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

by Rachel Gillig

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.

“Gather, shrews.”

“You’re a fucking scourge.” He groaned, dropping his gaze to my mouth. “Wouldn’t it have been easier just to kiss me?” “And deny myself any pleasure?” He smiled, startling us both.

“Just as well. Sometimes, Bartholomew, I think her quite the bitch.” “Gargoyle!” “I am simply saying what is on my heart. Who would fault me for that?” “She, for one.”

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

“I say, what on earth is the racket?” 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?”

Rory’s gaze jerked. “Bartholomew? That’s your name?” “Pith, you’re thick—no. He calls everyone Bartholomew.” “What the hell for?” Rory pivoted back to the gargoyle. “What the hell for?” “Don’t yell at him,” I snapped. “Shall I break his neck?” the gargoyle asked me. “Or would you find that violence terribly ignoble?” “I would.” I looked up at Rory. “But exceptions can be made.”

Overhead, the gargoyle was soaring and spinning, bidding “welfare” instead of “farewell” to the fading night.

The gargoyle had taken Fig by her lead, his face close to her muzzle as he lectured her. “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 say we bring her. She could be useful.” The gargoyle puffed his chest out with pride. “Bartholomew is a daughter of Aisling, a harbinger of gods—the most dedicated dreamer I know.” He patted my shoulder. “But no, I’m sorry to say she is not especially useful. I, on the other hand—”

The phlegm fell, missing King Castor and landing on Rory’s boots. He glowered at his feet. “Will everyone kindly leave my fucking boots alone—”

“I confess horses are not the intelligent beasts I imagined them to be. Though I don’t think that merits the abuse they suffer postmortem.” That one took me a moment. “No one actually beats dead horses, gargoyle. It’s an expression.”

“Where did you get that?” He screamed. “Sprites and spoons—you startled me, Bartholomew.” “Have you been stealing, gargoyle?” “Yes,” he said with delight. “I’m rather good at it. I was caught only twice. But you—you look stern. Have I behaved ignobly again by your childish standards?”

The mutt chased us for three city blocks. All the while the gargoyle shouted, his voice ringing through the streets, “Fear not, Bartholomew! Every day has its dog.”

His gaze was still on my bottom lip. “Anywhere else?” I suddenly didn’t know. His eyes were so dark. “I’m fine.” “I, too, am unharmed.” The gargoyle patted his stone chest. “Right as raindrops.” So close.

“Sounds like something one does in a chamber pot.” “That. Right there. That is not a normal thing to say. Absurdity will throw the conversation off course, and I need clarity from this boy-king. For the next quarter hour, every time you feel the compulsion to say something peculiar, smother it.” He sank into his chair and sulked. “You ask a great deal of me.”

Whips cracked, but the creature kept lunging, kept roaring, snapping its wide, muddy mouth. “It’s trying to eat them,” I said, hand to my throat. “And look,” the gargoyle said pleasantly. “It’s coming our way.”

“It’s not like your gossamer, shapeless enough to fit anyone. No one’s going to wear this armor as well as you.” I realized what it was after she’d walked away. Kindness. There’d been kindness in her eyes.

“She’s a guest of the king’s. Affront her in any way, the knighthood will answer. 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.”

“I can feel you scowling.” I coughed and made a truly atrocious retching sound. “Knock it off.” “Apologies if your heavy-footed lumbering puts a sour look on my otherwise perfect face.”

“I say, Bartholomew,” he said distractedly. “Are you quite well?” I peeled myself off Rory faster than I’d run my warm-ups. “I’m fine.” “I meant that Bartholomew.” The gargoyle flicked a stone finger at Rory. “The knave looks undone.”

“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.

“Well then.” Benji stepped back. “Let’s invite ourselves in.” He rolled his shoulders and sprang forward, crashing full force into the castle door. It burst open in a cloud of dust. “That’s the spirit, Your Majesty.” Rory hauled Benji to his feet,

“I hope you’re a damn strong swimmer.” Rory went white, last night—the hot spring and me, slipping beneath its water—unveiling over his face. “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.”

“What?” “It’s stupid.” “Then it should come easily to me.”

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.”

“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.”

“Breathe, Diviner.” There were more sobs. “Bartholomew always wakes. Why doesn’t she wake?” A woman’s voice sounded. “Rory.” “No.” There was more pressure—a pounding sensation over my chest so violent the world quaked. “Wake up, sweetheart. Wake. Up.”

Rory’s hand moved from his neck and hovered just at my face, not touching the tears that fell from beneath my shroud but guarding them against the breeze, as if they deserved their own tender pilgrimage down my cheeks.

I barked a laugh, and Rory shut his eyes. “That’s why you called me over? To sneeze on me?” “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.”

“So I’ve gotten it right?” The gargoyle clapped. “How marvelous. Oh—look! The knighthood has arrived.” He sauntered off, humming, as if he hadn’t just massacred my pride in the village square.

I followed Maude and Benji on their way to greet them, knocking into Rory’s shoulder. “An entire branch of idleweed?” I quipped. “Little sounds?” came his slow, mirthful reply.

My voice was small. “I still can’t pay for it, Maude.” “Oh, the pride on you.” Her green eyes shone. “Would you still wear it if I told you it was a gift?” I looked down at myself. Maude had told me on the road to the Fervent Peaks that she didn’t know anything about being maternal. And it heartened me that someone as honorable and purposeful as Maude Bauer could still get some things wrong. She was the most nurturing woman I’d ever known. “Yes.”

“That is unkind and unworthy, Bartholomew.” He’d been quietly crying in the corner of the room, and now appeared the spirit of righteous anger. “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.”

He said it intently. Like he was imploring every part of me to take heed. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Sybil Delling.”

“We’re still going to kill her,” I said. “The Heartsore Weaver. We’ll kill her, and then we’ll go to Aisling.” My voice hardened. “I want to look the abbess in the eye before we rid Traum of its final Omen.” “That’s all well and good,” the gargoyle said from the corner of the room. He shook a blanket at me. “But who’s going to tuck me in?”

I sighed. Sat and swung my legs into the hole. “Let’s kill another Omen.” “Huzzah!” The gargoyle clapped. And gave me an excited shove.

“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.”

Would that you were a daughter, Bartholomew. Soon I’ll replace you, Bartholomew. I’ll forget and erase you, Bartholomew. Bartholomew. Bartholomew. Bartholomew—”

And then they were like all the other things I’d dared to love. Gone.