Warm water fixed a number of problems, and though those problems were her smallest ones, it was nice to see the soot and sweat washed away. Celeste kept every move in the bath quiet, listening for footsteps, telling herself that Reeve was too big to be properly sneaky. He certainly was not lumbering down the hall, carrying that cursed sword at his side, preparing to lob her head off in the bathtub of all places, though the cleanup would be easy.
Except the sword, Sid, wasn’t cursed, not since it had been cleansed by a holy knight and the priests of his order. That was no small thing no matter how humble he had been about it. Ukara was ancient and powerful, and her curses were not to be trifled with, but to hear the sword himself tell it, Reeve had just picked him up and carried him away.
It would be nice to be picked up and carried away…
Celeste splashed her face and snorted.That doesn’t actually happen to anybody,she told herself.Well, not to people who don’t deserve it, people like you. You were just somean, for darkness’s sake.
The bruise on her leg would agree. It was what she deserved, for not being fast enough, clever enough, skilled enough.
And for the lying.
For releasing Syphon.
For considering, even for a moment, accepting that dark entity’s offer.
Celeste pressed the tender flesh with her fingertips again and squeezed her eyes shut against the self-inflicted pain, sinking beneath the water.
CHAPTER 11
THE DELICATE ART OF NOT ASKING QUESTIONS
The afternoon sun was far too bright. Celeste shielded her eyes, shoulder protesting as she raised her arm. Though her limp was gone, waking had been painful, and even with clean skin, it seemed the night before had not been entirely washed away. The aches and the bruises remained, and so did the dreadful feeling that bad things loomed on the horizon with the dawn.
After waking that morning surprised to still be alive and only slightly sorry for it, she managed to totter down the acolyte's hall and through the library to the main chamber of the temple. Bleary, sore, and embarrassed at how late in the morning she’d risen, she had found the holy knight sitting with his legs crossed and eyes closed at the head of the temple, just before the altar and that nasty, crescent-shaped divot.
Only it wasn’t exactly an altar anymore, it had been modified into a sort of throne from which Delphine had once liked to hold court. Celeste had silently grimaced, a vision of the other thing Delphine liked to do there flashing into her mind, and then she stifled a laugh at the thought that poor Sir Reeve was praying to what had been used for debauchery rather than divinity.
But the holy knight was apparently in better shape for it regardless. Reeve strolled toward Briarwyke at her side as if Valcord himself had floated down from Empyrea and kissed him on the forehead. Chin up and chest out, he betrayed no hint that they had been bested the night before nor that she had reduced all he stood for and believed in to blind, dumb faith. In fact, he had greeted her with a smile when he sensed her staring at him that morning.
Celeste had no idea how to respond to that, so she hadn’t, darting away into the shadows.
His bright demeanor, though, was better than having him stalking at her back or scowling, especially when that smile came with such a cute dimple. It was also nice to walk beside someone since Celeste was normally towed along behind and half-forgotten. But as they ambled down North Road, the knight’s gaze intermittently flicked to her, a reminder that those eyes—those warm, amber eyes—were scrutinizing her for future vanquishing.
Right, comfort, don’t start feeling that.
The forest thinned closer to the village where the buildings began to pop up, and at the place where Briarwyke’s first lamppost stood, there also stood Geezer, skinny arms moving through the air in animated story-telling as his sleeves billowed. Baylen listened, amusement drawn on his wide mouth as he used his considerable height to fix a new globe to the top of the lamppost. Within the glass sphere was a small, arcane stone, the kind that dotted the temple for light—a replacement for the magic that had been consumed by Syphon.
Celeste’s stomach lunged. She said a quiet plea that they were not discussing the destroyed smithy and putting the pieces together already, that Geezer was not espousing about the stranger whose bad magic had spilled ink in his home, and Baylen had not just regaled him with a tale of an ugly and off-putting girl who had been to the Accursed Wastes and didn’t even have her own chickens.
“Afternoon,” called Baylen in his drawn-out way, one of his long ears flicking. Nothing in his voice conveyed mistrust, but then she wondered if it even could.
Reeve returned the greeting brightly, and Celeste’s stomach flipped in the other direction. His tone was so friendly, and he was smiling with all of his nice teeth, and why in the realm did he have to be so handsome and cheeryat the same time?
Geezer spun, spry for an old man, and his pale eyes fell on Celeste. “Just who I wanted to see!”
Crickets.
Baylen’s hand came down on Geezer’s shoulder. “I’m headed back to the shop.”
“Sure, sure, lunch is on me, Horns.” He waved him off, and the minotaur-man gathered a hefty bag and traipsed away ever-so-slowly. Celeste grit her teeth as Geezer started in, but Baylen never turned to listen, his tail swishing as he left. “I did a bit of a big think after we met the other day,” he said, excitedly clapping hands together, “about these very lights, and the ink, and what you said about the apotrope.”
She smoothed down her skirt and bit her lip. “I think it was you who said things about the apotrope.”
“Was it? Well, I thought about the saying of it anyway, and I think—have we met, holy man?” Geezer’s eyes shifted to Reeve. The knight was wearing his surcoat, the rising sun emblazoned on it in gold. Celeste had tried to avoid looking directly at that.
“No, sir.” Reeve dipped his head and introduced himself.
The mage’s eyes bounced from the top of Reeve’s head to Celeste’s blanching face. “This is your—”
