Текст книги "The Knight and the Moth"

Автор книги: Rachel Gillig

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

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 humanness in their faces. But the Heartsore Weaver—she didn’t look human at all. It wasn’t just her eyes that were stone. More like her entire face. A strange, distorted face.”

“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 grinned.

“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 grinned—“kindly fuck off.”

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 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.”

My frown vanished. “I can’t ask you to leave the knighthood.”

“Because you know I’d say yes?”

“Because the king relies on you. I can’t ask you to choose between—”

“You don’t have to.” His eyes were so dark. So soft. “I’ve already chosen.”

The frail tapestry of my soul expanded. “Won’t Benji be upset to lose you?”

“It’s not a death—just a departure. Besides, Benji doesn’t need me the way he thinks he does. He’s stronger than he realizes.” Rory nodded at the hedge and the king at the heart of it. “He knows I care about him. He’ll understand.”

“Will he?”

“He’ll have to. A knighthood is not a yoke. I’m no one’s drudge.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “But I’ll be your errand boy if you ask me nicely.”

“You’re such an idiot,” I said, smiling like one as I looked out over the sea. “Thank you.”

He nodded, a hint of rose in his cheeks. He’d seen me naked. Put his hands and mouth on me. And I marveled that this—standing with me in full armor, talking of the future, our future—should be the thing to make Rodrick Myndacious blush.

The threads of Benji’s tunic were all around, catching the wind, and all of them strong. Something I’d once considered a good portent. I didn’t need it now. I knew exactly how to read the signs—knew exactly what was going to happen to me. It was happening right now.

I was falling in love.

We watched the ceremony until Benji’s tunic was but five long threads. Folk in the crowd took hold of those threads, dancing in crooked lines around the hedge. The gargoyle danced with them, hopping and giggling. Maude and Benji stood aside with the rest of the knights, silently nodding at Rory and me as we disappeared over a bluff, Aisling’s spring water in a flask upon Rory’s belt.

We put it on a rock among thrift flowers. Undid its lid. Hid behind another rock and remained unmoving.

We waited. Waited.

The Heartsore Weaver did not come.

Two hours later, I yawned. “Maybe I dreamed her up last night.”

Rory shook his head. “That bruise is real enough.”

“Spring water worked for the Scribe, the Oarsman.” I peered at the flask upon the rock. “Why won’t the Weaver come?”

He didn’t answer, worrying his thumb over his coin.

Then, when the first star touched the sky—

“What are you two loitering around for?”

Rory swore and I jumped, the two of us turning. The gargoyle was there, trilling his claws happily as he waved at us. Maude and Benji, too.

They carried the Omens’ stone objects with them. Maude used the Ardent Oarsman’s oar as a walking stick, and Benji bore the Harried Scribe’s inkwell, the Faithful Forester’s chime roped tightly on his belt. The king wore leathers and a breastplate. “The ceremony is over,” he called. “I sent the knights back to the inn.” When he approached, his gaze shifted between Rory and me. “Any luck spotting the Heartsore Weaver?”

I shook my head.

“That’s because you are not looking in the right place.” Just as quickly as he’d arrived, the gargoyle sauntered off. “This way, chickens.”

We stared after him. “Do you even know who we’re looking for?” Maude hollered at his back.

“Of course I do. I know everything, and I know it exceedingly well. So come.”

We four shared a bewildered look. But Rory shrugged, Maude snagged the flask of spring water and fastened it to her belt, and then we were stepping on the same trodden flowers the gargoyle had crushed, hurrying after him.

He led us down a hill and up another, past a croft, until we were on the same cliff he’d gone to yesterday morning, where he’d looked out at the dawn.

He stood next to an old gray rock, turned to us, and held out his arms. “I will now accept your applause.”

Rory looked around. Saw nothing. Clapped with painful slowness.

I let out a sigh. “We’re not here to admire the sunset, gargoyle.”

“I did not bring you to see the sunset, Bartholomew.” He nodded at the earth near our feet. “I brought you to see what’s beneath it.”

Silence. Then Benji turned his head. “What’s that sound?”

“Can’t hear anything.” Maude put a hand to her bandaged side and winced. “If you dragged me up that hill again for nothing—”

“All I hear is the ocean,” I snapped.

Rory pulled me into the crook of his arm and stamped his palm over my lips. “Shhh. Listen.”

I made a note to bite him later and went quiet. At first there was nothing. Just the murmur of wind through grass and the hum of the sea and an invigorated owl, hooting in the distance. But just as I was about to sink my teeth into Rory’s palm, another sound called—closer than all those others.

Lapping water, coming from directly beneath us.

Rory and I both looked down at the stone next to the gargoyle’s feet and dropped to our knees. And I saw that the impression in the grass was slightly off. The stone had been moved, revealing a sliver of darkness in the ground.

“There’s something under it,” Benji said.

Rory dropped to a crouch. He grasped the stone. Made a low sound of effort I liked far too well.

“Oh, let me.” I added my fingers to his and lifted. The stone was heavy.

“No one’s as strong as you, is that it?” he said, straining.

We both lifted it in the end. But the effort to toss it aside was all mine.

Rory smirked. “Boastfulness is ignoble.”

“And you love it.” Maude joined us where the stone had been. In its place was a hole in the cliff, wide enough to fit my body. We gathered around it.

It was like looking down a long, dark throat.

The sound of lapping water was louder now. I could smell the salt of the sea. See the faintest reflection of water, twelve or so hands below us.

“My grandfather’s notebook didn’t say anything about caves beneath the Cliffs of Bellidine,” Benji said.

Maude sucked her teeth. “How do we even know the Heartsore Weaver’s inside?”

“This is what my dream looks like,” I murmured. “It’s dark, the only light coming from cracks above. I slam into a stone bench, and there’s a tapestry. That’s where I see the loom stone. Then”—I rubbed the prickles off the back of my neck—“there are footsteps. Heavy, like the ones I heard last night. A sharp clacking noise right behind me, but I never see who’s chasing me.”

The others stared.

“Well.” Benji’s throat worked as he swallowed. “That’s quite the dream.”

“It’s the most horrifying thing I’ve ever heard.” Rory was fidgeting so madly with his coin it was a wonder he didn’t accidentally propel himself through space. “I hate tight, dark places.”

“Let’s hope you never die,” the gargoyle said. “I hear graves are rather constrictive.”

Rory’s eyelids drew low. “Helpful.”

I looked down into the darkness. “How did you know this was here, gargoyle?”

“I told you, Bartholomew. I know everything I know exceedingly well.” He came to the lip of the hole. Sniffed the air. “Rather fusty.” He turned to me. “Shall we draw straws to see who will go down first? Or will you just cheat and choose the short straw on purpose like you always do?”

“I don’t always—”

Benji’s voice was a taut string. “I’ll go.”

“Calm down, Your Majesty. Let your ignoble knight go first.” Even in the dim light, I could see the warmth in Rory’s face was gone. He looked down at the blackness with a jaw of iron. Sat down on the grass and threw his legs into the hole.

“Rory, wait.” I caught his shoulder. “I can do it—”

“I know you can, Sybil.” He took my hand off his shoulder and brought it to his mouth. Pressed his lips over my armored knuckles. “But for fuck’s sake. Permit me.”

He jumped.

Time held me by the throat. “Rory?”

His boots hit rocks, and he coughed.

“Rory!” Maude hollered.

“I’m right here.” His voice ricocheted off the walls of the cavern, near and far. “Come down—I’ll catch you.”

I sighed. Sat and swung my legs into the hole. “Let’s kill another Omen.”

“Huzzah!” The gargoyle clapped.

And gave me an excited shove.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT THE HEARTSORE WEAVER

The air was close, smelling sharp like salt water and overripe like decay. I fell, heart in my throat, and then Rory was there, his strong arms folding around me. “I’ve got you.”

The gargoyle came next, though it took him a moment to squeeze his wings through the narrow hole. When he fell into the cavern, splashing Rory and me with water, he let out a raucous squeal. “And I thought flying was unsavory. But crawling in the earth like an insect—ugh, Bartholomew, look! A worm!”

Rory put his hand over the gargoyle’s mouth. “The point of a hunt,” he said, “is to catch your prey unsuspectingly. Be quiet or send yourself back up that hole.”

“And abandon Bartholomew to the Omen who tried to smite her last night?” The gargoyle batted Rory away. “What kind of squire would that make me?”

“A good squire is a silent squire.”

“Says the knight without one.”

“Both of you, shut it.” I squinted against darkness. The gargoyle had been right. There were worms in the cavern. Luminous green and blue and purple worms that lit the darkness, clinging to dripping mossy walls, climbing over lichen, over rocks. And while the dissonance of lapping water blighted most of the sound around us, I heard a small hum. The barest hint of a noise, coming from the worms.

“They’re sprites,” I whispered. “Tiny silkworm sprites.”

Rory and the gargoyle raised their eyes to the looming walls of the cavern. Pitch-black, it stretched on and on, and would have been impossible to navigate at night without a lantern. But the sprites, their small glowing bodies, cast an ethereal glow, like stars punctuating a moonless sky, affording us a view of a wide, vast space.

“Look out below!”

Benji didn’t jump. He traveled on the magical tide of the inkwell, appearing before us. Maude came after him, and Rory caught her, and she winced in pain. “It’s massive.” She peered at the walls around us. “It must have taken centuries for the sea to wear down all this rock.”

“How could someone live like this?” Benji asked, the cave throwing his echo back at him. “Ever in the dark?”

“You’d be surprised,” Rory murmured.

We struck out. Rory led, coin in hand, and I followed closely, gripping my hammer and chisel. Behind me was Maude, then the king, then the gargoyle at the rear.

“So you’re really not going to tell us how you knew this was here?” Maude asked him.

“I should think it rather obvious.”

“I promise,” Benji said, “it isn’t—”

“Quiet.” I perked my ear. “Listen.”

There. A harsh sound, and its echoes. Clack, clack. “Do you hear that?”

Rory’s gaze narrowed. “Yes.”

The cavern was widening. Diverting. We passed pools of dank, stagnant water. Ahead, the sprites glowed fewer, scattered. Everything was colder. Darker.

Rory stopped. Ahead, three separate tunnels loomed like valves into a black heart.

“Which way now, all-knowing gargoyle?” Maude said.

He made a contemplative hmm. “Perhaps those weavings will instruct us.”

I hadn’t seen them at first. They were worn and wet and growing velvety moss, just like the walls of the cavern. But the closer I got—yes. There were weavings on the wall. Three of them, each the size of a child’s blanket.

Worn down by time and the salt in the air, the colored dye had all but faded, the thread long frayed. Still, I noted how fine the stitches were—how intricate the braided patterns.

“They’re pictures,” Rory said.

So they were.

The first was of worms. Hundreds of them, crawling over walls.

The second picture was of small pale clusters, hanging from thread over a fire.

The third—

I felt my pulse kick.

The third was of moths, fluttering over a stone slab.

“She’s a silk weaver.” Benji pointed at the weavings. “The worm grows. The cocoon is boiled. Those that remain become moths.”

“Grotesque, educational, yet uninstructive,” Rory said. “We still don’t know which path to take.”

“There are five of us.” Maude’s knuckles were white as she leaned on the stone oar. She nodded at the first tunnel. “Benji and I will take this one. You and Sybil take the second, the gargoyle—”

“No one travels alone,” I said. “The gargoyle comes with me.”

“The moth,” the gargoyle whispered, turning to the third tunnel. “We’ll follow the moth.”

It was the darkest of the three paths. The tightest. When I stepped toward it—breathed its damp air—it was as if someone had put wet cloth over my mouth and nostrils.

“Meet back here in twenty minutes, and we’ll explore the final tunnel together,” Rory said, taking my hand. “If one group is not back, the other comes after them.”

Benji’s eyes lowered to our hands together. “Twenty minutes.”

Maude gave us one of her reassuring grins, and then she and the king were disappearing down the first tunnel, and Rory, the gargoyle, and I into the third.

Darkness closed its fist around us. The path sloped downward, deeper into the earth. I could touch both sides of the tunnel with my arms spread, and Rory had to slouch so as not to strike his head. “Can’t see an inch in front of my nose.” His breaths were fast. Labored.

“You all right?”

He didn’t answer. Then—“Just stay close to me.”

The gargoyle, undisturbed by the gloom, hummed to himself. “She did her best to spruce the place up, didn’t she? The old Heartsore Weaver?”

I peered over my shoulder. He was running his claws over both sides of the tunnel—snagging over a long, thick thread I had not noticed. “And look. She made a happy little rope to guide herself on dark nights like this.” He gave the thread on the left a tug, ripping it entirely from the cave wall. “Hmmm. Not very sturdy—”

A deep groan sounded from above. Rory and the gargoyle and I went rigid. I heard, then smelled, water rushing, far away at first, then closer, closer, until it was right behind us. We turned.

A wall of water came careening toward us.

Rory was shouting and I was ushering the gargoyle forward, and then all three of us were sprinting into darkness. But whatever pool had been emptied into our tunnel came on a monstrous current. The water caught us—threw our feet out from under us. We were swept into blackness, faster, faster.

And then we were falling.

We hit something hard, a loud ting sounding. Gold, I realized. We’d fallen onto a vast bed of gold at the bottom of a pit—a hole in the tunnel—water pouring over us in a torrid rush. I lost Rory, lost the gargoyle, coughed and spluttered. Salt water shot into my eyes and nose and mouth. I fought against the current, desperate to find my feet.

But the water kept rising.

I choked on Rory’s name. The water held me down, and so did my armor, and I was seized with the vibrant horror that I might easily drown like this. Weighed down without purchase, unable to stand, unable to swim—

A hand found the nape of my neck. Pulled me up.

Rory was coughing, too, struggling like me to keep his feet in the pit of slippery coins with water pressing down on him.

He shouted over the din. “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head. We held on to each other, steadfast as we pulled, each the other’s perfect counterbalance, until we found our feet. When I looked up, I saw that the water was not so torrid as before, running out of furious pressure.

“I say, Bartholomew,” the gargoyle called from the lip of the pit. He hadn’t fallen in. He’d flown to the other edge, the prat—and looked furious to be wet. “Are you quite well?”

“Right as rain,” I snapped. I looked to Rory.

And let out a sharp cry.

I could see it, even in the dim light—even with water in my eyes. A massive dent in Rory’s breastplate.

He gasped for air. “Keep your balance. There are pikes at the bottom of this pit.”

I swore, then shouted once more at the gargoyle. “Throw something down to us.”

“There’s a hefty weave of rope here—oh, but Bartholomew!” He screamed. “There are worms on it.”

“Gargoyle!”

“Must I always save everyone?” He let out a string of language so jumbled not even a scribe of the Seacht could make sense of it, retrieved the rope, and threw it into the pit.

Rory and I hauled ourselves out.

“Well.” Rory lay on his back and wheezed. “At least we know we’re in the right tunnel.”

“That pike might have killed you.” I leaned over him and ran my hand over the angry dent in his breastplate. “Gods, I could kiss your armorer.”

“What about me?” The gargoyle was seething. “Is no one going to kiss me?”

Rory reached for his face—kissed his stone cheek. “Help me get this off.” He winced. “It’s getting hard to breathe.”

I helped the gargoyle undo the straps and hauled the breastplate off. Rory coughed, then went suddenly pale. “Fuck.”

He looked down at himself. At the tunnel floor. “It’s gone.” Panic touched his voice. “My coin.”

All three of us peered into the pit. The torrential current that had knocked us from our feet was now a steady drip. But the remains of it were still there—a black pool of water deeper than I was tall.

“All the armor comes off, then,” Rory said.

“You can’t jump in there,” I cried. “What about the pikes?”

He stripped his gauntlets. “I’ll avoid them.”

“There must be thousands of coins at the bottom of that pit!”

Off came his vambrace, pauldrons. “Gold ones. Mine’s stone.”

“And that shiny new bruise on your chest—no doubt over your lungs? What about that?”

Next were his cuisses and greaves. “I’m a good swimmer.”

“No, no, Bartholomew, better that I take the risk. I am very good at saving people, after all.” The gargoyle stretched his wings, suddenly heroic after his kiss. “What exactly am I looking for again?”

Rory shot me a heavy-lidded glower.

I bit down. “Do you really need the coin?”

“As much as you need your hammer and chisel.” Off came his chainmail.

I wasn’t going to win this. “Just… be careful.”

Rory stood before me in his under armor. Hooked my chin. “It means something that you care enough to argue.”

Breath fluttered out of me. “Maybe I just like fighting with you.”

“I’m sure that’s the only reason.” He brushed his thumb over my lips. Dropped a kiss onto my mouth, pulled back—then kissed me again, like he couldn’t help himself.

The gargoyle sighed. “Really, Bartholomew, when are you going to put her out of her misery and tell her you love her?”

Rory’s dark eyes roamed my face. He grinned.

Then disappeared down the rope into the pit.

For a time there was nothing, just silence and the occasional sound of Rory in the water. The air in the tunnel was tepid, oppressive, and it was dark. So very dark.

Still, I saw it.

A shadow, darting past my periphery.

“Gargoyle?”

He was next to me, eerily still as he looked down the tunnel. “I saw it, too,” he whispered.

“Is someone there?” I called out.

Is someone there? my echo answered.