It hurt more than it should, to know that she’d been working for Anton from the beginning, that all her overtures of companionship had an ulterior motive. Unfair of Lore to judge for that, all things considered, but the hurt remained as she tore her eyes from the other woman. Briefly, she wondered if Alie was in on it, too, if all the tentative friendships she’d made here were predicated on eventual betrayal, an even shakier foundation than she’d assumed.
Lore made herself stop thinking of that. She didn’t have the time or the energy for it now.
August’s throne wasn’t helping the crowding issue. It wasn’t the huge one from downstairs—instead, a travel throne stood on a wooden dais at the front end of the atrium, wrought in woven strands of gold and silver. At the top, a sun and moon hovered over each other, held up by threads of precious metals so thin they were nearly invisible.
The Sainted King himself looked oddly stoic for a party. Stoic, and even worse than the last time Lore had seen him—his face gaunt, his eyes set back in darkened hollows, the skin beneath them bruised. He watched Gabe escort Lore inside but didn’t acknowledge them, his face drawn in thought.
He appeared to be the only major player here so far. There were no Presque Mort, no Anton, no Bellegarde, though Alie was among the spinning dancers. This seemed like any other party, and the normalcy made Lore’s dread go from a slink through her middle to a slow spiral in her chest.
Lore looked for Bastian, hoping he was here even if his captors weren’t. She didn’t see him. Nerves made her hand twitch—Gabe tightened his elbow around it, as good as a vise.
“You make a good jailer,” she murmured from the side of her mouth.
Something in him collapsed, just by a fraction, the steel in his frame buckling. “Lore, please—”
“Finally!”
On the floor, Alie broke away from her dance partner—Brigitte, who tipped Lore a wave before heading toward the wine table—and nearly ran to them, grinning widely. “I was wondering when you’d get here! The dancing is almost over!”
Even with the way Anton’s reveals had twisted everything, having Alie close still felt like a comfort. “I thought it didn’t start until eight?” Lore asked.
“The dinner starts at eight,” Alie corrected. “Or a bit after, I guess—I think the idea is to time it with the point of total eclipse.”
The reminder of totality—of what August planned to do when the moon covered the sun and dipped the world in darkness—made the dread in Lore’s gut go from a slow spiral to a sharp knot.
Alie fanned herself with her hand, drying the glowy sheen of sweat on her brow. “Why August is so adamant about making his select few guests eat in the dark, I have no idea.”
A select few guests. So those August thought were on his side, who either wouldn’t interfere with the ritual or, like Bellegarde, planned to betray their King and stop it.
Lore wasn’t sure which faction unsettled her more, really.
The band struck up again, this time at a slower pace—a waltz. “The last dance of the night.” Alie swallowed, then firmed her chin and looked up at Gabe, who’d been silent since she approached. “Would you dance with me, Gabe?”
He flinched; Lore felt it, her hand still imprisoned in the crook of his arm. “I’m afraid I…”
“He’d love to,” came a voice from behind them, low and familiar.
Bastian, thank the gods.
The Sun Prince looked none the worse for wear, other than a clinging tiredness around his golden-brown eyes. His clothing was dark and unadorned, a match for Lore’s gown, his only ornament the golden circlet on his head, this one devoid of garnets. He wore a smile, but his face was pale beneath it. The smile went bladed as he clapped a hand on Gabe’s shoulder, a little too hard to be companionable. “Duke Remaut is never one to leave ladies waiting.”
Something dark slithered over Gabe’s face, but he nodded. “I’d love to, Alie.”
It sounded genuine, even. Lore thought it probably was, despite everything.
His elbow unbent; her hand was free. Bastian took it immediately, his callused fingers closing around hers like a door against a cold night.
Alie pulled Gabe toward the dance floor; he looked back over his shoulder, brows drawn low over one blue eye, one leather patch. “Careful,” he murmured.
Neither Bastian nor Lore responded. Gabe melted into the crowd after Alie.
The music struck, and Bastian turned her into the dance, leading as effortlessly as he had the night of his masquerade. The smile had disappeared from his face the moment he no longer had to hold it for Alie’s benefit. “We have to run.”
She’d expected it. What she hadn’t expected was the swoop it put into her middle, the feeling of vertigo that the thought of running away brought her. Leaving would be as futile as trying to catch the ocean in your hands. Not just physically, but spiritually, like something anchored her here.
“We can’t,” she murmured. “As much as I don’t want to trust him, Anton is our only—”
“You don’t understand, Lore.” There was something desperate in Bastian’s tone, something that told her he felt the same pull to this night as she did and was desperately fighting against it. “It happened again. Another village.”
Only Bastian’s hand on her waist kept her from tripping over her hem. Lore’s fingers went cold. “When?”
“Last night.” He kept her close, spoke in her ear—to anyone watching, they’d look two minutes away from sneaking off to a secluded corner, but their faces were twin masks of fear. “A few of the Presque Mort went to collect the bodies—Anton put Malcolm in charge.”
Another village. She thought of her uncomfortable sleep, dark dreams she could only recall fragments of.
Lore shook her head, banishing the half-formed speculations. “Where is Anton, then?”
“I don’t know.” Bastian led her through a spin. “Preparing to stop August, I guess. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let my uncle be the only thing that stands between you and death. I can get you money. Food. Get you on a ship—”
“I can’t leave Dellaire. Mortem won’t let me.”
“Damn this.” He hissed it through his teeth, his grip on her waist so tight it almost hurt. “Damn this. Fine. I can find a place for you in the city—”
“Bastian.” She shook her head again, her nose grazing his neck. They didn’t have to stand this close, but it was a comfort, and neither of them moved away. “They’d just find me. You know that.”
Her road ended here, in the Citadel. Either dead from August’s ritual, or kept in a gilded cage, a tool to aid in controlling a mad and dying King. Lore knew it. Gabe knew it. Bastian did, too. Of the three of them, he was the most likely to try to change the unchangeable, the one most predisposed to thinking he could shift the world to suit him. But even Bastian had to realize it was pointless this time. Lore was caught.
But just because she was caught didn’t have to mean all of them were.
“I can’t leave,” Lore repeated, a murmur against his ear. “But you can.”
For the first time, Bastian stuttered in their dance; other courtiers swirled around them as if she and the Sun Prince were rocks in a stream, but he and Lore just stood still, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist, his eyes boring down into hers.