Celeste scanned the park and I found myself checking our surroundings, too. The cleanup crew was too far away to hear and no other creatures were close. Nevertheless, when she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper, the rumble of her words mixing with the cracks and groans of pulverized granite.
“Rourke’s cynosure baetyl was gravely injured.”
Oliver reared back, every spike and feather on his body standing on end as he shook his head. I glanced between him and the hunched gryphon, alarm quickening my pulse.
“His what?” Baetyls were stones believed to be of divine origin, but what did that have to do with gargoyles, and how did a rock serve as a guide?
“That’s not possible. Nothing can harm a . . . a baetyl.” Oliver barely mouthed the last word and his wide eyes darted in every direction.
“What is a cynosure baetyl?” I hissed.
“Home,” Oliver whispered with a shiver. “We shouldn’t talk about it.”
“A baetyl is where we hatch,” Celeste said.
“On a stone?” I pictured a rock nest high atop a mountain where tiny baby gargoyles were born and took their first flight.
“Inside, not on. Baetyls are underground. They’re sacred, secret places without which no hatchling would survive. We need our baetyl’s magic to be born, and we need it again throughout our lives to rejuvenate our bodies.”
“We do?” Oliver asked.
Celeste lowered herself until she lay on the ground to get closer to the young gargoyle’s eye level. “It is a compulsion you’ll feel when you’re older. Your body knows when it needs to return. You’re far too young to have experienced it, but if you are too long away from your cynosure baetyl, you will eventually weaken and become unbalanced.”
I crouched to hear her whispered words. Baetyls hadn’t been hinted at in any book or journal I’d read. For centuries, scholars and healers had speculated on the birthing rituals of gargoyles, but the few who had broached the subject with gargoyles had been rebuffed. I understood their need for secrecy. If unscrupulous people like Walter and Elsa knew where they could find weak gargoyles and helpless newborns, the gargoyles would never be safe.
“Wait! Walter! Did he defile your baetyl, Oliver?” The man still lived, imprisoned, but if even a chance existed that he could get his hands on more baby gargoyles . . .
Oliver shook his head. “No. We were outside the . . . outside home when he captured us.”
I relaxed my white-knuckle grip on his shoulder with a sigh of relief. Celeste watched us with unblinking eyes, waiting until we’d focused on her again before continuing.
“Rourke is over a half century overdue to return to his baetyl. The only reason he’s survived this long is because of his location.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was not the first of his baetyl to sicken. We watched others fade into comas, and some died fast. Some didn’t. Survival depended on seclusion; those in public places fared better and lived longer. We hunted out the location with the most concentrated number of humans actively using magic. The park used to be that place before it was destroyed.”
“That’s why he boosts everyone in the area,” I said, the answer to the mystery clicking into place. Gargoyles fed off the magic they enhanced. It was why they gravitated toward busy public buildings and the homes of powerful full-spectrum pentacle potentials. FSPPs could wield all the elements with a strength I could only come close to with quartz, and when a gargoyle enhanced an FSPP, they fed off a wealth of magic. By passively enhancing everyone who came close enough, Rourke and the other dormant gargoyles had been able to continue to feed even as their bodies shut down. I’d been afraid I had missed some dormant gargoyles hidden in less populated areas, but she just confirmed I hadn’t. Sadly, any who had fallen comatose somewhere out of the way would already be dead.
Celeste’s eyes tracked the cleanup crew as she spoke. “Even if they finish fixing the park tomorrow, I fear that if Rourke goes much longer without contact with his baetyl, he’ll die. So many have already wasted away. I may have doomed us all, but I cannot abandon my mate to that horrid death.”
“Rourke is your mate?”
Celeste nodded.
“And he’s been like this”—I gestured to the frozen gargoyle trapped in his own body—“for over fifty years?”
“He and all the rest from his baetyl. There used to be twenty-three. There’s no one left to speak for them, none to judge you for themselves, so I am acting on their behalf.”
My heart broke for Celeste. She’d watched her mate’s life wither away for decades, unable to do anything to help him without risking the lives of every gargoyle.
“Thank you for trusting me, Celeste. I’ll make sure he and the others get home to their baetyl.” It couldn’t be that simple, could it?
Celeste shook her head as if answering my unspoken question. “They tried to go back years ago. Rourke said his baetyl had been injured and he came back sicker than before. I took him to my baetyl, but it pained him too much to stay.”
“A baetyl can’t be injured,” Oliver said, his voice small and uncertain. He’d huddled into a tight bundle, and for the first time in months, I thought my six-foot-long companion looked little.
“Anything can be hurt, even baetyls,” Celeste said.
I finally realized what she was asking of me. “You don’t need me to heal Rourke. You need me to fix the baetyl.”
“It is my last hope.”