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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

HIT ME AS HARD AS YOU CAN, ENCORE

T he 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!”

“All the more reason to practice. If you’re thinking it will be sunshine and clouds three days hence”—he chuckled to himself—“you’re dreaming.”

The stairs were just the warm-up. The true training began on an upland about a mile from the village, away from the intrusive stares of fishermen or the curious knighthood.

Sparring.

“First things first.” Rory bit the finger of his glove and peeled it off. “How well can you actually see through that shroud?”

“I can see just fine—”

He threw his glove. It smacked me on the nose and plopped to the stones at my feet. “A vision issue?” Rory pondered. “Or just slow reflexes?”

I picked up the glove. Strangled it in my fist. “Neither.”

“Uh-huh.” He appraised me, rotating on the balls of his heels. “It’s a problem, obviously. Forget it getting wet like it is now—you get blood on it, it’s a blindfold, not a shroud. Then again, there’s an advantage to hiding your eyes in combat. Makes it harder for your opponent to anticipate your—”

I launched the glove. It struck Rory’s chin. He caught it as it fell, a flash of something wicked in his eyes. “At least your aim is sufficient.”

“I’m keeping it on,” I said. “End of discussion.”

“Fine—forget the shroud. Time for a happy encore.” He rolled his shoulders. Squared off with me. “Hit me, Diviner. Hit me as hard as you can.”

I ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth.

And rushed him.

There was a flicker of stone—the echo of a ping . Rory disappeared, and I crashed through air, legs pinwheeling.

He appeared three feet away. Caught his coin. Smiled.

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re about to go toe to toe with a creature far less courteous than me. You saw how the Harried Scribe attacked us even after he’d been defeated. No honor among thieves, and even less among gods. The Oarsman’s not going to fight cleanly. He’ll stand in that hall, near his pool, and spin you in circles. Even if you pull away from the water and deny him his advantage, that oar grants him substantial reach. He’ll use it to beat you down. Your job is to anticipate him.” The coin soared through the air. “Wrestle it away from him.” Rory was several feet away once more. “Once you’re in close—use that strength of yours and throw him down.”

I tried again and again to hit him. Every time I imagined I could anticipate his next move, Rory flickered away, slapping his glove against my arm or shoulder or back. “Think of it like dancing. Read your partner’s body—predict it.” The rain and the coin made a specter of him. “You liked dancing, as I recall. At Coulson.”

“I liked putting you in the dirt more.” I was gasping, knees aching, heavy on my feet, striking out wildly, wasting my strength on blows that met nothing but air.

It took no effort for Rory to throw the coin over my head, appear behind me—

And send me sprawling with a single push. “Come on, Diviner. Move those flat feet.”

When he sent me sprawling a second time, I slapped the ground.

“Again.”

But I couldn’t catch him. And the rage of that made me even clumsier.

“Are you embarrassed to be bad at something?” Rory asked. “Or just embarrassed to be bad at it in front of me?”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t take it so personally.” He flickered away.

This time I didn’t chase him. “But it is personal. The craft of Divination is a lie, and for ten years, I was its most devoted student. If there are no gods, then being their harbinger means nothing. I was never important—being scared and tired and ill was for nothing. I drowned for nothing.” My hands, my voice, shook. “And now the Diviners are gone, and it is up to me to find them, because no one else is searching. It’s all personal , this business with the Omens. You of all people should know that.”

Rory had stopped throwing his coin. He stood opposite me, hair in his eyes, soaked by rain, the muscles in his jaw bunching.

I sprang forward.

The coin never had the chance to leave his hand. I was already there, crashing into him, arms around his waist, shoulder in his diaphragm. I bared my teeth, muscles screaming.

And hurtled the both of us onto the ground.

I didn’t know where to put my hands. But there was a beast in me, and when Rory hit the stone with a sharp exhale, coin in his fist, I slammed his wrist to the ground, clambered over his body until I was astride his chest, took my other hand—

And pressed it over his throat. “Can’t you understand it’s all been personal?”

Neither of us did anything but pant, our breaths muting—or transmuting—the ire between us. I looked down at him through a rain-soaked shroud and he up at me through impossibly dark eyes, and for that moment we were his coin—two sides, perfectly balanced. His speed, my strength, like it was chance, only chance, that had determined which of us had come out on top.

Rory’s throat hitched under my palm. His wild pulse was everywhere. In his neck, his chest—in my own body.

“All right,” he said, his voice grating out of him. “It’s personal. If I was any good at talking to you, maybe I’d have already said that, because it’s personal for me, too.” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “It wasn’t for nothing, Diviner. You are important. You’re…”

He stopped himself. Looked down at my arm over his neck. Grinned. “You should know, if you’re going for the throat—”

Rory caught my arm with his free hand and wrenched me forward until it was my forearm, not my palm, pressing against his neck. “Up close is better. More control, less room for him to hit you or knock you aside.” Embers stoked his voice. “Lean forward.”

My thighs flexed around his ribs. “I’ll choke you.”

“As if you haven’t imagined a thousand ways to strangle me.” He bucked his hips and my weight shifted forward, my chest falling flat over his, my forearm pressing into his throat.

“Good.” Rory’s breath caught. “Just like that.”

Rain sluiced from my hair, falling down my nose, over the curve of my mouth, then dropping onto his. I looked down at his lips, and he up at mine, the distance between us eclipsing like a celestial movement, staggering and inevitable. I could feel the plane of his body—and the moment it hardened. Rory flushed. Slowly, his left hand rose to my face. He hooked my chin with his thumb and pressed, parting my lips directly over his. Then he was pushing up, his mouth ghosting over mine—

“You two still sparring?” someone called over the rain. “Or have we shifted tactics?”

I jerked back. Benji and Maude stood paces away. The gargoyle was there, too, poking raindrops out of the air. “I say, Bartholomew,” he said distractedly. “Are you quite well?”

I peeled myself off Rory faster than I’d run my warm-ups. “I’m fine.”

“I meant that Bartholomew.” The gargoyle flicked a stone finger at Rory. “The knave looks undone.”

Rory was still lying on the ground, breathing hard, eyes unfocused. I watched his chest rise and fall, and then he was scraping a hand over his face, rising to his feet, and coming to stand next to Maude and the king.

I noticed then how rigid Maude stood. How low her brows were over her green eyes. “Three days isn’t much time.”

Benji was red around the nose and wearing an extra cloak, like he hadn’t yet warmed from being in the water during the ceremony. “We’ll get her ready.” From his pocket, he withdrew the Harried Scribe’s inkwell. Smiled at me. “By any means.”

Maude’s features twisted in a knot. “That’s her weapon? Scalding ink against an oar?”

I could hear the doubt in her voice. It felt like a sign—a portent. A terrible omen.

“I’ve a better idea.” Rory held out his hand under her nose, the Artful Brigand’s coin waiting in his palm.

He turned his gaze to me. There was still a hint of red in his cheeks. “Do you know how to skip a stone, Diviner? Throw it flat?”

“Yes.”

He beckoned me forward. When I reached into his palm and took the coin, I was surprised by how heavy it was.

Rory rounded my body. “There are two rules to that coin. Rule one: Throw it with the smooth side up, and the coin will transport you to any place you toss it. You won’t touch anything—walls, doors, even your opponent. You’ll be like a ghost.”

“And the other side?”

“More aggressive than a ghost,” Maude deadpanned.

Satisfaction stole over Rory’s face. “Rule two: Throw the coin the rough side up, it will break through anything it encounters until it loses momentum. But you’ll have to chase after it—so make the throw count.”

I turned the coin over in my palm. “So if I were to throw it rough side up, let’s say, at your head—”

“You’d be picking the pieces of my brain off Benji’s cloak.”

“Not much of a mess, then.”

Maude went to stand opposite me across the yard. “Toss it toward me, Six. Not through me, mind. Smooth side up—toss it so you’re standing on my left.”

I looked down at the coin.

“Don’t worry, Bartholomew,” the gargoyle called. “If you accidentally kill her, I will not be upset.”

“I will!” Benji’s blue eyes widened. “Just… be careful.”

“Everyone shut up.” Rory’s eyes were on me, a challenge toying within them. “Let it fly.”

I hauled in a breath. Swung my arm, my wrist. Let loose the coin—

And disappeared.

It was just like at Aisling when Rory and I had slipped through the cottage door. Speed and nothingness. I disappeared, my body eclipsed by rain and wind in an exhilaration akin to dancing—and then my hand was out, catching the coin.

I rematerialized at Maude’s side.

I’d hoped to impress her. But there was still doubt in Maude’s voice. “Again.”

I was already away, the coin soaring once more. This time when I caught it, it was directly in front of Rory’s nose.

“Your turn, Myndacious,” I said, breathless. “Hit me as hard as you can.” I flickered away. “ If you can.”

The chase began. Maude, Rory, Benji, even the gargoyle—though he hid his eyes behind his hand half the time—tried to tag me before I could flicker away with the coin. Sometimes I did not catch the coin and they caught me. Benji managed a few swipes at my back, my hair, but he was slow—easy to dodge. Not like Maude.

And certainly not like Rory.

The yard was a game board, and he was always a move ahead. Even when I threw the coin in a direction I supposed out of reach, he was already running, already reaching out, already catching me. Long and limber and bereft of armor, Rory kept his knees bent, his eyes tight in concentration.

And his feet fast.

By the tenth, maybe the twentieth time he’d caught me, I was seething, and Rory looking dangerously close to having a good time. “Good. You’re mad.” He turned the coin over in my palm. “Time to break things.”

Maude and the gargoyle and Rory hauled stones, discarded wood—anything that wouldn’t be missed—onto the upland.

This time, I threw the coin rough side up.

And shattered them.

The gargoyle clapped.

They made a square of sticks, mimicking the pool in the Ardent Oarsman’s hall. I practiced around it, never getting too close. “Draw him away from his pool,” Rory instructed. “Deny his oar its magic, its advantage. Stay away from water, and he will be but a man with a stone oar.”

But for every hour we trained, for every time the coin grazed stone or wood but did not shatter it, the lines in Maude’s face deepened.

By night, I was a shell of a human. I wobbled to the inn, ate with the other knights, but was so close to using my dinner plate as a pillow that the gargoyle took me from the commons, brought me to our room—tossed me into bed. I was asleep in seconds.

When I woke, the moon was still a visitor in my window. The gargoyle was snoring next to my bed, a blanket thrown over himself.

Maude’s bed was empty.

That’s when I heard the voices. Just outside the door.

“What, Maude?” It was Rory, snapping. “Just spit it out.”

I tiptoed to the door. On the other side, someone let out a low sigh.

“I already told you. Three days is not enough time to prepare.” Maude’s voice was hard. Steadfast. “It should be you or I facing the Oarsman.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Rory’s voice became perilously soft. “You think I want a single scratch upon her?”

“If the Oarsman challenged her, then we should honor that,” another voice said, softer than the others. Benji. “We should do things the proper way.”

“The Artful Brigand was cruel, but idle,” Maude bit back. “And the Harried Scribe was too enamored with his own wit to put up much of a fight. The Ardent Oarsman is the Omen of strength. He will be ruthless. Six has been stuck behind a wall for years. If we do things the proper way, this Omen could kill her.”

My throat tightened.

“Surely she knows that,” Benji said. “Dying, after all, is the risk of killing.”

“You say that, Benji, and you said it easily, because you know Rory and I will do your killing for you. We swore to it, but Six did not. She’s never killed anything or anyone. And I fear—” Maude’s voice became uncharacteristically rough. “I fear she will die without ever having lived.”

I flinched, as if struck.

“Maude,” Benji said gently.

Another sigh sounded. Then—

Rory spoke, hard and sure. “She can beat the Oarsman. I don’t have a single doubt.”

Footsteps echoed, closer to my door. I withdrew, and the latch turned. When Maude stepped into the room, head low, her eyes widened over me, sitting upright on my bed. “You’re awake?”

I nodded.

I could see in her eyes that she knew I’d overheard them. She opened her mouth to say something, but words never came. Maude undressed, got in bed, and I pulled my blankets over my ears and faced the wall, thinking on dying and killing and living, and how I was unsuited for all three.

For two more days, dawn to dusk, the steps repeated. I woke. Moved my feet up the lookout staircase. Then back down to our makeshift training ground. Rory used the coin, appearing and disappearing—and Benji did the same with the Harried Scribe’s inkwell. I tried to anticipate them. To kick or hit or say something sharp to get them to hold still long enough for me to knock them over. Then it was my turn with the coin. I practiced smooth side up—disappearing and reappearing around the makeshift square while Rory, Benji, and the gargoyle tried to catch me, then rough side up, breaking things while visualizing the Ardent Oarsman’s legs, his arms, shoulders, or knees. Anything I might break to get him to yield. And I did. For the Diviners, I hit every. Single. Mark.

It was only when I thought of what Maude had said, though she kept silent now, that I erred. When my foot slipped on the stairs, when I dropped the coin or missed its target. Maude, and the words she’d dealt.

She will die without ever having lived.

And then it was nightfall of the third day, and there was no more time to train, no more time to prepare—

And hardly any to live.

I couldn’t sleep.

The gargoyle was snoring, and so was Maude. She’d come into the room an hour ago, undressed, turned to me, opened her mouth, shut it, and turned to the wall to sleep.

I sat upon the windowsill and looked out. Gentle, the night. Gone was the storm, the torrid rain and hail that had ripped through the Peaks the last two days. The clouds were vanquished, and the sky was that romantic shade between violet and black and sapphire, the wind a susurrant noise. I could hear owls, and farther, the lull of the Tenor.

I wondered if the Ardent Oarsman had something to do with it. The magic stone objects were all transportive and destructive. Maybe he had caused the storm somehow, and had now taken it away, lulling me into a false sense of ease.

“Mouse in my ear,” the gargoyle murmured, twitching in his sleep. “Bartholomew, water the tulips before they bite.”

I caught myself smiling at him. Oh, to be a gargoyle.

A shy knock sounded on the door.

I opened it a crack. “Lost, Myndacious?”

“You’re awake.” Rory stood in the dim light of the corridor wearing a loose tunic and leathers, dark hair strewn over his brow. He seemed surprised to see me. “I thought Diviners were good at sleeping.”

“If you’re looking for Maude, she’s long abed.”

“I’m looking for you.”

He was getting better at finding my gaze through my shroud. “I didn’t—if you were sleeping, I didn’t—” He rolled his eyes. For once, the gesture seemed directed at himself. “I wasn’t trying to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” I stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind me. “Can’t, actually.”

His gaze dipped. I wasn’t wearing anything but a pale nightshirt. Rory was antsier than usual. Bright in the cheeks, shoulders tight, hand moving invisible puppets in this pocket. “There’s a place,” he murmured. “Not far. It’ll help with the restlessness.”

“Will I need my shoes?”

Finally a smile. He tried to hide it, biting down on his bottom lip, but he was a poor actor—the entirety of his body eased. “Not this time.”