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

by Rachel Gillig

“I do not touch the Diviners. I lay them down here in my caves, my own little underworld, where the sea air has its way with them. It is the best burial I can offer.”

“What you do not know, perhaps, is we whom you call Omens had no sway over that magic when the objects were made. I did not chose my loom stone’s power, and neither did she who carved it for me, yet, strangely, it suited me. Magic is like a god in that way. All-knowing, and most effective when not fully understood.”

“My memory. If I wished to, I could recall who I was before I was the Heartsore Weaver.”

Many years later, she came to see me again, asking for five more robes. This time, there was no foundling child at her heels, but a stone gargoyle.”

“My loom stone rests where it was made. Upon the tor. I returned it to Aisling when my body twisted beyond all recognition. When I became but one of her many stone creatures. An inhuman gargoyle.” She coughed, and dust flew. “Just like that first Diviner I’d made a robe for.”

“To be a gargoyle…” she rasped, “is a very strange thing. The ones upon the tor do not tell the stories of who they are—indeed they hardly speak—I think, because they do not remember what it is to be human. Or maybe they are too afraid to disobey their master. But not that first one. He was a most peculiar boy. What was his name? The first gargoyle she made?” Her breaths were labored. “I saw him not two days ago upon my cliff… came to see him last night, but you frightened me away. What was his name…” Rory kept shouting, his voice desperate. “Sybil!” “Bartholomew!” came the gargoyle’s echoing cry. The Heartsore Weaver’s breath went out. “That’s it. The foundling upon the tor. The first Diviner.” The newborn moths fluttered, their pale wings beating over stone. The Heartsore Weaver watched them with unseeing eyes, her last words quiet as a prayer. “Little Bartholomew.”

“You know this story, Bartholomew, though you do not remember it. I’ll tell it to you as best I can and promise to be honest in my talebearing. If I’m not, that’s hardly my fault. To tell a story is in some part to tell a lie, isn’t it?

I put that water upon your lifeless lips. You coughed. Stirred. And awoke strange, special, and new.

They could not choose a leader, each believing themselves the superior choice. Tools of their crafts became weapons, and when those were not enough, the craftsmen took to one another with arms and fists and teeth until they all lay upon the grass, bloodied and silent and still.”

They had no memory of who they were or how they’d died, and oh—how obedient that made them.

“So you see, Bartholomew. Firstly by happenstance, then with great intent, you and I created gods.”

With it, I could bring dead things back to life, but also, I could wield dreams. Did you know that, Bartholomew? That all the dreams you had were by my own design?

“She kept me locked away in the cottage with no windows. Denied me spring water, thinking I might starve. I do not know how long it took for my body to fracture and change… a long while, I think. I must have gone senseless for the pain. I starved, but I did not die, turning to stone instead. I became a gargoyle. Fearsome—a guardian at Aisling’s gate. Suddenly, she was pleased with me again. Suddenly, I was useful once more. After all… swords and armor are nothing to stone.”

But the ones she liked best, the ones she lent her hammer and chisel to—the most obedient—she always kept locked away to make into gargoyles.”

“My dream. Of the moth. That wasn’t a sign from gods. You were the one to drown me… it was you, Bartholomew.” My tears fell. “You, trying to tell me your story.”

“The rest of the story could not exist without us.”

“To the faithless, a god is a monster. And I am certainly a god.”

“Am I all that you imagined?” I said, looking down at her. “Or am I so much more?”

Benji’s voice was full of fire. He came to stand by Rory and the gargoyle and drew his sword once more—as if Aisling had bowed to him, prostrate. “About fucking time.” He swung. His sword lodged in Rory’s side, into chainmail, into skin.

“I forget, Bartholomew,” came a slow, craggy voice. “What were we talking of?” My tears filled the cracks in his chest.

“I want you to be my queen.”

“Where are we going?” the gargoyle asked again. He looked back at me. “We can’t go without Bartholomew.” I turned away, tears falling down my face. “Wait—wait.” The gargoyle began to sob, more pieces of stone falling from his body. “I’m her squire. We cannot be apart.”