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

by Rachel Gillig

“Swords and armor are nothing to stone.”

“And when we need money we’ll work and when we get bored we’ll play with knights or whomever we please, but we’ll never give them anything. We’ll only love one another.”

“Take me with you, Bartholomew! I don’t want to start over again and again and watch children dream and never see beyond this place. I don’t want to be in the middle of the story anymore. Please.” He wrenched open the shed door. “Take me with you.”

“You know what I think?” he murmured. “I think you like that I’m a bad knight. It’s why you feel so righteous, flaying me with your tongue—why you enjoy throwing me down and grinding your heel into my pride. It does something to you.” He wet his bottom lip. “I’d bet my oath your whole body is awake right now, aching and eager at the thought of putting me in my place.”

Attempt to look beneath her shroud, she and the gargoyle will respond as they see fit. With full immunity to any carnage tended.” The gargoyle batted his eyes. “Oh, Bartholomew. He’s dreamy.”

“Pith, you think there’s something wrong with me—” “I don’t.” Rory’s voice was gravel. “I was wondering what it would be like. Watching you unravel.”

No honor among thieves, and even less among gods.

“Don’t worry, Bartholomew,” the gargoyle called. “If you accidentally kill her, I will not be upset.”

“Surely she knows that,” Benji said. “Dying, after all, is the risk of killing.” “You say that, Benji, and you said it easily, because you know Rory and I will do your killing for you. We swore to it, but Six did not. She’s never killed anything or anyone. And I fear—” Maude’s voice became uncharacteristically rough. “I fear she will die without ever having lived.”

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

His grip on my hand tightened. “If you have imagined portents, let me dispel them. The only thing that matters in this world is the effort you exact, Diviner. And you have been working harder than anyone I’ve known. So, please—don’t look to dreams, and don’t look for signs. Just look forward. Tomorrow will go well.” “Two things can be true at once, Myndacious. I can look forward. Work hard.” I labored over the word. “And still die. So I’m asking you. Will you find a home for the gargoyle? Will you keep looking for the Diviners?” “Yes.” He drew closer, water sloshing around us, and I was aware of his body, mine—and the bareness of them beneath the spring’s surface. “The thing is—I think I’d do anything you asked of me.”

“It is important for a squire to carry a knight’s weapons,” he said, the words so stoic I wondered if he’d practiced them on the flight back. “I will carry them for you, Bartholomew. I will shoulder any weight you give me.” Oh, I thought, a great swelling in my chest. To be a gargoyle. To be my gargoyle.

I stepped around him. Faced the basin, the Omen—but looked back to Rory. “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.”

“I have no use for stories.” My eyes grew unfocused behind my shroud. “Tragedy and desolation are right here with me.” “Yes.” He went back to humming to himself. “But I am here, too, Bartholomew.”

“A thousand apologies. What was I saying? Ah, yes.” The gargoyle put a stone hand on my shoulder. “For the sake of my sanity, put Bartholomew out of her misery. Tell her you’re in love with her.”

“If you value your friend when he fights your battles for you—when he is rogue and ruthless—you must value him when he is gentle, too. Otherwise you do not value him at all.”

Rory caught himself on the wall. I felt his gaze on my face, in the air, in the broken pieces of stone around us. He didn’t say it, but I knew. He’d do anything I asked of him. So I looked at him in his fathomless eyes. Watched as they lost their light. Told him, in a voice cold as stone, “Go.” “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.”