“All of this has more to do with free will than you think,” Apollius said. He sat back, picked up His wine. “I could kill you to take what is rightfully Mine. But as I said, you are an asset. An Arceneaux, and we all know I’m particularly fond of those.” A dainty sip, swirling His cup. “It makes much more sense for all of us if you decide to give Lereal’s magic up on your own. I can wait. They were always the weakest of Us.”
In the back of Alie’s mind, a breeze, cold and biting, not gentle. The harbinger of a storm to come.
“And if I won’t give it back?” she said quietly.
She’d grown up in proximity to power. Maybe that was why it had never occurred to her as something to want. But now that she had it, the idea of giving it up was hard to swallow.
He cocked His head, smile widening. “You will, Alienor. Hasn’t watching your brother suffer been enough to convince you? Do you really want to surrender to a god that never should have existed? They may have been the weakest of Us, but They are still divine. Whatever kindness They show you now is temporary. The desire to live is stronger than any compassion.” He snorted. “Lore is proof of that.”
She stayed silent. So did Lereal.
“Now.” Apollius finished His wine and set the goblet back on the table. “What were you and my host speaking of? I don’t wantto kill you, but I’m perfectly willing to alter my plans if necessary. I will get what I need regardless.”
It was a relief to have to lie. Proof that Apollius couldn’t look inside Bastian’s mind and see what he did when he was in control.
It was also a relief that the bindings of honesty that let Gabe, Bastian, and Lore know when one was lying to the others did not extend to her.
“Lore,” she said after a moment, putting a slump in her shoulders, a defeated undertone in her voice. “We were trying to find a way to rescue Lore.”
“Her again.” Apollius sighed. “I do wish Bastian would give her up. I’d be surprised if she even exists anymore. Now that she’s close to the Fount, Nyxara has probably taken over.”
Probably.So He didn’t know. He wasn’t omniscient. He was still just a man wielding stolen divinity.
There was something strange in the way He said it, though. Like He didn’t quite want it to be true.
“Nyxara didn’t want to take over,” Alie said, warming to her role, wanting to keep Him on this subject. “She isn’t like You.”
“They are all like Me,” He scoffed. “They’re just better at hiding it. None of Them would allow this second chance at life to pass Them by. None of Them would let you go willingly.”
Alie waited for a soft gust across the back of her thoughts, a reassurance. None came.
“That’s the problem with all of you, really,” Apollius continued. “You keep believing that I am the only threat. That I am uniquely evil, among all the gods. Among all ofyou.” He shook His head. “But all of Them drank from the Fount. All of Them relished Their power. Sure, They gave it up eventually, but haven’t you ever made a decision you regretted?” He pulled over the wine bottle and filled His glass again, all the way to the crystal rim. “And every single one of you mortal shells have done what you must for a measure of magic. To feel like you can turn back a tide.” Hestared into His wine, contemplative. “I’m not the worst of Us. I’m simply the most honest.”
The door opened, Jax hurrying in, aristocratic features twisted in irritation. “I don’t see why Alexis didn’t turn him away,” he said, seating himself once again. “Lord Bartolmy is convinced that You will bring down divine retribution if everyone in the court doesn’t stop wearing dyed clothing. Something about a Tract interpretation.”
“I don’t give a shit about dyed clothing,” Apollius said, grinning widely. “Honestly, the way you all have twisted around the Tracts is almost impressive.”
Alie picked at her dessert, feeling Jax’s gaze burn into her, willing her to look up.
She didn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY
GABE
We1are there in your triumph and your defeat, in your stirring and your stillness.
—The Book of Prayer, Tract 62
The tide washed over his feet in a steady beat, nearly matching his heart. The same beach, the same ocean, the same cliffs at his back. Maybe, if he stood here long enough, he’d see one of them again. Alie, with more news of what was happening in Auverraine.
Lore or Bastian.
His longing for one was the longing for the other, a fact that he couldn’t quite wrap his head around even though his heart knew it. He and Bastian had been friends, then rivals, then bitter enemies, all of it suffused with a passion that raised his blood. He reacted to him in anger, always. But now, with the distance grown between them, he didn’t know what he would do if he saw the man before him. Didn’t know what he would say.
Something had changed. Or maybe it had always been this way, and he just refused to see it. At some point, the desire to punch Bastian Arceneaux square in the face had turned to a desire just to have him close.
And Lore—Bleeding God, it had always been Lore. Fierce desire had knocked him flat the moment he saw her in that alley, snarling and feral and Mortem-marked. She’d been the axis he and Bastian balanced on, the point to their triangle. The rope in their tug-of-war, as Lore herself had once so elegantly put it.
