Henry helps me into it. The wolf design on the shoulder that had been shredded by the claws of a Drained has been neatly stitched into elaborate golden embroidery. I trace my fingers over the thread, and it’s only as I draw it out that I recognize it as the sigil of Harvain.
“I can’t wear this outside,” I say in a hushed whisper. “Why is this emblazoned with the sigil of the Divine of Fortune? If I wear this, people will assume my gift is from Harvain.”
“And what if they do?” he taunts.
I cross my arms. “It should be my choice to tell them. Not yours.”
“And if I decide it’s not?”
My blood boils as I glare at him. “Then you’ll be asked to reconsider.”
He holds my gaze in challenge for a long moment. “It’s fun to rile you up.” He points to his coat collar, where the same golden sigil is embroidered. “We all wear the sigil of Harvain for luck. You’ll notice it on all of the Haven guards, and since you’re to be my wife, you’ll wear one like I do.”
I glare at him, incredulous. “Will you also be selecting my clothing for the day? Setting out undergarments that you prefer?”
His mouth tips into a wolfish smile. “I’d love to.” When I don’t smile, he shakes his head and sighs. “It’s just another way to signal to everyonewho you are and it’s considered a sign of acceptance. Also, our people consider surviving a Drained attack in the open to be a sign that you’re blessed by Harvain, so you’ve earned it.”
I look at the other sigils beside the one for Harvain. “What do those mean?”
“This one with the rose and the thorns is for Kennymyra—you’ll find many others wear that one as well. But only those who have passed the Mountain Haven guard exam have this flame for Vardek as a sign of strength. Healers have this golden leaf and needle to represent Elvodeen, and many of our storytellers and glamourists wear golden stars and a dagger for Stellaria. The least common sigil is Polm’s, but it features a golden hook and an eye.” He turns and points to the last embroidery on his coat. “And, finally, this golden moon is for Asher.”
Henry registers my shock before I can hide it.
“You’ll find it’s not nearly as taboo to honor the Divine of Endings here. He is one of our patrons, and it’s by his grace that we have risen from the ashes of this ruined fort,” he says.
“It’s not that. It’s just—” I hesitate. I don’t trust him, but this is an opportunity to rattle him and see if he is truly connected to the rebels. “It’s just that the rebels in Lunameade have chosen Asher as their patron.”
He frowns. “Interesting.”
I wait for him to say more, but he just straightens his collar and nods at my shoulder.
“How are your injuries?”
“Good as new.” I don’t know why he pretends to care.
He crosses his arms. “If you say so. Where should we start? In town? At the armory? The garden? The art gallery?”
I glance over my shoulder, down the hallway. “You have an art gallery?”
Henry balks. “Of course we do. All cultures need art. Creativity is vital.”
He hardly strikes me as a soulful artist, but his face betrays no humor. He runs a hand through his hair and it falls right into place. Henry is truly obnoxious in his perfection.
He holds out his elbow for me to take. “So, where to?”
“The armory.”
He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Why am I not surprised? Hope you’re not gearing up for a murder spree here in my home.”
I thread my arm through his, and he leads me toward a door at the end of the hall.
“Why all the murder?” he asks as he presses the door open.
“We all need a hobby.”
He sighs. “You’re really not going to tell me?”
“I’m really not. Feel free to take that as a sign to stop asking.”
