“Gabriel knows how to get back to the Citadel, right?” Lore asked.
“He’s an industrious fellow, he’ll find his way.” The flame from the lighter shivered over the slick walls. Something rat-shaped scurried into the shadows. “Your concern is touching.”
The way he said it belied the words. Lore scowled at his back, gathering her hem high to avoid the water. “He’s just as caught up in all this as I am.”
“Be that as it may, Gabriel’s loyalty is to one person alone. And diverting as you are, Lore, I don’t think you can compete with Apollius. If the opportunity arises for Remaut to use you in service to his god, he’ll take it.” He turned to face her, the flame gilding his dark hair in fiendish light, keeping his eyes in shadow. “In fact, it seems like I’m the only person in the Citadel who knows who you are and what you’re capable of, and isn’t trying to make you a tool.”
It wasn’t true, but neither was it comforting. Gabe didn’t know what she was, not really. Not like Bastian did.
Bleeding God and Buried Goddess, she hoped that wasn’t a mistake.
“Gabe isn’t trying to use me,” she said softly. “Gabe is trying to keep me safe.”
The prince turned around with a rueful noise, shaking his head. “Are you so accustomed to being used that you don’t realize when it’s happening, as long as it’s done kindly?”
She had no answer for that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nature bends toward wickedness—consider the eclipse. The sky grows dark when it should be light, the moon overtaking the sun. Such is a time when dark power rises. But fear not, for even this can be used.
—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 7451
The trip through the short tunnel didn’t take long, but Lore was soaked to the waist by the time they splashed up onto the ledge at the other end, and walking through all that water had been taxing enough to make her break a sweat. She desperately wanted to wipe her face, but was afraid of what might be on her hands. “How often do you do this?” she asked, turning to Bastian. “And how in all myriad hells do you hide that much laundry?”
“It used to be once a week or so, but I assume I’ll have to cut back now that at least two of the betting enforcers know who I am.” Bastian sloshed up next to her, barely winded. “And I usually just leave all my clothes in the culvert and walk back through the gardens naked. It’s refreshing, and whoever finds my cast-offs certainly needs them more than I do.”
“Please tell me you aren’t planning to shuck off your clothes right now.”
“I’ll protect your delicate sensibilities, though it is sure to result in agonizing chafing.” Bastian grasped her by the waist and boosted her up, out of the culvert and into the Citadel gardens.
Right into Gabriel.
The Presque Mort stumbled back, arms closing around Lore to hold her steady. “You’re safe?” he asked, his hands running from her shoulders to her wrists. “He didn’t hurt you?”
“Should I be offended?” Bastian climbed out of the culvert, a smile on his face and daggers in his eyes. “I think I’m offended.”
“He didn’t hurt me.” Lore didn’t mention the endless moments in the alley when it seemed like he might. She stepped out of Gabe’s arms, peered up at his face. A bruise mottled the side opposite his eye patch, and blood crusted beneath a split in his lip. “What happened to you?”
“Ran into some enforcers who thought I hadn’t paid up a bet.” Gabe rubbed away a fleck of dried blood. It didn’t improve the state of his face. “Once I got away, I couldn’t find either of you, so I came here to get help from Anton.”
Of course he had. Lore wondered if Gabe had planned on telling the Priest Exalted everything, including the possibly reanimated body in the vaults, or if he would’ve left that out.
She wasn’t immediately sure. It made her eyes dart away from him, made her arms cross in front of her as if they could be a barrier.
Gabe didn’t notice. He rounded on Bastian, his fists held tight by his sides, like it took monumental effort not to drive one into the Sun Prince’s face. “What in all the myriad hells was that, Bastian? You drag us out to the docks to play at being common, get thrashed—”
“On purpose, I feel like I should point out.”
“—then kidnap Lore and leave me there?” He’d been advancing the whole time he spoke, and now Gabe stood right in front of Bastian, two inches taller and using it all to loom. “What the fuck?”
“Language, Your Grace,” Bastian admonished, completely unperturbed by the large mass of angry monk in his face. “I do apologize that you ran into trouble, though it seems like you fought your way out of it just fine.”
Gabe ignored him, seething. “You might be the prince, but you can’t just—”
“He knows, Gabe.”
Lore’s voice cut him off midsentence. Gabriel froze, then turned to look at her, shoulders stiff. “All of it?”
She nodded wearily. “All of it.”
Gabe mirrored her nod. Then he turned to Bastian and slammed him against the wall.
“Gabriel!” Lore snapped, but the Presque Mort was beyond hearing. His palms pressed against Bastian’s shoulders, his nose mere inches from the prince’s, teeth bared.
“So how are you going to kill us, Bastian?” he growled. “You know why we’re here, that your father knows you’re sending information to Kirythea, and I’m supposed to believe you’ll just let that go?”
Bastian’s neck was tendon-tight, but he laughed like this was a game. “They really got to you, didn’t they? Made you think the only way to absolve yourself of treason by association was to see it in everyone else.”
Gabe’s arms trembled slightly. Lore couldn’t tell if it was with the force of pressing Bastian to the wall, or with the restraint of not punching him.
“It’ll never be enough for them, Gabe.” Despite the wicked grin, Bastian’s voice was soft. “The Church and Crown don’t forget, they don’t forgive, not any more than the gods did before them. But they’ll keep holding it in front of you like a mirage in a fucking desert. And you’ll keep chasing it, even when you know it’s not something you can touch.”
They stared at each other. Then Gabe slammed him into the wall again.
“Both of you, stop it.” Lore gripped Gabe’s arm and pulled him back—for a moment, she thought he’d shake her off, but he relented, albeit reluctantly. “Bastian, shut up.”
Bastian shook his shoulders out, wincing. But he did shut up.
Lore turned to Gabriel, breathing hard, as if she were the one who’d been seconds from a brawl. “We can use this,” she said quietly, not looking at the Sun Prince as she did. It skirted too close to what he’d said in the tunnel, all these questions about using and being used. “There’s a good chance August is framing Bastian.”
The Presque Mort gave her a withering look. “Did he tell you that?”
“Does it matter?” Lore didn’t know how to explain that she knew Bastian was telling the truth, at least about this.