He smiled back, equally hostile. His teeth were white, straight—except the front bottom three, which were crowded. A pallid row of disorganized soldiers. Were he to bite me, I imagined the indent would be as unique as his fingerprint.

What a horrible thought.

“With the nausea, then.” Smoke plumed from his nostrils. Again, he offered the idleweed. “Or it is a bad portent—smoking under a silver moon?”

“Not everything is a sign.”

“Could have fooled me. I can’t go anywhere in this wretched kingdom without hearing about how a coin fell or ink spilled or water moved or the wind chimed or a fucking thread snapped.” He shook his head. Laughed without warmth. “It’s clever, Aisling’s system. The stone objects the Omens are known for are common, their portents vague. The margin for error and misinterpretation is so wide my horse would die of starvation trying to get from one end to the other. And yet this cathedral, this hallowed ground, is the only place in Traum where people can justify that wasting one’s life looking for signs is a life well spent. They pay hard-earned coin to do so.”

The shock of his irreverence whipped through the air. I felt its sting upon my cheek. This kind of blasphemy was something the knighthood was supposed to root out of the hamlets, not cultivate within their ranks. Not in my ten years at Aisling had someone dared speak to me this way. What a vile man, unworthy of his station. I’d known it from the moment I’d clapped eyes on him that he was crude. Indecent.

The foulest knight in all of Traum.

My entire body bristled. “It’s not a waste. Divination takes away the pain of the unknown. Knowing if you are headed for something good or ill-fated is like peering into the future. It’s magic what the Omens do. What I do.” I leaned against the gate and ripped the idleweed from his hand. “Show some fucking deference.”

He watched me through eyes so dark I’d lost sight of his pupils. When he spoke, low and deep, it was like two voices sounding at once. That warm, rich tone—and a deep rasp, like knuckles dragged over gravel. “What’s your name?”

I brought the idleweed to my lips and drew in a tentative inhale. The smoke burned down my throat, sharp and hot. “What’s your name?”

“Rodrick Myndacious.” He winced, like he’d strung an out-of-tune fiddle. “Rory.”

My eyes watered. The smoke in my lungs had gone itchy. A cough that refused to be dampened bubbled in my throat. I put a sleeve to my mouth and hacked.

The corner of Rory’s mouth twitched.

“Six.”

His brows lifted. “Six.”

Oh. A fuzzy feeling was settling into me. The nausea in my stomach had uncoiled. Another puff of the idleweed and it was gone. Another, and the hollowness in my limbs was replaced by a warm, blanketing haze—

“That’s plenty.” Rory plucked the idleweed, which was just about gone, from my mouth. He dragged it over his bottom lip, took a final pull, and dropped it onto the path. “Six is a number, not a name.”

“We don’t deign to speak our real names.”

“Just like you don’t show your eyes?” His gaze flickered over my shroud. “Why is that, by the way? No one seems to know.”

I kept my lips sealed.

“So, it’s a secret.” He nodded. “And I suppose it’s also a secret why no one but high and holy Diviners are allowed to drink Aisling’s spring water.”

I thought of the flagon in King Castor’s hands. “It’s been attempted. Only a few years ago, a merchant from Coulson Faire was so desperate to see the Omens’ signs he rushed down the nave and drank from the spring like a pig from a trough. The gargoyles clocked him over the head and dragged him into the courtyard. He didn’t dream, of course, but he did vomit until he was sobbing. So, tell your king to go ahead and drink his stolen spring water. Just take care to mind your boots.”

Rory glowered, and I rolled my shoulders. “Only Diviners dream,” I said.

“But what is a Diviner, really? A foundling?” He looked me up and down. “The abbess strips you of name, face, clothes, distinction—cloisters you to the cathedral grounds, where you are destined to drink blood and drown and dream. You know of the Omens and signs and how to look down your nose at everyone, but nothing of what really goes on in the hamlets. Nothing of the real Traum that awaits you the moment your tenure is up—which, given your age, can’t be too long now.” He sucked his teeth and grinned at me in a way that was not at all friendly. “Careful, Number Six. Someone will accuse you of having too much fun up here on this god-awful hill.”

Heat choked up my neck. How dare he. “Hold your tongue or I’ll rip it out. I serve gods. You a serve a boy-king who has just garnered five ill portents. Only one of us is worthy of reproach.”

So abruptly I kicked up gravel, I turned on my heel and snapped open the gate to my cottage.

“Aren’t you going to apologize for my boots?” he called after me.

I turned to shout at him—throw gravel, maybe—but Rodrick Myndacious had already proffered me his back. Night carved shadows across broad muscles as he walked away. “It’s been a privilege, Diviner,” he threw over his shoulder.

I seethed all night and got no rest.

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CHAPTER FOUR BLACKMAIL, FOR INSTANCE

Dawn came, and the wind drifting through the cottage window traveled on a mournful note. Breeze always caught along the tor—and Traum was a windy land at that. I wondered if all of the hamlets sounded wailful when the wind blew.

The cottage door slammed. Voices reached the bedroom landing, and the staircase began its usual chorus of creaky complaints. “I still think we should castrate him.”

I smiled.

One and Three and Four had not been on their mattresses when I’d come to bed last night. They’d been out all night and were now hauling themselves into the large bedroom that hosted all six of us Diviners, throwing their cloaks down—looking like droopy flour sacks in their wrinkled white dresses. Four’s nostrils were flaring, her hands spinning. “It’s no less than he deserves.”

I sat up. Stretched my arms over my head. “Who are we castrating?”

“Don’t ask,” Three groaned, plopping onto her mattress.

Four turned to me, drawing in an affected breath. “He’s married. Wentworth is married.”

“And Wentworth is…?”

“The knight who all but pleaded for my attention yesterday. Obviously, I snuck out to see him—”

“And dragged the pair of us.” One yawned, her short brown hair pointing in all four cardinal directions as she dropped onto the mattress next to me. “She’s mad because my knight told me her knight had a wife and two little Wentworth pups back at home.”

“Something the bastard conveniently failed to mention while his mouth was between my legs,” Four said, braiding her hair with furious fingers.

Two and Five sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes. “The first man in history to lie about being married,” Two muttered, pulling back the blankets so Three could collapse next to her on their shared mattress.

“But he’s a knight!” Four’s cheeks went a deeper shade of scorn red. “My armor may dent, my sword may break, but I will never diminish. Isn’t that their creed?” She stalked to the opposite side of the room, where a small wooden table was fitted with a cracked looking glass, and sat on its lip. “They’re supposed to keep rules. You know, be good at love and faith and war and inane things like that.”

“Of course knights keep rules.” One rubbed her eyes. “The utmost being never mention wives. The next—”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I offered.