadn’t, and now they had to live with it.
Alie sighed. The tension bled out of her shoulders, but not her frame—her fists were still tight. “What’s the plan from here?”
“To continue showing our strength.” Bastian took the golden circlet from his head and put it on the table beside him with a musical clang. It left an indention in his forehead; he rubbed at it absently. “Maxon, Caius, and their entourage will be here for a month. For that month, Lore and I will continue to use our power, make it abundantly clear that we are not to be toyed with. There’s a reason I arranged for them to arrive right as we healed the fields. That kind of magic can’t be taken lightly.”
Lore shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Healing the fields with Bastian had been alarmingly vulnerable, achingly tender. Using it as a show of strength seemed… wrong, somehow.
But it wasn’t a bad plan. She could admit that much. Even if it felt like Bastian was taking something sacred and fashioning it into a weapon.
That’s what she worked best as, wasn’t it?
“Maxon and Caius.” Malcolm shook his head. “You sound quite chummy already. Who are they, anyway? Or did you just invite whoever happened to be lurking at the border?”
“Originally, I invited Emperor Jax himself—”
“Bleeding God,” Alie muttered.
“—but he couldn’t make the trip, and suggested Maxon in his stead.” Bastian rubbed at the mark the circlet left on his forehead again. “He’s a cousin or something. It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that he will send word back to Jax of everything he sees here, and what he sees will be a country too powerful to invade.”
“As long as they don’t talk to the wrong courtiers,” Gabe said darkly. “As long as they don’t see how many of them are angry with you. As long as they aren’t smart enough to exploit it.”
“I’ve gone easy on them,” Bastian replied. “I can change that at any time. I send one marchioness the way of Anton, and they’ll all fall in line.”
Gabe’s shoulders tightened. They stared at each other, King and Priest, a wave at the edge of breaking.
