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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN LOVE AND HEARTBREAK
I woke with a terrible ache. The whole of my body was rigid, my muscles hard and overstrained. I let out a creaking groan. Sat up.
Someone cleared their throat.
Maude was sitting on her bed, Benji beside her. He was wearing a beautiful tunic, woven in intricate patterns, dyed astounding colors. The gargoyle sat on the floor next to him, staring at it in a quiet daze.
Rory was near, standing tall. A shadow over my bed.
They were all watching me.
“Pith.” I pulled my blanket to my chin. I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I’d taken it off to examine the mark on my shoulder the hooded figure had left last night when I’d tried to stop them from fleeing. A truly spectacular bruise sat on my collarbone, the skin an ugly shade of purple. Happily, nothing seemed broken. “You needn’t all be here. I told you last night, I’m f—”
“Say fine, and I’ll combust.” Rory reached down, gingerly moving the blanket and examining my bruise. “Well.” His voice was far too calm. He bent, ghosting his lips over damaged skin. “If it was indeed the Heartsore Weaver, I’m going to enjoy killing her.”
He raised himself, kissing my neck as he went, the air between us immediately warm.
“Was she very terrible?” Benji asked, his voice slow, quiet, as he beheld my stone eyes for the first time. “The Weaver?”
“I hardly saw anything besides a face. It wasn’t…” I frowned. “The Harried Scribe and Ardent Oarsman were horrible to look at. But I could still see some huma
“Did she say anything?” Maude asked.
“No.”
“Likely wanted to eat you,” Benji muttered.
“Did that really need to be said?” Rory snapped.
“Anyway.” The king ran a hand down the back of his neck. “We’ll catch up with her. Lure her out with spring water during the ceremony, like we did the Oarsman.”
We all nodded.
“And while you all are engaging in heroics”—Benji swished his colorful tunic—“I’ll be paraded about in this. Apparently Tory Bassett’s mother made it especially for me.” He frowned. “Not sure what it’s for.”
“At least one of us is dressed,” Maude said. “I can hear the knighthood rumbling about. I need to change my bandages, and Rory’s not in his armor yet.”
“I’m not in anything,” I muttered.
“And I’m not complaining,” Rory said.
I slapped his arm and he gri
“No one expects you to still come to the ceremony, Maude,” Benji said gently. “You can stay and rest if you—”
“I say this with love, Benedict Castor.” She pinched his cheek. “Shut up. I’m a knight, and I will attend your ceremony with the rest of the knighthood. In fact, both of you”—she gri
The gargoyle was Maude’s squire as well as mine. He was helping her tie her boots, and making a pig’s ear of it, when I stepped out of the room, surprised to find Benji still there.
“Six.” He smiled, then nodded at the door. “Do you mind?”
I shut it.
“I wanted to clear the air after the other night.” I looked for the boy in Benji. The easy smile, the eagerness in his blue eyes, but they were hard to find. Now, his gaze was clouded, his smile practiced. “Hamelin’s… well. He’s not the charmer he imagines, but his mother is the wealthiest woman in the Fervent Peaks. Dedrick Lange’s family owns half the Seacht, and Tory Bassett is a fearsome fighter. Loyalty is political—being their friend has its advantages.”
I imagined it did. “Not at the cost of your friendship with Rory, I hope.”
“Of course not. But Rory…” His cheeks went red, his gaze falling to his shoes in a sudden discomfort. “Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve always looked up to Rory. Tradition, virtue, loyalty—those things don’t touch him. You saw how he was when I knighted you, nitpicking what you should or should not swear to. He was like that with his own vows as well, despite the fact that it was my grandfather who saved him—” Benji paused, clearing his throat. “What I mean is, I envy him his freedom. Rory keeps his own rules, beholden to nothing and no one.”
I’ll do anything you ask of me.
I frowned. “Perhaps always looking up to him means you do not see him clearly. Rory is the most loyal person I know.”
Benji’s gaze lifted. “Perhaps.” Then, like the storm that had passed over the Cliffs of Bellidine, the clouds were gone from the king’s eyes. He seemed like himself again—lively and eager. “Where’s your shroud?”
“Gone.”
He did not look upset that I’d flouted his wishes, nor was he repulsed or afraid to look at my eyes. The king looked almost… awestruck. “Stone eyes,” he murmured. “As ever, you’re wildly intimidating. A desirable trait—one I’ll use to my advantage when I sit on the throne back at Castle Luricht.” He looked down at his ceremonial tunic. “Rather unlike me, wearing a glorified quilt. I suppose I should be happy that this hamlet does not require me to be naked and cast into freezing water.” He squeezed my hand and dropped it. “See you out there.”
“Benji—” I swallowed. “I don’t know if I’ll be joining you at Castle Luricht.”
His eyes went blank, and I took a steadying breath. “That is, my focus is ever on Aisling. On putting my hammer and chisel upon it and destroying everything the Omens have built. What comes after, I don’t know, only that I’ve learned not to promise a future that may not come to be.”
He stayed quiet a long moment. “Did Rory tell you to say that?”
“What? No. I just—”
“Traum is a dangerous place, Diviner.” Benji’s voice softened. “There are terrible sprites. Terrible folk, too. But with me, you will be safe. You will garner the power, the awe—the respect—you are due.” He reached out. Patted my shoulder. “Everything will turn out well. Have a little faith.”
My muscles tensed. “And if I still wish to find my future away from Castle Luricht?”
Benji met my gaze. Smiled. “Then, of course, I will let you go.”
He bowed, then turned down the corridor. I watched him walk away, something cold chafing inside of me.
It was the first ceremony I’d attended where the entire hamlet was welcome. Folk of the Cliffs of Bellidine wore their finest knits, woven and dyed tunics similar to the one Benji wore. They joined the king and his knights, and together, like a herd of colorful lambs, we moved to a hedge that had been made to grow in the shape of a circle, a mile west of the i
There were elders. Barefoot children. Young girls who threw flowers, and young boys with sunlit eyes who looked up with longing at the knights and their armor and their weapons.
Folk were wary of the gargoyle—but only at first. “Is it a sprite?” a little girl with silver hair like mine asked. “Does it bite?”
“It is a he, and I believe he is a very old kind of sprite,” I called back. “And yes. I’m afraid he’s known to bite.”
“Slanderous imp, I am not.” The gargoyle smiled at the girl, his fangs on full display. I worried she’d cry, but she giggled, then gave the gargoyle a crown of pink flowers.
When we reached the hedge, we spread out around it. I made sure to stand on the north side, where the gargoyle and I could see the sea, and Rory and Maude came to stand next to us.
“Everyone here looks rather cheery,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “It’s alarming.”
Benji and five women, all wearing brightly dyed knits, entered the hedge’s circle through a narrow gate, then moved to stand in the heart of it. The women made their own circle around the king. I recognized the one who ran the i
When she addressed the crowd, her voice was frayed by age. Wobbly, but still harmonious. “I’m Bre
The crowd laughed.
“But,” Bre
The crowed nodded along, but I held perfectly still, listening.
“The truth is,” Bre
“But I like to think there are times when the thread of our faith in love is so resolute that we forget to search for signs.” She nodded to the crowd. “When a babe learns to walk. When friends gather around a sickbed, or deathbed, and sew a patch onto the family blanket. A couple’s kiss on their wedding day, and the night that follows. We do not look for love, or heartbreak, because they, like the truest god, are ever with us.” She smiled. “And it’s a privilege to know them.”
She approached Benji. “Thank you for honoring us with your presence, Benedict Castor. May you know love, and heartbreak, in your kingship. And may we, together, be witnesses to its wonders. Pupils of its portents.” She raised her hands. “Ever but visitors.”
Benji sounded a little breathless. “Ever but visitors.”
“Ever but visitors,” the crowd echoed.
“Ever but visitors,” the gargoyle cheered.
The five women reached for Benji’s tunic. From its collar, its sleeves, its bottom hem, they each pulled free a thread, then tied that thread to their ring fingers and brought their hands to their hearts.
They began taking small, incremental steps back. And the tunic—all that beautiful stitching—became undone.
It was the first ceremony that had held me rapt. I watched Benji let his arms fall to his sides, the weaver’s stitching—their hard work—unspooling around him, and felt strangely moved. They did not make a spectacle of their king or their faith or their craft. No one was put low so that the Heartsore Weaver, the Omens, might be lifted. No hurt was tended for the sake of holiness.