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.”

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN HIT ME AS HARD AS YOU CAN, ENCORE

The first foe I faced was not high in a crude mountain castle. It was in the room I shared with Maude and the gargoyle. Thrown in a clump on the floor.

My leather boots.

We’d gotten back from the Oarsman’s castle at dawn. The ceremony was over—Benji out of the water, the knighthood stationed and abed in the inn atop the mountain’s plateau. Rory had knocked on doors until he’d found Maude’s. “Get some rest,” he’d said, looking at me with a determined hardness. “See you in a bit.”

I woke hours later after a fitful nap. Outside, the sky was a patchwork of gray. Maude’s bed was next to mine, and the gargoyle was stationed between them with a blanket slung over his head. They were both snoring when I slunk from beneath my covers.

And faced the boots.

Ten minutes later, I was ready to throw them out the window.

“Mercy.” The gargoyle pulled his blanket from his eyes. “What’s that revolting grunting?”

“I’m trying to put these on.”

“Bested by a shoe.” He shuffled over. “I realize we are beginning to lose our faith in signs, but really, Bartholomew, this does not bode well.”

“I’ve got on the socks. And the boot lined up perfectly with the bottom of my foot. Only I cannot—” I held the boot in one hand and did my best to cram my foot down its neck. “It’s not sliding in.”

“What are these little webs?”

“Laces, you imbecile.”

He made a high ugh sound, then stuck his nose in the air and would not look at me. I was halfway into the boot, hopping on one foot—grunting and apologizing—when Maude’s eyes peeled open.

She stared. Snorted.

And got to work.

By the time the three of us quit the room, there was a layer of sweat on my brow and an even heftier one on Maude’s. I was wearing boots, a tunic, leggings, and a jerkin above them. The gargoyle, still bad-tempered to be insulted so early after waking, kept his nose high as he hurried ahead, knocking into knights on his way to the stairs.

“He’s fine.” I rolled my shoulders, straining against the unfamiliar leather—

And stepped right into Rory’s path. “Good, you’re… up.”

His gaze flashed over my body, the shape of me held close in leather. He, too, was in leather—bereft of armor. When his eyes fell to my feet—my boots—he pressed his teeth into his bottom lip. “The Diviner, wearing shoes. My faith is restored.”

“Explains why you’re drooling.” Maude grinned as she passed us. “How’s our king?”

“Still sleeping under a mountain of blankets. Here.” Rory handed me a cup of hot broth. “Drink up. We have a hefty day ahead.”

An hour later I was close to throwing it up.

“You’re slow,” Rory called.

He stood at the top of a crooked stairwell that cut up the mountainside to a lookout. The steps were uneven and treacherously steep. If I lost my balance, the fall would be excruciating.

“And you’re an ass,” I shot back. “It’s not as if the Oarsman challenged me to a footrace. Besides”—I spat phlegm dangerously near his boot—“I think I can best a craggy old man.”

Rory looked down where I’d spat, nostrils flaring. He shut his eyes. Muttered an invocation of profanity. “The Ardent Oarsman is not old, Diviner. He’s ancient. We still don’t know everything that oar can do. He’ll have no obstacle sending it through your skull if your feet remain idle.” His voice hardened. “I don’t want him touching you like he did last night. I don’t want him within a fucking mile of you. Keep your steps light.”

I ran the stairs again, trying to keep my knees high. “I can feel you scowling.” I coughed and made a truly atrocious retching sound. “Knock it off.”

“Apologies if your heavy-footed lumbering puts a sour look on my otherwise perfect face.”

I pulled myself upright. Reached for his cheek—dragged the corner of his mouth up with my thumb until he wore an absurd half smile. “That’s better. Still foul and unknightly, though.”

“Just the way you like me.” Rory nipped the pad of my thumb. “Now run it again.”

The north wind picked up, and the rain with it. A storm was coming from the peaks—the clawed fingers of the mountains. I put a hand to my face and continued down the path to the village. “I suppose that’s an end to our training.”

“Hardly.”

“But it’s going to storm!”