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 inn.

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 inn—who’d smiled at me that first rainy day.

When she addressed the crowd, her voice was frayed by age. Wobbly, but still harmonious. “I’m Brenna Bassett. My family have lived along the Cliffs of Bellidine for over two hundred years. We’ve seen many kings. When a new one arrives, weavers like me have stood in this spot and said the Heartsore Weaver is the truest Omen. That only love, only heartbreak, can weave the thread of all that came, and all that is yet to come.” She paused. “But really, who are we kidding? We don’t have time to weigh the merits of gods, or which is best. We hardly look to portents at all. We’re too busy trying not break the bloody loom.”

The crowd laughed.

“But,” Brenna Bassett continued. “But. There is something to be said about love. Be it for ardor or sorrow, love is like the Heartsore Weaver—like an Omen. Its signs are everywhere. We may seek it, create it, feel it, ignore it, or lose it, but it is always there. Love is like our loom stone—it keeps us rooted to the world. To one another.”

The crowed nodded along, but I held perfectly still, listening.

“The truth is,” Brenna said, “we of the Cliffs of Bellidine are not too busy to look for the Heartsore Weaver’s signs of love and heartbreak. We do look for them. The world is a frightful place.” She found me in the crowd. Nodded. “Divination is a gift we give ourselves—that we might avoid the pain that comes from living, from loving, if we see it coming.

“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.

It felt unexpectedly hallowed.

Rory leaned close. “You’re frowning.”

“I did not expect it to be so lovely and gentle,” I said, the bruise on my shoulder from last night throbbing. “For such an abrasive Omen.”

The threads pulled and pulled. And while Benji’s tunic unspooled around him, baring his chest to us witnesses, he was not made prostrate for it. He seemed almost comfortable, eyes shut, shoulders eased, as if heartened to feel the sun on his skin.

I kept frowning. “Rory.”

His gauntlet scraped against mine. “Hmm?”

“What will happen when the king is finished taking up the mantle? When he has all the stone objects and Aisling loses its power?” The journey through Traum was ending. My fruitless quest to find my friends—my sworn retribution against the Omens—nearly over. Something new was drawing nigh, but I could not tell what it was, only that its shapelessness unnerved me.

Rory searched my face. “Whatever you wish. The world is yours, Sybil.”

I watched Benji, standing in the heart of the hedge like I’d once stood upon Aisling’s chancel. “Trouble is, I wouldn’t know where to go if I wasn’t following the knights.”

“You can go anywhere you like. You have the gargoyle. Your armor, your hammer, chisel.” He looked into my eyes. Said, so very plainly, “And you have me.”