“Goddess, what is that?” the queen whispered, her face paling. She’d drawn close enough to grip Magnus’s sleeve.
It was over as quickly as it began.
The king swept his gaze across the crowd, his brow furrowed as if he was concentrating very hard. “Is this what she meant, I wonder?” he murmured.
“What did you say, Gaius?” the queen asked, her voice shaky.
“Nothing of interest.” He handed the bloody knife off to a guard and wiped the bit of blood that had sprayed onto his face with a cloth offered by another guard. “Come with me. We will tour the interior of the temple. I’ve decided this is where the wedding will take place.”
“Here?” Magnus finally tore his gaze completely from the dead lord, whose eyes sightlessly glared at Magnus with reproach. “In the temple dedicated to the arch enemy of the Goddess Valoria?”
“I had no idea you were so devoted to our goddess that you would be offended.”
He wasn’t, of course. Most Limerians were very devout in their faith, dedicating two days a week to silence and prayer, but Magnus had found it difficult to believe in anything with true passion in his life. Still, this venue struck him as an unusual choice.
The more he considered it, however, the more he realized it was strategic. Where else would the princess be wed but in the place her people, even those who’d recently strayed from strong adherence to their collective faith, would find most sacred? Limerians were already under the king’s thumb. Paelsians were too poor and downtrodden to be considered a true threat to the crown, especially now that they were being rounded up to construct the road. But Auranians—they were still the wild card as they began to emerge from their collective, hedonistic slumber.
Thirty chiseled white marble steps led into the massive temple. The entire building seemed to be carved out of the material, which also seemed to be everywhere in the palace. It reminded Magnus of the ice that stretched out before the Limerian castle. Pale, cold, pristine.
Massive marble pillars stretched up to the roof, lining the interior. The main sanctuary had a twenty-foot-tall statue of the Goddess Cleiona at its entrance, her arms stretched to her sides. Carved into her palms was the triangular symbol for fire and the spiral symbol for air, the elements she embodied. Her hair was long and wavy, her expression haughty but strangely captivating. For a moment, the goddess reminded Magnus of the one named for her, the princess herself.
The heady scent of incense and fragrant candles wafted through the air. At the altar, a fire burned, representing Cleiona’s eternal fire magic. There was nothing like this in Limeros. The Temple of Valoria was dark and utilitarian and always filled to overflowing with worshippers.
This place, though . . . it felt like magic.
Aron caught Magnus’s eye. There was now a sour look on the lord’s face.
“I’m so pleased for you,” Aron said, his voice tight. “May you and Princess Cleo have many wonderful years together.”
“I can only pray I will be able to make her as happy as you would have,” Magnus replied wryly.
“Of course.” There was a catch to Aron’s voice as if he wished to say much more than this. Wisely, he didn’t.The king approached. “Well, well. I’m so glad to see the two of you are becoming good friends.”
“How could we not?” Magnus said. “We have so much in common.”
“Go find Cronus,” the king said to Aron, referring to the captain of the palace guard, “and tell him to ready the carriages to bring us back to the city.”
“Yes, your majesty.” Aron bowed, then turned to hurry out of the temple.
Magnus couldn’t help but ask. “Why do you tolerate him?” “He amuses me.”
“Certainly worth an appointment to kingsliege. Amusement.” “He does whatever I ask. Perhaps you could learn much from him.” It was delivered lightly, but felt more like a lead weight than a feather.
“I don’t have much of a taste for licking boots.”
“Or for unexpected public displays of death, it would seem. You didn’t approve of what I did outside, did you?”
Magnus measured his next words. “He spoke out against you publicly. Of course he deserved to die.”
“I’m glad we agree. I do think it was meant to be. A splash of blood on the starting point of my road is symbolic—a fitting sacrifice for a chance to find the ultimate treasure.”
Finally, a topic worth discussing further. “Have you had any luck in your search?”
“Not yet. We’ve only begun, my son. Patience will do us both good in many areas.”
Patience? Not exactly something his father had ever possessed in spades.
“Of course,” Magnus said instead, moving toward the smooth white wall and absently tracing the etching of the symbol for fire, a repeating motif throughout the temple, with the tip of his finger. “You’re speaking of my impatience with Lucia’s recovery, too, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“The attendant said that Lucia had stirred in her sleep yesterday and she believed she would awaken. But then she didn’t, of course. Mother, did you know this?”
Queen Althea drew closer. “Yes, I was there. It’s happened before. Every few days she stirs, she murmurs as if she’s dreaming. And then she goes silent again.”
“You visit her bedside regularly,” the king said. It wasn’t posed as a question since he already knew the answer. The king knew everything that happened within the palace walls.