“Pride. Godlessness. Disdain, maybe.”

“And you’d defeat me by… what? Throwing me down in front of the knighthood? Aiming your pitchfork tongue at me, calling me stupid and a thousand other unflattering things? I’d say my pride is wholly forfeit at this point.”

“You say horrible things to me all the time.”

“I know.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Perhaps it’s why I worried you might be twenty miles away. That I might not—” He made a face. “That you might not come back.”

“I didn’t come back. I was arrested.”

“You and a gargoyle against a couple of guards? Please. You could be halfway to any of the hamlets by now, but you are not.” He paused. “As to the grievance of my godlessness—”

Rory’s back tensed, shoulders practically at his ears. “You. Me. Maude. Benji. The Harried Scribe. I realize it wasn’t exactly a mild way to show you the… complexity of the Omens.”

A complexity I did not yet understand by half. “Nothing about you is mild, Myndacious. Your disdain for Aisling, for the Omens—for me—has been written on your face from the moment I clapped eyes on you.” I sighed. The day was just beginning, and I already felt defeated by it. “My own fault for not seeing the signs.”

“I have disdain in me, yes.” Rory’s brows drew together, lips parted slightly enough for me to hear the shaky sound of his exhale. “But none for you.”

Our gazes held. They held and held, the effect sharper than the cracking of whips—

“Six!”

I turned, looking into a pair of beautiful green eyes. “Maude.”

She came before me. Gripped my arm. “Happy you made it back to us. I meant to ask yesterday—” She looked down at my dirty feet. “Where are your shoes?”

Rory snorted. “We’re working on it.”

Maude took my hand, winked at Rory, then went into the compound. “I should have something that’ll fit you.”

“Oh, there’s no need—”

“I’m being nice. You’ll be wanting the king’s ear.” She threw her arm over my shoulder. “But first you need a bath.”

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN TAKE UP THE MANTLE

An hour later, when the bathwater had gone cold, Maude brought me fresh clothes. Undergarments, two tunics, leggings, wool socks, jerkin. A belt for my hammer and chisel.

Leather boots.

Strange creatures, shoes. I held one up to the bottom of my foot. It was almost the exact right length. Someone had sized me up well.

I tossed it into the corner of the washroom. Donned the undergarments and ignored the rest of the clothes, opting for my Diviner dress. It felt profane, putting filthy clothes over freshly cleaned skin. But I was not yet ready to shed its encasement.

I did, however, wear the belt and my hammer and chisel upon it.

Maude tutted at my appearance but made no comment. She escorted me up staircases lined with books until we were on the top floor of the dormitory, standing before a tall chamber door.

A knight was there, trembling at the threshold. Next to him stood the gargoyle.

His stone nose was fixed upward. “What is the meaning of this, Bartholomew? I was roused from a perfectly fine nap.”

Maude sighed. “I figured you’d want your stone pet with you for the—”

“Don’t call him that,” I warned. “He’ll scream.”

“What are you whispering about? Why is your hair all wet and stringy?” His voice hitched higher. “Why was I brought in such a callous fashion?”

Maude nodded to the trembling knight. “You can go, Dedrick.”

He fled, and Maude stretched her lips with a thin smile and spoke slowly to the gargoyle, like he was a child. “You and Six have been invited to speak to the king.”

We entered the room, which was a richly furnished bedchamber. Like the Harried Scribe’s lair, it had a dome ceiling fashioned of glass. There were more shelves, more books, fine rugs, and a bed wide enough to fit five kings.

The gargoyle, like it was his own room, made his way to the bed, yawning.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Maude pointed at the large wood table in the center of the room. Three chairs were placed around it and three cups—plus one flagon—upon it. “He’s expecting you there.”

The gargoyle made a face. Pulled a quilted blanket off the bed, wrapped himself in it, and plunked into one of the chairs. I shot Maude an apologetic grin.

Her eyes darted between us, like she could not decide which of us was the greater oddity. “He’ll be here in a moment. Behave.”

She shut the door.

I hurried to the table. Pulled my chair close to the gargoyle’s and hissed in his ear. “I need you to comport yourself.”

“I have no idea what that means.” He sniffed the quilted blanket around his shoulders. “Sounds like something one does in a chamber pot.”

“That. Right there. That is not a normal thing to say. Absurdity will throw the conversation off course, and I need clarity from this boy-king. For the next quarter hour, every time you feel the compulsion to say something peculiar, smother it.”

He sank into his chair and sulked. “You ask a great deal of me.”

A door on the south wall opened, straight from a shelf. King Castor strode into the room in a fine white tunic, a smattering of scabs across his face where the Harried Scribe’s ink had burned him. Midday light fell upon his head, and though he was not wearing a crown, his golden hair was resplendent.

He carried two things. That ratty leather-bound notebook I’d seen his first night at Aisling Cathedral, and the Harried Scribe’s stone inkwell.

I stood from my chair. “Majesty.”

“Six.”

Bow, I mouthed to the gargoyle.

He made a crude sound of flatulence and didn’t get up.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Apologies, King Castor. He was woken prematurely from a nap.”

“Say no more.” The king put the notebook and inkwell upon the table and took his seat in the last remaining chair, and I fell into mine.

Silence took hold of the room. “Oh,” the king said. “You’re waiting for me to speak.”

The gargoyle and I exchanged a look.

“Forgive me. It’s just—” Benedict Castor’s cheeks grew red. “This was Maude’s idea, talking to you alone. She thinks I need practice, saying things without her or Rory there to fill in my nervous pauses.”

“What do you have to be nervous about?”

That made him laugh. “Almost everything. But enough about me. You must have a thousand questions. Before we begin, however, an egregious oversight must be addressed.” He grinned. “You should really call me Benji.”

“You don’t find that disrespectful?”

“Rory does it. Rory for Rodrick, Benji for Benedict.” He shrugged. “It’s just a nickname.”

“An atrocious one,” the gargoyle muttered.

King Castor—Benji—to his credit, was not provoked. “Likely. But it fits me well.” He reached for the flagon, poured himself, then me, a healthy helping of ale. “Do you drink?” he asked the gargoyle.

“He doesn’t,” I cut in, swiping the gargoyle’s cup.

He pushed out his lips. Pulled the blanket to his chin. Five seconds later, he was snoring.

I looked across the table at the king. “This all feels very strange.”

“Traum is a strange place.”

“Not so strange that five women should vanish into thin air.”

“Fair enough.” Benji gestured at his notebook, then at the Harried Scribe’s inkwell. “Which would you like me to start with? The history of the Omens, or their magical objects?”

It was unbearable that I, a Diviner of Aisling Cathedral, should need to be lectured on either. “Magical objects.”

“My favorite.” The king brought his cup to his mouth, exhaling pleasure as the swallowed the ale. It was hardly midday—early for a drink. But the ale seemed to ease him. He took the Harried Scribe’s inkwell and dipped his finger into its ink. “As you know, the Omens each possess a stone object—the mechanics of which are rather simple. This one, like the Scribe said, never runs dry of ink. Stir it clockwise”—he began to swirl the ink—“then toss it, and that ink will transport you.”