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

by Rachel Gillig

“If I were beside myself, there would be two of me, and the washing would have taken half the time.”

I whispered, “I can’t wait until we’re free of that spring.”

Why didn’t the Omens speak to me like this? In a melody or a spin or the heartbeat of a drum? Not in the spring, in dreams, where I was in pain and afraid, but like this, loose and infinite, when my soul was split open and thrown skyward in delight.

“Will you dance with me, Diviner?” King Castor asked.

“I admire your conviction. You’re wildly intimidating. I like that in my friends.” He wasn’t my friend,

Every person in every hamlet has a craft. Be it combat or wits or handiness, a challenge to one’s craft is a kind of duel, a test of their skill—and more importantly, their honor. Only the gutless, bereft of honor or merit, deny a challenge.”

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

The moth’s legs stuck to fabric as it roved over my shroud. It was so small, so without muscle, but it was patient. The moth worked back and forth over my eyes, picking, tugging, until— I felt my shroud fall away. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer looking through gossamer, but the thin, veined wings of the moth. The darkness around me shifted. The world behind the moth’s wings was so full of color it stole my

its hands were empty, arms held wide, as if it were beckoning me into the cathedral. As if the cathedral itself was the figure’s personal stone object.

“Swords and armor,” came a voice, “are nothing to stone.”

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?”

Beyond that, the abbess was strangely inactive. Divining continued as usual. And that did not sit well with me.

Waited in our cottage for the fall of darkness. Stole to our door. And found it locked. The next morning, the air was colder still. I sat up and combed the room. Held in a scream. Two was gone.

You are at war with yourself, Six, always thinking yourself stronger than them, better than them—martyring yourself for them.” Her shroud rippled as she shook her head. “But I know you, my special girl. And I know, beneath it all, you resent them, wishing yourself half as bold as them.”

Three was gone.

Pulled my cloak from beneath the stone I’d hidden it. Ran.

Five was gone.

When One’s fell, silent as it hit the floor, I turned my gaze to the wall. Her gasp filled the room. Soft, quiet horror. “What’s happened to us?”

then slowly turned his gaze to me. “Did he just try to smite me, Bartholomew?”

“Is my voice too quiet?” He hauled in a breath. Shouted in my face. “Take me with you, Bartholomew! I don’t want to start over again and again and watch children dream and never see beyond this place. I don’t want to be in the middle of the story anymore. Please.” He wrenched open the shed door. “Take me with you.”

Oh gods. The foulest knight in Traum… was an Omen.

“Isn’t that what my knightly escort is for?

No, I’m not a pair—I’m one of six and there are five cracks in my heart for it,

“I imagine your Diviners came from one of those,”

Pupil House III A School for Foundlings Oh. This was where Diviners were chosen from.

“Oh—a Diviner.” His cheeks went ruddy. “My Diviner.”

The king grinned. “Ear, eye, hand—they’re yours.”

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

His eyes flickered in the darkness. “I’m the one who’s killing them.”

And the Omens are a lie.

A knight was there, trembling at the threshold. Next to him stood the gargoyle.

“As you know, the Omens each possess a stone object—the mechanics of which are rather simple. This one, like the Scribe said, never runs dry of ink. Stir it clockwise”—he began to swirl the ink—“then toss it, and that ink will transport you.”

“Quite. All the stone objects have two properties. Transportive.”

Traum did indeed benefit from faith, it was the Omens who truly reaped the rewards. That as long as they had Aisling’s water to drink, they would live forever, doing whatever they liked. That the abbess paid them to walk the shadows of their hamlets, cloaked and mysterious, like mercurial gods might.” I felt sick. “The abbess pays the Omens.”

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

“You could still be a harbinger. A holy signet of portents, of truth.” “But for you instead of the Omens.” I sat very, very still. “So that you can kill them.”

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.”

Rory’s head tipped back, like he was praying to the night sky for patience he did not possess.

“Wake up, sweetheart. Wake. Up.”

“I have no use for stories.” My eyes grew unfocused behind my shroud. “Tragedy and desolation are right here with me.” “Yes.” He went back to humming to himself. “But I am here, too, Bartholomew.”

No. She was not a mother. She was the sixth Omen. The moth. And for what she’d done to me, to the other Diviners, to Traum itself— I’d take the tools she’d given me. Then, with hammer, with chisel… I’d annihilate her.

“How could you say I was beautiful?” My whisper was a horrible rasp. “My eyes. I’m like them.”

I could make you dream anything I wished.

“Lie in the spring, Bartholomew. What signs do you see, Bartholomew? Don’t mix up your words, Bartholomew. Don’t cry or be sick, Bartholomew. Ignore all the pain, Bartholomew. Never complain, Bartholomew. Stop humming, Bartholomew. Swallow the blood, Bartholomew. Would that you were a daughter, Bartholomew. Soon I’ll replace you, Bartholomew. I’ll forget and erase you, Bartholomew. Bartholomew. Bartholomew. Bartholomew—”

“My dream. Of the moth. That wasn’t a sign from gods. You were the one to drown me… it was you, Bartholomew.” My tears fell. “You, trying to tell me your story.”

He pulled back to look at me. “I’m sorry for all of it,” he said, wiping my cheeks. “But she gave me a second chance at life, though it was hardly living. My devotion to Aisling was hard to undo. I am sorry I found you, sick in the Seacht; I am sorry that I brought you back to the cathedral like the dozens of dead or dying girls I’d brought before.” His chin quivered. “I’m sorry that, upon the chancel, you died. I’m sorry she remade you with spring water, and that you bore such loyalty to her for it.”