And behind him, moving at a pace just slow enough to interrupt the rhythm of the ceremony, was Bastian.
The Sun Prince looked like he’d been up all night—there was a slight reddening of his eyes, and tired lines beneath them—but somehow, he made it look good. His hair fell in gleaming waves to his shoulders, and the limning of scruff on his jaw looked rugged rather than sloppy. He was dressed similarly to his father, in a black doublet, black shirt, and black breeches, but his crown was a simple golden band across his brow, ruby-studded, and his cloak was crimson and bronze. He shot a lazy grin to the gathered court as he followed August down to the altar and slumped into a similar posture.
The King’s expression was hidden, his face lowered to his clasped hands, but Lore could see his shoulders stiffen.
Bastian shifted and pushed his hair from his face, artful in the way he made a calculated move look utterly nonchalant. Too handsome by half, and he knew it.
As if he could hear her thoughts, the Sun Prince glanced up, catching her eye. A grin curved his mouth.
Lore smiled back. Next to her, Gabe rolled his eyes.
Now that the royals were kneeling, the other courtiers did the same, smoothly going to their knees on the tufted pillows that stretched before the pews. Gabe sank with easy grace, head bowing forward.
It didn’t go so smoothly for Lore, who had to adjust the bend of her legs at least twice to keep her skirt from pulling down her neckline. She didn’t curse, though. Small improvements.
When everyone was kneeling appropriately, Anton raised his hands at the front of the sanctuary. The light through the window made the scars on his face look fresh. “Apollius, Lord of Light and Life, we greet You with the dawn, as we do at the first of every seven days.”
“We greet You and ask Your favor on the days ahead,” the gathered courtiers murmured. Lore’s tongue stumbled to keep up. She shot a sharp look at Gabriel—he could’ve told her there was audience participation here.
He gave a tiny shrug.
Up front, the one-handed Presque Mort swung the thurible to the rhythm of Anton’s voice. Gray smoke swirled around her feet, drifted over the floor to tangle around skirts and heeled boots, twining in the rays of August’s crown. The braziers added more smoke, making the sanctuary seem wreathed in heavy fog.
“We ask Your favor and beg Your protection from the dark,” Anton continued. “We ask that You shine the light from Your Shining Realm upon us, where You wait in glory.”
Lore’s lips twisted. The Shining Realm was the Church’s concession to death, the place where they thought Apollius was waiting, where He’d gone when He disappeared. If you were pious and followed the Tracts, you’d meet Him there after death. Lore could think of few things that sounded more boring.
“We beg Your protection and pledge our loyalty,” the nobles answered. “We seek the light of the place where Your undying body resides.”
The incense smoke reached them, heady and thick. Lore fought not to sneeze.
Anton lowered his hands, then his head, bowing with his chin toward the golden-rayed heart on his chest. A ripple as the gathered courtiers did the same. August and Bastian bowed, too, but the positions of the court before them and the Priest Exalted behind made it look almost like they were all bowing to the Arceneaux family.
She felt eyes on her. Anton, peering across the bowed heads to her own, with something unreadable in his expression.
Lore ducked her chin.
“We pledge our loyalty,” Anton said, “and tolerate no other sovereignty but Yours. We acknowledge none others as gods, and denounce those who’d claim it.”
“We tolerate no other sovereignty,” the courtiers murmured, “and accept none other than Apollius and those He’s blessed.”
Those he’s blessed. The Arceneaux family. Royalty and religion tangled up in an inextricable knot.
Lore shifted again, her legs going numb as they pressed into the hard floor.
“We bask in Your light,” Anton said, his hands coming down from their outstretched position to rest on his chest. He looked like the statue of the Bleeding God in the garden, and Lore was nearly certain it was intentional. “And we wait faithfully for Your return, when our world is cleared of darkness and made ready. We ask that You make a vessel for Your light.”
“We ask that You return and make us holy,” the gathered nobles murmured. “Return from Your Shining Realm and make it here.”
The thurible made one more rotation, swinging smoke in a spiral through the air. Then Anton, the Presque Mort, and the Priest with his candle stepped back.
The Sainted King stood. The light of the window behind him burnished his graying hair, illuminated the rays of his crown. Anton inclined his head to his brother, passing off the leadership of the ceremony.
There was a slight tremble in August’s hand as he raised it. “Gabriel and Eldelore Remaut, come forward please.”
Gods dead and dying, had it not occurred to anyone to give them an idea of how this was supposed to go? Gabe had told her that they had to be officially introduced, that it would look strange if they weren’t, but they’d received no instructions on how the actual introduction was supposed to take place.
August arched a brow, like he was irritated at their apparent confusion. Lore briefly considered wrenching one of those garnets off his crown and stuffing it in his nostril.
Gabe seemed just as surprised as she was. The two of them took a beat, looking at each other in lost silence. Then, ever graceful, Gabe offered her his arm and slid out into the aisle, leading her up to the altar and the smug faces of both Arceneaux men waiting there.
Curious gazes followed them. Lore couldn’t tell if any were friendly, but her money was on no.
August gave them a smile as they walked toward him, a cold one that came nowhere near his eyes. He didn’t say anything, instead flicking his fingers in a motion that told them to face the congregation.
Gabe’s cheeks burned, making the slight freckles across his nose stand out. But he did as he was bidden, taking Lore with him, and faced the court. The first row of nobles could probably hear her teeth grinding.
“At long last,” August said from behind them, voice lifted to carry across the North Sanctuary. “The Remaut family returns to the Citadel.”
He paused, and after a moment of needle-drop silence, the gathered courtiers gave a round of polite applause. Gabe’s arm was so tense beneath Lore’s hand that it nearly shook.
She squeezed, hoping to offer some kind of reassurance. But Gabe’s face didn’t change, like he barely registered her presence at all.
“Gabriel is on a brief… hiatus… from his holy duties to the Presque Mort,” August continued, “and will be residing with us for the season to introduce his cousin Eldelore to polite society. Please make them welcome.”
The courtiers all inclined their heads, faces inscrutable, blurred by the rapidly increasing sunlight through the windows lining the sanctuary. Lore nodded back, mostly because she wasn’t sure what else to do, and flicking both her middle fingers at them didn’t seem like proper duke’s-cousin behavior.
“Go in peace,” August said, and with that, First Day prayers were dismissed. Courtiers rose, making their way back toward the double doors leading to the path and the green. Voices murmured and laughed, the solemnity of religious ritual disappearing as the sun rose higher in the sky.