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

by Rachel Gillig

One statue held a coin, another an inkwell. One bore an oar, another a chime, and the final a loom stone.

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.

“We know Traum and its hamlets like our own five fingers. Coulson Faire, the hamlet of merchants. The scholarly city-heart—the Seacht—the hamlet of scribes. The Fervent Peaks, near the mouth of our river, the hamlet of fishers. The cosseted birch forest, the Chiming Wood, where the foresters dwell. The florid Cliffs of Bellidine, occupied by weavers.”

“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.”

“But the sixth Omen bore no stone object. It revealed nothing of itself at all, appearing only as a pale moth on tender wing. Some say it shows itself the moment you are born, others believe it comes just before you die. Which is true”—she opened her palms, like two pans of a scale—“we cannot know. We may read their signs, but it is not our place to question the gods. The moth is mercurial, distant—never to be known, even by Diviners.”

The gargoyle called from the chancel. “If you wish to Divine before the bitch—excuse me—before the abbess arrives, best get cracking.”

“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 knife I didn’t know Rory carried was soaring. It hit the batlike gargoyle between his stone eyes, then dropped brusquely onto grass. The gargoyle remained cross-eyed a second, then slowly turned his gaze to me. “Did he just try to smite me, Bartholomew?”

“I have a remarkable talent for violence.”

“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!

“He’s your pet?” “I imagine he thinks I’m his.”

“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.” Rory angled his brows at me. “An army of wits, you two.”

“I’ll likely regret saying this—but keep your hands out of my pants.”

“The cathedral, its Omens, its Diviners sit on high,” the gargoyle said plainly. “If you only ever look up at something, can you ever see it clearly?”

“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 wondering what it would be like. Watching you unravel.”

“Don’t worry, Bartholomew,” the gargoyle called. “If you accidentally kill her, I will not be upset.” “I will!” Benji’s blue eyes widened.

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

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Why are you giving him the cold mouth?” “It’s ‘the cold shoulder,’ gargoyle.” He blinked. “What would he want with your shoulder?” “What would he want with my mouth?”

It felt like a fever, looking at him. I was dizzy and thoughtless for it.

“Don’t fucking touch her again.”

go ahead. Ask me to be your pigeon.”

“By the seat of my skirts.” He grasped my waist, smiled, then on mighty feet, the gargoyle sprang from the ground. His wings spread, beat the air, stirring smoke. I held to his neck, and he to my waist, and then we were soaring. “‘Seat of my pants,’” I called over the wind.

I’m very glad you’re not, um, you know—” “Dead as a doorhanger?” the gargoyle offered.

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

“I think I would like to stop promising myself away, or else there will be nothing left of me to give, King Castor.” “A fine answer, Bartholomew,” the gargoyle commended.

“Don’t say anything at all.” Rory smeared his thumb across my lips. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.” And then his mouth was on mine.

“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 you.”

“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.”

People who love you for your usefulness don’t love you at all.”

“It’s hard to see who I am when I am lost in what’s expected of me.”

“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.”

His chest puffed with pride. “I am years beyond my wisdom.”

“I hate tight, dark places.” “Let’s hope you never die,” the gargoyle said. “I hear graves are rather constrictive.”

“I told you, Bartholomew. I know everything I know exceedingly well.”

“But for fuck’s sake. Permit me.”