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“I’ll watch your son, you mean.”

August grinned, giving his face a predatory cast, and took another long drink of whatever was in his cup. “It seems my brother did give you some relevant details. Yes, you will stay here with the express purpose of getting close to Bastian. We have reason to believe he might be informing Emperor Jax of our weaknesses, acting as a spy from the inside.”

“Why?” Lore crossed her arms, holding them like a shield. “Why would the heir to the crown want to turn his country over to the Kirythean Empire?”

“Because the crown sits heavy,” August said quietly. “And my son has never demonstrated himself to be strong enough for that weight.”

Anton’s hand spasmed around his pendant, but when Lore looked at him, his scarred face was still blank.

“While Bastian is our main concern,” August continued, “we also wish for you to insinuate yourself into the court. My courtiers will be eager to gossip about you, but also with you.”

“All of that sounds great, but how exactly am I supposed to enter the court without making everyone suspicious?” Lore gestured to her ill-fitting gown. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s extremely obvious that I’m not a noble.”

“On the contrary.” August’s grin widened. “We’ll tell them you’re the cousin of the Duke of Balgia.”

Behind her, Gabriel’s face went nearly white. Next to him, Anton sighed, as if he’d come to his least favorite part of a task.

“Balgia?” Lore’s brow arched. The tiny duchy to the southeast had fallen to the Kirythean Empire fourteen years ago, conquered by Jax while his father was still the Emperor.

August nodded. “Balgia.” He gestured to Gabriel. “It seems it’s time for you to take up your title again, Gabriel Remaut.”

CHAPTER SIX

The sins of the father are visited upon his heirs. Children inherit both shame and glory.

—The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 24

Gabriel’s face was corpse-pale, his jaw clenched tight, like the sound of his surname had turned his stomach. The scars around his eye patch stood out stark as lightning.

A duke. Gabriel was a duke? Why in every myriad hell would a duke join the Presque Mort, even the duke of a place that didn’t technically exist anymore?

And how had a duke lost an eye?

The Sainted King either didn’t notice Gabriel’s distress or didn’t care. “It seems your lineage will finally come in handy, Gabriel,” he said nonchalantly, the ruby rings on his hands winking as he drank once more from his chalice. “When Anton pursued you so relentlessly after… the incident… I was hesitant, but apparently my brother knew what he was doing, recruiting you into the Presque Mort.”

Every line of Gabriel’s body was tense as a violin string, his muscles held so still Lore half expected them to vibrate. “Your Majesty, I can’t… I don’t know…”

For all his even tones, Gabriel clearly didn’t have words for what he meant. His face said it all, though. He was furious. He was terrified.

“Son.” Anton stepped forward, his hand settling lightly on Gabriel’s shoulder. “I know this is a shock.”

So the Priest Exalted had known. He’d known this was going to happen, and he’d let Gabriel be blindsided anyway. Lore felt a rush of contempt for the scarred old man.

“But this is Apollius’s will,” Anton continued. “You have hidden away from the court for years, healing. Now it is time to reenter. Time to play the part Apollius has chosen for you.”

At the sound of his god’s name, Gabriel closed his one eye.

“You will escort Lore,” Anton said, all his focus on the still-tense, silent Presque Mort before him. “You will help her in the tasks she’s been given. And you will be rewarded, Gabriel. The mantles we are given are not always what we would choose, but Apollius, god of all, knows what is best, and He honors those who choose Him, even when we must go against our nature to do so.” He paused, his hand tightening. “This is how you atone.”

“I thought becoming a Presque Mort was how I did that,” Gabriel whispered hoarsely. “Isn’t that what you told me? What your vision said?”

The vision that had given Anton his scar. Even Lore had heard the story. Anton Arceneaux had been so overcome with holy fervor as he prayed that Apollius had given him a vision, one so sacred it was kept deep in the Church, its contents a secret. In the ecstasy of speaking with his god, Anton had fallen into the brazier, and after nearly dying from his wounds, he woke with the ability to channel Mortem. August, newly crowned, had made him the Priest Exalted, forcing the former holder of the title into retirement. No one had heard from him since.

“My son,” Anton murmured, “I could not tell you everything.”

Hurt lived in the ridge of Gabriel’s jaw, and in the way he stepped out from beneath the Priest Exalted’s palm. But he didn’t refuse, didn’t rail against unfairness. He didn’t say anything at all.

August smiled, then, and turned his full brilliance on Lore, continuing as if Anton and Gabriel hadn’t interrupted him with their murmured conversation. “Besides, the girl is from the streets, Remaut. Don’t rob her of her rags-to-riches fairy tale. She’s probably dreamed of the opportunity since she was a girl.”