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

by Rachel Gillig

“I have disdain in me, yes.” Rory’s brows drew together, lips parted slightly enough for me to hear the shaky sound of his exhale. “But none for you.”

“He often said, ‘It’s the folk of the field or kitchen or the beggars on the street who know how to read the signs of life—not those heavy-pocketed nobs who go to Aisling for a Divination.’ No offense.”

Faith requires a display. The greater the spectacle, the greater the illusion.’”

“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.”

Oar. Torrid and unforgiving, the river carves a path, always. Only the oar, only vigor, can Divine.

“It’s not like your gossamer, shapeless enough to fit anyone. No one’s going to wear this armor as well as you.”

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

“But now I see you with my eyes. You are not a dream. You’re just a man, paid like a king to playact as a god. A facade, hoarding wealth, yet claiming to starve. You have no love for Traum, its Stonewater Kingdom, nor for the people who call you hallowed. Your glory may come from Aisling, but it was earned by the dreaming, the drowning, of Diviners like me.”

“You say the river cares not for the rain, but it is the rain that feeds the river. In time, it can even wear away stone.” My words were like the fall of my hammer. Strong. Exact. “I am not afraid of you. Because without me, you would be nothing.”

There was a world behind Rory’s dark eyes. It was as if he could see everything all at once when he looked at me, and it was fa...

I pulled myself upright. Reached for his cheek—dragged the corner of his mouth up with my thumb until he wore an absurd half smile. “That’s better. Still foul and unknightly, though.” “Just the way you like me.” Rory nipped the pad of my thumb. “Now run it again.”

“Hit me, Diviner. Hit me as hard as you can.”

“Your turn, Myndacious,” I said, breathless. “Hit me as hard as you can.” I flickered away. “If you can.”

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

“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.

When I opened my eyes, I expected to see the rose window high in Aisling’s cloister. But all I saw was the moon, hovering in its dark heaven. The moon—and Rory.

?

Silver moonlight painted his hair, his nose, the lines of his brow, and when Rory glanced down, I saw a misery in his eyes. I’m sorry, he mouthed. And just like that, another crack fissured in my heart.

“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.” “If you were to bite down,” I said to the sky, “your bottom teeth would leave a crooked mark, unique as your fingerprint.”

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

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.”

Oh, I thought, a great swelling in my chest. To be a gargoyle. To be my gargoyle.

“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.”

Chime. Harken to the chime in the Wood. There, the wind tells us how to feel what we cannot see. Only the wind can say what is to come.

“Wake up, sweetheart. Wake. Up.”

For the first time since before I could remember, I cried. It hurt more than drowning.

“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.”

He always seemed to open a door to himself the moment I needed somewhere to go.

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

“An entire branch of idleweed?” I quipped. “Little sounds?” came his slow, mirthful reply.

“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.”

“The whole world is a wood, Bartholomew, and everyone in it is fashioned of birch bark. Frail as paper.”

Sadness, like birch bark, had all the appearance of frailty. And yet… The tree prevailed.

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

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

“Sybil,” I said. “My name is Sybil Delling.” Benji’s gaze widened, and Maude’s smile lit the room. Rory watched me with soft eyes, and the gargoyle began to clap, then sob. “Bravo, Bartholomew. Bravo.” The king took a moment to speak. “Very well. Sybil Delling—do you accept the accolade of knighthood?” “Yes.”

“I think I would like to stop promising myself away, or else there will be nothing left of me to give, King Castor.”

“Sybil Delling. Your armor may dent, your sword may break, but may you never diminish.”

My body had always been strong—and ever just enough. But whatever my soul was made of was frail. Like birch bark, like gossamer, like the wings of a moth.

When Rory brought his lips to my forehead, kissing it with unbearable softness, speaking the language of pain and reprieve into me, that frail little soul began to fortify.

“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.

He gave me thirty seconds. A heady half minute where I was certain I was the master of Rodrick Myndacious.

I thought I must be the stupidest woman alive, that I’d spent so much time fighting with him when I could have been fighting with his lips instead. Rory liked it. Kissing. I could tell. He cupped my jaw, fingertips pressing into my cheeks, making my lips pucker for him. He kissed me wetly, worshipfully, and I—I was gasping.

Rory kissed me in a way no story can properly express. “Sybil.”

“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.”

“You don’t like me when I’m a good knight,” he said over my lips. “And you don’t like me when I’m bad.”

“You are beautiful, Sybil Delling. So fucking beautiful. You’re strong and smart and noble.”