Chapter Fifteen The Many Names of a Common Flower #3
“Pious and well-informed never made good bedfellows, my naive friend. Ox-eye is a flower,” Benji garbled, waving his hand at me.
“There are iterations, depending on which hamlet you’re standing in, because apparently no one agrees on anything in this kingdom.
Some folk call it moon daisy. Ox-eye is a crude appellation.
But if you’re going for the traditional name, gowan will do. ”
My ears perked. “The flower that grows on the tor?”
“It’s a boring flower. Terribly common. But in extravagant doses—well.
You’re familiar with what it does. My grandfather’s recipe, you know.
He was such a learned man. A bit of a”—he belched—“a bit of an alchemist. Indeed, ox-eye came from his own attempts to replicate the very spring water you dreamed in. Though I hardly imagine he ever considered his concoctions would be used to placate vengeful Diviners such as yourself.” He sighed, wistful.
“Sadly, just like his kingship, my grandfather’s designs failed.
He did not slip into unconsciousness and dream of portents or gods like he intended.
Ox-eye is nothing like the spring water; it won’t give folk stone eyes, and it sure as hell can’t bring them back from the dead. ”
Dedrick stopped in the middle of the bridge. “Bring folk back from the dead?” It was horrible, seeing him like that. Gray eyes wide, gray teeth on display. “Is that what happens when one drinks the water on the tor?”
I turned to Benji. Gave him a murderous look.
“You—” In three steps Dedrick was right in front of me, my back against the bridge’s wooden rail. “You’ve consumed that water. Drowned in it over and over.” He was staring at my veil. “Aisling’s fucking waters, you’re dead?”
He barked out a laugh. “It’s nothing to do with the Omens at all, is it? It’s that spring.” He reached for his belt. Withdrew the inkwell. “You can’t tell the future any better than this thing, can you? And Myndacious…”
Realization washed over his face. “He’s dead, too, isn’t he? Stronger for it. The fucking cheat.” Dedrick caught my arm. “You’re going to tell the noble scribes exactly what that spring water does and get my uncle’s fortune back or I’ll—ugh.”
Dedrick jolted, face twisting, mouth going slack. Blood spilled from his body, pouring from his armor, slicking down his leg and onto cobblestones. He looked down.
The king’s sword was buried in his side.
Dedrick peered at his wound, then back at Benji in a bleary kind of wonderment, as if, for all his guile, he’d never imagined this outcome.
He let go of my arm. Lunged forward. Struck Benji so hard in the face the king was thrown back, hitting his head and crumpling into a ball.
Then Dedrick turned. My gaze fell to the inkwell in his hand, and I knew like I knew when the sun was setting and darkness nigh that it was time.
The hammer Rory gave me was still in my fist. I loosened my grip, letting it fall just enough so that its weight was perfect in my palm.
And swung.
I hit Dedrick’s arm, knocking the inkwell from his hand. The knight let out an ugly shout, and when I raised my weapon once more, he tried to catch it. Tried to stop me.
But he was not strong enough.
I brought the hammer down upon the Harried Scribe’s inkwell, shattering it, ink, like blood, spilling from hundreds of broken shards.
Dedrick stared at the carnage, his face twisted, then whirled on me, swinging his fist with the easy violence he’d exacted when in my chamber the night before.
I dodged his blow, caught his shoulder, and shoved him.
Back he staggered, and forward I rushed, pushing him with full force until his spine slammed against the bridge railing.
Air fled from Dedrick’s lungs. He coughed, choked, and fell to the ground, his underestimation of my strength written in the whites of his eyes.
“Tactical stratagem is well and good.” I panted like an animal. Dedrick struggled, and I kicked him in the stomach like he had me. Held him down with my foot. “But hitting things over and over again has its merits.”
But then he slammed his gauntlet into my ankle, blinding me with pain, and I lost vital footing, the cobblestones beneath my feet slick with blood.
Dedrick made it to his feet. Caught my wrist, the intellect washed from his eyes, a primal menace all that remained of him as he bled out.
“If I must fall from the board,” he rasped, “so too shall y—”
A whistle echoed through the air, sharp, exact, then—a horrible crunch.
Dedrick’s eyes went wide. He let out a choked breath, spit dribbling down his chin.
Blood spurted from the side of his head where his skull had cratered in.
Something had hit him. Something that lay at our feet, coated in red. It took me a moment to recognize it.
A pale chunk of limestone.
Dedrick stumbled forward, still holding on to my wrist. When his feet slipped over the smooth stones at the edge of the bridge, he toppled over the railing and fell like an anchor into the Tenor River.
Taking me with him.
Cold water filled my nose, my mouth, my eyes. I churned my arms, pressed my lips together—tried to swim without knowing how. But the current was strong, and the Tenor dark. I was getting turned around, up and down muddled, the air in my lungs already beginning to burn.
A hand caught my arm and lifted me from the water. I looked up into the face of a stone creature. He’d pushed aside a veil, revealing fangs and wide limestone eyes, a protruding brow upon a batlike face, and—a pink robe?
The gargoyle looked down at me and smiled. “Hello, Bartholomew.”