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

by Rachel Gillig

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?

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.”

for a guest is always a kind of trespasser.

“You noticed me go, did you?” “Difficult not to, what with the show you made.”

“Hold your tongue or I’ll rip it out. I serve gods. You a serve a boy-king who has just garnered five ill portents. Only one of us is worthy of reproach.”

Divine in public, human in private.

“I’ve been duly insulted. Now—you’ve stolen Aisling’s spring water. I won’t ask why, and I won’t speak of it again, but I want something in return. So be a good little soldier, and escort. My. Diviners.”

“She was with Hamelin,” Rory said flatly, procuring his own ale. “They were waylaid in the glen.” “You noticed me go?” I scoffed into my cup. “How nice.” “Difficult not to,” Rory bit back. “What with the show you made.”

Knights are shooting stars, Six. They come and go. But you and me, our sisterhood of Diviners—we’re the moon.” She smiled. “We’re eternal.”

A moth, pale and delicate.

And Four, vibrant, determined Four— Was gone.

“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?”

I was going to damage my vision, rolling my eyes this often.

Two was gone.

Three was gone.

Five was gone.

One was gone.

“Which one, Diviner?” Rory’s voice was deathly calm. He looked over his shoulder at me. “Which one marked up your face?” My teeth pressed into my bottom lip. “Tell me.” “The serpentine one.”

Caught whatever it was he’d thrown into the air—then sent it at the serpentine gargoyle’s head. And the gargoyle… exploded.

At its feet, a small object sat in the grass. A coin.

I’d seen that exact coin before. Many, many times. But only in my dreams.

The coin belonged to the Artful Brigand.” He withdrew the coin from his pocket, turning it slowly between his fingers. “It belonged to him right up until five days ago when we went to Castle Luricht, challenged him to his craft, and used it to kill him. 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.”

“She said that girls bear the pain of drowning better, and that sick ones always wake strange, special. And new.”

If he wanted me to clap, he could die waiting.

“And the sixth figure. The one with the foundling, who made the stone objects. That’s the sixth Omen. The one with no name.” My throat tightened. “The one we call the moth.”

Though if anyone were to know her name, surely it would be you.” He paused. “She’s your abbess, after all.”

“He’s a foundling.”

“The abbess pays the Omens.”

“Maude killed the Faithful Forester?” “My grandfather told her everything.” Benji drew his finger in a line over his throat. “And off went the Omen’s head. Only they never found that magic chime. To this day, it remains missing, hidden somewhere in the Chiming Wood.”

“My grandfather was brought to Aisling. Forced to endure a Divination. Five bad portents were Divined. After”—his blue eyes went cold—“he was stoned in the courtyard by the knights and the gargoyles.”

“You believed a story, and that story was a lie. The Omens are not divine. They are mortals who are paid like kings to live like gods. Imagine where all that money for Divination might go if it wasn’t spent filling Aisling’s coffers or wasted in the hamlets on the Omens.”

Benji put his hands together—“I can dispatch ten knights, today. They will venture forth with the sole intent to find your Diviners. How does that sound?” I’d had mutton easier to chew on.

“You and Rothspar are up next.” “I’m talking.” “Not anymore. Put your fucking helmet on.”

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

“I’d bet my oath your whole body is awake right now, aching and eager at the thought of putting me in my place.”

“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.”

“You liked dancing, as I recall. At Coulson.” “I liked putting you in the dirt more.”

He hooked my chin with his thumb and pressed, parting my lips directly over his. Then he was pushing up, his mouth ghosting over mine—

“I fear she will die without ever having lived.”

“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—”

My hand slid to his cheek. “Rory.”

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

“It is not like me to be the bearer of bad tidings,” the gargoyle said. “Bartholomew does not know how to swim. But worry not—” He looked up at me. Smiled proudly. “She has always excelled at drowning.”

“Dead. Your Diviners are all dead.” A terrible gasp fled his mouth. “And so are you.”

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

“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.”