Search parties traced the coach’s route from the castle to the château. Then he purified himself in the baths, receiving absolution from the priests of Zeus for the death of his enemy. Perfumed and oiled, he dressed in his robes of state and stole away to the mausoleum, where the effigy of Lucienne rested on her sarcophagus. She doth teach the torches to burn bright. The king knelt and wrapped his hands around her cold marble fingers. He traced the stone rose between her palms. He didn’t understand the ways of her goddess. He had no idea what part he was to play in the journey of her Beloved or even if that was what he’d heard. It was unthinkable to him that his journey was not paramount—he was the king. Perhaps he himself was the Beloved of whom the voice had spoken. But he supposed that was what priests were for—to explain the ways of divine if they could. Jean-Marc was not a holy man. He was a warrior king. Now he made as if to brush the tendrils of hair from her forehead, his rough fingertips sliding over smooth stone.
