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

by Rachel Gillig

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.

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

When they saw me, fitted in the same attire as them, they both went still. Benji whistled. “You’re a proper knight, Six.”

“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.”

He took my hand, squeezed it, tightening my hold on my hammer. “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’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.”

Aaaahhhh Roryyyyyyyy

Out on the shore, four figures were a dark blur, a mess of limbs, tangling, struggling. Not against the storm, but one another. Benji, holding back the gargoyle. Maude, holding back Rory.

“You’ve swallowed so much more of Aisling’s water than the other one. I can practically taste the spring.”

“Bartholomew?” “Give me your axe, Maude.” “The sprites are coming—” “Give it to me!”

A woman’s voice sounded. “Rory.” “

“Wake up, sweetheart. Wake. Up.

Roryy ughhhh

“I thought it would pain you.” I put a hand to my bandaged neck. “So the king decides when I should bear pain and when I shouldn’t, so long as it serves him best?”

“Not so different from the abbess, are you? From an Omen.” Benji flinched. “It sounds horrible when you put it like that.” “True things often do.”

“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.”

“What name, with blood, would you give me?” I put my thumb to his lips. “My name is Sybil Delling.”

“Good night.” “Good night,” he murmured. “Sybil.”

Rory didn’t say anything. He just opened the door and came in. When he saw me lying motionless on the bed, his entire body went taut. I rolled onto my other side. “Go away.”

“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.”

“Was it nothing, that knock in the Fervent Peaks, Bartholomew?”

“He came to our door, and you disappeared for many hours. When you returned you were wet and took off your tunic and threw blankets over yourself. I tried to sleep, but you were terribly annoying, breathing loudly, sighing and making little sounds and stirring in your bed—”

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

Maude had said it wasn’t necessary—that birke had no interest in eyes made of stone—but the gargoyle had been offended to be so excluded, and so we painted him.

Hamelin looked up with lifeless eyes. Took a step toward me again. And was brought to a wrenching halt. Rory had his fellow knight by the face.

“This too,” I whispered. His muscles tensed, Rory’s entire body suddenly called to attention. “Sybil.”

And then my shroud was falling, silent, onto the pile of armor. I didn’t watch it drop. My eyes remained lifted, fixed in the darkness of Rory’s. His inhale was sharp. For an excruciating moment, I couldn’t read his face—couldn’t decipher his eyes. “What?” “I just…” His breaths came faster. “I don’t think I have the words.”

Rodrick Myndacious was exquisite—

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

“Don’t tell me what they look like.” I pressed onto my toes. Swallowed his shaking breath with my own. “Don’t say anything at all.” Rory’s smeared his thumb across my lips. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

And then his mouth was on mine.

I kissed Rory madly,

And suddenly it became abundantly clear, for all the times I’d thrown him down, just how badly he wanted to return the favor.

“Those too.” His thumb dipped into the waist of his pants. Rory held my eyes. Grinned. Then took his thumb back out. “You’re teasing me?” He shrugged. “Not very knightly of you.” His eyelids lowered.

“First, you unravel,”

Yes. Rory liked kissing. Or maybe he just liked kissing me.

“I take it back.” I raked my fingers through his hair. “Say something. Say anything.” There was only one fitting thing. Rory kissed me in a way no story can properly express. “Sybil.”

“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.”

“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

“Tell me yes. Right now.” No litany, no profanity, was better than hearing him this desperate. “Yes.”

We collided. Flesh to flesh. Pulse against pulse. Eye to eye. And I forgot everything.

“Rory.” Whatever flesh was there—his shoulder, his mouth—I bit into it. Anchored myself to it. “

Maybe contentedness isn’t just a story.

They were not the eyes of a human at all. They were pallid. White. Completely bereft of iris or pupil, like those of an unpainted statue. Hewn entirely of stone. Just like an Omen.

“What’s wrong?” I look like a monster.

“I don’t care that you steal things, Rory.” His shoulders eased a whit, but his gaze remained strained. “Then why are you looking at me differently?” “How could you say I was beautiful?” My whisper was a horrible rasp. “My eyes. I’m like them

“You’re nothing like them, Sybil.”

“I needed to know. I’ll never be able to see myself clearly if it is ever through Aisling’s shroud. But knowing you’d seen my eyes and had left the room… I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about me. That you were repulsed or regretful—”

Rory was across the room in a moment. His tray hit the table with a raucous clatter and he ripped the shroud from my hands, tossing it onto the floor. He kissed me. Hard. “You don’t like me when I’m a good knight,” h...

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

“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.”