Lore was still sitting there when Dani appeared.
The other woman didn’t speak. She slowed her hurried gait as she approached Lore on the dunes, her eyes widening as she took in the bodies. “Run into trouble?”
“Presque Mort.” Lore’s voice sounded like she’d swallowed sand. “And my friend.”
Dani didn’t make her explain. The bodies were explanation enough. “When this friend asked to come, did you tell him it wasn’t a rescue operation?”
“No,” Lore said listlessly. “He didn’t ask. He was just here. Trying to help.”
“Ah.” Dani stood at a distance from Lore, as if afraid she wasn’t done tugging Spiritum out of anything living that might wander close. She offered no comfort.
Lore was grateful for that.
Sometime later—enough time that her legs were numb, that the air had grown frosted with deeper night—Lore stood and moved away from Jean-Paul’s body, a little farther down the beach. She dug a shallow hole with her hands. Dani didn’t offer to help.
Such a brief glimpse of the life she’d had before, an abrupt reminder of who she’d been, and now he was gone. It seemed fitting, almost. Killing Jean-Paul was like killing the last part of herself that existed before becoming Nyxara’s avatar. She’d chosen to live, but she couldn’t do that as the person she was before the Citadel, before the eclipse ritual that was her twisted Consecration. The prices were too high.
It didn’t take much to roll Jean-Paul into the grave she’d made. No vault for him, no aboveground burial for the faithful—there was no need, now, and there was nothing to be faithful to.
When Lore was done, she straightened, brushing sand off on her knees. She wouldn’t waste time burying the Presque Mort. They hated buried things. “Let’s go.”
Dani nodded. “He should be at the repair docks by now. Head down toward the shore. The tide will wash out our footprints.”
Lore followed her, steady and blank as a sleepwalker. Dead fish littered the tide line. She stepped over them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ALIE
Motherhood heals and wounds in ways that cannot be fully spoken.
—Marya Addou, Malfouran poet
There was little Alie hated more than waiting.
But there was really nothing else she could do. Until Bastian managed to break into Apollius’s mind—a feat that still seemed nigh impossible—and found the location of the Fount piece, she was stuck in her Citadel routine.
Alie was first and foremost a diplomat. If Bastian was fighting Apollius off, keeping Him occupied while he searched His mind for the Fount’s broken pieces, the god didn’t have much attention left for Alie. She could feed into that distraction by doing something to make Him happy, make Him think she was defeated.
Which was why she found herself at a romantic candlelit dinner with Jax.
It’d been her idea. She’d sent the handwritten invitation, scented lightly with her perfume, at a time she knew Jax would be in audience with Apollius. She’d gone to the kitchens herself to collaborate on the menu. Dates and olives, lamb as a main course,foods that were popular in Kirythea. She’d picked the bouquets of marigolds and arranged them in vases, she’d bought fresh white tapers, she’d sent for her mother’s good plates from Courdigne and selected wine from her late father’s personal casks.
In fact, the only part of this Alie hadn’t meticulously planned was what in every single hell she was supposed tosayto her fiancé once he was here.
The soup course passed in relative silence, with only murmured assurances that the room was lovely, the food smelled lovely, she looked lovely. If she didn’t know that his Auverrani was flawless, Alie might think Jax only knew one complimentary adjective.
She managed to smile and nod, her stomach tangling with her liver as she sipped her wine and cast around desperately for something to talk about. She used to be good at this. But now, with her head a riot of worry and wind itching at her fingers and a cool, looming presence in the back of her thoughts, Alie had nothing to say.
She’d dismissed the servants, on the off chance she and Jax spoke of something that shouldn’t be shared around the Citadel. On the off chance theyspoke. So she refilled their wine, brought out the steaming lamb.
“This smells excellent,” Jax said, smiling at her before his eyes dipped to his plate. There was some respite; he seemed just as nervous as she was, though Alie was sure their reasons were wildly different. And he’d managed to find another adjective.
He was always kind to her. She’d give him that.
“Perfect,” Jax said after taking a bite, filling the silence Alie left alone. “My own kitchen couldn’t have prepared it better.”
“Thank you.” Alie took her own bite. Itwasdelicious. She was, apparently, still good at planning parties.
