She’d told herself the same thing a thousand times over the years. The likelihood that Brandt survived when no others did was small. “I know. I can’t help hoping.”
“Go to the Nadir’s office right after sunset. They’ll have the official report. I can close the shop tonight.”
The Nadir’s office hadn’t changed since the first time she’d visited. Same stone stairs, same long line of humans waiting to lodge their complaints. But after all their dealings during the trial of Wilkin and Aelbert, Idabel was all-too-familiar with the rookery entrance, the one usually reserved for gargoyle business. The keeper on duty recognized her and waved her through, and she was given an audience immediately.
Bardoux perched behind his slanted desk, hunched and dim-eyed, though his moss had recently been scrubbed away. Something complicated passed between them as they greeted one another. They were not friends, of course, but they had mutual respect born from a shared crisis.
They’d worked together to put Lord Wilkin away for good. Neither one could have done it alone. But their greatest effort hadn’t kept the Sixth Watch safe. She had lost a mate. He had lost a nephew. So their shared victory was bittersweet. Neither ofthem could look at each other without the understanding of what was missing.
“Idabel.” Bardoux’s voice was neutral. “I had a feeling you’d come.”
“Is it true, then? About the Sixth Watch?”
He studied her for a long moment and then inclined his head. “Two survivors returned late last night.”
Two.Brandt’s odds had just doubled. Her knees nearly buckled. “Who?”
“My nephew Rikard.” His expression darkened. “What’s left of him.”
Her breath whooshed out. “You must be relieved.”
“No,” Bardoux said flatly. “We have little hope. The masons are attempting repairs, but he was in pieces. Literally. Brandt carried his rubble home in a sack.”
“Brandt?” The name was a prayer to the fallen gods. Her ears rang like bells. “He’s alive?”
“Alive. Intact. His body, anyway.” Bardoux’s milky eyes closed for a long beat. “His mind is another matter.”
She couldn’t process any of it. “When can I see him?”
“You cannot. Only his family.”
The refusal hit like cold water. “I’m hismate!”
“You severed the bond.” His tone was final. “You have no claim on him, nor he on you. Whatever existed between you is dead.”
A ragged sob escaped her. “We have a son.”
“Loïc will know his father in time. But Brandt has no knowledge of the child, and in his current state...it is impossible. He is not himself. The mind-masons are working with him, but he barely knows his own name. And I doubt he would want to see the traitorous female who is responsible for the deaths of his many watchmates.”
“I’m not asking for a conversation.” She felt desperate. Frantic. “Just let me see him. Let me know he’s well.”
“He is well. There. You know.” Bardoux opened his ledger with a flick of his claw. “I’ll inform his mother of any developments, which she may share with you at her discretion. A keeper will see you out.”
“Please. His son is his family, too.” She gripped the edge of his desk like the keeper might drag her away. “You can cut me out. I know what I did was unforgivable. But I tried so hard to save him. To save all of them. You know how hard I tried.”
“And you failed.Wefailed.” His voice was sharp as flint. “The Sixth Watch was destroyed. Brandt and Rikard may have returned, but they, too, were destroyed. It is better for you to mourn now than hold onto hope that they will ever be the gargoyles they once were.”
The words stung because they were true. She’d severed the bond, but it was too late. The damage was done.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. But please, don’t punish Loïc for what I did.”
“I’m sorry, too.” His expression softened slightly. “Brandt is roosting on the eastern side of the masons’ hall. Eighth tier. He refuses to come inside. That’s all I can tell you.”
A glimpse of him was more than she’d dared hope for at this point. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. And do not attempt to contact him.” Bardoux’s sharp look was a warning. “He will not know you, and his mind is in a delicate state.”
She left through the main entrance, joining the flow of humans on the stairs. Outside, she tilted her head back, searching the Tower’s eastern face, counting the tiers. There. She could barely make out the solitary figure perched on an outcrop, but even from this distance, she knew him. The breadth of his shoulders, the angle of his horns. Six years of war might have changed him, but he was undeniably her gargoyle.
