If someone was using Mortem to kill those villages, it was in a way that Lore had no context for. And she had a good amount of context, all things considered.
“Clearly, I’ve been remiss in not consulting another scholar.” The peacock feather apparently itched; Bastian pulled it from his ear and twirled it between his fingers instead. “No one else I’ve discussed this with has been as learned as you.”
Lore gave him a small, shy smile, conjuring country cousin, conjuring no threat and don’t take me too seriously. “There isn’t much to do at home. I find my amusements where I may.”
He cocked a brow and looked pointedly at the grass stains again. Lore pinched his arm, fighting a genuine laugh.
“Lore!”
Gabriel walked hurriedly down the path, like he’d been trying to catch up without running. Still, he was slightly out of breath when he reached them. His eye darted to Bastian, then to her, brow rising as if he was annoyed that she was following her orders so closely.
“Remaut, nice of you to join us.” Bastian took the peacock feather from behind his ear and swiveled it flirtatiously beneath Gabe’s chin. “I was just taking your cousin to the stables. Don’t worry, she already had the grass stains when I found her.”
Gabe’s eyebrow climbed farther. Lore gave him a smile that felt more like a grimace.
“Come along.” Bastian tightened the bend of his arm, trapping Lore’s hand. “I have a curious new acquisition. You two will be the first I’ve shown it to.” He gave Lore a brilliant smile. “Honestly, between this and inviting you to the masque last night, I’ve been quite the social director. Perhaps I should hire myself out to the mothers of spinsters.”
“I’m sure August would love that.” Gabe fell into step on Lore’s other side. It felt somewhat like being escorted by two abnormally tall cats, twitchy and standoffish.
“Probably as much as Anton loves you coming back to court. I’m sure he wasn’t pleased about losing his star channeler for a season.”
Gabe said nothing, arms politely behind his back, though those polite arms ended in fists. Lore thought of the conversation she and Bastian had as they danced, about how Bastian had attempted to orchestrate Gabe’s freedom for the summer, not knowing that Anton had planned it already.
But the awkward transition gave her an opening, a place to speak about the two ruling brothers of Auverraine with someone who would know more about their relationship than most. “August and Anton…” she began, feeling out how she wanted to word it. “They don’t seem to get along. Why is that?”
“Anton didn’t become the Priest Exalted until after his vision.” Gabe jumped in to answer, though he had to know she’d meant the question for Bastian. The man was apparently incapable of not immediately rising to Anton’s defense. “But August has been the heir since he was born, Apollius’s chosen. Naturally, it led to some tension.”
“Like children fighting over being Father’s favorite,” Bastian scoffed. “Anton’s vision was certainly convenient.”
Gabe shot him a dark look. “Are you implying it wasn’t true?”
“Remaut, I don’t even know what the vision was, and neither does anyone else.” Bastian reached across Lore to clap Gabe on the back. “I’m just saying that it’d have to be quite the fucking thing to make me fall face-first into a brazier. Though I suppose Anton did get magic in the bargain. You win some, you lose some.”
A muscle twitched in Gabe’s jaw, but he didn’t comment further on the veracity of Anton’s vision. “The Arceneaux line had magic already, according to the Tracts.”
“Which is one of many reasons why I don’t waste much time on the Tracts.” Bastian held up one hand, exaggeratedly flexed his fingers with a wicked glint in his eye. “I have been told I possess magic fingers, but the context wasn’t anything holy.”
Gabe rolled his eyes.
The gardens slowly tapered off, giving way to a wide green field. Horses wandered placidly, not held in by any fence but the Church wall about a mile away, cutting up into the blue sky. It seemed even the livestock in the Citadel were creatures of luxury.
The stables were up a slight hill, a structure of shining wood nicer than anything Lore had ever lived in. Purple-liveried servants guided muscled mounts in exercises around a gleaming ring. Another man-made pond shimmered in the pasture like a jewel.
“Gods dead and dying,” she murmured.