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

by Rachel Gillig

“If it’s about protecting my innocence, you’re too late. You were practically naked in that wet Divining robe the night we met.”

“Are you still in pain?” He shivered. “Near you? Always.”

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

Errant knight Rodrick Myndacious, prideful, disdainful, godless, believed in me.

“It’s not lost on me how terrible I’ve been. Growing up under the Artful Brigand—” He said it in a gasping rush, like it was he who’d been underwater. “I’m discourteous and utterly poisoned by contempt. I know that.” His throat hitched. “And I don’t know how to behave around you. You make me so fucking nervous. But letting you fall underwater when all you ever did at Aisling was drown, I—”

“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.”

“Where would you bite me, knight?” “Wherever you told me to, Diviner.”

“I’d rather this left a mark instead,” he murmured into my skin.

“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.”

“The thing is—I think I’d do anything you asked of me.”

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.

“Thought about that. Figured out a solution.” Maude hauled me off the bed. Surprised me with a fearsome hug. “Live.”

“I will carry them for you, Bartholomew. I will shoulder any weight you give me.”

“But then he came to a cathedral upon a tor, and met a woman there. And all the tales he’d troubled himself with about cruelty, about unfairness and godlessness… he started to forget. He was afforded another chance, as if by magic, to believe in something. He’d never be a very good knight, but every time he looked at the woman, he had the distinct faith”—his eyes roved my face—“that things could be better than they’d been.”

“Good. If you fall in that water, I’m coming in after you.”

“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.”

“Rory.” “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.”

“For the sake of my sanity, put Bartholomew out of her misery. Tell her you’re in love with her.”

Rory sneered at him, slapping the idleweed branch from his hand. “Don’t fucking touch her again.”

My armor may dent, my sword may break, but I will never diminish.

“You needn’t wear the title if it no longer fits you,” Rory murmured. “You needn’t do anything you do not wish to.”

“But I’ve sworn to Aisling, and I’ve sworn to the Omens, and I’ve sworn to my friends, who are now forever gone.” I drew in a long breath. “I think I would like to stop promising myself away, or else there will be nothing left of me to give, King Castor.”

“I just wanted to see you.” His throat hitched. Then—“Come here.”

“Please, Rory. Take it off. I want someone to see me.” I whispered against his lips. “I want it to be you.”

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Sybil Delling.”

Rory smeared his thumb across my lips. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.” And then his mouth was on mine.

“Whatever it was that made you sigh in your room that night after the hot spring… I’ve thought about it, too. I’ve thought about it a thousand times.” He squeezed the flesh of my backside. “I’ve thought about your thighs. How they felt when I measured them for armor. What it would be like, putting my mouth between them.” His hand withdrew, then snapped back—a quick smack across my bottom that made us both moan. “I’ve thought about your voice. I’ve stayed up, thinking about it. Wondering if it would be sharp or soft when I made you come.” His throat worked. “I’ve thought such unknightly things.”

“You could walk over me, Sybil Delling. Throw me down until I am dust. I don’t know what to call it, but I want it. I

want ...

“This isn’t a spectacle or a ceremony,” he said. “It’s just you and me, Sybil.” He didn’t like being away from my mouth. Every word was punctuated with a kiss. “I just want you to feel good.”

“You are beautiful, Sybil Delling. So fucking beautiful. You’re strong and smart and noble.” He grasped the nape of my neck, and I wondered if he liked to touch me there because he could aim my gaze. “But I think I like it best when you’re wrong.”

“I haven’t changed my mind about anything.” Another, on my neck. “I’m so far the opposite of repulsed or regretful about you that I’m lost.”

“I want to keep looking at you,” he murmured into my knuckles, “all night.”

Fuck the rules, Sybil.” His eyelids grew heavy. “Fuck me, and fuck the rules.”

“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.”

“Say fine, and I’ll combust.” Rory reached down, gingerly moving the blanket and examining my bruise.

“I’m not in anything,” I muttered. “And I’m not complaining,” Rory said. I slapped his arm and he grinned.

“I can’t ask you to leave the knighthood.” “Because you know I’d say yes?”

“But I’ll be your errand boy if you ask me nicely.”

“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.”

“Really, Bartholomew, when are you going to put her out of her misery and tell her you love her?”

“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.”

“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.”

“Whatever craft is yours,” Rory snarled, “cruelty or violence, we have beaten you by it. Get down, you fucking coward. Your ending has come.”