Page 27

Jax was already there, the only person present other than a couple Presque Mort. He always arrived early. The monks set up the platform for service: lighting the candles, sweeping the floor, coaxing the coals in the braziers to bloom red.

She recognized one of the Presque Mort. Alexis. They gave her a surreptitious look as they lit tapers, as if they wanted to speak to her but knew now wasn’t the time.

Alie wasn’t sure what to make of the Presque Mort who were still in the Citadel.

After Bastian came to power, he’d banished all those who were loyal to Anton.

But no such action was taken after Gabe left.

Either Apollius didn’t care to clean house, or all the monks left were faithful enough that He didn’t think it would be a problem.

But the look Alexis gave her seemed heavy.

They disappeared into one of the side doors while the other Presque Mort, a woman with a thick, runneled scar across her throat, carefully scattered perfuming herbs over the brazier coals. Alie couldn’t see the braziers without thinking of Anton, his burn scars and his prophecy.

His murder had been chalked up to Gabe, when the second Arceneaux brother was found beheaded in the greenhouse. But she didn’t believe it. She thought that violence much more likely to be Lore’s.

Jax sat in the front pew. Silently, Alie sat down next to him.

“You couldn’t sleep, either?” he asked quietly.

Alie had slept just fine, actually. Another night on the beach alone.

But she nodded, building one more tenuous bridge. Jax sighed and marginally slumped in his seat. The movement made his posture nearly match that of a normal man.

“I almost wish He would go ahead and get it over with,” he murmured.

Other courtiers filed in shortly, all unusually quiet.

Ever since Lore was banished, since Jax was welcomed into court, the nobles of the Citadel had treated morning prayers with more gravitas than before.

They arranged themselves in their seats, waiting silently for services to begin, their clothing plain and subdued by court standards.

It made Alie nervous, how much more pious the nobles seemed even now. Made her wonder what the court would look like once Apollius revealed Himself.

Alexis had fulfilled the default role of Priest Exalted since Gabe left, even though they hadn’t been officially given the title.

But today, rather than standing behind the lectern and finding the day’s Tracts, they sat next to Alie, boxing her between them and Jax.

“Any idea what this is all about?” they murmured.

Jax turned to look at Alexis, anxiety in the shape of his mouth. “What what is all about?”

Alexis shrugged uncomfortably. “I received a note from the King this morning. Apparently, he wants to lead the prayers today.”

Jax stiffened. With a truncated nod, he sat back, his hands curling to fists on his knees.

Apollius entered from the main doors at the back of the Sanctuary. He seemed frazzled, and it made Him look more like Bastian, enough that Alie’s breath caught.

The god in Bastian’s body didn’t acknowledge the crowd. He went to the lectern and braced His hands on either side of it, the grip blanching His knuckles. One finger twitched.

Alie’s skin rose in gooseflesh. He was channeling. She could almost see it, flecks of gold in the atmosphere. A slight tug in her center, the threads of her life grasped in a godly hand to be woven or spun or snapped.

For a moment, she wondered if He would channel all the Spiritum out of every living thing in this room, turn it all to His will. That would certainly send a message, to Caldien and everyone else. That would give them something to fear.

But the charge in the air softened, the divine hold on her life letting go. Alie let out an unsteady breath and wondered if anyone else had felt it.

A brief look of relief crossed Apollius’s face. As if He’d been testing Himself.

Apollius flipped through the Compendium.

Then He shut the book, lifted His head, and surveyed the room.

“First Day prayers are generally about peace. Asking for a pleasant spate of days to follow and giving thanks for those that have come before. But the time for peace is past. Today we speak of war.”

No sound, no movement. The Court of the Citadel watched their King like mice made aware of an owl.

“When I became your King,” the god continued, “and I took up the holy mantle of the Arceneaux rule, I promised that I would protect us. Do My best to make the continent a place that pleases our god.” He raised a hand, gesturing to Jax.

“By uniting with the Kirythean Empire, I have brought us one step closer to making the world as it should be. But there are threats to our dream of global harmony. They must be snuffed out.”

Slight rustling in the pews, sidelong looks.

Apollius dropped His hand and looked down, flipping through the Compendium to find the Tract He wanted. “When you are threatened by the unfaithful—”

“Warmonger!”

The cry came from the back of the Church. Alie’s head whipped around.

Olivier. It was the first time Alie had seen him since she and Lilia searched the storeroom, and he looked worse for wear—gaunt, eyes sickly bright.

He stood framed in the open double doors, the light of morning seeping in around him.

His finger was raised, pointing at Apollius, his face flushed.

Not with anger, though. The emotion looked closer to triumph.

“You were never fit to be King, Bastian Arceneaux.” Olivier advanced down the aisle, finger still pointed like a bayonet. “You will lead us into ruin!”

Gasps rang through the sanctuary, nobles looking at one another with shocked faces, but none of them moved. None of them wanted to be involved in whatever this was.

Up on the dais, Apollius dispassionately watched Olivier walk toward him, still spouting accusations. He moved slowly away from the lectern so nothing stood between Him and the shouting courtier.

At the braziers, Olivier stopped, chest heaving. His hand was in his jacket, a fact none could see but the first row.

“Shit,” Jax said, standing and tossing back his coat to reveal the handle of a pistol.

But he froze before he could draw it, a choked sound in his throat. Alie felt the frisson of channeling, the hum in the air, saw Apollius’s fingers twitching toward Jax. Holding his Spiritum, his life captured in a fist. Holding him still.

It was only then that Alie realized there were no bloodcoats in the Sanctuary. No Presque Mort, either, other than Alexis, sitting still as a prey animal beside her.

Apollius looked to Olivier. Gave a tiny, almost-imperceptible nod.

Olivier lurched toward Him, something shining in his fist. A dagger. A dagger that he plunged straight into the Sainted King’s heart.

As he did, Apollius smiled.

The gasps of the courtiers turned to screams. Some of them rushed to the doors; others just stood in shock, watching their King bleed out.

Still standing upright, Apollius raised both hands to His chest, wetting them with Bastian’s blood. Briefly, He touched Olivier’s cheek, leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

With blood on his face, Olivier beamed.

The hum of channeling changed direction; Jax, freed from Apollius’s hold, still didn’t move. He stared at his god, jaw locked tight. He knew what this was now.

The big reveal.

Looking skyward, Apollius stretched out both hands, blood on His palms and on His chest, looking just like the statues of Him that dotted the Citadel. He held the position for a long moment, long enough for every eye in the North Sanctuary to mark the resemblance.

The hole in His chest began to close.

It only took a moment, the wound healing neatly, though crimson still stained His white shirt. The panicked cries of the nobles turned to murmurs, to shocked gasps.

But that wasn’t enough. Bastian had been able to heal wounds, too; He had to do more to really convince them.

Outside, the sun brightened rapidly, enough for Alie to shield her eyes. The light came in through the stained-glass window behind the lectern, outlining Apollius in blazing glow. Making Him look like a god.

The hum of channeling was almost enough to drive her mad, now, an infernal buzz in her ears that itched like a mosquito bite. Wind howled in her head, a storm only she could hear, Apollius’s power calling to her own.

He raised His hands. The sun kept shining, but the unmistakable sound of a thunderclap reverberated through the air, rattling the walls. Rain lashed against the windows, a sudden downpour that couldn’t be mistaken for natural.

Displaying all the magic He had. Spiritum, and the power of Caeliar, stolen from Amelia.

“I did not mean to reveal Myself so early.” His voice had an extra resonance, reverberating as much as the thunder.

“I have not been honest with you, My faithful. I am not Bastian Arceneaux, blessed with the power of Apollius.” He looked down from the vaulted ceiling, down to the cowering nobles.

“I am a vessel for our god. I have become Him, in the flesh.”

Beside her, Jax let out a long, slow breath.

Silence in the Sanctuary. There was a chance they wouldn’t believe Him; they’d seen Him use this power while still pretending to be Bastian, if not so spectacularly.

Apollius seemed to know this. He turned to Olivier, bowing on the floor, his forehead pressed against the wood.

“And threats against Me cannot stand,” He said, sounding almost sorrowful.

Olivier looked up, brows knit.

Apollius’s hand closed to a fist. Immediately, Olivier convulsed, his veins standing out thick on his skin, eyes popping nearly free of their sockets. He rose toward the vaulted ceiling, carried by threads of Spiritum, the god’s grip defying gravity.

Right in front of the window, Olivier dangled in midair, gasping, his heart beating so furiously it could be seen beneath his shirt. His arms stretched to the sides. His head dropped forward.

And his eyes exploded from his head, the pressure of his rapidly pumping heart pushing them out of his skull.

Blood sprayed the front rows of pews. Alie felt it lash against her cheek, hot and metallic.

Apollius dropped His hand. Olivier’s body fell to the floor.

A show of power, and a threat. Apollius was not one to do things by halves.

He turned to the silent congregation, His face somehow both sorrowful and triumphant. “I am your King and your god,” He said. “And together, we will make the Holy Kingdom.”

No one spoke. No one breathed.

Gingerly, Apollius stepped over the mess of Olivier, closer to the congregation.

“Danger is coming, and it is more than war,” He said.

“My wife should have died the night of the eclipse. I saved her, blinded by love. But her continued existence means the rest of the pantheon, those faithless gods who turned on Me and wrecked the world, have risen as well. I will protect you from Them. I will be a wall against Their wickedness.” He raised His arms. “You only must believe.”

Lord Villiers was the first to bow. He fell to his knees, pressing his head against the floor. Others followed, some crying, others mouthing prayers. The silence slipped into a clamor of awful, fearful joy, some hands raised, some beginning to sing.

Slowly, Alie lowered herself to the floor along with the rest of the nobles. Olivier’s blood trickled down her cheekbone. She wiped it away.

Jax was the last to take to his knees. He stared at Apollius, fury in his face.

Apollius looked at him and smiled.

“Alie.”

Barely sound—in the rising cacophony, she could hardly hear it. Alie turned, looked to Alexis.

The Presque Mort jerked their head eastward, toward the Citadel Wall dividing them from the Northeast Ward. Tomorrow , Alexis mouthed.

Alie nodded. Then she stared at the floor, at the pool of Olivier’s blood just beginning to drip from the dais, as all around her the courtiers prayed to their god in His newfound flesh.