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

by Rachel Gillig

A coin, an inkwell, an oar, a chime, and a loom stone. The sixth and final window was centered on the east wall—an enormous rose window, fixed with thousands of pieces of stained glass. Its design was different than the others, depicting no stone object, but rather a flower with five peculiar petals that, when I studied them, looked all the world like the delicate wings of a moth.

“The Omen who bore a stone coin, the child named the Artful Brigand. The Omen fitted with the inkwell was christened the Harried Scribe. The Omen who wielded a stone oar was called the Ardent Oarsman. The Faithful Forester carries the chime.” She pointed at the last arched window. “And the Heartsore Weaver employs her sacred loom stone.”

The moth is mercurial, distant—never to be known, even by Diviners.”

And for some perverse reason, I liked that. Knowing I could hold so much pain without anyone being the wiser made me feel… Strong.

She said our creed. “Swords and armor are nothing to stone.”

“I will tell you the story I know someday, Bartholomew. Would that we were living one of your tales instead. Would that things were different for you and me.”

“Which is more intricate?” he mused. “The designs of men, trying to reach gods, or that of gods, trying to reach men?” My hammer collided with a chunk of granite. “What is either to the intricacies of women, who reach both?”

The abbess had told me fear was not an outward-pointing compass. And maybe that was true. My own fear was deep within me, piled so high it had begun to rot, emanating its own putrid heat.

“Twenty-six. But my youth felt so endless that perhaps I’m the exact same age as you.” He lifted one shoulder, like a full shrug was not worth the effort. “Young, and also rather old.”

As to the accusation—I’m not one of your precious gods, Diviner.” His eyes flickered in the darkness. “I’m the one who’s killing them.”

histories are forged by those who benefit from them, and seldom those who live them.’”

“You don’t have to be good, or useful, for someone to care about you.”

“You want to throw me down,” Rory said, eyelids dropping as he whispered into my parted lips. “And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.”

I was losing my faith in everything. But the two of us meeting… it felt almost divine.

“Your hair is pretty,” Rory murmured. “Like moonlight. And your skin is so soft. But beneath…” He kneaded my muscle. “If I were to bite down, I’d break my teeth on you.”

Maude’s armor was intricate—swirls that resembled billowing boughs engraved in the breastplate. “It was my mother’s,” she said. “And hers before.” A lump formed in my throat. “You realize if I die you’ll likely lose it.” “Thought about that. Figured out a solution.” Maude hauled me off the bed. Surprised me with a fearsome hug. “Live.”

“It’s a good story, Myndacious. I liked it.” He held me in his gaze like he needed to. “Do you want to know how it ends?” “Does it end?” He nodded. “It ends a handful of minutes from now. After you’ve won, and there is one less Omen in the world.” He grinned. “It ends when you kiss me.” “You mean it ends after I’ve won, and there is one less Omen in the world—and I hit you as hard as I can.” “With your mouth.”

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

Heat emanated from his body like he was the sun—I wanted to run my mouth up his stomach. See if he’d burn my tongue.

The eyes I looked upon were not the eyes of a young woman. They were not the eyes of a human at all. They were pallid. White. Completely bereft of iris or pupil, like those of an unpainted statue. Hewn entirely of stone. Just like an Omen.

“When you do the right thing for the wrong reason, no one praises you. When you do the wrong thing for the right reason, everyone does, even though what is right and wrong depends entirely on the story you’re living in. And no one says they need recognition or praise or love, but we all hunger for it. We all want to be special.”

“To the faithless, a god is a monster.