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The Ardent Oarsman ignored him. His focus had drifted, now aimed upon the stone oar in his hand. He smiled at it, showing those horrible teeth, and lowered its handle into the pool. Shut his eyes.
And vanished.
He appeared directly in front of me. Took me by the throat—ripped me away from Rory and the gargoyle.
I screamed, a sickening rush stirring my stomach, and then I was vanishing with the Oarsman, his oar propelling us back across the pool. When my feet hit the ground, his stony grip fell from my throat to my waist, and then he was pulling me backward, onto his body—
Slamming the both of us into his throne.
The sprites rose to their feet and screeched.
“Stay your hand, knight,” he called in a booming voice. Then, as if only just seeing the coin locked in Rory’s grip, the Ardent Oarsman barked a laugh. “Where did you get that?”
“Nipped it off an Omen.” I thought I’d seen hate in Rory’s eyes before. I hadn’t. Not like this. “The Artful Brigand is dead. You’re about to join him.”
The Oarsman snapped his teeth, caging me against him. “Throw that coin and I will take a bite out of your Diviner’s throat, and my pets will do the same to you.” He nodded at the shale sprites. “One word from me, and they’ll eviscerate you. Starving things are loyal when fed.” For some reason, that made him laugh. “I would know.”
The gargoyle’s wings were spread, his bottom lip trembling as he watched the Oarsman’s hand return to my throat. And Rory—
Rory was looking at me. Raw and desperate and intent, like he was trying to tell me something. His gaze flickered to my belt.
The Oarsman loomed over me. “I can smell it on you,” he rasped. Hard fingers prodded my hips, my ribs and stomach. “Aisling’s spring water.” His stone eyes were devoid of life. And yet he looked at me with so much hunger. “How much have you swallowed, dreaming in that cathedral of yours?”
The Omen lowered his mouth to my neck. Ran his cold, wet tongue up my throat. He lifted a gnarled finger to my shroud—
I slammed my chisel into his leg.
An inhuman scream echoed through the hall. Blood spilled onto the throne, onto the floor, and then I was fleeing, sprinting around the pool, throwing myself between Rory and the gargoyle, the three of us bracing for the sprites to attack.
They didn’t. The Ardent Oarsman hadn’t commanded them. He was too busy wiping his own blood onto his hand. Bringing it to his mouth.
Licking it clean.
My words came from the dark dregs at the bottom of my stomach. “Tell me the truth. Tell me that you are not a god—that Aisling is a lie. Tell me what has become of my Diviners.”
“Not a god?” He stood from his throne, blood pooling upon the stone seat. “My oar is magic. I dip it in my basin, and can change the tide. Folk look to my waters for portents, for food, for vigor. I am Traum’s life force, her Tenor River, her strength—unceasing and unyielding. What is ungodly about that?”
I felt as I had with the Harried Scribe—as I had in every dream. The animal urge to run. But Rory’s hand found mine, and the gargoyle took the other, and suddenly we were bigger than the looming Omen in front of us. “Tell me where the Diviners are, Oarsman,” I said again.
“The river cares not for the rain. Your demands are nothing to me. But…” His fingers idled over his oar. “Never say I am not a benevolent god.” His lips were bloody now. He peeled them back in a horrible grin. “I know all about Diviners. Aisling’s willing, obedient flock. I know where they come from, and where they’ve gone. Stay here with me, and I will tell you everything.”
Rory’s hand flexed around mine. When I turned, he held my gaze, imploring with his eyes, his taut lips—the overwrought lines of his body—that I refuse the offer.
But he said nothing, letting my words alone fill the cavernous space of the Ardent Oarsman’s hall.
My voice trembled. “I have always been afraid to dream. Afraid to be watched by gods who lurked in shadows. It was my greatest shame.” I looked over the Oarsman’s heaps of gold. “But now I see you with my eyes. You are not a dream. You’re just a man, paid like a king to playact as a god. A facade, hoarding wealth, yet claiming to starve. You have no love for Traum, its Stonewater Kingdom, nor for the people who call you hallowed. Your glory may come from Aisling, but it was earned by the dreaming, the drowning, of Diviners like me.”
The truth bolstered me, no matter how horrible it was. “You say the river cares not for the rain, but it is the rain that feeds the river. In time, it can even wear away stone.” My words were like the fall of my hammer. Strong. Exact. “I am not afraid of you. Because without me, you would be nothing.”
The gargoyle let out a raucous hoot, and Rory—
There was a world behind Rory’s dark eyes. It was as if he could see everything all at once when he looked at me, and it was far too much, but he wanted all of it.
Ahead of us, the Ardent Oarsman let out a rasping laugh. “Have it your way.” He waved a gnarled hand in the air. “Your Diviners are lost. You will never find them, and I will tell you nothing of their fate.”
“You will.” Rory dragged his gaze off me and faced the Omen. “I challenge you to your craft, Oarsman—a match of vigor. And when I defeat you, the river will bow to the rain. Your oar will belong to the king, and you will answer the Diviner’s questions.”
“My craft.” The Omen’s fist tightened around his oar, and the sprites stirred, snapping their jaws. “Do you know what that means, knight? A challenge of vigor ends when strength is spent. If no one yields—a match against me is a match to the death.”
My stomach twisted. I looked up at Rory.
But his gaze was forward. Undaunted. “Give me three days to prepare.”
“Three days.” The Ardent Oarsman spat into his pool of water. “Agreed.”
Rory stepped back, leading the gargoyle and me toward the castle door.
“One more thing,” the Omen rasped. “Since it is your Diviner who requires answers upon my defeat—”
He was smiling once more, his jagged teeth coated in blood. “She must be the one to face me.”