“And we must travel to the Gate,” Rielle finished, “and assess the damage for ourselves.”
Audric nodded. “Tal and Sloane will accompany us. Tal insisted upon it. And where Tal goes…”
“Sloane follows.” Ludivine clasped her hands in her lap. “She wouldn’t want him to have all the fun after all.”
The forced note of cheer in her voice seemed to shake them all.
Audric’s gaze dropped to the floor. “There’s one more thing. If we are to do this, together, then we must have no more secrets. If you hear murmurings from the other angels, Ludivine, I want to know. And when Corien comes”—Audric took Rielle’s hand in his—“I need you to tell me, darling, when it happens. If he forces himself on you again, I need to know. What he says, what he does. Any clues as to where he is, who he might be with, what his plans are… Any of that could be helpful to us. When he moves against us, I want to be ready. And you are the closest link to him we have.”
Rielle nodded, unable to speak. It was unbearable, how little he suspected her of lies. He raised her hand to his lips, kissed her clenched fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “I wish I didn’t have to ask this of you.”
“Don’t be sorry.” She tried for an encouraging smile. “I’m the Sun Queen, aren’t I? This is what I do.”
“You’re only half right, my love. You protect me and my kingdom, but we also protect you.”
Below, throughout the city, the temple bells struck nine o’clock. In half an hour, the procession would begin.
“Shall we go down?” Ludivine stood a little apart from them, a careful smile on her face. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Promise me, first.” Audric held out his hand to her. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll do it together. All of us.”
Ludivine hesitated, then took his hand.
Rielle joined them, swallowing against the guilt wedged hot in her throat. “I promise,” she said and kissed his cheek. “No more secrets.”
“No more lies,” Ludivine added.
“Together, then,” Audric said and escorted them downstairs.
? ? ?
Hooded citizens lined the streets of me de la Terre, carrying candles in tiny brass cups. Hanging from every door and window, mourning lamps flickered softly.
The procession moved slowly up the city—first across the bridges over the lake, then the cramped lower streets, and at last the smooth paved roads of the temple district. The youngest acolytes from each temple led the way, scattering white petals. Seven windsingers guided King Bastien’s silk-draped stretcher slowly through the city on a gentle cloud of air. The king’s hands lay folded at his waist, his face peaceful.
Queen Genoveve followed behind them, her arm hooked through Audric’s. From behind her, at Ludivine’s side, Rielle saw how heavily the queen leaned against her son.
At the castle gates, only the royal party was allowed to proceed. Mourners crowded silently at the line of guards that barred their way. Rielle looked back once, saw the mass of bowed heads and bobbing candles winding like black rivers down the mountain to the city’s outer wall and the Flats beyond. They filled every road, lined every temple garden.
Some, Rielle noticed, looked not at the king, but at her. Did they wonder how so many had fallen, even with the mighty Sun Queen there to defend them?
Did they fear what that meant for the days ahead?
Rielle turned away from the scattered stony eyes upon her, heart clenched with worry.
What are they thinking? She clutched Ludivine’s hand. The ones staring.
They wonder many things, Ludivine replied.
They wonder why I was able to save you but not their loved ones who died at the trial. And not their king.
Ludivine was quiet for a moment, then squeezed Rielle’s fingers. Don’t think about that now. Be here, with me and with Audric. We both owe Bastien that much.
The procession entered the gardens behind Baingarde. Sorrow trees glowed pink throughout the shadowed green canopy. The seeing pools stood black and still.
At the mouth of the catacombs, Queen Genoveve stepped away from Audric and took her place before the great stone doors. She knelt, touched her fingers to her heart, her temple and throat, her palm, forehead, the nape of her neck, and the lids of her eyes. She rose to her feet as acolytes rolled open the doors and began to sing.
Saint Katell had sung the same ancient lament over Aryava’s body, and the queen’s shredded voice tore on every word—but she stood tall and unbroken as her husband’s body passed beside her into the shadows.