Chapter 46
The morning of Baudouin’s supposedexecution dawned unseasonably hot.
As the royal family and their guests assembled beneath the tented dais in anticipation of the ghastly event, everyone was flushed, their skin damp with sweat, their eyes heavy-lidded.
The servants were doing their best to keep everyone comfortable, passing out folded fans and flavored ices, but the air held too much tension and the desserts were left abandoned, melting into colorful messes that dotted the table linens and drew flies.
“This is barbaric,” Bellatrice muttered, flapping her fan near her face with irritation, both to stir a breeze and keep the buzzing insects at bay. “Picnicking while a man is put to death. Look at those people over there….” She snapped her fan shut and jabbed its end toward a cluster of people farther down the hill from us, gathered on spread blankets. “Are they feeding each other roasted chicken?”
Margaux leaned back, silver bracelets clinking against one another as she fluttered her fan. “I feel as though I’m the one roasting.”
She looked miserable. The neckline of her dress went all the way up to her chin. Her robes covered every inch of her arms and were long enough to skim her heavy boots. I wondered if such costuming was her own choice or something meant to mark her as the oracle. Several priestesses from the Ivory Temple were in attendance, each wearing diaphanous gowns of lightweight fabric that showed off their sleek limbs and bare feet.
Beside Margaux, Euphemia swayed listlessly. The little princess was hidden away in layers of heavy brocaded satin as dazzling a blue as the sky overhead. Her round cheeks were apple red, and I instructed one of the servants to bring her a fresh goblet, fearing heatstroke. “Why can’t we go home?” she whined, taking great gulps of the water when it arrived.
“They can’t begin until Papa arrives,” Leopold answered, continuing to scan the crowds, searching for any sign of the king.
“Where is he?” she snapped. “My head hurts.”
“Drink more water,” I instructed, struggling to speak up. The heat had lulled me into a foggy haze, and I longed to unclasp my bodice and fan my chest. “We all ought to be drinking more water.”
I wanted to tell them the secret of the day, that all this pomp and ceremony was nothing but a distraction from the real event: The king was going to forgive his brother. He was going to allow Baudouin to live, albeit it far from Martissienes, exiled in a monastery to the south. He’d be confined to a life with the reverents of the Holy First, taking vows of silence, poverty, and servitude. But Marnaigne had made me swear I would not say a word. The element of surprise would be his most powerful asset in helping the public accept this decision. I’d seen him that morning for a quick examination, and he’d paced his chambers, palpable waves of angst and elation rolling off him in equal measure.
When all this was said and done, I was going to prescribe him a very long rest.
“Good fortune and favor be blessed upon you all!” called a great booming voice at the back of the tent.
We all turned to see a new delegation of reverents arriving. Each temple in Châtellerault had sent members of their highest circles to watch the execution from the royal box. They were meant to offer us their spiritual counsel and add a touch of needed gravitas to the event.
“Amandine,” I said, rising to welcome the high priestess from the Rift. “It’s good to see you once more.”
I visited the Rift often, checking in on the orphans and other refugees, offering what services I could while wishing I could mend broken hearts as easily as other wounds. Amandine was always with the children, giving out blankets and meals as freely as she offered hugs and blessings upon their tiny foreheads.
“Oh, Hazel,” she greeted me. “What a joyous day, is it not? Triomphe and Victoire rain their blessings upon us. Félicité smiles brightly today.” Before she could exclaim another platitude, a figure approached, interrupting the moment.
“Hazel!” exclaimed my brother, pulling me into an embrace. “I didn’t expect to see you here today. Such fortunes! Such blessings!”
Over his shoulder, I caught sight of Leopold noticing Bertie’s arrival and wondered if he remembered my brother chasing him through the Rift the day he’d come to rescue me.
“I didn’t realize the Fractured would be in attendance,” I said, pulling back to look at him. It was a struggle to not wince. No amount of time would ever make me accustomed to the scars running across his body. A fresh cut bisected his temple, giving his face the appearance of a shattered mirror.
He smiled broadly. “Oh. Yes. High Priest Théophane wanted me to stop by the royal tent before…well, before it all begins.” He nodded toward an older man trying to begin a conversation with Bellatrice. “I’ve begun my training to take a spot on the high council in the Rift.”
“Bertie, that’s wonderful,” I said, unsure of what it meant.
“Bertrand,” he corrected me quickly, his eyes darting toward Théophane. “I’m twenty years old now. A man. The high priest says it’s time I gave up my childish nickname. It’s taking a bit of time to adjust, but it truly is such a blessing, such a joy.”
“That’s right,” I said, feeling foolish I’d forgotten. “Happy belated birthday.” I stood on my toes to press a swift kiss to his scarred cheek. “Many, many happy returns.”
“To you as well, little sister.” He reached up and pressed two of his fingers to my forehead, offering a blessing I wanted to squirm from. “May Félicité and Gaieté bring you great favor in the comingyear.”
Ritual done, he looked around the tent, taking in the pageantry and spectacle. As he caught sight of Margaux—refilling Euphemia’s water goblet while also trying to fan the heat-dazed princess—he frowned. Her face was beet red and dripping with sweat.
“Ices,” she declared to no one in particular. “I think the princess needs more ices.” She hurried from the box.
“Aren’t you glad your gods allow you to wear linen?” I asked with a small laugh.
“It does seem Misère is out in force today,” Bertie allowed thoughtfully, wiping his own brow before allowing his attention to wander once more. “The prince has returned home.”
