The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

He’d drawn fresh charcoal around his eyes and secured his black hair with a strip of leather.

“You know I treasure my sleep. If I am rude the day through for exhaustion, I will not answer for it.”

“Just as well. Sometimes, Bartholomew, I think her quite the bitch.” “Gargoyle!” “I am simply saying what is on my heart. Who would fault me for that?”

“Which one, Diviner?” Rory’s voice was deathly calm. He looked over his shoulder at me. “Which one marked up your face?” My teeth pressed into my bottom lip. “Tell me.” “The serpentine one.” The gargoyles lunged. Rory’s visage wrinkled, then disappeared, something small sailing through the air. The gargoyles collided with one another in a vicious tangle, and Rory appeared five feet away. Caught whatever it was he’d thrown into the air—then sent it at the serpentine gargoyle’s head. And the gargoyle… exploded.

“Take me with you, Bartholomew.” “What?” “Is my voice too quiet?” He hauled in a breath. Shouted in my face. “Take me with you, Bartholomew!

I looked down at Rory. He was on his knees in front of me, breathing hard. I let go of his hair instantly. The corners of his mouth curled. His fathomless eyes held me a second, and then he was standing to full height, offering me his hand.

“Much obliged.” Letters scratched onto parchment. “Occupations?” Rory looked back at me, lip curling. “A knight and his lady.” “That,” I snapped, slipping from the saddle, “may be the worst thing you’ve said of me.”

“What kind of fowl-like sprite is that?” There was a loud crash. The gargoyle landed upon grass. Sneezed, then toppled. “Did that man just call me foul, Bartholomew?” “He mistook you for a bird.” “An even greater slander!” The gargoyle wagged a stone finger at the scribe’s stall. “I shall destroy his little house.”

“Never trust anything written in rhyme, Bartholomew. It is trickery—a pretty falsehood. That is something I intend to tell everyone when I pen my own book of tales. Firstly, of course, I must learn to read and write.”

His mouth turned. “Get away from me, bitch.” The gargoyle made a shrill noise of affront and shoved the man. He tumbled onto his bottom, dropping his inkwells, which shattered on the cobbled street. Ink pooling beneath him, the man struggled to his feet, shouting profanity so decorative I didn’t know what half of it meant, only that he thought me an Omen witch and a whore— Rory leaned down. Cracked him over the jaw with an open palm. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“I am here, too, Bartholomew,” the gargoyle said, clearing his throat. “You may greet me as well.”

I crossed my arms. “You’re being cryptic. It’s obnoxious.” “Hey.” Rory tapped my wrist. “Uncross those and listen.

My stomach yanked. “Where did you get that?” He screamed. “Sprites and spoons—you startled me, Bartholomew.”

For the next quarter hour, every time you feel the compulsion to say something peculiar, smother it.” He sank into his chair and sulked. “You ask a great deal of me.”

“I hate to break it to you, but this is hardly the shape of my body.” “I’m acutely aware of that, thank you.”

You want to throw me down. And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.

“I don’t.” Rory’s voice was gravel. “I was wondering what it would be like. Watching you unravel.”

There was a world behind Rory’s dark eyes. It was as if he could see everything all at once when he looked at me, and it was far too much, but he wanted all of it.

“That’s better. Still foul and unknightly, though.” “Just the way you like me.” Rory nipped the pad of my thumb.

“You think I don’t know that?” Rory’s voice became perilously soft. “You think I want a single scratch upon her?”

I dreamed of a knight with gold in his ears and charcoal around his eyes, who did all the ignoble things I asked of him.

He approached. “And this?” He tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear, brushing my shroud.

He gave me his fist—unfurled his fingers. Handed me the Artful Brigand’s coin. “Let’s go kill an Omen.”

“Bartholomew does not know how to swim. But worry not—” He looked up at me. Smiled proudly. “She has always excelled at drowning.”

His face was remade by hate. His black hair caught the wind, painting him wraithlike, a dark smudge in the storm.

“No.” There was more pressure—a pounding sensation over my chest so violent the world quaked. “Wake up, sweetheart. Wake. Up.”

“I’d have come for you. I’d have killed or stolen or done any ignoble thing to see you free of that place. You are more special than you realize. I don’t even know your name”—he drew in a breath—“and I would do anything for you.”

grooves of my thumb over his crooked bottom teeth, over his tongue, taking my blood into his mouth like it was something holy.

When Rory brushed an errant tear from my cheek, black hair fell over his brow.

“An entire branch of idleweed?” I quipped. “Little sounds?” came his slow, mirthful reply.

Rory, black hair awry, rings in his ear, face painted like a skull—he looked as far from a knight as I dreamed a man could. He, like me, looked like death itself.

It is easier, swearing ourselves to someone else’s cause than to sit with who we are without one.”

“That’s all well and good,” the gargoyle said from the corner of the room. He shook a blanket at me. “But who’s going to tuck me in?”

“Rory, wait.” I caught his shoulder. “I can do it—” “I know you can, Sybil.” He took my hand off his shoulder and brought it to his mouth. Pressed his lips over my armored knuckles. “But for fuck’s sake. Permit me.”