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LAURENT

The Sanctum glowed with the light of ten thousand candles. Pilgrims journeyed from all over Nor Doru to light them and offer the flames to the gods. The wax was mixed with blood offerings, so the squat, round pillars dripped red as they melted. Once a month, priests chiseled the dried blood-wax from the obsidian and gave it to the poor so they could make candles for their homes.

Right now, however, the only souls present were Petru and two of his highest-ranking priests. They met me at the door of the secret temple, where generations of Nor Doruvian kings had prayed in private.

“Your Grace,” Petru said, his expression that of an old man annoyed at being roused from sleep in the middle of the night. “We received your message. Are you certain you weren’t seen?” His rust-colored beard was braided and tied with a band. It might have been adorable if my memories weren’t full of the freshly bloodied length swinging next to me as I knelt and chanted prayers. I’d been terrible at memorizing them. As a child, my knees had been permanently bruised.

I drew my hood back and ran a hand through my hair. “There’s no one about at this hour.” Not even the night soil men were working. I’d stepped around more than one pile of shit as I picked my way across the city.

“You should have come on horseback, my king. It’s dangerous to travel the streets on foot.”

I removed my cloak and handed it to one of the priests. I started on the buttons of my shirt. “Who would harm me, Petru? I’m the vessel of the gods.”

The old male pressed his lips together, and I could almost hear my mother’s disapproving voice echoing through the temple. But he held his tongue as I stripped. One of the priests accepted my clothes. The other carefully folded them. I removed everything, including my rings and the posts in my ear and tongue.

Nude, I walked to the square pool set in the floor. The three of them followed in a swish of black robes and then watched as I descended the steps. I dipped under the water once, submerging myself completely. When I resurfaced, I stood with the water caressing my shoulders. I closed my eyes and listened to Petru chant the cleansing ritual. Candles sputtered, and sleep tugged at me. The dinner with Given and Varick felt like a million hours ago. Varick hadn’t returned to his room. He was probably bunking down with his knights in the Serenity Tower.

It would have been easier if he were angry. I could do a lot with his anger. Give me twenty minutes and I could make him forget he was furious.

But hurt was an entirely different matter. Once again, I’d disappointed him.

“Your Grace.”

Petru’s voice jolted me awake. Water splashed, drops hitting the obsidian floor. One of the priests bent and wiped it clean. I left the pool and lifted my arms. The priests stepped forward with towels and dried me, and I fought to keep from clenching my jaw as they hunted down every drop of moisture. Their towels dipped into my navel and between my toes. Under my balls and beneath my armpits. I endured it as I had so many times before, goosebumps rising on my skin despite the heat of the candles.

“Please lift your chin, Your Grace,” one murmured, and I tipped my head back so he could chase a streak of water trying to make an escape. The other priest circled me and blotted my hair. When the first one finished with my neck, he bent his head and dried the tiny crevices under my fingernails. My hair took forever to dry. I stared blearily at the obsidian altar that dominated the far side of the room, lulled into a somnolent state by the hissing, flickering candles that covered its surface.

When the priests were satisfied not even a hint of moisture remained to offend the gods, they stepped away.

Petru moved in front of me. One of the other priests fetched a golden bowl full of blood. Petru started to dip his fingers in it, then hesitated. “What prayer are you saying, Your Grace?”

I shook my head. “Not a prayer. A rite.”

His craggy forehead gained a few more lines. “That will take hours.” He gestured to the priest at his side. “We’re not prepared. You haven’t fed—”

“Yes, I have.” When arguments gathered in his eyes, I turned to the second priest. “Get me a robe.” When the man hurried to do my bidding, Petru’s expression turned even more disapproving. But I didn’t give a shit. I’d spent more hours bare-assed in the Sanctum than I cared to contemplate, but I wasn’t having this conversation with my dick out.

The priest approached with the robe, and I waved him forward impatiently. He held it for me, and I shrugged into it, leaving the front open. Thus fortified, I looked Petru dead in the eye. “I have the blood of two elven-born in my veins. I would offer all of it to the gods.”

All three men went still. Petru spoke softly, as if he feared raising his voice might bring down some sort of calamity on our heads. “This is untested magic, Laurent. Lord Varick’s blood is a known quantity, but the princess is—”

“Powerful. And what good is power if you don’t use it?”

His bushy white brows pulled low over his eyes. “This isn’t what we discussed. What we planned. We need her blood, yes, but not for this. She’s to be at your side if and when Nor Doru invades the south. And she and Varick will produce a—”

“That won’t be necessary if I can restore the Deepnight.” I nodded toward the altar. “And I mean to try. Tonight.”

His voice took on the tone he used when he was warming up for a lecture. “You reach too high, boy, toying with power you don’t understand.”

I stepped around him, my gaze on the altar.

He hissed and grabbed my arm. “Don’t you walk away from me.”

In a flash, I spun and gripped his throat. I reached for my power—and caught it. My voice boomed in the small room. “Amet.”

Petru’s eyes bulged. One hand flailed up, clutching at his chest. Which made sense, considering I’d just told his heart to stop.

I held him there, my voice still rippling with the bly’ad I’d earned at nineteen. Acquiring amet had almost killed me. Even fifteen years later, it lit a fire in my chest, the agony searing all the way up to my sinuses.