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Outside the window, the cloud cover began to break. Slow light seeped around Lore’s back, the rose window behind her catching the approach of the sun.
Some soft murmurs began in the crowd, but Gabe didn’t look up from the Compendium. His jaw tightened with every word from Bastian’s mouth. “And do you swear to uphold these duties as Apollius’s chosen monarch?”
“I do.” For the first time since he’d appeared on the platform, Bastian looked at Lore. There was a determination in his face that reminded her of the night of the eclipse, when he’d jumped through burning roses with blood on his brow.
“Read from the section I marked,” he said to Gabe, his eyes still fixed on Lore. “From the stricken Tracts.”
A soft gasp made its way around the room.
Gabe stared daggers at his King. When he spoke, it was breathing-low, pitched so only those on the platform could hear. “Are you sure about this?”
That made Bastian’s eyes briefly flicker his direction. “Are you questioning me?”
“You’re going to get yourself assassinated,” Gabe hissed. “Maybe take a break between blasphemies.”
A small, almost-cruel smile bent Bastian’s mouth. “Are you worried about me, Remaut?”
The grind of Gabe’s teeth was nearly audible. He flipped through the Compendium again, to the very back, this time. The Church library held only a few Compendiums with a record of stricken Tracts; they were illegal for anyone else to own. Lore wondered what Malcolm’s reaction had been when he was asked to retrieve one for the coronation.
“Life and death are inextricable from each other,” Gabe read, his voice echoing through the huge room. “Through darkness, light is brightened. Through light, shadows deepen. One may not exist without the other. They must rise together, equals once again, and never be parted.”
Bastian watched Lore as Gabe’s voice rang through the room. She didn’t know how to arrange her face, how to look casual.
Protection, that’s what this was. Declaring to everyone that her power was just as holy as his own. All her insides twisted, and heat pricked at her eyes, gratitude and embarrassment and fear streams running to a single river.
Gabe shut the Compendium. The sound seemed to echo as much as his voice had. “If you will abide by these strictures,” he said, as if the interlude with the stricken Tract hadn’t happened at all, “then you are the Sainted King of Auverraine, chosen by our god. Rule in His stead.”
Bastian knelt; the clergyman placed the sun-rayed crown on his head. The thing had to be heavy, but he stood with ease.
And the sun fully broke through the clouds.
It wasn’t a slow reveal, a natural peeling away of gloom; this was a brilliant streak of light through every window in the South Sanctuary, slicing through the shadows like a sword point. The rose window at the back of the platform illuminated in a sudden blaze, spotlighting Bastian and his crown in a flood of color.
He stood there a moment, gazing out at the gathered citizens, his face serene. Then he turned and offered out his hand to Lore.
And even though she wanted to take it, wanted to be part of this light-filled moment, she couldn’t quite bring herself to. She’d darken this, somehow. She always did.
“Please,” Bastian murmured, his eyes spearing into hers, the color of molten gold.
Gabe stiffened.
Slowly, Lore rose from her chair. She grasped Bastian’s warm, callused hand, let him lace his fingers through hers.
They stood there, light flowing around them, and after a heartbeat, the crowd began to cheer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
True power whispers rather than shouts.
—Malfouran proverb
I understand that a coronation ball is tradition,” Lore said. “But I want to go on record as saying this is not a good idea.” Despite the words, Lore twisted to look at herself in the full-length mirror, making her skirt swish around her legs. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s a bad one.”
“What makes you say that?” Bastian lounged on one of the plush upholstered chairs in the corner of her room, one leg slung over the rose-colored velvet arm. He twisted his finger in the air. “Turn around again, we need to make sure the fit is right.”
Lore scowled as she twirled, a study of contrasts. “The fact that you had stricken Tracts read in the Church, for one. Gabe was right, you’re only magnifying the target on your back with that. The older nobles are mad enough at you already.”
“Gabe and right in the same sentence, coming from your mouth. Never thought I’d hear that again.”
